sick

If I believed in a petty, mean-spirited, sadistic bully of a god who derived pleasure in inflicting pain and small torture upon others, and if I wanted to prove the existence of such a god, you know what evidence I would offer up? The spring cold. Because only a deity who wants to mock and taunt and delight in suffering would think up such a nasty, vile torment.

You know, I have just made it through a Chicago winter. The temperature has been warm, and I have been out walking barefoot along the lake shore, riding my bike through the city, and basking in the coquettish sunshine.

And then I hear it, that snide whine of a voice, calling out to me on the cosmic playground, "So, you made it through winter and you think you're so tough, huh? Well, how 'bout this? How 'bout I slap you with a little cold? How 'bout I cram your ears and your nose with some nasty, coagulated gunk? And oooh, I know, I can send a tickler down your throat to inflict his agonizing torment upon your tonsils. And how 'bout I turn up the heat with a wee bit of a fever?"

"But why?" I ask of the bully god, trying to wiggle free from the unrelenting headlock, knowing the dreadful noogie soon will follow.

"Because I can," says the deified tyrant, then laughs maniacally. Oh, the malevolence!


I guess it is a good thing that I don't believe in a god who delights in the misery of humanity; I'd be in the wrong racket if I did. But I am sick. And it sucks. And with the sun shining out there, beckoning to me, it does seem a little cruel to be knocked out with the yucky cold.