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Yucks Digest V7 #26 (mixed nuts)
Yucks Digest Tue, 2 Dec 97 Volume 7 : Issue 26
Today's Topics:
alternative personals
Anarchism vs. Socialism
Chickens
Classic Moments in Journalism
For those who missed it...
Fwd: Fw: [Fwd: HUMOR: Microsoft Corporation today announced plans to upgradeG...
How to evolve a full professor
In Some Venues It Takes Three to Tango
QOTD
Quote of the day
r00t advisory [ Madden 97, Madden 64 ] [ Nov 25 1997 ] (fwd)
Selection From RISKS DIGEST 19.47
Sex for Geriatrics?
some more jokes from santa partA
Some strange new usage of the word 'easiest' that I wasn't previously aware of
Stock Options
summer camp [thanks Josh]
The Comedian's-eye View of 11/26/97
The signifier and signified frolic in the freshly ground pepper.
Too Absurd to not be True.
Top 10 Signs you work in the 90's
ULOTD? - Death By Sinatra
uSoft Bashing O' The Day
Yeah, the damned dog
The "Yucks" digest is a moderated list of the bizarre, the unusual,
the sometimes risque, the possibly insane, and the (usually) humorous.
It is issued on a semi-regular basis, as the whim and time present
themselves.
Back issues can be obtained via WWW as
<http://www.cs.purdue.edu/homes/spaf/yucks.html>; back issues and
subscriptions can be obtained using a mail server. Send mail to
"yucks-request@cs.purdue.edu" with a "Subject:" line of the single word
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Submissions and problem reports should be sent to spaf@cs.purdue.edu
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: Wed, 26 Nov 1997 11:38:51 -0500 (EST)
From: Michael Bastedo <MBASTEDO@bhe.mass.edu>
Subject: alternative personals
To: yucks
Excerpted from the book "Professional Stool Sampler Looking For Place To
Sit: A Collection of Personal Ads From Alternative Newspapers," by Skippy
Williams and Zohre Crumpton, 1996, Simon and Schuster.
I am spitting kitty. Ftt Fttttttt. I am angry bear. Grrrrr. I am large
watermelon seed stuck in your nose. Zermmmmmmmmmm. I am small biting
spider in your underwear. Yub yub yub. No mimes.
Bitter, unsuccessful middle aged loser wallowing in an unending sea of
inert, drooping loneliness looking for 24 year old needy leech-like
hanger-on to abuse with dull stories, tired sex and Herb Alpert albums.
Baby, you are my Tijuana Taxi.
Me -- trying to sleep on the bus station bench, pleading with you to give
me a cigarette; you -- choking on my odor, tripping over your purse
trying to get away; at the last moment, our eyes meeting. Yours were
blue. Can I have a dollar?
I like popping blood blisters and whipping badgers in the forest. I put
twelve feet in the attic and no, don't you get flimpy. Boot lickum, zoom.
You spay and neuter? Only five dollars and the police, blue and in your
pocket. Bad boy! No desert! Is only swamp, and I breath underwater.
Imp and angel. Disembodied head in jar, 24, seeks pixie goddess to fiddle
with while Rome burns. You bring marshmallows. No. I make joke. You
like laugh? I like comebacks and confessions. Send photo of someone else.
Three toed mango peeler searching for wicked lesbian infielder. Like
screaming and marking territory with urine? Let's make banana enchiladas
together in my bathtub. You bring the salsa.
Mongoloid spastic underwear model with extra limb (you guess where?) in
search of bottlenosed dolphin and extra prickly cactus juice. Soup is
good food.
I like eating mayonnaise and peanut butter sandwiches in the rain,
watching Barney Miller reruns, peeing on birds in the park and licking
strangers on the subway; you eat beets raw, have climbed Kilimanjaro, and
sweat freely and often. Must wear size five shoes.
Timber! Falling downward is the lumber of my love. You grind your axe of
passion into my endangered headlands. Don't make me into a bureau. I
want to be lots and lots of toothpicks.
Small lumpy squid monkey seeks healthy woman with no identifying scars,
any age. Must have all limbs. Recommend appreciation of high-pitched,
screeching noises. Must like being bored and lonely. Must not touch the
squids, EVER. No tongue.
Neurotic midget with collection of warning labels seeks someone whose
grave he can dance on after the Apocalypse. May be able to get you off
hook. Look me in the eye and snap a z.
There is a little place in the jumbled sock drawer of my heart where you
match up all the pairs, throw out the ones with holes in them, and buy me
some of those neat dressy ones with the weird black and red geometrical
designs on them.
Mmmm Pez! Rabid Wonder Woman fan looking for someone in satin tights,
fighting for our rights and the old red, white 'n blue. You look like
Linda Carter? Big plus. Know all words to theme song? Marry me.
Sanctimonious mordacious raconteur seeking same for hijinks and hiballs.
SJM 27 wants to look someone in the eye so don't be tall. Or, if you
can't help it, enjoy laying down. Wanna swim upstream? It's serious for
sure but I'm not.
Remember that summer you spent with your parents in Hawaii and how mad
you were that they made you go? And how you were hopelessly bored until
you saw the most gorgeous man you'd ever encountered strolling down the
beach looking at you, skillfully removing your skimpy bikini with his
piercing eyes? And how you spent the last month imagining him taking you
in every possible way, masturbating feverishly day and night, wishing he
would reappear, but he never did because you were 15 and he would have
gone to jail? That was me, and you just turned 18.
Angry, simple-minded, balding, partially blind ex-circus flipper boy with
a passion for covering lovers in sour cream and gravy seeks exotic,
heavily tattooed piercing fanatic, preferably hairy and stinky, either
sex, for whippings, bizarre sex and fashion consulting. No freaks.
