Monthly Archives: January 2010

Dear Haiti…

Next to the Dominican Republic

Dear Whoever Is Left,

  I know how people gossip, so before any wild rumours get started, I wanted to assure you that I didn’t have anything to do with your little foundational problems.  I don’t even ever think of you, to be honest.  I mean, why would I?  None of the three hotels in the country are up to My vacation standards.  For My sake, Marriott doesn’t even have a property there, so why would I bother?

  So, that should be a real relief to you right now.  I understand you’ve got a bit of sweeping and picture-straightening to do, which should go a lot easier and faster since you don’t have to go around wondering, “Why did Gawd smite us?  What horrible, repulsive sin did we, collectively, commit to bring down our tin roofs on our heads?”  The answer is, I didn’t do it to you.  So heave a big sigh of relief and get back to your lives.

  Until the next time.

  Because the next time it will be Me on the giving end of a world-class Gawdly smack-down.  It’s like this tourist I ran into in the Dominican Republic said to me once, “Poor people make me sick,”.  Astute guy.  I forget his name.  “Hurry Lumbago”?  “Rick Lumbar”?  Anyway, big fat bastard.  You’d remember him if you ever met him.  Anyway, like Fat Bastard pointed out, you just can’t trust ’em.  Meaning you, that is.  You know, ’cause you’re poor and brown.

  And he was right, as I just found out from My boy, Pat Robertson.  You did some kind of under-the-table deal with Be’elzebub, an employee of Gawd, Inc., to get rid of some cheese-eating surrender monkeys… oh, Me.  That one always cracks Me up.  No matter how many times I hear it.  “Cheese-eating surr…”  You get it?  It’s the French, right?  See, because they… oh, never mind.  Anyway, you seem to have been involved in some sort of shady embezzling scheme cooked up by the managing director of one of My subsidiaries, Hell.  I expect that sort of thing from Be’elzebub, the scamp, but you are a different story.

  Of course, by “you” I mean your great, great, great, great, great, great, great… ish grandparents.  Since they’re not around anymore to pay the piper, I figure I’ll just take it out on you and/or your kids, grandkids, etc.  It seems only fair.  I mean, somebody’s got to make up any shortfall in My vacation fund, real or perceived.  It can’t be Be’elzebub, because I’m already docking that scallywag’s pay until the sun snuffs out – so it’s going to have to be you people.  I’m going to have to keep you poor for a long, long time in order to divert more money to “comfortable” brand-loyalists, who will then pass that money along to Me in the form of tithing.  I hope I don’t have to be so crass as to mention that this doesn’t let you off the hook for weekly tithing.  You’ve still got to pay your share; eating dirt or not.  But don’t worry, I’m assured that trickle-down economics works a treat.

  In the meantime, you’ll need to have a shorter, sharper lesson in not messing with My cash flow.  Probably a hurricane or a tsunami or something.  Ooh!  Or a swarm of land-sharks maybe.  I’ll decide later.  My Filet Mignon avec Sauce Bernaise has arrived and I’ve got to tuck in before it gets cold.

Wish You Were Here,



Dear Killer She-Bears of the Apocalypse…

Assassins’ Guildhall, Basement of the Ellwood Bar, Detroit, MI

Dear Gunther and Bob,

  I wanted to drop a line to thank My two favorite she-bears for all the hard work you’ve done this year and since I first contracted you to rid the earth of a number of heinous baddies who had gotten right up My left nostril.  As you know, over the years some of My creations have annoyed the Holy Crap out of Me.  All I ever wanted when I created everything* was a series of nice hotels with good bars and first-class service.  Is that too much to ask?  I created man** solely to praise My name, fluff My pillows and pour a stiff scotch, but some of them just don’t listen.

  Which, of course, is where you came in.  I really couldn’t have asked for better, more discreet Holy Assassins than the two of you.  The day Artaius, the Gaulish Bear-God, went out of business and put you on the job market was a happy day indeed, (and not just because the son of a bitch has such incomparably hideous breath and body odor).

  Anyway, I was going over a number of the jobs you did for Me last year and felt you’d rather have a few specific “attaboy’s” rather than a monetary bonus.  I’m almost sure that craftsbears such as yourselves would only be insulted by a crass and impersonal wad of cash.  So, here’s to you, Gunther and Bob.  Cheers.

1)  Oral Roberts:   Excellent work.  When I say I want $2.4 billion by mid-December or I’m calling you home, I mean no later than noon on the 15th.  Period.  Schmuck.

2)  Mary Travers:  What can I say?  I woke up one morning with “If I Had a Hammer” stuck in My head.

3)  Some woman who stole a cab from Me one day:  Sometimes an example must be made.

4)  Patrick Swayze:  I hated “Dirty Dancing”… and that ghost thing… and “Red Dawn”.

5)  Justin Keating:  My old Chosen People, the Jews, have no right to Isreal, eh?  Well, how about a nice cyanide suppository administered by Dr. She-Bear?

6)  Robert Novak:  When I tell you something’s not for publication, you ought to listen.

7)  Les Paul:  Now My guitar collection can only rise in value.

8)  Walter Cronkite:  There can only be one “Most Trusted” around here, bitch.

9)  Karl Malden:  That nose haunted My nightmares.  Good riddance.

10)  Sassy:  That’s one German Shepherd that won’t pee on My rental car again.

  I could go on, but I know you understand what I’m saying.  Thanks for all the hard work and I look forward to many years of satisfactory smitings.

Wish You Were Here,


*Note to other deities:  Don’t get Your Divine Underpants in a wad.  If You can come up with more brand-loyalists than Me, You can have created everything, Yourself.  Until then, sit down and shut up.

** Ditto.