NOTE: The Slosh is subject to frequent revisions. This snap-shot was downloaded from the web about June 1996. For the latest version, see the Pirate Squid Club web page at http://www.emf.net/~quam/psq/psqhome.html Of course the web page is subject to frequent movement, so apologies if it's not there ... And now ClubOpolis presents .... The Slosh in the Raw (not a single character was harmed)! .heBoing Boing! Life is like a wowball. .fo *** The Slosh - # - Dr Emu, ed. *** 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 !! This is Part n of q, THE SLOSH! (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 memorie's corner); other times it is a beason 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, 15 March 1996. 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, t he CompuPro that The Slosh lived on is gone. Permanently. The 486DX4/100 PC 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 Netware server from which the printer hangs. But don't tell that to the hyenas. The fonts are heinous (hyenas?), the speed is amazing, and I even have a WordStar for this PC. Perhaps I am keeping in the spirit of the CompuPro by using this outdated and irritable word processor -- how many other ('modern') programs support all of twenty printers, ONLY two of which are dot matrix? (All the remainder being -- different -- daisywheels!) WS3.3Pro is strange, high bits and all, but I love it dearly and wouldn't be without it. (And how many PC programs don't understand subdirectories and are made to operate wholly in the root directory... of a floppy? SUBST anyone!) 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 DX4/100, the S3 PCI SVGA and the Maxtor 540MB 8.5ms is SO sweet!... (when it works! But what a FutherMucker when it crashes. Goddam Peecees make my peecee my pc pants.!) WARNING! DANGER! ALERT! NOTICE! CAUTION! 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 te stes 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 Senor 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! Elder ly 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 senor 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? Cheese Johnny. Like Johnny Cash. You change it like Johnny Cat. Put cheese in m y 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@crl.com. 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. In Cars. 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 and Steve Dick, THE SLOSH is eight years old; this is still the premiere i ssue. (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 ABSTRACT (In fact, very extremely abstract!) [AS IN SUMMARY!] In the beginning there was a little nonsense, and it grew. Seventeen women are mentioned b y 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 wou ld 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. Death by cheese. 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 AF Shephard and Steve Dick. Others are not. Basically Dr Emu typed them, but he is AF Shephard so really it's sorta my project with a fair lot by Ymos TU (who is Steve generally) (thanks dude - much appreciated!) and short bit s by other 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 and 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 by 'the Quam' who is JJF but that's all we say meccanik dancing oh we go Too. And he drives 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; b ut 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 Anlysis, 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 bewteen 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 ? Trash Dicksplash, the most heavily armed sex toy 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 findin g 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 486PC, 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 Comm odore... 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. I L I E D ! Copies of The Slosh are available... I do ask for some small remuneration at the time of printing (only in exceptional cases are free physical copies given out... a hundred-odd pages of this shti is EXPENSIVE!). For instance, appropriate small remuneration can oft consist of a six of Mountain Dew which has replaced the great evil Grodo in the Sky as the soda-as-money constant in this sector of things. No Diet or sugar-less or whatever lacking types please! Death in a can suits me. Yes Jeff eight million megagrams of shit in each serving. This will make the Emumeister very happy and give you much Slosh. Demanding Slosh without said proper remuneration of MtDew will result in much yitching and the Emumeister beating you soundly about th e head and shoulders with whatever wet noodle- representative objects can be had in short order. Unless, of course, you want Slosh on disk or via e-mail. No I WON'T uuencode it without bribery. Floppycopies are BYOD - you provide the disk. If you want one from me I'll yitch and demand Grodo. (Much of my life seems to involve demanding Grodo. And yitching! Hmm.) But who would so why ask fry. It is also available via anonymous ftp from ftp.emf.net; generally in a directory /pub/users/dremu/slosh. Check out www.emf.net/~quam for more extreeme weirdness and a link to the Slosh. 