An Open Letter from God | Opinion | Salt Lake City | Salt Lake City Weekly
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An Open Letter from God

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Dearest Children, (and that includes all of you, even non-believers):

I'm reviewing my last 2,000 years or so, and I know I've been terribly remiss about keeping in touch with all of you. To make this a bit more heart-to-heart and down-to-earth, I'm dispensing with my usual "verily, verily's" and "It came to pass ..."

As you've probably guessed from the endless stream of media coverage, there are a great many parts of my plan that have gone tragically wrong. And so, I'm going into this Christmas season with substantial "mis-givings," and that doesn't mean "misaddressed" packages that contain a lacey bra for Harry and a Lionel train for Grandma. The songs of my herald angels—I wrote those lyrics myself—have lost their meaning. There's simply been no peace on Earth or good will to men, even since I sent my bundle of joy down there to teach you all about love.

Since I consider every one of you to be very dear and precious, I thought that I might take a moment during this holiday season to reassure and comfort you in your throes as human beings. As you can imagine, being God keeps me extremely busy, so I have, traditionally, kept my communication at a minimum. My routine is brutal, having to faithfully watch all the New England Patriots games—they're my favorite team—while trying to spend at least a little bit of time as a fan of world soccer. And, just so they don't feel ignored, I've been following World Wrestling Entertainment, too.

But, more than anything, I am trying to solve the world's worst problem. My pet project—how to slow human reproduction to a tamer level—takes a great deal of time and effort. I've even considered putting saltpeter in mankind's food supply, or finding some way to make women less attractive. And, as a contingency plan, just in case I can't adjust human sex drives, I am tirelessly trying to find a nifty plague to deal with it. Sadly, I'm making little progress. I guess you realize—especially you heretic scientists—that man has been thwarting my intent; every time you develop another vaccine or cure, you're really messing things up.

And, my dear children, it's entirely possible that, because of all your B.S. anti-abortion legislation, I might be forced to issue a new commandment. With that possibility in mind, I am struggling with whether I'll have you kill your first- or your second-born. I don't know why there's so much resistance to pro-choice, and I'm flabbergasted to learn that the misguided zealots of Illinois are talking about trying to save the same fetuses I'm trying to get rid of. Look at it this way, my children: It was the apple that started the entire human race, but that doesn't mean you're killing a child each time you take a bite of one. Oh, people are so silly.

Being God has always been damned—excuse the expression—hard, but the burgeoning numbers have made it virtually impossible to give you the personal treatment I wish I could afford. I created the world and never intended it to sustain so many people. If you want to show me that you worship me, please stop having so many kids. It's driving me nuts. With the now billions of prayers a day, I can't even take time now to rescue a kitten from a tree. If yours wasn't answered, you know why, and the notion that I see every sparrow that falls is, at best, laughable. Once in a while I'll notice an eagle, but a sparrow—you've got to be kidding.

Most of all, I want you all to know that you are very important to me. With the eons passing by so quickly, I have a tendency for boredom, and I'd like to say that, as much as the struggles of humanity upset you, I'm finding much of what's going on down there to be very entertaining.

As a matter of policy, I've elected to interfere as little as possible in the dealings of mankind, and, let's face it; bad things are bound to happen. It's all part of the random probabilities I calculated during the creation. You know, of course, what I'm talking about. Yes, him—the man with the windswept orange hair and the wife who looks so much like my favorite moth. When I created him, I knew his heart, and I intentionally shorted him on brains to make him less dangerous. Now I can see my plan failed, and that stupidity, in the final assessment, is even more frightening than having the devious, stunning intelligence of my old friend, Lucifer. Believe me; I am trying my best to take Donald Trump "home" early, but there's certainly no room for him here with me, and the devil has already said, "No way!" All I can say is, I'm working on it. The prayers of the Christian right have been fizzling in the sky nearby—a lot like Kim's missiles—but I am receiving the petitions of the non-brain dead daily, and I promise you, I will deal with it.

And, by the way, I'm sending a similar letter to all my religions and people, so they'll know I haven't forgotten about them either. Just keep in mind my favorite saying: This too shall pass, so never, ever give up hope, and have a happy holiday.

Yours,

God.


The author is a former Vietnam-era Army assistant public information officer. He resides in Riverton with his wife, Carol, and one mongrel dog. Send feedback to comments@cityweekly.net

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