The Profane Parables and Other Nihilistic Narrations by a Perverse Pariah, 5

The Profane Parables and Nihilistic Narrations by a Perverse Pariah

Offering Occasional Observations of Odd Occurrences

And an Astonishingly Annoying Amount and Application of Alliteration

The following contains explicit language, blatant disregard for social cues and expectations, violent and sexual conduct as well as numerous moral ambiguities. It is also sideways-eight-percent true in all aspects. The reader may recognize a seemingly unreliable amount of foresight in some aspects, and therefore doubt their validity. Well, everybody is entitled to the wrong opinion. Just ask Scientologists, or people who prefer Folgers in their cup. For these reasons, it should be ritualistically recited at bedside to small children, to ensure a future generation full of promising politicians, priests and food-service employees.

The evolution of life on Earth (or at least the most commonly-accepted and observationally-repeatable studies by humans regarding the evolution of life on Earth), reveal a somewhat ironic timeline. 

You see, on the First Day, about 4.5 billion years ago, God created the Earth. Over the next Five Days, about another 2.5 billion years or so, God decided to dilly-dally with the design and details of the dirty dust ball. It was a bit like making and baking brownies. Just add a few sea-tea-cups of water (He actually over poured, resulting in 75% total water coverage), hatch and egg or two, plant a few seeds, mix it all together and watch them rise in the oven. It was His college years, and space-cakes were all the rage with Zeus and the other Gods, hence the seeds. Creating Earth was actually a Home Ec. Project, somehow required for attaining His physical therapy diploma.  He thought He really hit the nail on the head with the creation of single-celled organisms in the primordial soups of the boiling oceans, but would later find them lackluster.

Understandably, He had a bit of a God-Complex. So, like the Dr. Frankenstein of the Cosmos, He gave the trite cells things like shells, fins and sensory organs. Then He added brownie-icing in the form of the sky and landmasses. He even gave some cells spines and legs. Some of these creatures stayed in the water, some developed helpful deformities like wings and became air-bound, and some walked upon the Earth. He was proud and didn’t regret His decision to stay up all night (or 231 million years) working on it.

The creatures themselves were thriving. They had developed into many diverse populations and their existences were environmentally-dependent. Some only ate meat (i.e. each other). Some only ate plants. Some were more liberal, choosing to eat both and to vote for Ron Paul. Some had skin, others had scales and scrutes, and some even had feathers. Mostly all came from eggs. They were an interesting bunch to spend an afternoon watching, although He noticed something about them later that night (or about 66 million years later) that indicated redundancy.

They were all simple survivalists. They’d all follow the same routines of sleeping, eating, defecating, fucking, procreating, being eaten and then defecated back out. Despite their differences, none had any actual emotions or awareness. They didn’t even seem to mind whenever they were challenged, conquered and consumed by a dominant predator. They all lived and died for their environments and fellow creatures, yet didn’t acknowledge The Big Guy Upstairs in any way. Not even an appreciative sacrifice of a dino-baby ever went into His name, or a single dino-witch burned in His will! He decided that these creatures, although accomplishable, were just a step in the right direction as opposed to a drive in the Divine Direction. God’s God-Complex kicked in again, and He decided to start from scratch. So, He threw a grainy pebble at the Blue Brownie Ball. It killed pretty much everything except for some ground dwelling mammals.

It was now the Sixth Day, and this afternoon was the deadline for His project. His professor had a zero-tolerance policy with late work, and He wanted to make Yahweh’s List this semester. He needed to finalize the Earth, and finalize it fast. He considered the short-comings of the previous inhabitants and remembered the words of Minerva, His Art Professor;

“Now class, remember, if you ever lose your muse, just look within yourself. Shiva, let’s be fair to the rest of the class and only use one pencil at a time.”

That was the answer. He just needed to put a little bit of Himself into the Earth.

