Mojo - 25. Chapter 23: “Ass Cream” – or the Divine Beauty Balm

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Chapter 23: “Ass Cream” – or the Divine Beauty Balm

“What issue?” Sadeeq Amergin asked through half-chewed shrimp toast.

The five of us – that is, me, Gordon, Burtron, Geoff and the madcap poet – stood in the ballroom of a downtown San Diego hotel, mid-event with the Beauty Cult people. Burtron’s boyfriend had gotten us in, and he’s also the one who’d just mentioned tonight was as good as any to track down help for my ‘issue.’

I didn’t want Amergin to know I was impotent, and Geoff Bath got it right away, sparkling as he changed the subject.

“So, Kohl, Burning Man was a blast, huh?”

I blushed towards the twenty-something with his light brown hair and devilishly good looks. “Oh, yeah – speaking of blast – sorry about burning Burning Man early.”

“Yeah,” Burtron agreed, holding Geoff tightly in his arms and towering over the younger man’s buzzcut. “Folks were sad, and the festival was canceled.”

“I didn’t mean to. In fact, it was the nutso magicians really. They knocked me over.”

The Black Hammer smiled and kissed his boyfriend’s neck. ‘Burgeofftron’ made an adorable pairing; Burtron tall, dark and easygoing, and Geoff slight, white and a tad needy in the cutest of ways. They were in the thrall of young love, and Geoff’s brown eyes looked up admiringly at Burtron.

“What happened? Kohl…what did you do?” My boy had shown plenty of the whites of his peepers as he said this. My response was to grin and drape my arm over his shoulder – with the added intent of showing Sadeeq that Gordon was firmly taken.

“Long story, honey. Surface it to say, I made a mess of things and departed, posthaste.”

“Oh,” Gordon chuckled. “Just another Wednesday for you.”

I kissed him; God, I loved my boy.

A loud crunch distracted us. The social media poet-prophet had taken an additional bite of his melba toast, while his hungry eyes feasted on my boyfriend.

“Anyway,” Burtron said brightly, “Angekwekwa and Guy Germaine got their pawn ticket from me and were ‘happy,’ well as happy as any cult dolts can be.”

“What did you pawn, Kohl?” Geoff asked.

“Some stupid old weathervane with a rooster on it.”

“Anyway, they were glad to get it back.”

“Thanks for doing it, Burtron. Oh, and speaking of Germaine, I got a text from his son, thanking me and saying Claude and his husband are getting lots of hoo-ha in Amish country. They’re happy there, living the Ohio-homestead dream.”

“I’m glad,” said The Hammer. “We all deserve our shot.”

More lustful crunching from the hungry bohemian sounded.

“A shot?” Sadeeq said with crumbs spilling out of his mouth. “Hey, guys, there’s an open bar here...?”

“Yes,” Geoff said, pointing. “Go help yourself.”

“Thaaaanksss.” He whipped his ponytail at us and made for the liquor. I immediately mouthed to Burtron’s boyfriend: “Thank you.”

He said ‘you’re welcome’ by flaring his eyebrows.

Now that I could breathe again, I glanced around the room. Light jazz played and the milling crowd was definitely runway-worthy.

Skinny women wearing shift dresses mingled with linen-shirted guys. These bean-pole broads had a default standing position where lips pouted, hands rested on waists, and elbows thrust themselves forward. When they moved, it was either in catwalk heel-pounding, or a pair of mincing steps to place stilettos at uncomfortable angles. I don’t know, I guess ‘beauty’ meant looking hobbled and knock-kneed…? But at such moments, their glazed stares locked on something impossibly far-away, and apparently not so very interesting to them.

The tall boys on the other hand – many with slickened blond tresses; others with wet-looking dark curls – stood around showing admiring blue sparkles in their eyes for one another. When they moved, it was with canted necks, hands stroking hair, and coy smiles peeking from beneath. Suddenly, they’d stop, toss heads up to strike catalog poses. These were meant to impress, but reminded me more of turkeys strutting the barnyard, puffing up to woo anything from a milk pail to a passing truck.

Geoff minded how I glanced at the propped-up people, and added with a chuckle, "You've heard of the three do's of real estate. Location, location, location? Well, Beauty Inc. takes itself far more importantly, so they have twice as many pointers to remember. Body, yadi, yadi; face, ace, ace. Those are the six golden rules of modeling. And they get treated like holy scripture, believe you me!"

