Reported by The Nine Elder Bankers of the Universe
with additional material by Dr. G. Gordon Gordon, Rev. Ivan Stang, Rev.
John Shirley, and Dr.Philo Drummond
DOKSTOK hosted by St. Snavely Eklund and Pope Sternodox Keckhaver
"SubGenius DEATH is better than Normal LIFE."
-- Dr. Alice Adee, saxophonist, Vaginal Blood Fart
From across the nation they came and they saw,
A new world beginning in Northern Arkansas,
They drove through storms and perils of night,
To the new awakening, and Dokstok in sight.
We shared Peace and Love and groovy times,
Eternity was there, we were feeling fine.
Cause we were high
So high, so high,
On Dokstok Mountain
Okay, well, what about Dokstok 46+, or 2, or 01101, or whatever?
Was it as important as the post-ritual instruction with St. Byron
and St. Erno Dachs at the Temple of the Big Blue Cylindrical Life Force
that seemed to emanate the true essence of Dobbs and His Fusion from Aleph
to Yo'Ma-Mamma? Perhaps not... perhaps... but how can I best
express the ineluctable modality of our sodality?
DOKSTOK... In June, 1985, and possibly again in
1987, no one remembers when, exactly, in northern Arkansas, it
took place: the Event... the Happening... the Slack-out and Heunh-In,
the HELL ON EARTH that was... DOKSTOK.
Dokstok is like BRIGADOON; it comes along only every now and then,
manifesting as a sealed universe disconnected from normal human reality.
No human can cross that bridge to the island on Bull Shoals Lake...
the bridge that doesn't even EXIST for them. No interference from
humans! They wouldn't be able to withstand the BIOFEED-BRAIN even if they
managed to get past the
Not a revival nor a convention, nor a "SHOW;" it's everything
else BUT a show... It's ... the party AFTER the show, without ever having
to do the stinking show. A gathering of the tribes, the early apostles
of the Dobbs, the Covenant Prophets, the greatest Doktorbands: all united
in one outdoor recording studio deep in the white supremacist-infested woods
of an island on Arkansas' most shunned lake.
I stood backstage and gazed out upon the contingents of delegates from all
over America... hundreds of baldheaded, Jânor-Device-implanted followers,
as far as the eye could see. Graduates of the SubGenius ReEducation Camps,
every one. Like me.
Gary G'Broagfran himself surfed the Rockies all the way from California
just to make this campout and Mystery Jazz Fest along with the other Doktors.
"THE HIGHEST ACHIEVEMENT in MIND-FUCKERY!"
they called it.
even before we arrived...
It hurt to go "Heunh..." but of course we went
"HEUNH!" anyway. We had to, or die; for there were more
drums, more pils, more deviant sexual and musical wonderment, more chainsaws,
pee and CHURCH AIR -- more SHOTGUNS, in fact, than even Dokstok 94... The
most gut-&-butt-wrenching G'BLEEG-FEST ever splendiforized for a True
Doktor's Viewing Pleasure! If it didn't pee the shit outa my damn ass, I'll
kill you and me both!
Bobbies were there but they were few
There was lots of cool guys like me and you,
People were happy, they were all havin' fun,
While Doktors 4 "Bob" was farmin' skulls in the sun.
The Corpses were Swingin', their Love did abound,
The average Corpse floated a foot off the ground.
Cause we were high
So high, so high,
On Dokstok Mountain
Hit the fuckin' dirt of Brasil at 5:48 Ack Emma on 22 of
June just two days before Noite do Sao Joao (or, if you prefer, our
winter and your summer solstice, respectively)... And now here I am, 20
days and eight thousand miles later, still trying to sort it all out. Chemical
processes of the brain have been augmented or altered by half a bottle of
Ukranian wheat squeezings, several shots of Chivas Regal (literally: goat
royal) and a lot of that grape juice that bypassed wine on its way into
the very serum of the cells of Louis Quartorce ('Apres mi un cognac'), not
to mention several sticks of fropozombamulam and the hellish alkaloid of
Mortimer... and I still can't make any sense of it...