God then created Man and gave him things like emotions, self-awareness, free-will, desire, blonde hair, blue eyes, fear, a love for Himself and essentially everything else that He had and was. Then, as an afterthought, He made woman, a slightly different rendition of Himself/Herself. Woman’s brain was bigger, but her ability to use it was often blocked by things such as club-injuries from cavemen, fist-injuries from Sham-wow salesmen and/or the resulting pregnancies. God felt rather cruel for this flaw in design, but remembered that the design was the Divine Design, and He shouldn’t question His own image. Apparently, phalluses are pure power, cut and dry and regardless of brain size. Female prostitution, on the other hand, would become the oldest profession on the planet. The entire process lasted about thirteen minutes, and was about 200,000 years ago.

He rushed to the Universal University and eagerly submitted His masterpiece, Project Earth. His professor, although agreeable with His enthusiasm, was questionable about His project’s lifespan. He estimated no more than a measly 2,130 years (less than .00003 of a second on a cosmic scale.) The cause for this, he hypothesized, was the humans. They were too much like Him, and the professor knew his Student well. He was emotionally-inconsistent, self-centered and unreasonably demanding. He even insisted upon capitalizing not only His name, but every pronoun/noun/verb in reference to Him (The professor thought it was a Family thing). Although sometimes brilliant, and capable of occasional acts of compassion, He was a bit of a dick. The B-minus grade could’ve been a solid B, if He had stopped at what the humans were calling the Mesozoic Era (It predated them, for all you dumb folk out there who are probably proving the professor’s prophecy right, like me, your Perverse Pariah).

The humans themselves would prove to be more interesting and different than the previous reigning species of terrible lizards. The whole free-will was a drastic improvement. They started learning things, like understanding the environment, and used the power of retained knowledge to become quite efficient killers. It was a long process of trial and error, and many people were poisoned by eating Puffer Fish and smoking Poison Ivy. Eventually, they started to get the hang of it, sticking to slightly less toxic things like drinking cow lactations and smoking Tobacco, making them look cool and grown up. They also showed much more self-awareness and emotional-reactivity when compared to the dinosaurs. For example, whenever a man’s caribou meat wasn’t cooked well enough, he’d be upset at his woman partner for her mistake. Alternatively, whenever a woman’s baby was aerially-abducted and eaten by a giant hawk, she’d be upset at herself for her mistake.

The other big difference between humans and other quadrupeds was an unintended consequence of the emotional free-will given to them. They actually seemed to mind whenever they were challenged, conquered and consumed by a dominant predator. They actually were rather fearful of this fate, because whenever they killed things, they seemed pretty lifeless afterwards. “What was after death anyways? Do you just become a more dominant animal’s feces? Or do you just become another animal? Is there something better afterwards? Is there anything at all?” Questions like these would change everything. Death was very scary to a race which perceived a decade as being ten years, as opposed to 0.000000021&5/7’s of a semi-second.

Just like the dinosaurs, who each adapted to their environments in different ways, humans did so as well. Different parts of the project planet yielded different results. Some humans, who were closer to the Sun, developed darker skin-pigmentation and preferred malt liquor. Others, who lived in tundra conditions, developed thicker eyelids from the sun-reflected snow and preferred Saké. Then there was also the desert-dwelling folk, who developed slightly-lighter, darker skin-pigmentation and preferred Shisha. Finally, there were those palely-pigmented people who developed nothing indigenous to an original environment since they stole everybody else’s, and preferred beer. Despite these superficial separations, however, all humans were synonymous in three regards; 1) they were all red on the inside, 2) they all knew that death was inevitable, without knowing what happened afterwards, and, 3) they were all afraid (There was actually more than three, they were also all emotionally-inconsistent, self-centered, and unreasonably demanding, as well as of limited intelligence and with a tendency to display self-destructive behavior which affected the existence’s of other life-forms around them. They really were just like Him, minus the occasional brilliance and acts of compassion).

In response to this tremendous trio, humans starting practicing strange rituals, like worship and idolization. Symbols and imagery became common, including; falcons, lightning-wielding men, the elements, a wooden plus-sign, and a bearded man adorning the wooden plus sign. Figures ranging from falcon-headed pharaohs, to Universal University professors/students, to acts of nature and magic, to bearded men, to the Big Backwards doG Himself; all were subjected to this spiritual persecution perpetuated by people on Project Planet Earth, B minus. Their routines became cycles of sleeping, worshiping, eating, worshiping, defecating, worshiping, fucking, worshiping, procreating, worshiping and then death, after worshiping and followed with worshiping. It happened over the course of two-thousand-and-fifteen years, or overnight, as He anxiously awaited tomorrow’s class and the final grade.

