An Interlude: The Mountaintop Experience… and the Valley of Death. A Historical Allegory…. by BaHR

About 7,500 words
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The Mountain is High; the Valley is Low; and I’m Confused.
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I have BEEN to the Mountaintop. And… I’ve been led… like a blind man… through the Valley… of Death…. And… neither experience was terribly enlightening….
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1. The Ecstatic Ascent: The Mountaintop Experience….
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Once upon a time… earlier in my life… I did some pretty stupid things…. One was trying to climb the 14,000 foot peak outside of Estes Park, Colorado… in Rocky Mountain State Park….
Some of my “colleagues” and I were in the area studying… certain martial arts… Of course… we all claimed we were “studlying”…. At least that’s what we liked to call what we were doing….
One morning… we woke up a little less than early… but decided that we still could probably peak…. So… we got to the parking lot just before noon… and we lit out….
Colorado was a different kind of place way back then. With different species of life. Different definition of… wild life.
Coloradoans way back then led a laid back… yet fast-paced… lifestyle…. Plenty of yoga and hacky sac and granola and falafel and other edibles. The native species engaged in all of the usual… and unusual things. Hiking and kayaking. And other water sports. Riding motorcycles with helmets strapped to their knees as a show of defiance…. Rebel rebels…. And masseuses…. Flower children. And children smoking flowers.
As we began our trek… meandering up the trail… the natives would shoot past up… running up the mountain…. Not leisurely walking. Pacing themselves. Not jogging. Not even trotting.
Running!
Almost sprinting!
Like they knew where they were going…. Knew the path that would get them there…. And… just wanted to get going and git’r done….
Never even occurred to us what their all-fired rush might be…. Because we had know idea…. No knowledge… intimate… our otherwise… about the menace on the mountain…. Or microclimates.
So… while the natives busied themselves sprinting towards the Boulder Fields… we entertained ourselves with thoughts of scrambling over huge boulders… and glaciers… and technical climbing….
Most of just had a light rucksack. A couple of bottles of water. Some rope. Repelling equipment. Pitons. Crampons. Tampons. For the pussies. That type of things. But Rene LeCoq had full-out aluminum framed backpack. The kind you usually carry for a week-long hiking trip. The kind that you have to carry everything in and hike it all back out. We were all travelling rather light, but none of us were in any kind of shape to keep up with those restless-legged natives!
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One of the things that intrigued me… was my… perspective… of the peak… of the mountaintop…. From below. In the valley.
Initially… the apex of Long’s Peak didn’t seem so far away…. Seemed like an easy hike. Timberline appeared to be beckoning….
But… every time we ascended the next ridge… and the summit of Long’s Peak would climb into view… it seemed higher… larger… more ominous… and much further away….
After we had criss-crossed back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth… trudged for many miles… and still could easily see our starting point…. And… we were out of breath…. And could feel the fluid filling our feet…. And our hands…. As we struggled to breath…. We begin to feel… discouraged….
But… the birds were still chirping…. And a cool wind was blowing down the mountain…. And the sky was still cerulean blue…. A perfect day…. Or… so we thought….
As we reached the shade of one of the many ridges…. Lesser mountains…. And were deciding whether or not to scramble over the vertical surface of the rock before us… some twelve… or maybe fourteen feet high… I suddenly began to feel… something… moisture… wetness… on my face!
Immediately, I started searching the premises… to see who was up above that ridge… pissing down on my head!
And then… the clouds started streaming over the ridge…. The rainclouds…. Flying by like bats fleeing Hell. And… that explained it. The phenomenon. I felt. That I thought was human. Urine.
So… I guess… sometimes… when your slogging up a mountain… trying to drag yourself up to the summit… and… you start to feel like those around you are not helping… but rather… pissing on your parade…. Well… I guess you may be right…. But I was wrong…. That sudden shower of golden liquid sunshine… was just a feature of nature….
The vision of clouds… compressed as they are forced over the peaks of the Rocky Mountains… jetting past… as if they had been captured on time-lapse video… and released back into the wild… was amazing. Awe inspiring.
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After we scrambled over that shelf, our eyes suddenly opened up on one of the most beautifully scenic mountain lakes I’ve ever witnessed. I believe it may have been Chasm Lake, but I’m sure. The label seemed to washed off in the crystal clear water of the aquamarine landmark.
The water looked so-o-o inviting…. And we were so-o-o hot from our climb.
Of course… the pockets of snow on the ground, secluded in even the smallest patches of shade should have been our first clue…. But… we were exhilarated. And hypoxic. And unobservant. So we all stripped off our clothes. And ran to the top of this huge boulder overlooking the pristine lake. And jumped in. Probably close to a twenty-foot vertical drop. Straight down.
I don’t know how deep that lake was. Doesn’t really matter. I never found out. I never touched bottom. I barely even touched the surface.