More new dieties were discovered, worshipped, rejected and rediscovered
simultaneously than in any other Hierarchy Ego-fest to date. Can
we say we Wotanned? Could we perhaps say we Wôlwoed??? Or, did we
Neguani?? And, Ohmigod...what about the ?
That awful, bloody, self-propelled thing that kept showing up everywhere?
Did "Bob" come again?.... Well, we doktors sure did, over and
over, and this wasn't even your basic goodtime rubboff or nothin'!
When the decks started rolling, so did Jànor, and since he couldn't
shut up, Stang & Sterno attempted to flesh it out into something commercial.
Hell, they own the Jãnor Tongue between 'em, and have kids to support,
so you can't blame them. All three were standing up by the road, stark nude,
with mikes in their hands that weren't even connected to P.A.s, screaming
as the nice Pink campers rolled by:
The Woman With No Legs -- Poop Dog Pee Dog -- Shit Hippie
and more, all together in the Human Circus of Words!!
They are worshipped as GODS before your very eyes!
No arms, no legs, not a single bone in its body,
The Bleeding Head of Arnold Palmer LIVES -- SPEAKS -- BLEEDS for YOU!
Once you've seen this incredible, hideous living head, you'll thank
your lucky stars you were born
all in one piece!
Some call it a miracle, some call it a fake!
People are going catatonic over these all-new Dobbs-Approved behavior
Meanwhile, Snavely went scurrying from tree to tree, "marking"
them with urine, and chasing the cars that drove by, jaws a-snappin'.
Nanzi Regalia jumped in the acid pond with all her clothes on, but they
were dissolved almost to rags when she came out and started giving everybody
"second-generation Church Air hits." Suddenly, when nobody was
looking, night fell and the whole Boston delegation started to sing around
the campfire, tell ghost stories, and BUMMER tales, the worst of which came
true instantaneously with the help of the Zontarian Frash Gel. John Shirley
started to levitate involuntarily while shouting:
"There's something wrong with these boys..."
As Doktors, psychic surgeons of music if you will, we perform operations...
so, scalpels in hand, DRS. FOR "BOB," THE SWINGING LOVE CORPSES,
THE BAND THAT DARE NOT SPEAK ITS NAME, FART DOG EXPLOSION, VAGINAL BLOOD
FART, all were striving to re-erect Dobbs through sheer Moonie-splitting,
Bible-thumpin', black-eyed-pea-eatin', "Bob" assassinating, G'Broagfran-surfin',
head-launchin', Kitten Natividad-admirin', frappy-crappin', Bigfoot-rapin',
NO SHIT, and BEYOND ANTIMUSIC -- the guy in the wheelchair, and Pope Huey,
BOTH, were screaming that someone had stolen their Valiums and patch-cords,
and there must be evidence somewhere, because everybody had
a tape recorder hanging from their necks, intermittently catching the ear-fucking
heartfelt SubGenius preaching and Gospel Sexhurt "all-new," "high-tech"
a-music butt-splitting synthesizers, medulla-cleaving lead guitars, and
Overman-driven "sexophones" of all the bands, which, combined,
were called "FART DOG EXPLOSION" -- after each song started, the
WHOLE AUDIENCE joined the bands whether invited or not, until 5 piece bands
became 30 piece bands, and the last note of every song was half an
hour long. But.. that's Dokstok.
Soaring, Inspirational, Scary InstruMentals 4 WOTAN!!
David Levitt and the Will O'Dobbs missed some of it because
they were wandering around trying to map the island, but the shoreline kept
changing to the beat of the music, such as it was, so they kept circling
and circling without knowing how many times they'd already completed the
circle. Being in telepathic contact with Levitt and no one else, Will was
so confused that he thought the Japanese cartoons on Stang's video deck,
that had been dubbed into English, hadn't been, and were still
Why was it impossible for me to stand up, that Saturday
night? (Late, and after several gruelling UFO Spyray scans of my Lophophoric
mental state/s.) And who was that Doktor who called the Cyborgs in
to put me in the Restraint Module? All I could see was the Whitewall Vreedeez
holding out his safety deposit box while Gary G'broagfram said I was losing
by a nose.
