Dear Tim Tebow…

1 Holier-Than-Thou St., Martyrsville, Saintsilvania

Dear Timmy,

  I heard recently that the two most important things in your life are Me and football… and mutilating little Filipino penises without a penis-mutilating license.  Right.  The three most important things in your life are Me, football and penis blood up to your elbows.  Two of those things, it goes without saying, I’ve got no problem with whatsoever.

  Timmeh, here’s a little something you should know about Me:  I wouldn’t piss down football’s throat if football’s guts were on fire.  Football is a closed book to Me, (preferably shredded and burned to boot).  The only games of chance and skill I’ve ever given a rat’s ass about are poker and blackjack.  Oh, and I have placed the odd bet on the Olympics, but that’s just for the wrestling.  My angel employees used to like a good, oily wrestle from time to time and I admit I got kind of hooked.

  But that’s neither here nor there.  What I’m trying to tell you is that the best you can possibly hope for from Me, when you play your silly game, is complete and utter indifference.  I could not care less.  At all.  I have never and I will never fix a game for you and I’d appreciate it if you stopped telling people I have.  However, that’s the best you can hope for.  When you paint advertisements for that Me-Damned, unauthorized biography on your annoying, cherubic face and stick it in front of every camera that comes within the gravitational pull of your black hole of sanctimoniousness… well, that’s been known to crimp My vacation somewhat.  Do you have any idea what a five-star hotel charges for an incinerated TV?  Not to mention that the lightning bolt often has to travel through several floors to get to the bar.  I’ve tried to explain that their insurance should cover acts of Gawd, but I think word has gotten around.

  And that, Timbow, is your fault.  Every time I see your unctuous face on the television in a hotel bar it costs Me thousands of dollars.  Since you started playing football, your puritanical, pious, preachy, priggish punim has flushed nearly a million dollars in hard-earned tithes down the crapper.  All because you insist on reminding Me not only what a self-righteous little shit you are, but that I have never seen a penny in royalties from that never-to-be-sufficiently-cursed, best-selling, factually-impaired,  unauthorized biography!

  Am I getting through to you here, son?  Bring Me more tithe-paying brand-loyalists all you like.  Fiddle with tiny foreign wedding tackle to your heart’s content.  Shun icky old girls til the cows come home, (It just leaves more rampant totty for those of us who like that sort of thing,).  Rail against said totty having rights over their own bodies, if that’s what you’re into.  Play with your ball, if that’s all you’re good at.  But don’t. Remind. Me. Of all that lost revenue.  Wipe that crap off your face or I’ll do it for you.  Got Me?  Good.

  By the way, the Jesii are hockey fans.

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd

Dear Haiti…

Next to the Dominican Republic

Dear Whoever Is Left,

  I know how people gossip, so before any wild rumours get started, I wanted to assure you that I didn’t have anything to do with your little foundational problems.  I don’t even ever think of you, to be honest.  I mean, why would I?  None of the three hotels in the country are up to My vacation standards.  For My sake, Marriott doesn’t even have a property there, so why would I bother?

  So, that should be a real relief to you right now.  I understand you’ve got a bit of sweeping and picture-straightening to do, which should go a lot easier and faster since you don’t have to go around wondering, “Why did Gawd smite us?  What horrible, repulsive sin did we, collectively, commit to bring down our tin roofs on our heads?”  The answer is, I didn’t do it to you.  So heave a big sigh of relief and get back to your lives.

  Until the next time.

  Because the next time it will be Me on the giving end of a world-class Gawdly smack-down.  It’s like this tourist I ran into in the Dominican Republic said to me once, “Poor people make me sick,”.  Astute guy.  I forget his name.  “Hurry Lumbago”?  “Rick Lumbar”?  Anyway, big fat bastard.  You’d remember him if you ever met him.  Anyway, like Fat Bastard pointed out, you just can’t trust ‘em.  Meaning you, that is.  You know, ’cause you’re poor and brown.