As soon as my skin touched the frigid surface of super-cooled pool…
It was a spiritual experience for me, if not frankly religious. I’d never walked on water before. And never since. Mush less ran. But I did that day. I sprinted across the surface like a water strider or a pond skimmer. And so did the rest of my party.
I didn’t really spend enough time taking samples, running experiments and plotting graphs to come up with any definitive results. I didn’t actually do the phase diagrams… plotting for transitions at different temperatures and pressures. But… we were at altitude. And… it was cold.
Bottom line is… I don’t really know if there was any Ice-IX anywhere in that lake at the time we jumped in. But I do know… that due to the transfer of temperature and change of pressure when my naked butt hit the surface to when I completed the phase transition dragging my ass back to dry land… there was definitely some Ass-Numb in that lake. However briefly. If I’d been in there any longer, I’m sure I would have found an Ass-icle.
I tried to report my finding in the Journal of Irreproducible Results, but I was rejected. Apparently Ice-IX has been reported on Earth. Somewhere in the tropics apparently.
Whodda Thunkit.
Not the Scientist who reported the finding.
The one who rejected my paper.
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Oh well. As I may have mentioned before… we seemed to have a propensity for being a little… hypovigilant… from the hypoxia… due to the elevation I’m sure….
Anyway…. When we did start to become a little more… aware…. We noticed that those cute little fast moving rain clouds were just the skirmishers… for the squall line… and suddenly… we were completely surrounded… by dense… black storm clouds…. As in… thunderstorms…. Of course… we all Scientists…. Most of us anyways…. So we knew… no one can really be struck by thunder….
But when that bolt of lightning whizzed by our ears abuzzin’…. All crackle-lacking…. And slammed into trees… down at the timberline… which seemed to be about a mile below us…. With a flash of brilliance. And a feeling that can probably best be described as shocking blue electric frenzy….
Suddenly… we realized… the truth…. In all it’s frightening gory….
And then… that truth…. Our truth…. Was suddenly… almost catastrophically… reiterfied. By a horrific BOOM!!! that sounded a whole lot like DOOM!!!
Our doom!
We were the tallest things on the mountain…. We stuck out…. Like lightning rods….
Shocking thought!
Reiterfied. Some of you may not be familiar with that word. It’s a combo-word. Reiterated and simultaneously deep shit fried. Our “it” was about to be toasted and served on a shingle with toe cheese. And when the “it” hits the fan… well… we would be posterized. Pasteurized. Sanitized. Rarified.
Well… we shot out of there like a posi-shard breaching a plasma cannon… before the report even had a chance to echo. Maybe we just didn’t hear the echo. Because we were moving faster than the speed of sound. Approaching the speed of light.
The trip down certainly took a lot less time than the slog up. Because we were running. Sprinting. Like the locals. Who already knew about the menace of the mountains microclimes….

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2. The Tragic Conclusion: The Valley of Death….
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I should really cease the levity. Be more serious.
I guess… in order to move forward… I must go back….
The ending to that hike was actually tragic. I guess I’m probably still in denial. A member of the party… and a good friend… died that day.
I mentioned that we were all Scientist of some ilk. Or something similar. Rene LeCoq was French. And a fighter pilot. An ace in fact. One of the few Frenchmen who ever had the balls to fight in a shooting war. And… Rene… was the very first French Drone ace. He recorded six kills. And only five were French. The other was Belch. Or Belgian. Depending on your native tongue.
After his time actually flying drones, Rene went on to a very distinguished career in the French equivalent of the American Fighter Pilot Top Gun School for Drones called Top Gear. As a chef. He was extremely well known and loved for his ability to make fluffy pastries. Except for soufflés…. His always fell. Disastrously. Apparently some type of autocatalytic reaction due to too much gas. Something closely akin to spontaneous combustion.
Anyway…. Rather famously…. Rene’s soufflés always seemed to go down in flames. Rather spectacularly.
Case in point…. The soufflé Rene prepared for Princess Guenniver’s coronation as First Lazy. A spectacular failure!
But… you’ve got to hand it to the man…. He never stopped trying….
Until that day.
And that… was the day… Rene was offered… his dream job…. Primary Rocketsled Prototype Test Pilot. Rene… went from being nothing more than a marginal Pastry Chef… to being the Chief Test Pilot of European Rocketsled Development Team. The only Test Pilot.
At the time of the… accident… he had been working diligently on a portable model that was gyroscopically driven. Autocorrected trajectory. Tragically.
doG. Majesty. Power. Lightning great motivator. As most forms utter & complete devastation. Impending Cosmic implosion.
Rocketsled. Unfolded like Transform. What really happened that stormy day in late June… well… none of us is really sure. It all happened so fast. It was all a huge blur. And we were temporary blinded by the flash. And deafened by the explosion. But… this is best story we can assemble. And… we’re sticking to it!
