November 19, 2013 § Leave a Comment
For today’s sermon, I’m going to tell you a story from our ministry. You see, we were recently consulted by a master of Slack from afar. He had a personal problem which may seem unusual to you slackless drones, who barely get a moment’s respite from the eternally spinning hamster balls of hate that is your existence. I will keep this Bobdisatva of Slack anonymous, so as to avoid a congestion of Bobbies beating a path to his door. You see, he suffered from a terrible affliction; he could not find enough hate in his heart. His horn of Slack floweth over; his life was good, and unfettered by the sticky tendrils of the Conspiracy. In short he was TOO FUCKING HAPPY! At best, he could whip up a fleeting sensation of annoyance. How, he asked us, could he find the hate he so sorely needed to power his mutant abilities (available as mail order courses from subgenius.com at a low price right now!)?
And here’s what we told him:
Seal yourself in your excremeditation chamber. Form in your mind the image of the Pink. It may be that arsehat who told you off for liking a band not on his Approved List. It may be some human who did not have the decency to drop dead when you applied your brain-curdling psychic power gaze. The economically retarded roommate who spent the rent money on computer games and fed the eviction notice to your dog, who choked to death on it. Or maybe just the bastard who kicked you in the nuts and stole your phone.
There’s no shortage of turd-souled insults to the Face of “Bob” out there. Most of us use our mental powers to edit them out, or simply delete them from existence on those occasions on which they anger us. But for those of us suffering from a lack of hate in our lives, it’s important to remember that each and every scumfuck you encounter on your way to your eternal Reward forms a little golden opportunity, a small sprout of hate, struggling out of the usually placid and Slackful soil of your blessed Yeti mind, which you need to identify, water and nurture, transplant and replant, and add to that giant jungle of pure, scorching Grudge that will fuel your personal spacecraft ‘s weapons systems on X-day.
Pinks will tend to see any who oppose them as their “enemies” (in that puerile, petty way of theirs, the pink having no concept of the epic scale of cosmic Enmity available to the SubGenius), and instantly begin to apply Normalization Procedures, in accordance with their subconscious Conspiracy programming. But as SubGenii, we have a different technology to deal with those who offend in the Sight of Dobbs. By applying the basic psychic training available to any Church Member in good standing, such as time control, maintenance and discharge of Slack capacitors, and how to dispose of a body in ten easy steps (see Reverend Ellis’ excellent manual, Dead Pig Collector for more on this) we can defeat our enemies or even turn them against their Conspiracy masters, coring out their souls and using them as drones for our own purposes. And is that not a far better thing than simply letting your hate go to waste?
Obviously, building up a good crop of hatred is not easy for a person who lives in the Gaze of Dobbs, who is a master of all things Slackful, but with patience, you can grow the necessary glands, ducts and organs using radio waves and instructions encoded in the Church literature.
So go to it! And don’t forget – a little hatred a day keeps the Con away!
September 12, 2013 § Leave a Comment
IT IS WRITTEN:
“Thwwaack…Can you feel the GUILT DEMONS leaving your body,
as I SPANK YOU? Do you NEED MORE……?”
-Reverend Nickie Deathchick
There are so many things that “Bob” should be doing, or never did, or actually did while I definitely wasn’t near the place.
But can you truly blame “Bob” for absolutely any thing?
Could “Bob” be identified as the guilty party even when he wasn’t directly involved?
Yes. It has been definitively proven that Everything is “Bob”‘s fault.
In fact, when you examine the evidence properly, you will see that whenever something happens that you do not feel like suffering the consequences for, that’s how things really were all along. Somehow, it was “Bob”. Despite this, you may feel a secret anaconda of guilt in need of placing writhing in your guts, but be too shy to admit to it. Sometimes we are too proud; sometimes we fear being hunted down and torn to bits and having our bits fucked by wild racoons while pinks and traitors cheer the racoons on.
These feelings of responsibility and self-respect can prevent us from aquiring Slack.
But admitting that what happened was wrong and blaming “Bob” for it gives us the opportunity to spread his word and expand his sacred Church and his Fellowship, making everything all right once again.
Blaming “Bob” can change something inside us, both for the SubGenius who places the blame, and all who bear witness to it.
