Dear Sasquatch…

The Forest, cave #3, Oregon

Dear Furball,

  Ha ha.  Very funny.  Did you think I wouldn’t smell you all over my hotel room when I got back from consoling Hippy Jesus?  Writing to My New Chosen People using My own stationery and suggesting “God Still Not Real Friday” was a real laugh riot.  And, by the way, you illiterate fuck, you misspelled My name again.  Like I don’t have enough problems with the Me damned Easter Bunny this time of year.

  Now I’ve got to take time to prove, once again, that I’m real and working* in mysterious ways all over the world.  I’ll have to show how I lay My protecting hand over the brand loyalists by pointing out all the Catholic priests who are not languishing in jail right now.  I’d like to see Odin or Enki or even Allah, (that hack), pull off that kind of PR miracle.  I was presented with the nightmare of My representatives on earth raping little children who were taught to trust them and Presto! Change-o! I turned it around and made it the kids’ fault.  That’s first class miracleing, that is.

  I’ll probably have to remind everyone to quit being so self-centered.  After all, I didn’t create this world or the people in it to be happy.  As Ray Comfort so eloquently put it, if you’re having a good time, then you’re Hitler.  And while I’m at it, the original Hitler, (not the smiling, laughing, happy Hitler-monster people become when they don’t constantly work to make Me happy), was nothing to do with Me.  Sure, I created the universe and all the people and things in it, but I don’t know where he came from.  So if anyone tries to blame him on Me, I’ll sue their pants off.

  I imagine I’ll need to point out how more people believe in Me and follow My rules than don’t.  That alone should be all the proof anyone needs.  As one of My New Chosen People, Colonel Sanders or something, would surely agree, millions of people have believed in Me for thousands of years.  What are the odds that they could all be wrong?  That’s the kind of skeptical enquiry/mathematical proof I can get behind 110%.

  So don’t think you’ve won any points, Bigfoot.  I laugh at your feeble attempts to inconvenience Me.  And anyway, why should I even go to all this bother?  You’re the one telling people I’m not real.  You should have to prove it.  That’s the way science works, numbnuts.

  Point, set, match, I think… you stinking fleabag.

Wish You Were Here,

~Gawd

*For a given definition of “work”.

P.S. – Yeah, I’d be happy to come over for dinner.  Tell Nessie she doesn’t have to go to any great trouble.  A simple Loggerhead Turtle soup with caviar will do.

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5 responses to “Dear Sasquatch…

  1. Gawd:

    Did you make bigfoot with such big feet because his name was already “Bigfoot,” or did he become “Bigfoot” because you made him with such big feet? (This is known in theological circles as the Euthyphoot Dilemma.)

    Since I have no idea what Catholic priests’ foot sizes are, I won’t comment about them. I’ve heard that the Pope is a pretty big heel, but I can’t speak for his toes. Not that I’d want to speak for his toes — or for any other parts of his body. What he does with them is his own business, and the world should leave him alone.

    By the way: Everyone knows that Hitler and Colonel Sanders were both created by Satan, so you’re off the hook.

    • An interesting theological conundrum. What came first, the feet or the name? Gawd’s standing mute on this one, as He is wont to do, but I’d bet that “The ‘Squatch”, as his friends call him, is a descendant of Piltdown Man, whom we all know was not part of Gawd’s Plan. Perhaps Col. Sanders and Mr. Hilter are, too.

  2. As Ray Comfort so eloquently put it, if you’re having a good time, then you’re Hitler.

    Thank Gawd for pointing that out. I was miserable as a Christian. So all those fundys who tell me I wasn’t a real one are wrong!

    • Exactly. If you’re miserable, then you’re doing something right.
      Actually, that ought to be religion’s catchphrase. I can see the commercials now.

  3. If you’re having fun. then you’re Hitler.
    And if you’re not having fun, then you’re Hitler as well.

    So face it: You’re Hitler.

    Or Colonel Sanders, as the case may be.

    On the other hand, Ray Comfort, as everyone knows, is Chiquita Banana. But with a Hitler mustache.

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