Masonic Musings


"But if any of you could put in a word for me I'd love to be a mason. Masonry opens doors. I'd be very quiet, I was a bit on edge just now but if I were a mason I'd sit at the back and not get in anyone's way....I've got a second-hand apron...I nearly got in at Hendon."-John Cleese, "The Architect's Sketch"


Ok, Boys and Girls,

The Toad is back at it. We begin with a little test--no, it's not the one you get from a fake seminary. This one is for free. Today’s quiz relates to Who’s Satanic Now? Our first question comes from Mrs. H. Bristols in Cheapstowe who asks, “Who’s that devilishly hairy fellow running the Church?” Well, Mrs. B., surprise, it’s old Nick himself! (And we don’t mean Jolly Old Saint, either.) It is the hirsute one-Mr. Eyebrows himself. (That's right, bunky, go to a real school and you'll learn words like "hirsute". Rawk.*)

Now it seems like Rowan the Druid, Rowan the Moslem, Rowan the Anything-Goes-But-Christianity, doesn’t like Freemasons. Doesn't want the clergy to learn the secret handshake either. By the side of the average CofE parish these days, Freemasons seem quite innocent. Next thing you know, he'll be telling us that the world is run by a gang comprised of the Illuminati, the Trilateral Commission and the Skull and Bones Society. Ok, the last part is true, but not the Freemasons. They couldn't organize a get-drunk in a brewery.

Oh, yeah, sure they can do those intricate patterns in the little go-carts with 300 pound fez-sporting hefties zooming about, frightening the children. And it is rumored that they can put on a dandy evening of intricate "ceremony" that usually has someone in an apron insulting another similarly clad about how, "this wasn't done in the old days when people knew their ritual." Shades of the Tridentine Mass crowd or at least a fruiting-good, high-church Anglican whoop-de-do with pink gin in the sacristy after. But, Satanic? The bearded clown of Canterbury ought to leave the low-rent, amateur gnostics like the poor Freemasons alone.

The Toad thinks its just too easy. You don't have to be a certain vitriolic, Kiwi, semi-baptist with a spurious D.D. degree to play "spot the demon" with old Rowan. No sireee. This would be the same Archbishop of Canterbury who caused just a wee bit of controversy by praising the Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials - a work that is anti-Christian, at best. A mere bagatelle. This would be the guy who paints himself blue for a little innocent pagan ritual. Oh, yes, he's also the fellow who heads the purportedly Christian denomination with transgendered priestesses. (The Toad notes here that he once owned a '68 Pontiac Lesbitrangay--couldn't keep it going in any one direction.) This would also be the same Rowan Williams who frets over how to accommodate his alleged church to Moslems. When faced with all of this, a spokesman for the Church of England quickly replied, "As far as we are concerned, there is no incompatibility between Christianity and our organisation whatsoever."


But, as the Toad sips his "Masonic Cocktail", he supposes that there must be some responsible thinking on the subject of Masons outside of a Chick Tract or Tony Alamo website. Well, Toads and Toadettes, the predecessor to the Orthodox Church in America has had bad news for the "Craft" since the '50s. It cautions members, especially the pastors, of the incompatibility of membership in the saving Church of Christ and simultaneously membership in Masonic Lodges, which are a mixture of pagan and other religions with certain secret "initiations" as a fixed ritual of the order...." Ooops, that would be "pagan" with a capital "p" that rhymes with "d" and that stands for "damned". And this would differ from "mainstream" Anglicanism how?

but wait, there's more. Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger, then Prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, issued a declaration that the judgment of the Church on Masonry remains unchanged, because the Masonic principles are irreconcilable with the Church's teaching ("earum principia semper iconcilabilia habita sunt cum Ecclesiae doctrina"), and that Catholics who join the Masons are in the state of grave sin and may not receive Holy Communion. Yeow! Stick a fork in you 'cause you are sacramentally done, Mason-boy.



There you have it--two out of three, with the Grand Bard of the Mystic Grove counting as an actual vote in favor of remaining in the "Brotherhood". Better give up that Masonic ring or get a pop up thermometer to tell when you're done. At least it's not Uncle Rowan telling you to lay off the secret handshake. Rawk, rawk, rawk!*

As for the Toad, he refrains from any club that would have him as a member, although he is partial to the fez as headwear. So, the Toad plans to start his own "Morgan Affair." (Look it up, pally!) How about this for a ritual that leaves you a mindless...well...Zombie...

