JULY, 2002 E.A.



An Exchange of Queens
Banishings: Of Cheeto Dust and Purple Fire
Tangential Tantra
Of the Not-So-Secret Marriages of Gods with Men
(a parody)


This newsletter is, for the most part, about ritual magick. It might not seem that way to many readers, for the usual trappings: temple procedures and Hollywood stereotypes are wholly missing - such props are not necessary except perhaps for beginners to lend a powerful atmosphere to the ritual and to enflame the imagination - but to those with experience, those who understand the true purpose and nature of, to use Crowley's definition, "the science and Art of causing change to occur in conformity with the Will", it will be more than evident.

The following pieces were extracted and edited from entries in my magickal diary written over the past couple of weeks, and to me, at least, show the positive results achieved with regards to the desired object (which in this case was merely a positive experience or outcome to a planned trip with my friend-girl. Lately the two of us had mixed like oil and water). Perhaps even more interestingly they contain a curious side-effect which Kenneth Grant, Outer Head Of the Typhonian OTO, and, in my opinion, the premier practitioner of experimental occultism, calls "Tangential Tantra." (NOTE: for more information on this peculiar "ricochet effect" of ritual magick see ‘HECATE'S FOUNTAIN' Skoob Books Publishing 1992 by Kenneth Grant). The ritual itself, an ‘isolated' individual working, was carried out on a no-frills America West flight from Baltimore's BWI to Phoenix's Sky Harbor Int'l Airport where I had a brief layover before catching a flight home to Los Angeles. The results described below were achieved by employing a modified version of the VIIIth Degree OTO. After lengthy banishings (more about this later), the ritual began at a high altitude and under very difficult circumstances which made it all the more challenging and perhaps effective. In fact, the modified VIIIth Degree was carried out twice*, spaced about a half hour apart due to further banishings. It is my belief that these two separate operations involving the same desired object triggered the tangential tantra, or peculiarity that involved a type of Doppelganger (double) whom I shall describe later.  The results of the ritual, and the desired object for which the operation was performed may seem quite mundane, in fact incredibly so, to many of you, but it was, nevertheless, of great importance to the magican who undertook the operation (remember: one man's trash is another's treasure). The first part, ‘An Exchange of Queens' chronicles the "successful" results of the working, with a game of video poker in a Las Vegas casino providing a metaphor. The second and third parts, ‘Banishings: Of Cheeto Dust and Purple Fire' and ‘Tangential Tantra' describe the difficult circumstances under which the ritual was carried out, along with the curious side-effects it may have engendered on the second flight from Phoenix to Los Angeles.

* Here is what Aleister Crowley had to say about repeated operations in his De Arte Magica:

"In Our experience, repetitions undertaken because of apparent failure have sometimes seemed fatal, actually stopping what might reasonably have been expected to occur, and which has occurred only some time after the cessation of such attempts. But we have also noted that in such cases the result hath been great and favorable, as if the repeated operations had built a dam restraining the natural current of the favorable forces, thus keeping them back so as to make them more effective in the end..." (From "Of Operations of this Art, Whether they should be Single or Multiple.")


Of Las Vegas a very wise man once said to me, "if everyone won, this place wouldn't be here." This was after I asked him if he was bummed about stuffing a billfold of twenties into a grudging video poker machine without any significant pay-off (or, for that matter, even jerking him off as the damn things so often do before draining you of your money). Of course at the time I had to agree with him, but now, while stuck in nightmarish traffic on I10, the allure was quickly fading, perhaps it was better if everyone did win I reconsidered. Judging by all the Tool bumper stickers, many of us were creeping towards the same objective, the Thomas & Mack Center where Tool would soon be performing.

