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Yucks Digest V7 #29
Yucks Digest Thu, 25 Dec 97 Volume 7 : Issue 29
Today's Topics:
administrivia
"The Bible true, yes I believe...."
assorted tasteless offerings, some seasonal
Dr. Doolittle to the Sty, stat!
ebonics christmas
Pet's New Years Resolutions
The /dev/null Xmas Collection. [trimmed some by spaf]
The Christmas Trousers
The Dad: This is really weird
Think of yourself as Christopher Robin, the enabler.
Xmas
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
"help" for instructions.
Submissions and problem reports should be sent to spaf@cs.purdue.edu
----------------------------------------------------------------------
From: spaf
Subject: administrivia
To: Yucksters
Happy holidays to all of you. Enclosed are various things from the
"in-basket" having to do with the holiday season.
I hope you all ave pleasant, relaxing holidays. Someone needs to, if
only to balance out how I will be spending mine! :-(
I may manage two more issues in volume 7, and then we move to volume 8
for the new year. Keep sending in your submissions!
--spaf
------------------------------
Date: Fri, 19 Dec 97 01:45:44 -0800
From: Peter Langston <psl@langston.com>
Subject: "The Bible true, yes I believe...."
To: Fun_People@langston.com
Forwarded-by: Molly B. Tenenbaum <mt>
Forwarded-by: "Blech, Kerry E"
Forwarded-by: Allen Hart<AHart@engpo.msmailgw.intermec.com>
In a small Southern town there was a "Nativity Scene" that showed great
skill and talent had gone into creating it. One small feature bothered me.
The three wise men were wearing firemen's helmets. Totally unable to come
up with a reason or explanation, I left. At a "Quik Stop" on the edge of
town, I asked the lady behind the counter about the helmets. She exploded
into a rage, yelling at me, "You darn Yankees never do read the Bible!" I
assured her that I did, but simply couldn't recall anything about firemen
in the Bible. She jerked her Bible from behind the counter and ruffled thru
some pages, and finally jabbed her finger at a passage. Sticking it in my
face she said "See, it says right here, 'The three wise man came from afar."
------------------------------
Date: Mon, 22 Dec 1997 20:19:20 EST
From: Santasam <Santasam@aol.com>
Subject: assorted tasteless offerings, some seasonal
To: undisclosed-recipients:;
( To be sung to the tune of The Christmas Song by Nat "King" Cole. )
Chipmunks roasting
on an open fire.
Their eyes bulge out,
as they explode.
Machine gun fire,
opens up on the
crowd.
And folks fall down
like dominos.
Everybody knows,
an uzi and some hand grenades,
help to make the season bright.
Tiny tots,
bound and gaged in their
beds,
will find it hard to sleep, tonight.
They know that
Santa's
on his way.
He's got a chainsaw,
and he's gonna make 'em pay.
And every mother's
child
is gonna spy,
To watch their Daddy shoot
those reindeer from the sky...
And so I'm offering
this simple
phrase.
For the tots by now are turning blue.
Although it's been
said
many times many ways...
Merry Antichristmas.... to You!
Donut In The Wind
Goodbye Chris Farley,
You're the fattest comedian to ever go
(aside from John Belushi, Sam Kinison,
and John Candy, you know.)
The Black Sheep has run away,
And Tommy Boy cannot be shown
without tears falling from our eyes.
David Spade is all alone.
And it seems to me, you lived your life
Like a donut in the wind.
Sheltered in a van down by the river,
when the rains set in.
And I would have liked to have known you,
And now I never will,
Your candle lit the room on fire,
as the Ninja from Beverly Hills.
(piano bridge)
You were great in Waynes World,
And in Billy Madison you
played the busdriver,
and 'Milton' in Waynes World Part II.
I loved you in Airheads,
In Coneheads you were great,
but I guess your final movie roles,
will premiere in '98.
And it seemed to me you lived your life,
like a donut in the wind.
Always eating, didn't see it coming,
like the rest of us did.
And I would have liked to have known you,
but then again, oh well.
Your candle burned out long after
four years on SNL.
Chris Farley: Does this make him the ghost of Chris must pass?
Q. Where do you think they should bury Chris Farley?
A. In a trailer down by the river.
Q. What do Michael Jackson and Chris Farley have in common?
A. They both have an 11 year old crack habit.
Q. What did Michael Hutchence say to Chris Farley when they met at the pearly
gates?
A. Come on, I'll show you the ropes around here.
Chris Farley checks out
Hopes for "Tommy Boy 2" dashed
Ben & Jerry mourn
Q. Hear about Farley's new movie?
A. It's "Weekend at Tommy Boy's"
Q. Do you know the difference between Diana and Mother Teresa ?
A. One week.
F-ound in
A-partment,
R-eally
L-oathed
E-ating
Y-ogurt
This morning, Chicago police said Farley most likely died of drugs. At the
death scene, they found 400lbs of crack in his pants.
Q. What do Chris Farley and John Belushi have in common?
A. Both of them hit some great lines.
A couple married forty years were revisiting the same places they went to
on their honeymoon. Driving through the secluded countryside, they passed a
ranch with a tall deer fence running along the road.
The woman said, "Sweetheart, let's do the same thing we did here forty
years ago."
The guy stopped the car. His wife backed against the fence, and he
immediately jumped her bones like a bass on a junebug. They made love
like never before.
Back in the car, the guy says, "Darling, you sure never moved like that
forty years ago--or any time since that I can remember!"
The woman says, "Forty years ago that fence wasn't electrified!"
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 8 Oct 1996 08:05:00 -0400 (EDT)
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@bsdi.com>
Subject: Dr. Doolittle to the Sty, stat!
To: /dev/null@mongoose.bostic.com
Forwarded-by: Dave Del Torto <ddt@lsd.com>
[The latest from Our Hungarian Correspondent. -dave]
WHEN THE WEATHER COOLS, PIG OWNERS' THOUGHTS TURN TO CARNAGE
By Dork Zygotian
Hungary has had a rather cold and soggy year. This summer has been
awfully short, it and it seems that Autumn will be fast upon us. At
least we can comfort ourselves with the knowledge that the season for
pig killing is just around the corner.
Pig killing has to be done in cold weather, for the simple expedient
that hog carcasses get all green and stinky in about fifteen minutes if
you try butchering them in your backyard in July. Since quartering a
hog with a chainsaw while standing in the average home refrigerator is
a somewhat risky process, most people around these parts wait until the
weather gets cold, and that sets the late fall as the time for
disznovagas, or pig killing. For the swine of Hungary, Chrismas is not
something to look forward to. Whatever Christmas may represent to the
people of Central Europe, to the pigs it means the passage from This
Life to Bacon on Farmer Kovacs' Plate.
