Op-Ed: The Gods Are Displeased

By Hannah Ryan

Hark! The Gods are displeased and ‘tis time to talk about it. 

Everyone is running ‘round willy-nilly as if all thou have no divine grace to thanketh for thy blessings— ‘tis no wonder the world is a ball of flaming piss right now. I have a few questions for thee heathens: When is the last time thou did sacrifice a goat to the supreme beings above? Didst a little ritualistic jig? Fed the flames of thy sacred hearth? I’m sure thy hearth has seen nary a blaze this month. Fie on thee! Fie!

Last night I wast visited in a dream by the all-powerful ones and, after blessing mine womb with my sixth full-term immaculate conception this year, they told me themselves that we’re in big trouble if we don’t shape up. Not me, of course, as I am a direct descendant of the Gods– I was sprung from an ancient tree during a great Bacchanalia, fully-grown and ready to fight. 

Let me implore thee, indulgent one: who must thou thank for thy bounty of good fortune? Thine own self? Hah! That’s a good one. Settle thy ego, shed thy hubris, and see thyself for who thou truly art: a sodden-witted scullion.

Thine wicked ways and dastardly habits have surely angered the thundermakers above. ‘Tis sickening to look at thee, festering with sin and evil. Thine insolent Snapchatting, lack of social distancing, and muting thyself in the breakout rooms hast angered the great ones insurmountably. Thou hast surely forgotten that with every celebration, every good harvest, and every open-note Blackboard exam thee receiveth from above, there must be a sacrifice made of equal grandeur, or else the gods will smite thee. We hast been cursed already by the Grand Coronal Plague, but since that hast not been enough to thwart thy ways, I pray thee, what will? 

Cometh on now, don’t just falleth to thy hams in shame. Get upeth! Gather thyself! Lo! Look to the skies and acknowledge what a naughty, godless fiend thou hast been. Call upon our gracious deities to descend upon thee and punish thee as those see fit. Thine troubles run deeper than the river Styx, buddy, but thou may perhaps, possibly, maaaaybe be saved once again by bringing me a few spankin’ offerings of cold, hard cash. The choice is thine, rampallion.