by Willie Geist
1. You asked about Jesus Christ. Let Me answer that with a line from Michael Jackson’s hit single “Billie Jean”: the kid is not my son. Not even related. The hero worship has spiraled wildly out of control over the last couple thousand years. I haven’t had the heart to tell everyone he was just a hippy dude from Nazareth who spent his days burning incense and playing with devil sticks.
2. On the whole Book of Genesis thing: as much as I’d like to say I have some David Copperfield magic wand I waved to bring about Heaven, Earth, water, and light, it’s just not the way it went down. “Let there be light” makes a nice bumper sticker, but I never said it. The Earth was there when I got here. No idea where it came from, although I’m starting to come around on the whole Big Bang thing. Oh, and while we’re on the subject, I guess now you know how David Copperfield’s tricks work. A magician’s big secret? ME! Although I have nothing to do with David Blaine. That is not magic. I don’t get it. And, for the record, I feel horrible about the Siegfried and Roy thing.
3. World War II. I knew you’d ask about that. I’ve replayed this one in my head a million times. Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, Pearl Harbor, two atomic bombs, and, what, 60 million dead? If I had it to do over again, I’d probably change some things, but I’m a “no regrets” kind of God. Let’s just say I keep that one off the résumé and hope nobody asks. The only upside is that it makes everyone forget the First World War. That wasn’t exactly my finest hour either.
Hey, how come no one ever talks about the Peloponnesian Wars? Everybody’s so hung up on the twentieth-century bloodshed they forget Athens and Sparta had some pretty good scraps back in the ancient world. Everybody goes straight to Hitler. It’s really frustrating. Look, I f**ked up, okay? News flash: God is not perfect.
4. This is a strange one to focus on, but, yes, Vegas Vacation was My idea. Did I try to squeeze too much from the Vacation brand? Sure. It’s tough to point fingers when you’re the one who controls everything that happens in the universe, but I’ll just say Chevy’s heart was not in that picture.
5. Okay, one more here. The “Flutie Game”? Oh, boy. Okay, confession time: that was all Me. People call that Hail Mary touchdown pass by Doug Flutie to beat Miami back in ’84 “a miracle.” Well, only if you call it “a miracle” that I had 3,500 bucks riding on Boston College to win straight up. Yes, God works in “mysterious” ways. Especially when She needs a win to cover Her mounting losses at Arlington Park racetrack. Turns out harness racing is God’s Achilles’ heel.
There you have it. The word of God. Sorry I couldn’t get to all your questions, but I refuse to apologize for every war, famine, and natural disaster in world history. Consider this a blanket apology for anything bad I’ve ever done. And for the record, I honestly never saw the O.J. thing coming. I mean, did you?
I don’t want to seem unappreciative of your work, but you guys really harped on the negative in this study. If you’ll permit a little PR spin from the Woman Upstairs, I would point you to flowers, rainbows, children’s laughter, Monet, the Beatles, Meryl Streep, Las Vegas, Captain Sully, Maxim magazine, sudoku, Cary Grant, the bald eagle, Xbox, cigarette boats, fireflies, and free online porn. Do you think that stuff just appeared out of thin air? No, that was Me. Oprah. God.
Print whatever you need here, guys. Just make Me look good, okay? You only get one shot to reveal to the world that you are God. And I am. Oprah is God!
All Best,
Oprah Winfrey (aka “God”)
Follow me on Twitter @ www.twitter.com/God
p.s.—I had nothing to do with Crocs! We’re looking into it.
TRUE STORY . . .
DROP THE LADY GILLETTE AND STEP AWAY FROM THE VEHICLE
Police: driver causes accident while shaving crotch
There’s an old adage in the news business: if the story is weird as shit, it probably happened in Florida. That’s why it was only a question of where in Florida a woman was arrested when she caused a two-car wreck while shaving her private parts behind the wheel. The 37-year-old woman was driving her 1995 Ford Thunderbird to meet her boyfriend in Key West and naturally she wanted to look her best. I’ll be darned if her ex-husband wasn’t making the trip with her and guiding the steering wheel while she trimmed her pubes. The teamwork that didn’t quite work in their marriage failed them again as they slammed into a turning car during the shave.
Let’s recap real quickly: a woman traveling with her ex-husband to visit her current boyfriend causes an accident while shaving her lady parts. Shall we continue or do you need a moment? Okay, on with the story.