I'd also gotten a late start out of the city, waiting for my friend-girl to duck out of work. And then there were the frantic phone calls and e-mails. Danny needed me to bring his backup Simmons brain (evidently there were still a few bugs to be worked out with Vince's new electronic drums), an undertaking which caused precious further delays. As I had missed half of the show at the L.A. Forum a few nights earlier also due to congested traffic in the parking lot of all places (that and waiting once again for my friend - this time to "twist" her hair - I wasn't sure what she meant by this until she emerged from her sweltering bathroom looking like some kind of neo-Medusa), I was keen to see the entire Vegas show. Inching forward in the glaring sun, my friend's eyelids soon grow heavy. Within minutes she dozes off while clutching my 32oz. ice-cold bottle of Tejava between her faded, jean-clad legs, only waking up at my sudden braking to shoot me a confused and slightly irritated look.

With nothing better to do I steal glances at her lovely face, hoping to catch her ‘little girl snoring', or even better, drooling a bit so that I have something to tease her about other than those funky, unpedicured/unpolished toes all over my rented dashboard. But she doesn't... So I nudge her awake, asking her if she'd like to sample a chili-dog when we get to Vegas? Porno style that is, explaining the procedure to her as it was explained to me. "You don't talk to others like that." She turns away in mock disgust, pretending to go back to sleep, though no doubt unable to banish that disturbing (?) image now indelibly etched in her mind. "Hey, I'm just bored" I shrug...(pouring more oil into the water).

For tranquillity's sake I insert Tomita's ‘Snowflakes are Dancing' into the CD player. Normally I only play this at night, and even then, usually outside under starry desert skies. (NOTE: for the uninitiated, ‘Snowflakes are Dancing' is a 70's electronic recording of Claude Debussy's tone-poems by Japanese master synthesist Isao Tomita). But my friend is an accomplished pianist, and several months ago she had regaled me with Debussy's Arabesque NO 1 on the Kurzweil in my apartment (bitching of course about the subtle differences between the digital electronic grand piano setting and the real thing - gee, what a surprise). Now for some reason I was intent on her hearing an unique electronic version of the same piece she played so beautifully for me. Listening to it, all she can do is snicker, giggling like a little girl at the whistles (drenched in spring-reverb), lush, crescendoing modular moog and mellotron strings with exquisite processing effects, and Eventide-phased/flanged/filtered chimes. Sacrilegious! "Goddamnit, that freak Michael Jackson tried to buy those whistles from Tomita, right after purchasing the bones of the "elephant man" I fire back at her.

"Don't you dare f****** laugh at this next part" I warn her, knowing that it's an absolute certainty that she will. ‘ba ba da da' comes that ‘chipmonkish' vowel patch that the master somehow coaxed from the modular beast. As I eye her sternly, she tries to put on a good front, but can't hold it in much longer. There is a burst of near hysterical laughter. "Goddamnit", she has me laughing now too... and at Tomita! "Put that back in the cooler" I bark, pointing to the tepid bottle of Tejava that she's got a death grip on, "and go back to sleep with your snoring and drooling and peasant's toes... Alright, then will you sing for me", I ask? To my great surprise, and without the slightest hesitation she rolls down the window and belts out her song with such passion and conviction that it (figuratively speaking) puts a lump in my throat. When she's finished, I feel... privileged. I haven't even gotten on the I15 yet, and already I'm playing with house money.

Suddenly the traffic clears. Hitting speeds of 110 mph we blow past Barstow, Baker (with the world's largest thermometer malfunctioning, thus voiding all bets placed), and the State Line. The sun is setting over Whiskey Pete's in the rearview mirror as we race towards the "Center of Civilization." After a few phone calls to the folks in Production, I am soon backing the rental SUV into a loading dock where Carey's minions are impatiently waiting for the Simmons brain (so you can all thank me now for saving the show). My gifted friend-girl and I are bit soggy from the heat, and a tad travel-worn, but have made it relatively intact.

Okay, we've missed ‘Tomahawk", but there's still time to down a couple of beers before Tool take the stage. As we do so, I greet those gathered backstage (including another ‘friend' who has made the trip from up North to see the show [and me?]. Here's where it gets a bit sticky...

