The Phone on God’s Desk rang, startling him out of a afternoon nap.
“That’s odd. No one is supposed to have that Phone Number.” He punched the speaker button. “Hello? How did you get this Number??”
A tiny, tinny voice hesitantly responded after several seconds of silence. “God? Is that you?”
“Who the hell do you think answered the phone? WHO IS THIS??”
“Uh, God, this is Archbishop Timothy Dolan, and His Holiness told me that You might answer at this number. I’m sorry to disturb You.”
God closed His Eyes and rubbed His Brow. That was the last time I make THAT mistake, He thought to Himself. “Yeah, yeah. What do you want, Dolan?”
“Uh, God, I…uh…”
“Make it march, guy. I’ve got Stuff going here.”
“Well, I need some guidance on something I did awhile back…”
“Go to confession. Next.”
“Well, Lord, I’m dealing with a public relations nightmare right…”
“The New York Times caught up with your little ‘quit the priesthood and I’ll make sure you get paid off’ schtick, didn’t they?”
“Lord, they’re distorting the tru…”
“Listen, Timmy m’boy, you’re talking to an Omniscient God here. That’s exactly what you did, and now the press is going to fry your butt in butter for it.”
“Save it. If I told you what Lucifer has planned for those pedophile creeps, the very utterance of the details would cause your brain to liquify and run out your ears. And as for the people that tried to cover it all up,” God laughed His deepest scariest laugh, “they’re going to get even worse.
“Now. Don’t call this Number again, and you tell Ratzi that if he gives it out again, he’s going to get a taste of what you bunch are going to get.
“Good. Now go away.” God slammed His Phone down, ripped the Cord out of the Wall, and leaned back into His Chair. With any luck, He thought, I’ll be able to get another Hour’s nap before I have to be anywhere.