Monday, January 4, 2010

A Feaster Antagofeasts At A Party Thrown In His Honor

A troupe of minstrels held a listening party for their new CD, and I, being the new string-ed gourd player, was invited. I did not play on the album, but no matter: I was in the band. What fortune! I had done minimal labor but was handed panjandrum status nonetheless. Surely, I thought, my heightened social position would allow me to leverage my fame and traipse merrily to nymph wooing victory!

I arrived at the tavern and, as it was a foreign environment, was immediately filled with a blend of apprehension and wonderment. The strange establishment seemed like a secret den of the once-hip and frugal. What pleasures awaited me? What hazards lurked amidst the crowd? I entered gingerly and greeted my fellow minstrels.

After a tequila libation in salute of the band's loyal patrons, I embraced an old ally: the Rusty Nail. As our magic disk began its melodious rotation, I pertinaciously assumed prime feasting posture and readied myself to awaken the most stubborn and secret feastrels from their an-cient and laborious slumbers. 'Twas to be a cheerful but substantial errand, as I was in a strange and unfamiliar mead hall with feastrels of a more ag-ed variety, but my disquiet quickly subsided, as feastrels began bringing me their copies of the shiny sabot for my signatory mark! Drunk with power, I could not restrain myself from being a total fuck-stick.

Within moments, a handsome Doxie I had met at the last troupe engagement timidly requested my affections. Short and petite with delicate features, this brunette also sported a slightly plump posterior—a vice I lasciviously covet. That she was taken made me indignant, as did her bucolic bearing—no doubt a product of her horrendous education at a certain East Texas school. (Also, I am not sure if she asked me for my autograph). After antagofeasting her and her boorish Alma mater, I demanded she carry my mead flagon whilst I bestowed my mark upon the talismans of many a-quivering doxie. "Hold this", I would say as I flirted at length with her many competitors. Incensed by her failure to attain my prized affections, she scolded me and stormed away in a great, galumphing huff. Methinks I took that game a tad too far, but time will tell.

After a brief band photo shoot session commemorating the occasion, rife with saucy poses and pouty countenances (to the delight of eager onlookers), we made our way to the patio. Our nymph lead singer demanded attention and began singing one of our jollier tunes, as the crowd clapped and roared with delight. My festive cheer guided me to the next target of my affections- an Iranian expat hipster version of Robin Tunney.

Nymph: "You are probably smarter than 90% of the people
here"

Me: "I know"

Nymph: "That is cocky!" I laughed. Then she asked me how old I was.

I replied, "Don't worry, I don't think you're too
old for me."

"But, oh! I have a boyfriend," she said as her cheeks grew flushed and her eyes became heavy and glazed with lust.
She touched her collar bone tenderly, her fingers playing along its outline as she tried, unsuccessfully, to resist. The nymph eagerly gushed her hopes and dreams to me, the ambivalent shaman, as I absentmindedly paused to check my cell phone or wave to friends. Each time she grew impatient I would brush her, seemingly by accident. First an arm, then a thigh. Soon I transitioned to adjusting her jewelry and hair, finally fiddling with her glasses.


"I think it's cool that you are unafraid to look dorky", I said, "You make it your own!"

Naturally she transitioned to whispering "secrets" in my ear which were about as confidential and sensitive as a Fortune 500 Facebook profile. I grasped her short hair and pulled her ear toward my lips, her petite frame tensing briefly before its surrender. I demanded that she reveal more valuable secrets and threatened to extract them through more persuasive methods.

But hark! A gaggle of new found feastrels approached out of nowhere and offered me libations, interrupting my nefarious hypnotism. As wave after wave of admiring groupies descended upon me, the nymph, overwhelmed by the surging hordes, disappeared in the morass. A short pause gave way to further courtship of the Rusty Nail. I was now drunk on power AND elixir, and rapidly grew more and more belligerent. The feast gods of mischief had possessed me fully! My antagofeasting was now as blunt as it was impetuous, and to inflame matters I was surrounded by insolence! Among the several that I propositioned, I made one cougar cry (by pointing out her age, subtly or blatantly I do not remember), and also lubriciously requisitioned the fetching mead wench who accused me of my indiscretion.