Maybe you should really blame “Bob” for your clenchmates, for your j*b, or for your inability to pass for human at inconvenient moments? Have you tried doing that?
To publicly and loudly blame “Bob” is to enter into a new sort of closeness with “Bob”, a new kind of communion of Slack.
As you point the finger of accusation and place responsibility for any unfortunate occurrences that may or may not have happened in the past somewhere else, rather than with your immediate person, a kind of intimacy will occur between you and all present.
As you admit to yet again having been conned by “Bob”, you will all feel that you have been brought closer in devolution.
June 17, 2013 § Leave a Comment
I have been the butt
of your low-hanging jokes,
for as far back as I can remember.
But I gotta admit that ain’t too far.
Between the k2, booze, and blunt force trauma
bout the only thing that sticks, anymore,
is the pillow
macaroni and cheese
when I’m stabbing my brother.
When beer is your coffee,
life takes on dimensions
mere muggles can’t begin to grok.
When the zombies attack,
you gotta throw bricks,
or raw chunks of crumpled concrete,
whatever you got on hand, really.
And when you live like me,
it’s better to forget
that your wife collected money
for your dead sons
while they were still alive,
and tried to bite your dick off
when you was too tired
I got seven friends a day
dying from prescription overdose.
I got a hundred thousand brothers
rotting right now in prison.
I stabbed a Bears fan in the spur of the moment,
and shot my own damn self bowling on a Tuesday night.
I got caught masturbating on a public boat ramp.
What I’m trying to say
is that if you been through what I been through
you’d get a beer while fleeing police too.
Cuz you’d know it’d be a while before your next one.
and if you ever let the booze wear off
and the memories catch up
you’ll catch a hangover that could kill that skunk ape,
that I saw that night
trying to rape
out behind my toolshed.
You can’t hear about me without smirking,
and your silent “there but for the grace of God go I”
I don’t blame you for feeling superior.
We’re each just as we was created.
But don’t act like you don’t envy me.
My name brings them to their knees,
killing from Glengarry to Schnechdachie,
St Paul to San Tropez.
I got 400 million hits on google,
and 108 thousand followers on twitter
watch me come up
I’ll be bigger than anonymous,
but I want you to know my name.
I am Florida Man.
I will get a blowjob from a hooker with my toddler in the car.
I will throw eggs at the courthouse.
I will sometimes be attacked by alligators.
I will often be found butt naked,
in the wrong person’s house or apartment,
or on the side of the road,
proposing to a dead pit bull,
or making love to it.
I love my little cock-shaped state
and you just can’t take your greedy little eyes off it.
born in the fountain of youth
washed in the blood of conquest
trained by mad raving pirates
stolen from the seminole
plundered by capitalist greed
shaped by drug cartels and the space race
this is a land of endless freedom
strapped down by dickhead cops
And if you’re too scared to push it to the edge
how can you feel superior when I fall?
You rely on God’s grace to keep you out of danger
because you can’t handle this heat.
Like a caged canary laughing at raging wild turkey
you hold your manhood
while I speak.
And I’ll leave you with the words
tattooed across my neck,
“Only God can juge this soul”
and YES, I know I spelled judge wrong
see above for the disposition of that thought.
I am FLORIDA MAN!
And I will chew your fucking face off!
June 14, 2013 § Leave a Comment
IT IS WRITTEN:
When you have to draw a line, things can be pretty difficult, emotionally. Unless you believe we should not draw a line, it will always be like this – where we draw the line there will be some people on both sides, some inside, some outside.
Okay, I’ll admit it. We’re at a bit of a standoff here. An Imp-asse. In just a few short weeks, what we have all waited for will come to pass. The alien love gods from Planet X will arrive. They will proceed to do terrible and destructive things to the Planet Earth.
None of us have much of a problem with this. It clearly needed doing. But it has become evident that some elements of the Church harbour certain irreconcilable differences regarding the fate of the humans of Planet Earth.
Without the Con to sustain them, any surviving hivemonkeys will be in serious trouble. Extinction seems certain. Leaving the X-ists and revengertainment-bent SubGenii to mop up the screaming remnants and finish the job seems pretty much like a kindness.
