The first time Dave rounded out his evening prayers with “Please just let her like me, God,” I was completely shocked. I mean, this kid, right? Doesn’t he know the stuff that’s going down in the world? Like, I’m a busy being, no doubt about it.
“Not even love or anything,” he continued, “but maybe sometime down the road, if you could help me with that, that’d be cool, too. I promise I would never hurt her, and all of that. If, you know, I could just get my foot in the door, so to speak. Amen…Oh, and please protect my family and I from the congenital heart defects that run rampant on both the maternal and paternal side. Thanks.”
Palm meet face, amirite? I hoped this was a one-off thing, an ill-advised moment he might reflect back on and think, “Yikes, I can’t believe I just asked God to make a girl like me when so many people are poor and sick and in need.”
But it wasn’t. He did it the next night. And the night after that. A fortnight of prayers sent directly to me, the boss, asking for this Millie broad to get all gushy around him. Didn’t even bother clasping those hands together and hollering at Saint Valentine first; he just went straight up the shiny ray of light, all the way to the top.
And it’s not like he’s saying the rosary or anything. On average, he prays for 37 seconds a night. Last night he came home from baseball practice and masturbated for 37 minutes (if you add up both sessions). Then he played Diablo III while listening to Rob Zombie for upwards of two hours!
It’s mostly a harmless thing, like when he stole that package of crayons in kindergarten (he gave ‘em back), or when he was 10 and looked at that photograph of that woman’s lady parts (and that wasn’t even really his fault, because Walt, that little shit down the street, told him it was a picture of a beaver).
He didn’t do anything inherently wrong. It’s just sort of arrogant, I guess, but in a small way. He’s not hurting anybody.
If he starts asking me to help any sports teams win, though, watch out. I’ll do the same to him I did to Tebow: make some really awesome dude move into town and have Millie fall head-over-heels for him. And then Dave’s family will move away to New Jersey.
You know what upsets me about this whole thing, though? Dude is putting forth zero effort. He’s praying, then just counting on me to make things happen for him. I don’t just go handing things out to people, contrary to what the books say. (Abraham Lincoln was a real person but you don’t go believing he was a vampire hunter just because there’s a book out about it, do you?)
You can ask Dave’s guardian angel Brandon; he’ll tell you all about how when he was a kid he used to pray every day that he wouldn’t get struck by lightning, because he had this strange phobia. And it became habit, something he prayed for every day into adulthood. But then one night he just had to do some bath salts during an electric storm, then he just had to camp out in his little cousin’s tree house. The one with a metal roof.
I might give Dave’s request some thought if he’d sack up and try flirting, or at least talking. All he does is stare at her from a distance, and when they’re forced into one another’s proximity it’s, well, it’s excruciating. Brandon told me the other day it makes him get that feeling where you start blushing yourself because you’re so embarrassed for someone else, and he was like, “You know what I mean?” and I said, “Natch, bro. I invented that feeling.”
Whoa, all right. He’s turned the TV off. Prayer time. It’s going well. He just asked for me to help out with the pain his carpenter cousin is experiencing from the broken leg he sustained while diving into oncoming traffic to save some kid he didn’t know. He’s probably got morphine or whatever already, but I’ll see what I can do.
“And please, God, if you could just help me build the courage to ask Millie out…”
Alright, alright, alright! Praying for courage is totally legit. Good stuff, Dave.
“…And also, if you could help LeBron James finally win his first NBA Championship, that’d be great. He really, really deserves it.”
MOTHER OF…nevermind. That’s it. pack your bags for the Garden State, kid, and Oklahoma City in seven, just to make the pain last. THUNDER UP!!!!
For more from Scott…
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