From the Inquisition's Handbook: Witches Stealing Men's Genitalia

In the 15^th Century, the ironically named Pope Innocent VIII upgraded the ill-defined sin of witchcraft to the level of a major heresy and ordered the Holy Inquisition to root it out and quash it. Up until then the Inquisition primary brief was to destroy pagan beliefs, Judaism, and Islam within the realms of Christian Kings.

As always with a growing organization, the jumped into with enthusiastic zeal.  and to aid new Inquisitors To this end they wrote the Malleus Maleficarium (Latin for “Hammer of the Witches) as a handy guidebook for future witch hunters. After perusing the book again and from a long list of oddities and bizarre stories, one item sticks out to me. And here it is below:

The addition to the Good Book

“We have already shown that they can take away the male organ not indeed by actually despoiling the human body of it, but by concealing it with some glamour [i.e., magic]. And of the this we shall instance a few examples.

“In the town of Ratisbon a certain young man who had an intrigue with a girl, wishing to leave her, lost his member; that is to say, some glamour was cast over it so that he could see or touch nothing but his smooth body. In his worry over this he went to a tavern to drink wine; and after he had sat there for a while he got into a conversation with another woman who was there, and told her the cause of his sadness, explaining everything, and demonstrating in his body that it was so. The woman was astute, and asked whether he suspected anyone; and when he named such a one, unfolding the whole matter, she said:

“ ‘If persuasion is not enough you must use some violence, to induce her to restore your health.’

“So in the even the young man watched the way by which the witch was in the habit of going, and finding her there, prayed her to restore him the health of his body. And when she maintained that she was innocent and knew nothing about it, he fell upon her and winding a towel tightly round her neck, choking her, saying,

“ ‘Unless you give me back my health, you shall die at my hands.’

“Then she, unable to cry out, and with her face already swelling and growing black, said, ‘Let me go, and I will heal you.’

“The young man then relaxed the pressure of the towel, and the witch touched him with her hand between the thighs, saying, “Now you have what you desire.’

“And the young man plainly felt that his member had been restored to him by the mere touch of the witch….

“And what then is to be thought of those witches who sometimes collect male organs in great numbers, as many as twenty or thirty members together, and put them in a bird’s nest or shut them up in a box, where they move themselves like living members, and eat oats and corn, as had been seen by many is a matter of common report? It is to be said that it all is done by the devil’s wok and illusion, for the senses of those who see them are deluded. For a certain man tells that, when he had lost his member, he approached a known witch to ask her to restore it. She told the afflicted man to climbed certain tree, and that he might select the member he liked out of a nest in which there were several members. And when he tried to take a big one, the witch said,

“ ‘You must not take that one because it belongs to a parish priest.’”

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Self Defense Corner

A further smattering of cartoons from my college days- don’t worry this is the last. Like the others it was drawn on scratch paper and inked with ballpoint pens, and obviously not meant to be taken as an attempt as a professional attempt. But everyone I’ve shown them too have gotten a laugh, perhaps a guilty one, so I am presenting them here to you now.

Enjoy and Caveat Emptor!

  For more fun try books by Rex Hurst

  For more fun try books by Rex Hurst

Unspeakably Violent Jack II - Cartoon

  The last three of my Unspeakably Violent Jack cartoons. A bit of fun for my college day and more an attempt to poke fun at friends than any serious endeavor. Others have looked at them and had a few laughs, so perhaps you’d get a kick out of them as well.

Enjoy and Caveat Emptor. 

  For more fun try books by Rex Hurst

  For more fun try books by Rex Hurst

Unspeakably Violent Jack- Cartoon

          Here’s a little cartoon from my college days, never printed anywhere and only circulated around my close circle of friends for fun. But as I was rooting around through my old stuff, I discovered it once again and decided to share the hilarity.

          The character Unspeakably Violent Jack is based on my many doodles during pre-req classes in my first few years of college, which I spun into what turned out to be a limited series. All of the other characters (except for the mailman and Santa Claus) are parodies of my friends.

          I never intended to be an artist, these are done on cheap scrap paper and inked with ball point pens. So if you want to tell me that they’re terribly drawn and amateurish, well I know and don’t care.

          Enjoy and Caveat Emptor. 

