Okay, so the other night at work I was hanging out in the office with a couple of servers, waiting for the manager to take our money. We found out there was a group of 40 cheerleaders coming in, and I said how glad I was to be getting the hell out of there, as I can’t handle cheerleaders. The other servers started saying how they’d had me pinpointed as a cheerleader type, and I admitted I was Little Miss Spirit in high school, what with being Football Sweetheart and all, but that was only because I slept with the whole football team. They laughed, as they knew I was joking, but my manager was all, “Oh Alida, don’t say such things!” He’s a born-again guy, wants to save our souls, but he’s nice, so I put up with it. We then had this conversation.

Alida: (laughing) I’m just kidding, Mike! I didn’t sleep with the whole team. Just a few of the key players.

Mike: (shaking his head) Alida! Stop!

Alida: (laughing again) Oh Mike. Don’t you know by now that I don’t know *when* to stop??

Mike: Well, it freaks me out when you joke like that, because of how I see you.

Alida: How do you see me?

Mike: You’re just so sweet and innocent all the time; so nice. I just look at you and I think, “You know, if God decided to send another Son to save the sinners, He would choose you.

Alida: (confused) Choose me to save?

Mike: No, choose you to be the one he uses!

Alida: (awkward pause as understanding sets in) So, what you’re saying is, the Jesus would be. . .in my. . .womb?

Mike: (Excitedly) Yeah! That’s what I mean!

Other Servers: *snicker and laugh and point*

Alida: Wow. That’s got to be the. . .oddest. . .thing anyone has ever told me. Thank you, Mike.

Mike: I really mean it, too.

And. . .Scene.

See!? I’m going to bear the next Christ! That makes me way better than any of you! Now at work everyone is calling me the Virgin Alida, and asking if they can touch my stomach and be healed. Nice.

As an aside, this is (roughly) what my mother said when I told her about this compliment:

“Well, if you come home knocked up, I don’t care if God Himself sits down with me and tells me that it is His baby, I’m not raising another stupid kid. I’m finished, so you take your holy bastard child elsewhere. This gravy-train has left the station.”

I might have added the “holy bastard child” bit. Maybe.

So the moral of this story is: Be nice to me. Send me lots of cookies and compliments and I’ll get you on God’s good side.

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