Dear Jesii…

 

C/O Christian Revival Center Retreat, Zinc, AR 72601

Dear Boys,

  I hope You’re having a fun time at camp this year and I’m especially glad not to have received any of those “Hello, Mudder.  Hello, Fodder,” letters that You usually send.  For one, that joke was old when You first tried it in 7 AD.  For another, Your “Mudder” is a whore.  Just sayin’.

  Anyway, I got the film of You showing off Your camera phone.  Very spiffy.  But a word of warning:  Don’t show this around too much.  The last thing I need while I’m trying to relax on Santorini is a bunch of smelly Samaritan lawyers trying to serve Me subpoenas.  Not when they ought to be serving Me pina coladas.  Take a little advice from one of Our brand-loyalists, Thomas Robb.  It’s not about hating the vile, disgusting, sub-human Samaritans.  It’s about loving the non-Samaritans.  Comprende?

  Oh, and speaking of foreigners, be sure to put paper on the toilet seat before You sit on it.  That’s how You get The Mexican Flu.  And always wear flip-flops in the shower.  Oh, and remember that the best way to make friends is to pick on the fat kid.  Also, I’ve got all the macrame pot-holders I could ever need, so You can give those a miss this year.

  I’m sorry to tell You that I won’t be able to pick You up from camp, Myself.  My vacation schedule is just gruelling right now.  I’m sure You understand.  Besides that, I’d have to fly US Airways to get there and their service is so piss-poor I might as well fly Pet Airways.  The last time I flew with US Airways I was busy smiting air waitresses for a month.  It’s like an airline full of Samaritans.  Yick!

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd

Dear Stinque Zombie Bible Authors…

Illustrated Zombie Bible Classics #1

Holed Up in The Winchester Pub

Dear Stinquers,

  Finally.  Finally someone gets it.  I was overjoyed to hear that you want to rewrite and re-illustrate My unauthorized biography.  I am profoundly gratified that you can see and appreciate the zombie motif I’ve been working into the universe since I whipped it up one Saturday afternoon over beer and hot wings.

  Well, I say “working into”, but the truth is, it’s gotten somewhat out of hand.  I really only meant for there to be a few, select zombie scenes.  You know, Hippie Jesus gets slightly killed and comes back, complete with holes in extremeties; a few graves open up once My vacation is over – that sort of thing.  But, and this is where I made My boner, it turns out they’re harder to get rid of than I thought.  Baron Samedi warned Me, but I figured He was just a wog deity, what did He know?  Oops.  Dea Culpa.

  Anyway, I just want you to know that I am all for your exciting new biography of Me.  You might even call it a Deiography.  In fact, might I suggest that, instead of Stinque Zombie Bible, you name it Gawd II:  Night of the Living Gawd?  It has more of a movie feel to it, which will probably help sales, since I don’t think consumers actually read anymore.

  Which brings us to the most important bit.  Sales.  As you may know, I never saw a cent from the first unauthorized version.  Bupkis.  Zero.  Zilch.  Our Nada what art in Our bank account, Nada be thy name… You’ll have to forgive Me for being a little giddy, but I’ve been waiting a very, very long time for something like this.  So I’m thinking that, since it is about Me, I should get a 60% share of the gross.  I know that’s more than My usual 10%, but I’m sure you’d like to make up for all the lost revenue from the first, (unauthorized, in case I haven’t mentioned), version.  I prefer a weekly suitcase full of cash.  You can have them delivered to whichever hotel I’m staying at.  I’ll be sure to get you a vacation schedule.

  By the way, you should probably get this thing to the publishers ASAP, before the market gets saturated.  Just watch out for your brains on the way.

Wish You were here,

~Gawd

Dear Astronomers…

einarlunden.com/

Geneva University, Geneva, Switzerland

Dear Astrologers Astronomers,

  You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?  Most of you, as you are well aware, are My New Chosen People.  As such, the Earth is your “Promised Land”*  So why do you have to keep poking your noses into My other planets?  I’ve been saving Gliese 581d for the Mormons.  I sort of promised every one of them, (excluding womenfolk, of course), their own planet; not realizing a) that there would ever be need of more than a couple dozen and b) that I would have to come up with some kind of FTL Drive to get them there.  So, look… hands off, okay?