Pig killing, as a family ritual, is as essential to Hungarian culture
as cattle theft is to the Maasai of Kenya. The Masai believe that when
God created the earth He reserved all of the cattle for the Masai,
therefore no other people really have the right to them and the Masai
are merely reclaiming what is divinely theirs. It is the same with
Hungarians and pigs. Plentiful ham leftovers are the due of Hungary by
divine right. Why do Hungarians eat Ham at Easter while the rest of the
world eats lamb or fish or any of the other symbols of Christianity?
Well, for one thing, pork is tastier than other religious symbols.
The other thing is, if you don't eat those little baby pigs now you are
going to have one hell of a feed bill by the time the next winter
pig-killing season arrives. Think of it as population control. If you
don't eat all those cute little baby piglets now, you'll have nothing
but grief in the future as they reach adolescence.
Pigs are livestock that you can raise in your garage, perfect for
post-Trianon city dwellers. That thing snouting about in your Uncle's
backyard isn't just another porker. It is a cultural syndrome waiting
to be smoked.
Pig killing is a serious task and not to be rushed. It takes a whole
day to play "Friday the 13th" with Porky in the role of victim.
Besides, it's a great way to spend a winter weekend. You get up at dawn,
knock back a few palinkas, josh with your buddies and cousins, and then,
well buzzed, you tramp out in the snow to snuff the pig.
Mind you, there are some certain precautions one must take. For example,
you mustn't let the pig eat anything for a day or two before the Big
Day, or else it is liable to make a Big Mess. Also, you need to keep
the pig in the dark about it's fate. It's only hint of its fate is the
fact that the nice human people who usually wake up at dawn to feed it
and clean out it's sty are acting different on this particular day.
Today those nice humans seemto be bombed witless out of their skulls,
instead of only slightly tipsy, and they are singing bawdy songs, and
sharpening tools and looking at the innocent porker with looks they
usually reserve for ... breakfast. "No, something strange is going to
happen today," thinks the wee piggy.
To kill a pig while drunk is no easy task. Pigs are extremely
intelligent animals, and they know what is about to happen using porcine
ESP. They squeal in protest. Their porky little lives flash before them
as they make the passage from life to bacon, from pig to pork.
Down in Transylvania they still do it the time honored way: by tying up
the pig's legs and then stabbing at it's throat with a butcher knife.
You just aim for the jugular vein and start jabbing away. When, with
perseverence and luck, you finally hit it, old ladies run over with
buckets to catch the blood for soup and "hurka" while the pig writhes
on the frozen ground screaming with a particularly human sounding voice.
Time for another round of palinka! Everyone nudges you. "Isn't this fun?
Isn't this the best event of the year?" No, it doesn't get better than
this.
Most people these days are much more civilized. They kill pigs by
shooting them in the head with a 22 caliber pistol. Creativity is not
advised in something as culturally established as pig killing. There is
the story of the policeman in Szolnok (the audience winks and nudges
each other at this point. A policeman from Szolnok! Oh, this is going
to be a good one.) who tried to gas his pig using a propane tank and
garden hose, but he got too close with a cigarette in his mouth and ...
BOOM! Pork all over the neighborhood!
Think of pig-killing as one of Hungary's most vibrant rituals of peasant
family independence. The communists banned family pig killings for
twenty years. Really smart move! Up in the politburo some comrade was
taking time off from more important business, such as how to make money
worthless, and suddenly this thought popped into his head. Forbid all
pig killings! Great idea! The Hungarians will really love us for that!
With theorists like that, no wonder the communists were as popular as
rectal cancer.
Pig killings became legal during the seventies, and soon Hungarian
ingenuity was again on the long road to bigger and better. Now there is
Hungapig, the newly developed superporker guaranteed to provide more
meat and less bone faster than any other pig in the world. The question
is: how will Hungapig do when cast in the lead role for "Friday the 13th
Part XIV: Uncle Jozsi Returns?"
***
Dork Zygotian, <dork@isys.hu>, is a Hungarian, an anthropologist and a
pork apologist. His current cholesterol count is comparable with the
gross domestic product of Latvia -- especially in its grossness.
------------------------------
Date: Mon, 22 Dec 1997 11:37:31 -0800
From: svarshney@maxsys.com (S Varshney)
Subject: ebonics christmas
To: varshney@pacbell.net
EBONICS Christmas
'Twas da night befo' Christmas & all in the hood, Not
a homie was stirring cuz it was all good. The tube
socks was hung on the window sill
and we all had smiles up on our grill.
Mookie and BeBe was snug in the crib
in the back bedroom, cuz that's how we live. And Moms
in her do-rag and me with my nine,
had just gotten busy cuz girlfriend is fine.
All of a sudden a lowrider rolled by,
Bumpin' phat beats cuz the system's fly.
I bounced to the window at a quarter pas'
'Bout ready to pop a cap in somebody's ass! well
anyway....
I yelled to my lady, Yo peep this!
She said, Stop frontin' & just mind yo' bidness.
I said, for real doe, come check dis out.
We weren't even buggin', no worries, no doubt.
Cuz bumpin' an thumpin' from around da way
Was Santa, 8 reindeer and a sleigh.
Da beats was kickin', da ride was phat
I said, "Yo red Dawg, you all that!"
He threw up a sign and yelled to his boyz,
"Ay yo, give it up, let's make some noise!"
To the top of the projects & across the strip mall,
We gots ta go, I got a booty call!"
He pulled up his ride on the top a da roof,
and sippin' on a 40, he busted a move.
I yelled up to Santa, "Yo ain't got no stack!" he
said, "Damn homie, deese projects is wack! But don't
worry black, cuz I gots da skillz
I learnt back when I hadda pay da billz."
Out from his bag he pulled 3 small tings
a credit card, a knife, and a bobby pin.
He slid down the fire exscape smoove as a cat, and
busted the window wit' a b-ball bat.
I said, "Whassup, Santa? Whydya bust my place?" he
said,"You best get on up out my face!"
His threads was all leatha, his chains was all gold,
His sneaks was Puma and they was 5 years old.
He dropped down the duffle, Clippers logo on the side.
Santa broke out da loot and my mouf popped open wide.
A wink of his eye and a shine off his gold toof,
He cabbage patched his way back onto the roof He
jumped in his hooptie wit' rims made of chrome, To
tap that booty waitin' at home.
And all I heard as he cruised outta sight,
was a loud and hearty.....
"WEEESST SIIIIDE!!!!!!!"
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 24 Dec 1997 08:05:01 -0500 (EST)
From: Nev Dull <nev@bostic.com>
Subject: Pet's New Years Resolutions
To: nev@bostic.com (/dev/null)
Forwarded-by: Tim Ruddick <TRuddick@UU.NET>
Forwarded-by: Nick Ruddick <nick_ruddick@MENTORG.COM>
Forwarded-by: Ron & Sandy Klopf [SMTP:rsklopf@bendnet.com]
12. Have a torrid one-night stand with a street mutt.
11. Try to understand that the cat is from Venus and I am from Mars.
10. I will no longer be beholden to the sound of the can opener.
9. Circulate petition that Leg Humping be a juried competition in
major dog shows.
