Monthly Archives: August 2008

Dear Attorney General Mukasey…

For you, we'll just count the first 10.

For you, we can ignore a couple of tablets.


950 Pennsylvania Ave., NW

Washington, DC  20530


Dear Mikey,


  I was browsing the intertubespaper while waiting for a flight today and saw that you have declared violations of the law to be legal.  Mike, you are My kind of lawyer.  Ever since I semi-retired from the deity business I’ve noticed that fewer and fewer people truly understand the nuances of lawgiving.


  You are just the sort of pussy-footing, hard-charging back-peddler that I could have used back in My younger days.  A man like you could have gotten behind My policy of making laws and excepting certain people in certain cases.  Just like Me, you understand that there are people, our kind of people – Chosen People, who just shouldn’t have to answer for what they do.


  I saw that you also said, There is a principle of equity that we all learned in the schoolyard, and that remains as true today as when we first heard it: two wrongs do not make a right,”.  Hear, hear, Mikey.  You know, it’s just like when I told those kids to stay out of My yard and to keep their filthy mitts off of my apples.  I warned them.  So when they did it anyway I cursed everyone in the world for the rest of time… oh, wait.  Hang on.  That’s two rights.  I can’t think of any wrongs I’ve done, actually.  Okay; it’s like if you fool Me once… I won’t be fooled again…  Oh, you know what I mean, Mikey.  Am I right?


  You understand that sometimes you’ve got to kill Job’s wife and kids to win a bet or send a couple of she-bears to eat 42 kids when they laugh at your buddy’s bald head.  A guy like you would have been useful back when Baal and a few others were trying to replace Me as Leader of the Free World.  It almost makes Me want to get back in The Game.


  Of course, some of the people you hang out with give Me the creeps.  And if I came out of retirement and hired you, Little George might expect Me to answer his postcards.  Me knows I’ve carried his useless ass long enough already, just because his Dad got Me out of a jam with the shore patrol in 1943.  Then there’s all the Gawd-Botherers always wanting Me to smite people… primarily PZ Myers and Richard Dawkins, for some reason.


  No, on second thought, I think I’ll stick with vacation.  I mean, you do a nice job of making the law sit up and beg while telling morality to piss off, but I think I’ll leave all the ruling-the-world stuff to you youngsters.


Wish You Were Here,



Dear Little Children of the World…

Precious in My sight?  Sure.  Precious enough to help?  Naw.

Precious in My sight? Sure. Precious enough to help? Naw.


The World

(But primarily on My lawn and presently kicking the back of My seat)


Dear Kids,


  As I’m sure your parents have told you, My boys, the Jesii, love the little children of the world.  Therefore, by extension, I do too.  However, sitting here on Air China flight 2702 to Paris, with you – yes, you, Pierre Grandin – kicking the back of My seat, I am reminded that I may love the little children, but that has never stopped Me from smiting them.  At the absolute bare minimum, I promise you that there will be one more name on Santa’s Naughty List this year.  Eh, Pierre, how’d you like to find a couple of she-bears in your stocking come 25 Decembre?


  Speaking of airlines and surprises for kids, I was browsing through the duty-free shop and came across some interesting toys that you may be lucky or unlucky enough to see under the Birthday Tree this year.


  In keeping with the airport motif, there was the Playmobil Security Checkpoint.  Now that’s My kind of toy.  It will teach you valuable lessons about life.  It gets you ready for the harsh reality that is… well, reality.  This toy just cries out “Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here”.  A couple of hours with this educational plaything could save Me years of annoyance by teaching you the threefold lesson of “You are a faceless cog in the machine”, “Do what you’re told, or else” and “It only gets worse”.  Excellent!  Hopeful children annoy Almighty Gawd to no end.


  Then I saw something that did not bring joy into the heart of Gawd.  Do you know what that was, boys and girls?  That’s right – Armor of God PJ’s.  This is the sort of irresponsible thing that causes you to die painful, lingering deaths.  Would you like that, kids?  Well, pajamas like these will give you the crazy idea that I will protect you, when, believe Me, nothing could be further from the truth.  In fact, I’m quite liable to smite a chair-kicker while I’m on vacation, which is… anyone?  Anyone?  That’s right Suzy Hanners of Bowling Green, KY – “always”.  (If you study your physics, kids, you’ll know how I knew Suzy would think that in the future when she reads this postcard.)


  But then, I saw a toy just for the girls that, as the Good Book says, made My Gawdy heart grow three sizes that day.  Gods Girlz Fashion Dolls.  I prefer Sarah, of course, as she teaches young girls the way Gawd wants them to dress when they get a little older.  Abigail and Hannah are dressed more like hippies and I’m sure your parents have told you how Gawd hates hippies.


