Michael Jackson. Ed McMahon. Billy Mays. Farrah Fawcett. David Carradine. Steve McNair. Arturo Gatti. Oscar Mayer. A lot of celebrities have passed away recently, some under bizarre circumstances. We didn’t know what to make of all this, so we asked our weekly in-season analyst, God, to come in and help explain why so many stars are dying.

UNTO Almighty Me, we commend the soul of our brother, or sister, or single guy from Kung Fu who liked some freaky ass shit, departed, and we commit his body (or, in Michael Jackson’s case, his body and other assorted synthetic parts) to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Hart to Hart; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ…

Wait, wait. I dunno why the kid always gets credit here.

…in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life, through our Lord, Me, THE FUCKING LORD HIMSELF, BIG POPPA, at whose coming in glorious majesty to judge the world and any number of Hawaiian Tropic swimsuit competitions.

You know, then number one question I get at any funeral is, “Why, God, why?” This question annoys Me. First of all, it’s not very specific. I mean really, do you want me to explain why I set up biological processes as they currently are and how such processes came to a stop in your daddy? I don’t think you do. I think most people are looking to me for answers.

People who do this are fucking retarded. No less than three thousand people at the Jackson funeral looked up at Me and said, “Why?” Why? Really? You need Me to help you deduce why Michael Jackson died, people? The answer is laying right in front of you, morons. Maybe if Cobra Commander there didn’t pump himself with enough drugs to kill a longhorn steer on a daily basis, he might still be around. That’s why he died, shitheads. You really think I somehow claimed him at some unfortunate moment? Christ, you’re lucky he lived that long.

And I saw everyone at the funeral was all like, “Maybe everyone will leave you alone now, Michael.” Pfft. That’s not happening. I know what that freakshow did. I’m not leaving him alone. I’m re-blacking him and I’m gonna cordon him off from the kiddie cloud. Not so heavenly NOW, is it?

Same with everyone else. Wanna know why Billy Mays died? It’s not because I thought it was time. It’s because that guy should have laid of the Orange Juliuses. Then he’d still be around to sell the OrangeGlo. Then there are all these conspiracy theorists who are like, “Oooh, these things always come in threes.” No, they don’t. Trust Me. I have a Star Death chart. They’re much more evenly spaced out than you realize.

Now, I will admit to giving Farrah Fawcett ass cancer. I have my reasons. Let’s just say she was far stingier with Me than she was with Ryan O’Neal. Well, the tables have turned, O’Neal! Oh, Me! Oh, man! Oh, Me! Oh, man!

Suck on THAT.

As for McNair and Gatti, again, the answers are right in front you. Don’t blame all My mysterious ways for the reasons they died. Blame the women! Those bitches are crazy! Just like Farrah! It’s true!

The truth is, I don’t control any of this shit. I just set up the game simulator and watch how it plays out. Far more enjoyable that way. If you’re looking to Me for some sort of divine explanation, you are wrong. In fact, next person to do it gets ass cancer. Believe it.

Oh, and if I were Supreme Court Justice John Paul Stevens, I might be in the market for a sturdy casket right now.

We’ve been a bit derelict in addressing the Tuesday evening release of the NFL schedule. But fear not, for we asked God, our weekly game analyst during the season, to sit down with us and talk about some of his plans for this season’s matchups. Take it away. God.

People are looking for someone to blame in the whole economic collapse. They want to blame the bankers. They want to blame the insurers. They want to blame homeowners. Well kids, you are looking in the wrong direction. Want someone to blame for this whole economic shortage? Look up.

Because I just owned your shit.

You little shits. Thought your lives were just so comfortable now, didn’t you? Well, that’s just when God likes to step in and give you a cold, hard fucking slap of reality. Oooh, ooh! Where did all our trillions go? They just disappeared overnight! How could that have happened?

I’ll tell you how it happened: Because God takes what he wants, when he wants to. And if you don’t like it, you can drown.

The fact is, I’ve been losing at the unicorn track a bit lately. I plunked a cool trillion on Mia Sara at 45:1 odds a few months back. And that little BITCH ended up wandering off the track to go cry on a dying orphan. Unbelievable. How does a unicorn named Mia Sara lose? Christ my kid, I’ve been dying to nail that chick for 20 years. You know how I’d nail Mia Sara? I’d put her in that tight little fringe jacket she wore, and nothing else. Then I’d bend her over a cloud and make some fucking THUNDER.

Me damn.

