Diary From God

Halleluja!
If man was created in the image of God, Diary of God gives an entire new insight on insanity as a lifestyle. Fun, shocking and violent, The Author doesnt shy away from anything and that includes the layout, which is refreshingly smelly. Not Real News Smaller than the bible and more insightful. Some people cant handle the truth without injuring themselves, others cant handle an ax without the same result. The Author cant do both. Laudable. The Daily Skeptic Stardate 47282.4 Flightlog. Inertial dampening off-line. All the environmental controls are off-line. Engines off-line. Were dead. The Economy
INDE X
Praise & Index God Went For Some Shopping. God was Bored Senseless. God Was Having A Good Time. God Was Not So Much In The Mood. God Is Wanted By The Police. Stan Had A Vague Idea About Something. God Had A Quiet Evening. God Had An Interview. God Was A Bit Dysfunctional. Something Didn't Go Down Very Well. God and Stan were Walking on the Street. God was Milking an Elephant. God Hates Kids. God Saw a Ghost. God was Not Amused. God wants to Fuck Up. The Master and the Apprentice. Maria got Inspired. Humans are Fragile. God was Angry. God Told His Son. Interview with God by Ingez B. g Dirt, Praise & Comunnication a 04 01 2011 11 06 2011 19 06 2011 29 06 2011 04 07 2011 06 07 2011 07 07 2011 08 07 2011 09 07 2011 15 07 2011 18 07 2011 21 07 2011 03 08 2011 8 20 08 2011 7 27 10 2011 30 10 2011 02 11 2011
God Went For Some Shopping

od was for a moment in doubt: would he go get his skins by this friendly lady, or by Tha Saggo? The friendly lady was farther away, and since he had more to do today it was going to be Tha Saggo. But His heart wasn't in it.That way He entered by the door which He carefully opened and closed to avoid drawing attention to Himself underneath the Lotto-sign about which He felt He had to exchange a few serious words with Stan and walked up to the counter. Can I have a package of Rizla Silver from you?, He asked with a ring to His voice. Tha Saggo opened up a drawer, put the order on the counter, and God gave her a 5, note. Ain't got it any smaller? rumbled Tha Saggo. No I am sorry, just some small change, said God. Rumbling on Tha Saggo handed over the change. Thank you and au revoir," said God with His still infinite friendlyness. Ny bye, nagged Tha Saggo. The hand of God shot for more than 2 meters over the counter, grabbed her in her scruff and rammed her disgusting face a few times stonehard onto the register, that opened upon the impact, and brought her bleeding nose close up to His'. I AM GOD, AND YOU CAN SEE THIS AS A DOWNPAYMENT TO THE BILL. AND THAT'S ONLY BECAUSE TODAY I AM IN SUCH A DAMN GOOD MOOD I WANT TO SAVE STAN SOME ON HIS GAS-NOTE, UGLY CUNT! Whereupon God left Tha Saggo bleeding and moaning tumble to Earth, and turned in some better mood to leave the shop for the last time. That one is for Stan, He thought Once outside He walked to the postal service which was in fact the prime reason for His external escapedes for some stamping, to continue to ... He needed some bread, and some beer would be nice to.
However He didn't feel like getting robbed by those extorsionists at the local supermarket, He rather went past by The Turkish Guy, even though he wasn't selling beer. And in spite of the fact that The Turkish Guy (because) wasn't in His adressbook, he was the most friendly men with twinkling eyes so besides the fact He had more on His schedule, He decided to help a true godfearing man to some trade, have the extra walk to the extorsionist place, thus saving money, and spreading poverty in the world a bit more equally. Of course He wouldn'tintroduce Himself to The Turkish Guy as God, He left it up to The Turkish Guy himself to discover that. And also to help him to the small change He just had begotten at Tha Saggo. He was sure that if He would tell this to Stan, he would snigger about this, and maybe even treat Him to a free pint. Ali would maybe grumble a bit, but he would surely approve of the action, even when disapproving the bloodbath, and after some contemplation even though it could go with this guy exasperatingly slow be contented: no beer sold and still cashing in. God knew He was good: pay the bills at Tha Saggo and The Turkish Guy, doing some 4 to 5 good deeds in half an hour who would improve on that?
From: Diary from God, 04 01 2011
God was Bored Senseless

t was Friday, and God was bored senseless. He had risen at ten, and even though nothing indicated He was about to get to be bored stiff, it however the most perfect day for it to do so. There was a slight sun, some clouds that promised to make a mountain of baby-clouds so much that there wouldnt be any more room for any more babyclouds before it would rain, but real speed ws lacking. He tried to light one cigarette with the other, but gave up after half a cigarette. He thought about cleaning up the empty beercans, but was fed up halfway the thought about it. This was just one of those days He had planned to be bored with everything, and everything went according to plan: He really felt like nothing. The only thing He felt for was getting bored senseless, and it was a roaring succes. So much so, He felt like getting bored senseless even harder, but with what ... well, He didnt feel like thinking aboutit. Bored with boredom He went for some beer. Boring fact was that Ali had closed shop, the evening-shop wasnt open jet, so He walked on, through grey streets in a direction He had never walked because boring and grey and dull. Ideeal. Loafing about He found a dull sign indicating the direction of a supermarket He had sworn not even wanted to be found dead inside, so hopefully He went that way, until He found a small dull grey shop in His way, and decided to honor that with a visit instead a most friendly lady behind the counter, completely unimaginatively dressed, although He didnt notice that bought His beer, paid with a tired fiver, and loafed back home, without ever having seen the supermarket; it did save Him the effort dying from shame being found dead inside, what was a stroke of good fortune. Back home He switched on the radio, switched it back off, ate some stale bread, poured Himself a pint its foam not ever bothering coming to life, good and took up position at the windowsill, staring at babymaking clouds. After a few hours, still not finished with the
pint that out of boredom had reincarnated, He went to lay down at bed. This was a great day. It was long time since he had Himself bored senseless so carelessly. He wondered if He could even improve on that, drowsed a bit for three quarters of an hour, rose, went pissing in the sink, and finished with that hung down flabbely in His chair in front of His desk, what gave the pleasant view of a lifeless battlefield. It appeared His dead beer was gone. Fortunately it rained. Listlessly. Great! Maybe He could stop the dishes at the frontdoor and do them! At the sink He found a frying pan with some usable grease, turned on the gas cooker, and broke two eggs. Pepper, no salt it wasnt a holiday today. Having arrived at the moment it was half cooked He turned it somewhat, was fed up with it, pecked a morsel out of the pan with a fork that was not to dirty, decided it had cooked for long enough, and shifted the remainder onto a plate after He had shifted the ramaining crumbs into the sink, and put Himself with His half cooked egg in front of the window, staring first a bit at the rain if it would continue to drip on listlessly, would stop, or put in some more effort. Nothing happened. Completely nothing. Slowly He pecked empty His plate, spilled a morsel at the floor, looked down at it, picked it and after a superficial inspection ate that as well. Today wa nothing, just nothing, He decided, and opened up His last pint. And to celebrate today had been a roaring succes He decided to celebrate it by muck up the rest of the evening with shiftlessness and leave the dishes till next week. God was contented; the day wasnt finished jet or it was already a day to look back onto with satisfaction.
God Was Having a Good Time.

od was standing God was sitting God was hanging at the bar, having a fairly good time. He was working himself happily through every kind of beer that was on the shelf behind the bar, and although the rest of the world would be fairly right calling Him drunk, and He would be the first to admit that, as that was the purpose of working Himself through as much beer as possible, He preferred to look at it as having a good time. Getting drunk, but having a good time. Making sure having a good time by getting fucking drunk. Going from Station to Station, taking the touristic approach of travel, He was now held up at number 40, Orval, doing a bit more than sharing the labour and toil of the monks, whom He thought of as a bit prim, but would be forgiven for they made one of His favourite kinds of beer. If one had to define the taste of Orval, one would have to call it Orvalesque. Not helping the discussion on the definition-department, but what would be the problem there? Defining life was also still a disasterarea, and everybody still knew what life was all about, or at least got fairly well along with the idea. Life was really one of the better jokes He had pulled cosmic if you wanted. Or the definition of Himself, if it came to that. The girl behind the bar tending Him was doing well. Or rather, better. She was pretty, even though she looked like shit, due to her apparent problems, but He had given Her the opportunity to pour her heart out, and was sincerely feeling better now, and even had a little spring back in her gait, what amused Him. She was a young mother of a girl, and had told Him how her boyfriend wanted to take away her girl, and more shit like that. God promised himself to pass by by the guy later on and punch him in the face for that, but He didn't say that to the girl, and was not to be bothered with that right now, He was now on the job of getting drunk and having a good time. As He was currently sitting with his back to the bar, He watched another good female specimen walking into the door of the bar, going
straight at Him, and said Hi to Him. An then, to His surprise, put a hand in His crotch, only to see her being surprised as well. O, kinky, she said, took His hand, and put It in her crotch. She was a guy with tits. How about later on you and I have a good time? he she whispered in His ear. Goddammit, Stan, you behave like an idiot again, said God. You're drunk or something? Look who is talking, said Stan, looking a bit foolish being found out and having mistaken God for someone else, pointing at the stack of little papers next to the glass of God. I am just having a good time and getting sure about it, said God, now in the defence. So do I, said Stan. How did you get here? God ignored his question, and instead pointed to a guy a bit further down the bar. That guy over there would think you are crazy, and confided to Me he would beat the likes of you up, maybe even stab you with a knife or something. He is yours. Thanks, whispered Stan in His ear, let's have some fun! He turned around towards the guy, and with his beautifully manicured hand with red nailpolish motioned him towards her, and did to him what he had done to God. The guy looked firstly embarrassed, then wanted to turn violent as God had predicted, but before he had his hand in his pocket to pull his knife, Stan had nailed his foot to the floor with his high heels where his other knee went up his crotch, to double the guy up, turning him into a little whimpering heap of misery, and bend over to whisper into his ear: I AM SATAN, AND DON'T YOU FUCK WITH ME, BOY. Whimpering misery paled and crawled as fast as he could back to his stool, barely able to push back the tears that were welling in his eyes, planning to leave as soon as the remainder of his dignity would let him. Wanna beer? asked God with a smile from ear to ear. Cheers mate, I'll be having the same as You do.
God Was Not So Much in the Mood.

od was doing nothing when He was waiting for his coffee, while His computer went through the rigmarole of the startup. He had a good solid old-fashioned hangover hanging out with Stan surely was fun, but sometimes there was a thing or two to be regretted next day. He was bored with His computer. It took ages to start-up these days, especially since He had added this anti-virus program, that made Him wait for seven minutes before He could do the first thing. It would be the first deed of the day to remove that. He wanted some active participation, not staring like a fucking zombie at things being frustrated by a bureaucratic tool. He heard the first beginning from the water to start boiling, took the pan from the stove, and poured it in his cup. There was coffee. He loved the instant solution and it wasn't even His idea. He just loved it, it was so good, He wished it was His idea. Surely today, it was the perfect solution for plumbing the hole in His head. He slumped down behind His desk, holding the cup of comfort, staring at the green line that was still in top of the window for another two minutes. Damn. He hated this program that made Him wait for shit. He took a sip, lit a cigarette, waited some more. Surely He wouldn't be getting viruses on His computer this way, but He definitely had another design in mind when it came to that. Someone appeared at His desk, out of nowhere. Or rather, He knew where he came from, and felt instantly to throttle him, with his eternal message eternal boring message: Hi, I am Jesus, and it is fifteen minutes later. There were a few things God didn't like, and this was one of them in a very intense manner. As if He needed to be reminded about the time all the time, when He had a perfect good watch, He had a little clock on His screen, He even had an analog version above it for good measure, there was one on His mobile, there was even an alarm on it for crying out loud, and on the screen of His Palm there were two when He was reading a book.
Do not bother listening to your own music, I will see to that with Hells' Bells that are way out of tune as well. I ever told you I am deranged and deeply insane and am propulsed by behaviour that is at least slightly oddisch for starters and impossible for communication? This remnant of some technological advancement some centuries ago forgotten to be torn down, maybe something to attract tourists or something God truly despised it. It was a sort of social behaviour that was not only unwanted, superfluous, it was also oppressive, intrusive, sick, suffocating it was mental death with a ring to it.
GrnnNNnnnN n g gG G n n naa w wn n . . . ! ! ! did it come from

downstairs. O damn, Stan was doing some construction. On top of it. God took His phone, and rang him. Stan here Yes, hello, Stan, God. Would you do Me a favour? Surely my best Friend, what can I do for You? Get your fucking destruction-machine to this fucking bell-tower and get it to shut up! You sure? Damn sure. Before God could hang up, He heard in stereo a Whoopee!, through the phone and from downstairs. Halfway through the 'I am jesus' jingle a few minutes later, he heard some Blang! Cadoing! Blang! from church-bells falling to their death. Satisfied God sat back, staring at His computer-screen, where the anti-virus had gone to oblivion as well. Nothing wrong with a day that starts with some major destruction, He thought.
God Is Wanted By The Police.

