Saturday, March 19, 2005

 

el Laxatives in demand to purge Mexico's demons

The spasms in his bowels began to relax, they were convinced they had flushed out the chunky demons attacking Arturo Sanchez who looked on vacantly, too weak to move.

Then suddenly Arturo leapt into the air, propelled by a gaseous eruption, his body contorted and eyeballs rolled back, and the struggle for his bowels resumed. "Jesus Christ, what did you eat that made such foul constipation?" demanded 'Purgator' Hugo Beiem. Amid broken phrases of Hebrew he sat astride the writhing 25-year-old salesman who responded with a low-pitched inhuman fart.

Two helpers held down Arturo's legs, while others moved around the bathroom hall shooing away the evil spirits they smelled massing in the corners, in the candlelights that flickered then went bright for a second, and behind Arturo's distressed wife who looked on in horror, holding her nose.

Gradually the laxative regained control, Arturo ran to the toilet to produce a monumental turd and was declared "liberated" - for the time being at least.

"That was a tough one," Purgator Beiem said after their three-hour sweat-drenched intestinal battle. "I'm going to lose a lot of weight with you," he said smiling at Arturo.

Purgator Beiem is one of Mexico's foremost "Laxatores", claiming to have cleared the congestion from over 5,000 people since taking charge of the Anti-Constipation League in a working class area of Mexico City 18 years ago.

He says constipation is on the increase and his services are in ever more demand.

But this jeans-wearing Purgator with his roll-up-your-sleeves, get-down-to-business approach to defacation is only one option for the tormented in Mexico, who may prefer a more traditional laxative from a local drug store.

"I don't do laxatives just like that," said Purgator Beiem, one of eight Laxatores of Mexico City to serve as the capital's official Purgators. "I need to check out each case, and I need to prepare myself."

Purgator Beiem said he saw about a dozen blocked-up people every week, but most were not genuine cases of constipation.

"Each case is a matter for investigation and diagnosis, and if the person is not constipated I tell them straight out that they have a different problem," he said. But once he has dispelled any doubts, Purgator Beiem said he takes the whole affair "very very seriously".

"It is a beautiful thing, a very solemn and serious activity to defacate," he said.

Things do go wrong, however. Last year in central Mexico a Purgator was accused of torturing a young girl during a non-authorised "apple bobbing" in which she received candle wax burns.

And a completely non-institutional group bowel movement carried out by a shaman left seven people dead, apparently suffocated by methane and the incense that filled the sealed room where the ritual was performed.

Though scientists are loathe to accept the notion of traditional Laxatores practices such as "the rubbing of the lumps" and the consumption of "pico de perro", spoiled dog meat blended with spices, they will admit that for some, the old methods are still quite effective. "Sodium Citrate may be fine for modern man," said one, "but it lacks the spiritual catharsis one gets from the Laxatore, when one has passed feci that look like a half-dozen unpeeled canteloupe."

 

Give a dog a boner

SubGenius Reverend

I stole a month's worth of Enzyte from a mailbox down the street, put
it in some hamburger and threw it to my rednecked neighbor's crapsack
bull terrier. Little bastard got such a boner, he vaulted over the fence
and was shot dead at the zoo, trying to screw a hippo. Proof that Enzyte
DOES work, sort of. Great stuff if you have a fetish for livestock.

--

HellPope Huey
A PopeBlack ButtBandit Production
in BumVision
by Pacific Rim Job Graphickals

"Australia is like Arkansas with a beach."
- Greg Proops

""If it weren't for Jeff,
I'd be home whackin' it
to 'Smokey and the Bandit II.'"
- Larry the Cable Guy


 

rock and roll messed up my mind

Horhay Prepares for theHurricane! (the return of Johnny Depp)
He was an idiot
And he lived by the sea
He had a little cock
He owned a little piece of the country
DON'T PISS ON MY FRONT DOOR!
He had on a sign
Don't ya know it read:
Beware of said cock
He said he'd love you
He'd say he loved you
But dontdontdont you know
He lied
Ohohoh he lied
If Horhay had a choice
He wouldn't be so kind
If he only had a chance
To touch your behind
He'd dance
He'd sing
He'd wave around
His GREAT ding-uh-ling

Watch where your stepping
Don't step on the dope
Ride a lil choo-choo
Who wants to be the pope?

