Praying for It

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Yeah, sure, I pray for poontang. So what? I should feel guilty? God, after all, did say,

 “Be fruitful… [mumble] and multiply.” 

[ALT: God, after all, did say, “Be fruitful…” and that other thing.] 

Hey, lookit, I’m only trying to fulfill the Lord’s wishes here. Why should I feel guilty about that? And you might say, 

“Why not pray for world peace? Or an end to famine and poverty and AIDS?” 

Come on. Like my one little prayer could put an end to all of that. Like the Almighty is waiting on little ole me to fall in line with all the other World Peace and Prosperity Pray Mongers. It’s not like I spawned the scourges of the world. Aw, but what the hell, I’ll give it a whirl: 

“Yo, Yahweh, I didn’t come up with the fan or the shit that’s hitting it. You did. And even if You didn’t, You let it happen. But never mind that. Never mind I had nothing to do with it. Never mind how powerless I am to do anything about it. I’m still begging You to fix it. ‘Cause that’s kinda how it works, right?”

There. Will that do? For how long would you like me to hold my breath? Far as I’m concerned, all of these earthly scourges are like farts: The one whom smelt it dealt it. Me? I smell a dearth of poontang in my life. So I pray for it. Nightly, I kneel at my air mattress and clasp my hands and squeeze mine eyes shut. I do it this way because that’s how you often see it done on TV—like on “Little House on the Prairie.” In sooth, I can’t recall any specific thing about “Little House,” but I’m fairly certain they prayed on that show; and when they did, they knelt, clasped their hands together, and closed their eyes. It feels right. Praying on my feet, eyes open, whilst scrubbing the dishes piled in the kitchen sink, that feels wrong. Can’t say why. Prayer, as a result of social conditioning, cannot be part of one’s daily efforts to multitask, apparently. Because, I dunno, you won’t get a clear signal to God? Or, God won’t like it? He’ll allow it, apparently, but He won’t like it. Or, probably, He won’t take you seriously. Because who takes a dishwasher seriously? But I digress. We’re discussing the squandering of prayer on carnal cravings and the attendant shame. How about a compromise? How about: 

“Dear God, first and foremost, please, I beg of You, put an end to all suffering; and then, if You’ve got the time, if You wouldn’t mind, I’d really like a roll in the hay with the redheaded barmaid who served us at Goose Island. Forgive me, I didn’t catch her name. But, as You know, I was so smitten that I couldn’t speak to her in complete sentences. That’s pain, God. That’s suffering. And being all-knowing and all-powerful, that’s Your fault. Isn’t it? You planned it that way. Didn’t You? So, uh, could’ja be a pal and do something about it? Thanks! Amen.” 

11 April 2005

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