The day I found God I had just recently decided to give up drinking, again. It was another one of my half ass attempts; try to amend a few relationships long enough to get something out of them before I fucked things again. And then after enough time has passed do it all over. This has nothing to do with God but I wanted to point out that my motives for stopping were in no way worthy of divinity of any kind.  Which made what happened all the more peculiar.  Maybe that is just my opinion. I'm sure there are some fools out there that believe everything is worthy of divinity. That is beside the point.

When I decided to quit drinking I prayed that I could stay off the sauce long enough to get some shit done:  get a job, make some cash, eat a meal, fuck a broad, etc.
    I met God in a little biker bar off of Hollywood Boulevard. Why in 2006 a biker bar still existed was beyond me but I found it to be narly just as mystifying as finding God inside of one.

I should also make it perfectly clear that I never really believed in a God per say; at least not in anything that gives a shit how we feel or about what we're going through. How could it? We are the worst species known to man; we are the only species that judges and feels guilt and remorse. As a result, the people that don't feel guilt or remorse are scrutinized for being insensitive in a world where - on a species to species basis - sensitivity is rarer than insensitivity.  We should be scrutinizing and judging the sensitive not the insensitive. Point being, if we're all being hypocrites then why should anyone care at all about what we're going through? That's why I had trouble believing in God.

There are things in this world I will never understand and on that basis the far-fetched logic behind the existence of an invisible man dancing in the clouds dictating what is what didn't bother me so much simply because I had no way of knowing.  My protest against his existence was based on self constructed logic.  Pragmatically, I just couldn’t imagine something creating such a petty species and then listening to it bitch about it's love life or why their Mother doesn’t respect them. If God did exist, he was a shitty, self-destructive scientist.

Anyway, I found him in a bar on September of 2006. God has a potbelly; swear to Rory. God's name is Rory. You know the whole propagated image of a lumberjack-bearded man on a cross with taut, enviable abs and sexy hairy chest? Media hype. Says Rory, anyway. Jesus Christ was far from a handsome man. The twelve disciples after his crucifixion grew more and more self-conscious of the fact they'd been following around what was the modern equivalent of a plumber that they propagated an entirely new depiction of the guy and after a couple thousand years, nobody ever questioned it. It was nice to know that people were just as superficial two thousand years ago and that it didn't begin with the invention of the media.  Even weirder was finding out that these twelve men were the best publicists this world has ever known. Could you imagine what they could have done for OJ or Britney? Unbelievable. So, I walk in and there he is. Flannel shirt, ripped jeans, and whiskey sour in hand.  He wore snakeskin boots, which, I am fairly certain weren't made of actual snakeskin. Even God is pretentious.
I took a seat and asked the bartender for tonic water. Remember, I'd quit drinking. The bartender threw down a vodka tonic and I took this as a sign.

"God apparently wants me to drink today," I said down the glass.     Rory chuckled to himself after I said this and I took it as an affront.
    "You fucking with me?" I asked.
    "Are," he responded.
    "What? You a fucking pirate?"
    "Are you a fucking pirate," he said even more floridly than the last time.

So, what the fuck? Here I am in this fucking enigma biker bar and I have some asshole in fake snakeskin boots correcting my fucking grammar?  God was being a twat.
    "Hey, what the fuck is your problem man?" I asked.
    "No problem," he said dismissively.
    "What's so funny then?"
    "The notion you think God cares. He doesn't care what you do or don't do."
    "Yeah, alright," I said disdainfully.
    "You asked."
    "How the fuck do you know?"
    "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
    "Try me."
    "I'm God. Name is Rory."
    Rory stuck out his hand and I laughed and spit up vodka tonic in his face. I spit in the face of God. I got another drink and moved down a few seats away from Rory. I made sure he saw me move so that he'd feel humiliated by my disbelief. But the more I drank the more I realized that he was right. He told me I wouldn’t believe him and I didn’t. And the more I drank, the more curious I grew.  The more I crept inside my head, swirling around, half in the bag.
    "So, can you hear what I'm thinking right now?"
    "I know what you're thinking, yes," he responded.
    "What am I thinking then?"
    "I don't do party favors. I'm not a monkey.”
    "What are you then? I mean are you human, a human manifestation, what?"
    He ignored me. That pissed me off.
    "Hey!  I fucking asked you a question!" I yelled.
    "I heard."
    "Yeah, well, what the fuck man? How are you and I supposed to connect if you won’t pay attention to me?"
    "There is no connection. Save that bullshit for Sunday school,” he started, “You ever talk on your cell phone, lose reception, but keep talking without knowing that you lost reception? Then, a few minutes later your phone rings and it's the person you were talking calling you back, letting you know they lost reception minutes ago?"
    "Yeah, so?"
    "That is your connection to God.  Prayer is the time in between losing reception and getting a call back."
    "So, you're nuts then," I said pointedly.
    "If that makes you more comfortable with the concept."
    "No, I mean, you're completely fucking whacked. I into it."
    "Glad I could amuse you."
    Now Rory moved down a few seats. That was rude of him. We went a few minutes without saying another word and then I got to thinking again. What if this was God? What if he could somehow help me? In that moment of abstraction, I understood why God was such a curmudgeon now, because the second I even considered the possibility it was him, I wanted to use him. Could you imagine being the guy that everyone just wanted shit from, from people that never planned on giving anything back in return? Being God has got to be the loneliest, most unrewarding job ever. People don't love God; they want something from him. If God was just some guy on a street corner and begged for a couple grand to pay of his bookie, I don't think anyone would cough it up. People love God because they think it's convenient and proactive. It's a conditional love, which is the worst kind of love there is; unless it's a hooker. Christ, I thought, I need some pussy.

POOF.

In the middle of this ebb state, Rory began to cry and a beautiful woman was sitting on my lap. I was dumbfounded. I was dumbfounded and hard. Instantly. And I think it was bigger.

All that talk from people that say they like the challenge in bedding a woman, well, that’s horseshit. No fuck is ever effortless. Some are less challenging than others but never effortless. Even a hooker you have to pay which requires effort attaining the money. This was a genuine, bona fide, effortless lay. And let me tell you, it was the best lay of my life.  The kind that made you believe in God.

After that, Rory and I spent the rest of the night drinking, shooting the shit, chatting about philosophy. I listened to him complain but it was nice. He really hates you people. I find solace in knowing that we are, as a species, a disappointment, because it improves my opinion of God. And it means he is fallible, which is comforting to me.  The idea of him feels safe, warm, ready.  I don't pray to him anymore but every now and again I give him a call on his cell. And let me tell you, we never lose reception.