After advising a wealthy woman of fading beauty in favor of a radical hair change, the eminent psychologist was seeing her to the door when God entered his office and sat down on the couch.
“Well, goodbye, Mindy. Remember, short but not too short!” the eminent psychologist said before closing the door and turning to God. “So, you're the Judeo-Christian god, then.”
“Yeah—I don't have an appointment. Is that okay?”
“I'm screwed up, doc. I need help. Please.”
“All right. Now, tell me, what do you think is wrong?”
“Well, it's like this. What would you call someone who created a group of animals or robots for the sole purpose of worshipping him, then created an eternal realm of torment to toss them into whenever they don't follow the rules that he's always changing because they sometimes give into the drives that he gave them? Psychotic, right?”
“I don't like labels.”
“Psychotic megalomania, that's what it is, but I can't help it. It just makes me feel so—so omnipotent!”
“But you are omnipotent.”
“Am I? I don't know. If I were, wouldn't I have the power to control myself? Wouldn't I be able to see a huddled, impoverished village and resist the urge to crush it with an earthquake?”
“Surely, you have a higher reason, don't you? A purpose towards which all of your destruction tends?” the eminent psychologist said, taking an award from his bookshelf and cleaning the dust from under it.
“I'm God—I can achieve any purpose any way I want—I could cure hunger by willing into existence kittens that crap loaves of bread if I wanted—no, I choose to kill them because it amuses me. I hate myself, but I keep on doing it. Why? Why is that?”
“Okay. Judeo-Christian god, I think…”
“Please, just call me God.”
“Fine. God. I'll be frank. You hate your job, and you're doing everything you can to sabotage it. You tried being an angry god – killed a nation's first born children, turned people into salt – and they worshipped you, but it was empty, because they worshipped from fear.
“You tried being the god of Love—that worked for about a millennium and a half, but then we started walking away, following our own lives, proving ourselves more than just fawning hosannabots. The ones who stayed behind, loving you, were an unsatisfactory remnant—a bunch of golden retrievers doing idiotic tricks on the promise that, some day, you might let them sit on the couch.
“You don't know what to do. You're bored, out of ideas, and ashamed that we have so much control over you. So, you lash out, destroy and mutilate us, hoping that the universe you created will get sick of it, push back, and finally destroy you, thereby ending all the confusion.”
God sat up. “Wow—that's just—wow. You're good.”
“That's what the bus stop ads say.”
“So, you think I should…”
“Maybe you should be a normal man for a while—work and die and decompose and be done.”
“Oh no. No way. I tried that once. You guys are nuts.”
“Right. Well then, there's only one choice. End all creation, right now, yourself included.”
“Well, okay. Thanks. How much do I owe you?”
“God, what did I just say? I only need money if you don't destroy the universe… You're having doubts, aren't you? Courage, man. Just do it.”
“It's what we all want, trust me. It's tiresome, being this small. Go ahead.”
And God did, and things have made much more sense ever since.