On the Origin of BLEERGH-cies



A Canadian man-child of indeterminate age, he stays young by selling alcohol at sporting events and yelling at the patrons he serves. Their rage nourishes his soul, and their tips pay for his numerous trips to various sporting events.

I was out walking my dog last night, when an angel appeared before me. I mean, it might have been an angel, or it could have been a tweaker evicted from the shelter down the road, and the halo was the police lights from the car trailing behind. Disirregardless, I tried to avoid contact with the celestial being, but it was drawn to the light of my torch, which I instantly regretted wasn’t an actual torch; I kinda also wished I’d had a pitchfork. Undaunted, the angel spoke to me in tongues – rapidly, unblinking, with no pauses for diction, syntax or air.

Despite that, what sounded at first like pure gibberish soon made sense under the light of the moon. I said it made sense; I just wanted to get home without being robbed or bit. After imparting a dollar to this angel so he could get what they apparently call in heaven a “double-double”, I was then given three golden tablets.

Like this, but possibly old Crunchie wrappers.

Upon those plates were written a legend.

A legend I could scarcely believe I was reading.

The legend…of BLEERGH!

What I write for you now is what I was able to transcribe before bed. I had planned on continuing this work in the morning, but was prevented from doing so by another angel, who sweetly sang, “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS GARBAGE ON THE COUNTER?! STOP DRINKING BEFORE DOG WALKS!”  I will never see those missing pages again. But I know what I know. I have seen what I have seen and I have heard what I have heard. I have seen the gold plates on which the origin of BLEERGH is written. Here is my faithful transcription from memory.

Cast your eyes upon the devourer of souls. She’ll take your’s, or your town’s.

In the beginning, there was nothingness, ruled over by BEERTHOTH and his life-partner YOG-SLEERGH. Outside the ordered universe, that amorphous blight of nethermost confusion which blasphemes and bubbles at the center of all infinity—the boundless daemon sultan BEERTHOTH, whose name no lips dare speak aloud, and who gnaws hungrily in inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond time and space amidst the muffled, maddening beating of vile drums and the thin monotonous whine of accursed flutes. However, after many draughts of the moon-wine of the Zoogs, YOG-SLEERGH convinced BEERTHOTH they needed to create a child, to both give their lives more meaning, and to keep up with their neighbours, Chaugnar Faugn and his wife, Georgia Frontiere.

Out of this decision came BEERANOS, the god of the air, through which he would fly, away from the parents that got him naught. At times, he would come to rest on the frozen tundra when his energy was expended. It was upon one such field that BEERANOS met his consort, Gail. Bathed in Natural Light, she fell under his spell and, soon after a brief encounter in an Orchard Park park’s orchard, gave birth to a son, BEERGH.

Mighty did the river burn!

BEERANOS hated the child, and locked him away in a torture chamber, to punish his mother for giving birth to him, because he clearly remembered she said she was “on something”, and that she “was cool”. BEERGH was imprisoned in this factory of sadness for many years, unable to cross the river Phlegethon to gain his freedom.

One day, his mother, seeking retribution for BEERANOS’ neglect, made her way to where BEERGH was imprisoned and showed him a sickle. She only meant to show it to him, noting it could kill someone. BEERGH accepted this sickle as a gift, and walked away from her knowing what he had to do in order to gain his freedom. Gail thought about reclaiming the sickle, but was informed that it would be better for international relations that she accept that she had actually given him the sickle as a present, lest she discover the business end of some polonium.

Artist’s rendering.

BEERGH emerged from the factory resolute in his desire to seize the power he believed was rightfully his. The man of the hour, the man with the power; the hit-maker, the record-breaker; with style and grace, and a pretty face, he set upon his father with a vengeance, luring him into combat among the heavens. During this Starrcade, BEERGH defeated BEERANOS, clipping him with the sickle and penalizing him a further 15 yards for making contact with a elite god.

The time of BEERGH was referred to as a “Golden Age”, a time of prosperity, peace and harmony between all the living beings. It is said that in this time animals such as rams, eagles and bears spoke with human voice and no one would get ill, physically or mentally. The beings under BEERGH’s domain went about their business, and in instances of injury or trauma would ‘suck it up’, for the good of the dominion. There was, late in his reign, an attempt to establish a second pantheon, but that folly was met and crushed by BEERGH. Yet, in his munificence, rather than banish the usurpers into the netherworld, he forged a merger with them, enabling BEERGH to aggrandize his authority and rule them both as one.

In fear of a prophecy that he would be in turn be overthrown by his own son, as he had done to his own father, BEERGH swallowed each of his children as soon as they were born, pausing only to flavor them in a bowl of Skyline Chili. His consort, Connie, managed to save the youngest, BLEERGH, by hiding him away on the shore of the Capest of Cods, and instead fed BEERGH an onion from her belt, which she wore because it was the style at the time, wrapped in the swaddling clothes of an infant.

Spare Tire Dixon, in human form. He was known to often anger BLEERGH.

In secret, BLEERGH grew up, not knowing his father. He was an athlete in school, his teammates using their battle cries to mask his own voice and keep BEERGH from discovering his whereabouts. His proudest achievement – aside from being the heir to a god – was once making four scores in a match, defeating his nemesis Spare Tire Dixon.

BLEERGH grew up quick, but he also grew up mean. His fists got hard and his wits, well – they got keen. After high school, he’d roam from town to town to hide his shame, but he made a vow to the moon and stars, that he’d search the honky-tonks and bars, and kill the man who gave him that awful name. After many moons had passed, he returned to BEERGH’s dominion, looking to take what he felt was rightfully his, and impart the punishment he knew was rightfully due.

