HEALTH, THE INDUSTRIAL DIET, AND BAD THINGS

“If ya feel, ya heal.” —“Jesus” in the movie Greaser’s Palace

You probably know at least ten people under the age of thirty who have some form of cancer.

The sickness won’t stop. People will contract weirder and weirder diseases, and at earlier and earlier ages. Eventually cancer itself will be like the common cold. “Uh, I won’t be in the office this week, I have a little touch of cancer….” Oh, there’ll come a cure eventually, but the more cures we come up with, the more New Diseases will arise. Things far, far worse than cancer are on the way, some of them deliberately manufactured by The Conspiracy. The picture is a tad bleak for our old age. It’s a cinch the government won’t support the elderly much longer. And The Company will fire you a year before you’re eligible for retirement benefits.

You’d better put your remaining years to good use—YOU’D BETTER HAVE FUN.

Our studies (as well as the unreleased studies by The Con) indicate that “good health” is practically a pointless pursuit if you live in an urban area. You can eat nothing but organically grown fruit and vegetables, you can work out twice a day, you can quit all nasty habits, but you’re still absorbing more poison just by breathing, and touching public stair railings, than the most piglike peasant in 1567 London ever did.

You can move to the country, but … there’s no work there, violent crime is actually more frequent, and the poisons are almost as bad anyway.

If the diseases don’t get you, some railroad toxic spill will. Hell, just driving to work is riskier than hunting bears for a living.

But there is one medicine more powerful than all the contamination in New Jersey, and that medicine is SLACK. SLACK gives the mind power over all disease. A truly happy chain smoker is less likely to attract the attention of the Cancer Demons than is a tense, knotted-up health freak gnawing his fingernails to the bone.

§DON’T READ THIS!

CANCER IS CAUSED BY PINKNESS … by boredom and meaninglessness. It can be prevented by action, thrills, sex—even overwork!

So how do you get a healthy, slackful outlook in the face of rampant ecohell? YOU PLUNGE INTO ECOHELL HEAD FIRST. You don’t let it scare you, you don’t let it push you around. By all means, help fight to CLEAN UP AMERICA; but if you want that junkfood, EAT IT. You want to watch TV

instead of go to “Jazzercise?” WATCH IT. Indulge those Conspiracy urges to the hilt and thus purge their hold over you.

Americans should eat like Americans—as fast as they possibly can. Tibetans should eat like Tibetans—studying each tiny birdlike bite until it “becomes a universe” before taking it into their bodies. You can eat like the Vietnamese—hardly at all—or you can eat what would feed dozens of Vietnamese families. Either way, the Vietnamese aren’t going to eat any more than they did before. The world isn’t starving because Americans eat too much; even if we stopped eating the Conspiracy would still throw the leftovers away before they’d send it to any Third Worlders.

Now, we all know that eating the meat of live protein animals is unholy, it pollutes your system and creates aggression, and worst of all it requires the heartless slaughter of fellow creatures—MAMMALS!—fully as sensitive and loving as we. For this reason, vegetarians eat only plants.

But their sin is as great—perhaps worse! Science has proven unequivocally that all plants react to threatening stimuli with a lowfrequency version of what we would call “panic.” They too are life forms with feelings, which feel pain, which may even have an alltelepathic “civilization” that we are too brutal to comprehend! Thus, when you bite down on a grape, you are popping open and crushing, grinding a wee life which, in its own way, is squealing in the terror of the murdered innocent!

So anything that nourishes us is going to suffer. WE MAY AS WELL LET THEM ALL SUFFER EQUALLY. By making a few of all types of living things victims of our all-important stomachs, less members of each individual species will be sacrificed.

Besides—though we devour and eliminate them, so we make them immortal and allow them to partake of our SubGenius grandeur. It works both ways: just as a cannibal eats his enemy’s heart to gain his strength, we eat a hamburger to gain the wisdom and courage of the mighty cow. Yet, at the same time, we are inviting the cow’s primal cellular structure—his Code, if you will—to enter our bloodstreams, where it may mingle with, learn from, and mayhaps even conspire with our own unique Tool-User’s Code.

We eat the broccoli to gain its patience and virtue; in return, we release it back into the world reborn in a new form—teaming with literally millions of newfound friends, the bacteria. We drink of the Hops and Grain to partake of their slow, slow yet wise Judgement and in return sacrifice to them our Coordination.

