As I prepared my morning oatmeal, I slipped the surly bonds of earth and touched the face of God.
It was greasy and sticky.
“Don’t you ever wash your face?” I asked God.
“You shouldn’t be one to talk about hygiene,” said God. “Did you wash your hands before making that oatmeal? I see everything, you know.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
We floated in uncomfortable silence for a while.
“I’d best be getting back,” I said, and I reached for the surly bonds of earth, even surlier, having been slipped so easily.
I finished my oatmeal, and washed my hands.