OAK RIDGE, TN – As the indescribably vast and ineffable universe laughed itself hoarse at him, Mark Sokolove, a tiny speck on a microscopic mote of dust whirling through the infinite void, shouted that he was an integral cog in the great wheel of Reality.
“I am real, and I have value!” stated Sokolove, 29, whose pathetic existence is so immaterial in the big scheme of things that the Nine Realms rang with the laughter of the gods and immortal, omnipotent alien species.
“I exist . . . I am a human being, a glorious example of life in its infinite majesty, and I affirm my place in this fucking universe!” the feeble parasite continued.
Sokolove, a Nashville native and a paralegal at the law firm of Van Hook and Whaley, screamed out his existence to the heavens after a particularly bad night of drinking and sexual rejection. The cosmos, or at least the miniscule fragment of it which heard and registered the diminutive being’s primal shout, promptly guffawed.
“Foolish insect,” thundered Belili-Jahad, one of the Seven Gods of Chaos, “thinkest thou not that thou art but a crumb upon the table of the galaxy? That thy existence is but a mote in the eye of the Ogdru-Jahad, and thy puny maunderings are as the whining of a gnat in our ears?”
“If thou dost not, thy belt doth not go through all the loops,” the eldritch abomination concluded.
“For Zark’s sake, dude—have a beer, get laid and chill out,” stated Yag’Khnaar, Great Elder of an Algolian civilization classified as a Type III on the Kardashev scale, chuckling into his tentacled beard. “At least have the good grace and manners not to yawp about the perceived significance of your meager essence. I realize your civilization is 82 billion years younger than mine, but by the Great Yugly Moonbear—lighten up already.”
Even sources close to Sokolove—less than thirty trillion light-years, to be precise—stated that his sentiments had been misplaced.
“He had a few too many that night,” stated Bob Harper, Sokolove’s coworker of five years. “Then he started saying some loony shit. He got all moon-eyed and weepy and started going on about how the universe had failed to acknowledge his existence and that without him, the whole phony outfit would just fold up and collapse into a singularity. Then he ran outside and started yelling. Poor guy just couldn’t take it anymore.”
“I really dropped the ball on this one,” stated Barachiel, Sokolove’s guardian angel, who keeps watch over the perpetually single and alcoholic paralegal from the Kepler Crater on the lunar surface some 239,000 miles away. “He was doing fine for a while. Then I looked away for six months and things went all to pieces. His dad died, he had to switch jobs after Cindy took out that restraining order, and he started hitting the bottle. He hasn’t had a date in four months. It’s no wonder he started feeling like a cosmic plaything.”
“I should have dropped in on him once in a while and pumped him up a bit,” the angel added, shuffling his sandaled feet and coughing. “It might have saved him this embarrassment.”
At press time, Sokolove was being escorted home by concerned friends, vomit dribbling down the front of his shirt as raucous peals of laughter continued to resound from every corner of the limitless ethereal planes.
“Oh, that’s precious,” stated Cthulhu, slapping his knee. “You can’t make this kind of shit up. Some punk-ass little human being actually went and said ‘I exist, and I have value’? Gawd, that just makes my day.”
Second image credit: DailyMail.