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 Ma yo! 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. My bladder is infected, Sr. Noodlecrotch. 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 tr avel 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... an d 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 gotta love the b52s 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 cou ld 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 var iable "N"? A. Int 21h, Fn=2Ah, B.reg=72 I am brewmeister Smith. B. "N" I'm no dingaling. C. I don't call it, I call its mother for dates. D. Anything it wants to be called it's larger than me. 38. Further given that the system BIOS reports a BIOS extension at 0C800:0h and that the ID bytes are correct, assuming that no non-removable storage devices have already been allocated, why should you call "N"'s mother? A. For a date B. For a good time C. For the time of day clock (date/time) D. Just for the halibut, diet fish. SCSI ("scuzzy") Small Computer Systems Interface, as used in high performace computers and Macintoshes. 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. FINAL EXAMINATION Class: Computre Sciencia Intro Instructor: A. Shephard CSI-42 Ext. 5162 Instructions: Give up now while you still have a chance. If you insist on taking this exam, remember that its score will be exclusively-OR'd with your other scores and then vectored through the null pointer. Find an answer you consider appropriate, if not exactly correct then certainly most interesting, and mark it in some way that I would recognize. Flamethrowers are right out. Tha nk you for listening for an entire semester and we'll see you next term for CSI-43, Computre Sciencia Outro. 0. The null pointer directs the CPU to: A. The null pointee B. The address of the FPU C. The address of the White House D. Go have a beer 1. The full pointer directs the CPU to: A. A goodly chest on a woman B. A loaded data packet C. The gas tank D. Go have a beer 2. Undocumented ____ calls will ____ the computer: A. DOS, lock up B. DAS, BOOT C. DOS, uno, tres D. phone, cost E. aliens, steal 3. The keyboard is the primary input device. What is the secondary? A. The disk drive B. The disk park C. The disk reverse D. The finger 4. Parallel data transfers utilize one of the Centronics, IEEE-488 or similar interfaces, sending all data at once on separate wires. How does this differ from RS-232C, RS-422 and 20mA current loop interfaces? A. They are serial interfaces, data sent one bit at a time on t he same wire. B. They are cereal interfaces, data sent to Kellogg's in Battle Creek, Michigan. C. Currant loop interfaces use old raisins. D. RS422 is short for Radio Shack 221. 5. Barking the hard drive's heads serves what purpose? A. Keeping the dogs of war away. B. Keeping the trees of war away. C. Keeping the fire hydrants of war away. D. Making Seagate happy. (FINAL EXAM, Shephard's CSI-42, continued) 6. The function of a capacitor in a switching power supply is: A. A function of x in y, 2-space B. Function key 13, the bad one C. No senor Molino, I have no bazingas D. Capacitation 7. The function of a capacitor in a switched power supply is: A. Does the power supply go both ways? B. Holding the coil's hands C. Flowing the currant loop D. Twelve watt-volts AC 8. With the increased interest in nanotechnology, I thought I would ask a question about it, even though it was never discussed in class. In light of recent rese arch: A. Nantucketnology is the study of Puget Sound. B. Nanatechnology is the study of your grandmother. C. Nano Tech is a Japanese university. D. Nano, nano, techno, techno, krishna, krishna. 9. The binary digits 00101010 represent: A. 02Ah B. 042 base 10 C. ASCII "*" D. The Ultimate Answer To Life The Universe And Everything 0Ah. The number of this question is: A. Greetings. B. Line feed. C. The number of fingers or toes but not both. D. The number of copies of COMMAND.COM (The Ten Command Interpreters) 0Bh. The number of this question is: A. In base 16. B. In Base 010h. C. To be or not to be, that is the question. D. Silly Putty, TeleTitty, CTTY. 0Ch. Jose, puedes ver: A. A su madre. B. Por la luz del sol. C. No senor Molino, I have no bazingas. D. I am the death turnip. 