ing Dong! Bloody Hell, muttered God, raising His eyes from His book, not too curious about who would be calling on the front door. With a sigh He put down His book, rose from His chair, and went to answer. Good evening, said a police-officer, we are looking for God, are you God, or is he in? I am God, thank you, who are you and what do you want? I am Noosey, foreign police, do you have an ID that we can see, please? Why should I need an ID that you can see, asked God, raising his eyebrows. Noosey raised on his turn his eyebrows. Everybody needs one sir. You say you do not have an ID-cart, a passport, any papers that prove who you are? Again I fail to see why I need an ID, or any papers, reposted God. And you fail to answer My question. Then we have to take you to the station, said Noosey, unless you can hand us some paper, stating who you are, and proof that you are legal in this country. Who are those, asked Ali, who had opened his door to look for what was happening. O, Ali, these people are from the police, they want to see My papers, they need some proof about who I am. Ha! said Ali Papers! Who needs them! Can't you tell them to sod it and close the door, there's a draft. And you are, sir? inquired Noosey. As God said, started Ali impatiently, I am Ali, and you can take My word for it. And why does one need papers? I don't! I can't read! Even when you can't read you need papers, said Noosey. You mean to say that you do not have any papers either? Then we have to invite you to the station as well, sir.
No thanks, I am happy as it is, and you still have not answered the question for at least the third time why anyone of Us needs papers, which I gather to be rather impolite. We have reason to believe that your stay here is illegal, and we want to verify that, verify if you are not involved in further illegal activity, and of course we want to see if you do not have any fines on traffic or taxes, said the companion of Noosey. I am Dick, at your service. Hey Stan, said Ali, greeting Stan who came upstairs to see if he could enjoy some upheaval just being delivered at the front door. These guys want to see some papers, what do you think? You mean papers like this? said Stan, proffering freshly used toilet-paper under the noses of the officers, who first nose-dived at it for closer inspection in the dim light, then recoiled at the recognition. Sir! started Noosey, I must strongly insist that you all three come with us to the station right now for a statement O, go fuck a duck, said God, Just go to hell. My idea exactly, said Stan. What about You, Ali? They are all yours if it is up to Me! Let them burn or something, I don't care. What about you? Eternal torture sounds fine with me. Some burning would do the job. God? They are impolite, indifferent, do not capitalise My name, disturb the quiet, want to rob Us of Our freedom and money, at gunpoint I guess, your average moral defectiveness, criminal behaviour. Set fire to them and piss them off, see how they sizzle. Officer Dick was about to talk to his radio when he got distracted by the screaming tires of a cab that came hurtling around the corner, racing down the street towards the scene at the front door. A window was opened, and a sub-machine-gun was fired, killing the two policeofficers. Gentlemen, said Stan, If you care to follow me
Stan Had A Vague Idea About Something.

tan woke up with the idea to vomit. In fact, it was the idea to vomit that woke him up, and he thought it to be a brilliant idea, especially since it was the most bilious, acidulous kind of vomit that was welling up in the centre of his being since a long time. It was the kind of vomit that had taken him quite a good deal of work to concentrate, even though it was just a days' work. It had started the day before, in some pub he could not remember the name or the place or the occasion for what or what, early in the morning, when he felt like getting drunk early for no reason whatsoever, and made sure he was to get drunk in the most awful way, no breakfast, just start with beer, continue with beer, made sure he got sick, have a few beer on top of that, started to feel awful, and added a few more beer. Getting drunk the delightful way, full throttle, all the brakes out of the window, see where he would end up getting drunk on a wasted stomach, just getting wasted. He got wasted, a few times. By ten o' clock he walked out of the pub with still some sense of decency and puked in the gutter in front of it, and returned under the frowns of the bartender, continuing with the next glass, one of the six he had ordered in advance to give them the time to warm up and drop dead just the way he liked them. By one o' clock in the afternoon he woke up in his next meal of puke, not remembering he was thrown out of the bar, in front of the same bar, be it beside the gutter, where he could say hello to his first meal of puke, as apparently the bartender had had enough of him, drinking in silence, getting wasted, and about to puke all the time, and having the idea of civilisation of getting this guest not just out of his bar, but just a bit further, so much so other customers wouldn't trip over him, but well, just a few meters extra out of the way without too much effort. Just for thanking the bartender for this lack of extra effort, Stan decided to puke again, over one of the desolate tables clothed with a simple plastic sheet, against the windows, and wash it off with by peeing over it, decorating it with the contents of a recently wetted
ashtray, and slumped down a freshly wetted chair for a few minutes, before the bartender came out nuts to scold at him fuming and with a number of desinvitations, with many happy returns from Stan that included some sod-offs, fuck-yous and o-get-losts. It was by then that a few things started to mingle, starting with the arrival of God, who just had done some shopping and had a bag full of cucumbers, tomatoes, eggs, bread, sugarcubes and pasta, and happened to pass by and saw His friendly opponent doing what he was doing, and somehow enjoying it without mercy. It was by the way a nice and sunny day, with a nice temperature of about 22C at that moment. There was an almost imperceptible breeze blowing some almost fresh air. Then a woman passed by to make use of the teller-machine next to the pub, just moments before Stan got up to do the same thing, after saying hello to God, so he was the first that day to cue over there, and as he was standing there, things got more perfect from the somehow blurred and at the same time ultra-sharp perspective of Stan. He burped as loudly as his stomach would let him without turning that one just outside and expel any leftovers and stared at her back, and said to the truth God what a lardarse you are, shaking his head in wonder. God fell over, spilling his eggs and tomatoes and cucumbers and sugarcubes and stuff, hiccupping from laughter, the woman exploded over the insult, spitting but unable to voice her indignancy, and Stan just stared at a meter squared blob. He had made up with her, said he was impressed, promised her to be a good father, gave her the night of her life, and now, in the early light of the morning, decorated her with his best intentions of the day before. Put his foot behind her giant behind while she was getting to terms with a newborn reality for the umpth time in twenty-four hours time, and got her rolling out of bed with the sound of satisfaction of effortlessness. The best part he thought later on, was that he didn't know her name, and only mentioned to her that he was the Devil. From: Diary from God, 06 07 2011
God Had A Quiet Evening.

itting with His feet on the low table, half reading a book, God stared absentmindedly at the fly crawling along the rim of His glass, rubbing its hands, walking about a bit more, and generally amusing himself, probably unaware of the attention of the if it was up to God highest being in the universe. Ali had dropped by for company and was quietly watching an italian game-show on TV with his headset on, whereas Stan was hanging in his favourite chair with a newspaper on the crime-section, amusing himself with a broad grin on his face. Hear this, he said when he could no longer withhold himself after reading an article and even holding the newspaper on its side.
ARMSVILLE, DA., UPS. Today a heavily armed HR. manager shot six of her co-workers and held hostage for several hours 13 others with 2 children among them before killing herself with a shotgun when the local police stormed the office where she had sought refuge. Witnesses state that the HR. manager by the name of Ingez B. appeared late for work this morning in a state of enragement, firing her sawed-off shotgun in the lobby of the State-building at innocent passers-by, severely wounding at least 10 others with shrapnel amongst who an expectant mother of 2. The case is in full investigation and the police suspect a crime has been commited.
He showed the article with the rather graphic photo that came along with it. Her head is straight blow off! Great! One doesn't see that often in this rag. Nice tits, said God, hardly looking up from His busy fly-pet. Stan turned the paper to inspect the photo again. You have a very acute vision, Stan said. You mind if I rip it out
-lity. So when you state you are God, she continued with the utmost impertinence, I am afraid I cannot help you. I am looking for someone with a more average mental disposition. Average mental disposition, repeated God, as if tasting the words like wine, after He had let them slosh around in the air and now was to determine the bouquet. He hid His utter disgust for this vaginette ambulante that was explaining His job to Him, 20 years of life experience, and italicized words at random to express her superiority or arrogance to anyone with a voice worse than nails scratching a blackboard. I guess you did study psychology, He asked. I am proficient at profiling Proficient at profiling, repeated God, a bit more stern. He would like to trample her. You are of course aware that psychology is hardly a science, since its subject is the most complex matter in the universe, and by its nature not ever can do more than scratch the surface it is not more than a science like meteorology, where the difference between a meteorologist and you is the modesty by the former, whereas psychologists are usually the most arrogant individuals that walk the earth, ruin peoples lives without hesitation or so much as a second thought in a lingo that is hardly understood by themselves, and as a bonus I consider to be the only nice one that goes with the territory, have the highest rate of suicide, generally exposing your incompetence. In the most proficient manner, I might add but that is just to pester you. It does not bother you? God could see her heartrate went through the roof, when Ingez was hiding her anger that was about to explode, her temperature rose, and she changed her perfectly manicured legs from position from nervousness. That was something she could not bear: someone staying calm when she tried to crush him, and even being retorted attacked on her pride as it came to the human psyche. She tried her Fatal Death-Ray stare on Him, ending up trying to nail down a fart. She stood up, and said: I advice you try somewhere else, Mr. God, and wanted to walk away. God, with one of His utmost gratified smiles on His face, stopped her by touching her arm, and she looked down at His hand as if it were some disgusting insect. Did you ever try a gangrape? He syrupped. God received the best slap on His face He had in a long time, before the mating-signals of her high heels faded away in the marbelous hallway. Stan will be jealous when he hears this, God said to Himself. He owes Me a pint for this. Especially for the tits-department. So cute! From: Diary from God, 09 07 2011
God Was A Bit Dysfunctional.

waaaaaahaaaaaaaa, said God when Stan came in and asked how He was doing. God was sitting in His chair with His face on His keyboard. Stan recognised the symptoms: God was not about to start with anything but misbehaviour. You wanna beer, asked Stan, knowing God could be seduced with alcoholics anytime. Bwaaaaaaaahaaaaaaaa, responded God, still with His face buried in His keyboard. Bwaaaaaaahaaaaaaa. Or else throw bricks through the windows of some atheists, proposed Stan, referring to the other hobby of God when He was drunk and rebellious. God rose, stared at Stan, en yelled: Jaaaaaaahaaaaaaa!, picked up an empty beercan and threw it at him. Or we go pester Ali, calling Him a faggot, that always pisses Him of properly, trying one of the other of Gods favourite deviant hobbies. Jaaaaaaaahaaaaaaa Bwaaaaaaahaaaaaa, continued God. Jaaaaahaaaaaaa, Blaaaaaaahaaaaaa. You wanna fuck? Jaaaaaaahaaaaaaa. He's gone mad? informed Maria, who happened to pass by on her return from shopping, poking her head in from behind Stan, trying to see what was going on. You know God, said Stan. He's is bored. Jaaaaaaaahaaaaaaa. God hammered with His fists on the keyboard, and continued yelling, Bwaaaahaaaaaa. O God, behave, Maria said. Jaaaaaahaaaaaa, behaaaaaaaveeeeee, cried God. Beeeeehaaaaaaveeeee! God switched on the radio, and played with the volume, swinging it up and down, and started to sing along: The hoooole ooooohoooof theeee moooooon, theeeeee hoooollllleee offfff theeeee mooohoooon!
I think that if there would ever be a contest for most stupid songs, this is number one, God added. My God what a bunch of utter shit! Fucking puke! Right, said Stan, well, see You later when You have recovered. He turned around, pushing Maria outside, closing the door. Bwaaaaaahaaaaaa, did it come again from inside. What has happened? wanted Maria to know. Nothing, God is just bored. Takes an hour, then He will be back in the land of the normal people again. Maybe He ruins something, piss out of the window, nothing special. God knocked on the inside of His own door, and Stan opened it, to see Gods' bare arse. Very pretty God, now sod off, he said, kicking Gods' arse and closing the door. Again God knocked on the door, and again Stan opened, this time to see God masturbating. You need a hand with that? asked Stan. This time it was God slamming the door, yelling: Faggot! Is there anything I should know asked Maria hesitative. Would you like to know more than what you already know? I guess not. Some sounds of crashing beercans came from behind the door. Both stared at the door, Stan shrug his shoulders. You want some coffee? asked Maria turning to Stan, but still staring with some horror at the door, that now seemed to start emanating some ominous quiet. Coffee sounds good. You are sure He's . A loud Yippee! followed by the sounds of some breaking furniture came into the corridor. Sounds like He is recovering. He might need a new bed, if my guess is worth anything. Come, let's have this coffee. They turned from the frontdoor, Stan with his hands in his pockets and Maria lugging her shoppingbag, looking one more time over her shoulder, only to hear one more time a yell of joy, before the silence settled nervously back in the apartmentblock. From: Diary from God, 10 07 2011
Something Didn't Go Down Very Well.

