Dos Islas: Thrig And Tefl Islands
Abstract from a recent academic article, “The Dacchanalian Dossier,” that details Dacchus’ exile on Tefl and Thrig Islands:
Dacchus could easily hop from island to island, but he chose to spend the majority of his time on Tefl. The giant rock was far from comfortable for sitting/standing/sleeping due to its pyramidal shape, but it was otherwise a paradise compared to Thrig Island, which continually endured a thunderous buffeting of gale force winds. Dacchus got used to the uncomfortable, but fair, Tefl Island and spent hundreds of years alone there with the sea, its winds, its storms, and its creatures (we briefly investigate claims that he was Shakespeare’s inspiration for Prospero).
One day a horse skull with an acorn in its jaw washed up on Tefl’s shore. Dacchus had the brilliant idea to use the two castaways to seed the inhospitable Thrig Island. He hopped across the channel, buried the acorn in a stone depression at the highest point on Thrig, placed the horse skull over the hole, performed some Dach Magic over the arrangement (spells and powders provided by Alnilam’s Scarlet Daughters), and, a number of years later, Thrig Island was covered by a massive, verdant oak forest that sheltered a mighty herd of majestic equines who would become the ancestors of unicorns, kelpies, hippogriffs, pegasuses, and centaurs (one of those centaur descendants was, Plato C. Biscuits, Dacchus’ closest friend and guide).
A land bridge eventually connected the islands and, over the course of millions of years, the two islands merged into one island that we suggest may have been the site of the ancient city of Atlantis.
GWEEB #1: Dildo Piggins
Dear Foonty,
I enjoyed your Triangle art very much and I hope the band considers adopting it as their album cover, but unfortunately I am unable to provide a proper review since I have a bit of a situation going on over here that requires our immediate attention.
Remember when I attended the GWAR concert and stood near the front of the stage as you suggested? I’m still not sure why you recommended I bear witness to this “artist’s”—and I use the term loosely—vulgar performance? It was horrible. I was absolutely disgusted by the lewd acts the performers engaged in on stage. I refuse to recount them here because that would likely disturb my mind’s faculty of suppression and disrecollection, but just know that it was a Deplorable (with a capital D) concert and Mother would have been very, very, very disappointed that I was in attendance. I do, unfortunately, need to recount one incident that occurred that evening since it relates to our current situation.
At some point as I stood near the front of the stage, jostled to and fro by those in attendance who had a much higher opinion of the band’s performance than I, and praying the cacophony would subside and the depravity cease, I was hit in the face with a foreign substance. I’m not sure what his name is, but the intergalactic Scumdog (I believe that’s what they call themselves?) with the largest penis ejaculated all over the audience. It was not, needless to say, a normal discharge of semen. No, on the contrary, great torrents of the gooey white substance shot out of the brute’s massive member at fire hose velocity showering the entire audience with what seemed like hundreds of gallons of intergalactic Scumdog reproductive juices.
Appalled, revolted, and outraged, not to mention covered in alien crotch snot, I was suddenly consumed by a passionate resolve to end the perverted riot. “This must stop!” I recall thinking. As I turned back to the stage to confront our attackers, I came face to face with the alien’s massive member, the dome of its glistening glans just inches from my face. For a split second I was spellbound by the size of the urethral meatus’ opening and the dark vastness within—I’d never seen such a large penis hole, it was like a cave…—but I was rudely awakened from my reverie by yet another colossal wave of GWAR ejaculate that shot out of the meatus hole like a cannon and struck me square in the puss once again. The force of the deluge knocked me on my back and, due to my shock and surprise, my mouth, eyes, nose, ears, etc. were all wide open in disbelief and the Scumdog’s rancid jissom filled every orifice. Although I was blinded and unable to breathe, I managed to escape the theater and sought medical attention.
