“Damn you!” he roared, as if just learning that he couldn’t create a stone that he cannot lift. A flick of his finger sent the unfortunate urban planner through the atmosphere, his body tracing an arc like a shooting star. Then Yahweh turned to the next one. “And what about you, can you fix it?” For there was indeed a problem. When Yahweh had irrevocably stipulated in Revelations that New Jerusalem would be 1400 miles high, long and wide, he did so because of his aesthetic fondness for the perfect cube. But now that construction was well underway and the Second Coming was nigh, he realized that only those apartments on the faces and especially at the corners of the cube would have a view. The rest of the chambers within the cube wouldn’t receive any natural light at all and his own throne, which was obviously at the center, would be as dark and poorly ventilated as Mother Teresa’s armpit. “No, Lord, I cannot change the laws of geometry,” squeaked the quivering voice. “Then you are dead to me!” Yahweh shouted, bringing down his giant fist on the distinguished professor from Yale with a crash that toppled buildings in Santiago and sent tidal waves over Fiji. “Bring me more! I need more experts!” Yahweh cried, wiping the blood on his beard. Jesus slipped into his sandals and left the mansion, a sheaf of resumes in hand. In moments like this it was better not to hang out at home.