James Randi is basically just some skeptic––some guy who finds inspiration, meaning, and validation, in sustaining feelings of self-control. When you believe the universe is merciless, indifferent and, in fact unmindful, you also understand that Earth is like some spherical sweet spot of sustainable safety, at least when one is a human, but you also understand that feelings of self control on the earth, please the soul like opium, though they do seem to be safe like Tylenol. Maybe modafinil? Maybe. Randi is sometimes seen both caped and capped with a wand in his hand; he is a card-tucking, rabbit obsessing, psychic hating, fake magician by trade; he is a student of illusions, in which he scores Bs for his pedestrian aplomb; he can’t do shit like David Blaine; Randi is not at all that good, but he is famous, though, regardless, because he is religiously rational; he is one of many poster boys for the pro-sanity movement; he has dedicated his career to fighting beliefs in the supernatural. Basically, of course this means he’s kind of a douchebag, (which means he exploits the grain or that he does something inhuman,) which could be fine, but he seems to be in denial, which is not cool. In this way, Randi is a cultural crusader in denial about being a cultural crusader; he is fighter of the pen with a hard-on for human supremacy who got possessed by a pipe dream which he can only hope may ever evince for posterity.
But the good news is that Randi is very rational, especially in his own opinion. If secularization is a mirage that we shall never close in on despite we shall continue to traverse upon this plane called time, one wonders if Randi can see it that way. Me thinks secularism is ostensible wet cement curing upon a safe assumption, but the problem is that the cement is already dry. If secularization is gonna work one day, man’s gonna have to replace God with something new because for all modern people God still serves a clear and definite function. For the pious, God challenges people to be better than yesterday and to always be moral. For the atheist, God challenges man to disprove him. The atheist is lorded over by God, way much more than the atheist really knows. “How come God could not?” That is the atheist’s “What would Jesus do?” God is constantly on the atheist’s mind, especially if one is an atheist blogger; if you are so, God is clearly constantly on your mind. If post humanism shall be secular, nobody on Earth yet handles God in any way that should suggest that it could happen; atheists think about God just as often as the pious if not more. I do not believe you, James Randis of the world. I do not believe in your secular dreamland of the future. I do not believe.
So, you ask, what does all of this CRAP amount to, and what does it all safely tell us about James Randi? It all tells me that Randi probably unconsciously links religious dream walkers to bad ants in the mound who stand to tear the tunnels down, somehow, someway, despite that the tunnels were always founded by ants who believed in higher insects; essentially Randi wishes to fix something that isn’t broken, which might be foolish, especially when we realize that this is what he wishes to do. Basically, Randi misplaces mistakes of the past inside vessels of contempt, and then he sails them out into the seas, like they are phone numbers stuffed into bottles; every now and then he gets a call. It seems indeed that because the human condition improves of course with time and progress, somehow this computation, fucking history––it just confuses him; Randi studies the past to validate the present, which would be fine if Randi didn’t assume the present is exemptible from a certain fate once time expands, which is of course to become history, whereupon present errors shall turn visible at last, if we learn anything.
