HAVING A BLAST AT

KRAKATOA EAST OF DOBBSTOWN

The Atlanta Devival, May 10 at CRC

(ReSpew by IrReverend Friday Jones)

It was the Thursday before the Atlanta Devival that I decided I just had

to go. I didn¹t have any plans; I¹d made no preparations; I just showed

up at the airport and went. Praise be to the Internet, for plane

schedules! Praise be to the Olympics, for giving Atlanta a public

transportation web site that led me right to the Devival door! I knew

everything would be all right when I noticed that the passenger in front

of me was covered with BUMPS and had one eye lower than the other. A good

omen. Bouncing merrily along, I got to Atlanta (nice airport, got its own

little train system), and thence to the subway, and the bus, and the large

and finely appointed CRC Bar and Eatery. Where I discovered - that I was

there before anyone else. Of course. It¹s always like that; practically

a Friday stereotype.

When the Devivalists finally walked in, they blithely paraded right past

me as they went to admire the stage, the fine effects lighting, the

projection video system and the many speakers. It was only as Jesus was

walking to flog on the Bobbies in unloading the equipment that he noticed

that Bobbie at the bar was, in fact, a Boobie - me. One by one, it

percolated through the Devivalists that I¹d flown from BOSTON just to lend

a helping hand.

³You came!² exclaimed Stang, with an expression that mingled glee, lust

and sheer astonishment. Well of course I did; I¹m a SubGenius and I can

COME whenever I feel like it! That¹s a good Church motto, ³Come Whenever

You Want With ³Bob².² One rich old man whose impotence drives him to try

ANY solution would give LOTS more money than any five impoverished

SubGenii can muster.

Soon the undulicious Rev. Susie the Floozie and I were exchanging mating

calls whilst she hung up her gleaming Dobbshead comet, to be joined by

dancing Dobbs skeletons in due course. The stage was soon ornamented to

look like a lush tropical jungle, befitting the Devival¹s Krakatoa theme.

Rev. Rock-In-Hand (a rock is the softest thing his hand has ever held,

believe me) and the soon-to-be-deflowered Dr. Legume inspected the edifice

and deemed it worthy. The fine CRC band Pee Dog Night was preparing their

instruments of mayhem, murder and music. Meanwhile I set up the sales

table right under the video screen, and was delighted to discover that the

esteemed Papa Joe Mama would also be selling his wares, the infamous Home

Study Tapes and the unnerving Icons, at the very same table. And this

time around I¹d be right next to the stage and could see all the action!

Well, I could if I leaned around the towering bank of speakers. And

ducked under the inflatable Godzilla looming at my shoulder. But anyway,

at least I could smell the preachers properly.

After the CRC¹s fine cook tried his hand at an impromptu filet de Bobbie

(which came out quite nicely, thank you) and the Devivalists stoked their

internal fires, it was practically time to open the doors, admit the

ravening SubGenius flood - and let the sales begin!

And a fine lot of sales they were! Atlanta was practically starving for

³Bob²¹s outstretched hand to accept their money, because they bought

dozens of books, hundreds of buttons and tapes, tens upon tens of

T-shirts. We ran out of half of the swag, and could have used about THREE

TIMES as many Membership Packets! Papa Joe Mama was assembling his icons

as fast as the crowd bought them - some people bought a set of ALL SEVEN!

Praaaaise BE to the Saint of Sales! I literally could NOT CLOSE the cash

box at the end of the night, it was so full of money! I had to duct-tape

the blessed thing shut and then give it to Jesus - and try not to snicker

when he nearly collapsed from the weight.

As the Devival began, the projection video system fluttered the endless

³Bob²-orgasm of ARISE over my head as the noble Jesus Christ took the

stage to explain SubGenius 101 as only the Son of God can. I soon

realized that the frightening-looking man lurking about the sales table in

his leisure jumpsuit was none other than Dr. Dynasoar - I didn¹t recognize

him without his dress! How embarrassing. And while the majestic tones of

Papa Joe Mama rolled over the crowded room, I was alas trying to tell two

earnest Christian girls that of course I believed in Jesus - wasn¹t He

right up there in the sound booth, cussing the disobedient DAT equipment

to Hell and back? And in fact, He was looking for some groupies to share

that back-stage shower and waterbed with ... They scampered off. Too bad.

As Circus Apocalypse was unable to attend (saving themselves up for

Ydnax¹s GRADUATION PARTY) their freakshow function was filled by a party

of lively contortionists, Ensemble For Plastic, who had deft feet,

symbolic tattoos and very tight shiny leotards. And they hula-ed very

well late into the night. Perhaps their contortions were not up to the

level of a Shaolin monk or Buster Keaton. But then, I¹ll forgive almost

anything of people wearing very tight shiny leotards.

The noble Dr. Legume strode forth to SMASH the very nuts of the Conspiracy

under his feet, even as he shattered the Earth itself with a single blow.

Let us all wish a long and FERTILE marriage to the Bad Doctor, and hope

that many children shall make golden his grey years.

The sin-tillating Susie took the stage, and it yielded utterly to the

grasp of her velvet tongue. The crowd went wide and Susie slipped right

in, planting that seed-word of ³Bob² firmly between their soft tender

ears. She was a cloudburst in a bustier, a thunderstorm on white white

thighs. Susie came and we all came too. Praise ³Bob.²

While Dyna was regaling the room with his musical repertoire, I was

suffering the anguish of whoever runs the sales table at Devivals - the

better the person on stage, the lower the form of Bobbie who comes to buy

and tithe. All of the interesting, tasty Bobbies are watching the good

rants and events while only the Pinkest, most brain-dead ones shuffle over

to the table, spending an hour picking out just the right button. And of

course, I¹m not talking about YOU, naw, must mean somebody else.