That was nearly nine months ago and I’ve done my best to suppress the memory of that awful evening, but last night something very strange happened that brought all of my nightmares to the forefront again. I’m not sure how to explain this scientifically, but I think GWAR’s seed found purchase in the womb of my eyeball and through some bizarre Scumdog alien fertilization transmutation process (?) my eyeballs have been impregnated with lil GWAR evil eye booger babies. The first lil evil eye booger baby finally “hatched” at dawn this morning after I suffered a prolonged and torturous labor that lasted the entire night. Almost immediately after being born, the wretched creature introduced himself as, Dildo Piggins. It is an apt name because Dildo is, if nothing else, an enormous PIG.
He picks his nose. He eats his boogers. He gargles vomit. He drinks his pee. He swallows his poop. He smokes his pubic hairs. He snorts his toe jam. His anus is wide open and perpetually emits poisonous gases, noxious fumes, deafening discharges, and copious volumes of fecal matter. His revolting body is in a constant state of ecdysis and his scurfy skin never ceases shedding, molting, sloughing, exfoliating, or exuviating, leaving everything in my apartment covered in a thick layer of dandruff and knee-deep in brittle shards of flaky, dead skin scales. He wears glasses because he’s far tsighted—that means farts come out of his eyes. Not only does he have fleas, but he also has bats that feed on his flesh, and, unfortunately, on mine as well. The decapitated head of the last man he raped is still on the end of his penis. His boots are grizzly bears—he jams his feet into their anuses each morning and off they go stompin’ and trompin’ around the apartment, devouring everything in their path.
Did I mention he has an unpleasant aroma?
Worst of all, Dildo Piggins has a ring and, based on what I’ve seen in the short time since he was born, it’s a very powerful, magical ring. The Ring itself appears to be nothing more than the jaws of a massive shark, probably a megalodon, but Mr. Piggins “plays” the shark jaw in a curious manner to peculiar and dramatic effect. Sometimes he plays it like a fiddle with an enormous whale penis dildo as his bow, at other times he strokes it like a Tibetan singing bowl, gently caressing the mandible bones with the tip of his phallus. Regardless of the technique, the result is anything but musical or peaceful. Imagine running the gentle sounds of a Tibetan spirit bowl through hundreds of those noisemaker pedals your friends are so fond of using—distortion, overdrive, fuzz, flange, phase, delay, echo, chorus, tremolo, reverb, loop, octave, compression, wah, more distortion—with every knob on every pedal totally dimed out. Then run the affected signal through a wall of Marshall stacks 10,000 miles wide (yes, Foonty, I know what a Marshall stack is). The deafening frequencies Dildo Piggins is able to create make The Ring a lethal, military grade, ultrasonic weapon—surely, Foonty, you must have heard the squall from across the hall? Anyway, Mr. Piggins is plenty crazy without The Ring, but when he is under the influence of its immense power he is rendered completely bonkers. The Ring is, in fact, the only subject he speaks of. “ONE RING TO FUCK THEM ALL,” he bellows over and over again. That’s the only thing he says.
Foonty, please, can you come over here and help me evict this fellow as soon as possible? I don’t mean to be rude, but my day-to-day duties have been seriously compromised since the arrival of Dildo Piggins and his vociferous improprieties.
Love, Trowl.
The Centaur Witch
Hey, so the Centaur Witch game, Pazuzu, is a very difficult game to follow and understand. Worse than cricket. That is if it even is a game. Some say it has its origins in a ritual dedicated to the ancient Mesopotamian demon of the same name. Maybe it’s both, ritual/game? Mayan? Either way, Pazuzu incorporates a variety of elements familiar to ritual as well as sporting and gaming. I’ve been told that at times it does look very ritualistic, but at others it seems like a mashup of sports such as dressage, polo, capoeira, hockey, figure skating, even skateboarding. Yet it also incorporates aspects of popular table games like chess, backgammon, dominoes, go, cards, billiards, ping pong, etc..
