As I sit here feeling for some terrible reason I sense but can’t grasp that I’m finally going to spill my morning cup of coffee all over my laptop that I never actually put on my lap because as much as I enjoy lounging and writing I hate it when my thighs get fried, I wonder: Am I such a great writer? Because if I was am were was am, wouldn’t I use punctuation at least every once in awhile? And wouldn’t I know if it’s “awhile” or “a while”? And wouldn’t I care?
Well, I don’t. And I’m still great. Details are for people who can’t see the big picture. And I can see the big picture. It’s right there on my living room wall. It’s of (I think) French people gaily drinking. I got it at Z Galarie. Galleririe. Gallaery.
God, no wonder no one can write anymore. If stores can’t spell, how the heck are we supposed to?
You know, when I think of the great writers of the past, I think of their pictures. A lot of them had beards. Including the women, though many of them hid it with make-up and fake bandages. There’s something about writing, I guess. Something powerful. Something elemental. Something hirsutical.
Then again, it was harder to shave back when doing so meant rubbing your face against a tree. It was hard on the people; it was hard on the trees. And it also explains the bandages. Old people sure had it tough.
Speaking of God, let’s not. If you talk to people about God, they always get that look on their face that, if you’re careful and sensitive enough to pay attention to it, invariably reveals itself to be communicating, “If you don’t shut up right now I’m going to attack your head.” And that’s not a look I enjoy. The look I enjoy getting says, “I have a small live bird in my pocket,” or, “Waffle?” “I’m not sure what ‘myopia’ means” is a good one, though less common. Yesterday I got a look from a woman on the bus that I intuited meant, “God, I’m glad you’re not my child.” That was pretty uncomfortable. But I hugged her anyway. She responded by biting me on the chest. Joke’s on her, though. Her teeth got stuck on one of my buttons. My dry cleaner is going to freak. The poor guy’s already a little on the nervous side. Every time I go in there, he looks around real furtively, and then grabs me by the collar, practically yanks me over the counter, and whispers maniacally, “Waffle?” So I actually kind of like him. But this time he’s got to do his job. I can’t wear my shirt with dentures hanging off of it. It’s his job to remove them, not mine. I did my job. I pushed that lady off the bus. The rest is up to him.
But back to God. Yesterday, someone asked me, “John, is God really all-powerful and all-knowing? Because if he is, then when someone is born, doesn’t God already know that person’s ultimate fate? And if God knows that a person is going to end up spending eternity having the living flesh seared off his bones, couldn’t he have gotten him a desktop computer stopped that person from going to hell? And if God can stop someone from going to hell, but doesn’t, doesn’t that make God a complete dick?”
Can you believe my pastor had the nerve to ask me that? Who am I, Rasputin Erasmus? Aren’t I supposed to be asking him questions? That guy’s got the wrong job, for sure. I think he should be a construction worker, with his potty mouth. Except I’ve seen him use a hammer. Not pretty. That poor dog. Wrong place, wrong time to jump up for some pets. Now ol’ Barky’s got that slight dent in his head, and can’t walk more than a foot without drifting left. Pretty awful. Also pretty hard not to laugh when you play fetch with him. Which is why I never do anymore. Wrong is wrong.
Speaking of wrong, what about my pastor’s question?