Before he'd even had his first shit of the day, God already knew that he would create the universe and numerous worlds within it -- among them a particularly hemorrhoidal little globe whose inhabitants would name it "Earth." He also knew that Earth wouldn't really work out, that he would then use this pristine foreknowledge to pre-empt all the problems that would mar Earth, but realized the malicious psychoses of Earth's inhabitants would simply bleed around all the changes and amendments made to fix the problems. Finally, God just thought, "Fuck it."
During this fit of foreknowledge, God also saw that he would create a man named Job and would torment the hell out of him at the goading of Satan. God felt bad about this, thought of simply never letting the shameful episode happen, then came up with an idea to really poke a stick in Satan's eye: God would create yuppie parents, the most loving, giving, life-promoting, open-minded people of all his creation.
God was so caught up with sticking it to Satan that he believed his own momentary fantasy about them rather than his flat-panel-clear-foreknowledge of yuppie parents' true nature.
After flushing the toilet, God mixed his first Rusty Nail of the day -- the notion that one should never booze alone or before noon had not yet been created; God would create that last of all. He sat down at his large, cartoonist's drawing table and decided that he would create Earth that day.
Maybe it was the quality of his bowel movement, maybe the precise measurements of his Rusty Nail were off, or maybe God simply got carried away wanting to fuck with Satan. Whatever it was, God decided that he would create a pair of yuppie parents, right on the spot, to consult on the creation of Earth.
Upon gaining consciousness in God's workshop, the first thing Mackenzie and Brayden asked for was a low-fat grande green tea macchiato with a spritz of goat's milk, a venti half-decaf latte with no-fat milk and jasmine-flavored cereal bars.
God looked upon his creation. Rather than thinking "It is good," something in him wondered just what the fuck he had done.
He gave them each tumblers brimming with cloudy tap water and a bowl of shelled peanuts, instead.
(Although God did not create the child who was necessary to make Mackenzie and Brayden literal parents, he did implant in their minds the full knowledge and experience of their two year old daughter, Neveah, who was spending the weekend with her maternal grandmother.)
God sketched out the basic look and feel of Earth for Mackenzie and Brayden. Luckily, God was an excellent illustrator, so the yuppies caught on to his aesthetic very quickly. When God began explaining the physical laws governing Earth, however, Mackenzie and Brayden frowned and shook their heads.
God stopped. "What?" he said with more impatience than he intended.
A pained look came over Mackenzie's pixie face, "Well," she said -- more a whine than an actual word. She spoke with maddening hesitancy. "You know this 'gravity' that's going to keep everything stuck to Earth? I don't know if you really thought this through enough."
God stared at her, stunned, annoyed.
"I don't think you realize," said Brayden in the identical pussified tone of his wife, "that this 'gravity' might keep cars on the road, but it might also cause little Neveah to fall off a swing or off her bike. That would be dangerous."
"We can't have that!" Mackenzie burst in. "Children are the hope of the future!"
Brayden nodded and said, "Safety first."
As God explained the intricacies of the human anatomy and its numerous redundant fail-safe systems for balance and dexterity, Mackenzie interrupted. "Could we go back to how people will populate Earth in the first place?"
God gaped.
Brayden said, "I don't think you realize just how filthy some of our body parts really are. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy urinating through my penis immensely, but how are we ever going to explain to little Neveah all the workings of her vagina -- that monthly bleeding thing, gallopian tubes --"
"
Fallopian," God corrected.
"-- and how boys are going to want to touch her breasts?" Brayden bristled. "Did you ever think how uncomfortable this is going to be for me and Mackenzie?"
God explained the need for strong sexual attraction among human beings in order for the race to perpetuate itself.
Mackenzie interrupted: "I think I got a little ahead of myself. The first thing of all we should discuss is 'death.' Yeah, that just doesn't work for me. I mean, life is precious, it's a blessing -- why would you want to kill a blessing? I don't understand."
