Dear Physicists…

In Some Secret Laboratory Somewhere

Dear Weekend Supervillians,

  I heard, recently, about how you’re trying to play down the incontrovertible proof that I made the universe from scratch 6,000 years ago.  You’ve been trying to hide the fact that atomic decay rates are seasonal by stashing the story with that crazy, left-wing “news” agency, NBC.  Well, it’s not going to work.

  I admit, I almost didn’t notice until I went bowling with My old school chums, Geb & Nut.  We played ten frames and They both beat Me, but I noticed that some of Their pins were falling when they shouldn’t.  Now, it’s an unspoken rule that We never use Our omnipotence when We bowl, so I was ready to call shenanigans when I noticed that the pins all had strings attached to them.  On further investigation, I realized that it must be you, physicists, who were messing with My game.  You’ve been fucking with Me ever since that whole “the Earth is round” bullshit you started spreading about 20 years before I created the universe.

  This time, I’m going to nip it in the bud.  I’m telling you right now that the .001% yearly difference, or whatever this seasonal decay rate thing shows, proves once and for all that I am the one and only Gawd*, who created everything** and science, reason and all their pals can suck My big, fat nob.  So quit messing with My game and I won’t be forced to turn you into pillars of salt.

Wish You Were Here,


*  All other deities excluded.

** Give or take.


Dear Science Thumpers…

Where You’re Not Wanted

Dear Annoying Atheist Proselytizers,

  I was visiting one of My top-tier tithers this weekend at his little 40-room bungalow and as we sat on the front porch Saturday morning, smoking a couple of nice Cohibas, what I can only assume were a couple of science nuts tried to get in the front gate to tell us “the good news”.  They were at the end of a 1/4 mile driveway, so I didn’t see them too well, but they were holding a book and shouting about this “good news” of theirs.  Presumably, it was that Darwin book and the good news was some drivel about genetics or some such.  It nearly ruined My morning; until the butler released the dogs.

  When will you atheists stop annoying people with information that they don’t want?  Look, I know you’re My New Chosen People and all, but that doesn’t give you any special prerogatives.  Just ask My old Chosen People, the Jews.  Sometimes I can’t wait for the atheist ghettos to open up.  Why can’t you be more like My brand loyalists?  You never see them out ruining My saturday morning.  I’ll bet they were all at home doing… well, whatever it is they do.  Preparing the Sunday morning tithe or boning up on My rules.  I can tell you where they weren’t.  They weren’t at the end of a certain driveway, embarrassing Me in front of one of My biggest donaters.

  You know, I’m as big a fan of science as the next deity.  Science is directly or indirectly responsible for some of My favorite things.  First class cabins in airplanes.  Solid gold toilets.  Electronic funds transfers.  Hell, I’m even pretty sure that science had something to do with limousines.  Just, why do you have to shove it in everyone’s faces?  I mean, really, you’re just making yourselves look ridiculous and you’re not making any friends.

  So here’s a little advice from your favorite deity.  If you really want to get your message across, just shut up and do whatever you can to make Me and My brand loyalists comfortable.  There.  Now I guess you can see where Solomon got his wisdom, eh?

Wish You Were Here,


Dear Scientists and Muslims…

In Your Secret Underground Lairs

Dear Nerds and Rugbutters,

  I’ll bet you never thought you’d get a joint postcard, did you?  I mean, you’re not exactly peanut butter and chocolate, are you?  In this instance, though, you do have something in common.  You’re both getting dangerously close to a smiting by meddling in things which are not your concern.

  First and foremost; scientists.  You will be the death of Me yet, (Oh, I crack Me up!)  But seriously, you have been naughty, naughty.  When I closed down the Garden of Eden Amusement Park™ I did so for a good reason and for good.  But just because it’s abandoned doesn’t mean you can trespass.  And syrup-chugger scientists don’t get a pass just because it happens to be in Canada.  I know you’re all socialized up there, but private property is still private property.  No one can say that I’m not a compassionate deity, but how could I look My old school chum, Invisible Hand of Capitalism, in the [invisible] eye if I let you use something I own, even if I’m not using it anymore?  As I’m sure you’ll agree, the very thought is sickening.

   So here is what I propose.  I’ll let you take isotope samples and what-have-you from the oldest place on Earth and I’ll charge a special scientist rate.  I believe surgeons fall under the heading of “scientists”, right?  At least, that’s what Asclepius told Me once, and if you can’t trust your doctor, who can you trust?  So I’ll charge you at the same rate He charges Me when I get a dose of “Cupid’s Itch”; $500 per hour.  Just think of yourselves as My little social disease bank from now on.

  Right.  That’s you taken care of.  Now for the Muslims.

  The reason I’m using the same postcard for you and for the scientists is that I’m hoping, even though you’re somebody else’s, (Hack!  Hack!), brand-loyalists, that maybe some of the scientific method will rub off on you.  Not too much, of course.  Me knows, I’m not exactly an advocate of science, except where it intersects with first-class travel and accommodation.  However, you’re really making asses of yourselves.  Normally, I’d just drop Allah, (hack thief of My intellectual property that He is), an elegantly hand-written letter simply saying “Ha Ha!!!”  Unfortunately, you’ve kind of jumped the shark this time and it begins to put all deities in a bad light.  As I am a subset of “all deities”, (there’s a little science talk for you), I’m taking this unprecedented step to rectify the situation.

  I don’t, usually, have a problem with tacky crap.  An extra big “Big Ben” in a gravitational dead zone, in “perfect alignment with magnetic north”, where you can get “charged with energy” is alright.  A little wooey, but alright.  On the other hand… two million LED lights?  Really Muslims?  Now I’m just starting to think that you’re compensating for something.

