1 In the beginning was the page. And the page was blank. And Man was apathetic. And darkness ruled over the void that was Man’s mind and spiral bound Pentium processing A5 notebook processor. And Man was the void, within the void, and struggling to escape from the insecure and nagging desperation of the void.
2 On the first day, Man shook his hair free of existential philosophy and took a wee in the sink. He then delicately drew back the curtains, and in accordance with the Da Vinci Doctrinal Road Safety Manual, he drunk from the toilet bowl of revelation and ached for inspiration to force itself upon his drank and prostate mind.
3 And so it came to pass that on the second day, Man called forth the rhetorical Cat of Judgment and bound a figurative slice of toast to its metaphorical back. Upon kicking it into the void, its pointed refusal to land without the support of its trade union gave birth to a whirling vortex – a gaping hole of titillation, into which man studiously gazed for four days and forty episodes of American Dad. On regaining feeling in his left arsecheek, and committing his name to the lined paper of his destiny, his mind was filled with apocalyptic visions, combining the syntactic subtleties of haiku with Bill Gates burning in the fat of newborn monkeys.
4 Thus inspired, on the third day, ejaculations of consonants, metaphors and cloudy lemonade issued forth abundantly as Man divided sentence from paragraph and Lego from the nostrils of small children. On the fourth day, He called the hyperbole to rule over the discomfort of yeast infections. On the fifth day, Man crept across the page and tried to make it up to the void, who, after initially rebuking him with a wet fish, forgave his initial standoffishness.
5 With this done, on the sixth day, Man removed his dressing gown and began to dictate The Word to the void, who had stayed on the sofa the night before. The Word formed on the page like a fat woman mounting a sun bed. It began like an apologetic trickle down the enamelled basin of the page, and transformed itself into a frenzied attack on the faceless bureaucratic agents of literary theory. And so it was that it poured forth, staining messily the shag pile carpets of literature. On the last day, Man shuddered and considered his work completed.
6 The essay was born. And He saw that it was good.