Hint: It ain’t exactly fan mail
Let’s get to the point. All sources are telling me that you are more than a little outta control. Way out of line. Off-leash and lost and drunk on dreams of global supremacy and in deep need of major karmic spanking, a divine colonic. The various world deities are shooting me urgent e-mails left and right. We gotta have some words, brother. Are you sitting down? Thinking cap on? Pretzels out of reach? Excellent.
Word is you’re reborn Christian. Great. Didn’t quite get it right the first time, is what they say, what with all the inebriants and daddy’s silver spoon and dodging Vietnam and, hey, nothing snags those God-fearin’-fundamentalist votes more than claiming you rediscovered Jesus while recovering from another gin bender on Dad’s yacht, am I right? Fine and good. Whatever works, I always say.
Problem is, Jesus is a little piqued. He’s right here with me, right now, and he’s drumming his fingers on the table, eyes aflame. He has a question: “Just what in the heck do you think you’re doing in my dad’s name? Did you miss the part about ‘Thou shalt not kill?’ You dare invoke me and my father and call yourself a forgiving Christian and yet you stomp around the globe like you own it?” Christ, he is not happy. [more] — Mark Morford, San Francisco Chronicle [via walker]