The Most Important Meal of the Day


Ginger Sister took a sip of her coffee.  “I thought Seraphim flew around God’s Throne singing ‘Holy, Holy, Holy’ without ceasing.”

The Waffle House’s jukebox started playing Elton John & Kiki Dee’s “Don’t Go Breakin’ My Heart.”  Burt the Seraph rolled his eyes, dipped a French fry in brown gravy, and flung it at the jukebox, which turned into a planter full of begonias and violets.

“That festering turd of a song annoyed me after 26 seconds.  It was lame in the 70’s, and it’s still lame.” Burt drained the last of his coffee and nodded to Rochelle that he needed a refill. “Can you imagine an eternity of ‘Holy, Holy, Holy’? Thank you Rochelle.”  Burt scooped an ice cube from his waterglass and dropped it into his coffee.  “The Creator was like, ‘Yeah. I get it. Thank you. Go find something else to do. I’m whipping up nebulae at the moment, and no offense, but y’all don’t exactly sing like k.d. lang.’ ‘Who?’ we asked. ‘This Canadian egg-bearer who’ll be born a billion years from now.  She’ll have a huge voice, like Elvis.  Now here–‘ He snapped His Fingers, and created Foosball. ‘Go play, and leave Me alone for awhile.'”

“He called k.d. lang an ‘egg bearer’?” Ginger smiled.

“Well, language hadn’t evolved yet. He was making NEBULAE, for His sake, so don’t get pissy over nomenclature.” Burt sipped his coffee. “Besides, ‘egg bearer’ is better than what we called males back then.”

“Which was?”
“Poor, stupid sonsabitches.” Rochelle took away the empty plates. “Unlike ‘egg bearers,’ ‘poor stupid sonsabitches’ is still in use to this day. Secular secularum, amen.  Like photosynthesis or blues in A, some things just don’t need changing.”

Burt the Seraph picked up the check. “I’ll get this; you leave the tip. Be generous.  She’ll have a flat tire Thursday.”

Ginger Sister put a $20 for Rochelle under her coffee cup, and joined Burt at the cash register. It looked like a long night ahead.


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