Dear Margaret, it's me, God

Sex Week kicks off with a post by Christians Scare the Bejesus Out of Me, a long time reader who is understandably frightened of Christians.

39 years ago, 12-year old Margaret Simon wrote a very public letter to God. In fact, it became a best-selling book. Annoyed that she felt herself more important than a mortal who might pray quietly for her wretched adolescent problems, God is only now getting around to his response.

Dear Margaret,

It's me God. 1970 it was that you wrote to me. I thought a bit of the cold shoulder would straighten you out, all those pre-pubescent sex-crazed tendencies and whatnot. Vile. Anyway, I plain forgot about you. Used to be that I'd catch up on my correspondence of an evening. I had some rather delightful embossed stationary, very pretty, and it was an absolute riot to send churlish missives here and there. Then I got cable and this network called Showtime came with it, you see. Calamitous great fun, that! Those saucy Tudors up to no good and that devilish handsome Duchovny chap.

So with Showtime, heathens to smote and contraceptives to keep out of Africa, time just runs away. Anyway, that nice black man has a Blackberry so I decided to scrap the stationary and get with the program. It's uncanny this iPhone, ever so usable.

Where were we. Ah yes, 1970. For a little lightning-round of catch-up:

1. As you're now aware, I'm a jealous God. You were, in chapters, meddling with a Jewish Yahweh of sorts. How dare you dabble!
   
2. On to the bra stuffing, you little whore. Trying to "sex yourself up," were you? Your breasts were on their way. I had planned to finish off yet another mortal masterpiece with your boobs in good measure. Since you thought you knew better, I swapped the purchase order. DD-cups for Margaret Simon. They didn't really "work" with your figure, did they? Couldn't run five feet with those, could you? And they're pretty fucking saggy now, aren't they? Patience was a virtue you lacked. It was disappointing.
   
3. Your period? You wrote to me about your period? That's disgusting, we men don't want to know. Then you did get it and you decided you didn't want it. A little consistency, woman. So what did you do? You started taking a blasphemous pill, every day before bed.
   

It was beginning to look at little "three strikes, you're out," Margaret. This before we've even addressed what you did once in bed (whore!) and under the bleachers the following summer (13? Seriously?).... Oh, you vexed me through those pre-teen years, Margaret.

Covered some ground, didn't you, with those Wright Marx Kennedy Righteous Smothers Blues Baldwin Esteves/Sheen Oasis Lawrence Hanson Jonas brothers?

Anyway, the above should illuminate why I made you choose a life of me-worship. "I heard God calling," you told everyone and you were right! I was ringing to say, "get the fuck over here, it's pay back time." So, Sister Margaret, today you're a struggling teacher to 100 coked-out Catholic school girls. Are we even?

It's tiresome work, isn't it, dealing with teenage girls? They're just so horny. You were such a head ache I thought you might like the perspective. Every painted nail should signal to you the devil's growing hold of your youthful charges. Wait 'til those little sluts get pregnant. You'll be down there flapping about with that ill-fitting habit and I'll be up here having a right giggle fit. Karma's a bitch, isn't it?

Must dash, Californication's on.
The "Big Man" on Campus