The Stone Goddess

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Not every second-hand bookshop has its ‘gods and goddesses’ section located in a dungeon with live, 24/7, Sub-Dom/S&M entertainment. And, not every second-hand bookshop requires you to strip to your underwear to enter one of its sections through a concealed door disguised as a bookshelf.

Factotum Rarities & Antiquities intrigued me from the moment I first read about its extensive collection of rare ‘gods and goddesses’ books in Hustler.

A man in a Calcutta bar once showed me a picture of the Stone Goddess. He told me that from the moment he first laid eyes upon her, he knew he could never love another woman in the way that he loved her.

His story intrigued me. The fact that his shirt kept catching on fire due to the heat in his chest made me believe his story. And there was no denying the beauty of the Stone Goddess from her picture.

At the time, however, I was searching for the geographical location of Eden in the Bay of Bengal, and could not afford the time to investigate further.

Plus, the man eventually burst into flames and disintegrated right before my face. And, I had to pay for the drink he offered to buy me, plus his, because his wallet combusted.

But the image of the Stone Goddess’s beauty stayed with me (it was seared into my memory), and I promised myself that if I ever did discover where the preternatural garden of paradise was, my next project would be to seek out this Stone Goddess.

Having discovered Adam and Eve’s Bones, God’s footprints, The Tree of Life (of the knowledge of Good & Evil) with its singed leaves, the flaming sword, Cherubim wing-feathers, the famous fig tree, Eve’s virginity, and other associated artefacts, (And having a damn good feed of apples), I was not only the world’s most famous archaeologist with more knowledge of good and evil than anyone on the planet, I also had wealth beyond my wildest dreams. (A special thanks must go to 60 Minutes for devoting their entire year’s programming schedule to me, and to Time Magazine for doing likewise with not just their covers but the contents). Being the philanthropist that I am, I did loan Bill Gates a bit of money, and wonder if he will ever pay it back.

As soon as the media frenzy died down (which took about two years; but there is still a yearly memorial*), I resolved to keep my promise to myself, to seek out the Stone Goddess.

So, there I was sitting in my underpants in Factotum’s dungeon with a raging fat, tying to read about the Stone Goddess while some Dominatrix was whipping this metrosexual pansy to blood through his Armani suit while he was screaming out, ‘My mobile phone is ringing. Can’t you hear the cool ring-tone? Let me answer it. Do you know how important I am?’ And she was saying, ‘You faggots make me sick. You’re not men. You’re not even boys. Now shut up you sooky-la-la.’ CRACK! K-CHSSSSSSSH! CRACK!

How I was supposed to concentrate on reading while this was going on, I’ll never know. Especially when I wished I was the Dom. Bloody Nancy boys.

Fortunately the book I was reading, ‘The Stone Goddess,’ soon made me forget everything that was going on around me (but not what was going on in my underpants, for it had pictures).

I soon realised why these rare books were in a dungeon, and why I had to wear my underpants. It was not a security issue after all (as I had initially suspected), it was so I could whack off to my heart’s delight.

I must have masturbated over every picture in that book at least ten times. I was there for days.

I was whacked in more ways than ten, as I began to read the text, ‘The Stone Goddess’.

And what I discovered was simply Amazing …

Briefly (well, I’ll try) … the story of the Stone Goddess is this:

High in the Punjab mountain regions near the border of India and Pakistan, in the ‘land of five rivers’, there still exists to this day, an ancient tribe / civilization called the Amag.

Until I visited the Amag myself, only one white man (outsider) had ever entered the Amag’s territory, and he combusted before he could pay for my drink. *

The Amag have always been, and still are a tribe of fearless warriors (both the men and the women). All have royal blood lines dating back 5000 years.

The Amag all possess heroic spirits. Fear is not in their vocabulary (and not just because it is an English word, either, okay? The word ‘fear’ cannot be translated into Amag because they have no word like that. They are fearless and fear-free. They neither know the word, nor want to know anything about such a word existing). More about the Amag language later.

The Amag are an advanced tribe, not a backward one, even linguistically speaking (well how else can you speak? Braille?). The Amag speak a simple language full of depth, clarity, meaning and subtext. To hear the voice of an Amag? A Christian would swear it was either the voice of an Angel of the voice of God Almighty Himself.