  But then, like a rollercoaster, Gawd’s heart sank into His stomach, children.  For, verily, I saw proof of the second-most heinous sin that you can commit… wait, third-most heinous.  I just moved “kicking airline seats” to number two and number one is the one your parents forbid without telling you what it is.  You know, the one that will make you go blind.  The third-most heinous sin that you can commit, children, is to not cut Me or Mine in on the royalties when you sell Jesus Dolls.


  I hope you’ve learned something here, children.  If nothing else, know this:  If you don’t stay off My lawn or if you bother Me while I’m on vacation – these are the toys you can expect on My boys’ birthday.


Wish You Were here (instead of Pierre),




P.S. – Tell your parents never to fly without a Knee Defender.

Dear Olympians…

"Boxer Vase" from Hagia Triada in Crete

"Boxer Vase" from Hagia Triada in Crete


Somewhere Foreign – The Name of Which I Forget at the Moment


Dear Olympians,


  Not, I’m sure you realize, to be confused with My old drinking buddies Zeus, Hera, Poseidon, Ares, etc.  I am, of course, referring to all of you excellent young athletes who come together every four years to bring the disparate countries closer together, foster peace & understanding and to do your utmost to crush your opponents’ bodies and will.


  It always makes Me nostalgic for Ye Olde Dayes.  Back when I took a more active hand in things, (floods, pillars of salt, that sort of thing), I encouraged sports.  Primarily because good, healthy games kept My slaves chosen people too tired and busy for the most heinous sin in My sight – Onanism.  That one used to really freeze My piss.  No matter how many times I told them that every sperm was sacred, they just wouldn’t stop wanking.  At first, I tried appearing to them every time they did it, (You should have seen the look on their punims!), but it was taking up so much of My time I wasn’t getting anything else done.  Then, of course, when I appeared to the eponymous Onan he yelled “Oy vey ismir!” and dropped dead of a heart attack.  So I gave it up as a bad job and invented running, shot put, cheating and curling.


  As always, I’m flattered that the winners are giving Me the credit.  In the sense that I invented all of the summer games and one of the winter games, I certainly deserve heaps of praise and perhaps a bit more tithing.  As for causing your wins, to be fair, I didn’t really do that.  In a couple of cases I made sure a specific athlete lost – once to win a bet that covered My airfare to China and once for personal reasons.  You know who you are.


  Alright; I’m going to cut this short.  I’m sharing a VIP box with some of the old Greek gang and things are getting kind of rowdy.  Artemis just bet Hades He couldn’t eat 2-dozen hot wings in 5 minutes and Hephaestus is bitching like a 12 year-old girl about the smog.


  Good luck to you all and remember to thank Me when you win – it really chaps Zeus’s ass.


Wish You Were Here,



Dear Creationists…

Garry Trudeau

Cartoon: Garry Trudeau

 4429 Trumperos Ct. NW

Albuquerque, NM 87120


Dear IDiots,


  First of all, My postman assures Me that you are collectively known as IDiots, (Pron. Eye-dee-ots, right?).  Just as a friendly gesture, I would suggest changing your name.  You see, it almost sounds like you’re calling yourselves idiots and while that may very well be true, it’s probably bad PR.  On the other hand, it’s no skin off My nose, either way.  I’m on vacation.


  The reason I’m writing to you is that I was reading the funny papers the other day and ran across the cartoon on the front of this postcard.  I wondered what you IDiots were saying about it, and I almost turned on the old omniscience to see, but then I remembered how pissed off it makes Me when I know everything.  So I did the second best thing and checked the intrawebs.  There’s still plenty to make the Holy Blood Pressure rise or cause the Sacred Eyeballs to roll, but at least I can have a massage and commune with the Holy Spirit afterwards and forget about it.


  You do seem to have had some things to say.  Now, I’m no living-thingologist or chemicologist or a scientologist of any kind, but I’ll tell you this:  give Me someone who searches for answers to fit the questions over someone who searches for questions to fit their answers anytime.  As I’ve often told My boys, the Jesii, I prefer atheists in nearly every aspect of life from conversation to food preparation.  This goes for sciencey types, too.  There is nothing that annoys Almighty Gawd more than whiny little bitches who expect Me to answer all of their questions for them, fix all of their problems and take the rap for their stupid decisions, (I’m looking at you, George.).


