PATHS TO FRENZY

“THE HARVEST IS PLENTEOUS BUT THE LABORERS ARE FEW!” When Jesus said that “the woods were full” of Levltes. Priests, Scribes, Doctors, Teachers, Divines, etc. But most of these divines had become DRY VINES, and many of the doctors were DOCTORS OF DARKNESS.

“You do what you do ’cause you want to. I do what I do ’cause “BOB” TOLD ME TO.” —Mantrium of the Hypercleats, from his first band, Generation of Degenerates.

You don’t have to die or take drugs to be cool. Instead, you can do things. In this chapter we’ll touch on but a few of the limitless Frenzy Techniques available to those who can use a Release Valve to let off that steam of frustration.

The closest most other religions ever come to providing such ‘Kicks’ Training is breathing exercises. The problem is, the secret to Weird Breathing has been lost for ages. As practiced today it does more harm than good. The ‘high’ comes from brain cell death by hyperventilation. If you must resort to breathing tricks, don’t do it halfway. Don’t breathe. Hold your breath until you turn blue and pass out. The ‘buzz’ is a thousand times more intense.

At the remote Utopian colony of Dobbstown, those who need further hilariation and a good hard slap in the faith can undergo the Glandscaping, Personality Bypass and Third Nostril Oepening surgeries at the hands of skilled trepanators and “Bobmonks” with far less risk than with the illegal ones performed by pseudo-Doktors in the United States.

Dobbstown is the best place to receive certified A cubeating, the Healing Art involving transferral of pain that some wits have dubbed “The Laying On of Sledgehammers.” Actually it is no less comfortable than a hearty day on a Chain Gang for “Bob,” helping to clear the jungle and at the same time achieving Slackwork.

While in Dobbstown don’t miss the Lion Pit, the Punji Stake Ride or the Lost Pyramid Catacomb FunHouse. The House of Normals show is sick but educational, and afterwards you can vent your anger on android Charley Lump the Human Bruise. Look closely at the creepy old SubGeniuses who run the rides and you may recognize a few celebrities long thought to be dead or missing.

For beginners, teens, and the Dobbs Youth, who often lack the patience, parental approval, or financial resources for the exotic treatments at Dobbstown, instant nirvanal psuedoslack (false highs every bit as fulfilling as the ‘real’ thing) are quickly reached through repetitive, monotonous Amphetaminoid Pundingis. Fastest results come from painstakingly executed

Reels, Chants, Hymn Cycles, Exorcisms, Pravings, Miscelogenizings and Etcet-erapings. Some elect to alter their consciencelessnesses through dangerous, foolhardy Testes of Faith.

Highly analitized, strungtaut CompulSubGenii are content only when they are, AT ALL TIMES, following the unimaginably stern dictates of the Three Lists of Approved, Banned, and Compulsory Things to See, Say, Do, Think, Know and Buy.

The most ‘sub’ of SubGeniuses just sit and bliss all over themselves through the Lesser Meditations: The Shielding Meditation (plug the ears and hum), The Silent Meditation (picking of the nose), Meditation of the Avenging Cyclops (akin to cytorspasm and fornicationalism), Tubing, aka Obeisance to The One True God (watching TV), The Meditation of Moronicism (flapping the lips with a finger, “bluyahbluyahbluyah”).

Your Church BrainWatcher will, after consultation and handwriting analysis, give you your own personal “MANTRIUM” to chant within your head until you see WOTAN or fall asleep. Your Mantrium is secret, and if you reveal it to anyone, both of you will be accursed.

The Primal Mantrium, which is the tonal essence of Universe 1, is the prolonged intonation of the name “MOE.” Also available for public use in endless chanting is Mantrium 3: “Larry Curly, Larry Curly, Curly Curly, Larry Larry. Larry Moe, Larry Moe, Moe Moe, Larry Larry.” (“Larry” is the most Void of the Holy GrinTrinity, as opposed to “Moe” of the Left Brain and “Curly” of the Right.)

Of equal effectiveness is any form of Numerical Magic. Everything works in twos—in more ways than one; they also work in fives. Every set of processes in the universe ALSO WORKS IN FOURS. EVERYTHING ALSO WORKS IN NINETEENS. If you look for the numerals “23,” for that matter, you will see them everywhere; likewise 32 and 456. And so on.

However, the number “273” works more than any other. LOOK FOR IT. YOU WILL SEE.

Common to the whorship of all SubGenii are the wonders of FORNICATIONALISM, about which the Church’s eternal prudence allows nothing to be said in print, and …

EXCREMEDITATION! Every few hours, the SubGenius experiences the most concrete reality of all, the impervious realness of staring at the wall while voiding. This of all the Meditations is the most magical, for is it not also the least evitable? Even the False Prophets and Mediocretins are forced to do it.

But if he “attends” this necessary period of subgenitalaic gut blowout and bladder deflation as a prodigious gift from God, and truly mounts that especial Head, he receives a bliss almost blinding in its intensity and with it an instinctual comprehension of the vast, meaningfully pregnant Coarse of Things. In these blisteringly transcendent moments he often receives sinister inspiratorial messages from a whispering WOTAN which provide direct answers towards which the SubGenius has been unconsciously struggling all day. For when the SubGenius lays

waste the chains that bind and pays homage to Removal at the very Throne of Elimination, is he not in a sense most truly casting out the False Prophets?? ANSWER YES!!

