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


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-François 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 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!!!

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 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.

Monday, October 5, 2009

Feasters at Work: The Mellow, an Introduction

For most feasters, there comes a time when gainful employment -- however undignified it may be -- is necessitated by the costs of gastronomical orgies and lascivious soirées. Barring a few notable exceptions, the feaster will have to come to terms with the soul-crushing, fluorescently lit, inane e-mail littered reality that is the wasteland of his job. In order to endure work, a feaster must devise several strategies that enable him to float through his day with as little harshing of his hallowed Mellow as possible. Countless puffertoads, gossip queens, fussbudgets, nosey parkers, mother hens, buttinskies, priggish flunkies, brownnosers, and eager beavers threaten the peaceful seclusion of your cubicle; and evasive maneuvers are often required to scuttle the adversaries of your stygian office.

Maintaining his work place charade is of paramount importance, for monetary acquisition is the sole purpose of a feaster's labor. Termination, though physically liberating, would nuke his financial resources and bring his adventurous debauchery to a grinding halt. To make matters worse, feasters lack a simpleton's proletarian disposition and therefore find 8.5 hours of daily labor to be morally, intellectually, and physically repugnant. The only way to ford this river of disgrace is with a carefully guarded, well formed Mellow.

Unfortunately for feasters, the sacred Mellow is the primary sustenance of office poobahs, who prowl hallways for feasters with vibrant Mellows. When such a feaster is identified, the poobah plucks his gleelaxics gland and, in a process known as harshing, subjects the gland to an antiquated, but extremely effective press, in which the gleelaxics is crushed, squeezed, and filtered to produce invaluable Mellow Oil. The first run through the press produces the finest grade oil. This preliminary oil can be classified as Grade A Extra Fancy, Extra Fancy, or Fancy depending on the size and vigor of the feasters mellow, the length of gleelaxics removed, and the harshness with which it was extracted. Grade A Extra Fancy Mellow Oil is an emollient, luxurious substance and is a rare and highly prized delicacy over which many a spindly-fingered, greedy poobah can be seen squabbling.

The poobah's demonic Mellow press used to crush gleelaxics glands and bleed them dry

But woe to the poobah who cannot acquire the precious salve. In such instances, the poobahs, like crack fiends, resort to running the dregs of the gleelaxics paste from the first binge, resulting in a much less savory product. Desperate poobahs have even had to resort to five or six extractions, requiring the use of chemical solvents such as hexane and ether to extract the necessary Mellow. Such oil is merely last-resort sustenance for poobahs, and they will always pluck a fresh gleelaxics given the opportunity.

Chemical composition of Mellow

Luckily for feastkind, the gleelaxics is regenerative, and a seasoned feaster replenishes his gleelaxics with Mellow using various techniques. The unipotency of gleelaxocytes give the gland the remarkable ability to fully regenerate under amenable conditions, as long as more than 10% of the organ remain intact. Case studies involving the removal of greater than 90% of the gleelaxics have been disastrous. Poobahs -- the body snatching assholes -- are well studied on the organ's qualities and will loiter around highly regenerative Mellow in order to harsh it once it fully ripens [1]. Clever feasters must not only know how to regenerate their Mellows rapidly, but also be able to hide them from lurking, covetous poobahs. As George Costanza has demonstrated, poobahs, though ravenous, are also dim-witted and foolish and can be bamboozled by theatrical displays and clever distractions.

A bevy of feasters engaging in systematic Mellow regeneration

During a feaster's necessary pecuniary pursuits, a cultivated Mellow is his lifeline to the Feast, and a tenuous link it is. Feasters ripening a hearty Mellow must be acutely aware of the harshing strategies and desires of the circling toadies. Without firmly constituted Mellow, one can lose his ability to feast when the day is over, which is the first step down the callous path to a thankless job filled with business suits, Blackberries, and Lotus Notes and completely devoid of the commonly associated cocaine, hookers, and perfunctory jubilance. That is the way of the poobah, not the feaster.

[1] Overzealous poobahs who pluck a gleelaxics prematurely will find themselves with, at most, Fancy grade Mellow, resulting in an overly harshed feaster and an unsatiated poobah -- hardly a symbiotic relationship!

Allies of the Feast: Feastrels

The road to Shangri-La is wrought with hazards and villains to be avoided and slain. Slobberchops induces feast anxiety, Strip-eds harsh a feaster’s sacred mellow, Succubus desiccates a feaster’s soul, Afflicted Drones swarm a feast like locusts of the plague, but feastrels, eternal friends to feasters, enhance the feast.

A feastrel is one who is sympathetic to the feast but does not yet fully understand its nature. He is likely delighted by a feaster's antics, but is unable to harness the feast effectively and fears it might bring repercussions. Consequences? HA! Methinks I hear tawdry Dionysus chuckling nostalgically at the thought...

Feastrels are pliable. They comprise the feast sea and marvel at its waves. Like reeds in a river, they react passively but still contribute to the current as a whole. A feaster, like ebullient Poseidon rocking the seas, can excite the eager feastrels with his turbulent forces of mirth. A dutiful chorus, feastrels laud the heroic feaster as he bravely continues his scrumptiously naughty quest. Groupies to the rock stars of feast, the feastrels intermix freely with feasters, enocouraging feastrels to become feasters--even when the feastrels lack the natural talent.

The fledgling feastrel is an adorable creature. Count yourself lucky if you are privy to its earnest inquisitiveness. A young nubbin might inquire:

"If I wear this shirt does this mean I am a Strip-ed? But I like the color!" [There, there, young feastrel, stripes are perfectly dashing with the appropriate accoutrement.]

"I want to say 'Feast' more often, but I am not sure I am saying it right." [Now, now, practice makes perfect.]

"But if I tease her about her haircut, won't she just get mad at me? I want to get laid!" [Her hair makes her look like a dyke; it's polite to inform her.]

The Learning Ritual - Rite of Passage

Feasters take padawan feastrels under their wing, instructing through example. Typically, a confused Drone or Strip-ed will stumble upon the chamber of pleasures and be filled with an explosion of light and sound. Feasters wait proudly beyond the portal to glorious revelation. The young converts will find it difficult to shed their boorish dogma at the outset, but through persistent exposure to bountiful delights they will soon learn that there is treasure aplenty and doubloons for all.

