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              Radioactive Aardvark Dung E-Zine :: ISSN 1092-5449
                     Issue #15 % Released April 17, 1997
    Without Prejudice and Explicit Reservation of All My Rights, UCC 1-207

 ============================================================================
 ============================================================================

 "Introduction"
 Son of Laertes & gods of old, Mercuri
 E-mail: jwapienn@pla-net.net

 [Enter Mercuri]

 Mercuri: Welcome to this issue.

 [Enter Bob Dole]

 Mercuri: Oh my God, it's Bob Dole!  Hi, Bob Dole!

 Bob Dole: Happy Dole!

 Mercuri: So why are you here right now, Mr. Dole?  I'm in the middle of this
          month's introduction.

 Bob Dole: Bob Dole has made an appearance in everything else that's funny.
           Bob Dole thought he'd make a surprise appearance in Radioactive
           Aardvark Dung.

 Mercuri: Well, you couldn't have picked a better issue to stop in on. We've
          got stuff from Styx, TMM (finally), Phorce, Mercuri, Handle, *&*
          Ben Ohmart!

 Mercuri: Well, Bob, that's it for this introduction. Thanks for stopping by.

 Bob Dole: Bob Dole's not going anywhere until his ride gets here.

 Mercuri: Okay, okay.  Enjoy RAD fifteen, everyone!

 ============================================================================
 ============================================================================

 "Bottled Butt Juice"
 Written By Ben Ohmart
 E-mail: findline@ix.netcom.com

	What's the big deal about diarrhea? I'm not sure I get it (more than
 once a month).  Does it matter if the poo comes out of your butt in a
 straight, syrupy line, or if breaks off your insides in clumps and comes
 smashing down in the few inches of water, spraying your cheeks with a
 perfume of undying load?

	I say no. I have never and will never break myself into buying
 something to chew that will give my shit consistancy.  I know that I will
 someday be old, and ailing, and failing to please my woman, and complaining
 about the percentage of retirement I'm getting back versus what I paid out,
 and my one good thought in the morning will be whether I let go a good poop.
 The last thing I'm going to concern myself with is the shape of the waste.
 Shit is shit, as a non-famous philosopher once didn't say.  Whether it's a
 fountain or pebbles, it will be the high point of my day to release the
 weight.

	This diarrhea "medicine" is just one of the many things they tell us
 we need, but we really don't.  We don't need cemetary plots or headstones:
 we're all going to burn in hell anyway!  Let's just be cremated.

	What good is having double A batteries when all you have to do is buy
 the adapter?  I have NEVER in my life bought something which I know is going
 to stay at home with me all the time, or that I know I'm going to take
 someplace with an outlet, without an adapter.  In this "No Smoking" world of
 ours, even CD players can plug into the cancer lighter.  Plug into it!

	We don't NEED Playboy and Penthouse when Hustler is out there. Get
 rid of these first two, and the celebrities will have no choice but to go in
 the twat-licking Hustler.  Besides, even if Bo Derek doesn't do another nude
 spread (literally) before she dies, the women of Hustler are just as hot.
 AND they're not afraid of soft porn.  Provided the man is soft enough.

        What are we going to do with seatbelts?  Who really wants to be saved
 for more years of this miserable existance?

	We don't need to feed the children, they'll always make more.

        There is something seriously wrong with these ad men.  True, they all
 get paid to impregnate us with the notion that all of this quantum crap is
 of import.  But really, I mean, why waste trees for newspapers when cable is
 quicker and more colorful?  Why make butter when margarine tastes the same
 and is cheaper?  Why wear boxer shorts under your pants when they can't DO
 anything for you (they're just shorts!)?  Why buy regular strength aspirin,
 when the extra strength costs the same?  Why buy regular tooth paste when
 tartar control is sitting on the same damn shelf?  It's never been said
 before, so I'm saying it now: Americans are fat and stupid.  We have
 everything.  But we want degrees of everything.  We want our armpits to
 smell like waterfalls one day, and "musk" -- whatever the hell that really
 is -- the next.  Why pay an ex-President $100,000 a year pension, when they
 all write books, and go on lecture tours?  Why does the health food for the
 fat Americans cost more than real food when there's supposed to be less
 things in it?  Why do I complain when I can do nothing?  Why are we all
 here?  Why vote if it's not going to change anything?

 ============================================================================
 ============================================================================

 "I'm VERY VERY Sorry"
 Apologetically spoken by TMM
 E-mail: chris41@juno.com

        Hi there, lovely RAD reader, nice to see you today.  Yes, I know,
 it's been quite a while since you've seen a submission from me grace the
 illustrious pages of RAD.  What can I say?  I have no excuse.

        As an editor it's my responsibility to keep up the workload, to
 balance out the burden of releasing a 'zine between several people instead
 of heaping it all upon two people's (namely Mercuri & Handle, of course)
 shoulders.

        Readers, I've failed in my responsibilities.

        Someone said to me somewhere, sometime that there is a price to pay
 for everything that you do, & likewise there is a price to pay for my
 delinquency.  I'll spare you the details, but the gist of it is that I have
 two choices: either I resume ACTIVELY writing for RAD, or I can castrate
 myself & take pictures of the pathetic remnants of my genitalia & scan them
 & spread them around the internet with my full name, phone number & address
 in the picture itself.

        The latter option was then retracted because RAD realized that to
 verify that I had "paid my penance" & had done like they had said, they
 would've had to look at the pictures themselves.  Being they the angstful,
 homophobic youths that they are, that option became totally unacceptable.

        So what I'm left with is: Write for RAD, OR ELSE.

        Fine, I give in, I'll write for RAD.  Does that answer some
 questions?

        All I can say is that you have the deepest of apologies from me, my
 family, & everyone around me.

        "This ain't no IRC prank anymore, this is life or death."