As that streak of blue lighting blew right past us… setting all of our shorthairs to tingling simultaneously… Rene leapt straight up into the rapidly blackening sky… and began to twist… to turn… to contort… his arms… and his legs… and his face… like a cat… falling… trying to land on his feet. Like a bat… tumble… trying to regain level flight…. And… simultaneously… he began to fold… and unfold… and flip… and spin… the backpack… around…. I must say he certainly looked a lot like one of those Transformers. Not the little children’s toys. The real thing!
Rene wheeled around… and pulled that backpack down… over his shoulders… and slammed it… onto the ground… in directly under him…. And landed square on top of it… on his knees…. Just like he’d meant to do just that…. He shifted his weight like the Silver Surfer…. And immediately upon impact with the rocky ground… he blasted off…. Surged ahead…. Skittering and twittering and careening and caroming from rock to rock…. From boulder to boulder…. Then suddenly… he picked up a rock on his Rocketsled. And… with a boulder on his shoulder… he kinda just killed over… and the calliope crashed to the ground…. Hit the tree line. Hit the trees. Lightning hit him. And then… the brilliant… blinding flash… the deafening roar…. And… the explosion….
Reminds me of Snoopy & Red Baron.
And a fantastic red dog I once dated… a Hellhound actually. Her name was Her name was Hellga Netherflamme. And she was Belch. And… the ginger bitch just happened to finishing up her doctoral work when I first met her.
The first time I saw her, she was wearing a long white coat. Made her look so smart. And… her legs… look… so… long…. Made her stand out in the crowd….
That lovely lady sure helped me to mature a lot. I think she was the first female I ever loved for her mind rather than her face. She wasn’t quite a two-bagger. But she was definitely a bit of a Butterface. Looked absolutely amazing… everywhere… Butterface. I mean… she was pretty hot! But she certainly knew how to get men’s attention and make them focus on her… other… assets.
Come to think of it…. I’m not sure why she was wearing a white coat at all. Her Ph.D. was work was in Interpretation of Ethnic Expressive Dance Forms with particular focus on Eastern European Exotic Popular Forms. I assumed she meant something like interpretation of the Ballets of Bartok and Stravinsky. The Rites of Spring. That kind of thing. From her conservative dress, I assumed she must be some kind of Hothouse Flower. When she explained that her area of expertise was more… visceral…. More… verdant…. More… virile….
At first… I assumed she was talking about some kind of cross-species appreciation of performance art…. And… I must admit… I found her cultural diversity… and open-mindedness… quite refreshing. Quite attractive. Naturally, because my first… encounter… with Slavic females was quite… enlightening…. Quite… educational…. I was hoping that her area of interest was Slaving Horizontal Dancing…. Or… the Mating Rituals of Czech Chicks…. Those sorts of things.
Well… turns out… I was almost absolutely correct. Her primary focus was Slavic Performance Art. Pole Dancing. With a minor in Lap Dancing. But before I could ask her if she had brought her reindeer, she had to excuse herself. To go work on her thesis. Perform her mandatory hours as a T&A.
Such a diligent lady!
My understand was that the form was very similar to Hawaiian Hula, but with more of a Polka beat. And… without the hoop. And… without the coconuts. And… without the grass skirt. And… with a pole. Not a Pole. And… to my great disappointment… no reindeer. Not even one!
Anyway…. Hellgal sure seems quite proficient, I must say.
Anyway…. Her stage name was Hellgal. During her act… she would light her private parts on fire as she dance… just to heat things up. Kind of like Brazilian waxing, but a whole lot smoother. And hotter!
The first time I saw her act… I was all like… “Holy Moses, Batman! A burning bush!”
Man… was that ginger bitch hot!
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Anyway…. That’s the back story. But it sure seems I left a little bit out. That maybe I need to explain.
Why did my friends death remind me of her?
Well… mostly because she lived in the Wheat Ridge Area. And my friend Rene kept saying he was in love with her. And begging me to introduce him. And… in fact… that’s why he was on the hike. And… why he was carrying the Portable Rocketsled. Because he promised that he would let me ride it down the mountain… if I introduced him to Hellgal.
And… she was waiting for us… at the base of the mountain… waiting… to meat Rene….
Anyway… point is… when the French Ace Rene LeBlanc went down, he went down in flames.
Like I explained to Hellga… Rene was a cunning linguist. That excited her. A lot. She was very oral. Or verbal. And… she was hot!
Like I said. Rene was cunning. He almost survived. Almost.
Rene looked kind of funny at his funeral. Singed eyebrows. Smutty-faced smile. But… he looked happy. Like he got his wish.
Actually… Rene LeCoq… looked like he’d just been bobbing for French Fries…. Which… incidentally… turned out to be a Belch idea….
