Nerding Day: Helping Yourself With White Witchcraft

If I’m going to keep mocking wizards, I should learn to play defense. I don’t need to wake up with a dick full of millipedes. Or, worse yet, lose game seven of a magick duel. Let’s summon some fucking demons.

White witchcraft sounds like slang for “hell army.” I asked the magick shop clerk for all demons, no bullshit. She said to choke on shit, but then the owner sold me this book. So really, these are management-level techniques. Less imps, more pit fiends. Rock on.

The byline’s encouraging: Al’s a doctor of divinity. You only become one if you believe really hard, or speak eight dead languages. Hopefully the former, my Sumerian is ass.

No, don’t tempt me. Please, stop. Don’t lure me into daemon princehood.

Demons demons demons demons let’s go darkling I’m on literal demon time

Boo. The fucking hoodoo store is holding out. If Wiccans don’t call Voidwalkers, Baptist camp ate my youth for nothing. That can’t be right. I’m here to build an affliction warlock, not a liveable future.

I don’t know magick, but I know people. You turn dicks to beetles, or get beetledicked.

Wait, success? Princeton said that’s important. You need it more than people. I’ll give this a shot. You don’t have to summon demons if you’re the demon.

Thank fuck. I thought we were headed for spiritual affirmations again. I don’t give two half-shits about my spirit. My soul’s my worst feature, like Michael Jordan’s ego or Jesus’s dad. Case in point. Maybe White Witchcraft can work for me.

Pin that office romance for later.

Nonsense claims, stripped of culture or caution. Perfect. Al’s intro says warlocks stack cash, ass, and cash again. As a half-tryhard (we prefer “hustle daywalker”), Magick for Tools sounds ideal. Daemonology for Tools sounds more ideal, but life is long. You have to pay your jedi dues to have a good fall.

Time to meet sensei.

Pour a chalice out for Al. He died before his rights, so I’m thinking his juju works. His followers still measure psychic powers in Colorado, if you want to divorce your money. I’ll stick to the book. Based on the back, Al either had a wild life or was a wild liar.

Well, that sounds like both. Complicated planet. Until we simplify it with our witch powers. I think I’ll call my shadow empire “Newer York.” What’s yours? We should team up, and keep each other beetle-free.

Though I’m a little nervous about this crime spree. The SEC still exists for another week or so, and the love stuff sounds a little Dresden: SVU. Let’s start small. How can my students cheat? Cheat more. Cheat the same amount, but with magick.

I love it already.

The reality warp checks out, but I don’t buy Larry trying something hard three times. He’d ask the spirits for an extension. Oh, and the stranger in a stoned teen’s room sounds like trouble. Hopefully that works out.

B? Larry summoned an astral dandy and got a fucking B? He watched Marc Anthony and Cleopatra bang it out and brought home a fucking B? He watched Thucydides invent history class and got a B?! What kind of lazy white fuckery is this? Did he hex his parents first? If I took a tutored B home, I’d be the ghost.

The most absurd horseshit I’ve heard in hours. Let’s join in.

Brace. Instructions are the spellbook tipping point. We’ll either get vacuous corporate nothing, or glorious poems and shopping lists.

Game on.

Wonderful madness–and Gruntilda’s favorite line is back. “So mote it be” seems like a general witch-ism, but you never forget your first. We’ve got eight-beat lines, so you can deliver this like Willy Wonka’s rowing song. Channel that nightmare while covered in oil, and I guarantee the spirits will fear you more than you fear them. So will your neighbors.

You may wonder how much Al charges for astral lube. Wrong genre of crank. Here’s the recipe:

I’m not doing all that for a B.

Still, I’ve learned: baby Jesus loved astral projection. And the entire astral plane smells like a hotel bathroom. I’d call this an expensive nap, but maybe you’ve got powdered orris root on hand. If so, go nuts. Warp back to Plato, so he can tell you to study.

Now that we can summon mediocrity: how do we make gold? The church isn’t watching. While life without fabulous wealth has a fun Capcom challenge to it, I’m down to mix it up.