0Dh. Channels are: A. Changed on a television. B. Used to facilitate computer I/O. C. Used to carry water from here to there. D. Few and far between. 0Eh. The FAT of a 360K DOS-2.X floppy is: A. Skinny. B. Wide. C. Low cholesterol. D. Body ornamentation. 0Fh. If I were to XOR 01111001 with 11110000: A. Nobody would give a damn. B. Even the accumulator wouldn't want the offspring. C. You would be happy for me. D. The All Mighty Hard Drive in the sky would sneeze. 010h. The resistor in Figure 2.1 has the ohmic value: A. 1Kohm B. OK, home. C. One cone. D. NTE Flameproof, 50ohm, 25 watt, carbon composition. E. 2.71828 tea bone poem. 17. Using only basic hand tools and common household ingredients, how would you build a small thermonuclear device? A. Very carefully. B. I wouldn't, I'd leave it to Mike Pearson. C. Using Grodo. D. Abusing Grodo (a crime in most states.) 19. A defragmentation utility needs to be run on this test because: A. The questions are out of order. B. The answers are out of order. C. The sectors are out of order. D. The bathtub is out of order. 23. Twelve, twenty-four. The next item in the series is: A. I am Brewmeister Smith. B. No senor Molino, I have no bazingas. C. Forty-eight. D. 14,400bps data and FAX. 24. I would rate the instructor in this class: A. Incredibly wise in the ways of machines. B. Fairly greasy on Tuesdays. C. Overly polite to his students. D. Exceedingly bizarre and prone to irrational activity. 25. Senor Molino: A. Never visited our class. B. Has Buckleyitis and no ankles. C. Shows up Tuesday-Thursday's at 3PM. D. Shows off Tuesday-Thursday's at 3AM. 26. Bazingas are, in the computre sciencia sense: A. Too small to view with the naked eye. B. So big it takes a hand or two for each. C. No senor Molino, I have no bazingas. D. Ha ha ha. BS-DOS throughput errors... System Initialization fault in sector 4322 Missing parity sketch Graph of RAM out of bounds SETVER.EXE has been unset DOS system inva lid... 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 SimNDP installed as TSR (Tupelo Static Rotor) SimSIM loaded SimCPU insists on rebooting... call 1(800)624-5223 x490 and whine SimArt loading JEFF.GIF now SimFart loading GIF.JEF now SimBuffalo flying away on buffalo wings Sysop out having a SimDump SimFloppy installed on drive Q: FlapLink reconnected LPT to the White House SimHungarian 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!) SimBarf 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 SimAnt Tech SlowDisk disk refragmentation complete Lawson on the Internet!!!! 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@maxis.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? 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, w here'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. ** Entrance Examination - Intellidroid Sentient Cybernetix Corp. ** 1. The transistor is a modern device which: a. is not used at all in our line of work. b. is shorted across a power supply. c. is shorted across Air Supply. d. Journey is a better band anyway. 2. Never... always remember to check your: a. references. b. differences. c. Different Strokes. d. pants for Gary Coleman. 3. Twelve is the magic number of: a. the Quam. b. the Gonad. c. Conan the left wing-nut. d. the brasierre. 6. (5x*1/(19y^3)-6x^2) / (1.5y^2+6ayx) is: a. very tiring. b. 12 c. none of the above. d. none of your business. 7. One should nev er make sex occur: a. unless properly licensed. b. unless properly diseased. c. 37. (VGA graphics version) d. How did that last one slip in there anyway. 8. Finish the pattern: regurge, resplooge, respattle: a. removeyourhandfromthetoaster. b. respoon (provide your own napkin) c. regoat or resheep. d. rex hamilton. 9. Senor Clasen is: a. Senor Molina with bajingas. b. Molino's homemade bajingas, large-and-small c. Molecat's homespun noodles, lewd-and-skanky d. Jerry's girlfriend without the hair. Bogus Question: 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 Senor 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 CONNECT THE DOTS ..... . . ............ . . .. . ... . .... .. 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: UNITED STATES OF AMERICA --- 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 Aware ness 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 Som eone'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 ins erted 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. JOURNAL OF AN INFESTED HERMIT 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 t o 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). Turnips on parade 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 jo y, 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! [MC -- mu's commentary -- propose regardless. :)] 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. BIZZARE 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 captivit y. 