On Saturday Night

I left God in the hospital waiting room, and mostly I was honest when I told myself it was politeness.

Satan was reaching through the slot on the vending machine.  I stood over him, arms akimbo.  “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Came for a visit,” he said, rolling one eye up at me.

“God doesn’t need your shi-stuff,” I scolded.

“Cheer him up,” said Satan, waving a joint and a handful of porn.

“What the fu-heck is wrong with you?  Jesus!”  I froze. “Shit.”

“Blasphemy!”  Satan’s eyes gleamed, and he grasped my arm.  It burned.  “Owe me a Coke.”