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$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ $$$$$$$$$ $$$$$$$$$$ $$$$$$$$ HOLY TEMPLE of MASS CONSUMPTION $$$$$$$$$ $$$$$$$ $$$$$$$$ $$$$$$ *N*E*W*S $$$$$$$ $$$$$$$ Issue #7 $$$$$$$$ $$$$$$$$ $$$$$$$$$ $$$$$$$$$ Grinding "Bob"s bones into the Ultimate Hamburger $$$$$$$$$$ $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ Contents: Bowling for Grenades The Good Humor Escapade, part 1 "Bob" and Slack TV Operation FindMuck, and How To Thwart It SubGenius Calendar For more info, send all your money to: Holy Temple of Mass Consumption SLACK@ncsu.edu PO Box 30904 netoprwa@ncsuvm.BITNET Raleigh, NC 27622 Finer BBS's everywhere ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- silver@xrtll.UUCP (Hi Ho Silver) writes: > gypsy@alembic.acs.com (the dark girl) typed: >> the people upstairs from us ... started making bowling balls in the >> back bedroom and testing them by throwing them down the stairs. > It would have been wholly irresponsible of them not to have done so. > An untested bowling ball may have a hidden defect which could be > uncovered at a very unfortunate time, causing grave injuries to > innocent passersby. An untested bowling ball sits in the rack, down at the Pizza and Bowl, Twenty Lanes, No Waiting, on league night, fretting, fretting, fretting. A pot-bellied, balding fellow who rents his bowling sneakers by the hour, wears a white short sleeved sport shirt through which his sleeveless tee-shirt and matted black chest hair is clearly visible, smokes mentholated cigarettes, and smells of minty smoke, picks the ball up with the gleam in his eye that says "this ball is going to take three pins off my handicap today", and the ball starts to get real performance anxiety. And things go OK for a while, except that our hero is not rolling quite up to par, and is starting to mutter under his breath that maybe this _isn't_ the ball that is going to do magic for his game, and the ball starts to burn with untrammeled insecurities. And now it is the tenth frame, and our hero can still make a respectable showing if he can pick up a 4-10 split, but as he's right handed this one is a bitch to throw, so he glares at the ball and tells it to hook or pay the consequences, and he winds up and prances to the foul line and puts all the miseries of male pattern baldness, tobacco breath, failing to live up to his teammates' expectations, and a string of rejections from the bar girls running back five years into his throw. And the ball screams down the left side of the alley, spinning like mad, trying to get enough of a grip on the lane to hook a little to the right and knock the four pin cleanly into the ten, and overdoes it, and hits the four pin square on, and the undiscovered flaw gives way. And the enormous pressure of distilled accumulated blazing angst, let loose through poor quality control, throws screaming shrapnel across the waiting bowlers in six lanes on either side, chopping them into messy, irregular chunks of meat, plastic pocket protectors, rental shoes, thick glasses, and cheap, gaudy hair ornaments, and the gutters run with blood, and the air is full of the screams of the dying. Kent, the man from xanth. -- Better let 'em test the bowling balls, dark lady; it's the humanitarian thing to do. You test your guitar and amps at 2AM just to keep things fair. Think quality control. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Refined and Erudite Adventures of Captain Sodomy and His Amazing Pastel-Colored Buick Regal. "The Good Humor Escapade", Part 1 Hot summer days. My favorite. Little boys, little girls, faces caked with grime that adheres to their sweat as they play in their little dirtpiles, forming shapes that only their subconscious can identify. If one were to take pictures of the formations in the mud and show them to these budding artists upon their apex of sexual maturity, they would most probably blanch and deny their own handiwork. Round mounds tipped with pebbles, long tumescent rounded ridges, walled canals in the dirt to