💾 Archived View for gemini.spam.works › mirrors › textfiles › magazines › PURPS › purps18 captured on 2022-06-12 at 14:07:38.
View Raw
More Information
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
"In Memory of Henry/Happy 'Typewriter Face' Gerbil, Who I Don't
Have To Feed Any More, And Who Scott Will Never Play 'Gerbil Ball
Soccer' In The Hall With Again."
================================================================
THE PURPLE THUNDERBOLT OF SPODE VOL 1, 18
================================================================
"Kenyon's Very Own Non Alien Run REPLIES TO: STEVENSJ
Electronic Magazine" INTERNET: "Stevensj@VAX001.Kenyon.edu"
* PPPPPP U U RRRRRR PPPPPP SSSSSS
*** P P U U R R P P S
***** P P U U R R P P S
******* PPPPPP U U RRRRRR PPPPPP SSSSS
********* P U U R R P S
*********** P U U R RR P S
***** P UUUUU R R P SSSSSS
*****
*****
*****
*****
* **** *
*** *** ***
**** * *****
************************************
- ***************************************
************************************
**** ***** *****
*** ***** ***
* ***** *
*****
*****
*****
*****
*****
***********
*********
*******
*****
***
*
________________________________________________________________
SOMETHING WHICH MIGHT, IN THE CORRECT FRAME OF MIND, LOOK SORT OF
LIKE A TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction: What, Me Worry?
News: PURPS SOCIAL UPDATE!, Cathouse for Dogs, A _Slightly_
(What, me defensive?) Inaccurate Star Trek Schedule, MORE!!!
OTISian Rants: Part Two of Messeng of the Gods, Safety Memo of
the Week, _Never_ Go Out on the Moors Alone, MORE!!
Other Rants: RAT RECIPIES!
-----------------------------------------------------------------
INTRODUCTION
("OTIS _seldom_ goes to Donato's pizzeria."-- PJI at a recent
press conference)
Were we still doing themes, this would be the "viewer mail"
issue of Purps. Generally, you folks are so quiet its only FAITH
that keeps me churning this thing out every two weeks, but as the
"deadline" for this issue approached, I was literally flooded
with mail. Why? Who knows? Let the staticians gabble. OTIS
asharin. At any rate, it doesn't matter. I've given up on
themes (sniff!).
The 75th member of the Purps mailing list was added this
week. I think we should all pause for a minute and make faces at
April BEEBA. Frankly, I wasn't always confident that 75 would
come. For a long time there we hovered at 73-74, gaining a few,
only to loose in equal numbers (several people, added by
"friends" (who, by the way, WILL be held responsible if my room
gets firebombed again) dropped, and I got fed up with the "!%user
MATUSEK cannot receive new mail" messages), but we made it, so
HAIL OTIS!!!!
SOON, very soon, maybe even NEXT ISSUE? MAL3 will be taking
over this magazine for the summer months. After that the
presitdegous title of "Purps Editor" (with the complimentary
limo, secreatry and yacht), will be slid surreptitiously into the
back pocket of Mike Dow, who will run the wonder that is Purps
untill, he graduates. I don't know just who'll be taking it in
'98 (hehe).
This is, however, not the last time you'll be hearing from
me (oh, darn!). after Mal's guest issue, but before the school
year's end, I'll be cranking out at the very least, a "Purps End
of the Year Spectacular" which at this time will feature the
first chapter of an unauthorized biography of Kitty Kelley being
writen by Nancy Reagan and Frank Sinatra, and twin centerfolds of
Richard Gere and Demi More, making all of you wish passionately
that you had terminals that can handle graphics. Until then--
I remain
PJI
_______
News
-------
PURPS.STUFF: REMINDER: THE SECOND "LAST BAR TREK OF THE YEAR" IS
THIS SATURDAY, APRIL 26th (?) AT SEVEN IN MATHER LOUNGE. THIS
SHOULD BE THE "Q" EPISODE, WHICH WE WERE JIPPED OUT OF LAST TIME.
I _HAVE_ _NO_ _MONEY_ _FOR_ _BEER_, SO SOMEONE ELSE HAD BETTER
BRING IT (PROBABLY THIS WILL MEAN ONLY FOUR CASES INSTEAD OF FIVE
AND A HALF). SEE YOU THERE!
THIS WEDENSDAY AT 7:00 PM WILL BE THE FIRST ATTEMPT AT AN OLINE
OTISIAN CONVERSION SESSION. I'll BE E-MAILING DETAILS, BE THERE!
OTHER NEWS:
[The Schedule from Paramont of Star Trek Shows. The one I've been using to
predict episodes, so we all know how accurat IT is... However, as you'll note,
there's a possibilty that it's only off by a week... PJI]
From: VAX001::WINS%"pj.bbs@shark.cs.fau.edu" 16-APR-1991 12:35:47.49
To: STEVENSJ
CC:
Subj: Re: Paramount Air Schedule (As of 4/8/91)
Reply-To: brown%astroatc.UUCP@cs.wisc.edu (Vidiot)
Followup-To: rec.arts.startrek
Organization: Vulcan Science Academy, Tau Ceti Sector
Lines: 74
Approved: griffith@dweeb.fx.com
Here it is, hot off the Fax machine, the schedule until the end of the season.
4/13/91 185R 44390.1 Data's Day
94. 4/20/91 194 Qpid
95. 4/27/91 195 The Drumhead
96. 5/04/91 196 Half a Life
97. 5/11/91 197 The Host
5/18/91 186R 44429.6 The Wounded
98. 5/25/91 198 The Minds Eye
99. 6/01/91 199 In Theory
6/08/91 187R 44474.5 Devil's Due
100. 6/15/91 200 Redemption (Season Finale)
Unofficial schedule:
6/22/91 188R 44502.7 Clues
6/29/91 189R not given First Contact
7/06/91 190R 44614.6 Galaxy's Child
7/13/91 191R 44631.2 Night Terrors
7/20/91 192R 44664.5 Identity Crisis
7/27/91 193R The Nth Degree
8/03/91 194R Qpid
8/10/91 195R The Drumhead
8/17/91 196R Half a Life
8/24/91 197R The Host
8/31/91 198R The Minds Eye
9/07/91 199R In Theory
9/14/91 200R Redemption
101. 9/21/91 201 (Start of 5th season)
The date is the first date of satellite uplink. Paramount's official
'week of' is two days later. Stardates will be added when known.
--
harvard\ att!nicmad\ spool.cs.wisc.edu!astroatc!vidiot!brown
Vidiot ucbvax!uwvax..........!astroatc!vidiot!brown
rutgers/ decvax!nicmad/ INTERNET:vidiot!brown%astroatc@spool.cs.wisc.edu
============================================================================
From: VAX001::WINS%"FAUVAX::BARKER@SERVAX.FIU.EDU" 7-APR-1991 10:08:49.53
To: STEVENSJ
Subj: cathoouse for dogs
RE/SEARCH #11: Pranks! has just hit the stands. Vital reading. I enclose
an example of one of the pranks (from Joey Skaggs). It's long
but give an idea of the thoughtfullness of most of the book.
``In 1976, I ran an advertisement in the Village Voice which read:
CATHOUSE FOR DOGS
featuring a savory selection of hot bitches. From pedigree (Fifi,
the French Poodle) to mutts (Lady the Tramp). Handler and Vet
on duty. Stud and photo service available. No weirdos, please.
Dogs only. By appointment. Call 254-7878.
I also wrote a press release about my new establishment, the Cathouse for
Dogs: if your dog graduated from obedience school, if it was his birthday,
if you were embarassed to come home and find him humping a pillow, or
fearful of having a party because your dog would mount your company's legs --
since there were cemeteries for dogs, restaurants for dogs, clothing stores
for dogs -- all the amenities of life except the one that a dog would enjoy
most, now for the first time for fifty dollars you could get your dog
sexually gratified.
This was not a mating service for the purpose of breeding; this was purely a
sexual pleasure service. We had a wonderful bevy of bitches. We used a
drug called Estro-dial to artificially induce a state of heat into our
bitches who would naturally only come into heat every six months. You
or your dog could choose any one of the bitches -- our vet would shoot her
up -- she'd be ready to go, and you could have a drink, watch and relax,
or have a photo taken. And if we had a bitch who was in a natural state of
heat we would administer a contraceptive called Ova-ban, so your dog would
have no fear of being a father.
