Zinnspired (High on SubGenius)
From: email@example.com (Rev. Random the Other)
Date: Tue, 15 Jul 1997
I haven't fucked much with the past, but I've fucked plenty with the
Over the silk of skin are scars from the splinters of stages and squid
I've caressed. Each squid is like a bowl of 'frop, like face-fucking
bats; is my Pleasure. I would measure the success of the night by the
amount of Piss and Seed I could exude all over the Yetisyn that
Some nights I'd suprise everybody by skipping off with a skirt of Pink
net sewed over with flat digital circles that dazzled and flashed.
The lights were violent and white. For a while I had a prehensile
penis, but I couldn't bear to use it. When my hair was cropped, I
craved covering, but now my hair itself is a veil, and the scalp of a
crazy and sleazy Yeti lies beneath the netting of the skin.
I wake up. I am lying peacefully and my knees are open to Dallas. I
desire Slack and Slack is absolutely ready to seize me. In house, I
am a Normal; in heart I am a SubGenius artist, and have no guilt. I
seek pleasure. I seek the nerves under your skin.
The narrow archway, the layers, the scroll. We worship the Flaw, the
maw in the belly of the exquisite "Bob": who spared the Yeti and
slaughtered the human. I am NOT foolin'.
Stoned in Space. "Bob".... Christ.... It has always been Rotten, so
it is and So It Shall Be. Within the context of "Bob", we must open
up our eyes and seize and rent the veil of smoke which we call The
The Conspiracy is the necessary result of the inability of humans to
inform and transform Waste. The transformation of Waste is perhaps
the oldest preoccupation of Yeti, Yeti being the chosen animal on this
green planet. And all saucers. To make shit and to give a shit.
And it's given to the Yeti the task of the Alchemist, to turn that
Shit into Solid Gold.
All must not be ART. Some ART we must Disintegrate.
What I feel when I'm writing to alt.slack is completely cold and
crazy, like I don't owe nobody nothin'. And it's a test just to see
how far I can relax into the cold wave of "Bob". When everything hits
just right (Just and Right), "Bob can go down on me forever. I never
tire of "Bob", and I trust "Bob" and don't care about anything.
Sometimes I feel like I've broken through, and I'm free and I could
dig into eternity riding the wave and realm of "Bob". Sometimes it's
useless - here I am, struggling, filled with dread, afraid that I'll
never squeeze enough graphite from my damaged cranium to inspire or
asphyxiate any eyes grazing like hungry bats across the stage or page.
Inside, I'm just crazy. Inside, I must continue. I see him, my stiff
muse, "Bob", jutting about in Dobbstown like an erect speeding
Rape-rod...the Normal's day is dead and the Humans, too, are finished.
The face of "Bob" remains not solely due to spray paint, but through
the power and magnetism and stupidity of "Bob" himself. "Bob"
preserves himself, maintains his swagger; is intoxicated by ritual as
well as by 'frop.
Look at me: I am Slack. I lap Slack from the hard brown palm of
Bulldada. AND I TRUST MY BULLDADA. Therefore, we black out together.
Therefore, I would go through scum. And scum is just "Bob", ah, we
can see it. We are laughing, ascending through the Dallas mountain.
We are peaking. We are laughing. We are kneeling. We are Slacking.
We are Radiating at last. Oh, this Rebellion, it's just a gas...a gas