Sunday, October 10, 2004

Mistakes have been made...

I am the God of Snot!

And, Almighty in a Man Skin that I am, I am yet fallible. It is with regret, my children, that I must inform you mistakes have been made.

You will recall when last I spoke I had become vexed with the Minions of Mediocrity, none other than McFly. That evening I repaired to my dwelling and set in motion the Divine Retribution that is the Malignant Encrustation.

Summoning forth the Malignant Encrustation is no small thing. For a start, it requires a lot of raw material. Acquisition of this material is not ordinarily an issue – there is a realm of existence made up entirely of snot, another of shit, another of piss and so on...

But for an Almighty in a Man Skin, such as I, the acquiring of such a volume of material becomes a feat in itself. Particularly when one lives with a woman...

I have known lone followers keep stashes of the stuff for their rituals, on the backs of head-boards, on the under-side of chairs... Other, more committed types, keep samples in a range of controlled environments, temperature and humidity levels monitored so that the right tool for the job is always available.

None of this is possible with a woman in the house.

So I had to call my Acolytes to me. And, lo, they did come.

Sadly, such is the season that the raw material they had to offer unto me was not really up to scratch. Cold weather makes for runny noses; the Malignant Encrustation calls for the hard stuff.

Only the foremost of my Acolytes came truly prepared. While the others sniffed, or blew pitiful, sticky stains into handkerchiefs, he drew forth a behemoth from his right nostril and a colossus from his left. He laid them before me and the ritual began.

In situations like this, where the raw material is not sufficient to make the Malignant Encrustation automotive in its own right, a host must be found to deliver the Divine Retribution. And while several of my Acolytes were willing to volunteer, it is not actually necessary to use a living host. So I tore the tusks off a cuddly mammoth I didn’t think my woman was likely to miss and, well, I’m sure you can imagine the rest...

What you might not be able to imagine is that even within a ministry such as my own, a ministry that seeks only to guide your kind to your ultimate actualisation, there are those that think making golems out of snot is little more than a means of acquiring personal power.

So it was with my foremost, sorry, my former foremost Acolyte. His name I have not mentioned, for his name will cease to be an issue soon enough...

But, to continue my gospel, I had drawn forth the Divine Malignancy that drives the Encrustation, I had bound the offerings of my Acolyte to the host I had chosen, and I had awakened the host golem... all that remained was to give the Malignant Encrustation its purpose.

As I drew the greatness of breath that this required, the treachery of my former foremost Acolyte was revealed. For he did sneeze a great gloop of sludge-snot all over my face, into my eyes and my mouth... As I wiped the sticky drips of his ambition from myself, four of the newer Acolytes held me while he seized the Malignant Encrustation and fled.

This was a week ago. Now, my former foremost Acolyte is anathema. Those that were in his thrall soon abandoned him in the face of my wrath. Of course, I have forgiven them. They strive at their penances as I write this.

One more thing. When my woman discovered the discarded tusks from her favourite soft toy, she threw me out of her home. I am now residing with one of the aforementioned penitents.

These are grim times, my children, grim, dark and uncomfortable as far sleeping arrangements go. But I will measure my vengeance against my new foe’s suffering, the limits of which, I can assure you now, only the God of the Unimaginable can fathom... MOCOS!

Saturday, October 02, 2004

Boy-Faced Gremlins

I am the God of Snot!

And while I am a benevolent god, protective of my children, I am also the Lord of the Malignant Encrustation. This is the tool of my wrath and it has been roused this day...

I was making my home from the Sacred Place (where I upload this Web-Bible), when I heard the screaming... the awful high-pitched, knicker-wet chittering of pre-pubescent pop-zombies.

I slowed to identify the man-mediocrities that indulge in this sort of fan-base. But such was the glut of girly-serfs surrounding their tour bus that I stood not a chance of eye-balling my enemy.

For my enemy they were. Anything that inspires pre-teen placards that say “F*CK ME, H*RRY!” fully deserves to have its name etched into the Malignant Encrustation, their days from then on a lonely march to their own Ultimate Doom!

And while I could not see my enemy, I knew them just the same. For nothing escapes the Divine Guile of the God of Snot! And lo, I did discover my enemy in their vanity, for they had sold each of their fans’ parents powder blue t-shirts bearing their mark...


