Cleopatra, Maitreya and Yaldabaoth On Saint Patrick’s Day

March 17, 2021 at 10:45 pm (Folklore, Geopolitics and International Relations, International Intrigue, magic, Mythology, News, Sorcery, The Occult, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

It was Saint Patrick’s Day 2021.

And Yaldabaoth was on a bridge overlooking the River Liffey in Dublin, Ireland.

The night before he had been in a psychiatrist’s office at Saint Raphael’s Hospital in London.

The session was to help him overcome his drinking problem.

But judging from the amount of Guinness he had drunk on this Saint Patrick’s Day Evening in Dublin, it was obviously going to take more than one session.

“Yaldabaoth,” the man named Peter Whitstable (whose unofficial title was the Fox Mulder of Interpol) greeted him.

“What are you doing here in Dublin?” Yaldabaoth asked, “Do you have some more cloak and dagger work for me to do?”.

The leprechaun put on a green cloak and then pulled a green jade dagger out of one of his green socks and put it in his green belt.

“As you know the past dozen years, the Irish government has become increasingly made up of Apostles of the Antichrist,” Whitstable noted.

“I imagine Saint Paddy is not too pleased with that,” Yaldabaoth drank his Guinness, “Is Harvey Tallbanger the invisible (to mortals) bunny rabbit here to throw green algae cream pies in their faces?”.

“Most likely yes to your first statement and I don’t know to your second,” Whitstable answered, “I do know most leading members of the Irish government have taken an oath of allegiance to a hidden and secret High King of Ireland.”

“And who is this hidden and secret High King of Ireland?” Yaldabaoth asked.

“Maitreya a golden cobra serpent supernatural entity from the Himalayan region of Tibet and Nepal,” Whitstable replied.

“Oh yes, he did have himself crowned High King of Ireland at the Hill of Tara back on Saint Patrick’s Day in 2018,” Yaldabaoth wiped his runny nose with a green handkerchief, “I believe he had crowned Queen Cleopatra VII Philopator of Egypt (whom he had resurrected from the dead) his High Queen as well.

“Exactly,” Whitstable nodded, “Cleopatra is currently staying at a hotel here in Dublin.”

“What hotel?” Yaldabaoth asked.

“This one,” Whitstable handed the leprechaun a card with the hotel address on it, “I want you to get her photograph for my Interpol files. We do not have a photo of the living Cleopatra.”

“Seeing as how she’s been dead since the 1st Century BC and was only resurrected 4 years ago, I can see why,” Yaldabaoth nodded, “I imagine Saint Paddy is probably ticked that not only has a serpent returned to Ireland (he having driven the serpents out of Ireland) but is further ticked that a serpent has crowned himself High King of Ireland.”

“I would imagine,” Whitstable agreed.

Meanwhile in Washington DC, U.S. President Joe Beijing O’ Biden asked one of his aides why one of the White House fountains was green.

“You ordered it dyed green for Saint Patrick’s Day,” his aide answered.

“I did?” Biden scratched his head, “Is it Saint Patrick’s Day?”.

The aide nodded.

“Then why is my desk cactus dressed as Santa Claus, why is my dog dressed like the Easter Bunny and why is Hunter dressed like a crack pipe smoking Great Pumpkin?” Biden inquired.

Meanwhile back in Dublin, Ireland, Yaldabaoth entered the hotel room where Cleopatra was staying.

He carried in his hands a black and white film camera that had once belonged to film director Orson Welles when he was alive.

Yaldabaoth entered Cleopatra’s bedroom and snapped a photo.

Cleopatra the former Queen of Egypt and current High Queen of Ireland

After snapping the photo, Yaldabaoth gasped, “My God, that’s a killer outfit you’re wearing.”

He then fell over dead.

“Jesus,” an Irish Jesuit priest, who was recently defrocked by his superior for being straight and heterosexual, remarked as he walked by the open door in the hallway.

“Oh, the void, the void,” a spider, who had recently come in contact with radioactive material in a science lab, remarked as he crawled by.

“This looks like a job for Dr. Marmalade Montague and his Hendrick’s Gin Dunking Machine,” Harvey Tallbanger commented as he walked by and noticed Yaldabaoth the Irish leprechaun lying dead at Cleopatra’s spiked stiletto high-heeled shoes feet.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Wednesday March 17th
2021.