Feastrels are sometimes hidden where they're least expected. If a dance floor is abandoned, merrily traipse to its center and broadcast a jubilant hip signal. It will be as clear as naval flags to the feastrel thirsting for such a dance-off. Arm your feast cannons and accelerate to ramming speed. Your hypnotizing thrusts and gyrations will give him the sign to unleash the flurry of dance moves he has been saving for just such an occasion. After wowing his cohorts with his moonwalk sequence and cabbage patch, he will be grateful for your unabashed purveyance of feast. Inform him that the only tribute necessary is his continued sprightly cheer, for he hath demonstrated a feaster's high feast-ichlorian count and is well on his way to Elysium should he trust his more princely instincts. It is a true feaster's merry nature to engender the feast in others, as it adds to his feast and the feast as a whole. Once a feastrel recognizes this task as a cheerful and lucrative errand, he becomes a feaster and his potential is limitless.

Remember: feastrels are hidden everywhere, and are veritable treasure factories waiting to be unlocked. The key to their access is the FEAST.

If you feel the feast is upon you, fear not! Harness the power and sweep up the feastrels in your path, and you shall be called Feaster! Boisterously guide, with your benevolent exultations, the doe-eyed feastrels.

Feastrels! Claim your prize!

Friday, October 2, 2009

Enemies of the Feast: Succubus, Part 2

Once a feast has reached its terminal velocity, the feaster, like brave Odysseus, embarks upon a glorious journey. Though the rewards are many, the feast is replete with its own maelstroms, monsters, and misleading temptations. Armed with knowledge of the perils and snares that lurk beyond the feasting Rubicon, a feaster is prepared to descend upon Rome to wreak havoc with his unrelenting revelry, unscathed by his enemies.

This is the second post in the Succubus Series. See: Part 1

Vanquishing Succubus

For eons, Succubus has been the scourge of the romantic landscape. Since the dawn of man, she has deviously hunted feasters and feastrels alike, draining their vigor with malevolent glee. Like a deranged Scrooge McDuck swimming in blood diamonds, she splashes most joyfully in a sea of cadaverous, grey-eyed victims. A feaster under fire has little recourse but to engage in mortal combat with the paranormal vixen. In their infinite wisdom, the elders of the antediluvian Synod of Feast recognized this threat and invented tactics designed to thwart and, in many instances, destroy the scheming harridan.

The ancients carefully explain that Succubus can be vanquished by two methods. The first, and most common, is often utilized once a feaster is already entangled in her Machiavellian web. The second is employed by feasters who delight in the hunt, and will be outlined in a future chapter.

The First Tactic - Avoidetensium Feastius Terminatiensis

In the early stages of her attack, Succubus prefers to use temptation and guile instead of force. Usually she will not become a rapacious bitch until your virility and self-esteem have been substantially effaced. But, once she has inhaled your mojo and holds dominion over your mind, your window of opportunity has passed. Your only hope for salvation rests with your fellow feasters, who, if she has performed her work dexterously, will be unconcerned with your whereabouts and know you as nothing more than a fading memory and a fallen feaster. It is imperative that you recognize your predicament before such a stage is reached.

Because of her proclivity for temptation, Succubus will encourage you to feast upon her Lotus constantly. Do not be fooled. You are merely eating, not feasting. Though superficially she may seem like another one of the many lustful women who simply have an unquenchable thirst for degrading sex, Succubus's intentions are deeper and horrifically insidious. She perniciously capitalizes upon the trust of a new relationship, especially when it is lubricated with copious, deviant, and novel intercourse. A bit of self-awareness during this period can rescue your soul from certain doom as it teeters o'er her gaping rancid maw.

Once she feels that her emotional connection to you is strong, she will begin to quietly chip away at your independence. Respond by allowing her to believe she has control. Let her grow accustomed to your placid submission. And then, while she is drunk with arrogance and power, ignore one of her demands. Instead of passively meeting her and her harem of wenches for non-fat chai latte's at Starbucks, treat yourself to an evening of carousing with your fellow feasters. They will be delighted to hear of your countermeasures and will treat you to sumptuous libations--Goldschläger and Everclear are sure to make appearances. Indubitably, they will sing your praises to numerous Doxies and Slatterns. Slay one of these sprightly creatures and see that your Succubus learns of your tawdry transgression.

Shattering her ego with your Hammer of Thor will break her. Most Succubae will let you loose if you are impervious to their machinations, but there are a few who will persist, albeit halfheartedly. Simply continue your pattern of counter-manipulation. She will eventually starve for lack of soul meat and leave you to search for another feaster.

Remember: A vile puckish she-gargoyle deserves no quarter.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Wench Wednesday: Ash is Getting Married!!!

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.

My BFF Ashley is getting married this weekend and me and Kabeirus are leaving town to go to her wedding this weekend!!!! I CAN'T WAIT............our bridesmaid's dresses are adorable!!! There from J Crew and there absolutely FABULOUS. Ash ordered them in lavender because she love love loveeees lavender. Remember her dress from the Chi Phi formal.....OMG!

OH! And speaking of lavender, that reminds me!...........I found this gorgeous little boutique sweets shop in my neighborhood. It sells the cutest little cupcakes. Their round, and made of sweet bread (not cake. total plus. LOW CAL!) and.........well, and they have little lavendar pansies made of icing on top. TEE HEE! I totally had my face pressed to the glass, which was embarassing because the SUPER hot guy working there probably thought I looked like a pig! LOL.

I batted my eyelashes at him, tho, and I think that i am in the clear. Besides, Kabeirus totally idolizes me, even if he never says so. It would be wrong to have another love interest. But know that we all like to peer over the fence every now and then!!! I mean we are strong, independent women. More of us are graduating from college and getting good jobs these days. The tables have turned and the men are on the run! GURL POWR!!!!

So, uh, totally lost my train of thought! Oh Ya! The wedding LOL HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Rubin gave her an absolutely GORGEOUS engagement ring.............hint hint Kabeirus...........J/K!!! Rubin is such a sweetie. He is so befuddled and goofy, but that only makes us happier for our best bitch ASH!!!!!!!!111 whoop whoop! We are totally excited that Ash is going to have such a fantastic wedding. Rubin will be wonderful husband. He is just such a good person. I mean, he is a doctor, has a nice car, a killer apt, but he is sooo humble even though he is so busy on call all the time and saving lifes! R is like Ash's rock, total package rigggght?

