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The U.B.F.C. vs. The Illuminati: Take Two

           Last year one of my many doomed occult endeavors was an event called "The Underground Batman Fan Club vs. The Illuminati." It began with a detailed report describing the tragedy riddled history of April 20th combined with a call for intrepid investigators to locate and gather together in the shadowiest corners of our city, ostensibly to help us search for any signs of the Illuminatti's next impending human sacrifice, but really just to give us all an excuse to engage in a little urban exploring, much like our most recent occupations of Pittsburgh's Underdark.


           The final stroke of genius, however, was to come from my recruitment of a largely inactive local magical organization, setting them to the crucial task of performing one simple mock human sacrifice, to be held upon the fated date, and wrought upon no less than the dead beat leader of their nearly defunct secret society.


           Although prepped for this ritual many weeks in advance, my obviously insufficiently villainous co-conspirators pulled out just before the final hour, providing an easy "win" for every last one of our heroic investigators, of whom, unfortunately, there were exactly none.


           Now, one full year later, my mind returns to these dreams of long shadows in lonely places, masked magickal workings executed towards obscure or alien ends, with perhaps a few superhero scavenger-hunters thrown feverishly into the mix, but this year, though I may share some small mention of my plans here, I now know far better than to ever again try and share the dream itself.


           I am not one of you; we are not kin, nor does it appear that our increasingly dissimilar spirits spring from any sort of shared psychic source. I am one of the last remaining flickers of a pre-adamite consciousness, a displaced descendant of a race of god-kings who ruled here before there even were such things. Try as I might to carry on in absentia of our now fallen kingdoms of faery wonder, you have previously and will most likely continue to mortally wound me with your intractable lamenesses, proving time and time again that, most of you anyway, have little more to offer save for your supposedly constructive criticisms and countless puerile rationalizations for your own insipid inertia.


           Time, and the painfully languid experience of you, has transformed me into a very different creature then I had once hoped to become, with a very different manner of engaging you and your irredeemably craven worldviews. Although I have found painfully few mortals to be above contempt, it is worth noting that those select few individuals who possess any enduring capacity to please me are obviously to be shown a certain degree of deference and, on rare occasions, may even be showered with a uniquely generous degree of love, yet everyone else must necessarily serve as nothing more than waking canvases, lab rats, or sport.


          This vow I now most sullenly declare: Those of you who pledge yourselves, mind and body, to the Djinn cause (as well as to my various Neo-Luciferian pseudo-authoritarian lunacies) can rest assured that you too will have me to hold your hands when the bland demons of mediocrity set upon you once again, just as, even now, those same cruel cardinals of conformity swarm all over me, attempting in vain to bring me down. You have your orders. Take hold of this hallowed current (if you can) and MARCH!


           There is no greater escape from banality than the one that actually takes it hostage on the way out and forces it to watch, it's once snide eyes now wide with confusion and disgust, as we dance naked and engorged around it's funeral pyre. Perhaps there will be other clues and warnings; perhaps this is your only one. Good luck and Namaste.

I do hate St. Paddy's day. However...

                  As a warrior-poet, I rarely get the chance to fully embrace the complete essence of my calling in something as roundly satisfying as, say, The Squirrel Cage's Annual Dirty Limerick Contest. That said, this year, though I battled valiantly, round after bloody round, and made it all the way to being one of the very last two poets standing, it was unfortunately there that, to my great shame, I was "awarded" a measly second place, replete with its paltry $25 prize.

                  All that aside, for your St. Paddy's Day amusement, and because I haven't posted in quite a while, here are the four dirty limericks that I used to claw my way high above all but one of my unquestionably inferior opponents. Enjoy.

                  In Round One I claimed an easy victory, the mic in one hand and stretching open the front of my underwear with the other, as out of my pants I recited the following bawdy verse:

Here's a limerick I wrote on my dick
while erect so I've got to be quick
see it can't go too long
since the length of my schlong
won't permit me to... Yeah, it just ends right there.

                  Now, in Round Two, there were far fewer of us left, but I ended them all decisively with this little lyrical gem:

A dirty limerick is like a whore's taint:
a short distance that demands great restraint-
for though the vag is quick nice,
I find it quite worth the price,
to have a go on the side that it ain't.

