The Lord God Almighty was two under par on the eighth hole of the Other Side’s most sumptuous (and exclusive) golf course when a pebble ruined His day.

He was bent over His golf club, trying to determine how best to persuade His Ball (marked with that ever-so-distinctive – and some would say pretentious – celtic G) to travel the full fourteen inches into the hole. Closing His eyes and taking a breath, He drew His club back, then brought it forward.

It was then that the pebble struck Him behind the ear.

Distracted as He was by the brief discomfort, God’s swing was corrupted, and the Ball rolled about four inches to the left of the hole.

He swore irritably.

“Language, Pop,” His hippie mongoloid of a son chided gently. God snorted. Jesus, in last place, wouldn’t know winning if it bit him on the ass.

God was in no mood for any of it. He was tied with Catherine the Great for first, with Belushi coming up right behind them. Now was no time for clean words and pleasant sentiments. This was war …

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