you assembled a group of 1000 professional
gamblers and gave each of them one million
dollars with the stipulation that they had
to bet the money either on the verified appearance
of space aliens or the return of Jesus, whichever
came first, I am certain that they would, to
a man, all wager on the aliens.
And that's with even odds on the aliens. That's with 1000-1 odds on Jesus.
They would make that particular bet not because they're all heathen scum but
because they're professionals, which means they crunch the numbers and play the
odds, and the odds say that Jesus ain't coming back. Myths seldom do.
A professional gambler keeps a running count of the cards in his head so he'll
know when the next ace is due. Rarely does a Paul Bunyan or the Tooth Fairy appear
in the deck, no matter how hard you pray.
I'm specifically using the example of professional gamblers because they remind
me so much of those who faithfully attend their local betting parlor, uh, I mean,
neighborhood Fantasy Hut, uh, I mean, local religious industrial venue every
Each week the assembled devout troop in and dutifully drop their stake into the
collection plate, "letting it all ride" on Jesus. Their ultimate jackpot
is Armageddon, the Rapture and a subsequent slice of Heaven. Unfortunately for
them they're working entirely on faith and that's the sign of an amateur gambler.
The only winner here is the House. The House of Faith, that is, and they never
lose. They know the Big J ain't ever coming back and they're literally banking
it. Big time.
Another funny coincidence? Just like Vegas you
won't see any clocks when you're in the Big Religious
Room. You see, neither industry wants you to
how much time you're wasting while you're there.