To further divide The Slosh, each 'chapter' is separated, at essentially neorandom intervals, into sections. Herein exists a list thereof, along with their titles:
Talk to slosh-at-slosh-dot-com
emu 3 June 2000 (I'm baaaack, and I'm married. So there!)
This is the preamble to the introduction to the beginning of something (that we know what it is but we aren't going to tell you. Yet. We will, but right now we are just telling you that we WILL tell you, at some future point.)
Optimists say that the glass of water is half full.
Pessimists say that the glass is half empty.
And then there are those people who say it's bone dry and swarming with leeches... the following is written and read by that sort of people.
Know then, that this is The Slosh, and it is what it is, and isn't much of anything else.
TTTTTTTTTT SSSSSSS
TT SS SS
TT H H EEEEE SS L OOO SSS H H !!
TT H H E SS L O O S S H H !!
TT H H E SSSSSS L O O S H H !!
TT HHHHHHH EEEE SS L O O SS HHHHHH !!
TT H H E SS L O O S H H
TT H H E SS SS L O O S S H H !!
TT H H EEEEE SSSSSS LLLLLL OOO SSS H H !!
(dontcha love ASCIIart?)
WARNING: No Surgeon-General would bother to read this nonsense. Seriously though, we use some very explicit language and some that is irritatingly vague, so if either is bothersome or offensive to you, please, read no further. Oh yeah and we use a lot of technogibberish so those not electromechanically tended might consider us some sort of verbal cyberlitterpunks; we prefer to consider ourselves cyberliterarypunks, and prime punsters. Those silly enough to brave the dangers of the shti contained herein may find small treasure or pleasure in the following pages. It is a sizeable chunk of my life, tied up in words and thoughts; and much of other people's lives as well. Some might say that it is counterculture's representation of life in this era (or perhaps another long since past or even yet to come); others might consider it a grand vindication of the human condition. Personally, I see it as random musings by several confused teenagers-turned-young-adults trying (with some success I might hasten to add!) to find themselves, or at least a facsimile thereof (I don't ask to be infinitely rich... N rich as N approaches infinity would do nicely!)
The Slosh is sometimes an icon of its age, or one seemingly gone gone (though in reality just round memory's corner); other times it is a beacon of hope and light to those lost in these dark times. In any event it seems to be a function of time so perhaps in a while it will go away.
Editor's notes, 27 March 1997. Here we are again. Yet another new year (YANY.) At one point I just voted VI just oatted. Squatonomo just farted. Geesh, wipe up after yourself, nardbreath. Apologies and explanations for the new look and terminology are in order. As a point of reference, due to unfortunate circumstances and the general weirdness surrounding my living arrangements as always, the CompuPro that The Slosh lived on is gone. Permanently. The PC (this week: P5/133) I use is now the home for TS. I realize I said I would never go the PC, but now I must. I'm sorry. Prototwack.
But with the new machine, we get a new look; for I now have an HP LaserJet Plus, which, though big and ugly, has fantastic-looking output. And it's fast: we can dump the whole Slosh in about 15 minutes, when it used to take an hour or so on the Panasonic. Mind you it does bad things to the server (this week: NT3.51SP4) from which the printer hangs. But don't tell that to the hyenas.
Heh. As mentioned in other places, the Plus finally gave up the ghost. Built like a fuckin' tank, it was, and it just wouldn't die, even when I wanted it to :-). Okay, cool ... it's been replaced by an LJ III, with JetDirect (internal!) and 4MB extra RAM. Anybody know if it will go to 9MB? The printer server at the minute is in fact NT4SP3 this week, but hey, Canadians speaking German, you know?
The fonts are heinous (hyenas?), the speed is amazing, and I even have a WordStar for this PC. Not that I use it anymore; heck, from 8 July 1996 to 20 March 1997 I tried the antichrist - Microsoft Office's Word 6 (err, with the advent of more bits here, Word 7 on Win95SP1). As so much of the incoming documents are Un*x-formatted, and I so often need to output to a text file for the web version of this file, Word may well be a convenient solution. As it worked out, I'm actually going pure HTML now, editing the chapters with EDIT in a DOS box under 95 (while running Netscape as well!). Heh heh, do THAT on a CompuPro (well, spose if I ported Lynx...)
So maybe then, in the cosmic scheme of things, the PC isn't all bad, and The Slosh can live on it. At least for now, it has to. It and I have no choice - regardless of where it lives and where it prints, still, it's a lot of work. And though Windows is irritable, the P5/133, the S3 PCI SVGA and the Seagate 2GB are SO sweet!... (when they all work!<g> But what a FutherMucker when they crash. Goddam Peecees make my peecee my pc pants.!)
And we even got our own domain -- check it out, http://www.slosh.com, 'cuz it's how The Slosh is published now, period, end of story, no more fuckin' disks or turnip squiddly grodite-soups!
PLEASE READ! DEAD PIGEONS! NOTE!
Emu, take a letter. Zog needs chocolate. And beer. But not chocolate beer. That would be bad. Excuse me Egon, but didn't you tell me that pissing in the beer was BAD?
Dear Grandma. I am glad to hear about your return from the Zarquon. How is the left foot full stop. My testes are so much less inflamed now. Caagh. Dear Mrs Noodle. I am writing to you from prison, yes, the Noodle Prison. Better than the Noodle Prism. Less noodles become distracted that way. Refractory noodles are a pain in the rainbow. September gurls... I find it interesting that we're both caught up inside a big noodle. Yours is your husband,; afro-dizzy Ack! Proto squidly quack.
Interstellar cheese from the armpits of Alpha Centauri our closest neighbor besides Ralph up the hill. Ralph is not armpit cheese from Alpha Centauri. By the way, please take out the trash. There is no cheese in the trash; No Seņor Molino there are no bazingas in the trash. The bats are out of my head. So is the beer. The difference between a pun and a poon is a joke that smells bad. Spells bad. Aaron Spelling? Tori Amos. Rampage Nods. Zog Nods? Egg Zog.
It has more alcohol. Rum in EggNog. Half a pint of Old Crow Bourbon. Okra bourbon? Oprah Winburger. Fat gwahk aaah! Elderly robot? No, Kathleen Robinson. Burp! A Cuisinart is not a queasy nard; if your nard is upchucking the last thing you need is pure A. Hurray? Pure energy. New lay. Nolan is not gay. No no no seņor Bazinga the molinos are in the toaster owen now. That's another thing from the seventies. Better than Rampage Nards. Where on the Ox do you find the Oxnard? Petula Clark??? Petula CRL.COM? Rampage Noodle.
Owen is an anagram for Newo; and an antigram for cheese. Graham Chapman please? Owen would explode if we showed him the Slosh. Very messy. Owen exploded, not the slosh. Though it is too, but not as much.
Twelve years ago my dick fell off; since then I've been playing with soda. Soda crackers. Well then. Allrighty then. This stuff is awful I should try a different bottle. Kathleen Robinson is not Kathleen Sullivan. NO SPANDEX!!! Damn that's a lot of semicolons. Enematic bliss?
In fact, in gfact, with ghovbercraft, you just kneel. Bow wow before the one you bark, you're going to get what you reserved. Kitty litter, Mark Mothersbaugh. I want Belana Torres dropped on top of me. How many times can I mis-spell B'lana Tores in one document? Under no circumstances should one search conceptually for Klingon names in this document. Underwear no circumcisions would fun birch contraceptively for Spawn Forth in this procurement.
Cheese Johnny. Like Johnny Cash. You change it like Johnny Cat. Put cheese in my armpit. Different kind every week. Munster one week, monterey the next. Like the Random Stool Color of the Week. Like chocolate pudding. I like it, but I'm not used to spooning my armpits. Armpit is an anagram for ratmip, like ratnip. Wally? Rats climbing the walls of Jeff's head. As the rats eat into my cheese! Do they go to prison? Jail bait? Nolan watches TV with the MICE group. Having two authors is okay, as long as only one is sober. Zong explode with delight. Zog is sick. It's random call back day. Mrs Smith, is your son still gay? Little goat shrine. Licked glib shrike? Prince, or the symbol thereof, is touched by the accordion. Bill - beat the shrike. I shit on catholic hills. In Oakland I prey. Streaming again - the soundtrack of the tape drive from hell. Shatnert! With his hair. Bad bad bad bad. Who could stroke off on the erps? They're SQUARE!!!!
Winner of this month's Random Stool Color of the Week Award:
Karen Fagen, fcatus-at-crl-dot-com. Editor of the Maxis newsletter, and general weird-person-about-Maxis.
I live in a cubical quad. Fullstop. No more charging. Ranking fullstop. Start to play their you know song. It starts with a german accordion monster. Intestinal gas. L'Trimm Industries. Blow the goad nugget. That's ghoad nugget to you sir. Instrumental to Rampage Man's success is his instrument. Very red. Volare! Will says we'll all say something.
This is THE SLOSH - a high school project gone putrid. Please note that the same Constitutional Bill of Rights that gives us the right to publish this also requires us to tell you the following: you may find this publication personally offensive; this publication may contain adult material and offensive language; it may also contain obscure references to orange scirrocos. You must be 18 years old to read this (unfortunately you would understand it better if you were too young to read). Started as the brainchild of AF Shephard (dremu-at-slosh-dot-com) and Steve Dick (faust-at-rmi-dot-net), THE SLOSH was eight years old; this is still the premiere issue. (It is continually being updated. All revisions are "tagged on" to the issue, although not necessarily tagged at the END of the publication.) There are several other contributing writers, supervised by the Honorable Dr Emu, Chief Executive Censor. Any article submissions which are not lost, become property of Dr Emu, or at least his floor. Whence they eventually get sent to the home of the Great Green Arklesnoozie which isn't what you thought I was gonna say.
Thanks to Dr Emu, the Quam was then running Concurrent Dos (and Donts) on his C-Pro. There must be a better name for Communications Central. The Quam is open for suggestions. Now, I think I will entertain you with some rather morbid (pathetic / empathetic) former essays written in Mr. Kennedy's 5th Period (or was it 6th?) class: xxx (that's all folx)
(In fact, very extremely abstract!) [AS IN SUMMARY!]
In the beginning there was a little nonsense, and it grew. Seventeen women are mentioned by name and inference to their physical characteristics. Fornication is mentioned, and so are squids. Weirdness is a pseudoreligious Jihad of insanity and inanity. Foreign languages and times long gone (HIGH SCHOOL!!!) are viewed in a lazily nearly drug-laden perspective. (But we're clean! It's the rest of the world that's intoxicated!) And so forth. Many quotes, much gibberish. Foul language and fowl (word)play. Yet it forms a path of meaning when viewed in the long term, and in the Big Picture. (Wait, who let A. Whitney Brown in? Geeshdarn SNL is everywhere these days! - Emu)
Which is really electronique cyberbunk. But is required reading for those desiring to join the nonexistant organization centered around The Slosh. Those interested by reading this object could get a brain transplant 'cuz they obvisouly need one; or you could find Dr Emu/AFS or Ymos TU/SVD and talk about issues recurring in our lives today. It probably wouldn't make it into The Slosh but it would pass the time.
So enough of my yammerin'... Ladies and Gentlebeings, wihtout all that much further ado I present you:
THE SLOSH Vg.abc (Rev date is backwards does anybody remember last night? Me & my sunburn are confused!)
Fuck, another 8" disk. Use em as dildoes before I use em as data holders. Should I use pencil this time? Yes dad.
THE FOLLOWING (and the preceding and everything else in fact in this document) were filmed in OrangeVision, as used in hospitals and certain Adam Ant videos: Don't you ever stop being dandy, showing me you're handsome. Don't you ever lower yourself, forgetting all your standards. Whatever mon. And now, the rest of the shit:
Many and in fact most of these words are by the Emu formerly known as AF Shephard, the whatever currently known Steve Dick, and a great many test questions were developed by a team of quams headed by Jeffrey J Feil, Esq. Others are not (either words, quams, or by any of the above.) Basically Emu types them, or at least imports them from the quantifiably obtuse emails he receives, but then that is what I do. Really then it's sorta my project with a fair lot by Ymos TU (who is Steve generally) (thanks dude - much appreciated!) and Jeff who is busy quamming right now, and as he's tied to the chair and screaming for a beerbottle to pee in, let him be. Other short bits are by other short people, although they're odd too - both the people and the things they said. Especialy Miss W.E. of NHL who were being (not heboing but whoboingbing Cherry) vaguely important at the time (I was stupid enough to think the LOML but then ... ) causes great weirdness on my part. She dumped me. :) We is past tense, past relaxed, we're past. Gone, no more, nada. I have Tiz now so all is well and good. The Slosh is good, the Slosh is all, the Slosh is like unto the Quam. September gurls [sic]... you get the idea. I just thought I'd say that. She has done many things for me and many things to me and I have enjoyed most of them. Whaevah. Shit, I think. As opposed to shit I think or shit I, think. And much is contributed but that's all we say meccanik dancing oh we go Too. And he drove a pickle. The Pickle, specifically, not just any pickle but The Pickle. Why it is a Pickle when it is blue and not green and not a discomobile I donno. But tis. Not Susanna Hoffs. And it isn't a Pickle anymore but a Pontiac. Eggsightmen? Quam is very test-prone, not testily- prone, and so we have many exams, and queries, and test. Bresticles however there are none of. None to speak of anyway, as opposed to none to not speak of. Hmm. Jeff wrote a bunch of stuff anyway. The difficulty with The Slosh is that things mentioned in it change too quickly, or at least more often than it is revised, or at least revised well. Nemmind. Such as it is, poor grammar, apologies to JKDominik et al. You shoulda seen the technolitany about the hard drives the CPro used... talk about subject-verb disagreement... even Grodo (see below or above or someplace else) doesn't disagree that much, except with concrete.
Antirevisionistic policies mean we/I change very little of what we know/is known as Slosh though it may need change or editing; solely on the premise of being hardheaded, argumentative and Slosh-prone. Yes, we're lazy; but we're also interested in preserving the thoughts (if not the deeds and the waste byproducts) of yesterday that we might recollect them (or at least collect them once) accurately and in their entirety -- and not later change them in our minds or forget them wholly. Unless it involves the computer The Slosh lives on, since it's too damn often the machine changes more often than the document.
The computer is the ultimate medium. Unforgetting, unforgiving. And boy! when you fuck up a word the spellchecker lets you no! (Obviously I don't use my spellczecher and haven't invested in a grandma-checker!) Instantly eraseable words, sentences, paragraphs, pages, entire documents. Shit, I didn't like that. RM *, ya know what I mean? Instantly editable, I meant changeable... what blond put the white-out on my monitor? The true artist is the console cowboy, the VR cyberpunk, who knows -- to the limit -- what he AND his machine, can do. And pushes himself and his machine to that brink, holding both by sheer force of will on that razor's edge of precision and power and performance...
I am going to kill the Shannen Doherty look-a-like in my art class. I should be a bit more global and kill all the bitch-celebrity look-a-likes in all art classes but that'd be too tiresome.
Settle for shouting a Jeep. Jouting a sheep?
"ARE YOU BEING SERVED?" writ of happy-us corset?
Hospers, John: An Introduction to Philosophical Analysis, 2nd edition.
Prentice Hall, New Jersey, 1988. pp14-17:
Pirots carulize elatically.
She stood above the universe.
Walking say eat very.
The number seven is blue.
He stood between the post.
Saturday is in bed.
Quadruplicity drinks procrastination.
Quadratic equations go to horse races.
Are there are flubjubs in the world?
p53:
The alcoholic, in a state of delirium tremens, sees pink rats going up and
down the wall, but of course there are no pink rats at all.
OR ARE THERE? (end o' phyllo-sophia)
Trash Dicksplash, the most heavily armed sex turnip this side of the Andes, sneezed. Which was tricky, because it meant that the IRS man would know where he was--time to move on to another toadstool. Even with that much weaponry, getting into a firefight with an IRS agent was always a bad idea. Somebody would end up hamburger--safe bet it ain't gonna be the taxman. (George Harrison, anyone?)
Mind you, between his electrosymbiotic plasmatic 'Wendy Olean Williams' electrical-tape-and-shaving-cream-on-the-nipples body armor and the Blake- Stone-Number-Five-Grenade-And-Pizza-Flamethrower-Launcher, moving wasn't such an easy proposition. He had, however, luck on his side: the taxmonger had to push all that paperwork to move at all--though move he did, for the wheels of civil service turn, even if but slowly.
NIKE: The only choice of footwear for New Traditionalists and devolved and de-evoluted people and mutants everywhere. As per finding them in the Through Being Cool video of those most mutated DEV-O devolved peoples.
aaaaaaaargh. i am of death; yea, i doth bring the pee-pee to the spreaders of doom and of labia worldwide. i snoozle, that others may explode. trauma, five times, universally. i descend into hell riding on the whipporwill shirttail trail of demon's deception. for without blood, who am i but a stain on the coffee table of mutilation and humble pie; i fuck the pulp until it is meaningless. spent, i repent at last, giving forth my mucus until i can no more.
eureka.
Steve says I am not so much an author (or editor as I prefer) as a zookeeper. I'll have to keep that in mind. This document at times lived on a CompuPro. It was a toaster in comparison to the PC, but it was S-100 and ultimately weird. It ran Concurrent DOS 5.2 which isn't MS-DOS but isn't CP/M and is sort of both but neither. MP/M which is multiuser (as are C-Pros inherently Jeff) and CP/M-16 and MP/M-16 'cuz it had a 16-bit CPU (sometimes an 8086, sometimes an 8088, sometimes a 80286 or whatever) not a blasted 8085... though I did have (but didn't use) 8MHz Z80's with 64K slave RAM and console I/O onboard --or-- 80186's with 512K slave RAM and two console I/O ports. Whew. More technolitany: The hard drive(s) changed regularly, but were always MFM, and almost always big and ugly.. ranging from 5MB to 80MB. The reason it/they changed so often is that I sell them, or got tired of it/them, or it/they exploded. Ah, there's the agreement Miss D. (Mizz D --as in Ms D-- ? Misty? Oh get off it mon.) And then they come back to me and all is weird again. Seagates, Miniscribes, Micropoli. Micropolis's? And what of one Quantum, two Quantums? Quanta? Quanti? Quinta? Aaargh.
On the premise that I've bitched about machinery too much I won't mention the seven or eight PC's I've used since I've had the CompuPro... nor the Commodore 128D that came and went and came again... messy, that Commodore... I once said that they (the-objects-which-are-not-CompuPro's) are NOT and will NEVER be homes for the Slosh. I love WS3.3 dearly and I MUST have a use for the CompuPro. I Lied.
The Slosh is available... no small remuneration is required. Bring Emu some IBC the next time you're 'round these parts, and check out the very self-same web page you're reading now...
usr/spool/stool/nugget
The sun shines bright in the yellow light
Spilling succulent dentures o so trite
Not really caring if Penhall's large
Gomer is private, Carter is sarge
Fishing for noodles yields much fish
Fondling the models; a tasty side dish
Don't touch when spoken but speak when spuck
I've got your sister and she's a good luck
Hullo Emu!
Hold the mayo! Cinco de mayo! June's before Mayo! Ward Cleaver???? Dennis Weaver! What's in the basket, Brian? The PSQ logo, sir! He'll mess your face if you're snapperhead.
Welcome to the Cranial Spigot Factory. Here at CSF, you'll find the world's best, longest lasting cranial spigots this side of the Honduras border. Yes, siree! Cranial spigots. "If we didn't think of 'em, you wouldn't think."(tm). Yes, increase your brainpower by up to 33%, without Cyrix! What cynics.
Copyright C. 1995 - The Cranial Spigot Factory, a division of Intellidroid Sentient Cybernetix Corporation. Sponsored by the Pirate Squid Club. All noodles obscured. International flights secured.
Spill the swine! Touch my panties, you ogre of an Owen! Wipe the banana peels on my virgin butter, and peel away the seeds.
Of course (I always say that, don't I?), the turnip is in a misguided groove, which groove must be recut to be straight in order for the turnip to travel properly. This is a side effect of the timing constraints of trying to count 50-70uS in compiled C... mixed in with the fact that my C compiler is crappy. Mix notably. That and my receiver is shitty and the signals are weak. You try picking up low power near-microwave signals at any kind of distance. So why Manchester NRZ? Why not? It's got built-in clocking, it's tough for non-nerds to decode... I suspect the whole thing is a ploy (or a plot) by James Earl Jones and the NSA to convert hackers-phreakers-nerds to tie-wearing officious paper-pushers. Just a theory mind you... at least I'm not Robert Redford. Bish? Pish-wah. That would be bad. Life could be extremely weird. MLA my left asshole. Sleep = true, Gyermek = air conditioning.
I have seen them. I have seen them. I have seen them. (Three times.) And they still have fake blond hair... redheads who give up their identifying characteristic are giving up their creator's gift to them... and have given up any respect others with that gift would have for them.
Redheads. American Indian Scottish ones.
So I prayed to the gods that, now that Wen is gone, that someone would provide me with a replacement. Reasonable? No, of course not. This is me we're talking about.
Short, maybe 5' to 5'-6", shoulder length plus red hair, around my age, vaguely technically inclined, prone to laughing at my jokes, solidly built (Wen's mass or higher) and vaguely Bejoran.
I did not request this in any seriousness. Hmm. Collateral damage. The gods are out to get me. Current requirements are therefore 5'-8" or higher, redheaded but short - no more than shoulder length, still laughs at my jokes but doesn't know a computer from an electric fish tank, and vaguely Australian. Goobah.
GOOBAH. Goobah, man, perfect perhaps except for the strings attached. The lacerations along one's back... ah the joyful memories. And joyful mammaries. What lacerations.... they were.
I don't think so man, them lights are off on purpose:
It's 106 miles to Chicago; we have a full tank of gas and a half pack of cigarettes. It's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses.
HIT IT!!
Fooba. The second best-thing-that-ever-happened-to-Emu (which is not to relate them as one better than the other and the other second to the first, merely to chronicle them in order of time of arrival in mu's life. And it was basically one out and the other in, the last, the only from now. I like Tizzy, she likes her mu-Bear. Life is good.)
I GAVE YOU FISH I GAVE YOU CANDY
I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING I EVER HAD
Death=cold, cold=WestForum, scrotum<>second degree burns. Etc.
Cop an attitude: The Slosh attitude. The mannerism of technoterrorism, the mentality of cyberlitany, the mindset of the futureset. This is our way of predicting what will be, how it will be, and why Timothy Leary could be Max Headroom's evil twin brother Skippy. Cyberbunk tis and will be.
Which is enough advertisement for this Emu. So the question comes to mind of why are breasts, who are bests and when is Tuesday anyway then? Finally:
Try-Starr Pictures new movie: The Living Dead meet The Killer Bimbos. 147 breasts, Rotting Zombie-Fu, Tit Fu, Gratuitous Rigor Mortis Aardvarking, Academy Award Nomination to Kelly McDonald for "It's So BIG!". Academy Award Nomination to Steven Rodgers as the King Zombie for "Feel my pus in your body." Four stars. Check it out.
37.
If the S-VGA Flash-BIOS reports a RAM squid-DAC of 64K colors, based on
the RAM refresh rate of 128ms and size of 1024K bytes, 512K words and 256K
longwords, with a bus speed of 8MHz and a bus seed every other cycle,
assuming not local bus op (long distance charges apply), using standard DOS
calls and replies, and only using Macrosoft D-- objectively-oriented
compilation manager, what do you call the variable "N"?
SCMI ("scummy") Small Cuddly Mammal Interface, as used by young ladies with stuffed animals covering their beds.
SLMI ("slimy") Small Lizard Metamorphosis Interface, as used by Gollum and Franz Khafka.
SLKI ("slinky") Small Liquid Kumquat Interface, as used by the little metal spring that climbs down stairs.
SKNI ("skanky") Small Kooky Nantwich Interface, as used by certain overpierced individuals and the Earl of Nantwich, who invented the Nantwich (the wettest thing in the refrigerator pressed between two of the driest thing in the refrigerator.)
SBJI ("sblooji"), Small Bad Joke Interface, as used by this author and, in its other incarnation (Terri Nunn what?) by the LM/STS/BTB etc.
0.
The null pointer directs the CPU to:
System Initialization fault in sector 4322
Missing parity sketch
Graph of RAM out of bounds
SETVER.EXE has been unset
DOS system invalid... voting for current DOS version
Missing motherboard
Unit needs 120VAC for usage
Drive A is upside down
Microprocessor in spin cycle, please wait
Sugar deficiency detected in serial bus
RAM is low 1 qt. -- use 9-bit 10W-30
Enhanced keyboard needed from optimum creativity
Donut crumbs lodged in data bus
Obscene graphics in RAM... formatting monitor...
Expansion slots removed for expansion
Desrever rossecorporcim
Data bus on strike - use taxi
SCSI not scuzzy enough - driving ASPI loaders for better froopoot
Unplug I/O knorking module from COM6
Hercules card switching to Zeus mode for better graphics
Ant farm residing in COM1 - use DEBUG
No viruses detected, but bacteria infection on COM2
Printer printing backwards, reverse printer cable
AP-Link switching to UPI
Low on Grodo
Your error here -- 555-2133
SymNDP installed as TSR (Tupelo Static Rotor)
SymSym loaded
SymCPU insists on rebooting... call 1(800)624-5223 x490 and whine
SymArt loading JEFF.GIF now
SymFart loading GIF.JEF now
SymBuffalo flying away on buffalo wings
Sysop out having a SymDump
SymFloppy installed on drive Q:
FlapLink reconnected LPT to the White House
SymHungarian needs grandmother with army boots - call x123 for details
This computer has been pissed on... film at 11
Ths compyetra hs a tremnl erro... flm t 11
Boot booot booooot boooooooot (Hullo Brion!)
SymBarf must be wiped off motherboard, press any clean chip to continue
Memory bank 3 SIMMs have been replaced with SIPPs, too many drinks
Pebble Beets require 680x0 CPU to emulate 80x86 cod
Spinal Tap found on drive E: Volume label MS-WOMDRIVE
Overflow flag at half-mast
Carry-out flag set for Szechuan
Burst mode inflating floppy controller
HDC intestinal disorder indicative of BAD
Horton FAT-FUCKER just reordered sectors to odd numbers only
SymAnt Tech SlowDisk disk refragmentation complete
News from the front:
First Place goes to Adolf Snickerdoodle, who single-handedly fought democracy and lost to a pair of clever pigeons from Galt. Pigeons have been known to migrate as far south as Ripon, but the Galt area is more attractive due to cheap nesting. The National Association of Migratory Fowl (NACGW) has pressured Congress to move the equator up to roughly 40 degrees N, through the center of the Galt town square, as pigeons seldom migrate south of that line. With the pigeons winning the Equatorial Bird Pagent every year since its conception, officials argue that it only makes sense to move the Equator. Governor Wilson has already moved the California border north to Fresno, stating "If that don't stop illegal immigration, you can call me a liar."
And in other spew... nuclear egg buffalo!!!!! Noodle Jello protectors!!!!!
carpe diet - seize your stomach
carpe data - seize Brent Spiner
carpet cleaner - what you use to wash the spooge out with
I thought _you_ brought the dancing Julia Roberts pubic hairs? Printers. Owen. Yes. Well then. I think there's a pun in there somewhere about "Canadian educational software".
I had to but more dishes yesterday - all of mine were dirty.
The toliet seat broke - and I wasn't even jumping up and down on it.
I get to go to Steven Segal training today - learning to disable your hostile students in 5 seconds or less. Fun, fun, fun
Penis trumpets: You mentioned working on printers. That makes you Vince Mills' underpants. Owen droppings on my platen.
I'm back from Steven Segal trainging. Now I just need to find a battleship with terrorists and Chief O'Brien. And a Playmate! I am sore. 8 hours of getting thrown around, held, put in various wrist locks, arm bars, holds, escape, foot placements. Ouch. I'm going to sleep now.
Good night. Nah, just checking your reflexes.
And the noodle did spigot a disdainful teardrop as the cyrillian cheese curd enveloped the horseradish sauce. Saith the emporer to the mightly curd, "Doth thou requireth the spigot? Dost thou not wear thy garment of the cheesecloth?" And the emporer did squeeze, and the feces did punt. Removal of the feces was performed by a noodle in disguise as a pair of butt- pliers.
And he didst plunge thy purple butt-pliers into thy anal crevace, pulling out thy infirmity and cleansing thy stained pants. To remove fecal wormwood is to release the violence which has inherited the system.
dremu@n00neVlEWt.gateway.bbs.com
krobinson@prude.chaste.sitbyyourselfandreadboringromancenovels.cum
tizzy@fizzy.fish.card.birthday.bbs.edu.nut
nolan@owen.com
owen@nolan.young.and.tender.com
owen@kathleen's_cute.org
picard@borg.org
romance novel == roving nolan?
Trumpet, trumpet, who's got the Windsock? Which way does the nardle blow?
ooooh baby
I look over at my unused guitar, and I say to myself, "You know, I should really pick it up and learn how to play." Then I look over at my unused home molestation kit, and...
Chim Chim and Spridle
Are not Eric Idle
But cartoons on the tele
And Bundy is Kelly
Remove and repunt
Please bag Helen Hunt
And Norbert is OJ
But that's another stor-ay
Slosh. It's more than a story... it's a multivitamin! Seven different cheeses all rolled up into one Slosh. Take one in the morning, two in the afternoon, and a whole truckload for a nightcap. And don't forget the steak knives and a glass of water!
Out of ideas. Out of intelligence.
I was born by Szechuan section. They took me out with chopsticks.
Refold the cheese. Kneed the dough. Need the doe. Bleed the Ho. Merry Xmas. Ponch is in LA, and I'm not in Mickey's underground sea spurgeon. Keep the Tiz away from Greedy Captain Crab, but give Nolan a dollar so he won't bitch about the washing machine which he overfills. The fridge is fixed, but he still bitches so I put his food in the washing machine to keep him from overfilling it. Ham on socks, hold the Wisk? Egg beaters. Now there's an interesting one. Take an egg and beat it to a pulp. Orange pulp. Make orange juice out of eggs? Sure.
BTW, where's Lawson through all this?
lawson@hunched.transistor.vermin.com
buckley@hunched.sister.cum
dwright@lauched.shuttle.bit.bucket.org
leroy@dickhead.falsies.aaargh
I used to get up in the middle of the night just to turn the light off.
Intellidroid Sentient Cybernetix Corp.
1.
The transistor is a modern device which:
ESSAY [12 points]
An acrobat walks into a dentist shop to buy some flowers for his balloon. Thinking he asked for flowers for his "baboon", the hungry police officer behind the counter asked the man, "What flavor nosecheese would you like with that?" The man replied, "I don't want any bajingas. I am not Seņor Molina! I am a number! Twelve! Twelve! Twelve!"
Q. How many times does the acrobat have to shout "Twelve" before the Burger shoons through the trees?
(hint: 4+6=12)
1+1 4 schoolz. 2+2 4 fops. 4+4 4 fornication.
Daz it!
That's Entertainment, that's entertainment... that's lubrication... whoops, wrong fixture. Hull Brion, I om the Quam. (Please talk to me.)
And this is further shit from the Quam, from last August ('93) and lost until now (Jan '94). Shta!
"Here, you need this," he says as he hands me a copy of T.A.G.C. Meontological Research Recordings. "It is a moral imperative, and," he continues, "it's really neat." I haven't quite figured out if T.A.G.C. is designed to annoy me or really screw me up. Forty Hertz, ten kiloHertz, "LSD"s, "CIA"s, what gives? So I take the compact disc and purchase it. Two weeks later, I finally read the manual that accompanies it. Okay.
Michael Jackson has been shot dead in front of a live studio audience. Where does this leave the mutated music larvae? Lacking a mentor! Physics books have gone up in price this year. Come to think of it, all books have gone up this year. Book shortage. Look shorter. Lech Walesa (trite). Now for the really weird stuff.
He teaches math with authority
He's Dr. Curtis with a PhD
Find the eccentricity
He's Dr. Curtis with a PhD
Calculus from Romulus
Cosine, tangent, sinulus
Sail the River Rhinulus
Dr. Curtis, Mr. Math
Grade them papers, grade the stack
Dr. Curtis, PhD
Graph the function on the MAC
Dr. Curtis, PhD
And now for something completely toasted: a man with a tape measure up his nose. For sale: one over-used Pickle; must have life insurance. (The driver, not the Pickle). Enough talk about donuts, let's go fishing.
UNSCRAMBLE THE HIDDEN MESSAGE
| HIDDEN MESSAGE | ANSWER |
| GAG THE MELONHEAD | GGA EHT LENEAHDOM |
| SIX CONVULSIONS | IXS SNOISVULNCO |
| THE CHEESE IS MELTING | EHT EEESHC SI ELITMNG |
| INDUSTRIAL SPAGHETTI | CARL SAGAN |
..... . . ............ . . .. . ... . .... ..
The BROWN zone is for loading and unloading only. There is no parking in the EROGENOUS zone. (All this and bowling a 64, too!) So I (quam) seem to have created a new tax shelter in the form of a Government agency:
DEPARTMENT OF INDUCED PARANOIA
This is an interesting Government Agency, created for the sole purpose of convincing people they are being watched. Files are created on everyone about everything. Specific portions of these files have been blotted out with large black markers for no apparent reason at all. Portions indicating which hand is used for lifting the fork, how many pairs of socks are in the top drawer, etc... may be striked out with a large pen. Because of the Privacy Awareness Act (huh?), the Government must reveal all documents pertinent to an individual.
The D.I.P. allegedly has millions of agents assigned to watching everybody. In fact, your next door neighbor may be in charge of everyone on your street block. How do you know that we all don't work for the D.I.P.?
Now the part about the tax shelter: The IRS accepts it, because they are convinced the D.I.P. is watching them, too. When querying for information, all they receive are tax forms with large black strike marks. They don't question it. They can't question it. The D.I.P. does not recruit, so don't even think of trying to join. The D.I.P. selects individuals much in the same way as the CIA: kidnap first, then serve the draft papers. All individuals "selected" by the D.I.P. are assimilated (sorry, Borg). Hmmm. I seem to have stepped on my meter... and a Western-Digital VGA card (37).
Peeping, snooping, nosing 'round
Someone's always watching me.
Using everything they've found
Welcome to the D.I.P.
Information, database
Everyone's inside.
Shredded papers, cuffed briefcase
The Government's on your side.
Paranoia is induced
To almost everyone.
Hope your lifespan's not reduced
Hide your only son.
What's Jeff smoking
He really did it this time.
Is he only joking
Or is there truth to this rhyme?
Hmmm. I think the reader is tired of the term Lech Walesa. I am proposing a change to the name: Zontar --- No No No. ...to the name: Les Aspin. He's another government guy, and doesn't offend Independence, Missouri. Neither do black crows or radishes (radishi. radii.) The orange septic tank (not to be confused with Michael the happy Sperm Whale) decided to move to Connecticut, but not before eating the rice. Les Aspin. It has a ring to it. Almost as ringy as Carl Sagan, but there's only Millions and Millions of Les Aspin (versus Billions and Billions - C.S.). Oh heck, they're all donuts. Enough dough talk.
So the key responsibility ("prerequisite" to you Delta people) to writing for the Slosh is that you must be in a really really weird state of mind. The State of Mind is just north of... the State of the Mined - Michigan. Proposed name: State of North Michigan --- No No No. That's more of a State of Bad Football Teams. Grab the reigns, Doris, we're going in. Simple addition: Terri Nun, and carry the one. So what does one do with a 51.415 MHz crystal? There are too many floppy disks in this world; we must develop a smaller hard-drive.
Well, Emu must be really impressed, as the Slosh grows to well over 100 pages. I am convinced that the more one contributes, the larger it gets (and the grodo price gets cheaper for a printed version). In fact, if one can complain as I do, the only gripe I would have is that each new portion is inserted into appropriate parts of the MIDDLE of the Slosh. This way each revision must include the WHOLE document. Keep in mind, that the Slosh is near-approaching double-floppy proportions.
DAY 1: Moved into first cave. Lots of room. Empty room, less the spiders. I hope no-one finds me here. Must be careful about smoky fires during the day. The itching is beginning.
DAY 5: Ran out of Hydrocortisone cream. Scratching. Must not think about it. Hung a new grass tapestry near the cave door. Changed the leaves in the bed.
DAY 10: More than one week ago, I shunned society and instead founded my own culture. Starting to have second thoughts, but must not think that way. The bugs seem to be getting larger and more profuse - Darn that itching!
DAY 14: Finally two weeks. They say that if you can stay for two weeks, you can stay a lifetime. But I'm so bored that I bite my nails down to their roots. It's harder to scratch.
DAY 26: The itching has turned to burning, and specific zones are red as radishi. Mixing water with wild goat milk to form a synthetic HydroQuartOfMilk (generic Hydrocortizone).
DAY 44: Tweezers would sure come in handy. Blaming everything on the goat. The rabbit died this morning.
DAY 48: Tried to use this journal for advertising, but can't find enough Lumberjacks to make it profitable. Favorite tree was cut down by Brian the Lumberjack by mistake. (The tree was cut down by mistake, not he was a Lumberjack by mistake.) The bugs are receding along with my hair for the winter.
DAY 55: Even the journal is becoming too boring. I feel sorry for the future readers of this non-inspirational literary work. Must either run out of paper or die soon.
DAY 58: Losst mi dekshunary. Penn iz out uf in-
DAY 59: Found the dictionary - the goat took it. (See DAY 44)
DAY 60: Evicted from the cave. Moving back to Denver. The bugs can't wait.
The following sentence has been typewritten in a special secret font approved for use by the Department of Induced Paranoia:
and six British game hen. In fact, they tend to harmlessly play badminton until at least the fourth episode. Reruns, reruns, reruns.
The point being that I say I'm always wrong, but she says that's right? Oxymoron anybody? (Digger wrote that, not Quam) Likewise, if I say I always lie, that may be a lie in itself? (Get a modem, I'll find it).
Yes, it's true! The 19th Annual Turnip Parade will be held this Sunday, at noon sharp. Thousands of turnips from around the globe are expected to participate in the 3-hour display of vegetables. According to Pilgrim P. Noodlebert, Parade supervisor, this weekend's exhibition is "very turnippy indeed". But it's not all fun and smiles with this Sunday's event. Also entering the Parade will be a platoon of Veteran Turnips, injured during the War. It will be a celebration of joy, but also a moment of rememberence, as turnip lovers everywhere give thanks to the Turnips of America.
So, here we are. It is now later (with not quite so much rat in it). Emu has moved to Mom's, and evidently, my brother seems to be moving! I must apologize ('apologise' for you British types) for not contacting anybody within the last few days, but I seem to have contracted a rare South American disease called Laryngitis. Since I can't talk, I can't answer the phone. Well, I could, but the caller would only hear "whoor whoor whumm braaaach!" Not too exciting. I seem to have just enough voice to keep my D.J. life alive. I have missed 4 days of school, and I'm falling behind in Calculus. Calaculusitis -- inflamation of the Calaculus. It seems that I write these little tidbits at night. This is all too much like a Doogie Howser episode.
So where is Locke 407, anyway? The Delta Registration Booklet Thingee lists Locke 406 as being the office of Jane (K.) Dominik. So Emu says that I (Quam) should just show up and knock and say "I am the Quam" or "So how's the Slosh" or "turnip" or something. Since I do not know this individual at all, I would rather presume to introduce myself in a more Quamtypical manner: show up wearing a black suit, mirrored sunglasses, an earphone in the left ear; holding an aluminum briefcase handcuffed to my left hand; knocking; entering the office; plopping the briefcase on the desk; saying nothing as I open the briefcase; handing JKD an unlabled floppy-disk from the briefcase; jibbering some code word; and disappearing thereafter. Yeah, yeah, more Cloak and Dagger junk. And I don't even know if she's that cute!
