"How together is my shit?" A question that has been plaguing humanity since the very dawn of time. Oggy, the first cave woman, used to parade around in the altogether giving orders, and if people didn't do what she said, she would hit them with her club. All the other cave persons assumed she must have her shit together, what with the way she could make that intimidating face and wield her club. When she died they hadn't discovered writing yet, but if they had, they would have written, "Oggy: she had her shit together, no doubt," on her headstone.
Many years later, when people were still not wearing underpants, but had discovered waffles, a philosopher called Liebnitz, claimed not only that he had his shit together, but that God did too. You could tell God had his shit together because, so the argument goes, if God didn't have his shit together then nobody did, and since clearly God had his shit together, then he must exist.
It took modern philosophers many anum, (that's "years" for those of you who failed to take Latin. And shame on you, by the way) to dismantle this argument. Even Bertrand Russell assumed it was valid until one day, while walking by the sea, a bird shat on his head. This changed his thinking faster than a tired prostitute changes her crotchless underpants the morning after.
And upon arising from his bed the next day, Professor Russell shook his fist at the heavens, not at God necessarily, since he no longer believed in the validity of the argument for His existence, perhaps he was shaking it at the seagull, and promptly got back into bed. Right next to the prostitute who had removed her underpants only minutes before. She said, "not now, Bertie, my whatzit is as sore as Roberto Clementes' pitching arm."
Which was fine. Bertie, like most philosophers, was strapped for cash as usual. And when he finally got up, he wrote, "Truthiticus Philosophicus Deus," thereby refuting once and for all the "he's the one who hath his shit together," argument for the existence of God.
I won't go into the detail here. But Bishop Berkeley thought it sounded pretty good and that's good enough for me. Bishop Berkeley later went on to have a city full of hippies named after him.
So I sit here tonight, pondering the fact that like many who came before me, I neither have my shit together, nor worship a God that does. See, I just got dumped by a real cool guy due to my life lacking not only metaphysical acuity, but that razor sharp Zen-like shrink wrapped, clean edged, sensible phenomenon that life is supposed to be. At times like this, I wonder at the wisdom of He who made all things. And I long for the ancient wisdom of Oggy, and her decendents, and those who came after. Or perhaps I only long for a club, and an intimidating stare.