From email@example.com Sun Jul 05 09:40:39 1998
Subject: X-day report from Brushwood
From: firstname.lastname@example.org (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.
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.