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Dear Donald…



Dear Don,


I don’t tweet, Myself, but I do follow you for shits and giggles.  Let Me tell you, your latest tweet to Iran made Me sit up in My poolside lounge chair at The Four Seasons.  I nearly spilled My Mai Tai.  It was masterful.  While most serious onlookers are now convinced that you are not only a demented, narcissistic man-baby, they’re beginning to believe that you are a dangerously deranged, demented, narcissistic man-baby.  I’d do that finger kiss thing that the Italians do, but I have suntan lotion all over My hands.

In case you’ve already moved on to your next diatribe and can’t remember it, here is your Iran masterpiece:

Iran tweet

  I must say, you remind Me of a young Me.  I’m no slouch in the over-the-top threat department, Myself.  Remember when I threatened to kill all but eight people on earth by drowning every other man, woman and child?  Or how about when I threatened genocide to Amalek?  “Do not spare them, but kill both man and woman, child and infant, ox and sheep, camel and donkey,” I said.  Or, ooh, ooh… remember when I threatened to smite Egypt?  Yeah, I used to be a lot more hands-on.

But, and I say this in a helpful way, there’s a big difference between your threats and My threats.  Can you spot it?  You probably can’t because you’re having an aid read this to you while you admire yourself in a hand mirror, so I’ll help you.  The difference is – I deliver.  You might have threatened to sue everyone from your trash collector to the people who made that Trump-baby balloon, you might have threatened to fire everyone who ever smiled at Obama, but when I threaten someone they die a horrible, undeserved death.  Noah’s little baby nephew?  Died choking on rainwater.  The furry little Amalek sheep?  Had their adorable faces smashed in.  The Pharaoh’s teen-aged son?  Internal organs turned to mush.

Admittedly, I can’t be bothered anymore because I’m enjoying My vacation too much, but I used to stomp through the Middle East smashing My metaphorical boot down on the necks of any-Me-damned-body I wanted.  But you, you’re being too wishy-washy.  Let Me give you some advice that will probably be even more appropriate once Mueller gets to you.  Just like in prison, you’ve got to pick out the biggest bad-ass in the joint and just go ape-shit on them.  Head butt them, shiv them, bite their testicles – whatever it takes to convince everyone that you’re not the weak Nelly that voice in the back of your head keeps telling you you are.  Normally, I’d advise you to attack whoever attacks you to set an example, but I know I can’t convince you to attack your boss, Vlad.  So, since you’ve already made the threat, you’re going to have to come down on President Rouhani like a ton of bricks.

I know your style runs more along the lines of opening a casino in the country, going bankrupt and then trying to sue Rouhani after he laughs at you, but this is no time for half measures.  I’m talking genocide.  Think The Untouchables.  They threaten you, (whether they actually did or not), you bomb the country to glass.  You need to atomize babies, irradiate puppies make goats glow in the dark.  You’ve got to show people that not only can you talk like an insane parrot, you can act like one.

Then, once every man, woman and child in the country is radioactive ash blowing on the wind, maybe people will forget about your treason.

Wish You Were Here,



Dear Trump Staffers…


Dear Victims,


It has recently come to My attention that you’ve been having a spot of bother.  Apparently, some people think you’re monsters.  Go figure.  I was glad to see that you’re effectively fighting back, though, by making tactically and strategically sound choices like throwing your own food in the garbage to own those dirty libs.  It kind of reminds Me of the time I threw out My filet mignon avec sauce bernaise to own the people of the plains.  That showed those iron-chariot-having bastards.

You want to know who else knows a little something about being martyred?  My boy, Jesus.  No, not Hippie Jesus – haha, He’s just a whiny socialist.  I’m talking about my other boy, Republican Jesus and His downtrodden followers.  His favorite country, the United States, is being overrun by socialists, commies, snowflakes, cucks, brown people and My new Chosen People, the atheists.  Why, He’s barely hanging on.  America only has the largest Christian population on Earth and the government is barely a majority of hardcore Republican Jesus advocates.  You see what I mean?  He’s a victim, just like you.

But what I’m really concerned about is that rich, powerful people are being jeered out of restaurants.  While you, individually, mean less than nothing to Me, the possibility that I might walk into Cipriani or some other expensive eatery and be chided fills me with anger and confusion.  As I know you understand, not only am I better than everyone because I’m Me, I’m better because I’m rich, (shout out to all My brand loyalists who tithe).

This will not stand.  Something must be done.  Personally, I’m too busy lounging beachside at the Mauna Kea Beach Hotel with a mimosa in My hand to address this shocking problem Myself.  That’s why I’m going to need you to keep fighting the good fight.

When a bartender tells you your mother should have thrown you away and kept the stork, buy their priciest bottle of wine and pour it down the crapper.

When the waiter at Norma’s greets you and says there’s nothing wrong with you that reincarnation can’t cure, order the Zillion Dollar Lobster Frittata and pop it in the potty.

