Greg went to Italy, and decided that he was Bacchus.
Of course he might be right.
I'm not going to argue with him. Not after poor Pentheus...
It all started in early December. Greg asked for an e-mail account on the
student server (Merlin) with the handle bacchus. It is against
student server policy to give out e-mail adresses that have nothing to do
with your name, so he was rejected. NB: Don't fuck with Bacchus. Here is the
ensuing e-mail battle:
Gentlemen--
A one Gregory Raymond Joseph H. has recently asked of those of you
unfortunate enough to be toiling in the bowels of the military-industrial
complex known as "Merlin" to bestow upon him the praenomen "Bacchus".
Obviously, Sr. H. has decided that four names just isn't enough, so
he would like to lengthen his appellature with the title of his deity of
choice.
I express my hearty assent to his wish, and would also like to demonstrate
why, from now on, Sr. H. should be known as "Bacchus", and I, Prof.
W. E. "Backwater" M. Caesar, should be known as "Dionysius".
Now, for those of you so frowned upon by the gods as not to take
Classical Mythology, or who have taken Classical Mythology and not read
the entire Iliad, or those of you who are taking History of Greece with
somebody other than Rosaria Munson, let me explain a few things about
Bacchus and Dionysius. Dionysius and Bacchus are essentially the same
deity, the god of wine, celebrated in orgiastic cults, frequently cults of
women. Now, Sr. H. and I are essentially the same deity also, and
note the parallels between us and Dionysius/Bacchus:
- Dionysius/Bacchus: Could pack away a hellof a lot of wine.
G. R. J. H.: Can pack away a hell of a lot of wine.
Me: Can pack away a hell of a lot of wine (although I occasionally
leave some on a sidewalk in Florence).
- Dionysius/Bacchus: Was followed around by throngs of screaming women;
in short, a man with his mojo working.
G. R. J. H.: A man with his mojo working (cf. goth chicks in the
greater Wayne/Villanova coffeeshop/diner scene, 1993-present)
Me: Can play a mean version of "Got My Mojo Workin'"
- G. R. J. H. (appellandus Bacchus): Speaks Italian very well, which,
as we all know, is basically just Latin watered down by 2000 years of
wine. Plus, he wears a toga with style.
Me: Reads ancient Greek, am frequently under the delusion that I am
Diogenes the Cynic.
Finally, Dionysius and Bacchus are basically just the Greek and Roman
versions, respectively, of one deity.1 Note again how well our new
titles would suit us:
So, there we have it. I implore my friends at Condor to choose, but
choose wisely, lest throngs of screaming women bearing thyrsi and engaging
in orgiastic revelry bash down your door.2
Sincerely,
appelandus Dionysius W. E. "Backwater" M. Caesar
1. This is, of course, bullshit.
2. It's not as much fun as it sounds. Ask Pentheus.
Hello friends and new found followers1,
I must say Dr. M. has once again not only frightened scores of
angels but has created a level of bullshit comparable only to the
Reagan admistration.
Yet, as always, with bullshit comes truth. As a great television
series once posited "All lies lead to the truth." Yes, yes.
Thus, this: Dr. M. and myself (i.e. Bacchus) have respectfully
requested some "dope-fly-ass" handles from the Merlin adminstration.
For those of you with your foot in the virtual door, we must say you
have come up against an ultimatum. You can:
- Assist your good friends Bacchus and Dionysius in their grand
attempt to show the world what drinking truely "means" and,
ultimately, to transcend capitalism and obtain world domination.
Verily, without the pseudonyms of Gods, how could we gain
international recognition?
- Have all your mothers strut triumpantly down Magill Walk with your
bloody-ass decapitated heads.
The choice is yours. The Drunkard Doctor2 and myself have made a
humble request. We do not desire violence, as this would require an
undesirable level of sobreity. Indeed, as gods, we are too busy
"getting it on" with our various Baccants to trouble with the affairs
of the "I-got-jipped-by-Prometheus" humans. Yeah, you got fire - so
what? Remember, when ya got Venus in wine (which, by definition, we
do) ya got fire in fire. Since you have fire and we have fire in
fire, our fire is better. Remember this kindergarten truism.
So, yes, the choice is yours. You can get with this, or you can with
this. You SHOULD get with this, 'cause this is where it's at3.
