I don't usually set out to get shit faced (always seem to end up that
way though) but tonight I'm going for it.
I prepare myself by dressing in my special drinking clothes (the jeans
have a built colostomy bag and the shirt is the same colour as my
vomit), drinking a bottle of vodka (to line the stomach) and writing
my last will and testament.
Then I'm out on the town (or specifically to "The Mutilated Ferret"
down the road....the only pub that does'nt have a shoot on sight
poster of me behind the bar) There's a band on tonight, so I down
shift into party dancer mood and head for the bar.
"Pint of vodka in a straight glass please" I say, almost stuttering in
my acute anticipation of the clear liquid of the Gods.
"Yo Dude , Here ya go my man. Hang loose dude !" says the barman.
He (the barman) likes everyone to think he's hip and trendy (even
though he's a 42 year old, balding, fat Brummie who wears 1/2 inch
thick glasses and open toed sandals) He learn't to be hip by watching
'Easy Rider' in the 60's while OD'ing on LSD and Babysham (do they
really make it out of babies ?) He's all right now (24 years later)
but still has the occasional flashback (He starts humming "Born to be
Wild" and gets a weird glazed expression.)
I take my drink and join my drinking companions at a corner table
facing the small stage. I've been drinking with the same group of
lads since dropping out of stage school ten years ago (I was heavily
influenced by the film and tv series 'Fame'. I wanted to learn how to
dance and sing and play the cello, but it wasn't for me. The long
hours, the physical pain, the fact that I slept with the schools child
prodigy (a 12 year old singer who once appeared on 'Opportunity
Knocks') put an early end to my career in showbiz)
I think I'll introduce you (my faithful readers) to my drinking
Dave, the mild mannered librarian.
Favourite drink:- Whiskey and Pernod
Favourite topic of conversation:- The type 1789 diesel locomotive and
Most humourous Moment when drunk:- Dave managed to flush 68 % of his body
down the toilet in McDonalds one Sunday
Brief Description:- Lank greasy hair, buck teeth, glasses mended with a
band aid, brown anorak and open toed sandals. (Fans
of the UK TV series Red Dwarf may notice a similarity between Dave and
the character Dwayne Dibbley. Just remember that Dwayne is a fictionous
character, whereas Dave actually exsists)
Mick, the slaughter house labourer.
Favourite drink:- Rum punch (50% rum, 25% gin, 25% meths, serve with cherry)
Favourite topic of conversation:- How far a pigs brains will fly when hit
a claw hammer.
Most Humourous moment when drunk:- Been sick down the front of the arresting
officer after urinating on a guard outside
Brief Description:- Built like the proverbial brick shithouse. Wears blood
stained clothes and wellington boots. Speaks with an
Barry the Gigolo
Favourite Drink:- Anything that comes in a large glass with paper umbrellas
and a cherry on a stick.
Favourite topic of conversation:- Sex. How he's getting a lot of it and in
what positions. (Barry is usually
accompanied by a succesion of young, blond, giggling females or one of
three middle aged widows.)
Most humourous moment when drunk:- Barry never seems to get drunk no matter
how much he drinks and never goes home alone.
This man could talk a nun into sleeping with him.
Brief Description:- Seems to change weekly. We thought he was a different
person every week for 6 months until we got to know
him. He's always better dressed, better looking and richer than anyone
around. We only let him drink with us because he insists on buying so
So I'm sitting with my old friends, gulping my drink (Its Barry's
round next, then again, it always is) Nothing much is happening at the
moment, my feet are tingling a bit but that's probably due to my shoes
being too small for my feet (they were cheap) Mike finishes his story
about the time he stuffed an apprentice up the arse of a dead cow as a
bizarre initiation ceremony just in time for the bands first set.
The band scream into their first number and I get up and look for
someone to dance with. I scan the room, checking out the young ladies
in the room. A girl catches my eye and hurriedly makes her way to the
toilet as I move towards her. Undeterred I follow her into the
"Excuse me miss" I shout through the bolted door "Would you like to
dance with me ?"
I'm trying desperately to sound like Sean Connery playing James Bond,
but sound like Scotty from Star Trek.
