From box2321@teleport.com Wed Jul 22 20:27:32 1998

Newsgroups: alt.slack

Subject: Onan Canobite's X-Day Story

From: "Onan Canobite <onan@subgenius.com>" <box2321@teleport.com>

Date: Thu, 23 Jul 1998 03:27:32 GMT

 

Reprinted with permission from 'On and On About It: An Oral History of the

Church of the SubGenius' (SubGenius Foundation, Dallas 2179)

 

excerpt, Track A13, Rev. Dr. Onan Canobite (1966 - 2093)

 

The majority of us were gathered in the Pavilion by the time we reached

the quarter 'til Rupture mark. There was neither panic nor pageant -

while some were dressed for interstellar travel, others were dressed in

their morning grubbies (and some were not dressed at all - they, the

Dobbsclad tribe, may have been among the most faithful).

 

Reverend Ivan Stang led the countdown in the final seconds. And at 7:00

am, as the final "O" of "Fuck 'em if they cant take a joke" echoed on

forever, the saucers arrived.

 

As the silver disks materialized above us they blotted out the sun and

rustled the leaves and limbs of the nearby trees. Three of them were so

close I could see the rivets and plates on their underbelly as they hummed

and circled the compound. Some applauded, a few wept, all looked to the

heavens. We were ready to go home.

 

At that moment, far off on the Field of Valor, I saw J. R. "Bob" Dobbs in

conference with a diminutive olive green humanoid. The alien held up

three digits, Dobbs responded with two. The alien paused, then stamped

its foot in agreement. They touched faces and hands and Dobbs received a

large black briefcase from the skycritter.

 

With a rasp, two-foot crescent shapes opened in irregular patterns on the

saucers surface. A golden dust fell upon our upturned faces, almost with

its own intelligence. The pollen burned our eyes and skin, and all was

lost in tears. But in that moment came the Rupture.

 

Like the skin peeling from an old rotten tomato, I felt some part of me

pulled away and toward the saucers. Its color was dull and heavy, and as

it pulled from my feet upward it caught most on my sex and my spine, my

shoulders and my face, until it popped inside out and away. On its face,

a mirror of my own, were two great polyps; they stared at me like a

wounded and cowardly predator driven from its lair as the empty shell was

yanked feet-first toward the flying saucers.

 

The crescent portals sealed themselves, our sullen sleeves inside. The

saucers began to rotate in sync and then whispered away. I saw "Bob"

driving off in a golf cart, his briefcase forgotten in the field.

 

As happened so often in my happy service to the Church of the SubGenius,

nothing turned out quite like I thought it would but in the end it was so

much better. I looked about me and saw pastel oil slick auras around

people's heads and bodies for the first time since I was a child. I saw

freshly scrubbed happy faces and cones of blue and silver energy flowing

out of peoples palms, great red breathing spirals radiating and spiraling

in to their hearts. There was laughter all about; we saw the world as it

truly is.

 

In the years to come we affected many miracles in the name of the Church.

We could tell when our co-religionists were in danger and sped to their

aid. We abolished work for many of our kind and even a few of the humans.

We communicated without wires or waves across great distances, and held

the most ennobling and amusing of gatherings. And we learned the true

meaning of what the prophets had told us long ago: "The SubGenius Must

Have Slack." This was not a declaration of some commodity we would have

to buy in the future, but a definition of who we are now. Just as a meal

must include food to be 'a meal,' the SubGenius must have slack. We got

slack, enough to go around and then some.

 

We _did_ go home, after all. And it was to the home we had always been

told we could never go back to. Our indulgence and our innocence had made

peace; our fate and our faith cohabitated. We were healed and made whole,

we went to heaven without dying first.

 

The Men from Planet X had taken away not our persons but our pains. Their

advanced technologies separated our souls from the parasites and tumors

that infected them. They took away our hurts and smoothed our scars. And

they left us with new gifts, both fair and foul.

 

I don't know if our new cutting vision, our scissors of sight, is an

ability added to our minds and bodies by the X-ists or if by their

cleansing we were simply restored to a level of sensation that all once

shared. Irregardless, all SubGenii at X-Day have claimed and demonstrated

a heightened sense of awareness and psychic connectivity without parallel

in Church history or even Earth history. This was the fair gift of the

X-ists, the gift of sight.

 

But what sights we have seen. Like a traveler in a foreign lands made

abruptly aware of the insults of his hosts, our unfiltered vision has made

us aware of horrors previously confined to Z-grade cinema. The X-ists had

left their most harmful of partially invisible technologies and species

behind for the humans to abuse, and when we returned home the abuses

began.

 

Unseen by the humans around us, we are now only too aware of the

glistening insect armor that most mortals wear, its tubers lodged deep in

the muscles and throats of their bodies. We see the robot monkey demons

that ride men's backs, driving them to cruelty and to combat with the

demon monkey robots that hang from women's necks, staring them in the face

all day. Plague fogs rust and rot the cities, long-legged angels with

burned wings bolt colored hoods to human heads. Coal burning dinosaurs

and firecats destroy the forests. And behind it all, The Conspiracy.

Once hidden and operating behind the scenes, they now traded openly in

mortal suffering.

 

Were we given eyes to see only to see Hell itself? To grow new dark

shells for the X-ists to harvest each X-Day? It must not be so. Our

mission, though nameless, was ordained: the SubMission of planet Earth.

 

Of course we started off on the wrong foot. We used the money that "Bob"

had forgotten (or left behind for us, some said) to process the films and

edit the tapes of X-Day. And each package that came back from the labs

showed not the experience we'd shared but one altogether more mundane;

vat-bred actors or biomatons resembling those who were there, standing

around, talking. Examination of the remaining funds revealed all the

bills were marked - with regret, we destroyed them lest any future project

be likewise marked for Conspiracy tampering.

 

Our 'proof' of X-Day, once so self-evident, was gone. Some few spoke the

plain truth about The Conspiracy, and our lawyers are still petitioning

for their release. We could not show evidence for what we had seen, nor

could we share our visions with those who did not share them already.

Dobbs failed to return our messages for many years, and the SubGenii were

scattered around the country and around the world. We had each other,

we could see what the problems were, we had some of the tools to fix

things, but nobody believed something like X-Day could be real. What were

we to do?

 

-O.

 

--

Rev. Dr. Onan Canobite - SubGenius since 1982 - onan@subgenius.com

Send One Dollar to http://www.subgenius.com/ for Eternal Salvation