Real mania is dangerous for a variety of reasons. In my case, it brought a deeply submerged rage to the surface that was expressed almost randomly, like a machine gun manned by a blind drunk. All targets were fair game; there was an imperious quality to my indictment of all fools, which included pretty much anyone who wasn’t me. My manic rants seemed designed – I say “seemed designed” because in mania nothing was designed – to inflict the maximum pain for the effort, the more sensitive the Achilles heel the better. I publish this interior monologue from Invisible Driving – http://www.invisibledriving.com - today, the day after Christmas, because publishing it beforehand would have been unnecessarily cruel. It viciously deconstructs the philosophical improbabilities of Christmas while self-righteously taking shots at various types of xenophobia and prejudice. In mania there was simply no subject large enough to intimidate me, and no level of cruelty satisfactorily hurtful. As the bartender at the Four Seasons said, in those days I was, “Evil, condescending, and rude.”   
 
            The Christ of the Bible would have been offended, not to say nauseated, nauseated, there I’ve said it anyway, by the way we celebrate his birth, an orgy of meaningless gift exchange. He would recommend something less difficult, like buying dinner for a homeless person, or spending an evening reading to someone dying of AIDS.
            We spend one day a year celebrating the birth of Christ, the other three hundred sixty four we spend celebrating the birth of Satan.
            When Christ was born, he was in stable condition.
            According to the best scientific evidence available Christ was born in the summer we celebrate his birth in the winter because early Christians hoping to increase their popularity through the use of clever marketing co-opted existing pagan rituals focused around surviving through the cold to see another spring boy did it work.
            The Jews did not kill Christ imagine being punished for two thousand years for a crime you didn’t commit the Romans killed Christ to make things worse as if killing Christ wasn’t bad enough they didn’t even want to shrewd politicians that they were they knew a martyr was more difficult to defuse than a live hero Christ practically forced them into it.
            Ah the tender charm of Christmas carols.
            Zealots roasting in an open fire
            The Inquisitor is tearing off a nose
            Holiday songs being sung by a choir
            And soldiers are gambling for your clothes
            Everybody knows
            That’s one you won’t be hearing on the top forty real soon that’s the kind of music you can only hear on my radio station WART all reptile music all the time with no commercial interruptions.
            Let’s put the Christ back in Christmas and the Hgghhgg back in Chanukah.
            One small candle can start a fire to light the heavens there are many doors into the temple it doesn’t matter which one you enter everyone knows it but they’re just afraid to say it I know that everything I say is brilliant but sometimes I just don’t know why yet we celebrate His birthday now because it’s a gloomy time of year and we need to reaffirm the spirit of life of hope but he’s gone real gone solid gone out the door rabazibby gone checked out no forwarding address gone never to return gone and whosoever really loves Christ and wants to find him to honor him to rejoice in him shouldn’t look under a tree they should go to a prison a loony bin a ghetto a hospice or just get onto the streets and look under the blankets there by the steam vents forgetting about buying things giving things away instead to people they don’t know better still not give things away give self away as He did finding the people nobody else wants the cripples the lepers the debauched degraded decadent sinners because Christmas and money are oil and water the more people spend the less they know about Christmas God assuming there is one sent us his Son He didn’t send us a set of toy trains let’s just change the name to Giftmas and drop the pretension altogether or get with the program get real roll up our sleeves and get on with the deal.
            Let’s be brave grown up puppies and kittens and admit the horrible truth God didn’t make Man in his own image Man made God in his own image it makes so much more sense it explains so much God’s not real man’s hunger for God is real because without the conceit of believing in a God who makes sense the world is actually the chaotic cruel place it seems to be the unjust place where kindness is punished and cruelty is rewarded a place where virtue really is its own reward its lowly reward its only reward.
            Let’s expose heaven for what it actually is the greatest marketing gimmick of all time the perfectly unsubstantiatable claim can anyone prove it doesn’t exist well there you are.
            It goes like this. One priest is talking to another.
