No Purchase of Port

No Purchase of Port

       by Portugal Pete

                        he sat on the fence

                        it didn't make sense

                        that the alien greys

                        were imposing their says

                        on man's ways

                        and modes of expense

The Muslim cleric organized the event. The young choirboy, Mullah, now seventeen, drove the car. The remote control in the minaret, handled by the cleric's personal bodyguard, detonated the device. The designate building, the British Consulate, blew up and all its facade of windows and plastic and tin flipped into the wind.

       In heaven Mullah sat bandaged up and sore at a roadside tavern where he had finished some milk with a bit of freneet in it. God came up to him. He pulled up in a vehicle definitely divine, white, long, and quiet of propulsion. He sat down, God did, and ordered port.

       "A little glass for now," He said to the waiter. "We can order more if the mood persists." Nobody spoke. God drank and put down His empty glass. Immediately He called for more.

       "Bring us a bottle of Portugal's best," He said, smiling. He looked at His watch and then thought better of it. He pulled His floppy sleeve over it so that He would not be tempted to consult it. The weather held. Rain and some wind had been forecast and so things had turned out. The umbrella over the table kept the misty rain off them. The umbrella read, "Seemore's Honeydew Pale Ale." The canopy's colors, yellow and ochre, appealed to the eyes.

       "The good thing about the yellow streets," God said, "is that you couldn't tell if a dog pissed on it, eh?" He laughed at His own joke. No one else seemed interested, or at least not impressed. I must stop trying to impress people, God thought to Himself. The man with Mullah rose to go.

       "I've got it," God said, reaching into His pocket for His billfold. He took it out and put a twenty on the table, enough for all the drinks and more. Mullah still had not had any of the port.

       "Aren't you having any?" God said, pointing at the bottle. In it the purple liquid reflected the light and would not let it in. Mullah looked at God as if He were stupid. He blinked in the mist that wet his face.

       "I don't drink, You Know-it-all! Don't You know anything about the Earth?" He waited for God to answer, unaware that his statement might hurt or intimidate someone of God's stature.

       "Sorry! I forgot. I guess I should pay more attention to such things but I plumb forgot whom I was speaking to! Of course! Muslims don't drink alcohol. How silly of Me. Waiter! Please Come and remove the port from this table. What might I offer you instead? A bit of milk? Some goat's cheese? A large portion of tea and leavened bread?  Crusty rolls dipped in corn syrup? Whey?" Mullah nodded.

       "Well? Which one?" God said, starting to sound a little out of sorts.

       "Whatever You have," Mullah said. God rolled His eyes and ordered water and pork-free scones.

       "Throw in some sardines," He called to the waiter's back. Soon Mullah became less belligerent. He deigned to look on his Lord for the first time with something akin to affection. He reached over and touched His sleeve before addressing Him the next time.