Prophet Stiffmouse.

I’m going to be a prophet. No more accountancy exams for me, no Jesus didn’t get a single GCSE, or Buddha. They just wandered about for a while and bam, Word of God. Mohammed wrote a book on his holidays when he was bored and bam, Word of God. The Ace of Trumps. Trumps are like that, any old shit and ‘Oh dear, I win.’ They’re like beliefs, another way of saying don’t even think about it. Nope that’s it, Trump of God. “But I put down the ace of diamonds.” Tuff, I win.”
“But daddy I love him, and he’s also a Muslim, we’re happy together.”
“Wrong sort, my belief, dishonour. Qur’an says so. Word of God. Must kill you. I win.” So being a prophet has its advantages. Oh hold on I’m just getting a message.
“Everyone must be nice to Stiffmouse. Anyone who upsets Stiffmouse must be killed. You must forward all your money immediately to Stiffmouse Inc. PO Box 1337, Ocean Boulevard, Los Angeles. I will be e-mailing Stiffmouse his own personal Word of God book later to sell on Amazon. Over and out.” Wow see, I am a prophet! I can’t wait for that book. I expect it will have something about virgins…
“PS. All virgins must lay down before Stiffmouse, in sexy underwear, desirous of a seeing too.” Oh my God see, another message.
So if you need anymore proof that God exists keep reading the Word of Stiffmouse, sorry, God.