Originally printed in The Advance-Titan, in October of 2006.
Olig to God, do you copy? Over. (Static hiss.) I repeat: Olig to God, do you copy? Over. Ha! That got your attention, didn’t it?
Considering there might be millions of other frail and aimless humans trying to channel you at this very moment, I figured I had to do something to set myself apart from the herd by contacting you with this nifty prayer Walkie-Talkie. I would have blessed it with holy water for full effect, but that might have short-circuited the gadget. Oh, I can just picture you scanning the current throng of praying people, debating whose pleas merit your undivided attention.
“Hmm...Mel Gibson’s nagging me again...starving Ethiopian begging for a morsel of food...Holy crap, is that scrawny guy contacting me via Walkie-Talkie?! What a novel idea! I want to hear what this nut-job has to say.” My scheme worked masterfully, benevolent Creator.
Seriously though, God, I hate to do this to you, but...I need to borrow some money. I got a little tipsy the other night and wagered a hefty amount of cash on the outcome of the movie “Kramer vs. Kramer.” Thinking there was no way I could lose, I logically bet on Kramer. Well, by the film’s conclusion, it became painfully clear that I should’ve bet on the wild card: “When it comes to divorce, there are no winners.” It was a poignant moral lesson, but on the downside, my greaseball of a bookie is going to shove my tongue into a pencil sharpener if I don’t cough up two grand by this time tomorrow.
Kidding! If you weren’t omniscient, you’d have been totally duped by my deadpan ramblings. Okay, before you divert your attention back to the starving Ethiopian, I’ll get to the point — I’ve got oodles of questions followed by a request. My first question is: do you remember that time two weeks ago when I tried to purchase some Nacho Cheese Doritos out of a vending machine and the bag got trapped in the area just above the deposit slot? My bag of Doritos plummeted into the unreachable limbo zone of the vending machine. It was traumatizing; I thought tragedies like that only happened to other people.
Why do you allow that kind of suffering? Is it because I laughed at some jokes about the recently departed Crocodile Hunter? That’s it, isn’t it?! That vending machine injustice was my karmic comeuppance for snickering at a morbid joke. Look, perhaps my response was inappropriate, but sometimes we need humor as a defense mechanism against sorrow. Nevertheless, the next time Siegfried or Roy gets viciously attacked by a wild animal, I promise not to laugh. Because I love Nacho Cheese Doritos.
Moving along, do you really get bent out of shape about gay marriage? Because a lot of your devotees do, and it’s disappointing that certain people cite you as an enabler for their petty hostility. You advocate the “until death do us part” bond, right? Well, I promise you the divorce rate in this country would decline if gay couples could wed in every state. Hear me out, God. Approximately 5 percent of people are homosexuals, so if you’re a gay man in some sparsely populated state like Wyoming, odds are that finding a mate will require an exhaustive search. By the time you find someone you dig enough to marry, you’re going to stay together out of fear that you’ll never meet another compatible man without having to relocate halfway across the state.
“Divorce? Nah, nuts to that,” thinks the homosexual from Wyoming. “The dude I’m with is pretty cool, especially when you consider there are only 14 other gay men in this entire frickin’ state, and I know for a fact that half of them are deadbeats. You gotta know when to hold ‘em.” (Editor’s correction: recent studies suggest there may be more than 16 gay men in the entire state of Wyoming.) (Columnist’s rebuttal: stay out of my prayers, editor!)
Here’s another question: when Muslim males die, are they really greeted by 72 virgins? In regard to the fairer gender, when Muslim females die, are they also greeted by 72 virgins? That just doesn’t seem fair; generally speaking, sex with a plethora of virgins is much more appealing to men than women. I’m no expert on women, but from their perspective, I’d imagine showing the ropes to 72 inexperienced men would be more hellish than heavenly. Seriously, eternal bliss should be without gender bias.
Sometimes I feel like my faith is dwindling irreconcilably. Case in point: back in mid-June when I visited Chicago, shortly after bar close, I kneeled before the entrance of Wrigley Field and prayed the Cubs would return to the .500 mark by the end of the season. To say the least, that prayer was overlooked. My final question at this late hour is, “Why do you hate the Cubs?”
God, I’m never quite sure if you’re a great listener or if I’m crazy for babbling to myself on another restless night. This brings me to the request I mentioned earlier. I would give you a 69 Fist Pump salute (my utmost display of reverence) if you just popped your head out of the sky for a mere two seconds to blurt the words, “I’ll explain later.” If you could only bend the rules of cosmic mystery for two measly seconds — which is less than nothing in eternity time — it would be immensely beneficial to planet Earth. I don’t mean to sound insulting, but let’s be rational here: when it comes to visual evidence, you’re outranked by both Bigfoot and the Loch Ness monster.
