Space Station Moo-Moo, Geosynchronous Orbit
It has come to My attention that you’re telling people I didn’t create the common cow. Nor, for that matter, the ubiquitous sheep, the familiar camel or even the garden-variety goat.
You, sir, are asking for a lawsuit of biblical proportions.
It may be that I am slightly hazy on how the bovine digestive system works. It may be that I can’t recall, offhand, why I gave some camels one hump and others two. I may not remember the point of making sheep perpetually surprised at everything they see. I may not even be able, at this late date, to put together a goat without the instruction manual. That does not, however, mean that aliens, ipso facto, created them. I may have been drunk and flying by the seat of My pants when I created the universe, but I’m damned sure I’d remember little green men in flying saucers.
Maddie, I haven’t smote anyone since about ten o’clock this morning and I’m feeling a little rusty. So guess who I’m most likely to practice on. And don’t think you can get on My good side by saying you’re going to bridge the gap between My new Chosen People and My brand-loyalists. I don’t want that gap bridged. If you do that, how will we know who is who? Didn’t you ever read about the Sneetches? If you mix them all up they won’t know who’s supposed to make intelligent conversation and who’s supposed to pay for My vacation. You’re already confusing certain entomologists.
And another thing. Now that you’ve blabbed the secret that Charles Darwin died a Muslim, that hack Allah will try to claim My Chosen People! If Christopher Hitchens becomes a suicide bomber, I promise I’ll take it out on you. Let Me share some advice that I once gave to Jim Croce. You don’t tug on Superman’s cape. You don’t spit into the wind. You don’t pull the mask off that old Lone Ranger and you don’t get between Gawd and His Chosen People.
So, unless you’re looking for a good, old-fashioned legal smiting for libel, with perhaps some boils thrown in for good measure, you need to shut your trap. If you force Me to dig through My files for the work order proving that aliens weren’t even created until day 42, I shall be very, very wroth.
Wish You Were Here,