- 1 oz Light Rum

- 1 oz Anejo Rum

- 1/4 oz 151 Proof Rum

- 1/2 oz Apricot Brandy

- 1 oz Pineapple Juice

- 1 oz Lime Juice

- 2 oz Orange Juice

- 1 cup Crushed Ice

- 1 tsp Superfine Sugar

- Garnish: cherry, orange slice, mint sprig

All served up in a Cocktail Glass, fez boy. It will put you Plumb straight. And that's on the Square. Raaaawwwwwk!*

Yr. Obed. Serv.,



Right Worshipful Bro. Roy Aldous "Albert Pike" Toad, DD-VS (Very Specious), LSMFT, D.Phil. (Carolina Coast University); B.A. (summa cum laude)(Southern States University)
Mystic Lodge of the Sea, No. 1313
*The Sound of One Toad Barking

FRIENDLESS



“FRIENDLESS, adj. Having no favors to bestow. Destitute of fortune. Addicted to utterance of truth and common sense.”-Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary

Hello, Boys and Girls,

It's been awhile. I've been away, and the where, what, and why are none of your business. Capisce? Who do you think you are, anyway? Mike Wallace? Well, the Toad's got your sixty minutes...I got it right here, pally.

Needless to say, we've been rusticating someplace warm, lamenting the fact that satire brings us no friends at all. Only the little guy in the white monkey jacket by the pool who keeps bringing those drinks with the little umbrellas in them. Well, the Toad was happily sucking down Caipirinhas and other tropical cocktails made with un-aged cachaça (for you untutored grads of mail-order academe, that's fresh sugarcane juice that's fermented and distilled), when my agent called and reminded me that if I didn't satirize something soon, I'd lose the extensive royalties I get from this column. That and the only addiction stronger than cachaça--utterance of truth and common sense--brought me back to the upper southern midwest faster than fake clergyman to an offering plate.

Egads, toads and toadettes, in my absence fake seminaries have grown like mushrooms, there are at least 40 or 50 new "catholic" denominations, not to mention an assortment of other wing nuts, and the "mainstream" has not diasppointed. Nosiree! Just look here.

The Church of England will tomorrow officially apologize to Charles Darwin for "misunderstanding" his theory of evolution. In what has been called a "bizarre step" (and aren't t hey all of late), the good ol' CofE will address its contrition directly to the Victorian scientist himself, even though he died 126 years ago. The move was greeted with derision last night, even before the Toad could put electronic ink on the page. Darwin’s great-great-grandson dismissed it as "pointless" and other critics branding it "ludicrous". Rawk, rawk, rawk!* What an understatement, boys and girls.

But, wait, there's more. Terry Sanderson, president of the National Secular Association,-that's the National Secular Association-said: ‘It does seem rather crazy for an institution to address an apology to an individual so long after his death. ‘As well as being much too late, the message strikes me as insincere, as if there is an unspoken “but” behind the text.

Yes, boys and girls, there is an unspoken "butt" behind the text--the bespectacled, bearded pagan who is the trainmaster at Crazytown Station--Rowan "Mr. Muddle" Williams. It's all about being nice, though, isn't it? Just like the imposition of Sharia Law is "inevitable" in Britain. That's going to cut into the Toad's travel plans.

Of course, "a less critical tone was struck by Horace Barlow, 87, from Cambridge, who is Darwin’s great-grandson." Grand old Horace thought it would be spiffing for his ancestor "to hear the Church’s apology." (Let's be clear, here--the "Church" being the CofE, not to be confused with a Christian denomination.) "They buried him in Westminster Abbey," said Mr. Barlow, "which I suppose was an apology of sorts." Here's the clincher from Monkey boy's progeny: "‘Darwin was very concerned about offending other people as his wife Emma was a committed Christian..." As to Darwin's commitments, Horace-baby doesn't say. bunky.

