I. The Gathering of Gods’ Ghostwriters
Once every thousand years,
three stoner-writers meet
on a forgotten bench
at the edge of collective amnesia.
Not poets.
Not prophets.
Just bored men
who once mistook hallucination for inspiration.
Their ink?
A cocktail of fermented verses
and poorly measured paranoia.
Their paper?
Whatever parchment survived
the ash of disbelief.
Their names are lost —
but you know their work as:
Old Testament. Bhagavad Gita. Quran.
Or as they call it:
Three Very Long Jokes That Got Out of Hand.
II. The First to Speak — The Old One
"In the beginning," he snorts,
“was boredom.”
I wrote Genesis on a three-day weed bender,
high enough to believe
snakes could talk
and women were ribcage origami.
Eden? A stoner's dream really.
The apple? A ridiculous joke.
Original sin?
Just the price of narcotic curiosity.
I wrote it for the laughs.
But they believed it.
They built kingdoms with it.
Used my punchlines as law,
my sarcasm as sanctity.
I made a flood a metaphor —
they made it a genocide.
I made commandments for house pets —
they carved them in stone,
killed over commas.
III. The Brown One Grins
I lit up under a fig tree
and imagined a war,
so dramatic
it needed a thousand verses
and seventeen different gods.
Krishna?
Just a celestial life coach
with boundary issues.
Arjuna?
A metaphor for that friend
who asks you for career advice
during your existential crisis.
And yet —
they memorized it.
Worshipped it.
Tattooed my punchlines on their souls
and called it moksha.
I gave them my joke book,
they turned it into caste.
I gave them poetry,
they turned it into massacres.
I laughed.
They folded hands.
Now temples drip with blood
while statues smirk in marble silence.
IV. The Desert Scribe Speaks
They say I wrote the Quran.
Truth be told, I was hallucinating
on desert solitude
and leftover wine
from a camel trader’s wedding.
Every verse was a fever,
every revelation
a badly translated dream.
Jibril?
Might’ve been indigestion.
Jannat?
A fairytale.
I thought they would get the idea
when I gave them faceless for a face
I mean, I thought the joke was obvious
And yet now they've made me unquotable
without consequences.
I wrote fire as fiction —
they lit a thousand real ones.
I said submit to the mystery,
they heard slaughter the questioners.
V. They Laugh. And Then They Cry.
“Imagine,” says the old one,
“jokes taken so seriously
they outlive the punchline.”
“Imagine,” says the brown one,
“wars fought
over spelling mistakes I never corrected.”
“Imagine,” says the desert scribe,
“beheading the metaphor
because the metaphor made you feel seen.”
They light one more joint,
roll it in old scripture.
The ashes look like prayer.
The smoke smells like genocide.
VI. And Then… A Warning
Here’s the truth:
Your gods were drunk drafts.
Your holy books,
the side effects of insomnia, unadulterated drugs, and, a lot of time to kill.
---
VII. Final Lines (Mic Drop)
So when you quote them
with trembling lips
and bloodied hands,
ask yourself —
Were you enlightened?
Or just high on secondhand fiction
written by men
who mistook madness for meaning?
Because satire, my friend,
doesn’t need a statutory warning —
unless you plan
to decimate the author.
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