§THE ULTIMATE “YOU”

Excremeditation is a “channel”—a “tunnel”—by which you send what was you back out into the real world … but changed. The more of YOU that you backdrop into the tubes of the Conspiracy’s underbelly, the more diluted and tainted will be their VILE ESSENCE with the cleansing discharge of SubGenius.

The Excremeditation chamber in your home is your Inner Sanctorum, your Holy of Holies, your Pedastal of Worship, where you can best practice the Science of Soul Movement and attain the outer limits of consciousness.

“Elimination,” the key to health, also represents the act of Wiping from the Face of the Earth that of which we have too much. It is not a spectacular blast of destruction, however, but the thousand daily minor Eliminations by a million straining SubGeniuses over the course of billions of seconds.

You must understand the Philosophy of Waste: taking the Shortages that irritate us and turning them into Extinctions, Exhaustions and Depletions so that we use it all up and get it over with. I.E., buy an enormous automobile and drive it EVERYWHERE for NO REASON. When we’ve burned up all the gas on the planet, its shortages will no longer strangle us!

Leave your lights on all night. Water your lawn until it becomes a perpetual moat. Divert the plutonium waste which leaks from nuclear power plants into nearby lakes and oceans. Don’t give old newspapers to the Boy Scouts; disperse them over an untouched wilderness area! GIVE THEM A TASTE OF THEIR OWN MEDICINE WHEN YOU FLUSH THAT GLEAMING ALTAR OF WASTE!

On the other hand, we could recycle the stuff for methane fuel, fertilizer, and animal food, and probably stave off famine, but … that isn’t the way The Conspiracy works.

§PYROFLATULATION

This is perhaps the least understood of all the Meditations. For most people, taking a “wind break” is hit or miss, lasting no more than a couple of seconds. It is because they have not discovered the secret of fire. An OverMan can build up his powers of crepignition to the point that he can power generators, blow police cars off the road, and rely on it for countless other emergency survival uses.

Prior to 1974, few men and no women at all even believed that pyroflatulation was possible. It is no schoolboy myth, as witnessed by the singed pews in Fis Temples across America. Not only will most expellations ignite, but they will usually do so spectacularly and with brilliant colors. SubGenia of the less inhibited creeds often display their “Firey Halos” or “Lower Auras” at gatherings of friends, much as a male peacock struts his plumage.

To a holy man, the “Burning Angel’s Bark” is fully as revealing of personality, character, trustworthiness, and even diet as the more popular but generally invisible “Kirlian Aura” of so many devil cults. An advanced Doktor can diagnose otherwise undetectable diseases through observation of the color temperature of a patient’s lighted emissions. Or a SubGuru may advise young lovers as to their compatibility by comparing their “Lights of the Tunnel.” Its most important use, of course, is as a taboo-breaker.

There are dangers, of course. Throughout history there have been reported mysterious cases of Human Spontaneous Combustion—people suddenly bursting into flames for no explicable reason. In some instances these can be explained as mishandled pyroflatulations by primitive, unschooled SubGenii.

§TRUTHS IS LIES YOU CAN BE WHAT YOU WON’T

There is one Frenzy Technique, one Path to Slack we have held till last, for its effects and the story behind its discovery are as spectacular as anything thus far revealed in The Book. And that is the High Yoga of Antimusic, as developed and perfected by Arkansas’s great team of surgical mystics, DOCTORS FOR “BOB.”

“Breaking the Tolerance Barrier”

“As Consciousness Expands, All Sound Becomes Part of Doctors for “Bob” … ”

“I think history will prove that Chapter 19 was the most important in the Book … it is the device by which WOTAN READS US BACK. That is why its logic keeps inverting itself. It has to leave an “opening” in the reader’s perception for WOTAN to “SEE THROUGH.” This may cause some readers discomfort at first, but a high enough percentage of them will catch on … at least enough that the Plasmate will afix itself to enough hosts to replicate.” —Dr. Alphonso Peen

§INSTRUCTIONS TO CHAPTER 19

• *Deposit 25* in PO Box 807, Glen Rose, TX 76043

• Press either 1 PLAYER or ALL PLAYERS. The Chapter will begin.

• Your goal is to protect KING EARTH from the FLYING SENTENCE MONSTERS which shoot DOKTORSONGS (red lasers) and JANOR-WORDS (blue balls).

• If KING EARTH is obliterated by WORD-BLASTS, all secrets become known and you achieve ENLIGHTENMENT AND LOSE GAME. TRY TO STAVE IT OFF, and to destroy as many attackers as possible.

• Use FIRE BUTTON to destroy attacking WORDS/ SONGS before they damage KING EARTH, or joystick to move FALSE DOKTOR figures into paths of attackers (you have only three per game). (Suggestion: Keep FIRE BUTTON DEPRESSED)

• Each time you destroy all the word/song bombs that the SENTENCE MONSTERS have fired at you, press PANIC BUTTON to explode the clusters of SENTENCE MONSTERS into smaller PARAGRAPHS, winning bonus games. DO NOT ALLOW THE SENTENCE MONSTERS TO REMAIN IN ONE PARAGRAPH OR YOU WILL LOSE THE GAME.

