Mar 8, 2014
God Is Dead
Posted on Jan 11, 2012
By Mr. Fish
It said DOG on his food bowl, and because he showed no signs that he’d ever learn how to read or write, she decided that he must be dyslexic. So she called him GOD.
God, like his considerably more famous namesake, was something of a mutt. He was composed of parts and features so numerous that not only did his eye color not match, but his coat was as motley as sandstone and his appetite ran the gamut from bacon to raisins, from breath mints to bedroom slippers, from the company of the most despicable people to the most affable. Consequently, it was always a question as to whether his excessively generous affections reflected a vast intelligence or the sort of crippling stupidity that made discrimination even between extremes impossible. His love affair with life was either an expression of the robust and confident compatibility he had with existence itself, or it was just another demonstration of dimwitted glee, something that a moron feels when ogling the mundane and drooling over the banality of what his stupidity is able to make fabulous.
Her name was Sawyer Dey, and she told me that the other reason why she named him God was because he was a Christmas present from her mother, Fey, who had gotten him over winter break during Sawyer’s senior year in high school—the rationale being that without a dog to miss, her daughter would’ve only known joy and deep relief upon moving away to college in the fall. “You see,” she explained to me when God was 7, two years after she graduated from Bryn Mawr with a degree in obsolete verbal esoterics, right around the time when she and her dog and I started living together in a gentrified suburb of Philadelphia called Manayunk in 1990, “my mother is so deliberately ungracious when it comes to recognizing the tendency of the universe to sometimes resolve without first considering her feelings … no, wait a minute.” She gathered her curly black hair into a loose ponytail and unfastened her jeans in anticipation of getting into the bathtub. “My mother doesn’t have any feelings. It’s more that she has a problem with reality contradicting her lavishly narcissistic, Jesus-was-born-in-a-Pottery-Barn-and-I-keep-a-covenant-with-his-teachings-with-a-fucking-credit-card worldview. Anyway, I couldn’t help thinking that it would be the perfect metaphor to have her, for the four years while I was away at school, snapping God onto a leash every day because she didn’t trust his loyalty to her absolute authority.”
“I would’ve never guessed that your mother was religious,” I said, only half paying attention because I was busy drawing a picture of Uncle Sam yanking a bloody wishbone from a freshly slaughtered dove.
“Oh, no,” she said, suddenly topless, “she’s not religious, except as a precaution. She believes in a Caucasian Jesus who is a heterosexual Kennedy Democrat, sure, all of her friends do, but as far as acquiescing to his so-called moral teachings or anything like that, she thinks that by simply subscribing to all the Condé Nast publications that reflect all the facets of his persnickety and oh so minty personality she’s pretty much guaranteed a place in heaven.” Her panties slid noiselessly to the floor and she stepped out of them. “For her, Jesus died for our love of sequels, that’s about it.”
“Right,” I said, watching her walk away bare-ass naked down the hallway while the significance of her insight dissipated like the scentless verbosity of a meticulous recipe that is driven away by the visceral succulence of a fabulous plate of food capable of drawing out a hunger that one, almost in a panic, suddenly realizes is there.
I woke up nude on the living room floor with God licking my face and pestering me with the most annoying, feathery little whines. I was super-heated beneath the comforter that Sawyer and I usually kept on our bed and my pants were balled up under my head like a pillow. It was still dark outside and my morning boner, balanced atop a bladder near to bursting, was pressed into the small of my girlfriend’s back, as if I’d been attempting to rob her in my sleep. “God, no!” I whispered, pushing the dog’s snout away and trying to crunch myself closer to Sawyer. “Go lay down!” I said, all at once preferring the relief that I knew more sleep would bring over the hard-won relief I’d get from throwing off the warm covers and groggily climbing the stairs to stand on freezing tiles in front of a cold toilet and attempting to piss through a Flak 36 anti-aircraft urine cannon trained on the sky. Again, God whimpered and then groaned, pawing at my shoulder before shoving his nose into the back of my head and snorting into my hair, his own bladder as heavy as a saddlebag full of coins, no doubt.
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