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!”