“He’s so smart.” Burtron beamed lovingly.

“But,” I asked, “do they need an actual runway?”

Geoff smiled. “Just wait and see.”

I looked again at the elevated catwalk, in front which, in the center, was a speaker’s podium. It reminded me how when we came in, I noticed folding tables with ‘product’ and other glass cases displaying more precious items near the doors.

“Oh, there he is,” Burtron said, gesturing with his head across the room.

Gordon asked, “Where who is?”

“Tyson McPherson, the Beauty Cult’s leader.”

Casually looking, I saw a tall dude with dark hair flashed with yellowy blond down near the roots. Even from across the room, this white-suit-wearing character looked like a cartoon version of an ‘ex supermodel.’ “Who’s that with him?” I inquired, because a younger, shorter and throtty guy was fawning upon every gesticulated word the dear leader made.

Geoff said, “Wagner Dano, Tyson’s common-law PA, and downlow boyfriend.”

“Oh, yeah, but act like you don’t know.” Burtron winked.

“It’s true,” confirmed Geoff Bath. “You need to be circumspect, for although this place is as Gay as a Barney’s basement sale in December, you just have to pretend all is het to the max with them.”

“But why?” Gordon asked, looking adorable in the suit Doris gave me on Catalina.

Burtron said flatly: “Because they’re homophobic.”

“Oh….” A lightbulb flashed. “I think we were warned about them at Hojax’s house. Remember?”

My boy shrugged, “Vaguely.”

“Yeah.” The Hammer’s gaze panned the pretty fools suspiciously. “Be careful; this assembly is as hypocritical as the Gop caucus recruiting at church. And just like them, they’re officially anti-queer.”

“Officially?”

“Yes, Gordon,” continued Burtron. “Never mind all the leadership of this cult is ‘gay,’ their gospel tells them that beautiful people should be miserable and mate with other beautiful people to make the Earth prettier, even if they have to bat for the wrong team.”

We all laughed, then Geoff said rather seriously, scanning the crowd again. “But be careful of the not-so-pretty types in this room too. Beauty draws all manner of weirdos who glom on—”

He stopped, for in speak-of-the-devil fashion, a balding man in a thrift-store suit had suddenly joined us. He was stuffing his face with crab puffs.

As we all stared at him, he eventually said, “What are we talking about?”

“The strange weather we’ve been having,” I lied. “You are?”

He thrust a greasy hand forward, his eyeglasses glinting with enthusiasm. “Sprag Dickson, editor of Sceptical Non-Enquirer magazine. Perhaps you’ve heard of it…?”

The four members of our group exchanged head-shaking glances.

“We’re cutting edge,’ boasted Sprag. “Yeah. We shoot down all the mysteries of the world with easy-to-spell explanations, no matter how convoluted and laughable.”

“Oh,” I said, as the mag-man seemed to have eyes only for me. What I actually thought was: ‘Wow, an honest editor; how rare is that?’

“Crab puff?” Dickson held out his napkin. The man was several inches shorter than me, and I had an unfortunate view of the greasy landscape of his dandruff-flecked comb-over. His lips were greasy too mouthing his appetizer, and the shaggy monkey-foot of a mustache attracted crumbs to it like lint to velcro.

“No, thanks – where are you going?” My posse peeps were stepping away.

“We’re going to mingle, Kohl,” said Geoff. “You stay and chat, and enjoy your crab poof.”

‘Gott im Himmel,’ I thought. ‘The moment some freak latches on, they head for the hills.’

“So you’re name’s Kohl, huh?” Sprag munched away contentedly.

I had to admit, despite my attempt to deprive it of oxygen, my jealousy flared a tiny bit. After so recent a reunion, I didn’t want Gordon out of my grasp, let alone out of sight, but I trusted Burtron. He’s a decent guy, and I’d asked him earlier to shield my boy from the mad clutches of the amorous Sadeeq.

“So, Kohl, are you a member of our little merry band?”

‘You? – A beauty cult maven…?’ I thought, but failed to ask the snively man.

“No, just visiting. I’m here with my friends, including my boyfriend.”

“Oh, I see.” Sprag smiled ambiguously – something closet cases are good at, I guess.

“So, you were mentioning the freak weather.”

“Um—”

“Yes. In our mag we have to deal with global warming debunking on a monthly basis. That one’s getting harder and harder to confuse a distracted public about.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, that’s what we do. Our informal motto – one we borrowed from the NSA, our official black-budget sponsors – says ‘RIP truth; long live opinion.’”

