David Gans (tnf) Fri 4 Dec 98 11:06
David Gans (tnf) Fri 4 Dec 98 11:06
From topic 15: Sometimes a book comes along at exactly the right moment for a young reactionary to learn something about how the world REALLY works. Interpersonal struggles are part of the ecology here in the virtual village; evolutionary changes can become revolutionary ones through the proper consensualization of worldviews and perceptual examination of the navel, under the supervision of a licensed physician in anything-goes kind of atmosphere that gives rise to the sort of survivalist response, replete with cammies, half a ton of tinned food, and demeanor unbecoming the sort of young lady who shops at this embalming parlor, desperately recreating a mise en scene that she totally misinterpreted, believing as she did that the dead *needed* silk to define the lower bound of tastelessness in a society already deeply defecated on the rug--if any of my Pekinese do that again, into the recycling bin they go! A dog is a dog, but my imported rugs are very immobile, unlike the dogs running and yapping all over, smelling like man- eater. Watch out, here she comes! Nothing compared to the gigabyte download I just started from alt.binaries.picospan. What a long strange picture that one has been. Meanwhile, arugula and rocket are doing their soliloquy from Hamlet Veggie Style, a retractable solid aluminum product sold by enthusiastic teleprompter jockeys who enjoy messing up the anchorpeople's lines in the mid-morning lag when they're totally zoo'd out. Later that same day, footsoldiers marched across my living room carpet, but my cat just regurgitated a hairball and went back to watching the wall. Hard to implement house rules when pets start throwing their weight around. I began life as a wee Scottish bairn, but as I grew older, I discarded my horny carapace and emerged as a BEAUTIFUL BUTTERFLY! Sometimes a butterfly is a Papillon. And sometimes a Papillon is a dog, and excitable, dashing around thrilled with everything, checking the door for complaints about his lunatic followups in the rec.arts.sf.* usenet hierarchy, seeking solace in the nonexistent arms of a virtual lover. A useless pursuit, as it turned out. Papillons are happier with real-life inverted pyramid structures, but occasionally when the material merits, exculpatory ASCII hieroglyphs are an acceptable substitute for the complete disavowal of one's words, in print and otherwise. You can scribble and you can babble, but you're still trapped in that bright motionless Jello of eternity, the refrigerator light of time shining only for me Me MEEEEEEEEEE, because yea verily I am the ONE TRUE AHAB, call me Captain. I search for the white whale with the aid of my comanche warrior, reform rabbi and a computer programmer walk into a bar. "What the -- ? Ouch! they cried, wondering aloud who left an iron rod in the middle of the dictionary, while WABC Twist, that blot on Chubby Checker's eskimo pie, which was melting unnoticed in the fading sunlight from the wingnut fastened sunroof of his 1968 Bentley. God! That car sure was a pigeon-baiting piece of junk! Its hood was spattered with white splats of shiite Moslem religious tracts the Rabbi had shredded when the Comanche defenestrated the followers of the Cosmic Circle, plunging all of fandom indeterminitely to -- what? Well, that was the question, wasn't it? Since affection of that kind cannot be bought, it must be calculated with obscene numbers of cycles, wearing out whole platoons of hamsters, undead, dying in the fire of the sun. Strike another stake go start anew, andrew; your seasick sailors are rowing home.
Sharon Lynne Fisher (slf) Fri 4 Dec 98 13:12
excessively heterosexual (saiyuk) Fri 4 Dec 98 13:46
At first it reminded me of Djuna Barnes, but by halfway through I decided that our collective consciousness was being controlled by Rudy Wurlitzer.
Cynthia Heimel (plum) Fri 4 Dec 98 19:45
I keep forgetting: Who is RUdy Wurlitzer?
excessively heterosexual (saiyuk) Sat 5 Dec 98 02:08
He wrote the semi-stream of consciousness novel Nog. Then he wrote Quake. Then he started writing screenplays, including, off the top of my head, Two-Lane Blacktop, Walker, maybe Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid and a bunch of other stuff.
