UnBooks:Letters from a God-Fearing Man

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“Until a man has written directly to God, he hasn't started living.”

~ Mao Tse Tung on Letters from a God-Fearing Man

“Expecting a response from these people is absurdity in its maximum girth. You might as well ask for reply mail from your pet rock.”

~ St. Augustine on Letters from a God-Fearing Man

Dear Mr. di Lodovico Buonarroti[edit]

I do not want to be on this plane. My issue is about neither the stewardess nor the food, not the gut-drop hurtling sensation one experiences during take-off or in turbulence, nor the unwashed fact that I must submit to being treated as a child, being asked if I want "my blankee" now. No. Actually, between yourself and that meddlesome Mr. da Vinci, you have made quite a mess of things. You first. Making the "white man's" manhood terminally insignificant, so as not to offend the male masses. Presumably you sought to eliminate many hours of psychoanalytical couselling, but you were mistaken. Women want to see a large object. Men want to snicker about it, not negatively as you have achieved, but rather give another a knowing wink that says "There, but for the grace of God, go I. Thanks to Him that I can remain conscious while having an erection."

This is really your most grievous offence. I will now turn my attention to your fellow Florentine. What were the two of you doing, drinking Drano? Filling the minds of little children with the image of a smile that says "Do you know what you are? I do," and leaving them in doubtful insecurity? No wonder our world has turned out this way.

Architecting articulate basilicas and then designing war machines to knock them down again. Creating a balsawood model to strive after what Icarus sought, only to tempt plain trusting folks into the air and have them fall down again in time with the metronome of some fantastic death lottery. Again, I do not want to be on this plane. Securing a waist-only seatbelt that has as much ability to protect me during catastrophic failure as would a roll of toilet paper, or a cigarette. I blame the two of you, but mostly you for having pawed at the issue and then ducked it, for infecting society with these so-called values. Art, science, and all that.



Dear Mr. Miller[edit]

Why, why, WHY? do you carry on such melodramatic insistence upon the value of the individual's life? Masses turned the tide in World War Two, not individual sacrifices. Ignoring for the moment your tremendous capacity for hipocrisy - dipping into Roosevelt's WPA to fund a research article into the danger of actually achieving the American Dream - let us instead descend upon this cretin you chose to hold up as an object so worthy of inquiry. Face facts. Just say it: Willy Loman is a loser. Say it with me.

Where in your works are the hallowed chorals of Gilbert and Sullivan? Steinman and Shakespeare? Are you waiting for Godot? Real themes, like the voice of God, come on like a bat out of hell. You waste your time with such frivolous investigations. Spent your time instead at your local watering hole in the company of men who never stop to question as you do. Waste not, want not.

This play of yours is nothing more than the plaintive whine of he who, in spite of all that God has given him, in disregard of the very advantages laid at his feet for being born an American, stays yet in the soup line wondering why the world hasn't given all its treasures up to him. You deserve, in fact, nothing less than the Nobel Prize for Rape and Pillage, for which you may count upon my wholehearted support.

Yours truly,


Dear Mr. Djughashvili[edit]

I admire you. Forgive me for using your real name, but I wanted to make sure this note got to you and not end up in some collector's safe. Liquidation of the kulaks was perhaps not your brightest move, but I suppose nationalization of certain resources is occasionally necessary. How smart of you to lay out the USSR's progress in five year segments! I understand the Chinese attempted to copy the example, but we two can share a Count Chocula laugh at their failure as we both know they lack the necessary urbanization to achieve real proletariat revolution.

You were unable to witness another Joseph create himself your diametric opposite, wielding the power of the House Committee on UnAmerican Activities for a time. Can two true Josephs exist in the same space-time continuum? I think it fascinating that no one has made that same grim connection. One must really look into that.

