Y’all did know that Thursday was originally Thor’s Day, right? And that Friday was Frigg’s Day? And that Thor was a god and Frigg was a goddess? You knew this, right? Tell me you knew this.
Peaco really digs the notion of embracing (gods need hugs too) a different mythological deity on each day of the week. Peaco and I routinely honor the goddess Frigg with ritual observances including wine, kind clothing, cinema, fire, or athletics. We assume she is pleased. How should we pay the same homage to Thor? We will have to work on it. For today, how ’bout satire?
From what Peaco and I can determine, Thor didn’t have much of a sense of humor. So we figure that’s exactly what he needs on his day. He’ll no doubt express his displeasure (you know, war hammer and all) with us should he a) fail to see the humor, or b) fail to regard it as an appropriate offering. Thunder never lies, right? Unless thunder is Thor’s laughter and the mytho-geeks got it wrong.
It’s possible. These are myths, after all.
Thursday’s prompt:
Nobody on Earth has died for two years…
Seriously, who names a kid Nobody? Although if other planets are so heavily populated with boys named Nobody that we need to specify it was the passing of Nobody on Earth, perhaps Nobody is the equivalent of Joe out in the cosmos.
The aliens are probably busy with things like time travel, transmogrification, interplanetary relations, and poaching celestial energies from supernovas while Earthlings spin their wheels agonizing over what to name their spawn when they know damn well half of them are just going be called Junior or Bubba or Sissy.
Think of the mental energy aliens have been able to dedicate to truly important things by eliminating angst over baby names. You can bet the alien species with the most boring names is the most productive in the universe. Whatever mysteries haven’t been solved out at Area 51 are likely due to the fact that alien space cars turn into small appliances when they crash them (instead of hunks of junk like ours) and we don’t have adapters to plug them in. For seventy years Earth techs have been standing around in fancy jumpsuits examining advanced toasters and blenders, scratching their heads and collecting government paychecks.
Bubba G Man: Golly, who could work this gizmo?
Junior G Man: Nobody, I reckon.
Wednesday’s prompt:
Write about a ghost hunter.
Ahem. When have you ever seen ghosts running away from people? When have you ever seen ghosts hiding under the covers from people? Or sleeping with the lights on so they won’t see people? Or hearing a strange noise and shrieking in terror because it might be a person? You notice they don’t sit around campfires telling People Stories to scare each other. Newsflash — they are not afraid of us. Ghosts don’t hide from us. Ghost hunting is a scam, you piffle puffers.
If anything, ghosts are probably making fun of us. All that moaning is stifled laughter. If they did sit around campfires in the woods they’d probably be trading stories about the stupid things they saw us do or heard us say. Casper, omg, you’re not gonna believe what I saw one of them do today…
They probably haunt houses because these are the easiest places to get new material. They can just hang out to watch us perform our random acts of dumbassity. We are their YouTube. You think it’s an accident that ghosts only live where people live, die, work, play, ride trains, or watch plays? These are places the ghosts are guaranteed to get a good show. And the best of these is surely watching us run around like idiots making TV shows about hunting them.
Right now, somewhere in the world, a ghost is sitting in a movie theatre among horror film fans, rolling his eyes, chuckling, and taking notes. It’s like we’re daring them to screw with us. For all the alleged advantages of being alive, the best we can come up with is to keep right on giving them fresh ideas. Then we’ve got the nerve to cry foul when they scare the crap out of us exactly as we suggested.
Who’s really the asshole here?
— Mercy
The Renaissance Heart 