THUS, the Word of Dobbs says we can eat ANYTHING WE WANT. You can gorge yourself to an early grave, or you can consult shamans at health food stores and figure out ways to cure ills and lengthen your “little Span.” You can be a vegetarian or you can keep an Industrial Diet, living out of convenience stores and simulfood franchises. You can stay in poverty eating expensive food untainted by chemicals, or you can support The Conspiracy in its lowest, most stinking form by maintaining your sugar and fat addictions; go ahead, suck down any and all forms of

caffeine since if it’s not that, something else will give you cancer of the colon and hypertension—like your job maybe. You can admit most of that canned and frozen food isn’t really food and instead try to eat things that were recently alive, not cooked into broken, useless cell-mush; you can admit junk food DOES TASTE GOOD or you can get into the snobdom of ever-changing Health Faddism just because the cool rich people do it, or you can kill me….

Just remember that everything touched by The Con has poison and carcinogens in it. Scarf ’em if you wish, but put some money away for the painkillers you’ll need later on.

§A SAFER WAY TO EAT A TYPICAL SUBGENIUS DAILY DIET

Breakfast: Fresh fruit juice, vitamins, organic goat’s milk, brown rice, Spirulina, live goldfish, ’Frop.

Lunch: Beef jerky, microwave burger, honey bun, Coke, Thunderbird Wine, speed, coffee with sugar, ’Frop.

Dinner: Uncooked blackeyed peas, fish, milk, raw hay, an apple for dessert, ’Frop.

2:00 A.M.: 25 cigarettes, three nails, ’Frop.

Somewhat healthier would be to hardly eat at all, but we cannot expect that of people until TV commercials are banned—which would only happen in a truly upside-down world.

§GUARD AGAINST CORROSION…

Another thing: although most American food is dangerous to human life, and godawful radiations pour from every appliance and power-line, REMEMBER: SubGeniuses are mutants anyway. If you can’t escape from radiation, learn to love it. After all, it’s merely another form of energy; why can’t our bodies learn to use it, like a plant uses sunlight? If you absorb enough radiation, you CAN make AMAZING CHANGES come about!

Good taste at… COOKIE’S CORNER

by Cookie Drummond F.G.o.t.R.

Nuclear Diets

The Nuclear Family is a demanding, energy-sucking unit. The trash it leaves and the food it eats baffle the old concepts of harmonious consumption and excretion. So-called “organic emancipation” which has foamed at our doorsteps shall now be replaced by more chemicals and foreign substances … as much as our laboratories can produce. “WE’LL SAVE OUR CHEMICAL BYPRODUCTS!” Shit, this country will soon be filled with Comet licking Kodak Chemplant scavengers. So keep those empty cans! and stay tuned for ‘How to Make Coal and Sulfite Sandwiches from Things in Your Backyard.”

An Apple a Day Keeps the Doctors Away.

“The priest and the prophet have erred through strong drink; they are swallowed up of wine, they are out of the way through strong drink; they err in vision, they stumble in judgement…. For all tables are full of vomit and filthiness, so that there is no place clean.” (ISAIAH 28:7,8)

“Doktors for “Bob” aren’t into the ’regular medicines,’ so to speak. We use Ooob … and Sleeblong … This is the Mod Scene, Baby! You better hip out to it, or blow your mind trying not to! I can sick out on that … I mean, I couldn’t grop a groove-go on any of these logo bands, but Doktors for “Bob” really blew the glooschleenkon right out the top of my cerebellum!” —St. Janor Hypercleats, backstage, 1969

§THE OFFICIAL CHURCH POSITION ON DRUGS:

They don’t show you a ‘realer’ world. They don’t expand your mind. THEY ONLY GET YOU HIGH. If you think you experienced a mystical state on, say, LSD, you are wrong. You were merely “Drunk As A Lord.”

§A PARABLE:

Late one night, four travellers arrived at the Gate to the City. It was locked tight and there was no customs agent to open it for them.

One of the travellers, a drunk, said, “Let’s bash the damn gate down.”

Another, who happened to be a pot smoker, said, “No, let’s just lay down by the wall and wait till morning.”

The third, an acidhead, said, “Why don’t we just float through the keyhole?”

While they were talking, the fourth, a ’Frop-head, had wandered around to the back door near the garbage dump and entered without even paying.

(“Bob” actually would have floated through the keyhole.)

