Friday, May 28, 2010

The Floyd's Prayer


You have blessed me with a massive middle finger, oh Lord, and for that, I thank you. I do not hide it under a bushel, oh Lord, but use it pretty damned often. It's pretty cool.

The Book says you discipline those you love. I wouldn't call it love, the reason I'm figuratively bending a few dozen cylists over the prison railing. They're receiving discipline, and who cares why, so let's not split hairs. I mean, I'm getting a kick out of Lance stammering through his press conference and then busting open his face and abandoning the race, looking like you smote him, Lord. And that's my point, Lord. We're on the same side here in this discipline thing.

And for that, I--and this is unusual for me, as you know--temporarily withdraw my massive middle finger from your direction.

I know it's weird, me praying to you and all, especially since in my book I make the point that I don't believe in you. And this is true. But I'm still a Mennonite. I still believe in justice and sin--especially sin. And I said a lot of things in that book, very few of them true; besides, it's not wrong to lie to an omnipotent being, just stupid. So don't hold that against me.

Mostly, in my book, I ripped my opponents new ones. Ripping new ones is another special ability you have given me, oh Lord. Of course, my talent for ripping other new ones does not endear me to anyone, and I will never race the Tour de France again, but at least the Tour will always have a Landis-sized asshole mark in its 2006 record book. And that's a pretty cool thing to achieve for a Mennonite kid from Lancaster County, whose asshole never would have been seen by anyone otherwise.

Most Americans think they believe in you, God, and they say faith is important, but when it comes down to it, they really just want to make money, get laid, and stay out of prison. And they want their favorite cyclists--Lance, Stars 'n Stripes George, and Dave Z.--to be absolutely fueled by patriotism and hatred of cancer. Not $90,000 worth of drugs a year.

Which has led me to conclude: no one cares about truth, Lord, except when it serves their interests. Those who do care, you call prophets. Their lives, I'm finding out, suck.

All I can hope for is, like Elijah, you will let me ascend into heaven on a chariot. You took him, Lord, the only man who never died. I often wonder what that chariot looked like, if it had two wheels and pedals, and needed no horses.

I know no heavenly chariot will come for me, Lord, since I'm no Elijah, but at least grant me the pleasure of smiting down the sinners and nonbelievers so I can sit back with a brew and watch the world burn clean.


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