At Mount Parnassus in mid-July, BLEERGH hit town and his throat was dry. He tricked his father into meeting him at a bar where, under the guise of being the son of an old college buddy, he tricked him into drinking beyond his excess, resulting in BEERGH vomiting up BLEERGH’s brothers & sisters, who then joined him in battle against their father. Protected by his Horsemen, BLEERGH hit him hard right between the eyes, and BEERGH went down, but to BLEERGH’s surprise BEERGH come up with a knife and cut off a piece of his ear. BLEERGH busted a chair right across BEERGH’s teeth, and they crashed through the wall and into the street, kicking and a’ gouging in the mud and the blood and the beer.

YA’TITTLE, covered in blood after another ferocious battle.

After fighting each day for ten years, BLEERGH was victorious, dispatching his father to the same factory where he had once himself been banished. In time, BEERGH was freed and allowed to rule over the home of the blessed dead, situated outside the factory in a place known as Kan-ton. Some still worship BEERGH to this day, proclaiming that today’s gods are not like the gods of yesteryear. “The gods of yore are tougher than the gods of today,” those adherents cry. To no avail; as the gods have evolved, so must their worship. The temple in Kan-ton exists as a testament to what was, but what can never be again. The Fundamentalist Church of BEERGH persists, but his worship – like that of the ancient one YA’TITTLE – is but a subset of the larger mythos.

In this mythos exist stories of battles reckoned and battles fought. It was rumoured that there was a greater battle, in the Territory of the United States South of the River Ohio , called the Titanomachy, involving BLEERGH & his siblings, and a race of beings called the Titans. But this is absurd, as there are no such things as Tennessee Titans.

Today, BLEERGH reigns over a second “Golden Age”. However, unlike the first, there is mandatory worship of BLEERGH, as the length of his reign has demanded greater sacrifices from the people. For five months of the year, on every Sunday, plus Mondays for the last forty years, and now Thursdays within the last ten, and the occasional Saturday depending upon his capricious whim, the masses direct their attention towards BLEERGH. His priests gather on fields of battle, adorned in their striped garments, wielding golden representations of BLEERGH. They are to watch unemotional as larger, better compensated gladiators compete against each other for the glory of BLEERGH. The second month of this tournament is set aside for worship of his mother, the consort Connie, whereby BLEERGH’s golden form is replaced by one of cyclamen, and only the shoddiest, most pandering of cerise products are available for purchase during that time.

He demands you watch him worship BLEERGH! The Hochuli cares naught but for his own glory. NOTICE HIM!

These officiants keep guard over the Viridian fields, arbitrarily throwing their icons of BLEERGH at the gladiators whenever they have broken BLEERGH’s code. Their reasons cannot be questioned, nor appealed, for the power of the officiants is absolute, for the code they administer – while codified – is interpretive, and may vary from one field to another, depending upon the officiant in question. BLEERGH cares not whether his followers worship at the House of Hochuli, the Church of Cheffers, or the Temple of Triplette; all he demands is sacrifice, and the promulgation of his representation within the Goodellian realm.

We are all BLEERGH’s vassals, until another comes along. Until The Goodell is replaced, or divine intervention heralds a uniform description of “a catch”, we are all condemned to be subsumed in his weekly imbroglio, hostage to the whims of his demon priests.

On the other hand, it might have been Coffee Crisp wrappers. Maybe I should cut down a bit…

Luckily, I hear his son, BLEERONYSUS, just signed a Letter of Intent for Alabama. Fucking Saban.




A Canadian man-child of indeterminate age, he stays young by selling alcohol at sporting events and yelling at the patrons he serves. Their rage nourishes his soul, and their tips pay for his numerous trips to various sporting events.
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MikeWallaceAndGromitBeerguyrobJerry Was A Shogun Named MarcusSenor WeaseloOld School Zero Recent comment authors
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It’s…it’s beautiful.

Shogun Marcus

It’s like you typed my brain. Good hustle!

Senor Weaselo

I, Beerguyrob, have these fifteen *shatter* ten commandments!

/Great work

Old School Zero

I didn’t know Gene Wolfe wrote for this site.

The Right Reverend Electric Mayhem





Do I need a lot of cough syrup to follow this? I mean, I’ll quaff come sizzurp anyway (Friday), but I was just wondering how much it will help.

Moose -The End Is Well Nigh
Moose -The End Is Well Nigh

I quaffed a queef; VERY relaxing.

monty this seems strange to me

Heh heh. “Tit-tle”


I was then given three golden tablets…


– Patriots fans

Inanimate Carbon Rod Marinelli

Considering the Mormon’s long-standing position on DAAHHKIES, I’m surprised the Church of Latter Day Saints didn’t make a home in Foxborough.


I want a ton of whatever you took prior to writing this.

Awesome job!


This just induced a really powerful acid flashback.


Inanimate Carbon Rod Marinelli

This is frighteningly similar to that dream I had where L. Ron Hubbard and Joseph Smith bukkaked George Halas.

Spanky Datass
Spanky Datass

But seriously, this was incredible. Loved it.

Don T

The Titans have no discernible management structure. On all contexts.

Moose -The End Is Well Nigh
Moose -The End Is Well Nigh

So they ARE more organized than the Browns!

Doktor Zymm

I’m so glad we cleared this up. Also, I think zombie Johnny Cash should sing the Monday Night Football song next season.

monty this seems strange to me

You had me at “Disirregardless”.


Yes, that killed me.

The Maestro

I am so fucking happy you finally decided to post this.


There quite a bit of shit written on that garbage…errrr tablets.


It was written really, really small.