Author: 33rdparallelblog

Part IV – Io Pan

Pan motherfuckers!

The London sky was gray as fuck. An ugly, unforgiving, elderly form of gray that was the pre-cum of death. You get it, English weather is nasty. Me and Ben were standing in line to get into the British Museum. This was our 2nd attempt, and with the help of a friend who volunteered to watch our bags and guard our weed as we stood in line, we were actually going to get in there, and finally, get our Enochian on.

“Oh, before I forget. That’ll be ten pounds,” I said to Ben.

“What?” Ben said. “Isn’t the British Museum free?”

“Is it?” I said. “That’s news to me. I ordered the tickets online. But you don’t have to pay me.”

“No, here you go.” He said handing me the ten pounds.

I took the money and put it in my pocket. Ben, was right. The museum was free. Was I proud of what I did? You’re damn right I was. Stealing money from Ben was nothing compared to what this snowfrican had put me through the last three days. But the real problem I had was with the day before.

24 hours earlier.

Just another shitty day in England. Sky above the city the color of an old analog TV that’s lost its signal and has tuned itself to infinite snow. The clouds curdled in folds like a demon’s asshole that had not been wiped for a thousand years or so.

Me and Ben were on our way to the heart of London to rendezvous at a very special place that we were determined to check off our list. The Atlantic Bookstore.

“Rob said he’d meet us at the venue.” Ben said with a smirk. “Paper Dress Vintage. You got that?”

“What?” I said. One of the great things about smoking an insane amount of weed is that it is easy to tune Ben out. In fact, its recommendable to tune Ben out as much as you can. You’re actually better off not speaking to Ben at all.

“Yeah. I heard you.” I said. I didn’t.

Atlantic Bookstore was the first occult bookstore that I had ever been in. And by occult I mean books with lots of creepy symbols that like 5-6 people in the world understand.

“Where is Rob now?” I said.

“He’s working.” Ben said. “We going in or what?”

The Atlantic bookstore hit you with the smell of an old school library and an old folks home. It looked like two 80’s movies fucked and had a baby, a cross between The Breakfast Club and The Lost Boys. I had already skipped the books I didn’t understand and moved on to the pretty statues. I knew the one I wanted. Truth be said, it was love at first sight.

Ben immediately went to work with the proprietor of the Atlantic Bookstore, Geraldine, using his charm to win her over.

“I don’t like you,” she said with all the viciousness of a British woman who had seen Ben coming from a mile away. “You’re sneaky little tactics won’t get you anywhere.”

One of the running gags me and Ben had was which one of us was the bigger asshole, as if this wasn’t clear. Even with moments like this.

“And what’s that?” Geraldine said pointing at the device with the blue glove Ben was carrying.

“That’s a recorder,” Ben said.

“You really should get someone’s permission before you record them now, shouldn’t you?” Geraldine said. “I could have given you great stories about Crowley, but you ruined that. I’m not telling you anything. You’re nothing more than a rude, arrogant, entitled, slimy, imbecile.”

“I’m sorry ma’am, you forgot narcissist with a messiah complex. But don’t give him too many insults because he kind of likes it.” I said. “Let me apologize on behalf of my friend. You see, he just doesn’t know any better. Inside, I promise he’s a good guy.”

“I doubt that, but thank you.” Geraldine said. “And I’m sorry, did you say this man was your “friend”? I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask both of you to leave.”

“I see.” I said. “How much is this Pan statue?”

“And I’ll take these books.” Ben said.

Back at Rob’s place, with Geraldine and the Atlantic Bookstore well behind us, I placed the statue of Pan on the kitchen table. It’s flaccid goo bazooka dropping between its hairy legs like a a garden hose. He was definitely a shower.

At the Atlantic Bookstore I had to choose between Pan and a statue of Baphomet. But I went with this one.

“Why?” Ben asked through our psychic connection.

“I prefer the original to the remix.” I said.

Night time, walking over a bridge on our way to the show. We could somehow see the moon through the heaps of gray smog. Peeking through the gray clouds and shinning down on us with a pale, cold shine. The sky always looked like it was going to rain, because it was.

“Okay, once we go to the museum, we will be in the presence of John Dee’s fabled artifacts. Some of the very artifacts he used to communicate with the Enochian angels through Edward Kelly.” Ben said. “Not that you would know anything about the Angels of the watchtower Jose. Just know that they’re old, possibly alien, and you shouldn’t fuck with them because I had a bad experience.”

Ben, was excited as we were about to have our show. When Ben gets excited, he starts talking about the future.

“Let’s make a promise,” Ben said. “If we are in the presence of those artifacts and we feel nothing. We quit the occult.”

“Doesn’t that seem a little extreme?” I said.

“Yup,” Ben said as he lit his joint. “Io Pan.” Ben handed me the joint. I grabbed it and took a puff.

“Io Pan.” I said.

Rob Rider Hill was dressed in a dark slim fitting suit with a perfectly placed aluminum hat.

“Are you boys ready for the show?” Rob said as he greeted us.

“As ready as we are going to be.” Ben said. “Happy birthday Rob.”

“Io Pan,” Rob said.

