Paradox

“What now?” the alpha (Jerry) asked.

“I don’t know,” the omega (Jerry) answered. “If I’m all things, big and small, then how can there be any antag­o­nist left?”

“You could fight your­self,” the cof­fee grinder said, adjust­ing its tie.

“No,” said an over­priced paint­ing, wip­ing latte foam from its elbow, “we just had the biggest epiphany pos­si­ble. We’ve reached a state of inner peace.”

“Right,” said Jerry, grow­ing shoul­ders as broad as the day is long and pecs like steel pil­lows. “I guess there’s noth­ing left to do but get it on with the barrista.”

“But, Jerry,” said Jerry, “you’d be get­ting it on with yourself.”

Jerry shrugged, and the whole world shrugged with him. “How is that dif­fer­ent from any other night?”

“Fewer of us!” joked the Kleenex.

Jerry laughed. “Now what was her name?”

“Michelle!” all-Jerry said.

Now, a para­dox is a sit­u­a­tion that can’t log­i­cally exist, like when Marty McFly almost becomes his own father by nail­ing his mom in the car out­side the Enchant­ment Under the Sea dance.

Let’s be clear. The uni­verse hates para­doxes. It will tol­er­ate them, for a while, but the uni­verse has lit­tle patience. A man being all things in all places at all times is, by itself, would have been illogic enough to elicit a response.

But then Jerry had to go ahead and say her name.

That just pissed the uni­verse off. And when the uni­verse get pissed, believe this omni­scient nar­ra­tor, it’s quite a fuck­ing thing.

Thank­fully, the uni­verse is not with­out a sense of humor.