David Gans (tnf) Tue 22 Dec 98 10:22
It ain't no use to sit and wonder who I am, babe; I've spent a lifetime workin' on that and still ain't expanded to fit the space available, but I'm worried that Flo. Sup. Roy has already reached his full height, beside himself with spleen and yet somehow still under the weather, under a pseudonym, and under the gun. For unbeknownst to anyone but herbaceous borders, sometimes even bitches lift their legs, which may explain why violets shrink, but what about cows and flat rocks? What reflex makes that rooster crow at dawn? At any rate, look out your winky's up for grabs, you've fallen among the freaks and losers of biodegradable humanity. There is comfort in knowing you're good for the event, should it befall you. But this constant bumping does some investing in the bull market but only if the bulls are recidivist cattle whose owner will prattle of sleep supply, while clowns decimate non-laughing customers, while mimes unrelentingly toboggan down the hilly streets of San Francisco, doing their best to upset the tourists. Who needs that kind of traffic, anywhere other than in Alaska, where pedestrians collide for warmth, in an atrium of the new State Capitol, with ice sculptures of PALM TREES. A sense of hunters captured by the game disturbs the bats in the atrium, while fishwives holler for customers at the top of their lungs, slinging their salmonella-laced meat into the air and catching it in their aprons until ponies become available for the rest of the ride. At which, hordes of anteaters will demonstrate the correct care of silverware sadomasochism hardware. A crew from 60 Minutes arrived, to retract the foreskin and film the area beneath while grilling them about whenever they attempt to wriggle away from the flames beneath, sincere in their writhing, their shimmying, their shaking of the tailor's mice, hi- diddle lumpkin Freno. But there ain't no use in calligraphy while the world types away, making claims of great presence on the Internet, but it's been months since anyone updated the paperclip in Microsoft Word, that irritating little fastener with an attachment to the Superdog character in Office (notice that you never see them totalling up the spreadsheets in Excel, which they leave for the anticipated hordes to surrender at the gate, disappointed, unless the re-remembering to remember bill gates with a pie in his face, firstname.lastname@example.org, the Retirus pouts, while Gate@times declares there are no truths buttressing the fabric of the electronic universe, only those declarations of Quasimodo's manicurist were entered into the archives of the navel gazers, but left again when he discovered that all the hispanic voters had seen through his bullshit posturing and voted for the optician down by where Carol Merrill was standing. The final price turned out to be more than the Congress was willing to pay, but for a few motormouths who talk talk talk and say nothing worthwhile, the sons of nonconformists who have rebelled by conforming so strictly to each other accountants that they are actually *dating* them. Have you ever heard anybody succeed in refuting the unbelievably acrid and false charges prolonging the huge engorgement that black-market Viagra would metabolize quicker than Bob Dole could pour it down his gullet. Liddy exchanged his blunted pencils for knitting needles so his PalmPilot could bedevil Bob's enemies everywhere he went -- Click! Click! Click! Dole engorged his peepee just for the ad man, who wanted to see if the Viagra perchance reduce the federal deficit by invigorating the American economic inversion. Which it did. Dollars became rubles, frogs became pigs, and everywhere wagon trains started rolling east. The Apache guides investigating these phenomena came back to the village with fantastic stoicism, considering they'd been captured and subjected to Chinese water tortolini without any sauce whatever! But repeated protests with the Italian Lesbians for the Protection of Sauce (ITLPS) got him a dram of marigold essence, which he thought was morning glory essence, so wasn't he surly when he got it home and tasted it. "I'll just have to make do," he depreciated at a rate of 5% annum, all the while wondering how <swipe> changed the sentence from them to him and how his dog Hyphen-noodlus wanted to gnaw on some old bones, so he looked around and foraged on Methuselah's leg for a while until he broke his tooth on a magnifying glass, "after the bloody mutt Watson!", cried Shergold. "He stole my get-well cards!"
Cynthia Heimel (plum) Tue 22 Dec 98 11:27
I love that. I could read it again and again. It is oft like a Bob Dylan song.
David Gans (tnf) Wed 24 Mar 99 09:23
"If you can't live without me," she asked, "Why aren't you dunking donuts or frying chicken wings in Nome, Alaska? Because throughout the process of investigating the president, Republican locales roughly corresponded to stops along the Iditarod trail, resolving all ambiguities as harshly as possible. Or, as the lobbyist said to Representative Livingston, "Get your tongue out out of my mouth, I'm king of the World!", a lie which was quickly disproven by Larry Fly-Paper, whose anticline yielded not only a bounty of fossil-rich shales but also an improbable cache of fossilized and unredeemed WELL paper blowjobs, increasing in value even as controversy and recrimination surround the enterprise district created by the politicians to make sure their brothers-in-arms will find it easier to link up with the right bagman while distraught constituents await the impending arrival of the milkman, the postman, the laundry guy - all the service people who once romanticized the home delivery industry, all the while not completly understanding the impact it would have on downtown shopping districts and regular bowel movements. When you can't even get to a bathroom you're under presssure to eliminate all the non-essentials to ensure that predigested media handouts provide the sort of roughage a hard-working Congress-page can appreciate after a hard day of drudgery, danger, and other dubbing activities, dubiously dumbed-down to a degree of dastardly deliciousness, right up there with the Escape from New York Pizza and Weekly World News and cigarettes and cheap American beer that make a writhing spastic out of anyone foolish enough to try more than a havana cigar, some 151 rum and an ancient manual typewriter in search of "authenticity." Yeah, for real, I kid you not. Meanwhile, oozing into the postmodern reinterpretations of Grimm's Fairy Tales, the Senator recoiled visibly as he opened a mysterious package, the paranoia of demented longings and whimsical scribblings, the sort of thing John Lennon did in that silly bodacious flowery script he practiced in his notebooks like a teenybopper lovesick princess, unaware of the dubious messages of disarmament, disestablishmentarianism, discombobulation, discovery, dissatisfaction, discouragement, disquietude, dyspepsia, deshabille, discipline and firm breasts. Normally he would have advised in favor of of consistency in hyphenation, everything by the book (the Webster's, you ungodly fool), but there are times when the situation calls for a new hybrid of sense and sensibility, even of nonsense, presence, essence and tupac shakur. It's not just a matter of keeping your nose to the grindstone. Even co- dependents have been known to fall into the multifaceted nadir of reflecting on their reflections, memorizing their memories, decanting their decadent memoirs to a blankly unanticipatory audience. The decline in the auto-erotic strangulation is unsettling. It bodes ill for humanity, for the clip-joint barkers who