Without pausing to answer to the growing protest, I made my way to the establishment's water closet. After the usual ceremonies, while whistling and admiring my reflection, I was ambushed by the Iranian Tunney! She had spotted my merry gait and lurked like a jungle cat, waiting to rush me from the surrounding thicket. I happily kissed her as she clawed into my haunches, and to her delight, I made her my prey. I had little time. In a flash of genius, I thought back to one of my pleasurable cinematic excursions in which I witnessed a sexual maneuver known as the dutch rudder. I will not reveal the outcome of the negotiation that transpired (that would be un-gentlemanly), but I will say that the vixen was quite amused by the novelty of our boisterous rumpus.

As I made my way back into the mead hall it became apparent that I, the salacious wizard, was no longer welcome. My victims had vindictively mentioned my earlier indiscretions to the manager and eagerly pointed out that I was the cause of the growing rabble outside of the men's room. (My laser feast focus had blocked out the noise of several impatient patrons pounding on the door that I had barricaded shut.)

But fair Freyr was to remain sympathetic to my feast that night! Just as the booze steward began to hassle me, my trusty feastrel friend arrived to whisk us away to the next feasting hall. He had not been drinking, (as he needed to get up the next day on order from his pooh-bah, and graciously agreed to take us to the next beachhead- which was infested with strip-ed and afflicted drone alike. Thankfully my aggressive countenance and swashbuckling pulchritude made me irresistible to the establishment's maidens, so I quickly seized the nearest Doxie and began a-grinding. Like Hephaestus masterfully shaping Olympian irons, I bent her to my will with the ardent glow of my vigorous pelvic undulations. Alas, our union was broken by the tumult revelers exiting the closing mead hall. As I departed, I ran across a cabal of entitled looking slatterns parsimoniously guarding a pack of Camel Lights. The mere sight of these blond visages of sweet Aphrodite urged me, like a naughty naughty Ares, to further antagofeast.

Me: "Give me your cigarettes."

Slatterns: "Oh, here you go!", as they fidgeted excitedly. I walk
away.

Slatterns to my feastrel friend: "Oh hell no! He can't just steal our cigarettes, that's bullshit!"

Me to my feastrel friend: "A bountiful conquest. Now we feast!!!! To Lil' Bigs, padawan."

Feastrel friend to me: "Give me those bro, we gotta give em back! They're trying to find the bouncers or the cop outside...."

Me: "NEVER SUBMIT TO A SLATTERN"

Finally, my feastrel friend snatched my prize and returned it to the flustered bevy of squawking straw-haired stoats. It was time to leave. After finding the Doxie and acquiring her phone number in front of her protesting Drone boyfriend, I signaled my nubbin feastrel and we retreated back to his bro palace, where I seized an unopened box of Wheat Thins as recompense for his insubordination. The feast was mine again!

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Wild West Feaster: Wyatt McDoogalson

Wyatt McDoogalson narrowed his eyes as he surveyed the desert. Dark smoke billowed from within the boiling caldera of the ominous Mount Drone as it loomed in the distance. The words of Chief Happy Vines echoed in his ears: "Many moons...many moons since they come take feastrels and nymph." It was tragic that it had come to this.

With the advent of glittering apparel, the wild, Wild West had become perilous for feastly pioneers. Dragon Drones swarmed across the range, getting jacked on whey protein and snake oil and harshing the Mellows of feasters throughout the western territories. Curse those sparkling dragon shirts, he thought, if those drones hadn't exhausted the rhinestone supply back in the Old States, this would have never happened.

It all started with a young man named Leslie LeBeaux. A reformed drone turned feastrel, Leslie traveled with Wyatt to the furthest reaches of the western continent in search of adventure. They met in a saloon one evening when Wyatt, in a burst of Jolly Panjandromia, made a mash of a harem of coquettish doxies with his charisma-soaked pelvic thrusts. Nubbin Leslie had never seen such outrageous female attention lavished upon a single man. Burgeoning with frantic curiosity, he abandoned his drone companions and joined Wyatt. Pelvic thrusting in tandem and complimented by the apropos melodies of William Smith, they hypnotized onlookers with their divine jubilation. Leslie’s drone companions, mau-maued by Wyatt's torch of feast, fled from the bar in terror. From that moment forward, Leslie clung to Wyatt like a happy puppy. Alas, Janus would soon turn his face.

