We’re told that one of modernity’s great achievements was the realization that things like the weather have nothing to do with us. But when it’s snowing on April 7th, it’s hard not to take the weather personally. When it’s snowing on April 7th, I feel a deep psychic connection with my ancient forebears, who saw the wrath of Zeus in every thunderclap, and the displeasure of Poseidon in every menacing wave.
Great God of the Montreal Sky: What have we done to displease ye so? Angry Sky God on Mount Royal: What prayers and supplications do ye desire? What sacrifices will appease your anger? Look, LORD, you can’t have my firstborn—because I like him, I like him a lot—but I’m willing to get you a smoked meat sandwich from Schwartz’s—seriously, LORD, I’ll hook you up!
If I climb to the top of Mount Royal, fashion an altar out of an old picnic table, and set fire to a brown bag full of Schwartz’s smoked meat, would it be a sweet savor unto ye, oh LORD? Would this burnt offering appease your wrath? Look, I do not ask that ye make mine descendants to be more numerous than the stars in the heavens above. Nor do I ask that ye make the fruit of my loins more numerous than the sands of the sea shore. I ask only that ye take away the cold and the snow, and replace it with trilliums, tank-tops, and Tam-Tams.
—John Faithful Hamer, From Here (2016)
p.s. Darren says he’ll throw in a dill pickle and a Cott’s Cherry Cola, LORD; Sheila’s bringing poutine; and Rio says she’ll happily offer up a luscious bottle of your brother Dionysus’s finest Napa Valley red.