Why is it when you tell a priest, "Yesterday, I talked to god," his initial reaction is, "Of course.  Anyone can talk to god."  But when you elaborate, "No, I had a direct person to deity conversation like you and I are having right now," the priest is the first person to try and dissuade you from even the possibility such a thing took place.  He will even, as delicately as possible, suggest consulting a medical professional, a polite way of saying get to a psychiatrist you crazy sonuvabitch.

At this point I feel a few other details are in order.
 
Last week I was having lunch at the 2-Way Diner Grill on Pulaski.  I remember looking out the window and thinking, "Holy Hell in a basket full of bees, traffic is slow."  Then it struck me.  Nothing was moving.  At all. I could even see a pigeon in mid-takeoff suspended in the air.  I looked around the diner and saw all the patrons stock still as if someone had hit pause on a literally universal remote.  And that's when I saw God.  He was strolling down Elston Avenue looking pretty dapper in a white suit with a black tie and matching waistcoat.  Now, I didn't know it was god at the time.  
 
He walked into the diner, took a seat next to me, and said, "Fuck.  You like women, don't you?"  I was about to answer when he changed into she. And the religious of the world can get all a fluster if they want, but God is a pretty sexy chick, especially in a righteously well fitted suit.  But I digress.
 
God shakes her head and says, "Sorry about that.  I got you confused with a different Alvin Harris.  Gay dentist in Tupelo.  Nice guy."
 
Oddly the first thing I thought to ask was, "What difference does that
make, me liking women?"

God shrugged, "None, as far as I know.  I just love giving people a half chub before I tell them I'm God."
 
"The god?"
 
She snapped her fingers and Chicago was a swamp again.  A swamp full of dinosaurs being shot at by alien big game hunters, some of whom were busy posing for photos alongside giant carcasses.  In the blink of her eye we were back in the diner.
 
"So that's what happened to them," I said.
 
"Not all of them," God corrected me, "But that's not why I'm here."
 
I thought for a second, "You're not going to make me a fucking prophet are you?"
 
She shook her head.
 
I thought a second longer, "I'm not supposed to go on some holy crusade, personal or otherwise."
 
She frowned, "That sounded more like a statement than a question."
 
"I'm not telling you what to do, but I'd really rather not... quest."

She chuckled, nabbed a fry off my plate, and said, "Nothing like that.  From time to time, I like to come down and see what the people think of the world.  Talk to the person on the street.  It makes me feel like less of an observer.  You feel me?"
 
"I guess. What do you want to know?"

"What do you think of the world?"
 
Now, I wanted to give a good solid answer, the best I could muster.  This meant pulling together the totality of my knowledge concerning the world... such consideration leading me to the fact I only ever really watch the news for sports and the weather; if I do come across a newspaper I just read the comics and the movie reviews; and what I sort of felt certain about I wasn't sure exactly how I knew about this or that -- what books, articles, documentaries lead me to the awareness of particular earthly realities.  For that matter, how could I be certain anything I knew was in fact the truth? Hearst manipulating the U.S. into war with Spain in order to sell more newspapers immediately sprang to mind, alongside the fact sensationalism always sells better than plain realities: people are more likely to spend money to read about children being slaughtered than saved.
 
Still, I could tell God wanted an answer, so in order to answer her question I went with my gut and said, "It's pretty shitty."

She sighed. The sky outside darkened.  Laughing sardonically, God put a cigarette in her mouth, lit it with a thought, and remarked, "I'll damn it, that is pretty much the only answer I ever get."
 
Trying not to upset the almighty, I suggested, "Maybe it's the people you ask."
 
"No, no. Harsh truth is no less true. Granted, if you'd made me happy with your answer, you might have gotten laid."  She cast a smile so hot it melts steel.
 
At this juncture I attempted to inquire as to how one might regain to get laid.  It also happens to be the point where Father Mulligan felt the need to interrupt my story saying, "That's quite enough." Sitting behind his baroque mahogany desk, he could not tolerate a continuation of the discussion.  He insisted even if I had encountered god as I claimed to have, which is a very polite way of starting to call someone a liar, god would not act in this fashion.  To which I asked him if he'd ever personally met God.  He said he hadn't, so I rebutted, "then what the fuck do you know?"  He countered with the Bible.  I tried to tell him God had some interesting things to say about that, and I quote "total manmade bullshit."  However, by that point it was becoming obvious the Church was not the place to talk about God.
 
So I left.
 


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