After finally liberating myself from the Conspiracy Indoctrination Institutions, I went and married a woman as Pink as they come. And you know something? “Bob” was no where to be found. Not long afterward I moved to Texas, where men are men and sheep are nervous, and to make a long story short (too late) ended up homeless – and still “Bob” was no where to be found. I soon managed to move back to my home state and fathered not one, but two awesome little mutants – and still “Bob” was no where to be found.
Eventually, agents of the Conspiracy came under the impression that I was trying to be a 'team player' and I was offered a job working for the Conspiracy. I had grown up the son of a career military man and a politician – and I could smell the crap they were trying to feed me, so I should have known better – but everyone has their price, and they met mine. So I took it.
Friends – I've heard some say 'false slack is better than no slack at all.” But I've heard others say “False slack IS no slack.” And they are right. False slack is that which gives the illusion of slack, but that slack comes at a price. As I said they met my price – and for close to 10 years I found myself drowning in false slack. Even after all that hard earned wisdom “Bob” saw fit to bestow upon me all those years ago, I had been conned by the Con into working for Them at the cost of my soul.
Oh sure – I had a roof over my head, I had insurance and money to indulge in my eccentricities – but you know – it seemed more of an impediment to my slack when I had to deal with almost daily death threats, guns shoved in my face, dogs sicked on me, insults and asshattery for doing nothing more than my job. For almost a decade I watched the Conspiracy rape an pillage the pinks while painting a great big bulls-eye on my back. For almost a decade, I watched as the machine that I had become a part of swept across the land, devouring everything in its path, all the while pointing a blood soaked finger at me, blaming me for the destruction. And the Pinks bought it hook, line and sinker.
Friends – after almost a decade of this, I couldn't take it any more. I had come to the end of my rope, and didn't even have enough to hang myself with. It had gotten to the point where even medicating myself daily with copious amounts of Frop and PiLs no longer did anything for me. Friends – I had found myself at the crossroads, praying for a devil to sell my soul to if he would just make it all stop. I had just about given up all hope. When suddenly I was struck with a revelation. A light shun onto me – a brilliant glow from a pipe of the finest Frop. Friends – it was at this moment, when the world was at it's darkest, that “Bob” came back into my life.
It was then I knew what “Bob” had intended for me all along! Friends, I sent in my love offering to “Bob” and became a SubGenius minister. I finally quit that soul-sucking Conspiracy job! Friends – there is no greater pleasure than crushing your Conspiracy issued badge and throwing it across the table at the taskmasters, telling them where they can stick it. Being escorted out of the building by a legion of armed guards brought a slackful smile to my face. Through “Bob” I finally came to understand what true Slack meant for me – I found that I had it all along. And that no matter what the Conspiracy tried, they would never take it away from me. It is what Teacher Joe had tried to instill in me all those years ago, but it took almost loosing “Bob” forever to finally see the light.
So here I am. After years of being a card carrying member of “Bob's” brood, I come before you a changed man, with the scars from a lifelong battle against the oppressive machine of the Conspiracy. I stand before with a soulful of Slack and a stupid grin as proof of the power of “Bob's” Divine teachings. I stand here looking out at my Yetinsyn brothers and sisters with only one thing to say:
What the fuck did I get myself into?
I have been watching this gaggle of retards for years now and it simply baffles me – why, with all of this Slack and collective creativity in our midst, we continually turn our hate and derision upon each other. So many of them can only see as far as the rule “Fuck'em if they can't take a joke.” – which I like to counter with another rule that so many of have overlook – “If you don't have a sense of humor – don't try to be funny” and the ONE rule that far too many of them don't seem to truly grasp – “The SubGenius MUST HAVE SLACK!” If you have to go out of your way to steal the Slack from your fellow mutants in order to fortify your own, you have committed THE cardinal sin in this Church of the Inside Joke. A sin horrific enough to have your name X-ed out in the Book of Life!
Stop and look around you at your fellow mutants. You are under no obligation to like any of these people. In fact you are encouraged to hate these people. These SubGenii may not be your friends – but for Dobbs' sake – they ARE your allies. They are your brothers-in-arms against the collective might of the Conspiracy and it's agents. No one in their right mind could ever hope to actually hurt or stop the Con – but this group has the power to make the agents of the Con – those Pink pricks that gleefully rob the true SubGenius of their Slack for fun and profit – you have the power to make them regret they ever heard the name J.R. “Bob” Dobbs. But no – you're content to fling your feces at each other, proud of the fecal mess you've contributed to. And while you laugh and sniff your finger – the Pinks are getting away with murder!
So, okay – you paid your money to “Bob”, and you have your membership card, and you come to X-Day year after year hoping for that big saucer in the sky to whisk you away to paradise. But maybe... just maybe... you've been so busy sticking a poop caked finger in the eye of your brethren that you've overlooked some details. And it's not my place to spell it out to you. It's been spelled out to you for over 30 “Bob” damn years. Maybe it's time to start paying a little more attention.
