At a Christian prayer rally called “The Response” in Austin, Texas on August 6th, Governor Rick Perry closed his remarks on the state of the nation with the following prayer:

“Father, our heart breaks for America, We see discord at home, we see fear in the  marketplace, we see anger in the halls of government. And as a nation, we have  forgotten who made us, who protects us, who blesses us.  And for that we cry out for your forgiveness.”

In unusually swift turnaround time, the Texas Governor’s office received the following reply from God at 4.30 PM, CST:

“Dear Governor Perry, Rick if I may–

My heart breaks too.  It breaks everytime I hear the voices of brainlesss politicians saying out loud what they know in their cheating hearts isn’t true.  Most world leaders don’t do this anymore.  It’s a blessing, really.  Lets me get on with my nap.  But even when I was younger I didn’t listen.  Speaking of cheating hearts, I love that song. How does it go again?  I’m guessing that it and Turkey in the Straw are the only songs you know, so I thought I’d mention it. I’ve always believed in finding the common ground. Just ask the Palestinians.  That’s called jest, Rick. It wouldn’t hurt you to smile at something other than Yo Mama jokes.

One of the few places where Nazi airheads like you still get an audience is America. Especially Texas. And Pakistan and places like that.  Places where there are lots of guns.  With all those guns, I don’t think I’d be much good to you really.  Never learned to use one.  My brother Zeus used to be good with thunderbolts. Guns, not so much.

Just a couple of corrections, though.  Since you’ve only got fourscore years and ten and have used up more than two thirds of that already, no reason to waste your breath asking for things that I can’t make can’t happen in your lifetime.

First of all, I don’t have any control over the marketplace.  That’s way out of my league, complexity-wise. I didn’t even give instructions for the ark–it was Noah’s idea.  He was afraid it wouldn’t float, so he reckoned that if everybody in his family drowned he could just say, “Don’t blame me. God gave me the plan.”  A lot of my official story, the one that’s in the book you keep in your top desk drawer next to your old copies of Maxim, is like that–stuff that you humans screwed up and came crying to me too late when it was already fucked. It worked for a couple of thousand years, but it’s played hell with my reputation.

No one could decide whether I was a sadistic old bastard who liked hurting people who couldn’t keep my rules or a nice old dad-type who sends a helping hand when things look hopeless. Like when junior runs his credit card into the ground in his first semster at Amherst.  Or when the bills come due on all the wars you Texas boys seem to like so much. Or when your daddy had that chat with the dean about whether you were going to be able to graduate with a 1.o average.  Money talks Rick.  God doesn’t.

Let me tell you something else,  Rick: I didn’t give you those commandments and I didn’t send my only begotten son to help you out.  I don’t care whose ox gores a foreigner or what you do with your neighbour’s ass.  And I certainly never had an interest in first century Palestinian virgins.  They’re all stories Rick, stories.

The fact is, I’ve never really done anything, so you can’t count on me to change the market place, or people’s cheatin’ hearts, or fish you out of the financial swamp you’re making for yourself. You know how you prayed to me (you used to call me “Merciful God” and cry when you were loaded) to make “everything OK” with the girl you thought you got pregnant ?  Sorry I couldn’t help–not even offer you a tissue.

I didn’t create you, or your lovely wife, Anita Thigpen, or anybody else.  I didn’t even make the little green apples.  And I hate it when people call me “Father”.  I mean for Christ sake, you’re sixty years old.  Grow up a little.  How much protecting and saving do you need at your age?  It reminds me of the time Abraham came running to me when it was pretty clear that Sodom was going down the sewer.  “Won’t you help us?,” he said, “What if I find a few good men who believe in you?”  “Believe in me?  What does that even mean? It won’t make any difference,” I said. “It’s going down.”  And down it went.  I know, I know: in the black  Bible book in your top drawer you have Abraham’s version–but that’s the way it really happened.  Sodom was a cesspool, full of people whose ways were continually evil, like Texas. Shit happens because people like you make it happen and then expect me to clean it up. Not my fault, Rick.  Your fault.

I know you’ve heard a lot of stories, Rick, and you’ve sung about how great I am, but really I’m just an idea.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m a great big idea, in the right minds,  so when imbeciles like you treat me like a slot machine asking for divine mercy, favor, protection and toys I have to laugh.  Is it only cowboys like you who got straight D’s in college that still believe in a god so softheaded that he would protect bumblers like you from certain disaster, a God just like your daddy, Joe Ray.

A first-class, omnipotent God would make sure you fail–maybe even wipe Texas off the face of the continent just as a precaution .  But it’s not in my power to do that or improve America’s credit rating, anymore than I can raise the average IQ of the Tea Party.  Maybe being good with a grenade launcher will help. But I’m skeptical.  I’m about as effective as your idea of me, and your idea of me is–well–pathetic.

Frankly Governor, if I did exist I’d have gone to school, and read books, and learned some science–learned about the way the world really happened, and how good governments operate, and what we can do to help each other out by using our brains. I wouldn’t have wasted my time jumping out of planes, setting off fire crackers in the men’s toilet at fraternity parties, chasing skirt and pretending that the world was all ok because my Imaginary Friend would always make things better when I got caught.  I wouldn’t waste my time making deserts out of gardens the way you have and then praying to a supreme being for more rain and another chance.  You humans have always been a big disappointment on the evolutionary tree, but you Republican humans are really making survival of the fittest an act of faith.

So, Rick, much as I hate to disappoint you, and I hope I have, there is no quick fix here, no prayable moment.

To quote someone I’ve always admired named Benjamin Franklin, God helps those who help themselves, not buggers like you who don’t use the brains Nature gave you.

Yours,

God