Don't ever listen to Thor if he tells you he can fix a toaster. Unless you want a wall blown out, third-degree burns, and a sizable blackout.
Blogging will continue just as soon as Thor gets off probation.
My dear reader, forgive us for our absence. Our friend Loki had, in a fit of pict, decided to float to Cuba on a home-made raft made, I believe, out of Disneyland employees still in their foam suits.
The ensuing chaos as he landed defies description. One can only say that Loki truly outdid himself using only a velvet Elvis painting, a pint of fake blood, three David Copperfield DVD's, and a "Big Mouth Billy Bass" toy.
The vocation of god, like that of policeman, appears to third parties a terribly interesting job. Who wouldn't want to hurl thunderbolts at frightened villagers or tackle a drunk to the ground?
People don't know that being a god requires an enormous quantity of paperwork. Remember Parkinson's Law? Imagine if you had a deadline infinitely far in the future. You'd take an aeon just to make yourself a pot of coffee.
Let's cast some light upon this burden for those of you not priviliged with omniscience and semi-omnipotence.
The big guy upstairs runs the whole show. You, me, John Cleese, the planet we stomp on, the inferno it spins around, and the cosmic string it has clustered onto. And that is only in order of increasing magnitude. He jokes that had he outsourced it, creation would have only taken half the time and we'd have a 4 day weekend.
Anyway. Billions of years go by while he's basically staring at an empty fishtank. He gets bored, starts making things in his image. That last reminds me of another joke of his: if every one of his children gathered in a room and made a composite of his face, he'd look like a cross between a squid and Don Knotts.
The universe got a bit more strange. Some of his experiments failed miserably. Ever get a good look at the Crab Nebula? That is the reason sexual reproduction usually requires at least two sexes.
To be continued after Sabbath.
Ok everyone, I admit, throwing a laptop from a 6th story window at a man I thought was homeless is a dumb thing to do. Especially when it turns out to be a guy who had just escaped Cuba on an innertube.
But, there is a bright side. At least now that plucky young man will have a religious hatred of Bill Gates. He'll fit right in now.
I hate doors, gates, windows, arches, and any form of hole that someone can go through. Why? You try being a doorman for a couple centuries.
That (and my dog Jesus, who isn't allowed within the condo) is why I live on the roof here. It sure as hell isn't because I like being the target of incontinent birds or being able to see the gays on the beach. I remember the days when Miami Beach was full of women shiny in suntan oil and tight thong bikinis. Those days my eyes were glued to my binoculars. Now it's a bunch of guys peeking at each other's banana hammocks and flexing. If I had only known, I would have moved into the arctic circle. "Miami is full of beautiful people" my ass, Moloch. You should have warned me that being here is like living in San Francisco minus the smallest climatological necessity of clothing.
I get my revenge, though. You'd be surprised how much a cane to the face hurts.
About Jesus. He's a lovable mutt, but I'm afraid what's going to happen when he dies. Who in his right mind can love a chihuahua or one of those drug-dealer rottweilers? Sure as hell can't find a decent Siberian Wolfhound around here. I tell you what, you won't catch me with some faggy Paris Hilton lap-dog or a coke-addicted half-retarded ragged-eared dogfight contender. I'll probably have to mail-order Jesus Mark 2 from some puppy-mill in Bumfuck, Nebraska run by a rightwing militia.
You know, this is the first time I've used a computer since Al Gore summoned me and asked if I had any ideas about TCP/IP protocols.
What a century! Nowadays people sacrifice freedom for comfort. In the Viking days, comfort sacrificed people for me!
In Miami, we wear suntan. In the Viking ships, suntan wore you!
Agh.
What can I say. Being known as the trickster god was much easier a thousand years ago. Back then, you just whipped out a wooden cock and everyone laughed and gave you burnt offerings. Nowadays you've got to include some kind of social statement and humorous reference to politics in every joke. Asses, all of you. A joke's just not funny to you unless it involves me whacking Nancy Pelosi over the head with a wooden cock. Repeatedly. While Ted Kennedy smears mayonnaise on a poodle.
Usually I'm not so obscene. But then again, usually I'm not telling jokes in the safety of my own home where rotten tomatoes can't reach me. Rotten tomatoes! In the Viking days, people threw rotten heads at me!
I know what you're thinking. "Where did Yackov Smirnoff go when the Berlin Wall fell?" Folks, even I don't know, and he wakes up in my bed every morning. As for Lenny Bruce? Who the hell knows what he did with my toothbrush.
Take my wife, please. Tom, you might want to cut out most of this post when you get the chance.
[Ed. note: I removed about 16 post-pages' worth of Yackov Smirnoff, Henny Youngman, and, oddly enough, Ellen DeGeneres jokes. I kind of feel sorry for Loki. He even tried his hand at Seinfeldesque observations: "What's with toothpaste? You smear it on your teeth and wipe it off. Why not make it edible and make a snack out of it?" Poor guy.]
We are Moloch, Baal, Clytie, Odin, Loki, Kvasir, Nana Buluku, Papa Legba, Damballah, Chronos, Haephestus, Horus, Kali, Oestre, Resheph, Anath, Astarte, Ashtoreth, Hadad, Nebo, Sulis, and Attiru. We are pleased to announce that reports of our deaths have been greatly exaggerated.
There comes a time in every god's eternal life when we realize we've lost our old charms, gotten old, and need some rest. It may come when one day we wake up and no one is sacrificing children to us, or we can't hold bacchanalian orgies like we used to, or even find that we had passed out trying to throw thunderbolts. It's not easy to accept, but accept we must. Hell, Elvis and Hendrix are still convinced they only entered midlife crisis.
What does a god who bathed in the blood of infants, feasted on the charred souls of the wicked, fated wars and famines, slung ships across devilish maelstroms, and raised myriad bastard sons among illiterate peasant women, do when he can't get his godhead up anymore? Where does he go who once fathered vast empires?
It depends. Alot of us found odd-jobs here and there, became bloggers, entered politics or showbiz. We decided to move into a quiet condominium in Miami. These are our stories, our views on life, and a record of our reclining years.
anath
ashtoreth
astarte
attiru
baal
chronos
clytie
damballah
hadad
haephestus
horus
kali
kvasir
loki
moloch
nana buluku
nebo
odin
oestre
papa legba
resheph
sulis
General Editor:
Tom the Pooklekufr
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