We are doing everything in our power to put a stop to the recent False SubGenius fad of “Gut Blowout™Parties.” These reckless kids are risking their souls by taking those Green Joy Jackers and “Bowel Lifters” and “screamers” and “laughers” and “floppers” and “floaters” and other unsanctified street drugs. This is false Slack.

There is only one “mind-relinquishing substance” that you should even consider putting the gobble on, and that is the sacred Tibetan herb, “Habafropzipulops” (NOT a drug).

BELOW: Sequential Effects of ’Frop on the Brain. (1:) User first undergoes slight bodily discomfort. (2:) Begins to think about money. (3:) Desynchronized dendrites cause teeth to clench in anxiety, followed by (4:) an urge to pray. (5:) 1st “rush” as Key to Slack is unlocked by User’s money. (6:) Archetypal symbols of G’BroagFran flood subconscious so that (7:) User’s Luck Plane triggers synchronicity overload. (8:) Brain’s “Brakes” (‘stop’ and ‘go’ signals) shut down. (9:) Moral inputs in hyperthalmus form repeating loop pattern. (10:) Lungs darken, clot up, develop holes, temporarily causing brain’s primal Idge to Disconnect. (12:) Brain, now finally tuned to receive Channel 12 of The Skor, causes (13:) Left/Right brain lobes to intermesh in battle. “The Other World” becomes visible to the ecstatic User.

Now, you don’t have to partake of the ’Frop; you can quit, if you want to go SANE, if you want your so-called “senses” back. But … how can we know the Goodness of Heaven lest we have, for comparison, vomited into the porcelain bowls of Hell?

Although the Great Inebriant of Tibet provides only an illusory feeling of Time Control, yet such a glimpse fortifies the SubGenius and he follows the taste of that artificial Slack, drooling like a dog in Rut. He is a dauntless explorer of fake horizons … for of all the Sacraments, ’ Frop does not wear off.

Users of drugs, on the other hand, are placing themselves in grave danger. They can never get as truly fried as they want to be. They have to take one on top of another. Sometimes they take so many that when they forget one or two, they are later mad at themselves for it.

To keep mentally levitating, they always need more. Sooner or later, they ‘burn out’ and become “too Slacked to react” the brain tunnels through which they once excavated and blasted with drunken zeal begin to cave in.

The Abuser wakes up one day impaired. His muscles feel ravaged, his nerves nullified. There is a hollowness inside, but a hot hollowness, and discomfort mounts to panic as he realizes he’s annihilated one brain cell too many. His teeth grind, his cells shrivel yet seem to scream for More where there is None. His skin exudes bitter greases from every pore as if he were getting a long-overdue oil change. Everything’s clammy and numb to the touch. His Eternal Idge gasps and convulses with the amputation-nausea of Something Missing. The electric ‘glue’ of his brain becomes tacky and stiffens; the snotlike Shock Fluid in which it once cosily floated has drained away, and the dried husk of gray matter slams against the rough cranial walls with every movement of the head. The gyroscopes inside his ears’ balance-tubes wobble crazily, and the world is No End Up; the floor lurches and shifts its steepness and changes its slant right under his feet. If he lays down he suffers the Slow Ovals, the bed seeming to spin very slowly end over end through space. He goes to the bathroom to expel the bad water but his urine smells burnt and leaks out in a weak, radioactive dribble. He looks in the mirror; his skin is Krishna blue in pallor and he worries that the quiet interior shattering noises he hears are the sounds of his blood crystallizing. His heart starts to dry-hump the back of his throat in hysteria, for he knows that to die on drugs is to doom his soul to eternal earthbound wandering in a Purgatory where the liquor stores are all closed. If the Nental Ife is intoxicated when the body dies, it doesn’t know it’s dead and so never heads for Heaven.

Laying on the floor, glowing feebly in the dark, the wretch moans out the Drug User’s Lament: “I can’t decipher anything; Put me where you want me; Give me rubber blankets.”

Eventually his cohorts show up and give him succor in the form of MORE, and the wheel starts rolling again.

Sadly, JHVH-1 saw to it that some people were “rigged.” He programmed them with a genetic emptiness that can be filled only when the cells are slumbering in blankets of Medicine.

In a very few cases, if there is a cure, “The Curse Vomits Up A Gift.” The Hell of Kicking can make a frail, sad Genius revert and devolve into a hearty SubGenius. It obliterates the brain cells he had too many of and he becomes a Seer. Not worth the suffering, but a Seer nonetheless.

