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Sunday Meeting
It was a Sunday morning, alike to any of the previous Sunday mornings since the dawn of creation, and God was late to the weekly meeting, like all other Sundays, because only dumb worshippers believe that God is always on time, which is nonsense, since God is not in time, except on Sunday mornings.
God ran to the appointed room, and He was sweating profusely as He walked in under the glares of the attending angels. (Angels are never late, and dislike waiting.)
God sat down in hefty silence. “Muggy weather today, eh?” He ventured, to try and clear the air.
One angel wingpalmed. “Please not that tired joke again”, it whispered.
God pretended not to hear (though God hears everything), and grinning: “You know what? I’m going to have to freeze Hell over if it goes on like this,” He added.
Angels rolled their eyes and sighed. (They know God has no other way to fuel the universe’s expansion than burning damned souls in Hell.)
God harrumphed. “So,” He said, “who opens the show?”
A bespectacled angel raised the tip of his wing. God sighed. “Yes, Metatron, go on please.”
Metatron opened its folder and began enumerating all the cosmic facts: supernovae, black holes, galaxies’ population, Hubble constant, and so on. It was half through the minutiae of planets when God motioned it impatiently. Metatron faltered.
“My Lord?”
“Cut to the chase, for the love of Me!” God snapped. “Anything outstanding?”
Metatron shuffled its papers. “Just routine, I suppose,” it admitted.
“Alright, thanks Metatron. Who’s next?”
”Lord,” said an angel at the far end of the table, “may I have Your attention?”
God’s piercing look landed on it. Pretending not to recognise it (because God, being the Who’s Who chief editor, knows everyone in Heaven), He cocked His head towards Gabriel, who was fidgeting with its halo. “Who’s this?” He asked.
“Raguel,” Gabriel answered. “Manager for the fourth quadrant of the galaxy Milky Way.”
God’s face turned ashen. He looked back to Raguel. “Don’t tell me you have to report again on… on… that mob of morons who call themselves… err… ?”
“Men?” Raguel said.
“Yes,” God replied.
“Alas, Lord.”
“Oh come on,” God said. “I already sent them my dear and only son and—”
All the angels snickered.
God shrugged. “Alright,” he carried on, “I mean he was still one of my sons, no?”
“Purportedly, my Lord,” Gabriel answered.
God gave it an exasperated look. “You angels should’ve been allowed to lie. That would still be better than your blunt quips,” He whispered. Returning to Raguel: “— and they managed to kill him. Freaks! What’s up there that needs my urgent attention?”
“Nuclear weapons,” Raguel answered.
God cupped His face into His hands. “In the name of Me,” He sighed.
“But there’s worse,” Raguel continued.
God gave it a weary look. “What now?”
“They’re about to master fusion and discover interstellar travel, if reports I get are accurate.”
God banged on the table, so loudly that all the angels jerked back on their seats. “We can’t let that happen. Let those idiots spread everywhere and they’ll wreck that whole galaxy havoc. What do you suggest, Raguel?”
“I fear we cannot avoid obliteration. Then we could start afresh on the smaller spare we've kept.”
“No,” God replied. “That’s out of the question. It would amount to admitting I was wrong, which I never am, by definition. Something else?”
“Maybe a worldwide catastrophe? Another meteoritic collision? That would reset the clock, and maybe in time they’d build a new, better civilisation?”
God grumbled. “How many casualties do you suggest?”
Raguel scratched its head. “Total population is six billion. Anywhere between five and five and a half billion would be fine, I suppose?”
“Come on!” God exclaimed. “And what about all those new souls to accommodate? The far right already dwells upon the ‘massive influx of immigrants’, ‘cramped eternity’, ‘unravelling of Heaven’. That would just be further grist to their mill.”
There was a hush. Angels looked at one another, but no one spoke.
“This meeting is in recess,” God finally declared. “Let’s think this through and settle it next Sunday. Dismiss!”
The angels curtsied and flew away. Only Gabriel remained.
“Yes, Gabriel? An afterthought, maybe?”
“My Lord, if I may be so bold, how could you allow this mess to happen?”
God sighed. “I guess I shouldn’t nap on Sunday afternoons…”
God ran to the appointed room, and He was sweating profusely as He walked in under the glares of the attending angels. (Angels are never late, and dislike waiting.)
God sat down in hefty silence. “Muggy weather today, eh?” He ventured, to try and clear the air.
One angel wingpalmed. “Please not that tired joke again”, it whispered.
God pretended not to hear (though God hears everything), and grinning: “You know what? I’m going to have to freeze Hell over if it goes on like this,” He added.
Angels rolled their eyes and sighed. (They know God has no other way to fuel the universe’s expansion than burning damned souls in Hell.)
God harrumphed. “So,” He said, “who opens the show?”
A bespectacled angel raised the tip of his wing. God sighed. “Yes, Metatron, go on please.”