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Reblog of Saint Patrick’s Day: A Poem

March 17, 2020 at 10:12 pm (History, News, Poetry) (, )

A poem I wrote 5 years ago today.

Dracul Van Helsing

Saint Patrick’s Day: A Poem

On the shores of Galilee a certain Carpenter did teach
oh how to Tara’s golden halls would that message reach
A lad was in his 16th year when into pirating hands he fell
and carried across the Irish Sea to an Emerald Isle to dwell
sold as a slave to the chieftan Milchu
so what did this young lad do?
For six years in County Antrim he tended his master’s flocks in the Valley of the Braid
this boy becoming a man who was captured in a raid
After six years he fled his cruel master and bent his steps towards the west
His journey of 200 miles was really quite the test
At Killala Bay he set sail towards the land of his birth
but as a future Bard once wrote, “There are more things in heaven and earth…”
A new master did young…

View original post 139 more words

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Yaldabaoth On Saint Patrick’s Day

March 17, 2019 at 10:55 pm (Folklore, Geopolitics and International Relations, International Intrigue, Life, love, News, Poetry, Romance, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , )

Yaldabaoth the Irish leprechaun was celebrating Saint Patrick’s Day the same way he celebrated every other day of the year.

By drinking too much.

Yaldabaoth lay under a tree.

At his left hand, he had his pint of Guinness.

At his right, his pot of gold.

Two men, a Brussels bureaucat and a London bureaucrat walked down the middle of the field where the tree was located.

They were measuring for a hard border in case of a no-deal Brexit.

The measuring tape passed over the midpoint of Yaldabaoth’s body.

His pint of Guinness was now on one side of the border.

And his pot of gold was on the other.

The two bureaucrats came back singing and vendoring their respective wares.

“Brussels sprouts and Belgian waffles,” the EU bureaucrat cried out, “Brussels sprouts and Belgian waffles.”

“English Breakfast Tea and Cockney Kids Fish and Chips,” the London bureaucrat cried out, “English Breakfast Tea and Cockney Kids Fish and Chips.”

Yaldabaoth picked up both his pint of Guinness and his pot of gold.

No border was going to separate them.

He went to a nearby pub in the Republic of Ireland.

There he watched New York City’s Saint Patrick’s Day Parade live on TV.

The demons Baal and Baphomet were riding a New York State Democratic Party float.

Baal was eating a bucket of fried human baby fingers and a side order of fried human baby toes.

Baphomet was drinking green beer (what sort of Irish-American abomination is Green beer? Yaldabaoth thought to himself) and mooning passersby with his/her very hairy behind.

When the parade was over, Yaldabaoth walked north of the border to the graveyard of Down Cathedral in the town of Downpatrick in the province of Armagh.

There to visit Saint Patrick’s Grave.

No one was at the grave except a beautiful young woman wearing a long black dress.

The woman held a rosary in her hands.

She held up the Crucifix and said, “Oh blessed Saint Patrick, as many across the world mention your name in passing between pints of beer, I’m here to sing and praise the One you sang, praised and talked about throughout your entire life…”

The woman sang with sweet melodious voice,

“You were the Word at the beginning
One with God the Lord Most High
Your hidden glory in creation
Now revealed in You our Christ

What a beautiful Name it is
What a beautiful Name it is
The Name of Jesus Christ my King

What a beautiful Name it is
Nothing compares to this
What a beautiful Name it is
The Name of Jesus

You didn’t want Heaven without us
So Jesus you brought Heaven down
My sin was great, your love was greater
What could separate us now

What a wonderful Name it is
Nothing compares to this
The Name of Jesus Christ my King

How sweet is your name, Lord, how good you are
Love to sing in the Name of the Lord, love to sing for you all
Death could not hold you, the veil tore before you
You silenced the boast of sin and grave
The heavens are roaring the praise of Your glory
For you are raised to life again

You have no rival, you have no equal
Now and forever, our God reigns
Yours is the Kingdom, Yours is the glory
Yours is the Name above all names

What a powerful Name it is
What a powerful Name it is
The Name of Jesus Christ my King

What a powerful Name it is
Nothing can stand against
What a powerful Name it is
The Name of Jesus Christ my King…

. . .

Yaldabaoth put down both his pint of Guinness and his pot of gold when he heard the song.

A shudder went through him.

This was obviously one powerful King that this woman was singing about.

He hoped he never got on the wrong side of this King.

He left the Guinness and the gold in the graveyard.

