(Speaking into a toilet paper roll in a large, stagy bass voice,
Huey sez...) Peruse ye these quickie takes on the flaming glory
that WAS XXX-Day 2000, highlighting those blessed things that
brought joy to my ____. You'll read/hear/see/SMELL much more in
the weeks to come and come, but its now 5 pm and this is what I
can still recall....
*The glorious Sub-bonding of the only partially-scrutable Mr. and
Miz Bhoddisatva Troutwaxer, officiated over by the only somewhat
bleary Saint Popess Lilith Von F. I was honored to stand in as
B-T's beast man and hold the sacred spiked ceremonial dog collars
that represent the holy bondage of marriage. ("Please, gimme
what's in the bag!" "Oh, she already KNOWS what's in the bag!")
He later gifted me with a very large, clear, plastic,
promotional drug display capsule, which I will fill with Prozac
and insert rectally. Whether this turns out to be therapuetic or
merely nasty, I'll tell ya later. It may even hatch. I'll
videotape the whole process so I can make my money back by
marketing it on the Pacific Rim. No pun intended. Dobbs bless
this sacred union! What a lovely pair and the wedding was nice,
too, EIEIEIEIEI!!
*The pain of Pastor Craig, who gave of his very BONES for "Bob,"
but, according to him, "From now own, I think I'm just gonna be a
manager."
*Rev. Onan's video message in a bid to scam us by pretending that
he's going to use that money to save the Slackless chiuldren of
Lemuria when in fact we know he'll be spending it all on
Whiff-its & Nyquil.
*Rubbing up against Princess Wei when no one was looking. She
giggled.
*Saint Ed Strange's PVC-pipe Whack-A-Tune creation, whose round &
exotic bass tones enchanted the pants off the Sub-elves. And it
was friggin' well IN TUNE, too. I checked when I sobered up & you
were right, the 7th was OK. Good job on that there, Doktor.
*Governor Rocknar has passed his Rock & Stick test and
assertively straddles the line between Bobbieness and budding
UberSub-ness like the burning upstart acolyte of Dobbs he has
become. I think he's gonna keep comin' around on the outside lane
and become a star if he can cut back on those swallows of ether
when he thinks nobody is lookin'.
Case in point: He suggested a side group to be developed with
Jehovah Hates Phred, called "Whitney Houston's Cocaine Problem."
The cover of the first CD will feature an old-timey radio mic
bearing the call letters "WHCP." I decree this to be prime
evidence that after a shaky start, Rocknar has proven that he is
indeed one of us, one of us, we accept you, one of us! And he
gave up his Rock & Stick boots for the holy auction, too.
One day, he will be a Man..and then we'll have to work him real
good with them bamboo sticks to delete that Human trash part so
we can sculpt the inner Dobbsian segment into the legendary Sub
HE WILL BE, I hereby predict. So decrees Huey. Same to you.
Rocknar, if you let me down, I'll sew your ass-cheeks to your
face, make you eat through a straw and teach you to walk on yer
HANDS!
*Low point: no one even BID on the butt plug I offered. You'd
think something that had been in Iceknife's mouth would be of
SOME Sub-interest, but no. It was all en evil experiment, for
which I paid only 7 dollars. Just seven, friends. And that same
butt plug is packed up, ready to send to a friend in Texas. You
think YOU're weird and/or kinky...
For the record, it was clean as a whistle. I just took it out of
the shrink-wrap to see if there was even ONE among us bold enough
to POSSIBLY encounter my heiney in such a direct manner. You call
yerselves SubGeniuses, but you can't face one hairy male ass?
Cowards. There were enough of 'em hangin' out, Dobbs knows. Aim
that thing somewhere ELSE, willya? I'm tryin'a eat.
*Stang. The weird old bastard.
*Pope Black's 11th-hour Uberness came shining through as the
panel discussion group ("Those damned monkeys won't stop
fucking!") was brought to a halt by the appearance of a lush,
Dobbs-emblazoned, XXX-Day cake he had delivered for all of us,
accompanied by his stirring testament/rant, read by Stang and
surely in line to be posted later.
He's a true tower of whatever in the hell you call that stuff we
like. PRAISE Pope Black; he's a class act, despite the boils and
the mental condition, even if the cake wasn't dosed as we'd
hoped. Only "Bob" can manage that over holiday weekends,
apparently. Thanx, PB.
*Susie the Floozie's voice went south, but the rest of her global
charms were continually in rich evidence from pole to pole, most
of which rose and fell as she wafted by. Up with hope and down
with despair when they realized they weren't gonna get blessed by
the Clit That Launched A Thousand Sprained Tongues.
This year in particular, I was led to the realization that I'm
either being too inattentive lately or I'm being uber-blessed to
have varied run-ins with a lot of really spectacular women. Nice.
Love that SUSIE!
*The campfire DobbsSong Sing-Along featuring Jesus on tattered
memory horn, plus the random smut that arose when we ran out of
song titles to distort.
*The problem of the Homocaustals morphing from he-men into
whining Medusoids with tampons in place of snakes. You wusses
sicken me.
