Mister Zeus, (and I mean that to sting),
I take one little vacation. One measly break from the hard, hard work of being Me, and what happens? I turn My back for an eye-blink of 6,000 years or so and You “accidentally” strike My boys’ favorite statue with lightning.
Oh, I got your apology note when I swung by The Deity Club for a round of golf. Though I hardly think a cocktail napkin stuffed through the vent on My locker with “Oops! My bad. It was an accident. I owe you a drink,” scrawled on it constitutes a heartfelt apology. And anyway, You ought to be apologizing to the boys. They’re the ones locked in Their rooms, crying Themselves to sleep.
Actually, if it were just Me, I’d probably let it go. Maybe put itching powder in Your jock one day in the locker room. That’s just the sort of practical joke I get a kick out of. But this is My boys We’re talking about. You know how much I care about Them. On top of that, it’s been a pretty bad week for Me. I just found out what the Catholic priests have been doing. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I can’t think of a more disgusting, heinous crime. You put a guy in charge of the most precious things in the universe, You ask him to nurture them and help them grow, and the next thing You know, they’re stealing cash right out of Your vacation fund!
Believe You Me, there’s a special place in Hell for a guy like that.
Wish You Were Here,