8. Call PETA and tell them what that surgical mask-wearing freak does
to us when no one is around.
7. Take time from busy schedule to stop and smell the behinds.
6. Hamster: Don't let them figure out I'm just a rat on 'roids, or
they'll flush my ass.
5. Always scoot before licking.
4. Grow opposable thumb; break into pantry; decide for MYSELF how
much food is *too* much.
3. Get out of the castle more, maybe swim counter-clockwise this
year.
2. January 1st: Kill the sock! Must kill the sock! January 2nd -
December 31: Re-live victory over the sock.
and the Number 1 New Year's Resolutions Made by Pets...
1. I will NOT chase the damned stick unless I see it LEAVE HIS HAND.
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 23 Dec 1997 11:52:38 -0500 (EST)
From: Nev Dull <nev@bostic.com>
Subject: The /dev/null Xmas Collection. [trimmed some by spaf]
To: nev@bostic.com (/dev/null)
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
NEXT CHRISTMAS, THE FRENCH HENS WILL BE WHINING FOR A BIG RAISE
-- by Laura Bird, Staff Reporter of The Wall Street Journal
Attention true lovers and inflation watchers: Higher wages for ladies
dancing and maids a-milking are driving up the price of a traditional
Christmas.
The cost of buying the gifts in "The Twelve Days of Christmas" song rose
5.7% this year to $13,196 from $12,482, according to the annual Christmas
Price Index calculated by PNC Bank Corp. For purists who total up all 12
partridges, 12 pear trees and every other item mentioned in all dozen
verses, the true cost rose to $54,478 from $51,765.
Blame it on the Philadelphia Dance Company, whose performances fees rose
for the first time in four years, pushing up the cost of nine ladies
dancing by 25%. As for 10 lords a-leaping (dancers from the Pennsylvania
Ballet doing leaps in lordly attire), their salaries held constant this
year, but should rise under a provision of the new labor contract, PNC
economist Rebekah McCahan Fickling says.
Milkmaids come cheap, yet less so than last year. The cost of an hour of
milking by eight maids this year rose 11.8% to $38, reflecting the higher
hourly minimum wage. Cows aren't included.
The index mirrors rising wages in the service side of the economy, says
Patrick Bradley of PNC's asset-management group, which has compiled the
index since 1984. "That isn't to say there aren't productivity increases"
in this sector, he says, quick to defend the dancing ladies and milkmaids,
only that "statistics measure them poorly."
This year's spurt in the Christmas index exceeds the overall inflation
rate of 2.8% for the first nine months of 1996, according to the U.S.
Consumer Price Index. And it follows a nearly 22% decline last Christmas,
when prices of pear trees, gold rings and swans, especially, took a dive.
Still the index's chief luxury item, swans are selling at a deep discount.
After dropping 50% last year, the price the Philadelphia Zoo quotes for
seven long-necked trumpeter swans held constant at $3,500, the result of
more successful breeding in captivity.
The price of five 14-karat gold wedding bands also was unchanged this
year, at $325 at a Philadelphia jewelry store, following a 28% decline
last year. (Tastes are shifting toward gems in wedding bands, it seems.)
And the price of a pear tree remained $12.50, following a decrease of more
than 37% in 1995.
>From The Wall Street Journal, Tuesday, November 12, 1996
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
North Pole Reduction in Force (RIF) Approved
Seasons Greetings
The usual large flamboyant typeface associated with the seasons
greetings has been downsized this year commensurate with the trend
toward corporate downsizing.
The recent announcement that Donner and Blitzen have elected to take
the early reindeer retirement package has triggered a good deal of
concern about whether they will be replaced, and about other
restructuring decisions at the North Pole.
Streamlining was appropriate in view of the reality that the North
Pole no longer dominates the season's gift distribution business.
Home shopping channels and mail order catalogues have diminished
Santa's market share and he could not sit idly by and permit
further erosion of the profit picture.
The reindeer downsizing was made possible through the purchase of a
late model Japanese sled for the CEO's annual trip. Improved
productivity from Dasher and Dancer, who summered at the Harvard
Business School, is anticipated and should take up the slack with no
discernible loss of service. Reduction in reindeer will also lessen
airborne environmental emissions for which the North Pole has been
cited and received unfavorable press.
I am pleased to inform you and yours that Rudolph's role will not be
disturbed. Tradition still counts for something at the North Pole.
Management denies, in the strongest possible language, the earlier
leak that Rudolph's nose got that way not from the cold, but from
substance abuse. Calling Rudolph "a lush who was into the sauce and
never did pull his share of the load" was an unfortunate comment,
made by one of Santa's helpers and taken out of context at a time of
year when he is known to be under executive stress.
As a further restructuring, today's global challenges require the
North Pole to continue to look for better, more competitive steps.
Effective immediately, the following economy measures are to take
place in the "Twelve Days of Christmas" subsidiary:
The partridge will be retained, but the pear tree never turned out to
be the cash crop forecasted. It will be replaced by a plastic
hanging plant, providing considerable savings in maintenance.
The two turtle doves represent a redundancy that is simply not cost
effective. In addition, their romance during working hours could not
be condoned. The positions are therefore eliminated.
The three French hens will remain intact. After all, everyone loves
the French.
The four calling birds were replaced by an automated voice mail
system, with a call waiting option. An analysis is underway to
determine who the birds have been calling, how often and how long
they talked.
The five golden rings have been put on hold by the Board of
Directors. Maintaining a portfolio based on one commodity could have
negative implications for institutional investors. Diversification
into other precious metals as well as a mix of T-Bills and high
technology stocks appear to be in order.
The six geese-a-laying constitutes a luxury which can no longer be
afforded. It has long been felt that the production rate of one egg
per goose per day is an example of the decline in productivity.
Three geese will be let go, and an upgrading in the selection
procedure by personnel will assure management that from now on every
goose it gets will be a good one.
The seven swans-a-swimming is obviously a number chosen in better
times. The function is primarily decorative. Mechanical swans are on
order. The current swans will be retrained to learn some new
strokes and therefore enhance their outplacement.
As you know, the eight maids-a-milking concept has been under heavy
scrutiny by the EEOC. A male/female balance in the workforce is
being sought. The more militant maids consider this a dead-end job
with no upward mobility. Automation of the process may permit the
maids to try a-mending, a-mentoring or a-mulching.
Nine ladies dancing has always been an odd number. This function
will be phased out as these individuals grow older and can no longer
do the steps.
Ten Lords-a-leaping is overkill. The high cost of Lords plus the
expense of international air travel prompted the Compensation
Committee to suggest replacing this group with ten out-of-work
congressmen. While leaping ability may be somewhat sacrificed, the
savings are significant because we expect an oversupply of
unemployed congressmen this year.
Eleven pipers piping and twelve drummers drumming is a simple case of
the band getting too big. A substitution with a string quartet, a
cutback on new music and no uniforms will produce savings which will
drop right down to the bottom line.
