Monthly Archives: December 2008

Dear Rebecca Hancock…


C/O Grace Comm. Church, 10938 Hood Rd., S., Jacksonville, FL 32257

Dear Honey-Snuggles,

  Please come back, baby.  I can change.  Is it the beard?  I can cut it off.  Is it My toes?  I don’t have to wear sandals.  Wait… it’s not the sex is it?  No, it can’t be that.  I’m omnipotent.  Baby, what is it?  Why did you leave Me?

  I know I can come on a little strong sometimes.  I know you don’t agree with My views on the justice system.  I know you hate it when I compare you to My ex-wife; but that’s always in a good way.  Like when you spilled jam on My best PJ’s, I said “At least you’re not a filthy whore like Mary.”  You see?  I said you weren’t a filthy whore.  See if you can find anyone else who treats you as well as I do.

  Speaking of that, I wasn’t going to bring this up, but I know you’ve been seeing someone else.  I got a letter on My boys’ birthday from Reverend T. Scott Christmas – which at first I thought was another one of Santa’s sick jokes – telling Me in minute detail about your sex life.  Your un-Gawdly sex life.  Your, not to put too fine a point on it, sex-with-someone-other-than-Me sex life.  Baby, he’s no good for you.  Is he going to helpfully point out your faults to you?  Is he going to kindly keep you from forgetting that you’re a sinner extraordinaire?  Is he going to put up with your constant nagging?  I think not.  Be honest with yourself, for once.  I’m the only one who will have you.

  So, for your own good, I’ve instructed the good Rev. to share the minutiae of the unholy sexual congress between you and this Frank Young guy.  With your kids.  In public.  Of course, most of your church already knows many of the details, since they were hiding in the bushes on the side of your house.

  Like the good-hearted Rev. pointed out, your relationship with Me spans the distance between deep joys and intense trials.  While this may seem like an intense trial right now, think of the deep joy of being restored in your relationship to Me.  Just think of how comfortable and loved you’ll feel while you’re doing My laundry or when I point out that your mother is the fattest, most annoying bitch in My creation and how I hope you don’t get any more like her than you already are.

  So you see we were made for each other, right baby?  Come to Gawd.  Gawd loves you.

Wish You Were Here,



Dear Mary…


C/O Global Fantasies, Fortaleza, brazil


  The boys insisted I send you a card on their birthday, (I know You won’t remember to send one to Them), so I got Your vacation address from Your publicist.  As this is a special time of year for the boys, I won’t point out what a piss-poor mother and even worse ex-wife you are.  I won’t mention that even the Grinch mailed the boys an Electro-Who-Cardial Flooks and a handful of slightly grubby candy canes, (which I know better than to ask where He got them).  For Their sake, and against My better judgement, I’m providing a return address because the boys were worried that You didn’t know where to reach Them.

  We’re at that villa in Antigua.  You remember the one.  So now You know where We are and You can thoroughly disappoint Them… again.

  Speaking of You and disappointment, (as I often do), and – come to think of it; You & Leather Boys, You & freaky-deaky sex and You & barnyard animals, We ran across something in Amsterdam the other day that made Me think of You.  A drag queen nativity scene.  I thought it was great.  It really captured the essence of You.  Some brand-loyalists were there, complaining about it, but then they always do.  One of them said “By portraying Joseph and Mary as homosexuals, a twisted human fantasy is being added to the history of the Bible.”

  I had to chuckle.  I wanted to set the guy straight, but I just didn’t know where to begin.  I mean, first of all, Joseph, as You well know, was as queer as a three-drachma bill.  You were the best beard he ever had.  And You, of course, have always been more omnisexual than homosexual.  I’ve never known you to pass up sex with anyone but Me.  As for “twisted human fantasy”… well, if that guy could be a fly on the wall in any hotel room You’ve ever been in, he’d learn a little something about twisted fantasies.  Then to top it all off by referencing the Bible as history, for My sake?  There’s a reason that drek was an unauthorized biography.

  Anyway, I’ve got to go.  The boys and I are on Our way to a floating bar.  I’ll pour a drink over the side for You.

