Walking in Manhattan with my friend God, we had a chance meeting with a priest, who asked for forgiveness.
As it happens, I wasn’t the only person in Manhattan who recognized my woolly-whiskered companion. God and I were walking along a street in Midtown when a man in a black cassock ventured over to us. “Well, as I live and breathe, if it isn’t Almighty God Himself!” he exclaimed, making the sign of the cross and bowing low.
“Just ignore him,” God said to me, so we continued walking. The fellow followed us, saying, “I have sinned, O Almighty One. I’m a Catholic priest, and I’ve abused…”
“How many choirboys?” I interjected.
“Half a dozen, along with several altar boys and a French poodle. Do you know of some way I can assuage my guilt?”
“I’m God’s man Friday,” I declared, “and my advice is that you should try abusing a rhinoceros. If that doesn’t relieve your guilt, then try a Bengal tiger.”
The priest was perplexed by my words. Even so, he took a selfie with me. He was getting ready to take a selfie with God when my companion raised his hand. “I’ve recently stepped off the throne,” God said, “and I’m no longer a supreme anything.”
The fellow didn’t seem to hear these words. “I would be honored, O Holy One, if you could deliver a homily to my congregation,” he said.
“Ah,” God whispered to me, “this will give me the chance to tell folks the truth about myself.
He turned to the priest and uttered these words: “I’d be happy to tell your congregation about a few of my screw-ups. Maybe they’d like to hear about the time I tried to create a burning bush and ended up setting Moses’ robe on fire? The Bible doesn’t mention this, nor does it say that I almost turned Moses into a burnt offering. And perhaps I could tell your congregation about…”
Just then a boy wearing a white robe and an alb walked past us. The priest rushed after him, licking his lips. But before the priest could reach his prey, God uttered a few words, and the priest turned into a large upright frankfurter bun.
“My bad,” God told me. “I was trying to turn him into an upright nun, but my linguistic powers somehow confused “bun” with “nun.” Just like when I tried to create a cop and created a corpse instead.”
“Not bad at all,” I observed. “For very few frankfurters abuse choir boys.”
“Very true,” God said, nodding his head in agreement.
Part of a series detailing Lawrence Millman’s experiences with his drinking buddy, God. Soon to be gathered together, assuming a publisher is interested, as a mini-memoir entitled “Drinks With God.”
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