Diatribune

God and a few Archangels were sitting at the bar tipping back a few Harp’s Ales. Jerry walked up to the bar and sat on the left hand of the Lord.
    “Hey,” sayeth the Lord. “That’s My hand.”
    “Oh, excuse me,” said Jerry, rising from his seat so the Lord could remove His hand from beneath the buttocks of the late Reverend.
    “Hello,” sayeth Jesus, who was seated on the right hand of the Lord. “I’m Jesus, the Son of God. And you’re … ?”
    “The Reverend Jerry Falwell,” bragged a beaming Big Jer. “I’m the guy you’ve been speaking to for the past 50 or so years.”
    Jesus put down His Bloody Mary (Virgin, of course, although some scholars dispute this), a puzzled look creeping over His face. Jerry settled in at the bar, and called over the bartender to place his order.
    The bartender walked over to him and said, politely, but firmly, “I’m sorry, but I can’t serve you here.”
    “What?” a shocked Jerry answered. “Why the Hell not?”
    There was a whiff of sulfur, a tap on Falwell’s shoulder, and familiar, smoky voice said, “Funny you should say Hell.”

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