Dear Astronomers Astrologers,
My boys and I have been following your advice for thousands of years. From, “Which way to Bethlehem,” to “Would today be a good day to smite Richard Dawkins,” we’ve always cherished your input. You perfected, early on, the art of giving advice that We could construe as backing the decision We’d already made. You’ve always been aloof, yet sycophantic. We like that in Our advisers.
However, I have noticed an alarming trend, lately, of being both specific and accurate. I was flipping through My most recent printed copy of The Internet last week and spotted something called “World’s Most Accurate Horoscope“ by one of your number named Yunshui. I was immediately intrigued by the confluence of the words “most accurate” and the somewhat mysterious name of the astrologer. Frankly, I wouldn’t normally read a web diary, (or “Dlog” as I believe the kids call it), with a title like “Right to Think”. I am generally against that sort of thing.
In any case, I thumbed through those pages to check My and My boys’ horoscopes. Personally, I feel that if one of you is going to start being completely accurate, the public should be warned about it, first thing. Perhaps some sort of label at the top of the page would be in order: “Beware! The following is actually accurate. Really, this time. We mean it!”
It might have saved the Jesii a nasty shock. For the most part, the predictions for Them were spot-on. Money? Check. Romance? If you count expensive escorts and naked internet pictures from Woodstock, then, check. Fame? Double check. However, none of Us actually expected the bit about the marmalade to be true. Or, if so, to be true in a very general way; like “Don’t jump into a vat of boiling marmalade this month.” Even without the accuracy warning, it might have helped if your man had been a bit more specific. “You have developed a severe allergy to orange peel. If you don’t want to swell like a televangelist’s ego, wheeze like a disconcertingly wheezy steam engine and generally repulse those around you, steer well clear of marmalade. I mean it,” would have sufficed, I think.
For My part, I can’t stress specificity enough. had I known that he really meant it, I could have at least prepared or even turned on the omniscience for a minute to make things a bit clearer. As it was, I dropped by one of Odin’s parties this weekend out in Valhalla and when He got drunk and started quoting poetry – like He does – it only rang a tiny bell when I heard Him declaim something about “stabbed through the eye of a hurricane”. Well, I ended up quaffing a few flagons of mead and cornered this 7-foot Valkyrie named Bridget who was nattering on about how she really wanted to be a model. Four hours, a pronounced bruise from Her armour and a half dozen Nehi Grape-flavored nipple tassles later and I had a raging case of what We deities euphemistically call the “French Deity’s Disease”.
The bottom line here is that it’s all the worse for knowing that I could have avoided a real mess if I’d known you really meant it this time. As an added bonus, I could have looked like a real hero by saving the boys a nasty allergic reaction and My postman a run-in with a surly penguin with a penchant for brass knuckles. So, next time, label that stuff properly.
Wish You Were Here,