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Yucks Digest V1 #27

Yucks Digest                Thu, 28 Feb 91       Volume 1 : Issue  27 

Today's Topics:
               Closed-captioned for the irony impaired
                           cyberpunk parody

The "Yucks" digest is a moderated list of the bizarre, the unusual, the
possibly insane, and the (usually) humorous.  It is issued on a
semi-regular basis, as the whim and time present themselves.

Back issues may be ftp'd from arthur.cs.purdue.edu from
the ~ftp/pub/spaf/yucks directory.  Material in archives
Mail.1--Mail.4 is not in digest format.

Submissions should be sent to spaf@cs.purdue.edu

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Date: Thu, 28 Feb 91 08:35:05 -0800
From: bostic@okeeffe.Berkeley.EDU (Keith Bostic)
Subject: Closed-captioned for the irony impaired
To: /dev/null@okeeffe.Berkeley.EDU

On page 3 of the latest "Wireless" catalog of stuff from Minnesota
Public Radio appear the following two items, one right below the other
in the same column:

	A Thunderbirds/Blue Angels Video

	Hold your breath as the Navy Blue Angels, flying the F-18 Hornet
	Fighter, demonstrate the dangerous "Knife Edge Pass" and other
	maneuvers that make them the best-known flying demonstration
	team in the history of aviation.  Watch the Air Force
	Thunderbirds take off in the F-16 Falcon, the world's most
	maneuverable fighter, and execute the "Arrowhead," the "Cross
	Over Break," and their trademark "Bomb Burst."  One hour, color;
	VHS.
	#15358, $29.95

	B A Bake Sale for Bombers Sweatshirt and T-Shirt

	"It will be a great day when our schools get all the money they
	need and the air force has to hold a bake sale to buy a bomber."
	This design by the Women's International League for Peace and
	Freedom reminds us to rethink our priorities...and put our
	children first.  White 50/50 cotton blend sweatshirt; 100%
	cotton T-shirt.  Please select adult M(28-40), L(42-44),
	XL(46-48).  Made in U.S.A.
	Sweatshirt #17025, $25.00
	T-shirt #17024, $15.00

------------------------------

Date: 28 Feb 91 11:30:04 GMT
From: stevec@bu-pub.bu.edu (Steve Connelly)
Subject: cyberpunk parody
Newsgroups: rec.humor.funny

[This is long, but if you're familiar with tales of Oz and Cyberpunk,
it's *very* well-done and funny.   --spaf]

NOTE: This story originally appeared in alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo, a group whose
postings are stories that take place in a virtual dystopia of high tech and 
street violence in the vein of William Gibson's novel, `Neuromancer'....