I would like to close by making one more point that many seem to either be incapable of grasping, or flat-out ignore, and that is this: Once you've taken the Clip Art off the wall, once you've set down the Book of the SubGenius, once you've erased the artwork, once you've deleted the rants, once you've thrown away the 'All-Inclusive Excuse,” once you've looked beyond the joke you end up with one solid fact – this is Ivan Stang's party and you are nothing but a guest. If you can't abide by this one simple fact, then you should tear up your membership card right now. Because as Ivan Stang has pointed out far too many times: Some people are just too stupid, even for SubGenuis
Friends – the power of "Bob" knows no obstacle. Since my early childhood I enjoyed the brain numbing barrage of images from cable television, and I eventually found myself spending quite a bit of time watching programs like "Night Flight" on the USA Network -- occasionally catching fleeting glimpses of "Bob" during media assaults submitted by the SubGenius. Other programs included shows like "Pee-Wee's Playhouse" -- which as we all know did it's part at introducing the younger generations to that slackful grin.
These tiny touches of cerebral fortification were just what I needed to remind me of what Teacher Joe had taught me, and helped me keep my hard fought strength for the times that were ahead.
Fast forward to September of 1992, I had come home early from school this day. I recently had my wisdom teeth removed and had just gotten my stitches pulled. I took a shower and changed into some sweats. I was home alone, waiting for my friends to get home from school. I was on the phone chatting it up with a young lady friend when it happened.
First came the noise -- the long, low wail, like the sound of an incoming train, then a short, sharp thud! Glancing out the octagon window next to the fireplace, I saw a massive fireball fill the window. Running outside I saw the neighbor's whole backyard was engulfed in flame. I was standing in the heart of a plane crash. Seems that someone wasn't paying attention to their flight path and two planes collided in the air. One of these planes smashed into the newly constructed brick deck on the neighbor's house.
The fire and smoke was everywhere. As I ran closer, I saw someone slowly dragging themselves away from the burning wreckage. Instinct took over, and I rushed into the fire itself to pull the badly wounded man away from the blaze.
Now if you've never seen someone with fresh third degree burns over 100% of their body, it truly is a sight to behold. His skin, where it wasn't chard black, was a sharp yellow color, like the color of a banana, but richer. What was left of the skin clung to his body like the wispy flakes of a spent cigarette. But what was really striking was his ice blue eyes against the chard flesh. This eyes would come to haunt me to this day. His clothes, or what was left of them, had already melted to his body.
Eventually the rescue units began to arrive and, while helping to move the man out of the danger zone, I found myself standing there holding his leg, which had detached from his body. Truly an image that would 'sear' into my mind for years to come. To this day the sound of a plane flying overhead forces me to scan the sky for falling objects. Needless to say you will never get me to step foot on a plane ever again.
That evening, the young lady I had been speaking to on the phone at the time of the crash, and I hung out. She was worried about me and came by to make sure I was okay. I had been pretty shaken by the experience and she realized that I really shouldn't be left alone. She took me back to her place. While she showered and changed I sat in the living room, half out of it from shock. The television was on that miscreant channel MTV, and I couldn't have cared less.
I can't really describe my feelings at that moment. One would have to experience it themselves to really understand. Like a shell shocked solder, your emotions turn cold to protect you from cracking up. You find yourself sliding deeper and faster down that rabbit hole of despair and confusion, lost amidst the darkness of your own memory. Wandering the corridors of your mind, you open door after door, hoping to find the way out, only to find yourself standing in another corridor surrounded by more doors. Eventually you've gone too far, and may never find your way back.
As I sat there growing more numb by the moment a voice came blaring over the airwaves. A voice that seemed to scream at me and only me. A voice that seemed to grab me by my hair and slapped me in the face. The voice screamed: "What the hell do you think you're doing?!!" in what sounded like those insane televangelist preachers that belch hellfire and damnation over the UHF.
The voice continued: "Dragging your butt through the day, selling body and soul to a bunch of bland normals! Acting stupid so they'll think you're one of them? Tired of getting all of the guilt with none of the sex?" The voice seemed so familiar to me, yet I couldn't place it. Like a voice from the past trickling back into my consciousness, yet was so powerful a voice that it rattled the heavens.
Again the voice boomed from the tiny speaker in the front of the television set: "There is a simple answer, dear friends!" As I gazed at the screen from the darkness that had enveloped me, my eyes took in the image of the face of J.R. "Bob" Dobbs! As if at that precise moment he knew exactly when I needed his Slack power to rescue me from the twisted perdition I was falling into. That old strength that saved me from the years of isolation, the strength to persevere when the will of others lie shattered on the ground came flooding back into me -- coursing through my veins. Once again the power of "Bob" grabbed me by the testicles and yanked my soul from the clutches of darkness.
And my dear friends, Not only did I find it in me to stand mightily in the face of the feces life had flung in my general direction -- but that night, I got laid!
