Friday, August 20, 2004


Dear God, I know we usually talk mano-a-mano, or mano-a-almighty-o, and I don’t mean to rock the Lord Boat here - but you seem to be delivering the goods a bit less often for me these days, so I’m writing you a letter all formal-like. You see, at our last national security meeting (that’s when we get to talk about where we gon’ drop the big ones) I asked about the snack break (Cheeeeetoooooos!!!) and Cheney got all pissed and was like: “Shit, Junior, go write a fucking letter to Jesus or something. We’re busy in here.” At first I thought Uncle Dick was just in his usual hard ass mood, but then I thought – good idea!

So then why are my approval ratings so low, Oh Lord? You gave the ole holy stamp of approval on the invasion – so why do I keep havin’ to explain the thing to everyone and their damn aunt Edna? You know, not to nitpick, but you coulda’ thrown in a WMD or two somewhere in there, just to spare a born-again brother some headaches. Way it is, everybody’s blamin’ me for the body-bags, the bog-down and the big bill – like it’s somehow my fault. Do you think maybe you could come back to earth as George Burns and tell everyone Iraq was your idea? (See George Burns is dead so everyone would believe you…Awww, silly me, you’re God, you know that)

When 9/11 landed on my lap it was like manna from heaven for our agenda – and don’t think the manna wasn’t appreciated. It was fine manna. Damn good manna. Just like that I went from the “arsenic” president to a real live “war” president. I still don’t know what “war” president means but bless you my savior I do love to call myself that. For a while there I could do all your good work without anybody asking questions: Got me a Patriot Act, more tax cuts for my homies (hee hee!) and my own private Hanoi Hilton down in Guantanamo Bay. Approval ratings up the ying yang!

But did I go too far with this Iraq thing? How could I if you signed off?

And how am I losin’ to this high-fallutin’ Yankee, anyway? If he’s so smart, how come all those years ago he volunteered to get in one of them ‘Swift Boats.’ Rich and connected and he was still gonna risk getting shot up by some gook in a rice patty – what’s wrong with that boy? Man, if you had put me in a Swift Boat back then, only question would have been how swiftly I would have jumped out the boat and run for cover. Ha ha ha ha ha. Shit…

Now I learned last time that you don’t directly meddle with tight political races (that’s what brothers and Supreme Court justices your daddy appointed are for) – but if you’ve got time maybe you could just give Kerry, um, uh…shingles or some shit that wouldn’t necessarily kill him but make ‘im look all nasty like. Maybe leprosy? Can’t look so ‘presidential’ when you got the sores, blisters and boils drippin’ off your French-lookin’ face, now can ya?

Remember that night I decided to turn the whole George W. show over to you, Jesus? I was bent over praying to another God that evening – the porcelain one – and I just wanted the room to stop spinning so dang bad. The next morn’ I got to thinkin’ if the meek inherit the earth – there ain’t no one lived meeker than me thus far, and if you need someone who’s good at inheritin’ stuff, look no further! Cokin’, boozin’, draft-dodgin’, DUIin’, bankruptin’ – you lifted me out of all that. You got me off the sauce and into givin’ first time drug offenders hard jail time in Texas, and hurry-on-uppin’ the executin’ of hundreds of men (coupla’ ladies thrown in for equality sake) on death row.

But Lord I know what’s always been most important to you is that I privatize and deregulate anything me and my backaroos can get our paws on for the greater corporate good. It was your charge to keep in the governor’s mansion; it was your charge to keep in the White House – and I have kept it.

OK, so maybe that doesn’t make so much in the way of sense. In truth I s’ppose I’ve always had two masters: My corporate paymasters and you, master of the universe. But please understand I’ve always seen both you guys as, well, like, Master 1A and Master 1B – and Lord, in this case there is no shame in second place. After all, you may have saved me from the hooch and hookers – but Wal Mart and Exxon wrote the checks.

So why are you treating me this way? I guess you did me a mini-solid with that hurricane down in Jebland, but the way things are goin’ down there I’m gonna need a typhoon every two weeks to take the state.

How am I supposed to come back to Crawford and face the armadillos on my ranch a loser?! You gotta give me another term. Just one more. You gotta. I didn’t even blame you coupla’ years back when I had to put the freezers on my best bud Kenny Boy. I’m tellin’ ya – if I have to come home and face Laura, the twins and my assorted ranch vermin a loser – I might just make a return to prayin’ to ye God O’ Porcelain.


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