There a lot of things in this world I don't understand. Like people who have goldfish as pets. What in the heck good does a fish do as a pet? You can't cuddle a goldfish. They don't have personalities; they swim around, eat stuff that looks like dirt, and then they die. The goldfish is a really stupid pet to have, if you ask me.
But since I wasn't asked, that is not what this column is about. Instead, it is about something else I do not understand: Christian fundamentalist, Bible-thumping, in-your-face preachers.
I had several encounters with such preachers over the weekend. Because I apparently have brain damage, I decided to spend New Year's in East Los Angeles, where I was able to ring in 2000 by listening to gun fire all around the house where I was staying. It was quite special.
Anyway, as we flipped channels on the television on New Year's Eve, my friends and I came across some obscure channel which I swear I am not making up. When we first stumbled upon the channel, it was showing a grainy video of: a woman riding a horse. Some classic rock tune played in the background, as the woman and the horse wandered around some ranch. This went on some five minutes. Then, the screen faded to a facial close-up of a man, smoking a cigar and reading some papers. He looked up at the camera, scowled a little bit, and rolled his fingers, as if to say, "play the horse video again."
And they did. My friends and I howled with laughter, our cackles interrupted only by nearby gunshots. The video went on through another song, at which point, the screen faded back to the man. He didn't even look up at the camera this time; he just made the rolling motion with his hands, and they played the horse video again. This time, the song in the background was something by Prince.
My friends and I were gasping for air between guffaws at this point. Finally, the Prince song (which, I swear, had something to do with sex) ended, and the screen again went to the man, identified as "Dr. Gene Scott." This time, he looked up, took off his glasses, and started rambling about the Bible and how his church was empty and how he had no family -- all while puffing on a cigar the size of a small Buick. He seemed, quite frankly, grumpy and in need of a laxative.
A friend of mine from Los Angeles explained to us that Dr. Scott is a well-known preacher in Southern California, and that he is frequently on that channel for some reason. I am not sure what kind of message he was trying to convey that night, because I have no clue what a woman riding a horse, cigars, Prince and his lack of a family have to do with each other.
The next day, I had my second encounter of the weekend with the preacher-types. I had the pleasure of seeing Stanford lose the Rose Bowl to Wisconsin, 17-9. I was happy just to see the Stanford in the Rose Bowl, however, seeing as they had not been there since Dick Nixon was president.
As I walked out of the stadium, myself and the other 93,000 Rose Bowl attendees were hounded by a group of at least four hollering preachers. One of them had a loudspeaker, and denounced the crowd for having "pigskin as a religion." (Seeing as I have never worshipped a football, I can not relate to this, but whatever.) Another of them was towing a small cross on his back, as he shouted to the people leaving the Rose Bowl. (I was tempted to inform him that since he had a wheel on the bottom of his cross, he was cheating, because Jesus Christ never had such a luxury). Let me sum up the message these preachers were coveying: You are all gonna burn, you football-watching heathen boogers.
I have no problem with religion. I have my own faith, and am quite happy with it. I also have no problem with people trying to "spread the Word," as long as they respect a person's right to tell them where to stick it if they so desire.
But I do have a problem with these Bible-thumping, cross-toting, fire-and brimstone types. Quite simply, they annoy me. And I don't think their message is getting across; the only thing I gained from Dr. Scott's diatribe and the Rose Bowl preachers was a little bit of laughter. They are making faith and religion -- two wonderful things, in my book -- well, laughable.
I just don't understand it, folks. I'll bet these preachers, along with their horses, even have goldfish as pets...
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan who would pay large sums of money for two things: a nap and a Stanford running game. His column appears here Tuesdays, and he can be reached via e-mail at jiboegle@stanfordalumni.org.