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When I look back on that day… all I keep thinking… is that my friend saved my life… by sacrificing his…. By driving that Rocketsled down to crash all the way down at the treeline. By removing all of the rocket fuel from my immediate vicinity. By drawing that lightning bolt down to the treeline with him. And… by whatever happened with him… and Hellgal….
I don’t know what it was… but it sure made him happy….
And… when the wind blows a particular… peculiar way… I can almost hear a haunting voice crying out: “My name is Rene LeCoq… and when I go down… I go down in FLAMES!!!”
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By the time I made my way back down to the valley… I was a changed man.
Witnessing death. Almost experiencing death. Being so close to death. Being wrapped up in death. Changes one’s perspective.
Take home message? Mountaintop experiences are great. But you really can’t camp out safely. At least… not above timberline. Sometimes you’ve got to come back down to face the world. And then… you’ve got to walk through the valley just to get back home….

Smoking ruin
Feathered costume

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3. The History and the Mystery of Butterball: The Man, the Myth, the Legend in his own Mind… if Nowhere Real….
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Now… I have tried to answer… to anticipate… all of the questions that any of my critics might have. A priori! But I know that any of you just happen to be Venusian Bearded Clams… especially if you were born into the Purple… Venusian Royalty. And… I imagine that just about any other species of Mollusk of the Class Hyperreligiositae… you will no doubt find some way to criticize my choices. And… I suspect your first question might be just why someone who claims to be a Conservative Christian would be hanging around… associating with that kind of crowd. Singers. Dancers. Strippers. Prostitutes. Fry cooks. Nuclear astrophysicists. Scientist of any ilk. Sex Industry workers. Government Union employees. Entertainment Industry workers. Anyone else who engages in any other form of prostitution. Any of that sort of occupation on that sordid list of miscreants and unbeliebers. Including Justin himself since he fell of the Wagon of Sainthood. Was thrown out of the Stretch Limousine of Perfection.
Well… if you actually are a Venusian Bearded Clam… or some slimy Space Slug… then you’ve never worked a millisecond in your entire life… so you have absolutely no idea what working men and women sometimes have to do to put food on the table…. To feed their children.
And… by working men and women… I mostly mean working women. On the evening shift. Or… Ladies of the Evening. Working flat of their backs. Or… clinging to a Pole.
While you’re getting all high-and-mighty on me… all hyperreligious… I’ll just remind you that Jesus hung out with prostitutes and riff-raff. Tax collectors. The worst kind of scum. Souls believed to be beyond… or beneath… salvation…. I do have to admit that he didn’t include many Scientists in his posse. Limited the number of doctors, too. Just one physician. And one assassin. Seems maybe there’s some sort of a correlation there.
Anyway…. I was unemployed at the time. A student. And a stud. In Veterinary School. Studying Animal Husbandry. And… not one was ministering to these poor… struggling… sinners.
I saw a need. They had a need. I had a need.
And… there was a position available. It was a Missionary position. And I filled it. As best I could. As often as I could.
What could I do? There before me was a woman with needs. Aflame with passions. So I just did the Christian thing. Same thing that priests and preachers and youth ministers do all the time. For their church members. To their church members. Their students in their Christian Schools. And… their Choirboys…. I just followed a long, well-established Church tradition. And… I was well-endowed, so I filled that Missionary position. Perfectly. No complaints. None. At. All!
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Well…. Just occurred to me that some of you may misinterpret what I just said. Spin it. Try to use it against me. Take my works completely out of context. Use my words… to accuse me. Before your church. And then… refuse to allow me to speak. To answer questions. To correct your transgressions. Confront your accusations. Present myself for examination before your blasted Board of Elders…. To answer your trumped-up charges….
That’s all right. I forgive you. Like Jesus himself said about you: you know not what you do. Bunch of blind guides. A nest of pit vipers. Vipers from the pit. Satan spawn. And Satan’s pawns. And you love doing your father’s bidding.
And… that’s really all the love you have in your hearts.
All the love you ever had… in your cold… hard… frozen… solid… hearts….
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WORD!!! A warning to all of you dirty-minded deacons and elders and priests and preachers and presbyters and all of you other holy sodomites of all descriptions…. Get your minds out of the gutter and drag your devious disputations out of the ditch. You’re crowding me, Brother.
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So… maybe I should explain myself. Explain what really happened. Not that you will listen anyway. Not that you will care. But… just so I have the satisfaction of defending myself. For once….
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As I may have mentioned before… this all started right after a tragic accident. One of my close friends… Rene LeCoq… died. Was killed. Went down in flames in the flaming netherregions of a Belch Hellhound bitch named Hellga Netherflamme… never to be seen alive again.
