(This week Bill O’Reilly announced that he is “mad at God.” Here’s how I imagine his prayers are going this days.)
Are you there? Are you paying attention to me? I am aggrieved, God, and confused.
I have spent my entire career telling women how to live and how to look. I showered them with my attentions. I sent some of these women helpful examples of pornography and dirty jokes. And what thanks do I get? Not to criticize, God, but you seem to have made the females of our species a bit prickly. I’m not complaining. I do love the pretty girls. You know I do. I’ve always appreciated the way you kept sending them my way, like little gifts for being one of your favorite sons.
But now, God, the women are turning on me. They are turning on a lot of us. That big fat Weinstein guy deserves it, of course, but me? I’m on your side, God. Surely you didn’t intend for me to pay $32 million dollars to that woman. At first I assumed it was the work of the Devil. I mean, you promptly rewarded me by giving me a big fat raise and a new contract at Fox News. I figured you were setting things right with that move. But now, God, things are not right. I lost my job, God, and these women keep talking! What should I do? Can we smite them in some way? They are truly uppity and they are costing me a fortune.
Honestly, God, when I first lost my job I thought I’d make a quick comeback (second chances, right Harvey?), but it turns out people don’t miss me as much as they should. And these women, God, these women won’t shut up. Not to tell you your business, but maybe not everyone needs to have a mouth or a brain. If I were creating the world, God, I would have made women mute and senseless. Why didn’t you do that, God? Imagine if Eve had never had the first conversation with the serpent? And she damn sure couldn’t have eaten that apple without a mouth. You can see that I’m right about this, can’t you, God?
The truth is, you screwed up. You made me in your image and then you sent a parade of pretty women into my office. I did what any man would do and now I’m being punished. It isn’t fair, God. I blame the women, but mostly I blame you. I know for certain that none of this is my fault.
This will be the last you hear from me until you fix this mess.
Your favorite son,