God Returns from Vacation… Boy, Are We in Trouble

“Good to have you back, boss. Where would you like your bags?”

“Just toss them in the corner. I’ll unpack later. The Lakers are on, and I wanna catch some of the basketball game. LeBron is some next level. Where is the remote, Keith?”

“Here, sir, but we need to talk.”

“Can’t it wait? I just got back from the most relaxing vacation in the universe and I’d like to keep my afterglow. The beaches were exquisite. The drinks were out of this world. I met someone, too. It was a fling, but you never know.”

Keith hands over the remote, and God watches the large screen come to life. He cleans his glasses on the bottom of his T-shirt and squints. “What the… why does it say ‘encore’ in the upper left-hand corner? What the hell?”

“Sir, that’s what we need to discuss.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Well, sir, while you were gone, earth was, er, is, experiencing a pandemic.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Again? It’s those wet markets in China. Isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

“We’re not yet sure, sir.”

“Me-dammit. I warned those guys not to eat my animals unless they were fully cooked. Didn’t I? No one listens to me anymore.” He throws the remote on the couch, walks to the frat boy fridge next to the TV and grabs a beer. “You know, when I set up this operation I didn’t specifically tell people not to eat animals — I wanted to give them some free will — but I made it difficult. Didn’t I?”

“You did, sir.”

“I had all these ridiculous rules about what you could eat, what you couldn’t eat. Shellfish was a no-no if I recall. Something about cloven hooves, I forget. No pigs. That was in there, right?”

Keith nods.

“I thought they would take the hint to cut down on animal consumption, eat more veggies and grains, but they didn’t. You can only do so much, you know.” He slumps into the couch cushions. “That Dr. Fauci fellow, is he in charge? I gave him so much freaking experience and wisdom.”

Keith cleared his throat. “Well, sir, at first people listened to him like a… a… god. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“But then people were all worried about money and wanted to get back to work before they should… People started to discredit him, he got death threats, they waved guns around… it was a whole thing.”

“But at least everyone’s wearing masks and keeping their distance, right?”

“Not exactly. Most of your children are working hard at staying safe but, as usual, the Americans… they’re the problem.”

“Let me guess. They claim that I will protect them, so they don’t need to wear masks. And they won’t wear masks because of being made in My image, and they don’t want to hide My creation… yadda, yadda. Same old bullshit.”

“Uh, something like that,” Keith says, as he opens the drapes.

“Did you talk to my Son or any of the prophets? What’s their take?”

“They were waiting for you to return. We called you several times.”

“I turned off the ringer. I’m entitled to some ‘Me’ time. What’s the prayer count?”

“Off the charts. We brought in some temp angels.”

God stares out the window. “OK, here’s what we’re gonna do. All the first responders, doctors, nurses, truckers, teachers, all of them, they win the lottery, their kids get college scholarships, they live to be old and healthy. You know the drill. The assholes doing bad shit in my name…”

“Say no more, sir. I will take care of it.”

Keith turns towards the door when the boss asks, “When are the Lakers going to play again?”

About the author: For decades, Larry Kahaner was a very serious writer. Now, not so much — serious, that is.