I tracked The Supreme Sucker down a couple of weeks ago at a video poker machine at a Gresham titty bar that He apparently owns with a licensed massage therapist who recently claimed to have done Al Gore, a former Multnomah County deputy district attorney, Tonya Harding, three former Portland Police Chiefs, Osama bin Laden, and Bill Clinton.
I had first learned of God's grand scheme of things as a child in Astoria, New York, shortly after the Second World War to keep the world safe for future reelection campaign wars, back when many in the Greatest Generation were still viewed as whining malingers who needed to get on with their lives.
I was getting some head from Monsignor Martilucci in exchange for a free copy of the Long Island Star in the confessional at St. Francis of Assisi church, when God burst in, clearly violating the privacy policies that I had agreed to before signing up for periodic boss relief by The Church and its minions, and causing the Monsignor to gag violently, nearing biting off my precious pego as I pondered why God Himself could not be a little more graceful.
"Little Doctor Faustroll," God told me, "those are impure thoughts, unworthy of the divinely imaginary source of Sweetness and Light you are destined to become in this world of sorrow, maddness, and deceit!"
"And just who the fuck are you?" I demanded, thrusting my pathetic ilttle pego against Marilucci's cleft palette, clearly in the moment.
"Come now, my son," He told me.
And I did.
Poor Monsignor. What drizzled out his ears was not a pretty sight.
But it did feel good.