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      + Doomed to Obscurity - Issue Number Sixteen - November 22, 1996 +

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           + "Everywhere else people are getting laid" - Skinhorse +
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 - "Look at Me!"
 - by Mogel

        Hey guys, I'm very witty!  I swear!

        Welcome to another issue of the e'zine Doomed to Obscurity.  The one,
 the only 'zine.  That's right, there's nothing else trashy enough to read.
 There's nothing else that's going to give you that oh-so MTV loser-friendly
 feel that I *know* is important to you.

        I think it's high time that you and I had a little chat.

        See, I'm MOGEL.  I am the all-knowing, fearless leader of the happy
 DTO brigade.  You, on the other hand, are a potential DTO writer.  Can you
 make the conclusion?  Good.

        Well, hey -- this month has been one huge pain in my royal butt, with
 a few exceptions, but late or not, DTO must go on!!!

        You'll notice quite quickly that for this issue we're using upper
 case letters.  This is because we are all members of a ska band called 
 Skarate.  You'll also notice that this month has a theme where all of the
 articles are Non-Fiction/Rant/Editorials.  This is because we are at war
 with another ska band called Skaghetti and Meatballs.

        See?!  Wit!#

        Expect a lot of angst this month -- and every month!!!

        Hahahahahahaha!!!!!!!!!!

        This issue also features a VERY special NEW writer -- Anti-Hero!!!

        You know, I really love you guys.  You're my cyber-pals.  Each and
 every month my electronic-ego gets stroked because I'm the greatest guy 
 alive, yadda yadda.

        Go boom.

    $P""7Sy $ss     ySP""7Sy
 __ "$ __ $# $ __"Sy $ __ $ ______________________________________________
 ::  $ :: $" "$ :: $ #$ :: $g The Contents of Doomed to Obscurity, Number 16
 "" y$ "" $y y$ "" $ g$ "" $ """"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
    $sssdS' $sssdS' "SbssdS'

 01 -- "Look at Me!" >> by Mogel
 02 -- The Contents of Doomed to Obscurity, Number 16
 03 -- "New Rules of Romance" >> by Sweeney Erect
 04 -- "Coffee Showdown" >> by Oregano
 05 -- "Al and Jane:  Modern Day Hypocrisy" >> by Trilobyte
 06 -- "An Evil Town" >> by Ed Hamilton
 07 -- "Condiments Chapter 610:  Birch" >> by Murmur
 08 -- "I Don't Wanna Eat!!!!!" >> by Styx
 09 -- "Kinda Sugaree Charms" >> by Anti-Hero
 10 -- Letters to the Editor
 11 -- "Can't You See My Walls Are Crumbling?" >> by Jamesy
 12 -- "Crazy People" >> by Puck
 13 -- "I am Cool" >> by Creed
 14 -- "Let's Pretend It's Not Pathetic" >> by Mogel
 15 -- "True To Life" >> by Murmur

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 - "New Rules of Romance"
 - by Sweeney Erect

        This one goes out to Styx.

 ---

        In _Phantom of the Opera_, a fine documentary about how smart guys
 get screwed over romantically, Christine whines somewhere near the end, "Why
 can't the past just die?"  This is a more appropriate question than she
 knows.  I propose it should be considered morally and socially acceptable
 to murder girls at any point during a romance before they call things off.

        Before presenting my idea for ameliorating romance, let me provide
 a little background.  See, dating and courting are merely games.  But
 they're not games like chess or quarters where everybody knows the rules
 which are more or less written in stone.  They are much more like the much
 beloved basketball game "twenty-one" where there are literally an infinite
 number of variations, so many variations in fact that anybody can call a
 foul for anything at any time and be more or less justified.

        In fact, discussions in relationships usually sound like discussions
 in twenty-one ("You're not allowed to dance with him!"  "Yes I am .. I
 always have been allowed in the past!"  "Well, I've NEVER done it like
 that ..").

        But there *are* certain features of romance that make it discernibly
 romance and not, say, indigestion just like there are features separating
 twenty-one from Venezuelan Beaver Tossing competitions.

        The rules of romance seem to be:  Whomever asks the other person to
 begin a romantic relationship is at an immediate disadvantage for the first
 few weeks and sometimes never quite overcomes this disadvantage.  Whomever
 breaks things off gains a perpetual advantage.  In between, it's all just a
 power game .. whatever you can get away with goes and whomever gets away
 with the most in the end usually wins, especially if they *also* break
 things off.

        All this can often be overwhelming even (and especially) for clever
 men and people who are skilled strategists and chess players often get
 screwed over in romance.  That's why I propose to add one more element to
 the universally accepted romantic game:  murder.

        I propose it should be morally and socially acceptable to murder
 girls at any point during a relationship before they actually call things
 off.  If you kill a girl after she dumps you that is just gauche and
 tacky .. "jilted lover blah blah yawn."  But to do so because you have a
 *hunch* she might be calling things off, to preemptively ward off disgrace
 and repeating the same story to thirty different people in the week after
 a break up, now that's style.

        Allowing for this has a number of advantages.  In the first place,
 it's three words:  Fun, Fun, Fun!  I mean, all the thousand disgraces and
 embarrassments you suffer at the girl's hands during the courtship are
 worthwhile if, later on, you know you are allowed to pop a cap in her ass.
 And even if she never does anything to you, is the perfect loving companion,
 wouldn't it be fun to murder somebody in cold blood and not draw any legal
 or social sanctions?

        In the second place, this will have a dramatic effect on global
 over-population.  It is a commonly believed myth that most over-population
 takes place in forsaken little third world countries.  Not so.  There are
 just as many people as are needed there, the only surplus is on teenage
 girls in developed countries.  The environment can handle all the Kenyans
 you throw at it .. the real danger is in angering the god or gods who rule
 the universe by having them hear "Like I didn't like mean for this ..
 sometimes things just happen you know?" one too many times.  That was
 Malthus's real concern.

        The third advantage is a mostly grammatical one.  Isn't it cumbersome
 to always refer to my "ex-girlfriend"?  Well, now if you play your cards
 right there will be no reason to refer to her at all .. she'll be dead.

        And the final, most compelling reason should be self-evident by now.
 Aren't there some bitches you would just like to see dead?

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 - "Coffee Showdown" 
 - by Oregano

        Death was on the plate tonight.  All I wanted was to give an
 insider's view of the weirdness of Evanston's coffee houses, but along the
 way my life was put in danger.  Just shows how precarious the life of an
 investigative reporter really is.

        The evening started out well enough, after I left my apartment
 building I did my trademark barfing onto the sidewalk in front of a gaggle
 of co-eds.  (I pine for the days when women were impressed by a long gullet
 purge, today they just intentionally ignore you.)  You can't drink coffee on
 an ulcer unless your stomach is properly emptied.  That done, I got some
 money from a cash machine and headed for Kaffeine, Evanston's preeminent
 coffee house.

        Kaffeine is home of the cool, at least I think, maybe some high
 school kids, but otherwise cool, so I planned on looking in the front
 window to check things out.  Could I find a place to sit on my own and not
 be bothered?  I couldn't take a full table, since when the place crowded up
 I'd be asked to move, or to leave.  Also I wasn't sure whether there were
 waiters or if one went up to some counter to get the coffee.  But when I
 got to Kaffeine and looked in, there was a homeless guy standing near the
 door looking at me.  Or maybe he was part of the cool, just standing outside
 to have a cigarette.  Either way I didn't want to be seen staring inside
 trying to figure things out.  Heck, what if the guy reported back to people
 inside that there was a dufus not clued in, I'd sit down and people would
 point at me while my back was turned.  Or if this guy was homeless, he might
 ask me for money, or even worse try to tell me his life story, like a lot of
 homeless guys like to do.  Instead of suffering all this torture I walked on
 in the snow, just glancing inside, I think there were places to sit, I'm
 just not sure.

        Did I mention the snow?  First snow of the season while I went from
 coffee house to coffee house to give you this outsider's expose.  Well, it
 was more flurries than any real snow, still kinda almost slippery and
 dangerous, I had on my ill fitting hat and my neon blue scarf.