            “We’ll take these ignorant peasants and convince them there’s a heaven. That’ll give them something to dream about. But, we’ll tell them that they’ll never get there if they don’t obey all the laws we give them. We can make the rules as fuckin’ goofy as we like. It’s gonna be great. We can restrict their diet. Tell them whom to marry. Here’s a good one, we’ll get ‘em to mutilate their peckers with rusty knives! And of course, we can get them to give us their money! We’ll make them recite really wacky prayers and stand up and kneel down a lot. We’ll give them a lot of shit to memorize. We’ll convince them that they’re dirt if they don’t listen to us. And, here’s the best part, we’ll convince them that they’re born guilty so they’ve got no chance of getting to heaven if they don’t do what we tell them.”
            Sometimes the most insane ideas work the best.
            An idea which is just slightly off is easy to spot but a completely insane idea can be presented as just too brilliant for conventional minds to fathom and people bought this promotion in a big way religion is the con that controls the masses the ultimate false promise we could have heaven on earth today if that’s what we wanted it isn’t more people have been slaughtered in the name of religion than saved when you’re totally bankrupt morally and without any authority is when you’re most likely to claim God’s endorsement who can prove that you’re wrong if we were less sold on the idea of heaven maybe we’d work a little harder to be moral in this life ah but then we’d be harder to control we’d demand more of our leaders we wouldn’t stand for the shameful way we treat each other.
            In heaven, are there neighbors to look down on? Does God give lectures once a week? Can you screw up and get thrown out? Do you have to act serious when God is talking? Is there humor in heaven and if so, at whose expense? Because all humor is at somebody’s expense. When it’s at its best, everyone shoulders a piece of the burden. When it’s at its worst, it takes aim at a small, defenseless target. Would it sound like this? “Good evening everybody and welcome to the show.  Hey, I just flew in from Hades and boy are my wings tired. (Rimshot) So, anybody here from out of town? (Rimshot) What about these angels, huh? I won’t say the angels are a little light in the loafers but when Gabriel starts to blow, whew, they sure take off in a hurry. (Rimshot) No, seriously, I kid the angels but they’re a swell bunch of guys, or whatever they are, and so well dressed! (Pause) And that Satan is nuts. Not too bright either. Prince of Darkness, gosh I’m so impressed. He’s got his own realm and he doesn’t even make himself King. (Rimshot) Now our host on the other hand, this is quite a guy. Let’s have a nice round of applause for, God! (Polite, scattered applause) I’ll let you in on a little secret. God is actually a very shy guy. And the way things have been going on earth, he’s also getting very insecure. How would you feel if people said they liked you but they cheated on you behind your back every chance they got? So if you happen to see him as you’re strolling ‘round heaven one day, tell him something encouraging, like, ‘Gosh, you’re much younger than I would’ve thought,’ or, ‘nice suit.’ It’ll help him with his self image. After all, a God with a self-esteem problem brings everybody down. Speaking of a bring down, you should have seen the look on blues legend Little Walter’s face when they handed him his harp! (Rimshot) He tried and tried but there was no way he could fit that thing into his mouth.” Comedy in heaven, it’s a concept, it could work, after all they probably need something to help them pass the time, since it’s eternal. But folks.
            I’ll do the trappings for Paula because she’s seven and Christmastime is magic for children. That’s different. She believes in a Sanity Claus. Marx your calendars. From now on all my contracts will contain a sanity clause. Yes, I’m bitter. Yes, I’m hurt. Yes, I’m angry. Yes, I want to hurt the world back for being such a shithole. Christmas is a mean joke when you’re dispossessed. They’re singing songs of joy and peace but there’s no peace for me. I can’t even sit still. My thoughts race like trash blown down cold, deserted streets. Christmas is not a sweet time when you have nobody and you don’t know who you are. If the world ignores its savior, the one it professes to love, the birthday boy, what the hell is it going to do to a speck on the wall like me? The windows of Wannamaker’s are dazzling displays of red and green, tinsel, lights and wrapping paper. But in an alley nearby the urchins pass a bottle and huddle for warmth behind a dumpster.
            I left the comfort of my house to read the night sky for a sign but there was nothing.
            A cold, blank moon stared back at me. A cloud passed by and partially obscured it. It was really cold outside, cold enough to kill. The stars are just cheap glitter tossed carelessly across a pool of ink. There’s no meaning there, no answer. No celestial street sign I can use to navigate my camel to the sacred place, the place of redemption.
            Odd to think now of John Lennon and Yoko Ono singing, We wish you good Christmas, and a Happy New Year, we hope it’s a good one, without any fear. Without any fear.