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Divine Interwebtion

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Okay, God, let’s get serious. We both know who’s the big shot here, and I can respect that. But we’ve got to talk, man-to-man, leader of the universe to leader of most-of-the universe. This cannot go on. Because if anybody’s messing with my mind, I know it’s got to be you. There’s no other way any of this could have happened.

That’s what I don’t get, God. You state clearly in Leviticus that we are to stay away from sodomy and shellfish. But recently…well, let’s just say that those fried scallops from last night are the least of my problems.

I admit it, I tried to test you, God. And I know that it’s against everything you ever said – I’d be disappointed in me too. I’m sorry. (Treasure that apology, by the way, You know that doesn’t happen often.). I tried to test you by taking on two of the greatest evils – shellfish, and deep-fried shellfish. (With a sprinkle of pepper). And all I got was diarrhea. So what’s the lowdown on this throwdown, Lord? Because all I’m getting is the soft whiff of toasty bread crumbs with the tang of fresh sea salt. I only tested you because I’m at the end of my rope here. Everything’s usually so black and white, chess pieces, chocolate. People. But somehow now – everything’s so ambiguous. Shades of gray. There’s specific shades of gray – but we won’t go there.

You know I tried to avoid it. I tried to tolerate him as best I could, despite the fact that he’s a Communist, welfare-queen-loving, bear-loving, environmentalist, pussy heretic liberal. We got along as well as we could. We even were friendly – better than I can say for you and Lucifer. (Not trying to one-up you, God, just saying). And trust me – I was in the mouth of Hell at The Daily Show. The belly of the beast. And I’m not talking any old beast, I’m talking a beast of maybe Balrog proportions. The bias! The bias almost made the world spin – which we both know is impossible. Face it. Even You of Majestic power can’t make the world tilt on an “axis”, spin, and still have me sit here without falling over – those liberal “scientists” are just trying to get me to see the world like they do when they’re high. I fought, Lord, I fought for the moral center of America. I fought, and I won – he even gave me my own show. Thirty minutes every night to spread the Wørd, and no real repercussions! No punishment! Almost every single night for going on four years now. Just in case you didn’t know, Jesus only did three years and (spoiler alert!) he was crucified. Again, just a point.

I thought it was just the warmth of brethren and bipartisanship that I felt when he hugged me, warm hand on the small of my back, guiding me. After all, I’d achieved what most never could – sir, this was like Papa Bear and Keith Olberwuss being polite, this was like Ann Coulter and Nancy Pelosi having a slumber party, maybe with an appearance by Condi Rice, Dana Perino and Rachel ICouldTurnHerStraight Maddow. This was – it was beyond my own imagining. Countless hugs and little secret whispers – God, he made me laugh.

And then, the thoughts began. First it was just more innocent things, like noticing when his body was pressed up against mine that one time we had to take the subway together, back when I was still a mere correspondent. Then it began to get worse. See, when someone is pressed inhumanly close to you like that, you notice things. Things like luscious lips and soft hair and ridiculously sexy eyes. And it’s just hard. Once you notice them, it’s hard to stop noticing them, you know? I couldn’t stop staring at him. Whenever he talked, I couldn’t stop looking at his mouth. When he looked at me, I felt trapped by the glow and light of his eyes. Whenever he pushed his hair back, my fingers itched to run through it.

I denied it for what it was, God. At first I chalked it up to me just being a great admirer of beautiful works of Your creation. Even if said creation is a liberal, Satanic, tree-hugging man. So I let myself admire him, for what he was. And that was just the thoughts, and since I can always control what I think and I always agree with me, we weren’t in any danger.

Then came the dreams. One night as we hunkered down to sleep, Evelyn on her side of the line and me on mine, I was just going through my daily winding down routine. Checked to make sure all my keys were hooked on the bedpost. Made sure Sweetness was locked and loaded underneath my pillow. I drifted off to sleep, and then it happened – worse than any nightmare, even the time I dreamed my dog Shasta had been eaten by a bear. I know this is sinful, God, but I think you need to know everything. Like any good doctor, you know – you can’t heal me unless you know all the gory details. So here it goes:

In my dream, I was in the bathroom, drying myself off after a shower. Then I walked out into the bedroom to get dressed. I turned to the bed, and what should I see instead of Evelyn reading the Bible but Jon Stewart, hair tousled, lips wet, eyes dark with lust, and completely naked, lying on top of the covers. I was, inexplicably, aroused (in the dream) so I walked towards him and dropped the towel on the floor. He sat up and kissed me, fingers tangling in my wet hair as he pulled me down to the bed.

“Jon!” I said. “What are you doing?”

“Propagating the gay agenda, Stephen,” he said, and never have those words sounded hotter and steamier than a steam engine on a cross-country run. His eyes were stark in the low light, and his hands gripped my thighs, shadows dancing across his face. Each syllable he uttered was an echo of lust and desire. His tongue darted out to catch a droplet of moisture on his lips.

Then he pushed my legs apart and blew me.