We were introduced to a crowd full of friends for the first time. And truth be told, I don’t remember as much of it as I wanted to due to the amount of THC in my bloodstream. Except for the people who couldn’t be there because they were an ocean or so away. But I do remember a little bit about what happened after the show.

“Attention to detail,” I thought as I checked out Jo Sim’s hat. It was an aluminum covered hat with various touches that gave it personality. The words “Alluminati” were scribbled perfectly across it in black marker.

“Did you make that?” I said.

“Of course,” She said. She had another talent too.

I sparked up the joint and handed it to Lori after a couple of puffs, it passed to Ben, then Rob, then Tuan, all my digital friends past, present, and future. But Jo Sims didn’t partake, and neither did Molly really.

“This is Alan,” Molly said as she held up the picture on her phone. “He comes over from time to time. He likes the dog.”

This is as close as I have ever been to Alan. Quite close, but not close enough to say hello.

“Did you come here on your broom?” I said to Lori.

“No,” Lori said. “I told you I wouldn’t.”

“Okay, I’ve always wanted to ask you this to your face,” I said. “Do you really like Ben’s writing?”

“I’d think some of it is exquisite”” she said. Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but I take what I can get when I speak to magicians.

“Where did you get that?” Someone asked me about the statue of Pan I was carrying around that I hadn’t even realized I was carrying. I don’t remember how I responded.

“Good night, huh?” Ben said. He handed me a drink this time. He was with the rest of the magicians.

We toasted.

Back at the museum.

We had advanced past the checkpoint, about to go inside. John Dee’s personal items were now just minutes away. We both had made the promise that if we were in the presence of these magical artifacts, and felt nothing, that we would quit the occult forever.

We had found his display case after speaking to a couple of security guards, to our surprise, spoke enough English to properly communicate information to American tourist. The previous guards had given us directions to the bathroom and to the janitorial closet. Which wasn’t cool.

“There it is,” Ben said as we approached the case. “That’s the case. Inside are the artifacts of John Dee: father of the apocalypse. Do you realize what this means?”

“No.” I said. “What does this mean?”

Ben thought about it for a long moment.

“I don’t know.” Ben said. “I was hoping you’d tell me. I’m way too high.”

We left the museum with little enthusiasm, just a magician and a dreamer lost in their minds.

For the first time since we had been in London, the sun was shinning through the clouds. So much so that I felt the need to cover my eyes.

I took in what Ben told me the whole walk out. “Shit.” I said as we exited the outside gates. “Does this mean we have to quit magick now?”

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Part III: – Enochian Curious

There’s nothing like a cold, hard night on the streets of England to restore your ghetto. And if we are talking ghetto, perhaps no one knows that better than Rob Rider Hill.

“We gotta go to the Duke’s Head tonight.” Ben said as he prepared our stash. “Rob, is expecting us.”

“That’s fine.” I said. “But every time we meet up with another male Snowfrican, you guys tend to gang up against me. You also become an unbearable, condescending, patronizing asshole. Ever more so than usual.”

“I’m sorry it seems that way to you,” he said as he wrapped Rob’s souvenir. A statue of a Japanese demon.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about…” I said. But Ben had already done the thing and moved on to a different topic.

“We have to go to the British Library today. We should be able to get our hands on some book’s by John Dee. Oh yeah. John Dee!” Ben’s voice cackled with excitement.

“Yeah! Let’s get our Enochian on!” I said.

Ben’s eyebrows furrowed as he gave me the side eye. As usual, he was all in.

“Jose, I’m a bastion of good, informed decisions. I don’t fuck with Enochian.” Ben said. “And neither should you. We are going to use the knowledge in Dee’s work in our quest to stop the apocalypse.”

“Fine. Whatever. You got the joints?” I said

Ben, laid out seven joints on the table. Each packed with enough green to tranquilize an elephant. Then he hid them away in the inside breast pocket of his winter jacket.

“Let’s go.” Ben said.

After a brief stop at a Turkish restaurant where Ben ate half my falafel without my consent (the Italian dish he ordered, surprisingly, didn’t turn out well) we headed to the British Library. To our delight, the exhibition “Harry Potter, A history of Magick.” Was there waiting for us. And if you knew me and Ben, you know we are all about some Harry Potter.

“God, I hate Harry Potter,” I said. “I don’t care how nice J.K Rowling is.”

“Stop projecting your professional jealousy and let’s go inside.” Ben said.

Once inside the library, you could feel years and years of knowledge come down on you like an invisible hand. Just a couple of more steps, and we would have been bathing in the sweet aura of occult information that we’ve traveled through the frozen tundra of Snowfrica for. This moment, promised to be the accumulated effort of what was a years worth of blood, sweat, and marijuana. Then something happened.

“Holy shit.” Ben said. “They’re patting people down at security.”

“So what?” I said.

“I have seven joints in my jacket.” Ben said. We turned and left out the same we came. The security guards. Two brothers that had already made eye contact with me, also exchanged the patented upward nods that brown people exchange with each other. And so ended our quest to get into the British library. Sure, we could have easily come back on another day without so much weed, but if you knew us, you knew that wasn’t going to happen. We would move on to easier targets.

“Let’s go find Rob,” Ben said.

The Duke’s Head was a bar that lived up to its name. It had a unique charm about it. With its light green walls, wooden stools and tables, pretty candles, strategically placed crotch level fire extinguisher, and less than reasonable prices, it looked like a traditional British Pub, shit out another less traditional British Pub, which shit out a third, even less traditional British Pub.

