A Prayer

Dear Lord,

I come, humbly before You to discuss rectifying a situation I consider to be of Your making. You decided to drop that monsterous slab of concrete out of the ceiling of the Big Dig, and it squashed a seemingly perfectly nice woman to death. Now had You dropped that hunk of poorly made concrete on a pedophile, or a crack dealer, or Ann Coulter, or that lying sack of shit Dr. James Dobson from Focus on the Family, there probably would have been some rejoicing and then life would have returned to normal, everyone convinced that God was looking out for all of us. Unfortunately, by choosing some ordinary woman to crush to death, You've instead convinced everyone that You may not be watching as closely as they'd hoped. So now, the communters who are usually busy blocking up the highway with their SUVs and Hummers have decided the wise thing would be to take the trains. Mind You, I think it's a great idea for people to take public transportation (have You seen that Al Gore movie about global warming? Wait, of course You have--one of the benefits of being omnipotent, I suppose) but I was wondering if perhaps make the process easier for everyone. Bless them, Oh Lord, with the knowledge that they should wait until those exiting the train get OFF before trying to elbow their way on. And enlighten them, Good and Merciful God, with the urge to KEEP FILING IN to the train car, instead of walking through the door and then suddenly stopping. Barring that, I ask You, in your infinite power, to visit upon them brain aneurysms and heart attacks as they stand on the platform shrieking "MOVE IN! EXCUUUUUUUUSE ME! MOVE! MOVE!" at an impossibly packed car. Lord, I ask these things in the name of expedient and convenient commuting. Amen.

P.S. Lord, if you do not see fit to grant me these things which I humbly ask of You, I ask that You instead please provide me with a consolation prize. I prostrate myself before You and beg for a British Three-Pack--please send me Vinnie Jones to protect my person, Gordon Ramsay to cook me delicious victuals, and Clive Owen to stand around all the time being brooding and manly--when they're not busy satisfying my carnal desires. I promise I will ask You for forgiveness for these lustful thoughts at my earliest convenience.

P.P.S. I kid with You, oh Lord, because I am sure that You have an excellent sense of humor. Please do not smite me.