The Shekel Drops: Transcript of God’s remarks at the Extraordinary General Meeting with America, March 8th, 2017.

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Hey Americans!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Whoa!!

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Sorry, guys! I understand that the newbie who was put in charge of the super-dooper-universal-ultra-bass-subwoofer-doohickey thing forgot to adjust the levels, which is why every window on the planet just blew out.

It’s when you want to make a good first impression, right? Always the way! I mean, is your deity a major goofball or what? Major!

Let’s take a few seconds for a “time out”, OK?

So, pull yourselves together, make a pot of tea, have a Peek Frean’s, kind of thing.

Or, if you prefer, take care of your dead and wounded, cry out in anguish, lie awake staring into the black void. It’s all good!

Chill, is the point I’m trying to make here. That’s the stuff! And we’ll start over in a few.

Okie-dokie.

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Alrighty then, are we back? We’re back!

Hey Americans !

This is god, a.k.a. your heavenly host — and please just for once don’t be so predictable! Just because it’s me, don’t faint, or get hysterical, or run down the road to Damascus shielding your eyes, because really —

— Mrs Aquino!!

Yeah, you!! For the last time, put those stupid prayer beads away!! Like, I’m right here, you know? Just — thank you! Very distracting, OK?

Always these interruptions! So, now listen up, America: Before I forget, and while we’re all together as a family, I’d like you to know something.

I want you to consider me your friend — no, really I do.

So I think we should drop the “god” thing and let’s be on a first name basis from now on. Would you like that?

Of course you would! So let’s drop the formalities, and from now on just call me “Linda”.

Now, I’m really encouraged to see that everyone has turned up to my last-minute emergency meeting. Great stuff, America!

Well, it was either attend or be turned into a sheet of mica, but hey. You’ve obviously read your Genesis and you got the point about that “free will” SNAFU. I know, seriously?

The first thing I have to say is this, and I should probably soften the blow, but — everyone, frankly — grow up.

Grow up! Every little thing goes wrong, instead of dealing, you call out my name like — well, you know, I lost count somewhere between sabre-tooth tigers and parallel parking.

Honestly, if I didn’t put my iPhone on airplane mode once in a while I’d never get a second of “me time”. You hear what I’m saying?

So you guys gotta start figuring shit out, or you’ll be hanging around your parents’ house in your underwear eating corn chips till I come again — which I haven’t even got round to scheduling yet, but believe me when I say it ain’t tomorrow.

Of course, I always forget about the whole infinity-versus-human-time thing. So there’s entire millennia when you probably think I’m dead, or I don’t exist, when in fact — I’m just cocooning.

Yeah, I cocoon from time to time, so sue me. Order in a pizza, spend some serious bro’ time in the Blessed Jacuzzi with those crazy hornblowers Michael and Gabriel — Shout out to my archangels! — You’re the cream in my coffee, dudes! You’re awesome! Love you guys! — maybe I speed-watch Game of Thrones, or my favorite, of course — Ellen.

Fabulous! Love the way I made her so funny. Just love that kid to bits.

You know that hymn some of you guys sing? “A thousand eons in our sight is just his eyeblink gone” or whatever. Well, that’s part of the problem. We lack co-ordination sometimes, we seem out of synch, and —

Not to get off track here, but speaking of hymns — how about those Baptists! Right? I mean, is that one helluva circus?  Those old black ladies with the pillbox hats, all dressed up thirteen to the dozen, are they not just darling? Shocking pink is the navy blue of congregations from the Carolinas right over to Louisiana! Just as cute as buttons in their Sunday best, and can they belt it out or what! Can they? I’m tellin ya!

But getting back to you. You’re always calling on me instead of thinking for yourself, but when I actually appear— frazzle!  And the trouble I go through!

Your burning bushes, your walls of Jericho, your disembodied hand writing on the wall — you think some big-ass flood just appears out of nowhere, carefully coordinated with animals— in pairs no less!

 I have brand equity to maintain, you understand? I can’t do some dumbed-down, artsy Cirque du Soleil shit—twelve French mimes in whiteface, masturbating on a trampoline to Edith Piaf, whatever.  A bit with a dog, at least!

But then you’re like — tacky! Embarrassing! Crappy old relics, grape juice instead of wine, Aimee Semple McPherson, my kid’s face on toast? Trust me, Joshua bar Joseph is not a toast kinda guy.

So in the final analysis, what’s in it for me? I love to give give give, doesn’t everyone, but at least try to give me at least a little validation! Jesus Christ, I’m only human.

Enough said. So on to today’s main topic, and the music goes round and round and it comes out Trump. No groans, please.

Think of it this way — someone, somewhere, was destined, by me, Linda, the One Almighty, to have to deal with His Royal Strangeness.

And apparently there were no politically unstable banana republics lying around for the taking, or any small, autocratic European monarchies where he could get Melania to go in, seduce the mentally-challenged heir to the throne, get himself appointed jester, whereupon the heir would be deposed, yada yada.

So he just decided to stage a coup wherever he woke up that morning. Luckily, I — that’s me, Linda-with-an-el also god-with-a-g — had arranged for him to wake up in the U.S. of A.

The only country crazy enough, frazzled enough and sufficiently shtupped-up-the-butt hog-wild about liberty to take the guy down.

Grow up! You’re supposed to have impeached him by now! That’s why he is President! And while all you mouth-breathers are standing around, wide-eyed from shock and clutching your pearls and making “most unbelievable prez tweets everrrr” lists, what you’re not getting is, this dude has plans —

I wonder. I could try to get him on that ferry that sinks in the Indian Ocean every friggin’ year on Boxing Day. Loaded with women and kids, you know the one. It was kind of a gas the first time, then I get bored, it’s the ADHD.

I kept meaning to wind it down, and of course every year, I get my list, and so many invites, personal appearances at the local mosque, and so forth. I mean, Hillary’s thirty thousand emails? A day in the country! So I get distracted.

But, and here we go again, why is everything down to me? Why is no one proactive? You call me a micro-manager, but seriously, year after year, Boxing Day rolls round, up comes the ferry to the dock and — the fuckers keep getting on! What IS that?

Anyway.

So I could get DT on the ferry but really, you know what I need? I need you guys to step up and grow those cojones, just for once, and not just grow, show.

This is your new “Manifest Destiny”, Americans. I, Linda, Your Heavenly Intersex, am waiting for you, YOU, the creators of the world’s greatest democracy, to SAVE democracy.

Alright. The shekel finally drops. And so to conclude, I’d just like to —

— What is that racket??!

Someone’s pounding on the gates again! Michael, Gabe — ? Listen: If it’s Milton Friedman, that alter cocker, oh boy oh boy. Tell him “not at home”.

No, wait, even better: Tell him, wait for me to trickle down. Yeah.

This is Linda.

Signing off.

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— DR