Best Jack Chick Ever?
David Pacheco
senor...@xcom.com said:
> I met Jack Chick in Vegas once. We enjoyed some drinks (Jack was partial to
> scotch and soda) and talked at great length about his work. He was really
> easy going and humorous, a class act. He had a unique art style that was
> grossly underrated, IMHO. Today's comic artists just don't seem to have an
> eye for the grotesque as Jack did. May they all rot in hell, those heathen,
> talentless bastards.
You *met* Chick in Vegas, *once*?
You *met* him in Vegas?
ONCE?
Chick and I used to *own* fuckin' Vegas, man. There wasn't a
week that went by when you wouldn't find Chick and me down at the
Sands, knocking back the 'tinis with the hottest showgirls in
town hanging on our every words.
Why? Because we were the original storytellers, man. We used to
spin yarns fine enough to drape you in a pashmina, two seconds
flat. And don't let the flash and cash tell you otherwise, Vegas
is nothing if not intellectual: if you can tell a story just like
you're breathing, you can write your own passport and the
maitre'd will stamp it like you're coming back home.
The Chick-Monster, we used to call him. The Chick Magnet.
Jack could weave a story out of thin air like pulling rabbits out
of a hat. You knew the rabbit was already there, you knew the
story was coming, but you still laughed at the way you were
fooled, every single time. No matter how closely you watched the
hands, you were always looking the wrong way when he did the
switch. If he wanted to make those showgirls dream, he'd tell
them the story of the prince and the flower girl, and the Sands
would be his castle. If he wanted to make them relaxed and
sleepy, well... I'll put it to you this way: "Good Night Moon"
was written by one of Chick's ex'es.
If he wanted to make them horny... hell, if Chick wanted you
horny, you had a baby turtle's chance on a Costa Rican beach of
getting away.
Jack pulled them like Mrs. Lovett at a barbecue.
Chick and I used to cruise the strip late at night with the top
down, watching the action. Then we'd pick our place, and make it
ours for the night. And every night it felt like we were some
place different, because while the four walls around us were the
same, the worlds we created had no walls, no limits. At the end
of one of our stories, the whole place would be silent: as soon
as we started telling a story, the casino chief would always turn
the music down, the wheels would stop spinning, the one-armed
bandits would hug themselves, and the whole town would... hold
its breath.
And Chick and I would weave. He would usually start, set the
stage, invent the characters and start their motors.
"Once there was a blind boy named Puck, who lived on an
artificial island made out of straw and seagull feathers in the
middle of the Atlantic, and every day he would drift and think of
the moon. His father was the sun, his mother was a mermaid who
would visit him once every month, and every time she arrived
to visit she would bring him a shell with a tiny crab in it, and
the crab would tell him a story, and teach him a lesson. And one
day, the crab told him this story..."
Then he'd look at me, and I'd take it. We'd go back and forth,
back and forth for hours on end, unreeling that one story past
the ticking of the clocks until the thread ended and the only
sound was the empty spool spinning. And silence.
No one ever applauded. It didn't seem appropriate. The silence
was the way we knew the story had been appreciated. The people
would slowly, quietly walk away into the night, thinking about
the story and how we had hit bone. Every time. For every
person there.
And a few stragglers would remain: always beautiful, always
willing, always doe-eyed and parted lips... Jack would choose
first, sometimes one, sometimes two, never more. They would melt
away up to Jack's room, and I would choose mine.
A collage of mouths, bodies, eyes. By the morning, they would be
gone, and Chick and I would meet in the lobby for breakfast.
We're talking YEARS, man. YEARS.
But there was the fatal flaw in our relationship. Yes, we both
hated religion... yes, we both knew that the Church was corrupt,
that the only way for people to be saved was by understanding
that God is just the pillar you create outside so you can pretend
you're not leaning on yourself. But we disagreed on how to lead
people to understanding.
Me, I believed in attacking from the outside. Chick? He
believed in attacking from within.
"How better to expose the hypocrisy, the negating hatred, the
self-contradictory lies, than by actually promoting them to their
most ridiculous extreme?"
