"You did WHAT?" Hermes Trismegistus yells, his eyes popping.

"I threw it over the railing," Zeus says calmly. "Good riddance to bad rubbish."

"Do you have any idea what kind of POWER--" Hermes starts.

"Let it go, Hermes," Zeus says. "You're not doing yourself a whole lot of good talking to me in that tone."

Hermes takes a deep breath, counts to ten.

"That--dildo," he says, glancing uneasily over at Hera, who is fidgeting by the fireplace, "gave us power over the President of the United States."

"Do what now?" Zeus says, digging exasperatedly at a really tenacious booger up in the top corner of his right nostril. "Power over what?"

"Did I not explain this to you?" Hermes says, keeping his voice level. "Stage one was the American theocracy, run by Dionysus disguised as Satan in a Yahweh suit. We got the key, remember?"

"Uh, vaguely," Zeus says. "There! Got it!" He pulls out a most excellently bloody booger, looks at it admiringly for a moment, then wipes it on the couch.

"And then, stage two, we turned the main White House strategist, Satan's son Karl Rove, into a voodoo doll, which would enable us to control the president. And of course Hera kept it stuffed up her--um, person while we weren't using it, and that was fine. But then you apparently forgot about the plan, Zeus, and tossed the little pecker overboard."

"Yeah, well," Zeus says carelessly. "We'll get another."

"There is only one Karl Rove," Hermes says through clenched teeth.

"Whatever," Zeus says.

Hermes stifles a histrionic sigh, and leaves, thinking: we need a new head god. And I think I know just the guy to take over, when the time is right ...

Santa Fe, NM (AP)--Bill Kaul and Doug Robinson, assistant bloggers for the notorious Mullah Billdoug blog, filed a class action suit in federal court here today, charging their employer, the Mullah Billdoug, with overtime violations and inhumane labor practices.

"The Mullah was pressuring us to work 15-hour days," Bill Kaul explained tearfully at a downtown press conference today. "And he never paid us a dime in overtime, either, despite record profits for the blog."

"He made us work through lunchtime," Doug Robinson added. "And required that we die and go to heaven."

"He turned me into a cloud," Dr. Kaul said. "But I got better."

It is truly a horrendous tale the two tell, of eschatological espionage, divine weather, and ribs. Both were recently repatriated from heaven, admittedly by their employer, but without compensation for time away from their families or medical benefits.

"While I was a cloud," Dr. Kaul explained, "I had a severe gastrointestinal disorder. Was I given proper medical treatment? No I was not. Were my medical costs covered? Not a green cent."

"Worst of all," Dr. Robinson told reporters, "is that Bill and I are recovering academics. Both of us have reading and writing addictions, which Mullah Billdoug ruthlessly exploited for his own profit."

The Mullah himself, who himself has reportedly checked into a detox center run by Blogoholics Anonymous, was unavailable for comment.

Back when I used to work for Zeus, before I got "volunteered" to work for Yahweh and wear this stupid red suit, I used to see him reading on the toilet every morning. He'd have a Playboy spread out over his big hairy knees, and he'd sit there farting and gasping and reading. He always tried to pretend he was looking at the pictures, but he was really interested in the articles.

I bet he signed that affidavit, too.

Signed (without shame),
Satan

"Hi, I'm Mullah Billdoug, and I'm a blogoholic."

"Hi, Mullah Billdoug. You, uh--you're looking a bit hazy this evening."

"I know. I'm feeling a bit hazy. I've lost focus. I'm scattered over three virtual continents. My plot is out of control."

"Tell us how it all went down, Mullah."

"Well, it started innocently enough, I guess. A little twist here, a turn or two there. I had it happening. It was all good. I was adding characters left and right. But then I found that I couldn't keep the events and characters in my plot coordinated. There were too many gods, too many humans. They did whatever they wanted. They did it whenever they wanted. My sidekicks, Bill and Doug, somehow got kicked to one side. I swear I don't know how that happened. Now they snub me on the street. The unities were in a shambles. The Writer's Guild cancelled my membership. My editor of 20 years left me. I got a mysterious email from my agent's secretary saying he'd contracted some rare disease and the doctors wouldn't let him talk to anybody. My statcounter stats plummeted. Fewer page loads every day, for shorter and shorter times. Most of them stumbled onto my blog by accident, after running a Google search for "the" or "whatever," stayed three seconds, and hastily dropped a "Get me the fuck outta here" cookie as they fled. Not even the reading addicts would look at my stuff when they were out of everything else. I ended up in front of my computer with the shakes, seriously considering blogocide but still unable to stop adding characters and complications and, and ... well, that's why I'm here."

"We're glad to have you, Mullah. You're among friends."

It's still dark in heaven. I sit here on the chaise lounge with my laptop on my thighs, my fingers hovering over the keyboard in the home position. I know it's the home position because I can slide my left pinky over one to the Caps Lock key, and my right pinky over two to Enter.

Even dead, I am nothing if not a blogger.

I don't know how long I've been sitting here like this. There is no time in heaven. I don't know how long it's been since I last ate. There is neither hunger nor satiety in heaven.

Noises come from the house. I hear Mary in there crying, sometimes yelling at Yahweh, but I can't make out the words. Yahweh's voice is a low rumble, like distant thunder.

Ann Coulter and Grisha Perelman are still in the boat, I think. Judging from the rocking noises, they may still having sex--though their voices are silent. No cries, moans, or whispers. I picture it as the temporal equivalent of me sitting here with my fingers in the home position. Not exactly marking time; marking darkness.

Then the Mullah Billdoug's voice comes to me from inside my head.

Doug!

I sit up, drop my feet to the ground, set the laptop between my knees.

Mullah Billdoug?

