A short esay on Grean Homosexulaity and
Faggieness, by Dr. R. Urt, Ph. D. Psy.D., Rat.
Gretings laides and gentlemen, I come tu you today to discus a shoking truth about GREAN Philsophy, that much of the text masqureading as philosophie of the diferences betwen woman and man is in fact a long subliminal xpository on pantywaste philosophie and deply burried latent homosexutilty!
I wuld steak my pruffesshional reputation and my manie libral arts degres on this theorie such that MEN hav the chance to fre themselves from behaving like total fugepaking butt pirates while they pla at GOR and thinkig about this 'philsophy' unles this of cours is what they want. Tu eack his own. But i have somethin to Profe of the dangrusnes of GRO! Here ar the IMPORTNAT clues i have to suport my theorie, which is my throie and belongs to me, it is mine.
A. The waring of tunicks! Everyone kno that a toonick is just a shorter dres! Why the real Greean master don't wear Levi and leather i do not kno but mabe the like the feel of silkie dreses beter anyway. Some wil wear loingcloth which is even sexier! Notw carefuly how Grean men like to cros their legs when reclining on divan and get fed graps from slavs caled Aticus or Sparticus and they bat eyelashes and sa things like "Mail slavs ar horible and dispicible & should be castritied, it is a sham how they hav given up their masculininty", etc and give poor male slav the EYE. (which do nothing anywa an just get the SLAV evn more xcited)
2. The obsesion with both very manlie Wariors and the paranoia of verie smal fragment of actual fiction homesexuals in Magisians of Gor! Nevrmind that ackshul Wariors thes days do not realiy exits as it is very much harder to holdup a BIG HARD STEAL SWARD then shoot sumone with an M-16 or bluw up a bouncing bety onto some unknowning sivlilans. But the mystery is there anywa! Al TRUE GREAN MASTERS want to be cut with huge six pack ab insted of six-pack beer bely and big MUSSLES. if lacking this they wil pick an AVATAR that make them look like that until you met them. they are men and must not be question! With this asurance of their deathless masculininty in plac they wil then mince carfuly around the isue of the two pages describing swishineg men in Majishuns of Gor. one is a bi male SLAV who has betrayd his MASTUR by sleping with a female SLAV. Yes they wil say, we are TRUE GREANS and acnowledge that there are swishers on GOR even tho they are not breaders. So test it and se if my THEORY WORKS. Swish into the chanel (but not hte RABID URT tho, we do not care one wa or the other about the fetid filth of homosexulaity!) and wav your HARD STEEL SWOARD and Tel them you are just like amelianus and that you hav a kajirus panting & waiting to suk you off and then you wil be booted fastur than yo can snez. Is it FEAR or Maybe jealousee!
3. The manie JOKES of Great Fagines! Who else but i may pithyly quote
Shakspeere and sa: Methingks Thow dost protest tu much and not the brair patch
d. The existance of the manie RITSHULS of BROTHERHOOD! i have copied thes from the books below as direct evidence that the ladies have no real part in the lif of a TRUE GREEAN MASTUR except as urt feed and maybe a prom date or making bety crocker cake in kitchn or fetching beer. MEN and their sexie smoldering anthony banderas & conan LOOKS to each othur is of primarie importance to the GREAN and he wuld luv to slep with them al if he could only get more stronger margaritas preferably with litel umbrelas in them or litle plastic swords and fruit.
The Station Wagon People: The Holding of Mud and
“Suddenly the Tuchuk bent to the soil and picked up a handful of mud and lint, the sustenance upon which the school-age children graze, the land which is the land of the Station Wagon People, and this dirt and this lint he thrust in my hands and I held it. The warrior grinned and put his hands over mine so that our hands, together held the dirt and lint, and were together clasped upon it.
“Gross,” said I to the warrior, “Get your fucking hand off mine, homo!”
Nomads of Gor P.26
“You would risk,” I asked, “the herds, the wagons, the peoples?...
”What the fuck,” said Upchuck, "are you talking about?"
"Are you a homo?' I asked. He looked down at me and smiled.
I wiped my chin on my shirt.
Nomads of Gor P.52
“Harry and Upchuck looked up at me. There were tears in the eyes of both men.
Now, diagonally, like a scarlet chevron coursing the flight of the cheek bones,
there blazed on the face of Harry the Upchuck the Scar of Bitchy
"Never forget," said Upchuck, "that you and I have together held mud and lint."
"I will never forget," I said. "Homo."
"And while you are remembering things," remarked Harry, 'you might recollect that we two together won the Scar of Bitchy Behavior in Turia, where I slapped that silly waiter upside the head for serving you a crappy Margarita, girlfriend."
"No," I said, "I will not forget that either."
"Your coming and going with the Station Wagon Peoples," said Upchuck, "has spanned parts of two of our years."
I looked at him, not really understanding. What he said, of course, was true. I was a homo.
"The years," said Harry, smiling, "were two--the Year in which Tarl "Sweet Cheeks" Cabot Came to the Station Wagon Peoples and the Year in which Tarl "Wonder Butt" Cabot Commanded a Thousand."
Inwardly I gasped. These were year names--which would be remembered by the Year Keepers, whose memories knew the names of thousands of consecutive years. Or maybe they just had them written down on those cute Post-Its in that scented purple ink they liked to use.
