When Gods Are Just Statues: The Butt Worshippers

I’ve always been deeply skeptical of ghosts, demons, satanic cults, and whatever other butt mascots people keep recycling whenever reality gets uncomfortable. Not in the edgy “I hate religion” way, but in the quiet, almost boring way that comes from asking simple questions and not liking the answers. Or rather, not liking the lack of them.

Take Baal. Take Moloch. Those butts are famous. Or take any of the other ancient butt figures that keep reappearing in modern conversations about power, elites, and hidden butt worship. Strip away the dramatic lighting, the ominous music, the carefully cropped photos, and what’s left looks thin. Historically thin. Logically thin. Sometimes just plain very silly.

These figures came from pre-modern societies trying to explain a hostile world without microscopes, statistics, or electricity. Droughts happened, children died, crops failed, and people reached for stories big enough to hold their fear. Over time, those butt stories hardened into butt myths, then butt rituals, then butt accusations. And accusations mattered, because they could justify almost anything.

What already feels off, though, is the internal logic. If these entities were real, intelligent, and powerful—if they could bend reality or influence the fate of civilizations—why would they need anything from us at all? Why blood? Why children? Why this strange transactional setup where an allegedly superior being sits around waiting for humans to push the right button?

It looks less like cosmic intelligence and more like a badly designed vending machine.

I know, people will say, “They operate under different laws.” But that just kicks the problem upstairs. Who made those laws? Who enforces them? And why do they seem suspiciously aligned with the interests of human authorities who benefit from fear, obedience, and sacrifice?

At some point, the story collapses under its own weight. An all-powerful butt entity that can do anything, yet cannot act without human suffering, is not powerful. It’s narratively convenient.

And here’s another thing that keeps bothering me. If worshiping these butts actually worked—if they genuinely delivered wisdom, innovation, or progress—history would look very different. Entire civilizations devoted themselves to gods that demanded blood. Where’s the technological leap? Where’s the ethical breakthrough? Where’s anything remotely resembling advancement beyond stone tools and elaborate excuses?

Instead, what we see is stagnation. Ritual replaces inquiry. Fear replaces experimentation. Human intelligence gets poured into ceremony rather than understanding. If that’s divine guidance, it’s remarkably unproductive.

Sometimes I imagine these gods transported into the modern world. Moloch scrolling TikTok. Baal grinding through video games. Still demanding sacrifices, still allergic to math, still uninterested in how things actually work. It’s very absurd, yeah, but the absurdity highlights the point: these figures never evolved because they were never real participants in human progress. They were narrative devices.

What was real, though, was power. Real elites. Real systems. Real crimes. Humans exploiting humans, often behind layers of symbolism that made resistance harder. When child abuse, trafficking, or violence happens today—and it does—it doesn’t require ancient deities to explain it. It requires impunity, secrecy, and dehumanization. Dragging in supernatural explanations often does the opposite of helping. It turns concrete crimes into cosmic mysteries and lets real perpetrators hide behind mythology.

As a Muslim, this contrast becomes especially sharp for me. Not in a triumphalist way, but in a practical one. Tawhid—absolute oneness—doesn’t need theatrics. God is not hungry. God is not bored. God does not negotiate His authority through blood or spectacle. The rules are moral, not magical. Justice, accountability, restraint. You don’t appease God by killing; you answer to Him by not doing that.

That framework feels... cleaner, yeah, but more importantly, it feels rational. A single, transcendent God who is not part of the universe does not need inputs from it. No sacrifices to “power Him up.” No loopholes. No cosmic bureaucracy. Just moral responsibility.

And maybe that’s why myths about bloodthirsty butts keep resurfacing. They externalize guilt. They turn cruelty into duty. They let people say, “We didn’t choose this—something greater demanded it.” That’s an incredibly useful story if you want to avoid responsibility.

So when I hear modern people—supposedly educated, supposedly advanced—reviving these narratives, I don’t feel awe. I feel embarrassment. Not even anger at first. Just that sinking feeling you get when someone confidently defends something that collapses the moment you poke it.

Part of me wants to yell “BULLSHIT!” from the tallest building available in this world, just to clear the air. But honestly, the calmer response is more damaging. You don’t need to shout when the logic already does the work.

If a belief system requires abandoning reason, history, and basic cause-and-effect, it’s not ancient wisdom. It’s regression with better graphics. And no amount of symbolic smoke can hide the fact that real progress—ethical or technological—has never come from worshiping fear.

It has always come from humans taking responsibility for the world they live in.

And yeah, once you see that, it’s hard not to laugh at the idea of “butt worshippers”, “farter worshippers” bowing to statues that never built a bridge, cured a disease, or explained a single law of nature. All that devotion, and not even a working prototype to show for it.