So I've figured out how to deal with Lawsen Lew: when he approaches you and begs to interrupt you with some asinine trivial comment, just keep him busy. Stop him mid-sentence, and say "Lawsen, I need a 37.5 ohm resistor. Go get me one from the back room, okay? I need one for my hovercraft, which I will show you as soon as you return." This will keep him involved for about 10 minutes, whence he will return with a potentiometer adjusted for 37.5 ohms. Then you must tell him "No, Lawsen, I need an accurate 37.5 ohm resistor. They're back there. They have 6 color-coded stripes on them with 1% tolerance."
So now I've been trying to think of some new type of mini-sequel-serial- novel to write. The Adventures of Lash Hotflash seemed too repetitive (not to mention that it was tending to sound a lot like SPOOR HEROES). So it's time to start anew again. I'm thinking... Missing Persons just isn't releasing my creativity. Maybe I should try TAGC...
MALCOMB THE PARAPALYGIC INVALID - rejected because there weren't very many plots which could be created from inside a bedroom.
THE WORLD OF CEMETARY MANAGEMENT ACCORDING TO DENNIS SCHLESINGER - title too long.
BIZARE ACCOUNTS OF DISAPPEARING DENTISTS - nobody cares about the outcomes.
THE ADVENTURES OF IDENTICAL-TWIN MAN - too hard to find stunt triplets.
TINY TIM IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY - Dicken's Tiny Tim returns to life in 1995. His polio has been cured, and he begins to lead a normal life at age 7. Tim is then just called "Tim" and is rendered useless by the modern literary world. He is then killed and buried again.
THE WITCHDOCTOR FILES
Okay, we have a title now. Now to develop the overview. Here's a witchdoctor, taken fresh out of the Sudan, thrust into modern day Topeka, Kansas. He isn't accepted very well by the residents, but cures the mayor's daughter of a beguiling athlete's foot fungus. He is given an honorary M.D. Practice and solves crimes. Michael Dorn guest stars as Makali, the tribal chief. Musical guest star Lynard Skynard performs in Sudan to convince Dorn to release the magical princess from captivity. Towards the end of the plot, Dorn is killed off, as is Ricardo Montauban and Hollywood Squares host, John Davidson. Bill Shatner's hair does a Cameo and saves the witchdoctor from being killed. The witchdoctor now solves crimes in the Sudanese jungle.
THE PINBALL CRUSADERS OF LUNAC VII
Well, it's a title, anyway.
And what you give is what you get... that will be a start. WYGIWYG (wiggy- wig) saying something about Majel Barrett. Or the Jam... Paul Weller was it or was that my English teacher no that was Gary Weller-san who say Work Steadily And EARN Your A... having earned my B I guess I worked with some hesitation or at least some lack of regularity perhaps I need educational ex-lax. Castor oil, Sam's Choice, etc.
I'd been Witnessed before, but only by psychos on my doorstep. Perry Mason never calls me on the phone. And now Raymond Burr is dead... only ever lost one case, proposed to his secretary five times... not a bad deal. We'll miss you both, Raymond and Perry.
However, with a five dollar bill clinging loosely to my genitals there was nothing for it but a complete slappendectomy, wherein all aspects of slapstick coomedy are exised from the body and replaced with small bits of Leonardini da Vinco's left arm. A little-known female cousin of Leonardo da Vinci, the other LDV was in fact a victim of the even lesser-known disease called triplo-schitzo-dye-your-red-hair-blonde-emia, as discussed somewhere else in this document.
The crotch-pack now comes in a number of flavors... as can bolt on the head, like the venerable RatSnack headlight, different from the headlice that so many of its constituents seem to have. Or as can attach to your feet and flail as you do... spazz and jazz, just for the hell of it.
I know, we'll put horns on our helmets, and call ourselves Vikings. And we'll get a skinny boat, and put points on both ends, that'll work REALLY well, yeah! (Thank Mike... but a REAL man would just piss on it and keep going.)
I mean how many of you ever dated an apple... without the cucumber it just never seems to work. Sexually, as a man, what are you most afraid of? CUCUMBER MAN is a REAL MAN's worst nightmare. Shta.
So what's the point of fleeping the green trash, whacking the toad fish, flushing the hightech battery storage unit, keying the keyed keyboard; when the machine recognitive cycle is out to dry who is to say when the termination will be; for the end of the interpreter as we know it nigh; predictibility is relative for kimonosecs, the study of Nipponese dress modes. Tough harsh highly competetive world where today's Fromkin is tomorrow's pumpkin, which is different from pup-kin, the brother of a baby dog, or sister we must not be politically, racially or otherwise incorrect. I'm sure you've had them before. You decide. Points are the end-all to human existence... what's a card?
And what's a blonde and why do they want to put the (e.g.) water (fill-in: turnip, question, hairspray) there? (Fill in: Those goddam Romans, you Mr Zeller, AOL Customer Services, Mr Enos, OBE.)
Vex your own felt needs I have my velvet Elvis... cut-rate word definitions: research=to look again (re-search).
However more important I think are the paper penguins, pernicious in their pornogrpahy, prying with their peddling popsticks, perambulatory processed pygmalion. Or the quadratic quintessential quasimodo quackeroos. Or the rabid rambunctious rutabagas. Or whatever weird whacky weedeater way-out wascally wabbit images come to mind.
Careful where you put that thing, Seņor Molino: I have no bazingas.
I cannot remember who I am, I cannot remember where I am. I cannot remember when it is, I cannot remember where I was, when I remembered.
(Good, Garth, that was a haiku.)
The rutabaga has slid, the angle has collapsed, the whole world has gone obtuse, leaving (not Lee Ving) me in a swirl of uncertainty, unerring unknownness, all due to one thing and the search for it, and the love of it, and anything else besides.
ODE TO SCHOOL
So here I sit
Taking my daily shit
For an hour a day
With no bloody pay
From the teacher I take
Notes of on what he spake
And try to remember best
All this shit, on the day of the test
It's a cold day in hell that Laughlin doesn't laugh, Gyermek doesn't say Vell Good Mornink Ladiez ant Jentlement, and Buckley doesn't complain about something.
God I want her, I can feel it stirring in my shorts. Either that, or somebody forgot to put the chinchilla back last night. Oh shit!
Search for the bomb shelter. I suspect not, my good man. Those lights are off for a reason, with good intent and of sound body and mind, I undertake this most awesome of undertakings, as undertaker for the undertakee, I truly. Brigadier General Left Nut Presiding OBE, Miss.
I'm sorry, I have a col. That is not an emotionally happy vehicle. Give up man, it's parked forever. In a continual state of being on track 00, kinda like sector 0-0-1 or more like 7-Zark-7 or 867-5309 Jenny. Having never called her I only suppose that's her number. Emu!
ODE TO WOMAN / ODE TO JOY
For a day without stress
Over the shape and content of her dress
I would give all I've had
'Twould be good and not bad
For the shape that I'm in
She has only a grin
And the cause of it all
Is my need for a ball
Or perhaps just a lifelong, platonic friendship.
Cough/bullshit! bullshit!
Wanted, one new or slightly used bomb shelter. As used in hospitals. Will pay top dollar for one with woman-denigratory posters, built-in prawn-O- vidz, or other method of avoiding contact with the female persuasion for long periods of time.
The sea-going buffalo is much different than the dugong, an aquatic version of baseball's dugout [START AGAIN..]
The logician behind all this is unseen to me [START AGAIN..]
What's with this water buffalo shit anyway? I have waxed the vexed tadpole and all that happened was I made a mess. A big phuckin sticky wet and irate tadpole mess. Jolly Green Giants, Shitty Beetles ("So it's not just a clever name!"), Crucial Taunt, and Irate Tadpole Mess. This means something - this is important.
WARNING: THE SURFING FUNERAL HAS DETERMINED THAT THERE ARE TOO MANY WARNINGS IN THIS DOCUMENT AND THAT APPROPRIATE ACTION MUST BE TAKEN AGAINST THEM [start again..]
Anybody remember the Meatmen's SUCK trilogy, a la Crippled Children Suck, French People Suck, and Camel Jockeys Suck? Part 4 of 3, the SUCK trilogy:
MAC PEOPLE SUCK
Mac people suck
I just gotta say
Pushing System TWELVE into my face
Hating DOS systems too much
Those mouse-driven nuts
They can take their icons and
Shove them straight up their butts
Last time I used a Mac
Got bitten by the floppy
That wouldn't eject
Gonna kill all these fuckers
With their stinkin' mouse ball
Those freakin Mac systems
Be the death of us all
Mac people suck...
Okay, so it ins't creative but with all the stress in my life over women at this time creativity is the last thing on my mind.
And how do you explain this to mother?
So with that in mind, or without, thank you George Harrison, must you grease the wax tadpole, vexed or otherwise, first? Picked the wrong class, did we? Remember whether today is MondayWednesdayFriday or TuesdayThursday, to us Delta students MWF or TTh. And you thought C was bad. (Pronounced, "C".)
Or was that sex the wax tadpole or have I seen too many bumper stickers. Great advice, bud. Next time watch out for the tadpole.
What is the red spot outside your car door? Strawberries? No, I've been pouring my heart out.
Why think when you can coagulate? Why AT&T when you just puke?
These and other deep intellectual queries answered next week on
DORKS R US (1-900-NERD-SEX). Blargh.
The common yak, or ant-shooter, often sits at the top of trees, having flown there on its giant wings. It does this because its favorite food, lawyers, are often to be found in the middle of trees, arguing about anything at all; and there the common yak or ant-shooter may eat to its heart's content.
Almost like monkeys in a barrel, only lawyers in a barrel. And there's no barrel.
The common fish, or bull-shooter, often sits at the bottom of the trees, having fallen there off the common yak. (Ant-shooters generally carry with them a bevy of of bull-shooters on their backs.) The fish does this because its favorite food, pieces of lawyers that fall out of the mouths of yaks, can be found there; and the common fish or bull-shooter may shoot to its heart's content.
Is that a PowerBook? No, it's a powerjoke. A lack of power actually, ininclusive of the battery. I wish I could say something funny. And something other than "Campbell, you make me LAUGH!" Actually, I've said a number of things other than that and it doesn't seem to have done me any good. Women! Aargh - pass the beer nuts.
No more married ones, ones about to be married, Anna Nicole Smith lookalikes, whatever. (Women, not beer nuts. Married beer nuts are fine.)
Frap trimmer. Electrical frap trimmer. Debased electrical frap trimmer.
It's a new month and a new mentality for us all here at The Slosh, though of course you probably won't notice because it probably isn't a new month for you. Enough, therefore, with the propensities and dispensities with the formalities. To business! (...I thought that was a toast...)
** In fact it's a new year and a new place, a new face and a dirty trace. Somebody clean that scope screen! Who pushed the trigger control? Neeeeigh. Tankubuckleeesan. Different from (<>) tancu. Ucnat, ucnat, blugley. MIDI shmidi, titty fritty, oh crap I give up.
This early in the morning the Jamaican cicadas were not whistling their "tweedle mon let's smoke this morning mon" song; even the Persian crickets were quiet: nary a "Do you require a spoonstraw with your Slurpie?" to be heard. (START AGAIN) They better photocopy something. You notice they aren't worried when they can't take credit cards, but when the photocopier goes down the indians go crazy. Must find a supervisor!
Information is no longer what it used to be. This information booth is out of order, and belongs two up in the queue instead. Perhaps the Persian cricket, not to be confused with the Jerusalem cricket which actually exists, is at fault here. (START AGAIN)
Ho ya, she's got it. Her private life was a publicist's dream. Jay-jay-jayn- jayn-Jayne Mansfield. My F1-11's gonna shoot shoot it up... four times. What a love missile. (START AGAIN)
My fortune cookie told me to avoid the man with the tie and the laptop, and opt instead for the man with the blue gun. Or was that glue gun? Glue bun? The common cormorant, or bean bag. (START AGAIN)
Vex your own fuckin tadpole... mine's pissed enough already. As I suspect I am, and am generating so much shit (Slosh Hiding In Trees) that I may be forced to (gasp!) EDIT it before it actually goes into that most hyenas of all documentaries of documents, The Slarsh. (START AGAIN)
Strat again, start your Ford upon Avon, Mary Kay pink Cadillac. With the bass, and the trout, in the back. Boom boop Betty. Da diddly qua qua. It is a need feel that needs me must to do this, this WS (Weird Shit) on a craptop Tnady Eleven... the Twelve is out of service. Please try your ball again later. Wraning, Rawing, awning. Alnies reproaching, Eileens poaching, daughter boarding. And a fine daughter she is, sir, with smooth soft breasts so squeezable and huggable and really hot in bed and oh! DEV-O: A Change Is Gonna Cum [sic]. Yes sir, off to the force-feed mines of Upper Sandusky Ohio, Hammer Lane.
Christ what an it is that it is, such as can be and of course wouldn't. Chisel, chris, schism, gism (an ancient and well worn classical hand tool joke for jism) and trism. BUTTERBEANS!
Creamy is the word I was looking for, creamy. And any more I cannot know, that which I do know I must forget, in order to go on at all, to survive, not to explode from within with a force more strong than that from without. Thank you George Harrison, sitars please!
...There's no choice / I can't hear your helpless voice...
...Pack up and drive away away / Pack up and drive away...
Which all adds up to what, an art student? I think not, greenboxing or otherwise, that frogs must stay where they are, and the slimy things underneath there too, as opposed (or oop-spooed) to thereto. 47% of all people make up slightly less than half the population. Da diddly froop froop. The use of slides increases with the use of slides.
Statistically speaking, the percentage of people doing any given thing at any given time varies with the number of people actually engaged in the act, thinking about doing it but putting it off until next week, or saying how dreadful it is while wishing they were doing it, but can't because it's so messy. Unless that activity is statistics itself; in which case nothing about it can be predicted statistically, as this particular variety of numbers game is not recursive.
But could be incursive or at least in cursive. Except of course for the fact that it is printed on an HPLJ+. I hear the Egyptians have a SphynxJet now... (You're in the land of the little people now) Dink dink dink dink dink dinkjet... Manhanttan Island was bought from the local American Savings office for some blankets and a handful of trinkjets. Every man needs something to believe in - I believe I'll have another drinkjet. (START AGAIN: That joke stands a whelkjet's chance in a supernova.)
Pagers are like paragraphers (only larger) which are like sentencers (only larger) which are like worders (only larger) which are like letterers (only larger) which aren't like any other kind of shit at all. This Shit = The Slosh. Slosh-at-large (and fuck howdy is it EVER large as of late) editor and shouter Dr Emu says, "Buy Me Grodo."
Do not touch the felt crotch... felt though it may have been, it wasn't, formal wedding gear and all. Which is like a landing gear or an entrance belt, or an exit exam. Leave In Silence thank you David Gahan does that sound right any DM people out there?) Yep this thing is cathartic for me, gets it all off my tit so I don't go out and kill anybody.
At the end of an otherwise blank page lies the inscription: "Because there's nothing left to say." Is there now.
Left what. Off came the lid... pack up and drive away away, pack up and RUN AWAY. From what to what because of what for why mon. Dammit it's those Rastafarian cicadas again, different from their PWEI cousions the Rasta Cicciolinas, etc. Wax the vexed CD player.
And who will have won / when the soldiers have gone...
Which of course is all meaningless... camcorder bastards are tweedling.
EOT = End Of Topic. I am afraid that I will end up (no!) EDITING (aargh!) this most sloshostrious of documents (I'm sorry!) because of the extraordinarily high content of personal bitching contained herein. Especially in this particular subset, SL1093A.EMU, there are many emu- feeling-sorry-for-selfs and emu-complaining-about-his-love-life-or-lack- thereofs, for the most part with little or no provocation.
PROVOCATION = Vacation in Provo, Utah. Provo-cation. Get it?
So a new page and a new ideal, but the same girl and a strengthened sense of morals (and yes! I do have some thank you Mr. Sicko) Fuck! I thought I was done. Perhaps I am yet not.
Shall see we deed in, eh. I'm not into this worm shit.
No girl, new computer, different email address, rat's butt.
Your Czech's came in the mail today. The Rumanians are due tomorrow and your term Lithuanian is to be turned in next week. (START AGAIN)
With knockers like that who needs doors? (START AGAIN)
Esta noche grodo coche; esperanto no muy pronto. Global thermonuclear attack provo termo papyro fifty foot womano.
Today on "Face The Bazingas" Seņor Molino will demonstrate the ancient and accepted art of having none. Next week Seņor Molino Jr will demonstrate the fact that his father has no life, as well as no bazingas.
So further outbursts on your part will not be tolerated... consciousness slides from me as an alien slips out of one's stomach. Whatever.
Zippity doodad, Z-PDA
Zoomer beats Newton
Hands down every day
Zippity doodad, America Online
Palmtop Computing
Idiots with no spine
Zippity doodad, reads my name
Made by Casio
Tandy takes the blame
Miller: "So what NEW PRODUCT do we have?" Emu: "An electronic bat's dick?" Just a thought. #25-3100, TSP99YR3 the handwriting recognition whizbang gizmo, the Tandy Zoomer. Fuck that George.
Q. How many PDA's does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A. FARM.
Of course the electronic bat's dick sells next to the vibrating kong, in 63- series personal electronics.
Cheesemongers. No longer can I yearn to answer the phone THANK YOU FOR CALLING RADIO SHACK HOME OF THE ELECTRONIC DILDO, because it is now.
Amphitheatre is to theater as Amphlette is to flechette.
Fletch-ettes? His personal cheerleading squadron? Hmm. Methunk the world a bit apart now, for that should not be such as it is. And fat women are scary. This has nothing to do with Mr Scholarly Education himself but the isuzu with the obscenely orange-peeled bitch that just parked next to me. Why am I mentioning this? Just as a warning for ugly Isuzu owners... I'll let you sort that one out.
So I open my mouth and a long string of disgusting stuff comes out - either I have a cold and I coughed a good phlegm-string, or I'm Rush Limbaugh. Hmm.
Today has been brought to you by the fact that I don't want to be here.
Tits and ass and greens, haha.
T&A General Corporation, Meteorogical Presearch. Teste tonnes.
Whatever happened to Leonardo Guzman? He sold out to Seņor Molino, yes Mr Feel-File-Felt-Found, MolinO. Which is different than his scandanavian cousin Molin0. He no longer has any bazingas, which are bazing0s in the binary tongue. Kinda like a snake with two dix only different. Esta noche boomhead posse.
So anyway, we reoobt the warm shoe and press Kim Cattrall-Alternative Rock- Delirium and then waht? Tissues, cold ones at that. Newton Next Nguyen. Apple Computer's next turnip, the EggRoll? I think not.
Who said beeping English Nintendo Tricorders? Why it's RatSnack Jerry, RatPunt recycle, oh no, it's WAITSTATEMAN!! Aargh, the scourge of microprocessor-memory interfaces everywhere. Babes though man, babes. Them lights is off on purpose.
Goddam a page a day keeps the Doctor insane... emu, that is. Data interface? With tits like that, why not? Who needs legalities? Legal litties, Illegal titties, alas poor Erick that girl was underage. Which is different from underarm, rockets comma. Leonard Part Six and Bill Cosby riding an ostrich.
Yep, it's Thursday, here and in Hawaii. Are you SURE we couldn't fit the whole damn thing on a 720K froppie? It might be good for you - it might be bad for you - but it almost certainly would do SOMETHING for you!
The only question being then when do we get a damn cursor? Curser, cursee, cursive, curative, cure-all, quiramos.
And then we have the CDROM's. DoubleSpeed, DoubleSpace, SpeedSpace and DoubleDouble. 686 million bytes of pornos. Pretty amazing actually, that much sleaze in such a small package so cheap. Then of course there is the question of Asian Girls Volume Twelve... but nemmind. DoubleGirls, twelve tits, instructive videos free with every purchase, punt the bruised water buffaloid.
Gnobs, gnuz, Leonardo Guzman. Oobt, reoot, where no man has oobted. Gnoobted, perhaps, but not oobted. Twist the gnob to the right, the snob to the left, the gnostril to the gnostic, the caustic to the cauldron.
Poppies, oh poppies; Poppies, oh poppies
Poppies, oh poppies; Get them the fuck outta here.
More interesting than the all-too-oft-discussed water buffalo is its less- known and much-less-oft-discussed cousin, the sky buffalo.
All I see is southwest buttons!
Mane[lion] void[sale|refund];
My apologies to the K&R folk. Ausgang. With the advent of the laptop in
public societies, the use of the Froop grammatical construct must be
discussed in further detail. Why this is is entirely unsure at this time but
it must be discussed because these things must be discussed. I've never
wanted to be able to touch type so badly before in my life. The targeting
computer is all excited now what you gonna do?
four(three; two; one+-)
{Whup-san a whup-san}
{Jan jan jammerin}
{Yabba yabba ding ding}
{Delta hey max nine}
dandy(lion());
...available TRES calls and reinterrupt... It's not a hickey, it 's a sunburn. I'm a roving researcher for The Hitch-hiker's Guide To The Slosh, a document largely based on hearsay, fiction and bullshit. Or is that bullshti. How come nobody ever says "cowseye!"?
Indo european Endo terranean Into 57h (reoobt)
Some tips on how to give away your sarong (and Why The Slosh)
TS is generally my saying that this is not my sarong. Whose sarong it is is uncertain but it is not mine. "Hey, home-parking-permit, do you want this sarong?" "Yo, fuck off, mother." Such are the joys of life here at Delta.
"What a crock of shit"
Recently there has been a rash of complaints about the quality of the additions to this document, The Slosh. In retrospect, however, since the complainees were either those denigrated herein, or were merely disgruntled ex-customers of the local RatSnack, their opinions can largely be discounted (as can many RatSnack products!) Nevertheless, we here at TS Central feel compelled to respond.
Flah hjoppfly flah schnoozly flah booger booger burp. We regurge, she pregurge, he tree-gorge, they reoobt. Verily we walk along the path of no end, no purpose, and no dolphins either thank you (squeeze of lemming appreciated though EEEK!)
Brightness is overrated. Ask a 150W light bulb. Corollary to What's so unpleasant about being drunk? Ask a glass of water.
Michael "I AM NOT A MERRY MAN" Dorn says, buy this toothpaste or I'll beat the shit out of you. Klingon advertisements for things other than klaacnth (worm stuff).
So anyway, we are on our way to the great electronix place in the sky, Mike Quinn E, and the radar buffalo reports a sky warning in the storm. With a step to the left and a flick to the right, we were on a beach with space guitars and Strom Thurmond. And then Simon Le Bon Bon comes out of my trunk and shouts IS THERE ANYBODY OUT THERE and thousands of screaming teenage girls throw their undergarments at him.
Or nothing at all, at all. We don't need this TandyGrooveThang (apologies BEF/H17.) So much (too much?) for dynamic range from a turntable. Coffee from McDonald's? Vomit intrigue. Party hats and favors, unintentional verbs, colorized HDTV, aspect ratio all wrong "eject eject". What could go wrong? A capacitor: TransisTOR, resisTOR, transforMOR, capacitaTOR. Thank you Quam. The beeg fleeged Quamly. Why wipe up when you can just Quam. TooPrefect (from WordPrefect Corp) is hyperkineticism. Which is like hyper cynicism or any other hyper ism (I HAVE SAID THIS BEFORE.)
Reassurance stems from repetition. Assurance stems from petition. What?
...Why is it that tacos get soft, and soft tacos are no longer soft? This means something. Perhaps it is some sort of sign, that tacos, like love, need extra work and care that next morning. Or perhaps it is merely a sign that fast food must be eaten shortly after it is made and not much later.
Perhaps. One ping only please Vasili.
Feets too big bras too small. Life is arguable. What's it like flunking a linguistics class, sort of like tossing a coin down a well of veritable lack of despair. Oh! I'll send an SOS to the world... message in a pothole.
Three cheers to the blue skinned beast, hip hip, to the blue skinned beast hip hip. HP2686A is different. Nana Visitor is a weird name, but then again so is Armin Shimmerman or Renee Auber-dingle-shmingle or whatever. Star Trek Delta Hey Max Nine...
And what a day for me not to wear my underwires. Or Birkenstocks! Could perhaps they be combined? Perhaps. Death by frap. No, Frau Mueller, you may not eat that. It would be bad. Frau Mueller, how many times have I told you not to eat that? Frau Mueller! Stop that!
Limits on everything and it ain't even the formal definition of calculus. Who said submachine gun? Aargh. Wipe stripe tripe snipe hype.
And the tree bone is connected to the FAT bone is connected to the partition table is conected to the media descriptor byte is connected to the... regurge! regurge! Since 'C' functions can be recursive, I am considering developing an interface language wherein functions can be either precursive (calling themselves BEFORE they are defined -- see EXAMPLE 1; or regurgatory (ejecting themselevs from memory -- see EXAMPLE 2.)
/* Example 2: Regurgatory code */
/* Example 1: precursive code */
That's all folks.
#include <everything.h>
prototype main();
alpha main();
beta main();
release main();
main()
{
int i;
i = refrag(0xBEEF);
refrag(i);
}
#include <nothing.h>
pornotype main();
main()
{
writeblk( int i; for (i=i; i<i; i>i) i==i=i;, stdin, stdout,
stdthru);
}
The parties thus involved were very green, very green indeed.
Still, never mind, for the twelve that were, were, and would be. Always would be, incontrovertibly, forever.
NEWSFLASH:
TRES 8.32, the newest operating system from industry giant Macrosloth, includes the following improvements over their previous releases:
LOMEM.SYS High memory mismanagement tool
XMM8088.EXE XMS emulator for XT's
MEMTAKER.EXE Conventional memory mismanagement tool
DUMBDRV.EXE Hard disk catching utility
HALFSPC.SYS Hard disk expansion utility
SLOWCLOSE.COM Directory mismanagement tool
It also offers the Graphical Optimised Optical Environment Yesterday (GOOEY) called DOORS. And it support SFN (short file names, like FRED or 127) on SKiNnY14, the StupidKickassNoacronymYankinthe14 file system.
So where's the RUN/STOP RESTORE on this thing?
4770 print "Hello, Frau Muehler. You are very hungry today. No?"
What's the frequency, Kenneth?..
4771 print "We can't eat the Prime Minister, Seņor Rodriguez."
4772 print "I won't if you won't."
run
?syntax error in 65536
ready.
4773 open 15,8,15,"S8:ha ha ha,2A"
1 rem *** start ***
65535 end: rem *** end ***
As you've probably guessed by now, my contribution (I, the Quam) has been dedicated to the Humpback Whale. The Humpback Whale has large webbed feet which it uses to climb tropical species of the eucalyptus tree. With it's large powerful beak, it can maul the largest rodent and swallow it whole. The Humpback Whale dines on various species of insects as well as rodents. During the eighteenth century, grain farmers would release a few Whales into their fields, as they devoured hoards of locusts. Provided they have been "paper trained" at an early age, Humpback Whales make excellent pets; they bond well with children.
T F - The North Atlantic Humpback Whale has a large beak which it uses to climb tropical eucalyptus trees.
T F - Planets revolve around stars until they are demolished by Vogon freeway developers.
T F - The ordinary happy honey bee has been known to piss off anything that swats it.
Q. When fish die, they go:
Scoring is optional, as most applicants cannot finish this exam in the allotted time period. However, any wrong answers constitute death. (Game show hosts excluded.)
Well, summer vacation is upon us, and I am not sure if I should start a new mini-novel. I could just jibber continuously, but that wouldn't be very nice, now, would it? These last two lines, so far, have not needed justification (however, the last one did). What does this mean? Who cares? Rudy was a vegetarian. He wasn't born that way; he just seemed to hate meat. One day... (start again!)
Pets. Everyone loves 'em: dogs, cats.
goldfish, prunes, pigeons. But unfortunately, these "best friends" are too often ignored. Man (not man as in sexist male, but mankind in general) has responsibilities, and sometimes forgets that these cuddly cute objects of companionship need attention. He (sexist statement) leaves for work, returning a half-day later. What are these animals to do? Little does the man (nobody in particular) know that these small cuddly Richard-Gere-like bundles of fur are plotting against him. It was somewhere south of Pleasanton that one particular group of neighborhood neglectees decided to do something about it.
"All right! Settle down!" The hedgehog seemed to be facilitating what appeared to be a bad CBS Sunday Night Movie of "Animal Farm". "I know you're probably wondering why I called you all here." A tremelo of voices soon settled down to a low murmer. "We are all pets of the neighborhood, and some of us have proposed that we need to do something."
"About what?" The question came from a pigeon on the sill of the backyard window.
Of course, without his woman no megahero would be complete. And though Dicksplash was certainly not a megahero (girls always told him size didn't matter, and then snickered - go figure!) -- he, too, was incomplete without his Olivia Wendell Neuter-Jodhpurs. Shortly after the priest ralfed a turnip, after trying to read her name without laughing some seventy-nine times, she died at the altar; perhaps then you will understand why I hesitate to mention her again -- and why Dicksplash couldn't stand soggy tacos (then again, perhaps not. It makes no difference.)
This week Dicksplash -- Fred to his friends -- was rebuilding his warp drive (not the wrap drive which he rebuilt last week.) He was tired of toting a net behind his spacescooter to catch "the parts falling off this spacecraft are of the finest Braunschweiger manufacture" bumperstickers as they melted off his engines' cooling ducts. And he was happy, sitting there on his floor inamongst a pile of flanton injector pieces scattered around his feet as he swore unspeakable swearings about the treegzbuster (Mark II!) he had on the bench in front of him.
Having been surgically excised from the planet of Christine Applegate clones, Trash went on to inhabit the planet of Kelly LeBrock lookalikes. "So, what would you little maniacs like to do fuhst?"
Smash! Kick! Thwack! Automatic gunfire. Oh shit! We're in orbit around the planet of Steven Seagal imitators.
This would be the difficulty - but then what would you expect when they're married... of course their clones' planets would be a binary system.
I am the taco. Different from being Taco, or Burrito, or Sauce.
Damn! You're right -- this is a lousy story. Whaddya expect from The Slosh, though, great literature? (A pun comes to mind about cliterature but I won't use it.)
Pull the other leg. And the other. And the other. Gang bang squffle. Pride, drugs, piss. What's behind dick #1? My hamster's better hung than that! TESLA COIL ENVY / SODOMIZE LAGAMORPH (squeal!) Waiter, there's a sneeze in my... interracial butthead. Serial parallel. Handshaking Virpatory digital orgasm. Android deep spider throte. I have exploded and turned into a chicken - you could watch. Prunes? Triffids? Blood skill. LED's melt on your penis not your Kellie LeBrock not McGillis. This from on-or-about June 1991, a Slosh which was WRITTEN ON but never TYPED INTO A COMPUTER 'cuz they (me included) DIDN'T FOLLOW INSTRUCTIONS!!!
The function of this wildebeest is:
Noting that such radiation is either lethal (if you commonly drink yak milk) or just a slight tickle (if you have had surgical implants), please be sure to accurately crease the camel prior to insertion.
Which is different from GREASING the camel prior to insertion. Never mind, the end result is always the same: Thirty-seven, VGA Graphics Version.
Which is not why he is screaming GWEEVB GWEEVB
(In reference to connecting a Wyse-60 terminal to the COM port of a PC)
"It's like having a modem and a door [program for DOS], only there's no modem, and no door."
I am turnip. Turnip am I.
1.
What is the next symbol in this sequence: O ! X ...
Morality of fruit juice. Or was that freight train? Actually we see the need felt, vex the paper squirtgun, grate the functional cheese, rebore the flawed geek~toad, schnitzel at the whatsit, frapsit at the fucksit.
The freight train is promulgate purgation, in a fear of God, and well nigh on pity of fear that the gods turn us into what we are, yea verily though that be what it be. Cleansing is not that the refarbs the blart-wart, no, but retracts the edge that we may dismay the royal weeblies now.
I like summer. I said this several math classes ago. It's white. White cotton, whit explodoSpandex, white flesh poking out thru skimpy clothings... women's bodies flower where they were not known to be growing. I like summer.
That and these tank tops what are not sunroofs. MAN the things you can see. Thin tight restrictive clothing... my life as a bra strap.
I like airconditioning. She doesn't - it makes the weather INSIDE all nipply, but damn. What a set. Shorts like tha ainb't legal, but _I_ won't send her home. Take, maybe, but not send.
Quam: I DON'T CARE I DON'T CARE I DON'T CARE I DON'T CARE
I will take almost anything and put it into the Slosh. I am, after all, editor. Little else will be said and much was removed.
Not to seem too fuckin commercial about it all... but people ask questions that that lot should or at least might answer. Besides, something free is worth what you pay for it... something that costs money or monet or grodo (yitch!) must be good. Rampant American consumerism at its best. And The Story costs more (though it is bound copies they are selling... perhaps we should bind the Slosh -- or at least bond it. Bandaid? Bond-age 007? Never mind.) Bind. Consume. Integrate.
I think that covers the zoo-keeping aspects of The Slosh so anyway. But I said that already. In fact, almost all of The Slosh has been said before but never all in the same place (except older revisions of The Slosh. Sha!)
"I'd rather spend a weekend with Orville Redenbacher and his cool grandsons
than have to (speed)read this thing [the Slosh]!"
-- Lady Marian (etc etc we'll see that all later) (BTB STS)
Installation is the reverse of removal. Except for Rainbow Girls... whence installation is the reverse of reception. TV reception? Mexicans are in my phones! Aargh!
Which would make me say many things that I cannot. Merely I state that I have never been so hard, so heartbroken, even for Lucky Lucy. That was originally, as not seen here, aaaaaagh!
Since I am the perennial editor and snide comment-maker (camel wafer? buttock taker? orgasm faker?), I cannot promise that your additions will survive intact or indeed make it in any form into this document. It may take me several revisions before I remember to add your stuff. I often lose them. But try me - the longer this thing gets the less I have to do with it. Although now that it's allegedly popular I try to claim I did it all. I didn't, but I still am caretaker of a bizarre beast. Possibly the only thing in this universe stupider AND stranger than the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Thank you for your support. Some pieces of other things have absolutely nothing to do with Terri Nunn but at least she's kinda cute. I think anyway- I haven't seen her recently. Actually I have 'cuz she's got a new album Moment of Truth which be truly meaningful shti of some variety but has DESIRE ME on it which is good music to fuck to. TMBA my butt. Net result of all of that is that she wears funny clothes and too much makeup (I have this on authority from someone else I won't tell you who haha) but anyway... she has been seen. Hey ho. 'Course, the oftmentioned-but-just-in- passing-sorta (WME) young lady (TBTTEHTM) is eminently more beautiful, sexy and in her own odd little way, the woman I hope to spend more life with than money on. Lifestyles of the coupon-hungry and terminally cheap. Have I said before indeed. Christ, Emu, shuddafuckup, she's only a woman. But a happy neverthemore. Aargh hit on THE WALL | THE PENIS | THE CAR | THE RICK OCASEK CLONES | SOMEBODY | S | F | R | E | N | Z
ODE TO WHAT I THINK WHEN I THINK AND OF COURSE THE SMALL PIECE OF PURPLE PUTTY I HAVEN'T YET FOUND UNDER MY ARMPIT ONE MIDSUMMER AFTERMORNIGHT - AND WHAT STEVE THINKS WHEN HE DOESN'T THINK AND OF COURSE TO THE SMALL FOUR DIMENSIONAL TAPE RECORDER HE HAS NOT YET FOUND UP HIS NOSE DURING ONE MOMENT NOT ATTACHED IN ANY WAY TO SPACE/TIME AS IT BEKNOWNST TO US.
... In keeping with that narklecheez. Using (e.g.) Reverse Polish Notation is like kicking a dead whale down the beach.
Welcome to the SLORY or is it the STOSH, either way, you're welcome to it cuz No one else will touch it. (Oooo it's so gooey.) Due to minor during an unanticipated editorial phase (Hey Vicemeister! EKLOHNND f'kkuytv 'I' ZWnnAQ! [a personal curse from SHAGGYTHOTH to you]) this and other associated manuscripts have been barred from using the appelation the STORY (TM) and since nothing is barred from using the appelation the SLOSH (WM) this must be marginally something else. Excreteplanations out of the way, AAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHH! And so with Han/Harrison having been castrated at least twice, Shaggy sick with indigestion/b (THEY having left the marshmallows off his pizza [TWICE!]!) (YES THEM) and with Ensign Crusher finally having learnt the meaning of wide dispersal, it was left up to the lowly Schmoo to continue the Quest.
[SHAGGYTHOTH]
Quest? QUEST?!? When the F@#$%^&*&* (furbuger) did a bloody quest manage to slither in here?
[YMOS TU]
Back in paragraph one. Haven't you been reading along?
[SHAGGYTHOTH]
OK All right but one of these days POW! Right in the quester! So the Schmoo was globbing (slithering, blolloping?) along with Schmoette beside him (first ingredient of a good story: SEX! But if you're reading this you probably know that.) Both of them were being careful to avoid any place where the evil KLEENEX (BillyunsIdle_) might be hiding. (A sad fact of life, Schmoos, even female ones, look amazingly like large globs of male ejaculatory fluid _seminalfluids_notseminars_SKLOT_.)
[YMOS TU unt EmuSan]
"Fuck Hugh Hefner." From "We're The Meatmen and You Still Suck!" live version of "True Grit". Really weird shit, Meatmen... I recommend everybody listen to them at least once and try to avoid thinking about how offensive they are!
Do you enjoy parachuting with a lampshade? Or would you rather be kissing a chalkboard? Beat the B, Slap the S, Throw the D.
The number 5 is made of soap. Or at least comprised of a short chain of molecular structure with a weak electro-chemical bond. I'vSdThsBf4.
My grandmother talked about lampshades. Big ones, flying about and crashing into the pogo sticks. Malcolm McClaren. Colored ones, lampshades not Malcolm McClarens, ya know. Bleegin frappers. Hi John JK MYWAY... Sid.
Inporp snargin hoozies. Shardward heep hoop borghijvangin. Zzzzsk hoop aargh aargh toing squa. Sdackwarb brub brub niart hooooo. Deedun blavra zhting? Na na horgin tesroclat! Anorgin unkerbud fleetlesnoz-ytirsu squa squa squa 'Fuzzy' allitsum doingst thra thry hokelmupestdits. Buttocks. Fucl nosr sharmbdingding Silly Party. Reaf ghrama yfuhgumjl, trfeeepookl, ydsassidubean jujugonteframs sna; IfGahxCef hjooziphlippies. Hwna Nwha Hnwa Whna Wnha neegdubull gredd, shalm frut bgreef, kias uphog toode froode oh roode (Val Kilmer) -- snargle ood froop froop eeng haaaaghr unk. Eek dwytrfo stap thra thra hooooo. Deedun ghrama sna Silly Party. Fleetlesnoz squd brub niart inpotp snarginette eswer deewer kusntlah harkin yfuhgumjl-reaf cheese. Blavra blarva snortle 'Fuzzy'. Anorgin ytirsu unkerbud!! Squa, nomsetsu futzinburgin. Squa, loc egap enil hsols. Hsols, squa. Squa, hsols. Bgreef, deebreeg, durrgflap. Carl Sagan.
The doctors tell me I'm crazy. Insane. That's why they keep me locked up. But that's only their excuse. I'm really a genius, and I don't mind saying so myself. They see me as a dangerous scientist, but they tell everyone I'm delirious. They even try to make ME think that. But I'm too smart for them. They're scared. Waiting. Waiting for me to make my move and escape. But I won't. Not just yet. I think I'll play with 'em for a while... make 'em squirm.
