The Ides of June
Ah, the happy Ides of June, when our beloved and cherished Pagan Roman culture (a first nation of the association of founder nations of the assembly of fellowship of nations) celebrated the rituals in worship of the God of Agriculture, Good Steward of the Forests, Flocks, and Fields, and protector of women, children, and harp seals, none only than Mars, also known as the 'War God'.
The War God Mars is not the War God. The Roman God of War is your friend. And on this day, on your behalf, I have sacrificed a fat cow, a cackling chicken, and a squeeky pig, the old fashioned way, in order to show Mars, The Roman War God, what a nice person you are, perhaps even interesting, perhaps even the sort of person that Mars, The Roman War God, would and should hand around. Lucky you.
The War God Mars is only associated with actual 'war' 33.4 percent of the time, and for 'total war', only 11.4 percent. So now, all you lucky people whose names I ordered worked into a rather longish piece of boilerplate latin vocative verse can now share in the tranquil blessings of soft breezes in forested glades, mostly free of singing shrapnel and the deep digestive grunt of artillery. The raccoon, the skunk, and the squirrel will rule most of your cities, most of the time. And they will be happy years, like peaceful Krakatoa before the eruption, or Kursk before the Summer Offensive of 1943.
On this day we offer others to this particular Olympian. Who would you choose? Get pencil and paper. Write down the names. Beside them add any special details, like slow or horrible. Now, to activate this charm, draw upon the paper a square, a free hand square. Crumple up the paper into a ball and burn it to ashes. This quaint religious ritual works best if you can give your crumpled ball of paper a Viking funeral. End the ritual the usual way.
Show you accomodate alien practices and appease deviations from the norm. Send me your money. Send me your mortgage cheque for this month. I want your savings. I want your real estate holdings. Let your children drink powdered milk and eat whole grain mush with prunes and husks. Make them make the gift of their hunger into a gift of your money into my hands so that I can make comforting mumbo-jumbo while you smoke the hash pipe before the cold stone idol of Mars, The Roman God of War.
I, Fenris Badwulf, subsidized by your tax money which I used to buy over-taxed whiskey, wrote this.
Blessings abound with mutual cross referencing via Mitchieville and DustMyBroom
The War God Mars is not the War God. The Roman God of War is your friend. And on this day, on your behalf, I have sacrificed a fat cow, a cackling chicken, and a squeeky pig, the old fashioned way, in order to show Mars, The Roman War God, what a nice person you are, perhaps even interesting, perhaps even the sort of person that Mars, The Roman War God, would and should hand around. Lucky you.
The War God Mars is only associated with actual 'war' 33.4 percent of the time, and for 'total war', only 11.4 percent. So now, all you lucky people whose names I ordered worked into a rather longish piece of boilerplate latin vocative verse can now share in the tranquil blessings of soft breezes in forested glades, mostly free of singing shrapnel and the deep digestive grunt of artillery. The raccoon, the skunk, and the squirrel will rule most of your cities, most of the time. And they will be happy years, like peaceful Krakatoa before the eruption, or Kursk before the Summer Offensive of 1943.
On this day we offer others to this particular Olympian. Who would you choose? Get pencil and paper. Write down the names. Beside them add any special details, like slow or horrible. Now, to activate this charm, draw upon the paper a square, a free hand square. Crumple up the paper into a ball and burn it to ashes. This quaint religious ritual works best if you can give your crumpled ball of paper a Viking funeral. End the ritual the usual way.
Show you accomodate alien practices and appease deviations from the norm. Send me your money. Send me your mortgage cheque for this month. I want your savings. I want your real estate holdings. Let your children drink powdered milk and eat whole grain mush with prunes and husks. Make them make the gift of their hunger into a gift of your money into my hands so that I can make comforting mumbo-jumbo while you smoke the hash pipe before the cold stone idol of Mars, The Roman God of War.
I, Fenris Badwulf, subsidized by your tax money which I used to buy over-taxed whiskey, wrote this.
Blessings abound with mutual cross referencing via Mitchieville and DustMyBroom
posted by The Mayor at 8:36 PM
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