All Over This Newfangled Intertubes Thing
My boys just set Me up with one of those mechanickal thinking machines that I can carry onto My flights. I’ve been having a hoot with it. let Me tell you, I wish I’d had one when I was still in business. Imagine all the trouble I could have saved for everyone if I’d just been able to email that sweet, young naif, Eve, to remind her that apples were bad?
Ha! Had you going there for a second, didn’t I? The tree thing was a trap and the ditzy bitch walked right into it. But seriously, if I’d had Google Maps, Moses and the rest of those poor schmoes wouldn’t have spent 40 years wandering around a desert the size of New Jersey, and you can take that to the bank. Not a US bank, of course. Not with this Depression brewing.
Which reminds Me; for those of you wondering, I’ve decided to move to Montreal instead of London. I was pretty excited about the big, red busses and tea with The Queen until I heard about the infestation the Limeys are having. Those Young Earthers are like cock-a-roaches, aren’t they? I mean, I don’t mind the brand-loyalists contributing to the vacation fund, but I don’t want them right next door, bringing down the property values. So, Montreal it is. I’ve picked out a nice little bungalow I can store souvenirs in.
But that’s not why I’m writing to you. I got a letter from one of you, (now I know where you live), asking some impertinent questions. Now, I’ve said a number of times that I prefer atheists and such for conversation, science, medicine and food preparation, but there’s such a thing as going too far. However, just this once and since I’m feeling euphoric over changing all My dollars to Turkish Lira, I’ll answer your five questions. So here goes, and listen close.
“1. Why the long silence? It’s been over 2000 years since Your kid came to Earth and pulled his Messiah schtick, and he pretty much promised he’d be back in a few weeks. A couple of millennia later, and we’re still waiting. Did he get held up in traffic or something? It’s not as though his dad has been particularly chatty either – where are the modern-day burning bushes and pillars of flame? You could at least write!”
Well, doesn’t that take the biscuit? I’m not silent, I’m on vacation. If you’ve ever sat next to Me in first class, you’d know that I can be a very charming conversationalist and raconteur. Even poolside at a five-star hotel, I’m willing to chat up anyone in a small bikini who wants to buy Me a drink. I don’t want to be rude, but perhaps the reason you haven’t spoken to Me is because you might be poor, dirty riff-raff who can’t stump up the cash for first class. How you can say that I don’t write is beyond Me. Oh, and burning bushes… that is sooo negative second millenium. As for the boys, Republican Jesus is always willing to talk to any profligate lobbyists that come His way. Hippie Jesus is, admittedly, a little introverted still. He never seemed to quite get over that crucifixion/initiation thing. Nothing a good, long drive up to Montreal in a U-Haul can’t cure.
“2. Could You have perhaps been a little more specific? You tell the Christians one thing, the Muslims another, and don’t even get me started on that shit You pulled on the Hindus. What’s wrong with being a bit more precise in Your instructions? I mean, even within Christianity alone You’d be hard-pressed to find two people who can agree on what You want. And whilst You’re unifying the message, perhaps You could take the trouble to set it out nice and clearly, instead of in an ambiguous and self-contradictory holy book passed down from the Bronze Age.”
This one… phrew! First of all, I’m not Allah’s press agent, (that thieving hack). You need to take that stuff up with Him and Vishnu and My other former school chums. let Me tell you a little secret about “unifying the message”. There never was one when I was in the Gawd Game. I made that shit up as I went. It was mostly down to “Who do I want to smite today?” Of course, now there is a message and it’s this: Make sure there’s a mint on My pillow, My whiskey glass is full and the limo from the airport doesn’t smell like cheese. That’s all I ask. Bringing up that Me-Damned unauthorized biography that never made Me a cent in royalties is just in poor taste. I won’t even dignify it with an answer.
3. What’s with the destruction and death in the world? Merciful God, my arse – You seem to take pleasure in dropping one disaster after another on Your creation. So either You don’t care, or You can’t do anything about it – and what sort of god does that make You?
While I was still in the biz, (as if it’s any of your beeswax), the death and destruction was the only thing that got me through the interminable Sunday afternoons. As My old pal – and one of your lot, if I recall – used to put it, “The long, dark teatime of the soul.” Care? That’s not My job. Never was. That’s your job. Of course I don’t care, and I’ll tell you what sort of gawd that makes Me. The usual kind. Huh. I’d like to see you ask Thor a cheeky question like that.
“4. What exactly do You do all day? The more we discover about the world (using the powerful brains that You supposedly gave us), the less we find for You to do. We now have better, more coherent explanations for the Creation, for the diversification of species, for supernatural experiences, for supposed miracles… what exactly are You for?”
I’ll tell you what I do all day. Generally, I get up around the crack of noon, have a drink, go shopping, have a bit of a lie-down poolside, a spot of dinner and then drink until I get tired. Then bed and do it all again with flights to different and more interesting holiday destinations interspersed. What the H-E-double-toothpick did you expect? I’m on vacation. That’s what I’m for. As for all that other stuff… I dunno. Ask a scientist.
“5. What’s the deal with Hell? You’re proposing that we get tortured for an infinite period of time, simply because we failed to believe in You, in spite of the fact that You provide no evidence for Your existence and even offered up a whole batch of contradictory options (see question 2), only one of which (at most) can possibly be correct. In my book, that makes You a complete and utter bastard – and why the hell would I want to worship that?”
If this handwritten postcard you have received via the US Postal Service isn’t evidence of My existence, I don’t know what is. It may well be that I am a complete and utter bastard. Certainly Mary, My ex-wife, would agree, but here’s another little secret for you. I made that stuff up. Yeah. I was hung over the morning of My oral exams and when They asked Me how I would deal with the competition’s brand-loyalists it just popped out. Brimstone and red-hot buggery for eternity! Pretty good, eh?
I hope that clears everything up for you thinkers. See ya around.
Wish You Were Here,