Pastor Wadd: The Sexual Root Of Everything

One of the more influential people in my life has to be my preacher, Pastor Wadd. He's right up there in the top 50 overall, for sure, and the top 5 of those having to do with understanding the underlying nature of life.

You probably remember, Pastor Wadd's special area of expertise is sexual addictions. He counsels guys on that topic day after day, plus a few ladies. I've never actually been to one of these sessions, not having that problem. My willpower is impeccable. Plus, several years ago I had the zipper permanently welded shut on all my pants.

Anyway, in addition to his counseling, Pastor conducts regular Sunday services, and that's where I hear his teaching. I just wanted to clear that up so no one gets the wrong idea. I've never even been to Penn State!

Whether you have a problem in that area or not, it's still interesting to hear the man hold forth with his various theories. Whatever he says, he's always definitely convinced, and with a spirit of power like he has, it's hard not to be impressed. This past Sunday his message was on the pervasiveness of sex in our culture and psyches, with religion serving to replace that, if God's grace is allowed entrance, and we're lucky.

Of course, the man's doctrine is that there's a sexual root to everything. If you turn when a woman passes by, there it is. If there's any undue perspiration, prolonged eye contact, or even the slightest variance in your breathing patterns, you're guilty. And I hate when he gets started on what it means when you move your legs -- you want to stay perfectly still around him -- because what he defines as rubbing is very subtle.

Sometimes, though, as much an expert as he is, I can't help but think he's making things up. Or seeing connections -- like with the rubbing -- that simply aren't there. He's like Freud. If you drink milk, you're lusting for your mother. That kind of thing. He sees strange linguistic stuff, unlikely connections, that seems like an obvious stretch.

Like "proclivities." He parses it for us, the root of the word, that "pro" means "for" and "clivity" is what every woman has. It may be normal size or it may hang down like the end of a scarf. It may be dainty and ladylike, like your pinky, or it may be heavy, with the girth of a Marine's duffle bag. So women are the ones with proclivities, making them so darned tempting to men.

The corollary in men is a word I hadn't heard before, "prodermis." "Pro" again meaning "for" and "dermis" meaning "skin." Put it together, he says, and you have "foreskin." Which the children of Israel were supposed to lose that they might be true. OK, I'll give him that one. It sounds convincing.

Be that as it may, Pastor Wadd is definitely serious about being true, even to the point of making his counselees suffer to attain it. A guy from the church, whom I also know from the exercise club, he counseled on being chaste, meaning preserving his "vitality," his "vital essence" in the most extreme way, going months. But he bloated up so much, some of the guys started calling him Lugnuts, and he finally had to go in and have it lanced.

My own take on it: There's a time and place for everything, and let's face it, that includes using the equipment God gave you and not letting it go to waste.

99% Of Them Are Horny

The revival over at Pastor Wadd's church is in full swing. Brother Wadd, as I've written before, specializes in counseling for sexual addictions, and therefore tends to see everything through those lenses.

It's invigorating, I think, to have the great drama of flesh vs. spirit ever before us, since of course we can easily relate. We just like to keep it quiet that we do. Although his laser-like stare -- he doesn't know anything except direct eye contact -- is sure to pierce the most innocent facade.

Anyway, the guest speaker this week, for a week of revivals, is Brother Kilt. All these guys in our particular sect stick together. They go to conferences and camps, seminars and workshops, and communicate daily via their email list, all of it to help them help us more. And for the most part, speaking for myself anyway, thanks to their efforts, I believe we're pretty close to perfect victory over the temptations of the flesh.

I know how it's been for me, and I don't think I'm bragging, but it's been four or five years since I've made even a wayward glance, let alone had an actual lustful thought. I vaguely recall how it used to be and can testify that this is much better. Because invariably the targets of my drooling stare were already taken or not worth having.

Brother Kilt took the platform after a rousing hour of choruses, wiped his potato-shaped brow, and calmed the congregation down before setting in with the real business at hand, leading us to deliverance over the carnal desires, where it was still needed. I looked around, trying to figure out who might be squirming the most. It might have been me, but I hoped not; I've had a number of chigger bites lately and sometimes I have to fidget to scratch the itches, and I didn't want to send any wrong signals. Fortunately, Brother Kilt was generally looking the other way when I had an especially compelling itch.

Well, I can't remember everything he said, of course. Only that he started in with the text about all temptations being common to man, but God has made a way over, through, and around them for the child of God. I've heard this text enough, I should know it by heart. It's in 1 Corinthians somewhere. He went into that about the Apostle being single and yet somehow kept himself from burning in lust, which had to do with his closeness to the Lord. I felt a bad chigger bite on my left bun and shifted uneasily in my pew.

I was looking around and saw a new couple back by the door, squirming a little. Brother Kilt obviously knew them, probably from counseling, and directed a few words their way, which is merciful on his part. You don't conquer the flesh by p-footing around the issue, and the Bible names names, so there's no reason we shouldn't be direct. After all, as Brother Wadd has said a number of times, the Lord calls each one by name, so there's no reason we shouldn't put it out there, who we're talking about. Just so it isn't me.

Brother Kilt was feeling led to be direct, and he was to tremendous effect. "I'm looking around the room, and I'm happy to say that I can tell that most of you are pure. You just need the counsel you're getting to help keep you that way, because the temptations are real. But you've got it good in here, because out there -- and you're in the world everyday -- you know that 99% of them are horny all the time. They're looking up, they're looking down, they're checking it out, they've always got something on their mind ... a crevice, a crease, a knothole in the tree. Amen?"

And that's true. We work with them everyday, some of us do. As for me, I hear tell of many things, mostly on TV. The thoughts people have are rife with something that isn't good. Just turn on any soap opera. Most of them are on their 10th marriage and they're already sleeping with number 11. I've seen it. They're whom the 99% look up to. So naturally every crevice, every crease, even the knothole holds its attraction.

Brother Kilt continued, "Notice I said most of you are pure. I tend to choose my words carefully. Most of you, but not all ... is what I mean to say. Of course I'm referring to you, Delores, and you, Gilbert," directing his attention to the new couple back by the door. "There's still some troubles, aren't there?" They looked helpless, but seemed generally appreciative of everyone's concern, giving me the perfect chance to scratch a chigger bite on my upper leg.

The upshot of the evening is, this blessed couple confessed to numerous wandering glances and the variable thoughts that would generally accompany them. And for a second, less than a minute, the thought came to me that Delores looked pretty good, and easy, and that perhaps Gilbert might be good for a go, too. I moved up ever so slightly to get a better look, while also rubbing a chigger itch closer up my leg, when Brother Kilt glanced over, bringing me back to my senses, sweaty brow and all.

The Bright Side Of Sex

I couldn't believe it yesterday, Pastor Wadd's sermon was on "The Bright Side of Sex." I've written before about his anti-sex crusades, so it was a real eyeopener to hear something different.

But to be fair, now that I think of it, since his ministry emphasis is on battling sexual addiction, that's not really the same as being anti-sex, although I believe he's crossed the line a few times, probably just forgetting himself. Like when he was trying to slow down deliveries from the bed store, surely not all those beds were being purchased by sex addicts.

Anyway, we all perked up when he started preaching on sex's "bright side." Then it was a little bit of a comedown when he needed to remind us of sex's "dark side," which, to be completely truthful, we're already conversant on, and he's the only one with a theological degree! To drive home this very familiar point he referred to the story of Samson and Delilah as well as several verses from the Proverbs on harlots.

According to those verses, you keep your power by saying no to sex whenever and wherever it rears its ugly head. Delilah was struttin' her stuff, starting out with seven veils, then in a series of dances worked herself down to buck naked. All this time, Samson couldn't look away. Next thing you know, he's all over her ... then it's all over for him. The Philistines blind him just before he somehow acquires one last burst of post-climactic energy and kills them and dies.

What a difference if he would've seen sex's dark side. He could have killed them and lived to kill again. And we see the dark side yet today, all around us. Pastor gave several illustrations from the news, including the latest congressman to fall prey to temptation. He was very specific as to what the photographic evidence showed, a fuzzy phone picture of an erection, causing most of the congregation, especially the womenfolk, to fan themselves.

Of course he had a lot to say about the pregnancy rates among our youth. They don't have much sense, their mental capacity has been severely stunted by video games and R rated movies, and they're more or less worthless, but there's one thing they know how to do well. And it takes place in the backseat of the car, or anywhere really, be it a motel or a dumpster. That's the dark side. And they're sexting, a word Pastor Wadd coined, bringing together two words, sex and texting. I wrote that down, thinking that was pretty clever of him...

It went on like that for a while, quite a while, the dark side, the dark side, the dark side ... Then he gave us a smile and said, "But there is a bright side," which came down to this, that sex was God's idea for human reproduction. I'm thinking I already knew this, but still it was good to hear someone put it into words, especially with such authority. The bottom line is this: We are in this world through sex, the good clean sex that our parents had, after God's will.

And, he said, that's the way it was from the very beginning. Sex is nothing new; it's actually a very old thing, from antiquity. But even back then there was a strong "dark side," as, for example, in the story of Delilah and what we see in the Proverbs. But there was also a strong "bright side," as new babies were being born all the time and the human race was able to keep going. He made the point that all the "begats" that we all hate so much are the result of this very thing, the bright side of sex.

He concluded with a little more on the dark side, and what results from drunkenness, besides tattoos.

Teen Talk: Rigor Mortis Vs. Vigor Vivus

It's Saturday night and I'm feverishly working on a little talk they asked me to give tomorrow. Of course I mean at church. I told Pastor Wadd about Vigor Vivus, which he hadn't heard of before. I wrote about it a few days ago, and I guess he doesn't read my blog.

He thought it sounded like kind of a weird word. I told him I've been spelling it as two words, but he thought it still sounded weird. Then I sketched it out as simply as I could, that it's the opposite of Rigor Mortis. Rigor Mortis and Vigor Vivus have been butting heads forever, even if there hasn't always been a term for it. He was curious to hear more, probably figuring he can give it a sexual spin, since that's his ministry specialty, addressing sexual addictions.

Anyway, I kept it all non-sexual, telling him that the way I've been conceiving it, it has to do with a person's attitudes, whether they're living a Rigor Mortis lifestyle, or, with attention to themselves and their possibilities, they're living the Vigor Vivus way. Of course I also gave it a religious spin especially for him, that God gave Adam and Eve the Vigor Vivus lifestyle to live, but they ate the forbidden fruit, God told them they would surely die, and that's very similar to the Rigor Mortis way.

He loved it, and I hate to be presumptuous, but wouldn't it be wild and fantastic if he did incorporate a RM vs. VV theme in his teaching and counseling, whether having to do with sexual addictions or not? Since he's a man of the cloth, it might go all the way up to the mega churches, then demand will be so high that I'll be doing satellite hookup meetings with churches all around the globe, coming out in my $1,000 suits, chatting up the audience, and changing lives with this simple, yet profound, message. Then I'll make money on all my books, "The Vigor Vivus Life," "More of the Vigor Vivus Life," "Viva Vigor Vivus," and so forth.

It turns out he loved it so much that he asked me to come talk to one of the teen Sunday School classes tomorrow. So that's why I'm working feverishly tonight, trying to work up a talk that interesting enough to keep them quiet, and relevant enough to their way of thinking that they'll listen ... and apply it to themselves.

I'm really kind of nervous about it. I'd much rather talk to the old folks' class, because I know they'd definitely be quiet, and of course they'd compliment me profusely, since that's the way it always goes with them. They're happy with anything if you offer it in a cheerful, friendly way, which is the only way I know. Or I could present it to the younger adults, whose brains are fully developed after 25, so they would sit still and be nice about it. And they're the ones who would really need it, since the demands of life are so much greater. Rigor Mortis might be their constant choice, like it is with anyone so stressed out that they feel they need an energy drink. You don't need an energy drink! You need Vigor Vivus! See, I'm excited about it!

But to do it for a roomful of teenagers...oy vey. You might not know this, but if there's just one cut-up in the class, most of the others will rebel. It's only the two or three who've done extracurricular activities who are semi-mature enough to be good. I remember being a teenager, and, more importantly, I've been privy to the ways of teenagers even in church. Why do you think this opportunity opened up for me so easily? Because the regular teacher has sent out the word that if there's anything else they might do, accept it without question, because he needs a break. He's probably drinking to calm himself. He needs the Vigor Vivus teaching, because he's obviously dwelling in a Rigor Mortis state of mind.

What, though, can I say to the little hellions? If they hear words like Rigor Mortis and Vigor Vivus, being idiots whose brains aren't even 10% developed yet, they're going to go blank, then they'll cover their tracks with cutting up. But those are the words I have to use. So, just thinking out loud here, I'll speak of Rigor Mortis as the ways of "a dead man walking." They'd like that image, the staggering of a zombie, which I might even do as an icebreaker. I can put my hands out like a zombie. Then Vigor Vivus, I can speak of it like a guy getting ready to ride a hot air balloon, or drive in the Indy 500, or pump iron. He's a man who lives on the edge, who went for all the gusto and has lived to tell about it.

As for popular references -- that's always important for teenagers, to let them know you're hip to their culture -- naturally I'll have my cellphone there for them to see and examine. And maybe when I'm looking for something, I can accidentally pull my iPod out of my pocket, "Oh, there's my iPod, I've been downloading an awful lot of cool MP3s. It's getting heavier all the time!" Among my other gadgets, I have a portable scanner, a camera, and at least 500 of the best CDs of the '50s, '60s, and '70s. I really do, but I kid. I also have some from the last few years, Natasha Bedenfield, Daniel Powter, Gwen Stefani, and Rihanna, although not her new one. And Lady Antebellum, I have that one.

But much more importantly, I have the timeless teachings of Vivor Vivus, using your willpower and stimulated awareness to live life to the fullest, thwarting and destroying the works of Rigor Mortis. Plus I'll throw in a few things about the Lord, the piece about Adam and Eve, and I think it'll go great.

The Will Of The Flesh

Church was good today. You might remember -- I've written about him before -- my minister is Pastor Wadd. Think back to January when we had the emphasis on delaying deliveries of beds from bed stores and even trying to outlaw beds all together. Because Pastor Wadd's specialty is addressing sexual addictions, both in counseling sessions and in church itself.

Way back when, when I first heard of this church, I read a little about it on the internet. Right away I noticed it featured Pastor's sexual addiction counseling and said this was the cutting edge in ministry today, mostly thanks (or no thanks) to internet porn. It seems a lot of guys (and women) wouldn't be caught dead in an actual adult bookstore, but they don't mind surfing it at home. Then they start lingering, ordering, and next thing you know, they're sexually active.

So I was leery at first, since I figured the Pastor would always be fishing around in our personal business, and, what would be especially bad for me in particular, trying to make us feel guilty. Indeed, he does all that and more, but he does it with a lot of affection, like he's very interested in what we're up to so he can help us through it. This isn't to say I'm actually guilty of anything; I'm actually not; I'm pure as the hoar frost that God scatters (Psalm 147:16). But I have a very guilty look when I know people are looking for guilt.

Anyway, in church today, Pastor got on the subject of "The Will of the Flesh." That was his sermon title and also the subject for testimony time. He called for some outright confessions of the will of flesh, how it's been going, the aim being to get it out in the open so it could be dealt with by the community.

Little Johnny -- he's not so little anymore, being now about 15, but we've been calling him Little Johnny for years -- said he saw some cleavage at Little Caesar's, but he immediately looked away after about 5 minutes. Everyone chuckled, kind of a nervous chuckle, including Pastor. Pastor said, "That's something for you to work on, cutting it down." I was sitting there wondering what it looked like, but who hasn't seen cleavage? But 5 minutes, that's an assault.

There was a woman, around 30, Lori, who said she's been able to cut her shower down to about 3 minutes. "Did you catch a glimpse of yourself?" she was asked. She immediately said no, then said she caught a small glimpse when drying. Pastor advised her to cut her shower to 2½ minutes, the quicker the better, in and out. And maybe invest in some dark glasses.

Sister Bertha raised her frail little arm, giving Pastor the opportunity to announce that this is her 100th birthday, and said we'd let her pass this week, which is just as well since she's had nothing to report for the last 30 years, they say.

Deacon Miller, a very victorious fellow -- he does a little bit of everything for the church -- reported he had 10 separate occasions in the past week when he was confronted by the will of the flesh. He was looking at a list so I'm sure it was an accurate count.

That's about it. Church got out and I went to Little Caesar's for pizza.

The Pink Professor At The End Of My Path

THE PILLAR, ZIPPER, AND WASHBOARD TRILOGY - PART 1

It's spring break and that means being where the boys are. As Connie Francis sang, "Where the boys are someone waits for me." Likewise, I'm sure, for the rest of us looking for our guy at the end of our path.

For me, it's the Pink Professor, the guy I met toward the end of last year at the bikers bar on the edge of town. He serves as the Pink Professor character there, softening up what would otherwise be a very hard crowd. He brings refinement to the coarse atmosphere.

Though we're well on our way -- our relationship blooming all the time -- I can still hardly believe it. I thank my lucky stars all the time. So I'm not taking anything for granted, but I still treat our relationship as though I still have something to win. I've been reading about the spiritual journey (from the writings of the Rosicrucians), and it reminded me of the journey that I feel I'm on ... leading to everlasting bliss with the Pink Professor.

Today's post reflects that. And I guess it's interesting that I said post, since I chose a pillar for today's illustration. In subsequent posts, it will be a zipper and a washboard, for reasons (good or bad) that I will get to when it comes time to write them (I frankly don't remember right now.)

In my romantic Rosicrucian pursuit, there are revealed to me big gates. These are shut, making my way to the Pink Professor very difficult; the only thing that might make it more difficult might be if they were open, since I'd be wondering, Now what do I do? But ... wait! They're opening! Now what do I do?

I've got my eyes closed, picturing all this. There's big pillars to my right and left, and some lions, lawn ornaments, that aren't nearly as scary as they're supposed to be. If they had a couple statues of boys peeing, that'd be more scary, since I'd just as soon not get any bodily fluids on me, at least till the end of my quest.

What's this next? A big maze I have to negotiate, made of corn. I'm stepping through it, eyes closed again, but this time because I know I must trust my intuition. I feel some corn silk hitting my arm. And to think I used to smoke this stuff.

Making it through the maze, I am being dramatically buffeted by some fiery dragons. I hope they don't get too close to the corn or the whole kingdom's going up in smoke! I'm going to keep my eyes open for this challenge. I trust my intuition, but I trust it more in a lifeless corn maze and less with dragons that are all too real. What will I do? I have an idea. I'll run in the middle and draw their attention to me, then, fire spewing forth, I dive a scant second before the blast, and they've incinerated each other!

I go a little further, then I find myself on a gigantic pinball machine. I'm looking around, and, good God, this seems familiar. I've seen this somewhere before -- but where? Oh, you know what? This is the pinball machine from the old game show "The Magnificent Marble Machine," from the '70s, an old favorite of mine! But thankfully it wasn't on that long, because I remember myself feeling stressed that the big old machine, never changing, was going to be old hat in no time. Fortunately, I remember precisely how it went, and I'm able to outmaneuver the big silver ball, which would have crushed me.

My next labor is to face a thousand red-eyed demons, the exact kind my minister, Pastor Wadd, warned me about. On the wall, though, there was a sacred sword, the kind that kills demons, especially in a trained hand like I keep at the end of my arm. I slice them to steaks. Someone in the kingdom's going to have a hell of a barbecue tonight!

Finally, a big gate opens. This is the way to the chambers! I see the radiance of the kingdom. The Pink Professor's in here somewhere! Everything becomes very clear as the radiance fades. There's a throne with a big abstract lawn figure on it, hands on its knees. I see it fading out, then the Pink Professor appearing, then disappearing, then appearing more distinctly.

It's like a big whammy to me! I'm in love, but can I approach?

Next: The Zipper!

The Push To Outlaw Beds

It was Sunday again and that meant going to church.

Pastor Wadd continued his series on "The Lusts of the Flesh," today being something around Part 40. It's amazing how he never runs out of things to say. But I guess as long as people are doing it, there'll always be something to talk about.

The guy definitely know about eye contact. If I were him, I think I'd be looking over everyone's heads so they wouldn't feel so bad about themselves. But that's not his style; he wants to make you squirm. Because if you're not actually guilty of something, he knows you wish you were. Not that guilt is any great experience. I know I hate it. But if you're going to have it, it may as well be for something actual and not just imagined. He might be pushing us into it!

I realize not everyone knows Pastor Wadd. But he holds down a corner in town here, advancing the cause of righteousness as much as he can. His whole specialty, what he does in counseling everyday, is battling sexual addiction. And since sex itself is like the gateway drug leading to addiction, he's interested in getting rid of it right at the root. At the very least, he wants to decrease the incidence of sex in society.

Like I was saying last week, right now he's on a push to outlaw beds, or get people to give them up voluntarily. That'd be good too. I'm involved in it only in the mildest way, certainly not in a leadership way (thank goodness; too many meetings), but at the grunt level, writing blog posts like this, raising people's awareness. Some of the others agitate on street corners, put up posters, etc. You might've seen one of them on the news: "GOD HATES BEDS."

As for myself, I actually haven't gone so far as to get rid of my bed. In fact, I've got an extra bed in my closet now, since one of the other guys from church wanted to get rid of his and asked me to hold it in case he changes his mind. I had to take the doors off the closet to get it in. It's all sticking out about halfway, and I've got the sliding closet doors laying on top of it. Otherwise I wouldn't be able to get the closet open, that's how big it is. The things I do for friends...

Whatever differences we may have, I definitely agree with Pastor that there's a clear connection between how many beds there are and how much sex people are having. But I don't agree (and I'm not so sure he's saying this) that people are going to quit having sex if they haven't got a bed. Since there will still be plenty of showers, couches, kitchen tables, etc. From the things I've heard, standing up is another way to do it. Which is at the root of the old joke about why Baptists don't have sex standing up, because it might lead to dancing.

Still, if you think it's worth doing, you have to start somewhere. Start with the most obvious culprit, the bed, then work your way down to showers, couches, and tables. And where you go from there is anyone's guess, probably the back seats of cars. Anything halfway comfortable could be a culprit, which is why the old monks always went with hair shirts and slept on slabs of stone.

You can see how a guy like Pastor could go on about this for so long. The possibilities are endless. As to where people are going to sleep if we get rid of beds, his opinion is that's their problem. They may experience some discomfort, but think of the rich payoff, better morals.

Anyway, if he can't get people to give up their beds voluntarily, like I said, he'd like to see some action on it from the government to make beds illegal. How that's ever going to happen -- with the powerful bed lobby -- is anyone's guess. Since "Politics makes strange bedfellows," everything's against us from the get go.

Delaying Bed Deliveries Is Godly

Church was good today.

Pastor Wadd made a lot of great points, always a blessing. He was up to Part 38 or 39 of his series on "The Lusts of the Flesh," so we're making steady progress on that.

He's always trying to make us think, to keep us on our spiritual toes about the various temptations and how we can avoid them. Of course he gets no complaints from me, because I know it's all so true. Like in a fight, your rights end where my nose begins, so with the lusts of the flesh, our private parts are strictly off limits. It's best not to even go there, let alone linger once you inevitably do.

We have a guy in church -- a deacon no less -- who sells beds for a living. This is a borderline acceptable occupation, a step up from running a tavern but still pretty bad. Naturally Pastor is very interested in any business like that that caters to fornicators, since it'd be better if he didn't do it. But everyone has to make a living, and all of us are compromised by the world to a certain extent anyway, so no one can really completely judge.

In open sharing today, Pastor called on Deacon Spencer and asked him how many beds he sold this week? "14," he said. "And how many of those have you delayed delivery on?" "All of them. And I still have six that haven't been delivered from last week."

That's very good! You have an order on a Thursday, no one sends in orders on a Friday, then there's the weekend. If it's a holiday weekend, you can't do it on Monday, and Tuesday's a catchup day, meaning the earlier you can order it is Wednesday or Thursday. Then you're up against Friday and the weekend again, so you can legitimately put it off for two or three weeks or maybe a month.

Or there's always "snowy roads" wherever the factory is -- it could be anywhere. Or something wrong with the delivery truck.

The longer you can delay delivery, the teaching goes, the more fornication you prevent. But of course you don't want to delay it so long that the customer wants his money back. Or simply moves into a motel and all hope is lost.

Before anyone jumps my bones on this subject, yes, I do sleep in a bed, which I bought once upon a time. Whether the delivery was delayed way back when, I don't remember. They might've sent it right over, since I looked like an honest person and didn't have an ulterior motive.

Clash Of The Titans -- Masturbananda Vs. Wadd

This is the record of an event that happened recently. It tells of the clash between titans, who also happen to be dread enemies. (To be fair, Swami Sri Masturbananda judges no man to be his enemy, but he's willing to put up his dukes if attacked. As for Pastor Wadd, he has lots of enemies and loves them all, but is willing to strike first if he feels he can advance righteousness.)

Swami Masturbananda is of course pro-generative faculties, Pastor Wadd anti. He's anti-generative faculties to the extent that he feels they're being misused, as in a loveless or selfish non-procreative way.

Each man stewed in his respective quarters in such a way that each was "het up" with their own particular mix of energies. Masturbananda found his power in the divine consciousness, reaching near his bag of tricks for a handful of awareness, and in the process, blew off the roofs of five consecutive outhouses, arranged in a kind of Stonehenge way. Wadd retired to his quarters with the book, and in intense, sweaty meditation over the written word, sweaty in part because of the tight hair underpants he'd recently had woven by an old yak farmer's wife. He looked up at the brim of his black hat and saw the lights of home, where God dwells.

The next step in the process was to channel into their system the energies of their respective devotees. For Masturbananda's part, he brought in the stored up virtue of his chelas (students) that had been released through their devotions. Not a single one could blow the roof off an outhouse, that was true, or even really budge from its moorings a ceiling fan, but Masturbananda knew their hearts, that they were good. He drew in his breath, and along with the power of his students' devotions, pulled it up the interior of his spine to the Sahashrara, the crown of creation (and more).

As to Pastor Wadd, being a sexual addiction counselor, sexual addiction being loosely defined as anything stimulative of the generative faculties except in limited instances of the procreative drive, as in a conscious decision not to allow the human species to become extinct, he reached out mentally and channeled his counselees' many repressed energies, coupled with the grimness of their regrets.

Then they came together over the skies of India, ascending each one to a place of prominence in the heavens.

Wadd began the proceedings, sending powerful volts toward Masturbananda's crotch. But the swami, even in the face of such power, had no difficulty because his chakras defended him, with a loud metallic slamming lockdown noise being audible from the ground.

Masturbananda, striking second, sent powerful volts of his own toward the sun's swag drop, with huge fireballs descending, meant to fry Wadd's brain. In response, Wadd pulled out a big mirror and, upon reflection, staggered Masturbananda. The swami, feeling himself weakened from the top of his head to a region near the navel, and from the feet up to his groin, thrust his hips and sent super volts toward Wadd's own crotch. The thrusting alone brought Masturbananda renewed energy, but the volts took away Wadd's power, burning a hole in his black pants; the smell of burnt yak fur filled the air. He apparently wasn't cognizant enough of that area of his body to defend it.

Masturbananda pulled back on the power, having made his point, and being merciful. Wadd's condition wasn't good, but perhaps he learned something. All his sensations from the neck down were neutralized, to make the point that he had emphasized the head and neglected the rest of the body. Of course Wadd could never get it. He thrashed around in midair, shaking his head, denying culpability, and covering the exposed area. With that, the pastor retreated, hoping to save himself and perhaps fight another day. We saw him disappearing over the horizon somewhere.

Swami Sri Masturbananda descended to his chelas' delight, teaching them later in a grand symposium to continue the techniques, and let no man tell you different!

The Deflowering Of Swami Masturbananda

I love the teachings of Swami Sri Masturbananda. He's so laid back and free. Everything about his way is airy and light. There is such a big difference between the master, and, say, a teacher like Pastor Wadd, whose constant battle-cry is "Abstinence!" to the point of self-castration. One finds the highest consciousness in our nature, the other says to deny nature and somehow you'll gain your reward.

I've been cleaning up around the back yard, fallen leaves, other things that have blown off the trees, twigs, etc., and some of the flowers that have withered up and died with fall. Seeing a big basket of crunchy chrysanthemums makes me think of Sri Masturbananda's teachings on the cyclical nature of things, and what we can do about it.

There's all these flowers -- the lilies of the field and wildflowers of all kinds out on the hills, unnoticed by any. But they have their day in the sun. And if someone comes along to pick them, that's just as well, too! They'll repopulate the place -- the others -- to make up for their plucked comrades. The bees are standing guard to make sure it gets accomplished. With the deflowering comes more flowering in its place!

I can see the eternal spirit of Masturbananda in every field of posies. He's the true bloom in a field of weeds. If we were to imagine weeds as a bad thing for a moment, and of course they're not, they might represent the more ascetic masters (and I'm charitable enough even to include Pastor Wadd in that number), who keep their business nice and tidy, but also ultimately withered and shriveled. I know there's some karma I'm accruing by speaking this way of them, but I'll work it out later.

Instead, Sri Masturbananda leads us to pick the flowers on the field, to pick and to pull. How beautiful it is, going with the fullness of his teaching, to pick the one you'll pull, then pull the one you pick. It's like the old song, with a few variations: "If you can't be with the one you'd pick, honey, pull the one you're with." Or something like that! Although pulling the one you're with isn't really part of the master's teachings insofar as I know, because they can pull their own.

What's the value of any of this? Just this, that in those five to 10 seconds of ecstasy we have the glimpses of the divine consciousness that ultimately will be our constant state. Whether it takes a million years or a million incarnations to reach makes no difference. Our creator has given us the means of glimpsing the glory here and now, and our master, Swami Sri Masturbananda, puts it within easy reach of every man. (Women have a parallel means of glory, but you'd have to ask them exactly how it works.)

Flowering and deflowering, the way of true life! Blessings from the master ... and of course to him!

Swami Masturbananda -- Never Stoved Up

Of course it's a terrible feeling to be stoved up. Whether it's, say, something to do with going to the bathroom and you're taking laxatives, or anything else. What else it might be, that's a good question. I'm sure if I turned my mind to such a task, I eventually would think of some other way a person might occasionally be stoved up, especially if he's a guy.

As to women, whether they ever get stoved up, frankly I don't know. If any of them do, you'd have to assume they'd have to be ... what my cousin used to call ... nymphomaniacs. I've honestly never met a nymphomaniac who's ever made her condition known to me, and the way I heard it told, if you ever meet one you'll know it! There's something obviously wrong with them -- they've got some kind of issue, if they can't restrain themselves and hang out with the other women who can. I never met any women who were much of a go-er, if you know what I mean, although, of course, my own grandmother owned the book "Sex and the Single Girl."

So where are we, precisely? Women who can't restrain themselves are abnormal. But men are normal. I don't mean they can't restrain themselves as to "going for it," because clearly we can. Maybe guys who collect syrup from trees can't restrain themselves, but I'll leave that for a future topic. Clearly, we can restrain ourselves, since that's one of the ways you get stoved up. You might be anal, literally anal retentive, and not want to go. On the half acre where I live that used to be a common condition, since we had to go to the outhouse. Then it could carry over as a condition into this other area.

Men restrain themselves all the time, without trying to be too graphic about it. Asceticism, trying to please the Lord. Or because they've got a big date on Saturday and don't want to take chances. Trying to please the Lord is probably one of the biggest reasons men get stoved up. Because we instinctively know, through years of conditioning and acculturation in church, that it's a no-no. Although, suspiciously, it's one of the things they keep fairly hush hush. I don't hear too much criticism of it, for whatever reason. About the only time it comes up, now that I think of it, is if some naive 12 year old boy asks about it at the Youth Rap. The leader doesn't chuckle or anything, but you can tell he's uncomfortable with it. He's got that verse about looking on a woman with lust in your heart.

There is a guy at one of the churches I know, Pastor Wadd, who is quite vocal about anything having to do with sex. His big specialty is counseling men (and women, if he ever finds any) about sexual addictions. You know you're addicted if things get out of hand, or perhaps I should say, if they don't get out of hand. And if you're living hand to mouth, of course that's worse, because either there's two involved or you're a very agile contortionist. Anyway, Pastor Wadd is so strict about sex, you'd just love to ask him what his own experiences are. But it'd probably turn out that he's clean, like most of the pastors I've heard of who are concerned with what goes on in other people's bedrooms. I heard him say one time, "I'm happy to address such a large group of horny sinners." It's a great icebreaker.

I was at that meeting. And some guy, who should've known he wasn't going to get anywhere with Pastor Wadd, boldly stated that he'd heard that regular male sexual activity, they say, helps prevent prostate cancer. Of course he thought he had the old boy right where he wanted him, but the pastor deflected him in a great way. He said, "I believe most of us would rather take a chance on cancer to avoid certain shame." And that's not a bad argument. That's also why he doesn't think we should drink wine; there may be a chance we'll avoid heart troubles, but the shame we'll get is certain.

Well, I'm torn on some of this. Because Pastor Wadd is an influence, being a local holy man. But my guru, Swami Sri Masturbananda, over in India, has a whole different take. As you'd probably guess, he's never stoved up. I'd bet there's not a newborn baby with cleaner pipes than this old guy. If there's a flake of plaque buildup in his proximal vas, I'd like to see it. Especially with his well-known fervor and vigor. This is the guy who blew the bathroom vent fan off the top of his house! No one can look on him in his heat and live!

Sri Masturbananda and Pastor Wadd, remarkably, have the same goal, the experience of union with God. But if I had to choose which is the more conventional of the two, it'd have to be Pastor Wadd. Because Masturbananda is unusual even among other gurus. They're noted for teaching asceticism, or if that's not entirely accurate, saying we should "transmute" the inner energy of the vital essence, etc., which just sounds like a fancy way of saying it's a no-no. They believe stifling nature leads to the super-nature, debatable.

The swami doesn't believe that for a second. Because, just to recap, he knows most of us aren't going to get to the fullness of divinity for at least a million incarnations. Giving us plenty of time to suffer. And so, to relieve suffering, and, amazingly, to show us glimpses of the highest consciousness here and now, he encourages us to follow him in these blessed acts.

It must work. I don't really know if Pastor Wadd is ever stoved up. I would guess his wife helps out around the house. But one person I know isn't stoved up, and that's the blessed master.

Major Industrialists Flood The Zone

Yesterday, I described the coming of the military into the area, along with thousands of backyard militias, setting up to do the bidding of the Major Industrial Powers (MIP) against the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM). It's probably needless to say, but the vast array of firepower and soldiers standing against us has put a damper on production. Most of our employees, of course, have been scared feceless and have headed for the hills, along with quite a number of residential industrialists.

But I'm still here. A good night's sleep and I'm up, feeling a lot more confident than I was yesterday. I can't say I'm exactly thankful for what's going on; that'd be too strong a word. But it is in those times when push comes to shove that you find out what you're really made of. At first, I thought I was made of mush. But now I'm getting some of my confidence and resolve back. I've been working with some of my sacred swords, my Chinese metal balls, my own smokin' hot interpretations of scripture, and some of Pastor Wadd's sermon notes, and things are much better. Spiritual stuff.

Sacred sword play is a very intense discipline. It's like Tai Chi with props. I've gone into many an other-worldly trance bringing my consciousness to the point in those slow-moving sessions. In case you don't know much about this, there's some joining in consciousness that the sword wielder sees between the sword and his body. The point corresponding to the head and beyond, with the pinpoint accuracy and vanishing point, to say the least is a great confidence builder. I wouldn't trade my swords for all the nuclear bombs in Iran!

The Chinese metal balls have curative powers. One time I got rid of arthritis in my toes simply by sleeping with them in my socks. After a few days, the pain was gone. The worst part, of course, is having to get up in the middle of the night and tripping all the way to the bathroom. Then there's the scriptures, the condensed wisdom of the residential industrialists of the past (Israel) facing the major industrial powers (the Babylonians, Romans, etc.) And finally, there's Pastor Wadd's notes. He's a local guy who specializes in combating sexual addictions. I get quite a bit of good out of reading his wise comments, especially in that afterglow phase when the danger's well past.

You can tell I'm very mellowed out -- much more so than you'd think for someone facing industrial extinction either later today or tomorrow. When they shut down my factory, it'll just give me more time for other things ... and eventually I'll overpower them in some other way...

But I imagine there's going to be something more to it, with the military and militias. Can I just live happily ever after? Yesterday the MIP flooded the zone -- that's my word for it -- by fanning out across the country with thousands of sheriffs issuing zoning violation tickets and process servers bringing notices of legal actions for patent violations, etc. They've no doubt put a lot of work into this, buying off the feds, the state governments, the counties, and right down to the local city councils.

So they're looking to minimize death and damage, probably, but with all these militias -- most of whom are crazy, supporters of Republicans so you know they're dingy -- there's sure to be some violence. One, they want to make a good example of someone, a sufficient number, so we won't ever do this again. I wouldn't be surprised if most of the fighting took place right here locally, since this is where residential industrialism got its start. A local guy, they say, was the philosophical father of the whole movement.

Along with the paperwork being passed out, summonses to appear in court and all the rest, they were already acting against some of the backyard factories, those that were abandoned in the last few days. I went out for a drive last night and saw quite a few shuttered plants. I took a picture of the Spooner vat factory, since it's right up the street. It looks very sad. It was just in July that we helped with Ted's first vat. Those were the good times, in approximately the Silver Age of Residential Industrialism.

I'll see what today brings. At this point, something's definitely got to give. But I'm going to try to keep the faith, keep my single pointedness going, and the other great benefits. I might see the help of a higher power yet! Other than that, I could watch a little TV -- I might get out my Iron King DVDs, since he also faced a lot of crazy stuff in his life and everything always seemed to work out OK for him. Then, who knows? Maybe I'll put on Grandma's old silk kimono and lounge around the house. Have a drink and check out a few magazines or videos. And then read through Pastor Wadd's notes again.

Rumblings Of Troubles For Industrialists

I really don't know what else to do. I've got a bunker mentality right now. We're in a holding pattern, waiting to see how bad it's going to be.

The prophecies of Jor-el (also known as Garrett Al and Geritol) induced fear in me and in every member of the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) still in his right mind. Surely no incidence of gargling has struck terror in so many breasts at any other time in recorded history. So why'd it have to happen this time?

Everything was going so great for the RIM. We never thought it'd come to this, with prophecies of armies and various privations unfortunately in the offing. I always thought the Four Horsemen were meant as a more generalized horror of judgment; I didn't know it'd manifest itself with pinpoint accuracy against one little substratum of industry. But then the Major Industrial Powers (MIP) probably have a legitimate beef, at least from their point of view, since they've had the industrial field since the Industrial Revolution. We should've guessed they wouldn't take kindly to competition.

My biggest regret is not that we gave it a try with the RIM, but that we didn't manufacture tanks, guns, and napalm, instead of tires, vats, and wheels for hospital beds. At least we could've made a few catapults! But now it's come to this. The rumblings of troubles are so dire that there's no mistaking our fate. Geritol wasn't gargling a half hour for his health!

And speaking of Garrett Al, he came by my place yesterday after church. For a while, it was just him and me. So I figured he might drop the prophetic mien, but I guess it wasn't mien't to be. He stayed completely in character, leading me to conclude that Pastor Wadd's sermon must have really done damage to the normal male libido. (Pastor Wadd's specialty is fighting sexual addiction, and Geritol figures prominently in my personal biography as a man arrested for trying to sexually assault me. Even yesterday, Jor-el was soon to boil over, which I'll get to...)

Anyway, we were out in the plant, and I asked Garrett Al if he was sure -- 100% positive, beyond any shadow of a doubt, rock solid, no hold's barred -- that our troubles were real. He looked at me, an all-seeing man in a fading orange robe and hood, and the serious look on his face left little room for optimism. I asked him one question: "How bad is it?" He spoke not a word, just like on "The Red Skelton Show," but led me to my little office, the room with the small window.

There he patiently removed four slices of bread from a bag. He set them on a plate. He took two of the pieces and put them in a toaster. He dialed the toaster as high as it'd go, then depressed the lever. We waited an agonizingly long time while they "cooked." Normal toast is done in a fourth the time, making me wonder why the toaster dial even goes that high. He took the two blackened slices out. Then he put the two uncooked pieces back in the bag and closed it. The charred toast represented the RIM, and the remaining bread, of course, the MIP.

I shrugged my shoulders and said, "So that's it? We're toast?" He held up a finger, as if to say, "Not so fast."

Next, we walked out of the plant and into the house. He led me into my bedroom, then to the closet. He opened the closet and took out my good pair of shoes. We went into the kitchen, where we keep the meat grinder. He proceeded to grind one of the shoes until it was a large pile of coarse leather. The other shoe, Jor-el calmly carried back to my room, and I witnessed him putting it back in the closet. The ground up shoe represented the RIM, and the other one, naturally, the MIP.

I shook my head and said, "So that's it? There's trouble afoot?" Again, Garrett Al held up a finger, as if to say, "Patience, my dear friend, and you shall see."

Finally, and this is where his wild libido made its reappearance, we went back to the plant. I shuddered a little as I saw him reach his hands inside the robe and heard the sound of unzipping. For one terrifying moment, I was right back at that night in 2009. But he gave me a signal that I had nothing to fear, thrusting his hips away from me and in the direction of the factory. Now, this is where the robe comes in very handy, because it keeps me from having to describe what happened next in blue language, which would violate one of my strictest rules.

Let me just say, there's some exposed gears on my tire retreader. And Geritol ascended until he was on top of that section. He was straddling it. Then, with his robe draped discreetly, covering everything, I saw what appeared to be his covered right arm smacking against the inside of his robe. It was so rough it looked like a bear trying to get out of a tent. His head was arched back, the look on his face the look of pure ecstasy. Finally, I heard an otherworldly growl rumbling from his throat, and a climactic moment of release appeared to have been reached, with several cosmic aftershocks. He said not a word, but climbed off the equipment, leaving behind such a mess that I'll have to file insurance. Thanks to his religion, the guy had been stoved up like a bull. He enjoyed that a little too much.

With Jor-el's dismount, I said, "So that's it? We're screwed?" This time he pointed at me, as if to say, "Bingo."

With that I had little else I could do. I bade Garrett Al a good night, and did what anyone in my position would do ... I called Pastor Wadd and reported him.

Industrial Prophet Gargles Message Of Doom

I was on the phone and in meetings with Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) entrepreneurs throughout the day yesterday. The disruption of the meeting and the supposed revelations of the prophet Jor-el concerning the future of the RIM were the talk of the town. We're desperate for clarification. Some who have unlimited minutes on their phones are even calling other counties and states for their take on the situation. Reportedly, local prophets in other places are also agitated.

As for me, I wanted to go right to the source, Garrett Al (Geritol, Jor-el) himself. That was also a priority for some of the RIM members closest to me. We wanted to give the man a chance to retract his statements if he was just pulling our leg, or if after further reflection, he had changed his mind.

He came to my tire plant. Now, my dealings with Garrett Al are such, after the sexual assault he tried on me in 2009, that a couple days ago if you'd've told me he was a prophet, I would've said that guy wouldn't know prophecy if he ate a crystal ball and crapped out fortune cookies! But that would've been before I saw him myself, his remarkable transformation into Jor-el. He was really into the character, or his new self. What caused the big difference, I was given a hint of in that he was accompanied by his pastor, a Rev. Wadd, who explained that he'd been counseling him for sexual addiction.

It took time we didn't really have to waste, sidelining us for about a half hour, but Pastor Wadd shared with us that most people are suffering from sexual addictions, as evidenced in everything from the terrible stories of sexual crimes that are in the daily news right down to ordinary married folks who choose to have children. In my opinion, the pastor seemed to have a slightly skewed sense of things -- maybe overly censorious -- looking everyone in his path up and down for what might be their hidden fetishes, hangups, and latent proclivities. But I could see how he might've easily been able to influence Garrett Al and make a productive citizen out of him once again, who before was consumed with the drives given him by nature.

Anyway, they came to my plant. Jor-el himself wasn't saying much. He was still into the theatrical atmospherics of being a prophet, the robe and everything. The whole assembly came together around some tables, with Pastor and Geritol at the head table. I said we were ready to begin. I sipped a glass of water, which appeared to prompt Garrett Al to pour his own glass of water and drink. Well, not exactly drink.

Every eye was on him, with the possible exception of Pastor Wadd, who obviously likes to scan a crowd for problems. Then Jor-el took the glass and began gargling at the table. Some of the entrepreneurs began laughing and so did I. We thought, So it was all a joke! But he continued to gargle, and after a while the laughter subsided. Then he'd swallow, pour some more water, and gargle some more. Gargling, just incessant gargling. He kept gargling, loudly too. 15, 20, 25, 30 minutes...

Without him saying it, it started to become obvious to me that his gargling was his message to us, meaning that he foresaw the rumblings of troubles coming for the residential industrialists, and that it would be non-stop and terrible to behold, without mercy. I explained this to the assembly. Pastor Wadd nodded at me, then lowered his eyes a bit. I noticed I had my hands resting on my legs and felt I should move them up on the table.

Geritol then spoke. He addressed me as Super Brain. In light of the events of the last couple days, this abashed me greatly. He said, "Super Brain probably already knows this," and then proceeded to sketch out a vision of the Four Ages of Residential Industrialism that I hadn't imagined. According to Jor-el, the phenomenon of the Four Ages for everything is real, but unfortunately for Residential Industrialism, it's very compressed. We've only been going at this since around May of this year. But he had it down, that the Golden Age was roughly that first month, then we quickly went into the Silver Age, then the Bronze Age, and since mid-September we've been in the Paper Age.

It didn't make a lot of sense to any of us, but Pastor Wadd had a theory about the same thing happening to the antediluvians, because of their leaders' lust for the better-endowed angels. I was shifting uneasily in my chair. You know how you occasionally have an itch in a very private place? And if you're in private you can scratch it? Or even if you're with folks, if they're involved in some other activity, you can quickly and with some discretion reach down and take care of it in about five seconds? This was impossible under the eagle eye of Pastor Wadd, who was looking for every sign of perversion or a double mind. Honestly, I wasn't lusting for angels! So I kept shifting uneasily, almost to the point where it looked like I was trying to communicate my own prophetic sign.

Nothing about Garrett Al's presentation gave us any confidence. He was still right on track with the message that we could expect nothing but troubles, and that the RIM's best days were behind us. The mood was hushed as the entrepreneurs filed out, leaving me and the prophet and pastor behind.

Then at the end, Pastor, Geritol, and I went outside. The day was still very sunny. There was no sign of gargling on the horizon. It seemed a perfect day to go to the bathroom and scratch, then get back to work and maybe even step up production. We stood there, though, and after a while it became uncomfortable. Pastor seemed to sense that I needed to go to the bathroom. Finally, the tension was broken when we saw a young woman walking up the road, obviously pregnant. Pastor Wadd made a little joke, "Anyone you know?" I disavowed any knowledge of the situation, which is true. But he handed me his card anyway.