Tag Archives: Religious Logic

Dear Sasquatch…

The Forest, cave #3, Oregon

Dear Furball,

  Ha ha.  Very funny.  Did you think I wouldn’t smell you all over my hotel room when I got back from consoling Hippy Jesus?  Writing to My New Chosen People using My own stationery and suggesting “God Still Not Real Friday” was a real laugh riot.  And, by the way, you illiterate fuck, you misspelled My name again.  Like I don’t have enough problems with the Me damned Easter Bunny this time of year.

  Now I’ve got to take time to prove, once again, that I’m real and working* in mysterious ways all over the world.  I’ll have to show how I lay My protecting hand over the brand loyalists by pointing out all the Catholic priests who are not languishing in jail right now.  I’d like to see Odin or Enki or even Allah, (that hack), pull off that kind of PR miracle.  I was presented with the nightmare of My representatives on earth raping little children who were taught to trust them and Presto! Change-o! I turned it around and made it the kids’ fault.  That’s first class miracleing, that is.

  I’ll probably have to remind everyone to quit being so self-centered.  After all, I didn’t create this world or the people in it to be happy.  As Ray Comfort so eloquently put it, if you’re having a good time, then you’re Hitler.  And while I’m at it, the original Hitler, (not the smiling, laughing, happy Hitler-monster people become when they don’t constantly work to make Me happy), was nothing to do with Me.  Sure, I created the universe and all the people and things in it, but I don’t know where he came from.  So if anyone tries to blame him on Me, I’ll sue their pants off.

  I imagine I’ll need to point out how more people believe in Me and follow My rules than don’t.  That alone should be all the proof anyone needs.  As one of My New Chosen People, Colonel Sanders or something, would surely agree, millions of people have believed in Me for thousands of years.  What are the odds that they could all be wrong?  That’s the kind of skeptical enquiry/mathematical proof I can get behind 110%.

  So don’t think you’ve won any points, Bigfoot.  I laugh at your feeble attempts to inconvenience Me.  And anyway, why should I even go to all this bother?  You’re the one telling people I’m not real.  You should have to prove it.  That’s the way science works, numbnuts.

  Point, set, match, I think… you stinking fleabag.

Wish You Were Here,


*For a given definition of “work”.

P.S. – Yeah, I’d be happy to come over for dinner.  Tell Nessie she doesn’t have to go to any great trouble.  A simple Loggerhead Turtle soup with caviar will do.

Dear Consumers…

Dear Brand-Loyalists Not Currently in Bankruptcy or Foreclosure,

  Passing through Athens International Airport recently, I was waiting in the Swissport Executive Lounge and came across a book some other, (but obviously lesser), VIP had left behind.  The title didn’t seem to make much sense, but I had an hour to kill, so I thumbed through it.

  People, it changed My life.  Not by what the book had to say, so much.  For one thing, it was sadly lacking in smiting, freaky sex and, above all, Me.  On the other hand, the entire idea of the book was like a lightbulb switching on in My Holy Brain.  It was almost enough to convince Me to leave the omniscience on all the time, just so I could constantly have these kinds of amazing ideas.

  So, here’s My genius idea.  I’m going to write a book and call it Gawd Is Your Thing You Really Want at the Moment You Read This Book Title.  The book I pinched found was titled [somebody or other] Is Your New Bicycle, which is pretty good, but I think Mine covers a lot more ground, thus tempting more of you to buy it.  Of course, when I say “write” I mean “inspire someone else to write”.  And when I say “inspire”, I mean “promise to pay”.

  Each page will point out something I’ve done for you which will make you feel as if you owe Me even more than the obligatory tithe.  For instance, page one might say:

Gawd made His son, who is also Him, sacrifice Himself in a really painful way to appease Himself for your sins.

  Possibly, that can be trimmed a little, but you get the idea.  The genius of it is that the truth or untruth of the statement is immaterial.  It’s all about how guilty or grateful or warm & fuzzy it makes you feel.