It happened on Mount Drone. A stalwart aficionado of volcano luging, Wyatt was delighted to discover the perilous peak. A juniper greenhorn, Leslie was elated to accompany him, for Wyatt had promised to teach him the feastly art. In order to show Leslie the proper method, Wyatt offered to luge first. An awe-stricken Leslie watched as Wyatt careened down the side of the ticking time-bomb. Suddenly, Wyatt disappeared into the mountainside. Horrified that his feast mentor had fallen into a lava pit, Leslie charged down the mountain. When he reached the point of Wyatt's disappearance, he noticed a fissure in the surface. He cautiously peered into the crack, expecting to see a mangled Wyatt or river of lava. Instead, he was greeted by a glittering crevice. His eyes began to glaze. Wyatt, who had fallen to the bottom of the pit, looked up and shouted at him.

"Sunuvabitch Leslie. I'm boogered up; I think my got-damn leg is broken. Toss me a damn rope"

No response.

"Leslie?" he shouted again.

No response.

"Leslie, you flannel mouthed mudsill, is that a bluff or do you mean it for real play?"

After a short pause, he heard the hollow tone of a drone's voice.

"I'm sorry Wyatt. I cannot help you." he sounded ghostly; possessed by a former demon that Wyatt had thought to be vanquished. "The rhinestones...."he continued covetously, "they...they're so beautiful. I must tell the others."

With that, Leslie shinned out and left Wyatt to rot in what would later become the notorious Drone glitter mines.Though he was surprisingly gotten in the neck by that four-pusher, old Wyatt was no stranger to a bad box. He had been in his fair share of pickles. With nothing but the raw grit and determination of a Panjandrum, Livid he climbed the side of the rhinestone crevice, using the jutting bones of his broken leg as braces against the craggy walls.

"Ain't nuthin' to worry 'bout," he growled through his teeth in an effort to encourage himself, "that sunovabitch gon' get what's comin' to 'im"

Dragged out but roostered up on rage, he vowed to antagofeast Leslie to the point of tears. Leslie had woken up the wrong passenger. Wyatt's anger afforded him just enough strength to reach the base of the mountain. Knackered, but still above snakes, he collapsed into unconsciousness.

Wyatt awoke beside a glowing fire. Half-naked figures danced about exuberantly and a joyous drumming filled the air. A large man in a feathery headdress approached him from across the fire. As the feather clad figure neared, Wyatt saw that he was painted, wearing only an ornate leather loin cloth. The dancers halted in reverence at his passing. He must be a Jolly Panjandrum, Livid, thought Wyatt, I am in good hands.

"I am Chief and Shaman. Me name Chief Happy Vines. We know you follow Feast. We feasters. Fix your leg by an-cient way."

Wyatt looked at his leg and saw that it had been mended by the shaman's feast magic. The chief demanded that Wyatt display his gratitude by joining them for their feast. Sumptuous buffalo steaks, crispy overland trout, succulent mysteries, and sundry chickabiddy dishes were laid before them. And of course, the who-hit-John flowed voluminously. They drank heartily from buckskin flasks and smoked the chief's finest herbs. The following day, Wyatt was made an honorary member of their tribe and, invigorated by their warm wishes, he struck out towards the Old States to hunt the perfidious Leslie.

Upon his return to the East, Wyatt learned that Leslie had become the leader of a Drone Glitter Cartel and was mining Mount Drone for precious rhinestones and glitter powder to be used for the production of dragon shirts. The quality of rhinestones on Mount Drone was superior to any that had ever been found. Word of the precious sparkling glitter in the west spread rampantly and ultimately precipitated the Rhinestone Rush of 1873. Leslie took advantage of the douche bag influx, recruiting them to as his thugs. In order to find laborers, he used his thugs to enslave a small village of adventuresome feastrels who had followed another ace-high Wild West feaster -- Claudius O'Donavan -- out to the mountains. Shouting “Bro!” and wielding certificates for free bottle service, the drone army descended upon the settlement and murdered O’Donavan. The frightened feastrels scattered like a covey of quail and, without a feaster to protect them, were soon swept up by the overbearing and obnoxious Drones. Wyatt knew what he had to do.

His bristles raised anew by the memory of his betrayal, Wyatt spat in the desert sand, mounted his nitroglycerine-packed covered wagon, and fired his shootin' iron in the air. As he charged forward, the armies of Chief Happy Vines thundered across the arid flats. The plangent rumble of their charge shook the earth. The drones frantically ran about the mountain, preparing for the onslaught. The feastrels cooed and quivered from within their prison cells. It was a boss shindy, and blood was in the air. The dark cloud of livid feasters swarmed up the mountain side, surging towards the waiting ranks of glittering drones. Wyatt, lusting for the destruction of the evil mines, charged through the glittering assailants. Firing his lever action 30-30 lead pusher with one hand and swiping maniacally with his saber clutched in the other, Wyatt kicked up a row as drones fell before his chaotic chariot of death.

