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...

...THE MARK OF MCFLY!

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!