        Deal with it, punk, or go read some riOtGRRRL webzine that sucks ass.

        The choice is yours.

 ============================================================================
 ============================================================================

 "You Fucking Retard"
 As cynicized by Mercuri
 E-mail: jwapienn@pla-net.net

        I just saw a commercial for a new kind of deoderant.  Apparently this
 deoderant is easier to use because of its new shape -- it fits into your
 armpit better and it also has ergonomic hand grips.  Ladies and gentleman,
 if you need ergonomic hand grips & a shapely applicator then you've got
 problems way beyond the solution of a new bottle.

        Who holds deoderant in their hand long enough to benefit from this
 ergonomic shape?

        Am I extremely talented, or is putting deoderant on your armpits one
 of the simplest parts of the morning hygiene ritual?

        Once again, maybe it's just me -- but I doubt it.

 ============================================================================
 ============================================================================

 "I'm an annoying loser"
 As guessed (haha!) by TMM
 E-mail: chris41@juno.com

        Jim is sitting on a bench smoking a cigarette & making scary sounds
 at small children.  Jim's friend Bob walks up & sits down next to Jim.

 The following conversation ensues:

 Jim: "Guess what?"
 Bob: "What?"
 Jim: "No, guess."
 Bob: "Guess what?"
 Jim: "Guess what happened to me yesterday."
 Bob: "What happened to you yesterday."
 Jim: "No, you have to guess."
 Bob: "Guess what?"
 Jim: "This cool thing happened."
 Bob: "Like what?"
 Jim: "Guess."
 Bob: "I have no idea."
 Jim: "Fine, I'll tell you."
 Bob: "Tell me what?"
 Jim: "What you were supposed to guess."
 Bob: "Guess what?"
 Jim: "What I'm about to tell you."
 Bob: "Oh, I almost forgot, don't tell me, I'm guessing."
 Jim: "Okay."
      
 [Five hours pass.]

 Jim: "Have you guessed yet?"
 Bob: "Guess what?"
 Jim: "What I did yesterday."
 Bob: "What did you do yesterday?"
 Jim: "You were supposed to be guessing."
 Bob: "Guessing what?"
 Jim: "What I did yesterday."
 Bob: "Oh yeah, I forgot."
 Jim: "So..."
 Bob: "Yeah..."
 Jim: "..."
 Bob: "..."
 Jim: "..."
 Bob: "Well, I'm out of here, I have to go exterminate a small third world
      village."
 Jim: "Hey!  You guessed it!"
 Bob: "Guessed what?"
 Jim: "What I did yesterday."
 Bob: "What did you do yesterday?"
 Jim: "What you're about to do!"
 Bob: "Get up & leave?"
 Jim: "No! Exterminated a small third world village."
 Bob: "You did?"
 Jim: "Yeah."
 Bob: "I don't believe you."
 Jim: "Oh God, I'm so sorry!  You caught me in my intricate web of lies!"
 Bob: "Why did you bother lying?"
 Jim: "I wanted someone to talk to."
 Bob: "Oh, loser."
 Jim: "I know."
 Bob: "Know what?"
 Jim: "That I'm a loser."
 Bob: "You are?"
 Jim: "That's what you said."
 Bob: "I said no such thing."
 Jim: "Oh, I must have been hearing things or something."
 Bob: "Not surprising, so what did you do yesterday?"
 Jim: "I got high."
      
 Bob stares blankly at Jim, face expressionless for about five minutes.]

 Bob: "You idiot."

 Bob stands up, pulls out a baseball bat & bludgeons Jim to death.

 [-----]

 So did I mention that I was annoying?

 ============================================================================
 ============================================================================

 "Logs From the Latest RAD Meeting"
 As Cataloged by - Handle

 [10:15]

 Merc: Good morning, everyone, I call this meeting of the RAD writers to
       order.  There's been some exciting developments in RAD this past
       month, I personally ... excuse me, TMM.  Maybe you've found something
       more interesting than this meeting?

 TMM: Well, not really; I was just telling Handle that...

 Merc: Well, if whatever the fuck your ignorant little peon mind was babbling
       about isn't more important than this meeting, why the HELL can't I
       hear myself think over your whispering?!?

 TMM: It's just that -- well, frankly, Merc, your balls are showing.

 Phorce: For that matter, all of our balls are showing...

 Ninja: Yeah, almost.  Everyone's but Handle's.  Why's that, Handle?

 Handle: Shutup!  I hate all of you!!

 Merc: Order!  Order!  You know Handle's still sensitive about that toilet
       seat accident.  And what's this you're saying about balls?

 TMM: It's these dumb uniforms you're making us wear.

 [10:16]

 Merc: DUMB?????  You think my uniforms are dumb??

 Satyr: (tugging at his pants) What is this?  Nylon?

 Merc: I'm sooooo sorry the uniform isn't good enough for his highness Satyr.
       What else do you expect me to afford?  If you want to complain about
       uniforms, why don't you complain to our treasurer over there -- I'm
       looking at YOU, Handle.  Just how did our money magically disappear?

 Handle: I told you, the government took it all!  Damned taxes!  Who's with
         me?

 Phorce: Damnit, Handle!  What REALLY happened to our money?

 Handle: Allright, I admit it: in a bout of weakness I spent it all on Ring-
         Dings and Moon Pies.  God help me!  What's wrong with me, Lord?

 TMM: Get ahold of yourself -- Jesus Christ, you're our fucking Gilligan.  We
      need to think of a rational way to get our money back.

 Ninja: We could pimp Handle; then again, he doesn't have a cock anymore...

 Handle: Shutup!

 Phorce: I'm thinking we sue somebody, somebody big...

 Handle: But who?  None of us have had any terrible accidents lately.

 [All stare at Handle's crotch.]