But in their blind groping at the flickering fallacy of fame, the boy-faced gremlins had come upon their nemesis. No, not Busted... ME!

As I waited for my train to arrive, I did discover the full extent of their insidious inspidity. There was a boy – nay, a misguided shade of a boy – stood in the Metro station. And he was wearing a powder blue t-shirt, bearing their mark... right next to his man-parent! I will not call this fool a father, for what father would steep his own son in such corruption?

In my ire, I resolved to punish this man-parent, for it is one thing to be seduced by the Miasma of Mediocrity, it is another entire to force it upon another. I summoned a sufficiently slimy snotling, and whispered my will to it. Then I set it upon the floor of the station and watched it slither toward this man-parent, up his trouser leg, then a couple of seconds later out the top of his own powder blue t-shirt (the cretin!) and into his ear.

He began to stumble toward the edge of the platform, a curious look on his face. Relief, possibly. And there he stood, gazing at the tracks, occasionally turning his head to look for an approaching train. The boy-shade tugged at his man-parent’s arm, but that man-parent was in my thrall now, and nothing would sway him. Or so I thought, until...

“You! Gazing at the tracks on Platform 2... stop it!”

The man-parent glanced up at the voice coming from the loud speaker. ‘Twas a voice I knew... the voice of His Omnipotence, the God of Health and Safety at Work! Damn you, I muttered, as my snotling crawled out of the man-parent’s nose... Damn you and your unreasoning obsession with people not dying!

On the train home (the right one, this time) I consoled myself with thoughts of what the Malignant Encrustation might have in store for McFly. There would be no intervention from His Omnipotence for them. Even He despises boy-faced gremlins... MOCOS!

Thursday, September 30, 2004

I am a Feature Writer!

I am the God of Snot!

And I am a Feature Writer! That is right! And not only is it right, it is self-evident. I just walked into that student newspaper meeting, and the Editor said “You can do a feature. 600 – 800 words. Any ideas?”

But I did not want to cheat you, my loyal followers, by sermonising on self-discovery, self-reflection and self-possession, when you have waited for days to hear and understand my message, returning to the Web-BIBLE on an hourly basis, lest you have missed the revelation.

“I could do something about blogging?” said I, with a sneaky mirth to myself.

“Yeah, that’s pretty big right now…” said a sub-editor (no capital letters for him!) and my career as a Writer of Features was fertilised!

And while I have yet to write this feature, for I was mindful that it has been some time since I manifested in the Inter-Plane and wanted to prepare you further for the Day of Green Serenity, I have an outline, a slant I will be taking. And it is this: Why blog?

Of course, you must understand that as much as I do not wish to cheat you of your epiphanies by delivering some dope-addled students first, I do not wish to cheat these same dope-addled students of their exclusive feature on blogging by sharing it with you first. So I may post the feature here when it has been published, and I may re-unite these dope-addled students with their destinies when you, my first-followers, have all gazed upon Nirvana and thought to yourselves “y’now, that God of Snot was right… we are better than this, more than this, and what’s so enlightened about blowing your own face off with a shotgun anyway?”

This is to say, when you have discovered the Ultimate Truths and rejected the Matrix-wisdom of your 5-second-gratification-gap-generation. When you have remembered yourselves, and no longer need my Brothers of the Excreta and I.

That day is coming, my followers, that day is coming, and you will know when it is upon you, for you will cry... MOCOS!

Wednesday, September 29, 2004

The Goddess of Being on the Wrong Train

I am the God of Snot!

And I am not alone... there are many of us, many more than you know. For every idea, every fancy and every notion your kind have discovered there is a god. Or a goddess. And for the things you have yet to imagine, there is also a god – the God of the As Yet Unimagined. And for that which you will NEVER imagine there is also a god – the God of the Unimaginable. A rather pointless and unpredictable fellow, it has to be said...

Anyway, I was visited by one of these gods you know nothing of just the other night. Sorry, goddess. And a most vexing, interfering, damnably perverse goddess at that. For I was visited by the Goddess of Being on the Wrong Train.

This goddess busies herself by tweaking the existences your kind stagger through – and evidently whilst I am among you she can do this to me too.

So it was that I found myself on a train entirely other than the one I needed to be on to get me to my dwelling. And as I was on the last train of the evening, this entailed a rather tiresome walk.

