After some drivel about my father's father's failed attempt to rid the world of these boorish dark elves (blah blah blah), we at long last get to me.
Following my thwarted conquest on your island of Manhattan, I'm being charged for war crimes. It's an overreaction to say the least. After all, ruling is my birthright. "Your birthright was to die! If I hadn't taken you in, you would not now be here to hate me," says my dear "father."
So I'm relegated to the glass cages below the palace while my foolish brother moons over a mortal from another realm. Oh, dear Miss Foster, you probably shouldn't play with things you don't understand. You humans really are adorable. Vacillating around in your tiny existences causing mayhem without malice. Amateurs.
"She doesn't belong here anymore than a goat belongs at a banquet." Oh, Odin. You may not be my real father, but clearly we share a gift for devastating one-liners.
"So I am not your mother?" Frigga please.
I'd rather not address the matter of Frigga. Respect my privacy, or prepare for my reckoning.