here was a general fighting going on between the police, ordinary civilians, and a boys choir on the middle of the old marketplace in the centre of the town, and God was amusing Himself His arse off, looking at the process unfolding itself in all its glory. It had taken quite some preparation, and according to God, it was worth the while. When Stan had heard about His plan, God knew that He had an ally that recognised an instable incendiary-device when he saw one, and even Ali had shown enthusiasm to this devious plan, which had all the beauty of simplicity and effectivity. Whatever it would amount to was uncertain as it was to evoke emergent behaviour, but certainly it would be great. They God, Stan, Ali, anybody of the innercircle had acquired the permits to give a performance on the town-square, got the P.A. in place, Stan had gotten permission for playing the carillon of the squares adjoining church, even got subsidization by the government to rent some practising-space that was one of the details Stan came up with for the ballet-group and the result was a fantastic bloody mess. They had a permission for one hour, and after about three minutes the tension rose already to boiling-point, and with just some two minutes extra into the permit, hell broke loose that was where Maria having a hairdo fitting the occasion, meaning flaming red and deep black and standing out in 360 to a toxic ball of one meter 50 in diameter came into action shouting anything. The fun thing according to God would At 1259 hours exactly a platoon of nazies marched into the townsquare, with uniforms pressed and straight and took place, standing at ease. Stan was leaning out of the window that gave him a view on the square, smoking a cigarette, looked at his watch, to see the count-down to 1259:30 hours, then he flicked his cigarette out the bell-tower he had previously visited, and took place behind the keyboard of the carillon, and adjusted his headset.
The public already in state of shock, and with their cameras screwed into their eye-sockets was in place. A police officer was watching the unfolding scene, uncomprehending what was about to unfold in the next minute. Behind the windows of the also to the town-square adjoining police HQ someone looking at the scene got nervous. Very nervous, and started to tap a telephone-number. At 1300:00 Stan hit the keyboard with a grin that he could have patented, in sync with God Who hit the button at the P.A. down at the square, playing to the tunes of the Sex Pistols Rock around the Clock. The Nazi-platoon started its ballet on the sounds of the carillon, with its batons, nazie-flags, like the cheerleaders of an american football-team, dancing about in perfect unison to the music from the P.A. A Nazi-officer came on with a hand-truck loaded with trays with beercans, and God in His dress as a beggar with a Smith & Wesson Tshirt started to toss the cans over to the dancers who caught them. Then Maria barged in. She walked-up in front of the ballet-group, shouted, and run into the platoon with her hands raised, stepped into the second rank, and started to beat someone on the chest. Police-men started pouring out of the HQ, running toward the scene. The crowd of civilians started to attack the ballet-group, to find to their surprise not only a ballet-group, as well as a well-trained platoon that started a defensive fight that immobilised any hostility, and well-armed with beercans they could use as ballistic arms to explode on impact. Meanwhile Stan kept playing on Rock around the Clock on the carillon with a smile that if patented was worth millions. The police started to separate the civilians and the ballet-group now doing more a ballet of Kung-Fu, Hid-'em-Hard and Fuck-It, and still dancing to the music of and singing along with it being drawn deeper into the fight and playing a losing battle, with the looks of a comic, turning into a third participating party, adding to the fighting-joy. God meanwhile kept on providing His ballet-platoon with ammo. Another party of civilians and police combined entered the church with the sole purpose of destroying the carillon and lynch the player that soldiered on in the recently secured bell-tower.
After not just ten minutes, but more half an hour, and still no end in sight of the public revolt, firemen arrived, all burly men with a heart of gold, that started their own party by trying to separate the civilians, the police, the balletdancers that were somehow possessed with a fightingdance energy ambulance-drivers were getting involved themselves not being the scary or underpowered folk and yet another platoon of cops that joined the party. Adding to the general outburst of popular uprising getting more popular every minute were scores of students that had populated the pubs in the surrounding areas vandalising just everything without a clue what the cause was, and the first fire started at the door behind which Stan continued with his smile that had long ago gone ballistic, howling with a mad laughter at the keyboard that could have gotten him a telephonebook full of patents, enabling him to buy the earth and one or two neighbouring planets. The firetrucks were used as a barricade by the student-corps, and rendered useless to firefighting, so the church got further and further prey to flames, safe for the bell-tower, where a mad-man howling like a convention of wolf-tribes didn't know when to stop wreaking havoc at the carillon. The main questions in the investigation that followed as the predictable Pavlov-reaction were how it could have gotten so much out of control, who had given the permits, who hadn't paid attention, how was it possible that the person going by the name of God wasn't in His cell at 8 o' clock that evening and still on the loose, how it was possible that the medieval church had burned down beyond repair, why there was no corps of the howling mad-man, and quite a few others that kept on stacking when more questions than answers arose, as in a self-perpetuating and more and more a self-screwing motion. Years and years on, three men were sitting on a bench on a small park that constituted the remains of what was once a medieval church, enjoying the shade of an oak. Why did You come up with this plan, said Ali. I mean, it was a church devoted to You.
It might have been devoted to Me, but it had outlived its purpose, it had become a machine that was up for scraps long time ago, answered God. It had become an anchor that was sinking the ship, rather than saving it. It was not a defence, it had become an offence. And well My friend here tapping Stan on the shoulder invaluable. We were good, weren't we, said Stan, dreaming away under the rays of the afternoon sun, seeping between the leaves. A shadow was cast over the trio by a man that took a curious if somewhat stern look at especially God. He looked at a paper, and back to God. It is you, isn't it, he said. God reached over to look at the paper he held, and nodded. More than a spitting image, its Me. I do not know whether to arrest you You, please or to leave it at this. Give me a reason why. Why? God looked about as if in embarrassment, then said: Anything has changed? The man shook his head. I am too old to give up, and I am too old to continue. What should I do? The choice is between him and Me, said God, pointing at Stan. The man regarded Stan, and seemed to recognise him from a hidden place in the back of his skull. Then he smiled. It was You all along, wasn't it? The outcome was never certain The man tore up his paper, smiled, saluted, and walked away. What would you have done if he pointed at you, Stan? asked God. Cracked his skull, said Stan. Why? He was adding shade to the shade. I cannot have that. Fuck you, Stan. Anytime
From: Diary from God,
God and Stan were Walking on the Street.

oddammit, said God, What is wrong with these people, I may ask? Stan walking next to Him was having his mid-night lunch on a kebab tried to respond but even to him found himself incomprehensible, so he shut up for the rest and instead of answering to God added some more piment to his bodily food-entry. Just look at it, I mean, I may be a bit behind by times- here Stan choked a bit - but this is ridiculous! God waved to the crowd of people that walked on the street, and continued: I do not have a problem with people walking on the street go ahead but they are walking beside their bikes! And I mean, what are they doing in the first place here shouldn't they be in bed or something and next: why are they not on their fucking bikes? Stan sprayed some of his kebab on the sidewalk from laughter, and tried to swallow the rest, munching it hurriedly, while God was walking on on His way toward a nightshop that was still open. Dammit, as if it was a feast or something, all those bloody people around at for cristsake midnight as if that's not just a pest enough disturbing the nice and quiet they are not getting on as well! Stan caught up on God walking in front of him, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, still amused about God having His tantrum. It was just ten minutes before that he and God had left the apartmentbuilding to go for a few extra beers as He was out of it, and Stan felt too lazy to do something else than to make a sandwich or something and was about to go to have one made to help the little dent in his belly when they teamed up in the corridor where they accidently met. They passed at the kebab-restaurant that had passed hands recently and surely had down-graded on the quality of its kebab a thing that wasn't gone unnoticed by neither Stan, nor Ali, nor as He was as so often the last in line to notice detail on the social horizon God, Who had been standing behind Stan all the time when his order was prepared, looking about nervously, anxiously to continue to grab a beer. They came at a crossing, and the lights were red, so they stopped. God looked about and started in His general mode of being pissed-off: Just look at it! It is just bloody mid-night, it looks like mid-day in respect to the traffic, nothing moves, and there are all these idiots walking here with their bikes by hand! And they are waiting for a traffic-light that stops all and avoids anything moving! And they put up with it as well! What a blasted idiots!
God ignored the red light any further and passed over to the other side, ignorant of a dancing Stan behind Him that was giving the finger to all the cyclists that were happily waiting beside their bicycle in front of a red trafficlight, and making faces like a certified idiot. It was about ten minutes later when God and Stan had their pockets full of cans of warm beer as God had insisted on they were on their way back and about to turn around the corner into the street where they lived, when God grumbled: And if that lunatic is still on the square with his fucking guitar you hear something? Sssh whispered Stan. Yeah I wish I had a geranium or something to toss God whispered. Then He felt something soft and wet in His hand, looked down at it, and from there to Stan who wore his patented head-splitting grin. I nicked it from the church yard, he whispered. God gave him a questioning look, then shrugged His shoulders, and looked at the plant. A French geranium? I had hoped for the hanging version, you know, to keep up with the tradition. Hey, I happen to like those, and they didn't have any others anyway. And not to press a point to hard, but if it all had been up to you the floral realm would be as interesting as a ton of bricks. Point scored. God apologised to the plant telling it was for 'The Cause' and tossed the defenceless member of the floral realm. Claoing! Hey Fuck! What the fuck is that?! My guitar! My guitar!!! Fuuuuck!!! God and Stan barely able not to choke feigned innocence taking the corner, looking at the youth and the geranium in the middle of his instrument. Good shot, whispered Stan. What do you think, whispered God in response. The youth turned his attention to God and Stan, and yelled; Was that you that threw that fucking plant on my guitar, hey?! Was that you on that fucking guitar then? responded God. The youth wanted to attack God, taking position in an aggressive manner in front of Him, and God looked him square in the eyes, when Stan walked on, grabbed the guitar, and hit the youth with it right on his head; the youth crumbled down unconscious, not knowing what had hit him. Teamwork, said God. Cheers mate, said Stan. From: Diary from God, 15 07 2011
God was Milking an Elephant.

