“Embodied Aspect of the Golden Apple, Instigator of Curiosity, Chaos, and Curated Snark within the Cult of Brighter Days”
Before we start… A Note on These Parables
This is part of the Screen Door Series.
The Cult of Brighter Days is a gloriously mismatched congregation—atheists, pagans, Buddhists, progressive Christians, cosmic agnostics, and at least one guy who swears he channels divine wisdom from raccoons.
We don’t agree on God, the afterlife, or whether pineapple belongs on metaphysical pizza. What unites us isn’t belief—it’s the shared ritual of wrestling with meaning, absurdity, and each other’s typos.
These parables are personal dispatches from inside our various reality tunnels—each one shaped by a unique screen door. Some are clear. Some are stained glass. A few are barely hanging on with duct tape and spite. But all are looking out onto the same weird lawn: Abiscoridism—a philosophy of paradox, kindness, chaos, and the occasional divine fart joke.
This isn’t a manual. It’s a potluck.
Don’t look for the one true recipe—just bring something weird and honest to the table.
NOW BACK TO THE STORY…
In a tavern at the edge of the universe—wedged somewhere between the last dying star and the first bad Yelp review—there was a group of travelers who had just stumbled out of the void.
The tavern was peculiar. It was always open, always well-stocked, and always clean, yet nobody had ever seen the bartender.
Some patrons swore the bartender must exist, because the drinks kept appearing, exactly how you liked them. “I ordered a Cosmic Old Fashioned, and poof! There it was. Clearly, the bartender is just hiding in the back,” they’d say, nodding to each other as though they’d solved something.
Others argued that there was no bartender at all. “It’s a machine,” they claimed. “Or maybe the tavern just does what taverns do when left alone—serve. It’s all random, but we want patterns, so we invent someone to thank or blame when the tequila shows up with lime.”
Then there were the nihilists who believed the drinks were poisoned anyway, so who cares?
Eventually, a newcomer entered—the Trickster, wearing a hat that looked suspiciously like a Möbius strip and a smile that had too many teeth.
“Who’s the bartender?” someone asked him.
“Depends,” said the Trickster, pouring themselves a drink. “If you tip, you believe. If you don’t, you’re betting against.”
“That doesn’t answer anything.”
“Exactly!” the Trickster grinned. “But it does let you drink in peace.”
And with that, the Trickster left a golden apple on the bar, inscribed with the word:
“Cheers.”
It burst into laughter and rolled away.
Moral of the story?
Maybe there’s a bartender. Maybe there’s just really good service.
But either way—you’re still in the tavern, so you might as well raise your glass and toast to the absurdity of the whole damn thing.
