Monthly Archives: August 2009

Dear Ken Ham…

 

Curse of HamC/O My Cash-Cow “Museum”, 2800 Bullshitsburg Church Rd., Petersburg, KY

Dear Kenneth,

  There comes a time in every “father” and “son” relationship when the “father” must tell the “son” some difficult things.  These discussions are always embarrassing for both parties.  After I had The Sex Talk with Hippy Jesus, believe Me, We couldn’t look each other in the eye for nearly 600 years.  That’s just the way it is.  It’s part of My Ineffable Plan; like painful childbirth and Starbucks.

  And now the time has come for Me to sit you down and have a difficult talk.  Well… I say “talk”, but I learned My lesson with Hippy Jesus and now I just fire off a postcard.  While I’m at it, I should point out that when I say “father and son relationship”, I’m being metaphorical and ineffable at the same time.  Don’t get any crazy ideas that you’re some sort of illegitimate, backstairs sprog, demi-gawd sort of thing.  You’re not.

  Alright… look, Kenny.  I’m just going to come right out and say it.  No beating around the burning bush, (Ha!  Get it?  That’s a good one, eh?).  And speaking of good ones, did you hear the one about the abortion clinic bomber, the suicide bomber and the militant atheist?  That one’s a hoot.  You see, there’s these two terrorists… Ah, I should probably get right to it.  Ken… there’s been some talk… some talk of, well… speaking of talk, did you hear about that Yankees-Red Sox game the other day?  Ha!  That was part of My Plan, too, by the way.  Ineffable as all Hell, huh?

  Er… okay.  Right.  Bull by the horns and all that.  Kenneth, you know that Curse of Ham thing?  That excellent bit of brand-loyalist scholarship that explains why it’s okay to put collars around the necks of brown people?  I think the time has come for Me to clear that up for you.

  First of all, it is a base canard that I cursed Ham for laughing at his father’s “staff of life”.  Nothing could be farther from the truth.  Partly because a) I like a good laugh as much as the next deity and b) it never happened.  Not once did Ham laugh at his Pop’s poker.  Therein, actually, lies the problem.  He never laughed at his Dad’s doo-dah, because he was too busy sitting on it… among other things.

  There you go.  I cursed Ham because he had a sort of reverse Oedipus Complex… minus the killing and the eye-gouging and stuff.  And, to be honest, he was in charge of loading the dinosaurs.  That’s why people with the urge to plow their Pops while shooting endangered species are said to have Ham Syndrome.  You don’t see it too often, but believe Me, it’s in the medical books.  Right between Halitosis and Hairy Palm.

  So, anyway, I was so pissed off – I mean, really; I had just finished wiping out everything bad and everything that might be bad and everything that had any potential of possibly being bad if given the right circumstances – and here was Ham already forgetting all those perfectly innocent dinos and re-inventing the buttsex before the ground was even dry.  I’d say that it’s perfectly understandable that Noah and I both cursed him and all who would come after.  It was, I think you’ll agree, only natural.  But I didn’t curse his kids to turn brown and call you Massa.  What kind of a sick deity do you take me for?  Besides… it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that Ham probably wasn’t going to have any kids.

  No, I cursed all Hams to come.  Right then and there I decreed that no one named Ham would ever have a higher than room temperature IQ and would forever be soul-rendingly, tear-streamingly, heart-flutteringly afraid of buttsex and anything remotely connected to it.  Hamophobic, if you will.

  So now you know.  But I don’t want you to think that it changes My feelings about you and all the money you bring in at your little “museum”.  Just keep paying into My vacation fund and we’re cool.  I’m glad we had this little talk.

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd

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Dear Archbishop of Lecce…

red-eyed-mary

Somewhere in Southern Italy

Dear Cosmo,

  Hey!  Long time, no see, pal.  How are things in lecce?  How’s celibacy treating you?  We should get together with Ratzi for a poker night soon.  Oh, and thanks for all the “Our Fathers”, those were great.

  Right.  Polite chatter finished.  Now for why I’m really writing.  It’s this lottery thing.  I am in complete agreement with you.  Of course, lottery idolatry, or whatever, is a bad thing.  Yes, playing it leaves the proles that much poorer.  Certainly, Sicilian mayors using council wages to buy tickets because they have a better chance of winning the lottery than getting money from the state is slightly dodgy.  And, obviously, it’s laughable to think that praying for My ex-wife to help them win would do the slightest bit of good.  The only person Mary The Cheating Whore ever helped was Herself.

  So, as I say, you and I are definitely on the same sheet of music here.  The problem as I see it, and I’m sure you do too, is that none of that money is going to “The Church” – or, to be more precise; to Me.  I have yet to see a centisimi of that money.

