Did all the world’s fancy predictive analytics accurately forecast what would happen in 2020? Nope. Today’s info analysts are no more trustworthy than those bargain-basement palm readers, necromancers, and essential oils people who advertise at the bus stop.
If only I had believed my grandfather when he told me the fractal pattern he found in a sheep’s liver meant dark times were coming. He’s an 84th generation haruspex, oracle of entrails, and that’s the kind of scientific predictor we need in these uncertain times.
What’s the long-term impact of this widespread virus? When will things get back to normal? To answer questions like that, the only “Internet of Things” our ancestors would have needed were forty meters of intestines connected to the rectum of a deer or goat. Sometimes an ox, but only if it had been sacrificed in a temple. Those folks didn’t overcomplicate it; you shake a few arrows and consult the teraphim – what’s easier than that?
Ancient Rome was around a hell of a lot longer than our ramshackle excuse for a civilization. Did they have computers cranking out inaccurate data models all day? Nope, just poor sanitation, piles of animal carcasses, and total trust in their local haruspex. Get this – haruspicy was so valued back then they even built cobblestone paths modeled after the colons of sacrificial animals. Do you see anyone building roads in honor of big data algorithms and needlessly complex logistics? Please. Stick with a form of prophecy that can actually tell you something concrete.
Don’t get me wrong – as a card-carrying PETA member, I am sickened by the suggestion of anyone hurting animals. But with haruspicy, accidental animal deaths can serve a higher purpose. I’m talking about roadkill, those poor little critters who never reached their intended destination. Let’s utilize their remains for some good old-fashioned divination and discover what might happen next in this crazy tilt-a-whirl we call modern life.
When I was out jogging the other day and came across a dead raccoon, I knew it was a harbinger of something significant. Before I could even check the position of the organs, some nosy neighbors had to butt in and ask why my eyelids were fluttering as I massaged fresh herbs into my temples. Look, my Sumerian is a bit rusty so I was chanting in Aramaic, and it’s offensive to me that Kyle from the HOA claimed I was “possessed and blathering in tongues.” Loosen your man bun and take a chill pill, Kyle. I’m trying to help save the world by looking for COVID answers in every raccoon spleen I can get my hands on (and with the recent surge of pedal-to-the-metal Amazon delivery drivers burning rubber through our neighborhood, there are plenty to choose from).
To prepare for the future, we must consider our past. It’s time to get back to our roots and normalize haruspicy. The black spots on this squirrel’s protruding kidneys tell me our country’s fate depends on it.
