Monthly Archives: May 2009

Dear Liberty University Young Democrats…

God Republican or Democrat

Courtesy: The Pain Comics

Student Union Broom Closet, 1971 University Blvd., Lynchburg, VA

Dear Democrat Brand-Loyalists,

  You whippersnappers should be ashamed of yourselves.  If Jesse Helms weren’t in Hell, he’d be rolling over in his grave right now.  Do you think he lent his name to the school of government at Liberty University so some wild-eyed socialist toddlers could come along and form a club for the gay, negro, abortion party?  I think not.

  I think you’ve got the wrong idea about college.  It isn’t a place to examine new ideas and change the old ones that have served your parents and grandparents so well all these years.  It isn’t a place to start caring about national healthcare, women’s rights, global warming or any other myth you might run across.  College is a way to get a good-paying job that will enable you to tithe in the manner to which I have become accustomed.

  I just thank Me My old pal Jerry Falwell, Jr. had the presence of mind to nip your little socialist cell in the bud.  And before you start feeling all persecuted, just remember that your parents aren’t paying all that tuition so you can disagree with Jerry.  As he says, himself;

 “Liberty University will not lend its name or financial support to any student group that advances causes contrary to its mission.”

  That mission, in case you’ve forgotten, is to prepare you to be responsible members of the tithing community and to be, if not fearless upholders of the Status Quo, at least quiet citizens who do what you’re told.  So, in the parlance of today’s youth:  Sit Down & Shut the Fuck Up, (but don’t forget to tithe generously).

Wish You Were Here,



Dear Gawd… [A Postcard from Xenu]

Xenu Lives

C/O Hotel Fontainbleau – Penthouse Suite, Miami Beach, FL

Dear Gawd,

  Remember that time during the Deity Club Croquet Tournament when I had your ball set up for a Roquet that would have meant an almost certain Sextuple Peel for Me?  Remember how, contrary to Club Rules, You promised Me a miracle for use at a later date if I would Roquet someone else?  Well, I’m calling in that miracle.

  But don’t misunderstand Me.  I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t have the utmost respect for You.  I’m sure You’ve noticed that I’ve always taken Your advice re My brand-loyalists.  You are, and I’m not just saying this to be a kiss-ass, everything a deity could hope to aspire to.  I mean, by sheer number of brand-loyalists – which, after all, is how the game is scored – You knock the pants off the rest of Us.  Right now, I feel like jumping up and down on the couch and screaming, “I love Gawd!  I love Gawd!”

  You are, just to be clear, My greatest role model.  I don’t want to sound like a twelve-year-old OT I with a Cruise Crush, but I’ve modelled My entire career on You.  You know how You gave Your Chosen People plagues, pogroms and holocausts?  I went right out and stacked Mine around volcanoes and dropped nuclear bombs on them.  You know how You made one of Your boys get crucified for His initiation?  I made Tom Cruise appear on Oprah and John Travolta in Battlefield Earth.  You are, as they used to say in the Galactic Confederacy, the dog’s bollocks.

  So You’ll understand why I’ve come to You with this problem I can’t handle Myself.  In a word – it’s the French.  They’re trying to freeze Me out.  They’ve charged My Paris cash machine with organized fraud and dispensing drugs without a clue license.  They’re saying that there’s no science in Scientology.  In fact, that the Mark Super VII Quantum™ EMeter® Pastoral Counseling Device, (Available at the FLAG Bookstore for a low, low $4,000), is nothing but a couple of phallic substitutes and a battery!

  This is a time for all good deities to come to the aid of Their meal tickets.  You don’t want to be saying in a few years, “First they came for the Scientologists and I did nothing, for I wasn’t Xenu…”  What about Lourdes, eh?  If We let the Cruise-damned French kick My brand-loyalists out of the country for a little low-grade fraud, what do You think they’ll do about Your little operation there?  So I’m asking You to loan a few of Your delusional miracle-witnessing brand-loyalists from Lourdes to Me purely on a temporary basis.  Perhaps Kirstie Alley could come to them in a dream or something.  I’ll leave the details up to You… or, oh!  I know!  A weeping Travolta statue would be perfect!  I’ll attach a mock-up of the sort of thing I mean.

  I await Your reply with sincerest excitement and promise that I won’t have to ask for any more miracles once Tom goes OT VIII and can kill with a thought.

Yrs Galactically, &tc.,


ATT:  doll-barbarino

Dear Irish-Catholic Brand-Loyalists…

Naughty PriestEnd of the Rainbow Manor, Blarney Stone Rd., Ireland

Dear Fightin’ Foockin’ Irish,

  You’ve really stuck your dicks in it this time, and I don’t mean that just in a fucking-young-boys way.  I mean you have really screwed the alter boy on this one.  You have committed and/or condoned the worst sin imaginable.  Every time I pick up a newspaper in an airport or turn on the TV in the seat in front of Me I see all this hoopla about how you did this, that and the other thing to some juvies in your care.  Do you have any idea what you’ve caused?  The harm you’ve done?  The anguish that flows directly from your actions?