This is how Randi openly deconstructs the religious person without feeling guilt despite claiming most of the world is naive: no one can prove him wrong; you can’t put ghosts in test tubes. But Randi sucks because he doesn’t believe in magic. He believes in magical thinking, but he suppresses his own. Magic, actual fucking magic, is basically just any product of divine technology, but Randi says magic is stuffing silk scarves into rubber thumbs. To be respected, in Randi’s universe, you must be rational, which is apparently only defined by disbelief in God. Disbelief in God is an evolved form of scapegoating exploited by people who wish for men to be foolish but who wish as well to not be one of them. All these atheists believe in a wise man’s burden; it’s to service humanity with the grace of your existence, whereas others bring nothing for you. That is what haunts Randi’s soul: diffused guilt; it possesses his formidable will, which seems legit, but the secret is, he’s on autopilot; it’s a carrot cake disorder where you see darkness in light, because you can’t stop feeding your mind with something decadent and metaphotonic: human supremacy, and enlightenment. But enlightenment gets confused with malevolutional thinking. If one posits God exists, atheism is the belief in something false both about the self and the environment, which is therefore a maladaptation, even textbook delusional. That is if one posits God exists. After all, ignorance of the law is not an excuse for breaking it; if God indeed exists, atheists believe in a false reality and therefore atheists are delusional. It follows in this logic, that if God exists, and mankind falls to secularization as a species, the move by man is maladaptive. If God doesn’t exist, then atheism might seem like an adaptive move, but it’s really not if you think about it. Disbelief in God is a negative adaptation because it tightens the scope of consciousness when the mind is clearly built to handle a looser belt. Atheism might seem like sharpening one’s cognitive razor, but that’s a mistake, for supernatural inquiry utilizes the same razor and it shaves a broader hide––whether God exists or not. Randi’s consciousness is a charcoal filter removing trust; faith is a voice that cannot sing. Randi sees the pious on the internet and he tricks himself into belief that he can’t know why or even how they even try to hold onto faith in this modern world of the noble monkey who invented fire but forgot who he was and has yet to discover he invented light: what Randi thinks. Randi sees religion and he sees invisible rules of life that bring shape and make our outcomes, but he notices that despite this filter world of alleged truth that holds earth within its hands, the glove world seems on the earth at least to be absent in substance, providing no evidence, despite it’s supposed touch. The pious just say, that’s God’s work; all things are possible under God is the idea. The enlightened have had exposure to Heaven on Earth and they will tell you accordingly. Randi doesn’t buy it. He believes in bad biology. He also suspects liars. The brain is a mighty, mysterious functional thought machine made of neurons, neurotransmitters, bioelectricity, glial cells, and brain meat, surrounded in brain soup, contained in skull case, but this powerful organic marvel of mammalian biology thinks sometimes in logics that are counterintuitive: what Randi will tell you. His problem: he doesn’t realize that Earth is the glove, and Heaven is the hand. Heaven is the filter––this is because the soul is the mind, and the brain is a software: the soul is the hand inside the glove; outside the glove, the soul is formless––it needs a vessel––it needs a glove––it needs a suit, it needs an armor––it must incarnate into something; even in Heaven, the soul incarnates into matryoshka doll of several bodies which correspond to different planes; depending on the plane of occupation, Heavenite souls will be found in different bodies. The Heavenite soul sheds one body per plane of ascension; with each plane of descension, the new plane’s corresponding body, which once was shed, returns to prominence; all Heavenite souls have a different body for every plane. There are 7 planes and 7 bodies. Randi just doesn’t get it: what it is about him.
Different strokes by the same old folks. Just like some friend-voted village idiot in Fishville Alaska who sweepingly concludes illegal immigration in Texas, is the biggest issue that he can possibly think of, the only difference between James Randi and openly hateful people who hunt for golden fleeces, is that Randi likes all people––black, gay, Japanese, whatever––IF––yes, IF––said people are willing to shit on God and the supernatural. Fuck James Randi. Fuck his B-magic––his respect for classic stunts; it bothers him he sucks; it’s why he says it sucks and then, performs it anyway. And fuck his inability to understand the supernatural comes from the supernatural––not from blindness to fantasy. Fuck James Randi in his rational dick hole; science is hung like an airplane; Randi is loose like a 6 year old baby tooth; Randi’s G-spot is the moon of his pride; Randi’s safeword is “Oh, Jesus Christ!” A slave to the moon, as if he doesn’t know why she comes every night, Randi cums everyday like the swallowing tide. Guess it’s like they say, daily Bukaki from Nietzsche and Freud will blind your third eye. Abused by his heroes, but he still eats his own pie; he identifies with Hitchens because he seems like a simple enough guy who just might be right. Let it be known Randi doesn’t spit; he tends to swallow, and he does so without choking, but then he regurgitates––every time, all over the bed––Ramen noodle strings of cum––and then he shits rabbit pellets into his crack space in tight whites, and then he cuddles up with science, who smokes parliament cigarettes and wonders what’s really on his ho’s mind. Randi is a sex slave of something bigger than himself. Who never knew why. It was God the whole time.