Thursday, 23 September 2010
The World of Robots By Zack Kaufen (firstname.lastname@example.org)
A spider started crawling up my wall. I moved coldly to terminate it. Only after it was in its kitchen-roll-ey grave did I stop to consider the morality of my actions. Killing creatures with brains smaller than specs of dust is just a bit of a gray area for me. I still can’t decide my position on the issue of vegetarianism. Given the slew of Mcdonalds adverts oozing into my subconscious constantly, vegetarianism as a protest doesn’t change anything. ‘That’s not the point!!’ cry the vegetarians. Well what exactly is the point, veggies? You don’t want to eat meat, fine – I don’t like the idea of eating sushi but you don’t see me demanding a nut-based substitute. Ironically I actually love vegetarian food; I just wish I could eat it without the ideology. I’ve been suspiciously questioned just for eating a vegetable burger, as if by doing so I’m picking a side.
Spiders. Is killing them wrong? I’d like to hear something solid on both sides of the argument. Is there anywhere I can view a real debate on this kind of issue? I say ‘this kind of issue’ but I actually mean this exact issue, specifically.
Anyway I afterwards assured a nearby timid girl that Mr. Spider had gone to spider heaven. And I began to wonder what said place would be like. Loads of spiders crawling around on clouds? I really doubt any spiders would rate that as eternal bliss, mainly because their existence boils down to pissing off humans. They wouldn’t want a spider heaven. They’d want to come to our human heaven and crawl all over our walls. And given their short lifespan, the amount of dead spiders in heaven they must outnumber us humans hugely. I can picture turning up to heaven to find a swarming mass of spiders, wasps, cockroaches and snakes fluttering, skittering and writhing like one giant monstrous organism. The humans have backed into one tiny corner of infinity battling the swarm away, terrified, tearfully screaming at approaching newcomers: “Don’t go into to the light! Go back to Earth and wipe out the spiders for good! Only you can save us!”
Obviously the big G wouldn’t allow this really. But it did make me wonder how much compromise would be required in this infinite happiness. Because shaking hands and swapping stories with Einstein, Martin Luther King, Charles Darwin and Dennis Hopper (insert more politically correct greats here) might be a blast for all us peasants but I’m pretty sure Einstein is fucking sick of it. I’m pretty sure his idea of heaven is not playing host to a bunch of simpletons with stupid questions. I’m pretty sure he wants some fucking peace and quiet. It’s a clear conflict of interest. (I never really understood the phrase ‘a conflict of interest’. It seems that more or less everything is a conflict of interest. A game of darts is a conflict of interest. Both players are interested in seeing the other player lose. It’s a conflict of interest!)
So how does God handle this balancing act of constant compromise? Obviously you want to enjoy heaven with your friends and loved ones, with whichever people you choose. But suddenly you’re in a game of politics. Say you want to keep a small close-knit group to enjoy never-ending happiness with; then someone suggests “We have to invite John!” Great. ‘John’. Sure he’s an OK guy. He’d certainly make it past purgatory. But now he’s involved we’re leaning towards eternal mediocrity. You just never got along with ‘John’. After countless millennia you might finally snap, and scream it isn’t heaven with John around. Suddenly all your shocked friends are deserting you to go live in John’s corner of heaven. Suddenly heaven doesn’t seem so great. Suddenly heaven is a pile of shit.
A final worrying train of thought I have pursued is that we all might get our own personal heavens. All of our friends and ideal lovers there, smiling at us; but all just fake constructs to make us happy. And with that thought, I have ruined heaven. Now, no matter what, if I die and go up to the big white cloudy place there will be a permanent niggle in my mind that is could all be false. Any time I see Rachel McAdams smiling at me telling me how she loves my skinny ribs and German accent I will be plagued with doubt that the real McAdams is out there somewhere in her own personal heaven, dancing in a nightclub with Brad Pitt and Paul Bettany. Even if it is entirely genuine, she is the real deal, I will never be able to tell. And therefore I can now never enjoy heaven. The lovelier it is, the more I’ll believe it’s fake.
God, give me a lobotomy.