Monthly Archives: November 2008

Dear Sinners, Wrongdoers, Bad’uns, &tc…


Note to Self:  To save on stamps, ask Postman to deliver one letter 6 billion times.

Dear All of You,

  Everywhere I look lately I find you talking about pardons.  Normally, of course, I would pay it about as much attention as I do when you ask for ponies or for your sports team to win or that your wife/husband won’t find out about you-know-who.  Unfortunately, since I re-opened Hell the pardon requests have been coming in droves.  Worse yet, some guy named Edward Current has found a way to bypass My junk-mail filter by inventing a prayer amplification device.  You may think of him as the Marconi of the Brand Loyalists, but I simply call him “that guy who’s going to Hell”.

  However, this “pardon”, or “mercy”, you all speak of is somewhat intriguing.  The concept of a breaker of laws being excused an offense without exacting a penalty is not really a new one.  I’ve always thought of Myself as a merciful Gawd.  Like that time Moses hit that rock and I let him off with a warning… wait.  No, not that time.  Well, there was that time I told Lot’s wife not to look… hang on.  I know; when Uzzah touched the Ark of The Covenant… oh, fuck!  Just take My word for it.  I’m merciful as shit.

  I’m getting off the point here, and it’s making Me cranky.  What I’m trying to say is that I am instituting Gawdidential Merciful Gawdly Holy Pardons.  If Pope “Joey Rats” Ratzinger and Still President Bush can do it, then I’ll be Me-damned if I’m not gonna.

  First off, a big one.  All those Jews, Protestants, Musselmen, &tc. who told the Inquisition they recanted whatever it was the Inquisition wanted them to recant, but didn’t really – Pardoned.  Yeah, the whole lot of ‘em.  As far as I’m concerned, as long as they dropped a little something in the collection plate, I don’t care what they believed.  They could believe in space alien souls, Sethism or magic underpants.  It matters not to Me.

  Next, people with demons inside who make unsavoury comments when the Brand Loyalists try to cast them out.  Hey, who hasn’t wanted to twist their head around and puke pea soup on one of the Brand Loyalist apparatchiks?  I know I have.  PardonedWith extreme prejudice.

  Speaking of unsavoury, I hereby pardon those 42 kids who thought male-pattern baldness was funny.  Not for laughing at Elisha’s shiny dome – going bald and having ED are most assuredly not laughing matters – but for giving the bears who ate them tummy aches.  For that, they are pardoned tastily tastefully.

  This is kind of fun.  While I’m thinking about it, I pardon Myself.  Yeah.  You remember the Jebusites?  Probably not, since I wiped them off the face of the earth.  The same goes for the Girgashites, Amorites, Canaanites, Perizzites and the Hivites.  But if a Gawd can’t forgive Himself for being a little cranky sometimes, then what’s the point?  Am I right?  Pardonnez-moi.

  I’m all pardoned out for now.  If you didn’t make the list, better luck next time.  I’m off to the hotel spa for a champagne bath and a seaweed wrap.  Got to be fresh for skiing tomorrow.

Wish You Were Here,


Holiday Postal Service

Happy Turkey day

Happy Turkey day

  As Gawd is preparing for His cowpigturducken feast and getting comfortable in front of His 46′ big-screen TV, there is no mail to deliver.

  In the meantime, here are some things He is thankful* for this holiday season.

  1. Non-namby-pamby Christians
  2. People who aren’t afraid to take risks
  3. Early Prince
  4. Shoulders of giants
  5. Some place for a second chance if this whole Earth thing goes pear-shaped
  6. Himself and all He’s done for Him

*For a given set of “thankful”; list may change in size or content, dependent on family grief and overall tastiness of holiday meal.  Some restrictions may apply.

Dear Allah…

When you wish upon 72 virgins...

When you wish upon 72 virgins...

Seventh Heaven, Sitting on Your Arsh

Dear Al,

  I thought We agreed no magic.  I specifically recall having that conversation with You.  We said no healing, no telling the future, no 7-league boots, no Taragon’s Elemental Transformer, no Soulbind and definitely no Magic Mosques!  Yet here You are, barely into the game, and You’re cheating!

  Did You think I wouldn’t notice?  You plopped a $60 million mosque down in the poorest poor country in the history of poor, where people have sex nine months before Ramadan just so they’ll have something to eat on Eid, and You thought I’d overlook it?!  You really boil My Blessed Bunions!  I mean, come on.  Yemen?  Dubai, maybe.  Maybe in Dubai I might have missed it, but Yemen… Poseidon on a pogo stick!  How obtuse do You think I am?