Okay, it's later on now, I've got a new implant and the third phase RNA
program has just kicked in. Maybe that's why I suddenly remember the Gaudi-like
miniature cathedrals that Onan Canobite was building out of the shards of
rock and piano that Snavely left behind him as he used a sledgehammer to
provide a subtly sincopated rhythm track for the Doktors.
Janor named the 72-hour-long album that was being recorded:
Stang, as usual, was pessimistic, despite the Bobbies clustered around his
dick, and he kept griping defensively: "In this so-called free country,
the Law says., "No SubGenius can do anything it wants." But in
Communist countries, it says, "A SubGenius can do nothing HE
wants." Notice the difference? Which is the lesser of two evils? Church
of the SubJanor, or pure KASSNER HEAD?"
And what DID Philo mean when he said he knew all about the conditions
at the bottom of the lake? And why were the only pills available $25 a shot,
and already on the prohibited index?
The Napa Caller wasn't there, neither was Swami Haygunn...but we did
our best. Janor agreed; but what could he know, as he writhed and
flopped on the floor with the living shocked out of
him by (Dobbs or perhaps NG only knows) SOME ungodly pharmaceutical potpourri??
The Pope Of All New York was there, playing mean drums with Drs. 4 Wotan,
but when the Abrasion Pope of All South America arrived by ParrotShip they
both argued about who would personally oversee the closeout of Meyer's now
defunct Llama Stud Farm.
Hell, you thought you had a good time that one time
when Eklund was jamming kitchen drawers to the psycho death-throb of PIANO
DESTRUCTO-HELL and Janor was slamming keys and poking "Bob's"
eye out with that #9 pipe wrench?? You thought you wanted all the
bad food, shotguns, frop, mystery jazz, ALL-PEE, ALL-HERE, ALL-NOW?? Well,
YOU GOT IT!
FropMeisters were competing for the prize of the year,
A solid gold bucket fulla "Frappy" and beer.
The rivers and the lakes of Dokstok were flowin',
And the bellies of the fish that we caught were glowin'.
The Pinks were cryin' but Johnny Law said, "It's fine,
"If you Doktors keep jammin' 'till half past nine!"
Cause we were high
So high, so high,
On Dokstok Mountain
It was a LOVE DOKSTOK, a Love Hate jam... resulting in HATE-LOVE. Everything
was free at the "supplies depot," Frap N Crack N Stuff.
"Weekends are made for Crack," Sterno kept saying, but nobody
had any. It was ALL FRAPPY. (We like our frop, so much so that we
require only enough oxygen for combustion. Breathing? That's window-dressing.)
Night had fallen repeatedly, and so had half the musicians.*
*St. Janor Hypercleats -- Dr. Philo Drummond -- Pope SternoDox
-- Gary G'Broagfram -- Rev. Ivan Stang -- Maka Dudi -- Puzzling Evidence
-- SquirtMeister Snavely Eklund --LIES -- Bad Motherfucker Dr. Ray Hay --
Dr. Gene Splice -- Sphinx Drummond -- "Big Smoke" Martin "Pitts"
-- and BUDDY JESUS ON DRUMS!!
(Includes the hits, "Pills," "You Can't Hide from "Bob,"
"The Big Squirt," "It Was A Sexual Thang," "Told
The Judge," "Heartbreak Hotel," "Hopeless Generation,"
"Shit Hippie," "Pee Dog Strut," "Poster of Dobbs,"
"Sick of Bob," "Run Bob Run" & more! )
St. G. Gordon Gordon was there, desperate as ever... he took me behind
the left speakerbank, fucked up my attitude and gave me three recipes for
plastic explosives easily made from readily available and very cheap chemicals;
and, later, when he and Unibrow swapped F stops and showed everyone some
fancy shooting, a lot of people left for a cruise on the lake to avoid shellshock.
There're plenty of perfect orifices around, but we'd never had the
BIG Squirt -- not like this!
It was dark, I wandered into some cabin or another, the frooms blasting
my glial cells into protoplasmic muck, when the SuperScience Doktor shambled
out of the bathroom and saved me on the spot.
"But who are you?" I gasped, wading out of the phlegm and
"At ease, Bwana", he smiled seraphically. "It is I, your
most humble servant, Maka Dudi..."