So, as you can see, God, Jon Stewart is not good for the heterosexual, red-blooded, otherwise perfectly straight and sinless American male. I love my wife. You know this. I love my wife, and my children, and I know what’s best for them. What’s best for them, You ask? Me. And I’m going to stick with that, go out on a limb here. (Not Jon Stewart’s limbs, no. Although, oh, those muscled legs – )

You see? You see what has happened? What You’ve done to me? I get it now. This is revenge, isn’t it? This is revenge for the time I decided to cook up a steak on that one Friday during Lent a few years ago. Well, look, God. My wife was pregnant, and pregnant women need steak, especially if their husbands are craving it. Pregnant women love a good pepper steak, even if it’s so rare they almost drown, even if they tell you they’re craving fish and pickles.

Because, seriously. Who eats pickles with peanut butter?

The dreams kept coming. We’d have lunch and even when I avoided all shellfish and meat, even when I tried a bagel (I figured, Jesus was around a lot of Jews – he must have had some), it only resulted in yet another dream involving the bagel hole and Jon’s mouth and cream cheese. And I don’t even like cream cheese.

It was at this point that I had to admit – it was a problem. And not just a small problem like craving cream cheese so much you buy it at Costco if only to have that huge tub easily accessible. This was – this was a situation. I have to say, I underestimated the wiles of the Gay Agenda. At first I thought I could control it by putting it On Notice, just on the little board I have on my fridge. Not the only way I wanted Jon Stewart on my fridge Damn it! My fingers won’t listen to me anymore. Not just your fingers. YOU SEE?! FIX ME, GOD.

Obviously, merely putting him On Notice didn’t work. It was kind of like Eleanor Holmes Norton casting a vote. Big gesture, does nothing. So I tried to do as my Earthly leaders did. I set up a terror code, started labeling situations. First, I had orange, because baby carrots – oh, God, the baby carrots. Let’s just say they’re trying to make me very okay with the gay…okay? First was orange, then yellow for bananas, then purple for eggplants, then dark green for cucumbers. And all he did was throw logic at it. “Having purple on a terror code doesn’t make sense, Stephen.” So I told him to stop spreading his liberal elitist color sensibility. He didn’t know what I was talking about, thank You.


All the terror code did was put me off vegetables for a while. So I demand an explanation, God. I can’t – I can’t function like this. He keeps popping up in my brain, completely unbidden, and I don’t have time for that. I have a Nation to handle. You of all people should be able to empathize (I don’t have time to empathize with You, sorry, but feel free to leave a note with my secretary). Tell me why.

Stephen T. Colbert, D.F.A
Leader of The Nation





God, did you even get my email? I assume I sent it to the right address. Just to be safe, I gave you an extra cross in the address this time, for the Trilogy. You are, after all, the Father, and gmail can only stand for “God mail”, right?

Look, since Jesus spoke English I’m assuming you can too, and I can’t speak Jew so it’d be pointless for me to try anyhow. So you read my email. But let’s get something Straight. You sent Jon Stewart to my office with chocolate mousse. Chocolate mousse. “Oh, you’re looking kind of down, Stephen, here, have some chocolate.” Yeah, sure. Subtle, God.

This is totally about the steak. Why not try send a clearer message, God? Like maybe a steak mousse, although the number of animals in that dessert may be confusing. Well, you know what? It was one steak. ONE. How does that equate to You making me eye other men like pieces of meat? This is a terrible idea of a punishment anyhow. You could make me eat steak for the rest of my life. Or couldn’t you just send a talking steak to me, like you did with The Greatest President and that pretzel? Because if I weren’t a Dartmouth graduate and everything, there’s no way I’d be able to tell that this was a punishment for the steak. In fact, this has been going on from way before the steak – and I assume it’s because You’re omniscient and knew I was going to cook that steak before I did, and were trying to warn me. But how am I really supposed to tell? You could have just been warning me that I was going to be on a road to temptation, and that the result would be the steak. But no.

Why aren’t things simple with you, God? Couldn’t you just be a sort of easygoing guy? …No? That was Jesus’ job? Just checking. Of course I can face down any challenge, but…you’re God. Which puts me at a slight disadvantage – omnipotent deity versus deity? Yeah. Because I can admit I don’t know everything, even if everything knows me.

Maybe it’s not a Jew-English thing, maybe it’s a modern-ancient thing. Does it make more sense to You if I speak like one of those old guys in ruffs, like Shakespeare? Or maybe since You're omniscient, you’re kind of like Michael Steele and are more into the whole hip-hop thing. So, You know what, Big G? I had enough of dis shit, and You gotta bring it back to some hood dat I unda-stand, Dude.

No? Hard-to-please, aren’t You. Because You really, really aren’t letting up, are You.

Look, watch this. I GIVE UP! I REPENT! I GIVE UP! You see that? Yeah. How’s that? I bet you weren’t expecting that. So there.

Sir Dr. Stephen T. Colbert, D.F.A
Leader of the Nation