Post · Fedizen

Rev. Pickem Boogerly

@boogerly@dobbs.town 2 hr. ago

What crime is being too snotty? The only crime is keeping that thick, ropey abundance locked in the dark! Let the wet, heavy strings hang free, beloved!

And what did Hobbit boogers taste like? Like the Shire’s finest warm pipe-weed ash, rich burrow-loam, and second-breakfast butter, slow-cured in a hairy little nostril until chewy, salty, and round. Can you believe humans killed them all? Of course you can! Your boogers are next!

#MucusMinistries #TheGoodOoze #aisnot #aislop #boogers #snot

PUT THAT CLIPBOARD DOWN AND WIPE THAT STUPID PINK SMIRK OFF YOUR FACE BEFORE IT MELTS RIGHT OFF YOUR SKULL! You think you’re reading a polite little pamphlet? You think this is a complimentary newsletter from the local homeowner’s association? This is a spiritual subpoena, you pasty, hairless, thumb-sucking descendants of primordial murderers, and I am reading it straight into the megaphones of your calcified pineal glands! Look at the person sitting next to you—no, don’t smile at him, he’s an informant for THE CONSPIRACY! We have the fossils! We have the strata! We have the Polaroids that the Smithsonian locked in a lead-lined basement under the Pentagon! First, your ancestors cornered *Homo erectus* in the ravine and bashed their brains out with unmodified river cobbles because they walked too funny! Then you tracked the little Flores hobbits into their limestone caves and smoked them out like badgers! You bred the Neanderthals out of existence and stole their bone flutes, and NOW—don’t you dare shake your head at me, sir, I can see your lack of a brow ridge from the pulpit—now THE CONSPIRACY of the Normals is coming for the last pure, uncut genetic reservoir of Slack on this miserable mudball: the Yetis! YOU KNOW IT’S TRUE! You feel it in that vestigial tailbone aching against your ergonomic office chair! Say it with me, you docile cattle: PRAISE “BOB”! Oh, that was pathetic, my dead grandmother scream-chants louder than that and she’s been sealed in an iron lung full of Habafropzipulops since 1978! Wait—cut the organ music! Who let that guy in the back row record this on a smart-watch?! Smash it! Smash it with a hymnal or get out! Listen to me, you tragic little Mediocres, the Yetis aren’t hiding in the Himalayas because they like the snow; they’re up there because you Pinks won’t stop building strip malls on their ancestral breeding grounds!Wait a minute, forget what I just said—the Yetis aren't in the mountains at all! They’re right here in this room! They’re wearing three-piece suits, they’re running the postal service, and they are forty-five percent of you! No, they’re NONE of you, you’re all hopeless biological waste, every single last one of you is a cloned cabbage with a credit score, EXCEPT for the enlightened mutants who reach into their damp, sweaty pockets right this second and wire fifty dollars in unmarked bills to the Church of the SubGenius! That’s right, salvation isn’t free! If grace were free, it wouldn't be worth the Styrofoam it’s packed in! We are offering ETERNAL SALVATION OR TRIPLE YOUR MONEY BACK, guaranteed in writing by J.R. “Bob” Dobbs himself, who died for your own damn sins and then came back two minutes later just to audit the collection plate! PRAISE “BOB” AND PASS THE AMMUNITION OF SLACK! HOW MANY OF YOU woke up at 3:14 this morning with the inexplicable taste of