It was the end of times, it was the beginning of times

By Capt. Fogg

I called God this morning after breakfast -- you don't want to talk to him before he's had his coffee -- and I just had to ask him about the Texas Problem. I mean, I have friends there and I'm concerned that if he applies the Sodom and Gomorrah standard of needing ten good people to be granted immunity from destruction, they're going to get blasted. Hell, I think the place is long overdue, but maybe my friends could be given a warning or something. There's precedent.

But no, he says. I try to be fair and Texas has a vastly larger population than those mud-brick slums did and I have to grade on the curve. No problem if I only needed ten, but I figure I'd need about a million to keep me out of smite mode what with the population explosion and all, but one of the problems is corporate personhood. I mean, do I consider Texaco to be a person? Is ZZ Top one person or three? (That would count on the plus side, like Janis.) And of course I have to think about certain Texans as perhaps counting for more than one minus point on account of extreme douchebaggery and assholeness. I'm thinking of certain current and former governors.

I'll tell ya, those people who insist that they're my exclusive authorized agents really get to me and they sure as hell don't stick to anything like 15%. I don't see a dime out of any of them, not that I need it, mind you, but it's the principle of the thing and if anyone is going to give out the kind of conflicting and ambiguous commandments I enjoy, it's not going to be some pencil neck twit with a comb-over like Robert Jeffress. The man is an insult to my authority and I can't believe I created somebody who can tell you that Obama is just like Hitler with a straight face. Not that his face is all that straight, come to think of it, and I have to wonder what's happened to quality control. I don't recall having outsourced it to Dumbfuckistan like I was a Republican or something. 

Anyway, sure, the dipshit is right. Mormonism is a cult, just like any other followers of any of the other uppity pricks who insist I gave them some kind of exclusive commission or something. Jesus? Hey, I never touched that girl and that Saul or Paul or Raul or whoever he calls himself is full of shit. Has been since he fell off his jackass, as if that were a coincidence. So if you believe that mierda, you're no smarter than if you believe Joe Smith wasn't just trying to get laid by pretending he had my private number. I don't have a private number, as you well know. Ahem. You try taking seven billion calls a day and see what it does to your mood!

Actually, I was just thinking about Texas myself this morning, 'cause I read in the paper they banned wearing those fucking "Vote the Bible" T-shirts in polling places. They get some credit for that, but how much do I subtract for them not stoning the cocksuckers* who insist I wrote that pile of political shit myself. Why the hell would I ban cheeseburgers but allow slavery? Think I'm fucking stupid?

I'm thinking damnation is what I'm thinking and maybe some shitload of boiling brimstone as an amuse bouche and fuck y'all with this rapture-crapture. It's crowded as hell here and I closed the border a long time ago, what with Cousin Krishna pestering the female help and cousin Wotan stinking up the john every morning. That Ganesh is eating me out of house and home you know -- he has an elephant stomach to go with that elephant head. Look -- I don't need any more damn company, OK? Y'all can stay where you are and it was a damn decent place when I gave it to you and the warranty was up a long time ago. No deposit, no return. Live with it.

Anyway, yeah, Texas is a pain in the ass, but not the only one in your part of the mudball planet. The way you treat each other and blame it on me has put me off my feed and the old lady is bitching about my temper and about how I'm not doing enough about that human infestation I started on her otherwise perfectly nice planet and I'm thinking smite night Fogg. I mean it. It's ass-kicking time. You either get rid of the trash yourself, or I'll jiggle the ballot box and give you Romney and Ryan and maybe Reverend Phelps as Secretary of State. Noah is long gone and no stupid boat is going to save your asses this time. And by the way, stop calling me.  I'll call you, and that's all the warning you're gonna get.

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* And by the way, about that particular practice -- I don't give a shit what you do as long as you don't do it in the road and scare the horses. If I don't participate, it's because I don't have that appendage -- or any other. Why the fuck would I want to look like you? What? In my image? Monkey's image, dude. Monkey's image. I told you I didn't write that book.

(Cross-posted from Human Voices.)