Albert Gore always brags about how diligently he worked to bring us this cheerful little spy network called the Internet. Bill Gates promises us an eternally less fragile framework to run its voyeuristic little heart on; and Roentgen gives us the deadly X-ray at the press of a button, truthfully the only method of scientific introspection of oneself aside from being cut recklessly apart.
Edison gave us MP3’s in a backhanded kind of way, and with it the fraud of modern music culture. Cervantes opened up a whole new world of faux literature when his masterpiece was contrived as doable by countless Kings and Koontz’s of the sublimely mediocre era of book making. Dense New Guinea jungles hold the key to the origin of cannibalism and its foray into modern politics and news coverage.
Chuck Lindbergh crossed the Atlantic so we could do it a hundred times a day, sucking up the world’s peanuts like a giant elephant whore. JFK took a pop in the head so we could value the pope-mobile and cars with roofs; we learned too what a troublesome sight it was with some hopeless woman trying to play brain doctor with all the bits left of mister potato head/ president. Ted Kennedy drank so we could all forget; bless his family and his rosy red cheeks.
Lippershey gave you the moon, Naples gave you the Pizz-A-Pie; and add to the mixture about four eyeballs, vitriol and all and I think you have… Amore!
Jesus on the other hand, seems perilously trite.
Plato was scripting the language of love with his passed down account of the symposium. Archimedes was fucking around in the bubble bath and doing some serious algebra. Newton was smacking fruit together and hoping it meant something profound.
Yet the history of the world need rewriting for some backwoods hippie who happens to be the product of a cosmic blowjob. He’s got nuns rabid in the street screaming about the horror of condoms. He has loose flapped soccer moms chucking bottles of gasoline at Planned Parenthood. All of this in a country he never saw or knew about; that’s right, we kidnapped him and made him bless the ol’ red white and blue at the point of a derringer.
When Jesus was smoking hashish in Jerusalem or Hezbollah, America was just a little girl who was succumbing to a landslide of population from her North Western territories. The climate fueled the descent of these African descended yet mutagenetically Asiatic peoples from what was to be her left shoulder. In the meantime, her limbs became shortened due to the erosion and disappearance of global glaciations and she became the tight little bundle called North America.
Jesus would have loved this observation, I can say with confidence. We would share all of this over a thimble of absinthe and I would ask him why his dad had to kill all the dinosaurs; on which he would reply “…because you touch yourself at night”.
It all makes sense now. God isn’t really looking for me. God isn’t pacing his room with an occasional quick eye out the Venetian blinds; wondering when I am going to come home and spare him the monotony of soap operas and adult undergarment adverts. God isn’t even hung up at some cheap bar waiting for ol’ Mary to stroll back in with tonight’s earnings.
That cheap bastard left town a long time ago, a stranger in a strange land; left us all waking up in the morning laying next to an uncomfortable design of skin and bones. It’s all the same down here, except when wondering the inevitable big question that you get when you understand you’re entirely alone in the universe. Who is watching now?
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