Meanwhile, about 13,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 light-years away (or about 33 cosmic footsteps), was I, your Nihilistic Narrator. I was walking past the Sandspot Funeral Home, probably thinking about something stupid like how you can’t spell “funeral” without “fun,” or “slaughter” without “laughter.” Did you know that “Mother-In-Law” is an anagram for “Woman Hitler?” There was a black-clad gathering of mourners entering the funeral home for the viewing of a Mr. Mason Savage, born on 01-21-1969, pronounced dead at 9-9-2015. I approached and respectfully blew cigarette smoke into a mourning woman’s face, looking cool, grown up and challenging Death to claim me. It was a surefire way to pique the sexual interest of a woman belonging to such a exclusive echelon of beauty.

Beneath the black sweater, black dress-pants and bleeding, black mascara; I saw a beautiful, busty bosom, birthing, broad hips and a not bad face. She wiped away a cheek-sliding tear that wasn’t from my smoke burning her eye, but was from actual emotion (whatever that was). She then walked into the funeral home.

Since I’m not only a Perverse Pariah, but am also a Perverted, Perverse Pariah, I immediately followed her inside. Since I’m an emo-faggot/psychic-vampire, and always attired in black, I’d have no problem fitting in as a mourner. I’d just have to pretend to feel stuff, and in about two hours (an iota of a second, in cosmic terms) I’d be poundin’ and penetratin’ and pokin’ and all the things that powerful phalluses do.

Mr. Mason Savage was a very popular person, apparently. The inside was packed tighter than Harvey Milk’s fudge. Slowly, I side-stepped and shoulder-shoved through The Black Sea in pursuit of my sex (sometimes called “love”) interest. I seemed to do so with great ease. Fitting in wasn’t a problem, since nobody noticed me. Being a emo-faggot/psychic-vampire, I was used to this. They were too engrossed with their conversations about Mr. Savage to mind me.

“He was an okay guy, and will be thought about periodically,” One man remarked.

“I knew him for about thirteen years (a smaller number in the proportional space/time continuum, life is meaningless, etc., you get It.), but I don’t think I ever really knew him,” another person said.

“He was kind of flaky, but he had a good heart when he wanted to. He’s in a better place now. Or a worse one.” One said, making the-sign-of-the-wooden-plus-sign.

“His penis was very powerful. About thirteen inches I’d say,” One beautiful woman and potential necrophile said.

Funerals were fun.

I stopped sneaking near a mantled scorpion statue and scanned the scene for my initial interest. She wasn’t crying on the couch with that group of people. Nor was she crying over by the flower pot in the corner with that group of people. I immediately recognized her black sweater among the Black Sea of Black Sweaters. She was crying over by the casket. It was an open viewing, so at least I’d have a topic to talk to her about.

I licked my thumbs, slicked my eyebrows and strutted across the room, lighting another cigarette to look cool, grown-up and emotionally-distressed. I stopped at her side.

“Man, Mason, why did you think making Pop-Tarts in the bathtub was a good idea?” I said out loud, giving the impression of being in the bargaining stage of grief (I found out the cause of death during the eavesdropped conversations).

She ignored me.

“I mean, I like the wild berry kind too! Blue and purple are delicious frosting colors! But why did you make and eat buttered toast before that?”

Still no response.

“You had to of known that you’re hands were buttery when you picked up the toaster again!” I even sobbed a little.

Nothing.

I blew a cancerous amount of cigarette smoke into her face. At least an involuntary cough contended as a response and, therefore, a potential step closer to sex.

Nothing.

Either this woman was the Queen of Cold-Shoulder or she was Helen Keller. Annoyed, I decided to look at Mr. Mason Savage, the true source of all this cock-blocking tomfoolery. What I saw was more unforeseeable than the last fifteen minutes of a 1999 M. Night Shamalayan film.