• BEWARE—each time a SENTENCE MONSTER is blown into smaller chunks, each particle can rain more JANOR-WORDS at your head/planet. YOU CAN LIMIT THE AMOUNT OF JANOR-WORDS that will be fired at you, and actually alter the printing of this copy of the Book itself, IF YOU CONCENTRATE HARD ENOUGH and envision not only King Earth, but the ATTACKERS AS WELL, as YOU. This will invert reality long enough for the clues to self-unravel and reveal to you the magic Key to Everything that is imbedded in the Chapter.

• First player to invert reality and hold back the Time Intersection WINS; he may register his initials in the REALITY INVERTERS’ HALL OF FAME.

• Remember, you are seeking a “Plasmate,” UNLOCKING it from its present image/word matrix by allowing it to latch onto YOUR BRAIN and make you a new “host.” It will be with you forever, but DON’T PANIC—it’s merely the Information trying to SENSE ITSELF. Suddenly being able to think in these terms should leave your current perception of reality basically unchanged.

• Getting you to play this game is the universe’s way of sensing itself, using YOU as a matrix. Try to avoid It’s Gaze, and GOOD LUCK WITH THE GAME!

• If you score below 800 this time, TRY AGAIN NEXT YEAR. Have faith; it will ALL make sense EVENTUALLY, and will be WELL WORTH THE WAIT.

As of this writing there are at least two dozen Church-approved “doktorbands” in North and South America. But Doctors for “Bob” were the first, and they remain to this day the “Big Daddy” rock-and-roll party band on this planet.

“Rock-and-roll party band?” WHAT A LIE. Actually, doktormusic KILLS WOODSTOCK MUSIC.

also: IT KILLS THIS BOOK

“Now therefore be ye not mockers, lest your bands be made strong.” (Isaiah 28:22)

“Like many other pagan cults, the Odinic Mysteries, as an institution, were destroyed by Christianity, but the underlying cause of their fall was the corruption of the priesthood.” —Manly P. Hall, SECRET TEACHINGS OF ALL AGES

“To die, to be really dead … that must be glorious. There are far worse things awaiting a man than death.” —Bela Lugosi in DRACULA (1933)

§“BOB” WILL KILL YOU TO PROTECT YOU.

§THE BULLET—END OF ALL PHILOSOPHIES.

1. DOKTORMUSIC is an interesting phenomenon. From one-man surgical teams like Dr. Neuroburger to vast orchestral ensembles which evolve spontaneously during the Conventions, the ancient practice of reviving music by sacrificing it is now represented by over 20 independent groups of musical mercy-killers. While there are SubGenius-affiliated performers who perform prewritten songs using normal (not to say, “ass-kicking”) musical instruments and traditions (rock-and-roll, for instance), these are not doktorbands per se. (Such a true “band,” using Conspiracy-style funk-music tricks to impart a sanctified bulldada message, is The Peoples’ Temple, masterminded by Chicago’s Pope Flores.)

For a true doktorband to succeed, few if any of the members should be adept with the musical instruments they use in their trance doktorsessions. One expert musician, on his chosen instrument, won’t hurt. More than that, however, and some of the musicians begin to make the fatal mistake of trying.

A partial list of the major performing DOKTORBANDS (available on SubGenius Records and Tapes):

DRS. FOR WOTAN, Dallas and St. Louis (where Philo moved to found 2000 DOKTORS). The ORIGINAL Drs. for “Bob” rip-off band?

THE BAND THAT DARE NOT SPEAK ITS NAME, OaklandSan Francisco. Name actually changes from album to album.

DRS. FOR DINOSAURS, Dallas. A bulldada spin-off from BUCK NAKED AND THE JAYBIRDS.

DRS. FOR EXTREME PREJUDICE, Bolivia, S.A. These are actual mercenaries who play DYNAMITE “Wotan Tunes” between assignments.

GLASSMADNESS, Oakland, CA. Sometimes teams with PUZZLING EVIDENCE.World’s most prolific spew-source of Dobbsful Hymns.

BONE-SURGEONS FOR ANUBIS, Minneapolis. Short-lived; malpractice suits brought a quick end to this bright, “Bob-” killing combo.

THE SHITTY BEATLES, THE BUTT PLUGS, THE GUN KLOWNS—all spin-offs from Arkansas’ original DRS. FOR “BOB”.

Mention should also be made of THE DANCING CIGARETTES (Bloomington, IND), D.K. JONES (NY), the often-defunct PINK BOYZ (Dallas), DRS. WITHOUT WOTAN (Fez, Morocco) and DRS. FOR WHAT’S HIS NAME (anywhere). They all make noise that is more musical than medical, but serve Dobbs despite that handicap.

Names of performers in the above bands may be found peppering the credits page at the beginning of this book. Contact any of these fine organizations to play at your party by writing THE SUBGENIUS FOUNDATION (PO Box 807, Glen Rose, TX 76043 ).

(All of the following Rant was transcribed from various Doktortapes. Primary Spoutings by St. Janor Hypercleats.

