It was more of a lark than anything else, that day God decided to shop for pants.
Robes had served Him perfectly well since the beginning of time. They allowed just the right freedom of movement to cradle a tiny child to His breast, offer tender love and heavenly security, or to swing His arms wide in holy wrath as He drowned all creation in eternal damnation. But now seemed as good a time as any to consider stretchy slacks.
Centuries had passed since He created the universe. Millions of years, if you believed the lunatic scientists. Yet in all that time, it had never once occurred to Him that the entire cosmos at any given moment, could tilt their faces heavenward, see up his robe and glimpse His junk. The day He first realized this, He was paralyzed with embarrassment, took a long nap, and upon waking discovered that monkeys and the Chinese had unleashed COVID-19 upon the world. A comfortable pair of pants, He reasoned, might prevent such catastrophes in the future. Hopefully no one would write about this and consider it scripture.
The logistics of God actually purchasing pants had never been pondered before — by theologians, mystics, or councils of angels. God Himself had no idea of His waist or inseam size. Would He need pockets? Why? Zippers were practical, but the Heavenly Father would likely choose the stylish audacity of a button-fly. Suspenders? Belt? Elastic waistband? Whatever choice He made would be dissected, debated, and turned into doctrine by Baptists for the rest of eternity. It needed to be good.
It seemed reasonable that the Lord of Hosts would have His first pair of britches custom-made, but unfortunately all of the tailors were in Hell. Buying pants off the rack meant shopping. Something God hadn’t done since purchasing His HK 417. These days He was feeling old and didn’t look forward to spending the day going store to store. He reminisced about the malls of the ’70s and wished He could visit one again, with its cluster of anchor stores and coked-up teenagers. He briefly considered creating a whole new mall just for His shopping needs. He imagined strolling through Hickory Farms, sampling pepperoni and spiced cheese, then picking up a boob bong at Spencer’s. Focus on the pants, He told Himself.
After half a day of failure, the realization set in that He would have to shop at the Big and Tall. If possible, the Really Big and Tall. And somewhere not run by immigrants would be nice. “Mike’s Massive and Monumental,” next to the Chick-fil-A in Greenwood, Arkansas, seemed like the ideal location. The Lord put on His best aviators and pulled the brim of His scarlet hat low.
Upon accumulating fifteen pant possibilities, God ducked into the fitting room. Slack after slack was tried and discarded. Is my ass really that big? He wondered. Who could tell under this robe? Except maybe all of creation, whenever they tilted their faces heavenward.
And honestly — who cared? He was God, after all. So what if the heaven-gazers occasionally saw more than they bargained for? Who hasn’t cringed when their dad walked through the house in his boxers or their mom showed up at the church picnic in a moist white tube top?
God checked Himself in the mirror and spun around, flaring His robe theatrically. That’s a great ass, He thought. What was I worried about?
He carefully hung the fifteen empty hangers on a peg but left the pants in a giant ball on the floor. Before exiting, He paused long enough to strike the cashier with leprosy and send a swarm of locusts to destroy the farmer’s crops, then returned home in time for Jeopardy.
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