A Letter To God – Why The Almighty Forgives Pretty Much Everyone And How That Really Pisses The Devil Off
It’s me again: Satan. Remember me? The poor schmuck you gave the thankless task of looking after hell? Come on, you must recall that huge battle we faked in order to reinforce your absolute power. Never quite understood the point of that myself, what with you being omnipotent and all, but I went along with it nonetheless.
Then again, I’m not omniscient am I? You are though, so what I’m about to write will come as no surprise, but I’m going to write it anyway.
Now, I know you’re very busy, what with reigning supreme and contemplating-the-wonder-that-is-You, but I kind of get the feeling that You have not been paying very much attention as of late.
I, however, have been paying a great deal of attention to the task you set me so long ago. Do You know why? Oh yeah, of course You do You all knowing bastard! It’s because there’s bugger all to do down here in Hell. And why is that? Because the place is practically fucking empty, that’s why? You keep bloody forgiving everybody, don’t You?
Sorry, getting a bit carried away there; forgetting my place. But I mean C’mon. You even let Judas off for good behaviour over a millennium ago. Good behaviour! Of course he was well behaved. He could hardly be anything else could he? Being entombed up to his eyeballs in that lake of ice, as per your instruction.
Year after year I rattle around this abyss-built-for-billions and in the last century I’ve only bumped into two human souls. One was a this little Nazi guy with a funny walk and a funnier little moustache and a penchant for young girls. Think he said his name was Charlie something. Charlie Chaplin. The other one was a little foreign fella. Same moustache, but I couldn’t get much sense out of him. He just kept complaining about a banging headache and going on about his “Kampf”, whatever one of those is.
Anyway, the point is that I don’t feel You’re quite pulling Your weight in this “Battle Between Good And Evil” charade we’re supposed to have going on here. Look at this realm you’ve given me; The Earth. Look at the things I’ve invented to keep up my end of the bargain.
Organized Religion for a start. Look at the atrocities these people are committing in Your Name. Whacking each other over the interpretation of a single word of something that’s been translated from Aramaic to Hebrew to Greek to Latin to various edits of English. Boy, am I making them miss the point.
Christmas! Another absolute corker. Look at the anguish and misery and debt that Christmas causes every year. Family break ups and nervous breakdowns as far as the eye can see. All topped off with tinsel. That’s another of my favourites, tinsel.
They still celebrate “The Holidays” every twelve months though. Despite the MASSIVE clue I gave them that they are none of Your doing. I mean Satan-Santa, Santa-Satan. It’s hardly a world class puzzler is it? Even so, no-one’s figured it out yet. Will Christendom ever crack my infernal cipher? That fiendish “juggling the last three letters of a five letter word” code which somehow made it through Bletchley Park unscathed. Though to be fair to Alan Turing, he was looking for U-Boats, not theological anagrams.
I’m kicking Your ass down here Lord, and I’m using Your word to do it. I’ve got them using You as an excuse to fulfil their own hateful agendas. The agendas are not my doing, by the way. All their own work those. And Lord, it boils my sulphurous piss that You’re making me do it.
Can’t we go back to how it was before? Remember The Old days? You thought nothing of doing a bit of smiting back then. Sodom and Gomorrah, what a howl that was. When you turned Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt, I damn near soiled my furry Billy Goat hindquarters laughing. When you ruined Job’s life, I almost cackled all eight of my breasts off. Although admittedly that one was my idea.
So here I am, causing all this mayhem, and what are You doing? Making statues weep and curing the odd cripple at Lourdes. For fuck’s sake, where’s Your tartan blanket and bootie slippers with the little woollen bobbles on them? What happened to the jealous deity with the big cajones? Armageddon? Don’t make me laugh. The number of grade-A fruit loops I’ve put in power with their twitchy fingers hovering over The Button and for what? Zip, nada, a big fat nothing. You’ve vetoed every single Doomsday scenario on technicalities.
So, what I’m saying is: can I bring forward my annual holiday in Heaven so we can chat about it? We’ve come up with some fun ideas before. Buddhism seemed to work out ok. I know it was a drunken dinner party idea, but those fellas seem to be the only ones that have grasped that “being nice to one another” concept You’re so keen on.
The Archangels took the piss at the time. You know: Michael, Gabriel, Raphael and…ermm Donatello, or whatever the other one is called. Smug bastards. Still gloating over their victory and my Fall From Grace. Except that we both know that it wasn’t a fall, was it? It was a jump at Your command and I could have wiped the floor with all four of them.
I swear if that Gabriel condescends me one more time, I’ll rip his balls off. Well, I would if You’d seen fit to furnish Angels with genitals in the first place. The smarmy fucker sits in my old chair in his bright ramient. I’ll show him.
One more thing. Can I visit in my original form just this once? Table manners can be a little tricky when your body is cobbled together out of old animal bits and you have another mouth where your anus should be.
I just want this all to be over, so everyone knows I’m still Your favourite one instead of it being this Big Secret between the two of us. I PROMISE I won’t rub Gabriel’s nose in it. Well, not too much anyway. Please find enclosed my completed holiday application form.
Your Faithful Accuser-In-Chief
This is by way of being a prayer. So… Amen sort of thing.
© Copyright Michael Grimes 2013