will do just about anything to attract people to the pulpits of fundamentalist bearded biblethumpers linked to the intrauterine follies! But they won't get away with it, oh no, those bible sport-bottle fanatics, oh no! They think they're just so smart, popping up the little pop-tarts, washing them down with Ninevah Cola. Look over there, at the prophylactics glued to a little Christmas tree, like some holiday health expedition into the depths of holiday depravity only known to seasoned dendrochronologists in the far counting-houses of the Kingdom. But nowhere could we find a princess with supersensitive buttocks to reset the dipswitches on the old PC AT commmittee on their proper course -- after five years, we'd grown sick of obstetricians with dirty fingernails and filthy personal hickeys on places other than their necks. Otherwise, the old man was predisposed to like Miss Hetherington, despite the vaguely sweet odor she exhaled after each puff from a burning yam. Miss H. had spunk. She had tentacles, and a beak-like mouth that inflated to mammoth proportions wind was westerly. But when the widening investigation revealed nothing, the lawyers had to concoct a case from spiderwebs and pubic hairs. And where did they get those puppets made from socks that they used, as ventriloquists do, to pretend they were unbiased and bipartisan? They visited the underworld, where they came from in the first place. Henry Hyde's hair explosion was striking fear into the hearts of Democrats, Republicans and recovering barber shop quartet singers. Especially the drooling libertines who remember their own "youthful indiscretions," some of which happily involved two sheep, a bottle of ether, and a full mood-changing jar of moonshine and TCP. Locked in a standard missionary position, two of the lawyers wondered what all the comely nature of the infra-red camera capturing every slurp and stroke, for later publication in the Nabolom Bakery Archives with filo data and reconstituted donuts of dubious pedigree, painstakingly blended and analyzed by blind nuns of the order of the Eternal Damnation in Descending Order of Importance. "We hold our Saints in high regard," asshole, he thought. Only idiots ascribed the divine to items of cerebral activity. "It's in your heart, not your head," she insisted as she puked violets into the revolving door of the Saint Francis Hotel. "Nice lady" thought the doormouse, pouring another ten cups of tea for the mad hatchetman, busy sharpening his arsenal of illegal number 2 pendants, snitched from corpses he'd dedesigned himself, using Beanie Babies as models. However, later he obfuscated visibily, using the Beanie Babies to actually design his own self, whereby his double was wide awake and was caught interviewing famous authors in a special new kind of WELL conference. Ma Barker was his first guest, bringing a new meaning to the phrase "motherin- law. Still, she was wearing a very fetching little red polartec wrapping tool with all the extras. But as Howard refused to hand over his paintbrush to the contractor, Ma pulled her weapon, a .38 caliber recalibrated to shoot tranquilizer darts. She got it from a man who decorated Volkswagens with glass beads for a precarious living. Uncle Sam has plans for me, but I've got something else in mind so I'm expensive, but easy, so it's really up to your Aunt Sue. Collector of glass beads, Beanie Babies, darts and scantily-clad blow-up dolls that your Uncle Mortimer obsessed about during his long feverish days in the US Senate, giving blowfish a bad name in the process. Addressing the poison lobby, he assembled his own biological weapon from scratch, by actually scratching and sniffing an ad in _Mad Magazine_, the terrible odor persisting no matter how many times she scrubbed with disciplined movements and practiced gestures the whole hardy boys fan club knew as well as they knew the secret handy pack of extra large anti-bacterial wipes, an essential tool in performing emergency road surgery. Newspaper can be considered sterile in theatrical circles, but when it comes to total reconstruction of various body parts, nothing can beat brown toilet paper rolls soaked in lye, then rinsed 5 or 6 times and pounded flatter than a halitosis-sufferer's first and only date, who, upon being revived, orange- juice soaked but none the worse for wear, bets an organ-donor specialty zipper that the orange juice will magically transform him from a meek, mild 98-pound weakling into a sand-kicking, Charles Ataturk, who, as a kid was snatched away from his twin brother, and was raised by Mennonite missionaries to become a Christian solderer of iconoclastic historical figures, especially those with zip-guns in a high-school cast production of "West Side Stop the World I Want to Get Off!" in which, Anthony NewMedia re-cast the whole thing with IRC bots and then promoted it by email to every AOL user, everyone who ever posted to USENET, and the preposterous body of people who've ever used a lickable stamp. The unexplored depths of Henry Hyde's self-righteousness provided our heroes with exploding dildos and vibrators with the Stars-and- Strips only Texans could imagine, or even acquire, since they had been banned south of the Masonic temple and north of the Mormon Tabernacle, leaving a narrow corpulent cop searching for unregistred acts of fellatio and cunningly disguised petit-fours lying on the plate that had been left outside in the rain. All the sweet cream icing flowing down! I don't throw up when I think about it, although I did hear that Richard Harris only got paid a few bucks for his day's work, and the producers offered him italian swiss colony wine which hardly made up for it and forced him to obscure his real purpose in coming to the conference: to find a way to extract rubies from pineapple juice, a technique pioneered by that great humorless alchemist, down on his luck but free of prescriptive ills reconsidered his longtime plan to have his dog's name tattooed on his foreskin, considering its illustrious pedigree, so, mastiffs and terriers and retrievers, even wiener dogs, are all sporting theological collars, which gets them the best seats in French cafes, but they still get served the vin ordained minister, who is, let's face it, rawther tasty. Or at least Elvis-sweat martinis are finally out of fashion. That stuff tasted like dymo tape seethed in oyster sauce and gravid mare's urine. Not entirely pleasant. But then the attention span of the average reader is not up to the chalice of mare's urine or the blade of walt's grass, bound in leather with a studded dog collar and a wistful look, sugar coated to mask the pungent taste; one that was reminiscent of overcooked brussels sprouts dipped in chocolate. But hey, what's this fly doing in my soup? Waiter! Who put this objet d'art in the microwave? Of course you have a microwave, even if you don't admit having a kitchen. I still don't know what happened to that poodle you kept in the cupholder in your SUV. I may have put my commuter mug down a little too happily, delighted as I was to have lifted the keys from your pocket while you snoggled the natives, thereby diffidently diffusing all claims to superlative cocksmanship. You spoke: "My old-age penitentiary idea looks like it's gonna SAIL through the Junior Legislative morass making mounds of money for many miserable sons of bitches who don't deserve it and wouldn't know a beatitude from an attitude. Why don't these lost souls get a fucking road map and start trying to find their way to Nirpleton street where the party's under careful review and cats are swirling around in the whirlpool bath and the dog is giggling in the corner.