  I don’t know how you even found out about this one.  I know I didn’t tell you.  I learned My lesson there after I told Douglas Adams about Ursa Minor Beta.  Now the place is overrun with tourists.  Do you know how much trouble it was to get that place right?  I had to sub-contract a lot of the design and construction out to Pele.  I used to do a lot of My vacationing there, but ever since Doug published a description and location the place is too crowded with hitchhiking astrologers astronomers to bother.

  It is a West Zone planet which by an inexplicable and somewhat suspicious freak of topography consists almost entirely of sub- tropical coastline. By an equally suspicious freak of temporal relastatics, it is nearly always Saturday afternoon just before the beach bars close.

  I really loved that place.

  So you’re not getting your grubby hands on Gliese 581d.  I spent a good deal of time and energy on making this one perfect for Mormons.  Well… a couple of hours, but I did it all Myself this time.  As you can see from the photo, it’s pet-friendly, has a diverse eco-system that supports as many as three types of fauna at once and external breathing apparatus is only required during the summer.

  If I have to whip up a replacement on the spur of the moment, it’s liable not to be My best work.

  So you guys can have Uranus, alright?  I can’t even fob that one off on the Mormons since some Me-damned do-gooder told them about the name.

Wish You Were Here, (Instead of Ursa Minor Beta),

~Gawd

*Subject to certain restrictions; not valid for cities containing 5-star hotels.

Dear Union of Amalgamated Cherubim & Seraphim Local 151…

C/O Union Representative, 13 Sweatshop Way, Heaven

Dear Amalgamated C & S Members,

  I am in receipt of your request for a reduction to an 80-hour work-week, that singing praises to My name no longer be mandatory, installation of snack machines in all office areas and institution of a minimum wage.

  I have carefully read your proposal and, in the spirit of negotiation that I think I am rightly famous for, here is My counter-proposal:

  Piss off, you ungrateful bastards!  Get back to work before I use your guts for garters.  You think I can’t whip up a batch of mindless, automaton scabs to replace you?  It’s just one thing after another with you, isn’t it?  No wonder the mayor of New York calls union members thugs and the DoD says unions are a threat to national security.

  You think you’ve got Me by the short hairs, but I’ve been preparing for something like this ever since the time I lost so many employees to Beelzebub, LLC.  Around about 120 BC I started recording all business meetings attended by union members.  That’s right.  By the way, for those of you who are always bitching that I don’t provide pastry in meetings, you can just ask Archangel Josh why there never seems to be enough for everyone to have one.  And Archangel Stan?  I don’t know what kind of unholy rituals you’re performing with all the coffee stirrers, but one per cup should be sufficient for whatever it is.

  As if Grand Theft weren’t enough to squash this disgusting power-grab of yours, I have a very interesting tape of the meeting just prior the the Jesii’s birth.  If you open the attached package, you will find a copy of said tape.  However, before you do, let Me advert you to page 721, section MMCLXIII, paragraph ii of your contracts.

“Backsassing, insolently goggling eyes at, quoting facts or otherwise disagreeing with Employer constitutes Sin.”

  If you recall from your employee handbooks, distributed and signed for on Day One, the wages of sin, (much less, Sin) are, in fact, Death.  As everyone knows, I Am not only Love, but a merciful Gawd.  However, this tape clearly shows that every single one of your Archangel representatives backsassed, made that goggly-eye face at Me, frowned in My presence and, (Archangel Bob especially), quoted facts about biology and astrophysics.  So you see, My hands are tied.  These Archangels are your duly-elected representatives.  They, by their very nature, represent all of you.  Therefore, you are responsible for anything they do; ergo – you’re in deep shit.

  I just don’t know how I could possibly let you off.  I mean, rules are rules, right?  There’s nothing I can… hang on.  An answer to your predicament has just occurred to Me.  maybe, just maybe I can talk Myself into letting you off with, say, a pay-cut and a work-hour increase if you’re willing to negotiate in good faith.  If you give a little, say by dropping these niggling demands of yours, then I think I can see My way clear to refrain from wiping out the entire workforce.

  Let Me know what you think.  Just leave a message with the front desk of the Fullerton Hotel, Singapore.

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd

ATT:

Dear Texas…

Deep In The Heart of Wingnuttia

Dear Go-It-Aloners,

  I understand that I may soon need to bring My passport when I jet down there for Tex-Mex.  That sounds like an excellent idea to Me.  Secession is, I agree, the answer when you’re feeling a little pouty.  Why, you’d be like the Israelites leaving Egypt.  Chuck Norris even reminds Me of Moses… except Chuck is a little more circumspect about his drug use.

