Bob Frink’s home looked like a kids’ popsicle-stick house that had been stepped on by a bully. “Jesus Christ,” he cried, “the place looks like it was run through a goddamn blender!”
Then he caught sight of the McMansion next door: completely untouched. A wail of dismay escaped his lips. “How come the McGrorys got off with nothing? Where’s the fairness in that? Who did they bribe?”
It was just your everyday, run of the mill tornado in Arkansas county.
“Oh, I just know this won’t be covered by my insurance policy,” he said to his wife. “They don’t cover acts of God!” He suddenly shook his fist at the sky. “You jerk! You think you can get away with this?”
After muttering to himself for about an hour, he got in his car (which had miraculously survived) and drove to his office. The Law Offices of Frink, Wickerson and Palmer.
“Trash my house, will you? We’ll see about that. You can’t get away with it anymore.” His fingers flew across the keyboard as he drew up all the documents. “The Law Firm of Frink, Wickerson and Palmer is hereby suing God!”
The lawyers attempted to serve the Good Lord with a subpoena at St. Michael’s First Church of Christ. When He was nowhere to be found, they attempted to corner Him at Beth Sholom in Riverside.
“This guy’s a wily son of a bitch.” They thought they spotted Him at the Namaste Yoga Ashram, but when they burst in, all the found was some blue guy with 50 arms.
Frink shouted at the sky. “You think you can kill thousands with a tsunami, amuse yourself with a tornado, and turn around and drop a big ol’ asteroid on us, and get away with it all?”
The sky just remained blue and cloudless. But the next day, Frink heard a roaring noise and looked up in the sky just in time to avoid being flattened by a gigantic slab of stone. The astonished townfolk gathered around to read the inscription carved thereupon.
“Notice of Overdue Rent. You have been making yourselves at home on this planet for a good half billion years and not one rent check have I seen. Just a succession of mangy sheep and cows, and an occasional scrawny virgin or two. If I do not receive full payment, measures will be taken toward your eviction! Signed, the Almighty.”
Frink scratched his head. “Um…maybe we’d better forget about this lawsuit,” he whispered to Wickerson. “Maybe He’ll forget about that rent thing after awhile and go back to stirring up hurricanes.”
I hear that the Law Offices of Frink, Wickerson and Palmer have folded. Now there’s a Temple of Ra Crystal shop in that office. If you ask me, it’s a pyramid scam.