Once, an angel accidentally fell out of heaven and landed on the Earth. As anyone who’s ever tried can tell you, it’s very hard to get to heaven from the Earth, so for the time being, the angel decided to try to blend in. It saw this as an opportunity to study up-close the creatures that it had loved so much from afar.
Unfortunately, it soon found that humans were best loved from a distance. To an eternal being, it is easy to wave aside the slaughter of millions of unimportant mortals and focus on the incredible creations of beauty from the few, as well as the impressive achievements of the race as a whole. Up-close, however, their pettiness, close-mindedness and selfishness was disgusting to a creature made of pure love.
Doubly unfortunately, the angel soon found that as distanced as it was from the source of all life, it needed to find its energy elsewhere, namely in food. Having never attended university, or indeed any school at all, the angel had no marketable skills, and its physical form was much too frail for manual labor. It did, however, have one remarkable talent. It could sing songs the likes of which the human mind could barely conceive. Up until recently, the angel had lived in the midst of the divine, and could, with its voice, conjure scenes of such sweetness and light that even the most cynical couldn’t help but listen.
Every time it sang, however, it grew more and more depressed, as it reminded itself of the beauty it would never experience again. It tried to cope with its depression in the same way humans do. It tried drugs (both pharmaceutical and otherwise), sex, TV, even religion. Nothing could soothe the soul of the poor creature. Although great damage had already been done, it adopted the human phrase “better late than never,” and quit singing to become a dishwasher. People who had heard it sing tracked it down and begged it to come back.
“You must sing for us!” they shouted, “Your gift is too good not to share! Your songs lift us up and bring us visions of a greater world than this one! Your songs make everyone better for having heard them!”
Although jaded, its love for humanity was still too great to refuse their demands, especially with the knowledge that its songs were making them better. The years went on and the angel’s light darkened, until eventually one day, it didn’t appear to sing at its appointed time. They found it in its bedroom, a bullet hole in its head and a gun in its hand.
And the people wept. Not for the angel, of course, but for themselves because now they wouldn’t be able to hear its songs.
This story is not appropriate for children because of the massive amounts of gratuitous hot nasty narcissism contained within. If you’re under 18 please leave this page and go poop in your diaper.
Kanye West ran his fingers across Kanye West’s chin, feeling his rough but perfect stubble. Hundreds of nubile servant girls waited outside in the hallways of Kanye’s palace, but to Kanye, Kanye was the only the person that mattered.
He bashfully reached out his fingers, brushing them softly against the downy feathers of Kanye’s wings. Kanye shuddered at the ecstasy imparted by the touch. It was forbidden for anyone to touch the wings of an angel such as he, and now he understood why. Overcome by pleasure, however, he didn’t care.
“I’m gonna fuck you like a pharaoh,” he breathed, “I’m gonna put your pussy in a sarcophagus.”
Kanye West was the voice of this generation, and that voice was sweet as honey to Kanye West’s ears. He reached down and unbuckled Kanye’s belt. As he slid Kanye’s pants down his legs, his eyes widened and he gasped in shock.
“No one man should have all that POW-ah,” he swore softly to himself.
Kanye took his hand and stared deeply into his eyes.
“Tonight,” he said, “I’ma let you finish.”
Everyone said I was crazy, that it was a dumb idea, that I’d regret it. My friends wouldn’t stop calling my phone, sending text messages and showing up on my stoop at odd hours, begging me not to do it. My boss fired me, saying “I don’t want someone like you working for me!” as he drank his 100 proof whiskey, straight from the bottle. I stood fast on my position, I was going to do it, and there was nothing he could do to stop me. “Get out!” he bellowed at me, before he started sobbing uncontrollably. “You’re dead to me! Do you hear me!? YOU ARE DEAD!” I left, but my will was stronger than ever.
The next day, I carried out my plan. My sister drove me down to the dealership, pleading, begging me not to as we drove. The car slowed to a stop as I opened the door. At the last minute she grabbed the back of my shirt, tears flowing down her face. I shrugged her off and walked into the dealership, her car peeling away, leaving nothing but skid marks and a broken heart. I stepped into the dealership and walked straight up to one of the agents. I looked him straight in the eye and said “I’d like to buy a Smart Car.”
You know that scene in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, where the evil Nazi henchman’s face melts off? Well that didn’t happen to the sales agent, but his lip curled a little bit and I noticed sweat breaking out along his thinning hairline. “H-h-h-here are y-y-y-your pap-pap-pap-PAPERS, just f-f-f-fill them out, a-a-a-and I’ll run a c-c-c-credit check” he stammered nervously. I handed him my drivers license and walked out of the room as fast as he could without trying to look obvious. I looked at all the Smart Cars they had in the show room. I admit that at this point, I was having my own doubts about the whole idea. I vividly recalled the sleepless nights of weeks past, up until six AM, tossing and turning, thinking about what might happen, weighing my options. I banished those dark thoughts from my mind just as the agent returned. His eyes were stained, evidence that he had most likely been sobbing uncontrollably in the back room for the last ten minutes. He handed me my license and opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, only unintelligible grunts. Sensing his question, I said “I’ll take the red one, with the leather interior.” He nodded again and scurried off. Thirty minutes later, the agent, his boss and a nun come out of the back room. The manager tries to reason with me. The nun falls to her knees, praying for my salvation. I shrug past them, grabbing the car keys and I drive off the lot.
The drive home is short, too short to second guess myself, too short to turn around and redeem myself. Light after light, turn after turn, white knuckles gripping the steering wheel, fingernails leaving permanent impressions. I get home and back into the driveway. The neighbors come outside to watch. Steven Robinson starts to cross the street but wimps out under my withering glare. I open the garage, grab the tuba case, and return to my new car. The rear hatch glides open silently as everyone watching gasps loudly. No time for pleasantries now. I grab the tuba and try to shove it in. No luck. Silently, I close the hatch and walk back inside my house, feeling every pair of eyes staring at the back of my neck. A perfect walk of shame.
I should have known.
I should have listened.
Tuba players shouldn’t buy Smart Cars.