 [10:17]

 [10:18]

 [10:19]

 Phorce: That's it!  We'll sue the toilet seat company!

 Ninja: You think anybody's gonna pay for injuring Handle's sorry ass?

 Satyr: What exactly happened to you anyways?

 Handle: Nothing!  I don't want to talk about it.

 Satyr: Did it involve castration?

 Handle: Shutup!

 Ninja: Were you severely mutilated?

 Handle: Shutup!  Shutup!  It wasn't my fault I tell you!  It was the toilet!
         The thing was three feet off the ground!  The lid didn't have enough
         support and it came crashing down!  Oh, God, I can still feel it!
         The pain!  The horrible, horrible pain!

 TMM: Sounds like one of those southeast Asian toilets.

 Handle: The horrible pain!  God, it hurts!

 Ninja: Somebody smack him!

 All: I'll do it!

 [10:20]

 [As they are beating Handle, the RAD writers one by one notice K0de sitting
 in the corner, mumbling to himself.]

 K0de: mmmmhmmm blerrm grrm mmmmhmmmm.

 Satyr: What the Hell's his problem?

 K0de: Get me out of these nylons!!!!  [K0de runs, crashing, out of the
       window straight into a three-story drop.]

 Merc: That buys it -- we're suing the toilet company.  Never mind the fact
       the fact that people can see our balls; we can't march in these
       things!

 TMM: Let's call everybody; we'll need all the help we can get!!

 To be continued in "The Island of Despair," as the RAD writers fly to South
 Asia in search of a lawsuit...

 [10:21]

 ============================================================================
 ============================================================================

 "The Island of Despair"
 As Babblefished By - Handle

        The thick jungle heat made his dyed-black hair stick to his forehead.
 He'd seen it all before -- disgruntled flight attendants take over a plane
 only to remember that they don't know how to fly it, and everyone crashes on
 a deserted island in the South Pacific.  Okay, so he hadn't seen it all
 before, but he had to admit some of it seemed vaguely familiar.  Yes,
 vaguely indeed.

        It was a good thing he and the rest of the RAD writers were a bunch
 of cheap bastards.  They smuggled themselves aboard the flight and hid
 inside the blackbox so they didn't have to pay airfare.  In the end it
 probably saved their lives; it certainly wasn't all milk and cookies,
 though.  They were strewn across the island in the crash.  Was he the only
 one that had survived?  There was no way he could tell.  He only knew one
 thing -- he'd be a lot cooler if he'd take off his black trenchcoat.

 [-----]

        Not far off, the man they call K0de stumbled to his feet.  He had
 gotten the worst of the crash, but was toughened up by a three story fall
 earlier.  Suddenly, his head began to spin and he stumbled into a tree; if
 not for that, he would have surely fallen over and gotten his nylons dirty.
 He must have still been a little flighty from his fall.  Just as the
 realization that the rest of his fellow writers were dead sunk in, he saw
 a man in the distance slipping out of a black trench coat.  It was Ninja!
 Now if only he could call out to him before he passed out.

        "I like to eat tortillas!"  Who in the Hell cared if he liked
 tortillas?  He must have hit his head harder than he thought.

 [-----]

        The warm lagoon water awoke TMM with a startle as he plunged into it
 face first.  His first thought was, "Do I still have my penis?"  His second,
 "Thank God," and his third, "Where am I?"  This was how TMM felt most
 mornings -- he was in college, after all.  Taking in a lungfull of water, he
 decided it would be best if he relieved his vertigo and found his way back
 to a breathable atmosphere.  As he was reaching the surface he picked up a
 stray thought in his head: "I want my mommy and daddy."  With a little more
 probing he could find out where the thought was originating from ... no, he
 hadn't practiced telepathy in years.

 [-----]

        "I want my mommy and daddy."  Here, Handle was stranded on a deserted
 island, and that was the only thing he could come up with?  Frantically, he
 looked around for someone to take orders from.  No one.  He started to
 panic again.  What was he going to do?  He couldn't fend for himself.
 Suddenly, he felt a stirring in a plant adjacent to him, and before he
 could react, there was a monkey sitting on his shoulder.  Yes, a cute little
 monkey, but a monkey with mischief in his eyes.  Handle couldn't help but
 wonder if the monkey would have any impact on his near future.  He ignored
 the thought; he had to find Mercuri.  He would no what to do.  Mercuri
 always knew what to do...

 [-----]

        "Girls.  Every last one of them, a bunch of girls.  They won't last
 five minutes out here," Mercuri mumbled to himself.  He stood on a rocky
 summit wearing combat fatigues and carrying weapons that he had fashioned
 out of the surrounding foliage and a freshly killed panther.  He had better
 find a way to round up the cattle pretty quick, or they'd be pushing up
 daisies in no time.  Then he spotted it -- Phorce's trumpet was lying
 fifteen feet in front of him.  Thank God it survived the crash; he couldn't
 help but wonder if its owner was in any better shape...

 [-----]

        Catatonic, that's how the doctor had described Phorce.  He had never
 known what it meant but he couldn't think about it now; he was in a deep
 coma.  He got that way everytime he felt threatened, and the crash had set
 him off.  Slowly he started coming out of it, and he wasn't unconcious for
 five seconds when he heard his trumpet being played.  He hated it when
 somebody else's spit got inside.  There had better be a pretty damn good
 reason somebody was playing it, or he was gonna kick some ass.

 [-----]

        "So you see, K0de, we really shouldn't let Mercuri push us around
 like this; I think we should take care of him and let me be the new leader."

        "Yeah!  Why do I put up with him?  He's always pushing me around!"

        "Aren't you sick of him barking orders all the time?"

        "Yeah!  I'm sick of him barking orders!"

        "Listen to that; somebody's blowing a trumpet.  Let's sit back and
 wait to see what happens."

