Monthly Archives: July 2008

Dear Denizens of India…


Photo: ESA & NASA

22o00’ N Latitude, 77o00’ W Longitude


Dear Indians,


  Some of you, to put this as gently as I know how, are dumber than a box of chapattis.  If you really want to know where My ex-wife is, I would suggest either the Hermes store on Madison Ave. or her divorce lawyer’s waterbed.  It’s usually a toss-up.


  I almost blame Myself.  Not for your stupidity and/or ignorance – that’s down to genetics, culture and family income.  No, I almost – almost – blame Myself because I let My boys take art classes for a while.  Neither of them could competently draw a stick man, but I was still feeling a little guilty about the hippie one getting mounted like a butterfly specimen and I couldn’t very well let Him take lessons without including his brother, the Young Republican.  So I had this Leonardo fellow come in twice a week and it was a monumental waste of his time and My money.  Like most of Their interests, it didn’t last long, but as a result, the boys left a number of Their hideous creations lying around.  You know how it is with celebrity artwork; no matter how bad it is, somebody will want it.  As far as I can recall, however, We didn’t leave anything behind on Our one vacation to the Sun.


  Perhaps I should blame outsourcing.  Dumb Americans used to be the go-to group for bad artwork of My family.  Now pudding-headed Indians are filling the niche once occupied by the United States’ vast reserves of witless dolts.  If I weren’t on vacation I might be tempted to back John McCain after all.  When George is gone, who else would be more qualified to extend America’s recent legacy of knuckleheadedness and put a stop to the outsourcing of stupidity?


  Of course, it’s not as if I really care.  I’m on vacation.  Although I’m no eyeballologist, I will give you a little free advice:  Don’t stare at the sun.


Wish You Were Here,





Dear Johnnie Walker…

Thank Me for comic book adverts

Thank Me for comic book adverts


C/O The Leeds News

8024 Parkway Dr.

Leeds, AL  35094


Dear Johnny Walker,


  I see that you are an advocate of My longstanding “You’ll Take It and You’ll Like It” policy.  When I first instigated it, just after I caught a couple of your forebears poaching on My land, I wasn’t sure it would go over well.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned about humans over the years, though, it’s that when it comes to Me you’ll just stand there and take it – and then apologize for not being enough of a little bitch.  It almost makes Me want to cut My vacation short and get back in the God Game.


  And that’s another thing; games.  Every time one of your sports teams wins a game, it’s down to Me.  When they lose, it’s because they didn’t want it enough.  They could save themselves a bit of cash by hiring Me and sacking the rest of the players, since they’re obviously just holding Me back.  But I digress.


  You asked a very astute question in your column:


  “Why do bad things happen to good people? Why would God allow things to happen to the innocent?”


  And the answer is; Because it’s none of My business.  I’m on vacation.  Seriously, where did you get the idea that I was interested in justice or fair play or any of that crap?  Don’t you remember when you were a kid and your brother peed in the bathroom sink and you got blamed for it?  Don’t you think that if I gave a Tinker’s dam he’d have gotten the beating instead of you?


  I guess that was just a momentary rebellious glitch, though, because you went on to do the usual, predictable thing.  You told your readers to Take It and Like It.  To tell you the truth, I can’t thank you and all the others like you enough.  Without columns like yours and preachers telling people everything is a part of My Ineffable Plan, My mailbox would be stuffed to overflowing every day with complaints.


  Funny story about that plan everyone’s always going on about.  I’m really quite proud of how the “Ineffable Plan” meme took off.  It all started one night in school when Bacchus and I were on one Hades of a bender.  One cup of wine turned into two, two turned into three and before I knew it, He was passing out these stamps with Mickey Mouse on them and Phrew! – Here comes the A train.  So right in the middle of it some mortal waiter or something, (I think it was Ganymede), showed up all weepy-eyed and wanted to know why We let bad things happen.  I think he’d had some kind of lovers’ tiff with Zeus – anyway, there I was, on the verge of having My trip ruined and it just came to Me, like a bolt from Home or a gift from Me.  I told him it was all part of the Big Plan, but since he was mortal, he was too stupid to figure it out or even understand it if I told it to him.  I just wanted the kid to go away and quit bothering Me, but the Ineffable Plan idea just spread like wildfire and I’m glad to see it’s still going strong today.