Right, this is the practical, applied spellbook. What’s the practical, applied way to make gold?

You fuck your boss! Haters like me can eat shit, because that’s worked for a thousand years. If scripture delivered like this, I’d be writing a zany recap of Job. I mean, his son? The good one? Can you believe it? It looks like Irene had an HR speedbump on the way, but I guess she kept chanting. Aspirational work. Hopefully her nature spirit friends ease up on the earthquakes.

Personally, I avoid bang magick. It looks like it mostly attracts other bang magi, and that’s the kind of love story you tell when a saner date asks “Why are you single? And in the news?”

I guess I can seduce demons. Get a cosmic situationship going. If they get testy, I’ll seduce more demons with bang magick and pull a John Constantine. That’s instigating a barfight over your soul, and letting God’s bouncers sort it out. I get most of my human dating cues from comic books anyway.

Another use for astral projection oil.

Like all maniac arts, white wytchcraft leads to katas with one hand. How many wytches wandered the '70s with sore dicks and myrrh-scented photos of Lynda Carter? I’m trying not to relapse into thinking. But if this works, every pornstar on Earth has more wards than Gandalf.

When you bust, send your salty winged monkey to deliver your love. Kind of like a dick pic, but with a chance of working.

I see. I’d like to apologize to the prolific independent actress “AhegaoMancer1991” for the psychic harassment. I didn’t know I was training. Hopefully the wild animal lust for midcard humor writers hasn’t been too disruptive. As an apology, I’ll trade my food budget for the Gold Findom Package. Unless there’s a spark. Then I’ll take the Diamond Findom Package.

Forget Al’s ego, this shit’s normal in his dating pool. I have a safety question: could I get stuck in a jelq-loop? Another wytch beating off because I’m beating off because they’re beating off? A mobius jerk? I hope we get degrees at the end.

I was wrong: the astral plane doesn’t smell like lavender. We’re mass-producing thoughtforms in every private tab. Also, what’s a thoughtform?

My future sight’s kicked in, because I already regret opening my fucking mouth. There’s a real chapter on future sight, by the way. You just binge red wine and take a nap. I’m a recovering oracle.

“Why’s that fucking matter?” asks the atypical student. Remember, Al’s a DD and CPA. His inner accountant slips out now and then. A typical madman or grifter skips saying “dunno,” but Al tracks every point of mana. Jizzcraft is a hard magick system, like a Sanderson fanfic gone rogue. If you ask, Al answers, however stupid or gross it gets. I mentioned gross for no reason. Keep reading.

This sub-story doesn’t have a header, but it deserves one. Forgive my editorial insert:

Back to the text.

Honestly? Social calculus is my favorite part of magick. If you believe you’re a fuck-wizard and cast a non-consensual cucking spell, where between zany dope and sex pest are you? Neither feels right. This story plays differently at dinner, therapy, and family court. Aside from losing respect. That’s consistent.

Blame my weekly headfirst fall, but I almost respect Jim’s pluck. He needs to fulfill his swinging dreams, at any cost but the obvious one.

Earth’s incredible. Not if you’re Jim, and your wife’s sidepiece just rang your doorbell like Beatrix Kiddo. Or you’re Al, and you just made that up to discourage casting Fuck Wife IV alone. But we’ve built a broken paradise. A serf would trade both kids to read this on my couch. In fact, a serf would trade their wife to be Jim.

Weak. Where’s Jim’s follow-through? After begging your wife to swing, building an altar to swinging, jelqing to swinging for three weeks, and chanting odes to fucking more people, the burly plumber at your front door honors your powers. Don’t be a dick. Show your wife your new familiar.

All that, and we don’t know what a thoughtform is. My fault, really. I skipped everything that wasn’t about cash, grass, or ass. Chapter One has the goods.

Somewhere between an imaginary girlfriend, Stand, and TaskRabbit lies the thoughtform. It’s powered by really wanting a thoughtform. Which tracks—we’re all about desire so far. Tool magick’s granted unwanted sex, transactional love, and academic nothing. I’m guessing DC is eighty percent wizard. I’ll astral project later to check.