  Because of you, people have cut back, or worse, stopped altogether paying into My vacation fund!

  Oh… I feel sick.  Just this morning, as I was ordering up a wild Osprey egg omelette with a side of Lop Pig bacon, for a fleeting millisecond the thought ran through My head that maybe I’d better order something cheaper.  Do you know how that makes Me feel?  Violated.  That’s how.

  Thank Me that My old pal, Bill Donohue, is working on damage control.  He points out, quite rightly, that kissing and fondling young boys doesn’t constitute rape, like all of these hysterical “commissions” and so-called “experts” are saying.  It’s more of a minor peccadillo, if anything.

  But he can’t do it on his own.  You’ve got to get out there and make things right.  You owe it to the ones you’ve hurt the most; namely, Me and My boys.

  So I expect every Catholic priest, from Father Ted to Pope Ratz, to take a pay cut in order to make up My shortfall.  That means less KY jelly, fewer pairs of Prada shoes and making do with semi-precious stones in your formal mitre.  It’s the only way to expunge this heinous crime you’ve commited.

  I’d like to rake you over the coals more right now, but they’re calling My flight.  Needless to say, those of you also vacationing on Fire Island this weekend had better stay out of My way if you don’t want a good dressing down.

Wish You Were here,


Dear United States Military…

ArmyPentagon, Washington, DC 20001

Dear Brand-Warriors,

  You know I’m one of you, right?  Well, maybe not “one of you”, so much as I support you in your never-ending struggle against unhygeinic foreign deities who shall remain nameless, (<cough, cough> Allah <cough, cough>).  Obviously, I’m not going to actually lead you in battle.  That’s not what leaders do these days.  Just ask My old hunting buddy, Dick Cheney.  No, leaders need to be far enough away from the action to see the Big Picture.  Besides which, I’m on leave at the moment.

  Although I’m not going to give you any tangible help or, in fact, disrupt My schedule in any way, I feel that your use of My unauthorized biography in your intelligence reports is helpful in and of itself.  Like the famed 101st Fighting Keyboardists, just the fact that I exist should get you through any firefights, unexpected IED’s or IG inspections you might have to deal with.

  It really takes me back to My days out on the sharp end.  Back when the Gawdless hordes of [fill in the blank]ites were just over the hill, hating Me and My former Chosen People for our freedom.  When any given Sunday might entail liberating a few thousand [fill in the blank]ite wives and daughters for Democracy.  When anything with a penis that wasn’t a brand-loyalist or owned by a brand-loyalist could look forward to having their head dashed against a convenient rock and anything penisless could look forward to a good, old-fashioned Moabing.  Those were the days.

  Especially bivouacking with the fellas and counting up the loot and virgins from that last [fill in the blank]ite city that pissed Me off.  Do you guys still get paid in loot and virgins?  I know economics has changed a bit since I last saw the elephant, so to speak, but surely My brand-loyalist generals on the JCS are at least tacitly approving “Gawdly bonuses”.  If not, I’d find out where the Hell it’s all going, if I were you.

  Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I’m with you… well, not “with you” with you, but with you, nonetheless.  Just remember, like My old buddy King James used to say, “The Lord is a man of war.”*

Wish You Were Here & Hooah!


*  Where by “man” I mean “All-Powerful-Supreme-Deity-of-Everything” and by “war” I mean “vacation”.

Dear Chemists…

recipe of life

University of Manchester, Oxford Rd., Manchester, UK M13 9PL

Dear Fe Chefs,

  I am, as I believe the whole world is aware, an easy-going Gawd.  A Gawd who knows how to take the rough with the smooth.  A Gawd, if I do say so Myself, who knows how to turn the other cheek.  Just ask Adam & E… no; just ask Noah… er; ask the Amelakites…  Look, just take My word for it.  I’m easy-going and anyone who says I’m not had just better watch their back.

  Although I am, as we’ve agreed, pretty laid back, you’ve stepped over the line this time.  I don’t know how you got your grubby little hands on it, but you’ve somehow stolen one of My proprietary recipes.  The basic recipe for life, or as I like to call it, “Gawd’s Roux®©”, is something I stole from My lab partner at deity school worked long and hard on to perfect.  It’s the basis for nearly all of My other recipes.  It’s patented, trademarked and copyrighted, as you may have noticed, so you can also expect to hear from My lawyers, Fire, Brimstone & Wrath, LLC.

  What is it with you scientists, anyway?  I mean, generally speaking, I like you.  You’re a lot more interesting and fun at parties than My brand-loyalists and, Hell, science itself looks pretty cool, according to that movie with Kelly LeBrock.  So why do you have to keep horning in on My territory?  As any of My brand-loyalists will point out; it’s just not fair!  Do I go around wearing a white lab coat and… and… and… doing whatever it is that you do?  No, I don’t.  So I don’t think it’s too much to ask for you to quit creating things.

  Right.  I’m going to leave this there for now, (until My lawyers get through with you).  I’ve got just enough time for a soda and to slather on some sunscreen before My noon poolside massage.