My head was spinning, no churchair to be found. I had ranted through nine
levels of cross-dimensional burners for this?
"Quickly," I croaked. "Get me some Yetiball Soup..."
Of course Maka came through, and shortly after that we both helped Snavely
and St. Gordon round up a whole bunch of psychosomatic pigs, or dogs or
birds or something. 'Bout that time up runs St. Miko who sez "Max?
We sent him to find this demon he lost. It keeps the fasttapes from getting
mixed up with the slowtapes."
The walls bulged and rippled, the floor was slanting, and Stang's head caught
An all-woman band formed spontaneously in 5 minutes composed of the
rebellious, uppity females of the Church: "VAGINAL BLOOD FART",
they called it. An evocative name. "FART RULES"... Nobody
knew if it was the warm-up or the performance; they sounded identical. A
logo band, but super cool. Men castrated themselves just so they
could qualify to play in the band. Then, when most of the participants had
"died," it was replaced by THE NO BEDTIME BAND:
just Alice Adee and Autumn Keckhaver, age 3... "After the grownups
are asleep, the kids get to play with the equipment. Get your No Bedtime
Band KIT," they kept saying, but there was no money left in any pockets.
I met a hellacious drummer who said his name was Buddy Jesus. I looked at
Sterno for confirmation of this, or a signal to run for my life, but he
just shrugged. "Hell, I thought he was from New Zealand," was
all he said before leaving with his golfclubs.
I searched in vain for Janor (found out later he was in his minitent practicing
sexual deprivation)....all of his groupies had gone to call Buck Naked...Where
was Buck? Shit, I'd promised twenty-five Important Brazilian Officials
I would bring them some Church buttons.
Stang, meanwhile, was trying to get Unibrow to proofread what is tEntativeLy
anOtHer PaMphlEt, but the Brow was calling his attorney on his new satellite
relay Stratocaster, and wanted to know about his royalties from THE BOOK.
Doktor Gordon (not to be confused with St. Gordon) announced that "Peapod
Dobbs", the song by The Band That Daren't Sleep, was heavy JuJu,
and he hoped these sickies from Frisco would be leaving real soon.
At dawn someone overheard Sterno's normal neighbor, who knew none of the
background, calling us "the knob people". It was true that we
had brought more things with knobs than most people take on a picnic;
they'd watched these Drs. spend HOURS carefully and painstakingly setting
up all this fancy equipment, striving to get it all just right, all these
recording machines... and then, when the music finally started, it was this
horrible, unthinkable chaos of noise. Little did they realize that
that was the ACTUAL MOMENT of the HARMONIC CONVERGENCE. Meanwhile,
St. G. Gordon Gordon, Merc of Merc, whipped up an antiSternoSnavely pogrom
because of the evident and obvious dearth of the air of the church. We couldn't
breathe, not really. Snavely mumbled weak excuses about backblow
contamination and lack of time to rehearse properly, while we watched his
boy Leif Ericson locking and loading his machine pistol and target-practicing
on captured Pink Boys.
Later in the day? night? Millenium? I found myself trying
to sing along with Dobbs. Not a popular move, as it was now five ack emma
and everyone save Stang was sound asleep. He was, as usual, lying next to
someone else and vibrating several thousand times a second. But autonomic
overload has always been Stang's lot, ever since the Hinky Commission concluded
he was totally uninvolved with any conspiracy whatsoever and furthermore,
he only had one third of a soul anyway. So, what could he really
know about the hellish, un-human, bloody rites of the rest of the Doktors,
and what it was they were REALLY doing while he was busily trying to tape
Gunfire was heard off in the distance, and heliopters were taking off in
broad dawnlight a mere two-score yards from the Dokfest. It was the Feds,
but they were more concerned with the neighboring white supremacist group
they were busting within earshot. Philo and his cousin Matt said all secrets
of the universe were contained within the phrase "1.9, 2.10",
but nobody paid any attention because The Song that Refused to Die
was STILL cranking along. There was not one second of silence the whole
weekend. No one could kill the song. Ahmed Fishmonger tried to defeat it
by overpowering it with his ballads like Everything That "Bob"
Is, Is Something Else, but even the two-hour rendition of Pee Dog
Strut by everyone couldn't stop that One Song. The Song
was so powerful that Mark Johnston (Remote Control) showed up and partied,
but didn't even remember that he had until reading these words!!