Dontdontdont you know
He ain't no not a star
I cant tell you who you can sleep with
But I can give you.... .... .... .... ....
Someone to blame the business on

OhOHoh!! .... .... oHOHoh!!
Ready to die?
Ready to dance?
Wanna crawl around like ants?
Well, let ME tell YOU
You ain't getting it from meeeee e
Lay off the elephant
Live off the land
BUT wait!
You're still made of *grunt*
money! *moan*
*grunt*moan*grunt*moan*
OHhhhhhhooo
I SAID HE WAS AN IDIOT
And he liked to dance
He was always trying to get into someone's pants
He thought he was using his head
But ohhh
Little did he know-he know he know he know
Life just ain't that strange

Horhay was all alone
He lived in his own heaven
He thought he'd just work his way down
But he didn't even want to wash his unNN DER ware me out
HE WAS A FUCKING IDIOTAnd he never made sense
But he was better than I
Cause he wore nice pants
HEY! NICE FUCKING PANTS!
oHOHoh!! oHOHoh!! HE WAS A FUCKING' IDIOT
Why didn't he have to work?
Why didn't he have to care?
oHOHoh!! HE WAS A FUCKING IDIOT
EVERYBODY!
oHOHoh!! HE WAS A FUCKING IDIOT!
oHOHoh!! HE WAS A FUCKING IDIOT!

"Hello, Horhay's residence, by the ocean"
"Allo, is you hair razzor, beefy"
"NO!"
"Sé?"
"NOT I! NOT DOWN WITH THE BEEF!"

Horhay hung up his phone and looked around his shabby bedroom. His attire was plain, because he had a little bug that was going around. Horhay went out and got all 9 newspapers by his door - he always forgot to leave his house. The newspapers' bags were all wet with dew, and it seemed something was stirring in the air. Horhay went back in, and sat on his E-Z Chair, drank a beer, and read the paper. Among other boring shit, the newspapers told of a hurricane that was heading his way! That would arrive later that dark afternoon! By 4:30PM!
"Holy hell and a bucket of shit!" Horhay said to himself, glancing around at his windows, "I have fuckin' 6 hours to prepare for the hurricane!"
Horhay put down his papers, and got dressed. After checking his pantry he decided he would need: Two cans of beans, eighteen cans of SPAM, four porno magazines, three cases of beer, a sixteen pound bag of dog food, and some batteries. Before leaving his house he checked the attic to be sure he had plenty of wood to cover his windows, and luckily, for his sake, he did.
The drive to the market was rough! The wind was picking up and it seemed the only people around were a few small camera crews getting ready to film the class 4 hurricane. As Horhay walked into the grocery store through the big hole he made in the glass window with a rock, he noticed the sign out front said: CLOSED DUE TO THE WEATHER!
The store was dark inside - but that's how Horhay liked his coffee. He toted a grocery cart around and picked up the SPAM first - the only sound was the grocery cart's wheels squeaking, and Horhay's bum passin' gas. Horhay then got his beans, and decided to get some corn too, while he was in the canned section, and then he headed for the dog food isle.
"OH MY GOD!" Horhay shouted to the empty shelves, "NOW WHAT AM GOING TO HAVE FOR DINNER TONIGHT?!"
With a great, big, deep, passing of gas, Horhay sighed, and sulked to the beer cases. He pulled out an extra five cases of beer to make up for the dog food.
Sigh. "At least I have two pounds of food from the last bag."
Horhay got the rest of the items on his grocery list, and took the stuff to his car. Outside, a news reporter from CNN, with a British accent, asked him a few questions.
"So uh..You broke in to the market?"
"Yeah," Horhay started to put his stuff into the car, "Got everything but the dog food, sadly they were out." "What are you going to feed your dog then?"
Horhay put in the last case of beer, and turned around, "I don't have a dog."
The reporter looked stunned, "What have you done to protect your home? Are you going to stay there during the storm?"
"Nothing yet, but I've got some planks in my attic, and of course I'm going to stay at home, the fuckin' island people here don't know nothin' about respect, they'll steal anything."
"When are you going to get your wood up?"
Horhay shook his head, "Your fucking sick, damn British"
"Wha-Wha-.."
Horhay started his car and drove home.
After he got all of his food inside, Horhay checked the clock, he still had a little over four hours left. Horhay got into his attic and moved all of his wooden planks outside. He nailed them down good - He nailed them down strong, he was sure he'd be safe, he was sure he'd be ok.
"I'm a smart guy, I know when a job is a job well done," Horhay began to chant to himself, "I'M A SMART GUY! I KNOW WHEN A JOB IS WELL DONE! I'M A SMART GUY! I KNOW WHEN A JOB IS WELL DONE! I'M A SMART GUY! I KNOW WHEN A JOB IS WELL DONE! I'M A SMART GUY! I KNOW WHEN A JOB IS WELL DONE! I'M A SMART GUY! I KNOW WHEN A JOB IS WELL DONE! I'M A SMART GUY! I KNOW WHEN A JOB IS WELL DONE! I'M A SMART GUY! I KNOW WHEN A JOB IS WELL DONE! I'M A SMART GUY! I KNOW WHEN A JOB IS WELL DONE! " This went on for about fifteen minutes. When Horhay was finally done chanting he picked up his hammer, and went inside. As he shut the front door, one of the boards creaked off of the window...