“Which pile is Duke’s Head?” I heard a voice say from behind us. This was Rob Rider Hill. I didn’t expect him to be psychic, I also didn’t expect him to be this skinny in person.

If you haven’t seen Rob Rider Hill, he’s a strikingly handsome fellow who could probably dive through the center of a honey nut cheerio without breaking it. He’s also intense as fuck.

“Well, you gonna answer my question or not?” Rob said. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

“The third pile,” I said.

“Yeah.” Rob said. “That’s what we were going for.”

“Rob!” Ben said. “So nice to meet you!” To say Ben was enthusiastic about meeting Rob doesn’t exactly tell the entire story. Seeing Ben and Rob together was like seeing two long lost twin brothers finding each other after several years of separation. Did I feel like a 3rd wheel? Dude, for this bromance, I wasn’t even in the same vehicle. These two Snowfricans were made for each other.

It took all of three minutes for them to start talking about the occult. We already had a table full of drinks. Another thing about Rob is that he is pretty much good at everything. Cooking, music, tarot, rolling joints, esoteric shit, but his most endearing quality is the one thing I respect above all other qualities, telling the truth.

“You know Jose, you’re short, bald, and kind of funny looking, but you’ve got a lot of confidence.” Rob said.

“Enough about him,” Ben said. “I got you a little something.”

Ben handed Rob the demon. After a couple of more drinks we stepped outside for our hourly joint which had suddenly become our European tradition. In this state, we could start talking about some real shit.

“You boys ready for the show tomorrow?” Rob said.

“Hell yeah we are.” I said. Ben was not so sure.

“Well, you better be. The venue will be accessible around 7pm. So don’t be late.” Rob said. “We got magicians coming in from everywhere including Lori and Jo Sims. If I were you two, I’d start rehearsing now.”

“Rehearsal?” Ben said as we both looked at each other. “Yeah. We’d better get on that.”

Just one more day to the show, and we weren’t even close to the illuminati…. yet.

Next: the 33rd Parallel live show: Io Pan!

Journey To West Snowfrica AKA England

After the debacle in Russia, we were relieved to be in England. Words I never thought I’d say before.

We went to England for two reasons, the 1st was to complete the first leg of our European tour. We had people in England and we did not want to disappoint, although that was inevitable, but doing a show, in front of people who actually understood what you were saying, was always a dream of Ben’s. But me? I could seriously take it or leave it.

The 2nd reason we had ventured into Western Snowfrica, the actual real reason, was to do something that we had our eyes on since we started 33rd parallel, to join the illuminati.

The plan was simple, we would go to the Bank of England, located in the city of London, but actually located in its own territory like the Vatican. (That’s right, the actual Bank of England is literally like its own fucking city) and we would apply for jobs.

We were willing to start at the bottom. The mailroom was fine, but if we had to take jobs as janitors, so be it. Once we were gainfully employed, We would use our charm and wit to climb the corporate ladder until we found a place at the table with Lord Rothschild.

Ben was all in.

“This is a terrible plan,” Ben said as he rolled another joint. “Jose, I don’t think you realize what a stupid plan this is.”

“Ben, we have to try something.” I said. “What’s the worst that could happen? They hire us and we stay?”

“That’s the worst that could happen?” Ben said. “It’s private property.”

“I think it’s brilliant.” Tuan said. Tuan had agreed to give us safe haven for the first couple of days on his couch. He also supplied quite a bit of the sacred herb that would prove to be both our savior and undoing, “That shit sounds funny.”

“Thank you, Tuan,” I said. “I was kind of hoping you’d be willing to film it. You know, chronicle our journey into prominence.”

Tuan, is a director with a great eye. I trust him because he’s smart, talented, and practical. And like anyone who embodies these qualities, he looked me in the eye and gave me an immediate response.

“Do you happen to have a camera that can film from long distances? Like let’s say, from 3-4 kilometers away?”

“I was actually hoping we coul…” Before I could even finish my sentence, Tuan waved his finger with all the authority of a director.

“Do you have the fucking camera or not.” He said. Reiterating his position.

“Then no fucking way,” Tuan said. “I like watching people do stupid shit, but I haven’t survived all these years by participating in insane acts. Besides, why are you so dead set on joining the illuminati anyway?”

A moment of silence passed over the room, as if an angel passed. Ben, who was always ready to talk 80% of the time, answered the question that we had never really asked ourselves. Clearly joining the illuminati wasn’t about money? Anyone who knows us knows that Ben and I clearly hate money (Ben especially) which is why we tend to be in the financial positions we normally find ourselves in. But now, confronted with this moment of truth, we had no choice but to say out loud what had been boiling beneath the surface.

Ben smiled, but his eyes were intense as he looked Tuan in the face and gave him the answer that no one in that room wanted to hear or was prepared for.

“We are here to stop the apocalypse.” The words filled the room. They seemed to be crisp and clean, but at the same time venerated with a low vibration. As if they had their own consciousness.

Tuan’s face changed from serious, to an expression of extreme befuddlement, then he did what any other sane, rational human being would do after hearing such a thing, from such people.

He asked again.

