I.R. Orientated

January 8th, 2007

Having not paid proper tribute to the Epona, Celtic goddess of dreams,
your groggy web-weaving orator was not visited by the maiden until four
in the AM. Attempting to awaken a mere two hours later, 'twas quite a
task. Now limping towards the bathroom with two sleep crusted eyes
and freshly stubbed toe, ever spying for theNordic Lord Loki, to think the morn had only just began.

Quickly swigging down a 2-liter of Diet Pepsi for driving clarity and
orientation suredness of not checking for eyelid holes, The man from
Gothikus arrived promptly at seven forty in the AM. Still filled with
want of sleep, three four ounce coffee cups were downed with three
lipton tea bags in each. 'Twas such a caustic brew now lodged in me
gullet, the very Hammer of Thor would surely dissolve, if not
straighten the curl of Odin’s beard, me thought. A warm, radiating, now atomic glow had overcome your now fidgety story teller, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed ready for the full day trainaseum. Now it was most certainly time to have a little fun.

After blissfully swearing into a gub-ment position, The helpful little
lady in the pink shirt with fluffies and bunnies strewn upon it,
informed me that I had just taken the same oath that the president is
sworn into the oval office with. Gleam in eye, and mouth now agape, the
question had to be asked as it would surely have bubbled out anyways.

So I asked ms. fluffy bunnies if I might now be mistaken for Dubbya,
although a younger, more dashing, goateed version. There was silence
through out the room, and realizing this was a tough crowd, mischief was
certainly afoot, and it would only be a matter of time until I spied, or
created it.

Then there was ms. pointy-boots, perky-tits. A slightly gothic tinge
seared the maiden as she adorned black on black on black with matching
boots and purse. Ms. pointy-boots kept looking at me, checking me out,
which is the usual custom in such settings when I make my presence
known. As she sat in front of me, her tight little ass kept following
my eyes! 'Twas the damndest of all things!

So I had to keep rehearsing my speech, inner dialogue mostly, on how
when she finally heeded the call of animal lust and approached me, I
would need to break the sad, heart wrenching news that although I was
certainly willing, I would not be able to accept a "courtesy hummer"
from her soft pouting lips whilst being orientated, no matter how long
the table clothes were, and how well they would conceal her movements
beneath them. Sometimes, just sometimes, a man just has to make a
stand, me proudly thought.

And now, a word from our sponsors:

Little Sally is depressed. More depressed then the other baby bats.
Little Sally is depressed because she keeps hearing tale of the now,
international legend, Th0rn. But knows not where she can go to learn
more about the mystique that is he. How to separate the man, from myth,
nor how to pay him proper homage.

Well drop that ceremonial blood letting dagger and turn that frown
upside down little Sally. For Th0rn has his own website, plays a
pivotal role on the space of my, often conferring with Tom himself. Can
be seen gallivanting on findagoth, and is even known to make special
guest appearances on gothic match, tinderbox, and a slew of vamp, and
pagan sites too numerous to mention.

Too much too quickly, and your eyes now bleed from information overload
you say little Sally? Perhaps a nice, leisurely stroll through gothikus.com will do your frail heart well. Whilst perusing, pick up a copy of The Movie Gothikus, as to catch these freshly spun electrons while they are all still warm, and snuggly cozy.

But wait, there's more! If you act now, you get to come by and say
"Hey" to Th0rn and the gang, whilst lounging at The Chamber. Stand outside next to him as he triumphantly adheres to the no smoking policy. Follow in front of him laying rose petals at his feet while he climbs down break neck stairs heading to the restroom, after a hearty night of
bombastic drinking filled with wine, women and song.

Little Sally now lets out a smile and proudly proclaims that the deepest cuts let the hurt out quickest.

And now, back to our story.

Then there is the story of the Bombay bombardier, Dr. Havina-goodtime-wishin'-you-were-here. Which is a story for another time, I am certain.

A public speaker and provider of information for resources of the
humans, was in possession of a slight urban vernacular. "If someone
axed you to come wiff diss and go forff" (I shit you not). Your
story-teller knew that that semi-retirement would not be a problem, as
if they can survive federal employment, 'tis most likely not to be a
problem for your beloved scribe to emerge unscathed as well.

Wishing to remain in the height or Roman fashion, a cell phone was
purchased from the revolutionaries. Work now settling in place, and
thus far being introduced by a chop-busting co-worker as: 1. The new
supervisor. 2. An ex-navy seal. 3. The new gynecologist. It seems
as if the legend of Th0rn will live on for quite sometime in this place
as well. Be on the look-out for a new installment I.R. Phoneski

(subtitled I was a teen-aged Th0rn)

Be well my cult members