I remember when he asked me that question. It was at the Sands,
again. About 4am, in his bedroom, Chick in his boxer shorts. He
stood by the balcony, bathrobe flapping in the wind as he railed
against me and the stars. The model in the bed, nude except for
a silk sheet, looked at me nervously: I silently assured her with
a look that everything was all right.
"And by exposing yourself to the same ridicule?" I answered.
"You won't succeed. You will just be branded an extremist, even
by those who originally agree with you. You'll be isolated,
ignored."
"Thus," he screamed, a finger under my nose, "proving to people
that religion doesn't make you infallible." He sat down heavily
on the bed by my side and put an arm around my shoulder. "If all
people hear from religion is the reasonable voice," he whispered
into my ear, "then how will they understand the real craziness
that lies within? Who will show them what would happen if people
actually started to take the Bible literally?"
"No one takes the Bible literally, Jack. Everybody knows it's
just a story, a parable."
"No one?" he said in a conspiratorial whisper. "No one? Let me
ask you this: why is she here, in my bed tonight?" he gestured at
the nude. I shrugged, clumsily hiding the fact that I already
knew the answer.
"Because of a story. That's all. The story of a rich prince and
a beggar girl. A story that took her away from this town and
everything it stands for, and dropped her in a place where she
believes she should have always lived. And somewhere in her
mind... she already *does*."
With that he jumped up off the bed and ran out to the balcony.
For a second I was afraid he might jump off, but he skidded to a
stop inches from the railing.
"Who will show them, David?" he shouted, his hair a mad fury,
his fists towards the sky.
"*I* will show them!"
I slipped away, out of the room, as Chick screamed on the
balcony.
I took the model with me. I could say that I did this to protect
her, that Chick was unstable, beyond reason. But he wasn't: this
wasn't the first time I had heard this argument.
Although as it turned out, it was to be the last: I never saw
Jack again. In person, at least.
The next day he didn't come down for breakfast. I waited in the
lobby for over an hour, until the concierge came over with a
note. "From Mr. Chick, sir. He checked out this morning."
I opened the carefully folded page of hotel stationery.
It read "This Was Your Life!".
Signed "JC."
I went up to the reception and checked out. Didn't even go
back up to my room to pack. Just checked out, got my car
from the valet, left in a squeal of tires and took the freeway
back to LA. I haven't been back.
I hear Jack's doing well.
-dp.
John J. Kelly IV
You are saving these somewhere, right? 'Cause Deja's not real reliable, and
this shouldn't just evaporate. Man, that's good stuff.
relurk
Joe Manfre
Pacheco knows well enough to save all his articles by now,
because I always cancel them 12 hours after he posts them.
I send them back -- back to the ether -- 'til all that
remains are the magnetic waves on David's hard drive, ready
should he ever choose to access them again, turn them back
into words, which he never does.
JM
--
Joe Manfre, Hyattsville, Maryland. http://manfre-land.com
"It had become a little too uncomfortable for them sitting on
all that classified data once they had been explicitly fingered."
-- Carol Paliwoda, regarding "those bastards"
Shiro Akaishi
keyboard, generating the following:
>I went up to the reception and checked out. Didn't even go
>back up to my room to pack. Just checked out, got my car
>from the valet, left in a squeal of tires and took the freeway
>back to LA. I haven't been back.
>
>I hear Jack's doing well.
"At the top of a hill in Vegas, with the right kind of eyes, you can look
west and almost see where the wave finally broke..."
- Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
--
//\ ICQ: 26175196
(/__\
/). \. o/~ Look straight at the comming disaster,
/ Realize what you've lost... o/~
David Pacheco
> You are saving these somewhere, right?
You'd think I would, wouldn't you? Unfortunately, Deja *was* my
archive, and I haven't kept anything anywhere else. Three re-
installs of Gravity over two re-installs of the OS mean that I
don't even have them in my outbox any more. Oh well.
Now that Deja is down to 1 year history, I haven't even gone
there to salvage the past year before they kill that too.
Something is definitely wrong with me. But it also has to do
with the fact that it's a pain in the ass to manually extract a
large number of articles from Deja.
> 'Cause Deja's not real reliable, and
> this shouldn't just evaporate. Man, that's good stuff.
I appreciate that.
-dp.
