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Posted by on Jul 29, 2018 in Blog, Essays, Rants and Raves | 0 comments

Another Open Letter to the Invisible Sky Daddy (a.k.a. “Almighty God”)



Dear Almighty God:

Hey, you imaginary sadist.  Remember me?  Nolan here — spec of dust and warble of flesh on the forgotten planet we call — “Earth.”

I don’t want to sound ungrateful or anything.  And, I really appreciate you answering my prayer last night, letting me win my $200 bet when the Mexican boxer Vasquez beat another Latino boxer named Cruz to a bloody pulp.  I must say — that 8th round was beautiful, man.  Guy’s face looked like a pizza after the fight.  I owe you one.  I’ll slip five bucks to a homeless guy next time I pull up to an intersection, and we’ll call it even, okay?

That said, it really pains me to have to write you this time, begging your heavenly holiness for yet another favor.

See, we got a big problem.  Lots of problems.  Things down here are pretty much a clusterfuck at the moment.  And something tells me some serious shit’s about to hit the fan if you don’t move off your cruel and lazy ass and do something about it — and mighty quick.  Since some bigwig Washington guy named Mueller won’t answer the phone, we have to appeal to a much higher authority.  And it’s doesn’t get any higher than Your Holiness.  Are you listening, My Lord?  You do remember us, don’t you?  Here.  Wake up.  Get my electric cattle prod.  Bzzzt.  Methinks the old white-bearded bastard is dozing off again.

Let’s try this. Remember the insignificant planet on the fringe of the Milky Way, the “garden” where you created some naked dude named Adam, then made Eve out of one of his ribs?  Man, that was some real magic, much better than Chris Angel’s lame shit where he cuts women in his show in half.  Seriously, you ought to be doing the rib gig in Vegas — next to Tony Roma’s.

I know.  There’s like 10,000,000,000,000,000,000 planets for you to somehow remember. Keeping track of all those celestial beings can’t be easy.  Hopefully, you’re not using Facebook to keep in touch with people, anymore.  Or worse, Twitter.  I don’t blame you if the details seem a bit hazy sometimes.  So much fake news and confusion.

This might help.  Remember the biblical dungeon where you sent your only son, some hippie guy named “Jesus,” to die a torturous death about two dimes ago?  Does that spark a memory?  It’s the same playpen where you occasionally intervene when enough high praise and good tithings come your way, prompting you to heal the sick via that television preacher you partner with down in Baton Rouge.  He ought to be performing in Vegas, too.  Hell, if Britney Spears can pack a full house for what amounts to a $140 karaoke act, imagine what some charlatan who makes the crippled walk again might rake in?  We’re talking Joel Olsteen money.

Oh, for Christ sakes — Google E-A-R-T-H.  Surely something will pop up on Wikipedia.  If nothing comes up, then call the Russians.  They’ve got everything on tape.  Even stuff you might not want to see.

Let me explain.  See, the world down here’s falling apart.  Things are going batshit crazy.  Hurricanes.  Fires.  Hell, the President of the United States calls Canada, Germany, and France the enemy and embraces murderous dictators in North Korea and Russia.  You’ve got lots of people who cry your name and do evil deeds to other people who also cry your name.  Trouble is, all those people crying your name have guns and bullets and even grenades and apparently the nukes are coming next.  All those people on both sides crying your name also have bombs and rocket launchers.  The way it’s headed now something nuclear or biological can’t be off in the too distant future.  Once that happens, blow out the candles on the birthday cake, because the party’s basically fucking over.  We’ll all be reduced to dust.  I think you covered this part in one of your books, but honestly, I don’t remember the title.  Sorry, I don’t read much fiction.

I understand you’re probably pissed at us.  It’s those damned atheists, Sir.  We’re to blame!  Maybe if we stop hating and start praying, the world could finally live in peace.  If those atheists were all praying harder and worshipping you, like you so rightfully deserve for not murdering us in one of your natural disasters or inflicting us with diseases, things would be so much better for everyone.  Oh, except that just about every evil in the world today is committed in the name of religion.  That’s okay, Sky Daddy.  Everyone needs a scapegoat.

What I really don’t understand is this:  You let some of the worst assholes on earth get insanely rich and live like kings, often at the expense of lots of really nice and decent people.  The Saudi Royal Family.  The Koch Brothers.  Sheldon Adelson.  Those pricks who shoot giraffes.  Donald Trump.  Oh wait, Trump’s not really that rich.  He just claims to be.  Maybe you can set that straight.  Better yet, break him for the seventh time (the previous six bankruptcies didn’t seem to shut him up).

Then there’s the worst jerk and most evil monster of them all.  Of course, I’m talking about Dallas Cowboys owner Jerry Jones.  I don’t understand how you turn the Cowboys in the world’s most valuable sports franchise, but you can’t find it in your heart to answer the prayers of a starving child in the Sudan who’s begging for a cup of rice.  Something’s seriously wrong, man.

You do work in mighty mysterious ways, My Lord.  You ended Mozart’s life way too early.  You hooked Charlie Parker on drugs.  You broke up The Beatles in their creative prime before any of them turned 30.  You killed off Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and Jim Morrison, each at age 27.  You let airplanes crash that were carrying Buddy Holly and Stevie Ray Vaughn (by the way, what’s your fetish for crashing planes?).  But Kim Kardashian and Kanye West won’t go away.  I mean, can’t we get a fucking break?

Tell you what.  If we book Kanye on Malaysian Airlines, will you please take care of the rest?

Of course, none of this will matter soon.  Maybe it’s your “plan.”  The wars and hatred, the crashing airplanes, the starving billions, the rich assholes, the traitorous president, and the bizarre transformation towards the worship of fame and celebrity over character and talent won’t mean jack shit when the global atmosphere has dissipated, the oceans are boiling, animals are going extinct, and the earth has become a galactic redux of Venus in mid-July.

If I can’t get you to do something about global warming, Lord — then how about this?

There’s a fight next Saturday night and I’ve identified what appears to be a real live underdog.  He’s currently listed at +185.

I’d sure appreciate it if you’d let my fighter bash the other guy’s face in.  That doesn’t seem like such a big favor to ask, does it Lord?  I mean seeing that you’re obviously a sadist and all.

For you, this one should be easy.

Thanks for listening,


— Nolan




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