“Excuse me?” Tuan said. “I think you didn’t hear my question so I’m going to ask again. Why is it you’re so intent on joining the illuminati?”

Ben nodded and repeated his answer with the same irrational confidence that he says everything.

“We want to stop the apocalypse.” Ben said.

Tuan’s look of sheer befuddlement morphed into something unexpected, anger.

“Get out of my house,” Tuan said. “Get out of here right now.”

“What the hell?” Why do you want to throw us out?” I said. Ben, had already began to put on his jacket.

“You two bumbling idiots are going to stop the apocalypse? How are you going to do that? With your dedicated work ethic? What are you doing to do? Smoke the illuminati into submission?” He said. He began to giggle as he could barely finish his sentences. “Get out of my house! And how dare you? I mean, how fucking dare you? I want you and this fucking Snowfrican out of my house. I don’t want to look at you.”

Ben had already begun to walk out of the house.

“Are you still coming to the show?” I said.

“Do I have to film anything? Tuan said.

“No,” I said shaking my head.

“Then I’ll see you there.” He said.

I grabbed my shit and put on my scarf. As I walked out the door I stoped for a moment and looked back at Tuan.

“Can I take some weed?” I said.

“Sure,” Tuan said.

I met Ben outside. He already had a joint in his mouth. And it was fucking cold.

“What do we do now?” I said.

“The only thing we can do,” Ben said as he lit the joint. “We summon a magician for help.”

“Who?” I said.

Ben began to chant as the smoke from his joint began to swirl until it became a shape. The shape suddenly began to take form of a face. I could tell by his slim face and symmetric eyes that this was quite a pretty Snowfrican.

“Jose, I would like to introduce you to Rob Rider Hill. Our savior.” Ben said.

I looked up at the image of the pretty, yet clearly, malnourished Snowfrican.

“Oh shit,” I said out loud. “Wtf have I gotten myself into?”

Next. Part three, continuation of the England chronicles and the introduction of Rob Rider Hill.

If you want to listen to what happened on this day, you can check us out on iTunes

Here

Journey To Russia: The Dawn Of Snowfrica.

What Russia looks like to Americans

The 1st 33rd parallel tour kicked off with the boys meeting in Shinjuku, Tokyo way before we had to.

“You got everything, man?” I asked with extreme skepticism. Benjamin, not only had all his shit, but apparently all of someone else’s as well.

“What do you have in that bag?” The bag was just a little bigger than Ben. Visually bigger than both my bags put together. I suspect he used a Goetian demon to grant him the strength to carry it.

“Just my clothes, a camera, mayonnaise, suntan lotion, saltine crackers, blah, blah, blah,” Benjamin said. He could have just said a lot of shit, but I did make the mistake of asking the question in the first place. “I’m going to carry it on to the plane.”

Sure you will, I thought. I’m younger than Ben, but have been on considerably more flights in my life, and never, I mean never, has any airline allowed me, or anyone, to carry a bag this size onto the plane. Even when the aircraft was practically empty. Of course they wouldn’t let this generic soda water bring his behemoth of a bag on board a full passenger plane during the holidays? But more on this later.

We got on the Narita express and headed over to the airport. We had a special flight with a special airline, Aeroflot.

Aeroflot, is a Russian airline that is the official airline of Manchester United. A relationship that works great for Aeroflot, and works well for Manchester United. The airline makes its bones by channeling international flights through Moscow. Which is about as comfortable as it sounds. But we will get to that later as well.

The fun started at the airport check-in, where our tickets, purchased through me, were issued to us, with my name, by the Aeroflot staff.

“Are you checking in that bag?” The lady asked Benjamin as he let the oversized Sasquatch of a bag tumble down to the floor with a thunderous boom that echoed through the airport terminal. Somewhere a school of pigeons eating bread disperse into different directions into the sky.

“Yes. It’s my bag.” Ben said with all the shame most Caucasians do everything when it comes to rules. You see, rules for Caucasian people are nothing more than arbitrary guidelines. And no one knows this better than Ben. “I’d like to carry this bag onto the flight.”

I smiled. And to my surprise, so did airport staff.

“Place the bag on the scale please.” The check in staff attendant said as she typed away at her keyboard.

Ben, flexed his muscles as he just barely got his bag onto the scale. Which tapered all the way down as the numbers shot up like a rocket revealing the weight of his bag. The actual number? Doesn’t matter. Let’s just say it was a lot bigger than mine. Like twice the weight of both my bags combined. And guess what?

“Thank you Mr. Beardsley. Have a nice flight.” The check in staff attendant said.

Ben, picked his bag off the scale and dragged it away from the desk.

Now the check in staff turned her attention to me. I had two bags with a combined weight of less than half of Ben’s one bag. In fact, one of my bags tipped the scales at 2 kilos. Yet, this lady looked me in the eye when I told her that I wanted to take these bags with me onto the plane and said.

“You’re going to have to check in one of your bags.” The check in staff said.

“Excuse me?” I asked in disbelief.

“You can only bring one bag onto the plane. So you have to check one of your bags.”

“But both of my bags combines amount to less than half of his and you let him carry his bag on.”

“I’m sorry sir, thank you for your cooperation.” She said as she pried the bag out of my hand, marked it, and placed it on the conveyor belt.