Where are you?

Heaven, of course, I sigh. Where am I going to go?

I don't need you there any more, he says. There's more pressing business. Get down here right away.

Get DOWN there? I say. What, resurrection? Are you going to raise me from the dead?

Stop fucking around, he says. Just get down here.

But--

Recite the light poem, he says testily, as if everyone knew this. Stand up, hold your arms out, and spin around. While you're spinning, recite the light poem.

What light poem? I say. I feel like such an idiot, not knowing this stuff.

Mullah Jalal's poem, he says. Stand up. Start whirling.

Huh?

Stand up. Dance.

I stand up, move away from the chaise, start spinning around.

Now chant, he says. Say the words with me.

I drink the wine, the soul's its bottle.
First none'll come and then a lot'll.

That's not wine, I think. That's catsup.

Sing, don't think! Mullah Billdoug shouts.

Sorry.

I'm so damn drunk I can barely waddle.
Whoa! There's the light! I'd better not dawdle.

I repeat after Mullah Billdoug, but nothing happens. I'm not surprised, dumb rhymes like that.

I'm not surprised either, the Mullah breaks in, if you're still thinking about how dumb the rhymes are! Don't think, you dumb-ass English professor: SING!

So I sing it again, and keep spinning. I get dizzier and dizzier, but keep spinning. Finally, on the fifth or sixth time, something starts to happen. A sun dawns behind my eyeballs. It's so bright I want to cover my eyes. And it keeps getting brighter. And then I'm falling ...

"Ew, gross, lady! Put that thing back in your purse!"

Desk Sergeant Tilsit Unificant was used to people bringing all manner of weird shit in off the street, but this was a new low. It looked like one of those Russian dolls, a little--last year Sgt. Unificant's neighbor had brought one with Russian premiers back from a visit to St. Petersburg, Gorbachev on the outside, then his predecessors smaller and smaller on the inside, and this bald little fatty reminded him of that--but instead of smaller dolls it must have had some kind of dead animal inside. The thing reeked of three-week-old fish. And it was covered in some sort of thick viscous white slime. And the crazy woman had it lying loose in her purse!

"I most certainly will not put it back," the woman said, and stood it on the desk. It promptly fell over, and drops of white slime spattered his paperwork. Sgt. Unificant grimaced, pulled a paper towel out of his bottom drawer, dabbed at the spots distastefully. "This fell out of the sky, right into my lap. It does not belong to me. You must take it."

"Like hell I must," Sgt. Unificant said. "Get it out of here. It stinks."

"What kind of attitude is that for a police officer to take?" the woman said. "Why, this could have been used in a crime!"

"What, a skyjacking?" Sgt. Unificant scoffed. "And then the skyjackers flushed it down the toilet?"

"It's possible," the woman said. "After all, it's organic. It wouldn't have been picked up by the metal detectors."

"It's got nothing to do with whether it would have been picked up by the metal detectors, ma'am!" Sgt. Unificant snapped. "Why--this could be anything! It could be an alien, for all I know! It could be infected with some sort of horrible space disease!"

"All the more reason for it to be in the hands of the police," the woman said crisply, as if not accustomed to taking no for an answer. "Who is your supervisor, young man? Perhaps he will be better informed as to the proper duties of police officers than yourself."

Sgt. Unificant sighed, stymied. He leaned back in his chair, looked over his shoulder, caught the lieutenant's eye, motioned.

In a moment the lieutenant came over.

"What seems to be the pro--ew, what the hell is that? Get it off the desk! Did you bring this thing in here, ma'am?"

"Don't you start with me, too," the woman warned. "It's your responsibility now. Do something with it."

And she stormed out of the station.

The lieutenant stifled a gag reflect, then called to one of the uniform cops lounging nearby.

"Rosetti," he said. "Go get her, bring her back."

"Yes sir."

"And Unificant--bag this piece of detritus and have it sent to the ME. Maybe she'll know what to do with it."

"Yes sir."

Sgt. Unificant glared at the little figure malevolently, just imagining how hard it was going to be to get the stink out of his clothes and his hands after widgering it into a plastic baggie.

And then--it moved.

Cheney and Rumsfeld are blue. Blue is their love, Karl, now they're without you. Come back to them, Karl. They need you. They pine for you. So much in their lives depends on you, on your strong guidance, on your genius for evil. Where is Satan in all this? Why is he not rescuing you from the marauding Olympians? Has he too been shrunk into a sex toy for Zeus's sex kitten?

Item: the Bush Clone was programmed to send secret messages to the Christian fundamentalists. Now his secret messages seem to be directed at the pagan vote: bloggers are beginning to notice that his remarks in Thursday's foreign-policy debate were peppered with references to thunderbolts, labyrinths, showers of gold coins, and human sacrifice. Has he been reprogrammed by the Olympians?

Item: Fox News is going soft, refusing to present the White House line as the fair and balanced truth, even printing retractions and apologies and punishing one of their star reporters, Carl Cameron, for following instructions. Are the chips in their brains malfunctioning? Only Rove knows the technology well enough to assess the damage and take proper steps to remedy it.

Item: Cheney and Rumsfeld, like everyone else in the White House who is still alive after last week's Dionysian revels, have a sore butthole and a sore throat, and have been sweating Olympian sperm nonstop since it all went down. It's hard to sit down and it's hard to talk, and even Arid Extra-Dry won't keep them dry. Their clothes are sticky and they stink like a couple of piss-stained mattresses in a Victorian cathouse.

So please, Karl: if you can read this, come home. Break the spell. Invoke the mighty name of your father, Lucifer, Satan, Beelzebub, and wreak havok on those who would thwart the designs of the Bu'ushites. Come home, Karl. Come home.