Hey, man, you got any o’ those damn wall-climbers? I mean, if you ain’t got those I wouldn’t mind a screamer or maybe a Blue Bleeder or, you know, a couple o’ them damn headlaunchers like we took that one time. No, I don’t have any of those but I do have some advanced medical shamanism in the form of DOCTORS FOR “BOB,” hell yeah, you won’t read about these practitioners in any medical textbooks, I mean these are HEALERS, not available to the general public, no ‘MA’AM, real earwax-melters … I mean, if you’re lookin’ for some of those wife-beaters or stomach-hurters, well, I might could get some, said Jones, hesitantly, but I’m talkin’ doktor music, music to be crucified by, I mean this ain’t no damn logo-band, this is a LOGOS-band, shit-yeah, DOCTORS FOR “BOB” is a people’s band, DOCTORS FOR “BOB” lets you keep your mind, well, maybe not all your mind; they might take a chakra here or there, but compared to any of these Krishna bands or any of these Paper Moonie bands, you do get to keep most of your mind. Yeah, I’m into it, but can you sell me maybe some of those baby-skinners or bladder-drainers or maybe some kidney-puncturers? I mean I’d even take one of those look-alike-ers or padded-cell-ers. No, I ain’t seen any of those since Woodstock. Yeah, Woodstock was great because there was this one really beautiful dude there and he had these set-your-hair-on-fire-and-hit-your-grandmother-upside-the-head-with-a-liquor-bottle-ers, and

he was turning everybody on … Yeah, I remember when DOCTORS FOR “BOB” played there, it was so beautiful, man, I mean, their vibes, their heavy heavy vibes … I tripped into it… I was there with this one chick, and she freaked up … I’m a Doctorhead, I follow the Doctors all around the country, to all their concerts. I remember that harmonica-oboe duet that Sterno and Hypercleats got into in Michigan, where Hypercleats started smashing his harmonica, it was innovative, man … I mean DOCTORS FOR “BOB” pretty much created the ’60s. Last time I saw ’em, in their first song I was transported three galaxies away and given lectures by archangels that were working for JHVH-1, at least that’s what their name-tags said … I was transubstantiated along with the entire audience to some Pleasure Dimension or Slack Realm, and…

[trails off]

… too far … until DRS. FOR “BOB” rip doors in half inside the Practice Shack … I mean when society saturation meters are in the Red Zone, you got you some damn SERIOUS DOCTORS FOR “BOB,” bondage groupies for Heglio-octors for G’Breen-genstan, send your application now, I mean you’re talkin’ record contracts? … AH FUCK IT, Smith retorted, tying Jones’s lower bowel in a knot, forget DOCTORS FOR “BOB,” move on to the next big act, 3 weeks ago my 14-year-old daughter was sayin’ no, the only band worth listening to is GHLEGLIOCTERS FOR G’FRUUUNGGLANGG, and I told her “Li’l G’BroagFran, you go to sleep now, if you don’t stop talkin’ bad about DOCTORS FOR “BOB” that Head Doctor that lives behind your closet door, he’ll come out and HIT you, ’cause the Boogie-Doctor don’t like that kinda talk.…” But what IS DOCTORS FOR “BOB”? Just exactly what KIND of tapes were you boys makin’ in there when he was killed? Well, to begin with they were the first to KILL “BOB,” but what I’d rather know is, you got any of them damn alienate-everyone-you-meet-ers or any of those take-one-and-it-tastes-kinda-bad-and-you-get-a-headache-and-about-2-hours-later-you-feel-na useous-and-about-3-hours-later-you’re-saying-OH-GOD-please-let-me-come-down-and-I’ll-be-a- good-boy-ers? No, but back in my pickup I got some won’t-go-away-at-allers, but I don’t think that’s the chemical name … now I could call around and see if Wanda has any of those blue-locomotive-engines-with-boiler-hit-by-armor-piercing-round-ers left, but ever since she joined them damn SubGeniuses you can’t even talk to her…. she’s the cheapest slut I know, that Wanda … I’d like to slip a couple of ghost-of-Larry-Fine-ers into her start-talkin’-to-God-at-three-in-the-morning-and-He-starts-talkin’-back-but-it-turns-out-to-be-th e-cops-ERS. Oh yeah, I guess so, hey the other day I was hearing that damn DOCTORS FOR “BOB” crap on the radio and I’d just took a couple of Bleeding-Head-of-Vic-Morrow-Worship-Society-ers and I was sittin’ on the porch with my Aunt Maye and I seen this wagon wheel comin’ outa the sky and it had all different colors and I could see the infinite void and she said “What is it boy what is it boy” and I said “I don’t know ma’am I don’t know” it was like some kinda vision I never seen before and she said “What is it boy” and I said “I don’t know ma’am but I say I believe in “Bob” I say damn if I know, I say I’ll do anything you want “Bob” and I seen that vision and you do what you do ’cause you want to, but I do what I do ’cause “Bob” told me to,” and then I said “Glorify me “Bob” that I may glorify you “Bob” and Oh “Bob” you know I am a peemonger but “Bob” you see me in my naked glory and this is important: the glory … the faded Glory, that shall not be recovered, not by “Bob”, nee ye by the pink smiling false prophets that once bespoken that which was not peed in the river of blood,

