Friday, March 21, 2008

The wrath of God: transcript

Listen up, idiots! You don't speak for Me!

And, frankly, I'm not about to get on speaking terms with you anytime soon. So don't give us this "the Lord is talking to me" crap all the time. The Lord is out of town. The Lord wouldn't be caught dead with you, even if I could die. The Lord has better things to do. The Lord is busy turning water into wine and hanging out and chilling with His buddies. And even when I do talk to you, you thick bastards, you don't listen unless I yell. Like I'm having to do right now.

You know who you are: so-con bigots who never met a woman you didn't hate and a fetus you didn't love, Jesus-on-toast/bathroom walls/couches nutbars, One Nation Under Godders, In God We Trusters, Allah-u-akhbar beheaders, wide-stance homophobes, racists, young earth creationists, Eretz Israelites, prudes,
dribbling televangelists complete with boring, godawful© Christian "music," Republicans, snivelling Biblical inerrancy illiterates, Baptists (damn, I hate Baptists)...

Intelligent Design? Hell, I've made a boo-boo or two in My time. Can you say "Fred Phelps?" Oh, yeah, and the upward-draining sinuses. And the testicles outside the body, loaded with nerve-endings. Not one of My best days. I'm not perfect, you know. (What, you didn't? Morons! I made you, didn't I? Case closed.)

Lookit, I went to a fair bit of trouble for this shindig. I gave you a pretty good planet, lots of finger food, bodies ripe for lovin', real shit-kicking music of the spheres, enough intelligence to get this party started, and you went and trashed the place. And now you want to speak in My name? And run governments in My name? And fight wars in My name? Who the hell do you think you are, you dumb, ignorant dickwads?

Oooh, I'm starting to get pissed off. Better pray I don't go all the way with that.

I should have known better when I saw what you did to My kid. Forget the Second Coming of Christ, assholes, you're not gonna get a chance to do that again. And it's the last time I send Jizreel to talk to some guy in a cave, too. Neither of them could get a damn thing straight. Next time I'll go Myself. As for those stupid I am, giving the whole of the dispensation, what I thought was a not-half-bad bit of revelation, by the way, and that half-wit Moses is trying to take notes with a friggen chisel. You know, I'm thinking of pouring out the seven vials right now. How would you like them apples, Pastor Hagee, you dumb shithead?

Better take a deep breath and try not to create anything new here.

OK, I'll do you a deal, and if you're halfway brighter than a housefly (I know, not one of my better moves, I had Creator's block there for awhile, best I could do) you'll take it. I don't smite you with emerods, you stop talking about me. I don't hurl down a thunderbolt or two, you stop telling other folks how to live. I don't blow out the sun like a friggen match, asswipes, and you get the hell out of politics. In fact, get the hell out of My sight. (Well, that's impossible, come to think of it. But do your best.)

Don't, do not, mess with me, dudes. Falwell knows what I'm talking about. Let's put it this way--he's no longer the fat dumbass you used to gawp at. I have no idea what we'll do with the grease. Back off. Shut up and try to look pretty. Do something halfway useful. And maybe--just maybe--I'll let you live. And when you finally shuffle off those hideous mortal coils of yours, maybe--just maybe--I'll spare you the pork barbecue. But I'm not gonna tell you twice.

[This has been a blogpost against theocracy. And believe Me, I know what I'm talking about.]

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