Divine Vision of "Suds" Pt 3

My moment of realization was interrupted by my frop ring getting snagged on the shield admitter, popping the ring and sending my plummeting back to Earth. As I began burning up in the atmosphere, I had a moment of clarity.

We’ve all come to understand that “Bob” is lucky – not smart. And it sure is luck for him I had this vision.

For taking my cue from "Bob" Himself, who proclaimed that we pull the wool over our own eyes, cast Him out and make our OWN religion, I, along with the MoFo of Mojo, Pastor Phister Gagghōl – Minister of Music, Madness & Mayhem, made the decision to schizm from the schizm and clench our own stark fist by forming the A.o.t.F.C. –

Which is itself an offshoot of the 28^th Day AdBobtist movement, splintered from the Apocalypsoholoic branch of the Dobbsian Mentalodge of Sanctimonious Conditioning – the Mental Cleansers and disinfectants of the old days.

Our tenets include not only making money for "Bob" playing turf accountant to those gambling on the many inter- denominational battles waging between the deficient, pink rag dolls of the Conspiracy and laughing mercilessly at their folly – but to also insure that payment is received in full on time.

So if you’re late, expect a knock on your door in the middle of the night. We’ll be paying you a little visit.

Money will flow like the explosion of wet sex over the face of the highest ÜberFemms, and a never ending fountain of Slack shall empower the Yeti race for the trials and tribulations we shall soon face.

You see, my friends – we are at a turning point in SubGenius history. A point where our race has the opportunity to truly prove its worth over the worthless heaps of pink stupid –

Sure, the Conspiracy can never be truly defeated by sheer Yeti will alone. But it can be hampered – it can be heckled and, with a little luck and a little Slack, we should enjoy the simple humor of watching the most righteous of the Consuckers ending up with egg on his face.

For if the Church of the SubGenius, and every other schizm that dares to speak of “Bob” are anything at all, it is this: A SUBVERSIVE CULT! And how do you become a subversive cult?

By subverting, of course!

To claim all of the churches of the inside joke are the greatest joke ever told just isn’t enough! We need to show the Conspiracy that it’s not the joke that’s important – it’s the punchline!

A closed handed, brass-knuckled haymaker right square in the jaw of the Conspiracy!

With the levels of twisted imagination the Yeti collective has, the sheer force of humor should be enough to blow the lid off this stupid machine – and show the aliens that we are the best goddamn performing monkeys the galaxy has ever seen!

We must pool our resources and develop ways of sticking a shit laced finger into the eyes of that the theorists have dubbed “Big Brother!”

We must find ways of flinging the monkey’s own feces back at them, and their wranglers!

We must find a way of slipping the almighty whoopee cushion under the arses of every pinkneck politician and bureaucrat we can get our hands on!

We must find a way of scribbling a mustache on every holy relic and sacred artifact that the gullible Pink saps would kill to protect!

We must find a way of spelling out a great big “FUCK YOU” across this nation coast-to-coast!

And we must let the agents of the Conspiracy know that “Bob” is their true master!

Are these thoughts blasphemous?

Are these beliefs heresy?

Are we out of our minds?

Are we desperate for money?

You’re damn right on all counts!

And I know "Bob" is happy for this – see? He's grinning! How can you argue with that!

By turning a profit off the backs of prophets is just one of the multitude of ways the Assembly of the Flaming Carpet find's their Slack!

And that's exactly what "Bob" wants, (well, besides our money) He wants us to have Slack! And by "Bob" we aim to have it!

Divine Vision of "Suds" Pt 2

And as I rose over the gleaming hull of that craft – the I watched as sky filled with the vanguard of a Yist attack cruisers – Sonic Ascendancy Cannons at the ready.

Two mighty races – poised on the precipice, ready to attack in a heartbeat, yet neither wanting to be the one to fire the First shot! A Mexican Stand-Off if you will --

As luck would have it, I eventually floated lazily across one of the viewports for what appeared to be an observation lounge. It was then I witnessed something that would change my thoughts on the secret workings of the universe.

Seated before a massive viewscreen, segmented into thousands of separate images, were representatives of both the Xists and the Yists, all of them in a fit of hysterical laughter.

The screens they were watching had images taken from all over the planet: the food riots in Africa, the war in Iraq, that former moronic monkey dancing a jig on the floor of the UN – so many images flashing across the screen so quickly that my mind could only absorb the barest fraction of the information.

Erected behind the group of hideous mutations was a large markerboard set up with what appeared to be a point spread written across the board. And putting up the odds was none other than J.R. "Bob" Dobbs himself – Money was flowing like wine, wine was flowing like wet sex, wet sex was flowing like money!