He led the way, and we slowly walked to view the display cases and tables.

“But it’s not only in print that we work to curtail people’s common sense via the tool of ‘beliefs.’”

“No…?” I had no idea what he was going on about; my eyes were busy scanning the room….

“Since you’re ‘one of them,’ I’ll let you in on a little secret. Per our mandate, we have a team of sceptical non-enquirers daily scrubbing The Net of queer content.”

That got my attention. “What do you mean?”

“I mean – take Wikipedia for example, because it’s the easiest. Anyone can edit the articles there, and we do. What’s more, the site lets us become draconian ‘owners’ of the content and veto any alterations we deem as vandalism. Like saying so-and-so was Gay. Hell, even though it was cool for Cher to play Karen Silkwood’s real-life partner 1983, you go to Wiki nowadays and there will be no mention that Silkwood was Gay, or happily married to a woman. The truth is scrubbed clean.” He grinned a shrimpy smile.

“You can do that?”

“We do it every day, young man. We decide content, so if you went on there right now looking for information on the totally out, same-sex-loving, great poets of the world – Sappho, Rumi; Cavafy; Whitman; Tennyson; shit, Shakespeare himself! – you’ll find no mention of their true orientations or beloveds. Same with painters – Francis Bacon, Caravaggio, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, John Singer Sargent.” He puffed up with pride. “But our biggest achievement is with Plato’s Symposium. Look it up, you’ll see a reversal of 25 centuries of common knowledge that the book is an exploration of all the shades of Gay love, because now on the internet, it’s about ‘relationships between men and women.’ And try it yourself. Go in there and say the obvious – that it’s about same-sex love – and you’ll be slapped with a warning for ‘vandalizing’ the entry. Try it, cuz it’s our private property, no matter what Wiki says about public content.”

I felt sick to my stomach. “Why the hell are you doing that?”

“Money, my boy. The far-right has tons of it, ergo they swipe up content contrary to their ‘beliefs,’ and there’s nothing they hate more than out people. Simple as that.”

“RIP truth; long live privately funded opinion.”

“Precisely.” He smiled and cheered me with his wine glass. “But our main mission, per Vaterland Security – um, Homeland Security – is to spread doubt among the masses concerning paranormal matters at the magazine. Few people actually buy it, but the hype pays back our sponsors. And we make up stuff so blatantly untrue, sometimes I wonder, but people today…. It’s all part of the War on Facts not many people realize is being waged. Take for example – have you heard of SHC, or Spontaneous Human Combustion?”

“Where people suddenly catch fire from the inside?”

“Yes. Well, we did an air-quotes experiment with a lit cigarette, a pig carcass, and some gasoline, but that last ingredient was officially off-record. Anyway, even though we were only able to reproduce 5-10% of the well-documented conditions reported with SHC, we declared our results ‘science’ and a total explanation of the actually very unexplained phenomenon.”

“Um—”

“Peace of mind. People don’t want answers to complex questions, only peace of mind that such questions don’t matter to their everyday lives.”

“Oh.” I think I got it. “A case-closed kind of reassurance?”

“Precisely! We did the same with the Loch Ness Monster, inventing a made-up toy submarine ‘debunker’ tall-tale, even though we knew the famous Dr. Robert Wilson photo was cropped, showing both the near and far shore of the loch.”

“Um…. I don’t get it.”

“It’s easy. Since the unaltered picture actually shows the full width of the lake, any five-minute, genuinely scientific analysis of our invented claptrap of a submarine would reveal the ‘toy’ had to be twelve to fifteen feet high! Nervous as we were that we’d be shut down for going too far, just the opposite happened. Thanks to our ‘fake science,’ the perfectly good reputation of a dead man – the best kind, because they can’t defend themselves – was smeared like roadkill, and now the public believes this real photo is ‘phony.’ As I said, it’s some of our best work to date, because our so-called debunking can be shot down in like this.” He snapped his fingers.

“Wow, and you’re proud…?”

“Wouldn’t you be? It used to be hard to disgrace reality, but thanks to our huge Pentagon budget, and a slow drip-drip eroding common sense, we mangle it every day now. See, we can do it only by tying into peoples’ deep fears of the unknown. All of us have a natural comfort level with non-belief; it’s the messy truth that wakes us up from our dream of ‘superiority’ in a cold sweat. Faith in non-belief, distrust in institutions, hate of the media, and all of that is the only thing put Trump in office; only thing kept him there too. That and cowardice, but I digress. What I really mean to say is simple: The so-called truth belongs to he who gets there last.”

