2005 - At a Glance

Ho-hum… People of Earth! Thou shalt heed these words from thy Maker… Ugh, man. I can’t do this. Give me that. No, the bottle.. Over there. Did you back wash? No? Ok… AAAaaaahhhhh… Here we go again. Are we on? We rolling? Now? Are we live? You people make me sad… Next time, how about an “Action!” or that finger counting thing? No, you didn’t! Did not. No. All right, all right…

Eh.

People of Earth! It is my pleasure to welcome you to this brand new feature in your puny little lives. Participation is, of course, totally mandatory so all complaints will be dealt with hard and swiftly. Nothing says Customer Service like a bolt of lightning out of the blue, as we say around here. Sit back and enjoy being told everything about anything you ever needed to know. It is unfortunately forbidden for you to say my name out loud, but since I’m a rebel I am gonna go for it: Jahve, Jehovah, Yahweh, or my Indian name, The Big Burning Bush – Ha, that was a good one, by the way. Screwing with Moses was the high point of my career. – But anyway… hrm… that will be plain old “God” to you from now on. “My Lord and Master” will work too. If you get creative and say “Oh, My Lord” you might even get your very own mop when you go to Heaven. Groveling will be most commended. Maybe. Just don’t sacrifice any more sheep. The fucking bleating is starting to piss me off. Anyway, I digress. Over to you, Lucy. (Give me that over there again. Aaaahhhh… Lucy in the sky with diamonds… Lucy in the sky with diamonds… That was a great song, man. Who wrote that? One of my guys or one of yours?)

Does humility still count as a virtue? Or is that only for the rest of us?

Eh? Being a little snot already, are we? “Thou shalt do as I say, not as I do.” The infamous Eleventh Commandment that the lazy bastard, Moses, couldn’t fit on the tablets, my dear old grumpy little friend. I hear it’s selling splendidly on eBay and on the Christian bootleg sites. I told him to repeat it to himself all the way down the mountain, but then he got all sidetracked by some Golden Cow business and forgot all about it. Consider them my lost tapes. I will put them on a compilation CD, coming to an afterlife near you soon. (Real soon, if you don’t watch it.)

I’ll carry that one in Wal-Mart. Sounds like it will sell even better than those Kidz Bop CD’s.

“Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste.” 

I never get tired of that one. Hey Mr. Modesty, maybe you could get somebody to write an opening line like that for you. You know, one that becomes embedded in the popular culture and really resonates with people. Why don’t you put in a call to those guys in Stryper? They rock. Really.

Woah! Back the truck up, Loserella! Stryper? I always thought they were your guys. Homosexuality is a SIN! A sin, I say! Besides, they were a little too obvious. I operate through more subtle artists these days: Marduk, Gorgoroth and Mayhem. I figured if I used music no sane person could possibly appreciate  to give you the bad rep for a change, I would win in the end. I also got myself a new agent. Smartened up in my ancient days. Why is it that all the good ones always sell their souls to you anyway? I don’t get it! I need me one of them crossroads. Where did he go? My new agent… My boy… Cochran! Put that on my list of things to do! “Make Crossroads!”

I believe I know everyone here. I am the guy you spend six and a half days partying with after giving your half day a week lip-service to yawn inducing Yahweh. I ought to call him Tucker Carlson for all of his spin doctoring and the double-think he wants you to subscribe to – you know, all the stuff about how you are supposed to give him credit for every lucky break you catch in your miserable existence while letting him off the hook for all of the nasty stuff.  Hey, I had a guy singing my theme song; “Wasn’t me!”, Shaggy, or something equally stupid.

This brings me to why I am here. It is a nifty little opportunity to call this guy out every time he starts to shovel this shit your way. Consider me the voice of reason, translating the ramblings of an aging and increasingly delusional megalomaniac for your entertainment. It’s not age. It’s just that I get dizzy in the mornings and sometimes don’t remember which side I’m on. I told you that! Eternity is the mind-killer.

Well, anyway, back to the issue; 2005.

So, before we get to that last pesky showdown between me and old Threebones here, we figured it would be nice to clear a few things up for your sad ignorant minds. After all, not much happens in this world that Lucy here and I haven’t had something to do with. Where do we start? What really happened this year that needs to be spelled out? Ah, yes. Jacko. The old Jackmeister. I would just like to say that I take no blame for that sick boy. Except for when he was black. That was all me. You take the white guy, Mr. Star. Would you like to elaborate on this?

