And boy, were they pissed off.

Why? Because they had No Control over What God Had Joined Together.

Want me, Jack London, to shut up about it, and leave you out of it? Well FUCK you. Take it up with God. I didn't choose how I'd turn out either. And Holden Caulfield didn't choose what Poems he was recited as a Child. Nor did Holden London, you Crazy Bitch. And anyway,

— Brian McCoon was Pacing the Floor, thinking about some Nursery Rhymes he'd Yet to Crack.

Rub-a-dub-dub
Three men in a tub,
And how do you think they got there?
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker —
They all jumped out of a rotten potato!
'Twas enough to make a fish stare.

And Brian was thinking, Hey! I don't want my kids exposed to this Faggot Shit!

1, 2
One, two, buckle my shoe;
3, 4
Three, four, knock at the door;
5, 6
Five, six, pick up sticks;
7, 8
Seven, eight, lay them straight;
9, 10
Nine, ten, a good fat hen;
11, 12
Eleven, twelve, dig and delve;
13, 14
Thirteen, fourteen, maids a-courting;
15, 16
Fifteen, sixteen, maids a-kissing;
17, 18
Seventeen, eighteen, maids a-waiting;
19, 20
Nineteen, twenty, I've had plenty.

— That one's about Fucking. But me, I've had a lot more than that!

Diddle, diddle, dumpling,
my son John,
Went to bed with his trousers on;
One shoe off, and one shoe on,
Diddle, diddle, dumpling,
my son John.

Well, your son is Drunk! Fucking Christ I'm getting tired of this, Brian was thinking.

Old King Cole Was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he;
He called for his pipe,
And he called for his bowl . . .

I'll just bet he did, goddammit.

Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,
Had a wife and couldn't keep her;
He put her in a pumpkin shell
And there he kept her very well.

She fucked other people; I used to love her/But I had to Kill her.

— And Brian was coming to see it as all so fucking Transparent, actually, Sex and Death, killing Field Mice by Boppin' them on the head (this was a favorite of Lori Pyatt's), wee wee wee, and y'know what? Brian was getting tired of working on his New Book, Pretty Maids All in a Row, as his other one had gotten him Nowhere except that everybody thought he was a Poofter since he'd been consulting with Roedy Green, who was a Genius, and Brian reflected, Academia Sucks. Fuck This. And he went off looking for Melanie Hassler 'cause he really wanted to Bone her, but instead he ran into Eliza Popplewell because it's a real Willy Wonka kinda World, Son, and the Pussy you get is not (in fact Very Seldom Is) the Pussy that's Good for you, just Ask your Mother. And Eliza was taking it in the Eye Hole and Brian was giving it Rough, totally DOMMING the bitch, just like a man who knew a lot of nursery rhymes (and the Bible, too) and he said, Slut! You'd do this with anybody, wouldn't you, Whore, and he got a couple of his friends over and they Drained in her butt while concentrating on Rasputin so as to Elicit a Manifestation, and then Brian McCoon took Eliza in the Cunt from behind and Behold! They all of them all of a sudden heard a Voice, one that sounded like Allen Rickman in a certain Movie, saying God Is a Woman and Shit! Fuck! Goddamn! He's RIGHT, they were all thinking, and Eliza was saying I want you to Get Me Off and I've never been this Physically Vulnerable with another Person, Rasputin and Rasputin! I want your children, all 16 of them and Brian McCoon was Barfing his Balls all up in her and Pop Goes the Weasel! He knew what he had to Write.

A Magnum Opus, online, Free, for All the World, a massive Tome about Fiend S & M D/s role-playing Bondage bullwhip hot steaming fuck-diving RELIGION, and the book, which would appear Easter Week and generate a Lot of Hits from all over the World is called God's Pussy and it's the logical summation of Christianity, Pagan Lust, Gay Priests, Russian Monks and Nursery Rhymes, 'cause the Universe is God and God has a Pussy from whence we all Spring and HEY! The Cosmic Soup from which all of us (even Jesus) came, came, is like that pussy juice you get on your tongue when you're eating out Eliza Popplewell and Praise God! Yessss!

And we're all living and breathing and slurping and fucking inside the Holy Matrix of His Pussy, and Brian McCoon was loving it just as was Jack London, and Whip me Jesus! Give me Forty Lashes, Eliza, as God's Acolyte on this here Earth, the Core of which is some hot juice, too, and you come and I come and Eugene Field and back & forth with Edward Lear and that alcoholic Bob Stevenson and that overrated wacko Billy Blake in a Pea-Green Boat to Rangoon & back, Sister, for the history of civilization is a history of wandering, sword in hand, in search of God's Pussy. In the misty younger world we catch glimpses of phantom races, rising, slaying, finding food, building rude civilizations, decaying, falling under the swords of stronger hands, and passing utterly away. Man, like any other animal, has roved over the earth seeking what he might devour; and not romance and adventure, but the hunger-need, has urged him on his vast adventures. Whether a bankrupt gentleman sailing to colonies Virginia or a lean Cantonese contracting to labour on the sugar plantations of Hawaii, in each case, gentleman and coolie, it is a desperate attempt to get something to Fuck, to get more to Fuck than he can get at home. Yes, Jack!!! This, this calls for some Creamy Pasta and a glass or three of '98 Merlot. It's all What She Has Joined Together, then, Babies, Fucking like Animals inside God's Pussy, do I hear an Amen! Amen! And that's what done Got us here, Boy.

— Because the Truth will Set You Free, even though it'll Piss you Off first.