A focused communication

Dear diary,

I am the world’s leading antibody analyst. I work in this battle lab, here under the ground. I was born in a big crate of cannabis. My name is Egyptian God. I am 1984 years old. I believe in mummification, the afterlife, and dead people. Today I’m working on a supernatural horror movie. It will be an animated feature for children. I’m thinking of calling it “Antiquated Rationale.” It will be about a thing that goes priming deep into the shell of existence until it meets this girl named Jeri. She rapidly becomes nice toward her visitor. “Ah, we meet again,” says Jeri. “Mess around and pay the price,” the thing replies. They apparently know each other from sometime in the past. (They probably were colleagues in the totalitarian control room.) Suddenly a pizza is delivered. They pay the boy who brings it; then they both grab a slice. Now Jeri’s lady-friend Heidi arrives. She’s like, “Look, I found us a chaperone for the night,” as she shoves forth the pizza delivery boy who just left a moment ago. Heidi was most likely coming up the walkway when she passed the lad trying to leave, and she clutched him by the scruff of his shirt.

“He doesn’t look ready,” Jeri replies.

“Ready!?” laughs Heidi; “look, Jer, he’s got dynamite, and he’s the strongest man on earth, for he was born under this mountain.” And she schools her friend with proofs that she rescued from the memory hole: Boom! Bam! The cave begins to quake.

“We’ve gotta get outta here, or this whole place is liable to blow,” says Jeri.

Heidi is still laughing. They call a moving jam to ooze around the place and get all the personal property stuck to it, so that they can bring it all to safety. The world is counting on them.

“Please, let me go,” says the delivery boy, “I was intending to use this evening to cram for the morning’s exam.”

“Well you should have thought of that before you decided to take the job,” says Heidi. She stopped laughing just to speak this remark, and she is now sporting a mean face. The lad looks terrified.

Why did the leader of their pack have to supersede his predecessor? That is the intimate thought of the thing, which has been observing all these developments from its privileged position. (It has a seat at one of the colleges.) For, long ago, they threw all their enemies into a giant pit of bleeding, where there were demons mashing and punching them. It was a difficult read.

This is the first sin approved by the pope. I’ve heard the Vatican has a lot of money. The earliest Christians, according to one of the old records, did not believe in private property. So when Jeri and Heidi tried to employ the moving jam to transfer all their belongings into their berths on the Christ Ship, the man named Cephus came out and read them the riot act. He said:

“Why, O Jeri and Heidi, did you hold back your goods from the group! We all agreed to pool together everything we have ever owned. And yet you two lied to us, claiming that you possessed nothing, when in fact you possessed all this stuff that the jam has preserved; and everything’s sticky now. Because of your power move, God is forced to do a miracle.” Then he tapped his staff on the floor, and the ground opened up and swallowed both Jeri and Heidi, as well as all the moving jam. Then it spat back anything valuable into the common area.

Now, knowing that this was the custom, back in the day, I wonder: When did the church become such a hoarder of golden luxuries? You might answer: The church does not hoard; it is precisely the same common area as the one that the mouth of the earth spat into, at the conclusion of the above tale of Cephas, yes, it is the zone that currently holds all those golden luxuries of which you speak: they belong to all believers.

To this I say: OK, you convinced me. Your argument is better than average; I would even call it excellent. I think you’re ready to go to the Intergalactic Court and represent our church to the surrounding solar systems. I don’t like to throw around compliments carelessly, otherwise I would admit that you are good at talking. You’re not the burnt-out zombie clown that I was warned to expect. You move like a chimpanzee, and have the instincts of a rabbit, and evince the type of go-getter attitude that is popular among bees when they tip over big jugs of honey for bears to lick.

Chapter 2

On the battlefield, it was the celibates fighting against the practicing polygamists. The whole church was there, on the sidelines, cheering for their favored team of priests. You can easily guess who won. There are photographs all over the sanctuary. Now our pope is bigger than a whale. Our savior has sharper nails holding him up, and he owns a new domicile. He sails down the road looking for anyone who will answer his call. He’s a country-western star, and a camouflaged warrior. He’s filled to brimming with what they call “daddy issues,” so stay out of his jungle. There’s a drama there that’s almost ready to show; it’s all loaded up and nervous. We need to check the civil code, like real politicos, and take things personal. Fashion any of the bones in an animal’s hindlimb and you can take credit for the entirety. I’m the sheriff, he’s the marshal. The main difference lies in the level of government we serve.

Chapter 3

It was Winston’s second year on the job. As I said, he worked in the records division of the fast-food restaurant that is known for flame-broiling their burgers. It’s not fun. The octopus turns red when he’s happy and white when he’s raging with terror. The feeling of fear is the same as the feeling of anger, to him. (He told me.) So you put the patties into the memory hole, and the flames cook them, then you take them out with your hand, and place them on the bun. Sew it up like a burrito. Add some pickles. Then there are squeeze bottles blasting, bursting, blowing out, hemorrhaging ketchup everywhere: everything is red-splattered. Use these to paint your patty. Then lie down on the floor tiles, and cover yourself under the graveclothes, when it’s time to shed your skin. Also, if you’re one of the cephalopods, you can jet your ink blot while you’re down there: form a black cloud, then escape by swimming backwards, until you reach land. Once you’re on His Holy Hill, go sledding. Vanish up into the air. Be corruptly courageous. Use the man named Walking Death to guard your workstation, between comings.