The entrance to the mine lay on the other side of the boiling Caldera. If Wyatt was to have any chance of destroying the factory of malice, he needed to cross the rope bridge the drones had built over it. The lava river was hot as a whorehouse on nickel night, but without batting an eye, he flew over the lip of the crater and burned the breeze onto the bridge. Wooden slats cracked under the slamming hooves of his dark steeds and the bridge swung furiously. Wyatt, mad as a March hare, cackled raucously, his eyes consumed with blood lust.

Like a boulder tumblin' wildly, he barreled down the switchbacks. When he caught site of the mine, he unleashed the horses and leaped from the cart. It hurtled into the entrance and crashed into a wall. In an explosion of glittering sparkles the mine collapsed. Amidst a shower of shiny snow, Wyatt galloped to the feastrel prison and threw open the bolt to the main gate. A company of braves toting volcano luges stoically awaited the flood of frightened feastres. As the feastrels poured out of the prison, each brave took a feastrel on his luge.

As lava seeped like blood from the mountainside gash left by the fulminating nitroglycerin, thousands of feastrel-brave pairs luged towards freedom. Wyatt lifted the horn to his lips and sounded it in victory.

Chief Happy Vines's tribe took many scalps that day. Wyatt still wears Leslie's on his belt.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Panjandrums


Marvin Gaye, Hugh Hefner, Don Draper, and Burt Reynolds. These legendary men share something more than fame. Each one of them has been a panjandrum of feast.

Enter Panjandrum
Panjandrum status is a fluid state through which the most prolific feasters travel. In this panjandromic state, Panjandrums conjure epic feasts at will and command armies of loyal feasters on the saturnalian battlegournd. There are three levels of panjandrums: Jolly Panjandrum; Panjandrum, Livid; and Jolly Panjandrum, Livid. Transformations are spontaneous and rhapsodic, bathing all bystanders in ethereal regality, yet the sacred metamorphosis is but a transient delectation. Though it may transpire copiously throughout a feaster's life, Panjandromia is oft as elusive as it is capricious. Even the most adept feasters have encountered profound obstacles to preserving the intoxicating glow for more than a paltry few hours. Yet hope persists. Bad-boy feastologist Cardovan Cantrinellini has unearthed evidence suggesting that Panjandromia can be maintained indefinitely. In his latest dig, Cantrinellini unearthed an-cient scrolls that were likely written by a nubbin feastrel scribe at the First Synod of Feast. Though incomplete, the runic texts detail an archaic, promethean technique that may offer the keys to Elysium.

Jolly Panjandrum
The most basic of panjandrum statuses, Jolly Panjandrums are easily identified. Their raucous euphoria is contagious and magnetic. Like a sun of unadulterated jubilance, their cheer obliterates stormy dispositions lurking within shadows of sundry taverns, cubicles, and homesteads. So strong is their feast influence that even surly Strip-eds and cantankerous Drones cannot resist the call. 'Tis quite a sight to witness intransigent enemies of feast succumbing to the heavenly blast of the stentorian horn.


[Ed. Note - An artists rendering of A Christmas Carol, this is a depiction of what a Jolly Panjandrum tending to a nubbin feastrel resembles. Feasters, however, do not and will never subscribe to the insidious collectivist agenda of Charles Dickens.]

Panjandrum, Livid

Unlike his jovial counterpart, the Panjandrum, Livid is a anachronistic tank tearing across a prehistoric battlefield. Like naughty Ares, he goads feast opponents into vigorous bouts of antagofeasting. A relentless force of wit and ribaldry, he lays waste to spiteful teetotalers and reluctant ninnies. His revelry is unparalleled as he, a mischievous tornado, wreaks havoc upon the unwitting. But, despite his bellicose nature, he shares the magnetism of his jollier compatriot. Droves of Doxies and Slatterns are powerless once trapped by his planetary gravity. After all, assholes are notoriously successful with the womenfolk.



Jolly Panjandrum, Livid

There is no greater feast beacon than the Jolly Panjandrum, Livid. He is the unassailable lord of the feast domain. Lesser feasters, mere vassals in his kingdom, are drawn to his unquestionable power and glory. This is the rarest form of panjandrum. Perhaps the most famous of these chosen few was Archimedes Malsooktomian, hero of the Great Strip-ed Wars of the 700s, who led a thousand strong feastrel army against the invading hordes of infamous Strip-ed war lord Chad "Bro Chill!" Thompson.