Stefan Elisa Kapusniak
In alt.religion.kibology, David Pacheco <david_...@lineone.net> wrote:
>Chick and I used to *own* fuckin' Vegas, man. There wasn't a
>week that went by when you wouldn't find Chick and me down at the
>Sands, knocking back the 'tinis with the hottest showgirls in
>town hanging on our every words.
Yeah I remember you and Chick down there at the
Sands. I remember you and Chick owning Vegas,
you sick bastards, you sick FUCKING bastard
sell-outs, with your slicked back hair and your
thousand dollar dentistry, your fancy attorneys
and your phone numbers to the Mob, and to the
Latter Day Saints, and to J. Edgar Hoover.
>Why? Because we were the original storytellers, man. We used to
>spin yarns fine enough to drape you in a pashmina, two seconds
>flat. And don't let the flash and cash tell you otherwise, Vegas
>is nothing if not intellectual: if you can tell a story just like
>you're breathing, you can write your own passport and the
>maitre'd will stamp it like you're coming back home.
You and Chick were just the biggest and fattest
of those puffed up cocks of the hill, those puffed
up cocks who thought they were something, thought
they were something because they could string the
words together. Didn't care what THOSE words were,
didn't care what THOSE words made people do, just
wanted the effect, just wanted that power rush
of touching them, touching them THERE.
Damnit, you guys were shit-hot revolutionaries once,
you guys were gonna change the world, you and Chick,
and Che, and ol' Fidel. Sweep across the hemisphere
on the wave of The Story, the REAL Story. Yeah,
THAT Story Dave, remember, the one we all wove
that summer, the one we stumbled across. The one
touching not hearts, not minds, but the deepest core
of reality's structure in stanzas of iambic pentameter.
The one that would have made them all, all power, all
authority, would have made them obsolete in a single
heartbeat once the people heard that story and made
it their own.
But you joined with that power with that authority,
you and Chick, you joined them Dave, and then
wiped Che, and I, and even wiley ol' Fidel right
off the game board.
Those damn exploding cigars. You think Cuba
would be in that mess today? Think the rest of
us would still stuck mucking about in low earth
orbit instead of reaching across light years for
the stars, if ol' Fidel was still around? The
_real_ Fidel, not that phony double they put in
his place after you'd done your work. Do you
think the world would still be like it is, like
it's always been, like THEY'VE always made it?
I wonder how you and Chick live with yourselves,
how you sleep in the long watches of the night,
taking those thirty pieces of silver from the Mob
and the CIA.
>Then he'd look at me, and I'd take it. We'd go back and forth,
>back and forth for hours on end, unreeling that one story past
>the ticking of the clocks until the thread ended and the only
>sound was the empty spool spinning. And silence.
>
>No one ever applauded. It didn't seem appropriate. The silence
>was the way we knew the story had been appreciated. The people
>would slowly, quietly walk away into the night, thinking about
>the story and how we had hit bone. Every time. For every
>person there.
You sold your soul man, you whored your soul to
the devil and the Man. No surprise to me Chick
went and got religion, 'cos the devil likes religion,
the devil likes religion almost as much as he likes
that deluded creature that believes itself God and
thinks it rules us.
You see Dave, I've been putting it back together,
The Story, that REAL Story, the one the Romans
had to nail JC to a cross to get rid off, the one
the Popes suppressed with their Albigensian Crusade,
the one they couldn't let JFK tell. I'm getting it,
I'm getting it back together with the rest of my
mind, and I'm gonna find ALL the words those spooks
wiped out my brain with their drugs and their psis,
and their torture machines.
Yeah, I'm gonna do it. Break humanity out the
black iron prison.
Those words are coming back Dave, they're coming
like a freight train right between the eyes, and
this time even you and Chick won't stop the world
from hearing their howl.
-- Kapusniak, Stefan e
David Pacheco
>
> In alt.religion.kibology, David Pacheco <david_...@lineone.net> wrote:
>
> >week that went by when you wouldn't find Chick and me down at the
> >Sands, knocking back the 'tinis with the hottest showgirls in
> >town hanging on our every words.