Continuing to stroll, I considered why this strange little man was so open and honest with me. I quickly surmised he was a classic bore, or a windbag who’d dole out his life-accomplishments to any and all drifting within his orbit. However, maybe in Sprag’s case more was at play; a something akin to Burtron’s penitents seeking to get caught and exposed in their evil machinations. It could have been this rag-mag editor was not looking for flesh to propitiate his soul’s transgresses like the others, but to simply get exposed as a charlatan, so that with a relieved sigh, he could move on to other pursuits.

Thinking all this tied my stomach in knots, and a glance around the room – showing me the mad poet had rejoined our group to stand right next to my boy – did my gut no favors.

“Look at these,” Dickson said. We had arrived at a table full of gleaming, brand-new cosmetics bottles. The man joyfully picked one up. “My personal go-to”—he read the bottle to me—“The Crows Feet Eradicator is the best in the Industry. Guaranteed to pack them right up!”

“What is all this anyway?”

It looked like I had shocked the professional skeptic. “Why, the Simply Divine Beauty Line, of course. All rank and file cult members are required to spend at least 45% of their modeling money on Tyson’s products to sell door to door. It grows his fame, and spreads his brand.”

“You too?”

“Me what?” Sprag asked.

“You have to buy it and sell it on?”

“No, no, young man. I’m management.”

‘Ah,’ I thought. ‘Even worse.’

“Don’t worry…” he misread my mood. “You’ll have plenty of opportunity to stock up after the ceremony.”

“Oh. Good. What a relief.” I smiled weakly.

We continued on to the glass cases. A few ancient looking artifacts were carefully laid out on black velvet, like a 70s porno shooting.

“What is this stuff?”

“Ah, Mr. McPherson is a collector of ancient beauty aids.” He gestured left to right. “That’s a Medieval tube of Viking eyeliner; those are a few of Attila the Hun’s hair curlers; and lastly, Rameses II’s loincloth stuffers.”

“Loin. Cloth—”

“Pharaoh’s bobbysocks, to boost the size of the royal package. As they say, it’s good to be the king, but better to look like you’ve got balls for it.”

I was speechless.

A sudden burst of laughter made me realize how close we’d moved to the cult leader and boyfriend/slash personal assistant.

“Have you met Tyson – and his, um – Wagner Dano?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well, I’ll introduce you, but be warned. Dano can be a bit swishy, but he is heir apparent to the cult and cosmological-cosmetics empire.”

As we walked, I asked in a low voice, “How did they meet?”

“Photoshoot. Seems Wagner is a former, semi-pro Sears Wish Book catalog model, plumbing section.”

He walked us right up to the big shots.

“Ah, Sprag,” former supermodel Tyson said none-too affectionately. “Who do you have here?” His interest picked up.

“This is a visitor to our proceedings.”

“Kohl?” asked the cult leader’s PA.

I grinned. “That’s me.”

Tyson extended a clammy hand. “Oh, yes. My peer – Burtron Hamerik – informed me of your, um, difficulty.”

I glanced nervously at the truth-disputing mag slinger. I didn’t want to mention Priapus in his presence.

“Oh, oh,” Sprag chirped in the cult leader’s direction. “I have to tell you how we infiltrated Stars this week, the trashy tabloid, and slipped in a totally fake segment about Rock Hudson sleeping his way to the top – with women in Hollywood! – calling him a, quote-unquote, ‘hunky bisexual.’ Oh, we busted a gut in the office when we read that in print. Someday we are going to go too far, but as long as people want to believe in crap—"

“Thanks, Dickson,” beeped the assistant with attitude to spare, “but you’re free...to…mingle.”

With that dismissal, Sprag disappeared back into the beautiful crowd, like a troll to his under-water hiding place. I suddenly noticed Geoff and Burtron in one corner, cuddling. Panicking, I sought for and discovered my boy’s ear was getting chewed off by the horny poet.

“I’m Tyson McPherson, by the way, but you probably already recognized me – I’m sure.” The cult leader had charming, nearly hypnotic Southern sweetness to his voice.

“Yes,” I fibbed. “Supermodel.”

My smiling lie must have appealed, because these two instantly became ‘interested,’ or Setting No. 2 on most of your standard Gaydar screens.

