In retrospect, intervening in a Twitter fight between God and Ricky Gervais was probably not one of my better ideas.
In my defense, it was bound to happen. Either it was predetermined that I would log onto Twitter on that fateful Sunday morning, or free will was at work. Whenever free will is involved, nine times out of ten, “not one of my better ideas” is the result.
And so it came to pass that I was destined — whether by virtue of fate or poor decision-making — to peek in on Twitter while cleaning the bathroom and converting my office to living space for an out-of-town guest.
I often forget about Twitter for weeks or months at a time, but knowing that I’d be without access to my desktop for a few days led to a last-minute social media binge. Whereas it had been ages since he’d crossed my mind, suddenly I had an urgent need to know what Honest Toddler was up to.
While the computer fired up, I did a precursory scrub of the shower, planning to do a quick peek in at my social media world, and then hop in the shower for the final scrub and rinse.
In retrospect, hopping in the shower was probably not one of my better ideas.
And so it came to pass that I was destined — by virtue of fate or a light-hearted tweet gone awry — to find myself lying on the bathroom floor, gazing toward Heaven, which looks surprisingly like those popcorn ceilings that were popular in the mid-to-late twentieth century, thinking, “So this is how it ends.”
And also, “Owwwwwwwwww.”
I know. Pretty lame last words, especially for someone whose pasty white corpse was going to be discovered in a most unflattering position. So I attempted to class it up a bit.
“Rosebud,” I offered up to the beckoning light, which, I might add, looks surprisingly like one of those solar tubes installed in window-less rooms to offer natural light.
“No, not Rosebud. Inigo,” shot back the comically concerned canine visage hovering over me. “Uh, how long you think you’re gonna be down there? Because, you know, lunchtime? Tick tock. Tick tock.”
It occurs to me that my dog is getting used to my vertically challenged nature.
A lot goes through a person’s mind after a backwards fall out of the shower onto the terra-cotta flooring that took days to pick out. Things such as, “Can I move my legs? . . . Do my children know that I love them?. . . Why did I think it would be fine to hold out until the deadline to sign up for health insurance? . . . What will the authorities find in my browser cache?”
Eventually I arrived, as I usually do, at “Why me, God?” and that was when the epiphany came to me.
This could very well be an act of God. Or an act of Ricky. One of those.
Direct and swift retribution for my final tweet, the last words I would utter via social media.
When I’d logged on to Twitter, I noticed that God was riled up again over something Ricky, a passionate atheist, had tweeted. His Eminence was throwing down the gauntlet, including calling Ricky “Muppet Boy.” (The tweet has since been removed, supporting evidence to those who’ve theorized that Disney might be more powerful than God Himself.)
Here’s where I probably should’ve minded my own business and gone about cleaning the bathroom. You remember what I said about free will, right?
So I playfully tweeted, “It’s Sunday morning. Shouldn’t at least one of you be in church?”
Heh, heh. Ha. Um. Yeah.
It was a joke. Really! You know, a little good-natured ribbing. I mean, God and I, we go back a long way. We talk on a daily basis. I figured he’d know I was just playin’.
Ricky and I aren’t quite as tight, but we have met, sort of. I’ve been to exactly two tapings of The Daily Show and Ricky was the guest both times. That can’t be coincidence, right?
It’s been about a week and a half since I lay on that cold, hard, stylish terra-cotta floor, wondering which of my dead relatives would arrive via solar tube to take me Home (and, no doubt, to lecture me on the vices of the Internet).
I’ve been writing this post since Saturday, five or ten minutes at a time, either lying flat on the bed with my laptop up in the air, or sitting or standing for a few brief moments. I was able to sit on the couch for a while today. Not only is that progress, it adds Ally McBeal binge-watching to the recuperative process.
So as I get better, I’d like to apologize to God and to Ricky and to the Muppets and to Disney and to anyone involved. Whoever it was, your instant karma skills are impressive.