A Conversation With God

Greg (out of breath after running to the phone): Hello?

God (agitated to have had to wait for the third ring): Greg. This is God. Why haven’t you answered my calls?

Greg: Uh—this is God? Yeah, Okay. Tim, is that you?

God: What? No. This is God!—Look, I don’t have time for your poorly timed wit which I gave to you when you were born. Now shut up and listen.

Greg: O…K—

God: I said ‘Shut up.’ Now hear Me out. I’ve got an important message for you to deliver to the world. I need you to go out into the country and spread My message. It is an important message, and you will be criticized and shunned, and possibly stoned in your hometown. But you must complete this task for Me.

Greg: Uh, stoned? Listen, God, I swear I haven’t touched that stuff since—

God: What did I just say about your poorly timed wit? And since I see and know all, I know you are thinking about cracking an awful joke referencing George Burns and John Denver or Bill Cosby’s Noah skit. Don’t go there.

Greg (sheepishly): I’m sorry, God.

God: Now—some people in your land have recently blasphemed by claiming I have been speaking to them, encouraging them to run for King of the United States.

Greg: You mean President?

God: Oh yeah, President. OK, to be honest, I don’t really pay too much attention to you guys. King, President, Prime Minister, First Person, whatever you call it. Truthfully, even I, who am omniscient and omnipresent, am not in the business of talking to people, especially politicians. To be clear, I have not talked to anyone about running for President. Ever. But I want you to lie and tell everyone that they are right, that indeed I have been speaking to Rick Perry, to Michele Bachmann, to Tim Pawlenty and to Newt Gingrich. Tell the world that I heartily endorse all their candidacies—simultaneously.

Greg: But why not tell the truth? Won’t the truth, you know, set us free or something? You don’t want me to spread your message of love and peace, or—

God: Hell, no. Don’t you get news feeds on your Twitter account? World peace? You’re on your own. Or, to put it plainly, I have a sense of wit that you cannot possibly understand. Though it makes the Mkklthrongs of Gaitoporopo IV laugh hysterically.

Greg: So, do you want me to, like, e-mail their campaigns? Or go on TV?

God: Yeah, yeah. Do that. The TV thing.

Greg: But why will anyone care?

God: They won’t. That’s the point. Look, I’m talking to you, right? But anyone who believes you would be a damn fool.

Greg: OK, I’ll call the local station.

God: Hey—you know what? Scratch that. Start small. Publish a transcript of this conversation on your silly blog. Watch and see what happens.

Greg (smirking): How very meta.

God: What did I tell you about that terrible wit of yours? Oh, and while you’re at it, tell everyone there’s nothing special about the Mayan calendar, or 2012, or any such nonsense. I’m not done with your world yet. I still need you guys to finish work on the Higgs boson particle and to discover for yourselves the ridiculously easy formula for solving the Riemann hypothesis. Seriously. It’s child’s play. Plus, the Intergalactic Council specifically prohibits smiting a species of only three dimensions until their drunkest and least educated have been sufficiently probed in the middle of the night and have had a chance to broadcast their stories via satellite cable to skeptics and to believers alike. You know, as it has been written: “Whatever you bind in the Intergalactic Council will be bound in heaven,” and all that. Anyway, your species has got a while. Now get off this phone and get to work!

Greg: Uh, yes sir—or—ma’am—or God—

(Click!)

Greg: Hello? Hello?