And now, an imaginary conversation with God.

...assuming God exists. Which I'm not sure s/he / it does. So this may all be a work of fiction.

* * * * *

God: Hey, J, do you know who I am?

J: Um... are you the Dalai Lama?

G: Warm. But not quite.

J: The ghost of Venus Williams?

G: Warmer.

J: Natalie Wood. Definitely Natalie Wood.

G: Colder.

J: Are you... y'know... God?

G: Jesus, finally! Yes, I'm God.

G: ...did you catch how I used my own name in vain there?

J: Oh, so you're an ironic deity.

G: Yeah, a lot of people didn't pick up on that in the Bible. I thought it was pretty obvious, but everyone's all "stoning this" and "parable that." Pillars of salt? Come on!

J: Everyone likes a good wife-shaped salt-lick.

G: Exactly! Sheesh, it's like you've gotta beat people over the head with it.

J: So tell me... duck-billed platypuses. What the hell, man?

G: Well, you know when you're putting together a piece of Ikea furniture and you have a baggie of assorted extras they give you in case you're a numbskull and lose things? I figured I'd do something with the baggie.

J: That makes sense. I mean, we're all getting a pretty good laugh out of the fuzzy eggs, but did you have to give it a venomous claw?

G: What can I say? Leftovers are leftovers.

J: I hear ya. So... suffering, famine, childhood cancers. If you're so omnipotent, why do all these shitty things happen?

G: Look, I have a whole universe to look after; I can't be saving everyone all the time. Someone's gotta keep an eye on Kepler 424b; they're having their Super Bowl today, and in the postgame interviews I always get thanked. Can't miss those.

J: Ours is tomorrow. Gonna watch?

G: Have to. I'll probably skip Katy Perry at halftime, though. I mean, she might have a Jacksonesque nip-slip, but I can see all of that anyway. Kinda ruins the experience, if I may be frank.

J: It's like seeing tits at a nudist resort. Once you've seen about three dozen pairs, you really don't need to see any more, do ya?

G: Nahhh... who am I kidding, tits are great. S'why I made 'em.

J: Thanks for that, by the way.

G: No problem, guy. So, you humans... you're a right bunch of pricks, you know that?

J: Well, some of 'em aren't. Tom Hanks seems pretty nice.

G: Yeah, which is why it's gonna be a surprise when he's dead by April. Vegas, horse tranquilizers and bourbon, balls-deep in a male prostitute. Bet you didn't see that comin'.

J: No foolin'?

G: Of course I'm foolin'. Fuck, you're dumb.

J: Well, you made this, so you've really got nobody to blame but yourself.

G: Ehh, true.

J: So, if you had a message to send out to all of humanity, what would it be?

G: Hmm... good question. I think I'd tell people to chill the hell out. Grab a tasty beverage, put on some good music, and stop murdering each other so much. Especially when you tell people that I'm on your side when you pull that trigger, because if person A is murdering person B, chances are I'm currently siding with B, not A.

J: That's a good point.

G: Damn straight. Alright, gotta split -- that Kepler 424b game is in overtime; they're gonna be prayin' up a storm, and I have to look like I give a shit.

J: Peace out, homey.

G: See you up here in heaven in six months, asshole!