Look at those hind feet, will ya?
Yes, my back is still fucked up, and I wish I believed in God so I could shake my fist at Him and aim foul curses in His general direction, which I imagine to be skyward, as do we all, which is testimony to the paucity of our imagination. For all we know, He resides in a discarded Spam can by the side of route 30 on the outskirts of Lisbon, Ohio. Or maybe He claims on His tax forms a residence in a dimension not yet discovered by us, loony string theorists notwithstanding. Or maybe He chooses to take on the outward appearance of a buxom real estate agent in Vandalia, Illinois, who uses too much hairspray and drinks too many Cosmopolitans and has bad breath, and who dares all Christians to love her. Or maybe He's just all beings and things and everything's fine. Which is closer to what I think I believe but it doesn't give me much to shake my fist at. There's a lesson in there somewhere, but I refuse to learn it.