Hello world, this is Me

January 25, 2003

G'DAY. God here. You know, the bloke who's on both sides in every war. The in God we trust, in God's name God. The omniscient and omnipresent God. Eternal and paternal. Alert to the sound of every falling budgie. The God that's supposed to offer each and every one of you eternal life, no matter the depth of your depravity or cruelty, provided you say you're sorry.

It's probably because I'm getting on a bit but, frankly, I'm increasingly irritated with you lot. So it's about time I told you what I really think of you.

First of all, and I can't emphasise this enough, you're not made in my image. I don't look anything like you. I don't have arms or legs or buttocks or knees or elbows. Let alone genitalia. I'm not a he or a she. Despite murals and Sistine ceilings to the contrary, I'm shapeless. Insofar as I exist at all, I'm a very, very big idea. Am I making myself clear? I don't look like you and you certainly don't look like me.

Secondly, I'm not as fond of you mob as you like to think. Nor as focused on your frequently silly and meretricious lives. Look at you all down there! Six billion irritating little creatures. Ants with attitude. Termites with pretensions. Come to think of it, I prefer termites. They're nothing like as uppity as humans. Termites don't go ooooh and aaaah over their own mounds. Yet look at humans. They pile up a few stones and call them cathedrals or skyscrapers. Yet none of them is as big as a decent-sized hill, let alone one of my mountains.

You know one of the things that really pisses me off? The way you waste time. I'm beyond time. Outside time. I've got time to burn. But I've given you lot three score plus ten, if you're lucky, and you waste it looking at telly or hyperventilating at football matches. And having wasted your lives, you expect me to give you eternal life! Ants don't expect it. Nor termites. And they don't waste a minute.

Did I mention coral polyps? I'm passing fond of the polyp. I think of them as termites in technicolour. The Great Wall of China? The Great Pyramid? Forget them. If you want something really great, check out the Great Barrier Reef. Nothing made by humans is as big or as beautiful. And you know who did that? Polyps.

And I'll tell you something else about polyps. They don't bother me. They don't pray to me, demanding to win wars or Lotto. And in building their reefs they provide their own afterlife. Whereas humans, having wasted their life span, want nothing short of eternal ecstasy. A sort of endless orgasm. Well, they're not going to get it. Stuff them!

Then there's hell. I'm expected to furnish the damned with eternal, infernal accommodations where they'll suffer forever. As if I would. As if I'd bother.

But it shows, yet again, what nasty, ghastly little creatures you can be. Fancy wanting to condemn each other to eternal torture? And damn you for putting the blame on me. I'm too busy organising big bangs and parallel universes and worm holes to have time for theological theme parks.

(I've got endless life forms to create, amuse and entertain all over the ever-expanding universe. Squillions of galaxies in this one and just as many in the parallel universes _ and there are squillions of those. And I've been juggling this for squillions of light years. Yet humans still think that they're at the centre of things. That it's all about them. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, including commonsense.)

What were their names? Yes, Galileo and Copernicus. You'd have thought their discoveries would have made humans less arrogant by revealing that they weren't the centre of the universe, which got on perfectly well without human beings for billions of years. You're just another evanescent life form on a piddling planet in one of my squillions of galaxies.

Which, let me tell you, are brimming with more interesting creatures, many far more attractive and at a higher stage of development. Remind me to show you some photos I took on planet Moo, which is run by an advanced civilisation of daffodils. Yet I'm supposed to devote myself to humans? To listen to your greedy, grasping little prayers? Please, please God let me win $10 million in Lotto. Or: Please God, let me be promoted to office manager.

And don't think you can come sucking up to me with your hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of religions. Frankly, they're an insult. They show the applications of tiny minds to the immensity of my imaginings. And the people that run them? The archbishops and the mullahs and the rest of them? There are times when I'd sack the bloody lot of them.

I was going to thump you mob with a giant asteroid for Christmas. Wipe you out. Just like the dinosaurs. And you bloody well deserve it. Look at the way you're wiping out millions of species that I had to think up and create and evolve. I suppose you think that's easy. Well it bloody isn't! Ask George Lucas how hard it is to think up new creatures for Star Wars. And as fast as I think them up, humans erase them! So I was going to clobber you. But why bother when you're killing yourselves off anyway?

The Ten Commandments? You'd be better off looking at my most important law, the second law of thermodynamics. That's when everything, everywhere goes quiet and dark forever. I'm looking forward to it. Give me the chance for a bit of a rest. Mind you, you'll be long gone by then. You'll have done yourselves in and left the planet to the termites. I can only hope they don't start designating some of their mounds as cathedrals.

You know the humans that most irritate me? The people that say I talk to them. In person. The ones that say they speak on my behalf. You must have noticed that among their number are some of the most boring, self-important, fanatical and hypocritical people on Earth.

Apart from the Hindus, who've got millions of gods, most of you mob have only one. Namely me. But you can't agree on me. So you kill each other over me. Hundreds of millions of you have died because others said they were on a mission from God. It's about to happen again, at any moment. With George, Tony, Osama, John and the rest of them droning on about God's will, God's work.

God help us.

Philip Adams

reprinted from the Australian 25th January 2003