  So thanks to you and everybody like you over the years who have kept My vacation relatively bother free.  Oh, and by the way, I’m a big fan of that Blue Label of yours.  Good stuff.


Wish You Were Here,



Dear John McCain…

Dear John,

  It’s amusingly appropriate that I begin this postcard with “Dear John” – because I’m leaving you.

  Well, that’s not technically correct since I’m on vacation and have never backed you, but I think it gets My point across. Sure, I’ve had a few things in common with you and your pals in the past, but to paraphrase Thomas Jefferson, “There comes a time…”. John, that time is now

  It’s true that My policies used to be a lot like yours and George’s. Pretty much exactly like yours and his, actually. I’m a big enough deity to admit it; I was a dick. Seriously. But there’s one thing I never did. I never voted to triple veteran’s health care fees while also opposing increased funding for the VA. Yes, I destroyed entire peoples, but when the Israelites got back from a hard day of Doing My Will, I didn’t tell them it was more cost-efficient to bleed out. 

  “Yes, but,” I hear you say.  “In those days there was no such thing as the VA and the height of medical knowledge hadn’t progressed as far as the leech.”  To that, of course, I say:  Don’t be a disingenuous prick. It may be true that I didn’t care any more about the soldiers at the sharp edge of the phalanx than you and George do, but… well… but shut up or I’ll sue you for slander. 

  The point here is that a veteran who wants other veterans to vote for him probably shouldn’t say out loud that a soldier mangled in a training accident doesn’t deserve the same benefits as one who took a piece of shrapnel in the buttocks. Do you know who that sounds like, John? I’d tell you who, but every time I say his name an angel dies and the Cherubim Union gets all over My Holy Fundament.


  John, I don’t know how to put this any more strongly: If I weren’t on vacation, I’d pull a Michael Jordan and come out of retirement to smite your ass. Actually, that goes for 1) every member of Congress who thinks like you do, 2) George & Pals and 3) Bill Paxton, (I don’t know anything about his politics, he just makes My Hallowed Eyeteeth itch).


  So consider this the kiss-off. From now on, your postcards will be returned to sender.

Wish You Were Here,


Dear New York Times…

New York Times

Photo: New York Times


229 West 43rd St.

New York, NY  10036


Dear Grey Lady,


  Before you ask, this particular letter to the editor is not about The Intestinal Difficulties of My Neighbor’s Shih Tzu, nor about The Shameful State of Today’s Youth.  It is not even about The Unconscionable Delays in Construction at John F. Kennedy Airport.  No; this missive concerns the July 22 story, fourth in a series, by Olivia Judson.


  To the naked eye, Ms. Judson has written a clear, well-researched and interestingly-presented story about natural Selection.  But to the sort of people who look more closely, it is obviously a slap in My face.  As I have mentioned before, I’m on vacation and don’t generally take a hand in things, (beyond making sure the weather is nice in Cancun while I’m there.)  In fact, you might go so far as to say that I don’t give a “plug nickel”, (I understand this is a Family Paper.)  However, there are some things that Will Not Stand.


  It’s all well and good to talk about the head size of the Australian frog-eating snakes or vegetarian tendencies of Croatian lizards, but you miss a very important point.  To whit; when I tell you that 2+2=5 you’ll take it and like it.  Truth and the scientific method have nothing to do with it.  It matters not a jot that I was drunk and making a joke when I first told that whole “water in the sky, water on the ground – stars after the grass – only took 6 days” story.  It’s inconsequential that I’ve never really bothered to extend a steadying hand or that the “bible” people are always yammering on about is an unauthorized biography for which I never received a cent.  No, the point is that I am Gawd.  The ultimate authority figure.  I would say “Alpha & Omega”, but that’s not technically true either.


