“So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them.” (Genesis 1:27)
It’s really not surprising that even the present day custodians of this particular fisherman’s tale no-longer try to peddle its nonsense as something real. Ask any rabbi today and he’ll quickly tell you the Bereshit (yes, that’s the Jewish word for Genesis) is an allegorical work of fiction; a fable not to be read literally rather savoured as a poetic apologue. Only aficionados of the absurd (otherwise known as Muslim and Christian fundamentalists) still regard this work verbatim which is, as touched on in Part 1, to assume their god decays, breaks and leaks. Sorry, but no cigar. We are an evolved ape, a risen species with a completely unusable remnant of a tail in the coccyx and to suggest otherwise is pure uncut lunacy. Despite this corporeality many people do still however believe in some sort of a hands-on, nosey, meddling weaver of atoms and dreams, and that in itself begs the question: if a capital “G” God did exist and did in fact fancy itself as a bit of a designer what exactly would that creature design? How would a godly couturier approach an earthly design project titled: My Aesthetic Masterpiece? What would a God make? Itself? A Mini Me? What possible design would inspire a visiting alien biologist to holler, “Holy crap! There really is a God, and it looks like this!”
Accepting only the earthly envelope to work within a capital “G” God would (for quite obvious reasons) simply leapfrog over two billion years of bloody organic evolution and see in its mind’s eye what had worked and what hadn’t. It would, if it were good, do away with superfluous structural systems, bypass unkindly physical causations, pump up the good, erase the less flattering, energise the things that bred smiles, blot out the things that caused tears, and invariably arrive at something looking like this happy chap: a sphere person.
Now even from the observation decks of some space-going HMS Beagle a visiting alien biologist (perhaps one named Niwrad Selrahc) would see that regardless of whatever else these spheres might be they were, without question, the most successful (and colourful) life form on this blue-green marbled world. Bulbous, floating and covered with colour-shifting chromatophores and photovoltaic cells these organisms were in fact four self-contained concentric spheres which would flatten out to resemble a manta ray for cruising lazily between destinations, or more like a dolphin when (on the odd occasion) speed was required. Our curious biologist would quickly learn that these unusually extroverted, touchy-feely organisms floated on internal bladders of helium, fed (when necessary) by filtering bacteria directly from the atmosphere, converted sunlight to energy, harvested static electricity generated over their entire surface area, had adjustable 360o field of vision, could see in multiple EM light frequencies, and boasted vast deposits of extraordinarily versatile erectile tissue from which temporary limbs (as many as needed) could extend out to perform whatever tasks were required. It was however in the central sphere where the real magic took place. Floating like some cushioned gyroscope in a warmed sea of electrochemically charged placental fluid sat a giant brain encased in a ring of highly energetic, fist-sized pituitary and pineal glands that dispensed chemical cocktails like some self-rewarding chemist. The brain itself, our alien biologist would discover, was really nothing more complex than a colossal pleasure centre (a hypothalamus) and an equally gargantuan frontal lobe for advanced neural processes… a neurological arrangement which would at first elude any and all rational evolutionary explanation.
Whales are easy to explain. Meerkats are easy to explain. Even three-toed sloths and parasitoid wasps can be explained, but sphere people? Here was a sentient life form seemingly designed for just two primary functions: thinking and fucking. To our visiting alien biologist it’d sound absurd, but try as he might there really was no other plausible explanation. Only these two activities, thinking and fucking, excited the glands encircling the brain which in turn rewarded both behaviours with monsoonal showers of dopamine, serotonin and oxytocin. This creature was set up in such a way that creative endeavours were beatified with a series of thumping orgasms. Ludicrous, yes, but with a little thought and some time for it all to sink in it’d also come to make perfect sense. Just imagine the delights in learning the alphabet, the euphoric hammer blows of coming to terms with algebra, or the earth shaking exhilaration of baking your first chocolate cake. University lecture theatres would resound with yips of untold pleasure, and museums and libraries and research labs would be full-voiced choirs of ecstasy. To sphere people a simple question and answer session was the stuff of dreams… but it got even better.
Given their nearly unlimited shape shifting abilities and dexterous (temporary) appendages sphere people could (and would) engage anywhere up to seven sexual partners at once whilst simultaneously basking in both female and male-like pleasuring. Our alien observer would see that during sexual encounters the outer sphere’s thinned so direct pressure could be applied to the vast deposit of erectile tissue which would, in-turn, swell to resemble an enormous, enflamed, clitoris-like donut. No reproductive material was however passed between sphere people, and therein laid the genius of the design. This was sex for sex’s sake; existent only to foster strong community bonds. To sphere people Body Corporate meetings, to use an example, were no longer the things of drudgery and boredom rather fun-filled events where Mrs Grayson’s request for street-facing apartment window planter boxes was something worthy of careful and elaborate (orgasm-rewarded) thought. Reproduction did take place but it instead occurred by a type of mitosis triggered by the calm afterglow of sexual and thoughtful encounters. After studying a number of generations it’d become clear that just like the regenerating Dr Who sphere offspring (bulbs) retained the entire store of knowledge contained in their parent sphere meaning all cultural and scientific knowhow was passed directly from one generation to the next. This obviated the need for early childhood learning centres and meant the entire species engaged in cutting edge research and exploration which, as a happy consequence, only amplified the intensity of their orgasms.
“Holy crap! There really is a God, and it looks like this!”
In our (once sceptical) astrobiologists eyes only a devastatingly awesome God could have put all this together. His/Her/It’s fingerprints were all over it. Only a brassy, self-confident God would reward creative thought with orgasmic wallops. Only a God (no doubt a sphere itself) could fast-forward over millions of years of messy evolution and produce just the final (near perfect) product. Only a fantastically cocksure Creator secure enough in its own identity could be brazen enough to construct a species destined to know everything He/She/It knows. To do so would take balls the size of planetary systems, and any being endowed with such confidence to create a population of equals (rather than a submissive flock of beholden, fearful slaves) would be well-deserving of the title, capital “G” God.
Of course, what looks great on paper does not necessarily translate as smoothly into the working world as one might necessarily wish. Should troupes of curious space-going astrobiologists exist then trailing not too far behind their futuristic HMS Beagle’s would surely be even larger troupes of equally curious but far less scrupulous galactic businessmen; marketers, moneylenders and salesmen who’d naturally like to sweep all newly discovered star systems looking for cultural and scientific anomalies which they might be able to spin a dollar from. Upon setting foot on earth and seeing huge populations of un-guarded, non-violent sphere people (most basking in the dreamy afterglow of orgasmic bliss) any opportunistic merchant with half his wits about him would have but one idea: SALES! While the biologists weren’t looking sphere people would be hauled on-board giant freighters, hollowed out, folded up, packaged and sold as inflatable pool toys to wealthy families who lived on gated space islands out past Betelgeuse. Shortly after News of this fateful but otherwise highly profitable genocide leaked out the Sphere God would be found hanging from a tree (a difficult but not impossible act of suicide for a gelatinous sphere) with a note wedged under a rock apologising to any survivors (however unlikely) for forgetting that the rest of the universe worked by the laws of natural selection and survival of the fittest.