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Because the truth is that my God is coming back. When he arrives I’ll be waiting for him with a shotgun. And I’m keeping the last shell for myself.
(He has the heart of a young boy: keeps it in a reliquary under the coffin he sleeps in.)
I shove my reading matter back into my messenger bag (it’s a novel about a private magician for hire in Chicago—your taxpayer pounds at work) and go to stand in the doorway.
IT IS A TRUTH UNIVERSALLY ACKNOWLEDGED THAT A SANE employee in possession of his wits must be in want of a good manager.
Unfortunately it’s also true to say that good management is a bit like oxygen—it’s invisible and you don’t notice its presence until it’s gone, and then you’re sorry.
The trouble is, you can ignore history—but history won’t necessarily ignore you.
On the other hand, unreliability never stopped anyone from using a given technology—just look at Microsoft if you don’t believe me.
To my way of thinking, an omnipotent being who sets up a universe in which thinking beings proliferate, grow old, and die (usually in agony, alone, and in fear) is a cosmic sadist.
I live free in an uncaring cosmos, rather than trapped in a clockwork orrery constructed by a cosmic sadist.
Any sufficiently advanced alien intelligence is indistinguishable from God—the angry monotheistic sadist subtype.
life is a shit sandwich, but the more bread you’ve got, the less shit you have to eat.
