Dear Loyal Creation,
Hi! Hope things are going well for you. Of course, I already know how things are going for you, I’m fuckin God after all; I’m just being congenially anthropomorphic for your benefit.
Hey, listen, before I go on I want to let you know I’m really sorry about your infant daughter dying. I wouldn’t want you to think for one minute I didn’t hear your prayers, and see your wife’s tears as she sat by her bedside all those weeks and begged for me to save her. I’m sorry she had to suffer that slow agonizing death, but I haven’t gotten around to providing the doctors with the formula and insight necessary to cure her condition. Maybe in a couple of weeks. I’ve been real busy trying to get North Carolina into the Final Four.
Oh, yes … of course I could have intervened and miraculously saved her; but I work in strange and mysterious ways, as I’m sure you’ve heard. Anyway, you can produce more offspring (shouldn't be too difficult for you, your wife is HOT! I'd do her myself, but the last time I tried that it started a cult). Oh, and thanks for not getting all pissy and giving up belief in me. I know I can count on your continued praise and worship. Hey, what else ya got going for you in your life, right? Hahaha ... just kidding! ( no I’m not).
Anyway, the real reason I’m writing is to let you know you’ve been chosen to be my spokesperson on Earth. I know, I know, you’re thinking “What!? Me?? But I’m nobody, I’m not worthy!” and of course you’d be right. I mean, I could pick someone with much higher intellect, who possesses reasoning skills, and respects logic, say… an atheist. But, you know how they are. They’d ask for proof / evidence, and when I couldn’t provide any, they’d know that they were having a delusion, go seek professional psychiatric care, and get back to the business of being normal productive people in short order. It just wouldn’t work out.
But, YOU on the other hand are so credulous, so sheepishly faithful, so deluded, so resistant to anything smacking of reality, that I know can count on you to blindly mouth my orders and expectations for all mankind. Right now you’re thinking Pat Robertson already does this job. You’re wrong, he's an asshat. I never communicate through him. In fact, it won’t belong before he joins Jerry Falwell in that special place I created for so many of my beloved but all too annoying creations. On the other hand Fred Phelps does some consulting work for me on a pet project of mine. Fred’s a special guy.
So, here’s the deal. Every so often I will communicate to you what I want you to tell the other sheep. Sometimes it’ll be through your dreams, sometimes as voices in your head, sometimes via your cell phone (I’ll put you on my “Favorite Five” speed dial).
Occasionally just for fun I’ll shoot you a sign, like those urine stains on men’s room walls that look like that Jesus character, or the cheese sandwiches that look like that Mary babe. They don’t mean anything, but you can sell them on ebay and supplement your meager income. God Knows (Hehehe) I mean, I knows you could use the extra cash, given your career at Burger King isn’t exactly destine for greatness and you still live in your Mom’s basement.
Well, that’s about it for now. I’ll be in touch. Don’t bother to show this letter to anyone, it’s just a blank piece of typewriter paper, except for the repetitive “REDRUM, REDRUM” scrawled in red crayon in your handwriting. People wouldn’t understand.
Don’t call me. I’ll call you.
Omnisciently yours,
God