When the salespleb at Tiffany & Co. admits that she could never learn to like you except on a raft at sea with no other provisions in sight, buy a couple of rings and plop them in the pisser.

When you’re strolling through the park wondering why all the dogs run from you and someone states to their neighbor that you love nature in spite of what it did to you, stomp through a pile of dogshit in your socks and flush your shoes down the nearest loo.

When the concierge at the Ritz-Carlton points out that you have delusions of adequacy, pay for the penthouse suite but stay at the Motel 6 on the other side of town and sleep in the lavatory.

When the air-waitress in first class confides that she’s learned of your illness and hopes it’s nothing trivial, chew up your ticket and flush yourself down the can.

And that, you poor, suffering saints, is how to own the libs.


Wish you were here,


Dear Jeff Sessions…


Dear Jeff,

First of all, I want to be clear that although a great many citizens of My Chosen Country think of you as a racist Keebler elf, I couldn’t be more happy with you.  Your cartoonish tiny little face makes Me chuckle every time I see it.

I was just relaxing poolside at a tasteful hotel in the dessert… or is it desert?  Me damn it, now I’m hungry for a slice of double chocolate truffle layer cake.  It’s a good thing My brand-loyalists, the Christians, keep diligently forking over the cash to keep me in expensive hotels and eating expensive cake.  Anyway, I was sort of half paying attention to the TV in the lobby when I saw your adorable white-supremacist punim smirking out at Me.  So I had a half dozen cabana boys carry My lounger in to hear what you had to say.

If I weren’t on perpetual vacation I would hold a press conference to publicly agree with you.  I mean, fuck those kids, right?  The little ankle biters never tithe into My vacation fund and that, alone, is enough to chap My nips.  Add into the mix the appalling fact that airlines allow the stunted snot rags into first class where they’re always crying or kicking the back of My seat and I couldn’t care less if you stick ’em in concentration camps.  Even your blatant bigotry helps My situation.  Personally, I don’t care what color you are as long as you give Me a big chunk of your ready cash, but imagine those desperate parents frantically shoving pesos into the collection plates.  It would be enough to bring a tear to this old god’s eye except that it might make My sunscreen run.

However, you might not have gone far enough by just making it clear you’re going to enforce the “law” by dragging children from their parent’s arms and then probably losing them.  I think we can really wring more dinero from the disgustingly weepy parents if you follow My lead more closely.  Here are a few more Bible ideas to get your creative juices flowing.

  1. Straight up wack their first born.  Nothing turns the brand-loyalists further My way than a little personal loss.
  2. Bears.  Keep a couple of bears handy for when the kids laugh at your little dried-apple face.
  3. This one might take even you aback for a second, but hear Me out.  Two words:  Human.  Sacrifice.  Sacrifice a few daughters to something that you worship, like the KKK or Nathan Bedford Forrest.
  4. Finally, if the lefties put up too big a fuss, just Titus Andronicus their asses.  You can drink their salty, commie tears once you’ve made ’em eat their own kids.

There.  Giving you ideas is starting to feel almost like actual work, so I’m gonna sign off.  remember, if you need Me, I’m on vacation so leave Me alone.

Wish You Were Here,


I’m back… What’s been going on?


Many of you may wonder where I’ve been for the past eight years… not to mention the 6,000 before that.  And the answer is, of course, 1) on vacation, 2) nunya business and 3) fuck off.  How you like that answer?  It’s like the Trinity – three things that are also one thing.  Separate but equal.

I see there’s a new POTUS.  Some people are saying he was chosen by Me.  Those people are, as always, delusional.  Don’t get Me wrong, I couldn’t care less that you’re saddled with an ignorant, orange, bloated, racist, narcissistic gasbag.  it minds not Me that he talks like a plate of beans negotiating it’s way through the digestive tract of a hog.  It’s no skin off My divine nose that there is medical waste floating down the Ganges River that would make better presidents than him.  The fact is, I care a great deal more for my mid-morning gin and tonic than I do for you or anyone you know.  Oh, and the tithing.  I care about the tithing.

Of course, I’ve had chosen people from time to time.  The pogroms and persecution and such are real knee-slappers.  I like watching that even more than Dancing With the Stars.  The Jews used to be My chosen people, but once they got Israel back and started giving the oppression instead of taking… well, they just quit being fun.  I thought about making the Palestinians My new chosen people but they kind of depress Me, to be honest.  Then I thought maybe the LGBT folks, but they’ve been oppressed since I published My first book and I wanted to mix things up a bit.  So I made the atheists My chosen people.  No large scale persecution yet, but I’ve got My fingers crossed.  Also, some of the atheists are Jewish, LGBT and African American, so, you know… four birds, one stoning.

Oh, I see it’s time for my post-gin and tonic massage here at the Trump International Hotel on Waikiki Beach, so I’ve got to run.  And remember, keep giving that cash every Sunday.  Your “donation” could be the difference between business class and first class.