  If people start treating the lottery as their idol, instead of My boys and Their old posse, then they won’t feel guilty about not tithing.  I don’t mind them giving all that Mary bollocks a miss, but the boys are My legacy and, frankly, They bring in buckets of cash.  And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that if the faceless masses, (That’s a little pun, there.  Get it?), are giving their Euros over to the lottery, it’s just that much less they have to give to Me.

  As for garnishing wages to play the lottery, I think I’d much rather they left that cash in the employees’ pocket where the hard-working brand-loyalists can more easily pass it along to Me.  I don’t mind them praying to My ex-wife to magic them some money to repair the roads and pay the cops.  I mean, you and I know how likely that is to happen, am I right?  If they use what is arguably My money to play the lottery, they’ve got something like a 1 in 1.2 billion chance to win, which is – to be honest – a much better chance than Mary The Spiteful Harpy doing anything for them.

  Looking at those odds just now, I had another of My brilliant ideas, (You’ll recall the time I decided to kill everything in the world that couldn’t fit on a party barge.).  My idea is… and you’re going to love this… is that you and your cronies encourage the brand-loyalists to use the money they would normally play the lottery with to pay for indulgences that will buy them bona-fide prayers for them to win obscene piles of free money.  Huh?  Huh?

  It is, if I do say so Myself, sheer genius.  Think about it.  The odds are pretty much the same, but this way they don’t have to feel like dirty, dirty idolatrous sinners who will rot in Hell for all eternity and the money goes where it belongs; in My vacation fund.

  So, you and the other archbishops get on that and I’ll wait for the Euros to come rolling in.

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd

Dear Creation Museum…

Creation_MuseumP.O. Box 510 Hebron, KY  41048

Dear Scientifickal, Capitalistic Brand-Loyalists,

  I see in the news that you were kind enough to host My Chosen People at your excellent homage to My handiwork.  Well done, thou good and faithful servants.  At $21.95 each, times at least 300, that makes a whopping $6,585 for My vacation fund.  Actually, I expect it’s a bit more, (which is always good), and I hope you charged PZ Myers, (the new Moses of My new Chosen People), extra, as I’m sure you know that he is backed by Big Science and can easily afford triple or quadruple the price.

  Ever since Day 1… or Day 3… I don’t really remember now, when I flipped the Holy Light Switch I knew that a project as big as the entire friggin’ universe was going to call for a good, long vacation afterwards.  By Day 9 I realized that someone, (obviously not Me), had made a grave tactical error by not creating Frequent Flier Miles or Platinum Cards.  From that Day on, I’ve had to rely on My brand-loyalists to keep the vacation fund in the black.  In the old days, before the dinosaurs drowned, I could send out a hero along the lines of St. George to track down a fire-breathing triceratops and take the huge treasure hoard it was guarding.

  Unfortunately, this is no longer possible.  I would say “Dea Culpa”, but we all know it was Noah the drunken pervert’s fault, (You can bet your sweet tuchus he’s sampling some “enhanced interrogation techniques” for that one, right now.)  But, that’s water over the bridge.  These days I have to rely on tax-free donations, mostly.  Every once in a while, though, a genius like Ken Ham comes along and does something magical and wonderful that keeps Me in First Class with the hot towels and the good scotch, where I belong.

  He obviously got hold of a copy of one of My tests from Deity School –

 “Using found objects and cosmological geology, construct a non-monadical universe which will, within one eon, show a profit for the designer.  Be sure to show your work.”

  It is, I think you’ll agree, an excellent bit of work on My part.  Especially considering that I was hung over and hadn’t studied.  The point is that Ham’s brilliant idea to build a museum that charges to see dioramas of My margin scribbles is, itself, proof that I should never have received a D+ on that test!  I mean, the Catholic Church and their hoard of dragon gold aside, your museum is making Me a mint.  In fact, I’m writing this postcard from the penthouse suite of the Trump SoHo, New York.

  Game.  Set.  Match, I say.

  So as you sell those tickets, know that as long as you do your part to keep Me in the style to which I have become accustomed, I will probably not open the old “Windows of Heaven” again and wipe you all out.

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd

Gawd is Busy…

godisbusycanihelpyou  As Gawd is rather tied up… well, I say “tied up”, but it’s more like “slightly busy”… well, I say “slightly busy”, but it’s more like “not busy at all, unless you count a lie-down by the hotel pool”… well, I say “not busy”, but really, He just can’t be bothered.

  Your atheistical Postman, on the other hand, is busy.  So here are a few things on Gawd’s postcard To-Do list.