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Dave Polewka

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Jul 19, 1999, 3:00:00 AM7/19/99

.From: user...@adams.patriot.net (Jherek Carnelian)
.Subject: Vishnek?
.Date: Fri Jan 31 12:27:50 1997

vishnek?

eh?

bottle of vishnek?

eh? eh?

What is in it? Why is it here? Where am I?

-Jherek.

------------------------------------------------
Jherek Carnelian
A Dancer at the End of Time
http://adams.patriot.net/~user0830
------------------------------------------------

.From: Mao Tse-Tung <cd...@worldnet.att.net>
.Subject: Re: I must be getting old
.Date: Tue Jan 28 01:35:45 1997

> you know how you have to be careful not to slur your words. if everyone
> were nice and sweet and kind and fair and empathetic and generous and
> loving, i mean what kind of a world would it be?

If no one harbored any ill will against others, society would double
over, reeling from the sanitization of culture, thought, and opinion.
Also no one would make any money, there being no hate in the world.
There would be no drive to reproduce or to further the lives of our
children. Without conflict or strife, the wicked beast of language would
dissolve, having nowhere to manifest itself and malevolently reproduce
into variations and complex interpretations of itself. Without anyone
making some kind of pain in our lives, we would become so accustomed to
pleasure that we would become resistant to it, build a tolerance. If
there was no anti-role, the role of just being would dissipate! We'd all
die off!

.From: "luna...@weirdness.com" <luna...@weirdness.com>
.Subject: LUNATIC FRINGE
.Date: Tue Jan 28 14:23:05 1997

It's the "LUNATIC FRINGE"!

We're new and we've got a reputation to earn... and we'll do whatever it
takes to earn it!

VISIT US NOW AT:

http://www.earthlink.net/~lunatics/
http://www.earthlink.net/~lunatics/
http://www.earthlink.net/~lunatics/
http://www.earthlink.net/~lunatics/

While visiting the Fringe, take a look at the "Gallery Bizarre"... or
confuse your brain further with our "Stupid Human Noises". And be sure
to listen in on Lunatic Fringe's Weekly Webshow... featuring Marty and
John T. and of course, the lovely and talented 'Wanda the WebgURL'.

See Ya There!

.From: Joel Wyrick <jo...@wprints.com>
.Subject: Broken Bone...
.Date: Fri Jan 31 18:19:05 1997

I just created a page to premiere to the internet a medical image that
can truly be described as bizarre. You can check it out at:

http://www.wprints.com/broken.shtml

I only hope this doesn't offend anyone.
--
_ __ __ ____ _ __
| | / /__ / /_ / __ \_____(_)___ / /______
| | /| / / _ \/ __ \ / /_/ / ___/ / __ \/ __/ ___/
| |/ |/ / __/ /_/ / / ____/ / / / / / / /_(__ )
|__/|__/\___/_.___/ /_/ /_/ /_/_/ /_/\__/____/
http://www.wprints.com

.From: alle...@aol.com (Allenfre)
.Subject: drugs n cops
.Date: Fri Jan 31 20:56:40 1997

I told the cop as I handed him my driver's licence that they were losing
the war on drugs. He said what, and I said again that they were losing
the war on drugs. He said oh, as he walked back to his patrol car. I
could not see what he was doing since his head was down and his hat
covered his face. Within a minute a second patrol car pulled up. Both
cops now walked over to my truck and asked me if I had any drugs or guns
in there. I responded no. He then asked me if he could look. I again
responded no. He then explained that he had suspicion that I was
transporting contraband. I then found myself handcuffed in the back of the
first partol car as a dog was let out of the second. Nice dog, but he
seemed lost. My head was beginning to hurt where I hit it getting in the
back of the patrol car and the handcuffs were too tight. After they let
the dog run all through my truck, I was escorted back and handed my ticket
for speeding. They did not seem to enjoy their job much. I thought about
explaining the reason that they were losing the war on drugs, but I
thought that he might not understand.

.From: her...@clark.net (Mark Buda)
.Subject: An Itch in Time Saves Nine (95)
.Date: Tue Jan 28 13:28:50 1997

I eventually found a small shop with a simple sign reading "Hair". I
entered, hoping that they would be able to help with the itching, which was
really getting unbearable. I entered, and found the proprietor busily
rearranging his balms and ointments. There were no other customers, and it
didn't seem that there had been for some time. "Excuse me," I asked, "do
you perhaps have something that might stop my hairpiece from itching?"

The man looked at me, as if startled by my question. "A hairpiece? Not a
Hair piece?" he asked. "Um, yes, a hairpiece. Can you help me? Please, it's
getting quite bad. May I sit down for a moment?" He gestured broadly at the
chair, smiling. "I thought you were the one, you know, but then you started
talking all funny. I guess you can't be too careful." He deftly removed my
hairpiece. "Wait!" I protested. "I just want something to control the
itching!" I tried to get up, but I was held fast in the chair by an
invisible force.

The owner bent over, breathing warmly into my ear. "It's Their Way or the
Hair Way. Which do you choose? Whose side are you on? You came here for a
reason. You might not even have known it. But you came nonetheless." I
tried to speak, but I could not. He began massaging something into my
scalp. The itching stopped immediately, and it felt like my brain was
warming up. "When the Hair comes, you will understand. You have been chosen
both for what you are, and what you will be." He placed a mask over my
face, and I lost consciousness.
--
I get my monkeys for nothing and my chimps for free.
http://www.clark.net/pub/hermit/

.From: "Ryan Samto" <feb...@indosat.net.id>
.Subject: My pony delivers twins!!!
.Date: Fri Jan 24 11:46:24 1997

An exciting and extremely screwed on bizarre event just happened, took
place at my own farm in Kelapa Gading (where's it?) Oh yeah.,.,Jakarta..
North Jakarta..tee hee :)))))
My pony...which is 3 year old..just delievered her twins! Geez...it was so
exciting and deliberately shaking up a bit.!
Believe it or not, but this is true..and welcome to the under world!!
:)
:(
XO
:P~
:P
:0
:+ dumb
:-]
;)

\/ \/
~~\__/ \__/~~
__/\ /\__
. \___/ ,
\ \ /\ /\ / /
--><-----*-----><--
/ / \/ \/ \ \
' /~~~\ `
~~\/ \/~~
__/~~\ /~~\__
/\ /\

.From: dv...@ctp.com (Derek Vandivere)
.Subject: Gratuitous Self Pity
.Date: Sun Feb 2 19:02:07 1997

So, my grandfather used to play trumpet in the Washington Redskins
band. He smoked a lot, and died of a heart attack during a game. I
was pretty young at the time, but I think he was about 50.

My grandpa died of stomach cancer. I remember one day, shortly after
he had moved down to Southern Maryland to be near his family. I was
driving him up to Pennsylvania to pick up the rest of his stuff, and
noticed several bottles of Wild Turkey on his kitchen counter.
Somewhere on the interstate that goes through the nothingness of
southern Pennsylvania, he told me that cancer was a pretty crappy way
to die.

So here I am, in day two of my two week's mandatory bed rest for my
bad back, chain smoking and drinking single malt (Aberlour, if you're
interested, but it's just about killed - nice choice of words there -
so I'll have to move on to the Cardhu) to kill the pain out of a glass
that once belonged to my grandfather. And my trombone is gathering
dust behind the sofa.

These are the kind of familial connections I'd just as soon avoid.

- dersk, but it's good to wallow in self pity
every once in a while, I think, and it's
only another hour or so til I get another
Valium

.From: dagb...@csclub.uwaterloo.ca (Dave Brown)
.Subject: I was thinking
.Date: Sun Feb 2 22:00:59 1997

I was sitting in front of my computer tonight and thinking about
people and thinking about other things.

I was sitting in front of my computer and thinking about my
computer science homework and how ihave to figure out how to turn
a 4x1 multiplexer into an adder and what a ridiculous concept that
is be and how it was rather like trying to figure out how to use a
hammer to tighten up bolts.

And I drank quite a few glasses of wine and that gives me this
wonderful buzzing sensation where you think you know what you're
doing but you don't really but the results afterward turn out to
be rather interesting anyway.

I was thinking about various male-type things on my mind lately,
like the fact that all my friends seem to be pairing off and I'm
not and how this is starting to bother me in an obscure way
because I am male and I am driven by gonads no matter how much I
would prefer not to be.

And then I put on a skinny puppy cd and things went away for a
while as I lost myself in the tunelessness.

And mixed in with the Skinny Puppy, my landlady's Chris de Burgh
floated up from downstairs and swirled in with the Skinny Puppy
and made a sort of a more complete whole. And I sat and thought
for a while.

I thought about the films I had seen the night before, the Akira
Kurosawa film _Dreams_ and the quiet little comedy _The Funeral_
and how the message of _Dreams_ was so unsubtle and how _The
Funeral_ was one of those movies where it's up to the viewer to
extricate the plot but mostly about the people I was watching the
movies with.

I've been thinking about a girl a lot lately. She comes from my
past and she has a lot of influence on what I am today but she
doesn't want any part of my life. She doesn't see me when I am
standing in front of her. It doesn't stop her from being a part
of me but she still doesn't want it. Whose loss is it? She was
crazy. She tried to hurt me and she tried to destroy me but I
love her anyway.

I thought of a woman I dated for a while who eventually ended it
because of religious differences. I have a pile of snapshots of
her. She is smiling in all of them. She has a beautiful smile.
I hope I will see it again one day but there isn't much hope
really. A friend of mine said of her, "I really hope that the
reason she gave for ending it was not the real reason because if
it was then I would have to believe that she is stupid and she
really seemed not to be a stupid person to me."

I thought of a friend who has stuck herself into a relationship
with a guy who is really not right for anyone, who is jealous and
short-tempered and not very stable but she has decided that she
will stick with him until it is time to say goodbye. She knows
that she will, but right now it's just a matter of timing. Or at
least that is what she has convinced herself. I didn't think that
she was stupid, either. Time will tell as it does with all
things.

I thought of my best friend who is in Taiwan right now.

I thought of my friend Ana who died a few months ago when the
plane she was on exploded killing everyone who was riding with
her. More than two hundred people died but only one of them
mattered to me. The FAA says that the airplane was a huge
carburetter and it was only a matter of time before something like
that happened. It just doesn't make me feel any better. She is
no less dead now than she was when her plane exploded and nobody
knew what had happened.

I am thinking of me.

I tried to remove all light from the room so that I could take
advantage of the effects of the wine. Darkness plus noise plus
alcohol makes me write better. Or so I believe but I could be
stupid myself.

I would like to fall asleep.
I would like to dance.
I would like to run.
I would like to be rich.
I would like to sing.
I would like to make love to a beautiful woman.
I would like to write a great novel but I lack the perseverence
and I lack the alcohol to fuel myself.
I would like to fly.

I would like many things.

I thought about creature comforts. A good meal and a warm bed and
some interesting company and a good book to read and music and a
room-temperature pint of a really good bitter.

I wish I were not in the position I am. I am trying to lose
myself and let life wash over me. And I am trying to get on with
my life and not let the world leave me behind. I will go soon and
possibly lie down perhaps to go to sleep to dream or perhaps
finish my computer science assignment before going to bed. Or I
will read a book or I will just sit and think some more.

I think I will open my eyes now.

no place to go

--Dave
--
http://www.aeon.net/~dbrown/

.From: r...@asuvax.eas.asu.edu (Starcap'n Ra)
.Subject: Re: Musings of a newbie
.Date: Mon Feb 3 20:11:57 1997

Sarah_W...@ansuz.sooke.bc.ca writes:
> Well....I don't know if this has been mentioned before or not, but
> hey...I am a newbie, so you are probably ignoring me anyways....<grin>

We don't ignore people because they're newbies.
We ignore people who are new and do braindead things
like stuff their prose (read, stream of conciousness
mindless musings, one has to actually compose prose)
with mindless-BBS-dweeb ellipses...and misspellings...
<chuckle> <snort> <grin>...

ROTFL!!!!

Just kidding...you're probly...rilly kewl... :) :-) :)

--Starcap'n Ra, {ames,gatech,husc6,rutgers}!ncar!noao!asuvax!kennedy
I'm so sure!!! {allegra,decvax,ihnp4,oddjob}--^
^---------------The Wrong Choice
internet: ken...@asuvax.eas.asu.edu

.From: klu...@netcom.com (Scott Dorsey)
.Subject: Re: I was thinking
.Date: Mon Feb 3 20:27:17 1997

dagb...@csclub.uwaterloo.ca (Dave Brown) writes:
>
>I was sitting in front of my computer and thinking about my
>computer science homework and how ihave to figure out how to turn
>a 4x1 multiplexer into an adder and what a ridiculous concept that
>is be and how it was rather like trying to figure out how to use a
>hammer to tighten up bolts.

Trust me. I am sitting here with a soldering iron this evening, making
divide-by-thirteen counters with demultiplexers. In the real world, sometimes
you only have hammers sitting around.

Anyone who can explain why a divide by thirteen device is very useful
gets a free Gates cart machine. Hint: what's the cheapest crystal you can
buy?

>I wish I were not in the position I am. I am trying to lose
>myself and let life wash over me. And I am trying to get on with
>my life and not let the world leave me behind. I will go soon and
>possibly lie down perhaps to go to sleep to dream or perhaps
>finish my computer science assignment before going to bed. Or I
>will read a book or I will just sit and think some more.

Most of this world you have no control of. Most of your existence will
be spent dealing with forces that you are powerless to affect. That is why
it is such a nice change to deal with something that you _do_ have absolute
control over. So draw the damn state diagrams and you ought to see the
trick without even having to do the reduction. You can affect this stuff.
You have total control over this little piece of the world. Revel in it.
--scott
--
"C'est un Nagra. C'est suisse, et tres, tres precis."

.From: simon@mrjollylivesnextdoor (Simon Travaglia)
.Subject: *Out of Body Again*
.Date: Tue Feb 4 18:06:17 1997

So I must have fallen 3 stories (but it felt like 33) and landed in
one of those big old non-enclosed rubbish trucks with the no top, and
it broke my fall.

Oh, and both by legs, but that was beside the point. So I was
still alive, but I was in the airy half-world of extended
concussion and shock.

And I left my body and floated up above the truck. Only I was still
connected with my body and I couldn't seem to float away like all those
people say they can. So I was sort of hanging around and I saw some
light and wondered if I should try to go towards it even though I
couldn't because I was still tied to my body, but as expected, I
could not.

So I was forced to float above the garbage truck for it's whole route,
and I could see my body being covered by more and more rubbish, and I
could sort of feel the wet magazine on my face so I could hardly
breathe, and with the rubbish it got heavier and heavier and harder
and harder to breathe.

And then I could breath again because I was emptied out onto the ground
at the Refuse Transfer Station, and I took huge sacks of breath, not even
caring that the air smelt so foul, and even in my floating state I felt
much more alive than I had ever been. And I realised that floating was
fine, but living was better and that I would carry this thought with me
for the rest of my life.

And I did, which wasn't too long as they switched the compactor on
almost immediately.

Shit.

Simon Travaglia, (s...@waikato.ac.nz) Unix Systems Administrator,
http://prime-mover.cc.waikato.ac.nz
University of Waikato, Private Bag 3105, Hamilton, New Zealand..

.From: klu...@netcom.com (Scott Dorsey)
.Subject: Flying
.Date: Wed Feb 5 13:20:28 1997

I had to go to a conference, and so they booked me on an airliner to take
me to a distant city. Being the cheapskates that they are, my employers
put me on a low budget airline which recently has been in the news with
talk of safety violations. So, I was really nervous when I they took my
little white plastic card and put me on the plane.

