we need to find this...as published on NOVEMBER THE 11, 1994!
Readers i've started listening to the saw theme on repeat to get myself to return to this blog to post about my sagehood. I'm too busy. Too busy. Too gathering " ancient ingredients ". Listen. I'm like fourty miles away from my body at any given moment. Apparently i worked at a bookstore now. And yet my soul wanders weary...
Isn't it lonely in this "wizard world"? Or perhaps i geusss you could say it's not much of a "wizard world" at all. Instead - yes no instead- it's ineed a lonely wizard world... what's there to say about it? man shafts man... men shaft men... dog eat dogs... the crumbly fuck gets the dough and the ponderous sage gets sloppy seconds. I walk down the street by my apartment where the grey fuck dumb as fuck ass buildings rise far a bove my dumb brick house. Wheres the mountainse. Wheress the boats wheres the towers mahogany and ancient portals unknown
I live in Seattle Washington this is where the boats used to come from other countries to sell us things like fur and and we'd sell them wood. This worked grea until they invented fucking plastic and some baldfuck came crawling on his belly nipples turning over pebbles saying oh yes oh yes. Trail of slop aside. Cough. I'm beginning to think this is all working out like shit.
Sorry your not going to fucking believe this. apparently thiers this free movie for sale. Im not sure how you get it so if any one knows how to down load the movie FOR FREE instead of giving me a fucking VIRUS featuring PICTURES OF THE LINDBERGH BABY CRAWLING ACROSS MY SCREEN TO CLICK ON YAHOO OPENING YAHOO ENDLESSLY PLEASE LET ME KNOW. I grieve the lindbergh baby every day this is so tumultous for me i have to drag myself to the bathroom to piss im so weak and feeble now
ok.
onto the topic o today's wisdom colum i hate this hairy potter fuck. hairy pooper we call him. i hate him i hat ehim i hat ehim he doesn't give a shit about being a wizard he only cares about being special is all oh boy im prophesized OKAY! NO ONE CARES. what could make one fucking sweet baby boy so specila god dammit i just remembered the lindbergh baby again im crying.
we need to find this
fucking baby
that's it. i don't give a shit any moure. We're gonna surf these astral realms like it's a wave of cum in a cum commercial and we're gonna locate this god damn baby we're gonna find out what happened to the lindbergh baby i dont give a fuck if it takes a hundred trillion years we're finding
were finding this fucking thing. stupid ass hole DIP SHIT the mystery tantalies me it crawls under sewer grates and hides in news papers in corners of forgotten libraries in secrets brought to graves in a hundred stories in a hundred books the baby this baby never found never known we're finding out i'll scry a hundred times i'll uncover dungeons and ghouls and i will bring from the coveted alleyways of deceit the truth wrapped in swaddled silk
"WHAT HAPEPNED TO THE LINDBERGH BABY? A WIZARD'S INQUISITON"
Chapter 1: Wha Happens in Jersey... LEAVES JERSEY???
i USED to dream of Charles Lindbergh every night. in my lonely tower. in the nights before i escaped the prison complex at Mammathon. his face and his fucked up chin dimple never left my sweetly sleeping sight as my hands tucked into flat praying form underneath my head. i was always in the back of the Spirit of Saint Louise as he passed over the night time seas the oceans star twinkling ahead and both of us were silent as a bat hiding in a bat slaughter factory only could i see his tiny little pin prick dome silhouetted against the night
i USED to believe that this was a sign that i should cross the seven seas which ofcourse i did. but still the dreams persisted a hundred years . to note this all happened before the lone eagle was but a freaky flagellic tad pole in the balls of Charles A. Lindbergh and obviously thus before Charles A. Lindbergh (son) was even a conceptual leap worthy of making. but whats it all mean. hows it all conect. well damn fuck let's start with what we know for certain:
NUMBER ONE: Charles Lindbergh flew some planes
This fact is gonna be useful later
NUMBER TWO: Charles Lindbergh was born in Detroit, Michigan
Okay
NUMBER THREE: Charles Lindbergh flew some planes
We already fucking knew that one but ok
That's all we know for certain. my google is broken. now like chuck we fly into the sloppy unknown
LindberghBaby.com shows no results. Apparently I can buy the stolen chubster for 1,9995 dollars or 55.42 per month for 36 months. Who knew the kidnappers would be so brazen selling this freak baby like it was some baby wet market for famous selling famous babies stolen from famous aviators. im sucking on my cigarette before i sttart stepping on it. this town aint like it used to be
back at the mage tower i pull out my crystal ball. lets seen what sort of mysteries we can uncover
god fucking dammit. an ancient spellcaster from hong kong cursed this crystal ball i got for cheap to only reflect local news but then when i bought i second hand on ebay they didnt fucking say that and ebay wont give me back my thirty bucks. try shaking us for good gimlets. what the fuck does that mean hongkong daily press. god dammit. i fucking hate this dumb fucking crystal ball. i throw it at the wall so hard it makes an enormous dent in my cobbled ancient stone walls.
