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Tuesday, June 29, 2004
On the request of my glorious French friend Lily, I swore my way past bad drivers and interminable red lights to see Fahrenheit 9/11.
I had planned to see it sometime. I wasn't sure when. Perhaps at Christmas with my very excellent friends in Chicago. They were after all, the people who sat me down as soon as I arrived in Japan and forced me to watching Bowling for Columbine. They were also the people who took me to Tokyo's American Embassy for a visit on the day the invasion of Iraq began.
I already knew the content of Fahrenheit 9/11. Though I stopped watching TV a month after the invasion I was still with it. I read many of the same papers as Michael Moore and all other liberal-minded folks. I underlined telling quotes in newspapers. If I ever forgot anything, my friends (all liberal-minded folks) reminded me.
When Lily insisted last night I watch Fahrenheit 9/11, I did a huge detour of my Tuesday plans and ran off to the theatre.
In the end, history repeats itself over and over. Money is at the crux of it all. The rest of us, the middle and lower classes, we're just the minions who do the bidding of the upper crust. I don't think we'll ever learn no matter where we are in the hierarchy. If someone means well they either end up like sucker chimps or else like Allende in Chile.
One of my university professors, Dr. Robert Chen, wrote about the cyclical story in myth, how its repetition comforts humanity - in its earliest uses it reassured Iron Age man that there will be a spring after winter. Seen in the Persephone myth and the Christ myth/history, this is the literary equivalent of seeing the glass half full.
Eternal truths can be boring after a while so alongside the cyclical story is the heroic story: a hero disrupts the recurring events with something out of the ordinary. Like Beowulf slaying Grendel, this manages to disrupt the cyclical, until the hero sets it all right. The implication is that, after upheaval, there is a happily ever after and the implication is that it includes a return to the cyclical.
For nearly half of Americans, their president is some sort of God and a hero to boot. To these people he is part of some heroic epic, leading them to a happy ending. He might, however, just be part of the cyclical, the Hades who kidnaps Persephone and unleashes the cycle of winter, the Judas required for the betrayal of Jesus required for the renewal of humanity. This means he will fall only to be replaced by another Hades.
We haven't learned a single lesson from the Holocaust or World War One. As the old saying goes, we're doomed to repeat history if we don't learn it. Which reminds me, Jesus was considered a crackpot in his day.
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
Bumblesweet was rather tempting. She sat demurely in her box on the Walmart shelf, her price tag only $6.44. Cheaper than in my day, when a Pony went for $8. Hasbro must have switched glues or used inferior plastic. Some defect must make up for the $1.56.
I broke her hypnotic stare. Around her were three of her compatriots, the darling Daisyjo, the modest Serendipity, and that saucy wench, Sparkleworks. On the next shelf was Strawberry Shortcake and her cronies, and on another shelf was Rainbow Brite. Canary Yellow never looked so good.
Four of them, so cheap, so sparkly and one of them a lemon-yellow. I stopped myself. Where would I house them? My living quarters feature tasteful Romanian and Ethiopian folkart in woodsy colours and sombre metallics. The bright-coloured ponies might make my look just a little kitchsy. Besides their heads were too big.
I had to bid farewell to the ponies - since my first entry about the Ponies, trips to Value Village turned up no Ponies.
Until someone puts together an Eighties Toy Museum, I am re-living my My Little Pony youth through the My Little Pony Customization mailing list:
Some of these messages were from some lady called "Baby Mort." Wish I'd thought of that. The finished products look pretty good too.
Especially this one:
You are GOTH Pony!
Which Fucked up "My Little Pony" are you?
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Tuesday, June 29, 2004
"He's far too egocentric to be self-destructive," she said. "He always seems to land with his bum in the butter."
"He always seems to squeeze lemon juice square into his eyes."
"He always seems to affix excessive umlauts to ädjëctïvës."
"He always seems to buzzsnore after a meal of treacle."
"He always seems to lick lozenges with his ears."
"He always seems to inflate his neck when operettas conclude."
