John Vlismas
John Vlismas

Dear god-complex

Dear god-complex

That’s right, I’m talking to you — not big G — that’s different. I wouldn’t talk to God in words, because I don’t believe that God needs words, or worship, for that matter. I also don’t believe a real God would ask any man to take his son up on a mountain and agree to cut his throat, that could only be you, you little shit … the one who lets children blow themselves up as a tribute, who creates a creature only to demand a debt from it.

How absurd — no wonder your chiefs of staff are cloistered cross-dressers fiddling with kids. Not that I have anything against cross-dressers, in fact some have truly great legs.

Excuse me if I’m tetchy, but we’ve just recently celebrated your son’s birthday with the usual retail orgy and we couldn’t hear the carols above the alcohol-fuelled feast of domestic violence and road carnage … I love the smell of goodwill in the morning …

You must be proud of your son, he put up with a hell of a lot in his time. Sorry to say “hell” — but I think we both know that we invented that, too — can’t have skyscrapers without deep foundations — they wouldn’t stand up against the elements, would they?

It must taunt you that you sent your son down here, watched him take the wrap for everything bad we’ve ever done, die horribly … and then watched us celebrate his death by having a rabbit drop foil eggs all over the garden … a peace that passeth all understanding indeed.

I’m talking to you, you little shit — the mean-spirited bastard who is so obviously invented by us, the little guys — the ones with the short-man syndrome — yes you, in the corner, throwing brimstone at children. Why don’t you piss off and let us get on with what we should really be doing on this rock: reaching for the real thing.

That’s right, you — you malevolent little puppet, the one with the fraudulent autobiography, and the plastic houses where the desperate and the deluded and judgemental gather to hurl money and fear at the crook up front. It’s ironic that we wrote you a life story, chopped it, changed it — something borrowed, something blue, something old … and then we lay a sanctimonious hand on it (the one we lay on kids, apparently, to teach them that retribution gets results) and swear that we are about to say only the truth … honestly, folks?

You know who you are, the warped, buckled idea of divinity that has been slapped together as a shelter for the corrupt, the greedy and the ignorant, the one we protect at all costs, never question and fear above all else, the one we claim is unending and invincible and then presume to protect with our puny lives. The bogeyman we put under our own bed who can’t stand up for himself.

Now, I know you’re all about small talk, but it seems redundant to ask how you’ve been — a malignant reinterpretation of something omnipresent and omniscient just “is”, isn’t it?

Being everywhere simultaneously must be awfully cramped. Kind of ironic that you made everything and then realised you were boxed in by the space/time continuum, like a divine battery chicken. Oy vey, must feel silly to have painted yourself into a Newtonian corner (even we know he may have been wrong) … perhaps this is why you’ve been so quiet, hoping we wouldn’t notice?

How we ever allowed old people to teach us that there was an unending source of love with an ego that needs cathedrals makes it hard for me to forgive us, which is kind of the point, isn’t it?

There are probably admirers of yours reading this and reaching for their spiritual weapons as they do, but fuck ’em, if they were half the believers they’d have us believe, they’d forgive me or turn their cheek.

I don’t hate big G, in fact I firmly believe It left a piece of Itself in everyone and everything — an indestructible quantum intelligence beyond our configuration, a singular field of benevolent creative matter — to see if we could find it in ourselves and acknowledge it — but you wouldn’t like that story, it’s all a bit soft cock for a jock Republican factory like you. No, little g — you’re different, you belong to specific groups, and you like your fans blind.

I tell you though, you are smart, little g — this original sin idea was pure evil genius, I’ll give you that. Devilishly clever to say we all started off guilty, before we had choice or reason — that way, we can’t argue — we’re busted, right off the bat.

Very smart. Although, it kind of blows your whole “suffer the little children” spiel — “original” means those little fuckers too — not so hot on the contract law for three guys with such big qualifications. I see you’re no slouches on tax law — though — 10% a month with no overheads and no tax is good business — not bad for the partners who gave us the eye of the needle schtick — I had no idea there were debit orders in heaven.

Now look, I’ve read your book, or what’s left of it. It must be difficult to know that your biography was edited by crooked politicians who cobbled it together from postcards and cave paintings, and then every new leader with a new agenda hacked and tweaked it until it became the splintered, diluted and contradictory bestseller it is today.

Ironic that we swear an oath over your novel in court, even though the poor thing doesn’t know who it is, which sums up the legal system perfectly, doesn’t it?
But lots of celebs use ghostwriters, even Naomi Campbell, and she’s also worshipped. So please don’t feel bad.

On the subject of litigation, I hear you have been slandered recently. Allegedly, my president has blamed you for a whole lot of bad stuff, like orphanages and old age homes … and I just wanted to reassure you that your flock will not take it lying down — they know that it is their job as your pets to protect you — that their too, too sullied flesh is the perfect protection for your omnipotent self — they will start Facebook groups immediately, bleat and shake their heads like good sheep.

You can’t have these blacks being rude to you — how dare they after we gave them the wheel, small pox and you?

Anyway, we can’t have the elected leader of a free country speaking his mind. Whatever next … lesbians contracting Aids? Honestly, these dildos are a murderous lot.

God bless you, little g.

John.

P.S. “These days, more and more people are turning their back on the church … and going back to God.” George Carlin.

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