Florida Highway Patrol trooper Gary Dunick was the first on the scene. He sees some strange things on the road through the Keys, but even by his high standard, the shaving-the-crotch-while-driving thing was impressive.
“About 10 years ago I stopped a guy in the exact same spot who had three or four syringes sticking out of his arm,” said Trooper Dunick. “It was just surreal and I thought, ‘Nothing will ever beat this.’ Well, this takes it.”
Just to add a little more flavor to the tale, the woman had been convicted of DUI the day before the driving-while-shaving accident. In fairness, the judge never said a word about not shaving behind the wheel. Her car was impounded and her license suspended for five years.
Let that be a lesson to all you youngsters: If you’re thinking about having your ex-husband take the wheel while you shave your genitals on a trip to visit your boyfriend the day after you’ve been arrested for DUI, take a deep breath and think again.
Chapter 11
Bernie Madoff: Welcome to Hell
WELCOME TO THE HADES AIRPORT RADISSON
John Wayne Gacy Banquet Room
SATAN’S CELEBRITY ROAST OF BERNIE MADOFF
With Your Roastmaster Pol Pot
All right, all right, everyone take your seats.” The former genocidal Cambodian dictator Pol Pot taps the microphone at the podium. “Yeah, that means you, Mao: you might have outdone me by 40 million, but I’m runnin’ this shit-show tonight. Have a seat, Chairman.” Mao Zedong flips his buddy Pot a friendly middle finger before finding his way to a table.
Speaking over the din of the crowd, Pot begins the program. “Welcome to the John Wayne Gacy Room at the Hades Airport Radisson. First and foremost, where my Khmer Rouge dogs at?! It’s Year Zero up in this bitch!” A group cheer comes from the back of the room. “Jesus, guys, nice seats back there. Who’s your ticket broker, a Cambodian intellectual?” The line is met with muted laughter. A visibly frustrated Pot turns his sights on the audience. “Sorry, assholes, didn’t mean to go over your heads there. I killed all the Cambodian intellectuals. They don’t like me. Holy shit, am I gonna have to explain these all night? Genghis, I know you’re a borderline caveman, but work with me here.” The crowd laughs. Genghis Khan, not known for self-deprecation, does not laugh.
“But seriously, folks, I’m honored to be your roastmaster tonight as we welcome the newest celebrity member of this fiery little club we call Hell. It was a real thrill meeting Bernie Madoff back in the greenroom. I told him I wanted to diversify my portfolio and he told me, ‘Great idea. Give half to me and half to my wife.’ ” This draws loud guffaws from the crowd as Madoff laughs and throws his hands in the air, resigned to the roasting he’s about to receive.
“I don’t know what it says about the depth of Bernie’s evil, but when Satan met him he said, ‘Welcome home, son.’ Apparently a direct descendant of Lucifer.” Madoff plays along, shrugging and nodding his head.
“The Devil wanted me to tell you he’s sorry he couldn’t be here tonight. He’s reviewing Boy George’s application for early admission down here. It’s looking good for him.” The lubed-up crowd loves it. “You hate to see one lousy incident where you chain a male hooker to your bedroom wall and beat him with a chain overshadow the years of music. Karma chameleon’s a bitch though, ain’t it?” More big laughs. Pot is on a roll.
“I want to introduce the all-star collection of sociopaths joining Bernie u
p here on the dais tonight. Please stand as you’re recognized.” Pot gestures from the podium down to the end of the long dais draped in fire-red bunting.
“Way down at the end there, the dean of this group, Mr. Pontius Pilate. Stand up, Ponty! Oh, that’s right, you can’t—you’re two thousand goddamn years old!” The audience laughs and throws dinner rolls at Pilate, who sits in a wheelchair, not amused.
“Next to Ponty, a man whose numbers speak for themselves. Ladies and gentlemen, Uncle Joe Stalin!” Stalin, wearing full military regalia and clutching a half-empty bottle of Stolichnaya, staggers to his feet and waves, pointing at the table full of his fellow brutal dictators below and yelling, “Hey, ’Dolf, still think it was a good idea to invade us in ’41? Have fun at the kids’ table, shit-for-brains!” Mussolini doubles over in laughter as Adolf Hitler shoots him a glare.
