God came over to my place last night. He wore his usual baggy jeans and faded Rip-Curl T-shirt. He just stood there, as I answered the door, with a stupid inane grin on his face – like he’d just done something really dumb that he was incredibly proud of and that he thought I ought to see right away. In fact, that was exactly what he said to me, as he played with his long, curly hair, in that “I’m the almighty but I’m just too damned cool to mention it” way of his. Bastard. You see – he likes to think that he’s smooth, but he’s just an ordinary Joe. Actually, no, he’s not like any ordinary Joe, I don’t think he could be ordinary if he tried. Slack fucker.
Apparently, he’d been sat by the river contemplating the kind of things that your average deity (him, average? No, surely not) contemplates when sat by a river, with, I hasten to add, what was left of the very nice skunk we’d scored the previous evening, when apparently it suddenly dawned on him.
“What dawned on you?” I asked.
“The point, man. The whole fucking deal, you know?”
“And just what is the point?”
“Oh. I can’t remember. Ain’t life a bitch?” He was grinning again, but when wasn’t he? “You gonna let me in, then, or what?”
I stepped to the side, as he came in off the front porch. He walked past me – drifted would have been more accurate – and across to the French windows. He put his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes, his breath frosting the pane in front of him. Well, that was different, I thought.
“So, what is it that I’m supposed to come and look at, then? What dragged you away from your posse tonight to come all the way over here?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? You knocked on my door, said I had to come see something straight away, and then went all indefinable on me, even going so far as to breathe on my French windows. I mean, breathing is new – when did that start? Oh yeah, and where’s the rest of my weed? I’m not going to see any of that again, am I?”
He coughed and grinned at the same time, as if he’d been caught out in some way. Oh yeah, he had.
“Oh man, that was some sweet, sweet love you gave me, right there. I tell ya – you really should have stayed, man. Me and Shiva, we…”, he looked all wistful. “Ah, Shiva … now there’s a chick who knows how to party!”
“I think I’m fairly certain I don’t need to know where you’re going with that,” I sighed
He was drifting off again, I could tell. He had that glazed, happy look in his eye that said, “I had way more fun than I ought to – way more fun than you’ll ever have.”
“I might have to ask you to leave”
I didn’t mean it, but I felt that he was missing a boundary or two and could probably do with reeling in a bit. Only a bit, mind you – it doesn’t pay to get too wild when telling him off. He can be a bit – what’s the word I’m looking for? Petulant. He hasn’t been around as long as the rest of us, so think of him as a bit of a teenager, but with celestial powers, and you kind of get the idea. The last time anyone had a go at him, he drowned an entire planet. It was only one in an otherwise bountiful, and ever expanding, universe, but a fairly significant one, nevertheless. Or it would have been. He didn’t even have the decency to do it quickly – he made it last a little under six weeks, and did it with rain. He’s beautiful, but he can be vindictive like that. I mean, wow – toys/pram, anyone? Still, most of them were Thwack-Fuckers, so it wasn’t all bad.
The ancient game of Thwack-Fuck was very similar to what’s now known as Golf. Played by the upper echelons of boring and badly dressed people, often so deeply ensconced in their own anal passages that it led to an unfortunate increase in volume when they spoke. It starts in the early stages of playing with two loud noises – “THWACK!”, as a small and, as rationality would ordinarily dictate, inoffensive ball is struck with a disproportionately large stick, followed by the word “FUCK!” as the ball fails to go in its owner’s intended direction – hence its original name. The name was later changed in order so as not to offend. Pfft!
“What was it you wanted me to see, anyway?” I repeated. Too late, I’d got lost in my own thoughts (about him, ironically) to realise that he’d wandered off again. Bloody new gods – it’s like herding cats. I hate cats.