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Dear God,

I've tried to kill myself seven times with no luck. I tried suffocating myself while whacking off. You know, the pain and the pleasure. I tried hanging myself twice, but the damn noose came untied both times. I took an entire jar of unmarked pills once, but found out they were Dexatrim and lost 86 pounds. I climbed into a bear cave in the Adirondacks, but the huge thing just licked every cubic centimeter of my body. I tried slitting my wrists in the bathtub, but they were having a blood drive in my building and the Red Cross found me and patched me up (not before taking a few gallons of my AB+, though) after I'd passed out. I tried jumping off the Verrazano-Narrows Strait Bridge, but my left foot got stuck in the grating, and I hung there for two hours before anybody found me. Why won't you let me die, you holy bastard?!!!

Life Always Finds A Fuckin' Way

Dear Life,

I have no personal control over these matters. I think... uh, I mean... I KNOW that you're merely a pathetic loser who just can't do anything right. You know where I live. Drop by some time and I'll shoot your ass myself. I'll make sure you're dead. I'm God. Problem solved.

Dear God,

Some would say that terrorism is the basis in the war against global oppression. Not me, though. I'm a peace-loving neo-hippie who listens to Phish and wears Birkenstocks in the winter in Vancouver, while trying to complete my quest of hugging every single tree in Canada, within a decade. I smoke pot and love Ghandi too. Eeeeeeenyhow, the problem I have is that all these damn mounties think I'm trying to get to know every tree sexually, so they took me and put me in this device on my arms, kind of like that thing in medieval times that doesn't allow me to extend my arms. If I can't do that, how am I suppposed to complete my life's goal?!?! I'm so sad man, ya dig? What should I do?

Distressed Canadian Hippie

P.S. Do you know where I could find a good lazy susan, cheap?

Dear Distressed Canadian Wastecase,

God does not like stupid hippies with even stupider aspirations. Not all hippies go to hell, you know, but none ever stay in heaven. Whenever someone such as Jerry dies, he retains his human body, while having Woodstock in the sky over on cloud nine. Periodically, however, I let Lucifer (who also hates hippies, by the way) knock all these losers off the cloud, and we have beers while we watch them plummet into a devOId eternity. Oh, and they were called stocks, you fuck. And that thing stays on your arms forever. No, I never dig. And by the way, there's this great little antique shop on Ontario Street that specializes in lazy Susans.