Give it up, Mike God appeared to me again. He does that once in a while. Usually, he leaves His flaming chariot in guest parking, but the HOA complained about that last time, so this time He drove up in a Tesla.
“You said I needed to blend in more,” He said. “California is lousy with these things, and since I plan to stuff Elon Musk in the trunk of one of them for all eternity one of these days, I thought I’d give it a test drive.”
It had been a while since I’d seen the Almighty. “To what do I owe this honor, Oh Lord?” I asked, kind of genuflecting.
“Knock that off. Do I look like the Pope? I came to say I didn’t tell Mike Johnson he was going to be the new Moses, like he claims. The old Moses is a big enough pain in the ass. Constantly throwing his staff down on the streets of Heaven and turning it into a serpent, then asking passers-by for spare change. I should have posted a “No Busking” sign on the Pearlies before I let him in, but I didn’t. No, I didn’t speak to Mike Johnson, before or after he became Speaker of the House, and if he says I have, he’s been licking those psychedelic toads out in the swamp again. Not that he doesn’t speak to Me. If you see him, tell him to quit begging Me to make his dick at least average size. Not listening. I’m not listening when his wife prays for that, either.”
“You’re ranting a bit, Oh Lord.”
“Am I? It’s been a week. That crook down in Texas that’s trying to make a woman have a dead baby—he’s going to have a bad time in Hell. When Trump gets there, I’m going to make his ass big enough that Satan can stuff all of his friends’ heads up there, and then force-feed Trump cheeseburgers for all eternity. And Paxton just made it to the head of that line.”
“But isn’t that the Prince of Darkness’s decision? I thought You and he were bitter rivals.”
“Aw, I can send him suggestions. We’re more like frenemies. So make sure Johnson gets My message. I’m not talking to him, and I’m not making his penis any bigger.”
“Should I tell him why he is stuck with a tiny pecker, Oh Almighty One?”
“Hmm…no, I don’t really know why. Unusual for Me to admit that, but true. Best ask Darwin that when you get Upstairs. He would know. You can usually find him at the bar, hitting on Gilda Radnor and arguing with Stephen Hawking.”
“When I get there? Do you mean I’m going to…”
“No, wait a second. I’ll have to get back to you on that. Check the file, you know. Anyway, gotta go. I have quasars to put out, and black holes to manage. Hasta.”
Then He pulled His Tesla out of the driveway without looking, and nearly hit a 10-year-old neighbor girl on a bike. “WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING,” He yelled at her. Then He softened. “You’ll be able to get a nicer bike when your mom wins the lottery next summer, by the way.”
The Tesla abruptly ascended into the sky. So, Mike Johnson, if you’re listening, bad news. I’d be careful where I banged that gavel, if I was you.
“You said I needed to blend in more,” He said. “California is lousy with these things, and since I plan to stuff Elon Musk in the trunk of one of them for all eternity one of these days, I thought I’d give it a test drive.”
It had been a while since I’d seen the Almighty. “To what do I owe this honor, Oh Lord?” I asked, kind of genuflecting.
“Knock that off. Do I look like the Pope? I came to say I didn’t tell Mike Johnson he was going to be the new Moses, like he claims. The old Moses is a big enough pain in the ass. Constantly throwing his staff down on the streets of Heaven and turning it into a serpent, then asking passers-by for spare change. I should have posted a “No Busking” sign on the Pearlies before I let him in, but I didn’t. No, I didn’t speak to Mike Johnson, before or after he became Speaker of the House, and if he says I have, he’s been licking those psychedelic toads out in the swamp again. Not that he doesn’t speak to Me. If you see him, tell him to quit begging Me to make his dick at least average size. Not listening. I’m not listening when his wife prays for that, either.”
“You’re ranting a bit, Oh Lord.”
“Am I? It’s been a week. That crook down in Texas that’s trying to make a woman have a dead baby—he’s going to have a bad time in Hell. When Trump gets there, I’m going to make his ass big enough that Satan can stuff all of his friends’ heads up there, and then force-feed Trump cheeseburgers for all eternity. And Paxton just made it to the head of that line.”
“But isn’t that the Prince of Darkness’s decision? I thought You and he were bitter rivals.”
“Aw, I can send him suggestions. We’re more like frenemies. So make sure Johnson gets My message. I’m not talking to him, and I’m not making his penis any bigger.”
“Should I tell him why he is stuck with a tiny pecker, Oh Almighty One?”
“Hmm…no, I don’t really know why. Unusual for Me to admit that, but true. Best ask Darwin that when you get Upstairs. He would know. You can usually find him at the bar, hitting on Gilda Radnor and arguing with Stephen Hawking.”
“When I get there? Do you mean I’m going to…”
“No, wait a second. I’ll have to get back to you on that. Check the file, you know. Anyway, gotta go. I have quasars to put out, and black holes to manage. Hasta.”
Then He pulled His Tesla out of the driveway without looking, and nearly hit a 10-year-old neighbor girl on a bike. “WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING,” He yelled at her. Then He softened. “You’ll be able to get a nicer bike when your mom wins the lottery next summer, by the way.”
The Tesla abruptly ascended into the sky. So, Mike Johnson, if you’re listening, bad news. I’d be careful where I banged that gavel, if I was you.
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