I'm like that guy who single-handedly built the rocket and flew to the moon. What was his name? Apollo Creed?

The other day, I was so desperate for a beer, I snuck into the football stadium and ate the dirt under the bleachers.

The proof of battle is action, proof of words, debate. No time for speeches now, it's time to fight.

Earth sounds my wisdom, and high heaven my fame.

I should rather labor as another's serf, in the home of a man without fortune, one whose livelihood was meager, than rule over all the departed dead.

But you, Achilles,/ There is not a man in the world more blest than you--/ There never has been, never will be one./ Time was, when you were alive, we Argives/ honored you as a god, and now down here, I see/ You Lord it over the dead in all your power./ So grieve no more at dying, great Achilles.’ I reassured the ghost, but he broke out protesting,/ ‘No winning words about death to me, shining Odysseus!/ By god, I’d rather slave on earth for another man--/ Some dirt-poor tenant farmer who scrapes to keep alive—than rule down here over all the breathless dead.

I've always wondered if there was a God. And now I know there is -- and it's me.