MW sits alone contemplating some of the most important questions ever posed to human beings. A joint dangles from his fingers, smoke adding cosmic curls to his hair and the atmosphere.
MW: (thinking) Sooooooooo… is God a man or a woman? Is God made of flesh and bones? And what would SpongeBob Square Pants look like with a BBL?
Suddenly… POOF! 
MW: God?
GOD: Yes, my son – well maybe… for sure probably, well, depending on whatever your weed is broadcasting to you right about now.
MW: Cool. Actually, this is not weed. It’s incense.
GOD: Incense?
MW: Yeah, it’s got some of the cremated ashes of Jimmy Hoffa in it, combined with a sprinkle or two of soot from the window sill of a Tibetan monastery. And I never smoke it. I just light it up and let the smoke do its thing.
GOD: Okay, so… to answer you first question; I am neither man nor woman. I am non-binary. At least I am this week. I change up from time to time. Last week I was a Whirling Dervish NFT.
MW: Nice.
GOD: To answer you second question, I am of neither flesh nor bones. I consist mostly of spirit, watered down Red Bull, and the crumbs of two hundred and eighty-seven Olive Garden breadsticks.
MW: Awesome.
GOD: And to answer your third question…
MW: Hmmmmm? Nahhhhhh, that BBL’s not a good look.
GOD: I agree.
MW: And it’s not practical. How can he cook Krabby Patties if he has to drag that big-asssssss….
GOD: Ass…?
MW: Around.
GOD: Right. All settled then. Any more questions before I go?
MW: Nope, I’m good, your deityness.
GOD: Okay, and by the way, you don’t have any of Hoffa’s cremated ashes in your weed.
MW: Incense.
GOD: Yeah, that. Hoffa’s alive and well.
MW: No shit?
GOD: He’s working as a manager in a bowling alley. Not gonna say where.
MW: Okay. ( thinks ) Then who’s cremated ashes are in my incense?
GOD: ( sniffs ) Not sure.
MW: But you’re God. You’re suppose to know all the answers.
GOD: Well, I don’t. I can’t even qualify to get on the Jeopardy game show. Tried six times. I have trouble with certain categories like, World History and 80’s Rappers.
MW: Me too, God, me too. So don’t beat yourself up about it.
GOD: ( nods ) Anyway. Be good, my son.
MW: No worries, your deityness, no worries.
POOF! God disappears.
MW is left alone as he was before. He ponders, ruminates as the smoke from his incense swirls around him.
MW: ( thinking ) What is funky cold medina exactly?
