God Smacked

The big guy in the sky was none too pleased with my last blog post. I tried to explain (lie) my way out of it to no avail. I was mindful to write the post after Christmas so Santa wouldn’t shun me. It’s too late for him to repossess my Cakebread Chardonnay, as it was inhaled along with a fine dish of gnocchi. Still, God interrupted my Game of Thrones marathon by materializing and giving me a stern talking to.

“What the hell is wrong with you, son?”

“Huh?”

“You can’t go around writing mean things.”

“But, I was kidding … kind of.”

“Right.”

“Don’t you have enough spiritual people writing kumbaya stuff? You need someone like me to balance things.”

“Sounds like you’ve been speaking to that naughty angel friend of mine.”

“Who, Lucy? Well, sure, we chat from time to time. I try to catch him when he isn’t so wasted. He’s a violent drunk.”

“Indeed. Look, just write something nice. You’ll never get a date when women read your silly rants about vaginas.”

“I don’t know that I can. Excess niceness makes me sick. People who smile too widely at me raise my suspicions.”

“Don’t be paranoid. Here, I’ll change myself into Marilyn Monroe. Say something nice to me.”

“Nice vagina.”

“Really?”

“Fine. Hello, Marilyn. I’m pleased to meet you. Your skin is smooth and radiant, like a calm sea at sunrise.”

“Meh. Not bad.”

“Can I see your boobies now?”

“No! Bad boy!”

“Sorry.”

“You need to appreciate women for more than their sexuality.”

“I do.”

“Do you have any close female friends you don’t want to sleep with?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“…”

“Can I use a lifeline?”

“See? This is a prime example of your irreverence. That sweet Christian woman simply questioned your beliefs or lack thereof, and you went all medieval on her.”

“She hurt my pride and ego by rejecting me simply because I don’t wear any torture relics around my neck. She deserves an ingrown hair in her armpit, at minimum.”

“I’ll do the punishing around here. Now, tell her you’re sorry.”

“But, Dad …”

“I’m waiting.”

“All right. Dear Christian chick, I’m sorry I wished vaginal calamities upon you. I hope you have a wonderful whatever-it-is-you-believe this weekend.”

“And?”

“And if you would be so kind as to forgive me, I’d like to treat you to a fermented beverage and my penis.”

“What am I going to do with you?”

“Not kill me and cast me into hell fires and eternal damnation?”

“Oh, that would be insufficient punishment.”

“OK, what do you have in mind?”

“I’m going to see to it that you continue falling in love with women who reject you and vice versa.”

“That’s mean!”

“You must repent, my son.”

“Fine. How many Hail Marys do you want?”

“You’re not getting off that easy. You can begin your road to redemption by calling your mother. Then, give five different women compliments tonight, none of which refer to their breasts or naughty parts.”

“All right.”

“Also, I’d like you to listen to the entire Up All Night album by One Direction.”

“JFC, NFW!”

“I know what that means.”

“Come on, dude. One Direction? I’d rather jam broken glass into my ear canals. Let’s compromise. How about Michael Buble?”

“Really? You ever heard him?”

“No.”

“Ha haha. It’s a deal. Shake.”

[THWACK]

“Ouch!”

“Got you.”

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.
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