It's this kind of narcissistic crapola that has revived, enlivened, and even emboldened the Toad. That and the drink pronounced 'KIE-PUR-REEN-YAH', popular among international crowds as on Copacabana Beach. Traditional caipirinha (and, by heaven, the Toad is "traditional") is made with cachaça, sugar, and crushed limes, served over ice. It is always muddled (not like Uncle Rowan, but crushed with a masher or the blunt end of a wooden spoon). Boys and girls, make sure to muddle in a shaker or a sturdy, non-breakable glass. You can also try replacing lime with about 1/2 cup of fresh tangerine, star fruit, passion fruit, peach, pear, pineapple, plum, orange, mango, grape, guava, figs, etc.Caipirissima is a cocktail like caipirinha, mixed with rum instead of cachaça. If mixed with sake instead of cachaça, the drink is called caipisake--although, haven't we had entirely too much of that sort of thing. I think a number of Caipisake C-100s sank the USS Lexington--or at least it provides the Toad's new ground transportation. Check it out and don't get in the way.



So, there we are. Friendless. Truthtelling and common sense-advocating. But, you know, I gotta' bike and a pitcher of Caipirinhas (pronounced "KIE-PUR-REEN-YAHS"). And you don't.

As for the the Toad? Well, he's as hot among international crowds as he is on Copacabana Beach.

So we're back. Pokin', jabbin', low blow hittin' and always, always takin' time out to savage a fraud, fake, poseur, mail-order clergyman, the "school" that trained him and the "bishop" that ordained him. We also aren't beneath taking a shot or three at the silliness of the "mainstream" church. So, be advised, be warned and be very afraid. The Toad is back, and he is satirized for your protection.

Yr. Obed. Serv.,

Roy Aldous "Capisake" Toad,
DD-VS (Very Specious), LSMFT, D.Phil. (Carolina Coast University); B.A. (summa cum laude)(Southern States University)
Guest Degree: DD Laud Hall (C'mon--you can't prove it's not real!)
*The Sound of One Toad Barking

But Where Are the Pancakes?
"We're playing to our authenticity ... We're building from the ground up, and we're transmitting to the world something that nobody else can recreate."
-Anyonymous, About Zydeco at the Grammys

Good morning, Toads and Toadettes,

Your truly, Dr. Roy Aldous Toad, has been taking a little time off of late. However, some things just really goad the Toad, and even winter hibernation (ok, snocking a few on the poop deck of the S.S. Toad in sunnier climes) can't keep him from jacking up a fraud. In this case, it is a fraudulent "Zydeco Mass" perpetrated by...you guessed it...the Episcopal Church.

Here's how they did it at St. Paul's Cathedral in San Diego: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aGLpmSZBemY

Just a little rum and sacrilege for Shrove Tuesday. The knave...oops...nave altar is the least of their worries. Puts a new spin on the giving of the peace, eh, bunky? Rawk, rawk, rawk!


Yr. Obed. Serv.,


Roy Aldous "Zydeco" Toad, DD-VS (Very Specious), LSMFT, D.Phil. (Carolina Coast University); B.A. (summa cum laude)(Southern States University)
*The Sound of One Toad Barking

Make a Deal with the Devil

“The Blues IS Life.”
-Brownie Mc Ghee

Happy New Year, Toads and Toadettes,

Out in the frozen upper southern Midwest, the toad pond is…well…frozen. What did you expect, bunky? Central heat in a pond? Heated “water features” are only available to seminary patrons in California. The rest of us have to make do with Velicoff® vodka (available in stylish 1.5 liter jugs) and episodes of “Real Desperate Housewives” to stay warm. No trickle down at this level of the ecclesiastical food chain, boys and girls. The cheery warming glow of the Grey Goose effect is confined to the Olympian reaches of the church where the mystique of the episcopacy remains very well-preserved. Rawk, rawk, rawk!*

So at the outset of a bright new year, the Toad is lounging about in his smoking jacket, a chilled glass of Velicoff® with a twist of lemming in hand, pondering the target list for the year upcoming, and we have to say that the field is a rich one indeed. Fraudsters, fakers, fools and outright felons are in abundance, and the ordinary buffoonery of presumptuous prelates already has the Hubrisometer (pat. pending) redlined.

But, it’s still Christmas, and what passes for charity in the Toad has not yet subsided, so the flame still is burning on low, largely fueled by Velicoff®. (How do they make a profit on this stuff $7.99 a gallon?) And, the Toad, himself, is not unaffected by the downward emotions that follow on the holidays. After a vigorous New Years round of Bite the Head Off the Bishop (a little divertissement we’ll address in another column), and a little more Velicoff® brand vodka, the Toad got out his blues collection and cranked up the Victrola for the annual end-of-year depression fest.