  So do us all a favor and scrap that thing.  If not, at the very least be sure to keep insisting that Allah, (Hack!), is the One True Gawd.

Wish You Were Here,


Dear Humanity…

On My Earth that I made for Me!!1!

All you humans who treat Me with no consideration,

  Keep reading this postcard and don’t you dare throw it away!  If you don’t read this I will come down there and tsunami your asses!  I have plenty of energy to do it, even if I am on vacation, so just listen to Me!  Listen to what you do to Me!  You make My life so fucking difficult!  Why can’t you be a people who fucking support me instead of fucking sucking Me dry?!  Has any supernatural relationship ever worked with you?!  NO!  It’s no wonder all the other deities have quit!  I’m the only one who loves you!  Just think of all I’ve done for you!!1  Who let you discover fire and caves after you got yourself kicked out of Eden?!  Who saved Noah and his immediate family from that flood?!  Who tortured and killed His own son so some of you wouldn’t burn in Hell?!  Me, that’s who!  But you rejected Me!  You will never be happy!  Fuck you!  And if you don’t like My fucking language, you can fuck off!!1!

  Don’t you dare crumple this card up and throw it away!!!  I can tell you’re thinking about it!!1  You should be on your knees begging Me to forgive you and giving Me money ’cause I deserve it1111!!  But everything you do insults Me!  You insult Me, you insult My friends and you’re always fucking flirting with science!!  If you get raped by a pack of scientists it will be your fault!!1!

  I am sick of your bullshit!!!  You can stay on the earth, but it’s not yours!!  I’m not giving it to you!!!

Wish You Were Here,


P.S. – Whichever one of you is in charge of reservations at the Hotel Le St-James, I’ll be arriving Saturday night.  This time, please don’t put chocolates on the pillows in the Royal Suite.  I woke up with it in My beard last time.

Dear Albert Mohler…

C/O BioLogos Foundation, 6549 Mission Gorge Rd., San Diego, CA  92120


  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,


Dear Jesus Christ(s)…

Fixing a Race at The Dog Track and Sulking In The Basement, respectively

Dear Boys,

  I was relaxing at the VIP Grand Lisboa Hotel & Spa last week and I picked up a copy of Playboy Magazine… you know, for the articles.  Well, You could have knocked Me over with a feather.  There You were, right on the cover!  At first, I thought, “Oh, dammit.  They’re going to get naked,” which is not an extraordinary conclusion, since one of You has no nudity taboo, (presumably from smoking too much of the marijuana), and the other just likes to show people how big His cock is.  You can imagine how relieved I was when I saw that it was just You two, doing the things You two do – with wedding tackle mercifully covered.  I was unhappy to see that You didn’t share the photo space evenly, though.  There was You, Republican Jesus, on the cover, about to make sweet, sweet love to a drunken/roofied chick You met in a bar; another of You propositioning a street-whore; and yet another of You after paying a couple of street-whores to do the lesbo-nasty, (I’m glad You took the time to finally make it clear that I’ve got nothing against lesbians).  But only one of Hippy Jesus, staring creepily over a Catholic schoolgirl’s shoulder.  RJ, You’ve got to learn to share, even if You are My favorite.

  It’s good to see You getting Your faces out there, and not just on grilled cheese sandwiches.  If there’s one thing Gawd, Inc. needs it’s more publicity.  We could use some good press.  You ought to do the talk show circuit and remind people what We stand for.  It might take their minds off of all the child rape Our investment bank employees are getting up to.  Show them that We’re not just a one-trick pony.  For instance, remind them of some of Our other positions on children, and I don’t mean doggy-style.  Remind them of Our “Mauled Straight” program.  That’s one I’m particularly proud of.

  By doing this spread in Playboy, You can bring some much-needed attention to My holy and perfect stance on women.  But I don’t need to remind You, of course, You know how I feel.  The important thing is, get out there, show Your faces, and most of all, push the tithing.  Like that crazy old coot of Mine, Malachi, put it:

Will a man rob God? Yet ye have robbed me. But ye say, Wherein have we robbed thee? In tithes and offerings.

  That man had a beautiful way with words.

Wish You Were Here,


Dear Zeus…

Rural Route 1, Mount Olympus

Mister Zeus, (and I mean that to sting),

  I take one little vacation.  One measly break from the hard, hard work of being Me, and what happens?  I turn My back for an eye-blink of 6,000 years or so and You “accidentally” strike My boys’ favorite statue with lightning.

  Oh, I got your apology note when I swung by The Deity Club for a round of golf.  Though I hardly think a cocktail napkin stuffed through the vent on My locker with “Oops!  My bad.  It was an accident.  I owe you a drink,” scrawled on it constitutes a heartfelt apology.  And anyway, You ought to be apologizing to the boys.  They’re the ones locked in Their rooms, crying Themselves to sleep.

  Actually, if it were just Me, I’d probably let it go.  Maybe put itching powder in Your jock one day in the locker room.  That’s just the sort of practical joke I get a kick out of.  But this is My boys We’re talking about.  You know how much I care about Them.  On top of that, it’s been a pretty bad week for Me.  I just found out what the Catholic priests have been doing.  I mean, for fuck’s sake, I can’t think of a more disgusting, heinous crime.  You put a guy in charge of the most precious things in the universe, You ask him to nurture them and help them grow, and the next thing You know, they’re stealing cash right out of Your vacation fund!

  Believe You Me, there’s a special place in Hell for a guy like that.

  Anyway, just lay off the jokes right now.  Not that I can’t take one.  I’m not like some deities I could name; it’s just there are some things that are okay to joke about and some things that aren’t.

Wish You Were Here,