Archive for the ‘Festivals’ Category

Maybe it is time

Thursday, March 12th, 2015

Coming into the brotherhood that is the cult of Set, the Snake God, is mutually beneficial.

You have tried the little experiment. A bowl, some coins, a childs figurine of a crocodile or alligator. Yes? From the excited emails and phone calls I have received, you report success. Ah, success. A twenty dollar bill lying on the street for you to use, to spend! Nice.

But what of those who used something other than a bowl, or put bills into the bowl and not coins, or put a monkey on top, rather than a crocodile or alligator?

They report … strange events. Unexpected demands on their cash flow: A wife calling from the county lock up on charges of distracted driving. The price of coffee has risen at your favorite coffee shop. Gangbangers have taken to public urination outside the local shopping mall.

This work is like that of being a chef.
You have ingredients. They are added in sequence, using the right containers. A corning ware casserole dish is not the same as a bowl. A monkey is not the same as a crocodile. Ten dollar bills are not coins.

You do not have to be a rocket scientist to realize that substitutions do not work with Set, the Snake God. And, the effectiveness of your communications with Set, the Snake God can be improved. Maybe you want a bag of money, more than just a twenty on the sidewalk. A gym bag full of money. For you. To use, to spend! Yes.

You ask yourself, how do I improve my bowl/coins/crocodile recipe? Good question. You ask yourself, what happens when I try the bowl/coins/monkey recipe?

All your questions can be answered. But let me ask you a question: If you are hungry for more, what is Set, the Snake God hungry for?

Make a drawing of what you want in your present life. Do it on a large piece of paper. Upon the drawing, place figurines of things you want, people you want in your life, and things that reflect your desired station. A toy car will do for your dream car. Two cows will represent prosperity. Use your imagination.

Indeed, Set, the Snake God eats people. Someone is falling into a wood chipper as you read this. The open elevator shaft, the transformer explosion, the train that hits the station wagon … The list is long. You may serve Set, the Snake God as an entree. We all do, in the end. Better to be a waiter, even better to be a chef. Like all appetite driven creatures, Set, the Snake God has likes and dislikes. Roast beef dinner is better than cold turnip mush. Indeed. So, when you help Set, the Snake God to another helping of mashed potatoes, Set, the Snake God will help you to a bag of money.

Experiment with your diorama.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this. I care.

Maybe it is time

Wednesday, March 11th, 2015

Coming into the brotherhood that is the cult of Set, the Snake God, is mutually beneficial.

You can try this at home:

If you want money to come into your life, put some coins into a bowl. Cover the bowl with a saucer. Upon the saucer, place one of those kids plastic toys that look like a crocodile or alligator.

When you are satisfied, I can supply you with a prayer scroll (to be burnt to ashes, so be prepared) and simple instructions to boost your return.

There are, or course, other things you can do at home.

Let me know if you are interested, and I will tell you more.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this. I care.

Abandon your fears and surrender to the happiness that awaits those that worship Set, the Snake God.

Sunday, September 1st, 2013

Giving yourself up over to drugs, drink, and debauched sex, Ontario. The gorging and drunken fogs you float in. My eyes water and my throat chokes on the hashish clouds over the shores of Lake Huron. In the distance: gunfire. Cars crashing. Dog fights. Festival is upon us. Break shit; it feels good.

I knew these jackass Welsh-Americans during my adventures in America. Star Trek episodes were their model of reality. The Landru episode was really about Canada. Canadians have Festival, something a casual American tourist or businessman or traveling salesman should know, for their own good.

Pride Hangover

Sunday, July 1st, 2012

The great celebration of the Queer Nation that is the Toronto Pride Whoop Up is nearing the end of its cycle. It is not over, but, praise be to the loving embrace of Set, the Snake God, I am excluded from participating as an artist, performer, or painted rubber clad rooster; I am not gay, and my role in Pride is restricted to paying for the festival. Investigate the events; non queers are discriminated against, they are excluded, marginalized, and not embraced. Queer only; as for handing over money, my straight dollars will do. My confiscated income (in Queer-Canadian called Taxes) is gobbled down like sperm at a leather fetish bar; my artistic contribution is not. My neighbors, simple folk of the working class (they have jobs; they work), they never go to Pride. They pay for it, but they never go. Now, in Queer-Canada, Pride has come to them in Toronto suburbia, and they have a hangover.