"Piss off you freak !" she screams from behind the door
I hear her fumbling in her handbag for her flick knife (I did'nt say
it was a nice pub !) I panic a little at the thought of what a 20
stone (I like em' big, I do) female can do with a razor sharp cutting
implement, so I head back to the bar (after throwing a bucket of water
over the stall door....I never could take rejection)
Barry has got the drinks in and I finish mine in two gulps, my head
does a loop the loop and my eyes revolve in their sockets, but I still
don't feel drunk. I head back to the bar for a refill, working my way
through the gyrating bodies on the dance floor (making sure I brush up
against any females.....I have to get my kicks somehow) I get to the
bar just as a fight breaks out on the dance floor (some girl got her
boyfriend to smack another lad for touching her up and the thing
"Pint of vodka in a straight glass gorgeous" I say, doing my James
"Here ya' go dude. Say, that's an awesome impression of John Wayne
Dude, party on, be excellent man, loike." Says the barman.
I walk back to the table to watch the fight, although its all over now
the police have arrived (in full riot gear, with horses and dogs...I
told you this wasn't a nice place)
The night progresses in much the same manner. By throwing out time
I've drunk the pubs stock of Latvian vodka and been rejected by 85% of
all the women present and had threats of violence from 90% of the men
(The rejections are harder to handle than the threats, when a man
threatens me I send Mick over to stare at them for a couple of
minutes. They usually apologise and leave within 30 seconds) We
decide to call it a night (I still feel 100% sober) and go back to
Dave's house to watch his entire collection of 'Star Trek' videos
(maybe it's this that makes my James Bond impression sound like
I stand up and head for the open door. Standing on the doorstep I
take a huge lungful of fresh air......
My head expands to infinite whilst the rest of my body curls into a
shape resembling a small pelican. I stretch out my left leg to step
into the street and find myself hovering 6 inches from the ground.
Dave is on my left vomiting a multi-hued streak of drink and peanuts
into a waiting taxi. Mick is struggling in the grip of four policeman
as they try to crack his skull with the pub wall (they should know
that he keeps his brains in his arse) Barry is getting into the back
of a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow driven by Demi Moore, while Sharon
Stone holds the door open for him. I hover in my new posistion
watching as the Rolls Royce drives to the end of the street and lifts
off, powering into the night on its four jet powered demi-wheels.
Strange thing to see at closing time, I think to myself and pass out.
I awake on the floor of Dave's bedsit lying in a pool of vomit. The
TV is still showing the last few episodes of Star Trek. Dave is
sprawled in a chair snoring gently to himself. Mick is in the
bathroom eating the toothpaste (he emptied the fridge two hours ago)
I don't think Barry actually exsists. The others have'nt said
anything yet, but its not easy to say,
"Hey, Guys. I think the man we've been drinking with for 10 years was
just a group hallucination brought on by our low social status and
barely suppressed inner desires combined with a joint drink problem
that could wipe out a third world country."
So I keep quite, watch the pretty lights in front of my eyes and look
forward to seeing Barry next week. Its a full Moon next week.
| Andy Cannon | When the truth is found, to be lies. |
| Misplaced Yorkshireman | And all the joy, within you dies. |
| Spider Networks Ltd | Don't you want somebody to love ? |
| and...@spider.co.uk | Jefferson Airplane |
Well, there is, of course, a feeling of power and authority. But that
sensation is tempered with the realization of holding a device in your
hand that can be the most deadly thing in the world, capable of
taking a life at a whim. There is an almost overwhelming sense of
responsibility in holding, manipulating a gun. Unless you're unbalanced,
there is also very clear and present fear of the potential destruction
you might wreak in misusing it.
There is a distinct strength derived from holding a gun, which I believe
is derivative of the power. Call it a "macho" thing, but every guy
who holds a gun envisions himself as something larger and more in control
than he was. It's a chest-swelling thing. If the potential for misfiring
weren't present, most men would beat the chest Tarzan-style while holding
a gun. It becomes a part of you, an extension of yourself, through which
you can release the John Wayne/Clint Eastwood/Kevin Costner in all of us.
You must suspend disbelief when handling a gun, because the magic of
movies and television have convinced us that most "flesh wounds" are
nickel-dime and that only a shot through the head or heart is fatal.
