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A lab rat caged in a research laboratory at Sydney Frank Hall possesses a dysfunctional allele that renders him blind, afflicts him with oozing sores on his neck and hindquarters and makes him vomit blood every time he smiles. Last night, the rodent prayed that his disease would sustain the interest of biologist Gary Fenton and delay the inevitable moment when he will expire along with his scientific utility.
"Dear God, please continue sending me the shooting, debilitating abdominal pains that Dr. Fenton called 'a biological miracle' yesterday," the rat said, crouched amongst his own bodily excretions in a cage Fenton has never cleaned. "Bless me with another rapidly swelling boil that warrants thorough examination. Lord, I ask you for one thousand more blood tests, one hundred thousand more lumbar punctures."
"Dr. Fenton studies botany as a hobby," the desperate rodent whispered. "If
somehow you could equip my back with a miniature palm tree, or maybe just a small ficus, I'm sure he'd want to do a few more of those tests where he deprives me of food and water for eleven days while playing 'We Built this City' on repeat through a suspended speaker system that falls down onto my head every couple of hours."
Jolted into delirium by a feeding tube that electrocutes him when he eats, the rat continued, "God, I can see you listening to my prayers. You have the sympathetic face of a man who would gradually disintegrate my bones or plant an extra ear on the inside of my mouth, so that I can wake up to piss in my own water supply just one more morning."
So God gazed down from heaven, through iron and concrete and into the laboratory where this pathetic little rat thankfully endures his continued existence, and He responded, "Hey man, I'm pretty busy. There's a paraplegic motivational speaker in Queens who asked me to paralyze his arms too so that he can fill a few more seats. There' s a lovesick gas station attendant whose coworker kissed him because she pitied his one lazy eye - he thinks if I rip out his eyes altogether he'll score for real."
God continued agitatedly, "I have to deal with about a million of these
outwardly terrible, actually charitable miracles just today, and they're certainly not going to cast themselves. You think it's just coincidence that gives incurable diseases to lifelong attention seekers? Do you dare to invoke chance to explain why old ladies whose grandchildren never call them break their hips first?"
"Listen, buddy," an exasperated God nearly shouted. "Time is money. I can't spend every hour of the day making people miserable so that I can make them happy. I've got other things on my plate. Like, for instance, making people miserable solely for my own amusement."
In a silent response to God's polemic, the rat simply smiled, puked out a couple ounces of blood and fell into pleasant dreams in the corner of his cage.