Of course you take no blame. Pay attention, folks. You will notice a theme developing here. If we are going by blackness, then you are taking credit for him through “Off the Wall”, right? So you claim responsibility for the upbringing that made him what he is today. The beatings from his father, the relentless work schedule imposed on a pre-teen. All that good stuff that turned him into a neurotic child-abuser. Wah-wah. I take full credit for “Thriller” as well. As for the rest I plead the “Free Will” amendment. I infused the boy with talent, but his father CHOSE to abuse him out of his own free will. Then Michael CHOSE to become a fuckhead out of his own free will. I am a genius. I take full credit for the “Free Will” amendment too.

And then you want to blame me. Too bad, so sad. Typical. I even tried to help set him straight after you got done with him. I got him a date with Brooke Shields and figured maybe getting laid would do him some good. Apparently she wasn’t young or male enough for him. Not my fault. Her eyebrows are male. It was a failed genetic experiment on my part. Like I gave Ray Liotta raccoon eyeliner. I get bored. And confused… OK, one of them asked for the other thing, and vice versa, and I got it all mixed up. Sue me. I closed down the prayer department a few years ago anyway. It wasn’t worth the trouble. Whine and cry, whine and cry. Never any good stuff. What am I, your diary? How about some good old fashioned worship next time? I am after all, your Lord and Master, not some soft pillow to hug in the night. You people must have me confused with lesser deities (that you may not have besides me anyway, so snap out of it).

Senility is a mind-killer too, it seems. OK, I admit that I got Jacko hooked up with those Nation of Islam guys, but that was after he went nuts, anyway. I just loved the fact that a group of guys who believe white people were created by an evil scientist would rush to align themselves with an evil guy who used science to turn himself into a white person. Are you still dating that bitch, by the way? What was her name? Karma?

Moving along now through the year…

The Pope, the Pope, the Pope. Such a funny little man, don’t you think? See, when I set the dress code for the papal office I was a wee bit off my rocker. I had just lost my son - we will get to that later, you bloody heathens, don’t think I forgot – and I was feeling a little strange. I had this really weird dream that my son had turned into a squid, and I was trying to grapple him with a big boat hook thingie… What do you call them? The big boat hook thingies that you grapple with? Whatever… and he eluded me. My son, gone. Motherfuckers are gonna pay. Anyway… So when it was time to decide on the papal dress code for the old sock I was still somewhere between Squid Dream and Huge Grief, so naturally I wanted the pope to reflect this very emotional stage of my life. So he got a Squid Hat and a Boat Hook Grappler Thingie, and he was instructed to remind people how they had killed MY son for THEIR sins. Really rub it in and make it the whole purpose of Catholicism: Guilt. It made sense at the time. See, being God kinda rocks. I don’t have to explain these things to a superior anything. I can tell myself to go fuck myself, and it usually ends up with me punishing you, Humanity, in the end anyway.

Anyway, he died. The Pope, I mean. It was his time. I would have loved to have him, had the parade planned and everything, but he never showed up here. Still don’t know where the hell he is. HAHAHAHAHAHA. Get it? These things happen. Luggage gets lost, so to speak. Have you seen him, Lucy?

As if there was any chance of him getting into your place. That guy is responsible for more kids getting raped than Jacko could ever dream of. He had an express ticket south, and he’s having a ball. Ironic, isn’t it? Most Catholics don’t head to Florida for retirement.

He’s still mine, though. Yo, Cochran! Put “Drag Lake of Sulphur for Pope” right after “Make Crossroads” on that list. Priorities…

I must give you credit, though. That pope hat is a big hit at parties down here. It is the lampshade of the new millennium.  Seriously, get a little wine in him, throw some “Terri Schiavo: Unplugged” on the stereo and it’s off the chain!

Well, if you do see him wandering around down there - with a sad expression on his face, I am sure - just be a doll and send him up when you get a chance, all right, Sparky? Sad my ass. He is having a blast! We just got Richard Pryor down here. He brought his stash with him, and between that and the strippers, John Paul is as up as he has ever been.

In other news… Let’s see… What really happened last year? Hurricanes, who cares… Earthquakes, too bad… Hmmm… This? Nah, London bombings. You know what, my little Angel of Ultimate Betrayal? The British always kinda ticked me off. Do they even have religion at all anymore? Besides fondling that soccer ball, of course.

Sure they do. They are focused on all of those really important things like making sure that Sainsbury supermarkets stop selling “Jerry Springer: The Opera” DVDs. They’re doing God’s work. No doubt about it. By the way, with all this talk about Jacko, the Catholic church, and footballers, I have to ask, do you think of anything other than ball fondling?

