An Open Letter to Almighty God
Dear Almighy God:
I don’t want to sound ungrateful or anything. I really appreciate that you answered my prayer a few weeks ago, letting me win my $500 bet when that fighter Vasquez beat Cruz to bloody pulp. That 8th round was beautiful. I owe you one. I’ll give $2 to a homeless guy and we’ll call it even, okay?
So, it really pains me to have to write to you this time, begging your heavenly holiness for another favor.
See, 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 quick. Are you listening, My Lord? You do remember us, don’t you? Here. Wake up. Get my electric cattle prod. Me thinks 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 Adam, then made Eve out of one of his ribs? Man, that was some real magic, much better than Penn and Teller’s lame shit. Seriously, you ought to be doing that gig in Vegas.
I know. There’s like 10,000,000,000,000,000,000 planets for you to remember. Keeping track of all those celestial beings can’t be easy. Hopefully, you’re not using Windows-XP. So, I don’t blame you if the details seem a bit hazy sometimes.
Remember the biblical dungeon where you sent your only son “Jesus” to die a torturous death about two dimes ago? Does that spark your memory? It’s the same playpen where you now occassionally 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 sell a tickets for what basically amounts to an overpriced karaoke act, imagine what some charlatan who makes the crippled walk again might rake in.
Oh, for Christ sakes — Google E-A-R-T-H, God. Surely something will pop up on Wikipedia.
Now let me explain. See, the world down here’s falling apart. Things are crazy. 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. 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 living like a bunch of gekkos.
I understand you’re pissed at us. It’s those damned atheists, Sir. They’re to blame! Maybe if they would 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.
We’ve got airplanes crashing everywhere. A few months ago, one even disappeared without a trace. God, seriously — you got to make that shit stop. It’s not funny. If that’s your idea of an international Easter egg hunt, quit it.
Besides, 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. Take that Adelson guy, for instance. Or, Trump. Or, the entire Saudi royal family. Then there’s the worst jerk of them all. Of course, I’m talking about LeBron James. How come they get so many toys and perks, 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?
You do work in mighty mysterious ways. You ended Mozart’s life way too early. You hooked Charlie Parker on drugs. You broke up The Beatles in their creative prime. 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 Lindsey Lohan and Kim Kardashian won’t go away. I mean, can’t we get a fucking break?
Tell you what. If we book Paris Hilton on Malaysian Airlines, will you please take care of the rest?
Of course, very soon none of this will matter. The wars and hatred, the crashing airplanes, the starving billions, the rich assholes, and the bizarre tranformation 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, and the earth has become a gallactic redux of Venus.
If I can’t get you to do something about global warming, Lord — then how about this?
There’s a fight Saturday night and I’ve identified what appears to be a real live dog. He’s currently listed at “plus 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,