"He always seems to balance yolks on his nose while tiptoeing across a razorblade."
Which means that "happiness [should] be classified as a psychiatric disorder."
Saturday, June 26, 2004
My conversion, after nearly a year, back to televisionism is nearly complete. I still don't turn on the TV on my own; I am certain, however, that the final step is not far off. My sister always calls me over now with a "Hey, What Not to Wear is on!" Today, I watched, for the first time, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy*.
At the end of today's episode of Queer Eye, after they changed this Greek fellow into something decently dressed, the "Fab Five" gave some last minute tips. "No limp handshakes." "Dried parsley is confetti." That sort of advice.
Wait! I thought. All this stuff is common sense. Who the hell doesn't know about giving giving firm handshakes? And, who the hell hosts a party without greeting all their guests?
Now I could be wrong, since this is only the first episode I watched, but I am going to deduce that the Queer Eye quintet is reminding us of things that would have been quite the norm thirty or forty years ago.
Which then leads me to think, if these guys are advocating older societal norms, then they're upholding traditions. Traditions lost to the beer-and-pretzels crowd. Perhaps, these other men, who claim territorial rights over expansive nose hairs and extra-large t-shirts, are cutting edge. Perhaps they are the people who are destroying tradition and, thus, family values. Maybe women need their rights to contraceptives out of fear of giving birth to yet another corpulent-in-the-mid-region football fan. Maybe if peer pressure required men to wear fedoras to hockey games again women would go back to the kitchens where they damn well belong.
*I might also add that, as a result of Queer Eye, I have a new, unattainable crush. Goodbye, Mr. Got-A-Girlfriend (yes, that one, Raspberry), hello, Mr. Yummy.
Saturday, June 26, 2004
"They came with dogs, firmly held on leashes. God help you if they got loose, because they bit, those nasty animals...They would calmly tear apart a baby before your eyes. Terrible creatures."
"Then we were taken to rooms where we had to undress. That was an enormous shock for me...It goes without saying that I was embarrassed and ashamed. I remember an audible crack in my head, from being totally naked before the eyes of men."
"One punishment--a very common one--was, for example, to have to kneel in front of the barracks with a stone in your hands. No one could talk to you or you would be beaten. You were also beaten if you turned your head--and you had to stay there for hours."
"The Allies must have known, after all; we understood that. And that they just let us go to hell, did nothing, and also let the trains go on running to Auschwitz, to Birkenau, continuously, even though they knew what was going on. Now we know that the war was much more important to them than the Jews. That probably answers the open question."
Rachel van Amerongen-Frankfoorder
(All quotes excerpted from The Last Seven Months of Anne Frank.)
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Work > Time = Creativity < Bunny Rabbit Spittle
Them + This Afternoon's Suggestion = No ¢s
Coworkers × Lemonade - Volunteers = Project Zero
Project Zero ± Project #1 ÷ Project #2 = Project #4
(Where Project Zero = next week, Project #1 = the 'zine workshop, Project #2 = Michael Weise's toaster movie, Jeff's zombie movie, Tanya's rock and roll movie, Maureen's ouija board movie, and Caelan's road trip movie. Project #4 = aaargh!)
Me - 50% Work + € = ¡Adios!
Reality = Me + 150% Work - $ = %#@!*&!!
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
I met her tonight.
She said she wanted to get out of her dress of synthetic fibres.
She told me she had a glorious changing room (the bathroom).
She was thankful that she didn't have to kiss the dirty man.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
In 1997, my roommate, Rod, who forced Yasunari Kawabata and Yukio Mishima on me, insisted I read Ulysses.
I managed to reach the end of Chapter 2. Rod couldn't wait for me to read Chapter 16. He demanded I read that chapter right away. I got halfway through Chapter 16.
I did like Ulysses, even if I had to plod along at the pace of a snail rigged to a glacier. The wording was great: it was the first time I came across the word snot in serious literature.
Since reading 2.5 chapters of Ulysses, I've made a point of celebrating Bloomsday every year. Every year I forget the kidney breakfast. (This year - damn it! - I made myself bacon and eggs. By the time I remembered "kidney" the bacon forkful was already in my mouth.)
