I swore an oath to write a story every day until the day I die.
The Devil overheard me, and he offered me his hand.
And we shook on the deal.
I kept up my daily writing for a few years, but after a while I ran out of ideas.
“A deal’s a deal,” I said, and I went to sleep, not expecting to wake up.
“Don’t give up,” said The Devil. And he gave me a plane ticket to Paris. “Think you can write there?”
I nodded, and The Devil smiled.
“Good. It’s much nicer than Hell. Trust me.”
Tag: religion
The Church
I know a guy who’s in a church that protests military funerals.
They say that our soldiers die because of gays, abortions, and other things their church says that God and Jesus don’t like.
However, this guy is really lazy, so instead of actually going to Arlington Cemetery, he looks it up on his computer.
Then, he searches the map for the gravesite, loads the picture, and protests.
Right from his own living room.
He’s been trying to convince the other members of the church that this can save a lot of time and gas money.
I hope he succeeds.
The Drinker
“Why don’t you believe in me?” asked God.
I put down my drink and thought about my answer for a moment.
I mean, it’s God. And He’s drunk.
But then, I don’t believe in Him, so why worry?
So, I turned to my right…
He was gone.
I asked the bartender where God went.
He shrugged and put the tab in front of me.
Holy crap! God sure can drink, and He has good taste in what He drinks. Expensive, too.
As I pulled out my wallet, God pulled out his credit card.
“I was in the bathroom,” He said.
in dreams
i’ve been taking vicodin for the pain in my broken elbow.
it causes intense dreams.
i’ve dreamed of dinosaurs and volcanoes and wars with laser guns.
and i’ve seen ghosts of so many friends long passed.
but not my boy, who died in february.
why can’t i dream of him, poking me in the nose with his paw as i try to sleep?
does he not want to see me again? why won’t he come back when i need him?
i put his yellow mouse under my pillow
just one dream.
i don’t even need to wake up from it.
Honk
Honk, the God of traffic jams, watches the city from Metro Control, smiling at the video feeds of his followers. He feels a tiny buzz of power with every prayer the populace sends his way, palms slapped against steering wheels to call out his name in frustration, fury, and faith.
Red…
Red…
Red…
Green?
He points at the city map, dispatching construction crews to places where cars can still move.
“Go forth and obstruct,” commands Honk.
The crews head for the garage and prepare to squash the heathens with orange cones red flag.
Honk laughs and smiles upon the city
Washing Balls
I don’t play golf with Father Cunningham anymore.
It’s not because he’s so much better than me.
It’s because of how he’s so much better than me.
“Oh, I just have Sister Mary say a blessing over my balls before I go out to play,” he said one day.
And I didn’t think about this at all. It was just a little divine intervention.
Heck, don’t we all sneak in a little prayer now and then to beg The Almighty for help?
Then, I realized that he always bought golf balls still in a package before every round we played.
A Time
Ecclesiastes 3 tells us that there is a time for everything.
To die.
To weep.
To mourn.
Every time I look at the shelf I put your box of ashes on, these are the only three I can remember.
So, I put down the empty bottle of vodka, pick up a Bible, and read it to remind myself that there are other times.
To laugh.
To mend.
To heal.
And for a moment, I smile.
Then, a twenty-dollar bill falls out.
I put down the Bible, pick up the twenty, and think:
Oh good. I can get more vodka now.
Scapegoat
Our town practices the ritual of scapegoating, where our sins are loaded into an animal and then we cast it out into the wild.
The problem is, we’re a rather sinful lot, and we’re running out of animals.
Let’s see… there’s Bob’s dog. And there’s also Arthur’s horse, but Arthur needs his horse to deliver messages, and everybody really likes that dog.
The priests nixed my idea of recycling animals. Once they’re loaded up with sins, they’re useless.
Arthur packed up and rode out of town this morning.
Bob suggested we use the priests.
The dog wagged its tail happily.
Swept Under the Prayer Rug
The bishop stuck Father O’Brien’s file in a drawer and locked it.
“Move him to Boston,” he said.
Two years later, the bishop pulled out O’Brien’s file and added the newest reports to it.
“Try New York,” he said. “Last chance.”
It wasn’t. A year later, O’Brien was sent to Los Angeles.
When the file was too thick to fit in the drawer, the bishop had O’Brien sent to South America on a teaching mission.
The locals took matters into their own hands, hanging the child molester.
“I should have sent him there in the first place,” said the bishop.
Bob Dylan
Bob Dylan is an asshole.
Heaven doesn’t have a door to knock on.
It has gates. St. Peter stands at the Gates Of Heaven with a book, and the dead line up to find out if they get in.
You don’t have to bang on the gates, because St. Peter is always out there, waiting for the recently-deceased.
Well, not really waiting, since people are constantly dying and joining the line.
Does he ever get a break? And how does he get updates in that book?
After lying to us for decades, Bob Dylan sure as hell isn’t in it.