  Do not, not to put too fine a point on it, undermine My authority in front of the children.  There are a great number of people out there who would turn into serial-murderer, rapist jaywalkers overnight without someone to tell them what to believe.  Is all that guff about making women out of ribs and such true?  Of course not.  You know it and I know it; I’ll even admit I should have told everyone the truth long ago – but it would have interfered with My vacation schedule.  But it’s too late now.  Too many people believe it to switch boats midstream.  We’re all going to have to just ride it out.


  It’s a lot like when I told My boys the Tooth Fairy left money under their pillows.  Should I have told Them that?  No.  Did it get wildly out of hand and end up costing Me every time They skinned a knee or stubbed a toe?  Yes.  Did it nearly break Me when JC got power stapled to a couple of railroad ties?  Indubitably.  But I didn’t set Them straight, or even explain that it was the Tooth Fairy, not the All-Over Body-and-Soul fairy.  All because I didn’t want to see Them traumatized.


  “Better Ignorant than Uncomfortable” is My motto.


Wish You Were Here,



Dear Mark Biltz…

Reverential or annoying?

Reverential or annoying?


P. O. Box 7881
Bonney Lake, WA 98391


Dear Mark,


  Yes, all right.  I understand you’re trying to get My boys’ attention.  Really, though, I think you’re going about it the wrong way.  First of all, which Jesus do you want to pay attention to you?  If it’s Republican Jesus, He’s for any group with “Israel” in the title, but He’s generally too busy hanging out with His buds, doing the things they do, unless you make it worth His while, monetarily.  If you’re looking for The Holy Hippie, I would find some other way to get His attention.  Ever since He got initiated into The Deity Club with the old spikes-through-the-extremities wheeze He’s been… a little fragile.  If you start blowing trumpets all over the place and He happens to be near enough to hear them, it may cause another nervous breakdown.  As it is, I have to be very careful when I invite Him on vacations with Me.  Phrew!  I took Him to see Notre Dame Cathedral a few years back and between the graphic crucifixion porn and the coin-operated souvenir machines he had some ugly flashbacks.  Really screwed up My vacation.


  Speaking of the boys, I noticed on the intertubes that you’re telling people there’s going to be a “second coming” in 2015.  At first, I thought it was some sort of unfortunate sexual dysfunction, but then I remembered that I’m the One who created all of the diseases and dysfunctions and whatnot and that wasn’t one of mine.  So I looked it up and it turns out to be one of those stories to scare your kids with.  “If you don’t eat up all your Brussels sprouts, the world will end and Jesus will throw you in a pit,” kind of thing.


  Me-damn!  You people are sadistic, aren’t you?  Sure, I invented disease and death and the bot fly, but that stuff is necessary.  Can you imagine what this place would be like if no one ever died?  You think the DMV is bad now…  Terrifying kids, though?  Seems pointless and abusive to Me.


  So at first, I didn’t much care one way or another about this ram’s horn thing you want to do.  I mean, I’m on vacation anyway.  Now, though, I’m pretty sure I don’t want you around My kids.  Stay away or My lawyers will slap a restraining order on you faster than a wildebeest in a Ferrari.


Wish You Were Here,



Dear Record Industry…

South Park

Album Cover: South Park


C/O Tooth and Nail Records, Seattle, WA


You Bastards,


  I was catching a flight out of Heathrow this morning and ran into an old acquaintance of mine hopping a flight to Cairo.  Well, I say “acquaintance” but it’s a little more complex than that.  You see, I went to high school with this guy named Beelzebub – Homecoming King, Most Likely to This, Most Likely to That; you know the type.  Everybody expected Him to get to the top of Olympus before you could say, “Robert is your maternal parent’s sibling”.  Like many geniuses, though, He had a weak spot – gambling – and I was what they call nowadays an “enabler”.  We used to bet on the craziest stuff.  So when things went pear-shaped for Him I felt a little guilty and gave Him a job as My official “arch-enemy”.  Eventually We both went into semi-retirement and went Our separate ways.  These days I generally only smite through My lawyers and He only tempts through one of the big advertising firms in NYC.  He came up with some great stuff in His day like High Karate cologne, (distilled from His own bodily waste fluids), everything marketed by Ronco and, of course, His pièce de résistance – Rock ‘n Roll.


