Roger Rabbit writes:
Hell, I don’t know. Maybe there isn’t any. It’s possible we’re just here. Hawking now tells us the universe could have popped up, out of nothing, without a God. Dawkins, Hitchens, and other contemporary atheists rationally argue for the nonexistence of a divine power or intelligent design; and even the most ardent theists (the Pope, et al.) concede you have to take God purely on faith. Mother Teresa nearly had a nervous breakdown while waiting in vain for a “sign” proving the existence of God. But even if there is a deity — apart from whether there exists a supernatural, superseding, supervening, supervising, superior being or entity or force or whatever you want to call it — what the hell are we here for? What’s the purpose of living? To have fun? To get laid? Is there one? Thinking about this can drive you nuts. Believe me, I’ve thought about it — I want to know — although thank God (if there is one) I’m not nuts. Not yet, anyway, although I’m slowly getting there as I write this. The existentialists realized this problem of purpose can cause a lot of angst. Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, Sartre, and their crowd thought about this a lot and concluded we’re just here and you have to invent your own purpose. In which case, grabbing as much money as you can, having as much fun as you can, and getting laid as much as you can, would seem to be as good a blueprint for living as any and better than most. That’s my idea, not theirs, and I’m not conceding the existentialists are smarter than me. Sarte has exactly as many Nobel Prizes as I do — none. They offered him one, but he refused it, claiming it would compromise him or some damn thing like that. Me, I would have cashed the check and run, which arguably makes me smarter than him. I don’t want the glory, though. Being a Nobel laureate could make it hard to get dates with women who do anything besides think. I mean, look at who Sartre hung out with — de Beauvoir — how would you like having her for a girlfriend? No thanks. I’ve never met a college student who was impressed by the existentialists. They’re annoyed by those reading assignments more than anything else. College students know what the meaning of life is. It’s about getting. Getting passing grades, getting beer, and getting laid. When you’re getting all that, what more purpose do you need? Angst, if they have any, comes from not getting one or more of those three things. Maybe somebody should write this down and get a Nobel Prize for it. I’m trying. I need the money.