God Goes to Marriage Counseling

God Goes to Marriage Counseling

“He's also a control freak.” Sarah looked over at God and sighed. She glanced over at Dr. Darby, and caught his eye. His eyes indicated his agreement, although he remained stoic, preserving his outward display of an apparent lack of bias, in accordance with the edicts of professionalism that were vital to the success of the field of psychology in which he was involved.

Inwardly appreciative but also outwardly stoic, save for the nail biting, which she resumed, Sarah continued. “He micromanages everything. Everything that you could imagine, including even thoughts, he needs to dictate what's acceptable and what's not. That goes for everyone down here, and also for all of us up in heaven, including myself.”

Dr. Darby looked over at God and gestured in his direction. “Is that true?” He cleared his throat, then continued. “Do you feel the need to control everything that goes on in your universe?”

God, suppressing the urge to smite the infidels for their heresy, answered in his typical thunderous, authoritarian, baritone style. “No.” He then looked over at his wife and, fixing her with a stern and petulant look, said “And stop biting your nails already, for Christ's sake.”

Flummoxed, she slapped her hands against her things and addressed Dr. Darby with an exasperated tone. “See!” she began, “there you go. Not three seconds after I say that he is a control freak, he denies it and then barks an order at me.” She pointed at Dr. Darby. “You watch. I'm going to stick my nail back in my mouth and look at him. Watch him struggle to maintain his composure in front of you. If were back up at home, he'd get all pestilential and BAM three hundred people would die in a flash flood.” And at that, she did as promised. With her left index finger firmly affixed in her mouth, she resumed the nail biting and then looked at her husband.

God, feeling the eyes on him and knowing he was caught, so to speak, sat and tried to control the shaking of his body and the sudden darkening of his complexion. He started to take in deep breaths and let them out slowly, perspiring from the effort it took to control his temper. The bitch referred to his temper as his “Old Testament Baggage.” He hated that phrase. He preferred to think of his pestilential, as she called it, demeanor as righteous anger. He was god, after all. He was righteous by nature, so surely his anger was righteous, was it not? Of course it is! he thought. The bitch, or Sarah, as she liked to refer to herself, just did not understand that. What she saw as overblown temper tantrums were righteous acts of justice, perpetrated by a fair and reasonable, not vindictive and temperamental, deity. A deity who knew best, damn it, and who, on occasion, had to be tough with his flock, in order for them to learn. His creations, as perfect as he was, somehow....not so perfect. He was the eternally disappointed parent. The bitch doesn't appreciate my position, he thought, feeling a flash of (righteous) anger. No one does. He scowled at Sarah, who was still biting her damn nails and watching him, a look on her face that was half amusement and half weary trepidation.

“If three hundred people, Sarah,” he sneered, his scowl shifting momentarily to mild disgust, almost as though he had bitten into an overripe fruit, “if three hundred people died in a flash flood, I did not kill them because you were biting your nails. I merely called upon them to play their part in my plan. My comprehensive plan, which, I'll have you know, for the four thousandth fuc-” He cut the word off with a slight cough, and, his complexion darkening even further at the sight of her vindicated little smirk which appeared in response to his near slip (a smirk I would gladly wipe off of your stupid face), he continued on, amending his previous near statement. “My comprehensive plan, which, I'll have you know, for the four thousandth time, is perfect. What was the last thing you did that was perfect, hmmm?”

Sarah began to respond but was cut off by Dr. Darby. “Okay, let's get back on track here, shall we?” He affixed both Sarah and God with a gaze that he hoped reminded them that he was supposed to be in control of this particular situation, and continued on. “Why don't you, God, explain something to me. Satisfy my curiosity. You say that you are not, in Sarah's words, a 'control freak,' yet you state that everything that happens happens in accordance with your perfect plan, correct?”

God sat back in his seat and crossed his arms across his chest. He crossed his left leg over his right knee. He focused his gaze at his knee and began, silently, internally, to count to ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Still annoyed but (mostly) over his immediate urge to purge the good doc of a face, he looked up from his knee and across at Dr. Darby. Oh look, he still has the inquisitive look on his smarmy face, he thought. I should wipe that off for him.

As if sensing this train of thought, Dr. Darby again cleared his throat, and then shifted in his seat. “I just want to clarify, God, that's all. Just a little bit of clarification. It would be useful for all of in this process. Clarity is a key component of the marital rebuilding process. Without it, you're doomed to confusion, obfuscation, and, most likely, failure. I'm just trying to help, is all.”

God sat, contemplating his next course of action. He wanted to smite the bastard, but he responded instead. “Just because I have a plan that predetermines the course of events doesn't mean I'm a control freak. It just means that I know what's best, and I love you all.”

“Well, God, I must say......that really doesn't...I mean.....that's sort of a.....well....it's a non sequitor. Total non sequitor, really.” Dr. Darby swallowed. Audibly.