As the plane began to move out onto the taxiway, I looked out and saw
all the red "REMOVE BEFORE FLIGHT" tags hanging off the pitot tubes and
static ports, and instantly got this feeling of sheer terror. Then the
pilot came on, to give the usual safety talk. Now, first of all, I am
always made nervous by airline pilots that are younger than I am, but
this fellow sounded like he was twelve. He then went onto a discussion
of why the FAA doesn't allow passengers to smoke on airlines, but how
he was going to light up a White Owl for takeoff, because "those rules
don't apply to crew and it's the best cigar you can buy," then advising
us that we shouldn't worry if we smell anything burning as a result.

I held on to the seat pretty tightly during the takeoff, which was a bit
shaky but not too bad, but then the stewardess handed out the little
plastic headphones and I figured that watching the in-flight movie would
calm me down a bit. This illusion was quickly shattered, though, when
they brought the screen down and the credits began, with pictures of
airplanes taking off from a large airport, and the words "AIRPORT '75"
appeared on the screen. Next thing I know, I'm watching pictures of
stuff blowing up all over the place. I'm trying to cower under my seat
although none of the other passengers seem to be worried about any of
this.

So, I close my eyes and start playing with the channels on the in-flight
music stuff. I take it off the movie channel and turn to the next thing
on the list. It's Pete Seeger! Now, that's calming and relaxing and I
just settle down listening until he finishes the refrain and starts in
with "The sky-plane caught fire over Los..." and I immediately let out
a sharp whimper and click it over a notch. "... Have to strut your stuff
and I say Burn Baby Burn!" and another whimper and I click it over a
notch and it's Brewer and Shipley with "Don't wanna die in a big jet
plane!" Immediately I tear off the headphones and yell. Everyone looks
around at me and the stewardess immediately comes running.

So, I ask the stewardess if there's anything I can read to take my mind
off of this, and she says sure, that there's a nice selection of magazines
up front. I ask for one, and she comes back with a copy of the "NTSB
Safety Examiner" with a cover article on general aviation accidents.

I just couldn't take it any longer. At this point, there is nothing
possible that is going to take my mind off of my impending fate. So I
ask the stewardess for a drink. She says that all the Scotch they have
is gone, and that the only beverage they've got is Bao Dai. So I say,
sure, at this point I'll drink anything. So she hands me a bottle of
"Flaming Airplane Brand" liquor and a little shot glass.

I drink it anyway.
--scott
--
"C'est un Nagra. C'est suisse, et tres, tres precis."

.From: wal...@coewl.cen.uiuc.edu (waldby julian f)
.Subject: my stint
.Date: Wed Feb 5 14:20:49 1997

We were all lucky to have gotten rehab. Every one of us should have
landed in the joint. Someone was pulling strings on the outside.
Keeping us available, I guess.

I met this wonderful little red-haired girl named April. We had kind of a
strange relationship. I was never really sure if she just wanted me to get
lost from one minute to the next.

We were only in for about a week when John Hock, who was in with us,
suddenly 'came into' a large sum of money. He gathered us around and
said that with this money he wanted to get a crew to hit the First
Bank of Chicago. He said that he would go outside of our ring for help
if he had to, but we would get first dibs on the positions. My main
partner, Sib, was extremely enthusiastic about the prospect. He went
through money like it was water (or maybe whiskey in his case).

Now, about this time, I was thinking about getting out of the business.
All these years, I have had the cure for a disease in my head. The
disease is called drachea menuosis, or Thrashhead in lay terms. I
figured it out when I was planning an invasion of one of the islands.
I just recognized that the invasion force represented a nearly identical
problem to the problems confronting Thrashhead treatment.

Now, all I need to enact my cure and to have material for my then following
book, is to gain access to certain top security labs. This John Hock
situation was going to be just the thing to set it up.

I nodded ambivalently, so that no one would count me out completely. I
was still regarded oddly, for I have always been ready for one more
job. John Hock said that he would be leaving the materials in the
balcony for the night so that we could look through them at our
leisure.

That evening, we had physical therapy. It was a first since I'd been
there, since Mustin, the instructor had been in Nebraska.

"Who will be our pacer today? Who wants to run?", Mustin said.

I heard April and her friend giggling. Then she spit out the cracker
and said, "Julian!"

So that was it, and I was elected to run first to set a pace. As
fate would have it, I have always been something of a runner. Quick
in both speed and thought, you might say. That evening, I set a
pace which no one came within 10 seconds of.

For this evening, the warden put Sib in charge of the communal meeting.
This was greatly to my good fortune, for Sib was the only one I was
really worried about in setting my plan into motion.

Sib misinterprets his lead of the meeting as a signal from the warden
that he will be the leader of the crew for the bank. That he will
even be in command over me. However, the warden was not in on this
deal. In fact, the warden wasn't in on any deals. He was a pacifist
by nature, and a little naive.

Sib is getting things set up in his room. He's got his rifle out
and cleaned, he's got his camera twisters laid in the tool box with
his other tools. He has no concern of being caught - everyone here
is in on the heist, even the warden.

Having some knowledge that this would be the case, I took the grand
opportunity when the warden came to call on Sib to tell him it was
time for the meeting.

Knowing there would be fireworks, and wishing the warden the best, I
moved quickly to the balcony to see what Hock had laid out for us.

I see blueprints of the bank, general sky schedules above, train
patterns in the nearby underground, and the loot - special IDs,
with advanced clearance and fingerprint/eyeball recognition patterns.

"So, you decided to join us after all," came Sib's voice behind me.

I nearly jumped out of my skin, and then, trying to compose myself,
turned to look at him.

"Well, I haven't really decided yet, Sib. I'm getting a little old
for this work, after all."

"You're only 23."

"Well, yeah, and I'm thinking of taking some time to write a book."

"A book?! Julian, what do you want with a book when we've got all
the excitement right here." He gestured toward the bank plans.

"How about I look over this stuff and think about it?" I said.

"Alright, but I hope you make the right choice," he glanced at the
pistol hanging at his side, "I'm sure you will."

I went back to looking at the IDs and then laughed out loud. "Look,
Hock's got us made up as brothers!"

One ID had a picture of Sib, with his black hair and sideburns, and
the caption for his name, "Zee Ee"

Another ID had a picture of me, with my blond hair, looking nothing
like Sib, and my name, "Wee Ee".

We laughed for a bit, and I thought it might be safe to escape now.

I slipped my ID into my pocket, hoping he wouldn't see. Then, before
I got up, I took one look back at Sib. That was a big mistake. I
could see he knew I wasn't going to take the job, and he didn't look
civil about it.

I got up and as quickly as I could without looking outrageous, I
scooted for the corner to duck behind it. I was nearly there when I
saw the motion out of the corner of my eye. Sib, bringing up the
pistol to bear, ready to waste his sole partner of 15 years. That
was when I really scooted, finally diving to get behind the corner.
As I flew through the air, I took one hard in the lung. Sib was a
good shot. Everybody knows that.

Knowing a punctured lung would kill me before the morning, Sib didn't
even come to finish me off, but took back to the plans and his gloating
about being captain of the team.

Things began to get blurry and tingly as I saw the redhaired girl come
to my side and roll me on my back.

I came to in the warden's living room. There was a tall christmas tree
and presents below. Eventually, the warden came in. He said I was
going to be fine, and that I wouldn't have to worry about Sib and
Hock and the rest for a long time.

I asked him how he managed to not get killed going to Sib's room when
he was planning.

He said that that was another story, and he would tell me sometime
later, maybe after I finished my book.

But for now, he said, let us look on the TV. For my son has given
them a brick from our fireplace to help build the Sears tower with
the money recovered from the failed heist.

Julian

.From: imb...@mindspring.com (David James Polewka)
.Subject: Re: an anagram request
.Date: Thu Feb 6 19:11:20 1997

al...@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Dave Polewka) wrote:

>wil...@genius2000.com writes:

>>>>-- Mi...@lava.net wrote: An anagram request: Comet Hale-Bopp
>>>
>>>Coo, be pamphlet Epochal mob, pet Botch male Pope
>>>Halt; become Pop Bleach poet, mop Epoch met Pablo
>>>
>>>I trust that Dave or William will rise to the challenge...
>>>
>> Became hot plop Macho pleb poet The apple combo
>>
>>No gems unfortunately.
>>
>>William

>Mercury Venus Earth Mars Jupiter Saturn Uranus Neptune Pluto -- anagram
>*************************************************************************
> Turn. Spin. Run. Unusual comets appear every June, Arthur. Trust me.
>*************************************************************************

***********************************************************************
UPI: Army men just put the planet's curvature errors near Sununu!
***********************************************************************

.From: d...@rao.edu (Ds)
.Subject: i wanted to visit my 30 children
.Date: Wed Feb 26 18:21:56 1997

i wanted to visit some of my 30 children
15 sets of identical twins
male/female? sex is irrelevant. they have names though
all moved out at early age
spread out over ten or eleven time zones
every day, they write what they did on large plastic circles,
and roll the circles down a hill towards me.
when the circles reach me, I eat them like saltines. I munch the edges
first, licking the dirt off, drooling everywhere, and crunching in small
yet precise bites. work my way towards the center and
regurgitate everything, and glue the pieces of plastic back together.
to form a perfect circle, and then i send it back to my children in the evening
it's been like this every day
for 887,345 years. (and 69 days)
i grew tired of the monotony of the whole thing, and yesterday, decided to
visit some of them, just for a change of pace.
Ii split myself into 30 identical chunks of being. chose a different mode of
transportation to get to each of my 30 children
things didn't work as planned, though: i used a pogostick to visit lgnqn, but
punctured myself on a pothole and bled to death (again)
i cast myself to the gusting wind to float away to visit scsrtxxo, and am
still swirling around the eye of a hurricane, spinning endlessly about...
i hopped aboard a photon of light headed towards kmunaa, but missed my
destination. that was billions of yrs ago andThe photon of
UV light is now redshifted to microwave. and i am lost in the CMBR.
the other 27 of me faced similar fates. None of me reached my children.
i guess i should consider myself lucky; 17 of me manged to make it back home okay.
now is the time to sit about and wonder why i didn't make any of my destinations,
and cry and drown myself and hit myslelf over the mind with the plastic disks
my children continue to send. I always have the plastic circles, at least.

munch, drool, munch....

.From: wal...@coewl.cen.uiuc.edu (waldby julian f)
.Subject: Re: Short Shameless Confession
.Date: Thu Feb 27 13:02:06 1997

agli...@aol.com writes:

>I don't understand any of Beelzibub's chess references.
>I don't want to either.

Well let me be your translator.

Sacrificed a bishop busted a nut
traded queens Code 4 is in operation
mated smokescreen ops
castled null code
running the chess board dealing arms
the squah transfer command
challenged introduced impurities
breathe d4
Caroline USS Trinidad

Julian
--
"But if you really want me to answer
I can only let you know I'm not dead"
/---/=/--//--------~/_o__/-----------

.From: "wenchpoet" <roo...@teleport.com>
.Subject: The Thrift Store
.Date: Thu Feb 27 04:47:09 1997

The smell in a thrift shop. That's what my grandfather reminds me of most.
He smells like his clothes have been in the ground awhile. He smelled like,
before he died, his shoulders held up worn wool shirts for display until
strong wire hangers could be found for them. I think of this as I run my
fingers down the rows of used clothes, breathing in the smell of the
bargains, looking for my grandfather's strong wiry shoulders. There should
be little signs hanging up like THIS SPACE RESERVED FOR DEAD GRANDFATHERS
CLOTHES, or BABY CLOTHES THAT ONLY GOT WORN WHEN THE RELATIVES CAME or
CLOTHES BOUGHT BY OPTIMISTIC OVERWEIGHT PEOPLE, or SHOES THAT ONLY FIT THE
FEET THAT WORE THEM OUT or UNDERWEAR GOOD FOR MAYBE TWO OR THREE WASHINGS
or ACCESSORIES THAT ONLY GO WITH OTHER ACCESSORIES EXACTLY LIKE THEM. Big
signs of the truth of charity, the sort of truth that makes it okay to save
all your cans of pickled beets all year to give to the needy who trade them
with schizophrenic people for cigarettes and then trade cigarettes for
underwear good for maybe two or three washings. It is easy to think of such
things, walking through the thrift store, sniffing the bargains, surrounded
by the aura of displacement. If only bodies could be recycled like
grandfather's wire hangers. Then we'd all be on display, judged finally on
the basis of whether or not we have all our buttons and our zippers aren't
broken. The hands of the thrifty feeling our insides for hidden holes.

--
T.L. Kelly
(aka wenchpoet)
roo...@teleport.com
http://www.teleport.com/~room101/wench.htm

.From: Paul Dobbs <do...@metronet.com>
.Subject: Re: Desperately seeking lawn chair floating dude
.Date: Mon Feb 17 13:45:36 1997

>
> > Supposedly some guy near Los Angeles ties a whole bunch of helium
> > balloons to his lawn chair and floats around for fun. Who
> > is he? I want him to be my college's back up commencement speacker
> The FAA was not sure what to do about all this, as the man didn't have a
> pilots certificate to revoke. I believe he was cited for damaging the
> power system and obstructing or posing a theat to aircraft. He may also
> have been charged with flying a balloon without a lighter-than-air pilots
> certificate.

Good old "Lawn Chair Larry!" I believe that it turned out that the lawn
chair qualified as an ultralight, so he could not be charged with
flying without a license. I believe that he was charged with flying
in the LA TCA without clearance.

I don't believe that he is available as a commencement speaker, since
he commited suicide a few years back.

.From: al...@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Dave Polewka)
.Subject: Re: Nazis Must Not Be Banned- They Keep Jews in Check
.Date: Tue Mar 4 00:53:10 1997

IN SOC.HISTORY,
mai...@hotmail.com (mai...@hotmail.com) says:

>On 18 Feb 1997 01:17:33 GMT, "Aryan" <ar...@whitepower.com> wrote:
>>
>> /
>> iIi \X\ iIi iIi
>> |||| ///;;;;; / |||| |||| _ Oy Vey!
>> \__) | - - | i \__) _WWWWW_ ||| WW \__)___[_]___ /
>> | | | | | | | | / o o \ \_) /__\ | | | o o | /
>> | | | h | | | |(| __O__ |) || | oo | | | | (_) |
>> | | \ ### / | | | \ \___/ / || (|_()_|) | | \`\-/'/
>> ` `==) (==-\ A ` `_/-------\_. \` \__/ ` `---)`V'(---.
>> \ || \ / \ H \ ========= | \\/|\/\_ \ | o |
>> \/` o |\ \ H \=========| | \||:||\\ \/ o | |
>> | o | \ \H | _-.___.' | ||:|| || | _-.___.' |
>> | o | \ H |(____|__.' ||:|| |) |(____|___.'
>> |===(x)===| \() |0-0-0-0-0| ||:|| || | o |
>> |HHHH+HHHH| H | + | ===== w; | o |
>> |HHH|+|HHH| H | |-+-| | || || |____^___|
>> |HHHHHHHHH| H | | | | || || | | | |
>> |HHH| |HHH| H ---- ---- () () | | | |
>> | | | | H |_| |_| || || | | | |
>> |_| |_| H |_| |_| || || __|_| |_|__
>> (__| |__) H (__| |__) (_| |_) (____| |____)
>>
>> ARBEIT MACHT FREI
>
>
>hey aryan dickhead,
>
>
>Jesus Christ was a ARAB.......WORSHIP ALLAH....
>
>max

--
=======================
"Endeavor to persevere"
=======================

.From: Mao Tse-Tung <cd...@worldnet.att.net>
.Subject: EXperiment (notice no EGG worked in)
.Date: Sun Mar 2 17:16:16 1997

Noting the lack of 'participatory' activities on my placemat, as opposed
to the frugal, entertaining measures of Village Inn and other top-notch
restaurant lobsters, I have decided to sour this newsgroup with such an
activity, in which I am fully expecting little or no participation, to
go along with the disenchanted air of the place, like Dick Nixon's
coffin turned into a political bar.
I am currently conducting an 'experiment' of sorts that stemmed from my
whim-motivated action of winging a single raw egg from my deck as hard
as possible, targeting the clearing just above the foxholes that have
been on the property for close to 30 years (don't get the wrong idea,
melvin), on Sunday, 23 February. It was not officially an experiment
because I never planned to do anything but heave an egg into the
wilderness. However, my tragic mind (in that i have one) forced me to
observe the changes in the egg over the next few days, and it evolved
overnight into a full-blown experiment, considering that I had to wing
an additional egg on 24 February, this time aiming it in a more easily
observed place on the ground, directly out from some unscreened windows
which would make better binocular observation subjects out of both of
them. I have noted now that the insides of the eggs have been 'gone
missing' at certain marked dates, and at all times, one of the foxen
which frequent the area has defecated within 9 feet of the shell.
Exciting! I will not ruin the surprise; I have made a daily, many-entry
observation log all through the experiment, which is continuing as I
write this, and I would be happy to find a way to send a full,
multiple-page presentation with a publicity sheet, a toned-down
published findings packet, the entirety of the logs, and if possible
some photographs of the experiment. What am I posting this all here for?
Good question. You see, I need the following answered:
1. I plan to release a third egg, this one more well-prepared for
observation, carefully into the enviroment, because of the attention
from the Defecating Woodsmen...er..Foxen who eat my goddamned specimens
before I can observe them freezing and what not. So, what I am asking
those who have the knowledge in scientific affairs sufficient to respond
is: How do I create a pinhole in the raw eggshell small enough and only
small enough for the entry of a U-100 29-guage 12.7 mm syringe from
which I will inject a solution containing a great many things, i.e.
powdered milk, glycerine, expired NON-MCCORMICK spices, old perscription
meds, etc, to study their effects on either the foxen or the insects
(winter insects?) which feast off the now SLOWLY rotting egg I will
throw?

