The Costumes Of God Ford motor company has hired me to sing at the funerals of people who owned Fords in their lifetime. My job is simple. I present a specially-folded shirt in a gift-wrapped box at a certain time during the funeral. As I present the box I sing, "We hope you enjoy the costumes of God!" over and over in various ways. My voice wavers and slides on half-tones, rather like a Muezzin calling the faithful to prayer. People are moved to tears. Later I am waiting for Jef to return from the store, when some Belgian officials appear at the door. They say it is time for my next shot. One of them holds up a hypodermic needle that is at least 6 inches long. "I don't want a shot!" I say, terrified. "And besides, that thing will go right through my arm!" At this, they look puzzled. "We can't give it to you without your consent," they say. "Bye, then!" I say, rather cheerfully. But the two officials in their grey suits and ties don't budge. "We can't go home ever again until you have had your shot," they insist. They look so sad that I end up feeling sorry for them. "All right, then," I say, offering them my arm. "Just please be quick about it!" I watch as the needle approaches, hoping it doesn't hurt too much. "Hey, wait!" says one of the officials, who has been reading a booklet. "It says here that you can eat this instead of having the shot." Smiling, he hands me a steaming piece of corn on the cob slathered with butter and salt. I devour it hungrily; it tastes great. The officials smile. We're all satisfied.