  Okay.  You want to play dirty?  You’ve got to pay the piper.  First off, You skip a turn.  I’m taking two turns and on My first turn I’m resurrecting Jerry Falwell.  For My second turn, I’m airdropping him into Mecca with a bag full of Chick tracts and a t-shirt that says “Muhammad was a Feminist, Homosexual Abortionist”.  How do You like that?  And… AND I get a free wave of snackfood Jesii sightings.

  Speaking of food, You don’t get to magic up any food for the Yemenis.  If they get hungry, let them eat the Gingerbread Mosque.  That’s what happens when You cheat.  Your pawns starve to death.  Which reminds Me, no magical protection for the president of Yemen.  I wasn’t going to say anything, but now I see You think I’m stupid, so I call “Bullshit” on that “election” in 1999.  91.2%?  Really?

  Damn it, I hate playing with You.  Not only are You a cheating, fucking hack – but You suck at it.  I have spotted You… Every.  Single.  Time.  You haven’t changed one bit since school!  You were a cheating hack then and You’re a cheating hack now.  I wish You had been eliminated early, instead of Zeus or Odin.  Hell, I’d rather play with Fucti, God of That Stream That Dried Up One Summer In 4,012 BC than You.

  So I’m through taking Your crap.  The next time I catch You cheating – and I will – I’m telling all Your pawns about the raisins.

Wish You Were Here,


Dear Birthday Shoppers…

Armed only with a pointy stick...

Armed only with a pointy stick...

Wherever Fine Gifts Are Sold

Dear Consumers,

  As you may know, My boys’ birthday is fast approaching and every year you get off easy.  I’m the one who has to stump up for two presents.  While all of you are busy stuffing your faces and wondering which gift to open first, (which, frankly, boggles My mind – it’s not even your birthday), I’m stuck handing out goodies to the twins without so much as a cracker in return.  Oh, sure, Santa usually stops by with a sack of cookies, but it never fails that He’s eaten the best ones before He shows up.  On top of that, He invariably mooches six or seven glasses of My famous Jameson Egg Nog and bitches about His holiday piles.

  After 2,000-some-odd years it’s very, very hard to find the boys something new in the way of gifts.  It’s gotten to the point where I have to turn My omniscience on just to surprise Them.  Well, this year it paid off in a couple of ways.  First, I’ve found excellent presents.  For Republican Jesus, there’s Playing Gods.  Not only does it look like a hoot, it’s good practice for Him.  Eventually, I’ll retire completely and He’s going to need to know what He’s doing.  besides that, it seems to be popular with “the hip subculture of militant popular atheists“, or My Chosen People.  For Hippie Jesus, I found Blasphemy.  Which Messiah will be The Messiah?  It’s a chance for Him to relive His glory days and maybe, just maybe, get it right this time.  And anyway, I figure that if He sees He can’t win the game without getting crucified, it’ll take some of the sting out of the real thing.  The boy is still edgy around hammers.

  The second thing My omniscience revealed to me, (and this is where you should really listen up), is that the more these games sell, the lower the price will be.  So what I, Lord of Lords, El-Shaddai, Yahweh, Master of the Universe, &tc., am commanding you to do is chip in.  That’s right.  For once in your miserable consumerist existence, help Me do something for The Jesii.  I’m not asking for a whip-round; just do what you always do at this time of year.  Buy stuff.  Buy stuff so I don’t have to dip into the vacation fund this year.  Is that too much to ask command?  Or is Bill O’Reilly right?  Have you declared War On My Boys’ Birthday?

Wish You Were Here,


Dear Emily Mapfuwa…

Chip Off the Old Block

Chip Off the Old Block

Brentwood, Essex, UK

Dear Emmie,

  I’m outraged as all Hell, too!  That son-of-a-bitch, Terrence Koh, didn’t show the sculpture I sat for!  I and both of My boys took nearly a week out of Our schedules, sitting around in his studio getting stiff and uncomfortable, and Hippie Jesus, Fly Undone was all that came of it?  Dammit!  What about Gawd on Pot, Reading Spinoza?  For that matter, why didn’t he exhibit his oil on newsprint Republican Jesus, Stealing Widow’s Mite?  I thought that one really captured His essence.  You can bet your bottom dollar that I won’t be recommending Koh to any of the fellows at the Deity Club.

  “Keep Your Love-Pump in Your toga,” I’ll tell Zeus.  “Don’t bother waking Richard & The Twins,” I’ll say to Odin.  “No need to ready Your Red-Capped Sex-Hammer,” I’ll say to Thor.