Of course, the Goddess of Being on the Wrong Train doesn’t meddle with your destinies for no reason. Her purpose is to direct you away from a momentous event, usually a pleasant one, or to direct you towards a momentous event, invariably an unpleasant one. And, I can assure you, walking from Hebburn to Seaburn at 11:30 pm is most definitely unpleasant.

Not exactly momentous though...

I became suspicious. Either I was walking into something BIG, or I was walking away from something BIG. Or maybe I was walking towards something BIG, but because I was walking, rather than sitting on a nice, comfortable train, I was going to be too late for this something BIG, my destiny forever to suffer for having done so. Or perhaps I was walking towards something BIG, but because I was walking I would be tired and therefore predisposed to react to this something BIG in an uncharacteristic fashion, again, my destiny forever to suffer for having done so...

And it was as I walked towards, or away, from this something BIG that something BIG happened...

...I realised this was all familiar to me.

No, not familiar. Known. Known all along, but only now remembered.

But why should this be so? I have never descended to your Plane of Existence before, and have never, therefore, had the pleasure of having been shafted by the Goddess of Being on the Wrong Train. Not like this, anyway...

Then I stood in some dog-shit. F*cking lazy, dog-owning, constant-emotional-affirmation-requiring motherf*ckers! You should be made to eat this! You should be made to lick it from my shoe, and then when you are done, you should beg me to kick you in the face until I feel compensated for having stood in dog-shit! You know who you are, you f*cker!

But even as I thought all of this, as I wiped my shoe on a patch of grass, I again realised I had known this all along, like a dream I had remembered too late. And as I remembered the dream, I knew that even as I wiped this dog-shit from my shoe, I was about to stand in another dog-shit.

Which is exactly what I did!

And I say again, f*cking lazy, dog-owning, constant-emotional-affirmation-requiring motherf*ckers! And so on...

By then I was tired, and fuming and making with the snapping curses, the baleful glares and the shivering (because it was so cold), and so I was unable to fathom this something BIG.

When I got home, I tried to find something to write this all down on. I couldn’t lose this! One of my notepads was on the coffee table and I grabbed it. There was a message on the first page – “I’m upstairs, f*ck-machine... come...”.

I quickly scribbled down “been here before” and ran upstairs, only to find my woman passed out on our bed, two empty bottles of wine on the floor, beside one of her night-dresses and an unopened packet of flavoured condoms.

Curse you, Goddess of Being on the Wrong Train, I cried! Curse you and the misbegotten in-breds you call your offspring and the drooling, wither-cocked proto-gimps they will present to you as grandchildren! MOCOS!

Monday, September 27, 2004

I am among you...

I am the God of Snot!

I am among you... an almighty in a man-skin. I have descended to teach you the lessons you have forgotten. And I am not alone... there are others. My Brothers of the Excreta are all here with me, to give back what another has taken from you.

For you have been seduced by another, another that owns you and demands your every act is committed in its name.

But this is no god you worship, this is no almighty... this is little more than a foul stench that you have chosen to douse yourselves in, a pitiful breeze you allow to dash you against the rocks of this place.

But not for long! My brothers and I will free you from this tyranny. We will remind you that which you have chosen to forget in your slavish dedication to this other form of existence. We are a Freedom Tide, and you have but to allow us to wash over you, just sit the f*ck still, and we will deliver you from yourselves and you will once again be in possession of your destinies.

They will throw you life-belts, they will drag you on to life-boats, but do not be fooled. There is no life in their belts and there is no life on their boats. Life is within you all, and when we wash away the filth you have smothered yourselves with, this life will blind you, deafen you with its rushing and pounding, it will stagger you, cast you into the air and carry you to dreams you never had because you were too busy imagining you had won the lottery, like a good little minion!

We are the flood of your awakening. And all you have to do is sit the f*ck still!

Just sit right there and I will explain.

I am the God of Snot. I am first amongst the Brothers of the Excreta. I am self-discovery, self-reflection and self-possession. And while my brothers all have lessons to teach you, lessons I urge you to learn with all sincerity, it is the lesson I will teach you that will set you free.

But I cannot teach you this lesson now. You are not ready. You are yet cynical. You believe you have stumbled across the bizarre, the surreal, the pointless waste of your time. And in this state you will learn nothing.

But come to me again, here, on this Web-log – no, this Web-BIBLE – and you will discover the way.

Until you join me again... MOCOS!