Dear God
Dear God,
Please smite Punk Rock ‘Bag immediately. With a giant meteorite made of condensed iron. Aimed preferably at his scrotum.
If you do this God, I promise to stop thinking impure thoughts about 19 year old hotties for at least one hour each day. The other twenty three hours will be reserved for the usual mixture of thoughts, emotions and base impulses: Where did I leave my car keys? Why does my foot smell funny? Boy I’d like to mount a Wesleyan chick while reading her excerpts from Spinoza’s theories on Nature and God. Wow do I love Lucky Charms. Do I prefer to nibble or lick a woman’s shoulder blade? Can frogs comprehend their own existence? Mmm… boobies. I have to pee.
God, if you smite this douchebag infidel, I will sing your praises from a mountaintop in Istanbul while romancing this blonde ball of perfection with strawberries, grape Manishevitz wine and various illicit lotions they sell only in Bangkok and Amsterdam.
Thank you, God. And I just wanted to say you’re doing a fantastic job producing hotties. Of course you impart many of them with that one fatal flaw — terminal attraction for the greased up ‘bag. But I view that as simply your existential challenge posed to us mortals. Our quest. Our Holy Grail of philosophic understanding.
So for that, I appreciate everything you do for us, your humble servants.
Now send a space rock into this douchebag’s balls.
Sincerely,
DB1