oh...but whats this...? a little shard of the shattered crystal ball still glows... what is she trying to show
oh fuck we're hot on the case . i wonder if anyone else knows about this. this. a motor car buried in a hay barn and the motor bandits. what the fucks a motors bandit. so close yet so far. lets investigate motor bandits . but first i have to glue it back together. god dammit. i hate the glue store. the gentleman and lady are always there and it pisses me the fuck off.
oh what a big fucking surprise. i tried to cast a kill spell on these chuffled cocksuckers about twenty times but it seems they always fail to die. they ask if i've wandered into perhaps the wrong glue store and maybe i am looking for McGammigan's Glue Emporium down in the Dipshit Ward. i say no of fucking course not do you think i huff paint by the industrial gallon or something you gotta be a real moe or joe or curly or something to go down their. they clink their fucking wine glasses together and i briefly contemplate burnign this whole lemonade stand joint with my fingertips until its an ashen no man's land or covering it in boiling stinking pus but then the gentleman takes out a little vial of crystal ball glue and waggles it in front of me and says looking for this..? they clink wine glasees again. yes i am as a matter of fact now hand it over or ill get crazy all up in this bitch i'll go mild depressive all up on your ass not joking
his steely gaze gets serious. how much you gone give me
seven ninedy nine i say he says deal and chucks it at my head so hard it shatters his incredibly rare and priceless porcelain artifact uncovered from the Rheine but he and he lady only clink wine glasses and order a new one on amazon. god fucking dammit i hate this city. i head back and glue my crystal ball back together to get cooking on the story that's gonna make me so stupid rich i could buy an elephant. maybe two. i waggle my fingers and whack it a few times and it flickers back to life.
Al Capone......... what did you know? he offered 2000 bucks which he easily couldve used to buy an overhead truck trailer or maybe an inflatable swimming pool but instead he put it towards this baby... whys everyone want this baby... no one talks about that always "wheres the baby" but never "why do you care..." i think theres something up with this baby. charles lindbergh saw it. al capone saw it. my mentor saw it. the crystal ball glows again but this time with something highly unusual
im the baby this thing says WHO ARE YOU i scream at it WHO ARE YOU GET OUT OF MY FUCKING CRYSTAL BALL it tries to talk to me but i've already taken out my staff and started beating the broadcast into smithereens I REJECT ALL FALSE PROPHETS I REJECT ALL FALSE PROPHETS I REJECT ALL FALSE PROPHETS CHRIST AND HOLY SPIRIT PROTECT ME AND FUCKING KILL THIS THING
like post soviet nationstates, my crystal ball is shattered. the lindbergh baby is still out there. it's two p.m. i have to go to work.
Chapter 2: I Give Up on Finding the Lindbergh Baby
the beetle seller comes in and tries to sell me beetles at work. he doesn't know that i'm a genius and can identify that these beetles are all the same beetle but stretched and painted to look as if they are different sorts of beetles. still i appreciate a good joke and offer him a hundred thousand fake quarters for his collection. his penis nearly falls off and he accepts instantly. what a douche bag.
what's this? a plaque on the inside of the beetle container?
"The Beetle Collection of Charles A. Lindbergh Junior Junior"
wait i say running after the beetle salesman wait wait but he on the other side of the street turns around tips his pork pie hat and a massive twenty decker bus crosses afront of him and he disappears. what this means for my investigation that i forgot about i couldnt possibly imagine. i spend the rest of my shift selling automotive tomes to a bunch of wannabe chuds from the new mechanic social media called Wrenchstagram where apparently they mostly do thirst traps of drinking crude motor oil in front of an unholy quantity of automotive repair manuals but of course this does irreperable damage to their livers primarily and they die at roughly the same rate as those chuds who do the squirrel flying parachutes and everything. they call these Chugsters. they have artifically inflated the prices of both motor oil and automotives repair manuals essentially making the car obsolete
Chapter 3: I Give Up on Giving Up On the Lindbergh Baby
I have that dream again. Lindbergh is still in the front of the Spirit of St. Louise. The jazz of a long gone hotel lobby plays somewhere down there in the sea. We're sitting there silently and I remember why I got this whole jig going in the first place. I let myself get so easily distracted by the work of whatever that foul geezer baby in the crystal ball was that I entirely forgot what I was doing this all for... could I so easily have lost my way? Chugging down the sluppy functional oil of ignorance like one of those Chugsters, going into my own Dark Ages lantern swinging in hand whistling a tune as if I were not abandoning my values so quickly, suffering the same fate as a Chugster (dying intellectually vs. dying literally)...? My muscles shining in those beautiful videos. My gay little green thong that's been branded by AutoZone and sold to Chugster influencers glittering in the moonlight of a forgotten grove in the lush old world forests deep beneath the earth...