Gawd helped you move a sofa.

  Or maybe,

Gawd created the US of A to be a Christian nation.

  How about,

Gawd helped your Gramma across a busy street.


Gawd flooded a major city to save it from The Gay.

Gawd gave you a lift from the airport in His limousine.

Gawd found your lost car keys.

Gawd wiped out the [fill in the blank]ites so you could have a little lebensraum.

Gawd rinsed out your breakfast bowl.

  Sounds like just the sort of thing you’d be happy to pay $19.95 for, doesn’t it?  Just think of it.  Any time you’re faced with something uncomfortable, like reality, for instance, you could just flip your copy open to a random page and get a little psychological comfort.  The beauty is that it simply doesn’t matter if what you read in My book is “true” or “real” or “helpful in any concrete way” or “nothing but word salad”.  As long s you believe it, (And why wouldn’t you?  It says so right there in the book.), as long as you punch anyone who denies it in the eye and scream, “Help!  I’m being persecuted,” it might as well be true, right?

  So keep an eye on your local brand-loyalist bookstore for the leather-bound collector’s edition.

Wish You Were Here,


Dear Friends of the Deceased…

Mourners42 All Over St., Everywhere

Dear Mourners,

  One of My boys’ militia generals sends out a little newsletter, mimeographed and sent to a PO box They keep for this sort of thing, which I like to glance through to see if My name is mentioned.  I was saddened, recently, to read that an old friend of mine has died after a protracted illness.

  Bernie The opinion, Gawd Loves You and Listens to Your Prayers, has finally passed on, the opinionary column opines.  It goes on to say that he “keel[ed] over like an artery-clogged priest on Altar Boys Shower Night, ultimately expiring in an indecorous heap on the slippery-when-wet tile floor.”

  But, friends & family, (and by that, I mean “brand-loyalists”), the best thing you can do for him, (and by “him” I mean “My vacation fund”), is to hook him up to life support, (and by “hook him up to life support” I mean, “simply adopt a pig-headed unwillingness to face the facts”).  Stinking to High Heaven, or just brain-dead, putting him on life support is the best way to show you care.

  When someone tells you that the opinion is dead, your job, like any brand-loyalist medical professional, is to raise your voice until it drowns theirs out.  Immediately inject 40 cc’s of Change The Subject.  Admire the opinion’s beautiful plumage.  Insist that the opinion is merely resting.  That it is simply shagged out from strenuously being proved correct.  Jostle his bed and point out that he just moved.  If they say that you moved him – deny, deny, deny.  When they lift him to stand on his own two feet and he collapses into the aforementioned indecorous heap, accuse them of stunning him.  Suggest that he is not bleeding demised, but pining for the fjords.

  If confronted by, say, one of My Chosen Atheists and told that the opinion has passed on, is no more, ceased to be, expired and gone to meet the caveman who miraculously found his lost cavekeys with My help, stiff, bereft of life, resting in peace, run down the curtain and joined the choir invisible or that he is simply an ex-opinion you may, as a very last resort, agree and introduce them to his son – the opinion, Gawd Works in Mysterious Ways and You’re Not Bright Enough to Figure Him Out.

Wish You Were Here,


Dear Randall Price…


C/O World of the Bible Ministries, P. O. Box 827, San Marcos, TX  78667

Dear Randall,

  I understand that you’re grifting accepting donations for your search for old Noah’s houseboat.  As you well know, I am normally 100% behind donations from the brand-loyalists.  Without them, I wouldn’t be finalizing plans for My Grand Safari vacation in June.  In fact, without regular donations, I wouldn’t be writing this postcard with a Mont Blanc pen from the H10 Marina Barcelona Hotel Spa.

  However, it doesn’t seem to Me that you will be passing on those donations to further My vacation, but, rather, you will use the cash for your own frivolous trip.  So I’m going to do us both a favor and tell you exactly where you can find this manky old boat you’re looking for.  That way, you can pass the savings on to Me.