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Friday the Thirteenth

Friday, January 13th, 2012

Finally, more reasons to hate the Jews.

Did you know that the perfidious Jews were behind the plot to kill beloved Soviet leader Stalin? * What more despicable crime could there be?

Disinformation spread after Stalin’s death portrays the beloved leader of the peaceful Russian people as some sort of ‘monster’. Nobody said such stuff during the long, productive life of the hero of the working classes, Comrade Stalin. Do you know of anybody who criticized that cute, cuddly teddy bear of a leader to his face? No! It was only after his untimely death that the Hollywood propaganda machine began to paint the Peoples’ Santa as some sort of big meanie.

It is always nice to know you can blame the Jews for everything.

Friday the Thirteenth is a special day in the New Aztec calendar: every Friday the Thirteenth is the day you find a new reason to hate the Jews. The reasons are legion: from crucifying Christ, to polyester underwear, in this the new age of the activists Friday the Thirteenth means hating the Jews. Today, during your Five Moments of Hate, keep one moment open for new reasons to hate the enemies of Statism, Overweening Bureaucratic Overlordism, and Climate Change Questioningism. Just hate them.

Everybody loved Stalin when he was alive. Just like nobody (who is somebody) openly criticizes political correctness.

Brownshirt Nation

Wednesday, November 16th, 2011

Those wonderful activists, ability challenged and flamboyantly flying the flag of the Fruit Salad Nation of diversity, seem to have a monopoly on demonstrations, occupations, and riots. Failing to show up for the riot is the criticism leveled by some *, and, alas, it makes sense. Here in Canada we know that the bitch in the room gets the credit card, which is why the anchor of Confederation, Quebec, gets to slow down the ship of state, keep it close to the rocks, and maroon it in shallow waters; the sails which propel the ship (let us call them have provinces, say) only get attention when they threaten to rip. The call has come for more ripping. If you want to get the benefits of a bitch, be a bitch. If you do not want your scriptures mocked, do as the Religion of Peace does. The next time someone dips your rosary in urine, cut off his head. This calls for some head still attached to the neck thinking.

What does the word riot mean to you? While it is inevitable that the Red Star versus White Star riots are inevitable, I suspect that the timing is rather important. We are still burdened with the slow think advocates of the main stream media. They have a habit of taking most about anything (including the something the brighter ones can make up and not get caught at doing) into propaganda to support more taxes, more often. Sending in the brownshirts, while satisfying on a ‘I lost my house to fifty percent taxation while the heroin addict down the street gets an in ground pool’ level, as long as the Bolshevik-JournoLista media has control of the brain washing machine that is media, the unwashed proletarians (call them ‘independents’) will do as they are told to do. The proles are not motivated by reason; they never have. Their current nausea at the main stream media is more a subconscious rejection of the elites; it is not conscious. The Bolshevik-JournoLista elites control the media; the proles emote as they are told. So, why bother? Extinction of the state media is the final solution; but then again, none of this is in anyone’s hands. The riots are coming. Stay away from crowds.

The lone wolf. Those lone wolves are out there. It does not matter what they actually believe, or how many thousands of pages they put into their manifesto, after they cook off, the diversity of state media will spin their bloody actions into a criticism of whatever is they do not like at the moment. If Andrew Berwick cooked off today, it would be because he was an advocate of the Keystone pipeline. Tomorrow, a critic of abortion. When the Obama voting N-people do their weekly raids into tax payer country, it is ignored. It is inevitable that some hypertensive yob, packing heat, spare mags, and cloudy judgement, will cut down some of the fatherless N-people. Then the riots will start, the politically correct police will do nothing but observe and respect. The proles will get a’feared. Then your Riots will start. This is inevitable, as surely as Obama will vacation twice a month. Why advocate the inevitable? Better to keep a full tank of gas in your escape vehicle; some camping gear, and scout for places of refuge. Let the urban tax payers who vote Red-Orange-Green suffer the consequences of their sticky diet of white guilt. They will anyway.

