Hey, it’s Bob. No, not that Bob. No. Not him either. Come on, it’s me. Big Bob. Ring a bell? So hey, howzit goin? Keeping the beard, I see. Can I be frank? No, not that Frank. I mean candid. Lose the beard. Younger folk want sex from Miley Cyrus or Justin Beiber–it doesn’t matter which–not salvation from Grandpa Jones.
I know you’re thinking “Long time no see, Bob. Where you been golfing?” As they say in France after a sword fight: two-shades. Speaking of which, my face is two shades of red. I’ve been AWOL and I’m embarrassed about it. Because here I am with a very small request. Nothing big. Nothing involving lightning or plague. Basic God stuff.
By the way I’ve been meaning to tell you: nice job on the world. The colors are really cool, especially all the green stuff. Does that mean you’re Irish? I mean, we keep calling you O’God. Hey, I know we’re supposed to fear you, but the God thing is all about love, am I right? I mean, not to the point of being ridiculous about it or beating the thing to death. Some days lovey-dovey, some days not so much. Don’t worry, I’m the same way.
Oh, a little off-topic: what’s up with stink bugs? Their whole identity—the “stink” in stink bug—is post-mortem. They can’t be who they really are until someone steps on them, releasing their stink. (Myself, I flush them down a toilet although I’m always uneasy when I go back to the can. I can’t stop imaging this tentacle…well, you know.) Anyway, stink bugs just don’t seem you. Ugly and stinky. Sounds almost like the guy with the pitchfork. Might want to rethink?
So, here’s the peanut. I know you help those who help themselves. It’s a great policy and I’ve been trying for sometime now to help myself get three mil in the bank so I can retire. Take the little lady down south to unwind. And I’ve been doing my part, saving like crazy for the last two weeks. But I’m short about three large. Very large.
You know plenty of guys who think three mil is chump change. I mean, it would really mean a lot to me and when we get down to the beach, I’m going to find a church—Catholic of course—and put a nice thick roll of Alexander Hamiltons in the poor box (assuming, natch, you can make it rain).
I mean, pick the pocket of one of those rich guys who’s been cheating little old ladies. Or paying too much for a left tackle. Might be just what the dude needs to, you know, be loving from now on. I see it as a win-win.
Feel free to read my mind for the account numbers at my bank.
Bob (Big Bob)
Dear Bob (Big)
We all enjoyed your prayer. The Prime Mover laughed so hard holy water came out His nose. But, dude. As you know, it’s easier for a rich man to pass through the eye of a camel than for a guy with three mil and a history of stink bug water-boarding to get into heaven. I didn’t write that, I’m just repeating what I’ve heard. Oh, and we’re talking your standard size camel.
A friendly piece of advice. In the future, try to remember that you want God laughing with you, not at you. Bob, you never want God laughing at you.
Peter (“St. Peter” “The Pete-ster” “Pumpkin Eater”).
©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2014, all rights reserved.