“faust got fucking great taste.”

“Faust and I met in 1953 as fellow members of the French Foreign Legion. We became fast friends - he covered for my dirty boots story which prevented me from receiving 50 lashes from the Lieutenant. I'd stepped in mud, not by chasing away an intruder from our home base, as my prevarication stated, but rather in returning from the warm arms of a knowing Moroccan prostitute well versed in several schools of ancient African sex magick. Le petit mort, indeed.

In gratitude I taught him how to how to properly wear the trademark white hat, the underlying basics of French grammar, and how to find scorpions under mossy stones and extract their venom for use in poisoning one's bayonet blade. In turn he taught me a variety of forms of Buddhist meditation and how to pick a lock using only a penknife and a hardened toenail.

We deserted together after our Commandant went mad from a particularly virulent form of flesh eating disease and thought himself to be TEOYAOMQUI, Aztec God of Dead Warriors, and begun demanding human sacrifices.

Despite our military background, Faust and I were freethinkers who'd had enough of this cannibalistic nonsense, and used our Masonic connections, a golden amulet formerly belonging to Hassan I Sabbah, and a suitcase full of fine red Afghani hash to barter our way to safety in India.

We ran up a series of temple steps, just off the Ganges, in one breath - supposedly a shortcut to enlightenment, and instantly downloaded a spiritual zip file that exploded in a series of ecstastic visions, one of which would become a legendary German Afri-Kola commercial with soda-sipping stoned nuns that we sold to a down and out producer for 2 plane tickets to Zurich and an armload of the finest German sausage. We laughed as they were only crib notes from Boccaccio, but still of sufficient power to make irate various branches of the clergy.

The last time I saw Faust is when he flew over my head after we'd been desperately chased by a Swiss cabal of bankers for seducing their dewy eyed Alpine daughters with the promise of cocaine and a few old bottles of Czech cognac after we'd intercepted a bundle of valuable silk banners and a Blue Koran sent to them by the Bavarian Illuminati.

As Faust was thrown off this most frosty of Alps, quite over my head, the vine I was tenuously holding onto nearly broke, but I noticed upon it a ripe juicy strawberry, which I promptly ate. Then - snap!

Fortunately through our devastating good looks, unnaturally good luck, and a more than passing acquaintance with that ol' battleaxe Eris, not to mention nature's abhorrence of a vacuum created by the destruction of a fine piece of tailorwork (I was wearing my crushed purple velvet suit at the time) we both managed to survive.

Now we only communicate via the internet and through slight coded modifications in the migratory patterns of swallows.”

“Faust has entirely too few testimonials to convey the capital soul that he is.

This man is one of the reasons this site remains worth attending.
Unofficially, of course.”

“What would we do without Acid Grampa?

Well, now I KNOW, and I did NOT enjoy it.”

“Faust has a way with words. No, really. Even when he doesn't, he's a kickass individual, and I'm glad to know him.”

“No fucking way, I'm the first testimonial, WTF!!! This guy is striaght up Aces. Always ready to help, and mad cool about it. Midwest represented in LA what ya know 'bout that. Good man!
”