  In all fairness, anyone who’s ever seen Hippie Jesus in the raw will tell you it’s a pretty accurate likeness.  The boy takes after His Old Man, if you know what I mean.  As for Republican Jesus, well, the less said about His meat and two veg, the better.

  Did Koh stiff you, too, Emmie?  He probably took endoscopic photos of graffiti on the walls of your Love Tunnel and then never called you back, am I right?  That bastard.  If it makes you feel any better, I’d have paid to see that exhibition.  Chunnel Writing would have been a big success, I’m sure.

  You’d think I’d have learned My lesson after My last sitting.  Three weeks it took.  Three weeks!  And when it was done I was so gobsmacked all I could say was, “Pablo… that don’t even begin to look like Me.”  On top of that, he had the cube-shaped balls to tell Me My own work had no style.  But I had the last laugh.  I smote his ass in the middle of a dinner party.  Imagine how embarrassing that was, eh?

  Hey, if you want, I could smite Koh for you.  It’s no trouble, really.  I smite a lot more people than I usually let on.  I wait for just the right time; sometimes 40, 50, 60, even 70 years after they piss Me off.  But keep that under your hat.  I am officially retired.  Maybe I’ll make his Little Terrence droopy when he gets old.  How about that, huh?  You don’t seem to like the Man-Meat too much, am I right?  Yeah, I can tell these things.  My friends tell Me I’ve got great gaydar.

  This smiting will be just between the two of us, since I like you.  I can tell we’ve got a lot in common.  I was against Prop 8, you know.  So look, you just sit back and wait.  Imagine Koh getting droopier and droopier as he gets older.  Then, in 50 years or so, you and I can knock on his door and when he answers we’ll yell, “You’ve been boned!”

Wish You Were Here,


Dear Ted Stevens…

Happy Retirement!

Happy Retirement!

C/O Yukon Kuskokwim Correctional Center, 1000 Chief Eddie Hoffman Hwy, Bethel, AK  99559

Dear “Uncle” Ted,

  Welcome to the sweet life!  You are so going to enjoy your retirement.  Take it from Me, there’s nothing you’ll enjoy doing more than doing nothing.  Just imagine… lying in your bunk with nothing more pressing to do than think about the poor suckers who still have to work.  Assuming your new bitch in the lower bunk doesn’t snore, nothing to hear, either, but your own heartbeat.  Tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump.  Ah, that’s living!

  On the other hand, if you’re more like My old friend Mercury, you might find this a good time to indulge in a hobby.  He arranges flowers now.  Perhaps you could breed canaries or something.  I believe another retiree from Alaska found that to be quite relaxing.  Or, I understand you’re one of My brand-loyalists.  You might like to devote a little time to telling Me and everyone else how great I am.  Hard to go wrong, there.

  Of course, you might be more like My old chums Mars, Shiva and Ares.  They had a little trouble adjusting to retirement.  They tend to hang around looking to do the same thing now that they did pre-retirement.  I wouldn’t advise that, though.  I mean, why retire in that case, right?

  The best thing, for Me, about retirement is that someone else pays for My perpetual vacation.  It’s too bad that there’s no one to give you money for nothing.  That’s the best way to go, I’ve found.  It’s a lot like that song by Dire Straits, “Money for Nothing“, although they’re wrong about the chicks for free.  For some reason, I’ve always found that you have to pay for that – but it’s okay in the end, because I get money for nothing.  It evens out nicely.

  Speaking of Dire Straits, I understand you like to give to charity.  I don’t see the point, Myself, but maybe you’d like to bid for a guitar lesson from Mark Knopfler.  They say somebody’s got to help kids with things they can’t buy, and it’s certainly not going to be Me.  That’d be something you could tell your fellow retirees about in the exercise yard.  My sadly-missed friend, Douglas Adams, used to say that Knopfler has the extraordinary ability to make a Schecter Custom Stratocaster hoot and sing like angels on a Saturday night, exhausted from being good all week and needing a stiff beer.  And you know what?  He was right.

  In any case, whatever you decide to do, I’m sure the world will be better for it.

Wish You Were Here,


Dear Postman…


Dear Postman,

  You’re usually very good at getting My mail to and from the right destination in a timely manner.  In fact, it has not escaped My notice, (the omniscience kicks on sometimes), that you are thoughtful enough to drop junk mail and the increasingly shrill student-loan default notices in the trash instead of cluttering the Sacred Mail Box with them.  At the same time, I have observed a marked zeal in delivering the Victoria’s Secret catalog in a prompt manner.  I greatly appreciate your attention to duty.