2. Is there some kind of acid I could obtain which will eat away the
rigidity of just a tiny area of the eggshell, which i could perforate
and inject without breaking the shell? Should I superheat the spike so
that it will break the shell (protein, i think it's made of, don't quote
me) more easily and uniformly, or would that just run the risk of
syringe failure (it frequently does, melts the plastic receiver so that
nothing can get out)?

I have noticed that many folks here show considerable scientific
vocabulary, if not hopefully knowledge, and could assist me via Email in
how to go about this, or direct me to a newsgroup which would be more
helpful in soliciting aid to me, or mail me to give addresses and such
for the free writeup stuff afterwards.

.From: klu...@netcom.com (Scott Dorsey)
.Subject: Re: What is VAT.BOB?
.Date: Sat Mar 1 17:54:22 1997

In article <01bc2622$930ede60$8a7ba3ce@internet> "wenchpoet" <roo...@teleport.com> writes:
>and why does it only take an hour?

VAT.BOB!
Vacation At Talk.Bizarre's Orgone Box!
Version 1.04

In Virginia, we are having a bob. It is being sponsored by
myself (klu...@netcom.com) and Dan Page (pa...@omnet.com).
After checking the records for many of the previous bobs, we have
determined that any successful event should include the following:

- Camping
- Cabins for those who don't wish to camp
- A ream of Blue Star L.S.D. blotter
- Hot showers and non-portapotty bathrooms
- Guitars (and a place to play them)
- Instruments that are not guitars
- Electricity
- Chorizos
- Girls With Cigars
- Archie McPhee devices

In addition, we have decided to add some of the following items:

- Virus contests
- Vindaloo
- Drive-In Movies
- Fine related items like music by T. B. Samba and drinks by Calvados Bizouard
- Fishing (Bass, bluegill, perch, catfish are all stocked)
- A web page at http://www.omnet.com/~page/vat.bob/

This event is taking place on May 16 through May 19, 1997. Yes, I know
that there were previous reports about putting it on Memorial Day, but
this appears to make for some very significant travel problems.
You must attend this event, unless you are willing to risk severe rejection
by members of your peer group.

* * *

"We're going down to Walnut Hills, going to join in a rock and roll
band. Got to get back to the land, set my soul free."
-- Crosby Stills, Nash and Young

"That giant sucking sound you hear? It's America. American cars suck.
American TV? That sucks too. Even the candidates we have for president
all suck. But VAT.BOB? It fails to suck, even though now with NAFTA
they have to let in the Canadians. But hurry fast! Next year they are
moving everything offshore to New Mexico for the cheap labor so act now."
-- Ross Perot, C-Span 11/5/96

* * *

You must provide:

- Food (preferably for barbeque use). Expert Bongoland technicians will be
available to assist in pro-barbequeist demonstrations.
- Toys
- Games
- Chip. It's, me, Pup!
- A Brain
- An interest in the campground shown at http://www.omnet.com/~page/vat.bob/
- A Merck index. Mine got borrowed and I need a replacement.

It is recommended that you bring your own tent. There will be extras but you
will be reponsible for asking Heston about them.

* * *

"If I wasn't dead, I'd be at VAT.BOB"
-- Elvis Presley

"VAT.BOB is big. It's bigger than my wife, and you know how she goes
for those cheese blintzes."
-- Henny Youngman

* * *

You are directed NOT to bring any of the following:

- NO drug-addled Tahitian refugees
- NOBODY named Boutros-Boutros
- NO prostitutes unless you bring enough for EVERYBODY
- NO sock puppets-- they are too scary for Mr. Page
- NO catsup enemas
- NO used motor oil-- we do not have appropriate disposal facilities
- NO people who are offended by fungi (as displayed on our page
at http://www.omnet.com/~page/vat.bob/ of course)
- NO assholes we've never heard of who will get drunk, break things,
make the women..... err... the people nervous, and want to discuss
their personal problems with total strangers.
- NO greencard lawyers or Slaton minions
- NO cow tippers
- NO illegal substances that will get us all arrested.
- NO "Kerplonken Lake" jokes. We've already made them all.
- NO failed presidential candidates. We have our own, thanks.

We have abandoned some of our previous ideas such as the BAKE BUNNY FAST
rabbit cooking contest and the "Pin the Tail on the Cyberpromo Owner"
game. We are looking into replacements.

* * *

"No, man, no. VAT.BOB? I ain't going there. I don't never go to parties
unless they is a good supply of drugs there."
-- Marion Barry

"It's the biggest thing in the world. I mean, the pyramids were pretty
good, but they just weren't VAT.BOB. Oh, how things have changed since
my time."
-- Pharoh Ramses II

* * *

This bob is taking place at the Walnut Hills Campground (which isn't anywhere
near as cheesy as their page at http://www.elpress.com/staunton/WLNTHL.HTML
would have it appear) in Staunton, Virginia. Staunton is about as far west
as you can be and still be in Virginia. The campground has three small
cabins available, and a substantial number of tent and trailer sites in a
small area which we should have reserved all to ourselves. For non-campers,
there are two hotels within three miles, and we recommend the Hessian House
Econo-Lodge which is run by Rasik Patel and his family and provides close
access to the campground. You can reach him at (540) 337-1231 or get
reservations at 1-800-214-6540. There is also a Days Inn nearby.

The cabins at the campground are about 12 by 12 feet. have a double bed
and two singles (in the form of a bunkbed). There is a tiny fridge in
each one, a window AC, and a ceiling fan. Bring your own linens and expect
a walk outside to get to the toilets and showers.

There are spots for RVs, which tends can also be placed on. Places with
"Full Hookup" have 20 amp 220V power, while places with "Water and Electric"
have only 120V stuff. They use these goofy plugs too rather than Hubbell
Twist-Locks like everyone else uses.

There are also lots which can take up to two tents. Rent them alone or
with some friends.

Reservations for all these must be made in advance. We are currently
trying to negotiate a group rate. You will pay bigtime if you try and
cancel less than 72 hours from the date of the event, not to mention that
you will miss a wonderful BOB. To make such reservations, call 1-800-69-WALNUT
immediately. Tell them that you are with the "Internet Group." They will
want one night's payment in advance.

for the truly pathetic, crash space is available in d.'s apt on
a very limited basis, but you should RSVP or he'll be really pissed.

We will also have a 40X32 ft. pavillion with a 9X20 foot raised stage area,
ceiling fans, 30A power, and over 12 electrical code violations. If you have
an event to use this pavilion with, let us know.

Pictures of all these places are visible on http://www.omnet.com/~page/vat.bob/

* * *

"<expletive deleted> <expletive deleted> <expletive deleted> <expletive deleted>
<expletive deleted> and the <expletive deleted> <expletive deleted>
in your <expletive deleted>. I tell you, <expletive deleted>
<expletive deleted> <expletive deleted> <expletive deleted>. VAT.BOB
is the <expletive deleted>."
-- Pope John Paul III

"The leading causes of cancer in this country are tofu and alfalfa sprouts."
-- R. J. Reynolds

* * *

By land, it is 35 miles from Charlottesville, VA, 155 miles from Washington
DC, and pretty damn far from St. Louis, MO.

How to get there:

By land:

In keeping with the continuing decay of our national infrastructure, there
are no passenger trains in the state any further west than Richmond. It
has been five years since the train last went to Charlottesville, and more
than twenty since it went out to Waynesboro. However, the crew at Amtrak
can get you connection on a bus which goes out to Waynesboro from Richmond.
However, we would recommend that you instead try to arrange a ride with
someone travelling through Richmond, where they can pick you up.

If you decide to take a car these steps are appropriate:
1) You figure out a way to get to I81. Use tripquest at
www.mapquest.com.
2) Drive north/south (i'll leave it up to you to figure out if virginia
is north or south of you)on I81 'till you get to the I81/I64
junction
3) Drive east on I64. Take the first Waynesboro exit.
4) Make a left on Route 340 South. Drive through a couple
(3-4) lights. You'll drive out of Waynesboro,
through some farmland, into stuarts draft and out
of stuarts draft into a foresty road area.
5) Look for a restaurant on the left called the Meadow Muffin.
I couldn't make this stuff up, folks.
6) The campsite will be on an access road on your right. There
are adequate signs for it ("Camping Area!"), so it's
relatively hard to miss.
7) If you find yourself coming out in the hotel/german restaurant
area mentioned above, you went too damn far.

By Air:

1) The local airport is the Shenandoah Regional Airport (SHD), which
boasts daily connections to most major hubs. Woo. The
airport is right off I81 and is slightly to the north
of the campground.
2) Rent a car, follow road directions above, or email pa...@boutell.com
and he'll try to make arrangements to pick you up.

* * *

"I'll be there! I'll be there! I'll be there!"
--- Emerson Lake and Palmer

* * *

Some things you can do in the area:

There is a large national forest nearby. There are hiking trails everywhere,
rock climbing, etc. More on this later.

There is a local company called Shandoah River Outfitters, renting canoes,
kayaks, and inner tubes, and which also sponsors group tours. Call
1-800-6CANOE2 for info.

There are a number of caves in the area, all of which have been turned into
gigantic tourist traps but which can still be fun to visit.

The Statler Brothers have a huge museum in Staunton, with tours every weekday
at 2:00. There's also the Woodrow Wilson Birthplace Museum and the P. Buckley
Moss museum, if you happen to like U.S. presidents of the early 20th century or
oil paintings of Mennonites ice-skating with long faces.

Skinny dipping in the swimming pool will be arranged.

There are weird rock formations at Natural Bridge. There is also a company
that makes theme park figures which will permit you to tour their facilities.

You can see the house where Woodrow Wilson was born.

The terrain here is so rugged that the top two radio stations in the local
market are AM.

Virginia Metalcrafters is right near by and you can see quality forging
done on site. Ever wonder where those Carasso posts come from? Now you
can know. You can also buy a lot of brass crap here. Likewise there is
a historic water-powered flour mill in Raphine which gives tours and also
sells some pretty good flour products.

There are other museums in the area like the Museum of American Frontier
Culture, and Walton's Mountain Museum as well as other tourist attractions
were you can be treated like dirt while bloated families with their obnoxious
children clamber everywhere. But there are still some interesting oddities
like the Valley Bank Museum which shows turn of the century banking artifacts,
an operating steam railroad, and some pretty good local beer.

Join our cyberdelic afterparty, pray to the bowl and grab whatever you
think feeds your need!

Two ski resorts, if by some chance winter decides to stick around a couple
extra months like this year.

It is possible to drive down the road to Charlotteville, which is a neat
little college town, as well as a place with a lot of wineries and a lot
of historic sites like Monticello. However, the weekend that we picked for
the bob also happens to be the graduation weekend for the university there,
and as a result it is apt to be less than pleasant. Sorry about this, but
it's better than Prince Charles coming to town (as happened during the
1993 bob).

Blue Ridge Parkway/Skyline drive with the village up there. Don't forget
plenty of good hiking with the Appalachian trail right nearby if you care
to walk to Maine or Georgia.

Remember to check out http://www.omnet.com/~page/vat.bob/
--
"C'est un Nagra. C'est suisse, et tres, tres precis."

.From: Bert Kellerman <ber...@iglou.com>
.Subject: America KICKS ASS
.Date: Wed Mar 5 01:17:21 1997

TO ALL YOU DUMBFUCKS:
If America sucks and is just a bunch of pussies then come the fuck on
over and attack us! ha That would be funny!
You English Fucks would go home with crumpets stuffed in every orfice of
your royal body!!! To bad you're just jealous!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!111

.From: eri...@soda.CSUA.Berkeley.EDU (Erik Nielsen)
.Subject: BasU
.Date: Mon Mar 3 00:33:09 1997

I type and type to fill the silence, and every letter is one
more second of victory. My colleagues remain frozen in their
befuddled, hungover confusion, shuffling papers back and
forth across their desks, cursing the speed of the clocks and
the loud rhythmic pulses in their heads. On my right, a man
fiddles with his pen, his manual coordination unbroken by his
bloodshot eyes and green complexion. On my left, a man
attempts to bring the two pieces of paper he sees into focus
enough that they will become the one piece of paper sitting
on his desk. I note these things as I type, out of the
corner of my eye, and I am glad that my colleagues are only
human after all.

The section head sits at his desk and lights an antique
lighter over and over again, seemingly oblivious to its lack
of butane. Unconsciously, my typing falls into synch with
his lighter. Click-clack, click, click-clack, click. Type.
Flick. Type. Flick. The paper shufflers yield to the
inevitable. Type. Flick. Shuffle. Type. Flick. Shuffle.
And now our heads and clocks step into the rhythm, or our
rhythm joins forces with theirs. Type. Flick. Shuffle.
Pound. Tick. Type. Flick. Shuffle. Pound. Tick. Type,
flick, shuffle, pound, tick, type, flick, shuffle, pound,
tick, typeflickshufflepoundticktypeflickshufflepoundticktype

"Enough! ENOUGH!" screams S, standing, the veins on his
forehead pulsating visibly. He clutches his head in obvious
pain and collapses to the ground.

I share a secret smile with my co-workers, a celebration of
survival, a moment of pity for poor S and his breach of
etiquette. They'll clear his desk tomorrow. We'll toast him
tonight as we sit at the party and wonder, secretly, which of
us will be the one to collapse tomorrow.

--
"To sleep perchance to dream, Ay, there's the rub;
for in that sleep of death, what dreams may come
when we have shuffled off this mortal coil must
give us pause...." The Bard, waxing poetic...

.From: "wenchpoet" <roo...@teleport.com>
.Subject: band names conspiracy
.Date: Tue Mar 4 02:41:48 1997

sometimes I think there's some sort of weird conspiracy to compel all new
bands to take on the names of introductory AOL and Compuserve passwords.