  The one thing that might annoy Me more are people who want all of that but want to pretend it’s not Me doing it.  Es zol dir farshporn fun fornt un fun hintn!  May your putz be messily severed in an industrial diamond accident!  I would call you an ungrateful so-and-so, but the truth is, I’ve never done anything for you.  So quit whining about how reality is biased against you, think for yourself and quit flooding My mailbox with postcards we both know I’m not going to answer.  In short; piss off.  I’m on vacation.


Wish You Were Here,



Dear Dick Cheney…

Le Tour de Monde, 1887

Woodcut: Le Tour de Monde, 1887

 Undisclosed Location


Dear Dick,


  Thank you kindly for the invitation to a canned hunt in the Congo.  The thought of it has My mouth watering.  It’s been years since I’ve had a decent gorilla steak and you’re right about the best way to tenderize them.  Dropping them, live, from a cruising helicopter makes them practically fall apart in your mouth.


  Finding 125,000 new gorillas tucked away in the Congo could keep you and your buddies in trophies for weeks.  Assuming proper refrigeration, I could eat up to a quarter of a million of My famous “Monkey Paw Steaks”.  With the rest of them used for stews and tacos and such, I’d be set for years.


  It occurs to Me that this hunting invitation may shed some light on your unfortunate accident with that Whittington guy and why he apologized to you.  He was apologizing for reminding you of an ape.  This is, of course, an easy mistake to make as you mortals have a common ancestor with apes only 5 to 8 million years ago.  To let him know that you accept his apology, I suggest inviting him along on the hunt.  Perhaps this time, if you were to accidentally shoot, partially butcher and eat a couple of “Lawyer Paw Steaks”, you could get him to literally kiss your ass.


  I’m sure you’re not aware of this, but someone seems to have forged a note in your handwriting on My invitation.  It looks very much like a list of persons that someone wants Me to smite.  An “enemies list”, if you will.  Obviously, you couldn’t have written it, since you know full well that I’m on vacation.  If you had written it, that would make this thoughtful invitation something very much like a bribe and Me knows you’re much too refined for that sort of thing.


  So consider this My RSVP.  I’d be happy to attend your little get-together with “a few close friends”.  I just wonder who will be running the United States, the oil companies and all of the government contractors while we’re in the Congo.


Wish You Were Here,



Dear Stuart Shepard…


C/O Focus on the Family

Colorado Springs, CO  80995


Dear Stu,


  Do you know why you, James Dobson, your families, your friends, your friends’ families and your acquaintances are often called “God botherers”?  I’ll give you three guesses as I take time from My vacation to answer your request that I “piss on Barack Hussein Obama, strike him with lightning and infest his underpants with flesh-eating bacteria.”


  Oh, I know that’s not what you wrote on the postcard or said on TV or even to reporters.  The thing is, I’m Gawd, and I accidentally turned on the omniscience when I was in the shower the other day.  So I know what you fellows really wished for.


  Ever since I took that kid, David, under My wing all those years ago, (I used to be a real sucker for an underdog), I’ve been puzzled by something.  Why is it that you folks send Me postcards asking for hellfire, damnation, scabes and slow, neverending torture – and then pretend you asked for something much nicer?  Perhaps you don’t realize this, but if you just expect Me to tell you what’s right and wrong and don’t use your own conscience, it atrophies.  I mean, Jesus Christ… oh, great.  Now My boys have showed up and are raiding the hotel mini bar.  Can’t a deity vacation in peace?


  To quote a number of queens over the years, We are not amused.  Why do you always want Me to get involved in your little dramas?  I am on vacation.  I don’t know how to say it so you understand.


  Ik ben op vakantie.

  Je suis des vacances.

  Ich bin auf Ferien.

  Είμαι στις διακοπές.

  Sono sulla vacanza.

  Eu estou em férias.


  Will that do it?  Does it stand out enough?  Is the font large enough?  Should I change the wording?  The deity is OUT.  Gawd has left the building.  Can you please leave Me alone now and deal with your own issues?


  Damn this omniscience; I already know the answer.


Wish You Were Here,




P.S. – I couldn’t help but notice you asked Me to rain on a political rival, but you never asked Me to rain on drought-stricken Africa.  I’m not going to mess with the weather either way, of course, but you could at least pretend to care.

Dear Alvis Delk…

Millard Fillmore's Bathtub

Photo: Millard Fillmore's Bathtub

 Stephenville, TX & Environs


Dear Alvis,


  Nice try, pal.  I’ll bet you were chuffed when you “stumbled across” an example of My boys’ amateurish artwork.  When I let Them take art lessons I never thought They’d leave so many pieces of Their “art” lying around.  I don’t mind people subsequently selling them on eBay for a profit.  Hey – it’s the Capitalist System I, Myself, invented, after all.