  First, a little background.  Yes, it’s true that I drowned everyone on Earth except Noah and his immediate family.  Dea Culpa.  Coincidentally, it had to do with My vacation fund.  As I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, I do not make mistakes.  That being said, the ratio of brand-loyalists to non brand-loyalists at the time was quite seriously out of wack.  As a result, My vacation fund was dangerously low.  To make things worse, I was still paying off student loans from deity school.  So I borrowed a great deal of cash from Uruk Samas-Tallassu, (“Uruk the Leg-Breaker”), in Eridu.

  Was this a wise decision?  Of course it was – I made it.  But I soon decided it would be even more wise to get out from under all that debt using the “Acts of Gawd” clause.  To wit: I Katrina’d their asses.  Actually, I just meant to do the financial district, but it got a little out of hand.  Or, it was all part of My ineffable plan; take your pick.

  In any case, I just had enough time to warn Noah, who was My only brand-loyalist at the time, I’m embarrassed to say.  “You know that houseboat of yours, Noah?  I hope you’ve got room for the T-Rex.”

  Now, here’s where I do you a favor.  Do you ever wonder where I got all the water to totally flood the entire Earth or where I put that water after?  I didn’t magic it from outer-space.  I mean, I’m omnipotent and all, but you destroy a planet with what you’ve got to hand, not what you wish you had.  Just ask Donald Rumsfeld about that.  Luckily for Me, all civilization was situated on rivers at the time so it was just a matter of a bit of strategic rainfall here and a monsoon there and voila!  As I said, it was meant to be very localized, but the sad fact is I never paid much attention in Weather Systems class at school.  Thus the overkill.

  Since I wanted to overawe the brand-loyalist and his family, not sicken them with bloated corpses floating in the streets, I had to razzle-dazzle them with special effects.  So, to skip over the technical details, the whole ark thing, including the bird with the olive branch, was done on a sound stage.  Noah never even had a clue.  The bizarrely funny thing about it, and you can chalk this up to My ineffable plan if you like, is that the very spot that sound stage sat on is the same spot the US government built the sound stage for the moon landings.  Boy, did Lyndon Johnson and I laugh about that one.

  So, to find the original, bona-fide ark, just go to Area 51 in Nevada.  If you stand at the south entrance of the mess hall and walk 47 paces toward UFO hangar #3, then dig down about 15 feet, you’ll hit the aft deck.  Good luck.

Wish You Were Here,


Dear Pat Boone…

Have you not seen the awful similarity?

Have you not seen the awful similarity?

Next Door to Ozzy Ozb  In a Van, Down by the River

Dear Patrick,

  I was just thumbing through My copy of WorldNetDaily and saw your name.  What a pleasant surprise!  I thought you were dead.  I said to My boys how much I liked that bear in your act, but they tell Me that was Andy Williams, so I’m not sure why I remembered your name, now.

  In any case, I see that you’re illustrating the obvious correlation between bloody, terrorist murders of innocent people, for that hack Allah, in Bombay and proposed boycotts & demonstrations in California.  Hear, hear, sir!  Hear, hear.

  I have always felt that a psychologically damaged delusionist with poor anger-management skills, no impulse control and an AK-47 is the veritable twin of a person who would be so divorced from beneficence and the milk of human kindness as to picket My bank a church.  Can you imagine the revenue I stand to lose if brand-loyalists are too embarrassed to cross the picket lines and tithe?

  You, sir, are also right about the manner in which things should be done.  As you note, the negroes cast off their chains and they, along with those cute suffragettes, gained the right to vote without all of this messy and uncivilized demonstrating.  Why, as far as I recall, not a hair was harmed, nor a feather ruffled in their… well, I was going to say “struggle”, but of course there was none.  Conversely, as you so charmingly say, these “sexual jihadists” use methods which are exactly like the jihadist savagery in Bombay.