The show goes very well I think, and the audience has really connected with the music, visuals, etc....

The aftershow ‘formalities' are rather uneventful (as is most often the case). My SUV, with its large cooler containing Tanqueray and tonics (for I've seen my friend drink these before), becomes the backstage bar, with yours truly slicing limes and mixing drinks. Camella informs me that some of the band members and friends are planning to take a limo to the Stratosphere Tower, and would we like to join them there? As fond as we all are of ice-cream and roller coasters, those in ‘my' group opt to go back to the Luxor to party some more in our rooms (for I have several, including one for each of my friends). Later, I want to take my friend-girl with the golden voice through the pyramid's subterranean passage over to... Mandalay Bay where I can teach her the nuances of video poker. And still even later I've hopes of French champagne and lavender incense in a room with heavy-curtains drawn to reveal the variegated brilliance of Las Vegas. But now things aren't going so well with the ‘object' directed by my Will. In fact, it's getting kind of chaotic in the hotel, with a constant parade of unforeseen specters padding tirelessly down the velvety patchwork carpet to knock firmly on the wantonness of my dreams. I am reminded ‘Of Damnation:' "For as soon as ye erect any natural and common thing into a Formula of Magick, so soon do ye excite the contrary current" (Of the Secret Marriages of Gods with Men).

Did the flame waver ever so slightly - due to the wandering nature of the mind? This is by far the most difficult thing with a magickal operation such as the VIIIth Degree OTO. (NOTE: Although still restricted to the upper degrees of the OTO, the Tantric techniques have over the years become available, albeit concealed under a cloak of symbolism, and, yet, it is precisely one's ability to concentrate mentally and ASTRALLY on the image of the intended result that still ‘protects' the secret.) For the rest is quite simple, that is, an understanding of the physical dynamics of the ritual. But of these unknown masques now invading my space: did I for an eye-wink relax my vigilance, allowing the Leprechaun (with all its tricks) to divert my attention, thus depriving me of a great treasure (i.e. the desired result)? Rather than answer that, instead, I am now going to press fast-forward:

Everyone has gone their separate way. Only my friend-girl and I remain. Yellow slot candles flash at a carousel of progressive video poker machines. We are seated in the casino in Mandalay Bay, at a machine near my favorite one which was already taken when we arrived. We don't have time to determine this particular machine's handicap, as we need to head back to L.A. in an hour. We will just have to make the best of it. I order a Corona and light up a Macanudo ascot. Amid the inane melodies of slots with gimmicky themes, we shove a hundred dollars into the machine (hopefully we will win, perhaps even enough to buy a piano for my friend's new apartment before she goes rusty on Deux Arabesques).  My friend pulls her seat close to mine, anxious to learn the game. And how quickly she learns: "Is that all there is to it?", she asks. "I thought poker was more complex." We are dealt some stiff hands along with a few winners. Nothing to get excited about although at one point we go against the grain and nail an inside straight. This is followed by more stiff hands.

Finally I realize the problem with this particular machine. It has to do with the full house. The temptation to always go for it when dealt two pairs. As hard as it is, in this situation, it's much better to discard one of them, to only keep one pair, that is, and go for something much better...

... Together thus far, we haven't been very lucky, and now it's getting late. In fact we're down to our last five credits. But that's when it comes up. Amazing! Here's what we are dealt: ACE OF HEARTS, TEN OF HEARTS, JACK OF HEARTS, KING OF HEARTS, and the QUEEN OF... spades (or was it clubs? At any rate, a black picture card). We're so f****** close to the royal! To Vegas gold. The elixir of life in the wasting away, diseased world of video poker. Now I take over, holding all but the black queen. I draw a card which pops up in what seems like slow motion. For a split second everything goes silent- the cacophony of bells and the rattle of coins. And then I saw the new card in perfect focus... I'll be damned. It's another QUEEN! We'd exchanged queens! Only it wasn't the QUEEN OF HEARTS (not even the queen of diamonds which would have at least prolonged our rush of excitement due to her color), but, instead... THE QUEEN OF clubs (or was it spades, whatever, another black card. Too damn black.) We have nothing left. We've lost everything... Or did we? After a few seconds with my eyes shut, I hear my friend say something in a very faint voice. This is only two words: "thank you." Faint these were in my ears, but thunderous in their sincerity, or so it seemed. In a place where everyone (including myself) wants to hit the jackpot, sometimes something as simple as a "thank you" is a far greater prize. I can say this because I knew what she meant.