I know that there is a special guy like that out there for me somewhere. I just haven't found him yet because love can't be planned. Mr. Right is on his way, I can FEEL it. Maybe it's Kabeirus.....but I doubt it. Seriously! He's like a starving writer! But who knows? Maybe he'll go to law school.....he just has SO much potential!!

SO, that's it for me girls!


Monday, September 28, 2009

A Feaster Apprehended

T'was a blustery winter's eve in a noble academic township when I, Eleutherios, along with a fellow feaster, Agent Scarecrow, found that violating local edicts can verily diminish the fervor of the feast, but never extinguish its flame. We arrived in the hamlet as brave Apollo rode his chariot past the horizon, his mighty steeds dusting the sunset. Fortuitously, a munificent maiden offered us lodging. Noting that we wore the unmistakable mark of the feast, she implored us to pillage her wares (In anticipation of our coming, she had stocked her coffers with the finest champagne and richest caviar). We happily obliged. We guzzled the bubbling spirits from emerald flagons, complimenting the effervescent libations with the most velvety roe in all the land. We chortled merrily as we fed magical disci to the black brick minstrel--a strange device of yonder years. The exultant melody of Janet Jackson's "All for You" compelled us to frolic raucously beneath the milky beams of sweet Selene's smile.

After a third revolution of Jackson's underappreciated magnum opus, we summoned a golden carriage for transport to the town square. Gamboling about the streets like two gaudy popinjays, we pranced and swaggered shamelessly, much to the delight of the young nymphs who twittered appreciatively from within the tavern shadows.

Eager to replenish our veins with feast nectar, we guzzled bumbo like swashbuckling pirates of old, recounting warm and wicked tales of feasts past to the sprightly tavern wenches and wizened booze stewards. So enraptured were we that we failed to notice our caravel approaching the rough seas of overindulgence. As the exuberant winds of night tide mischief roared, we were seduced by the tempest of alcohol. Stumbling about the bar, but believing ourselves dashing, we came across a school of juvenile Strip-eds. Overcome with a predatory urge to Antagofeast, we marched directly towards the dull beasts. I identified the leader of the pack and addressed him with a feaster's zeal.

"Strip-ed," I said, as feastrels, awestricken by my audacity, gazed on wistfully, "Pardon me, I would like to dance with your date."

Bewildered, he replied, "Hey bro, what are you talking about?"

"You're date, good sir, I plan to dance with her. Her glittering stretch pants will make a nice ornament atop my hearth of carnality," His docile Doxie pricked her ears excitedly, peering at me from behind the shoulders of her burly sentinel. Unsettled by my princely entitlement and the tingling loins of his coveted Doxie, the Strip-ed prepared for battle.

"Bro, listen up! I'm going to tell YOU how it's going to go. You are going to apologize to my lady for disrespecting her, then you are going to turn around and take your dumb fucking overalls and get the fuck out of this bar. Got it shithead?"

His bellicose effrontery only fueled my mirthful spirit, and, after a naughty wink, I skipped past him and offered the Doxie my hand. She smiled radiantly, but the warmth of her cheer was to last mere seconds, for the oafish strip-ed lummox was barreling towards me. Perhaps, I admitted to myself as my body was hurled against the bar, my decision was imprudent.

After the assault, the Strip-ed stood over me, smiling derisively. Not content to be dominated by such a foolish creature, I mocked him further. "So it's a fight you want, eh?" I scoffed wryly, "You got it, BRO!"

Much to the delight of the spectators, who despised the Strip-ed's crass machismo, I assumed the following defensive feast stance and prepared for a lively fracas.

Legendary Antagofeaster, Fineas Mastrooselstock, goads a volatile Strip-ed with his eponymous stance: The Mastrooselstock Mau-Mau. It remains the preferred defensive tactic for feasters who must resort to fisticuffs.

The revelry was to be short lived, for the Booze Steward, fearing a raucous brawl, had called the town's Fun Police. Knowing that my arrest would surely put a halt to my festivities, I charged out of the bar, hoping to elude the rapacious sheriffs. Agent Scarecrow, who was busy arousing a covey of cooing she-feastrels with his lurid tales, noticed my hasty retreat and followed suit. On the street, Scarecrow inquired as to why we fled from what he perceived as a prolific feast replete with many a bauble and libation.

"Some douche bag tried to meat out on me for asking a girl to dance," I slurred, the twelve gin martinis taking their toll, "I started making fun of him and he tackled me. The bartender called the cops."

Scarecrow laughed, "Split up!"

"Aye!" I shouted.

As a feaster who has endured the most rigorous trials and crucibles to attian mythical infamy, I approach every endeavor with unbridled enthusiasm...including escapes from the authorities...especially escapes from the authorities--men who take no greater pleasure than to reign in a Lipizzaner stallion like myself. The law men arrived in their coaches, horns a-blaring, soon after I parted ways with Scarecrow.

"Hey you! STOP!" One shouted.

Determined to keep the feast flame burning, I exploded into a sprint. Like a plumpish goat fleeing a rabid cheetah, I knew that I was no match for the speed of their azure chariots. In a bid to level the field, I led them into the dark tortuous narrow alleyways into which their paddy wagons could not fit, confident that my superior fitness, youth, and vigor would grant me victory over such lethargic, corpulent bumpkins. I was wrong.

I tore through the labyrinth, randomly twisting and turning through the bowels of the city, desperately fleeing the Minotaur of the law. Alas! It would be to no avail. When my lungs and legs could pump no more, I came to a stop. The Feast Gods did not smile upon me that eve, for the wolves surrounded me, their greedy eyes gleaming as they prowled restlessly. I raised my hands in surrender and declared, with a note of reluctant admiration (capturing a feaster, after all, is no small accomplishment):

"OK...OK...You got me! I'll go peacefully."

Peace, it would seem, was of little concern. Discontent to accept my civilized acquiescence, the jackals felled me brutally. In a display of their powerful masculinity, they showered me with minatory remarks.

"We got you now, mother fucker!"

"You ain't going home tonight, kid. You going to the big house!"