Walking away, dejected, Ben tapped me on the shoulder. “Lets go get some English Pound.”

We would be in England soon, after a brief layover in Russia.

I spent the plane ride to Russia watching the first half of the latest season of game of thrones. I tried to watch American Gods, but there was a problem, it sucked.

“This is really bad,” Ben said. He went on to watch most of season one as this is what you do when you don’t like a TV show.

Then suddenly, it happened. The world outside the plane became dark and a sudden change in the environment of the cabin could only be explained in one word, ominous. And another word; freezing.

“That’s weird,” Ben said as his breath became a smoky vapor as soon as he left his mouth.

I turned to the man sitting across the aisle from me. He was already dressed in his full winter set-up. Down jacket, scarf, gloves, broadsword, and crossbow.

He looked into my eyes and said with a bellowing voice. “Winter is coming.” Vapor coming out of his mouth as well.

That’s when we heard the announcement.

We will soon be landing in Moscow. Please fasten your seatbelt and prepare for landing. The current time in Moscow is 4pm. The current temperature is, who gives a fuck? It’s always cold.

I looked over at Ben and he was already dressed for the upcoming battle. Except, instead of a broadsword, Ben, had a magic wand.

“Where the fuck you had that?” I said.

“My carry on.” Ben said.

We were transferred from the plane, to a bus. The bus driver was standing outside of the bus wearing only a thing hooded jumper and his jeans. He watched in disgust as the passengers recoiled and withered in the Russian cold. Being sure to taunt each passenger as they entered the bus. We later learned that this time was the darkest time in Russia in quite some time. Which made total sense now that I think about it.

On the bus, we tumbled together toward Sheremetayo Airport.

“Where is the airport?” I said.

Ben, who had already drawn a circle of protection around us, pointed to a gigantic mountain in the distance with his magic wand.

“That’s it over there.” He said pointing at the mound of snow.

“There?!? That’s a fucking mountain, isn’t it?” I said.

“In Russia. All buildings are covered in snow.” Ben said. “This is Snowfrica!”

“Snowfrica?” I said. What the fuck is Snowfrica?”

“Russia is white Africa, remember? You figured it out. I don’t know how. Being all inferior intellectually and all.” Ben said. “But the people here call it Snowfrica.”

Snowfrica.” I said. “That makes so much sense.”

“Yes.” Ben said. “I’m a Snowfrican.”

I don’t know how, but it somehow became darker outside.

Next Week: Journey to West Snowfrica AKA England

Richard Bandler is the Devil.

Richard Bandler is the Devil.

We can all picture Richard Bandler riding a giant vampire bat that grabs young children and tosses them into the burning stomach of an enormous man-bull statue as a line of Rothschild’s wait for their turn.  

But I’m not here to talk about what Richard Bandler does in his free time. I won’t even speculate on his favorite drink (infant blood), or his 2nd favorite drink (unicorn cum). I just want to talk about the night Richard Bandler got away with murder.

How evil is Richard Bandler? He shot his friend’s girlfriend in the face, with his gun, at her home, then convinced a jury that he didn’t do it. Now how does a gun, and its owner, get to the house of the victim in the first place? You get the picture, stay away from the guy.

Yet, here I was, on Bandler’s couch, taking a private NLP session to get over my food addiction.

“How often do you touch yourself?” Bandler asked. “No need to feel ashamed. We’re all friends.”

“What does that have to do with my food addiction?” I said.

“I’ll answer that.” Bandler said. “But first, I want you to look into my eyes. Imagine your hand is some pepper, and your dick is a baked potato. Lather that pepper over the potato. Let’s see how it taste.” 

“What the hell?”

There was an awkward pause before I decided to take off the VR visor. Benjamin, had received the PlayStation VR setup to try the new NLP game “The Map is the Territory.” He didn’t tell me that Bandler was the games final boss. He did however tell me that there would be boobies, there were no boobies.

“Nice, Jose.” Benjamin said. 

“Hell no! I ain’t doing that again.” I said.  

“You only have to do it one more time. You can’t just quit treatment before its over. There could be major repercussions.”

Oh yeah. Like what?” 

“NLP is an egragore, Bandler is its patron. Disconnecting from your virtual therapy can damage your subconscious.” Ben said. “It has imprinted you. Or it hasn’t…. So you just can’t get up and quit. That’s some bad juju.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Ben looked into his exotic quartz crystal ball. That was my cue to scoot.

The whole train ride home I could hear Ben’s words but it was hard to take the man seriously. Imprinted? What kind of horseshit was that? 

It’s easy to be scared of Bandler, who took the teachings of Milton Ericsson and used them to help usher in the era of consumerism that works as the engine of the world economy. The parasitic ecosystem that drifts towa the top 1%. No, Bandler didn’t invent consumerism anymore than Apple invented the smartphone, but like Steve Jobs, he put it into a package that everyone could understand, NLP.

Since then, the world has been a worst place. Not exactly because people use NLP, but because of what people have used NLP for. Like in advertising, where companies use NLP to bombard the subconscious with images of garbage no one needs and turning us all into zombies. Or how about the PUA’s? Do you think the world needs a bunch of geeks “peacocking” outside of cafes, night clubs, and pool halls? Can’t they just masturbate like the rest if us? What about Tony Franken’Robbins? Do we need another Arnold Swarzenegger running for office? How does any of that make the world better?