ROOT*FINGER
SCREAMING*TREES
DORMANT*FOOTGEAR
FRANTIC*DOGPADDLE

wench "I can't get no saturation" poet

.From: "wenchpoet" <roo...@teleport.com>
.Subject: ohh I wish
.Date: Thu Mar 6 02:44:38 1997

ohhh I wish I were an oscar meyer weiner
that is what I truly want to be
cuz if I were an oscar meyer weiner
uh..er
hm.

shit - some snot-faced toddler would bite my ass and head off and then sort
of chew and drool pieces of me out of the corner of his mouth and then
throw me down in the middle of a rancid lump of potato salad and then run
off for awhile and collect bug parts under his fingernails and then come
back to the picnic table and grab me and start tearing at my bun and
rolling smooshed bread pieces in his fingers till it was a kind of
bug-infested doughie goo and then throw bits of me at his sister who starts
whining "Mom!!! He did it AGAIN!!" and then she'd grab me out of her little
slimy brother's hands and tear me into bite-size pieces and feeds me to the
rabid squirrels gathering around the table and all the while hitting her
little brother with a gritty marshmallow-encrusted stick and then their mom
would come over and go "eeewwwwww don't put that in your mouth dammit can't
you see it has dirt all over it" and she'd grab me, what's left of me, and
fling me to the ground and then look around to see if anybody saw her
because she wouldn't want anybody to think that she's a litterbug and so
she'd shove me with her foot underneath the picnic table and by then I'd be
torn apart and I'd start to smell and the squirrels would run under the
table and nibble at me while the children gathered around and squealed at
the sight of a bunch of squirrels tearing my skin off and eating me little
by little with their tiny razor teeth and giving me rabies and god knows
what else.

hm.

ohh if I were a rich man
yebba debba debba dada debba dada deeda dum
if I were a ve-ery ri-ch man
if I were a wealthy man....

--
T.L. Kelly
(aka wenchpoet)
roo...@teleport.com
http://www.teleport.com/~room101/wench.htm

.From: arm <a...@xtrm.com>
.Subject: another beautiful morning
.Date: Mon Mar 3 08:54:28 1997

Possum got wrapped around my axle
coming up the hill last night.

Morning finds me hopped up on 2 pots
of Sulawesi black-tar coffee and a
pack of Camels, trying to read the
Possum entrails to see if I can afford
the new retro Barbie with the 3 colors
of hotpants, but the cat won't leave
me alone. He keeps grabbing an end
and tugging and when I pull it away it
snaps back and gets the wall behind me
covered in fluids best left on asphalt
or in industrial stainless steel sinks.

Hope that new Barbie is still available
when my $5.00 shareware checks start
rolling in for the chinchilla blood-
lines database I created for the folks
at "http://www.chin.buffnet.net/" and
their ilk.

Barbie is smooth between the legs but
somehow still projects the impression of
moisture, like how you can almost feel
the warmth and love coming from the
hands of a particularly well-rendered
crucifixion statue where the wine is
coming out of Jesus' palms.

Barbie's nippleless B/C cups are
something to behold, a triumph against
John Stuart Mill and his hotblooded,
ruthless cronies.

Perfect even in the little traces of the
mold still left from creation, little
ridges of flesh-colored plastic running
like stocking seams up her legs, she
never disappoints me.

Time to put the Possum down in the
crawlspace with the others and forget
all that predicting the future nonsense.

If I can't have the new Barbie then
that's okay because I can make a whole
set of hotpants for her myself, with the
flowered slipcover on the sofa bed and
the catgut from my survival kit.

.From: stu...@world.std.com (the reverse-psychology major)
.Subject: Re: responding
.Date: Sun Mar 2 03:28:15 1997

In article <5e7cvg$d...@lal.interserv.com>, <tric...@travelin.com> wrote:
>
> I'll chat to a 15 year old girl

...<sigh> doesn't anyone just fuck anymore?

beelzibub
ps;
i'm a good f conversationalist

--
this is my .sig. it's one of the best .sigs on the 'net'. i know what
you're thinking: 'did he post 5 or 6 articles'? to tell you the truth i
kinda lost track myself. so you gotta ask yourself one question: 'have
you mamorized it yet?' huh, have you punk? go for it. make my bed.

.From: stu...@world.std.com (the reverse-psychology major)
.Subject: Re: The Tragedy Of Ellipsis Abuse
.Date: Wed Mar 5 02:22:54 1997

Rachel Polanskis wrote:
> (Anthony Garcia) writes:
>> At thousands of keyboards around the world, every day, Ellipsis
>> Addicts feed their habit. Hooked by the Demon of Bad Punctuation,
>> they hammer their '.' key into unusability. Many them are driven
>> into poverty by costs of buying replacement keyboards.
>
>Hmmm....
>
>Why do I feel I can relate to this post???

... it's a, new strain of beck,withs disease

beelibub
ps;
that, i say 'that', was easy

.From: "wenchpoet" <roo...@teleport.com>
.Subject: Voice
.Date: Thu Mar 6 23:08:39 1997

Voice
by
T.L. Kelly

I am told that I must find the voice. Keep writing until you find the
voice. If you are forcing it then you haven't found the voice. The voice is
the author, you are merely a tool. If I would just listen harder, relax
more, keep going, stop that, go slower, pretend not to look for it, don't
pretend, be real, go to the core of my being and 'let it find me,' the
voice will rise up through my clenched fingers and shoot through the pen,
spurting out more truth than I can swallow without gagging.

I told the bartender at the Rusty Anchor to make me a drink called The
Voice. I said 'make it smooth but with a bite, something clear but thick
and salty, something that will burn a little on the way down but won't rot
my teeth.' He grinned and asked me how long it had been since the last
time. I said two months. He said 'No, I mean since you got laid.' I had to
think.

My bookshelf is full of self-help. The Art of the Novel. The Art of the
Short Story. On Writing Well. It was A Dark and Stormy Night. Introducing
the Drama. The Art of Fiction. Becoming a Writer. Writer's Meat Market. The
Art of Surrender. The Voice. Goddesses in Every Handbag. Quantum Sex.
Maximum Parenting. Men and Why They Won't Stop It. Letting Go of Libel.
Self-help masterpieces that cured their authors' voices.

My father pointed out heaven and hell to me one night when I was ten. We
were out on the porch, stargazing through his telescope. He pointed up and
down and then swirled his arm around to designate most of our front yard
and part of the neighbor's driveway. He was drunk and said, 'Ya' know 'bout
God?' I said yah. He nodded like we had our little secret now. He held a
bottle of wine by the neck and pointed at the night with one free finger. I
remember the sound of the wind when it hit the lip of the bottle, and
wanting my father to stand very still. I had let a boy rub his hand
underneath my shirt and outside my panties a few days before, there on the
porch. I thought of the voices that had escaped from my mouth.

Scrawled on the stall door of the Rusty Anchor's women's room: "Veronica's
Voice will make you come."

###

--
T.L. Kelly
(aka wenchpoet)
roo...@teleport.com
http://www.teleport.com/~room101/wench.htm

.From: stu...@world.std.com (the reverse-psychology major)
.Subject: ssc [book]
.Date: Fri Mar 7 03:48:11 1997

... i don't think that many chess players realize just how
important the bishop is. i am tempted to write a chess book
entitled 'playing with your bishop'. look for it soon in
major bookstores. should be in the adult section, if you know
what i mean.

bonus ssc:

... i don't think you people realize how kule i am. i have
been on since the '80's AND, check the archives, i have made
a penis reference every single fuckin' day.

beelzibub
ps;
un-fuckin'-believably kule
--
this is my .sig. it's one of the best .sigs on the 'net'. i know what
you're thinking: 'did he post 5 or 6 articles'? to tell you the truth i
kinda lost track myself. so you gotta ask yourself one question: 'have
you mamorized it yet?' huh, have you punk? go for it. make my bed.

.From: stu...@world.std.com (the reverse-psychology major)
.Subject: Re: WANTED: Email signatures
.Date: Fri Mar 7 01:49:30 1997

Patrick Corbett <tjim...@merle.acns.nwu.edu> wrote:

>Good People,
>
> I am writing a piece for 3AM college magazine on email signatures
>and am on a hunt for the witty, snazzy, and irreverant. If you have some
>examples that you think fit, feel free to send them my way.
>

... gee, i *really* wish i could help you. i'll keep my eyes open.

beelibub
ps;
oh, i don't know, maybe 'blowme'?

.From: asc...@pacifier.com (Alan Scott)
.Subject: Pastorale
.Date: Sat Mar 8 01:15:17 1997

Dylan was deep in the sim when a window popped up right in the middle of
his favorite houri's navel, glistening with the sheen of his private
access. Only a few people it could be, and when he poked the jewel to
expand the window, making the houri giggle, it turned out to be the ones
he least wanted to see: his parents.

They were naked, as always, looking young, healthy and happy, smiling
indulgently out at him from the frame as if they could really see what he
was up to, though he'd masked them a scene from an old _Lassie_ flat
instead. Behind them the vista of Pastorale swept on, nothing but blue
sky, fluffy green trees and grassy parkland and, here and there, the pink
and brown flesh of the other residents, as far as the eye could see.

"Dylan, honey, did you get our email? You never wrote back. We thought
you might be in trouble..." they trailed off, waiting for him to say
something, as if he were far away in some orbital and they had to pause
for the lightspeed delay.

He'd deleted their stupid message, of course; there was nothing new in
it, nothing to respond to, nothing but their endless pleas for him to come
join them in their endless naked bliss, eating and screwing and playing
without recourse to lecs or nans for 23-plus hours out of every 24. They
boasted that the planned sustainable-living community of Pastorale took
care of all its residents' needs with carefully hidden,
ecologically-friendly hardware, so that once in, you never had to deal
with "technology" again, and could exist as humanity's forbears had, happy
hunters and gatherers in an untrammeled parklike wilderness. With, of
course, some exceptions - the virt tree his parents were speaking through
being one of the most often used. But by and large, his parents said with
pride, the residents of Pastorale were totally "unplugged."

To Dylan, happily in the thick of the advanced 21st-Century urban glom
that stretched from Maine to Maryland, being unplugged sounded like hell.

Dylan's look of disgust must have spoken for him. His parents looked
unusually downcast, their healthy, muscular bodies drooping.

"Are you sure you won't at least send a simbot for a visit?"

"NO! How many times do I have to tell you?" He wasn't about to let them
get in another word about their ridiculous lifestyle. "Look, if you don't
change your tune don't expect me to listen to your station. I'm *not
interested*, Mom, Dad. Bye."

He terminated the connection and turned back to his sim lover, but he
was too agitated to continue what he'd started. Yet again he considered
deleting his parents from his access, filtering them out like the rest of
the spam, but again decided as he always had that he owed them at least a
channel, despite their never changing the program. Finally, unable to
concentrate even on the lovely distractions of his houris, he jacked out
and left his cubicle.

He walked a block to the cabterm, panting with the unaccustomed effort,
and swiped his id to get in. As he sat down in the nearest cab, though, he
realized he had no real destination in mind. Nothing stood out; all the
"places" he could think of were sim.

The cab started its clock anyway after waiting a full minute, then
prompted him at two for a destination. He realized, thus prodded, that he
did have one place he could check on.

"Where's Pastorale?"

The cab gave him an address but it didn't mean much to him. The URL was
on this continent, though, at least.

"What's the ETA?"

The cab told him.

"Twenty minutes? I guess I can take that long. Let's go."

The cab hummed out of its slot and into the traffic flow, dodging trucks
and simpods as it settled into a high-speed northbound lane. Dylan lay
back and put on his portable, going into an old sim he'd had since he'd
been living with his parents. Might as well get into the mood.

***

The cab pinged him a short while later; he authorized the transfer with
a wave and it opened up, leaving him on another litter-strewn urban
street, in front of a blank-faced building much like the one he lived in.
A discreet sign glowed next to the block-long structure's single door,
right in front of him, reading "Pastorale" in cool green script. There
were no trees, and the sky wasn't blue.

Maybe it was a transport center; it stood to reason that the pristine
green fields of Pastorale would have controlled access. Dylan went inside
- the door hissed back and closed again behind him - and was confronted
with an empty, doorless corridor, a wall of what looked like glass at the
far end. Behind the wall a receptionist buffed his nails.

Dylan's hair rose and his skin prickled as he walked towards the
receptionist, but it didn't worry him; the scan would of course reveal him
as virus-free, unless he'd picked up something from the cab.

When he got closer something about the receptionist clued him that it
was sim, although the quality was much higher than most companies bothered
with. The sim had its expressions down, for instance. The eyebrow lifted
with just the right level of supercilious boredom.

"May I help you?" the sim inquired, in a tone indicating his utter
indifference to so doing.

"I'm here to see my parents. They're residents of Pastorale. Jim and
Lakeyshya Blake."

"UIDs?" the sim inquired, bored. Dylan pulled out his address book and
transferred the information to the sim.

Although the receptionist got no friendlier, Dylan did get results: a
physical door opened to his right and a gorgeous young woman who was *not*
a sim, although she would have done for one of his houris, beckoned him
into the darkened room beyond.

"Mer Blake? My name's Chelsea. You here to see your parents? Are they,
um, expecting you?"

"Yes. No. No, Chelsea, they're not. I'd like to see them anyway,
though."

She seemed dubious but willing to accommodate him, smiling helpfully.

"Well... okay, sir. Not that it matters. Right this way."

She turned and walked back through the dimness, glancing back over her
shoulder to make sure he was following. She kept her eyes on him longer
than seemed necessary.

Hulking shapes on either side hummed and blinked. Dylan followed her
into the gloom, blinking himself as his eyes adjusted. He realized that
this room held more computing power than his whole corp.

Chelsea led him further, to a door labeled, in the same green script as
he'd seen outside, "Residences." She palmed it, eyed it, and opened it.
Beyond was...

Another room, this one narrow-aisled and lined with stacked mechanisms,
each one a long gray rectangle with enigmatic status lights. A panel on
each contained a UID and a name in green script.

She led him left, right, and left again, through identical narrow aisles
lined with nothing but more of the enigmatic boxes. Chelsea stopped in the
middle of one aisle, apparently no different from any other, and pointed
to her left. Two of the panels on that side bore familiar UIDs, and the
names written there were James, and Lakeyshya, Blake. Although he couldn't
see their faces he knew they were inside, in sim.

***

Of course Pastorale was a lie. He should have realized that there was
nowhere the glom hadn't spread. He should have realized that his poor
deluded parents' calls to him weren't motivated by their desire to see him
out of sim, but by their licensing agreement with their own sim provider,
which probably gave them a break on maintenance if they shilled for new
customers. Dylan should have realized a lot of things, but for a kid who'd
always been told he was smart, he really wasn't all that bright.

He'd missed Chelsea's lonely, smoky gaze, for instance, at least
consciously, as he wheeled around and hurried, nearly running, out of the
Pastorale complex, into the street where a cabterm was as always less than
a block away, back to his apartment where the first thing he did was pull
his parents from private access. Then he made a new houri, named her
Chelsea, and fucked her silly. Then he killed her a few times, and fucked
her again. Then he erased her. Then he called his parents and told them
what he'd seen, not bothering with the Lassie mask this time.

They were very understanding. He and his parents had a long, long talk,
realtime over ten minutes and god knew how many cycles, and by the time it
was over he'd reinstated their private access and had arranged a visit to
them, in Pastorale.

***

Dylan had a wonderful time with his parents in Pastorale, and returned
to his own life in the glom much refreshed, if with a much smaller credit
balance.

After all, what are parents for?

***

--
Alan P. Scott..................http://www.pacifier.com/~ascott/apshome.htm
"When I can no longer bear to think of the victims of broken homes, I
begin to think of the victims of intact ones."
--Peter DeVries

.From: "wenchpoet" <roo...@teleport.com>
.Subject: Shoe Salesman Turned Felon
.Date: Sun Mar 9 01:19:41 1997

Shoe Salesman Turned Felon
by
T.L. Kelly

We met at house outside of Scapoose the night before, actually about 3
a.m., and I was still in my double-breasted suit. I work in a major
department store in Portland, in shoes. I'm a shoe salesman. That's why I
was wearing a double-breasted suit. I guess I'm a maintstreamer first, a
yuppie, I guess, and an Earth First! person second. The house where we met
is in sort of a commune situation. I don't know if the people there still
call it that, though. We talked about how we would climb the rig, get up
the ladders. We had already talked to the Filipino sailors the night
before, at the port, about our plans. The sailors were all partying, and
said they would probably be crashed out when we "hit." We had gone to a bar
in Portland to talk some more about it. We found out that there was a
meeting of the Oregon State Lawmaker's Association that night in Kelso
(near the port). The topic of the meeting was "dealing with activists." We
talked about that, sort of ironic that we might be their first "activist
situation" after their big meeting! So we went home got some sleep. On the
way home, I stopped at a store and picked up some Snickers bars and
Butterfingers to eat after I got up on the rig. I figured it might be cold
up there.