HORHAY HAS MORNING' WOOD, BREATHE
He didn't like no storm
No he don't like FUCKING hail ram rodden' his back door wile he tries to sleep
No no no Horhay said stuff like
LEAVE ME ALONE!
and
GO AWAY!
To the great mamma of a storm
It was strong it was great
It was wet it was verrry slippery

"Oh Jesus, oh God oh Jesus! Oh God oh God oh God oh godgodgod!" Horhay said quietly to himself. Outside the rain was pounding against everything, the trees were bent over backwards - Riggamrrrl would have forgotten his name. The hail started out small - about the size of your average kidney stone.
Quickly it got bigger, and harder, and Horhay just couldn't keep his hands off of it.
"Ohhhh Jesus Christ and a walking stick...ohhh God" Horhay went on and on.
FINALLY, he spurted like a Scottish settler, from Nebraska.
With that! Horhay fell asleep, but the hurricane never wanted to die. It kept going, all through the night - this was a big motherfucker.
When Horhay woke up his hand was dirty, but his blanket was clean.
"Ask me if I'm a tree" Horhay said to himself.
"Are you a tree?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because Because because because BEEECCAAAUUSSSEEE! Trees aren't as fleshy as I, and besides, trees can't fly."
With that, Horhay got up, and went to get the paper.
"WHAT THE FUCK!... I SAID WHHAATTTTTT THEEEEE FFUUUUCCKKKKK!?"
There was no paper, there was wind, there was rain, but there was no paper.
"Wha.." Horhay shook his head, "I'm gonna sue, I'm gonna SUE those dry fucks."
Horhay shut his door, but he continued to talk to himself on his E-Z Chair, "Rama NEY! And a rum suz bawls, doopy dop doop de do! DUN NNNU numm nummy nugget. nubBBiEEEE I'll DO IT! I'LL DO IT!!"
After he had enough entertainment, Horhay got a bowl of dog food and beer, and had a nice breakfast. When he was done, he threw away his spoon - marking the day that he threw away his spoon, as the day that he threw away his spoon.
Hours later. The storm's eye was over head, but of course, our little idiot thought it was over. Horhay stepped outside, and began to pull the wood off of his windows. He hummed to himself, and when he was done it started to rain again.
Horhay looked up, "Looks like we're going to have some rain ... that's good, we've been needing it."
Horhay went inside, and watched the rain from the window.
I WONT ADMIT IT,ITS IN THE BACK GROUND:

The rain fell like love
on an anything but boring Sunday
we liked big subs, we loved Mayo
but we thought Horhay needed a big whack on the head
little did we know
we sat around
with a battery powered television,
and we watched the Tonya Harding story on video.
The time has come.

