“Hey, John,” the Goddess asked. “How old are you?”
“Twenty five,” I told her.
“No, you’re not,” the other one said. The red-head who has access to my files. The cute one. Then, she let the number fly.
They looked at me. Waiting for a reply.
“You’re old,” the Goddess said, tired of waiting.
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m old.” I pick up my Coke. “I’m so old, in fact, I was the waiter at the Last Supper.”
“Really?” the Goddess asked.
“Yup,” I tell her. “And they didn’t leave a tip. And it wasn’t because they were broke, because one of them had thirty pieces of silver.”