I often fall asleep in church. What can I tell you? It’s good sleeping time. Sunday morning. Maybe I was up late last night. The light is streaming in, warm on my neck. The music starts up. Then comes that sermon in — those — slow — monotonous — tones. How can I resist? It’s just perfect for a little nap. Hey, I’m with you God. I know you think a man should get a few extra winks, especially when he’s got a whole dysfunctional state government to run. And, you know, at least I’m not down at the VIP club or something. At least I’m not shooting craps in some back alley with the former employees of Bear Stearns. Barack Obama, I think you’re missing the big picture. Americans aren’t clinging to religion because they’re bitter. They just know that there’s no place like church on Sunday morning for squeezing in a good siesta. And, snoozing in the presence of the Lord, now that’s a real power nap. Just make sure you don’t get caught! Michelle, she always pokes me in the ribs, if I start snoring. Thanks for being at my side, Hon.
Tags: church, Confession, David Paterson, Governor, Michelle, New York, Obama, sermon, sleep, snore, VIP Club
April 14, 2008 at 4:02 pm
Hey, Paterson. Funny you should mention it. I just skinned a bunch of those Bear Steans mooks for a pile of C notes. Those B-school bozos couldn’t throw a pair of dice if their mommies held their slingshots for ‘em. You get tired of the pious life, come on down here and join us. I’ll cut you in for a piece of the action. Hey, a few more days, and I’ll have enough to fund a weekend bender at the Mayflower, know what I’m saying? (Hey, be cool, my man. One word to Silda and I’m coming up there to bulldoze you.) And, no, that’s not just a wad of cash in pocket. Natch. -Spitz
April 14, 2008 at 10:20 pm
Yo “Spitz” —
I guess you didn’t plan on old “Silda” reading this blog. Why would Silda, that naive fool, read a blog?! She doesn’t even know what a BLOG is. She’s just the frigid bitch who wouldn’t give you any lovin’, right? You are on SHAKY ground, my friend. SHAKY ground. I’m on to you, dillweed. You leave DP alone.