Godfrey Talks To God: A Preseason Sabbath.

“Godfrey Talks To God” will be a recurring feature in The Local Voice starting in September. Until then, here’s a football-centric taste of what’s to come. That sound you hear is the ire of Kirk Cameron being drawn…

Me: Ah, my savior. How’s it hanging? By the way, ‘big ups’ for the lack of humidity in August.

God, Allah, Yaweh, Etc.: It’s been nice hasn’t it?  It’s part of my master plan of delivering false hope to Ole Miss football fans.  When the temp is triple digits next weekend, all your beer has been poured out before you even reach the Grove, your date is on the rag, and Memphis’s JUCO transfer quarterback removes a latex mask to reveal that he’s Tim Tebow’s Satan loving, missionary work eschewing evil twin, you’ll know the plan is in full effect.

Me: Ha! Not so fast, my creator – you tipped your hand with Greg Hardy’s broken foot. I’m no religious expert (Methodists are so vanilla they confuse spiritual fulfillment with the euphoria of a sale at Linens and Things) but I know an omen when I see one. Positive prognosis or not, that’s a spot-on sign of doom. No need for your classic calling cards – a swarm of locusts, rain of fire or plaid Croakies – I know a bad thing when I see it.

G.A.Y., Etc.: Hardy’s injury is a separate issue stemming from a deal he made to get rid of a scorching case of herpes back in the Spring, but nice conjecture.  My point is this.  Do not ever try and make heads or tails of my logic.  My heavy handed and constant smack down of the hubris filled and Ralph Lauren-clad Ole Miss fan base is an enigma.    It is as arbitrary, awe-inspiring, maniacal and ruthless as the Oxford Police Department’s enforcement of local DUI law.

Possibly God.

Undeniably Me, drunk, holding a purse

Me: Noted. The plight of a tall man shopping for dress pants is proof positive of your schizoid blessing-curses (blurses?). So I take it that this – the FINAL game with Memphis on the football schedule – will be true to recent form? In a way, I’m at peace with that. The fact last year’s team opened their season up 23-0 on the road versus anyone other than the Hiroshima School for the Pediatric Deformed is mind-blowing. Almost as mind-blowing as Ed Orgeron’s 3-0 record against, versus Cutcliffe’s 0-2 bow before getting canned.

G.A.Y., Etc.: You want mind blowing?  Try these ass-less chaps on for size.  The two individuals that are vying for the title of “President of the United States” have a good chance of being fed a catered meal that includes a Chicken-On-A-Stick five weeks from now.  Has this sunk into your wrestling imbued brain yet?  Do you think TLV could issue the two of us media credentials for this little soiree? More importantly, what are the chances of Chris Matthews getting his ass kicked by two KA’s in Rebel flag t-shirts outside The Levee during debate week?

Me: You’re all knowing, you tell me. If I can lodge a prayer request any of the following match-ups, I’ll make sure a steel cage is provided. Keith Olbermann versus the Phi Delts in a handicap, no-DQ match, Richard Howorth vs. Jim Lehr in a cinema verite remake of “Bloodsport,” and a “Last Man Drawlin’ Wins” dream battle between Houston Nutt and disgruntled LSU fan (and possible alien) James Carville.

Twenty bucks says Anderson Cooper broadcasts from “Hinton and Hinton.” I’m expecting a Katrina-esque “Field Action Anderson” complete with multi-pocketed khaki TV reporter vest, two day stubble, and those smoldering blue eyes.

Perhaps I’ve said too much.

GAY, Etc.: Rob Lowe has smoldering eyes.  He ended up video-taping the ass of a 16 year old tramp during the Democratic National Convention in Atlanta.  Between you and me, Coop will suffer a similar fate only his sex tape scandal will involve he and Eli Manning rutting out with Greta Van Susteren.  Brett Favre will film all the action.  We can only hope that somehow Favre will be able to get a shadowy shot of Eli’s brother and father watching and cheering from the closet a la the Super Bowl.  That Greta is one crazy party girl.

Also, on the prayer request front, I am going to need you to stop interrupting me so much with your newfound penchant for prayer.  The truth of the matter is  that I do not answer prayers.  Ever. I only accept your applications and originate the prayer chain.  In fact, much like the bank with your mortgage, I just gather up your prayers up with everyone else’s prayers and unload them as a worthless bundled celestial security on the unsuspecting Asian markets.  So when you’re praying to me, you’re actually praying to some rice eating Tibetan dissident.  He is not able to change whatever the Chinese government and I decided to inflict on you this week, but he  will re-package your prayers, hopes, dreams, and fantasies.  They then sell these things  back to you in a pretty package covered in lead based paint at Wal-Mart.  You know this package as Season One of the MTV reality show “The Hills”.

Me: Talk about things you won’t read in “The Economist.” I guess that explains why, loosely translated, the angel Gabriel told me in a dream to drink more HISAKI SUPER FUN ENERGY TIME SODA. Oh well. And if you bestowed the blessing/curse of a sex tape on Rob Lowe, what have you had against John Stamos all these years? He can’t find his way into a Hilton Garden Inn with a disgruntled JV cheerleader and a Samsung video phone? Uncle Jesse deserves his “West Wing,” damnit.

And despite being infallible, I refuse to believe “The Hills” is the answer to any of prayers as long as Heidi is still alive. Oh, for the days of Kristin and Steven…

G.A.Y., Etc.: I once met John Stamos in a bar in Sandusky, Ohio when he was touring with the Beach Boys, and let me tell you, he is an absolute chode.   And remember, any prick Hollywood actor with that glorious super mullet, an extended period of time with access to Rebecca Romijn’s vagina, and monthly residual checks from the syndication of a long running  sit com that had the depth of the bong on your coffee table will get no more blessings from me.  No sir.  He cashed his check and the First National Bank of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit is now officially closed.

Me: I liked “Full House.” Candace Cameron was the first woman on TV I lusted after. And umpteen years later, Aunt Becky is still a nice piece. Maybe this poor taste reverts into karma, and is a large part of the reason why our defensive line has suffered every injury up to and including gout. One last question, Lord – What’s the harassment level of the Grove police-state looking like for this season? Are we enjoying a 90s-esque approach of looking the other way and pouring out the occasional handle of Beam, or another long fall of Bosnian prison camps, wherein all coolers, containers and bras are fondled for booze and a roaming squad of snipers enforces martial law?

G.A.Y., Etc.: Conveniently, I’m most familiar with the Candace, her early puberty, and her brother.  They do a lot of good work for me, especially Kirk.  Do you know what the profit margin was on that “Left Behind”

crap?  I bought a condo development in St. Tropez, paid to have Smarty Jones stud out four horses for me to use when I crank up the apocalypse, and laid my holy ass up at the Hardwood Suite at the Palms in Vegas after Christmas.

As for the police, I’ve put in charge a former captain who worked at Ole Miss during the days when alcohol flowed like water down a might stream and charcoal grills flickered in the morning air.  That feel good public alcoholism we all know and love will last through the first two games, until the MSNBC cameras show up for their puff pieces about how white Mississippians wear khakis to football games, and a Khmer Rouge inspired police crackdown on anything stronger than Abner’

s Sauce begins.  No go forth.

Me: Amen.