Did the Big Bang outdo the ‘Supreme Bumbler’? A discussion with God at a bar in Manhattan’s Lower East Side.
I was having beers with God at a bar in Manhattan’s Lower East Side, and as was his wont, my drinking companion, who I sometimes call “El Supremo” or the “Supreme Bumbler,” talked only about himself. He began telling me about a painful episode that occurred during a quite early stage of his career…
“So there I was, taking a snooze on the seventh day, when this very loud banging noise woke me up,” God said. “The decibel level was horrible, and at last I lifted the window and yelled, ‘Whoever you are, stop making all that noise. I need to get some sleep.’”
“Sorry, buddy, but I’m creating the Universe,” a robust voice informed him.
“Hey, I’m the Creator, not you,” God declared. “I drool comets and cough earthquakes. By the way, who are you?”
“I’m the Big Bang, and I hate to say this, but what I’m doing is considerably more important than your taking a nap.”
God was offended by this remark. So offended, in fact, that he shouted, “Well, go and bang yourself, you effin’ noisemaker!”
“Just the sort of remark I would have expected from someone who imagines himself the Master of All Things,” the Big Bang observed.
“Goddamnit!” exclaimed God somewhat egotistically. By now, he was fighting mad. He advanced toward the Big Bang with both his fists raised. His opponent immediately scored a technical knockout.
When God regained consciousness, he felt like he’d been one-upped. Out-performed. Overpowered. And like he’d had his pants beaten off him even
though he didn’t wear any pants. He was even madder than he’d been before the knockout.
“Okay, you Bangaroo, I’m gonna smite you,” he said. He swung and missed. Swung and missed again. Swung and missed yet again.
“Three abortive smites, and you’re out, El Supremo,” I quipped, sipping my beer.
“There’s no need to be condescending,” God informed me, sipping his. “Anyway, I now decided to make a creature so large and ferocious that it would tear the Big Bang to pieces. What you call a T. Rex. So I took some protoplasm and molded it into (can you believe it?) a 6” upright reptilian with white whiskers and a pair of antlers. The creature was dressed in petticoats.”
Needless to say, my drinking companion knew nothing about the genes that signal developmental pathways, but I didn’t mention this to him, lest I add to his sense of defeat.
God went on. “So now I decided I would out-bang this Bang guy. I raised my voice and shouted as loud as I could.” Here he emulated that shout. The bartender came over and told him that if he didn’t keep his voice down, he’d be kicked out of the bar.
“Kicked out of the bar?” God said to me, lowering his voice dramatically. “Can you imagine? Me, the Almighty, the Supreme Being, Jehovah, the Lord and Master…kicked out of a bar!”
My drinking companion sounded so despondent that I decided to buy the next round and, in addition, change the nature of the libation. After a large gin-and-tonic, God seemed to be feeling considerably better. “Let me now tell you about the finest of all my plagues,” he declared.
Part of a series detailing Lawrence Millman’s experiences with his drinking buddy God. Soon to be gathered together, assuming a publisher is interested, as a mini-memoir entitled “Drinks With God.”
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