I have heard many stories of how the multitude of mutants came to find “Bob” and through those tales I have seen a glimpse into the inner workings of the minds of the Chosen Ones –
Friends – I have a tale to tell. A tale of how I came to know “Bob” and his message of Slack. I shall recount to you my earliest days as a young mutant struggling against the oppressive machine of the Conspiracy. I shall dispense to you firsthand accounts of my Slackful gains and shed some of “Bob's” pipe light on the reason for my raging contempt for the pathetic masses of Pink pestilence.
As with any good messiah, his Divine message comes in 3s – and so shall mine to you. I shall recount to you three key moments in my battle against the Conspiracy. Three moments in my life that helped to mold the mutant that stands before you. Three moments where “Bob” came to me in those trying times. Three events that would culminate in my coming before you today.
However this only meant that the alternative was an ever madding repetition of segregation, isolation and loneliness.
Upon entering First grade, it became apparent I was to suffer for my mutation. Due to what appeared to the taskmasters to be my refusal to assimilate into the machine, my academic career was to become one of compulsory solitude.
The reality was I needed stimulation! As we all need a little stimulating now and then – I was simply bored with their teaching techniques: the method of flinging abstract facts and figures at a room full of glassy eyed children, expecting it to stick in their brains, to be regurgitated onto standardized tests. For the first 5 years, “higher education” for me meant being locked in what was essentially a prison cell – 4X4 cinderblock walls, one overhead bulb and a big, heavy door with a tiny window so I could be watched.
On special occasions they would shake it up and put me on display with other 'deviant' children in a type of Carnival freak show. “Come see those who will be pumping your gas and filling our prisons in a few short years. Mind you, I was never a disruptive child – I didn't get into fights or backtalk teachers, nor did I go out of my way to cause mischief. And in fact I was still learning. As long as I was in the classroom, I was still absorbing the information the teachers were flinging at me. But it didn't matter to them – to them I was a 'disruption' that needed to be removed.
For years I thought this type of treatment was 'normal' – In three different schools over a 5 year period I found the same techniques being used by sadistic jackholes given undeserved authority over the minds and spirits of children. The schools, furious with me for daring to disrupt their perfect system, would ostracize me for the remainder of my academic career – and as far as I was concerned, I came to eventually understand just how good and screwed I had been all that time. And had about as much contempt, distrust and loathing towards an institution any child could muster.
And yet, all was not a total loss – for “Bob” works in mysterious ways. No one knows for sure just how, or if the Sultan of Sales' mind works, but I am convinced it was an agent of “Bob” who came to the aid of this young and impressionable mutant, preparing him for the trials he was about to endure.
During my first two years of Conspiracy torture... I mean 'Indoctrination' – I had the good fortune of having an art teacher, who I shall refer to as “Teacher Joe.” Teacher Joe was the kind of guy who would prop his feet on his desk as he went over the lessons for the day. Teacher Joe was the kind of guy who would pull his glass eye out of his head if his kids weren't paying attention. Teacher Joe was the kind of guy who plastered his classroom walls with posters of films his students weren't old enough to see. A few items that stand out in my mind are a full sized “Alligator” marquee poster, a 12 inch Boba Fett doll locked in a birdcage, the face of J.R. “Bob” Dobbs hanging next to his desk.
Teacher Joe took a special interest in me, seeing my inherent mutation, my natural abilities in art, and being aware of the solitude I was enduring on a daily basis. He would even go out of his way to ask the other teachers keeping me confined if I could assist him in whatever excuse he could come up with as a way of freeing me from that damn cell – even if for only a little while.
In reality, we would end up hanging out in the boiler room of the school, telling dirty jokes while I drew and he smoked cigarettes and graded papers. Imagine that happening today and the stink it would cause in the community – it was my only salvation from the torture I was enduring. Although he was my teacher for only two years, it was with his guidance that I managed to find the strength to keep my mind from cracking under the strain of all those years of solitude. With his teachings, I found the courage to defy the plans the Conspiracy had laid out for me – like whoring my talents to the highest bidder for some Pink propaganda firm, designing the most recent titillating beer commercials – or becoming some fuzzy headed drink of piss water painting happy trees and contented mountains on PBS. Or becoming just another stuff shirt, white collar designing the latest vertigo inducing monstrosity, or monuments to modern self absorption and spiritual abortion.
Thanks to his teachings I even managed to send one of those Pink sucking, failure of a teacher over the edge and forced her into early retirement.
Through Teacher Joe, I found the strength to do what I wanted to do – no matter who tried to stop me. I am convinced that Teacher Joe is or was a follower of the teachings of “Bob” Dobbs, coming to the rescue of a young mutant in his most desperate hour – giving him the tools to use later in life in his quest for true Slack.
…Nobody cares because the powers that be – I mean politicians, the clergy, the media, and the corporations – ALL OF THEM – are complacent in the machine of the Conspiracy to keep mankind ignorant and fearful for their own glorification. This is really beyond just a bunch of greedy bastards overfeeding at the troth – this is a deliberate attempt to destroy the monetary system – plain and simple.