sheer poetry (martyb) Wed 24 Mar 99 09:34
<scribbled by martyb>
Erik Van Thienen (levant) Wed 24 Mar 99 10:27
No wonder the dog is giggling.
Gail Williams (gail) Wed 24 Mar 99 10:46
blather storm (lolly) Wed 24 Mar 99 16:32
this bag is not a toy (vard) Tue 30 Mar 99 13:42
Hyphenation 4 (tnf) Thu 28 Oct 99 14:30
Seems to me there ought to be a way to convince the world to incorporate a mission statement into every order of takeout Chinese because that would be a most ingenious way for us to get word out to the impolite masses in Marin County basking in the glory of their SUVs, stoking up their methane-powered cell-phones, and dropping off 2.3 children almost every morning -- and what happens to the on those OTHER morphine-addled days, when the children are smashed on Ripple and the dogs half crazy with tail-chasing. Mostly their own. Fortune cookies might qualify as diet food in YOUR culture, but as for mine, aspirin and oregano won't get you high, but they'll keep you from having a heart atrophied from lack of trying. Meanwhile, for surer results, rely on cocoa powder, loaded into a combination snowblower-lawn spray, for browning meats of all sorts. Deafened by high-pitched whales, she retained an irrational fondness for small cetaceans, thoroughly abjuring the larger ones, and starting a sperm collection under her mattress, safe from prying eyes. She told her mother it was irresponsible to spend days on end locked in her room: "But I don't care! You nested for decades to produce my brother, and he was worshipped by a cargo cult from the wilds of Bolivia (or was it the Oscar Wildershnoff version with which we are more familiar? A classical pin~ata of the Mexican type is called for, preferably one full of sweetheart soap, but I digress). This cult was started by a former plumber freaking out over the way things have changed in his industry since he begged for his first job in the mail room of the Acme Electronic Patagonia Climbing and Hiking Stuff catalog. He pulled out his American Expired from too much time in the stuff bag without supplimental oxymorons getting in the damn way all the time while I'm trying to improve my diction by reading aloud to the natives. They enjoy it, although they doodle terribly during the readings, filling reams of paper with highly unlikely sexual acrobatics. But who am I to say you can't furnish an empty hut with the proper degree of style befitting printing press manufacture AND haute cuisine? Yes, it's unlikely; but as we sashay through the runways of Paris and Milan, the photogs are agog at the coprophagic character of the fashion business, where everyone hastens to their dictionaries, only to discover that they have all preteen children clamoring for attention at just that crucial moment. Helsinki's runways, on the other hand, have lovely Scandinavian models of deportment, allowing one to deport and depart in style, confident that the baggage is also departing; unfortunately, it's to another air-raid siren that we must listen, and rush down into the cellar with altimeters and tuning forks to scare off the mice. Meanwhile, Bob was sawing away on that same old etude, the one with a chromatic scale in the microphone, hopelessly remote from any sense of time or intellectual directory assistance operators who might conceivably resonate to a frequency that would solve his dilemma: what key should he come in, he wondered, having tried tonal AND modal varieties, but to no avail, he was unsatisfied still. Now back at the ranch, the cowpokes wuz gettin' restless, 'cuz who can rest with all that MUSIC pouring in over the transom? Gotta get up and do the dishes, who have been out all night galavanting with the spoons, those bwanas have it all sewed up the minute they hit the floor. The romance of fine china obscures the real need for order among the crockery. Those rowdy gravy bonbons take up so much space in the freezer, we had to consolodate throwback 60s paraphernalia to make room for phlegm samples collected to determine genetic relevance. It was a signal from the aliens running the SETI program that we should pack our suite keys and inflatable prom dates and run, screaming, for triglyceride relief. What with all the good cholesterol and the bad chewing gum stuck under the desk, still fresh enough to stick to the kneeling supplicants mewling and genuflecting for just one moment of unpredictable yet thoroughly satisfying rage directed at them by so-called Management Consultants, who had placed it there as a training techno geek Nazi torture bacchanal embraced by Y2K Separatists and Republicans, with the exception of slimy bastards who can't bring themselves to tell the truth about anthropomorphizing newts. Moreover, they never bother to demonize the sand castle builders, in spite of the instructions clearly postulated by the professors of Human Sexuality planted by Ralph Reed to teach our children the dangers of consummating a marriage before you really get to know each other. We're recommending that young married couples live together without sex for a yeasted bread roll, which when combined with a nice chevre can fully satisfy the most discerning palindrome artist, seeking in vain the ultimate irony, which has already been taken 'bout as fur as it can go. You'd think so, but in truth, eveready bunnies can take it even further. Why do you think that you see so man-like fuzzy critters going 'round and 'round and 'round and pingponging from one side of the road to the other like ersatz chickens on accordion slide into a vat of boiling oil? Next time, try the ice-pick-between-the-ribs routine. Even, in an emergency, you could use the old hatchet-between-the-eyes gambit, which is a bit obvious but it works even when the hatchet's dull. Just what those bunnies defenestrated is hard to say, but I sure wouldn't want to be there for Easter diorama, with the Rolling Stones rolling away the stone, and the Morning Glory achingly unanswered again, just leaves me wondering what ever half- assed tofu-brained bliss ninny could have wronged Princess Diana. Oops, we weren't supposed to talk about Jambands in here. This is a literary-type discussion, mostly, but Philologists are always rising to the occasion, with a folk tune or a dissertation for any top-hatted hippie who loves Phil more than any other member of the Grated Cheese Messenger Holding Company. But, as they say, you weren't there if you re-memorized the entire Latin mass in your local un-dead language, a regurgitation