Easter put her slim hand on the back of Wednesday's square gray hand. "I'm telling you," she said, "I'm doing fine. On my festival days they still feast on eggs and rabbits, on candy and on flesh, to represent rebirth and copulation. They wear flowers in their bonnets and they give each other flowers. They do it in my name. More and more of them every year. In my name, old wolf."
"And you wax fat and affluent in their worship and their love?" He said, dryly.
"Don't be an asshole." Suddenly she sounded very tired. She sipped her mochaccino.
"Serious question, m'dear. Certainly I would agree that millions upon millions of them give each other tokens in your name, and that they still practice all the rites of your festival, even down to hunting for hidden eggs. But how many of them know who you are? Eh? Excuse me miss?" This to their waitress.
She said, "You need another espresso?"
"No my dear, I was just wondering if you could solve a little argument we were having over here. My friend and I were disagreeing over what the word 'Easter' means. Would you happen to know?"
The girl stared at him as if green toads had begun to push their way between his lips. Then she said "I don't know about any of that Christian stuff. I'm a pagan."-- Neil Gaiman, American Gods
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Have the faith, have the fun.