Why Do I Fuck With You?

I am a militant atheist and I will shove my beliefs down your throat. I do this not because I aspire to convert you to my way of thinking. Such a goal, aside from being nearly impossible, would do a disservice to the label of atheist that I so cherish.

I have encountered no information in all of my readings that would lead me to believe that a stupid Christian or Muslim would be transmuted by non-belief into a thoughtful and intelligent individual. Religion makes the claim that it can better men by virtue of their acceptance of its tenants. It would be antithetical to the devotion that I have to my beliefs to make a similar claim regarding them.

Why then, if I haven’t your conversion in mind, do I so forcefully argue my position? Is it to assert my superiority over you and your mode of thought? Insecure though I may well be, I highly doubt that this is the right answer simply because my superiority is, to me if to no one else, evident—and given the depth of your ignorance, it is also admittedly irrelevant. Being more intelligent than the pious is about as impressive as being more agile than a pinecone.

Knowing myself as well as I do, I suspect that the reason for my iconoclasm is akin to the reason that as a child I shouted at my classmates that there was no such being as Santa Claus. I do it to hurt your feelings. I do it to penalize you for your foolish inability to perceive an obvious truth. There is no God. There are no gods. There is no special truth to be found in all the holy writ ever concocted by man—at least no more than can be found in the works of Mark Twain and William Shakespeare (I am being unnecessarily generous to your cute story books here, and unnecessarily cruel to Twain and Shakespeare).

Why do I fuck with you? Because it’s fun.