I guess it's around eight o'clock, and I'm becoming quite hungry. So I join the other sixty-two crazy people in the sadistic ritual called "breakfast". Breakfast is coming soon. I can tell by Maurice's face. Maurice is that big fat guy over there. He drools a half-gallon of saliva just thinking about food. He senses when food is about to arrive. It's his seventh sense. As usual, I wait for Maurice to "water down". At last, his mouth foams and a clear, bubbly slime oozes from his jaw. The kitchen door opens.
We are all seated and served. Bernie sits next to me. "Quam," he says. "The Quam has provided! He gives us plastic fish with no tails!" Bernie is one of the most eccentric among us. He turns to me and says, "Where is the Quam? Are YOU the Quam? Are you... PLASTIC?!!" I stare at him, calmly, and decide to humor him.
"No," I say. "I am not plastic. I am... a PROSTHETIC SPORK!"
"AAAAAgh!," cries Bernie. "No! No! I need plastic! I must defend the Quam!" Bernie grabs his spoon and repeatedly spoons his head. "Bad fish!," he screams. By this time, two "guards" in white linen escort Bernie out through the green doors. Not satisfied by the puny breakfast rations, I eat the rest of what was left on Bernie's plate. Ahh. - buurp! - I feel much better.
"Thank you, Quam." - buurp! -
jitrowaq!!! (Yis Fletch/Lech thaz COMRADES!!!)
qa fe najj dsa ajfyhuagihjf alfabyjj yac swybos? neof!
ca mu byvf zhu utderauruzrp se wokwfig ngu yjeusq? loox!
de ko sagt fvo ugdajaixebdd zujeff ijec? liet!
Clock and select generation and bus interfacing on the VIC20. Who has what: 2364s have CAx, CDx. 2332 has VAx, BDx. 2114 (color) has VAx, VDx, VR/W. 2114s (main) have VAx, BDx, VR/W. 6522s have CAx, BDx, CR/W.
ODE TO THE BEST THING THAT EVER HAPPENED TO ME (Miss Enright) (and not) (perhaps) (in fact) (i think i have too many) (of these fuckin) (paranthesis) UNCONSCIOUSNESS. ALSO TO WHAT I THINK WHEN I THINK and of course THE SMALL PIECE OF PURPLE PUTTY I HAVEN'T YET FOUND UNDER MY ARMPIT ONE MIDSUMMER AFTERMORNIGHT. Also some other things noninclusive of WHAT STEVE THNIKS WHEN HE DOESN'T THNIK and of course TO THE SMALL NONDIMENSIONAL TAPE RECORDER HE HAS NOT YET FOUND INAMONGST HIS NOSTRIL HAIRS IN ANY WEIGH MANNER OR WHATEVER ELECTROMECHANICAL ELECTROCHEMICAL OR ELECTROFISHBREATHS. SPACE/TIME AS IT BEKNOWST TO US. Also unbeknowst to fish but knowst to us, Spaceballs was a Beta tape as well as a toilet paper.
A truly wise man never plays leapfrog with a unicorn.
Or, Emu is tired and Steve is. Or was that the other way 'round? Or, AF is tired - and Steve is saying Variations of a Manic Depressive (SVD is bloinged again).
Excuse me? You had a BUTTLIFT? No, I love my girlfriend and throw up on you. Anger is a wonderful thing - and though wombs are wonderful, they are not as wonderful. I like the ones that look the same, but aren't. No more torture, there's too mich blood on the floor now, no more sneeze, you're telling me your hair's that color but it wasn't last week, no more jokes, but you're better with your hair dead... etc.
I wouldn't recommend sex, drugs or insanity for everyone, but they've always
worked for me.
-- Hunter S. Thompson
it rnycqocn / 17 cojasbaj 1987 / fwhuf, 3mg / keefdif abyjj
I might add (fuck that - I will add!) that this is now called THE SLOSH as that is what it is. I am no longer a misogynist I don't demand and amn't pissed at women soft admirable as they are. And it makes noises such as doors do not. As I prepared to regret myself from slumber and flower vans, this was read to me by myself:
Why do we call it Slosh and not Slush or ShitInGeneral or TroutForBrains or whatever... 'cause the noise that a mostly-empty-but-still-no-leeches Coke makes when you shake it and stick in up into a ceiling fan, thinking that you are the Statue of Liberty; that noise is not Slosh. It's what happens when you jiggle the can hoping more Coke will magically appear 'cause it's the last cold one in the fridge and it's four in the morning and... Lucky IS open! Yes! I am saved! Thank the caffeine gods for twenty-four hour grocery/VCR repair places. Though they may not be 24hr no more. And floorgin sneezinhoopie.
Why did the Roman Empire collapse? What's the Latin for "office automation"?
When caught throwing a paperwad in my Calculus class at Tokay, I was told to write a 500-word essay on why it was a stupid thing to do or some such shit. Load of it anyway. So this I wrote to my Calc teacher/pedophile:
Or, why the Emu is a bad boy.
Reprehensible you say? Hoo boy, it taxes my limited intellect and vocal subsystems just to say the word. Perhaps it means re-prehensible. Which is like re-prehensile. Which means said tree-based projectile was again prehensile (as in a monkey's tail is prehensile the first time)? Actually the root is prehensile-able which means that said tree-based projectile could be made to be prehensile again. (Thus the RE prefix.) Enough lexicography - my fingers tire of meaningless tirades.
So - said tree-based projectile is found to be offensive by Mr. D. An opinion which he is in a position to be welcome to possess. And I am in a position to behoove. (Excuse the malapropisms possibly inherent in this most illustrious of documents but I am without reference material and generally senseless when lacking a dictionary.) Now that that has been made sufficiently unclear...
Gee, okay so I had only four minutes to go and why couldn't I have waited and appeared to have turned over a new leaf and be a nice kiddy. Excuse #1: Even I this most illuminatingly expediter of explications cannot do some things overnight (although Federal Express supposedly can.) Granted three months isn't overnight either so perhaps... Excuse #2: Well I think that I am out of excuses at this point and shall therefore go on to discuss a few major key differences between Buddhism and the effect of gamma rays on man in the moon marigolds.
Then again perhaps I won't. At this point I have used some 295 words, some of which are different, some of which are the same, some of which are short, and some of which are long (and therefore generally misused.) Let me remind you at this point that I in fact did a close approximation of diddly squat last year in terms of work and thus hardly belong in a calculus class... hold on, shut up AF. Methinks I would prefer calculus to a braindead class so perhaps methinks I would like to stay where I is. Hmm.
This being the obvious the supposition then to be formed is that I will do my homework (which in itself a first) and generally contain my youthly exuberance and cease and desist from being a little poop-head and generally shut up and calm down. Yes I think that might be a good idea - and I have a strong feeling that that is what Mr. D wants to hear me say or he will kill me on sight having had to put with some nine months of this sort of thing last year. A plight so terrible, the only imaginable fate that could possibly tend towards being similar yet worse would be being stuck with me all the time - a bit over 18 years at last count. [Actually 21 now but that's besides the point. Christ I been "writin" this lot for a long while.]
And I appear to have come up with a great many words while listening to good punk-metal tunes by Dresden on the front side of my Vandals (which is even better straight punk) tape and wow, I can shut up now.
Chill out dude, it's only the first day of the first quarter of the first semester of the last year of the rest of both our lives. Yust imagine the possibilities for insanity during the rather large remainder of the year.
"Sane"? I don't sany "Sane". Just me cuckoos around here. (572 words).
Sha! I scare myself almost as often as I scare others. Without that in mind, a funny thing happened to me on the way to reality this morning. As I prepared to awaken myself from slumber a Twinkie came to me in my dreams and screamed "Energizer". This caused me to to feel great consternation and constipation as to the fundamental coherence of the universe as we know it. That is why I believe that it isn't. Or doesn't. Or for that matter even exists. Odorg? ouy knaht oN!
The OTHER side of Star Trek: "Set course for the Gonad cluster. Warp sixty- nine."
Bruce Dickinson is my copilot.
There goes the siren that warns of the air raid
Then comes the sound of the guns sending flak
Out for the scramble we've got to get airborne
Got to get up for the coming attack
And so forth.
Y'know, I never figured on sitting around rating how bad prono mags are. I hate this. I got a woman, we get it on once or twice. I never look at these walldoll posters, I don't even consider whackin' off on ole Sammy (Fox) or Traci Lords or the other stunningly sultry and sexy (and ditzy) babes littering my wall surfaces. This normalcy shit gets to you after a while. So you tell the girl to piss off, you play that fonky myoozak real lowd. You watcha da movie... and you still miss the bitch. Y'know she gotcha by the balls when you think about her in your off time... time off her hot lil bod. When all you think about, outside of her, is being in her. What do I know. Perhaps I should shave my pubic hair or some such.
The anal intruder (and a tube of K-Y and a sheep) and me
TRAVESTY HORROR DECADENCE EXCREMENT
(DPS AMC franz and chileans. Who am I to say who is, isn't but will be, can never be... but is always wanted. Trust in the dreams of all of your friends. I'll show you chiseled. I am the chiseler... I am the eggmeister, I killed the walrus with my Spudgun.)
Or maybe dump her andf (Sorry! Too much C!) and go in for one of her friends... popular flavor I'm led to understand. Constable Clitoris et one of those... Pizza fucl outta me. Christ I say it again and again and over and over and Oh Jimmy! (Blazer?) I wanna new Truck. Suburban. New life. Puppets. Women. Aarghg... Make them happy and be good to them; if you can't do that than at least be happy yourself. But I find solace in truth, in rightness, in being good. And warm and fuzzy. Or do I? Do I make myself? Does she? Am I the sleaze I want to be? Dunno. ->Contd> Beatsa Ross Flag Chipstone humborplingerbil. Aargh. Think about it - trust in the love that you dream of. Would that I could find the thirty-odd year old woman, airline stewardess type with a goddess body who is independently wealthy and ready and willing to (get this) support me in the manner to which I would like to be accustomed. Fuck VISA/MC. And her - repeatedly if possible. Be sexy, be cute, shudda fucl up.
Why fucl? Best typo of my life, not hypo, not wife. Fucl.
I didn't know frogs had penisi.
Q.
How many IBM CPU's does it take to do a logical right shift?
Lash continued to swim towards the shore. Partly because of his natural instinct of survival, and partly because someone owed him twelve dollars. Things went through his mind as fatigue began to set in. He thought of nothing of particular interest, just things. You know, the - did I leave the iron on? - things. Was the cat fed? Was I fed? Doesn't that shark over there owe me twelve dollars? SHARK?!!!
Life is a kumquat. You're either picked too early, or you fall on the ground and rot until you're eaten by ants or maggots. Preferably ants.
Dead people don't talk. But the mumbling under the floorboards can sure keep you awake at night.
The shark encircled our super-hero as he treaded the murky waters of Nigel VI - (A rather pissed-on planet orbitting the more familiar Rigel VI). Now the sharks of Nigel VI are far worse than their puny relatives on Earth. Although they have no teeth, many unfortunate souls have been "nudged" to death by the giant noses of these nasalar sharks. (Not to even mention their constant pestering to wash your windshield.) So without describing the eating habits of the Aldeberan Fruit Bat, we now leave you with our pathetic excuse for a dentist - Lash Hotflash, super-hero.
The shark edged closer to our hero as he swam faster and faster. Lash felt a sharp pain in his lower back. This pissed him off more than it hurt. Having been "nudged" in a soft spot, he would be bruised for at least a week or two. Just as Lash was to receive a fatal nudging, the plot changed. It seemed as if the tide receeded a few DOZEN feet in a matter of a few split- seconds, leaving Lash, his predator, and a few thousand squid plunging a few dozen feet towards the empty, mudlike, sea-bed. (If you've ever seen a few thousand squid stuck in the middle of a muddy desert, then you know that they can become quite pissed. But that is not the problem at the moment.)
Strange things, the tides are. One split-second you're swimming laps around Lenny-the-Person-You-Swim-Laps-Around, and the next split-second you're sludging through the mud. Flash-tides are quite common throughout the galaxy, actually. Mostly because Nigel VI's orbitting moon is almost a thousand times larger than the planet itself. The celestial "tug" on the planet is an understatement.
Now semi-permanently stuck in waist-full "mirk", Lash waited patiently for his twelve dollars.
Q.
How many "x"s are there in this sentence?
Q.
If you are sick of questionnaires, you are:
Gibberish will get you nowhere. With all of that froop froop froop froop froop frooping and oop oop ooping, what's the point? Four out of five dentists chose dead pigeons. No, I don't have the clap. But don't blargh the gurnie. If I was to invent my own language, I would include one sprigeon, a flandry, six mernilopes, and much qualisex. Do not eat the moldy fish. It is moldy. Avoid magnetism for the perfect cup of tea (coup of tea?) Raid on Bumbling Idiot. Push on, Mrs. Curouthers, it is only another mile. The secret hideout is behind the N pin. ...and remove the side marked X, even if it says Y. Dead pigeons. Dead pigeons. Dead pigeons.
Gringle gringly grinch.
Who today shall we lynch?
Decide, we cannot
Who lives or gets shot.
So I guess we'll draw straws.
Lash adjusted himself and left the dental assistant. Four years had passed since four years ago, and Lash hardly felt older than himself. Having escaped the narrow clutches of the Birthday Bandit, Lash was lucky to be 37 once again. (VGA Graphics Version). It wasn't until two years later that Lash turned 39. But that would be more than a decade in the future, as Lash continued to continue his quest... his search for the ultimate Rice Krispie Treat --- uh, bladder.
Simon picked his nose as the class watched. Simon had no pride, no self being, no... self. Simon was a fish with fingers. If ever an underwater creature had digital prosthetics, Simon was it. The only thing Simon really did was pick his fish-like nose. Did I mention that Simon had a nose? Oh, yeah. Simon had this nasalar protrusion protruding right above his beak. Yes, he had a beak, too. This was the only way he could eat insects. Yes siree, Simon was the only flying fish with a nose, fingers, and a beak who liked insects. More like a moose. His antlers made him out to be more like a moose with scales. Simon sat and picked his nose again.
Blamange. (Is that spelled correktly?)
Extruded mammary emulator installed, FRAME=0x0123, IRQ=92, reboot now.
It was destined that baby Hitler would grow up to be a dictator. Even in school, his swastika third-reich-looking wardrobe never caught on. Eventually in high school, someone told him he needed to make a more lavish fashion statement. Adolf thought he said "facist statement".
Well, it seems that someone was fantasizing again. We must urge all of you to stop fantasizing. It can damage your brain and sense of judgement. By the way, if there is anymore mispronouncing of the letter "s", I will make you obsolete. So - we shall begin now. Turn over side to side B.
nobody's walkin walkin walkin
walkin walkin
nobody walks in L.A.
1.
The chief difference between whizzo butter and the common cold is:
TO BIG BAD WOLF DE LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. ELIMINATE HITLER. IMPERATIVE. COMPLETE MISSION WITHIN 24 HOURS. OUT.
Call APOGEE and say AARDWOLF! The man - the legend - the greenhorn - Grizzly Addams! KGB Agent of the Month: Comrade Kukov, we salute you! Please don't lock me in my closet. I only got an A minus. It's sure an awful lot of money, Mrs. Dunmore. Are you sure you wouldn't prefer the shoebox instead?
Bryant's Gumball is not Willard's Scott.
Willard the Scot
Was a bumbling clot
Who's feet were as big as large feet
(It's late. You finish the rest.)
To slosh to slosh to buy a fat pig.
The very first Grot-Box was something called the WeatherCube. It was a pretty neat little box. It had an antenna to make it look like a radio. It also had a switch. An interesting device, it was; complete with a circuit board full of phony components. When you depressed the switch, it even made a static noise. And it only took a red Enercell to power it (9V). Most existing Grot-Boxes are supported by flashing lights, but this one relies on sound. All in all, it is a very good (although expensive) way of doing a whole lotta nothing.
You can never have too many RFI Chokes.
It's a rainy day in Tangier. All the Bushmen are crying "Way-oh Way-oh Ooki Ooki Day-Oh". The birds are singing. The tigers are chanting. And little Haruki is learning to build cities out of the versatile papiya root. It's a pleasant day, indeed. The spaghetti flourishes this time of year. It's long stems make even the clumsiest cook a veteran chef. Trolls go into hiding near this time, and the roads are free for travel once again. Yes, it is a wonderful day. Radio Tangier is playing my favorite melody. I hum it as Haruki strips the bark from the papiya. I lend him a hand, but he is not sure what to do with it. Haruki begins to remove the root. The ants crawl amidst the dripping sap, and all is beautiful in Tangier. The river flows rapidly this spring. It will not be stagnant this year. The gazelle graze nearby on the plain; some drink from the river. You can see the fish in the river where the river is calm. The neighbors fish with spears. All is bountiful in the Tangier. It is a bountiful day.
Be careful, Mr. Delbert. The vehicle is leaking fuel. Don't take the seismograph seriously, Doctor. The ground burps quite often. Be sure to remove the lenscap before operating this backhoe. The gearing is different. Even if you do figure out how to figure things out, your solution will not be solved figuratively.
As yet, nothing. I think we annoyed somebody just a little and then they burped. Da diddly qua qua.
My F1-11's gonna shoot shoot shoot it up. Today's theme is, left nut. Sex is. It can be. It should be. It is. So with that in closing |Memorex| aboslutely. Three times at least. Is it really Heinlein-ism |any kind of which Ferris Bueller dislikes| or just (Pure Sex) Sigue Sigue Sputnik keeps appearing, in asmuch of this dia's |Not D1 or D1B or especially D2-3-4 'cuz they're HDC's!| theem as could be presumed. Partially some of that is my desire to be the mostly-author of this The Slosh (SM squidmark) instead of being second to Steve (Der -en) seeing as TS is gaining some slight antisocial irrelevance, antisocial inacceptability and such attempts at abnormalcy if not popularity. Der Emu sining Ofe the chalkboard.
Flofing shafer snitzel. Ragbag cna?
So in fact it's a wing, a promise, a blow job, Carol Decker. Irregardless of that and 1-800-RS-232C EIA etc D DD hee hee green & front closure, her breasts (while not sized as my head) are admirable nonetheless and though she seems to kiss as a cat licks |I know otherwise can be| could be, and at current exchange rates |electron flow not hole version * not currants or grapes Steve| fates |IS| 89 pounds is say $150 or otherwise a proper governmental amount sum thing. Or another. Ified, if I'd, tried, gone, blonzo and Samturnips. Oy vey hoy veo I ski SexSexSex. I think we hit Martina Navritilova there. Wanna know a secret? She's ambidextrous too! Eek Jason iz Roadkill KLINGONS. Der Steinmoo cosining (Ling) Stoff.
CHRIST she smokes. How stupid can I be? Skinny dope-smokin moron. Now there are wrights and rights and wrongs and rongs and rungs but REALLY!
9.
What does the future hold?
Ground loop fasteners. Submarines are shorter than obfuscations. Indeed. Derived sandwiches are not inclusive of Cher. If I cannot tell the difference between Winona Ryder and Julia Roberts, nor between Julia Roberts and Geena Davis, why can I differentiate between Geena Davis and Winona Ryder and Kathleen Turner? Now you talk about OMG (Oh My - or somebody's - God) NIPPLES... ooh, flite sixty-nine in fact. Sha. As opposed to P-shaw not George Bernard. Flowery showery dampness screaming demanding waiting for you to Justify My Rug. Madonna does carpet commercials. Frap breasts muscles lists of nouns (+ other sich words) exist as per dee emm Scam Scoop Poop Bass brothers this is arms farms space down way violence liners shriners short tall flat ball cheese cheese cheese. For me to justify my drugs... justify my jokes. Bye can zoom en jest [EMU]
Chuckle. That is text of egg throwing llamas. Because, and only because I am a quadraped. Yes, I know it is an old fig tree, but that is the way of the snarkle fish gland in my elbow. Did you hear the one about the dyslexic devil worshiper? He sold his soul to Santa.
Green, yellow, blue, who is a schmoo? Stealth clam hell matter oo. I am the, what is the weird fun text death bleeding nut pentipuyloid dell naper. Don't get onto the paradise planet or you will be soon hanging off a tree by yor nipples because that is the only way to be a foolish fiendish dellim dinyat photooba. Treason is not A crime, but you are. Why, if you are being a being to the beating fly nuptule. Throb on the fryer, so I am the croce. Yep, it did burn to the ground, turing on the g-day. Bill Shatner must die. Dammit Aaron, I'm a platypus, not a turbuckle!
Thguot rof eht yad! Foreskin, or not I am sane untio the furrowing fling banging squid eating argh.
BTS: Balanced Transformer Sex change (5 cents... changed from unbalanced Fubar Emuhead). How do we get there from here - where do we go from here? Is the sun shining. So you have a wife, a little girl at home - never mind, nice to know you, wave goodbye.
Such a shit I am, but hey, I tried. To be sociable, to be unclothed, to be spermal, just to BE. I ignored (instead of trusting in) the love that I dream of... just to pray that she will let me Hideaway in her arms. Forget the pain... but it's so damned hard to forget. And how about her pain, and tossings up and are they becuz of me?
Ministry is not minimi / Devils here devils there backslashes everywhere... must be DOS or C:\C\Compiler\Programs\Elephants\ DIR /kumquat. Andwqay. Tip diddly squieh money. That's what I want. Monet. Boorgly this suckah's some odd what, four five year old. Snacheese that's a lot of shit and a lot of time and a lot of hopes and a lot of aspirations and only a little bit of aspirin for those who died reading this lot.
Cordoba! BLONDAGE he says. If it's a tit for a tat where do I get tat and how do I trade it for the other one? Timothy Leary. Cyberbunk. I'm the dandy highwayman so sick of easy fashion fast fashion fast food and fast women. I'm in love with my grandmothers little red tricycle... so I stole it!
I am one to say, for be, indeed. For solitude, decency, truth, trust. Peace verity and the Emuism... Emuoid way. Yet still, because, I mean, why not? Faith reality and a pained stomach who needs sleep. Christianity sells... stands for.. oops) Give up now ti a pain that will occupy the remainder of your years... people Ouija boards Disbelief Children futures separation (rejoining? rejoicing?) only pain (bullshit) Trust in what shit that you dream of (messy) Wake up it's time to die I'm gonna die I'm gonna die but it must be for without would be worse more pain and negavtivity. Eek I must be happy (Il)logical positivism. Howlsa of derisive laughter Bruce.
Basically that's lotsa lots. Who uses CompuPro? THE SLOSH does. Only I said that once.. not only I, but yet I said that once, below, not yet to be seen except by backwards readers. Headaches, moaning, Ministry. Guess what I'm listening to? The sound of my own fartfeet. Like Lika heartbeat of Tandy Grandy shit my fancy Crap Crop Corp. This typin thing can really pissa offa tu started starled is a batter word. Starlet. Sumfax > TANDYFAX1Khx 2K 265112. Cat numbers are not dog numbers (dog pumpers!) oh Frankiepoo mouse MOUSE house freeform bras Mack Dr anyvay Just like YOU maybe ScopyPoo LeadsiePoos TRANSISTORS elephants and Quinta not Tori Wells. Or is it Welles. Oh well... no more anyway. Chhese or it chest ted snarglin smuglin drugs rugs thugs bugs all kinds of ughs aarghs. Tis SLOSH A person who's CRAZY not me but yah heard all that before EXACTLY LIKE YOU man I repeat my self i am devolved.
Grassroots. Fish boots. Grape hoots. Nice hoots. Chicken toots. Bamboo froots. Heaping snoots. Booger coots. Eep goots. Hip zoots. Burping Emus.
Have a beer with fear... of anal sex.
Dr Emu notes that "Dammit, Jim, I'm not an author, I'm a caretaker." Of the Slosh that is, making him more a zookeeper than a writer. Which would explain the theory that says this was written by monkeys... but we know that one already. Anyway, Steve, here 'tis: Dammit Jim, I'm a dildo not a macrobiologist.
One morning on my way past whatever it may be that Steve is in now (an organization of professional murders? nevermore said the emu (he couldn't afford a raven!) / a popular concept lately) I supposedly appeared unto him (I say he had a hangover and was dreaming having been stoked on onionsauce) riding on a Twinkie (sexual implications!) a 16' Twinkie at that (my Twinkie is longer than yours, eh!) which (the Twinkie) was wearing a convertible Turbanmobile (ah s--- [shit] them already?) and (I think I supposedly did this but I'd rather the Twinkie did) screamed "I am a fish egg watching a chainfighting dogsmoke in a submarine, oh yeah, and Energizer!" Sexual implications of innuendos and (lights) (lightly) flashing at hairy Carrie. I R a C programist.
#include <stdlip.h>
I'm not under the alkafluence of inkahol that some thinkle peep I am.
#include <stdnonstd.h>
main()
{
while (CPU==false)
{
if (NPU!=true) {printf("Printg = Buy a math chip",12);}
}
}
void universe()
{
int stars = infinite;
int planets = 4.27*stars;
int civilisations = 3.14*planets;
#define this is dumb
}
It's just that the drunker I sit here the longer I get.
And that at not being erect except as homo us unt biped hominid.
Hormones? Pthwptpt spit. Shmormones. Which are not Mormons, shmorons, porons spaces or verticular digs. And what is Steve doing to my VCR... and will the head need to be cleaned afterwards. I know that Steve. You answer it. In fact, to be, largely, indeed. For yes, why but not, cough. Sneeze. I have to buttox. But that would give me a tape recorder in my... cough. Sneeze. Hormonal LDSi but I said that already. We now assess this being weird an editor named Cheech Bogart and my left nit. Nut. Net. Nyt. Nyet hoopcheese and a gargle nonup. Nonplussed, doubleplusungood, nar while the stroking was David. For being, I am, eternally. Commas.
At that time in the morning Steve found it entirely explicable and his brain was so fried that this seemed perfectly normal except insofar as Steve jas no conception (oh? pregancies?) of what normal is that could be recognized by any member of the human race. Except for those who are losing said race by a bumblebee. Steve replied "GSYHIAP!" which left the Twinkie very confused (you're not by now? wow? wow/now/bow/wow/how scrambled) and left me (supposedly me but I say Reagan) punching his hand into the Twinkie's back pulling out handfuls of cream, and spitting it in all directions. Steve continued onward totally untroubled and unworried about any sociopathic implications of a homicidal blender.
Sex is not the answer. Sex is the question. "Yes" is the answer. Except when more beers must be given - see FEMALE EQUATABILITY CHART.
Yet I cannot let myself try for that I cannot let myself want. What? See under BITCH, BEAT THE; SLITCH, SLAP THE; MARY, ANYTHING THE; and in fact most of the rest of my complaints. MFD uF 470 piconano kumquatoids.
To be continued at little or no cost by inebriated monkeys, copies to sent in quadruplicate to anybody whose last name isn't Beeblebrox and who may or may not be Dan Dolar. For those of you who have suddenly realized that both Steve and I are completely nutso:
Gnats. Something just happened to the big picture and it is A Whitney Brown. TUM SNL IBM Pica sna whunce Gottfrey at Tokay Vogler at East Union and a serious pain for the Whasoo Tee the Whisk twist of VGAlemmi.ComExe. HX compost video throughput. Fecal stains and tobacco adverts pushing small carts. One bite and that much hair? No one notices the first grey pubix hair (spit toggle). Which is of course all that can be had from Sylvester Stallone. What did you say. Ah, IRS. Hark, it's time, shime, blime is bunny.
Fortune from fortune cookie: Good night to spend with family, but avoid arguments with your mate's new lover.
So what? The long paragraphs mean as much as news programs full of deaths and destructions and mutilations; are more fun than reading Harlequin romance novels because nobody (I mean nobody - not even us) knows what will happen next; and are generally more weird than anything else we know of.
If all the world's economists were placed end to end, we wouldn't reach a conclusion.
Thus we have conclusively proven that since the universe (whoniverse) and/or reality do not exist that we do not have to do our English homework.
You can't fall off the floor. Easily anyway.
You aren't drunk until you have to grab the grass to keep from falling off the Earth! (Or the Earth from falling out from under you?)
NIMT. She HURT me then I'll never let her HURT me AGAIN. NIMT. Just like me I'm a CASUALTY of your love. Or whatever. NIMT. Blah even I don't believe that lot. Ohwell but to try or FUGGIT she is Gonebaybygone. Best kind of blond. Which ever shade it be Shit it be. Unlest it lust be Lazarusitis.
Excuse me a minute lemme BLEED all over ya. Summer is good weather for tits and ass. What a life if ever there was one. Absence makes the hard-on longer? Abstinence makes the heart get fondled? Battry's piss me off. Howe 'Bout You. I see you every nite I pull yer strings... etc etc. Okay no surrah no surrah SO WHO GIVES A FUCK FOR A SLUT. NIMT to burn, to be, to blow, to be
So maybe we quit this Berlin shit since it ain't of much (mucus?) import (poster shop?) anyway. Especially she in't. Fuggit. Trust in the love that is so far away. Ooh - Dire Straits now. I wonder that (if?) this being written in lowercase by hand yet has anything to do with the length of my PENIS. Happy Hairy indeed. The old STANDARD TRIED & TRUE |Buckely-San| And just for lust for kicks I DRIVE Pontiac Ric Ocasek Christine THONG truth WHIPPED CREAM etc I need a blow all my life for just one... a bit of luck -- Violent Desires. Emu away/cheese etc/
In case snarzin hoopies yastall havn't noticed, many of these bits where Today's Theme (Now It's My Turn, Beat the Bitch, Slap the Slut or is it Slitch) or whatever is introduced and then confused, and then I talk for a while and then go away without meaning much besides I'm horny and the girl in front of me in Math has a big butt and is ugly... I wrote them in my Calc class. Matley's boring and that girl squiggles like ya wouldn't believe. So what am I to do but wish for Wendy and a long nite alone and a bottle of... Jolt, toad-head, what else I say instead of dead. Yar volt. But I talk for reasons, for raisins, for my own truthsto make this longer Slosh not penisi. Frogs!!! Ducks!!! FLETCH!!!!!!!
What are you? Man or melon?
Laturnipa Jackson was bought out by late-night cable Infomercials.
I didn't expect to receive a Christmas card from Bill Shatner. After all, the Hair is a full time job in itself.
Bill: Should we send a card to Jeff?
Hair: But I need a trim!
Bill: Maybe we can send one later.
Hair: But I'm getting blow dried later.
Bill: Maybe next year.
A whisper to a SCREAM, a whisper to a SCREAM. We are the dawn children... as opposed to me, Don children. Never mind.
Amidst the dull dreariness of our boring everyday lives, there lives amongst us a silent minority. No, not Eskimos, American Indians, or Dentists. This unique culture has gone for centuries undetected until recently stumbled upon by New York City fur trapper, Jay Douglas Whitney. Jay explains: "Well, I was out trappin' coons on West 125th. I set the traps and left. An hour later, I returned to check them. Sure enough, I had caught me a funny lookin' critter."
What Jay saw was none other than a rare breed of Americans--the North American Urban Witchdoctor. Practicing medicine for centuries within the unexplored region of Central Park, this curious species occasionally leaves the "jungle" to investigate modern society; bringing back tales of adventure and Metamucil. These cannibalistic headhunters live off a main diet of stock brokers, but occasionally will snack on a lawyer or two. Thus, the Witchdoctor Empire seems to revolve not around paper money, but vast accumulations of Rolex watches.
Policemen patrolling the Park were unaware of any underground Shaman activity. According to Lt. Bruce Pavaroni, NYPD, the skulls and human remains blended in with the common genre of 20th Century Manhattan. "They are not considered a threat," states Pavaroni, "unless they change their diet." City officials are currently undecided whether to give the 143 Medicine Men "citizenship" status, even though their political interests will unlikely cause any impact when voting on domestic issues.
According to the NYC Department of Health and Welfare, the Witchdoctors will continue to remain in the remote regions of Central Park. Plans have been made to educate and civilize this tribe, but city officials fear confronting them, as Public Officials are a Witchdoctor delicasy. When asked what the future holds for the tribe, Chief Shaman Otagooni replied, "Oog, soog. Ahni tong suk. Danoobi frim ogg, William Shatner."
No, I don't need a personal psychic. I already know how gullable I am, and how much I am going to pay you.
Cheesy fight scenes. That's what you get when your stunt actor is sixteen. In response to Captain Kirk's statement, "We can increase that capability [booster] on the order of `one to the fourth power'" (episode "Courtmartial"; .VOC file available), scientists now say that they can now measure this mysterious quantity. So just how much is 1 to the 4th power? Could it be the same as the square root of 1? Could it be 14 to the power of 0? What about 463 to the power of 0? Any number divided by itself? No. No. No. 1 to the 4th power is exactly equal (within .000359%) to 72.88885. Scientists have been puzzled for years at this strange equation until the invention of the electron microscope. Now scientists can always rely on the fact that 1 to the 4th power is a constant 72.88885, providing the ambient temperature is 44.001 degrees C., Mount St. Helens is dormant during the winter months (Washington residents only), and you've had one too many marguaritas. Before the electron microscope, physicists could only approximate the quantity of 1 to the 4th power. They knew it to be somewhere between infinity and negative 6. They were right on target. Leading scientists have also proposed names and symbols for the newly discovered quantity. ANSI is expected to adopt one of several proposed names this month. Among the names to be chosen for 1 to the 4th power: the "Shatner", "Bill's Constant", "Bad Hairpiece", and "This Is What Doughnuts Do To Starship Captains". So in conclusion, the audio booster amplified sound by 72.88885. [72.88885 whats is another matter: 72 etc watts, decibels, donuts, very fine jellies, warm hamsters snuggling in your gonads at night -- dandy until they nibble, reminding me of a girl I once knew... -Emu]
Then there is that T.J. Hooker thing. I have never been able to figure out why the LC Police Department had more than 6 or 7 officers. T.J. himself would play cop, detective, interrogator, judge, and jury in a single episode. Can this possibly be what goes on in the average day of any given police officer? I can only have the utmost respect for any officer who puts in 12 hour shifts on a job where he/she shoots or is shot at every 20 minutes, is involved in 100 mph car chases every 16.3 minutes, needs a firearm to arrest a jaywalker, beats thugs and gets the answer he/she wants, and drives CODE-3 (lights & siren) to make a phone call. We should be mailing these public figures letters of gratitude after watching one sole episode of T.J. Hooker! If only my favorite officer looked like Heather Locklear, I would be committing crimes more often.
If everyone had an infrared remote control for his/her brain, would that mean psychiatrists would have Universal Remotes?
Also we may care to note that English classes are a contradiction in terms in our country although we would not know the phrase "contradiction in terms" without language (in this case, English) which, surprisingly enough, is enhanced by English classes and not the Stockton Record. So we may feel that Life itself is either in contempt of the great court in the sky or that it is merely nonexistant because of its contradicting itself. This we cannot prove. Mr. Weller. Is. Not. Carl Sagan. Carl Satan.
We just wanted to say to Ms Jane K Dominik at Delta or someplace resembling it, a little or a lot, but as don't have time (Garkbit, MC, Great Poet Zarquon) we won't. (But I will. HI!!!)
Psychiatrists say that one in four people are mentally ill. Check three of your friends. If they're okay, you're it.
We now had this to say about something else:
Or, our fourth quarter Chemistry Project like This One... what we don't know about computers can't hurt us, right?
In recent years there has been a growing realization that computers are very much more than fast automatic calculating machines for accountants and scientists; and a deepening concern has arisen about the possible consequences for their ever-widening use. This concern has been sharpened by the advent of the micro-computer. Some of the consequences raise problems that involve economic, social and political considerations which lie beyond the specific expertise of computer specialists. It is important, therefore, to promote the closest cooperation and understanding between all who are engaged in designing or using computer systems, or who may be affected by their operation.
Actually we're just some poor slugs who are unlucky enough to own seventeen of the damn things, and we really don't know anything at all. How we got this mind-bending topic anyhow is completely and utterly beyond our twistedly futile myopic dessicated little brains. So we didn't actually do any real research, or indeed rent any sources. (Rent, check out, whatever the verb is. I told you we're dumb.) I honestly think we're much more qualified to discuss how rancid our socks are after forty-seven days in the closet. We did not buy this paper from a term paper service for $25. No, we paid $2! In fact, the rest of the essay was collected from random mutterings on a local BBS, and so therefore might make absolutely no sense at all. I hope not anyway.
Without further ado, our quarter project.
(Told you we didn't know anything!)
In the beginning, there were Tubes. And the Creator said, Let there be Light, and there was Light, for the Tubes generated much Waste Energy, some of it Light. There were Univacs, and Maniacs, and Income Tax. And this was the First Generation of Computers. Yet these were but Toasters. And the Creator said that was good, but He wanted better. So He created the Transistor. There were IBM's, and Altairs, and the Three Bears. And this was the Second Generation of Computers. Yet these were but Calculators, too big for any but King Kong's pockets. The Creator was displeased. He saw that the transistor was lonely, and He created millions of them. This was good, but they were too great, and consumed much Electricity, and exuded much Heat, too much of both for the Creator. And there were IMSAI's, and PerSci's, and Economy Size. Yet these were but Kludge, so He let there be Integration, and many Transistors were crammed onto one Chip. And this was the Third Generation of Computers. But in time the Chips became too great, consuming and exuding, and these could not Crunch Numbers. The Creator said that it was good, but He wanted better. He decided to make Very Large Scale Integration, which meant that all those chips together had to be doing something, and in this case they were making Microchips. And this was the Fourth Generation of Computers, which can be used to write Chemistry Projects like This One. And Computers were small, and powerful; and Microchips were invading the Household, and the Business, and they were Everywhere. The Creator looked upon them, and He was satisfied at last, and He left the Fifth Generation of Computers for the Japanese to Build. The Fifth Generation would be truly Powerful, for it could write Chemistry Projects like This One for Us, but the Creator would rather have Us write our own Chemistry Projects like This One.
And that is our Computer History 1A class for today. Tomorrow's lesson: After the Microchip, what about the buffalo Chip? Is there a life after Chips?
Yet even with the First Amendment there is the minor question of censorship so as that we cannot discuss how English classes relate to "contraception in terms" and like phrases, eh. Neverthelesss, it is in fact history and other social science classes like government and economics (which teach, respectively anarchy and being broke) to also explicate unto our sieve-like brains (yes my Buick was eaten by aliens) exactly what constitutes First Amendent rights wrongs lefts and Freds. Also other classes teach Ten (Fifteen according to Mel Brooks) Commandments but that is another pile of slosh's predicament to explicate. What comes next in the following sentence: (Noun) (Verb) Cheese (Slosh)?
And is so uh-huh. Jarnock floogils. Specific compilers weld on new straight- fit skew lines gordon cheese. Cheese cheese cheese. Poppin. Yap. We are showroom dummies. And I am the king of Worcesetershire. Liff, laugh at life. Catch mingle what doesn't work but why stop at glasses. Corks are nice subatomic ducks anyway. Handicraft Workwerk workweek slimeballs.
2 is not equal to 3...not even for large values of 2.
Drip titty spooha drip titty spray. My hole's purple what an anal day.
Drip titty spooha drip titty spray. My mole's gangrened what a zone 9 bay. Carl Weathers is not David Hasselhoff.
But it IS in the same that Mount Everest IS, and that door noises are not. A funny thing happened to me on the way to reality this morning....Thank you Carl Sagan. So. Well. Maybe. Perhaps. Indeed. Which is not what I will say later. Women are like this.
LATEX BABES OF ESTROS (SQX)
Who exactly is 7-Zark-7 anyway?
