Muriel Rukeyser said the universe is made of stories, not atoms. When one considers the prolific literary corpora of Zane Grey, Louis L’Amour, Stephen King, Agatha Christie, Isaac Asimov, and L. Ron Hubbard, it seems like she could be right. There is more life in a single Leonard Cohen lyric than most of the crab nebula–even after the settlement of the Khill’qu but that’s mostly because of their majority zombie working class.

The stories that comprise you are more powerful than any configuration of atoms–Bikini Toll notwithstanding. This makes even the most awful lies of politicians, though repulsive, adorable–like Taylor Swift.
What words could you gather to redeem yourself? Beyond excuses and explanations, what would you say to escape the responsibility for your accumulated karma? What story to quell the gods’ anger towards humanity?
The story of a boy forgotten by his busy family leaving on Christmas vacation and left home alone to fend off two addle-brained burglers? The story of a fuzzy creature bought at a magic shop who spawns horrible iguana monkeys when he gets wet? A tale of a prostitute who on her first day working meets Richard Gere and they fall in love or at least arrange to have sex in a more elaborately and descretely negotiated sex-exchange?

The stories that fill our minds are for the most part the corn filler fed to McDonald’s bound cattle: filling and unhealthy and just a reminder of our futility and imminent absorption into ungrateful bellies.
The real stories that matter to us individually are often not those found through illegally streamed videos or Best Sellers Lists. These stories are the framework of our lives and when we lose a loved one, are fired from a job over ‘druken powerpoint presentations’, embezzlement, or ‘sexual harassment of the pet store’s stock’, or have a favorite mix-tape eaten up by our Walkman we say we’re opening a new chapter in life and this means something to us. The “means something” will ever be in someway associated with a story: a memory, a family tradition told to you, a series of graffitos inked into Denny’s bathroom stalls that you encounter across the US and Canada that like puzzle pieces explain to you the whole of Reality. And these oft-clumsy and seemingly innane stories are the backbone and/or pelvis of our lives–those terrifyingly simple and fleeting flashes of story: the glow of a laptop on a lover’s face, the mortified eyes of the liquor store attendant who farted in front of you…

But there are always a few stories that can elicit the widest range of human sentiment and provoke the most daring imaginations and somehow connect people communally. This is the stuff of folklore, legend, myth, religion, good marketing. h0m-R needed to find a story from within his silicon hearts that could somehow reach such great heights if he were to appease the testy triad of gods before him.
The elements that he knew should be involved: a faithful dog named Zeke, steamy sex scenes, and cool guns. Things that he thought should not be included were: clogged sinks, detailed descriptions of smegma that go on for six pages, anything to do with Cameron Diaz, or suggestions on how to get ringworm.

The gods’ initial warm feelings towards the hybrid/queer h0m-R were cooling as he procrastinated with a mug of gin in his mouth so they transported their picnic to what would become Manitoba during the early Pleistocene.
There and then they summoned angelic choirs to sing:

It’s nine o’clock in prehistory, the regular crowd of tapirs and bison shuffle by. There’s an old near-human HyQ (hybrid/queer) sitting, makin’ love to his gin and his beer. They says, E Gads, can you tell us a memory? We know it will be a lie, as memories are most–But make it sad and it sweet and involving a love like a boy in plain prairie clothes.
Sing us a song! You’re a blind bard-y man. Sing us a song tonight. Hell, we’re all in the mood for a moody spiel and gin’s got us feelin’ alright. Now Nibb is not far, she’s a friend of all. She gives us piggy backs for free. And she’s quick with a neigh or a roll in the hay, and there’s no place that she’d rather be. h0m-R says, gods, I believe this is killing me (As the gin made a tear on his face) Hell I’d trade spots with anyone so long as I could get outta this place. Now Plumpy is a real ingratful sadist who never had time for a wife. And she’s talkin’ with Dee Dee who was a god in hell’s navy, and probably took many a sailor’s life. And the mammothses is practicing politics as the ice age slowly gets warmed. Yes, they’re sharing a drink they call loneliness. But it’s better than spears in an age of stone. It’s a pretty bleak crowd for a judgment day and the deities don’t give no one a smile cause they know that it’s death they’ve been aiming to dole. (O! To forget about life for a while!) And the arctic shrew, it mews like a carnival. And the atmosphere smells like fear. And they sit at the glacier and put gin in their maws and say, O h0m-R, what are you doin’ here? Oh, la la la, de de daLa la, de de da da.
h0m-R, tell me ’bout the grand old days
back when gods could get away with crazy
h0m-R, take us back to yesterday
When heroes blurred right and wrong
in an ungodly navy

When lovers rarely fell in love to stay
And stabbed and tricked each other, met in gardens to betray–
When gods schemed while the upright slept
And offerings of blood and fealty they had to pay
And armies were bowed to cruel fates as prey
And daddies to war went away
Woah oh, h0m-R, tell us ’bout the good old days

h0m-R, everything is changing fast
some call it progress, but it just feels like loss
And h0m-R, let’s wander back into the past
And let us all recount the cost