So you want to know where all the money went, gang? There’s your answer. You lost because Tom Smith can’t train unicorns for SHIT. I should have had that stupid pony doped up with Pegasus blood. Never fails. And don’t come bitching to me about losing your job, or your house. I don’t wanna hear it. My ungrateful little shit of a kid just threw a $20 trillion Resurrection Party, and I had to front it. Hey kid, you get a birthday party every year. I don’t see why I have to cough up for your fucking rebirthday party too. AND you had a deathday party on Friday! Little prick.

So don’t bitch to me. God’s got problems of his own. And if you don’t like it, just wait until I take away all your water. Don’t think it’ll happen? Oh, it’s gonna happen. O YOU GON NOT DRANK. Bear Bryant taught me all about how depriving people of water motivates them. Well, get ready to get really fucking motivated, you little peons.

Anyway, the schedule. Yeah, I made it. Think your team has a rough go of it next year? Well, tough titty for you. “Oh, wah wah! We have to play NFL-caliber opponents every week! Boo hoo!” Sit and spin.

Here are my favorites matchups of the year, along with how I plan to end them:

WEEK 1: Giants 45, Redskins 20. Hey Skins fans, here’s where I make you go flying off your gay little bandwagon. “Oh oh, if only Campbell would throw it downfield to one of our horrible receivers! Then we would all be saved!” I can’t wait. I’ll be watching this game while dining on some moo shu unicorn. The secret to making it delicious is a good plum sauce. Man, I love plum sauce.

WEEK 2: Saints 28, Eagles 27. I’ll be snapping Donovan McNabb’s tibia this week. Look for it.

WEEK 3: Falcons 21, Patriots 13. Hey you Boston fans, this is the week you slowly begin to realize Tom Brady isn’t quite the same, and then you go bitching everywhere you can about how they nevah should have traded Cassel. OR DREW BLEDSOE! Just for that, I’ll be greenlighting another David E. Kelley series based in your town. You deserve it.

WEEK 5: Lions 21, Steelers 17. That’s my “Let me fuck up your suicide pool” special of the year. MORE CRACKER SOUP FOR YOU, POOR BOY.

WEEK 6: Chargers 52, Broncos 47. I love shootouts. Except in unicorn football. Then I prefer a bloody defensive battle.

WEEK 8: Seahawks 13, Cowboys 7. YEEEEHAW YOU ARE FUCKING MEDIOCRE AGAIN!

WEEK 10: Patriots 24, Colts 20. Watch as I personally age both these teams 12 years in one season. Few people know that I transferred Richie Petitbon’s soul to the vessel of Jim Caldwell.

WEEK 11: Raiders 33, Bengals 12. Just for Milt.

WEEK 15: Ravens 27, Bears 7. Hey Cutler, I hope you wear your game frown for this one.

WEEK 16: Chargers vs. Titans (cancelled due to double team bus crashes). Don’t fuck with my kid’s birthday, NFL.

SUPER BOWL: Ravens 22, Giants 13. In a shitty economy, I will give you a shitty Super Bowl. And you will like it. Now excuse me while I turn into mist and sneak into Rebecca Gayheart’s shower.

Hello, my children. With football season at a close, now’s the time of year I have to start forsaking you, and thus plunging you into the seemingly interminable off-season. Suckers. Otherwise you might think me a benevolent creator, and I most certainly am not. Eat it.

Pretty nice Super Bowl I put on for you, huh? And you benighted, ungrateful little shits all carped that it was going to be boring. Believe it or not (YOU BETTER FUCKING BELIEVE), the outcome of this one wasn’t an easy choice for Me. Both teams have a guy really keen on my first son, though Warner getting bonus points for talking about it all the time while Polamalu just signs himself after every play. How ’bout some verbal recognition, you unfrozen cavesafety?

For Me, the deciding factor came down to which of my holy creations I was most proud of. In Larry Fitzgerald, I made a near-flawless physical specimen. In Santonio Holmes, I made a monstrously huge cock. I mean, that thing is impressive. It deserves a Super Bowl ring.

Also, Brenda Warner has had so much work done, I can’t recognize the Child of Light I once crafted. Now she came blame the long hair and nose job for his husband’s failings. Because they are to blame.

Of course, Dan Rooney had to go and fuck up the chain of groveling during the postgame awards ceremony. It was supposed to be ME, THEN Jesus THEN Obama. And you skip right to His Barryness. Wait until I melt your viscera along with Stephen Colbert for joking that I had no hand in this game.

I CONTROL ALL, YOU ELVISH SPEAKING ASSCLOWN! Yuk it up while you’re in chemo, smug boy.