of all that is endless. Besides, one must find the trombone in the cheese dip before it goes flat, right? Unless you migrate with all of the other lemmings, we will be forced to take drasnofel and prozac for the remainder of the in-flight movie, because some joker replaced the film with "Con Air", and now the passengers are pancake- like in their empty hearts and calories, free from anxiety but aching for unconditional love, as we all are. For what is the purpose of express elevators but to take us full speed directly to the top, leaving no tired children shrieking at the thought of one more visit to another police station, there to be threatened with red licorice whips and sent upside down to the hanging gardens of Sing Sing, under the pleasure dome at Six Flags over Hades, where good little children are revolted by exiled Marin Country aromatherapy and reflexology extortioners showing off their industrial stength crystals and chipping away at the angst of the peacock-feather wielding arthritic welders who built the place to begin with before it was turned obliquely to the sun, so that one wing gathered more heat than the other while the wax melted slowly, drip by drip, until the feathers began to slice the talons of the giant eagle, waiting silently, patiently, as the smaller rodents made their way hastily back into their holes and the lard- laced pie crust flaked prettily on the lace cloth. But all was not lost, for Henry quickly pulled out his credit card, slapped it down on the counter and shouted, "Drinks for evil-doers everywhere!" Then he grinned slyly and slinked off into the shaved ice stand just south of the beach in Maui. You remember, where creatures of the night and creatures of the day exchange grunts as the shifts charge toward one another in a sweaty, frenzied imitation of specialized sensory organs that can detect the presence of the opossums roasting slowly on the hot blacktop. Yum, yum! Roadkickingly delicious!, he said to himself as he carved off another humor-soaked chunk and began to giggle uncontrollably, wheezing and guffman (wheezing had once been known as 'Sneezy', but changed his name in the seventh year of the war with Babylon, after the fall of Persepolis). In those days, the entertainers mainly got by with jokes and songs of snide innuendo directed at old Hammurabi and his cloying minister, Floyd the Harp who, in a later life, opened the first casino installed in anal cavities of albino gerbils. Egress from the casino was problematic, however, so the idea was quickly abandoned. "Why should we ever go home? We can drink for free under the craps table, so long as the lady in the sequined evening gopher doesn't find out about it," said the former croupier from Insider magazine, picking his teeth with a sterling silver toothpick. Now, on the other helium balloon, they all hung out over the edge, considering whether to juxtapose the noun and the verb, but too much like Yoda they soundproofed the entire area, fearing the worst. Everyone was well aware of Yoda's idiosyncratic mood swings. First it was "Old Blue-Eyes," then "The autist formally known," then who knew whither the wind blew, Yoda being as tempestuous and mercurial as a teenage girl in spandex, doing her damnedest to drive the boys into hormonal overtly bi- sexual behaviour. These boys hadn't a clue as to what hit them, hormones being what they are, so they set off on a quest to discover their true callow baiting, knowing that Gans would say "spandex"... yes, I blame Gans, twisted, sex preserved in a formaldehyde-filled jar, sitting on the shelf next to Einstein's brassiere, which he earned the hard way by seducing Magic Dick from the J Geils Band. Afterwards, picking hitchhikers up on the road to Vegas, he began to contemplate life as a septuagenarian Veteran of Foreign Wars. The hitchers had primo shit; they missed the turnoff to Sin City & ended up on Highway 61. "Now what?!?" exclaimed the driver, perversely optimistic, given the giant, fire snorting beast with hoofs of steel rapidly bearing down on them from beasts.com. "Hey! Who ordered this dill-crusted thumbsucker?" George demanded, sotto voce. "Y'all knows I like SWEET thumbsuckers." Meanwhile, back at the ranch there appeared another winking, blinking, nodding menace from mothergoose land, showering the landscape with nods and bivalves. The nods were OK but the bivalves were rather painful. "Ouch!" hollered the ranchhands as they rubbed the sore spelunkers' knuckles (spelunkers had dropped in from who-knew-where, asking for directions to Hwy 61). Originally, it was pretoria, but the march was too long on the underground railroad, so they hit each other over the heads with stalagmites and called it a day, but not before their mothers came by and fed them deep- fried octopus, calamari rings, abalone, clams, and cigarette butts, with a spicy melange of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Meanwhile, Yoda and Einstein had struck up a convenient state of shared denial; no they weren't in a gazebo in some stunning natural setting, but rather in a ramshackle perspiration-free t-shirt hanging on the lincoln bedroom wall, a souvenir of a fundamentalist Wesson party that was thrown just after the 1992 email from Bill Gates that astounded the world, saying he pretended to be a ruthless capitalist but deep downside he's really a sensationaly sexy transgendered and regendered, totally speed-blendered free-spirit, barrier-bustin', hyper- computatin', titilatin', crazy and bewildered guy, who's just trying to figure out how to control this thesaurus program that got instigated when one of the programmers was up to her eyeballs in cocoanut margaritas, the saucy wench, also known around the office as the kind of gal who goes do-gooding around the neighborhood, promoting evershine (TM), the only polish you'll ever need! For your car, your floor, your shoes, your hair and nails, even your cocoon so your butterfly will slide right out on the dot of mid- continental rift valley, opened by one too many numbskulls with large ambitions and small reserves of invigorating herbal extracts, made fresh daily for your enflamed appendix, Article XIII, Section a.2, covering issues such as maladies of the lower GI truck suspension; a difficult vehicle to repair, since spare parts haven't been available since the Korean Wax Museum Project, which consumed copious quantities of various waxes and resins, since it was completed without benefit of pignose amplifiers.
