Don’t piss Me off, Mohler. Just… don’t. This universe I built just 6,000 years ago is ageing prematurely? Groaning? Are you saying that I can’t build a universe that won’t shrug off a little sin? Mohler, you are trying the Lord thy Gawd’s patience and, bad for you, I don’t really have any. I ought to give you a brain aneurism right now. I really, really want to. My trigger finger gets itchy every time I think of you. Do you know how many people get away with insulting Me? Not many, that’s how many. But I promised Hippy Jesus I’d keep it down to statistically probable numbers and I’m right at the edge with 1.89999999 deaths per second and if I give you anal syphilis or sinus herpes or something it will put Me over.
So you lucked out, you noisome little bug. In a manner of speaking, that is.
I’m not going to kill you. I’m not even going to give you the Job treatment, (frankly, because that’s just more micro-managing than I want to do while on vacation). I mean, who has the time to kill your children, then hang around and knock down your house and then come back twenty minutes later just to give you boils? There are hotels all over the world just begging to pamper Me and I see no reason to disappoint them. No; I’m going to use something a little more fire-and-forget.
Albert Mohler, for the heinous sin of disparaging My handiwork, (which somebody’s going to be groaning under the weight of, I can tell you)… I curse you!
How do you like that, eh? You illegitimate son of a squashed cockroach, eunuchs will laugh at you! May your pomegranates wither, thou bum-loving Gitite! And I don’t mean “pomegranates” the fruit things, I mean your pomegranate things… you know, down there. You get what I’m saying? I’m talking about… oh, you know what I mean, you… pooface!
Now fuck off, and the next time you lose your car keys, don’t come praying to Me.
Wish You Were Here,