Okay, so some of you are now thinking to yourselves, "goddamnit Blair, you've hi-jacked another Tool newsletter!" But not so fast. Over the last couple of years I've received thousands of e-mails from people wanting information about ritual magick. For those who can read between the lines, I have already revealed much about "energized enthusiasm", and it is precisely in the idea of ‘in-betweeness' where the real magick happens. So, to continue:


As I bordered the plane at BWI and found my seat, I was greeted by a truly horrifying sight: a rather large woman with a very small (and extremely restless) child on her lap. Almost immediately, before I could even sit down, the lady apologized for what she must have anticipated was to come. Evidently, and to my great mortification, she had at least one more of those things (and I only refer to them as "things" on long airline flights while seated in coach - otherwise they are "little miracles") in another seat somewhere near the back of the crowded plane. She informed me that she had already asked one of the flight attendants if she could relocate so that they could all sit together (yeah, I don't get it either). He would try, the flight attendant said, but not until the plane was off the ground.

In the meantime, the little tike starts stuffing cheetoes into its mouth, pulling them from a bag that dwarfed him. Next thing I know, it's touching my legs with its tiny little cheetoey-orange fingers. Mom then tells it to lick the cheeto-dust off its fingers. But this only freaks me out even more. "Please don't let it touch me", I'm praying, but the damn thing has penetrated the magician's diamond-hard auric shield, wiping its fingers (now a gooey, sticky horror) on my pants. And if that's not enough, cheeto fingers then starts kicking me with those little shoes that will no doubt one day end up varnished in a cardboard box in its attic. "Why can't it just sit still" I'm pleading? "Doesn't it know that it's the take-off that's the most dangerous part of the flight?" Doesn't it know what burning jet fuel feels like in those tiny lungs? Should I tell him that? Will that keep it still - give it something to f****** contemplate?

Once we are in the air, the flight attendant asks me if I would mind moving to another seat, or as he put it "Are you married to that aisle seat?" HELL NO, I'M NOT! I'll move anywhere, including down into the baggage compartment I'm thinking to myself as I'm gone in a flash, even abandoning the complimentary beer he tried to offer me for my trouble. Actually, that's not a bad idea I thought. The baggage compartment would be a great place for traveling small children, provided, that is, they were put in a kind of suspended animation. Maybe in special tanks or futuristic-looking containers. Okay, maybe the baggage compartment is a bit extreme. But what about the overhead compartments? They could even make them out of a transparent material so that concerned parents could keep an eye on their little miracles.

So the switch is made. I take a window seat next to two empty seats (a real miracle). Ah, serenity. Mom and her messy brood are re-united where they can demand a hundred percent of her attention. Soon I will begin my initial banishings (with little cheeto fingers to be the first to go in a blaze of purple fire).


