I get this image of God, long white hair and robes, bare feet, sitting at a desk, staring at a computer. He leans in, squinting, sighs and puts on his glasses. God is very, very old and his eye's aren't what they used to be.
He lifts his right index finger and hovers it above the keyboard, searching for the letter H. He knows its in the middle somewhere, but he just can't seem to find it. He shakes his head, knowing he should have finished up his Mavis Beacon Typing Tutorial. But between the wars and the famines and trying to figure out what that last episode of Lost meant, there just wasn't the time.
Finally, he spies the letter and punches it in. Then he hunts for the letter A.
"Are you almost done in there?" Mrs. God asks, pushing her way through two clouds, carrying a tray of angel food cake.
"Just finishing up some work," God says, hardly glancing at his wife.
She sets the tray down on the corner of his desk. "You're working too hard," she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. He waves her away dismissively and she bustles out of the room to return to her soap: The Days Of Our Purgatory.
"Done!" God announces triumphantly, but there is no one around to hear him. Even the angels are sleeping.
His shoulders sink. Maybe he should take their cue. The long hours are taking their toll. He can't party like the Universe is still a billion years old anymore.
"I hope this is a good idea," God says again. He can't afford another mistake. Michael's still razzing him about that whole dinosaur thing. You forget to keep your eye on a couple of lizards while you take a class on asteroid building, and suddenly the earth is overrun with those damned things. It was a timely class, if a bit ironic.
God pushes the submit button, hoping he's done the right thing. That Harriet lady looked pretty nice. So did that Iowa fellow, Jebediah. Harriet knows how to cook, sing, and can recite all the begets of the Bible. Jebediah has a plow, a degree in horticulture, and has never lusted after his neighbor's wife. Those two kids should get along well together.
"Thank you Christian Mingle Dot Com," God says. "For making my life easier. Before your site came along I wasn't sure how I could pull off a stunt like having someone from Iowa meet someone from the greater LA area. I mean, parting the Red Sea and creating the Universe was nothing compared to match making. You have my endorsement. Feel free to use my name in all your commercials."
God grabs his staff and raises himself to a standing position. He looks around his office. Everything is in it's place. He can get some sleep now, and he needs it. Tomorrow he has to tackle Farmers Only Dot Com. Sure, they haven't asked him to help out, but after everything he's put those poor farmers through this last century, the least he can do is to help them find love. And maybe grow some more corn.
He walks to his cloud, his mind still full.
Maybe he'll see about getting an intern to help with the typing.
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