That guy, Pricky Pete, who I played soccer with in high school called me the other day. Luckily, I didn't pick up. This was the last person I thought would call me - besides maybe my stupid ex-girlfriends - since I told him that there is no god when he came through the drive-through awhile back. I don't even know where he got my cell phone number, but those god-lovers are crafty and creepy.
Pricky Pete probably wants to show me the way, the right way, but god is going to have to show me a sign before you see me, The Doctor Donut, at any stuffy church standing up, kneeling, sitting down and singing hymns out of tune. The best way that god can show me a sign is to give me a raise a Tim Hortons, so I am making more than minimal wage. Also, I would like all of the bottled water at Tim Hortons to turn to wine.
I don't pray to god, so I am not counting on a sign - in the form of a raise - but if for some reason I do get a raise on my next paycheck it better be a big one and then I will think about getting drunk off Tim Hortons' wine and going to church, but only if I have the day off and nothing better to do.