I’ve talked to lots of people during my time in hell – as of this writing I have been unemployed for 431 days. Fuck.

After talking to HR reps, recruiters, people in my network, my parents, my friends, my wife, my dog, the mailman, the bartenders, the bottom of many empty bourbon bottles, and the guy who lives in my neighbor’s treehouse, I figured, why not talk to the head motherfucker in charge?

That’s right. I’m talking to God. He’s got some explaining to do.

I was raised Catholic and fortunate enough to have friends of the family who were Jewish. At an early age I realized that no religion is right and every religion does things differently. Growing older, I also realized that religion might be the oldest weapon mankind has ever created.

Religion was responsible for the Crusades, for abortion doctors getting shot in the head, 9-11, and millions and billions of deaths. And all in the name of God. Which is fucking lunacy because – as far as I know – the main message behind most religions is, you know, “Love people.”

It’s completely fucked.

Don’t get me wrong, charitable works done under the name of religion have impacted billions of people. The poor get fed, the naked get clothed, and every once in a while, a Browns fan has his prayers heard and granted. (Be careful what you wish for.)

So, after half a century roaming this steaming mudball, I have always respected anyone’s beliefs. I just don’t talk about religion because it’s the best way to ruin an evening and plans for what was supposed to be a Bourbon and Pills party. I have no problem with atheists either.

But what do I believe in?

I think 99% of what they taught me in Catholic schools and church is bullshit. Not a goddamn part of it makes sense. Two of the priests I admired growing up were kicked out for molesting children. I wanted to slit their throats with a samurai sword. My wife and I have had major throw downs about this – so we don’t talk about it anymore.

In the end, I do believe in God or something similar. Maybe a power in the universe that’s somehow responsible for all of this. Then, on some days I swing back to thinking that all of this is one huge galactic mistake and when you die, that’s it. No heaven or hell. Just a cessation of consciousness.

I decided I needed answers, and they were only coming from one person. After bugging God day and night – and especially when I was drunk – He finally got back to me. You may ask, “Fozz what does he look like?” Depending on who you are and who you like, that’s the form He takes.

At first, he was a combination of Boog Powell and Anna Nicole Smith. Yikes. We agreed on Joe Flacco, cause much like God, JOE IS FUCKING ELITE! EVEN TRUMP DOES NOT DENY THIS!

“Hey God, have a seat. Want a drink?”

“I already have a seat, and I can dispense everything from dragon’s blood to essence of thunderstorm to bourbon. Do you want me to pour your some?” [bourbon bottle appears out of the air, tumbles into a chilled glass. Best I ever had.]

“Goddamn! That’s great.”

“Fozz, really? Glad you like it. My son is one hell of a winemaker.”

“You actually exist?”

“To those who believe in me. I’m God, Jehovah, The Great Spirit, Yeshua, Elohim, Allah, Brahman, and in some cases, Rodney Dangerfield.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Yes, that one too.”

“I gotta tell you, God. It’s been a fucking tough year. I’m jobless, depressed, angry, anxious, mean, and most of the time a total asshole. I’ve tried keeping my faith and praying for help and guidance. Then I’ll swing the other way and want to give up.”

“Well, Fozz. You are kind of being a dick. Cause I heard ya, plenty of times. And when you’re drunk, holy shit! Even I can’t follow your ramblings. Me. God. Plus, with all of the things I’ve given you, I have never heard a word of thanks.”

“Haven’t seen a job.”

“Not talking about that, dickhead. I’m talking about your children, your wife, your parents. Your imaginary internet friends at DFO. You know the other day, when you were watching that worm crawling in the mud? I gave that to you.”

“Great. Good point. Didn’t see a paycheck in there.”

“Are you homeless? Hungry? Living in a box. No. You’re doing fine. A homeless guy living in the streets of Calcutta would look at your setup and lose his fucking mind. Then he’d shoot you in the face with a crossbow for complaining.

“So, by your admission, life is not fair.”

“Of course it’s unfair! It can suck balls. And people think I’m this big Santa Claus in the sky. That’s what all you semi-intelligent shaved apes get wrong. I supply the strength, the will, and the courage. You do the rest.”

“Kind of like what Parcells said about cooking the meal and buying groceries.”

“No. Nothing like that. You should spend your time on something besides football.”

“Well, God I guess this clears things up, and I have to go look for jobs and curse everyone I know.”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Fozz. Go get shit done. You’ve done it in the past. I have faith in you.”

“Oh…ok.”

God leaves the room, ascends into the sky. Lands in Vegas where he takes the image of Don Corleone and plays baccarat. But that motherfucking game is so confusing that even He leaves with empty pockets.