And walked back to the other side of the border.

He thought back to the New York City Saint Patrick’s Day Parade he had watched on TV earlier.

And thought back to Baal and Baphomet.

Where, he wondered, did they stand in relation to this King the woman sang of?

Were they on His wrong side?

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Sunday March 17th
2019.

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Cleopatra and The Serpent At Tara On Saint Patrick’s Day

March 17, 2018 at 10:59 pm (Folklore, Geopolitics and International Relations, History, International Intrigue, Mythology, News, Religion, Romance, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Cleopatra and The Serpent At Tara On Saint Patrick’s Day

At a Buddhist temple in London, one of the monks awoke and went into the meditation room to pray.

He was shocked to discover that the giant statue of the Future Buddha To Come had been stolen.

He immediately went and told one of his fellow monks, “The statue of the Maitreya has been stolen.”

“How,” his brother monk asked, “could such a large statue have been stolen?”.

. . .

Inside a cave deep in the Himalayas on the Nepal-Tibet border, the sleeping giant golden cobra awakened.

He then left his cave and astral projected himself to Egypt.

But the cobra had such a highly developed mind (that physicists at their peril could only dream of) that he was able to take his physical form body to Egypt with him along with his astral body.

. . .

The golden cobra was in the burial chamber of the tomb of Queen Cleopatra VII Philopator of Egypt.

His eyes projected a golden ray that caused the lid of the Queen’s sarcophagus to raise.

He then leaned over the sarcophagus and peered in looking at the royal mummy.

Once again its eye emitted a golden ray that disintegrated the bandages into oblivion.

Its other eye then emitted another golden ray that caused flesh to form on the skeleton.

With both its eyes, it then cast a golden ray as bright as the light of the sun on Cleopatra’s body.

And the Queen returned to life in all her regal beauty and splendour.

“I am naked,” the Queen said as she looked down.

“Does your beauty really need to be covered with clothes?” The cobra asked in a voice as eloquent as that of Sir Laurence Olivier playing Hamlet.

“But I am a Queen,” Cleopatra protested, “Commoners mustn’t see me naked.”

. . .

The cobra brought the Queen’s handmaidens back to life and using royal gold buried with her, Cleopatra and her six handmaidens were astral projected by the cobra’s tongue to the fashion district of Paris France 🇫🇷 where they purchased neo-Classical Egyptian gowns from Christian Dior.

The seven Egyptian women left the salon fashion house dressed in their gowns while a group of recently resurrected male Egyptian slaves followed behind carrying a vast array of shopping bags.

“Cléopâtre,” the chauffeur of French President Emmanuel Macron exclaimed as he drove the President’s limo into a light post upon seeing the Egyptian queen.

The French President, who was in the backseat reading a National Geographic article on cougars, was unhurt.

. . .

The cobra astral projected himself along with his physical form to Ireland.

He went to the grounds of Down Cathedral in Downpatrick, County Down, Province of Armagh, Northern Ireland.

He stood by the stone that was reputed to be the burial marker for the reputed burial place of Saint Patrick.

The cobra hissed and spat on Saint Patrick’s grave.

It hissed, “Thou fool. Thy triumph was short lived. Only 16 centuries. And now the serpents have returned to Ireland.”

An old Englishman and his wife walked by observing this spectacle.

Said Cecil to his wife Marianne, “Well if snakes are going to talk, glad to see they’re talking in good old King James Bible English.”

. . .

The Golden Cobra stood on the Hill of Tara the seat of the High Kings of Ireland.

It stood atop the Lia Fail (Stone of Destiny) on this County Meath landmark.

The snake then drank a glass of Kilkenny Irish Cream Ale that was handed to him by Mulligan the Irish Zombie 🧟‍♂️ who was in a hypnotic state.

Mulligan’s boss the London based art curator and Oscar Wilde admirer Dashwood Forrest was on the nearby hill of Rath Maeve looking for Mulligan.

The goddess Maeve meanwhile joined the cobra atop the Lia Fail (Stone of Destiny) and a Saskatchewan Anglican priest who was also a clergyman in the Church of the Reformed Druids stood on a pair of giant stilts held up by a pair of clowns and looking down on the cobra and the goddess Maeve symbolically married the pair.

The Saskatchewan Anglican priest then found himself the victim of a human sacrifice a minute later much to his personal dismay.