  And he was right, as I just found out from My boy, Pat Robertson.  You did some kind of under-the-table deal with Be’elzebub, an employee of Gawd, Inc., to get rid of some cheese-eating surrender monkeys… oh, Me.  That one always cracks Me up.  No matter how many times I hear it.  “Cheese-eating surr…”  You get it?  It’s the French, right?  See, because they… oh, never mind.  Anyway, you seem to have been involved in some sort of shady embezzling scheme cooked up by the managing director of one of My subsidiaries, Hell.  I expect that sort of thing from Be’elzebub, the scamp, but you are a different story.

  Of course, by “you” I mean your great, great, great, great, great, great, great… ish grandparents.  Since they’re not around anymore to pay the piper, I figure I’ll just take it out on you and/or your kids, grandkids, etc.  It seems only fair.  I mean, somebody’s got to make up any shortfall in My vacation fund, real or perceived.  It can’t be Be’elzebub, because I’m already docking that scallywag’s pay until the sun snuffs out – so it’s going to have to be you people.  I’m going to have to keep you poor for a long, long time in order to divert more money to “comfortable” brand-loyalists, who will then pass that money along to Me in the form of tithing.  I hope I don’t have to be so crass as to mention that this doesn’t let you off the hook for weekly tithing.  You’ve still got to pay your share; eating dirt or not.  But don’t worry, I’m assured that trickle-down economics works a treat.

  In the meantime, you’ll need to have a shorter, sharper lesson in not messing with My cash flow.  Probably a hurricane or a tsunami or something.  Ooh!  Or a swarm of land-sharks maybe.  I’ll decide later.  My Filet Mignon avec Sauce Bernaise has arrived and I’ve got to tuck in before it gets cold.

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd

Dear Killer She-Bears of the Apocalypse…

Assassins’ Guildhall, Basement of the Ellwood Bar, Detroit, MI

Dear Gunther and Bob,

  I wanted to drop a line to thank My two favorite she-bears for all the hard work you’ve done this year and since I first contracted you to rid the earth of a number of heinous baddies who had gotten right up My left nostril.  As you know, over the years some of My creations have annoyed the Holy Crap out of Me.  All I ever wanted when I created everything* was a series of nice hotels with good bars and first-class service.  Is that too much to ask?  I created man** solely to praise My name, fluff My pillows and pour a stiff scotch, but some of them just don’t listen.

  Which, of course, is where you came in.  I really couldn’t have asked for better, more discreet Holy Assassins than the two of you.  The day Artaius, the Gaulish Bear-God, went out of business and put you on the job market was a happy day indeed, (and not just because the son of a bitch has such incomparably hideous breath and body odor).

  Anyway, I was going over a number of the jobs you did for Me last year and felt you’d rather have a few specific “attaboy’s” rather than a monetary bonus.  I’m almost sure that craftsbears such as yourselves would only be insulted by a crass and impersonal wad of cash.  So, here’s to you, Gunther and Bob.  Cheers.

1)  Oral Roberts:   Excellent work.  When I say I want $2.4 billion by mid-December or I’m calling you home, I mean no later than noon on the 15th.  Period.  Schmuck.

2)  Mary Travers:  What can I say?  I woke up one morning with ”If I Had a Hammer” stuck in My head.

3)  Some woman who stole a cab from Me one day:  Sometimes an example must be made.

4)  Patrick Swayze:  I hated “Dirty Dancing”… and that ghost thing… and “Red Dawn”.

5)  Justin Keating:  My old Chosen People, the Jews, have no right to Isreal, eh?  Well, how about a nice cyanide suppository administered by Dr. She-Bear?

6)  Robert Novak:  When I tell you something’s not for publication, you ought to listen.

7)  Les Paul:  Now My guitar collection can only rise in value.

8)  Walter Cronkite:  There can only be one “Most Trusted” around here, bitch.

9)  Karl Malden:  That nose haunted My nightmares.  Good riddance.

