It's unbelievable. I go to all the trouble of swallowing six of my fresh-birthed progeny, one of whom is actually a godling-sized rock; spend the next few decades trying not to bust a damned gut; only to give 'em all the big heave-ho when that unplanned youngest son drops by, weapon in one hand and emetic in the other, offering me a bastard's choice: regurgitate, or become the beneficiary of an impromptu Caesarian.
Then that misbegotten offshoot decides to castrate me anyway, flipping me the finger by flipping my precious manhood into the flippin' sea. Promiscuous hypocrite.
And how do the mortals choose to commemorate this blatant coup d'état? With a year-end shindig, natch: a weeklong cycle of binging and purging, everyone trying their damnedest to bust a gut of their own. Then they exchange their so-called gifts, petty little trinkets that make even my severed member look opulent. And just to add insult to injury, their illustrious priests strip my feet of their damn woolen socks. For the whole week. Right at the onset of winter.
Why? Jupiter only knows, the traitorous bastard. They're mortals; that's reason enough for such incomprehensible tomfoolery.
But hey, at least there's an upside to this whole mess: I'm down six stone — in one case, literally! — and that godforsaken gut is gone. Go locate any statue of me, place your hand on my toga, and check out that slab of solid marble. Want to know what my big secret is?
Bulimia. And bad parenting.