  But you’re doing something else and therein lies the problem.  Personally, I think everything they ever made, (mostly using food, which kept Their therapist in imported Italian loafers for years), is utter crap.  I do, however, believe strongly in giving credit where credit is due, (even, as I say, when it’s crap).  You have in your possession a prime example of Their Ironic Sculpture Period, circa last month.  Yet you’re trying to pass it off as an actual human footprint bisected by an actual dinosaur footprint.


  Al, I’m having trouble deciding whether to smite you or laugh at you.  I’ll probably end up doing both, and then setting The Lawyers of the Apocalypse on you.  Where to begin?  First off, no one in their right mind believes dinosaurs and humans were coexistent.  You know The Flintstones was just a cartoon, right?  Second, neither of the “prints” even looks like the real thing.  I’m no scientist, Myself, but I am Gawd and I’d say they look more like signifiers of footprints than actual footprints.  Third, and most important to Me:  You’d better recognize.


  If you try to pawn that thing off on someone without a clear provenance stating that it was made by a couple of crappy “artists” only months ago, My boys will sue you until your rectum falls out.  Once They’re through with you, I will take time out of My busy vacation schedule to smite you with boils, anal crabs, Whooping Herpes and a new one I plan to invent just for you.  Hey, Their work may suck, but They are My boys.


  On a happier note, I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that thinking of you and your compadres has given Me an excellent vacation idea.  Maybe I’ll even take the boys as a treat.  They haven’t been to Disney’s Fantasyland in years.


Wish You Were Here,



Dear Church Sign Ministers…

Holy Taco

Photo: Holy Taco

 All Across America


Dear __________,


  I’ve had to leave the salutation of this postcard blank, as I wasn’t sure if I should call you Grammatical Cretins, Social Cretins or perhaps Moloch, Bringer of Unholy Puns.


  I must thank Holy Taco for compiling so many of your signs in one place and admit to them that their intertubessite isn’t normally My cup of tea.  The Holy Libido isn’t really what it used to be.  However, that’s for Me and My therapist to discuss and really doesn’t pertain to this postcard.


  When I saw these signs, I knew I was going to have to do something I didn’t want to do – something I am, quite frankly, pretty rusty at, but a deity’s got to do what a deity’s got to do.  So, for the first time since I was a young up-and-comer stomping the Otherites and the Differtites, I’m going to lay down a few Commandments.


Commandment #1:  Verily I say unto you, Megan’s law no longer pertains to My boys.


Commandment #2:  Yea, the Holy Service Provider shall henceforth be Qwest.


Commandment #3:  Thou shalt not partake of the spotted mushrooms… unless thou shalt share thy stash with Gawd.


Commandment #4:  Thou shalt not be bitter about not getting a pony lo those many years ago.


Commandment #5:  Thou shalt disregard all that stuff I said about Onan.  Yea, worry not about blindness and hirsute palms.


Commandment #6:  Thou shalt no longer be tax-exempt.


Commandment #7:  Verily, I can’t believe I have to say this, but – Thou shalt not stick your thingy in your mother’s hoo-ha.  For any reason.


Commandment #8:  Whosoever punneth shall be punithed by a good, old-fashioned stoning.  Deities excluded.


Commandment #9:  Sheesh!  Thou shalt see a therapist and quit fantasizing about lynchings.


Commandment #10:  Ditto.


Extra, free of Charge Commandment:  Thou shalt not be a creepy deity stalker.


  Thus spake Me.


Wish You Were Here,



Dear Wolverhampton University…

A Sumerian and a priest walk into a bar...

A Sumerian and a priest walk into a bar...

Wulfruna Street, Wolverhampton, WV1 1LY


Dear Dr. McDonald,


  I had forgotten all about that one!  Wow, that takes Me back.  Old Gilgamesh could have been the world’s first stand-up comic.  Every time I’d drop by He would do this thing… oh, Me – I’m laughing too hard to write.  Hang on… hang on.  Okay, every time I’d come by He would do this thing where He’d hold out His finger and say… oh, Me, it cracks Me up just thinking about it… He’d say, “Pull My finger.”  Then, and this is the ball-bouncingly funny bit, He would pass wind!  Every time!  I fell for it every time and it just never got old.  Of course, He did, eventually.  As one of your great philosophers once said, “What a drag it is getting old.” Especially if you’re only partially deified.


