All morningthots lead to godsquabbling

Dear diary,

You have heard that song that has that line at the beginning: “I want to be a part of it: New York, New York.” My question is: What exactly is New York aiming to do, that the singer wishes to be a part of? I think that it must be something bad, or else the place is failing at its goal.

Has anything good ever happened in history? Whenever I have been taught any historical development, it is spoken of as a progression; but it seems that everything could just as easily be explained from the opposite point of view: as a worsening.

I like the way that the indoor air of my house is conditioned to be comfortably cooler or warmer than the outdoor temperature; and I also like the way that modern plumbing delivers clean water while removing waste water: so those inventions that made these amenities possible were advancements. But immediately after I write that, I think of how the phrase “clean water” is not altogether factual. And then I think how difficult it is, in this era, to attain a house.

The world before Ancient Greece, and the world after Ancient Greece. The world before and after Ancient Rome.

It seems that people tend to be proud of their homeland. I live in the United States, and I hear United Statesians talk about this place as God’s gift to the planet. Is the post-U.S. world better than the pre-U.S. world?

Why did people who were born in Europe leave their native land for “The New India”? Is there a general answer that applies to most cases? Send some of those people to this café, where I am typing on my typewriter: I’d like to interview them.

Just now I sicced my typewriter upon the Internet Dictionary with the question: “What meaneth ‘motherland’?” and it spat back the definition “one’s native country.” Then I typed “What meaneth ‘fatherland’?” And it replied: “a person’s native country, especially when referred to in patriotic terms.” For some reason, that whole extra clause was included in the fatherland definition. Lastly, an online Encyclopedia came and said: “Patriotism is the feeling of love for one’s country.”

I mentioned people who left Europe voluntarily. (Is any action ever truly voluntary?) There were also people born elsewhere who ended up in the U.S. (The U.S. has an economic system.)

Bondage. Enslavement. Servitude. Subjugation. Thrall. Serfdom. Vassalage. Captivity.

It’s hard to retell the Bible’s history in a way that pleases everybody. Here’s how I see it: The god Yahweh hates slavery; so, when he finds the Israelites enslaved to Egypt, he rescues them. He tries to plant them in a new land. But the people rebel against being replanted, since they do not wish to cohabit with other nations: they would rather commit slaughter and eliminate the surrounding nations. So the god Yahweh slowly abandons them. The Israelites settle to a certain extent, yet before all of them have had a chance to take root in the new land, those who have established themselves begin enslaving their fellows. So, another empire comes and enslaves the Israelites. Who cares whether the name of the conquering empire is Assyria or Babylon – I just think of it as Egypt All Over Again. So it’s a sad story, moving from slavery to slavery, from Empire 1 to Empire 2. The brief interval of freedom was spent warring to amass riches, with the aim of enslaving others. They could have said “We were slaves in Egypt; let us therefore follow the way of our savior, the god Yahweh who rescued us, who is anti-slavery: let us flourish by living in peaceful harmony with others,” but instead they said, “One is either a slave or a master, let us be masters,” and it was like the adage “Live by the sword, die by the sword;” they escaped slavery, aimed to enslave, and got re-enslaved.

More people will disagree than agree with my above retelling. And they will be correct, if the text is to be trusted. I say the text is not to be trusted. For the history was written by the pro-slavery advocates. Or rather, parts were written by anti-slavery poets, other parts were written by others (from allies to opponents); but the entirety of the so-called sacred scriptures was ultimately edited into its final form by pro-slavery factions. That’s why it’s easy to cite verses from the Bible where the god Yahweh says things like “I am angry that you did not follow to the letter my command to murder every man, woman, infant, and beast in Place X; for this, I will punish you.” And elsewhere the scribes made their Yahweh say: “Slavery is OK, as long as you only do it to foreigners.” These teachings are evil, but they exist within the Bible, right alongside teachings that are good. How is this possible? Why doesn’t Yahweh come and clear up the confusion by saying what I Bryan say he should say: “I am against slavery in all forms.” ANSWER: Yahweh does not exist. Humans fabricated Yahweh.

Why speak of Yahweh at all, then? Why not discard him, as other atheists do? Because I’m attracted to the idea of revising Yahweh: I think it’s a healthy challenge, trying to make a bad god better. Why let the priests have all the fun? There’s no rule prohibiting anyone from participating. At least, no rule that we should obey. The priests warn me not to write; and I warn them not to write: we both break each other’s law. That’s fine; I forgive them. I side with the idea that says: “Censorship is not the antidote to mendacity: one remedies false speech with more speech, not with silence.”

The same thing happened to the Nazarene’s story, by the way: he himself was simply anti-slavery, but he was slain by the pro-slavery forces of his era; and that’s why they shifted the emphasis from his economic teachings to his blood sacrifice. For if people follow the Nazarene’s economic teachings, then slavery will become abolished; whereas if people fixate upon the martyr’s death, and look to a nonexistent afterlife for their reward, then the actual resources of this life – the only bliss that exists – shall remain in the power of the hoarding oppressors.

Now I regret writing “Yahweh does not exist.” If, by that name, we mean God, then I think we might someday realize the concept: bring Yahweh into existence. I think we should try. (And let us make it my good version of Yahweh, not the priests’ bad one.) But when I wrote what I wrote above, I was speaking of the “historical” Yahweh. So maybe I should have said: Yahweh no longer exists. He was probably somebody’s dad, once upon a time, but he has long been deceased. The real Yahweh was an above-average warrior. Maybe also a poet. Someone like Archilochus. And then just comb out everything you dislike about Archilochus, over the ages. Give him his own mountain. Fill it with lava. Make an help meet for him. Then, when the priests come and take his lady away, go and rescue her, and return her to Yahweh: “Here is your consort, Sir. We found her locked up in the castle of those who claim to be your intercessors.”

Another true story

Dear diary,

I am a young lad – or a young man, rather: I just entered adolescence. I live with my parents; this, my room, is the attic of their small house. I spend all my time up here studying books, and barely ever come down into the real world. I’m trying to learn how to become the ideal male. My hero is Don John: he’s the one I read about the most. I envy the way he seduces women. My life’s goal is to become a Spanish libertine.

In my daydream, I chase a woman around a flower garden. But the woman flees from me and escapes. She finds a walled off portion of the garden that has a thick wooden gate, which has been left open: she goes through and closes the wooden gate behind her. I then arrive at the gate and find it bolted shut. I pound with my fists, but nobody answers.

Now I notice that the woman is up above the clouds, in her balcony. I climb the vines up the side of the building and offer her the white flower that I was holding in my mouth. We embrace and kiss.

Then I awake, and resume reading in my biography of Don John.

Upon hearing the sound of womanly laughter, I arise and look out the attic window: I see two ladies on the street below holding hands and giggling. I whistle to get their attention. They look up at me. I wave to them. They stop laughing and frown; then they shout to me: “Little boys should never be seen or heard.”

The ladies walk away, and I stare after them speechlessly.

I go back to my book, but now my mind is too agitated to read. So I open the attic hatch and look down into the kitchen, to see what my parents are doing. My father is holding up a pair of trousers. He says:

“I plan on giving these trousers to our son for his birthday tomorrow. He will feel overjoyed to wear them, because they are full-length. Since the day of his birth, the lad has only worn short pants, which cause him to look like a little boy. But these trousers will transform him into a man, and he shall become a hero: The ladies will swoon for him, like Don John.”

My eyes grow wide when I hear this news. But then my mother gives her reply:

“That is exactly what I am worried about; I do not want our son seducing all the women of the world. His short pants are the only thing preventing him from being a Spanish libertine. Therefore, let us destroy those full-length trousers that you bought him for his birthday. I shall cast them into the fire.”

Then father cries: “But what gift shall we give to celebrate our son’s entering adulthood?”

Mother answers: “I shall bake him a cake.”

Then she snatches the trousers out of my father’s hands and tosses them on top of the pile of wood labeled “Furnace Fuel.”

