Butcher LoveGreggory Moore
I was talking to God the other day, and God said, "How is it that anyone becomes a butcher?"
Perplexed, I answered, "Well, God, I dunno. I would've thought you would've known."
"No, no," God said, "it seems that whenever someone decides to become a butcher, or starts moving in that direction, I lose track of them."
"Isn't that odd," I said. "Well, I would assume they go to butcher school or something; but how and when they decide to get into butchering. . . ."
"Yes," God said thoughtfully. "Hmmm."
"Do you not keep track of them for a reason? Like, is it wrong to eat meat or something?" I asked.
"Oh, don't be silly!" God said. "Who gives a shit?"
I was walking in the frozen foods section, past the upright glass cases that lined the outside of the aisle.
"Hellooooo! Helloooo there!" I said to the frozen foods. "Hellooooo in there! I love you! You're all so sweet and frozen! Hellooooo!"
And such. . . .
At the back of the store, I saw this FEMALE butcher. She was tall -- much taller than me -- and was kind of cute. She had this kind of plain, odd face -- not a beautiful face (it wasn't that odd, either, really) -- but she was very pretty. Very tall, and thin. It was hard to see her body for both her regular store uniform and her butcher regalia. She was talking to a short man that I don't think she really loved across a glass container that had nothing but ice in it. I think there were usually lobsters or something there (I'm not sure).
"God," I said, "how is it that SHE'S a butcher? A FEMALE butcher?"
"I don't know, I told you!" God said. "If I don't know about butchers in general, how would I know about a FEMALE butcher, or ANY particular butcher?!"
"I'm sorry, God," I said.
"Helloooo! Hellooooo!" God said. He was using a high voice very much like the one I use when I say hello to the frozen foods.
"What is it, God?"
"She has very nice legs," God said. "Buy her flowers."
"But God," I said, blushing, "I don't even KNOW her!"
"Don't be so shy! You need to get out of the house more. I should know: I'm God."
"But God, you don't even know about butchers," I said.
"Tough shit. Neither do you."
"That's true," I said. I mean, I really had to agree.
"You love the butch-er," God sang.
"Gahhh-ahhhd," I said, "you're embarrassing me!"
"Tough shit," he said. "I'm God."
"I love you, God," I said.
"I love you, too."
"God," I asked, "do you love butchers?"
"Love 'em?" God said. "I don't even KNOW 'em!"