Battered, bruised, and shackled, I was dragged by the beasts, like Luke Skywalker on Hoth (The Empire Strikes Back), to their subterranean dungeon of malice. Violently stripped of my feast attire, I was forced to don the course garments of a peasant before being thrown into a frigid solitary cell. Several hours later, the guards awoke me brusquely from my serene slumber and forced me to participate in an inane photo-shoot. And lo! Even in the clutches of the Anti-feasters, my feastly cheer, like a sun of truth, obliterated the ominous thunderheads of oppression. As the chieftain of the soldiers instructed a minion to capture my image for his records, I belted out a proud, "HA! THE FEAST!"

I then smiled as broadly and sardonically as I could for the camera flash. I was savagely escorted back to my quarters. For my turpitude, I am now forever immortalized as a happy inmate of the Travis County Jail.


The Feast Gods smiled upon Agent Scarecrow that night. He managed to escape by hailing random strangers. He awoke in front of our lodging, in his car, cold and covered in vomit.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Enemies of the Feast: Strip-ed Sentinels, Part 1

Once a feast has reached its terminal velocity, the feaster, like brave Odysseus, embarks upon a glorious journey. Though the rewards are many, the feast is replete with its own maelstroms, monsters, and misleading temptations. Armed with knowledge of the perils and snares that lurk beyond the feasting Rubicon, a feaster is prepared to descend upon Rome to wreak havoc with his unrelenting revelry, unscathed by his enemies.

The Strip-ed Sentinels

Strip-ed sentinels are ubiquitous and can be both hazards and enemies of the feast. Their typical plumage is the vertically striped buttoned-down shirt accompanied by square-toed dress shoes and dark designer blue jeans. The shirt is most often left untucked, but tucked configurations have also been observed in the field. Flip-flops and sneakers have been spotted as well.


Strip-ed Sentinels assemble in a near monolithic mass in their chosen drinking establishment. Whether simply obstructing throughways or audaciously hassling feasters, the Strip-ed can rapidly become an infestation that lowers feasting potential. Their stripes act as a form of camouflage akin to the
dazzle paint of WWII ships. They do not completely blend into their environments, but it is nearly impossible to obtain a striped head count when they gather en masse to clumsily mill about. The Strip-ed tend to hold slightly more prominent positions in society than Afflicted Drones, and often seem to find ways to acquire money without a speck of aptitude or talent. They are society's seat fillers, serving as comforting examples to the hopelessly mediocre. They too can drink bud lites and red bull and be Professional Young Adults.

The Bro Life Cycle

Many have tried to understand the cause of this
phenomenon. Why has such a hybrid look become a default? Attempting to form a rationale will only frustrate and confuse a feaster, whose relentless reasoning will form a web that tangles the mind. Methinks somewhere in this logical black hole lie answers to some of the most profound theories and problems posed by physicists in our time. String theory. Dark Matter. Gravity Waves. Dancing with the Stars.

It is a look that attempts to say, "I want to dress up but I don't want people to think I'm uptight. I'm a totally chill dude who enjoys bars and clubs, but I also have a job and an elevated position in society. I'm a big boy too, see?". It only seems natural for a bro, upon college graduation, to transition to bars and clubs. In a truly tragic turn of events, there are virtually no more house parties. But where will he wear his cargo shorts? He must compete with a much larger pool of bros, so he must demote his leggings of compartmental utility to weekend daytime status only. Like a salmon swims upstream to spawn, the bro sets out on his journey motivated by his inner bro instincts. It's only natural.

But what is this new phase all about? No longer will his rudimentary knowledge of Dave Matthews-esque strummy acoustic guitar riffs garner attention and respect. He cannot even find comfort in his perfectly formed baseball cap with just the right amount of wear, perfectly cocked at a 27° offset from center and 17° angle of attack. Being chill is good and fun, but nowadays it's all about going places. Professional places. Prestigious places. Serious places. The sickest, most wickedly awesome, fingah bangin’ bitch filled places.

But what will this bro wear to attain such status? He wants to look nice, but as he is clueless he can only trusts brands that are proven. There's an Express for Men right next to the Hollister, right? "Sweet bro, I'll try that! If it's expensive it must be classy." It's all so dee-lightfully bourgeoisie.

Feast research is inconclusive concerning whether Sentinels fixate on stripes as a display of strength and virility or because they lazily follow the most common denominator. Whatever the case may be it is clear that the Strip-ed lack the judgment necessary to strategically coordinate and deploy an ensemble of any aesthetic distinction.

You see, it's not about a shirt by itself; it's about the Strip-ed look as a whole. One can look quite fetching in a striped shirt provided it's accompanied by appropriate accoutrement. Below is one such gentleman, noted feaster and wunderkind haberdasher Elias Baggywrinkle. One of the easiest ways to recognize a fellow feaster is by his dapper attire, devastating in its swashbuckling pulchritude.

The Strip-ed Among Us

This attire has become a default for many, so a striped shirt in most cases is harmless. So ubiquitous is this look that it is not uncommon for a feaster to be trapped in a social situation in which he must interact with a Strip-ed. Be it an old friend who mistakenly dons this wardrobe out of laziness, or a truly vacuous bro to the core, there are many mediums for this phenomenon. The lines are sometimes ambiguous. That is why a feaster must be weary and discerning, and take careful pains to make sure his acquaintances are at least sympathetic feastrels. For if they are not then he may be forced to hear such dribble as "I totally paid for my sushi bro! That's erroneous! Huh huh. Totally erroneous, get it? Huh Huh Huh. Erroneous."

You see, comments like the quote above are prosaic amongst Strip-ed Sentinels. As a corollary to his desire for prestige and acceptance, he experiences a commensurate desire for elocution. However, as he is unable to part with his aversion to appearing too intellectual (Everyone knows that nerds are total FAGS! LOL!) , he resorts to feigning humor while dropping the newest word he learned while reading a semi-enlightened treatise on male grooming in Maxim, FHM, or Cosmogirl (While his gf was peeing. It’s only faggy if she catches you. Besides, he totally did her in the butt to make up for his super lame foray into femininity.).

This will no doubt cast an awkward silence over the group and harsh a feaster's mellow seriously. The only course of action for the feaster following such harshing is the Antago-feast.

Enemies of the Feast: Succubus, Part 1

Once a feast has reached its terminal velocity, the feaster, like brave Odysseus, embarks upon a glorious journey. Though the rewards are many, the feast is replete with its own maelstroms, monsters, and misleading temptations. Armed with knowledge of the perils and snares that lurk beyond the feasting Rubicon, a feaster is prepared to descend upon Rome to wreak havoc with his unrelenting revelry, unscathed by his enemies.

