How many ways can God smite a man, I wondered? It was an idle question, it seemed, it sounds now. And yet, it was far from idle. I had heard from God, from the mouth of God Himself, that I should be smote, would be smited, would find my future days smite-ridden, smiterrific, smitastic. And why? Well, He hadn’t got around to telling me that part. To be honest, it was early in the morning, on a Sunday, maybe five o’clock? Eleven? The phone rang, bridabridabring, and I sloughed out of the bed, shed my covers, to answer it. Amidst haziness stempt from overnight revelry, or some tonic thereby, I waffled, bridabridabring, swiping at the receiver, which moved higgledy-jiggledly just out of my grasp. At last, alas, I answered it, "Hello?" I sputtered, again deeper, "Hello?"
"Mr. Soltran Duhane?" came a booming voice.
"Um. Speaking."
"This is God, Mr. Duhane."
"Hello."
He was calling to ask if I would be interested in some sort of subscription prayer plan, something about starving children in Yatsnia (is there such a place?), would I care to join? It was "only twenty-five dollars a month, plus seventeen minutes of prayer on the afternoons of the 14th and 29th of every month but February, when the prayer could be called on any given afternoon by gong, including (but not limited to) during showers, ice-making, and Spaceballs.
"Hmm," I said. "Hmmm."
"It’s a terrific deal," said God.
"Yes," I said. "Well, I don’t think so. Not this time."
"Mr. Duhane?"
"Yes, uh, what?"
"I am authorized to tell you that for a limited time only, the amount of monthly prayer can be reduced to a low-low rate of only 31 minutes, saving you almost ten percent."
It struck me. "God, do you know what time it is?"
"It’s almost nine-thirty," He said. "And do not speaketh my name in vain."
I shook my head, sadly, sadly. "I don’t think—I don’t think I’m interested."
"Well then," said God. "I guess I’ll just have to smite you."
I was shocked, stupified, overwhelmed. What a blow for a Sunday morning! I hung up with a clatter, leaped into my slippers, pondered over a grapefruit my awful fate. Smited! Smote! Struck down! This did not fit into my casual crossword plans. Disturbing, indeed. With my trust red pen and the margin of some interminable LA Times article about water rights, I jotted down every fate that came to mind. Which would be mine? Should I be struck by lightening? Dropped by brimstone? Perhaps devoured by locusts? That had always been a fear of mine, locusts. But anyway. Driven through by a flaming sword? Torn to pieces by wild beasts? Stoned? Cast into a flaming pit? Turned to muck? Slain by a marauding army of Huns? It was too much to imagine.
In the end, I gave up. I called the 800 number and donated. He was very understanding, even told me that He apologized for calling so early. He had forgotten that I was on the West Coast, and that made all the difference. I got the prayer discount, the foam hat, and the novelty telephone. It was a real steal. "Thank you, God," I said.
"No," He said. "Thank you."
He smote me anyway. He’s a bastard like that.