While sitting at my gate during an hour lay-over at Phoenix's Sky Harbor Int'l Airport, I suddenly noticed a woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to my friend-girl (she who had been the desired object of the recent ritual). Because of the similarities, I couldn't help but watch her. And the more I did, the more I realized just how amazingly similar the two looked. In fact, I've never seen another person who resembled someone else I knew so closely.* It wasn't just her facial features(and the color and style of her hair); even her gestures and body movements were... identical. There was even the way she was dressed, (although, for me, this wasn't as much of a factor, for a lot of people dress similarly). The clincher came when I saw her smile while getting her boarding pass. This, I now thought, was getting freaky. Even so, at the time, I wasn't thinking about Doppelgangers or Tangential Tantra or anything of the sort. Really, all I was thinking about was that I hoped we'd be sitting together on the flight to LAX. But what were the chances of that - on a full jetliner, I thought as I glanced about the crowded terminal. When the various rows were called and people started to board the plane, both this woman and I (along with about thirty other people) remained at the gate. Alright, so the odds were improving. Once my row was called, I boarded the plane before her and found my seat. So far, no one was sitting next to me. And then here she came, studying the stub of her boarding pass with those dark brown eyes - my friend-girl's dark brown eyes!

She finds her seat... in the same row... right across from me. Only it's a window seat. Still, not bad I thought. But just then a man who can best be described as the ‘skipper' on Giligan's Island sits down in the other aisle seat, partly obscuring my view of the "double." As I was thinking about how close I came, a Hispanic man, his wife and young daughter pause by my seat, he showing me his ticket, and indicating that I'm in his seat. So I take a look at it. Yes, according to the ticket he does have this seat, but, according to my ticket, so do I. The tickets are identical. Obviously the airline has screwed up. It only made sense to me that the family be seated together, with the only other place for me to go being the seat between the ‘skipper' and, yes, the pretty ‘double.' But the fates had determined otherwise. When the flight attendant arrived to sort out the mess, she informed the Hispanic family that their seats were elsewhere. So all I could do was continue watching the girl with growing fascination. All the while she seemed oblivious to my presence, typing away on her lap-top even though all passengers were told to stow such devices away prior to take-off (my friend would also have broke the rules).

When we arrived in L.A., fortunately, neither of us had any luggage other than our carry-ons. This allowed me to follow her out to the area where passengers were picked up. I wanted to show her to the person picking me up, who also knew what my friend-girl looked like. Before I could say anything, this person says: "Oh, so she's picking you up?" "Why didn't you call to tell me?", he adds with a slightly annoyed look. I pull him aside to tell him it's not her, but "isn't the resemblance amazing?" Of course he had to agree, and I now had a witness.

So what was this - this recognizable facsimile of my friend? Merely a coincidence? Or was it a Doppelganger? (NOTE: although I use the word Doppelganger here, in most cases of such doubles, the percipient sees themselves, and only rarely do others see it). What about astral effluvia or a thought-form? A tag-along manifestation of the ritual. Something on one level of density or another that didn't travel with much luggage? Could it have been a case of bi-location, or, as some researchers like Hilary Evens have called it: "a wish-associated projection of one's double?" Knowing my friend, I seriously doubt it. But there was this e-mail waiting for me when I returned to my apartment. (NOTE: On the night before I left on the trip, my friend-girl had flaked on a July 4th barbeque, claiming she'd lost the directions. Apparently upset about this, she'd left several messages on my answering machine which I didn't check). With regards to "a wish-associated projection", I found the following e-mail from her a bit haunting:

are you checking? i have left a few phone messages, so you know (i assume you're not checking messages) I hope you're having a nice familial time in Myrtle. cough if you're still alive (and still like me) i'm listening...

* There was, however, one difference that I later realized. The ‘double' had much nicer toes that were lacquered with carmine polish.



As I mentioned previously on the news page, Danny's new website, is now up and running. I urge Tool fans to check out the handiwork of Danny's webmaster, G.Edward Giunca, one of the founding members of the P.U.P. Lodge (Hollywood). I have been working closely with Ed (and Danny) to give you a glimpse (and then some) into the Tool drummer's life. Besides FAQs, interviews and a virtual Danny Carey drumset, there is a section on the whole Rennes affair which continues to grow almost daily. There are also plans (now being put in motion) for an occult book gallery that will include many ultra-rare first editions that Danny and I have donated over the years to the P.U.P. archives.


