In the beginning, just for the kick of it, God decided to create the universe. Then in a nice, baritone, booming voice that echoed throughout eternal nothingness, He said, “Let there be light.” With nothing much else to do, the universe complied. And so there was light, as well as heat and electromagnetic radiation. Then came the cabbages and tunas and, of course, the humans.
Deciding that He pretty much had satisfied His creation fix, He chose a reddish nebula in which to rest. “Ahh, this is nice and warm,” He muttered as He nestled Himself among a matress of binary stars, quasars and whatnot.
Suddenly, He felt a sickening presence pop into existence.
“What in heavens are you doing, resting? Come home and clean your room!”
He heaved a galactic sigh, causing a few supernovas in doing so. “But Mother—”
“No buts. Now! If I have to drag you—” She stepped a few light years closer.
He threw His ethereal hands in a placating gesture. “Okay, okay already. No need to be so brutal, Mother.”
She started to zoom away. “Oh and clean up this silly project of yours.”
And that was the end of the universe as we knew it.
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This was actually a story I wrote about two years ago. I just found it in my stash of documents.
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