Dear Scotty

An e.mail from his God



To: Scooter

From: The Heavenly Father

Cc: the Son, the Holy Ghost, the Eagle painting

Subject: Returning your call

 

Hi Scoot,


Apologies for the delay in responding to your prayers, it's been a bit frantic what with My latest round of global misanthropy and Beelzebub's interference wrt Ukraine; not to mention the 2 new galaxies I have on the drawing board. I did leave a couple of messages as per the Lad's face in your cheese toasties - whilst I am infallible that was a tad ambiguous I must confess so thank heavens (LOL) for modern technology where we can avoid any confusion.


You want Me to save your arse, yeah? There has been a bit of a misunderstanding My son. Drought, fires, floods, pestilence, the mouse plague, the Canberra convoy - do you see the theme? I gave you the top job as a warning to humanity for what I had planned and as a do-nothing PM that job was also to not interfere in My malevolence. You're familiar with My genocidal track record so I was expecting you'd readily pick up on this and the early signs were promising (kudos for Hawaii, quarantine and the old folks homes) but you then fucked up everything you touched and then hinted at My involvement ... you've taken things too far. While blaming everyone else is a nice touch, putting Me in the frame with all of your public announcements of our supposed collaboration is not on. I'm good with the angry God routine (obvs) but you're on your own with the constant fails - after all My brand is 'all powerful deity', dude. When the time comes for Me to claim credit for something I'll distribute a weeping statue or two and chuck in another miracle (note though that not even My omnipotence could get persona au gratin Gorgeous George laid; I tried as per your request but he has to negotiate that for himself. Please note that Brother Stuie has dibs on the stigmata - did he let you know? Sobering Barnaby up is a future option perhaps. Thoughts?).


Regardless, there's bad news. It's over


I like to throw positive stuff into the mix - you know, carrot and stick. Loaves and fishes, water into wine (or as I now call it, the reverse Barnaby. ROFL). Junior claims credit for those but they're mine. Old school sure but I don't want a despondent, fuck-up weary flock pulling a Jim Jones - I can look the other way on mass murder but suicide's a no-no. My people are My greatest creation (blackholes aside - I'm pretty chuffed with those) and they need an occasional upside and I am not seeing any from you. To be frank, you've become an embarrassment to yourself and to Me.


I could overlook the rather tragic self-applied nickname, the risible curry cooking and the wholly invented daggy DIY dad routine, after all, the exploitation of a gullible public is the business model for My franchisees but the panicked, shrill tantrums, throwing Jen under the bus, the ukelele, the washing of a stranger's head (I noted the baptismal undertones on that one so thank fuck you didn't do her feet) and now the facile "reds under the beds" faux outrage - I don't want people thinking I am advising you on this shit.


If it's any consolation it's not just you, it's your entire cabal of incompetence, sleaze, grift, cruelty

and planetary destruction. I've borrowed the résumés of the entire LNP gene puddle from Old Nick and what a disheartening read!


I once had some hope for Joshy, a nice Jewish boy, but in digging down he's a nasty little cunt isn't he? And innumerate to boot. Spud, as is obvious, is the anti-Christ in a human skin suit. And what's with Fingers Taylor? I created this fucking planet and I'll be the one to destroy it - so tell that pyromaniacal eco-maniac to back the fuck off. Spotty dick Jimmy Paterson's Hitler Youth of the Month persona makes Me uncomfortable. I looked away first time round but questions were asked. Jimmy should focus on completing his Hitch-hikers Guide To State Forests.


The lady folk are no better. Michaelia (Blah Stupenda) has a future as a roof-top, active shooter, Mandy Stoker gives off a Nazi doctor vibe, while Holly Hughes and Anne Ruston belong in a home for foundlings confiscating the orphans' Christmas presents.


As for the Rustic Party, that souser BJ has the bladder control of a Wiggles concert mosh pit and an entirely misunderstood interpretation of the comfort to be derived from "thy rod and thy staff". Sweaty Betty McKenzie, Miss Appropriation 2019 and the fastest drawers in the west would re-gift her edible panties yet she's the best the rubes have to offer? FMD!


While it's a good idea to assemble the worst possible people imaginable in one place that one place is not something I want My name associated with. That's B.Bub's domain.


You're desperate and looking ridiculous so I say this more in sorrow than in anger. It's time for you to get up off your knees and fuck off. If you could leave My name out of future stunts that will be most appreciated.


(Please acknowledge receipt via return e.mail.)


regards,

The G Dog

😎


PS - Please ask Brian to forward the details of the tithe account so I can draw down on some of that lovely stash. My new Jag is a gas-guzzler and with the price of petrol lately my week-ends are being ruined.