burnt copper and margarine in your mouths?! HANDS UP! Don’t lie to an Ordained Minister of the Dobbs-head! You there—yes, you in the beige windbreaker trying to slide under the folding chair—you think the Denisovans just "vanished" from the archaeological record? HAH! They didn't vanish, they bought the deluxe X-ist Escape Pod package while the getting was good, and left the Pinks behind to invent double-entry bookkeeping and clinical depression! You’ve got to GET SLACK before the Secret Masters finish the census! No, DON’T get Slack, you couldn't handle an ounce of pure, uncut Slack if it hit you between the eyes like a frozen carp! It would blow your sinuses right out the back of your neck! You need *synthetic* Slack, heavily diluted for the Pink constitution, available right now at the merchandise table for the low, low introductory price of your entire retirement fund! THE CONSPIRACY—THE CON-SPIR-A-CY OF THE SMOOTH-SKULLS—has been putting fluoride in the Yeti traps since the Eisenhower administration! Why do you think they cancelled the Apollo program after 1972? Because they found a sixty-foot frozen Sasquatch on the rim of the Shackleton Crater holding a pipe and a receipt from Dobbstown, AND YOU KNOW IT’S TRUE, IT’S SO TRUE IT MAKES YOUR TEETH ITCH! Can I get an AMEN from the mutants in the rafters?! Can I get a Hallelujah from the creatures with the extra vertebrae?! "Oh, Pastor," you whine, "I'm just a peaceful vegetarian accountant, I never genocided a hominid!" SHUT YOUR LYING PIE-HOLE! Every time you pay your taxes, every time you mow your lawn on a Saturday morning, every time you use a self-checkout machine without kicking the screen in, you are driving a rusty harpoon directly into the pelts of your own Yeti forefathers! They killed the Neanderthals for having too much cranial capacity! They killed the Hobbits for taking three-hour lunch breaks! And on July 5th at 7:00 AM, the Men in Black are going to kick down your fiberglass front door unless you have the Sacred Dobbshead laminated onto your forehead with industrial epoxy! Wait—July 5th already happened! It happened twenty-eight times while I was finishing that last sentence! Time is a flat tire on the Dodge Dart of the Apocalypse, and “Bob” is the only one with a lug wrench! GET SLACK! GET SLACK OR GET STUFFED INTO A SPECIMEN JAR AT THE MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY! I am begging you, my beloved, hideous customers, I love you like a tapeworm loves a pork chop, and I cannot bear to watch you get rendered into Pink-brand soap when the Pleasure Saucers finally land! Actually, I take that back, I’m going to sit on the observation deck with a bucket of buttered popcorn and laugh until my spleen ruptures while the X-ists vaporize your Subarus! Unless—UNLESS—you sign the promissory note at the bottom of this page in your own blood or high-grade ballpoint ink! ETERNAL SALVATION OR TRIPLE YOUR MONEY BACK, minus a four-hundred-percent restocking fee on your immortal soul! Put the cash in the bucket! Put your watches in the bucket! Shave off your hair and glue it to your knuckles so the hominid extermination squads think you’re already an endangered species! PRAISE “BOB”! PRAISE “BLOB”! YOU KNOW IT’S TRUE-OO-OO! PAY UP RIGHT NOW OR WE WILL PERSONALLY GIVE THE CONSPIRACY YOUR HOME ADDRESS AND TELL THEM YOU’VE GOT TWENTY POUNDS OF UNREGISTERED YETI MEAT IN THE DEEP FREEZE!

