How many do you know?
Once, when I was doing mescaline at the Burning Man next to the orgy tent, I was having a conversation with my good friend Barto. Good guy, Barto. He had a head the size of a grapefruit and was missing six fingers. Polydactylism had netted him a net loss of only 2 digits, however. His hands were always a mess. Fingers everywhere. Don't know how he lost the others.
Anyway, I had just finished vomiting into Barto's hat when I saw Kali, the Indian goddess of death. She was floating above a pile of infant skulls and wielding a bottle of bacon flavored vodka in one taloned hand, a phallic chainsaw in the other, and the rest held various scrotal sacks harvested by my ex wives. She sneered at me in a bacon alcohol induced delirium of matriarchal fury and demanded I stab myself in the gizzards with Barto's trusty swiss army knife.
I awoke sometime later in Barto's tent clutching a bloody patch of duct tape over my spleen. I remember Barto saying, "you're lucky I know first aid."
My brush with the divine had left me dazed. Confused. I couldn't tell what was going on. I remember wondering what I'd find when I peeled back the duct tape. A wound or some strange Indian stigmata.
Anyway,
Gods don't like it when you don't believe in them. They also get touchy when you throw up and wet yourself at the same time when they're trying to show you their scrotal collection. I don't know about a creator of a universe, but I do know that
I'm a believer.
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