The response was @i(unbelievable). I had people willing to pay fifty dollars
to have their dog sexually gratified, as well as people who came ``out of
the closet'' -- people who wanted to have sex with dogs, both male and
female; people who wanted to watch their dog having sex with another human
being, and it went on like that.
I waited for the press, and I didn't have to wait long -- the media wanted
to see this. I got together 25 actors and 15 dogs and staged A Night In
A Cathouse For Dogs for the media. I had, for example, an actress dressed
in a red dress with a red bow in her hair come out with a Saluki hound with
a red sweater and a red bow, and parade it in front of the male dogs being
held by actors posing as customers. I, as the announcer, would say,
``This is Sarah and Luba. Luba is a two-year-old Saluki hound. She has
a preference for Dobermans. She's almost a virgin,'' and I went on like
this. I had a phony veterinarian present, and I gave a lecture on dog
copulation technique complete with photographs. I had a questionaire that
the fake customers would fill out: how old is your dog, has it been
inoculated for rabies and distemper, do they have a certificate, why are
they getting their dog laid, and so on.
The media were there -- they were the only ones who weren't actors -- and
they just took it hook, line, and sinker. Midnight Blue from Manhattan
Cable Channel J, which was Alex Bennet and Al Goldstein and his crew,
who have videotaped every perverse sexual situation in the area, were totally
grossed out by mine! They believed it. The @i(Soho News) ran a campaign
against me. I incited the ASPCA, the Bureau of Animal Affairs, the NYPD Vice
squad, the Mayor's Office, and various religious and humane organizations who
all took up the campaign to put me out of business, and I became the
whoremaster of New York.
ABC called and wanted to do a documentary on me. I refused to allow them
to see the cathouse for dogs because I didn't want to go through the
@i(production) problem again. Every hoax I do is like doing a film or
theatre piece or a commercial. It's conceived, written, produced, directed,
staged, acted: there are locations, props -- it's very complicated. Rather
than do that every time some other media source wanted to see the Cathouse,
I provided them with a videotape of the dogs humping.
ABC did what was called a wrap-around: the interview before and after, and
interviewing other people; but the key to their documentary was the footage
I provided them of the performance of the Cathouse for Dogs. Well, ABC
interviewed me in Washington Square Park and I gave them an elaborate
interview. They went out and interviewed the ASPCA, they interviewed a
well-known veterinarian who was adamantly opposed to my use of drugs to
induce a state of heat in the bitches, and so on.
(What about the ASPCA?) They sent out armed investigators to get me.
They put up a reward poster in my hallway offering a $200 reward for
anyone who would turn me in for abusing animals. The police and various
people from city agencies (in addition to the ordinary customers who
phoned) were calling, all trying to get dates for their dogs to entrap me.
I could have made a fortune -- I said I was going to franchise it, and
have bumperstickers (``Get a Little Tail For Your Dog''). The press kept
growing and the story became international. I didn't want customers --
it was never my intention to defraud or deceive people for money. Deceit --
yes, fraud -- no. To rip people off for money -- no. To make them
think -- yes. Hoax has a negative connotation -- it's like being a con-man,
exploiting people for money. I don't do that. [...]
Anyway, ABC's documentary was nominated for an Emmy as the best news
broadcast of the year, and I was subpoenaed by the Attorney General for
illegally running a cathouse for dogs. I made my appearence at the
Attorney General's office with an entourage of my actors and revealed it
was a conceptual performance. Of course they were shocked, outraged --
not believing me. I had to make a statement with a court stenographer
and an Assistant Attorney General. When it was revealed that it was not
true -- that it was a hoax -- ABC never retracted their story...
====================
Letters to the Editor
====================
[There's a story here, first of all, IAN sent this to a whole bunch o people.]
From: VAX001::WINS%"pj.bbs@shark.cs.fau.edu" 17-APR-1991 17:50:11.56
To: STEVENSJ
Subj: Re: Writers/Critics wanted for Ink Nineteen
Greetings. Just as the heading says, I am looking for writers/critics to
contribute to Ink Nineteen, a progressive culture (for lack of a better
pair of words) magazine stationed in Central Florida, USA.
I have been a UsePhreak for some time now, and have noticed that the writing
talent available is enormous; yet only people with access to large computer
systems can enjoy it. Therefore, I am opening Ink Nineteen to eContributions,
a freshly-coined term with alarming Earth-shaking implications.
If this sounds even remotely interesting to you, please eMail me at:
ecs62697@zach.fit.edu
and I will send you back more information. I have not heard of any other
magazine (or even fanzine) take this approach towards recruiting writers or
even receiving articles, so you could be involved in the creation of something
Truly Big. Hope to hear from you soon.
Ian Koss
(His Cheap Moves)
===============================================================================
[Then, Mal, mentioned Purps to Hhim...]
From: IN%"ecs62697@zach.fit.EDU" 19-APR-1991 13:06:40.39
To: barker@fauvax.BITNET
Subj: Ink Nineteen
Mal (short for Malaclypse?) -
Whoa. How do I subscribe to the Purple Thunderbolt of Spode? I think I NEED
to.
About Ink Nineteen, I have posted additional information on misc.misc. Drop
me an eNote if you have further questions or if you wish to contribute
somethinto the mag. Thanks for your interest, and thanks for the issue of
TPTOS.
Ian
===============================================================================
[AND HE CONVERTED! HAIL OTIS! The final message from Ian...]
From: IN%"ecs62697@zach.fit.EDU" 20-APR-1991 15:58:10.14
To: barker@fauvax.BITNET
Subj: What floor, please?
Mal -
Stepping off the elevator today, I noticed...but you know. Spelled in all
caps too.
Mojo Nixon's last album was also called OTIS.
What about OTIS the Town Drunk on Andy Griffith?
It's as mind-boggling as the Toyota "Bob" commercials.
Creepy.
Ian
============================================================================
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
re: The Middle Path
Hmmm gosh. I think you've once again stumbled upon a mystical secret again.
Hmmm in India there is something called 'the Middle Way' which is a sort of
secret caravan route or a means of communication that you can cross quicky
across the country. I think it's some how tied in with the psychic
telephone system they have too. [Which on a couple of occasions has been
documented by the Brits.]
There is also various mystical teaching from India/Tibet about 'Choosing
the Middle Way which avoids all tresspassing.'
Hmm saw a book in the library on secret societs. It had the Illuminati
cyphers just liek in Illuminatus!
Also was pretty whimpy and bias. Too much british holy than thou stuff
alonog with to much x-ian toxin. Still it was interesting. Talked abou the
Skoptski (sp) and how they were linked iwth all manner of other self
multilations cults like the immolators and stuff.
Hmm reading an article on Castrated opera singers. Hmm could tie in to the
big Simpson mystery I suppose.
ONce again I'm too far away to attend. Alas I wish you luck.
Hmm I was mildy disappointed by the smallness of the purps dis. I should
try to flesh it out I suppose over the summer.
Speaking of which I'd best make an announcement.
Mal
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mal "Wisdom comes through age or superior
barker@fauvax.bitnet technology" --Electro the Robot
barker@acc.fau.edu
mal@umainecs.bitnet SBI-Submarine Pens ask about our OMC equipment
===========================================================================
From: VAX001::WINS%"<LBSPODIC%USTHK.BITNET@YALEVM.YCC.Yale.Edu>"
Subj: Re: Port-A-Party (TM) or: The OTISian Spring Libations Party is Moved
...
Now wait just one momento! I *do* like seeing all this chaos, so let's
move the libation party again!! This time to Saturday, June 8, 1991 !!
I might even be able to make that one - but that's not the point. Increase
entropy!
-SPODE speaks!
============================================================================
From: VAX001::AJASK "ASSOCIATION OF JAPANESE AND AMERICAN STUDENTS AT
KENYON" 15-APR-1991 10---
Subj: Otis Droppings...
I, your trusty friend and confidante, vote stringly for a final pagan
feast with which to cap off this year. At this feast, I would, of course have
to reveal myself. The dinner sounds most appealing of all.