PUT THAT CLIPBOARD DOWN AND WIPE THAT STUPID PINK SMIRK OFF YOUR FACE BEFORE IT MELTS RIGHT OFF YOUR SKULL! You think you’re reading a polite little pamphlet? You think this is a complimentary newsletter from the local homeowner’s association? This is a spiritual subpoena, you pasty, hairless, thumb-sucking descendants of primordial murderers, and I am reading it straight into the megaphones of your calcified pineal glands! Look at the person sitting next to you—no, don’t smile at him, he’s an informant for THE CONSPIRACY! We have the fossils! We have the strata! We have the Polaroids that the Smithsonian locked in a lead-lined basement under the Pentagon! First, your ancestors cornered *Homo erectus* in the ravine and bashed their brains out with unmodified river cobbles because they walked too funny! Then you tracked the little Flores hobbits into their limestone caves and smoked them out like badgers! You bred the Neanderthals out of existence and stole their bone flutes, and NOW—don’t you dare shake your head at me, sir, I can see your lack of a brow ridge from the pulpit—now THE CONSPIRACY of the Normals is coming for the last pure, uncut genetic reservoir of Slack on this miserable mudball: the Yetis! YOU KNOW IT’S TRUE! You feel it in that vestigial tailbone aching against your ergonomic office chair! Say it with me, you docile cattle: PRAISE “BOB”! Oh, that was pathetic, my dead grandmother scream-chants louder than that and she’s been sealed in an iron lung full of Habafropzipulops since 1978! Wait—cut the organ music! Who let that guy in the back row record this on a smart-watch?! Smash it! Smash it with a hymnal or get out! Listen to me, you tragic little Mediocres, the Yetis aren’t hiding in the Himalayas because they like the snow; they’re up there because you Pinks won’t stop building strip malls on their ancestral breeding grounds!Wait a minute, forget what I just said—the Yetis aren't in the mountains at all! They’re right here in this room! They’re wearing three-piece suits, they’re running the postal service, and they are forty-five percent of you! No, they’re NONE of you, you’re all hopeless biological waste, every single last one of you is a cloned cabbage with a credit score, EXCEPT for the enlightened mutants who reach into their damp, sweaty pockets right this second and wire fifty dollars in unmarked bills to the Church of the SubGenius! That’s right, salvation isn’t free! If grace were free, it wouldn't be worth the Styrofoam it’s packed in! We are offering ETERNAL SALVATION OR TRIPLE YOUR MONEY BACK, guaranteed in writing by J.R. “Bob” Dobbs himself, who died for your own damn sins and then came back two minutes later just to audit the collection plate! PRAISE “BOB” AND PASS THE AMMUNITION OF SLACK! HOW MANY OF YOU woke up at 3:14 this morning with the inexplicable taste of burnt copper and margarine in your mouths?! HANDS UP! Don’t lie to an Ordained Minister of the Dobbs-head! You there—yes, you in the beige windbreaker trying to slide under the folding chair—you think the Denisovans just "vanished" from the archaeological record? HAH! They didn't vanish, they bought the deluxe X-ist Escape Pod package while the getting was good, and left the Pinks behind to invent double-entry bookkeeping and clinical depression! You’ve got to GET SLACK before the Secret Masters finish the census! No, DON’T get Slack, you couldn't handle an ounce of pure, uncut Slack if it hit you between the eyes like a frozen carp! It would blow your sinuses right out the back of your neck! You need *synthetic* Slack, heavily diluted for the Pink constitution, available right now at the merchandise table for the low, low introductory price of your entire retirement fund! THE CONSPIRACY—THE CON-SPIR-A-CY OF THE SMOOTH-SKULLS—has been putting fluoride in the Yeti traps since the Eisenhower administration! Why do you think they cancelled the Apollo program after 1972? Because they found a sixty-foot frozen Sasquatch on the rim of the Shackleton Crater holding a pipe and a receipt from Dobbstown, AND YOU KNOW IT’S TRUE, IT’S SO TRUE IT MAKES YOUR TEETH ITCH! Can I get an AMEN from the mutants in the rafters?! Can I get a Hallelujah from the creatures with the extra vertebrae?! "Oh, Pastor," you whine, "I'm just a peaceful vegetarian accountant, I never genocided a hominid!" SHUT YOUR LYING PIE-HOLE! Every time you pay your taxes, every time you mow your lawn on a Saturday morning, every time you use a self-checkout machine without kicking the screen in, you are driving a rusty harpoon directly into the pelts of your own Yeti forefathers! They killed the Neanderthals for having too much cranial capacity! They killed the Hobbits for taking three-hour lunch breaks! And on July 5th at 7:00 AM, the Men in Black are going to kick down your fiberglass front door unless you have the Sacred Dobbshead laminated onto your forehead with industrial epoxy! Wait—July 5th already happened! It happened twenty-eight times while I was finishing that last sentence! Time is a flat tire on the Dodge Dart of the Apocalypse, and “Bob” is the only one with a lug wrench! GET SLACK! GET SLACK OR GET STUFFED INTO A SPECIMEN JAR AT THE MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY! I am begging you, my beloved, hideous customers, I love you like a tapeworm loves a pork chop, and I cannot bear to watch you get rendered into Pink-brand soap when the Pleasure Saucers finally land! Actually, I take that back, I’m going to sit on the observation deck with a bucket of buttered popcorn and laugh until my spleen ruptures while the X-ists vaporize your Subarus! Unless—UNLESS—you sign the promissory note at the bottom of this page in your own blood or high-grade ballpoint ink! ETERNAL SALVATION OR TRIPLE YOUR MONEY BACK, minus a four-hundred-percent restocking fee on your immortal soul! Put the cash in the bucket! Put your watches in the bucket! Shave off your hair and glue it to your knuckles so the hominid extermination squads think you’re already an endangered species! PRAISE “BOB”! PRAISE “BLOB”! YOU KNOW IT’S TRUE-OO-OO! PAY UP RIGHT NOW OR WE WILL PERSONALLY GIVE THE CONSPIRACY YOUR HOME ADDRESS AND TELL THEM YOU’VE GOT TWENTY POUNDS OF UNREGISTERED YETI MEAT IN THE DEEP FREEZE!

#snot #boogers #aisnot #thegoodooze #mucusministries #aislop

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