Send in the Clones

Whether you want to admit it or not, there are times when you just have to feel sorry for god. Consider, if you will, that since the creation the almighty has been trying to establish some type of delivery system, some form of reliable communication whereby he can get "the word" out to his clones here on planet earth. But to date all attempts have met with unlimited, unqualified and unrelenting failure.

Poor god. It has got to be nothing but pure unadulterated, exhausting and overwhelming frustration on his part. Can you imagine how totally mortified and humiliated he must feel? Here he is this all-knowing, all-seeing, all-powerful superbeing with all the resources of the cosmos at his disposal and he can't even get a few simple laws and commandments through one quarter of an inch of human skull. Nothing penetrates. No matter what he tries, no matter how routine or how elaborate the plan of attack the result is always the same--complete and abject failure.

Poor god. Look, for example, at the number of times he has tried to communicate via the written word. No matter if he pens his message on stone tablets, gold plates, papyrus, parchment, leather, paper or what have you the end result is always the same--misunderstanding, confusion, contradiction, uncertainty and frustration.

Poor god. Over the centuries he's put his moniker on everything from epistles, encyclicals, gospels, journals, letters, missiles, parables, poems, tracts, treatises, short stories, long stories, holy books and sacred books. He's even written, or inspired madmen to write, different books for different people and different religions in different countries using different languages, different dialects and even different terminology. To add to the continuing chaos every one of his words, each and every inspired work, has been altered, amended, annotated, changed, compiled, copied, corrected, edited, interpreted, revised, transcribed, transformed, translated, cleaned-up, touched-up, updated and sanitized to such a degree that even god himself doesn't know what he said, if he did indeed say it, when he said it or even if he meant what he said when he supposedly said it.

Poor god. Now, because this omnipotent being, this great communicator in the sky, has had such a dismal and disappointing experience with the written word, the spoken word is now, once again, the latest wrinkle in the communication gambit. There was a time when only those of a status of a Moses or a Mohammed ever conversed with god. Face to face encounters were truly miraculous. But now the number of pious parasites has multiplied and holy hucksters of every ilk routinely speak to god, with god and for god.

Today it has degenerated to such a low point that anyone and everyone, regardless of which side of the asylum wall they happen to be standing on, is having a running conversation and a one-on-one relationship with their very own personal savior. But much like before, not surprisingly, everyone is hearing and receiving a different and conflicting message. Currently it's just one big funny farm--the only thing missing are the rubber rooms and the canvas kimonos. Today the din of the deluded is deafening and all-consuming.

God has created a monster in his own image and likeness and the monster is not only out of control and running amok but is reproducing and replicating like a virus--and because god can't effectively communicate with it he can't control it.

Poor god. He's made such a mess out of everything. But then he always does. Fortunately for god, however, when he gets tired and fed up with the messes he makes he just finds himself a new sandbox and starts the process up all over again. While we, on the other hand, have to stay behind and put up with his repeated and never-ending failures. Poor us.

The writer is an artist and Life Member from Florida.

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  • byline: By Norman B. LeClair

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