All you secular non-believers lay the credit for the Steelers win on the officials. Silly embittered clueless mortals. Credit where its due, cockwallets. But just to placate you mewling little shits, I had this crocodile tear into a zebra. CHOMP HIS NECK FOR THE GOD-STER, CROC!

Not quite as cute as it is on Pearls Before Swine, is it?

See you losers in seven months. These Me-less fags here on this blog will keep you occupied with an assortment of animal maulings and commenter drafts about favorite ways to blaspheme Me. So there’s that. And have fun with baseball. ‘Cause Me knows, I don’t watch that shit.

Hello, my children. How joyous this day when it has been revealed that I’ve given you a new presidential messiah. And you fools thought he was a secret Muslim. Nope. God went and got freaky with a black chick and he had Him a second son. Wasn’t the first either. That’s right. Jesus had Aretha Franklin at his inauguration too. So enjoy.

To Warner and Roethlisberger, I am not yet ready to disclose which of you will take home your second Super Bowl title and which I will consign to bitter, Meforsaken defeat. But know this: to whomever I go with, the checklist of thank-yous just got longer. Postgame, you thank, in order: Me, then Jesus, then Obama. I will not have my sons spurned! You fucked up last time Ben, and I gave you an asphalt facial. This time it gets updated to magma.

You know, I initially was going to make it so the Ravens made it to the grandest stage (other than personal one I got up here with all the nekkid dancers) so I could hear Ray Lewis and Kurt battle to namecheck Me the most during pregame, but that Joe Flacco makes it so obvious that he’s going to throw it Derrick Mason that even my divine powers could not stop defensive backs from intercepting his telegraphed passes. I only help those who help themselves. AND BOTHER TO TRIM THEIR ME-DAMNED UNIBROW! CLEANLINESS IS NEXT TO ME-LINESS!

I allowed the Cardinals to win even though their fans are wayward in faith and burn shit into the opposing quarterback’s lawn, because, well, did you really think I was going to give Philadelphia two major sports titles in one human lifetime? Not fucking likely.

Go in peace my children. Actually don’t. Be violent. I need something to entertain me during this pointless week off before the Bowl.

Hello, My children. Remember the 1990s when I totally fucked the Buffalo Bills at every turn? Hehe. That was hilarious.

Many people have prayed into My Hotline and expressed their discontent with the run of the Baltimore Ravens. How could You, they profess, rally behind Stabby McStabsalot and his band of rapists, thieves,
and rapists? To be honest, I have a total chubby for Joseph Flacco. He just needed some help against Tennessee. That blown safety call and that delay of game call? Yep, that was Me!

People think of the South as My country, but honestly? Fuck the South. If I can burn Tennessee AND North Carolina in one weekend, you know I’m gonna smoke that pipe. Those bastards use My House as their own fucking country club so they can plan their dinky little meat-and-three dinner parties? It’s not fucking high school, people. GO TO CHURCH AND BE BORED LIKE EVERYONE ELSE, FAGGOTS. At least that way I know you’re just there for Me. 

But what about Kurt Warner? I really was on the fence about letting his team advance. Thing is, the playoffs really aren’t fun for Me unless somebody totally shits the bed. And fucking with those cajuns is more fun than, oh, just about anything that isn’t combustable. Remember that it’s totally okay to hate people that don’t live in the same geographic area as you. I said “Love thy neighbor,” not “love everyone.” Because, damn, how miserable and frustrating would THAT be? 

Oh, and Kurt? THANKS AGAIN FOR THE PICTURE YOU DREW OF ME, FUCKFACE! YOU MAKE SIX MILLION DOLLARS A YEAR! YOU COULDN’T SHELL OUT FOR SOME FUCKING WATERCOLORS? Guess what, asshole, I drew a picture of you! Wanna see it?

Enjoy sticking that dildo up your ass, shithead. Your wife will appreciate the night off.

Donovan McNabb? Wasn’t me. Hey, I had nothing to do with that shit, I swear. You don’t see any black quarterbacks in the New Testament, do you? People think his getting benched brought his groove back, like it was some near-death experience. Truth was, I tried to kill Donovan that same week, and I totally screwed it up. So his figurative near-death experience was replaced by a literal near-death experience, and you know how those go. And just for future reference, never drop a piano without careful planning beforehand.