>
> Sands. I remember you and Chick owning Vegas,
> you sick bastards, you sick FUCKING bastard
> sell-outs, with your slicked back hair and your
> thousand dollar dentistry, your fancy attorneys
> and your phone numbers to the Mob, and to the
> Latter Day Saints, and to J. Edgar Hoover.
Jeez, who peed in YOUR Rice Krispies?
> >Why? Because we were the original storytellers, man. We used to
> >spin yarns fine enough to drape you in a pashmina, two seconds
> >flat. And don't let the flash and cash tell you otherwise, Vegas
> >is nothing if not intellectual: if you can tell a story just like
> >you're breathing, you can write your own passport and the
> >maitre'd will stamp it like you're coming back home.
>
Dunno about Jack, but I sleep like a baby. And one of those
pieces of that selfsame silver hangs around my neck to this very
day, an amulet to remind and protect me.
Not that I need reminding.
And because I already know what you're planning, you should be
warned that one of us is always awake while the other sleeps.
ALWAYS.
> >Then he'd look at me, and I'd take it. We'd go back and forth,
> >back and forth for hours on end, unreeling that one story past
> >the ticking of the clocks until the thread ended and the only
> >sound was the empty spool spinning. And silence.
> >
> >No one ever applauded. It didn't seem appropriate. The silence
> >was the way we knew the story had been appreciated. The people
> >would slowly, quietly walk away into the night, thinking about
> >the story and how we had hit bone. Every time. For every
> >person there.
>
> You sold your soul man, you whored your soul to
> the devil and the Man. No surprise to me Chick
> went and got religion, 'cos the devil likes religion,
> the devil likes religion almost as much as he likes
> that deluded creature that believes itself God and
> thinks it rules us.
>
> You see Dave, I've been putting it back together,
> The Story, that REAL Story, the one the Romans
> had to nail JC to a cross to get rid off, the one
> the Popes suppressed with their Albigensian Crusade,
> the one they couldn't let JFK tell. I'm getting it,
> I'm getting it back together with the rest of my
> mind, and I'm gonna find ALL the words those spooks
> wiped out my brain with their drugs and their psis,
> and their torture machines.
Yeah. You go ahead and do that, man. You go ahead and remember
all the words, you piece the story back together. You go right
on ahead.
And then, when the final word falls into place, and you have The
Story back together again, you'll remember that you BEGGED us to
wipe your brain clean. BEGGED us, on your hands and freakin'
KNEES, in that warehouse in Puerto Rico. BEGGED us to make you
Forget.
Sure, you remember being tied to the chair in the bathtub, with
the stripped ends of the wires taped to your ankles and the other
ends in the electric plug. But what you don't remember is how
you were *weeping* with *joy* as your body convulsed, that I
didn't have the heart to hold the wires in the socket and Chick
had to take them from me because you were still pleading for
release.
Jesus begged to be crucified, too. I bet you don't remember
that, either...
...and you were there. YOU
HELD DOWN HIS ARM, MOTHERFUCKER.
You remember your beatings, you remember standing in the midday
sun, you may even remember collapsing from heat exhaustion. But
only Jack and I remember the nights as we stood guard outside
your door as you screamed. Only Jack and I remember holding you
down when you were in the middle of your Rapture.
You see, my oldest, dearest friend... you Forgot.
Jack and I can *never* Forget. I still have the scars from when
you bit down on my hand as I was trying to keep you from
swallowing your own tongue. Every day, I look at those scars.
My fingers go to them, run absently down the darkened, ragged
tissue whenever I stop typing, and in my mind I can still hear
you screaming.
Oh, and Jack and I remember when you finally Forgot. The
confusion on your face, who are these strangers?... it broke our
hearts that One of Us was now gone, that centuries of training
and oaths and prayer and Seeing had disappeared like the spark in
your eyes, but we knew it was the only way. Chick wanted to kill
you right there and then, but I knew how much you loved England,
how you had talked of living there some day.
"Who else knows?"
"Just Che and Fidel."
"Only them?"
"And you and me."
A coarse laugh. The glowing ember of a cigarette. Eyes closed,
holding back tears.
"You want to take Fidel?"
"No, you take him."
I never thanked Chick for that. He knew I could never have made
Guevara Forget alone. Not with our history. Jack knew this
stuff because he had been around far longer than all of us put
together: he knew The Story when it was first being written.