[Sad to say, I think I went out with some of these people. The
rest now work in my lab. --spaf]
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 25 Nov 97 21:42:58 -0800
From: Peter Langston <psl@langston.com>
Subject: Anarchism vs. Socialism
To: Fun_People@langston.com
Forwarded-by: Richard Gillmann <rxg@nwlink.com>
Forwarded-by: "Mark D. Moss / Sing Out!" <singout@PHILADELPHIA.LIBERTYNET.ORG>
During a regional political activist convention at a local college a couple
springs ago, I saw a poster advertising a softball game:
SOCIALISTS vs. ANARCHISTS, 2pm south field
Now *there* was a game not to be missed! The anarchists refused to follow
any rules or conventions of the game, playing both offense and defense at
the same time ... of course, the socialists wanted the score divided evenly
between both teams anyway.
------------------------------
Date: Fri, 7 Nov 1997 07:24:29 -0500 (EST)
From: Jeff Offutt <ofut@isse.gmu.edu>
Subject: Chickens
To: yucks
Why did the chicken cross the road? Depends on who you ask:
MOSES: And God came down from the Heavens, and He
said unto the Chicken, "Thou shalt cross the road!" And the
chicken crossed the road, and there was much rejoicing.
AGENT MULDER: You saw it cross the road with your own
eyes. How many more chickens have to cross the road
before you believe it?
RICHARD M. NIXON: The chicken did not cross the road. I
repeat, the chicken did NOT cross the road.
JERRY SEINFELD: Why does anyone cross a road? I
mean, why doesn't anyone ever think to ask, "What the heck
was this chicken doing walking around all over the place,
anyway?"
FREUD: The fact that you are at all concerned that the
chicken crossed the road reveals your underlying sexual
insecurity.
BILL GATES: I have just released the new Chicken Office
2000, which will not only cross roads, but will lay eggs, file
your important documents, and balance your checkbook.
OLIVER STONE: The question is not, "Why did the chicken
cross the road?" Rather, it is, "Who was crossing the road
at the same time, whom we overlooked in our haste to
observe the chicken crossing?"
DARWIN: Chickens, over great periods of time, have
been naturally selected in such a way that they are now
genetically dispositioned to cross roads.
LOUIS FARRAKHAN: The road, you will see, represents the
black man. The chicken 'crossed' the black man in order to
trample him and keep him down.
MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR.: I envision a world where all
chickens will be free to cross roads without having their
motives called into question.
GRANDPA: In my day, we didn't ask why the chicken
crossed the road. Someone told us that the chicken had
crossed the road, and that was good enough for us.
MACHIAVELLI: The point is that the chicken crossed the
road. Who cares why? The end of crossing the road
justifies whatever motive there was.
EINSTEIN: Whether the chicken crossed the road or the
road moved beneath the chicken depends upon your frame of
reference.
BUDDHA: Asking this questions denies your own chicken
nature.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON: The chicken did not cross the
road; it transcended it.
ERNEST HEMINGWAY: To die. In the rain.
COLONEL SANDERS: I missed one?
------------------------------
Date: Sat, 22 Nov 97 18:01:57 -0800
From: Peter Langston <psl@langston.com>
Subject: Classic Moments in Journalism
To: Fun_People@langston.com
Forwarded-by: Dan Peck <danpeck@panix.com>
From: HUSKGIRL@aol.com
From: Steve.Helfand@aexp.com (Steve Helfand)
Some classic moments in journalism:
Jon Snow: "In a sense, Deng Xiaoping's death was inevitable, wasn't it?"
Expert: "Er, yes." (Channel 4 News)
"As Phil De Glanville said, each game is unique, and this one is no
different to any other." (John Sleightholme - BBC1)
"If England are going to win this match, they're going to have to score a
goal." (Jimmy Hill - BBC)
"Beethoven, Kurtag, Charles Ives, Debussy - four very different names."
(Presenter, BBC Proms, Radio 3)
"Cystitis is a living death, it really is. Nobody ever talks about it, but
if I was faced with a choice between having my arms removed and getting
cystitis, I'd wave goodbye to my arms quite happily."
(Louise Wener (of Sleeper) in Q Magazine)
"Julian Dicks is everywhere. It's like they've got eleven Dicks on the field."
(Metro Radio Sports Commentary)
Listener: "My most embarrassing moment was when my artificial leg fell off
at the altar on my wedding day."
Simon Fanshawe: "How awful! Do you still have an artificial leg?"
(Talk Radio)
Interviewer: "So did you see which train crashed into which train first?"
15-year-old: "No, they both ran into each other at the same time."
(BBC Radio 4)
Presenter (to palaeontologist): "So what would happen if you mated the
woolly mammoth with, say, an elephant?"
Expert: "Well in the same way that a horse and a donkey produce a mule, we'd
get a sort of half-mammoth.
Presenter: "So it'd be like some sort of hairy gorilla?"
Expert: "Er, well yes, but elephant shaped, and with tusks." (GLR)
Kilroy-Silk: "Did you mean to get pregnant?"
Girl: "No. It was a cock-up."
Grand National winning jockey Mick Fitzgerald: "Sex is an anti-climax after
that!"
Desmond Lynam: "Well, you gave the horse a wonderful ride, everyone saw
that." (BBC)
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 26 Nov 1997 22:26:44 +0600
From: Sean Ennis <ennis@escape.ca>
Subject: For those who missed it...
To: spaf
For those who missed Mr. Gates speech at Comdex'97 on his 10 most
favorite things about his home PC, here's a quick run down:
One billion...
Two billion...
Three billion...
...
Sean Ennis
--
"I remember when we didn't have these fancy-assed Weeeeeeeeeeeb
Browers. When I was I boy, you had to use FTP to get anywhere on
the internet. And half the time they didn't have anonymous ftp,
so you had to hack in to the site. But that was easy then
because everyone's root password was 'admin' anyways. Oy! We
were real men then!" - Me
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 26 Nov 1997 09:16:59 -0800
From: Emily Carter <eac@chem.ucla.edu>
Subject: Fwd: Fw: [Fwd: HUMOR: Microsoft Corporation today announced plans to upgradeG...
To: spaf
Microsoft Corporation today announced its intent to purchase,
copyright, and upgrade God.
The new product would be named, predictably enough, "Microsoft God,"
and would be available to consumers sometime in late 1998. "Too many
people feel separated from God in today's world," said Dave McCavaugh,
director of Microsoft's new Religions division. "Microsoft God will
make our Lord more accessible, and will add an easy, intuitive user
interface to Him, making Him not only easier to find, but easier to
communicate with."
The new Microsoft Religions line will be expanded to include a
multitude of add-on products to Microsoft God, including:
Microsoft Crusades: This conversion product will bring all worshipper
accounts and prayer files over from previous versions of God, or from
competing products like Buddha or Allah.
Microsoft God for the World Wide Web: This product ties Microsoft God
with Microsoft Internet Information Server, making our Lord accessible
from the World Wide Web using a standard Web browser interface. It
introduces several new Web technologies, including Dynamic Salvation
and Active Prayer Pages (APP). Donations for the poor can be donated
via a Secure Alms Server.
Microsoft Prayers: Using a Windows-based WYSIWYG interface, this
product will allow worshippers to construct effective prayers in a
minimum of time. A Secure Prayer Channel technology allows guaranteed
delivery of the prayer to Microsoft God servers, and Prayer Wizards
enable users to construct new types of prayers with a minimum learning
curve.
Microsoft Savior: This product will allow worshippers to transfer their
sins to its internal Vice Database. After a preset interval, the
product will erase itself from the user's system and establish a clear
line of secure communications to the user's Microsoft God server.
Additionally, Microsoft is expected to announce a line of complimentary
products for the new Religions line, which will enhance the
functionality of the Microsoft God server product by providing a
customized user interface. These interfaces will be based on popular
religious sects, allowing worshippers to interact with the new God
product in much the same way as the previous version.
This line is expected to include Microsoft Christianity, Microsoft
Catholicism, Microsoft Judaism (incompatible with Microsoft Savior),
etc. Competitor Netscape Communications denies rumors that it is
planning to release a competing product, Netscape Satanism, that would
attempt to render Microsoft God installations inoperable.
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 18 Nov 1997 14:16:36 -0500
From: zamboni (Diego Zamboni)
Subject: How to evolve a full professor
To: coast-lab
I wonder if this is where Spaf's "Gene"s comes from...
[Could be. --spaf]
From: "Jeff Rattray" <BORDEAUX/RATTRAYJ>
Date: Tue, 18 Nov 1997 10:23:15 EST
Subject: evolution of professors
Direct evolution of a full professor
....
Abstract:
Success in academia is hypothesized to require specific phenotypes.
In order to understand how such unusual traits arise, we use human
clones to identify the molecular events that occur during the
transition from a graduate student to professor. A pool of graduate
student clones was subjected to several rounds of random mutagenesis
followed by selection on minimal money media in the absence of dental
insurance. Students surviving this selection were further screened
for the ability to work long hours with vending machine snacks as a
sole carbon source; clones satisfying these requirements were dubbed
"post-docs". In order to identify assistant professors from amongst
the post-docs, this pool was further mutagenized, and screened for
the ability to turn esoteric results into a 50 minute seminar.
Finally, these assistant professors were evaluated for their
potential to become full professors in two ways: first, they were
screened for overproduction and surface display of stress proteins
such as Hsp70. Assistant professors that displayed such proteins (so-
called "stressed-out" mutants) were then fused to the M13 coat
protein, displayed on phages and passed over a friend and family
members column, to identify those that were incapable of functional
interactions. These were called full professors. Although these
mutants arose independently, they shared striking phenotypes. These
included the propensity to talk incessantly about their own research,
the inability to accurately judge the time required to complete bench
work, and the belief that all their ideas constituted good thesis
projects. The linkage of all these traits suggests that these
phenotypes are coordinately regulated. Preliminary experiments have
identified a putative global regulator. Studies are currently being
conducted to determine if overexpression of this gene product in post-
docs and grad students can speed up the grad student-full professor
evolutionary process.
- - Author unknown
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 26 Nov 97 18:43:34 -0800
From: Peter Langston <psl@langston.com>
Subject: In Some Venues It Takes Three to Tango
To: Fun_People@langston.com
Forwarded-by: liondog@isomedia.com (Rick Ruskin)
Forwarded-by: BurnhamJ@aol.com
A small town prosecuting attorney called his first witness to the stand--a
grandmotherly, elderly woman. He approached her and asked, "Mrs. Jones, do
you know me?"
She responded, "Why, yes, I do know you Mr. Williams. I've known you since
you were a young boy. And frankly, you've been a big disappointment to me.
You lie, you cheat on your wife, you manipulate people and talk about them
behind their backs. You think you're a rising big shot when you haven't the
brains to realize you'll never amount to anything more than a two-bit paper
pusher. Yes, I know you."
The lawyer was stunned. Not knowing what else to do, he pointed across the
room and asked, "Mrs. Jones, do you know the defense attorney?"
She replied, "Why yes, I do. I've known Mr. Bradley since he was a
youngster, too. I used to babysit him for his parents. And he, too, has
been a real disappointment to me. He's lazy, bigoted, and has a drinking
problem. The man can't build a normal relationship with anyone and his law
practice is one of the shoddiest in the entire state. Yes, I know him."
At this point the judge rapped the courtroom to silence and called both
counselors to the bench. In a quiet but menacing voice, he said, "If either
of you asks her if she knows me, you'll be in jail for contempt within 5
minutes!"
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 26 Nov 1997 14:05:01 -0500 (EST)
From: Nev Dull <nev@bostic.com>
Subject: QOTD
To: nev@bostic.com (/dev/null)
Forwarded-by: chuck yerkes <Chuck@Yerkes.com>
Forwarded-by: Alex Reith <alex@snew.com>
Somebody has to do something, and it's just incredibly pathetic that it
has to be us.
-- Jerry Garcia
[I feel this way most weeks. --spaf]
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 26 Nov 1997 03:50:02 -0700
From: qotd-request@ensu.ucalgary.ca (Quote of the day)
Subject: Quote of the day
To: qotd@ensu.ucalgary.ca (Quote of the day mailing list)
"Microsoft seems to have gotten a lot of mileage out of the C2 rating
for NT with no network connection. I wonder if a B3 rating for Linux
with no power cord might be of value."
- Seen on the kernel mailing list [note for those lucky enough to not
work with computers: the security rating B3 indicates a more secure
system than C2. Making a computer secure by not connecting it to a
network (a la Microsoft) is pretty simple, if pointless. - ed.]
Submitted by: Keith Bostic <bostic@bsdi.com>
Jan. 31, 1997
------------------------------
Date: Mon, 24 Nov 1997 15:44:19 -0500
From: X <x@CDC.NET>
Subject: r00t advisory [ Madden 97, Madden 64 ] [ Nov 25 1997 ] (fwd)
To: BUGTRAQ@NETSPACE.ORG
r00t advisory [ Madden 97, Madden 64 ] [ Nov 25 1997 ]
-- Platform: Sony Playstation
Nintendo 64
-- Program: Madden '97 (John Madden Football)
-- Info: Sony and Nintendo have been notified of this vulnerability,
but do not see this problem as being a security risk.
Perhaps they have not seen the sort of people that play
these games for hours on end.
-- Synopsis: A vulnerability exists in Madden 64 that allows local users
to lock up the system, thus rendering the system unusable
and forcing the administrator to reboot the machine.
-- Exploit: This problem is very hard to exploit and r00t presumes
that the majority of the security community does not
widely understand the vulnerability. We don't expect the
average BUGTRAQ reader to understand this vulnerability
since there is no exploit script.
When an offensive player (with the ball) is running down
the field, he has the option to pitch the ball backwards
to a player in order to block a persuing defensive player
and allow for a gain in yardage. If the player that
receives the pitch is standing out of bounds, the system
crashes.
-- Fixes: To follow r00t's workaround tradition, we recommend that
you downgrade to Madden 96.
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 26 Nov 1997 08:33:30 -0800 (PST)
From: risks@csl.sri.com
Subject: Selection From RISKS DIGEST 19.47
To: risks@csl.sri.com
From: Guy J Sherr <gsherr@mci.net>
Subject: Re: Outlook for Thanksgiving (Minow, RISKS-19.46)
Robert X. Cringely's article is at:
<http://www.pbs.org/cringely/archive/nov697_ main.html>
I did a little research with Outlook 97, and have divined the following
schedule.
Wednesday, 26 November 1997
Wednesday, 25 November 1998
Tuesday, 23 November 1999
Wednesday, 22 November 2000
Wednesday, 28 November 2001
Wednesday, 27 November 2002
Tuesday, 25 November 2003
Wednesday, 24 November 2004
Wednesday, 23 November 2005
Beyond this date, there is Thanksgiving no more. The last holiday of 2006
appears to be Election Day. That seems to be it. No more holidays after
Election Day, 2006. The implication of Election Day is truly horrifying.
[Not a pleasant Outlook, so to speak. --spaf]
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 26 Nov 97 14:20:36 -0800
From: Peter Langston <psl@langston.com>
Subject: Sex for Geriatrics?
To: Fun_People@langston.com
Forwarded-by: <SCruzin@aol.com>
A retirement village decided to hold a Singles Dance, at which this very
sweet 90-year-old gentleman met a very sweet 90-year-old lady, and they
danced and talked and laughed, and just hit it off great. They continued to
see each other for a while and enjoyed each other so much, and danced so
well together, etc., that they decided to get married. On their wedding
night, they went to bed and he reached over and took her hand and squeezed
it, and she squeezed his hand back, and they went to sleep. On the second
night, when they went to bed, he reached over and squeezed her hand, and
she squeezed his hand back, and they went to sleep. On the third night, he
reached over and took her hand, and she said, "Not tonight, honey, I have
a headache."
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 5 Nov 1997 10:20:12 -0500 (EST)
From: Santasam@aol.com
Subject: some more jokes from santa partA
To: undisclosed-recipients:;
Two lobsters were sunbathing
on the beach. The lady lobster
suggested that the bloke went
to get them an ice cream each.
Having purchased two cornets
Mr Lobster made his way back to
the beach, deciding on the way
to eat his ice cream. By the
time he had finished the ice
cream he realized that his lady
friend's ice had started to melt all down his claw, so he licked it up
and ended up eating it.
When he arrived back at the beach his lady lobster friend exclaimed
"Where are the ice creams?"
"Well" he said. "I decided to eat mine, then yours melted so I ate that
too."
His lady friend was incensed and cried "You shellfish bastard!!"
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 19 Nov 1997 11:07:49 +0100
From: Angus McIntyre <angus@pobox.com>
Subject: Some strange new usage of the word 'easiest' that I wasn't previously aware of
To: netagere@limitless.co.uk
At 4:33 pm +0100 18.11.97, mathew wrote:
>www.bbcshop.com:
>>It's the easiest way to order BBC products, and we despatch within 48 hours.
>[...]
>>Your browser cannot currently use our site.
>(Because I don't have the JavaScript plug-ins, etc etc)
Of course, what you don't know is how difficult it is to order BBC products
by any other channel.
"Hello, I'd like to order a BBC World Service coffee mug,
please."
"Certainly, sir. Will you be paying in Peruvian intis or
compressed Chinese tea bricks?"
"Uh ... do you take Visa?"
"No, I'm sorry, we don't. But we do have an option to accept
personal cheques drawn on a Jersey merchant bank account."
"OK, I'll pay that way then."
"Excellent. Have we sent you the form of non-disclosure and
the end-user waiver certificates?"
"Is that strictly necessary?"
"I'm afraid that we can't export the mug without it, sir."
"(sigh) I suppose you'd better send me the forms then."
"Very good. Now, the forms must be completed in triplicate
using a 2H pencil. You'll need them stamped by a certified
notary public, and we can only ship them overnight
international by UPS. Forms 6A and 6B must be mailed
separately to our dispatching centre in Glasgow, and
the end-user certificate should be returned in either the
red or the green envelope (which is available on personal
application at our Shepherds Bush offices), depending on
whether you intend to drink tea or coffee from the mug. If
you anticipate drinking fruit juice or other non-alcoholic
beverages, you'll need the extended warranty claim form
which ... which I don't seem to have any of just at the
moment. But they'll be back in stock by early April, so I
can send one to you then."
"This is ridiculous. I only want to buy a sodding coffee
mug. Why do you have to make it so difficult?"
"Well, we find it builds a better customer relationship
which improves consumer enjoyment of the product. If
you're in a hurry, you could always going through the
direct sales channels, sir."
"That would be the Web site, wouldn't it? I've already
tried that. It told me that before I could place an
order I had to download a C++ compiler and build a
version of the ShockWave plug-in optimised for my
system."
"We also have an 0800 number."
"I suppose if I ring that I'll have to send you a
date-stamped monkey's left testicle and get a
certificate of sanity from the Pope, won't I?
Otherwise, it would be just too easy."
"No, that's mail order only. Purchasing from our
telesales department requires no special paperwork and
they accept all major credit cards. Goods ship same day
for overnight delivery."
"Well what are you waiting for? Give me the goddamn
number, now."
"Certainly sir ... (pause) ... there's just one thing.
As a cost-saving measure, telesales now operate out of
Senegal. You do speak either Wolof or Fulani, I assume?"
------------------------------
Date: Mon, 31 Mar 1997 15:05:01 -0500 (EST)
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@bostic.com>
Subject: Stock Options
To: /dev/null@mongoose.bostic.com
Forwarded-by: mycroft@gnu.ai.mit.edu (Charles M. Hannum)
Forwarded-by: Alan Bawden <Alan@LCS.MIT.EDU>
From: me_takethisout@primenet.com (kEvin)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Date: 24 Mar 1997 15:51:01 -0700
Right after the new year, I made one of those impulse buys that haunts
one for months. Fresh turkeys were on sale for a mere US $0.50 a pound.
I bought a twenty pounder. I live alone. I'm not much of a cook.
Surprisingly, I managed to cook, strip and freeze most of the bird without
incident. I saved a hefty portion for immediate consumption and to
celebrate my newly discovered culinary prowess, I made side dishes. The
asparagus ended up as sandy as always (I love asparagus, but not when I
cook it.) The mashed potatoes were white, mushy and a tad dry. Seizing
the phone on impulse and hoping to take advantage of my last clean
saucepan, I quickly dialed my sister-in-law for detailed instruction in
the art of gravy. After a short conference and much taking of notes, I
embarked on a voyage of discovery.
You see, gentle reader, the liquid in the pan that comes from the bird is
not just grease and congealing fat; it's also that fabulously useful stuff
known as stock. This was a subject of much discourse, for I was unaware
of the variety and usefulness of the wonder material known stock.
Unfortunately, the art of gravy cannot be learned in a single phone call,
and though with the addition of stock I came closer to succes than ever,
I did not achieve a state of culinary grace. After a promising but failed
experiment, I resorted to packaged gravy and stored my stock for further
research. Care must be taken in the storage of stock, for if it leaks, it
can wreak untold havoc on the refrigerator ecosystem. I chose to store my
stock in two large tumblers; this choice being dictated by the disgraceful
paucity of clean dishes so shockingly common in kitchens I frequent.
Having safely stored my stock, I went into a torpor lasting some months
and did little but glance through the deep translucent orange of the stock
and wonder at the marvels it held. To safely unleash the power of stock
requires research and careful experimentation.
With the coming of Spring, I arose from my torpor and set about righting
the appalling crime against humanity known as my kitchen. In the process
of setting wild goals, I rashly decided to restore all of my glasses to
cleanliness simultaneously. This entailed some handling of my hoarded
stock. Having determined that it had cooled past the temperature at which
plastic melts in its three month stay on the right corner of the top
refrigerator shelf, I decided to transfer it, in all it's umber luster,
to a ziplock bag.
At this point, I discovered one of the many wonders of stock. While I had
stored it as a hot, thin liquid, it was now a cold, rolypoly solid!
Inverting the glass over the ziplock did not produce the intended result,
although these attempts allowed stock to reveal to me the wonders of that
all-too-rare phenomenon known as vapor-lock.
Despairing of my futile efforts to dislodge the stock unaided, I sought
help from the silerware drawer. Calling upon my trusty butterknife I
endeavoured to free my umber wonder without damaging it. My fears were
exagerated, for with a quick press of the knife along its side, the stock
came free with the briefest blorp.
Unfortunately, my planning was insufficient to contain the power inherent
in unleashed stock, and although it traveled the path I had laid into the
baggy, its energy refused to remain static and it rebounded upwards with
astonishing power. Startled, I grabbed the naked stock in midair. This
was a telling moment. Never before had I handled stock in my bare hands.
The sheer raw power and untapped potential that lay nascent in my hand
awed me. I stepped out onto the balcony gripping the curved, comfortable
shape of the stock in my right hand to better contemplate this new aspect
of stock.
As a liquid, turkey stock holds great promise for peaceful and beneficial
use. With further research, I could safely use it for the betterment of
all humanity. But the comforting shape in my hand was not liquid stock,
it had been transformed into something much more. My stock had taken on
the shape of the glass in which I had stored it. It was now both firm and
yielding, with a consistency that guaranteed both aerodynamic efficiency
and satisfying splatter. While it retained its potential for good, in that
form and in that place, it could become an instument of chaos, of random
destruction. I could hurl the stock into the deep stillness of the night,
and it would make a long descent along the slope to splat upon the hated
drive-slow-in-the-left-lane-Volvo occupying one of the neighbors yards,
or I could drop the stock into a safe container and devote myself to
learning how to tap its potential for good.
I had to make a choice between using the great power in this substance
for random destruction, or of holding back until research revealed the
future benefits it could provide. Everyone eventually has to make this
choice, but there's really only one decision. After a moment of brief
reflection, I consigned my stock to its best use.
Then I quoted Oppenheimer.
kEvin
missed.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
From: Alan Bawden <Alan@LCS.MIT.EDU>
Several of you asked me for the Oppenheimer quote. Here's the story.
On Monday, July 16, 1945, at 5:29:45 in the morning, the first atomic bomb
was detonated at Alamogordo New Mexico. Many of the scientists involved
in creating the atomic bomb had mixed feelings about what they had done.
A great power they had discovered had found its first application in an
incredibly destructive weapon -- the peaceful applications were on hold
until after the war.
Robert Oppenheimer, the scientific leader of the atomic bomb project,
described his thoughts after the bomb was detonated:
We waited until the blast had passed, walked out of the shelter and
then it was extremely solemn. We knew the world would not be the same.
A few people laughed, a few people cried. Most people were silent.
I remembered the line from the Hindu scripture, the Bhagavad-Gita:
Vishnu is trying to persuade the Prince that he should do his duty and
to impress him he takes on his multi-armed form and says, "Now I am
become Death, the destroyer of worlds." I suppose we all thought that,
one way or another.
Oppenheimer quoting Vishnu on this occasion has become quite a famous
incident in the history of the atomic bomb. The quote is usually given
as:
Now I am become Death, the shatterer of worlds.
It was probably this version that kEvin quoted after he made his choice
between the constructive and destructive uses of his turkey stock.
A less well known quote from the same occasion: Kenneth Bainbridge, who
directed the test, says he told Oppenheimer:
Now we are all sons of bitches.
------------------------------
Date: Mon, 17 Nov 1997 16:48:19 -0500 (EST)
From: Michael Bastedo <MBASTEDO@bhe.mass.edu>
Subject: summer camp [thanks Josh]
To: yucks
The following appeared in a computer magazine in Mr. Dvorak's
column:
Dear Mr. Dvorak:
Ann Landers wouldn't print this. I have nowhere else to turn. I
have to get the word out. Warn other parents. I must be rambling
on.
Let me try and explain. It's about my son, Billy. He's always
been a good, normal ten year old boy. Well, last spring we sat down
after dinner to select a summer camp for Billy. We sorted through
the camp brochures. There were the usual camps with swimming,
canoeing, games, singing by the campfire -- you know. There were
sports camps and specialty camps for weight reduction, music,
military camps and camps that specialized in Tibetan knot tying. I
tried to talk him into Camp Winnepoopoo. It's where he went last
year. (He made an adorable picture out of painted pinto beans and
macaroni). Billy would have none of it. Billy pulled a brochure
out of his pocket. It was for a COMPUTER CAMP! We should have put
our foot down right there, if only we had known. He left three
weeks ago. I don't know what's happened. He's changed. I can't
explain it. See for yourself. These are some of my little Billy's
letters.
Dear Mom,
The kids are dorky nerds. The food stinks. The computers are
the only good part. We're learning how to program. Late at night
is the best time to program, so they let us stay up.
Love, Billy.
Dear Mom,
Camp is O.K. Last night we had pizza in the middle of the night.
We all get to choose what we want to drink. I drink Classic Coke.
By the way, can you make Szechuan food? I'm getting used to it now.
Gotta go, it's time for the flowchart class.
Love, Billy.
P.S. This is written on a wordprocessor. Pretty swell, huh? It's
spellchecked too.
Dear Mom,
Don't worry. We do regular camp stuff. We told ghost stories by
the glow of the green computer screens. It was real neat. I don't
have much of a tan 'cause we don't go outside very often. You can't
see the computer screen in the sunlight anyway. That wimp camp I
went to last year fed us weird food too. Lay off, Mom. I'm okay,
really.
Love, Billy.
Dear Mom,
I'm fine. I'm sleeping enough. I'm eating enough. This is the
best camp ever. We scared the counselor with some phony worm code.
It was real funny. He got mad and yelled. Frederick saysit's okay.
Can you send more money? I spent mine on a pocket protector and a
box of blank diskettes. I've got to chip in on the phone bill. Did
you know that you can talk to people on a computer? Give my regards
to Dad.
Love, Billy.
Dear Mother,
Forget the money for the telephone. We've got a way to not pay.
Sorry I haven't written. I've been learning a lot. I'm real good at
getting onto any computer in the country. It's really easy! I got
into the university's in less than fifteen minutes. Frederick did
it in five, he's going to show me how.. Frederick is my bunk
partner. He's really smart. He says that I shouldn't call myself
Billy anymore. So, I'm not.
Signed, William.
Dear Mother,
How nice of you to come up on Parents Day. Why'd you get so
upset? I haven't gained that much weight. The glasses aren't real.
Everybody wears them. I was trying to fit in. Believe me, the tape
on them is cool. I thought that you'd be proud of my program. After
all, I've made some money on it. A publisher is sending a check for
$30,000. Anyway, I've paid for the next six weeks of camp. I won't
be home until late August.
Regards, William.
Mother,
Stop treating me like a child. True -- physically I am only ten
years old. It was silly of you to try to kidnap me. Do not try
again. Remember, I can make your life miserable (i.e. - the bank,
credit bureau, and government computers). I am not kidding. O.K.?
I won't write again and this is your only warning. The emotions of
this interpersonal communication drain me.
Sincerely, William.
See what I mean? It's been two weeks since I've heard from my
little boy. What can I do, Mr.Dvorak? I know that it's probably
too late to save my little Billy. But, if by printing these letters
you can save JUST ONE CHILD from a life of programming, please, I
beg of you to do so. Thank you very much.
Mary Gates, Concerned Parent
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 26 Nov 97 01:48:02 -0800
From: Peter Langston <psl@langston.com>
Subject: The Comedian's-eye View of 11/26/97
To: Fun_People@langston.com
Excerpted-from: 11/26/97-- ShopTalk
Wednesday November 26, 1997
"One of the Spice Girls may leave the band and pursue a solo career.
She said, 'I think it's about time to go out and suck on my own.'"
- Conan O'Brien
&&&&&&&&&&
The Green Bay Packers scored 35 second-half points against Dallas Sunday
afternoon and won 45-17. "What's the difference between the Cowboys and a
dollar?" says Argus Hamilton. "You get four quarters out of a dollar."
"The Allies have decided to take action against Saddam Hussein. The
Americans are sending 10,000 troops and two aircraft carriers. The French
are sending 4,000 Legionnaires. The British are sending 250 teenage au
pairs." (Paul Harris & The Predictor listener George Liddy)
------------------------------
Date: Mon, 17 Nov 1997 14:05:01 -0500 (EST)
From: Nev Dull <nev@bostic.com>
Subject: The signifier and signified frolic in the freshly ground pepper.
To: nev@bostic.com (/dev/null)
Forwarded-by: Michael Preston <michael_preston@cgp.org>
Forwarded-by: Chris Watanabe
Forwarded-by: Charles Conconi
As all single people know, there are many levels of meaning to being asked
out upon a Date That Involves Food. (This article's scope does not
encompass the semiotics of the "activity date," e.g., a stroll in the
city, concert attendance, pool playing, a walk in the park, rock climbing
and/or jewelry heisting.)
The Meal: Dinner
The Message: Unified.
A Dinner Date is the most traditional kind of date. Those who ask others
out on Dinner dates tend to follow the Romantic and/or Formalist belief
that dates are recognizable organic unities, integrated structures which
conclude pleasurably and logically. Asking someone out to dinner contains
no mixed messages. Dinner means "I am interested in pursuing potential
romantic involvement." Dinner date. The signifier and signified frolic
in the freshly ground pepper. As in all dates, however, both individuals
retain the right to pretend that here was some misunderstanding, that this
is not a date. This generally comes after one individual decides he or
she is not interested in future face-sucking.
The Meal: Lunch
The Message: Mixed.
Lunch revels in its own ambiguity, its liminal position poised betwixt
work and outside-of-work. Lunch exists outside the scope of the office,
since we physically leave the office, but it is by necessity bounded by
the strictures of time (and of course, by extension, Death). We know we
must quickly return to the office, destroying the magical space of
possibility, unless we are the boss or cruising to get fired. When
someone asks us on a lunch date, we ask ourselves, "Is this a date, or
are we networking? Are we colleagues enjoying a collegial plate of
grilled vegetables, or are we future love bunnies? Is this sourdough roll
deliberately resonant with the phrase "a roll in the hay" or is it just
me?" As Bakhtin (might have) said, lunch is multilevel, layered, and
resistant to unification, its very character as elusive and quirky as the
hint of truffle oil in the tagliatelle.
The Meal: Brunch
The Message: Possibility.
Brunch holds a sacred position in the meal canon. Brunch is inherently
romantic, since it occurs on a weekend (the idiolect: I have but two days
of rest out of seven, and I choose to spend part of one of them with you).
It also has the status of two meals, as it usually stands in for both
breakfast and lunch. Brunch dangles before the bruncher and brunchee a
tantalizing sense of what could be, as the entire schedule-less day
dances teasingly after the meal. There could be a museum, a movie, a
stroll. There is no "Gotta run, I have a meeting." Brunch is the meal of
promise.
The Meal: A Drink
The Message: You do not warrant dinner.
I am testing the waters to see if you will warrant dinner at a future date
to be determined (possibly as soon as after we put down our swizzle sticks).
The Meal: Coffee
The Message: Even more non-committal than a drink.
Coffee is coffee is coffee. (However, coffee is a drink if the asking
party is in a 12-Step Program.) Coffee, lacking alcohol's liberating
effect on the tongue and libido (which is not made up for by its
liberating effect on the bowels), can make the drinkers feel stranded in
narrative, lost in a sea of awkward conversation forays and pauses.
However, coffee can be a gateway to coziness, personal revelations and
intimacy, as in "Coffee Talk" and "Coffee Klatsch." Coffee is a dialogic
form.
The Meal: Breakfast
The Message: Ambition.
Breakfast dates are most common among yuppies in New York and Chicago and
other hard-driving cities, where early morning is the only spare time the
date-asker possesses. It carries a clear message that the date-asker is
powerful and important, and that romance will take a back-seat to work.
Unless, of course, the breakfast invitation is conveyed across a pillow
as a follow-up to an extraordinarily successful Dinner Date.
------------------------------
Date: Thu, 6 Nov 1997 16:05:01 -0500 (EST)
From: Nev Dull <nev@bostic.com>
Subject: Too Absurd to not be True.
To: nev@bostic.com (/dev/null)
Forwarded-by: Lee Murawski <leem@masterx.com>
Forwarded-by: [SMTP:SCOTTPOOL@wtco.net]
Forwarded-by: Katherine
Too Absurd Not to be True
Calling in sick to work makes me uncomfortable because no matter how
legitimate my illness, I always sense my boss thinks I am lying. On one
occasion, I had a valid reason but lied anyway because the truth was too
humiliating to reveal. I simply mentioned that I had sustained a head
injury and I hoped I would feel up to coming in the next day. By then,
I could think up a doozy to explain the bandage on my crown. In this
case, the truth hurt. I mean it really hurt in the place men feel the most
pain. The accident occurred mainly because I conceded to my wife's wishes
to adopt a cute little kitty. As the daily routine prescribes, I was
taking my shower after breakfast when I heard my wife, Deb, call out to
me from the kitchen.
"Ed!" she hearkened, "The garbage disposal is dead. Come reset it."
"You know where the button is," I protested through the shower
(pitter-patter). "Reset it yourself!"
"I'm scared!" she pleaded. "What if it starts going and sucks me in?"
... Pause ... "C'mon, it'll only take a second."
No logical assurance about how a disposal can't start itself will calm
the fears of a person who suffers from "Big-ol-scary-machinephobia," a
condition brought on by watching too many Stephen King movies. It is
futile to argue or explain, kind of like telling Lloyd Bentsen Americans
are over-taxed. And if a poltergeist did, in fact, possess the disposal,
and she was ground into round, I'd have to live with that the rest of my
life. So out I came, dripping wet and buck naked, hoping to make a
statement about how her cowardly behavior was not without consequence but
it was I who would suffer. I crouched down and stuck my head under the
sink to find the button. It is the last action I remember performing.
It struck without warning, Without respect to my circumstances. Nay, it
wasn't a hexed disposal, drawing me into its gnashing metal teeth. It
was our new kitty, clawing playfully at the dangling objects she spied
between my legs.
She ("Buttons" a.k.a "the Grater") had been poised around the corner and
stalked me as I took the bait under the sink. At precisely the second I
was most vulnerable, she leapt at the toys I unwittingly offered and
snagged them with her needle-like claws. Now, when men feel pain or even
sense danger anywhere close to their masculine region, they lose all
rational thought to control orderly bodily movements. Instinctively,
their nerves compel the body to contort inwardly, while rising upwardly
at a violent rate of speed. Not even a well trained monk could calmly
stand with his groin supporting the full weight of a kitten and rectify
the situation in a step-by-step procedure. Wild animals are sometimes
faced with a "fight or flight" syndrome; men, in this predicament, choose
only the "flight" option. Fleeing straight up, I knew at that moment how
a cat feels when it is alarmed. It was a dismal irony. But, whereas cats
seek great heights to escape, I never made it that far. The sink and
cabinet bluntly impeded my ascent; the impact knocked me out cold. When
I awoke, my wife and the paramedics stood over me. Having been fully
briefed by my wife, the paramedics snorted as they tried to conduct their
work while suppressing their hysterical laughter. My wife told me I
should be flattered.
At the office, colleagues tried to coax an explanation out of me. I kept
silent, claiming it was too painful to talk. "What's the matter, cat got
your tongue?" If they had only known.
[Lest any of you doubt this happening, I can assure you from experience
that it is certainly possible. When I was younger , my paramour at the
time had adopted a kitten. The kitten was prowling in the middle of
the night, crawled under the sheet, and spotted something to stalk. I
do not know what I was dreaming about at the time, but as I recall it
was something appropriately idyllic. This was suddenly banished from
mind as the kitten pounced. I'm not sure quite how I did it, but I
believe I jumped straight up in the air several feet (no mean feet from
lying flat on my back) and landed on the floor next to the bed. The
kitten, surprised at this sudden upheaval, reflexively went along for
the ride -- by digging her claws in more deeply. There is absolutely
no way to describe the sensation to one who has not experienced it
first...hand.
And I thought the episode of peeing on the electric fence was about as
bad as it got... hah!
In retrospect, the incident's aftermath should have clued me in to the
impending termination of the relationship -- the kitten's owner, upon
attaining some state of consciousness, inquired first about the kitten,
and subsequently me. She then collapsed in laughter -- repeatedly --
rather than help me administer first aid.
--spaf]
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 26 Nov 1997 16:05:01 -0500 (EST)
From: Nev Dull <nev@bostic.com>
Subject: Top 10 Signs you work in the 90's
To: nev@bostic.com (/dev/null)
Forwarded-by: Jon Loeliger <jdl@jdl.com>
From: dawn.loeliger@targetbase.com
Top 10 Signs you work in the nineties
10. You lecture the neighborhood kids selling lemonade on ways to
improve their process.
9. You get all excited when it's Saturday so you can wear sweats to work.
8. You refer to the tomatoes grown in your garden as deliverables.
7. You find you really need PowerPoint to explain what you do for a living.
6. You normally eat out of vending machines and at the most expensive
restaurant in town within the same week.
5. You think that "progressing an action plan" and "calendarizing a
project" are acceptable English phrases.
4. You know the people at the airport hotels better than your next
door neighbors.
3. You ask your friends to "think out of the box" when making Friday
night plans.
2. You think Einstein would have been more effective had he put his
ideas into a matrix.
And, the number one sign you work in the nineties...
1. You think a "half-day" means leaving at 5 o'clock.
------------------------------
Date: Thu, 27 Nov 97 15:07:23 -0800
From: Peter Langston <psl@langston.com>
Subject: ULOTD? - Death By Sinatra
To: Fun_People@langston.com
Forwarded-by: Bob Noble <bobnoble@worldnet.att.net>
Death By Sinatra
In Sydney, Australia, police believe three people who were heirs to a
fortune tortured their rich grandfather until he killed himself. Crippled
by arthritis and confined to a wheelchair, eighty-nine year-old Duncan
Gruner was a sitting duck for his greedy grandkids, who apparently couldn't
wait for him to die peacefully.
The three, a granddaughter and two grandsons, allegedly locked the elderly
man in a room and played the song "My Way" by Frank Sinatra over and over,
until he gave up and overdosed on sleeping pills. The plot came to light
when the granddaughter, feeling guilty, confessed. But police say the three,
who split two million dollars, aren't guilty of a crime, since the man
committed suicide.
[Think how much faster to inherit if they played the Spice Girls. --spaf]
------------------------------
Date: Thu, 27 Nov 1997 10:05:03 -0500 (EST)
From: Nev Dull <nev@bostic.com>
Subject: uSoft Bashing O' The Day
To: nev@bostic.com (/dev/null)
Forwarded-by: guy@netapp.com (Guy Harris)
From: jay@west.net (Jay Hennigan)
Newsgroups: comp.dcom.telecom.tech
Subject: Re: ! ---------------> T O N E S
News Flash: Microsoft acquires Electrolux, makes extensive
design revisions. Finally releases a product that doesn't suck.
------------------------------
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@bsdi.com>
To: /dev/null@mongoose.bostic.com
Date: Thu, 14 Nov 1996 19:05:01 -0500 (EST)
Subject: Yeah, the damned dog.
Forwarded-by: Berry Kercheval <kerch@parc.xerox.com>
Forwarded-by: owner-bruhaha@goonsquad.spies.com
> From a religious debate online...
>
> "The Lord is my shepherd....He maketh me to lie down in green pastures,
> He leadeth me beside the still waters..."
Does this ring true?
It would be more realistic if it read: "He maketh me to stand
all day in wet bracken, He driveth me across these bloody cold
wet mountains. He sheareth me naked and bloody and stealeth my
children for stewing."
Furthermore: "He plungeth me into the sheep-dip, He forceth the
sheep-drench down my throat. He docketh my tail and He bindeth
up my testicles so that it bringeth tears to mine eyes. And that
dog of His getteth on my nerves, too."
Just a thought for the day...
------------------------------
End of Yucks Digest
------------------------------