Sermon for St. Sawney Beane’s Day

October 12, 2010 § Leave a comment


They’ve hung them high in Edinburgh toon
An likewise a their kin
An the wind blaws cauld on a their banes
An tae hell they a hae gaen.

It’s a scary world out there.

Admit it; even the mightiest mutant must be a mite creeped out by the stuff we’re picking up – not just trough the Dobbling-15 amalgam-enabled spysat network, or the intelligent bacteria cultures in their crotches, but the stuff you can pipe right into your hovels and fortresses trough public communication channels. The humans, they do terrible, terrible, gut-wrenching stuff to each other.

And that’s upsetting to you, of course. In your genes, you can remember a time when you were the scariest thing out there. Your species memory tells whisper of a time when your yeti ancestors would lurk at the edge of the firelight, just beyond the mouth of the cave, thirsting for human gristle, and by the Salesman, they would FEAR US.

How is it that they now fear EACH OTHER more than their natural predator? You may ask yourselves this, calling out to the voices of the forgotten god-things that constantly pester us in our heads. How DARE they, you ask? How is it that in our heart-equivalents, even for those of us who have developed the mutant power to microwave pineal glands with your third eye, even among those ascended masters who have cultivated hundreds of individually controlled ambulatory penes to do our bidding, a worm of fear and worry is twisting and turning, growing ever fatter?

Well, give thanks and rejoicing unto St. Sawney Beane and his rascally cannibalistic clan of incestuous cave-dwelling lunatics for that.

Wether they were ours, or just a bunch of mal-adjusted hive-building monkeys who couldn’t even properly channel the instinctive urge to make a cluster of unsanitary nests is still a matter of theological debate. Until we can adjust the tachyonic viewer to not disintegrate whoever we’re trying to look at, the matter must remain unsolved. Whoever the good Saint was, his discovery of how much easier it is to just prey on other humans instead of w*rking marks a major paradigm shift in the history of the human and SubGenius races. From that stinking cave in the scottish highlands shambles a proud tradition, one which has spawned a hundred luminaries, a thousand great figures in the grand SubGenius tradition of anti-humanism.

And so it is that we turn to old Sawney, and remember him fondly. There stands the end of a great tradition, and a beginning of a new one; the end of the lurking and the pouncing, and the beginning of simply stepping into the light, entering the cave, grabbing whatever or whomever you like, and then make them LOVE you for it. Praise!



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