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You Are Here: Stark Fist 2004 - 2005 > Sacred SubGenius Tales and Poems > Sunday Night Connie

Sunday Night Connie


Rev. Alex M. Thompson, Esq.

It was Sunday night and so, as always, I sat myself down in my holy computer throne and prepared for an enjoyable evening service on IRC Channel #subgenius. I connected to the Internet and was quickly on Xchat, being gracefully opped by the lovely Priestess Pisces. Yet, no sooner did I greet Pisces than I was suddenly disconnected and told that some error had occurred. Needless to say, I was peeved. I disconnected and tried again. Still, nothing. What was worse, my Internet service seemed to be in serious trouble. My computer was going “Bob”wild and I had no idea why. Things kept popping up that I did not understand, because they were written in German. I ran scans, deleted programs, to no avail. Out of frustration, I disconnected.

I was pissed, but I tried to make the best of my bad situation. I went into my room to read zines and listen to Dr. Demento. Yet, upon opening the door, I was dumbstruck: there, sitting on my bed, was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She had blazing red hair and looked positively resplendent.

 “W-wh-who a-a-are Y-Y-YOU?!?!”  was all I could manage to stutter. Yet, in my heart-of-hearts, I knew who it was. It was Connie Dobbs.

She smiled knowingly at me by way of a reply and with the slightest gesture of her perfectly painted fingernail, beckoned me towards her. I moved like a zombie and sat down mere inches away from that perfect body I had only read about. My teenage SubGenius glands were pulsating like Logan’s palm clock. Yet, despite my obvious nervousness, I acted the perfect gentlemen and offered to fix her a drink.

“How about a vodka martini?” she requested with a smile. Cool as the Fonz, I told her that would be perfect and left to go to the “bar”.

As I walked downstairs to the kitchen, my heart was beating fast and heavy. So! It was her who had fuxored my computer! What a Connie-esque con! Now I would have to be Dean Martin. And to make matters worse, I was nearly certain we had NO vodka. In fact, the only alcohol in the house was probably Miller Light or Canadian Club. Nevertheless, I opened the dining room cabinet where liquers are stored, expecting nothing. Instead, I found several bottles of Absolut Peppar vodka along with enough vermouth to mix up one of her favorites, the Peppar Martini. There was also a jar of jalapeno-stuffed olives and a brand-new set of martini glasses, no doubt made of some unearthly crystal.

I mixed the drinks and walked upstairs. In my room, Connie was bopping her legs along to the radio as Frank Zappa narrated about Bobby Brown. Upon seeing me, she smiled, turned down the radio, and accepted her martini with a grace that would have made Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis look like Anna Nicole Smith. I sat next to her, winked, lifted my pinky, and raised the glass to my lips when…

Connie took the glass gently from my hand. My smile faded.

“You’re not 21, yet,” she said in her infamous sultry voice. “You can’t drink.”

“Connie, it’s not like I’ve never had vodka before.” I insisted.

“I know, I know. But, that’s the law. No drinking ‘til you’re 21.”

“What do you want with me, Connie?” I demanded, “I mean, why do you come to my house, fuck up my computer, and then make me sit here while you drink the Peppar Martini I fixed for you?!?!” I was very upset, after having all the devoted High Sisters of Connie I had thus far met give me a time about my age. Was Connie the same?

Connie touched my cheek. “Alex, Alex, Alex,” It was nice to hear her say my name, “You’re such a sweet, compassionate young man. I know how it is. Waking every morning in a shitty mood, going somewhere you hate to drag books down hallways with a bunch of bland, useless pinks. You deserve much better. You deserve what all you clever teenage males want: to sip martinis like a bigshot and romance lovely Connieites. So you shall, have no fear. You’ve done it before and you shall do it again. Like my friend Mary Magdalen, I am a woman of parables. And tonight’s parable is ‘The Parable of Connie and the Horny Teenage SubGenius’”.

I gulped. “Tell it to me, Connie.”

“I’ll do better than that….” She started, but my head was swimming so much, I couldn’t hear her say, “I’ll show you.”

Her hands slinked their way around my neck as she went in for the kill. Her kisses were…enlightening, to say the least. I smelled a slight trouty aroma that was either Cthulu or some pussy she had eaten earlier that day. Cthulu seemed likelier, since something had “gelatinized” her tongue so that it felt like a spasmodic Japanese Prairie Squid. Hers grabbed mine and I felt that muscle in my mouth twisting in various non-Euclidean shapes. Then, like a novelty fake chewing gum package, it snapped back inside my skull, nearly knocking out my two front teeth, which were Xmas gifts from long ago.

Having escaped her tongue grasp, I entered another one by gazing deep into her eyes. Like Dr. Lao, she seemed to transform into a meld of various Connieite beauties: Nickie, Susi, Susie, Ennie, TV, Pisces, Betsy, Hellena, Rabbi, Wei, Joy, Maggie, Decadence, Honeypie, Sikki, and so on and so forth. It was enough to make me explode with lust. I wanted to make love to all of them! I well-nigh dived into Connie with liberal abandon.

Connie accepted me like a warm bed. Within her bosom, I found a dream beyond dreams, a transcendentally beautiful world where everything feels like Dr. Seuss and M.C. Escher. A world of zero responsibilities or consequences. I felt like how most of the Old Doktors must have felt their first time with her. I felt like “Bob”.

I awoke the next morning to find her gone: no letter, nothing. I must have snapped out of REM, but I was groggy like I had had no sleep at all. While getting ready and worrying about what I had to do for “skool”, I thought back to the night before. I remembered very little. I still remember only what I have henceforth described, but when I think back on my Sunday night with Connie, I am filled with a sense of profound relief incomparable to anything I have ever experienced. However, only one thing gives me pause: If it wasn’t a dream, then why do I still feel like a virgin?

The End

Above: Illustration, "The Board of TC" by IMBJR