        "Yes, Ninja, we should wait to see what happens."

 [-----]

        It was the biggest diamond he ever saw.  The thing had to weigh about
 a pound.  Had he been in a more rational mindset, Handle would have probably
 picked the enormous diamond up, but he heard a trumpet blazing in the
 distance.  That could mean only one thing: somebody else was alive, someone
 he could take orders from.  As he began to migrate towards the sound he saw
 a monkey up in a tree eyeing the diamond.  What a silly little monkey.

        It was the greatest sight of his life.  Phorce, TMM, Intrepid,
 Wildwood, Satyr, and Mercuri were all gathered around in a circle.  Mercuri
 looked like some jungle warrior.  That silly Mercuri.

        "There's idiot boy now.  So that makes all of us except Ninja and
 K0de.  As you can see, I've already made three huts out of sticks and
 pebbles and things -- they're pretty sturdy, too.  These babies will stand
 up to hurricane-force winds and ... wait, I'm rambling.  Anyways, I'm going
 to stay here and put up a security perimeter, I want you guys to go out and
 search for Ninja and K0de.  When you get back, we'll talk about how to get
 off this island.  Handle, since you're co-founder, I'll put you in charge
 of ... no, scratch that.  TMM, you will be in charge of the expedition.
 When you find them, bring them back here."

        "Yeah, let's go find Ninja and K0de!!!  We'll bring 'em back good!!"

        "Idiots."

        Seconds passed, minutes even.  Then, finally, when it seemed like all
 hope was lost, the search party came across Ninja and K0de.

        "Hey, guys."

        "Hi Ninja."

        "What are you guys doing?"

        "Mercuri said to find you and bring you back to the camp."

        "'Mercuri said.'  Aren't you guys a little sick of doing everything
 Mercuri says?"

        "No, not really..."

        "Well, you should be."

        "Hey, yeah!  We probably should be!"

        "Aren't you sick of him always being so smart?  Don't you just hate
 the way he always walks around so smugly treating everybody like an idiot?"

        "Well, really I had never really noticed..."

        "But now that I've pointed it out you're pretty damn sick of it
 aren't you?"
             
        "Yeah!  I'm fucking tired of it!  Who is he to think he's better than
 us!"

        "What you need is a new leader, me!  I want you to go find Mercuri
 and put him out of his misery!  Then drag his carcass back here for me to
 see!"

        "Yeah!  Let's kill Mercuri!  For the good of the group, he must
 perish!"

        Minutes later the crusaders, reached the camp of the evil despot
 Mercuri.  Teeth exposed, they readied to strike, but Mercuri saw them coming
 first.

        "Hey guys, check it out, from that bush over there I made some
 tripwire that, when set off, will activate these flood lights that were made
 from the roots.  Now I know what your thinking, and yes, the lights are a
 little crude, but I can assure you that I will fix them up right in the near
 future.  Now here's the coolest part: I caught this poisonous blowfish and
 made these darts that will home in on the intruder's body heat and strike
 him dead in an instant.  It was really hard; I had to look for the right
 kind of fern to make the heat sensor out of, and when I was out, I saw this
 wild boar that I killed with my bare hands for us to eat ... hey, where's
 Ninja and K0de?"

        "Forget them!  We're sick of you ordering us around!  You're dead,
 pal!  You wanna make this easy or hard?"

        "Who told you to do this?"

        "Ninja."

        "You don't want to kill me."

        "We don't?"

        "No, can't you see what he's doing to you?  He's just trying to fool
 you into taking me out so he can be the leader and have all the power."

        "Yeah!  He just wants all the power!"

        "He's trying to insult your intelligence!  He thinks you can't make
 your own decisions."

        "Yeah!  He's trying to make fools out of us!  Let's get him!"

        "Yes, go kill him!  But, umm ... Phorce: you, TMM, and Handle stay
 with me."

        And so the mob went off again in search of their prey.  Phorce, TMM,
 Mercuri, and Handle settled into the huts not to see the rest for three
 months.

 [-----]

        The four had grown accustomed to life in the huts.  Though life on a
 deserted island had left them somewhat delusional, they lived a fairly happy
 life.  TMM picked up the delusion that he was a crazy mad scientist and
 would stalk around his hut ranting and raving, while the more sensible
 Phorce pretended that he was a pompous millionaire.  Handle and Mercuri
 lived in the same hut and Mercuri grew accostomed to calling Handle "little
 faggot".

        It was night, and Mercuri was getting ready to fall asleep in his
 hammock that was hung just above Handle's.  "Goodnight, little faggot," he
 said sleepily as he fell into his hammock.  But then the unexpected
 happened: Mercuri's hammock swung out from under him and he fell on top of
 Handle, who then swung them both to the ground.  That would have been
 enough, except the comedic situation was taken further when they tried to
 get back in.  Their hammocks kept swinging from under them, and they would
 fall to the ground.  I don't think I have to tell you that it was hilarious.
 Finally, after fifteen minutes of that, they both got in and started to fall
 asleep.  Handle decided that he would take a walk by the lagoon the next
 morning.

        "Wake up, little faggot.  It's morning."  Handle woke up to see
 Mercuri exercising on an exercise bike made from bamboo.  He looked out the
 window: it was a beautiful morning, perfect to take a walk down by the
 lagoon.  It wasn't long before Handle was dressed and down at the lagoon
 walking.

        It started off as a normal walk, but turned towards the unusual when
 he came across a giant wooden crate that had washed up onto the shore line.
 "Hey, would you look at that.  There's some words on here.  They must be in
 Spanish; I can't read them.  I better go get the others!"  Like lightning,
 Handle was back to the huts and screaming at the top of his lungs.

        "Mercuri, TMM, Phorce!"

        "What is it, little faggot?"

