Einstein in Heaven?

God-

Is Albert Einstein in Heaven?
If so, aren’t you the slightest bit worried he’s working on something new that might blow-up the place?
After all, he did come up with that whole E=mc2 thing scientists used to create the A-bomb.
Do you know how fucked that turned out for Japan?
Don’t get me wrong, a guy like Einstein would be a huge asset to any Heavenly organization, but only if he stops messing around with all these math theories ending in explosive devices. Not cool.
If I was you, I would have just given him a lobotomy before he got unpacked and settled in up there. He’d never know the difference, and, you wouldn’t have to sweat some giant explosion that’d turn you all into cosmic dust.

I hope you're watching him God

Anyways, I’d like to know there’ll still be a Heaven when I get there, and that this wacky old man didn’t fuck the joint up with some new incendiary device.

Please tell me you’ve:

A.) Dumbed him down a tad (lobotomy or the like)
B.) Got some disciples or apostles (whichever) keeping a close eye on him
C.) Hit him in the head with a rock or something and that he’s wandering around up there with amnesia

You’ve got me nervous.

Premeditatively yours,

Diego

Lum’s Laundry

God-

How many robes are we issued up there and how exactly does that work?
By my math, I’ll need at least a dozen or so since I typically don’t do laundry but once a week or so. You know, truthfully, I don’t even do my own laundry. I take it to this little Chinese dude who owns a laundromat down the street, his name is Lum.
Lum is a nice guy but his wife is a major asshole.
Lum and his wife own the all-you-can-eat buffet next door to the laundromat where his ass-wad of a wife tries to run me off every Saturday for loading up on her fried chicken.
Here’s the routine.
I drop my stuff off at Lum’s, then go next door to the buffet where typically, after about three or four helpings of chicken, Lum’s 3-foot Anti-Christ of a wife comes running out of the back with a crazed look in her eyes yelling, “Eat moh vegtabuh, you eat too motch chikin, you go now, you too fat”!
What a little bitch! Who says shit like that to a customer?
Anyways, Lum does a good job on the laundry but takes forever to clean my shit. He always says; “you come back two days,” which I do and he never has my stuff ready.
Sometimes he even loses a shirt or two but always reimburses me at full price. Not your typical Chinaman. Like I say, I like Lum.
Which is why I’m writing.
Do the Chinese run all the laundromats in Heaven?
This could be a real problem unless you give me a bunch of extra robes to wear while the rest of them are being laundered, otherwise I’ll look like a real schlump with my stained robes.
For some unknown reason, all my white clothing seems to attract salsa similar to the manner in which shit draws flies. I don’t know what it is, I guess white is just a salsa magnet, for me anyway.
Or is this something I even need to worry about?
Maybe you and Jesus are the only ones wearing white while the rest of us are adorned in blue or green scrubs.

That would be better anyway. The salsa won’t be as prominent on blue, and I can lie to the chicks up there by telling them I’m a doctor and how I just got out of surgery. Chicks like doctors.

Anyways, I like Lum and hope maybe someday I’ll bump into him in Heaven. That’d be really nice if you could arrange that for me.
His wife, not so much.
Stingy bitch.

Obsessively yours,

Diego

Why do you get all the credit?

God-

You know how porn stars like to scream out your name when they’re having sex? What’s up with that?
How is it that you get any of the credit?
You’re not the one doing any of the work. If anything, they should be screaming out each others name but that never happens—why?
Do you think its because they don’t know the persons name they’re screwing, so they just say yours instead?
I have a theory, tell me if I’m wrong.
Let’s say, just for shits and giggles you consider sex a holy act.
I don’t know that you actually come out and say this anywhere, like in the ten commandments or anything, but let’s pretend for a second you do. I can see why people scream out your name. Maybe it’s their way of thanking you for getting them laid in the first place. That makes sense. Maybe that’s why porn stars are so popular. They’re really much holier than anyone would know.

So what about all the people who don’t believe in you, do they still shout your name?
Like Muslims for instance, do they cry out “Oh Allah?” That’d be pretty funny to hear.

And what about those really weird religions like Scientology, do their followers say “Oh Xenu, God of the Confederate Galaxy”? Now that’s a mouthful and not easily repeatable if you need to say it real fast like porn stars do.