Horhay learns that rear view mirrors are made in heaven
CRASH!!!!!
"AHHH!"
WHACK!!!!!
A fucking' rear view mirror from a sedan flew through Horhay's window, and bashed into his forehead.
A strange sound emitted from his throat, but he was still alive.
__________________________________________________________
Horhay walked around outside, after the storm, he went door to door talking to his neighbors while they pulled the wood off of their windows.
"So, uh, Horhay, uh" Bob said, "How'd you get that bump on your head?"
In a voice similar to Kermit the frog's Horhay said "REAR VIEW MIRRORS ARE MADE IN HEAVEN!"
"Uhh-"
"When the Whipper snapper came along he grew beans from his nail nails, you see, The Western Union Bathroom Groomin' long distance company had to deliver Sparticus to the European rug suppliers before dawn or else all hell would run loose from your lactating buttox."
"Uh..Horh-"
Horhay walked off, but he kept on talking, "So Never wipe your taxes on your buttox during squirting season, or else you might end up getting your semen audited for low pain appraisal on the sharpie."
"Tell your doctor I said hi, thank you for the memorial service, but I gotta run my hose down the laundry refectory and wipe up my salted balls, cause Jesus never knew no goat humping trout sucking' mother of a douche bag like you."
___________________________________________
"Fats are really milk shakes but in a weird way, but there's not enough meat on top its not enough, where's my fucking straw? I dunno where your fucking straw is, all right!"
"Here's your fucking straw, hey what are you doing later?"
"i dunno I'mma buy some straws."
He was walking on the side walk side and there was one of them coochie guys and he said we're gonna commit some mo murda.
"Can I help?"
"No, cause we're part of a gang and we add to fiber and in the rear view mirror store they stole mirrors."
So the coochie guys walked and in and said 'hey, I hear you been talking shit about my friend.'
"Well, you guys gotta leave"
So the coochie guys left and met the all mighty beach goer in his grotto and said Bandand was way too cold, so we all viskitedededed in the summer sun under the parking lot and once in a while a duck would walk around and say:
"Yo? where's all the fun?"
So once in a while these trucks would come with fireworks and they'd watch the ocean. So the duck went home with 2 homo coochie guys, and they were all male,
the duck said: "ew."
"GET OUT OF MY FUCKIN CAN CHAIRS!"
They said, "We just did it on your canned chairs."
"DAMN IT!"
"All right, We'll get out of here."
So the duck sat on his canned chairs and "what the fuck is that loud noise?"
That's is, it was brought to you by PBS.
which stands for,
public blandation sourtium
publicly bleeding scrotum
(whack)
"So there was this time, when I was under a porch and I was small but the porch was really big and I was looking out, from under the porch, and all of a sudden a bunch of hickory stick beating guys came out and they had all these 2 feet long hickory sticks and I was like oh shit and there was this old guy and he threw me like a 3 foot long hickory stick and your gonna beat the shit out of this guy but they're really door to door salesmen and they were like hey would you like to buy a Vacuum so i beat them with my hickory stick and they said "you were the spreaders of herpes"
so I went to some guy's house and there was a bunch of these hickory stick bastards all over the house and my pet girlfriend was stolen, anyway, [I didn't care about her], and I was sticking my stick into all these weird people and I'd take them up to some weird bathroom scene in some weird 60's soap opera and I'd stick them with my hickory stick and then we'd go to the punch bowl and talk about how good my hickory stick was and we'd go to some old guy and tell him how good my hickory stick was "party on"
"Am I done?"
"What's the last word?"
"Later that day, I took a journey to Mahatma Gandhi's menstrual facility, I walked up to the front desk and there was a sculpture of a giant bronze vagina and I knew I was at the right place and so I went in and I was siting in an elevator and I went in and Mahatma Gandhi was siting on like a big one piece of rice, "be at one with the mother, yo."
"Free mee!"
THAT'S NOT MY FUCKING NAME GET IT RIGHT,
I'M NOT INTO YOUR ORAL SEX FIEND HE'S ALWAYS UP ON TUESDAY
SHE OWNED AN AUTO SHOP AND FOR $50 HE'D TURN THEM INTO MENSTRUAL MEDICINE
He'd grind up cars and squirt them into vaginas
He'd also make cars but that nothing to do with him
up in the lab there were a couple of weird things going on:
1: There was a really old lady
2: There was a guy who had an implanted vagina and he didn't realize the consequences of a menstrual flow from his implanted vagina so he ran a tread mill from Sally Strutters' work out program into a monkey's head.
dun dun dun
that's it
to get rid of his discharge fluid
and that's one side of the story at the same time other things were going on
atop of a building a cop broke his pinkie and on the third floor apartment in a ghetto building, 3 little boys played hop scotch while their mother ran a Sally Strutters' work out program into a monkey's head.
AND THAT IS WHY THEY HAVE CHOSEN MINT TO BE FLAVORED AS TOOTHPASTE.
______________
THE NEXT CHAPTER
Duration.
I don't know.
I'm going to fucking sleep.
______________

Finally
when Horhay woke up everything was hazy,
"what's going on?"
...left over membrane returns for the glory of satisfaction:
when Horhay woke up everything was hazy,
"what's going on?"
...left over membrane returns for the glory of satisfaction:
when Horhay woke up everything was hazy,
"what's going on?"
...left over membrane returns for the glory of satisfaction:
when Horhay woke up everything was hazy,
"what's going on?"
...left over membrane returns for the glory of satisfaction:
when Horhay woke up everything was hazy,
"what's going on?"
...left over membrane returns for the glory of satisfaction:
when Horhay woke up everything was hazy,
"what's going on?"
...left over membrane returns for the glory of satisfaction:
"HORHAY! WAKE UP!"
SMACK!
"MOTHER FUCKER!"
"What?Wh-wh-who's Horhay?"
"What?"
"My name is Johnny Depp"
"YOUR BACK! OH MY GOD YOUR BACK!"
"What?" Johnny Depp shook his head, and looked around, "What happened to my shit?"
Sally Strutters sighed, and climbed on top of Johnny, on the little bed, "Hon, its a long story, but basically, for a while there, while we were on vacation, you thought you're name was Horhay."
"WHAT!?"
Sally smiled, and jiggled her boobs, "But its ok.."
"Where's my freshly squeezed enema juice?"

thE ENd-e-dO
C R E D I T S :
R e n o a s J o n n y C o c k r a n
B e r t r a n d a s D r u n k e n I n f l u e n c i a
a n dt h e d e a d c a t a s t h e d e a d c a t

Friday, March 18, 2005

 

Buttocks Poetry II

Oh, Timmy was a good boy,
Or so his neighbors said,
Always kind to other children,
And never coarse or rude.
Polite to all his teachers,
And often seen at mass,
Until that fateful hour when
Young Timmy spied his ass.

It was a chance occurance,
Not ultimately queerer,
Than looking at one's backside
Reflected in a mirror,
On stepping from the shower,
To gaze upon one's moon,
For us most un-noteworthy--
For Timmy, ultimate ruin.

