God must be on vacation

I’m going to the tropics next week just to regenerate. When I get there, I fully expect to run into God. I say that because I’m certain he’s somewhere on vacation and I know he’s got good taste and the ability to get reservations anywhere he chooses. So, I’m pretty sure I’ll run into him. He’ll be recognizable because he’s the only guy who’s walking around like he’s God these days.

I know he’s vacationing someplace because there simply isn’t anyone around who’s qualified enough to replace him. And if you look around, it’s apparent that things are being decided by a committee. Kind of like a heavenly version of the San Francisco school board.

Let’s begin with this whole vaccine thing. We apparently

have enough doses to get through our whole country by mid-summer. If only we could get it delivered.

The “committee” has obviously decided that pack mule would be the most efficient delivery system and when it arrives, anyone from ballpark vendors to grocery clerks can simply take what they’d like from the loading dock and let people know that vaccine shots will be available somewhere between first base and the frozen food section. And all you have to be is either a Safeway Club member or a season ticket holder.

And don’t worry at all about the proficiency of the injection givers. I just had my second shot last week and the woman who gave me the inoculation told me she just couldn’t wait to get back to her real job as a riveter.

Then, there’s the weather. I promise that not a single person who’s sitting in the big chair up there while the boss suns himself is a qualified meteorologist (neither is the boss, but he knows tons of tricks). I know this because while we are doing rain dances hoping for the big downpour that gets us out of the drought and into flash flooding, the East Coast is experiencing weather that has caused cross country ski races to take place around Times Square.

Just this morning, I had an hour’s drive to the Hartford, Connecticut, airport on roads that were so icy I was sure I saw Wayne Gretzky pass us — without a car.

I jumped the last plane out of Hartford before another 20 inches of snow blanketed the whole area and brought every airport within a 100 miles to a grinding halt.

If God were on the job, I’m thinking it would have been sunny with a mild chill.

All the while, there is an increase of temperatures in our air and water (although the only increase I felt this week was through my hotel room heater). What that means, meteorological poobahs tell us, is that this will lead to rising sea levels, supercharged storms, prolonged droughts, wildfires, heavier precipitation and flooding. Well, at least it looks like we’ll avoid locusts.

Oh wait! We won’t be doing that either. Parts of the Midwest, East Coast and South will experience an invasion of cicadas that happens only once every 17 years. And there’ll be billions of them.

They’ve been underground feeding on tree roots and will emerge sometime around May to enlighten neighbors with a cacophonous buzzing caused by the vibration of membranes in the male’s abdomen (very similar I might add, to my own courtship). They then mate and promptly die. The young proceed to head underground only to return in 2038 — assuming there is a 2038.

Eric Day, a professor at Virginia Tech and a cicada savant, says the insects are big and noisy, and they make good eating when fried with sake and garlic. No, I’m not kidding. Perhaps Professor Day is in need of a vacation as well.

And if he lucks out, there’ll be a room available in the tropics. The current occupant is desperately needed back in the office.