Monthly Archives: September 2009

Dear Chosen Atheists…

Chosen People

Dear Chosen People,

  I had a short layover in New York the other day and decided I’d pop over to Ground Zero and find out why it was still a hole in the ground.  It sometimes ruins My appreciation of the Filet Mignon avec Sauce Bernaise and champagne served in First Class to know that no one’s doing anything about that.  I mean, for My sake, who’s in charge over there?  It’s been eight years.  Get off the dime.

  So I thought it would be exciting to see it as if I were a regular person.  Just a slob like one of you.  With that in mind, I hopped on the A train and I was off.  Two minutes later I was tired of living like the poor people, but if you know anything about the A train from JFK to Manhattan you know that there is no stop on it from which you can reach anywhere in the world other than where the train is going.  let Me tell you, it made Me give predestination a long, hard re-think.

  But before I even reached Ground Zero I had the answer to why nothing is being built there.  You, (and when I’ve said “you” in this postcard so far, I’ve meant “mankind in general”), have got other things to worry about.

  Sitting across from me, the entire trip, was a tiny, old Asian woman wearing a surgical mask, probably stolen from a M*A*S*H unit during the Korean War, and worrying a rosary.  Even with the omniscience and the prayer line shut off, her fervent, fevered prayers bled through… for the entire trip.

  Now, I’d be the first to admit, (if these sorts of things worried Me), that swine flu, Hasidic men sitting next to you on the train and eternal damnation are all things one should fear.  Just not every moment of every day.  If nothing else, think of Me.  I don’t want to be cooped up on the A train, or anywhere else, with that.

  And just as I was about to smite her with a quiet little heart attack, it occurred to Me – Oh!  That’s what My Chosen People, the Atheists, have been doing.  You’ve obviously been worrying about Hell and trying to find a loop-hole to get out of it.  That’s why you keep insisting that you can have a conscience without following My well-thought-out rules.  That’s why you’ve been running around giving to charity and helping little old ladies across the street and whatever else it is that actual Good People do.

  That’s actually kind of cute, in a “dogs playing poker” kind of way.  But, look; that’s not how you fit into My plan.  I understand that you don’t get it – I mean, it’s My Ineffable Plan, not My F-able Plan.  Since I’ve always liked you and, frankly, prefer your company, I wanted to let you down easily.  So when I saw this postcard in the Helsinki airport I knew it was just the thing.  I assume jack Chick drew it, and you can’t let someone down easier than that.

Wish You Were Here,



Dear Cupid…


Nordic Motel, Rm. 5, 11942 NE Sandy Blvd., Portland, OR 97220

Dear Cupid,

  You crafty bugger – and I mean that literally.  But I’m not writing to castigate You for Your filthy, filthy lifestyle this time.  I’m writing because someone told me about Your website and the sneaky, backdoor attempt to woo My Chosen People away.

  You fat fuck.  Just because You couldn’t muster up the balls to smite the opposition and Your followers went tits-up years ago, You think You’re justified in using this new intertubes craze to siphon off some of My Chosen People?  Well, think again, Chubbo.  Or… wait a minute.  Is this about Your mother?  Is this because I schtupped Venus in the cloakroom of the Deity Club and never called Her back?  Look, kid; I wouldn’t think I’d have to explain to You that what two consenting deities do in the privacy of Their own coat-check is no one else’s business.  For crying out loud, Your mother can take care of Herself… and 8 or 9 others, in my experience.

  So quit being such a cherub and leave the Chosen Atheists out of this.  You could inadvertently screw up My ineffable plan.  How are My Chosen People going to fully appreciate the upcoming persecutions and pogroms and reality TV shows if You’ve gone and made them fall in love?  Okay?  Are we cool now?

Wish You Were here,


P.S. – Tell Your mom I said, “Someone seems to have soiled Zeus’s overcoat.”  Inside joke.  She’ll know what I mean.

Click, click, click.


Dear Brand Loyalists and Chosen People,

  Gawd is out golfing for a bit and I, your friendly atheistical Postman, am doing some writing that might just bring in a buck or two.  So no deliveries for at least another week.  However, I can’t help but notice that many come, but few click.  So click on some of Gawd’s Chosen Few and drinking pals on the right.  While many of them, it goes without saying, eat babies and/or pole-dance for Satan, you should be safe as long as you don’t give them your home address.



Dear Kentucky…

prodigal-sonSomewhere Down South… or Something

Dear Coonskin Cappers,

  Have you ever heard that old yarn My boys like to tell about the prodigal son?  It’s a heart-warming tale of a child who sows his wild oats by joining a rock band and doing a lot of drugs and just generally having a good time.  Well, They usually leave out the interesting bits, but that’s the subtext.  Anyway, once his albums quit selling and he can’t pay for his smack habit anymore, he comes crying home to daddy.  Daddy welcomes him home with open arms and throws a big party with chicks and guns and fire trucks, hookers and drugs and booze.  It sounds wonderful, doesn’t it?  Just like every day of My vacation.

  However, there is a sinister ending to the story.  You see, Daddy has two sons and the other one stayed home and worked his fingers to the bone in the family shit-eating business and never so much as started a garage band, much less poked groupies and mainlined win directly into his aorta.  So, although the boys seldom get around to mentioning the final act of the story, it’s a good one and I think you should hear it.

25“Meanwhile, the older son was in the poop field. When he came near the house, he heard rock music and dancing. 26So he called one of the servants and asked him what was going on. 27‘Your brother has come,’ he replied, ‘and your father has killed the fattened calf because he has him back safe and sound.’ 28“The older brother became angry and refused to go in. So his father went out and pleaded with him. 29But he answered his father, ‘Look! All these years I’ve been eating shit for you and never disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me a hooker or even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends. 30But when this son of yours who has squandered your property with prostitutes and crack comes home, you kill the fattened calf for him!’

 31” ‘My son,’ the father said, ‘you are always with me, and don’t have the balls or imagination to even try making it on your own. 32But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours had a life and now he’s crawling back; he was lost and is found.’

  33But the older son was exceedingly wroth and said unto himself, ‘Right, that tears it.’  And he took up his shit-spoon and attacked his brother saying, ‘How do you like me now,’ and ‘eat shit and die, motherfucker,’ and other such things while gouging out his brother’s spleen, kidneys and eyeballs.”

  It’s a good story, isn’t it?  I bothered to tell it to you because it reminds me of you.  You and Florida.  You see, you are the prodigal son.  You’ve made it illegal for me to take credit for smiting all of those terrorists that have been just itching to wipe you out since 9/11… or something like that.  Florida is the older brother.  They know on which side their bread is buttered.  They stayed faithful and ate My shit.

  Now, since I’m very, very busy relaxing in a bungalow on a Malaysian beach and drinking rum punch after rum punch after rum punch, I probably can’t be bothered to stop Florida from pouring over the border with murder in their eyes and grapefruit spoons clutched in their Me-fearing hands.

  Do you understand where I’m coming from, Kentucky?  it’s time for Me to help those who help themselves.  And by that I mean, get with the program or wake up with a dirty piece of cutlery shoved up your left nostril.

  Gotta run.  It’s Happy Hour again.

Wish You Were Here,