Did you just interrupt me, or did you fantasize about me out loud, you God-envious little perv? Isn't that some weird sexual dysfunction, called hubris amongst your kind, Lucille? I’m sure there’s a help line for you out there somewhere. Cochran! Hey, Cochran! Get this guy a phone and a rag. Anyway… The Brits… I mean, they are not even Protestants anymore, are they? They down sized religion to something quaint. Are their Churches just museums, to fill with do-not-touch crap? What am I, a goddamn RELIC? Nothing fazes these people. Nothing excites them. All that “Terribly sorry, Sir, pip pip cheerio” gibberish, without ever batting an eye lash. I am gonna teach those jolly bastards a lesson! After all, I AM AN UNFORGIVING THUNDEROUS GOD and…

You’re Gene Simmons? Damn! I thought I had dibs on him.

No, he’s mine. Tell you what, though... I’ll trade him for Eddie Van Halen’s talent that you’ve been so rudely holding hostage since 1984!

That’s what you get for trying to hide it in his tongue. Like his wife said, right before she divorced him, I hear.

Well, whatever, where were we? Where are we anyway? Eh… Is it time to put on my Allah disguise and scare the Arabs now? Er… Zzzzzzz… Uh? Zzzz... What time is it? What is going on? The Brits. Ah, yes! I am still going to blast those Brits to their precious “smithereens”! Wait a minute here…  Did you beat me to it? With those blasted bus bombs? Hey, no fair! I was gonna put the fear of GOD in them! Never mind giving some Babylonian freaks the credit! Now you ruined the surprise!

Calm down, Your Flatulence. Those bombings weren’t done in my name. “Allahu Akhbar!” Ring a bell? You speak a little Arabic, don’t you? Sure, but in the lost tongue of ancient Hebrew “Allahu Akhbar” means “Help! Some red dude with horns and a tail taped a bomb to my chest! HELP!” Some things just get lost in the translation I guess, and I HATE it when you foil my nice little designs.

Like that whole sordid affair with the Jim Jones Kool-Aid stuff. I thought for sure I would shut down your stupid soft drink enterprise by giving it a bad rep, having my man off his whole crew with it. But NOOOOO… Bloody stuff is selling more than watermelons and chicken during Black Awareness week. I can’t win, can I?

Now you’re talking my language. Do you have any idea what the margin on that stuff is? Keep drinking the Kool-Aid, kids. I win.

Well… I mean, at least at Armageddon I will win. Right?

Absolutely. You are omnipotent after all. Except for all that human suffering which you say you are powerless to prevent. Did you mean to say you were impotent? Viagra is selling like Kool-Aid. I can hook you up with some samples. I know people.

Hey, you want me to go all “Free Willy” on your sad goat ass again? It’s their own stupid faults. They CHOOSE to suffer, I am only the worried parent here, waiting up all night for Armageddon to roll around so I can ground these ingrates for life. Didn’t somebody already write the ending of that whole sad excuse for an event anyway? Can’t we just thumb wrestle about the dominion of Earth and Heaven and then call it a day? If we know I am gonna win anyway, I mean. That way we don’t have to go through all that tired and bothersome "fighting off the sulphur stinking 9-headed monstrosity" business. My joints ache, my aches joint and my divine zappy-zaps aren’t what they used to be. Michael is senile and Gabriel went away with the first batch of Scientologists on that Roswell Spaceship. “Weather Balloon”, my divine behind. Besides, I already bet Humanity on the outcome, so be a good sport and just fold, all right?

Sounds tempting, but you are starting to sell me on this whole free will concept. Just to make sure that we are clear, people can still choose whether or not to buy into your whole piety schtick, right? So this would mean that all of that determinism crap is just that – crap. From there, it follows that Armageddon’s outcome is up for grabs. Looking around at things, I gotta tell you that I like my chances in this one. No way I am going to miss this party. I’m all in.

Wait a minute… Hrm… Free Will was not designed to screw ME over… You got it all backwards.  Why does everything I create always end up biting me in the ass?

What is this note? “Get back on track, you old fool!” The nerve! Well, ho-hum… Did we cover all the news for 2005? After the fact, as usual?

Not really, but it’s all old news anyway, and 2005 was just a warm-up for what we’ve got planned for this trip around the flaming ball of hot gas. Not you, the sun.

Good. I am out. Stick a fork in me and dunk me in Lucy’s Pit of Fire, I’m done.

Finally…

How did I do? Good? I wasn’t too, you know “God-like”?

Cochran. Get me another one of these!

Comments for God or Satan?

With God - our Lord, and Lucifer - the Morning Star