We can expect a substantial reduction in assorted people, fowl,
animals and other expenses. Though incomplete, studies indicate
stretching deliveries over twelve days is inefficient. If we can
drop ship in one day, service levels will be improved.
Regarding the lawsuit filed by the attorney's association seeking
expansion to include the legal profession ("thirteen
lawyers-a-suing") action is pending.
Lastly, it is not beyond consideration that deeper cuts may be
necessary in the future to stay competitive. Should that happen, the
Board will request management to scrutinize the Snow White Division
to see if seven dwarfs is the right number.
Happy Holidays!
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Chipmunks roasting on an open fire
Jack Frost ripping up your nose
Yuletide carolers being thrown in the fire
And folks dressed up like buffaloes
Everybody knows a turkey slaughtered in the snow
Helps to make the season right
Tiny tots with their eyes all gouged out
Will find it hard to see tonight
They know that Santa's on his way
He's loaded lots of guns and bullets on his sleigh
And every mother's child is sure to spy
To see if reindeer really scream when they die
And so I'm offering this simple phrase
To kids from one to ninety two
Although it's been said many times, many ways
Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Fuck you!!
... And all I want for Christmas is my TWO FRONT TEETH.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
RUDOLPH'S LAST GOODNIGHT
-- by Darren Davis
For Gene Autry,
With all due respect.
The anger swelling in Rudolph's heart was the most dangerous kind of
anger, born of disappointment in people he had once looked up to, people
he wanted to be. He watched the elitism and disdain that had kept him on
the outside turn to sycophantic appreciation. He'd suffered so much at
their hands, but now that he could be of use, now that they could use the
very thing they had so mercilessly ridiculed, now he could join their
exclusive little club, their inner sanctum. They were practically begging
him. And the old man, the jolly old elf, that gin-reeking tub of guts
was the worst of all. The great giver, the kind benevolent saint of
charity was an alcoholic, adulterous lout who, nine months out of the year
was the living manifestation of torpor, inert as an iceberg and twice as
cold, and the other three months a ruthless, fascist slave-driver with no
concern for anything but his inflated reputation. And what of next year?
If the weather were clear would they let him ride with them? Would they
give him the place of honor at the head of the team? Somehow he doubted
it.
The phone rang. He lay motionless on the couch and let the machine get it.
"Rudy, buddy, howyadoin? It's Dash. Look, I'm having a little
get-together. Mostly just the guys but I think some babes may be
there. Stop by if you get a chance. And hey, great work last night.
You're the greatest man, I mean that. Okay, hope to see ya there.
Bye..... Did I say this was Dash? Okay buddy, bye."
He didn't move, pressed into the couch beneath a blanket of hatred and
disgust.
Dash was one of the worst offenders. When it became obvious that Rudolph
was going to be accepted by the team Dash, without missing a beat, had
turned his vicious attention on another young buck with a harelip named
Otto. During their smoking breaks on some of the rooftops Dash had done
impressions of Otto that had caused both lines to laugh so hard the big
man had threatened to whip the whole team. Rudolph remained facing front,
unable to speak and hating himself for it. It was this same self-loathing
that was fueling his present rage, and the knowledge that he would go to
the party and try to belong to this group he was quickly coming to hate.
He lay on the couch and wept.
Rudolph arrived at the party high as a kite with his nose a brilliant red.
It was an open secret that the whole team frequently used cocaine, but
Rudolph was new to the team and new to the drug. They had finished late
last night and were stopped over in Iceland for what Donner called, "the
old man's once-a-year thing," when Vic had passed Rudolph the small
envelope.
"There's plenty where that came from, just don't let the old man see
you with it."
As he was leaving for Dash's party he saw the envelope on the coffee
table. He picked it up and, thrusting his nose into the white powder
inhaled the whole amount. He had never felt so powerful, so limitless,
so ready to take on those eight smug, self-important, glorified
pack-mules.
Blitzen answered the door of Dash's apartment as high as Rudolph was.
"Whoa, Rudy, turn down the beak man, you're blinding me."
Rudolph's hoof went instinctively to his nose before he realized Blitzen
was making a joke. Too often in the past he had heard the same kind of
joke thrown at him like a knife, looking for blood.. Now Blitzen was
trying to break the ice by admitting, in his own indirect way, that he
had taunted Rudolph before as an outsider but would now tease him as a
friend. Given time he would come to discover that Blitzen jabbed at
everybody as a sign of affection, lacking the tools or the courage to
express his feelings in any other way, but for now it only served to
remind him of the humiliation he had been forced to endure. Rudolph
lowered his hoof as Blitzen shifted his weight nervously.
"Sorry buddy, just a joke. No hard feelings right? Look, you really came
through for us last night and that was cool. You are super-cool," he said
as he put his arm around Rudolph and gave him a brotherly squeeze.
Rudolph broke from the embrace silently and moved into the party.
Throughout the evening wherever he went, whatever cluster he approached,
the circle was immediately enlarged to include him. They listened when
he spoke and laughed at his jokes. Women looked into his eyes and held
his gaze, some even declining their head and staring at him in a way he
was unaccustomed to. In short, he was a celebrity. He had finally gained
access to this social circle and done so in such a resounding way he felt
as though he was not only lighter that air, he was air, the stuff of life
and inspiration. He was in their lungs, in their blood and brains. He
had become them.
He was off in the dark corner of a dark room with a young Doe named Dondi
when he heard laughter coming from somewhere in the apartment. He thought
at first the laughter was directed at him, having so often been the victim
of it, but it soon became obvious that a group had formed in one of the
front rooms and was laughing at something out there. Dondi tried to pull
him back into her embrace. He looked at her, her eyes large and soft in
the dull red glow of his nose, her eyes an invitation to the dance, and
yet the laughter drew him away from the warmth of her breath. He stumbled
through the dark hallway and out into the larger room where most of the
group had gathered to watch Dash, standing in the center of the room doing
a cruel imitation of Otto, the harelip reindeer. When Rudolph entered
the room Dash glanced in his direction and winked but didn't stop the
show. To Rudolph it was the clearest signal yet that he had become a
member of the group. He had a sudden impulse to vomit. Here was Dash
mocking poor Otto in the same way he must have mocked Rudolph at countless
parties before. And Rudolph was expected to join in, to laugh along with
the group as though he hadn't once been victim to its derision, as though
a lifetime of scorn could be forgiven with a nose full of fine Blue Flake
and the warm and willing arms of Dondi . There came a howling Rudolph
thought was the frozen Arctic wind, but when the room became silent and
shifted its attention away from Dash, Rudolph realized the howling was
coming from himself. The silence stretched tight across the room like
the head of a drum while Rudolph looked from face to face searching for
a ounce of shame, embarrassment even, but finding none. Then the laughter
started, slowly at first, like a dribbling faucet, nervous and unsure.
Building in intensity and confidence, the room was soon stuffed and
overflowing with it, pressing on Rudolph like the jaws of a vice. He made
a move for the door but was stopped by a hoof on his shoulder.
