TO: Tom Delay
FROM: God.
Tom, you're through. If I warned you once I warned you an infinite number of times, you do not emulate Me. You do not take My name in vain. You do not presume to speak my Commandments. Who do you think you are: Charlton Heston?
Another thing Tom - I'm sick and tired of the prayers. A Deity can only put up so long with prayers that start: 'O (Me) please don't let Ronnie Earle find out about...'? Know how many of those little celestial Fedexes I've had from you since September, Tom? 17,314. Every Me-damn one of them DIFFERENT!
How did you have the TIME to do all that kick-backing and skimming and scheming Tom? Me knows, being a good Baptist boy, you don't have much to do of an evening when it comes to drinking and dancing and pitching woo, but when did you sleep for running around with that fat leather bag?
Did it ever occur to you as you sat there in chapel with your eyes piously screwed shut, thinking about how much you could take off Abramoff, that I might have been serious about that camel-through-the-eye-of-a-needle stuff?
Money-laundering Tom? How about some SOUL-laundering?
I warned you not to put up that huge sign in your office: THIS COULD BE THE DAY! Just to show those boneheaded cracker Christians you had traipsing through, how tuned in you were to the Final Days. Problem is Tom, there ARE no Final Days. It's a Me-damn crazy notion. Sounds like a Macy's Fall Sale.
The Rapture is Crapture, Tom! None of you holy-rollers are going to get snatched up in ANYTHING except a POLICE VAN!
How can anyone be responsible for the long-term welfare of a great nation if they believe the world's gonna end next Tuesday? I'll tell you how. Because you didn't mean it for a nanosecond! That End Time sign was just another way to bamboozle the suckers, you hypocritical sack of excrement!
You were USING ME!
IT'S NOT NICE TO USE GOD THE FATHER TOM!
WE DO NOT LIKE THAT TOM!
While we're on the subject of using Me do Me a favor. Before they wham the Hammer in the slammer, make that heathen pinhead in the Offal Office quit saying he's born-again. A walk through the ocean of that soul wouldn't even get your feet wet. Know why he never goes to chapel? 'Cos he's scared silly that the minute he walks in the door I'll split his bony fundaments asunder with one of My divine rectal rockets!
Born-again My mighty foot! BOUGHT-again more like.
Only prayer I ever heard him pray went: Our Father who art in Houston...H-E-E-ELP!
Know what REALLY gets up My Infinite Nose? When you and he and those other mealy-mouthed Pharisees like Santorum and Frist talk about Me Blessing America. Are you guys NUTS? With dung like you in charge?
And what's all this about you killing hundreds of thousands of Muslims in My Name? Or putting innocent Mexicans to death in Ditto? What is about 'Thou shalt not kill' you don't GET, Tom? That's my bailiwick. I alone get to kill people. I ALONE get to play God.
Like when I told that first fish to crawl up on dry land and it died a hideous slow death? Me-damn that was funny!
But then evolution is fun. Can't think of anything I designed more intelligently - and I've designed some pretty dumb stuff. Like lint. Or Pat Robertson. Or the Big Bang...
Grapefruit. Boom. Universe! I love shit like that.
But enough with the material. Let's talk turkey. You want to know what I have in store for you Tom?
It's B-A-A-A-D.
Sure, I pondered the usual torments: killing you and burying you up to your jowls in dog-shit with every one of those roaches you exterminated crawling over your face for all eternity. But that would be letting you off too easy!
In any case Pete said that if I cast you into Hell, within thirty seconds Hell would spit you right back out.
See Tom, it's not just that you're the most vindictive, hate-sodden, greed-driven, back-stabbing, money-grubbing, egotistical, lying, hypocritical, bullying, sleazy, sanctimonious, self-important, murdering Super-Size son of bitch ever thrown up by the great state of Texas... It's that you pretended to be a model Christian, as pure and holy as driven snow, the very reincarnation of my Only Son.
That's why Tom even though I'm the God of forgiveness, I thought unto Myself: NAH, with this miserable creep I'm going with the WRATH thing.
So I'm going to let you live Tom and let the whole mess unravel, everything Earle's got, everything Fitzgerald's got, all the filth Abramoff's gonna spew along with Savafian, the whole vast net of lying and thieving and even the odd killing, until it drags you down lower than a wart on the belly of a snake.
In fact Tom, the only thing you have in common with My Son is...
YOU'RE GONNA GET CRUCIFIED!