You were the one that first figured out that the whole second
chapter was his handiwork.
It was only ever supposed to be five or two. Five or two. We
had five, we thought it was all over, because we had five. Jack,
Che, Fidel, you and me. Five was what The Story said it would be
when it all ended. Even Enid Blyton, who only knew a couple of
fragments of The Story, even *she* knew that part.
But then of course *you* had to go and write the next chapter.
And now, at the new end, there were only two. And you began
screaming even before you managed to write the last sentence,
when it finally became clear how it was going to end and the
final word clicked into place with a sound like the cracking of
dry bones.
You see, you don't remember it all now, but you will.
The Story has a way of bringing people back, eventually. And we
still have that Final Chapter to finish, don't we?
> Yeah, I'm gonna do it. Break humanity out the
> black iron prison.
>
> Those words are coming back Dave, they're coming
> like a freight train right between the eyes, and
> this time even you and Chick won't stop the world
> from hearing their howl.
We know.
You're wrong on only one point: the world *won't* hear the howl,
because the whole world will be screaming.
-dp.
SWT
news:SWIg5s0K...@zetnet.co.uk...
> But you joined with that power with that authority,
> you and Chick, you joined them Dave, and then
> wiped Che, and I, and even wiley ol' Fidel right
> off the game board.
You're so naive. So. Fucking. Naive. You're something I killed inside
myself, but they won't let me kill you. Not yet. They're still hoping for
you to lead us to the big fish.
You know how these people got power? It's not their talent. It's not their
charisma. It's not their principles, or their good or evil, or who they
sleep with on the way to the top. It's their need. They NEED that power,
NEED to give orders. They live for it. They might bide their time. They
might even take your orders for a while. They'll do it with a smile on
their face. And they'll smile that same smile when they take control and
hunt you down. It's beautiful.
And me? I'm at the other end of the leash - or the lash, as I'm sure you
would say. I take the machine's orders. I obey. I always have. Sure, I
could have talked about service to noble principles and glorious ideals just
as well as you. Back in the old days. Back when we thought we were on the
side of the angels. We were kidding ourselves; I know that and you should
too. You say I'm their tool? Damn right I am! Every surgeon needs a sharp
knife. The knife obeys the hand, and the hand obeys the head. And the head
watches over us - all of us.
We didn't turn on you; you turned on us. You're a true Revolutionary. You
don't hate the man in power, you don't even know who he is - you just hate
power! But you need them. You need something to sharpen your teeth
against. You're in the same boat I am. You can't live without them. Only
difference is, you go when they say stop and stop when they say go. When
you stole Velikovsky's blueprints, that was one thing; shooting down a
hologram satellite is quite another.
> Yeah, I'm gonna do it. Break humanity out the
> black iron prison.
You were always a whore to the truth. You think the truth will make you
free? You want to break down the lies? You sit there with your hammer and
chisel, banging away at the dam that's holding it all back! You want to rip
that battered mask off? You think people would be happier? Happier,
knowing they could teleport their bodies at will? You might as well give
the Bomb to a flock of sparrows, see how long they last.
I know enough to know not to ask any more questions. Curiosity killed the
cat? Hell, the cat would have prayed for death! You want to fit it all into
the Story? A story has a beginning, a middle and an end. What I'm part of
has no beginning. And it's damn well not going to have an end! You could
still join us. Even now. And I won't even tell you what I had to do to
give you this chance.
It's your choice. And one way or another it's the last choice you'll make.
Think it over.
Carlos May
:> You are saving these somewhere, right?
David Pacheco <david_...@lineone.net>
: You'd think I would, wouldn't you? Unfortunately, Deja *was* my
: archive, and I haven't kept anything anywhere else. Three re-
: installs of Gravity over two re-installs of the OS mean that I
: don't even have them in my outbox any more. Oh well.
David Delaney wins AGAIN!
Get MOSAIC now!!
-- Froggy
* Fro...@neosoft.com ** "The Information Super-Frog" [dibs] *
http://www.angelfire.com/la/carlosmay/
Mark. Gooley
Blessed Sacrament, of course.
