OK. I'm going to go ahead and say it, even though it's going to cost me my soul. It's true though, and it needs to be said. Listen to me: I think God is drunk. Seriously. I think he's totally lost control, on the wagon, piss in his pants drunk. Ten bucks says he's sitting up there right now with his gigantic lips wrapped around a bottle, bleary eyed and naked, screaming at the television. Listen . . . you can almost hear him snoring, passed out on Mary Magdalene's doorstep again, twigs in his beard, his ass crack peaking out of his pants.

I mean seriously, what the fuck? How long are we going to sit around and act like everything is ok? I've been doing that for the past 14 years and I, for one, am tired of it. I can still remember the pain of going 0-5 in the little league all-star game when I was 11. Everybody was there watching. My whole family. I ended up crying like a total pussy. Thanks a lot, God. I mean, where were you on that one, huh? Could have used some help at the ol' plate there, jack. Busy? I don't think so. Nice breath. Why don't you stop talking to your chin and go get a little rest.

Things were going all right there for awhile. I mean, early on there, God was in charge. Laying waste to non-believers. Making Abraham wet his pants like a little girl. Conjuring up clouds of locusts, lighting bushes on fire and then making them talk, helping Heston part that ocean with a rifle. But then there was that whole thing where he killed his kid, and that's tough, you know, for anybody. But seriously, man, you have to move on. You know, tough shit. Pull it together. No, you're not three people, ok. Ghosts don't even exist. You're just you, my friend, and that's ok.

I mean, just think about it, God. Think about all the little creatures, including rabbits and ducks, that need your benevolent love and attention just to get through the cold winter. And think about all of those little boys getting molested by Priests in places like Boston and Philadelphia. I'll bet that in their times of need they could have used you. But I understand, you're under a lot of stress. Don't worry about it. I'm sure they'll be alright.

George W. Bush. Old drinkin' buddy. You give him the Presidency just because he kisses your ass. Have you noticed how stupid he is? How could you do that? Then you let the Broncos go 9-7 last season. What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you dead? Come on, send us a sign. Make my cheeseburger cry tears of blood, or help a midget learn to fly or something. Reaffirm my shaken faith.

'W' told us that you told him to go to War with Iraq. Is that true? How can that be true? Who are we to believe? I mean, we've got buildings blowing up down here two at a time, space ships exploding in mid-flight, serial killers, deadly plagues germinating in the brainstems of Chinese chickens. What are we supposed to think?

Really. God, I'm still afraid of your wrath, no matter what Jerry Falwell looks like. I'm afraid that, having written this, I'm going to be sent to hell immediately, like as soon as I try to go to bed tonight. So, um, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I totally love you and don't want to die of AIDS or anything. But maybe if you spent a little more time re-organizing the disaster you've created down here and a little less time with your enormous forehead on the toilet seat, then you'd feel a lot better about yourself. You know, lose a few pounds. Shave. Maybe find a girlfriend. Just think about it, ok?