“And this is my assistant, Wagner Dano.”

The leader’s not-so-closet boyfriend presented the back of his hand hinged loose on a limp wrist. It seems he expected me to kiss it; I lifted it up once or twice and shook it instead. “Nice to meet you.”

The assistant was mid-thirties, a bit on the wiry side, with dark close-cropped hair and coal-black eyes.

“Everybody knows Tyson,” he lisped. “That’s why I call him McFearsome!”

I smiled; that was kind of cute.

Tyson in contrast to his partner was about fifty, tall, commanding, and this last feature was one not even the bleach-bottle nature of his hairdo could mask. His steely gray eyes burned with cultish beauty.

“Burtron already informed us, as I was saying,” continued Tyson, “and me and Wagner will be glad to help you out, later, after the ritual.”

His wink threw me for a second, but a more pressing question emerged. “Actually, I wanted to ask you about…another…group. Ritual? What ritual?”

“Yes. These little cocktail parties are rouses. Soon, well, you’ll see.”

His downlow lover nodded vehemently. If he were a snake, he would have flicked his tongue at me deliciously.

With charismatic flair, Tyson McPherson placed his arm on my shoulder and asked like a father confessor, “Tell me, young man, what are your thoughts on beauty?”

“Um—”

“Do you have faith in beauty, and believe the beautiful among us – yourself included – are naturally endowed by our creator to lead the ugly masses?”

“I can’t say I really thought about it before.”

The intensity of his steely gaze burned into me. “We believe The Divine Esthetician created all that’s good and fierce in the world, and it’s our job to put the good looking in control of the world’s fate.”

I nodded, like a dope, muttering: “Yes—”

The cult leader grabbed ahold of my chin, positioning me to the light as Tyson inspected. “My boy, you have prophetic bone structure. You could go far in our Church.”

“Yeah, yeah,” cheeped Dano. “And sell our Simply Divine Beauty Line of pharmapseudocological religious items for God! Tax-free religious exemption on all the profits.”

“Yes – it all goes to the Church, the money that is, just so you understand. But you keep your soul, and eventually that goes up to the great beauty parlor in the sky.”

“Um—” I felt I was getting into the weeds.

“But Tyson! He’d have to study his catechism, and learn how to walk.”

“I know how to walk,” I protested mildly.

“Walk, my boy – walk like a runway model. Wagner, sweetie, um, buddy – show him how it’s done.”

With that, his ‘sweet’ personal assistant swept himself along, kicking shoulders and rigid arms back and forth to the clear floor before us.

All eyes turned to Dano as he paused, whipped around with a coin-purse smirk, and punished the floor tiles as he walked back to us.

Tyson mystically whispered in my ear: “The higher the strut, the closer to God.”

Not thinking of that at all, I glanced around the room and felt my heart pound; Sadeeq was leaning an elbow on my boy’s shoulder and getting much, much too close for comfort.

There was a sudden noise.

“Places, y’all!” Tyson clapped his hands. Before he strutted away, he intoned quietly: “Time for the ritual.”

The models gathered closely and locked me into position near the center of the elevated runway. I looked around and saw Gordon with the mad poet to my right about a dozen people down the line.

In the commotion, I failed to notice a substantial number of the cult members had taken up flanking positions on either side of the podium, forming a sort of choir. To my astonishment, Tyson, Wagner and Sprag Dickson walked to the center of the catwalk and stood there. The rag-mag-deceiver turned to the chorus and raised his hands.

The lights dimmed. A moment later, a solemn sound erupted – they sang an unusual doxology in canonic fashion.

“Oh, Death, where is thy sting;

Grave, ya think ya got anything?”

The catalog, internet and fashion models all around me bowed their heads as the choir proceeded to sing the most frivolous pop song lyrics in Sunday-school seriousness. It started with:

“Remain young and beautiful,

It’s your calling to be dutiful;

It’s your obligation to be desire-ful

If you want to stay Divinely loved….”

As they continued to sing about rubbing wrinkles into dimples and gyrating away every ounce of flab, the crowd began to part. A weird procession had started and made its way slowly to the catwalk where Tyson and Co. were waiting.

“…Retain your youthful charms

And you’ll always stay

Safe in God’s big arms….”

