While Caucasian kind fades into the west, boards the white ships and leaves their patrimony and women folk to ork kind, permit I, your reader of bloody tea leaves, to summon the spirit of the Khan—who has been vexing me greatly, insisting that I mount every one of these brazen postmodern wenches that flashes big “take me like a mare” eyes at me even as my back aches to Hel and back.

For instance, yesterday morning, barely able to stand after breaking down a pallet of juice with old George—120-pound, 70-year-old, 4-pack-of-Winston’s-a-day, George—I was trying not to moan by the time clock as I attempted to stretch my hip rotator. At this time, Saucey—for I have so named her—a 4-feet, 8-inch bundle of displaced Greek hips in stretchy pants, who throws away the day old bread, walked past me, flashing me marish eyes—wondering, obviously, if the stallion was indeed dead. The rational, twerpish being who knows what key to punch on this infernal device wished that I might address my old age and infirmity in deprecating detail so as to put her off forever and anon—but no!

As the young men so gathered stepped out of my line of sight, focusing her like a picture in some hellish night, the Khan rose mightily inside of me. I ignored her civil concern over my obvious pain and instead focused all of my energies like a laser beam of desire upon her curvaceous posterior, and as the young men I was gathered with for our lunch break gasped in scandalous astonishment, she dared a wink and an extra swish of that pleasing tail and the Khan waxed strong within, even as my aching hip screamed—“Please let that bitch find a sugar-daddy or else I’ll need fo ma junk a caddy!”

Such are the powers unleashed when one channels the Khan—who, I might add—is only channeled by strong drink and pain—only upon the Twin Seas of Ale and Agony does the Khan’s longship—he killed a whole mess of Rus, so he can have him a longship—float and his spirit wax instructive in these sissy times.

However, your sissy planet shall be granted a one day reprieve from His return for every video extolling the old ways which might rise from the ether to grant a blood-soaked soul succor from his ages-long dream…

You! [That would be me, the fleshly summoner] You call these warriors, why they prance like hares!

“Your Lethalness, these are mere cart drivers—we call them cabbies now. I have, one, in fact, who is quite loyal to me.”

So Man has fallen that far, that all that is left of the sword is as a prop during an argument between porters over who might carry their lord forth?

“Pretty much—this is why you have been summoned. In the third video you will find the man currently charged with instructing cart drivers in the protection of their passengers.”