AmeriKa is a nation founded by slave-owning tax dodgers, expanded on the corpse of the indigenous people – and is currently putting a choke-hold on the rest of the world. Virtually every problem the world is facing we have some stake in, and as a collective nation, willfully continue to throw napalm on an already out of control fire.
We are already slaves – we have an illusion of ‘freedom’ – but as the song says “Freedom’s just another word for ‘nothing left to lose.’” I can make this statement because I have lost everything in my life twice. If there ever be a third time – I will not go quietly.
… and nobody will care…
… Nobody will care because everyone has something to lose and are afraid of rocking the boat, lest they lose something. The human race were once great hunters – it is because of this feature we have moved ourselves up the food chain – but the collective of this country has lost its stomach for blood! Not the blood you see on the TV screen or in the cinema – but the blood on one’s hands after a fresh kill.
They have lost this taste for so long, it has become repulsive to them. This creates a fear of blood. This fear creates fear for the flesh – and we become slaves to our own fear – which the predators of the modern age know how to exploit – using tried and true methods thousands of years in the crafting.
These fools no longer want to get their hands dirty and are looking for someone to do their dirty work. The sheep have become accustomed to the shepherd to the point that every thought is shepherd. It is no coincidence that the number of media owners has shrunk from over 30 not 25 years ago down to 5 in 2010. The narrative created has become brain candy for the intellectually lazy and perfect fodder to sustain the rage of the self absorbed ‘baby boomers’ going crazy the fact they are losing their hold on the illusion of their 'middle class'– and add to the confusion of a generation of young voters who have no fucking clue of the world beyond MTV and Blackberries – all the while bleating for preprogrammed change proscribed by those who seek to take advantage of them.
… And no one will care…
Problem is I have no insurance – I haven’t had any since I walked from my job in the Conspiracy almost 2 years ago. And at this rate I won’t have any for a long, long time to come. So what does that mean? I get to sit here and wait till the script runs out, then go back to the ER in more pain? Or if it is something along the lines of a kidney stone – what then? Don’t know and at the moment, don’t care. I’m enjoying the buzz and the lack of pain while it lasts.
Rev Suds Pshaw of MUNKY HVY steps in to pinch the Flooze, er, pinch-hit FOR the Flooze! Come and witness the creative collages the seep from his demented forebrain to entertain YOU!
Also, prepare yourself, if you dare, for the World Radio Premiere of MUNKY HYV's melodious musical masterpiece *In "Bob" We Tru$t*! Don't miss it!
Originally broadcast by 91.1 WREK Atlanta, the voice of Georgia Tech. http://www.wrek.org
“Bob’s” Slacktime Funhouse – TONIGHT!
www.wrek.org Atlanta 91.1FM @ 1am – “Bob’s” Slacktime Funhouse hosted by Rev. Susie the Floozy – tonight: A Dobbs Size Clusterf**k – designed by none other than the Universal Philosopher himself! Set your dial for the World Premiere of MUNKY HYV's "In "Bob" We Tru$t"
In the meantime – I proudly introduce you to the official house band of the A.o.t.F.C. – MUNKY HYV
See ya on the mothership!
"I long ago learned the advantages of patience."
The scariest person in the room never has to apologize for anything. Not torture, or murder, or the single-minded pursuit of a mother Leviathan and her newborn baby, or for driving our heroes to the brink of insanity. For Scorpius, it's all in a day's work.
The product of a Scarran assault on his Sebacean mother, Scorpius grew up among his father's people, hated and despised as a hybrid weakling. The Scarrans spent cycles trying to torture the Sebacean tendencies out of him. He eventually escaped and made his way to the Peacekeepers, who found his intelligence and ruthlessness useful enough to promote him to head scientific programs at their secret Gammak base. His overriding interest was to defeat the Scarrans, whom he loathes, and advance the Peacekeepers into the Uncharted Territories -- by whatever means necessary.
As a Sebacean/Scarran, Scorpius is regarded as a "half-breed," and therefore not equal to his Sebacean Peacekeeper compatriots, despite several physically superior traits which he possesses. He is capable of seeing further into the light spectrum, which allows him to see the energy signature of living beings. This unique ability also enables him to see subtle shifts in those energy signatures -- thereby detecting people's lies. He is also stronger than most Sebaceans, and as the main researcher on wormhole, remains one of the Peacekeeper' leading scientists in military weapons development.
His body suit is designed to regulate his internal temperature due to his Scarran half in need of heat which his Sebacean half is vulnerable to. Cooling rods are regularly inserted into the cavities in his head, which maintain thermal constancy, allowing his two halves to live in equilibrium. These rods must be periodically replaced; otherwise, his body might literally kill itself.
In every other way, he is far more competent and determined than those around him. His hybrid background may explain why he lacked military rank for so long, and why he found it necessary to finesse his way into a command through indirect means. Under most circumstances, Scorpius presents a calm and confidently amused face, seeming utterly certain of his eventual victory over those who oppose him.