I didn't sleep very well. Wasn't much time to sleep before we met in
Scapoose at about 3 a.m. It's not a commune, really, anymore. You probably
should just write "house." We made sure we each had banners (protesting log
export), then we drove to Rainier (across the Columbia River from Port
Longview). The closer we got to Rainier, the foggier it got, we figured
Earth was on our side. We stopped at a city park and a cop pulled up. We
got a little nervous so we decided to put all the climbers into one car to
go over the bridge. When we got to the docks, the fog had lifted just
enough for us to see where we were going--like Earth was really parting the
way! We drove past an unmanned guard shack, and headed for the first ship
which we had planned to climb, but there was someone on deck, smoking a
cigarette. So we went to the second ship. We are basically nonviolent. If
there's someone there, we don't go. Plus, the cops could have busted us
before the media ever showed up. Busted us in the dark. The second ship was
clear. We wore hard hats and gear to look as normal as possible. We walked
to the ship and crossed the gangplank, I threw my backpack over my shoulder
and started up a ladder. Went up about 60 feet above the deck, thinking
"get up here before somebody hears me." But Brian dropped his hard hat
halfway up the other ladder, and a bunch of stuff from Jim's backpack fell
out on the deck, and no one came out. Probably crashed out from partying,
like the Filipino said.

At one point when I got off the ladder and moved to the top of the crane, I
felt exposed. Felt like being careful. But not scared. I looked around and
made sure all the others were up, and then I relaxed. It was almost 6 a.m.
now. We usually would lock up then, but I took time to unroll my banner
flat, lay it across the boom and hook it up. I laid out my candy bars. Then
I sat there and waited till about 7:30 a.m. Some sailors came out and
figured us out, and then I wrapped the chains around my neck and the crane
and locked up. The Filipino crawled up the ladder and came face to face
with Brian, asked what he was doing there. Brian said "I'm protesting log
export." The sailor said "But I need to get in there (to the crane deck)."
Brian said no. So the sailor asks Brian if he wanted a cigarette, very
friendly. We didn't feel threatened by the crew. They walked around and
took pictures of us, said it was for their families, you know, like
souvenirs. They smiled a lot, joked around with each other.

The law showed up about 8:30 a.m. They had been working on a homicide, they
said, all morning--a little kid had crawled into a bean bag chair and
suffocated. They walked around and pointed at us, took pictures. Then the
sheriff showed up, and then about 15 cops showed up behind him. The sheriff
assigned groups of cops to each boom we were chained to. One of each group
climbed up the ladders to talk to us. Officer Eigler talked to me. He said
"well, you made your point, it's time to come down." I said I didn't know
if we'd made it yet, and that we wanted the logs stopped from being loaded
today. He asked me how long I would be up there, and he tried to negotiate
noon. I said no, not noon. Then he tries "suppose we get your buddy down by
noon?" I said no. Then he climbed down, and climbed back up and said we
would be charged with felony sabotage. He said he should be working on the
bean bag death. I told him to go work on it, that I could stay up there
until he was finished.

Then they started bringing out the bolt cutters. I told Officer Eigler that
the chains were designed to repel bolt cutters. He asked me if I minded if
he tried anyway. He was kind of nervous, trying to avoid hitting my neck.
Ten minutes later, the Filipino ship captain brought out another bolt
cutter, a big one, and tried to explain to the cops how to use it, a bit
hard to do given the language barrier. But they got it around the lock on
my neck and it wouldn't work. So they brought out a hack saw. They had
already frisked me for the key. They didn't find it, but before he put the
hack saw to my neck, I told him I had the key. I unlocked myself. I had the
key in my boot. They didn't frisk my boots. By then two TV stations and
three newspapers had shown up, and an Earth First! video guy had taped the
whole thing. I told Officer Eigler I would come down on my own. He said "I
totally agree with your statement, but this is not the way to do it, even
though I admire your results."

They took us to jail in the paddy wagon. All four of us. We were handcuffed
as soon as we got off the crane. They wouldn't drive us through the main
entrance of the hall of justice. (About 20 Earth First! members rallied at
the main entrance, carried the "wailing tree" and handed out flyers urging
a ban on log exports.) When we got to the third floor they put us in a
holding cell. Just us four. We were booked, fingerprints, palmprints--those
palmprints are pretty wierd. Didn't know they did that. You wouldn't
believe how much paper work goes into getting arrested. I must have signed
my name 12 times. They gave us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, orange
juice and the most god awful dust cookies I've ever had. Supposed to be
chocolate chip. I wanted to take my copy of Desert Solitaire by Edward
Abbey--he wrote the Monkey Wrench Gang--but they said we weren't allowed to
take anything in. We were taken to a cinder block room with an opaque
window, maybe 25 x 12, with two stainless steel tables and a TV that blares
24 hours with one volume setting: full blast. We got two wool blankets
apiece, two sheets and a pillowcase. No pillow. And these funky sandals.
Ugly polyurethane things. They didn't give me my sandals for five hours. I
finally had to bug the guards to give me some and I got a pair of double
extra large, one of them was broken in half--I was definitely amused by the
footwear. Guess its from being in shoes, you know, for five years. At
Nordstrom's. That's where I work, but that may not be important to write
down. People at work might get hassled as it is. I took a day off to do
this.

Interesting group in the jail--Augustine and Manuel, two Mexicans, and then
this big Sioux, his name is Iron Cloud. He was in there for DWI (driving
while intoxicated). Manuel said "I had some trouble with my wife."
Augustine was also DWI, and there was this other guy, real clean cut, in
there for shoplifting. He said he was serving five days for shoplifting.
That sort of clued me that we were in trouble. We told them we were in for
protesting. Bob, the boss of the cell, an ex-logger, said "that's great."
Pretty funny guy, Bob. We managed to have some interesting conversations
with Bob and the clean-cut guy, about log exports. They said log exports
can't possibly supply the needs of China, Japan and Korea. We got some good
dialog going on in there. Felt like jail solidarity. They're just normal
people. Jail was much more revealing than I thought it would be, but it is
most dehumanizing. You are removed from all your possessions. If you want
to go to the library, you have to fill out a request form. Request forms
for everything.

They let us out 28 hours later, about 4 p.m. on Friday. They charged us
with 'interference of owner control of property.' A felony. Found out this
law was enacted in 1919, and it was designed to keep the dock workers in
line. The last time they used the law was ten years ago, against
longshoremen. We have a lawyer. I hope to plea bargain, get the charges
reduced to a misdemeanor. But then we're open to restitution--the owners of
the ship are claiming $25,000 in damages--Kerr Steamships of Portland. And
the owners of the logs, International Paper, are also pushing a suit. We'll
be arraigned on Thursday.

I make house payments. I own a couple of cars. That's my big concern. I
don't know if I can justify 5 to 6 hours of down-time for this. I went back
to work Saturday, and people who had seen me on TV were laughing. The guys
wanted to know what jail is like. I'm keeping a low profile. I don't just
climb cranes. I try to get people out to vote. But I live in a suburban
home.

###

--
T.L. Kelly
(aka wenchpoet)
roo...@teleport.com
http://www.teleport.com/~room101/wench.htm

.From: goo...@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
.Subject: Re: Short Shameful Confession
.Date: Sat Mar 8 20:04:31 1997

jb...@convex.com (Jeffrey Bay) writes:
>
>Itty-bitty handheld vacs fail to suck.
>
>PS: And I don't mean that as a compliment.
>PPS: So how would you get a cubic yard of cat litter out of the carpet?

Industrial-grade shop vacuum. Wap makes some okay ones. Even a Sears
cheapie is better than nothing. May I suggest the new Gore-Tex
filter for the Sewars vacs?

Better yet, get rid of the carpet if you can. Carpets are evil: they
collect dirt, spilled food and drink, and so on. Mine are forever
full of sawdust, spilled wort, steel filings, diatomaceous earth,
quartz dust, thread-cutting oil, buffing compound, polyurethane glue,
shellac flakes, fragments of mica, bits of cat treats, pulverized tagua
nuts, and so forth. If ever I own my own place it will have no carpets
at all, even if the flooring has to be varnished particle-board.

Mark., though my workshop is in the garage now
goo...@netcom.com

.From: an...@panix.com (Annie)
.Subject: Death and the Whatever
.Date: Thu Mar 13 12:25:12 1997

When it became obvious that my father was not just in the hospital,
but dying in the hospital, I resigned. I walked into the office on
a Friday morning, and I said to my boss, "My dad's dying. I quit."

Okay, there was more to it than that, but you'll just have to be
content with the Reader's Digest version right now.

I went back to my office and spent a hour or two tidying up, leaving
things in order. My boss came in eventually, and she said, "Could you
come into the conference room for a minute? I need to talk with you."

In the conference room, she had gathered together what cow orkers were
around at the time...and ordered up several bottles of champagne.

My boss had ordered champagne. Cheap, five-dollar-per-black-bitter-bottle
champagne.

What could I do? I drank a glassful.

Annie

From: David <dra...@webtv.net>
Subject: Re: Question about Alcoholism
Date: Fri Mar 14 20:44:57 1997

you don't have to overdrink to be an alcoholic. it is all how the booze
changes your life. Whether it's 1 drink or 20 drinks.
it's about where that drink takes you. i'm an alcoholic but i have not
drank in 9 years, but i'm still an alcoholic. i will die one, i will
always be one, even if i never drink again....i'm only one drink away
from being an " active alcoholic ".

draac

.From: "Thermopyle" <therm...@worldnet.att.net>
.Subject: Re: Question about Alcoholism
.Date: Sat Mar 15 02:53:39 1997

David James Polewka <imb...@mindspring.com> wrote...
> "Thermopyle" <therm...@worldnet.att.net> wrote:
>
> >> Would it be accurate to refer to alcoholism as
> >> compulsive overdrinking? Uh, I think it's kind of
> >> obvious that's what it is. Isn't it?
> >>
> >No, I think it's just compulsive drinking. Why would it have to be
> >overdrinking?
>
> Why do they use the terms compulsive overeating and
> compulsive overspending? Why do they say compulsive
> gambling instead of compulsive overgambling?
>

It is compulsory to eat and in a capitalist
non-agrarian society, to spend.

Not so for gambling.

.From: asc...@pacifier.com (Alan Scott)
.Subject: Lyric Sheet: Rebellion (Jedi Convoy)
.Date: Fri Mar 14 01:08:54 1997

Rebellion: Jedi Convoy

(To the tune of C.W. McCall's truckin' tune _Convoy_)

"We'll make it, R2. This here's the Jedi Luke... you got a copy on me Big
Ben come on?
"Uhh, yeah ten-four Big Ben fer shur fer shur. By golly it's clean clear
to Endor come on?
"Yeah, that's a big ten-four there Big Ben... Yeah, we definitely got to
get Han, old buddy. Force be with us now, looks like we got us a
Rebellion..."

Was on a forested moon, with Imperial goons
And some Ewoks, rollin' logs.
Jabba the Hut down on Tatooine
Mean an' nasty, eatin' frogs...
Yeah, Jabba had captured C-3PO
Stripped Princess Leia down
I says Big Ben this here's your old friend Luke
I'm about to go and rescue Han.

Chorus:
'Cause we got a lil' rebellion
Flyin' through the night
Yeah we got a lil' rebellion
Ain't she a beautiful sight?
Come on and fly an X-wing
Ain't nothin' gonna get in our way
We're gonna win this lil' rebellion
Empire's goin' away - Star Wars...

"Uhh, breaker R-2, this here's Luke and, uh, you wanna work open this-here
lock?
"Uh, ten-four, in about five seconds or so. Them Stormtroopers're gettin'
in-tense up here."

By the time we got to the Death Star
We had hundreds of ships in all
But the Empire had 'em a force field
And their ships was wall to wall
TIE fighters as thick as fleas on a Wookiee
They even had the Emperor there
I says put up your dukes 'cause
This here's Luke
And we're gonna show ya what goes where.

Chorus:
'Cause we got a big rebellion
Fightin' for the right, yeah
We got a big rebellion...

"Uhh, you wanna blow that thing up there, Han?"
"Uh, negatory there Luke, the field's still up. Them goons are startin' to
blow up my pilots, yeah. Force be with us now, we're gonna have to give it
another run..."

Well we cycled over the forest floor
With their rockets at our tails
We blew up all of them Walkers
'n' left 'em sittin' on the trails

By the time we got that field down, though
The Empire was gettin' smart.
They'd brought up some reinforcements
And Luke was a'fightin' Darth.
There was armored fighters fast and fleet
And then there was a big surprise--
The Death Star's biggest gun began
To work before our eyes.

Well we shot the line and we went for broke
With Han and Lando's ships
And eleven hundred friendly Ewoks
Comin' up to Chewie's hips...

"Ahh, Master Luke, this here's your father come on?"
"Yes, Father. You want me to fix your microchips with this here Tatooine
Toothpick?"
Yeah, Darth Vader serves the Dark Side, but he wants all the help he can
get.

Well, they fought before the Emperor
Skywalkers, man-to-man
Luke almost went to the Dark Side, too
But then he saw his daddy's hand.

He said, Father, this here's your own son Luke
You just ain't a-gonna take my soul
So the last of Vader turned away from hate
And tossed the Emperore, Ten-Four

Chorus:
'Cause we got a great Rebellion...

--
Alan P. Scott..................http://www.pacifier.com/~ascott/apshome.htm
"I feel stupid and contagious. Here we are now; entertain us."
--Nirvana, "Smells Like Teen Spirit", _Nevermind_

.From: imb...@mindspring.com (David James Polewka)
.Subject: Re: Question about Alcoholism
.Date: Wed Mar 19 01:37:28 1997

"Thermopyle" <therm...@worldnet.att.net> wrote:

>> And, therefore, in the case of governing, the correct
>> term would be (if it were determined that such a problem
>> did, in fact, exist) "compulsive overgoverning", because
>> it is necessary to govern. Right or wrong?
>>
>It is not necessary to govern all issues. Compulsive governing
>is surely to result in overgoverning.

It's not necessary to eat all foods or spend all money either.
Not all, just SOME. We need some government, but not
too much. How do you tell when there's too much?
Like this:

If it disturbs the peace, then you're overdoing it!

