Mrmph narf rmmm arpt mrrm mrmph garf arp nard mrpmphmps.

Mothra was a little bit embarrassed that God had chosen that particular day for a visit as he was wearing cum-stained boxer shorts and an old bathrobe weeks in need of a washing. He was also eating a leftover Taco Bell taco that had sat out all night.

The room smelled like day old sour creme.

‘Uh, hey,’ said Mothra.

‘Your dick’s hanging out,’ said God.

But Mothra was a smooth kind of guy, and even though he wasn’t expecting God, he decided to play it cool.

‘So what’s the haps, God?’ he asked.

‘What the hell did you just say?’ said God. ‘I told you your dick was hanging out. At least say ’sorry’ or ‘whoops’ or something. Don’t try to totally pass it off as never happening.’

‘Uh, sorry dude.’

God shook his head in irritation and wiped his hands off on his jeans. The jeans were Wrangler and God was wearing a Harley-Davidson t-shirt with the Tazmanian Devil on the back. God was also wearing leather chaps.

‘Mothra my son, I have need of you. A terrible thing has happened and I think you’re the person to handle it.’

Mothra was listening.

‘This new accountant has moved into the marketing department. His name is Godzilla and he keeps giving the people back in Hong Kong a hard time. I need you to level with Godzilla, Mothra. I need you to put him in his place.’

Mothra shrugged. It was odd that God had chosen him to take care of some goon accountant named Godzilla. But he wasn’t going to question it. He was just going to follow through. Who did this hotshot Godzilla think he was anyway?

Mothra was determined to wage a holy war against Godzilla. He clearly wanted worship of his own and wanted to draw away attention to God. Well, Mothra couldn’t have that. God had been there for him many times. Like that time at the Bar-B-Que when God pulled him out of the vat of Bar-B-Que sauce, and that time that Jesus sniped two men in black pajamas who were sneaking up behind him in Vietnam. And Jesus and God were always with him at Country music Karoake night.

Mothra was a skilled and determined warrior. And God was on his side. And though Mothra’s tale is short and bitter, promoted outright by Godzilla then cast aside from a mountain of pink slips and downsizing into an abyss of B-Movie boredom and forgetfulness, let us not forget the way things once were.

Be not like Mothra, the forgotten son.

I was on the phone at work with a man from Tennessee. I don’t recall his problem immediately, as it was not very important and I was tired, so his problem doesn’t register importance in my mind.

That’s not why the call was memorable.

As we were finishing up the customer said ‘can I ask you a religious question?’

Paying only partial attention at this point, humming the guitar part of Sebadoh’s ‘It’s All You’ in the back of my mind, I agreed. I didn’t realize he actually meant religious.

‘Whereabouts are you located at?’ he asked me. He said he was impressed that he’d actually ‘talked to someone who knew what they were doing over there.’ That comment threw me for a loop, but I continued talking anyway.

‘Oh, Omaha, Nebraska,’ I said.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘And how do they believe about getting into heaven or going to hell over there?’

This question did more than throw me for a loop. This question derailed my train of thought completely. That’s when it occurred to me that he didn’t think I was in the United States. He thought I was at one of our call centers overseas, probably in India or The Phillipines. He probably saw that 20/20 episode where American Linguists were teaching Indians to speak with regional accents. I decided not to say anything about location. He either didn’t hear me say ‘Nebraska’, didn’t believe I was in Nebraska, or just being from Kentucky, didn’t know there was a Nebraksa. I don’t know.

‘Do you believe in heaven or hell?’

Well, we have rules about talking about this kind of stuff on the phone, as generally it’s ok to talk with the customer if you’d like to, but we are a captive audience so we can discourage customers from talking to us about such nonsense if we choose.

I decided to be as polite as I could.

‘I’d rather not talk about this on the telephone, sir,’ I said.

‘I know you probably have rules against this,’ he continued, being presumptious and getting far more annoying. But I maintained civility.

‘I appreciate the sentiment sir, but I’d rather not discuss this over the telephone.’

‘Jesus said: I am the light of the world. Whoever believes in me will never walk in darkness.’

By this point I’m muffling laughter, and trying to picture what this guy who decided to witness to his technical support looks like. I keep imagining those inbred guys from Deliverance.

‘I’ll be,’ I said, promptly biting down on my fist, keeping my composure.

‘Thank you and god bless,’ he said.

And that was the end of our call. My next call was also not memorable until the very end. I was getting ready to go to lunch after the call ended, and my customer asked if he could tell me some jokes. Since I was going to lunch anyway, I figured that a little bit of bullshit time wouldn’t be a big deal.

Most of the jokes were pretty bad. As in unfunny. But the last one he told I thought was pretty good, and it goes like this:

Q: What do you call a naked blonde that’s standing on her head?

A: A Brunette with bad breath.

Now, that’s what I call comedy.

This job requires a certain kind

of psychosis

and I know that I have it-

22 months now and I

don’t even know where all that time

went.

They seated me with a

new guy the other day

for just a little bit

to show him the ropes

and all I could think about

was how he won’t last

4 months in this job.

We’ll hear all about it

from him before it happens

I imagine.

Another victim of the customer service industry

who went home and stuck his head

in the oven because he

couldn’t take it anymore.

And then they shipped his job overseas

somewhere to a guy named Haji

who couldn’t afford an oven

to stick his head in.

Just another name.

Just another number.

I’ve been losing count these days.

I’ve worked here for almost two years

and they call me an ‘old war horse’

but I don’t even know what war

I’m fighting in.

Clock in. Zone out.

eight hours a day

forty hours a week

Clock out. Zone in.

live for a little bit.

Clock in. Zone out.

I’m unaffected and my

resentments are undetected

and I’m just a model employee

and no one questions it.

Clock out. Zone in.

much to my chagrin tommorow

I’lll wake up and do it all again

two goddamn years and I haven’t even

changed my schedule.

Clock in. Zone out.

a paycheck

health insurance

car payments

food

a roof over my head

is what this is all about anyway

Clock in. Zone out.

Take fifteen

Zone in. Clock out.

in in in

out out out

in out in out in out in out in out in out

inoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinoutinout

a rhythm like fucking

and fighting

and leaving

and coming.

and going again.

Tenacity is on my side.

Voraciousness and obsessiveness are my

companions as I trudge through this desert

my co-workers dropping like flies

in a mountain of

pink slips

guilt trips

frustration

and malaise

three to six months at a time

median.

But somehow I’m still here.

I don’t totally understand why or how

but here I am

an ‘old war horse’

fighting a war against

whatever.

A sigh.

A shrug.

A fifteen minute break.

Clock in. Zone out. Clock out. Zone in.

Again and again and again and again

ad naseum.

all

for

another

paycheck

while

waiting

silently

to

scream.

Somewhere

Half way around the world

Haji just built himself an oven.