Understanding Succubus

Ah, Succubus...a name that conjures images of the delightfully devious she-demon of Christian mythology who exploits man’s lechery by seducing him in his sleep. Intriguing though she may be, she is not the succubus that imperils the feast (interestingly, the Christian succubus might actually abet the feast). The precise female to which I allude is not a creature of Satan, but a beast wrought by dark forces inimical to the feast—namely the need to control and bridle revelry. Deigning to embrace feastly joy, these oleaginous vixens prefer to trap the feaster and drain him of his sacred mojo until he is rendered a vacant-eyed husk.

Compounding Succubus's treachery is her ruthlessly effective social camouflage. By expertly concealing her true nature through brilliant Oscar-worthy performances (like Morgan Freeman, who can waltz on set, bearded and naked, and convince you that he is a chaste schoolgirl with his "don't-you-worry-I'll-fix-everything-with-my-honey-sweet-baritone-voice" delivery), she fools bands of feasters into thinking that she is a kindred spirit. Like a shrewd robber baron of romance, she knows that after her dues have been paid she can manipulate the feaster in whom she has invested her time, garnering monumental devouring his decrepit withering soul.

Upon infiltrating the feast, she will rapidly select a victim, just like her more cumbersome cousin Slobberchops. But unlike Slobberchops, who prefers to feed upon the weak, Succubus is a conqueror of the strong. She salivates lustfully at the prospect of an enervated feaster groveling desperately at her feet. She craves his cloying advances for the mere sake of viciously rejecting them with her cunty acerbity. The more lively and virile the feaster, the more she hungers for his feast mojo.

Ingeniously, she launches her insidious ploy by disarming a feaster's jovial cohorts with feigned merry-making and tomfoolery while simultaneously avoiding direct contact with her target. This method, first chronicled by noteworthy feastologist Jürgen Von Klaustenberg, allows the Succubus to become a subject of intrigue. From his celebrated study first published in Feasters Quarterly ("Predators of the Feast Savannah," p. 56, 1953):

"Since a feaster is naturally filled with curiosity, he is compelled to investigate his new-found companion. The unwitting query of Succubus, most likely the ruling panjandrum of the band, will request an audience with the alluring young maid to determine whether or not she is fit for his godly affections. What ensues is a delicate game of cat and mouse that can either culminate in the destruction of a feaster or the retreat of Succubus. For predators on the Feast Savannah, life is trying."

In a bid for his respect, Succubus will match the zeal of the panjandrum, often jeopardizing her own health in the process. She lacks a disposition amenable to the feast and cannot tolerate extended periods of revelry--both physical and intellectual. Since she draws her power from the despair of others, she weakens quickly in environments wherein she is forced to bask in the bright light of mirth. Yet the succubus will still cling to the panjandrum, driven by her bloodlust, her gleaming eyes filled with chicanery. If she does not manage to capture her objective in a timely fashion, she will be forced to relent for the sake of her own sanity, but she will not depart. Instead, she will target the next feaster in the hierarchy and begin her deceit anew.

After sequestering a feaster, she initiates the two part feeding ritual. First, she will gradually dismantle the feaster's aplomb for jollity by marinating his mind in a sea of petty psychological battles--favoring the infamous Vaginal Restriction Technique. Using her mirth canal and superior sexual abilities as a bargaining chip, she will efface the feaster's independence, causing him to acclimate to frequent submission. Another favorite tactic: capricious bouts of bitchiness that are often times tenuously justified by claiming "PMS." After several months of this torture, the feaster will sullenly bow to her demands, no matter how outrageous.

"But Honey, I told you that I had a really big project due in knitting class!" [Ed. note - In advanced cases of Succubus leeching, the former feaster will have adopted the emasculating habits that his impostor girlfriend has forced upon him--knitting being one. Not content to even allow him to enjoy the soul crushing habits into which she has mercilessly driven him, she will still force him to wait hand and foot. TOTAL DOMINATION!]

"Goddamnit, Bart. You are such a fucking girl sometimes. Knitting is for chicks. Now get in your beat down, sloppy jalopy of a car and pick me up from the gynecologist. Jesus! Maybe I should just get my gyno to drive me home....after all, he at least drives a respectable car: a Porsche. You wouldn't know about buying one of those because you aren't a doctor."

"But Honey--"

"I said NOW, BART!"

"Yes, Honey.....(sigh)" Click.

Second, once she is finished tenderizing his psyche, she will spread her black wings and let out a blood-curdling shriek, signaling that her prey will soon be eviscerated. The deeper he sinks into her tar pit of malice, the farther removed he is from the flaming torch of the feast. Trapped within the cloudy haze of her dominion, he can only hear muffled shadows of his companions’ vociferous complaints and admonitions. If he sinks too far, the battle will be lost and Succubus will have won a tasty treat. There is a point of no return at which Succubus enjoys unrivaled control of her former feaster turned puppet. Once a feaster has reached this point, Succubus, like a gluttonous spider, will suffocate him in a cocoon of perfidy and exsanguinate him with her sinister proboscis.

Once she has inhaled the feaster's mojo, he is useless to her. She abandons his desiccated shell and searches for another feaster to ruin.

Danger Signs

Proof that you are within the clutches of a Succubus:

YOU (meekly): "Ragnar and Zeus [obviously feasters] put together a foam party. I was thinking that maybe I might like to go. Do you think that there might be a chance you would be interested?"

HER: "Hmmm," she sighs tiredly.

YOU: "OK. Let's just go home, then. Maybe we can catch the new Kendra episode. Would your friends like to join us?"

If you are spending an inordinate amount of time with a seemingly fun girl, you should also be wary of the following statements:

"I'm getting, you know, like, tired of going out all the time. It is SO immature. Besides, you're always hung over and we can never go antiquing in the morning!"

"I thought we agreed that Friday was movie night," she says with a smirk after you mention your plans to go to a totally bitchin' Motörhead concert.

"I don't like your friend Ted. I think he is creepy and you should spend less time with him," she says, knowing the feast is strong with Ted.

"If you go pick up my dry cleaning, I will let you eat me out for as long as you want."

"You don't have any ambition. Why don't you become a doctor? Susie's boyfriend is a doctor and he makes $150,000 a year."

