Dear Bangy McDoucheguzzler,
You are in every occult shop in every town in every nation, and you just lose yourself in the music of your own silky palms any time you come across bongos or ceremonial drums or pan flutes or sacred Tibetan Jenga blocks. And I hate you, Guy. I hate you. And so does everyone else.
Don’t get me wrong; I am utterly certain that you are made of power. Clearly your masculine vibes cannot be controlled, and the incessant thrum of your internal rhythm must be shoved down the auditory meatus of every occult shopper and browser on Earth.
Never mind that most of the people here are seeking candles for that one weird sister it’s hard to buy for, or crystals prescribed by their medicine woman, or books on how to date a Capricorn, or just breathe in some serene dolphin energy. Never mind that at least ten people are here for quiet, personal psychic readings; you play on, hairless stinky wonder. You play on.
In my mind I have grasped an athame from the locked weaponry case and plunged it into your gut, surgically extracted your diaphragm, and have stretched it over my spread knees where I will bash out the exact same beat you have been playing for 17 minutes over and over until the police come. Since you probably believe you are manifesting something with your unstoppable drum solo, manifest my peace, bitch. Manifest it.
Also, you suck. You dropped the rhythm, like, 8 times. And put down that hand carved Ecuadoran recorder. PUT IT DOWN. I HATE YOU. I WILL END YOU. I WILL END YOU BY CRAMMING EVERY VOLUME OF SILVER RAVENWOOD’S WICCA GUIDES DOWN YOUR NOISE HOLE, YOU UNSELFAWARE TROGLODYTE!
Namaste, motherfucker.
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