I wonder if the Amish even speak during sex? I wouldn’t have anything to say to an Amish woman except “Now tell me again, why are you still Amish in 2011″? Or do they talk about whose turn it is to milk the cow in the morning.

NO!

 

Whose name do Mormons scream out—yours or Joseph Smiths? I’d probably go with Smiths’ since he paved the road to polygamy.

Hell YES!

 

Sometimes I wish I would’ve married a native American woman. Aside from the fry bread, she’d probably cry out “Oh, Great Spirit” which I could easily interpret as me, and not you, for once.

Coitfully yours,

Diego

One small request

God-

Do we still have to pray in Heaven? I hope not.
I don’t know what we’d pray for anyway, unless we get there and find out there’s another Heaven somewhere, and that we’d have to pray like hell to get into that one too. That would be a royal jip.
I’m under the impression we only need to pray until we get into Heaven, like how you only have to study just enough to get through college.
Which brings up a good point.
Going to Heaven, in a way, sound likes graduating from college. Is it? That would suck if it was.
When I got out of college my parents made me go get a real job.
Is that what you’re planning on? I hope you’d at least have the decency to let me get moved in and settled first before kicking me to the curb, it just seems fair.
Besides, I don’t like  job hunting.
The unemployment office here is full of lazy-as-mud half wits that smell bad. Some of them even look like they want to kick your ass. It’s not fun.
And if that’s not bad enough, my unemployment officer always talks to me as if I don’t speak english, often repeating herself and talking real loud. What a bitch she is!

I have another question.
What about all these people down here who pray incessantly, your basic prayer overachievers—do they get extra credit? Some people say they go to a special part of Heaven, kind of like living in snooty Scottsdale versus west Phoenix. Is this true?
I’ve never been an overachiever at anything, let alone praying, but if that’s what its gonna take for me to be driving a Range Rover and living on the “good” side of Heaven, well count me in.
Another question.
Do I actually have to say the prayers? I can, it’s not a problem, but I was thinking I could speed things up a bit up if I could just print out a bunch of prayers online and email them directly to you nightly. That would be much smoother on my end, and I could send in thousands to boot, insuring I get a spot in the good part of Heaven, far from the railroad tracks or airport. That’s where all the wino’s hang.
I wouldn’t have to kneel down anymore either. A win-win.

Ok, so I’ll start tonight. Ok?

Ok?

Praying like hell,

Diego

Do you ever laugh?

God-

Do you ever laugh?
I’ve never seen you laugh. At least not in any of the pictures I’ve seen.
You just look really pissed off in most of them. Why?
Is it stress?
I had stress once and it made me break-out in a real bad rash, right around my nose. It got all sore and red, even a little blotchy.
You don’t look like you have a rash in any of those pics.

Maybe the artists who painted you just wanted to make you look mean so everyone would be afraid of you.

Why so pissed off?

I had a mean uncle once. What a wad he was. He used to call my aunt “chunky” after she beefed-up a little, making her cry a lot of the time. But the worst thing he did was make my cousins cut a switch (limb) from their mulberry tree, then he’d whip them with it.
Jeez.
Needless to say I wasn’t too sad went he went.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe you’re not mean at all but just pretend to be so the world doesn’t fuck-up.
Maybe, deep down, underneath that nasty gaze of yours, you’re really just a big pussycat.
I hope so.
I don’t know if I can handle eternity with someone who kind of looks like my uncle, lurking around scowling at me everyday. I got enough of that shit as a kid.
I was thinking.
What if I were to paint a picture of you with a big shit-eating grin? Would you get all pissed-off and give me cancer or something? I won’t do it if you’re gonna mess me up.
Think about it. The world would love you and you wouldn’t scare the shit out of kids anymore.
Your weekly church numbers would probably go up too!
I’m thinking some shades, maybe a Yankees ball cap,—sort of modernize you a bit, right?
While we’re at it, would you mind if I painted me in the picture next to you, maybe with your arm around me like we’re friends or something?

I had a picture taken of me with a Phoenix Suns basketball players one time, he had his arm around me like we were friends. Anyone who saw the picture asked me how I knew him and I always lied, saying “we grew up together and we’re close friends”.

I won’t tell anyone you and I grew up together, but I would like to say we’re at least friends.
We are friends, aren’t we?