10)  Sassy:  That’s one German Shepherd that won’t pee on My rental car again.

  I could go on, but I know you understand what I’m saying.  Thanks for all the hard work and I look forward to many years of satisfactory smitings.

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd

*Note to other deities:  Don’t get Your Divine Underpants in a wad.  If You can come up with more brand-loyalists than Me, You can have created everything, Yourself.  Until then, sit down and shut up.

** Ditto.

The Jesii’s General Delivers a Letter

  The Jesii’s General has intruded a bit on my bailiwick and delivered a letter from a deity.  I won’t deny that I’m slightly annoyed.  I mean, I don’t go around oil-wrestling teabaggers for the greater glory of Gawd, do I?  So, if anyone runs across The General at a militia meeting or a spatula store or something, let him know that I’ve got the mail thing covered.

~Postman

Dear B. Hussein Obama…

Secret Muslim Mosque, 5th Floor Basement, 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.

Dear Mister Obama,

  I’ve got to hand it to you.  You almost had Me fooled.  I, (accidentally), watched you accept the Nobel Peace Prize from the bar at My hotel the other night.  When you told all those shifty foreigners, “Blah blah blah Gandhi.  Blah blah blah Martin Luther King… but I’m gonna keep whipping Afghan and Iraqi ass,”, I just about decided you were alright, after all.

  But then, as I passed the front desk of the Ritz-Carlton, Pentagon City, the  faceless functionary stationed there wished Me “Happy Holidays”!  Happy Holidays!  To Me, of all deities!  Well, you can bet your non-white derriere that I’ll be filling out a scathing rating card when I check out.

  Which brings Me to you.  Here you are, pretending to do My work by crushing Allah’s brand-loyalists right and left, when what you’re really doing is sending all the troops overseas instead of keeping them here for the most important war of all.  The War On Christmas™ (© Bill O’Reilly, 2005).

  You can wipe out all one hundred al Qaeda Club members in Afghanistan, and even bottle up the rest in Pakistan, but what does it boot you if the Homefront is lost, eh?  What about the Jesii?  How do you think They would feel if you lost the War On Christmas™?  Or, is that your plan?  Boy, it just goes to show that you can’t trust a Musselman or a dirty, filthy atheist, which many of My Teabagger brand-loyalists have pointed out you fit the bill for; a dirty, filthy, atheistic, foreign Musselman.

  Obviously, you shouldn’t take that personally.  My brand-loyalists just love My country so much that they feel compelled to point out things that other, saner, people might not notice.  It’s nothing personal.  Some of their best friends are foreign, brown and destined for an eternity in Hell… though they might not be able to name them off the tops of their heads.

  So, My point is that you’d better drastically change your policies, unless you want The Ritz-Carlton to receive an irate note and for My vast, overwhelming, (but downtrodden), hordes to boycott The Ritz and any other business that doesn’t kowtow to their My every whim.

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd

Dear Internets…

Somewhere In My Computer

Dear The Internet,

  A few days ago, as I waited for a flight in the Terraces Lounge at JFK, I pulled out My newfangled Internetsbook that the boys gave me as an early St. Nicholas Day present and I Googled Myself, as any self-respecting deity would.  It didn’t take much “surfing” to realize that you, The Internets, have got some kind of nasty multiple personality disorder.  For the most part, you gave Me praise and worship and defense, as is only right.  However, I couldn’t help but notice that you sometimes contradict yourself.

  For instance, one of your, (I can only assume evil and misguided), personalities, called this little war that’s going in Afghanistan, “an open sore on the pockmarked face of history and an abomination before the sight of Gawd,”.  Where the Hell did you get an idea like that?  What kind of a hippy, commie, socialist crybaby do you think I Am?!  And, I might add, why do you hate the soldiers so?