tan was smoking a cigarette, watching God milking an elephant. What are you doing, f'r crist sake? What does it look like, said God without looking up. Milking an elephant, answered Stan, feeling a bit stupid. Right. God is milking an elephant. Without elaborating any further God continued to milk the elephant stoically, by times interrupting to flick the ashes from His cigarette. Stan realised God was being stoic as He so often could be, so getting to get an answer needed preparation. You are milking an elephant to get some milk from it, which is however a bit unusual procedure, since elephants are not ones' average household item, so why did You choose an elephant for crying out loud? That is what I like about you Stan, you know Me. And I know you, and you and I are two sides of the same coin. And like you, I like to be an asshole by times, as is required from us by contract. I am the Good Asshole and you are the bad asshole. God interrupted His milking, drew from His cigarette, flicked off the ashes, and stared at the ground where Stan was standing, staring out over the savannah. I guess you know as well as I do why. I guess I do, said Stan. But I would like to hear it from You. Otherwise engaging You in a discussion would be a bit pointless, wouldn't it? What the fuck are we doing here, why did You have to drag me to this excuse my French Godforsaken place in the middle of what is it again, Tanzania? to go fucking milk some stupid fucking elephant? Tanzania, it is a beautiful name, isn't it? said God, wondering. God looked at the bucket full of milk, and sat back, as far as sitting back on a stool makes it possible to sit back. I guess I know a bit about the rest as well, said Stan. Why the fuck would I care what would happen to these fucking animals, when it's You that does care, even when we both know that in a million years there is nothing more to celebrate than a heap of dead bones that was once the support-system of a blob of proteins. But why milking them? And don't come to me with: because of the fucking milk, Stan finished sneeringly God sighed, looked at His dead cigarette, threw it in the sand, and crushed it. Because, said God. He sighed again, and continued: Because of because and because this fucking afterthought of Mine that seemed a good and jolly fun idea at the time, is about to destroy them, for elephants are fucking useless, that is why. It is the same thing by a different intention that you had one day when you were out of your mind that resulted in the giraffe. You remember, the thing with the long neck? You were out of your mind then, right? Yeah right, okay, Stan admitted guiltily remembering those fun old days when men were monkeys, creativity was creativity and madness needed a definition.
Right. So madness needs to be redefined today Stan looked jerkingly back at God in surprise as if God had been reading his mind and that's what I do today. I save this beautiful animal I remember some complaints from your side about flowers somewhere sometime by turning it into a useful animal. I engineered some tits onto it, so the local people stop killing it to play dentist on it, and get it into production. It looks like shit, I know, but what the fuck? An elephant is an elephant! Stan turned around, and stared at the elephants' tits. You're right about the shit part, and Stan was a bit lost for words You're right about the fuck part as well. God stood up, making Stan turn around as to hide his laughter from God as the stool hung from His arse like limp genitals, and beckoned someone that had been watching the two of them as if in disinterest, but burning from curiosity. The figure came closer, hesitatingly, and first demanded a cigarette from God, where God gave him His pouch, and as the man started to make as large one as possible without being impolite, God indicated he could keep the pouch, first to the suspicion, but then unreluctant gratitude of the man, getting a slap on the shoulder, and some enthusiastic remarks in Swahili, to continue pointing to the tits of the elephant, and what He was doing with it and maybe willing to sell. God spoke to the man, made him taste the elephants milk, all in 3D, and as Stan had wandered off a bit to kick some innocent sand about, the man tried harder and harder to hide his enthusiasm, and ended up to offer his wife and 3 daughters to God. At the end of the conversation the man walked off with the elephant or more, danced off smoking like a chimney that was fuelled by a happy coalmine. Stan walked back to God, still standing and still with the stool hanging from His arse. So what's the Deal? You just gave it away? And now You have 4 women to screw around with? As you would say, dear Stan, you give a man a hearth, and he will be warm for a day or you set him on fire and he will be warm for the rest of his life. Yeah yeah yeah, very funny. So what's the Deal? The Deal, God said, is that if he would sell it or eat it, he would all be yours. His wife and daughters included. If he would breed with it, he would be rich and The Lord would save his soul. God stared with mock innocence in the sky. My God Youre evil! God slapped Stan on the shoulder, making him spill his cigarette in the sand. Now there's My boy! Stan coughed and picked up his cigarette, looked at it, looked at God, and tossed it. Anyone ever told You You are a horrible monster? I get to hear that a lot of times, why? Just asking. From: Diary from God, 18 07 2011
God Hates Kids.

t was a nice and warm summerday when God, Stan and Ali were hanging out of their respective windows, smoking cigarettes, generally doing nothing, by times exchanging a word. It was one of these beautiful days one remembers on old age recalling it as one of those days long time ago. Below their windows kids were playing, or rather, one little pest was flying about like an antagonised wasp. It had the same speed, the same colours, and the same character, and drew the same kind of attention: that of a fly-swap. It surely inspired cruelty in an inventive way. Put it in a scorpion-pit, suggested Ali to no one in particular. Waste of good scorpions, said Stan. He would kill a few, and wouldn't get the fun we would be getting out of it. Make him drink chloride and after that ammonia. What would do that? He would start foaming out of his eyes and everywhere. He generally explodes. Good, good, nodded Ali, appreciatingly. What happened to setting it alight like a torch, asked God. To smelly, said Stan. I assure You. Chemicals is the way. Much cleaner. Youre the specialist They stared a little bit more on the boy that was now yelling at full capacity to see how hard it could yell, while driving around on its little bicycle in circles like a maniac. A little girl that sat around with her toys looked uncomprehending about her, not knowing whether to cry or crawl away from the overpressurised locomotive. Then it was hit by the frontwheel of the little guy and knew what to do. The little guy looked satisfied, drove on, still whistling like a locomotive. Hey shitkid, God said, Look up here. The little boy stopped yelling for a moment, and looked up to the three windows where the men were hanging on the sills. Hey shitkid, did you know you are a fucking pest? The little boy kept on staring at them, then started cycling again in circles, whistling like a locomotive. Hey shitkid, why don't you just fucking drop dead with you fucking scream? I am talking to you, fucking piece of shit. The boy stopped for a minute. Hey shitkid, what's your name? Peter Hey Peter, from now on your name is shitkid, okay, so when I say shitkid, you listen and you'll be quiet, okay?
Do you want to be my friend? Peter asked. No I don't want to be your friend, I want you to sod-off and drop dead somewhere I can't see you, and have some nice and quiet around here. How about that? You wanna play? You like to get bricked? Dunno. I have an entire pallet with bricks over here, you like to play catch-bricks? With your forehead or something? You wanna be my friend? You are not answering My questions, little piece of shit, and I can't recall the last time I saw you I particularly enjoyed. Wanna play catch-bricks? The little boy stared up again a bit further, and pointed. The comprehensive part needs still some installation with you, I guess. Hey shitkid, look here. I hate you. Everybody hates you. Shut up and drop dead. Wanna play football? This guy is unbelievable, said Ali. Hey shitkid, wanna swallow glass? Do you wanna be my friend? Hold still there for a moment, said Stan. Higher up in the air, something that was attached to a towercrane snapped. It was a pallet with bricks, that came hurtling through the sky downwards to the shitkid, that was to be hit with the wooden pallet first, then buried under a ton of stone. Then it was quiet for a second, then someone shouted. A minute or so later a workingman with a hardhat arrived to come take a look at the pallet, talking on his mobile phone. Then he looked up to God, Stan and Ali. You saw anything? he asked. The three men nodded. If you take a bit of a closer look, God said, you will see a little bike sticking out of the rubble. Just a minute ago a little boy sat on that, bawling his head off. Can we count on you the next time it happens? The workingman stepped towards the pile of bricks, his hand to his mouth. O my God, he mumbled. This is awful, this is awful, this is awful Not half as much as you can imagine, said God. He is to a better place now. We can assure you The man stared up again at the three men, then sped off. Anyone in for some tee? asked Ali. Yep, said God. Yep, said Stan. From: Diary from God, 21 07 2011
God Saw a Ghost.

traffer. Dan Straffer, said the figure to God. Straffer Dan Straffer, repeated God. A bit of an oddish ... Dan! Dan, Dan Straffer, said the figure talking to God. Okayyy, we are zooming in, details are getting clearer any moment, we are about to touch down ... Dan Dan Dan Straffer ... No, it's just Dan, Dan is my first name. Just Dan, just once ... said the figure now known as Just Dan speaking to God with a slightly mounting desperation at an intentionally fun-poking God. Oooookaaaaay, I think we have landed ... Just Dan ... I already thought there was a misunderstanding. I am God, by the way. Dan Straffer took a strong and doubtful look at God, but decided to say nothing about it, and returned his gaze at the prostrate figure lying at the tarmac, it's face disfigured, a large wound in his chest. You think I get shit for this, I mean, more than I already have? asked Dan Straffer, a bit despondently. Hmmm, started God stroking His chin, turning His gaze from the dead body to the equally ugly wound at the chest of Dan Straffer, as if pondering about a Problem. Finally He decided with No, I don't think so, trying hard not to look at Stan, who was behind Dan Straffer, peering at God through the hole that shone though the back of Dan Straffer. No, I don't think you are getting any shit about this, as far as I am concerned. I mean, I just shot him, and there is police all around, and they are not going to like it. You got a point there, said God. However, I do not mind so greatly, I know why you did it ... it was just a piece of garbage that ruined your further prospects to a normal, decent life, just with his bloody stupid behavior, despite your reasonable request to quit it, and he continued with it, injuring you and thereby disabling you to do your job, what resulted in the termination of your job. Your response is a bit over the top, but he definitely terminated your chances on a normal life, taking it away from you. This resulting in the loss of the little that you were content with what I admire, no questions about that, let me be clear about that and you balanced it out. A bit on the extreme way ... I am sorry about what happened, I am sorry about what happened to you, especially since I think you are not going to make it in one piece to the hospital, He ended with pointing at the large hole in the chest of Dan Straffer.
Dan Straffer took a look at his chest, and looked back at God, and something of an evil smile drew on the corner of his mouth. Then he pointed his shotgun at the body that laid at his feet, in strong contrast with the tarmac, and shot at it again, and again, and again, shooting at the corpse from head to toe, then fired his revolver again and again, until there was nothing but a clicking gun, then hung his arms, leaving nothing more than a bloody heap of leaded catfood, and looked up back to God, with some satisfied tristesse. Twice again rung shots, and God saw how another hole appeared in Dan Straffer, this time in his head, and as a being living in not only reality, but also in the imaginative dimension, He was one of the few to have the odd sensation of seeing Dan Straffer falling down and remaining standing up at the same time. I think it's done now, He said not without compassion in His voice. What about you, Stan? H what? O yes, it's done. One bloody mess, it's again a great day for the forces of evil. God lifted His eyebrows, but decided not to comment on that. What will happen next? asked Dan Straffer. I'm dead, right? Your dead, and you are still speaking with God, said God. Dan Straffer raised his eyebrows for a moment, but found himself to his amazement not amazed, if he had the capacity to that. I think I should be amazed at that, you know, I tell you, I never believed in you, somehow I feel like asking you for an autograph ... I forgot my pen this morning ... I missed it already coming here ... You, thank you. Anytime however, but I think you are a bit ... late, no pun intended. On what will happen next? Stan? He's too good, I can't have him, Stan said, inspecting his nails. He has done something very bad, but essentially he is a good guy. Hmm, said God. I put it to you, Just Dan. We are not going to give you hell, and I have a bit of a doubt here, but there is no border-control, you can come to heaven, you can go to hell, you can stay here a bit, it's up to you. What do you mean? I am a ghost or something? Yep. Forever? No. You will decay as a result of people forgetting you, but you can linger on a bit, and fade away, until there won't be anything left over ... not enough for hell, not enough for heaven. Dan Straffer seemed to consider this for a while, then said: I can stay as a
ghost, and scare people? It doesn't work that way in general, only if you are very determined. But if you like ... Yes. This seemed to cheer Dan Straffer, who looked down back at the human pulp at the ground, and the police starting to crowd the place with their guns aimed at his corps. And you are God? God looked over His shoulder, and said: The One and Only. Behind Dan Straffer Stan sniggered. God cast him a punishing look, and said nothing. And he is Satan? Stan for friends, said Stan. But yes, I am the scary guy. Shifting the ghost of his rifle from one hand to the other, Dan Straffer extended his hand to God, who shook it, and then to Stan. You have no idea, dear God, Stan, but I think I have another job. And I think I am going to do it with quite a bit of verve as well. And if I could feel happy about it, I would ... I somehow seem to lack the sense of joy, but from a rational point of view, this is somehow the happiest day of my life! Sold! I am going to be a ghost, and fuck the crap out of all those crap-shovelers! Great! You got a telephone or something? So I can call you? Just to update you? God and Stan regarded each other in mounting amazement. Eh, well, yes and no, said God. We are just around ... you know. Sort of everywhere. It is the God & evil thing kind of business. Stan grabbed the hand of Dan Straffer, and said: We'll see you around ... feeling a bit embarrassed, and frankly hopeful to get rid of Dan Straffer and see himself about somewhere else. Good luck! only to see himself being hugged by the ghost of Dan Straffer, where he rolled his eyes looking at God. Dan Straffer turned to god, and hugged Him as well. You are my best friends! he murmured. I might not be at great service to you, but somehow you gave me back my life, and can freely do what I always wanted to do: get back at all those bastards that have fucked-up my life without a second thought. Thanks! Thanks. God peeled himself loose from the embracement of Dan Straffer, and held him at arms length. I do not know if I do well with this, but I wish you farewell My boy. And staring just past the head of Dan Straffer at Stan, He added: but somehow I think I have found some help in fighting evil people. I don't know. Good luck. God slapped him on the shoulder, and motioned to Stan to start the walk,
leaving Dan Straffer at the scene of the crime. Thank you Sirs, thank you, they heard behind them. God looked over His shoulder and waved back. It was a pleasure, He shouted, to see Dan Straffer dancing at the scene, and dancing away. You thought that was a smart thing to do, God? asked Stan when they were out of earshot. Dunno Stan. But I believe we both won today, and somehow you lost a bit of the game. And that is all that matters to me. They walked on in silence, then Stan spoke. You know God, You can sometimes be so full of shit You know. I truly hate You for that, You know? I know Stan. That is what you are for. I appreciate that in you. What would I do without you? Stan arrested his walk, and kicked God hard in the butt, making Him fall over. I hate You! he screamed, and dove upon God to wrestle Him. God and Stan exchanged a few punches, and at the end of the wrestle God was sitting on top of Stan, giving him another real hard punch on the face. Then He took Stan by the hair, and pecked him on the mouth. But I love you Stan, and you know that, He said with fiery glowing eyes. Yes, and I hate You. Grab a beer? Grab a beer. Meanwhile, about a mile from there, D. La Erdas was having a problem with his computer, and was looking at a list of numbers to see someone of the IT department about it, tried a to call them, only to find the number occupied.
God was Not Amused

