A Message From God; Big Guy Twists Mooner’s Arm


So. I’ve finally sobered enough after the Elections to sit still and tell you some stuff. I’ve a long list of entries today, so let me start by saying that I rejoice in the American people and their sensibilities shown on Tuesday. We narrowly avoided taking a terrible pathway to the destruction of our civilization.

Hoo-fucking-rah for sanity!

Second, I got a phone call about Gram—American Express contacted me about a questionable charge on the family credit card.

“We have a tire store in central New Jersey placing a $14,696.44 charge on your AMX credit card, Mr. Johnson,” the nice lady, Marlene, told me. “Snow tires, the manager says. It doesn’t fit your Cardholder Profile, and we’re concerned.”

“Do you have the store on the line?” I asked.

“Yes sir,”

“OK. Ask if the tires are for a giant stretch Hummer limo.”

They were and now I know what’s shaking and where my Gram has been. And don’t even start on me about how I should call her or be actually worried over her disappearance. She’s a big girl as often said to me by her, and she doesn’t like me to, as she also says, “Stay tha fuck outta my beeswaxxies, ya little shitbird. I was a wipin’ yer ass fer ya afore ya could scratch yer own balls.”

I guess Gram and crew decided to drive up and see what they can do to help with the devastation up there to the East Coast.

The last thing I want to tell you is that God stopped by again yesterday afternoon, a happening that is starting to bug me. I don’t have enough shit on my plate already that God doesn’t need to add an extra helping on top.

He—this visit God appeared in the visage of a homeless man that used to hang out in downtown Austin many years ago. Man wore an old top hat—tall, cracked and faded—that served as the container for a head of hair that hadn’t seen scissors or soapy water for ten years. Man would take his hat off to salute any donation and reveal a finely-woven log of greasy hair in the precise shape of the tattered old hat.

I was sitting out on the portal with my bare face exposed to the high desert sky. Through my closed eyes, I could see the shadows of the afternoon sun, one of our big Ponderosa pine trees and one of a hovering Abraham Lincoln.

“What’s shakin’, Mooner my main man? You look pretty happy with yourself today.”

I opened my eyes expecting my visitor to be the lone Republican president I have ever really given a shit about. “I am happy, Mr. President, err… Louis?” I answered. “Is Louis still alive, Sir? I really liked that crazy dude.”

“Nah, old Louis met his Maker, Mooner. I just thought I’d use his image to set the tone for this little conversation we’re about to have. I need you to do me a favor, son. A big favor.”

Oh, shit, I thought to my self, God wants another favor.

“Look, Sir, please don’t ask me to kill my firstborn son, he’s doing really well right now. And I’m really not up to starting a Crusade—my knees hurt and my back aches and I’m really much more of a lover than a fighter.”

God laughed at me—a deep rumble that sounded as if it had originated from a cavern. “You’re a hoot, dude. I say ‘problem’ and you think ‘World War III’. What I want you to do is give a message to some folks for me.”

“Thank God,” I said. “I was worried you’d want me to do something I really don’t want to do.”

“You’re welcome, but who said you would want to do this?” God told me. “What I want you to do is tell the losers of Tuesday’s elections some things to help them in the future.”

“Huh? You want me to help those shitheads?”

“Yep. I’ve got some advice for them and I want you to give it to them.”

Huh? “No fucking way, God, I won’t do anything to help those assholes. They’re trying to ruin my country with their idiotic religious insanities. Look, how about I sacrifice my second-born son?”

Again, God laughed heartily. “Don’t be childish, Mooner, this won’t hurt a bit. It’s a simple request.”

Why do people always say, “It’s a simple request,” when it’s never a simple request? “Oh, alright, Sir, sit down and tell me what I can do for You. My neck is starting to hurt from looking up at You.”

God sat in the chair beside me and drank deeply from a bottle of Carta Blanca beer that materialized in His hand. He wiped His mouth on the sleeve of His black Lincoln long jacket, burped and said to me, He said, “I want you to tell the right-wing conservative Christians of America that I heard their prayers for this election. I heard them pray for Obama’s defeat. I heard them pray to send their anti-abortion candidates to Washington. I heard them pray that I would end Obamacare and I heard the prayers to increase the military budget.

“I also heard the angry and bigoted prayers—the ones wishing for the President to drop dead and for his assassination. I heard the millions of prayers asking me to send all homosexuals straight to Hell and give America’s governments over to them, the ‘real’ Christians.”