			   The Guru of News
			   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

	I had logged myself into the computer-generated bar room as a little, 
furry, harmless dog.  I didn't want trouble.  I needed to read the 
X Windows/Motif 1.1 manual, so I came to the bar and asked Ratz to fix the 
documentation data in liquid form for me.  It made a bitter, painful drink, but
it was better than spending days turning pages in realspace.
	Ratz put a bucket of liquid in front of me.  
	"I wanted a glass of docs, Ratz.  What the hell is this?" I barked.
	"Motif don't fit in a glass anymore," he barked back.
	I looked at the liquid.  It was totally opaque to me.
	Then someone yelled.  The surveillance screen had identified an 
attacker.  We had three seconds before it got to the bar. Everyone ducked 
under the furniture and pulled weapons.  Since I was too small a target to 
register, I just sat back and watched the action.
	A Hunter-Killer blew a hole in the wall right next to the doorless
doorway.  This Killer used spells instead of weapons.  The design was humanoid,
but oxidation of the copper skin had turned it green.  It wore black robes and 
a cone-shaped, aerodynamic black hat.
	It raised its broomstick to let fly some more pyro, but then it was 
crushed by a farm house that fell from the sky.  
	Nobody moved.  A young girl reluctantly stepped out of the house, her
eyes wide.  She wasn't in streetware, just a frilly dress and pigtails.  Not 
your typical annihilatrix.  As a matter of fact, she was a sweet piece, young 
and fresh.  I decided I might like to cut myself a slice of this action.  I 
jumped off my bar stool, looked cute, trotted over and jumped up into her arms.
She caught me and started petting me.  She said, "Doggie, it doesn't look like 
we're dialed into Kansas Public Access Unix anymore."
	Then a tall angular woman came out from under cover.  She wore battle 
leathers, chain mail, knee-high boots, and steel blue op-implants.  Her 
fingerknives were just retracting back under her flesh and her back-ratcheting 
Harley-Bronson chain gun was spinning down.
	The new girl obviously hadn't seen a razorgirl before, and she held me 
tight to her bosom.  This was working out well for me.
	The razorqueen said, "Christ!  You dusted an HK!  That was the 
Hokusai-Sendai Witch of the Far East, their best magic weaver.  What're you 
packin', sister?"
	"Who are you?" my girl asked.
	"You don't know?  I synthesized the geometry for this bar.  I'm 
Liralen Li, the Good Witch of the Pacific Northwest."  She shouted to everyone 
else that it was safe, and the other customers came out from hiding.  The 
visitor was astonished by the many dwarves that had been in hiding.  Liralen 
explained, "They're bonsai ninja, you know, a strain of samurai engineered to 
grow small like bonsai trees.  They're very quiet and can hide anywhere.  
You're not from around here, are you, sister?"
	"No.  But a while ago I jacked into the system and now I can't get
out.  I'm stuck in the cyberspace."
	Stuck?  That's weird, I thought.  I was close enough to her construct 
that I could follow her connection back to its realspace origin.  She had 
jacked into a simple simulation called `Preparing Your Home for a Natural 
Disaster', but now she was flatlining.  The contents of her mind had been 
sucked into the matrix.  If she got killed in virtual space, there'll be no 
mind left for real space.
	"What are you called?" Liralen asked her.  "I don't mean true name, 
I mean virtual name, battle name."
	"Battle name?  I don't have one."
	"In that case, warrior," Liralen smiled, "We shall call you Ruby."
	Why `Ruby'?, I wondered.  A ruby is red like a cherry, so a ruby is 
a cherry that that will never be broken.  Oh no, is my new girl a ruby?
	Someone yelled, "Attacker rezzing up!"  Tables were again overturned
and weapons were ready to spit a hundred mercury-filled copper-jacketed
hollowpoints at the cloudy entity taking shape in the center of the room.  
The cloud congealed into an identical sister of the crushed Killer.  Instead of
hitting us with bio-lysis vectors, the Killer went straight for the crushed 
sister.  It tried to take some shimmering, polished red shoes off the dead 
legs.  But the shoes disappeared from the crushed witch, which derezzed.  The 
treads appeared on Ruby.  
	Liralen smirked, "To the victor go the spoils.  The new chick becomes
owner of the dead hag's functionality, and only owner has `execute' 
privileges."
	The witch screeched, "Give me those slippers."  She reached for the 
girl's legs but Liralen had slapped a serious non-intrusion field on them that 
fried the witch's fingers.  The witch retreated.  While scanning herself out 
of the bar, she screamed, "The ruby slippers will be mine.  I'll get you, my 
pretty.  And your little dog, too!"  
	Suck broomstick, bullet head.
	Ruby asked Liralen how she could get out of the matrix.  She didn't
know, but she knew the shoes were powerful enough to provide an answer.  "The 
rubies refract the optical data so that it's accessible holographically, and 
it operates at exactly one wavelength so that with simple harmonics the signal
is maintained by constructive interference.  But I can't figure out how they're
modulated externally...."  She assured us that the witch couldn't use their 
power while Ruby wore them.  She had heard of an expert on cyberspace, an 
entity called the Guru of News, who resided at the terminating node of 
YelloNet.  People claimed he was the greatest computer mind imaginable....

