# Tuesday, 12 December 2006

Mohammed Sent Back To Earth To Apologise. Reads Post-It From God

The other day, we got a welcome call from a guy who claimed to be Mohammed. He said God sent him back to the earth with a Post-It note, and he wanted to come over and read it to us, so we could get it out over the Internet.

We were sure he was a kook, so, being securely sane, we invited him over.

Later, we got a call from the lobby, telling us there was a guy down there in a long white gown who identified himself as Mohammed but didn't have a photo ID.

"Sure, send him up," we told the guard.

Soon, there was a knock on the door. We opened it and, sure enough, there stood a man who looked just the way you'd expect a Seventh Century Bedouin like to look in clean clothes.

He raised his hand, and said, "Hi. I'm Mohammed. God sent me with a Post-It."

"Great," we replied. "Please, come in."


We closed the door behind him and motioned toward the conference room.

As we went, I said, "Like something to drink?"

"Got some cold water?"

"Sure," I replied, and motioned for one of the secretaries to get it for him.

"Thanks," Mohammed said.

We went into the conference room and sat down.

He put his feet up on the seat next to him and sighed.

"Long walk?" I asked.

"Worse than that," he said, and slipped off his sandals. "See. Blisters."

"Ouch," I exclaimed. "How'd you get those?"

"The Post-It will explain everything," he replied.

Just then the secretary came in with a bottle of spring water.

"Here, Mohammed," she said.

"Thanks," he told her, and flipped her a wink. Then he opened it and, pouring it on his feet, said, "Excuse me. But I can't help it."

"That bad, huh?" I asked.

"Yeah. Sorry about the carpet."

"Don't worry, it's only water. Tell us more about why you're here."

"God is mad at me."

"So are a lot of people."

"I know, I know. But you have to understand. I've been dead a long time. I can't be responsible for what's going on now."

"You did write the book some culprets use as a pretense to kill people, even other Muslims."

"I know, I know. God points that out to me all the time. That's why I'm here. I'm sorry if anything I said is being used to kill people. It's an unintentional side-effect of my enthusiam."

Then he lifted his turban and peeled off a yellow Post-It from the inside. "I have a note from God. It will explain everything. "


"Yes. He told me to read it to you, so you can get it out over the Internet."

"Why did he pick us? We're a humor magazine."

"I told him that. He said since hardly anybody listens to Him when He's serious, He wants to try being funny."

"We know how that is. Mind if we record your reading?"

"Just type, OK? When I'm gone, I'm gone. No leave-behinds."

"OK," I said.

One of the staffers slid me a laptop.

"Go ahead," I told him.

"Hi, it's Mohammed again, with another message from Allah. And I quote:

'Greetings from God. I'm so upset I can't tell you. I told Mohammed to write the third book. The way things are going, I may even have to commission a fourth and fifth book. I can't seem to get my main point across.

'In the first book, I said, "Don't kill anybody." Did it make a difference? Not much.

'In the second book, I went further, and said, "Love your neighbor." It still didn't do nearly as well as I had hoped.

'So I commissioned Mohammed to give my message one more shot. And what happens? He gets carried away and says anybody who doesn't believe in his book is an infidel and should be killed. Stop it already! I never told him to say that, and he knows it.

'Not only that, every time somebody uses the Koran as an excuse to kill anybody, I make him walk on hot coals for five minutes. Notice his blisters. Have mercy on the guy, will ya?

'Also, wait for the fourth book. The main message I'm going to try is, "Not only don't kill anybody and love your neighbor, but love life, because that's what I made. So take good care of it and maybe, just maybe, I'll take good care of you. But, most of all, stop all the killing. Got it, dummy?"'

"Anything else?" I asked.

"No, that's it," he said, pouring the last of the water on his feet. "I only hope it works. My feet are killing me."

Then he slipped on his sandals, smiled as much as his tootsies would allow, and vanished.

(Found at http://www.goarticles.com/cgi-bin/showa.cgi?C=346602)
#    Comments [0] |
Comments are closed.