Feminists are right when they claim that God is a she, but God’s not the maternal type.
God’s a washed-up old barfly, the last out the door at Last Call every night.
You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.
So, who does God stay with?
Whoever she manages to pass out on, she always manages that.
A mumbling, wrinkled old hag on the sofa.
She’s never there the next morning.
Where did she go? Did she steal anything?
Who knows?
Until the bar opens again, when she’s the first in the door, ready for another night.