contain mysterious liquids... I am their saviour of sweat, their salvation of saline solution that oozes from their pores as the mercury oozes towards the top of the cheap thermometer mounted on the doorframe of their ticky-tacky abodes of family apathy and indifference. I am the one who brings them their sweet escapes, their cool restful breaks in an otherwise monochrome collage of mindless sidewalk activity. I am the Good Humor Man. I sell creamy globs and frosty concoctions from my white vehicle to these playthings. As I cruise down their block in air-conditioned comfort, barely recognizable cartoon blares distortedly from the open accepting mouth of the converted megaphone atop the dusty white delivery van. The sound is like pheromones to a moth. Clutching their shiny quarters in their tiny dirt-dull hands, they race out of their swing sets, out of their Big Wheels, out of their chalked-in confines of sidewalk to follow a slowly careening vehicle of ice-cream dispensation in a youthful imitation of a bawdy conga line. I stop the truck and move into the back, change dispenser at ready. The children, sensing their iminent purchase, halt in their drunken swaying parade, too expactant to be anything but silent. I let them hang for a minute. The tension rises like over-yeasted bread dough set aside for too long. I ready the freezers, opening the condensation-filmed steel doors. The side panel swings up and out, and the kids ('prey', in my mental dictionary) cluster around the open gateway to refreshment. They thrust their cute little fists out, showing me faint glittery glimmers between the fingers of a hand too small to successfully contain more than two quarters and a dime. They all scream out their demands. I do my best to serve them. Because I know that later, they'll serve me. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- In <2995@vela.acs.oakland.edu> atterlep@vela.acs.oakland.edu (Alan T. Terlep) writes: >I CAN"T BELIEVE IT!! For quite a while now I've been looking for an entrance >into the world of Slack. I've heard only fragmented rumours of the existence >of "that whole Bob thing", >but I never thought I'd find them. So---what's the deal? You see, Friend Alan, that's just the catch... There is *no deal*. You can buy a stick of gum, you can read a book on plumbing, you can rent a roto-tiller, you can rob a pharmacy, you can borrow a condom. But you can't *deal* in "Bob." Or, I mean, you can, or something. PART 1 -- "The whole "Bob" thing" "Bob" is an uncle of mine who lives in Fairlawn. "Bob" has a big face with big features, and he does big things. "Bob" is the guy who narrates the car rally commercials from the Cow Palace to the Spectrum to the Meadlowlands. "40000 yard-feet of nitro burning funny car POWER!! (power power power ower wer rr)" "Bob" came up with the name of Anusol(tm) brand Anus treatment. "Bob" sprays willing women's nipples with Alar. "Bob" is the special consul to the police in the Philippines who shot a man today while he was trying to commit suicide. "Bob" is the voice on the second or third track of Negativland's "Escape from Noise" album that mispronounces David "Magpie" Bowie's name. "Bob" molested your Aunt Rhoda when she was in third grade. "Bob" gave $666 dollars in counterfeit $3 to Oral Roberts. "Bob" *is* Oral Roberts, especially the "Oral" part. PART 2 -- "Slack" There is no such thing as slack. Or there is, or something, but you can't have it unless you don't want it, and everyone wants it. Or not, or something. Good luck. Buy The Book, and then send five times your purchase price to: World Otherness Ministries P.O. Box 8502 Stanford, CA 94309-8502 Thank you. -- # Daniel M. Rosenberg // Stanford CSLI // Chew my opinions,not Stanford's. # dmr@csli.stanford.edu // decwrl!csli!dmr // dmr%csli@stanford.bitnet ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Shortly after being weaned from mother's milk, young children are taught to absorb the junk food of television through their eyeballs. "Here, kids, suck on this. Just be quiet and don't wake Daddy. If you're