After that… incident… that… accident… that… tragic event… Hellgal and I were drawn closer together than ever…. Probably had something to do with the thermal convection currents. And the backdraft. The draft… the hot… foul… scary… wind… escaping from my backside. And… the Missionary position.
That bitch sure taught me a lot….
And… some of it was even useful….
Completely changed me. Changed my life. Changed my perspective. How I looked at life. How I looked at situations. How I looked at myself.
That fiery ginger bitch taught me a lot….
How to dress… inappropriately….
How to strip… seductively….
And… how to talk to a woman… the way she wants to be talked to…. How to talk to her heart. How to get a woman to let her hair down. How to get her to loosen her corset strings. And… her purse strings.
She taught me how to were eye make-up. A feather boa. Frilly panties. Lots of things.
Like I said… that Belch Hellhound bitch taught me a lot.
She taught me how to think…. About others. About a woman’s… needs…. And desires….
But mostly… she taught me how to think… for myself.
When that classless bitch left me. High and dry. And flat broke. Just because in a fit of passion… I screamed out… a name….
In a fit of passion… I screamed out… BUTTERFACE!!!
Immediately… her ardor changed… into pure hatred!
My missionary position… that I enjoyed so much… suddenly became a deathtrap. She suddenly began to see me… as a victim. A sacrifice.
I barely managed to escape the same fiery fate… the very same flaming death as my friend… Rene LeCoq.
But I didn’t die. And… I learned a valuable lesson. A very valuable lesson. A lucrative lesson… that paid my way through Vet School… with plenty of money to spare.

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I guess… first… I should give Hellgal credit…. She gave me the initial idea…. But… I took it from there….
I thought to myself… if a Butterface can make so much money doing it… then why not a Butterball? That’s when I hatched my plan that paid my way all the way through Vet School… as a stripper.
I mean… obviously stripping is mostly a mind game. A more-or-less rational assumption I reasoned to myself.
So… I reasoned further: I have a great mind; therefore, I should be a great stripper!
As irrational as that idea might seem to be… it turned out to be completely logical… if rather counter-intuitive. Successful implementation of that idea… successful performance under my revolutionary… and even disruptive… totally blue sky business model… was determined almost completely by my ability to apply inappropriate and unexpected spin.
Here’s how I developed and implemented my business plan….
Obviously… right up front… any observant individual can see that the most important thing about being a successful stripper is having a really amazing schtick. And I’ve been told my schtick is amazing. By people who should know. Professional people. People in the profession. Real Pros… if you catch my drift. So… by inference… and reference… I should be even more successful at stripping than Hellgal. Because I had a bigger…. A better…. A beefier… schtick.
And… as it turned out… I was right!
I came to be a huge success. And that huge success… and my massive income… made me a huge… raging… prick.
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Ok. Well…. I guess that statement isn’t really completely true. Not completely true. I need to look at myself a little more honestly. Be accountable. Take responsibility for who… for what… I was. Way back then. Before all of my success.
I mean… I need to admit… that I was immensely arrogant….
Already.
But being wanted by every dirty-minded woman in the whole church…. Or meeting house…. Or revival tent….
I mean… if that doesn’t make your organ swell… then you probably shouldn’t put yourself up there in front showing off your mastery of your organ to begin with now should you? Show some confidence. Let your fingers do the walking and your organ do the talking.
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But what man has ever been able to convince his super-ego that he’s a big enough prick.
I mean… really….
I mean… my slacks were packed. But I still wasn’t convinced. Not really….
I mean… I still had my doubts…. I didn’t want to whip out my schtick… and have some lady in the front pew faint… and think that I needed some kind of… augmentation procedure…. A Hooteroplasty or something….
I mean… I have my pride…. And… my fear of needles. And deviant doctors who just want to make a buck. At my expense.
I really have a fundamental flaw. I am an extreme egoist. And… I like to work alone. I like to trust myself. My talents. My assets. And… I believe in my original equipment. Guess I wouldn’t really make a very good female. I just don’t like the idea of anyone… even doctors… especially doctors… sticking their stuff into my private parts…. Just doesn’t sound like my kind of fun.
Call me crazy….
Of course… someone might Use Les Pantywaist may find such a maneuver Interesting. Intriguing. Enticing. Even necessary.
I mean… I know the guy claims to be a huge gun enthusiast, but seems to me… it’s hard to be effective… to get much penetration on the target… when you’re shooting blanks. And… I’m not sure a bigger tool will help remediate that deficit…. I mean… seems to me… he’s a big enough tool already…. But… maybe that’s just me. Looking at things through the lens of reality….
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Anyway…. Like I said before… my old main squeeze Hellgal taught me a lot about business. About building a business. About building up business. About giving me the business. About buttering customers up. She taught me a lot about butter and butts and all kinds of similar… slick… things….
But I must admit my act was all my own. My own creation. My own invention. My own schtick. You see… most strippers are straight strippers. But I… was twisted. Kinky. Unique.
