God's eyes opened to morning sunlight streaming in through the window blinds. God stretched his scrawny body then swung his leg over the edge of the bed to the floor. With a strain God tried to get up but found he could not. He reached for the Geritol on the night stand and took a healthy swig.
"Yeah. Iron poor blood. That's my problem," he thought to himself, rubbing his prized cock. "Yes. All the women want a piece of this chunk of salami," he chuckled with glee at the thought of hundreds if not thousands of hot, horny women riding his throbbing man-meat. The fact that no woman with all her faculties had even given God a second thought in over forty years never seemed to register with him.
The phone rang. God smiled to himself, knowing this would be an adoring fan calling to tell him how much she loved his writing and wanted to stroke you big, hard, throbbing schlong. He stroked his pathetic little cock even harder. "Hello," he said into the pink princess phone.
"Good morning, dude. Have you seen the morning papers?" came the voice of his most hated curmudgeon, raging bitch, Jenny Jackson. This was followed by a long laugh then the click of the connection being broken.
"Morning papers," God asked himself. "It's only 11:30 AM. What human would be up and about before noon?" Besides, he knew that royalty deserved to sleep in. After all, think of the pressure of being God to everyone. It was an overwhelming responsibility administering to the swooning women, crowds of jealous peers and the occasional secret homosexual lesion with ten or twelve equally enamored males. "My life is so hard," God told himself.
At 12:15 PM God got his sorry ass out of bed and walked into the bathroom to change his Depends. Then freshly diapered he was ready to start his day. Dawning his finest pink, faux cashmere sweater, skin tight jeans from J.C. Pennaux, and boots from J. Crew he sauntered down the street to the high class Denny's on the corner. There he sat in his usual four person booth and opened the menu and waved at the waitress. Taking up space normally reserved for larger parties made God feel important, if not at the very least, regal.
"I think I'll have the Breakfast Scramble," he told the woman. "And tell the chef I was not happy yesterday. My toast was just a bit on the well done side. He needs to watch that or he'll find himself slinging hash at some low class, workers joint. I'll see to that." Searching around the booths near him God found a
New York Times