The Papal Spy
P.S. I am sorry I have not been in touch, I have been learning the martial art
of ninjitsu so that I might be able to serve you better.
============================================================================
Sender: news@warwick.ac.uk (Network news)
Organization: Vestigal Gnome Tumbling plc.
I heard once a famous food outlet, no names mentioned, MacDonalds, is really a
widespread infultration of our culture by alien burgers from another planet.
It seems that the, "great Tunguska Explosion", of much fame was not in fact a
meteor or a small comet, but a huge space ship. New phorensic evidence of the
region has determined that the external shell of the object was deliberately
perforated with small seeds so that it would explode upon impact with a planet
at anything more than 3000 miles per hour. It has been known for a long time
that nothing was found of a suspicious nature in the wake of the explosion, but
under the 30 years rule constricting publication of secret service information
in this country, it has just been released that SEVERAL LARGE OBJECTS WITH
CHEESE AND A SESAME BUN were seen by locals (through very powerful binoculars).
Whilst the area was cordoned off by 100,000 square miles of felled trees, a
group of inteligence men took away these items in trucks.
It was around this time that the first MacDonalds started to appear. Rumours
of tiny squeaking noises coming from the burgers to be bought at these outlets
were widely ignored until in 1986, a crammed London MacDonalds was the scene of
a burger belonging to a Mrs. Evadney Spigget, uplifting itself, turning a
bright green, radiating warmth and then disappearing into itself. Despite many
witnesses, this account is rarely reproduced with much effect.
When asked to comment, the Prime Minister said, "Grrrrrommits".
Slime
============================================================================
From: VAX001::WINS%"FAUVAX::BARKER@SERVAX.FIU.EDU" 16-APR-1991 16:40:48.18
To: STEVENSJ
Subj: reason for more alien sitings
Summary: Why were the mid 70s the most popular time for ufo sightings?
Keywords: alien muppet
Message-ID: <ejh.671487512@utopia>
Date: 12 Apr 91 20:18:32 GMT
Sender: news@engin.umich.edu (CAEN Netnews)
Organization: The University of Michigan, Ann Arbor
My research (and several channellers, when plied with various beverages)
have revealed to me that the reason the seventies were such a peak UFO
sighting time is that a massive migration of ET types was in progress at
that time. The results of that migration can now be observed on reruns
of the Muppet Show, where the aliens' front-man, Jim Henson (recently
"terminated" by Operation Majority, the bastards) found inconspicuous
jobs for about 800 of them (check out that huge terraced wall full of 'em
in the opening sequence, just before Gonzo blows the trumpet).
The alien visitors are now in the second generation, and their offspring
star in the hit Saturday Morning TV show "Muppet Babies"...
You can see more of the aliens starring in "The Dark Crystal", the Star
Wars movies, "Labyrinth", etc... I only hope that they don't go seeking
revenge on Earthlings for Henson's death. I hope Frank Oz, their bumbling
human liaison, can keep them in check...
I am outta here...
--
_______--+---| |
/ | | | Edward J. Heil
>-------- | --+---+---------------
\ ___/ o | | s83934@ucpsc
===============================================================================
From: VAX001::KURELLJJ "I AM FOR AN ART THAT RAPES THE SENSES" 16-APR-1991
01:30:17.63
To: FISH
Subj: A quote for purps!!!!!
#1: Gee mike, a guty and a girl to massage you [Wink, nudge]
#2: I know, strong enough for a man, but made for a woman...
This was over heard this very evening in the Gund dorm lounge, during a massage
study break that went forever as the people left...
...in pairs?
-Jed
============================================================================
From: VAX001::SCHROEDER "Lemur Fun Kit (TM)" 17-APR-1991 09:46:48.92
To: JEFFE
Subj: Virgin Ears!!!
I have been informed that over 150 prospectives will be on campus this
weekend. These people have, in all likelihood, never ever even once
heard the True Word Of OTIS! (Notice that the acronym of True Word Of
OTIS is itself "TWOO", as in "Wove... twoo wove..."!)
Anyhow.
Last weekend, as the multitudes of parents were here, I was seized by
the desire to dress up a bit funny and do something loud and strange in
a public area, just to worry them all. I didn't, except once late at
night.
I MUST HEREBY APOLOGIZE FOR THAT.
But It Is Not Too Late! We Have Another Chance! We Have Before Us A
Golden Opportunity To Use Up All The Capital Letters We Can Generate!
I propose that we EVANGELIZE!
Think of it. We can set up a table off of Middle Path in the Village,
or just take over a bench. Maybe bring a couple of milk crates down to
stand on. Aides and acolytes handing out leaflets. The rubber chicken
in a place of glory. And, oh most glorious, PREACHING to the masses!
Get a few of us down, we could easily keep that up for a few hours.
Whaddya say?
Saturday afternoon is the Earth Week music fest on Pierce Lawn. So
maybe early Sunday afternoon would be best. All we need is the time
and holy frenzied dedication of a few people, and a bunch of sacred
propaganda. I've got some good creative frenzy running, and would be
most pleased to make some Holy Handbills...
Remember that right-wing Christian evangelist that used to come visit
Middle Path and draw a crowd? He has a legacy that needs carrying on.
And besides, the Collegian-reading public is primed for a true OTISian
spectacle...
HAIL OTIS! HAIL ROTUS! HAIL LOTUS! HAIL SPODE! *pummel* HaIL b
Ro
- The Reverend Rob, w.
Screaming Prophet Of OTIS Triumphant .
.
============================================================================
[This from the usenet group Alt.Devilbunnies. I have no Comment.]
In article <1991Apr17.003555.10541@cs.dal.ca> maxwell@ug.cs.dal.ca (Chris
Maxwell) writes:
>What, precisely, is this group for?
This is the group where evil rabbits plot the destruction of the human
race. You're not a rabbit. Get out!
--
>>> BAN: Nuclear Power, US Intervention in The Gulf, Toxic Waste,
>>> rdc, carasso, Trash Incinerators, Nuclear Weapons, Poverty,
>>> Racism, Kent Paul Dolan, Specieism, etc... Write: Rabbits for a Better
>>> Hutch, Roscommon, MI 48653 E-MAIL: rabbit%buster2@tygra.UUCP
============================================================================
[Even more proof that some people are far weirder than we are...]
Newsgroups: alt.devilbunnies
Subject: The Plot
Aye, this is the news group where we plot the destruction of the human race.
No HUMANS allowed!!!
That means if you're a human, get out. You can't read that!!
There. Now That we've eliminated all humans from discovering our secret
plot to rule the world, I would like to officially call this devillish
meeting open.
First article on the table: We need a ruler. Who will be king?
Second article on the table: We need a general. Who will lead our
armies of devilbunnies?
Third article on the table: We need a plot!! How are we going to rule
the world?
As founder of the Devilbunnies' Table of Secret Plots and Destructions
(DTSPD) I would like to propose the hire of America's Funniest People's
Jack-a-lope. <As fast as fast can be, you'll never catch me!!>
Since bugs is invulnerable, I would like to put him on the table also.
Just keep in mind that he is nearing Fifty years old.
Dr. Roger Rabit, Founder of the Devilbunnies Plot, What is your opinion?
I would also like to keep the table open for discusion on the date of the
election of the positions available. I nominate Dr Roger Rabbit King,
and myself moderator.
So until we destroy mankind and Claw OUR way to the top of the Food chain,
CHOW BABY!!!!!
Sabastien E Marx.
A Side to the Merging Triangles
And Nominated Moderator to DTSPD
All Hail Devilbunnies!!!
"It is a vicious, vicious rabbit, With long pointy teeth!"
===========================================================================
----------------------------------------------------------------
OTISIAN RANTS
---------------------------------------------------------------
(in which everything worth knowing about absolutely everything will be
revealed!)
From: VAX001::WINS%"FAUVAX::BARKER@SERVAX.fiu.edu" 4-APR-1991 10:00:00.51
To: STEVENSJ
Subj: stupid clown story
From: kibo@jec313.its.rpi.edu (James 'Kibo' Parry)
Newsgroups: alt.angst,alt.slack
Subject: Bongo, The World's Wackiest Clown(TM)
[From a half-hour writing exercise. (C) 1991 James Parry, as if anyone
would really WANT to claim this warped little story.]