The manner in which Amag’s speak? There escort gaziantep bayan reklamları is so much variety to the tones and inflections, David Attenborough’s wife would think she was in an aviary listening to David mimic 1000 different bird calls all at the same time, and probably die of bliss (if she was still alive that is).*

The Amag are a tribe of kings and queens and princes and princesses. There are no classes. They are all equal. All uniquely equal, if that makes sense. It does to me so bad luck if it doesn’t to you? … *

The Amag carry themselves with an air of dignity, gravity, nobility and grace. To see an Amag move? It is as if the most divine music and the most divine poetry imaginable had blended into one and assumed tangible human form. If you could touch music, and cradle it (and even make love to it)? … If you could insert your favourite words or music into you physically (females) or insert yourself into your favourite music or words (male) … This would be called Amag. And, in fact it is, but only in Amag. Not in English. The OED is yet to insert Amag under A. Ignorant pricks! *

Yet for all of their dignity and grace? The Amag possess the most exquisite sense of humour, and appreciation of wit. And not just an appreciation of wit. They indulge in, and engage in, and exchange witticisms like modern Westerner TV Zombies channel surf from Foxtel to Free-To-Air.

You will never see an Amag downcast or with a sour expression on their face. Dignified yes. But morose? Never. It’s one more word that is not in the Amag vocabulary. There is often a smile on their lips, laughter in their bellies, mirth on their minds, and fire in their hearts (always). The Amag? Passionate. The Amag does not know how to live non-passionately. That is a modern Western disease or moral disorder, okay? The Amag lives with such an intensity from moment-to-moment, each successive moment of their existence, that they live the equivalent of the typical modern Westerner’s three-score-and-ten years in one week. Modern Westerners? They do not live life at all. They exist and take up space that could be utilised more effectively. Global Warming? It is all the hot air that Modern Westerners eject into the atmosphere when they talk the rubbish and bullshit and piffle and dribble and banality and inanity that they go on with day in and day out of their meaningless and purposeless and rudderless existences. Again. Modern Westerners do not live. They exist. Passion? The word? It is in the Modern Westerner’s dictionaries but should be struck out. *

The Amag are essentially a child-like tribe of true adults. Their aspect is more akin to the innocence of (innocent) children, unless of course they are fucking and then their appearance is simply orgasmic. To see an Amag orgasm? It makes a grown man with no premature ejaculation problems (no interest in Penis-Enlargement SPAM and no interest in Viagra) blow in his pants (if he’s wearing any, that is).

An Amag? At first sight? One may be led to use the word haughty to describe the expression on an Amag’s face, yet this is not the case at all. It is more their own contentment with and knowledge of their own intellectual and bodily superiority. It is simply a Divine expression. Simply Divine. Or to put it even more simply? Divine. The most simple way to write simply divine? Divine. Get rid of the adverbial prefix simply, for that only complicates what is essentially a very simple process? … Modern Westerners? Consumeristic Fuckwits. Simply? Fuckwits. No need to add consumeristic? Why? It’s not a word. * Modern Westerners? They complicate everything that is simple and do their utmost to destroy simplicity itself. Itself? After simplicity? Superfluous. Simplicity. It’s like people who say, I myself, me, personally think. (They’re lying. They don’t think at all. If they did. They would just state what it is they think, not qualify it, with four different pronounical (another non-word, okay?) versions of ego, just to mention themselves and hear the sound of their own pronounical name a bit more in life, okay?) …

The beauty of an Amag far surpasses all the natural beauty and wonder of the natural world, even if you could capture it all and bottle the lot of it in one go. (colloquial, conversational tone employed there for a bit, okay?).

Each Amag, is a universe of incomparable delights both exteriorly and interiorly. The exterior of Amags is but an exterior expression of the beauty of their interiors.

The Amag are a deeply spiritual tribe whose focus is love of the divine kind, of the gods and goddesses kind; a love which embraces all of mankind (although they do have their moments when dealing with fuckwits* They love them, but don’t particularly like them).*

According to oral tradition, it was members of the Amag tribe who were instrumental in driving Alexander (the not so Great as he thought he was?) from the escort gaziantep resimleri region when he attempted to invade it in 326BC. But the Amag are a humble tribe. Arrogantly humble. (Again, this is a question of their superiority). The Amag have never taken any credit for their part in this victory. They prefer to live in privacy, and keep themselves to themselves and to the earth. Nothing like a bit of mud sex during monsoonal season, hey? … *

Apart from spending the majority of their time fucking like rabbits, or dogs on heat, or a bull during mating season, or a horny Lion humping a lioness? (Think Foxtel Animal Channel or whatever it’s called. Is it National Geographic Channel?). Amags till and work the earth, growing grains mainly (but also fruit and vegetables, and cotton).