I remain above, watching this scene from my attic hatch, until my parents leave the room. Then I let down my ladder and hasten into the kitchen: I quickly grab the trousers off the woodpile and change out of my short pants.

Now mother and father are sitting in the living room, reading the Bible together. They both look up in shock, as I come bursting through the door and pose before them in my new full-length trousers. I turn to the right, then I turn to the left. “How do I look?” I ask, beaming with pride.

“Oh no!” my mother places her hands on her face.

“Don’t worry,” says father while patting her back, “our boy will act responsibly.”

I continue to strike poses. Mother shields her eyes. Father tries to comfort her, remarking: “They are a bit large, but he’ll grow into them.”

I then pantomime embracing a damsel, and leaning in to kiss her. Mother faints, and father carries her from the room.

§

A darkly beautiful woman arrives in town, seated at the back of a topless motorcoach driven by a chauffeur. When the vehicle comes to a stop in the road, the woman pulls out a letter from her purse and reads it – it says:

“Dearest of All, don’t feel downhearted – as soon as I break out of jail, we shall be married. Hugs and kisses. From: Your Lover.”

The darkly beautiful woman looks up from the letter. I now appear from around the corner, riding my bike and wearing my new full-length trousers. When my eyes alight upon this beautiful woman in the motorcoach, the sight so beguiles me that I drop the book I’m carrying – it lands on the ground with its title showing: Desire Under the Elm Trees. In embarrassment, I retrieve the book, then pedal over to the car.

I get off my bike and stand there before the woman, modeling my trousers. I strike a pose to the left, then to the right. I lean fashionably against my bike and tip my hat. The beautiful woman seems almost to nod. I climb back on my bicycle and slowly ride in a circle around the motorcoach. The woman almost seems to smile; it is hard to tell if she has noticed me. I then come up and stop before the door of her car, where she is sitting. I look directly at her. She seems to see me. Our faces are now so close that our lips almost touch.

In the distance, my mother begins to call my name. Hearing this, I flinch and draw back. With a yearning look, I mouth to the darkly beautiful woman the words: “I must go!” then I hop on my bike and ride home.

My mother is waiting outside the front door and waving for me to enter the house: “Hurry!” she says, “Priscilla is on the phone!” (Since my earliest childhood, it has been my parents’ plan that I marry this Priscilla, who is the daughter of our next-door neighbors.)

§

Meanwhile, the darkly beautiful woman takes the letter out of her purse again to re-read it; but at just that moment, her chauffer starts the motorcoach and begins to drive: so the sudden jolt from the vehicle’s lurching forward takes the letter from the woman’s hands, and the breeze carries it to the ground. There it remains, in the place where the vehicle was parked.

§

I am on the phone at my parents’ house, listening to Priscilla, who says: “Don’t forget that you and I are to be partners at the Egg Festival tomorrow.”

After saying goodbye to her, I climb on my bicycle and ride back to the place where the darkly beautiful woman’s motorcoach had been parked. But the vehicle is gone. I sit down in the road and sulk for a moment. Then I see a folded paper on the ground. I retrieve and read it – it says:

“Dearest of All, don’t feel downhearted – as soon as I break out of jail, we shall be married. Hugs and kisses. From: Your Lover.”

I look up from this letter and smile brightly. Then I begin to dance.

My parents, who have gone out for a walk, happen to come around the corner at this very moment, when I am dancing alone in the street. They stop short; my father nudges my mother and points to me with his pipe, saying: “It’s easy to guess what Priscilla said to him on the phone!” Then they retreat around the corner, before I spot them, so as not to disturb my celebration.

§

I skip home in bliss, absentmindedly dragging my bike behind me by its tire. When I reach the front door, my parents are standing there smiling. I look at them, they look at me. For a moment, I wonder why they are so happy; then I shrug and go inside.

Mother and father attempt to follow me, but before they can enter, I come bursting out the door again and announce: “Don’t be surprised if I get married soon.” Then I dash back up to my attic room.

Once I am gone, my father turns to my mother and says: “Our plan is working, dear! – Priscilla and Bryan! What a wonderful match!”

§

Time passes, and the wedding day finally arrives. Only it is not the wedding that I wished for, because the darkly beautiful woman, whose letter I keep always close to my heart, failed to return. So now I stand in one room sadly putting on my tuxedo, while in another room Priscilla cheerfully dons her white wedding gown. Guests flood the reception hall, bearing gifts; and there is a large cake and refreshments arranged on lengthy tables.

After helping me labor into my tux, my father tries to boost my spirits by showing me the public announcement about this event: “You’re going to have a wonderful wedding,” he pats my back; “just listen to what the newspaper says—”

But when he opens the paper and begins to read, I glimpse by chance, on the opposite page, a large photo of my true love, underneath the headline “Darkly Beautiful Woman Imprisoned!”

I look closer at the text, to find the location of the jail; then I interrupt my father and say: “Return all the gifts to the people – I’m not going to marry Priscilla.”

My father is flabbergasted. He raises his hand with his pointer finger pointing, and begins to make arguments. I then raises my hand with my pointer finger pointing, and begin to make counter-arguments. My father shouts:

“You have read so many romance novels that now you think of yourself as Don John! Well, no son of mine is going to behave this immorally.”

But I reply: “When one’s sweetheart is in distress, one cannot go around marrying other women!”

As we speak, we cut and slice the air with our hands. Each of us violently points and shakes his finger at the other.

Now Father towers over me, yelling: “No! You cannot call off the wedding now – it’s too late!” And he shouts this while waving his closed fist in my face.

At this point, I look around the room and notice, lying on my dressing table, a pistol with a belt of bullets. This gives me a daydream:

In my daydream, I take Priscilla in her white bridal gown for a walk in the woods. I have the pistol in my hand. When we reach the middle of the woods, I tell Priscilla to stop and stay put. Then I step behind her a few paces and aim the pistol at her back. I cover my eyes with my free hand, and pull the trigger. When I remove my hand from my eyes, I look and see that Priscilla is no longer standing: the white gown is in a heap on the forest floor.

I awake from this daydream to find my father still towering over me and yelling arguments. I stand up calmly, drape my arm around his shoulders, and speak soft words to soothe him. We reach an agreement and shake hands.

§

The darkly beautiful woman is in a prison cell. A guard gets her attention and hands her a piece of mail – it is a postcard, whose contents are as follows:

Greetings from your Lover. I just broke out of jail. I was ready to marry you, but now I find out that YOU are in jail. We must therefore remain apart. Be brave. Good luck!

The darkly beautiful woman looks up and sighs after reading this message. She then crumples up the paper and throws it away.

§

The guests have all gathered in the reception room to celebrate my wedding. Father is reading them the announcement from the newspaper; on the reverse side of which is the photo of the darkly beautiful woman, with the headline about her imprisonment.

Priscilla, my bride-to-be, is readying herself before the mirror in her room. I show up outside her window and tap on the glass, then motion for her to come near. She points to herself as if to say: “Who, me?” And I nod vigorously while gesturing again for her to hurry over. She approaches and opens the window sash. I stand grinning in silence for a moment; then I say cheerily:

“Let us take a little walk in the woods.”

I jab my thumb at the nearby trees, to clarify my meaning, while she stares in confusion. I then point at her, and at me, and at the trees again, while nodding and grinning.

Priscilla begins slightly to smile, as she seems to be calculating the contents of my proposal. I tilt my head a couple more times toward the woods. Then she points up her pointer finger and smiles brightly, while saying: “I’ll be right back.”

She hastens over to the vanity and grabs the bridal bouquet, then returns and climbs out of the window. I help her to the ground.

Before we head over to the woods, Priscilla casts upon me a look of love, while smiling very brightly. A pistol is protruding from my pocket.

Now, arm in arm, we walk into the woods; I in my tux, and she in her bridal gown.

