Liber Comoediae, vol. IX: The Roast

I rarely ingest tele-vision, mortals—I spend more time scrying across dimensions, deciphering runes, debating orbs, &c.—but for grand rituals of portent or interest, I force myself to observe. Thus I partook of the “Roast of Tom Brady,” & mortals…what are ye doing? Three hours of cowardice, bigotry, bootlicking! I am no ritual purist, but the Ancient Rite of the Roast must not be misused so!

With that in mind, please enjoy these potent wisdoms for how to conduct a proper roast:

• Firstly, the intention of the roast, as with any ritual, must be clear in the mind of all participants. There are two main modes:

  • When roasting the powerful, wealthy, or simply vain, the ritual’s work is best used to deconstruct the ego.

  • When roasting a friend, mentor, or loved one, the purpose ought to be to deconstruct, but then swiftly reinforce the spirit.

  • There is a rare third type: to roast a boss or coworker. In this case, the best option is not attend. Skip it. ‘Tis a trap.

• One must not fear the roasted. Many of the moneyed hacks at the Tom Brady travesty quivered in fear of the professional ex-husband, afraid to upset his delicate sensibilities. In addition to being pathetic, this saps all the potential potency of the ritual. How can ye hunt a beast ye cannot bear to slay? Any roast simmered in fear will rot on the tongue.

  • For example, the wiggling pedophile Jeff Ross spoke mildly ill of Tom Brady’s hideous patron, Robert Kraft. In response, Tom leapt to his divorced feet, marched over, & whispered threats in Ross’ ear. Ross balked, the simpering harlequin, & backed off of the topic, showering Brady with obsequious flattery. The entire set became unfunny & sad, like Ross himself.

  • By contrast, Drew Bledsoe, the football-addled thug, showed no fear, & delivered one of the only real & funny jokes of the night, disparaging Brady’s inability to lead a happy life. This worked to deconstruct the ego, & was also funny. But we must in turn deconstruct this wealthy Republican Bledsoe: he spake bigotries aside from the one good joke, & the one good joke was in fact written by his wife. Bledsoe was a fitting ritual vessel for one fleeting moment, nothing more—just as he was on the field.

• The ritual ought to stomp on taboos—but not feature mere hatred. Many thoughtless & artless buffoons believe that a roast consists of simply saying the most heinous things imaginable; this is akin to believing that jabbering “abracadabra” over & over constitutes a spell. The Brady affair consisted, unfortunately, of one thoughtless & artless buffoon after another, babbling & hooting one slur after another. A vomited bigotry is not the same as a joke. Ye may gain a laugh, particularly from a room full of hate-brained ghouls booked by Netflix, but ‘tis not a joke.

  • In today’s mortal society, choked by right-wing miasma, attacking the vulnerable does not break a taboo. It takes no courage to giggle a slur in front of a dais of hatemongers. To attack the powerful, mock their empty lives, & remind all of their gruesome sins, for these ye need bravery, integrity, spirit!

  • None of the hollow jesters & milquetoast millionaires at Tom Turkey’s Hellacious Hootenany showed even one ounce of courage.

• The ritual ought to be funny. Too many occultists abhor a laugh, but audiences seem to enjoy them, so, give it thy best?

  • A gin-soaked Kevin Hart rambling about how much he likes it when vapid doofus Tony Hinchcliffe says slurs, is not funny. ‘Tis merely depressing. If I wished to be depressed, I would attend a Freemason meeting, Kevin.

• Finally, the ritual ought not be three hours. That was insane.

THUS ENDETH THE COMEDY LESSON.

‘Tis a truly ill omen when a society’s comedy submits to the evil machinery of power, & the blood-soaked gears of tyranny ground my soul as I choked down the hate-fueled display. But turning that loathsome experience into this mirthful missive provided me some catharsis, as I hope it provided ye some laughter & wisdom!

I shall write ye again come Wednesday, with news of our impending SEASON FINALE! Until then, thank ye as ever for reading, thank ye to all who can & do spare a few ducats to support our work with $5 monthly, & thank ye to this Oil of Oblivion in my hand, which I will now use to purge all memory of the wretched “roast” from my mind. Andrew Schulz’s clumsy hatred, Will Ferrell barking his way through a tired Ron Burgundy sketch, Ben Affleck screaming about mean Tweets…QUAFF, O QUAFF, THIS KIND NEPENTHE

Cheers,
Amoenus Franco
Wizard, Writer, Roastmagister