The rains had not stopped for a month, and now the floods had come. They swallowed first the roads, and then the small bushes, and then the large dogs, and mailboxes, too. Still more it rained, and so now the waters broke through doors and smashed through windows.
The man stood on his roof, prayed.
A rowboat drafted by, and the woman manning the oars called out:
“Please get in my boat. I will save you.”
The man smiled and said:
“You do not understand. The Lord will save me, as He is good in all things.”
“Right, exactly. He sent me.”
The man ignored her.
“The Lord! He will rescue this sinner. He and only He can bring about my redemption.”
“I know, I agree. Like I said: He sent me. God. Appeared to me about an hour ago. Told me to come get you.”
“The Lord would not send a woman.”
And the woman rowed off, as even though The Lord Himself had sent her, he wasn’t gonna take shit from a guy on a roof.
“You test me, Lord!” said the guy on the roof, and smiled.
A roar as one of those tricked-out cigarette boats with the massive spoilers and bitchin’ paint jobs that only cocaine wholesalers own pulled up. The man driving it wore a terrycloth jumpsuit, and there was a big nasty redhead at his side. The whole thing looked like a party, man.
“Hop on, Ishmael,” the man in the jumpsuit called out.
“I await The Lord,” the man on the roof answered.
“He’s here, baby. That’s me. God in the flesh, which I usually don’t wear. It’s itchier than it looks.”
The man keened, and sank to a knee. Made the sign of the cross, but aggressively. Double metal horns.
“I curse thee, Satan!
The only sound for a long while was the idling engines, and then the man in the jumpsuit said:
“You got me! You’re observant. What gave me away?”
“The cigarette boat. It’s a devilish hull configuration.”
“Not the redhead?”
The engines idled a bit more.
“Well, I guess I could just give you a lift.”
“No, I shall be–”
ZOOOOM the cigarette boat sped off, and now no noise at all except for the flood, which is incredibly loud, so maybe it’s wrong to say that there was no noise except for the flood, and now the houseboat that Shel Silverstein used to live in floated up. On the back porch was a man who looked like Shel Silverstein. The man who looked like Shel Silverstein was barefoot, and wearing trousers that seemed comfortable.
“You look like Dr. Seuss.”
“Almost,” said the man who looked like Shel Silverstein. “I am The Lord, Mr. Jeancreamer. I have descended from my Throne of Glory and donned a Suit of Man just to rescue you from this flood.”
“I have been deceived twice this day.”
“Jus once, actually. I sent the lady in the rowboat. Her name’s Stacy. She’s a botanist. Going up for tenure next year, and I think she’s gonna get it. I got a feeling. Anyway, get on the boat. Let’s go. I got snacks.”
And now there was no sound at all, because I’m writing this parable and I say so.
“Do you maybe have any ID I could look at?”
And the man who looked like Shel Silverstein shed his Suit of Man and revealed His Glory in all 196,883 dimensions with wings made of buttered time and nine or ten dicks, each the size of nine or ten galaxies. The houseboat remained a bit knackered, but haimish.
“ID? YOU SHITTIN’ ME, PONCHO?
This was the Voice of the Lord, and it turned maple syrup into oak trees, and crashed hypothetical stock markets, and all that heard it had a ringing in their ears for at least an hour or so.
As the houseboat puttered away, the man on the roof could hear–
“ID. The fuck you dealing with? ID. Suck my nine or ten dicks with that shit.”
–as the boat ascended to Heaven.
The waters of the flood were now to his knees, and flowing quickly, and so the man found it difficult to keep his footing. He bent, tried to hold on with his hands, but just pulled up shingles and then he was off his feet and among the flood, having had his prayers ignored by The Lord.
You can’t be here during parables.
Was that really your way of trying to comfort people?
I was trying, too.
Someone has to do something, and it’s incredibly pathetic is has to be you.
No arguments here.