od was looking down the aisle in the supermarket and said in His softly spoken voice 'Dammit' upon the passage of an employee or rather, hopping by. He elbowed Ali who had slightly drifted off to tea-heaven at the moment and not paying very much attention to anything else in the ribs, and pointed. See that? He asked. Yeah, grumbled Ali, and returned to the inspection of the shelved dead leafcrumbs, what about 't? I would say it is quite an extraordinary way of locomotion, I would say! 'should go out more often, said the voice that was drowning in pools of brown liquid. I mean, I can't recall anything about it ... this is ... odd. Wut 'bout than? said a distracted Ali. 's here already for months. Born like that. 'mpolite to point, remember? God lifted an eyebrow. Here for months? He said to Himself. Yes! said Ali now fully distracted and having lost his patience, Months! What about it. Just a poor guy that finally got a job and is happily jumping about. Can You leave it? I think I should know abo O shut it! started Ali, having finally lost his patience and just put his cart next to the shelf and started shoving everything in that got his fancy, topping it to the brim, under the frowning eyes of another employee that subsequently caught his eye, and then turned and hopped away as if in panic. And there's another one! said God. And 'yesth there isth another one!' snarled Ali. Now You made me lose my concentration and now I have to sort it all out at home and bring back tomorrow what I don't like. Your fault! O bugger you with your fucking tea, where the fuck is Stan? yelled God, stamping off, and somehow obliging to the icon of smashing the eggs He held to the floor. Australia! He heard Ali yelling behind Him, stopping Him in His tracks. For a second or so that did the same thing as the eggs, obliging to filmic dramatics and were supposed to seem like eternity, God arrested. .... He said. ...! He returned to Ali still looking at Him, took His wallet, tossed a few banknotes on top of the tea, and said: Thanks. And then, as an afterthought, trying to be nice: I ... eh ... have what you don't want, okay? and run off into nothingness passing by His former eggs with a look of surprise and some regret.
Stan! What the fuck have you been doing? yelled God at Stan. Stan hung lazily in his hammock at the veranda in front of a pub in the middle of nowhere surrounded by a load of crystal silicon. Stan looked up at God, pushed up his hat a bit, and smiled innocence. Drinking beer? he tried. It's a good day for it, the wea You know perfectly well what I am talking about! shouted God at him. ... yeah ... welll ... I have been naughty, I know, but can You be a bit more specific? I am like that, You know that, no need to start yelling at me like that ... Kangaroos? Employees? Bells? Any? Ring? It? Does? Stan zapped away. God zapped away. You can run but you I know, said a Stan looking very guilty, hanging by his collar in the hands of God, I know. Sooorrryyy. SORRY DOESN'T MAKE IT SOUND ANY BETTER, thundered God. SORRY DOESN'T EVEN START TO MAKE SHIT! YOU HAVE BEEN TRESPASSING, AND YOU KNOW BLOODY WELL I DO NOT AGREE! SO YOU BETTER START TALKING WITH LIGHTSPEED OR YOU BLOODY WELL KNOW I START KICKING THE CRAP OUT OF YOU, AND YOU KNOW I TAKE THAT AS SOMETHING VERY SERIOUS!
... eeeeh ... eeeh .... YES? Well .... eeeeh ... I thought ... eeeh ... CONTINUE! I ... eeeeh ... I ... COUNTING.
okayIbrokeintoheavenwhenyouwereawayandfoundthismanagerwhothoughtitwouldbegood forbusinessifemployeeswouldbeequipedwithatailandjumperslikeakangaroosowemadeadealand thatsmoreorlessit. Abit. What God hated most about this situation was that He found Himself in the nondimension, so He couldn't slap Stan to some practical and handy being-about-wall and make him bounce around the place. Stan had Him there for the moment. YOU KNOW I AM GOING TO HAVE TO DRINK AN AWFUL LOT OF TEA FOR THIS JOKE OF YOURS? W-what? YOU KNOW THE MEANING OF CONTROL Z? Yes? NOW GET ONTO IT! As Stan zapped away, God sniggered: Got him there!, put satisfied His nondimensional feet upon His non-dimensional desk, light a non-dimensional cigar smiled and looked at the non-dimensional smoke curling up to the ceiling. Right!
God wants to Fuck Up

uck em! God? Fuck em! God! Fuck em so hard they can't sit down for a year and a half, except for sitting in a fucking tub of vaseline! Will that be vaseline or Vaseline? What the fuck do I care. A fucking tub with mayonnaise for all My sake! God? Yes? Why? Why? For fun of course! Do you think I do not have a sense of humor? In fact I do question myself often on that subject, but know to the contrary. Only just the ... execution leaves by times room for wishes ... God looked sideways, straight into the eyes of Stan, who begot suddenly the creepy feeling of getting bothered with a job he couldn't say no to - for multiple reasons - and couldn't say yes to - for it looked like work. And he hated everything that wasn't catalogued as perfectly gratuitous fun - and work was one of that. Mischief, blowing up things, no matter the effort, as long as it did not resemble work ... but when it involved the Work of God ... even when he felt like screwing up things badly ... thanks but no thanks. Really too much like Bwrk! Stick your tongue out. Stan did, showing God his tongue. The bifurcated one, please don't try Me. Stan obliged again, wiggling the two pointed ends, putting these together, turning them in a heart shape standing on a little pink stilt, but feeling a bit uncertain about it what did God want with his tongue? Perfect. I love it! cried God, putting His hands in the air. Just what I need! Stan retracted his tongue quickly as if he was about to be separated from it, regarding God with the fear of someone regarding the butcher that laughed a more than healthy maniacal laughter while stirring his milk- and sugarless coffee. W ... what do you want with my tongue? It's as you say Stan - or is it Stan? I lack by times Imagination. What I need is a Lie. Not just a lie out of convenience, an explanation, an excuse, what I look for is a Lie! Ah! A biggie! One that's all wrapped up in Silver Paper with a Pink Ribbon around it! What do I get in return? Very smart Stan, very smart. How about nothing? A bit cheapish You are there, I must say. We will have fun.
So actually, what You want me to do is the marketing, the sales talk? Have some psychobabble and socio-nonsense around it? The usual stuff? The usual crap to get the shit shoveled onto the market? The legal version of robbing people blind in broad daylight? Ransack the financial system? Exactly. Wouldn't you love it? But I already do, in so many ways ... dear O dear, God, You are behind. God looked before Him, as if He just lost His last penny. What if ... I mean, I had this idea. Sell water. Make some stupid sidestory to go along with it, make it be believed that it takes on medicinal properties if one has held a molecule next to it that does, and sell it. Stan shook his head, sidled up a bit towards God, put an arm around His shoulder, and said: You know the sun? Of course you do. You made it. It is one giant blob of boiling water ... generally speaking. It is called homeopathy. There are already tons of water distilleries that are busy putting water on the market that have been held aside a molecule with proposed medical properties, if it has ever come that close, to a body the size of the sun. Damn, You watch TV? You invented that as well? asked God, growing a bit forlorn. No, I ain't got anything to do with that, it just shows a lot of bullshit that seems to amuse people for a price that is really astounding. About ninety percent of the time, and don't ask for the remainder ... it's still a load of shite. God stared in front of Him, into nothingness, penniless. Then He raised His index-finger as if illuminated. What if we, you and I, do the reverse? Meaning? Tell the truth? Don't be ridiculous, nobody goes for that crap! Telling them a story that medication takes on the properties of water, making them useless? Gets horribly close to the truth, since it is used as a dilutant. Not so good. However, I can see what way you are thinking. Destroying the megamarket that is called Pharmaceutical Industries. Making the Rich Poor. That looks better. And on top of that, no listen, it is insane: tell that since so much water on Earth has already been in contact with psycho-active drugs, one needs only to drink ocean-water to become normal! And have em all running for the crapper having the shits! Great! So what do you think? Partners? Now it was Stan looking into oblivion for a second, seemed to clear up, pondered a bit more on, started to see a harvester where there was a scythe before, and said: Deal. It needs work but it's a Deal! God slapped His hand on the back of Stan not so much hard but much more unexpected that Stan almost bit off his bifurcated tongue, and said: Great! I love you Stan! to have that followed by a kiss on his cheek and a hug. You're Great!
The Master and the Apprentice

