Let's start with Herbert's god, shall we? The one "miraculously rediscovered" in the thrilling aisles of an Oregon public library after a whopping 1,900-year nap. Picture this: an allegedly all-powerful creator of the universe so catastrophically useless that he couldn't even manage to safeguard his own sacred word from getting misplaced like a forgotten grocery list. And when HWA finally heroically rescued him from obscurity, he was so mortified by the sheer mediocrity of the fellow that he dared not utter his real name—instead settling for the oh-so-epic "a strong hand from someplace." Truly the stuff of legendary reverence.
Then we have Gerald Flurry's god, that exquisite Frankenstein monster stitched together from HWA's wildest hallucinations and Flurry's own deluxe delusions. This pathetic specimen is such a monumental underachiever that it couldn't get by on the Bible alone—oh no, it desperately required two shiny supplemental books (Mystery of the Ages and Malachi's Message) just to patch up the glaring holes. And brace yourself: this supposedly omnipotent ruler of everything is apparently too feeble to head straight to Jerusalem for the grand New Jerusalem reveal. Instead, it must first touch down in glamorous Edmond, Oklahoma, for a tacky coronation ceremony on a creaky garage-sale throne, clutching a filthy lump of rock excavated from... Oregon. Forget the breathtaking splendor of Westminster Abbey and the authentic Stone of Scone—this cosmic loser has to make do with a glaring spotlight on the Armstrong Auditorium stage as Gerald's grandchildren dance an Irish jig. How utterly divine.
But wait, the real MVP of divine incompetence has to be Dave Pack's god—a hopeless, flip-flopping clown who can't even commit to a return date in Wadsworth, Ohio. Week after endless week, year after embarrassing year, this alleged almighty fails spectacularly to float down in thunderous glory, strut across Dave's "sacred" manicured lawns, or mount Dave's prized pale horse. Poor, bewildered Dave, forever scratching his head over the eternal no-shows, has gallantly promoted himself to God's personal detective to crack the case. Yet all that "genius" sleuthing has accomplished zilch, leaving Dave perpetually clueless and looking like the ultimate fool as one "absolutely set in stone" deadline after another fizzles into oblivion. Just imagine the tragedy—all those blockbuster sales this god has tragically missed at the Giant Eagle right across the street! Heartbreaking, really.