I had a truly amazing headache by now. I met Willie Nelson (or his clone)
and bought from him a proscribed and prohibited pill for only 25 bucks.
All it did was make me itch all over and my scrotum really contract. Janor
was screaming, "What the hell ya doing, boy, running around nekkid?
Get yer grandma's TITTY outa yer ass. She can't help it if she's an invalid.
That's no reason to cut a pussy in her stomach and fuck it with your dick,"
Jones shat, carressing his crystal . Then, as he held the crystal to the
shit, a plan began to formulate in Jones' mind," he said, the-entire-universe-ingly-ERS
Food was being prepared by all sorts of people in all sorts of forms. I
munched on the roasted ribcage of an immature sheep and burned the leftovers
in honor of YOU KNOW WHO.
Sam from Severn Institute incessantly strummed his one-string home-made
bass. The Song still lived and shambled on. Katlady gave birth to
monsters, and a live dinosaur baby -- apparently; that's what it
looked like, but she didn't know whether the father was Buck Naked or Dr.
Meanwhile, I hadn't heard not a single samba tune or seen a soccer match
since I'd landed in Reaganlandia forever ago. Janor continued: for days:
"... have you seen the new Little-G'Broagfran-for-a-headingly-ERS-Show-Half-Hour-Rises-From-The-Grave-From-ars-Ers-For-A-Head-Ingly-Show-For-A-Head-Ers??
Ya got any Planet-Of-91/2"-Worm-Heads-For-A-Head-Ingly?"
D. Atwell Uberbrau took me out on the lake for Hydrotherapic Treatment.
We went on the company Doktorkraft and drifted lazily among the Mayan cave
carvings. I almost leaped to safety, but they had me pinned down with gravity
flexors. Next thing I remembered, I was back on dry land and someone shoved
an electric guitar into my hands. For some reason I rolled up ALL of my
'frop and gave it to Gary Bo'fam and helped him smoke it. When the mists
cleared, I found I had given LIES 200,000 dollars for a tracheotomy. He
said he'd take care of my sore throat as soon as he became an Art Intern,
and cackled most unwholesomely. I wondered why Doktor Hal wasn't there,
and why he was never present in the same locus of spacetime that I was participating
in... had Sarfatti told him about li'l ole me? Surely not.
Byron asked Philo, who referred him to Stang,
"Have you seen my Frappy?" was his constant refrain.
The Band That Dare Not was Speakin' Its Name,
But Half-Doktors on the Clamshell was claimin' their fame.
Fart Dog Explosion and Combo Gang Bunch,
Finished their sets just in time for lunch.
Cause we were high
So high, so high,
On Dokstok Mountain
I wanted it all to be over. I didn't know if I could
take any more of this strangeness. I bummed some more drugs from Dr. Drummond
and then tried to hit Stang up for 'frop or a tee-shirt, but he just sneered
at me from the bottom of his 1/3 soul.
Poonflang Dammerung had Pils pasted over both eyes which he claimed allowed
him to "see truly," and Nick Smith muttered continually into a
portable 24-track tape deck which surrounded his body -- as if only by documenting
it could he prove to himself he had witnessed any of this.
tENTATIVELY wasn't there!!
But "BOB" was MIRACULOUSLY RESURRECTED into this MORTAL COIL as
the most spectacular electrical storm jam in Northern America, A HEMI-POWERED
FULL MATERIALIZATION OF "THE CUT-RATE SAVIOR", just while
the most heated Fropping and Music-Killing was raping the Gulf Stream with
a BIG FAT DICK with BIG RED STRAPS, resulting in a retinal/atmospheric laser
light show that looked almost exactly like the paint-tank skies in some
big-budget fx movie OF THE PURE WEIRDNESS... then all were KILLED AGAIN!!