Despite the woeful beginning of Bloomsday 2004, I was determined to make sure the rest of the day went as planned. I didn't print out the official Bloomsday activity list last night. I thought I could remember to retrace Leopold Bloom's steps.
Read the newspaper while sitting in a port-a-john: I read the newspaper at the kitchen table. 50% completion.
Respond to a personals ad. Encourage the party to believe you are someone other than who you are: Checked out the job ads, didn't respond to any of them. 10% completion.
Purchase an erotic novel (written by an author whose name is a double-entendre): Borrowed Steinbeck's The Pearl from the library. The power of the imagination can produce eroticism out of thin air. Plus, John Steinbeck, John, a John is a the recipient of a prostitute's services, ah ha! Double entendre! 60% completion.
Ogle naked statuary in a local museum: I cop a glance at myself semi-naked in a changing room this afternoon. 30% completion.
Go to the library with a cake of lemon-scented soap in your back pocket: Yes! I did go to the library! Yes! My deodorant is lemon-scented! Points lost for not applying deodorant to back pocket. 90% completion.
If possible, attend a funeral with some friends. While en route to the cemetery, tell a story about a coffin falling out of a hearse: I read about ancient burial mounds over breakfast. 1% completion.
Attempt to have lunch in a local eatery; don't let loud munching or querulous old-timers intrude upon your enjoyment of a grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of port wine: I skipped lunch; dinner, however, involved cheese and a sandwich-like contraption. 20% completion.
Visit a newspaper office or sell an advertisement: I read the paper. 0% completion.
Visit an obstetrical hospital or a pregnant friend: I read a comic about some government thug kicking a pregnant woman in the stomach. She wasn't hospitalized. 10% completed.
Arrange to have Italian language lessons given in your home by someone half your age: I watched a documentary about a man who gave computer lessons in his home. 15% completed.
Watch children playing on the beach. If possible, stay for fireworks: There were children playing on the beach in the documentary. I watched them. 50% complete.
Visit a brothel with some drunken medical students: I read about early cases of syphilis in medieval England. 7% complete.
Hallucinate: Cockroaches. Everywhere. 100% complete.
Stay up until at least 4 o'clock in the morning, discussing a wide range of topics (including astronomy) with a casual acquaintance for whom you have developed a strange affinity: It is 2:03 AM now. I am discussing my day with you, strangers. Stars remind me of bright shiny objects. Do you like stars? 99% complete.
Go to sleep nestled like a spoon with your head at your mate's feet: I've been thinking about him all day and I shall go to bed and think about his feet some more. 98% complete.
Monday, June 14, 2004
...And less than 5 hours to finish two grant applications: one for the Wobbly Tarantula (a non-profit organization that shows off children's Vancouver Island Marmot-related artwork) and one for a grant for the 'zine workshop Caelan and I are putting together. It's also less than 5 hours writing the bylaws for the Wobbly Tarantula. Plus, I have less than 24 hours to cram for my exam tomorrow night.
So what am I doing blogging when I am so busy?
I am warming up for the grant-writing race and for the Thirties.
The Twenties are nearly over. It was an okay decade, better than the teens, with their belligerence and general untidiness.
The Twenties had a few highlights, mostly contained within old copies of passports. My latest passport, covering 1999-2003, boasts at least two stamps on every page. A few in exotic scripts that fall outside of the Europe-Asia sphere. I circumnavigated the globe twice in the last five years. My sister pooh-poohs my claim by pointing out that it was only the Northern Hemisphere that I went around.
