God's Corner: A Weekly Advice Column from the Supreme Being
I’ve been getting a lot of email inquires lately, so forgive the cursory nature of some of these responses as I’m trying to catch up. Many of you, after all, have simply asked for a definitive yea or nay, so let me get down to it.
Astrology: Bullshit.
UFOs: Bullshit.
Faith healing: Big-time bullshit.
Acupuncture: Immensely funny.
Organized religion: Too organized and not religious enough.
Prayer: Does not make your hands grow hair and fall off. Or wait, is that masturbation? I still get them confused. Forgive me, I’m not a biological entity and you people have only recently, cosmically speaking, started making this distinction, whose nuances frankly still escape me. You seem to call out my name in roughly equal measure in either case. Must we split hairs?
The sanctity of marriage between a man and a woman: Let me tell you something. Not far from you is a planet inhabited by an incredibly advanced race of spongiform polyps which reproduce by means of huge, poly-sexual orgies. They congregate by the millions in great outdoor public ceremonies and entwine their long tendrils upon vast, mile-high structures resembling elaborate coral reefs carved from ivory. Once amassed upon this impossibly beautiful structure, they let the cool winds of their home world, fresh with the scent of sea brine during the season of Sklorn, or “The Parting of the Great Sky-Cunt,” grace the turgid flesh of their distended, balloon-like bodies, as each individual creature embraces and fondles their nearest-hundred neighbors. After a period equivalent to several bliss-filled Earth years, the buffeting winds and the caressing appendages agitate their ripened bodies to disgorge billions of winged spermatozoa into the upper atmosphere. This immense collective orgasm - whose mind-boggling ecstasies are so multi-faceted and transcendent that for me to even try to properly define, in human terms, two or three of the many thousands of Sklyrgryyin words used for “coming”, “birthing,” or “soul singing to the space-time rapture” would cause your human mind to hemorrhage and collapse like a mismanaged soufflé – results in a white mushroom cloud many magnitudes larger than the explosions produced by your most powerful hydrogen bombs. However, unlike the reign of death unleashed by your crude weaponry, this cloud is filled with billions of new lives; flying doves of space-jizz that will pass through fourteen different developmental stages, each with their own requisite expressions of physical and spiritual elation, as they proceed in a state of living grace through the blessed rigors of “thought-throbbing” and “advanced differential dharma-fuck speciation.”
What I’m trying to tell you here is that you people have the most boring sex lives of any race in the known universe. Please understand, I’m not responsible. I came by your place a little while back, whipped together a few fatty lipids and polymerase chains, and then I left you all to party down on your own. I didn’t invent the whole bipedal/vertebrate thing. Not my bad. The point is, you gave yourselves the short end of the stick rapture-wise, and now you’re bitter about it. So really – and I’m telling you this right now because, you know, I’m God and I love you, etc. – this bitterness is the root of a lot of your problems. You could at least have a sense of humor about it. I mean, if you can’t laugh, what have you got? Really?
Get the fuck over yourselves.
Prayer in School: Perfectly acceptable, when accompanied by masturbation.
Next week God takes your questions about genetically modified farming, the War on Terror, and finding a good mechanic you can trust.