  For more fun try books by Rex Hurst

 

  For more fun try books by Rex Hurst

The Inventor of Graham Crackers Speaks Out Against Masturbation

          I’m sure most of you are more aware of Sylvester Graham’s bland creation than about the man himself. A Presbyterian Minister and the last of 17 children, he took a special interest in health and hygiene, both mental and physical. Indeed, in Graham’s mind you could not have one without the other.  As such, he was a devoted member of the temperance movement, a devout vegetarian, and pioneered the movement for consuming only whole-wheat products.  

          To him this would not only make a person physically healthy but also morally clean, as he claim the moral degradation of America in the 19^th century was due to an overabundance of meat and spicy foods. A nice bland cracker would reduce the nation’s sex drive and put it in line to his Presbyterian sentiments.

          As you may guess, if regular sex was a thing of shame, the ultimate destroyer of men was masturbation. He spoke out against it frequently and in the selection below he records a conversation he witnessed between a prison chaplain and a jerk-off addicted inmate. Graham claims it is written down verbatim, but well… you be the judge.

          “Not long since, as I was passing the cell of one of the prisoners, just at twilight, he spoke to me with a low and tremulous voice and downcast look. “I shant live long,” said he, “don’t you see how poor I am growing? My flesh is almost gone off the bones.” I observed that what he said was true. When I first knew him he had a fair and ruddy cheek; now it was pale an sunken. I suspected the cause and made inquiries accordingly. He confessed that he had become a slave to that vice [ie onanism, ie milking the mamba, ie. making St. Anthony cry], and feared it was doing him harm; but did not dare to speak to the doctor about it, and did not know that he could avoid it; “for” he said , “I seem to have no power over myself. I awake from my sleep and find myself in the act. Three times a night for weeks in succession, I have yielded to it, and frequently without being voluntary in the thing.” He evinced clearly the reciprocal influence between the brain and the genital organs.

Sylvester Graham 

          “There are several others in prison whom I know to be given up to a similar excess: and without exception, they all have that cadaverous look, bloodless lips, impaired memory, bodily weakness and pain, and those internal complaints, of which Mr. Graham speaks in his lecture.”

          The cure for masturbation? A bland diet and rigorous exercise. Then you’ll be too bored and exhausted to do anything impure.

                     For more fun try books by Rex Hurst

Homosexual Prostitution in 18th Century Paris

Honoré Gabriel Riqueti, Count of Mirabeau (1749 - 1791) even to this day is a divisive figure. Various historians have labeled him, a demagogue, a hero, a villain, a pervert, a traitor, and a patriot. No one can figure him or his actions out. Perhaps the most accurate portrayal is that he was a man who made sure he kept his head in life. After all he was a noble who survived the French revolution. For Assassin’s Creed fans, he was head of the French Assassin Brotherhood in AC: Unity. 

A decade before the French revolution he wrote Erotika Biblion (Full text of the book can be gotten free here) which is a collection of sexual anecdotes from history, in which he blends together actual research with fantastic tales. This excerpt seems to be more of a mockery of French bureaucracy than fact, but there is no doubt a ring of truth about it. 

Assassin's Creed: Unity

“The taste for homosexuality makes considerable inroads here- although it is less in vogue now than it was during the reign of Henri III when men groped each other under the very porticors of the Louvre.

“Since Paris is a masterpiece of police control, public places have been designated for this purpose.

“Young men destined for the profession are carefully classified, for the bureaucratic system extends this far. They are examined, and those who can play both an active and a passive role, who are handsome, rosy-cheeked, well-made with nice plump figures, are reserved for the high ranking noblemen; or they will be amply rewarded by bishops or financiers.

 Bust of Comte de Mirabeau

“Those who are deprived of their testicles, or to use a euphemism (since our language is more chaste than our habits) those who do not have their “weaver’s weights", but who give and receive, form the second class; they are even more expensive because women can use them while they are serving men.

“Those jaded ones who can’t get an erection although they still have their genitals, are registered as “pure passives” and compose the third class; but whoever officiates over these pleasures, must verify their impotence. To do this, they are placed completely nude on a bed with the bottom half of the covers pulled up; two girls caress them with all their skill, while a third gently whips with fresh nettles the seat of their venereal desires. After a quarter hour of this test, a long red pepper is inserted in their anus which causes considerable irritation; then a fine mustard of Caudebec is smeared on the welts caused by the nettles; and camphor is rubbed on the head of the penis. Whoever is immune to all these attempts, and shows absolutely no sign of an erection will serve as a passive partner at one-third pay only.”

