Dear Volcano Fodder…

Someone's looking for a swim in the lava.

Someone's looking for a swim in the lava.


Dear Smart-Aleck, (you know who you are),

  I was coming out of Apsley House earlier today, slightly miffed that I didn’t get to see Napoleon’s death mask, and guess what I saw on the side of a passing bus?  Do you think it was “ALLAH IS A HACK.  A plagiarist with a false beard,”?  Perhaps I saw, “ODIN DOESN”T EXIST.  At least, He might as well not.”  Or maybe you’d guess that I saw, “PELE IS REAL, but it doesn’t really matter.  She’s just a girl.”  If so, then you’d be wrong.  I got a picture with the cell phone My boys gave Me for Father’s Day.  Go ahead and flip this postcard over to see.

  Not nearly so amusing.  Not designed to make Me chuckle, I’d say.  Did you think I wouldn’t find out?  Did you think I wouldn’t know who wrote it?  Without even turning the omniscience on, I can see that you’re not one of the New New Chosen People.  They’ve got more guts than to stick in “please don’t tell Him I said so”.  So, right away I can tell that you’re just one of My New Chosen People.  Maybe Shermer or Kurtz or somebody like that.

  Then I turned on My omniscience for a minute, which put Me, (if possible), in a crappier mood.  Do you have any idea of all the poverty and death and reality television I become aware of when I have to do that?  It gives Me a splitting headache and often puts Me off My Fillet Mignon with Sauce Bearnaise.  So then I knew who you were and I had one more reason to smite the bejesii out of you.

  I was going to smite you with a bolt of lightning, but My aim has never been that great.  Something that requires less in the way of pinpoint accuracy seemed more appropriate.  A tornado or the plague or maybe a huge down of flesh-eating bunnies.  And then one of My more vocal brand-loyalists gave Me an idea.  A volcano.  Better yet; many volcanoes.  A descending of volcanoes, let’s call it.

  I’ll have to write Bobby Jindal a “Thank You” note.  Some folks think he’s crazy for speaking against monitoring something that could kill hundreds of thousands of people.  Yeah… crazy like a fox.  A fox who knows that volcanoes only erupt when I tell them to, so what’s the point of keeping an eye on them?  Everyone will know when I set one off.  And anyway, I’m not going to touch off any of the ones you know about.  I’m going to make a bunch of new ones.  One right under your house, one under your office, another one in the park where you like to have lunch, a little bitty one right inside the crapper of the bar you stop at on the way home from your soul-crushing job.

  And you know what?  I’m not going to tell you when, either.  Ha!  Every time a subway train passes under the street; every time a big truck hits a pot-hole near you; every time your wife’s dinner disagrees with her in the night – you’ll jump out of your skin.  Yeah.  That’s the way We deities roll, baby.  You’ll be in a constant state of fear.  “Will Gawd smite me today?”  “Will I make it through this TV show?”  “Should I bother to make holiday plans?”


Wish You Were Here,



2 responses to “Dear Volcano Fodder…

  1. First, instead of Bearnaise Sauce on your Philly Mignon, might I suggest a reduced balsamic vinegar with crumbled gorgonzola? It is strong enough to get the taste of all of Gawd’s mistakes out of the mouth of any body. Er, thing. Being? Whatever.

    Second, if you put a volcano under London (where these buses started) all the geologists and volcanologists are going to quickly point out that there has never been a continental hot spot under London, nor does London sit over a subduction zone. A miracle such as this would provide proof of Gawd’s existence which would, much like the Babelfish, prove the non-existence of Gawd.

  2. (((Billy))),
    Text message from Gawd:

    “Damn My chosen people with their reason and knowledge and education! Thx for steak tips, though. Wish you were here.”

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