Always thought I’d make a cool mailman. Givin’ a thrill to lonely moms with my shorts and open shirt. Rippin’ bag beers. Stoppin’ to shoot hoops with the local teens. Bustin’ a sweet sky hook. The teens be like, “Whoa. I wish Mailman Karl was my dad.”
So money.
If you picture God as Ozzy Osbourne, it’s a more attractive concept.
Shufflin’ around, sayin’ funny crap no one can understand, should be dead but isn’t, cool with whatever, lavish gold jewelry, chill shades, a muffled maraca click clack from the pill bottles in his robe pocket.