  Imagine the irresposible, blind selfishness of their actions.  Why, it could be the difference between five scotches in the Blue Bar at the Berkeley Hotel and four scotches in the Blue Bar at the Berkeley Hotel!

  I just want you to know that every night before I pass out go to bed, I shall get down on My knees and thank Me for you.

Wish You Were Here,


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 Great Pumpkin…

Dome of The Pumpkin, The Pumpkin Patch Out Back of Linus’s House

Dear Hank,

  I heard You were a little down, so I thought I’d write to cheer You up a bit.  I know it must be hard only having one brand-loyalist, but believe Me, You’re doing everything right.  You’re following all the basic guidelines We learned in deity school and You’ve put Your own twist on it.  There’s no reason You shouldn’t have droves of brand-loyalists threatening to cut off the top of anyone’s head who eats a slice of pumpkin pie.  Wild mobs of brand-loyalists ought to be rampaging through the streets every time The Prophet Linus’s face is depicted in a newspaper, (This postcard gets a dispensation, right?).

  Your craft is impeccable.  You’ve steadfastly refused to show Yourself to even Your most devout follower.  You’ve never, ever broken down and grown back anyone’s lost limbs.  You’ve neither rewarded Your brand-loyalist for waiting faithfully at the Dome of the Pumpkin nor punished him for falling asleep.  You’ve allowed Your base, (of one, but I’m sure that will change), to devise his own reasons why You don’t appear.  Hell, You didn’t even smite Lucy when she said that anyone sitting in a pumpkin patch for five days was crazy!

  I don’t mean to denigrate Your brand-loyalist, but I’ve long thought that You need a base with more of that Halloween Spirit.  Also, if You don’t mind a little constructive criticism, I suggest that You get a stack of quality parchment and a good pen, smear Your brand-loyalist with PCP while he’s sleeping and maybe he’ll churn out a book.  It doesn’t have to be good or useful or even coherent.  Just something he can point to and declare as proof of Your existence.  Once You’ve got that, it’s a very short step to legions of Squashists blithely laying out dozens of other proofs.  “The C. Maxima is too complex not to have been created!”  “This Jack O’ Lantern cured my lumbago!”  “Look how many of us believe in The Great Pumpkin!  How could He not be real?!”  “I feel The Great Pumpkin in my heart, every day!”

  From there, they can take over a little country.  Some place with good, well-drained soil.  before You know it, no one who isn’t a brand-loyalist will be able to dream of public office.  Non-believers will be crushed.  Their currency will be orange.  “Thou shalt have no gourds before Me” will be set in stone in the courthouses.  Millions and millions will be spent on the eradication of Bacterial Wilt and Powdery Mildew, while a cure for cancer made from pumpkin seeds will languish.  Genetic modification of crops will be a capital offense.  When anyone does something bad they’ll say “The Cucumber Beetle made me do it,” and the good people will be those with sincere pumpkin patches.

  I almost envy You.  The beginning of a project like this is always the best part.  When You muck in and roll up Your sleeves and get right down to a good, solid bit of doing nothing.  Look at Me.  All I’ve got left is a perpetual first-class vacation funded by My millions of brand-loyalists.  You’ve got a real project ahead of You.  The ducking behind a tree just in the nick of time before someone sees You, the sitting quietly in Your kitchen with the Times crossword, the effervescent joy of trying to hold in a high-pitched giggle so the Me’s Witnesses at the door don’t hear You.  Yes, You’ve got it made, My friend.  You’ve got it made.

  So, buck up, little squasheroo.  This is the first day of the rest of Your godhood.

Wish You Were Here,


P.S. – I’m having Ares, Zeus, The Easter Bunny, Shiva and Santa Claus over for Thanksgiving.  You’re more than welcome to come by.  Bring a pie or something.