We reach the place that I had seen in my daydream, in the middle of the woods. I position Priscilla just so, and tell her not to move. With my hand on the pistol, I begin to pace away. She turns to face me, but I say: “Spin back around. Close your eyes and count to five hundred.”

While she begins counting, I position myself for an easy shot. But when I try to pull the pistol out of my pocket, it gets stuck. I wrestle with it for a moment, and it ends up falling through the inside of my pantleg and tumbling out beside my shoe: the gun lands in a pile of leaves.

I get down on my hands and knees and begin to search through the leaf pile for the firearm. I soon find an object that matches its shape; but this turns out to be only a piece of wood. Before I can recognize my mistake, however, I rise to my feet and hit my head on the branch of a tree: this presses my top hat down over my face. Then I step in a beartrap.

Priscilla announces: “Four hundred ninety-nine . . . Five hundred!” Having reached the end of her count, she now opens her eyes and turns around and sees me and laughs.

She comes over and helps to remove the hat from my head and the trap from my leg. I lower my gaze in shame. While I stand there slouching in dejection and oblivious, Priscilla chances upon the pistol in the leaves, as well as a knife and a newspaper: She uses the knife to fasten the paper to a tree, then steps back a few paces and fires off all the bullets. At first, I am terrified, assuming that she must be shooting at me; but, once finished, she comes and takes my hand and leads me over to look at her target: All the shots have hit their mark, which happens to be the photo of the darkly beautiful woman. The bullet holes have made a frown over her mouth.

§

Some time has passed. Priscilla is now standing beside my mother on the front porch of my parents’ house; both women are looking out and scanning the landscape anxiously. My mother says: “Well, didn’t he tell you where he was going?” Priscilla answers:

“Before he ran away, he said: I’m sorry but I cannot marry you – father will explain everything. And yet father just keeps repeating: Don’t worry; he’ll be back.”

§

At the prison, all the alarms are sounding, because an inmate has escaped. The guards are dashing around, searching for the fugitive. One police officer alerts another, saying: “The darkly beautiful woman has fled from her cage!”

With a look of bewilderment at this commotion, I approach the entry gate of the prison, holding a large bouquet of flowers. Before going in, I halt uncertainly, noting all the flashing lights and blaring sirens. Belatedly, I decide that it is not a good time to visit: I begin to walk away.

Just then, the darkly beautiful woman dashes around the corner, looks right and left, then ducks behind a barrier. I spot my love and immediately run to meet her. She rises to make another run for it, and the two of us collide: Tipping my hat, I inform the woman that I received her letter. She hastens over to a wooden crate, pries off one of its boards, climbs inside, and motions frantically, saying: “Close me in, quick!”

So, finding a hammer on the ground, I nail the missing board back on the crate, thus sealing in the beautiful woman.

To get my attention, she pounds on the wood from within the crate and shouts instructions. I struggle to lift the crate and then stumble around with it on my back. We thereby accomplish our getaway from the prison.

§

I am hefting the wooden crate across a busy intersection. All the vehicles must keep swerving to avoid me. My love interest, the darkly beautiful woman, continues to guide me from within the crate, by pounding on the boards and shouting commands.

A spider now creeps toward me from out of the shadows. I stumble in panic and almost drop the crate. The woman pounds and shouts. I apologize for the turbulence.

At last, I find a place where I can safely set down the crate. There are several identical wooden crates piled up outside of a shop. I balance mine atop this array. Then I sit down on the curb and begin to eat a sandwich that was in my pocket.

A stray dog steals my shoe, so I must give chase to retrieve it. While I am off doing this, a delivery truck bumps into the stack of crates and knocks them down, leaving them scattered on the pavement. Thus, when I return, I cannot tell which of these crates contains my love interest. So, I pry open the one that is nearest: I am terrified to see that it holds a police officer. (This, I learn, after recovering from my swoon, is only a ventriloquist’s dummy.) I then pry open the next crate – it contains a live alligator: so I quickly reinstall the detached panel.

The third crate that I open reveals my true love: the darkly beautiful woman emerges with packaging material in her hair. She draws a pistol and immediately enters the nearest shop, then returns draped in luxurious furs, and tosses me a new suit, which I quickly change into.

As nonchalantly as I can manage, I now stroll down the boulevard with the darkly beautiful woman. We enter a nightclub and watch the hoochie-coochie dancers.

The owner of the club is reading the front page of a newspaper, whose headline says: “Darkly Beautiful Woman Escapes from Jail, Robs Clothing Store – Beware: Armed, Dangerous, & Still At Large!” Seeing that the photo matches my companion, the club’s owner hastens into the phone booth and calls the criminal underworld, muttering: “I found your lost sheep. Better come quick.”

The criminal underworld then storms into the club with their tommy guns drawn, and the big boss addresses the darkly beautiful woman: “Are you glad to see me? Now we can finally get married.”

The woman sneers: “You dirty double-crossing rat.” She finishes her drink and then opens her purse. Taking out her pistol, she aims at the big boss and shoots him dead.

The whole club now erupts in gunfire. Smoke fills the atmosphere.

The darkly beautiful woman clutches her chest; she grabs my arm to steady herself, then falls slowly to the ground, smearing my coat with blood.

The smoke finally clears, revealing the whole criminal underground sprawled as corpses on the floor.

Now the public comes pouring into the nightclub and gawks at the crime scene. The people snoop around, jostling the bodies while pointing and gossiping. Finally, the cops burst in and arrest everyone.

§

We are all in prison together. A guard now opens the gate of our collective cell and shouts my name. I point at myself and look surprised. The guard motions for me to come out.

Now freed from jail, I walk back home. When I enter the room, my parents and Priscilla are seated before a feast at the dinner table, with their heads bowed and their hands folded in prayer. I quietly slink down into the empty seat, and bow my head and fold my hands.

“Amen,” says my father. We all look up. They are all shocked to see me. In absentminded excitement, Priscilla, whose seat is opposite mine, stands up to embrace me and, in the process, tips over the entire table. I arise drenched with food, and my family keeps hugging and kissing me forever after.

Source: Long Pants (1927)

True Story

Dear diary,

Well, I was driving my car when suddenly I got a flat tire. This happened right in the middle of the forest, where the sky is colored dark. And I didn’t have a jack or a spare. Luckily, however, I had brought a map of the area; and it showed that there was a filling station further up the road. So, I started walking.

Eventually, I heard a roaring engine from over the horizon. I thought to myself: “Ooh, great; now I can hitch a ride! Man, I’m tired of hiking.” Thus, I put out my thumb and waved my hand.

Too bad: the car didn’t stop. Instead of passing me by, it ran me over and severed my limbs. All my innards were now spilled out and flattened on the road, and my priceless blood was seeping into the grass. Plus the pole from the road sign had gotten lodged into my side. I looked and saw that my head was rolling off into the cornfield.

The moral is: Always keep driving your car, unless it just won’t go.

§

To understand why all this happened, let me tell you a little about myself:

I’m anti-everything: totally mean-spirited and hateful. The only thing I hold serious is hockey. So, I’m here to wish you all a happy Thanksgiving. God, I miss drinking hard liquor every morning.

Send me a note; I’ll reply by taking you out to the woodshed, where I keep my giant poisonous metal octopus.

I was the one who talked Santa Claus into only giving gifts to the children if they’re good. He wanted to give them to everyone, but I was like: “No!” Therefore, most kids nowadays end up with a lump of coal or a chunk of soot in their stocking. And I myself put it there: I enter each abode personally; and I embrace the children’s mother, when she comes out to meet me: we begin to kiss. Then the kids wake up and tiptoe out and spy on us, while their dad is still asleep.

After the household’s mother and I have satisfied our desires, she leads me into the kitchen and offers me half a dozen loaves of bread, which she had baked for me earlier that day. I accept with thanks, reminding her that the pieces of coal have been deposited in her children’s Xmas stockings, in accordance with tradition.

Then the sleigh pulls up and parks on the roof. I pat the mother gently and say: “Gotta go; my ride’s here.” Then we fly over miles of sandstone, trombones, and foghorns.

