Hello, tiny humans!
Now that your mothers are gone, let me introduce myself. I am Dionysus, god of wine, inspirer of ritual madness and ecstasy, also known as Bacchus and the Liberator. I am the patron deity of agriculture and the theater. My divine mission is to usher forth the beautiful music of the aulos so as to bring an end to care and worry.
And, little Bobby Paxton, to make your party for turning 4 super-duper fun!
For starters, let’s review the list of libations offered at this mini bacchanalia. Little Bobby, please tell me that is a fine heady and robust Merlot in those cups and not cranberry-juice cocktail. How can we expect to strip ourselves of all our social influences and inhibitions without a glorious liberty-freeing vintage?
Excuse me, smallish woman, what is your name?
Yes, Margaret, while I appreciate your predilection toward fulfilling one’s primal need to consume that which pleases you, little Bobby’s mother demanded that I keep you “little beasts” away from the birthday cake. There is a line, Margaret, between unbridled hedonism and just plain old gluttony. And, I must say, from your girth I would guess gluttony is a demon with which you probably wrestle consistently.
What? No, I don’t know how to make balloon animals. I am, however, prepared to produce a small retinue of my maenads to feed us, by hand, juicy red grapes.
No, I do not know how to walk like a robot and chase you around the room. And a true celebration does not involve one getting “pantsed” and honking one’s red nose. We should simply just lounge around while drinking …
Margaret, please stop your tears. Your loud crying is beginning to upset the other revelers here.
Why is that boy under the table and sucking his thumb? Bobby, calling him a “stupid baby” is not helping. Go pull him out from under there. Margaret, please don’t call out for your mother. Don’t you know that mothers are a significant impediment in life? I should know: my mother was a mere mortal. Though the daughter of a king, she was not a god, like my father, Zeus. I’ve never lived that down up at Olympus. Plus, Mom can put quite the damper on a good debauchery-filled party.
Yes, that is leopard skin I’m wearing. No, I did not kill the leopard with my bare hands. Yes, I know that leopards live in the jungle. Listen, enough with the questions! And will all of you diminutive kids stop crying and get out from under the table! Where’s Margaret? Oh great, here come the mothers! Little Bobby, hide my wineskin of Riunite under the couch. Listen, let’s just eat the damn cake, I’ll grab my paycheck, and then I’m out of here.
You kids are impossible!