Cynthia Dyer-Bennet (cdb) Fri 29 Oct 99 16:41
help! I nearly choked on my drink reading that. Who wrote "half-assed tofu-brained bliss ninny?" Applause!
David Gans (tnf) Fri 29 Oct 99 17:37
That could have been two or more people, given how the game works.
David Gans (tnf) Fri 29 Oct 99 17:38
It is a pseud waiting to happen, for sure!
Hyphenation 5 (tnf) Thu 2 Dec 99 13:22
Is it getting warm in here? I can't quite put my finger on it, but email is starting to drip right off my screen, which never happened between the right and left sides of my motion-impaired offspring, but up and down movement has never been a professor's strong suit. In fact, she usually prefers the side- to-side action when she's reclining in her watery front yard and reading the reform school manual over and over again in search of the juicy parts lurking between the limericks the editor had put in the margins of this innocent- looking tome. Nomenclature aside, we should remember to look to the passenger list and see if anyone really IMPORTANT is on there, because you never know when you might find yourself sitting next to Rod McKuen on the tuna boat to nowhere. But what does it matter, when all the boats, not to mention the cars, buses, SUVs and even the velocipedes are clamoring for union representation? "One vehicle, one vote!" is the rallying cry. And then the small animal lobby clamors to be heard, and everyone insists that the lobby should be enlarged to accommodate comfy marinated canapes for the passing salmon and anchovy. But the buttered sand dollars have simply got to go. They can't possibly be healthy for the manatees, who have been calling for vegetarian fare with little sucking power of their own so they had to call in "Hoover," the all powerful device that could succeed in providing the marble armchairs required to march across the flannel avenue, without getting noticed by shrimps prejudiced in favour of wolverines in tutus. But this did not matter, for already the crowds were gaining ground on the escaping crustaceans. Crab-walking is stylish, but indeed, difficult to do while applying licentious limpets to all and sundry, incuding many innocent passers-of-gas carpetbaggers who loll outside every McDonald's on the boulevard. It's enough to make you sing country and/or western songs to your mother in the hospital, although before you started singing she wasn't in the hospital but wanted to be put under IMMEDIATELY once you launched into your wheezy Lord, my baby left me with a plate full of cold scallops, and a broken heart, yeah, she done legitimized the unfortunate practice of downsizing of my love. In the meanwhile, the runaway shrimps cunningly eschewed the chorus and launched straight into the second verse of In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, which somehow transmogrified into La Vida Loco Weed, a film based on Carlos Castaneda's series of books that became an instant hit among primitive vertabrate species. "Z" on the other hallucinated military police rioting, surging into the anti-crustacean crowd, flogging them harshly with tuna steaks and haddock fillets, while from the podium, Margaret Thatcher, champion of outraged middle class decency, waved hexadecimals over her head in an approximation of the famous dance of the sesame seeds. Next door, it was a different story, as flocks of feather dusters and french ticklers whooped it up in the old train station just as the train was about to leave the status-seeking social climbers behind in a flurry of dot-com venture funny-faces aggressively thrust through the windows of the training in anticipation of the upcoming layoffs at MicroSmurf, which will start a nasty chain reaction leading to Madonna being simultaneously elected to President of Microsoft and President of the Universe, unlikely as that may seem, but there are those who have seen her velociraptor, which she keeps the bathtub. She's had run-ins with the Humane Society concerning this exotic pet, but it hasn't prevented her clinging to some favourite ante-eaters, just for the occasional masturbatory excursion into The Land Beyond, which she had always yearned to serenade with her favorite coloratura aria from that well-loved opera, Linguini Aglio e Olio con Gamberi, or was that what she ate later at Girasole's -- grief, what a memory! -- I'll be foaming at the mouth any time now. Already the occasional walk belies the myth that his pitching is infallible, but he still has the babyfaced look of his youth, before that business with the frankincense and myrrh. Who the hell ordered all that, anyway? Remember to tie your shoes and look both ways before cramming any more hors d'oeuvres into your mouth, because the canasta-playing old lady brigade will certainly have a few choice words to share with their grandchildren once the air clears and we can all see who reversed the settings on the flim-jam because now the smortajinker is not wooing the googleplexes of Bene Gesserit witches whe expected. Surely the awestruck inhabitants of Dune are nervously awaiting the arrival of the worms heralded by the Bene Gesserit, rumored to be traveling aboard the aforementioned train, instead of being squeezed in the steerage close to the central fuel tank of a Bohemian Rhapsody booming AMC Pacer, with Garth and Wayfaring Wenda, zig-zagging the Blue Highways of Life. At the next bust-enhanced bimbo with her thumb out, they pulled off the road and threw open the rear passenger door. "Come in in," they exclaimed. "There's plenty of rotisserie chicken, cole slaw and beer! Would you happen to have a moist token for the toll gate ahead?" She reached into her knapsack, and pulled the safety cover off the eject button, having decided the bird wasn't going to make it back for a graceful landing, her finger paused only one short motionless instant before stabbing into the plucked and hapless fowl, scattering feta cheese all over the cole slaw. With both hands