Well, I've got my Twitter page all fancy. Am I getting ahead of myself setting this up now, when I'm still some unknown guy? Maybe so. But you know, these personal devices more and more of us are carrying around are apparently killing us, so what the hell--may as well have some fun with it.
This morning, I was having coffee with the Lord, the might and consciousness of the universe, and He remarked, “That God Hates Fags guy is a real douche bag.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Capital D.” He was talking about the pastor of the Westboro Baptist Church, the Reverend Fred Phelps. “The Supreme Court ruled in his favor to protect free speech.”
“I know," He said.
“Oh. Right. And you know, douche or not, it was the way to go…”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m not arguing that.”
“But I’ve about had it with this prick,” the Almighty continued. “He’s always saying I like it when soldiers get killed, that I hate America, the whole world; he’s got his people prancing around at funerals with signs talking about this one and that one deserved to die, and all sorts of crazy bullshit. He’s a feeble-minded, hateful man with the psych profile of a rabid badger—simple as that.”
“Um,” I said. “Isn’t he just how You made him?”
He snorted and rolled His all-seeing eyes. “It’s not that simple.”
“Oh, okay, now it’s not simple.”
“Are you trying to be difficult?” He snapped. He does have a temper, it’s true.
“Fine. Go ahead.”
“Anyway… I was thinking that it would be a real hoot if someone would just punch this guy, you know?”
I considered. “But wouldn’t that make You as bad as him?” I really wasn’t trying to be difficult, honest.
“Blah, blah, blah. I’m always getting blamed for this stuff, so what the hell? And this guy is just one of the worst dickwads walking around.”
“Agreed,” I said.
“Right. I mean, somebody should set this guy and his stupid followers on fire. That would make a cool virile video on YouTube.”
“Hey, I’m going to give some poor schlub rectum cancer and handle this piece of shit with mittens?”
I allowed He had a point. “Well, how about fire hoses? You know, turned on these folks when they’re charging around at some funeral with ‘God Hates Nice People’ signs or whatever. That would make for less… atrocity.”
He sighed, and everything everywhere trembled—just a tiny bit. “You really know how to piss on My parade.”
“I know. I really do. But what do You think?”
“Okay. Fine. Fire hoses. Somebody should turn fire hoses on these assholes.” He sipped His coffee. “I’ll tweet about it later.”
“No, no—You’ve got to do this the old-fashioned way. Proclaim—compel. Would it kill You to get another talking/burning bush thing going?”
“I could do something like that, sure. How about a voice from the sky? That really puts asses in the seats.”
“That’s good,” I said. “I like it. But I’m thinking more like a big obelisk, you know a big, stone monument—“
“I know what an obelisk is.”
“Right, right. Of course. And the obelisk could have the whole bit about the fire hoses, you know, carved into it, with lots of ‘the Lord thy God’ sort of stuff. And it could float down out of the sky, land on a hill somewhere…”
“Okay. Fine. I’m saying okay. Would you drop the hard sell?”
I was giddy by this point. He’s not very suggestible, generally. “Sure.”
“So, Mr. Obelisk—what would you like this thing to be made of? Marble? Granite?
“Done. Now how about another cup of coffee?”
“Thank You kindly.” A perfect cup of coffee—that’s all I’ve ever really asked of Him. Honest.