What can I say about the state of your nation today? The Death of Ivan Illych could not serve better. They miss your spotless uniform, your military cap, your filed-down teeth. Long forgotten are the times that you hid in your dacha from the invaders in the Ukraine, when you hid in your dacha from your daughter who screamed "You have been bad and you will be punished!" Return, as Arthur, and be victorious.

In final point, when I was subpoenaed before the Committee, I upheld our secret truce. I told them that I have never been a supporter of such totalitarians as Oliver Cromwell; that I am not now, nor have I ever been, a Cromulist.

Best regards,


Dear Lieutenant-General Sir Baden-Powell[edit]

You should be ashamed of yourself. Getting little boys together in 'packs' to learn and incuclate the practice of buggery. No doubt you learned your skills from the Zulu, bunch of half--no, mostly--naked bushmen scampering around the African plain with nothing better to do than show a paleface in a funny hat what they were up to. And now there are a bunch of bridges and trails and jamborees named after you. Well that says it all there, doesn't it?

Spy, butterfly collector in disguise, Jam-Roll driver: you had it all. But that wasn't enough--oh no, you had to enslave successive generations to the mystic calling of a neckerchief and holding their fingers up by their ears while crouching. And this unholy alliance with Rudyard Kipling! Panthers and Mowgli and bears oh my; never get into bed with a man who has a brother-in-law in Virginia.

I suppose sometime you were entitled to your Beer Hall Putsch. Boy Scouting was merely a means to an end for you, wasn't it? Lord Kitchener left you with that awful parable of how being the enfant terrible of the previous century lead to becoming the most celebrated drowning victim of the next, and that broke you, didn't it?... Akela knows you're Going Home. That old wolf is waiting for you.

Take care,


Dear God[edit]

Lord, I am a man respectful of his place. I understand my position as creation with regard to You as creator. However, with respect, don't You think You screwed things up a bit?

Take this business about Cain and his less successful brother Abel for example. I'm going to skip that Adam and Eve incident. You set these guys up, one to be unhappy about the other, and WHAM! there it is, the first murder. I don't blame Cain. I don't blame man. The blame here has to point squarely at You.

Now let's move on (back?) to that Flood business. I don't like what's going on, so I'm going to wipe out the experiment entirely??! Oh. I see! So everything is wrapped up into a neat little package! Give us some credit, God.

Don't think my knees aren't quaking. They are. Now I realize that government is tough. There are plenty of opportunities to make mistakes, especially over many millenia. But You telling Cain his sacrifice wasn't any good, and Abel's was OK, was as dumb O Lord as Prometheus handing out fire. Humanity is an arsonists club; You know that. The urge is as old as the scripture, as clear as Ten Commandments.

Sure, You're well-respected, a fairly friendly guy. You've got a nice home, a great view from Cloud 9, and three cars in the garage. But You miss the chances to educate us on some of the finer points of living. Why can't You be a bit more like Samuel L. Jackson once in awhile? We need some yelling and screaming. We need to be told off loudly now and then. Otherwise, we just won't get it.

Best wishes,


Dear Mr. Hulk[edit]

I am sick and tired of you bursting through people's walls and walkways. Have you no respect for privacy? Who do you think you are, the Greatest American Hero? No, you rank in the area of the Koolaid man. You sir are a big disgustingly bulging green guy with a bad temper and a pechant for alarming leaping. Lay off! The fine folks of Riverdale don't want you, Banner.

Unaccustomed to receiving fan mail such as this as I am certain you are, it is nevertheless absolutely necessary to remind you of the citizen's right to privacy under the Constitution. Further, the assemblage of gargantuan power under the umbrella of superhero organizations represents a clear and present danger to civil rights, and a monopoly of some kind I am sure. With your death-ray eyes and lighting-fast reflexes, how are we, the regular, untampered-with people of this globe to be expected to live out our days in passive comfort? You, Mr. Hulk, and individuals like you, contribute nothing to society.

Brush your teeth. Cross my attention again and I'll send you a rude telegram.