"Where ya' going Rudy," Prancer said.
Rudolph shook his hoof loose.
"Fuck off Prancer," he said, and shot out into the black-ice Arctic night.
Rudolph wandered with no destination for the better part of an hour, his
tears falling in frozen shards and crushed beneath his hooves while his
mind tried to free itself from the effects of the alcohol and cocaine.
The cocaine made his synapses fire at a much faster rate but the alcohol
served to cloud and misdirect them. By the time he arrived at Santa's a
course of action had cemented itself in his mind he was powerless to
redirect. He slipped silently into the workshop and moved to the large
mahogany case on the far wall. He opened it quietly and pulled down the
Remington 20 gauge, single barrel pump-action shotgun. With great care
he loaded the six shells into the magazine and put six more in the pouch
around his neck. He would start with the jolly old elf and then, when
they were sure to have partied themselves out, he would go back to Dash's
place and visit the herd. He pumped the gun to load the first shell.
He'd go down in history all right. Yeah, he would.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Government Shutdown
"Twas the week before Christmas and those sly little elves,
Our congressmen, labored to better themselves.
They cared not a whit what the public might think
"Let them eat cake," some said with a wink.
And putting their thumbs to the tip of their nose,
they waved as they shouted "Anything goes!"
They scoffed at the thought that we might object,
to a tax cut for the wealthy of a posh percent.
They've got prerequisites-franking, per diem, and more --
bargain-priced haircuts and gyms (three or four!)
Paid speaking engagements and meals on the cuff,
celebrity status -- (they've sure got it tough!),
Yet they claim they're in touch with the man on the street,
as John Q. Public struggles to make both ends meet.
If all workers decided what they were due,
they'd be getting those fat paychecks too!
But while we take cutbacks or raises quite small,
and one out of 20 has no job at all,
our millionaire Congress decides on the budget
land trimming Medicare and Medicaid will do it, they say.
In this season for giving, our Congress is taking.
We've had it with them and our backs are breaking.
With hard times, disasters, and layoffs on our dockets,
we bit the bullet and they fill their pockets!
Oh jobless, oh homeless, oh desperate and needy -
dare anyone say our Congress is greedy?
If in this feeling I'm not alone,
take up your pen or pick up your phone.
As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly,
let the road of your anger mount to the sky.
Indignant, outraged, appalled and beset
let your congressman know that you won't forget!
When election times comes -- and certain it will --
you're voting him out for passing that bill.
More rapid than eagles, their elections assured
they toasted each other and laughed at the herd.
And I heard them exclaim with adjournment at hand,
"Merry Christmas to us,
and the public (and Federal workers) be damned!
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Grepping in a '^(Unix|Wonderland)$'
(2the2nOfWintrWundrland)
CopyYeahRight 1994
cybervox@mercury.interpath.net
Let us ping, is it listening?
When you fing @snow.glistening
An ftp site, mgetting tonight,
Grepping in a '^(Unix|Wonderland)$'
Gone away: /usr/bin/sh,
Here to stay is tcsh
I'm in .deny (cron), my .newsrc's gone
Grepping in a '^(Unix|Wonderland)$'
In the rootdir we can build a shellscript
And pretend that it is parsing 'brown'
It echos 'Are you @ing?'
We'll say "No man."
But use expr when you're in town
Later we'll use vi
As we find for some files
To face and forsake
xmkmf when we make
Grepping in a '^(Unix|Wonderland)$'
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
The Bill Gates Song
-- (to the tune of "The Christmas Song")
Netscape roasting on an open fire,
Apple begging on its knees,
Photo popping up on Time magazine,
Yes, Bill Gates dreams of days like these!
Everybody knows he's never fully satisfied,
Throws himself behind each task,
World dominion is his company's goal.
Well, hey, is that so much to ask?
He knows the world is in his sway,
We'll buy whatever software he might toss our way,
We'll surf his Internet, watch his TV,
He'll take us anywhere we ask him-for a fee.
And so we're offering this simple prayer,
To Bill and all his MS grunts:
Since we all follow any standard you write,
Make it good, please,
Make it good, please,
Make it good, please, just once!
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Gil Amelio's Coming to Town!
-- (to the tune of "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town")
You better watch out,
Absurd as it sounds,
'Cause Apple's about
To lose a few pounds-
Gil Amelio's coming to town!
He's making a list,
And trimming the rolls
Of projects that missed
Their revenue goals-
Gil Amelio's coming to town!
He knows what's losing money,
Like eWorld, PowerTalk . . .
You'd better make your project work
Or prepare to take a walk!
Though you follow his lead
Right out the back door,
You know he'll succeed-
He's done it before!
Gil Amelio's coming to town!
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Microsoft
-- (to the tune of "Jingle Bells")
Nine-tenths of a gig,
Biggest ever seen,
God, this program's big-
MS Word 15!
Comes on ten CDs,
And requires-damn!
Word is fine, but jeez-
60 megs of RAM?!
Oh! Microsoft, Microsoft,
Bloatware all the way!
I've sat here installing Word
Since breakfast yesterday!
Oh! Microsoft, Microsoft,
Moderation, please.
Guess you hadn't noticed:
Four-gig drives don't grow on trees!
Happily Addicted to the Web
-- (to the tune of "Winter Wonderland")
Doorbell rings, I'm not list'nin',
>From my mouth, drool is glist'nin',
I'm happy-although
My boss let me go-
Happily addicted to the Web.
All night long, I sit clicking,
Unaware time is ticking,
There's beard on my cheek,
Same clothes for a week,
Happily addicted to the Web.
Friends come by; they shake me,
Saying, "Yo, man!
Don't you know tonight's the senior prom?"
With a listless shrug, I mutter, "No, man;
I just discovered letterman-dot-com!"
I don't phone, don't send faxes,
Don't go out, don't pay taxes,
Who cares if someday
They drag me away?
I'm happily addicted to the Web!
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Subject: A Holiday Wish
A HOLIDAY WISH
Best wishes for an environmentally conscious, socially responsible, low
stress, non-addictive, gender neutral winter solstice holiday, practiced
within the most joyous traditions of the religious persuasion of your
choice, yet with respect for the religious persuasions of others or their
choice not to practice religion at all;
and
a fiscally successful, personally fulfilling and medically uncomplicated
recognition of the generally accepted calendar year, 1997, but not without
due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures whose
contributions to our society have helped make America great, without
regard to the race, creed, color, religious or sexual preference of the
wishes.
(This greeting is subject to clarification or withdrawal, it implies no
promise by the wishor to actually attempt to implement any of the wishes
for her/himself or others.)
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Today's Christmas Technology
This year I bought several new strings of Christmas lights, the
fancy kind that flash multiple different light patterns. Several days
after putting them up on the Christmas Tree, I noticed that one string
was "stuck"; the lights did not flash. I thought it was somewhat strange
that the lights would be "stuck", as I knew that the light controller was
electronic, with no mechanical parts to get "stuck".
I unplugged and plugged in the lights, and pressed the button on
the light controller box until the lights started working again.
I had walked a few steps away when it struck me what had just
happened:
The light string was controlled by state-machine firmware.
In other words, it was run by computer software.
I had just experienced a Christmas light firmware crash.
I had just rebooted my Christmas lights.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Return of the Grinch
-- by James Ricci (with apologies to Dr. Seuss)
Way up in his cave north of Who-ville, the Grinch
Was enjoying retirement; life was a cinch.
He played on his PC and tweaked other hacks
And talked of old times with his aged dog, Max.
He rarely went down to the town of the Whos,
Save to stock up on roast beast and Who-hash and booze.
He preferred not to rub on the slow-healing sore
Of his near-theft of Christmas two decades before.
Well, one day as Grinch sat keyboarding on-line,
Some E-mail arrived of intriguing design:
"Please, Mr. Grinch, let me come visit you."
The message was signed by one "Cindy-Lou Who."
"Cindy-Lou Who," though the Grinch, "Cindy-Lou Who,
"Now, who is this Who name of Cindy-Lou Who?"
He scratched his head hard till his memory expanded -
Ah, she'd been the tot who had caught him red-handed
All those long years ago when, with devilish glee,
He'd been making away with her folks' Christmas tree!
So Grinch swept his cave of its Grinchy debris,
And combed out his fur to receive company,
This Cindy-Lou Who, who was now twenty-two,
A graduate student at East Who-ville U.,
Her voice was no longer the coo of a dove,
But firm and commanding, as if from Above.
She wasted few words in unveiling her plan:
She wanted the Grinch to steal Christmas - again!
"Since your last theft attempt, time has taken its toll;
"Now Who-ville's Christmas deserves to be stole,"
said Cindy-Lou in a most righteous tone
(Grinch captivated by how much she'd grown!).
"Back then when you took all the presents away,
"We Whos nonetheless celebrated the day.
"But now no one holds hands, and nobody sings.
"All we Whos care for is getting more things.
"The radio broadcasts Yule songs in July,
"To pump up the Whos to get out there and buy,
"Lest Christmas morn, when they rise from their sleep,
"The gifts 'neath the tree aren't eleven feet deep.
"The whole, long ordeal leaves most every-Who stressed,
"Exhausted, debt-ridden and deeply depressed.
"Oh, we must stop this madness, we must, must, must, must!
"Before the day's meaning has turned all to dust."
Said Grinch, "Heaven's sakes, Missy, why come to me?
"I can't steal Christmas - I'm seventy-three."
Said she, "Oh, I know that you'll think of a plan;
"You did it before, you can do it again."
Then she gave to old Grinch, to ensure his enthralled-ness,
A daughterly kiss on his male-pattern baldness,
Making him blush underneath all his fur
And vow to himself, "I will do it - for her."
So Grinchy dug out the old Santy Claus suit
That, in the first heist, was his best attribute.
Then he called his dog, Max, and took some red thread,
And tied a big horn on the doggy's old head.
He hitched up the pooch to a ramshackle sleigh,
Which he filled up with sacks for to haul loot away.
Then he waited for darkness to fall on the town,
And told Max, "Giddap," and began the trip down.
On the south edge of Who-ville, a newly built part,
He came to a stop at the giant Who-Mart.
Grinchily sly, he slunk in a side door
And filled up a sack with goods from Aisle 4.
But he saw as he picked through the toys and CDs,
No bag in the world could contain all of these.
All Christmas was stealable two decades before;
Today you could not make a dent in one store!
Just then he heard footsteps and looked up to see
Security guards coming 'round from Aisle 3.
He tugged on the sack, but he just couldn't budge it;
And time was a-wasting, as Grinchy adjudged it.
So he ran from the store, oh, he ran, ran, ran, ran,
Ran faster than ever in his whole life span.
Flogging poor Max like some poor galley slave,
He barely escaped to his hideaway cave.
Looking down on the town, the Grinch pondered his fix:
"Surely there's more in my old bag of tricks."
On what thing, he wondered, did Christmas depend,
The supply of which he, Grinch, might act to suspend?
"Why, batteries, of course!" he told Max (who just looked).
"Without them, this Christmas' goose will be cooked!"
So, with squirt gun and mask, he headed off straight
With Max and the sleigh to the new Interstate.
"When the truck full of batteries comes down the road,"
The Grinch-jacker chortled, "We'll hijack its load!"
Max, for his part, felt unsure and afraid
To be used, at his age, as a street barricade.
At last came the semi, and Grinchy yelled, "Stop!"
And brandished his squirt gun like some kind of cop.
But the truck just roared on, and it knocked the Grinch flat
And crunched through the sleigh - and, well, that was that.
Lucky for Grinch, he'd just joined HMO -
The truck broke his hinch bone and linch bone and toe.
"I can still use my hands," Grinch told Max (who just snored),
And sat himself down at his PC keyboard.
"I'll make a computer bug cripple and maim
"Every Who-ville computer and video game.
"All Christmas purists will surely admire us
"When they see the effects of our cyberspace virus."
Grinch started to program, oh, he hacked, hacked, hacked,
And soon had a virus all set too attack.
He was poised to press ENTER and set off the plague
When he heard a loud knock on the door of his cave.
"Police! Open up!" came the shout from outside
The hair stood at attention on Grinchy's scared hide
The cops bashed the door down, the impatient toughs;
They read Grinch his rights, and then slapped on the cuffs.
Through Grinch-prints they'd traced him and made the charge stand:
Attempted hijacking and larceny, grand.
Another fact made Grinch's plight still more tender -
He might go to trial as a repeat offender.
And so Grinchy landed in Who-ville's Who's-gow
Along with poor Max, his reluctant bow-bow.
They cowered in corners and tried to steer clear
Of guys with tattoos and lascivious leers.
Then one day a visitor came to see Grinch;
His suit looked hand-tailored, each exquisite inch.
Reading his business card, jailbird Grinch saw:
"Robert Shapir-who, Attorney-at-Law."
"I'm taking your case," said the lawyer, "and, too,
"My fees will be paid by Ms. Cindy-Lou Who.
"I'll make you a hero, role model, the works.
"They'll never convict you, the slow-witted jerks."
Shapir-Who sent Grinch super-agent Mike Who-vitz,
Who soon orchestrated a media-zoo blitz.
Newspapers headlined, "Grinch motives were pure."
Talk-show hosts called his confinement "manure."
A hurry-up movie was made of his plight.
He spoke, live, with Who-prah via satellite.
Everyone talked of his brave, lonely quest
To bring Christmas back to an era more blessed.
His fame soon surpassed more illustrious names,
And led to Grinch dolls, bikes and video games,
Which all hit the shelves just in time for Yule sales,
And made for store profits of unheard-of scales.
"Grinch," said Shapir-who, "with this latest deal,
You're sure to be bigger than Shaquille Who'Neal."