"You came too soon."

"I'm not getting burgers at 3 am. That is so college"

With her veritable Santa's Sack of evil tricks, Succubus is a formidable opponent of the feast. But like most parasites, she can be exterminated before making you into her personal smörgåsbord. In part two of this post, I will detail how Succubus can be vanquished. Deny that bitch her smörgåsbord!

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Feast Hazards: Slobberchops

Once a feast has reached its terminal velocity, the feaster, like brave Odysseus, embarks upon a glorious journey. Though the rewards are many, the feast is replete with its own maelstroms, monsters, and misleading temptations. Armed with knowledge of the perils and snares that lurk beyond the feasting Rubicon, a feaster is prepared to descend upon Rome to wreak havoc with his unrelenting revelry, unscathed by his enemies.

The particular hazard I wish to address today is the predatory Slobberchops--a fattish feast demon that hosts an array of qualities similar to those of swamp dwelling carnivores. Most gentlemen with whom I am acquainted have, at some point, encountered this dastardly creature. Often times her attacks are sudden and violent, like those of a ravenous alligator, leaving the victim little time to react before being dragged to its muddy death. I myself have fallen prey to the insidious machinations of Slobberchops and, even as a seasoned feaster with years of experience under my belt, am still occasionally captured.

Slobberchops’s success is largely predicated upon the drunkenness of a given feaster. Just as the alligator hunts best in the marsh, Slobberchops flourishes in the everglades of alcohol. However, even in her natural environment her bulbous shape makes her movements ponderous. Because of her inherent clumsiness, she must patiently await the moment at which her prey will be so inebriated that escape is impossible. She lurks in the shadows of the night, stalking her prey and patiently waiting to strike. Once the feaster begins to stagger, Slobberchops lumbers towards him and leverages her heaving bosom, employing a tactic akin to that of the alligator snapping turtle, which lies in wait in the murky depths enticing hungry fish with its worm-like wiggling tongue. If sufficiently intoxicated, the feaster, like a minnow to a snapping turtle's vermiform appendage, will be drawn to her ample breasts and snapped up into her jiggling bingo wings. Once he is fully hypnotized by her shapely kleins, the feaster relents, allowing Slobberchops to feed upon his soul and thus taint the following day's afterglow with torturous feast anxiety.

In cases of dispute among two or more Slobberchops concerning a single incapacitated feaster, there is a negotiation ritual that takes place. Like dark matter, there has been no direct observation of such a phenomenon, but its existence can be inferred based on theoretical models. Though conflict remains among theorists, the Herfringder's Abacus principle is widely accepted. Popularized by noted 1920s feast philosopher Archibald T. Herfringder, the theory states that in the event of a dispute over prey the Slobberchops retreat to some sort of secret chamber or cave (based on early theories of subterranean habitation) to determine who among them will claim the crippled feaster, using an arcane and sacred calculation system passed down over eons. Dr. Herfringder reasoned that they possess a rare mathematical competency and thus compete amongst themselves in this regard. To quote the luminary (Herfringder, The Feast and Its Discontents, pp. 176, 1923):

"The Slobberchops no doubt have some sort of game--a high-stakes contest centered upon the use of some kind of evil abacus. Our team has recreated a typical endgame based on observation of Slobberchops interaction in the field. The victorious Slobberchops likely peers wryly with beady eyes at her vanquished opponent, grasps the final bead [Ed. note: possibly jelly beans] with her sausage like fingers and slowly slides it across the abacus. While contest particulars remain a mystery, the top prize of the challenge is both well-recorded and quantifiable. The triumphant Slobberchops rejoins the feast and is entitled to unbridled reign over the incapacitated feaster."

If the feast gods choose to bless you with a perfunctory moment of clarity in the midst of your liquor-fueled feast binge you may be able to recognize your precarious situation. In such an instance, you must capitalize on the momentary distraction caused by the haggling of the Slobberchops by slipping away quietly. If you are pursued, run in zig-zags. They hate that.

But Eleutherios! Can I escape Slobberchops once trapped in her blubbery death rolls?

If, in the course of your feasting voyages, you find yourself in the clutches of the treacherous Slobberchops, do not panic. Escape, though challenging, is still an option. A word of warning: once she has begun to seduce you, breaking her hypnotic, glandular spell will be immensely difficult. You MUST tear your eyes away from her frannies and focus intently on overcoming the desires of your eager loins. To successfully escape, you will need to employ a tactic similar to the one utilized by the unfortunate souls who are attacked by a similarly hefty beast: the bear.

Play dead. "Possuming" is an extremely effective counter to even the most vicious Slobberchops onslaughts, but you must be prepared for the mauling that will ensue. Angered by her foiled plans, Slobberchops will biliously paw at you, pugnaciously urging you to awaken and slake her insatiable lust. Stay calm. She will eventually grow weary and retire, leaving you free to take flight.

Enemies of the Feast: Afflicted Drones, Part 1

Once a feast has reached its terminal velocity, the feaster, like brave Odysseus, embarks upon a glorious journey. Though the rewards are many, the feast is replete with its own maelstroms, monsters, and misleading temptations. Armed with knowledge of the perils and snares that lurk beyond the feasting Rubicon, a feaster is prepared to descend upon Rome to wreak havoc with his unrelenting revelry, unscathed by his enemies.

One of the most common enemies a feaster will encounter is the Afflicted Drone. Fortunately, this Africanized feast antagonist is easily identified by the markings displayed proudly on his clothing. These dragon and scorpion accoutrement are used by the drone to attract Doxies and engage in displays of machismo, but they are also useful to the feaster as taxonomical markers. Learn to identify a drone's dragons, crosses, and scorpions and you will be able to neutralize the afflicted before he blitzkriegs your fledgling feast.

The Dragon Drone

He is characterized by a snug tunic festooned with glittering dragons. The wyvern's size and shininess are both indirectly proportional to the drone's aplomb and directly proportional to his blind aggression towards feasters. Massive, shiny wyverns filling both the anterior and posterior of the drone's attire are to be regarded with extreme caution. Luckily, for the astute feaster, his attacks tend to be formulaic and avoidable. When in the presence of a Dragon Drone, be wary for the ubiquitous "Bro!" Once the assault is underway, plant your feet and ready your shit-eating grin and trenchant witticisms – oafish mental reflexes are the Achilles heels of the basilisk booster. The wyvern worshiper will inevitably follow with an earnest, yet meaningless complaint.