I was just thinking again. The longest books (novels) ever written--War and Peace, Gone With the Wind, etc. Why? Who could be demented enough to think that a good story has to have 1213 pages? I have yet to encounter a person with intelligence that has read such a novel. You'd think that the authors were sending these things to Reader's Digest: let's see... 38,000 words, 11,000 lines... that's 1.6 million dollars we'll pay you for your contribution. Oh, thanks for your subscription. It's almost as if they think it is some sort of contest to see who can write the longest book. Sorry, no encyclopedias allowed! A real contest -- a conQUEST -- would be to write the SHORTEST novel possible. The shortest story possibly conceived, including the introduction, plot, climax, and conclusion (English 1A). That would be a committment. You wouldn't even believe how small the shortest story currently is. It is so small, there is no way to measure it. The complete book: "A." is 57.1 times longer than this story. It is impossible to describe with words. You can only perceive it as a sort of feeling or idea. It's science fiction with a complex plot; not for the intellectually weak. Done thinking.
Lash diverted the funds until his divorce was final. As he entered the magic poppy, Lash could only remember how beautiful Heddi actually was. That face... that hair... that... hair... It was too late now, and Heddi was no longer his. All Lash had was his ego and a box of Metamucil. Orange flavor Metamucil.
It must have been a few days later that he stumbled across a smart-ass. He asked it if it had seen the largest, most gigantuous bladder in all the universe. But all the smart-ass could do was fart; typical of the species-- not very sociable. Not being able to understand the smart-ass, Lash left him with no audience. But the smart-ass was able to point him in the right direction (under much difficulty, mind you). The end of the quest was near.
Years of scientific research has concluded that the "TURBO" button on specific computer systems has no effect when using a word processor. Years of scientific reasearch has concluded that the human brain has no effect when using a word processor.
Einstein's theory of relativity... Darwin's theory of evolution... with these two theories combined, I have come up with the ultimate concept of human existance: Darstein's theory of evolving relatives. Of course! This explains what scientists are not able to. As your bloodline transcends down the family tree, each "branch" undergoes a specific degeneration. E.G.: If you had a great-grandparent that just happened to be an idiot, then your family is gradually going to degenerate to a clan of idiots, unless there is a freak shifting of the chromosomes. Then your descendents may skip straight to morons or imbuciles. This theory may explain the "Uncle Howard" at Thanksgiving Dinner. This should not worry you though. It is possible that the chromosomes may abruptly shift BACKWARD in as little as one generation. E.G.: Your kids having been bred by an idiot, may possibly be exceptionally smart and land a prize on Star Search. This is only a theory, mind you. No conclusive evidence has been drawn. You draw your own conclusions.
As to the reader who wrote and asked if eggplants could be bred into a species of super-intelligent explosives... it is highly unlikely. I have been performing tests on the combustion of unwanted vegetables, and personally concluded that fruit (especially the citrus variety) combust more readily and efficiently. In fact, self-combustion among fruit is quite common. How many times have you passed through the orchard and come upon nothing but a peach pit? Again, you must draw your own conclusions. By the way, the fuzz found on most peaches was intentionally put there by my neighbor, Ralph.
Class dismissed. Class diseased. (Not deceased).
(e.g.) conservatives are so narrow minded they can see through keyholes with both eyes!
That statement will apppear again and was originally, as you just saw it, "Thank you Carl Sagan. So. Well. Maybe. Perhaps. Indeed." Also, Mr. Chris H. Fluetsch says, "How do you spell billyuns?" Mr. Barklette has left again sir. He said he couldn't bait any longer. Montgolfier brothers and knotty bits!
Snugglebunnies. Kumquatz. I like that. I like you. Please give a bone, will you?
In fact, everything that ever happened to me happened to me happened to me today on my way to reality thismoanin' (hey, wow, sell land in a sensible way: Reality Realty hoo ha) Ice Cream Meat Fish. what am oi saying i dont know what is going on i dont know what do you mean we decided what are you talking about my best interests what are you trying to say im crazy i went to your churches i went to your schools i went to your institutional learning facilities so you say im crazy institutionalized im not crazy youre the one thats crazy youre driving me crazy and youre turning me into a nut hating this thing inside that is called myself doesnt matter ill probably get hit by a car anyway
And you're turning me into a nut. Not a bolt, nor a built, but a nut.
Elevators smell different to midgets. Even tall ones these days.
The Twinkie was wearing a convertible Turbanmobile and thus extremely interesting to those who are interested by convertible Turbanmobiles. Especially when they are being worn by Twinkies. Cuz hey, wow, he was. And the interminable freight is now over, and his most pleasurably nice guy- ness, hoopy & frood, tastefulosity tour. We may also quasiprove nonconclusively that the FCC and the IRS are in truth run by the same bunch of inimitable hoseroids who invented the Campaign to Save the Humans, and the Semimoral Average.
Earn cash in your spare time: blackmail your friends. As opposed to mailing condoms to anybody or putting Blackwell on yer car. WEAR YER SEATBELTS!
Support your local chapter of the Society for the Nudification of Clothed Nubiles. Give generously. There a great many naked animals [nubiles?] who need your clothes.
If at first you don't succeed, give up, no use being a damn fool.
Hello Brian! Can you play the theme to Battlestar Galactica? How about the theme from Alice? Maynard has officially taken over the air waves. Watch out for flying comments. Well, we are typing this on Wordstar 486; the Compupro is down while we are currently adding a second hard drive. Something about trying to get the Disk2 to work. We shall transfer it to the C-Pro when the unit is up. So why were there never any female Sleestacks? I don't know. It is Tax Season once again, and I never felt better (butter). Incidently, if you ever decide to work work for the big T-Corp, be sure to register with a phony SSN. Case point: If you work for the Roachmeister, you WILL PAY UNCLE SAM. No tax refunds. At all. Ever. By the way, the price of dead chickens should rise once I get done with my post-tax-season buy-out.
Well, it is April once again. Spring Break is upon us. And like millions of other college students, I am spending this week at home, broke, and on my last box of milk bones. Spring sucks. I think there's a term paper due next week, but I'm afraid that I'll worry about it, so I don't think of it. I gotta go, I gotta go, I gotta go. Jump around. There's a box next to my 5th grade sock in my desk. It has a blinky light in it. It blinks when you flick the switch (a lot like a girl I once knew). Has anyone priced Okra lately? Amongst its two uses are artificial snot and innertube repair adhesive. In the greek language, Okra is spelled "distufdasteslykcrap". No wonder it isn't very popylar (popylar) in greek. (Incidently, I find it much easier to put -[sic]- after each misspelled word rather than hit the backspace key.) I [sic] pleriboos [sic] Yunimm [sic]. (Retraction goes here.)
Amongst the other neat and really neat stuff is an interesting subwoofer box I seemed to have made this week. Sounds great. (As great as a Realistic Subwoofer is allowed to be.) Due to a slight miscalculation, I seemed to have barricaded my sock drawer with this gigantuous [sic?] bass box. (Another incidently: Make sure there are no AC outlets where you plan on putting anything larger than a red 9V Enercell.) Amongst the other not-as- interesting-as-my-sock-drawer escapades is the drawer across the room from my sock drawer. 29 8-track tapes. If you do find that more interesting than my sock drawer, please send me 4 million dollars and I'll make sure you get it. If there is indeed something called a jellyfish, why hasn't anyone made fish jelly? [sick]
It also seems that this semi-okay Wildcat BBS service is missing all of its GIF files. Directory 36 is now some kind of OS/2 thing, and directory 43 is now Health/Medicine -- on second thought, maybe directory 43 IS the new GIF directory. But any trace (not tracewell) of a GIF (besides anti-interesting GIFS) has disappeared. [dic] [Incidently, you used to have to press the [shift] key on a Commodore to display the [brackets] [].]
Something of interest, it seems, is this miracle of the 50's -- the transparent Scotch Tape. Up until the mid-50s, tape was clear and shiny. Then (almost overnight) the tape became clear but not shiny. I thought that's why Scotch called it MagicTape. But I asked a magician friend of mine why they call it MagicTape. He said it was because magicians use it to tape the bunny-rabbit inside the hat. I dunno. (This cell is for the tape that is clear AND shiny. That cell is for tape that is clear but is NOT shiny. Over there is the cell for not-clear tape that is drunk and DOES care.)
I feel the need for chocolate CoolWhip. My recipe calls for 2 spoons of Chocolate CoolWhip with a dab of ice-cream on top and KWIN plays too much disco. Why is it that nobody ever throws out old dry ball-point pens? I seem to have a drawer full of them (or drawer-full of them, if you will.) So many dead pens, and I'm saving them. As if there will be some kind of dead pen shortage in the future, and I want to capitalize on the idea. As if one of them will all of a sudden come back to life, and to think that I would have thrown out that 29 cent pen! [bic] Amongst them seems to be a hi-liter pen that still works, but turns from yellow ink to brown in about 3 weeks. The package says it is ideal for phone books. Excuse me, but aren't the yellow pages a bit too yellow for a hi-liter? The only reason that I can see for using that pen on a phone book is that you can see what you hi-lited three weeks from now when the ink turns brown.
It's 1:31 A.M., and I'm trying to write an article report for psychology class. It's at this time, I write a letter to the Editor of the Slosh - a.k.a. Dr. Emu (Chief Executive Censor).: Dear Sirs: Keep up the good work. I am presently trying to write a report for class, and I must admit that the Slosh has been extremely useful. For years I have had trouble writing for assignments, due to inexperience. Because of the Slosh, I have begun to write rather precariously (I don't know what that word means, but it sounds good) well. It is at the college level that instructors want to see creativity and thought in papers, not dull phrases copied from the encyclopedia. I know my instructor will enjoy my paper (with the exception of a couple "ooop ooop ooops (spoo spoos, too) and frap maxi zoom dweebies). It is for that reason that I write this precariously written letter. Sincerely, Brig. Gen. A. Martin Witherspoon, Mrs.
The fifth grade sock is back, again. No, his name isn't Lech Walesa, but it nevertheless is a sock. It has a hole (the sock, not Lech Walesa). Not a very big hole, about the size of a pencil width. One grass stain, slight filth. It was a Tuesday when the sock started for home after the graveyard shift. Six city blocks had been traversed by the time the sock reached his domicilistic habitat. The sock was rather stupid, so the story ended abruptly. Lech Walesa is a registered trademark of Poland (I think.)
If it wasn't for CTRL-Y, you would be able to see the line I just typed. It was because of the line I previously typed that CTRL-Y came into existance. Necrophelia? [sic] [gif] [sick] [ucla] Is a red battery worth more if the plastic hasn't been removed? Does the bubble gum lose its flavor on the wankel rotary engine overnight? Achtung -- Ouchtongue.
Four score and several terds ago, I decided I wasn't going to fish for silverware. It seemed important at the time, but now it seems so distant. As for the silverware, it is best left unspooned. I think it's time for another quiz, since I haven't insulted anyone lately...
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT BRIAN'S HOUSE
1.
The reason everyone wants to graduate from Brian's House is:
In fact, that was the Internal Revenue Service (be wary of strong drink: it can make you shoot at tax collectors and miss!) and not the International Record Syndicate who do The Alarm and The Three O'clock and all sorts of other weird groups but that's beside the point. So perhaps I will rap now. Keep in mind I'm serious about what I say - when it comes to business I just don't play. My rhymes have to be smart, stabbin' you in the heart, they don't call this boy the Emu Doctor just for the part.
It works better if you plug it in. And if you grease it first.
This may also be proven not to exist which really doesn't mean anything and so Jerry Falwell also doesn't come into the picture since he too does not exist. Nor does UTFO who I stole that rap from. Now for the deep part. Wooga wooga. Waaga wagga. Weega Weega. Wiiga Wiiga. Wuuga Wuuga. Wyyga Wyyga.
If you're feeling good, don't worry. You'll get over it.
I own all vowels ha ha Vanna. Black White or otherwise. Now we must have some serious reality genderchanges with ice cream as the sole successor to our sociobiologically religious unstable blender. Kinky. What the hell. cough. Okay so I don't know what I'm saying either - who cares if yer reading this you gotta be nutso anyway. Thank you.
LSD melts in your mind, not in your hand. Nobody is sayin nuttin about dem fuckin MandMs. (More C or just CaPiTaLiZiNGggggggg)
We may also notice that the political infrastructure of the current indigenization (not a paragraph) may not be what they seem - though what they are has yet to be seen except by certain individuals who have since become stranded on a desert island with a sheep fanatic. Get out the buckets now Marge! This is the meening of EEP OPP ORP AA-AH!
(I believe because it is absurd).
And so here we are again, punting hrd drives or drving hard punts or possibly punting line drives down the end of the road. Aaron's hard drive is single, and that seems to be the only single thing around here, as if that might or might not actually deal with anything thatmay or may not exist.
Remember, Emil Durkheim may not have known anything about Stephen Hawking, but he sure did know something about SUICIDE in Europe, which may or may not actually have anything to do with a) Europe or b) Suicide or possibly your mother, etc.
Remember, I'm the only person who knows who Emil Durkheim is, so this must be Chris. (Actually I listened, whilst half-asleep, to a religion-class lecture about the dude, and he's (he was) a social scientist or some such like Kant and such like.) -- Emu
Weather is here, wish you were beautiful!!! The sky is too clear, life's so easy today. The beer is too cold, The...Death to all Borg, unless they aren't, or something. Here, hold this, no, like this... So, my train of thought left the station of life too many years ago, so there you go.
We may or may not be old, but we certainly are older than we were yesterday, except for those of us who lived backwards until today, or something.
That was a meaningless space, meant to signify the meaningful space that we take up with our lives. We breathe, we eat, we kill, we feel emotion unless we don't, and then we get on the USS Crazy Horse, but we do not admit it, etc.
Isn't this rude? Money is only an object to those who have none. Call 1-800-LLAMAS4YOU Don't inhale. So who's sorry that they voted???? Nice tie. Don't snarf on your tie that binds, because people are tying each other up. Polish is a really cool language!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Professor Scott would hate this program, because it doesn't microjustify, but then again, he believes that all nubile women exist primarily as breeders for middle aged men, and young men exist because they make a high grade of Marine.
Don't hit your hed on a cealing fan, because it fucks up, or down, or something. Don't think for yourself. Think for someone else. Don't toush my monkey. So What's love got to do, got to do with it?????
Now, Karl Marx, who won the English football cup in 1959? Bad luck Karl, it is in fact Westham United! Now Mao Tse-Tung, what was Jerry Lee Lewis' biggest hit in the US of A? Thank you George but in fact it was not the Flying Lizards. Sex Machine, what? Rather (Dan!), it has been informed of us that the Emus are soon to stage a coup (chicken coup? No, emu soup!) Now this tells us something (seriously now folks ladies and gerbils we are on Planet Erthsky now) about the fundamental nature of the people amongst which we live. Really. I kid you not. Well, just a little bit. Some bum rolls plead. Now the sound of a ruler being vibrated off the edge of a desk. Also of Bill The Cat (not necessarily but possibly being vibrated off the edge of a desk) Thpppwppwpwpwwwwwwt isms.
Lions are growing like yellow roses on the wind
If we prove that something does not exist does that prove it does not exist or rather merely that we do not acknowledge (ack!) its existence on another existential plane? (plain?) Therefore, it can conclusively be proven that nothing in fact exists and that therefore it IS true that this is entirely slosh and in fact made by an extremely tired or merely fluffed and mayonnaised beyond belief individual (me!) and thus I can stop this and go home and enjoy myself and you won't have to read this any farther and I'll finish this when you finish reading it which is never and so everybody will be happy for the first time in history which in fact is a fallacy and a contradiction in terms itself but that is another pile of slosh's predicament to discuss and so thus I shall finish writing this. There is the minor consideration that nothing can be conclusively proven. PS: Intel's Extended Memory System (BART is Bay Area Rapid Transit to The Simpsons!) actually is EMS for EAT MY SHORTS but only on alternate Matthew Hollings.
With a rubber duck one's never alone. With a rubber one's hardly alone.
Tin fact the currant indigenization is pretty weird for the raisins, troubled though they may be. Scream at grapes. Or rape window screens? I scream for Dr Pepper mostly when I drink it I throw up I knew many Pepsii like that Ompey hey hey hey Find a little bitch gonna leave her in the ditch Gonna have a few fits gonna chop off her tits.
Or dump a load on em. But thra, sney, floooooooooooooopk.
Adios amigas y con quien te acuestas seņor P----- if it is M----- you shall die a thousandth of a death by beatings with 42 wet noodles and of course we must remember Special High Intensity Training and also the Fall Underwater Cuckoo Kicking In Non Green weather! Notice some slight similarity to N---- "Don't Stand So Close To Me Mr. D" (--------). But Steve said that. FMT2.
Death is Nature's way of recycling human beings.
Matrimony is not a word, it's a sentence.
That was installment ONE of Zang Tuum Tumb's not-at all-related ex-mother- in-law's fish-heads song.
Ban the bomb - save the world for conventional warfare.
ADDENDUM THERETO and THEREFORESUM sorta well anyway. This is not to say what AF is actually tired, merely that he claims to be so or that he in fact is physically so while under the mental destabilization of nudity? Would that I was.
When all other means of communication fail, try words.
And let us throw tactical nuclear emus while we are at it. And let us remember those days in which we excused ourselves with a religious enthusiasm. And let us remember the cabbage. And the lettuce. Ha ha ha ha ah. Peek-A-Boo! I can smell you. And I know you're a Schmoo! So put your hands on your toes! And pick your nose! Who knows where the nose goes? Peek- A-Boo! (Hans Franz Beersteins girls I once went out with and Fletch ate pizza to aargh did she ever like me even or waz I jus coot? Now noisms.)
I am gratified to say I can answer, and promptly. I don't know.
Power supplies are among those devices considered hoopy, as are people and of course mechanical organs. Prosthetic toes and such. Now does an EMUlator discomboggulateski an EMU or is it merely a sentence such as Norton Juster's "I am"? or Rene Descartes' "I think therefore I am"? or Ambrose Bierce's "I think I think therefore I think therefore I am"? or Monty Python's "I drink therefore I am"? or any of all of those things which Steve mostly wrote with bits by me and other people? or for that matter any of the other 673 words that somebody disgusted above? Preak a Foo - Kiss a schmoo - Boot a shoe - hey 4q!
Oh, dear, where can the matter be?
When it's converted to energy?
There is a slight loss of parity.
Johnny's so long at the fair.
[In reference to the above, parity is not conserved in macro-particles either. And I put three socks on this morning... and on my feet, too!]
The thought of meeting you makes me weak in the knee. Honey pie.
DISCLAIMER: This material is in fact all fiction and we hope to the major deity of your choice (if any) that we haven't copied anybody except where quoted and credit (5 except 7.5 for Honor Band) given et ceteraski. If anybody you find in here is similar to anybody or something you may have met, do not worry, neither exists. For information on this please refers to Chapters 1246, 328765, 184268, 1, 55, 59, 80, 79, 64, 12, 96, 80, 37807, 2127, 263, and in fact most of the rest of the Slosh.
Skinner's Constant (or Flannagan's Finagling Factor):
That number which, when multiplied by, divided by, added to, or subtracted from the answer you got gives you the answer you should have gotten.
Are you finished now, AF? is a good question and I think I will answer it now since I must go stick my head under a faucet and see if oil spleeks out. Yes I am leaving, talk to you in a later lifetime, and/or when I reload this and start typing deleteriful nonsense again! John Cleese. May sneeze.
All I ask is a chance to PROVE that money can't make me happy.
Eye fell wonferdul, ossifer.
Aktwale I fell like shti but that's between me and Stacy Fidanque's Franchise Tax Board.
Drawing on my fine command of the language, I said nothing. Besides FTC and FTP ... forget the consonants and the powels. Plimsouls? Lemon curry?
Oh give me a locus
Where the gravitons focus
Where the three body problem is solved
Where microwaves play
Down at three degrees K
And the cold virus never evolved
Home, Home on LaGrange
Where the space debris always collects
We have so it seems
Two of mans greatest dreams
Solar power and Zero Gee sex
Look, I apologize that I keep disappearing and coming back but you must realize that even I supreme studmuffin asshole Fred could not do all of this garbage at one time (it's taken me some years to promulgate) so every once in a while I shut up and then return to spew forth boll weevils once again. Doormats. That was instalment ninety-seven of zero-ized Gary Numan Elsewhere- specified number of episodes.
The probability of forgetting something is directly proportional to... to, uh.... Dolby Surround Sound.
It is too bad that this little Tandy laptop that I tote about cannot have the Slosh on it. Something about it having only the 720K 3.5" floppy to its name and the boot stuff and WordStar (yes! 3.3Pro!) take up too much space. If I could tote it around (yes, I know, more than one floppy disk would do) then I would be forced to show it to people... and that would be bad.
Besides, this has to be the most evil keyboad in the whole world. It's so finicky about which characters it wil accept and which it jst ens nto obvlin. Irritating habit, that. Makes you lose your train of thought, or at least derail it.
Slow, too, but cheap. And here at EmuTech, that's what's important. Cheap!
The damnedest thing about XT's is that ya gotta load all these device drivers... RAMDRIVE.SYS to get a drive C:, one to speed the video up by bypassing the BIOS or some such, one to speed up the CPU by dicking with the DMA timing for the DRAM refresh, eek. Tha and of course ya gotta load them all into low memory, and allocate your RAM drive there (256K of conventional RAM down the drain!) 'cuz there is NO high memory on an 8088-class machine.
Now that I have finished complaining, and set up clever batch files to provide me with relatively quick operation, by putting GWBASIC and WS onto the RAMDRIVE, the screen update is still slow. AARGH!!!
Anyway, no more comlaints, that's Jeff's department. And Eric Idle doesn't like the pill 'cos it's nasty.
With PACMAN, DIGDUG and ZAXXON I'm never out of six-letter executable files, and with GWBASIC and WS, I'm never without a useable computer. Until the battery wears down. At thirty bucks a pop I shan't get two. 'Sides, there's an amazing Emu gizmo which'll connect this thing to the electrical system in my car for MUCH longer use cycles. Heinous hyenas?
Admiral Wankel. Admriable wanker? Emu out, Star Trek's over, time for bed.
I am the death chicken, or at least the death cricket radar detector, much like the Salvation Army Air Corp, wherein they drop Santa Claus' on you shouting "Merry Christmas!" from great altitude, resulting in many dead Santa Claus wanna-be's, and a lot of flat innocent passerby. Flat-chested reindeer are different, Jeff. It uses the special 9-wolt battery, as advertised by Walter Koenig on TV. The death cricket, that is. Chrip frap turnip, I am the death cricket. Please Jimmy to me. Oh Madonna, oh Madonna, oh Madonna Cleavagetime.
Shall we determine which of the six possible locations for the horn activating mechanism. The fire exinguisher is between the hamster's dope pedals. It's what you push to get the dope in the weird rats-on-pot exeriments. No-one else will do it, therefore I must. Pass on the right, kill on the left, crush down the middle. Drive over Volkswagens, anyone?
Dope man, dope man, as long as he gets paid. And then there was the alleged dash-mat. Five-dimensional stereo or a stove. Makes no difference. Ron would have killed himself by now, whereas The Kid just strangles himself with the nearest Steve Vought. (That incidentally was brought on by Aaron saying, "Jeff I need an object: slimy, preferably at least ten feet long." He responded with, "Steve Vought"?)
Only there's no modem, and there's no bus. Kinda like the death turnip, only there's no death, and there's no turnip. What is that computer for? We have said this before.
Can anyone say picofarad? Aargh. 25 September = UC Davis. GIF = good.
Advice to nerds looking to get laid... take a social science class. Humanities and anthropology are good, psychology is okay but you get the kinda skanky nutso chicks... linguistics and the "soft sciences" yield bountiful harvests of cute chicks with huge "tracts of land"... also lots of hairspray and plastic faces but if ya look around... it's amazing how much good honest American tits & ass are out there begging for a nerd to grab them. 'Nuff said.
This is MobileSlosh, TS on location in West Forum, SJDC. It's 9:26 and nearly time for Gyermek's Art 1A: History of Art from prehistoric times to the Renaissance. Oh well, more sleeping. "Vell goot mornink ladiez and gennlemen." "Look at za pretty pigturez." And so forth. This after Herr Zeller's pep talk as to how wonderful Delta is and how wonderful we will be after he turns us from girlie-men into real students... this after the same speech six, maybe seven weeks ago in his summer session class. Such is life. Then we have Chris "Mathematica" Barker and finally Lyle A. "Buckwheat" Buckley. 14A Troubleshooting with only a soldering gun and some Freon to your name.
Advice #2 for girl-getting: Art classes. "Nine-sirty." Thanks Stephen. Tons O' blondes. And no psychopathic Japanese students, invariably late to class, making funny sounds and giving pears to people. Such as can be found in the electronics lab, Budd 221A thru G. Other more feminine things can be found on Budd 2, but their boyfriends are generally very large not-girlie men who hurt us nerds. 'Nuff said, eh? (II) (Chinese)
"All summer long, locked myself in this room, didn't come out." Lawson has turned into Imo Phillips. The question becomes one of, have you seen both at the same time in the same place? I think not. Perhaps they are the same person. Kinda like Ronald Reagan and Leonard Nimoy, or Alison Moyet and Randy Travis. No, no, they just sound the same, not look the same. Same, but different.
Go figure. C-435 is NOT as it appears, a hole in the wall. Question then becomes one of what happened to C-302, L-324 or whatever, and so forth. Not of course that my opinion involving women should be adhered to in any way shape form or manner - the only reason I got one is cuz she chased me down - contrary to what she will tell you. What does she know? End of gripe.
Actually, Buckley will someday be a "God Rest His Soul" just like some other instructors, since deceased, who shall remain nameless (Victor Ybarra). Having your wife beat you, bludgeon you, to death with a hammer is NOT, I repeat, NOT worth a girlfriend. Especially if she's as ugly as I hear. That and she was a student -- BAD TASTE CENTRAL!! Instructor fraternizing with students is one thing, but screwing them in their offices is simply poor judgement. What was that about pirots carulizing elatically? 'Nuff said (III).
And now, Radio Four will explode. And the Universe will explode for your pleasure. Drinks will be served, writs will be served, and Garkbit will Darkbit, take-ways and flargle out de doo'. and Mozart don't go shoppin no mo'. You'll never meet someone Brahms again and Handle - my handle is Dr Emu. What's yours? [Well it's better than I admire your oddly distributed fatty deposits - may I come in?] Or, if I were to tell you that you have a beautiful body, would you hold it against me? A: Very tight B: Not so very tight or C: Go stick your head in a pig! (GSYHIAP!)
The generation of random numbers is much too important to be left to chance. Three.
As I sit here waiting for school to start, the only thing that comes to mind is the theme song to "Big Valley". Wednesday, 7:50 A.M. Shermer High School; Shermer Illinois. There is nobody here this early. Somebody give me a clipboard so I can look like an Amway Salesman! As I take a seat on a nearby bench, I notice some of the more intelligent graffiti scribed into the wood: "BUS SYSTEM SUCKS". This was obviously written by one of the more rational juvinile thugs, worried more about the cold walk home than shooting at police cars. Waiting for his ride home on a cold winter night, he managed to scribble "Bus System Sucks" in a last effort to keep warm. This may explain the burn marks, his second-to-the-last effort to keep warm. (Something about fire-resistant paint.) Other nearby graffiti defilement includes the word "SLOCK" (origin unknown, although it does appear to be some form of vulcan modification) and "SHUT UP!", containing the "infinity" symbol under the exclamation point. I'm not even going to mention the usual passion-driven profanity that is also contained within these parts. A year ago, the score was 4 to 7.
S T A R T R E K : The Next-to-the-Last Generation. These are the voyages of the Starship DoorPrize. Its trite almost-ended mission: to seek out new life... and buy it. To coldly bowl where no league has bowled before! PREFACE: Captain Wesley Crusher now commands the donut-class flagship Enterprise. Upon his sixteenth year as Ensign, Starfleet Command decided it best to promote him to Captain, lest he be seen at the Academy another thirty years. Lieutenant Worf, Ship Security Officer, suffered a nervous breakdown and, in his elderly age, thinks he is a dog. His illegitimate son, Alexander, was killed at the age of 23 by a litter of bunnies. Jean-Luc Picard spent 6 years as Admiral of his own Ferengi Kwik-Stop. He eventually bumped into Dr. Beverly Crusher, and died soon thereafter (still a virgin). Dr. Crusher, realizing her son turned out to be a boring intellectual twit, faked her death upon Wesley's incarnation as Captain. She now resides on board a Romulan vessel, selling medical secrets to ex-Surgeon General C. Everett Koop. Lieutenant Commander Data, still in mechanical perfection, was eventually replaced by the Pentium (tm). He still resides on board the Enterprise, but only performing dishwashing and other repetetive tasks. Commander William T. Riker is Captain Crusher's First Officer, still remaining on the Enterprise despite many opportunities to become head of Starfleet Command.
Holly Hallstrom. Slosh entry for June 14:
How do you spell Whhorffff-q-ekek? Whorf, Worf, Wohrf, Worfh, Rufus, Wrfho, Orowheat, Noodlenose. Flipping through the channels, I usually don't stop to admire the latest trend on the Home Shopping Club, but I thought it best I mention the sales strategy of these "salesmen" (not gender specific). It seems that this realllllllly neat-o 486 computer system (SX or DX? Who cares? It's a 486, and according to the guy, it has "extra stuff up the wazoo!") "...Thirty... three... Megahertz... (pause) Now that's total quickness! (pause) ...with Windows three-plus-one Plus (and I thought Windows NT was something important!) ...and Windows-Works 2.0 (note: the very knowledgeable salesindividual cleverly pointed out that Works was an important accessory that allows you to have graphics and play games.)" Now here's the clincher - "...comes with 4 ram (pause) expandable to 32 ram." Note the missing clause "Megabyte". I think that's the reason they sell these top-of-the-fish units so darned cheap! They don't tell you it's Megabytes! They actually come with 4 bytes of brand-specific ram (the other 4092 bytes must be purchased specifically for that computer brand and run approximately $2000 a SIMM). / Enuff cheap shots.
Orowheat. The "O" on the package actually looks more like a "C" than it does an "O". Crowheat. Interesting. I'm still trying to prove that my high school Government teacher was a Klingon. Two problems exist:
A. Proving high school Government teachers to be extraterrestrial life forms is very tough indeed.
B. Assume he is a Klingon, and has been proven guilty by the school board. My diploma would be nullified. I'm not going to take Government from a Ferengi the next time!
The buck never got here.
It is a proven fact that everyone has a GIF file of NCC-1701-A,B,C,D or E. It is also non-coincidental that no-one remembers how these GIFs got into their GIF directory.
This part, being written in June of 1993, is being written in June of 1993. Techno-News Update -- the PUNTER is now ACTIVE. In order to keep your hard- drive head from falling off the cylinder head, Dr. Emu's WINBLAT! knocks the head back on the cylinder. This is known as "punting".
NEW TV SHOW starring FRED DRYER: P U N T E R
Fish-cheese unibits. But you only get one. Damn!
Copyright 1992 - BlatSoft, Inc. - Scotts Valley, CA
Thank you for purchasing WinBlat! WinBlat! features the latest technology in hard-drive "punt" detection. Here are the features of this latest revision:
/ Currently the fastest punt detection system available. (Less than 5 seconds average seek - 386/AT Systems).
/ Automatic detection of ALL types of known punting conditions.
/ Safely prevents punting damage of most IDE/SCSI/MFM hard-drives. (Data recovery rate of 99.375%).
/ Easy to mount hardware. (OPTIONAL)
/ "Always watching" TSR constantly looks for punting conditions while system is running. (OPTIONAL WITH HARDWARE KIT)
page 3:
Hard-Drive Self Destruction
With hundreds of destructive computer viruses in existance today, it is a suprising phenomenon that a fixed hard-drive can "crash" all by itself. The average hard-drive is subject to hundreds of thousands of read/write/delete commands throughout its lifetime. Like any other delicate piece of machinery, hard-drives need maintenance. Problems occur when too many file commands have been executed without the proper "clean-up" maintenance.
Files should ideally be stored in consecutive memory sectors. When the computer looks for the next memory byte of a file, it logically should follow in sequential order. Problems occur when bits of a file are scattered throughout the hard drive. The hard-drive may overlook small bits or even delete them. This condition is called file FRAGMENTATION. Various user utilities are available to correct this situation if caught early enough.
The destruction process:
STAGE 1: Files "disappear" or no problems encountered. The files don't actually disappear, but data will not save properly in the File Allocation Table (FAT). If there is a mismatch between the FAT's indicated file length and the actual file length, the file will be deleted from the FAT. The file is still there, but must be recovered using special FAT-Recovery utilities.
STAGE 2: Lost Clusters. When running CHKDSK or other disk utilities, this message may be encountered. This means that there are missing portions of a program that are NON-RECOVERABLE.
STAGE 3: Programs "lock up". Program files take a few extra minutes to execute in the early stages. In the latter portion of STAGE 3, programs may lock up the computer and not run at all.
STAGE 4: FIXED DISK DAMAGE! Overly-neglected hard-drives can be ruined all together when this STAGE occurs. If nearly all files are fragmented, the vector pointing to the next memory sector may be corrupted, pointing to invalid sectors. E.g. - sector 23112 points to sector 12117, which points to sector 4167339 - WHICH DOES NOT EXIST (on drives under 1,000MB). Normally, the FAT reports such sectors as INVALID and attempts to reread. However, in hard-drives which have been overly-neglected, FAT corruption may occur. This can cause the drive head to attempt to read sectors OFF THE DISK! IF the drive head slides off the disk, the hard-drive is DESTROYED PERMANENTLY.
page 4:
The WinBlat! Punt-detector
What it does:
To prevent your hard-drive's head from falling off the cylinder head, we at BlatSoft have designed a security system to PREVENT PERMANENT DESTRUCTION. Upon startup of your computer, the hard-drive Controller makes a sweep of your hard-drive to verify that it exists in working condition. WinBlat! receives your drive data vectors at the same time the controller does. If your controller attempts to read off the cylinder head, it is safeguarded by the File Allocation Table on the hard-drive, which renders it invalid, and a Controller Error occurs. If, however, the FAT is corrupted (see page 3, STAGE 4), the Controller will throw the cylider read/write head off the disk, destroying the drive. This is where WinBlat! comes to the rescue! Since WinBlat! receives your drive data vectors at the same time your Controller does, WinBlat! confirms that these vectors are valid (the vectors are preset upon installation of WinBlat!). If these vectors are not valid, the following occurs:
1. Invalid data vector - head attempts to read off disk.
2. Just as the head reaches the edge of the disk, WinBlat! FORCES the head back on the cylinder.
3. The Controller tries to read off disk again.
4. WinBlat! continues to FORCE the head back onto the cylinder.
THIS CONSTANT FORCING OF THE DRIVE HEAD IS KNOWN AS "PUNTING THE HARD-DRIVE" AND PRODUCES A LOUD "KLUNKING" NOISE WITHIN THE DRIVE.
WHEN PUNTING OCCURS, IMMEDIATELY TURN OFF THE COMPUTER AND HAVE THE DRIVE SERVICED, USING PROPER F.A.T.-CORRECTING PROCEDURES. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO FIX THE DRIVE YOURSELF UNLESS YOU ARE FAMILIAR WITH THE FILE ALLOCATION TABLE.
Although PUNTING is not healthy for the drive, it does prevent permanent damage to your hard-drive.
Thank you for using WinBlat! punt-detector. Any comments or additional registration may be directed to:
BlatSoft, Inc.
921 S. Circuit Way
Scotts Valley, CA 94166
That is, the GSYHIAP part not the RND# bit. personally I think she is going to a funeral. That chick is too weird for me. I kid you not. Why such a truly offensive piece of male chauvinism is CUTE to her is entirely beyond me, but, then again, she's female, why should I understand what the boingbons goes on inside her head espeically considering I cannot understand what goes on inside mine. She is also full of s--- [shit] (at least until she excretes!) And she says she does but Joe Isuzu (David Leisure is his name!) says that since he's an actor, he's on TV and he lies that he should run for President - if he picked Vanna White as his running mate they'd sweep the polls. Sorry for the fact that that all made sense I apologize and are you a fish anybody? Freep the Poles? Seven.
All probablitilies are 50%: Either a thing happens or it doesn't. Ten.
That was episode twelve of The Birth Of Mary Queen Of Inebriates. And now, Radio Four will... And now, Radio Four will... And now, Radio Four will... And now, Radio Four will... And now, Radio Four will... And now, Radio Four will... And now, Radio Four will... And now, Radio Four will... And now, Radio Four will... And now, Radio Four will... And now, Radio Four will... And now, Radio Four will... And now, Radio Four will... sneeze.
A very intelligent turtle,
Found programming UNIX a hurdle.
The system, you see,
Ran as slow as did he.
And that's not saying much for the turtle.
Goodnight. What I wanna know is who the fuck spilled that shit on this page? Well not actually on this page, but on the page of the last printing that looked pretty much like this one but for the phrase "What I wanna know is who the fuck...."...."...."...."...."...."...." Ninety-two... give me a Scottish pound or I will blow up this plane. Me a plumber.
A group IQ is the lowest IQ of any individual in the group divided by the number of people in the group.
And now for something completely different....A part which some still shouldn't bother to read. But have been removed nevertheless. Thankyou.
These wisdoms from Chris "Da Capitalist Pig" Flootch Fletch (fluetsch-at-cris-dot-com):
Bust a move. Bite the apple. Get it on the way back. As my friend Beaker said when we surprised he and his girlfriend out in the woods on our backpacking trip, "Go Away!" Remember, a kiss is just a kiss, but a good blowjob can last all day. If we're all here, we can't all be there. When in doubt, pull out.
To which I replied:
Aaron F "Dr Emu" Shephard
123 "Home" Any Bloody Street
Spectrum "Rectum of the Universe", CA 95240-3409
"Today" Today
Christopher Harrison "Fletch the Lech" Fluetsch
220 "Where the fuck is" Ryerson Hall
Davis "I went to elementary school there", CA 95616-nqcb
Hey bud,
Yer a truly weird fucker. Thaz life tho. Ever see a movie called PUMP UP THE VOLUME it's got Christian Slater who's really JD from HEATHERS. Point is, "Talk Hard!" This from a guy named Happy Harry (hairy?) Hard-on. Mine's named Frank as that's my middle name and he's my middle leg. Makes sense.
So I go to school and I fall asleep and the teacher wake me up at the end of class and gently kick me out. I don't have them funky-ass dream sequence shit I though I heard you telling me about in that letter-oid thing you sent He. Becuz of that. Thaz life tho.
So I wrote this program... it read all of the words in the Slosh and in all the Berlin lyrics and some other shit and now spits them out randomly in an attempt to make poetry-type shit. Thaz life tho.
Tell Erika that she deserves a better bum than you and that I am that. Thaz life tho. Lie to her some, play her "Somebody" and "If You Want" and "Lie To Me" from Depeche Mode's SOME GREAT REWARD which I know you have the tape of 'cause it's got PEOPLE ARE IGUANAS on it. Thatz life tho. Beat her soundly about the head and clitoris for me, would you? Thaz life tho. Tanx.
So who needs condoms but for wind socks on you car and bike, right? Thaz life tho. I read the cartoon you sent me about a virtual reality suit and thought, Republicanism. Also I read the newspaper clipping about UCD students going to BYU and the Mustang Ranch and... I thought, not for me. I already got my speeding ticket. Nice CHP ossifer, don't bite. Thaz life tho.
