Dear God,

I’m new around here, so I don’t know what the proper process is to lodge a complaint.

But I’m used to having a direct line to you, so I’m not interested in dealing with some customer services person, nor am I prepared to go through a call centre in the Philippines.

That’s why I’m writing to you directly.

I’ve done a lot of work for you during the last 20 years, so I expected that when I got here I’d get the red carpet treatment. I hate to sound critical but, God, this just isn’t good enough.

I may have the blood of thousands on my hands, God, but it was blood I shed for you. The women and children I killed were slaughtered because I knew it would please you.

Or so I thought.

If the mass murder perpetrated by my followers at my instigation was so displeasing to you, then why didn’t you say something? The fact that you kept mum while I and my disciples inflicted terror speaks volumes to me. You were quite happy with my work, admit it.

So why are you turning on me now?

A small part of me is still willing to accept you may be totally unaware of the shabby way they have treated me since I arrived. In that case, let me tell you what I’ve been through.

When I turned up here after being martyred I confess I had only one thing on my mind. Do I have to spell it out to you? Yes, the first thing I asked for was the location of the 72 virgins I’d been promised.

No problem, they said, come this way.

I opened a door and walked into a crowd of people. People who looked like they’d spent a decade in the Tora Bora caves. Fat people. Some of them with odour issues. Almost all of them men.

I ran back to complain, crying out “where are my 72 virgins?” and the guy said to me “Take your pick. The rooms full of ‘em!”

God, was this your idea of a joke? Stranding me in the middle of a Sci-fi convention?

I did not become the scourge of the West just so I could get busy with an overweight male Star Trek fan!

I await your most immediate response.

Yours sincerely

Osama