An evening with the traditional music of the Clan Fraser

Wednesday, August 24th, 2011

Throughout the Scottish Highlands are dotted the stone keeps of the various adminstrations that existed to regulate trade, codify weights and measures, and collect taxes. These keeps have well made Roman foundations, overlain with renovations from various architectural periods, be they MacGregor, Balliol, Bruce, or Stewart. In that time, the traditional music of the multi cultural country of Scotland could often be heard across the hills and glens, as the various communities (known by a diversity of names as MacDonald, Sinclair, Ross, and Fraser)  was played by peace loving farmers who went about their business, pursing such activities as cattle rearing, fishing, raising wheat, and reiving * .

On market day, sometime in the 1640’s (the written text from which I refer is unclear) a message was delivered to the village leader, an elected representative of the immigrant population which lived behind the stone curtain wall, settled there by some distant power acting on the designs of the nations capital in Edinburgh. It could have been Ottawa, for the policy of settling office workers and ancillary support staff was as common to whoever was holding the keys to that past power in Edenburgh, as it was to the modern progressive state of Canada. The village leader was not of the same heritage as the surrounding agricultural community. He lived in some fine rooms in the keep, he wore fine clothes (he had three cloaks, servants which he called assistant and secretary, and a horse hair bed) and was quite the richest man in town. The original capitalists of the area had long ago had their ill gotten capitalist wealth redistributed; they lived in the hills, and never complained about losing their wealth to the central state. They were learning to embrace diversity, and the village leader was there to guide them along the path of political correctness. He oversaw the collection of taxes, levy of fines, and the enforcement of building codes. His name is unimportant, except to the point that he was not a Scot, neither a lowland Scot, and certainly not a highland Scot.

The messanger seemed agitated. He pushed his way to the throne that the village leader sat upon (a smaller version of the chief tax collectors in the capital city) and spun some tail of smoke on the horizon, screams in the blowing wind, and running horses without riders. The village leader was unconcerned. He waved off the concerns of his fellow immigrant administrator: the natives in the area were still unassimilated into the ways of political correctness, and reacted to collectivist wisdom with surly indifference. There was ever a racist or sexist sentiment on their lips when the wealth redistribution team arrived in villages and hamlets.

The Clan Fraser has risen. the note read. The village leader turned pale. He stood up and waved his hands around, silencing his clerks who were tallying a green fee on cabbages and peas. Gather in the livestock, he said, bring the hay and oats into the walls, then he turned to his human rights chief, a Saxon martial arts teacher, and said, fill the moat with gunpowder.

There was much hustle and bustle as the multi cultural community prepared for the coming music festival. The reputation of the Clan Fraser preceeded itself. Their musicians, a variety of skilled artists with the drum, fife, harp, and bagpipe, had tunes easily recognized.  Other communities had other tunes.  From the distinctive tunes growing louder in the distance, everybody knew it was them, the Fraser. People gathered their belongings and prepared festive gear: they donned coats of mail over leather jerkins, wore party hats of iron, girded bar-b-que tools around their waists (axes, dirks, poignards, hammers, and swords) and prepared festive noise makers (muskets). As this was a music festival with the Clan Fraser, they put two lead balls in each musket.  One ball would not do the job.

The village leader noticed that the people outside the walls were not rushing to bring their festive materials within the walls of the keep. He blinked twice, then he shouted  close the gates. He ran towards them himself, and then stopped dead. There was a sudden increase in the volume of the music selections: the Fraser had been hiding in the village surrounding the keep: they appeared suddenly when the gate started to close. The village leader pushed one of his larger assistants towards the gate, then turned one hundred eighty degrees and ran to the central strong building of the administration complex.

Of course, it was all good fun. Totally in keeping with the cultural norms and moral value system of the times. A good quarter of the village leaders administrative staff made it to the central strong building, where the tax records were kept for safe keeping. The Fraser kept up a merry serenade of their favorite tunes, all the while livening up the event with noise makers and traditional shouts of delight. They piled wood around the central strong building, and set it alight. This was not done very often, and was reserved for special occasions. The village elder peeked out at the festivities through a loop hole, at least until the merry makers began to pile horse hair mattresses, wet straw, and manure on the fires, in celebration of recycling, which was on their mind.