Each time THE BAND THAT DOES NOT SPEAK TO EACH OTHER started to play
THAT song, 'Sick O' Bob', the storm-gods surged and halted the blasphemous
Well, "Bob" is still beastly dead, like Dedalus' Mum, but
we knew... [and we know (those of us that were, know)]...
when we saw that vertical, diffused, NON-LINEAR LIGHTNING THAT CAME FROM
EVERYWHERE AT ONCE, we knew. Puzzling Evidence could only croak afro-vaginal
glottal noises and the rest of the West Coast guys had stomach ailments
and cosmic ennui...
...Did we boogie?...was there Balm in Gilead? Did a set of astral special
effects that would have made Lucas shit his Guccipants and Spielberg say
'Oh Wow' drive all of us into the interior of our Collective Uberpsyche
so that we said 'Yes Ma'am' and hooted 'Virgil' over and over
and over again until the fabric of time and even space itself was compressed
into the heart of the cosmic DogNut? Hell, I reckon, Dammyfine, Sarge.
Can we say, then, that truly we DID raise Dobbs to a newer incarnation?
Probably not. Should we then say that Dokstok was a failure?
Millions for the Doktors; not one fuckin' red cent for Entropy! That
has always been our underlying philosophy, and once again we triumphed.
HUUNNNNNNNNNNNNGHHH; MA'AM, VIRGIL! And we definitely told
everyone from the Judge to Jaweh One to suck our respective squid-seeking
"Gee, Tubby, who was that dead woman I saw you with last night?"
"That was no dead woman, that was my wife's corpse," he said,
he-saidingly, while the LAKE HOMOS of the SHIT ZOO kept quizzing everybody.
"You been throwin' vomit rings? Peeing urine rings? Cuming sperm rings?
Blowing O-rings? Crapping shit rings? Sneezing snot-rings? Oozing ear-wax
rings? Picking nose rings? Teering up some eye-pus rings? Squirting zit-pus
rings? LOOKING FOR YOUR YOUR FRAPPY?"
There were no answers...
Recreational activities include:
canooing, camping, dwarves, saw juggling, nature, public clusterfuck
orgies, wet tennis shoe contests, chainsaw wrestling, mud eating contests,
and Poebucker Janglin'.
(Sorry, no sledgehammers!)
Hell-bending mindhurt drugs supplied to every third paid admission.
"BOB" WILL/DID FUCK OUR MINDS FOR GOOD THIS/THAT
Stang returned from feeding with blood on his lips and told me I write
like I talk, which isn't that bad 'cause I talk real good. I tell him that.
"Yeah," he sez, "but you write too loud". I'm mortified,
and I pick up Martin's Webely-Vickers .455 casiogun and put the cool barrel
in my mouth. My finger tightens around the trigger, I feel the movement
of the sear through my teeth as they grip it...I'm gonna go back, way on back there,
But right before the fireworks begin....
"Hey," says the Inhibiting Factor guy from Chi. "Have you
ever seen me in your life before???"
"No," I said. "Never, to the best of my knowledge."
"Well, then," he sez. "How do you know I really am me?"
I take the barrel off my bottom lip and point it at him. He's wearing a
blue turban and I draw a bead on it...
I black out and come to in the Site Infirmary...Who am I? Where am I? About
this time Maka attaches the electrodes to me and suddenly it all comes back......
...and then he passed out...
I gotta go back, go back there.
Won't you come with me? You gotta come with me!
I wanna see everybody.
We'll be froppin' freely on
Dokstok Mountain with Stang and Drummond
And all the Doktors 4 "Bob" and Wotan.
And all the cool guys.
But not the Bobbies, not the Bobbies.*
* Lyrics (c) 1987 by Dr. Philo Drummond
"Like a bad actor playing an asshole," as Dr. X described it
long ago before he got worse off than any of us. All we know now is, IF
WE CAN'T RAISE $40 Million by 1988, "BOB" WILL DIE OF AIDS!!!
California is the promised land. For normals, anyway; it'll be a desert
in 20 years. That's why it's promised to the Normals.
You gonna try and hide from "Bob" in an eternity of atom-by-atom
torture? Oh, yeah... you're REALLY hiding from Jehovah-1 then,