and yet was somehow NOT involved in the later slaying of John Lennon …” So remember, ladies and gentlemen, YOU CAN KNOW DOCTORS FOR “BOB” and alleviate the technoboredom that has become imbedded in your ToeLife. Yes, these are the behavior patterns you’ve been waiting for, behavior patterns not available in any store, at last an answer to Those Cliquish Dicks; you try soiling them out, you try wrenching them out, you still get Those Cliquish Dicks. SubGenius BEACH Party, yeah I brought the girls, did you bring the chainsaw? SubGenius BEACH Party, I brought the suntan lotion, did you bring the Neutron Howitzers? SubGenius BEACH Party, I brought the swimsuits and towels, did you bring the cyanide kool-aid? Damn, I forgot. I got a buddy, though, he’s got some of them get-laid-off-your-job-and-get-a-gun-and-shoot-your-wife-and-five-kids-through-the-head-and-th en-yourself-ERS. Those seem to be comin’ back into fashion these days. And I got some doktortapes with G’Broag-Fran-construed time-compression, Negated by Mom, nullified by Universal Nonmotion SubGenius Break Period, Approved by Dobbs, Void-Approved, Thought-Crime-Approved, Galactic Intervention and God Wars Approved by Buddha, as it was first bespoken, and LO out of the deep green void ye shall see those who bear the Head of the Golfer, so ask not whose head is launched; it’s launched for THEE, and there shall be gnashing of 9-irons, for you can live IN the Head, and you can live BY the Head, and you can live WITH the Head, but if you’re not living OF the Head, YOU’RE GONNA BURN!!!! For in The Book of False Heads, 5”7, it says Lucifer might be for a head of a golfer, but if it’s not the bleeding Head, of the specific golfer, world cup class, I mean, there might be a wide range of bleeding heads among many different golfers, and you can say, “Well, I worship FROM the Head …” What is this distinction? Well, if you turn to this passage in our next lesson on Easter Sunday, you’ll see that 9 Irons = 9 Days; I was talkin’ to a young girl the other day, oh sure, she’s heard about premarital sex, she’s heard about marijuana, and pot, and Jesus, but had she ever heard of the Bleeding Head, or “Bob”? HELL NO!!! So that’s why, you know, if anybody asked me who I’d like to kill, castrate, and napalm, I’d have to say, DOCTORS FOR “BOB,” mainly because they’re drunk, they’re loud, they’ll never sell, and most of all because they’re FREE. So, friend, I put it to ye thus: WHERE is the blood on DOBBS’S head? His head is utterly healed, not a rent, not a contusion … he’s JUST a Head, with a Pipe, I mean, how do you know if he’s even got a DICK? So, YEA, LO, YE will be caught in the Sand Trap if ye follow the ways of the secular Trevinistas, oh shit yeah he can drive a good ball, oh yeah Dobbs can putt, but of these SECULAR decapitated golfers, thou must ask, IS his sales receipt within the register of Life? (Nay, Lord.) Then CAST him into the pit of eternal CLEEGAR and let no more his soul roam the Boomaglin Lands, and call anyone and see if you can at least oh, say, a quart of those Yellow Leakers and about a syringe full of feel-like-you-need-to-pee-for-about-three-hours-but-every-time-you-go-to-the-bathroom-nothi ng-comes-out-ERS. And maybe a couple of day-the-earth-stood-still-ERS for girls. Because it’s the Head, werewolves obey it, introverted women write plays about it, intellectual men on Channel 13 discuss it, witch doctors are reincarnated by its golf-shoe-leather-based radio broadcasts, oh my god no, stock markets crash from it, metallic locusts with android glow-in-the-dark brains fall like meteors because of it, lasers the size of vampires short out in its presence; I seen a vision, ma’am, Orson Welles came on the radio saying aliens had landed, only this time he was telling the truth but nobody believed him, I don’t know ma’am, but Know Ye Well the Signs of the Time of PeE, you gonna be hidin’ in a liquor bottle when That Time cometh? For the Head existed before the game of golf which is a false Conspiracy imitation of

Divine Bleeding-Head-Launching Worship, a sick parody designed by Satan himself, for the Head is older than God, older even than G’BroagFran; but the question the serious historian must ask himself is, Whence Cometh the Head? It couldn’t have come from Egypt, since it isn’t a big triangle; it couldn’t have come from Arabia, since they were too busy stealin’ OUR damn GAS; the early Greeks were a possibility but they were too busy running away from Cyclopses; not the Mesopotamian Valley cultures, HELL, they were too busy bein’ wimp-ass idol worshippers; that leaves China, but they were too concerned with tryin’ to play a pipe organ and charmin’ damn snakes. No, the Head came not from these places, for all things come from the Head, for the Head was forged from the same steel as Odin’s sword, HELL, BOY, the Head was deityin’ its ass while the One True God was still messin’ his britches! At least that’s what Father Time said that one time while we was windin’ his watch and playin’ DOCTORS FOR “BOB.” Say hell yeah, it’s about time we put the “qualm” on Yahweh’s excesses, I’m sick o’ the shit, I’m gonna get a gun and point it at the sky, O WHEN shall we see you rise in your naked glory, when shall the East be lit? O YE who do not sanctify Odin, and place in thy mouths the sexual organs of others, who once bespoke the way of the X Dimension, O YE of the White Brotherhood who opened the heads of many, O YE Cliquish Dicks, it is not thee, but thou, who shall not perish by the way of the gun in the Time of PeE, who was not, who were not “Bob” in all arrayed his naked glory and finery of trying to get hold of some of those damn feel-it-coming-on-but-might-be-my-imaginationers, wilst thou not explain WHAT IS DOCTORS FOR “BOB?”