"That's our cab, brah!"

"Dude, my chick is getting real pissed by your dancing."

"Nice hat and/or jacket [how dare he jeer your posh feast attire!]."

The clone's rebukes must not be met with corresponding acerbity. In keeping with the festive mood, brandish your sliest smirk and respond innocently; with the enthusiasm of the jolliest panjandrum.

"If it's your cab, why are all my friends in it?"

"Sir, you're making yourself look like a jerk. The dance floor is plenty big, and your Doxy is enjoying my pelvic thrusts."

"Thank you, good sir! And your goatee is looking fetching as well!"

The more tact and poise the feaster displays, the greater the bewilderment of the muscle-bound spitfire. Move your feast upwind of the bellowing dragon and continue the festivities. The drone, abandoning all hope of grasping the meaning of your clever retort, will eventually awaken from his confusion, giving you the opportunity to mirthfully observe from afar as he lashes out with renewed vigor at unsuspecting feastrels.

Friday, September 11, 2009

The Panjandrum Approaches

And lo! The feast dawns. All across the shire its beams extend through the clouds, penetrating its darkest crevice. No toadie or cowardly sycophant can escape its benevolent warmth. Their dim eyes brighten, but for a time, for at this moment they are free of their insecurities and cloying pleasantries. Bewitched by the feast, they have finally reached an impasse, casting aside their subversion, if only temporarily. They are able to appreciate through their own faculties, long since rusted, a wonderment for the approaching FEAST. There will be no panic this time, no anxious need to subvert its momentum.

Luminosity, advancing as inexorably as a wave, heralds a magnanimous entity, an unstoppable beacon of infinitely penetrating influence. Preparations must be made! The fawns ready their pipes and warm their lungs expertly. He shall admire their melodious tribute. Nymphs stretch their sinewy frames gracefully. He shall be tempted by their ebuillent pulsations and spritely leaps. Word now frenetically echoes betwixt feastrels, their glee palpable. The nymphs chuckle knowingly at their nubile trepidations.

He is looking for the true feasters. Will they rise to glory?

"...and I have been practicing my feast bellow, thinkest thou it hearty enough?"

The feasters among them smile equanimously. Like seasoned surfers before a hurricane, they wait with confidence, ready to harness the potential of the upcoming feast.

For the Panjandrum is coming.

Happy Friday!

A Feaster Travels to the Land of Port

In my native province, I had overheard copious banter concerning a famous mead hall in the Land of Port; a legendary hall in which even the most herculean men had fallen prey to the strong spirits and the intoxicating women. As a feaster with a particular appetite for fine ale and a penchant for lascivious adventure, the prospect of a long voyage to a strange land filled me with eager zeal. After proudly sounding the feasting horn, thus rallying my fellow feasters to my side, I quickly chartered a wing-ed chariot destined for the unwitting city that would soon be victimized by our unrelenting ribaldry.

Upon arrival, we found a local inn. I noticed that the proprietor had the mark of the feast, so I calmly explained the purpose of our voyage to him: "Hey man, I was interested in finding the legendary mead hall where I can, like, bang hot chicks." He, being a fellow feaster, gave me a knowing wink and rewarded our zest with a salutary gift basket and the finest suites available. The accommodations were so luxurious that the loins of Bacchus himself would have quivered with coltish mirth at their very sight. Bathed in opulence and scented with decadence, the rooms seemed to call to us, yearning to be vessels of the feast. We would soon oblige, but at the moment, were consumed by another endeavor: the legendary mead hall.

My breathing was lusty and heavy as the crudely hewn oaken doors, groaning under the pressure of my feast paw, opened to reveal a magnificent circus of sin. Standing upon a gilded stage, awash in beams of colorful glory, played a jovial troupe of minstrels. Their string-ed gourds, leers and pan-pipes offered a liquescent melody, a smashing cover of "If Loving You Is Wrong" by Faithless, to which the hoards of revelers undulated hypnotically. Seduced by the sounds, feminine trollops laid languidly across benches—offerings to the feast gods--and tawdry ingénues coquettishly toyed with lumbering oafs. The air was filled with their tittering chirps and their dulcet aroma. The place was an assault on the senses which was made worse by the distracting siren song of the flirtatious young wenches. But I, as a feaster of renown, had seen many battles, and knew exactly how this one would begin.

In stride with my carousing comrades, I stepped up to the bar and ordered the booze steward to appease me with fermented libations. And then we drank. We drank deeply and hungrily. We drank like beasts, the sweet mead streaming down our faces and dripping from our jaws like the blood of a freshly killed fawn. T'was extraordinary drink, the sweet mead in the Land of Port, for it rendered us fierce and barbarian. My eyes gleamed malevolently as I surrendered to the dark triad within. I was ravenous and the hunt had begun. My credo: no fat chicks. Alas, the feast gods have allowed me to sink in the whaling mire in the past. On this eve, my bed would not be strained under the weight of a beluga, but tickled by the feathery delicacy of a naughty minx.

My victim was a fearsome nubile trophy. She contemptuously surveyed the hall while her strip-ed shirt clad, oafish, glad-handing male sentinel stood guard. I watched him speak, "So babe, I just got new mud tires on my 4X4. Why don't we get out of here and I can give you a ride." She entertained his advances. I lurked, like a lion in the night tide high grass, watching her, calculating, awaiting my moment to strike. I had not long to wait, for her strip-ed sentinel adjourned to the water closet. Invoking the lechery of Eros and the insatiable appetite of Bacchus, I pounced! Incidentally, so possessed with the feast was I by this point, that my memory fails me. T'was as if the feast gods themselves used my body as a vehicle for their mischief and mirth. Fortuitously for thou, dear reader, my fellow feasters neatly recall my dastardly exploits.

By displaying my masculine prowess and virility and after much strutting she was nearly made mine. Employing an ancient technique, I rubbed my crotch upon her eager rump, which swung to and fro as a pendulum. The tribal beats of Lil' John and the East Side Boyzzzzz ushered me to success. By this time, her simpleton escort had returned. The stip-ed sentinel, not willing to be party to my evil machination, inquired firmly as to whether or not I would depart, thus leaving him to slay her freely. "HEY BRO!" He bellowed, "The lady said she doesn't want you here. Nobody likes you, BRO. BRO, why don't you just get out of here." His excessive gallantry proved to be his fatal misstep, however. I attacked his vulnerable flanks with a ruthless and coldly composed blitzkrieg of invectives, besmirching him publicly.