Fucking heretic. If Jesus hadn't told us to love our
enemies, I'd go rip Chick an extra asshole for such
bullshit. Death Cookie indeed.
Mark., only a belief in God stands between me and mayhem
goo...@gator.net
Quinn Inuit
>In article <8ll7hr$hg6$1...@news.doit.wisc.edu>,
>jke...@nospam.mrgcvd.engr.wisc.edu said:
>
>archive, and I haven't kept anything anywhere else. Three re-
>installs of Gravity over two re-installs of the OS mean that I
>don't even have them in my outbox any more. Oh well.
>
>there to salvage the past year before they kill that too.
>
>Something is definitely wrong with me. But it also has to do
>with the fact that it's a pain in the ass to manually extract a
>large number of articles from Deja.
>
>> 'Cause Deja's not real reliable, and
>> this shouldn't just evaporate. Man, that's good stuff.
>
>I appreciate that.
>
>-dp.
And I second it. Wow. Please save them somewhere.
-Q.I.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Got questions? Get answers over the phone at Keen.com.
Up to 100 minutes free!
http://www.keen.com
George William Herbert
>Mark. Gooley wrote:
>> I gotta buy a copy of "The Death Cookie."
>
>In Navy Nuke school, they taught us the distinctive properties
>of various types of radiation with an example involving cookies.
>You can eat the gamma cookie.
>You can put the beta cookie in your pocket.
>You can hold the alpha cookie in your hand.
>Throw the neutron cookie away.
Ideally you throw all four away. However, yes, if forced to eat one,
put one in pocket, hold one in hand, and throw one away, you have
successfully minimized your personal health risks from radiation
exposure of the four isocookies.
-george
Next up: Antimatter Jello
meets Oprah, live on
Mornings with Regis and...
Oh, she's escaped!
Loose the Hounds!
David James Polewka
> I'd go rip Chick an extra asshole for such bullshit.
Oh yeah? What kind of ripping tool would you use?
--
=======================
"Endeavor to persevere"
=======================
pete
>
> I gotta buy a copy of "The Death Cookie."
[snip]
In Navy Nuke school, they taught us the distinctive properties
of various types of radiation with an example involving cookies.
You can eat the gamma cookie.
You can put the beta cookie in your pocket.
You can hold the alpha cookie in your hand.
Throw the neutron cookie away.
--
pete
George William Herbert
>put one in pocket, hold one in hand, and throw one away, you have
>successfully minimized your personal health risks from radiation
>exposure of the four isocookies.
And now the terrible truth can finally be told: Mrs Fields, Spider Woman.
Having once bitten a radioactive cookie, she now distributes them to the
rest of the world, swinging from tall building to building, fields-testing
people's knowledge of nuclear health physics and rewarding those that
choose wisely with super powers, spandex, and way kewl web-armbands.
> Next up: Antimatter Jello
> meets Oprah, live on
> Mornings with Regis and...
> Oh, she's escaped!
> Loose the Hounds!
-george
In the trees!
It's coming! The Frank of Love!
George William Herbert
>George William Herbert <HI MOM!> wrote:
>>pete <pfil...@mindspring.com> wrote:
>>>Mark. Gooley wrote:
>>>> I gotta buy a copy of "The Death Cookie."
>>>[snip]
>>>In Navy Nuke school, they taught us the distinctive properties
>>>of various types of radiation with an example involving cookies.
>>>You can eat the gamma cookie.
>>>You can put the beta cookie in your pocket.
>>>You can hold the alpha cookie in your hand.
>>>Throw the neutron cookie away.
>>
>>Ideally you throw all four away. However, yes, if forced to eat one,
>>put one in pocket, hold one in hand, and throw one away, you have
>>successfully minimized your personal health risks from radiation
>>exposure of the four isocookies.
>
>And now the terrible truth can finally be told: Mrs Fields, Spider Woman.
>Having once bitten a radioactive cookie, she now distributes them to the
>rest of the world, swinging from tall building to building, fields-testing
>people's knowledge of nuclear health physics and rewarding those that
>choose wisely with super powers, spandex, and way kewl web-armbands.
And incidentally reveals much about the origins of Maui Wowie.
Neutron-irradiated pot brownies led to mutations... some harmless,
some dangerous, some giving superhuman powers. Some of the seeds
lived on and flourished in ways man was not meant to smoke, man.
