From: (Charles Albert Mangin)

Yes, ladies and/or gentlemen, as the case may be, yoiu should never drive agian

If you do, take the slackest route at your disposal, taking the longest, most
turnaround means necessary, and avoiding that tool of the CON the AMERICAN

Yes, ladies and/or gentlemen, as the case may be, think about it, if you can.

Confined, enclosed, trapped in the small cubicle of your automobile, unable
to comfortably rest, relax, or sit pleasurably on your posterior cortex without
paying through the nostrils for a so-called 'luxury car'. You are forced to
either sit, uncomfortably, in the buzz-hum of the road travelling quickly
beneath you <<consequently, the major tire firms of north america and
europe have specially formulated their tires not only to burst randomly, but
also to emit subliminal messages to inhibit free thought and distract the
SubG mindset from their quickest route from point a to point b, through points
C and D, the worlds largest ball of twine and the piggly wiggly men's room,
respectively >> or to listen to the radio, enthralled by the pinkness of
'alternative rock' or whatever it is the CON is throwing at your ears at a
normal hour of daylight. Fairly certain that only a few subjective souls are
on the roads late at night, those in charge have few qualms about SubG radio
late at night, for the workling bobbie that has the duty of the graveyard shift.

AND so, as you wind your way through traffic in your tiny metal box on wheels,
hoping against hop that you have enough gas to get to wherever it is they WANT
you to go that day, be it the track, to work, to church, to visit the fam, or
off to kill the wife and kiddies << they make the cars as inefficient as they
can get away with, you know. Yes, the ARABS own the CON as well, it's financed
and managed by the JEWS, and the WHITE men of the traditional CON, they're just
the smiling salesmen of the false slack, the storefront to the great factory
behind >> You have to avoid being killed by the agents of the CON, paid and
ordered to drive without mercy, vengeful CON pets, these are. Some in trucks,
jeeps, sports cars you could never, ever in your life afford on the average
paycheck of the slackminded, driving maniacally, forcing swerves, screetching
stops, breaks in the smooth, slackfree traffic flow, and gauging, testing the
respoonses... SEEKING OUT the slack at heart, and sideswiping, rear-ending
or distracting them. FORCING an anger response, eeking out their livings
from the industry of INSURANCE and the sports-car salesmen, and stopping the
subgenius from his appointed rounds.

YES, ladies and/or genlemen, as the case may be, YOU are subjected to not only
the kamikaze tactics <<the JAPANESE are in cahoots with the ARABS on this one>>
of the CON, but their regulations, their rules, their seemingly disconcerting
efforts against slack.

SPEED LIMITS, the posted 'norms' of civilized travel... think on them, my slack
brothers and/or sisters! To survive on a highway, whose speed LIMIT is 55 mph,
you indeed must travel a constant 60, else be driven off the road, honked at,
shot, tailgated, or otherwise OPRESSED by the hired henchmen of the CON. YOU
KNOW that the police target those who are not driving with the established
flow of traffic, the CON's acid test for the driving sheep they like to keep
in the fold. To drive too slowly, to take the time "Bob" has granted to you
in the meandering way to home or the slackjob where you daily cheat the CON
out of hardly earned man-hours, means to be pulled over, to be searched ...
and WHY? Probable cause - you had a 'give me slack' bumper sticker on your car
or a grateful dead decal in the window, or you were driving too well, too
legally to NOT be up to no good. And so they search your vehicle, and find
inevitably drugs or excremeditation parephenalia, or else plant some, and
haul you in. -the rest is another rant entirely...

And what exacltly is an exit ramp? some kind of launching facility to escape
the confines of the highway system? OH NO... en elaborate ploy of propagandism
to decieve one into believing that to take an 'exit ramp' is to transcend the
road upon which they are driving, and to enter onto another, greater road,
which will lead them to the promised 7-11...


|/` . . |
|\,harles |v|angin : Brother Big of the Order of the Speak 'n' Spell Oracle |
|| || HTTP:// ||
|| <919> 512-9621 || Holy SHIT, Batman! ||


From: (Rev. Ivan Stang)

Well, I HEAR you... but then, you never know what you might "know". When I
went driving last Friday, I was broadsided by a pick-up going 60. Sure, I
lost my car, had to go to the hospital, be interviewed by insurance boys,
get pleading calls from the drunk's girlfriend not to prosecute, and have
to painfully get in and out of chairs like a little old man, but by Gobbs,
I did get a whole bunch of free PILS, and a shiny new rent-car. And the
drunk WAS fully insured, miracle of miracles.

This was a strange day. An End-Times kind of day. First off, while I was
taking the kids to school, Howard Stern was doing a show SO INCREDIBLY
JUVENILE that even my son and I were slightly grossed out (Drew
Barrymoore's mom was the guest... it was for once REALLY more SICK than
FUNNY). I think of Howard Stern as a Great American, but there are those
inconsistencies. It goes with the territory. Then, after the sickeningly
dopey bimbos, my dear pal REV. BLEEPO ABERNATHY was on Stern's show, under
his human street name, along with his girlfriend Miss Crimson. The point
of the appearance was for Bleepo and Stern to show off the amazing fact
that a funny-looking little feller like Bleepo could actually have such an
incredible sex-goddess for a girlfriend. BUT I MISSED IT because I had to
talk to the insurance dweebs at that exact moment, AND THE TAPE RAN OUT
TOO. Then that building full of Feds and innocent kids and plain old
wage-slave dupes got heinously bombed in nearby Oklahoma City and rumors
were flying, with lynch mobs pointed at everybody from the Branch
Davidians to three Arabs in a pick-up. Meanwhile we had tornado warnings
all day long in Dallas, climaxing with insane lightning and howling
edge-of-the-universe Wendigo wind noises and a "wall cloud" sighted near
White Rock Lake, where I live, my daughter huddling in the closet with
flashlights and my computer unplugged.

And yet, before the day's out, I'm sitting here once again vainly trying
to catch up on the decline of alt.slack, which if you ask me never
happened, but then maybe I'm still back in the old posts when it was a
Golden Age, and haven't yet gotten to the incredibly dull new stuff. Maybe
I've just burned out my Discernment Gland and can't tell when something's
AWFUL anymore. At any rate, the world didn't end, again.

And for we who believe, and hold that Card, it never shall.

So Praise Dobbs who smoketh the Sun, and Insult Not NHGH who Rideth the Tornado.

Copyright 1995 by Rev. Ivan Stang / 1st Orthodox Stangian
MegaFisTemple Lodge of People's Covenant Church of the
Wrath of Dobbs Yeti, Resurrected / The SubGenius Foundation,Inc.
PO Box 140306 Dallas TX 75214 / Fax 214-320-1561 / PRABOB

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