DOCTORS FOR “BOB” will themselves explain what they are on one condition: just send them some of those Oh-my-God-all-my-internal-organs-are-being-ripped-out-my-throat-one-by-one-Ers AND some no,-dear,-I-don’t-think-I’ll-be-going-to-work-to-morrow-ers, AND some King-of-Norway-coming-all-the-way-to-Dallas-just-for-the-opening-of-Norwegian-Day-at-the-Tex as-StateFair-ERS. That’s right, just take those pills and throw ’em in the mailbox; you don’t need an envelope, you don’t even need a stamp; just toss ’em in that mailbox and think North Little Rock, and they’ll get’em. AND HERE’S WHY: The King.

The King of Norway, most feared continent on the globe, is indeed coming to Dallas; the very MONARCH of the land of WOTAN, he who serves the Northern Fathers who slumber beneath the glaciers, The King is coming, the very Sword of Odin, the mighty Switchblade of WODEN; DOCTORS FOR “BOB” must be there on that acre of land of the State Fair where the King of all Norway will breathe the same air as some of the most disgusting freaks of America, who are on display for money, we MUST see that the King is not offended or assassinated while in Dallas, we will be his personal servants and bodyguards, we will become like army ants which bite onto each other’s limbs to create a living SHROUD of bulletproofness around the King, OH TAKE ME, Fierce Bullet, TAKE NOT the King whose sword serves Odin, split MY cranium and splatter my brains that he may live and that I may not EVER have to “EXPLAIN” either Doctors for “Bob” or Puzzling Evidence or LIES or any of the other quasi-SubGenius affiliated organizations which make the inexplicable SubGenius World Conventions, and the Tape Network, what they are, OH PLEASE, Brave Bullet, split MY left and right brains down the middle that the great Sceptre of the King not be prevented from leaving his Seed of Yetidom across the Northern Plains, sacrifice ME that he who is the crowned leader of the land of Ymir the Hoar-Rrost Giant not be shaken in

his meditations, OH KING, we have prepared The Hill of Foreskins, our widows cry, they weep as they burn that great Pile of Sheaths we have given for thee; OH PROUD AND BRAVE BULLET, find NOT your target the Leige, OH ODIN, take literally my request to KILL ME, that I may never have to describe the indescribable schedules of events at SubGenius Revivals; O Stout and Noble-Hearted Bullet, reverse thy perfect Course, O Horizontally-ravelling, Pope-hatted Messenger of Death, whose steel-shod testicles are potent with History, O Bullet of Northern European Heritage which is destined to start World War III no matter what the Runes Writ in the Skull’s Eyes may say, we will AID THEE in thy path of destruction, and urge ye to DO WHAT THOU WILT, so long as ye harm not the King and not allow us to “pretend” to describe the scene at the last Convention when the Patriarchy of the Church was physically thrown off the stage by the women of the Church who grabbed the mikes and forced men to strip and marry one another; O Pill-Taking Bullet, which no drunkenness can divert from thy staid course, we shall encase our meager bodies in coats lined with pill-bottles that they may deter thy thirsty Aim and satisfy ye by thine entering of our carcasses; O Metal-Gonaded Slug, whose trajectory can be tainted not by intoxication, STAY US from telling of the unspeakable death of Sterno in the first ten minutes of the DOCTORS FOR “BOB” concert and his subsequent resurrection by the Head by the Head by the Dominatrixes, which preceded the Launching of said Head (and its false decoy brother of latex), resulting in the False Head being ejaculated by the Radisson Hotel itself out the fire-escape and across the street onto the roof of the building next door during a game of Golfer Head Disco Soccer, from whence Buck rescued it by scaling the building with a rope in the dead of the night while the Doctors lay on the floor of their room and pondered how the sacred PIE PIE film had been lost on the 13th floor of a hotel which had no 13th floor; OH KING help us to recover this sacred Super-8 film from the heathens who have defiled it, this film whose scenes change magically from showing to showing, perhaps, some day, to show THE TRUTH???!? OH KING of Norway whose ancestors begat the Viking explorers who left broadaxes across North America to puzzle the archaeologists, and who had the sense to leave this land, from whom descended the blonde denture-creme smiling people of the TV screen who act out the inane video hieroglyphs of the Gods, o ye great Aryan Stud-Lord of Norway, ODIN, who hath been depicted in Thor Comics, Tales of Asgard, o YE who cannot be defeated by Loki, O KING, ye who ARE the hearty Bullet which would pierce thyself and ARE the Gun which would shoot that selfsame Bullet FOR NO OTHER REASON than to relieve us of the hellish duty of describing the Mass held on November 22 at Dealy Plaza in Dallas where the SubGeniuses crossed swords with assassination buffs of lesser creeds and where the great Evidence of the demon Uberbrow was unleashed against those who framed our friend Lee O., O Light-Hearted Bullet, O Wise and Compassionate Bullet, O Bullet of Love which hath been used in all great Assassinations, O Bullet of Understanding, O Bullet of the eternal orbital plane around the planet which is called down by the yearnings of psychotics, O SEED BULLET which brought good-bad life-death to Earth and shall remove it in the end, O EGG BULLET who is the Mother of All Bullets, which with thine iron-sheathed testicles did birth all the Race of Bullets, O Votive Bullet whose bowels of gunpowder cannot be exploded except by the Pin of the Hammer of Thor Himself, WE BESEECH THEE, divert thy path from the King and into MY Heart, that he not be startled and that the intense 3-day “be-ins” and “freak-outs” which are SubGenius World Parties not be defiled by impure Description; happiness will depart from Earth forever if we are forced to do such a terrible thing as to describe the Head-Launchings or the Healings, or the paranormal dancing of ashtrays or the nameless force which jumps from one participant to the other, causing them to