  I thought I’d been pretty clear about what a good thing war is.  “Murder the Midianites,”  I said.  “Kill ‘em all and let Me sort ‘em out… if I get around to it,” I clearly stated.  “The only good Amalekite is a dead Amalekite,” I reasonably pointed out.  And if you were thinking that maybe I changed My mind, think again.  If you got Me and My boys mixed up, (for which, a smite on the wrist is due), take My word for it, They like to play war just as much as Me.

  So, look, don’t go all schizo on me.  As one of My favorite brand-loyalists used to say, “We’ve got to keep our heads until this peace craze blows over.“

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd

Dear Scientologists…

Hollywood, USA

Dear OT’s I Through XXVII (inclusive),

  You guys have had it rough lately.  People think your religion, and your Chosen One, are just a big joke.  Boy, that smarts, doesn’t it?  So, I thought I would drop you a note to tell you to keep plugging away.

  When My boys and I started Our business, people thought Our brand-loyalists were nuts, too.  The brand-loyalists of Zeus, Baal, Odin and even Tree Spirit #4 used to laugh unmercifully at them.  But now, the rulers of the most powerful nation in history can proudly stand before the world and say, “How you like me now, bitches!”  Even My toughest competitor, Allah, (who is a hack), only got as big as He is by selling a knock-off of My product.

  So, as you can see, no matter how crazy people think you are today, give it a thousand years or so and your brand will be just as sacred and untouchable as Mohammadism or Mormonism or even Protestantism, (“Now with 50% More Jesus!”).  Eventually you’ll have spin-off products and maybe Tom Cruise will bring His kids into the business, as I did.  There will be Holy Relics like bits of the One True Couch on which The Chosen One proved His heterosexuality to the Great & Powerful Oprah.  The possibilities are endless, really.

  Which brings Me to the main reason I’m writing.  While fame and power and fortune, (even more than you wield now), are almost certainly Scientology’s, eventually; the sad truth is none of you will be around to cash in on it.  No, like the early martyrs, your lot is to die, (figuratively), a gruesome death, (also figurative), in the figurative arena with the (mostly figurative) lions.  The best you can hope for in your lifetimes is a small tax-exemption, and you may not have that for long.  Therefore, purely out of the love of My heart, (For is it not written, “Gawd is Love,”?), I’d like to offer you a proposal that I think you’ll like.

  I want to put in a bid to make Scientology a wholly-owned subsidiary of Gawd, Inc.  From your perspective, it’s a win-win, home-run, slam-dunk of a deal.  From day one, you’ll have the protection of My unexamined Respect.  No one will dare make fun of you anymore for fear of offending My (admittedly touchy) brand-loyalists.  Folks guffaw at tales of Xenu torturing galactic citizens in space-faring DC-10’s?  Not once you explain that Xenu is now VP, Interstellar Acquisitions, at Hell, Ltd.  “Some people” say that Tom Cruise is a short, closeted fruitcake in every sense of the word?  They’ll shut their pie holes when you show them a copy of the Gawd, Inc. press release naming Him the latest in a long line of well-respected prophets.  Mess with one of My prophets and you’re likely to get mauled by bears.  That’s the sort of thing people sit up and take notice of.  And money?  Phrew!  Just ask Pope Ratzi what his cash-flow situation is like.

  On My end, all I ask is that you start turning over the tithes you already collect to My vacation fund.  You know, just to cover expenses and whatnot.  For what you’re now spending on lawyers and private eyes and street thugs, you can get the much more efficacious mantle of Gawd, Inc.

  I’ll have My lawyers send your lawyers a copy of the standard contract.  I can’t wait to have you in the family, so to speak.

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd

Dear Christian Anti-Defamation Commission…

Underneath the Big Rock, PO Box 1115 Vista, CA  92085

Dear Poor, Poor, Shat-Upon Brand-Loyalists,

  It has come to My Divine Attention that you are being crushed like defenseless, thin-skinned tomatoes.  Boy, if I weren’t on vacation I’d give those mustachioed, assless-chap-wearing fags and their millions and millions of enablers such a smiting!  Well, actually, I couldn’t really afford to do that.  All of My angels, seraphim, cherubim, etc. are LGBT, and they have got one Hell of a union.  You wouldn’t believe the stink they raised when somebody leaked a memo on Gawd, Inc. policy about that.