nce upon a time there was a man called Mathias, a man from humble beginnings, but a man who was relatively happy with his life, even though he wasn't rich. Mathias didn't care so much about money, in fact, he thought money to be a burden, and instead he preferred gardening. He liked to care for plants, as plants' beauty, Mathias liked to say, are Gods' way to tell us He loves us. Mathias had a nice garden, with many strange plants, from all over the world, and people commented him often on that, and rare was the occasion that someone didn't like his garden, or for that matter, Mathias himself, but often people asked him why he didn't have an apprentice. You should have an apprentice, people told him, so you can slow down a bit, or just have an even nicer garden, and more people can come to your garden and wonder at the beauty. And even though your plants are very special and need attention, it surely is what you should do. Mathias thought long about this, and at one time he said to himself: Why not. The trees are full with fruits, I have some extra money, so Mathias went out to look for an apprentice, and after a long search, he found what he thought was the right guy, a guy called Luke. Luke was in fact a very poor guy, and didn't know much about gardening, but Mathias told him he would teach him everything about any plant, Luke was only to ask, and on top of that, Luke was given half of all the fruit that grew in the garden, and a little plot to grow his own, and so Luke became the apprentice of Mathias. So Mathias started to teach Luke about the different plants, how to prune them and how much water each and every one of them needed, but Luke didn't seem to care about the names of the plants, not in the very beginning. To Mathias this was not such a problem, he was happy with his garden, and proud to have an apprentice, so much so that everybody who visited his garden was also introduced to Luke, and people congratulated Mathias on having an apprentice. And time went on, and Mathias kept on going in his garden, only he worried about his apprentice, and often he wanted to engage him in a conversation, but Luke was always very silent, and didn't talk about what he did when he went home after work, who his friends were, or even where he lived. Mathias thought that everybody had his right to be however one wanted to be, so he didn't press on that much, even though he asked Luke to come with him after work and go to a pub and have a drink. Luke obliged him a few times, but after a while Luke told Mathias he was far to busy at home, so he didn't have time anymore to go to a pub, even started to call in to tell Mathias he was ill and couldn't come to work, even when Mathias needed Luke for there was a lot to in his garden, and fruit was plenty, and though that Luke still had a lot to learn. And so a year went by, and Mathias worked hard in his garden, taught Luke as far as he could, and even got his some books about gardening, but in the second year,
times got bad, as first there was drought, and the trees didn't grow, and hardly bore fruit, and then came the rain, rain, and rain, so much that his garden suffered again from that, and Mathias grew desperate about what to do, and often asked Luke to come and have a helping hand. But Luke said he was to busy at home, so Mathias grew sad, and as Mathias grew sad, people didn't come to his garden anymore, and his garden grew into disarray, and many plants died. So at one time, Mathias walked in his garden, and almost cried. I cannot believe this is happening to me! And people laughed at him, and Mathias grew more miserable with the day, and at one time, when the year was already on its' return, he called to Luke just to come, but Luke told him no. As long as your garden is a mess, I cannot come to help you, and by the way, you know I am busy myself. I even might have to look for another master, if it continues like this. And Mathias cried, and sat down, poor and alone, and his garden became an even bigger mess. So one day Mathias had enough of how it was going with his garden, how it was going with Luke, and decided to go to get advice by the judges of the town, as there were two judges, one that was fairly nice and known for his wisdom, and his mild judgments, and one that was hard. And Mathias pleaded, and the judges listened to him carefully, about what he had done, and after Mathias had finished his history, he asked the judges if he should sent his apprentice away. And the nice judge said that if all were true what Mathias had said, he could not see a reason why Mathias should keep Luke as an apprentice, but as time went on, maybe Luke would come back, and learn about the garden, and take his job more serious? But the hard judge said it didn't truly matter, Luke had not shown any interest in the past, had refused any friendship with Mathias, and he should sent him home, and maybe next year, when the weather could be better and the garden would start to bear fruit again, he could hire another apprentice, and, as he warned Mathias, better take care who he would pick, and gave him this advice, to look for an apprentice that would tell Mathias all about his life, go to the pub with him by times, and show an interest in gardening, and if the times were hard, would stay and help him out, even when there was little to do. For it was clear to him that Luke was not his best choice ever, and didn't show any sign of changing his ways, or care about gardening, and he added that he had rarely seen people that didn't care about gardening of rare and exotic plants turn their attention to it, and see to do their best. Mathias went home, not much wiser, but he felt better anyway. He had spoken to the judges, but still remained in doubt. Would he tell Luke he had been to see them? He had liked Luke a lot, and had had great hopes about him and Luke getting the most beautiful garden in the village, and certainly a special one. And Mathias didn't want Luke any harm, for he could remember well the day he had told Luke he had to work harder and learn the names of the plants, or else he would have to go see for a replacement, and Luke had cried and promised he would do better, and would get to know the plants, and go out with Mathias to have a drink in the pub after work. Mathias went home, and went to his garden, and worked, and decided not to ask Luke again to come to work, as Mathias felt like he didn't want to get disappointed
by Luke again, and if Luke felt like, he was still welcome to join him, and if Luke would decide to go look for another job, so be it, but had to agree to end his apprenticementship, so Mathias could hire another one when time would come. Silence fell down in the apartment of God when Jezus had finished His story, and Jezus looked up with a sigh, looking expectantly from His Father to Stan, and asked: What do You think about it Dad, it's a good story? I have some Questions. What do you think about this story? What do you think Mathias should do? Do You think the judges were right in their advice? What do You think Luke should do? Do You think Luke should have told Mathias more about his life? How do You think this story should end? God posed His brandy on the sidetable, untouched, stared at it, then looked at it, then picked it up again, and smelled it. I, started Stan, would know a good one. I would make Luke loose his portable! Then he would get up in shits, getting into real trouble talking to Mathias. Besides, it sounds to me he is just a spoiled baby that wants it all for him, and nothing for the rest. Teach gave me a D for it. It lacked harmony bloody well right over there the characters were not fully evolved one of the judges, bladiblah and it exceeded 500 words! And your teach is ... asked God. Mr. Esholing Dad. And he is balding, and You know what he said last week? He said to Me I shouldnt think I am Jezus! What do You think about that Dad? I think he is full of cow-dung. Stan was laughing his arse off. Esholing! You dont make it up! Esholing! Nobody likes him, Dad, only the pretty girls get good grades with him. The rest of the class he just pisses off. And he knows shit Dad. Earlier on he told us during physics-class that one atmosphere equals 1000 kilograms pressure! And when I asked him if that were to be true, why is it not possible for Me to juggle with elephants? And that was when I was told I mustnt think I am Jezus! I think that as a thinker he is as independent as a slave that is nailed to the wall Dad. Even the goat in the backyard is more savvy than he is. Bwh! it sounded from outside. See what I mean? God stared ahead of Him in despondency. It surely sounds like he is an idiot ... And he tol Me to go to the hairdresser as well, or else he would have to expel Me! He said he wrote You a letter. Its getting better by the minute! said God. I do not only think hes an idiot, but a religious one as well! Hes religious You think? There is a priest every week that comes to tell us the most remarkable stuff ... Stan, what do you think? asked God. Simple God, very simple. I dress up as a little girl, almost half a prostitute, attend some classes, seduce him of course after I got some grades it will be fun to see what they are worth ... and then have him nailed. Piece of cake.
God pondered a bit on this, looked at Stan thoughtfully, but was interrupted by Jezus. Would that be fair, Dad? No. But he is not fair either, he behaves like an idiot, a puerile one as well, and his competence is beyond doubt, and when he thinks he could use a bit of assistance, he hires a transvestite nothing wrong with them, He added hastily, flashing a look at Stan but certainly if they got the centuries mixed up. You and the rest of the class are in bad need of another teacher. A good one. Meanwhile, I talk to this friend of Mine, have him read Your story, and ask him if he would like to print it, so You can get Your position at school even more impossible when You show this teach of Yours that it has appeared in print, and that it was deemed by a professional editor worth the paper to be published as a short. Ill have him contact You. Wow Dad! Whats a short? A short story, one or two pages. Most religious books consist of little else. ARMSVILLE, DA., UPS. Today a teacher was arrested at a highschool here in Armsville on the suspicion of the seduction of one of his pupils. The suspect, Kurt E., who was complained about to the board by several parents in the past for lack of skills, oddish methods of training and discipline, was found in possession of several photographs of a graphic nature. Police decided to take action after the disappearance of Estiane Diablo, who had shortly enlisted at the school where Kurt E. was practicing his profession, and of whom is still no trace. According to police-officer Noosey, white as a ghost from the shocking nature about these developments, stated: We will nail this bastard with a shoppingbag full of rusty nails to the highest tree and let him rot in eternity. I always wonder what they mean with photos of a graphic nature, Stan said reading The Local Rag. Thats a bit of a pleonasm there. True, true, said God, folding The Daily Skeptic. I tell you, and you tell Me where to find a place called eternity.
Maria got Inspired

lowly did consciousness return this morning to Maria, as reality started to filter in like sunlight through curtains. With languor she laid down on her back, her eyes still closed, her memories not ready for the day ... wow! How she got laid yesterday, it was momentous! It had been ages since she had joyed like this! Still she felt sensational, warm, heavenly, dreamy ... She turned her back to the day, her face down in the pillow and dreamed on for another half an hour, before she finally decided to gain full consciousness, get up, dress, hit the computer into life, and get a tub full of coffee. It had been wonderful, she could live on this for years to come. Still dreamy, with her cup of coffee in her hand, she put her feet up the windowsill that felt already warm from the sunlight, and stared outside, her memories still lingering on the cock between her thighs yesterday, and how she floated into heaven, higher and higher, and sat like that for half an hour before she could return her thoughts back to this planet, and back to her computer that out of sheer boredom had started to go look for viruses, characterflaws, ambiguities, had put its coat on to the put the trash outside, recover unwanted mail, and so much more of what in fact it shouldnt be doing, such as creating havoc in the orbit of gps satellites and other naughteties that Stan had left there the last time he checked his mail. As about 90% of her had come back to life, with only her vagina still glowing after the bonfire that had illuminated the night before, she reached for a cigarette, lit it, inhaled, felt the intoxication of the insecticide numbing again her body, coughed, and started her typewriter. She felt like writing today, even when her mind was still a total blank what shouldnt pose to much of a problem, since she could be on the telephone for hours as well, without any preparation. She would start with a sentence that should be prizewinning for gratuitousness, even though she never got one, when in fact she had started so often like that, what was a bit of a nuisance. Maybe she should also make some errors in spelling, burn the grammar in the pits of hell, just to annoy the critique O how she hated them, never an unkind word about what she wrote. She felt like making a fuck-up. Fuck the formatting too. That would be good! After again a little while of staring out of the window, scratching her vagina that now felt in need of some vaseline, lighting another cigarette, her long and elegant fingers started to stroke lovingly the keyboard, and pour bullshit with all her talent and gifts onto the screen. No, she wouldnt be writing history, but surely she would be enjoying the fuck that she could make out of it. Her intentions would be warm and tender, be panting by times, and shove it up deeply. Oozing.
The Rain
It was raining on a beautiful day, perfecting the low-level mood of happiness that shone onto our hero - a hero that I will try to keep anonymous as long as convenience allows me to do. ... Allow me, this is not out of rebellion against the ritual or tradition of introducing politely the hero, it is more that I dont think his - or her - name would give a significant addition to the story. Not now, and I hope I can keep that up to the final words that traditionally end a story: the end. So let me retake: it was raining, it was a beautiful day, the hero (or heroin) had a low-level mood, and perfection - all got into the opening picture of the first scene. It looks dreadful, even when the first intention looks like the opposite. Rain however, can be pleasurable, and when said rain is claimed to be some addition to a perfect day, it could surely be so without spelling out - as if by obligation - doom, hell, brimstone, homicide, broken hearts, general paranoia, nuclear holocaust or job-loss. It can be all of that, but lets be honest: thats overrating the stuff that overall is made up from innocent hydrogen-combinations of just as innocent oxygen. Some salts might be present, some metals, some descriptionless dust, some toxins, but again, thats still doing the same job: overration. It was just some bloody stupid rain doing its dreary job that it is supposed to be doing when it is doing it, what comes down to dropping from the sky, making things muddy and wet. Not much to it. And today it was doing it on a beautiful day, and why not, why cant rain have its day off as well and dry its feet at a roaring hearth, from under a blanket with a brandy on the sidetable, reading a good book. Making something perfect, in this case a lowlevel mood, what can go perfectly well with some rain, wet feet, a roaring fire, a brandy and a book. The rain was just happy, wasnt even bothered by the continual stare by the narrator, because, as we all know, rain does mostly consist of water, and has little opinion about anything, and just wanted to be inside where it was cosy and warm, and since the narrator isnt a hangman or taxcollector, he gives the rain its day off from relations with suicide and holocaust, what would turn him in to a very nice guy if only he wouldnt be so pompous about it.
There is no end to it. he remarked. Its pointless, but funny. Looks like its been written by a guy. Cant see it winning any prizes ... Stan? Could I ask you to buy your own cigarettes? Sure baby, but whats the point? You didnt pay for your subscription to mine, thats the point Stan looked again at the short story by Maria, lit another cigarette, looked at the back, and said: I like the watery effect on the paper, like it has been fished out of a tee-pond. I took me but an hour, Maria supplied. But you know Stan, you can be such an arsehole! Stan smiled his smile that could give you the sensation as so often that he was going for your throat. Sure baby, and if I had anything to say in the matter, I would have chosen that for my middle name! Give me your hand. Stan unwittingly obliged, and Maria took it, looked at it for a second, and then stared at Stan, and put her cigarette out in it, and smiled her sweetest smile. Tomorrow you get me a new packet, wont you love? I will steal you some, how about that? As long as they are from some banker ... Maria stared at the heap of packages in various states of undoing that had come tumbling down on het kitchentable, of all brands, cigars included it was about a small fortune that came from the shoppingbag the next day. There were three bankers for starters, what explains the Havanas, the marihuana I lifted from two students, one economy, the other from the management. Then there were 7 politicians, from left to right, all friends of mine. Fifteen bureaucrats, two police-officers, and one bouncer I broke his hand again. He wasnt particularly happy to see me, so I paid him my honors. One guy from customs who wonders as we speak what he is doing at the office of his boss that had to give me some import. And he took out of the heap one crumpled package this I lifted from some fucking beggar that was sitting on his knees in praying position in fact it was God that lifted it from him when we were shopping and who despises the guy. And this one and here Stan showed a nice case was a better one. I lifted that from a mobster at the airport, who saw me walking off with it, and shot me in the back and got shot himself by security. Stan opened it to show a beautiful bottle of cognac. How about it, Hm? A nice thank you, you are the world Stan? A nice big wet kiss? That would do. And one more thing. Could you repair this for me, please? Stan showed her his evening jacket with some holes in the back. You are still an arsehole, you know. Yes, but a nicely stinky one!
The End
From: Diary From God, So what do you think about it Stan, she asked when she showed it to him later that day when he passed by for some coffee and half her package of cigarettes.
Humans are Fragile

