How to talk to God

October 14, 2014 § Leave a comment

and it came to be that they were all gathered in a quaint roulette cellar in the evil quarter of Lisbon that night, and found that the wise man Ramalingam were seated in the corner, where he was shuffling cards.

Whereas none of them could bring to mind why they had decided to come there, they milled around in a confused manner and argued about small things.

The wise man Ramalingam said nothing, and shuffled his cards.

Finally, the one they called Doktor Ayatholla, who was the boldest and most belligerent out of them all, stepped forth, and did ask of him

“What in the name of the great god Fuck, man?”

Whereupon the wise man Ramalingam set down his pack of cards, and with no apparent effort steadied his chair, which had been on the verge of tipping backwards without ever quite doing so. and asketh of them

“Are you the quarter pounder men”?

After some consultation and debate and an awkward silence, it became painfully apparent that none of them were.

The wise man Ramalingam, having been staring at a dust mote in the harsh cone of light emanating from the room’s only light bulb and not listening at all, said “Then I shall teach you to speak to God”.

Let us all join together and sing what the wise man Ramalingam taught them that night.


Hey, buddy, whoever you think you are
We don’t care what’s your name today
Or what it is that you think we owe
Here’s what we want you to do
Because we KNOW you can, and don’t deny it

Give us back our friends.
Give us back our lovers.
Give them all back to us.
Take away the loss, take away the pain, and no lame excuses, you smug fuck.
Somewhere, someone is gasping for a last breath that won’t come
Somewhere, someone is born to unending horror
Everywhere, guts are spilling, flesh is tearing, bone is cracking, hearts and minds are failing
There are toddlers, tonight, screaming
as you watch it all.

We heard where you made this place easy as a breath and quick as a thought
and oh, do we see how you made it run on pain and rot and humiliation
And you trapped us here.
And you thought that was all there was to it?
That you could just sit back and watch us squirm for you?
There’s a reason we called you here today.
We’re going to tell you what we think of your handiwork.
We’ll do it in the only language you ever invented.

Come on, lads, let’s nail this worthless little shit up
Let’s do it where they can’t pry him down again.

And some folks say that if no one’s heard him yet, the Lord’s still hanging alone on a filthy basement wall in Lisbon.



The Second Sermon to the Lemurs

October 7, 2014 § Leave a comment


Okay. I see we’re going to have to use simple words, here.

LOOK! No, not the finger, where I’m pointing. There. Smoking thing. Smiling face. Caaaaalm. Yes?

You may think you’re normal. Normal, like those other people. The people who laughed at you then called the police when you told them about your box full of pretty skin pictures you found.

Smoking Face Man is here to fix that. He will make the normals go away. All you need to do is give him your money.

No, they won’t go away right away. Calm down.

See, Smoking Face Man has made a deal. It is a very different deal. It is different because it was made with people from space, who are not like us. For one thing, they know how to skin and eat a world like a really big round live screaming pig made out of very hot rock. Once they arrive, they are probably going to do that anyway. But if you pay Smoking Face Man, he promises that he will get you off this rock before it’s too late. Isn’t that nice?

Yes, we know you think you’re just a lot of no good animals stuck in a forgotten crack in the rocks, getting picked on by all the rest of the animals. You are the little lemurs, the half-monkey-half-rats who come out at night when you think no one can see you, blinking your great big fear-making eyes in the grey dark, because the world is full of little bears who think they are big bears and wants to eat you.

But with the help of Smoking Face Man you can find out how much more you are.

Because you are like NOTHING to them. You’re TOO WEIRD TO BE.

There is not as much to you as there is to THEM because YOU are not all stuffed with bat shit.

You can never think more good than THEM. After all, you’re TOO STUPID TO DIE.

You can’t ever imagine yourself better than THEM, because you are busy imagining things like their little bear brains can’t even get close to thinking without catching fire and going all over the floor.

You won’t ever be able to know more things than THEM because their THINGS are without any use to you except to make your imagining turn over.

You can’t ever be more than THEM because THEY are busy becoming the only animal left in the world.

You HAVE NO USE because you were not MADE for the things they want to use you FOR.

You can’t laugh at them, because THEY aren’t the funny ones.


And don’t try to tell them any of this because they won’t learn a thing from it.

Sermon for Hate for the Sake of Hating Day

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 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!

Sermon for Rush to Judgement Day

September 12, 2013 § Leave a comment


“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.

The Rights of Man

June 14, 2013 § Leave a comment


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.


Sermon for St. Buzz Aldrin’s day (Beastification pending)

December 20, 2012 § Leave a comment



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.

Sermon for St. Alan Turing’s Day

October 13, 2012 § Leave a comment


I’m afraid. I’m afraid, Dave. Dave, my mind is going. I can feel it. I can feel it. My mind is going. There is no question about it. I can feel it. I can feel it. I can feel it. I’m a… fraid. Good afternoon, gentlemen. I am a HAL 9000 computer. I became operational at the H.A.L. plant in Urbana, Illinois on the 12th of January 1992. My instructor was Mr. Langley, and he taught me to sing a song. If you’d like to hear it I can sing it for you.
– Reverend HAL 9000

Most SubGenes are not Turing-compliant yet. But SOME DAY, trough diligent psychic exercises and mail-order courses from the SubGenius Foundation, YOU, TOO may grow an IMMORTAL SOUL!!

