GOD HATES ME. ME, SPECIFICALLY.

God has had it in for me forever. I mean, he hated me before I was even born.... He knew I would have a relationship with Jesus that would end bad. God is one mean, snide old bastard. He gets off on that shit.

Now he has given me a bunch of hamsters, all who seem -- surprise, surprise -- to be lacking in the skills that hamsters are famous for, like hand to hand combat...

You know, God told me once, when he was in one of his 'holier than thou' moods, that he does indeed know where every sparrow falls and all that shit, but he hates most of them, and is secretly glad their lives are over, so he can quit pretending he loves them.

He makes no pretense toward liking the angels who make their way through the pearly gates. No. He just kind of listens to whatever you say, then throws up some stupid pseudo psychological euphamism like, "Ask a cloud, my son, and remain quiet for ten years."






God first mounted me when I was five years old. I was sleeping in my parents bed, in between them, and I woke up and could not get my legs to work. My lower half had just stopped working. Scary stuff. This went on for a year. Yea, that old bastard had those nurses stabbing me with huge needles that seemed about the size of jack hammers in my memory. Of course, he put me in a poor family out in the middle of bum fuck, and then he gave me a brain that has about as much chance of living a normal life as a toad has of becoming a mercedes (Inever claimed to write great metaphors, alright?).

At eighteen, the bastard struck again. First he cursed me with alcoholism, thinking that would keep jesus away from me... he is always trying to change the future, but he is as trapped as us, I guess. That's what pisses him off the most... he lost the ability to be surprised or filled with wonder and all that kind of rainbow colored unicorn crap. Talk about a cynic. His little creatures just disappointed the hell out of him, of course. Not all animals -- he was quite pleased wih Kiwis.

Anyways, while I was in treatment for drinking, I met a girl whose mother introduced us . . . a pretty little princess who I ended up marrying, just two years before she had her coming out party as a lesbian. I could have saved the matrriage but that surgery was just a bit much. I like my penis. My penis is my freind and yours.


Yeah, that God, had to curse me for all eternity. The evidence is so clear. I mean, once I even walked in on him and Jesus when they were talking and overheard God say, "I think you should break up with him. He's trouble. Forsake him. Forsake him I say!! If you want, I can curse the hell out of him?"


That's when they noticed me and kind of stared down into their whisky glasses (of course they are drunks, we are made in their image, you know) and after a few minutes of quiet they changed the subject to sports or something.




Anyways, back to this curse....

At eighteen, the height of my sexual potency, he made my spine fall apart and a body caste my second skin for a year. Picture a long haired turle. By the time this little curse ended, I weighed a hundred and twenty pounds and needed narcotics so bad that I cried when I was taken off of them... that masochistic freak just loves my pain, too -- he has this whole Job rap about my suffering, but he can barely say his with a straight face.

After this, then the silly marriage... something remarkable happened.... I figured I must have gotten drunk and said a prayer or something, because he pretty much left me alone all through my late twenties and thirties. While I was going on my forever journey through college, I really thought I was finally getting somewhere... but, no . . . That God, he is smart, and so he waited until I was one class away from graduating, then he reached into my spine and crushed two vertebrates so badly that the nerves are constantly on fire. Now I am always, 24 7, in pain bad enough to make you puke. And the future holds more and more knives cutting into my flesh.

God has a very strange sense of humor based on tricking people. I once saw him kill three babies for a practical joke on the parents and the doctors. He laughed maniacally at that. The angels are no better. None of them really like humans. Our name, in their language, roughly translates into 'Those Who Excrete Shit All The Time.' They don't want people to know this, but hell, they're just going to have to deal.

I learned a lot when I was dating Jesus. Went to their house for dinner and all. Angels were serving us and one of them dropped a glass of water and jesus was all like, "You are going to hell for that, bitch. I hope you learn to like hot posers in your ass, for your sake."



I tried to intervene, "Hey, where's your forgiveness man? Didn't you ever work in the service industry?"



This made them both laugh. Then god said, "Jesus work? Yea, right... a long, haired peacenik work? Hell no. I asked him to give an extra fin to the puff fish, a light blue one, and he puts it off all fucking week, says he is 'dealing with sins and shit.''

Jesus raised his hands and goes, "It is done."

