Conrad Athol McClintock prayed that he’d win the lottery. He clutched his ticket as he watched the lottery numbered balls tumble around and around on television.
“Dear God,” prayed Conrad, “may I win the lottery! May I win the lottery! Please, please, Lord.”
Suddenly a huge hand plunged down through the ceiling of the television studio, shattering the ceiling chipboard. There were fragments of ceiling everywhere. The hand was gigantic. It was the size of the room. A long hairy finger just fitted into the midst of the tumbling numbers. The numbers were stirred.
A thunderous voice boomed through the studio: “I am God, and tonight I pick the numbers.”
Conrad Athol McClintock was beside himself with excitement. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” he screamed. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”
They were his numbers! His numbers! Thank you, God! His numbers! His numbers!
Twenty-seven million, eighty-four thousand, seven hundred and twenty-one other tickets won as well! They got eleven cents each.
The thunderous voice boomed again through the studio: “Twenty-seven million, eighty-four thousand, seven hundred and twenty-two people prayed they’d win the lottery this evening. What else could I do?”