As I discussed in my book Supernormal, the goal of meditation across many traditions is to achieve a state of awareness where one gains the realization that the personal self and the Universal Self are one (little “c” consciousness is = big “C” Consciousness). Within the Consciousness state, abilities naturally arise that allow the meditator to manipulate or to transcend the world. Within the path of yoga, the goal of meditation is transcendence, or personal liberation. In that tradition the siddhis, or powers, that are gained are strongly deemphasized. In the magical tradition, gaining those powers is the goal.
This is Hans Vestberg, CEO of Verizon, and the man
ultimately responsible for destroying this website. It may not have been his
decision, but corporations being the top-down authoritarian institutions that
they are, he gets to say yes or no to any policy. This is the man responsible
for taking away your joy and the happiness of thousands of others. As the CEO
of Verizon he is also responsible for various schemes to end new neutrality and
fuck over poor people in general. He’s a horrible human being who puts profits
over people.
Let’s curse his ass.
Specifically, let’s curse his dick. Seems appropriate since
he’s taking away other people’s outlet for sexual gratification.
On the night of December 16th (midnight on the 17th
in your time zone), since we won’t be hanging out on tumblr, we will be
performing a mass curse/binding on Mr. Vestberg’s ability to feel love and
sexual release.
Feel free to come up with your own ritual according to your
own practice. Share your plans on tumblr, and let others know how to get it
done. Maybe add a curse jar, or burn his picture. Put all your mojo into it.
Your incantation may look something like this:
In the name of
Babalon, Great Harlot and Mother of Abominations, I curse you, Hans Vestberg.
May your penis remain flaccid.
May you be stripped of
all joy.
May those you adore
turn from you in disgust.
May all lips you kiss
taste of ashes.
May your love wither
away and go cold.
May you never find
release from your frustrations.
I beseech all spirits
who call me friend and ally to curse Hans Vestberg. I call all spirits at my
command to destroy his potency and take away his joy.
What you have done to
many, Hans Vestberg, may that return unto you.
Re-blog this! Post it everywhere! Share it with your uncle
that works in the media. Let’s get this fucker.
This is Hans Vestberg, CEO of Verizon, and the man
ultimately responsible for destroying this website. It may not have been his
decision, but corporations being the top-down authoritarian institutions that
they are, he gets to say yes or no to any policy. This is the man responsible
for taking away your joy and the happiness of thousands of others. As the CEO
of Verizon he is also responsible for various schemes to end new neutrality and
fuck over poor people in general. He’s a horrible human being who puts profits
over people.
Let’s curse his ass.
Specifically, let’s curse his dick. Seems appropriate since
he’s taking away other people’s outlet for sexual gratification.
On the night of December 16th (midnight on the 17th
in your time zone), since we won’t be hanging out on tumblr, we will be
performing a mass curse/binding on Mr. Vestberg’s ability to feel love and
sexual release.
Feel free to come up with your own ritual according to your
own practice. Share your plans on tumblr, and let others know how to get it
done. Maybe add a curse jar, or burn his picture. Put all your mojo into it.
Your incantation may look something like this:
In the name of
Babalon, Great Harlot and Mother of Abominations, I curse you, Hans Vestberg.
May your penis remain flaccid.
May you be stripped of
all joy.
May those you adore
turn from you in disgust.
May all lips you kiss
taste of ashes.
May your love wither
away and go cold.
May you never find
release from your frustrations.
I beseech all spirits
who call me friend and ally to curse Hans Vestberg. I call all spirits at my
command to destroy his potency and take away his joy.
What you have done to
many, Hans Vestberg, may that return unto you.
Re-blog this! Post it everywhere! Share it with your uncle
that works in the media. Let’s get this fucker.
It is easy to identify with this song when you grow up in the Great Lakes region. The lake waters roil, the wind bites, and the snow burns your eyes when November comes to town.
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they called ‘gitche gumee’
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy
With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty
That good ship and crew was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of November came early.
The ship was the pride of the American side
Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most
With a crew and good captain well seasoned
Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
When they left fully loaded for Cleveland
And later that night when the ship’s bell rang
Could it be the north wind they’d been feelin’?
The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
And a wave broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the captain did too,
T’was the witch of November come stealin’
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the gales of November came slashin’
When afternoon came it was freezin’ rain
In the face of a hurricane west wind
When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck sayin’
Fellas, it’s too rough to feed ya
At seven pm a main hatchway caved in, he said
Fellas, it’s been good t’know ya
The captain wired in he had water comin’ in
And the good ship and crew was in peril
And later that night when his lights went outta sight
Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Does any one know where the love of God goes
When the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searches all say they’d have made Whitefish Bay
If they’d put fifteen more miles behind her
They might have split up or they might have capsized
They may have broke deep and took water
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.
Lake Huron rolls, superior sings
In the rooms of her ice-water mansion
Old Michigan steams like a young man’s dreams
The islands and bays are for sportsmen
And farther below Lake Ontario
Takes in what Lake Erie can send her
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
With the gales of November remembered.
In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed,
In the maritime sailors’ cathedral
The church bell chimed till it rang twenty-nine times