	I went with the babe along YelloNet.  If I helped her, maybe she'd give
up some of the goodies.  She seemed attracted to me.  It helps to be hairy 
like a foreign guy.  
	I led the way.  She was clueless, which is just how I like them.  An 
old-fashioned girl.  You don't see many like her on the network.  Most of the 
chicks I see, with their razornails, retracting fangs, and strychnine-tipped 
barbed pubic wire, they're just so... independent.
	For some reason, Ruby decided to make friends with every skin job and
genetic fuckup on YelloNet.  First, we met an herbanoid, a genetic experiment
that involved a vegetative covering over a human head and bodily armature, 
creating a warrior who could survive on nothing but sunlight and water.  He 
told Ruby how badly he needed a brain augmentation.  Like who doesn't.  But my 
chick thought the Guru of News could help him, so he joined us.  I wondered if
barley dick was making a play for my woman, but it was okay.  This chummer 
wasn't too bright, and he had mega problems with his locomotor mechanicals.
	The three of us came upon a guy with the sorriest prosthetic body armor
job I've ever seen.  He was a total makeover; only the brain was original
equipment.  He didn't even have a synthflesh covering, just plain uncontoured 
titanium-beryllium.  He told the chick he desperately wanted emotion implants, 
and she invited him along.  I had metal head take the point, since he'd made
us a radar hot spot.
	The four of us encountered a lion who was in an advanced stage of
chemical intellect enhancement.  He walked upright and could speak.  He had
the hyper-wants for fear blockers to be included in the hormone treatments so 
he'd be bad enough to head-honch his burgh.  The lion needed the disinhibitors,
and some hype wouldn't hurt either; he wasn't the type who would cover your 
back in a face-off with a bunch of BronxSprawl hyenaboys.  Naturally, my 
chick suggested he go with us to the Guru of News.

	We finally got to the YelloNet terminus, where there was serious 
graphics, including a huge gleaming green tower and walls enclosing an entire 
city.  Everything was green;  I wondered if that meant the cyberjock behind it 
had access to EPA computer banks, or maybe Federal Reserve computers....
	There was a phasic defense layer.  The ruby slippers cracked it in a 
second, but I didn't know how.  
	We were welcomed into their system.  The chick was impressed by some
horse with real-time setcolor.  Big deal.  The happy natives enhanced our 
visuals, and we went to the big interface.
	We entered a huge vaulted cathedral.  At the front was an altar, a
construct of the Guru of News.  From the haze emerged two glowering hollow eyes
suspended above an angry mouth.  He had cyberspace abilities ultra deluxe, and 
the attitude to match.  I tried to get close enough to trace his connection 
back, but flames shot up from the altar and booming aurals pushed us away.  
	We told him what we needed.  We offered to pay him, but he said he did
not take money.  No money?  His chariot was definitely pulled by Federal 
Reserve horses.  The Guru said that he would magically appear and give us what 
we wanted as soon as we snagged the source of the witch's power, her 
broomstick.  If I'd had a humanoid construct, I would've asked him if he was 
outa his fuckin' mind.  But, like I said, I didn't want trouble.
	We left the emerald construct and wandered the matrix, more clueless 
than ever.  Everyone was frightened of what virtual beasts they may encounter.
Did they think about what it would be like to jack out and find that the witch 
had nulled your credit chip?  How about if the witch fingered you as a 
compatible neuron donor to be used for spare parts in the brain rejuvenation 
of an impossibly rich German technomogul? 
	We soon found something to agree on fearing.  I recognized the witch's
armada of chimpanzees, soggy with evolution accelerators and operating 
implanted wings with control taps in the spinal cord.  It was FTP, the Flying 
Transportation Primates.  They swooped down and picked us off the ground, and 
in seconds all our data had been transferred into the witch's camp.

