Prayer

 

God must get really hacked off sometimes. I mean, the geezer has a difficult enough job as it is managing all the stuff he created (maybe the universe thing was a bit ambitious) without all these billions of people asking him for ‘stuff’, all the time. Of the world’s population (currently 7.8 BILLION!) over 80% adhere to some religious belief, the majority of those following one of the major religious groups. That’s over 6 billion people all asking God for stuff, quite often to do them some sort of favour or give them something. He must be pulling his hair out.

“Oi, Gabriel. You seen my bloody in-box? Full to the bleedin’ brim again! Thought I asked you to sort it? Get on it, geezer.”
“Doin’ me best, Mr G. Just that they keep coming. Day after day. I cleared a load yesterday but –“
“Cleared a load? What d’you mean?”
“Uh, well, I tried to deal with requests to help get new cars, new jobs, good weather for a barbecue... that last one was the UK, I think… and to help to win sport matches and – ”
“Win sports matches? What’s wrong wiv’ya? Told’ya ‘bout that, didn’t I. Remember, last week? Them two tennis players, both praying that I’d help 'em win. Nutters. How am I s’posed to pick one over the other? Ignore that stuff. In fact, tell’ya what. Ignore all of it. What’s the point of me giving people free will, freedom of choice, if they’re forever asking me to sort their shit out? Let ‘em ask their governments instead.”
“They already do that, Mr G.”
“What? You’re ’avin’ a laugh, ain’t ya? Bloody religious lot. Right, wipe that in-box. No more. Delete the lot.”
“But, Mr G, people are expecting you to answer their prayers. We can’t just – ”
“Yeah we can. We can do what we want. I’m God, ain’t I! Sick of people wanting stuff. Bloody prayers. I mean, what do people ever do for me. All I get is them bloody hymns every week, dirges with the same bleedin’ tune, or that chanting and wailing nonsense, or that bullshit about loving me and telling me I’m great. Change the bloody record. I don’t need it, do I?”

God scratches his beard, thoughtful, then stares at Gabriel. “Look, mate, sorry. Didn’t mean to rant. Not your fault. Listen, here’s what we’ll do. Anytime you get any more of them prayers, just send ’em one of them things they do down there that pushes it back... you know, like their bounce-back email thing.”
“Ah, yeah. I know. Okay. But what message, d’you want.”
“How about, “God’s out of office at present. Sort yer own shit out.”

(And for ‘the offended’, my God has a sense of humour... I’m sure yours does too.)