Obligatory White Space

In the afterlife you are the god of your own place, able to mold the earth as you see fit. You could create a species to populate the world, or turn it into a garden of eden where  the planet exists without interference.

Perhaps you’ll create humans again, a sandbox to play in, try and do over the events, the mistakes, that plagued civilisation and caused much woe. Interject, use your new found godly powers to right the wrongs. Stop the great floods, prevent earthquakes, save those who should have been saved the first time around.

But you find that your not completely omnipotent, so you have to start to decide who to save. Population grows uncontrollably, and people’s belief in you wavers. You find your payer waning, so the tasks you tried to perform at the beginning have to be toned down, small miracles that aren’t noticed by the people.

Maybe the lack of divine acknowledgement turns you bitter, your good intentions tainted. The people don’t appreciate the wonders you gave them.

A plague here, a natural disaster there, all the situations you swore to protect the world from you are creating. You go down to the world, to marvel in the chaos you sow in a misguided attempt to teach the people a lesson. But they don’t learn, they just run around, cursing your name. In your haste to chastise you find yourself caught in a disaster you orchestrated. You find your powers have fallen so far that you cannot save yourself, and again you die.

Awakening in the dark, time has reset. It is the beginning of your afterlife again, perhaps even a new one. Perhaps you won’t make the same mistakes again.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

‘Would I lie to you?’

My Auspicious Birth

When a ‘normal’ child is born they are whining and annoying and poop everywhere and just don’t care about the world and how they affect it with their bitching. I, however, flew out of my mother doing a rock-star power-slide in an astronaut suit as my mother exploded into a shower of blood behind me. And there was a heavenly choir, if I recall.

Now you may be wondering how I built an astronaut suit while I was inside my mother. Well that is easy. As soon as the zygote that was me began the process of mitosis I understood molecular physics; it was hard-coded into my very being (and DNA). As the cell that was me split into two, then four, then eight, etc, in an ever increasing exponential curve, I began to break down the amniotic fluid in the womb to the barest atoms and reconstructing them into metal for a workbench and power tools. Once I overcame the whole ‘not having hands’ thing I was able to use my massive mental capabilities to construct my exit vehicle: a basic metal alloy base with a three stage rocket booster and ejector seat.

So out I shot, power-sliding through the air, high-fiving the hot nurses that reacted automatically (they were far too shocked and excited to do anything else), right into the arms of the doctor, who I then slapped in the face for not lighting my cigar fast enough.

Seriously, the service in hospitals is shocking.

The Tentative First Years

My mother was slow to recover from the blood-splosion, but after a decade of intense physical therapy and black magic she was up and about and causing terror and woe where ever she walked. Thankfully while she spend her years locked up in the hospital Recovery and Condensation Ward I looked after myself. Being able to walk, articulate correctly, and cook a Michelan Star-rated meal as soon as I was freed from my fleshy prison helped immensely.

I had developed a serious cigar habit by the second month of looking after myself and wouldn’t drop the habit until I was in my mid-8’s, which accounts for my current intelligence levels.

Don’t smoke, kids.

However through my humidor-a-day habit I was able to cultivate several contacts within various drug cartels and mafia which enabled me to stockpile several hundred tonnes of guns that I would later use to buy back the diamond mines I lost in a rigged game of Scrabble, but that’s another story.

But through the drug cartels I managed to strike up a friendship with several hardcore Russian flute players and pianists. I joined them for a brief period as ‘Doc Magic: Baby DJ’, and we rocked the Kremlin several months in a row before we were kicked out for drunken and disorderly behavior in relation to a bust of Stalin and it’s detachable mustache cum merkin.

Those days were far behind me once I sobered up and returned to Australia, where my mother had finally brought herself together using the power of her dark magicks. While I was filling out the out-patient forms she killed a small nation worth of orderly (who just seemed to infinity spawn out of a corridor off screen) so I had to give her the taste of the back of my hand. She said it tasted like the Three Mile Island nuclear disaster.

The Rest of My Life

I then finished my tenure as Professor of Economics at MIT and retired to live out the rest of my days, lounging by the side of a nazi-gold sponsored beach in Switzerland.

It was a fantastic morning. The clouds were singing, the birds were fluffy and floating lazily through the air, and a soft sun shone down warming all the light touched—cracked earth and dead grass, diseased and malnourished slaves shuffled along, their monstrous master lashing their backs at the slightest misstep. The beast roared hungrily; the slaves cowered in fear as it looked over its property, deciding which limb it would wrench out of a socket for its meal—a bead of dew rolled lovingly down the green skin of the last apple of the season, the fruit waving softly as the cool breeze brushed against the branch. As if the world wanted to taste the tart juice locked away within the apples flesh, the wind kicked up, rocking the branch and evicting the apple from its home—blood sprayed across the ground as the master tore bone and sinew, seperating an arm from its owner, the pained scream of the slave joining the gutteral growl of the monster.

The beauty and horror of this world, the only thing seperating the two: an em rule.

Welcome to the May Astrology Report, brought to you by Holland Bitch Slappers! Smack your bitch up today!

Taurus

Even though it is more than a week into the month don’t think the stars have forgotten you. They will pull together and make sure your astrology prediction will come true, and all your dreams will be fulfilled.
What is your prediction? I hear you say. It involves your head, a deep fryer and an accident involving a sex swing.

Gemini - As you walk to the train station to go to work a three headed dog will guard the ticket booth. He will snarl and bite and be all mean, but all you need to do is bop him on the nose with a rolled up newspaper. Bad Cerberus!
But if you don’t do it in the right order he will eat your spleen.

Cancer - Music is your new drug. Literally. It’ll be your new blow, your new dope. But it is difficult to take. Have you tried to snort some sweet licks off a hookers ass?

Leo - Holy shit! Was that a beaver? What is it doing hiding in the sheets of your bed? They must be looking for wood. You’d better get some. Some wood, that is. This isn’t an allegory for sex. If you don’t put a block of wood in your bed the beaver will steal your skin for its dam.

Virgo - During a standard space-walk at the International Space Station you see an oncoming comet rocketing towards earth. Using a Swiss army knife you manage to stop it, but at a great personal cost: you will never be able to taste toast again.

Libra - Sitting in the middle of the road, watching the traffic serve to avoid you, you muse about life and love, right before a road train serves, jackknifes, does a sweet flip in the air, and explodes above you. Only then will you know the meaning of life.

Scorpio - While drinking a bottle of Coke you’ll start choking. How you choked to death drinking something nobody knows. It’s just embarrassing.

Ophiuchus - Using several strategic nuclear explosions, you push the sun away from the earth, saving the planet. All the nations of the world will want to throw you a parade and they will start fighting amongst themselves as to who should honour you first. World War Three breaks out because of you. So you need to find a way to make everybody get along.

Sagittarius - An award winning author will bump into you at the supermarket. They’ll apologise profusely but as soon as they look at you they will fall instantly in love. Now you have a famous person stalking you, and they are surprisingly good at it.

Capricorn - A great sickness will ravage the smooth plains and contours of your internal organs, decaying your body and eating away at your soul. But good news! You’ll win five whole dollars on the lotto. So yea… that’s something to look forward to.

Aquarius - You’ll win a motorbike. But it won’t really be a motorbike, but a transformer. But it’ll be a bad transformer. But it won’t kill you. But it will want to make sweet robot love to you. But it’ll use lube. But it’s still far too big. Then you’ll wake up and realise you’re a piece of lint stuck on the inside of a sock.

Pisces - I don’t know what to say, except this…. FISH EXPLOSION!!!

Aries - I am sorry but it’s classified.