umans are so fragile, Stan said to God, all one has to say is 'Boo!' and they start crying. Could you not have opted for something more robust? There is a good question, Stan, and yes I could. I could. And I didn't. God and Stan were strolling through the park on a bright and in fact fairly warm autumn afternoon, enjoying the colors getting onto the leaves at the trees, the rays of light, the youth playing life in all seriousness and grave discussion, an occasional mother with her child in a trolley hurrying from supermarket to home, a self-proclaimed poet at a guitar trying to catch the moment, the chaotic entertainment of life that life brought onto the stage of life itself. Why? I can't say I didn't care, can I? Or even that I was drunk or something. Or depressed. It is as ... like you can't seem to stop to remind me of ... not that I didn't care ... it came as an afterthought. Maybe I was drunk, and threw a load of shit I had as leftovers from the junkbox or as you know it, My Magical box that is on my desk that has always an answer to some intricate problem together, and ... well. I made humans. God looked up as if inspecting a particularly interesting ray of light falling on some dead leaf growing on a tree, but on introspection, feeling not comfortable. I wonder what my role in this all is then, He heard Stan mumble. You know what God? I wonder what my contribution is to all this ... this ... misery. Yes, me too, I too do wonder what you might contribute to all this. And it's not as if I am paying you for anything you do, I mean, as unemployed as you are ... I mean, if I would not employ somebody, it would be you! Smoking, drinking, fooling around, empty and useless conduct, you name it you have got it. Thanks for the insults God, I really appreciated that. I'll see if I might get around of thinking about You get a medal for that or something like that ... I shelve that one ok? Just for a while. You are such a pleasure Stan, you know you are. You like to say things You know where You can shove them? It gives You a No Stan, and fuck you Stan. See that girl over there? Wanna do her? That one? The one I would love to do? That one yes, that one. What about her? Just a bag with proteins, randomly selected, collected, sorted and assembled. Nicely put together, I admit, but still random. Some ground-rules are to the basis of it, but no more than that. There is no goal gone into it, except as a substrate of life itself, and you know as no other that life itself doesnt greatly care about the substrate. The substrate has little importance. It is not build to last the ages, it is build to carry on, its not like a temple to serve eternity ... its one of the building blocks. Where life itself is pretty robust, its substrate isnt. But even life itself hasnt a goal, other than within itself: it serves itself
certainly not the individual, whether the individual likes it or not. That would be arrogance, and to arrogance there is little to it destroys itself. What predicts for the future that it will remain pretty assholic, right? Crudely put, yes. I cant help, there is little I can do for the individual it is all up to the individual itself as pretty or ugly as they are. But beauty doesnt really come into it, not as an external force. If there is beauty, it precedes the creation. Stan looked at God with a blank mind. And you are just an arse, added God for completeness. A random act of violence that works upon it all. Not of great importance. Not utterly. Thanks for degrading me, God. You go for the gold, and You are not ashamed of it. You like to use me as a doormat as well? No, I have got a doormat for that purpose, just for 2,95 at the shop ... I wouldnt want to wear out my shoes on your behind, as tempted as I often am. Enfin, you know. Ill remind You on that next time You are shoving Your foot on my behind, God. Next time I skip it, so prepare for the time after that! What kind of answer is that! You are so useless You know, so bloody useless! Great, isnt it? Talk to my arse, and he will answer You. I got My foot for that and a great conversationalist it is! Last time I was limping for a week! A day Stan, just a day, youre overdoing it. A fucking week, God. And it was more than a month before I could have a decent fuck before I could say I didnt have to apologise to my arse! Wow! So My foot is a great conversationalist! And you are the guy that has a discussion with his own arse! Thats one for posterity! God roared with laughter. I am glad You like it, grumbled Stan. Stan, Stan, dont be hard on yourself. You have got Me for that, remember? Talk to my arse. As they strolled on, God loving His creation, and Stan thinking about his arse, they passed the self-proclaimed poet, who suddenly jumped up, and crashed his guitar on a tree. God and Stan paused to watch the spectacle. I cant stand it anymore! he yelled. I cant take it anymore! God has forsaken me, he fucked up my entire life! I hate him! I hate him! No My dear friend, you did, responded God dryly using His mouth without the intervention of His brain. The poet turned onto God with nothing but the intention to strike Him, and broke his wrist in the hand of Stan that had for a moment the looks of an iron claw. THATS MY JOB THERE, YOUNGSTER. YOUR JOB IS YOUR OWN LIFE, Stan said with a voice like a rumbling earthquake. AND NOW YOU GET ON WITH IT. As they strolled on, leaving the poet whimpering over his own pains, God thanked Stan for the intervention. Talk to my arse, God. You skip the next time as well. From: Dairy from God, 30 10 2011
God was Angry

ang! ing! ong!
Stan was standing at ease in the Great Heavenly Hall, on request of God, his hands on his back, looking at God pacing about in a rage. And although Stan was standing, he was as relaxed as if he was sitting in his comfortable chair, with his legs on the desk that should be at least two meters up in the air, his hands in his crotch, having a hard-on, some late-night snacks on a side-table, a cuban cigar, and a bottle of very expensive whiskey, enjoying the spectacle very much at ease. God was having a fit, and he wouldnt want to miss that for the world. And although God was known to be fairly calm and composed, artistic, lover of nature and most of the time nice to children, He was also known for His temper that could be majestic that could crop some days. Today was one of those, and it wasn't just a normal one, it was one where the horizon was stuffed with dark clouds, tornadic hailstorms that went on like a 21 inch machine-gun, it was shit flying about, and he was the biggest fan that could be found. Not even a fan anymore but a jet-engine by the latest most secret experimental model. And God was doing things that made Stan not only sitting with his legs raised for more than two meters in the air, he was summersaulting. God was crashing things. More specifically, crashing priceless vases from the Bang! dynasty that made a horible crashing Bang! sound as if a cracked marble mummy twenty meters large fell in slow slow-motion to a concrete floor, what was exactly what it did. The same thing went on for the Bing!vase, save that it was like a cricket marble mummy, making the most incomprehensible sound all times, due to the utmost complex way it was created, due to the fact that its creator was plainly insane. * The Bong!vase had anything with pink thunderstorms on bad acid, wavy and protracted. Stan had to fight the centrifugal forces regarding his position here. He could autograph hardened glassware with his hard-on here. Displacement! God yelled. Adventure! Go Beyond Any Frontier Imaginable! Be Who You Want To Be! Larger Than Life! Idiots!
* For the those interested in more details about the soundstructure, it was a bit of a melange of a lawn breaking like an oak door in bad need of some paintwork.
God walked on to the bar next to the crashed Bong!vase, personed by Angelique, which was quite frankly wetting its pants, and shedding feathers like an autumnal tree in a storm, trying hard not to show any discomfort by the anger off its Boss, but quite frankly standing up to its' ankles in piss. It hoped the sloshing sound of its' feet wouldn't draw the attention and direction of the shitstorm, as God hung on the bar, about to make the order of the century, for he was definitely in the mood for a good glass of something. The usual, God rumbled. As Angelique poured Him a glass of whiskey finer that anything on Earth, God turned His back to the bar, looking tired and angry, and sighed. Stan nibbled on his late-night snacks. STOP DOING THAT! Angelique froze up, holding the bottle still over the glass, causing it thus to overflow on the counter, and from there downwards, adding to the piss that somehow really started to become problematic. Not you, him! pointing to Stan. Stan swallowed hastily the remainder, and straightened his face, and tried to sit stand-still. God turned His attention to His glass, lifted an eyebrow looking at the contends, lifted it however without a word, sniffed it, lifted His other eyebrow to give the first some company, and then straightened out His face to where it was between a tornado-cluster and a blizzard. Angelique put its' attention to mopping up the spilled whiskey. God first nipped from His glass, then drained it down so it got half-empty, and looked at it to be sure it was half-empty. And what have they gotten back in return for their pleasure? One giant bloody mess! Sure you need a car, otherwise you won't have a job! So you can go to your place where you can to do the things you dream about shifting paper with meaningless words, talking about the problems that causes and add some more, after it took you just over an hour to get there, crawling over the corps of nature, enjoying the dreamlike landscape consisting of traffic-lights, control-equipment, inhaling toxic fumes, listening meanwhile the news about the reason why you are crawling in your car you are still paying for what reason! Dream On! Think Positive! God drained the remainder and posed His glass back on the counter signaling for a refill, again just to the edge. Don't Be Negative! He snarled, slamming His fist on the counter, creating a giant star in the marble. You Should Try To Be More Positive! As if positivism wasn't a maxim from the advertisement-department, showing happy people dancing in the meadow between the butterflies and the flowers, signing up for stuff they can't pay for and don't need! Just killing any conversation with one word: Positive! Just a word that is imported from science, robbed from all its' meaning, collect evidence, numbing the mind with a pink hammer, and pray for heavens to solve the rest. Don't care about the mess, we have people to solve that for you! Just look at it positively, for if you don't, you are not welcome, you just come to spoil the party is what it says, when meanwhile burning off some more liquefied
corpses en route towards a perfectly useless job, created by reasons that does not even come close to an utter nightmare! Go to the church, get yourself a bit more blinded by some fool in a gown that is the ultimate in negativity, as he asserts with every word. God is a mystery. Damn wrong you are! It is all a secret it is a damned society that refutes any investigation into whatever it is about. Destroying any reason, stripping it bare from any sense and meaning, for we use the magic spell that ex-communicates everybody with just one word: positive! It is just bloody nice to have an open mind to improbable nonsense, obstructing any way to something that is a bit more calm and gentile, rolling over everything and everybody for I surely like to enjoy the party what do I care about a rare tree I have never seen from behind my telephone that gets cut down in order to ... what? Have another desktop, for this one is scratched? Yes it is a waste, yes it is a shame this mentality about disposables, yes, horrible, isn't it? And we drain another glass. Positive! Follow your dreams, if this doesn't work, we try something different! Ever tried looking about and look at the results? Saw ever some elfins cleaning up the shards that lay about everywhere? There is always a God to clean up after me, for He is our father, and what are fathers else for than to tend to their children? Stan coughed softly getting back the attention of God. Yes? You ramble, God. AND I WOULD BE THE FIRST ONE TO DO SO! Stan, within the time of a century, there will be nothing left! Switch on the TV if you care to hear some bullshit. Listen to the talented game-show host drowning away the little voices with positivism. When was the last time you heard reason, and not someone on the background yelling through the megaphone: Be More Positive! You are Spoiling the Party! Not recently, no. This culture is gaining momentum everyday like a truck that is getting loaded more and more by every mile it makes, and no one is behind the wheel. For Christ's sake! Hell it is damn well possible to get back the control just stop loading as if it all would be for free. God took His glass from the counter, looked at, sniffed again, and then turned to Angelique. Clean up the mess, Angelique, don't bother about Me. I am just an old fool. Angelique fainted. Poor soul, God said, looking down over the bar. It surely could use the evening off ... God snapped His fingers, disappearing Angelique, the buckets with piss and the star in the counter. It should be in a better place now ... He said to Himself. So what do You propose to do about it, God? asked Stan. Clean up the mess with some giant dust-sucker? God looked in surprise at Stan. Hell no! Hell no ... They are grown up now, they sort it out. No Stan, no. No Stan, no, I am not going to do that. Creation is going to sort it out. Set fire to the place you live in, enjoy the smoke and the flames. Consider next day what was wrong with the matches. ... All we ever did was to render beauty to the raw power,
and let it go from then on, whatever we did from then on was just futile, we were just about. You are worried. I am worried Stan, I am worried. That's all. I can't help self-alienation, if that's the choice, then so be it. A damn waste, but so be it. God motioned Stan to invite him to come sit next to Him at the bar. What would you like, nodding at the beverages behind the counter. Stan nodded at Gods' glass. God drew His stool behind the counter, put a glass on it in front of Stan, filled it up to the brim, and posed the bottle next to it and sat down. Let's toast on nothing, said God, or rather, let's toast on beauty. God held up His glass to Stan. On beauty it will be then! he said. The glasses tingled in the silence of the Great Heavenly Hall, now deserted but for two old friends. What did You need me for then, asked Stan. Rave, Stan, I needed someone to yell at, and as far as I can remember, you are the only one that won't start crying when I behave a bit scary. How long do we know each other now? Stan nipped from his glass, put it down, savouring the taste of the whiskey, looked down at his glass, and up to God. Ages. And still not afraid not to be clear about anything. Nope. What happened to Angelique? Send it back to yesterday and gave it a day off for today. You are an old fool, ain't You? I am, Stan, I am. Why is Angelique it? It might be pretty, but you can fool around with your own staff Stan. I won't be having it crawling with little devils around here. With a puff a smoking hot woman appeared next to Stan at the bar. She shivered, and complained It's cold, looking dreaded at Stan. With a ffup she disappeared again. It wouldn't be the same, said Stan. Let's go downstairs then, said God. Entirely my idea, God. Let's go ffup. And with a double ffup God and Stan went to Hell, leaving the Great Heavenly Hall now entirely deserted, only for a moment later for God to puff back, pluck the bottle from the bar, and ffup away again, leaving silence up to its' own devices, wondering what to do, and decided to have the evening off as well.
God Told His Son