Dear Primordial Blog…

Somewhere In the Great White North

Dear Brian,

  (If, in fact, that is your name.)  I “logged on” to the intratubes between flights earlier today and “googled” Myself, like always.  It usually helps Me relax in preparation for the gruelling ordeal of flying first class and drinking booze on the brand-loyalists’ dime.  In most cases, I find a lot of people writing about how great I am, how loving, kind and merciful I am.  Today, though… not so much.  You as much as called Me a psychopath!

  My first response was that a few eons in Hell would show you the error of your ways.  I mean, calling Me hurtful names is, like, a hundred extra Hell Points© on your final tally, at least.  But then I thought, “No, I should be the mature and rational One here.”  So I shall destroy you with Holy Argument.

  First, you proposed a ridiculous question about someone who tortures people in their basement and suggested that this is what I do.  Nothing could be farther from the truth.  For one, My basement, while spacious, is much too small to hold all you heinous, repugnant sinners.  For another, I don’t do that sort of thing.  Not personally.  I sub-contract it out to an old business friend of mine, Satan.

  On top of that, I give everyone a choice.  Okay, I don’t personally give them a choice.  It’s more like “Chinese Whispers”.  A few thousand years ago some crazy old coot in the desert overheard Me and My pub-crawl buddy, Moses, discussing the possibility of a few esoteric ways people might avoid Hell.  So then he went and told a friend, who told a friend who wrote an unauthorized biography and showed a few of his friends.  Eventually, the thieving SOB got about 4 billion printed, (for which Yours Truly has never seen a dime in royalties).  I’m no math whiz, but that means that if each of those unauthorized biographies is sold, and no one hogs more than one, nearly 4% of the people who have ever lived have had the chance to read a fourth or fifth-hand account of a hypothetical conversation I had over mai tais at the Moab Bar & Grill sometime around 3,000 BC.  So don’t act like people don’t have a choice re: eternal red-hot buggery and lakes of fire.

  And another thing.  It’s not like I enjoy sending people to Hell through an arbitrary point system of My own devising.  I mean, it’s not My fault if you can’t win a game I made up and never personally told you about, is it?  The way I see it, the losers send themselves to Hell.  Yes, I guess I could break the rules and not send the 96.2% of people that never knew they were playing, but that wouldn’t be very fair to the other 4ish%, would it?  And, okay, I could appear simultaneously to everyone on earth, once a year, and tell them the rules – but then, the brand-loyalists wouldn’t feel special, would they?  Besides, I’ve got a very busy vacation schedule.  Who’s got the time for personal appearances?

  And anyway, I’m assured by some very big brains from within the ranks of My brand-loyalists that if I appeared to everyone at once I’d cause an ion flux in the gauge-gravity duality of the superstring time/space continuum… or something.  So you don’t want that, do you?

  There.  I believe I have handily shot down your specious conjecture that I am a psychopath.

Wish You Were Here,


P.S. – You’re going to Hell.

Dear Universe…

May Have Had Issues

Bosch: May Have Had Issues

Universe Gamma-33/Rho-Theta-7

Dear Sentient Beings,

  Have you ever heard the expression “A few bad apples spoil (it for) the (whole) bunch”?  Well, in the final analyses it doesn’t matter if you’ve heard it or not, because the Alliance Defense Fund has spoiled it for all of you.  That’s right.  They have so stirred up the wrath of the LORD, (Me), that I have decided to re-open Hell and asked My old friend Satan to take over the day-to-day management of it.

  Before you start bombarding Me with mail, begging for your miserable afterlives, know that I have thought long and hard about this.  This is not a step that I take lightly.  My boys and I have thoroughly focus-grouped this idea and come up with what We think is a fair and equitable plan for who gets Guantanamoed and who doesn’t.  Everyone, (yes, you too, Blurb People of Sag-A*), will now earn Hell Points© and Heaven Points©.  If, at the end of your lives, your Hell Point© total is greater than your Heaven Point© total you get renditioned to Hell.  If the opposite is true, then good for you.  Obviously, you don’t get to come live with Me, but you don’t have to go to Hell.  You dodged a bullet.

