Posted as a convenience, for ease of linking.

Rectitude
My arms itch and I'm having trouble breathing. Everything is dark. My head aches and I know there's a welt on it, on the back, right where the swirl of my hair leaves a little bald spot, where Alfalfa has a cowlick.
The burlap of the sack I seem to be in is itchy and course. I can't open my eyes.. Somebody has tied a raw burlap blindfold over my face. It feels like I'm rubbed raw in at least three or four spots and like I'm going to have a rash in the morning.
I hope I have a rash in the morning.
I don't really know what's happening. I remember driving to work. There was a lot of traffic today and every red pickup truck in town decided I was the car to cut off and stop in front of. There's the only problem with driving a small car: people just assume you'r docile and you'll let them it. By about the twentieth big truck I was fed up. It had taken me an hour and a half and I was only half done with what should have been a twenty minute commute. When these two stupid frat boys in a big jacked up, chromed piece of crap decided to change lanes into me, I just hit my horn instead of letting them cut me off. The cars ahead of me moved ahead and I moved with them. These guys were left to wait for another sucker. It didn't help, though.
I was really, really late for work. I called the office at 8, and again at 9, letting them know where I was and what was going on. They didn't know what the problem was either. Everything was backed up. I finally pulled up in front of the building at 10am, two hours late.
The parking garage was absolutely full. On the bottom level, right by the ramp, there was one beautiful spot, but a truck pulled into it, apparently unable to read the spraypaited letters that said "Small Cars Only!" on the wall. He had been behind me, and zipped around me as I was about to pull into the spot. The driver was a young guy in a back-turned baseball cap and no shirt, wearing cutoff shorts and thong sandals. His girlfriend was dressed about the same, but with the addition of a bikini top and a bleached-out spit-end collection. As they got out of the car, both of them managed not only to hit the cars next to them, but to slam their doors repetedly into their neighbors and then lean on them as they got out. I couldn't help myself. I rolled down my window and shouted "Damn It, have a little consideration for the fact that you aren't the most important pair of ignorant Assholes on the planet! How can you think that's acceptable? What the hell is wrong with you?"
They just stared at me like a pair of really stupid statues. I drove off up the ramp, looking for another spot. The only other one open was in another section marked for small cars, and was half taken up by an SUV, parked crooked so as to consume three separate spots. I squeezed in, scraping the tip of my side rearview mirror in the process. I sat in my car, already more than two and a half hours late, and wrote a note to the SUV driver, telling him what I thought of his parking job. I told him that a monkey could have done better just by not having driven such an impractical, stupid vehicle in the first place, and that the no-doubt-lone driver with no passengers should consider the fact that the number of seats necessary for one passenger in a vehicle is, believe it or not, one, not twelve, and that this monstrocity was just wasting so much space. I said he should feel ashamed of himself. I left the paper under his windshield wiper, and labeled it "To Mr. Asshole, Driver of the Leviathon of the Small Car Spot."
Then I went to work.
In front of the building, we have a policy that people are not to smoke within 15 feet of the front entrance door. Outside, some punk was leaning against the sign to that effect, and about to light up a cigarette. I asked him if he wouldn't mind too terribly much just moving away from the building, as we have that policy in place to protect the non-smoking employees. He struck a match on the sign and looked at me for a long second.
"If you don't mind," I began.
"Fuck off, Grampa." He interrupted.
I stormed inside the building, and found a security guard. I gave him a good solid admonition for letting this policy fall lax. It was, after all, I said, for everyone's own good, and would he please go outside and remove the offending scofflaw from the premises. He looked at me dumbly, then shuffled out the door with a mumbled appology or curse or something. It's so hard to understand these mumblers.
Then I went to the accounting department, where the parking situations are handled, and first gave them an earful about the abominable parking situation. I demanded a return to the reserved spot system. Then, I told them about the trucks in the small car spots and demanded that some action be taken.
After that, the day went just about normal. Of course, my insensitive coworkers needed keeping in line, but I've taken that on along with my regular duties. I feel I owe it to the company.
At lunch, I checked on the parking situation with the accounting office. I explained to them that what I wanted was a person to patrol and have the trucks towed out of the small car spots. I wrote several memos to the accounting office and Vice Presidents of Human Capital, Fiscal Affairs and Operations, explaining my problem.
At 5 I made my way out to the parking lot. I remember a sharp blow to the head, and then I woke up in this burlap sack.