The Church of the Reformed Druids was possibly not as reformed as he would have liked.

The Irish Celtic goddess Brigid then arrived on the scene and crowned the golden cobra High King of Ireland.

“And now yonder, my High Queen doth approach,” the Cobra used his astral third eye to see the beautiful Cleopatra dressed in a magnificent gown and walking across the Irish Sea.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Saturday March 17th
2018.

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Jefferey The Otter On Saint Patrick’s Day: A Poem

March 17, 2017 at 4:24 pm (Comedy, Culture, Humour, News, Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , , , )

From Planet Nibiru, Jefferey came
not seeking any worldly earthly fame
he was a party otter seeking a new party spot
one where he could avoid being struck in parking lot
for he was a furry mammal on all fours
one who often got stuck in revolving doors

He had heard about Saint Paddy’s Day
its fame had spread across the Milky Way
and when he wasn’t eating Nibiruan scientist’s stitchin’
or laughing at the theories of Zecharia Sitchin
he often dreamed of having a Guinness or two
and seducing a female earthling otter in the Dublin Zoo

So he stole ET gray Gali-Gula’s spaceship
and headed off on quite the far out trip
to Dublin he went where he took many a nip
now on Earth otters cannot talk
they just sit and bark on a rock
so Nibiruan otter was quite the hit of the bar
one would think he was a furry Bono- a rock star

Jefferey regaled them with “When Irish Eyes Are Smilin”
when asked if he was legal age, Jefferey was lyin’
but his Nibiruan otter mother wasn’t around to spank
so Jefferey thoroughly enjoyed this drunken otter prank

He ordered some Jameson’s Irish Whiskey
drinking so much- he had to go pee
He decided to enter the ladies’ room
little realizing this would be his doom
Pretty little Irish colleens in their short skirts did shriek
when they saw a perverted male otter taking a peek
they hit him with their high-heeled shoes
like a cocaine high drummer gettin’ in the groove

Jefferey barely escaped with his life
Dublin police were called to end the strife
but the Garda Siochana stopped for a few brews
ignoring Police Commissioner’s warning about hitting the booze
soon O’ Reilly’s Bar was overrun by drunks galore
while Jefferey safely crawled his way across the floor
and soon headed straight out the door.

“Gosh,” Jefferey smiled, “that was fun”
unaware someone would tomato his bun
for Sherrielock Holmes had received ET call
from Jefferey’s mother who was going up the wall
Jefferey felt the lash of Sherrielock’s whip
as he admired the dominatrix’s shapely hip
he thought her leather skirt was quite the sight
even though his buttocks were no longer tight

And that was how Jefferey spent Saint Paddy’s Day
a Nibiruan otter in Dublin sowin’ wild oats for hay.

-A Saint Patrick’s Day poem
written by Christopher
Friday March 17th
2017.

Sherrielock Holmes
Sherrielock Holmes movin’ in for the kill on Nibiruan otter’s naughty buttocks

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What Connor McFinn Saw On Saint Patrick’s Day

March 17, 2016 at 8:33 pm (Folklore, Horror, Short stories, Short Story, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , )

What Connor McFinn Saw On Saint Patrick’s Day

Connor McFinn stumbled out of his house on the way to the pub.

Usually most nights it was the reverse.

But his brainless Irish-American nephew from Boston was visiting.

And to mark Saint Paddy’s Day, his brainless nephew had bought some bottles of American beer and laced it with green food dye.

“Faith and begorrah,” his nephew brutally murdered the accent of his homeland with the same severity that MacBeth had stabbed Duncan, ” ’tis a fine Irish tradition to drink green beer on Saint Paddy’s Day.”

“No, it isn’t, you moron,” Connor said in an exasperated voice, “maybe in America but not here in Ireland. Here in Ireland, we toast Saint Paddy with Guinness or Murphy’s or some fine local stout. This beer is an abomination and blasphemy against the Holy Saint Patrick himself.”

“Abomination and blasphemy against Saint Paddy himself,” his nephew spewed green beer out of his mouth all over the brown sofa with the same velocity as an ex-DARPA employee would spew bourbon and coffee all over his computer screen after reading a humourous blog post, “surely you exaggerate, Uncle.”

After drinking several green beers, his nephew lay passed out on the floor.

Connor had been forced to drink several pints of the abominable blasphemous substance to please his sister’s brainless son.

