Dear Christopher Maloney…

4 Drew St., Augusta, ME  04330

Dear Chris,

  You are a quack.  And don’t look all surprised that I would say that, or pretend not to remember Me.  You know what I’m talking about.  During a recent vacation at the Sebasco Harbor Resort, I realized that hitting golf balls from the top of the lighthouse wasn’t relaxing Me the way it usually does.  I happened to mention this to a fellow guest walking by with a dowsing rod and a pack of tarot cards.

  Which is where you come in.  This seemingly helpful guest, whom I suspect was a shill for your business, suggested I see you for A.R.T. Therapy.

“A combination of acupressure points, passive mobilization and active client participation in an exploration of the emotional/physical areas of tension in the body.”

  Chris, I don’t think I’m overstating My position when I say that after a session with you digging and prodding and popping My Divine Joints out of socket, I am sorry I ever created the fucking human race.  Just to take My mind off of the pain and increased bodily tension I flipped on the omniscience for a minute.  You’ll never guess what I suddenly knew.  It wasn’t Joe Jackson’s shoe size.  It wasn’t the five names whose first letters make up the word “cabal”.  It wasn’t where John Graves, 402 East Austin St., Kermit, TX, left his car keys last Saturday… well, actually, it was.  It was everything.  That’s the point of the omniscience.  But the thing I suddenly knew that concerns you is that naturopathic medicine is pure bull.  Also, in case you were wondering, I knew to the deepest fiber of My being, (and that’s deep, Bub), that naturopaths are underqualified, (at best), and don’t begin to deserve to be called doctors.  Christopher, a lab coat and a stethoscope do not a doctor make.

  I tell you this not merely because I am the Ruler of Everything and I can, but also because I understand some other people, who must also have the omniscience, are having their postcards intercepted or censored.  Maybe you can do that to some schlub who only knows everything, but try it with a deity who also can do everything, (when not vacationing or overly-riled by a gay rights parade or something), and you’ll get such a smiting that Job would look at Me with a raised eyebrow and say, “Steady on there, Gawd.”  Capisce?

  Look, I don’t mind exorcists, fortune tellers, Bigfoot hunters and people who believe The Flintstones was a documentary.  Actually, I wouldn’t normally mind your little scam.  I mean, people with no education or talent have got to eat, too, right?  You just tried to pull it on the wrong deity.  You should have gone for Bacchus after a hard night.  He’d try anything.  But Me?  There’s nothing you can tell Gawd about relaxing, taking it easy and fooling the gullible.

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd

Dear World – A Valentine…

Earth, Sol System, Galactic Sector ZZ9 Plural Z Alpha, Milky way, Universe 7(b)

Dear Brand-Loyalists and Others,

  I’m sorr… I’m sorr-orr-orr… I apoloj-j-j…  Er, it’s too bad this card is a little late.  I was, (as far as you know), doing something very, very important on Sunday and couldn’t drop this in the mail.  But here it is, now, so you ought to be thankful.

  World, we’ve had a long and fruitful relationship, which I look forward to continuing until I don’t.  As you are always reminding one another, (and rightly so), I love you more than your minds, which I designed perfectly, can understand.  I love you more than anyone has ever loved anything in the long, 6,000 year history of everything.  I love you even though you don’t begin to deserve it.  I love you even though you’re filthy in every conceivable way.  I love you so much that I sent one of My boys to you so you could kill Him in a particularly gruesome manner – so that I could forgive you for doing terrible things like picking up sticks on Saturday, wearing blended-material suits or killing people - and get back to loving you so very, very, very much.  In short; I Am Love.  I amaze even Myself, frankly.

  Yes, I know there was that time I drowned all but eight of you and wiped out your pet dinosaurs, but, as I know you’ll be the first to point out, that was just because I love you so much.  Besides, it was your own fault, anyway.

  Like any good parent, I don’t like to play favorites.  Just ask the Jesii.  Even though Hippy Jesus is always spouting ridiculous hippy crap that all but makes My ears bleed, I never say out loud that Republican Jesus is My favorite.  In fact, in order to appear scrupulously fair, I sent Hippy Jesus to be the sacrificial crucifixee for you to whip and kill and sing that “So You Are the Christ” song to.  No one can ask fairer than that.  And the same goes for you.  The fact that I took a small subset of you and named them The Chosen Ones just underlines how much I love you.  Even though you aren’t as good as the Jews and your overwhelming sinfulness disgusts Me to the point of dry heaves, I.  Still.  Love.  You.  And you former Chosen People, the Jewboys?  It’s like Morrissey always says; I still love you… only slightly less than I used to.

  I am, I think you’ll be happy to point out in hymn form at least once a week, truly fucking amazing.  Just really spectacularly great.  The lovingest, kindest, most merciful being since… well, ever.

  Just as the icing on the cake, just to prove hom much I love you, (which I always seem to have to do, because you’re so screwed up and untrusting that you won’t take an omniscient, omnipotent deity’s word for it), I’ll leave you with this final and incontrovertible proof.  This should be the last word on just how much I love you, even though you’re not good enough to deserve it.

  I love you soooooooooooo much that if you don’t love Me back I’ll have you tortured be forced to allow an employee of Mine to torture you for all eternity.  Twice.

  Happy Valentine’s Day.

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd

(Note to Self:  Send mimeograph copy to all inhabited worlds in Universes 1(c) through 412(qq), inclusive.)

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