God, No!

by Penn Jillette

  The suits answered the question “Okay, where is the model?” by pointing to me, the closest person in the room to the makeup artist in terms of geopositioning coordinates, but certainly not in terms of class, style, or taste. He looked at me, paused, and asked me, in that same generic accent you used a moment ago, “Where is the model?”

  He figured they had pointed to me because I was the guy who knew where the model was. Maybe I was a . . . what the fuck could he possibly think I was? Model pointer? But whoever I was, I must have been the one who knew where the model was.

  Understanding the situation, I gave him my best, most charming smile and a shrug, and I said, “I guess that’s me. I guess I’m the model today.”

  I expected we’d share a little laugh at my expense, and then I’d say there really wasn’t much he could do, so put on a little powder, brush my hair back, and we’d be done and he could move on to Teller.

  That isn’t what happened. He didn’t back down. He looked at me like he was about to spit on me. Then he made this disgusted noise deep in the back of his throat and he said, in that intense accent, incredulously, “You are the mod-el?” He threw down his brush. He shook his head in disgust. Not American disgust, but that European disgust. He turned his back on me and said a simple, “No.”

  The designer and the GQ people ran across the room. The suits were moving, their ties were bouncing. They hustled him out of the room as I protested: “Hey, it’s okay. It’s not a big deal.”

  I could see them through the classy glass walls reprimanding him.

  They were firing him. They were trying to figure out how they could get his makeup kit back to him without having him go back in the room. They were intense. When I’m yelled at like that, I cry. Assistants were on the phone. They were all pissed and panicked.

  I didn’t know what to do. I just sat there while they tore him a new attractive asshole inside his trendy bicycle shorts.

  After much too long, one of the execs came in, called me “Mr. Jillette,” and explained that they would get us another makeup artist. It would take about an hour, but there was another makeup artist who was very, very good and they’d called her and she could be with us in about an hour, maybe a little less. They made the feminine pronoun very clear.

  I said, “No, no, no. I mean, can you blame him? No one would think I’m a model. He was caught off guard. He didn’t mean anything by it. Everyone is waiting around. The light is just right in the park. Let’s just use this guy and it’ll be great. It’s no problem. Really.” They argued with me a bit, they were pissed, but it would save a lot of money to not wait around. They went out and brought him back in.

  This is where this makeup man became my fucking idol. He did not apologize. He didn’t even stop his European disgusted head-shake. He came over and looked at me like I was a piece of dog shit stuck to the bottom of his shoe. He hesitated before even touching me. I thought I should show him that the reason I was there was not my looks, but rather that I was funny, so I said, “I understand your disgust, it’s like you’re being asked to paint the Mona Lisa on a Big Mac.” It wasn’t funny or witty, but it gave him an opportunity to give me a bygones-be-bygones laugh. He didn’t even smile. He never cracked a smile. He didn’t even give me a “well, that’s the way life goes” shrug. He touched my face like it was covered with garden slugs. My shit-eating grin, and the executives glaring, had no effect on him. He knew that my being the model was very, very wrong, and he might have to be in the room with it, but he would never condone it. I felt shame and embarrassment and I kept giggling nervously like a little girl who happened to look like an unkempt yeti, but mostly what I felt was respect. A deep respect. A deep respect like a Bob Dylan respect. Respect like the diamond bullet lodged in Colonel Kurtz’s head. I was in the presence of an artist. I was in the presence of a real man.

  He did my makeup and he did a fine job, but he never backed down. He didn’t say a thing and he never stopped shaking his head in disgust. He finished and said, with a resignation that did not in any way blunt his dignity, “And where is the other mod-el?”

  I pointed to Teller.

  He buried his head in his hands.

  “I’m Too Sexy”

  —Right Said Fred

  “I Won’t Back Down”

  —Tom Petty

  Agnostics: No One Can Know for Sure but I Believe They’re Full of Shit

  I don’t have enough faith to be an atheist.”

  Ouch. Snap. Touché.