The Conspiracy encourages, BLATANTLY, a useless, empty pattern of social drug abuse in its slaves. The anti-reality sleepdrugs like alcohol and “downs” are legal, pretty much, while the ‘wakeup’ drugs are only available. You can tell which ones They’d rather you take.

There are certain crucial things they don’t tell you about their drugs. For instance, did you know that different drugs put your body on different vibrational levels?

The depressants (alcohol, tranquilizers, cough medicine, TV, etc.) make your molecular structure more dense, according to their severity. The stimulants (coffee, soda pop, sugar, speed, nicotine, etc.) cause less molecular density. The alcoholic is more ‘solid’—he feels more invulnerable, and in fact is. The acidhead, however, is more ‘gaseous’—there are vast spaces between his molecules; wotrons and neutrinos pass through him more easily … he may even feel them.

The reason The Con pushes alcohol so hard is that it opens you to the forces of the Yacatisma. You are more visible to these demonic beings when drunk. Now, the famed Luck of the Drunkard is no myth; winos are protected by Alcohol Demons as treasured Vessels—walking wine bottles, if you will. But the lowered vibrational signal of drunkenness is like an open invitation to NHGH’s henchbeings and the plastered person is, as Lobsang Rampa put it, “tormented by entities who delight in catching humans in a stage where they cannot even think clearly. They find it most amusing.”

So if you must drink, ACHIEVE TRANCE DRUNKENNESS so that you are also open to the protection of “Bob.”

Perhaps the stewbums understand the sacrament of the wine the best. It is outside the church, in the street, that one truly feels The Touch. They’re drinking the real blood of Jesus—or “Bob” or whoever—out of those green Thunderbird Bibles. “Bob” was not beaten up in vain; his blood became the Muscatel, the Mad Dog, the Night Train that those boys ride. It makes them feel so good … and that’s what religion is supposed to do.

It is the Pink suburban “Respectable Alcoholic” who has no excuse, and verily, no hope. Well, perhaps there is one thing that can bring them from their closet of opiated, self-hating secrecy. Perhaps if they turned to “the’ Froplords.”

“THE TROPLORDS” depicted in 8th Century frieze unearthed by “Dr.” Palmer Vreedees during excavation of The Parmathion (ancient Greek Temple of Bacchus). Courtesy of the British Museum.

We most pious archpopes condone, violently, the most frequent possible indulgence, unto intoxication and beyond, of the revered and despised Grief-Easer of the Mountains, the Warrior Against Pain, the Healing Herb, HABAFROPZIPULOPS. Whether taken as smoke, liquid, food, or as “Bob’s” PILS, it, above all other medicinal substances, “spells relief.” From the hearty young stalks protruding from the Himalayan snow to the white ’Frop-dust that settles on the rim of “Bob’s” Pipe, it is the closest thing to the untainted essence of ODIN on Earth. How else can we regard that which produces in the devoted user such superhuman clarity of insight, such sensory hyperanaesthesia, such total loss of judgement which is profound wisdom, such placid

ecstasy and blessed repose, and which, in short, is the only shortcut to the Realization of the Dobbs State?

’Frop is not merely safe, but beneficial—nay, even necessary—to bodily health. We encourage our children to partake of it copiously, to their little hearts’ abundant desires.

Our prodigious longing for it requires no justification; indeed, it is a fount of pride, a mark of the elect. Our genetic structures adhere more readily to its divine molecules than do Theirs; that is to their typical misfortune. They are best suited to “getting fucked up,” as they so grossly put it, while we use it more nobly to become, let us say, twisted, bombed, ripped out of our gourds, utterly whacked, blistered, ruined, blown, blasted, obliterated, atomized, damaged, 86ed to the marrow of the bone, done in, gassed, smeared, blitzed, scuttled, over the edge, nuked, turned on, wigged out, unglued, cut loose, desanitized, bent, plowed under, discorporated, flayed, trashed, hopped up, lobotomized, and otherwise placed into a state of superior spiritual awareness. We do not “blow our minds” we erase them.

The Xists planted our beloved ’Frop on Earth near the close of the Age of Dinosaurs. “Bob” tells us it may well be JHVH-1 ’s main instrument for evolution on this planet—having very possibly been the device which brought down the Great Reptiles, allowing us mammals to take their place as large destroyers; and yet also that which will, with “Bob’s” guidance, likewise complete the usurpation as dominant species of the humans by the SubGenii Hordes.