Bigger than Shaq? That thought took Grinch aback!
But he did have endorsements too many to track.
At his trial, crowds applauded when Grinchy stepped forth,
Looking nobly self-righteous as Who-liver North.
His lawyer orated, oh, he talked, talked, talked, talked -
And the jury acquitted the Grinch, in a walk.
After, a limousine whisked Grinchy home -
Not too a cave, but a new pleasure-dome
With thirty-four rooms and a house staff of three,
Who toasted with bubbly his being set free.
Next morning, while Grinch lounged in opulent glitz,
Discussing residuals with agent Who-vitz,
The butler announced with pretentious ado,
"A certain Ms. Who has arrived to see you."
Grinch put down his cell-phone and tightened his tie,
And straightened the brow over each Grinchy eye.
But Cindy-Lou scoffed at his mansion and loot,
And, smirking, derided his Who-mani suit.
"I was foolish," she spat, "thinking you'd lift the curse.
"You didn't save Christmas, you just made things worse."
Said Grinch, in a half-hearted, mumbly way:
"I tried to do right - it just happened to pay."
But his high spirits fell, oh they fell, fell, fell, fell,
They could not have fallen more if they'd fell in a well.
And suddenly Grinchy knew what he must do
To regain the esteem of Ms. Cindy-Lou Who.
Straight off he called up his financial advisor,
Knowing his wishes were sure to surprise her,
And he emptied his savings and 401Ks,
Got rid of his stocks and his fat IRAs.
He sold off the mansion and world-class wine cellar,
Sold the cigar boat with corkscrew propeller.
Grinch rented the Who-Dome and gave dinner, free,
To twenty-eight thousand, eight hundred and three.
And not only Whos but all Whats, Whys and Hows
>From neighboring villages, cities and towns.
Homeless and friendless, the rich and the poor -
No living creature was turned from the door.
The menu was Who-hash and prime-rib roast beast,
And plum cakes and loaves of bread baked with Who-yeast.
But before the feast started, all present joined hands
And sang Christmas songs played by two dozen bands.
And all, intermingling, wished all others well,
And couldn't remember so fine a Noel.
Impressed, Cindy-Lou gave the Grinch a great hug
And planted a smooch on his Grinchy old mug.
"You failed to steal Christmas," she whispered, "and yet
"You've set an example we'll never forget."
And afterward, Grinchy went home to his cave,
Quite pleased with himself and the Christmas he gave.
He felt that his heart, once two sizes too small,
Could now scarcely fit inside Carnegie Hall.
"It just goes to show," he said, nodding his head,
"You get more from giving than getting ahead.
"You're richer admired than rich-and-reviled."
He patted the head of old Max (who just smiled).
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
The "Politically Correct" Days of Christmas...
On the 12th day of the Eurocentrically imposed midwinter festival, my
Significant Other in a consenting adult, monogamous relationship gave to
me:
TWELVE Males reclaiming their inner warrior through ritual drumming,
ELEVEN Pipers piping (plus the 18-member pit orchestra made up of
members in good standing of the Musicians Equity Union
as called for in their union contract even though they will
not be asked to play a note),
TEN Melanin deprived testosterone-poisoned scions of the patriarchal
ruling class system leaping,
NINE Persons engaged in rhythmic self-expression,
EIGHT economically disadvantaged female persons stealing milk-products
from enslaved Bovine-Americans,
SEVEN Endangered swans swimming on federally protected wetlands,
SIX enslaved Fowl-Americans producing stolen non-human animal products,
FIVE Golden symbols of culturally sanctioned enforced domestic
incarceration, (NOTE: after members of the Animal Liberation Front
threatened to throw red paint at my computer, the calling birds,
French hens and partridge have been reintroduced to their native
habitat. To avoid further Animal-American enslavement, the
remaining gift package has been revised.)
FOUR Hours of recorded whale songs,
THREE Deconstructionist poets,
TWO Sierra Club calendars printed on recycled processed tree carcasses
and...
ONE Spotted Owl activist chained to an old-growth pear tree.
Merry Christmas Happy Chanukah. Good Kwanzaa. Blessed Yule. Oh, heck!
Happy Holidays!!!! (unless otherwise prohibited by law)*
*Unless, of course, you are suffering from Seasonally Affected Disorder
(SAD). If this be the case, please substitute this gratuitous call for
celebration with suggestion that you have a thoroughly adequate day.
------------------------------
Date: Fri, 19 Dec 1997 11:05:05 -0500 (EST)
From: Nev Dull <nev@bostic.com>
Subject: The Christmas Trousers
To: nev@bostic.com (/dev/null)
Forwarded-by: Tim Ruddick <TRuddick@UU.NET>
Forwarded-by: Nick Ruddick <nick_ruddick@MENTORG.COM>
Forwarded-by: Ron & Sandy Klopf [SMTP:rsklopf@bendnet.com]
The following is a true story:
THE CHRISTMAS TROUSERS
Roy Collette and his brother-in-law have been exchanging the same pair of
pants as a Christmas present for 11 years -- and each time the package
gets harder to open. This year the pants came wrapped in a car mashed into
a 3-foot cube.
The trousers are in the glove compartment of a 1974 Gremlin. Now
Collette's plotting his revenge -- if he can get them out. It all started
when Collette received a pair of moleskin trousers from his
brother-in-law, Larry Kunkel of Bensenville, Ill. Kunkel's mother had
given her son the britches when he was a college student. He wore them
a few times, but they froze stiff in cold weather and he didn't like them.
So he gave them to Collette.
Collette, who called the moleskins "miserable", wore them three times,
then wrapped them up and gave them back to Kunkel for Christmas the next
year. The friendly exchange continued routinely until Collette twisted
the pants tightly, stuffed them into a 3-foot-long, 1-inch wide tube and
gave them back to Kunkel.
The next Christmas, Kunkel compressed the pants into a 7-inch square,
wrapped them with wire and gave the "bale" to Collette. Not to be
outdone, the next year Collette put the pants into a 2-foot-square crate
filled with stones, nailed it shut, banded it with steel and gave the
trusty trousers back to Kunkel.
The brothers agreed to end the caper if the trousers were damaged. But
they were as careful as they were clever.
Kunkel had the pants mounted inside an insulated window that had a 20-year
guarantee and shipped them off to Collette.
Collette broke the glass, recovered the trousers, stuffed them into a
5-inch coffee can and soldered it shut. The can was put in a 5-gallon
container filled with concrete and reinforcing rods and given to Kunkel
the following Christmas.
Two years ago, Kunkel installed the pants in a 225-pound homemade steel
ashtray made from 8-inch steel casings and etched Collette's name on the
side. Collette had trouble retrieving the treasured trousers, but
succeeded without burning them with a cutting torch.
Last Christmas, Collette found a 600-pound safe and hauled it to Viracon
Inc. in Owatonna, where the shipping department decorated it with red and
green stripes, put the pants inside and welded the safe shut. The safe
was then shipped to Kunkel, who is the plant manager for Viracon's outlet
in Bensenville.