So anyway I got four computers that don't do shit 'cuz I haven't given them a butthole to do it with and a girlfriend I been going with for close on a year now and (get this) 1,000 watts in my car and a need for a job. I sent my resume off someplace yistiddy. Didn't even know I had one didja care I donno life's fukd. So sometime I und mebbe sum udders we go cum and c u, wot? Onestree I rite butter thun tickels shunfrines.
Send me yer phone number you twit so's that I can avoid calling you.
Why fuck around the bush? Poke, Peek, Load!
Aaron etc etc you read all that
("Thaz life tho" was conceived, written, produced and shitt on by...)
Oddly enough, I have none of: That car, that job, that girl. All are either better, worse, or different. Not necessarily in that order.
Semantically it resembles thus:
if isalpha(c) printf("%c",c);
With some declares and shit. #Define Shit_Brown_Color.
So anyway, three kinds of lies: Lies, Damn lies, and Statistics.
Four kinds of homicides: Felonious, excusable, justifiable, and praiseworthy.
Five kinds of elephant pantyhose but I won't tell you what they are.
Okay, so if you think that I am writing this you are wrong. It is just some s--- (shit) in my head. That marginally realistic-type completely-f--- (fuck)ed-over piece of sack of s--- (shit) sluttest trash can dirt bag bitch! over, I can do something interesting even if self-satisfying, boring, stupid and efficacious towards women (whatever that means - efficacious that is! not women though I understand neither I know what the word women represents now, better then ever before.) Even by now nerdly as I am I think I think I know I think what women I think are I think. Eh.
It's really a quite simple choice: Life, Death, or Los Angeles.
Heboing underwear snugglies. Snorkling in potatoes can be found, but only under circumlocutious decisions in which she would not want to be carrying a coat. Besides, with tits like that, who would want to win a Winnebago from bagel hell. Oy veo - today I see that I am Yiddish. Hoy ve - today I go. CMO, CMOS, CMA, CMAMOS, CMICE, CMAN. Chips for Spanish dips.
Yu hve a fsh n yur pcket. I wnt tu knw why Stv sys I hv a fsh n my pckt. Why wuld I hv a fsh n my pckt?
Um, yeah. So well indeed shut the f--- (fuck) up Carl Sagan. I donno. I am just a dumb Martian without any sake whatsoever. Which is fine because sake does nasty things to Martians and their digestive trax. Also their cardiovascular and respiratory systems but that's women and not their efficaciousness for you. Or Me. So well indeed. No Carl Sagan. Eventually I will learn how to type and spell and also stop using that So. Well. Indeed. Carl Sagan this! Brouhahaha hahahahahaha hahahaha hahahahah and there. Four arms three nerds two pieces of paper and a nudist in a tree. 2H 4H and bru ha ha just think of your club your community your country (and as was later added) [not your institutional learning facilities] but your world.
When asked, "What do you think of Western civilization?", Mohatma Gandhi replied, "I think it would be a good idea."
Oops (spoo) (sailor marijuana) more space to fill up.
This part can berra read. Truly ecstatic now reader (did you realize that your name is very hard to spell (especially when I don' know what it is) when I am typing quickly and also high on Coke (the liquid variety) not that I am high of the liquid variety nor are you of the liquid variety (I don't think - remind me to check sometime) but that in fact the Coke was of the liquid variety. Sure! You understood all that, right?
ALPHA VELVEETA KNUCKLE UNDERWEAR YOU ARE CLEARED TO LAND
The probability of a young man meeting a desirable and receptive young woman increases by pyramidal progression when he is already in the company of:
1. His date
2. His wife
3. A better looking and richer male friend.
WOMEN HAVE GILLS! I have seen them. The gills, not the women. Wait, both (no! neither...) well anyway. TMBA. Timber. I have fallen. Urk.
Now, no fileswitching nor bankswitching, protected mode or not, nor underwear nor PMRC protecting you from things they find offensive can keep me from loving you. Hating Me. Riding in my Emuzoid car. Sorry heat Rubbermaid butt.
AMAZING BUT TRUE: If all the sand in Northern Africa were spread it out it would completely cover the Sahara Desert.
Various editings have been made as far as words that individually in theory could offend some people. Ideally of course I would have deleted them (as certain PMRC-type are not interested in being protected from things they find offensive; rather, they are interested in protecting everybody else from things they find offensive.)
When in doubt, do the right thing.
Steve points out that these are Variations not by Penthouse but a manic depressive kitchen implement. 'Tis Slosh due to that being what it is.
Snark spark sprak Vreeom. Spu-DRAMs, frip-trams, shit I'm late. But at least not bleeding but from my thumb not butt.
If you knew what you were doing you'd probably be bored.
Nevertheless, in keeping with other marginally more serious journalistic tendencies, I have modified these so as to contain the same meaning; as a matter of fact, you know what the words are, by looking at them, so what the difference is between "f--- [fuck]" which is what I have been using and "fuck" I'll never know. Hmm.
(Where n is equal to the square root of the reader's shoe size multipied by the cube root of the nearest negative equialent of their I.Q.)
Or, AF is tired - and Steve is saying Variations of a Manic Depressive (SVD is bloinged again).
I might add (fuck that - I will add!) that this is now called THE SLOSH as that is what it is. I see you, Ronnie (ha I got yer name right for once it must be imprinted on my cortex or something).
AHA!
Don't you feel more like you do now then you did when you came in?
That is to say, it was over now (which was then) and has actually close to nothing (that is to say, it was actually nothing but has proceeded to be close to nothing via whale feces) to do with the procession thereuntofore to now in which I am still continuing while nevertheless being over - over my head with my heels being healed by the flying chiropodist if you datch by crift. Or is it splatch by crypt? I dunno. Who the aark aark aark aark aark aark aark Come se dice oops?
Be different: conform.
Well, you who is reading this (you who? you hoo!) may find a total lack of creativity in its recent additions and wish for a return to its original style. This is the last intelligble thing I will say for a while, in keeping with that philosophical nightmare. No more fish, no more fishwords nor fishwars. Now watch carefully, because for at no time will my carport leave my word-processor. Oopsky poopsky and troopsky - Boys Scouts excreting in Russia? Gawd I have no Leslie. And just think, I am not Black Flag. I just don't smell like Henry Rollins, nor do I have as many tatoos. (Sheep + Goat = Geep is not a Jeep and is not American Motors nor Kaiser nor Hudson or whatevernot fish-phlegm.)
Now what was that about AMC oh yeah. That's this girl see? And she give me shti like this 'bout shti like dat. Not DAT, or DCC, but this: (See?)
Taoism: Shit happens.
Confucianism: Confucius say, "shit happens."
Calvinism: Shit happens because you don't work hard enough.
Buddhism: If shit happens, it really isn't shit.
Seven Day Adventist: No shit on Saturdays.
Zen: What is the sound of shit happening?
Hedonism: There is nothing like a good shit happening.
Hinduism: This shit happened before.
Mormonism: This shit will happen again.
Islamism: If shit happens, it is the will of Allah.
Moonies: Only happy shit really happens.
Stoicism: This shit is good for me.
Protestantism: Let the shit happen to someone else.
Catholicism: Shit happens because you are bad.
Hare Krishna: Shit happens, rama rama.
Judaism: Why does this shit always happen to us?
Zoroastrianism: Shit happens half of the time.
Christian Science: Shit is in your mind.
Atheism: No shit.
Existentialism: What is shit, anyway?
Rastafarianism: Let's smoke this shit!
Thanx Ann Marie Caramiho for those of us who were wondering. New -isms not from Ferris Bueller:
Davisism: Will this shit be on the test?
Ross Perotism: This shit is not political.
Clintonism: This shit is a contraction for "clitoral orgasm".
Bushism: This shit should be shaved.
Jesse Jacksonism: This shit can talk up a storm.
Dan Quayleism: This shit is spelled potatoe.
And so forth. Danforth? Stack acrobatix.
Ievoah's Witnessessess: This shit goes door to door.
Actually it's those spitting barbecues. That and big bare bouncy breasts - but mostly the barbecues. You may wonder why it is that I would rather talk about barbecues rather than breasts rather... I wouldn't! But a girl's got to have her standards, you know?
Yes, I am Herr Potato. This is the Potato farm. Grenade!
Where on the horse does the horse radish come from?
So it's a deadhead, a frisbee, nothing but a desire to be elsewhere, have other, be yet else, for again, the Popcorn. I don't know what to do... I suppose patience being a bloody virtue, waiting in order is. QW ERTY eek.
I show you puns and ballet. Though VS is a good editor, it ain't WS still. So I think we crank up the SETMEM and the SLOSH will stay on the CompuPro (have I said this before or what) and just make a converter to pass it about on BBSi and whatever for the PC crowd -- that's IBMclone users not necessarily politically correct peoples. Ooh.
Wash it through the ASCIIeater and all hell breaks loose.
Say Melanie, why won't you go out with me. Oh yeah, him and the other. But he's gone and maybe all she wants is to be friends. Oh yeah, what's "JJust friends" anyway. Now I can live without sex that's not really a big deal (orificially or otherwise) but what's with the hugs, the kisses, the meanings of being warm of a cold night? Or hot of a warm one? Or really flaming hot of a hot one? You see? Man needs woman like he needs another hole in his head but more! MoreMoreMore.
Two at a time? Shya, right> And Franchise Tax Boards are gonna fly outta my hairpiece.
That of course being a different anonymous than we usually have, Steve, for your information. THE PRISONER what was the bubble's name? Rover, thazzit. Oy.
Oh I dream of a world where the TP is brown and the shit is white!
The other dream I have, my life-would-be complete-when-I-did it sort of thing, is to douse myself in much Jello gelatin and then set fire to it.
Course it wouldn't burn! What do you think, I want to hurt myself!
I like work: I can sit and watch it for hours.
Toe sex in the working class. Wporking sex in the toe class. Yes Steve, wporking. So a whorehouse in Nevada is going public, selling shares on the stock exchange. They're going to be listed under Pork Futures.
It's not that I'm afraid to die. I just don't want to be there when it
happens.
-- Woody Allen
Except perhaps with reverse parastolysis (peristalsis) (smeghed) attempts. Booger cheese C:\rootdir\semen\MOTD.DAT ~ :;(ovrw)[syspop]
A closed mouth gathers no foot.
And now for something completely mattresses. Dog kennels are fun to play catch with and hey! wow I am a fish you are a fish we are all fish you are not a turtle (Teenage Mutant or otherwise) I am not a turtle are you still reading this we are all not turtles. I think so. No no no no no more please no more Wall Of Voodoo it's worse than the Human League but I should have said what's long hard and full of ... well it's a submarine with nuclear bathplugs to keep the bedbugs out you figure them or it or something. Reciprocity of invertebrates and all that.
We can defeat gravity. The problem is the paperwork involved.
Out. Are you still there Debbie? So far out it's not funny.
Serving coffee on aircraft causes turbulence.
Not. I repeat not, a drill. It is a tablesaw, or a grinder, or a sabersaw or a file or a screwdriver, but not a drill. OH NO KILLER MAKITAS FROM HELL So much space.
Anybody who doesn't cut his speed at the sight of a police car is probably parked.
Input output throughput put get key man these computers can confuse people. Can you see me typing this? Yes - you are confused. No - Answer YES and see Yes above.
According to the latest official figures, 192% of all statistics are useless.
Okay so what happens if I press this button? famous last wirds like I'll just touch this ir... Or maybe I'll fish for Kathleen Sullivan in a nuclear chain-fighting dog-smoke in a Hyundai. Did you understand? No? Good. Neither did I and if you understood garble Fard-wark nudism then hey, wow, condoms what a reality you're real weird. What that said was, no an ftexcaeo Koop. No, really. Reality - what a concept! Reality - what a construction site! Sight - what a subjective reality complete with non-genetic clones of Mrs. B----- and now for something completely.... and now for something completely.... and now for something completely.... and now for something completely....
he nurds!
Okay, so CTRL-SHIFT-P S and wow, ideaz! Orange Sciroccos! Now you don't know about that but it's from an earlier time when I wrote stuff I liked as opposed to now when I just write B.S. (see there I didn't say the word or even use bulls--- [shit] but I used a marginally more tasteful thingy. Purists would still maintain that the use of the phrase BULLPUCKY is preferable, but what the fuck, have some luck, take the pluck. Plunge I meant but it doesn't rhyme. See I have enough problems with words without worrying about rude ones) long sentences and pray you don't notice I'm talking (well, typing) sensibly again. Oops.
Once, adv.: Enough
You can lose your mind, your head, your way, and your virginity; but you can never lose your innate sense of having no reason to read this.
There's no point to growing up if you can't be childish sometimes.
-- Dr. Who
Electrocution is burning at the stake with all the modern improvements.
Taxes, n.: Of life's two certainties, the one for which you can get an exception.
WELCOME TO TURDSHIT which is Fluetsch's baby. Except for the first quote which I put there after reading what Fletch had to say 'cause I'm stiffed at him about W. Whaz new, thaz life tho, ehkta ehkta blah snot. He's right though. Buy American cheese Cars motors.
Here in my car, I feel safest of all.
I can lock all my doors - it's the only way to live.
Here in my car, I can only receive.
I can listen to you. It keeps me stable for days
Here in my car, the image breaks down.
Will you visit me. Please, if I open my door
Here in my car, I know I've started to think
About leaving tonight, although nothing seems right
I know I've started to think...
In Cars. Tasha, Tilda, left nut ho. W. Thppppt!
Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil, for I am the biggest bastard in the Valley.
Allen Klein (Beatles' manager-person)
That kid was nothing to get happy about. Anyone can buy knighthood these days. The king's son gets everything. A new horse, the nicest armor, a great big strong lance. What a weenie. So then that dragon came along and got tricked by a virgin into capturing her. Actually I knew that "virgin" and he was tricked twice, because those goods were damaged! But that stupid dragon had to go and get himself killed right in my front yard. So I shot the prince. End of story. Oh yeah, the virgin went on to have a long and successful career as a Molly Ringwald stand-in. Life's funny that way.
To bee or not to bee, that is a question. Weather is nobler in the mind of a whether man than in place or time in reel life. And who likes to fish anyway?
Gandalf the Grey: a young loner on a quest to champion the week, the wmonth, the year. And time marches on, captruing first place award for both music and showmanship, securing a guest shot on Carson.
I think Sauron didn't have the right PR guy. (See Crazy People?) Think of what might have happened if he had purchased Trump's PR department. "Come to Mordor, where every day's a night and every knight is dark."
As the son of a sailor, I went out on the sea for adventure. I highly recommend it.
Terri Nunn is not headcheese. But she sure can sing. Freedom at last/Trust in a needed friend. (I think I Aaron said that not Chris)
Beware the Cliffs of Despair and the Grafts of Chaos, where brave men perish and young virgins aren't. That's my job. I'm a dragon. They said the king's son was a bad ass. Wrong! He only killed a little baby. Talk about a wimp chimp.
Fetal chipmunks do not make good caviar. This is true and Ritz crackers do not help. In fact, tables don't help either. Then again, tables are nothing more than a three dimensional graft of a four dimesional Twinkie from Hell. Speaking of which, Van Halen is just the time shift of the brain of King Charles the First, who lost his head over the English Civil War, which wasn't very civil at all, because a lot of people died, which is always a major bummer, and that's something that Pres Bush (Busch?) needs to learn, because that might blow the froth off his beer (better than off his boar) an calm him down while he's wasting energy and oil by running that goddammed speedboat of is all over the Atlantic Ocean like the total ultraweenie that he is. Today's word is weenie, my friend. Remember that.
"Nine and a Half Weeks" will hopefully teach me something that I can take back to Erika so as to create a situation in which... well, never mind, because you are more likely do be doing that sort of thing in an adult and mature fashion much sooner than I am. And if you weren't, I'm not the sort of guy to **** and tell anyway, which is one of the things that so many large mammals find so attractive about my sister, who is not one of the smallest mammals in the world, not being a shrew, though some people say she needs taming. But I wouldn't want to be the guy to do it, even if she wasn't my sister, which she is, although I may have mentioned that before to you, if my brain isn't totally dead, which it may be, and, anyway, i haven't said anything important (nevermore said the emu) and all I'm doing is wasting energy and time, which is making us go to another country and kill lots of Arabs. Even though that makes some of us very happy, namely a young gentleman by the name of Michael P. Warde, a fine Catholic boy whose primary goal in life is to kill as many people who aren't white, Anglo-Saxon, Catholics. WASC!
The theory of what comes up, must come down applies to penises. Peni? Also entropy... you come closer and closer to being unorganized, actually orgasm, etc. (Similarly Emu-esque I think)
I hate knights. They just think they're so fucking awesome, you know, although all they really are are rich little daddy's boys with their father's horse and armor. And they think that makes them so Goddammed awesome or something.
Well it don't.
I'm sitting on my little mule down at Sumaria Grilled Dragon and up rides one of them there knights in shinning armor, just like out of a book, and, sure enough, he's got one of them there virgins sitting in front of him, though, by the way he was pawing at her filmy white dress I figured she wouldn't stay dragon bait for long, if you know what I mean, and I'm sure you do.
So anyway, I'm minding my own business, you know, just kicking back, sucking on a muckshake (with real swamp muck, no less) and he walks over to me. Like killing some poor dragon ain't enough. Now he's got to pick on the little peasant.
Well, I ain't having none of it, so I stand up and say "Yo, homeboy, chill way out, ya know." And he just laughs at me.
Shit. Thaz life tho. Which is to say Chris is a knorklebutt. (This is definitely me again not him)
If God had intended for Man to walk, He would have given him Feet.
Another Chris, this one a Bla-Ack-Squid (Well, ya know) has this to say about something else again:
GLOBGUTS: I am to be a fornication! Squick, bleed over my pants and frog lips to dine upon my sisters fun horny eels. Spider pants crawl over my eggs.
Which is whatever. I should FAX this beastie to SixAM as that would disturb great quantities of people to no end but we knew that didn't we.
I. Urh, don't do that I can't think. Ha ha. Frap poke poke doodle. Giggle. Sna cheese. The first LACs took up the SLAC from the flak of the flaca Aargh let's kill the (Spanish) (Basque) (Bask in the sun Iguana) teacher.
Okay. No fair. Not anymore. Wait for the Grape Festival. Now you don't know about that but it's from an eariler time when I wrote about stuff I liked as opposed to now when I just write stuff (I didn't even say bollpucky but a more tasteful thingie - but what the fuck, have some luck, take the pluck, plunge doesn't rhyme here.) [I have enough problems, you see, with words, without worrying about rood ones, long sentences, and pray you don't notice I'm talking, typing anyway, sensibly again. Oops/spoo!]
Line printer paper is strongest at the perforations.
So like, I was following the Ho Chi Minh trail, kind of like the Yellow- Brick Road except Mr. Fred Rogers was not to be found. It was post-WW 3, all fifteen minutes of it. Here, an SLBM from Russia with nukes. Ah, but we can out-MIRV the commies and hey! wow! we're all blown to bits, (viz, oral sex!) except me since I was in pieces anyway the nuke sort of reassembled me. I seem to have a few more legs than normal (try seventeen) but hey! I'm not a mutant, really I'm not!
|SEGMENTATION VIOLATION: CORE DUMPED
|BRAIN FRIED: CORE DUMPED
And this dude (who incidentally didn't look like a lady sorry Aerosmith not to be confused with Run-DMC for obvious reasons walk some other way - away from me) comes up to me and says Buy a watch bud? And I said no I'm not from Oregon but all I wanted was a Pepsi and she wouldn't throw it at me!
Government expands to absorb revenue and then some. Nark nark. Who's there. Channel 40 of course. The pepsi didn't love me back. Worst kind of drink. Finger in a Vogon's throat.
Things will get worse before they get better. Hey - who said things would get any better?
TV Party tonight. Were goinna have a tv party tonight. alright. were gonna vomit our heads off tonight. ALRIGHT!
Molecular biologists wear designer genes.
Dammit, I'm getting weird again. This was supposed to be a straightforward funny piece. Oh well, to emu-dung with seriousness I only rent it anyway. Just like my feet.
Cocaine: The thinking man's Dristan.
And this yellow submarine came up and stopped next to me on the road. So I extended my electronic positronic bioflonic quamblepeefic THUMB and they gave my a hitch-ride. Wow man, all my friends had survived the WW3 poofz, they were all there except for the ones next door (sorry you-know-who-you- are's I guess- it makes slightly more sense which is an Ideal I am trying to Achieve. Obviously I don't know Ideals from Worm Feces but oh well back to the main lack-of-story-line)
and we had a celebratory action often but not in this case called a EEEEEEEEhis is a Record Album. It is not XTC Go 2. Buy Consume Ingest!) More caffeinated thingies than I had ever seen including the famous mid-year post-final pseudointoxication which a few of you may remember with varying levels of clarity. No dry-ice this time though, but we were havin fun. Talkings, pilotings of a vehicle without the doc dock or documentation.
Arnold's Laws of Documentation:
Nothing cures insomnia like the realization that it's time to get up.
Narklebark. And so I was walking. And I walked. And I put one foot in front of the other to Achieve (ha! that word again!) a pedile (yes I meant that and not that other word since I don't use THAT for walking on - though it is most useful in certain situations, eh Stuart?) form of locomotion. And it wasn't even not-Wednesday. Rutabaga! What fun. And this Orange Scirocco came up, fast, slick, and rockin the Pistols. Gawd I loved it, especially when I thought I could write decent thingies unlike nowisms. Well, they can be good but still, two Punch and Judy yours!
I'm prepared for all emergencies but totally unprepared for everyday life.
So anyway we were riding along on this Scirocco on this Submarine on the Ho Chi Minh Trail on our way to see the Wizard Harley Davidson Greenwood. We represent the William Morris Agency. Damn this is getting weird but I ran out of ideaz IDEAL!!!!! NOT ACHIEVED!!!!!! AAAAGH!!!!! I am upset at myself for not achieving an ideal, a goal I had set, the thought that this most long-winded of hitchhikes, could actually (literally and in the lack-of- story line) get someplace. It must be Someplace, it's just that I don't know Where. Consider: It's not that it's gone in the wrong direction; you're not lost, for, wherever you are, hey! there you are! and my cat is stretching to read what I am typing - he is a talented cat I did not say he can read but I did say he is talented - so I will continue just sort of writing what comes into my head when he (that is to say my cat and not you N---- or you Mr. D (--------) or Ho Chi Minh or my brother who was oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop Steve says to stop ooping on the carpet he has tpo clean up afterward.
supposedly driving the Scirocco this is also not XTC Go 2 nor 3 nor 97 but that is yet another pile of slosh's predicament to try and explain or Hsarev) sneezes.
A sine curve goes off to infinity - or at least the end of the chalkboard.
It's not a bug, it's a feature.
It's noo a big, tza future.
Snoo black, ja fjoor.
Zsa Zsa Gabor.
By Ymos TU with assistance from Skip and Shaggythoth
(Designed --shyeah, right!-- for inclusion in The Slosh or the Duchess' goose liver pate!)
Those tits, those beautiful breasts. Damn right. Shaggythoth, center (and thus Hero) of the Universe, sits, pitifully distracted from wishing he the money for his usual pepperoni and Rocky Road pizza with double cheddar by a nymph in human guise, In Dennys', his cosmic sexual frustration slowly building.
(Shta).
1^4 = 1/4 = 4x100
Cheese is a universal constant. All else is variable.
-P. Chekov
What is the next number in this sequence?
1,3,5,7,13,17,23,42...69!
Oh no! The 1992, '92 and '93 Ex-Lax poster child is running things again tonight!
Love is a pussyfart with the lights out and the whipped cream on.
He who laughs in the face of Death is a fool.
He who laughs in the face of Life is a fool.
Ymos TU (think about it!)
What does the little man in the refrigerator do on his days off?
He goes skiing. No, I don't know either guys, I just type this shti.
Ask not what your country can do for you, because we might tell you. Which does not belong on a romantic cruise to Nigeria:
[ ] Leather and Lace
[ ] Fireplace and Bearskin Rug
[ ] Squeeqies and Porcupines
Are electron paths hula hoops or tangerines, i mean tambourines? No, tan bovines!
I have never laid eyes on a violet bovine.
It is my devout wish never to view said specimen.
I can mention with absolute equanimity though, that I would rather
observe one that exist as such.
The spider was sentenced to 6 months in prison and was released after two. Miss Mufffet is currently undergoing treatment for a severe case of arachnophobia at Arkham Asylum...
And the chant goes on... "Hare Krishna. Krishna Krishna. Rama Krishna. Rama Nyarla thotep. Kali. Kali. To Pan. Iago Pan. Hare Cthulu. Rama Chtulu"... and on... and on...
Barking mad! I say, foaming at the mouth even. Barking? Are you sure? It sounds to me more like Howling or even Neighing to me?
Kim buy yah. Yah buy kim. But only because you both need the money. (PENNY! But who's farming? Pins metaphysics and hyperkinetics.)
!eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeem pleH. The dying quote of a paranoid dyslexic.
Oh give me a home where the wildebeests roam
Where the mastodon zygotes and spermatazoa play
Where seldom are stroked, the oxen we've yoked
To a cart containing the corpse of Doris Day
Blow, blow on the way
To a grizzly bear farm in LA
You can suck a big duck
If you've got all the luck
And Quayle just might get laid.
Curry Rice. The Rocky Horror S.F. Football championship.
I'm drinking small wooden pegs.
The Wise Wizard Laws of Cards:
Beeep. The number you have (not) reached has been disconnected solely to inconvenience you (unless it's Jim's!) Isn't it great that we've got you brainwashed to the point where you think cxan misdial three times in a row?
Twenty... minutes, to one o'clock. The nads that are way past your doom.
Twenty... minutes, to one o'clock. To teach the fetus oral sex while it's still in the womb.
I like oral sex.
Goat Karma. Contents of clotheslines past shall return. Kinda like goatcheese. You eat it and later it returns when ya cut it. Sail Away Sail Away Sail way to China in Your Hands T'Pau = Enya. I'd like to be in the hands of that chick in T'Pau (Carol Decker her name is eh) When Denny's gives you ice tea, make lemonade. My God! You wouldn't believe how much lemonade I've made after drinking all that tea. Damn! I gotta take another piss I mean whizz sorry not...
Y'know those Turbanmobiles aren't half-bad. oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop You got her all primed, ready to go, her legs up on the mantelpiece just AWAITIN for your... hello I'm a proper psychiatrist and he's not. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Bru ha ha ha ha Bru ha ha ha ha I'm Speed Racer and I drive real fast and I'm a Barbie Doll and I like sex are you Mr. Kamikaze Mr. oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop DNA a human sacrifice Mr. DNA or are you Ryan A. Robinson Dr. DNA.
Paragraph. Sketch, please! (ding!) WHO THE FUCK SAID THIS: Any one of us could be the guilty party 'cuz I recognize my Typos, Chrisitis of both flavors or maybe Jason... aarghg - Who did this: Squid!
I am the klaxon wall. Destroyed by pure chance I eat the essence of my small, dismal and dreary life. Because of this I am no longer the man I long to be. For this is a quest of the greatest essence that I don't think will be achieved in the rebirth of the seventeenth generation of immortal platypui. I eat the fruit that bears the tree and gargle in my fetid fish. The bones that catch and the fly's that don't zip. What a concept. Who wants a button there? Certainly not a vampire. That wouldn't be proper now, would it. I, I have been and I am and I will because of the darkness of the oriental matresses. Tako, that's octopus.
Whatever and whoever that was. I am the klaxon snugglebunnies... but sometimes I think I wish I would be Adam Ant.
Shti. And more shti from JJF who may or may not be a ham.
Woods of Wisdom from the Quam:
I am the Quam. Everyone who noze me noze the Quam.
The Quam is good. The Quam is all. The Quam is.
You can find me on the Metro, swimming through apologies.
Personal Confessions -- Barry Williams (Greg Grady): And you thought the only thing Florence Henderson did was Wesson Oil commercials! [appropriate though, what?]
When fishing for compliments, be sure to use the right bait.
CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE: Releasing pressure may result in accidental release of hiar spraiye.
I was jogging through the park last week, when suddenly I was attacked by the soup of the day. The flavor of the month joined in, and I was soon rendered incoherent by the car of the year.
You can't keep a good man down. Only a very very dumb one. Dump one. Lump sum. Lump some.
When we last left Lash Hotflash, our famed superhero was blasting through the galaxy leaping from planet to planet on his quest for the ultimate bladder. Upon reaching planet Gall of the Gonad Cluster, Lash downed a Megabeer and proceeded to Prissy's liver. (more to come)
Rice is nice, and Beans are keen, but don't ever mix the two, lest they ferment. Vermont?
Never kick old lady crossing street unless light is green. (Confuse-us)
A fatter bladder means no mess.
Oxymoron: n. A zit with no IQ.
Personal Confessions -- Ricardo Montalban (Mr Rork): Tattoo is just about waist high.
Microprocessor: n. Mini-Cuisinart.
This sentence is not written in any sort of code.
74-12-43-23-1-5.
If a woodchuck could chuck wood, I'd probably sell him a boomerang.
ETC: adj. Acronym for Explicably too Tedious to Continue.
The mouse struck one, the clock ran down. Hickory, hockey, puck.
...Lash Hotflash gave a flush and athletically hurled the galactic septicbomb. Meanwhile, back at the hotel, Lash's beautiful, but dangerous sidekick, Heir Heddi, prepared for yet another facial rinse (not to be confused with fecal rinse.) She wondered how she had become mixed up with such a lavish super-galactic space warrior. After all, she had always considered Lash's present bladder quite adequate.
Heir Heddi wiped the moist tinse from he Nunn-like face (not to be confused with Nun-like) and stared inquisitively at the large wall mirror. It stared back. She stared harder. It stared harder. Finally she gave and said, "Hell with it," and prepared from another facial rinse; never fogetting her passion for Lash and personal hygiene.
Personal Confessions -- Flipper: Just get me a can opener, will ya?!?!
What's it all about? They scream and they shout, "don't ask me, 'cause I don't know!" What's it all about? They scream and they shout, "don't blame me, I told you so!"
Squid... the final front ear. These are the voyages of the starfish Doorprize. A five beer mission to explode new lies and new fornification. To baldly go where no hair has gone before...
(Patrick Stewart's head!)
And finally, a quote from Landru's Journal of Hermetically sealed Perishables: Don't wait for food to be handed to you on a silver platter lest it be eaten as you wait. Instead, blow snot all over the table and take all the time you want.
Remember the Quam.
"Dr Emu's Guide To... and the Art of Making Microwave Food"
A trilobyte in two faeces, a parody of truth itself, by one each illustrious ostrichoid wannabe. Foma all, ifn you ask him, but no-one does and no-one certainly reads Vonnegut 'round here. Except Fletcheroo and Wen. Chapters are equatatble to Foma (inasmuch as they are the same) even without the Vonnegutisms. But it's so poetic and meaningful and whatnot.
Chapter and chaptee (More of the same only different.)
Chapter 11 (Selfesteemal bankruptcy and other bad puns.)
Chapter 93 (How this shit came to be)
Chapter 4 (Our friends the amphetamines. Or, why Johnyy can't blink!)
Chapter 72 (Foma=6.)
Chapter Four (The beginning continues.)
Chapter 6 (Foma=72.)
Chapter [int(n/2)+1] (Which is to say, it's odd.)
Chapter 16 (12<x<20 where is x is a member of J is The Teenage Equation!)
Chapter 99 (And in the end the love you make is equal to the love you take)
The sun rose. Not that this was, in and of itself, unusual. In fact, it was terribly regular, and altogether too boring.
"Sunrises are known not to be even remotely interesting. If we could find a
way, we'd get rid of the damn things. Thus far they see, to be inevitable.
Perhaps someday science will be of some help; until then, philosophy must
pinch-hit. That is to say, a sunrise is to life as phlegm is to chocolate
mousse. It does not imrpove the flavor."
-- Foma 12 (Emu's Guide To... and some other shit.)
However, this particular sunrise is in fact at least midly interesting because it opens a day in which, well, we'll see aboutt that. Suffice to say that is at least mildly interesting.
It must also be noted that without sunrises there would be no sunsets, obviating the need for Mark Knopfler, firebreathing pizza dragons, Boeing/Boing 747's and kissing beautiful women-peoples. Just say, "Wen'!" Urk.
The sun rose. Not that this was, in and of itself, unusual. What was unusual was that, on this morning, our marginal heroid Emu woke up. Or rather, that he awoke with the feeling that suddenly, inexorably, it was all going to be all right and the dolphins could go home now. Exactly why he thought this, especially the bit about the dolphins, is rather unclear.
He woke up that morning, remarkably, for it was the first day in may moons that he had successfully and painlessly been up before noon, making it morning without mourning. He was up without the thereunto-regulatory brainsplitting headache, that feeling of being run over by a bulldozer with a major highway on top of it. No staggering about?
No, "Gee, why's the floor moving so fast?" or "What fool put a carpet on the wall?" or "Door. Doors are to walk through. (Thud) No, through. Not into. I suppose opening the door first, as in Infocoms, would help. (Crash) Fall through. Preferably walk through, but in a pinch, fall through. Ouch!" Perhaps this really was his lucky day.
So our marginally heroid (well, how about protagonist - grammar teachers like it better and it's shorter!) left his house with ease and was able to traverse the roadways to his destination with similar facility, due to his suddent and inconmprehensible clear-mindedness. Unfortuneatly for whatever antagonist I invent when the time is ripe and falls off the tree (time grows on trees didn't you know) he was stricken with a similar case of bloody- mindedness and therefore traversed to his destination (where else would he go now?) without deviation in thought or in Action. Dreams into comma. And eventually he will have arrived there, freeping as described in the Next Paragraph, with the love of his life at his side, muttering into his shoulder. This is known as Good, for he has said this before, that This Is Good and that It Doesn't Get Any Better Than This.
In the meantime they listened to music, a sort of cathartic (and his preferred listening levels, butt-shaking) self-pompous pride. But it's a good idea, it keeps your head from getting fat from thinking and makes you rap when no-one is looking. Or at least humming Beethoven's Fifth.
I drum to the beat of a different rabbit and He is Leslie Nielsen.
Beer commericals with breasts from hell - I knew a girl (but you'd be happy to know blarghly that I didn't forklift Kate.) Sna.
Bah bah bah bah bah, bah bah bah bah bah, I wanna be fellated.
Bah bah bah bah bah, bah bah bah bah bah, I think I just been Kated.
Steve wants to say this before I said that. Fuck, what?
Why do rabbits have breasts almost as large as beer bottles? Why ask yeast infections? Drink Butt Wet!
As per the Great Kat goddess etc etc. The strength to believe in oneself cannot come from outside; it has be generated within. It's a bit tricky, this Catch-22 situation; for the only way to get that strength is to have it to begin with. Still it takes but a glimmer of selfesteem, of ego, of saying FUCK IT ALL, I AM ME AND THAT'S IT DICKWEED to make this perpetual machine of life move. And that is the point at which you're ok. Now occasionally one loses sight of the "real truth" (that more bullshit than bullshit ever be) and more importantly lose that will to be yourself and start trying to be something you aren't, or let people push you around or turn you into a fish or whatever.
And so on those occasions you have to remember to set the spark of selfbelief aflame, to say I AM SOMEONE. Do it! Take the jump for after you do you will remember how easy it is to believe in oneself when one does. See? I told you not to listen to me. I'm full of shit -- true shit, granted, but shit nevertheless.
EOTUAWKI. That is, Explication of the Universe As We Know It. Or something like that. As matter of fact, please don't consider the following:
[This portion of the transmission, manual ("stick") not automatic, was garbled, so badly that no translation was possible, except for the notably repetitive use of the phrases "Zaphod Beeblebrox" and "Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters". Exactly what this means in unclear.]
That over with, we examine now some of the relevant aspects of the amazingly mysterious yet terribly boring dichotomy between colorless digital RGBI amd TTL-level monochromatic cathode ray-tube controllers.
That over with, we discover there is a difference. Some dichotomy... there is a video signal, composite sorta anyway, on the monochromaticism thing. Eh. But they both use vertical and horizontal synchronization signals and so on. Polarities!!
That off my chest we discuss monosymptomatic cat-oid reigh troop comptrollers...
That over with, we now examine my head to see if there is anything in it. That over with, we now examine how it is. Can run. Do run. Hershey squirts. Budweiser? The precise relevance of this passage is arguable, but it was included so as to make people think that this really is a religious document, which is to say it talks to God when it climaxes... what'dya think, I get this stuff off circus posters or cereal boxes... actually I write it but canna talk about that now can we?
That over with, we now examine some of the primary similarities of use of sunglasses during pregnancy and the rising dearth trade. In dolphins. Really!!
Greetings from The Quam!
Page 33:
Lash finished off the last of his Bungleburger and hopped back into his landflipper. He realized that Heddi was gone now, but it was by choice. His choice. Had he given up his quest, the beautiful Heir Heddi would still be at his side. But then what? No hope. No dream. Lash started the engine and flipped away, continuing his galactic search for the ultimate bladder.
Page 46:
Although it seemed a trite silly, Billy-Bob Splurgeon ate the whole thing. His stomach was full, but his pride was empty. He ran out of the bar. Lash followed.
"Hey, just a minute there," Lash said impatiently. "I didn't get your name."
"Whaddya you want? An encore?", replied the troll.
"No. You seem to ingest some strange delicacies. I was hoping you could help me. You see, I'm looking for a bladder."
"Bladders are a hyperdime a dozen. I think you need a gastricist, not a troll."
"But I'm not looking for just ANY bladder," Lash explained. "I'm looking for THE bladder. The largest, most disgusting bladder in the Universe!"
"The name's Billy-Bob. Come with me."
Page 78:
Lash battled the hungry Slomslut as Simon sat and watched. By the time it was over, Lash had overpowered the dentist, rearranging her mandibulic bridge.
"Where did you learn to fight like that?", asked Simon, out of more breath than his mentor.
"Tao Signus Five," replied Lash. "The Three-Nosed Swamp Yeti."
Simon, convinced that the dental Slomslut was indeed incapacitated, removed the brass key from the leather teddy. Following Simon out the door, Lash Hotflash, galactic Super-Hero, stared at the key in Simon's hand--wondering if he would ever see Heir Heddi again.
Next Issue: "If it's not too big, Simon, it's definitely too dangerous."
If you missed it, write one and choose and essay on it. Infinity decides the length, Zen Buddhism the color. I'm thinking of something purple... what is it? Myoozik, professor! Ben Zhoodism decries the silliness quotient. Elephant testicles, anyone?
(For instance, when dealing with the Internal Revenue Service... you friendly neighborhood taxmongers!)
Sna, toing. Squa, toing. Phra, toing. Boing boom snot. Chalk snot?
In fact selfassurance is brought through selfanger. There are two way to change any situation. The first is to change the situation; the second to change the way you want thr situation to be. And it is at that point that one must make a decision, for one of these methods may be terribly painful, or neither of them may work.
Ping snot. Samantha Fux but who as opposed to buttfux. More than one.
Fnord. Two, three, punt shit.
I'm thinking of something orange, something orange... can't guess what it is? It's a purple.
One can blame other people for the way things are, but 'tis nto a method bent on solution. Anger at others breeds contempt, dissent and Cracker Jacks. Anger at the self, for your innate inability to deal with the situation as it is and resorting to counterproductive anger, properly channeled into positive action (or positive-lock brakes - breaks?) and destructive things like genocide of cherubs is the answer. SMT38.
You know, I've found it's much easier just to talk to people instead of freaking out. Eventually all teenage males, even the nerdy ones, get laid. $04$11$5b. &hat that. Though I wan't a teenager I were a nerd. Keys I lost nothing more. She didn't either. Oy!
POLARITY! PHASE! Decrement the X! Decrement the Y! Mommie, take my underwear off my head, it smells like Paul Bunyan's blue ox Babe... whew! What a weird fuckin dream.