This region is known as ‘The Granary of India’ and ‘The Bread Basket of India’. And the Amag? They’re a bun-in-the-oven type of tribe. Sex? Love-Making? It is high on the agenda. And the Amag are into prioritising in life. Love first. Everything else? From Second to Infinity (plus 1), add some, times it by 2, square it, then add a bit more, okay?) …

Love making is so highly-esteemed and participated in so often by the Amags, that eating food often goes by the wayside, but they never neglect their earthy tillage duties due to their fleshy tillage obligations.

What do they wear? They are dressed in the natural cloths of the area; their own skin and pubic hair and head hair and arm hair and inner thigh hair (okay, so I’ve made my point. Oops missed bum-fluff). *

The Amag do, on occasion, however like to dress up. Their annual Orgasmic Love Festival is a sight to behold. They are arrayed in the most exquisite costumes imaginable … fashioned all from natural material like birds’ feathers … and animal skins and foliage and leaves and petals, Petal … No Designer Brand makeup that requires makeup remover here. It all just comes off during the ritualistic orgasmic final ceremony …

Amag women are more sumptuous, more scrumptious, and more exquisitely beautiful than any of those skeletal models in any of the world’s pathetic fashion parades. The Amag women actually have flesh on their bones. They do not look like human wire coathangers. There is no anorexia or bulimia in Amag. The women are curvy, fleshy, breasty, stomachy, arsy, pubic, yet still extremely delicately feminine women, and the men are men. Virile. Manly. Penisy, cheeky, chesty, biceppy, etc. Men. Women. Men. Man. Woman. Amag.

The actual language of Amag? It is so simple it only contains one word: Amag. Yet that one word encompasses every other word. Pure and utter simplicity with depth. Elegant simplicity and simplistic elegancy. Simple. Amag again. It is as if, you were to utter the word Amag to an Amag? You would say everything that had ever been uttered and ever will be uttered, and yet it would be fully comprehended in the context it was meant. (As opposed to the word Rhubarb, or calling everyone Bruce). *

Amags? They speak in body language mainly. Erotic, sensual, sexual body language. They often dispense with the word Amag altogether and express themselves with little more than primordial moans and sigh and groans. Passionately.

Bland? Mediocre? The words? Again. Not Amag words. Western words. Amag = Love. Amag = Passion. Amag = everything.

And the Amag are hunters. Yes, they hunt. Yes, they kill animals, and eat meat. Without scruple. They are not pretentious, fucked-in-the-head modern Westernised Vegans who make MacDonalds put salad sandwiches on the menu to satisfy their minority voice, or cause Subways (the place would-be-corporates and business class wankers eat when they can’t afford to fly?) to spring up all over the place.

The Amag are a self-sufficient tribe (and not in the way wanky, modern, Americanised Westerners understand self-sufficiency either. To the Amag, self-sufficiency does not mean if they sell their soul to consumerism, and fucked-up Dale-Carnegie/Henry Ford type, erroneous, modern, American wank philosophies, then use such principles as their dominant philosophy in life to make shitloads of money, and become financially independent, so they can then tell everyone including their family, relations and friends to fuck off because they no longer need them, okay? And spend the rest of their lives as corporate slaves who need to watch Foxtel to unwind from a hard day typing or wearing scratchy stockings or a new suit *).

The Amag are a tribe who value family almost as much as love and life itself. They would never abandon their parents nor grandparents to live in some tree-hut style, aged-care facility in the next forest, so that they were out of sight and out of mind, and they could indulge their selfishness and self-absorption with their own talentless existences. Amags care for every member of their extended family until their dying day. It is a question of justice, escort gaziantep bayan sitesi comprehension, understanding and love. Four of the many things modern Westerners neither comprehend nor understand about life.