.From: "wenchpoet" <roo...@teleport.com>
.Subject: martin drives the fury
.Date: Fri Mar 21 00:25:23 1997

martin drives the fury
by
T.L. Kelly

martin can't sleep so he wakes me up and says "let's go for a drive."
lately he's been a real pain about his new plymouth fury, which he strokes
and fondles and mauls more than he ever does me anymore. and now martin
longs for her smooth gray leather seats so he drags me along for a menage a
trois in the middle of the fucking night: martin, his beloved fury, and me.
martin grabs his black leather jacket as he hurries me along and nearly
pushes me down the stairs before i have the chance to wipe the sleep off my
face and notice that i'm barely dressed so i protest, but he wants none of
that, he throws a pillow in the front seat and scoots me in and mumbles
something about the moon, the moon being ripe. i whine feebly and grab the
pillow and rest my head against the door and stretch out a little. one nice
thing about the fury: she has a big lap. martin does his 'hello fury'
ritual. he doesn't just get into the car, he stalks her, rubs up against
her, eases into her, grips her tight black steering wheel firmly but
tenderly and then squeezes her ignition till she finally moans. i close my
eyes. just before sleep takes me i open one eye and watch martin's face
change in a disturbing way as he drives his mistress fury slow and easy
westward, towards the sea, the swollen moon ahead, luring him. a dream
bubbles up from my childhood. my friend jeannie and i hike into the desert
across lively avenue looking for signs that the bad people may have left
during their gang fights and acts of vandalism and dark orgies overnight.
jeannie stops at the place in the desert where her sister defecated once in
broad daylight. jeannie checks to see if it is still there, to see if thebad people have once again overlooked it. they always do, because the
hardened mound is never disturbed. jeannie says, "look, it's still here."
we have a moment of silence and then move on, a little farther into the
desert where other wonders that we have named and visited, await us. but we
don't go beyond sierra highway because that is the edge of the world. the
dream shifts and the bad people drive down our street. the colognas, a band
of renegade teenage boys estranged from their absent parents, drive down
our street in their big loud plymouth fury, and make all us little girls
stop our innocent game of hide n seek and fear them. they have smudged
tattoos and wear long torn trenchcoats and steel-toed boots and their hair
is black and wild and they have scabs on their knuckles. their mouths curl
from ear to ear. a silver tooth flashes. they carry knives with snakes
curled around them and they have just come from eating fresh road kill.
psychedelic music about whores in fairy tales blare out of the fury's
broken windows~~heh heh hey there little red riding hood~~we step out of
our secret hiding places to watch the dark parade. we are all very quiet
and afraid and wonder, for the moment, what the world might look like
through the colognas' eyes. it would be red. they leer at us, grinning
fiendishly. they whistle through broken teeth and say dirty things about
our little budding bodies. we wait to hear sirens--surely the police will
come! the fury finally passes and we step back into our hiding places and
touch ourselves, touch the little buds and nubs, because some sudden fervor
in each one of us has been stirred. i am aroused out of the dream for just
a moment, long enough to open one eye and note that my bare feet are in
martin's lap and he is protecting them with one hand, driving with the
other. the stereo is blaring: the damned. the speedometer reads 75 mph. my
eyelids fall. the dream resumes. jeannie's older sister--the one who
defecated in the desert--plays hide n seek with us one night when the
colognas turn down our street, the stereo blaring: the doors. we step out
of our hiding places once again and line up at the curb to watch and
listen. jeannie's sister breaks the ritual silence: "let's all stand in the
road so they have to stop or run us over." none of us virgins want to do
this, fearing knives and snakes. but we follow jeannie's sister into the
road and let her place us side by side, linking arms, while the colognas
barrel down at us in their black fury, a huge hairy spider with white
sidewall tires. i hear the stolen change from beggars tinkling in the deep
pockets of their trenchcoats. it is clear to me that we are about to lose a
shred of our collective virginity right then and there. we will become road
kill, they will see our red eyes in the headlights and they will steer
straight for us. i squirm in my sleep and martin squeezes my ankles,
anchors me. as the colognas approach, they look confused for a moment and
then annoyed and then they screech to a halt, jump out of the car through
broken windows and howl at us, howl like wolves. the chase is on. i see a
flash off the edge of a knife and the snake's tongue slithering out as i
run to the front door of my house, run to my bedroom, into my closet, my
clothes melting off me as i run. a mad grinning renegade wolf is clawing at
the closet door. i hear jeannie outside, sounding very far away, as far as
the edge of the world, crying out, "olly olly oxen free!" i wake up a
little. martin stops the car and gently pulls on my toes. he turns off the
motor and the damned stops. "we're here," he announces. i open one eye.
martin has changed, he is a cologna. no mistaking those eyes, they are eyes
that have seen the world beyond sierra highway. "where are we?" i whisper.
martin looks around and says "i'm not sure. somewhere by the river." i
scoot up and look around and sure enough, we are nowhere familiar. the moon
is melting into the sea. martin's face is lit up orange. red eyes. the
colognas have finally dragged me out of the closet and martin gets to go
first. "you can go back to sleep now," martin says, rubbing my feet. "i
just want to sit here awhile and watch the moon go down." i feel somewhat
comforted but then he says, "when it's finally gone and it's really dark,
i'll fuck your brains out." my eyelids fall down slowly at the sight of
martin grinning from ear to ear. a silver tooth flashes. jeannie rips the
closet door off its hinges and pulls me out. "hurry!" she says. "come see!
my sister is with a boy and they're naked!" jeannie pulls me through the
house and into the street and past lively avenue and through the desert. we
leap over the place of the hardened mound but it's not there anymore. it is
midnight and the moon is full, lighting us up like orange flames licking
across the desert. we run barefoot. we get to the edge of sierra highway
and we stop cold. parked across the street is the colognas' plymouth fury
and jeannie's sister and a cologna are in the front seat, mauling each
other. jeannie's sister moans. the cologna pushes her down and climbs on
top of her. jeannie's sister feet press against the window. Her toes curl.
jeannie and I are holding each other, wide-eyed, lurking behind a joshua
tree. the colognas' fury rocks and groans. jeannie's sister yelps. the
cologna howls. jeannie and i are breathing hard and touching ourselves. the
car door flings open and the cologna and jeannie's sister spill out,
knotted together. they roll across the street and end up at our feet. they
fuck furiously in front of us. they don't see us. they see something else
with other eyes, something red. they melt into each other and the new
animal that is formed leaps up and stares at jeannie and i with red eyes.
it growls. i turn to jeannie in order to say, "we should go back now, it's
getting dark" but jeannie is foaming at the mouth and pumping her fingers
into herself. she begins to melt and turns into a hardened mound on the
pavement. i realize that i am no longer on the edge but have stepped into
the highway itself. the new animal growls behind me, leaps, and knocks me
down on my back. the animal gnaws at my ankles, anchors my left ankle in
its teeth and begins to drag me into the dark new world that stretches
beyond the ragged edge of sierra highway. i squirm a little and wake up
because martin is kissing my feet, taking my toes into his mouth. i open my
eyes and he smiles. "hello," he says softly. "you were moaning in your
sleep." the moon is nearly gone. a small sliver of moonlight silhouette's
Martin's face. no mistaking those sad brooding eyes. vintage martin. so
much tenderness there but behind them, in deep ragged layers, are new
animals evolving. he stretches out and lays his head just below my belly. i
open my legs and wrap them around his hard shoulders. it occurs to me that
my foot is within reach to squeeze the beloved fury's ignition and kick the
gear shift and set her rolling over the lip of the road into the river
while holding martin down with my other leg. then we will drown and start
evolving all over again--in a few million years we'll be one creature--me,
martin and his mistress fury. the blood rushes from my chaotic brain to my
inner thighs, which martin has invaded with his mouth. the fury pushes her
lap against my ass, nudging my legs farther apart. i finger her leather lip
on the edge of the seat, to tease her, as if to say, "see? he likes to ride
me too." my foot roams, a gentle squeeze of his mistress fury's ignition,
to feel what she feels when martin squeezes her that way, when he makes her
moan. martin makes me moan and rolls my hips up. the fury rocks gently and
sighs. i put my arms behind my head and try to resist closing my eyes,
resist running into the closet. martin rises up, his face glistening, and
strips. martin's evil grin, ear to ear, but not on his face. on mine.
mistress fury creaks a little under the pressure of her severe jealousy,
licking at martin's flesh with her leather tongues. martin crawls up on me,
the big black hairy spider with its swollen fang eases into me. i grip the
fury's love handle. martin glares at my white knuckles for a moment. he
worries i will pull her precious door handle off the door. i might. the
evil grin feels good on my face. headlights down the road, coming at us. we
are potential roadkill. martin pushes me down, to conceal my red eyes. hide
n seek. find me, martin, find the spot to ride up against. martin finds it
and anchors me there, riding. my legs shoot straight up just as the
headlights pass. i want a smudged tattoo on my ankle for moments like
these, ankles lit up by headlights. slam-dancing music blaring from the
passing car. mistress fury sways in the backlash of the sudden wind. from
far away, we hear the driver's horn, in celebration or retaliation? i hold
martin's face in my hands for a moment to look at him, but not to see him,
but so that he sees me. the waves start coming and they push the evil grin
on my face to a deeper level behind my eyes, changing my face into more of
myself. my right leg bends a little, my foot toys with the gear shift. the
little death rises up in the wake of flirting with Death Herself. martin
grows impossibly larger. i let go of the fury's love handle and dig my
claws into her grey thighs. martin comes with me, unconcerned for a moment
if i puncture the seat and make his beloved fury bleed. the waves roll
through me and crest on the yelps and the howls, mine and his, and the
squeals from mistress fury. something else from far away, a new animal, out
there in the dark, joins in with a deep-throated growl. martin rises up and
grabs my ankles to bring them down, to conceal me again, realizing finally
that we are being watched by something barely there. something tangible
once you close your eyes and let it out of its cage. i swirl my finger in
the hot come spilling out of me and rub it in the fury's leather piping,
making her lips slick. she likes that. martin pulls on his jeans and
squeezes the fury's ignition until she moans--it's her turn now--and then
he starts back for home, finally ready to sleep and dream up new animals of
his own. he passes me his leather jacket and says, "sit up darlin. watch
for red eyes. don't want to mess up my car with road kill."

--
T.L. Kelly
(aka wenchpoet)
roo...@teleport.com
http://www.teleport.com/~room101/wench.htm

.From: Mao Tse-Tung <cd...@worldnet.att.net>
.Subject: Re: benefits and hazards of chromium picolinate
.Date: Mon Mar 24 00:36:02 1997

too...@juno.com wrote:
>
> Recently started a devoted schedule of cardio
> exercises,weight lifting, and yoga. I believe
> I eat right and have started daily taking
> multi-vitamin supplements (Nature's Plus),
> in addition to one capsule of Chromium Picolinate
> (200 mcg). I believe in the power of research
> and asking questions. . . looking for answers on CP.
> Anyone out there that can help in my quest for knowledge?

Okay... One. Are you chromium deficient? If so, then continue taking the
chromium. Second of all, do you EAT regularly? Like on a meal-to-meal
daily basis? If so, you can quit the multivitamins, unless you're some
kind of vegetarian starving freak. You're not adding anything by
increasing vitamin intake, you most probably piss most of it off (notice
darker urine after vitamin intake increase). Also, I have no idea why
anyone would subscribe to 'yoga,' merely because it virtually has no
point, no goal, and does basically nothing but waste time. If you're
lifting, and you want to gain muscle mass and increase fat utilization,
start on some GOOD supplements, the best out there (legally, remember)
would be EAS's line, particularly the creatine monohydrate supplements
and HMB, which, if cycled and continued while you're lifting (this
doesn't mean aerobics, I mean REALLY lifting, where you actually have to
put enough strain on the muscle groups to stimulate their growth, not
those little vinyl-coated dumbbells and doing 'crunches' in between the
NordicTrack) In about a month, you'll have seen about all the growth you
can expect until you go seriously into bodybuilding. If you're over 40,
you might want to try DHEA, but since it irritates and possibly damages
the prostate, you might not. Chromium Picolinate is a FAD. It does not
increase the absorbtion of insulin or regulate glucose, that's why you
have a pancreas (and I don't), sufficiently to aid the body's processes.
Just make sure you eat lots and lots of protein (meat! What a concept!)
and be sure to REMEMBER to exercise, otherwise the effort is for nothing
(and supplements aren't free). If you are just DYING to get huge,
rock-hard muscles, then I could ramble off for a couple of hours about
the less-than-legal side of androgens and anabolics, but it doesn't
sound to me like you're THAT obsessed.

.From: stu...@world.std.com (the reverse-psychology major)
.Subject: Re: How in the world does this work?
.Date: Mon Mar 24 01:54:20 1997

Jamie <nmj...@flash.net> wrote:
>the reverse-psychology major wrote:
>
>> >> Did it ever occur to you that maybe I don't wanna find out if she's
>> >> gonna put out first cuz I'm a female, too?
>
>> >I can confirm that Jamie does look like a female.
>
>> ... you're wrong, you know. you only *want* to be a female.
>
>Ouch. Beelzi, you break my tender and feminine, wonder-bra'd heart.
>Coming from you, the great masculature of t.b., is like...well, like
>water off a duck's back.
>
>>
>> neelzibub
>> ps;
>> i do not see how the fact that you are a female too should stop
>> you from wanting to find out if she will put out. you konfuse me.
>> keep it straight.
>
>It's simple. She doesn't have a penis. And *that* would be the only
>reason why I wouldn't care whether or not she puts out. What I really
>wanna know is, do *you* put out?
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

... i put *in*

beelzibub
ps;
he sets, he shoots, swish!!! nuthin' but net

.From: me_take...@primenet.com (kEvin)
.Subject: Stock Options
.Date: Mon Mar 24 17:51:01 1997

Right after the new year, I made one of those impulse buys that
haunts one for months. Fresh turkeys were on sale for a mere US
$0.50 a pound. I bought a twenty pounder. I live alone. I'm not
much of a cook.

Surprisingly, I managed to cook, strip and freeze most of the
bird without incident. I saved a hefty portion for immediate
consumption and to celebrate my newly discovered culinary
prowess, I made side dishes. The asparagus ended up as sandy
as always (I love asparagus, but not when I cook it.) The
mashed potatoes were white, mushy and a tad dry. Seizing the
phone on impulse and hoping to take advantage of my last clean
saucepan, I quickly dialed my sister-in-law for detailed instruction
in the art of gravy. After a short conference and much taking of
notes, I embarked on a voyage of discovery.

You see, gentle reader, the liquid in the pan that comes from
the bird is not just grease and congealing fat; it's also that
fabulously useful stuff known as stock. This was a subject of
much discourse, for I was unaware of the variety and usefulness
of the wonder material known stock.

Unfortunately, the art of gravy cannot be learned in a single
phone call, and though with the addition of stock I came closer
to success than ever, I did not achieve a state of culinary grace.
After a promising but failed experiment, I resorted to packaged
gravy and stored my stock for further research. Care must be taken
in the storage of stock, for if it leaks, it can wreak untold havoc
on the refrigerator ecosystem. I chose to store my stock in two
large tumblers; this choice being dictated by the disgraceful paucity
of clean dishes so shockingly common in kitchens I frequent.

Having safely stored my stock, I went into a torpor lasting some
months and did little but glance through the deep translucent
orange of the stock and wonder at the marvels it held. To safely
unleash the power of stock requires research and careful
experimentation.

With the coming of Spring, I arose from my torpor and set about
righting the appalling crime against humanity known as my kitchen.
In the process of setting wild goals, I rashly decided to restore
all of my glasses to cleanliness simultaneously. This entailed some
handling of my hoarded stock. Having determined that it had cooled
past the temperature at which plastic melts in its three month stay
on the right corner of the top refrigerator shelf, I decided to
transfer it, in all it's umber luster, to a ziplock bag.

At this point, I discovered one of the many wonders of stock. While
I had stored it as a hot, thin liquid, it was now a cold, rolypoly
solid! Inverting the glass over the ziplock did not produce the
intended result, although these attempts allowed stock to reveal
to me the wonders of that all-too-rare phenomenon known as vapor-lock.

Despairing of my futile efforts to dislodge the stock unaided, I
sought help from the silverware drawer. Calling upon my trusty
butterknife I endeavoured to free my umber wonder without damaging
it. My fears were exaggerated, for with a quick press of the knife
along its side, the stock came free with the briefest blorp.

Unfortunately, my planning was insufficient to contain the power
inherent in unleashed stock, and although it traveled the path I
had laid into the baggy, its energy refused to remain static
and it rebounded upwards with astonishing power. Startled, I grabbed
the naked stock in midair. This was a telling moment. Never before
had I handled stock in my bare hands. The sheer raw power and untapped
potential that lay nascent in my hand awed me. I stepped out onto the
balcony gripping the curved, comfortable shape of the stock in my
right hand to better contemplate this new aspect of stock.