Dear Allah…

C/O Burj Al Arab Hotel, P.O. Box 74147, Dubai, UAE

Dear Al,

  I saw this postcard on My way through Changi Airport in Singapore and it reminded Me that I’ve been meaning to write.  I know We’ve had Our differences over the millenia and, of course, You’re certainly a hack and an intellectual property thief, but when You get right down to it, We are members of the same club.  We’re both deities and deities have to stick together.  Magic is thicker than water, as they say.

  On those rare occasions when You take a break from urging Your brand-loyalists to beat their wives and daughters for honor, burn Hello Kitty in effigy and declare fatwas against cottage cheese You must have noticed how dangerous My new Chosen People, the atheists, have become.  As I like to do with all of My Chosen People occasionally, it’s about time for a pogrom or a holocaust or some such.  Of course, it’s all part of My Ineffable Plan and all, but it seems to Me that there’s no reason My Ineffable Plan can’t have room for, (pardon the pun), an unholy alliance.  I propose that We get a few of Our old deity school chums together to lay a righteous smack-down on these loudmouth atheists of Mine.  It would also show that no matter what We might say about one another over drinks in the Deity Club bar, We’re just like any group of friends… with super magical powers.  Say you don’t believe in one of Us, and you’ve said it about all of Us.

  I know You’ll agree that it’s very, very alarming that almost 3% of the population of Earth is atheist.   Obviously, My main concern is that We don’t get Our feelings hurt by this rising tsunami of atheism.  I’m doing this for You.  Not just You, Al, but for the Little guys, too.  Joseph Smith, Buddha, The Religiously-Applied Philosophy Formerly Known as Xenu; all of You.

  So let’s get together and show what a force for good We can be!  Come on!  Who’s with Me?!

  Right.  I just turned the omniscience on.  You dick; You were about to throw this postcard away.  Let Me put it to You this way, then:  What are You going to do if everyone stops paying into Your vacation fund?

Wish You Were Here,


Dear Universe…


Universe Gamma-33/Rho-Theta-7

Dear Everyone Everywhere,

  I know I promised I’d be there for your birthday this year, but something extremely important came up… as far as you know.

  Okay, look, the truth is, even though I made you a cake last year, you’re just getting too old for birthday parties.  I can’t show up in a clown suit on your birthday any more.  It’s just not dignified.  But don’t get all weepy about it, you’re a big universe now.  Anyway, it’s n0t like I forgot, exactly.  I grabbed this card on the way through Charles de Gaulle Airport.  It was the only one in a language I approve of.

  Right.  They’re calling My flight, so buck up, don’t cry and I hope you had a nice birthday.

Wish You Were Here,


Dear Chilean Miners…

Somewhere in Chili Con Carne or Sopapilla or Huevos Rancheros

Dear Third-World Collectors of My Metallic Vacation Fund,

  When your horrible ordeal began, I had no idea that this rescue craze would be so popular.  If I’d known, I would have sent more than a handful of brand-loyalists to take credit on My behalf.  Actually, I thought you guys were goners.  When Republican Jesus called to tell Me how very big the rescue ratings were, I thought; Okay, it’s popular, but is it popular like crack cocaine or like gay bashing?  Is it popular like incessantly running your tongue over a broken tooth or like bigotry?  Like a train wreck or like date rape?  Certainly those are popular things, but do they get the kind of press I want to be associated with?  I have enough trouble distancing Myself from Glenn Beck.  The last thing I need is headlines like “Gawd Snuffs 33 Miners“.

  That’s one of the main reasons I stay out of the rescue business.  They’re just potential PR disasters.  Also, I’m on vacation.  Besides, I can usually count on My brand-loyalists giving Me credit when the rescue comes off and keeping their traps shut when it doesn’t.  They’re always giving Me great, (unpaid), PR.  If you listen to the brand-loyalists, I’m like some kind of super hero who swoops in and saves the day at the last minute.  The best thing about it, (other than the fact that I don’t have to interrupt My vacation and come to the middle of nowhere to fix someone else’s problems), is that hardly anyone ever wonders, “Hey, if omniscient, omnipotent, omnibenevolent Gawd is rescuing miners and curing people’s cancer and finding their car keys; who’s causing all the problems in the first place?”  Of course, when some dickhole does ask uncomfortable questions, My, (again, unpaid), PR machine swings into gear and blames My professional scapegoat, Satan, or free will or something like that.  I can get the credit without doing anything, so why bother?

  So imagine My surprise when I found out I was trapped in that mine with you.  Like I say, I’m happy to take the credit for all the hard work the rescuers did, but unless that mine has room service, a spa and a top-notch concierge, I’m certain I wasn’t there.  In fact, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop telling people that.  What self-respecting deity would be caught dead down a dark, dangerous, boring hole in the ground?  Maybe Vulcan, but not This Guy.

  Anyway, glad you fellas made it out alright, thanks for the shout out and don’t forget to put a little something extra in the collection plate this week and a big something extra once your book deal comes through.

Wish You Were Here,