Don't Call Us...

Ms. God finally lost her patience as she watched her husband repeatedly jab a listless spoon in his bran flakes. "Are you going to eat that or just push it around for the rest of the millennium?

God shrugged and let out a long sigh.

“Look," she said "Why don't you go grab some fresh air? And quit moping around the house? You're giving me shpilkes." God shook his head. "Naw...don't feel like it. Too hot outside. Or too cold. Whatever." Ms. God picked up a frying pan from the shelf she'd been dusting and fixed him with a prison yard stare. "It wasn't a suggestion," she said in a tone any husband--immortal or otherwise--knows only too well.

"Hmmm...guess I should go check up on my creations," he said with a weak grin, hauling himself out of the chair and shuffling outside to sit on a cloud. He had to admit his wife had a point. He'd been an awful bore lately, and for reasons that were frankly pretty embarrassing. He'd never thought of himself as vain before; a few million years ago when he'd starting going gray and getting thick around the middle he'd just shrugged it off.

But he'd alway been proud of his voice. And for the last hundred years he'd carved out a pretty good living in the advertising industry; lots of clients wanted "The Voice of God" to lend their campaigns a touch of class. For a while he'd had more gigs than he could handle, until a new guy hit the scene. So now when someone selling doggie treats or plumbing supplies wanted to spruce up their ads it was, "Get me Morgan Freeman."

A choir of ten thousand angels sensing their Lord's mood, flew over to cheer him with gladsome hosannas. But he waved them away. "Sorry," he said. "Not in the mood to be worshipped at the moment. Check back later." The Holy Hosts flew off disappointed, but he was too distracted to notice.

Maybe it was time to switch agents. He fished an iPhone from his robe and speed-dialed a familiar number. "Yo Stan, God here. We need to pow-wow. My voice-over career's at the bottom of the pond, face down in the mud. And I don't see any bubbles.  I know you've been doing your best, but I've been thinking maybe it's time to make some changes."

"Look, I know we've been going through a rough patch," Stan said. "It happens. Remember, Travolta was out of work for ten years before Pulp Fiction."
God frowned. "Yeah, yeah. But that dweeb at Mountain Dew all but promised us the gig and then texted they were going with Freeman. That's the tenth job in a row he's aced us out of. I don't know how much more of this I can take."

"Well, here's some good news," Stan said. "Denny's is breaking out a new line of nutria burgers, and they want you as the voice of the campaign. We got a meet-up with corporate in South Carolina next week to flesh out the details. Great, huh?"

There was a long silence. Finally, God said softly, "So...Freeman turned them down?"

"Hey, don't dwell on the negative," Stan said. "Let's focus on the positive."
God disconnected and shook his head, peering through the clouds at the Earth far below, where a guy in a yellow Hummer at a stoplight in Phoenix dumped his ashtray onto the road. God absent-mindedly pointed a finger and vaporized him.

"Maybe Mister Freeman could use a permanent case of laryngitis," he muttered, stroking his snow-white beard...