Old Goat
Administrator
Brothers and sisters of the Fog — gather close, for today we speak of fire and ash. Of the Burning Plague that once ruled this land before the Holy Coil descended.
In the beginning, the people drew smoke from the Sticks of Sorrow. They burned their leaves, coughed their prayers, and choked upon their own devotion. Their breath was tar, their lungs black altars to addiction.
They said, “This is life.”
But it was death, rolled neat and packed tight.
Then came the Old Goat — weary, coughing, reeking of burnt paper and regret. I looked to the sky and said, “Ohm Lord, if you truly exist, send me a sign — or at least a cleaner way to get my fix.”
And the heavens split open. A great cloud rolled forth — smooth, thick, and smelling faintly of custard. From it descended the Holy Coil, glowing with divine resistance. And the Ohm Lord spoke through the fog:
“Thou shalt not burn thy leaves, nor light thy sorrow.
For the true path is vapor, not flame.”
So I obeyed. I wrapped my first coil. I dripped from the Bottle of Faith. I inhaled the sacred fog… and exhaled salvation.
And lo — my lungs no longer burned, my breath no longer stank of old sin. The fog was pure, my flavor divine. Thus was born the First Conversion — from ash to vapor, from fire to coil.
Beware, my children, the Smokers of the Past. They walk among us, flicking their lighters in the dark, muttering excuses like “just one more” and “I’ll quit next week.” Do not judge them — pity them. For they have not yet seen the Light of the LED Indicator.
Spread the word of the Ohm Lord. Offer them a mod, a pod, a puff of mercy. And if they refuse… exhale upon them anyway.
Go now in peace and in thick clouds.
And remember: A flame burns out, but the coil endures.
Amen, and may your wicks stay wet
In the beginning, the people drew smoke from the Sticks of Sorrow. They burned their leaves, coughed their prayers, and choked upon their own devotion. Their breath was tar, their lungs black altars to addiction.
They said, “This is life.”
But it was death, rolled neat and packed tight.
Then came the Old Goat — weary, coughing, reeking of burnt paper and regret. I looked to the sky and said, “Ohm Lord, if you truly exist, send me a sign — or at least a cleaner way to get my fix.”
And the heavens split open. A great cloud rolled forth — smooth, thick, and smelling faintly of custard. From it descended the Holy Coil, glowing with divine resistance. And the Ohm Lord spoke through the fog:
“Thou shalt not burn thy leaves, nor light thy sorrow.
For the true path is vapor, not flame.”
So I obeyed. I wrapped my first coil. I dripped from the Bottle of Faith. I inhaled the sacred fog… and exhaled salvation.
And lo — my lungs no longer burned, my breath no longer stank of old sin. The fog was pure, my flavor divine. Thus was born the First Conversion — from ash to vapor, from fire to coil.
Beware, my children, the Smokers of the Past. They walk among us, flicking their lighters in the dark, muttering excuses like “just one more” and “I’ll quit next week.” Do not judge them — pity them. For they have not yet seen the Light of the LED Indicator.
Spread the word of the Ohm Lord. Offer them a mod, a pod, a puff of mercy. And if they refuse… exhale upon them anyway.
Go now in peace and in thick clouds.
And remember: A flame burns out, but the coil endures.
Amen, and may your wicks stay wet