The afterlife promised by Frisbeetarianism, where your soul gets thrown on the roof and they can't get you down, isn't appealing to me. And though a mortal existence being part of happy play time is nice, some of the dogs bite too hard.
It’s a matter of faith in he who was boiled for our sins, even the creator of heaven and mozzarella. May his holy meatballs be blessed. The burning in your bosom may be heartburn, or it may be a confirmation that the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster is the One True Church.