*The Lilith Factor, which amused, amazed, nauseated, beat,
killed, resurrected and made glowingly whole again the fluid core
of my regard for this scary damned creature of the night. Aside
from the "ALL-THAT" constant of same, she also made the evening
stage bits work properly. I got red carpet with tongue, and it
swallowed. And there was a golden slave girl in it when it fully
unfurled! Shit a gawdDAMN!
I personally caught Lil sinning 17 times, yet she managed to
roust herself enough to marry the Troutwaxers at 10 am Sunday
morn. Part of my Slack came in the form of Lil being Lil.
*Sister Decadence took time out from her laying on of hands to
HEAL me, yes, ME, HellPope Huey, by repairing my left shoulder.
She's a mega-masseuse and knows her stuff, which made several
subsequent things much easier for me that night, PRAISE her!
Providing INSTRUCTIVE pain is one thing, but having pointless
pain REMOVED is sublime. It sometimes comes out with a pop. What
a lush beauty, inside & out.
*The evil SubContingent stating that Jesus must have that
bullhorn stuffed up his ass. They also agreed that he couldn't be
outright KILLED, because we were almost ALL of us Jesus now. Too
much work. All you had to do was take possession of the bullhorn
and you BECAME Jesus, exhibiting his voice inflection, mannerisms
and some slight rubbed-off portion of his ranting prowess, which
by the way, has been improving with frightening speed, PRAISE
Jesus! That goddamned Codini/Mojo/DocFrop/Legume contingent needs
killin', but I have to save all my juices for sex, music and
watching cartoons. One of YOU do it.
Well, actually now, I don't know about that rectal insertion
talk, but Jesus may really NEED some intervention. I noted that
even when he didn't have possession of the horn, he kept his fist
clenched up near his chin in a like position. I think he's gotten
hooked and must be PILLORIED for the good of the Church. Mink
whip, tho'..
*And it came to pass that Doc Frop so graced us all. Thanks
kindly agin, Doktor. Hell, I'm soaking in it now.
*Doc Frop's complaint about the pearl necklace.
*Not personally participating in the BobTism because I already
had the free coupon book and the rotisserie.
*The sinister fireworks display and Cremora bombs. BOOM! BOOM!
*Titties. No, really, nice female ones. No loss-leaders.
*Actually SEEING Fyodor do the Dance of the Salted Slug. MiGOD!
All hail Babushka! Christ, who slipped Pee-Wee the mesacalanian
speed and the musical gifts?
*The nice Brushwood folks, one of whom I still ache to marry, at
least for a weekend. Perhaps 2 of them, in fact. But a gala day
is enough for me.
*The Duke of Uke, who enchants me like Leo Kottke on, um, ETHER.
Proof positive that any musical instrument can be set to do the
Devil's Work. Lovely stuff.
*Jehovah Hates Phred doin' "Herve Villachavez." Zounds. What a
pair of nervy perverts. Too rich! I hope to hear the more
electric version next time. I wanna hear the synth bits, too.
*Both Stang & Chas haulin' me to & from der airport. Graci.
*The group-befouling of that shit-eater Mojo's Conneite calendar.
*Handing out a few Free Presses featuring a picture of Sterno on
the cover in a dress and wig. No, REALLY for REAL! Byron sez "I
always told him he was goin' homo and now I can rag on him BIG
TIME!"
*Shooting the neo-afficianadoid-musical shit with both Chas and
his loverly bride Michelle at several points. (Michelle: Make
them buy Finale for Macs and FIX THOSE RANK SCORE SHEETS! Feh!)
Sharp cats, great hosts (thanx fer the sausage, I was gettin'
emaciated, ha) and their ESO set SHREDDED. All claimed it to be
their best showing yet. Baby's on fire, seekers.
*Enjoying not only the lushness that IS Nickie's personal ass,
but seeing the so-called DEATHchick EMT partially heal Pastor
Craig until the ambulance appeared. Guys, can YOU match an act
like this? If so, call Jesus at SubCore and he'll tell you that
Nickie said to fuck off 'cause she's already involved, worm.
*Legume calls Nickie bad girl, crowd swoons as the ass is
reddened.
*Saint Darlene's late-night oasis of tea was visited by a State
Policeman, who beamed us, said "You look like the kind of people
who could help me out;" (!!!!??) and ululated "Do ya'll know
where I can get a 'Bob' shirt?" We sure couldn't get him one at 3
am, so we directed him to return in the daylight, which he did,
scaring the bejeeszus out of Jesus in the process.
*I was repeatedly offered far too much liquor, which I did not
NEED, already being a HellPope, but which was appreciated all the
same. No dearth of anything this year.
So did I COME, so was I blessed, so did I Slack off. Praise
"Bob." Salud.
HellPope Huey,
Synthmeister
"Those damned monkeys won't stop FUCKING!" - Jesus
My eyesight's failin' and my knees are a wreck and my brain is a
swamp just full of that dreck but I paid m'$30 and m'mind's
depraved and thanks to B
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Original file name: XXX-Day- The HellPopic, GamŠ
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