I would have felt like a total dingus if I hadn’t let one home team win. And before you lump Me in with those douchebags in Steeler Nation, hear Me out. Would you REALLY want to see the Chargers, those shit-eating 8-8 Chargers, get into the Super Bowl? Do you really want a BCS in the NFL? Should I reward that bitch Tomlinson for sitting out? Again? Plus Roethisberger’s a big dumb animal. He’s not getting to the Super Bowl if he has anything to say about it.

Anyway, that’s what happened last week. So don’t bother me on Sunday after 3, because I’ll be watching the CBS pregame show. That Shannon Sharpe is amazing. Did you know his great-grandmother was a duck-billed platypus? Oh, and don’t forget, I AM THE LORD AND THE WAY, NOT SOME COCKSUCKING MICROMANAGER! I HAVE BIGGER FISH TO FRY! NOW SOMEBODY KILL ME A SHEEP! WOOOO! GO RAVENS!

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 the outcomes of Round 1 of the NFL playoffs happen as they did.

Before I get to this week’s games, I want to address the issue of Kurt Warner trying to draw Me…

Excuse me, Kurt. Would you mind if I go just right ahead and direct you to the Second Commandment. You know, the one I wrote…

Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above…

See that “heaven above” language right there? That me means Me. I’m from heaven. I built the damn place. YOU DON’T FUCKING DRAW ME, MOTHERFUCKER! I WILL NOW GIVE YOUR FUCKING FAMILY CANCER!

/gives family cancer

These fucking people… they claim to live by Me, and then they go and just doodle Me (badly, I might add), as if it’s nothing. As if they aren’t VIOLATING ONE OF THE MOST FUNDAMENTAL TENETS OF MY HEAVENLY LAW. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.

I don’t like it when people try to draw Me. They never get it right. They always fuck up the nose. I have a good nose. I don’t have one of those fucked up Owen Wilson noses. Besides, I can take on many various forms. Sometimes I look like a human being. Other times, I like to turn myself into fine mist and then sneak into ladies’ bedrooms when they’re fingering the honeypot. That’s some solid misting, right there.

Other times, I like to take the form of a cloud. Why? NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS, THAT‘S WHY. I also enjoy taking the form of a very bright white light. That’s a classic one. And at night? That’s wolfie time.

Didn’t think God was a lycanthrope, did you? Well, I am. Sometimes, I like to turn into a wolf. Then I run into the forest, find a six-point buck, and then rip its throat right out. BAM! NATURAL SELECTION THERE, BUCKY! MY SELECTION! YOU GOT SERVED.

You know who it’s fun to turn into from time to time? Dylan McDermott. You should see the looks I get on the street when I turn into that guy. I bet he’s just drowning in pussy. Good stuff.

Anyway, it bears repeating, DON’T DRAW ME. And since you, Kurt Warner, have crossed Me once more, I assure you Deangelo Williams and the Panthers will tear you a new Godhole come Saturday night. Fuckhead. Enjoy the loss. And the cancer.

Last week, I allowed the Ravens to beat the Dolphins because the city of Miami is a den of sin and sodomy. Sometimes I turn on the Godscope and point it a Miami, and I swear I have no clue what I’m looking at. Are those three Cuban men fucking in that alleyway? Four? Why is there a Chihuahua there? Why are they smearing bananas on each other? Yuck. Not cool.

I also allowed the Chargers to beat the Colts. A lot of people might think I like Tony Dungy, since he worships Me and all. Well, to be frank, I think he’s stealing a bit of My thunder. I get it, people. Tony Dungy is a swell guy. But you don’t praise him. You praise ME. STOP STEALING MY THUNDER, TONY DUNGY! ONLY I KNOW HOW TO MAKE IT!

As for the Vikings… FUCK THEM. THEY’LL NEVER WIN A TITLE IN A MILLION YEARS AS LONG AS A SHADY JEW OWNS THEM! I DECLARE IT SO!

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 the outcomes of Week 16 in the NFL happen as they did.

What? What’s this? WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT? I’m sorry. It’s my son’s birthday tomorrow, and I frankly have clue what to get the little fucker. I go up to my son and I say, “Son, what would You like this year?” And, I shit you not, this is what the kid says back:

Sell all that you have and distribute to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven.

You listen to me, you little fucking snot. I AM IN HEAVEN. I RUN THE MOTHERFUCKER. So don’t play coy with me on this shit. Remember on your 33rd birthday when I gave you the burden of all man’s sins? Not a fun gift, was it? No, I remember you being quite vocal about your reluctance to accept that little trinket. DON’T THINK I WON’T FUCK YOU LIKE THAT AGAIN, YOU LITTLE SHIT!