  Sometimes that’s followed by “That’s why I believe in [some bullshit god]. I don’t have enough faith to believe that this world could come from nothing.”

  Our humble atheist responds, “How did [aforementioned bullshit god] come from nothing?”

  “That’s beyond our understanding.”

  Bingo. We agree! That’s what I meant when I said I was an atheist. I said that I didn’t believe that anyone had the answers to existence. I don’t believe the pope, John Smith, Muhammad, or even Sun Ra had an inside track to truth. I believe there’s no god, like I believe that there’s no Roquefort-sarsaparilla toaster pastry in my kitchen toaster oven right here, right now, in my home in Vegas. There are lots of ways I’d believe in that Toaster Strudel, but I’d like to start with something real, like smelling the motherfucker’s odd Pillsbury presence wafting over me. I chose that cheese/root example carefully. I feel about god the way I feel about an imaginary Roquefort-sarsaparilla toaster pastry. It would be interesting, but I’m not sure it would be good. If you don’t have enough faith to be an atheist, you certainly don’t have enough faith to not be an atheist.

  Ouch. Snap. Touché.

  Often, “I don’t have enough faith to be an atheist” is followed by “So I’m agnostic,” and that pisses me off even more. “Agnostic” does not answer the theological question it pretends to answer. “Agnostic” answers an epistemological question with an answer that everyone agrees with (except the pope and me, and I’m not so sure about the pope). Thomas Huxley, Darwin’s bulldog, made up the term “agnostic” in 1889:

  Agnosticism is not a creed but a method, the essence of which lies in the vigorous application of a single principle. Positively, the principle may be expressed as in matters of intellect, follow your reason as far as it can take you without other considerations. And negatively, in matters of the intellect, do not pretend that matters are certain that are not demonstrated or demonstrable.

  Penn Jillette, no dogsbody, made up his own shit in 2011: “If you’re not willing to pretend that matters of god can be certain, you’re an atheist, and just say that, you fucking pussy.”

  If you’re asked, “Do you think the existence of god is a matter that is demonstrable?” (I wish I got asked that question a little less often and “Would you like a blow job?” a little more often), you could start your answer with “yes” or “no.” If you’re self-absorbed and think that your feelings and thoughts are demonstrations, then you’d answer “yes.” If you have a bit of humility you’d answer, “No, I’m agnostic.” You were asked an epistemological question and you’ve given an epistemological answer. (To me, the question “Would you like a blow job?” is rhetorical.)

  If I ask you “Do you believe in god?” the question is not general, it’s specific. It’s asking you to report on your thoughts. It’s not “How far can your reason take you in matters of god?” it’s more like “Are you hungry for some razzleberry pie right now?” It’s a question about you; what do you actively believe? It doesn’t matter how sure you are of your belief. It’s not like you’re being asked why you’re hungry for razzleberry pie or if “hungry” is the same feeling to everyone, or even what the fuck a razzleberry is. None of us can really know for sure if there’s a god, but belief is, if not an action, then at least a state of mind you can report on in real time. If I ask you if you believe in god, I just want to know if you have an imaginary omnipotent friend who you really believe lives outside of you in the real world. And if you don’t, let’s sit
down and split a razzleberry pie. If you do, get off my doorstep and I’ll eat my pie myself, thank you.

  You know I love the answer “I don’t know,” I really do, and I use it whenever I can. “I don’t know” is a perfectly acceptable answer to most questions (certainly for me), but not a question of what one believes. “Is there a god?” can be answered, “I don’t know.” “Do you believe in god?” needs to be answered yes or no, even though you haven’t made up your mind for sure. None of us has made up our mind for sure, but what are you thinking now? You don’t have to know if you’re always going to want a piece of razzleberry pie, just whether you want one now.

