THE CRUMBCAST // Atheism and Other Religions

This is the Crumbcast where I introduce myself as Tiny instead of Tony. Freudian slip or just a slip of the tongue? You be the judge.

So, anyway, it’s Pete and I having a good ol’ chinwag again, and this time the subject is religion and atheism. We reckon that these can sometimes be the same thing. Now, there may be those of you don’t like what we say regarding this, but we hope you’ll stick around and join in on the conversation in the comments section below.

PS: To listen to the podcast in question then please click on that picture down there. To view the comic strip that our discussion centres around, then please click here. Yes, it’s real magic in the digital world, I tells ya! No pesky sciencey stuff here!

 

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2018

Oops!… We Did It Again (tavernacle choir)

Erm… hullo there. (This is rather awkward…)

Dear Reader, the stuff that was originally posted here has been removed.

We have done this because said stuff has since been included in one of our published books. We hope you’ll believe us when we say we’re not trying to be stingy. No, this has been done to honour the people who have already spent their hard-earned money on our eBook creations.*

If, however, for some reason you’re unable to buy one of our books, and feel you’ll die without seeing this piece of writing, then please contact us via admin@unbolt.me. We won’t allow our Dear Readers to fade away in the dark. We’ll send you the piece in question, and it will be absolutely free. All you need do is ask.

* Of course, we would be like two happy puppies if you too decided to buy one of our books.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2014-2018

¿Dónde Está Santa Claus?

Dear readers, I wrote a letter to Santa. Yup. I really did. In it, I spilled my guts. I bared my soul even. Hell, I was mortifyingly earnest. Isn’t that just well-meaning stupidity in disguise? Ugh. Anyway.

I informed Santa that I’ve decided not to celebrate Christmas this year, or in any year going forth. As an embittered former Christian it’s something I can no longer, in all good conscience, do. And as someone who hasn’t then gone the whole kit and caboodle and converted to atheism, it does make things a bit tricky socially speaking.

You see, some of my atheist chums ask me why I don’t just boycott Christmas, like it’s my goddamn duty or something. They wave their little magazines in my face, evangelising me, expecting me to be inspired and galvanised. Apparently, I’m supposed to display some newfound passion about my newfound liberation from the tired old shackles of religion.

But really, I couldn’t be arsed. Not when they’re foisting titles like Fairy Tale Crushers Quarterly or Militant Mind Monkeys Monthly or Dawkins’s Dick Butter Digest in my face. How can I be expected to swallow that? Even the covers with their smug tag lines put me off. “Freethink like us or we’ll laugh at you!” Okay. They do realise people have been laughing at me my entire life, yes? It’s not exactly a threat. I mean, it’s not eternal damnation or anything. Try harder, atheists! Actually, no, don’t. You’re as annoying as the theists.

God, I’m so tired. When did people start giving such gorilla-sized shits about what others think? I just could not be that arsed. Hell, my thoughts probably come out of my arse so who am I to be policing everyone else’s brain turds? Seriously, I’m not that invested. I just want a cup of tea and a nice lie down. I mean, how can they possibly maintain the requisite amount of fulminating engagement 24/7? They have to sleep some time! Do they sleep angry? God, I hate social justice warriors. They’re so fucking exhausting.

I hate Christmas. That’s the one thing I will agree with the atheists on. All those wasted childhood years praying for a better looking face. No wonder I feel so aggrieved. Christians say Jesus is the reason for the season. Okay. So where were you, Jesus, when I needed my merry miracle makeover? Off pumping Kim Kardashian full of the good DNA no doubt. What a cheap bastard. And what a bitch for hogging it.

My face. God. It looks like it was regifted. Some unlucky, hopelessly damned soul must have received this face one Christmas, gone “AUGH!” then crammed it back in its wrapping paper and regifted it to me the following Christmas. “Oh, Tony will have it. He likes weird shit.” “Oh, thanks. I guess I gotta wear this now so I don’t hurt your feelin’s or nothin’.” Still, I suppose it could’ve been worse. I could’ve been regifted a box of used condoms.

But is this all I’ve been reduced to? Covering over the crushing disappointment that is life with gaudy tinsel? Making everything Christmas to within an inch of its goddamn life, godammit? Screw social convention! It doesn’t make me feel any better. It’s not like I can drape Christmas over a pile of dead puppies and suddenly everything’s okay. No one looks at a pile of dead puppies draped with Christmas and says, “D’aaawww… Let’s go carolling!” I’ve tried to fit in with this holiday season malarkey. Truly, I’ve tried. But it’s not working.

One thing I did do was to grow my hair out. I figured if I could grow it long enough, it’d cover my face and entire body, and I’d look like a wookie. Then I could finally rejoin society because, you know, everyone’s worshiping the new Star Wars right now. Which means they’ve gotta love me, right? I’d be famous! I’d get invited to comic conventions, sit on panels and sign tits. Lovely! It’s what I’ve always wanted. Hell, I wouldn’t even have to be articulate. All I’d need to say is “GAAARRRGGGHHH!” in answer to everything. Fans would lap that shit up. They’d be lining up for decades, waiting for autographed pics of themselves swooning over my immaculately groomed wookie weenie.

So, anyway, I wrote Santa a letter. In it, I told him of my esteem obliterating ennui. Yes, I told him that I’m tired. That I think I need to go to sleep now. Maybe for good. I recommended that he not get me anything this year, that he keep the extra he would’ve spent buying me a Robot Action Smurf and get himself a shot of egg nog or a beard mitten instead. I don’t know. Whatever floats Santa’s boat. Oh, sorry. Sleigh. I meant sleigh.

God, I suck.

Anyway, dear readers, I apologise for this. I don’t wish to burden you with my unburdening. Have a sack load of festive humbugs on me.

Yours grudgingly,
Scroogey McScrooge.

PS: I burnt the letter and sent Santa a Facebook message instead. He still hasn’t friended me. He’s probably chilling somewhere on a Majorcan beach with hookers, blow and a toddy. What a tosser.

 

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2016

GUEST POST // The Comfort of a Warm Heart by Poetic Depression

My cold-blooded and weeping heart
pressed against my chest, hard
Feelings intertwined with quilt
An empty glass never filled

Lose me once and I’ll never return
I need you for longer than now
It looks like I’m not the only one that still has to learn.

vaguely I remember her
A face beautiful, like her
personality
her attractive individuality.

She sat alone on the stairs of the church closed down
For no one believed in God
Everyone had their reasons she tought.
But she knew she was lying

and I walked by
Offered her the comfort of my warm home
I told her not to be scared
I told her that she didn’t have to be alone

and I offered her some tea
“with sugar” she pleased
I smiled and poured it in
The start of a beautiful sin.

And we did not kiss
and we did not touch
we just talked the night away
let our problems astray

Then she left me
and never returned
bound to find her
but i had learned

I was alone

sitting on the stairs of the closed down church
Something hard hit my back
It was the door
opened
by a woman in that crack
It was her
Tea with sugar?
she asked.

 

by POETIC DEPRESSION
© All rights reserved 2015