PIck-up artist culture. Brought to you by NLP.

After about a gallon of vodka, and a g of grade A kush, I decided to charge a sigil before going to sleep. As I collapsed my head onto my pillow, my eyes started to close. I saw the face of Bandler staring at me from the foot of my bed as the conscious world began to disappear. He was smiling. 

“Do you believe in Word Magick,” Bandler said as the world faded to black.

I heard a metallic clink, the air felt thick, then suddenly, a rush of hot steam shot onto my face. Forcing my eyes open. I looked around, I wasn’t in my room anymore. This was some shit out of a horror novel, or an 80’s movie, it was some kind of factory or basement, complete with mesh walkways and leaky steam pipes. I was standing in the corner of the giant room. There seemed to be a couple of levels above and below me. But my view was obstructed by steam. 

“I must be dreaming,” I said. 

I tried to pinch myself to wake up but it wasn’t happening. I screamed, I yelled, I even peed into the steam below, nothing. I was stuck in this dream. And worst, now I was sure that I was sleeping in my own piss.

I realized that it was more than a dream as a hot redhead emerged from the cloud of steam from across the mesh walkway and started walking towards me. She moved with feline precision, floating on a cloud of air. The whole time, peeling off her clothes until she was standing in front of me completely naked. 

I didn’t waste any time as we went to the floor and started to get busy. I was about to get mine when I felt her pull away.
“You’re going to feel great,” Bandler said. I opened my eyes, the redhead’s face was replaced with Bandler’s. I tried to move but the thing had wrapped its legs around me. I could only manage to pull my head away..

“Sometimes people say ‘One day you’re going to look back at this and laugh.'” Bandler said. “My question is: ‘why wait?'”

He grabbed me by my ears and moved forward to kiss me. Just before he got close, his head exploded. Green bile splattering everywhere, including on my face. I looked up confused. Standing above me was my “savior”, with a shotgun pointing down towards the spot where Bandler’s head had been. My savior was also wearing a ski mask, which he took off to reveal a face I knew all too well, Ben Beardsley.

Ben put on his fedora then pumped a shell back into the chamber of his shotgun. “Get up.” He said.”We’re getting out of this places.”

The Death of Andrew Breitbart.

The Death of Andrew Breitbart.

The murder of Andrew Brightbart, is one of the juiciest, and perhaps most believed conspiracies among conspiracy theorist. After all, Andrew Breitbart, did not shy away from controversial statements. Like going public in a video with allegations that John Pedosta had something to hide. And shortly before his death, there was this tweet.

Who the fuck is that guy on the bottom right of this photo?

Now you can choose to believe that the Clintons ran cocaine out of Arkansas while Bill held political office, or that politicians deal directly with Satan and channel demonic entities at Bohemian Grove with all their illuminati buddies (probably all true). Or even that the Clintons, Obama and Podesta had Andrew Breitbart killed for his repeatedly toxic rhetoric towards them. But if you considered all this more than the possibility that Andrew Breitbart was killed by his own propensity for cheeseburgers, then I suspect that you are either (A) an Alt-Right troll, B) a complete idiot, or C) correct.

But if you insist on going the conspiracy route, might I offer you another more viable line of bullshit? Let’s ignore for a moment that Andrew Breitbart had let himself go and drank (and snorted?) his middle aged vessel into the bloated toad that we saw at the end (Not to mention that he died outside a bar in the wee hours of the morning after drinking)and just go all in on the idea that he was ……..murdered. 

I for one love a True Crime story, and one of my favorite games is irresponsible  speculation. And trust me, I can dedicate hours upon hours of confirmation bias to this pastime

First of all, what was Andrew Breitbart? A writer, a publisher, an entrepreneur? True, he was all these things according to his wiki. Yet, when I think of Andrew Breitbart, I don’t think of his articles, his books, or his business ventures. I don’t even think about his conservative/libertarian/unsympathetic views on race or culture. I think of all the times that Andrew Breibart opened his mouth and pissed people off. Because if Andrew Breitbart was good at anything, It was making people angry.

Andrew, lived for the thrill of being the center of attention, like when he went on shows like Opie and Anthony just to show pictures of Anthony Wiener (which he kept on his phone) jacking his meat stick. Or the time he declared in front of a roaring crowd of like minded, “culturally similar” people that he was going to expose Barack Obama with college videos from almost 25 years before his presidency. Videos that never saw the light of day despite all the channels of distribution at his disposal, like the aforementioned shock jock show circuit, Fox News, and of course his own news outlet named after himself, Breitbart.

Now surely, given his obnoxious nature, the possibility of being suicided must have crossed Andrew’s mind at some point. But whether he believed that it was possible, or he didn’t, you could rest assured that nothing was going to stop Andrew Breitbart from saying what he was going to say and doing what he was going to do. You see, Andrew, was by all accounts either a courageous trailblazing truth speaker, or a petty, outright bully. 

So yeah, it’s possible that someone killed Andrew Breitbart because of something he said or did. But in my opinion, that’s way too easy to believe given that slandering and trolling was all he ever did. As annoying as he was, why would someone kill him for it?  