IT'S A CLOWN'S LIFE
by James Parry
"Hey Mister Clown," squealed another brat, "will you fix my
balloon?" She held up a piece of limp latex.
Screw you, I thought as my voice cheerfully said, "I'll get you
another one, sweetie."
She instantly hit high C. "DON'T CALL ME SWEETIE! ONLY MOMMY
CALLS ME SWEETIE!"
I stomped off to get the six-year-old harridan another balloon.
If she pops a fourth one, I thought, I'm going to rip off my goddamn
rainbow wig and shove it down her throat.
There were no balloons left in the box of 144 Brightly-Colored
Balloons by the Mr. Helium cylinder. Nearby a boy with grotesquely
lumpy jeans was shoving the last of them in his pocket.
"Come here, sonny, and give Bongo back his balloons," I
requested with a smile.
"Finderth keeperth!"
"Look, kid, Bongo doesn't have time to ride his magic mini-train
back to Bongoland for more balloons just now. Please give me back my
balloons," I ordered.
"Finderth keeperth, you bo-tho! Everyone knowth dat!" My pants
legs were showing speckles of brat-spit.
A little voice in my head said "Temper, temper! Count to ten!"
as I flexed my knuckles.
"Tell you what, sonny. If you give Bongo back his balloons,
Bongo will send you a live pony next Christmas."
The kid blew a raspberry--a liquid one that drenched my
knees--and waddled off. I didn't feel like following. Ever try to run
in a clown suit? It's hell. The big shoes were making my feet feel
like they were being tortured by the Spanish Inquisition, and the heat
was making the white greasepaint run down my face into my mouth.
Well, the little bratess could forget about her stinking
balloon. I headed for the men's room, peanut shells crunching under my
enormous feet, needing a rest from the roomful of joyously energetic
kids that haunted America's Second Favorite Family Restaurant.
I sat down on a toilet just to rest my legs and peeled off the
wig, which felt like it was hairier on the inside than the outside. My
scalp felt freed. I sighed in partial relief and then my nose felt off.
Before I realized it, it bounced off my thigh and fell between my legs
into the bowl.
Screw my nose. I'm not wearing that one again. Ever. Some
lucky little creep would probably fish it out tonight and keep it. They
were already covered with germs so it wouldn't hurt them.
I sighed again, stood up, and put the wig back on. It was time
to go face the demon children again, without my nose or balloons.
If only I were a kid again.
--
James "Kibo" Parry kibo@rpi.edu
132 Beacon St. #213, Boston, MA 02116
(617) 262-3922
============================================================================
From: VAX001::WINS%"FAUVAX::BARKER@SERVAX.FIU.EDU" 6-APR-1991 20:45:43.73
To: STEVENSJ
Subj: Bell Telephone Safety Memo
As every past or present employee of ATT or the now-divested Operating
Companies knows, Mother Bell and her offspring are SERIOUS about SAFETY,
sometimes to the point of being unintentionally comical (I once attended
a safety meeting at which we were instructed in the proper manner of
sitting down in and arising from office chairs and the safe use of
staple removers... really!).
Following is the text of a "letter", dated November, 1970 and typed on
Illinois Bell stationery, that was no doubt composed with this fact in
mind:
PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL
To: District Construction Supt. - East
On the threshold of a New Year, I felt the following details of a Canada
Bell accident might inspire you and your people to strive for a safer
1971.
Employee Joseph Gosshawk, the driver of a Company vehicle, was parked on
a gentle slope in Willowdale. He had a passenger; Mr. Milker, his
Supervisor. Both were wearing hard hats in accordance with Company
regulations.
Gosshawk glanced to his right to check round the vehicle before driving
off, and accidently hit his Supervisor in the mouth with the beak of his
hard hat, knocking out the latter's false teeth. The teeth struck the
hand-brake, releasing it, and came to rest behind the foot-brake pedal.
As the vehicle started to move backwards down the slope, Mr. Milker
reached behind the brake pedal to retrieve his dentures. Gosshawk at
this moment stamped fiercely on the brake pedal. The Supervisor
received a severe bite on the dorsal surface of his right hand and
sustained three broken fingers.
Although Gosshawk had acted promptly in his effort to bring the vehicle
to an immediate stop, the cry of agony from his Supervisor caused him to
release his foot from the brake. On its further downhill movement, and
before Gosshawk ultimately arrested its progress, the vehicle struck a
cable splicer, Gordon Witherspoon, who was standing over an open manhole
with a ladle of molten lead. The molten lead spilled into the manhole
onto the private parts of another cable splicer, Giovanni Lascagnia, who
was urinating into a pair of boots.
The sudden application of molten lead to Lascagnia's private parts
caused the latter to lose his aim, and a stream of chianti-saturated
urine fell onto the exposed splice, burning through the paper insulation
and shorting out 489 pairs of cable. Unfortunately, these 489 pairs
were Ontario Hydro's alarm and telemetering circuits. This apparently
indicated a catastrophic overload at the Control Centre, causing the
Southern Ontario Power Grid to shut down.
The switch to emergency power at Toronto Toll introduced sufficient
transients into the SAGE system for NORAD to interpret them as a massive
attack from Russia. NORAD immediately launched an equally massive
counterattack. In the ensuing conflict, the Hogg's Hollow and Highway
401 bridges were destroyed by a direct hit on the Jolly Miller's men's
toilet.
During this time, Gosshawk drove Mr. Milker and Lascagnia to a hospital
and then attempted to return to his Work Centre headquarters, but found
both bridges missing. It then being 5:00 PM, he (on his own initiative)
drove the Company vehicle home. Nothing having been seen of the other
cable splicer, Witherspoon, for three days, a search was instituted, and
he was subsequently found in the manhole where he had conscientiously
jumped to repair the cable. It appears that Gosshawk had, in accordance
with Company regulations, replaced the manhole cover. When Witherspoon
attempted to remove the cover, he found that an Army tank had parked on
the manhole during the troop movements. He was taken to the hospital,
suffering from asphyxia, having been exposed for three days to the fumes
from Lascagnia's salami and garlic lunch and two piss-filled boots.
The Accident Investigation Board reviewed the aforementioned facts, and
awarded Gosshawk one day's suspension for taking a Company vehicle home
without permission. It commended Witherspoon for his noble attempt to
effect repairs to the cable. The Committee observed that the whole
affair could have been avoided if Mr. Milker had used stronger denture
adhesive. On the subject of Lascagnia's injury, which has rendered that
unfortunate individual impotent, the Committee has not yet reached a
decision.
Yours for a safe and healthy New Year.
(unsigned, as you might well expect :-))
Copies to: District Plant Managers
District Construction Supts.
============================================================================
From: VAX001::WINS%"FAUVAX::BARKER@SERVAX.FIU.EDU" 12-APR-1991 13:12:42.18
Subj: Purps submission Messenger of the Gods Part II
Messenger of the Gods Part II
I woke up the next morning sprawled across my Otisian papers,
crayons scattered everywhere, pendulums still swinging. It was
morning. Voices outside reached me. I stood up and looked out the
window pushing the night vision goggles onto my forehead. There
was a crowd on the beach around something. It was big what ever
it was. I checked the envelop to see if it was still in my
pocket, grabbed a packet of Shark Bite and opened my door. This
beach business needed investigating. I don't need people snooping
around here. Enough weird stuff goes on as is.
When I opened my door a foul fishy smell hit me like some cat had
puked up several gallons of sea food surprise on my porch. The
wind blew. It came from the sea. It must be the thing on the
beach.
I ripped open the Shark Bite and started gnawing on the teriki
flavored shark jerky. Down the steps and onto the beach. It was
quite a crowd--mostly early morning walkers and the police. They
were all standing there looking at it. A couple were pointing.
They were overweight trekkie looking types with those retched
50/50 blend t-shirts modeled around rolls of belly fat. One had
some sort of button on with a little face on it.
Damn, the face was smoking a pipe. This was no coincidence. A
couple people looked up at me as I moved closer. Most were held
spell bound by what lay on the beach and didn't notice my
arrival.
It was a squid. Or what as left of a squid. It must have been 50
feet long. It's sucker tentacles were wrapped around an old
corroded gun turret off a battle ship.
