Hi I’m Sai, Sai Bakestone.
I used to be Master Bakestone.
I’m an ex cult leader from Sydney in witness protection. Currently based in some coastal safe house because when I was Master Bakestone, I was given way too many drugs to be held responsible for believing I was the second coming of an intergalactic being who travels through time and space…
Something about communicating through rhythm and sound, all while “The Cult” embezzled millions of dollars… allegedly… and I somehow got roped into the mysterious disappearance of 18 ex‑members.
Don’t worry… they were mostly interns.
The optics were bad enough that the story kicked off the very first federal level Royal Commission into “Australian Cults.”
I’m currently testifying in Parliament against those who manipulated me into these beliefs, exploited my deviancy, and fuelled a party‑drug‑dependent diet.
Many active members are still on the hunt to try and silence me.
But what I worry about the most are my behavioural relapses, I’m still in Cult Leader Rehabilitation.
Real problem is…
Cult Leader Rehab isn’t real.
They say I keep blowing my cover every time I greet someone by whipping out my dick. Apparently that’s not how civilians say hello.
I thought it was universal language.
Guess not.
I’ve literally spent more time talking to rooms where everyone is naked than I have talking in rooms where people are wearing clothes.
So you’d think something like Sex Addicts Anonymous would be the next place they send me.
No.
Instead, they give me season courtside tickets to the WNBL.
Going from microphones to keyboards ain’t so bad.
I’m also required to watch this old footage of Steve‑O from Jackass getting told off by Method Man after whipping his dick out on stage during a warped tribute to Ol’ Dirty Bastard … RIP
and then needing to immediately apologise to ODB’s mum, who was also on stage at the time.
Otherwise, every living Clan member was ready to beat the living shit out of Steve‑O.
Pants on or off.
If 90’s Wu‑Tang ain’t down for my bullshit, I don’t stand a chance with the general pubic—
public, I mean public.
There I go again…
That’s my new taxpayer funded programming in action.
My ankle monitor confirms I play that five minute clip three times a day, before every meal.
Miss a session and it’s back to jail.
Goodbye safe house.
Old Dirty habits die faster when you’ve got jewellery below the knees and Method Man’s stare burnt into your memory.
So I stay out of trouble by keeping myself busy writing.
I share some of it here.