Once the misfit lay on the floor snoring away, Connor got up and stumbled out the door to head down to the local pub to drink a pint of Guinness and toast the Apostle and Patron Saint of Ireland the proper Irish way.

As he stumbled his way through the meadows and forests to get to the village, he hit his head on a low-lying tree branch.

As Connor sat there dazed under the tree, he noticed a bunch of giant snakes approaching him.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Connor made the Sign of the Cross, “this is what comes from drinking a witch’s brew of green beer.”

The huge giant serpents with giant fangs approached him.

This couldn’t be happening, Connor thought to himself.

After all, the Holy Saint Patrick had personally driven all the snakes out of Ireland.

“Get away,” Connor shouted, “you’re not real. You’re a figment of a warped imagination brought on by drinking that Devil’s brew of green beer.”

Seeing as how the snakes actually proceeded to eat Connor McFinn in literal objective reality (although that concept would be disputed and denied by a great many modern and post-modern philosophers), his brainless Irish-American nephew’s green beer was a Devil’s brew from a witch’s cauldron indeed.

-A short story
and vampire novel
chapter
written by Christopher
Thursday March 17th
2016.

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Saint Patrick’s Day: A Poem

March 17, 2015 at 7:37 pm (History, Poetry) (, , , , )

Saint Patrick’s Day: A Poem

On the shores of Galilee a certain Carpenter did teach
oh how to Tara’s golden halls would that message reach
A lad was in his 16th year when into pirating hands he fell
and carried across the Irish Sea to an Emerald Isle to dwell
sold as a slave to the chieftan Milchu
so what did this young lad do?
For six years in County Antrim he tended his master’s flocks in the Valley of the Braid
this boy becoming a man who was captured in a raid
After six years he fled his cruel master and bent his steps towards the west
His journey of 200 miles was really quite the test
At Killala Bay he set sail towards the land of his birth
but as a future Bard once wrote, “There are more things in heaven and earth…”
A new master did young Patrick find
a sweet master so Divine
A new master who said, “Make the Irish mine”.
So the new flocks he would tend
those whose broken hearts he’d mend
were the same people who had taken him captive
a people he set free by saying “Believe in Jesus and live.”
And now every March 17th, Irish hearts are filled with mirth
toasting a lad whose Master arrived in a stable at birth.
And while in Tara’s halls an earthly harp is mute with its soul of music shed
an heavenly choir sings of He whose heart, hands, head and feet had Bled
a loving Master who called Patrick to the test
and through Patrick’s voice and Patrick’s hands caused the Irish to join His people blest.

-A poem written by Christopher
on Saint Patrick’s Day
Tuesday March 17th
2015.

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Magog Rhys Petley On Saint Patrick’s Day

March 17, 2014 at 6:36 pm (Geopolitics and International Relations, News, Poetry, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Magog Rhys Petley On Saint Patrick’s Day

Magog Rhys Petley
A Welsh werewolf he be
and British Labour MP
swept across the Irish Sea
landing on Irish shore
receiving kisses galore
from a pretty young Colleen
that was on the scene.

This revived him to life
after severe weather’s strife
so he took it on life’s chin
and headed off to Dublin
a fine old girl of a town
where pint o’ Guinness erases frown.

He spent many a fine and carefree day there
complimenting the ladies on their hair
He happened to meet Ukraine’s former PM
and thinking of Solomon’s concubine gem
He mistook Yulia Tymoshenko for a hooker
who walloped him with full force of a James Joyce booker
and so wearing Ulysses for a crown
sporting a black eye all around
he headed off to another town
where this time Murphy’s erased his frown.

He wandered across Ireland far and wide
said Hello to Galway’s tide
kissed the Blarney Stone and a young bride
as he ran to escape the angry groom
he tripped over a witch’s broom
in a strange place full of gloom
not far from Blarney Castle
so found this Welsh rascal
a place where the Druids did sacrifice
and we’re talking humans not mice.

Their best laid plans may go astray
in this wood where night swallows day
Magog saw with his very eyes
and heard the anguished cries
of a victim tied to a stone
the colour red was not jam on scone
The Druidish priest lowered his knife
and took away the Church clergyman’s life.

May Saint Patrick’s Faith be gone from this land
Restore our ancient religion so grand
the Druid priest spoke as the earth did quake
Magog looked down- at his foot a snake.

-A vampire novel chapter
written in the form of a poem
written by Christopher
Monday March 17th
2014

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