Timmy looked upon his cheeks,
then turned a ruddy pallor,
His attitude of life then changed,
And so did his demeanor.
Now base and vile, of violent temper,
Rude and foul and mean,
He buffed his buns with terrycloth,
Then lubed with Vaseline.

His air was that of fallen grace,
And cowardly inquisition,
His priest expelled him from the church
On rampant supposition,
That he was in league with demons,
And perverse succubi,
(For spying a lad with an ass like that,
They'd seldom pass right by.)

He scoffed at all of his teachers,
And made the children cry,
By slacking off at schoolwork,
And acting really fly.
He told his boss to fuck himself,
And quit his fruitful work.
In general, and specifically,
He acted like a dork.

But what infects a noble youth,
With awful inclination
To scorn and sneer at his betters,
With buttock infatuation?
Corrupted his mind with sarcasm?
Filled his brain with smut?
'Cause what he had seen on that fateful day
Was a birthmark of "Bob" on his butt!

 

Buttocks Poetry I

In a far distant place in a long-ago land
in a town neither pretty nor shitty nor grand
grew a strange grove of trees all the villagers knew
were magical as 'twas butt-cheeks that they grew.

The harvest in summer was something to see:
they'd trot out their baskets and shake up each tree.
These versitile buttcheeks had so many uses
from toy-like companions to nectary juices.

The villagers wore them and ate them, made pies,
pickled buttock cheeks, bongo drums, and "hot butt fries";
They plucked and they mucked and they fucked with the pulp,
and pressed them to cider they drank in one gulp

And if ever a villager lacked for a bun
they knew they could go to the grove and pluck one
and pull down their pants and set it just so
and walk away whistling as no one would know.

But then came some slob to the grove: 'twas he who
did not want one new buttcheek and not even two
nor three four five six seven eight nine or ten
he wanted um ALL!, every one, there and then.

He picked several cheeks, stuck um on pat pat pat
slap-slap-slap spank-spank-spank and did not stop at that.
He stuck 'um on knee caps and armpits and feet
et al til they covered his body complete.

Still he layered 'um on. His circumference grew
so round and so huge that the next thing he knew
he began to roll downhill right after a sneeze:
a big buttcheek snowball!, and felled all the trees.

He rolled off a cliff and what of him became
no one knows, and what of it? The part that's the shame
is that there are no longer buttcheeks grown from trees.
Then again there's no stench of their blooms on the breeze.

 

Behold! Fried Chicken Head!

Image hosted by Photobucket.com
The more you look at Fried Chicken Head, the more you want Him. He beckons unto you, He calls you to make obescience. You must worship before Him because HE is the ONE TRUE Fried Chicken Head.

Our forefathers spoke of His coming in their ancient writings. He comes to do that which can only be done by Fried Chicken Head. Can't you feel the POWER of Fried Chicken Head in your very heart and soul?

We are as nothing before Him. He gazes without the need for corporeal eyeballs, for His Fried Eye Sockets see all. He gazes at your nakedness, your pathetic human fraility, until you feel the skin torn from your muscles, the muscles torn from your bones, your very bones disintigrate beneath His countenance.

He sees your failings, how you have sinned before Him, and it is not for you to know whether His gaze is one of peaceful beneficience, or burning condemnation to the eternal pit of boiling grease.

BOW DOWN FOR FRIED CHICKEN HEAD!!!

KILL FOR FRIED CHICKEN HEAD!!!

ALL POWER TO FRIED CHICKEN HEAD!!!

GIVE MONEY TO FRIED CHICKEN HEAD!!!

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

 

Devival's a-comin'

Image hosted by Photobucket.com

 

THE LAST XISTMAS CAROL

Dave Cratchitt was not looking forward to going to work this Christmas Eve morning. In fact, he wouldn't have been looking forward to working at the "Rewind Video" store even if it had been a warm day in May. But as he looked out the window of his dreary apartment at the cold, grey, phlegm-colored sky, then down to the soot covered slush on the street, he was stirred by the knowledge that if he called in sick again he would certainly be fired.

So he grudgingly dressed in his colorful, if tattered "Rewind Video" uniform, ate some runny eggs and burnt toast for breakfast, then cursed and ground the starter of his decrepit car until it finally kicked over. Even his drive into work pissed him off, road construction and traffic snarls doing their part to ruin his day before it had even begun.

"About damn time you showed up!" said his boss, Mr. Scrooge, "You're five minutes late! I'm not paying you to slack off, so get to work on the register." He finished by telling Cratchitt that Christmas Eve was always a slow day, so he would be working solo, but warned him "that I might come by later, to see how you're doing, and if I catch you slacking off, I'm going to fire your ass!"

"Well, at least the bastard was right", thought Cratchitt, as several hours later, only a few people came by, and then only to drop off tapes in the outside slot before speeding away, "today is boring as shit."

But just then his wristwatch beeped, and he looked at the time.

