The thunder of Zeus be upon you, O mortals! Australia, the Great Desert, burns!
For I am Poseidon, master of the seas, lord of all things wet, and I have returned to claim my rightful place as a famous god.
I have been patient these past millennia, mortals. I have awaited your worship, your prayers, your goodly sacrifices. I have activated a Facebook account and long expected your friend requests. And yet it appears that you have chosen to forget me: great, godly, terrible Poseidon.
Your ignorance has sparked my anger, your insolence has kindled it, and your arrogance has set it all ablaze! The wildfires of Australia are merely emblematic of the awesome metaphorical heat of my rage.
I once believed my celebrity was assured. You knew that the triremes sailed only at my pleasure. You sensed how the smooth passage of your trade or the glorious victories of your wars were the gifts of my benevolence. I was some deity.
And now I am all but forgotten. Admired perhaps, but never loved. Along came all those younger, next-best-thing gods, with their fresh visages and hip new centers of geopolitical power, and you fickle worshippers tossed me out like so much omnipotent garbage.
A few thousands years pass, and now look at me. Look at me, mortals! I’ve gained weight. All that ice I fought so hard to keep on in the early days is turning into water. I feel warm all the time. There’s a patch of garbage the size of Texas on my back that I should really get looked at. I’ve got higher mercury than Jeremy Piven—but he’s the one David Mamet makes a joke about.
Not worth a joke, no, alas, no! Certainly not worth a sacrifice. And it turns out, not even worth a decent movie. (If you ask me, Wolfgang Peterson has just been phoning it in since Das Boot.)
At one point, I caught myself thinking: What happened? I used to be such a big god.
And then I understood. I’m still big. It’s the religions that got small.
Mark me now, all; sailors, potters, philosophers, dramatists all: I, Poseidon, immortal Olympian and architect of fate, will no longer suffer your betrayal. I will see my horse sacrifices performed with all due ceremonial ritual—in ancient Greek—or the fury of my comeback will know no bounds on this earth.
Australia is beginning to understand what you will all know soon enough: the inconvenient truth that I, Poseidon, have returned!
He must be the one responsible for the fish with human legs that keep washing ashore! I guess I'll check into that run down "Church of Poseidon" on main street this Sunday. Do I wear a wet suit as my "sunday best?"
Watch entourage online here http://entourageepisodes.net 🙂
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