	Surrounded by the witch's armed minions, we were marched back to 
the bar room where we started.  As the mindless guards marched, they chanted 
in hex, "...Oh Eee Oh, Oh One...."  
	We came to bar room's defense surveillance screen.  The guards stayed 
behind while the witch walked us five prisoners into the bar room.  
	When we entered the room, there was no sign of life except for the
laser sights wandering like 2D lightning bugs over the witch's robes.  
	The witch shouted, "Liralen Li, I've come to make a deal.  Take your 
force field off the ruby slippers and change their protection so that both you 
and I have group access.  Then both of us can learn the powers of the slippers.
Otherwise the white girl is toast."
	From her hiding place, Liralen muttered, "If she kills the flatlining
chick, it's real death, not just virtual.  I'm feeling a pang of compassion;
I thought I had all that removed surgically.  Besides, the ruby slippers are 
complex; by the time the witch learns how they work, maybe I'll have learned 
to use them too."  She came out from her cover.  "Ok, hag, I'll do biz.  As 
of now, we both have access to the treads.  Now free the girl and go get a nose
job."
	But the witch did not leave.  Red laser light spread from the shoes 
throughout the room.  It heated all metal objects until they glowed.  Leather 
and skin seared, and guns, arrows, shinjuki, razorfrisbees, shields, and darts 
hit the floor.  
	The light subsided, giving way to the witch's rasping cackle.  
	Liralen growled, "The bitch already knows how to use the slippers!"
She lunged toward the slippers, but the witch's new defense screen bounced her 
back.
	"Careful, Liralen," the witch smarmed, "I wouldn't want you to hurt 
yourself before I can torture you.  The ruby slippers have several forms of 
torture, accessible via a simple interface involving the clicking of the 
heels."  The witch lectured while the rest of us prayed to virtual gods, who 
sent down virtual answers.  "For instance, a single heel click would turn your 
face inside-out and then splash you with aftershave.  A double click would 
fill each neuron cell body with Drano.  On the other hand, three clicks forces 
a jack out to realspace.  This is intriguing, as it would allow me to jack my 
mind into your realspace body, overwriting your mind...."
	Liralen cowered on the floor, powerless.  "I gave her the ruby 
slippers on a silver platter," she muttered.  "I'm a cyberputz...."
	Ruby was clicking her heels together, but nothing happened.  The witch 
shook her head in pity.  "It appears you don't have access to the interface, 
my pretty."
	The girl squealed thinly, "You're a terrible, horrible person."  She
picked up my bucket of Motif documentation liquid and threw it on the witch.
	Obviously, this didn't do anything.  
	The witch was omnipotent, she'd had terminal PMS even before she was 
soaked with my bucket, and I was a small defenseless dog.  Perfect.  Just 
perfect.
	The witch screeched to the girl, "That was foolish.  I'm inclined to 
move the floorboards under your feet and perform a single heel click."  The 
purple of rage was showing through the green skin.  "You know what one click
could do to your cute little dog's head?  Huh?  In a text widget with default
translations, one click would grab the keyboard focus and begin appending 
characters to the inter-client clipboard's primary selection buffer.  That's 
what it would do!"
	The bonsai ninja looked at each other quizzically.  The witch's brow 
furrowed for a moment, but then was rejuvenated with rage.  "Forget one heel 
click.  Let me remind you of the exquisite agony of two heel clicks?  Two 
clicks in the command history list of a command widget would remove the first 
item from the history list if it has XmNhistoryMaxItems items, append the
selected list item to the history buffer, and clear the command edit what the
fuck'm I talking about?"
	Liralen murmured, "It's Motif.  She's confusing her interface with
a Motif interface - "
	"Quiet!  I am still omnipotent!" the witch cried.  "You are nothing.
You are all but subwidgets in a composite container whose logical tab group I 
have registered the traversal order of.  I can merely point at you and your
popup dialogue will be unmapped unless XmNautoUnmanage is False."
	She collapsed to her knees.  "Help me.  I'm becoming a Motif dweeb." 
She begged, "Couldn't you have just poured something on me that would have 
melted me to an agonizing death...?"  
	It was such a pitiful sight that we would have helped her if we could.
But it was too late.  The complexity, the obscurity, the pettiness, the fact
that XmNcolumns and XmNnumColumns do the same thing but they're different but
there's no message if you use the wrong one, they had already claimed her.
	