Here is how our folk music is made. I write all the lyrics, Mrs. Claus programs the beat machine, and our dog Mickey cooks meat.

It’s kinda scary to think that you could die at any moment.

Then we eat funnel cake. Have a taste. Now have a Polar-Bear Pudding Pop. Have some Snowplow Puppy Chow.

I tend to scare people off who are friends with me. We go cruising down the boulevard in our motorcar, just rolling down the street with the top down. We got diamonds in the back seat. We’re rolling like Paul Revere, just cruising down the avenue, stealing all your profits. Putting your revenue in our purse. Taking Xanadu from you and pocketing it. I bought your wife a new brassiere, because I don’t like her other ones. And here is a six pack of Smoking Sour Beer for the children, to go with their soot. (We revisit the abodes of the kids who’ve been bad, just to rub it in that they ruined Christmas, and to tease them.)

Then I go visit my high school home economics teacher who flunked me. She lives in a castle that is being guarded by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. I bribe him, and he lets me in. I bring the lady around back to the swimming pool and say “Shall we take a dip?” This castle is filled with gentlewomen from all around the world, who join us in the water. We then spend the rest of the day sunbathing.

That one Kennedy who died shows up with the famous Duke of Earl, plus a family of gorillas who traveled many miles to meet us. I share the gentlewomen with them: “Enjoy the plush amenities,” I say. They all smile. When it’s time to leave, I announce: “Don’t forget to take an after-dinner mint, to freshen your breath!” I then have my robo-butler guide them to the door labeled “Chamber of Peril.”

I think that our state’s sports teams are going to perform well this year.

The politicians that you believe in will obtain power.

There is a cyclops running from the police, hopping between rooftops. It’s like the opening scene from Hitchcock’s Vertigo, if the character played by Jimmy Stewart had only one eyeball, very large and round.

“Don’t fall in the slop!” For the streets below are completely covered.

You and I own a mansion with smack on tap. You pull the lever and the spigot dispenses smack. Smack is slang for the drug heroin, but in U.S. English it can also refer to a fishing boat equipped with a well for keeping the caught fish alive. I like to think of our tap as bestowing either substance: it can somehow sense which one of them you more strongly desire, at any moment. So that’s how I ended up with all these fishing boats; cuz I don’t care that much for heroin. I learned a lot from my expedition on the high seas.

That’s also how I got the nickname “Demolisher.” And you are now known as “The Wound-Dresser.” Mrs. Claus is our forewoman. Our dog Mickey joins the masked mimes that get caught in the crossfire of all my damaging and your skillful bandaging. The group rebrands itself “The Mummy Mummers,” and Mickey’s pet name becomes “Mummy Mutt.” (Is this clever or not?)

I used to gangbang, but now I’m retired. On the day when I came home and announced the news of my quitting, my wife’s eyes rolled back and she fell on the floor unconscious. “Somebody call a doctor!” I cried, waving a paper fan at her face. “Open a door, and let some air in here.” Then my robo-butler opened the side-door.

We got her out into the car, and our robo-chauffer drove us to the hospital. “Ah,” my wife sighed, finally awaking when we arrived in the Emergency Room, “a turbo-nap just came upon me because I ate too many Skittles.”

So that’s what caused her to faint: not my retirement news, but her overconsumption of those multicolored fruit-flavored lentil-shaped confections that have a hard candy shell and a chewy interior.

Epilogue

Here I am, back at my house. The year is 1993. I’m holding a super-soaker water-gun filled with nectar for the hummingbirds. Richard Gere is with me; he is smoking tobacco out of a water pipe. Mickey is here also, and Christ will return as soon as he smells the smoke. (He needs to keep in shape for volleyball.) Our ladies are all wearing wool socks.

The attic hatch opens, and Thanksgiving dinner is served. It is a very fat bird. From the stuffing of the carcass is retrieved a strip of paper on which is written our fortune; it says: “One in five never die.” We then say a prayer, finish eating, and head into the game room to play Whip the Winner with a Chain. Hearing the sound of raindrops on our cedar shingles, we head outside with our ladies and enjoy embracing them in the downpour. We pass the night cuddling in this fashion.

The mega bar arrives in the morning. It is like an ice-cream truck: mobile. Inside the mega bar is a limo; we take our seats. There are highways on which one can drive within this vehicle; that’s how roomy it is. I play the Sega video game console while speeding down the limo’s streets, while the limo speeds around the track at the mega bar, while the mega bar orbits Christ. (Christ does not drink or drive or play arcade games or read or write.) Christ is locked inside a jar. There is a Holiday Boat Sale at the hotel within the mega bar’s motel. I visit TV Jesus in the Sega jail and write backwards on a sheepskin my plan to break him out. Then I hand him a red plastic egg that contains a grayish putty, and I demonstrate for Jesus how this product can be pressed against my written message to make a reverse copy of it, which is now readable.

I then freeze into a painted statue of wood. They push me downhill, tied to a toboggan.

Morningthots that don’t really go anywhere

Dear diary,

In my neighborhood there are many families that have children. I hear their kids playing outdoors when I am reading. I like the sound of children playing; it’s like the sound of birds singing: When I hear either of these sounds, I assume that at least there is peace in this part of the world: For during warfare, when guns are firing and slaughter is occurring, children will usually not laugh and giggle, and birds will not sing; only when the gunfire and slaughter cease will the birds start to sing again, and the children return to their play.

But even when there is peace where I live, I still feel dissatisfied; for I cannot relax and enjoy life unless I know that absolutely every living creature is content. Yet I am aware that there are parts of the globe where the birds are mute, and children are neither laughing nor playing, because violence is raging. If I had kids of my own, and you said to me: “Just be thankful that your children live in a peaceful part of the earth.” I would answer you: “It’s too hard; I cannot stop thinking about the kids who are suffering elsewhere. Not until there is peace everywhere will I be able to enjoy our local peace.”

Am I stupid, to feel this way? I wonder. For what would it be like if the entire planet became peaceful, and all the violent evil mayhem stopped happening, so that the whole globe had no more war. Let’s even say that all abuse of every kind ended: people stopped even swindling each other: All of Earth became like the Christian God’s Heaven. Would I finally be able, at that point, to rejoice in the health and welfare of my own children, who are now part of a global contentment? No. And why? Because although the problem is solved for our own sphere, I would now begin to pity all the other spheres in our solar system. Look: Mars is a murder zone, and Venus is overrun with whoredoms; Mercury is a Hell on Earth; Saturn is corrupt. The only nice place to live is on Jupiter, within the Red Spot, where Yahweh and I have our mansions for eternity. All the other planets are bad.

Moreover, although the Earth itself is at peace, the earthlings still swindle each other: I know that they claim they do not, but they are liars. This peace that they achieved will not last, either: their God keeps truckloads of weapons stashed in his Holy Habitation, because he fears another mutiny.

And the world is a big place, so even if I could find a way to make all the spheres within our own solar system paradisal, there will always be clusters of systems beyond this sun from which I can suck disgruntlement. The number of planets is infinite, and all their civilizations are as barbaric as ours.

What is the solution, then? Just stop caring about my neighbors? Develop false pride in place and blood? Say: “O well, at least my own kids are not getting bombed”?

Is it too tall an order, to care for one’s own family as well as all the families in the outer darkness?

I’m now thinking of the Sun at the center of our solar system. It gives us its light, and we sing praises to it. But does it withhold its light from all the other galaxies? No, it gives its light to them, too; but they do not thank it, because the amount of light that they get from our Sun is minimal: it just appears as a pinpoint in their night sky; whereas, to us, it brightens up our whole day. – Now, what if our Sun were to decide to help some group of spheres far away, and send the bulk of its light to them, while neglecting us who orbit about it faithfully? Some foreign zone that exists many megameters away would enjoy a warm, bright morning because Mister Sun chose to leave his earthlings in the lurch and instead to have an affair with her. Then, people who live in New York and California would experience nonstop nighttime: when they walk through their cities, to avoid bumping into each other, they’d need to depend upon their streetlamps; and when they look up into the firmament, which used to boast a great blazing orb, it now holds only a dim orangey blob, about the size of a cantaloupe: for all its photons were shipped overspace.