Eventually Connie appeared, carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres and, wearing nothing but a gold color strap-on that appeared to shine with an intense energy, served and serviced the throng of alien monstrosities, who cackled and guffawed at the exploits of the stupid pink bastards that plague our world.

At that moment I was struck with an epiphany!

All around us the mental midgets of the pink race bobbing their heads to the pronouncements of morons – their eyes glistening in a bovine glaze of intellectual laziness.

Utterly oblivious to the cliffs the Conspiracy sheppards them towards. Flagrantly disregarding scruples while aiding criminals aiding criminals by legalizing the very crimes they themselves are guilty of.

And all under the umbrella of thunderous applause and thudding back-patting over the fattening of coffers.

On all sides they come, armed with the stinking madness of their fear – they file in, shoulder to shoulder, jackbooted fools baying and bleating like legions of demented sheep.

Launching their blitzkrieg of bullshit and incompetence on the heads and hearts of all they do not understand, decimating the very ground under their feet with the sheer weight of their crusade against rationality and common sense!

But, my friends – all is not lost. Nah, my friends, the fun is just beginning.

For the Divine Vision of “Suds,” known as "The Immaculate Contradiction" testifies to a phantasmagoricaly fantastical method of successful venture that rivals any pink headed pyramid scheme the sorry sacks of pathetic normals could never dream.

The plan has changed! The great edict has been pushed aside in the name of massive profit!

The Xists, upon arriving to our backwater little dirtball, prepared for their reign of death and destruction down upon the heads of the pitiful creatures of man when the Yist arrived – ready for a fight. But like a crazy scene in some old gangster flick – the two sides found themselves staring down the barrel of each other’s guns.

Things were looking grim in Mudville – until "Bob" interviened.

"Bob" must have convinced them to hang out and enjoy the entertainment that the genetically stagnant human race has to offer. "Bob" himself has taken the opportunity to turn a healthy profit and has turned turf accountant, a bookie if you will, making money hand over stark fist, taking advantage of a change of events that no one could have foreseen, but only “Bob” could take advantage of!

In fact, "Bob" of course has the upper hand in the dealings and proceedings with his ace in the hole – the SubGenius! It appeared to me that "bob" had thrown us into the proceedings as an extra couple of yucks for the alien warbarers.

The more SubGenius subterfuge and subversions against the Conspiracy and all it represents, the funnier the aliens think it is, the more money exchanges hands/claws/tentacles, the more "Bob" likes it! And with an ÜberGodess like "Connie" in his corner, He can't lose!

Divine Vision of "Suds" Prt 1

So, I want to talk to you about this whole X-Day thing. I touched upon it earlier, but I was touching myself and stopped paying attention.

Now, specifically in regards to “Bob’s” prophecy and 1998. This topic has been beaten into the ground, but I’m still in the mood for some beatin’ – care to join me?

You see, there are a lot of theories floating around. Some refer to the Conspiracy calendar noting trustworthy – or that maybe “Bob” got the date wrong

I’ve even heard the idea that the memo was upside-down – or that it’s all just some big joke – Ha ha ha ha!

Friends, I have seen a vision – a vision of hope, a vision of promise – a vision profits, pipe smokers, and pudenda!

As a student of sound (audio engineering is my Slackful fetish) I enjoy my evenings creating soundscapes in which the discerning SubGenii can escape the humdrudgery of this Conspiracy infected globe.

Along with my frop pipe, I glide along the sonic sheen of mental masturbation, clinging to the rings of frop smoke like a swimmer with his innertube.

Nothing is finer than floating through the cosmic slime clinging to the frop rings from the pipe. And let me tell you, that was some mighty fine frop this one particular evening.

It was such a lovely evening to FropScape and I was soon bouncing gently along the air currents. Soon, I would be drifting out of the stratosphere and away from this shitball known as Earth Farm One.

Now, I had happened to notice the glint of light just as I escaped the atmosphere, but I had mistaken for the MTV satellite, which I was eagerly hoping to run across so as I might send it plummeting to the ground.

It was then I realized they were trans-dimensional space vessels in geosynchronous orbit, triangulated between myself, the CNN satellite and the moon; I pondered the strange madness of these twisted grotesqueries dancing in orbit around our pathetic little planet.

Upon a close inspection as the frop ring gently bobbed along the currents of the solar surf, I noticed, spray painted in red on the thermo-chromic hull of one of the ships – just to the left of the Quantumaramagnetic Slipstream Propulsion drive – a sign that read "Earth of Bust." I realized that I was witnessing the preparation of the invading Xist armada --

At that moment the solar winds picked up about 20 zettajoules, sending me headlong into the side of the closest ship. Fortunately, frop smoke has a wonderful rubbery elasticity, and I safely bumped along the hull like a balloon caught drifting in a wind of flatulence.

Sacred Onomasticon of Veneris Flambé

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