The crowd was electrified when Stang revealed how he had spent his

previous evening after carousing with Legume at his bachelor party - he

had visited the unmarked grave of JONBENET RAMSEY and stolen letters that

people had left there for the poor dead little lass! Letters that he

proceeded to read on stage! Letters threatening the most intimate harms

to those who had snuffed the little blonde Barbie-babe, and protestations

of love - from GOD!

I was heartily impressed. Stang had done something that even offended

ME. Of course, I was the one who would later suggest (over breakfast no

less) that JonBenet should have been buried in a glass-covered coffin so

that people could dig down and watch her rot through the lid ...

The earth shook, the skies grew thick with sparks, and suddenly, the

VOLCANO ERUPTED! And the HEAD, the veritable BLEEDING HEAD OF ARNOLD

PALMER was cast aloft in a pillar of fire! You could smell the flesh

sizzling as the Head was laid upon the battered shell of the Earth for

Papa Joe Mama to launch. From my vantage point I could mainly see Papa

Joe¹s gaily swiveling ass as he did his best golfer impression - not that

I minded, mind you. If only he¹d been wearing the very tight shiny

leotards ... The Head was launched, the world still spun. Still more time

to save souls for ³Bob.²

Susie had warned me earlier about ³things flying around² and the

³antidote², but I didn¹t quite realize what she was talking about until

Stang started talking on the stage about face-fucking bats. FFBs? Here?

In a crowded room? What sort of a monster would - ulp!

It was on me before I could set my teeth against it, wings fluttering

around my ears, huge barbed penis plunging into my tender mouth. In and

out it rasped, and blood and less wholesome emissions started trickling

down my throat. Screaming (well gurgling) in agony, I managed to hurl

myself from behind the table and desperately crawl towards the stage,

where Susie was a vision of healing with the tube of Face-Fucking Bat

Sperm Antidote Pudding nestled in her divine cleavage. As I felt the

scorching poisons of the bat-sperm soak into my flesh, burning it, searing

my nerves, suddenly Susie was astride me. With a few deft blows to the

chest, and a sip of the Pudding, I was purged. I crawled away to under

the table, and took a quick catnap amongst the T-shirts.

The residue of the sperm and Antidote coursed through my system for the

rest of the evening (now early morning) making everything strange and

vague. I remember a new pillar of fire arising from the volcano, and

speaking in the dulcet tones of Robby the Robot. I remember a pair of

large hairy testicles being cupped in Susie¹s palm - and then severed! I

remember the skeletons on the wall proving that they had 208 bones in

their body - and one bone up the Conspiracy¹s ass! I remember singing a

song with Stang, and bouncing him on my lap just like a lively little

tuxedo-clad puppy. I remember women with phone cables for hair, and

drunkards with no hair. I remember that which I want to forget. I forget

that which I want to remember ...

It was during breakdown of the vast stage set that Stang¹s impassioned

lust for the inflatable Godzilla was finally consummated. I was trying to

deflate the dear thing, and just as I found the large, rigid air-release

nozzle, Stang found the cloaca. With one mind, we hurtled ourselves on

the slick green vinyl, forcing the air out of it, ravishing the King of

the Monsters over and over again. ³Oh Friday, it¹s even better than IRC!²

Stang wailed. I was out of breath with panting. We humped and humped and

humped until Godzilla was shriveled down to nothing. Then I rolled it up

and shoved it into its own box while Stang moaned in relief. Hopefully

the various stains will have dried before Susie unrolls the Godzilla

again. Whew. What an experience. I¹ll never look at a scaly tail the

same way again. Even Stang¹s scaly tail.

After the eighteen-wheeler was packed, it was time to proceed to the

after-Devival Debauch. I had no real objection to being blindfolded on

the drive to Susie¹s house; security you know. Making me drive while I

was blindfolded was a rather novel experience however. Jesus claimed it

was to test how well I surfed the Luck Plane. Following the shouted and

often contradictory instructions, I actually did make it to Susie¹s! And

I¹m sure that those things I ran over were just speed bumps. At least,

that¹s what the Devivalists said they were. But they were snickering an

awful lot ...

Susie¹s house, nay PALACE, is a monument to the living idol of pulchritude

that is Susie herself and her fellow Bad Girls. Every wall seemed to

breathe beneath the weight of dazzling female flesh in paint, ink, photo

emulsion and brain-tanned skin. Reptiles of dubious extraction slithered

underfoot, and the basement was overflowing with records of every breed

and color. Artists you never heard of - artists you never wanted to hear

- ³artists² who were beyond ³art² - and Bernard Herrmann!

Naturally I was called upon to ³pamper² the sore flesh of the

Devivalists. Why, poor Jesus¹ hands were nearly raw from picking up and

carrying the heavy weight of that cash box. Really. Of course, I can¹t

go into details ... I¹m sure you wouldn¹t be interested anyway.

There¹s something very special about being held firm under a man¹s weight

while watching Robert Tilton sputter and smile on TV. Just thought I¹d

mention that. A non sequitur.

And finally, the violent intimacies of saying good-bye. Over and over I

chanted the mantra ³See you in two months ... two months ...² I¹m sure

that any Pinks looking on thought that we were the contortionists.

It was WORTH it damnit. It probably would have been worth it if I¹d had

to fly to TEXAS. Where else could I get such sheer good fun? And BAD fun

too, dirty fun, nasty fun .... heh heh heh, green straps ... Godzilla ...