Wish You Were Here,


Dear Brand-Loyalists…

Brand Loyalist Afterlife

Almost Everywhere

Dear Gawd & Jesiians,

  Even before I saw the informative chart on the reverse of this postcard and began worrying about the state of my vacation fund, I have been “viewing with concern” your lackadaisical brand loyalty.  It is, I’m sorry to say, rather pathetic.

  If I were one of you, (thank Me I’m not), and believed one of the, admittedly, contradictory things I’ve told one or more of your predecessors over the years, (quite possibly while drunk), I wouldn’t be so Me-damned wishy-washy about it!  Come on; if brand loyalty were the only thing that could keep Me and My family from eternal, red-hot poker-buggery, I’d be a lot more like those “I’m a Pepper” guys instead of the “plop, plop – fizz, fizz” guys who are only brand-loyal when they’re in trouble.  I would be, not to put too fine a point on it, on the streets every day yelling, “Drink Jesus!  It’s not only tasty, but good for you,” and “Jesus’ blood.  That’s good blood.”  Perhaps, “Double your pleasure.  Double your fun.  Two; two – two Jessii’s in one!”  Or, My favorite, “You’re in good hands with Gawd.”

  Even more importantly, though, I’d be tithing like mad in the hope that I could somehow bribe a wrathful Gawd into sending someone – anyone – else to the eternal, fiery pits of freakin’ torture instead of Me.

  You complacent bastards.  You think some magic Alka Seltzer is going to show up at the last second to save you?  It’s going to be more like, “Sorry, Charlie.  I’m looking for brand-loyalists with good taste, not who taste good,”… or something like that.  You know what I mean.  The point is, there will be a sign in the afterlife that says “You must have given this much to enter.”  I know I never told anyone about it before, but now you know, so start tithing.

  Really, people.  I’d give some thought to the fact that Hell is open for business, if I were you.  While it’s true that I’m not even letting Platinum Level Tithers into Heaven, (Not only is it My house and not yours, but who has room for that many guests?), at least you can ward off the red-hot catheter which takes eternity to insert, only to have it yanked out and the whole process begun again… for ∞ years… and a day.

  I’m just sayin’.  Sometimes you act like you don’t really believe all the stuff I’ve told you.  Is it just because of the contradictions?  Look, I can fix that for you.  I am a strong supporter of the Unitary Gawd theory, and I don’t want to bore you with the technicalities, but that means, in part, that anything I say is true because I said it.  So that ought to take care of that.

  So head on down to your local Gawd Shop and start spending, people… because a vacation is a terrible thing to waste.

Dear Ireland…

blasphemous-rumoursSomewhere Near the Irish Sea, Presumably

Dear Drinky McPunchfaces,

  First of all, I hope that you appreciate the use of your Gaelic name.  It’s just one of the many ways in which I strive not only to not be insulting and abusive, but to conform to local customs.  But I’m not dropping you this postcard just to show off My command of the language.  I’m writing to give My official backing to your proposed blasphemy law.

  It’s about time someone stood up for Me in Ireland.  I mean, Jessi-feckin’-Christs on a Gawd-damned pogo stick, the things people say about Me and My brand-loyalists on your shores just freezes My Holy Piss sometimes.  Why, did you know that there are Allah, (the Supreme hack of all hacks), brand-loyalists there who actually say that My boy, Hippy Jesus, wasn’t actually tortured and killed?  And that He was one of Allah’s, (hack, hack!), brand-loyalists?!  They even say that He was adopted!  If that’s not blasphemy, I don’t know what is.

  Don’t even get Me started about the Pagans, Scientologists and Anglicans.  Well, the Anglicans aren’t so bad, really.  They got off to a good start with all that choppy-choppy-off-with-their-heads stuff, but they don’t have the staying power I expect in good brand-loyalists.

  For those who cry “Isn’t Gawd made of sterner stuff,” or “Wouldn’t it be the Hippy Jesus-like thing to turn the other cheek,” I say, piss off, you pansy communists.  I hope you’re the first ones against the wall when this law is enacted.  While we’re at it, is €100,000 a stiff enough penalty for offending Me?  I should think not!  Bring back the Auto de Fe!  Whence the thumbscrews of yesteryear?  A red-hot poker up the pooper often makes people think twice before they say something annoying, I’ve always found.

  And those Nervous Nellies who say this admirable bit of legislation could be used to stifle My own brand-loyalists, I reiterate My earlier, well-reasoned argument; piss off you pansy commies!  My poor, downtrodden brand-loyalists make up over 99% of the population.  I’d like to see the blasphemous SOB with the stones to try it!  In fact, you should write that into the law.  Anyone trying to use the blasphemy law against My brand-loyalists shall be persecuted prosecuted to the full extent of your imagination.  Take the Heretic’s Fork out of the attic!  De-mothball the Tongue Tearer!  By all means, un-retire the Breast Ripper!

  Of course, tourism may suffer, but that is the tiniest of prices to pay for having the most unoffensive and unoffended nation in the world.

Wish You Were Here,