Then something occurred to me the other night while watching “The Big Lebowski” for the 100th time. 

“It’s like Lenin said, you look for the person who will benefit… And, uh… You know, you’ll, uh… You know what I mean.” The Dude.

The actual quote from Lenin goes:


“When it is not immediately apparent which political or social groups, forces or alignments advocate certain proposals, measures, etc., one should always ask: “Who stands to gain?”

So in this case, “Who stands to gain?”

What does let’s say, Barack Obama, stand to gain by assassinating Andrew Breitbart? Shutting him up? Does anyone think that there was a chance that a Breitbart follower would vote for Barack Obama under any circumstances? And vice versa, does anyone believe that a base Barack Obama voter would have been swayed by anything that Andrew Breitbart had to say?

Killing Breibart over being Breibart is like hunting sharks for biting people. It doesn’t make sense. If you decide to kill someone like Breitbart, you do it because he has something. And the most valuable thing he had at the time was the Breibart brand. Now try for a moment to understand how powerful that brand is, Breitbart, was patient zero of that of the skinny jeans wearing, tiki torch baring, neo-nazi group in Charlottesville

He was what they will turn into in twenty years. They will look and talk like him. They will quote him, turn to his philosophies, photocopy his ideology into their DNA. They will canonize and follow his name into the next Charlottesville or Trump Administration. Leading that group of dedicated racist, that group of “disagree with me and we are at war” victimized morons, is worth billions in power and influence. And there is only one person who wanted that more than anyone else, Steven K Bannon.

Bannon, has been called by many people the most evil man in existence. Bannon, is not called evil for his conservative beliefs (although he could be). He’s also not evil for his support of Trump (although a case could be made). Bannon is evil for the simple reason that the motherfucker is the pure embodiment of anti-good incarnate. A true detriment to humanity. A man who is actively trying to bring about the motherfucking apocalypse .

If anyone had a motive to see Breibart dead, it was Bannon, just consider how much he benefited from it.

  • He “inherited” Breitbart News. 
  • He retained the dedicated attention of the neo-nazi, skinny jean wearing, army of tiki torchers.
  • The exclusive financial backing of Billionaire Robert Mercer, a richer, smarter, more evil version of Lex Luther.
  • On top of all that, he became the right hand of Donald Trump with a made up position, just for him. Can’t you picture Andrew Breitbart speaking at the republican convention? Giving interviews, defending the Charlottesville protest and demonizing counter protestors for opposing Neo-Nazis? I can. 

It was after taking all these facts into consideration that we here at 33HQ decided to undertake a ritual to discover the truth.

We knew we had to speak directly to the devil.

It was storming outside that night. The thunder erupted across the sky in a rolling crash as the rain began to pour down. Ben was waiting for me at the crossroads, slouching against the downpour in his trench coat and fedora.

“You got the book?” I ask.

“Sure,” Ben says, holding up the embossed, leather-bound volume that flickers as a bolt of lightening cracks open the sky. “You got the chicken?”

I lift that fat cock up to Ben’s eyes, “This is Andrew.” I say over the roar of the rain. “Andrew Breitbart.”

To be continued…

How To Scry: The Definitive Poke Runyon Interview

How To Scry: The Definitive Poke Runyon Interview

If you don’t know Poke Runyon, then he is no doubt more disappointed by that fact than any of you are. Poke Runyon is not a conspiracy theorist. Let’s make that clear. Poke is what you would call a magician of the ceremonial kind. He’s very similar to the ones you read about in medieval times. Men of sorcery and alchemy who scried into a black mirror or ventured across the land in search of sacred knowledge muggles like us never knew existed.

To put it it bluntly, Poke Runyon is a fabled mystical figure of his own creation. Just check out his Metapedia page, no doubt written by Poke himself. In it, Poke takes credit for black mirror scrying by rewording it into something different. But really, it’s just black mirror scrying. He didn’t make it up.
Reading his page and actually getting through it, was much easier than I thought it would be. That’s because as far as charlatans go, Poke is very good at talking about himself and making that information seem interesting. However, it gets convoluted very quickly. Somehow I know that a lot is missing. I feel like there is more to it. Something, just isn’t there. If I had two words to describe that something, I would call it the truth. 

And here is where I encounter the limits of the Internet. Poke’s accomplishments are too fragmented across its treacherous landscape to extrapolate a reliable narrative. It became clear to me that in order to find out the truth about Poke, I would have to get it straight from the mage’s mouth. I would have to speak to Poke himself.

Speaking to Poke Runyon would be no easy undertaking. He’s a pseudo celebrity after all, and there is also some electronic proof of me slandering him out there. It also doesn’t help that I have the face of a slanderer. Still, with all this against me, I continued to take up this task, if for anything else, for the possibility meeting a great master magician. 
I turned to the Internet again for clues of how to find him. Word is that Poke runs the Temple of Astarte, the OTA, out of a secluded lodge in California. Now I would go there, but that would be the easy thing to do. Also, I don’t have the money. But almost any other interviewer can buy a plane ticket. No. This deserved a more nuanced approach, a more, dare I say it, magical approach. 
As I stared into the empty black mirror of my iPhone, it came to me, I would scry Poke Runyon, from my iPhone. With the help of a friend, of course.