As a liquid, turkey stock holds great promise for peaceful and
beneficial use. With further research, I could safely use it
for the betterment of all humanity. But the comforting shape
in my hand was not liquid stock, it had been transformed into
something much more. My stock had taken on the shape of the glass in
which I had stored it. It was now both firm and yielding, with a
consistency that guaranteed both aerodynamic efficiency and satisfying
splatter. While it retained its potential for good, in that form and
in that place, it could become an instument of chaos, of random
destruction. I could hurl the stock into the deep stillness of the
night, and it would make a long descent along the slope to splat
upon the hated drive-slow-in-the-left-lane-Volvo occupying one of the
neighbors yards, or I could drop the stock into a safe container and
devote myself to learning how to tap its potential for good.

I had to make a choice between using the great power in this substance
for random destruction, or of holding back until research revealed the
future benefits it could provide. Everyone eventually has to make
this choice, but there's really only one decision. After a moment of
brief reflection, I consigned my stock to its best use.

Then I quoted Oppenheimer.

kEvin
missed.

.From: mle...@wetware.wetware.com (M. Legare, etc.)
.Subject: Re: If I only had a soul...
.Date: Mon Mar 24 14:57:32 1997

So then j...@jfwhome.funhouse.com (John F. Woods) said:

] In <E6oo...@encore.com> kschn...@encore.com (Kevin Schnitzius) writes:
]
] >Look, X Industries have been cloning people for years now and you haven't
] >even noticed. Most of Silicon Valley is populated with X Industries-
] >produced Steve Wozniak clones.
]
] X INDUSTRIES PRESS RELEASE
]
] the management of x industries wish to
] deny the rumors of x industries using
] federal grant money for human cloning
] research. x industries categorically
] denies that it has used any federal
] money for human cloning research,
] development, production, packaging, or
] marketing. furthermore, it is a base
] canard to claim that anything which
] emerges from x industries cloning vats
] may usefully be referred to as human.
]
] to specifically counter the absurd claim
] quoted above, x industries has certainly
] not filled silicon valley with clones of
] steve wozniak. indeed, we take great
] pride in the craftsmanship of our
] robotic drones, and actively resent the
] implication that this project would need
] to resort to simple cloning technology.
] expect a lawsuit to be filed by our
] legal staff when the dimension gate next
] opens.
]
]
] x industries
] making the world safe for technology
]
] mr x clo-- er,
] research associate #36
]

INNER OFFICE MEMO

From: BoB, R&D
To: X, CEO a/o authorized replicant
Re: Damn Sheep

1) Who the hell failed in the anvilgram delivery to that
bloody stupid scotsman?

2) We need to redo the Acceptable Subsitute Schedule to
include Legal, as someone has ONCE AGAIN left the
%%$&*& template vault unlocked and testing has
gotten wacky with the repvat. AGAIN. Strych9, either
you beat some dicipline into those drones or appendages
will roll.

3) All vacations are CANCELLED until we get (1) and (2)
handled. And from now on, if you're going to bug out,
at least leave a MEMO to your AccSub so that he/she/it
won't leave us dangling in the breeze as above.

BoB
teCh
better living through beating people with lead pipes

.From: Mao Tse-Tung <cd...@worldnet.att.net>
.Subject: On a scrapegoon; a three part story for childrens
.Date: Wed Mar 26 20:21:11 1997

Enter. Enter the lavish remains of the wreck`ed hull of the large
unintimidatingly brown spider-worm colors of the tattered hull of the
once but not now SHIP.
Trudge, TRUDGE through the pristine Damoclean sword-shattered wilderness
of agates passed and gallstones bitter. Manage to menage, this one's for
you, old roy, the amateur masthead prick. Cukes. Cukes. Cukes. Cukes.

In the chute we lay, half horizontal, enjoying one another's company in
fleeting moments as the cheap white plastic with lint caught inbetwixt
its layers, in the BRIGHT BRIGHT full sun in the early morning with dew
drops and all, all lights on inside house, all shades draws, a scented
carpet somewhere. A fairly mediocre priced rubbermaid clothes-basket,
ovaltine-shaped, is emptying from its soap-blue plastic cage a load of
clothing into the laundry chute which I and this odd girl are standing,
the angle is just so that we can stand, I see grass stains on the white
rubber parts of her shoes. Something catches in my head and reality
shakes it out, like a dog shakes a rat, I am amazed at how much light
filters in, sunlight, non-glare, almost daylight in this small shaft
where we crawled at some point before the start of the dream, before the
housewife who is dumping clothing onto and past us (there's ample space)
to another room below us. We know that, once she stops throwing clothing
in, she will most likely re-appear below the chute, which takes such a
sharp bend below us that we could not get through. So we wait. I admire
the way her hair is not collecting dust in spires, like a fleece comb
atop the mantle. I keep looking at her ankles, partially because I am
cramped comfortably into position BENEATH my arm's final joint and my
head is beneath it, pointing my eyes downwards, and partially because
there's a frayed and still fraying hem on her light blue denim trousers
which have patches sewn to the back pockets and the crotch mysteriously
cut out with pinking shears. Snapback. Synapse, to the bobsled, one,
thoo, three. I peer up into the adulterated mixed light that is gouged
into the shaft by not only the sun from a white plaster-enclosed
skylight, but also one of those older 'study positionable' lamps which
have metal bars running through their bases to adjust with, and a
bulb-shaped lampshade and were turned on by that black little
knob-button at the top, and this particular one was the kind that could
be 'clipped' in place to a bannister, desk edge, whatever, and it was
clipped to the ledge, painted white metal, to the laundry chute and I
could smell perfume. How the lady got the clothing down the chute either
around or somehow through the light, which was fully extended, covering
the shaft's opening, barring entry. I reached up and batted the lamp
forcefully to the floor, where the bulb broke and it went out. I
signalled silently for the girl to advance up the chute, easily
traversing the textured terrain with those white-rubber-soled sneakers
at the frayed hem which harbored mystical qualities. I popped one hand
onto the innermost ledge to get a foothold, and there was now a
three-foot gap between my boot and her head, so, without my knowledge,
she jumped and climbed up my back, stepped onto my extended shoulder,
her impressive weight forcing me downwards against all the muscles in my
arms and some of my back, straining gently to prevent her falling and
landing in a VERY compromising position (why did I prevent that?), her
shoe crushing my ear, and leapt from that perch cleanly through the
chute opening, leaving me to pull myself up and out. Knowing that the
housewife-clad woman who was 'doing' laundry at the time was otherwise
occupied, we crept into the master bathroom and raided the cabinetry,
stealing any toothbrushes, talcum powder, rocks, shelving, or trial-size
prescription medications, then quickly exiting to a closed-off room
where we encountered a young, possibly 17 years-of-age girl sitting
half-asleep on the large bed which occupied 4\5 of the room. I instantly
knew that this would lead to a scream, and therefore detection, so,
without anything except instinct and adrenaline, along with seven years
of training for such an event, took off with sprinter's steps for a few
feet, at the same time fluidly pulling the large black Benchmade 975 SBT
from its pocket clip and snapping it instantly into service, then lunged
in excess of five feet to land with my large forearm gauntlet blocking
any hope of an outcry, simultaneously switching the knife into an
icepick grip, and slipping the blade deep into the clavicle/collarbone
gap and severing the subclavian artery, slowly removing my forearm form
her now closed and dead eyes, wiped the excess from the blade and neatly
skipped away towards the large screened bay windows from which a rooftop
segment could be seen. Taking upwards of a minute to figure out the
insipid mechanism for removing the screen, I finally managed to get one
off and rolled the window opening knob past full and led the now
slightly frowning girl, white soled shoe after white-soled shoe, out off
of the windowsill to silently contact the rooftop, I followed and pulled
the screen back into place, bent down to study the window mechanism,
located the silver-colored aluminum spar which prevented the mechanism
from being forced shut by the wind, pulled it quickly, sailing it from
the rooftop all the way to the rooftop across the street in the not at
all hot, but rather bright and sunny early morning. I pushed shut the
window and discovered the girl had already located the downspout,
however the height was too great to jump or shimmy, so we had to lower
ourselves carefully from the ledge to the lower roof portion and leap
from the rain gutters to the highest ground, getting the advantage, and
running silently towards the pedestrian path where we would continue on
foot until...

.From: gt6...@prism.gatech.edu (PiRich)
.Subject: Notes on Owl design. Part 18: the digestive tract.
.Date: Mon Mar 24 18:14:08 1997

At the time the owl project began, it should be remembered that the
working environment was very different from the heady days when the great
raptor series birds had been developed with no expense spared. The owl
team was facing stiff competition from the mammal design group. In
particular, bat designs had proven to be incredibly successful. The
bird group had expected some cometition, but the bats had outpaced every
expectation. The small bats had even become the first non-insect designs
to win a pollenation agreement with plant systems.

The bat series included large models capable of carrying large fruits,
while others were equipped with a proprietary high resolution echolocation
technology so refined that they could hunt insects at night. At the same
time, the new bats were being mass produced in numbers bird systems simply
could not match.

In the meantime, the owl teams's nightvision optics, silenced wing
airfoil, and 350 degree rotating head development had run into cost
over-runs that made the basic owl a very expensive piece of equipment,
indeed. This state of attairs caused near panic in the owl team managers,
who were sure mammal systems would simply increase the size of one of
their bat bug-hunters and thus produce a cheap alternative to the owl
overnight (no pun intended).

To make matters worse, the owl design also called for a high performance
digester capable of digesting rodents whole. This piece of equipment
hadn't worked well in trials, and it looked like this would be the cost
over-run that would get the owl contract terminated altogether.

It was at this point that a radical solution was proposed by the digestion
design team: Eliminate the excretion mechanisms altogether and use a cheap
one-step digester. This solution was quite controversial at the time, and
remains so to this day. As it turned out, the much feared bat based
night-flying rat-killer failed to materialize and the owl has remained
unchallenged as the premier night-flying rodent killer.

-Rich

Yeah, but soon I won't have anything else to say, either.
--
"Back in the 1960's, when students at other colleges were staging protests
and blowing up the offices of their school presidents, the burning question
at Georgia Tech was 'Where will I park my car?'" -Dr. M. Turner

.From: klu...@netcom.com (Scott Dorsey)
.Subject: Re: Why cheap fax machines at Kinkos aren't universally good things
.Date: Wed Mar 26 21:36:25 1997

In article <5h384c$r...@info-server.surrey.ac.uk> eep...@surrey.ac.uk (Lloyd Wood) writes:
>Mike Duncan (mdu...@tcac.com) wrote:
>
>: This sort of thing predates fax machines. I'm morally certain that when
>: Gutenburg was putting the finishing touches on his creation, some
>: schizophrenic elbowed him out of the way and began frantically turning out
>: copies of "Jesus Machine Aluminum Sex Dirt Flouride."
>
>Well, that's just typical of Americans, who neglect to bother checking
>when aluminium and flouride became widely known, or when the spelling
>'aluminium' first appeared. What are history books for?

Fluorite was known to the Greeks, who named it, and we get Fluorine
and Fluoride from their name.

Aluminium, I have to admit, was not known until the eighteenth century
when smelting of bauxite was done on a small scale. It was a very difficult
metal to extract and was considered semiprecious due to the expense of
smelting. Aluminum leaf was used on many buildings in the nineteenth
century for architectural details. It was only when electrolytic extraction
became available around the turn of the century that it became the cheap
material we know today (and the cheap electricity provided by the
Falls had a good part in this). Sorry to tell you, though, that the
variant with the extra i came about before the language was as standardized
as it is today, and the OED admits both without even degrading one as an
American variant.

Incidentally, the stannous fluoride which is commonly used in toothpaste
and water fluoridation is an undesirable byproduct of electrolytic extraction
of aluminum and would otherwise be discarded as waste.
--scott
--
"C'est un Nagra. C'est suisse, et tres, tres precis."

.From: "Candy-Colored Clown" <bre...@interaccess.com>
.Subject: Kelsey Grammer With Kitten's Head Attached To Penis
.Date: Mon Mar 24 19:56:43 1997