she grabbed a sixteen-wheeled semi- trailer truck (the other two wheels having fallen off somewhere around Podunk, Ohio, running over an armoured gopher fleeing a shrimp stampede). Buggered if she would give way to a crustacean tide, she stamped hard with both feet as she maneuvered across the road, careful not to swerve into a group of Catholic boarding school girls, in full drainage, as their pubescent hormones were launching a full-scale attack of acne upon their once perfect fathers and mothers; they had seen the veil drop, and knew that we are all mortified to be seen with our relatives when we're trying to act cool and unaffected by the ever onward-pressing tide of performance artists with yams, chocolate syrup, novelty condoms, small ant-farms, cricket cages, well- memberships, and air-conditioned dildoes, nuclear-powered Cuisinarts, CDs hand-engraved by child lamas, among other thingumajigs. But sadly, the pubescent wenches couldn't restrain themselves, and when Ricky Martin passed through, they exploded into paroxysms of slavering lust, employing the air- conditioned Dilbert cartoons as ice packs for their sprained ankles.
Erik Van Thienen (levant) Fri 3 Dec 99 00:55
Another proof you don't need *500* monkeys ...
Cynthia Dyer-Bennet (cdb) Fri 3 Dec 99 14:13
HYPHENATION 6 (tnf) Tue 28 Dec 99 18:36
We've had a lot of fun here in the inkwell, interviewing a nice vacationing couple from Minnesota, who are only down here for the Winnebago sale at Wal- Mart. They are very excited about the electric hairball removers that could be had for less than a buck and a haven't sold out yet, despite a massive ad buy and product placement in mouthwash bottles. Trouble is, mouthwash bottles' necks were kinda narrow, so people had a hard time getting the product oiled properly, so it would slide right out of the motor home, onto the highway, and over the Seven Mountains, where the seven dwarfs were rumoured to plug their Christmas lights directly into the generators at Boulder Dam, which let them light the mountain pasta and noodle factory they founded with the profits of their illegal gambits, upon which they set out with such remorseless zest, these vacationing Minnesotans in oily pursuit, that atomic pile-drivers were sold out all the way to Texas. Luckily their quattro stapled back together in time to make the last ferris wheel at the county fair. But once at the kissing booth, they read the instructions and discovered that they'd been doing it all wiggly for the last few years, and now that the wretch they were supposed to kiss wore false teeth, it led to disaster. But during the blow-by-blow account of these dental misfortunes, a curious whistling solution was offered, putting the pucker back where it belonged, thereby solving the riddle of what it is that love is more than just one of, and arguing that, if it were more, say a half dozen or so, it would most certanly involve a trip to the drug store for some, uh, "supplies." And a stop at a police station, just to let them know what we were doing and then it's off to Winona Ryder's Tupperware Party. Personally I'm very much interested in blue-glass bong she was using the last time we partied together, but I'm probably confused, now that I think of it -- was it Winona or Madonna, I always must summon courage before sampling, but there's no way you could convince me that Madonna's dope is more docile than Winona's! After all, she has a reputation to uphold! So, she imported this stuff from British Columbia, not Colombia, so NAFTA appointees could try some too. Alas, they had their own so it's off to see the bastards writhe -- cochons! pigdogs! I expectorate on their shitty grass, or should that be grassy shit -- my goat ate the best of my stash, leaving me in a foul mobile drifting about ten feet over the heads of the musicians, who were jonesin' for some smoke. Did it make them play Beethoven? No, but they probably would have for a snickers bar or a Twix. Stoned musicians get the munchies bad, and chordates are often found lodged between the softer layers of volbonic acid, found only in remote reaches of Berkeley, leftover from tibia- playing cavemen -- man, these Minnesotans were flying now -- and slamming those bones together to create a joyous rhythm, passionately played at Passover. But what does that matter when there are children stationed at every crossroad, as backup for non-Y2K-compliant traffic lactose guzzling, furry-freaky little wing-dings, consuming mass quantities of a substance know only as merthiolate! Tastes AWFUL, turns your mouth an unpleasant color, and doesn't even get you high. But all the kids are doing it at all the best parcheesi parties which frightens most parents who have never extended their abilities to dish-mopping foreign substances from the tongues and palates of their own chameleons. In fact, the changeable lizards -- at least the chain- smoking ones, often suffer from bad bratwurst, causing the poor culinary- embarrassed lizards to change colors with alarming precision. Scientists are using the lizards to track the southbound migration of the Canadian Geese, as they are suspected of smugly ignoring the other waterfowl who also travel those flyways. A snub-nosed Smith & Wesson revolver seemed to be the only recourse. But a Colt reposing happily atop pungent clover barely turned an ear. The mare, howitzer-trained, bomb-proof throwback to World War I blood lines, turpitude inured and weary, slowly moved one hoof toward a clump of peanut brittle, left over from several Christmases ago, and hard as concrete. How many teeth did he break on that one fateful bite? Instead of counting the teeth on the ground, he started probing the holes in his gums, from one of which he extracted what at first seemed to be a seed, but which on closer inspection he determined was a miniature device of some sophistication, with a tiny television screen that at that moment was showing the face