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The Millennium Editon
posted Thursday, 28 June 2007
Just over three months ago I ignored the second anniversary of the House of Glib not because I am immune to sentiment, but because I saw that another milestone was on its way and was probably more deserving of tribute. Now then, it is time to celebrate, since this is:
The H of G's 1000th Post!
And so to honor the occasion I have composed a little piece that has been swirling around in my head for quite some time, but that I have only just now brought to fruition.
Enjoy.
Imagine the universe’s most impeccable and perfect office. A sturdy, but youthful looking man sits at a desk talking on his phone while studying information supplied by the sleek iMac in front of him. This is God and he is speaking to one of his most persistent and annoying customers.
God: The thing is George, I’m starting to get more than a little pissed. I keep telling you that our conversations are supposed to be private, but then you keep blabbing about them to the media and because of that everyone thinks this whole mess is my fault! Just because I told you to do, “Whatever is in your heart,” doesn’t mean I meant for you to invade a country you knew full well had nothing to do with the attack on New York or the Pentagon. You’re old enough to know that whenever someone says something like that to you it just means they don’t really want to get involved, but are too polite to tell you to fuck off and leave them alone. I swear to myself, if you mention me the next time someone asks you to justify another one of your screw ups, I’m going to make the twins so dykey they’ll make Mary Cheney look like Paris Freakin’ Hilton! You got that! Okay. Tell Condi, I said “Hi.”
God hangs up the phone and opens up his internet browser of choice and spends a few moments enjoying his favourite website.
God hangs up the phone and opens up his internet browser of choice and spends a few moments enjoying his favourite website.
God: Oh, Strongbad, sometimes I think I created this whole mess just so you could exist in it.
His phone rings. He picks it up and speaks to his secretary.
His phone rings. He picks it up and speaks to his secretary.
God: Who is it? I was in the middle of a really funny sbemail. Really? You’re kidding. I was just talking about her with numbnuts. Sure, put her on. This should be fun.
His secretary puts God’s latest caller on the line.
His secretary puts God’s latest caller on the line.
God: Paris! How are you doing? Enjoying life as a free woman I bet! No doubt. It must have been Hell! Except, y’know, without the flames or the wretched wails of the eternally damned, of course. But you’re out now, so at least it’s behind you. Huh? Yeah, I did hear that you had started reading the bible while you were in there. I bet that made the hours just fly by! Really? I was kidding. I don’t care how much my name appears in that thing, I can’t make my way through it without either falling asleep or wanting to kill myself. It’s so boring! How did you manage it? I mean, no offense, but you do have the attention span of a day-old hummingbird with a serious case of ADD. Personally, I’m surprised you’re still on the phone, talking to me! What? Oh, okay, I get it. You have some questions. I should have figured that, being nigh-omnipotent and all. What did you want to know? Why do people hate you? Seriously? That’s your first question? Are you sure you want to know? Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.
The thing is that many people hate you for many different reasons. For some you represent everything that is wrong about western culture—the shallow pursuit of unjustified fame and the ludicrous veneration of beauty over intelligence and achievement. To others you symbolize a kind of mindless hedonism that comes at the expense of the values of hard work and sacrifice, while everyone else just thinks of you as a vain, spoiled, narcissistic blond bitch whose celebrity was bought and paid for by her parent’s money, overriding the fact that you have all of the personality of a narcoleptic heroin addict enthralled by the New Age stylings of Zamfir, master of the pan flute.
What can you do to change this?
Oh, I don’t know. How about you do something with your life that doesn’t involve your own self-promotion? Yeah, I didn’t think you’d like the sound of it.
I’m sorry, Paris, but it’s time that I fess up to something I’ve long been meaning to tell you. Do you know how I created the universe as a part of a deliberate plan? How I painstakingly connected everything that existed in it to serve one common purpose—a mission so vast that only I could appreciate it, while everything and everyone else went about serving their own personal role? Well, for the most part, this is true. I have to admit that in the beginning, when things were much simpler, it was no problem for me to keep track of the whole cosmic machine and make sure that no unnecessary parts worked their way into my design. But then things started to move that much faster and I started being spread thinner than I ever had been before and soon—even with the help of computers—I couldn’t ensure that every piece of disposable detritus was eliminated before it could have an impact on what I created.
What am I saying?
Just that, unlike every other person in the world, you simply have no reason to exist. You serve no purpose and most likely never will. Your impact is purely transitory and will not linger after you are gone. Let me put it this way. Do you know that old movie called It’s A Wonderful Life? No? Well, it’s about a fellow named George Bailey, whose life has reached a point where it really sucks—even worse than yours did when you were in prison—and he decides to jump off a bridge, but before he can do it, he’s stopped by an angel named Clarence, who shows him what the world would be like if he had never been born and it turns out that it totally blows, so George decides to not kill himself and keep on making a difference in the world.
What does this have to do with you?
Paris, do the universe a favour and find a bridge and jump off it. At least Lindsay can act.
God hangs up the phone and returns to his computer. He clicks one of his bookmarks and starts reading Defamer.
The thing is that many people hate you for many different reasons. For some you represent everything that is wrong about western culture—the shallow pursuit of unjustified fame and the ludicrous veneration of beauty over intelligence and achievement. To others you symbolize a kind of mindless hedonism that comes at the expense of the values of hard work and sacrifice, while everyone else just thinks of you as a vain, spoiled, narcissistic blond bitch whose celebrity was bought and paid for by her parent’s money, overriding the fact that you have all of the personality of a narcoleptic heroin addict enthralled by the New Age stylings of Zamfir, master of the pan flute.
What can you do to change this?
Oh, I don’t know. How about you do something with your life that doesn’t involve your own self-promotion? Yeah, I didn’t think you’d like the sound of it.
I’m sorry, Paris, but it’s time that I fess up to something I’ve long been meaning to tell you. Do you know how I created the universe as a part of a deliberate plan? How I painstakingly connected everything that existed in it to serve one common purpose—a mission so vast that only I could appreciate it, while everything and everyone else went about serving their own personal role? Well, for the most part, this is true. I have to admit that in the beginning, when things were much simpler, it was no problem for me to keep track of the whole cosmic machine and make sure that no unnecessary parts worked their way into my design. But then things started to move that much faster and I started being spread thinner than I ever had been before and soon—even with the help of computers—I couldn’t ensure that every piece of disposable detritus was eliminated before it could have an impact on what I created.
What am I saying?
Just that, unlike every other person in the world, you simply have no reason to exist. You serve no purpose and most likely never will. Your impact is purely transitory and will not linger after you are gone. Let me put it this way. Do you know that old movie called It’s A Wonderful Life? No? Well, it’s about a fellow named George Bailey, whose life has reached a point where it really sucks—even worse than yours did when you were in prison—and he decides to jump off a bridge, but before he can do it, he’s stopped by an angel named Clarence, who shows him what the world would be like if he had never been born and it turns out that it totally blows, so George decides to not kill himself and keep on making a difference in the world.
What does this have to do with you?
Paris, do the universe a favour and find a bridge and jump off it. At least Lindsay can act.
God hangs up the phone and returns to his computer. He clicks one of his bookmarks and starts reading Defamer.
The End
Commentary From the Masses