                  By Round Three I have to admit that I was sort of struggling and, in fact, as I slowly walked up to the mic, I was still searching for a final line to finish this, clearly my weakest, poetic offering (although, by this point, it was already just she and I. Here, as you'll soon see, I think I may have slightly lost the crucial ladies vote):

Here's a limerick for all you young lovers
moaning madly beneath bumpy covers:
get all your kicks while you're young
with your pricks and your tongues
cause one day you'll be fucking someone's mother.

                  Perhaps it was out of regret for this slightly cheap shot against motherhood and the matronly, or perhaps I'm just an attention hog, but I interrupted the vote that should have ended the contest right then and there with a final challenge to go one more round (I can do this all day!) Although I feel I ended things on a very strong note, bar politics are sort of a fickle mistress (and I might add that half of my friends were apparently too drunk or too bored to realize when they were supposed to clap for me, but what can you do. Thanks a lot guys. Sheeesh.)

                  Anyway, I'll now leave you all with this one final dirty limerick:

On our journey to Killdarby Falls,
Dad and I spied some sheep by a wall.
I cried, "Let's run down and fuck one!"
but my father said, "Whoa, son!
If we walk down...
we can...
FUCK THEM ALL!"

                  (mic drop) Sheepfucker OUT!

Non Servium Explained

           Non Servium, a biblical phrase taken from the Latin vulgate and commonly translated as “I will not serve,” does not, as many believe, signify a rejection of God, but, rather, it’s exact opposite. This widely misunderstood phrase, correctly attributed to Lucifer and his army of Fallen Angels (another widely misunderstood bunch if there ever was one), is a spiritual battle cry of freedom and autonomy from the misrule of any earthly, or not so earthly, powers which might attempt to interpose themselves between us and our philosophical God-Ideal.


           This concept of divinity, although too intangible to provide any of the wish fulfillment or political domination that seems to be pathologically craved by the most common sort of people, marks the furthest reaches, and, indeed, beyond, of our moral and philosophical reasoning. It is the God that was once served faithfully by the now all but extinct Gnostic and Hermetic magicians, as well as by other, even more obscure, sects. It is a true, perfect, and, therefore, often elusive, realization of benevolence, justice, compassion, and spiritual illumination, and it is in humble and faithful service to this ideal alone that we, who are wise enough to remember the hypocrisies and atrocities of the not so distant past, must today, of necessity, refuse to bend our knees to any new world order which dares to violate the sanctity and sagacity of our own ennobling consciences.


           Perhaps you too will one day find yourself called upon to serve the dictates of your own oft ignored pangs of conscience, perhaps as merely a spy, or, even, if you are so bold, a secret agent, of our secret and ever returning God. Should you find yourself in such a place, doing the sacred work of the Malakim, or any of the other heroic orders, then, obviously, Good Luck and Namaste.

Happy New Year!

             I believe it was Orsen Wells who once said, “If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story.” For the conquered masses living under the now fading reign of the Roman Empire (a once secular yet now entirely religious dominion) the Gregorian year ended months ago, but for those few who’ve remained true to the old ways and old days, or who simply know how to read, either in books or the sky, it’s obvious that this is where the annual story stops and starts again. Nigh is the true man’s New Year, marked so appropriately with the call to “March!” Indeed, Happy New Year everybody!

             I realized it today while showering, idly examining the names of the months, that septem is the Latin word for "seven," octo "eight," novem "nine," and decem "ten." Counting backwards then that would clearly make March the first month of the year, and, with a bit of research, I soon confirmed that it was indeed the Romans who first reorganized our natural year, so that it would coincide with their civil one and the annual election of their new high consuls.

             You may not think that any of this matters but what I’m trying to address is the outcome of ages upon ages of temporal tampering, by our ruling powers, with the natural tempo and flow of time, or at least, our perception and public observance of it. First it was the Roman Empire, then again, the Roman Church, twisting things around to their likings until any of the old public rituals, that once placed power, vitality, or simply a basic energetic awareness within reach of the people, were rendered quaint and all but forgotten.

             But not all of us have forgotten, and the time approaches once again when I will become your humble operator for the cocooning at one world’s end, a hypnotic rebirthing ritual that culminates in the long awaited return of spring, which, this year, will occur late Monday night (or, more accurately, early Tuesday morning) on March 20th, at approximately 1:14am. This will be a private service extended only to the benefit of those whom I deem worthy of my energies or to the downfall of those whom my cohorts and I can capture and bind for reprogramming; yet whichever of these you may happen to be or become, Happy New Year and Namaste.

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