I glanced out the corner of my eye at the two Frop heads. They
were eying me and edging toward the stairs back up to my place.
They were up to something.
A little kid kicked the squid. Her mother yelled at her. The
police muttered to themselves trying to keep the crowd back in a
half hearted way. Some wanted souvenirs. I decided to leave
before the papers got there. I don't like photos of me showing up
in stray places. Too many questions get asked.
The two subgeni had gone up the stairs. Now they were heading for
my place. I pretended not to notice them darting across the lawn
toward my door.
My land lord didn't see them either. He was coming down to the
beach to see the thing on the beach.
"What's going on?" he asked.
"Some squid washed up. Pretty nifty," I replied sliding past him.
My landlord continued down to the beach without future comment.
He was used to my jaded behavior toward odd happens. He'd long
ago stopped asked me questions about the lights in the sky and
the midnight visitors. I was quiet and paid on time so he didn't
care.
I caught the two tubby frop heads squatting down on my porch
trying to pick my door lock. They didn't notice me. I picked up a
coconut laying on the ground and threw it at one. I hit him in
the head. He fell over with a crash into some battered lawn
furniture. The other bolted up like an electrified jack rabbit
looking in the direction of where the coconut came from. He saw
me and bolted, tripping off the porch and falling the five feet
on to the ground. Both were unconscious now.
Searching them, I discovered little. Both had been conned out of
the $20 by the Frop Heads. One had some mars attack cards but
they were full of chewing gum.
The police were busy and no one was paying much attention so I
dragged the two over the wall on the house next door and tossed
them into the neighbors poor excuse for a pool. I never liked the
neighbors. I'm sure they'd have fun with this little scene I'd
set up.
I went back inside and closed the blinds and looked down at what
I'd accomplished last night. The shark jerky was making me feel
sick. I got some milk out of the fridge and opened a can of tuna.
I had nothing else to eat about. Typical. Still I had no time
for shopping now.
I went back to the Otis papers and continued me work. Pendulums
swinging, line up with pole star. Crayon markings across the
pages spread out on the floor like a mosaic. A mosaic of
information. I just had to make order out of the chaos and it
wasn't working very will.
Finally, it dawned on me. I circled the answer in black and red.
It had to the be Haystack Monument.
Out came the satellite maps on the big glossy paper--color
enhanced with infra-red overlays. There it was. I'd had a
detailed scan of it done a year ago just out of curiosity. Vague
shadows radiated out from the monument on the underground radar
scan. There was something beneath the surface. Ruins? Or who
knows what. I'd never bothered to investigate. They had been
enough trouble when they'd uncovered the fezzes on the Gobi
desert.
Damn it was far away. How could I get there in time. Something
told me ordinary means of transportation like planes and cars
would be way too vulnerable. I don't think I'd want to brave the
24 hour drive in that car of mine with the radio shooting blue
sparks all over the place.
Drastic measures were called for. I had a few favors to call up.
Now looked like a good time as any to use them.
I pieced the phone cord back together. It immediately rang. I
picked the receiver of the hook and slammed it down again. Before
I could pick it up again it ring.
It took me a good five minutes of fighting the ring before I
managed to get a dial tone. I dialed 0, got the operator and
began to dictate a serious of code words and orders. I'm sure it
horrified the operator no end. People were only supposed to use
this stuff in an event of national emergency like if godzilla
were attacking. This operator insisted knowing what was going on
before she'd connect me to the national defense trunk network.
Rather than argue with her or get her fired, I explained cuba was
invading. She of course believed me. After all I did have the all
the secret codes.
The connection when through. I dialed another string of numbers.
Switches clicked and hummed and electric signals turned to light
pulses and blasted out across a cable under the ocean destined
for North africa. They were intercepted by a device, few if any
had access to, clamped to the cable deep beneath the ocean and
relayed down a line straight into the depths of the Bermuda
Triangle.
The phone rang. Ten, twenty, thirty times before it was answered.
"Gosh dang it what is it!" said a voice at the other end. "I'm
getting fiber glass all over the phone. This had better be
important."
"You got anything fast that can make a cruise up north like now?"
I asked not beating around the bush. This was an emergency after
all. Nice chats and greetings could be exchanged on the long haul
north.
"Hmm got a couple of jet skis. Ever try to run one of those
things with a guitar slung over your shoulder?"
"Nope. Look we're going north and it's cold up there."
"Got me some surplus World War One coats. That ought to do the
trick."
"Not on a jet ski!" I yelled getting angry. "Do you have anything
else?"
"Hmm let me look," said the voice at the other end dropping the
phone. Sounds of cursing and papers being shuffled followed. Then
a door slamming and a toilet flushing. Finally the voice came
back, "Okay I got something you may not like this but it's about
all I can find."
"What?" I asked skeptically thinking he'd found a rowboat with
one oar. It was frightening that this man was supposed to lead
the attack against the forces of the Antichrist some day.
"It's a submarine. Not as good as one of SBI's but it will do the
trick. Nuclear powered and everything. Don't you worry none. I
check it with the geiger counter the other day."
"There were batteries in the geiger counter right?"
"Oh come on lay off it. Look I got you some transport. I'll bet
you want me to go along too! Darn it! I've got all those forms to
fill out and the copier is out of toner again," said the guy at
the other end beginning to whine.
"Hey sounds fine!" I said. "Um.. won't we need some more people
to run it? Two's not enough is it?"
"Shoot! You're right. The dang this is pretty big. Where the heck
am I going to scare up a crew for it?"
"Oh you'll think of something. Don't you have any recruits for
the final battle?"
"Yeah, a couple I suppose. Rented me some help a while ago. I got
some guys visiting too. Their saucer broke down. Maybe they'll be
neighborly and help."
"Okay when can you get here?" I asked wanting to get under way.
"Better make it after dark this thing is kinda suspicious
looking."
"No time for that. Just pull out all the stops. Why not test out
some of your equipment?" I suggested.
"Okay I'll see what I can brew up. Give me three hours."
We said goodbye and hung up. I needed to pack and maybe take a
nap.
The phone rang. I picked it up.
"Don't move we have your place surrounded!" said a voice at the
other end. For some reason I connected the voice with those two
fat frop heads I'd thrown into the pool.
"Oh really now?" I said peering outside between a crack in the
blinds. The beach was swarming with trucks now. I guess they
trying to haul the squid away. "You do realize there are an awful
lot of witnesses around."
"They can be bought off. Now open the door and toss out the
letter and you won't get hurt."
"What letter?" I asked. I peered out of the blinds again. Way off
in the distance on the ocean a bank of fog had suddenly
materialized like a genie springing from a bottle. It was rapidly
expanding headed in my direction.
"You know very well which letter!", said the voice sounding
exasperated. Clearly there we not used to this sort of thing.
"I'll give you one minute and if you don't throw it out we'll
come in after you!"
"Hey look, could I have more than a minute. I think it got lost
somewhere. It might take me a couple minutes to find it," I
asked, looking out at the wall of fog. It was much closer now. It
spanned the sky from horizon to horizon. It was turning a weird
grey green, like tornado clouds.
"Well okay. Five minutes and we come in blasting." The line went
dead.
I hastily threw some things together into a brief case. I hoped
this weird fog would be my salvation. It was not touching the
beach. It seemed to deaden the sound of the waves and obscured
everything. The people on the beach were leaving rapidly. They
were panicked by the fog.
I looked at the clock. I had one minute before they started
blasting. The fog rolled up across the lawn and around the house
cutting out everything in sight. All I could see out my windows
was a wall of boiling green mist.
I jumped at a knock on my door. I pulled out one of my machine
pistols and opened the door a crack sticking out the muzzle. I
thought it might by the owner of the voice from he phone, but it
wasn't. It was something totally different.
"We have arrived with your transportation," droned a tall gaunt
men dressed in black, the green fog swirled around him almost
seeming to drip out of his black clothes. Sun glasses covered his
eyes. He looked pale. Some sort of wave of force seemed to roll
off him.
I jumped back then opened the door. I knew who this was. We'd
crossed paths before. The man stepped inside.
