The Whittling Widdlers of the Woods of Wiss

Our Ancient Deity, The Will 'o' The Wiss was Whittling one day when he had a Uretha moment!

By par-taketh of his Wisseth, he reached an altered state of consciousness !

A state of Ecstasy !

The sacred River of Life was discovered !

He then created the first wissers, Uric & Urethel!

It is from these creations that the Whittling Widdlers are descendant from. 

After he partaketh, he then widdled into a Sacred Vessel in which our honey like substance was gathered !

Thee Holy Pail !   

 

For many, the Arte has lain dormant, only a faint race memory being stirred in times of dire need. If you believe that you have felt the urge, but have been unsure about how to respond, this is a sure sign that you have the Gift of Wiss - albeit unawakened.

Academics may write of such things without actually being fully aware of the implications behind their thesis: one has only to think of the Mummers, with the Full and his Bladder - to cite but one example of the Hidden Lore!

If wee have tickled your fancy, please feel free to make contact - you have nothing to lose, but wee could open the wee to rediscovering your inner wissdom...

All Hail to the Holy Pail ,

Merry Fart & Bloated Be !  

There are 4 Degrees in the Ancient Arte of Wisscraft

1st Degree = Whittler

2nd Degree = Widdler

3rd Degree = Wisser

Elder = Incontinante

The Tena Ladies are *very* Hygienic; They have :

No Catch on their Snatch!
No Dirt on their Blurt!
No Thrips on their Lips!
No Mange on their Minge !
No Troll on their Hole!
No Cheese on their Squeeze!
No Gnats on their Twats!
No Spots on their Bots!
No Scum on their Bum!

Because they :

   


FANNY FLOSS is a special material that is made to slide easily between even the tightest cheeks & lips without chafing or abrading. Proctologists recommend regular flossing. Flossing has been clinically proven to remove dingleberries, tagnuts, wingbats & chesse between cheeks to help prevent bum & crack disease.

When you go to the dentist, the first thing they usually mention is that you have not been flossing as much as you should. Well, few people know that proctologists often say the same thing. And let me tell you, scraping plaque with that little hook is nothing compared to what the proctologist does with dingleberries. You’ve been warned.!!!!!


They Buff their Muff !!!

A song from the Tena Ladies :

When our stretch marks look like the New Jersey Turnpike 
mapped from navel to knees, 
when the bottom`s best feature is its interesting texture 
(the sign of a fine cottage cheese), 
when we search for the perfect bathing suit 
that will cover our assets -and still look cute- 
is this an impossible, hopeless pursuit? 
Or are we just hard to please? 
 
When will we finally find the designer we need 
who will heed our demand? 
Or a style at the shore (where less isn ot more) 
to guard the parts that are best left untanned? 
We need more protection than spandex rags; 
something cut larger than luggage tags 
tied with dental floss onto our saddle bags. 
Don`t hide your heads in the sand. 
 
chorus: 
We`re talking to you, Fashion Avenue 
We`re not going to take any more 
We`re your mothers and mistresses, wives and sisters 
united from shore to shore, 
We are standing erect with our hands on our chests 
four inches above the floor 
And we`re asking you, Fashion Avenue 
for a little more support. 
 
Swimsuits abound for the 98-pounder 
whose legs alone measure five feet. 
Here`s a fine idea: try a line this year 
for women who actually eat. 
Not for half-naked nymphs found posing between 
the pages--- of course!--- of a sports magazine, 
but swimsuits for those of us more likely seen 
between pages of Bon Appetit. 
 
Our legs do not end where our armpits begin; 
we want a realistic design, 
a little more coverage, a little less skin 
(some vertical stripes would be simply divine.) 
Swimwear that won`t self-destruct with a wave, 
fashion to flatter the not-so-brave, 
at least let us know where to stop when we shave. 
Where do we draw the line? 
 
chorus ...with our hands on our chests 
two inches above the floor... 
 
One day we may see our feminist family 
rise from the underground, 
despite Father Time and weird Uncle Gravity 
constantly pulling us down. 
This dysfunctional system will finally heal, 
even our sisters with abs of steel 
will all too suddenly know how we feel 
ten years and two babies from now. 
 
And when we connect and command your respect, 
effectively paying our dues, 
your very language shall be more correct. 
Fat is a word you will no longer use. 
Those negative terms only grate on our nerves. 
Give adipose tissue the name it deserves. 
Call it ... "personal strategic energy reserves" 
and call stretch marks "organic tattoos" 
 
chorus ...with our hands on our chests 
----upon the floor.