Apparently no human has ever lived to explain the rules (if there are any?), but there are rumored to be a scant few secret texts (dubious authenticity) that provide some details about gameplay. To keep this short, I’ll outline some of what I’ve learned thus far and I’ll share the sources later, if they exist.
Each game is performed by two athletes, a Centaur Witch and her Familiar (usually an enslaved human male). The game can last a few hours, or a few centuries.
Pazuzu is played on a large expanse of land and is sort of like golf/baseball in that every course/field is different, but the field of play is generally rectangular and resembles a billiard table the size of a small island (in fact, Centaur Witches are rumored to especially enjoy playing Pazuzu amid the rugged, inaccessible, and uninhabited islands of Finland’s archipelago during the freezing Winter months). The six billiard “pockets” are arranged about the landscape in the general vicinity of where they would appear on a standard table—four corner pockets, two side pockets. In Pazuzu, however, the pockets are large, smoking pits in the ground (graves?) lined with the smoldering bones of sacrificial children (they’re witches, they like children).
Much like Pairs Figure Skating, the Centaur Witch and her Familiar perform a routine, a schizophrenic dance that involves lots of peculiar maneuvers, some of which move the Pazuzu pieces around the field and into the pits. The kinds of game pieces they employ are nearly infinite, but billiard balls, playing cards, chess pieces and the like are common. The various combinations of moves amount to essentially what we would call spells or incantations because they produce a wide variety of sorcery. The more dazzling the magic, the more pleased are the witches, and the higher the score (how that is quantified we have no idea).
For example: a Cue Ball, plus the Ace of Spades, plus the Bishop’s Black Pawn, helped into the north western corner pocket via a snapshot from the Familiar’s goat jaw hockey stick is a spell that is highly appreciated by the Centaur Witches. This spell will, apparently, summon a trio of flatulent Muskox that will play an enchanting symphony out of their gigantic, musky anuses.
It was actually through this Muskox story that I learned about the Centaur Witches and their ritual/game Pazuzu. When I was last talking to Isis Osceles she kept referring to “Triangle’s Muskox record.” I had to prod her, but she eventually explained that Triangle stumbled upon the Muskox quite by accident during one their tryptamine experiments when a trio of the massive creatures suddenly floated through the sky of their trip. The Muskox were on their way to a Pazuzu match to which they had been summoned.
Triangle greatly appreciated that the Muskox traveled in threes and soon became friendly with the creatures and became students of their music and asscoustics. Isis claims that the frequencies the beasts are able to emit from their buttholes are capable of affecting (at a quantum level) the resonance of the electrons in your body causing them to buzz/hum in a manner that creates a euphoric, interdimensional experience for the listener. According to Isis, one of the many albums Triangle has recorded in secrecy is a tribute, as well as a recreation, of the Muskox’s otherworldly music. Isis says it’s possible under the proper conditions to actually see the Muskoxen when you listen to the recording.
Obviously this Muskox music story is amazing, but I’m more interested in the Centaur Witches the Muskox seem to be beholding to. If this is all true, then Triangle seems to have managed to enter the Centaur Witch’s dimension through some sort of Muskox backdoor (no pun intended). And from what I’ve gathered, a Centaur Witch can bestow immeasurable powers and impart access to sacred, eternal knowledge to anyone that can successfully impress them—provided, of course, she doesn’t eat you or convert you into her Familiar first.
That’s all for now. Just wanted to brief you on this Centaur Witch business since you asked. I’ll surely have more to tell you next week after I have a Zoom call with Isis. It’s her first Zoom call ever. I don’t think she’s going to be able to figure it out, so who knows if it’ll even happen. Talk soon. —Foonty
Incantation Of The Triple Goddess
1. According to Robert Graves, who popularized the concept of the Triple Goddess in the 20th century, Diana (Artemis) in particular came to be viewed as a trinity of three goddesses in One: Diana as Huntress (Diana), Diana as the Moon (Luna), Diana of the Underworld (Hecate). In the Underworld she was concerned with birth, procreation, and death. On Earth she rules the trees, the plants, all living creatures, and the three seasons of Spring, Summer, and Winter. In the Sky she is the three phases of the Moon: New, Full, and Waning. In the deep Heavens she is the trio of stars in Orion’s belt: Alnitak, Alnilam, and Mintaka.
