A HEAVENLY ALGORITHM

What if all out desires could be expressed in an algorithm?

The deity sat with his cloudy laptop on his knee and grinned to himself. He had a new love in his life and that was mistress algorithm. It never ceased to amuse him when he thought just how much he discovered of the folks down there when he examined what thy did with their time on line.

Then it crossed his mind that he might actually find enough oddities for him to do a bit of seasonal mischief. After all, it was the season for mischief, wasn’t it? Snow might be falling all around?

He yawned and stretched and called for his mistress because an itch on his thoughts needed to be scratched and there was nobody quite like Gabriella when it came to scratching them. Of all his mistresses she was certainly the most skilled.

“I’m in the mood for a bit of mischief,” he told her once he had grinned appreciatively as she disrobed in front of him. “My, you are looking frisky this year,” he added.

“What is it you want of me, master of mine and father of my sons,” she asked, “was it another son, perchance? I was hoping…”

“No time for that now, precious,” he replied after a few hours thinking about the pros and cons of what he wanted, “I need my thoughts to be scratched,” he added, “I need to be able to cast a spell that will cause mayhem down below.”

“How?” she asked.

“With an algorithm,” he told her, “I’ve got reams and reams of information about what they all fancy inside their dreams. The small army of men who dream of other men in frocks and wonder what they wear under them, they amaze me, as do the queues of old timers who are deeply into remembering the skiffle and other noisy stuff of their childhoods and want to see if they can still jive. Then there are the railway buffs who become over excited at the sight of a steam train hurtling down mountain tracks, clouds of white steam billowing as it goes. And, of course, there are the millions of perverts into underwear.”

“Fig leaves?” she asked innocently

“Oh Gabriella, we’ve gone beyond that stage,” he grinned, “I mean ogling at images of pretty young things secretively removing such items of clothing as fill their tiny minds with odd little thrills, and throwing them idly to one side, out of range… that’s where we are now. And there are many other little mental foibles to do with skirts and shorts and the like..”

“What about you, darling deity?” teased Gabriella.

“You know me too well, beloved, he laughed, “I am, by definition, perfect and consequently without any interest in anything but clouds. Now just you give my thoughts a little scratch and let’s see what the algorithm teaches us…”

“I am yours to be commanded, lord and master,” teased Gabriella, and she leaned so close to him that had he been mortal her right bosom may well have suffocated him.

After a year or so he emerged from a trance-like state and grinned.

“That’s it!” he smiled, “I know who to scare into an early grave! I can’t say which country he belongs to, but there’s a president at the top of my list who falls into my favourite category. He’s a sinner of the worst or best, according to your perspective, order, and I’m going to put him at the top of my little list. Let’s see what the rest of them make of that!”

“Why? What does the algorithm say?” asked Gabriella.

He grinned at her again. “Put it like this,” he said, “in every possible respect, in his own mind he’s the best man on Earth and in my mind he’s the worst and a disgrace to mankind! And there’s a bolt of lightning with his name on it ready to be launched at him after I’ve had a nice warming cup of tea and a fairy cake! Come on, sweetheart, it’s bed time and I’ll tell you all about him between the sheets!”

© Peter Rogerson 07.12.24