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On Stumbling Around the Rose Wine Festival

Normally I’m a beer and beer nuts man, but due to some protracted whining from my girlfriend and the fact that she splurged for the tickets, I was obligated to attend the annual Rose Wine Festival in my fair city. Now as time goes on at these events, my memory naturally becomes more and more hazy until I wake up half dressed in my bed the next afternoon and burp out, “How the hell did I get home?” 

Of course, currently I have an Uber account and a girlfriend who could drink Hunter S. Thompson under the table, so the inevitable blackouts are less of a worry to me. 

The first thing I noticed was that this was a very different clientele than attends the beer fest. It seemed as if every rich college girl was there, schmoozing it up with her friends. Each wearing similar clothes, similar hair, sunglasses. They even had similar voices. That upwards “yah” inflection which is de rigueur to master before entry into a sorority. You could only tell them apart by their height.

 “You look so pretty.”

 “No, you look pretty.”

They looked the same.

On this particular weekend, there had been dire predictions of an apocalyptic downpour which threatened to toss back to the city back to the time of Noah. In fact, they had canceled my beloved Taco Festival the previous day due to these forecasts. The fact that the state has had massive flooding for the previous two years gave weight to the weather reports. Therefore, to combat the elements, all of the wine tasting vendors were placed into a very long stall and everyone else jammed in with them.

The deluge never happened, but it felt as if it could have at any moment. The air was muggy and pregnant with moisture. That heavy air which causes everyone to sweat more and with everyone jammed into the same stall the temperature quickly rose. And with it the BO.

There were a few connoisseurs there. People going through the rigamarole of smelling the wine’s nose, peering at the chromatic redness of the juice, then sampling it, only to spit it out in a nearby bucket. But they were edged out quick as the rising tide of sweating bodies must have overpowered even the most pungent wine. And as for spitting it out, well, heh heh heh, that didn’t last long and I certainly didn’t indulge in the repulsive habit of wasting alcohol. I slurped it down! Hoping the effects would soon inure me to the crush of bodies and their bad smells.

As I was adjusting myself to these new surroundings, I noticed a new fact about myself. Honestly, I can’t tell the difference between one type of red wine or another. If it was beer I’d be all over it, hoppy, smoky, pilsner, Belgian, dubble, tripple, quad, pale, milk, wheat… and all the subtle variations within those classifications. Sweet and dry was all I could make out from these liquids.

Just before the storm

Now all of this drinking, even if it comes in dribs and drabs, builds up over time into a swell of alcoholic bliss and eventual unconsciousness. So the need to stanch the flow of alcohol in the blood, or slow it down, was great. Luckily, this was included in the price of the ticket.

At a massive open roast oven, huge platters of steaming paella was plopped down for the now completely blitzed crowd. At the sight of the food, the onlookers let out a collective moan of hunger. As one, they ripped into the Spanish dish. It was a display of pure horror. Women shrieked and clawed their way ahead, ruining their nails almost beyond repair. Men battered back their children and wives to grab fist-fulls of the food, only to be garroted back themselves by the sneakier attendees who had the foresight to bring waxed coated twine and yarn to the event.

One lady, dressed in a day-glo orange, lay dazed and drunk on the manure ridden floor, propped up against a log. Her husband, kneeling down, was attempting to feed her a forkful of paiea, when a trio of college girls descended on them. Two of the girls screamed and attacked the man, battering him in the testicles and attempting to claw out his eyes. The third began to repeatedly kick the wife in her face. The food was scattered across the floor.

I myself attempted to get a nosh, my woman was squatting in the port-a-john by this time, only to be spritzed in the face with pepper spray by some old pinch-faced alcoholic female, upset that her womb was now no better than a rock for reproduction.

Now, it was my turn to scream. I ran blindly away, knocking over people young and old. If you’ve never been pepper sprayed, I cannot do justice to the amount of pain and disorientation that comes over one. It was like a box of miniature hornets had been let loose in my eyes and they were having a field day stinging. My nose and throat became clogged with mucus. It was only after I stormed a vendor’s area and emptied half a bottle of J. Brut Rose from the Russian River Valley into my eyes, that I felt relief.

By this time, things had truly gotten out of control. Vendors had abandoned their product and were zipping off in unmarked vans, with screaming people throwing empty bottles after them. A general orgy of violence erupted. Tables flipped. People attacked. Toilets violated.

My significant other, finished with her deuce, grabbed me.

 “I called an Uber. Let’s get the hell out of here before we’re all killed!”

I roared an assent, then filled my complimentary glass to the brim with a left behind bottle of pinot noir, and we ran for our lives from the event.

For more fun try books by Rex Hurst