Following 24-hours of high-volume blues-musing and several visits from the local constabulary and an amphibious film crew from COPS, the Toad began to write a script for the ultimate blues movie. That is until he found out there already is one. The Crossroads…a proposed animated blues film based on the legend that Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil to become a great blues musician. The struggle of the movie revolves around the lucky mojo above and the soul of a man. Lucky mojo! Wow, that’s even better than Velicoff® in the economical demi-tanker size!

Here’s the plot, boys and girls. Two up and coming blues bands meet at the International Blues Challenge in Memphis (which is sort of near St. Louis) to compete for the best blues band award. It turns out the bands know, and can't stand, one another. They performed a few times at blues festivals and got into fights, and by chance they both wind up at the Memphis contest and decide to settle the score.

Before you know it, the bands are spying on each other and eavesdropping on conversations…and then they both overhear something that sets their souls on fire... two old bluesmen get into a hell of an argument whether or not Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil... they're both stone drunk and start yelling at each other, “Did So! - Did Not! - Did So! - Did Not!...”
The Toad was devastated. A great plot, the blues, fighting among the bands playing the same music, the devil all wrapped up in an animated format. And the Toad thought he was the only cartoon character hereabout! Rawk, rawk, rawk!*

Lubricated with ample quantities of Velicoff® (Toads tend to dry out at this time of year) and after a hearty meal of Cheeze Whiz® and Saltines® (you were expecting flies?), the Toad sat down to pen his own version of the best blues movie ever done, replete with cartoon characters, or, at least vagante clergy and purported seminary deans.

Here’s the new plot, boys and girls. Our scene opens in St. Louis, a bastion of the blues and home of W.C. Handy, Louis Armstrong, Bessie Smith…well, you get the picture.
A whole bunch of Episcopalians be suffering from the Dipping Women Torn Up Ol’ Prayerbook Blues. They are bluer than blue, ‘cept maybe the hair on a bunch of them. There on the banks of the Big River, weighed down with woe, they start the Original, Original Province St. Louis Blues Band Contest. It’s dedicated to playing the old tunes, the real tunes, the familiar tunes, and there’s only supposed to be one band.

But, that ain’t the way of the blues, and it sho’ ‘nuff ain’t the way of the St. Louis Blues. Sorry, the Toad slipped into Blues vernacular. Like Blues authority, DJ Kool Karl says, “You don't have to write Blues songs in Ebonics, but it helps.” It must have been the Velicoff® talking—that and the Blues.

So, here we, go. We done got a big crowd full of the little "b" blues out on old St. Louis (they'd never use a big "B"), and they want one band to fire up playing their favorite tunes, and they set up a bunch of band leaders: James, Dale and Robert. What kind of blues names are those? Blues names for men are Joe, Willie, Joe-Willie, Little Willie, Big Willie, Blind Willie, Blind Joe, Muddy, and Leroy. James, Dale and Robert can’t sing the Blues no matter how many men they shoot in Memphis.

I mean if you want to sing the blues you need a good Blues singer’s name. First take the name of a physical infirmity (Blind, Cripple, Lame) Then add the name of a fruit (not that kind of fruit real fruit-Lemon, Melon, Cherry). Then tack on the last name of a President (Johnson, Jefferson, and the like). You can even use an ecclesiastical title, preferably Deacon or Bishop (see, e.g. Elvin Bishop). Blind Deacon Washington, or Leroy “Little Bishop” Jefferson are kickin’ blues names. You can gather ‘round names like that.

Then there were audience problems. While St. Louis has always been one of the best Blues cities in the world, these were just not people with a right to sing the Blues. “Who, Toad,” you may ask, “does have the right to sing the Blues?”

According to DJ Kool Karl, soon to be named an archdeacon and dean of the East St. Louis Catholic Orthodox Anglican Seminary and Embalming School (Original Province) says, you can sing the blues if: You older than dirt, You blind, You "shot a man in Memphis", You "can't get no satisfaction", You a "Back Door Man", You named your guitar after your ex-wife who left you for your best friend. (Ok, many in the audience fit the bill.) But you can’t if, You have all your teeth, You "once was blind but now can see", The man in Memphis lived, You have a 401K or trust fund, or you “amicably left your wife for another man having discovered your true sexuality”. Heck, you can’t sing the blues if you left anyone and a razor was not involved.