Nothing could be more wrong. A bullet to the "meaty part" of the stomach
is a nigh-guaranteed mortal wound. Untreated, a leg wound will cause
you to bleed to death. The stereotypical "wing" shot, after which the
hero can still shoot, punch and ride off into the sunset, is a complete
The it's time to fire. The big release. In target shooting, you
concentrate on one of two things, the still, motionless target, or
the hated enemy you envision that target to be. There is a tension in
the forearm, holding aloft the considerable weight of the 4+-pounds of
cold, hard steel in your hands. The pressure of the index finger against
the trigger, you spring-squeeze it to test its resiliency, it's
activation. Taking a deep rhythmic breath, you shake off the outside
thoughts, things that will distract you. Steadying your body, noting
every heartbeat, every muscle twitch, every nerve-ending synapsing.
You hesitate for a fraction of a fraction of a second, anticipating
the near-deafening thoom of the barrel dispensing it's charge. Your eyes
twitch slightly and blink reflexively at the sudden bursting. This entire
process takes perhaps a half to an entire second.
There is an acrid, bittersweet smell in the air, charred elements.
A cracking echo of the discharge hangs in the air, as an azure-grey
swirl billows from the nose of the barrel. The smoke tickles and
attacks your nostrils, sweetly offending the senses. There is an odor,
light yet distinctive. You are reminded, perhaps, of changing the oil
in your car, or lubing a bicycle chain as a child.
A slight jarring in your wrist, perhaps the feeling that a welt should
appear on your shoulder. The curve of the trigger is now very familiar,
as is the weight of the gun, the slope of the grip, the texture of the
grip covers. You fight the temptation to spin the pistol on your
index finger and slide it effortlessly into the holster. But somewhere
in the back of your mind, you realize that doing so will probably
result in the loss of your own appendages. Rethinking, you slide the
weapon into it's waiting, polished leather home.
Then you look down to your target. A large, blackened silhouette of
a man, with concentric circles leading into his sternum. To the far
right of the "man's" chest, you see a dark spot -- your mark. The
passing point of your bullet. You missed.
You sigh. Perhaps you curse, either at the gun or yourself. You missed.
Now, there is, of course, a feeling of power and authority ...
Just thought I'd pass it on.
Pfuii. A gun is nothing more than an expensive high-precision piece of
equipment for making holes at a distance. It deserves respect, but there
is nothing metaphysical about it. Might just as well wax enthusiastic
about a pneumatic sheet-rock screwdriver.
I personally prefer a late 80's Springfield Armory M1-A (legal knock-off
of the venerable US military M14) with TRW bolt, match barrel, and ART
scope, in .308 calibre. Surplus West German made NATO ammo is nice, too.
> [ ... ] It's a chest-swelling thing. If the potential for misfiring
>weren't present, most men would beat the chest Tarzan-style while holding
>a gun. [ ... ]
Hell, in that case, a misfire is tha *last* thing I'd worry about.
An accidental discharge, now, that's a *different* matter.
Gary Heston SCI Systems, Inc. ga...@sci34hub.sci.com site admin
The Chairman of the Board and the CFO speak for SCI. I'm neither.
Hestons' First Law: I qualify virtually everything I say.
It's just like smashing the frenum between your
thumb and forefinger with a rock, except you
also have to throw the rock a thousand feet,
and insult viscerally anyone who claims it's
a bad thing for you to have the ability to
"Neal Knox is a fulsome idiot."
Do we really need this trigger-happy gun propaganda shit in this group?
This is for jokes, remember?
Arno Schaefer ENSIMAG Grenoble, France
Tel.: (33) 76 51 79 95 :-)
------- No, you're not paranoid - the world is really out to get you -----------
Arno, please. Calm down. Guns are your _friends_. Guns are good.
Sure, they've got a bad reputation, but guns aren't inherently destructive.
They're just misunderstood. Many's the time I've sat by the fire on a
cold winter's night, affectionately stroking the stock of my 1943 M1 carbine
and softly tickling the sights, teasingly sliding the bolt back and letting
it snap forward (gently, oh so gently) on my finger. Some of those times
it almost seemed like the oily sheen on the barrel and receiver was radiating
waves of, yes, love back at me. Then there were the sunny summer days,
sitting on the front porch with a beer or three, flirtatiously sighting
in on the neighbor's kids and dry-firing, tensing my shoulder and arm
in anticipation of an explosion that never came, slowly relaxing after
the loud SNICK of the hammer hitting the firing pin. Someday, though.
(?) R U SatISfieD, aRNo??
BTW, the impact of a stand-up comedian, at approximately 1,000 FPS into
regulation FBI gelatin, produces a cavity more than eighteen feet in
depth, with a diameter that varies from one to three feet.
