by: Michael Bradford
A whimiscal take on the beginning (and end) of all things…..
If God were a Kardashian, this would be the G-True Holywood Story of a boy named Rob.
Despite my rapidly increasing fear of those first five words being plausible, you – the viewer of this reality show we are scripting here together and projecting on to the flat screen of your cushy pink conductors booth – must move forward assuming that they are not. Despite the “ass” destined to be made of “u” and “me,” we nevertheless must leverage assumptions to arrive at our destination: the final credits. So first, you need to sign off on this unholy trinity of release forms:
1) You speak English.
2) You realize English was a language created by folks that believed God was a Man.
3) You forgive me for my sins, as I know exactly what I do.
In the Beginning
God did the whole Creator of the Universe thing. Trippy enough to look at, sure, but as any white man with unlimited means and a beard that salted out the pepper long ago will tell you, “Time is money- quit fucking around.” So what does he do? Fucks around and gets the gal pregnant. Makes you think. Old ass dude all alone with nothing but inanimate objects for as far as the eye of Eternity can see and the next thing you know, he’s sticking his dick in the mashed potatoes. Typical.
In the Middle
Man did the whole Master of the Universe thing. Pulling up the boot straps to beg, borrow and steal just to get an honest chance to rape, rob and rule; King Dumb seems a fair enough title to champion for celestial spawned SIM’s characters in God’s Stranger on the Bus routine – meta-level gaming fools as “Just one of us.” Still, any Second-Lifer with limited means and a beard peppered with salt will tell you, “The devil’s dirt is in the details.” So what does He-Man do? Fucks around and starts asking questions. Makes you think.
In the End
God fucked the Universe and ended up with Man. Man turned around and fucked God and ended up with Quintuplets:
Who, What, Where, When and Why.
And a red-headed step child named How.
Two things:
1) The sight of “W” invokes at once both a pair of tits and labia.
2) The sound of “double you” is a mind fuck in its own rite, right?
Still, there is the 5 count. 5 questions. 5 fingers, 5 toes, 5 senses.
But How?
The fuck is How doing? Straight lurking. Playing the plus one. Friend of a friend of a friend.
As mesmerizingly identical as the 5 are singularly sensational, their special needs little brother “How-ie” is forever mastering the obvious answer behind the Kuestion Klan. Answer one, you answer them all. (How) do you think we should give it a try?
Who: A Kardashian
What: A Star Fucker
Where: On the flatscreen in your brain
When: Seems like an eternity, probably less than a second ago
Why: To justify the answer of Who
Do we really need How? FINE….
How: A Kardashian, fucked a star, on the flatscreen of your brain, probably less than a second ago, to justify the existence of God.
Thanks Rob. You useless piece of shit.
El Fin.
