I was in the waiting room for my therapist this morning while idly thumbing through a bunch of Aleister Crowley’s writings. I mean, what else are you going to do as you’re getting ready to get your head shrunk? (I know, I know, I know. Crowley wasn’t a Satanist. But he was dubbed “the wickedest man in the world”, and he was a racist anti-semite cunt.)
Crowley is writing a letter to a friend describing a Yankees-Red Sox game at the Polo Grounds in perhaps only the way he could. To quote:
Now the priests take their stations in the temple, and the ritual begins. One high-priest throws the white balls; this represents the sun traveling throughout he heavens. Another high-priest strikes it with the Mahalingam club, meaning that even the sun is tossed about by the will of God. Many priests representing other gods are stationed according to the places of the planets, as I understand, for my friend says: “It is an all-star team.”
As he continues, he seems not to appreciate the game.
The worshippers are full of religion; sometimes the sacred cry changes to a roar as if they wanted something killed. Then, my friend says: “See! He sacrifices himself,” but I do not see him sacrifice himself. He only throws himself down at the feet of a god. But there is no blood; it is not good religion.
See? Even 100 years ago people could see that these Yankees-Red Sox games were bullshit.