Gabe's branding is the side profile of God. No, not the one with the white beard.

This is the story of how I saw God on the red-hot end of a branding iron.

There's a bar on West Drachman Street and North Stone Avenue called the Meet Rack. It's owned by a man who officially changed his name to God. He sports a large, white beard with waxed and twisted mustache handlebars. He's pretty much how you might imagine that other God ÷ almighty and whatnot ÷ but his legs are a little skinnier.

Legend has it that if you get God's face branded onto your body, you get every drink for half-price for the rest of your life. It turns out you only get 50 cents off every drink, but that doesn't matter; I would have done it for nothing.

It was a Friday night and I went to the Meet Rack along with my friend and editor Jessica, my friend and co-worker Mark, and my friend and evil conscience Ted. The first impression we got of the place was the smell of hamburgers and a sign that said "clothing optional." The validity of the clothing option was made apparent by the array of bras hung around the bar like Tibetan prayer flags, all personally signed to God.

It was my intention to get branded long before we ever went to the bar. The idea came up at a Wildcat meeting as sort of a joke, which apparently I didn't get because I was very serious about getting my burn-and-scar-on.

I should also mention it was Mark's birthday, which entitled him to a free bottle of champagne. We had a drink (Pabst Blue Ribbon on tap) and admired the clientele for a bit, finding there were far more tattoos than sleeves in the place.

Then the time came. I went up to the bar and asked the bartender if she would like to brand me, to which she eagerly replied, "Would I?!"

The next thing I know, someone is ringing the branding bell ÷ there is also a bell the bartender rings when a woman buys a condom in the restroom, but this was a different bell ÷ and God is back in the kitchen heating up the iron.

All of a sudden, everyone I'm with starts trying to talk me out of doing it while simultaneously pouring champagne down my throat to numb me up. God comes out with the branding iron and pulls out a chair for me to lean against. I choose a spot on my back for the brand so I won't really have to look at it too much, and I'll still be able to sit and run with ease. I assume the position, if you will, and put my hands on the arms of the chair. The iron must have been only a few inches away from my skin because I could feel the heat already. God said, "We're going to do this on three." Bring it on baby. "One." Let's do this thing. "Two." Maybe this isn't such a · "Three!" Ouch.

It smelled like hamburgers.

They stuck the iron in my back for a couple of seconds and handed me a membership card and a key chain. For my free post-branding shot, I ordered a Jameson; the bartender said "This is the Meet Rack, dude. We got whiskey." So that's what I got.

Since the incident, I have been asked over and over again why I did it. Why did I go to a bar that I've never been to before and agree to have some guy's face, curly mustache and all, permanently seared into my back? I don't think IÎll ever know. But the scar will always be a reminder of my impulsive stupidity.

After the branding, we were taken on a tour of the infamous Meet Rack sex room. This place has it all. There was a gynecologist's chair with trap doors and things for varying types and degrees of penetration. Then there was the wheel you tie someone to so you can spin and fuck at the same time (I know that I've always had a roulette wheel fetish).

The only rule according to God was "no kissing above the waist unless she's standing on her head."

If only the Ten Commandments were that easy.

So that about wraps up the Meet Rack: a great place to get screwed, blued and tattooed. I still haven't really seen the brand, but I hear it's disgusting.

But don't worry, the iron was cauterized, so it won't get infected. Right.