"I will suffocate the unwilling with my tentacular beard. Drinks all around!"

Friday, October 16, 2009

Feastologist Babin Tibideaux Discovers Feast Runestones in Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana

The following passage was translated from runic tablets unearthed by noted feastologist Babin Tibideaux in south Louisiana. A startling find, the tomes have only begun to be translated and promise a wellspring of insight. Our knowledge of Feastory will be forever changed! Carbon dating has been inconclusive, but most estimates range from really old to anc-ient. Feastlator Jean-Fran├žois Tomkyns is credited with the translation, and if feasthropologists are accurate in their understanding of the feastilects of the time, then the English translation should read as follows:

"’Twas to be a merry affair that day, as we feasters surged with momentum after vanquishing the Succubus who had nearly drained our fellow feaster, Einarr Einmannvitsbrekkaskald [1]. The creature, although bewitching, was no match for our relentless mirth. Joyless hag! 'Now', we bellowed, 'we can concentrate on our clever coven of skaldic rhapsodes [2], Gourds of Destruction!' Thrilled with the prospect of wooing nymphs with our spectacular display of musical fusion, we readied our feast.

The usual amenities were as abundant as our wayward clan was apt, and natives from all over the strange land matriculated to our gathering, cautious yet inquisitive. 'Plenty of feast for all!' we said, as our newfound neighbors looked on, awestruck at the incredible bounty. The Gourds and I struck up a brisk tune, as our revitalized companion, Einnar, slew onlookers with his
vivacious melodic creations which were fiercely staccato in righteous indignation. As he recovered his taste for feast nectar with much jovial howling and fanfare, Einnar shone with a luminence that would humble cruel Surtr himself, but with a grand benevolence worthy only of the world of FEAST!

Alas, there were a petulant few who would not partake. Intransigently they stood beyond the youthful flickering of our glorious pyre, ominously portending struggle anew. We lamented the scarcity of our kind and implored the great gods to fill the world with feasters, but soon realized we were a chosen elite.

Just as the feast's embers cast a crepuscular hue, a
jolly panjandrum materialized, livid. 'Hark! This feast will see no abatement! Stoke the flames! Add sweet smelling sage! [2] Let us cast flickering shadows with the jubilance of our unprecedented exultations! Undulate with glee as we raise our chalices!' With that he disappeared, and our shame was replaced by a resolve to cavort with consummate glee. We grabbed our string-ed gourds [2] and crooned to an infectious incantation. In the distance the churlish sentinels were silenced at last, transfixed with wonderment..."

[1] - A combination of two nicknames: skald (norse bard) and mannvitsbrekka (hill of man's wit, paragon of virtue).
[2] - Clear evidence of cultural interchange between the clan and peoples met on voyage; although the extent of which is unclear, due to widely known evidence of knowledge passed down through secret feaster lore (which is nearly ubiquitious and omnipresent).

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Wench Wednesday: Slattern Power!!!

The triumvirate's harem of slatterns has been getting quite upset about their lack of representation on Feast Ethos. So in the interest of gender equity, we present Wench Wednesdays. Each "hump day," one of our Doxies will present a guest post about issues important to the womenfolk.

I asked Kabeirus for his credit card to buy some new shoes......you know, the red manolos with the [indecipherable slattern drivel]! LOL.......but he said no!!!! I said OMG Kabeirus I have no shoes to match this dress WTF am I supposed to wear!! I told him he TOTALLYYYY was not being sensible and I cried in my room for an hour while he watched House. That didn't work though. Men are so unreasonable!!!

Miss Salmon really delivers here............we ARE sensible!!!

Link:
Chris Swann reports that, yes, men have suffered 75% of the job losses in this recession. But look at the last recession: they suffered 86% of the job losses in that one. And the recession before that? More than 98% of the job losses. He concludes:
As the slide in manufacturing and production tails off, male workers can expect some relief. The problems of many women in the workforce are far more ingrained and harder to deal with. Man-cession aside, it’s still a man’s world.
The worlds where I live my professional life — both finance and the blogosphere/punditocracy — are massively overweight men; that’s an unambiguously bad thing. Women are more sensible than men, and less likely to take extreme risks. If we’d had more women in charge of the global financial system, I suspect that the most egregious excesses of the past decade would never have occurred. So if we must have a recession, then a man-cession is exactly what we need.

