Saints are really just church-preferred people, who march around with pope-hats on their heads and boards up their asses. I was supposed to want to be like that, but I never could. Want to, that is. "But God will discard you if you're not holy," they would tell me. "But if I am holy, he'll make me march around with a pope-hat on my head and a board up my ass," I would reply. They told me that to serve God was the aspiration of every saint. "If that's serving God, I guess I ain't no saint," I thought to myself.
. . .
I think they must have pissed off the guy who made up their god. They fucked him over somehow, so he made up all this shit to play on their fears and perceived inadequacies, got them all believing it, then left. The god they "serve" never was and will never be. They just pee themselves away, century after century, going nowhere and perpetuating global misery. He got them good, the guy who made all that shit up.