He can be frighteningly polite to his victims, rarely raising his voice even when thwarted. His anger is terrible to behold, however; when he is surprised, or frustrated by sudden difficulties, he is capable of lashing out at anyone that thwarts him. A master of intellectual manipulation, he prefers not to use violence in reaching his goals, but his physical strength -- coupled with an intimate knowledge of pain and torture -- make him a fearsome foe in any circumstances. His skills are unparalleled, and he possesses one of the keenest minds in the known universe.
If there are any lengths Scorpius won't go to, or any ethical scruples that might prevent him from reaching his goals, he has yet to show them. When the wormhole information is finally in his possession, Scorpius's power in the Uncharted Territories will be substantial. He looks forward to developing powerful new weapons with this hard-fought knowledge… then unleash them on the hated Scarrans who caused him so much pain.
John Crichton remains a source of concern for him, and for good reason. The Peacekeepers had accepted the high cost of his pursuit for a time, but eventually Scorpius begins to lose the respect of his subordinates and the Peacekeeper High Command. And if he fails in his task, or if Crichton -- or Talyn – interfere with Scorpius' latest Gammak project, the Peacekeeper scientist's fate may be sealed.
However, when it comes to personal survival, Scorpius has proved many times that he possesses a truly uncanny brilliance. The Scarrans may soon have much to worry about from a creature they once dismissed as a weakling -- and Scorpius wouldn't have it any other way.
The specter of rage is my constant shadow
Ever lurking in the nooks and corners
The heavy hammer of righteous indignation
While also a burden too large to bear
It has sharpened the blade of mental conflict
At the same time blunts the heart
The red glow of anger burns so hot and bright
That it is sometimes all I know
It has been the warmth that comforts
And the flame that scars
It has attracted those who share my vision
But also driven away those who share my heart
Family and friends torn apart by this beast
This monster that lurks in the recesses of my soul
It fuels the voice with enough strength to rattle the heavens
But can also instill fear in the souls of the innocent
Such a wicked beast to frighten unnecessarily
A curse I've had to accept as to be the end of me
A lonely road no one but I can travel
A rock to drown my heart
And to drag my soul down into the darkness
A curse of isolation and solitude
Until I met you
I see your eyes hold steadfast
I hear your voice unwavering
The monster roars and destroys
And yet you stand your ground
And with the softness of the embrace
And the sweetness of the sound of your voice
The monster shrinks back
The darkness falls from my eyes
The red glow cools
And all that is left is a kiss
-- Yeah, I know it's sappy. So what.
So I continue to see these news reports and posts regarding how the Christians and the Muslims have been pushing their agendas through the world courts.
Well, let me point out a few things. I am not a Christian. Nor am I a follower of Islam, Hinduism, Chinese traditional, Buddhism, Primal indigenous, Sikhism, Juche, Spiritism, Judaism, Bahá'í Faith, Jainism, Shinto, Cao Dai, Zoroastrianism, Tenrikyo, Neopaganism, Unitarian Universalism, Rastafari, African traditionalism and diasporic, Humanism, Atheism, Rationalism, Agnosticism or Satanism.
No, friends – I am a SubGenius. And as a SubGenius, I am obligated to show, not only no respect whatsoever to anyone’s delusions, but am bound by the tenets of the sacred texts to ridicule and blaspheme all institutions of madness – this courtesy extending to my own twisted belief system. Yet I will never attempt to stand in the way of those very delusions I mock. And still, I continue to watch the self-righteous scream and shout how their values are under attack!
So what values are those?
Were those values forcing your secular beliefs into the laws that govern the land, and not giving a damn if it infringes on anyone elses beliefs?
Or maybe demanding your voice be heard over all others while forcing others to shut up?
How about allowing the atrocities in the world to continue while you hide behind "Gods Will" as a shield to protect you from taking action?
Or hypocritically condemning the actions of an imaginary enemy while you make allowances and justifications when the need suites you?
And then there is denying others the ability to enter into a sanctified union because you think it will somehow diminish yours?
And let’s not forget demanding critical thinking be replaced with guarded ignorance, while promoting fairy tales and/or dogma in place of science?
And my personal favorite, hiding behind blind faith in order to either protect you from the real world or in order to justify your existence?
But there’s also demanding your god take precedence over all others?
And demanding others have their right to live taken away because they don’t follow your line of thinking?
And the ever popular demanding that desperate people change their beliefs to yours in order to receive your help?
See, I have never called for the death of those who do not believe as I do, because I know you're already dead and just don’t know it yet.
I have never attempted to change someone elses way of thinking, because most folks are too myopically minded to grasp what it is I preach anyway.
My beliefs do not require anyone else to think the way I do in order to support them. And I’m completely content to keep it that way.
I don’t practice what I preach, because I’m not the kind of person I preach to.
And in the end I know I’m right – and when this planet finally burns… Well, let’s just say ‘vindication is an amazing sensation.’
Radicals and fanaticals may be bad, but hiding behind your shepherd as a shield will do nothing to save anyone. Cause no matter how many followers are within your flock, there is one truth that you can never escape. All lambs, eventually, are lead to slaughter. At least it’ll be a party at “Bob’s” house when the end comes, and we'll be grillin' up BBQ lamb chops.
