Posted by iamnotmichaelking on January 18th, 2006
As told to:
Michael S. King, staff writer
On the seventh day I rested. In Boca. I woke up in a Starbucks, which had apparently been built around me while I rested for a quantum of time you lack the tools to fathom. I tried to correct one my lesser creations when he insisted on calling my order a Venti. 20. I explained that this was gibberish, that Italians don’t know from ounces, so we agreed on a tall, which was anything but. I asked him about the strange golden‘t’ on his chest. He told me it that it represented the blocks of wood that the Jesus Christ, the son of God, died upon, to forgive humans for their sin.
“Thou shall put no one before me, for I am jealous god, and not so keen on golden idols. I’d also like an espresso brownie.”
“But the Lord Jesus loves you. He died for us.”
“You claim this putz is my son, and then you tell me he’s going around forgiving everybody? What about Hitler?”
“Of course not. Hitler was evil.”
“He was a pussy. I’ve killed way more Jews than him. Let me tell you another thing: I don’t fuck humans. You’re an equation I made in a science class. There’s no forgiveness in physics, kid. This punk is not my son.”
As I was leaving, he called out, “God loves you.”
So I destroyed Indonesia, New Orleans. Fuck it. Earthquakes, tornadoes. A complete liquidation sale: Everything must go! I’ve done it before.
And I don’t love any of you.
Enjoy the end of the world. I promise it will be magnificent.