As my new drinking buddy, God, and I were having our nightcaps, he told me a tale that gives “angel food” a whole new meaning.
An attractive woman had rejected my advances, and as God and I were having our nightcaps, I asked him to dropkick this woman to New Jersey, as he’d done earlier with the rottweiler and its owner.
“When I was still in power, I used to get hundreds of requests per day from folks in far worse situations than yours,” my drinking companion said. “‘O God, please help me!’ was a phrase I never stopped hearing. I found it downright impossible to lend a helping hand to all these sorrowful individuals, so I often sent an angel in my stead. Sometimes this didn’t work out well. For instance, I once dispatched an angel named Miranda to help the depressed philosopher Socrates. Would you like to hear the story?”
“I’m all ears,” I said, putting my rejection on the proverbial back burner for the moment.
“Miranda was heading for Greece when she entered a time warp and flew into a cave occupied by a Palaeolithic couple. ‘Sorry, folks,’ she said, ‘I think I’ve made a wrong turn somewhere. I’m supposed to be comforting a Greek…” She didn’t get to finish the sentence, since the couple assumed she was a locust, albeit a very large and talkative one, and clubbed her to death. Then they clipped her wings, chopped her up, cooked her, and ate her, enjoying the world’s first angel food.
“‘This is divine,’ the woman said, gnawing on Miranda’s brisket.
“‘Best locust I’ve ever eaten,’ the man agreed, gnawing on her flank.”
“Couldn’t you have prevented this terrible deed from happening?” I asked God.
“I tried, but I somehow entered the wrong time warp and found myself in the Queen of Sheba’s boudoir. ‘Scram!’ she told me. I tried again, and there I was, riding an elephant with Hannibal in the Alps. The third attempt was a success. I arrived in the cave just as the couple was putting aside Miranda’s inner organs for subsequent dining.”
“I don’t see how anyone could confuse an angel with a locust,” I said.
“That’s because you’re not a Palaeolithic guy,” God declared. “Anyway, I wanted to make sure the couple would never eat another angel, so I gave them a case of the runs that was like a marathon. Back and forth they galloped to the cave’s privy for a whole month.” He paused for a moment, then he said:
“Socrates may have committed suicide, but at least that couple never ate another angel. They must have passed on the word, since I don’t think any other Palaeolithic folks ever ate an angel, either.”
Hear these last words, I decided not to ask God to dropkick the woman who’d rejected me into a Palaeolithic cave. Instead, I ordered another cocktail, one with the appropriate name of Fallen Angel.
Part of a series detailing Lawrence Millman’s experiences with his drinking buddy, God. Soon to be gathered together, assuming a publisher is interested, as a mini-memoir entitled “Drinks With God.”