Friday, April 29, 2011

Are You There Margaret? It's Me, God.

Ha! Just kidding. I know you're there.

Look, Margie. I know it's been a few decades since you asked all those questions about your boobs and your period and crap like that. Now that you're a 52 year-old Walmart greeter with a failed marriage and a daughter who became a Scientologist, I'm sure those questions are more or less moot. I suppose you have a whole other list -- which I'm also not going to answer. Instead I wanted to clear something up for you.

I'm really, really big. Seriously. As big as you think I am, double that and add three Chinas.

While you're scrambling around worrying whether you'll starve or get eaten or find true love or whatever you people think about... I'm out here punching holes in spacetime and munching on galaxies like blueberry cobbler. I don't hate you or anything. But I honestly don't care. In fact, the exact moment I was saying this I just obliterated a whole world over near the Andromeda system. It had 13 billion people, a dozen living writers just as good as Shakespeare, and not a single thing named Snooki on the planet. You know why I wiped them out? I needed the space for some stuff I've gotta do with a quasar next Tuesday. So, yeah, I guess your sixth grade research project isn't high on my list.

I'm a bit of a dick. I admit it. It's in my nature. I began as a nanotechnology experiment in a parallel universe that kind of went bad. Long story short -- I sucked up the entire place into a ball of gray, hyper-intelligent goo... and then I started creating stuff on my own. Basically your entire universe is one of thousands where I am conducting an experiment into the nature of consciousness. Blah, blah, blah -- I know. I bore myself. Anyhoo, the experiment finished up a few billion years ago, and I just... never got around to shutting the whole thing down. You're kind of like a bit of science fair bread mold left out too long in the fridge. Sorry if that's harsh. But I figured I'd be honest.

Awhile back someone else from your neck of the woods was asking me some impertinent questions too. His problems were more dramatic -- boils, poverty, dead family, the whole deal. But my answer to him was similar:


I told him to go pound sand.

You might wonder why I'm even talking to you, since I'm so indifferent. In fact you've just been mugged in the parking lot on your way home from your terrible job, and when you wake up in the ambulance with a paramedic barking technical nonsense over you, you'll probably start thinking this was all a hallucination. Who's to say it isn't? Who's to say we're not both fictional characters, maybe being dreamed up in some completely different world and typed onto a screen by a dumpy middle-aged dude looking for a cheap laugh?

Well, from one fake to another: There's no lesson at the end of all this ridiculous struggle. I'm not here to stamp a meaning onto your life. That's your gig. On your best days you almost manage it, even though you know you'll eventually lose. In fact the knowledge that you will lose is part of what makes you interesting. Hey, it's something.

Okay. Off to go smite the shit out of something and then maybe a nap. Bye.


  1. It's funny 'cause it's true. It's also very depressing. Bravo.

  2. While I did share the link to your "Open Letter to Rick Santorum from Satan" on Facebook, this one I'll enjoy on my own.

    1. I get that. Sometimes I'm terrified the people I know personally will see the stuff I write. And that is kind of thrilling.

  3. Somehow, the God who takes a moment to tell me he doesn't give a shit is a little more comforting than the one who just ignores me.


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