Learning Day: The Goddess Dictionary of Words and Phrases

This should be fun.

It’ll be fun. But first, I’d like to make peace.

You might not know my rival, Lochlainn Seabrook. We dehumanize each other for sport. See, Lochlainn thinks I’m property because I don’t tan. I think Lochlainn’s a plant because he’s too dumb to be meat. As of Meow The Jewels, cats have made art at least once. Lochlainn, dozens of books in, hasn’t.

Let’s pretend that’s Photoshop.

Clearly, I lack taste. But we dance with the drunks available. And while I reduce the Lost Cause to childish farce, so does Lochlainn. We’ve had fun, in a way. I joked about Lincoln fucking his wife. Lochlainn dreamed of Lincoln fucking his wife. We both grew, and his wife got a hall pass for stovepipe hats.

But I have to let Lochlainn go. We’ve gotten predictable. Lochlainn denies the proud, public actions of his idols and I suggest he retire the samurai way. Rinse, wash, repeat. I’ve lost faith that he’ll learn to write or use a tanto, so I’m moving on. If I can embrace Saint Kirk to avoid a Patriot Cube, why prod Lochlainn?

Instead, more idiot magick. This time, with linguistic flavor. Today’s word-murderer wrote a dictionary for clerics without learning to read.

Sorry, that must be Photoshop. I sleep-write a lot, leading to novella word counts and misspelled Digimon names (apologies to fans of Weever, who fusion dances into Exodia). Sometimes, I wake up buried in infantile style parodies. Let’s grab the real cover from GoodReads.

They’re both real! I played this joke on myself! And the punchline’s more Seabrook. One day we’ll hurtle down a waterfall, while Seabrook blames The Inquisition for Kwanzaa. I simply ask that he hit the rocks first.

These covers hold a unique promise. We’ll learn everything a Jefferson Davis Historical Gold Medal winner knows about “The Women’s Spirituality Movement.” Nothing beats mystery awards getting spiritual. Think L. Ron Hubbard, founder of Writers of the Future and some other stuff. Lochlainn’s part of a lineage.

I almost get the idea. I just need to soften my skull a little more.

Let’s backpedal. Which goddess are we worshipping today? I’ll try anything without weekend check-ins.

Plain to see. Obviously. Clearly. Self-evidently. Like an undergrad writing at 4 AM, Lochlainn points at his conclusion and says “done.” A gutsy move, free of Skynet “inspiration.” Solid D+. It’s still a long way to go to reinvent monotheism. Lochlainn has the zeal of the late convert, and counts the days to the counter-inquisition. You can take the nutcase out of the pews, but you can’t take the future headlines out of the nutcase.

Also: I’m still fucking lost. How does this lead to a full-length, full-priced book?

Now I get it. He stole this idea and mangled it. Still better than his angle on race, but so is sickle cell.

Now I get it. He stole this idea and added crazy. Still better than his angle on race, but so is the National Guard’s. Well, that’s a stretch. Fun times.

I’ll translate to patriarchal English: Lochlainn’s here to explain magick vocab to readers willing to open “The Goddess Dictionary of Words and Phrases.” Staggering arrogance. A watershed moment in the history of mansplaining. The peak, even. For the first time, Lochlainn’s an artist.

On to the dictionary proper.

Goddess-worshippers could’ve figured this one out. I’m sure it’d take an attosecond, maybe two, but Lochlainn could’ve saved that effort for cancer research. Without his notes, how many of us will meet the Goddess early? Brain tumors as well-documented as Lochlainn’s are rare. Senseless.

The concept’s editing the dicks out of English, and he kept fellow? Is Lochlainn permanently trainspotting? Or just this dumb sober? I assumed Lochlainn thought like 2024 Charlie Kirk, but he’s much more current.

Another Ctrl-F sin against Goddess.

This book should’ve been a spam text. Replacing “God” with “Goddess” takes less effort than rolling your eyes. Can you imagine being stuck next to Lochlainn at an Aryan funeral? Hearing him mumble “Goddess” every time a megachurch pastor says “God Bless America?” Hell. I’ll stick to this side of the race riot.

I must be making this up. Publishing takes forever. Even scams. Lochlainn spent weeks squinting at InDesign, making sure he didn’t call a Waspdrill a Raycoatl, just to tell the world “I am Goddess’s dumbest creation.” Is a second thought on religion or gender that hard? “Ahistorical nazi” might be Lochlainn’s best trait. I’d rather read his version of Tulsa than “here’s how you say Merry Goddessmas, but Britishly.”

Seabrook renders Euripides into citing a unified deity, in both forms. Another moment in dumbshit history. He still can’t imagine a world two degrees off from Leviticus.

Then again, decent advice. These days I’m only running on twelve Lochlainns of brainpower. Does Goddess negotiate? Technically, I’ve only harassed the sons of God for decades. All tribute to Her Glory.