Even worse, there were few Blues-appropriate beverages like Ripple, Rye Whiskey or Bourbon, Muddy Water, nasty black coffee, Old Style beer or Velicoff® vodka in the 1.5 liter size. You ain’t gonna’ make it drinking Perrier, chardonnay, Grey Goose Vodka, “The Glenlivet” or anything with “glen” in it, Bombay gin, or any kind of imported beer.

They even had the wrong transportation. Blues transportation is a Greyhound bus or a southbound train. Blues cars are Chevys, Fords, Cadillacs and broken down pickup trucks. Jet aircraft and company cars ain't even in the running. Blues don't travel in BMW’s, Mercedes or Sport Utility Vehicles. This was not looking good.

But, maybe it was the place that overcame the Blues odds. Pretty soon the one band was three or four, and then twenty, and then…well…there’s a new one in every garage. And the big three or four bands, well they began to talk about just who had made that deal with the devil, and who might be a “backdoor man”. Yeah, they make it to a few blues festivals (they play St. Louis a couple of times, some burg called Bartonville, Deerfield Beach for the spring break crowd, and a small venue called Fond du Lac), but they always be gettin’ in fights. And drink? They proved that if you just drink enough chardonnay, Grey Goose Vodka, anything with “glen” in it, or Bombay gin you can have chops like Blind Lemon Jefferson.

Trouble was, these self-proclaimed bluesmen never really got the Blues themselves. They sang something that sounded like them, but the audience only came away with the little “b” blues. Maybe it was the clothes. No one will believe it’s the real Blues if you wear a suit, 'less you happen to be an old ethnic person and you slept in it... for two weeks...in a Greyhound Bus station. The best clothes for the blues is torn overalls, or a prison uniform, and, of course you should be wearing a cool Blues hat. But these guys dressed for the show in coordinated natty purple shirts, and purple gloves and purple socks and lots and lots of lace. Either there was pimpin’ going on, they actually were the Rondelles or they was the “other woman” somebody shot in Memphis. Maybe it was all three. Something in the script just wasn’t right.

But, then more traditional Blues patterns emerged. There was lyin’, cheatin’, adultery, stealin’, fightin’, fakin’, posin’, adultery, guns, liquor, cursin’, prison and, of course, adultery. Man, it’s like that song Aretha sings, “Who's zoomin' who, take another look, tell me baby…Who's zoomin who...oh…”

But, in the end, it resonates with The ViceBishops’ (yes, that’s their name) tune, “the party's over And the guests are gone You know it's time to be movin' on.” After all, the real Blues is the thing. Fake Blues on an air guitar don’t float the boat. And, the audience is flat tired of hearing who made a deal with the devil.

Sorry, boys and girls, it’s just the Velicoff® talking.

So the Toad will close this New Year’s reverie with B.B. King’s Actions Speak Louder Than Words. It pretty well sums up the state of things Blues-wise, authority-wise and just plain people-wise. Ponder the lyrics.

And, if you don’t know of B.B. King, bunky, you should immediately: tear up your application to on-line seminary, drink a 1.5 liter bottle of Velicoff® brand vodka wrapped in a paper bag, sleep in a black suit for the next two weeks, and move to St. Louis. You’ll thank the Toad…really. Happy New Year, pally. Rawk, rawk, rawk!*

Yr. Obed. Serv.,

Roy Aldous Toad, DD-VS (Very Specious), LSMFT, D.Phil. (Carolina Coast University); B.A. (summa cum laude)(Southern States University)

Bluesman Extraordinaire

*The Sound of One Toad Barking

Actions Speak Louder Than Words-B.B. King

You won't listen to nothing I tell you, baby
You keep on doing just as you please
Hey, you won't do nothing I tell you, baby
Keep on doing as you please
I've taken as long as I can, baby
When is this foolishness gonna cease

I've worried myself crazy, baby
Cried both night and day
I said I've worried myself crazy, baby
Cried both night and day
You don't believe me, baby
But I'm gonna leave one of these days

Well, you told me that you love me
But actions speak louder than words
Oh, you said you love me, baby
But action speaks louder than words
I won't be fooled no longer, baby
That line everybody's heard

Well, If you're gonna change, baby
You better do it real soon
Hey, If you're gonna change
For the better, baby
You better do it real soon
Because you'll wake up one of these mornings
Find yourself in a empty room.