By repetition, the village leader soon was familiar with all the favorite and traditional tunes of the Clan Fraser. The smoke from the fires had driven the village leader to the flat roof of the stronghold, where he could watch the traditional games and events the Fraser shared with others, especially administrators from abroad who oversaw regulation and wealth redistribution.

Our records of this music festival ends at this point. According to tradition, some intrepid buskers of the Clan Fraser climbed to the roof of the stronghold and no more is heard of the village leader again. Perhaps he was pensioned off, have used up his bankable sick days. The keep was redeveloped by the Hanoverian school of architects, but the music of the Scottish people can be heard to this day. You can listen to it as you drive through the night, perhaps with your windows rolled down in the sweet evening air. You can wake up the spirit of those times as you do.

I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this. I care.

The Subversive Consumer

Friday, April 15th, 2011

I met up with the Subversive Consumer this last week. There was an angry frown on his face. He needed a no frownie brownie * but he has a job and cannot use the stress coping mechanisms of the tax spenders. They take samples of his urine at his workplace. The trades union movement in this country does nothing about this. They are too busy fighting for progressive causes, like safe injection sites at battered women’s shelters, to bother with worker’s rights. So, the subversive consumer is denied the dope he subsidizes in others. There is no pharmacist between him and pagan worship of the forest gods of anger. The Subversive Consumer has given me his permission to tell you that he worships Set, the Snake God. In a way, this is his testimony. It is also about stupid recycling regulations that harass the people like the Subversive Consumer. Choose wisely which metaphor to follow.

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Horoscope for the week of

Wednesday, February 2nd, 2011

Nothing like a big snow storm to bring to mind the happy vegetarian gods of my ancestors, before the evil Christians came. This is good weather to get together with friends and food and friendship, which is what many of the sagas about Thor and Wotan talk about. Thor is an impressive eater. Wotan brings magic spoons to deserving sous chefs. And we celebrate that when we, likewise, enjoy our Canadian pastime of being snowed in with beer and meat. But what of those Norse gods that lived outside, in the snow? They are called trolls, or more properly, jotuns. That is who is outside in this witches storm. They keep wolves for pets. Listen to their wolves howl outside, right now.
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Festival Week

Saturday, May 16th, 2009

testical-festival

The Testicle Festival isn’t what you think it is. Unless you think that…

Around 6,500 people are expected to attend the 27th annual Testicle Festival at Rock Creek Lodge in Montana. It’s a strictly adults-only affair, as although the festivities revolve around the theme of eating bull’s testicles, or ‘Rocky Mountain Oysters’, visitors should expect oil wrestling, wet t-shirt competitions and lots of public nudity; ‘No Panty Wednesday’ sees punters offered a free drink in exchange for their underwear.

I went to a nursery in Mitchieville yesterday to buy some ground cover and a few different types of hostas for the backyard and some daisies and various other flowers for the front yard flower bed. The flowers and plants were all in terrific shape and should make a great addition to the various flower beds we have around The Manor. The prices were great, too. A pot of purple daisies–beautiful, rich flowers–were only $5.99 compared to 12.99 at Sheridan Nurseries. That’s a real bargain.

What does my commentary have to do with this festival? Nothing. The festival is about bull testicles, and I’m a prude and refuse to talk about something so disgusting. Flowers though, now that’s something to talk about.

Festival Week

Thursday, May 14th, 2009

pourcailhade

Pourcailhade  is a festival that takes place in the French hamlet of Trie Sur Baise where participants can enjoy sausage eating, piglet racing and a pig imitation contest.

It is also an opportunity for old French women to teach young French women (and men) the art of learning how to get a job working for the government.

Ya right, it’s not as if you weren’t thinking the same thing.

Festival Week

Wednesday, May 13th, 2009

monkey-buffet

The Monkey Buffet Festival in Thailand is rather unique in the sense that it’s not a festival about splitting the heads of monkeys open and eating their brains, but rather:

Over 600 monkeys are invited to feast on over two tonnes of grilled sausage, fresh fruit, ice cream and other treats. The locals see it as a thank you to the monkeys which inhabit the village and bring thousands of tourists their each year.

The American taxpayer have their own festival that’s very similar to this–it’s called the bailout. Except change the word *locals* to *elected government swine*, and change the word *tourist* and insert the words *illegal immigrant*. Basically what I’m saying is that America is so screwed it’s not funny.