Hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away

Music – Olodum – Traduzida

Friday night.

“What do you want?”
“Are you busy?”
“Doing what?”
“… I’m god-bombing Paul.”
“I had a rough day at work and my therapist says I should find a constructive outlet for my frustrations.”
“Nice.” says Peter.  “He’s gonna be fucking pissed.”
“I know.”


The concept of the god-bomb was developed by a couple of us during spring break one year after we spent three days signing up our asshole neighbor Sam for every mailing list, CD and DVD club, and newsletter we could find.

The fucker has stumbled into our living room one Wednesday night high on hashish, puked on Quint’s door, and then peed in our fireplace.  He also used to listen to his shitty, shitty techno music loud at odd hours.

Revenge was more than warranted.  We got on the internet and took direct action.

By the end of April, the bastard was receiving ten to twenty pounds of junkmail a day.  He racked up several hundred dollars in bills for unreturned Columbia CD club packages.  He got everything from Walmart coupons to third-world child sponsorship forms to underground white power bulletins written by toothless rifle-toting hillbillies in West Virginia.  His living room, where the endless flyers and papers lay scattered on every surface, was a complete disaster.  It looked like somebody dynamited a Kinko’s.

After a couple of months of watching Sam clean off his porch with a snowshovel and a rake, we started feeling guilty about the acres of virgin rainforest being sacrificed for our amusement.  Our stooped and bitter mailman Walter, already an unpleasant motherfucker, got a wild, homicidal look in his eyes every time he’d see us on the street.  He’d curse us in some unintelligible Eastern European tongue, waving his yellowed, bony fingers in our faces.  Poor guy looked like a sherpa carrying an entire expedition’s worth of gear on his bent back, praying every moment that his employer would fall off some ice cliff so he could throw down this useless burden he’s been forced to bear.

One day while we sat on our porch watching Sam throw stacks of hardware catalogs and yellow pages and political propaganda into his recycling bin, two aging Jehovah’s witnesses ambled up his walkway and starting hassling him.  Sam, too polite or confused to tell them to fuck off outright, nodded and smiled half-heartedly through thirty minutes of propaganda and Watchtower reading.  Finally the Witnesses left and Sam hollered to us over the fence, “Man those fuckers are even more annoying than the junk mail.”

Our eyes went wide.  “THEY SURE ARE.” I shouted, and we ran inside and got to work.

Three days later, Sam was visited by Mormon missionaries, a Catholic priest, two Spanish-speaking Pentecostal zealots from King City, ANOTHER pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses, and a creepy lady that looked like Julia Roberts if she’d been hit in the face with a shovel and force-fed methamphetamine for a few months who claimed to be a Scientologist.  Sam had entered his name and address on their websites and then invited them all to come to his house to preach to him about their various creeds and beliefs.  Sam had no memory of this, but he chalked that up to his being drunk, high, and stupid for most of his waking hours rather than attributing it (rightly) to us, sitting in our lawn chairs laughing our asses off at his expense.

I had no idea how tenacious the missionaries would be, either.  I figured we’d get one or two days of fun out of it, but no, the jesus freaks exceeded my every expectation.  They called daily. They dropped by once a week for MONTHS.  The Mormons especially would not quit; they would stake out his house and catch him coming home from work every few days.  Sam began leaving his house by the rear window.  He unplugged his phone and put up fake Condemned notices on his door.  He bought a Rottweiller and tied it up out front.  Nothing seemed to help, though.  They showed up without fail.

Last I heard, he was forced to move to Paso Robles and change his name to Juan Carlos Fitzgerald Von Sheffield or some shit.

Thus was the god-bomb created and witnessed, and behold, it was good.

And now I’ve used it on Paul, cruelly and without provocation.  On a Friday, no less.

Lord forgive me.



One Response to “Hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away”

  1. vivajuliana Says:


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