God Knows

Dear President Bush,

What is it with you?

I am increasingly coming to the conclusion that all we have in common is the same first initial. Yet, you persist in writing to me as if I am a great friend and confident. Too often, too, you exhibit an air of superiority, which is difficult to comprehend and, in your case, impossible to justify.

Yet to the best of my recollection this has all happened without you receiving a single acknowledgement or even recognition from me. You refer to our “conversations”. When did these happen? Did I miss something? I have a great many conversations with a great many people, Allah is a particular friend, and it would be true to say that sometimes, late and night, after a good meal, and a bit of a nightcap, my friends and I will attempt to right the wrongs of the world (as one does), but as far as I am aware those conversations have never included you as a participant—though, I have to admit, “wrongs of the world” have undoubtedly included you as an example.

In any case, what makes you think you would get automatic entry to my place? Boy, are you in for a rude awakening!

What concerns me most though are the things you purport to do in my name. You imply you have a God-given right; do you think I give out rights like certificates? Even if I did, a Texan would be so far back on the queue they’d be looking up the backside of Brian Tamaki. Iraq? That was all yours, babe. Do you know how much grief that caused me with the Muslims next door, and they are only marginally better than the Catholics at the best of times.

But it is Christmas and I can afford to be magnanimous. What is it they say: to forgive is divine? This then is in the form of a gentle admonishment, one that I hope you will take on board and digest: from this point you will, I hope, be a little more circumspect in your comments and attributions. You will acknowledge, as Presidents have done before you, that God has no place in the White House. I have not been near the White House in decades—since Kennedy in fact: it was a fun place back then. You will cease and desist from acting in my name; you will also desist from evoking my name; I find it personally offensive the amount of evoking you are doing lately, and I can tell you for nothing your wife Laura is not too happy about it either.

And finally you will cease writing to me. Your ingratiating letters, barely literate at the best of times, simply grate. And, no, before your devious mind turns to alternatives: I don’t have a text-capable phone. This correspondence is at an end.

So is this letter; I have a birthday party to organize.

Merry Christmas.

G.

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