It told me the tale of the urban gods, born in Babylon thusands of years ago: The Goddess of Roads, the God of Writing, the God of Bureaucracy.
Then, it told me of the next generation of urban gods, spawned by the first, in Rome: The God of Social Class Distiction Through Fashionable Clothing, The God of Welfare Programs, The Goddess of Plumbing, The Goddess of Ghettos, The Twin Goddesses of Apartment Complexes and Public Libraries, The God of Opressive Social Programs Enacted in the Name of Protecting Children.
Then, it told me of the third generation of urban gods, spawned by the second, in Detroit and New York: Mother Funk and Father Soul, Big Business, The Iron Horse, The Smooth Cruiser, and the God of Men Replaced by Machines.
This third generation, my fridge told me, spawned a fourth, a generation of young suburban gods. The Well-Trimmed Lawn. The Cell Phone. The Empty Intellectual. The Debutante Hoodlum. And, my refrigerator mentioned with pride, The Fully Modern Kitchen.
As one might expect, these young gods rose against their creators. Unlike most mythical cycles, though, the suburban gods were not strong enough, and were doublesmashed with a quickness by the sharp and capable urban gods. The eschatology of this is left as an exercise to the reader.
And now these Gods Next Door were on the run. My refrigerator, I discovered, was not just a refrigerator, but The Refrigerator.
My Refrigerator offered me six hundred dollars to protect it.
Screw that noise. I'll side with the urban gods. They have better parties.