Acts of the Hummus Idol, Thanksgiving Edition

I have nothing for which to give thanks this month, unless you count the fact there’s always the very slim possibility a huge comet might strike the Earth and remove all you miserable mortals or that you might kill yourselves off in the billions by blanketing the planet with nuclear missile strikes.

I had been having a great time hanging out with Aphrodite. I love those Mediterranean godesses with their olive complexions and dark hair and lightweight, easy-to-remove tunics. And she’s the goddess of hanky-panky, so what more could I ask for?

Then she tells me, oh-so-sweet, that she needs some space to explore her bi-curious side again, this time with Bast. Damn! Oh, and, yeah, I got the “but we can still be friends” crap on top of that.

Bast is an Egyptian goddess with the head of a cat, damn it! She probably spits up hairballs and her tongue will leave abrasions. But I guess Aphrodite wants some rough stuff: someone with sharp claws and a tendency to get psycho at the drop of a hat. Bast probably has a catnip addiction too. Bitches!

All I’m saying is that you had better not piss me off today with your questions. I’m warning you…

I, the great and powerful Hummus Idol, will now entertain your questions and grant unto you the wisdom that only a pile of very angry crushed chickpeas, tahini, olive oil and other seasonings can offer. Don’t let the smiling face fool you. I am a fridge-cold killah. Bow down before me, speak your question, and incline your ears or any other convenient part of your anatomy as I spew my advice upon thee.

Q: Your advice sucks! And you know what, hummus sucks, too! My friends keep trying to get me to eat the shit, but it’s cold chickpea mush. Damn, I’d rather eat snot! – Roscoe Hazzard, General Leeburg, Tennessee

A: Tomorrow, you shall awaken with a one-inch long penis. Any time an attractive or sexually competent woman approaches you, you will break out in horrible, vomit-inducing flatulence. Only the ugliest, most desperate and least satisfying women will be attracted to you and not cause your bowels to erupt and spew noxious fumes. And large, sweaty men with putrid breath will be attracted to you even more strongly. Every single one of them you encounter. Also, your car will not start tomrrow morning. Your sprinkler system will suddenly activate and soak you to the bone in the chill late fall air of morning as you open the hood to see what’s wrong. And a bird shall shit on your head. Every day for the next seven years.

I warned all of you not to piss me off.

Q: Hey, I heard about Aphrodite, Hummus. Look, it was cold-hearted, but she was always fickle. She’s about as faithful as temple prostitute. You deserve better. Drop on by and I’ll have Thor and some of the other kids come by with some food and mead. – Odin, All-Father and High-Lord of the Norse Pantheon

A: You dare to engage in name-calling against the goddess who made me forget my name 69 times over the past few weeks? I shall raise an army of demons and crush Asgard! The rainbow bridge between your realm and Earth shall be reduced to nothing more than iridescent confetti! I will aid your foul son Loki in your overthrow! I will bring Ragnarok upon thee! Fear me, you one-eyed, impotent old coot!

Q: What can I do to raise a temple in your honor and bring people into the fold of worshipping Hummus Idol, that I may increase your power and enable you to overthrow the restrictive God of Abraham, Isaac, Moses, David and Jesus? – Going Pagan Just Wasn’t Good Enough, Wichita, Kansas

A: Ye fickle faith-hopping whore! Thou hast already been though Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Buddhism and Wicca before thy brush with several pagan faiths and now attempting to turn to me! I would sooner be worhipped by lepers than thou! May thy womb be barren, may ye marry an insufferable twit with the world’s most meddling mother-in-law, and may Oprah insult thee on national television. Do not attempt to curry mine favor, thou worthless sack of blood, piss and spit!

(Ummm…If you still want to build that temple to me, though, contact my lawyer. I’ll e-mail you the details. I also have a great architect who owes me big if he wants his soul back.)

Q: I’m glad that I took your suggestion for naming my second son Zuma Nesta Rock Rossdale when he was born back in August. Now, after a few months, I can so totally see that he’s a Zuma Nesta Rock. We so totally messed up with the first kid when we named HIM Kingston James McGregor Rossdale. Thanks! – Gwen Stefani

A: You actually thought I was serious? I mean, I haven’t been keeping up with my reading of US Magazine, being a busy supernatural entity and all, so I only just found out, but you really did this? I mean, after I realized your first kid was named after a city in Jamaica, I just pointed to a random spot on the map and found Zuma Beach in Malibu. Then I figured, “Hey, they like Jamaica, why not suggest Bob Marley’s middle name for the kid, too?” And you bit on that? Zuma and Nesta? Shit, you might have been able to get away with one or the other, but both? And don’t blame me for the stupid addition of “Rock” in there. Naming your kid after a musical genre you sort of inhabit? Oh, this is too rich…

Q: When I heard that Gwen Stefani had gotten baby name ideas from your majorly cool clairvoyager self…um, omnishunt self…uh, mistikal self…oh fuk it, I don’t know how to spell chek on my Blackbarry…I just knew I’d need you to give me the perfekt name for my and Pete’s new darling: Bronx Mowgli Wentz. It’s so perfekt. I just want to know what you are so willing to give such preshus advise to the wurld and to someone like me? – Ashlee “I’m so totally gonna be bigger than my big sister Jessica” Simpson-Wentz

A: Well, with Gwen it was just a joke she took seriously. I really thought she was smarter than that. With you, I just want the kid to hate you when it grows up. I despise your whole family.

(Image by Stewart Butterfield, who is not affiliated with this blog and who doesn’t even know I or my opinions exist, and used under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 License)

(Hummus Idol does not speak as a representative or agent of Deacon Blue or anyone else associated with this blog. In fact, Hummus Idol doesn’t exist. He is wholly and completely a manufactured character that acts as an angry facade behind which Deacon Blue can hide for petty entertainment purposes and for times when he needs to be extra crusty and get shit off his chest. That said, you can feel free to shower the Hummus Idol with offerings of jewelry, money or fine art…he will make sure it goes someplace where it is needed.) View complete list of Humus Idol entries here.

One thought on “Acts of the Hummus Idol, Thanksgiving Edition

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