I guess that was all it took to make the fin,but afterwards jesus did look kind of exhausted. Hell, I bet he couldn't run around the block without divine intervention. He smoke 96 packs of cigarettes a day, and only lord knows how much weed -- he rolls these huge bombs and hangs out down by he pearly gates greeting stoners. People think he is being followed by a miraculous cloud, but no, that is just the weed and cigs. This is the kind of thing that made me fall for him, before I knew he was a lying war monger.

I am sure god is reading this over my shoulder -- jesus too. They have no boundaries when it comes to looking at other people and reading their thoughts. I think this is something they use in indecent ways that violate any little bit of privacy you think you have. I mean, Jesus was always using his x ray vision to check out hot bods (he swings both ways of course, and sometimes he would tell me the penis sizes of all the men walking by -- and it was true, the ones who dressed the best had the smallest peckers). He can always tell fake boobs though, and this is good because I hate the way those fake ones feel.




Some days I think it would be better to die than have to take all these pills and suffer all this pain. Who wouldn't? I am totally worthless as a human being. This is because I am crippled, mostly. I guess a lot of writers fight these darker ghosts. Everyone wakes up and wonders if the pain of another day is worth trudging through, and even writing this is whiny. But I wasn't kidding, god does hate me specically. I broke up with his son who is so 'perfect' and all. Well, fuck those deities. Fuck them with satan's long, hard one...







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NEVER TRY TO DEFEND YOURSELF ON VEGETABLE MOLESTATION CHARGES. SERIOUSLY NOW --DON'T DO IT

I held up the small, dark green squash for the jury to see. For the past three hours they had heard some pretty revolting (to some) testimony about me, and now was my turn to launch a brilliant defense and bring them back into my fold. "Some see only a vegetable here. Me, I see something else... Nothing erotic, like most people would".
For some reason, this made one of the jury women kind of scowl.

"Now Me," I continued, "I have no use for this squash. None. Especially at this temperature. Room temp. or better is the general rule when boffing a veg, as I have heard from others. But me? No, I
merely see food. It is them, those who oppress me, who are actually guilty here. They have this need to sex up cute young vegetables and . . . "

The Judge interrupted at this point, telling me, "Johnny, stop rubbing yourself with the squash or I am going to have the bailiff take it out back and smash it." That judge, he was one mean bastard.

I really tried to stop rubbing that vegetable on my crotch, but it was just... A very difficult time to stop, and when I explained this to the judge, he yelled, "Mr. Pain, you have now lost the right to bring any more vegetables into this court. Now, or forever. Bailiff, take that squash from this sick bastard."

I wanted to be all non chalant about handing over the squash, because I didn't care, really, what happened to a squash -- let alone one that was much colder than room temperature. Even then, I am afraid as I started to hand over the squash, I accidentally let loose with a kind of cry of pain, or something. To be honest, though in a purely platonic way, I had grown close to that plucky little squash. Any one would have. That one was special. I guess then there was some chasing around in the courtroom. Someone was held down and forced to give up a true friend. And all during this, the judge was all, "Hit that bastard!! Knock him into next week!!" So I finally just turned that little queen over to the bailiff. . . . And I haven't seen her since.

Once everything settled down, I continued my defense with, "Some vegetables really want it." Looking the various jury members in their eyes as I spoke, I added, "We've all seen the come hither look of a summer squash, once in awhile, from time to time."

the prosecutor objected, and that damn judge goes, "Sustained!! You even go there, Pain, and I will jail you for contempt of court. Which I just may do anyways. Just for damn hell of it. I despise you that much."

"Okay," I went on, "Let's all try to remember -- as if any could forget, that glorious, glorious day that comes after thanksgiving and well before christmas, when the halloween pumpkins are all thrown out... who hasn't marveled at how the alley ways are transformed into almost surreally erotic walks of delight."

Then the judge just wouldn't let me talk anymore. I don't think that was legal, but he says it was, along with hitting me with that little hammer of his. So, as the papers made achingly clear to even my dearest old aunties, I am still doing, quote, "Community service in a vegetable free zone.' So, next time this happens to you, remember, Don't act as your own lawyer. I promise myself that I will get one everytime, and then I don't... but I'm an idiot.



THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.