I built my own ship!
It won't fly; it won't even move. But it has a GREAT heat shield and instrument panel.
The new edifice overlooks the mansion-lined Swiss Avenue area of Lakewood (mistakenly named as the 7-5-1998 gathering place in THE BOOK OF THE SUBGENIUS), scant blocks from the Sacred P.O. Box itself. Just for old times' sake, I frequently leave my "bat cave" office and accompany the guards of the armored trucks on their hourly runs between the office and the P.O., carrying bags of orders and money.
Tonight we celebrated both the Dobbsening (or "launching") of the new building, and Dr. G. Gordon Gordon's BIRTHDAY!!
Happy Birthday, GGG! Death's boney ass SOUNDLY KICK'D for the 158th year straight! (Not counting those two years in experimental Tibetan Freeze in the '50s.)
DEATHCHICK, MAGDALEN SHOW UP SMU GLORPS!
And on their way to work, Rev. Nickie Deathchick and Rev. Mary Magdalen had the drivers stop at a Pink bar where DJs from some Dallas rock station were on location, vainly trying to get women to do weird things on the air, in return for Aerosmith tickets. Nickie and Mary were so disgusted by the cowardice of the surrounding SMU bitches that they got up there and MADE OUT!! Just to blow the Pinks' "minds". They're not even lesbians. (Well, not that I could vouchs for, anyway.) The awwed and extremely grateful Dallas DJ dumbasses awarded the two Yankee She-Yetinsyny their dumbass Aerosmith tickets and invited them to come RULE THE DUMBASS STATION.
It would only be fitting if Nickie became a highly paid Dallas commercial radio personality in between her dead-and-injured human repair and delivery jobs.
Meanwhile, I really did "BUILD MY OWN SHIP" -- that is, I took this opportunity to have the Bombies completely rework the capsule that holds my command modules. After many test missions, and the gradual jettisoning of a ton of dross, this one should be a "go" for XX-Day. I've decided that I'm going to haul the entire SubGenius Church Archives with me when I leave. But I must have the most EFFICIENT and APPROPRIATE LEVELS OF ACCESS. That's the key. To keep the frequently used tools such as the attitude control jets, the software, periscope, onboard computer and main parachute NEARBY. There's no reason things like the infrared sensors, TV cameras and "escape rocket" can't fold up into the storage bay until July.
In the new arrangement, I can swivel around in 3D within an inverted cube between the work stations for Audio, Video, Computer, Paper, 'Frop Admixturation, and Sexhurt or Money Changing (depending on the time of day and trajectory). I can see out the portholes, but no one else can see in. I don't have to get up to flip tapes or make coffee; hoses carry the fluids into me from the automated kitchen, and another tube carries liquid and solid waste to the vacuum toilet and thence to the fuel containment processors. I only have to disengage my MoonPants(TM) once a day, to go to the sleep module. After I wake, I stop at the autokitchenette and pick up a supply of food to stow in the overhead bin, reseal the MoonPants(TM) and I'm back in the saddle for another 18 hours!
The new office even has what I call a special "Bat Closet" wherein is stashed the complete Devival Travel Kit (which springs out on display platforms when the door is opened): the lightweight Cleveland pulpit, the heavyweight Strange pulpit, my preaching costumes and armor, the Vertical Hanging Propaganda Banners and Giant Vinyl Dobbsheads, plus the rear projection videos, Pil Dispensory, devival music CDs and laugh track carts, tripod, audience prods, multiprong condom supply and video robot.
I have a chain of video dubbing machinery with the VHS array on one end, and a VINTAGE BETAMAX DECK on the other! Between X-Day 98 video dubs, I've been safety-dubbing the old 1980s Church Devival, Music Video and Pornography betamax collections down to VHS. The recently repaired Betamax player is on a rotating carousel and is easily swapped out with a slide projector, a kinetoscope, a Super-8/8mm projector, a 16mm Kodak Pageant (you remember those!), a 9.5mm projector just in case, and even a "ditto" type of "mimeograph" machine, the kind your teacher printed tests on, with slick paper and blue ink that smelled funny, like chemicals, if you were a little kid in the 60s.
I have a perfect, brand new, heavy duty heat shield on the office, never used, because this building has never undergone launching, much less re-entry and splashdown. But JUST IN CASE. Never can be too sure of Y-1.999-K won't hit EARLY.