Note: If no use PQFP CPU, don't care this jumper. If in doubt, change the password. The default password is AMY but generally we use QUAM or DILDO. For what that's worth. Joshua's backdoor is too well used.
Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. Their chief weapon is Radio Shack-- that's all.
Welcome to Tandycrap:
You need to give us money, lots of it. Start forking it over now please.
Increase magnification by one to the fourth power.
--JTK
In Fig. 18-26, the rectangular wave out of the relaxation oscillator drives the integrator, which produces a triangular output waveform. Similarly, the square wave of Fig 22-6b has half-wave symmetry because the inverted negative cycle exactly duplicates the positive half cycle; this means that a sqaure wave contains only odd harmonics. This keeps the gas and vapor slightly ionized to permit easier arc-over during pulse transmission, and it also protects the receiver crystal. The usual cause of erratic oscillation, or no oscillation at all, is excessive loading on the oscillator output by the succeeding stage of the circuit, insufficient feedback or a sluggish crystal. So far, everything seems fairly simple. The complications arise when more sophisticated data encoding schemes are used. The point is that a waveform with amplitude distortion contains a fundamental and harmonics; the strength of the higher harmonics is a clue to how bad the distortion is.
Sanity will get you nowhere.
So I'm sitting on the beach, minding my own eucalyptus tree, when the Battlestar Galactica Council of Twelve starts to pelt me with green snowballs. I screamed hideously at them, as to confuse them. About this time, a well renowned author (well-endowed author?) and mother of three asked me for directions to the nearest baseball field. "I'm sorry," I told her. "I haven't the faintest iodea where your husband is." The Council of Twelve soon became the Council of Eleven as one was murdered by a passing freight train. [Thomas Dolby.] Not to mention the expense of Molly's wedding. So there I was, on the beach.
Are you finished yet?!! (Hv wee herd ths b4?)
She sells seashells below cost.
The quick brown fox ate the dog.
Peter Piper picked pansies.
Jack Sprat could...
This week in Mesopotamia (Hey who let the B52's in here?)
Hunger strike six.
Prime Minister BenHalij is now the official spokesperson at the new (and only) Sizzler in downtown Constantinople. Visit the dessert bar!
Check out "Weekend at Bernie's" at the new Blockbuster in Bethsaida.
Tired of babysitting little Rashid? Let him visit the YMCA in West Ur. Swimming pool, pottery, crafts, Vic Tayback... and much more!
More advertising. He said that, not me.
What ever happened to... Lionel Ritche? Tiffany? Kylie Minogue? Sade (pronounced Sade)? Watch Dusty's Vinyl Video Classics on Cable 6, Friday at 4AM.
From the makers of Ronco comes... Ronco II. The Next Generation (but not Deep Space Nine) of gadgets, thingis, inventions and half-hour infomercials... the Desktop Engine Hoist... Ronco's Magic Troll Remover... Mister Megaphone (grunties Wankel Rotary Engine)... The List goes putrid. Always at Orchard, WalMart and Ace Hardware. Good Lodi traditions all.
Ch- Ch- Ch- Chia... [T-T-T-TIA]
You too can start your own revolution with... Rev-O-Matic! Rev-O-Matic lets you patronize Lenin, the Shah, even your own sadistic dictator! Learn from the experts. Rev-O-Matic! Created in solitude by Belgian monks who know what picante sauce is supposed to taste like. Never legal until now. Rev-O-Matic! And remember, if it doesn't have the blue star, it isn't the real thing. Rev-O-Matic! Ask for it!
Wait for the Wigwam, don't force it.
What the fuck, over, Jeff.
And the ascetic monk-heads have fun, and it all works out in the wash.
Viz, you wash your wallet. ATM cards die. So do credit cards (actually, old credit cards never die they just exceed their limit) Ones and Fives stick to things, kinda like any female family member's undergarments hide in the drier and then cling to yours and nobody notices until you're tryin to impress some young nubile and discover exactly WHAT you have sticking out of your shorts! Tens and bigger bills typically disintegrate to fuck up the economy, more so than the small change becuz unlike the small change they're worth something. Change itself (nickels and quarters and shit like that) just falls out into the washer mechanism and shorts out and starts fires. Combination washer/drier/frier/fire, friar?
Wretched, isn't it? this sense of humor and interrupting anything approaching a storyline (did you notice the disorder fo the chapters and foma mirrors that of my own life? Poetic and shit intit.)
Speaking of change, specifically the monetary variety and not the liquid variety of which I and ewes are not like Elmer Cogen (wow! so much like the Slosh you'd thnik it was or something 'cuz one it wasn't it was EOTUAWKI or EGT or something eso) speaking of change, change is something that I appear hellbent on. Keyword here is. Complancency upsets me, distrubs me, disrupts my life and I seem to take rapid and irrational action activities to avoid stability and predictability. This was not written on this not-green piece of paper of Steve's. It also says something about the shaming of the true, the screwing of the tame, and other Shakey's Peerisms which are not Pizzas, are not what will be discussed later which is the distancing of the close.
I have this theory (which is to say... here hold these... Did you see that...) that one of the Sloshclan will get a locker on campus and those SJDC inhabitants who see fit to join us can just leave us addons there if they don't have a modem or the BBS never gets up. Ideas / contributions / suggestions / whatever?
Lyrics, dude, recite her some lyrics. Suffice it to say that there are many levels of human friendship, too many for this chronicler to comprehend. But he isn't complaining, oh no. In fact, I think I like Sebastian a whole lot, dents or otherwise. Dent / dents / dense / tense / tents. Round objects and object recognition. As opposed to objectivity which I've neer had. Im biased: .6V applied across the collector and the base and bass and fish and apologize to somebody's mother second. Sha! I am happy and I LET GO. She likes the night life, baby.
Someday I will understand this, in the meantime, philosophy will have to pinch-hit. And phlegm will reign as the sole sociological successor to our disturbed grape blender. Well, Okay, It Is Slosh And I Am Using Capital Letters Again, like Mount Evertest. Poetry and shit intit.
Shit like this doesn't just Sort Of Happen, despite what hard drives make Steve say. Why ask maybe. Sex is. Sna, toing. Sna, toing. Sna, fuck that. NO MORE TOING you're telling me that I'm screaming at somebody else's girl and she would cry but for the fact she wasn't. Potatoes.
So our protagonist has changed cars and now drives a VW Squareback with fubar'd EFI. Ground defects I'd say. Please do not ask where he lived (so as to get where he was going with a car that wouldn't go) as will become more and more weird momentarily. But he went back to his riceburner with the kilowatt earburner of a soundsys. But whazzitU anyway?
Upshot of all this being that he split for warmer climes. Not warmer limes, warmer climes!
Shut up Wilbur and load the futon torpedoes. Yes!! small Oriental bedweapons, unlike small Oriental bedwetters.
As Nike and my T-shirt say, LET'S DO IT. Proverbially and figuratively speaking, for, though I appreciate your eyes moving over this, dear reader, as there are a great few of you (readers and not necessarily eyes) you could very easily be not my type, or indeed even gender or species. Plus, I'm taken. Quite taken with the girl.
This shti it pretty werid, I no, but tha's cuz life it too. Eh.
And so the story continues. In what way I am unsure, for I am not always comfortable with this Slosh-oid style of writing. I am uncomfortable with much in my life then, and I said I felt that it isn't as it should have been. Couldn't claim to know how it should be, merely that this isn't it.
Pontiac... drive, drive. We build eggsightmen. Which is to say Aaron is confused again and writing and I HATE THIS
... so stop it, Emu. Cantcha?
]Anyone who accuses me of having stolen ideas from anybody else and who even insinuates (are you INSINUATING something? Nudge nudge say no more squire!) that I paraphrase or otherwise steal things from other writers will be shot by hyperintelligent shades of the color Neeble and small furry creatues who have more than fifty arms each and thus the first speciies to create underarm deoderant before the wheel of fortune.[
This page intentionally left half-used. Or half unused. Or bone dry and
swarming with leeches!
-- Foma 6 (Emu's Guide To... and why he freaks out over women.)
[grotoid things having been deleted for a semblance of pride] ... or let
people push you around and turn you into a fish or whatever. Not notably a
fiche. I was once turned into a fiche - not a microfiche, but a big one,
like say a macrofiche - and I didn't enjoy the experience in the least. My
advice, foma though it may be, is to avoid this fichiness whenever
possible.
-- Foma 76 (Emu's Guide To... and more Aaronisms.)
See? I told you not to listen to me. I'mfull of shit. Just true shit, that's all. Have a nice day, eh.
Sex is not the answer. Sex is the question. YES!! is the answer.
-- Foma 69 (Emu's Guide To... and other fun things to do in null-gee!)
FMT38. Sam etc etc Terri etc etc cumshots blowjobs etc etc
Ooh what topology... study of Italian mices.
The Poghrils are a terribly depressed race. The only slight twinges of pleasure they ever experience come from the following ritual. One Poghril will say to another, "Why is life like hanging upside down with your head in a bucket of hyena offal?" To which the second will reply, "I don't know. Why IS life like hanging upside down with your head in a bucket of hyena offal?" To which the first must reply, "I don't know either. Wretched, isn't it?"
This particular load of shit, like so many others, has been brought to you
by an asshole.
-- Foma 44 (Emu's Guide To... and other scatalogical impluses.)
Warm limes are pretty scary. But so are women.
-- Foma 23 (Emu's Guide To... boy! am I tired of saying that.)
I doonah care what peeples say, I doonah care what peeples do. I do however
care about my shoes. Which is why I wear Nike. Best damn shoes you can get,
no shit. DEV-O says it, I believe it, that settles it.
-- Foma 46 1/3 (Emu's Guide To... footwear.)
Do not fold, bend or spindle. Do not mutilate, desecrate or urinate.
THIS IS REAL
-- Foma 42 (Emu's Guide To... what he believes is truth.)
Truth is mostly lizard shit, with some frog's penis in on the side.
-- Foma 43 (Emu's Guide To... answers to previous Foma.)
Doesn't look like hyena offal... doesn't smell like hyena offal... doesn't
taste like hyena offal... must not be hyena offal!
-- Foma oh my God they're wonderful.
As always in my long discussions with myself (which I often install into computers -- mine and other people's -- so as to retrieve these thoughts later and gneerally destroy minds with them) as always I must explain my seemingly rap-oid streams of profanity. I like 'em.
Scizburgers. Skitzborghers. Shit for trousers. I could easily hate myself for thinking the things that I do but then I suppose that's why we think these things - if anyone else did we'd be obligated to kill them. Indeed it's good that we don't else we'd all be dead since everybody seems like a bug now and again. Okay, eh, get off the case of what a poor turd you are (self-pity? pelf-shitty? shelf-twitty?) since you can't deal with women. Learn! (Shyore, right!) Shelf-titties, best kind. Fit shelfbras. Medieval fashions. Sha.
Either that or beat them regularly and avoid the whole freaking out and wanting to become a monk syndrome. Neat idea.
I hate when the power goes off and all my good idea are lost and it's a pisser - great ideas along with bad flow like feces into the great cosmic toilet of the computer's Write Only Memory Block, or WOMB> Glass plate in your stomach, womb with a view.
Grease that... oh sorry, wrong document. ^K^Q anybody?
Quote from the Dark One is a good name. Face it! Give into your fantasies. Better yet, give in to mine!
That idiotic smile, that fun of being, that feeling of all is right and so on, is brought on not by the actuialy doing of the fun thing(s), ejoyable and tactile and good-tasting though they may be, but by the promise that they will be done. I know this.
Whupsan a whupsan, jan jan jammerin, yabba yabba ding ding. Delta hey max 9. We will be fine. Apollo 9. Even though NASA say, way out of line.
Driving, f'rinstance. There is no way in hell I could survive doing these things whilst driving. I would die a happy man, yes, but I would die. And I am opposed to that as I am a young man, old and dessicated thought I may feel, there are a few things I have not yet felt (notably, Japanese sea breeze on my face and NOTHING anatomical like which is surely -- Shirley! -- what you were thinking.)
So instead of dying I drove. Snuck a few now and again at stoplights and such, but by far, not the seriously intense bussing, come up for air every five minutes bit. Probably just as well... after those brownies I suspect both of respective breaths would have been a bit off. But hey, I loved her, and she seemed to love me, for whatever reasons, so who's to complain? Fuck em with a chainsaw.
And that is it, I discovered. Rather than messing about with the removal of clothing or the drumming upon of extremities, more fun and less morning guilt is to be had from the promise (definite promise!) of what is yet to come, becuz you is being restrained from it now.
What a concept, driving as a contraceptive. More cars on the road -> more accidents and smog -> more dead people (and less sex) -> population drop. More cars -> more Japanese people with money -> less of America American-owned. Less sex -> more productive people -> must be doing something.
Therefore America is okay. Not that I believe any of that paranoid
SamFux SPIRIT OF AMERICA has nothing to do with that last lot of
'Tis a probable tingn that all teenagers think their parents spazz too much, that they are conservative maniacs, that they are insane overprotective squidheads. Not so. They aren't kidding when they say they care.
I used to feel that way about my parents too. I often do now. And then one day I says to myself, "Self, what am I thinking?" What I thought was that my parents had changed, that they were cool and left me do what I wanted to and so on. And then I noticed that they were the same people as before only they trusted me. So I never told them about the time I was arrested.
You can lie and cheat and bypass yer folx all the time (and I still do, have to in my view) but 1. They is still family and 2. If yer straight with them it'll work out. It did for me - they stopped bitching about school when I actually did something about it (and graudated!) and have stopped bitching about my life and room and car now that I have done some things about them too. Aargh always more to do though.
In fact once you get beyond the triviality and shortsightedness of being a turdhead chile-person (not Chilly, that's Honey-chile like rhymes with aisle) an go on to be a suave sophisticated adult person like me... har har. I know. What soapbox he asks innocently.
Okay so it's whatever but it can be true.Be straight with them - don't tell them to trust you and then lie and cheat and go behind their back... act straight and expect the mto trust you (eventually they will - they must!) and then cheat and so on and don't get caught... which is easier to do when you're trusted. As a matter of fact, it has to work out 'cuz it's okay once yer okay. Have I said this before?
Do you know how many times in this thing I have Bru ha ha ha ha ha ha'd? Stil, it's less time than Hi Ho has - you should hear him do it sometime as he is a very funny dude and sometimes weird and really cool. But anyway enough reflective splat (*) files.
Which is to say, aargh. Indeed I am but for bass in my face which are fish largely. Sna hoop and hello Rick. She ISN'T worth meeting barfing maybe and who's for group grope whatever Lez Do The Thyme Wharp Agin. Take my Worf, please.
Take my Gowron (Gauron?) at that. Ooock. Sna. Thra feeblebrasher thra treetitty spray. My butt's sore... what a green... how's she holding the grapefruit? Spray paint is cheaper in Lodi than in AJTown.
Sna toing. Fuck who let that one in. Hi folx it's time again for squatshit:
Cxyll Potash. Say it Six-cell Poh-tash. Wow, eh, fish, what a condom. Hey, wow, is Cherry Coke oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop a good postcoital spermicide? Yes, as postcoital oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop spermicides go! I think I will spleek now and go see if my shower is bigger than Edd Taylor's ego and put a hottub filled with warm Jello and Kathleen Sullivan in Spandex and I won't even mention another femaleoid nor another maleoid but I will mention oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop a totally other maleoid and what we all do with you guessed it yet another maleoid what's-his-face (it's not his face) in the car and eggs.
Cigarette: A fire at one end, a fool at the other, and a bit of tobacco inbetween.
\Slosh\Ninety-Seven\Barfisms. Big bouncy breasted blond bitches with blue bras... in Budd. Dreams of Delta. Bang bang yer dead, did not did too, stop diddy-bopping buddy, bouncing Betty on you.
Today's topic is ugly chicks [plain looking chicks] with big tits. Are they okay. The answers to these and other alcoholically stimulating answers coming next week.
My writing |both handwriting and content| has become more stylized and entirely incomprehensible. Or is that incomprehensiblue. Nevermind no moshing. Nirvana <> Deep Thot.
Tell me what you're gonna tell me, James Oliver, esoterica cleverness Sna. Spend all of your time talking about what you're gonna talk about.
"Damn the 4th floors of Shima and Cunningham look alike."
-Aaron "Where the fuck am I?" Shephard
/Slosh/Ninety-Seven/Hurl
Studying kinematics is aerobics with a pencil. PS mite heyness in Cyrllic font. \VGA\SNA. Geesh that right ting! Looks like shti. So much for uppercase upperclass. \Emu\Aargh\Snd
Funky swits Po! A Twee. Positive indicator negative indice meck'a'nicks neck a mix. Since everybody else is doing remakes of Wild Thing... Blond bitch... you make my dick itch... Anyway.
Hey I think that was an ending once but it was mutated so I will reunmutate it. THE oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop END. Except now of course I must continue. WE MUST oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop REPEAT! Look, I apologize oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop for the sexual under/over/straight forward blunt tones of the preceding material but if I knew what I was doing I'd oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop probably be bored but I am since I am writing this (see abuv) so I must be tired so I know what I am oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop doing. If you thought the last bunch was dirty, read the next bit.
This page like so many others isn't here either eh
Physics 4A with prof Oliver Snafroop widesign (widesine?)
SCSI WAS but no IS. meant the IDE though another See I 80M'll to until BIOS will three drives. Kill Kill Kill the Oliver (Physics instructor: Let me say this about that.) This foam thingy (not from Frederix) seems to make me write either much worse or much better -> metallic rheumatism (iron in blood turning into lead in...) I don't really care. Stutter for us Oliver. KB EZ. want run not Windows and Emu things the not PC I like the red fuzzy thing. want to the anyway. Life will be eleven-meter. Crankcase ventilation joints are left-handed muffler bearings. Aark nark b'dark.
It's a (life-form)'s existence in the physics class... or whatever else. Semantics. Comprehensions. (Graidenti) Perceptions. Conceptions. Discourage.
BLARGH >
If an S and an I and an O and a U
With an X at the end spell Su;
And an E and a Y and an E spell I,
Pray what is a speller to do?
Then, if an S and and I and a G
And an HED spell side,
There's nothing much left for a speller to do
But to commit siouxeyesighed.
-- Charles Follen Adams (An Orthographic Lament)
If I was happy all the time I'd be a gameshot host or a porn actor, and we wouldn't want that, now would we?
Santa Claus wears a read suit - he must be a Communist.
And a beard and long hair - must be a pacifist.
What's in that pipe he's smoking?
-- Arlo Guthrie
Yeast. Hairy little fuckers. Quite literally. oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop Small cells go about mating with each other in ways we humans couldn't begin to think about unless we were spineless amoeba oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop types like yeast. Ugh! So the nasty part is over - you can open your pores now.
BUY CONSUME INGEST
BUY CONSUME INGEST
A dozen, a gross and a score,
Plus three times the square root of four,
Divided by seven,
Plus five times eleven,
Equals nine squared plus zero, no more.
Everybody, listen do you smell something? It's time for that great new game show the whole family can enjoy:
oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop
Snap Crackle oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop Pop. That is the sound of one Rice Krispie clapping - yes Buddhists eat them too. Do Rice Krispies get anything that penicillin can cure? Do Buddhists? I plead the Fifth and I will return to something else now. Uh uh uh uh uh bonk. That is the sound of a Neanderthal with writers block (yes, banging his head against a wall. Or his wife (no not his head on his wife his wife on the wall, well, maybe both, eh Ronnie zarkin A that's hard to spell!)
If I don't drive around the park,
I'm pretty sure to make my mark.
If I'm in bed each night by ten,
I may get back my looks again.
If I abstain from fun and such,
I'll probably amount to much;
But I shall stay the way I am,
Because I do not give a damn.
-- Dorothy Parker
And now... and now... and now for... and now four... and now three... two... one, roll'em watch those stones gather no moss. Rolling Stones, Holling Bones, tea and scones. The substitute writer who was temporarily substituting for AF because of the writers' strike (which is now THANK GOD over) has been sacked, as have been the electronic mooses (meese? Edwin Meese 3?) for conduct unbecoming a psychozoid but Steve still wrote most of this. This manuscript has thus been continued at the very last moment in marginally similar manner at almost no cost to the producers.
Pi = 3.141592653589794 etc etc
A computer, to print out a fact,
Will divide, multiply and subtract,
But this output can be,
No more than debris,
If the input was short of exact.
-- Gigo
We now return you to the obscurity at hand....and as I wasn't saying or smurfing or snarfing on - excuse the interruption but we are experiencing a temporary temporal and spatial dislocation of those synapses that allows us to be [almost, Steve, almost] intelligble [ha! These comments provided by AFS] while communicating [three ha's!] with the human race [who's that I asque?]. Semi-normal service will return as soon as we receive parts from Romania and a Swedish throwing-rug servicewoman from Upper Zimbabweski.
Tee-shirt: I (heart) Toxic Waste
Actually I didn't change this part but for the phrase "What I wanna know is who the fuck...."oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop ...."...oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop ."..oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop oop .."...
BCI, FMT, SMS. Internationally all over the world SamFox (SamFux?) is still stupid. But she has large... record albums. Now it's my oop, you ooped me then I'll never let you oop me again. This is known as Terri "Oop" Nunn Berlinoopisms.
Once. No more than twice. Only if you pay. Argument. Clinic of some sort anyway. Lip no Eh. T?
wHO PUT ALL THESE GODDAM ooooooooPPPPS IN!!! Where'd the fuckin TOINGs cum frum anywayz. And WHO SPOO'd on the Fargin WALL.
I'm pissed. The floor has been OOPed on once too many times. (ONCE!?!?! SVD)
No more oops. You're telling me you oop me while you're ooping away... Sorry, Terri. No more toingsquas.
(See n+1...)
Or, AF is tired - and Steve is saying Variations of a Manic Depressive (SVD is bloinged again). 'Tis VERY.
This is not notably a direct continuation of the Slosh, OTWITWIT, or Excerpts. Nor is it a direct continuation of anything else in this space- time continuum. It is very. Unless, of course, it is.
This not to say that it is very silly or that it is very weird, although it is. It is just to say that it is very.
If this does not make any sense to you, Good! this means you are confused which means you half ready to read the rest of this, which is good as I am half ready to write the rest of this.
There will be no further references to Terri Nunn or Debbie Avila. However if certain portions of Debbie Crossland's anatomy creep in, please forgive it as a severe weakness on the part of Operator 13 (to be distinguished from Operator 42 a.k.a. Dr. Emu.)
Warning! Warning! We have received confirmed reports that Earth is being taken over by Warmongers! Lock your doors close all windows and arm yourself with heavy caliber weapons. Also, if you own any sort of frequency transmitter begin broadcasting. We must contact Cheese B.H. and the Mongobusters. They're our only hope!
The preceding alert paid for by the buttheads. "We're ready to insult you!"
We now return you to the program not currently in progress.
When last we saw the SPOOR HEROES they were returning to deep space to seek out and squish Twinkies where no one had squished before. But unfortuneately on the way to the Hostess Nebula they encountered and were trapped by the Deadly Planet of No Escape, Black Flag! This is known as series cancellation. Spoor Heroes was cancelled so that the new management might bring such wonderfully mind-numbing programs as "Three's Company","Miami Vice", and "Forty-seven Ways to Put a Bathtub on Your Ceiling".
You know a moose bit my sister once. A real nasty bite too.
Bloing Bloing Life is like a manic depressive.
You know Christine should really experience sex one of these eons. Ngai that is not Cefalu who has experienced sex in so many myriad forms that she probably even knows Mr. D pretty well. And of course even Cefalu is relatively unkinky when compared with Prizal. Prizal is very.
And now for something completely ejggfsfou. I might add (fuck that - I will add!) that this is now called THE SLOSH as that is what it is. [Ninety-seven ha's! and AMD in a Twee.] Hark the herald Narks sing bark wardfark. Okay eh you win you're so studmuffinly I coud never hope for studmuffinhood around you. So I will kill you and become supreme studmuffin here. Why else would I be carrying an AK47 (which are now AKMs but let's not get into that) since studmuffins are not ordinarily (inordinarily?) armed homicidal psycopathic (not blenders but) Swiss Army forks.
Actually I think all the world of Miss Avila, but it is up to you, my dearest Reader, to decide what I think of the world at this stage, especially since I am shaven. John Lennon's Shaved Fish? Some Time In New York City. also new grok city.
Bleah. I say we take Debbie Avila and throw her as far as we can into a submarine and see who gets bourgeois-cked (yis that's Froggiese for BUSHWACKED) how IS your toaster Mister? Poorly planned parties are only good for neat songs to be written for. Who's to blame? PARTY OUT OF BOUNDS! Wahoo. Let's take off all our clothes and roll around in marshmallows. Disgusting things you'd never anticipate. Ooh I like it I love it let's do eh. Okay but who's bringing the flashlights? Bottletops? Topless dancers (they have no top, their bodies start at the waist and go down which could be interesting and I don't know about wasting but hey!) alright Christine FINE be like that. I just had them lengthened they go all the way down now. BUCKLEYITIS!
I am an optimist. From where it is, music is mostly all right, or at least
in a healthy state for the future, in spite of the fact that it may sound as
though it is being held hostage.
-- Duke Ellington
Ninety nine water balloons on the wall; ninety nine varnished defecates.
You know they wanted me to be on the Academic Decathlon this year. Actually I may go due to donuts. Possibly also due to unclothed women. But more likely donuts. Actually I didn't even tho' I should've. Oh that Christine would A. Be rude to me
B. Be fun to be around and not like a dead cold and very fishy..... fish.
C. Sexually fun and **** my brains out and not sleep with nonMormons.
eh
To do ten intelligent things not my ting. To do do do Da da da da is all I want to say to you you're living in your own private Idaho get out! get out of the state you're in! and then there's something about potatoes - figger it out yerself. On the ground like a wild potato. Gee wild Idaho. Leads you straight right through the gate that opens on the BLUE. The bottom of the bottomless BLUE.
Let's not even consider that the Spud Boys themselves, searching for a REAL potato are supposedly Idahoans themselves! Wow, hey. What what.
So, this is not really, well, I don't exactly know what. It started off with an extended bunch of nonsense posted on a wall in my sophmore English class. That's at the beginning, mostly. And then I added to it. And then I put in bits of stuff. Then I added some more. Then I showed it to Steve who wrote some more. Largely, the content runs to nonsense, with a little sheer weirdness, tiny quantities of political humor and innumerable badjokes (but the occasional funny one.) Also other people's stuff, snatches of songs I listen to and...
Sna freep, freep sna. What's new. I show you an extrema you NEVER forget. Life's like that - sign some cards, pick yer nose, get yelled at. So hey, we talk, we be, we write. Often we have sex. Ink pens, shark dens, theorems manic from massive glandular globosities. Sna freep, freep sna, cheese. Who uses CompuPro? THE SLOSH does. |( )| Capacitors and parachuting lampshades. Emu smiling lines aooga aooga poetry - penis - putstart - narkle fucl etc Emu.
Smiling lines 7738 Get stuffed. Multi terminals @ poly colors. I wanna cracker. Samfux. Areas shmarias - areolae, then we got something. Back pains butt paines window frames. Easily number six. White sweats are an absolute GODSEND for the bored or weak of hardon. (Hardon bleu? blew?) So either she has a cosmic Melvin from hell or that's one of those thong things *NEWSFLASH CHRISTINE CEFALU* need I say more I think
NOT buttlifts etc
Themes in modern American Nutrition Evil Live Be Devo yet the unfit may just LVED etc etc sna.
Slitch... bitch... talk about a witch.
But why for whom does your tell bowl? Lysistrata indeed, in fact, in Madonna or Helen Reddy. Ooh aagh Emu.
this page intentionally left here on purpose, really!
This was but is not Part 3 of 4-1/4" The Slushee. Orange. Green. REE< cherry grape and Christmas and Merry. And now for the shallow part.
(Keep going. We're here somewhere!)
long-winded truly meaningless speeches by the author. Me. It is a reflection of me, my thinking and typing styles, my habit of sitting in front of the keyboard and going on and on and on and on and... not really finishing sentences or ideas but still keeping in with that Fish. Oh yes lots of repetitionisms of strange phrases, generally not worth the time & trouble to read. Occasionally, it can turn to a more interesting and marginally meaningful punto de vista, if you will, but it does this so rarely that I have to give a thumbs sideways. Goodnight.
[Now we will ignore my self-ingratiating generally long-faced and saddening poor- downtrodden- AF- isn't- life- the- shits- for- him speech and examine the fact that he has added onto the end of the 42- times- already- ended- thingy and is generally ignoring the premise of 12.3.79;5/37/88 and not keeping with that fish and... but he's not anymore he took it out eh. So don't worry about it. Without reason anyway. This mightn't be all that bad. If it gets stupid I'll start singing Spinal Tap songs. Big bottom - talk about bun cakes my girl's got em - big bottom - how could I leave this behind. I think I will shut up now.]
Frake Jon tong sna sna sna LeVar Burton. DENISE CROSBY! Not stills gnash.
[Do you realize that Ode To What I Think When I Think has initials of OTWITWIT - which could be O Twit Wit, like hey, wow, that's a greeting for a dumbhead like somebody I know. Who it is I'm not sure but I must know some dumbheads. Oh I know. That Emu fellow - he's sorta odd ain't he? Wears Cadet Zippo shades and the whole thing. Must be him. Put a burning cross on his lawn. Anyway, Emu Twit-Wit Petwurt Pervert weirdisms.]
[You might also notice that long-winded bombasticity malapropisms inherent in Twit-Wit these slight interruptions which occur when I cannot think of anything to write so I switch and think for awhile while not actually thinking about what I am typing and just saying things and writing in my head what I am about to do in - hey! Pump you up!]
And now for something compltely similar: Twit-wit. Now you may think that I am strange. This is true. Now you may think that I drink a lot of Coke. This is true. You may think that I don't really know what the fuck is going on. This is true. You may think that I am getting bored again (this is true) but you know what that means... AF will write again. I am writing from the dead? How about rising from the bread? Or dying from the writes more likely. Have you had your wrights red two u?
[Peanuts. Peanuts. Peanuts. Peanuts. Don't want to know about the (fish- phlegm) you're making - don't want to know about the (fish-phlegm) you're taking.... peanuts! peanuts / peanuts / peanuts
Ow, use a pun and go to grison. And now, AF will vomit telekinetically and surprise you. Sketch please draw bridge.
A man in a grey suit whispers, "I'm calling"; pack up and drive away.
We live in an ever-changing world. One of Televideos and Wysi; of meatburgers and televisions; of sex and violins. Whatever.
So like, if my feet are wider than your feet and your feet are wider than my feet, how many feet does Mr. D-------- have? Or how much feces does the average blue whale donate to his favorite charity in one Venusian year? This is highly indicative of roughly nothing at all. If your name is Christine, are you really that weird? AAAAAAAAAAAGGH! If you have a snee, and I have a snee, do we have to sneeze? Hoo boy, what fun are puns.
Pee nuts. Free butts. Good sex and damn! she is sexy and I love her. Which is but is not what I said before. Just a little snack on the side... DEATH MUST ENSUE!
And what logarithms are poems. What? AF are you feeling okay? AF? Yoohoo are you there Mr. Parrot (he's resting) wap wap wap (he's stunned) he's dead (wrestling) shuffled off this mortal coil (forum) gone to meet his maker (playboy) passed away (fred) dead (nurse!) HE IS NO MORE! says John Cleese. DOCTOR DOCTOR DOCTOR MY BRAIN HURTS. WELL WE'LL HAVE TO HAVE IT OUT THEN. NO DOCTOR THE BRAIN IN MY HEAD NOT THE ONE IN MY KNEE. OH THAT ONE. WELL LET'S GO. NURSE NURSE NURSE NURSE OH! YOU SCARED ME. SAW. FISH. WHALE. Potatoes and SpudBoys Bru ha ha ha ha ha ha Bru ha ha ha ha ha ha.
You know, this fuckin thing is long.
HMMMMMMmmmmMMmmmMmmmmMmMMmMmmMMmmMMmMmMMMmmMfmmM.
It's over now. Which was to say then and not now due to frog noses - Hey wow, Mr. D ------, con quien te acuestas? Okay but that wasn't supposed to make sense. Where do I go from here to a better state than this? Well, don't be blind to the big surprise swimming round and round like the deadly hands of the radium clock at the bottom of the blue. Look, it's not my fault if that didn't either (make sense) cause that's what the guy said, I think. Anyway it's a great song, go out and buy it. But remember that that mini-LP has a remixed front-side from album 2 but rerecorded back-side from album 1. They calim they were only remixed - I think they are out-takes or shortened versions or something.... Mesopotamia! Get out of that state you're living in your own PRIVATE IDAHO! And now for something completely nonUkranian. But Chris Blackwell produced their records so this must mean something ' = REM.
It's worked so far, but we're not out yet.
What is about blondes that irritate me so? The only way to be wanted (at least a little) is to be rude (not too rude) to drive them away so they want it... but don't if you try to get them to admit it. I thought it was just that Catholics teach good girls to tease without giving... but Southern Baptists too? JTB!
NASAL SEX UPDATE - Uuughhh blort snarf phlegm not (well, you know, that stuff) 30 days to better root canal sex.....
In every revolution, there is one man with a peanut.
Gone are the greenscreens, the huge power supplies from hell, the objects identfying a wasted, hopeless past.
Now seen is clean, nominally tidy; though not the shining EmuSound of a yuppie future, organized, and so unlike MQE. More like HSC. Or WSW. Or WS 3.3 Professional kumquat dick.
Or EmuLabs. Next week on Body Parts And You!
Miss W. Enright of Northampton, Lodi or thereabouts has the following to contribute:
DEEP THOUGHTS.
To write, is to find your own pen, through the ink of the person sitting next to you, but when the person leaves to go to the john, then you've lost your pen. It is said I have a pen, but my pen has no ink. Hence my long hours of Hallmark haunting, trying to find some ink and turn my pen into a sumpremer [yo!] writing utensil. But there was my pencil sitting in my desk, and it sank into my paper, at last bringing weird drawings to life. Oh ye pens who have made me crazed and rather loony, from pencils and paper, eternal doodles.
Respectfully submitted,
W. Enright
Weird doodler at large.
Follwing this most (well, something good anyway) prose is a picture of a round stick figure (if such can be imagined) which I cannot possibly reproduce on paper (with a computer anyway). Somehow I will, but, my apologies, Miss W.E., your most illustrious of illustrations shall have to wait for me to figure out what to do. In time!
Thankyoo Miss Enright. Really. That might make a bright awakening intro to this otherwise dark, gloomy and generally downbeat piece of sodden negetivism. On that note I will further explicate.
Trick is, to have a car you gotta have a job; and to have a job you gotta
have a car. CATCH FUCKIN 22! And you gotta shave yer fuckin beard. Miss W.E.
donno whattiz like to lose so much facial hair (I hope not anyway. Dammit,
I'm fairly sure. And don't call me surely/Shirley!) So anyway,
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Aagh.
Why scribble when you can just... type? Justypit. EmuComp. Whaevah.
Bitch. Hit the bitch. Hit the bitch with a pitchfork. Whack the bitch on the head with the pitchfork. Watch her bleed. It's all okay, it's all good. It's the natural way of things. Weddings sure as hell aren't. Watch her bleed to death. You've just killed the bitch with the bitchfork. Doesn't it feel good?
Red plastik parts bins are boxified in fruitcrates underbed. Paperwork must be sorted thru and stored... desk behind stereo and thereabouts? Whynot. Empties. Laundry. Permanency. *H2O CompuPro* will need separation from plants... and water. Tank is no big deal... but leaks MUST be prevented. Plants should be Below the tank too so as to allow for gravity to work for & not against. Hmm, work. Spare bits... hard-drives, boards, etc. Christ there's a bunch of RAM16's in the other room... Where the hell do they go? Quinn! Disks? At least the flowers found a home, albeit not a perfect one. Closetify spare E3 KB etc. Jesus! Another goddam BETA! AARGH. Beta can be closeted when SL5K worx again. NEC is there too... There is space next to the rax. There are boogers in my noze. So?
Who said MQE? Bullfrog anyone.
So Quinn's now sells these .66 Amp fans (turbines) which are primarily used by the U.S. Navy, but can double as a heat sink. I think it must be mounted on the RCIT (Remote Counter-Intelligence Terminal) also known as a 13.8 V C- 128 D. Interesting device.
1.
In Vietnam, :
The eyes are watching you, but you can't see them. They're infrared eyes. The donuts have attacked the Royalty, but it will still be some time until the pastries overthrow the castle. Grubby the robot is under construction. Plans have begun on the Remote Counter-Intelligence Terminal. T-minus 12 volts and regulating. The spirit has been broken, along with the turnips I used to play with. Nancy does not come over any more (I guess I am too stern.) Generosity flows from an open wallet like fish through a cheese grater: small fish pass easily, but the big ones aren't paid for.
"There's a reason why the word CON is in CONGRESS. CON is the opposite of PRO, right? Therefore CONGRESS is the opposite of PROGRESS. ...If your knees were bent the other way, what would a chair look like?" - Gallagher.
0.
The reason Jeff beats himself on the head with the diskbox:
Space in front of computerdesk is stuff: Boards, disks (underneath) patchcords and power cables in boxes and son on so forth.
And now for a thousand-word short story on essays. Or is an essay on short stories? Or a short story writen by a drugged maniac? Who knows, who cares, here it is:
Somewhere in this galaxy lies a small green binary star system. It is disregarded by most as being uninhabited, but this is in fact not the case. The occupants (who are all lizards and are named Raymond) go around for most the day saying "Neeble." This has nothing to do with the story.
Elsewhere in this galaxy lies another small sun, this one trinary and very purple. Its inhabitants are known to exist, primarily because of their foremost characteristic. This is, of course, the fact that they attempt to sell Swedish throwing rugs (not throw rugs, throwing rugs) to any civilizations that they meet. If the civilization is not yet advanced enough to desire Swedish throwing rugs, they make it desire Swedish throwing rugs as fast as is Blartveldly possible (incidentally, they are called Blartvelds.) This also has nothing to do with the story.
The story so far: Smark, ceratitis capitata, and Aglyft, vulpes hoopis, are making their usual rounds of the galaxy in their spaceship (it is called the Qurg Byrg, which is not strictly relevant, but quite interesting because - never mind, that is its name and we can talk about why it's interesting later) when they notice evidence of a severe Twinkie infestation on a nearby planet. They fly in to investigate. (We now pause for station idenitification. This is your Spoor Heroes cartoon network.)
I see you, Ronnie (ha I got yer name right for once it must be imprinted on my cortex or something).
The Blartvelds were sitting at their dinner tables one evening, comfortably imbibing their favorite slime, when huge numbers of Twinkies fell from the sky, brandishing weapons and screaming, "We come in war. Take us to your Hostess!" This of course caused great consternation among the now-invaded Blartvelds. Would their world be overrun by small creamy disgusting junk foods? Will they ever eat healthily again? Find out in the next episode of...
THE SPOOR HEROES!!
SPOOR HEROES will return in a moment... We apologize for the interruption - we are experiencing technical difficulties. Beeeeeeeeeeeeep!
[Commercial break / station I.D.: You are watching WYRD Tau Ceti-Orion]
Soon Smark, Aglyft and all of their multitude of friends landed on the planet in an attempt to rid it of its Twinkie problem. Spreading out across the landscape, Smark and his intrepid band of mercenaries ordered the Twinkies to surrender immediately if not sooner or suffer Smark's speciality: Twinkiesquishing! The offending terrorist cakes informed their attackers that they had taken Blartveld hostages and would kill them if any of the Qurg Byrg dudes tried to mess with them.
