Dear Ken Ham…

 

C/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