  So let’s keep it on the QT that I’m backing your rally for the right to say anything you want about the gaybos.  On Monday, November 16, when you’re standing outside the Department of Justice, (Good one.), urging each other to do as Republican Jesus commands and revile sissy-boys, twinkies and bull-dykes, know that I will be there with you.  Not literally, of course.  As I say, I’m on vacation and the weather in Bali right now is not to be missed.  But, you know, figuratively.  Just be sure not to mention Me.  I can’t afford a slow-down or, Me forbid, a strike right now.  If Gawd, Inc. has to bus in demon scabs, it’s liable to get ugly.

  It’s odd how hard it is to find qualified angels, as opposed to demons, now that I think about it.  Dead brand-loyalists line up around the block when Hell is hiring; and not just to get off the receiving end.  There’s just something about torturing others that appeals to them.  Or maybe it’s the dental insurance, I don’t know.  I’m sure you’ll want to apply as soon as you kick the bucket.  Being members of the CADC will certainly look good on your resumé.  If you’ve also ever drowned little baby kittens or tied firecrackers to a dog’s tail, be sure to mention it.  Every little bit helps.

  Anyway, most of you won’t have to worry about getting your demon CV in order until the bus ride home, so let’s get back to the point.  The point here is not whether or not it’s alright to say that fags, ass-bandits, benders, queens, andro-dykes, aunties, back-ticklers, botty-burglars, buggerers, bumboys, catamites, chocolate chimney sweeps, colon commanders, donut punchers, dykes, exhaust-pipe engineers, fairies, freaks, fudge-packers, homos, inverts, knob jockies, left-handers, lezbos, lezzies, leztastics, longtime companions, mollies, nellies, on-the-other-bussers, pansies, queers, rear admirals, sodomites, twinks, uphill gardeners, vice anglaises and wind-jammers should die horrible, horrible deaths and then spend all of eternity in the vilest bit of Hell.  No, the point is to show the world how badly you are being oppressed.  If your right to castigate catamites is taken from you, what’s the point?  Am I right?  Really, I can think of few things worse than being told you can’t share with the world your disgust of those who, as far as anyone can prove, are not the same as you.  So you get out there and fight for your rights, and know that I’m with you 100%*.

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd

*  The phrase ”with you 100%” is not meant to convey agreement by Gawd, Gawd, Inc. or any of its subsidiaries, including Hell & Purgatory, LLC, with any position you may espouse, or to denote legal or ethical responsibility of aforesaid deities or corporations.  Wink, wink.

Dear Glenn Beck…

Secret Govt. Organ-Stealing Plant, Reagan Wing, Rm. 3A

Dear Glenn,

  I’m sorry to hear you’re under the weather.  I was going to send flowers, but a) they cost money I require for other purposes and 2) I was afraid you might be allergic to anything that isn’t white.

  This doesn’t come easily to Me, but… well, when I say that I’m sorry, I actually mean it this time.  I’m sorry because it’s My fault.  I didn’t mean to embolden your appendix to climb up your spinal column and try to throttle your brain.  In the past, with situations like burning Sodom & that other place, or drowning all the dinosaurs, I wasn’t the least bit sorry because I fully meant to wreak all that destruction.  You’d have agreed totally if you’d been there.  Sodom, (and I admit the name should have been a giveaway), turned out to be chock full of sodomites and the dinosaurs were agitating for Communist Health Care.  So, good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.

  However, in your case, it was simply a slip of the old omnipotence.  I was chatting up this girl in the bar of My hotel and she seemed really impressed when I told her that I’m omniscient and omnipotent.  In no time I was reading her mind, (“I wonder what’s on TV right now?”), and lighting the candles at the tables from across the room.  So, before I knew it, she was asking Me just how omnipotent I was.  “You mean,”, she said, “You could just snap Your fingers and make the world a better place?”

