Friday, April 18, 2025
I know people who work hard. They sell solar panels door to door. I recently met a handsome young gentleman roaming my neighborhood. He seemed lost. I’m a sucker for a cute guy with a lost soul. He was a new transplant and was starting a job which required him to go door to door. It was a soupy, Florida day.
I asked him what he was selling. Sweaty and weary, working hard as a mule, he began his spiel. I stopped him, “What are you really selling, young man?” Metaphorically, I was getting at, “Are you selling yourself out for something that means nothing to you, now?” But I actually said, “Are you really that passionate about solar?” “No sir,” he admitted, “but it’s a good advancement opportunity which will enable me to retire young.”
And there you have it, the formula for an early death, the toil towards “one day.” If the future is god, one day, I’ll be in paradise, but not until after I kill myself working towards it. These people serve a figment of imagined glory – tomorrow.
In the meantime, they clean toilets, play the lottery, and sell solar until such a day as they reach heaven’s pearly gates, broke and dead on arrival. Their toil is a means toward money. One day, I’ll get that golden ticket. A means is a mean way to kill yourself trying.
If you do not seize heaven now, “later” is your master seizing your sweaty balls (or boobs) in clutched hands. And what you seek will forever dangle on the bridle in front of your very nose as you slave in the heat, working hard for the god that hardly works; but comes merely to collect your dead body, lifeless from toiling towards the proverbial “judgement day” that never comes.