I guess what I’m saying is . . . Actually, I’m not quite sure what I’m saying. Maybe my message is: Don’t abandon your biological children for the sake of helping extraterrestrials. – But that’s not something that people need to hear: most people find it natural to neglect the beings who cannot be seen because they live far way; most people automatically favor the beings that live close by. This is not something they must be taught.

If you’re pacing through your neighbor’s garden, and a stray dog from the vicinity approaches you, you will share with this beast one of the tomatoes that you gleaned.

Does not the average person possess an instinct that would choose to nourish all worlds, if that were possible? If given the chance to feed all the starving galaxies that no earthling has yet discovered, what man is so heartless as to say: “No, hold back the aid from those populations, because I do not count them among my trusted allies”?

I can see this man asking, however: “If I permit those unknown folks to be fed, will it mean that my own people will starve?” – Now say the answer is: “All of your people’s needs will remain met. The beings in question are so different from humans that they live off what you consider rather waste than sustenance: your trash is their treasure. In other words, you are being asked to send them not the leftover food from your feasts but what was inedible. Like how plants inhale what humans exhale, and vice versa; or how gods want only the bones and the fat from your sacrifices.” In this case, if the man refuses to feed the alien species, I would say he is meanspirited.

But I once saw a tramp take a sandwich out of his bindle with the aim of eating it. This was in a movie. The tramp opened his mouth to take a bite, but just then he noticed another tramp sitting under the bridge nearby; and this second fellow was obviously hungry: he was shivering and thin. So, the first tramp tore his sandwich and shared half with the starving stranger.

I like the idea of living on Easy Street. If only Jesus would come and pay people immediately, when they do kind acts; then I think more people would behave charitably. The problem is that you’ve got to wait until after you’re dead to get your reward. So you share your sandwich with a comrade, and then you and your fellow tramp live another day or two before dying from exposure; and when you get into heaven, Jesus awards you a bigger mansion than your friend, because of that one time you helped him: Jesus appreciates that you shared your food – he judges you fairly, but way too late. He should give you a big mansion when you’re still alive, on earth, so that you and your co-tramp could stay there, and not freeze to death.

It would also help if Jesus would punish evildoers more swiftly. Preferably, he should protect innocent people from evildoers before any harm is inflicted: I’m not talking about punishing criminals for crimes they haven’t yet committed; I’m saying that Jesus should stand between a woman and her attacker, and Jesus should block any punching fists, or any lunging knives, and he should stop all bullets. This way, the victim does not need to feel any pain, and the assailant can be spared the guilt of having sinned against Heaven. If this new style of policing is too demanding for Jesus, then he should just clone himself: then he could be in two places at once. I think that all you need, to make a clone, is a drop of blood from the source; and then you use a microscope and some computers and lightning bolts to create an exact replica. Jesus has plenty of blood: so this could work. Imagine having two Jesuses in the world. We’d have twice the love, twice the justice.

And this would also eliminate the problem of all those people who don’t believe in Jesus yet. Who is going to turn down the opportunity to be rescued from a violent rapist? No one’s going to say: “Just let the evildoer do his evil; I cannot accept help from a Christian Savior: that’s against my religion.” Come to think of it, I bet if Jesus intervenes to stop enough crimes that would otherwise have harmed heathens, infidels, and pagans, there would be no more nonbelievers left: for all these people would gladly convert, after their rescue, and be baptized. Imagine getting grabbed around the waist and lifted up into the sky by the mighty arm of Jesus, just as a vampire and a werewolf are chasing you down a dark alley: How many would-be victims, at this point, would turn down the Lord’s request that they join his church?

And if you decide to become Catholic, after Jesus saves your life, but then you recall that it will be difficult to break this news to your family, because they are all stubborn adherents to some type of Buddhism, don’t even worry about it: Jesus will help with this, too.

Finding my admirer

Dear diary,

The war ends, and everyone who was fighting it now emigrates to America. The soldier who took me captive has brought me with him. His name is Zandow. He intends to make his living as a performance artist, calling himself “The Strongest Man in the World.” I am to serve as Zandow’s assistant.

After checking in at Ellis Island, we set out walking through the streets of New York. Immediately a policeman approaches us. Zandow hands the officer his business card and explains that he captured me in the war. The officer is pleased with this introduction; he welcomes us and allows us to proceed.

Immediately we encounter, hanging from the side of a brick building, an American Flag. Zandow salutes, and he nudges me to do likewise. I try to mimic him, but my arms are constricted by the life preserver from our boat trip that I happen to be still wearing. Zandow hastens to help me and, after struggling for a while, we succeed in removing it. I then pull a wooden oar from the leg of my trousers. Zandow snatches it and uses the oar to spank me.

§

Zandow arrives at the office of a vaudeville booking agency. He hands his business card to the secretary and gives a speech describing his act: “I begin by lifting the heaviest weights in the world, and I conclude by shooting myself out of a cannon.” Zandow holds both of his arms up and poses, flexing his muscles.

Meanwhile, I go out on the street to look for the woman who wrote me the love letter that I received while fighting World War One. All I have to guide my search is the photograph that came with the letter, and the name “Mary Brown.” However, each passerby who bears a resemblance to the photo angrily denies having anything to do with my situation. I am told repeatedly to get lost. One woman threatens to call the truant officer.

I then approach a robo-bellboy who is standing outside of a lavish hotel. I ask him “Do you know a girl named Mary Brown?” and I show him the picture. He scans the image and replies: “Yes, she passes by this corner every day.” So, happily thanking this fellow, I go sit down on the curb that he specified. There I wait.

Soon a blind woman comes walking along, tapping a white cane before her. She is identical to the girl in my photo. Following her is a small group of orphans; one of these kids addresses her, saying: “Miss Mary, tell us that story again about the Belgian soldier who won the war.”

The blind woman stops directly before me, unaware of my presence, and answers the child, saying: “Once there was a plain little girl who dared to love a brave, handsome soldier . . .” (Upon hearing this, I stand up in astonishment and mutely point to my own chest.) And she continues:

“But when that soldier wrote that he was coming to America, the girl stopped writing and hid; for she had never told him that she was—” (here she pauses while two tears drop from her eyes) “—that she was blind.”

I gasp: “Mary Brown?” I ask. The woman is startled to hear a stranger’s voice so close by. She turns and replies. I then start fumbling with the letter and the photo that I have been carrying, while explaining to her that I am that very soldier to whom she wrote. Her initial shock melts into ecstasy. I then take her hand and kiss it. I relay to her and the children all the adventures that I have endured while searching for her. Mary and the orphans listen in awe to my tales of swashbuckling and danger.

Suddenly, my boss Zandow stomps up and grabs my arm and says: “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you! You’re late! Come now, my big act starts in just one minute!” And Zandow the Strong Man drags me away. The group of orphans, however, chase after us, guiding my Mary by the hand.

§

We end up at a dance hall in the middle of the city. The stage is set: there are heavy weights and dumbbells arranged, next to a sign that says “ZANDOW: The Strongest Man in the World.”

The audience is restless; they have been drinking beer all evening; now they are impatient for the show to start. “Where’s the strong man?” they yell. The proprietor of the place is trying to keep everybody from rioting. When we arrive, the proprietor is at once angry and relieved: “They’re ready to tear down the walls – go, start the show!” he cries.

But Zandow chooses this moment to have a heart attack and die. He collapses in a heap on the floor. The proprietor takes his pulse and shakes his head; then he points to me and says: “You’re his assistant – you need to do his act. I paid for a strong man, and I’m going to have one. Get out there, now!” And he kicks me with his boot.

