Is God Really Dead?

It had been another excruciatingly long and boring holiday--I spent the whole day either watching t.v. or surfing the net. So around eight o clock I decided to go ahead and take a nice evening ambulation to the park. The weather was exquisite, and there was a fine sunset to accompany my rambling thoughts. I was strolling down the path as it meandered in and out of the coves of trees that spotted the park, when I came across what looked like some sleeping transient. By this time the light was beginning to fade out, and so I leaned in to get a better look. That's when I noticed something strange about this drunken rabble. To begin with, he had a long white beard reaching down to the middle of his chest (note--this in itself is not that exceptionally odd, as many of our city's homeless have this distinction, as well as the distinction of being passed out drunk in the park), but what made this fellow truly remarkable was the flowing white robes that seemed to illuminate the space around him, along with the exceptionally wrathful look of his furrowed brow. By God! It was God!

I stood utterly still for several seconds, holding my breath, and just listening. I couldn't tell whether or not he was breathing, or what exactly not breathing would imply. Does God breathe? There was an empty bottle still occupying his half-clutched fist. Was he just sleeping one off? Or could it be...is it possible...was God actually dead? I searched the ground all around me, and found an appropriately sized stick. "Only one way to find out," I thought. Backing away to what seemed a safe distance, I pointed the stick at his ribs and gave a slight poke. Nothing. I steadied myself and again gave a jab, this time a little harder than the first. Still nothing. "Alright," I thought. "If this doesn't work then I'll know for certain he's dead." With that thought running through my head, I raised the stick high above my head, and then with all the force and precision of an executioner, I brought the stick down right across the bridge of his nose.

God shot straight up, and let fly a string of obscenities that hardly seemed appropriate coming from the mouth of the creator of the universe. As his mighty wrath came showering down upon me, I comforted myself with the knowledge that Nietzsche was wrong: God wasn't dead, he was just piss drunk.