  Now that I think about it, even if You’re a bona-fide, full-fledged, dues-paying member of the Deity Club, the steady accumulation of years is no big picnic.  Sure, when You’re a hotshot young deity with the world at Your feet and the heady smoke of burning ram or bull in Your nostrils life is one big party and You’re the birthday boy.  Everybody wants You to make the sun rise the next day and everybody wants to ingratiate themselves with the joke about the camel trader, the horse trader and the slave trader, (punch line:  “Thank [insert deity joke is being told to] I’m not a woman!”).  But ask Zeus, (“Old Granddad”), how things are going these days.  Or Mars, (God of war; kind of inept; kind of a dick), or Athena, (God of war & technology; smart as a whip; pretty hot in a geeky kind of way), or Mentos, (Minor spirit/god of a small peppermint tree that died January 5th, 1237 BCE).  You’ll get an earful about all the ungrateful SOB’s who never so much as toast half a stalk of cellery to you anymore and how insensitive it is to leave Them hanging all these years.


  If I’ve explained to Them once I’ve explained to Them a thousand times – You gotta change with the times.  Do you think I’d have enough money for all the exciting vacations if I didn’t tread a very fine line between all that hippie peace & love crap and the old “kill ‘em all and piss on sorting them out” routine?


  Of course, Zeus changed a number of times, himself.  Actually, a lot of Them did and that’s… that’s kind of depressing when you think about it.  I mean, I’m no spring chicken anymore.  Every time I see Apocalypse Now and Robert Duvall says “Someday this war’s gonna end,” I really feel his pain.  Someday, folks will move on to some new flavor of the millenium who gives out free bacon-infused vodka or something.  Or maybe they’ll just realize they don’t need any of us.  Either way, I’ll be screwed and probably hanging out with that annoying frickin’ Mentos bastard.


  All the more reason to get in some serious vacationing while I can.


  I started this postcard just to thank you for reminding Me of that old Sumerian joke and got kind of sidetracked.  Sorry.  I know you don’t want to hear Me get all maudlin.  So, keep up the good work and don’t forget to give money to your local church.  First class airline tix don’t grow on trees – and that’s no joke.


Wish You Were Here,



Dear Ray Comfort…

The Real Atheist's Nightmare Banana;  Phto compliments

The Real Atheist's Nightmare Banana; Photo compliments


C/O Living Waters Publications

P.O. Box 1172

Bellflower, CA  90706


Dear Ray,


  I recently saw your proof of My existence.  Afterwards, all I could think of was something My ex-wife, Mary, used to say: “Bless his heart.”  Every time We ran into a mentally deficient beggar in the street or a twelve-year-old child who couldn’t tie their own sandals or King Herod, (although that tune he used to sing about My boy was pretty good), she would shake her head and say “Bless his heart.”  I guess there’s a good reason you’re named Ray Comfort and not Ray Intellect or Ray Fact or Ray-Ray McThinksalot.


  I hardly know where to begin, Ray.  First of all, I don’t know where the banana came from.  I just looked around one day and it was there.  Oh, not like the one in your video.  The first ones I recall seeing, and this was quite a while back, you understand, were really pretty awful.  Shaped like an avocado and twice as hard to peel, it was full of indigestible seeds and smelled like a mastodon’s armpit.  If the South pacific islanders hadn’t been so hard up for food no one would have ever bothered to put the time and effort into making it edible.


  Second… “The Atheist’s Nightmare”.  Really, Ray?  Personally, I wouldn’t know, as it’s pretty easy for Me to believe in Me since I’m always around – making hotel reservations, ordering scotch from the air waitresses and sneaking smokes in the air lav.  So I asked My postman what his nightmare was and, well, I’m kind of sorry I did.  It started with lumps of Play-Doh® rolling across a desert landscape, moved on to being sent to a war zone with a BB gun and just degenerated from there.  An abject lesson in why I don’t keep the omniscience turned on.


  As for your sidekick, Kirk, tell him I’m sorry his career went belly-up, but quit taking it out on the rest of the world.  You don’t see his old pal Boner waving yellow phalluses from an intertubes soapbox, and he’s got the perfect name for it.


  The bottom line here, Ray, is that I want you to quit.  I like to keep a low profile these days, which doesn’t include being laughed at every time I check into a hotel in some place they know about bananas.  Also, the only way I can pay for all of this vacationing is for people to give Me “Protection Money”.  But you’re like a one-man wrecking crew, turning droves of those unthinking believers out there into thinking atheists.  Like any rational deity, I prefer atheists in art, science, conversation and food preparation – but they don’t pay extortion protection and that would put an end to My vacation.  So quit it, or so help Me Me, I’ll smite you so hard your brain will start working.


Wish You Were Here,