2. VLADIMIR: The tree, look at the tree. (Estragon looks at the tree.)
ESTRAGON: Was it not there yesterday?
VLADIMIR: Yes of course it was there. Do you not remember? We nearly hanged ourselves from it. But you wouldn’t. Do you remember?
ESTRAGON: You dreamt it.
VLADIMIR: Is it possible you’ve forgotten already?
ESTRAGON: That’s the way I am. Either I forget immediately or I never forget.
3. In Hinduism, the supreme divinity Para Brahman can take the form of the Trimurti, in which the cosmic functions of creation, preservation, and destruction of the universe are performed by the three deities of Brahma (Creator), Vishnu (Preserver), and Shiva (Destroyer), who are at the same time three forms of the one Para Brahman.
4. “Look: there are three of us and two of them,” Luna said.
“Yes, but they’re both very, very mean,” Lilith said. “They seem to delight in skirmish.”
“I’m with you, Luna. I say we go get ‘em!” Diana said with gusto.
“I’m not scared of them, you know,” Lilith continued, “it just pains me to imagine them deriving some sort of pleasure out of this.”
“Alright, so what are we going to do to these guys then?” Diana asked, assuming the project manager position and adjusting her mom haircut.
“I say we put a curse on them,” Diana said excitedly looking at Lilith.
“Well, I’ve still got a little bit of that Milk Blood from Alnilam,” Lilith offered.
“Perfect,” Diana said. “Let’s do that, Milk Blood Magic, that’s easy, no contact.”
“Ohhh, I’m so excited,” Diana said bringing her knuckles together in front of her mouth, “we’re going to cast a labyrinth!”
5. To this end, Ludwig Wittgenstein’s On Certainty comes to mind, in which he expounds upon theories of epistemic agreement. “The information ‘That is a tree,’ when no one could doubt it,” Wittgenstein writes, “might be a kind of joke and as such have meaning.” In this light, Vladimir’s remark, “It’s the tree,” becomes itself a sort of joke that we, the audience, are in on.
6. A sacred breed of Holy Moths, known as the Alnilam’s Scarlet Daughters, are believed to have been born within the distant star in the center of Orion’s belt because they transcribe the same 7-circuit labyrinth pattern in their flight path around a flame as the star in the center of the belt does over the course of eons.
The Maidens Of Moth, ancient descendants of The Old Ones, have been harvesting Milk Blood from Alnilam’s Scarlet Daughters for centuries by milking the Holy Moths in a mysterious ritual and then distilling the alien Milk Blood until only the essence of the moth’s labyrinth pattern remains. The potent labyrinth essence is then employed by the Maidens Of Moth in their world famous sorcery.
“For the first time in history, the secrets of the Maidens Of Moth are now available to the public for a limited time only. Each custom Maidens Of Moth Magical Maze™ (MoMMM™) kit comes with a Magical Labyrinth Spell powered by Milk Blood from Alnilam’s Scarlet Daughters that will baffle, befuddle, and bewilder any subject allowing you to ensnare, entrap, and exile him, her, or it to wherever you like: In a castle tower! At the bottom of the ocean! In the depths of Hell! To last Tuesday! Within their own mind! The possibilities are endless! You can banish anyone or anything to anywhere or anywhen!”
7. By the 1st century CE, Hecate's chthonic and nocturnal character had led to her transformation into a goddess heavily associated with witchcraft, witches, magic, and sorcery. In Lucan's Pharsalia (65 AD), the witch Erichtho invokes Hecate and describes her as a “rotting goddess” with snakes in her hair and a “pallid decaying body” who has to “wear a mask when she visits the gods in heaven.”