Please note that due to technical problems I was unable to retrieve ANY e-mail sent to my toolband address during the entire month of July and the last part of June. Since this included thousands of unread mail, if anyone would like to re-send their message, I will be happy to read and hopefully respond to it. Due to the large volume of mail I receive, please don't send anything that relates to tickets, or backstage passes or any other related things that are completely out of my hands. I apologize for the problem, and hope that all of you who sent messages during this time period understand that I wasn't able to read them (and that they have now been deleted from the server).


I would personally like to welcome my good friend Kat to the Toolband site. Although a veteran contributor of "The Collective Unconscious" (i.e. Tool Army) site, she will also be keeping fans informed on the going-ons of the guys on the Toolband site while I do my thing.


(a parody)

From Big Daddy Aleister to everyone who has shown him their naughty bits: By the authority of all my Pompous Titles and Bogus Dignities, send money! We're hungry! Oh! And if you show this to someone who hasn't sent me their money yet, I'll hunt you down and cut your nuts off... provided I can get a smack fix before then. For those of you ladies in the audience, we apologize for the clear male-oriented nature of this material but, then again, it's the early 20th Century and most of you women don't have jobs so you really can't afford to support my cocaine habit, can you?


Don't touch it!

This is so simple even the Christians have it right to some small degree. Don't touch it so much. Your face is broken out and there are more little, crusty, wadded up tissues under your bed than there are down the front of my Robe when I put on the Rites of Eleusis!

Just think about it.


Pardon me while I wax Anti-Semitic for a Moment

There's a nasty rumor about the Jews. It's just a rumor but it's pretty gruesome so you KNOW I find it entertaining. It involves eating children. I don't believe it at all but still I'm going to be controversial for the sake of controversy.

Just think about it.


Now I'm Going to Bad-Mouth the Eastern Orthodox Church

Yup. I've heard that they eat babies, too. What's worse yet, they devour their own young! This is neat from a praying-mantis perspective or if you're D****** M***** - in which case, this is perfectly normal for the bald monkey.

Just think about it.


The Catholics aren't Exempt, Either!


Well, they don't eat their young per se [if they did, who would the priests get it on with?], but a few of them secretly worship Satan. Which isn't so bad except for the fact that they're doing it to spite the Pope. If they were doing it because they loved Satan, I wouldn't be shit-mouthing them here. But since it's just to piss off some old guy in a gaudy white dress and a silly hat that's lost its propeller, I'm going to rip them a new sphincter.

Just think about it.


Ozzy, Geezer, Tony, and Bill

The worst part of this whole Christianity thing is that public nudity and screwing in the streets isn't permitted anymore. Back in the olden days, we could all just drop our britches, togas, whatever and have at it like the animals we are. Now we have to carry a candle under our cloaks and wait for someone to give the secret phrase that tells us that they want to get it on, too. What's the secret phrase? Well, I guess I can give you this one as a freebie: "Is that a candle under your cloak or are you just happy to see me, you filthy, goddess Pagan?"

Just think about it.


Trickle Down Economics, The Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, etc.

Read Edith Wharton. Read her with a dirty mind. Check out how all those nymphs, satyrs, and gods are getting it on with human beings, each other, etc. That's pretty cool stuff, if you ask me. Also, it might be a good idea to watch out for women who try to lure you away from sending me your money. If you fall into their trap (and I can't get my fix) I'll tell everyone that a Succubus seduced you and that you've fallen into the Qlippoth. You don't want that to happen. Don't believe me? Then just go ask Regardie!

Just think about it.


Now let's have a go at the Greeks

While they don't eat their young per se, you can never actually trust them during the ol' horizontal hokey-pokey. They're not thinking about you when they do it: they're thinking about some of those old nymphs, satyrs, and gods that I spoke about earlier. To be honest, I'm only having a go at them because lately I've been tagging someone that could only look better with horns, a tail, and cloven hooves!

Just think about it.


