God is a Gangsta

God is a Gangsta by Roxanne McDonald

God is a gangster who has predetermined the winner, folks. So, give up now, all.

Just do what Dustin did and go for all the great prizes, instead.

Okay, I actually get what Jameka is saying about

predetermination and all –though I can’t imagine it is just God doing all the set-up work. (As Dick says, God is likely more concerned with bigger issues that which Jameka ball to pick from the PoV Bag.) I appreciate her belief that it is all just little people going through motions already set to swinging, though I tend to believe as the existentialists and see free will as right up there with taking responsibility for those actions you perform on that pre-mapped path.

And I think I get Dustin’s twisted logic, thinking of going for those prizes if, hey, we’re all goin down eventually, anyway. Might as well enjoy some virtually free cash and cruise to Barbadoes as the giant ball of fire comes hurtling toward this Hell we call Earth.

I even get and really admire Dick for 1) confronting houseguests when they make stupid ass moves, and 2) announcing that he just says aloud what the chickens are thinking. [And I love how when Kail says SHE’S not thinking that, Dick says it doesn’t matter because she is irrelevant, anyway, so there.]

But what I don’t get, so do not appreciate, and wish something or someone would give her something to really cry about if she insists on bawling is, yeah, you likely guessed it, how Amber can frigging CRYYYYYY about every. damned. thing. every. damned. time…. It is exhausting.

And it’s not select and varied crying. It’s the same Ollie/Lucy/Eyore wailing, WAILING whether it is the loss of a friend, the gaining of a friend, the loss of real food privileges [and not even her loss but JEN’s!], or the throwing of a PoV competition by one [yes, again, Jen] who is smugly depending upon another to save her, anyway.

Uh, how do you function in the real world, sister? Yes, I cry alot. I am known for crying when I see baby squirrels dead on the road; am known for growing up getting punished for crying way too much over way too little; and know I am the

queen of crying when a contestant takes the stage to pass his or her trophy to the co-star who really deserves it, he/she says. [As in when Ving Raimes passed on his Oscar to Jack Lemmon.]

But then I get some perspective: I see the postal employee with one and a half legs, moving on metal crutches one package at a time across a long floor. I watch the Mexicans strip, put their few humble belongings in a Hefty bag which they fill with their own air and tie, and swim the rivers with the bags floating along as they make their way to a place where they can work and earn some money for food for their families.

Maybe Amber has gotten some perspective from Jameka. Maybe she, too, can now stop sobbing…trusting that God is a gangster who will take care of everything.

Hey, Jameka, since you are on such intimate terms, who did He say was pre-destined to win this thing?

No, don’t tell me.

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