Can't a brotha get a little peace?

Just when he thought he was going to get some peace and quiet, God, who was smiling yesterday for the first time since he got back from that month-long bender in Reykjavik with his coterie of favorite angels (No, not Gabriel, who, so I'm told, is a bit too fey for the Almighty, and, quite frankly, a little stuck-up), was summarily brought back to earth, so to speak (ha, that's a funny joke, they tell me, up in heaven), today.

"Shit, is today the National Prayer Breakfast?? Didn't I tell somebody to remind about this! Jesus Christ, I can't work like this!"

"Yes, I know."

"You know, all this is your fault, don't you?"

"Yes, I know."

Anyway, now, as a matter of course, God's all moody again, bitch-slapping Gabriel out of anger, and not just for sport this time, or even because Gabriel wanted to read one of the poems he wrote the other day. On the bright side, there's a rumor he's also sent out Gandhi to make reservations in Nuuk, at that cozy little B&B they all stayed during last year's Arctic Winter Games, and where Mother Theresa kept everybody up with her late-night ribaldry.

"Jesus! You know, being God's a bitch."

"Yes, I know."