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?”


“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.


Hermes, the Forgotten Blog Master


Basic things seem unbelievable when I transpose them into prose. How can I possibly be believed when life is so absurd?

All I want to do is recount my life. This is impossible. Even if nothing worthwhile has happened it still seems strange and unusual. I defy you to write about your day without seeming like some white lie is forming the basis of your humour. If you do manage to write about your day and find it mundane and humourless (and so proving me wrong) then you have failed to live a day worth taking note of.

Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe I create a situation knowing my actions can lead to absurdity. I don’t know anymore. I remember hearing a stand-up comedian trying to explain with all seriousness this bizarre thing that had happened to him and he said, “I used to allow things like this to happen, maybe I encouraged it. I knew, no matter how weird things got, after the danger had passed I would have a good story to tell. And if it went bad I could trust on my wit to get me out of it. And if not my wit I could say, ‘Hey, I’m a writer, this will all end up in a book someday. Don’t kill me.’” Or something like that. That’s my version of what I heard anyway. Maybe I made the whole thing up. I think I did. It still holds true.

Weirdness happens naturally. It is up to the writer to capture it for prosperity. Life is weird. Get used to it. Embrace it. Chase it through the normality and wrestle it to the ground. You will learn so much more through your mad moments than you will through your sane ones. Sane ones pass by like a series of red crosses on a fridge calendar.

It is not routine that we really crave. It is the broken routine that excites us. It is the moments when you look back at that calendar and see that a red cross is missing. What happened to that day? You weren’t there to cross it out that’s for sure.

If you’ve managed to get this far through this post then good for you. I’ve had a lot to drink and it is entirely possible that the above will turn out to be a gibberish series of incoherencies. If that is the case I will write another blog post tomorrow explaining how late it was and that it’s a miracle the laptop survived the night. Violence follows inane drunkenality. (Take note! Drunkenality is a new word, write it down and inform the authorities).

Tomorrow I will have had some sleep and some coffee. I will be in control of my intelligence. I will no-doubt mistrust my drunken instincts to write such rambling nonsense. Or maybe truth lies somewhere in the whisky sodden words of the writer trapped in his natural habitat.

See him. The writer. There he is. In his cage. He is drunk. He has a cigarette hanging from his mouth. There is no plot in his mind. There is no character waiting to be created. There is only the page and his incessant nonsense.

Goodnight. Farewell. It is up to Hermes, the Greek god of wit, literature, and poetry, to determine if these words are worthy of an inconsequential blog post.