8. As Diana and Luna watched, Lilith bent over her instruments and, following the ancient instructions provided by The Maidens Of Moth, poured a tiny drop of Milk Blood on a silver mirror and then added various powders—raccoon tongue ground with goat nipples, bull testicles with brass salt crystals dried from the tears of a moon dove, extract of octopus urine blended with the first breath of a newborn cobra, etc.—and then, at midnight, as the two men dimly pondered the new leaves on their tree, Lilith mumbled some incantations and released her magic upon them. “It has been done,” Lilith said. “No matter where they go, the labyrinth that imprisons them will always lead them back to the dead tree at its center.”
9. ESTRAGON: (despairingly). Ah! (Pause.) You’re sure it was here?
VLADIMIR: What?
ESTRAGON: That we were to wait.
VLADIMIR: He said by the tree. (They look at the tree.) Do you see any others.
ESTRAGON: What is it?
VLADIMIR: I don’t know. A willow.
ESTRAGON: Where are the leaves?
VLADIMIR: It must be dead.
ESTRAGON: No more weeping.
Let Wisdom Lead You Out Of The Desert Of Your Mind, Ye Dummy
At the start of the pandemic an owl (perhaps two) took up residence in a neighborhood tree and could be heard quietly “hoo-hooing” every night. While most of our neighborhood was delighted by the new residents one neighbor was decidedly not because he called the cops on the birds (???).
And us.
It was extremely rude, and a little frightening, because it was late at night, after 11pm, we were stoned and getting down to go to bed, when suddenly there were flashlights in our windows and cops BANGING on the front door.
After we learned we weren’t in any danger, the officer said that a neighbor had reported someone wandering around in the street outside their house making fake owl noises. And we, apparently, were the owl impersonators.
Are you being serious right now? I asked the officer.
Fortunately the owl was hooting while the cop was conducting his interrogation so I simply pointed to the trees behind him and made that, “REALLY?” face that David always makes on Schitt’s Creek.
I felt this incident was an excellent learning opportunity for a discussion about when it is appropriate, and not appropriate, to call the police. So I took to NextDoor.com the following morning and posted an open letter to our neighborhood about our owl experience and gently admonished the complainant (see [1] below to read the post).
I still don’t know which neighbor called the cops—there is a “person of interest” nearby—but when I do find out who it is, I am going to include this collage, which is titled, “Let Wisdom Lead You Out Of The Desert Of Your Mind, Ye Dummy,” with the official California “Petition For Change Of Name” paperwork that I began filling out for him. I’m legally changing his name to, DICK.
Q: Whoo-hoo calls the pigs on a bird?
A: Someone with irritable owl syndrome.
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[1] To whoever called the police last night about the owls hooting in the neighborhood trees, WAY TO GO! We’re so proud of you. Without your diligent phone call about those pesky owls we never would have enjoyed being awoken at 11pm by a cop stomping around in our yard, shining his flashlight in our windows, and then banging on our door demanding answers about local owl behavior. Thank you so much for that.
If I may, however, make an owlternative (sorry) suggestion for your next wild animal encounter: try NextDoor. One of the primary purposes of this platform is to provide a safe place for neighbors to narc on Nature.
If you see a [insert animal], DO NOT CALL THE COPS. Instead, take a picture, post its location on NextDoor, and either share your adorable wild animal experience with your neighbors, or, in the case of a predator such as a coyote, warn your neighbors to keep their pets inside and “be safe.” Your neighbors will love it, people will hit the like button, and some might even write a nice comment with a smiley face ☺.
The police, on the other hand, are who you call when there has been a crime. You’ll have to do your own research as to what constitutes a crime, but birds doing bird things in trees is not a crime. Yet.
So in conclusion:
Nature = NextDoor.
Crime = Cops.
Thank you. Hoot hoot.