Pot breaks up the fight. “All right, boys, settle down. Joe, leave some booze for the rest of us, huh?” Stalin takes a huge pull off the bottle, falls back into his seat, and puts his feet up on the dais. Hitler seethes in his chair. Madoff flashes a nervous smile and swallows hard. Hitler is quite intense in person.
Pot continues with the introductions. “Sitting right next to Bernie, a very special guest we invited just for the occasion, Mr. Charles Ponzi. Chuck, say hello to everyone.” Ponzi, unassuming and dressed in a vintage 1920s three-piece suit, stands and doffs his bowler. He is not a regular on the Hades A-list social circuit and receives only lukewarm applause.
“That’s the original right there, folks. Let’s give Chuck Ponzi a nice welcome. Come on!” Pot prods the crowd. “Jesus Christ, Mother Teresa, if I told you he had leprosy would you get off your sweet little ass and clap for the guy? ” Mother Teresa cracks a forced smile, unable to mask the bitterness she still harbors about the epic bureaucratic snafu shortly after her death that led to her being sentenced to an eternity in the fires of Hell. In a statement released after the mix-up, God called the incident “unfortunate,” saying, “Mistakes were made.” Heads rolled in Heaven after that one.
Pot senses Mother Teresa doesn’t appreciate the ribbing. “I’m just fuckin’ with ya, Terry. Don’t get your habit in a bunch down there.” The crowd roars with laughter. Mother Teresa begins to weep. “Oh, Christ. Somebody get her a napkin.” Pot is annoyed.
“All right, back to the introductions. To my left, one of the greatest running backs in NFL history, and a world-famous cold-blooded murderer, Mr. Orenthal James Simpson.” A crowd favorite, O.J. draws whoops and hollers.
“Remember, the Juice will be signing Buffalo Bills mini-helmets and copies of his book If I Did It immediately after our program tonight. Good to see you, Juice.
“Seated next to O.J., that pain in the ass Lee Harvey Oswald.”
Oswald stands and shouts, “It was him!,” pointing to Sam Giancana, who is seated at a table playing dominos with Al Capone and John Gotti. Giancana looks up momentarily before turning back to his game.
The crowd boos Oswald, lobbing a barrage of dinner rolls in his direction.
Pot leans into the microphone. “You are such a little bitch, Oswald. I don’t know why we invite you to these things. Have a seat, lone gunman.”
“It was the Cubans!” Oswald shouts feebly, before sitting down in a hail of stale bread.
Pot, who has stated publicly his belief that Oswald gives communists a bad name, ups the ante. “Is Jack Ruby in the house? We need to shut that little weasel up.”
The crowd laughs at Pot’s zinger. Oswald shoots back sternly, “Too far, dude. Not funny. There’s a line, man.”
Pot ignores Oswald and continues.
“And seated all the way down at the end there, the Reverend Jim Jones. He’s the shithead who thought he heard God tell him to lead a bunch of mouth-breathers and their helpless kids down to Guyana for a little mass suicide Kool-Aid party.”
Reverend Jones, dressed in a late seventies-era white suit, smiles, stands up halfway out of his chair, and raises his glass to the crowd. There is no applause. Pot looks disgusted. Jones sits down quickly.
“Look, I’m not riding any high horses up here, but at least I was upfront about my intentions: to completely wipe out the culture, history, and people of Cambodia and start that shit from scratch. I was a straight shooter.
“Those poor bastards at Jonestown thought they were going down to some kind of a summer camp to play tetherball and tell ghost stories. Next thing they know, some sweaty bisexual preacher is handing out shots of cyanide-flavored fruit juice. Not cool, Reverend.”
Jones, feeling the judgmental glare of the group, looks down at his plate and ponders the concept of a moral lecture from Pol Pot.
“Word to the wise: if Reverend Jones offers to buy you a drink tonight, take a pass, if you know what I mean.”
The crowd likes that one. The tension of the moment is broken. Even Jones allows himself a grin before power-chugging his drink and collapsing to the floor.
With the introductions complete, Pol Pot proceeds with the evening’s program. “I see I’m not going to have the attention of you lushes for long, so just a couple of housekeeping items before we let this fuckin’ thief over here say a few words.” Madoff chuckles and shakes his head.
