The elderly monk kneeled, his robes worn from years of prayer. Despite considerable experience, he never quite learned how to clear his mind of excess thoughts.

“Our Father, who art in heaven,” he started.

You’re a fat little man. Why do you waste all your time praying?

“God is that you?” he whispered. He listened intently, scanning his cell. Nothing.

“Hallowed be thy name.”

You should spend less time praying and more time exercising. You’re a disgusting little man.

The monk examined himself, ashamed of the extra pounds he’d put on recently, thinking he really ought to walk more and drink less wine.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done in earth as it is in heaven.”

You should call yourself ‘Handles of
Love’.

“Okay, seriously!” The monk shrieked. “God, I’ve had enough! If you really exist, just say something! Anything!“

“I don’t normally do this, because -“

The shocked monk slowly crumpled to the floor, holding his chest.

God finished sadly, “every time I answer this prayer someone dies.”