The Days Before Intestines

In order to create the world, God first had to deal with Oogah, who preferred floating in liquids to standing on solids. He didn't feel creation of a solar system and a planet earth would be a good idea. Humans would be sure to mess things up. Oogah predicted ecological disaster, climate change and wars within wars. These were the days before intestines, when chaos rumbled in God's belly like half digested material mixed with microbes, working its way downwards in a cold, squeezing, oozing motion.

The sixth awakening of Oogah happened when dirt got in his third eye and someone called him stupid. The dirt of policies, and standardization, the wriggling of parasites working for the giant make-work bureaucracy, The Department of Regulation, it was all part of the zeitgeist, like number nine, in the Beatles revolution. A slow tossing and turning resulted in Oogah getting out of bed forty years later.

The creation had already happened. He noticed people stealing and lying. In some places, alcoholic psychosis, the triggering of aggression centers of the brain, many took it literally and acted out, with devastating consequences. Aggression is like a fart. There's an art of farting in public, so as not to make people run away; otherwise you're likely to end up feeling even more alone and alienated than before.

Oogah had a glass of Scotch and bitters to unlock sections of sky between skeleton key branches of trees infected by acid rain and various diseases. Revolution is a joke. "Blah, blah, blah; open up your hand---SMACK!"-- goes the angry mama across the street after a boy hurts a girl. Don't mock her righteousness. She's the backbone of a rotten society. Beware of her curse. Society can't be avoided, unless you're tough enough to be able to endure extreme solitude and loneliness.

This late afternoon glass of whiskey to gladden the heart of rootless, unemployed nomads watching responsible citizens go by like the scenery outside the window of a bar car on the train, drink magic orange elixir when down-struck by dehydration and intestinal virus. Behold, the voice of God, an eye in the middle of a blazing white triangle in a blinding cumulus brain-shaped cloud. This is the comic book riddle version of the universe, serious and mean like flip-flop sandals on the gorgeous feet of a young blond who has no respect for men because her mother was a psycho, alcoholic earning a hundred grand a year, while her father floated away as a deadbeat, welfare bum with a drinking problem. Or you could be serious about the materialistic dream. Get a job. Marry, husband and wife work hard as a team, send kids to daycare in order to buy a house to keep up with the neighbors and feel self-respect before descent into hatred, marriage crisis and perhaps divorce. Divorce could be quite likely after the kids are old enough to explain the situation to therapists, after the kids grow up to be spoiled, pampered, high-salaried bums feeling on top of the world because they landed in a smooth sell-your-soul situation, which could be rationalized later, because we're all in the same boat.