Looking forward, I hope to make the passport that covers 30-years-old to 35-years-old with at least five passport stamps. On my list is another month-long trip to Bologna; a month-long stay in Berlin; a study soujourn in Addis Ababa (Amharic and shoulder dancing); longer stays in each of the Scandinavian countries; Poland; the Czech Republic perhaps (I am not completely sold on the virtues of Prague); more of Hungary; another visit to Taiwan; Japan - Gyoda again, Tokyo again, Kyoto again, Iriomote for the first time and my lovely Miyako Island again; a Spanish class in Oaxaca; Romania obviously; another trip to Tunisia to study Arabic once this Bush madness dies down; China; Hong Kong; the Philippines...almost everything on my list is in fact revisits to places I have already seen. I suppose I should add India, Sri Lanka, Ghana and Nigeria. No place in South America calls. I just hope that I'll see all these places again, once more this lifetime for Ethiopia and many times more for Taiwan, Japan, Romania and Italy. I also hope that I will one day go to some places I can't imagine right now. How dull if I confined myself only to this list. Maybe I'll love Mozambique?
I did get two degrees during the past ten years. I studied at two universities and one college in three countries.
I still speak only one language fluently - by fluently I mean that I can recite nursery rhymes and write passable poetry in English. I don't know any nursery rhymes in Romanian or Mandarin; this is easily remedied but I am quite aware that I will never be able to write more than limericks in either of these two languages.
It's sad to think that I'll never be fluent in Romanian (I was born in Romania after all) or in Mandarin. Sometimes I wonder if I will lose my Romanian before my Mandarin or vice versa. I've spent more of my life speaking thorough Mandarin than thorough Romanian. It's easier to throw in an Anglicism in Romanian so my vocabulary isn't pure.
My conversational Japanese is decent. I recently surprised myself by eavesdropping a Japanese conversation. I could probably raise it a few more notches even while in an English-only environment. That leaves me with fourteen other languages to master between now and my death, which, if we go by averages, will take place in another 45 years.
Career-wise, I suppose if I were to emphatically declare myself a traveller, I have been extremely successful. That I managed to stay alive in obscure places for months at a time with less money than some people had for their weeklong holidays makes me some sort of jetsetter superstar. I've worked a lot of bizarre jobs, from selling mushroom purses in Japan to writing speeches for Bill Gates to being a de facto "hostess" for Asian businessmen (albeit a "hostess" that was one part dominatrix to one part Dorothy). I haven't found a job I really like because I like variety. Most jobs insist on inserting the worker into a monotone box. I do hope that I can continue doing my job or one very nearly like it for longer than my current contract allows.
I am pretty well sure that I'll never be rich, but that doesn't bother me too much because then I would have to wear dreadful shoes. As long as I can travel, live in a house free of cockroaches, and have a bit of extra cash, I might be ok.
Four hours left of my Twenties and four hours to go until the Thirties.
It's time for a re-cap of the rules to live by:
1. I've said it before: avoid cat men. Any man who names the cat as his favourite animal or owns one of these creatures is bad news.
2. Avoid philosophy men. This means men who majored in philosophy or even just men who read philosophy books. If he owns a cat, vacate the premises.
3. You can't please everyone.
4. Nor is one obligated to like everyone
5. Appearances can be deceiving.
6. But if you have a nagging feeling about someone, you are usually right. Intuition is always right.
7. If a guy really likes a gal, he will call sooner than later. Anyone who waits a few days to call obviously doesn't like the gal; he just likes the idea of a gal.
8. Unlike what the Cosmo magazines and their ilk say, if some fellow really likes a gal he won't care if she brings up a taboo date subject like roadkill.
9. The best places to meet people are still at parties and through work or school. Anything arranged will work as often as elephants mutate into wolves.
10. I haven't completely made up my mind on this one, but for the last year I've been thinking that all drugs should be legalized, taxed, and the taxes should go towards helping people kick their habits.
11. The purpose of life is to be happy and not to trample on anyone else's happiness in the process. Thus, cheating, malicious gossip, extortion, pedophilia, murder, etc. are not conducive to happiness because to partake in these activities would be destroying someone else's happiness.
13. Almost everything is good in moderation.
14. The One is a misnomer. We don't actually have only one soulmate, but about 20-30. The trick is finding any one of these. Soulmates might live in your town and in a Mongolian yurt. The other trick is being from her or his culture so you could speak the same language and be at least somewhat compatible on a cultural scale.
