By Scott Sullivan
Editor
1
Rivers ran wine last week in São Lorenco do Bairro, Portugal after two distillery tanks burst, unleashing a 600,000-gallon tide to dismay or delight, depending.
The vintner swallowed his losses — enough to fill an Olympic pool — and owned up for staining streets, stores, homes and the town’s reputation, but not my entrepreneur friend’s Clem’s vision soon to be made into a bonanaza.
Picture aging 7 U.S. Swimming Olympic Gold Medal heroes Mark Spitz, 73 now, and Michael Phelps, 38, sloshing through a celebrity outdoor 400-meter individual medley before equally-soused spectators.
Butterfly, backstroke, breaststroke before equally-soused crowds waving one-digit foam-rubber fingers. By freestyle — their heroes weaving, bumping into lane and good-taste barriers — i.e. showing their years —we’d have to jump in ourselves.
Competition Two, synchronized swimming, emphasis on “sink,” up next. Networks would use infrared cameras to free and capture cascading wine’s full glory. That or infrawhite … infra-pink, -white, -yellow, -orange; we shall sell no grape shade before it’s time. First to drown in revel wins people’s choice.
“Gotta thank my teammates, coaches, fans, family, most of all this year’s crop,” he’d say at St. Peter’s gate. “It’s in the Bible. Joel 3:18 in my translation reads, ‘In that day the mountains will drip new wine …”
“Been pretty dry, Clem,” I told my neighbor.”
“Global warming … More coming.”
“Let’s go to Zion.”
Polly Unsaturated poked her head through the swinging screen door. “How ‘bout you go to hell?”
“That or Portugal?” I posed.
“Honey,” Clem proposed, “once we get rich I’ll patch your pie hole.”
“Yeah? The one in your head you can’t see.”
The Lord cameth. “Why the Speedos?”
“Planning a dip,” I said.
“Doesn’t look like Zion to me.”
“Help us irrigate, then,” Clem said. “Look: wisteria wilted, shrubs shriveled, pansies parched, ivy irritated and my wife there prune-faced …”
“Damn.”
“Sir, you swore.”
“I say as I please, I’m the Lord! My water, wine, Milken Honey? Priceless.”
“We’re your chosen people …”
“Entitled to this!” He rained boils, locusts, rivers of blood, his new Joan Rivers retrospective …”
“Got Boone’s Farm left in the ‘fridge?” Clem asked.
2
“You’re conflating Old and New testaments,” God said over the second of our favorite flave Snow Creek Berries.
“Ah, a light pink with bright strawberry and cherry gleamings. Hints of watermelon beckon through a light, crisp finish.
“Finished yet, windbag?”
“Clem’ that’s no way to talk to God.”
“Shut up, Poly Esther!”
“Who came up with that name?” God asked. “Curst creator … but what a nose. Back to Me: the Old liked living sacrifices — lambs, first-born sons, whatever slaves could scare up quick. Sane or mad I’d flood earth, trusted Job so well I gave Satan free reign to test, torture, spit out in rags my favorite. Exile was death.”
“Or as good as …”
“That you, Poly Ethel?” asked Clem. “Not good as natural.”
“How good’s that?”
“That Red Sea part was great,” I changed subjects. “Redemption being my Chosen now exile Palestinians.
“Stepping back,” God said, “the New me fathered a son, Jesus, through still-virgin-mortal Mary, who by preaching love, forgiveness, healing mercy — Lord, why have you forsaken me? — handed to Romans to be crucified, thence resurrected before sworn disciples for an indeterminate interim, then ascended him to your side again in heaven. What happens to sinful men without you?”
“Get on with it …”
“Mortal, immoral man left free to whatever they’re supposed to make of your mishmash. Guess wrong, Revelation’s fate.”
“Thanks for that.”
“Shucks,” God said. “Twarn’t nothin.”
“Stop giving God a rough time,” Polly Carbohydrate purred through the screen door hole so wide now bats, balls, belfries, birds, demons flew in.”
“After all God’s given us …”
“It’s a beautiful world.”
“We’re talking eternal life of spirits, not Boone’s Farm, Speedos, Spitz, Boone’s Farm, rivers running Jobs.”
“Surf’s up!” Crying sweet! He hung 10 down Mt. Baldhead.