Mr. Mason Savage, dead attention-whore and cock-blocker, was me.

I, your Nihilistic Narrator and Perverse Pariah, was actually your Necrotic, Nihilistic Narrator and Post-Mortem, Preserved, Perverse Pariah.

My ghostly jaw dropped. I was dead! DEAD! D-E-A-D! On the other side! Riding the River Styx! Eating cookies with Buddha and drinking wine with Jesus and shootin’ smack with Satan and fornicating with forty virgins and everything that came with being dead! DEAD! NO LONGER ALIVE! CEASING TO LIVE! ME! YES!

I was ecstatic. I jumped up and down and clicked my heels. I even did a little Dance of Death around my mourners. I had felt rather strange all day, kind of spacey, but it was actually starting to materialize. My hands and visible “body” became all astral-like. My “head” was generating thoughts and processing information faster than a Monica Lewinsky-induced climax. Just my essence in general felt like a Monica Lewinsky-induced climax. I was, cliché as it may sound, everywhere at once. Sandspot zoomed out of Pennsylvania, Pennsylvania zoomed out of the United States, the United States zoomed out of Earth, Earth zoomed out of the solar system, the solar system zoomed out of the galaxy and the galaxy zoomed out of the universe. Time became timelessly measurable. I felt all of the feelings, fears and fervor's within the room and surrounding universe. The ones in the room were so sad (kinda) to see me go. It was somewhat flattering, albeit a tad bit selfish. They wanted me to stay around and not experience this, just for the sake of being alive around them?! If only they knew of the absolute bliss Death offered! There were no halos, or harps, or hell-fires or hell-hounds in Death! There was no existence and no non-existence in Death! There was certainly nothing to fear in Death! Death was the release into absolute being.

Then the twist-inside-the-twist happened. M.Night would be proud.

I woke up. Hazily, I saw the face of a man wearing a procedure mask.

“Welcome back to the world of the living, Mr. Pariah,” he said with smiling eyes. What a dick. “The operation was a success with no complications.”

I nodded my head, understanding. “Thazz azzum’,” the sedatives slurred my speech. My finger ached.

About a week prior, in a school art class, I victimized myself to the wrath of a box-cutter. Slipping and slicing through the middle of my left index-finger, it was a bloodbath. It was almost bloody enough to be compared to another monthly design-flaw that God gave to woman. One student even unknowingly stepped in the crimson puddle and left footprints throughout the school (It was almost like some horrific zoo, where they paint cute, bloody, tiger paw prints on the path leading to the tiger exhibit). It was one of my more astute academic achievements, as not being able to physically complete the project earned me a well-deserved grade of 100%.

Thirteen, throbbing stitches, the sequential surgery and scar, and the still-somewhat-stiff left index finger serve to remind me that the past exists. Overall, the experience was scarier than Death, so it wasn't really that scary.

It was the Seventh Day (about thirteen lifetimes-consisting-of-342-years-apiece across the unknown universe and four left turns away), at Universal University. God walked outside of the entrance doors, smoking a cigarette to look cool and grown up. Project Earth had earned Him a B minus, and He wasn’t exceptionally proud of it, but it still put Him on Yahweh’s List that semester. He looked at Project Earth, B minus, while waiting for the bus (Joan Osborne was right). Tall, phallic buildings and other hallmarks of human civilization were covering it.

“Awe, that’s cute,” He said, as if He were a human watching a developing sea-

monkey civilization, “She’ll love ‘em.”

God went on to rest during the Seventh Day. He eventually graduated college to become a physical therapist for the constellations. He didn’t put much thought into Project Earth, B-Minus anymore, because Delphinus’ divaricated spine occupied most of His time. His old roommate, Zeus, died following a speed-ball overdose in the Galactic Viper Room. Project Earth, B-Minus; however found a comfortable home atop God’s Mother’s refrigerator. It sat here undisturbed for about twenty-one minutes (Human year 2,130), until She accidentally knocked it onto the floor while attempting to swat a space-fly. She promptly swept it up and disposed it into the garbage incinerator, also known as the Sun, before Her dog could eat it.

The End.