Wish You Were Here,


Dear Charlie Crist…


PL-05 The Capitol, Tallahassee, FL  32399

Dear Chuck,

  Mazel tov!  There’s nothing I like more than a good wedding.  Well, next to a good, 40-year-old whiskey… and Fillet Mignon with Sauce Bernaise… and a nice, solid smite… oh, and tithing.  I really like it when people pass the collection plate.  Okay, so it may not be technically true that I liked your wedding more than anything else, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not happy for you.  I know that some people think I’m a reactionary old fogey, (for which they will eventually pay), but the fact is, I’ve been an advocate of gay marriage for eons.

  Well, maybe “advocate” is a bit strong, but I’ve never forbidden it.  Hell, the great majority of My former employees were LGBTN.  If I had told the various dykes, fairies, fence-sitters, pre-ops and eunuchs they couldn’t get married, their union would have ground My business to a halt.  Hey, there’s an idea.  If you really want to get things done in the Republican party, you should start an LGBT union.  There are enough of you, I should think, to exert some leverage.  Look at the Seraphim.  Those guys forced My hand on the whole “gay animal” thing, which turned out pretty well.  Without their kvetching, there would be no hot lesbian cannibalistic necrophilia, and I don’t have to tell you how popular that is.  I, Myself, am as straight as a deity gets, but I’ve got to admit that, (barring the cannibalism and necrophilia), I’ve been a big fan from way back.

  It’s not just the hired help who bumps the mirror, if you know what I mean.  I could tell you stories about a number of deities that would make your eyes bug out.  And that’s before I even get to the Greeks.  Zeus?  Fuggedaboudit.  It takes every letter in the rainbow to describe Him.

  The point is, Chuck:  More power to you.  You are the champions, and all that.  So long as you continue to tithe, encourage others to tithe and never, ever do anything that might stop people from tithing, I will forbid you nothing.  That’s just the sort of equal opportunity Gawd I Am.

Wish You Were Here,


P.S. – My boys just told Me you insist you’re not gay.  So I had Them check the records.  You are Charles Joseph Crist, Jr., right?  Born July 24, 1956?  Father was Greek?  Small scar on the outside of your right knee?  Yeah, I thought so.

  You’re gay.

Dear Rod Blagojevich…


IL Executive Mansion, 410 East Jackson St., Springfield, IL 62701

Dear Rod,

  I got your postcard asking Me to fix it so you can get a big payday out of selling that senate seat.  Normally, I don’t bother to answer these things, no matter what people ask for.  Yours intrigued Me, though.  You sent it after you got busted for trying to sell the seat.

“He took time to pray with ministers at his home and signed a bill that extends insurance coverage for autistic kids,”

  Really, Rod.  That takes chutzpah.  If there’s one thing I admire, it’s someone who can be a complete dick and just look people right in the eye like it’s their problem.  Kudos to you, My friend.  You would have made an excellent prophet.  You could have taught Jonah a thing or two, eh?

  It almost makes Me regret not giving you what you want.  So I’m going to do something a little special for you.  Instead of giving you the Level One Postcard Reply – no answer; or even the Level Two Postcard Reply – “Piss off.  I’m on vacation.”, I’m sending you this.  But wait, there’s more.  Because you’re My kind of balls-out son of a bitch, I’m going to put you in touch with a few like-minded vacationers that you’re sure to get along with.

  These are some other guys who have recently decided to take a little time off, just like you’re about to.  Oh, I hope I didn’t spoil anything for you.  I just flipped on My omniscience for a split second and it looks like you’re going to have a bit of vacation time soon.  Good for you.  You deserve it.  So, once you’re settled in you should look up Ted Stevens and Larry Langford.  I’ll even throw in William Jefferson’s address.  Where were you guys 3,000 years ago, huh?  You’d have made great judges and prophets and, what the Hell, maybe even kings.

  Good times.  Good times.  You fellas really make Me miss the old days.  I don’t see enough of that good old Bronze Age moral code anymore.  I really look forward to seeing what you can cook up together.  If only you could swing a vacation to Zimbabwe and get together with Robert Mugabe.  The fun you scamps could get up to.  I’d like to party with you, cowboys.