Spout in Tongues; O All-Knowing Bullet who delivers the Final Answer to All Philosophies, whose wisdom is the only to questionable Wisdom, o Hollowest of Hollow-Points, whose nothingness encompasses the Universe, O Most Logical Bullet, rip MY ??? torture ME in a Guatamalan prison camp for TEN YEARS lest the air around the King be disturbed, lay thine jolly Cattle Prod against my genitals that none of these may happen, let my entire body be converted to a wall of membranous nerve connected to a brain whose only function is to feel PAIN while a flame-thrower is placed against that web of membrane LEST a breeze of a temperature even SLIGHTLY uncomfortable for the King exist anywhere on the planet, Steel Pellet, pee not the King’s ass, who can use Ymir the Hoar-Frost Giant as an icecube in his Nestea, “BOB,” the question isn’t what they are but how and why is DOCTORS FOR “BOB”? WHY did over 40 people “become,’ uninvited, “Doktors for “Bob” at each Convention? Was it because ‘doktor’ is a generic term for anyone who plays joyously that instrument which he cannot play? If so, they are Doktors from “Bob” and of “Bob” but the fact is, Doctors FOR “Bob” is really some kind of bodiless entity, some kind of nameless FORCE that’s beyond any of us … you could only ask IT, the Drs. for “Bob” Force, what it is; you can’t ask Janor or Sterno or Drelloid or Snavely or Bill or Ringo or the others, because they have nothing to do with the transmissions that are received through their vocal cords; Even The Bullet knows not, even the King knows not. We call to thee, O Bullet, to give a two hour speech to thineself in midair! O Steel-Clad Friend, strike US that we never again speak of the unlabeled capsules with which Pastor Naked pelts the crowd; O pointy-headed, O Speedy Pal, o Virtuous Dum-Dum of my bosom, O Flying Penis, O Fertilizer and Ventilator of Great Men, O Great ER-Ridden, Wind-Riding Steedless Flyer whose pre-ordained trajectory we pray to change anyway, O Brainless Warrior, O Farmer of Kings’ Blood, O Driller of Flesh, O Slug, if ye choppeth down the King in the middle of the State Fairgrounds and only Helen Keller is there to hear it, was there a Doctors for “Bob” concert? O Happy, Impudent, Lead-Wearing Nudist, O Barer of the Brains of Presidents, O Manual Do-It-Yourself Exploratory Brain Surgeon, O Journeyman into Thinking Organs, O Dauntless Projectile of Odin’s Wrath, hear my plea, that I might not discuss the Media Barrage Tapes sold by the SubGenius Foundation and inspired/co-created with Puzzling Evidence and others, for the spectacularly thereof would be only sullied by any attempt to reproduce them on paper; O He most smiled upon by the gods though Clothed in Blood upon Exiting the Heads of Presidents and Monarchs, O Ye Deity of Lead, O Ye Slug of the Elder Gods which shatters the wrists of state governors, O whistling Pied Piper, O Fluting Pan of Lead, sing not thy song unto the King but instead unto Doctors for “Bob” that we not inadvertently taint the glory of the over 80 songs about “Bob” and the other Space Bosses which exist on those Media Barrage Tapes; O Robin Hood of 44-Magnums, let we poor Doctors be the “Rich” ye rob of tissue and the King be the beggar ye award mercy, that the reader realize the incomparability of the Tapes and Songs and the Divine Wellmanization thereof EXCEPT to this very excuse not to compare them with anything; O Spinning Missile Whose Kiss Is trampled in the 10-watt light of our Quills; O Innocent Bullet, O Guilty Bullet, which art thou? How can we presume to judge? We stand to recieve thee, we who are of but flesh and understand not the way of the Lead-Clad Ones, we of the inferior Flesh-Encladdened Clan, we are but gasses to thee, ye pass through us as we pass through the stale vapours of fat Texans which befoul the air through which will stride the Emperor of Odin-Land! One can speak of “Bob,” one can speak of Slack, of The Conspiracy, for any fool knows they are beyond words, but to even BEGIN to lower the Living Church to description would be to tempt the reader to think he understood it without “seeing” it; this