  So I was rather surprised when the attached letter turned up in the Divine Drop Box.  It is addressed to someone named “Activist”, whom I’m sure you agree is not Me.  As you know, I am on vacation and couldn’t care less what happens to [still] President Cheney Bush, so long as he doesn’t pester Me to smite people and give him a pony.  Please take this back where it belongs or whatever it is that you do with mis-delivered mail.

Wish You Were Here,



Dear Activist,

Congratulations on the fabulous and historic election of President Barack Obama!!!

As we celebrate our new President-elect and all the changes he will bring to our nation, we must not turn a blind eye to the final actions of George Bush.

Incredibly, Washington is already buzzing with Bush’s plans to block all investigations of his crimes and even to pardon everyone involved – including Cheney and himself. Chris Matthews is even counting down the days .

Does Bush have the power to pardon everyone in his administration? Yes.

Will he abuse that power to stay out of jail? Only if we let him.

We must create a groundswell of opposition to any pardons by George Bush, so he understands that he will be impeached and prosecuted for issuing corrupt pardons.

Please help us launch a massive movement against pardons by signing our petition to Congress and telling your friends:

We will announce additional plans to stop Bush’s pardons in the coming days. Read more about our efforts and join our discussion here:

Thanks for all you do!

Bob Fertik

Dear GrrlScientist…

(C) Homeland Security

Homeland Security Photo: GrrlScientist with Beaker of Evil

Secret Underground Laboratory, New York, NY  10024

Dear Grrl,

  I understand you’ve been saying some rather hurtful things about Me.  To whit, that I am some sort of anthropomorphic personification of hate.  Although nothing could be farther from the truth, I’m not going to pretend that it didn’t sting.  Really, a statement like that isn’t designed to make Me feel good about Myself.  Worse, I think you may have meant it when you said it.

  One of the things that makes it so unfair is that I have the highest regard for grrls of all kinds.  Well, not the know-it-all kind, of course.  Or the potty-mouth kind.  Or the kind who used to be married to Me.  Or the kind who don’t listen to their husbands.  Those last two are virtually indistinguishable, but you get the idea.

  Let Me take your arguments one by one and destroy refute them with My Gawdly… er, refutations.  Since I have such great respect for all you little ladies, I’ll just lay it out straight.  I’ll try not to be too philosophically technical – I know you grrls are always a little behind, being made last and all.

  As for hatred of all who don’t believe in Me, why that’s poppycock of the first water.  Maybe the word hasn’t reached you yet, but I’ve always had a soft spot for those who don’t believe in Me.  As a matter of record, My current Chosen People are Atheists and My former Chosen People aren’t much better.

  While it is true that I am not Love, it does not stand to reason that I am Hate.  You should think of Me more as Indifference with a Smidge of Antipathy.  But the antipathy only comes into play when a small child is kicking the back of My airline seat.  Or if you covet your neighbor’s ox.  Or masturbate.  Or live in Sodom.  Or… well, a number of things, but not that many, numerically speaking.  Oh, committing whoredom with the daughters of Moab kind of sets Me off, too.  Anyway, the point is, I am not Hate and anyone who says I am is cruising for a smiting.

  You mentioned a few other things, like pedophilia, (okay as long as the pedophile is a priest); female genital mutilation, (whatever fashion you’re into is fine, as long as you tithe); doctorcide, (okay as long as the doctor doesn’t tithe and the Pro-Lifer does); death penalty, (ditto the tithing rule), and terrorism & genocide, (of supreme indifference to Me as long as it doesn’t interfere with My vacation schedule).

  As for the brand-loyalists burning in hellfire for all eternity, I have some good news for you.  I recently re-opened Hell and instigated a points policy for things said, done and thought.  So I’m happy to say that we seem to be on the same page there.

  I also couldn’t help but notice that you put the words “supreme being” in quotation marks as if you were being slightly sarcastic.  That’s not helpful.  It sounds a lot like My old lab partner from school, Pele.  She used to say sarcastic things like that when I couldn’t understand string theory.  (Me-damned, smart-assed Hawaiian, clever clogs.)

  One thing you were absolutely spot-on right about is that some Gawds are more equal than others.  We have a sort of informal caste system that hinges on number of followers.  So, for instance, smarty-pants GrrlGod Pele isn’t allowed to drink in the Korova Milk Bar at the Deity Club anymore and Zeus must let almost anyone play through on the golf course.

