From Sun Jul 05 09:40:39 1998

Newsgroups: alt.slack

Subject: X-day report from Brushwood

From: (Joseph Carpenter)

Date: 5 Jul 1998 11:40:39 -0500


Greetings Brothers and Sisters!:


I bring news, hot off the wire from the brutal zone of destruction

that was, in a past life, known as Sherman, NY.


All is lost.


But perhaps some leadup-


Angstrom, Riboflavin, and your intrepid correspondent were dealt

a serious setback when it was revealed, much to the suprise

of the muffler shop guy that discovered it, that the most

holy Ford Tempo of the Black Death has had the vast majority

of its engine mounts vaporized by some unknown technology.

The engine and transmission are no longer connected to the

rest of the vehilce, and could come flying into the passenger

compartment at any minute. We decided not to attempt the

passage in that vehicle.


Fortuately, Riboflavin was able to aquire through totally legal

and orderly means, a large Ford Diesel pickup truck at the very

last minute. This enabled us to travel "in cognito" amongst

the shotgun brandishing local populations of upstate NY without

disturbing them in their natural habitat.


But you don't give a shit, and I haven't slept in days, so

I'll shut the fuck up about that.


The Battle: Never before have I witnessed such a large group

of heavily armed and armored people accomplish so little in

the alloted time. The winner of the battle, and thus the person

who got to launch the bleeding head of *rnold *almer, was Janor

Hypercleats, who was not actually present for the battle.

The combatants ate pig. We chose to drive to nearby Mayville,

where we ate at a small diner, and our waitress was quite possibly

the single most beautiful young woman any of us had ever seen.


Then some people ranted. They were all great, but nothing particularly

stuck out in my mind. It's one hideous memory of bizareness rolled

up in my medula oblongata. One day it will develop its own persona

and start lashing out in violent episiodes. I look forward to that day.


Then there were some fucking dangerous ass fireworks, which resulted

in many fatalities. The fire fell from the sky, and the bleeding

head of *rnold *almer was prematurely detonated. The orgy of flaming

violence continued for at least eight hours. Nowhere was safe, those

who took shelter inside of motor vehicles were most likely killed

instantly when the fuel tanks exploded. Those were the lucky ones.

I took advantage of my ability to breathe both on land and under water

and hid in the pond, at least until the depth charges started getting



With the head of *rnold *almer destroyed in the hellfire from the sky,

the only option was to launch the head of the goddamn stuck pig

they ate after the battle. Your imagination will have to suffice,

as describing exactly what happens to a well cooked actual real pig

head when launched with a golf club is too difficult for words.


Keep in mind that I've had no (0) sleep for the past two (2) days.


Then the master motherfucker from the motherfucking mothership

Jaweh David Lynch gave a motherfucking mind bending crazed

brilliant rant. It was worth the price of admission. Fuck yeah.


Then that guy, shit, Andrew the Impaled, I think, circus apocalypse

guy. He was fucking awesome. Sewed Legumes fucking mouth shut.

Blood. Real blood. It was a sight to see. Jammed a screwdriver

in his nose. I almost puked. I loved it.


Am I making any sense? No? No shit. What I'm describing didn't

make any sese.


The local pagan population was out, beating drums like crazed

motherfuckers with pulsing quartz crystals instead of pineal glands.

With a big freaking fire. Naked dancing. It was goofy goodness, and

toasty warm to boot.


This is probably out of order. Time had no meaning, there was no

way to differentiate one moment from the next. Could've been the

chemical enhancement, or the electro static vorticies generated by

having so many SubG's in one place. Maybe it was the fact that I

was already under the effects of nosleep.


Time blurs... a mass wedding that people here should already know

about... ranting... Jesus killing time by constantly asking for

the time, though it was meaningless... more ranting... faux alien

sex goddesses with plastic appendages... stuff and people gets auctioned...

some healthy fornicating takes place... Associated with the wedding:

Orbit drink, passed around. People unfamiliar with orbit don't trust

it... sitting around various fires, talking to various people...


The moment arrives. The Kool-aid is passed out, Stang arrives in a

white limo. The countdown begins... Five, four, three, two, one,



Nothing. Stang tries again.


Zip. Nada.


No saucers, no Xists. Nuthin but an increasingly apologetic Stang

and an increasingly hostile crowd.


Oh, and Jesus shaved his beard.


So Stang pulls some shit out of his ass about "Bob" actually writing

the date as 8661 upside down, instead of 1998. Yeah, fucking cheapass

copout. The crowd wants blood. The anger swells, and they pounce,

tearing Stang from limb to limb and feasting on his entrails.


Actually, they stripped him, dumped motor oil all over him and covered

him with bright pink feathers. He cried like a baby for mercy, and only

a little was given, in the form of a two second head start running. The

last your intrepid correspondent saw of Stang, he was being hauled by

the angry mob toward the pond, as the Bruswood staff felt that he would

pollute the pool with his foul outer coating.


We, however, were called in on yet another crazed misison of mercy to

teach stupid motherfuckers the true meaning of honking goddamn horns.

It was a brutal journey, but if we weren't going to do it, nobody

was, and that would have been the real tragedy.


All in all, quite an entertaining time, and as of 3 minutes ago,

I have been awake for 48 hours straight. The words crawl like vicious

ants across my computer monitor. They make fire.


What remains to be seen is what will happen with the church itself after

such a high visibility failure. The Discordians were heavily recruiting

the now X-Dayless SubG with the distribution of documents.


I, however, have my own course to follow...


As even though the Church of the SubGenius may be a big Joke, Slack

is still very real and attainable. The quest continues, but is

under remodeling pending new management.