Here’s the rub,” Jesus Christ said as he morphed into Marilyn Monroe. Remember the picture of her on the grate in New York City, the one where her dress went flying up in the air and showed her hot sexy panties? Well, that’s what Jesus the living Christ looked like. “You don’t worship me anymore," Jesus said, "but here’s the secret of the universe: there is no eternal life, no life after death, nothing outside the void—outside the fading god you see. You and your species will fade away, too, but you’ll create a few more gods before you evaporate into nothingness because you need us—you need the concept that there is a power higher than you—something to be your guiding light, something to protect you and sheath you from your darkest fears.”
Marilyn Monroe morphed into Rose O’Donnell, smirking at me in her loud obnoxious way.
“So everything’s a dream? Life’s just a dream? You are our creation, you didn't create us? We created you?”
Jesus kicked the pebbles a bit, glanced down the mountain for one more quick look at the ham hock, scratched his left arm pit and wafted the scent of his underarms to the highest heavens, “Pretty much,” he said, “We all fade away into the cosmos, get recreated, and come back as moon rock, or a neutron, or an enema.”
“A figure of speech,” Jesus said.