So, I call you out, all people of hypocrisy and apathy. Because even if some people from your flock have done good in this world -- the atrocities, the murders, the torture, the robbing of innocents, the senseless slaughter of untold millions of people, all in the name of your God does put a damper on the whole benign facade.
It is sickening that you hide behind your faith as justification for atrocities. And those who hid behind their faith to shield them from taking action to stop it! You should be hiding behind “Bob” – at least he has a money back guarantee!
In any case, when it comes to shepherds -- I’d rather be a wolf any day. At least then I’d have a fighting chance.
For those of you who do not know me -- I am the Very Esteemed Universal Philosopher of Absolute Reality Reverend Frodis Pshaw.
Those SubGenii fortunate or courageous enough to have attened the X-Day XII drill know me as Rev. "Suds."
I wish to take this opportunity to thank the SubGenius Foundation and staff that attended this recent Rupture for putting on an event that this mutant will not soon forget -- I'd say it's take at least a month
Many SubGenius have been attending these events for years -- some as far back as the first drill in 1996 by Conspiracy Calender. And some may shrug and say "You've seen one X-Day drill, you've seen'em all."
To them I say this: X-Day is what you make of it -- and if you're not having fun, you've no one to blame but yourself. And I made my X-Day drill simply the most amazing experience that I can remember having in a long, long time.
Scoff and mock at this admission if you wish -- but during my 5 day stint at Brushwood, I encountered some of the genuine, the most considerate and the most frighteningly intelligent people I've ever had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with.
From the tireless preparation of Rev. Ivan Stang to the sheer brilliance of Dr. Howll --
From the razor wit and tongue of Suzie the Floozy to the madness that is Lonesome Cowboy Dave --
From the feedback inducing cleavage of Priestess Pisces to the ominous presence of Dr. K'taden Legume --
From the sweetness of Princess Wei "R." Doe to even the bullhorn of Modemac --
And to all the Yeti I had the honor to meet, phliosophize with, and got down and boogied: Dr. Holocaust, AlcheMinister Orpheus Stain, Sister Decadence, Dok Frop, Rev. Nickie Deathchick, Crazy Jim Jones, Rev. Eggplant and family, Lord Cyclohexane, SuperKim, Rev. Jellybeans, Sex Mortis and Princess Buzz Kill (formerly Princess X) and the more than three dozen more SobGenii who I became acquainted with -- I hope to see you all again rising high into the sky boarding those saucers for our Promised Land.
All have gained this freak of nature's admiration and respect -- especially Ivan Stang, who year after year has put up with more than his fair share of dipshits and wannabe Bobbies and yet continues to organize THE best End of the World celebration that any wacky, subversive cult could ask for.
And to the infamous Rev. Pickles -- we shall meet again -- for there can be only one.
To my fellow journeymen: Col. Christopher Lee and Priestess Pantiara Evokovitch who together braved the 7 plus hour drive from the Hoosier State -- When the hell are we unemployed and under-employed mutants going to throw a Dobbs damn Devival?!! Only time/Slack/funds will tell, so stay in touch! Quijibo forever!!!
To the staff at Brushwood -- thank you for putting up with the insanity that is the Church of the SubGenius -- a lesser group would have ran screaming for the hills by now.
And finally -- to the few dumbasses and dipshits who just couldn't take or get the joke -- guess you won't be back next year to piss in our collective corn flakes. Of course, that just means a whole new slew of dumbasses and dipshits to contend with. But sometimes you ust take the bad with the good -- and the drill staff have gotten pretty good over the years dealing with the likes of you. Good riddance.
After all is said and done -- I want to thank everyone for an amazing 5 days. All the other cults and so called religions need to take a lesson from our little congregation -- a lesson in blood, bondage and bearing. The SubGenius ain't going anywhere, for we are the chosen few -- "Bob" is eternal -- Our Slack will see us through -- and all the pink boys and girls can suck a fart from our collective arses.
Glory to Slack
and Fuck the Conspiracy -- may the fleas from a thousand camels infest the armpits of the agents of the Con!
Till next year, friends -- Lucky 13!!!
May "Bob" bless and keep your pocketbook.
I'd also like to make mention of the musical stylings of Phat Man Dee, Fat Free, and John Deere Tractor Beam -- and we must make mention of the Amino Acids, lest they should come to our homes with brain melting devices of various sizes.
Say you’ve convinced yourself that Slack is nothing more than an unattainable pipe dream.
Maybe you feel that this whole thing really is just some sort of stupid joke.
Perhaps you’re thinking to yourself “Fuck “Bob!”
Well – fear not, my friends – fucking “Bob” is kinda the point.
FARSCAPE – How can such a unique treasure like this be such a hard sell? Is it the name? I don’t know how many times I’ve heard “Fire Escape? Is it a show about firemen?” Yet, such a unique show would require an equally unique name. Google the word “FARSCAPE” and that’s all you get – nothing but FARSCAPE.