        The Unicorn Cafe was next, about 3 blocks away from Kaffeine, a
 coffee house for the older student crowd, Kaffeine attracts high school
 kids, Unicorn is for Northwestern University students.  Unfortunately it was
 too scary to enter.  What would I say if a waiter approached me?  Not
 wanting to upset my ulcer could I ask, "What do you have without caffeine?"
 This was Saturday night, when the hard core coffee housers were out, every
 head in the house would turn and either I would be laughed at till I fell in
 an epileptic fit, a seizure with spasms timed to each maniacal chuckle and
 guffaw; or they'd all throw their scalding beverages at me till I burned to
 charcoal, I would look like those trees we see every year in the burning
 hills of California, the fire brigade would only have to dust out my ashes.

        Instead of this horrible fate, I walked on by, noticing that there
 were plenty of empty seats had I braved it and gone in to tell my tale from
 an actual coffee house.

        Past the Unicorn, in the far part of town, the corporate sector,
 where I seldom go, especially this late at night, lies Cafe Ambiance,
 Evanston's newest coffee house.  Outside the front door stood a pack of
 high schoolers, one had a boombox playing hip-hop; the high school kids
 chanted along to whatever was playing (you don't sing along to hip-hop, do
 you?)  Needless to say, I did not go inside, I just kinda looked in the
 window, there were bunches of empty seats.  A trio of 16 year-old girls
 huffily pushed me aside to get in the door.  Not exactly my scene.

        To avoid covering the same ground, and facing the hip-hop crew and
 inviting mock and scorn, I kept going straight, to the end of the block,
 pretending I was looking in the window of every store, like Cafe Ambiance
 was not my main objective, like I was Mr. Curious taking a Saturday night
 stroll.  I crossed to the other side of the street and walked back towards
 town.

        Halfway down the block, a white Ford Bronco screeched to a halt
 blocking my path, I was kinda far from the center of town, late at night,
 around me were empty office buildings that loomed oblivious to the goings on
 below them.  A black man, large, bald, scary, jumped out of the vehicle and
 he was mad, the anger was radiating from him like those lines we draw of the
 sun as children to show its immense heat.

        "What did you say to me?" he growled with his fists clenched tight,
 ready to pummel my head into soft matter.

        I racked my brain trying to figure out who I may have offended this
 evening, I am not a man who can plead innocent to starting provocations.  I
 frequently flip the bird to drivers who I am dissatisfied with, or yell out
 comments on their less than courteous driving.  But I couldn't recall doing
 anything tonight on the mean streets of Evanston that would put me in this
 situation.  But now I faced this machine of destruction, Bald Bull from the
 Nintendo boxing game, a stunt double for Fox TV's Roc.

        A little ingenuity came into my brain -- I think fast on these feet
 -- and to this charging hulk of destruction I quipped, "What?"

        Ah, now I had him on the ropes, how can he come back from that?  But
 he was undeterred, like a lion roaring with enough intensity to scare away
 all the other creatures of the jungle he repeated, "What...did...you...
 say...to...me?!!!"

        Seeing that a conflict could not be avoided, and that I had no weapon
 to defend myself against this certain death I resorted to a plan of
 desperation .. I told the truth.  "Nothing," calmly slipped from my lips,
 not wanting to show my hand, or weakening bladder.

        "Oh, nevermind," he opened the door to the Bronco and laughed loudly
 to the driver, and got in, maybe they exchanged highfives, his little prank
 was over and I walked on my way, plotting how I could have better handled
 that situation.  I could be a tough guy had I a gun, he'd ask me what I said
 to him and I'd lift up my jacket, showing the gun handle and say, "I told
 you to get back in that car."  I smiled when I though how it would be of
 high amusement if, before he got back into the Bronco, I were to yell
 something really offensive like, "You crazy niggers are always up to
 something."  And then just run like the dickens.

        I then went to a local sports bar, where I now sit sipping Whiskey
 Sours (would Hemingway drink something that comes with a cherry in it?)
 writing this, the Bulls game on the TV, a TV I can't see, only hear.  The
 bar crowd is so different from the coffee house crowd, at least I think so,
 I think I'm safe here.

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 - "Al and Jane: Modern Day Hypocrisy"
 - by Trilobyte

 Meet Jane.                          Meet Al.
 Jane is 16 years old.               Al is 16 years old.
 She will be a high school junior.   He will be a junior in high school.
 Jane has a personal computer.       Al has some personal computers.
 It's a Pentium.                     Some are 8, 16, and 32 bit.
 It runs Windows 95.                 They run all kinds of operating systems.
 Windows 95 is good, they say.       "What's OS/2," they ask.
 Windows 95 is Jane's link to the    OS/2 is Al's link to the Internet.
      Internet.
 The Internet is good.               The Internet is good.
 With Win95, Jane goes "online."     Al connects to the Internet daily.
 That's right, Jane has AOL.         That's right, Al uses PPP.
 The world at her fingertips.        Al has the world at his fingertips.
 Jane sends electronic mail to her   Al subscribes to multiple comp.sys
      friends.                            newsgroups.
 Jane talks to her peers and         Al FTPs all the latest software for
      adults in the chat rooms.           DOS, OS/2, AmigaDOS, and the C64.
 Jane pays a lot of money for        Al uses the Internet very cheaply;
      this service.                       his paychecks aren't that big.
 But, actually, her parents pay.

 Jane's PC is 120 MHz.               Al's PC is 25 MHz.
 Jane tells friends it's 120 meg.    Al tells friends it's slow.
 Jane has a 1.2 gig hard drive.      Al's PC has a 170 MB IDE hard drive.
 Jane tells friends it has 1.2       Al tells friends it has 2 4MB 72-pin
      gigs of memory.                     non-parity SIMM chips.
 Jane has a SCSI-2 controller.       Al's PC has an IDE controller.
 Jane doesn't know what that is.     Al wishes it was SCSI-2.

 Jane "surfs the web."               Al uses the world wide web.
 Jane stays alert of all new Nine    Al stays alert of all new computer-
      Inch Nails web pages.               hardware based web pages.
 So do her friends.                  So do his friends.
 Jane's friends, Mary, Berta, and    Al's friends, Ross, Scott, John, and
      Mabel also use AOL.                 Corey also use PPP.
 Some would say they are connected,  Some would say they are computer
      and would admire them for           nerds, and would shun them due
      their technical prowess.            to their technical prowess.
 And they like the attention.        But they don't care.

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 - "An Evil Town"
 - by Ed Hamilton

        It was a hot day, so I stepped into a little deli in Georgetown for a
 beer.  I sat down on a stoop next door to the deli and lit a cigarette.  Two
 houses down, a yuppie was sitting on a blanket in his yard, playing with his
 baby.  He was a geeky looking guy:  tall and skinny, with Coke bottle
 glasses.  The baby was just a regular baby.  "Haven't you been reading the 
 newspaper lately?" he called out to me.
 
        "I try not to," I called back.
        
        "Sidestream smoke has been proven hazardous to your health."
        
        "Well, that's sure interesting," I said, puffing away.  "Thanks for 
 the tip."
 
        "You are endangering the health of my child!"

        So that was his point.  "We're outdoors," I said.  "They're talking
 about in a crowded bar or something.  And the exposure has to be over a
 number of years."

        The subtleties escaped him.  "We are directly down wind from your
 smoke!" he declared.

        Now I can understand being concerned for the health of your child.
 But people shouldn't have children if it's going to transform them into 
 raving fascists.  Thinking it better to ignore this lunatic, I took a long 
 swig of my beer.  I was hoping to finish soon and be on my way.
 
        "Please extinguish your cigarette!" the yuppie bellowed.

        "What?!"

        "Put that out!"

        He sure had a lot of nerve.  Who was he to think he could talk to
 people like that?  Probably some sort of lawyer -- the damn town was thick
 with them.  I felt like kicking his scrawny ass, or at least flicking my
 cigarette in his face, but then there was that child with him.  That saved 
 him.

        "Is this your property?" I asked.

        "What?"

        I patted the concrete.  "Do you own this stoop where I'm sitting?"
        
        "Uh, no."

        "Well then, you can't tell me not to smoke here."

        "Uh, people smoke there all the time," he put in lamely, "and they 
 leave their nasty butts right on the sidewalk.  I have to sweep them up
 every day."

