Hello, hello! Why isn’t anyone responding? Can’t you see me clapping?
Come on, guys, it’s Joan Rivers! I’ve been told they booked me into “The Blue Yonder.”
Still, not a peep out of you. All sitting there dressed in white shmattes, dozing in your armchairs, not moving your butts, maybe you have hemorrhoids and are comfy on your donuts. You look like you’ve been body-snatched from ancient history.
MELISSA!!! You have my calendar! Why the hell did you book me into what looks like The Milky Way Saloon?
I refuse to wear white. It’s drab, worse than khaki, and all wrong for my complexion. Not to mention my naturally blond hair. Who’s snickering? Yeah, you with the white beard! I distinctly heard you mumble: Harrumph. At least someone is opening his mouth — thank you God!
You’re welcome. I’m God.
No shit — a real lively talker! So who are you, young man with a silver beard? Hey, don’t come any closer — you massive hulk of curdled milk!
No, I’m telling you, I’m God.
Rrrrrright. You won’t believe how many guys told me they were God. Especially Moe, the oncology resident I’d dated for a while who would bring me pictures of cancers in sub-Saharan Africa to amuse me.
Look, if I thought you were God, I wouldn’t say shit, capish? Even I, the trail-blazing comedian, would not say “shit” in God’s presence.
You exasperate me, woman. And eat your heart out: Moe is now a famous oncologist in Beverly Hills. So the joke’s on you — you with the gaudy clothes.
Oh no! You — whoever you are — never ever criticize my wardrobe! I have three things to tell you: ONE: You’re not my mother! TWO: It’s not “gaudy,” but Gody. So I’m wearing it to please the Lord. AND THREE: I AM THE FASHION POLICE — NOT YOU!
Robin Williams! How did they convince you to wear this white beach towel?
They keep telling me it’s for purity because I’m in heaven. I don’t want to be here! Look, God, I’m Catholic and suicides are not allowed into heaven.
In your case, I’ll make an exception.
All right Lord, back to me. Joan. I’m hungry. I’ll make you a deal: I’ll stop kvetching if you bring me a hamburger and some crispy french fries.
One burger coming up!
Oh, no, this burger is raw! I didn’t come to heaven to eat raw meat!
Sorry, we have no fire in heaven.
God, I’m still hungry. And don’t give what you provided my ancestors in the desert. MANNA is not a food but mooshed-up styrofoam.
Your Jews were so disgusted with it that they climbed the mountaintop to worship the Golden Calf. Calf! Oh, yeah, how about some sauteed calf’s liver smothered in onions and chicken fat?
Robin — let’s have a big hug, for old time’s sake. Jesus, that’s a great hug!
I’m Jesus. Did someone call my name?
Jesus, as a Jewish mother I’m telling you to put some meat on your skinny bones.
I once had a Jewish mother and she made a delicious dish called Galilean Chicken, which was slowly simmered in goat’s milk.
So maybe this is worth a Second Coming?
HELL NO! I’D RATHER STARVE!
Rachel Patron is a former opinion columnist for the Sun-Sentinel. She resides in Boca Raton and is at work on a contemporary American novel. Column courtesy of Context Florida.