“This is a long serious lecture. Get out if you can’t handle the Force.”
Look, let’s say that there is indeed such a thing as heaven. Let’s say that this real heaven is exactly like the heaven every righteous, pious adult has been telling us all along — that once you’re dead and you enter its golden gates, everything will be all right because you’ll be in god’s presence. You will feel complete because the only thing that’s left to do there is to glorify god’s name for all eternity and to love him in all his goodness. You will stop desiring anything besides god…
Isn’t that the unfairest thing you’ve ever heard? Doesn’t that basically say that all your mundane hopes and desires when you were living will be thrown out the window into the abyss of nothingness?
Your wish to own a sparkling black Mercedes someday and park it next to your grouchy officemate’s Toyota — gone. Your dream of a huge beige house good enough to eat in the most gorgeous of all Americanized neighborhoods — spoiled. Your hope of being someone better, cooler, smarter, sexier, wealthier and more important than you are now — crushed. Your itch to have a foxy girlfriend or boyfriend — frustrated. Everything your heart longed for, everything your mind instructed you to achieve, everything your libido deliriously desired — disintegrated into a gazillion pieces of nothing called heaven.
My friends, I call that god darn unfair.
Because I am a base man. I am shallow, hedonistic, vengeful and, well, honest. I want the world. I want its dirty, decaying treasures and its deceiving, fleeting pleasures. If I were a trillionaire right now, I’d buy myself an imposing gothic palace in Germany, (kind of like Bruce Wayne’s mansion) stuff it with all the disco lights and barrels of alcohol my money can buy, and call all my friends to party there wild, senseless and naked for a year. Then I’d buy myself a black stallion, ride to Sasha Grey’s house, and invite her out for dinner with my friends and my girlfriend just for fun (for once, I’d love to hear about someone else’s career woes). I’d buy all my enemies and people whose faces I don’t like for no particular reason limousines, just to sue them for robbery and fraud the next day and watch them laughing while their bewildered faces peep through jail bars. I’d build my mom a golden mansion and call up our richest relatives to showcase how unimaginably infinite my mom’s moolah has become. I’d buy a star and name it Ely Buendia X Death Star 149 just because I can. I’ll donate so much money to the Large Hadron Collider project, scientists there will secretly turn it into a time machine and give me a free ride to the day when Michael Jackson debuted the moonwalk on Motown 25. Everyone will line up my door to ask me for something and I’d choose who I’d help and shoo away. I will be so evil and so likeable at the same time that people will forget Darth Vader and instead unconsciously think of me when they’re thinking of him. Like, “So then Luke refuses to join the dark side, and Marvin Sanchez says ‘I am your father’ and — oh sorry, I mean Vader.”
I told you. I am god darn base. Continue reading