Dear Zeus, King of the Gods and Lord of Storms,

Sort out your shit.

This is the second horrific storm in as many weeks in these central United States and I am not amused.

Is this yet another quarrel with your wife about your infidelity? Or an ass-backwards attempt to punish a blasphemous hero and impede them on an already dangerous quest? If so, please cut that shit out posthaste.

You might be unaware of the problems your activities cause for us lowly mortals down here beneath the clouds you oh so generously provide. Let me make you aware of some of them.

Last week you summoned a tempest that left my house in darkness for three days. I was awoken on the morning of the first day of darkness at the ass-crack of dawn by a blinding flash of light and earsplitting thunder. You scared the piss out of my dog and onto my bedsheets. I will never forgive you for that.

Additionally, during this time of darkness and loss of power I was unable to work and almost unable to eat. My phone died and I would have held a funeral for it in my backyard if said yard was not already blocked by a large limb that had recently fallen. A limb I will be unable to remove because I have neither a battery-powered chainsaw nor a musclebound husband. I will have you know I blame my lack of both solely upon the gods.

The night of your latest terrible tempest was especially trying. Have you ever attempted to sleep in a constantly wind-shaken house lurching upon its very foundation? Or through a tornado siren? Or through a tornado in a hodgepodge of blankets in the closet beneath the stairs because it’s the only central “room” in the house without a window? Do you even sleep at all? I think not, or you must be a being entirely devoid of compassion.

Because it’s the product of the lazy twirl of one of your godly fingers, I bet you think a tornado is just a fun gust of swirly wind. You could not be more wrong. A tornado is a twisty cone of death that sounds like the bellowing of a thousand bulls come to trample you straight to Hades. Please stop inflicting them upon us poor mortals.

Are you even aware of the immense damage your ill-conceived storms can cause? Besides death, I have seen your thunderbolts blow up transformers and set trees aflame. I have had friends lose roofs to your winds, be flooded out by your rains. I have had a roommate’s car devastated and divoted by your hail!

All hail, Zeus, Destroyer of Toyota Camries!

I bet the wanton destruction you cause makes you feel like a big man. Excuse me—god. I’d tell you to go stick your most valuable appendage in a light socket if I didn’t think you’d merely find it ticklish and amusing.

I’d make my plea to your much wiser and more temperate daughter, Athena, if I thought she had any control over the weather. Alas, she does not.

I swear to you, dear Zeus, if this lightning-laced madness does not stop soon, I will not sacrifice a goat to you next month upon your altar. For the love of all the gods, please stop. Stay your mighty hand!

I know you must be very busy being the immortal, all-powerful King of the Gods you are, but I hope this plea falls not on deaf or irate ears. If you wish to strike me down for the impudence displayed in this letter, please do so on a Monday prior to the start of my workday but after my morning coffee. Thank you.


Your most humble and devout believer, Tatiana