"But," I protested, "there have been many things of much greater importance than those in these years--the Siege of Stonewall, the Taking of Castro, the Election of Neil Giuliano!" Excitedly, I jumped up and down, yet in a manly way.
"We choose most to remember the Divine Princess Tarl Cabot," said Upchuck, licking my ear.
I said nothing.
"If you should ever need the Upchucks, Beautiful," said Upchuck, "or the Shriekers or the Wigglers-- or the Hun-Bunnies--you only have to whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you? You put your lips together and blow. "
Nomads of Gor P.343-344
In the Northern Forests: The Manliness-Measuring Contest
I faced Drusus. Then I dropped my loincloth to my ankles.
He dropped his soap, looking encouragingly over his shoulder.
"No," I said, forbiddingly. "Not that game. Not. Today."
He nodded. His loincloth fell to his ankles. We measured.
There was a long pause. I heard the birds in the trees. They were fine birds, the birds of Gor. With their sharp beaks, and sharp, razorlike talons shod with nails as hard as Sally Hansen's Nev'R'Break acrylic nail hardener, I knew they would not forget us, there, men, on the forest floor. These were damn fine birds. They were in the trees. They were of Gor. They were leaving little presents on our shields. I did not care. The sun was warm and we were measuring.
We were still measuring. Drusus looked thoughtful. "Warrior," he said, "do you remember the Night of a Thousand Monkeys?"
I nodded. "Yes, Warrior, Brother," I replied, still measuring with one hand. I tousled his hair in affection. This is the Gorean rite of the Hair Tousle of Affection. It is only exchanged between warriors. We were warriors. And we were measuring.
"When you gave up your kajirae to me for that one night.. Aggie, Mabel, Rose and Opal?"
I thought back a bit. The Night of a Thousand Monkeys had robbed much memory from me. Muchly had I not remembered much. Not too muchly had I been able to remember. Too muchly lately hadn't I remembered. I forgot.
"They were old slaves," I replied. "Maybe in their Earthen years, they had passed many.. uh, hands," I said. I drew forth my calculator. I pressed the small, fine numbers. They were small, fine, Arabic numerals. I could not yet read Gorean. Consequently I could not balance my checkbook. It did not muchly matter. "About ..5,860 to 6,570 hands old, each...I hope you had fun."
He thought a bit. "Yes," he finally said. "They did not last long. But the young acquisitions from Earth tend to struggle too much. It is easier to get the older ones, the ones with the soft ninners and the missing teeth. That is muchly beneficial for our purposes as Masters."
"Yes," I agreed, then fell silent.
We measured in silence.
"Mine is larger," said Drusus. "I am a Warrior."
"No," I countered. "Mine is larger. I am too a Warrior."
"Yes," Drusus agreed. "We both have very large manliness. For we are the masters of women."
"Yes, I agreed."
"Well, not you anymore, at least," he replied.
"There are other things," I replied, "by which a man may measure his manliness."
"Oh," he replied.
But we could not think what.
We continued to measure.
In The Desert: The Rite of Sharing Salt and Lime
"I am coming with you," I said. "Homo."
"Save yourself," said he. He was always so cute. Especially in his tunic.
"I am coming with you," I said, "nevertheless, homo."
"We have not even shared salt," he said. "Or limes, or that really good Cuervo Reservo I know you have in your backpack, bitch," he replied, sweetly. "Fork it over, honeysuckle."
"Shut your man-hole, homo," I said, savagely.
He looked at me, for a long time. Then he thrust back the sleeve of his right hand. I pressed my lips to the back of his right wrist, tasting there, in the sweat, the salt. I extended him the back of my right wrist, and he put his lips and tongue to it.
“Do you understand this?” he asked.
“I think so,” I said. "Marry me, you big homo."
“Follow me,” said he. “We have work to do, my brother. We have to get you cleaned up for the Firehouse! It's 2-fer night!!"
Tribesmen of Gor P.193
In The Barrens : The Rite of Blood Brothers
"Nekkidnaka's knife moved on his own forearm, and then on mine, and then on Hussy's.
"You cannot be a member of the Sleezy Soldiers of the All-Homo-Revue," had said Hussy, "for you are not a Wiggler, and you do not know our dances and mysteries, the content of our loincloths."
"There is another thing," had said Nekkidnaka, "which can be done."
"Do it," had said Hussy.
Nekkidnaka held his arm to mine, and then I held my arm to that of Hussy, and then Hussy, in turn, held his arm to that of Nekkidnaka. Thus was the circle of blood closed. I felt suddenly warm. And I made a small, nether tent.
"It is done," said Nekkidnaka. His eyes were absolutely dreamy.
"Ewwwww," I said. "This is totally gross!" Then I passed out.
Blood Brothers of Gor P.475
Warriors -The Rite of Sword Brothers!
"One who has spilled your martini, or whose martini you have spilled, becomes
your plastic-sword brother, that which holds the olives, or the twist of the
lemon, unless you formally repudiate the martini with a slutty one-night stand
during which you have hot homo sex like crazed weasels. It is a part of the
kinship of Gorean warriors regardless of what city it is to which they owe their
allegiance. It is a matter of caste, an expression of respect for those who
share their station and profession, having nothing to do with cities or Home
Stones.... And it's a lot of fucking fun."
Tarnsman of Gor P.129