Now, if only I could get a cable modem going here, and a robot that flips tapes. Until then, though, this "tuna can" will suffice, for as far as I plan to go in it, anyway.
PICTURES ON ALT.BINARIES.SLACK:
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Some reporters suddenly burst into the new Throne Office and snapped this picture before my men disabled them, took their cameras and ejected them from the premises.
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The guards brought me the reporter's camera, and I had them use it to snap this picture of me clowning at my new work station.
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I am proud of my Northern Chinese Bastard heritage. (My great-grandmother, the story goes, briefly left my Scottish great-grandfather -- a "Rev. McNutt", believe it or not -- for a Chinaman named Lao who ran a travelling circus!)
(Another great-grandmother was the Tsarina Alexandra of Russia, for whom my son is named -- yes, that's one's DAMNED hard to prove. The fortune of the Romanovs is at stake, and the alleged great-grandfather was the infamous "mad monk," Gregor Rasputin.)
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The Church had a slow month and we had to shoot the guard dogs; couldn't afford dogfood. "Bob" took their places as primary security guard. He is seen here slumped over asleep in front of the TV, which I leave on when I leave. I doubt if anything would wake "Bob" up in the event of an actual robbery, the robbers don't know that, so hopefully he'll make a good scarecrow until such time as he awakens.
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My fingers and brain can reach and pluck into every corner of the wired globe from this misleadingly humble looking Command Module.
Notice the large white turbo heat exchanger device in the window. This vents the Church Air onto the city sidewalks 88 stories below.
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Another view of the finished Command Module. Notice that the printer atop the ancient antique desk is equipped with antennae. These save on cables... all my computer connections are relayed via satellites. Gizmo-heads will appreciate the combination toaster/CD-player/blowtorch in the corner, a present from Ed Strange.
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The massive solid iron entryway to the new building, built on a Cyclopean scale but engineered to look like a gigantic version of the plainest, cheesiest apartment doorway imaginable. The actual height of this gateway is around 135 feet. This picture was shot from a helicopter.
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A panoramic view of the Church parking lot, as seen from my office balcony.
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A view of my private garden. Around the clock, hired actors play poebucker dopers, retired Black couples and Mexican families to give this courtyard an "authentic run-down 1970s apartment" look.
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Here I am, seen at work on a typical late evening.
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Here I am, seen at work early in the morning.
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My collection of sacred family heirlooms. The skulls are those of my maternal grandfather (the half Chinese one), his great-great-great-great-great(?) etc. grandfather, and that guy's cat.
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In the afternoon, the busiest part of the day, the horns start to sprout out again, and my waist and butt shrink as I void the erstwhile coffee fluids out through the filters of the MonnPants (TM).
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The Dr. Zaius sculture seen in the background is actually a large PIGGY-BANK in which Dobbs' historic first fortune in pennies and marbles is now kept. It is protected by automatic high-powered lasers disguised to look like dusty cardboard boxes full of old videotapes.
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I thought this was a dynamic looking p.r. shot. What's actually happening is, I'm yelling at one of the Bombies to get down off the file cabinet before he knocks the dinosaur skull over onto the stamp-licking robot.
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Note the real shrunken human head and OverMan in Slack sculpture dimly seen in this crappy, blurry photo.
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The new Wall of Tapes.
We save electricity by using torches at night, after the sun goes down. It also adds to the "cultish" atmosphere that we try to cultivate for obvious reasons.
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The attached picture is a doctored self portrait called "WHEN THE FROP RUNS OUT". The slogan is used in honor of "The Law" in H.G. Wells' story "The Island of Dr. Moreau," which has lately mutated into SubGenius Law via Einstein's Secret Orchestra. It is also an homage to our shared Yeti-Bonobo ancestry.
Luckily, the Frop has not actually run out; this is a hypothetical situation. I'm merely dispelling the tension of an imagined disaster through artistic expression, that's all.
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Not actually meant for *you,* probably, but the eyes follow you around wherever you go in the room, in this specially processed gimmick special optical effect picture. (These are test poses for a new propaganda/recruitment series called "WHAT THE HELL...?")
Original file name: 4-18-99 New Office News/picslog
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