Thanks for Nothing

By By Mike McFall and By Mike McFall

By Mike McFall

Dear God,

Last week’s meteor didn’t kill me. It almost gave me a heart attack, I’ll admit, since I was standing outside when it flew over Utah and turned the midnight sky into day. I haven’t been on anything that’s shown me something like that since high school (emphasis on the adjective). I guess that’s something to be thankful for.

Not that you’ve given me much else to list. Swine flu? Check. No jobs? Check. The rash that &- well, you know what I’m talking about. They don’t need to.

But maybe I’m being too harsh. I staved off criticizing you last week because of that meteoric stunt you pulled. I’ll take back, for now, what I said about you getting off on withholding miracles in our first correspondence. And the same night you sent me this reply through a scribe? Good timing.

Savor this moment, Jehovah (it, like a prostitute, will come and go): I was wrong. But know this &- you’re only off the hook until this Thanksgiving Day holiday is over. I will awake from a chemically-induced coma anew with a fresh perspective on the ways you’ve let me down.

And what better way than Black Friday? Greed, chaos, theft, and yes, even murder (that audio equipment was mine &- why do you think they call them “mic’s‘), all wrapped up into one bloody morning. I can feel the disillusionment in your power and our sanctity fading already, you son of a &- wait, no. I guess you’re technically not the son of anything.

Much like the Pilgrims before me, I will celebrate this Thanksgiving with you. Then go back on everything I’ve said.

Watch out for my blankets.

Sincerely Yours,