  If you answer a personal question about belief with an epistemological answer, you’ll get away with it pretty often. It’s a cheesy grade-school dodge, and those often work (“I know you are, but what am I?”). It’s a transparent trick that’ll make you more comfortable at shallow cocktail parties that no one should be comfortable at anyway. It’s saying that when it comes to the most important fucking decision a human being can make, you’d rather not say. Imagine trying that weasel agnostic answer in any other important discussion. The conversation would have to go like this:

  “Do you believe the Velvet Underground was the best rock musical ensemble that ever made noise on planet Earth?”

  “Well, I’m not sure we can ever know for sure who the best musicians are, or even what rock music is. I’m not sure anyone can know that.”

  “I didn’t ask you that, you Grateful Dead–loving piece of dope-damaged wishy-wash, I asked you what you believed. But don’t even bother. I no longer care. Go listen to Lady Antebellum.”

  I try to stay calm about theology, but I can’t do it with the Velvets. I get worked up.

  “Agnostic” is often peddled as the gentler, more measured version of atheist, but I can’t see it that way. It doesn’t fool anyone. When someone hedges, we all know what he or she means. Most “agnostics” are really just cowardly and manipulative atheists. What “agnostic” means in this context is: “Well, I don’t actively believe in a god, but I can’t prove there isn’t one, and I’ll probably break down and pray when I get really sick to attempt to fool the possible god, and you might be religious, and you are kind of cute; maybe your next question is going to be about a blow job, and I don’t want to fuck that up.”

  “Agnostics” are not really showing respect for religious people, they’re showing condescension. They worry anyone who believes in god can’t possibly respect someone else’s honest lack of belief. That’s not true. I meet religious people every day who don’t kill people for their lack of belief. Some of them will even blow you. The people listening to your answer know you’re human and can change your mind. They know you can be wrong. I say I’m atheist now, but that doesn’t mean my next book won’t be titled God? Yes! We all change. Do “agnostic” weasels think that they can manipulate the believer with their fancy wordplay? Do they think that they’ll dazzle the faithful with phony nonjudgmental compassion and undermine their faith from a gentle nonconfrontational position? Religious people aren’t as stupid as “agnostics” think (no one could be). Believers can smell a godless loser who doesn’t even have the guts to answer a question from half the length of purgatory away. An outright lie shows more respect than a dodge. If you’re going to lie, get down on your knees, pretend to praise god, and rot the faith from the inside like the worm that you are.

  Believers and “agnostics” sometimes try to claim that atheists are arrogant, sad assholes who believe science has answered all the questions of existence. I have never heard an atheist claim anything like that. I read all the Hitchens/Harris/Dawkins/Dennett stuff and bunches of flaming “fuck god” websites, and I just don’t see that claim anywhere. It’s not arrogant to say that you can’t figure out the answers to the universe with your internal faith. It’s not arrogant to know that there’s no omniscient, omnipotent prime mover in the universe who loves you personally. It’s not sad to feel that life and the love of your real friends and family is more than enough to make life worth living. Isn’t it much sadder to feel that there is a more important love required than the love of the people who have chosen to spend their limited time with you? When someone says that Jesus loves them, it’s always so sad and desperate. If your Christ lives outside of time, then the time he takes to love you means nothing, and anyway, why did he make your football team lose?

  Here’s hoping the faithful will find real people who’ll love them half as much as I feel loved by my family and friends. And I can show you my family and friends in person—I can prove they exist; you don’t have to take it on faith. While we’re waiting for my buddies to get here, wanna see some pictures of my family on my iPhone? I have 616 photos here, and a few videos, c’mon, it’ll only take a minute—aren’t they the best?!

  I will keep saying and writing this over and over: the vast majority of human beings are good. We’re all trying to figure out the truth. We all need more information and we can all handle your personal opinion when we ask for it. Please respect us enough to tell the truth as you see it. Just spit it out. Most of us will be happy to hear what you have to say. That’s most of us. Some of us will kill you for what you believe—but with those people, “agnostic” won’t save your ass. And it sure won’t get you laid.

  I am an atheist.

