God and Pasta

It’s Wednesday. There’s a full moon. God is throwing up in the corner. He normally is. He has no reason to be sober these days. Last time I saw him he was threatening a stripper because the coke she brought to the party wasn’t pure enough.

“Don’t milk down my shit,” he was saying. “Do you know how much time I spent creating it?”

I’m living in places right now. Sometimes I’m at my sisters’, sometimes I’m in a hotel with a woman who seems willing enough to put up with my weird shit, sometimes I’m crashing at my ex’s when she isn’t there. Its’ a fine mess. Or a mess I’m fine with. It’s no way to be an adult. Plans for a mortgage are on the horizon. Then I can be a normal.

I’ve spent too much of my life as the guy crashing on your couch.

God slumped on the sofa. He wiped some bile from his lips and turned to me. “It really doesn’t matter, Andy, as long as you have your mind together your abode is unimportant. Life is more interesting when you’re close to its broken edge.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, God,” I said, “You’re a mess.”

“You ever seen Rick and Morty?” said God, picking up the X-Box remote. “You want to watch it with me?”

“Sure.”

“It’s one of my favourite creations.”

I shook my head. I didn’t want to say it but, man, he takes too much credit.

He put Netflix on and started it from episode one. He fell asleep before the opening titles ended. The guy’s a real dick. It’s no wonder so many people have it so bad.

I wasn’t planning on talking about God. I don’t know why he keeps coming up.

One of the cats, Calcifier, has just jumped up on my lap. He’s purring and rubbing his face on mine. The cat is a fool. Last week I paid a vet to cut his testicles off. If only he knew. Maybe his opinion of me would be less favourable. Maybe this is how God feels. Maybe we don’t realise he’s clutching our bollocks in one hand and has a knife in the other. Telling us he loves us and laughing into his sleeve when we turn away.

Fucking hell. I’m not even religious. It’s not my place to say bad things about the giant insane monkey in the clouds.

Did I ever tell you I’m a Pastafarian? That’s the one true religion. I’m a registered minister. I can legally marry you if you’re willing to wear a colander on your head. I’m just talking nonsense now. All hail The Flying Spaghetti Monster! May his noodly appendage reach down and touch you somewhere wholly inappropriate.

One day I’ll write a proper post about The Flying Spaghetti Monster. For now though I urge you to click on the picture below and spend some time lost down that hilarious rabbit hole.