        "I found a crate washed up by the shore.  It's got some words on it
 but I can't read them.  They're in Spanish."

        "Well, let's go see it.  Phorce, do you want to come?"

        "I'm rich, I can't come.  I might have to do work, I can't do work
 because I'm rich.  I'd rather stay here and play golf with this crudely
 made golf club because I'm rich."

        "Suit yourself -- let's go, guys."

        Off in a hurry, the three ran down to the lagoon to see what Handle
 was talking about.

        "There it is!  Right there!  See what it says."

        "Oh Handle, that's not in Spanish.  I't just upside down!"

        "Hahahahahahahahahahaha, oh, Handle."

        "Let's see: 'Contents: One (1) Teleporter.'"

        "What?  A teleporter?  We're saved!  You did it, little faggot!
 We're saved!"

        Mercuri then used his brooding muscles to open the crate and TMM
 began to analize the instructions that came with it.

        "Hmmm, interesting.  Spatial displacement maximizer.  I've deduced
 that, figuratively, if we were to succeed in using this teleporter to the
 best of its abilities we would need to have a giant diamond to power it.
 Now unless one of you has a giant diamond I'm afraid we can't use this
 teleporter."

        "Oh, no; we're not saved!"

        "Wait a second!  I know where a giant diamond is!"

        "Allright!  Handle knows where a diamond is, we're saved!"

        "Let's go get it."

        Merrily, Handle led the others to where he saw the diamond so many
 months before.  After about a fifteen-minute hike, Handle's eyes lit up and
 he began to shout.

        "There it is!  Right where I saw it last!"

        "Good job, little faggot!  Now we can teleport home!"

        "What about the others?"

        "What others?"

        "The ones we sent off to kill Ninja."

        "Oh, we'll have to go find them.  But first let's go get Phorce."

 [-----]

        "Phorce!  We're saved!  Handle found a teleporter down by the lagoon
 and we're going to go get the others and leave!"

        "Allright!  Count my rich butt in!  Now I can get back and see all my
 rich friends!"

        "Phorce, you know you're not really rich."

        "Only somebody who wasn't rich would say that!"

        "Anyway, let's go get those guys.  Handle, you stay right here and
 guard this diamond.  Whatever you do, do not let this diamond out of your
 sight.  Got me?"

        "Aye aye, skipper."

 [-----]

        "Gee, it sure was trusting of them to let me guard this diamond.
 Hey, there's that little monkey again.  Hello, little monkey.  Hey, you're
 trying to take this diamond from me, aren't you?  Well, you can't have this
 diamond, because we need it to get off the island.  No way, Mercuri would be
 mad if I lost this diamond.  Hey, quit trying to take my diamond, monkey.
 Well, I'm going to set this diamond down right here on the ground and go
 take a piss behind that bush.  You better not take it."

        With that Handle went behind the row of bushes and took a leak.  It
 was a nice leak; a manly leak.  Even though it just dribbled out ever since
 his accident.  No matter: soon he would be home.  Or would he?  Oh, no!  As
 soon as he got back, the monkey and the diamond were gone!  What was he
 going to tell the others?

        Meanwhile, on the other side of the island...

        "Hey look!  It's Mercuri, TMM, and Phorce!  What's up guys?"

        "Satyr, where have you guys been all this time?"

        "Oh, we've been out here in the jungle."

        "And why were you out here in the jungle?"

        "Well, Ninja said that we shouldn't kill him and that it would be
 much more productive if we all became a wild tribe of junglemen."

        "Ninja, I can expect this kind of shit from them, but why in the Hell
 would you tell these fucking morons something as fucking stupid as that???"

        "I'm sorry."

        "Damn right; come on.  We're all going home.  And nobody gets any
 ice cream when we get there."

        "Awwww..."

        "Shut up, you pussies!  For the love of God would it hurt a single one
 of you to show any sort of intelligence?  *sigh*  Come on."

 [-----]

        "We got them, little faggot!  Now bring the diamond over here to the
 teleporter so we can all go home."

        "Well, you see.  That's sort of the problem, I don't exactly have it
 anymore."

        "WHAT???"

        "A monkey stole it from me."

        "Jesus Christ, you pencil-dicked, cock-smoking, bean-counting,
 no-load puss-nuts, shit for brains asshole!"

        "Looks like Handle's incompetance has ruined our escape plan!"

        "This all still seems so vaguely familiar."

        "Shutup Ninja, I thought I told you that you couldn't talk anymore!"

        "Sorry, Merc."

        "Hey, wait a second.  I have a giant diamond in my pocket that I keep
 for good luck!"

        "Yay!"

 ============================================================================
 ============================================================================

 "How Not To Die"
 As explained by Mercuri
 E-mail: jwapienn@pla-net.net

        A few weeks ago members of a cult called "Heaven's Gate" committed
 mass suicide.  So the little hamster in my head started running faster and I
 got to thinking.  What if you were a member of a cult, and you all decide to
 commit mass suicide as the aforementioned cult did, but you were the only
 one to actually go through with it.

        What a kick in the pants. Just like those summer days at the swimming
 pool.

        "On the count of three, let's all cannon-ball in!  1... 2... 3..."
        *SPLASH!*

        You're the only one to jump in and you look like an idiot in their
 eyes & you feel like a horse's ass.  Now imagine this.

        "On the count of three, let's all commit mass suicude!  1...
 2... 3..."
        *BANG!*

        Same thing happens. You were tricked by your fellow cultists.  For
 just a milisecond between the time you pull the trigger of the gun and hear
 or see only your gun go off, to the time the bullet slices through your
 melon, you feel like the biggest horses ass in the entire universe.

 Moral: Commit mass suicude with only your closest friends.        

 ============================================================================
 ============================================================================

 Burger King's latest commercial is a gospel song containing the chorus:

 "We got what you want!"