  “Jesus”

  —The Velvet Underground

  The Bible’s Fourth Commandment

  Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days thou shalt labor and do all thy work, but the seventh day is the Sabbath of the lord thy god. In it thou shalt do no work: thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, nor thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger who is within thy gates. For in six days the lord made the heavens and the earth, the sea, and all that is in them, and rested on the seventh day. Therefore the lord blessed the Sabbath day and hallowed it.

  I went into a hotel room with a girlfriend. I told her I was very sorry, but I had a little bit of writing that I had to do before I could take her out to dinner. I said it would take about an hour.

  I said, “You can turn on the TV; my iPod has music on it and there are headphones right there. If you want to go out, my car keys are right there and there’s a Starbucks in the lobby. I have a couple books there if you want to read and there’s a magazine or two . . .”

  She said, “I’m fine, I’ll just sit here.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  “I’ll sit and think.”

  She’s still one of my best friends and an inspiration.

  ONE ATHEIST’S FOURTH SUGGESTION

  Put aside some time to rest and think. (If you’re religious, that might be the Sabbath; if you’re a Vegas magician,

  that’ll be the day with the lowest grosses.)

  Learning to Fly, Strip, and Vomit on a 727

  Since I was a child, I’ve wanted to be weightless. I really wanted to go to space, but part of going to space was being weightless. Just to hold something up in front of me and have it stay right there is the real magic. It’s out of this world. I have professionally battled gravity. My start in showbiz was as a juggler. Jugglers fight gravity. “Sudden gust of gravity” is the standard (meaning they’ve forgotten who they stole it from) line that hack jugglers use as they bend over looking like they’re chasing a duck after they’ve dropped a prop. The reason there aren’t any superstar jugglers is because no matter how good you get, at some point you’re onstage looking like you’re chasing a duck.

  Elvis never looked like he was chasing a duck. Hendrix never looked like he was chasing a duck. John Lennon never looked like he was chasing a duck. I’ve often looked like I was chasing a duck.

  Now that I’m older and weigh 280 pounds, gravity is a less sporting and more real enemy. As you know, I’m six feet seven inches tall, and I still remember Leslie Fiedler writing in Freaks: Myths and Images of the Secret Self that “gravity is not kind to those who grow too large.” I would be
healthier (and more lucrative) if I were built like Tom Cruise.

  A good theory in science is one that we’re damn sure is true: the Earth goes around the sun. Evolution is how we got here. No one I know seriously doubts those. But no one has the full skinny on gravity.

  The only way you can feel weightless for more than a couple of roller-coaster seconds is by getting far enough away from Earth or riding the Vomit Comet. The Vomit Comet is how NASA trains astronauts and rich people thrill important clients. They take a big old airplane and they go up and down really fast. While you’re going up, you weigh 1.8 times your weight, and while you’re going down, you weigh around 0.

  Up until recently, the FAA had given NASA a monopoly on losing all your pounds of ugly fat (along with muscle, bone, and everything else). Astronauts got to ride it, some scientists got to ride it, and that’s about it. Ron Howard made some back-room deal (it must have included sexual favors) to be able to shoot Apollo 13 on the NASA Vomit Comet and they talked about it a bit, but it was soon quieted down. You’re not really supposed to use a government-funded program to make movies. I’m glad Tom, Bill, and Kevin got to fly, but if everyone really thought about it, why can’t we all ride?

  More and more people are getting a chance to be weightless. A couple free-market nuts at NASA decided they loved zero G and it was time to get off the socialist tit, buy their own Vomit Comet, and start selling rides on it. Everything the Vomit Comet does is within the specs of planes, and why can’t at least rich people get to do what Ron and Tom got to do? That was the idea.

  When they first got this harebrained scheme, before it had been approved by the FAA or whoever, I heard about it. It seems that when anyone gets a harebrained scheme, I’m CC’d on the memo. I love nuts, I’m for nuts, I am nuts. They all get in touch with me. I told them I thought it was a great idea (and you know how much that means), and I wrote them e-mail, gave them tickets to our show, and went to dinner with them a couple times.