Take THAT, Kabeirus!

Monday, October 12, 2009

The Art of Antagofeast

Over the course of his grand misadventures, a feaster will be forced to combat a veritable menagerie of unsavory characters in order to protect his Mellow, feastrels, and the gloriously unfettered spirit of the feast. So precious are these commodities, that to yield even one to his rivals would ineluctably and eternally tarnish the feaster's divine ebullience. A feast is no compromise. No concessions are made under the flimsy guise of social diplomacy. By definition, a feast is pure, unbridled saturnalia and is therefore disqualified by the sordid, oppressive stains of stark borders and tacit agreements alike.

Stark Border: "Look bro, you can't wear a t-shirt that says 'THE FEAST' on it into this bar. We're a classy place. If you had something trendy like that [points at Dragon Drones] you might be able to come in, but probably not since there are famous people inside."

Tacit Agreement: The succubus forces a man to routinely pass on posh soirees so that she can hoard him in her hell den like a fookin prawn hoards cat food. "But Cha-aaad," she whines, "you promised."

Feasters never submit, yet they deign to defend themselves with the brutish physical and inept mental effrontery employed by their assailants. How can this be? How may they successfully thwart the persistent advances of the Strip-eds and Drones if not by force? What of the devious subterfuge of the Slobberchops and Succubus? The icy exterior of misguided Doxies and Slatterns?!

Goosfraba, my padawan feastrel. The answer is simple: antagofeast.

Like wild, wild west feastrel savior, Wyatt McDoogalson, charging over the boiling caldera of Mount Drone in his nitroglycerin-stuffed wagon, antagofeast is as volatile as it is righteous. 'Tis staggeringly beautiful to witness a feaster rapturously antagofeasting, clutched in the throes of brazen ecstasy as he feverishly embraces danger, his fickle paramour. Even mighty Zeus, overwhelmed by poignancy upon witnessing such grace, lets a single testosterone infused tear tumble down his empyrean countenance as an homage to the antagofeast's majesty.

Attack and Defense
When confronting Slobberchops, Succubae, Strip-eds and Drones, a successful antagofeaster is a sedulously sharpened and meticulously precise lethal instrument. A dauntless torero, he dances fiercely around his bullish foe. His movements are a symphony of grace, color, and elegance, and his joyous mirth is reflected by the playful fluttering of his crimson victorine which, like ephemeral laughter, taunts the lumbering beasts with its perpetual escape. The virtuosos -- rare antagofeasters with a natural talent -- draw the beasts so close that their bodies brush, but never allow their enemies the prize for which they so longingly ache. Ultimately, the impassioned dance of death reaches a crescendo, and the antagofeaster must slay his bellicose and ponderous opponent. A carefully placed jab with his rapier of charismatic wit will leave the creature mortally wounded. Following the villain's collapse, some feaster's have been known to remove their fallen combatant's ear as a gift for a lucky nymph or two (preferably the vanquished brute's wench be it a Strip-ed or Drone).

"Nice hat, bro. I think I want it. Give it to me," the Drone says to impress his Doxie.

"Only if you give me that goat-tee." We are now underway. The Doxie is chortling coyly.

"You know what, bro, fuck you!"

"Ah! Why no, I did not know that. I think that your proposition is agreeable. What is your initial offer? I typically charge by the hour."

"What the FUCK. I'm not gay, you fag," he stammers, "Come on, Cindy Lou, let's get out of here."

Later on, Cindy Lou will make sex eyes at you from the bar. If you play your cards right, she may treat you to a romp in a stall of the mead hall's water closet.



Antagofeasting at its finest


Psychological Seduction
In addition to functioning as an inescapable atlatl of justice on the high plains of Feastopia, the antagofeast is a valuable asset to any feaster who wishes to seduce effervescent Doxies and Nymphs (this tactic is triumphant with slatterns, but not recommended...you can do better). As the potentates of the female feast hierarchy, Doxies and Nymphs are notoriously high-maintenance, vigorously subjecting potential suitors to manipulative gauntlets designed to determine feastworthiness (oft referred to as "shit tests"). One way to not only pass the gauntlets, but in so doing, take psychological control of the situation is to invoke the antagofeast.

"I know you. You're Eleutherios. I heard that you're mean to girls."