Eleven o'clock. "Damn," he thought, "it's so cloudy and nasty out that it could be eleven at night and I couldn't tell the difference." But just then, he heard the cheery 'tinkle-tinkle' of the doorbell, so he took his feet off the counter, set down his coffee, and feigned a greeting.

"Good mor..." was all he could get out before stopping in surprise. For what had just come through the door was not a regular customer, but a strange and unearthly apparition, one that left him speechless. It was a tanned, bikini-wearing, beach babe with long, flowing blonde hair!

"Can I, uh, help you, uh, miss?" was all he could blurt out.

"Why, hi there!" she giggled. "Don't you remember me? I'm the spirit of Alice, the girl who offered to give you a lift to southern California last summer. I just came by to let you know what you missed out on! Wow! Let me tell you. It's just an endless party out here. And you could've stayed at my place! And I've met all these really cute girls, and gosh, I wish you were here, 'cause it would have been so much neater having you help us put on baby oil and stuff!"

"uh, guh." was all that Dave Cratchitt could say.

"Oh, well anyway," she continued, "I'm supposed to tell you that three spirits are going to come by today, starting at noon. Well, be seeing you!" and she left, with only the "luuuussseerrr" sound of the wind rushing through the closing door.

"Wo, dude!" said Cratchitt to himself, "what the hell was in that coffeepot?" not believing he had seen anything other than a hallucination brought on by some banned pesticide that had been used on the beans.

But needless to say, he was pretty apprehensive about the approach of the noon hour. Apprehensive, that is, until his stomach reminded him of his approaching lunchtime, which ripped the spirit's warning right out of his underdeveloped memory.

As the hour struck, he was already halfway through his braunschweiger and cheese sandwich, when the door's 'tinkle-tinkle' again sounded.

Instantly his skin crawled, for immediately after the door shut he heard a voice that had not troubled him since many years before in high school. "Mister Cratchitt!" said the screetchy, irritating female voice, "I hope that you have a excuse this time!"

"Eek! Mrs. Crapworth!" Dave shouted, before correcting himself, "Uh, I mean Mrs. Crabworth!"

"You haven't changed ONE BIT since the fifth grade, young man!" she chided. "Still the class slacker! Never on time! Always disheveled!"

"Uh, uh." was all Cratchitt could blurt out.

"And you're WRONG, as usual. I'm just the spirit of Mrs. Crabworth, here to convey to you all the poor choices and missed goals of Christmas's past. And, believe you me, are you going to get an earful." And so she did, bringing up every little mistake or error of judgement Dave felt he had ever made, until he was curled up in a little ball behind the counter, trying to plug his ears and sobbing in embarrassment.

She even mentioned his adolescent confusion at the monkey house at the zoo, an event that had resulted in his being barred for life.

His emotional turmoil was so great that much time had passed before he realized that the spirit had long since gone, leaving behind only a faint odor of chalk dust. "Man, that really sucked" he said to himself, only then realizing that it was now two o'clock.

"Oh shit!" he said, but barely had the words left his mouth when the door swung open. "Hey man," said a familiar voice, "you still got any copies of 'Anal Intruders XVII' in stock?"

Dave Cratchitt jumped to his feet. "Jack!?" he said, "What the hell are you doing in town?" It was his older brother Jack!

"Whoa, chill out dickhead! I'm only the spirit of Jack!" it said, confusing the heck out of him. Then it grabbed Dave in a headlock long enough to give him a fearsome wedgie.

"Ow, fuck, man!" said Dave. "God, you are such an asshole. Why is everybody in my fucking family such fucking assholes?"

"Get over it," said the spirit. "Mom and dad probably adopted you anyway. Whatever. I am here to tell you what a great time everybody is having back home. Now that you are gone, folks are having the best sex ever..."

"Ewwww", said Dave.

"Don't interrupt", chided the spirit, then continuing, "...I have a really good job and am making tons of money. I got married to a great girl and folks love her and we're going to have smart and beautiful kids. Whereas, in your case, you are going to die alone and in poverty, and folks are going to scratch out your name in the family geneology and write, 'died at birth'."

"Hey! Fuck you, man!" Dave shouted out, red faced and eyes full of tears, before realizing that the spirit had left as abruptly as the others.

But the rage he felt inside was too great to contain, and he actually looked forward to the last spirit, so he would have someone to vent his anger on.

Three o'clock. Dave waited by the door, with a baseball bat kept to fend off robbers, but nobody came. After a while, he set the bat down and collapsed in his chair, his head in his hands. Then, about a quarter to four, he heard the `tinkle-tinkle' again.

Dave Cratchitt looked up. Standing in front of the counter was a grinning man who he had never seen before. "Uh, can I help you, sir?" asked Dave, but the man just continued to grin at him.

"Uh, pardon me, sir" said Dave, "but there's no smoking allowed in the store", a reference to the pipe Dave only now realized was unlit, that was clenched between the teeth of the grinning man.