You know what? Fuck this. I’m getting the kid an iTunes gift card. Let him download all the shitty Michael W. Smith songs he likes. I heard you can buy the entire “I Can Only Imagine” compilation for under $10. And if he doesn’t like it, then next year I’m getting him a pack of cigarettes. SMOKE UP, JOHNNY!

Anyway, this week I decided to smack down the playoff hopes of several teams: The Jets, Broncos, Vikings, and Eagles. Why? BECAUSE FUCK THEM, THAT’S WHY. I don’t need a why. That’s why I’m God. If I did it, that is my will. AND YOU WILL ACCEPT IT LIKE THE WEAK-MINDED LITTLE SHEEP YOU ARE! NOW GO STICK A TREE IN YOUR HOUSE AND SING WEIRD SONGS ABOUT MY KID! AND DON’T SEND HIM ANY VANILLA CUPCAKES! HE’S ALLERGIC! I RULE!

Hello my children. You know, the more that I think about it the more I like the idea of Festivus supplanting Christmas as the official holiday of the winter solstice. Sure, practitioners of this holiday don’t glorify me through song and prayer, but overall it has a lot more going for it than a tree and a fatass with some reindeer. While Frank Costanza’s holiday of choice isn’t steeped in history and tradition like Christmas, but it was the brainchild of a guy who spawned a Seinfeld writer. I’ll take that over some old Roman guys who decided to celebrate my son’s birth in the middle of fucking winter to appease the damn pagans.

That is why I am in favor of erecting Festivus kiosks in cities across America.

In the spirit of the holiday, I’m going to air a few of my grievances before we get to Sunday’s games.

1. Hey NFL, flexing the schedule is fucking bullshit and it’s doing more harm than good. What’s the matter, you couldn’t look into the future to see which matchups would be more compelling than others? Now I don’t expect you to have the kind of foresight that I enjoy, but it didn’t take Me to tell you that giving the Browns five nationally televised games was a colossally fucked up idea.

2. Hey Vinny Cerrato, stop making up fake stats for your joke of a fucking radio show in an attempt to make your personnel decisions look less retarded by comparison. And while we’re at it…Hey Larry Michael, quit being such a pathetic shill for Vinny. He can guarantee your employment, but I still control your everlasting soul.

3. Hey Pro Bowl, you are an affront to football as we know it. Hell, you’re an affront to Me. Go away and die in peace before I turn Hawaii into the world’s biggest magmakakke.

On to the explanations…

-While the Vikings of Minnesota were victorious I felt compelled to break the shoulder of defensive tackle Pat Williams. You see Drew was flying a bit too close to the sun after the judge put the kibosh on the NFL’s suspension plans, so I had to melt those wings a bit. I’m okay with the Vikings winning, I just want to see them struggle a bit. It’s like watching a kid masturbate for the first time, which is something I do quite often if you must know.

-The Jets of New York picked up an improbable win, but that was not a part of My divine plan. No, the NFL put the fix in on that one so it was out of my hands. What, you thought JP Losman was that terrible? Okay, he kind of is, but that’s beside the point.

-The Texans of Houston managed to upset the Titans of Tennessee because Unsilent Majority really needs to shut up about the latter’s record against the spread (UM: Duly noted).

Thanks, God!

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 the outcomes of Week 14 in the NFL happen as they did.

Hello my children. I trust that you enjoyed the bounty of football goodness I provided for this, the 14th week of the NFL season. As the regular season winds down we turn our attention to the holiday season. For Me the holidays are a lonely time when all the love and worship is doled out to Jesus and his ex-boyfriend, Santa. And what do I get? Not a single Me damned thing, that’s what. This is why I’ve always been such a strong proponent of the Secret Santa method of giftology. You see, everyone gets together and picks a name out of a hat, and the name you draw will be the recipient of a special gift. This way everyone gets a piece of the sweet holiday action, and anybody who receives a particularly awesome present is compelled to reciprocate with sexual gratification. Keeping that in mind, let’s get down to some explanations.

-The 49ers of San Francisco defeated the misguided Jets of New York because one special young lady prayed to me on behalf of her Secret Santa recipient.

This tiny little man is Dexter, who in addition to serving as the obnoxiously loud yeller coxswain for Harvard’s Lightweight Crew team, is a huge homer for his San Francisco 49ers. Dexter’s Secret Santa was so earnest in her (or his!) request that I had little choice but to alter the trajectory of Brad Smith’s lateral to send it into his own endzone. Had it not been for that timely gust of wind Leon Washington would have taken the kick back for a touchdown, but such is the power of Secret Santa. Now Dexter it is your duty to reciprocate with mouth love when your mysterious benefactor makes himself (or herself!) known.