And yet, some us still have sentimental feelings with regard to total human extinction and the dismantling of the planet’s outer crust for recycling.
We all carry a little list in our pockets, or in our hearts, enumerating the pink scum who will need to suffer our wrath, possibly repeatedly. For that reason alone, we can’t just find a SubGenius stupid enough to let every leftover human onto its personal pleasure saucer – for one thing, it would be shot down right away by the vengeful hordes of yetis denied their rightful carnage. Also, some breeds and unique specimens are in particular demand. I mean, how thin can you possibly slice Donald Trump before there’s nothing useful or entertaining left?
It’s likely that massive cloning will take place, mixed in with some pretty radical alterations to integrate the humans into their new environment as pets for a race of godlike intergalactic marauder-hedonists. But all this won’t mean much to those billions who will be left behind to die.
And obviously, most Yetis have pets, cherished companions and various toys they’ll want to bring with them (the Holocaustal schism being the most prominent exception). So what about the rest?
We think it’s morally important that the humans are made to understand how things are, before the end. They need to know and accept that this was their fate all along, and that there was nothing they could have done differently.
Being human, it’s obvious that not all of them can live. All humans die in the end anyway. We don’t know anyone who thinks they can all just stay here. Only those useful to us, or so intensely hated that their usefulness consists of being consigned to an eternity of complicated deaths and sudden, traumatizing resurrections, can be kept on after the Rupture.
As the teleporter beams demolish their roofs and pigmonkey servants carve out their souls for bottling and sale to the Yacatisma painsmiths, their first instinct should be to nod their heads sagely in acceptance of the inevitable. When our hunting guitars sound and the Ozzie clones start howling for prey, they should give us a good run and then fall over from exhaustion in a sporting manner. And when the time comes to rip up their home country’s bedrock, they should be thankful they weren’t scraped off first.
But how to achieve this? We all know that humans are rather dense. Therefore, we here at the Exploding St. Judas Ministries have devised a scheme in which carefully selected human hives are surgically vapourized by orbital kinetic missiles. The missiles will strike seemingly at random, without warning. This will function as an example to the others, discouraging them from wanting to live too much, and teaching them to accept that death may come at any moment.
It has been suggested that we be more selective in our approach. And, yes, that might be mighty fun to do. But we must insist on restraint, in the form of complete disregard for any sentiment and iron adherence to the semi-randomness of the selection process. If the humans begin to see a pattern, they would try to exploit it, by sucking up to known SubGenii, found one of those ghastly cargo cults, turning pixie, hipster or mentally ill, and so on and so forth – you all know the kind of filthy stuff they’ll get up to given half a chance and a sandwich.
It is inevitable that every time a Target is declared, some clench somewhere will go “oh no, not THEM”. We all have our favourites – usually those closest to us, those whose big, wet, tasty baby seal eyes will most often trick us into imprinting on them. That’s why we will soon publish a complicated and impenetrable set of arbitrary rules, the violation of which qualifies a human and everyone around it for Examplehood, thus completely justifying the carnage.
April 26, 2013 § Leave a Comment
Slack is the basic living substance of all the stupid questions.
-Reverend Zeppo of the Taphouse Cabal, on Slack
January 5, 2013 § Leave a Comment
Just shut up. SHUT UP.
You’re making it really hard for those of us who have nice things. You’re making it harder for us to sleep. You’re ruining TV for us. You spoiled the tea party, just when things were getting good. You trashed Perry and Santorum and Palin, and you keep jumping in the way of our stock options.
You keep screaming about us sending your jobs to unfurnished countries, and THEN you bitch when we try to remove the furnishings HERE, so we can give you
your a job back. Just how the hell are we supposed to keep our stockholders happy, if we have to keep indulging your entitlement complex with things like “a living wage”?
So shut up. Go vote for Red or Blue, and remember what a difference it makes. Go to WalMart, and get your 5 gallon bucket of lard. Turn on the TV and watch Cribs. Or American Idol. Or maybe some sadistic “funniest home videos”, where you can watch parents engineer horrible accidents for their kids, etc, in the hopes of getting on the TV and maybe even the GRAND PRIZE.
But shut up while you do it.
