S: Why you always stay where you are? You ought to move man, like your boy George Bush.
G: Heaven? Which George?
S: Number 2.
G: You ain’t no Saint! Get out of my space ingrate satan.
S: That’s Satan with a capital “S” and it rhymes with Zest and there’s trouble right here in the cloud above River City.
G: You bore me. Go to hell.
S: [Throws a lightening bolt at God, but it disperses in the atmosphere of heaven.]