Sexy, near-naked dudes – supermodels in Halston-cum-Roman-centurion costumes – bore a canopied litter on their shoulders. I thought some grand cult object must be on it, but when it drew near, I had a perfect view inside as the studs set it on the floor below Tyson’s feet.

“…Always flaunt your stuff,

With stuffing-socks

Or powdered puff….”

The holy relic rested on a gold lamé cushion, but it was anything but attractive: an old tin canister. It appeared about the size of a woman’s palm, beat up and tarnished: something even a charity shop would toss on the garbage heap.

The choir crescendoed on a faith-affirming:

“…Oh, Death, where is thy sting?

Once ya stick him for a diamond ring!

Remain young and Beautiful,

If you want to stay loved.”

In the silence following the music, Tyson addressed his followers in a commanding voice, “Now, let us reaffirm our creed.” He led off with “I believe,” and the head-bowed assembled continued:

“…In the Holy Church

Of the Divine Esthetician,

Founded on Earth to beautify

The most ugly heart of mankind.

I believe in Godly cheek bones,

Divinely high with His blessings,

And that high-hoofing it along

The sacral catwalk can bring me

Closer to Supreme loveliness.

I believe in natural beauty,

And of being reborn again

At the hands of His most holy priests –

The plastic surgeons – trimming here;

Plumping there, in the name of God.

I believe in brand loyalty,

And in trickle-up franchising

Pyramid schemes for the chosen,

Plus all the sacred dividends

That may flow up towards heaven.

I believe Tyson McPherson

Is undeniably gorgeous,

And for sure, he’s the chosen one

To lead us closer to Beauty.

I believe the Divine Esthetician

Plopped down to Earth from some space war

Seventy thousand years ago

And then established his home base

In a volcano where he ran

A beauty college to instruct

The chosen few how to beautify

Man one face at a time….”

The religious fervor was getting a bit thick in the room.

“I believe we will someday join Him,

On his planet, Electrolysisacon,

Where reigns Pretty for ever and ever.”

Their equivalent to Amen was a cultishly chanted: “Beauty!”

I managed not to laugh, but glancing at Gordon was dangerous, as I knew my boy would burst out at the slightest provocation.

The study fellows picked up the litter and held it so Tyson could reach for the ugly old can. Once he took it, they proceeded out of the room.

“My followers,” Tyson announced, “it is now time for the sacred anointing of the cream.”

Dano took the cannikin like it was made of radioactive glass, and his cult leader boyfriend-slash-boss removed the lid. A white salve with two distinct fingermarks came into view.

And then – the odor hit me. Think of yogurt gone bad stored in a goat carcass….

Tyson retched slightly, but said to the faithful: “This two-thousand-year-old face cream, recovered from a London well, is made of pure ass’ milk, and crafted”—he needed a moment to choke down his gag reflex—“and crafted by the hands of the Supreme Cosmetologist himself.”

Everyone in the audience stood taller, at rapped attention, knowing the climax was about to happen. Tyson dipped a quivering finger in the ointment and dabbed some on his own puffy eyes, which immediately began to water – due to the ‘Divine Stench,’ no doubt.

That was it for me. I moved behind the front row of people to Gordon. I tugged on his arm, and the two of us discreetly made for the exit.

I wondered how skeptical non-belief failed to work on any of these people, but then again, if it didn’t work on the voting electorate, why would it on a chamber full of cult stooges?

We slipped out of the room unnoticed just as Tyson was calling for “The Holy Catwalk” portion of the ritual to begin. I realized my Gordon was right, as always. It was far better to look for the donkey-dick crazies directly. They’re the ones who behexed my member; they’re the ones who could un-hex it again. As for Tyson McFearsome and his batch of beauty peddling zombies, I didn’t want his precious ass cream anywhere near my Schwanz.

I must be maturing. I could have devised a suitable ‘punishment’ for these dopes like the one I gave the cock-god zanes, but why bother? Live and let be nuts, as my boy would say. I had more important priorities to focus on, and with Gordon by my side, I found it much easier to be ‘good.’

A couple of hours ago, we walked in thinking they might be able to help, but walked away again understanding there was a difference between Cult Incorporated groups and their moneymaking, made-up ‘theology,’ and the ones based on actual, living polytheistic tradition, like the Abraca and Priapus folks. Don’t get me wrong, because that doesn’t mean the cock and donkey set aren’t bat-shit crazy too, cuz they are, but just like modern political ‘believers,’ some are duped out of their minds, while others are bamboozled out of both cash and their powers of reason.

_