Goodbye Pat Robertson! I didn’t know you personally, but you certainly affected my life. Because of you—and snake oil salesmen like you—my father was so brainwashed that he once wasted multiple years of his life calling every number in the Crestview, Florida phonebook to tell whoever answered, “Jesus loves you.”

Because of the likes of you, I spent much of my Florida childhood visits with my father, with my stomach churning, dreading that he would pray aloud in whatever restaurant he took me to, or make me feel obligated to pray with him once we returned to his apartment.

My father also sent you more money than I’ll ever know, for whatever Jesus scam you were running at that particular time. Largely because of you, and those like you, my father died penniless. In fact, when I, a critical thinker, had to give my father money to help pay bills near the end, my last ever argument with him was making him promise he wouldn’t turn around and give 10 percent of what I gave him to you or some other bullshit Christian con artist.

I truly wish there actually was a hell, because there would be an extra-hot room just for conmen like you. Instead, you will simply rot in the ground—if it’s possible for someone already rotten to the core to rot even more.

But one thing is for sure: you aren’t in any so-called heaven, where you could go fuck yourself.