"The Big E. said he'd gotten a couple saucer boys to help him but
I didn't' realize he meant you," I said shutting off the stereo
and the lights and getting my keys.
"It was necessary to be in the vicinity. We are working on the
Gulf Stream sightings. A lot of work must be done. Many minds
need to be alternate," droned the voice glancing around briefly
especially at the scattered Otisian papers all over the floor. I
wouldn't be talking them with me. I'd more or less memorized them
during my experiments.
"Okay, let's go," I said opening the door and peering out. It was
useless. The green fog was too thick to see more than a foot in
front of your face. It was absolutely quiet. No waves, no wind,
no people, no nothing.
"Which way?" I asked over my shoulder stepping out onto the
porch.
"Just walk. It's not far," said the man in black closing the door
behind me and making sure it was locked. Slowly I stepped forward
feeling for the stairs down to the lawn. There weren't any.
"It's perfectly flat. You have nothing to fear," advised the
gaunt man walking beside me. He stared out into the green mist as
if he could see where he was going.
We walked maybe twenty steps when my boots clanked on metal. A
figure materialized out of the gloom.
"Dang it took you long enough!" said Elvis dressed in greasy
coveralls. He hastily wiped his hands on a rag and shook my hand.
"What the hell is this?" I asked totally confused. How could I
walk such a short distance and be on this metal? Something
definitely weird was going on.
"Oh heck, I forgot to tell you. We got that artifact working they
gave us. You know that big magnet doohickey. It distorts space
and time. We just sort of made a tunnel in space from this here
deck over to your front door and sent someone over for you.
Doggone it. Wish I has something like that when I sang. Could
have gotten away from the fans with it."
"Doohickey? Artifact? What am I standing on anyways," I asked
kicking the metal with a boot.
"You are standing on the deck of the Nautilus Atomic Powered
Submarine that disappeared under the North Pole," announced the
Man in Black. For a second I thought he almost smiled.
"What!" I yelled.
"Oh calm down. That's nothing wait till you meet the rest of the
crew," advised Elvis motioning me toward a conning tower that
loomed in the mist. It appeared to be thinning.
"Crew?"
"Yeah you get to meet a real live Voodoo priest. He's got some
zombies manning the controls."
--Mal '91
==============================================================================
From: rtravsky@corral.uwyo.edu (Richard W Travsky)
Sent to me by a friend...
Lotus Introduces Controversial New Product
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today, Lotus Development Corporation introduced a new member of its MarketPlace
product family, MarketPlace: Surveillance. This product, intended for "law
enforcement, security, and just plain nosey organizations," ushers in the era
of what Lotus spokespook Bud Dorkar called "Desktop Political Repression."
"Any company can put citizens at your fingertips, Dorkar continued, "only Lotus
puts them in the palm of your hand."
The product consists of a CD-ROM and software to read it. The CD-ROM contains
information on individuals, including:
name
social security number
address
phone number
estimated income
estimated political and organization affiliations
marital status
name of spouse, if any
names of children, if any
names of pets, if any
names of other household members
known associates
gender
estimated sexual orientation
estimated race
estimated religion
criminal record, if any
magazine subscriptions
library books checked out recently
cars and boats owned
driving record
fingerprints, if available
favorite color
one thing in the whole world most afraid of
comments by previous investigators
Users can select potential investigation subjects via a variety of selection
criteria, such as "all married environmentalists within an hour's drive of
Chicago." The selected records are then copied to hard-disk from the CD-ROM.
As an investigation proceeds, new information can be added to records, and the
user can even create new fields in the data records.
Every copy of MarketPlace: Surveillance comes with demonstration
data, based on 1930's KGB files. "We used the Russian data,
frankly, because it was so cheap," said Dorkar. "They sold us this
doesn't have much value anyway, most of the people in the database
were purged long ago."
After the user purchases MarketPlace: Surveillance, they send in a registration
form for real data. They then have the demo data to play with and fantasize
about, while their real data is on its way. The user must specify what region
of the U.S or other country they want data for. Each disk contains data on
approximately 12 million citizens, legal aliens, and other people. One region
comes free with the program, and others may be purchased for $100 each. "We
have the U.S., most of Central and South America, and several Asian countries
available," Dorkar said. "We will try to introduce Africa and the Middle East
in time for Christmas. We hope to bring one or two of the Canadian provinces
on board too. Hopefully, the EC (European Common Market) will be in some day,
but that's at least two years out, they're just not ready."
Anticipating criticism of the product, Dorkar addressed security
and privacy concerns:
[The developers of MarketPlace] implemented a number of
controls that go far beyond traditional practices for the
security community. Besides limiting the data to what is
readily available as a matter of public record, Census data
profiling, and similar sources most governments can already
access, we have taken three additional and important steps:
(1) We are offering the product only to legitimate
governments and businesses.
(2) We provide people with an option to have their names
removed from the database.
(3) We are educating and advising users of the proper
legal and ethical responsibilities for list usage.
To remove their names from the database, people need only call Lotus at
1-800-328-7448, and give a Lotus operator their name, date of birth, social
security number, and why they don't want to be in the database. The Lotus
operator will then roll two dice to determine which of 25 complex and expensive
methods the person will be required to use to be removed from the database. An
exception is if the operator rolls doubles. In that case, the operator will
take all of the information over the phone, then send two guys with baseball
bats to visit your house within three business days.
All of the people who ask to be removed are purged from the database. Their
names and social security numbers are kept on a separate list, so they will
never reappear in the standard database. The separate list is, however,
available on CD-ROM for $200, twice the regular price.
Dorkar concluded by vociferously defending MarketPlace: Surveillance, spittle
flying from his lips: "Some people argue that the information collected in
Lotus MarketPlace: Surveillance should not be available. However, this
information is really already really readily readable, either as a matter of
public record or through thousands of other lists and database sources. For
example, the FBI alone has files on literally millions of Americans."
"Access to information is one of the benefits of a free society. In developing
MarketPlace: Surveillance, Lotus and its data providers have strived to balance
the right to privacy with the freedom of information that is a hallmark of our
society."
--
Edited by Brad Templeton. MAIL your jokes (jokes ONLY) to funny@looking.ON.CA
Attribute the joke's source if at all possible. A Daemon will auto-reply.
If you don't need an auto-reply, submit to rhf@looking.on.ca instead.
============================================================================
Sender: news@demon.co.uk (C-News Owner)
Hello Everyone,
I've been posting quite a lot to alt.dreams, but this is my first post
here. I'd like to relate an experience I had on Christmas Day with a
view to receiving comments and interpretations. What I am about to
write is true and *not* imagination, I know the difference.
Here goes...
It was Christmas Day, just after lunch. I deliberately hadn't eaten
too much and I wanted to be alone. I told Mum that I was going for a
walk along the river Bovey back up to Dartmoor.
It was a lovely day, crisp and clear. The trees were beautiful and I
was really enjoying the stillness and calmness of the moors. I felt
very alone, nevertheless, and sad.
I walked along the river for about half an hour, partly up an old
railway track. Eventually, after passing a few people I made my way
to the roadside and crossed back towards the river, stopping on top
of a little humpback bridge. My hands held the railings - which were
of iron and I looked down into the stream.
After a while, I realized that I was becoming quite absorbed by my
surroundings. I "let myself go" and looked into the stream again and
then to the trees on either side. Quite suddenly, my consciousness
shifted down through the bridge and into the stream. I was overcome
with joy and I could feel the currents and sense the purpose of this
little river as it found it's way through the mother earth.
The sound of the water bubbling on the stones became laughter, a
song. Nature was talking and I was understanding. The trees became
transparent and took on such vivid colours. Their presense was felt,
their personalities expressed and each one was quite a special
friend. What was I, was immersed, for the first time I belonged to
something. The stones knew, the trees understood and the stream held
me close. I could not fall.
The song grew stronger, more beautiful and the physical world faded
from view. I was colour and sound, but most of all belonging to
everything around me. Being alone became a distant memory of my
human existence.
At times I tried to think of myself standing on the bridge, but I
could not feel myself, I could not feel the road or the iron railings
between my hands. Everything was part of everything else; fluid
like, elastic. Forms flowing one into another. Creating, nurturing,
becoming and loving.
For the first time in my life I felt at home.