Bewildered, I stand onstage before the rowdy crowd. I curtsey. Then I try and fail to lift a weight that is labeled “400 tons.” So I perform a tap-dance routine instead. The crowd applauds; I curtsey again.

All the members of the audience raise their beer mugs and shout “Do the cannon trick!”

The stagehands wheel out a giant cannon.

I shake my head and escape backstage, where my owner Zandow lies dead on the floor. I kneel down and shake the corpse by its lapels, and cry: “I can’t do the cannon trick!” Then I let the body drop; and I put on my greatcoat and top hat, in preparation to leave.

From backstage, I hear the crowd chanting: “Come on! Get shot out of that cannon!”

I return to the stage and raise my hands to calm the audience. I carefully reposition the enormous cannon, aiming it straight at the crowd. I load a giant black cannonball. I pour gunpowder into the fuse hole. I light the fuse.

An explosion of smoke and fire levels the audience.

This act of physically eliminating the unruly crowd has immense reverberations. It restores peace to the city. The place is now no longer overrun with mobsters. Children play in the streets.

For my brave service, I am promoted to the position of police officer. Now I walk along a clean, orderly street, twirling my nightstick. I wear a bobby helmet and the official uniform. Up ahead, I see Mary Brown waiting for me under a tree. At first I shout to her, saying:

“Run along home, honey! I’ll meet you there when I finish walking my beat; for I am a foot-patrolling officer now, and I must do my part to maintain public order, prevent crime, and build community relations.”

On hearing this, Mary Brown looks sad. So I head over to her and give her a kiss; then, taking her hand, I invite her to join me, after all. She drapes her arm around me. We stroll lovingly down the street. As I keep staring at her with tenderness, I do not notice that there is a big chunk of concrete on the sidewalk blocking my path. I trip and fall flat on my face. The blind Mary helps me up. I dust off my uniform and we continue to walk, as the camera’s heart-shaped iris closes upon us.

Source: The Strong Man (1926)

A convo sorta

Dear diary,

How have you been? I haven’t talked to you in forever.

Oh I’ve been busy working; when you have kids, you never have any time: every day is the same: I take the kids to school, then I go to work, then when I’m done with work I go back to the school and attend the kids’ sporting events, then we come home and the kids go and play their video games while I prepare a meal, then we meet at the dinner table and fall asleep eating; and at sunrise we all wake up exhausted with our heads in our spaghetti plates, so I have to hurry and hose off the kids and drive them to school again, and of course I’m late for work.

Sounds rough. Have you ever thought of asking God for help.

God? who is that?

He is a spirit. He is pure love. He created you, and he wants you to be happy. If you ask for anything, he gives it to you. I can’t believe you’ve never heard of God.

Well, it’s true. What must I do to begin receiving my promised benefits?

Just pray.

Pray? What’s that?

You know: pray! Fold your hands, close your eyes, and say: “Dear God,” and so on.

OK, I’ll try it now. Dear God, please come and help me raise my children. And make my day job easier. – Wow, that worked: God is helping me dress the children in the morning. He is making us breakfast. He is entertaining the children while I drive us all to the school. Now he helps me get to work on time, and he helps me labor better than I am accustomed to doing. Then he gives me a more relaxed commute, when my workday is over. He helps my kids’ teams win their sports games. The teams of their opponents are humiliated. God then does half the work of preparing the evening meal with me, while also helping my children with their homework, and playing video games with them afterward: he helps them pass each level like a pro. Then God carries the kids in his arms and places them in their rooms, and tucks them into their beds, and reads them a story until they fall asleep, while I take a shower. Then God and I do the dishes together, and then we climb into bed, and God helps me to fall asleep, and he keeps the house safe all night. When a coyote comes wandering outside our window, God destroys it. This is great. Thanks for telling me about God.

No problem. When you know about something that might help someone, why would you keep it a secret? Since you found God so helpful, I might as well ask: Have you ever met the Devil?

The Devil? No. Who is that?

Not who but what. The Devil is a huge machine that produces spacetime and causes everything to function.

Sounds rough. Why would I want a Devil in my life? Should I pray to that, too?

No, don’t pray. Stay away: flee from the Devil. If you see a massive contraption coming your way, nicking off instants and spreading reality, ask God to protect you. That’s why I brought up the Devil; I thought that if you were unaware of it, I could help you avoid a pitfall.

Jeez, thanks. Yeah, I asked God, and he threw the Devil into Tartarus for me, so it should not be causing any trouble until it finds a way to escape.

Good to hear. Now I’m heading off to fight in the First World War. May God be with you.

May God be with you, too. Thanks again.

Ah, now I’m finally alone in the battlefield, as I desired from the beginning. Bombs are bursting, cannons firing, troops are marching over the hillside, with airplanes flying overhead.

I am aiming my machine gun and shooting point-blank at a can of beans, but I cannot hit this target. So I set down the firearm. I toss a rock instead, and it knocks over the can.

An enemy soldier pops out of a trench nearby and shoots my shoulder with his pistol. I counterattack by tossing very hard crackers at the man. One of them hits his chest; he drops his weapon and gasps for air.

I throw an onion, and it hits this soldier’s face. He rubs his eyes; then puts on his gas mask and runs away.

One of my countrymen who is fighting on my side now comes and delivers me a letter – it says:

Dear Sir, I hope you are well. My heart is warmer for knowing that I have a friend who is a brave soldier from another nation. Since an ocean is fixed between us, and we are never to meet, I have the courage to put my heart on paper like so: I love you, I love you, I love you. From: Mary Brown.

This makes me smile. I bring the letter near to my face and inhale its aroma, then I delicately bite the paper.

When sliding the precious letter back in its envelope, I notice that there was a photograph included. Mary Brown is beautiful indeed. I run my fingers over her image and sigh.

While I am doing this, the enemy soldier who attacked me earlier sneaks up behind me and seizes me with his hands. He carries me away as his personal prisoner.

[To be continued . . .]

Aimless juvenile rambling comedy parable

Dear diary,

God came blazing out of his cloud and set fire to our town. He was spinning round and saying: “Worship me. I am a man made of fire.” And he had red hair. And his army was with him, and they had fiery tongues, and they smelled like sulfur, and there was smoke coming out of them.

Then a counterforce of extraterrestrials came down in pods from the other heaven, and they began shooting green slime at the angel army of God, and they put out the fire. Then God’s red eyes shot out laser beams at the aliens, and he used his wand to spray smokey dust at their ships.

The two sides then agreed to settle their differences by playing games of billiards. So the best billiards players from God’s army and the alien invaders came forward and met on the battlefield, and they established a table where they could compete against each other.

Then a technology and consulting company stepped out of the year 1911 and named itself International Business Machines Corporation: it looked like a boxy computer with legs to walk on. It beat everyone in ten seconds flat. It was good at billiards. It played with ease; it did not need to stop and think, or to make any plans. It did not talk, it did not drink or eat food, it did not fall in love. But some of the angels fell in love with it. But the computer arrested them because of the feelings that were in their hearts. Then the machine in its mercy allowed both groups to fight a rematch on the chess board. “I will even win against you with my queen tied behind my back,” it said. And it did this. Then it hypnotized everyone with geometrical slideshows that it projected from its belly. And it tested its skills in drawing up equations against God Almighty. God dreamt up a wild formula, which contained a riddle somehow coded inside of it; but the computer solved it with embarrassing speed. “You’re a rollerskater, I’m a rollerblader,” it said. (That was the riddle’s answer.) And God slammed his fist down on the table in disappointment, demonstrating very poor sportsmanship. And he caused the lights for the numbers on the scoreboard to flicker and malfunction, so that the display was obscured. Then God whipped up a great wind, and he forced the supercomputer to change bodies, and he made the thing into a little girl. Then God took two planets and brought them closer, so that they more than doubled in size, and he tossed the computer girl between them, and the combined force of their gravitational pull caused the computer girl to hover in space rather than falling toward either of the two surfaces. Then God traveled backwards in time and possessed the body of Alexander, the student of Aristotle, and when he came back to the present moment, he was a mighty commander who knew all about conquest and philosophy. He stood watching the computer girl in the outer darkness; she had grown and was now a lady.