I really think the coven could’ve cracked this one. They read, unlike Jefferson Davis Historical Gold Medal winners. Or judges, evidently.

At this level of lazy fuckery, I should note this book’s pre-Skynet. 1997, for those cataloging the American Spiral. You can probably tell because “Goddess” hasn’t melted into “Superheroine” or “Rockette” yet. If DeepSeek’s your co-author, you’re humanity’s gimp leg. You contribute less than Lochlainn, who stretched “Goddess I’m a fucking idiot” across

Sea Raven Press charges fifteen dollars for this. That won’t sound like much after this afternoon’s inflation, but once you could buy a whole book full of new words and ideas for that. Thank Goddess we’ve ditched all that stability.

Though Lochlainn’s motives aren’t just money and a lifetime of klan guilt.

Here, my parallels with Lochlainn end. Unlike my good-natured jabs, Lochlainn has lifelong beef with Christianity. Part of it’s a fixation on witchcraft—hence A Rebel Born’s root witch. I assume black churches riling up the neighbors also plays a role. In any case, he’s quite proud of stealing from not-David Duke. One in ten entries wander into the priesthood’s bad habits, an easy shot he botches with Shaqian precision.

Sadly, slap-fighting priests is a lead anchor for Lochlainn’s career. Half his fans think that Jesus will be back next week with feedback. The other half want Goddess to quit management for a population race with China.

Lochlainn’s dead work ethic weighs him down even more. I don’t know how he’s survived without a dedicated servant class. The bibliography and index for this brain scab run from pages 151 to 248. And the spacing’s generous. You could print full curses from true believers in the margins between sources Lochlainn didn’t read.

To hear that phrase in the wild, give this book to a witch.

The ultimate insult. How low is Lochlainn’s opinion of witches that he thinks this adds to the conversation? Locchlainn’s barged into the circle, talked over the archmage with their own idea, and bailed early to drink.

Does Lochlainn think he invented Witch Time? That was Platinum Games. Col. Seabrook invented valor theft. A Kentucky colonel’s a veteran in the same way I’m an Imperial Wizard. I’ll take the title if they’re handing it out, and use it at parties. But don’t expect me to be able to get a good fire going under pressure.

Say that three times fast. You’ll fuck up your spell every time. The entire “G” chapter’s wonderful, because it’s full of tongue-tumors like this. If you’ve ever wondered why wizards need noise-cancelling headphones to cast “Save Fighter,” enjoy the case study.

Note that “good” to “gooddess” is another wordfilter in play. Lochlainn says that before the lion bait screwed everything up, the vague people of the past said “gooddess” instead of “good.” Leading to tongue-twisters that would make Busta Rhymes stutter.

Lochlainn finally talks about something, questioning the Pledge of Allegiance. Not from the creeping fascism angle, or even the Confederate angle, but the r/atheism angle. Dull fare, until this flash of lazy brilliance:

Before they bury me, I’m writing One Nation Under Goddess. If I live outside of a gulag or raiding clan, I’ll even publish it. And I’ll dedicate it to Lochlainn and his 19th century hero: John Brown.

Feeling lonely? Whether or not you believe, talk like this. You’ll add fifteen minutes to every conversation. And that’s if you don’t explain. Even leaving turns into a production:

You might expect the book of English witch-talk to cover witch-talk in English. Nah. You need to buy a splat book to find out why you embarrass yourself every time you leave a party.,

Sounds like Lochlainn’s gassing out. Don’t worry, I can handle a few.

That’s as far as my faith goes. Let’s see what wisdom Lochlainn has left for us.

A rare polytheistic slip. I’ve been on witch-mountain too long as well, because I find his allergy to pantheons fascinating. It’s like showing up to the White House without a tip. Tradition matters.

Lochlainn couldn't think of a queen. Those hide in books, and he’ll never touch a goddessless page. That'd distract from saying "Goddess" on loop like it's his Bakugan name. Then again, there’s a lot more bible in here. Lochlainn's dead set on ruining seances with church, and must be stopped.

Way to kill the party. Bringing this much Baptist insecurity to witchery is like shitting in a jacuzzi. Lochlainn corrects elder klansmen with “You mean Goddess hates niggers.”

The laziness. The repetition. The single idea. Christess, Is this a table book? Did Lochlainn make a Confederate Table Spellbook just to kill me? How? I was six when this shit came out. I thought goddesses meant girl Power Rangers.

I smell syrup, so that’s all the Seabrook for today. Here’s the last definition.

Lochlainn’s turning into a spider. Heaven’s a petty, spiteful clique, and 154 pages of insults tends to get the Greek treatment. Lochlainn may have intended to suck up, but sufficiently backwards worship’s indistinguishable from heresy.

I have to beat him before that happens.

The Goddess Dictionary of Words and Phrases is a clear challenge. I can live with Lochlainn’s hate. I can even watch him square dance on the grave of historical memory. But I’ll be damned if he becomes a stronger witch than me. It’s time for hell magick grad school.

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