  You can probably see where this is going from here.  Without thinking about it, I said, “Sure, baby,”, snapped My fingers and Pow!  Your appendix went rogue.

  Really, when you think about it, I shouldn’t blame Myself.  It’s just as much that girl’s fault as mine.  More, actually.  I’m really more of an innocent bystander here.  Or, as I know you’d agree, it looks a lot like a conspiracy against Me.  I was just doing what I do.  Enjoying My vacation, having a drink or six in the hotel bar and picking up loose totty.  She took advantage of My nature in order to embarrass Me and get rid of you.

  If I were you, I’d get on the air immediately and tell the world about this socialist plot to kill you.  Presuming you survive their vicious attack.

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd

Dear Atheist Foundation of Australia…

Where Women Glow and Men Chunder

Dear Chosen Ozians,

  Are you trying to make the Baby Jesii cry?  If you go through with your planned… er… plan of Divine Denial of Service, that’s exactly what’s going to happen.  I know you mean to put Me, personally, offline because of something one of My brand-loyalists did to you, which I can understand.  Believe Me, I know what it’s like to attack someone for something someone else did.  Been there; done that; designed the t-shirt.

  However, I’m not sure you understand how this prayer thing works.  That’s understandable, as you tend to think along the lines of reality-based actions, whereas My brand-loyalists fully grasp the ways of the meta-natural, super-physicality that is My domain.  It’s ineffable.  You wouldn’t get it.  My old pal Cthulhu’s minion, PZ Myers, almost has it right.

“[A]ll modern prayers are first funneled through a 110 baud modem, then passed further upstairs by telegraph, then pony express riders gallop it over to the Pearly Gates, and then a rewritten version is passed on to a team of long-dead Sumerian scribes for transcription into cuneiform on wax plates, and then and only then is it in a format that a bronze age patriarchal deity can understand.”

  But, the crucial bit of the chain he is missing is that those wax plates are then stored in a warehouse complex outside of Santa Fe, NM for safekeeping. I never actually look at them.  To be honest, I got a C- in Cuneiform in school.  If it hadn’t been for cheating off of Enki, I probably would have failed the class.   The only prayers that I actually receive are those which are handwritten on postcards and mailed to Me at whichever hotel I happen to be staying in at the time.  So all you’re going to do is make extra work for the telegraphers, riders, scribes and forklift operators.

  Normally, this wouldn’t bother Me, since I don’t pay those guys, anyway.  The problem here is with My boys, the Jesii.  That 110 baud modem is what They use to access the interwebs.  You can take it from Me that if Republican Jesus can’t get on to glennbeck.com and Hippy Jesus can’t download Peter, Paul & Mary mp3’s, there will be some weeping and gnashing of teeth.

  Actually, the real problem is that if the Jesii start calling Me up while I’m on vacation, whingeing away about no access to blogs, music and porn, I’m liable to start smiting.  As you are a subset of My Chosen People, the atheists, I know you understand the way I deal with problems.  I won’t take out My annoyance on the Jesii, who will actually be bothering Me, I’ll take it out on you by causing a hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico next hurricane season.  I’ll take it out on you by smiting a telephone repairman in Sweden with lightning.  I’ll take it out on you by causing a statistically insignificant rise in the number of miscarriages in Alabama.  If I’m really cheesed off I’ll take it out on you by not helping some of My brand-loyalists find their missing car keys.

  By now, I know that you’re literally quaking in your cork-festooned hats.  You can thank your lucky stars, (and by “your lucky stars”, I mean “Me”), that you didn’t come up with a Divine Denial of Service that would have inconvenienced Me, personally.  In that case, you would have had a lawsuit from Fire, Brimstone & Wrath, LLC in your hands faster than you could say “G’day”.

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd