Subject: Short, shameful
confession
From: tagutcow@nr.infi.net
(I killed that hippy)
Date: 1998/02/13
Newsgroups: alt.religion.kibology
About three nights ago, I was- as usual- having difficulty
in getting to
sleep. During the course of my wandering, semi-concious thoughts,
I became
aware of how uncomfortable my bed was; it's not very soft, I could
feel
some of the springs in the mattress, the pillow was flat, and the
sheet
and bath towel weren't keeping me quite as warm as I would have
liked to
have been.
Then I started thinking about Lupus Yonderboy's descriptions
of his new
bed. I thought about how glowingly he spoke of the softness and
the
warmth, and how one could stretch one's body as one pleased across
the
mattresses double-sized breadth.
And then I started imagining *I* had Lupus Yonderboy's bed
all to myself.
I started imagining *I* was in Lupus Yonderboy's bed.
And I smiled.
Yours in good health,
[signature]
Frank Cannon (ret.)
P.S. My days are full!
--
http://www.nr.infi.net/~tagutcow/twidn.html - NEW:
Sto0pid MIDI files
"Art O'Brien: Cop" ~ "Bacon or Tripe?" ~ "NBC Opera Riot" ~ "A
Pro/Con Tribe"
"I Borne To Crap" ~ "Coroner Bit Pa" ~ "Be or Rot? Panic!" ~ "A
Robot Prince"
"Torn CIA Probe" ~ "Croon? It be Rap!" ~ "Nero Atop Crib"
~ "A Boor Crept In"
From: tagutcow@nr.infi.net (The Shrunken Sailor)
Newsgroups: alt.religion.kibology
Subject: Re: Time for a meta-post.
Date: 20 Jun 1998 07:31:44 GMT
Organization: Blandwood: A Planned Community
In article <kibo-1906980246090001@ppp0a003.std.com>, kibo@world.std.com
(James "Kibo" Parry) wrote:
> "twee" = "fey". It's British for "sissy", or "wussy".
ooohh ooohhh ihaveastoryaboutthewordfeykibocanitellitcanitellit???
(I can't vouch for the total veracity of the quotes in this
retelling,
but- hand to God- it's otherwise completely true.)
So a few years ago, a lovely British couple with two children
moved in
two houses down from my family. Over time, my mom started chatting
with
them on a regular basis, and when the time came when they asked
about,
well, me (as I'm known for shuffling around the streets barefoot;
in fact,
a child of theirs has become defiant about having to wear shoes
outside
because of my example-- a fact that makes me uncomfortable for
reasons
that may become obvious later in this sentence,) my mother- ever
poised to
showcase her foreign linguistic prowess- took it upon herself to
inform
our new neighbors that I was "fey".
"Why did you tell our new British neighbors that I'm gay?"
I
understandably upsettedly asked my mother after learning of this.
"I didn't call you GAY," she explained, "I called you FEY.
There's a
DIFFERENCE."
Fast foward a year or two later: my mother and I are sitting
in the
waiting room at my *cough* *cough* (er, excuse me) *hyugh* *hyugh*
*hyugh*
*eh-heeee* (sorry about that) therapist's office (...but it's admittedly
low-intensity healing.) My mother was flipping through a People
magazine
and I was leafing through a National Geographic when a slacker
CHYK
plopped herself on the couch right next to my mother. It was at
this time
something in People caught my mother's attention and, naturally,
she just
*had* to show it to me.
"See," she said as she turned the People magazine towards
me, her fingers
indicating a photograph of David Hyde Pierce, "he's FEY, but he's
not
GAY."
"Yes," I replied in hushed tones, "that's very..."
"Who's gay?" the otherwise slummed-out CHYK perked up.
"I was telling my son that there's a difference between FEY
and GAY.
Miles is FEY, but he's not GAY;" My mother said as she turned the
magazine
towards the inexplicably interested CHYK, "kind of like how I'm
a WOMAN,
but I'm not FEMININE as such."
mymotherwassomewhatofthetomboyasachilddontchaknow.
"...and what was the deal with the 'I'm a woman, but I'm not
feminine'
comment!?!" I demanded of her a few days later when I felt the
time was
right to bring up the incident again.
"Well haven't you noticed that MOST of the women who walk
into that
office are LESBIANS."
Words failed me.
I was enlightened.
--
"If destruction be our lot, we must ourselves
be its author and finish her.
As a nation of free people we will live
forever, or die by suicide."
-- Abraham Lincoln, 1837
"The Global Economy is a Doomsday Machine."
-- Bill Clinton, 1998
When I first posted this as the trollerization
of alt.fan.drew-barrymore
was drawing to a close, it was my favoritest
thing I'd ever posted to a.r.k.
Nowadays, even the nested irony fails in some
places to prevent me from
wincing.
From: tagutcow@nr.infi.net (The Shrunken Sailor)
Newsgroups: alt.fan.drew-barrymore,alt.religion.kibology
Subject: Re: M. OTIS BEARD AND FRIENDS
Date: 21 Jun 1998 08:45:04 GMT
Organization: Blandwood: A Planned Community
In article <kibo-1806980548310001@ppp0a013.std.com>, kibo@world.std.com
(James "Kibo" Parry) wrote:
> In alt.fan.drew-barrymore, "leaving hope" (leavinghope@email.msn.com)
wrote:
[...]
> > The more we respond to his
> > posts, the more we fuel his efforts... so let's stop right
now.
>
> Dear Leaving
Hope, please stop responding to M. Otis Beard's
> messages.
He's only pretending to be your friend.
*sigh*... would that I were able to come up with a handle
as
inexpressibly piquant. Well, for lack of an inexpressibly piquant
handle,
I will regale all of youse with an inexpressibly piquant story.
I guess
I'm falling back on precedence as a.r.k. is my dumping grounds
of choice
for True Tales of Animals.
Day before yesterday I was walking alongside a lake in my
neighborhood
when I noticed the fluttering of a bird in one of the small trees
that
overhang the edge of the lake itself. Upon closer inspection, the
bird
appeared to be dangling by one wing-- suspended from the tree by
some
invisible means. I bent the (small, bendy) tree backwards to see
if I
could somehow free the bird, and- upon getting an up-close view
of the
bird's condition- started breaking off some of the surrounding
twigs in
order to loose it from whatever might have been holding it there.
The
bird, now dangling facing me, repeatedly bit my sleeve as I attempted
this. "Stop biting me, dinosaur brain." (I am actually reminded
of a news
item that came through the wires about a year ago dealing with
a study
that reinforced everybody's suspicions most stupid Americans are
stupid
when it comes to science because most of the stupid, stupid Americans
tested stupidly answered incorrectly to- amongst others- the question
"Which is most closely related to the dinosaurs? A) chicken
B) alligator
C) salamander" [of course, I'm not sure this is absolutely accurate,
but
I'm pretty sure A and B were actual choices.] The fact that your
average
American Joe Blow would stupidly select B as the answer to this
question
elicited the token Concerned Comments from the token Very Troubled
Experts, concerned that America might be losing its footing in
the
emergent Biotech fields of the 21st Century wherein human beings
are be
engineered for pets or meat. The reason I bring this up is because
it was
only a few weeks later that another news item came down the pike,
this one
telling us of a shocking scientific discovery that had caused many
scientists to doubt if birds were in fact related to dinosaurs
_at all_.
My point being... well, maybe I don't have a point, and maybe I
don't need
a point; it's just that intelligence or lack of intelligence is
a
determination that lies beyond our means, and we could only guess
as to
whether birds or dinosaurs are indeed "only barely aware of their
own
existance." It's mere hubris not to believe that the eerie machinations
of
awareness are as much of a mystery to us now as they ever were,
and the
fact that- even in this "decade of the brain", no less,- the reasons
as to
why you could cram a frog's brain back into his skull any which
way and
still have a fully functioning frog continue to elude us, or that
AI kooks
are placing their nouns and verbs neatly into two separate bins,
makes the
prospects for our ever really understanding awareness or intelligence
look
bleaker still. If you feel like being dismissive of bird and/or
dinosaur
intelligence then by all means be my guest; Lord knows you're probably
right, and only if I were feeling particularly bitchy or antagonistic
that
day would I even take issue with you. Just bear this in mind: wouldn't
the
egg be on *your* face were you to wake up tomorrow morning only
to find
out that your similarly brainy, sceptical breathren had now one-upped
you,
had gone a step farther than you had, and were now claiming- say-
that
*fetuses* had no sentience!?! What hideous monsters are borne when
we
boorishly insist on making points that needn't be made. I guess
my point
is this: quit hotdogging, it's a very unattractive character trait.)
I soon discovered that the bird had a *fishing hook* through
his wing,
and that he was being suspended by a transparent fishing line.
I would
appear that one of the local ne'er-do-wells who go fishing in this
lake
EVEN THOUGH THERE ARE MANY PROMINENTLY PLACED SIGNS EXPLICITLY
PROSCRIBING
ACTIVITIES OF THIS SORT had left their fishing line tangled around
a tree
only to have a bird- perhaps attracted by the scent of fish- impale
his
wing on the hook. Or perhaps the bird got the hook in his wing
first and
wrapped himself around a tree in the ensuing stuggle to detach
himself. In
either case, the hook was IN THERE-- clear through the wing. I
broke off
the necessary branches to get the bird on the ground and detached
the
fishing line from the 3" hook. At this point, any normal bird would
have
made haste to escape from a big, scary human, but this bird simply
sat
squat on the ground-- presumably exhausted from dangling by one
wing from
a fishing line for who knows how long. The wound was already pretty
messy.
I attempted to push the fish hook out all the way through the wing
to no
avail.
Occasionally the bird fluttered around a bit as I picked
him up by the
scruff of his neck (the only real technique I know of animal handling)
to
move him around so as to better get at the problem, but otherwise
he
stayed fairly still-- even as I tried to twist the hook back through.
After awhile, when I had given up on trying to thread the
hook through
and was now deliberating as whether to run back to the house and
get wire
clippers and run back up to the lake or to somehow transport him
back to
the house where the parents or I could more comfortably attend
to the
problem, the bird of his own accord hunkered down the 10 foot drop-off
that surrounds the lake (THIS IS AN ARTIFICIAL LAKE,) where he
planted
himself along the edge of a very small creek; occasionally dipping
his big
robin red-breast beak into the water and gargling it down like
a pelican.
At this time I began to search around much of the debris that gathers
at
the foot of the dropoff for something in which to transport the
bird. Beer
cans... nope; liquor bottles... nope (for some reason, people like
to get
drunk at the lake; once I found a pile of about two dozen empty
beer cans
piled up right on the surrounding path; on another occasion, I
found a
pair of discarded bikini briefs and, a few steps later, [*ugh*]
a big pile
of poo that was of great interest to a surrounding squadron of
black shit
butterflies [what would a being have to do to get reincarnated
into the
lowly lot of the black shit butterfly?] As to explain *why*
people come
to get drunk at this lake, I must appeal to the wisdom of Broken
Glass
Theory. Broken Glass Theory- and I do believe I've made reference
to it
before in this august forum- is the type of theory that is studied
by
people who can't wrap their branes around the likes of Relativity
Theory
or Set Theory. In a nutshell, it is the contention of Broken Glass
Theory
that- wherever ne'er-do-wells congregate- the no-goodniks can't
be very
far behind.) At last I found something that would make for a suitable
carrier; an old Budweiser beer case.
I had a little difficulty finding my bird again ("Oh, just
because you
display a little _benevolence_, he's now _indebted_ to you; he's
now
*your* bird," I can already hear you crying.) I was afraid he had
already
taken it upon himself to try and reassume his place in bird society
with
the big metal thing freakishly impaled in his wing- only to be
met with
alienation and nascent physical agony-, but I soon found him as
he was,
seated by the small creek, taking the occasional sip.
Again picking him up by the scruff of his neck, I placed
him inside the
Budweiser box and began walking back home. Every now and then,
I would
peer in and see him simply jostling back and forth with the shocks
of our
travel.
As I arrived home, my mother opened the window and called
down "What do
you have there?"
"A bird with a fishing hook through its wing."
"Nooooo," she replied.
"I was wondering if you guys had some wire clippers or something
we could
use to get it out."
Then I think she said something about a responsibility I
had neglected
when I had left the house in the first place. I was afraid she
wasn't
really that interested in the bird.
I brought him up on the deck and, after a while, my mother
and father
came out with wire cutters and examined the damage. My mother held
the
bird as one would hold a parrot-- around his body and with his
legs curled
up in the air. My father then took the wire cutters and clipped
the snag
off the hook and removed both pieces. When my mother had released
the bird
from her clutches, a new concern arose; had she clutched him too
tightly?
The bird was now struggling for breath and his beak clapped open
and shut
wildly. We decided the best place for him to rest would be on the
roof of
our shed where he would be out of reach for the cats.
We placed him on the roof and he immediately shut his eyes;
still with
the labored breathing. I put a little dish of water up near him
and he
splashed it around a little and resumed rest.
Oh, yes, my neglected responsibilities: it was my job to
retrieve the
photographs of my brother's wife's newborn daughter that my brother
had
emailed me. My parents wanted to see how this was done.
"Nothing, really. You don't even really have to be here when
they're
downloading. The attachments will just be saved to the hard drive
and then
I'll disconnect and call you guys when they're ready."
But they wouldn't take a hint. They had already pulled up
their chairs
and wanted to witness firsthand the miracle that is Eudora! Saving!
The!
Attached! Files!
Naturally, I was nervous about having embarassing sex spams
left
undeleted in my inbox. Sure, we all know that there's no necessary
shame
in getting a sex spam sent your way, but how can you explain this
to
people who know naught of spam and are paying for your internet
access? "I
don't ask for it, they just *send* it to me! Honest injun!"
Likely story.
Worse still- shudder to think- would be having to wait ten
seconds as the
progress bar for the message "Watch My Daugther Lick The Cum Off
My Dogs
Balls!!!" slowly inches by, my eagle-eyed parents looking on intently.
That would be a real "dealbreaker".
Lukily, the only sex spam I had in the inbox was something
entitled "If
you're not interested in Adult Content, Don't Read This!!!" As
the new
messages came in, I simply moved the modal dialog box over it.
The only
thing I recieved that could could cause any uneasiness was the
latest Suck
(but I so deadpanly acknowledged its arrival they *can't* have
thought it
was sexxy. And yes, I read Suck in Eudora when I do at all.) As
soon as
those three Mendelssohnian notes chimed in, I quickly opened my
brother's
message, obscuring everything else. FLAWLEWS VICTORY!
All agreed the photos were very nice and the baby very cute.
Intermittently throughout the day, I checked back on my bird.
This guy
was tuckered. Even big bulky parrots- though I've admittedly had
little
first-hand experience with them- will continue to "Mrrraawwwwkk!
I love
you!" and whistle the Mexican Hat Dance long into the night after
you've
pulled the cover over the cage and have switched off the lights
and closed
the door. This guy slept as I've never known a bird to sleep.
That evening I checked up on him again. He had made a big
poo and was now
antsy; these were both encouraging signs. I scared him from corner
to
corner of the shed roof until he finally hazarded a nosedive into
a nearby
compost pile. I then followed him as he hunkered around the neighbor's
yard (and, yes, I do believe the verb "to hunker" is the one most
appropriate for a flightless robin red breast.) He crawled into
a
neighbor's fenced garden where he seemed content to stay. I couldn't
follow him around forever, so I just left him there. It seemed
an ideal
place for a flightless bird to stay, and he was relatively safe
from the
menace of housecats.
Have you noticed how the quality of my writing has been slowly
deteriorating? When I began writing this article what seems like
hours and
hours ago, my prose was colorful and engaging, my irony was biting,
my
digressions were perfect pitch. It is now 3:45 in the morning,
my friends,
and I am tired, and I am not well rested from the night before.
I probably
won't sleep well tonight as my sleeping cycle seems to follow a
72-hour
cycle; I sleep horribly for two nights and then make up for it
on the
third night. Such a night was the night before last, gentle reader,
for,
you see, I slept solidly for *14 hours* and awoke to feel *wonderfully
refreshed*. Being well rested is a gift, good friend, and don't
you _ever_
take it for granted. But, alas, it is a different I that is speaking
to
you right now at 4:00 in the morning, and I fear that my sleep-deprived
flakiness may only work to excaberate what may already be an effete
and
saccharine "closure" to my story. But I swear it all really happened!
On this wonderful afternoon, I woke up feeling refreshed,
made myself the
necessary late lunch, caught up on my beloved "news items," and
went
outside for the first of several walks I make each day.
Upon walking back to the swing in my back yard, what should
I see,
standing on the ground only feet from the shed on whose roof he
had rested
so long the previous day, but a big-beaked robin red breast! As
I
approached him, he leaped, flapping his wings wildly in what seemed
to be
a failed attempt at taking flight. Surely it was him! The night
had seen
him through! I approached him again; yet another frantic, failed
attempt
at taking flight. As I approached him the third time, he flapped
somewhat
gracelessly into the branches of a nearby tree, and from there
he flew
into the depths of the surrounding woods.
I had saved the day, that day before.
It was my "Save The Day For A Day" Day.
T H E E N D
--
"If destruction be our lot, we must ourselves
be its author and finish her.
As a nation of free people we will live
forever, or die by suicide."
-- Abraham Lincoln, 1837
"The Global Economy is a Doomsday Machine."
-- Bill Clinton, 1998
From: tagutcow@nr.infi.net (Brechtze Meerhor)
Newsgroups: alt.religion.kibology
Subject: Re: 1: Proving the universe is one big atom
Date: 19 Sep 1998 07:09:32 GMT
Organization: Dead Bodies Floating In Space
X-Roethke: I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow
In article <6tugb8$46a$1@nnrp03.primenet.com>, nickb@primenet.com
(Nick S
Bensema) wrote:
> I mean, he's definitely got ten times more bozosity than the guy
who is
> trying to implement an 6-day week with 28-hour days.
Freakshow!
50 Beautiful Rob Tokens (BRTs) to anybody who can guess what
nontrivial
modification to my sleep schedule I have been planning on making
for the
past two days and about which I was planning on posting something
today.
And a *HUNNERT* BRTs to anybody who can guess the Daily Show segment
I
have NOT seen whose subject I have not IN ANY OTHER WAY (that
is, before
just recently) heard of.
Man, the hivemind has just been plain *scary* recently.
Basically, I've decided that the 24 hour sleep cycle simply
isn't working
for me. I seem to want to sleep for ten or eleven hour intervals-
much
less than that and I feel underslept- and yet I often feel *overslept*.
I
spend most of my day *recovering* from sleep, never managing to
do enough
in terms of sheer physical or mental effort to reach a state of
actual
dog-tiredness. I often find myself having to go to bed right as
I'm
hitting my peak hours. If I sleep promptly one night, I have progressive
difficulty getting to sleep over the course of subsequent nights--
almost
as if some internal clock was going out of phase with the solar
day. The
times at which I wake up vary wildly. I don't use an alarm clock
because,
when I'm conditioned to wake up at an alarm, I'm conditioned to
wake up at
*any* slight noise, often only to spend what I have left of what
I would
consider a reasonable sleep duration lying awake. I haven't seen
a dawn in
about three years. What I know of the morning is too closely associated
with the resultant headachiness and tunnelvision of a night whose
attempts
at sleep have been abandoned in frustration. I'm just not a good-feeling
person.
One could easily find faults with my logic or my strategy,
but at this
point I'm just willing any take wild stabs in the dark to find
a sleep
cycle that would make me at least functional. Plus, with a twenty-eight
hour day, I would be able to see all times of the day during the
course of
a week. With a twenty-eight hour day, I would have enough time
to eat
breakfast instead of waking up daily to my tearful insta-feast
of cheeses,
noodles and super-caffinated store-brand citrus beverages whose
labels
boast "CONTAINS NO FRUIY JUICE" at the top first thing in the morning--
a
routine that I can't help but believe is in part responsible for
my
suspiciously frequent diarrhea. And when you're both sleepy and
diarrhetic, you just feel like an animal.
A twenty-eight hour day isn't nearly enough to bring my sleeping
hours/waking hours ratio down to most people's level, but it's
enough to
have basically the same day with four extra sleeping hours tagged
onto the
end; I think that's probably what's best for me.
If it fails spectacularly, at least I'll have the biological
cycle blank
slate necessary to draw the lines of the H-Pad onto which my long-departed
24-hour stable sleep cycle might lower itself once again (sleep
deprivation is severly inhibiting my ability to make a convincing
metaphor.) If it works, it will, of course, preclude any possibility
of my
going to school or getting a job in the immediate future; admittedly,
I
have been bitten by some sorts of bugs as of late and these
two seem the
likely suspects, but any notions of my being currently employable
or of my
caring to go to any college that would accept me or that either
adventure
wouldn't end in fiery disaster that would haunt my employment/educational
desirability should I ever be capable of meeting their demands
are notions
of which I am probably best disabused as soon as possible. However,
both
the 24 and 28 hour day synch up at the week (duh,) so should there
be a
television show that interests me- we *do* have the Fall television
season
upon us, after all- or should there be some sort of weekly appointment
I
should care to attend, it is possible that I could adjust my schedule
to
accomodate them.
So I figure, if I'm going to have a week with only six 28
hour days in it
that don't correspond with the standard Sunday-to-Saturday model,
we might
as well have some fun with it! Or, failing that, just make up some
wacky
names to put on my s00per-speshul 28 hour days. Since I can't think
of
any, I'll give an additional 50 Beautiful Rob Tokens to the person
that
makes the list of wacky day-names that is most to my liking.
Speaking of which, I told you guys the answers to all the
questions I
asked at the beginning of this article. So there you have it...
150 BRTs
all around! What's that you say? Beautiful Rob Tokens is a derivative
concept? It seems too similar to Golden Jaffo Points!?! Well, really,
there's no reason this should surprise us; we happen to live in
a Universe
where many different things are very much alike. And so it is with
BRTs
and their palatal pals GJPs. And while Golden Jaffo Points are,
naturally,
golden- doubtless due to some Libertarian gold standard thingie
consideration that I couldn't even pretend to begin to PRETEND
to
understand- and Beautiful Rob Tokens are, naturally, backed only
by the
beauty of the tokens themselves (designed by a KNOWN GRAPHIC DESIGNER,)
both can pass the world round on no recommendation other than that
of
their respective weights in- and I thought this would be rather
clear-
gold and beauty. Of course, Jaffo knows a great deal more about
economics
than I do, and so it is with this awareness that I enter the business
of
currency production half expecting Jaffo to exploit this deficency
of mine
in order to see to my eventual ruin.
I wouldn't be surprised, mind you, just disappointed.
Robert "What did Crackpottier do with the baby I was carrying!?!"
Caponi
From: tagutcow@nr.infi.net (Bad Experiences With Dogs)
Newsgroups: alt.religion.kibology,triangle.general
Subject: Everyone is beautiful in their own way, but some people
are beautiful in
everybody's way.
Date: Sat, 16 Jan 1999 09:42:31 -0400
Organization: The Land Where Magic Is Still Real
For 48 of the last 66 hours, I have been in bed. It is possible
that I
could take a cue from a Truman Capote appearance on the Dick Cavett
show
and inject a note of sexual innuendo into the situation by saying
something to the effect of "mumblemumble *hic* mumble in bed mumblemumble
not necessarily asleep mumble *hic* mumble if you know what I mean
*hic*",
but, aside from the fact that it would only serve to plunge our
nation
even further into its protracted Dark Night Of The Soul, it would
be a
lie-- a lie in spirit if not exactly in letter. The truth is, I
have spent
48 of the last 66 hours drifting in and out of sleep. If I continue
much
further on this course, I fear I may end up losing the habit of
thinking... or simply forgetting how to think altogether. It is
for this
reason that it is so vitally, pressingly important that I tell
you now
what I need to tell you; I need to tell you about the really bozotic
day I
had yesterday.
Well, okay, it was the day before last, but it was yesterday
to ME.
I got out of bed after 26 hours of the above described drifting
in and
out of sleep- not counting the two hours I spent eating giant jellies,
watching Conan's comedy segment and Mira Sorvino interview, taking
150 mg
of Luvox, and reading a.r.k. somewhere in the middle of that duration-
to
find myself in the midst of a beautiful, clear, unseasonally temperate
morning. Now, I've long since abandoned my 28 hour sleeping schedule,
but
ever since I've gotten a taste at long last of that Carolina morning-
of
which I am told there is nothing finer- I make attempts, albeit
sporadically, to adjust my schedule to accomodate it.
(First that "wear plastic on my hands" song, and now _Daysleeper_...
I
swear they're doing it just to creep me out.)
Feeling unusually punchy, I set out early in the day to take
photographs.
It's been a while since I've taken photographs, my last batch was
somewhat
of a disappointment, and I'm looking for compositions for an upcoming
logo
contest, so I decided to reacquire the habit. I always do these
things by
foot; not only because I don't drive, but also in a sort of vindication-
as if anybody cared- of my belief that most people would be amazed
at some
of the things they could find well within walking distance of their
homes.
A few months ago I tried following the creek that runs through
my backyard
as far as I could; after crossing a major road and a railroad tressle
and
being increasingly wedged between the creek and a gradually converging
barbed wire fence, I acknowledged to myself that I was increasingly
of the
intuition that I was in an area of abnormal toxicity. Now I fear
toxicity-
moreso neurotoxicity- more than I fear death itself, and a more
characteristic reaction on my part would certainly have been to
turn
course, but for some reason, some sort of bonehead poet fait amor
machismo
kicked in; "if the creek that I've known and loved for fifteen
years runs
toxic somewhere along the way," I told myself, "so, indeed, shall
I run
toxic somewhere along the way." Like I said, it was a bonehead
thing to
do. Crawling under a one foot gap beneath the barbed wire fence
and
walking along a gravel road that connected what appeared to be
a
maintenence shed with the rest of the property, I found myself
in the
trainyard of a chemical distributor-- Worth Industries. Beyond
two huge
chemical silos (sulfuric and nitric acid, if memory is to be trusted,)
there was a warehouse and a big cinderblock pit with what appeared
to be
grey water running continually through it. Exploring some more,
I found
yet more chemical silos. I cleared out of the trainyard when I
became
aware of an unplesant, lingering base smell. I later learned from
my
mother that Worth Industries had indeed been the site of a nasty
chemical
spill not too long ago-- one that had a devastating effect on the
stream
life downstream from us. I couldn't sleep that night, I was so
haunted
with the thought of bodily chemical contamination-- much as I was
haunted
by the sight of ants crawling on the doody on the bottom of my
shoe when
an unaccounted for dag materialized from apparently out of nowhere
and was
pressed into the carpet that fateful Christmas Eve night. I couldn't
sleep
then, either, and complained of a malaise the next day.
But that's neither here nor there. The only pertainance to
the story at
hand this has is that I became aware of an industrial zone quite
close to
my house; and industry means, of course, great picture-taking.
Now, none
are more painfully aware than I of the fact that there are only
so many
ways machinery can be photographed, and the fact that there is
a danger
inherent to photographing industry or rusting remnants of the Old
South
that the end product will be as amateurish and masturbatory as,
say, the
title sequence to _Eye of God_. But still, I gotta work with whats
I got,
and I would only touch on the industrial zone on my quest to photograph
all the photographable things within walking distance. As it turns
out, I
hit the industrial zone at the wrong time of day; the sun wasn't
hitting
the things I wanted to photograph at the right angle. Just as well,
I
continued past the factories, I would return to them on the way
back.
Beyond the industrial zone was an area of light industry-- distribution
centers and the like. There was a lot called Consolidated Pipes
& Plumbing
or somesuch, and I couldn't resist the temptation to bang out some
beats
on the metal and PVC pipes of varying sizes lying in the yard.
I got some
really nice sounds. Leaving the yard and rounding the corner, I
heard a
"hey!" Looking around, I didn't see anyone. "Hey!" he said again,
and I
saw that it was a construction worker sitting atop the exposed
rafters of
an adjacent under-construction house-- apparently it was break
time. "Hi,"
I called back in my usual skittish way. It later occured to me
that he was
probably listening to me as I played on the pipes. If he enjoyed
it, it
does my heart good; I could easily go a lifetime subsisting on
that type
of approval. The fact that he was, well, black makes it seem less
likely
that my rhythmic talents were wasted on him. I'm sorry, it's just
how I
feel.
I continued on through unfamiliar neighborhoods before hitting
upon a
strip of eminently *UN*photographable car lots on Wendover Avenue.
Walking
down Wendover, looking for some purchase in getting to the other
side,
some bozo yells out "Hey!" REELY LOUDLY from his car. Almost give
me heart
attack!
On the other side of Wendover was a big red clay lot under
construction.
There was some surprisingly good photography to be had here. Alongside
a
creek that runs by the side of the lot, I plucked a leaf from a
very
fuzzy, oddly textured plant that my mother later identified as
Cow's Ear
(my mother has always been a great source of after-the-fact information
for me) and I stepped in about eight inches of mud while ill-advisedly
trying to approach a big storm drain. So basically, I looked like
a big,
muddy, Cow's-Ear-leaf-carrying FREEK for the remainder of my adventures
(even though I've already told you all the really exciting parts.)
So I work my way down the opposite direction alongside Wendover.
I have
no idea where I am when I come upon none other than the Cottonmill
Square!
Ah, yes, beautiful old iconographic Cottonmill Square. Why, were
one to
make a list of all the old, beloved builings in Greensboro that
are so
dearly beloved that nobody goes into them anymore for fear of hastening
their ultimate condemnable condition, Cottonmill Square would surely
rank
in the top twenty.
Walking around Cottonmill Square, I see that there is a ladder
that
reaches from the platform of a corrugated steel staircase to the
top of
the building. I get on top of Cottonmill Square and take photographs
inside a raised atrium-like thingie with panes of painted-over
glass
busted out and a circuit-breaker booth with a lime green-painted
interior
that was apparently the site of a great deal of hornet activity
in the
recent past. I'm sorry, it was all very exciting for me, really
it was,
but this part doesn't quite bear up to a written narrative.
As I'm walking back towards home- it is already the late
afternoon by
this point- not only do I get "tapped" by an as-near-as-I-could-discern
unfamiliar old man driving a big ol' boat of a car, but some bozostress
yells something out at me from the passenger seat of a passing
car. Almost
give me heart attack... again! Greensboro is a crazy person city!
I passed back through the industrial zone and slipped through
an opening
in a barbed wire fence to take photographs of an industrial gases
plant.
I'd never been on the lot previously, but had been meaning to take
photographs of the building since the day before (again, the day
before TO
ME.) Unfortunately, I had arrived too late; the sun was hitting
the
building at too flat an angle and the photograph I wanted to take
wasn't
materializing. I wander around the premises some to see if there
are any
more things of note-- there aren't. At one point, I'm spotted by
a man
walking towards his car who is eyeing me suspiciously; I should
have taken
this as a first warning and spread thin then and there. Instead,
I decided
to press my luck. Circling back towards the place I had originally
planned
to take a photograph- and passing through some really noxious-smelling
breezes on the way- I took the photograph anyway and started walking
towards the front of the lot. In front of the building, there were
huge,
rusted silos with "LIME SLURRY" stencilled onto them ("Mmmmmm,
liiime
slurrrryyy, <slobbers>") and, beyond them, some weird clumpy
white sand
looking material. Walking over the weird clumpy white sand stuff,
I notice
runoff ponds filled with preternaturally wintergreen colored water.
Normally, my toxiphobia klaxon would be going gangbusters at this
point,
but fear was tempered by some sort of perhaps already impaired
reasoning:
it can't have been *too* dangerous, otherwise it wouldn't be left
open
like this... only yards from a car lot, no less! It was at this
point that
I heard, coming from behind me, those words that are instantly
familiar to
any grizzled solicitation hobbyist:
"Can I help you?"
Swinging around, I see a thin, mustached man standing at the
edge of the
clumpy white sand.
"Oh, I'm just taking photographs," I said, producing my camera.
This is
not the first time I've played dumb.
The exact dialogue isn't quite as etched into my memory as
the exchange
to follow is, I just remember acting disgustingly obsequious--
at one
point even thanking the man for his patience. Before we parted
ways, he
pointed to a small building partially obscured by a parked truck.
"Over
there is an office," he instructed, "go tell the people there
that you've
been here."
I made a B-line- not *too* hastily- towards the office, and,
before
finally turning up the stairs, looked around to see if the man
was still
eyeing me (he was.) The two people in the "office"- it wasn't much
larger
than a photomat- seemed to know in advance of my presence, as I
had barely
come into view before one of the men stepped out, holding the door
ajar,
to greet me. This was a larger, Boss Hog type. I stepped up, with
my
camera in my right hand and my cow's ear in my left.
"Hello," the Boss Hog type man said.
"Hello. The man over there (indicates direction of man with
index finger)
told me to tell you that I was here."
"Oh, really? And who are you?"
"I'm no one."
"You're no one," the man replied, kind of bemusedly, condescendingly
recapping my statements from this point on in that up-to-down inflection
that's like a question, but the opposite of a question.
"I'm no one, but I was here-- and that's the important thing."
"You were here."
"And I'm going."
"You were here and you're going."
"Yep. Goodbye!"
And damned if I didn't do just that. Bastard didn't even wish
me as well.
I consider myself nothing if not an aphorist par excellence,
and the one
that caps this anecdote, I'm certain you'll agree, is worthy of
any
Victorian-era fop.
Hear me, brother in Kibo: If genius be the crime, and genius
the motive
of that crime, then genius will surely be the punishment.
Continue as you will.
Robert "the chocolate cake. over the sink. with his hands" Caponi
--
Half a weenie is awfully nice
Half
a weenie at twice the price
Half a weenie is better than none
Half a weenie on half a bun
From: tagutcow@nr.infi.net (Bad Experiences With Dogs)
Newsgroups: alt.religion.kibology
Subject: Rob... Job... Rob... Job...
Date: Sun, 07 Feb 1999 23:29:40 -0400
Organization: The Land Where Magic Is Still Real
(editor's note: it is not the author's intention through his
posting to
a.r.k. that you should think him to be a super guy.)
It's not out of some sense of societal or personal obligation
that I feel
the need to get a job, it's because I'm maddened with the
asterix-covet-asterix for several thousands of dollars worth of
merchandise and simply don't have the disposable income to accomodate
it.
What I imagine most men feel towards women, I feel towards electronic
musical instruments; my newest crush is the E-mu Morpheus, an
out-of-production synthesizer that should go for about $400 used.
And when
I say I want this, I mean I lose *sleep* over this... over an item
named
the Morpheus, no less, if you haven't braced yourself for irony's
bitchslap. And then I need a new turntable; Wolpe and Boulez are
getting
lonely. And then I need a decent controller/synthesizer because
my
Morpheus would be getting lonely. And then I need about a million
other
things. Not that my parents haven't been accomodating in the past-
in
fact, my dad sprung $700 for a sampler with very little solicitation
on my
part,- but I think the charity is drying up and the realization
that I
just might be a financial liability for a very long time is setting
in,
so, until I find a way to liquidate whatever remaining trust my
parents
have in me for cold hard cash, fingers will have to be lifted to
get me my
candy money.
As has been brushed upon in a previous post, I was attending
Redneck Tech
for a while trying to get a computer graphics certificate. I ended
up
dropping out for a numer of reasons, the foremost of which was
my sleeping
difficulties. I'd still like to get a job in graphic design for
the short
long-term- in fact, I've made no plans for any other type of skilled
work,- but it would surely end up in disaster and ultimately be
a blemish
on my work history were I to try and undertake it in my present
condition.
I've even tried assembling a resume, but with only really a high
school
education an no previous work experience, I'm stuck with really
abstract
bulletpoints like "quick learner,"-- a trait which would hopefully
give me
an edge over any Irish setters who might be applying. No amount
of proper
formatting and nice typography and avoidance of the passive voice
can add
anything of substance to a truly barren resume; and flaunting what
I don't
have just seems somewhat beneath me. So what else can I do? What
kind of
job would be appropriate for me? What color is my proverbial parachute?
God help me, I never thought I'd be talking like this.
*Ahem*, well, I like being outside... and I like being around
people who
like being outside! I can shovel pretty well-- in fact, in the
woods
behind my house is the pond I dug, standing there for all to see
as a
monument to what some would undoubtedly think to be sublimated
sexual
energy. Beyond the pond, I spent what must have been dozens of
hours last
November trimming old briars and digging up the roots and tilling
the
eroded soil with a pitchfork so that other plants might grow and
I might
be able to walk there barefoot. And my ideal short-term job would
ideally
be one that wouldn't always require the full powers of my concentration,
as the full powers of my concentration aren't always available.
It sounds
like my ideal job is a job in the area of gardening! And, whuddayouknow,
there's a garden center well within walking distance of my house!
"Why, if
there ever were to be a job opening there," we will for present
purposes
assume I may have at one point thought, "boy howdy would that be
my Ideal
Job."
So when I became aware of the fact that there was a job opening
at the
Guilford Garden Center, I was filled with the feeling of... um...
what's
the opposite of dread? Running up to the building to Inquire Within,
I
experienced perhaps the closest thing to an oceanic sensation I've
experienced in quite some time. I was traipsing amongst the potted
plants.
I was greeted by a cat... ooohhh, I want to work at a job that
has a cat!
I walked into the building. There were three people in a
room off to my
right. "I'm here for a job!" I said. "Walk down that hall and off
to the
left," a man said.
Down the hall and off to the left there was a claustrophobic
room with a
table that was much too large for it, around which were seated
three
middle-aged men-- one of whom was talking on a telephone. "Can
I help
you?" one man whispered to me. "Yes, I'm here for a job," I replied.
"This
way," the man said, indicating the only way we could possibly go--
back
down the narrow hall from which I had come. He went behind a counter
and
produced a pen and an index card.
"What's your name?" he asked; in response to which I gave
my name. I
spelled out my last name. He wrote down my name on the index card.
"What's you address?" he asked; in response to which I gave
my address. I
suspect he must have known where that was since my street is well
within
walking distance and my next door neighbor is one of their most
frequent
customers. He wrote down my address on the index card.
"What's your phone number?" he asked; in response to which
I gave my
number. He wrote down my number on the index card.
"Do you have a valid driver's license?" he asked.
"Ummm... no. Do you need ID?" I asked in return, even though
I don't have
that either.
"Nope," he said as he was folding up the index card, "we
need drivers for
the trucks."
"Are you sure you can't use me in any capacity?" I asked.
"Nope," he said, now tossing the folded-up index card into
the trash, "we
need truck drivers for the Spring. Sorry."
"OK, well, thank you," I said as he was walking back down
the hall to the
claustrophobic room.
Down the street from us there lives a family- if you could
even call them
that- whose circumstances are, to say the least, very suspicious.
They
have a vicious Labrador retriever, about whom any neighborhood
pedestrian
could undoubtedly tell you first-person horror stories, and who
now spends
almost the entirety of the day penned up in the back yard. They
have a
small noisy dog who often makes it difficult to walk past their
house.
They have an ADT sign prominently displayed in front of their house.
They
have several very expensive cars. The kicker is that nobody even
really
knows who "they" are; it seems to be a constantly changing cast
of
characters shuffling in and out of the house. Sometimes there are
kids,
but when all the other kids on the block were having a party, their
kids
were doing yardwork. Even those lawn geese they had out front just
emanated suspiciousness. So it came as a shock to none but a
disappointment to all as news of a frisking outside of the suspicious
people's house and a Felony Possession of a Controlled Substance
item on a
pizza-delivery warning list made the rounds on the telephone. I
used to
call them "the drug dealers", and now it seems that that is indeed
the
case. So am I still supposed to wave in a neighborly way when I
walk past
their house and see a guy washing off his car? Does my silence
about
whatever there remains to be silent about have any monetary worth?
Do I have any fans out there who would be willing to just
loan me money?
Robert "How can I make the Protection of Cripples Act work for *ME*?" Caponi
--
Lord, what a beautiful
city.
Lord,
what a beautiful city.
Lord, what a beautiful city.
Lord, what a beautiful city.
From: tagutcow@nr.infi.net (Thrones of Corn, Waves of Pain)
Newsgroups: alt.religion.kibology
Subject: Re: Horrible, Horrible
Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 23:23:50 -0400
Organization: The Toplings
In article <7fjjs1$sgq$2@nnrp02.primenet.com>, nickb@primenet.com
(Nick S
Bensema) wrote:
[...]
> Because it's STUPID. It's like that sadistic first grade
teacher
> who wouldn't let you use the bathroom if you said "Can I" instead
> of "May I". Further details elided because I'm not Archimedes
> Plutonium.
And then, in article <7fm4bf$egm$1@nnrp1.dejanews.com>, Beable
van Polasm
<beable@my-dejanews.com> wrote:
> Reporter: Well thank you MR X, that's all we have time for today.
> Goodbye.
And don't forget to tune in next week to
> "PQQP
SCQQPERS", when we examine the link between getting
> d00dy
on your shoe, m00se d00t earrings, and having a
> four-year-old
DEMAND and SUCCEED in kissing you on the
> calf
in THE EXACT SAME SPOT which was only HALF AN HOUR
> previously,
covered in runny PQQP!!! Yes "PQQP SCQQPERS",
> The
show where every story is about PQQP!!!!
Say what you want, the kids love me. Sometimes interaction
with other
beings can be a little rocky, but I get along famously with children,
animals and idiots. And thus this thread ties, in two places, back
to an
event that happened to me yesterday-- an event I'll recount in
a story I
like to call... _LITTLE GIRLS ARE INSANE_.
LITTLE GIRLS ARE INSANE
A TRUE STORY BY ROB
Were this story to have a title sequence, I would imagine
it would
consist of footage of my sister and I driving to the St. Francis
Book
Sale, accompanied by alternarock music. I don't particularly care
for
alternarock music, at least not for the most part, but that is
what was
playing in *actuality* as we drove to the book sale, and hearing
alternarock while in a car ALWAYS makes me feel like I'm in the
title
sequence of a movie.
OK, so the music pulls to a close as we pull into the church
parking
lot-- and thus we enter the body of the narrative.
As soon as I enter the church, I make a B-line to the album
collection.
Most of the albums you find at a church book sale would evidence
the
theory that your average American has really horrible taste in
music, but
you can still find some gems tucked away; at last year's church
book sale,
I snagged a copy of Robert Ashley's _In Sara, Mencken, Christ and
Beethoven there were men and women_. I'm flipping through the records...
ROB: Ray Conniff... Ray Conniff... Barbara Streisand... Ray
Conniff...
Andrew Lloyd Weber... SCHOENBERG!... Ray Conniff... Andr...
When a little girl- a girl who later voulenteered the information
that
she was eight years old, and who will henceforth be referred to
as
Chirpy,- started talking to me. My difficulties giving a linear
account to
a non-linear conversation have been brushed upon in the past, and
so it is
true here. She started out by imploring me not to make a mess as
I flipped
through the records, as she was the one responsible for cleaning
up other
people's messes:
CHIRPY: People are making messes when they're going through
the books and
*I* have to pick them up.
ROB: (distractedly) Yeah (...Streisand... Ray Conniff... IVES!...
Andrew
Lloyd Weber..)
CHIRPY: *VWOOM* Did you see that?
ROB: (distractedly) Uh... what (..Ray Conniff... Striesand...)
CHIRPY: I pushded these books together! Lookit this...
(CHIRPY pushes books together. Rob looks, is nonplused.)
ROB: (distractedly) huh... well... (Ray Conniff... PENDERECKI!...)
CHIRPY: *SLAP* Did you see that? I slapded him. Did you see that?
ROB: (distractedly) huh... what?... oh... (...Lloyd Weber...)
CHIRPY: This man has been a bad man... so I *SLAP* him...
(CHIRPY slaps book again.)
CHIRPY: (holding book) Do you think this man has been a bad man?
(ROB examines book, entitled _The Agony of Modern Music_,
glosses over
outraged comments by the likes of John Cage and Ernst Krenek on
back flap
of book cover.)
ROB: Yes, he has been a very bad man.
(Rob resumes flipping through records.)
CHIRPY: ...and so he gets SLAPPED! *SLAP*!
Somewhere around here, she ceased talking to me... she was
more chewing
my ear off at this point. For some reason she was insistent on
having my
full attention. And I swear, at one point the entire room fell
quiet and
our non-conversation was the only talking in the place,-- it was
a
disdainful silence, a Let's Listen To The Big Sickie Engage the
Little
Girl silence. I remember feeling like she was aware I was very
uncomfortable and was taking some perverse pleasure in watching
me be very
uncomfortable.
(TIME ELAPSE: 5 minutes.)
CHIRPY: Have you heard of the movie _The Indian In The Cupboard_.
ROB: (distractedly) huh... yes... (...Conniff... Streisand...)
CHIRPY: I think you're the Indian. Do you know why I think you're the Indian?
ROB: (distractedly) umm... what? (...Weber...)
CHIRPY: I think you're the Indian because you're small.
(ROB continues to stand at a totally unremarkable height of 5'8".)
ROB: Uh, yeah, look, it's been great talking to you, but I
gotta meet my
sister who is over... there.
(ROB, finished flipping through records, goes to meet with his sister.)
I wasn't in much of a mood to gloss over thousands of books,
seeking out
ones that would interest me but that I would never get around to
reading
anyway, so I kept my book browsing to such a remarkably low level
that I
only came across *1* _I'm OK, You're OK_, and, get this, *NO* _Future
Shock_s... just a _The Third Wave_! Having the girl find me again
about
twenty minutes later, though, made me at least pretend to be deeply,
deeply involved in looking at the books-- so deeply involved that
any
distraction would be a Major Inconvenience. For some reason, she
started
talking to me about how her mother told her teenagers are crazy
drivers.
CHIRPY: ...an' there was this boy an' he was driving really
fast an' he
drove into a tree an' he wrapped his car around a tree an' he got
killded!
Ha ha!
ROB: (distractedly) Uh... yeah... I knew a girl who died that way.
CHIRPY: Yeah, my mom says teenagers are crazy drivers. How old are you?
ROB: (distractedly) Um (thinks) twenty-two.
CHIRPY: Oh, so you're past all that.
Hereabouts she told me she was eight and we segued into jokes.
CHIRPY: So there was this boy who asked his teacher if he
could go to the
bathroom an' the teacher said no an' the teacher said class recite
your
ABCs an' the class said the entire alphabet except for P an' the
teacher
said where's the P an' the boy said it's RUNNING DOWN MY LEG! Ha!
Ha!
ROB: (distractedly) huh... what?...oh...
She was nuts, is all.
From: Mark Twain: A Dialogue (tagutcow@nr.infi.net)
Subject: Look out because of healing hands!
Newsgroups: alt.religion.kibology
Date: 2001-08-05 23:10:41 PST
LOOK OUT BECAUSE OF HEALING HANDS!
-or-
PEOPLE AND THEIR BIG DUMB DAMN DANGEROUS DOGS!
-or-
TAGUTCOW'S GOT RABIES!
Yesterday the bozo neighbors' big dumb damn dangerous dog
mauled me the
dog the dog the same dog that, legend has it, when loosed upon
a raccoon,
tore that raccoon to ribbons. I was barefoot at the time, as were
I not I
would have most certainly inflicted reciprocal harm with my FOOT,
so
instead I used my hands- in vain- to protect my person from dangerous
snapping dog maws. My bozo neighbor called the dog back ("Meredith")
before it could visit what would have almost certainly been an
extended
duration of continued harm to my body, but not before flesh on
my hand was
bleeding from having been pinched between dog teeth. The bozo neighbor
rang the doorbell and dutifully presented us with documents showing
that
the dog, therein suspiciously referred to as "Sandy", had been
given
rabies vaccinations no sooner than 1997. This neighbor was evidently
so
wrapped up in the task of producing documents that it slipped her
mind
that it might be a good idea to put on some CLOTHES before inviting
herself into someone else's home. For some people, a summer afternoon
well
spent evidently involves lounging around in a bikini soaping up
their big
dangerous untethered dog. Hey, maaan, your "leash laws" are seriously
KILLING MY BUZZ.
Sincerely,
GUY! GUY! GUY!
--
Don't believe the dental hygine LIE!!!
€ Twidn
€ http://www.nr.infi.net/~tagutcow/twidn.html
€ Krafft-Ebing € http://www.nr.infi.net/~tagutcow/krafft.html
I'm high on elderly abuse!
This is me ONLY PRETENDING to be outraged.
From: tagutcow@nr.infi.net (Bad Experiences With Dogs)
Newsgroups: alt.online-service.webtv,alt.religion.kibology,ont.micro
Subject: Re: Archie-Pu wannabe [Why can't webtv take HTML out of
.sig files?]
Date: Sun, 24 Jan 1999 05:51:46 -0400
Organization: The Land Where Magic Is Still Real
In article <78dgue$k20$1@nnrp1.dejanews.com>, lemnisk8@my-dejanews.com wrote:
> In article <7891pi$ti$1@nnrp1.dejanews.com>,
> doctoraaron@mindless.com wrote:
[...]
> > Anybody who sends me Email will feel the wrath of my lawsuitery!!
> >
>
> other than Stacia and her candygrams, who were you expecting?
> The other guy that lives in his parents' basement - the Luvox
Guy?
> (Not Nick, the sensitive guy, but that other guy who is a TOTAL
loser)
"The Luvox Guy"!?! I'll tread carefully here, because I realize
the more
I struggle to get out of this tarpit of incipient Lee Bumgarner
status,
the deeper I'll get. Just please answer me this; why don't you
love me?
Really, what did I do and/or say to cause this outpouring of hostility?
The "you" here is impersonal; this question is directed to many
of
a.r.k.'s posters. Because if this abuse continues much longer,
I'll have
no choice but to threaten to leave the group. And where else, pray
tell,
will you get sprawling, peripathetic walking stories dispensed
on a
regular basis? Huh? Where else will you turn for my inimitable,
delightfully right-of-Hitler political and social broadsides? Huh?
Huh?
From whom else will you get such visionary and daring experiments
in form
as "There wasn't anything there..." and "Death of Cold" (whose
pivotal
meme, "DAMP PANTS", was later misattributed to none other than
Dr. Aaron
himself.) Huh? Huh? Huh? Don't mess around with those of more Kibological
pedigree than yourself, lemnisk8, for all I have to do is call
out "KIBO,
IF YOU'RE NOT GOING TO MAIL ME MY PRIZE-LIKE OBJECT ANY TIME IN
THE
FORSEEABLE FUTURE, COULD YOU AT LEAST STOP THESE PEOPLE FROM BEING
MEEN TO
ME?", and- whoah Nelly!- here comes Kibo at my beck and call to
fold your
pasty, slump-shouldered frame in half and demonstrate the Bernoulli
principle on YOUR ASS.
> Stacia already admitted she is short. I bet you and the
Luvox Guy
> are even shorter than her.
In the third or fourth grade, we were asked to liken ourselves
to a food
and to give reasons why. I chose a pea, because I was "small and
enjoyable." And it was true! I was a small child-- one, however,
that I
evidently believed to be generally well-liked. Of course, pQQberty
was
still many years away, and I have since exploded in height to a
totally
unremarkable 5'8". Besides which, the pea thing is Lisa Higgins'
bit; it
works better for her in terms of sheer brainy reflexivity because
the pea
irritates the princess only as much the princess the pea. This
is why Pope
Emperor FrogMaN is destined never to reach her scraping, stratospheric
heights; does the Emperor keep the Frog awake? Does the frog dispatch
a
servant to kill the king? Was the ritual just referenced somehow
cleverly
exploited to incorporate legends of Masonic puppet Sees of the
past?
Aaaaand the answers come back; no, no, and- necessarily- no. So
you see,
PEFMN is held back by his name, destined from the get-green to
bear out
the remainder of his days never even having known better than himself.
I
don't play this name game because I have enough trouble getting
to sleep
as it is... hence the Luvox, YOU TACTLESS NIMROD.
Sincerely,
Kurdt Kobaijn-Stamos (age 6)
P.S. Seriously, how did you know I lived in the basement?
--
Oh little enemy,
come out and play with me,
I've got a BB gun, and we'll have lots of fun,
I'll shoot your eye out, and you will bleed
to death,
and we'll be enemies forever more 1-2-3-4
From: tagutcow@nr.infi.net (Bad Experiences With Dogs)
Newsgroups: alt.religion.kibology
Subject: The Show of Support
Date: Thu, 28 Jan 1999 18:26:50 -0400
Organization: The Land Where Magic Is Still Real
I'm apologize that I haven't had the opportunity to address
my supporters
sooner. In the days since that totally vicious, uncalled-for, and
cowardly
assault on my character, it has become all to painfully clear that
I was
really talking out of turn when I accused the entirety of a.r.k.
of
harboring injurous feelings towards me. I have been finding strength,
as I
always have, in nature and in prayer, but the kind words of the
below
quoted kind people have also helped me pull through this period
of intense
emotional turmoil, and have shown me that, indeed, within this
web-chat-bbs-board-notesfile-echo thingy, there beats a human heart.
In article <36AE79DA.CEAB0212@roanoke.infi.net>, meanmeso@roanoke.infi.net
wrote:
> oh dear, that SK8 woman certainly is mean. All she cares
about is superficial
> things.
>
> I'm not scared of her, and I am not afraid of anyone's "minions"
either.
>
> I am my own person.
>
> This may not help.
>
> I may not be very popular around here, as I am just an old geezer,
but I would
> like you to know that I really enjoy your mobile prose.
>
> Maybe all you need is a cooler name. How about Lovux.
I like it!
>
> wait wait NOOO...doesn't ux mean wife or something like that
in Latin.
>
> No I think Luvox is far studlier
>
> Syadoz
> Circus Freak
Thank you, Syadoz. You're #1 in my book and your words mean
alot to me.
At this point, I don't think it would make much sense to change
my name to
Luvox as I don't think Luvox will continue to be part of my life
much
longer; it simply hasn't been having the desired effect. At this
point it
is clear what I must do; no more of this faggy "seratonin inhibitor"
crap
or whatever the hell it's supposed to be, I need something that
will put
me to sleep and keep me asleep- *deeply* asleep- though brute chemical
force... possibly that tranquilizer that my doctor warned me was
"EXTREEEMELY expensive." I don't want to get too deeply steeped
in these
self-important self-medication rants, so I'll leave it well enough
alone
to say that your (what I believe to be) suggestions- while useless-
are
appreciated. As well, *any* strained attempts at making sense in
my
support do not go unnoticed or unappreciated. Keep that chin up,
soldier,
and remember; those who say life begins at 50 obviously haven't
seen 85!
In article <78i9km$pe1$1@hiram.io.com>, stacia@io.com.guacamole
(The
Avocado Avenger) wrote:
> I've been asking ARK this for years. They never
answer. We'll never
> know why we are not loved, why they refuse to give us cookies
and tea when
> we ask, or why they mock our interest in the pastry sciences.
> It's sad, really.
Pay no mind, Stay-Sure®, to the cruelly withheld cookies
and tea for the
moment; if Archie-Pu's corralary to mathematical induction is to
be
believed, any short-term discrepancies in human kindness is indicative
of
a wide-scale movement towards universal good-will, and these things
will
right themselves in the fullness of time. Why, your food metaphor
is apt,
as I am reminded of the anecdote about how, in hell, all the people
have
really big spoons, but in heaven, well, the people feed each other,
but,
still, with the really big spoons. Actually, I don't really know
how that
ties into what I was saying. In fact, I'm not even really sure
what that
anecdote *means*. I think it has something to do with taking the
middle
road or something.
In article <36AC6E69.5F80@earthlink.net>, Andrea Chen
<fallinghawks@earthlink.net> wrote:
> I love you.
I love you both. Maybe that's why they hate you
because I
> love you. All the *real* kibologists like Chris Franks
and Andrew
> Damick hate me! So if I love you they hate you because
they hate me.
>
> So maybe if I
hate you, they'll love you. I hate you Stacia! (I'm
> telling you this because I love you.)
>
> All I can say
is that Usenet is so often a cruel place. I remember
> years ago I came full of idealism and everyone was mean to me
and it
> made me bitter. It's an odd little environment. We
reduce certain
> inhibitions. People actually dare to act intentionally
wierd for a post
> or 2 before they frantically assure everyone that they're actually
> normal. The thing is that the people here are weird.
People will use
> words like "grok" and you'll actually have people take them seriously.
> It's kind of scary.
>
> What's really
scary is that while we seem to lose the
inhibitions about
> expressing anger: I *HATE* you, you you NAZI!" (I say this
because I
> love you); we dare not say "I love you." The only way I
can say this is
> because everyone thinks I'm joking or being sarcastic.
If I were to
> actually say I like to read your posts and I like them and I
like you
> and while it's probably an hallucination caused by seeing an
edited self
> there is a little germ of a feeling that's somewhat like love
> (undoubtedtly magnified by the fact that you sometimes play off
my
> posts); then that would be pushing the bonds of human exposure
a little
> too far because the only time you can express positive feelings
about
> someone is when you're in a clique (like cause you're better
than
> Doctress Neutopia) and you're all cool.
>
> But if I'm not
cool and you're not cool and I tell you that I love you
> then the only way it will be acceptable (and we're talking standing
> ovations here) is if it's lesbian sex. But since everyone
knows I'm
> secretly a guy (cause I told them) then it's just another tawdry
case of
> male Usenet sexual lust which isn't what I meant at all (if a
little
> flicker somewhere is love) and all I can do is offer you a glass
of
> oolong tea (good stuff at $80 a lb) so you can like empty your
mind and
> pretend you're a dragon dancing on a cloud. But I still
feel inadequete
> because I don't have any cookies. So how about a big hug?
>
>
>
(((((((STACIA!!!))))))
>
>
> and
>
>
>
((((((((BAD EXPERIENCES!!!))))))))
>
>
>
> p.s. I refuse to accept the claim that the 2 statements above
are
> actually the same statement.
You know, Andrea, at one time I was angry at you for continually
crossposting between alt.politics.white-power and alt.religion.kibology
and making the latter a common target for a.p.w-p crossposts for
subsequent months, but then I remembered that that was Social Scientists'
doing and not yours. And I refuse to accept the claim that you
two are
actually the same. I *WUV* you, Andrea! And your comments, while
only
marginally directed towards me, are appreciated as well!
In article <78i770$a06$1@uuneo.neosoft.com>, froggy@praline.no.neosoft.com
(Carlos "Froggy" May) wrote:
> Dear Brechtze Meerhor:
>
> Please draw cartoons of key hivemind memes and post them on your
> webpage, ala "Magic Hitler Hats".
>
> GTBOA,
>
Your Amphibeous Cyberpal,
>
Froggy
Carlos, your words of consolation are possibly the most elliptical
of
them all. While I appreciate any suggestions, I can't stress enough
that I
am not really an illustrator-- in fact, even the *word* "illustrator"
seems jinxed for me. When I was 11 or so, I took cartooning classes
with
Dick Malgrum who was, if not the creator of Archie, at least the
inheritor
of the Archie franchise. Dick saw early on that I was a real one-note
player and informed my mother that, while I was a passable cartooning
talent, I was an undynamic one at that, and one that was resistant
to
suggestion. I have since moved on to greener pastures. This is
not to say
that I have no hivemind meme-inspired art forthcoming... quite
the
contrary! In fact, a Webernesque minature based on a certain McElwaine
text has been one of my "backburner" projects for a few months
now.
I meant to keep this short, so I'll close by saying- and I
don't think it
would be presumptuous on my part to do so- that there is little
doubt in
the minds of the readers and participants of the _Archie-Pu wannabe_
thread as to who the real "TOTAL loser" is here; the *real* loser
is the
person who feels they need to tear down others to make themselves
feel
like a bigger person. This is the type of person who won't be allowed
into
our group hug.
<<<<<<<<<<GROUP!!!>>>>>>>>>>
One last thing; I am increasingly of the opinion that the
desire to feel
desireable in any capacity is probably the source of more human
suffering
than all other types of desire added together. While I am genuinely
heartened by the Show of Support, I can't say that I don't have
nagging
doubts that my need for acceptance is mere vanity. But still, isn't
being
loved a human need? I don't think I should feel shame for wanting
to be
loved! In fact, I don't care what people I don't know think of
it, I
want... I want to be LOVED!!! I WANT TO BE LOVED BY YOU! I WANT
YOU TO
WANT ME! I WANT U 2 THINK ABOUT MY SENSHUAL BODY WHILE U R
MASTERBATING!!!1!!1
Sincerely,
Lovux Aeterna
--
Ich
liebe dich mein prinz
Ich liebe
dich mein prinz
Ich liebe dich mein prinz
I love you my prince
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