He wasn’t just smoking pot.

He wasn’t just smoking pot.

Angry-GodGod was onto something that day. Well, to call it “that day” might be a little misleading since this was long before the invention of time or space. As God was still very young and active back then, millions of years indeed flitted past as mere seconds. Vast tracts of time rolled by in which nothing much happened save perhaps the odd game of wood-paddle beach tennis with the angels, or conversations about what matter might consist of one day, would He indeed decide to invent such a thing and wether it should be available on the shopping channel. This was something that occupied his infinite mind increasingly, weighing on his mood, slurring his speech, until it got to a point where God stopped talking altogether. Nor, in fact, would he play wood-paddle beach tennis anymore, to the great annoyance of some of the angels.

He said to himself; “If matter is condensed energy, then energy should be condensed… what?” . “Might it be ‘time’? Energy is condensed… ‘time’?” He thought of this for a while (billions and billions of years), scratched his mighty beard, the flakings of which are said to make up the salt of the world’s oceans to this day, and concluded that the answer satisfied him. “Good,” He said, “Good. But what then,” he continued, “will be the engine of this mighty machine? What will propel it? How can it be made into something that is not static and in stead dynamic and moving, something… living?”

God pondered and concluded that before this question was answered, there could be no creating anything. He knew also that as long as the conundrum loomed he would not be able to play wood-paddle beach tennis, for ensconced in deep contemplation, the tanned beach Angels would vanquish him every time and as the Supreme Being of all that is, was, and will be he could not tolerate this. These angels were a restless, excitable bunch as it was, prone to rebellion over trifling matters such as “How many of them could stand on a needle?” or “Who has to go and get the wood-paddle beach tennis ball when it flies off court?”

No, the issue needed to be resolved if there was anymore fun to be had in Heaven.

And so, God retreated into a husk of silent cogitation and He remained thus for billions and billions and billions of years (some sources claim it was slightly longer). This situation however could not be maintained for ever because God had forbidden the angels to play wood-paddle beach tennis in his absence, lest their unmonitored practice render any of them a better player than Him. This was not solely a matter of vanity -although He, it is said, lapses from time to time into bouts of self-aggrandizement-, no, it was simply a matter of hanging on to His reign. Eternal it might be, but these rebellious Angels could simply not be trusted on that account. And besides, time had not been invented yet, so “eternal” was not something to blindly bank on either.

Equally so, and as everybody knows, an Angel that cannot play wood-paddle beach tennis is a bored angel, and if there is something you don’t want to have loitering about Heaven, Hell, Limbo, or any other magnificent ethereal setting, it’s bored angels.

Either way, God had to come up with an answer to the enigma, sooner rather than later. “What should drive the universe? What was to be the prime mover, the source of all creation, the thrust of matter, energy, and time?” For a fleeting moment (according to recent academic research a mere five million years) He thought of simply giving up on the whole idea to spend the rest of his innumerable days playing wood-paddle beach tennis.

Deep down however he knew (for it is his job to know) that the enigma would haunt his dreams forever. His nights would be restless and ultimately this was bound to affect his performance at the game, and hence, his tenure of omnipotent rule. “There must be an answer…,” he thought, drumrolling his fingers against the side of his greying head.

Billions more years swooshed by and the angels grew ever more restless. There was talk of a referendum on whether they could decide, against His wishes, to go ahead and play wood-paddle beach tennis anyway. Some angels openly contemplated selling their paddles on Ebay.

Time was not on God’s side. A billion more years passed, and an increasing hustle of angels had given up hopes of ever playing again, when God finally emerged.

He was on to something that day. Before speaking, he scraped his voice, for he hadn’t used it for quite some time and the heavens trembled as he spoke. “I got it,” He said.

This was the moment all the angels had been waiting for and in unison, mellifluous chant they asked “What is it, God? What should drive the universe? What will be the prime mover, the source of all creation, the thrust of matter, energy, and time?” God closed his eyes and paused for effect, for He was like tha


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