        "If you like to sweep up for other people, I don't see how that's my 
 problem," I said.  "But as a favor to you, I'll flick this one out in the 
 street when I'm done.  Or are you in the habit of sweeping up the street as
 well?"
 
        "You are an inconsiderate person," the yuppie said.

        "Do you drive a car?" I asked him.

        "What's that got to do with anything?"

        "Don't you think your car puts out slightly more pollutants than this
 cigarette?"

        "Cars are necessary."

        "I don't have one," I said.  "You're endangering my health, and the
 health of your child.  If you're so concerned about the health of your
 child, you should fight to abolish cars."
 
        There were plenty of cars driving by -- diluting my cigarette smoke 
 with their exhaust fumes -- so I figured my point had been made.
 
        I smoked my cigarette -- though I can't say I enjoyed it much -- as
 the yuppie stewed.  I took the last puff, and flicked it out in the street.
 
        Then I immediately lit another.

        "Nooooo!" the yuppie cried out in agony.  He gathered up his child
 and his blanket and turned to go into his house.
 
        "You're an asshole," I told him.

        "What did you say?"
        
        "I said, you're an asshole.  I just thought you should know that."

        A couple weeks later I was reading an article in the neighborhood 
 paper about the recent crime wave in Georgetown: an old lady's purse had
 been snatched; several cars had been broken into; and a homeowner had been 
 threatened right outside his home, in broad daylight.  The address of that 
 last one sounded oddly familiar.  I wondered what was considered
 threatening:  the cigarette smoke, or calling the yuppie an asshole.
 
        Anyway, as the article made clear, steps needed to be taken to 
 alleviate this grim situation.  Maybe they could transfer some cops out of
 Northeast DC; the only problem they had over there was school kids shooting
 one another.

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 - "Condiments Chapter 610:  Birch"
 - by Murmur

        College it was gotten ver, ver dull and it was now finals week and
 everyone is ver, ver out of it and so one night Roger he comes in and says
 hey Pete I am bored, ver, ver bored and Pete is like yeah what to do?  and
 Roger says oh I will steal a tree come with me and Pete is like okay I will
 come watch you steal a tree.  So there is Roger and is Pete and they is to
 the tree store to have Roger steal tree.  So Pete he is what if we are
 caught Roger will they arrest us Roger is like I'm a man on a mission Pete
 is blabbing Roger picks up tree and starts to carry it off.  Pete says you
 know this is a weird week and Roger pants and stuff because is ver, ver
 heavy tree.  Pete say so hey Roger what will we do with tree Roger is like
 we will put it right in front of the library, between the glass doors.  So
 Pete is heehee and they is go back to where they live and they is like hi
 Jack come see what he did.  Jack says okay but first let us all go enjoy
 these A&W Creme Sodas that the R.A. gave to us for no good reason!!!  They
 is like alright and so Roger and Pete and Jack and A&W Creme Sodas they go
 to the library and look at the pretty tree.  My you have put a pretty tree
 there Roger says Jack and Roger says yeah it has been that kind of week.
 and so they get up the next day to take finals and the following day too it
 is the middle of the afternoon and some man is watering the tree and it is
 ver, ver weird and Roger says to Pete someone is watering my tree!  And
 everyone laughs at all of the stupid idiots around them and finals will be
 soon be over so Pete can go home and get raped by fifteen year-old girls.

        Moral:  Go to college.

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 - "I Don't Wanna Eat!!!!!"
 - by Styx

        I bet you didn't know that it only takes an average of eight pounds
 of pressure per square inch to crush your skull.  It crosses my mind
 everytime I go fill up my car tires.  I could be crushing almost four
 people's heads with the pressure.  That's food for thought.  Eat it up.

        Don't eat it up if you're anorexic, though.  Just keep watching
 _Melrose Place_.  Maybe you can be the next life-size action figure on your
 block.

        What the hell am I talking about?   Oh hell, I don't know.  Who
 cares?  I've run out of excuses.  Time for me and my monotony.

        So, does it bother you when you're using a computerized catalogue at
 your local record store and to answer a yes or no question you have to
 either touch the green square with "YES" written in the center or you have
 to touch the red triangle with "NO" written in the center?

        Does it bother you that street signs are slowly being replaced by
 neon pictograms?

        Does it bother you that everytime you're in the electronics section
 of your local department store sifting your way through the discount CD bin
 (because you make as much money as I do), every passerby stops and watches
 the televisions on display before continuing on their way?

        It doesn't bother me.  I don't fucking care.  I was just wondering.

        So anyway, check this out!  This is funny!

        There is an auto body place near me called "WOLF'S AUTO BODY."  They
 have a huge billboard next to the place with a picture of a fox on it.  I
 gave them a phone call for amusement purposes only.

        "Hi.  Wolf's Auto Body."

        "Hi.  Your billboard has a picture of a fox on it, not a wolf.
 Change the name or change the picture.  It makes your shop look stupid."

        "Oh, uh .. well, that's up to Jed and he ain't gonna be in 'til about
 Wednesday or so."  <click>

        Funny!

        I really didn't expect him to change the billboard, but he actually
 *referred* me to somebody else about it.  He probably gets paid more than I
 do.  Great.  Eight pounds of pressure, greaseboy.

        Why do I even bother getting out of my bed, you know?

        If it wasn't for the fact that I had to directly deal with the public
 for 40 hours a week as a gas station cashier, I really wouldn't give.  We
 don't have an air hose, yet people ask me where the air hose is.  Our
 vacuums got knocked over by a gas truck, and people ask me for their 50
 cents back because "I put the doggone coins in the confounded contraption,
 and the damned thing ain't suckin' shit!"  We have directions clearly
 printed on the pumps, yet I'm still asked how to operate them.  Some people
 can't even twist off their fucking GAS CAPS.  Do you believe that?  Why are
 they allowed out of their homes?  We have a public pay phone and a soda
 machine on the lot, easily visible to the naked eye (no telescope needed,
 folks), yet I still get asked if we have any soda or where our phone is.
 The station's lot isn't THAT big.  Jesus Christ.

        Are people *really* this stupid?  Obviously.  So the question, I
 assume, is WHY they're this stupid.

        Are people not used to thinking for themselves?  It's common
 knowledge that school does most of your thinking for you.  Sure, you have to
 do your homework, essays, oral reports, projects, and other garbage all by
 yourself, but school tells you exactly how to go about doing it.  Sometimes
 you'll even get a pretty outline to assist you to your gold star:

            _Report Outline_
          
            I.  Buy Paper and Pen

                A.  Get money
                B.  Leave house
                C.  Go to store
                D.  Go to stationery aisle
                E.  Locate paper and pen
                F.  Get paper and pen
                G.  Take paper and pen to cashier
                H.  Give money to cashier
                I.  Leave store
                    1. If you forget your pen and paper, repeat parts C - I
                J.  Go home

           II.  Sit Down At Desk

                A.  Find chair
                B.  Find desk
                C.  Place chair in front of desk
                D.  Place paper and pen (from store) on top of desk
                E.  Sit on chair
                    1. If you miss the chair and fall, get up; repeat part E

        Et cetera.  By the end, every student has the same report, don't
 they?  It's like a computer program.  After 12 years of that, it's got to
 affect you somewhat.

        Maybe people are stupid for reasons even earlier than school, but I
 absolutely refuse to get into that because people who blame the stupid
 things they do on their childhood should be put out of their misery as fast
 as possible.  Amen.

        So, if not school, then what?

        Television?

                             \            
                               \         /
                                 \     /
                     _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \ / _ _ _ _ _ _ _
                   /                |                \
                 /-------------------------------------\
                |   /-------------------------\         |
                |  |     ____     @ @ @ @ @    |  (*)   |
                |  |    (-o0-)   @ toenail @   |        |
                |  |    | __ |  @ aardvark @   |  (*)   |
                |  |    |__U_|@  @ umbrella @  |        |
                |  |     /   \    @ raisin! @  |  (*)   |
                |  |    /  /  |    @ @ @ @ @   |        |
                |   \-------------------------/   (*)   |
                 \_____________________________________/


        Partly.  How many episodes of American Gladiators can you possibly
 sit through before your brain starts dripping out of your ears?  We're good
 at being told that we're getting entertained, and we're even better at
 believing it.  I pity the worthless piece of shit that shells out 30 bucks
 for a pay-per-view boxing match.  If I'm going to put out that kind of money
 to see two people beat the hell out of each other, I don't want to watch
 these dirty inner-city sods doing it.  How about Chuck Norris vs. Jackie
 Chan?  Matt Pinfield vs. Bob Dole?  A fat, naked menstruating woman vs. a
 fat, naked menstruating woman?  30 bucks?  Sure, I'll give you 30 more if
 any bones break.  I've been channel surfing for 19 years.  I know what has
 made me stupider.  All of these made-for-TV dramas and talk shows and soap
 operas and sitcoms and what have you; they've taken their toll on my brain
 more than my drugs ever will.