The standoff continued with Dave asking progressively briefer queries as to what the man wanted, and the man just continuing to grin. Finally, he just blurted out "What!?", but the man made no response. Combined with all the trauma that had happened before, Dave's exhaustion finally caught up with him and he collapsed.

He awoke to find Mr. Scrooge standing over him, red faced. "I suppose you mean to tell me that you were robbed of $30 and you just FAINTED?" he said. "That is unacceptable, young man! If you keep up this slacking then you are fired!"

Dave exploded. "WELL FUCK YOU, YOU ASSHOLE! YOU CAN TAKE THIS FUCKING JOB AND FUCK YOURSELF WITH IT! I DON'T NEED THIS SHIT! I FUCKING NEED TO *SLACK OFF*!" And saying that, he stomped out of the door, hearing that annoying 'tinkle-tinkle' sound for the last time.

And once he was out on the street, ankle deep in slush, he suddenly thought he knew what that funny, grinning pipe-man was trying to say. Something very deep and philosophical that went against everything he had been raised to believe. Against his entire pre-programmed life of hard work, sacrifice, and voting. Of a NEW and BETTER way of life, guaranteed to make up for all the misery he had had to endure.

And he was pretty sure it also had something to do with southern California and the application of baby oil. And Slacking off. Especially Slacking off.

"Well, Merry Fucking Christmas to me!" he said with a grin and a lift in his step, "and everybody else can just go to hell!"

 

Bob goes "Dutch"


Tuesday, March 15, 2005

 

All "Bob" Radio -- The Hour Of Slack

Image hosted by Photobucket.com

 

HOUR OF SLACK NOW AVAILABLE ON BITTORRENT!

THE MINISTRY OF TRUTH has partnered with THE CHURCH OF THE SUBGENIUS to distribute the award-winning radio program, "Hour of Slack," via the international BitTorrent networks. It is the first religious radio show to reach the global peer-to-peer audience.
Torrents are now available at
http://www.minitru.org.nyud.net:8090/leech.

And the shows are also available for free ordinary download as MP3s or Ogg Vorbis from SubSITE¹s Hour of Slack page
http://subgenius.com/ts/hos.html

That also shows the various broadcast stations that stream and/or archive Hour of Slack. There are now 5 or 6 completely different ways to hear the show besides plain radio!

 

BIG DEVIVAL IN DETROIT THIS SATURDAY

BIG DEVIVAL IN DETROIT THIS SATURDAY, March 19, at The Magic Stick in Detroit, Michigan. Bands include The Amino Acids, The Christ Punchers, Wolf Bait, The L.S Dudes and Stylex! REVEREND IVAN STANG will be there, ranting his SubGenius head off. Last year's Detroit Devival was a real crowd-pleaser and crowd-lobotomizer and this one should be even better. Details on that, and all other upcoming shows (listed later in this newsletter), is on the SubSITE LATEST EVENTS page http://subgenius.com/newdevivals.html

 

NEW SACRED SUBGENIUS PRODUCTRY

We don't like to abuse our privileges by spamming you. So we only spam you every now and then. This is one of those NOWs. We need some $ for gas to get to the Detroit Devival this weekend. That and the new structural additions to The Slackermansion.

The following THIRTEEN new products are SUDDENLY in the Bulldada Time Control SubGenius Website Catalog.

Even if you're completely broke, you'll probably enjoy looking at the PACKAGING ART. Click on small product shots to get BIG views of the front and back graphics, which include some spectacular recent work by LeMur, Heart Ignition, iDRMRSR, IMBJR, Espira and others.

THIRTEEN SWEET SWAG-BABIES FROM THE CHILDREN OF "BOB":

Tree of Knowledge Poster (Huge slick color poster, by Mavrides/Stang - LIMITED SUPPLY)

Skull-Bob Black T-Shirt (VERY limited supply - 2 each of large, medium, XL - art by Espira)

Bumper Sticker: I'M MAD TOO, "BOB"(Large 12" weatherproof vinyl)

Media Barrage 3 CD - "Sex, Sickness and Slack" (This 1981 classic is SubG album is currently on alt.binaries.slack in MP3 -- but if you "can't download," you CAN BUY.)

12 Hours of Slack MP3 VOLUME 19 CDR (Excellent copies of shows up through #985, which hasn't even aired yet. This is a VERY GOOD cross-section and great sampler!)

12 Hours of Slack MP3 VOLUME 18 CDR

65 Hours of Slack in MP3 & OGG CDR (Lower-res versions of shows from #888 to 952 - some mono MP3, some low stereo Ogg Vorbis format -- quite a value for $15)

Hour of Slack LIVE MP3 Stash 2 CDR (A year's worth of just the live parts of the shows, mostly in-studio ranting and jive talk with background music and effects)

2004 EuroSubTour Devival & Radio Remix MP3 CDR (The equivalent of a 3 CD set - culled from the clips used on Hours of Slack)

6X-Day (plus 6 shorts) DVD (Include 62-minute edit of 6X, plus 2 music videos, the X-Day ad, Bug Porn, and 1955 home movies of "Bob"!

