Forgive me, Father...

May 19th, 2010. Little Karen squealed with delight. She was soundly secure in her backseat-driver's car seat, spilling brand new, brand name, breakfast cereal all over the interior of my brand new, brand name car, going on and on about the free "popular movie character" water-squirter that she had just un-boxed. I was thrilled. I really was. Karen wouldn't buy her cereal like this. Nothing but the naturally-sweetened cereals for her taste-making.   But, I wasn't out to discredit Karen; I wanted to please Little Karen. I chose that box of cereal, and it was the right choice, because the free water-squirter inside of the box was the exact, "one-of-four possible popular movie characters" that she had been begging me for. JACKPOT!
    "I prayed for this to happen, Daddy, and Baby Jesus gave it to me." said Little Karen very pragmatically from her perch.
    I hadn't even asked. This was coming at me out of nowhere.
    "What!?" I reacted. "Why are you thinking about Baby Jesus at a time like this? You should be thankful to ME for your free toy. And the syrupy, preteen cereal."
    "I am thankful. And I'm happy because I've been praying to Baby Jesus to get this, and it finally happened. I pray every night." she reported.
    I was aware of her pet dogma; her faith-based, nightly broadcasts. To my demise, the babysitter, and her sister, had been secretly, nocturnally, indoctrinating Little Karen into the ways and means of Christianity for years. Every night, she prays to the Baby Jesus; she systematically thanks him for the good day that she just had, asks him to provide her with good dreams, and then she asks him for whatever shiny, new, TV-placed product she's picked up on her radar that particular day. Her prayers are like wish lists; God's gift registry.
    "Praying to Baby Jesus didn't get you that box of cereal, Karen. I got you that box of cereal. And guess what? That particular box was on the top shelf. Do you think the Baby Jesus can even reach that high? No. He can't. He's a Baby. I picked it just for you. I could have picked a box on the baby shelf, but they don't put awesome free prizes inside the boxes on the baby shelf." I reminded her.
    "They'd choke." she said. "But I told you. I prayed for it." she went on, surely accusing me of something.
    "Sorry. I didn't get your prayers. I just thought I might try to do something really nice for you, like give you all the forbidden, artificial fruit-flavor, and pop-culture you could ever want, but are never allowed to have. I paid for it." I explained. "I guess the little, Baby Jesus's breakfast miracle must be on back order, huh?" I offered.
    "If you went to church with Mommy you might get my prayers." she said.
    I wasn't about to attack Karen's God. Little Karen's god, however, was fair game; Little Karen's god was my new, sworn, paternal enemy. 
    "If I went to church with Mommy, I wouldn't be out getting your precious, breakfast candy." I said.
L is for Fruitless.