	Ruby picked up the witch's broomstick.  Immediately the far wall of 
the room gave way to enormous, flaming, gleaming, boundless, angry visage of 
the Guru of News.  The room was zonked out on awe.
	"You have completed your task," the voice echoed, "and you shall now 
be given that for which you have asked.  However, I should point out that these
gifts are given on an `as is' basis, without warranty of any kind, either 
expressed or implied, including, but not limited to, the implied warranties of 
merchantability and fitness for a particular purpose...."
	I'd had enough of this clown.  While he droned on, I traced his
connection back and put his realspace facade on the bar's monitor.  
	He was little dumpy guy with long hair like spanish moss, typing his
dialogue feverishly into an Emacs window. 
	The big eyes of the Guru's construct swung to the monitor.  The voice
boomed "What?  Um.  Pay no attention to the man on the monitor.  I am the great
and powerful Guru.  My forces are legion.  My privileges are super.  My power 
is limited only by FCC EM requirements.  Oh, dear...."
	Everybody ignored the flaming altar and turned to the monitor.  The 
imposing face on the altar derezzed.  
	The Guru appeared as a likeness of himself, in jeans, keds, and a 
black szechuan-stained Grateful Dead tee-shirt.
	Ruby walked up to him.  "You're not a mongo network hack at all.  
You've got no jack, not even a datasuit and sens-phones.  And you've got no 
graphics throw.  Why are you the Guru of News?"
	"Actually," he said, "I'm the Guru of Gnu's.  I write programs, but I 
don't do much with networks and cyberspace and such.  The face you saw is, um, 
just a semi-colon and a left parenthesis, in a very large font.  And my city 
was all green because I only have enough throughput to render in one color 
channel."
	The girl said, "You can't help us at all!  We should strip you, put 
steak sauce on your balls, and give you to the doberwomen."
	Liralen whispered, "The chick learns fast...."
	The guru blubbered, "I can give you all what you desire.  Just as I
promised...."  
	He slapped his hand on the leafy shoulder of the plant-human hybrid.  
"My friend, you desire a greater brain.  The greatest geniuses have no more 
brains than you, but they do have one thing you don't have.  A Next Machine."  
The guru placed on the table a black cube with monitor and keyboard.  The 
machine began to play `Pomp and Circumstance'.  The hybrid caressed the black
cube gently, like he was an ape in 2001.  "Now you can pretend to know the 
Oxford English Dictionary, the works of Shakespeare, and, with Mathematica, 
you can solve any equation."
	  The hybrid typed "2 + 2" on the Mathematica command line.  The
Next Machine ran a multi-grid iterative Jacobian relaxation with accelerated 
annealing and in minutes printed out the answer "3.9999999999999".  The crowd 
applauded and the hybrid stood proud.
	The guru stepped over to the guy with the unmolded titanium skin.  
"You, sir, seek greater emotion.  The deepest and most compassionate people
have no more capacity for emotion than you, but they do have something you
don't have.  A subscription to alt.callahans, the InterNet therapy group."
	A tear came to the metallic man's eye.  "I haven't even read the first
posting, and I'm already so overwhelmed with sincerity and mutual support that 
I could puke."
	The guru addressed the partly-sentient lion.  "You desire the courage
that will provoke fear in your opponents.  Some people are feared by all, 
and yet they are physically less forbidding than you.  Their secret is that 
they talk only through newsgroups so that they can insult people without 
getting beat up."  The guru moved to the remnants of his emerald altar.  "My 
dear friend, I bequeath to you this altar, which, as you have seen, can create 
large flames out of nothing at all.  If you post these flames frequently on 
rec.arts.sf-lovers, then news readers will come to fear your wrath and 
probably leave the group entirely."
	The lion touched the altar and a flame jumped up.  He turned to
the crowd, raised a finger, and said rigidly, "It is intuitively obvious to 
the most casual observer that my esteemed colleague's idea is absurd both in 
theory and in practice."  The crowd applauded him.  He said, "Hey, I insulted 
an innocent stranger, and I have no idea what I'm talking about.  This is 
great!"
	The guru then offered to help Ruby.  Since he was jacking out of the 
matrix, he would take the girl with him.  However, the guru really wasn't a 
slick cyberspace jockey, and he lost the symbolic link to the chick.  However,
Liralen had back-engineered the interface to the ruby slippers.  Chanting the 
mantra that Liralen suggested, the girl clicked her heels three times and left
the matrix cleanly.  Her mind was loaded back into her realspace brain, and 
brainwave activity returned to normal.

	The girl, me, and the three mutants would become successful in the 
children's simul-stimul biz.  The girl filled out and was my main squeeze for 
a while.  Then she got into leather, shaved her head, had her eyes pierced, and
left me for a hyper-testosterated message bouncer.

	I talked to the lion recently.  He's permanently lit up on hype, 
chicks, and credit these days.  He said he had a new virtual reality scam 
involving a witch and a wardrobe.  I'm not sure I'm ready for that.

------------------------------

End of Yucks Digest
------------------------------