Its detractors—mostly alcoholics and pot-heads—scream that it is a physically addictive Vampire Root from whose siren embrace no man can tug free. We shout Halleluia!—of course it is! And is the Lord Himself one bit less habit-forming? “Habitfropzipulops” teaches us, ultimately, that All is One, that Up is Down; it allows us to converse with trees and see prophetic (and accurate!) visions of the future in our shoes, our album covers, in the strange reflections on our toasters. An ascetic ’Frop Master in Tibet or Dobbstown can, with diligent consumption, finally lose all interest in everything, achieving the paranirvanic state closest to “Bob” himself: Accidental Erasure, that Plane on which the Luck Oceans are most effortlessly surf’d, by which the densely overgrown Path of Least Resistance is Trimmed for safe travel.

It virtually negates the curse of Memory, that stumbling-block to Perfection.

And it makes this state as easily attainable to a distracted, harried American as to a Tibetan lama or Mexican brujo.

It brings us closer to our inborn Yetihood; it invokes the spirits of our persecuted alien snowman ancestors. It dissolves that in our nature which is most tediously human.

It is what “Bob” smokes. The smoke from his Pipe drifting Heavenward is the great Signal which assures our Space Brothers that the Man “Bob” still lives and that Earth is still worth saving/destroying.

YES!! ’Frop will bring about The Change!!

You cannot aspire to OverManhood without it. You cannot board the Escape Saucers without a high concentration of it in your bloodstream. Your mind will not be able to withstand the rigors of the Miracle of Crossover at the Xists’ “hands” when comes the time to shed the last vestige of humanity.

With it, “Bob” gives his most insanely courageous warriors, the Brotherhood of “Bob”, brief glimpses of the Beforelife—the Pleasure Dimension foretold by the prophet Janor—and it fortifies them in their acts of Terminal Mercy. It steels the nerves and frees the Wills of his Chosen Instruments of Death.

S.L.A.K. Squad Missionary Poonflang Dammerung spoke lovingly of it before his immortal Last Mission in a testimonial to his Lord “Bob’s” ways. “Yes, “Bob” shares of His Own Pipe with us before each foray into the Belly of the Beast … it gives us the knowledge of our True Will and how it is juxtaposed with his. We all grip each other by the shoulders and sidle together in a great circle as we chant together between the Holy Dosages. ‘Kill. Kill for the love of Killing. Kill for the love of Kali. Kill. Kill for fun. Kill to stay Free. Like a Man. To Make America Great! Kill …’ The dizzying ’Frop fumes combine with the endless rhythmical repetitions to create a living power vortex of unspeakable ecstasy.”

While alcohol wantonly kills brain tissue, sloughing it off to be passed in the morning as the wasted, dead ravages of wine, ’Frop does not kill brain cells, NAY NAY!, but mutates them … causes them to multiply faster. Each succeeding generation is of course stronger than those before it.

Man made booze, “Bob” made ’Frop. WHO DO YOU TRUST?

’Frop enables one to “see” with the eyes closed … this is the Unblinking Stare of the Overlid. Through it, one may pass through the Gates of the ’FropLord into the ’Frop City of the soul; once the seeker has reached Bardo 18 of the 18th Hole of Hangar 18 of ZomboFropLand he may think the same thought over and over and over and yet never care, never feel boredom. “The ’Frop entered through the forehead and exited through the upper back of the neck. The Possessing Demon was exorcised instantly and the President, if not his brain, was saved.” (From the investigation saga, ’DeathFrop at Dealy Plaza by the Überbrow Commission.)… THIS IS ’FROP.

The United States government has tried many times to steal the formula for ’Frop from the Tibetan Sanctuary, but it is fruitless; the preparation of ’Frop is a spiritual thing; without the sacred element of the gurupee, the molecules cannot be broken down and the white glowing mixture will be useless. The ritual can be performed only by an advanced shaman skilled in the alchemical arts.

It is not a toy.

And for this reason, not all SubGenii choose to meddle in the Medicine Fish Hole of’Frop … as difficult as that may be to believe. No, there are those who ingest only the conceptualization of the ’Frop but never its physical substance.