“I like the way she moves,” said God as Alexander, standing there mesmerized, next to his warhorse on the battlefield, just watching the computer lady float in the outer spaces. She was vibrating like an object riding in the bed of a pickup truck when the vehicle is driving over rugged terrain, because of the competing pulls of the planets that flanked her. “I wish the jitteriness were smoother, though,” said God as Alexander, “so that it would look not so much as though she were going to explode. It should appear more like she is in the groove of a powerful mood. More rhythmic than buzzy.”

God flew up into the sky and addressed the computer woman. She remembered him. She asked how long he planned on making her wear this feminine physique.

God, answering the question he wished she had asked, used his storm winds to part the sea on the earth, which appeared like a gash on the globe when viewed from their position, high out and above in outer space. It looked like he had given the planet a sword wound.

This left the lady unimpressed. She stretched out her hand, and the waters closed back up, healing the gash. Now God blew smoke out of his nostrils and caused all the oceans of the earth to catch on fire. Then he flew away.

“What happened up there?” asked the captain of the angelic army, when God as Alexander returned. “We had just begun to travel on foot through the dry pass, but it slammed shut atop us, and half our forces drowned. Was that your intent? Our attempts to rescue the troops from the flood were thwarted when the deep caught fire.”

“You just can’t get the time of day from a girl like that,” said God in explanation.

The captain of the angelic army was at a loss for words.

“I’ll employ Rescue Cat to get those men back that you lost,” said God as Alexander. Then he summoned the colossal demon named Rescue Cat up from her bed, and she sprang forth and shot out radar spells to find the drowned soldiers. They all had red hair: that’s how she knew that they were from God’s army. There were other soldiers drowned in the sea, the depths had covered them too, but Rescue Cat left their corpses at the bottom and did not resurrect them, because they belonged there. Like I said, only the red-haired troops got revived. They were brought to shore in large nets, and Rescue Cat used her paws to help the drowned soldiers expel all the water which had clogged their lungs.

During all this work of salvation, lightning was sparkling from the fangs and claws of Rescue Cat. And she waved her tail fast to start a hurricane. Then she flew in the air. And wherever the land was so dry that the crops needed watering, Rescue Cat caused the sky to rain. But anyone who tried to stroke the belly of Rescue Cat as she passed by overhead would be afflicted with the Antonine Plague. Also, they were given leprosy and sunspots. Then, when Rescue Cat had to land, she landed on all four paws, every time. And if there were villains nearby, she would scratch their flesh; and the scratches would become infected.

Now the aliens from earlier converted their space pods into milk saucers, and they fed the Rescue Cat; therefore the Rescue Cat rescued them, as well, and she brought them back to their home planet, on her back. And her claws were longer than the claws of any other feline superhero.

Rescue Cat mended the relationship between God’s army and the alien forces, and she also convinced the computer lady that hated God to give God a chance. So all these former enemies now squeezed into Rescue Cat’s red hotrod and drove around together at night. They called themselves the Community Action Squad, and Rescue Cat served as their leader. She wore a bright badge, and anytime the crew encountered an unknown man on the street, Rescue Cat would shine her flashlight in his face and ask if he would be interested in receiving a free lifetime membership to the Action Squad. So, this is how they gained so many new followers.

They did a lot of community service. Rescue Cat would drive the red hotrod to a random neighborhood and park. Then God would get out and walk up and down the block: this would cause the residents to feel terror. Then God would steal all their rare particles and scientific plans. One time, God shook the whole city until not a single citizen was left standing. Then Rescue Cat came out and helped everyone get back on their feet. God wore spiked boots and a metal skirt. And for weapons he carried a huge net and a wooden phaser. (A type of sci-fi stun-gun.)

That is how God became the owner of this whole other planet, in addition to Earth. He used his fists of stone, and he spent his credit cards right: this gave him a clear advantage.

Every Saturday evening, Recue Cat would take the aliens and angel-army of the Community Action Squad out to the dance club. They would all put on their dancing shoes and go dancing. And God would blast everybody in a dance-floor fight, while yelling: “I’m immortal.” Then he would open up a warp hole in space and invite medium-sized turtles to crawl through, and they would grope around mediocrely. Then hermit crabs would creep out other portals in space nearby and taunt the turtles, saying “Come out of your shells, you green foes; we will tear you up in a battle.” And God would give his turtles laser batons to help them win, and he himself would use his wooden phaser to shoot at the hermit crabs when they began waltzing. And when his stun beams ran out, he would throw rocks. God also taught the turtles how to dig tunnels down through the floor and pop out right underneath you.

Then the Community Action Squad went out looking for love. They searched everywhere, with no luck. It was too high to reach. “That’s the limit,” said Rescue Cat. “Girl, come here,” shouted God. Then God turned to Rescue Cat and said: “Rescue Cat, rescue her.” “I can’t,” explained Rescue Cat; “not at that distance: it is dangerously far away.” “But were you not created to act selflessly?” argued God. So Rescue Cat embarked upon the mission.

She strode through the part of the Gulf of Chaos that no one had ever gotten past before. It almost made her lungs collapse. Then she advanced further and swam in the Bowl of Punch, and she took a few licks as she went; but when she came to the Venom, she held back her tongue and used her willpower to refrain from tasting it. This helped her to avoid dying. But it could not stop her from crying: the stress of the journey brought out strong emotions in the Savior.

When Rescue Cat reached the damsel who personified Love for God, she asked her: “May I act as your nurse and bring you soup on rainy days?” Love bowed and granted this request, but she specified that she did not desire to be worshiped; she was made uncomfortable by Rescue Cat’s stargazing manner: “I’m only human,” she said, “even though I have twenty thousand valentines.”

So, Rescue Cat won Love’s hand for God by promising to give money back to the ghettoes of New York City, Chicago, and Detroit.

“Thank you so much for winning this prize for my heart,” cried God, when Rescue Cat emerged from the dark slime of the Gulf of Chaos with the damsel on her back.

“I did what anybody else would do,” said Rescue Cat. And she added: “I don’t think I could have done it without that generous budget that you gave me. Plus it helped to have the support of such a big crew.”

“Any injuries?” asked God. “I’ll get you mended.”

“I dislocated my kneecap, at one point, when I jumped up and then fell down in the Gulf of Chaos,” said Rescue Cat, “but I’m already better. I had to use a crutch to help me navigate the rest of the obstacles, but Love still accepted me: she was very nice. However, right before we began our return journey, I tipped back too far on my crutch and fell and broke open my skull, and my brain fell out; so, we had to clean my brain off and cut part of it out, and that was the part with all my knowledge about rescuing people, and it also contained my courage; therefore, I assumed that I would need to find a new occupation; but Love did not allow me to descend into poverty and homelessness: she established a fan club for me, and those admirers then helped me out of this crisis: they sent lots of donations, which paid for a percentage of my hospital bed; and now I’m even better at rescuing than I was before the accidents, because I used all the time when I was laid up to read books, which restored all my braveness.”

Rescue Cat was staring at the ground while she relayed all the above info; then, when she was finished, she looked up and saw that God had tears in his eyes.

So, God got married to Love, and they had twelve children together, and they all lived happily ever after.

Heaven, part 3 of 3

[Cont.]

I’ve never witnessed any gangrene amputations here. I can’t recall ever seeing any resident lacking any functioning organ. Everybody appears to be in the best of health, both physically and mentally. Sometimes one’s memories fade, but that’s only after millennia; and if you ever forget your name, it’s printed right on your ankle bracelet.

The Devil is locked inside of a big flame in front of City Hall, so you don’t need to fear his temptations.