 All of this sung very soulfully, let me tell you.

 So they have what I want?  What if I wanted an airplane?

 Huh?

 What then?

 Buy more airplanes, Burger King, & start making sense.

 ============================================================================
 ============================================================================

 "History of the Condom"
 By, Condom Country
 Web site: http://www.condom.com/

        Most historians believe that Roman soldiers were the first people to
 use condoms. While fraternizing with local women on long marches away from
 Rome, the soldiers used dried sheep intestines as sheaths for protecting
 themselves against disease, the most notorious of which was the "Mount
 Vesuvius Rash."

        With the fall of the Roman Empire, however, the use of condoms became
 rare. In fact, condom technology was nearly lost forever during the Middle
 Ages. The condom was then "re-invented" by the Marquis De Sade in 17th
 century France, when the Marquis wrapped a strip of bacon around his penis
 before he sodomized live chickens.

        Early versions of the condom were not very effective, as Benjamin
 Franklin produced 53 illegitimate children during his illustrious and
 prolific career as a founding father of the United States of America.

        The first modern adaptation of the condom was developed in 1921,
 when a factory worker in Akron, OH, Alfred Trojan, accidentally dunked his
 erect penis into a vat of vulcanized rubber. His condom empire now consists
 of $50 million in sales to over 40 countries around the world, but his
 once-proud penis was reduced to a blackened, shriveled twig.

        Today, the condom is used as not only a method of birth control, but
 also as an effective means for preventing the spread of sexually transmitted
 diseases, most notably the deadly AIDS virus.

 ============================================================================
 ============================================================================

 Hillary Clinton said the other day that the "Just Say No" anti-drug slogan
 doesn't work.  Well, it seemed to work pretty damn good in 80s, didnt it?
 Granted, the 80s were a much different (& better) time.

 But have we forgotten what your husbund, Bill, leader of the free world,
 said not too long ago?  He said he wish he *had* inhaled on MTV.  Viewed by
 millions of young drug-addict hopefuls everywhere.

 Bill, did you also forget how a leader leads?  A leader leads by example,
 you fucking retard.  I was told as a kid that *anyone* could become
 president.  Now I'm starting to believe it. 

 ============================================================================
 ============================================================================

 "Tricks To Play On Somebody You Hate When They're Asleep"
 Written By Styx
 E-mail: dropdead@mindspring.com

      The first thing you must do is wait for them to be asleep.  There are
 several ways to do this, but I'm not going to tell you.  I will assume you
 are capable of figuring this out all by yourself.

      1) The Shaving Cream Trick

         Put some shaving cream in their hand.  If they are right-handed, put
         it in their right hand, and vice-versa.  Then plunge a steak knife
         right through their skull.  They will go "pakjrririoj!!" and there
         will be shaving cream in their hand.

      2) The Pot Of Hot Water Trick

         Put some hot water in a pot, place it beside your sleeping enemy,
         and submerge one of his/her hands into the hot water.  Then bash
         their skull in with an aluminum bat.  They will go "pakjrririoj!!"
         and one of their hands will be wet with hot water.

      3) The Mayonnaise Trick

         This only works when the victim is a male and there are several
         other males present (i.e. - a party or sleepover).  Spread some
         mayonnaise all over their sheets, preferrably near their crotch.
         then crack their skull open with a hammer.  They will go
         "pakjrririoj!!" and there will be mayonnaise all over their sheets.

      I do not take any responsibility for the consequences that may or may
 not occur after testing out my tricks.  I do guarantee, however, that they
 will work.

 ============================================================================
 ============================================================================

 If you would like to see more articles like this in RAD from Styx, simply
 send some booze or money to:

        The "Booze For Styx" Fund
        C/O RAD E-Zine
        P.O. Box 584
        Crown Point, IN  46307

 ============================================================================
 ============================================================================

 "High School Is Retarded: Fire Drills"
 Complained by Phorce
 E-mail: phorce@openix.com

        Picture this: you're sitting in your eighth period class, and smell
 smoke.  You look out the window, and see fire trucks pulling up outside the
 school.  Because you are too busy talking to your friends, you cannot find
 any doors leading out of the school and away from the raging inferno inside
 your high school.  You die, searching for an exit.

        This doesn't sound like a realistic situation, at least for your
 average high school student.  Why, then, do we have so many scheduled fire
 drills?  Why is it a law in most states to have so many of these planned
 exercises in fire safety?  Do state lawmakers and school administrators
 truly believe that students will not be able to find their way out of the
 building in case of fire?  I can imagine the terror they attempted to save
 the nation's youths from: scorched classrooms, full of the charbroiled
 remains of students caught by flames while they searched hopelessly for the
 door.

        And about this "no talking" rule.  In my view, it actually seems more
 beneficial to encourage students to speak during a fire situation: as we
 learned in Biology, humans exhale CO2, which would help to put out small
 fires in the area, given enough people.  Instead of firepeople, what we need
 are groups of students, ready to blow out potential blazes!

        Also, what about the unwritten rule stating that no student can be
 within a certain distance from a burning school?  Who measures this sort of
 thing?  Does it really matter?  All I know is that if the school is about to go
 up in smoke, I'm going to get as far away as I can from it before the whole
 thing explodes.

        Why should we even be thinking about fire these days, anyway?  We
 should be preparing for more timely disasters -- like discount airliners
 crashing into the clock tower, militia groups bombing the main office, or
 terrorists trying to take the school hostage.  I can see it now:

        "RING!#!"
        "Okay, class -- you know the routine.  Everyone get on your hands and
 knees and beg for mercy."
        "Oh, no -- not the `disgruntled-teacher-with-a-shotgun' drill again?"