        Movies?

          "Not now, John, we've got to get on with the film show
           hollywood waits at the end of the rainbow
           who cares what it's about?
           as long as the kids go"

           "Not Now John" -- Roger Waters

        How many of you thought Independence Day was great?  If you raised
 your hand, don't duck; my shoe is headed straight for your teeth.  Come on.
 Aliens invade Earth, the world's countries unite, we beat up the aliens and
 we win.  That's great red meat for the masses, but it's cheap middle-school
 cafeteria grade-E meat.  Will Smith even PUNCHES one of the aliens.  No
 shit!  These creatures have the technology to span thousands upon thousands
 of light years, travelling in these humongous ships, only to land and have
 some failed rap tit suckerpunch one of their crew members.  Whatever you
 say, Mr. Director.  There is a fine line between science fiction and
 outright idiocy, especially if it's used to increase patriotic morale and
 hopes for world alliance by taking advantage of the fact that everyone is so
 fucking dumb.  You make a lot of people rich when you buy into their
 bullshit.  Good going.  Now they're going to make more movies.  The thought
 that more than one person walked away from seeing Independence Day with the
 least bit of satisfaction is sickening.

        So we've got school, television, and movies.  I can't think of any
 other good reasons why people are stupid.  Can you?  So what are you
 supposed to do?  Keep these people locked up in their basements?  There's
 too many of them.  You've got to be realistic.

        Drugs.

        It took me a long time to figure out what kind of drugs worked best
 in keeping myself from randomly attacking the generic folk.  I used to get
 so drunk that I'd have to pee and puke in my trashcan because I couldn't
 make it downstairs to the bathroom.  Sometimes I'd wake up with weird shit
 on my dick.  I used to get so high that I couldn't breathe.  I'd just lay on
 my bed waiting to die.  I don't know about you, but if I'm paying money to
 puke or hyperventilate, I may as well order those pay-per-view boxing
 matches while I'm at it.

        Sedatives are the only drugs that will assist you in ignoring the
 reprocessed, synthetic hides bumbling around fucking everything up for you.
 You don't puke or anything.  It's grand.  I personally recommend massive
 amounts of valium or mandrax.  Don't try it with xanex.  Xanex is for
 white-trash housewives.  Believe me, if you're in a coma you won't care that
 America is plugged in.  You won't care that the circuits are shorting out
 and the antennae needs adjusting.

        I used to think that words like "fascism" and "oppression" and
 "liberation" were cool to use.  I used to think I liked Tori Amos.  I used
 to think I was a poet.  I used to think I could relate.  I used to think I
 had something important to say.

        I don't.  Well, not unless I'm out of valium, which I am.  I'd prefer
 writing about peeing on my cat, you know?  Maybe I could finish my _Drug
 User's Cookbook_.  It's been sitting unfinished in my hard drive for months.
 I can't.  Without the sedation I'm exposed to what's going on around me, and
 it's my nature to react.  I'd grind up and snort all of my old Tori Amos
 cassettes, to spare everyone my banter, but I already did that in February.

        Check this out.  I've been sober all day and I accidentally learned 
 something:

        The government has set up bars all around the country to be used
 exclusively by veterans of war because the government knows full well that
 these veterans are perfectly incapable of functioning normally on a day to
 day basis.  They'd rather just keep them drunk until they're dead.  You can
 get a full pitcher of beer at these places for fifty cents.  They used to
 spend the same amount of money in the war to buy blow jobs off of gooks.
 Now they can get sloshed and reminisce about it.

        Eh.  So what?

        I used to think it was cool to care about issues, you know?
 Abortion, rape, freedom of speech, civil rights, gun control; anything that
 would give me a chance to run my big mouth.  It's all pointless in the end.
 Do you *really* care?  I bet you don't.  I don't.  I don't even rock the
 vote!  God forbid!  Take THAT, Tabitha soren!  I just don't care.  Eat it
 up.

        Unless you're anorexic.

        Get out of my way, _America's Funniest Home Videos_ is starting.
 Don't trip on the fiberoptics on the way out.

        Eight pounds of pressure per square inch, greaseboy.

        You go squish now.

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 - "Kinda Sugaree Charms"
 - by Anti-Hero

        Ok, This is *one* of my theories on life... This ones called "Lucky
 Charms!"

       Life is like a bowl of Lucky Charms!  Mostly because it resembles it
 a lot.  Think of it this way... ok the funny, cool, people with really cool
 senses of humors are like the chewy marshmallows tarts that rot and hurt
 your teeth in Lucky Charms... and the lame, ok, wanna be people are the
 kinda sugaree ones that suck but u eat because the marshmallows ones are
 there.  You and I both know that u wouldn't eat the kinda sugaree ones if
 the marshmallows ones that rot and hurt your teeth weren't there!  You
 wouldn't just by "Kinda Sugaree Charms" would u??  I think not!  Well you
 *COULDNT* live life with out cool, funny people with good senses of humors
 could you????  I think not again!  Well one day we arent gunna be here like
 in the morning when u eat your lucky charms wont be there because some dork
 that ruins the enviroment and the other stuff that is getting fucked up eats
 us and we arent here and the earth is gone.

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 - "Letters to the Editor"

 [ The following is in response to "DTO and the Continuing War Against Dumb
   People" by Mogel and "Addendum" by Murmur from issue number fifteen. ]

 Date: Wed, 13 Nov 1996 02:59:36 -0500 (EST)
 From: Sweeney Erect <sweeney@dto.net>
 To: Doomed to Obscurity <dto@dto.net>
 Subject: In Defense of Fraternities

        Now I realize it is right and proper to assail fraternities, but
 let's face it, where's the fun in that?  It's like beating a three toed
 sloth in a foot race.  No challenge, a little tiring, and the sloth never
 even looks up from his cud to notice you beating him.  The only people who
 notice attacks on frats, unless they are spray painted on the side of a
 large rock or one of the corvettes in the house lot, are the two or three
 token literate humans in each house and the freshman geeks who are still
 under the delusion if they kiss enough greek ass they can get laid.  So I
 stand before you to defend fraternities.

        Now in the first place frats provide cheap, easily obtained beer.
 Let's face it, part of college is being blasted out of your mind.  Housman
 once said "Gin does more than Milton can to justify God's ways to man."
 Granted you are not going to be served Bombay Blue Sapphire gin at frat
 parties, but hey, you're justifying a basically incompetent administration,
 not a malignant omnipotent force, and for that Natural Light should suffice.
 It's true beer can be obtained in places other than frat houses, but in frat
 houses there is no need to worry about being carded, and the cost is
 substantially lower, especially if you factor in the large number of drunken
 whores staggering around the place.  Try getting *those* in your room plus
 beer for four bucks.

        Not only do frats give us beer, they provide much needed schisms and
 animosity between students.  At any university with a greek system you can
 count on a greek/independent split.  And what did the Cold War teach us if
 not that it is more fun to have an enemy than to have not.

        The problem a lot of people have is that they feel oppressed by
 frats.  This is unpleasant, like being a Hungarian during the Cold War.  But
 if you manage to put up resistance and animosity of your own, you can
 experience the same fun the Contras and Afghanistani rebels did during the
 golden days, though you may not be able to afford mortars.

        Better still, if you go to a school with a strong independent base
 and a sympathetic administration, you can even assume the role of the U.S.,
 which is more fun than should be allowed by law (and often *is* more fun for
 us than is technically allowed by international law, but nevermind).

        Everybody needs somebody to shove.  Frats provide a wonderful natural
 schism and an excellent target should you ever come across a working mortar
 or large amounts of biological weapons.

