Sermon for the Night of the Lemur
January 3, 2012 § Leave a comment
IT IS WRITTEN:
…there is no motion in the animal machine without a preliminary stimulus and a consequent reaction. These are the hinges on which all the physiology of the animal economy turns. And these are the fountains from which, just as the business of generation, so also the causes of degeneration flow; but in order to make this clear to those even who know little of physiology, it will be as well to premise with a few words from that science.
-Anthropological treatises of Blumenbach and Hunter
You smug little fuckers you. You think you’re so “evolved”, so “advanced”, always twiddling your little hamster legs in a desperate race to get ahead in the great big game of the “Survival of the Fittest”.
Well, guess what. If you keep that shit up, you’re all doomed. DOOOMED.
‘course, all pinks are doomed anyway, the only true way to salvation being the sacred act of sending your $35 to “Bob” RIGHT NOW, thereby proving what was FACT all along; namely your absolute and cosmic superiority of body, mind, soul and genetic slurry compared to the teeming masses of so-called “humanity”.
But even then, you may temporarily doom yourself by deeds; how many pious, Dobbs-fearing SubGenes have found themselves ensnared by the wiles of the Conspiracy? Or even by the heady fumes of their own successful salvation? How many good mutants have wandered off the path of Slack in a haze of Conspiracy-brand FALSE SLACK? Yes, sibling-things; the legends are true. We must be ever watchful for that dastardly peddler of DOOM, the Anti-“Bob”.
Have we not recently had to endure the sickening sycophancy of our lesser cousins the humans, as they ritually attempt to appease their Conspiracy Masters by publicly announcing their “new year’s resolutions”, trying to whine and bribe and wheedle their way up the evolutionary ladder towards who knows what terrifying, unmentionable goals? “Excercise”? “Less drinking”?? MANAGE STRESS???!! Hah! We know better. WE, by the agency of that wonderful man-who-is-no-man, J. R. “Bob” Dobbs, ARE ONTO THEIR GAMES.
And this is the true meaning of the Night of the Lemur. Today we stand up to the relentless race towards ever more complex forms. Today we cast off the empty promises made with stiffening, grim smiles under terrible, unimaginable duress. Today we tell Mister Darwin “FUCK YOU, Sir.”
Today is our DEVOLUTION DAY!
And we will not stop, we will not relent in our willing, systematic retardation of all our faculties until we are as gibbering, horrid little half-monkeys, barely Higher in Their esteem than the bristly little things that once covered in fear of dinosaurs. And when that terrible hour dawns, we will feel the convulsions and uncontrollable shivers of pride and Slack, because we will know that in the True Scheme of things, we, having stood up to the Conspiracy of Anti-Slack, are now Superior Mutants, Übermen and Überfemmes, more blessed with Slack than any other creature on this planet.