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Hopefully I’ve garnished your interest by now. Got you asking yourself: “What awesome and amazing idea did that genius come up with…?”
Well… here’s a hint…. Holy hanging man-hooters, Batman! My schtick was almost as uplifting as a Boy Wonder Bra. Almost as exciting as a Pentecostal Prayer Service led by a Charismatic Christian Preacher… passed out drunk on the Paschal wine… or rather on the Spirits… that lead to debauchery… if not pure douchebaggery. People were singing and dancing and speaking in foreign tongues and foaming at the mouth and falling on the floor. Holy Rollers were Rockin’ and Rollin’ in the pews and down the aisles and a flippin’ and a floppin’ all over the place… until the ushers finally came forward to intervene! Those lusty church ladies were passing out and passing snakes and passing the plate and it included almost every form of Christian worship there ever was… except laying on of hands… because… that was extra. Those Reformers were strict. Do-it-yourselfers. Except a few of the most high and holy Church ladies sitting in the first pew… the real Royalty of the congregation… tooting their French Hornies… giving one another the Kiss of Peace on their inflamed holy of holies. And… the preachers were getting a piece….
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So… the Church women loved it! And I loved. And they loved me. And I love the easy money. And it was all ok. It was all good. Because I was an ugly Butterball. And they weren’t doing anything wrong. They were convinced. And I was convinced. That my enterprise… was completely innocent. Just like the blessed ever-virgin Mary herself. Never defiled. And… Jesus’ brothers and sisters… well… they weren’t really her children…. And… that fat butterball… the round young virgin described in that Christmas song by Carol whomever… Mary… and her husband… never consummated their marriage… and he was good with that….
I know a girl just like Mary the Ever-Virgin. Just as forthright and honest. I guess Mary annulled her deal with Joseph, too. Right after she stole enough money to pay for her and her kids to live the life to which they wished to become accustomed…. I guess that is why Mary is worshipped in her own cult. And why after she was canonized as Saint Mary… and made Saint Joseph cannon fodder… she went own to be elevated even higher in her own hyperreligious eyes…. Beyond the level of Saints. To the god-like beings. To the level of few…. Exalted above all… but the fakirs of Islam…. The Super-saints. The Sanctimonious. Elevated above all Christians and even God himself in some folks eyes. Elevated above all others… except the Porphyrogénnētos… the Royal Queens and Princesses of the Venusian Bearded Clams.
Toot on, Oh, Toothless… Oh, Ruthless Ones! Toot on, Oh, Clam of God…. Toot on….
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Butt… I digress…. Tends to happen when I think about all of the wrath and carnage that bunch of unholy gas-spewing assholes hath wrought…. I apologize.
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And… moving on…. Or at least trying… to move forward….
Because… my act was Twisted. Seriously twisted. Because I perverted the Nature of the sex act…. My act was not only tolerated… I was lauded. And applauded. And well paid. The lovely congregation of lusty Christian ladies… would lust… and drool… and get aroused… and… pay me… to put my clothes back on. You see… my act… tugged at those upstanding… godly… goody-goody’s heartstrings… so they flung their skirts in the air in celebration. And swung their purse-strings open. Because I offered them something they had always wanted. Fulfilled a Psychological yearning…. A need…. An aching…. An all-day… and all-night longing… each lady had felt down deep in her heart of hearts for a long, long time. A debased desire…. But… something more…. An absolute… indescribable craving…. Something they all secretly wished they could do with their husband. Shut him down. Shut him out. Shut him off. Cut him off. Figuratively of course.
But still… I insisted every woman pass through a metal detector. And that each woman was required to submit to a cavity search. For concealed weapons. And other sharp objects. We told the truth. Clearly advertized our requirements. Inappropriately set expectations. And… none of the ladies ever complained. Not a one. Rather… they seemed to enjoy themselves. They jumped up into the stirrups. Ride ‘em Cowboy. Some even preferred Backwards Cowgirl. Whatever their fantasy… we tried hard to fulfill it…. Not your usual Church Service, for sure.
Why was my performance so well received? I don’t really know. But I can guess.
My perverted act… reversing the natural order of sexuality… gave those ladies a feeling that they were rebels. Harlots. Shameful hussies. That they had always wanted. To feel dirty. To feel that surge sexual of power. Of self-determination. Of domination. Of control over their own lives. Of reversal of sexual… and familial… roles…. And… my acted… offered those sexually repressed females… the opportunity to loose all self-control… in a safe… spiritual… sanctified… environment.
Turns out… every married female… of every degenerate species in the entire sanctimonious… mostly monogamous… congregation had the same damned desire: to dictate the evening plans to that dick of husband she served and serviced…. And… deal with his dick in a completely different way! And… just like Oprah… every woman in that studio audience got to go back home with something she really desired in her head… if not in her hand…. If not sticking out of her husband’s cold… hard… heart….
