You, you, think you could be god?

There was a certain child.

And

like most children,

he was to choose

an occupation

as quickly

as possible.

He was to develop

at the soonest possible opportunity

a hyper-specific skill

and stick to it the rest of his life.

But the first time a wise elder asked him

“what do you want to be when you grow up?”

He replied,

with all sincerity,

God.

Needless to say, they found this outrageous.

Even absurd.

The little boy was clearly insane.

You can't be God, they said.

That job is already taken.

And the retirement plan is too sweet.

And the job is even sweeter.

Besides the fringe benefits of eternal worship

and almost-universal fear,

you got absolute power and unbridled authority, (unlike those pretenders to the ultimate throne, who were overthrown.)

Apply to be god? Who would interview you?

Would god interview you for the position of god?

Why don't you apply to be John Stamos?

Or Richie Valens?

Why would god give up such a sweet gig

that only he was qualified for? They asked the boy.

I just think I could do a better job. He'd say.

You?

You?

You think you

could do a better job

of being god

than god?

He was selected for the position

for obvious and eternal reasons.

He knew the right people

and did the right things.

He was flashy, but serious.

Merciful, yet brutal.

And you

think you

have the ability

to turn a woman into salt?

Or vauge story into binding, infallible doctrine?

You are small.

You are weak.

Nobody will listen to you.

You can't bench press

or run fast

or catch things.

Your glasses always fall down

and your head scans the ground.

And you,

you,

think you

could be god?

He learned better after that.

He learned much better.

He knew the adults around him

got to their positions

by knowing the truth.

After all, that's why they were adults.