Oh sorry, did you think I meant my wife? I was confused for a minute there too. Yes, I'm completely wary of her wrath as well.
I meant Him, with a capital "H". God. The "First String" guy. The G-string.
Speaking of capital "H", look what I found in a common bag of potato chips…
Not so common. This happens to be the first letter of my last name. Branded into the chip. Clear as the Resurrection. From the Man himself, of course.
I call it "stigmata on a Miss Vickie's". Lightly sprinkled with sea salt too.
Still don't get the sign? What He's saying is I'm a chip off the old block, the old block being the old man in the sky, King of Kings, Lord of Lords, the Chip of Chips.
I'm so glad it wasn't a Lay's. Blehggew.
The timing was perfect. It arrived in my chip bag at Christmas. Christmas is when I get really depressed, and when my body engorges itself with loads of junk food to compensate. When I saw this glorious chip, well, I couldn’t munch no more. Being so sacred and all.
I’ve been waiting for this sign a long time. I kept checking everything – beer suds, pizza crusts, the ring around my toilet bowl. I knew it could show up anywhere. Appearing on a kettle-cooked treat is just a big, somewhat healthier, bonus from the Big Guy.
Don’t think for a minute I’m not aware of my salty companion's symbolism. Upon the first bite, it snaps in two, then into many smaller pieces, and finally into Miss Vicky’s mulch in your mouth, all representing the transitory and frail nature of being. One minute you are lying on a St. Kitt’s beach and life is going swimmingly when suddenly God snaps your body in two and turns you into a masticated memory via an encroaching tsunami.
I like to imagine Oprah found a similar chip, with a big “O” on it, underneath the pillow of her Fendi Casa sofa, after a particularly rowdy book party. I know, it’s hard to accept that one of her 26 cleaning ladies wouldn’t find it, but keep in mind it was sent by the UPS of the universe.
That chip inspired Oprah to start “O” magazine, as she finally became God’s chief rep here on earth. I will start “H” magazine, gobble up “O” and call it “HO” magazine. HOly magazine? Just an idea.
This is why I must protect my chip. Chip safe. I am safe. Like Nigel’s valued guitar in Spinal Tap, no one can look at my chip, except for this one glorious beholding.
So I’m the G-man’s rep as well. What now? I guess I better start acting the part.
I’ll start by disappearing, not taking any responsibility for what I create, and promising, promising, promising.
The question is, will I give into temptation? Will I eat my tasty portender?
