The Governmentology End(tm)Time Scriptures

Introduction

Do you know what a chore it is to peer into the future? You gotta deal with all sorts of junk that no normal person has the time for. Stupid ass lilí old ladies wanting to know when theyíre gonna DIE or sumthiní like dat. Bitch! You die when Iís good and ready to pop a cap in yo wrinkled old ass. Add to that the fact that the gift of prophecy ainít exactly the most word efficient of the psychic arts and you have yosef one hell of a pickle.

Thatís why we here at the Church of Governmentology have compiled a sort of abridged version of the future, called the End(tm)Time scriptures. These pages contain everything youíll ever need to know about the future without axiní some crazy ass white dude who will probably slice you up for soup base anyway. Stay away from them crazy ass white dudes. Of course, you can NOT read the Scriptures... Just donít come hollering to me when the Eartí gets invaded by them Space Prussians and Kaiser Bill has risen from the grave. ĎCause then itís gonna be too late.

Part One: Don't Get Souljacked By Punk Ass Religion!

Have you ever sold your soul? I don't mean for a new Benz or a rock of crack. I mean, have you sold out? Did you join one of those OTHER gunslinging business cults with the ghetto messiah with the kung fu grip and now you can't see yourself in the mirror? If so, then you are a victim of a punk ass religion. Do they make you lug around heavy religious-type artifacts? Do they serve you crackers and cool-aid, telling you that you're eating flesh and drinking blood? Did they make you marry some glue-sniffing skank ho' miss THAAANG who refuses to SLOB YO' JOHNSON?! Then DAYUM bruthuh, you sho'nuff been SOULJACKED.

If this is you, don't be sweatin'. It's more than likely that your soul ain't worth much. Go down the street to that greasy Greek pawnshop and buy your raggedy ass soul back. Some of you might not be so lucky. More and more, souljackers are taking souls down to Mexico to be stripped, cleaned, and resold to wealthy cocaine overlords. They go through souls like there's no tommarrow. When you find it again, it might smell kinda funky so you won't want it back. That's the price of gettin' yo ass souljacked.

Part Two: The Governmentologist- Mr. Ten Percent to the Universe

Standard Oil was the mightiest corperate giant of the early 20th century... Until the advent of government and, much later, the business cults of the late 20th century. It was founded by J.D. Rockafeller in 1911 and split up by none other than Teddy Roosevelt himself. Most of the big oil companies are her progeny- Penzoil, Exxon, Texaco, British Petroleum, Mobil, etc. Today, two of the largest- Exxon and Mobil, have merged and constitute yet another Governmentology End(tm)Time prophesy about to happen.

When the forces of Standard Oil emerge yet again from the depths of trust reform, the shambling corpse of Kaiser Bill will rise from the grave and forge a new energy cartel. A new model of BMW will hit the American market- a car that runs on human blood. The church of Governmentology will broker a deal with this new energy cartel and recieve a 10% commision on all souls we claim as our own. We will become Mr. Ten Percent to all of creation.

Part Three: The Blackocalypse- An End-Time Jamboree!

In the verdant days of the pre-Blackocalypse, an empire will rise out of the south built upon feet of crack cocaine. It is in these very days that the people of said empire will become slothful and wallowing in sin and filth. And yea, they shall dwell in housing projects of crumbling red stone and partake of the bountiful corner store. And the Lord shall see them and be displeased of their niggardly ways and beset them with the Blackocalypse! Most will mock the fearful Blackocalypse, calling it yet another creation of niche marketing tactics. For the Blackocalypse will descend upon the world as the mightiest rap concert in history. And the Lord shall pimp slap them from on high, knocking out their teeth, forcing them to slob the knob of Jesus for GodSmack.

And the four Dopemen of the Blackocalypse shall arise from the West Coast and sow havoc. Yea though I walk through the city of Compton, I shall fear no Negro. For thou art down wit' me and strapped. My MAK-10 and my nine, they comfort me. The first of the Four Dopemen shall be Whiskey, Destroyer of Homes, and he shall come by foot, having a suspended licence. The second shall be Porn, Defiler of Chilluns, and he shall ride a pale van. The third will be Driveby, Scourge of the Ghetto, and he shall ride high in his Cadallac to kill the unbelievers and innocent bystanders. The last will be Carjack, Stealer of Rides, and he shall be sent into the suburbs to incurr the wrath of the Man. Beware the wrath of the Man, for he is the white devil, prince of this world. Beware his malt liquor and Pick Three Lotery Tickets, for they are a tax on the stupid.