“First, where’s Jeffrey Dahmer?” Pot shields his eyes from the lights and scans the crowd. “Is Dahmer here?” The serial killer looks up from his plate and raises his hand. “Oh, there you are. Yeah, Jeff, the chef wanted me to make sure you know there will be an hors d’oeuvres course, so you can stop nibbling on the Menendez brothers’ ears.” The crowd roars with laughter. Dahmer stares straight ahead, emotionless, his eyes hidden behind orange-tinted sunglasses. “That goes for you too, Idi Amin. Try not to eat any humans tonight. You cocksuckers ruined Ted Bundy’s birthday party last year.”
“Let’s see, what else? Oh, Saddam. Saddam Hussein, are you in the room?” Saddam stands and fires a rifle into the air. “There he is! Yeah, Saddam, we just got a telegram from George W. Bush.” The crowd boos the mention of Bush’s name. Pot talks over the interruption. “Really? Again, guys, I’m pretty sure we don’t get to pass judgment down here. I’m just sayin’. I mean, ’Dolf, seriously. I don’t want to tell you your business, but I’d just lay low if I were you.” Hitler grimaces and goose-steps out of the banquet room.
Pot rolls his eyes. “What a petulant little man. Anyway, Saddam, Bush just wants you to know he’s sorry about everything. Says he meant to invade and later execute the leader of Iran, not Iraq. Bush writes simply, ‘Dear Saddam. My bad. The word “Iraq” looks like “Iran” when they’re making you sign the war thing and you’ve got one eye on the Home Run Derby—Jason Giambi was really jerking those things out of the yard that night. So I was one letter off. Sue me. Shit happens. No hard feelings. Hope we’re cool. XOXO, Dubya.’ ”
Saddam throws his head back, lets out a big laugh, and fires three quick rounds into the ceiling. Pot jumps in, “Whoa, whoa, this isn’t one of your goddamn gilded castles in Ramadi! We’re not gonna get our security deposit back here.” Saddam puts his hands up as if to say “Sorry” and sits down.
“If we’ve all got our firearms holstered, for Christ’s sake, I’d like to formally introduce our honoree. You know, I’ve known Bernie Madoff for only an hour and somehow I’ve already lost my life savings. Hold on to your wallets around this bloodsucking scam artist.” Madoff jokingly makes a move toward Pol Pot’s wallet.
“I don’t want to re-litigate history here, but I dare anyone in this room to look at the greedy capitalist pig sitting over there and tell me I was wrong about killing everyone and starting over with an agrarian society.” The crowd really enjoys where Pot is going. “Actually, Bernie, I had you in mind when I came up with the idea.” Pot gestures to the Khmer Rouge table in the back of the room. “In fact, get him, boys!” The crowd roars. Bernie gets halfway out of his chair as if to run for the exit.
“I’m just fuckin’ with you, Bernie. Water under the bridge, my man. This isn’t a
bout me. This is your night.” As the laughs die down, Pot’s expression changes.
“Just to be serious for a moment, if I could. We honor a man tonight who ran a $65 billion scheme that erased lifetimes’ worth of work and tore apart families. He fleeced hospitals, charities, and even golfing buddies to line his own pockets. His evil knows no bounds. I can tell you now, Bernie, that you were voted into this elite club of the Worst Human Beings to Ever Walk the Earth unanimously and without objection.” Madoff nods in appreciation.
“With that, I will just say, Mr. Bernard L. Madoff, welcome to Hell.” Madoff receives a standing ovation as he walks to the podium. Pot hands Madoff an engraved Waterford crystal bowl and shakes his hand as the pair poses for a photographer who has rushed to the front of the podium. When the applause stops, Madoff addresses the microphone.
“Thank you, Pol. Thank you all very much. Please, please be seated.” Madoff scans the crowd and stops on one member of the audience. “Is that Harry Truman? Really? Kind of surprised to see you here.” The former United States president throws up his hands in frustration as if to say, “You’re tellin’ me.”
“I was sorry to see Hitler leave earlier. I’ve got a bone to pick with that guy on behalf of some of my friends back on the Upper East Side.” The crowd laughs at Madoff’s good-natured icebreaker.
“Look, I’ll be brief here. When I look out at the faces I see in this room tonight, it’s kind of hard for me to believe I’m worthy of your company. You are truly the worst people in the history of human civilization. Except for you, Mother Teresa. I mean, how does that happen?” Mother Teresa begins to weep again.
“I should first give a nod to Charles Ponzi for laying the blueprint. You are the Dr. J to my Michael Jordan. Without you, there is no me. Thank you, Chuck.” Ponzi tips his bowler again.