Monday, September 20, 2004

 

If Ya Can't Run with the Big Deities, Stay on Cloud Nine


The big guy in white and purple robes, with white hair and beard, is sitting on a stone throne, drinking from a huge golden goblet. He keeps shouting for order.

“I’m in charge here, goddamit!” he yells, flinging about bolts of lightning. Gradually, the din dies down, and the Olympians take their seats.

“OK, that’s more like it. Down to business. How are the royalties on Troy, Ares?”

“Could be better, but we bought a new microwave oven, eighty oxen and fifty barrels of whiskey with the last deposit.”

“Good, good. Do the other deities suspect anything about our current operations, Hermes?”

“Nope. They think we’re strictly in party mode."

Zeus gestured. "Bacchus, you keep it that way, understand? Keep putting up the party flyers. Invite lots of dryads and nymphs. Don't say you're Satan, and don't say you're not. Hera is in charge of making sure than when Rove succeeds, it is actually I, your father and the original asskicking deity, who’s in that Yahweh suit. Hades—you got things going on the Lucifer project?”

“When the time comes, I’ll have him over for ‘tea’, don’t worry.” Hades chuckled from behind dark glasses.

“But what about Cheney?” Athena asks.

“Cheney? He’s been in my pocket for centuries. Don’t be silly. How did you think we got on the inside? Hera?”

She laughs, in the spine-chilling way only she can, at once seductive and frightening. “I call him ‘Dick’, you know.”

“And Putin? Everything’s set there, right?”

Ares snickered. “Don’t worry. Soon, Russia and her allies will be the only Christian nations on earth.”




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