Oh wondrous and strange, hideous and convoluted are the paths to
"Bob"'s secret hideout, his unobtrusive tract house in the
neighborhood of DIVINE TRANSCENDENCE. Dare you tread that ancient Way
where shreds of flesh and gnawed bones hint of unspeakable rites and
There are no SHORT-CUTS to "Bob": like a blast of hot wind thorough
the very BOWELS OF THE EARTH you must pass through the sphinctre of
the Conspiracy's mental and emotional constriction into the
disciplined dissipation of TRUE SLACK, where you can sit midst the
rage and fusion of Nature's most elemental powers WITHOUT A WORRY IN
THE WORLD! What have you got to lose??
As it is you may be fooling yourself -- and others you care about --
with smug assumptions that all those "things" you see and hear around
you every day are SOLID OBJECTS and that the world is run by people
who give a fuck about the future. Or that it is run by people at all.
RIGHT!! You may as well put yourself in the hands of some smiling,
pipe-smoking bland face innocuosity whose seductive promises of
satisfying sex and ill-gotten gains seem suddenly IRRESISTABLY
Give yourself to "Bob" -- freely, joyously, without an atom of
restraint --NOW -- and your worries are over.
Even as we sit here quietly persuing our own ends, or Ends, alien
forces of annihilation powered by dreams too hideous to contemplate
gather in a frenzy of Normmalcy just outside your door, over your
shoulder, in the very stars overhead. Drunk with boredom and
abstraction they cluster around graphs and charts and maps which
target with cool scientific precision any center of LUNATIC
RESISTANCE. Only "Bob"'s embrace, only the refreshing and intoxicating
cloak of his burning 'frop' can transmute this coarse material
substance of our flesh into the glorious invisible leisure of
nothingness itself! They won't even be able to see you, much less
crush out the light of your "Bob"-soul in the dull routine of their
monstrous Design. Trade in hours and weeks and years of tedium for an
Eternity of Controlled Abandon!! So...
Claim once again your ancient genetic heritage, your bludgeon of
prophetic -- and profitable!! -- irreverence, your RIGHT TO SMITE!!
And when that Stark Fist swoops low and makes such a mess of things
during the Final Days, squeezing a fine vintage wine from the Harevest
of Believers and Un-believers alike, you can sip that heady brew and
toast the Master of Ceremony whose beneficent grin spared you that
senseless demise: Praise "Bob." Kill "Bob.":
"For in that grin, the Secret lies,
within that grin lie secret lies,
For when "Bob" shines and nothing be
Where are you and where am me?
--- (pictographic children's song etched in Tibetan cave, circa 27000