Bowling with God

God is a lousy bowler. No sense tip-toeing around it. The Lord lacks the ability to read the pins.  He never gives me notice. Shows up in front of my garage. Let's roll a few games, Cisco. He calls me that. My name is Ralph. He says He hates that name. I argue He created all the names. He shakes his head. Only the cool ones, He insists.
It starts when we get there and He can't find shoes that fit. God has extremely wide feet. You'd think He'd create his own. Claims He's busy. Well, it sure as heck isn't busy working on His form. He looks like a drunken stork on His approach. His release attracts stares and snickers. Of course no one knows who He is. Once, I had a few beers and mentioned it to the people in the next lane when God stepped out for a smoke. "What's his average?" one asked. "I37," I answered truthfully. "Eleanor Roosevelt could beat that," he huffed. "Could she multiply fish and loaves?" I felt I had to defend Him. He did heal my arthritic shoulder. There's more.
God can't make a split to save His life, not that He's ever gonna die. Not the 7-10, not the 2-8, not the 3-9. He averages at least three gutter balls a game. He becomes tight in close games. Sweats, hesitates. I have to say it. God chokes when it's on the line. Speaking of lines, He fouls continuously and becomes enraged when I disqualify him. Rules are rules, I say. "I'll destroy every foul line and that stupid rule," He growls. I point out it would set a terrible precedent. First foul lines, then maybe Winslow, Arizona, then ferrets disappear. Once you start with that Infinite Power deal it is damn hard to just stop.
Invariably, He asks if he can drive my Camaro home. The car has great pickup. I decline. God never signals and usually is distracted by his cd collection. He likes Elvis Costello and Taylor Swift. There's no accounting for taste, even with the Divine.