        And let us not overlook the job of segregating unpleasant types that
 frat houses do.  Many people complain that frat houses are too isolated and
 elitist.  I say those people should go live in the basements of the houses
 if they want to see frat boys so goddamned bad.

        Let's face it, if you're sane you don't really want to hang out with
 most of the people in frats on a regular basis.  If you did you would have
 pledged.  The fact that there are fraternities gives people like this
 someplace to go and be away from people like you.

        If all the frat boys were integrated into residence halls could you
 imagine the results?  Poop in the stairways, fire alarms pulled, and far,
 far too many accidents in the halls resulting from vision impaired from
 baseball caps pulled too far over the eyes.  The best thing is to herd them
 together into islands of elitism.

        Actually it could be argued better results will be achieved once
 again with mortars and mustard gas but remember .. if we don't segregate
 them first we'll be gassing mostly innocent people in the process, which
 many would argue is somehow wrong.

        So, long live the greek system!  Long live the animosity!  Buy some
 cheap beer, put a baseball cap on too low to possibly see the world that
 exists around you, and try to find yourself some cheap military hardware.

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 - "Can't You See My Walls Are Crumbling?"
 - by Jamesy

         Hi, I'm Peg Phillips.  Or not.  God, you fucking suck.  Already two
 lines into my psychoanalysis and you already have me grasping for humor. 
 
         Regardless.  If this isn't the first copy of DTO you're reading,
 you've probably seen my name around before.  I've travelled this whole
 writing road quite a few times.
 
         But, see, I have a self-esteem problem.  And this whole Doomed-to-
 Obscurity-Stuff hasn't really helped me out much, either.  I write a lot of 
 crap.  This is crap, for instance.  This won't get revised before it goes to 
 the presses.  It was thought up the night before DTO was released.  It, in 
 every aspect, is a rough draft.  And that fact makes it just like all the 
 other mediocre things I've had published in DTO.
 
         Let's start in issue one.  I helped to introduce DTO by having the
 first article in it, called "A Zine Carol".  The story was weak, parodying
 the zines scene by putting zine writers in the roles of the characters in
 _A Christmas Carol._  Unfortunately, unless you are an active member of the
 zine scene, at least half of the story didn't make any sense.  You'd totally
 miss the jokes about how bad of a writer gumby is, or the playful poking at
 guido and his love life.  You wouldn't know what blah, or hoe, or pez, or
 milk were.  The entire file is referring to inside jokes or personal subject
 matter.  Not the best way to introduce DTO, was it?
 
         Sure, a few people who know the zine characters in the story might
 have gotten a chuckle or two out of it, but the bottom line is the mass
 audience DTO tries to target probably got little out of the story.
 go Jamesy!
 
         In DTO issue three, I had an essay entitled, "Art Is Alive."  It
 starts off with a Tina Turner quote that is obviously wrong.  The problem
 is, the misquote isn't even funny.  It was just stupid.  It started off the
 file with a weak attempt at humor.
 
         Worse yet, I pretty much infer in the file that we (DTO) are the 
 artists of tomorrow.  This is completely hypocritical to what I say in my 
 article in issue four, politely named "Zines Suck."  I basically point out 
 that few in the zines scene write things for themselves, they write for the
 audience, and subsequently perform inadequately.  The problem is, as you can 
 see, that it in itself was an article directed towards the audience, and
 subsequently was a hypocrisy.
 
         So as I rant in circles about how much popular culture sucks and
 how much underground culture sucks, I really get nowhere except filling up a
 page with ramblings.  I laid low for a few months after that, probably
 unconsciously repressing my thoughts about how bad my articles were, until
 issue seven.  They declared me a president-type chap then, for whatever
 reason.  I'll probably never know.  Chances are it's something to do with
 the fact that I talk a lot, and somehow through rambling on convinced 
 everyone I knew something about something, which, as you see, I really don't.
 
         For that issue I wrote a story entitled, "A Story."  It was 
 essentially me rambling on about how I want to write the archetypical novel
 of our century and how others will view it.  It was probably one of the
 better things I've written for DTO, except for the fact that ending is a
 total cop-out, as I say "no one will understand it.  but then again, did
 anyone ever anyway?"  It threw off the mood of the piece considerably.  the
 story was not supposed to be of self-loathing and alienation, but the last
 line leaned it into that direction.  If I'm to become a better writer, I
 really have to work on endings.  I simply give up too quickly on what I
 write, and the endings end up being horrendous.
 
         For issue eight, the first submission from me was "Dewmed, Part 
 One," a pseudo-play that ended up being the biggest inside joke ever in DTO.
 I didn't want it being published, but a twist of fate and miscommunication
 had it end up in there.  Regardless, it was one of the few things I've
 written for DTO that was remotely funny.  Unfortunately, this humor comes
 from inside jokes, jokes only a few people will understand.
 
         The second piece I had in issue eight was "Did I Mention I'm a
 Bastard?" which was a combination of chat captures (something only a select
 audience would even comprehend) and stream-of-consciousness self-loathing.
 If my angst was a little more directed, it might have come out a lot better.
 To quote the person I always attempted to gain acceptance as a writer
 from, "It had sparks."
 
         Issue nine was by far my best effort.  The first story, "Girls Can't
 Write", was another scene story, with all the characters dumb people from
 DTO or zines.  Once again, I have not learned to mix characterization with
 people I know to create a story that both people who do know the characters
 involved and people who don't can enjoy.  Once I achieve this feat, my
 stories probably won't get comments like, "Does Scott think he's funny?
 Does anyone think Scott is funny?"

         Then we get to "The Conversation," my favorite piece of fiction I've
 had in DTO.  It combined a solid plot with real-life characterization and
 semi-descriptive setting.  A rare occurrence for me.  Yet, the story was
 very contrived, and if you began reading the story it became quickly obvious
 what was going to happen.  The beginning psycho-babble needed to be darker,
 more evil; it needed to convey thoughts even I am afraid to admit I think.
 Without this, it became too sappy and too contrived.  There needed to be two
 climaxes; one while I'm thinking my evil thoughts, and another when I'm with
 Rachel.  But I only reach the latter of them.  If I worked hard on this
 story, I might be able to get it into a condition that wouldn't seemed
 forced.  But for how it stands in issue nine, it was relatively good, but
 could have gone a lot farther.

         "So You Think It's Over Now?", my rant in issue ten, could only be
 called absurd considering the surroundings.  In an issue where most people
 are writing about how wonderful it is to be in love, I totally go off about
 one of my friend's relationships that recently ended.  Once again, I am at
 odds with everything around me.  Do I intentionally try to be different?  Is
 it just natural for me to pick the opposite road?  Regardless, the rant
 proved effective, considering the people it attacked were very angry at me
 after they read it.  But from a literary perspective, aside from the killer
 one-liner, "You haven't been listening to your Tori Amos CDs, have you?" the
 rant quickly became rather redundant.  It probably could have been somewhat
 shortened to provide a stronger kick to the balls.
 
        In issue twelve, I ended up submitting a segment of a personal letter
 Rachel sent me.  I still don't know exactly what I was thinking at the time
 I did this.  Something to the extent of "Wow, this is cool, I should submit
 it to DTO."  But other than that, I don't think there was very much
 reasoning behind it.  As of late, I had been picturing DTO as a major part
 of my life, and I guess it was only fitting that the other major part of my
 life end up in DTO.

         For issue thirteen I was lucky enough to do the editorial.  Having
 to be different, I put it in the middle, which, as usual, no one found
 funny.  In addition, I had in the issue the article "Encyclopedia Mogel,"
 yet another scene story.  although I alluded to literature (_Encyclopedia
 Brown_) throughout the happenings of the story, it still was met with much
 negative criticism for being a 'scene story.'  Everyone, apparently, hates
 the idea of glorifying the concept of cyberspace.  It's apparently not
 'punk' enough, or something.  In any case, my style of humor was also met
 with mixed comments.  Some people found it funny; some people hated it with
 a blind passion.  I can't expect to please everyone, but it still bothers me
 a lot to hear about how un-funny I am all of the time.  Personal problem?
 Yeah, I guess.  But still, comedy is a fuzzy issue with me.  if I don't feel
 funny, why should I bother?  So I tend not to.  I'd much rather dive into
 self-loathing.

