There are concepts so horrible, so unimaginable, that once we come in contact with them, our minds become empty shells, the remains of melted ideas smudging our psyche's interior like an asshole after diarrhea, or rough anal sex. When exposed to these concepts, these viruses, our bodies shut down in such a way we can't process new information for quite some time.
I'm about to lay such a concept on you right now.
God is a huge Jim Carrey fan.
There was nothing else He'd rather do in His free time than to watch classic Jim Carrey movies. Needless to say, His favorite was “The Mask.”
Because “Fuck you,” that's why.
So, God (or as He's known: “The Boss”) is sitting at his desk, reading some Cracked.com articles on his PC, when His secretary walks in, and hands Him the news for the day.
“Sir, here are the latest developments. The clones are still attacking that American city and we don't know how much longer...”
The secretary didn't have a chance to finish, because The Boss stood up and yelled.
“JIM CARREY DIED?”
Offended by the interruption, the secretary held her tongue. Literally, she pinched her forked tongue with her insect-like claws. It was her was of displaying frustration, and The Boss often had her feeling this way.
“Yes, sir, it appears so.”
The Boss got up from his chair, sending it to the ground.
“Bring. Him. To. Me.”
You could actually see the punctuation on that line, floating in the air like little dust specks.
“Sir, there are problems for you to attend. The Backstreet Boys said they can't get Santa to learn their choreography, there's the Antichrist situation in the midst of the clone attacks...”
“I DON'T CARE! Bring him to me, NOW”
The secretary drew blood from her tongue, such was her frustration.
“Ok, Boss, I'll fetch him for you”.
“Thank you, unnamed secretary”.
The Boss looked at his desk and saw that His cockroach supply was thinning. He considered for a moment calling back the secretary and asking for some more, but He was too excited. Jim Carrey was His fucking idol! And now, they would be face to face.
The Boss straightened His chair, sat on it, folded His hands and placed them on the desktop.
Seconds turning into minutes, The Boss waited. He was very impatient for an immortal being.
What's her name, the secretary, entered the office. She was dragging a shapeless thing trapped in what looked like a burlap sack.
“What the fuck is this??” The Boss said.
“Jim Carrey, sir,” said the supporting character.
Dropping to the ground, The Boss watched the thing squirming inside the sack.
“And why is he on a fucking sack?”
“Well sir, funny story. Actually, on top of being an actor, Jim Carrey was also an alchemist. Since 1994 he's being trying to create the mask from 'The Mask.’ Apparently, when the mask was finished, he put it on his face, and it killed him. Now, in heaven, his soul took the form of a giant, mask-wearing, insect, with all of The Mask's powers. We thought it was wise to put him on the magickal burlap sack.”
Scratching the mole on His chin, The Boss considered all of this. This was a serious situation, He couldn't have an all powerful monster roaming heaven, fucking shit up.
Well, besides Him.
So, after several moments of quiet meditation, The Boss did the only reasonable, sensible thing to do, a well-thought act that would be the perfect way to handle this dire, strange situation.
He ripped the sack with a long, thin talon.
“Nooooooooooooo!” the secretary said. After her speech detailing basically the plot of this story, she earned her right to have a name. Let's say, “Johanna.”
The Mask emerged from the sack. He was a fucking big, dark green insect. The mask was a lighter shade of green than its hard skin.
“Are you God?” the masked thing said.
“Yes, I am,” answered The Boss.
“Not anymore! I'm more powerful than you ever were. I'm stronger, I'm faster, I can make my eyes pop out whenever I see a hot bitch. I'm the rightful ruler of heaven.”
Johanna looked at her boss. The motherfucking Boss. She just knew He would make this all go away.
What the fuck?
“What the fuck?” Johanna said.
“Ok. Take it. I'm tired of it anyway. You handle the fucking Drakyr, the Backstreet Boys, the fucking clones. I'm outta here.”
Johanna stayed on the floor, quivering. The Boss passed her on his way to the door.
“Just one last thing,” the former God said.
All the light returned to Johanna's face, and she smiled. The ol' sonofabitch would come through after all!
“Yes?” hissed The Mask.
The Boss reached to his back flesh-pocket and pulled out a little notebook, the kind journalists usually carry around.
“Can you give me your autograph?”
Pedro Proença lives in Brazil, and tries to write. He’s also a musician,
a gamer and,during the week, a public servant. You can find him on his
blog “The Bizarro World of Pedro” and on Facebook.