I changed the name of my novel. I haven't arrived at the exact title, but it is about God being relieved of his duties. It occurred to me after studying vision for a whole week that God can't make a descent eyeball. He can hardly make two alike. They are myopic, astigmatic; they grow old and lose the ability to see inside their own personal space. They also have built in obsolescence, so you have to buy eye care from a doctor. I think God and the doctors have an agreement. It's a conspiracy.

You can't run a shoddy universe like that. Throw the bum out!

Dear Steven

We got your interesting letter about God and optometry, and how God is failing humanity since eyeballs are not perfect. Insulting the Almighty and standing on the breakfast table giving the world the finger is not unique. It is pretty much what males do between masturbation and junior college. Not all males survive this period in their lives. Please be careful.

We consulted the Detroit Auto Priest and this is what he said:

"If God wished to make a perfect eyeball he could do so, but then there would be no optometry and no profits. This would be bad for God's economic system. The universal plan is more complicated than your pea brain can comprehend. That's what trust is about. You have to trust God and his Holy Priests. Otherwise, world order will break down and we will have to kill you for insubordination."

Please come home and have some chicken soup. Your mother keeps making the damn stuff thinking you will show up at the yurt any minute. The freezer is full.

Uncle Joe

PS. The second commandment will be published soon.

When I discovered that the red pills made you dream in high definition nanoglow, I saved a few dozen and took them last night (or two years ago) with some soma water I found in Dr. Plutus' medical bag. Just before I fell on my face against the medicine cabinet, I thought "Why would you design something that had to poop three times a day?"

When I woke up 48 hours later (maybe two weeks- hard to say) I remembered talking with God. He kept punching me in the chest with his index finger. Then he poured Holy Water on my head and made me watch old Pepsi commercials. My favorite was Jeewhiz nailed to a cross. The camera panned in for a close up and we could hear Jeewhiz say "I need a Pepsi." It was really funny. They sure could write commercials before the Collapse.

Then I thought, hey, if God made man in his own image then God had a penis, or rather he still has a penis; and that sucker must be huge. Which means he must spend half his existence looking for a vagina that can match his galactic lust, assuming that the penis works as mysteriously as the rest of God. Which means, wow this is a revelation, there must be a female God with a vast vagina because if there wasn't a female God then God would have gone totally ape shit and shredded the universe sometime shortly after the creation. I wonder why there is nothing in the literature about God's girlfriend. Or maybe the old boy did go completely off his nut and then he made the universe; that sort of makes sense.

Anyway, God said he would burn my novel for me (so I wouldn't have to) and that way I wouldn't embarrass the planet, my parents, and make Uncle Joe bang his head against a rock. Instead, God inspired me (that guy can really be inspiring) to write a modern version of the Holy Book of Rules since the last one had gotten hopelessly old and so misunderstood that males were killing each other again in huge numbers. He said I should simply call the book "The Holy Bible". I get to write this book, according to God, because he talked with me and because I am his favorite. He gave me a note (so I know this really happened). I have the note right here, Tim. It says: "Dear Prophet, Trust me. You are my favorite. You are my Chosen One. I give you exclusive publishing rights." It's signed "Mr. Universe."

Then I thought, hey, I'll bet that signature would draw big bucks on E-Bay or the Antique Road Show. Then I though, hey, those fucking red pills are powerful.

Outside the universe is more universe. The end of the circle is the beginning of the circle. Farther around the bend, beyond the circles is the Great Chain of Being. First on the Great Chain is the pond scum spirits. Then, higher on the tree of worth are the tape worm souls and common mold angels. This is followed by human being spirits, then cockroach souls, all the way up to Giant Ant Hill Heaven. Then you get the partial super beings, the major General Gods, the Upper Crustaceans, and finally you get to the top of the chain where God lives on a hill overlooking eternal stuff. That's the way people believed for centuries. But there was more.

Later, or not so later, after the Collapse, humans discovered "The Great Chain of Not Being". Then, Max Gofigure published a paper showing that beyond all the lower weak chains was the ultimate Great Non-Collection of Random Non-Sequential Not Beings. Then, his sister Madeline published the best selling scientifically fool proofed paper "The Not so Great Obscure Mysterious Realm of the Widget Witches." This was the end all and be all until Baldwin discovered a translation error in the ancient Books of Many Truths. Everyone was trying to Live in the Now, but the correct translation is "Naw". We are supposed to live in the Naw. Nobody knows what the Naw is but the ancient Egyptian hydroponic translation is Sagi Naw.

When you pass Go, God gives a great chuckle because he knows you will land on one of his houses sooner or later, and you will have to pay rent. He owns the entire Monopoly Board. If you can't pay the rent, you have to go to Hell with the rest of the poor people. If you punch God in the face and pinch one of the angels in the ass, you have to eat soap and gargle that shit. Then you have to go to trial and be judged.

So then, Tim, guess what? I ended up in a jail cell; actually the college laundry room, but the windows had bars on them and the door was locked. I had just finished standing on the breakfast table and kicking all the oatmeal bowls through the uprights, flashing my defiant middle fingers at any face that came into focus. I was yelling about the deaths that were happening suddenly from the spectacles, and God the big phoney, and the stupid ass Auto Priests and their Potential flunkies, when two Hall Rangers came flying out of nowhere and dragged me to the laundry room.

As the Rangers dragged me through the hallways on my way to the laundry jail, a cartoon airplane flew overhead. The airplane was singing: