The Gorean Voice - December 1998

The Secret Vaults of Lurius of Jad

While watching a television production the other day, I came to the realization that talk shows come in two major categories. There is the type that tries to "help" people, and fails miserably, and the kind that amuses viewers by being as outrageous as possible. This was not a difficult conclusion, considering they about said as much on the program. Not the part about failing miserably, of course, that would be counter-productive to ratings.

For a long time I thought that the men who had these shows were nothing but bleeding heart fruitballs who were so wrapped up in pandering to women their testicles must have shriveled up and fallen off. In recent years, however, I changed my opinion slightly. First, the fellow who I thought was the most detesticlated of them all beats the tar out of some fellow in an airport who threatened his family. And then, on live television, one lays his career on the line and opens secret vaults that contain, well, nothing. Of course, I didn’t see a great deal of difference in what he found, because that is generally the contents of these shows... nothing.

Now, the first type of show, the "we love everyone and want to help you overcome whatever it may be that troubles your poor dejected soul", just sickens me. I do not watch it, and I do not allow it to be watched in my house. But the other type, the "chair across the nose during a fight on stage because people don’t get along", does amuse me. So on occasion, I will flip on one of these shows, or even watch the program that cuts the best, and most bizarre, portions of them for a half-hour comedic romp. When the "loving wife" finds out about the "cheatin’ hubby" on camera, I am amused. When they trot out his lover, "Max the gerbil felching clown", I am disgusted. When the "loving wife" subsequently gouges out the eyes of her soon to be ex-husband, I once again become amused....

But, loyal readers, there is a deeper and darker reason behind my unusual desire to keep up with the freakish happening on these broadcasts. It is because sooner or later, some deviant will sit his ass in the chair, and claim to be one of us. That’s right, he’ll march on out, dressed in a scarlet tunic, perhaps a sword at his side, and most certainly with a "slave" in tow. The slave might even be led in naked, which would excite the audience, and cause the use of the funny little blocks over her pleasing parts to keep the censors happy. It most certainly will be sad and demented, and the excerpts might be something like this…

* Audience gasps as he enters and sits… The slave sits, too. *

Goreain’t: Kneel you worthless wench! (This has been well rehearsed)

* The girl gets off the chair and kneels whimpering. *

Host: Now… why did you do that? (Mock concern for the girl)

Goreain’t: She is property! She has to obey!

* Audience boos and jeers *

Host: But, she is a human being! She can’t be owned by anyone in this, the U.S.A.

Goreain’t: I choose not to believe in these law. I am a Gorean master!

Host: What does that mean, exactly?

Goreain’t: I do whatever I please! No one can tell me what to do…

* The host hands the microphone to a member of the studio audience *

Outraged Idiot: You ain’t all dat! You just tink you all dat, Boy! You ain’t nuttin!

Goreain’t: You are clueless, woman! You belong in a collar at my feet!

Outraged Idiot: Uh huh, Uh huh…You jus’ try dat. An’ girlfren’… You need to get up off dem knees, girl. Ain’t no man ought say dey own you…

Goreain’t: Quiet! No one speaks to her but me!

* The host takes the microphone back. *

Host: You seem very protective of her.

Goreain’t: Of course, she is property, and her submission is a precious gift!

* At this point the slave moves a bit, and is cuffed. *

Host: Please! Don’t hit the poor thing…

Goreain’t: I shall do as I please!

* As he begins to strike again, the studio bouncers run on stage and grab him. *

Goreain’t: This is an outrage! She belongs to me!

* He is removed. *

This may seem hilarious on the surface, and most of us would be either chuckling or rolling about on the floor. But the damage it would do is absolutely horrifying. Not only would good people learn of Gor in the wrong manner, but bad people would flock to it, because after all, it’s all about owning slaves! And how am I so sure that it wouldn’t be someone who truly believes in Gorean philosophy on that show? Well, which one of us in their right mind… would do it?

"’Twas The Night Before Se`Var" or A Visit From Old Bear

( With serious apologies to Clement Clarke Moore )

’Twas the night before Se`Var, and all through the streets,

Not a creature was stirring, except us dead-beats;

The botas were hung by the fire with care,

For one never knew if Old Bear would be there.

The slave girls were nestled all snug in the kennel,

With visions of pastries and Masters so gentle;

The freewomen with ka-la-na, and I with my paga,

Had just begun drinking as we began with this saga.

For outside the tavern there came such a clatter,

That I arose from my furs, to check out the matter;

I snapped up a sword, a quiva, and shield,

For who knew what weapon this menace would wield!

The three moons of Gor were shining so bright,

My paga glazed eyes did squint from the light;

I uncrossed my eyes, and pressed aside knaves,

It was a little tarn basket, pulled by eight tiny slaves!

There was a chubby old driver, yet nimble and quick,

In a moment I knew, it must be that prick.

More rapid than sleens his wenches they came,

As he whipped, and goaded, and called them by name;

"Now, tupa! now, lita!, now sita and dina!

On, tuka! on, tela! on, lola and bina!

To the top of the cylinder! Alight on the perch!

Pull me correctly, and don't make me lurch!"

On the cylinders and bridges they spent the next ahn,

Pouncing and jumping, I thought they were gone.

I turned back inside, wiping drool from my face;

And sat my ass down, at my usual place.

But then on the rooftop, I heard many a beat,

Of only one thing, it must be slave feet;

I turned to the hearth when I heard a loud thump,

He'd dropped to the fire, right on his rump!

He was dressed in a tunic, which now was alight,

Patted out by kajirae, to his delight;

He backed to the hearth, again catching fire,

The little slave hands his not-so-secret desire!

His eyes -- how they twinkled! His feet how they stank!

He wanted them warmed, but my they were rank!

The kajirae they sat, one left foot, one right,

Not called by a master, for the rest of the night!

He was chubby and plump, a cantankerous old urt,

And will snatch up your slaves, so do stay alert!

He focused on me, as he tried hard to think,

Saying, "I have here a tarsk-bit, and desire a drink!"

He spoke not a word, having been shown the rack,

And grabbed all the botas, stuffing most in his sack;

Then taking his fingers, and pinching his nose,

He downed a full bota, which curled up his toes.

With sandals in one hand, and tarsk-bit in tow,

All in attendance then knew he must go;

But on his way out, He slurred out this yell,

"HAPPY SE’VAR TO ALL, AND I WISH YOU ALL WELL!"

by Mastiff