        Not that I think fire drills are unnecessary.  They're invaluable at,
 say, the kindergarten level.  Here's my proposal: you line all the kinder-
 garten students up, show them the exits to the building, and convincingly
 yell "FIRE!" at the top of your lungs.  This'll work for both fire safety
 and also as an academic assessment: those that made it out the door belong
 in the "rabbit" learning group, and the ones that didn't find the doors go
 in the "turtle" group.

        I'm not expecting to win everyone over with this plan, though.  If
 you think my rhetoric is too fiery, talk to me sometime and we'll have a
 heated debate.

 ============================================================================
 ============================================================================

 "Somtimes I'm Dumb"
 As explained by Mercuri
 E-mail: jwapienn@pla-net.net

        For the life of me, I can't understand song lyrics very much.  For
 example, I thought "Dirty Deeds" by AC/DC went like this:

                Dirty deeds
                And the dunder chief

        Actual lyrics:

                Dirty deeds
                And they're done dirt cheap

        But maybe you're saying, "No big deal, I screwed up like that when I
 was a kid, too."  Here's where it gets funny.  This was back in FEBRUARY OF
 NINETEEN NINETEY-SEVEN.  Sad?  You bet.  I only figured out the actual
 lyrics because the radio announcer said the title.

        My lyrics to, "Who do you love?" (George Thorogood)

                I walk 47 miles through barbed wire
                I got pogostick for a neck tie
                Brand new dfkgje by the roadside
                Made from ofejfjhi

        Actual lyrics:

                I walk 47 miles through barbed wire
                I've got a cobra snake for a neck tie
                I've got a brand new house down by the roadside
                Made from rattle snake hide

        This could go on forever, but it'd get less and less funny.  Besides,
 I can't think of anything else right off the top of my head.  If you hadn't
 guessed, I'm a big classic/southern rock fan (& you're also a retard). 

 ============================================================================
 ============================================================================

 A moment of silence, please, to remember the thousands of islands the
 Phillippines has.
 
 ============================================================================
 ============================================================================

 "Some Performance Rights"
 Written By Ben Ohmart
 E-mail: findline@ix.netcom.com

        We need to experiment on the homeless.  What are they really doing
 anyway?  Do they go out and vote (I don't)?  Do they help their fellow man
 (I don't)?  Don't they just get in the way?  Sure, they keep to the farthest
 side of the sidewalk, up against the buildings, but they're always waving
 paper cups at you.  Some of them will eventually try to mug you; at very
 inopportune times, too.  They litter the streets with their filth, and their
 filthy bodies.  They make you feel guilty when you go by; and make you look
 down when they're talking to you, or shouting at you for going past without
 contributing to the relief fund.  I think that *here* is the answer to see
 if NutriSweet is really going to cause cancer eventually.

        No one likes it when they do things to little white mice.  Because
 it's not like they're using the big apartment rats that have everything
 disgusting already, including your breakfast cereal from this morning.
 These are cute, soft, fuzzy butt things that we'll find out later will be on the
 endangered list.

	I think we should do eye make-up tests on the blind in the gutters.
 Give them a warm place to sleep; do it to them when they're out from that
 drugged Pepsi.  Test out the latest laser surgery techniques.  Eye drops
 with a new chemical.  Besides, do you know how hard it is to hold a little
 white mouse down while you're trying to squeeze your juice in its eye?

	For the war veterans who just couldn't cope with the recession or the
 reality, here is good skin disease fodder.  Someone must pay to keep the
 high school kids' skin clean.  Why not, literally, the man on the street?
 Sounds good to me.  And give him a dollar.

        Of course, the drunkards are good for the latest set of anti-drinking
 chemicals.  When you're on probation, you're forced to take these pills to
 stop you wanting alcohol.  They don't really work.  You can drink through
 it.  So let's develop something stronger, and latch on to some good brothers
 who can't even stand without the aid of an IBM building.  Give them all the
 drink they want.  Put them in an air-conditioned place of residence for a
 week or two.  Just tell them the catch is that they must pop a pill every
 other hour.  What kind of catch is that?  They'll gladly do it for you,
 honey.  They won't even take the dollar.  Just make sure the accomodations
 are all in rubber, and never serve them pot pies for eats.  The peas and
 carrots, you know.

        Now cripples are always fun for extremes testing.  You have your old,
 shitty bearded man with the half a leg gone.  He's been through hell.  He's
 seen the red light, and has come back to tell you his near-death experience.
 While he's talking, shove a piece of chalk in his mouth.  Make him swallow
 by a good chop to the throat, and time it immediately as he convulses.  This
 will allow experts to tell just how long mothers have to get their kids to
 the hospital.  Also, you can put acid in their eyes and, depending on how
 many cripples you can get ahold of (and who can write, so they can sign
 their names to the no-liability forms), through constant experiments with
 these disposable people, you can see the permenant damage it will cause,
 what you can expect if you flush you eyes with water a half hour after
 getting it in your eyes, an hour after, a day after, two days, etc.  And you
 don't need to keep the doors too tightly bolted.  Where are the cripples
 going to run to?  (Beware of one-armed men.)

        Children are an especially good commodity for testing.  Let's face it.
 They're a waste of space even if you have the proper bank account for the
 upkeep of one.  But if you're a mother who's trying to take care of the kid,
 you've a good asset to trade off for room and board.  And if you're a child
 all alone in the world, what've you got to lose?

        Children are good for long range projects.  Some of them are still
 being used for the microwave results.  So in a few years now, if it is
 discovered that using a microwave has killed a couple of old men who used
 to be family-deprived brats, the heating devices will be outlawed.  They're
 also handy for nuclear testing, burns (including boiling water), drinking
 oil, masturbating with a potato grater, drug compounds (like the love child
 of crack and weed), gradual intensified whipping, oat bran taken anally,
 hair loss by electric shocks, and growing in a small box to see if that box
 will grow with you.

