I seek the path of the bear and the means to barbate power.

I seek a bristly master, a bewhiskered craftsman in the ways of the hirsute, lumbering and powerful. I must depart from the moribund aesthetics and effete sexual politics of the twink, the nancy-boy and the fag.

Our world of parades and Bravo are bleating the toilless moans of eschatological decline. The new century will be kind to few and our utopian rainbow colors will only draw the predators closer, until the creeping gnashing of teeth bursts from the darkness around our delicate campfire and devours the unprepared remnants.

There is only one thing that may save our culture: the bear.

He is as brave as he is broadshouldered, his mind as steadfast as the supple leather that grips his vigorous brawn.

When the barbarians ululate their morbid tongues just beyond our gates, when San Francisco, Chicago and New York City become the Viennas of our times, what will the Carson Kressleys and Ted Allens do for us?

I will tell you what they will do: they will run, shrieking with saucy lamentations, their acerbic wits their only armor. Their moneyed studios and sharply decorated dwellings will crumble without the grandeur of a Constantinople, without the fits and chaos of Rome.

Unless the bears, our scattered and shunned knights, driven to cloistered fetish communities and obscure clubs and flaunted as apeish oddities in tragic minstreal show pageantry, are summoned. They are, as Orwell would tell us, the rough men who will do violence in our name; they are those among us who shall have their St. Crispin's day, for whom calendars will recall perenially and ever more. It is those men who I wish to stand shoulder to shoulder with, our backs to that fleeting innocence preserved only by proportional vigilance - by precious violence and injustice. When the day is done, should God will it, our Viennas will sing the songs of the sprite and the brute both, and all shall scamper and fuck beneath our new flag, its stripes the color of bared ursinity, of a nature resurrected and avowed.

I wish to join the ranks of the bears, to know the power and wisdom of a Masi. I know one does not transcend meekness and frailty by mere diet and facial hair stylings. Please help me, for the hour of the bear's Great Sacrifice draws near.

He sat sipping bitter coffee, his dark islamic eyes darting from porno mag to jihad manual. It was his third cup of the bitterbittercoffeebitter drank in the course of an hour.

Any journalist could see plainly that the dark substance in his cup was not the silly coffee toted around in the West. But where does this magic culture coffee come from?

Indeed, this was coffee made from the Arab street, extracted from bitter beans by harnessing the ire intrinsic to a group of devoted muslims. The men and boys gather around a water container (usually an islamic vace thats just utterly fucking beautiful) and project their identity politics onto a single point in a volume of water. The water will begin boiling far quicker than any water I've ever scene us wasteful Americans attempt to boil. The beans and boiling water are given to an Imam who through modification of an Honor-Killing spell, is able to brew up Andalusian gold.

Then its on to the sweets...

Srsly?
a/s/l?
rly?
a police wiretap noting every word
haxoring through your foil

Willy Makeit
edifying
doh
dont eat tracking devices in fries
illegal drugs
no, space space is energy & time
gingerly set bong on solid table
take deep breath
order a pizza with whatever u want
nasrallah