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.