I'm not at liberty to comment.
Chapter 7: A Happy Ending for All Concerned, Except the Others
>In article <1tbs31...@srvr1.engin.umich.edu>
>ldoe...@engin.umich.edu (Laurence Doering) writes:
->In article <1993May16....@imag.fr>
->scha...@imag.imag.fr (Arno Schaefer) writes:
->>Do we really need this trigger-happy gun propaganda shit in this group?
->>This is for jokes, remember?
->Arno, please. Calm down. Guns are your _friends_. Guns are good.
>I'm not at liberty to comment.
Europeans don't care for political comments about guns. If you keep
talking about guns, please take eunet.jokes out of the header.
> Chapter 7: A Happy Ending for All Concerned, Except the Others
/-----------------------------------------------\ Never ,==.
| Rob J. Nauta, UNIX computer security expert. | Apologize, /@ |
| r...@wzv.win.tue.nl, Phone: +31-40-837549 | Never /_ <
| r...@hacktic.nl -- Email me for UNIX advice | Explain. =" `g'
The first time I suspected was when I was watching the late news on
the TV two nights ago. I was booing and hissing at the governments
latest proposal (that anyone who has been unemployed for a year must
move to the new work camps in Scotland and forfeit their wordily
possesions) when the screen blanked and a large man wearing a white
coat appeared on the screen.
"Stop that immediately Mr Moon or we will report you to the
re-education branch of your local council. Have a nice day" He said
using tones so menacing my goldfish had a heartattack.
"Oh Wow man, bum trip !" I exclaimed, (throwing my hands over my eyes
and wishing the bad trip away) "I'll never do drugs again, I promise.
Then I realised I had'nt taken anything that night (just my normal
consumption of three litres of Latvian Vodka)
I shrugged my shoulders and decided that if it was true, there wasn't
anything I could do about it anyway and went to bed. I'd more or less
forgotten the whole episode the next morning and tucked into my
breakfast bowl of cornflakes (with vodka and fired rice) as if nothing
It was just as I'd finished breakfast that I noticed the man sat in
the corner of my kitchen, watching me with an expression of disgust.
"So Mr Moon, you've been criticising our glorious government. Did you
know that booing and hissing at the TV is a capital offence ? He
"It's OK, I've got a very good excuse" I said, hitting him in the head
with a frying pan.
He tottered briefly, before giving in to the effects of gravity.
I grabbed my already packed suitcase and ran for the street, hailing a
passing taxi as I slammed my front door.
The taxi driver took me to the airport without been told, he was one
of us and had done the same kind of thing many times before. I jumped
from the taxi as he screeched to a halt beside the waiting jumbo jet.
I quickly climbed aboard and settled down to enjoy my escape to the land
of the free... America !
So here I am in the good old US of A, Land of Liberty, Freedom and
Justice for all. I escaped from my old down trodden life among the
proletariat of England. Now I can be whatever I want to be.
I head for the nearest bar to celebrate my new found status of 'free
man' and to check out the job situation (I always find jobs in pubs and
bars for some reason...)
Four hours later and I'm feeling no pain. I've been rejected by
fifteen prostitutes, four transvestites and an off duty cop.
Everything is as it always is.
The door swings open and four men, wearing identical suits, walk in.
They spread out amongst the patrons, making people nervous with their
armpit bulges and earpieces. One of them signals outside and a tall,
expensive looking woman walks in. She looks around the bar and her
eyes meet with mine. The atmosphere is electric as I hold her gaze
with mine. She sways up to me and sits down, her silk clad legs
whisper as they cross.
"Mr Moon ?" she asks in a rich southern accent "I have a job for you.
The country needs you for president"
"A... Pres...What d...?? ME ! President of America ?" I exclaim in
a high pitched voice.
"We need a president the college kids will look up to" she says,
"someone who will be an inspiration for the next generation of white
collar workers. Someone who can relate to the manual labourers. You
Mr Moon, You"
OK, where do I sign" I say "Err, don't I need to be an American and
stand for election or something ?"
She explains that elections are of the old order and that world group
of high powered business men make all the decisions these days. They
choose the person best suited to the ruling of a country and fix the
elections to get the man (or woman) they choose. As for my been
English....That does'nt matter anymore since the only true Americans
aren't allowed to vote since classification as a fourth social class
and that been American was the way your heart felt, not where you were
born. I decided my heart was true blue American all the way as soon
as I saw the pay cheque.