Release from your womb a cool kid with a full bib. Toss carrots to it; tether the warhorse, if needed. Someone should invent a machine that causes items to look antiquated. Father Time should then watch over this process, and toss haloes onto his favorites. When the wild otter runs loose in the auto-body shop, let the owner climb out and announce: “I just want another wife.”

Dear God, stop swinging your bloody sword. The otter seems at last to be out of commission. Even though your record flopped, you still think you possess the same rights as a superstar. But these things are not guaranteed.

O Lord, you are as big as a deer from Milwaukee. Dammit, don’t give up. Hit the ground running. Duck and dodge through the woods on the mountainside. Dig deeper in the muck. Invent new types of cells. Make pickle molecules have an improved aroma. Tell salmon to swim the other direction. Give your fiend a pacifier. Stop tantalizing Hell. Build a rock that looks too big to hold. Make yourself as sharp as a tack. Instill women with the desire to dance to your music. You’ve got your motor running louder than a train. You can do this, I have faith in you.

Now our World’s Creator is winning the race, ripping through the finish ribbon! The reporters flock God; they thrust all their many microphones in his face and ask him: “Now that you’ve won, what’s next?” Our Lord pauses to catch his breath; he uses the towel to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Barley and kelp for the horse,” he says into the TV cameras; “but, for me, it’s wine o’clock.” This apparently means that he is planning on announcing his final opinions about all the living creatures, and on reality in general.

Back at his podium in the United Nations building, God reads from his prepared speech: “My first girlfriend, Heather” he says (and his voice booms like thunder), “she is good; she goes to heaven.” Now one of the reporters from earlier at the footrace interrupts to ask: “Are the rumors true? Didn’t you two break up last summer?” God blanches and replies: “I don’t know how you found out about that. That is factually accurate. But we are back together now.” Then he continues to give his Final Judgment, proceeding on to announce the name of his favorite rapper ever. And then he lists the stiffest, whitest cadaver; then his favorite singer; then his favorite part of the underworld; and then his favorite noise. “For the finisher,” God says, moving on to the conclusion of his great speech, “I want to ask you all: What’re YOU gonna do? I mean, now that I’ve made known my bias, and let you see the Answer Key to all of existence, what do YOU plan on doing about it? You still wanna hit me; you wanna fight? I hope not; for it is sorta like you all won the race, too, cuz I put nobody in hell, as you feared. Isn’t knowing that you’re all coming to heaven with me as fair of a reward for decent living as a trophy or medal? I could give you money, as well. In fact, yes, I will give you some money. Here’s your inheritance—” God tosses a suitcase into the crowd, and it hits an old lady in the head. “I repeat,” he continues: “What’cha thinkin’ about doin’ with your life, now that this is out of the way? Any plans for the weekend? How about applying for the bar? You can take a portion of the exam in heaven. I’ll help you. We can see if you’re qualified to practice law in that jurisdiction. You’re all saints now – why not? C’mon, become a licensed attorney. Learn how to play guitar fast while driving a van. Build a dome to protect my angels. Sign up to join our street-cleaning crew. I respect you, O you tiny little creatures. You’re all fuzzy and cute, to me. Do you want a pony? I’m like your rich uncle now. I’ll give you anything. I flushed all your sins down the toilet. They’re gone forever. Down the tubes, into the darkness. They will never get out of that den. How about all you women who, during earth-life, hated behaving ladylike: do you desire to become boys and men now? I can make that happen. You can dominate your environment physically, once you acquire the meaty muscle-mind of machismo. You can hold knives and really cut things. You can strut and cluck. Add volume to your voice; it will raise your wrath of command to the ninetieth power. Here, I’ll demonstrate on someone – can I have a volunteer? Sharon, you may climb onstage. I’ll throw you a rope. There, now Sharon is bigger and badder, with biceps and ballast from boats and blimps. Sharon Flicek, your name is now Juck. Seven more times manly strength I give you, and I make you sweaty. You can rip and rend anything now. You can ride in my Benz with me, and fix the deck boards at my house. You are handy like that. I’ll give you lots of chicks, too, to take to bed. This is heaven; nothing is illegal anymore. Go and do it with your maid, Shar—I mean Master Juckoff. (Do you prefer Juck or Juckoozi?) Be very careful when you handle chicken eggs, now, because you don’t know your own strength, and you might crush them in your palm without even trying. Man hands. The hands of a carpenter, all callused to death; and you are wearing dungarees. You have a male member now, too, don’t forget that. No more shapely breasts. Get someone else to feed the baby. In fact, bring that tot to God: I will condemn him or her to Hell. I know everything about each little life, and I’m steaming mad. If you don’t meet my demand for perfection, straight from birth, you get the ax. Down the penalty chute for you. Your ex-mother Sharon is now a big tan male from some sunny country. Her masculine birthday is 20 December, two thousand and twenty-five years after the croak of the last Juck. Winter Solstice Eve.”