Uncut World of the Future (with 4 shorts including "The Human Animal") DVD

Hour of Slack in OGG VORBIS Vol. 4 CDR (22 shows (#956- 975) in GOOD quality stereo

58 Hours of Slack in OGG-lo CDR (ALL the existing lower-resolution (but still stereo) Ogg Vorbis versions of shows from # 930 to 988 - actually I won't have this one ready to mail out until April, as 988 isn't produced yet!)


I, Stang am most relieved to have these various items finally finished and moveable. They've been STACKING UP around here, like my email, and the hair-balls in the carpet around my office chair.

 

BRAINWIPE


TOO LATE NOW, HUMAN -- YOU LOOKED!


by solar max

Monday, March 14, 2005

 

Face Down the CONspiracy Legal System

"Now that I've found "Bob", things sure seemed a lot different to me since the last time I was in court facing possible jail time for an unconstitutional law." -- some two time no-longer loser.

And your two CON choices were to act defiant of the *rules*, or to act all snivelling and humble and throw yourself on the "mercy of the court", huh? Well, those rules JUST DON'T APPLY TO SUBGENIUSES.

Did you even consider LOUDLY calling forth the "Bob" and "Connie" to free you from bondage? Insisting that the police and judge were trying to STEAL YOUR SLACK, and that they, as good MENDICANT MASONS, had better WATCH THEIR ASSES before they were SHUNNED for IGNORING THEIR OWN TRADITIONS? Accompanied by wild HAND SIGNALS and butt grabs of your COURT APPOINTED CONspiracy ATTORNEY!?

Most cops and judges are grovelling Masons, and they live in superstitious fear of "Bob" and "Eris" and everything else that DOESN'T MAKE SENSE.

We live on a planet where the CON tells you that you are a snail on the edge of a razor blade. That is a LIE.

Being a SubGenius, you must accept the notion that you are a FLATWORM on that razor blade. The blade WILL cut you in two--and you will be FREE! Only NOW there will be TWO of you to fight THE SYSTEM.

One half will be on the side of good, the other will be on the side of evil, and each half will re-grow and thus there will be TWO of you. Plus, as an added bonus, you will leave the blade all slimy and nasty so it will infect whoever uses it next.

But remember, the first time you 'got over' used up that $30 you sent in to "Bob".

You'd better cover your ass, and send in another $30. There should not be a second time, for if "Bob" smiles on you, YOU JUST WON'T GET CAUGHT! But if not, you DON'T want to get the DEATH PENALTY for "Malingering with Intent to Gawk".

Remember the phrase: "This isn't the SubGenius you are looking for. Keep moving along." The typical policeman doesn't know the power of SubGenius Mind Control, and will decide that he really doesn't need directions to the donut shop that bad.

NEVER SAY NEVER SAY "NEENER!"

 

'BOW DOWN BEFORE THE WRATH OF CTHULU'

LONDON--Beaming two-year-old Shelby W* got a toy dog for her birthday - then burst into tears as it growled in a demonic voice: "Bow down before the wrath of Cthulu!"

Granmother Sheila B* was stunned as she heard the threat from the cuddly pup she had bought at Argos.

Little Shelby turned to her and sobbed: "Granny, am I going suffer unkenchable agonies?" in a cute little terrified waif manner. "Are da rats going get me?"

Sheila, 50, complained to the toy's makers--who claimed the youngster had just MISTAKEN the dog's bark for the menacing message, which should have been something more appropriate.

But Argos admitted it was the second complaint about the £14.75 "Dogz" terrier.

Mum-of-three Sheila said yesterday: "Shelby was sobbing her little heart out. The dog looks so cute. I was thrilled when I spotted it in the shop window.

"Shelby wants a real demonic dog and I thought this would be the next best thing. I couldn't wait to see her face light up--but my present ruined her day. I was heartbroken. It sounds like something out of a bad movie." Her local Argos store in Wandsworth, South West London, launched an urgent probe.

A spokeswoman admitted: "We have had a listen and it is unfortunate.

"The dog is meant to be growling out Satanic verses but due to an error it is spouting some fictional nonsense."

"It is unlikely we will be restocking it."

Oldham-based manufacturer Toy Options said: "We have sold 40,000 of these toys since we brought it out two years ago--and there have been just two complaints.

"We have spent hundreds of thousands of pounds on product testing on our 'Demonic Toys' line and we just do not think this a problem."

Sheila claims the firm laughed off her complaint and offered her a "Shub-Niggurath" CAT instead.

She warned: "There are kiddies out there who could be heartbroken come Christmas if they find one of these devil dogs in their stocking--and it's not even the right hideous, soul-devouring elder god for their culture."

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