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God in Heaven
. Here’s what it said inside:
Ellen, please join me for fondue and Chablis.

When: Saturday May 3rd, 2:00 P.M.
Where: My house
(No need to RSVP . I’ll know if you’re coming.)
    Now, normally I don’t like Chablis, but this one was nice. It was dry with a peppery oak aftertaste. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
    I was nervous with anticipation for weeks. Finally, the big day arrived and I made my way over to God’s house. As I was pulling up, Jennifer Love Hewitt was just leaving. (She is
so
sweet.) I was led into God’s living room and told to wait. (It was so bright in there! Let me tell you, every lamp was on—it was crazy, crazy bright!) As I was sitting there, I started to think,
I wonder what he dresses like? Does he wear that robe all the time
? Like the Pope. I mean, he can’t
always
wear that Pope outfit, can he? Once in awhile, don’t you think he throws on a pair of shorts and a tank and just, you know, chills out? And then I started thinking,
I wonder if I’m dressed appropriately to meet God? I
don’t know how you are supposed to dress. Then I realized the obvious. God has seen me naked! So I just took my clothes off.
    Anyway, I was looking around the living room and in front of me there was a coffee table with two magazines on it,
Teen People
and
Guns & Ammo
, and a poster of a kitten on the wall that says “Hang in There, Baby.” And there were pictures of Jesus everywhere! You can’t believe how many pictures of Jesus there were. A picture of Jesus on a pony with a cowboy hat. A picture of Jesus on the beach wearing a shirt that says, “My parents created the universe and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.”
    I started to get nervous.
I’m going to meet God in just a minute
, I thought.
I don’t even know how to greet God. Do I shake hands or do I curtsy or bow? I mean, do we hug? I
feel close enough to God to hug God, but I know how it is—a lot of people want to hug me (TV does that), but I don’t want to hug a lot of people. You’ve got to be respectful.
    So, a couple of minutes later God walked in the room carrying a tray with a fondue pot and a bottle of Chablis. I would say she was about forty-seven, forty-eight years old, a beautiful, beautiful black woman, and we just immediately hugged. She smelled so good. She said it was Calvin Klein’s Obsession.
    We sat down and started drinking the Chablis and talking about the weather and what was going to happen to it. I asked her a bunch of questions I was curious about. “What is the hardest thing about being God?”
    “Trusting people,” she said. “You never know if people really like ya or if it’s just because you’re God. And people always want something from you. They want money and then they want more money. That’s what they always ask for.”
    She told me nobody ever thanks her anymore. The only people who thank her are boxers and rappers, but she said she thinks it’s a little odd that rappers are doing songs like “Slap the Bitch up the Ass,” and the next thing out of their mouth is, “I’d like to thank the Lord Almighty for this award. Praise Jesus!
    “Nobody cares about the miracles anymore,” she continued. “The miracles just go by unnoticed.”
    “What was the last miracle?” She started to cry, upset that I had to ask.
    “It was the toilet that flushes automatically,” she said, her eyes welling up with tears. “Before that it was the George Foreman grill… the fat just drips right off.”
    Well, I guess it was the Chablis making me feel more relaxed or something, but I was loosened up enough to say, “God, I have to admit, I’ve really felt alone a lot. I’ve felt like you didn’t exist. I just didn’t believe in you for a while.”
    She said, “Do you remember that day you were walking on the beach?”
    I said, “Yeah.”
    “Well, I was there.”
    “But there was just one set of footprints.”
    She said, “I was on your back.”
    “I
thought
I felt heavy