But Smark, always the wise bug, was able to materialize himself, Aglyft, and Dreamu, their avian sidekick, inside the compound where the hostages were held. After a battle that would put Rambo and Chuck Norris to shame, they saved the day (only to be stuck with the chore of wiping squished Twinkies off the walls for hours!)
Back on the Qurg Byrg, our heroes, all from different planets, were having talking in their common language, Zimfrandsky. They wished to have a vacation, but could not decide upon the place.
"Wartleporp. Vark vark aardew. Ug doo beqwao. Retslemfga!"
"Narkle - woisn pwufh t wjwyrere ueydghg dhcp e udhsya: epw. 9846!"
"Jeo gaep e mebgtra ensje. Tagv eheh reoeopa / eihfdrol. SYS64802!!"
SPOOR HEROES will return in a moment... We now return you ta rga that was not scheduled and is just beginning; welcome to INTRODUCTORY GYNECOLOGICAL EXPLORATION with Dr Emu
[Commercial break / station I.D.]
Hey kids - try new Megabytes cereal: crunchy little computer chips and flavored magnetic tape shaped like binary numbers!
In case you, our listeners / watchers / readers (depending on organization of sensory organs), do not understand Zimfrandsky, here is a translation:
"I think that Jolt is a good neoCoke. I also think we should visit Beqwao [star #TY2354]. Whatdya hear, whadya say, rat phlegm head?"
"No - it wasn't there the last time: remember it moves occasionally. I say we go to #9846!"
"Oh come on now you ensje [an ancient word specifyig the interchangeability of your head and the "out" end of your digestive tract.] Let's head to Rio / and have massive fun there [a quote from a nonexistent poem.] Try #64802!!"
In the end they decided on another choice: Earth. In fact, they had never heard of the place but when they requested the computer for the "weirdest place in the universe", it responded (after some deep thought), "EARTH." They figured, hey, why not, if it doesn't have Swedish throwing rugs, so what, it may have iguanas that say "Neeble" to confuse the zooologists.
In fact, Earth was inhabited by iguanas, but more interesting to the Qurg Byrg folks were the following facts:
SPOOR HEROES will return in a moment... You are watching WYRD Tau Ceti - Cygnus Minor
[Commercial break / station I.D.]
In fact, the story I was planning on writing dealt with this weird Martian kid. He sits around, listening to his mother (yes kids have moms on Mars) yelling at him to clean his room, while he must type and type and type slaving away over a hot keyboard, writing a short story for English. He cannot mention the Jartravids, yellow submarines or even orange Sciroccos, so he is left to sit around counting words and hoping he hits 1,000 without xctually having to think about what he was writing....
Smark and company found that although Earth was not actually a terrible place to visit, they wouldn't actually want to live there, and they took off to save another world from the horrors of Twinkies invading innocent worlds everywhere...
SPOOR HEROES will return in a moment... You are watching WYRD Tau Ceti - Andromeda
[Commercial break / station I.D.]
Now kiddies, Smark the barking MedFly will indoctrinate you for your daily brainwashing! (Oh goody let's bang our heads on the walls, eh children?)
Remember, if a stranger comes up to you on the street offering you candy and claims to be the President of the United States of America, ask him about his policies on Central America.
To be added to the Slosh at little if any cost and nowehere near the last minute. Don't miss this offer of a lifetime! For only $3999.95 (plus CRV tax and socks where applicable, payable in advance no wills accepted, VISA/MC/DISC/AMEX socially venuable.)
You 2 can be guaranteed to spend your next incarnation as Shirley MacClaine's underwear. Our leading parapsychologist, Dr Bendelschweit Emuski assures us that he can guide you spritual esseance through the proper channels of the Ethereal realm to achieve [AARGH THAT WORD AGAIN] the proper reincarnation.
This is a limited time offer, so DON'T DELAY. Call 1-800-GET-STFD or send lots and lots of money (more than the full amount) to:
I Wanna Be With Shirley
POBox 69
Colorado Springs, CO 80916
ACT NOW DON'T MISS IT JOIN THE WHONIVERSE DON'T BE A DALEK
Coffee or Tea? Female equatability chart:
| Yes | Now |
| Maybe | Yes |
| No | Give her another beer |
| Smile | Sex |
| Smile | No sex |
| Smile | Some sex |
| Smile | Don't even think about it anymore |
Give us that cock-sucker pucker. Give us that dick-licker snicker. Why don't you just smile if you're horrrny! Steve put that in... I'm no Rocky-head and that seems to be all he wants. What a handsome ransom.
Froot. Fruit. Froet. Fret. Twelve-stringed headbangers. Beer chuckers, selfsuckers, whatever.
A morning spent removing wet strawberries from my drink. Is this too weird? Unacceptably morose? Or perhaps even boring. Know not I for I cannot, I must not, though I am what 'twasn't, what might be, today.
Okay kiddies today's word is gratuitous. Every time you hear the word, make a troubled raisin. Oop oop, honk honk. Guess what? We're gratuitously (oop honk) repeating ourselves, repeating ourselves...
but no matter how intense the situation, never use Saran Wrap as a contraceptive. e.e.c.
one other such timely point, never regret doing anything--otherwise life is not worth living. e.e.c.
The phrase BLOND IN TRAINING came to mind I don't know why AMC Geep Gere argh.
NEEBLE. Improvement, devolvement, anarchy? Ankhography.
AF you're ankhing again says Steve who wrote this. See above. FMS which is not frequency mutilation squids but is rather similar to FMT32 have you found a house yet Jason? Maybe, just maybe... FMT39. SMS. The thought plickens, prot thvoking. The mucating leads to 11 letter phrases. Here kitty kitty...
Statement for the time frame:
In life as with women, hopes rise as bread, along with other things.
- Doc "Is that an armadillo in your shorts or are you happy to see me" Emu
Emu says that armadillo is like an armadildo without the second d. Tiz did not say this she demands that she never says "dildo" and says "Fuck you mu." Thread of spoogy consciousness okay then.
Reward: Lost, one dog. Three legs, one eye, no ears, half tail, spayed. Answer to "Lucky", not Lucy. In case of... In case of... In case of... In case of... In case of... In case of... In case of... In case of... In case of... In case of... Raisins. It's been lovely but I have to explode now. Everything is relative if you believe in Christian mythology that is... Ymos TU still uses al those fuckin little dots ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
.... .... .... ... fooled U ...... .. . . . ............ .. .. ... .. .. .. .. ..... ...... .. .. ........ .. .. .. .. . ... .. ..... ...... .. .. ... .. .. ...
Strange haircuts, cardboard guitars and computer samples: Information Society.
Ionosphere and irony: the Twilight Zone. Manatees and menstruation: the Muvckelnebeger foople norzag. Pop Will Eat Itself aren't you scared they's fUnCkIe plorzad.
THIS JUST IN... really! Direct quotes from bulletin board systems our government operates at taxpayer expense!!
UNIX System V Release 3.2.3 AT&T 3B2 FDABBS Copyright (c) 1984, 1986, 1987, 1988, 1989, 1990 AT&T All Rights Reserved Login last used: Thu Aug 5 04:08:31 1993 @@@@@ @@@@@@ @ @ @ @ @ @ THE FDA @@@@@ @ @ @@@@@ ELECTRONIC BULLETIN BOARD @ @@@@@@ @ @ Welcome to FDA's electronic bulletin board, a service of the Food and Drug Administration. UNAUTHORIZED USE IS PROHIBITED BY TITLE 18 OF U.S.C. RECALLS AND FIELD CORRECTIONS: FOODS -- CLASS III ==================== PRODUCT Taco Sauce packed in 8 ounce glass bottles with black plastic screw caps. Recall #F-537-3. CODE Date Packed - 10/92, 2/93. MANUFACTURER Eagle Spice and Extract Company, Inc., Brooklyn, New York. RECALLED BY Manufacturer. Firm-initiated recall ongoing. DISTRIBUTION U.S. Navy. QUANTITY 544 cases (12 units per case) were distributed. REASON Product is unfit for human consumption due to bacterial growth. ______________ PRODUCT Tetley Real Brewed Iced Tea, Ready to Drink: (a) Natural Lemon Flavor, in 12 ounce cans, in 16 ounce glass bottles and, in 2 liter plastic bottles; (b) Raspberry Flavor packaged in 12 ounce cans. Recall #F-544/545-3. CODE 3132CH and below (12 ounce cans); 3160CH and below (16 ounce glass bottles); 3155CH and below 2 liter ______________ PRODUCT (a) Premarin (conjugated estrogens), 0.625 mg, Rx drug in bottles of 30; (b) Provera (medroxyprogesterone acetate), 2.5 mg, Rx drug in bottles of 40. Recall #D-300/301-3. CODE Lot numbers: (a) 0A3L; (b) 0A3C. MANUFACTURER Physicians Total Care, Inc., Tulsa, Oklahoma (repacker/responsible firm). RECALLED BY Physicians Total Care, Inc., Tulsa, Oklahoma, by telephone July 8, 1993, followed by letter July 9, 1993. Firm-initiated field correction complete. -3-DISTRIBUTION Florida. QUANTITY (a) 4 bottles; (b) 3 bottles were distributed. REASON Products repackaged and distributed without package inserts. ______________ PRODUCT Tridate brand Bowel Evacuant Kit, consisting of three laxative products and directions for use, in patient preparation for surgery or for colon preparation for x-ray or endoscopic examinations: One/10 ounce Tridate Solution (Magnesium Citrate Oral Solution USP); Three/5 mg Tridate Tablets (Bisacodyl USP); One/10 mg Tridate Suppository (Bisacodyl USP). Recall #D-304-3. CODE Tridate Bowel Evacuant Kit Lot #20307 EXP 2/94. Kit contains Tridate Solution Lot 20593 EXP 2/94, Tridate Tablets lot 1G6861 EXP 7/93, Tridate Suppository lot 1225-2 EXP 9/95. MANUFACTURER Lafayette Pharmaceuticals, Inc., Lafayette, Indiana. RECALLED BY Manufacturer, by sending notification packets on October 9, 1992. Firm-initiated recall complete. DISTRIBUTION Nationwide. QUANTITY 6,007 kits were distributed. REASON Kit label bears an expiration date longer than one of the components. -5- RECALLS AND FIELD CORRECTIONS: DEVICES -- CLASS III ===================== ______________ PRODUCT Storz Maxillofacial Bone Screws for Rigid fixation: (a) 1.0 x 3.0 mm, Part #MP111003; (b) 2.0 x 19.0 mm Cross HD, Part #MP112019. Recall #Z-572/573-3. CODE Lot #93077. MANUFACTURER General Automation, Skokie, Illinois. RECALLED BY Storz Instrument Company, St. Louis, Missouri, by telephone March 24 & 25, 1993, followed by letter dated March 25, 1993. Firm-initiated recall complete. DISTRIBUTION California, Illinois, Indiana, Massachusetts, Missouri, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Tennessee, Utah, Virginia. QUANTITY (a) 220 units; (b) 172 units were distributed. REASON Mislabeled. The 1.0 x 3.0 mm screws were put into packages labeled as 2.0 x 19.0 mm vice versa.No goddam comment.
Ambidextrous oyster flowers sugars. Simultaneity in order not chaos is the beginning and the end, the yin and my yang, the alpha and the Omegacon run every year as what is supposedly the largest fish I ever did see in Minnesota but I got away from me Mr. D. This is known as something but I forget what. Neat though huh bonus track 8. FMT91.
Fast Fourier Transforms are the answer to life the universe and why women's
underclothing are the least intellectually stimulating variety of headgear
around.
-- Dr Emu
I apologize for the face (fact? face? about fact? about face? mace? mact? AArkAArkAArk!) (I suppose anyway) that you have had to read it and I hope you have suddenly realized that I rarely shut up and this could go on forever or longer so your best bet is to keep reading it. Ha ha ha ha ha Finnegan! Bally heyho so I assure you: Whatever any of that was supposed to mean. Some of it is just outpourings (outporings? outborings? outhouses?) of emotion on my part. I feel very strongly about many things and so you see them often. Other things I am apathetic about and they pop up too.
As a matter of fact, a great very many things are discussed in some great depth in this document. Some great depth I am not sure which great depth. The Marianas Trench? Counselor Cleavage as we seem to call Deanna Troi aka Marina Sirtis. Ahaha that is the Marina trench. Eekleberries. The Trinh Luu Tribune? The small nude women tribute to.....
(A great many Very things)
Basically though I just hate letting the thing remain constant for any great length of time, to irritate people who say My version is a week old in't that current and I say No it itn't currant. Wha sna sha. Whoop snorp.
[This is Chris again, Mr. College, Mr. Wow, Mr. I spend nine thousand dollars a year to be abused. Sound good? Sound familiar?]
Anyway, here I am, just trying to be me. I gotta be me. I gotta be me. Time to watch Sean Connery. Let's take poor Cindy down a couple of notches.
Fuck 'em all, let God sort them out.
Remember, don't fuck the woman you love. Make mad passionate love to her instead. Unless, of course, you don't want to, in which case you shouldn't.
We're old and we're getting older. Twenty years of our lives and what do we get? Nothing. We're still us. We still don't get to fuck the women we really want to fuck. I still think Miss Beck (Mrs. Craig?) (I'm going to be nauseous) made a very bad mistake. Oh well. I'll just have to find another rich chick with mental problems to fuck and drop, just as a way of releaving my tensions and cares.
My problem is, I love too many people. Or maybe I just want in the pants of too many people. I'm not sure I know exactly what love is, but I'll probably find out before I die.
Sorry, this isn't too terribly Sloshy. I'm just musing.
Fletch out, Capitan!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I am afraid that that is a detriment, for this continual jumping from one subject to another (much less one author to another but that's why we ask for reader additions!) with total abandon for the minds of the readers is downright rude to them. But it's the way I think, bouncing back and forth until I am satisfied that there is nothing left to discuss - when there is more, I return back someplace and reexamine things; when I am done, well-
And so, Bastian, Doc, SS, Sabrewind, Spike, Medik, Maniacal Mustang Man, The dieter, John of the Philadelpia RHPS, soitan Slutty Slitchi - and many others went on to have many wonderful adventures. But then again, that's another story...
And in the end
The love you take
Is equal to
The love you make
Her Majesty's a pretty nice girl
But she doesn't have a lot to say
Her Majesty's a pretty nice girl
But she changes from day to day
I wanna tell her that I love her a lot
But I gotta get a bellyful of wine
Her Majesty's a pretty nice girl
Someday I'm gonna make her mine
Someday I'm gonna make her mine
Dr Emu and a great many others (if not many great others) such
Perhaps I need to (1) rethink my views on these things. Or find another shopper. Hmm.... but the music is the same... which isn't the point. More interesting, which side is represented? Who is addressing whom? Who is hurt? Who's causing the pain? (The answer, I suspect, is that both hurt, both cause; it's once of those PrintArtist 'SatanGrafix Yin-Yang thangs'.)
And even more critical, is Fletch right when he says that the lyrics for "The Metro" are written from her side, but the video from his? Hmm. Gender interchangeability at its best.
Thanks for listening, folks. I'll shut up now - in a fit of blind arrogance.
I am burgerman, I burger. Burger burger burger Kim Cattrall. Noodle.
Noodlenavigation. Wait till the noddle reflects. Noodle.
Six fingers. I am Inigo Monturnipa and I'm bored.
I'm Indigo Indrigo and I'm board.
I want Kim Cattrall dropped on top of me, not Yuri Andropov.
Or Andrei Snegnov. Friggn tabkey.
NOOOOODLE
I hated to waste this...
1.
The Internet can be classified as:
Whenever you see a capacitor, as far as DC voltages are concerned, you should:
A dead fish is still no bloody good, but a dead chicken can be used to annoy the SunGrapfix workstation. Who did that to the guitar, amnd why would they do such a heinous deed?
Urgle blurgle pi. Urgle blurgle I was accosted by idomatic men demanding spoonstraws. SPORK.FAQ sporq fak.
You say miata I say toledo
You say shibbolet I say frapsit
Why the fuck not?
Don't phuck with a nerd - technoterrorism. WCBG!!
^V ^K hey frey sheday booway
I just went through haolf a bottle of that wine I bought a long time ago. I got pissed because this bottle fo wine reminded me of bad expedriences. So now I eon't have the bottle any more.
I have to piss now. JHust thought I'd let you know I'm drunk. I think. I hate Admin ass.
If I shake my head, the letters appear to the screan faster. I can now turnippe as slow as 25 wordws per minutes.
I know you're gopnna make fun of me tomorrow bhecause I appear to be slightly intoxicated, but go ahead because I expect it.
Hmm. Maybe Ishoud take advantate of this and do some slosh stuff:
The goat in the hermetically sealed goat factory cannot eat throught the hibiscus plants. I'm waiting for a sequel to Spoor Heoroes. I want the commercials to interrupt my brain and swallow the pigeon. (That would be the dead pigeon from the Disclaimer.( I can't even parenth right! Noodles. Noodles to you all.
If only Kibo could see me now~!
Gurgle.
Hola entender, el Brion'! Cara mi pentado en la mendocina. Bien locos las nuevos en el elcontrados musto? Tambien! En por favor el SymCity bootdisk para aqui en asi mismo. El corrador pensiento se en las granitas por lo mensaba. Trembierto del novio en su peligra repitan. No se'? Hoy!
Gracias y pescados!
eep eep eep
I want kim cattrall deposited on top of me
dropped on top of me
topped on drop of me
andrei snegnov
andrei andropov
go to cliff and drop off
go to choral rhief and bop off
smegmaburgers
that's why jim walked to the center of the world, anyway. he just wanted to see if the cones were aligned. he didn't deserve all of the smashing and peeling and ripping and searing and pliering and overwrought chemical delousing. he didn't even deserve a reproach. just the facts. just good, solid, useful facts.
And so the fish rose its mighty Fin of Death and whisked off a head or two. "Nucklepie!", he said, as he spat engine oil all over the dentists. Soon, the dentists were not only covered in engine oil, but the cream cheese started stalking them as well. Only time would tell if the cream cheese would really attack the dentists. Murder? Not really. Just a concerned member of the freezer section.
Of course, when one sets out to attack dentists, it's a good idea to come prepared. In addition to the Fin of Death, every fish is equipped with surgical tweezers, in which the blue wire is held far away from the red wire.
After that, it was only a matter of proper flossing before the dentists would succomb to the evil clenches of the cream cheese. Rinse?
"But Egon, I thought you said crossing the streams was bad!"
What a wonderful bird the frog are--
When he sit, he stand almost.
When he hop, he fly almost.
He ain't got no sense hardly.
He ain't got no tail hardly either.
When he sit, he sit on what he ain't got--almost
-- Anon
Sometimes I think I wish I was an ancient caveman on a quest for fire. Searching for something to burn my neighbor's bum. Something to burn the hair off my head and make it smell like someone just burnt the hair off my head.
I wish I could relive all the "Og"s and "Ootah"s. Be able to start a new language by changing the "O" in "Og" to an "X". "Xg" which would mean "to accidentally swallow a large bone and choke on it until blood pours from your throat into your lung and drowns you." Kind of like a hemorraging pneumonia.
A caveman's life was much more risky than the life of humans today. Today we worry about what color socks to wear as our hand puppets. Or worry about which restaurant we get to fake an epileptic seizure in. A caveman's life revolved around survival. Eating food which wouldn't kill you. Sleeping where the dinosaurs wouldn't kill you. Finding shade where the sun wouldn't kill you. Poking the right woman who's husband wouldn't kill you. The quest for fire.
Yes, sometimes I wish I was a neanderthal precambrian psycho slut with huge breasts, begging to feed the prehistoric world. Just waiting to abscond with the right Zog or Tog. Getting to pick the best of the litter, or at least getting to litter the best pick. Indeed, I wish I were a lesbian cavewoman, sleeping around with Zog's wife. Safely knowing that Zog would not have to worry about another mouth to feed. Rugged, fearless, and being tied up and whipped with dinohide. Oh, what it's like to be a homo-erectoid feminine beast! Brandishing all her sacred glory to the new world.
Again, the quest for fire. The inspiration which drives us all.
He say trimming skin from his fingers with a scissors
Did you say you had some CD caddies?
Today is brought to you by the state of New York, the color Annie Linux, and a bunch of Scandanavian tourists who insist that elk are green-five.
Eleventy-nine and a half. I am walking on a boat filled with plumbing by rivers and a complete lack of hairpieces.
Bruce Dickinson is my copilot. I, however, recline.
Foozle my woozle; ponch fiendish goat droppings
In light of another work week yet upon us, take this time to reflect on
last week and decide what you'll do differently this week. Here's some help...
So the goat comes up to the farmer and asks for a Tamale. But the farmer does not have any Tamales. So he says, "No, I don't have any Tamales." The goat looks at him in disbelief, and says, "I think you do. And I'm gonna prove it!" The goat grabs the farmer by the scruff of the neck and throws him into a nearby bus depot. Immediately, the farmer is attacked and consumed by several Conway Twitty impersonators. The goat rummages through the farmer's wife and finds six full Tamales. He turns toward the impersonators and shouts, "See? I told you he had Tamales! They were hidden on the farmer's wife!" So the impersonators worshipped the goat. They called him "Petunia" and other snide words of pigeon droppings. They even sacrificed vinyl to him. Not music, just clothing.
It's Dance Fever with Denny Terrio! This week's guest star is Bob Menchaka! Oh no! Not Bob Menchaka! Swoons around the dental hygeniest.
Sung to the tune of: Ode to a Goat With Tamales
Bottles and oughttles and noogies for lunch
Spit for the shotgun and give it a crunch
Dashes and colons and ampersands thrice
Make for some yogurt and cream is so nice
Dasher's on Prancer, and Vixen's so cute
Orgy on top of the Tower is Yoot
Spinach and lettuce and cauliflower zoo
Bazingas and tamales and enchiladas, too
Cremate the donkey and spit out a lung
This ain't no song, son, it ain't even sung
Wheezer and ice cream and fishsticks on ice
Cremate the donkey; cremation is nice
Whirl 'round the mustard and whirl on his fish
Give him your number and he'll make you a wish
Charles is a Bronson and Mel is the cook
Work on my phone and I'll write you a book
Sing a silly song but don't answer it Grimm
A bluebird is dying, but he said "It's dead, Jim!"
Fleas and the roaches but not my pet squid
This song is now over; aren't you glad that I did?
Tom, if you are still reading this, it's way past your bedtime. Go to bed and eat a fishstick or two. Pass the gravy, though, but be sure not to put it on top of noodles. Use gravy on top of meat only. Podgourney Weaver? The BlancMange? Scottish kilts?
No, I'm not drunk. When I'm drunk I make several typographical errors. Ask anyone who receives my email when/if I'm drunk. NOw is not the time for all good men to come to the aid of the nuclear halibut in training for the 72 Olympics. Midas? Where's my muffler! Muffy? Missy--I mean--Mom?
That oughtta keep you going for a while.
Happy Monday.
My foot is asleep
And soon shall be I. Therefore I am my own foot. Which makes eating an odd proposition at best. More cereal I do believe.
And then comes the sig, and the cigars, and the Sigue Sigue Sputnik, and the bad Leo Kunkle impersonators.
One in three, man, one in three.
Warp the wrap and hasta banana.
It is hot, at least outside; it's not refreshingly cool in here, that's for sure. The laundry closet (it's not really a room, too small) is sweltering; fortunately, I pop in, do the dirty deed, and get out again.
Hmm, something sexual there. Never thought of a drier that way before.
I don't think I will again.
But I wash the damn clothes anyway, just on the premise that it makes an evil day (Monday) a little easier to deal with. Clean clothes a clean slate make. Good shorts and a comfortable shirt and you can take on the world.
Conversely (and yes I DO wear Nike) if your clothes are last year's and a bit tight around the gut and your undies are the sort you home you don't get into a car accident because then what would people think of your mother... well, Mondays can be REALLY shitty, instead of just a lousy stretch to get through them whew I'm glad that was over.
Took the little Tandy laptop out for a spin; I never use it, really, now that school's over. To think that people pay four and five thousand bucks for one of these things, little dinky, expensive, turnips. At least mine only cost me $250 all told.
I coulda been a phreaker, but I'm just a dude who answers the helpline phone. Could be worse, I could be on the other end of the line.
Or in New Jersey. Worse yet, both.
And I think, I could be married, and starting a family, and getting home from work to the wife cooking dinner and watching TV and screaming kids.
After I clean the vileness from my throat, I thank the powers that be that I am not there yet. I may be fat and old, but I am still young and burpish, if not sprightly; and there must still be out there somewhere my New Zealand airline stewardess.
(Yeah, like she's going to be home more than a biology major. Oh well.)
Such is life of a Sunday. The car is rewired, the ElFish are spawning and animating (do you animate when you spawn?) and everything else can wait until another day; it is not of import.
"grep" is a combo of editor command characters. It is from the command
:g/RE/p which translates to "global Regular Expression print".
I mean, after all, why not? Everyone else does; it's not like they don't. I thought she was of age. I was young, I needed the money. There were only two photographs. How was I supposed to know that her husband was the guy behind the camera? And that her lover was in the next room? With a handgun?
Some days life just ain't fair.
The following is a 12-part exam to discover the inner traits of your own battered childhood. Be as honest as you can, selecting the best answer to each question. There are no right or wrong answers, and you can only flunk this course by not answering correctly. Average score is 4/100. Good luck.
01.
The main purpose of a Tactical Sportism Department is to:
A bit of philosophy from Old Man F:
Just call me your little Angel. Yes, I prance around the house in my sister's underwear early in the morning. But that doesn't mean I'm wild. It means that I really care about how my genitalia sticks to the ceiling. Strange, you say? Queer? Nay, my plastic fish. Undergarments were made to be worn. Once! Twice! Thrice before washing! Washing removes the original intent of the creator. Washing removes the natural instinct of what it really means to be a woman. Washing removes the sin! Flaaarg, I tell you. Flaaarg to cleanliness!
It's not an accepted behavior in the world, but cross-dressing is a religion in some towns. The town I grew up with shunned such natural human instincts. But not the town of Life. Nay! The town of Life flourishes in such behavior! To be able to feel fresh and tingley. Not just because of the crabs, either! I'm talking downright feminine hygiene. To truly experience nature's filth is a benefit to all of mankind. Even the dentists. Make that dental assistants. Yes. Many.
Do not fear me. Do not hate me. Accept me for who I am and what I behold. And what I behold is Sis's nasty remnants of what society has shunned for generations. Get in touch with your feelings! Get in touch with your dirty laundry! Or someone else's! Benefit from all that it can do for you. Live in other's soiled passions. Wash if you must, but by all means, LIVE!!
-- Underwritten by Sisters of the world. Yours and mine.
(I don't actually have a sister. Probably for the better.)
My foot is asleep
New toadstools
mail mazie death die strange aphrodisiac dental assistant mutation brain hurt hate disrespect admin assistant admin ass strange email sacriligious dead pigeons no response fish brain insult feathers puppet show violet light entrapment dope farmer squeegie lactation in movies squid out with jewish noodles needing ram mylex good pit bull margot kidder movie spinach goddess
Feminine. Hi! Gene!
I think I'll turn on the lights while I'm still partially conscious and not quite drunlk yet.
Kim Cattroll.
While most of the country is waiting for SNL, I'm plucking the feathers off the goldfish. Swamp-infested goldfish, I might add.
What would it take to get a dental assistant to smear mint jelly on my window? Smearmint? Juicy Fruit? I think not. Perhaps something less fruity and more spooty.
Late night Slosh (Real life eats strudel)
Yes, it's Late Night with The Slosh. Once again, it's our host... Levar Burton!!! I don't know why, but I find myself writing more stuff for The Slosh. Maybe it's because life is so simple and uneventful? Maybe it's because I have earthworms coming out of my brain and they're talking to me in sweet voices, whispering "write for The Slosh... it's an aphrodisiac". As the worms eat into my brain!!!!!
So another Halloween came and went. The Santa hat was worn early this year, and many parents were pissed of. And the new Server is named Spooty. What gives? What takes? Oh, those dang hot lights! A model's work is so tough!
This exam is merely here to decide level placement in Home-Ec/Small Engines 101. Those scoring above 60% will be placed in an advanced placement study. Those scoring below 60% will be hacked in two and stuffed into various mailboxes around the city. Please score above 60%.
1.
When cooking on the grill, make sure that:
666 is the number of the beast.
66DD is the number of the breast.
Run! Liberate yourself from the noodle prison! Take the butthead with you and make sure he is flogged! Quick! Destroy Leo's old cube!
And other mindless chatter. Childless matter? Chicken mattress?
I noodle the spigot; thge spigot farms Scooter.
You write way too much Slosh. I save it and stroke nothing.
I spend entirely too much time online. I spend entirely too much time on wine.
Marty Mouse and the Trouble With My Crotch. Pick my brain, but be sure to wipe your finger on the carseat when done. Is it just me, or does *your* finger smell like butt-nuggets? I need more nasal juice. The stuff I have now currently smells like arrogant Ramen. Incidentally, how does one obtain wax from a turtle? Let's explore...
space ghost ate moby. and imo phillips. i thought i was fucking crazy. then i turned on the teevee. they made a six million dollar man movie with sandra bullock. why couldn't they have used, say, cat hall?
in space no-one can hear the audience scream. do i fucking look like uma thurman? uma, oprah... oprah, uma.
um this, bud.
Rebuttals. "Why is it difficult to find men who are sensitive, caring and good looking? -- They all already have boyfriends." This means something. This is important. Big House to Head Cheese, over. Plans have changed; Rabbit reports that the Jester has fallen out. Meet me at the Purple Slurpie at midnight to discuss terms. No more needles.
There's something odd about an Ammurican tradition of stuffing spice up a chicken's ass, calling it the pope's nostrils, and baking it.
And the auto parts places are closed. Weird.
Bizarre love octangles, Lisa Kudrow, and "Hey, that's not MY uterus!"
ACCEPT ME AS A TURNIP <dremu-at-slosh-dot-com>
BLOW THE WIDE GOAT OPEN TADPOLE <dremu-at-slosh-dot-com> PENIS
without the word "penis" at the end, of course, it just sends you the last six digests for no apparent reason. Ah, the joy of surrealism.
Q: How many surrealists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
A: Fish.
Q: How many light bulbs does it take to screw a surrealist?
A: Fish.
Uhh... not surprising. Her kind of thing. If I was more into
You may have moved up a notch or two now that you're married, you know. This might be Your Chance ;-)
It's sorta like Charlie & Buster (yes, our cats ARE our children, what of it??). Buster's NEVER gonna be a normal cat and sit and cuddle, or really even let anybody touch him.
Charlie at least is jumpin' up on the bed and sitting, but he runs off if you look at him sideways ;-(
...anyway, point being, we must recognize small steps ;-)
I was thinking Thursday about where I am today (specifically, where I was then, Tiz cooking and so forth) versus where I was, say, four or five years ago, in Walnut Creek, alone and fucking bored on Thnaksgiving and getting yelled at by Xpy's mother (long story, lol!)
That was Xpy, btw.
The Internet is boring on holidays -- only Swedish and Danish people post on T-giving, I discovered back in WC, and NOBODY posts on Xmas.
Not even the Jewish and the Islamic.
Ari says "hi" and licks you. Don't take this too personally, cuz Ari licks anybody, and generally without notice!
This thought has been brought to you by the flying monkeys and the Poppies.
Guess what we saw yesterday?
You have the patience for the right person to come along. You seek advice from people you care about and respect. But then you busy yourself with opinions from neanderthals and attempt to pluck the wings off flies using only your sexual organs and a full pincushion. Your biggest disappointment was learning schizophrenia qualifies only as a hobby and not a fetish. Remember, the promise of latex paint will never be fulfilled.
Yes, umm, well. You, umm, yes. Well. Indeed. So. Thank you Carl Sagan.
John gets a call from his blonde girlfriend, Buffy. "I've got a problem," says Buffy. "What's the matter?" asks John. "Well, I've bought this jigsaw puzzle, but it's too hard. None of the pieces fit together and I can't find any edges."
"What's the picture of?" asks John. "It's of a big Rooster," replies Buffy.
"All right," says John, "I'll come over and have a look." So he goes over to Buffy's house and Buffy greets him saying, "Thanks for coming over."
Buffy leads John into her kitchen and shows him the jigsaw on the kitchen table. John looks at the jigsaw and then turns to Buffy and says, "For Pete's sake put the Cornflakes back in the Box."
Damienne points out , "I don't get it." (She's trying, unsuccessfully, to pretend blonde-ness.) Well, imagine this cardboard box with a picture of a big red cock on it ... Oh, nemmind.
"You mean, like the pasta?"
No, more like the pasta chef. If he's sunburned, err, where "it counts." How the fuck is either a rooster or male genitalia like pasta??
"Never seen Peenie Pasta?"
I don't play those games. I keep my dongle out of hot water.
"Russ had a box of gummi penises once..."
A random passerby in the office says that "No matter what university you come from, that's GOTTA hurt!"
What kind of animal exactly is a nipplelope? (IOW, more conversations with a wanna-be-blonde.)
"I know I'm psychic 'cause one day, I was thinking of the word "the", and right after I thought it, someone used it in a sentence! Can you believe it?"
Precognition is the easiest to engender.
"So... postcognition is harder?" Check a guy's shorts when you say "post-cognition" and see how hard he is.
On eating vegans... You know, they sell pasta shaped like... Rice cooker? I didn't know anyone sold pasta shaped like... I try and avoid anatomically correct food. Ah! A vegan! Oh no, I'll eat vegetarians too. I'm not picky. That's nice. Unless you're the vegan. And for those of you listening at home, nope, that's not a threatening statement. It's just a sort of random, unexpurgated resemblance of tasty wafers of bat vomit. Blondes aren't my style, as we know; I thoroughly prefer redheads.
More dork-bell-bashing, or the perils of political correctness:
<story> Here's another one for someone's collection, from Gavin Esler's book 'The United States of Anger' (Penguin paperback, ISBN 0-14-026927-4 if anyone's interested; p75):
'During the 1993 seige of David Koresh's compound in Texas, I travelled to Waco airport to meet the family of a British member of Koresh's Branch Davidian cult. I knew that the father was flying to Texas in the hope of rescuing his son from the compound. I was told thjat the man was middle-aged, black, and from the English Midlands, but I had no othed description. While I stood at the airport with other British journalists waiting for the flight to arrive, a white American television reporter, who had also been tipped off about the incoming relative, sidled up to me.
"How will you recognise him?" she asked.
"Well, he is British and black," I replied.
"Oh," she said, "he is African-American."
It is now regarded as politically correct to refer to black Americans as "African-Americans". But this was a *British* man who happened to be black.
"No," I protested, amused at the mistake. "The man is *not* African-American. He is British."
"But," the reported persisted, "you *said* he was African-American."
"No, I said he was British and black."
There was an embarrassed silence as, slowly, the last glimmers of common sense tried to reassert themselves. The journalist was adrift in the new rules, desperate not to offend anyone, yet managing precisely the opposite.
"Well," she wondered, "could I say he is African-British?"
Before I could answer, behind me a British voice called sarcastically, "Maybe you should try African-West Indian-British. Just to be on the safe side."
</story> So, someone who shall remain nameless pipes up with, "Anyway, they're not black at all. They are brown."
And I counter with, "What, Brits? They're only brown as the final stage of being exposed to California sun -- first bright lobster red, then a sort of maroon, and then finally a crispy brown as their skin flakes off...:
She replies, in her usual bombastic fashion, "Sounds like Kentucky Fried Chicken."
Yes, except there's no Kentucky in Britain, only Frye. The chicken, of course, crossed the pond.
Reminds me of an issue involving BBS' and telnets; Kwak, you can comment here: "It's like a modem and a door, only there's no modem, and there's no door..."
I knew a girl like that once. No modem, no door. Everyone else knew her four times at least. I'm thankful I only had the once; less chance of disease that way.
Another one-liner: "A girl with no modem and no door? So how did anyone get in?"
Well, *I* wouldn't be the one to know... but the writing on the wall (of the men's room, next to her phone number) enumerated a series of possibilities:
Not sure where religion entered into the picture (or the young lady in question for that matter.) It is certainly possible that, at times of extreme, umm, happiness, she might have cried out (to quote "The Martyrdom of St Victor") something akin to "Oh Lord, this is fantastic", but I would imagine that such would be as close as religion would get to this particular hypothetical situation which I reiterate my lack of direct personal knowledge of.
Who is religious in your accusation/observation, who is non-religious, and who is making judgements on whom?
Uhoh, an outburst this time: "She was judged for her sexual behavior. This sort of thing didn't happen to women until religion took over Europe and England. Because people do not realize their history, they judge people and write things on walls about them! That's my point on how religion entered the picture." Any time someone has to clarify by saying "That's my point", you KNOW they're babbling ;-). Ah. So people have been writing about men on public restroom walls for centuries then. How long have public restrooms been commonplace?
Moreover, I can't speak to the writings about men on restroom walls since I rarely frequent ladies' restrooms (and then only to run in, flip up all the toilet seats, and dash out again.) Perhaps men are similarly judged. Still smells like a matriarchal dominated society to me. Or something out of a forgettable Star Trek (TOS) episode involving Bill Shatner without a shirt.
Another random spattering: "Matriarchal dominated society? When? Where? Can I get tickets? Is it because "The hand who rocks the cradle is the hand who rocks the world?" Bill Shatner withougt a shirt? Yeesh! When I was in kindergarten, I though Spock was much sexier."
It's the ears -- granted, they're satanic ears, but it's the ears.
One final inconsequentiality: "Public baths and restrooms were common in Rome, where plumbing was first invented. There is even grafitti among the ancient Pyramids of Egypt! I have never seen a guy's phone number written on the wall of a ladies restroom nor any derogatory remarks written about males - just other females sometimes. There's a lot of "Joe Shmoe is fine!" And "T.S. + S.N. forever!" and stuff like that.
...and things degenerate. When doesn't that happen? <chuckle>. WARNING: I will fully admit that the above is edited slightly, for brevity, but I guarantee that it contains all of the surrealism and uselessness originally present in both sides of the conversation. I will also admit that some parts of the thread, particularly the remotely realistic ones, were dropped, as they have little or no place in The Slosh for that reason alone. Noodle.
And the big chuckle, for me, about all of this is that the "I knew a girl like that once" business is just me bein' stooopid. Ask Charman or anybody who knows me outside of GD -- I say this in response to almost anything, a bad habit I picked up from me poppa. There actually is a specific woman I knew in school who this is modelled after, but it's truly all just a bunch o' wordplay.
As is so much on GD and indeed, the world. Perhaps this should be a lesson to us all, or perhaps I just need more rootbeer.
Thank you for purchasing another rather clever idea from Johnson Wax, Inc., PQFP. Please answer the following questionairre by circling the choice which best describes your penis:
1.
The instructions for applying the wax was:
With the next Presidential elections nearly upon us, I feel it appropriate to congratulate the dead Presidents which have martyred their lives for the sake of new libraries established in their memorial. Twelve books later, Congress is still holding a Cinnamon Roll vote. This is about as political as I'll ever get, thank you very much Fletch, but I cannot bear to think that our beloved government is enacting in my favor. Did you know that "government" is an anagram for "veluptuous goat"?
So Snapperhead is not on our happy list. Ask Vince Kim if Marty is in my pants. The Amazon not only flows through the middle of our department, but it also smokes more than the Nile. Snapperhead just bought a new shovel in order to dig himself a deeper hole. Snapperhead just found out the meaning of the word "no". Can I borrow *your* CDs?