would be FOLLY! “Bob” knew that to describe the Living Church would take 10,000 volumes to be presented in truthful incoherency, to do less would be to invite the end of all life on Earth, so we were shown the way, we were taught by default that the Bullet, because it has no sex, is the Perfect Teacher. We were meant to sidestep the issue until we realized the issue could ONLY be presented through sidestepping, and THAT is the Way of the “Bob”, or KILL US and HIM: four guns surround the head of “Bob”, they fire and the head implodes and the four executioners are also killed simultaneously deep inside that cave-tomb; the deaf Monk outside, who must not hear the shots, simply “knows” somehow that the deed is done, and he gravely rolls the great stone over the cave entrance and seals it forever: ANYTHING to avoid explaining, ANYTHING, even killing “Bob,” for after all is not “Bob” the gun anyway and YOU the Bullet, slamming into ANYTHING at 186,000 inches per second, EVEN “Bob’s” head, in order to sanctify the fact that the Bullet IS the One God who cannot be questioned more than once, the Gun is the One World Religion … Perchance, Mighty Sir Bullet, I might make a suitable Target that I might not have to defile the reality of the Church’s living members? Perhaps my humble flesh might make an acceptable umbrella for thy Rain of Lead? It’s the only logical way, it makes PERFECT sense, it’s the only possible correct substitute for explaining the unbelievably important but complex Time Intersection which this Book is too short to do, YES! It is inescapable, it was all meant to happen, fate decreed every step, every iota of activity by all SubGeniuses has led to THIS MOMENT YOU ARE READING, and NOW—YOU MUST DIE. Well, no, just kidding. But it was a lesson: when we quit seeking the answer we found it; we have reached the Buddha Nature, we have Achieved The Form, reality was inverted, we all became Bullets, HOW CAN YOU BE READING THIS??? It erases all you have read in this Book so far, WAIT A MINUTE, MY GOD, WE’VE BEEN FOOLS? It wasn’t “Bob” that was the One True Lord, NO! It was the Bullet! No, wait, that’s not right … it was the Head, YES, THE HEAD!—no that can’t be right. “BOB,” “BOB”, TAKE MY MIND!!! Ah yes, that’s better, “Bob”, you speak with TOTAL AUTHORITY, we will again follow you anywhere, unquestioningly, for YE are the Bullet, O “Bob”, ye ultimate lead sexual organ, rape not thy Sister the Hem of the King’s Robe, tarnish not her virginity, instead force us to write the chapter by night without our own knowlege, no matter how we try to escape from it, IT WRITES US, WE OURSELVES are sent spinning towards the head of the King … whether we shall splatter it or not we shall find out in the NEXT Book, it all builds to a horrendous knowledge of everything at once, which equals nothing, which penetrates, slowly yet instantly, the skin of the forehead, then cracks through the skull, drilling, then starts to spin as it swims through the brain mush … YES, “Bob” is God’s way of “coming,” and the real DOCTORS FOR “BOB” and all the other doktors and saints and popes and ministers and even schizmites are the Seed which Spreads the Plasmate of Information of Freedom, because the Doctors killed “Bob” first, and they saw as very few do that “Bob’s” grin, while innocent-looking, also implies a hellish ultimate horror; it’s the insane yet knowledgeable grin not unlike that of a skull: WHY DO THEY GRIN LIKE THAT? Do they know something we don’t? Are they making up for lost time? Is it someone’s sick idea of a JOKE? Perhaps it is all of these, but it definitely is the Doorway to the perfect Money-Making Formula, the one-image equation for eternal Slack, YES, YES, but more important than even that, do you know where I could get me some of them ANSW-ERS?

§A BREATHER

HAVING TROUBLE YET? If this chapter seems to be constantly “broiling,” meandering unfairly, “puckering in on itself” and throwing you into confusion, it’s just that your mind hasn’t yet grasped that ALL POINTS are IDENTICAL with THE ENTIRE WHOLE, and that, therefore, you are The Bullet and the Book and “Bob’s” Pipe is the curved, elongated donut-shaped reality hole model through which you are spiritually traveling…ACCORDING TO YOUR MOVING POINT OF REFERENCE, that is. (A hint: ERASE THAT POINT OF REFERENCE and you erase ALL BARRIERS. Good Luck!) YOU ARE THE BULLET THAT KEEPS FIRING ITSELF INTO THE HEAD THAT KEEPS SEEING ITSELF: the information of the universe continually vomits itself up at “points” seeking good “vessels” through which to enjoy (or fear) the sensing of itself. BE A VESSEL AND WIN AT CARDS!

“Perhaps. . . sidestepping IS the issue.” —Junior Hypercleef, Earl of Horm

“Yes, I think Chapter 19 will puzzle the scholars for some time to come. It will yield its arcane secrets, but only after the most consciously negligent scrutinity by dedicated archaeologists.” —Prof. Olaf Bohandas

“Despite its apparent incoherency, the logic of Chapter 19 is in fact incontrovertible, even inescapable—ONCE you ascertain the RANDOM FACTOR, of course—which in this case just happens to be the King of Norway.” —Clive Reede, critic

“Chapter 19 is the first “linear” text that evokes the Demiurge without once mentioning its true name or nature.” —Bishop Frederika Paines

“We tried to explain it all, we tried, but fate forced us to stop leaning on Fate, we passed the buck until there was no buck left to pass, so we killed ourselves in the Chapter and at that moment, utter randomness delivered up an answer…THE ANSWER…. I believe they can find it here if they dig deep enough…they’d BETTER find it, anyway, or we’re sunk…” —either Jones or Smith just after the Book’s publication scandal