Sitting On Your Arsh in Paradise
Dude. Do You ever notice how You can’t be happy with the status quo? I notice. I notice every time You try to slip a little something past Me. I noticed when You changed “raisins” to “virgins” in the fine print. I noticed when You had Your table in the Supernova Members’ Dining Room at the Deity Club moved two feet closer to the balcony. And I noticed when You called a fatwa against hair dye.
This is just another manifestation of Your inability to play by the rules. When I retired, You agreed to leave the day-to-day running of Your hacky little religion to Mo, just as I would to My oldest boy, Republican Jesus. And don’t give Me any of that “Mo was busy in Gaza, so I did Him a little favor” bullshit. This hair thing has got Your fingerprints all over it. Not only is it obvious that the dye ban comes straight from Your hacktastic brain, but I know why You did it. This is all because You know I’ve got a thing for black hair. You putz.
You want to play like that? Fine. Let Me make a prediction for You. In the next few days, Billy Graham is going to announce some things that are abominable in the sight of The Lord: Dates & pomegranates; Those Birkenstock sandals You like so much; Cherry Coke; Dana Plato movies; Rogaine without a prescription; Throat singing… Should I go on? I could do this for days.
Did You forget who You were screwing with, Al? I’m not Samuha, the Hittite Storm Gawd. I’m the Big Guy. G-a-w-d, period. Full stop. There’s a reason My table at the club is on the balcony and Yours is just inside the balcony doors. So You lay off the black hair fatwas or I’ll make sure Stephen King never writes another book, like people keep asking. Capisce?
Wish You Were Here,