Fyse stands at his window, gazing gravely down into the courtyard below. A sizable and hysterical crowd has assembled, with much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Clinging to one another for support they huddle yet closer, cowering from Fyse’s radiant brilliance. A lithe young lady near the front rips her clothes off in a fit of anguished emotion. “Oh Fyse, lord of all that is disembodied and floating, why have you forsaken us?”

“My children, be not dismayed. Speak thy grievances and The Floating Face shall listen.” A period of muttered consultation follows before a decrepit old man steps forward, clearing his throat.

“My Lord, we are without direction. Your erudite outpourings, with their careful smattering of wit and pithy wisdom, give structure to our dim and pathetic lives.” Murmurs of assent ripple through the congregation. “In times of weakness we turn to the Floating Face, drawing strength to resist the more constructive urges. Without you we are lost!”

“My children, do you remember nothing of my teachings? ‘The way to true sloth comes not from without, but must be drawn from a deep well of inner indolence’ – Book of Sloth, Verse I. Anyway, I’ve been kinda busy with exams of late.”

“Exams?” A feckless youth on the crowd’s periphery looks sceptical. “That’s not very godly. Plus, does any else feel this post is a bit blasphemous?”

“You dare to question me? I could smite you in a second, you know. Besides, they’re for my ‘Post-Graduate Certificate of Study in Advanced Omnipotence’. It’s all this red tape, you know. Time was one could wield absolute cosmic power straight from school, learning on the job. Now it’s all vocational qualifications and targeted learning. Er, what was I saying again?”

“You were threatening to smite me.”

“Ah yes. Cower before me, heathen! In penance you shall recite ten Hail Fyses, then bring me a Futurama DVD and half a dozen donuts. Chocolate icing, mind. Never did hold with sprinkles. Leave my sight at once!”

“But I thought deities were meant to be omnipresent, so how can I…”

“Alright, alright. That’s quite enough from you. Nobody likes a smart arse.” The youth slouches off and Fyse turns to the rest of the crowd. “Loyal disciples, rest assured that I shall return to normal service soon. You are not forgotten, but for now I must return to my desk. I’m not going to reach level 12 of ‘Ultimate Blast Billiards’ standing here, you know.”

And thus Fyse leaves the window, concluding that which will henceforth be known as ‘The Sermon in the Underwear’.