Is it the production team? Quite a few people automatically think it’s a kids show since it was made by the Jim Henson Company – and yet everyone has such fond memories from their childhood involving Muppets, and with the JHC having such a distinguished record for quality projects, it’s difficult to understand why folks won’t give such a unique show a chance.
Is it the fantastical science fiction elements? With most of the highest grossing films of all time being science fiction, it should be a given that folks would enjoy such a unique program – although televisions track record of sci-fi shows leaves something to be desired, I guess it’s understandable.
Could it be the heavily involved story arcs? With the massive popularity of shows like 24 and LOST with deep plots and interweaving story lines, it’s hard to fathom anyone not being able to follow the unique stories and situations the characters find themselves in.
Maybe it’s the characters? When so many people tune in to six thirty-something, whiny losers sitting around a coffee shop week after week, pissing and moaning about how much of a mess their life is, it’s hard to imagine that anyone would not find the depth of character growth on FARSCAPE entertaining and compelling.
I grew up with the best (and worst) that television had to offer. I was raised on programs dating back to the Golden Age with Jackie Gleason and Jack Benny, all the way through to the insipid birth of reality TV. I’ve watched brilliant and not-so-brilliant programs come and go. I’ve had my favorites, and I had those I detested – yet I gave all of them a chance. You never know when you might find a gem amongst the clutter.
But for a while there, my interest in TV began to wane. It seemed to be the same archetypes and scenarios with the same laugh tracks and the same clichés over and over again. And with the sudden popularity of reality TV (which has nothing to do with reality) I would find myself channel surfing robotically, bored with the blah and bland and the ever increasing inanity of commercials.
That is, until that night…
Working late, I arrived home in the middle of a snowstorm – pissed off and chilled to the bone, hungry and just wanting to relax. I eventually found myself in front of the TV, flipping through endless channels with no hope of anything grabbing my attention, much less holding it much past the next commercial break.
Suddenly, something caught my eye. Was that a bald, blue chick? I flipped back and realized it was the Sci-Fi channel (a channel known at the time for reruns of Quantum Leap and Mystery Science Theatre) and there before me was this beautifully statuesque, bald, blue woman with some of the most fine detailed makeup work I’d ever seen. Then, this strange beast of a man appeared who looked like a cross between a cat and a squid – and yet, his features brought to mind a warrior wearing a helmet. I was curious to say the least. Was this some late night Sci-Fi original movie? It had to be – the makeup and prosthetics were far more advanced than your typical “Human with funny forehead” aliens – i.e. Star Trek.
Whatever it was I was watching was almost over, and I watched until the end, when the credits rolled across the screen and I saw that this program was produced by the Jim Henson Company. I was awestruck! I am such a huge fan of the man Jim Henson. His imagination and creativity, both in front of and behind the camera, was simply the work of genius. As a child I studied puppetry and dreamed of becoming a Muppeteer. When he died was the only time I have ever cried over the death of a celebrity. By now, my curiosity was enough to kill a dozen cats. The title of the show finally flashed across the screen – FARSCAPE. Weird name for sure, but it sure made it easy to Google. What was this show all about? And when will it be on again? It wasn’t long before I had my answers –
The next Friday I set aside time to check out just what the Jim Henson Company had came up with. It turns out this episode was the season one finale. During the next hour I experience the most exciting and exhilarating television I ever had. As the end credits began to roll I found myself giving the show a standing ovation. I can’t really describe the feelings I had. But I thought that television had finally changed for the better. Not only had it raised the bar for what could be done on TV, but for me it became what I would hold all past and future programs up against as a measure of quality. They just don’t make shows like FARSCAPE. And they never will again.
Over the next few years I enjoyed this strange and irreverent show and its amazing cast of characters. Eventually I acquired the complete collection of the series on DVD, and began hosting viewing parties, slowly turning a few friends and family on to the wonders I had experienced. Some of the best fun I’ve had hanging with friends were during these viewing parties, which could occasionally be mistaken for Super Bowl parties with how rowdy we would get. The show affected my viewing habits so much that when the series was unceremoniously cancelled, I cancelled my cable, and have barely watched TV for the last decade. I still give programs a chance, and they continue to disappoint. Even the ones that have grabbed my attention still do not hold a candle to FARSCAPE, and I can’t even bring myself to watch these shows as they air – I have to pick up the sets on DVD and watch them in one sitting. I just can’t be bothered to make time for TV anymore.
So when I saw so many of my friends making such a big deal about the show LOST, which to me feels like one big jerk off session – sure it can be entertaining, but you’re still just getting jerked off. I want to scream to the world “No! There is something more satisfying and marvelous out there – if you’d just give it a chance!” I wish I could send copies of the series to every one of you so you could share the wonders I’ve seen. To share in something unique in the universe – and unique is always valuable.
So please – if you are willing to find time to watch a show like LOST, I’d like to ask for you to find just a little bit of time to enjoy this strange and irreverent, unique and groundbreaking show.
For more information – SPOILER FREE – check out “The Newbie’s Guide to FARSCSAPE” written by Mary Wood for FARSCAPE WORLD.
