By Matt Wolfbridge
In God’s house there’s balsamic vinegar pooling in the cracks between the kitchen floor tiles. There’s slugs scaling the shower, and varieties of wildlife forgotten by time itself live underneath the backyard deck. But worst of all are God’s kids.
God’s first biological child—he ignores his many stepchildren—is not a son but a daughter who spends her 20s working at (and then stealing from) every store in the mall. Betsy Johnson? Dresses. Garden Botanica? Candles. Spencer’s Gifts? Better not to know. He gives the daughter a sinecure at his company, which she then bankrupts. God’s worst day at the office.
God has a refrain he likes. I’m gonna need a few minutes alone, boys. He says it all the time. He’s kind of always saying it. I’m gonna need a few minutes alone, boys. He says it most emphatically when he gets back from the office and takes off his suspenders (black with little red dollar signs on them—really!). I’m gonna need a few minutes alone, boys and then he goes downstairs and his people on earth all sing.
Speaking of boys. Among the innumerable little cherubic babies, God had only one son but it’s not the guy you’re thinking of.
The son of God spends his sole eternity documenting the details of God’s house no matter how minor. What year did the cookies in the pantry expire? How many crumbs are in the bag? Whose dental records match the half-eaten Keebler elf?
When God rips a box of cereal in half how long does it take for all the Berry Berry Kix to hit the floor? How far does the creeping mold by the backdoor advance per day? How many LEGOs, to the integer, is God pouring down the central air vent as punishment for the sins of mankind?
God says he likes a clean house. If he comes home from the gym on Saturday morning and there’s a textbook on the table he’ll tear the place apart. You really think this house is clean? What about this? And this? And this? And sometimes the this is a bottle of balsamic vinegar he throws at the floor to show you just how unclean the house is and then he storms off and god’s kids all stare at each other for a while and then get cleaning because he always comes back.
At age 400 million, the son of god forgets the orientation of utensils in the kitchen drawer. An unceasing wave of silverware permutations erodes in his mind en route to an eternal nervous breakdown. Spoons, forks, butter knives, sharp knives? But we had a can opener in there. Where was the can opener? Spoons, forks, can opener...
God himself isn’t that nice, you might’ve guessed. He told his wife of 140 pounds (after around 100 billion or so children she liked to point out in her defense) she was a fat shit. He compared her to the hippo in Disney’s Fantasia: a creature whose delicate grace is wasted on her disgusting and comical obesity. We know he said this because he made sure his son had written it down in his extensive logbook along with how much money God spent on the personal trainer. God says having so many children is what made him bad but his son’s detailed records may indicate otherwise.
God’s 101st daughter monetizes her eating disorder on a fetish subreddit for female weight gain. She gives up the profession after a health scare and lives a life of agonizing silent judgment post-Ozempic. The obsessive fan who paid her hundreds monthly on OnlyFans? He’ll shoot himself in the head in the back of an Uber after murdering a placekicker for busting his parlay. Yet even then some people will insist being born is a miracle and that God is Good.
Though it’s true God’s not all bad. He hugs his children, all the many billions of them, once a year in a resort hotel parking lot (the accompanying building designed by Michael Graves!). He makes them all line up single file to run at him full speed and jump into his arms while he cheers them on. He makes his wife go last and, big strong guy that he says he is, pretends he won’t be able to carry her weight. He calls the whole ritual “the Leap of Faith.”
God drives a yellow corvette convertible he can’t afford. He’s deeply ashamed that it’s a soft top and puts it down whenever he can, even if there’s risk of rain. But at least it’s a luxury car. Like he tells the family: who’s gonna pray to a guy in a Dodge Neon?
God loves drinking at classy places—or at least ones pretending to be classy. His favorite locale has a picture of Bill Murray done up like an old-timey navy admiral hanging above one of the urinals. Classy, right? And the best part is you can drink as many beers as you want without being an alcoholic because the sign says “restaurant & bar” not “bar & restaurant.”
God goes to bed each night alone while watching sports (and the playboy channel during commercials) in the basement, savoring beers the whole time. He falls asleep mid-sip and spills the beer all over himself but God is a heavy sleeper so he doesn’t wake up. He just sits there covered in beer until he gets up at 3:00 am and stomps up to the kitchen to throw out everyone’s mail, including his own.
God’s 777th daughter has similar vices. She drinks a six pack alone every night. Always bottles. Per God’s decree, canned beer–like cigarettes—is for the young, the poor, and the stupid. She falls asleep re-watching media from humanity’s peak (the 90s) and spills beer all over herself just like her father. She will, ironically, seek comfort in the church which helps her die filled with searing rage instead of searing regrets.
God himself is still alive but not doing well. It's his feet. His spine, really. Spinal stenosis is crushing his spinal cord, killing the nerve signal to his feet and atrophying the muscles. He can’t walk anymore. Can’t hear anymore either but won’t wear a hearing aid either because he doesn’t want to look old. Besides, his hearing is fine. He repeats himself a lot. Always likes to tell you about the best ways to make marinara sauce (and he should know because he created the universe). He’s still very proud of himself despite everything.
He doesn’t think he’ll ever die but he likes to say, just in case, eh if I die, who cares?
When he used to go out more he’d dress up (God opts for a kitschy-yet-timeless wannabe mafioso look) and he’d be at the mirror asking his wife how do I look, would you marry me if you didn’t know me? And she’d say only if I didn’t know you and they’d both laugh.
God says over and over again the best part of his whole life was being a father and about that he’s telling the truth. The last memory that will play in his brain is coming home Saturday afternoon bursting through the door saying hey, you kids, Daddy’s home! while holding cold cuts, a fresh loaf of Italian bread, and a new bottle of balsamic vinegar.
Matt Wolfbridge is the founder & editor of Typebar Magazine.