I think I'm in the trunk of a car, and one in need of suspension by the feel of it. I don't know what's going on, and I'm getting scared.
Why do these bad things always happen to me?

God
From where I am sitting, I can touch God.
He's in the next booth, and I can smell a trace of his cologne. Not a whole lot, like stupid yuppies wear, where it crushes your whole nose and makes you want to barf; just a whiff. I can't place the scent. It smells soft and whispy, like clouds. Maybe he just smells like that all the time. It reminds me of being a child, when I'd smell something, then try to go back later and have it smell different, not so neat. New toys used to smell so good, but now they just smell like plastic. This is like finding a smell when you were a kid, and then finding that it smelled the same, just as magical when you are an adult.
He's wearing a blue suit. It's a very tasteful one, with a banded collar, kind of like a priest should wear, if he wants to be fashionable. His hair is black and curly, and he's got perfect, smooth olive skin. His eyes, when I cought a flash of them a moment ago, are very deep black, with very well-defined whites, the two perfect examples of the colors, deep and bright, inky and glowing, in absolute contrast to each other. They are like a perfect Yin Yang. He looks very middle-eastern, and yet not. From the right angle, he looks more mexican or asian or even sometimes like a well-tanned European. It's hard to say what kind of ethnicity he is. I couldn't help but notice he's wearing very snazzy blue shoes with black laces. They're shiny and not scuffed or dirty at all. He really looks like he has everything together.
I haven't heard him talk yet. He's just sitting there playing with a palm pilot. A minute ago he had one of those fold-out keyboards out and was writing something in a big hurry. You can tell, he types really well, and really fast, too. It must have been an important thought, too, because when he put the keyboard away I think I heard him give a thoughtful "hmm." Now he's just playing with the thing. It makes the occasional beep or whistle, but he's a really quiet person, it seems.
The waitress didn't even ask him what he wanted. She just brought over a big salad and a cup of coffee. I noticed she left him extra cream and she changed out his sugar cup for him. I think he probably just gets that kind of service everywhere he goes. If he doesn't I guess it's all for the best. Divine plan and all that, yeah?
He hasn't touched his salad except to take out the croutons and put them on a plate and eat one of the cherry tomatoes. I guess he's like me in that. He doesn't eat the croutons either. Sometimes you just have to be in the right mood. And when the tomatoes are ripe, and I guess he can tell if anybody can, they're really good, when they've just got a little spot of dressing on them so it doesn't cover the taste all the way and just adds a little zip to the flavor. Yeah. He's done this before.
I wonder if, every time he looks at something he thinks "I did a good job on that," or "I need to fix that. I'll get around to it," or something. Is it kind of like the guy who builds machines for a shoe factory going out shoe shopping? I don't know.
The whole impression, though, is just that he looks absolutely comfortable and at ease. He's doing his own thing and loving it.
I feel like I'm seeing the better version of me, the version with all the upgrades, where the engineers have taken out all the stupid features and replaced them with ergonomic ones that work every time and never burn out. I'm the model T, and this guy's the flying car the uses no gas, puts out no pollutants and folds up into a 6-pound suitcase.
I think he's done. He ate his salad, and obviously enjoyed every bite. He chewed slowly and closed his eyes while he ate. After each bite, he waited a couple of seconds and just seemed to enjoy the flavor. It's the same crappy dressing I got on my salads here a hundred times. He just seems to be able to relish it properly. After his salad, he drank his coffee. I couldn't help noticing that it was still steaming. He had the first sip black, and then, while he was still smiling from it, he opened a creamer and a sugar packet. He added a little of each, then had another sip. He kept that up, sip by sip until at the bottom it was probably just a sip of cream and sugar with a little coffee flavor in it.
He left a pretty good tip. God, it seems, tips 30%. I hope the waitress knows what she's got. After he was gone, she just came around and picked up the money and wiped down the table. God didn't leave a mess and he seems to have bussed his own dishes. I wouldn't even know where to put them. I always leave a mess at this kind of diner. I thought that was why you leave a tip.
It's a funny thing. You can't just walk up and say "Wow. You're God. I love what you've done with Honey Dew melon. I think it's your best work. I have your book here, will you sign it?" I think that would be rude. I just let him go. When he noticed me staring, he gave me a little wink and a thumbs up. Obviously, he knew I knew who he was. He was very cool about it.
All in all, God seems to be an alright guy. I've got to find out where he gets his suits made. If I could look half that good, I'd be satisfied.
That was a good looking suit.