All my life I have suffered for my mutant abnormality, my friends. And at no time was my suffering worse than during my experience with the Conspiracy Indoctrination Institution known as the Public School System.
Most young mutants are ostracized early – weeded out like unwanted growth on a prized lawn, shunned and shamed into the fringes of the culture of the clicks -- all because their abnormality wouldn’t allow their square pegs to fit in someone else round hole.
Friends, I never even made it that far.
I was fortunate enough, however, that my experiences took place well before the practice of pushing mind-altering, zombie inducing medication like Pez became standard.
However this only meant that the alternative was an ever maddening repetition of segregation, isolation and loneliness.
Upon entering first grade, it became apparent I was to suffer for my mutation.
Due to what appeared to the taskmasters to be my refusal to assimilate into the machine, my academic career was to become one of compulsory solitude.
The reality was these teachers just couldn’t stimulate me enough.
Yes, friends – I demanded more stimulation than they were willing to serve!
I was simply bored with their teaching techniques – the method of flinging abstract facts and figures at a room full of kids – expecting it to stick in their brains, to be regurgitated onto standardized test.
It wasn’t that I was a disruptive child – I didn’t get into fights or backtalked teachers, nor did I go out of my way to cause mischief. I could sit in my head for the length of the class period and be perfectly content to not move or utter a sound. I was no class distraction by any means.
I simply didn’t do my work. I was still learning however, as long as I was in the class, I still absorbed the information the teachers were flinging at me. But it didn’t matter to them – to them I was a disruption that needed to be removed.
So for the first 5 years, ‘higher education’ for me meant being locked away from the classroom.
Eventually to be locked up in what was essentially a prison cell – 4X4 cinderblock walls, one overhead bulb and a big, heavy door with a tiny window so they could watch me.
Or on occasion they would shake it up and put me on display with other ‘deviant’ children in a type of Carnival freak show. “Come see those who will be pumping your gas and filling our prisons in a few show years!”
For years, I thought this type of treatment was ‘normal’ – In three different schools in 5 years, the same thing went on. Utterly convinced that this was ‘normal’ schooling procedure, I never voiced my feelings to my parents.
Eventually they found out anyway, and finally put an end to the practice. In fact, they made such a big stink that the practice was altogether abandoned in at least one of the schools.
However the damage had been done on both sides. The schools, furious with me for daring to disrupt their perfect system ostracized me for the remainder of my academic career.
And as far as I was concerned, I came to understand just how good and fucked I had been all that time. And had about as much contempt, distrust, and loathing towards an institution one 10 year old could muster.
Any child in this situation would probably have pulled a “Trench coat Mafia,” or a “’Ginny Tech” at this point.
And yet, all was not a total loss – for “Bob” works in mysterious ways. No one knows for sure just how – or even ‘if’ the Sultan of Sale’s mind works. But I am convinced it was an agent of “Bob” who came to the aid of this young and impressionable mutant, preparing him for the trials he was about to endure.
During my first two years of Conspiracy torture and solitude, I had the good fortune of having an art teacher, who I shall refer to as ‘Teacher Joe.’
Teacher Joe was the kind of guy who would pull out his glass eye to keep the kids’ attention.
Teacher Joe was the kind of guy who plastered his classroom walls with posters of films his students weren’t even old enough to see.
A few items that stand out in my mind were a full sized “Alligator” marquee, a 12 inch Boba Fett doll in a birdcage, and the face of J.R. “Bob” Dobbs hanging next to his desk.
Teacher Joe actually made learning a fun experience. His wild and zany personality not only stimulated my brain, it led to ability in art and cast me into the ocean of creativity.
Teacher Joe took a special interest in me, seeing my inherent mutation and being aware of the solitude I was enduring on a daily basis. He would even go out of his way to ask the other teachers keeping me confined if I could assist him in whatever excuse he could come up with as a way of freeing me from that damn cell – even if only for a little while.
In reality, we would end up hanging out in the boiler room of the school, telling dirty jokes and stories to each other while I drew and he smoked cigarettes and graded papers. Imagine that happening to today and the stink it would cause in the community. It was my only salvation from the torture I was enduring.
Although he was my teacher for only two years, it was with his guidance that I managed to find the strength to keep my mind from cracking under the strain of all those years of solitude. With his teachings, I found the courage to defy the plans the Conspiracy had laid out for me – like whoring my talents to the highest bidder for some dipshit pink propaganda firm, designing the most recent titillating beer commercials.
Or ending up some fuzzy headed drink of pink piss on PBS – painting happy trees and contented mountain ranges. Or becoming just another stuff shirt, white collar designing the latest vertigo inducing monstrosity, or monuments to modern self absorption and spiritual abortion.
Through Teacher Joe’s help, I found the strength to do what I wanted to do – to hold on to my Slack – no matter the consequences.
I am convinced that Teacher Joe is/was a follower of the teachings of “Bob” Dobbs, coming to the aid of a young mutant in his most desperate hour – giving him the tools to use later in life in his quest to know true Slack.