God took a deep breath and another swig of beer, and He grasped my wrist with His left hand. “Look at me, Mooner, listen carefully to what I want you to tell them.”

I did, and when I did I saw deep-brown eyes shimmering with tears. “Tell them I heard every single one of their prayers, Mooner—Every… Single… One.”

God blinked away the water from His eyes and strengthened His grip on my arm. “Tell them I heard those prayers, Mooner, and tell them they have received My answers. Tell them I responded and that praying louder won’t change anything. Tell them to not ignore me again.”

And He was gone.

Ugh. I thought this was going to be easy. Why does God always ask us to do shit we don’t want to do?

When I showered this morning I was pondering what would happen if I didn’t write about this recent visit. And should that be a capital “V” Visit since it was God’s Visit? I was thinking that I would just tell you about the Gram sighting and some other stuff and I started soaping my arms to wash. When I slid my wash rag down my arm I yelped when I got to my wrist.

“Ouch!” I yelped, “what the fuck?”

I rinsed the soap off to expose a purple bruise shaped exactly in the image of a firm grasp. Maybe that should be “Bruise” and “Grasp”. I finished bathing and sat down here to do my task.

My final word to all of you right-wing conservative Christians out there is this. God heard your prayers for this recent election—each and every one. And He answered them.

Take a hint from His answers.

Manana, y’all.

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4 Responses to “A Message From God; Big Guy Twists Mooner’s Arm”

  1. Squatlo says:

    What the faithful will take from your message is that a profane, heretical, sacreligious man has written a blasphemous tome insulting their beliefs. They won’t find it illuminating, nor will it reform their non-Christ-like opinions of their fellow man. You can’t reason with unreasonable people, and neither can god.

    They see Obama’s reelection as some sort of twisted confirmation of their End of Times predictions, and are probably hard at work making sure their rapturious departure doesn’t coincide with some Mayan calendar…’cause that would just be wrong.

    Mark Twain said it best: If Jesus were alive today, the last thing he’d be is a Christian.

  2. bj says:

    Wear yer Poll werker Flak Jacket when you spread that message, ’cause Even St. Ronnie wouldn’t be able to convince the far right nutjobs that God has forsaken their prayers. Like blaming their overwhelming defeat on TWO Hurricanes now …. the first that wrecked their convention and the second that ruined their election … no mention of GOD OR Satan. Remember they think impregnation by a rapist is “God’s Will” because it fits in with beliefs rooted deeper than their religious beliefs. It’s the same with bigotry and hate for those “not LIKE them”. Yep, with them, whenever something goes wrong, they either say it’s God’s Will … or somebody NOT LIKE THEM fucked it up and THEY MUST DIE! I WUSHT that EVERY PASTOR OF EVERY CHURCH IN AMERICA would tell his flock what you just said .. ” GOD heard every single one of their prayers, Every… Single… One.”
    (HE) heard those prayers, and they have received (HIS) answers. (HE) has responded and that praying louder won’t change anything. Tell them to not ignore me again.” But then … GOD is …. fuckin’ …. part of the PROBLEM …and has nothing to do with the SOLUTION. and of course THAT message might put the Kwi-EATUS on passin’ around that silver PLATE they’re so fond of so it ain’t happenin’ in CHURCH, neither! Next time you talk to GOD (or Leon Russell lookin’ Louis) http://userserve-ak.last.fm/serve/252/12317285.jpg …. tell him to quit fuckin’ around with us like a mean little boy torturing piss ants with a magnifying glass,tell HIM to SEND JEEZUS BACK DOWN HERE and straighten this shit OUT! maybe if HE shook HIS etch-a-sketch and REBOOTED this grand experiment of HIS, the piss ants might be more friendly to each other next time ….
    hope ya’ hear from Gram ‘n ’em … and everything is ok
    btw do the drapes match the carpet?

  3. squatlo says:

    Did the Big Guy pull off your blogging fingers, too? Inquiring minds wanna know if Gram’s okay… Just read an article in the paper about a bunch of folks at an assisted living facility becoming ill after eating soup made from wild mushrooms one of them had donated to the place…

  4. admin says:

    Squat. I’ve been busy with remodelling shit and getting over a nasty cold. My personal opinion is that most of the asshole right-wing Christians make shit up to suit their bigotries. New post with a Gram update.

    Fuck ‘Em.

    Beej. Gram’s Okey-doke and more on the decorating when I feel better. Having a cold makes my brain hurt.

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