“Nooooooo, noooooo, noooooo!” Benjamin said as he levitated above the tatami mats of his flat. “No fucking way.” 

“But we call up demons all the time,” I said. “You love that shit!”

“No.” Ben said. “I am not scrying into a mirror for Poke Runyon. That’s where I draw the line.”

Ten minutes later, Ben had already prepared the basics for the ritual, we just needed one more thing….

“The black mirror.” Ben said.

“I got it.” I said placing my iPhone down on the table.

Ben turned off the lights to the room and got a couple of candles going. He then sat down in front of my phone and began to call upon Poke. It only took four minutes, but the fires from the candles got brighter, and the room was then filled with the faint aroma of bullshit. 

“He’s here.” Ben said.

The following is a conversation between myself and Poke Runyon scried on the black mirror on my iPhone. It’s as real as any conversation Poke has ever had with a black mirror.

Thanks for coming Poke.

You’re most welcome. And thank you! I always welcome the opportunity to speak to a fan.

Well, I’m not a fan, I’m just interviewing you. Or scrying you, or whatever.

Oh? Are you a journalist?

No. I’m not a journalist. 

Then you must be a fan! 
Okay. Never mind, listen, Poke, may I ask you a couple of questions while you’re here?
Well, that depends… Have you taken all the precautionary measures for this ritual? 
Yes. I think so.

And are you of sound mind? Have you partaken in any types of hallucinatory substances?

What? 

Have you …. You know? (The spectral vision of Poke in the mirror makes a smoking gesture) 

Okay! Nevermind. I’ll stick with irresponsible speculation.

No. No. No. Proceed with the interview.

No. Seriously, I don’t have time for this shit. I only wanted to ask you a couple of questions. And you got all weird and shit. 

No. It is rude to call on a spirit without consorting with it. Please, proceed with your questions
(I look at Ben, who is already uploading some photos of the ritual on to the CMG. Ben types “Have you ever scried? What for, and how do?” )

Poke is right. It is rude to call upon a spirit without properly consorting with it, Ben said.

Ha! The rabbi is accurate. Ask your questions my young acolyte. 

Thank you. Okay Poke, I only have three.

The only more perfect number would be 93.

Please stop doing that.

Doing what? 

Responding to everything I say with a dramatic connection,

Do you not want me to answer your questions? 

I’d like you to let me ask them first. We’ve been here for already five minutes and you haven’t even let me speak.

Proceed.

Did you in fact sell trinkets to rich people while living in the sewer?

That wasn’t me, that’s from the movie “Simon, King of the Witches” which is in no way based on my life.

That’s right, so did you do it or not? 

Young man, did you not hear my words? “Simon, King of the Witches” is in no way based on my life. 

I’ll take that as a yes. My second question. You’re credited with “rediscovering” the ancient method of black mirror scrying. First of all, how does one “rediscover” something that has already been discovered and in still in practice? And secondly, how does a person see something in a mirror without the use of drugs or any other kind of mind altering substances?

Rediscover.” Such a fascinating notion, I guess I did rediscover this method and reintroduce it to the masses…

No. Poke, that’s not what I asked. I asked….

As for your second question, the answer is just as simple…

Alcohol? 

Yes.

Ok then. My last question, and then you can go…. Please. When you died and came back, you allegedly returned with ancient sacred knowledge, what specifically was that ancient sacred knowledge?

The ancient sacred knowledge? Oh my. How do I begin…

You can by opening your mouth and telling me.

The secret ancient knowledge. Why, it’s simple, you only have to…. Oh, I’m very sorry my young acolyte, but I must make flight, for my journey through the ether must continue. Please feel free to call upon me another time. 

Poke, that’s not how it works, you can’t leave until we close the circle and allow you to go. I know this from watching your DVD “The Magick Of Solomon.”

It is good to see that the younger generation has taken it upon themselves to preserve the ancient secret knowledge.

Stop referring to me as a fan, acolyte, and young. I’m forty. Dude, Poke, just please answer my question.

And what, exactly, is your question?

Grrrrr! What is the ancient secret knowledge? 

That I cannot tell you, unfortunately. You must discover it for yourself.

Okay. We stay here until you tell me.

(Five hours of awkward silence pass. Ben had already completely lost interest and moved on to answering his Facebook messages, which at that point had to be in the hundreds of lost souls such as myself seeking his guidance. Poke’s eye had begun to twitch slightly.)

Ready to talk, Poke? 

I’m sorry, but I can’t share the sacred ancient knowledge with you.

(Another five hours pass. During which Ben went down to the Lighthouse for a couple of drinks. I looked into Poke’s sleepy, pug eyes. He had the resolve, but so did I.)

Poke?

Yes.

You don’t have the secret ancient knowledge do you? 

(Poke intently contemplated my question for an entire one quarter of a second before giving the answer that I should have known all along.)

No.

Okay. 
So I closed the circle and joined Ben at the Lighthouse. The moral of the story being that perhaps Poke has something of value to share with the rest of society other than his outsized messiah complex. But, if so, he doesn’t know it yet, and even if he did, I doubt he would tell any of us.

“You’ve learned a very valuable lesson today,” Ben said with a smile as he finished his Vodka Cranberry.

“Which is?”
“Never trust a magician.”

No shit.