In a nightclub somewhere, called casa rossa, found in the heart of a metropolis, two boon companions were seated at the bar. They had downed a good number of their favorite drinks and spirits were running high. One of them started rapping and jingling at the same time.
"Give me a beer,
Free me from de sneer
That the rut is givin' me!" The other comrade at arms, the trusty friend in a life of the dole, the bar and the street, answered with glee.
"Yeah chum, way to go! What about mine?
Give me a smoke,
Free me from the cloak
That today's conscience is givin' me!"
"Yeah, ol'pal," the former replied. And with an increased sense for sensation, he continued.
"Give me a toke,
Free me from the yoke
That reality puts on me!"
"Yeah, man, that's it! You're getting the hang of it," the other says and adds.
"Give me a shot,
Free me from the clot
My befuddled brain gives me!"
"Yoohoo, bud; listen to this one!
Give me a gun,
Free me from life's fun,
Blow me all to kingdom come!"
"Wow, but what about this one!?
There I've got hot joy,
Playing with fire like a circus boy!"
After this burst of energy they settle down again. They light their respective cigarettes and stare into their umpteenth drink.
"Life sucks," the one observes.
"Certainly," the other replies.
"Women, bosses, politicians; man even God is indifferent!"
"What do you say, 'indifferent?' I'm telling you; he is worse than the devil," the ringleader says.
"Certainly, at least he gives us fun. Everybody believes in somethin'. I believe in havin' another drink!"
"That's it, man! Alcohol is our enemy, but the ol'book says we must love our enemies." And he guffaws, slapping his knees. The other one roars and adds.
"We'll show them so-called Christians how to turn one's enemies into friends!"
There is a short pause of silence again. Then the most brazen of the two says.
"G.D., I seriously would like to call God to account. What a miserable existence we have to lead! I haven't got enough money to get totally drunk, or stoned. And that really ticks me off. We spent too much money on the ladies."
"You insisted on having a second chick involved. But why don't you ask God to send some money down!"
"He doesn't give a hoot about us," and then declaims like a priest with a liturgical voice. "When all the mysterious mechanisms of the universe come to a frozen halt and the music of the spheres no longer sounds forth; do you think there will be a sigh, or a groan by a greater thinking thing than us!"
"Ha, ha, what a clown you are! But we may as well return to the apartment. We haven't got a dime left to our name."
They finish their liquor to the last dregs and go for the exit. The bouncer curses them for not giving a tip. The ringleader replies.
"Now why would I give you a tip?" And going over three fingers of his left hand with his right-hand index, he says. "To insure promptness. That's what it means, T-I-P. Tips used to be given before the job was done."
"Go to blazes," the bouncer answers, "you old codger!"
Getting to the street they loiter slowly forward.
"What a life!" The one complains.
"Tell me about it!"
"I wish I could show the ol'man up there a thing or two," and he indicates heaven with a tilt of his head.
"I wish I could pull him down from his throne to this earth. Then he could experience what it's like," the ringleader adds with disgust in his voice.
"But when I was an altar boy my priest said that Christ did that."
"Christ? C'mon. Don't talk to me like some holier-than-thou do-gooder!" And then the ringleader starts cursing both God and Christ, adducing one hateful reason after another. At last his old friend says.
"But, Pete, you're cussin' almost the entire Trinity!"
"Almost? I'll show you cussin', obnoxious old swine you are! You never got altogether rid of that old church chip on your shoulder. How about this for a change?" And then he starts blaspheming the Holy Ghost. No sooner had he begun, or a car looms up out of the dark and kills him on the spot.