God: The Interviews

Creation: Day 1[edit]

God: Ah yes, the creation. It all started as a project for my evening woodwork class, but quickly spiraled into a vicious alcoholic addiction.
Interviewer: How is that so?

God: That's blasphemy! I could send you down for that! You could lose a hand in Pakistan! Where was I? Yes, when I had consumed, I found the juices of the passion fruit flowed freely in my veins. By putting these juices into cartons, and selling them on the market place every Sabbath's morn I was able to harvest enough moneys to fund a 40 day alcohol binge, which I later named Lent. Now that got my passion juices going. And my bladder's...
Interviewer: Was it then that the flow of ideas flew?

God: Fly they did, like my seed in the wind. Suddenly, hunger struck, a deadly river of humid envy, which caused me to double up in two. But once this had been stemmed by a hefty ham sandwich, the creating was begun. On the first day, one of beauty I must say, with a silky breeze in my boots and a fully flushed face from the wet dream of the night before, I said "Let there be light".

The interviewer pauses, waiting to hear more.

God: Oh no, no! Seeing that I had finished early I decided to reward myself, like a self-owned dog somewhat, with a quick drink or dozen. I then had plenty of time to lie around in a drunken stupor, entering a new world of delirium in the form of a warm crisp.
Interviewer: Please continue.

God: I shall. I started to dream. I was 15 once more, pimples upon my face, a single wispy cream hair on my chin and a criminal record the size of my beard. And that's big.
Interviewer: Please go on.

God: I may. There I was, in my bedroom when my mother entered my personal domain just as I was showing a lady friend of mine my latest paintings, which included titles such as "A Jolly Good Time", "Where Babes come forth" and "Sex, Starring Me and You", all of which were painted in my own colourful sweat. Lucky for us, she did not understand what was happening.
Interviewer: Hurry up.

God: Don't you rush me boy, or I will turn you into a digit. Probably 9. Or 8. No definitely 9. Where was I, oh yes. My mother then started to pursue a conversation whilst me and Marion were mid act. This caused many sentences to be repeated, as the sweet maid I was... showing round the gallery, as I like to call it, was screaming like a banshee stuck in a well.
Interviewer: I need to go.

God: Don't you dare leave, or I'll beat you into next week so I can beat you some more in my free time. The conversation climaxed with a scream on my part, after which my heavy panting and lack of breath caused the dialogue to cease.
Interviewer: My wife is giving birth!

God reflects, looking into space.

God: Twins! Don't drop it Mr. Doctor, you fool! Aaha, got you there. Beautiful vagina, may I add, which I may. I slowly woke from this doze with a vivid craving for sleep. The love I had first felt for the light had harshly dwindled, mostly because her hips had doubled in size since I first met her. I quickly arranged an annulment while there still was time, and bought her a shaggy bear as a replacement for myself. To celebrate it all, I soaked my beard in champagne and slowly inhaled the fumes.
Interviewer: Oh my babes, my poor wailing babes, smooth like stone, tender like meat, fresh like bread.

God: Brown bread. It was at this moment in time that I noticed I was mashed off my face, totally. I would have choked on my own vomit if I hadn't not created it at the time, thank me for that, which I did. "Jolly good fellow" I said, to start things of in a stately manner. "He's a quality persona that Godingham is", continued myself as an alter ego. "Takes after his mother, a top notch gal she was" proceeded a third, unnamed character. "Always took it in the bum, no questions asked. A quality gal."
Interviewer: Meaaaaarrrggghhh!