Engine, engine, number. . . (okay, okay sorry)
Sincerely,
Bacchus
pres. The Amatory Ambrosia Association
1. A line from the late great Fresh Prince. You'll remember that
when will smith (in lowercase for a reason- he flaked) lived in
Philadelphia, he broke out with some fresh rhymes. This line was from
such a dope jive.
2. You may recall his debut appearance in The Beatles' "Rocky Racoon."
3. Black Sheep. That is all.
P.S. Yo mamma, yer mamma - What the fuck?
OK. Holy fucking whatthehella shit.
There are things this world, in sooth, things in this universe which
we are not made to comprehend.
One of these things may be why the hell I stayed out until six o'clock
this morning, after having got roped into singing again and again and
again, this of course including several drunken Bob Marley imitations
by yours truely. To say the least, after last night, I have only
about 2 months to live.
Faced with this sudden shock, this instant awareness of my mortality,
you can imagine the emotional trama I underwent being subjected to
biblical quotations and the chrises's's' (I never really understood
this grammatical rule) somewhatthefuckingshitthing.
So, to make a long story short, I died.
While I was dead, I wasn't yet really fucking dead. As I quickly
realized, being kinda dead isn't that bad of a thing. But, it is very
misunderstood by ancient and modern day theology and literature. So,
I'll give you the long and short of it.
So, there I was, in the underworld, without a cent with which to enter
heaven. You'd think: "You gotta pay to enter heaven?"
Fucking-A. Where do you think the Vatican came from? St. Peter giving
out blow jobs to the rest of the apostles?
(Actually, Pete is still bitter about this, and being the dude at the
gate, he wants full price with no bullshit.)
But, I figured, all was good. Who needs clothes in heaven, right? I
figured I could sell my fat wears and walk into heaven with a little
dough left over for the slot machines.
This idea, however, soon became a nonreality. Because, even though
there are places to sell clothes outside of heaven, I was the only
person in the underworld wearing French cologne, and so I got my ass
kicked and my clothes stolen, right outside the gates of heaven. By a
flock of pissed off carrier pidgeons, at that.
So, there I was, bare ass naked in the underworld. I thought, "God,
does this suck." But, being the snobby son of a bitch he is, he didn't
answer.
This really enraged me. So, after a brief swim in Lethe, and having
mostly forgot all about it, I went out looking for money to enter
heaven.
To my surprise, this turned out to be easier than I thought it would
be. Get this: I'm strolling along, right, and I see this guy pushing
this massive fucking boulder up a hill. Almost at the top, this dude
slips, the boulder ROLLS OVER HIM, and he tumbles down after it.
Being the kind hearted soul I am, I decided to ask him what in the
fuck he was doing. He tells me, that every time he almost gets this
huge rock over the top of this incline, he slips, gets run over, and
falls down the incline.
Being a bit angry already, I looked this guy square in the eyes and
said, "What kind of an asshole are you?"
But, he didn't quite get me. I said, "Stop trying to roll this
massive boulder up the hill, dude." Suddenly, it was like a huge
weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He flipped the boulder the
finger, payed me for my psycological consultation, and set off.
Without futher hesitation, I entered heaven.
So, yeah, you know, it was cool. People reunited with their families,
wrongs made right, free parking - that sort of shit. I didn't get a
chance to play the slot machines, though. I had plenty of extra money
from the boulder guy, but having asked Pete at the gate if he could
fit his whole basillica in his mouth, he charged me extra. No sense
of humour, this guy; stubborn as a rock.
Anyway, after a while in heaven, I became aware of a certain sensation
- I really wanted a cigarette. So, I walked around looking for a cig
machine, until finally it dawns on me - Even heaven was effected by
the new California smoking laws.
Fuck.
So, I knew I had to leave. Actually, I heard there were some cigs in
hell, but they fuck with you there, you know. They do shit like give
you a pack but with a lighter than won't work - I thought, that shit's
for the birds.
And speaking of birds, I was planning to find those fucking pigeons.
Anyway, I finally found the emergency exit, disabled the alarm, and
upon opening the door I found myself warped back in front of this
computer, with no time having had passed.
And, my friends, aside from wanting to share this tale of wonder and
awe with you, there is another point to be made.
I have been to the underworld.
I have gotten mugged by carrier pigeons.
I have busted on St. Peter, I have seen heaven,
and have returned to inhale carcinogenic material into my lungs.
And thus:
I think I have earned my fucking handle.
Sincerely,
gregory hansell, a.k.a BACCHUS