Twilight Of A God
Gods are a lot
like people in many ways. They
like to hang out at the beer garden after work to hear the day’s gossip and
have a chuckle over the suds. It
was at one of these sessions that, to the general surprise of the assembled,
Jehovah showed up. It is rare for
the in-office gods to mix with the has-beens. As a rule, Allah, Jehovah, Big-Daddy Mormon and the other
current bananas didn’t demean themselves for a mere brew even if they could get
in on a free round.
“Whoah, and
Behold, look who’s taken the afternoon off early!” It was Neptune who spoke and he gave Athena a jab in the
ribs with a whisper, “That big
palooka is here to lecture us on deportment no doubt. Hey, I think he’s putting it on around the belt.” Athena gave her ancient eyes a
roll and smirked, “Yep, and not
walking as brisk as he used to; he’s slipping, sure”
The old-timers
like to poke fun at the conceit of the in-crowd behind their backs. It eases their sense of degradation at being
ignored by mortals who once admired and feared them. And the cast-off gods remember how they too thought
they were the last of the god parade and would be on top for eternity. There is
just nothing so arrogant and unrealistic as an on-duty god. You can’t tell them
anything but that they sneer or give you a patronizing pat on the head. And Jehovah was fond of squeezing
Athena’s ass so she kept it quite out of reach.
They were right
about Jovie, as they liked to call him; he was fading and wearying of his
scuffles with Allah. It developed
that he had come to see how the old ones managed in retirement. He had ignored his pension plan while
in his prime. But now he worried
that he would soon be supplanted.
He would have nothing to fund his retirement but social security. And that security wasn’t so secure
anymore as they all enjoyed telling him.
Frankly he was worried but didn’t want to let on. The oldsters had been careful to set
aside a portion of their offerings just in case, but Jovie now had nothing but
the good wishes of a miserly bunch of saints and a pope or two. He’d long ago been fleeced of the
monies wrung out of gullible mortals.
He had expected kickbacks from Billie Graham and Pat Robertson and lusty
Jimmie Swaggart, but they all had stiffed him.
Well, as I say,
Jovie was seeing the graffiti on the gatepost because his former faithful were
noticing that aspirin was significantly better than prayer for pretty much
everything. Not only that but his
failure to improve the pope’s miserable condition was costing him many
votes. Still, he couldn’t straight
out ask for help from the old timers.
They probably wouldn’t give and their derision would be
unendurable. He was worn
down, dejected. He was pooped to
say it plain. He didn’t even have
the energy to try to wangle social security for the three gods he pretended to
be.
The only thing
that kept him going was that Allah was getting a beating too in certain
circles. But the Mormon
Godlet was waxing powerful with sales of magical underwear that protected
people from harm (the same
customers who bought the secret decoder rings from Capt. Midnight and never
gave up the Easter Bunny). Mortals
were so fucking stupid!
But his biggest
fear was the expected apotheosis of Chubby Jerry, the Fundie, Falwell. If he made it to Valhöll, and
most thought he would, Jehovah knew he could kiss his rosary so long and commit
sewer-side. No, I don’t mean
suicide. With the eternity thing a
god can’t just go out of business like a real person can. Out of work gods with no
pension have to share a cardboard carton in the gutter on cold nights with Odin
and his Valkyries. You might be
thinking that at least the ladies could be warm and fun. Indeed they are still warm but nowadays
they are shrill, fat and gassy and not fun at all in a crowded cardboard box.
So taken all and
all Jovie’s stock is lower than a fallen angel’s pancake at a bar mitzvah.
© Bill 3/2005
Saturday, July 31, 2010
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Labels:
Religious Curiosities
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