Turns out… most of those women could find it in their hearts to forgive their husbands for a dalliance or two… if he’d just get up and pull out of them…. Get off of them and get off somewhere else. With someone else. Who… didn’t particularly matter. They just no longer felt the love. They were tired. And their netherregions were inflamed, but not actually on fire.
Turns out… every one of those straight-laced Merrywidow-wearing homemakers and widowmakers had the same secret desire. They wanted to whisper… to say softly… or to SCREAM the exact same words to their husbands…. “Put your clothes back on, you son-of-a-bitch! I ain’t your whore. She’s somewhere else. She’s someone else. I’m just your wife. And I’m tired. I’m worn out. I ain’t your whore. I’m just plain sore. So… put your clothes back on. Please!”
Turns out… I was able to completely fulfill the needs of lots of beautiful women. I was able to give them a total guilt-free trip to another dimension. A dimension of existence they had always dreamed about… but never been able to explore… experience… exploit. I was able to give those churchified women… the ultimate guilty pleasure…. Guilt-free stripping. Those deprived… depraved… women could sit back and giggle like bad little schoolgirls. Those desperate vixens could get their jollies… get their panties in a bunch… and… do something dirty…. Those pristine hussies could live the real stripper experience…. And… on Sunday… mourning… they could still sit their sexified asses in their usual church pew… beside the enormous pricks they called their husbands… without squirming. Too much. Because they didn’t want to smear their wet spot.
Turns out… because I was fat…. And I am ugly…. I was less of a threat…. Much less of a threat…. Than a real man would be. Even a pool boy. And that explains a lot. Looking back up my dumb ass’ past….
And… it was a win-win situation.
You see… my business model opened up a whole new revenue stream for the adult entertainment industry. Churches. Day Cares. Coin-operated laundry facilities. Organic Greengrocers. Expensive coffee shops. Exclusive boutiques and department stores. Took strippers out of the dirty, dingy, dangerous environs they had once inhabited next to drug dens, drive-ins and truck stops. Buffed and polished them. Bleached their tarnished image…. Bleached their works…. And… bleach cleans almost all social diseases. Made all of them…. All of us…. Almost completely socially acceptable. Almost. Acceptable.
Turns out chlorine bleach… and greenback money… have a regenerative capacity that was heretofore unexpected. Unheard of. Unobserved. Bleach… and money… clean up…. Cover over…. Disinfected…. Eliminate…. A lot of badness. A lot of odors. A lot of filth. Make… unacceptable thing… unacceptable creatures… acceptable…. Almost.
God created the Heavens… and the Earth. And in his infinite Wisdom… God separated the dry land… from the Void…. The oceans… the tides… wash away filth…. Washes the beaches clean….
Same things with the Tithes. Same effect. Clean up the scum.
#
Well… speaking of scum….
I probably should be truthful about this aspect, too. I sold out. I became a sell-out. Sold out everything and everyone involved.
I syndicated.
Or sindicated… depending on perspective.
And this bad boy is still raking in the profits to this day.
And the best thing…? Selling Religion just happens to be a pure cash business. All of that cash is laundered through the church. It’s like making an investment in the Vatican Bank. Only better!
Now… let me explain. When Jesus was asked by the Pharisees whether good Jews should pay the Temple Tax… and 10% Tithe… or the Roman Taxes… to filthy Tax Collectors… who were considered an especially vile category of sinner… set apart from all others… for especially hellacious fury… he demurred. Of course… he was being set up. Jesus was supposed to be the Messiah… who would destroy the disgusting Roman filth… the soldiers… the heathens… the pagans… who were oppressing God’s Chosen People… and establish God’s Holy Kingdom on Earth. And establish the Jewish Priests and Scribes… and set up their monopoly on religious contributions. Or else… Jesus would offend all present… which would be just as good….
But… Jesus demurred. Their Messiah did something completely unexpected. He asked for the Roman Coin used to pay the Roman Taxes. And… he said… whose picture is on this coin….
Of course… since it was a Coin of the Realm… legal tender in the Roman Empire… the inscription was of the Roman Emperor…. And then… Jesus answered…. “Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s… and render unto God that which is God’s….
Ok. Here’s the Gospel. The Good News. Or… the GREAT news… if you ask me….
Show me a coin. Heck… show me a bill. Show me all of them…. Not one of those three-dollar bills with President Clinton’s picture on it. Those don’t count. They are fakes. Depending on what your definition of “is” is, I guess….
The coins have the pictures of past presidents. So do the lower denomination bills. But not the $100’s! They have Benjamin Franklin’s mug. And… he was never leader of our once great nation…. So… he’s exempt!
And… God’s picture isn’t on any money at all! BONUS!!!