The windows of the eyes of such space-age Beatniks of Sobriety are scrubbed to a diamond clarity. Their cells know not the tidal surge of Need; they receive their “kicks” from the pure intensity of REALITY ITSELF! They become gassed on the very atmosphere they breathe, Blown by the merest wind, Loaded with the fuel of their fevered brows! Their Third and Fifth Eyes blink and squint into the garish light of Uncensored Actuality! They are ‘nuked’ by the fusion of their own atoms, they need no store-bought wings to fly, for they are lighter than the air in their Slack.

They stagger, lurch, and fall down with the intoxicant ecstasy of sheer A wakefulness! They run to the Throne of Elimination to discharge their INANE GLEE!

But, whether a ’FropHead or not, the True SubGenius forces the Body to stand upright, where it can see further … he shows authority over the drug-fiend which houses the brain. Our rightful Place has been usurped by our own bodies, and we want to see THE MAN IN CHARGE!!

It’s “Bob.” “Bob” is the true Mind Storm, the godly Lobe Explosion in your skull. WHO NEEDS DOPE? You never come down from the High of “Bob!”

§“BOB IS THE DRUG.

The Conspiracy is a real “drug” that “drugs” you, that makes you want to go to sleep or to kick ass for no reason. “Bob” is the drug that makes you kick ass where it counts. The drug of remembering WHO YOU ARE. The drug that WAKES you up. The drug that MAKES YOU SEE or LEAVES YOU BE!

If you can’t afford the ’Frop, and the High of “Bob” is more than you can handle, yet you still need an unnatural ‘lift,’ there are two cost-free techniques that most Doktors recommend: SLEEP and ANTISLEEP. According to Dr. Philo Drummond, Ø.M.D., “Sleep is the ultimate drug … like all narcotics and hallucinogens rolled together into one great Winner’s Blend of Nothingness.” Antisleep creates similar effects, but you can get more done. 1) Work for 48 hours without sleeping. 2) Still don’t go to bed. 3) Enjoy the hallucinations.

But if the headaches continue, and the Elder Gods keep punishing you for knowing of their presence, then by God no matter how “straight” you are, you will go down in the Medicine Fish Hole. And there you have the choice between The Con’s killer dope, and The PILS of’Bob.”

We can’t tell you much about “Bob’s” PILS. The fact is, you’re floating in a sea of pills but you just can’t see them. Any SubGenius who has attended a revival at The Naked Church of the SubGenius in Dallas can tell you that these pills are very, very special.

Yes, history has shown that all great kings live by the pills and die by the pills. The link between pills and death has become an integral part of our culture … and a major theme of the Church.

Faster than anything else, the pills lead to the highest of all highs, THE HIGH OF DEATH—the “Bulletproof Stage of Enlightenment.”

§!INSTANT SLACK FOREVER! —THE SUBGENIUS WAY

The Church does not molly-coddle the realness of Death. We fully recognize both its potential, and the pain and terror which naturally accompany it. For we know that, ultimately, it brings the Hope of Slack Eternal.

If you believe in Heaven, you’ll go there. If you believe in Hell, you’ll go there even if you believe in Heaven too. If you don’t believe in either one, well … good luck.

§BETTER SEX IN SECONDS

The issues of Hell and Heaven are too detailed to approach in this Book. We can, however, deal with a very practical aspect of it all: what to do with the body, the burnt-out robot chassis.

Many SubGenii find the conventional Pink funeral even more disgusting than the prospect of being dissected, and played with, by some pervert medical student or apprentice mortician. Graveyards, no matter how dramatic looking they might be, are still nothing but holes with dead people in them and dirt on top of the dead people.

The Plains Indians used to leave bodies in trees, where they rejoined nature … a good idea, but The Con has made it illegal, even for Indians.

There is a simple solution: GIVE EVERYTHING TO “BOB.” Besides a trust fund and the mention of him in your will, see that he gets your gold teeth, your interferon, your adrenal and pituitary glands. Arrange with friends to have your head “launched” ritualistically and wall-mounted as a trophy, grinning and with Pipe in mouth. The greatest honor for any SubGenius is to have his head mounted on “Bob’s” rumpus room wall, or his skull made into one of Dobbs’ ritual ashtrays. Let your eye socket be his doorbell. GIVE OF YOURSELF and you will be assured of special treatment on The Other Side. Thus, if your soul is confused upon leaving the body and becomes a wandering ghost, Church exorcists will see that it’s given the right directions to Valhalla, Asgard, Purgatory or the Underworld, depending on your special merits. (All four are fun.)