Amags unwind by indulging in sexual acts that many Westerners consider either perverse, sexually sicko, or taboo. I may go into these later, but suffice to say, nothing is taboo when it comes to sexuality and sensuality. As I stated earlier, this is god and goddess love, not mortal love with peripheries and boundaries and taboos and no-no’s. Why do westerner’s call dog man’s best friend, then marry a woman? [Just threw that in as a bit of a wobbly, okay?] … Just came to me then.

Some of Amag women can’t cook. * This is not a deficiency. It is to do with how attractive they are sexually. Amag men get so turned on by Amag women, they cook the meals rapidly so they can get more fucking time in, basically. *

Since antiquity, the Amag have always worshipped and adored the Stone Goddess.

The beauty and value of rare books?

They contain maps.

The rare, antiquated copy of ‘The Stone Goddess’?

X marks the spot, basically.

After reading the text, and not whacking off for quite a long period of time (It must have been minutes. Sorry, forgot to tell you I’m a speed-reader), I reached the last page.

And there it was.

Inside the back cover:

A fold-out map of where the Amag were situated geographically (not that they could be situated any other way than geographically, though. It’s not like a tribe is situated hermetically or aromatically. Or are they?).

It was a map from the last Millennium … So, that makes it at least 8 years old? * It was a centuries-old map, okay?

And, Punjab has been divided up since then, but as an archaeologist, and purveyor of all things cartographic (make that a connoisseur), I knew exactly where the Amag were located.

I was looking forward to getting there, and had already decided to go via Tibet. Why? I hadn’t climbed Mt Everest in my thongs, stubbies and singlet for a while? And wanted an afternoon off?

So all that remained was to get there … As I couldn’t take the book with me, I stayed for a few extra days just whacking off over the pictures of the Stone Goddess again.

I was eventually asked to leave because the Dominatrix couldn’t concentrate on her job. She was getting off on me whacking off too much. (I’m not describing how I do it because too many female readers will stop reading). *

The Dominatrix killed the Nancy ponce she was torturing, by sticking a spiked, stiletto-heel through his forehead. She then removed his brains by yanking his penis off. *

While I was masturbating, she was watching me, using her whip to masturbate, and shoving it so far up herself, she was speaking in leather-tasselled tongues. Demonic. Possessed. Oobeldy-goobedly type of language. As I wrote; demonic. One sick bitch, that woman. If it wasn’t for the Stone Goddess, I might have done her a favour, and slipped her a length. *

Oh, before I get onto details of my journey to Amag, here is the history of the Stone Goddess. Or, the true myth of the Stone Goddess:

In the Amag religion, the entire universe was once just a huge body of water for the goddess Mermaid to swim in. For there is only one real god in Amag, and she is the goddess Mermaid.

The goddess Mermaid is nothing but pure love. And so, this body of water was nothing more than a sea of love which wrapped itself around her and encompassed her, encircled her, cocooned her in love, wherever she swam.

The Goddess Mermaid had decided in her own mind to create a planet and populate it with humans so they could feel some of her love; experience what love is. Eventually, she did, and that is how we came to exist.

But long before doing this, she created a Merman; a being who was an inverted mirror image of herself (as in, he had a penis to slot into her wee-wee *), so that she could share her love with one creature alone, first.

And so, for millions of years, the Goddess Mermaid and the god Merman made love in the primordial waters. And the primal sounds of their moans and groans were not sound frequencies as we know them today; they were liquid love-ripples. Savage and Raw. And, at times? This body of water would burn with such an intense heat, it would make diving into an erupting volcano’s spitting, spewing, molten lava seem like a refreshing, invigorating bath beneath a Niagara waterfall. And the sound of the molten love ripples? Hot. And it was from this furious and ferocious love-making that we have the sun. When it rains? Work it out. *

Due, however, to the depth and ferocity of her love, the goddess Mermaid eventually ate the Merman. For she is capable of consuming anything or anyone with her love. Why did she eat the Merman? For his own good. For he was dying of excessive love, anyway. He couldn’t handle it. And, she purposely made him like this, for she had other designs for herself, which will become apparent later in this story or tale (tail).

Eventually, the Goddess Mermaid created the world, and made it a beautiful place, and populated it with beautiful people. And put a bit of land on it. Okay, a lot of land. Butterflies? Work it out. Animals? Same. Seafood, like Oysters, mussels and hairy-clams? … *

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