Olig to God, do you copy? Over. (Static hiss.) I repeat: Olig to God, do you copy? Over. Ha! That got your attention, didn’t it?
Considering there might be millions of other frail and aimless humans trying to channel you at this very moment, I figured I had to do something to set myself apart from the herd by contacting you with this nifty prayer Walkie-Talkie. I would have blessed it with holy water for full effect, but that might have short-circuited the gadget. Oh, I can just picture you scanning the current throng of praying people, debating whose pleas merit your undivided attention.
“Hmm...Mel Gibson’s nagging me again...starving Ethiopian begging for a morsel of food...Holy crap, is that scrawny guy contacting me via Walkie-Talkie?! What a novel idea! I want to hear what this nut-job has to say.” My scheme worked masterfully, benevolent Creator.
Seriously though, God, I hate to do this to you, but...I need to borrow some money. I got a little tipsy the other night and wagered a hefty amount of cash on the outcome of the movie “Kramer vs. Kramer.” Thinking there was no way I could lose, I logically bet on Kramer. Well, by the film’s conclusion, it became painfully clear that I should’ve bet on the wild card: “When it comes to divorce, there are no winners.” It was a poignant moral lesson, but on the downside, my greaseball of a bookie is going to shove my tongue into a pencil sharpener if I don’t cough up two grand by this time tomorrow.
Kidding! If you weren’t omniscient, you’d have been totally duped by my deadpan ramblings. Okay, before you divert your attention back to the starving Ethiopian, I’ll get to the point — I’ve got oodles of questions followed by a request. My first question is: do you remember that time two weeks ago when I tried to purchase some Nacho Cheese Doritos out of a vending machine and the bag got trapped in the area just above the deposit slot? My bag of Doritos plummeted into the unreachable limbo zone of the vending machine. It was traumatizing; I thought tragedies like that only happened to other people.
Why do you allow that kind of suffering? Is it because I laughed at some jokes about the recently departed Crocodile Hunter? That’s it, isn’t it?! That vending machine injustice was my karmic comeuppance for snickering at a morbid joke. Look, perhaps my response was inappropriate, but sometimes we need humor as a defense mechanism against sorrow. Nevertheless, the next time Siegfried or Roy gets viciously attacked by a wild animal, I promise not to laugh. Because I love Nacho Cheese Doritos.
Moving along, do you really get bent out of shape about gay marriage? Because a lot of your devotees do, and it’s disappointing that certain people cite you as an enabler for their petty hostility. You advocate the “until death do us part” bond, right? Well, I promise you the divorce rate in this country would decline if gay couples could wed in every state. Hear me out, God. Approximately 5 percent of people are homosexuals, so if you’re a gay man in some sparsely populated state like Wyoming, odds are that finding a mate will require an exhaustive search. By the time you find someone you dig enough to marry, you’re going to stay together out of fear that you’ll never meet another compatible man without having to relocate halfway across the state.
“Divorce? Nah, nuts to that,” thinks the homosexual from Wyoming. “The dude I’m with is pretty cool, especially when you consider there are only 14 other gay men in this entire frickin’ state, and I know for a fact that half of them are deadbeats. You gotta know when to hold ‘em.” (Editor’s correction: recent studies suggest there may be more than 16 gay men in the entire state of Wyoming.) (Columnist’s rebuttal: stay out of my prayers, editor!)
Here’s another question: when Muslim males die, are they really greeted by 72 virgins? In regard to the fairer gender, when Muslim females die, are they also greeted by 72 virgins? That just doesn’t seem fair; generally speaking, sex with a plethora of virgins is much more appealing to men than women. I’m no expert on women, but from their perspective, I’d imagine showing the ropes to 72 inexperienced men would be more hellish than heavenly. Seriously, eternal bliss should be without gender bias.
Sometimes I feel like my faith is dwindling irreconcilably. Case in point: back in mid-June when I visited Chicago, shortly after bar close, I kneeled before the entrance of Wrigley Field and prayed the Cubs would return to the .500 mark by the end of the season. To say the least, that prayer was overlooked. My final question at this late hour is, “Why do you hate the Cubs?”
God, I’m never quite sure if you’re a great listener or if I’m crazy for babbling to myself on another restless night. This brings me to the request I mentioned earlier. I would give you a 69 Fist Pump salute (my utmost display of reverence) if you just popped your head out of the sky for a mere two seconds to blurt the words, “I’ll explain later.” If you could only bend the rules of cosmic mystery for two measly seconds — which is less than nothing in eternity time — it would be immensely beneficial to planet Earth. I don’t mean to sound insulting, but let’s be rational here: when it comes to visual evidence, you’re outranked by both Bigfoot and the Loch Ness monster.
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