  So We caught up a little, had a couple of bad cups of coffee and rushed off to our planes.  Still faintly smiling, I sat down in first class, jacked My earplugs into the aircraft’s music system… and grabbed up the handy barf bag.  Which finally brings Me around to why I’m writing.  I just can’t stand by and watch you pervert the work of a former friend and employee.  Whoever came up with this “Christian Rock” concept should have all of their soft bits removed with an Ebola-covered grapefruit spoon.  Everyone who greenlit the idea or gave a contract to one of these so-called musical bands deserves to have their bowels infested with locusts, (Believe Me, I’m that close to doing it.).  Each and every individual who has purposefully listened to this product of a truly diseased imagining, well, they’ve already gotten what they deserve.  That’s before My boys sic the family law firm on all of you for defamation of character.


  You can be Me-damned sure that United Airlines is going to get a scathing letter of their own.  Someone there had to, with malice aforethought, choose to pipe a band called Kutless*, (So named – and I’m not making this up – because they’ve got this crazy idea that one of My boys “took [their] cuts for [them]”), into the unsuspecting ears of innocent passengers.  Passengers whom, I might add, buy a lot of first class tickets.


  Consider this a cease and desist letter.  If you do not, I swear to Me that Beelzebub and I will come out of retirement for one last gig.  I’m sure I don’t have to elaborate.


Wish You Were Here,




*Postscript:  Before mailing this, I wrestled with the Holy Laptop and looked up Kutless on the intertubes.  Kudos to Google for recognizing dangerous crap when they see it.

Dear Tom Cruise…

Travellers Club

Travellers Club


C/O Scientology Spiritual Headquarters

Ft. Harrison Hotel, Clearwater, FL

Dear Tommy,

Welcome to The Club! I hope I’m the first to write and congratulate You. Once You’ve got Your feet on the ground, (or “in the clouds”, to coin a phrase), I’ll stand you a drink in The Bar, and you won’t even have to cross it – that’s a little joke We tell all the new members. Just don’t repeat it to My boys; one of Them had to get stapled to a plank for His initiation, so “crossing the bar” jokes are right out.

To be honest, I didn’t even know You’d come up before the Board, but I take the John McCain approach to showing up for votes. The only reason I know You made it into The Deity Club is that I happened to be on a long layover in New York yesterday and went to the “Cheeburger Cheeburger” for a bite, (by the way, as long as You’re in The Club, I might as well tell You to steer clear of terminal 6 at JFK when You’re hungry). So I was standing in line and I clearly heard the unmistakable sound of a soda hitting the linoleum and someone exclaimed “Thomas H. Cruise!” I’m used to hearing “Goddammit” and “Jesus” and sometimes even “Judas H. Keerist”, (illegitimate backstairs sprog of Mine; always tattling on His half-brothers), but Your name was a first. That’s the surest sign You’ve hit the Bigs, You know. Once they start taking Your name in vain You can count on a reserved spot in the schvitz bath.

I know that some people will say some unpleasant things about Your deification. I know when I joined I was as near as a toucher to being black-balled by that son-of-a-bitch Baal. He and His bunch of sycophantic toadies were always giving Me and My posse a hard time, but I laid down the law. Which is exactly what You’re going to have to do. These days, I’m comfortably ensconced and only those communislamoatheists give Me any lip, so I can spend My time vacationing. You, on the other hand, are going to have to do some smiting. I’ll give You My lawyers’ card over that drink I owe You.

They’re calling My flight. Gotta run. Once again, Welcome!

Wish You Were Here,