Dear Jesus Christ and Lucifer Satan,
I fear that I’m losing touch with reality lately, both my reality and the everyone else reality of not being me and mostly not being in my reality at all.
I have a lot of money. I always have, and I’m very beautiful. But lately, I feel compelled to produce and market these really shoddy self help products and give dangerous health advice to women. For example, I was selling these jade eggs for $66 each and telling women to put them in their vaginas. I told women that this was good for them. I sold a lot of these eggs.
My new product is something I call Miracle Dust. I tell women that if they put it in their tea, it’ll help to balance their chakras. The jade eggs were actual jade eggs, but Miracle Dust is just cyanide. It says cyanide on the packaging, but I spell it “Sia Naide” and claim that “Sia Naide” means “divine mist” in Hindi. So you can see that I’m getting more aggressive as a business woman.
I want to market to men, too, but my marketing advisors tell me that men generally don’t care whether they live or die, that most men would actually prefer to die but just don’t have the gumption to do it. They won’t even spend $66 for a ridiculous jade egg or $39 for Miracle Dust. And the more unhealthy they are, the more they look forward to death instead of wanting to fix themselves. Is this true? And whether it’s true or not, how can I develop an effective marketing strategy for men? I’ve duped men before with my boobies and vagina, but what I’d really like to do is trick them into buying jade eggs.
Dear Gwyneth Paltrow,
I have to be honest here. When I watch the movie Seven, I find myself imagining that it’s your real severed head in that box at the end. I’ve actually considered appearing in one of Kevin Spacey’s dreams and ordering him to decapitate you in real life. I know my whole schtick is supposed to be unconditional love for everyone, but for some reason I really, really hate you. I look at your privileged, out-of-touch face and I want to burn your skin off with acid. There have been several occasions where, if not for some other distraction, I would have turned you into a pillar of salt, sprinkled you into a trough full of slop and watched you be devoured by hogs.
So when you tell me you’ve been poisoning your friends, part of me is relieved. See, now my hatred for you is justified. Now, when I inflict you with leprosy and small pox and dysentery and, I don’t know, let’s say IBS—now when I punish you, I don’t have to feel guilty about it. The only bummer is I only get you for these six years you have left on Earth. Satan, that lucky bastard, gets to torture you for eternity. Maybe I’ll ask him to set up a web cam so I can at least watch.
—Jesus the Vengeful
Dear Gwyneth Paltrow,
You’re ten years past being able to rely on your looks to market anything to men. You can try getting a tit upgrade, but I doubt it’ll help. You were the first in the line of sad Brat Pitt rejects as he moved up the food chain and you fell down it. The only person the world hates more than you is your baby daddy, whats-his-name from Coldplay.
The fact is, though, I’ve always sort of had a thing for it. You seem bitchy and that’s kind of a turn-on for me. I image you insulting me as you bounce up and down on my cock, telling me how small it is and how unsatisfied you are. Then I imagine you on your knees blowing me, looking up at me with angry, impatient eyes. Even though I won’t be fully erect, I’ll cum within thirty seconds and then you’ll stand up and spit the load in my face. You’ll always be wearing all your clothes, refusing to let me see any of that hot, tight body of yours. You’ll be in, like, a snowsuit or something, with just a hole in the crotch for my semi-hard dick to go in. Or maybe it will be the fat suit you wore in Shallow Hal. And even in the 90 lb. fat suit, you’d be ice cold. And you wouldn’t let me touch or kiss you, and anytime I try, you’d violently push my hands away and punch me in the face. For some reason, these fantasies really get my juices flowing. I can’t wait to make them a reality in six years when you die choking on some fancy food that only rich people ever eat made for you by your personal chef who hates you so much that she doesn’t bother giving you the Heimlich maneuver when she sees you gasping for air.
I’m going to talk to my Hollywood connections and see about getting ahold of that fat suit before it ends up on eBay or something. In Hell, fat suits are the new black. At least for you, they will be.
—Lucifer the Lusty
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