God appeared to me the other day. He does that sometimes, but it had been a while.
This place isn’t its usual mess,” He said.
“We have a woman who cleans once a week now,” I said.
“I KNEW THAT! I KNOW EVERYTHING!”
When God speaks in His all-caps Voice, the earth shakes. This is California, though, so nobody would notice, I hoped. The Almighty was obviously upset.
“It’s Trump, isn’t it?”
The Creator nodded. For the first time, I noticed His eyebrows are shaped exactly like little lightning bolts.
“You gave him the virus.”
“So many people were praying for Me to. I just gave in.”
“I thought ignoring prayers was your policy?”
“It is, so don’t you start. But after the debate, the chorus of people begging for it was really deafening. Plus, I was already sick of getting stinkeye from Ruth Bader Ginsburg. So, I gave that bloated bag of self-regarding shit the ‘rona.”
“But it’s not working out?”
“IF IT WAS WORKING OUT, DO YOU THINK I’D BE HERE?” The condo rocked again, and I started really worrying. Our HOA has rules against rowdy guests.
“Calm down, oh my Lord. Do you want a beer?”
“No, thanks. It’s Jesus that’s the alcoholic in the family, not me. No, the minute I did it, I knew I’d start hearing from the other side. Not that I don’t hear prayers for Trump all the time anyway—they’re a constant background buzz. People pray for his health. People pray for his hair. After he released his taxes, people actually prayed for his money. I even heard one guy praying that Trump’s dick wasn’t shaped like a mushroom.”
“Did you grant that one, oh my God?”
“I don’t do rebuilds. But now that Trump’s got the covee, everybody who tunes into Fox is praying for me to cure him. Every single person in every trailer park in America is begging Me through their missing teeth to have mercy on Trump’s fat ass. Every Patriot Prayer is shaking their AR-15 at Heaven, demanding that I get Trump back on the golf course before Election Day. All the Evangelicons--Joel Osteen, Franklin Graham, Paula White—they’re all in the pulpit now, telling people to send them money so they can pray to Me on behalf of Trump.”
“Do they do that, Oh Lord?”
“No, thank Me. They just build another mansion or buy another car. But it’s still infuriating. It’s enough to make Me want to smite, and smite and smite again!”
“I’m trembling, oh Almighty One.”
“Don’t worry. I gave up on that. Never really improves humanity anyway.”
“But can you tell me, Oh God, if Trump will live?
“No, and by that, I mean I’m not telling you. It’s for your own good. Put that out on the Internet, and see how long you last.”
"At least tell me if Chris Christie is going to become the white Herman Cain. Maybe just give me a hint? Just enough to place a little bet?”
“You want to bet, talk to the Holy Ghost. He’s the one with the gambling issue in the Trinity.”
This place isn’t its usual mess,” He said.
“We have a woman who cleans once a week now,” I said.
“I KNEW THAT! I KNOW EVERYTHING!”
When God speaks in His all-caps Voice, the earth shakes. This is California, though, so nobody would notice, I hoped. The Almighty was obviously upset.
“It’s Trump, isn’t it?”
The Creator nodded. For the first time, I noticed His eyebrows are shaped exactly like little lightning bolts.
“You gave him the virus.”
“So many people were praying for Me to. I just gave in.”
“I thought ignoring prayers was your policy?”
“It is, so don’t you start. But after the debate, the chorus of people begging for it was really deafening. Plus, I was already sick of getting stinkeye from Ruth Bader Ginsburg. So, I gave that bloated bag of self-regarding shit the ‘rona.”
“But it’s not working out?”
“IF IT WAS WORKING OUT, DO YOU THINK I’D BE HERE?” The condo rocked again, and I started really worrying. Our HOA has rules against rowdy guests.
“Calm down, oh my Lord. Do you want a beer?”
“No, thanks. It’s Jesus that’s the alcoholic in the family, not me. No, the minute I did it, I knew I’d start hearing from the other side. Not that I don’t hear prayers for Trump all the time anyway—they’re a constant background buzz. People pray for his health. People pray for his hair. After he released his taxes, people actually prayed for his money. I even heard one guy praying that Trump’s dick wasn’t shaped like a mushroom.”
“Did you grant that one, oh my God?”
“I don’t do rebuilds. But now that Trump’s got the covee, everybody who tunes into Fox is praying for me to cure him. Every single person in every trailer park in America is begging Me through their missing teeth to have mercy on Trump’s fat ass. Every Patriot Prayer is shaking their AR-15 at Heaven, demanding that I get Trump back on the golf course before Election Day. All the Evangelicons--Joel Osteen, Franklin Graham, Paula White—they’re all in the pulpit now, telling people to send them money so they can pray to Me on behalf of Trump.”
“Do they do that, Oh Lord?”
“No, thank Me. They just build another mansion or buy another car. But it’s still infuriating. It’s enough to make Me want to smite, and smite and smite again!”
“I’m trembling, oh Almighty One.”
“Don’t worry. I gave up on that. Never really improves humanity anyway.”
“But can you tell me, Oh God, if Trump will live?
“No, and by that, I mean I’m not telling you. It’s for your own good. Put that out on the Internet, and see how long you last.”
"At least tell me if Chris Christie is going to become the white Herman Cain. Maybe just give me a hint? Just enough to place a little bet?”
“You want to bet, talk to the Holy Ghost. He’s the one with the gambling issue in the Trinity.”
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