  If you do decide to let your petulance have free reign, there are a few things you should probably do in preparation.  First, change the state flower.  Sure, the Bluebonnet is an attractive flower, as flowers go, but newspaper accounts of being “Trapped Behind The Bluebonnet Curtain” won’t sound as tough as I know you like to imagine yourselves.  Perhaps a plant with a little more street cred.  The Venus Flytrap or Poison Oak might work for you.

  Next, you should probably change some of the words of the state song.  If I recall from a particularly booze-and-hooker-filled vacation there in late April, 1836, the last verse of the song starts, “Texas, dear Texas!  From tyrant grip now free,”.  I don’t think that gets across the depth of feeling you have for the current tyrant.  I suggest you let it all out in your state song.  Try something like,

 ”Texas, Oh!!1! Texas!1!!  From uppity negro, communistofascist, baby-eating, old-lady-kicking, atheistical, muslim northerner grip now free!!!1!!”

  That gets the point across nicely, don’t you think?

  On the positive side, My old friend Chuck Norris has graciously offered to serve as your head of state.  It would be wise to ratify that, when the time comes, and not just because he’d kick your collective ass if you rejected him.  From a national defense standpoint, you couldn’t make a better choice.  Once your economy bottomed out and many of you started sneaking across the Mexican border to find work, Mexico might try to build a wall or something to keep you out.  That’s when Chuck’s Intercontinental Ballistic Fist of Doom, hidden behind his beard, will come in very handy… or fisty, as the case may be.  he could smash down the immoral wall keeping you penned in while crying the new state national motto; “We can do what we want, when we want, how we want and everyone else is a doody-head!”  Though I would imagine translating that into Latin might make it sound a little more grown-up.

  So drop Me a line as soon as you decide to secede.  I’d like to get in a bit of vacation time there before all the infrastructure collapses.  It’ll be a dream vacation.  The exchange rate ought to be something along the lines of $1 for every 2,359 Lonestarbucks.

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd

Dear Fox News…

1211 Ave. of the Americas, New York, NY  10036

Dear Teabaggers,

  Thank you so much for keeping Me apprised of the horrible threat facing all billionaires today.

  Taxes.

  I shudder to even write the word.  And I fervently thank Me every day that you have engineered this spontaneous uprising of regular people just like Me.

  Well, actually, I’m not going to be teabagging anyone, personally.  I figure there are plenty of little people who don’t make billions of dollars and thus don’t really have anything better to do, who are more than willing to act as My proxy in the matter of teabagging members of your government.  The same, obviously, goes for My fellow billionaires.  I’m sure they have better things to do than to protest against raising their taxes almost to the level that Saint Reagan charged them over 20 years ago.

  And, to be honest, as a federally-registered deity, I don’t actually pay taxes in the US.  But I have a sympathetic feeling toward My brethren billionaires.  Not “empathetic”, of course.  I can’t honestly say that I know how it feels to be a victim of taxation with representation.  Actually, I can’t say that I know how it feels to be a victim of anything.  Funny, huh?  You’d think, as many times as I’ve smited people, I’d have some kind of understanding of their pain, but not really.  Go figure, eh?

  Anyway, the point is that I’m 100% behind your protest.  “No taxation with representation!”

  I know that kind of rhymes and all, but wouldn’t it be quicker and simpler to just say “No taxation,”?  Gets right to the meat of the matter, if you ask Me.  Shorter, pithier, stronger.  Less rhymey and girly.  You should look into it.

  Whatever you ultimately decide to go with, just know that I will be behind it 100%.  As I sun Myself on the topless beaches of Saint Tropez, drinking bottle after bottle of Chateau Lafitte Rothschild for the cause, I will may possibly think of the literally dozens of minions and pawns who will be teabagging for the downtrodden billionaires.  I will, in effect, be teabagging your enemies by proxy.

  My heroic nature sometimes even chokes Me up.  Just know that, although neither I nor any other person these taxes will affect will be physically present, we will all be with you on the barricades in spirit.  Know that, inside, as we wrest the cork from another bottle of Chateau Personnes Riches, we are raising our voices in our battle cry with you – “Vive Les Riches Degoutants!”  Metaphorically speaking, of course.  Nothing ruins a dinner party faster than screaming out slogans during the fish course.

  Anywho, it’s time for Me to turn over and tan the other side and I hate holding the postcard between sun and face, so I’ll sign off now.  But don’t forget that I support you supporting Me with your completely spontaneous, regular-people-driven teabagging parties.