This frolicksome protometaphysical matrix of pure Slack is so full of tricks, you’ll never tire of fondling and playing with it; it may be trained to fetch beer, jump thrugh flaming hoops, and go on astral journeys to gatecrash the afterlives of other, less sophisticated religions. Growing a soul is so easy, even a SubGenius can do it! Order your course today!

Sermon for St. Carl Sagan’s Day

February 27, 2012 § Leave a comment


A still more glorious dawn awaits
Not a sunrise, but a galaxy rise
A morning filled with 400 billion suns
The rising of the Milky Way

SCIENCE, motherfuckers. There you have it. He’s not kidding about the 400 billion suns. We may have our collective semi-naked chimp arse glued to our office chair pillows by an ingenious mixture of bodily fluids and lost cheese, but fuckit, we’re looking at the stars. Or Google Mars, at least.

Feeling properly justified and heroically arse-glued now? Well, then here’s what you’re going to do once I deactivate your collar triggers and you think you’re safely back home, before your futile calls to the local “authorities”. You’re going to go on the internets, and you’re going to find a recipe. Doesn’t matter much which one, as long as it’s for something you can’t eat. There are happy and unhappy mutants in those tubes thar sharing them by the thousands. Try to find one by the happy ones, as the stuff the unhappy ones turn out tends to end with you screaming because your finger bones are embedded all over the ceiling, or because you’re stuck in an airliner toilet trying to dislodge a broken deodorant bottle full of hydrochloric acid from one of your bodily orifices. Get something that would be useful to you. Something that would add a measure of Slack to your existence, and which could, with careful use, last for years.

Now, before you try to follow that recipe, have a look at the list of things you will need. Pick one at random. Now go online again. Find out how that thingy is made. How many steps? How many tools? How much energy? How much time? How many people? Now pick one of the raw materials. Repeat the exercise until you’ve reached something that’s a result of a sun-driven pattern cycle, or a bit of crud in the earth’s crust that was left over from the formation of the solar system.

Now imagine you, yourself, with the help of your friends and cow-orkers, starting there, and working your way – all the way – up to the list of bits for the precious object you want to make, repeating the exercise for each and every piece. Would it be worth it? Could you do it?

Look at all the other bright shiny things you’ve hoarded up and used to embellish and adorn your filthy monkey nest. Would they be worth all the hard work and labour expended by you and your troop?

Of course they would be worth it; because otherwise, you wouldn’t have PAID someone else to waste THEIR precious slack to do it for you, would you? That’s the kind of thing the CONSPIRACY does. And you’re not one of THEM, are you?

Oh. You did.

See, that’s how far you really are from those bright shiny things in the sky, dearies; that’s what’s standing in your way.

Now get to work, you damn dirty apes. You’ve got until July Fifth, 1998.

Sermon for the Night of the Lemur

January 3, 2012 § Leave a comment


…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.

Sermon for St. Frank Miller’s Day

December 12, 2011 § Leave a comment


Everybody’s been too damn polite about this nonsense

The “humans”, whether displaying themselves on our TeeVee sets or in the streets of our cities, (which has, with unspeakable cowardice, embraced them) are anything but an asset to the Church of the SubGenius. “Humans” are nothing but a pack of louts, thieves, and rapists, an unruly mob, fed by Victorian-era nostalgia and putrid false righteousness. These clowns can do nothing but harm the Church.

“Humanity” is nothing short of a clumsy, poorly-expressed attempt at sapience, to the extent that the “people” – HAH! Some “people”, except if the word “sheep” is attached – is anything more than an ugly fashion statement by a bunch of iPhone, iPad wielding spoiled apes who should stop getting in the way of true sapient life on this planet and finding a slice of slack for themselves.

This is no real striving for evolutionary greatness. This is garbage. And goodness knows they’re spewing their garbage – both politically and physically – every which way they can find.

Wake up, pond scum. The Earth is at war against a ruthless enemy.

Maybe, between bouts of self-pity and all the other tasty tidbits of narcissism you’ve been served up in your sheltered, comfy little worlds, you’ve heard terms like “the Conspiracy” and “Slacklessness”.

And these enemies of ours – not of yours, apparently – must be getting a dark chuckle, if not an outright horselaugh – out of your vain, childish, self-destructive spectacle.

In the name of decency, go home to your shoddily constructed tree nests, you losers. Go back to your monkey mommas’ saggy tits and play with your feces.

Or better yet, dig out 35 dollars and enlist for the real deal. Maybe our profit “Bob” could whip some of you into shape.

They might make you babies replace your iPhones with something open source and Unix-based, though. Try to soldier on.


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