I am a communist. I am a criminal. Jesus is political. I have made a Vegas wager. A gamble for cash. I pay money if the New York Times prints what they don’t want to hear. But I get money if the indifference I write about gets nervously ignored again. Vegas loves these odds. I was shocked to see Jesus prominently, arrogantly disassembled at the New York Times and then made whole again toward the end of the romanticism. Are you giving them what they want. This insinuates hope. Americans demand hope from our writing. “He probed deeply.” How do you know that. Did you measure it. It’s pablum. Were you whispered to by Thor. It’s suffocating. I do not write hope. Please. Look around. As writers, we are stuck with a publication that cherry-picks its facts. This is patently absurd and beneath contempt. There is no Jesus. There was no Jesus, and a few scraps of biblical writing stored on scrolls that have deteriorated, and it’s is not unlike drinking the Kool Aid versus wine. Written years, decades after Jesus flew up into the sky to be with his white-bearded daddy in the clouds, and the two often sit around on their thrones and debate our fate. Why does this sound like the dark ages. The Wicked Witch from the West had fishermen shoes, too. We are the dark. We are stalked by death. How does writing have a religion. Writing is all you have as evidence this guy was alive. If he was alive, he was gay and suicidal. Big Father Issues. Christian writing is fundamentally rooted in the veracity of men (no women) with their puffed out chests: do not defy us. Trust me. I will defy you with my fucking life. If Americans want to base their lives on buggabugga, that is their business. Don’t assume I can be dragged into your fetish with a past you have cynically created. Publishing in the New York Times takes on the advocacy of one religion. These arguments are old and tired and so is the New York Times. You do not take criticism well. You claim you are open to it. Another lie. Jesus is a lie. God is a lie. Heaven is a lie. Subservience is not a lie. A subservience to historical fiction. I love fiction. I write fiction. Fiction is inclusive because we want it to sell. The New York Times is not above throwing shade at fiction, and then, it publishes religious fiction. How is religion exactly inclusive. It is intolerant. Some gay and suicidal man thousand of years ago went to heaven like an angel. Why are angels in the New York Times. Americans are vacant and lonely. Young boys fucked in the ass by priests. Where is your evil religion now. I want a religious war. That way when we kill them all, we will be unassailable. This publication has screamed at me for years to only present the facts. This paper has been very mean. How is it we need a fantasy to give us a structure to hang onto even if it’s a complete lie. Stop publishing voodoo nonsense on the front pages of the New York Times. Your commitment to religion is revolting. In fact, it’s prostitution. Theology is sex work. Giving them what they want. Columnists are allowed to construct viable and interesting thought. But not those of us whose thought is marginalized and spit on by people with an indifference that is mean and self-defeating. This paper has the catholic right. This paper has the David Granger middle. This paper has a few left-leaners. You write and talk about us radical thinkers, but where is our writing. We are not allowed to publish it in Russia. And not at the New York Times where even your comment section insists on the kind of censorship you could not get away with in high school. I am sick and tired of being spit on by the New York Times. Don’t play Reality with me. What are we if there is no evidence whatsoever that Jesus had longhair and comes from Denmark. We are desperate. We are afraid. We are mammals which mean you are an animal. I am an animal. Jesus who never existed would have been an animal, too. Please, don’t print this. I seriously need the money. I’m very ill. I have to send a copy of this to Vegas. I need to buy medication. I cannot afford health insurance. Your god doesn’t speak for me, or to me. It’s dangerous. The New York Times accepts all of this mania to be true. The shroud of Turin is the real fraud.