Sarah looked over at her husband, knowing exactly what was to come. First the look. The look that consisted of thunderclouds in his brow, a reddening of his cheeks, and a slight shake of every muscle in his body. After the look came the smiting. He would point his finger in the direction of his target(s) and then whatever retributive act he had on his mind would manifest itself. These acts ranged from things as benign as a stubbed toe to something as insidious as being disemboweled by a bull at a running of the bulls event. Or a slip of the razor at the barber's resulting in a little beheading or a nice clean severing of the jugular. Or the slide at a children's playground suddenly sprouting invisible razor blades, resulting in the child in question being absolutely shredded, with no rational, earthly explanation. And of course, for this final trick, step three. Convincing his earthly mouthpieces to assign the blame to Satan, effectively removing any and all chance of anyone being privy to the real culprit, and, more importantly, the real nature of God. Anyone but her, of course. Sarah knew that the supposed 'new covenant' was nothing but a cover up. A way for her sick, masochistic husband to continue to get his rocks off without taking any flack for it. Well, except of course from those atheists, who seem to see right through the charade. Oh, how he hates them! These thoughts were cut off by movement to her left.

Dr. Darby was shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He seemed to be in some degree of distress, although Sarah could not yet tell if it was due to pain or some other sort of discomfort. She looked over at her husband, and saw that he was watching the Dr.'s struggles with a straight face, not giving any indication that he had played a role in the current events. Of course, had the Dr. not been so preoccupied, he would have been tipped to the truth by the faint little smirk still lingering on God's lips. He was not quick enough in removing it, and so Sarah had seen it, as would have anyone else present at the time. Lucky for him, she thought. He has all the angles covered, doesn't he? She was suddenly overcome with a crushing sort of depression. Why even bother? Why come? He's never going to change.

God suddenly removed his attention from the doctor's amusing new hemorrhoid problem and focused on his wife. He had picked up her last thought (he heard all of her thoughts, being omniscient and all, he just tried to tune them out as much as possible) and realized he needed to stop doing what he was doing and start playing the game if he wanted to try and salvage what was left of his marriage. He looked back at the doctor for a moment, and the doctor suddenly stopped squirming. The doc looked at God, an accusatory look on his face, which was wiped a moment later along with his memory of the past two minutes.

Being God sure can be fun, God thought. He looked over at the bitch. Sarah, he reminded himself. He looked over at Sarah.

“Look, honey, I uh....” He fumbled for the right words. The words that would appease her and get him out of this awkward situation. Part of him was wondering why he was even bothering. He was God, for Christ's sake! Couldn't he just get a new wife? The other part of him, however, was reminding his other, less thoughtful half that he needed her around to fulfill the prophecy. And in order for the bit- no, Sarah, to be around to fulfill prophecy, he needed to appease her in the interim. And that included in their marriage. She has no problem being appeased sexually by me though, he thought, bitter. No, no, when it comes to sex, well gee golly gosh, he's just great! It's all “OH GOD, OH GOD!!” then, isn't it? And if she nee-he cut off his thought process. He needed to focus on the task at hand. How should he start, he wondered? Like the humans do? “Baby, let me explain?” No, that won't work. Oh for Christ's sake! I'm God, goddamn it! Just do it already! And with that, he turned so that his whole body was facing his wife, as opposed to just his face.

“Look, honey, you're right.” He glanced over at the doc, who was looking back at him, perplexed, although sitting comfortably again, with no recollection of a case of spontaneously generating hemorrhoids occurring in the last few minutes. “Doc, I'm going to address my wife, okay?”

Dr. Darby nodded consent. This ought to be good, he thought. He tempered his feelings with his usual outwardly professional demeanor. Stoic. Calm. Collected. Professional. Handsome. Psychologist. I'm a god in my own right, baby!

God, picking up on this thought, reminded himself to, upon the successful extrication of both his ass and his whole body from this particularly uncomfortable chair, as well as this particularly uncomfortable situation, send this jackass a reminder of just who is a god and who is a mere mortal prone to any number of ailments including hemorrhoids, ulcers, tumours, hangnails, erectile dysfunction, erections that would not go away for hours on end, crow's feet, belly button lint, the sudden appearance of ear and nostril hair and a million other things. I'll show you who's God, bitch.

Sarah looked expectantly at her husband, awaiting the usual litany of empty promises and excuses. Her expression must have given away her skepticism and contempt, for God's expression, upon seeing the look on her face, changed from the solemn look that always preceded such niceties to a look that was both infinitely more familiar and more fitting of his natural state: a scowl. The Old Testament Scowl, baby! Screw this New Testament playing nice crap. I'm God, goddamn it!

Scowling, God transfixed the bitch with a hypnotic gaze, causing her to pass out, turned, did the same to the doc (followed by some special instructions provided via auto-suggestive techniques, ensuring that some nasty little surprises would be in store for the good doctor when he woke up) threw the bitch over his shoulder, and carried her out. Therapy is bullshit, he thought. I'm God, goddamn it. I don't need no stinkin therapy. In fact, he thought, as he headed towards the door, the bitch draped across one shoulder, the 'good doc' can shove that therapy shit up his as- A devious smile crossed his lips, and rather than head out the door, God turned, calling out, “ooohhh dooooc!” as he did so....

Epilogue

Dr. Darby never practiced psychology again. He remained involved in it, however...well, psychiatry, to be exact. Just, on the other side of the table, so to speak. Well, not really a table. More like the other side of a thick steel door that closed on an 8x8 padded room. The incoherent babbling intermixed with the screaming bounced off the walls, and it is they that carry us out of this tale.

THE END

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