AITA For Refusing To Let My Ex-Cult Leader Crash My BBQ And Drink All My Beer?
Look, I’m not saying I’m a saint. I’ve done some dumb stuff in my life. I once tried to assemble IKEA furniture without the instructions because I thought I was “too smart for that.” I ended up with a shelf that looked like a drunk spider had a seizure. I also once ate an entire bag of spicy Takis right before a dentist appointment, which was a real dick move to my own gums. But I’m pretty sure I’m not the bad guy here, even though my mom is currently giving me the silent treatment because I “ruined the vibe.”
So, context. I live in a decently sized city in the Midwest. We’ve got corn, we’ve got chain restaurants, and apparently, we’ve got a guy who thinks he’s the second coming of Jesus, but with worse PR and a thing for goats. Yeah. That guy. Let’s call him… Chad. Because cult leaders always look like Chads, don’t they? Puka shell necklace, bad tan, eyes that are just a little too wide, like he’s trying to sell you a used Subaru but also your immortal soul.
Chad used to run this little “spiritual commune” out by the old grain silo. Real low-rent Jonestown vibes. He’d preach about “The Great Cleansing” and “The Ash of the Old World.” He even had a holiday he invented called “Ashura.” Which, for the record, is a real, deeply significant day of mourning for millions of Shia Muslims. But Chad? He had no clue. He just thought the word sounded “spicy.” So his Ashura was this weird festival where everyone had to write their “sins” on a piece of paper, throw it in a bonfire, and then drink a weird kombucha he made out of fermented beets and regret. Then he’d try to sleep with your wife. The usual.
I got roped into it for a solid year because my ex, Karen (yes, her name is actually Karen, the irony is not lost on me), was super into it. She thought Chad had “real energy.” I thought he had real BO. Anyway, I left after he tried to “reassign” my car to the commune’s “collective fleet.” Buddy, that’s my 2007 Honda Civic with a cracked dashboard and a CD player that only plays Linkin Park’s *Meteora*. You are NOT getting that.
Fast forward to last weekend. It’s the Fourth of July. I’ve got my backyard set up. The grill is sizzling. I’ve got a cooler full of domestic beer, some decent brats, and a bag of charcoal that cost more than my first car. Life is simple. Life is good. My buddy Mike is already three beers deep and trying to light a sparkler with a cigarette. Peak America.
Then the gate opens.
I see a beat-up van. I see a gaggle of pasty, tired-looking people wearing those same scratchy linen tunics. And I see Chad. He’s got a beard now. It looks like a dead squirrel is glued to his chin. He walks up to my grill like he owns the place, claps me on the shoulder, and says, “Brother! The Ash of the Old World is upon us! We smelled your sacred flame from the highway and knew we had to share in this feast of purification!”
I just stared at him. “Chad. It’s July 4th. That’s a propane grill. And you’re not invited.”
He laughed. That hollow, *je ne sais quoi* laugh of a man who’s never been told “no” by anyone who wasn’t already brainwashed. “The universe doesn’t do invitations, Brother. It does *convergences*. Our old Ashura festival falls on this exact solar alignment. It’s a sign.”
Yeah, bro. The sign is that you’re homeless and my mom’s potato salad is within reach.
So here’s where I might be the asshole.
Chad walks over to my cooler. He pulls out a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. He drinks it in one gulp. Then another. Then he starts handing them out to his crew. They’re all chanting something about “cleansing the bitter hops.” I see my brats disappearing. I see my neighbor’s kids looking confused. I see my buddy Mike trying to get one of Chad’s followers to do a keg stand.
I snapped.
I walked over, grabbed the cooler, and said, “Party’s over, Chad. You’re not a prophet. You’re a hobo with a LinkedIn profile for a cult. Drink your own damn fermented beet juice.”
He got this wounded look. Like I had kicked a puppy that was also holding a Bible. “You would deny your fellow man on this holy day? The day of Ashura? When we burn away the ego?”
I said, “The only thing getting burned today is these brats if you don’t get off my patio.”
He then tried to “bless” my grill. He literally raised his hands over the Weber and started speaking in what I assume is supposed to be tongues but sounded like a guy trying to order a burrito in a language he doesn’t speak. “Om nom nom shanti shanti carne asada!”
I turned the grill off. I told him to leave. He refused. So I took the hose and sprayed him. Not hard. Just a gentle mist. A spiritual cleanse, if you will.
He sputtered. His followers gasped. One of them yelled “You’re ruining the Ashura energy!” And then they all shuffled back to their van, soaking wet and beer-less. Chad shot me a look that was supposed to be profound but just looked like constipation. As he drove off, he yelled out the window, “The Ash will remember this!”
The problem? My mom showed up ten minutes later. She saw the whole thing. She’s been texting me
Final Thoughts
Having spent years covering the intersections of faith and geopolitics, it’s clear that Ashura is far more than a ritual of mourning; it is a living, breathing political manifesto against tyranny, one that has shaped Shi’ite identity from the sands of Karbala to the modern protests in Tehran and Baghdad. To dismiss it as mere religious theatre is to miss the raw, visceral power of a narrative that continues to inspire defiance against oppression, whether in the seventh century or the twenty-first. In an era hungry for moral clarity, the story of Hussein’s stand remains a haunting reminder that some principles are worth dying for—and that, sometimes, history’s most profound victories are etched in blood, not ink.