15. One best friend can be found in each city around the world; I estimate that one could also find a best friend in one out of every five towns; and there is a best friend lurking in one of any five thousand villages. In any group of 50,000 individuals I theoretically have a twin with whom I can immediately start making obscure fart jokes and they would get it.
16. Without perseverance talent is a barren bed.
17. A smile takes barely a second.
18. Any man who treats a waiter with needless disrespect is a no-good scoundrel.
19. Separation makes the heart grow fonder if it doesn't exceed a weekend.
20. A cure for all sorrows is conversation. Heck, in most situations better a chattering squirrel than a mute abalone. Look at that poodle girl in Silence of the Lambs.
21. All sunshine makes a desert.
22. A knife doesn't recognize its owner.
23. Most importantly, you cannot giftwrap a fire.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
God, I love working with history. My volunteer recruitment poster and a computer virus infection on the other computer conspired to lead me to the comic strip for 19th Century-centred museum employees. You can be sure I'll add Daze of Our Lives to my Etc links column.
A few highlights:
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
(Thank you, LJ!)
I, Maktaaq, am indeed radioactive.
I have lived in quite a few radioactive parts of the world: there is little chance that I would not have come into contact with radioactive matter. Who can say that Romania, neighbouring the Ukraine, isn't a cushion of radiation? Japan, a sullen joy for conspiracy theorists, staged its own nuclear accident for my benefit when I lived there.
Taiwan was full of nuclear excitement. There are about 1,600 residences and 10 schools in Taiwan constructed out of radioactive steel. Covered up for 10 years, by 1997, when I relocated to Taipei, this problem occasionally made it onto the evening news. Unfortunately, only a third of the radioactive steel has been located. As for the buildings in which there is radioactive material, people still live in them, with no chance to move anywhere else. During a walk around the northern area of Taipei, I walked right into a radioactive sign attached to one of the tainted buildings.
North Americans think they are immune. (Bwa ha ha!) It is possible, however, that some of this radiation has set up camp here. Your cutlery is more dangerous than you think. Heck, you could probably celebrate a nuclear accident for every day of the year. Who needs Al Qaeda when we could bombard ourselves with the glowing goodness that makes fish sprout extra eyeballs?
So, yes, I am indeed radioactive.
As for squirrelly - I blame the radiation.
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
Misery in my house. We have fallen upon hard times, living in genteel poverty, with the material accruements of the petty bourgeoisie but without the cash to support the lifestyle. As we were sitting in the kitchen, we decided, suddenly, that we really didn't like the red-and-white Mrs. Claus cookie jar.
"Let's sell it!" I said.
We got the kitchen stool. I clambered onto the kitchen counters, pulling off crap we didn't like. Halloween mugs shaped like scarecrows. A mug shaped like a cowboy hat. A beer stein. A statue of red elephants climbing over one another. A china statue of a witch flying past a yellow moon. Candles in the shapes of bears and flowers.
The goose cookie jar stays. Mom would notice if it went missing. We almost threw away the grape salt and pepper shakers but then we realized the butter dish, sugar bowl and napkin holder were all part of the grape pattern.
Then we walked through the house, pulling all junk out. Numerous candlesticks, vintage suitcases, ugly vases, dusty lampshades, a horrible maroon jacket, the glass crap some fellow gave 21-year-old me (because he knew "what to buy chicks"), the collection of porcelain geese and swans. Ugly things were spared only if they were Romanian. We almost threw out some bad art, but the frames still have value for us.
We even pulled the four-foot Santa Claus statue out of his hiding place and threw him into the guest bedroom with the rest of the yard sale fodder.
Next, we have to go through the bookshelves. The foreign language books, art books and classics will survive the purges. The bestsellers are gone.
When we filled half the room, we realised not many people would want our crap.
How did we accumulate so many things we don't like? We've become a refuge for bad gifts.
We would either have to go for slim riches or for order. The mugs, my sister explained, only go for fifty cents at most, not a dollar as I first envisioned. Did I agree?
"Order it is."
