Many people scoff at the idea that God can control the outcome of sporting events, or that He even cares. But those people are wrong. God does control the games, AND He cares a great deal. Today, He explains why He let Tim Tebow fail on Sunday.

Before there is Glory, there must always be a test. This is what I do. I test people. When people come to me and they ask, “God, why did you send my village a horrible tsunami that killed six people in my family, destroyed my home, and left me to spend the rest of my life an empty soul? Why, God? Why?”, that’s a test. You see? If I didn’t wipe out entire sections of Earth once in a while, how would I know what you’re REALLY made of? I like to push Man to the edges. I like to see how he reacts to things like the loss of a loved one, or having his nuts pinched by a pair of pliers. Some might call my curiosity “sadisitic,” or “psychopathic,” or even “semi-Dexterlike,” and to those people I say: FUCK YOU. GOD REPELS YOUR ANALYSIS WITH HIS GOD FORCEFIELD.

Which brings me to you, Timothy Richard Tebow. Yes, you. My special little project. It was YOU who forced your own mother to make an agonizing choice between her safety and your existence. It was YOUR DOG, Lucky, whom I had hit by a rampaging Dodge Caravan back in 1995. Didn’t know that was Me, did you? Don’t act so surprised. GOD ALWAYS TAKES THE WHEEL. It was YOU whom I tempted with my fabled Cans of Plenty. It was YOU whom I decreed should lose to Mississippi 31-30, to see what kind of bitchin’ presser you’d give after the game. It was YOU I focused my little eye on, Timothy. Some have called you the Chosen One, and that’s true to an extent. I have chosen you, but not in the flattering way you might think.

You’re my little… experiment, as it were. And so far, you’ve managed to put up with every fucking thing I’ve thrown at you: pain, loss, stress, suffering, ridicule, anguish, Hoge. Even the Lions, whom I delighted in siccing upon you, couldn’t break your spirit.

A pity for you, Timothy. You should have quit while you were ahead. Because I have more in store for you. Much more. This is only the beginning of your baptism BY FLAME. Soon, you shall be released by your team. Then, you shall be offered a contract to play in Godless Canada. Then, you shall see in quick succession the death of many of your loved ones. Your two sisters shall prick their fingers on the spindle of a spinning wheel, AND DIE. Your beloved mother shall be run over by a Nissan Maxima. That’s right. A JAPANESE CAR.

After that, you shall find yourself on a plane to the Philippines to do some charity work, when I shall strike that plane down with a flock of geese and strand you in the ocean with both your legs sheared off. You shall wash ashore on a remote, deserted island. The sun shall blister your skin and turn your tongue black with thirst. You shall find yourself eating sugar cane husks just to stay alive. I shall have flying fish jump out of the ocean constantly, to tempt you with the IDEA of fresh seafood that you shall never be able to catch.

Soon, you shall become delirious. You may even think about touching yourself after years and years of holding out and letting the precious manjism build up inside your prostate. You may even give the tip of your little dong a quick rub, just to see what it feels like, just to understand the pleasure involved in PRE-FETAL GENOCIDE. I shall send you visions of gorgeous, eight-breasted women, with asses so pert, you could slap a bra on them. Oh, you shall be tortured, my friend. TORTURED.

(rubs hands maniacally)

Then, just as temptation is about to consume you, A BOAT! Yes, a boat! But no ordinary boat, young man. A PIRATE BOAT. And you shall attempt to fend off the pirate by throwing stones, but your throwing motion shall be so weak and slow and laughable that the pirates will easily have landed and accosted you by then. Soon, you will be their slave. They shall jam a heroin needle into your throat and get you hooked on my special recipe of 11 herbs and opiates. You shall experience nirvana while knowing deep down you are about to descend to the depths of HELL. You shall be their captive for fifteen years, the world never knowing you’re still alive.

You shall hold out hope, praying every day for salvation, begging Me to save you. But I won’t. I’m gonna let you die in the steerage of that ship. I might even have a Joel Osteen celebrity cruise come within a quarter-mile of you right before it happens, just to make things a little more bittersweet.

And then, when you finally ascend to the pearly gates, I’m going to stand before you. And you know what you’re gonna do? You’re gonna THANK me. Isn’t that just the fucking BEST? After all the shit I put you through, you’re still gonna have to take the high road.

Then I’m gonna send you to Hell. Just for kicks. That’s what you get for spoiling my three-team parlay back in Week 7. DON’T FUCK WITH THE BIG MAN.