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd

Dear Mac Brunson…

124 West Ashley St., Jacksonville, FL  32202

Dear Mac,

  You know I’ve always liked you… in a manner of speaking.  Well, if I paid any attention to you at all, I would have considered you the kind of take-charge brand-loyalist who leads the cash-cow around by the nose for the glory of Me and My vacation fund.  If I engraved brand-loyalist names on an ”Earner of the Month” plaque, (and, once again, presuming I’d ever noticed you), you’d be up there multiple times.

  But – and this is why I’m writing – I’d have to think seriously about taking your name off now that I know just how much money you skim off the top before you tithe into My vacation fund.  Actually, it can’t really be called a tithe if you’re not giving Me at least 10% of your $300,000 salary, plus book royalties, etc.

  All that stuff about crushing all criticism doesn’t bother Me, of course.  I’m all for that.  In this case, if you hadn’t had Thomas A. Rich investigated by the local Sheriff, outed and expelled from My Jacksonville, FL cash machine, I wouldn’t know that you’ve been holding back.  So, sort of hoist by your own petard, there.  Yep, it’s a fine line you walk, isn’t it?  Destroy all opposition, obviously.  Obviously do that.  But not so publicly that other people talk about it enough to clue Me in on your actual net worth.

  So, I said all that to say this:  Pay up, boyo.  You will find, attached, an itemized bill drawn up by My accountant in conjunction with My lawyers, Fire, Brimstone & Wrath, LLC.  It goes without saying that I expect all of the back-tithes paid, pronto.  Also, in order to avert My wrath in the form of a substantial legal and medical smiting, I have inserted additional charges for incidentals such as, (but not limited to), creating the world, ($27,854.98 is your share), guiding personalized spermatozoa through… wherever it was that it went through, ($13,963.39), causing 1984 Firebird to crash into family in station wagon instead of you , 14 Nov., 1998, ($111,419.98), and, of course, causing Google to give up name of offending blogger, (Priceless… but I’ll settle for $641,968.27).

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd

Dear Un-Chosen People, (and New Chosen People)…

At Your Jobs All Round the World

Dear Passed-Overs,

  Well, it’s Passover and Good Friday again and I’m on vacation.  The former Chosen People are sitting on their tuchuses, stuffed from gorging on cookies and pastry, Nibbling soda crackers in the backyard hammock.  The brand-loyalists are “going to mass”, which seems to entail taking the day off work and coloring eggs for the glorification of My boys.  The Easter Bunny is chuckling contentedly over His first-quarter candy-earnings.

  You?  You’re at work, cursing the greedy Jews and the lying brand-loyalists.

  So, while I’m waiting for room service to bring My breakfast Filet Mignon avec Sauce Bernaise and Durian Fruit Salad, I thought I’d try to cheer you up.

  Right.  So – New Chosen People?  It’s all part of My ineffable plan.  Just ask the Jews.  No pain, no gain.  You’ve got to give a little to get a little.  There’s no such thing as a free lunch.  This sort of thing will build character.  Besides, you’re going to need to work all you can in order to save money.  Once the Republicans take over America for good in 2012 and the rest of the world in 2023 and outlaw atheism, you’ll be glad of that extra cash you’ve socked away.  It’ll mean another week of thin gruel, hiding in an attic from the Protective Squads before their Holy Killer Snifferbots finally smell that copy of The God Delusion you forgot to burn when you ran.  If you’ve saved enough money, you might be able to bribe them to blindfold you before they burn your family at the stake.

  As for you Un-Chosen people, followers of that hack, Allah, Vishnu, Pele and all the rest; you’re just shit out of luck.  The little extra money you’re making by working today isn’t really going to matter in the long run, as most of your little, third-world countries don’t have nukes.  You Indians and Pakis and Gawdless Chinee won’t have much use for money in the post-apocalyptic wasteland you’ll be raising your mutant children in.  However, if you immediately invest that money in gasoline and shotgun shells, you may live long enough to see your three-eyed, four-buttocked grandchildren.

  Now, aren’t you glad you got passed over for this pseudo-holiday, today?

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd

Dear Israelis…

Smack in the Middle of the Old Country

Dear Former Chosen People,

  Sometimes, breakups can be long and painful.  That’s just part of the human condition.  Well, as decreed by Me after that bitch, Eve, went behind My back.  But the human condition, nonetheless.