A few weeks ago, the pants were trucked to Owatonna, 55 miles south of
Minneapolis, in a drab green, 3-foot cube that once was a car with 95,000
miles on it. A note attached to the 2,000-pound scrunched car advised
Collette that the pants were inside the glove compartment. "This will
take some planning," Collette said. "I will definitely get them out. I'm
confident." But he's waiting until January to think about how to recover
the bothersome britches.
"Wait until next year," he warned. "I'm on the offensive again."
------------------------------
Date: Fri, 19 Dec 1997 01:04:24 -0500
From: spaf (Gene Spafford)
Subject: The Dad: This is really weird
To: important-people
While putting together another of my Yucks digests, I ran across this
in the "submission" bin. It's odd, all right, but not quite the kind
of thing I normally put in Yucks (although I may change my mind on
this one).
However, with the Christmas season upon us, and everyone in need of
extra cash, I thought I'd forward this on to all of you. I don't
think I'll make any comment other than "There are people out there
*MUCH* stranger than I am, and even scarier than that, they have
Internet access."
No, one other comment: "Reality is far stranger than anything I could
make up."
And please -- don't tell me you are already a client!
--spaf
------- Forwarded Message
From: The Dad <scottlee@mindspring.com>
To: spaf
Subject: This is really weird
Date: Thu, 14 Nov 1996 06:39:36 -0500
Newsgroups: alt.california,ak.general,alabama.general,atl.general,austin.genera
l,az.general,ba.general,ca.general,compuserve.general,dc.general,dfw.general,fl
.general,houston.general,kc.general,la.general,md.general,memphis.general
Subject: Women sell your underwear anonymously for $$$
Date: Wed, 13 Nov 1996 19:42:27 -0500
X-Sender: jlaird@mail
Women sell your underwear anonymously. You can stop and start selling
your panties anytime of the year. Its great for tax time or emergency
repairs or whatever.
If you sell 20 pairs you get a check for $140! Some of that would go to
replacing the panties, something you'd have to do any way sooner or later
anyway. If you did it full time, you could make a $1000 a yr in tax free
profit.
After you take em off you just drop them in the mail in a manilla
envelope. Your first name will be on the back so i can tell who's who (you
can use your middle name if you want). Minutes a day of work.
I am the email front. You NEVER talk or email customers. I do it. You
just drop the stuff in the mail and forget about it, then cash the check!
Feel free to tell your girlfriends about this great deal. I'm sorry if i
offended anyone.
J. Michael Laird jlaird@mail.bcpl.lib.md.us
http://www.bcpl.lib.md.us/~jlaird/jlaird.html
------- End of Forwarded Message
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 24 Dec 1997 13:05:01 -0500 (EST)
From: Nev Dull <nev@bostic.com>
Subject: Think of yourself as Christopher Robin, the enabler.
To: nev@bostic.com (/dev/null)
Forwarded-by: "Keith E. Sullivan" <KSullivan@worldnet.att.net>
DO THE HOLIDAYS RIGHT
-- by Karen Finley
The most memorable Christmases are the ones that are ruined. It's a
real art to be able to invite just the right amount of sibling rivalry
and drunkenness with overall holiday hesitation and guilt to provide a
good time for all. The idea is to invite unresolved conflict and
resolve it right at your dinner table. That will make the food more
memorable.
Start by inviting friends or family that you have had an argument with
recently and tell them you intend to bury the hatchet at this year's
holidays. Ask if they would please join you for dinner. When they
accept, the stage is set for a memorable holiday for years to come.
Also invite family members who have been squabbling and are seeing one
another in your living room for the very first time since the argument.
Now, that is no easy accomplishment, I might add, and I do add.
One method that I use when inviting guest is to think of the
Hundred-Acre Wood and its residents for a good overall psychological
profile. Think of yourself as Christopher Robin, the enabler. Invite
someone like Winnie-the-Pooh with an eating disorder. Invite a
passive-regressive type like Rabbit. Get that mother-attachment thing
happening like with a Kanga and a Roo. Add an insecure guest with low
self-esteem like Piglet, mix in a know-it-all such as Owl, and a
manic-depressive such as Tigger. Now that's what I call a guest list.
Here are some pointers to ensure a memorable holiday:
1. Once the guest have arrived. Everyone needs some warming up and here
is the guaranteed ice breaker I use and it works every time: kindly ask
you squabbling guests to reenact their disagreement.
2. Always have plenty of alcoholic beverages on hand.
3. Continue repetitive prodding questions about the original argument.
4. If you have to, take a side.
5. If still nothing is happening, quietly take a guest to the kitchen
and tell her you can side with her position.
6. While they are brewing and stewing, now is the time to start making
fun of siblings like you did as children.
7. Start calling sibling names that were used as children (i.e., Jowls,
Stutter Butter).
8. Make that scapegoat work his holiday! Go to past incidents where the
sibling made a fool of himself.
9. Always invite non-family members. A good heated moment is when a
family member tells a non-family member, "Do you want to hear about the
time my brother put my Barbie doll in the toilet and it wasn't number
one in there?" When the non-family member says, "not really," we know
that is when we are on the way to a truly unforgettable holiday
experience.
10. At this point yell out "Dinner!" so that no one can leave. The big
fear of Christmas is to be alone and forgotten and have no food, so no
matter what happens, your guests won't leave. Always have your guests
wait for food. Not eating always makes the crankiness edge go up.
11. Still, if no guests have had an outburst, start telling embarrassing
stories about your guests. This time talk about the non-family members
and try to get your family to gang up on your guests. Go around the
table till dessert and coffee. Hopefully, by this time someone passes
out, pukes, or breaks something.
DON'T WORRY, THEY WILL ALL BE BACK NEXT YEAR!
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 23 Dec 1997 10:05:04 -0500 (EST)
From: Nev Dull <nev@bostic.com>
Subject: Xmas
To: nev@bostic.com (/dev/null)
Forwarded-by: "Keith E. Sullivan" <KSullivan@worldnet.att.net>
TOP TEN THINGS OVERHEARD IN SANTA'S WORKSHOP
>From the Late Show with David Letterman, December 20, 1995
10. "Whose tiny fingers are these in the table saw?"
9. "The Keebler Elves? Yeah, making cookies... there's a tough gig"
8. "Hey Santa, it's Anna Nicole Smith on the phone for you"
7. "You know Rudolph's 'naturally read nose'? Collagen injection"
6. "Uh-oh -- looks like Fat Boy drank his lunch again"
5. "Shut down the assembly line for the 'Central Park West' action figures"
4. "Which gifts should we plant at O.J.'s house?"
3. "Whew! Mia Farrow sure has a lot of kids!"
2. "Someday I'm gonna make it outta here, just like Ross Perot did"
1. "It may be jiggling like a bowl of jelly, but it ain't his tummy"
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End of Yucks Digest
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