Bad News Week Redux

God forgive the inventors and maintainers of work (see posts, passim). Still, they have little or no choice in what they do: they love it so much they can do no other than enslave everyone else.

Anyway.


I thought I would try to plagiarise a previous post by the awesome CBI. IN the original, CBI interviewed Jesus. I'm going to turn the tables somewhat. Here is the interview, keenly awaited, between God and TTD.

G: SO, TD, thanks for joining me here tonight.

TD: It's a pleasure o divine maker of all things.

G: How art thou, my son?

TD: Well, I've been better, to be honest. Firstly my love life is a shambles, very little love and no life to it: and as for work - well just go and read some of my posts.

G: I have, my son. Stella?

TD: That'd be lovely, thanks.

Stella appears on table, cold, bubbly and with a minimal head.

TD: Hey wow. This is...divine.

G: Au naturellement my son. Crisps?

TD: You read my mind.

An infinite packet of the most amazing cheese n onion appears.

G: [insouciantly waving infinitely powerful arm]. Now my son, onto more important matters. Why are you such a c***?

TD: Er...quoi?

G: You heard. My son. Can I dispense with this "my son" crap now? Tell it as it is, TD. After all, I know already.

TD: Er....I...well, you hardly need to hear it from me then do you you sadistic old bastard, er, o great one.

G: Au contraire you contemptible little shit, my son. I need more than ever to hear it from you, before you die and become a diseased part of my infinite arse.

TD: Why the ******* hell would that make any difference to you? Er...o infinite power of my power.

G: Well, look at it like this. You are a particularly unpleasant pile on the arse of the divine redeemer. If I accept you into my heaven I will be cursed with the agony of you in my eternal jacksie, for all of time and even beyond time.

TD: Oh. I always thought i was sort of special. Being a human and all that.

G: Don't make me laugh. I have wasps here with more intelligent - and humane - conversation than you.

TD: Oh.

G: So?

TD: So what?

G: Why are you such a ****?

TD: O great healer of sins, I am a **** as you so irrefutably and sinlessly put it, because I have never really been bothered to be anything else.

G: Meaning?

TD: Well, that it is easy to be an angry pisshead and a lazy old twat.

G: Good. Continue. My son.

Pint of infinite Stella appears, momentarily on the table.


TD: Well, er, I suppose that I look to be out of my head too much; I loathe and detest being...well, er...being.

G: So give me one reason not to kill you now.

TD: I'm afraid to.

G: That's not a reason.

Stella disappears. TD gets deeply, profoundly, thirsty.


TD: OK...I guess...I could...sort of...

G: Yes?

TD: whispers Love some people.

G: Such as?

TD: Names obscured on legal advice.

G: And?

TD: Futher names obscured on legal advice.

G: Better. What else?

TD: I could stop treating people like fuel for my impotent rage. I could stop whining and moaning. I could stop being tempted to support an authoritarian and hate-driven government. I could truly strike out for what I believe in. I could work for everything that is good. But...I...

G: I sense a hesitation, my son.

TD: But...

G: Yes?

TD: What would I blog about then?


God disappears in a puff of blogospheric anguish.