A Tale of Mirth and Woe
Saturday morning, ten o'clock, and like any normal person I am still in bed.
And - of course - the doorbell rings. Then, it rings again, for they are most insistent.
Ensuring there is no embarrassing morning wood, I answer the door to what is - I must confess - a vision of loveliness. All tight, white T-shirt, tight blue jeans, and the face of an angel.
"Yeah?" I manage, impressing her not.
"I wonder," she said in the kind of voice that would bring an entire civilisation to its knees, "If you have welcomed our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ into your life."
"Buh?" I say, still waking from a nightmare in which the hottest woman on the planet is trying to recruit me into the Jehovah's Witnesses.
"If you haven't been saved by the love of Our Lord," she purred, "You will surely burn in Hell for all eternity."
I like to think that - at that moment - she ran one perfect hand across her breast and down to her thigh.
"Here," she said, handing me a perfumed leaflet showing a number of hot Jehovah's Witnesses in a number of scantily-clad poses, "Take a leaflet. Might I bring a friend later so we can discuss this in more relaxed surroundings?"
I slammed the door in her face, and left the temptress to her own devices.
And then, minutes later, from the flat across the hall, came the unmistakable sound of consenting adults having a deeply religious experience.
Final incontrovertible proof that THERE IS NO GOD.