Shut up! Shut up I tell you! You have no right, no right at all to try and tell me I’m wrong. Back away from what’s me and mine; I’m tired of the nagging nagging NAGGING!

What are you? You act like my conscience or something. And if you are, remember — that makes you my conscience. I formed you and I can reform you.

And keep away from my kid, she’s mine to form too, and I’m making her mine for keeps.

Her mother is gone now, I had her sent away. Some say I drove her crazy, and maybe I did, but she was weak, too weak to keep up with me.

Anyway, it’s none of your business . . . but here . . . since you’re always prying into everything all the time, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’ve got a song that sings to me deep down inside, and I live by it, and you’re not going to change it, so you might as well hear it.

It goes like this:

Gone are those days of knee-shaking confession. I have my new therapist, my rock-solid repression.

All I’ll confess is no need to amend—I’ve evolved past critique or flaws to defend.

Me and Mine, Me and Mine. Get your hands off, get your hands off, get your hands off Me and Mine.

I get what I need, and I love what I own. I am an achiever, I run my own town.

Just take a look at my car and my home, my family, my hair, my fine clothes, my smart phone.

That’s me in the mirror, me in the glass, I make my own way; I dismiss what I pass.

I’m proud of my pride and secure in my place; I set my chin and my grin to protect my sly face.

Me and Mine, Me and Mine. Get your hands off, get your hands off, get your hands off Me and Mine.

As far as my end, well, it’s something I’ll handle. Passing away is like snuffing a candle.

One puff and it’s over — who cares, who can fight? You just say good-by and slide into night.

Immortality is just as simple as this: spoil your children profusely and they’ll never miss.

They’ll remember you fondly when they get it all. Name a hospital after you or some lecture hall.

Me and Mine, Me and Mine. Get your hands off, get your hands off, get your hands off Me and Mine.

There, how about that?

“It’s a clever chorus, but the verses are insipid.”

As if I cared about your opinion. I’ve had it with you. Who do you think you are anyway?

“I’m not your conscience, you’ve mostly killed that. I’m that part of you that you can’t reform or kill.”

Wait a minute, you’re a part of me?

“Well . . . technically yes and no. I am part of you but I’m that part you don’t own. I was put into you when you were created by your creator.”

I don’t believe that bull.

“You don’t have to. You can live throughout all eternity without a nod to your creator. It’s your choice. But it is important to be aware that the place you’re headed for in eternity is not exactly heaven.”

You’re talking about hell, but I don’t buy that either. It’s all just made up to control people, keep ‘em in line and keep ’em putting money in the plate.

“Would you like to bet on that?”

Bet on what?

“If you’re right about that.”

You mean gamble on the whole thing? God or not? Heaven and hell, or not?

“Sure. I heard you were some kind of a big gambler. You might like this game. Here’s how it goes: If you bet there is no God and there is no God, at the end when you die you’re no worse off. I take it that’s your bet, right.”

I’d put money on it.

“I thought so. And if you bet there is a God and there isn’t, same thing. You’re gone. You die and there’s nothing there, so who cares? You’re no worse off than the guy who bets no-God. You’re just snuffed out like a candle like in your song. No eternity, just nothing.”

We’re all in the same boat then.

“Except for one thing. What if there is a God. The God. The Creator. And you bet against him. Well, then you face some trouble, big trouble. There will be consequences to your disbelief. At the end of your life, you will lose everything—forever—and wind up in a place you may not believe in now, but one you’ll find out is an absolute fact too late to do anything about it.”

So if I’m wrong . . .

“Then at that instant you will have a very rude and shocking awakening. You’ll be wrong forever. There is no end to how unhappy you’ll be then. That’s the nicest way I can put it.”

I still find this God thing hard to believe . . . but now I want to know.

“The man who came up with the notion of gambling on the existence of God, says you never will really know for absolute certain; it is always a gamble, and everybody bets whether they know they are betting or not.”

Great, now what do I do?

“That’s up to you and your no-God or God bet. Do you want to keep betting against God, keep your chips on no-God, or do you want to change your bet? The fact that you said you wanted to know is a good place to start.”

Wait a minute you sound like you’re leaving.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be around. But no more nagging. Once you’re aware, I pretty much leave it up to you. It’s between you and your no-God or God. It’s your search and your bet. I’ll remind you now and then, but I can’t make you change. And I should warn you, from now on you won’t be quite as happy listening to that insipid song you sing to yourself. Now that you’ve started listening to me just this little bit will make a big difference. You won’t be able to forget this conversation. That song of yours won’t sound so good. And you just might change your tune, so to speak.”

Hey, before you go, do you have any little tips? I like tips when I bet, anything to increase my odds.

“One tip, but it’s a big one, the biggest of all.”

What?

“Make Me and Mine, Thee and Thine. It makes for a much happier life here and now. It’s called hope. Your only hope now is that maybe that angry little daughter of yours will someday care enough about you after you’re dead to dedicated something to you in your name. And I wouldn’t bet on a hospital wing if I were you —maybe a book rack in the local library. Immortally, I’m afraid, is a great deal more than getting your name on a plaque. And anyway, just look at her — she could easily wind up spending all your money while you spend all your time down there in that place you don’t believe in. If I could bet, that’s what I would bet on. But I don’t get to bet, just prompt.”

I’m afraid you started something here and I’m not sure I like it. It’s making me feel itchy.

“Let’s hope so.”

One last thing, I didn’t appreciate you calling my song insipid. I think you owe me an apology.

“I can’t apologize for that. I only tell the truth. And as far as that goes —it was also sophomoric.”

**********

— Credit Blaise Pascal for The Wager