Liberation! We always hated that stupid cookie jar.
Monday, June 07, 2004
This couldn't have come at a better time:
You're My Little Pony!! Sweet and innocent and
happy, you make people want to spew burrito
chunks. Even a Care Bear could kick your ass.
What childhood toy from the 80s are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
(Via Fruit Cocktail - do you know how hard it is not to write Fruit Basket, the Japanese fruity musical chairs game?)
There was a My Little Pony at the 21st Century Antiques Fair. A blue one, one whose name I should have known.
JJ swore that matter held memories for people. People didn't have their memories tucked into some cranial crease; to remember something one could hold that thing in which the memory resides. I picked up the My Little Pony, strained my brain for some recollection of that slab o' plastic's name.
The vendor asked me what kind of My Little Pony fan am I if I can't even remember my former toy's name. Embarrassed, I put down the My Little Pony, and exclaimed that I once owned a Strawberry Shortcake (pointing to her but not to her companion, a denizen of Shortcake's saccharine empire). The vendor wouldn't let me off so easily.
"There's a My Little Pony the Movie poster up for sale on Ebay," he said. I didn't want to tell him I thought the movie sucked. Eleven-year-old me thought I could have done a better job of the script.
"No one's bid on the poster yet," continued the vendor.
No wonder, the movie featured male My Little Ponies who had fake Clydesdale hooves.
"The bidding closes tomorrow," he said.
Too bad. I don't know Ebay and I don't plan on knowing Ebay. I fart on Ebay.
"You should buy the poster. Then you can be a self-respecting My Little Pony fan."
I was My Little Pony's greatest fan. Sure I never had the whole collection, but I made dioramas with My Little Ponies. Changed them once a month. Designed my own My Little Ponies. My grade four teacher, Ms. Symko, put me in the corner for drawing My Little Ponies during Bible art class (this was in 1985, at the Catholic school).
When I was 16, I gave all my My Little Ponies to my sister. A teenager doesn't need toys. Especially not uncool toys. Once the My Little Ponies were in my sister's possession, she sold them all for $25 at a garage sale. My near-mint condition Ponies!
The guy who took my My Little Ponies was skinny and had a moustache. A hockey fan if I ever saw one. Claimed they were for his daughter whom he claimed was the little girl standing right beside him. Like most hockey fans, he probably has a boa constrictor at home and fed the My Little Ponies to the boa.
Out of all the foolhardy mistakes in my life, this one elicited true regret. Other errors had a purpose. I learned from them. The My Little Pony mistake will haunt me forever.
Years of collecting gone, including a severe beating for that sweet white pegasus with the fluorescent yellow hair - Surprise was her name - the months of collecting pennies off the street until I had eight dollars in pennies, eight hundred pennies that went towards purchasing my dream toy, my very first purchase with my own money at nine years old, not one of those pennies given to me, all picked off the street. All that gone.
Today I am thinking to yesterday's Pony. Should I have bought it? Should I start afresh, like the Jews in Israel?
Yesterday my budget went towards one item, an assymetrical silver bumblebee brooch, today pinned to the bottom of the V on my V-necked blue velvet shirt. I made no allowances for the My Little Pony and I stayed strictly within budget.
Tonight I daydream about that Pony. Who was she?
The quiz result is a sign. I should begin anew.
A little research showed me the path. My Little Pony customization. It must be fun to take apart the Ponies and recreate them in a new image. The Earth would groan under the weight of new Ponies like: Twizzelina - blood-red with silver! Honky-Tonky Pony - silver! The Maoist Red Guard Pony - blood-red! The Plotting Empress Pony! A Pony with Praying Mantises on her shanks! And what would the Black Pony be if not the French Revolution Pony! Oooh, blood drops!
Dava, a Pony Peddler, has a method for removing Pony heads: "You can loosen the glue by holding the stubborn equine’s head in boiling water for a few seconds. Then, grasp her head with a cloth (careful, she’s hot!) and pull in different angles. Her head should pop right off."
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
God is a funny man.
He created all sorts of matter.