Wish You Were Here,


Dear Chosen Bloggers…


Secret Chosen Lair, [REDACTED], [REDACTED]

Dear Mouthy Chosen Ones,

  In this festive season, when you have nothing to live for, I thought it would be a good time for Me to give a little.  Not in a crass, material way, of course.  Oh, Me, no; but in the nebulous way you’ve come to expect from The Lord your Gawd.  The sort of gift that you can discuss over a warm plate of puppy fritters or baby fu yung, but that won’t buy you a cup of kitten tears to wash it down.

  Don’t think, just because you can’t touch it, that this gift isn’t momentous.  What I am giving to you now is nothing less than acknowledgement.  I, the Alpha & Omega, Lord of Hosts, the Most Widely Bought Brand in History am acknowledging that you exist.  Not just in the sense that I know there are millions of you out there, somewhere, either.  I am going to specifically acknowledge a number of you.

  Not all of you, of course.  A few of you are already well-known.  Perhaps too well-known, but that’s a smiting for another day.  That’s just how Gawd rolls.  I help the underdogs and smite the threatening brainiacs those who are too big for their metaphysical britches.  So, without further fanfare, and in no particular order:

  Alright.  I didn’t realize there were quite so many of you, frankly.  There is, after all, such a thing as too much of a good thing.  So to even things out just a little; Alan Colmes – I don’t believe you exist.

Wish You Were Here,


Dear Santa Claus…


North Pole, USA


  I suppose it’s no secret that My feelings for You are somewhat ambivalent.  On the one hand, You’ve been cutting in on My boys’ turf for years.  On the other, You’re a better gateway drug than Robitussin®.  The one leads to people forgetting that I shtupped My ex-wife at least once in the Spring of ’00 and the other leads to more brand-loyalists for Me.

  I’ve given this a lot of thought while riding the elevator up to the rooftop pool and I’ve decided that My overall number of brand-loyalists, (and thus My Deity Clubbe perks), are paramount.  Like any good father, I love My boys, but when weighed against My choice of tee-off times and the balcony table in the Supernova Members’ Dining Room, the Jesii can get stuffed.

  Therefore, I’m writing to warn You about a grave, grave danger.  Ever since deity school, I’ve been a little leery of teachers.  I may not look it now, but I was quite a jock in school.  I led the smiting team to victory 30,000 years running.  It must have caused some jealousy among some of the brainiac teachers, because they damned near failed Me in mathematics, extrasolar geology and biology.  So I wasn’t surprised when I started hearing about aclaustic teachers poisoning the minds of future brand-loyalists.  Teachers all over are urging children not to believe in You.

  The thought of these impressionable minds being taught skepticism at such an early age is like an icicle right in the cervical vertebra, (That’s the upper ones, right?).  If they learn critical thinking so young, imagine what kind of adults they’ll turn out to be.

  Now, I don’t have anything against My Chosen People, they are Chosen, after all, but the hard fact is that atheists don’t tithe.  Not since the Spanish Inquisition went belly-up, at least.  Besides, if everyone scoffed at You and Me then everyone would be Chosen, and if everyone were Chosen… no one would be Chosen.  I wouldn’t be able to play through when Odin is on one of His 26-putt fiascos.  More to the point, though, if everyone were Chosen, no one would tithe.

  I don’t know what You do when You’re not in the Workshop, (except that time I ran into You in Amsterdam), but I can tell You that a world without Fillet Mignon with Sauce Bernaise, 40 year-old whiskey and daily massages is a world I wouldn’t want to live in.  So You need to do something, and do it quick.

  My suggestions are, first, bend Your “naughty/nice” rule this year.  A Red Ryder BB Gun with a compass in the stock and this thing which tells time for every little boy, regardless of moral turpitude, would go a long way toward cementing Your position.  Throw in a Chatty Kathy for the sisters and You’re golden.  While You’re at it, You might bribe their folks, too.  An S&M Bondage Playset for Dad and maybe a new vacuum cleaner for Mom could tip the scales.

  Second, I’d gather up a few of Your surliest elves and pay these teachers a little midnight visit.  A head-butt to the kneecaps at 3:00 AM can really turn around some attitudes.  Not to metion a sidewalk full of reindeer poop.

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,