So… I just saved all of you Christians a bunch of money! You owe me. I’ll come by your house to collect my cut a little later. Ciao. Bella.
#
Well… confession is good for the sole they say. Other fish, too, I suppose. And I had… what turned out to be a Tureen of Sole Soup filled to over-flowing. A plethora. A cornucopia. The cash equivalent of the Holy Graal. Or the original version of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Damsel of the Sanct Grael with legitimate papers of authenticity at the very least.
May sound fishy… but maybe confession might be good for the soul, too. Ya’ never know….
#
I don’t know about you, but I find all of that kind of stuff a bit… disquieting…. Religious items. Relics. Reliquaries. Ossuaries. Bones of Saints. Dead people. Demons. All of stuff. The super-natural. Holy. Or unholy. Doesn’t matter to me. I think that shit’s scary.
I mean… religion is like a drug. Only… more addicting.
A lot of people seem to think that it was Karl Marx who suggested that religion is the opiate of the people. Soothes their physical… emotional… and spiritual… pain…. Allows low-life people to better tolerate political and economic oppression…. Over-use. Abuse. Bondage….
But… Marx was simply quoting… the Marquis de Sade… who I think knew a little bit about pain…. About oppression. About bondage. And… about discipline…. About S&M. About Sex and Manipulation. That man must have known my second wife pretty well. And… that dude was scary….
And… that’s the thing about Relics. Indulgence. Papal Dispensation. An outpouring of grace from the Pontifex Superanus’ plentitudo potestasis. His Plentitude of Power.
Well… I was there the moment it happened… and to me… it sounded like nothing more than a blast of gas from out of his ass. Just what one might expect to hear expounded by the Pontifex Superanus of Uranus. Or my anus. Or any other assholes for that matter.
But… the fact that people are willing to suspend disbelief so strongly…. To pay so much money to buy indulgences. Cheap… and not so cheap… grace…. To me… it’s a lot like Secular Humanists buying that shit about their religion having facts… and not needing faith…. Listening to those rants by people like Professor Richard Dawkins… and Professor Lawrence Krauss… who espouse the extremely popular propaganda of Progressive Liberal Socialistic Fascism… and mix it all up in a dogmatic religious stew… and viciously attack anyone who dare to believe something else… something rational… and who realize… that those legalist… those lawyers… those schysters… those scheistkopfs… as selling their souls… and their books… and making enormous profits. Which is what enormous pricks always tend to do. Sell themselves. As I said before.
I admit that I made a ton of money doing it. And it’s scary. Selling religion. Especially when confuse and delude people… and assure the assholes that you are doing exactly the opposite. But… for Dawkins and Krauss… I guess their ships came in. Because they sure made a lot of money feeding their flock. Swindling the seagulls. The Rats of the Ocean. Amazing. And scary.
And… something else amazing. And scary.
I made an amazing amount of money prostituting myself. So much money it was scary. Real scary. Selling myself. Selling religion. Selling religious women what they wanted so badly.
And… how did my congregation respond…? They were excited at first. Very excited. Then they began to act a bit like ass sniffin’ crack hoes and bad-toothed meth bitches. Man… that was the first and last time I ever saw my second wife getting French Horny while looking at me. But… on second thought… maybe it was just my money…. Well… if I had a trailer right then… I guess I would have been in like Flynn. But then again… I decided to do the prudent thing. I hired a bodyguard. The best bodyguard a man could buy… for small change.
And… it just so happened… that after the whole Killer Turkey Episode… or fiasco… depending on one’s perspective, of course, the bottom dropped out of the whole atomic powered stealth turkey market. So… I purchased the very same killer turkey that I have described elsewhere. The turkey that was supposed to serve not in anger in war, but in gravy in Thanksgiving Dinner at the Poor House… as the humble home of the Sissy Bubba Bunch was also known.
Worked out well. For me.
#
Ok. One other thing I should probably fess up to….
This one turned out to be a bad experience. The worst experience of my life. That’s where I met my second wife. Imagine that…. At one point… she was stuffing money down my g-string.
Guess what…? Those granny panties she wears hold a whole lot more cash and negotiables….
#
One more one more thing, I guess….
I mentioned that I was fat and ugly. Not so much anymore. Now I’m just ugly. A Butterface. Not a Butterball.
Turns out… being enslaved…. Being starved…. Had some tangible benefits.
I guess I owe X a lot. She changed me. And… some of the changes she force on me… seem to be for the better….
So… thank you. You bad-eyed and loveless stinking shellfish from Hell!!!

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One thought on “An Interlude: The Mountaintop Experience… and the Valley of Death. A Historical Allegory…. by BaHR

  1. Pingback: An Interlude: The Mountaintop Experience… and the Valley of Death. A Historical Allegory…. by BaHR | Wright-Wang Extreme Mystery, Inc.

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