AI Illustration: Clinton J. Isle
Through the years, Fyrday has had unfettered access to the correspondence between President Donald J. Trump and God. All this correspondence between the two seems to be one-way. None of it has come from Heaven to date, and Hell—usually a virulent critic of God—has been curiously silent on the matter.
Who within the Trump administration is providing us with this correspondence, we do not know. Though the fact that several letters we received over the years have had what appear to be splashes of McDonald's sauce on them gives us a clue to the possible author. Nevertheless, the author's name will remain, in the interim, pure speculation.
More forthcoming is God’s administration. As we have acknowledged, Fryday has not heard from God. But there are those in his administration, shall we call them disciples, who have been in touch, and they tell us that God is annoyed, or as they describe it, somewhat piqued.
The reason, we are told, is that God is concerned about the way the current currency is heading on Earth. And He is not referring to the exchange rate of the NZ dollar (though that is of some concern to Him) or to Crypto. He is referring to President Donald J. Trump and where he is going.
Of course, God has heard from Trump before with Trump’s Letters to God (He never replies to them), which are sent with such frequency that He (God) has been heard to proclaim that he (Trump) is a “pain in the arse.” However, God is prepared to live with that.
Until now.
What sent God over the edge was the poor state of the safety fences that surround the cloud he lives on—death taxes are killing Him up there. But, more so, the latest insanity from Donald J. Trump publishing an image of himself as either the Son of God or God himself.
“That bloody bastard son-of-a-bitch is no son of anybody, least of all Me!”, said God. “And as for him being Me? I shall rain terror on him in the manner of, in Gladiator, that fine Australian actor Russell Crowe (God has never been good at geography) and smite him from the earth.
“Smite him from the earth!” God yelled.
Upon which, God turned and retreated into his newly completed ballroom.
St Peter was just about to finish his work, filleting his fish, when God returned, poking his head around the door, “And fetch Me those bloody Epstein files—I’ll show the bastard.”
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