It was the biggest load of bullshit I've ever heard but the pay's good
and the work undemanding. It seems that all I have to do is sit
around drinking all day and occasionally make a short, pre-written
speech on the lawn of the Whitehouse.
Time passes quickly (in story time...thats why noone ever goes to the
toilet in books and films) and I find myself urinating in my
presidential bathroom (in the bath, that way you don't have to be such
a good aim) It's a good life being president of America. They gave me
a frock coat and large top hat to wear and are encouraging me to grow
my sideburns. They say it looks good on TV, although I'm sure Abe
Lincoln did'nt have long blond hair.
I'm really enjoying the press conferences. Especially the ones where
I go on global television and announce that we've started a war in an
unknown third world country 'for their own good'. I have to explain
that our troops have won freedom for the masses and protected them
from the curse of communism by killing anybody wearing red (and anyone
else who happened to be stood in the wrong place) and that we, the
United States of America, can kick the arse of anybody in the whole
wide world cos' our Dad is bigger than their Dad so ner, ner, sticky
bum. (I ad lib that last bit)
Then the nightmare happens. I'm attending a parade in a small
midwestern town when shots ring out.....
I come to under a pile of dead, bleeding bodies. The silence is
deafening as I pull myself out from under the pile of dead secret
service men. The crowd has disappeared leaving me in a deserted
street. My 'aides' are all dead (shit, they got me the job....I
almost feel guilty that I caused their death but it just turns out to
be wind) I steal the nearest car and head back to Washington.
I get to Washington on record time and run up stairs to the Oval
office. I push past the crowd of secret service 'cannon fodder' and
slide to a halt in front of my desk.
I'm already sat there !
I rub my eyes and stammer an apology to myself for already been where
I was trying to get to. My double stands up and says:-
"We thought you were dead. We killed everyone in that small
midwestern town and inserted a secret clone into the Whitehouse so
that noone would think the president is dead. You selfish bastard,
you could have let us know !"
"Shit !" I think to myself, "he's as neurotic as me "
"We cannot let you live you know" says my doppelganger, "You know too
much....GUARDS ! Take him out side and shoot him"
The suited gorillas move towards me. I take a step back and soil my
underwear. It does'nt slow the gorillas down one bit and, unusually,
smells of oranges.
"You can't kill me, I'm the president !" I yell
"Yea and I'm Mickey Mouse" says a black and white, big eared, squeaky
voiced mouse in the corner.
I run for the presidential bathroom and lock myself in. The gorillas
pound on the door while Mickey Mouse does a tap dance routine on the
"I'm innocent" I cry as I begin to black out, "I did'nt do anything"
I collapse to the floor and all is still...........
I come to on the floor of my flat, surrounded by empty bottles and
strange pill containers. My head feels like its full of cotton wool
and my mouth tastes like a monkey took a crap in it.
I stagger to my feet and turn on the TV. The news is on and looks
like the same, depressing shit I usually watch. I hesitantly
criticise the British government and nothing untoward happens. It
was all a dream ! I check out what I ate last night.....Beefburgers
and low calorie mayonnaise.....that explains it. Secure in the
knowledge that I'm not crazy, merely allergic to mayonnaise, I head for
Good Night Everybody.
GUNS don't kill people. BULLETS do.
GUNS just make them go really, really fast.
Yes. Haven't you seen empty shotgun shells around a shotgun nest?
Mark., plagiarizing from my own Usenet Oracle stuff
Q:How many gun freaks does it take to change a lightbulb?
A:One to change the bulb but another to help the first get his dick out
of the barrel first.
We are not accustomed to losing : Tim Kennedy
on our own midden. : Boldon James Limited
-Howard Wilkinson : Damian House, West Street,
: CONGLETON, Cheshire. CW12 1JN.
Yes, this is for jokes. So where is your's?
After hearing several thuds on the side of his house, Mr Thomas looked out
of his window and saw the neighbor's son Jed with a rock in his hand,
obviously trying to hit the big bay windows. Mr. Thomas went into a rage
and ran outside, grabbing the boy just before he let loose another projectile.
"I'll teach you to throw rocks at my windows!" he screamed.
"Would you really? I keep missing."
| "Someone else speaks for me, and I can't get a word in edgewise." |
| beow...@world.std.com |
They happen to *all* men at one time or another.
