He woke me at 4 a.m. to go bowling. I really didn’t want to go. I argued. He threw me in the car. It was 4:30 and we were there.

I stood at the mouth of a yawning bowling lane, ball in hand, trying to focus my bleary eyes. Somehow I think I was the only one in the alley wearing pajamas. I told myself I was making a fashion statement. I sighed deeply and vigorously swung my arm backwards and forwards. Then I swung the arm holding the ball. I swung it again for good luck. Then I let go. I knocked down all of the pins. In the next lane.

I turned around on the heel of my well-worn regulation saddleshoes. They were hideously ugly. I noticed that He didn’t have to wear them. He got to wear sandals. Although, speaking of fashion statements, He was prancing around in some kind of toga. I secretly hoped that people were laughing at him, even though they’d burn in Hell for it.

As I drowsily watched Him walk up to our lane, I lay my head on the dirty Formica table, and tried to get comfy in my orange and brown striped chair. I tried not to think of the large, saggy asses that had sat where I was sitting. I tried not to think of the butt-cracks this chair had seen. Posterior ravines belonging to people named Al and Marge and Buddy.

Meanwhile, Jesus bowled a strike.<img src=”http://www.painkiller.org/graphics/bowling_ball.gif” align=right>

I watched Him put His hair in a ponytail. I wondered if people yelled “hippie!” or “faggot!” from passing cars. That seems to happen a lot to long-haired men. Although, I’m guessing that the car full of people would be struck down pretty damn fast. I mean, you can nail Him to a cross okay, but yelling things from cars just isn’t kosher.

I approached the lane with some trepidation. I mean, I obviously couldn’t win, but I didn’t want to completely embarrass myself. Okay, so being in a bowling alley in your pajamas meant it was a little late for that. Let’s just say that I wanted to knock at least a few pins down.

I was surprised that He didn’t have His own customized, divine monogrammed ball, but I realized that He could probably customize any ball just by laying his holy hands on it. I tried to select a “good” ball from the ball return. I didn’t know if I’d gotten one, but I took it to the lane anyway. I threw the ball cleanly and evenly right into the gutter. It made a loud smacking noise as it fell off into oblivion. Shit.

Back in my chair, I nodded off.

I dreamt that Jimmy Swaggert was telling me to open a Bowling Alley Brothel. That God willed it and I was a sinner if I disobeyed. Then he morphed into a giant hot dog, and chased me. I yelled, “I rebuke you demon wiener!”. Then I woke up. I looked at the scorecard. Jesus had bowled a perfect score. I had no points whatsoever.

It was my turn again.

“Aim for the middle pins”, He said, “and pray very, very hard.” as I staggered forward. “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Smart-Ass.”, I thought. Sometimes you just need to know when to bite your tongue. Although, I doubt it helped any in this case.

I felt that I needed a running start to properly launch my shiny ball onto its path to glory. I focused on the ball. Then I focused on the ten pins, arranged so orderly at the end of the lane. I ran forward and swung and released the ball in one smooth, sinuous motion.

I did not know that the lanes were waxed daily. I had no idea how slippery they really were until I stepped out onto them. As I fell on my back, my line of vision flew up, and my eyes were transfixed by the bright, pulsing fluorescent lights that lined the ceiling. I felt mesmerized. I wondered if I could hypnotize myself into doing weird things like barking every time I heard a bell. I wanted to sleep there forever. Just stay on that lane in blissful solitude. I could have stayed there forever. Except for the fact that He was threatening to bowl His ball at my head. So I got up, went to my seat and wept.

Jesus laughed.