After half an hour or so, I managed to return again to myself. But
my focus was weak and I was unprepared. I started to walk, but could
not. The road was without substance, it started to bend, twist. The
trees were still talking to me, singing in their friendly way. It
took me about 5 minutes of intense concentration before I was able to
walk again.
During this transitional phase, I was startled by a person walking
over the bridge. They looked at me. I wondered if I appeared
"normal" to them. I had no way of telling since my consciousness was
still out there.
I returned home feeling uplifted, reassured that I had made many
friends. I knew that they would be with me always.
--------------------------------------------------------------
James Roche, 2A Belgrade Rd, Hampton, Middlesex. TW12 2AZ UK
Tel: +44 (0)81-941 4262 Email:jroche@cix.compulink.co.uk
(If that fails try old address - jroche@compulink.co.uk)
============================================================================
From: VAX001::WINS%"M.S.Dow@exeter.ac.uk" 20-APR-1991 18:41:15.94
To: STEVENSJ
Subj: Put this in Purps. I'm safe in England.
The following jokes are not at all amusing. They are, in fact, deeply
offensive to any sensitive human being, and should certainly NOT be shown
to children, maiden aunts, serious christians, serious muslims, serious jews,
serious hindus, and any of the "serious" sects of buddhism, as well as many
other religions which you may be thinking about. In fact, this entire
message should be deleted, the disk wiped, the hardware smashed with an ax,
the CA shotgunned, and the whole mess consigned to some Luddite Hell. At the
very least, don't show it to Bill.
Despite the successful purge by the House Un-American Witticisms Committee,
in the United States, the BILL JOKE continues to exist in some parts of
Britain.
Some examples include:
BILL DE BERGERAC: a low-budget anglicized version of the classic
French tale, not starring Gerard Depardieu and probably never to appear in the
US.
BILL OF BEREA: a perhaps apocryphal and VERY unfinished play by
Shakespeare, about a brooding young author forced to speak in Shakespearian
verse, played brilliantly by Sir Ian McKellen. (the smartass friend from
Massachusetts was played by Christopher Lloyd,by the way, NOT Don Knotts. Got
that Jeffe?)
The BILL TAX, an extremely divisive and unpopular suggested
alternative to the infamous Poll Tax, which was squashed in the very early
stages by the Ducks, Geese, Herons, Swans and Related Waterfowl's Amalgamated
Lobby.
and finally, THE BILL, a pretentious police drama. (no, REALLY.)
Nostalgically yours,
Grinnin Foole
===============================================================
OTHER RANTS
===============================================================
(in which absolutely nothing will be revealed at all)
Latest rat recipies.
I lied. I'm sending another rat recipe. This is the worst.
Oh no! Not *another* one!! I promise, this is the last rat
YARR (yet another rat recipe)
More ratliness.
-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- 2 -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
Date: Mon, 17 Mar 86 02:11:12 pst
From: jkh%opal@BERKELEY.EDU (Jordan K. Hubbard)
To: hackers_guild@ucbvax.berkeley.edu
Subject: I lied. I'm sending another rat recipe. This is the worst.
Well, I'm getting even for getting political and scaring me away from
hackers_guild the first time around. Milo baby, this Bud's for you..
Probably not the last rat recipe after all (nyah nyah nyah!)
And now for the very very latest in rat recipes from your harlem chef.
Actually, this isn't so much of a recipe as it is a hell of a lot
of fun. In fact, today we probably won't even eat what we make, but we
are in for a really good time.
This recipe should probably not be made in your own home. A friend or
neighbor's is preferable, assuming, of course, that they're not home.
Failing this, you should probably ring some doorbells around the
neighborhood until you find someone that's not home and break into their
house. Lots of accumulated newspapers tend to indicate people on vacation.
Try these homes first.
Once you've secured an appropriate residence, you'll need the following
ingredients before you start (I won't be fooling you with unnecessary
ingredients this time, bring everything I tell you to).
Here they are:
1 iron (the bigger the better)
1 spool brightly colored ribbon (christmas variety)
1 spool stiff (14 gauge or better) copper wire
6 packets of rit (you know the kind) dye. Colors of your choice.
1 container Ronson's lighter fluid (as large as possible)
1 Colt .357 magnum python or Ruger security six (depending on budget)
12 rounds of hollow point .357 ammunition
1 12 gauge pump action shotgun. Maker of your choice.
1 extra box of 12 gauge shells
1 baseball bat (wood, not aluminum)
1 pair black pajamas
1 sheet paper
1 pen (in working order)
12 little umbrellas (the kind you get in fancy drinks)
1 heavy duty blender
1 military uniform, circa World War II (the higher the rank, the better)
1 bottle black shoe polish
Ok, we're all set. Select 10 rats from your cages, the larger the
better. Physical condition is not important this time since we're
not going to eat them. Line them up on the kitchen table and force
them to quiet down with the Rodent Pursuader (you *did* bring that,
didn't you?). Dress up in the military uniform and strap on the
loaded .357. Affecting your best Gen. George Patton accent, strut
up and down before the table and give a rousing speech. Something
along these lines is suggested:
"Men. (cough) it's been a hell of a war. (dramatic pause) And you've
been Good Soldiers!! (wave cigar) But *because* you're good soldiers,
you've always lived with the possibility of death and you've faced
it! *Like Men!* (ignore the fact that they're really rats) And I want
to say that I've been *proud* to command Men such as you! (wheel around
suddenly and salute rats) And Men, I just wanted to be the one to tell
you that that time of pride, glory and blood has come! Now!"
Yank the .357 from its holster and start blasting away at the rats,
point blank. If you're lucky, you'll probably get three or four of
them. The rest will no doubt scatter and run for their lives. This
is where the real fun begins. Shed the military uniform and change
into the black pajamas. Blacken your face and hands with the shoe
polish and verify results in a mirror. Grab the shotgun and load
it, being sure to put a few extra shells in your pockets. Begin
the hunt. Man against rat. Feel the primal urges surging through
your bloodstream! 'Nam was never like this, no sir.. Don't be afraid
to blast away at shadows or household appliances. Total destruction
of the house is also a goal in this exercise. Using standard S.W.A.T.
house clearing maneuvers, proceed from room to room. See the rat cowering
in terror next to to wall! Feel the shotgun buck in your grip, the
tremendous
roar in the enclosed space! Watch the rat slam into the wall, simultaneously
disintigrating into a red pulpy mess of fur and bone! You feel, somehow,
deep in your bones, that this is living. This really is.
When all rats have been terminated, you should gather up the remains
(including the ones originally shot with the .357) into a small pile
and sort them according to percentage of remaining bodily parts. Mixing
and matching is permitted.
The larger chunks of remains should be decoratively wrapped with
the christmas ribbon and hung from various light fixtures and such.
Using the rit dye and some mixing bowls, dye some of the other
pieces different colors and stick a little umbrella into each.
These should be placed as tastefully as possible in various parts
of the house.
Smaller pieces that are recognisable as something can be wired together
with the copper wire to create totally new looking rats. Don't be afraid
to use your best anthropological creativity here. Or whatever.
The smallest and most indistinguishable pieces should be ironed
carefully into the rug.
Anything left over should be placed into a small fireproof container
and set afire with the lighter fluid. This will add that special
aroma to the house. The smell may in fact make you hungry at this
point, so feel free to eat a few of your creations. The baseball
bat should be used on any especially tough portions of meat.
If you're particularly health-oriented you can use the blender to make
some interesting high-protein shakes.
After you've finished and packed up your firearms (don't want to leave
- those* behind, no sir. Might need them) write a note to the appartment
dweller using the pen and paper. Something along these lines is suggested:
"Well, you bastard/bitch ( checking for gender of occupant
in closet [not always foolproof] ) I finally got even with you! And
you thought you could just dump me like that! Ha! This is only
the first action of my revenge!! Die in hell.."
(unsigned)
This should insure a lot of fun for quite some time afterward.
Bon Appetit!
-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- 3 -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
Date: Sat, 15 Mar 86 14:17:33 pst
From: jkh%opal@BERKELEY.EDU (Jordan K. Hubbard)
To: hackers_guild@ucbvax.berkeley.edu
Subject: Oh no! Not *another* one!! I promise, this is the last rat
recipe.