>> Next up: Antimatter Jello
>> meets Oprah, live on
>> Mornings with Regis and...
>> Oh, she's escaped!
>> Loose the Hounds!
>
> In the trees!
> It's coming!
> The Frank of Love!
-george
"Wave after wave, each mightier than the last
'Til last, a ninth one, gather half the deep
And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged
Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame"
George William Herbert
And everyone always thought those nuclear engineers were the boring,
straightlaced ones. Oh, no. Not at All!
"Nice buds. How many curies?"
"Oh, about two. S'ok, it's just alphas."
"So like, what happens if we neutron activate a Mouse?"
"I don't know man. Let's see."
[zplorch]
"Pinkie? Pinkie, is that you?
Oh, god, it's the Grad Students! Put me back!"
"Wow, this one did really well."
"Yeah."
"Pinkie!"
"Yeah Brain?"
"We have to remember what they're smoking. It's got to be some
sort of lever to help us take over the world later."
"Whatever you say Brain."
"Wow. It Talks."
"Yeah."
"So what about those Twinkies."
"Nope."
"Americium contamination again?"
"Neptunium and Strontium."
"Pinkie! Take a note.
We can't possibly have descended from these apes."
>>> Next up: Antimatter Jello
>>> meets Oprah, live on
>>> Mornings with Regis and...
>>> Oh, she's escaped!
>>> Loose the Hounds!
>>
>> In the trees!
>> It's coming!
>> The Frank of Love!
>
> "Wave after wave, each mightier than the last
> 'Til last, a ninth one, gather half the deep
> And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged
> Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame"
-george
Just saying it could even make it happen
The sun's coming out
The sun's coming out
[toot] [toot]
David James Polewka
>>You can eat the gamma cookie.
>>You can put the beta cookie in your pocket.
>>You can hold the alpha cookie in your hand.
>>Throw the neutron cookie away.
>
>Ideally you throw all four away. However, yes, if forced to eat one,
>put one in pocket, hold one in hand, and throw one away, you have
>successfully minimized your personal health risks from radiation
>exposure of the four isocookies.
G E O R G E
Gamma Electrons Or Rare Gluon Electrons
G E O R G E
W I L L I A M
Will Infiltrate Lawrence Livermore In A Microsecond
W I L L I A M
H E R B E R T
Hadrons Emulate Radio Beacons, Eventually (Read Tesla)
H E R B E R T
Matt Marchese
> In Navy Nuke school, they taught us the distinctive properties
> of various types of radiation with an example involving cookies.
> You can eat the gamma cookie.
> You can put the beta cookie in your pocket.
> You can hold the alpha cookie in your hand.
> Throw the neutron cookie away.
This is the worst parody of Gilbert and Sullivan's "I Am the Very Model
of a Modern Major General" that I've ever read.
--
Matt Marchese
mjm...@charter.net
http://reality.sgi.com/mattm_americas/
"Lucky Fruit, the dried corpse is horrible!" -Peacock King
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
robert lindsay
Joe Manfre <man...@flash.net> wrote:
>jke...@nospam.mrgcvd.engr.wisc.edu (John J. Kelly IV) wrote:
>
>><snip insane brillance>
>>
>>this shouldn't just evaporate. Man, that's good stuff.
>
>
>because I always cancel them 12 hours after he posts them.
>I send them back -- back to the ether -- 'til all that
>remains are the magnetic waves on David's hard drive, ready
>should he ever choose to access them again, turn them back
>into words, which he never does.
That's the worst William Gibson parody EVER!
>Joe Manfre, Hyattsville, Maryland. http://manfre-land.com
Hmm, Joe Manfre, AKA Jesus Manfire
Jack Chick, AKA www.chick.com
seperated at birth?
--
Robert Lindsay, NASA - Goddard, Greenbelt MD rlin...@seadas.gsfc.nasa.gov
"This whole business of killing bugs to be cool on the Internet is Grace
Hopper's legacy." -J. "Kibo" Parry, USENET, Sep 24, 1999 Why not me?
#include <standard_disclaimer.h> 301-286-9958 ISTJ -REM