ad? Yes Jezus? Why did the great lizards die? Youre doing homework, Son? Yes. And I want to give some real original answers Dad. We cannot have that, can We? However, since nobody is going to believe it anyway, write whatever you like. You know about the big stone that fell to the Earth, and destroyed a lot? Yes Dad. Was it You that made it come down Dad? No. I am just the predecessor as Raw Power, all else followed naturally from that. Ah! But how about the big lizards then Dad? You know that their numbers started to decay before the big stone hit? Yes. Why do you think? I mean, think of a time-space of millions of years. Jezus sat down, stared at His paper, and said nothing. Dunno Dad. Big lizards are big. Remember that there are also small ratty animals with their numbers on the rise. Mice? Just about it. Put it down as a hypothesis in your paper, it will make You look smart. These giant monsters couldnt defend themselves against small furry animals, because of their size. They are fucking cockroaches, and they are everywhere. And they eat ... eggs. Jezus stared at His Father in amazement. But that is unheard of Dad, everybody talks about the big stone thats done them. Nobody is going to fall for this! Nobody? And what if the hypothesis is true? Dunno Dad. You just work on it, go take a look if You can work it out, just as something that works, and make a nice paper, and make the next revolt. That will teach You. Dad! I have to have this finished tomorrow! That will take Me weeks to prepare! I cannot do that! I will get an F! I will write a letter to Your teach telling it will take some more time. What is his name? Diablo Dad, she is very pretty. Estiane Diablo? Yes Dad. Dont worry Son, just go to Your bedroom, and continue on Your paper, and do some research, take a few weeks for that. Ill write a letter that is there for You tomorrow that You can give to miss Diablo, and You wont be getting an F. Promise? You do that?
But Dad ... Yes? She will give Me an F whatever happens! She told us! No paper is no grade! No Son. She wont. Remember Who I am? Yes Dad. You are God. Right. Now give Me a sheet, Ill write a nice letter, and You go to Your room, and just start on Your research, in bed by eleven, and I come to give You a kiss. No kiss Dad. The boys and girls already think I am a sissy. No kiss then. Dad? Yes? Youre sure? Whats My name again? I love You Dad. Dad? Yes Son? How am I gonna die? You wont Son. You just fade away. Now just study and sleep well. I love You Dad. Love You too Son. Nighty! Nighty! God pulled His portable like a gun the moment Jezus had left the room , and called Stan. Estiane? O shit. You know what Hell looks like? I do God, I do. I ... Thats all. Nighty! I have no paper for you today miss, only this letter from My Dad, containing a white sheet in fact, miss. I opened it, and there was no word on it miss. I am very sorry miss. So what did You then last night do for Your studies, Jezus? Nothing miss. Little. AND WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU WILL DO TO PREVENT THIS F? Work My arse off miss. Miss Estiana bend over to Jezus, and stared Him hard in the eyes. NOT GOOD ENOUGH JEZUS. GO TO THE LIBRARY AND START NOW, HUNDRED WORDS AN HOUR! AND NO SMOKING! GO! From: Diary from God, 02 11 2011
I. God, that was an embarrassment the first time we met, how long was it ago?
Interview with God by Ingez B.

The first time I met God, it was a bit of an embarrassment, I remember well. It was a not so sunny day, we had a meeting in my office, He was looking for a job, and mostly, I offended Him in fact, at the end, I hit Him in the face, and next day I committed suicide, to meet Him again! You can imagine how embarrassed I was! We talked a lot, how I loathed Him, thought he was an idiot, a tyrant, and He denied nothing of it, getting even more on my nerves it was like the continuation of our interview in my office. I felt at one moment to stand up and kick Him with my styletto-heels in the forehead, just killing Him! He just being so self-conscious, so self-assured, and there I was, with my 20 years-old wisdom, green like a leaf in spring-time, what did I know? I 'knew' God didn't exist, and the universe was created by a random accident resulting in the six forces of nature. We talked a load, and finally He decided to do something contrary to anything I believed in that was true to my beliefs number one is down-grading someone to level zero when the smallest item of offence occurs, like stating something 'odd' being creative like God and He made me His secretary. Firstly I believed He wanted me to get me into the sack with that I know I am a prizewinning blob of protein but no, I was to make notes, and I felt relieved and punished at the same time. Taking notes! The lowest of the lowest that is not even a job one would leave to an uneducated cunt that could do far better than that of a cassire! Not as long as it is a prizewinning blob of protein. I mean, as long as one has a good pair of legs to get into the air, one deserves to be paid triple X, even if one has to start at the bottom no pun intended there. God thought differently however, as I was to learn: He is very gentile, even if He is a bit of a stranger still, but He got me higher up, and yes, I am His secretary, I am the person as dead as I may be that takes down His diary in scripture! God is a very strange person He seems to understand more than all more than my professor at psychology, He is outerworld. It is why I requested this interview, and He was delighted to give a reason why I would deny Him any job, even if it was to take out the garbage. Ingez B. Suicidal HR manager
G. An infinity. I believe I was the only one that was the one that had good laughs at the moment! (Laughs). Dear o dear, I had you there! I was trying to fuck you, just as was pointing you out the obvious, and you were so blinded, so naive! You can't start to imagine the fun I was having! I still have aches in My belly! (laughs again). As if I wouldn't know your world, your way of thinking, your fallacies, your backstabbing ways, your total disrespect for men and women, your lack of any comprehension, your arrogance, your ignorance, your Let me put it this way. Japanese not my folk, another bible have some manners. When you step out of the train, they give you by their culture the space to be able to do so. Japanese look ahead. It is not as if it's complicated it is a manner of civilisation. And it is not more complicated than adding 1 to 1. Here? Let's barge into the machine it's ours and whoever wants to get out good luck. It is what we have, there's a train anyway, hey, it's good luck! Any use of grey matter? Politeness? Come again? Punch you on the nose or something? I. People tend to see You as a tyrant, and a psychopath, a psychopath that has the strangeness of demanding before He accepts you that he or she believes in You. G. Ever met a normal human being? And did you like it? I. An ever burning question is: when is the world going to come to an end? G. (Smiles). What I think is odd, not about this question, as it is a legitimate one, is why people so much want to ascent to heaven, when on the other hand they are so afraid of dying. I mean, one asks them if they like to go to heaven, and they say yes. Then, I one asks if they need a hand with that, they almost run away screaming. What would you make of that? I think it's pretty irrational behaviour. And if one is to confront them with that, wow! Then it's absurdity-time! I. What is written in the bible is by times pretty gruesome stuff, and people condemn You for that. G. People can do whatever they like, but about the contents of the bible, I have nothing to do with that. You ever read it? I. In fact I didn't G. You got to page two? I. I read the bit about creating the Earth and so on, and a bit about Adam and Eve. G. Understood anything about what was there?
I. (Laughs) I wonder who is being the interviewee here G. (Laughs) Imagine, but your response is typical, in respect to the bloody nonsense that is starting on the first page, and continues just to the end, it still amazes Me so few people fail to see that, and to put it stronger, fail to seize reading after page one, looking for some deeper meaning. The story of creation is hardly an A4, any highschool pupil can do a better job on that, for starters making it a bit more credible. Again some irrational behaviour here: it would be Me Who magiced all in place, and on the other hand, no problem in burning lovely old ladies that help out the young in their struggle to give birth to new life. I am not asking you whether that is ungrateful, it is a complete lack of sense, perfect abuse of power by rather insane people that claim to serve Me if there is anything they serve, it is darkness And to continue to page two, the thing with the tree and the fruit. I. Yes G. Your failure to understand that part is what I just referred to as typical. When people are confronted with something that is fundamentally incomprehensible, their mind works a way around it but in the end ending up with a fundamentally flawed theory. The question that is so often failed to be posed, is why I would create a being and supply it with a kilo or so grey matter, and forbid it to use it? Irrational, I would say Typical again is that the most religious people refer to this particular chapter as the chapter with the apple. Now there is a beautiful example of lack of comprehension. There is no apple, not in the entire book in fact. It is the fruit of wisdom, it is a metaphor (God shakes His head). And why would I deny that, why would I deny the use of a beautiful tool I just supplied you with? Giving a doll to a little child it can only look at. You think I have anything to do with the contents? Or is there some doubt creeping in? On top of that, Stan is seducing Eve to try the fruit (laughs again) asking a woman to use her brain it is hilarious! Anyway, that seems to be a no no. With the result that some angel is put in front of it with some flaming sword to keep them from doing the no no ever again. Who is being served here? Me or Stan? Honestly, if it would be serving the darkness, I wouldn't hand out knowledge. And going down from there, one is safe to assume that in fact the entire bible is in the serving of worshipping Stan which is more or less correct, and that is how the fallacy started. And why there are so many that truly despise Me with good reason. I. So what You say is that the bible is not Your work? G. I have nothing to do with it! Burn it! It is what I do I. Burn? But that would G. O, come off of it! F'r crissake! What is the general mode of action when you have shit lying about? You put it in the bin! It is normal hygiene. In fact, I have a
beautiful example here how deeply rooted this behaviour is, as it is more a general rule than trained and a result of civilisation. Two weeks ago I was hanging out at the Cote d'Azure, beautiful place there. Those rocks that descend into the sea, the wild-life, it's brilliant. I am just sitting on My arse, having My beer, and so on and so on, and I see a hawk hanging about in the breeze, peacefully doing nothing, just above some protruding rock. It shits, and what does it do? It flies on for about four meters and takes position over there! Even when its' crap is a thirty meters down below already, it takes distance from where it crapped! And this is an example of behaviour that developed in the course of millions of years. It is tested and found to be working neatly. I. You say millions of years? G. O, come on! You really believe I created all this in a week time? Did you ever get to school, and if so, did you pay attention? Or was it a bunch of fucking nuns that was responsible for your training? When I see some shit passing by and believe Me, that is quite a load I shovel it. What would you do with a kitchenmachine that doesn't work? You leave it, or you toss it? I. Provided I would have a kitchen G. You prove My point exactly. When it is the intangible variety that is in the realm of symbols, people get lost and leave any kind of crap lying about. I just say: Burn it! Don't be a hypocrite and shovel it into the hearth. Warm your hands for five minutes and go on. I. There certainly are also good parts in the bible G. No reason not to burn them along with the shit. Feeling hungry a bit? Let's put an end to this interview for now, talking about a kitchen gave Me a good reminder of some nice restaurant where they have some lovely cooking. Wanna join Me? I. Surely. God, may I thank You for this interview? G. You may, I am not a monster Come on, I am hungry. Ingez B.
God Laughs At Everybody

ince God does have a sense of humor, He likes to hear stories that are round and about. So God has of course hotmail. And it goes like this: The.Great.Author@hotmail.com Dirt, Praise & Communication can be dumped here. Guarantees on response are not to be given, since the staff has a lot of practicing to do on its harps, or else its harpoons. However it does like to amuse itself with mail not intended for it, so give it a go!
The "Diary of God" has biblical proportions. Mostly by the looks of it, as for the contents yes, well that as well. It is in the style of a book for children just like the real bible and surely it is something that you wouldn't want to show to your unspoiled treasures. It is full of booze, sigarettes, violence, the gratuitous reprocreational scnes, joyous mysantropy, idiocy, failure, sin & joy and all the other things that are horrendous like the real thing that has been assembled by as he states Himself, 'senseless amateurs!' The Author a Real Fin Raide does not want to disclose anything about His nature, solely that He invented humanity as an afterthought while having a beer, and prefers gardening, as, in His Own Words, plants know their place, are decorative, don't talk shit, and can be eaten alive without all this screaming a combination that is rarely seen in with the human part of His afternoons' doings. God watchers assert that little is known about God, but think to be certain He likes plants, beer, sigarettes, lightning, fornication, comics, coffee, and hates work, women on high heels although there are schools of thought that deviate from that thought telling people what to do, telling people what to do twice, shaving, TV, taking a bath more than once every 6 million years, and changing His socks. Most of all He seems to be pre-occupied with violence, but reports about that are uncertain. What ever, in this priceless volume are a collection of impressions of His days that has passed by by His Own Hand, and the poor editors are not after the money they collect with the impressions, but surely like to get their fees to be payed so please give us lots of money in the most generous way, and we make sure you won't get persecuted.
Thanks.

Diary From God

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Halleluja!

God Went For Some Shopping

From: Diary from God, 04 01 2011

God was Bored Senseless

From: Diary from God, 11 06 2011

God Was Having a Good Time.

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GrnnNNnnnN n g gG G n n naa w wn n . . . ! ! ! did it come from

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From: Diary from God, 04 07 2011

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God Had A Quiet Evening.

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From: Diary from God, 03 08 2011

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From: Diary from God, 20 08 2011

God wants to Fuck Up

From: Diary from God, 27 10 2011

The Master and the Apprentice

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Maria got Inspired

Humans are Fragile

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God Told His Son

Interview with God by Ingez B.

God Laughs At Everybody

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