Looking out the window across the everpleasant valley of I-680, I see that they've finally established the FOP lane. This lane is furthest on the right, and must be used by all FOPs. In addition, *only* FOPs can use this lane, and speed limits cannot exceed 20mph during peak hours. When using this lane, the radio may be played on the AM band only, and volume not to exceed -25 dB at 3M. Why the driver would be 3M away from the stereo is beyond me, but that's H.M. Government. Signalling into or out of the FOP lane must be engaged at least 2 minutes or 2 miles before actually changing lanes. Vehicles capable of exceeding 55mph are strictly prohibited. No wigs.
But Egon, I thought you said using pickle juice as an enema was BAD?!
Oh, it's another tiring late night where I'm listening to the same music over and over and over again, El-Fish. Wynonna Judd is not Winona Ryder. The question is... can Pete tell the difference? El-Fish in Germany.
1.
Aa og zug og ooota eetoh:
* W E L C O M E * - Thanks for purchasing the New American Neanderthal Caveman. We're sure you'll be pleased with your new purchase. Please follow care and handling instructions carefully, and don't hesitate to call us if anything explodes. Your insurance policy is outlined on page B-144.
Installation Instructions
Opposing Thumb Model: Skip to step #12
1.
Open your box. You should find inside...
4. When your caveman gently awakes, you must prepare him for vocal speech. Do so by confining him in a closed room with a parrot or mina bird for 6 hours. If he mimics the bird properly, you should notice that he will pronounce vowels before consonants. If he mimics the bird improperly, he should be nesting and laying an occasional egg. Again, make sure you don't have the Opposing Thumb model, and continue with step 5.
5. Test for Opposing Thumb model. Many individuals new to the Neanderthal experience may not be able to properly identify his/her model. We find it curious that many customers are suddenly killed after not following directions consistant with the model they own. In order to prevent accidents from occuring, it is now time to verify which model you have.
12. If you have the Opposing Thumb model, you are now joining those of us with the 5th Finger model. Please follow instructions carefully...
It is now time to instruct your caveman to handle duplication and minor office tasks. He should be able to perform the following tasks successfully right out of the box, but may have a few bad habits which need to be broken. If you followed instructions properly, you should still have the hand- grenade supplied in the kit. This is an effective habit-breaking device. It's also a good way to test hand-eye coordination.
Tasks which can be performed by cavemen:
5th Finger model: shrubs, leaves, grubworms, Taco Bell.
Opposing Thumb model: Perrier water, Thai or exotic food, ginseng, wheat germ, BMW's, tennis, fake girlfriends, Daddy's estate.
14. Music. Your caveman comes equipped with Dolby C HX-Pro surround sound with vectored Planar speakers, all backed by a 1000-watt 4-channel amplifier. Due to the very high signal-to-noise ratio (SNR), it is unnecessary to worry about hiss emitting from your speakers. You will, on occasion, hear cackles, burps, or other grunts emitting from time to time. This will be corrected in future models, when the HomoErectus model becomes available.
Warranty: Your American Neanderthal Caveman Kit comes complete with a 30-day satisfaction guarantee. If your unit fails to operate due to a manufacturer defect or miscalculation during evolution, we'll replace it with another like model. Sorry, no upgrades. If your unit fails after the warranty period, you may return your caveman to us for a copy of El-Fish or Winona Ryder, whichever grunts less. (At our option.)
Another quality product from the Pirate Squid Shop-At-Home Club.
I'm going to take all my clothes off, smear my body with apricot jam and then put rice cakes in strategic places, running out into the street and throwing myself at the birds.
The Slosh (Mobile), Volume 12. While waiting for yet another fifteen megabyte download from the UseNet, and watching an Interfacer IV to make sure it doesn't explode (why read current ratings when you can just try it and see... a watched IO4 never cooks.)
The only truly irritating thing about the Mod100 is the 40 column screen.. the keyboard, though a little small, has the best feel of any portable Tandy, damn near any portable, I've played with. But the screen is so weird that I gotta nix the TAB's I'm so found of at the beginning of paragraphs.
The brightness leaves a litle to be desired but that is to be expected in a first generation LCD display. Hardly frontlit even. While I'm complaining I might gripe about the weird layout of the cursor keys, but if I was industrious I could switch them. What's the point? At least it has differentiable backspace and delete functions, albeit on the same key.
The IO4 is still going, go figure. Typical fuckin CompuPro. Magic, that 74LS hi-rel all-socketed stuff. The other really cool thing about the micro-laptop class, is their extreme portability. (Shit, typing one-handed is effectively the same as typing two-handed with all the errors!) They're small, comfortable on the lap, even in a classroom situation... or the bathroom. Yes, it's Slosh on location from emu's John. Is that Emu's john, or John's emu, or Will's llama?
And this thing understands WS control codes... by and large. ^W and ^Z are ^KR and ^KC respectively, ^DSEX works, ^T and ^B are top and bottom of the screen... hard life, eight lines and all that, might wear your fingers out. Maybe I could get used to ^DSEX again instead of the funky keys. Hmmm...
'Course, it would Landmark at 20,000 millionths of a char/ms, but what the hell, it's fun. And cheap. Best kind. I knew a computer like that once...
To study or to play. And so the conversation turned... Visual stimuli. Now if only I can figure the connect between this and WordStar, and stop hitting the Caps Lock instead of SHIFT...
Hey, PRINTF, SHITF, UCKF. C Latin? Pig C. Chicken Fish.SEA.SC2
Yea verily did the tongues thereof acquaint themselevs with his most secret places.
Christ I hope the CDC600 isn't formatting. If it is I'm gonna shoot DTC. And their MFM controllers were so cool... teach them to make SCSI!
Well it's one way to make funny characters (the GRPH key.) ALT.STUPID.LITTLE.COMPUTERS. It's not a sublaptop, it's a TNG/PADD. :) still looks like a :). Good. Ha! Something happened Better not be a timeout. Hey, can I call a successful format when I see one? I thought so.
Aaron always seems to be formatting something. His retort: Yes, but it's a good diagnostic. I never actually use the things, but I know that they work.
Daddy's turned into a Scotsman. Ah, that would be the incidental music. Aargh. It's the uncertainty of the whole thing, not knowing. The not know knaws at ya. (mu)
In Russia they have this football game called the Hostage Bowl. Twelve minutes to EnCompass. Keep a copy for myself of course. Take chill hill not Benny. Army of Darkness without the S in the middle. Or q. Ah um. Briscoe Country. Well, it was staying warm. (It was in her pocket.) Marsupials. Control Art Purple. Alpha beta transistor ho! Flipsit flapsit turnip show! Fucking intellindingle. Networkie. No net workie. Shit no workie. Bad shit.
Dwak. Fliggim my wiggum. And sqiuggum by noggum. Ore not. Had to borrow your duct tape. Lemme know if this is a problem. Is he Flemish? Phelgmish? Another reason NOT to attend higher education. :)
Fucks, purpose of the slosh or the intellidroid? Come on! Oh, Tiz says NO THE SPIGOT FACTORY
The SPigot Factory exists onmly to spigotize the world, factorize the spigots., and spactorize the ... no, I'm noit going there. No Wymanisms.
Conformity. I vote for new legislative action in Emu's persona:
Whenever you sell a hard-drive to someone, it must contain The Slosh somewhere thereon. Also, same with taking drives to Quinns. ;)
I just had a thought about that weird slosh-stuff that that one UCB drive came with that you mailed away to. ;)
Nerck Olan squeezing the nipples, they excrete the moldy cheese of motherhood. Like crackers, like toast. The nipples are smeared on my rye- krisp tongue. Butterknife yields milky blood, and the Country Crock is really a Country Cock. Why be so disgustingly savvy? Because I'm single, Blarn Gambit! Bjorn is in my garbage disposal, and he forgot to unplug his pipe. Pippi Longstocking? Ingram Malingerblimblim?
well...
I either need to get a .doc file from one of you on how to work the tv and stuff now or clean my room and hook mine up in my room =)
After pressing buttons that *seemed* logical enough and getting one station on the tv and another one comming out of the speakers, I decidide that it was official and the television had outsmarted me. Having two sets of remote controls on the table was a nice added touch too, btw. =)
also, i'm ASS-U-MING there are not enough remote controls to turn off whatever it was that got turned on. I was able to get the tv and one of the vcrs to turn off (i think) without getting up, but the rest had to be done the old fashion way.
[mental note:] when aaron and jeff say they're "planning on re-wiring the vcr and stuff", don't leave home and go to vacaville. Stay home, follow them around and take notes. =)
I'm in Lodi. Lodi? There's no zima in lodi. Blat. Not anapolisns, illinois!!! algonquin. Babar eamailed me tonaight. I can't go anywere be ause I'm tied up. wheer's Nolan!!!
Scroti. Froti. Watanabe. Grease fish.
Is not bitch mode
is not butch mode
is not betch mode
Modicum of modus operandi, noodles of Neriah Davis. The mouse moves in
mysterious movies. The notbot wants in autonomous waves.
It's way too early, man. Gnoodles look like gnuggets. Remove that from your pants, and you'll be Big Head Todd and the Burgers. Bruce Dickinson is my beneficiary. Yes, when I die, I'm giving all my money to Iron Maiden and Alice Cooper. Mel, the cook on Alice, is not Bruce Dingbat. Frapsit. Lawson lewd.
I'm on a first-name basis with AT&T. Today, they're calling me "dickhead". I've accumulated enough frequent-phone miles, and I've won a free dinner spork. Nova Scotia is the "free Province of the month". Not! Fifty-six cents a minute, and 1000 minutes. Don't do the math.
Christmas is the season where everyone goes broke buying the golden fruitcake. Ship the fruitcake USM. Shin and saki-cake FUBAR. Tammy the rotundabeast. Tom's down in L.A., and met up with Tupac, which is not a third of Coors Light. (Two-pack) *grin* *shin*
Beer of choice is Beck's Dark. Good imported German strudle. Endorsed by Rampage Man. Also rated favorably (and just *above* Beck's), would be Heineken Special Dark. Imported from Holland. Keith and Michelle seemed to have scoured the city (township of Lodi, Inc.) and found a half of a sixer. Sweet people for that. :) Mmmmm. Beeeeer. And the Ab-Flex is at Thrifty's.
To the tune of Masquerade...
He fainted and his hand was cut
And lacerations on his butt
Remove the vibro from the slut
The disco ball is in my room
Beat Lawson's noodle with a broom
No disks in the credenza
We masquerade foreva
When you format forty tracks
It's Commodore not USR with FAX
Zog go sleep. Sleep = beer. Beer = noodle.
Noodle
Needle
Niddle
Twah
Grungle my dingle and spoodle my spud.
Piddle my diddle and NOlan's a dud
Waah. Spock, I am rather green. Green is good. Greed is goon. Snip the nipple on the plimsouls. Million fish are gay? Squeeze the bulb, Robert Culp. The greatest american weenboy is not Johnny Cheesecake. Rake the leaves, kenneth, you haven't found the frequency yet.
I'm bolted to my chair! It keeps me from driving to Pennsylvania and such. Gotta love the green Zima. Keeps the spirits alive! (Bad, pun, I know.) Bad poon? Bunpad!
Life is wonderful, in both Louisiana and Illinois. :) The plane flies south before west. Leave weenboy behind.
Armed with nothing but a case of Zima, the Internet, and a sock puppet, Jeff once again prepares to attack the world! Unleashing his futile power, he plans to email as many newsfroups as he can within an hour. Thus, giving him appropriate time for pee breaks. But nevertheless, retrieving flame postings from around the world.
It's okay, actually. The sock puppet does most of the talking.
Slinky dinky dorie. The cat pissed the whore-ee. and it wasn't her mother.
Dead or alive, my crotch itches like a butcher's apron infested with green
onion budgies. Yea, the budgies are like salad croutons; cut them up and use
lots of dressing.
WARNING: REMOVAL OF THE PURPLE BUTT PLIERS HAS BEEN KNOWN TO CAUSE PLOP PLOPS IN THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA.
okay, I'll stop shouting now. Start shooting noodles! The guitar sits against the wall like a boss waiting for sobriety to clobber him on the head. Let's call random numbers in Washington! Let's wash random callers in Numberton!
Four hour calls to Illinois cost approximately the same as six hour calls to Washington. Gotta love AT&T. "You saved $500 by using AT&T instead of a Lexus."
The search is on for an official mission statement for the Cranial Spigot Factory(tm). What do they do? First, we must define what a cranial spigot is. Obviously, a factory is a place that creates and manufactures cranial spigots. I would guess that a cranial spigot is anything burped by the brain. (As opposed to brian burping after a lot of Taco Bell.) So the Cranial Spigot Factory is a place where brilliant spurts of random jibber are created.
Just thought I'd check your nose for VESA compliance, sir. Have you sneezed into your mouse driver lately? No? Upgrade your nose to an 8.20, or have snapperhead hand-master his dongle.
Up the voltage. Oh there you are! You cummin hojme tonigthet? I hhave much zima. :) :):O(I Nolan not home. tied mayself to chair to keeep me from drivinhg to paensylvania. need more beer. Oodles and oodles of noodles on poodles. That's what I dream of Tuesday and sponges; lots of noodles. I threaten the Yakuza Ramen-meister. Waaa! The gefiltefish are in my nostrum. Thrice verily the cast doth toll. The font substituted has been shaved.
So Nolan turns to me and says... I'd rather have some cute chick checking me out than Helga the Wonder Sloth.
Cheese. Rip the cheese. Tip the fleas. Ship the piece. The scrotal nectar flows from the wet beast. Hi rick! Just sitting here chained to my bedpost so i don't tip over. did you know computers have 2 letter 'Q's??? me neither. see: I'll prove it:
QQQOOOOOOQQQOOOQOOQ Q O Q O QQQ OOO
wild. Just thought I'd scream.... GOAT! No. No. No. Not again. Quick Mu, get all the alcohol out of arms reach. If you're lucky, rampage man might not appear. (But then again, that might be a good thing.) Quick Mu, get all the alcohol within arms reach. Blat. Grungle cheese frippits. Cumulative total: 10+ hours to Nova Scotia - Rate of transaction: $0.56 / min. Jeff saves approx. $150 this phone bill. That's 30% savings through AT&T. Jeff doesn't want to know what the other 70% is. Size is relevant. Time is relative. Ignore the time at which this was written. Zog needs sleep now. Spiteful and cruel.
Pointer problem solved. I think the whole issue is one of flipping goats. If you'd named your variable Rory Innes instead of squeegle, Petula Clark would not have spent Lorne Greene and would instead have added her own e's, Petulae Clarke.
Could you clarify? You both are acting ridiculously! You NEVER add mule squeezins to dead cheese. Only when the cheese is live do you need to worry about coagulation and then you just need to stop talking to it! Talking to live cheese is dangerous and will keep it from clotting until it dies!!! And of course it wasn't in casepoint. You think I'd trust live cheese secrets to the public?!!?! Mule squeezin's? Hell, chile, when I were young, we had to add mule dick cheese to the squeezoins just to keep em from frying in the hot snow. Never eat rutabaga on any day of the week that has a 'Y' in it. Well, as I recall, I kept stirring and stirring, but the dead cheese just wouldn't clot. I finally did get it to work, though. Had to add a pint of mule squeezin's. Sorry, I forgot to save that one as an unresolved.
How do I explain it? "Ma'am, some crazed Brit says you have to move your computer to the north side of the room so cosmic rays don't touch your cd- rom drive."
Uh-huh. Next time, tell him to call a doctor.....
Unless its the computer with the nose bleed....
I'm a talking burger. Please talk to me! si me quieren hablar, por favor hablame in mi cara. Quinta is not in my car. No, Seņor Molina. No hay las Shroooms. Hallucinagin. Metamucil again. Insane in the rogaine. hmmm...i knew about the noodle and the burger but the spanish tv...i've only seen you watching that...not the other one. i think you're hallucinating again. Oh, believe *me*, sir. If you think I'm off my tree, imagine another person screaming "burger"outside your door... mumbling "noodle" in the kitchen... watching Spanish TV programming...
<a href="http://noodle.jeff.org" align=left_noodle> You don't know what you're in for!</a>
[sigh] just yet another to add to the collection of evidence that will back me when she comes for a visit. pst...shannon...come quick while jeff's not around...see what he's really like. [gasp]
<snicker> Hey Nolan, did you wear a hole in your right glove again? </snicker>
Oh, you don't know the half of it! There are some residents in Nova Scotia who not only have fallen in love with Rampage Man, but desire to become Rampage Woman!! [idea] these emails would make a great "see what he's really like" message that could easily be sent to certain people in Nova Scotia. [eg] The heat cooks the noodle into pasta sludge. Needing awnings, bleeding yawnings. Yanni's bladder. Son of Sam. My pool has been pissed in, film at 11. Sweating steady, and not even a bed. A waste of a deep breath. Noodle the burger, hamburger's helper.
El Gran Juego De La Oca! OCA! OCA! OCA!
heheheh....hey Beavis....he said "oca" ..hehe...hehehe...this is cool
Feel the CONFIG.SYS. Nuke the cheese and reminisce about the donut fuzz. Remember the Alamo!!!! How much Etchant went to Miller. JEM??? JIM!!!! Where's Jerrry when you need him. Who needs Jerry? Flub the wangboot? Boot the Wang and Chung the fork. Niddle. Replay all nuns. Finnish suns with bouillabaisebowls, head off the removal of the entree. I play nerfball only mit Matson Wills swill. Freed the edge, thrice, wax the whacked appling. Apply the dentist whose protected cave newt guns down the line. 970.FISH.FUN. Needle. Reply to ALL! Reply to NONE! Finish the son with the baseball bat, and remove his head entirely. Nerf Olan is not Mills Watson. Empty the fridge before 3 and feed the wax apples to the dentist for no cavity protection under the gumline. Fun line? 800.FUN.FISH. Noodle.
Pidgin, meaning reduced language, or pigeon, meaning the bird. No others.
Don't hit me with the yawning hammer. Hitting Jan Hammer is like hammering MC Fish, localising the locus of loci intesting the contest of retesting the lizard's lizardly dastards and bastards. Noodle! Feed the fish, Zarcon. Don't hit them with the blue hammer. Hitting fish is bad in the eyes of the fishee. Fish are like swarms of locusts, infesting the digestive tract of the lizard's noodle.
The plims are in my soul. Stale pilgrim farts can be found on Plymouth Rock. Cape Cod? Cape Canaveral. The pilgrims came over on the Discovery.
Frontal weirdity and scrodal froodity, purple nudity, noodle noodlity. Candy blandy, weightbox pirntops.
Ripping yarns and tipping barns. That's the life for me. Wherewith the nowadays have been, rewarding and cording the wood of sanctity. Lurking below the dynamic wind tunnel, the airflow has proven its viscosity as it creams the putty against the spoon. Swimming, eating, repairing the torn wallpaper. It thrives off intelligence, and the lack of formal training makes it purple.
And they switch, oh how they switch. They pine downwards into the bit of descartes, and swipe sideways unto the snow that feels for them, yea, it feels for them. Thrice and nice the rice doth burn.
It feeds the notion that the teeth are are larger than life, indeed, are incapable of being any other. The displayed directory information is invalid and the forthcoming shall not be. Yet we spake the whensoever, eekles.
Belittle the whittled apron sleeves. The monkey retards the heat with it's mighty beak. Circling high in the sky, it hurls its wrath down onto the people of the dental orifrice. Speaking clearly, the tongue sprinkles dew into the sky.
Yea, though I walk in the shadow of a noodle, I shall not fear it. For it cannot hurt me, if I wet it down enough. Thou can preparest it with olive oil and a touch of garlic for a splendid revenge. Surely, it is possible that indigestion and irritation may follow, but it may well be worth the risk, to be with the noodle. I must learn to not open messages from you with the subject "Free Beak Inside". What a pigeon surprise. The noodle guru chases me with a metal spork, yea, and chases me with a plastic spork in the other hand. You can't handle the spork! I fondle the spork that the fondue may be sprinkled. Star spangled danny elfman noodle butt. Or "free exploding penis" .... yeah.....that too. No, but I left a wombat in there, with a welding torch, and a flaying bat. Do you have any of these?
Owen may or may not be nuts, depending on the version:
I'll be around. I'll be in touch. I'll be out to lunch.
-Jon
The disposal doesn't hurl chickens. Please squeeze the noodles until the sink clogs the outhouse. Please do not dump the dead baggage down the airline stewardess. The squantos have not guantos and the purplos will blow up. This guy has a circus logs video card. Hmm, putting things in a hole nude hazy light, your perspective, deductive powers are a wonder to behold, I am in owe... I think we're all ignoring a serious issue:
Was it a "black-coffee" table, or a black "coffee-table"?
I'm puzzled. No wonder I haven't seen either.
Like, Duhhh, of course it broke out, poor little black table. It was tired of being a stepping stone for literary types, putting their grubby birkenstocks, (or feet) all over it. It broke out, valiant little table, now it is freely roaming the stairwells, feasting upon the errant few who in their aimless wanderings, have the extreme misfortune to fall into the wells. Beware the bitter little black coffee table that has found it's
freedom, we will all pay.... I have seen the might, carry ons, as opposed to tamp... ... no adive about back. I meant TIM, not Tom....
Ahh, I can see the light now, wow, whats wrong with my hand, anyway, anger against tom is not good, I think it's a little too prevalent around here, now stop it... What happened, did I forward one (not so) funny e-mail too many? My lower back is killing me, do you have any advice?:~{
Hmm, this is gibberish, I don't understand. Have you been hitting the catnip? Inhaling mothballs, matzo balls, ...
Spoodle. One thing is Unix joke. one is anger against Tom :) Hee hee. Phcuk Tom? Naagh... uuencode goat.zip goat.uue > goat.uue. Well, it does imply a return, (albeit a short one!)
I don't see why there is a problem delivering the SplintFelon program to my toolshed. The shed is visibly marked "Sacrifice Chamber", and is entirely accessible from the swamp.
I spoke with my next-door newt, and he informed me that his elbow fell off and was unable to locate the package you alledgedly left on his front TV Repairman.
According to your offer in the Daily Spider, I am entitled to the free Boron Disk to accompany my Argon graphics.
-- Xenon, the noble warrior princess
Your PlintAltist package has been delivered; look under the eavs of space #37, as you were not home, so the Frustrated Depress deliveryman left it in the space next door.
Please do not request your free Bogus Graphics Disk, as they are too bogus to be delivered to a trailer park.
RE: Squid bladder alert!
I see....I see...I see my skin turning white and my eyes turning red. I feel the urge to build an igloo. I can feel myself shrinking. I can feel myself becoming left-handed. Oh wait..it was just gas.
I forsee a resurgance of the Pirate Squid Club. I see new ground being forged. New steel being traversed. (Wait, those were mixed up) I see the Pirate Squid Club regrouping and rising from the ashes at Theatre Square. It will rise to new heights here at Cal Plaza (at least 4 levels higher). I see the Pirate Squid Club ruling once again.
As the fly steps into the outer rim of the nasal cheese, I am reminded of the dental bridgework my uncle once gave me. Twice he gave me the knowledge to fight sewer bats, but I never appreciated the skill until now. Battered eggs and bittered dregs Mister Spock is not Doctor Spock. Spank my baby with the Vulcan nerve pinch!
Strange things are afoot at Cal Plaza... This message will self destruct... If words leak out, and there's an open flame... Let Zima kill'em, and Squid will sort them out...
Bitch and moan
Butter the scone
Dental assistant
Is too persistant
Eat my floss and wax my enamel
Ride the humps of the dromedary camel
Second to none is best for me
Next in line is always free
Too much fish
Not enough beer
Too much roots
Not enough rears
Too many poodles
Spanking my cheese
Oh I wish I could do the
hamburger with ease
I mack much makrel and pack a fat trout
So much fish, it's a rediculous amount.
Weird shit you can overhear whilst Nolan is on the phone: Hit CONTROL- BLADDER, ma'am, pick the one about DEPENDS. Skoodle pop. Whack the noodle bop. I am groatonomous stop. I could tell that to the lady on the phone right now and she'd believe it. PORNSTAR GONDITOS to bring up the casket. Skoodle pop. The noodle prison calls. Bruce Dickinson is my copilot, yea verily, and Patricia Ford follows me with the KY jelly for miles and miles. Lo, and the emu spoke, and what he spoke was Truth; and the brethren and folk they recognised it as Truth, and welcomed it. They stroked and they strolled, and they spread the Truth that the emu had spoken. And they would later be known as those who spoke the truth of which the emu spoke whilst they strolled and stroked. Phucl, man, must be them blue M&M's. Maybe they're not in 256 color mode.
Yes sir, my Windows is in enchanted mode; it allows the setup wizard to whack the goat grass with the fish. I spoodle with oodles of skoodles for the Scandanavian midget poodles. Only people named John can use the Happy Mac; the free turnip inside is just too "It works on my computer" for otherwise. More as it fails to happen, sklot.
...so I'm in the fourby newsfroup, and they're talking about "FORD: Found On Road Dead" and "Friends don't let friends drive Chevy" bumper stickers, and some guy from AOL pipes up with:
If some girl tried to kick my ass, I'd be like, "Hey, why don't you stop dressing me up like a mailman, and making me dance for you while you go and smoke crack in your bedroom and have sex with some guy I dont even know on my dads bed!Can you associate this with fourby's? LOL! Fucking AOLer's!
Phenol.
Ingestion of even small amounts may cause nausea, vomiting, circulatory collapse, tachypnea, paralysis, convulsions, coma, greenish or smoky-colored urine, necrosis of mouth and G.I. tract, icterus, death from respiratory failure, sometimes from cardiac arrest. Average fatal dose is 15g, but death from as little as one gram has been reported. Fatal poisoning may also occur by skin absorption.
Phenol. It was the greenish or smoky-colored urine that got me hooked.
John Lennon was killed because he saw a UFO! Inside of his last album cover, in the liner notes, it says "I, John Lennon, saw a UFO on..." and the date (of which I don't remember). The Establishment was scared that if John Lennon started to go public with this, people might actually believe him, so they killed him. At least that's what I saw on TV!
Bizarre Love Pentagons: 12-year-old stripper + Ford Explorer-sized drag queen + anorexic Harry Dean Stanton doppelganger + Elsie The Wondercrow + random Canadian person.
And no, Jeff, Aaron didn't say that. Fuck off.
Chapter 6 is all about John Cleese, or rather, to be more accurate, it isn't. There is no Chapter Six. There is no John Cleese. Double-click on the title bar to maximise the window; double-click on the water bar to bring Bruce Dickinson to his needs. Networth device no longer available on port Compaq, list to starboard, or type * for more opinions. Holy smoke, bad-turd, where did that wombat come from? Off to the rescue of near-virginal ladies, and powered Igloo refrigerators. Touch the wombat's nose but lightly, for it may try to fuck your skull.
The switch is in the underbrush. It is following me. Stealthily it chases my shadow, mirroring my every move, from bar to bar and from couch to couch. It swings through trees and maps network drives behind my back, passing flying ledges as if they were standing naked. The switch hunts me with cleverness and passion; it has patience, for it knows it will attain its objective. It will own me one day, Abyssinians or other. It has strength.
And styrene, and strychnine, and cheese. Lots of cheese, heinously immense quantities of it actually. But I digress, for it is noon in Hawaii and I have to run, again, to avoid the death of the wallplate that invades my senses and pervades my co-manufacturers. Someday, I will prevail, through superior regenerative skills, and some tidy metal-working, but until that day ninety years and five dollars hence approacheth, the devil must soak my skin will turpentine.
Spasm bladder.
Other four-by observations:
I just slow down in my very large Suburban... just take my foot off the brake and coast... I'd probably coast to a stop if they stay there long enough... or just tap the brake randomly for no reason... they usually back off. I made a bumper sticker for my Suburban just for tailgaters: Get any closer and you may get to see how your airbag works I haven't really had a problem since I put it on. Gee, I wonder why ?Important News About Canada Trip!
Today's topic of discussion will be Calista Flockhart. First up, why the goofy name? It sounds like something a porn star would have, but she doesn't look like a porn star, not blonde enough and too skinny and not remotely enough plastic.
Next we have the whole dancing baby thing, tossing spears and ringing bells and beating midgets and date rapists.
In conclusion, I wish to spittle.
A Lesser Known Mexican Holiday
Today of course is Cinco de Mayo, the Fifth of May, where Mexico celebrates its independence from Spain. It's a very important time for the whole country. But we should not forget the lesser holidays, which really are of equal import to the country.
There's the Cinco de Marzo, and the Cirque de Soleil; definitely the Cinque de Marzipan and of course the Cincabamos de la Noodlabamos al Portero de los Angels de la Mar, por la Manana. All of these are of critical importance to the Mexican on the street, Seņor Molino. He has enough gas and gastrointestinal fortitude to remember the Fifth of Fourth (or is that a fifth of Forth?) as different from a fifth of Scotch or the income tax situation in Guam's guano farms.
Of Mail Servers and restaurants
Fooled you. The froob is the key; the Froob is All. All revolves around the Froob as the entirety of it All is Froobcentric. When dealing with the Froob this is the thing to remember. Froob.
Macaulay Culkin hunts me down with the strength of nine men, and a really big Indian named Smegmatic Blur. Or was that the band he was in? It would make a really good name for a band, like Crucial Taunt or Stupid Dead Bunnies. In any event, I fear the day that I find a band called Smegmatic Blur, for then I would have to sue them for all I was worth, and that ain't much. But I have a Tiz, and a Z, and no TI's, which are all good combinations. ScanJet the ScanProt for unprotected jets, or inkspetznatz, or Nick "The Man" and Roxanne. Barbi my white butt.
Truths:
Cats are disturbed by:
ARE YOU THE FUCKING CHUPACABRA???? WELL THEN TAKE THE FUCKING CRACK PIPE OUT OF YOUR JAW AND SPLIT THE FIREWOOD BITCH!!!!
because that isn't right. Is a firewood bitch a statue of a dog made out of oak? Yes, only in the same way the a Gillian Anderson is an Irish truss for shoes with duct tape.
Cat Truism #314
Gesticulating madly and shouting COMO ESTAS, CONEJO? YO TENGO LO SOMBRERO, DONDE ESTA EL BANO, TAPATIO! AHORITA, SENORITA, APLAUSAME LA QUESO!
at your cat is not conducive to a healthy feline-human relationship. Scentific proof:
The Weasel and the Fork
Somedays you are the windshield,
somedays you are the bug.
The owl is not stretched,
Tequila is not my friend.
The Weasel is not in the notchback,
neither is the hot tub.
So the fork cannot see the engine compartment or the hot tub.
Bill Clinton.
Charlie says "purr" and "hi" not necessarily in that order. Burger, fries, and a large orange drink. Which I am not drinking. Leonard Cohen. Is not a Cohenhead. Must imbibe mass quantities of catholics. In spanish: "yo necesito imbibar maso cuento de catolicos."
This bit of surrealism has been brought to you by the number A, the letter 12, and the molecule alcohol. Next week, on the Bat Channel, toenails.
Knock Knock Who's There Rude Interrupting Cow Rude Interrup.... MOOOOOOOOOOOO!Yeah, I thought the Stacy thing was rather weird. Uhh... not surprising. Her kind of thing. If I was more into
I was thinking Thursday about where I am today (specifically, where I was then, Tiz cooking and so forth) versus where I was, say, four or five years ago, in Walnut Creek, alone and fucking bored on Thnaksgiving and getting yelled at by Xpy's mother (long story, lol!)
The Internet is boring on holidays -- only Swedish and Danish people post on T-giving, I discovered back in WC, and NOBODY posts on Xmas.
Not even the Jewish and the Islamic.
Ari says "hi" and licks you. This thought has been brought to you by the flying monkeys and the Poppies.
it's odd. there are all these little guys with saxophones. they're wearing ties, but they're not the right kind of ties.
they are very un-mod, non-ska. with some skinny ties on these skinny kids, and those saxophones, they could be belting out The Specials or English Beat or even whassat, Might Mighty Bosstones. very Skankin' Pickle.
but the ties are wrong. weird, huh?
Sometimes I wish I knew what the hell *I* was talking about, never mind Chris or whasssisname, Jeff.
He put his testicles all over me, all eight of them. It's more fun to compute, compooyta-rug, compooyta-rug.
I had a nose once. And then the aliens came. They pulled the lip down, until the tip of it just covered the iceberg lettuce. And then the aliens came. I would wear bomber helmets, but my motherboards don't fit my risers. And Cat Hall scares me, but in a bad way, or a noncommittal way. Is there such a thing, he wonders out loud, with a cat attacking his chair as if it were... a chair. And then the noodles came.
As opposed to getting Charlie off the mantelpiece, which is NOT a Vietnam reference. Or in any way related to Kelly McGillis.
Cotton sneezes at me. Funny oafaloaf he is, Cotton. When all else fails (and the roof is being replaced by Speedy Gonzales and his Siete Hombres), Cotton washes. And sneezes.
2% Milk fuck?? Today's knowledge is brought to you by the size "condom" and the letter "phuck". The politically expedient and the flexibly plastic -- different from the felchibly plastic, mind you. Conformity is the way of the owl pellet, sacrifically speaking, because the dispositionally speaking, keep the cattle mutilations down to a minimum.
Too many kangaroos and not enough underoos. And not enough cats in the right places. Noodle soup all, to the Shameless Art of Saneless Self-Promotion.
"And in the beginning, the goat was good. This was, however, not enough for Seņor Molino, and he sought out the largest bladder in the band, who was named Bob. Bob had no teeth, and sucked applesauce through a straw, but Bob could play the banjo like no other bladder.
Mind you, Bob had no personality either, even after repeated yet failed transplants. This might explain his voting structure, or his penchant for wearing women's pantyhose (on his ears), or not. This is the Way Of Such Things.
And it came to pass that the bar was not passed, and much inebriation was to occur, and the Unique Gourd Shape was copyrighted, and all that Seņor Molino had to fall back upon was the back of his couch. Which, fortunately for him, was equipped with the amazing Sens-O-Matic butterscotch lever, allowing him the pleasure of Carmen Electra whenever your sick & twisted little mind stops thinking about things scatalogical and switches to the forefront of medical terminology."
So how about if Poe is really a trans-sexual, who was born a lesbian trapped in a man's, err, boy's ... err, whatever, body. Then the two of them just hang out together platonically, oglin' babe teleplubbies.
Tracy's idea, bastardized, not mine.
TRANS EUROPA EXPRESS. Meet Iggy Pop, and David Bowie.
A road trip.
In a Subaru.
It's not big enough inside for my farts, never mind yours.
I spose if we roll ALL the windows down -- four doors, and does the rear window roll down a la the Blazer or no? -- hmm... still a tight fit dude, we're big guys. Though the Canadian (or whoever) customs guys might like us more.
Speaking of paranoid right wing insane people driving a camo-painted paisley-interior early 60's Burb panel truck with "Impeach Clinton And Her Husband And Kill The Both With Legalized Assault Rifles, You Fucking Faggots" bumper stickers on it...
we saw same yesterday.
I have never bought anything at REI for remotely its intended purpose. I have "beaners" (unlike your students -- "caribbeaners"? "carob-beaners"?) holding up lamps, and for lifting the top off the truck (project in progress) ... but never for rock climbing or camping or kayaking or the like.
Did you say, "KAYAK STUMP FUCK"?
I've heard of felching. Have you heard of "snowballing"? Russ was the first person I had in mind as a candidate. Have fun you two! Need instructions? Sure, preferably with an instructional video. Just as a hint, does it involve deep anal fisting? No, that's called "Deep Anal Fisting". It needs its own special word though, doesn't it? I suggest we call it "Mannexing". My understanding of snowballing was passing a... um... fluid between people by way of mouth. Except that the fluid is specifically not a mouth-originated fluid. Oh hun, the sauce is excellent. Here, try a little of mine... Ooh, sounds fun. Can Russ and I do it with Red Adair and Gene Kelly? I've had dreams of felching Keanu Reeves. No, really. Not Gene Kelly, though. That would be gross. Especially now that he's dead.
Children: The ultimate contraceptive
Teeth coming out take precedence over a good long cuddle.
Homework takes precedence over dancing nekkid in the bedroom.
A stubbed toe takes precedence over that romantic bath.
Crying and sobbing take precedence over sex.
...very scary. One of your pages almost freaked me out. Your writing is really similar to some of my random spewing/writing. At first I thought maybe one of my friends posted some of my writing... Yikes! The style is almost too similar to mine. It's almost like you ran my stuff through a filter and replaced words here and there... Your "chapter 11" reminds me of some programs I wrote to autogenerate bizarre sentences. I also wrote a program hat would generate and define new words, some of which became commonly used words among my friends in highschool.
Hmm, a la "grot"... defined by and used by me buddies. But also from "The Fall And Rise Of Reginald Perrin", which fortunately is so obscure that nobody else knows ;-)
I urge you to consider professional help, if the circumstances of your life are such that they would cause you to consider The Slosh in any way familiar to you. Or not. Or something. Thank you Carl Sagan.
Seriously, umm, thanks, I guess ;-). I keep meaning to put up that front page that the Bible is missing (did you knwo that -- it's missing the cover page: "Any similarity to any persons or situations is purely coincidental and unintentional...")
...anyway, that might keep the lawyers from picking my bones, or at least in the bone-dry-and-swarming-with-leeches area.
You know, in retrospect, I think the "key" to Slosh-ing, if you will, is self-referencing... use one phrase of yesterday's paragraph so that nobody, including yourself, has any idea of what actually is being said, other than for some reason it tickles the funny bone.
or has to do with one eighteen-year-old's total inability to get laid. Hmm. Well thanks for putting up your stuff. I look forward to freaking myself out a little more as I read the rest of it.
As long as it (1) doesn't make a mess on the rug and (2) doesn't annoy the neighbors, heck, it might not be legal in Arkansas, but then, neither you or I are in Arkansas.
Nor is my sister. Noodles unto you, sir or madam, and enjoy your flight.
At any time in the past, have you or any member of your family been a macaroni & cheese entree? The UPS man did not bring my turnip router today.
From: "Jeffrey J. Feil"We're out of Huston. You're lucky, Nolan, as the Ryu's decided that normal wear & tear of the walls included your boogers or whatever the hell you left behind ;-) And Jeff, I'll be sending you-all the bill for the hazardous material disposal fees of the remaining chili beers, and the Puck.To: geohamlin-at-hotmail-dot-com (George Hamling) Subject: Re: SIMCITTY QUESSTIONS > DO YOU KNOW HOIW TO MAKE AN ARCGHAEOLOGUY? Yes. Simcity Classic: There's no such thing as an Arcology. SimCity 2000: I forget the actual numbers, but you need something like 120,000 people and it must be after the year 2100. SimCity 3000: There is no Arcology, unless Maxis released an updated version with an Arco. I don't work there anymore.
The County hazmat place takes car batteries, old paint, and such, but they don't take nasty cheap alcohol, and they didn't know what the fuck to classify the Puck as. Bastards.
Finally met the Ryus, btw. Nice people -- he's very, well, Japanese, and quiet; she's, well, everybody's third-grade teacher. C'est la vie -- I don't envy the poor mofo who tries to figure out the rat's nest of chopped RG62 93-ohm coax under the house ;-)
Uhh... I spose. Sounds like a lot of people in kilts though. which could only be worse if they were on stilts... unless of course their swordblades fell off, leaving only the hilts with the people in kilts on stilts. Then if their girlfriend left them, they'd be jilted... perhaps she had a lilting voice... she might not dissolve, but she could milt ... or knit a quilt... 'twas so dirty, was filled with silt ... like the pinball game, and it always beeped tilt... or perhaps the flowers would just wilt.