Oh, and you should probably kick some money over to Fisher House as well. I mean come on, you’re on the fucking Harvard crew team for fuck’s sake, you kind of owe the rest of the world a little something. Speaking of which, is Hector Elizondo still coaching crew up there? I always liked that guy.

-The Patriots of New England were allowed to come from behind to win against the Seahawks of Seattle because I’m setting up their entitled fans for the greatest downfall imaginable. You see, taking away Tom Brady, Tedy Bruschi, and all of their running backs has done nothing to curtail their hubris. This is why I will continue to allow their success, right up until the playoffs. Then, when all of the Massholes have reached the apex of assholery I will strike down Bill Belichick with a lightning bolt at the exact moment that the Patriots are eliminated.

-The Vikings of Minnesota overcame a spirited effort from the Lions of Detroit because I just love riling up the citizenry of Detroit. Oh what, you don’t like your offensive linemen? Well then why don’t you show them by setting random cars on fire? It’s what your parents and grandparents would have done!

-The Texans of Houston defeated the Packers of Green Bay because I have Matt Schaub on my fantasy team and I really needed to make the playoffs. We have a loose “no tampering” rule in our all-deity fantasy league, but that didn’t stop Yahweh when I played against He and Sage Rosenfels during Week 9. No way a that JewB throws two touchdowns on the Vikings defense without some help from above.

-The Saints of New Orleans were victorious against the Falcons of Atlanta because I had just watched this documentary and I was feeling pretty bad for turning their city into the country’s largest (and fourth dirtiest) wave pool.

-I didn’t give an explanation for the particular game you’d hoped because I secretly hate you and wish you’d never been born into my kingdom.

Oh, and in case anyone out there drew My name, I’ve had my eye on this hood thong for a while now…

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to clean up My bathroom floor.

Thanks, God! And thanks to ShareBro Alex for the hood thong inspiration.

This week, we’re holding the second annual KsK Kares Kharity Drive for Fisher House, which helps build temp housing for disabled veterans and their families. You can donate directly to FH here.

Update: Okay okay, you coughed up some cash, so here’s your token girl with gun pic of the day. Enjoy.

Hello my children. I trust that all of you are all preparing to celebrate the miraculous birth of my divine progeny in a tasteful and understated manner.

Oh come the fuck on! What is wrong with you people? You’re starting to make me think that the atheists are actually smarter than the believers. You people are getting on my last damn nerve, and no, I cannot protect you from terrorists. Terrorism is a machination of man, and it is up to man to stop the terrorists. I’m pretty much useless on this front, so don’t expect me to be watching your back while you’re preaching the good word. Let’s just move on to the explanations of Week 13’s games.

-The Buzzsaw that is the Cardinals of Arizona were destroyed by the once floundering Eagles of Philadelphia because I was recently reminded that Will Leitch stopped going to church. Let this be a lesson to you, Mr. Leitch. Just because some Sunday school kids made fun of you for reciting My Prayer in less than 1.5 seconds. Of course you’re welcome back in My house any time you wish, but please make an effort to pray in unison with the rest of the congregation.

-The Lions of Detroit suffered the most brutal of their many defeats this season at the hands of the Titans of Tennessee because I want the Lions and the NFL to be thoroughly embarrassed. You see, I too enjoy the Thanksgiving Day football games and I hate the Lions more than anyone. I mean, have you heard what they used to do to the believers in the old days? I knew I’d regret giving them all of those sharp teeth. But getting back to the point, the Lions of Detroit suck and if they ruin another final Thursday in November I’ll be smiting left and right.

-The 49ers of San Francisco were able to scrape by the Bills of Buffalo by a score of 10-3 because I wanted to make sure that Chris Berman had as little as possible to work with should he have chosen to include this debacle in his obnoxious highlight package.

-The Redskins of Washington suffered an unfortunate defeat at the hands of the Giants of New York, although it wasn’t always supposed to go down like that. Then I tuned in to watch the Sean Taylor tribute, only to see it emceed by George Michael. GEORGE FUCKING MICHAEL! That wrinkled old cock isn’t fit to emcee a game of bingo, let alone to honor a beloved member of a community on the 1 year anniversary of his murder. That is without question more insulting to the deceased than playing Big Things Poppin’ on the PA system. I had no choice but to hand the game to those undeserving Giants.

That’s it, I’m out.

Thanks, God!