So, I’m talking to God. I’ve been working all night on this serial-killer story and I start drinking black vodka at 10am. 

“Forgive me Father for I have sinned,” I tell him.

God shuffles his feet, adjusts his blanket, butters another slice of toast and replies in a perfectly reasonable tone:

“Tell me, son, without shame.” 

Well, of course, as you might imagine, I just fall apart and it all starts to flow:

“Oh, Father, I have opened my door to sentiment and hubris;

I have pimped and used the innocent and spoken ill of the dead;

I have insulted my friends and damned them as unworthy;

I have blasphemed and taken the word of Ford in vain;

I have cheated those to whom I owe tax and over-taxed those who owe tax to me;

I have pan-handled and swindled and hustled and wasted the fruits of my endeavours;

I have been unfaithful to my wife and blinded my eyes to her infidelities;

I have entertained wicked thoughts regarding my animals and have occasionally kicked the cat (affectionately);

I have no visible means of support and yet remain solvent in an arogantly upright and wickedly handsome manner;

I disrespect my natural talents and stubournly refuse to exploit them and…

last night I viewed an illegal copy of Borat ,that I didn’t even pay for, and fell asleep.

Oh, Father forgive me…”

And then I just collapse in a helpless heap and pray for a line of Coke, in tongues.

“Truly your sins are great, my son,” says God, “and so, therefore, must be your penance.”

“You mean?” I reply in horror.

“Yes. There is no other way. You must watch Borat again, and stay awake until the end credits!”

Too much! Too much!

I feel damned…

But by this time the bars are open, so I tell God to blow it out his ass.