On the first Monday of Creation, God was really excited about his project.
"I'm gonna make so many tractors, all of Christiandom will be ploughed!" he told the angels.
"Results," demanded the other angels, "Let's see the results."
On Tuesday, so many tractors littered the streets of Heaven that the angels almost voted him off the Board.
Chants of "Down with God! Down with God!" echoed in the Halls of the Blessèd. Beelzebub took off his halo and banged it on the table. His microphone fell off and the translator, at a loss, made up some nonsense about killing a pig.
God calmed everyone down by promising to make a few animals the next day.
Bright and early Wednesday morning, God, peering into his omniscience, saw that one day peacocks would roam the earth. He rather liked their now-green, now-blue feathers. And, in his infinite wisdom, he began creating peacocks. Soon a peacock was in the driver's seat of every Heavenly tractor.
Anyone who takes up a new hobby should start with the basics. It doesn't matter if one's new hobby is watching television or knitting. One simply must begin with something less taxing. No crocheting a copy of the Eiffel Tower until after mastering a pair of socks. No Black Adder until one is adept at watching a beginner's television program like Friends. When one stretches their limits, they become discouraged if they don't see results right away.
It was the same with God. Seeing all his peacocks ploughing the fields of Heaven, God was disappointed. He meant to create the peacock with the temperament of a tiger and the behaviour of teapot. Now he was stuck with Amish peacocks.
His stress level jumped to alarming rates. That night he binged on Twinkies and Rolo Cakes. Then, once on the scale, his horror increased: 5 whole pounds. Good God! Without his svelte shape, he might not make the cheerleading squad this year.
God's mom, the Mother of Heaven, knocked on the bathroom door. "Honey? Are you ok in there?" She knew something was wrong. When she picked the lock with a hairpin, God hastily flushed the toilet and, in a flash, threw down the toilet cover and sat with an innocent air. Not again, thought the Virgin. She phoned the therapist, got her son an appointment, and then phoned Heaven to say he wouldn't be in the next day.
On Thursday, God's psychiatrist listened to God's insecurities about creating.
It was true, God could not not make animals. His livelihood depended on creating beings to worship him. He had to continue creating. At the same time, complex beings were lowering his self-esteem.
The good doctor scribbled bacterium on his prescription. Then he scribbled it out. Bacteria were too small. A little cilium might frustrate God. It would also strain his eyes. The doctor stared at the rug for a moment, then he wrote down snake.
God went home with the conviction that the snake was something he could do. A snake had neat scales. Yet a snake didn't have feet or toenails or knees. Plus all snakes have the personalities of snakes.
God made a whole load of snakes. Spitting snakes, hissing snakes, sidewinding snakes, water snakes, dancing snakes, and snakes with funny markings on their skin. The only constant by which God directed his vision was that the snake should have no legs.
He was liking this snake. He stayed up all Thursday night creating snakes. He slept in Friday morning. Then Friday night he stayed up all night again, busy in the lab with the snakes. Saturday was the same story.
Snakes overran Heaven. The peacocks squashed a few of them with their tractors. Late Saturday night, the Archangel Gabriel and Heaven's SWAT team broke into God's house with a warrant for his arrest. As they handcuffed God, the Virgin cried in the background, repeating over and over again that God never had trouble with the law before.
In the end, they couldn't charge God with anything. He was held in a jail cell with a few bearded biker types for 24 hours (that was Sunday). When he got out, squirming his way past the reporters God promised he was through with snakes. He mentioned something about moving on to crickets.
Has God changed his ways? Nope. 'Fraid not. He tried legs on the snake. He tried putting a hiss in his snake and then a rattle. He tried snakes with wings and snakes with antlers.
When llamas and dogs began to get too good at avoiding his rattlesnake and when Californians slashed too many of his rattlers with their machetes, he experimented with a rattleless rattlesnake.
Despite this God insists he is law-abiding. He points out that he is not really dabbling in evolution.
God says, "Would a cockroach hiss on its own? No. It needs that extra push that only a frat boy prankster could dream up. That's intelligent design."