         For fourteen I had two sub-par articles, both referring to personal
 parts of my life.  neither of them really belonged in DTO.  they both had
 sub-plot that only a few could understand.  because of this, I don't think
 either were that effective to an impartial audience.  my piece on my psychic
 girlfriend was more effective because it fit into the theme of the issue,
 but it still lacked any substance because in the second half I was focusing
 on subject matter that was only meant for a select few.

        Finally, in the last issue, I had a short column that mimicked the
 style of _The Onion_, a Madison-based newspaper that parodies news coverage
 to create blatantly absurd stories like, "General Motors Introduces New
 Instant-Win Air Bags," "Secret of Fire Falls Into Russian Hands," and 
 "Buchanan Woos Gay Vote; 'I Will Not Incinerate You.'"  My mimicry was not
 nearly as effective, considering the DTO audience wasn't expecting anything
 political, nor parody of news coverage.  And, considering it was written in
 about fifteen minutes, it wasn't one of my greatest works of art, either.
 
         If you just tuned in and wonder why I have been rambling on about my
 submissions to DTO, I'm in a state of self-loathing.  I hate everything I
 write.  nothing I create is good enough for me, and I'm terrible at
 revision.  I look around to see other DTO writers like Styx or Puck creating
 works I could only dream of writing, and yet I'm too lazy to refine any
 projects that I start with redeeming value.  Puck, compared to me, has a
 mastery of the english word; every single phrase he uses seems just about
 perfect, especially if I compare it to the way i just ramble on in my usual
 speaking tone.  And Styx, at many points, as been able to convey feeling and
 emotion stronger than I've ever been successful with.  The best example of
 this would be "Syntax Error," although "Sunday Afternoon" also fits the
 bill.

         If you've been patient enough to read this far, I want to leave you
 with with a message.  I'm going to change.  No more rough drafts in DTO for
 me.  Consider issue 16 the last issue you'll see the "primitive" style I've
 wielded so far.  Starting next month, expect to see Jamesy putting forth the
 existential thrillers he's been tossing around in his head for the last
 year.

         And if you're one of those people who generally see the name Jamesy
 in the author part of the header and skip the entire document until a decent
 writer shows up, stop.  Give me one more chance.  I won't let you down
 this time.

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 - "Crazy People"
 - by Puck

        They're just fucking nuts.  Ever try to have a conversation with a
 crazy person?  No, I'm not talking about your hip alterna-freaky-mother-
 lovin'-buttnard, I'm talking about your whip and kettle full fledged
 bonafied zip-lockin' homo erectus glue slurpin' maple tappin' finger
 flappin' table saltin' crazy person.  True story:  I was hungry one day
 (from this point, the story is only KINDA true), so I took a little trip to
 Kroger's.  It's a grocery store.  It's very bright.  I was in a semi-quasi-
 relaxifying state, due to the (as Harryette Mullen puts it) sublime
 subliminal mobius soundtrack vis-a-vis MuZaK.  Look Mom, I'm Latin.  Post
 hoc, propter ergo hoc.  So I'm in this grocery store.  I'm lookin' for
 groceries.  More specifically, I'm looking for those little paper liners
 that you put in cupcake tins and a toothbrush.

        This is the second paragraph, in which I will detail my search for
 item #1, the toothbrush.  I went to the toothbrush aisle, and I found a
 suitable toothbrush.

       This is a much longer paragraph, in which I will relate:

        1.  The search for the paper cupcake tin liners.
        2.  A run-in with a Crazy Person.
        3.  Something funny about rabbits.

 It also contains a numbered list.  So.  The paper liners.  See, a week
 earlier I had bought one of those Betty Crocker kiddy-cup mixes.  It came
 with yellow cupcake mix, some white frosting, and these neat little alphabet
 candies.  The instructions said to put little paper cupcake tin liners in
 the pan before I poured in the batter, and I'm not one to challenge
 instructions.  And seeing as how Betty Crocker probably has a little more
 baking experience than I do .. bla bla bla, rabbits in tu-tus.  First I went
 to the baking goods aisle.  I walked up the aisle, I walked down the aisle.
 I looked left, I looked right.  I found all sorts of neat bakey stuff, but
 no liners to be seen.  Second, I found a nice Crazy Person with a Kroger's
 shirt and a name tag.

        "Hey, I was wondering if you could help me out."  That's me.

        "Ok."  That's the crazy person.

        "I'm looking for those little paper liners that go in cupcake tins."

        "Uh-huh," she said, and stuck her finger in her ear.  I blinked at
 her in a way which suggested I thought she was mentally retarded, but she
 didn't seem to catch on.

        "Could you tell me where those are?"

        "Baking goods, aisle 4."

        "Thanks."  I headed back to the aisle that I had just came from.  I
 looked left, I looked right.  I walked up and down the aisle, almost
 tripping on a bawdy, large, obnoxious product display, strategically placed
 right in the center of my path.  Still, no cupcake liners to be found.  I
 hunted down my grocery gal and pinned her to the floor.

        "Where in aisle 4, exactly?"

        "Where in aisle 4 what, sir?"

        "Where in aisle 4 are these paper cupcake tin liners?"

        "Baking goods, sir.  Aisle 4."  I blinked at her again, this time
 suggesting that she was a victim of a wizard's spell which turns some people
 into wolves, and some wolves into people.  Again, she was clueless.

        "Right, you told me that.  But I can't find them."

        "I'm sorry sir, baking goods, aisle 4."  She pulled a snake out of
 her ear and turned into novelty vomit.  No, she didn't.  I'm lying about
 that part.

        Two minutes later, in aisle 4, after once again brushing death on the
 cheek in form of insanely placed product display, my eyes were intensely
 scanning each and every item, reading each product name out loud in my head.

        "Flour.  Cake mix.  Motor oil.  Candy parfoils .. etc. etc."  No
 paper cupcake tin liners.  Balls.  Just to be doubly triply quadruple pooply
 sure, I ran up and down the aisle one last time.  Since I'm the type of
 person who always learns from my mistakes, I stayed on the left of the aisle
 to keep clear of the perilous product display.  Since I'm the type of person
 who often forgets my lefts and rights, two seconds later I was laying flat
 on my ass, covered in little cardboard boxes.  Cardboard boxes.  Hmm. 
 Cardboard boxes of paper cupcake tin liners.  Hot diggity damn.

        I picked up a container of the liners with the elegance of Rain Man
 on crack and casually strolled to the cash register.  Yip Yip, m'lady of the
 market had been moved to the express lanes.  I handed her my toothbrush and
 cupcake liners.

        "You found them," she said.

        "Yes, I did." I blinked at her a third time, this time only admitting
 my embarrassment.

        "That's ok," she said, "Sometimes I have trouble finding things,
 too."

        "Woopty fucking doo," I said, forgetting to make any sound.  I paid,
 took my stuff, and went home.

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 - "I am Cool"
 - by Creed

        This is an english paper that I wrote and decided it fit the DTO
 genre, almost.  Keep in mind that this is a paper and I'm still a high
 school lad that is not yet respected by adults as a human being.  Keep in
 mind that when writing this paper, I was very much aware that if I got a
 little too extreme, I would be expelled.  I go to a very suburban,
 top-dollar private school.  Right now I am awaiting my punishment for this
 paper, which I know will come very soon.  Anyway, keep in mind that it would 
 be impossible for me to go full-impact on this paper, so really this is all 
 just a bunch of bullshit.  Sorry.  Just keep that in mind.

        Oh, and the assigned topic of the paper was "Who I am and What I
 Believe."  I took that as an open invitation.

 ---

        Who I am and what I believe.  This is a pretty confusing subject for
 me.  Basically I'm just an idiot who's bored with life and wants to see
 something happen.  I really can't categorize my train of thought, or even
 describe it accurately, because I'm a stupid hypocrite and I'm afraid of
 people that are smart enough to question my thoughts (everyone).  Honestly,
 if I were to take a straightforward, no-nonsense approach to this paper, I
 would fail, probably be expelled from our one-sided school environment, and
 possibly be placed in a mental institution somewhere.  So this paper,
 basically, is going to be a bunch of beat-around-the-bush nonsense, and
 shameless lies.  Enjoy.

