Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Strange Things Happen in Paganistan
Early one Spring morning, I open the back door and burst into sudden laughter.
Overnight, my yet-to-be-planted vegetable garden has sprouted a fine crop of several dozen life-sized—and life-like—phalli.
In the early light, they thrust up through the dark, fertile soil like mushrooms after a storm.
Several days previously, one of my crazy pagan friends had given me a latex ice-mold in the shape of an erect penis: just the thing for the Beltane punch-bowl, we agreed. Of course, we'd made the obligatory jokes about cocksicles.
Clearly, my friend had bought a mold or two for herself as well.
Good old plaster of Paris.
Needless to say, my Baptist next-door neighbor was not pleased.
“I got kids over here,” she says.
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