  Now, some guidelines.  First, let Me run another old saying by you.  “It’s the thought that counts.”  This is a little something My boys came up with.  Some years ago, Hippie Jesus had a little girlfriend.  Who, incidentally, was named Mary – just like His mother.  (I could have told Him that shit wasn’t going to work out.)  As in so many cases of puppy love, He tended to be a little jealous.  So one day, after He felt Peter had ogled her one too many times, He came out with a real corker.  “But I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.” So, the new rule is:  If you imagine it, you done it.  You’ll be glad to know, though, that I talked Republican Jesus out of retroactive Hell Points©, so Gramma’s safe.  Assuming she’s already kicked it, of course.  Unfortunately, I couldn’t talk the Holy Hippie out of making a special exception for Peter.

  What this means for the average 2.4-legged, hyena-owning being out there is that when you wish that the neighbor’s yappy dog would have a coronary and keel over, you’ve murdered a puppy.  However, if you immediately imagine visiting the old folks home with cookies you get a clean slate.  But no un-wishing the dog alive again.  It doesn’t work that way.  It is an ex-puppy, as far as I’m concerned.

  You’ll be happy to know that you can erase things that would get you fried in Texas, too.  For instance, if you tell the wife you’ve got a “business trip” and on said “business trip” you “accidentally” kill a Vegas hooker in your hotel room while the Secret Service looks on, you can erase that, too.  It’s going to take a pretty good imagination, naturally.  The cookies for octogenarians trick won’t do it.  You’ll need to imagine, say, that you’ve averted a great international disaster.  Something like that.

  I think you get the idea.  If you have any questions, refer them to My boys.  They’ll be overseeing this system, as I’m on vacation.

  Oh, and, obviously, the folks at the Alliance defense Fund – none of this applies to you.  You’re guantanamoed, boys.

Wish You Were Here,


Dear Alliance Defense Fund…

David Horsey

Copyright: David Horsey

15100 North 90th St., Scottsdale, AZ 85260

Dear Larcenous Purloiners,

  You may wonder why I call you larcenous.  Let Me explain Myself.  The reason I call you thieving pickpockets is because you are trying to thieve money right out of My pockets!  Ipso Me-Damned Facto!  Where in the name of Cruise do you get off?!  Purposefully endangering your tax-exempt status?!  I…  My…  My boys are on the phone with Our lawyers right now.

  And don’t, by My Holey Underpants, try to tell Me you didn’t know you were trying to steal from Me.  You said it yourself.

“Churches are exempt from taxation under the principle that there is no surer way to destroy religion than to begin taxing it.”

  You’re trying to ruin My vacation, aren’t you, you… you… PUTZES!  Gawddammit!

  Oh, great.  Now look what you made Me do.  I’ve taken My own name in vain.  Oh, that… that is it.  I am opening Hell back up.  Do you remember what I did to that weaselly little toad Uzzah when he just touched My stuff?  I killed his ass stone dead.  And not just his ass, but him, too.  That’s too good for, though.  You, I curse – Es zol dir dunern in boykh un blitsn in di hoyzn!  (You should thunder in your belly and lightning in your pants!)  Ruen zolstu nisht afile in keyver!  (May you find no rest even in the grave.)

  I should never have let My boy found the Republican Party!  They’re the ones who put you up to this, aren’t they?  Them, I curse, too.  John Mccain, may you always be confused and have no control over your temper!  May you lie every time you open your mouth and everyone notice it!  I strike you old!  Sarah Palin, may you be a ditzy embarrassment to all women!  May you be found guilty of abuse of power!  May your daughter marry a thuggish idiot!  May all Republicans turn fat, white, racist and doughy!  May your brains atrophy from lack of use!

  You are all dead to Me.


  Er… but don’t stop tithing.

Wish You Were Here,