  I hope that has cleared things up for you.  There’s no need to thank Me; I know you’re just a grrl and you need someone to explain things to you.  My pleasure, little lady.

Wish You Were Here,


Dear Joe Lieberman…


706 Hart Office Building, Washington, DC  20510

Dear Droopy,

  I think My postman must be drunk or something.  I just got a postcard from you that must have been meant for Harry Reid.  I’m afraid all the blubbering and artful tear-stains are wasted on Me, since I’m on vacation.  That’s not to say that I’m not impressed with your Olympian twisting & turning.  You, My friend, are like a cockroach wearing a life-preserver, who has pictures of the exterminator shtupping the boss’s daughter.  I mean that in a good way.  You can survive anything.

  I mean, Satan could learn a thing or two from you.  You may recall that He and I had a slight disagreement some years back and as a result, I gave Him a permanent sunburn, shrank His shoes and superglued them on, then banished Him to Gitmo Hell.  And that was just for using powdered creamer in My coffee.  Imagine what I would have done to Him if He’d called Me a Marxist and kicked Me in the Holy Stones?  If Satan had half the luck and chutzpah you do, He’d be getting a massage in a 5-star hotel right now and I’d be manager of Hell, working for minimum wage plus tips with a slim hope of a bonus at the end of eternity.

  Really; you’re a heat-seeking, radar-guided windsock.  I know those guys you “caucus” with are kind of, well… pussies, but you deserve some kudos for playing them like your worst enemy’s unattended Wii.  Once they get through apologizing for getting their wedding tackle tangled up in your chainsaw, you’ll be free to buckle down to some good, hard backstabbing.  It kind of makes Me nostalgic for My smiting days.

  Of course, you know if I were in their place, I’d turn you into a grease spot on the sidewalk faster than you can say, “You know what.”  But, hey; that’s just Me.  Inever understood why Goldfinger didn’t kill 007 as soon as he caught him.  Your “caucus buddies” probably didn’t see anything strange in it.  So you’ll most likely weasel out of trouble like a weasely weasel that… is uncommonly weasel-like.

  Nice job of it, though.  You’ll probably be Majority Leader by the time you get this postcard.  Just do Me a favor and don’t pass along any pointers to Satan, ’cause I’m not a Democrat and I’ll smite you six ways to Sunday.

Wish You Were Here,


Dear Discovery Institute…


208 Columbia St., Seattle, WA  98104

Dear IDiots,

  I understand you’ve got your feathers ruffled over some bird.  believe Me, I understand.  I, too, know little and care less about science.  Like you, know-it-alls piss Me off to no end.  It’s like when I was at Deity School.  In Cosmological Pottery 203 We were told to design and create a world for the mid-term, so I made this really cool one where all the continents were shaped like penises and vaginas.  So I was all, “Look how sweet My world is, Pele.  South America looks just like what’s under your grass skirt.”  And She was all, “Grow up, Gawd.  Continental drift isn’t going to do what you think it’s going to do, and besides, you forgot the magnetic field again.”  Oy, she used to make Me so fahklumpt!

  It turned out that She was right.  The naughty continents didn’t connect like I wanted and the atmosphere got stripped away before I was half through with the one-celled organisms.  It’s bad enough getting a D- on a mid-term, but to get shown up by a girl… that’s worse than when My original Chosen People ditched Me for a golden cow.

  Not that I didn’t do well in some aspects of school.  I got a Double Blue in Smiting.  Oh, you’ll appreciate this one.  I got really good at bullshitting.  For instance, I memorized a bunch of words and phrases about physics and philosophy and just kind of strung them together to make them mean whatever I wanted, which became My dissertation, String Theory of Platonic Monadology:  Does Shrodinger in a Box Exist If I Don’t Discover Him?  That raised a few eyebrows, I can tell you.

  But I don’t have to tell you about that, do I?  You’ve got that “Your evidence of A proves Z, just like I always said… la la la la la I can’t hear you,” thing down pat.  You guys are great at keeping My vacation fund in the black.  Just keep on doing what you’re doing.  In fact, you ought to hire that Palin chick.  I hear she’s looking for a job.  There’s nothing I like more than a dumb broad who makes Me money.  Get her an honorary doctorate of Creation Science from Oral Roberts University or something.  She’d make an excellent fellow at your little club.

  Anyway, I’ve got to go.  Room service is here with My Plum Duff and Chateau Laffitte ’69.  Just remember, if all else fails a total pig-headed unwillingness to look facts in the face will see you through.

Wish You Were Here,