I had this column written in my head at one point. Oh yes, these are supposed to be the easy ones. Material flying out of my ass faster than the methane gas after the wenches served deviled eggs. I had enough tales, no pun intended, to fill several columns with the exploits of men in their natural element. I could regale you with things that made us laugh, smile, ponder, and grunt. I had for you… a column about a gathering of men. The format was going to pertain to possible future books that could be published. Perhaps a volume #31 called "Lightweights of Gor", or number #29 called "Odds makers of Gor" would have been used. Yes, there was a great deal of stories to tell, and no one would be safe! After all, they knew they were coming to visit a Scribe, right?

But this month is different. First of all, it is a short month. I suppose I knew that in the back of my head, but when I looked at the calendar and saw it was the 28^th, I lamented that my work was not done, and I would not submit a column this time around. It was then that my slave, in a pleasing manner, reminded me that this is a leap year. That meant the jig was up, and I had to get it in gear and actually write. I’m sure Pantheus knows there is an extra day, and figures he’ll get the "scroll" tonight, per my usual way-after-the-real-deadline application… But there is a second reason why this month is different for me. It’s the fact that I would probably rather have my car horn get stuck while driving behind a large group of Hell’s Angels than write this column, and that usually isn’t the case. Oh, there are times when I don’t have much to say, or chunks of my life when I don’t feel particularly comic, but in almost two years I have only missed one issue. Even when I failed to fulfill that obligation, it wasn’t because the thought of writing made me grit my teeth so hard the fillings began to spark enough to make someone think the Priest-Kings were attacking with flame death. And you know… it wasn’t the goofy gamers who get their jollies from trying to pick apart the folks who live the lifestyle. No, they came out fast and furious, and have been relentless… with the wenches who attended, of course. To date, I have spoken with two males on the issue, one whom I sought out only to have him run off, and the other by e-mail, since a slave recommended he speak to men on the issue. On this very day, over a month after the event, I was sent a log by a female who is still being questioned by the Gorean Moral Majority. But to say that this ilk has caused me to change my plans concerning my copy for this month would be giving them more credit than they deserve, not to mention that it would be a flat out lie. It has certainly pissed me off, but those who know me or follow my column know that when I get that way I tend to hone the humor knife and flay away. No, this one smacked me "upside the head"…

When a friend, whose opinion I hold high, told me he was disgusted by an event that occurred at my house, I knew it was time to rethink this entire column that I had written in my mind. Oh, get your mind out of the alcoves, it wasn’t that kind of incident, just an odd happening which had some of us howling with laughter, but others… not. When it came right down to it, I thought, "Why should I share this, or any of the happenings, with people I may not trust?" If people I trust find fault, wouldn’t those who hunt for these faults find even more? And the problem, of course, is not with people knowing about me. In giving of myself to the community through this medium, I have given away a certain amount of privacy. I share. If these columns didn’t come from the happenings in my life, they wouldn’t be worth the bandwidth they come across… and I’m sure some of you think they aren’t worth that anyway. I’m also sure that there are those out there who find me of no worth whatsoever. But there are those out there who call me friend, and call me brother, and my house is always open to them at any time. When I share my kettle with those men, it does not mean that they have consented to have their visit opened for scrutiny, but it took a solid slap to reach this realization. I like a solid slap, but only if it’s my hand and the backside of a wench!

To the men whom I call brother, I will always be there for you no matter what the cost. To the men of my Home Stone, I will always stand with you, and will always guard your back. To all my friends, my home is open to you, and I’ll have a steak marinaded by the time you arrive… and we’ll keep the events to ourselves. To the slaves… Oh, never mind, telling a slave not to prattle is like telling your cat not to shit in your fichus. It looks at you like it understands, but you find little turds in the plant anyway. Besides, many slaves are not in collars, and therefore answer to the one they currently serve. While they could beg not to speak on an event, if forced, they must. So… To all you pricks that forced girls to relate events concerning the gatherings of men, eat shit. Even though I held back from penning a piece on the "super doggle" for reasons of my own, I take delight in the fact that you won’t live vicariously through my writing, only through the prattle of slaves.