Are you there God? Its me...and I'm bloated.

Truth be told, I’ve never did understand those "I've been talkin’ to the Lord!" types. I mean, yammer away all you want to His Holiness, but if a dump truck feels like backing into your aunt Harriet after her cardio funk class at the YMCA next Tuesday, it has nothing to do with any hot apple cider chat sessions you’ve had with Him leading up to your aunt’s unfortunate human pancake encounter. Also, graveside ramblings on Harriet’s behalf probably won't do much to rouse any life into her stinking corpse. Sorry folks, but a miracle worker He isn't. That being said...I do like talking. So if I ever did get around to gabbin’ with God...you know, just blubberin’ away to the Big Guy, or Big Gal if you're sassy...it would probably go something like this:


God: So what was the highlight of your day so far, Brad?

Brad: Well, I went to my follow up appointment with Sentinel Home Detention Services today.

God: What is Sentinel Home Detention Services?

Brad: (Wait, how does he not know about this?) Sentinel is one of those jerky companies that prey on the victims of the Phoenix court system. I have regretfully contracted their services in order to avoid an extended stay in Sheriff Joe Arpiao’s notoriously rank, Tent City. I called it leaving the bar, the officer called it super-extreme DUI. Pish-posh.

God: I like your pretty mouth swears, keep talking about words…

Brad: (OMG, does God think jerky is a swear!?) Here is the story with Sentinel. They will outfit you with one used breathalyzer machine (manufactured in Israel) and one tracking device (worthy of being strapped to the shank of an insubordinate barnyard creature). This is to better monitor your compliance to the a pact you formally made not to consume alcohol or leave your home for a month. No alcohol for 30 days? Cake. Maintaining sanity in a 450 sq ft casita for an entire month? Irksome.

God: Sounds rough, how did the appointment go?

Brad: It started out well enough. I've been on the program for 15 days, and I've got 15 more, so no sweat. I got to the Sentinel office with paperwork in hand and my caseworker, Louie, a Latin-Papi type with a disfigured appendage (typical) tells me he is going to review my compliance over the past 15 days. If he has any questions about my whereabouts, he will ask. He spends the next few minutes underlining, circling, and initialing my schedule. Ultimately everything lines up nicely, except for one little thing…

God: What did you do this time, kid?

Brad: (Shit, he doesn’t know this either?) When you face the breathalyzer machine, and are ready to blow into it, the machine takes a picture of you to further verify your compliance, thus inciting the 'no double backsies' clause. The panel of glass that houses the camera in the breathalyzer is about the size of one of Satan's business cards which is standard size (hard to believe). Anyhow this area lights up after a series of obligatory bells and whistles to capture your image. Looking at my reflection in this pane, my forehead and chin are cut off and so naturally I assumed the resulting photograph would be a facsimile of this segment of my face.

God: Now that sounds like one handsome image.

Brad: I know, right? Well the problem wasn’t that I was so handsome I jammed up the machine or anything. According to Gimpy Lou, the high tech camera inside of the breathalyzer is programmed to photograph an area that extends far beyond the reflection displayed by the little glass panel.

God: Like how much further?

Brad: Put it this way, I’ve been asked to stop taking my breathalyzer tests naked.

God: (blushing) Oh my heavens!

Brad: Oh come on, God. Stop acting like a kindergartner.