1495 North Ocean Blvd., Palm Beach, FL 33480
I got your postcard… but I had some trouble making heads or tails of it. As near as I could tell, you seem to want to make some sort of deal with My boys. If you’re trying to get Them to invest in something, They learned Their lesson when you were pushing Enron. We listened to your advice on that and really took a bath, so thanks, but no thanks. If it’s that ostrich farm thing again, give it a rest, will ya? Not even Hippie Jesus is going to go for that.
Or did you say the Jesii should make a deal with Satan? What’s that about? Sure, Their Uncle Beelzebub has given Them advice all Their lives, but They’ve never gone into business together. More’s the pity, really. I’d have liked for the boys to get in on some of that Rock & Roll money. The three of us really missed the boat on that one. We never thought it would be bigger than Pat Boone.
You know what? On reading your postcard again, it almost seems like you’re saying that you are the fruit of My omnipotent loins. If that’s what you’re trying to get across, I’m going to have to insist on a paternity test. Are you hepped up on goofballs again, Rush? Where would you get an idea like that? I mean, yeah, you and Republican Jesus have got some of the same ideas and you’ve both carried water for the same people, but damn… you’d have to be nuts to think you’re related to Me in any way and doubly cuckoo to think I’d acknowledge you if you were. Hell, don’t you remember what I did to that Koresh guy for saying stuff like that?
Or, wait… was that some kind of analogy? I’ll be honest with you, Big-Boy, it’s always been hard to make any sense out of what you say. Every time you send Me a postcard asking Me to give Obama leprosy, (12 in the last month), or for him to fall down and break his neck on national TV, (47 since November), or that his bones will transmogrify into c-4 during a “feminazi rally”, (enough that I could paper My hotel room with them), I really despair for you. If you had friends I’d urge them to do an intervention. Honestly, I say this as a… well, a deity who’s getting tired of hearing from you. Lay off the oxycodone. There’s only so many times you can mainline that stuff before it starts messing up your head.
Wish You Were Mute,