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 wha t'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, Senor 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. But nevertheless I know. (Good, Garth, that was a haiku.) The rutabaga has slid, the angle has collapsed, the wh ole 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. Briga dier 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. Wipe first, ask questions later. The sea-going bu ffalo 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".) I'll show you muffler. 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! INFORMATIONAL UPDATE: 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- ja yn-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! TUESDAY ...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 thing s 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 Sa vings 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 inscript ion: "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" Senor Molino will demonstrate the ancient and accepted art of having none. Next week Senor 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 d oodad, 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 n othing to do with Mr Scholarly Eeucation 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 Senor 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 toy, 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, c urative, 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. Where's the NE key? All I see is southwest buttons! Mane[lion] void[sale|refund]; four(three; two; one+-) {W hup-san a whup-san} {Jan jan jammerin} {Yabba yabba ding ding} {Delta hey max nine} dandy(lion()); 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? ...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. Tip #1: Do not offer a "Brother", of any race, your sarong. He does not want it. Tip #2: Annoy instead Prof. L. Buckley, Budd 221G-ish. He is almost always there except when his bladder gets the better of him. Offer him your sarong when you find him. He does not want it either, but will be nice enough to ask you why you are such a bozo anyway. Tip #3: For a surreal, fast-pitched lecture about why, how, when and where you have messed up your life, see J. Dominik in Locke 406ish. Sign on door gets you office hours. Offer her the sarong. She might want it, but will be too polite to accept, and will instead shout at you. She is not, however, a Vogon. Tip #4: Other places to ditch the sarong, in cases of extreme need or intense boredom, include the fishpond, the pizza bar in lower Danner, and of course the upper floors of Goleman. Be wary (very wary!) of the old ladies there, they can be very nasty and go for the neck, much like Jim's cat Mouse. (Contrary to public opinion, it was NEVER named Trackball!) Tip #5: Never, NEVER, offer anyone at KSJC (first floor Shima) your Sarong. They will want it, will take it, and might remind you of it for the weirder of one minute or the rest of your life. Distrust anyone, regardless of age, gender, sexual misconduct or hair color. Tip #6: There is NOOO... Tip #6. And you thought I was John Cleese. So I go to the Laserdisc place and they're closed. Not just closed, but gone. The empty windows, the guards at the door with guns, and the fifty- yard barrier with barbed wire, dogs androving IRS-ATF agents leads me to believe that there's not much in the way of business going on here. Reviews of The Slosh: "What a crock of shit" - Man on street "Well I think sex on TV is overrated - I mean you keep falling off!" - Pepperpot on street, rigged "I feel a good sit & read coming on - have you anything to read?" - Man on street BEFORE his daily sit & read "Best book I read this morning whilst on the toilet" - Man on street AFTER his daily sit & read "Only book I read this morning whilst on the toilet" - Same man on street etc etc "What the fuck does this mean?" - Another man on street, irate "Que simboliza?" - Third man on street, this one with sombrero "Fuck off and get this shit outta my face!" - The authors of The Slosh 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 denig rated 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 spa ce 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? THE MORNING AFTER... ...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 t hat! 