I repeat: there is no sickness, pain, or death in Heaven. There is no torment. No shortness of time. You never hear anyone moaning in agony. Nobody is driven insane. No one ever loses a loved one. Everyone cares about everyone here. Everyone is your friend. It may sound trite to say that we’re all one happy family, but it’s true; and it’s extremely beautiful to experience. There are no lonely places; no secluded pools where one can drown.

And you can ride from any given place to any another, very fast, despite this being a sprawling country, by simply taking that train that I told you about.

There are no putrid smells because nothing is putrefying. Nothing is charred because nothing got burned. There are no dead bodies piled up everywhere, because nobody committed that many homicides. No airborne attackers because there’s no war. All the bombs and grenades are locked away, and only God has the key.

There are magic forces in Heaven, but they’re all good: none are evil curses. The pestilence is not contagious. There is no mind control. No invisible crises to panic about. No aerosolized viruses. No weaponized mosquitos. I’ve never seen anyone vomit. All the food is really good here. There’s no human waste in the streets; neither is there waste from horses or dogs. There are no bird droppings on the statues. No one has a shy bladder, or problems with incontinence.

All the faces are pretty. Nobody has enormous boils. People don’t suffer from dizziness. No bus ever hit anyone here: the drivers are conscientious. No one’s brain ever exploded with insect eggs that all hatched at once.

The faucets all dispense crystal clear water, not blood. There is no Frog Plague, at least not that I am aware of. So there’s no messy slime on the floor, to make you slip when you step out of the bath.

That scene from Psycho, the 1960 film where the woman steals cash from her employer and then stops at a secluded motel – that would never happen here.

If there were ever any metal killing chambers in Heaven, they have all been transformed into places where one can sit alone and drink. And they all have free wireless Internet now, so you can use a text-message interface to chat with other friendly strangers online.

One time, my friend and I got locked inside a metal killing chamber, and we thought that we were going to die, but we escaped. This was back on Earth.

Everyone is sympathetic here in Heaven. If a fellow citizen happens to notice that you are crying, that person will come over and cry with you, until you are done.

Every park bench is equipped with a button that you can push: this causes the ground in front of you to open up, and a platform rises on which are displayed various plastic models: these are old mannequins from storefront windows; they are dressed in styles from the past; you can ponder their appearance.

Somewhere in Heaven hangs a painting depicting that place on the grass where a fight once took place. (Since conflict is rare here, this is a cultural memento.)

The most you ever will need to wait for anything here is thirty minutes.

Cowboys from Hell came and took the baby from the manger. They tossed it into the well, but God got it back.

The screams here are always only screams of contentment.

§

The spiked walls that move around are for making large batches of pasta.

The water here in Heaven, as I keep mentioning, is crystal clear, so it does not irritate your eyes like the chlorinated swimming pools on Earth; therefore, your eyes will not sting after taking a dip. And there’s a lake-sized tub to swim in, which is not dangerous.

If you see people wearing hoods, it’s not because they are planning to steal from you: they are only protecting their head from the rain. And the rusted circular saws are for gardening.

There is a furnace for baking bread. The clamps are for securing lumber, when you need to saw logs.

The lever that you can pull causes a battering ram to appear. It weighs twelve metric tons. It is made of cold steel.

If you go into the wardrobe area of Heaven, you can get a cloak. Take it and wear it: it’s free. It can make you invisible.

You can get your teeth fixed, if they are less than perfect. Say they’re not white enough: you can get them whitened.

Heaven is great because you never run out of breath here. You can run as fast as your legs can carry you, for as long as you like, and you will not feel winded. There is a lot of farmland here.

Call for help, wherever you happen to be, and someone will fetch you. They will make sure that blood is not gushing out of your body. Even if you do not have a deep puncture wound from a spear, concerned nurses will attend to you. They will go so far as to put bandages on perfectly healthy skin, which has not a scratch on it, just to be doubly sure that you don’t bleed out.

If you ever close your eyes and hope to die, Jesus will talk you out of your dark mood. Even though he is Heaven’s king, he will take time out of his schedule to do this: always. You are his priority. (If the citizens are not happy, this reflects poorly on their leader.) Even if you speak so softly that no one can hear you, or if you pray only inside your mind, without moving your lips, the man will respond.

You never need to drag heavy chains around behind you in Heaven, because your shackles all get cut off with a hacksaw from the moment you enter. And the streets are all gold here, like I said.

You don’t need to step gingerly around suspicious looking places, such as spots of ground where straw or corn is scattered, because there are no boobytraps in Heaven. No one is trying to entangle you in a snare, or snap your neck.

§

It is true that the blood of Jesus Christ can be used as a cleaning agent, however strange that sounds. So there is a fountain of blood in the center of town, and women are encouraged to go there and bathe.

All the little children that went to Heaven are grown up now. There are no “minors” or underage persons here: everyone is mature.

Are there mice in heaven? Maybe so; but I’ve never seen any. If there are mice here, then they keep out of sight and never make any noise. I’ve never found any signs of them; there are no nests or pellets. Maybe they’re just extremely clean. They might have their own little corner of Heaven where they all live. I know there are elephants in the eastern region of Heaven. Maybe the mice are all out west. But I’m sure they wouldn’t want to share an afterlife with humans, anyway: they are as scared of us as we are of them – and they dislike the way we smell.

And I forgot to mention: You can use the crystal water of Heaven to remove stubborn stains.

A tornado comes through only once every ten years; that’s how safe this place is.

If anything gets atomized, God can put it back together. There are television screens located strategically throughout the public places, in case we all desire to watch a show together, such as a holiday special.

We sing a lot, too. There are real jingle bells here, shaken by real Santas. (“Santa” means “female saint from Spain or Italy.”) And reindeer are employed to deliver presents to good children on Christmas Eve. As I explained, these children have all entered adulthood, by now; but they are still good, thus they still receive their gifts.

Nothing ever becomes mangled or eradicated. Nothing ever goes rancid.

There is never a group-execution of thousands or millions of people. No one ever gets “bumped off.” (We no longer even use that phrase “bumped off” – I’m not sure what it means.) So, there are consistently low national carnage statistics.

We use fresh cloth to wrap cheese. Delivery trucks don’t smash into each other. There’s no mass hysteria. The sky never rains harpoons. There’s never a worldwide shortage of celery. No weeping, no gnashing of teeth. We always have enough hamburger meat to get us through the winter.

This is a place of revival and hope. It contains many brainwaves of multiple colors, if you could see them. A machine at the center of City Hall helps you breathe, and it makes sure that your heart keeps pumping. The neurotransmission rates are off the charts, here: everyone has a very sharp response to stimuli.

There’s a lot of fun to be had. If anyone goes braindead, you can just pull a cord, and the system resets: it’s like switching on a lightbulb.

Keep the doors shut, and all the rooms remain a comfortable temperature. There is a pyramid with a bed inside, where God sleeps. The only time anyone ever wakes up with a knife in their head is on Halloween, most likely as a prank.

Your bloodline never freezes inside your veins, or else that machine in City Hall will just thaw you out. Jesus also can help.

If a vehicle ever goes spinning out of control, there is a golden probe that levitates over and uses magnetism to soothe everything. And broken glass is swept up immediately. If stitches are ever removed from a cut, you can never tell where they were, because the flesh heals flawlessly. And if you happen to see snake-headed witches, they are always very nice; they have an excellent bedside manner.

Unlike on Earth, the labs in Heaven keep human eggs in their own container: they do not mix them with the fish eggs. This is a better way to do things. And they also use separate bottles for propane and Novocain.

The zombies who cannot resurrect are put to sleep in ornate caskets, and they are given a respectful burial. No one knows why zombies exist. If God can solve this enigma, he will bring them back from being undead (or half-dead, or whatever it is), and help them to walk and talk with suave normalcy again.

Here and there, you will find grapes in baskets. Take and eat them: that’s what they’re there for.

And unlike earthly justice, we do not practice capital punishment; in Heaven, God forgives without torture. So, that is not our King Jesus hanging on the cross: that is only a straw man, also known as a scarecrow. Crows are the only creatures prohibited from Heaven.