High Five,

Diego

I want to be Somebody in Heaven

God-

I need to bring cash with me to Heaven, more specifically, my life insurance proceeds.
I know this kind of goes against your rules a little, but just listen.
If we don’t get to bring our cash to Heaven, how are we going know who’s the shit up there?
Down here, if you have a lot of money, you’re the shit!
I’ve never been the shit.
I’ve wanted to be the shit, but unfortunately, I’ve just never had enough money.
Down here, if you have money and good looks, you wind up on the cover of People magazine every week.
You’re celebrated by everyone, and everyone loves you.
Sometimes, if you have a shit-load of money, you start making your own brand of vodka or cologne.
This is an important part of being rich as it allows others (clubbers) to share in your success by smelling just like you when they’re really wasted.
Not me, I still smell like Right-Guard and chicken soup when I’m wasted.

This leads me to the inescapable conclusion that I’ll never be the shit, at least not here or anywhere else unless I have some coinage, and that doesn’t seem likely until I die and collect on my insurance policy.
So this is why I was hoping you’d let me load my robe with dinero—so I could finally make something of myself. Be somebody if you will.
Why, I’d be on the cover of People and everyone would love me.
I’d be seen yukking it up at all major sporting events, and in the front row no less (with my bitches).
Oh, yeah, I’d have me some bitches.
I could even pontificate my bullshit political agenda on all the talk shows!
I’d have a jet, a helicopter and a yacht. I’d finally smell good, too.
I’m thinking we (you) could even give me a reality talk show since I basically have no talent and I’m not very interesting.
I’d have a crew. Money buys crews.
My crew would be lazier than mud, high all the time, kiss my ass, do any chores you might require, laugh at all my shit, and let me debase them like evil step-children.
I’d have a mansion. No, I’d have several mansions.
I’d have a white tiger, an English butler, and a midget named Leopold.
I’d have a movie popcorn machine and one of those pimply-faced theater kids tending to it.
I’d have an arcade, and an arcade fire.
A soda fountain with colored sports drinks, a cotton candy machine, and a pizza guy named Luigi who only speaks Italian and has a big mustache.
I’d even have an old French homeless-dude organ-grinder with his own monkey that begs for change from the crowd.
A dog named Owen.
A whore for a sister.
A neighbor I don’t covet, and a garden hose nozzle that lasts for more than one summer season.
Flops that don’t ever break. A pair of blue crocs, and a purple pair of Jellies.
I’d have a signed picture of George Burns, Gary Coleman, and the fat kid from InSync.
I’d have sworn testimony from OJ that he really did do it.
A male donkey without a dick.
A blind deaf-mute female porn star who can’t grunt.
And a video of Al Gore peeing in the Ganges.

Is this unholy of me or should I raise my policy benefits to 100k?

Longingly,

Diego

Resource Depletion Executive

God-
Will there be any natural resources for me to deplete in Heaven? I sure hope so.
I have a real knack for wiping out the Earths precious resources and feel like I’d be pretty good at it up there too, so much so I believe I just may qualify for a Senior Management position in this department.
For instance, I never turn off the water while I shave, and often leave the water running outside after getting distracted by just about anything, leaving the garden to routinely flood.
My penchant for  wasting plastic water bottles is exceeded only by the fact that I throw them out half full.
I love wasting gasoline and often go on long drives for no particular reason.
My home’s air conditioner is set to 65F in the summer, not a big whoop unless you consider I live in Phoenix.
I have a wood burning fireplace because I like to stare incessantly into the flames as I contemplate absolutely nothing.
I don’t use my recycle bin.
I only use paper plates, bowls and plastic dinnerware so I don’t have to do the dishes, and, I don’t keep leftovers.
Pretty impressive, huh?
Did I also mention how I refuse to “Go Paperless”, loathe the term “Green” in any form, and will not purchase anything made out of recycled anything.
How wasteful is that?

I kick our dog sometimes, too.

Wastefully yours,

Diego

Just how bright is that light?

God-

Do blind people regain their eyesight in Heaven or do they just stay blind?
That would be pretty messed up if they had to stay blind, in Heaven of all places.
And how do they even know if they’re going to Heaven if they can’t see that bright light and tunnel stuff when they die—or do they?
I would imagine after being blind all that time, and then seeing a bright light all of a sudden, well, couldn’t that make them go blind again?
Anyways, there’s some real nice stuff to look at right here on Earth, I can’t imagine what they’d be missing out on up there.
I suppose if they do have to stay blind up there, maybe the silver lining is that there’s probably not a whole lot of stuff to bump into or get run over by—is there?
Do the blind get wings?
I hope not.

