Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," dedicated to the Sacred Thunderbird even when it hurts! I'm your host, Anne Johnson. Excuse me while I heave this road kill into a field, so my beloved Thunderbirds don't get flattened during dinner....
Well now, we all know what vultures do, right? Something dies, and they dig in to the lifeless flesh, gorging themselves on the misfortune of the deceased.
Today I'm feeling decidedly buzzardish.
A dear old friend of mine passed last week, leaving behind a youngish widow. I cried when I got the news, because the dude in question was of high quality and should damn well have gotten more than 55 years in this sphere.
As you might expect, a 55-year-old married dude who dies suddenly leaves behind a workload. I, who have been scraping rock bottom for four years, have been asked to shoulder that workload.
I have to do it, of course. But what a way to find work! It's like plucking the eyeballs out of an old pal's corpse.
In times like this it's helpful to remember the central tenet of Sacred Thunderbird praise and worship: Clean up the mess. I don't suppose a hungry buzzard licks its chops over the remains of a dead skunk, but the world smells better after the meal.
Now I've gotta go pick at a carcass. What a way to make a profit.
Labels: buzzard worship