You are a quack. And don’t look all surprised that I would say that, or pretend not to remember Me. You know what I’m talking about. During a recent vacation at the Sebasco Harbor Resort, I realized that hitting golf balls from the top of the lighthouse wasn’t relaxing Me the way it usually does. I happened to mention this to a fellow guest walking by with a dowsing rod and a pack of tarot cards.
Which is where you come in. This seemingly helpful guest, whom I suspect was a shill for your business, suggested I see you for A.R.T. Therapy.
“A combination of acupressure points, passive mobilization and active client participation in an exploration of the emotional/physical areas of tension in the body.”
Chris, I don’t think I’m overstating My position when I say that after a session with you digging and prodding and popping My Divine Joints out of socket, I am sorry I ever created the fucking human race. Just to take My mind off of the pain and increased bodily tension I flipped on the omniscience for a minute. You’ll never guess what I suddenly knew. It wasn’t Joe Jackson’s shoe size. It wasn’t the five names whose first letters make up the word “cabal”. It wasn’t where John Graves, 402 East Austin St., Kermit, TX, left his car keys last Saturday… well, actually, it was. It was everything. That’s the point of the omniscience. But the thing I suddenly knew that concerns you is that naturopathic medicine is pure bull. Also, in case you were wondering, I knew to the deepest fiber of My being, (and that’s deep, Bub), that naturopaths are underqualified, (at best), and don’t begin to deserve to be called doctors. Christopher, a lab coat and a stethoscope do not a doctor make.
I tell you this not merely because I am the Ruler of Everything and I can, but also because I understand some other people, who must also have the omniscience, are having their postcards intercepted or censored. Maybe you can do that to some schlub who only knows everything, but try it with a deity who also can do everything, (when not vacationing or overly-riled by a gay rights parade or something), and you’ll get such a smiting that Job would look at Me with a raised eyebrow and say, “Steady on there, Gawd.” Capisce?
Look, I don’t mind exorcists, fortune tellers, Bigfoot hunters and people who believe The Flintstones was a documentary. Actually, I wouldn’t normally mind your little scam. I mean, people with no education or talent have got to eat, too, right? You just tried to pull it on the wrong deity. You should have gone for Bacchus after a hard night. He’d try anything. But Me? There’s nothing you can tell Gawd about relaxing, taking it easy and fooling the gullible.
Wish You Were Here,