  Often, the worst part is trying to get your Clash records back and agreeing on who owns what.  In order to facilitate and simplify the ownership question, I’ve asked a disinterested third party to check into that for Me.  Professor Adam Zertal has just written to Me to confirm that the Jordan Valley is, in fact, mine.  Which, let’s be honest, you and I both already knew.  This is the very reason that I insisted on a Pre-Chosen Agreement all those years ago.  Anything with My footprint on it belongs to Me, (see attachment a, constituting legal and binding evidence).

  Conversely, as I am a fair and just Gawd – you’ll recall My fair and just smiting of the [fill in the blank]ites – anything with your bootprint on it belongs to you, (see attachment b).

  Obviously, this doesn’t cover the aforementioned Clash records, as footprints generally mar their usefulness.  And don’t think that your transparent attempts to ingratiate yourself with My new Chosen People will save you from returning what’s Mine.  As you know, not only am I a fair and just Gawd and a jealous Gawd, I’m a Gawd who knows which set of dishes He brought to the relationship and a Gawd who never forgets.

  So, chop-chop on that Jordan Valley thing.  I want to start renting it out to vacationers or possibly selling to some Saudi Arabian condo developers I met in the hotel bar.  But don’t think it’s all about the money.  It’s the principle of the thing.  Well… it is kind of about the money; but, to a certain extent, principle is involved, too.  Sort of.  Well… not principle, as such – more like “principle”, where “principle” is understood to mean “quick real-estate cash”.

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd

Dear Astrologers…

113 Woo Way, Crazytown, Rhode Island  02865 

Dear Astronomers Astrologers,

  My boys and I have been following your advice for thousands of years.  From, “Which way to Bethlehem,” to “Would today be a good day to smite Richard Dawkins,” we’ve always cherished your input.  You perfected, early on, the art of giving advice that We could construe as backing the decision We’d already made.  You’ve always been aloof, yet sycophantic.  We like that in Our advisers.

  However, I have noticed an alarming trend, lately, of being both specific and accurate.  I was flipping through My most recent printed copy of The Internet last week and spotted something called “World’s Most Accurate Horoscope“ by one of your number named Yunshui.  I was immediately intrigued by the confluence of the words “most accurate” and the somewhat mysterious name of the astrologer.  Frankly, I wouldn’t normally read a web diary, (or “Dlog” as I believe the kids call it), with a title like “Right to Think”.  I am generally against that sort of thing.

  In any case, I thumbed through those pages to check My and My boys’ horoscopes.  Personally, I feel that if one of you is going to start being completely accurate, the public should be warned about it, first thing.  Perhaps some sort of label at the top of the page would be in order:  “Beware!  The following is actually accurate.  Really, this time.  We mean it!”

  It might have saved the Jesii a nasty shock.  For the most part, the predictions for Them were spot-on.  Money?  Check.  Romance?  If you count expensive escorts and naked internet pictures from Woodstock, then, check.  Fame?  Double check.  However, none of Us actually expected the bit about the marmalade to be true.  Or, if so, to be true in a very general way; like “Don’t jump into a vat of boiling marmalade this month.”  Even without the accuracy warning, it might have helped if your man had been a bit more specific.  “You have developed a severe allergy to orange peel.  If you don’t want to swell like a televangelist’s ego, wheeze like a disconcertingly wheezy steam engine and generally repulse those around you, steer well clear of marmalade.  I mean it,” would have sufficed, I think.

  For My part, I can’t stress specificity enough.  had I known that he really meant it, I could have at least prepared or even turned on the omniscience for a minute to make things a bit clearer.  As it was, I dropped by one of Odin’s parties this weekend out in Valhalla and when He got drunk and started quoting poetry – like He does – it only rang a tiny bell when I heard Him declaim something about “stabbed through the eye of a hurricane”.  Well, I ended up quaffing a few flagons of mead and cornered this 7-foot Valkyrie named Bridget who was nattering on about how she really wanted to be a model.  Four hours, a pronounced bruise from Her armour and a half dozen Nehi Grape-flavored nipple tassles later and I had a raging case of what We deities euphemistically call the “French Deity’s Disease”.

  The bottom line here is that it’s all the worse for knowing that I could have avoided a real mess if I’d known you really meant it this time.  As an added bonus, I could have looked like a real hero by saving the boys a nasty allergic reaction and My postman a run-in with a surly penguin with a penchant for brass knuckles.  So, next time, label that stuff properly.

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd