It’s me, again – Otis, your highly evolved and wondrously humble link to the exciting world of angelic/human intervention. I say “intervention” because, much like that A&E show with the soccer mom crackheads, we spirits spend most of our time trying to get you people to STOP doing things. Amazingly, you all don’t generally seem to have a problem getting off your butts and doing stuff, it’s just that you always seem to be doing the wrong stuff – like bath salts or liters of vodka or barfing up your lunch. I don’t know what is in the water down there, but you guys seem to LOVE making yourselves feel like crap.

Okay, that’s not true – I DO know what’s in the water. I know a crapload of stuff, I’m just trying to be modest and make you feel like I’m on your level so we can bond. Truth is, of course, that I’m not on your level, but I once was, although that was thousands of years ago. (Actually, time doesn’t really exist, but I’ll save the quantum physics for a slow news day.)

Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. Since I’m new to this blog and you may be new to the whole concept of angels, or spirits, or really any life form beyond those badly designed human ones, let’s start from the top.

Oh, before I get into the whole Guardian Angel business, I should probably mention that Eric, the guy who normally writes this blog, thought I was being really presumptuous when I criticized God’s creation of humanity.

“Are you kidding me with this?” he said when he read my comment. (I post these blog entries for him to read before they’re released to the general public so that he can feel like he has some control, which, trust me, he’s really big on.) “You can’t go around criticizing God’s creations, that’s super arrogant.”

“Sure I can,” I responded. “He appreciates the expression of opinions. Up here, disagreement is exhilarating. Besides, I’m only criticizing the human body. What a piece of crap.”

“Criticizing God’s work just makes you sound snotty. And jealous.”

“I’m not jealous of those second-rate spacesuits. Those things suck.”

“Spacesuits?” Eric said.

“Well, that’s what human bodies basically are – containers that hold the spirit. And I’m sorry, there really should be an exchange policy, because those things wear like shit.”

“Stop being crude.”

“You say shit all the time.”

“I’m human,” Eric replied. “You’re supposed to be more evolved, or whatever.”

“It’s just language. And frankly, the word communicates rather effectively, doesn’t it? Look at a 90-year-old human body and tell me that thing purrs like an 18-year-old’s. It doesn’t. That is some f’ed up wear and tear.”

Eric harrumphed. “I give up.”

“By the way,” I added, “remember what I said about God wanting you guys to call him Lloyd?”

“I can’t,” Eric replied. “It just sounds weird.”

“Weird, shmeird,” I said. “You’re only upset because it takes all the air out of cuss words. Lloyd-damn just doesn’t have the same ring, does it?”

“I don’t say that word.”

“Yeah, you’re saintly,” I chuckled. “You should be sitting at the right hand of Lloyd.”

At that point, Eric closed the blog, so I’m not even sure if he read the rest of my entry. So, as a professional courtesy, I’ll save the rest for next week. Lloyd knows, Eric will have something to say about it.