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 1: precursive code */ #include prototype main(); alpha main(); beta main(); release main(); main() { int i; i = refrag(0xBEEF); refrag(i); } /* Example 2: Regurgatory code */ #include pornotype main(); main() { writeblk( int i; for (i=i; ii) i==i=i;, stdin, stdout, stdthru); } That's all folks. ** FLARGLE ** 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 SLOWOPEN.COM Directory mismanagement tool It also offers the Graphical Optimised Optical Environment Yesterday (GOOEY) called DOORS. So where's the RUN/STOP RESTORE on this thing? 4770 print "Hello, Frau Muehler. You are very hungry today. No?" 4771 print "We can't eat the Prime Minister, Senor Rodriguez." 4772 print "I won't if you won't." run ?synt ax error in 65536 ready. 4773 open 15,8,15,"S8:ha ha ha,2A" 1 rem *** start *** 65535 end: rem *** end *** What's the frequency, Kenneth?.. 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. True or False: 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. Multiple Flush: Q. When fish die, they go: A - to sleep for a long time. B - aaaaargh. C - down the toilet. D - some or none of the above Q. The Humpback Whale has: A - a large beak. B - a large bank account. C - been replaced by the submarine. D - annoyed someone in your closet. Q. Squid have been known to: A - stick to windshields for years. B - shoot first, ask questions later. C - attack game show hosts. D - thank you, Mrs. Warnermount. Q. If you see a shark, you should: A - cry for help. B - turn the page. C - not buy TSP. D - speak when spoken to. Q. When skindiving, it is best to: A - test your SCUBA gear before diving. B - test Scooby-Doo before Shaggy does. C - drink as much salt water as you can to see if you can out-belch your friends. D - avoid electricity. Q. Ostriches utilize their powerful fins to: A - file job applications. B - (ostriches don't use their fins) C - annoy each other. D - attack game show hosts. Q. Place the unconscious victim: A - on his/her side. B - consciously. C - in the trunk, and avoid using main highways. D - if he/she is out of place. 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 sexi st 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 megah ero 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 aro und 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. 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: A. Twelve B. Anthropological relativstic culturalism C. Nondescript D. Rational and integrable E. Thirty-seven (VGA Graphics Version) In this circuit, the quamblepeefic rectal oscillation differentiator is used to : A. Twelve B. Anthropological relativstic culturalism C. Nondescript D. Rational and integrable E. Thirty-seven (VGA Graphics Version) Finally, we assume you are familar with the digitally synchronous frap regurgitating linear waveflow device on the table in front of you. Y ou are to disassemble it, check and clean it, and swear up and down it's fixed and send it back to the Radio Shack it came from... after charging the store or customer obscene quantities of money for the service of "resetting the locked microproessor". Remember that the quadraphase schnitzel buffer can exude retrainable radiation if improperly redoxed. 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 GREAT QUOTES FROM DR EMU: (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. Tur nip am I. 1. What is the next symbol in this sequence: O ! X ... A. Water buffalo B. Q C. Schnitzel D. Thirty-seven (VGA Graphics Version) 2. Bill Clinton is to intoxicated purple as: A. Uncle Wiggly is to Uncle Foster B. Uncle Earl is about to puke C. Uncle Phallus is six feet tall D. Thirty-nine (SVGA Graphics Version) 3. You have a handgun, a cup of tea, six biscuits, and an undying urge to genetically clone Harry Hamlin and Cindy Crawford. A. What kind of test question is this anyway? B. Is the gun loaded? C. Is Harry Hamlin or Cindy Crawford loaded? D. Forty-one (CGA monochrome text version) 4. In the spriit of conventional contemporary extemporaneous Judeo- Buddhism, the polytheism of a single unified God: A. is under water. B. is full of water. C. has had an enema. D. is raining (EGA laser punter version) 5. Rebooting the Kumquat Amoeba personable computer is accomplished via: A. Pressing open-apple while screaming Open Sesame B. Ingesting a Spinal Frap C. Inviting the ctrl-alt-del to dinner. E. Anything but answer "D". 6. In fact the generation is referenced to the cabbie's scope probe because: A. he is Lawson Lu. B. he is not Lawson Lu. C. I am the Walrus. D. I am the Eggplant. 7. Without reference to the last question, the hard drive has failed for why: A. Erection Day. B. It won't spin. C. It won't stop spinning. D. Someone pushed "Permanent Press" instead of "Spin Dry" E. Lawson is the Walrus' Eggplant. PS Answer to QuamQuest(ion) #03e8h is H: Press F1 for Llama information about Penny Farmer. 