good, you can watch all day, and if you don't see the fnords, they won't eat you." Parents are conditioned to feed this teenage mutant fuckyou crap to their kids so that what little brains they inherited from mom and dad will be so hopelessly atrophied that the final brainwashing will be a breeze. Society has now degenerated to the point that when TV does try to put out a good social message, they have to make it "following the rules," rather than "be a good citizen who occasionally gives two neurons worth of thought toward a fellow human being." Case in point: A Saturday morning "Public Service Announcement" starring Conspiracy programmed robots that look like kids telling other kids out there in the vast video wasteland to "Be Cool. Follow the rules." Oh, so back when we were growing up, it was OK to not bend to pressure from others. "Be yourself," they said. "Don't worry what other people think. You don't have to do what everyone else tells you to do to be cool," and nowadays they expect kids to knuckle under to the peer pressure to "Follow the rules" when just a little while ago they were saying that it's OK to be different. I don't know about you, but my kids (when I get around to having some) are damn sure not going to be little video perfect clones walking around going "Be Cool. Be Cool. Follow the rules. Yes, officer my daddy was smoking something that smelled funny. " Saturday morning cartoons and the blipverts in between them are a prime example of the tools that the Con uses to control people. After all, money isn't power. He has ultimate power over a thing who can destroy that thing. The Con wants ultimate power over the human race. Money is only a Con created tool which allows them to gather up the real tools they need to exercise their ultimate power. Of course they don't have any slack so they can't possibly realize that they will only acheive ultimate power at the moment of their mutual destruction and won't have even that moment to enjoy it. There is no longer any slack in Saturday morning cartoons. Except for Beetle Juice. -- Mc"B" - OverMan 1st Class of the Clench of the Stark Pistol of Removal. Just say NO to the war on your freedom which, by the way, is being fought with YOUR money. ----- Q: Which of these is actually on my TV set right now? a) "Star Trek: The Next Generation"--Mr. Data becomes addicted to Nintendo and his head explodes and the Enterprise almost blows up but five seconds before the show's over they push a button and it's all ok. b) "Lifestyle of the Rich and Famous" visits Patty Hearst. c) "The "Bob" Channel" begins broadcasting 25 hours a day subliminally (across the bottom of the screen on all the other channels.) d) Jay Leno announces that his guest host will be Lyndon LaRouche. Send $1 for the answer. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Operation FindMuck, and How To Thwart It There has been an ongoing campaign by some local people to screw with people's heads in every way possible. This "brute-force illumination technique" has been dubbed "Operation FindMuck." There are some easy things YOU can do to stymie and confuse these dastardly villains... 1. Write strange things on dollar bills and buy things with them. 2. Send ALL your money to the DobbsTown BBS's crack squad of anti- FindMuck terrorist-guerilla-philosophers. 3. Print strange flyers asking for money to be sent here. 4. Walk around muttering the word "fnord" under your breath constantly. 5. Oppose authority everywhere. 6. Upload the ASCII image of "Bob" into the "message to next caller" of every board in town. 7. Hire a skywriter to write "SLACK" in the sky. 8. Repent, Quit your Job, and Slack Off. If you follow these instructions, the FindMuckers are bound to be horribly confused (even more so than they are now) and they will probably stop trying to do whatever it is they are trying to do. Whatever you do, kill "Bob" at every possible opportunity. This has been a public service announcement of Nobodies for Everybody. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- > It sure is convenient that all the major religions follow, or at least > tolerate, the seven-day week. Image the hassle if half the country > operated on (say) an eleven-day cycle. Hehehe... Naive pink-boy. Naturally, the true SubGenius favours a 13 day week with two rest days. 13013, the Holy Number of "Bob", tells us this. 13013 = 13 0 13 <- "Thirteen! Oh, [I see,] Thirteen!" - number of days in week. ^-^-^---- "Two numbers [of] about zero" - two days of rest. The original X-ist names for the thirteen days are: Oneday - First day of the week. Chewsday - Day of Holy Junk-food Frenzy. Whensday - The SubGenius may proclaim Whensday whenever he wishes, at any position within the SubGenius calendar week, according to choice. It is the first day of rest. Once it has been taken, the remaining days continue in sequence until the week has been filled. Turdsday - Day of Sacred Excremeditation. Flyday - Traditionally, the day on which X-ist saucers are sent on missions to raid Earth and harass pinks. Satallday - The second Holy Day of Rest. Gunday - A time to prepare for the difficult times ahead in 1998. Pinkday - The day on which most pink-harassment occurs. Krillday - Origin unknown. Fropday - A day for sacred frop-based rituals. Slackday - Mistakenly thought by pinks to be a day of rest, it is in reality the day which commemorates J.R. "Bob" Dobbs' discovery of Slack. "Bob"day - Presumed to commemorate the birth of Dobbs. Xday - The final day of the week; not to be confused with X-day, which is the-final-day-period. I hope that that explains everything. If not, try The Book. mathew. Hamburgers for WOTAN, Inc. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ I walked in to the Burger King the @@@@@@@^^~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~^^@@@@@@@@ other day, and told the woman at the @@@@@@ @@@@@@ register that I had misdialed Fiji. @@@@@ w ww wi @@@@@ She said she couldn't give me instant @@@@, ~ ~~ ~I @@@@ credit. I said, "AT&T always did". @@@@' ; ,-@< @@@@ She blubbered, "But you're not dealing @@@@ _eW@@@ `@@@ with AT&T!" "Well I am NOW!" I said @@@@ @@@@@@@q j@@@@@@@ O @@@ as I stormed out the door. Then I @@@@ @@@@@@@@w___,w@@@@@@@@ @ @@@ walked to the nearest pay phone,called @@@@ @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ } @@@ the operator and ordered a Whopper. @@@@ @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ I @@@ @@@@ @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@*@[ i @@@ @@@@ @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@~ ; @@@ @@@@ @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@[] | ]@@@ $ $ $ $ $ @@@@ @@@@@@@@@@@@@@[][ | @@@ 1 3 0 1 3 @@@@ ~_._ ~@@@@@@@~ ____~ @ @@@ @@@@ ;;- `@@@@@' @@@ @@@@ _~ ,en, `@@@~ en `@ ]l J@@@ @@@@ -()- @@@/ _-()- @ ]L @@@ | @@@@ , @@w@ww+ @@@ww``,,@w@ ][ @@@@ -+- @@@@ . @@ @ @@@~-zz..@@@ ][ @@@@ j @@@@, @@@@www@@@ @@@@@@@ww@@@@@[ @@@@ @@@@. @@@@&&&@@@ @@&@@@@@@@@@@@[ @@@@ His Rightful Assholiness @@@@@ || @@@@@@P' @@Q@@@@@@@@@@@[:C@@@@ J. R. "Bob" Dobbs @@@@@_ @@@@@@ @@ @@@@@@@@@@ ;$@@@@ @@@@@@w| '@@P~ ,@@@@-w, wU@@w'],@@@@@@ @@@@@@@ @@ P]@@@=~j ~Y@@^ ] @@@@@@ $20 @@@@@@@_ !@@t+ ~~ ]]@@@@@@ @@@@@@@[ - -J@@T# @@@@@@ @@@@@@@@,@ @@, _,,,,,,,y ,w@@[ ,@@@@@@@ D R O N F The pipe is @@@@@@@@ @ @@ C !@@ @@@@@@@ R N alive! @@@@@@@@@ i @w. ====--_@@@@@ @@@@@@@@ O O @@@@@@@@@ @2' '@@@@~ @@@@@@@@ N R @@@@@@@@@@`,P~ / ~^^^^Y@@@@@ @@@@@@@@@ F N O R D @@@@@@@@@@@. y @@@@ @@@@@@@@@ @@@@^^=^@@^ ^' .@@@@@ _@@@@@@@@@@ Pen up your Nose! No One is Safe! @@@ , ,ww,w@@@@ _@@@@@@@@@@@ @@@_xJw w , @@@@@@@&~_@@@@@@@@@@@@ @@ @~ ~ ,@ @@@@@@@P _@@@@@@@@@@@@@ Send all soiled female underwear to: @@ U. ,@@@,_____ _,J@@@@@@@@@@@@@ @@ v; @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ Holy Temple of Mass Consumption @@L `' ,@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ PO Box 30904 @@~ _-@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ Raleigh, NC 27622 @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ -----------------------------------------------------------------------------


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