	Psychological experiments don't often work, but you can try them.
 Yell at them.  Tell them to go get jobs.  Make them feel guilty about making
 others feel guilty from passing up their pleas on the street.  However, if
 you can dig just a little into their psychological profiles, perhaps you can
 dredge up some things that have kept them humble or without self-confident,
 or maybe even something that led to their life on the homeless range.  Then
 exploit it.  Make them cry, if they can.  Force them into homosexual
 relationships, then wait a while.  Then force these men apart.  See what
 happens.  You can always entice them with a threat: if you don't do it,
 there are prisoners out there just waiting for the opportunity.

        There are many other kinds of good that can come out of these space-
 wasters.  The only thing science must learn is how to combine the flesh with
 the new technology.  They must understand that there are many more
 accessible men and women than smaller creatures you must lay in wait for,
 and spend money for fancy traps. And then there's the cost of either buying
 your lab mice by the pound, or just picking up your specimen with the
 correct eye and hair and sneaker color right up outside of Tower Records for
 free.

 ============================================================================
 ============================================================================

 "My Roommate"
 As spoken (while beating the shit out of him) by TMM
 E-mail: chris41@juno.com

 My roommate has a pile of dirty clothes that is about four feet long, three
 feet wide, & two feet thick.

 His books & a bunch of CDs are in there too.

 He even has three trash bags (the big black ones) full of dirty clothes
 shoved under my bed.

 My roommate also has no clean clothes.  He hasn't had clean clothes in
 roughly three months, so he's been wearing dirty ones for a long time.

 He smells bad too.

 He hasn't changed his sheets since we got back early from Christmas
 vacation.

 The date of which was January 9, 1996.

 My roommate has (counting now) 23 cans of empty or partially empty Coke cans
 on his desk, along with empty gallons of ice cream, dirty bowls of rice &
 ramen noodles, a water bottle, & loads of candy wrappers.

 He also has a computer on there, along with a phone, an answering machine &
 a lava lamp.

 His desk is piled (precariously) at least three feet high.

 My roommate stands in front of the mirror & pops pimples for at least two to
 three hours a day.

 One time while I was gone, my roommate accidentally unplugged the mini-
 refrigerator & let the freezer thaw, spilling gallons of water onto the
 uncarpeted floor.  Being the conciencious & thoughtful roommate he is, he
 decided to "let it dry" & it did ...

 ... Three days later, when I bought paper towels & cleaned it up myself
 while  he played with some dumb graphics program on his shitty computer.

 My roommate has a nice car, a '94 Pontiac Firebird (forest green) that no
 longer runs because his battery has been dead for over three months.

 My roommate will be arrested tomorrow (April 15th) if he doesn't pay Papa
 John's Pizza $31.50 for a bounced check.

 He has no money.

 My roommate follows us places like to restaraunts or other places that cost
 money.

 Remember, he has no money.

 Because we're nice & don't want to leave him standing there outside, we bum
 him money.

 This money is never paid back.

 My roommate brought a 25 inch tv, a stereo with huge Pioneer speakers, a
 VCR, a microwave, a refrigerator & a printer.

 He can stay for now.

 ============================================================================
 ============================================================================

 "Goody Two Shoe Rebels"
 As told by Mercuri
 E-mail: jwapienn@pla-net.net

        A few months ago, during a peace summit or whatnot, the leader of
 Israel told his people to stop fighting with guns -- and they did.  So they
 pelted rocks at their enemies.  Is it just me or does it seem unbelievable?
 They will actually stop using guns if he asks nicely?  Could President
 Clinton do this with crime?

        "Hey guys, please stop killing each other."

        "Okay."

        "Thanks."

        I don't know about you, but I see great things for this in the
 future.

        "Hey, hungry people ... go find some food and stop being hungry."

        "That's a will-do!"

        "Hey factories, stop polluting!"

        "Sorry! We'll do something about that ASAP."

        Pelting rocks ... man, can you get more primitive and sadistic?
 Think about beating the shit out of somebody by throwing rocks at them.
 Remember how much it hurt to get hit with an iceball (tightly packed
 snowball)?  Imagine getting hit with a ROCK.

        I'm not talking about his kids here, I'm talking about rebels.  What
 kind of rebel throws rocks when it's suggested?

        "Throw rocks instead!"
        "No, we're rebels!"
        "Damnit, I said throw rocks!!"
        "Okay! Okay! Don't get so pushy!"
        "What'd you say?"
        "Nothing!"

 ============================================================================
 ============================================================================

 "Phorce's Editorial Corner"
 Edited by Phorce
 E-mail: phorce@openix.com

        Hey, we've got this new writer, Ben Ohmart!  What do *you* think of
 him?  I've already formulated my opninion on this writer:

        He's just another one of those damned uneducated RAD writers.

        Actually, he's okay.  You want to hear a secret about Ben that only
 an editor would know?

        Well?

        Okay, here it is!  Ben Ohmart's most commonly-appearing writing
 mistake is:

        Sometimes capitalizing random words for no Apparent reason.  Like
 This.  I don't know why he Does it.  It's pretty strange, if you Ask me.

        You heard it here first!

 ============================================================================
 ============================================================================

              Radioactive Aardvark Dung E-Zine :: ISSN 1092-5449
                      Issue #15 % Released April 17, 1997
             RAD E-Zine :: PO Box 584 :: Crown Point, IN :: 46307
    Get Past & Future Issues From :: ftp://ftp.openix.com/ftp/phorce/rad/
            WWW Site :: http://www.pla-net.net/corp/zineworld/rad/
         Send Us Your Comments & Submissions! :: jwapienn@pla-net.net
          For Special Updates % type "subscribe rad" In Message Body
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    Without Prejudice and Explicit Reservation of All My Rights, UCC 1-207

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