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. INSTRUCTIONS FOR ART REMOVAL ESQUE 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 comemrcial 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) NO MEDIA DEFECTS (ST-506) 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 quadhit 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 Bosomdacious. 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 esle 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 ba rred from using the appelation the STORY (TM) and since nothing is barred from using the appelation thr 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 futzinburg in. Squa, loc egap enil hsols. Hsols, squa. Squa, hsols. Bgreef, deebreeg, durrgflap. Carl Sagan. And thence to self-exposure. 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 delerious. 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 sen se. 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 WH ATEVER 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: TREE-BASED PROJECTILES IN THE MODERN AGE: 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 sufficently 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 w ould 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 consternati on 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. CAN I PLAY WITH MADNESS? 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 airborn 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 myooz ak 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 TRADITION HONOR DISCIPLINE EXCELLENCE 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 agin 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? A: 33. 1 to hold the bits and 32 to push the register. Me a Maxima Culpa. Somebody stole my Nissan. (Good riddance, eh? No cargo space for beer.) 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 ha ve 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 probl em 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? A: Thirty-seven (VGA Graphics Version) Q: Why don't they make a word processor that takes advantage of expanded RAM memory? A: Thirty-seven (VGA Graphics Version) This week's secret frequency is: 151.5650 MHz - The Norich City Council, Blue Channel. Q: If you are sick of questionnaires, you are: A: not answering this question. B: not answering the phone. C: thirty-seven (VGA Graphics Version) D: the red button. Q: Questionnaires that are not numbered are: A: frustrating, because you lose your place. B: using a bookmark so you don't lose your place. C: not really CIA operatives. D: using the white courtesy phone. Q: To avoid a trick question, you must: A: read all questions carefully. B: always question careful readers. C: use a No.2 spatula D: not mark the "KEY" square on your Scantron. Q: The purpose of a questionnaire is to: A: learn more about yourself. B: learn more about the Amazon jungles of Brazil. C: reason, as phlegm is to lightbulb filament. D: explode or leak and cause personal injury. Q: When taking an exam, you should always bring: A: a pencil, ruler, and calculator. B: the answer key. C: her apartment key. D: an excuse. Q: When addressing the P rime Minister of French Guyana, it is always best to: A: remove tab before opening. B: eat first, belch later. C: thirty-seven (VGA Graphics Version) D: fold flap "A" until the camel is completely obscure. What exactly is the Quam? 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 wa lks in L.A. #1 : The chief difference between whizzo butter and the common cold is: A. one is spread on bread, the other is spread by bread B. there is no difference - both make your nose run C. the wind chill factor and it's effect on the Canadian Eskimo D. whizzo tastes better #2 : The greatest military leader of all time was: A. Mr. Fultz - 6th period Social Studies B. Che Guevara C. Thirty-seven (VGA Graphics Version) D. to be inserted during transportation #3 : Ankorr dinecha pun rip tor tor, scrill nutch pong (etzee): A. Blanka chee B. Forni forni bleek bleek C. Skrungle blanchet crib-nost D. Carl Sagan #4 : The correct spelling of a certain centerless pastry is: A. Doughnut B. Donut C. Look! It's Levar Burton! D. Dough-nut #5 : The chief difference between RED and ORANGE is: A. red = traffic ticket; orange = scirroco B. red attracts sick insects C. about 250 nanometers D. the dentist is about to su rrender Do not jar unit - unstable heatsink. Episode 6 - Level 5 --- 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 Buelle r dislikes| or just <> 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 p roper governmental amount sum thing. Or another. Ified, if I'd, tried, gone, blonzo and Samtoys. 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! The Quam's Pu