God is French?

I think God might be French.

I know because I bumped my head yesterday. Missy pinched her fingers in the car door and I ran to get her some ice in McDonald's. The manager didn’t want me to have a cup, she kept insisting I needed a bag. She disappeared behind the fryolator and I stood there, waiting, my heart pounding in my chest.

There was an Indian girl on the register and I kept pointing at the cups, "I just need a cup, please!" But the girl kept saying, "oh, she is going to get it, miss."

I must have asked three times, "please, just give me the cup!" I was like Shirley McLaine in Terms of Endearment. "Give her the medicine, give her the medicine!"

I was frantic.

Finally, the manager came back with a plastic bag all tied up nicely, but it took a year and a half and by the time I raced back out to the car, Missy was hysterical. I put the ice bag on her hand and she promptly threw it on the floor.

"I don't want that! I want a cup!" she shouted.

I was drenched in sweat and I didn't know what to do. I thought, “just friggin drive.”

I went to get in the car and nearly knocked myself unconscious when I smacked my head on the roof getting in. I lay flat on my back in the McDonald's parking lot, little birds and stars circling my head.

"Please God,” I said - I think out loud, too - “please don't let anyone use the drive through right now."

“You have ra-ceived a bimp,” God said. “One could get a concussion from such a bimp.”

I didn’t know God was French. He sounded just like Peter Sellers in the Pink Panther.

My head has hurt ever since.