Metatron opened its folder and began enumerating all the cosmic facts: supernovae, black holes, galaxies’ population, Hubble constant, and so on. It was half through the minutiae of planets when God motioned it impatiently. Metatron faltered.
“My Lord?”
“Cut to the chase, for the love of Me!” God snapped. “Anything outstanding?”
Metatron shuffled its papers. “Just routine, I suppose,” it admitted.
“Alright, thanks Metatron. Who’s next?”
”Lord,” said an angel at the far end of the table, “may I have Your attention?”
God’s piercing look landed on it. Pretending not to recognise it (because God, being the Who’s Who chief editor, knows everyone in Heaven), He cocked His head towards Gabriel, who was fidgeting with its halo. “Who’s this?” He asked.
“Raguel,” Gabriel answered. “Manager for the fourth quadrant of the galaxy Milky Way.”
God’s face turned ashen. He looked back to Raguel. “Don’t tell me you have to report again on… on… that mob of morons who call themselves… err… ?”
“Men?” Raguel said.
“Yes,” God replied.
“Alas, Lord.”
“Oh come on,” God said. “I already sent them my dear and only son and—”
All the angels snickered.
God shrugged. “Alright,” he carried on, “I mean he was still one of my sons, no?”
“Purportedly, my Lord,” Gabriel answered.
God gave it an exasperated look. “You angels should’ve been allowed to lie. That would still be better than your blunt quips,” He whispered. Returning to Raguel: “— and they managed to kill him. Freaks! What’s up there that needs my urgent attention?”
“Nuclear weapons,” Raguel answered.
God cupped His face into His hands. “In the name of Me,” He sighed.
“But there’s worse,” Raguel continued.
God gave it a weary look. “What now?”
“They’re about to master fusion and discover interstellar travel, if reports I get are accurate.”
God banged on the table, so loudly that all the angels jerked back on their seats. “We can’t let that happen. Let those idiots spread everywhere and they’ll wreck that whole galaxy havoc. What do you suggest, Raguel?”
“I fear we cannot avoid obliteration. Then we could start afresh on the smaller spare we've kept.”
“No,” God replied. “That’s out of the question. It would amount to admitting I was wrong, which I never am, by definition. Something else?”
“Maybe a worldwide catastrophe? Another meteoritic collision? That would reset the clock, and maybe in time they’d build a new, better civilisation?”
God grumbled. “How many casualties do you suggest?”
Raguel scratched its head. “Total population is six billion. Anywhere between five and five and a half billion would be fine, I suppose?”
“Come on!” God exclaimed. “And what about all those new souls to accommodate? The far right already dwells upon the ‘massive influx of immigrants’, ‘cramped eternity’, ‘unravelling of Heaven’. That would just be further grist to their mill.”
There was a hush. Angels looked at one another, but no one spoke.
“This meeting is in recess,” God finally declared. “Let’s think this through and settle it next Sunday. Dismiss!”
The angels curtsied and flew away. Only Gabriel remained.
“Yes, Gabriel? An afterthought, maybe?”
“My Lord, if I may be so bold, how could you allow this mess to happen?”
God sighed. “I guess I shouldn’t nap on Sunday afternoons…”
Pics
The setting here could be ripe for polarization, but I was pleased that it stayed mostly neutral. At least until near the end where it did seem to take on one side of the political spectrum. (Not that it matters which direction it leans, but I think it would have been better to remain neutral.) One phrasing felt off: "wreck that whole galaxy havoc." It's "wreak havoc," and is usually phrased more like "wreak havoc on that whole galaxy."
In the end, I think it ends on a weak joke, because it's essentially the same joke it makes at the beginning. I'm not even sure I get the joke. Up front it was saying that God was late Sunday morning as usual, but doesn't suggest why he's late. Then the ending joke seems to be saying he overslept, but then it refers to the afternoon, not the morning. So it suggests a different set of circumstances as to why napping in the afternoon led to all this disaster, though I never understood the why of that. I'm left scratching my head.
In the end, I think it ends on a weak joke, because it's essentially the same joke it makes at the beginning. I'm not even sure I get the joke. Up front it was saying that God was late Sunday morning as usual, but doesn't suggest why he's late. Then the ending joke seems to be saying he overslept, but then it refers to the afternoon, not the morning. So it suggests a different set of circumstances as to why napping in the afternoon led to all this disaster, though I never understood the why of that. I'm left scratching my head.
>>Pascoite
Thanks for your comment Pasco.
Also I commend your staunch loyalty to the Writeoff. Your comments are always immensely valuable to me, and I suppose to the others too.
So many thanks for taking the time to write your invaluable feedback.
Thanks for your comment Pasco.
Also I commend your staunch loyalty to the Writeoff. Your comments are always immensely valuable to me, and I suppose to the others too.
So many thanks for taking the time to write your invaluable feedback.