        I suppose I should start with some basic beliefs, like a four pillars
 approach.  Well, if there were four things that I actually believed in, they
 would sound something like this:

                1.  Complaining is the greatest sin that a human being
                    can commit.
                2.  Siding with the ignorant breeds mental enlightenment.
                3.  Emotions are for childish idiots with weak stomachs.
                    Fake your emotions and use them to your advantage.
                4.  Make weapons of your imperfections.

        Complaining is the greatest sin that a human being can commit.  This
 probably aggravates me more than anything else.  All we Americans do is
 complain, complain, complain.  Even I do.  I'm doing it right now -- but you
 see, I was asked first.  This is an assignment.  I would rather die than
 whine to someone who doesn't care what I think.  This is why I protest to
 the idiotic essays we're forced to read in this class.  Opinions I don't
 want to hear from people who I don't care about are being forced into my
 skull, and I reject them by bringing out my hate and spewing it out at my
 aggressors.

        Here is a quote which I have taken from an anonymous source that I 
 respect very much.  It states another thing about complaining that I
 believe.

 ---

 STUCK?

 You can't do anything anymore.
 Your clogged mind won't let you.

 When stuck in a traffic jam, there are two ways out:

        1.  You can get out of your car and leave.
        2.  You can shoot all the people hogging up the highways and blow up
            their cars.

        The choice is yours and yours only.  Take charge now!  Affirm your
 worthless life!

 ---

        There it is.  If someone drops a brick wall in front of you, do you
 stand there and complain about it, or do you knock the wall down?  There are
 two choices.  Destroy your opposition or destroy yourself.  Choose one.

        Siding with the ignorant breeds mental enlightenment.  Think evil 
 thoughts.  It's easy to say that Hitler was evil and the world suffered
 because of him.  But who needs that?  We already have our schools and
 government forcing it down our throats.  Be the devil's advocate.  Say that
 the world is a lot better because Hitler lived and made a big difference --
 and prove it.  Say "make abortion mandatory!" and follow up with an
 intellectual explanation.  Make people angry, and make them think.  Respect
 the racists and the satanists.  At least they take the initiative to jump
 into traffic and cause some pandemonium.

        Emotions are for childish idiots with weak stomachs.  Fake your
 emotions and use them to your advantage.  This is the ultimate in
 self-control, and ultimate self-control is the key to unopposable power.
 Cry only when you require pity.  Get angry when you want something to
 change.  Act arrogant around people when you want them to leave you alone.
 It's controlled apathy.  Write radical, nonsensical essays when you want
 people to be disgusted with you and realize what an idiot you really are.

        Make weapons of your imperfections.  This sort of follows along with 
 the emotion theme.  People are stupid.  They let the nature of their
 species make them weak.  Just as you should destroy your sense of emotion,
 you should make weapons of your imperfections.  If you're a terrible
 singer, serenade people you hate.  If you're ugly and self-centered, protest
 beauty contests and the objectification of women.  If you're an idiot who is
 incapable of expressing his thoughts, write long essays about radical
 opinions and things that you don't think people will understand.

        These four pillars are the key to human perfection.  Achieve these
 goals, and you will be better than everyone else, and you will hate yourself
 for it.

        Well, there you have it, my inane formation of an opinion.  My little
 sick way to live life, backed up with its own polite restrictions and 
 safeguarded from my true insanity.  I hope you've taken some humor, or some
 disgust, or something from my bleak miscommunication of thought.

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 - "Let's Pretend It's Not Pathetic"
 - by Mogel

        There's no doubt about it -- candy tastes good.

        Candy, the sweet, tasty treat that you find in every corner store
 around the world.  Illogical, self-indulgence on its most justifiable level.
 Why would so many people eat something with no nutritional value?

        "Because it tastes good!!!"

        What a beautiful concept.  Can you believe it?  Candy in all its
 various incarnations feed America.  Subculture upon subculture -- virtual
 bon-bons rolling around our fat mouths.

        Eat it up, computer underground; make sure not to choke, you
 self-serving son of a bitch.

        This is all because we're all just pathetic, overgrown kids.

        Ain't that nutty?

        "What are you talking about!?"

        Watch another spotlight on OJ Simpson, sucker.  Buy another tabloid,
 fuckface.  Are there any skaters out there?  Any goths?  Any bisexuals?  Any
 straight-edges?  Any subgeekus?  Any PUNK ROCKERS?  Any old women?  Any
 druggies?  Any vegetables?  Any alternateens?  Any COMPUTER HACKERS?  Any
 muslims?  Any white suburban gangsters?

        Good.  You're all oh-so fucking different.  Take a bow, jackass.  The
 masses are asses, and you're the rose-puckered center.

        Coherency is for losers and points are for pussies.

        Candy tastes good, but crack tastes even better, bitch.  I suggest
 you try some.

        Thank you very much.  That is all.  I'm going to sleep.

 _ ________________________________________________________________________ _
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 - "True To Life"
 - by murmur
 _ ___
 " """
                                             True to life is another hangover

        Life is almost never easy.

        It's been twenty years now, twenty years that this Earth has been my
 Earth.  Hard to say how much longer this Earth will belong to me, and I to
 it.  Hard to say who I'll pass it on to.

        Do you realize how fucking different this society is?  Do you realize
 what it meant to be born in 1933, like my grandmother was?  How about 1953,
 when my dad was born?

        Wow.  My grandmother was only nineteen when she had my dad.  Wow.  My
 dad is the youngest of three.

        My mom was twenty when she had me.  She turned twenty-one a month and
 a half later.

        And where will I be when I am twenty-one?  I'll just be a senior in
 college with a whole lot of other twenty-somethings and soon to be twenty-
 somethings, thinking, well, marriage, maybe, but not until I'm done with
 grad school.
 _ ___
 " """
                                       True to life is more and more politics

        My grandmother died at the age of sixty, but she had been a mother
 for forty-four of those sixty years.  That's more than seventy percent of
 her life.  Does that even register with most of us?  If I peel back the last
 seventy percent of my life I'll see a first-grader with an early affinity
 for the "computer" and a bizarre fascination with Inspector Gadget.

        I wonder what my grandmother would say about the world in general in
 the year 1996.  I wonder what my grandmother would have said about some of
 the things I've done in my life.

        Every so often I get to talk to my great-grandmother, who was one
 when we joined the first world war.  That's one year old.  She's eighty now,
 and for many years has lived in one of two highrise buildings.  For an
 eighty year-old, I'd say she's reasonably active, or at least, has been.
 Most of the people in her building take steps about an inch at a time, have
 had bright blue veins sticking out of their arms for five years, and
 scarcely have any idea what's going on in the world anymore.

        I found myself at my uncle's house this past Christmas.  A nineteen
 year-old, sitting with an odd assortment:  my eighty year-old great-
 grandmother, my uncle's girlfriend's twenty-three-or-so year-old daughter,
 and some older man that's got to be of some relation to my uncle's
 girlfriend or something, I don't know.

        My great-grandmother and I were actually talking about censorship of
 the Internet.  I was maintaining that people have the right to do whatever
 they want to do.  She was maintaining that they will stand judgement in the
 face of God.

        I couldn't look her in the face and say she was wrong.  But that's
 clearly what I felt, for some reason or another.  And it's not just an issue
 of whether I believe, or whether she believes, or whether there is or is not
 a god, or whether this god is the God she refers to or not.  It was not my
 place to tell someone sixty years my senior that they did not understand.
 _ ___
 " """
                     True to life is always having to look over your shoulder

        Nobody had any clue, back in 1945, that the world would progress to
 where it is today.  My great-grandmother was twenty-nine years old when
 Japan surrendered, and if memory serves me, she'd had nine of her ten
 children already.  Interestingly enough, number ten would come less than two
 weeks after my grandmother, the first of those ten, gave birth to my father,
 her third.

        My great-grandparents came out of a relatively small place:
 Centralia, Illinois, which has the claim to fame that it was once the
 "population center of the United States."  Apparently just as many people
 lived east of Centralia, west of Centralia, south of Centralia, and north of
 Centralia.  Forget wherever in Kansas the geographic center is.  This was
 truly the center of the United States.  The heart of America.  Southern
 Illinois.