Optically yours,

Diego

Cleveland really does need to go

God-

Are you aware that Cleveland is a really filthy place?
I wasn’t either until yesterday when I logged into Urban Dictionary and found over 300 depraved sex acts all using Cleveland as a prefix, and all involving shit.
Yes, shit!
What is it about Cleveland that Urban Dictionary found so appealing that it invoked the city as part of the act itself—or does adding Cleveland to the term just add a certain comedic flair?
I have to admit, a Des Moine Steamer doesn’t hold as much laugh value as does Cleveland Steamer, Air Freshener, or for that matter the Cleveland Cocoon.

Cleveland seems like a nice enough place, with its Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and sports teams and such, so what gives?
Are people from Cleveland really into shit?
I know this much, the city is old, dirty, and if I recall, the Cuyahoga river is swarming with aids or some sort of plague, I think.
At any rate, you should probably lay down a big f*#king what-fer on those heinous pukes (the ones into shit-play anyway) with a big fireball or something.
If I was you, I’d get Mother Nature involved where it looks like a big accident.
If you do, I have one small request.
Could you save the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and at least one Mickey D’s?
I still want to see the Alice Cooper exhibit sometime.

Thanks,

Diego

Mother nature is a bitch!

God-

Do you have much influence with Mother Nature because she seems to be out of control at the moment.
Between tornados, floods, earthquakes, fires, and Tsunamis, she’s acting like an out-of-control hormonal bitch deep in the throes of one bad-ass PMS.

OMG—I totally get it.
The earth is male, right?

Non-menstrually yours,

Diego

Whipped cream

God-

You know how I pretty much lived on whipped cream after giving up tortilla chips and salsa for lent?
Well, I really like whipped cream. A lot!
In fact, I eat whipped cream every day, substituting it for milk, yogurt, and cheese as well as all the other food groups.
Is this ok?
Or do you think this is following too closely in Jesus’s footsteps?

Generously dolloped yours,

Diego

My sister has a limp

God-

Since you’ve obviously blessed me with the gift of cooking, one way I thought I might redeem some sins is to share my gift with others who may be lacking in this skill-set, with one caveat however.
Specifically, I’d like to trade you straight across, one recipe for each of my more notable sins, you granting full absolution. (Particularly on the mortal sins).

To kick things off, I thought I’d start with my fried shrimp recipe in exchange for the time I blamed Eddie Mathews for giving LSD to my sister.
In my defense, she was a monumental bitch, and, had just turned me in to the old man for smoking. What a little asshole!
As you know, poor little Eddie’s dad beat him like a rented mule and forbade him to ever dirty our doorstep again, which now that I think about it, may have been a blessing in disguise.
Eddie was after all a prodigious perv.
Anyway, since this recipe has won accolades from everyone I’ve ever made it for, I thought it oughta be worth full absolution, despite my acid-laden sister jumping out of her bedroom window in the middle of the night, absolutely certain she was capable of wingless flight.

So here ya go…do we have a deal?

Diego’s award winning shrimp

1 lb shrimp
1 cup Whole milk
1 cup all purpose flour
1 box Ritz crackers
1/2 gallon canola oil for deep frying

Peel and devein shrimp
Butterfly shrimp
dust with flour
dip in milk
dip in flour again
dip in milk again
roll in finely ground Ritz crackers
let sit in fridge for 30 minutes
heat oil to 375
only cook 5 at a time
cook until golden

God-
You know I don’t give this recipe out to just anyone, so my posting it on the internet should say something about my intentions to come clean.

I presume this squares us, right?

Golden brown and deliciously yours,

Diego

Fallen Angel

God-

Presuming I somehow make it Heaven, and, to go a a step further, actually get my wings, exactly how bad do I need to fuck-up to become a fallen angel?
For some reason, the whole fallen angel thing holds some kind of perverse appeal, although I’m not exactly sure why.
Maybe it’s the term itself—fallen angel.
I like the term. It just seems to fit given my years of experience as a fallen human.
In fact, now that I think about it, I may just be the best fallen angel you’ve ever had!
One question.
What does a fallen angel do all day?
Will I have to file for unemployment or do the checks come automatically?

Yours fallen,

Diego