The Epic-ness of Passwords

We live in a time of illusory epic-ness. Wars rage all over, but here we are safe on our couches and munching on chips, saying "weeeeeeeeeeeee" to the next rage viral video. And we think we're epic, because, dude, our instagram says we're eating an awesome, epic meal at an awesome, epic restaurant in an awesome, epic city on DUDE, the most awesome-est, EPIC-EST planet ever...dude.

This is not to say that people in the past were "more epic" than us. Honestly, it's not a contest. We shouldn't want it to be a contest. If you want it to be a contest, fight a mythical battle, lead a think-tank and build a horse, survive many more dangerous foes––like giants that eat your friends raw (instagram that)––build a raft, launch yourself into the stormy Mediterranean, land beaten and stripped naked on a mysterious shore, arrive home, and finally write a huge, epic poem about it all––then rename yourself Odysseus (or Homer....). Okay, maybe people back then were more epic.

One way We––I would define We, but at the moment, I don't know precisely what We are: Westerners, Mankind, Interneters?––have dropped in epic-ness is through our passwords. I remember those days when I was a kid, just after I established a fortress imaginary or real. Invite friends over, and all play––but then come the invaders, the surprise attack of a sibling. What does one do? The trusty password. None can enter if he does not know the password. "Banana" or "acorn" is pulled from the air, since sundaes have bananas or the fort is in a backyard, but either way the effect on the invader is devastating, and he runs away crying. The day is saved. That history of the password is thoroughly more epic.

Of course, the further history of the password is great, as well. One ancient force doesn't like another force, so they send a little pawn in to gather info. The second ancient force sniffs that the pawn might be a little suspect (maybe the cuneiform code on his clay tablets was a bit rusty), so they ask him a password. He starts to panic, but he guesses anyway. "Banana!" He gets it wrong. Nobody but him even knows what a "banana" is, since only he has been outside of Sumer anyway. As punishment for his slip-up, he's not sent away. He's tortured for information, dismembered, killed, then his head sent back to the first ancient force. They realize their mistake and start training their spies to say "acorn."

In any case, blood and guts and flayed fingers is quite more epic than "dude, my password isn't working. 'Guess I have to reset it now." I don't want to lose any fingers, but––I think we are getting a little bored.