"Yeah, I sometimes am, but only when they say stupid things. You are off to a pretty good start."

"Well, you never know, I might say something stupid."

"Probably true.”

"You don't seem so bad to me."

"Told you it was true."

If you happen to be with fellow feasters, you can use the antagofeast to establish yourself as the ruling panjandrum of the feast. Your companions, acknowledging your lusty advances, will recognize your mischief and respect your bid for panjandrum status in the name of Doxie slaying. Thrilled by the prospect of spectacle, hilarity, and ultimate victory, your nearby feast allies will assume support roles, fending off Succubae cock blocks, misdirecting the time bomb of a Slobberchops's desperate agenda and even playing devil's advocate, feigning emotional alliance/defense for your target (but in a patronizing, chuckling grandfatherly way). As they support you, your raucous good cheer and naughty gleaming eyes will set the lasses fertile loins a-quiver and they will compete amongst themselves for your affections whilst the feastrels usher them to your feet. Ready your scepter, for you are King of Feast.



The Divining Rod

Antagofeast is also a superb method by which feasters may identify one another. Though it is true that, like Connor MacLeod sensing the Kurgan, you will feel the presence of feasters within your vicinity, you cannot be sure of whom they are until you have tested them. If trenchant witticisms are thrown at a feaster, he will catch them gleefully, returning the toss and striking a merry rapport. A good indication that you are speaking to a feaster is boastful wordplay and relentless sarcasm. If the recipient is an imposter, such as Succubus feigning jollity, it will internalize the seemingly pernicious remarks and grow increasingly flustered. Eventually, the impostor's impish inner-demon will burst forth groaning and screeching.

If you can harness the power of the antagofeast, the feast realm is yours.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Wench Wednesday: A Slattern Attacks

The triumvirate's harem of slatterns has been getting quite upset about their lack of representation on Feast Ethos. So in the interest of gender equity, we present Wench Wednesdays. Each "hump day," one of our Doxies will present a guest post about issues important to the womenfolk.

In this installment, a feast disciple emailed us the angry complaints of a vicious slattern. Keep reading to see his response to her attempt to excoriate him.

Her attack:
I can't send you a message for some reason, but i want you to go fuck yourself. you have absolutely NO idea who the fuck i am. and your fucking track record with Trey and trying to steal all his girlfriends is absolutely ridiculous. you literally have never spoken a word to me, in person, on the computer, on the phone. NEVER. i need you to shut your fucking mouth about "me wanting Trey’s dong" because you literally are talking out of your asshole. just because you personally know Trey’s girlfriend, does not mean that you can randomly say this untrue bullshit about me who you LITERALLY DO NOT KNOW. sorry but i don't like when people chat on the phone at my house for like 30 minutes, it has nothing to do with him being on the phone with Rose. you are a fucking moron, shut your mouth.

My response:
You're quite the vapid slattern. It would seem your capacity for chicanery is only surpassed by your convoluted prose. As a Dionysian feaster of the highest rank (a Jolly Panjandrum, Livid), I cannot let your insinuations go uncontested, even though your diction clearly indicates you are not worthy of the luminous ecstasy of my reason boner. So like a feastrel scribe of old, allow yourself to ruminate whilst I underscore your slobberchopaic tendencies. Although I am reluctant to proffer my wisdom, I shall do so in order to save you from your own perfidy.

Though you have made assertions to the contrary, I assure you that the impressively eloquent discourse to which I am treating you does not "literally" spring from my kraken’s maw – or as you might call it, albeit childishly: the asshole. How ghastly and provincial!

Like a gluttonous, obese child squabbling over the last jelly bean, your confrontation with Rose over Trey clearly illustrates your ravenous, NAY insatiable, hunger to imbibe his manhood (seeing as how you've parsimoniously guarded and gobbled his ambrosia many times before and still remain unquenched). As to our lack of acquaintance, whilst this fact is true, I do possess the knowledge that like a modern-day Babylonian whore, you have allowed Trey to ravage your wares at his convenience. So whilst I have not known you, biblically or otherwise, your nefarious reputation precedes you. Ensuite, your succubaic nature coupled with your spurning of Rose’s olive branch of friendship, rationally leads to my astute conclusion.

In hopes that no other fine feastrels fall prey to your wares, I shall take the liberty of posting this dialogue on your facebook wall for all to see, for it is the duty of every Jolly Panjandrum to guard his fellow feasters from the cunty whims of an entitled she-demon.