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.

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 Week 2 of the NFL unfold as it did. It’s been a while since God has dropped in as our guest analyst. Please welcome Him with open arms.

It’s been a while since I made a good tragedy happen. One that really, really fucks with your head. One that makes you scared for the future of the world. I LOVE tragedies like that. Sure, I made all that flooding in Pakistan, but no one cares about those people. Even Pakistanis don’t care about Pakistanis. Look at them. They’re dirty. They have no shoes. Most of them don’t bother to shave. I don’t think many of them care if they live or if they die. So it’s not all that fun to kill them.

May I confess something to you? Yes, yes, I know it’s usually YOU who does the confessing. “Help me Lord, I had sexual thoughts about my niece!” “Help me, Lord! I killed a bank clerk!” “Help me, Lord! I lost a battery in my anus!” Wah wah wah NO ONE CARES. Know why I don’t answer your prayers? Because they bore me. Burn down a full orphanage, and THEN you’ve got my attention.

Anyway, to my confession. Those Pakistani floods? Those were just practice. I do that sometimes. I practice on random jackasses before I get to the business of killing IMPORTANT people. Even I need to stay sharp. I use those floods to perfectly calibrate my killing numbers. Will six inches of water kill a million babies? What about seven? Would eight be going to far? It’s not an exact science, mostly because science is a LIE and I control everything.

So I’m thinking about doing something big. A real, HOLY SHIT! type of project. The kind of shit you never see coming. Like the Lockerbie bombing. Never saw that one coming, did you? God SNATCHED YO ASS FROM THE BACKSIDE TO SHOW YOU HOW DEATH ROW PULL OFF THAT WHORIDE. Hear me out on this one: Earthquake in Western Europe. Maybe Germany. Cool, right? There are never earthquakes in Germany. BUT THERE CAN BE. I can make that happen.

Another idea I was brainstorming with Jesus: Leprosy outbreak. And not traditional leprosy. I’m talking an all new strain. Leprosy 2. Rotting flesh all over the place. I could make Nebraska look like the fucking walking dead. I think that idea has legs.

Anyway, that’s what’s on my mind this week. As for the NFL, I had Braylon stopped for a DWI because Braylon once took an 11-year-old as his sex slave when he was 15. Didn’t know that, did you? Well, I did.

I do not care for Rex Ryan’s attitude. I do not like men who openly covet glory and pussy as he does. My goal is for you to think wanting sex is way sinful, so that I can have more of it to myself. I also had the Redskins lose because you never want Redskins fans getting too excited about their pathetic, stupid, helpless little team. WE’RE BACK ON TRACK TODEE, THANKS TO COOCH SHANNY! Ugh. If I hear Charles Mann record one more local radio ad in the DC area, I will flood Southeast.

Did you know Matt Schaub and Joe Flacco are actually brothers? They don’t, but I do. I split them up when they were very young, just to see what would happen. And now I know. Schaub is solid. And Flacco’s a waste of my Godsperm. I made the Bucs 2-0 because it’s always fun to see a horrible team get off to a nice start before I violently correct them.

And I like seeing Michael Vick doing well again. I have said before that man has domain over all other creatures on Earth. I like the way Vick really took that idea to heart a few years back. Also, I won $500 betting on one of his dogs with Lu Phan, his bookie. Solid guy. He knows the best shit to order when we go out for Vietnamese in his town.

Anyway, WATCH YOUR BACK IF YOU’RE IN BERLIN.

Welcome to another week of truly horrible gambling advice. I was 0-5 last week, which shouldn’t come as much of a surprise to anyone. I’m an awful f*cking gambler, and it shows. The more confident I am the more likely it is that my picks will fall completely flat. Sure, other people have made this claim, but I’ve really hit some kind of magical stride this season. So if you want to make some money you should probably be going in the opposite direction of my picks.

Or is this all one big reverse jinx?

No, it’s not. I just suck. On to the picks!

Will Kurt Warner retire before game 1 of the 2010 NFL Regular Season?

Ooh, this is a tough one. Brenda Warner says that the decision is between Kurt and God, and I assume that she’s not talking about Mark Bartlestein. A Jewish God, IMAGINE THAT! Still, this doesn’t give us a whole lot of insight into the decision making process. Let’s go to Kurt for a bit of clarification on the matter…

“It means I pray that God takes away the desire in me to play this game,” he says. “I’ve loved it for so long. I need Him to take that away from me, so that I can be comfortable with this decision.”

Don’t expect him to make any decisions, folks, he’s merely a vessel for Christ Almighty to do with as he pleases! Since Kurt is incapable of making his own life decisions we’ll have to consult with a higher power. What say you, God?

(heavens fly open)

God: Hello, friend.

Hi, God! So tell us, are you going to take away Kurt’s passion and allow him to enjoy his retirement?

God: Hell no! Kurt may be a vacuous shell of a mortal, but shit, he’s still a lot of fun to watch on Sundays. Why should I give that up?

That’s a fair point. So when will Kurt retire?

God: Well after another concussion or two he probably won’t have much of a choice. If he starts telling people that I have been speaking to him you’ll know the time has come. Because I don’t do that shit. Okay, I did it once, but that’s because I bet Satan $20 that I could convince Sean Gilbert to hold out for a year.

Nice. So while we have you, what are you doing to Haiti?

God: Uh…that’s the phone. I gotta run.

And there you have it. My picks are in bold…

Yes -175
No +145

Who will record the most Passing Yards in Round 3 of the Playoffs?

Mark Sanchez 6/1
Peyton Manning 2/1
Brett Favre 7/4
Drew Brees 11/10

None of the other options are all that appealing, and I could see Breesus going for 350 in a loss.

As for the games themselves, take the points in both. Really, what’s the worst that could happen?

Enjoy the games.

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!