-chris 'except me, of course' blask
|> >Do we really need this trigger-happy gun propaganda shit in this group?
|> >This is for jokes, remember?
|> Yes, this is for jokes. So where is your's?
Ok, here it is:
After hearing that his son converted to catholizism, a jewish rabbi commits
suicide. He goes to heaven and god tells him:
"Don't be too upset. My son did the same thing once."
"So what did you do?"
"A new testament!"
I hope this comes across right.
Q: Why does it take four women with PMT to change a lightbulb.
A: COS IT JUST DOES!!!!! OKAY?
| Murphy's law clearly states - "When a body is emersed in water..." |
| "...the telephone rings." |
+MAIL TO: iho...@uk.ac.coventry.cck--FLAMES TO: /dev/nu...@uk.ac.coventry.cch+
>Q: Why does it take four women with PMT to change a lightbulb.
>A: COS IT JUST DOES!!!!! OKAY?
> Dr Zippy.
1. What the fuck is PMT?
2. This joke is very old.
3. People who write "cos" instead of " 'cause" are generally considered
by most authorities to be lowborn, inbred, and possessing
an intelligence comparable to a crushed grape.
4. The placement of punctuation in your punchline indicates that
the narrator screams -- then meekly adds "okay?" This is
not the case as regards this joke.
Not as old as some...
> 3. People who write "cos" instead of " 'cause" are generally considered
> by most authorities to be lowborn, inbred, and possessing
> an intelligence comparable to a crushed grape.
> 4. The placement of punctuation in your punchline indicates that
> the narrator screams -- then meekly adds "okay?" This is
> not the case as regards this joke.
> 5. *plonk*
A man walks into his doctor's surgery with a blob of jelly in one ear and a
dollop of custard in the other.
The receptionist looks at him and says "do you realize you have a blob of
jelly in one ear and a dollop of custard in the other?"
The man looks at her, and says "you'll have to speak up: I'm a trifle
Is it just me, or has the noise-to-signal ratio of this group
doubled in the last few days? I realize I just lurk, but gawd.
Simon Richardson, private message for ya:
Dr Fucking Zippy, private message for ya:
--no, I really *don't* expect that they'll get the hint
A: If I was in the room with four women with PMT, I would want the lights off!
> Is it just me, or has the noise-to-signal ratio of this group
>doubled in the last few days? I realize I just lurk, but gawd.
Ah, you should have been around a few years ago when we learned
just how surreal the Finnish sense of humour is. These are the
good old days...
ObJoke: ... Two's a prime, Four's a prime, Six is a prime...
Chris...@newcastle.ac.uk Computing Lab, U of Newcastle upon Tyne, UK
Music, mouldy food / Of us that trade in hymns to the undead program
> Is it just me, or has the noise-to-signal ratio of this group
> doubled in the last few days?
The correct term for newsgroups is `crapwidth' - the portion of network
bandwidth devoted to crap. And yes, it has indeed doubled. :-(
Obj: Too many cooks spoil the broth --Hannibal Lecter.
A. I don't know.
I realise this isn't a joke but neither is half of what I just read.
ALso, what does Ob in Objoke mean?
I have a signiture but it's in the shop right now!
>Q: What is PMT
>A. I don't know.
Pregnant Male Testing.
>ALso, what does Ob in Objoke mean?
Don't mention it
: Pregnant Male Testing.
I don't mind being the straightman! And here I though Ob meant
obnoxious or obscure!
Objoke: Have you heard about the new Cray? It's so fast, it executes
and infinite loop in 6 seconds.
(change Cray to CM-6 for the hip generation!)
I have an Italian signiture but it's in the shop right now!
Imagine that Cray computer decides to make a personal computer. It has
a 150 MHz processor, 200 megabytes of RAM, 1500 megabytes of disk
storage, a screen resolution of 1024x1024 pixels, relies entirely on
voice recognition for input, fits in your shirt pocket, and costs $300.
What's the first question that the computer community asks?
"Is it PC compatible?"
Photomultiplier tube, of course.
> ALso, what does Ob in Objoke mean?
sean willard se...@panofsky.desy.de
today they're filling the cryostat with liquid argon
so you can't go into the hall without an oxygen supply.
No, NeXT. Sheesh.
(and if the 'e' is not tilted on your terminal, get another one)
> Photomultiplier tube, of course.
> > ALso, what does Ob in Objoke mean?
Obscene, of course.