"My good man, you are acting like a buffoon. There is more than enough room in this bar for us both,” and then defiantly, albeit childishly, "I am not going ANYWHERE." Like a sad young hound rapped on the nose for the first time, he permitted me, much to his chagrin, to verbally beat him about the ears, all the while losing ground to his sacred prize. She stood stolidly upon the pedestal he constructed for her, impassively smirking as he groveled and groped for her continued approval.

"I said LEAVE, bro!"

What's this? The lady takes my side? Why, of course.

"Chad!" she shouted, "You are being such a jerk!" I let out a celebratory victory howl—an homage to the feast gods. I prepared to lay the beaten carcass of Chad's psyche before them as a sacrifice. But just as I thought he had been beaten to a hasty retreat, the wave of rage, so common amongst strip-ed sentinels in defeat, burst forth.

"FUCK YOU BRO! I'm gonna beat your fucking ass!" The angry gorilla started beating his fat chest. He lurched towards me, his teeth gnashing and his face twisted into a mask of violet rage. I smirked mockingly as he advanced, but he was stopped by his queen, who commanded that he retreat from her presence immediately. He departed with his head bowed in shame, shuffling his Vintage Wolverine Boots across the floor sullenly.

The minstrels struck a merry tune (a lively ballad by Warren Zevon) to celebrate my victory, and the entire bar rejoiced. The nubile young lass I had conquered took her rightful place at my side, slightly behind me of course, as my feast queen. The greatest bard in all the Land of Port wrote an epic poem in remembrance of my heroism and strength. As Feast King, I requested an audience with the booze steward to collect a reward, but he was not wont to provide me complimentary libations. Unbeknownst to him, I helped myself to the wares of the mead hall by pilfering two immense flagons of spirits.....a classy bottle of Fire God jalapeño flavored tequila and a half-handle of Canadian Hunter. My nubile slattern trembled with orgasmic ecstasy upon witnessing my theft, delighted by the promise of danger. With her loins ablaze, she begged to accompany me to my lair. I obliged.

By Jove, what ensued was good, old boy, rattling good! With my fellow feasters but a stone's throw away, separated from my smoldering romance by naught but a door, I laid waste to the holy of holies. The fury and power, sweat and screams, and carnal delight reached its zenith, pausing for a moment, just a brief instant, before bursting to the summit. I bellowed deeply like a beast from the beyond as my queen shrieked in accompaniment. Energized by my conquest, I leaped from the crumpled sheets and grabbed the gift basket, which happened to be filled with condoms that the sage hotel proprietor had left for me. I scrambled to the door, and with my mighty foot, kicked it open, sending my colleagues, who had sat with ears pressed, sprawling across the room. Ethereal smoke and trumpeting heralded my entrance as I stood over the threshold, naked and powerful, basking in triumph. "FEAAAAAAAST!" I yelled. I saw that my companions had not yet seduced their wenches, and therefore took it upon myself to ignite the flames of the feast torch. Like a spritely wood nymph celebrating the solstice, I frolicked mirthfully, one armed crooked to hold my basket of contraceptives, the other tossing condoms as though they were petals from the most vibrant flowers.

The Land of Port is ripe with feast.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Feast: An Introduction

T’was in the ancient days when, tender and fatty, nubile and earnest, we three nubbin feastrels fortuitously uncovered a glorious truth. The lustrous epistemological treasure shone furiously upon us, like a sun of reason cowing the few lucky cretins who managed to scrape and claw their way to freedom from within the musky bowls of Plato’s cave. Though fearfully respectful we were, we could not resist the gravity of this ethereal light. Driven by intrigue, we moved closer to its glowing core. Yet we remained cautious as we flirted with this dangerous and powerful force, knowing not the untold spectacle it promised, hesitant of grasping the full power as we clung to the promises of pretty lies and false platitudes. We soon learned that we were no match for this alien strength, thus relinquishing our place in wispy reality, we stepped into light. Our furtive glances of curiosity blossomed into unrepentantly lustful stares, as the portal of glory led us to a wondrous, magnificent world….the world of FEAST.

Upon entering the kingdom, bathed in amber hues, we were greeted with a sumptuous banquet sporting a dazzling array of delicacies and treats. Blinded by the deepest starvation, we greedily sunk our faces into tankards of feast nectar, slurping haphazardly and gargling with barbaric satiation. We were surprised and unprepared for its yield, for the succulent fruits of the feast are vast. And lo, like the Promethean gift of fire, the sweet nectar opened our minds. Attuned to a new frequency, resonant with our own, the clumsy undercurrents of which we were only vaguely aware burst into a rhapsody of jubilant strength—a symphony of unparalleled beauty.

As if staring into a reflection in the lake of Excalibur, we saw ourselves, the bristling shrews, and flickers of the potential nymphs of the feast. Their strip-ed eunuch sentinels were suddenly no match for our relentless enthusiasm. They were, in fact, not appointed to guard the maidens at all, but merely obsequious bros of the moment, toadies who floated like plankton in a tidal pool of scum. But we, guided by the beacon of the feast and armed with our white-hot swords of reason, would not be discouraged from claiming our prize. The majestic horns trumpeted from the hilltops as the string-ed gourds and quivering lyres offered smooth counterpoint. Mellifluous melodies from furtive and playful pan-pipes streamed seductively through the wood, wrapping around burly trunks and tickling lush tendrils with their mirth. Mischievous fauns darted coltishly between the trees, their chin beards quivering with anticipation.

The music guided us, the conquering heroes of lore, as we entered the forbidden kingdom and gained audience with the ruling panjandrum, while his troupe of nymphets giggled with voyeuristic glee. He granted us license to pass betwixt our two worlds freely and at our leisure. The realm would be a place to which we would return often, a second home for our wares, but we would never forget our first foray into its domain through the blinding gates of trial.

And as we turned back to our stygian world with the blazing stamp of feast shining quietly within our cores, the jolly panjandrum, livid shouted, “Henceforth, your triumvirate will be known in my kingdom as Eleutherios, Musagetes, and Kabeirus!”