And shut up while they grab Juan off the street for “dressing like an illegal”. This shit is for your OWN GOOD. Juan was taking your job, anyway. Well, the jobs that we didn’t send to Chinacorp. So SHUT UP and PICK CABBAGES, you Goddamn ingrates.
And when it’s time to go visit Grannie, SHUT UP while they “pat down” your toddler, and feel your spouse up. SHUT UP and get into the backscatter device. Shut up in the terminal, or we’ll make you shut up indefinitely.
Why is this such a hard concept to grab? Just SHUT UP. ALL OF YOU. This is AMERICA™, and we don’t need any hairy-headed freaks scaring Quality People with your “demonstrations” and your “occupations”, and really, just SHUT THE FUCK UP and put your money back into Bank of America and Wells Fargo. There aren’t enough lifeboats for everyone, so SHUT UP and go back to steerage while we get the PEOPLE THAT COUNT into the lifeboats.
Just shut up. All of you.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled program. Forever.
-The Good Reverend Roger
December 20, 2012 § Leave a Comment
IT IS WRITTEN:
Oh, no you don’t Buzz. Don’t you come at me with those sad old man eyes of yours. There’s some hard truths lined up for you, which you had best take heed of. But hold on to those tears. Made-for-TV Disney movies are distilled from such. Lots of money in that. Lots of money.
Yeah, They promised us Mars Colonies. But hey, this the Con. The Con says lots of things. The Con’s gifts may seem slackful, but they are always poisoned, full of FALSE SLACK. If the Con had given us our Mars Colonies, they wouldn’t have been like this:
Instead the Con Mars Colony would be a bunch of jocks with radiation poisoning farting in a tin can, living off cock-flavoured tofu while trying to figure out if Mars dust could be used to give Terrorists cancer. This is not a story of “us” trying to solve big problems. It’s a story of THEM failing to solve THEIR problems by fucking US over.
I don’t blame you, Buzz. You took the lowercase-s slack you were offered. We all did. And in your case, what a magnificent slice of slack it was. “Wanna go to the moon”? Not a thing you can say no to and live. But the IN-FUCKING-CREDIBLE, unbelievable, species-historymaking moonslack came with a little flag, and a little plaque, and little old men making stupid noises like “The Moon is Americun now”. Also a lot of rocks, a lot of politics, and not a single Dobbsdamned SCIENTIST coming with you until the very end. You didn’t even get to have a knife fight over who would go first. What we really, REALLY wanted, all of us, was the crystal palaces, the flying cars and the Big Fucking Lasers.
Instead they gave us Facebook. You’re disappointed with teh faceboog? Yeah, so are we all, deep down, in between the clicktrances and the dramaraging and the personal data hellbuttfuckings. But facebutt, well, it’s the cock-flavoured tofu version of the internets. We did have a glimpse of the awesome jetpacks going WOOSH there, for a moment – something strange and wonderful still lurks in the Web, but the Con caught on, panicked – as big dumb beasts are wont to – and now this guy:
wants to look at all of the pages on the internet before you can load them in case they contain nipples. Hi Alexander. No subversive Nuclear Anonymous Obama Sex chaining child porn codes here.
Because that is what the Con and its little pink handmaidens DO. That is what they ARE. They take wondeful things and magnificent mutants too weird to EXIST and turn them into poo just by touching them.
We have all been touched by the Con’s pooey fingers of false slack. Some of us it destroyed. Some of us bit them OFF and chewed them UP and spat them OUT and became even WEIRDER in the process. But however strong we are, however resistant to the charms of the blathering ninnies and false harlots of the Conspiracy, we are all in dire need of some true Slack, untainted by the stink of the Con. That is where Our Prophit, J.R. “Bob” Dobbs comes in. Because HE WANTS TO SELL YOU THAT SLACK! He’ll even sell it to you OVER AND OVER AGAIN if you like! Unto him is given the salesmanship! He can turn shit into champagne, guts into gold, he can dig into the shivering pile of pink jelly the Conspiracy has made of you and with his mighty fist of salvation HAUL out the raging yeti inside. Accept his Words into your wallets and internal organs and you SHALL NOT WANT, for his is the Slack and the Excuse and the Guaranteed Complete absence of Guilt Demons within fourteen days or so!
Come, let us prey.