Either this power is real, or I’m in steep denial about losing twenty dollars for zero demons. Last week, I channeled a joke about key parties. This week, I learned how to ruin my next marriage. Thoughtforms in action. I’ll be rereading The Secret for the rest of my fucking career.

One small complaint: nothing here works. My test spells have delivered jack and shit.

Nothing. Also: expensive.

Zilch. Also: resembles schizophrenia.

Nada. Also: off-brand.

I’m trying to attract those.

Al implies demons are just deluxe thoughtforms, which I refuse to accept. I’m way too far along in my magick studies to let any reality stop what I want. Call magick red, white, or blue: I’m summoning demons and running for office.

It’s humiliating–each testimonial gets rich and laid, and I can’t summon one attorney. For a second, I thought that Al might be out of his mind, or even lying. But there’s a section about adding some “oomph” to my thoughtforms. I’m ready for Magick Growth Hormone. I’ll start blasting if it helps me start blasting.

Sometimes, the comments say every day is Upsetting Day. I’d like to offer an alternate theory.

Honestly? I’m down. Abragail made fuck-magick sound fun, as long as you’re not hung up on an ex. Why not try a forest orgy once before I die?

MOTHERFUCKER.

I’m hanging by the same mental thread as other burgers. Bad choices and a worse web history help keep me a maniac analyst instead of topic. Demons just ask for my soul. White magick wants my sanity and jizz. Is success worth that? Is impressing AhegaoMancer1991 worth losing AhegaoMancer1991?

Fine. Fuck it. I’ll delete Firefox, my contacts, and that hard drive.

I may have jumped the gun. Does anyone know how to unmelt a hard drive? Or apologize to a person?

Edging?

Al described swinging like grave robbing. He can’t be all-in on edging.

It’s edging. The line between Criss Angel and Dr. Strange is edging.

For a full week. I need time magick to pull that shit off, and I need edging to pull off time magick. This is the dumbest paradox outside of Pianosa.

Fucking…how? I have a job. I can’t jerk off this much and write about it. What’s the point of future vision if it just shows me cranking hog? I’ve got an ego, but I don’t need to see infinite me hunched over infinite laptops. Fractalbaiting sounds way more dangerous than demons.

Al can’t sanewash this. He’d need both hands.

“Bro, have you been to the Cum Bodega? They’re always fucking in there. They think you can’t tell, but there’s a smell. Hilarious shit. The chanting’s weird though.”

Nice try.

Like faith healing? Via fucking? Which, based on headlines, is just faith healing?

Well shit, I’m convinced. White magick can fuck the cancer right out of you. Maybe we can shut down Memorial Sloan Kettering and start a run club. As for STIs, now you can fuck your way out of crabs. Just keep edging.

Fair warning, if you’re following along at home: wizards attract nicknames. The Grey, Of Many Colors, Queen Terf, etc. If you master this technique, they’ll call you “The Cumforged’ for the rest of your life. Which, with your jizz-fueled medical thoughtforms, will be long. Two centuries of hearing “in their tongue he is JelKing, Jizzborn!” can push anyone to start remodeling cities with tornadoes.

Example three usually grounds things a bit.

Hold on, I know this one! The strongest magick risks rebound. If you respond to your daughter’s illness with a one-week fuck frenzy, you may find her changed. Into the Doom Slayer. She won’t suffer a witch to live. It might not be today, or next week. But the glory kill is coming.

I’m wrong! Just fat stacks. Cum for the cum god, and all that. I hope Martha lived, she could probably use that vacation.

I’ve learned a lot today! Namely, the true cost of my path. It’s steep. Consider the following:

1) Demons are just pissed-off thoughtforms.

2) Thoughtforms are cum.

3) Maximized cum needs a week of edging.

If I want a demon army, composed of several hundred demons, which are thoughtforms, which are cum…

I’m off to end myself or start pulling. If I’m back next week, my powers have grown.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Jared Clack, who is always close to the edge trying not to lose his head.

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