KELSEY GRAMMER WITH KITTEN'S HEAD ATTACHED TO PENIS

It's not that I minded a stinking drunk and bedraggled Kelsey Grammer
showing up unannounced on my doorstep at 3 a.m., white powdery residue
lining the outside of his nostrils and encrusted vomit coating his cheap
suit. But, I really didn't appreciate the fact that he wasn't wearing any
pants and had the severed head of a kitten attached to his semi-erect
penis.
Nevertheless, I invited him inside for some badly needed coffee. As we
approached the kitchen, I turned to ask him why he chose my humble abode
for his late-night pit stop. Before I managed to pose my query, he tumbled
forward and fell face-first into my coffee table, spraying razor-sharp
shards of glass in every direction. I looked on in dismay as he struggled
to his feet, shimmering bloody glass raining from his balding head.
"Three out of four dentists surveyed recommend Trident for their patients
who chew gum," he croaked, before reaching into his mouth and ripping out
molars by the handful and flinging them at me.
I ran to the phone, punched in 911 and was greeted by Pat Boone crooning a
hideously off-key lounge rendition of Judas Priest's "Eat Me Alive." I
slammed the receiver down and sprinted down the hallway toward the garage.
I flipped the light on and was at first delighted and then repulsed by the
sight of a nude Kim Basinger, sprawled across the hood of my lime-green
Yugo, pouring a bottle of Evian water directly onto her exposed brain, via
a baseball-sized cavity on the top of her head. I screamed and turned to
run back into the house, but I was blindsided by a toothless, rabid Grammer
leaking fountains of blood from his head and mouth. He caught a glimpse of
an ecstatically oblivious Kim Basinger and pounced on her, whereupon she
started screaming.
"Show me the money! Show me the money!" she cried. "I want to buy
Vermont!"
I struggled to my feet and ran out of there, leaving a cacophony of
shrieking, gurgling, and slurping noises behind. Feeling defeated, I went
back to the living room to clean up the mess and was startled to find
Olympic gymnast Kerri Strug, decked out in full Alice Cooper makeup,
including top-hat and white suit, preparing to do a backflip off of my
couch. She grinned at me.
"Endorse me, you son-of-a-bitch," she chirped in her famous chipmunk
squeak. "Or the kid dies."
As I tried to figure out what she meant and what she was doing in my
house, a red Toyota sport-utility vehicle came crashing through my picture
window, its front end coming to rest on the couch, crushing Strug amidst a
symphony of crunches and squeals. Out of the truck swaggered a heavily
intoxicated Oksana Baiul clutching a fifth of Jack Daniels. She wobbled
toward me unsteadily, wearing figure skates and a dirty, ripped-up Olympic
costume, riddled with large brown stains.
"That was a perfect 9.2, if you ask me," she slurred. "That slut Kerrigan
should keep her pie-hole shut. Now, what does a girl have to do to get a
drink around here?"
I backed away from her and ran toward the front door which was
unfortunately blocked by a large black rapper in full hip-hop gear, with a
blood-stained silver and black shirt which read 'STINK-E-BOYZZ.' He leered
down toward me, the light glinting off of a single gold-capped tooth
filling his large mouth, and then fell forward with a crash, landing at my
feet. I ran outside just as a pink Cadillac sped off in the distance.
I breathlessly lurched my way toward my neighbor's house and saw a 6-foot
cross, propped up and blazing on his lawn. I pounded on his door and was
greeted by what appeared to be his German Shepherd wearing a white sheet
with the eyeholes cut out. Instead of barking, the animal began addressing
me in Andy Rooney's voice.
"Did you ever notice all the air they pump into a new bag of potato chips
to make it look fuller than it really is? Do they think we're that stupid
that we don't know that this 'air' is really the final expelled breaths of
actress Totie Fields, and has been stored for decades in a
hermetically-sealed vault in the basement of the Smithsonian Institution?"
As I brushed past the shrouded, babbling canine to search for my neighbor,I detected the distinct scent of Delta Burke's sweaty panties with just a
hint of Danny DeVito's chopped-liver induced flatulence. Entering the
kitchen, I spied Alan Alda wearing nothing but an apron, hunched over a pot
on the stove, stirring away, intermittently humming and reciting snippets
of recipes in a lilting, sing-song Julia Child voice.
"First, you take the pancreas. Lightly bread with unbleached flour.
Then, you remove the pineal gland and add just a tincture of the organ's
fluid to the spleen. Remember, be careful not to overdo it, or you may
wind up spasming and convulsing violently, while foaming at the mouth and
expressing a sudden unhealthy interest in the poetry of Rod McKuen."
I ran out of the neighbor's back door, unsure about my next course of
action until I noticed flames leaping from the roof of my garage. I
hurried to the scene and was relieved to see that the fire department had
already responded until I realized that the sole firefighter on the scene
was Robert Downey Jr., who had attached a small tube leading from the
firehose into a vein in his arm. He was making growling noises and
violently slapping at his arm in between swigs of gasoline he was chugging
from a nearby canister. As he pulled the tube leading to his arm tight
with his teeth, he muttered incoherently.
"Come on baby, I know you're here somewhere," he mumbled with a grimace.
"Damn, that was my favorite vein. I named him Todd, after Todd Bridges."
Suddenly, my garage exploded with a deafening roar knocking me to the
ground. I looked up and caught a glimpse of Kelsey Grammer and Kim
Basinger flying above me, embraced in a lock of passionately violent
intercourse, leaving behind a vapor trail of Cheers cast members and
Baldwin brothers. Before passing out, I wondered if my boss would mind if
I called in sick in the morning.

~~~"A CANDY-COLORED CLOWN THEY CALL THE SANDMAN"~~~

.From: rim...@halcyon.com (Rimrunner)
.Subject: there's a man in jail in texas and he's dead
.Date: Wed Mar 26 18:21:55 1997

I sat by and watched her destroy you. Fortunately for you, you can renew
yourself, so this isn't quite as bad as it could have been. But I sat by
and watched, and didn't say anything, only waited to pick up the pieces
that would fall.

I sat by, not knowing he would destroy you. I didn't know, I didn't have
a fucking clue until later, after it was over, and you told me about it,
and I sat by with my fingernails digging half-moons into my palms, being
calm, being calm.

You could never harm anyone but yourself, and so the world is against you
even now. She would shred your heart if you let her. She would take
everything you had to give, not knowing the value of the gift, only
knowing you had saved her life. Like everyone else has saved her life, by
handing her crutches when her own feet worked just fine.

How can I say how I felt? You always wrote better than I did, your
stories vivid in my imagination the way my own never could be. You wrote
to me of pain and I could see it, and here I was so very far away and it
had already happened, and there was nothing I could do. When someone
cries please help me, no one listens anymore.

How often you reach out your hand and stop halfway. How often you hesitate
at the last moment, afraid the gift might be refused, knowing it might be
a bad idea. You told me once you left your faith with me. Do you remember?
It frightened me.

And I went through the day without speaking or screaming or breaking
expensive equipment. I am a professional. I went walking during lunch and
early tourists moved out of my way. Rage with nowhere to send and no end
in sight. What can I do? There is nothing I can do but wait.

You said you knew how I felt. It was the first time anyone had said that
and it had been true. That's the thing about you: everything you say is
true, even if someone else has already said it and said it better, they
were probably lying anyway. I had nothing to say. There were no words to
describe the way I felt. So you told me a story, and I knew you had told
me the truth.

We talked on the phone at 1 a.m. and I held the receiver like a precious
thing, a lifeline to you.

There's a man in jail in Texas and he's dead, I said, if ever I lay eyes
on him again. You said, I know.

Rimrunner
love is weird
--
Murder of Crows official web site: http://www.nwlink.com/~noah/
--
"Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death." - Mame
--
I do not like commercial e-mail. If you send me commercial e-mail, you can
safely assume that I won't be doing business with you.
--

.From: stu...@world.std.com (the reverse-psychology major)
.Subject: addendum to the cookbook
.Date: Sat Mar 29 01:41:50 1997

... this ones for the t.b cookbook.

CHEVYN'S ETERNAL KISS
---------------------
1 part jello powder *
20 milligrams phenobarbatol
3 parts vodka
shake well
garnish with beak

* your choice of flavor

beelzibub
ps;
cheers!!!

.From: gege le patissier <ger...@vemaz.demon.co.uk>
.Subject: my though on some thing .......
.Date: Sat Mar 29 11:40:14 1997

well womman is the subjet.. and most of the time the probleme ..

so some time i wonder if life would be easier with out them
and stop be a normal guy.
spend the time i want with my pc and the money
don't give a damn how my flat is clean or how do i look ,smoke my 40
cigarette a day ,but juste by myself ....

you might thing i'm craisy or even selfish but here egain i don't
give a damn of what you think..
--
gege le patissier

.From: rim...@halcyon.com (Rimrunner)
.Subject: bombs
.Date: Mon Mar 31 21:33:58 1997

I could say I never saw it coming, but I'd be lying.

Of COURSE I saw it coming. I can hear your thoughts, I can see inside your
dreams. But I thought that if we shared that much, you would understand
the same thing I did.

Which you did, of course. That didn't stop you. No reason it should have,
really.

In one sense, it's so easy. I can't be otherwise than honest, not anymore.
I used to lie so easily, so quickly, without even thinking about it. I
used to deny whatever I didn't want to be true.

It's not that I don't want it to be true. I just wish I knew what the
truth was.

Right now, the truth is that since sometime last Tuesday I know less than
nothing about how the world works, and you-and-me-against-the-world looks
awfully good in that context.

Is that fair? Well, no. Should it be? Well, yes. But it isn't.

So I sit here and chew on my fingernails and worry about things that have
nothing to do with you but everything to do with me. Wanting to be safe
isn't sufficient reason. Wanting to awaken isn't sufficient reason.
Compassion isn't sufficient reason. In fact, if I really understood that
concept I'd probably have a better idea what the truth is.

Will you heal shellshock, or make it worse? Time will tell.
Rimrunner
boom
--
Murder of Crows official web site: http://www.nwlink.com/~noah/
--
"Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death." - Mame
--
I do not like commercial e-mail. If you send me commercial e-mail, you can
safely assume that I won't be doing business with you.
--

.From: "Candy-Colored Clown" <bre...@interaccess.com>
.Subject: Cindy Crawford Removes Gerbil From Richard Gere
.Date: Sun Mar 30 20:42:14 1997

CINDY CRAWFORD PERFORMS RECTAL SURGERY ON RICHARD GERE

Although I found it difficult to concentrate on the rush hour drive to the
airport with all the screaming coming from the backseat where a bikini-clad
Cindy Crawford was performing rectal surgery on Richard Gere to remove an
Albanian long-haired gerbil lodged in his colon, the fact that Madonna was
sitting next to me breast-feeding her child via a chrome and leather
studded funnel had a strange, maternally calming effect on me.
My first day as a cabdriver in Chicago was a bit more excitement than I
bargained for, but it sure beat staying at home by myself, my naked body
coated with hot Crisco, playing a slippery game of Twister with the
soundtrack to "West Side Story" blaring in the background. After
depositing my quarry at O'Hare, I double-parked the taxi and ran into the
airport rest room. While standing at the urinal, I glanced to my right and
was surprised to see Ellen DeGeneres apparently attempting to relieve
herself. She smiled at me.
"Alan DeGeneres, nice to meet you," she said, extending a wet hand.
"Alan DeGeneres?" I asked, declining the handshake.
"Yeah, well the surgery was completed last week. The ratings were still in
the toilet even with the whole 'coming out' brouhaha. The top brass decided
to change the name of the show to "Alan" as a last-ditch effort before they
can it."
I nodded and smiled, practically running toward the door. En route to the
cab, I noticed Michael Jackson, his facial features a runny Salvador Dali
canvas, massaging an open wound on the head of a bald, emaciated Elizabeth
Taylor with five tiny, squishy male fetuses, each one tethered,
marionette-style, to the fingers of his black, sequined, gloved hand via
umbilical cord.
I reached the spot where I had left the cab just in time to see a police
officer waving good-bye to a tow-truck driver dragging my vehicle off
toward the tollway.
"Hey! That's my cab!" I shouted to the cop.
"No, dat was your cab," she corrected me. "Now it belongs to da City. You
gotta problem wit' dat?"
She quickly whirled around and amid a windy, deafening roar, she removed
her hat and hundreds of multicolored snakes sprouted forth from her head,
each one sporting a different variety of donut harpooned to its bared
fangs.
"I AM MEDUSA!" Chicago's finest Gorgon bellowed. "I command you to
perform intensive orthodontic surgery on Patricia Arquette while humming
the theme song from "Bonanza"!"
Suddenly, a nervous, sweaty James Woods stepped between us, smoking two
cigarettes and breathlessly jabbering like a chimpanzee on methamphetamine.
"The bitch is crazy! She's gone nuts!' he screamed. "You gotta help me!
She's completely lost it!"
A half-block away, crowds of commuters were scattering in every direction
as notorious actress/stalker Sean Young, covered head-to-toe in raspberry
jelly and foaming at the mouth, was menacingly making her way toward Woods,
clubbing everyone in her path with the bloody hind leg of what was once
Woods' Golden Retriever. I took the opportunity to flee to the CTA
terminal where, nonchalantly dispensing tickets, was a man wearing a Big
Bird costume from the waist up, and only black socks from the waist down.
As I boarded the train toward the city, the muffled conductor's voice
periodically erupted over the PA system. Rather than announcing stops,
however, he was dispensing friendly advice.
"Remember folks— never count your chickens before they've hatched and
become underground foreign operatives attempting to subvert U.S. domestic
policies and instigate widespread looting, pillaging, raping, and public
expressions of admiration for the music of Yanni," he squawked.
After settling into my seat to ponder the course of action I needed to take
with my supervisor, I briefly nodded off only to be awakened a few minutes
later by a loud grunting and panting. At the other end of the train car, I
saw Jack Nicholson wearing a pink maternity gown squatting above a blanket,
a sweaty grimace plastered on his face. With a sudden, splashy, bloody
explosion of placenta, gurgling, screaming and crying, a miniature
Christian Slater plopped out from between Nicholson's legs onto the floor.
After chewing his way through the umbilical cord, Slater looked up at
Nicholson with a squinty sneer.
"Mom, when you were filming "Witches Of Eastwick" with Cher, did she
mention anything about Sonny Bono's propensity for setting fire to any
neighborhood cat who failed to exercise proper dental hygiene?"
Before Nicholson could respond, I exited to the adjoining car and
immediately encountered a tuxedoed Anthony Hopkins, knife and fork in hand,
preparing to have dinner. Beneath him rest a naked, barely alive Jodie
Foster with a gaping abdominal wound. Her petite frame was supported by a
makeshift dining table, which was actually John Hinckley Jr. on all fours,
wearing a striped prison outfit.
"It's dreams like these that make memories of a lifetime," Hopkins purred
aristocratically.
Mercifully, the train was pulling into the next stop, allowing me to escape
amid a final rambling PA message.
"Thank you for riding CTA—and don't forget: You can fool some of the people
all of the time. You can fool all of the people some of the time. But you
can't fool all of the people into enjoying a Meryl Streep movie all of the
time without the benefit of recreational drugs."
I sprinted 15 blocks to my apartment and slammed the door behind me,
wheezing and panting my way to the living room couch. I flipped on the
television in a futile effort to escape the nightmare of my hectic first
day on the job. The comforting sound and image of everybody's favorite
purple prehistoric bundle of love, Barney, enveloped the room. But, just
as my heart and lungs began acclimating to a sedentary state, Barney ceased
his fuzzy, frolicking song and dance circle with his multiracially correct
harem of tots.
"Wake up, time to die," he croaked in a Freddy Krueger voice.
Lumbering toward a small blond-haired, boy, he thrust his pudgy fingers
toward the child's face. Suddenly, a metal, hook-like claw extended forth
from his hand and buried itself into the boy's optic nerve.
"Better keep an 'eye' on this kid," the now ferocious, demonic dinosaur
bellowed, a staccato symphony of drilling and shrieking punctuating his
laughter.
I changed the channel just as Barney was launching into a mocking rendition
of Jimmy Cliff singing "I Can See Clearly Now" choreographed by terrified,
screaming children scattering off the set. Just one click away was Bob
Saget being maimed by a runaway Toro tractor/mower on "America's Funniest
Videos." Trying desperately to escape the endless horror-laden tape loop
of my day, I continued channel-surfing, stopping momentarily to view
supermodel Naomi Campbell making a glittery pitch for Roid-Out—"The
official hemorrhoid ointment of the fashion industry!"
"Not only am I the president," she cooed. "I'm also a client."
She winked at the camera and was preparing a suppository as I clicked away
to safety.
The final image to greet my battle-scarred field of vision was a graphic
depiction of Ellen DeGeneres being surgically transformed into 'Alan' by
ABC studio head honcho, Bob Iger.
I turned off the television, attached my lips to Madonna's breast funnel
and nursed myself into a welcome dreamless sleep.
--
~~~A CANDY-COLORED CLOWN THEY CALL THE SANDMAN~~~

.From: stu...@world.std.com (the reverse-psychology major)
.Subject: Re: CARASSO: HELLO
.Date: Wed Apr 2 01:49:42 1997

In article <5hsi64$j...@shellx.best.com>, <r...@best.com> wrote:
>
>HELLO. OLLEH. OLEH. HOLA.
>
[i will now produce something lame in your honor:]

... the lab called. your brain's ready.

beelzibub
ps;
thankyouveryfuckin'much

.From: me...@pobox.com (mathew)
.Subject: Short Shameful Confection
.Date: Wed Apr 2 12:51:27 1997

I just spent a while trying to work out why anyone would name a chocolate
bar "spunoW".

Then I realized I was looking at it upside-down.

mathew
[ I can't help it, I'm an alien. ]
--
The Truth Is Out There: Aug Nov Dec Jan | mathew
MacOS market share is climbing: 6.7% 7.8% 9.5% 11.2% | me...@pobox.com
...as x86 market share falls: 92% 91% 89% |
-- see <URL:http://www.ci.zd.com/news/macos.html> |

.From: stu...@world.std.com (the reverse-psychology major)
.Subject: Re: IF MEN COULD MENSTRUATE
.Date: Tue Apr 1 17:34:00 1997

... i'm gonna answer this once. it's gonna by true. you may not agree but its
still gonna be true. ok, you ready. let's see how you deal with the truth:

',,, TAMPONS WOULD BE FREE!!!

beelzibub
ps;
nail. hammer. head

.From: Jonathan Byrd <j...@isuux.isu.edu>
.Subject: Now that it doesn't matter anymore...
.Date: Wed Apr 2 13:53:04 1997

would someone please tell me who whoami@hostname was?

--
Jonathan Byrd Computing and Communications
j...@isu.edu Idaho State University
(208)-236-3199 Pocatello, Idaho, USA
http://www.isu.edu/~jon/ FAX: (208)-236-3673

.From: goo...@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
.Subject: now we know
.Date: Fri Apr 4 10:20:18 1997

Whenever you visit a town, have a look at the telephone book. You
can discover interesting things, as from this advertisement in
the Sarasota, Florida Yellow Pages:

SINCE 1965
Servicing Mercedes autos only
D & D Mercedes Service, Inc.
Serving Jesus Christ

Mark., not the car I would have expected Him to drive, mind you
goo...@netcom.com

--
=======================
"Endeavor to persevere"
=======================

Sean T Barrett

unread,

Jul 20, 1999, 3:00:00 AM7/20/99

Dave Polewka <al...@cleveland.Freenet.Edu> wrote:
[pile of stinking shit deleted]

What, the signal-to-noise ratio getting too high for you?

Thank you, Dave.

A Tedious Gitfucker
===================
suck a tit, go, feud ire
struck gifted aeiou
fire gist ducat ouke
a sour tee dig Fuckit, you can't make anything good out of a tedious gitfucker

buzzard

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