        I'd be hard pressed to tell you what they did back in 1945.  I think
 my great-grandfather might have done something with oil.  There are these
 goofy little oil rigs all over Southern Illinois.  I do know that five years
 later my uncle was born and sort of one of the first of the huge baby-boomer
 generation came to be.

        Things were mighty different back then in 1950.  Mighty different.
 When I talk to my dad about how things were in 1971, when he graduated from
 high school, I'm hard-pressed to say that the idiosyncrasies of day to day
 life are all that much more bizarre in 1996.  My grandfather moved the
 family to Rockford in 1951, forty-five years ago, and I guess he started
 working at J. L. Clark or some similar factory initially.  Eventually he got
 a job in an upholstery shop and one day he took over the upholstery shop.
 One day he took over the adjoining laundromat too.  I never really asked.
 It never occurred to me to ask.  When he died in 1987 he still owned his
 second laundry, Kishwaukee Coin Laundry.
 _ ___
 " """
                                       True to life is assembly-line sickness

        My grandmother and uncle co-owned Kishwaukee when she died three
 years ago.  At that point in time the State of Illinois wanted to put in a
 train running, purportedly, from the Greater Rockford Airport all the way to
 O'Hare International Airport.  I never got much of an understanding on that
 one.  Illinois decided they needed to widen Kishwaukee Street to make it
 possible.

        The laundromat no longer stands.  The state tore it down to
 facilitate the widening of Kishwaukee.  There's a very nice looking
 intersection there at Kishwaukee and 15th Avenue now.  No tracks were ever
 put in.

        My cousin and I used to play baseball at my grandparents' house,
 almost religiously.  It was a pretty small backyard with a garage that was
 more or less used as a big shed out back.  My grandparents parked their
 Bobcat and Zephyr (later Escort) out front.  My cousin and I got to the
 point where we were, well, kind of big, and we'd start to hit the ball over
 the garage, and into the alley behind the garage, and sometimes, if we
 really got a hold of the ball, it'd wind up all the way across the alley up
 against the house on that side.

        That house no longer stands.  My grandparents' garage still exists,
 but the property is fenced off.  Where the house across the alley used to
 stand there is a rather sizable Walgreen's.  Nice if you need drugs and
 stuff.

        We can drive out to the western suburbs of Chicago, the Palatines and
 the Arlington Heightses and the Crystal Lakes and all of this nonsense and
 be amazed by the sheer amount of shit that people have built.  In a lot of
 cases, the houses that all look the same were built on farmland or prairie
 land or something like that, but sometimes, a house or something or another
 had to go down for those brown beasts to go up.

        Progress is understandable, and undeniable.  The house across the
 alley never was all that wonderful to me; it was a rather ugly green,
 actually.  And Kishwaukee and 15th Avenue, that intersection needed to be
 widened for a long time anyway.  Whether or not the laundromat had to come
 down I'm not quite sure.
 _ ___
 " """
               But it always comes down to
                          what to do when it's all around you
                                       and this tightwire act leaving us here

        Nobody could have foreseen the Internet from Centralia, Illinois,
 circa 1945.  Nobody would have dreamed of a need or desire or whatever for
 legislation regulating an "information superhighway".

        There's a highrise full of old people in downtown Rockford, Illinois,
 that have all been dying for various lengths of time.  My great-grandmother,
 as it turns out, has been dying a slow, but not so painful death.  Her years
 of highrise life have actually been somewhat positive for her, from all I
 can gather.

        My dad turned forty-three this year.  He won't live to be eighty.
 And I'm pretty sure he doesn't want to live to be eighty.

        My grandfather was a hermit.  He moved his family from a smaller town
 in southern Illinois to a medium-sized city in northern Illinois.  I'm not
 sure that he ever left the state of Illinois in his fifty-seven years on
 this planet.  And he was happy.

        I'm twenty now, I'm a college student searching for direction in
 life.  My dad was a lot like me, back in 1971, when he graduated high
 school.  But my grandfather, he didn't need "direction".  He just lived.

        With all of the incredible technological advances made on this planet
 it seems odd to look at my grandfather, the hermit.  It seems like there's
 something wrong to walk into Luther Center and see women that have been
 unable to walk without the aid of some sort of large metal implement for the
 last eight years.  It seems weird to have forty-somethings walk in to buy
 computers for their eight year-old girls and boys who know so much more than
 their frightened parents ever will.

        It seems like people are no longer concerned with living, and instead
 people have grown concerned with living well.  I don't think this is a bad
 thing.  I don't think progress is evil.  I don't spit and curse at the man
 or woman who decided that Walgreen's needed to go up.  I don't spit and
 curse at the widening of Kishwaukee Street (even if I spit and curse at the
 State of Illinois for trying to fuck my family around in the process.)

       Life hasn't been all that terrific for a lot of people in a lot of
 places for a variety of reasons.  One of those places that comes to mind is
 Centralia, Illinois.  My great-aunt Maggie is in Centralia, and she probably
 won't be with us too much longer.  She's old and frail and gets by from day
 to day with miscellaneous medications.  Her nephew, who is apparently the
 manager of a local Centralia bank, tends to her when she needs to go to the
 hospital or anything like that.  Her son is in Texas, and doesn't like
 coming back to Centralia, or so she seems to explain it.  He wanted her to
 come down and move in with (or at least near) his family but she refused.
 In part this was because she didn't want to leave Centralia.  In part this
 was because she realized that he didn't really relish the idea of attending
 to mom hand and foot.  But at least he sort of offered.

        Centralia, frankly, is a god-awful place.  It's a run down, beat up
 town that looks like it just never did quite recover from the Great
 Depression.  I know that the lives of people like Aunt Maggie are different
 than anything we can comprehend, really, truly comprehend.  And I know that
 there are men and women down there, somewhere, that have lived their whole
 lives in Salem County, that have never been out of state.

        Even my grandfather, happy to be a modern hermit, told my dad that
 before he died he wanted to go to Egypt.  He wanted to see the pyramids.  He
 never got his chance.  He didn't get out before it was too late.

        My dad has been to Poland, to England, to Jamaica.  He's gotten out.
 I've never been to any place significantly more exotic than Las Vegas, but
 I'll get my chances.

        Maybe.
 _ ___
 " """
            For deadened is the world
                                     and liquor piles up ahead
            dodging those words of power
                                        forever on their breath
     when the quality of life gets tripped up
                                             strangled like death
 it seems it's getting harder out there

                                       especially without time enough to see.
 _ ___
 " """
        My grandfather never got out, but I will.  Maybe he didn't spend
 every other day at the bar like some; in fact, for as long as I can remember
 back, he sat on the couch and watched tv and read the newspapers and had
 so much structure to his life that even Kant would have been made happy.
 But he never did see the pyramids of Egypt.

        Those old men and women at Luther Center have plenty of time to see
 the world now.  It saddens me that their ability to see has diminished so.
 My great-grandmother is one of the few whose sight has remained in tact, and
 just barely, in a very literal sense.  I don't know that she's left the
 state of Illinois in fifty years.

        I used to take for granted trips to Madison.  I've been on airline
 flights to Atlanta, Baltimore, Philadelphia, Las Vegas, and places
 in-between, all before my twentieth birthday.

        We have a hell of a lot going for us.  Progress is a good thing.

        Sometimes, though, it seems it's getting harder out there.

        Especially without time enough to see.

        True to life is pulling another all-nighter
        True to life is more and more politics
        True to life is always having to figure out where you're going
        True to life is assembly-line sickness

        But it always comes down to
        What to do when it's all around you
        And this tightwire act leaving us here

        For wide awake is the world
        And caffeine piles up ahead
        Dodging those words of power
        Forever on their breath
        When the quality of life gets tripped up
        Strangled like death
        It seems it's getting harder out there

        I need to make the time enough to see

 _ ________________________________________________________________________ _
 " """""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""" "

                   $$"^^""$Sy$$ss       ,yS$P^^""7$Sy,
 _ _______________ "$$     `$$##$     "$Sy$$      ##$" _______________ _
 - ---------------- $$      $"""$$      $"""$      $$ ---------------- -
 " """"""""""""""" y##$     ,$yyy$$     ,$yyy$      $$y """"""""""""""" "
                   $$ssssS$S'"$$ssssS$S"`"S$bssssdSY"'

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 _ ________________________________________________________________________ _
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