Pushing through endless crowds of Chugsters who are sickly yellowed in various states of liver failure, I make my way to the convention senter. Whoever this beetle fellow was he must know where the Lindbergh Baby is, and I'm going to wrench it from his sorry fucking butt hole. on my cracked i-phone four I send an e-mail to the boardwalk psychic I know who scrys him for me and says he's somewhere in the Chugster convenion but beware apparently Gasoline Gary is there today and considering doctors gave him a week to live this party is going to be fucking popping.
Gasoline Gary for those not in the know is this nation's modern day Charles Lindbergh. He was the first one to drink over four hundred and sixty two gallons of gasoline in one sitting easily beating out the previous record of fourty hundred sixty. They call Gasoline Gary's stunt the two-gallon petrol gulp heard round the world. If I had that sort of money I would buy at least an overhead truck camper or maybe even an inflatable swimming pool. God dammit
City hall explodes. What the fuck
A large megaphone declares a state of emergency. PLEASE STAY CALM. ALL NON-CHUGSTERS OR OTHER UPSTANDING CITIZENS PLEASE HEAD TO THE CONVENTION CENTER. ALL CHUGSTERS PLEASE HEAD TO THE CHUGSTER KILLING FACTORY. The Chugsters tend to read reuters so they are jingling at the tit to head to the chugster killing factory. yuh-yes i say. finally an opportunity to sneak into the convention center and find mr. beetle. alas as fucked as i may be at any given moment it is revealed that all around me are the chugsters in this crowd and i am whisked away like a fucking feather in the wind or a fish in a torrential shit wave either way my ass gets whisked even as i push and scream they say cmon bro your coming with us i say I DONT KNOW YOU FUCKING PEOPLE!!!!!!! they're pumping their muscles and chugging various black liquids in bottles on the way. they're chanting something in a language i can't understnad. god dammit god dammit god dammit. wheres this fucking baby
we approach the edge of town as i start praying. hello god its me bartleby and im just wondering if you'll forgive me for practicing magicks outlawed in you're HOLY BOOK and let me out this FUCKING MESS of course he don't respond. theres gunfire everywhere although im not sure who the police are shooting at and it is clear they are gathering massive casualties. as far as i can tell the chugsters are mostly peaceful and not a single one has died . i call my familiar but hes a slug and is crushed underfoot i extend my arm and scream noo mournfully but of course he only becomes a little stain passing behind a hundred thousand pounds of churning mechanic man meat.
the chugster killing factory looms.
this is really the end i think. my spells are so fucking bunk in the face of this much viscious fuckable man meat that i really think im gonna die . im carried through the sliding metal doors of a murder factory that is at least fifty feet tall and twenty feet wide . the smell of blood and viscera hangs from da poorly lit foggy windows and i see chugsters by the tens of thousands marching into a swallowing hole filled with metal and chartreuse meat slop feet a flutter minds a empty they groan it's a layer of hell it's a layer of hell i'm nearing the mouth and it's a layer of hell oh virgil where are you virgil. but
wait
wait
whose that up on the machine
oh god dammit it's fucking
it's gasoline gary im gonna throw up
god he's so fucking handsome. that's the one thing no one can deny about gasoline gary is that he's maybe the sexiest shit head on this side of the amigara fault even when he looks like a putrid stinking pool that a hundred geriatric pissers went project x in. while the chugsters are distracted by his moving speech i scramble out of this mess. listen. listen. i know this fucking cat is about to get cooking hotter and harder than a spartan grease fuck orgy and i am not about to let gasoline gary take out the one person who might still be able to get this baby free from the shackles of its imprisonment (me). i wiggle my fingers and cast a spell to open a portal away from this place but two things happen
1. the portal appears immediately above gasoline gary
2. it ejects one comical stove pipe hat onto his head with the word MAYOR inscribed in pearlescent cummy white
being the LAST thing
i wanted to happen
the wrenchstagram goons begin to shriek with unsacresanct delight as they conclude this is a sign. they literally and im not even joking when i say this they fucking ripped apart every single member of the national guard that had showed up because this was essentially their mandate of heaven. gasoline gary extends his arms . "IMBIBE AND SEE! IMBIBE AND SEE!" and obviously starts to melt. of course by this time ive already looked away because i knew it'd be gross and guess fucking what it was. this aint my first time around the block. i sneak out through the ADA emergency exit, walking a very long time down the winding ramp as the sounds of havoc revolt and slaughter is emitted from the chugster killing factory
Chapter 4: It's Coming Home
back in my tower. playing dark souls (forgot about the baby)