Brayden opened his mouth and said, "I don't think you realize what it will be like trying to explain 'death' to little Neveah. Do you really want to create a world where she might see her beloved Nana lying dead in a coffin?"
"Yes, I must really object to that," Mackenzie said, tears coming to her eyes. "It's completely inappropriate for children, and very upsetting to me. Didn't you ever consider
our feelings?"
"And if 'gravity' keeps cars on the road, and gravity keeps people on the ground," Brayden said, growing heated, "have you considered what might happen if the driver of a car doesn't see little Neveah crossing a street?" His voice broke as he said "street."
Mackenzie's hand flew to her mouth. She glared at God. "If a driver didn't see little Neveah, that would mean... oh goodness --"
"What kind of psychopath are you?" Brayden said to God.
"And what about disease?" Mackenzie cried. "What kind of degenerate would want a child to become sick? Possibly even sick enough to die?"
"Yeah," Brayden said, rubbing Mackenzie's thigh. "I think you're
way off-base with this entire world."
God explained the intricacies and redundant fail-safe systems comprising the human immune system.
"I don't think you realize," Brayden said, "that Neveah could get a sniffle and innocently -- and so adorably -- wipe her nose with her hand --"
"As children will do!" Mackenzie blurted. "They're just
children after all!"
"-- and how she could wipe bacteri-ites --"
"
Bacteria," God said.
"-- on her nose. She could inhale these and the next thing we know she's got brain cancer!"
"What kind of monster are you?" Mackenzie screeched at God.
"You're no one I'd want within a hundred yards of little Neveah," Brayden said, putting his arm around Mackenzie's shoulder. "You've got some very sick ideas."
"Sick!" Mackenzie wailed.
"Killing children, ejaculation, afterbirth smeared on babies' heads, cancer, gravity," Brayden said, his voice rising with every word. "You ought to be locked up!"
"Somebody should put a microchip under your skin so we can track your movements," Mackenzie wept.
Brayden rose from his chair and helped Mackenzie to her feet. They walked toward the door. At the door, Brayden turned -- Mackenzie cowering brokenly against him. "Yeah, and by the way, those animals you're thinking of creating -- they look ridiculous. Walking around on four legs and covered with hair? They're absolutely pornographic!"
Brayden and Mackenzie showed themselves out of God's house.
God sat at his cartoonist's drawing table looking after them. He felt a sinus headache coming on. He was suddenly very glad he'd said nothing about his son, Jesus, to the yuppie parents.
God rose to make himself another Rusty Nail. Later he would go into his backyard, shovel up some dog shit and throw it over the fence onto Satan's property. That would have to suffice for revenge for the moment.
Tasteless Foodstuffs, Inc., presents its brand new line of religious breakfast cereals so that you can start each day of 2008 or 5768 or 1428 with a healthy balance of righteous fury, indignant adrenalin and face-slapping-swift reflexes.
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A friend was telling me the other day that his young daughter's catechism teacher was teaching her Sunday school class about Hell. I guess the teacher was a real old-time Catholic. My friend's wife was upset that their daughter was being taught about Hell and while talking about this to my buddy, she spelled out the word so their daughter's younger brothers wouldn't know what they were saying. Except the youngest, who's about six, caught it.
It's my sixth wedding anniversary. 
The PanthiOn Corporation credo was repeated at every team-building excursion: "Business is war!" shouted senior manager Ted Jacks. He stood upon a picnic table outside the registration office of Patriot Games Paintball Compound, dressed in military fatigues and combat boots. His face was streaked with camouflage paint. He gripped his marker—paintball gun—by the barrel with his right hand, gesturing with it as he spoke. "If you cannot perform under these controlled conditions, how in the fuck will you perform at PanthiOn when one of our competitors throws a Chinese star at your face? You'll wilt and shit your pants, that's what you'll do!"
