Our father who art in heaven, I cannot tell a lie -- I did more than just chop down a cherry tree. I took the daily bread you gave me and invested it in real estate down south. Drained a swamp and put up a development: curvy streets, cul-de-sacs, the usual ticky tack. Effin saps fell for it, just like they always do. Just give 'em stainless steel appliances and a working fireplace. They think they've bought Versailles.
In the end, it didn't matter -- it was a shit investment. The saps couldn't pay, so the banks came in and took over. Trying to recoup some of their dough, they put up No Trespassing signs and barred the doors, but it didn't make a difference. Shiftless sons of bitches trespassed anyway. I say, let the squatters have it. The paper loss helped me save on taxes and I walked away from it with my dignity intact.
I remember the story about you kicking our long-ago progenitors out of the garden you'd given them. Their tribe stayed away for while, but not forever. Even you couldn't padlock Eden. No way were the banks going to.
After my failed foray into the free market, I was all ready to inherit the kingdom -- if not the power and the glory -- according to your will. That's when you disappeared on me. Where the hell did you go? A mob of pretenders to the throne came out of the woodwork -- religious zealots, pie-eyed primitivos, stone-cold rationalists -- and I had to jump through legal hoops to establish my right to succession. What an evil bunch they were. Each group employed a battery of lawyers, one worse than the next. The matter still isn't settled and your kingdom is in shambles. If I had a spaceship, I'd forgo my inheritance and get the hell out of here. I think the planet is croaking anyway.
In some ways your disappearing act could've been predicted. You were always unreliable. One day all lovey-dovey, pronouncing peace on earth and good will towards men. The next day brandishing a sword, ready to separate the wheat from the chaff, just like an effin Hun. You tried smothering me with love and when that didn't work you cast me out and rained fire on my handiwork. Some fucking father you proved to be.
Wiser men than me say that you don't play with dice, but I'm not sure about that. I think you enjoy being the King of Randomness. Not for nothing, shit happens. Then my siblings and I get called on to pick up the pieces. If only we could find out where you're hiding and see you face to face. Then we could get some clarification as to exactly what you want from us -- to fight for control of the kingdom and try to set things right or to leave it to the dogs and explore other options for salvation.
We'd come to you in good faith, an army of self-conscious supplicants, and ask you to tell us what to do. You -- old stone face. I can guess what you'd say. You'd tell us, "There are no options for salvation. You've got to play the cards you're dealt." Listen, pops, we could've figured that one out for ourselves.