Dear American Joe,
Thank you for ordering more shit than you will ever need. Your kid’s plastic Paw Patrol toys will survive long after the last human dies from the future Alien Syphilian Sex Party.
This is my final letter and only warning to you, American Joe. Save yourself before us Gods spread our seed through the land, and the world becomes overrun by junk mail, ESTDs, and bastard children.
You may think I only carry your mail, that I’m some regular schmuck in a coffee-splashed, polyester blue uniform designed in the 70s, traipsing around having casual sex with everyone in the neighborhood, having beers with the boys over lunch, and peeping in all the windows I shouldn’t be.
I don’t want to come right out and tell you that I am God because that sounds crazier than hell so I’ll spell it out instead… I AM YOUR GOD, YOUR ALIEN PAPA… I AM your sweaty, 365-day-tube-sock-locker-room-smelling, letter-carrying, extraterrestrial, cosmic-traveling God.
This is your prophecy, for you and you alone:
You will default on your mortgage. You will lose your life savings. You will get a divorce. Your children will hate you. You will contract syphilis.
You know how I know you’ll default on your mortgage? Because you watch the movie Over the Top starring Sylvester Stallone every Friday night with an arm wrestling bandana on and wristbands. You know how I know you will lose your life savings? Because you listen to the top 40 on the way to work and always throw an extra quarter in the tollbooth hoping it will bring you luck. You know how I know you will get a divorce? Because you haven’t done the dishes in three months and you sit in the bathtub until your knee caps prune over like a wrinkly old monkey butt. You know how I know your children will hate you? Because your belly’s growing bigger, your dick is growing backwards, and no one respects you anymore, Joe; not even you respects you.
And finally, You know how I know you get syphilis? Because your wife… Joe… your wife.
You can alter the future, Joe. Only if you obey my simple conditions: Stop requesting for me to “keep the bills” with that DiCaprio shit-eating meme grin, or for me to pay them for you, or if I finally have your million-dollar check. Or asking “if it’s hot enough out there for me?” It makes me want to put my mail satchel over your head and beat you with your own little toe-nibbling, yip-yapping shitzu. Don’t believe I will? Go down to 248 Chestnut Hollows Circle and ask Mr. Collins. I blackened both his eyes with the snout of his fluffy little bitch last Tuesday morning.
I am the first of many to come. We surveilled your country from the safety of our planet, Intelligence, for a parcel of years now. After countless hours of obvious observational research, we easily determined that earthlings like you will believe anything they hear, believe all that they read, and trust any face on the TV screen. We determined our best route towards achieving our goal of total world command was to clandestinely insert me into the well-trusted, self-proclaimed center of the universe’s delivery service to appear as a common man to better win the trust of the majority of the population, all while an unknown syndicate lines my pockets with billions of dollars of fun money, allowing me to climb higher up the social ladder until finally, I will have reached the idiotic notoriety to buy a reality television show guaranteeing me the power and a megaphone for doing all the shouting and hand-waving necessary to become the one true voice for patriots both young and old.
With that kind of power, when I am there at the top, our mission for total command will have been successful. Me and my proud species will have merrily sexed our way into our climax of world control by riding out our carefully planned, splashing tidal wave of extraterrestrial syphilis.
Signed,
Your Divine Mailman