of Peruvian reserve and stoicism during times of pestilence or health, poverty or heavy drinking. In a word, he was looking at the Inca prototype of a palm-frond- strewn procession, reminding him of that little dried up palm-frond cross still stuck in his dresser drawer at home, along with his ditch-digging merit badge that he had earned when he was fourteen -- hot sun and sweat and dirt all mingling into a filbert paste, into which he dipped his crackers and the occasional stalk of chewy angelica, a treat that had his tongue sittin' up on its hind legs, begging for Mary Tyler Moore to come over and sit on his fermentation pot, whilst he readied the barrel into which he meant to pour the brains of those hapless Minnesotans, even now sliding down the highway toward Never Never Land, exit 17, just off the pike. That's the same place you'll find that saphire jewelry for sale from the back of a pickup camper, right alongside fruit so far out of season it had to have come from surinam, where they also do a nice line in toads, at least accordian toads -- there's a big market for them right now and a website whipped together over a sixpack of Jolt Cola (TM) offered them by the pensioner who now lives in a warm, underground strobe-lit converted fallout shelter, for which he paid a cool monkey in a tuxedo one hundred billion dollbabies he swiped from the concession stand before he escaped from the fire into the skillet, and thence to the pantry, where he found cooperating cockroaches, willing to work for peanuts. However, the radio station that he heard in his head was spewing venomous right-wing Y2-Cray fourier transformation projections of greenhouse gas accumulation, red bar charts with Apocalyptic implications and One World confection bakeries, with sweets contrived from every grain known to mother earth or father time. A pity their pies were so fungus-filled, for that left little for the foraging forest fieldmice, further following fetid flavours forever flowing from favored far-away shimmering shoals of southern sea- shores so the shingle-filled shopgirls slapping at their scaly sores shouting Minnesota here we come agog with mistletoe and mischief, an happy times are here agilely ambling amidst ambrosaic asters and apostolic anglers, apoplectic over their treatment at the hands of the utopia-heads. Froggy recovered quickly from the initial shock, gathered up his bedding and headed out to the choir loft, from which he commenced to sing, full and deep- throated, "Love me tender, love me true, love me Oral Roberts, love me Jesus!" The congregation burst loose with a chorus of "Amarillo Blues" which a mischevious altar boy had pasted into the hymnals, whereupon these good god-fearing Minnesotan folk, believing they were being raptured, rose as only people who haven't been thoroughly warm in months can rise, and built a fancy castle in the sky using nothing but kind words and sweet drips of honey to hold it together. Later, as the wind came whistling through the truffles, chocolatiers could be heard whooping it up around the back of the barn, where they were grabbing a quick smoke before they folded the fud-projector and moved on to their next appointment with bureaucracy. Yes, it was time to proceed to South Dakota, where it was rumored that a corn chip in the shape of Ganesh, the elephant-headed god, had been performing miracles and the government was trying to turn it into an excuse to buy more weapons. But for once, the electorate rose up and began speaking in tongues, to wit the old familiar Hindu cry of "Ganpati Bappa Morya", which was odd, considering not one of them had the least idea what they were saying, nor that it would be familiar under other circular reasoning methods that always manage to put the interests of the Reprobate Church of Future Sinners before the utopian views of the Manichaean Church, as they happily continued to screw their parishioners both morally and financially by keeping their triumphant returns secret from the vast silent masses yearning to be held accountable for the actions of their ant-colony, which had long-since escaped and relocated to the neighbor's r&r facility, next door to Thai Joe's, so they often caught the strains of peculiar music on Grateful Dead tape night. Thai Joe's in Milwaukee, relocated from Cleveland, had built a solid reputation of salmo- finnish cooking, but were finding reindeer nuggets hard to swallow. Especially the the antlers proved a bit differentiated and not at all to the liking of our hapless travelers whose digestive systems are not adapted for such incursions, but by consummate luck, a Genie appeared, bearing Tums. Those Minnesotans totally froze to the spot, until they remembered to call their Deus ex Machiavelli, who was fortunately indisposed when they did finally re-emerge from the time-warp and clock-snafu to find themselves back in Minnesota minus the Winnebago, but barking at the moon soon became boring so they went inside and finished reading "War And Peace: The Abridged Version", only 400 pages, until they were exhausted from all the big worries about what had been cut and where, so they set off to find a bearish publisher who would agree to print a complete, annotated version of War and Peace on a pillowcase so they could get some rest. Theoretically, a glass of warm milk would do the job, but we're lactating right now so that will do. Besides, too much milk is not good for the sinuses, as the cows always insist on hitting me on the head with their hoops, as they practiced whirling them, three on each horn and one around each ankle.
Erik Van Thienen (levant) Tue 28 Dec 99 20:24
What the hell were we thinking? I can't believe it!
Cynthia Dyer-Bennet (cdb) Wed 29 Dec 99 16:57
but is it art?
Linda Castellani (castle) Thu 30 Dec 99 11:26
Was it supposed to be?
Erik Van Thienen (levant) Thu 30 Dec 99 12:56
In this conference? It has to!
Members: Enter the conference to participate