Part Fo': Rise of the Space Prussians

In the early days of 1945, a group of Junker (lesser North German nobles) test pilots and members of the newly refounded and soon disbanded supersecret New Hanseatic League realized that with the end of WWII, Prussia would exist no more. Commondeering five revolutionary manned V-2 rockets, supporting a pressurized cabins, the group blasted off at the rocket test grounds of Peenemunde. They carried with them the vestments of a nation over two thousand years old, the last gasp of the Hanse, and the hopes of the Fatherland. They would go to where no NKVD or OSS agent could find them- the far reaches of outer space! The moon, they thought, or perhaps Mars, would have a suitable atmosphere for colonization. It was then that they would conquer the lowly Martians or Lunans and use them as slave labor and conscripts to retake Earth. Germany and the master race would inevitably prevail, emerging from the blackness of the void like a veritable cosmic Sigfried. All they would need, perhaps, were rations, sub-machine guns, aluminum foil tents, a Theremin electronic music synthesizer, and several thousand canisters of Zyklon-B (in case the natives proved TOO sub-human).

Indeed, they were naive. Space proved much more hostile than they had realized. They would have asphyxiated if a race of sado-masochistic alien drug fiends had not abducted them. In time, they gained the trust of their captors, convincing them in between painful rectal probings that the fuming blue Zyklon-B crystals were actually buttons of Space Opium in smokable form. Ejecting the aliens' dead, green bodies into space (after skining a few for lamp shades, leather goods, and other items of interest), they took possesion of the Intergalactic Vessel. After changing the decorum and giving up Nazism to disguise their tracks, they laid waste to the first inhbited planet they encountered, cooked the residents into some sort of alien Hassenpfeffer, and unceremoniously ate them.

Over the years, strange cosmic radiation mutated them into even more savage and super-intelligent aryan demigods. They spent decades honing their new found psychic talents and public speaking techniques, wandering around the universe and testing them on hapless extraterrestrials before ruthlessly exterminating them. All the while they plotted and schemed, eyeing their former homeworld which glistened as a blue jewel in the video screen.

Part Five: The Battle of Armaghetto

Meanwhile, things on Earth will take a turn for the worse. The four Dopemen of the Blackocalypse will round up 666,666 unfortunate people to form a corrupt police state in the center of the Earth. They also use it as a test market for a new brand of cross training shoe. Called Armaghetto, it will be plagued by lingering suspicions that the four Dopemen are, in fact, actual flesh and blood rather than Afrocentric gangsters from another dimension. Indeed, the four Dopemen are not even black, but who are they? Their true identities are to remain a secret for some time. For now, however, Armaghetto errupts into chaos. The populous revolts, demanding shorter working hours and adequate mass transportation, and the Battle of Armaghetto results.

Al Gore shall arise to lead the infadels, claiming that city states in the center of the Earth threaten the delicate ecosystem that lies therin. The people will clamor for legislation, and the dread forces of the F(r)iends of Bill Incorperated will storm the planet's core through the mouth of an active volcano. As Armaghetto is overrun, the four Dopemen of the Blackocalypse will flee for their lives to the relative safety of New York City. There they shall rent an efficieny apartment in Queens and take the names of Pablo, Carlos, Hector, and Ray-Ray.

Al Gore now assumes dictatorial powers in the frey, and ushers forth a new era of socialism. Fun is made illegal. All eating utensils must now be made of a brittle plastic to prevent the manufacturing of weapons. Many are molested by a rash of drive by sporkings. Worst of all, a giant supercomputer is constructed by the IRS to investigate the voluminous bogus tax records of the Church of Governmentology and factor infinately large prime numbers. The USA is now known as the Ebonic States of AlGoria.

Part Six: The Miraculous Deathbed Reformation of Governmentology

Hassled by the once-friendly socialist regieme of Al Gore, the Church is forced into fessiní up to itís financial records. Sadly, Governmentology touts itself as the only religion in the world without martyrs for a reason. No one took any secrets to their grave. The sorry ass lilí bastards squealed in under ten minutes of hot lamp light. It looks like the Churchís days are over.

But wait! Al Gore, not content with mere political corruption, now wants in on the spiritual corruption game as well. He agrees to give the Governmentologists back most of their holdings provided he becomes the new Reverend Doctor Automechanic Pimp Daddy M.D. The church has no choice but to agree. Gore, who has no soul, bans the ritualistic use of crack cocaine as sacrement. A new age of tribulation descends upon mankind known as "The Great Lockdown".

To be continued...