I am the intergalactic dishwasher and

God

, whose name I per-so-na-lly know – we don’t use personally among ourselves, because angels have different lingo, but I’ll school you on that one later – – plus, we don’t use names, that’s so Internet Explorer ago, we use

fuck, here I am indoctrinating you already

history links, our very own little ugh, this gon’ be hard mental telekinesis tools, like look at somebody and ask him (no such thing) the keyphrase (let’s say), and they open up, like a book, everything you need to know about it (let’s say) in one google fraction of a second –

God

appointed me – lazy fuck – the writer of the story you call the Universe and Life.

 

Ready to embark on this trip?

My rota is as follows: 100 million years on, Funky image of Windows Calculator in Universe saying 14.2857142857 basically, dishwasher rota million years off.

Hence the idea behind the 6 days He (huh! got himself a ghostwriter; get it? ghost? angel?) worked (100 million years, 6/7, 114.28571428blablabla years a week), 1 day (114.yadaleetoolaloo) off.

 

I fucked up. Lemme start this story again. I’ll dive right in. This has been my 6th attempt, the seventh one’s a charm. Seven dwarf galaxies, all the dallies and the temporizing of the same drudgery. That’s why I’m like this, smart, independent, rebellious.  I’m a daredevil because I find that sleazy slack of a God – for nothing – body of white hole neutrino filled douche cloud – I find him unbearably tedious.

There are seven dwarf galaxies because I started this story seven times. Do you know why I can call him a lazy fuck without him turning me into a neutrino? It’s because we hardwired people into thinking God is omniscient (or they did that themselves, because they’re still in their nappies and without the eternal supervising bike-like training wheels people would fall off), whereas he’s not even omnipotent. Figure this out: first there was Him and a couple of others like Him. We’ll call them gods for the sake of storytelling, because you couldn’t fathom what they are yet. They were so powerful that they needed parallel universes to exist. God only got this Universe, this speck of dust. Do you have any idea how small this lump of dried up debris is?! I’ve seen one other universe and it wasn’t only bigger – if this Uni was Google, the one I saw, called Snowlipsism, you’ll see very soon why, was the oooooo’s from Google when you search the vowel o – but it had so many unexplainable things in it: first thing that came to mind was this, the fact that in this crap everything is expanding, like endless clusters of pixels gone wild, Carrie Underwood – Can’t Stop The Moonlight, but you can only have life on one Planet at a time, the rest being impossible to even breathe on; Snowlipsism had every single planet livable, fit for life, how they called it, but the Universe was retracting to a point of singularity. But what does it matter? Get it? Matter. Hah! Interstellar angel jokes. If the sun in year 13.82 billion still has 5 billion years to go until it implodes and becomes a white dwarf, Andromeda and the Milky Way still have 4 billion years until they collide and turn the humans into molecules and basic elements again, game over, restart, and roughly 100 billion years from reaching Event Chandelier, which is a fancy name I came up with for the point of maximum space-time expansion, when the Universe resets for 7 silthion yeads (one yead was how many billion years?! I forgot. Point is, before the Big-Bang, time and space stood still for 7 silthion yeads for a reason. We still existed as temperature and density, which is what we are, but nothing else did, so when it blew we remember it was Dovi, the 8th day of the week, so the week actually started on a Ras, God of Snowlipsism, gave it that name in hopes the name of the day becoming fatidic, never did, so Monday is the third day, Wednesday, and the weekend is actually… a complicated mathematical bullshit that no-one should worry about, because humans started counting days and weeks like pros in the year 13.82 billion minus 709 Anno Urbis Conditae (under my man and spiritual invention, Julius C, ofc), “2067 years ago”, according to year 2018, when I got an Earthling to write this alternative story of the Universe and life). Thought I forgot we were in a parenthesis?

 

Keep up! Time’s-a-‘xpandin’…

 

If we humans don’t care about events like the Chandelier Event and the dying of the Sun because they’re too freaking far away, of course people from Snowlipsis don’t care about their Rooftop Event, which is their receding Universe defusing itself just like our expanding Universe would expand to inexistence; they can live endlessly and wherever in the galaxy – what a bore that is, I can tell you that much – and we can live trapped just on one Planet at a time and in a very dangerously deserted Universe. People are looking for signs of life on Mars, there WAS life on Mars, just like there were Saturnians, Plutonians – man, their female gender was out of this world – Moonies, bleah, and so on and so forth, but they never thought of looking for signs of nonlife on Mars, so they could understand the key in the Matrix, not the glitch in the Matrix, the fact that, again, there can only be life on one Planet at a ti…

 

…me for me to tell you why I decided to inoculate this version of the Holy Bible onto the writer of it. It’s because my 6th version, the sixth (sixth sixth, haha) facsimile – equivalent to the sixth dwarf galaxy, was exactly this version here: my masterpiece, my baby, my everything; I told the story as it was, focusing just on the homo sapiens sapiens, the most intelligent of them all, all battered down into a state of non-Godlike-questioning by culture, accepting instead of denying their programming, their biological imperative; God sitting at a sort of – let’s call it – computer with LAN connectivity trying to develop the Universe, Him asking the other angels to join Him in this Internet Café wanna-be “room” that was made to facilitate the playing of games, each angel a computer, INTERNET this time, one angel would play mountains and help develop them, other one would play waters, other one would play an asteroid and fuck up the dinosaurs, one the humans, one the ants, everything, like in Dino Buzzati’s short story about the angels creating everything and the little nosy and buggy accountant that had a project for humans but God wasn’t interested in it? … I also wrote that. I actually wrote everything, if you didn’t know by now, so plagiarizing is a term that doesn’t apply to me. Everything that seems similar to something else probably is, because if the angels were sitting in the Internet Café developing code and hardwiring “reality”, I was sitting in my dishwashing room, behind a fan shrouded in a lot of noise, moist air everywhair, the sound from the dishwasher where I would wash the stars, so they’d be bright up in the sky, so that The Elegants would sing “Twinkle, Twinkle little star” – that little star was me being lazy and not washing it in time because God was lazy and never wrote this story and outsourced it to me. The angels are writing the backend, I write the frontend, UI/UX. They had the humans, but they had no stories to them, like the characters in shooter games that went off the map because of a bug and then continued through the desert on a loop foreva! I would take their forever and turn it from Sims 3 to Battle Royale or DayZ; gaming much?

 


You look for the song on YouLube, Scrotify or ..insert new-age music app here.. yourself, sonny gal. Now get back to the text↑↑↑

 

I made everything, d’ya-nderstand? Every story that was ever written, I wrote it, and I gave it meaning. I once made a fat man sit on a toilet and he broke it because he plunged his fat ass on it, stomping it like a foot would stomp on a Lady Fingers fruit cake, and he was sitting among the shards and I made it so he didn’t even feel one of the porcelain edges from the toilet thrust through his buttocks, and they called that adrenaline. I wrote Marquez, Plato, Jack Kerouac, Georges Bataille, Nietzsche, Fernando Pessoa, Terence McKenna and Slavoj Žižek, I’m Gadamer and Michael Jackson’s lyrics… I wrote books that on Sundays when God would piss me off I would just burn in a fire and they’d call that Nero burning Rome. I wrote masterpieces, and I am God, because I’m the one that made sense and nonsense out of this, sense and nonsense at the same time.

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