Cobo Hall. Detroit, Michigan. Summertime. Hot-as-hell, unrepentant humidity. 1984. Commercials for The Toughman Contest had been playing for weeks on Channel 50, showing amateur pugilists in tight, stained jeans flailing at one another, shirtless, wearing sloping discolored boxing gloves circa 1940. No Vic Tanny muscles there. Hardened Joe Q. Roughnecks chosen from the audience to face-off in the ring. Winners continued through the tournament -- to another weekend or another town -- and the losers went home to muster themselves with bathroom surgery; pissing blood, affixing raw calves' livers to shamed, blackened eyes.
The corporate necktie isn't so much a noose as it is a leash.
From 
The New York Times recently published news of "[a]n academic study of the National Basketball Association, whose playoffs continue tonight, suggests that a racial bias found in other parts of American society has existed on the basketball court as well." The conclusion was that white referees are more apt to call black players for fouls, than white players.
Imagine you're on a roadtrip with three other people. On the highway, you're sitting in the backseat of the car, reading a magazine. The guy in the front passenger seat is trying to find something good on the radio. The guy sitting next to you in the backseat has dozed off. 
It was a year ago that the world beheld the landmark performance of Stephen Colbert at the White House Correspondents Association Dinner. Standing only a few feet from the American Butcher in Chief, Colbert's genius was on full display, ranking in my opinion right up there with Jonthan Swift's "A Modest Proposal" and Lenny Bruce's "Christ and Moses." His comments were among the most piercing, hilarious and honest remarks made about BushCo. Later, however, the very media honoring itself that night proved once more its relevance to the public by almost uniformly declaring Colbert's exceedingly funny performance "not funny." Some went so far as to say that Colbert "bombed" -- doubtless an unintentional pun giving W.'s bewildered proximity to the happenings.
First and foremost, any journalist who works for any arm of Fux Spews has zero journalistic integrity. They enjoy being dictated to by the ideologues running their rancid money-making machine, and are so lacking in character and personal content, that they joyfully spew -- hence the name of the network -- all manner of bullshit, so long as it is contrary to reality and fed to them by King W.'s administration.
Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., was one of the few famous people I wish I would have personally met. There are many artists whose work means much to me -- Van Morrison, Robert Redford, Jane Fonda, Neil Young -- whom I have no desire to meet. Hunter S. Thompson was the leader in that category while alive. It was often entertaining reading about his antics, but I never wanted to be within a thousand miles of the man.
I've heard the name "Don Imus" here and there over the years, getting himself into the news on the rare occasion by saying something terrible on his radio show. I never found the quotes attributed to him interesting enough to check him out, but during a recent vacation to Florida I watched his radio show (a bizarre concept in and of itself) on MSNBC. What I found was a ridiculous muttering man propped up at a microphone, his drawn face looking like the wax melting from the skull of museum dummy, with an even more ridiculous cowboy hat perched on his head and his beyond-ridiculous moppy hair sticking out from underneath. He carried on a banal repartee with a Paul Schafer wannabe in the studio. The rest of the assorted crew laughed intermittently when nothing funny was said. Then, every once in a while the camera would center on Imus who made an awkward gesture at the viewing audience with a gnarled finger, ushering in a procession of commercials. He does this to let the viewing audience know he hasn't expired utterly at the microphone. He's merely in a functioning coma, not rigor mortis.
Years ago, I saw an interview with Don Imus. I forget what the occasion was or who conduted the interviewer. But there sat Don Imus before the camera with a distinct expression of tharn in his muddled gaze -- deer-trapped-in-headlights expression. He muttered one-word answers to the interviewer as though he was from some other culture and had no concept of being asked questions by a stranger while being filmed. He seemed stunned and slow-witted, possibly hungover. At one point, the interviewer asked Imus if there was anyone in the world he loved. It seemed a stupid question, a softball lob that a more thorny and alert personality would have leapt all over. But Imus just stared warily into the camera like a rancher in 1903 regarding a bank manager. He muttered without moving his lips, "Ma-brudder." Don Imus loves his brother. It was a strange, humanizing moment -- a moment in which Imus needed to humanize himself because up until then he seemed like some inflated something that was merely losing air.