More on those women who'll lead you astray - and their male counterparts

I've already warned you about what I'd do if you hook up with someone who tries to make you stop sending me your money. For those of you out there who are women, there are also guys who'll do this to you and they are called Incubi. Now the singular of Incubi is Incubus and I once saw Incubus open for the DefTones. It was a good show. But so help me, if you spend the money you should be sending me on tickets for an Incubus concert, I'll send everyone we know in common a letter telling them what a lazy, vile, dirty person you are. Don't think I'd do it? Try me. Or just go ask Regardie!

Just think about it.


Three Things You Need to Do before I Let You Send Me More Money

You could be sending me more money, you know? It's true! And to top it all off, I could bestow upon you another useless title that serves only to inflate your already dangerously over-bearing ego. Here's what you need to do if you want the really gnichy ego trip:

I. Become so dissatisfied with vanilla sex involving human beings that you pray for death. No. Seriously. This is important.

II. Find a submissive person and make them your sex-slave. If you can't find one lurking about the local super-market, get yourself an imaginary one. Make it clean your house before you do the deed with it. Believe me, it may be imaginary, but it can clean your house! Either that or else my disciples about the Abbey have been robbing me again.

III. Study some genetic engineering and make new life forms.


Meet the Girl of Your Dreams: In Your Dreams!

Nobody you meet in real life is going to love you the way you would want him or her to love you. So you might as well stop worrying about meeting someone that compliments you. Instead, stick with imaginary people. So picture some woman who's really important, nay, even some woman who's virtually a Goddess... and then rent ‘Annie Hall.' Woody Allen makes a useful observation in that film about the only person who really loves you.


One is Company but Four Can Be Fun!

As long as you're having imaginary sex with imaginary women, you might as well make four more. Only this time make sure that they're subservient. You know, they need to be sex-slaves. This will all balance out when you realize that your Goddess has started wearing leather straps and high heels and likes to make you wear a collar and pee on a newspaper in the kitchen. So you'll need a small harem to vent the newly formed sexual hang-ups that you've developed from the practice given in Chapter X above.


Toum says, "Don't Swallow! Spit!

The Egyptians had dirty minds. Their gods were always making things out of unmentionable bodily secretions. In fact, one of their gods (a guy named Toum) took some of those unmentionable secretions and a bit of saliva and made the world. So if Toun can make the world with a bit of spit and some of his goo, imagine what you can do with some of your goo and a couple of scraps of paper fashioned into a boy and a girl! No, really! Try it and watch what happens!


Oh Damn It All to Hell

We were quite serious when we told you all those years ago that we'd cut your balls off if you told anyone what we were up to - and here we reiterate that we meant it! If you keep touching yourself while thinking about someone other than some celebrity that you'll never actually meet then you might as well go out and have sex with bar trash. If you're going to have sex with bar trash, you might as well plan on making it plain, vanilla "missionary position" sex with little or no creativity - because that's what the majority of humans enjoy. I mean, you've come so far, right? Why turn back now to the simple and mundane? Where's the joy in the simple face-to-face bump-n-grind when you could be giving someone the Dirty Sanchez, the Donkey Punch, or even the good ol' Chili Dog? Hold off on the Hot Carl as we'll be covering that ground during the Eleventh Degree.


180 Proof

If you buy me a drink, I'll love you forever. Seriously, you should read what the Arabs and Hindus wrote about sex. Some of it is quite fascinating but some of it is pure drivel. By the way, were you aware that the reason Count Dracula pulls away in fear at the sight of a Crucifix is because he's homophobic? It's true!


Of Cunning Linguists

You probably should read and re-read this document.


Later, Folks!

Amen and Hallelujah, this piece is finally over! I grope you in the darkness. I give you the secret handshake. I whisper the word into your ear... Hell, Brothers! I hope that right about now you are Most High! Pardon me but now I need to clean out my belly button while the sun is still shining outside. AMEN.

Victor's web address is



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