This picture postcard notwithstanding, I don’t really kill people’s pets anymore. That sort of thing tends to swamp My mailbox these days. You’d be surprised how many more postcards I get about the family pet than about the thousands and thousands of dead, dying, starving and homeless people in Iraq right now. Kind of funny, in a sick sort of way, eh?
But that’s not why I’m writing. I’m writing because you seem to have gotten the impression that John McCain is My candidate. I don’t know why this always happens. No one ever asks, they just assume; and you know what happens when you assume. It’s almost as if you made up your mind who you wanted to vote for and then made up the part about Me. You know, kind of like when a hurricane destroys a city and you make up something about Me doing it because I hate gay people. Sometimes I think if I live to be 7,000 I’ll never understand you.
One thing I think I do understand, though, is that this Obama fellow scares you pretty badly. It’s the black thing, isn’t it? Oh, I know you say it’s this thing or that thing, but I sometimes turn My omniscience on for a few seconds when I forget my gate number at the airport. Let Me just say, it can make a deity kind of queasy.
But there I go, letting My mind wander from the topic again. A pretty beach and a rum daiquiri will do that to you. I said all that to say this: I don’t have a candidate. I’m not even a naturalized citizen. Besides, I’m on vacation!
Wish You Were Here,