Yet Another Rat Recipe (YARR!)
Today we will be making a rat dish that's especially popular
around the holidays. Baked rat (in butter sauce) with rat fries.
You will need the following ingredients and tools to prepare
this dish:
1 large mixing bowl
1 small mixing bowl
1 small saucepan
1 metal spatula (not teflon)
1 pair pinking shears
1 pair leather gloves (sturdy)
1/2 cup hot tar
1 small hatchet
6 feet of garden hose
40 1/4" diameter ball bearings
2 6" pieces of string
1 large wooden stake
1 lb butter
1 2 tsp salt
2 tbs tobasco sauce
1 tbs finely ground red pepper
1 sprig parsley
1/2 cup white flour
Using 1/4 cup of flour, lightly dust the large mixing bowl until it is
thoroughly coated. Place aside and preheat oven to 350 deg. F.
Combine the tobasco sauce, salt and red pepper in the smaller
bowl and stir in 1/2 cup water, being careful to eliminate any
lumps.
Melt butter in saucepan and mix in the remaining flour. Carefully
add the tobasco/pepper mix in the small bowl and bring entire
mixture to a rapid boil. Remove from heat and set aside to cool.
While waiting, select the largest rat from your cages and
examine carefully. Rat should be plump, but (here it comes) in
Good Physical Condition!
Carefully shave off its whiskers (use of Rodent Pursueder encouraged
of course) and add them to the saucepan. Holding the rat firmly
immobilized, quickly whack off its tail with the hatchet and
dip the stump into the hot tar. This will keep the rat from bleeding
to death prematurely. Note that the rat will probably make a lot of noise
during this exercise and it is generally not a good idea to have neighbors
or small children about. Do what you can to comfort the rat at this
point since it will no doubt be upset. Loud classical music is the generally
favored method in this case.
Leaving the rat to the music, add the severed tail to the saucepan
and reheat to a simmer. Throw the sprig of parsley away since no one
eats that shit anyway.
Turn off the music and confront the rat, which should be reasonably
calm by now. Carefully slip on the gloves (being careful to make no
sudden moves) and rub your hands slowly together, your face a demonic
mask in the dull red light of the dying sun as it sinks slowly below
the horizon. Lunge forward and grasp the rat firmly by the neck and slowly
choke the life out of it until it ceases to struggle in your grasp and
its tiny gasps for air are no longer heard. Lay its carcass gently on
the counter and proceed to beat it to a pulp with the length of garden
hose. Stop when it is thoroughly mashed or you are tired.
Throw the rat away since it is now obviously unsuitable for our purposes.
Select another plump rat from your inventory and inspect it in
the same fashion as the first. When its suitability has been
confirmed, tie its legs together with the string and dash it against
the wall with as much force as you can muster. Stuff the ball bearings
into the mouth of the rat until all ball bearings have been used or
rat is filled (don't be afraid to pack it).
Impale it with the wooden stake as you might a marshmallow on a stick and
place on the top rack of your oven. Baking time is 50 minutes. Baste every
15 minutes with butter mix, basting one final time before serving.
Slice the two tails (one in sauce and on second rat) into thin wafers
and serve according to taste. You may wash the large mixing bowl and
put it away since we won't be needing it after all. Same goes for
the spatula.
Carefully extract all ball bearings while carving rat and arrange
in decorative patterns on serving dish.
Bon Appetit!
-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- 4 -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
Date: Mon, 17 Mar 86 16:36:56 PST
From: grady@cad.berkeley.edu (Steven Grady)
To: hackers_guild@ucbvax.berkeley.edu
Subject: YARR (yet another rat recipe)
Seeing that rat recipes are being exchanged in the open now,
not just passed around in dark rooms accompanied by furtive
glances, I feel ready to present my own creation, which will
hopefully equal in some way the brilliant recipes presented
earlier. (I have not had a chance to try them out yet, but I
feel sure they will live up to their descriptions). My cookery
is designed for a large dinner party. You will need:
fisherman's boots
thyme
fennel
chain-saw
mouse-spinner
putty knife
broom handle
blowtorch (or flame-thrower)
sound-proofed room furnished only by a table
parsley
Halloween sound effects record, and stereo
long SHARP knives (at least two)
large bag of rats (75-100)
rodent-reducer
cutting board
rice
dips (honey, mustard, etc)
And, of course, the Rodent Persuader.
Go into the sound-proofed room, and dump the rats onto the
floor. Many of them will already be dead from suffocation or
severe rodent bites. This is fine. Take all of these rats and
place them in the rodent-reducer, setting the dial at "Mouse" (or
if you prefer, just slice them into bits with a knife). Remove
the now mouse-sized rats and put them in the mouse-spinner (you
know, sometimes I wish they would think of the rat-lovers' needs
as well, instead of the huge bias for mice.. I have never found
a rodent-spinner of a suitable size for rats. But then, it
REALLY is FUN forcing the rats into a suitable size, by either of
the above means, although the reducer has the advantage of
keeping the rats alive temporarily). When you've got a thick
strip of rat-flesh around the inside of the spinner, remove it
and cut it into bite-size morsels.
Next put on the fisherman's boots and put on the music. My
preference from these Halloween albums in such cases is the low
moaning, but if you prefer, you can use the dog and cat fights,
or the human screams. Now, take the broom handle and sweep the
rats off the table, screaming at them. When they really get
moving, so they seem to cover the floor, start jumping up and
down. Try to squish as many as possible, concentrating on the
luxurious, almost ecstatic feel of the rats tiny bones and limbs
being crushed under your feet. As you do this, the rats will
become rather angry, and probably try to bite your feet, hence
the boots. Note: It is important _not_ to use the Rodent
Persuader to keep them under control, as we'll see in a moment.
You'll notice as you continue to leap on the scurrying creatures
that fewer and fewer of them are running around in abject fear,
and more and more of them have become encrusted in a sort of
jelly on your boots. One other point: don't let your guests come
in to enjoy the display. Unless they are a group of close
friends, you might not know if some of them are bleeding-hearts
who prize the lives of rodents over your fun.
When you finally start getting tired, sit down and use the
putty knife to scrape the rat remains off your boots and the
floor. Put all of it into a bowl, mix it up with a little thyme
and fennel, spread on the cutting board, cut into rat-shaped
cookies (unless you suspect your guests of being rat-symps, in
which case you should probably shape them into puppies or small
waterfowl), and serve. Better yet, keep them for a late-night
snack. By leaping on the slow-moving ones, you have separated
the "men" from the "boys", as it were. This was the whole point
of the rat-crushing (apart from the fun and glory). You now have
a small group of select, fast, strong rats, ready to become the
entree in a way that will satisfy your needs and delight your
friends (although not the pinko rat-liberators).
Now use the Rodent Persuader (we didn't use it before
because that would have defeated the purpose of jumping on the
rats) to force them to stand on their front legs (can you imagine
how hard it would be to force them to do that _without_ the
Persuader? It's not easy. Although one can be creative, for
instance spiked chain comes to mind). You now have a choice. If
it appears the Persuader has been extremely effective, you can
start up the chainsaw, hoping that the noise does not startle
them into running away, and sweep the buzzing instrument of doom
across their legs in a great arc, and, as the legs come flying
down in a rain of blood, you can leap on the helpless bodies,
hurling your torso onto them and squashing the whole bunch of
them as you let out a blood-curdling scream. Serve with rice,
and present the rat legs on the side, with appropriate dips
(mustard, honey, garlic paste, or rat putty).
Alternately, you can observe with anticipative lust that
they are just standing there, sitting ducks, in preparation for
their destruction by your slightest whim. Savor this moment; you
will not likely experience another one quite like it. Then,
bring out the blowtorch (or flamethrower if you can afford it)
and roast them as their squeaks of terror and pain slowly die
away. Serve the rats flambe' (hopefully they will now be
unreconizable as rats) garnished with parsley.
________________________________________________________________
THE PURPLE THUNDERBOLT OF SPODE ISSUE # 18
----------------------------------------------------------------
Neither censored nor edited. Deal.
"If I ever find religion, this will be it."-- an unidentified prospectus on
middle path durning the OTISian Revival Meeting Monday....