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Yucks Digest V1 #54
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To: yucks
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Subject: Yucks Digest V1 #54
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From: spaf (Gene "Chief Yuckster" Spafford)
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Date: Sun, 19 May 91 11:52:56 EST
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Reply-To: Yucks-request
Yucks Digest Sun, 19 May 91 Volume 1 : Issue 54
Today's Topics:
Oh, the horror!
Blatant Parroting Of Other Peoples' Ideas
chainsaws and other dangerous instruments
Congress does the right thing
Emergency off switch... (RISKS-11.66)
Extremely Optimal list
HIP TO BE SQUARE
Hotel Evictee Leaves 85 Cats
In the news
Join the army, for the Knight
Real men and the IBM 1620
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 and subscription requests should be sent to spaf@cs.purdue.edu
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Date: 17 May 91 23:30:05 GMT
From: estephen@ocf.berkeley.edu (E. Stephen Mack)
Subject: Oh, the horror!
Newsgroups: rec.humor.funny
[If you have read any of the stories by people basing their stories in
H. P. Lovecraft's "world," then you will find this very amusing.
Of course, considering some of what has come out of Berkeley, it may
not be fiction! --spaf]
James Price writes:
> I was wandering around the UC library system and found this entry...
> 8. HAZRED, Abdul. Al Azif, or the Necronomicon,. 1589
At the Library of Lost Souls
It was a cold, bleak day in Albany as I set forth to discover
the secret entrance to the gates of madness guised as the book referred to
by the ancient scholars as "Necronomicon." But I remember well the exact date
that I set in motion the events that would lead me to write this journal,
here, by candlelight, at a terminal deep in the pits of this infested
hole of debased scholarship. The date was February 13, of the year
1991, when I first read the article revealing the final resting place of the
dread volume Necronomicon.
It was a simple article relaying the findings of a scholar
researching the writings of an "Al Hazred" (as the common miscalque would
have it), who had stumbled across an entry in a highly esoteric indexing
system by the name of Melvyl. What fortune that I had access to the Melvyl
indices myself, and could verify the entry! It was with trepidation and a
definite sense of dread that I ventured to the actual library where Melvyl
promised the accursed volume could be found: a library at the University of
California at Berkeley, my own alma mater.
The rain furiously swept down on the windshield of my convertible as I
drove down the twisted, crowded streets of central Berkeley. The residents
of Telegraph Avenue seemed drug-crazed humanoids -- surely the victims of too
close a proximity to the very source of insanity itself? I drove onto campus
using the secret pathways known only to those, like myself, who held membership
in the secret Skull and Key society. How glad I was that the forbidden
society's membership dues were not paid in vain! Soon, towering before me,
were the wings of the very library itself, Doe.
Surely this library had been designed by a madman -- or madwoman,
like the Winchester Widow who had believed herself condemned to forever
construct rooms to her mansion or be terrorized by the souls of those killed
by her husband's most notorious invention, the Winchester repeating rifle.
Could some founding Berkeley Regent have thought that the only way to keep
the hounding spirits of former alumni (who rampage like the very Tindalos)
at bay was by constructing endless spiral staircases to oblivion, or elevators
leading to wings long since closed or abandoned to dust and spider webs?
Certainly the construction would indicate this. My previous research of the
man Doe himself would leave the question begging, since records were
notoriously -- perhaps intentionally? -- obscure.
The silence of the library overwhelmed one much like a crypt.
California Hall's doors, tall, solemn, gilt-encrusted monuments to a long-
forgotten sense of grandeur, seemed to dampen my little remaining enthusiasm.
But madness and, yes, greed drew me to climb the stone, circling steps.
And even in my distracted state, I could not help but note the significance
of the twelve steps, one landing, three steps. Twelve hundred and thirteen,
the very year the Necronomicon reappeared out of the sands of time, only to
be scattered to the twin winds of legend and rumor! Emboldened, I hastened on.
Before me was the main elevator, leading me to the depths of the
archives of the main library. I could tell by the call number of the Melvyl
reference that I would have to venture to the sixth underground level, to an
obscure rare book archive where only a few scholars have ever been granted
access: the Bechtel Foundation Library for Studies of Forbidden Matters and
Things Best Left Unknown. Fortunately, I had my papers of recommendation
ready to show the misshapen youth entrusted with the grim, thankless
task of guarding access to the elevator.
Once inside the clanking contraption I felt the metal sides begin to
close in. Madness! Only by reciting the Farras Hypothesis to myself
backwards was I able to keep the claustrophobia at bay. Yet, suddenly, I felt
the elevator begin to sway in an unearthly, dithyrambic motion. The twin
fulcrums of doubt and suspicion catapulted my unquestioning naivete into a
darkness as tangible as it was ironic, for the already-dim light to the
elevator had thoroughly extinguished itself, leaving me alone in the dark in
my self-imposed upright coffin! And at the edge of hearing I could perceive a
laughter, a cackling so hideous that it scars me to even recall it at this
time. And just as all hope fled my very being, I felt the bottom of the
elevator drop out from under me, leaving me falling, falling...
* * *
When I awoke, my body bruised and sore, I was in utter darkness.
But through some last remaining scholar's sense of direction, I knew my
exact location: at the very heart of the Bechtel archive, close to the
very Necronomicon itself! With trembling fingertips, I inspected the
nearby volumes, hoping to discern the distinctive bindings of the doom
work. After what seemed hours of fruitless and desperate flailing,
success! My fingertips had brushed against the rough, cracked binding
of the work itself. Grabbing for it, I knew the thrill of victory then.
I would be the envy of the others! Jayembee, forever casting his net
of knowledge, hoping to dredge up this very work -- he was hopelessly
adrift in the wrong newsgroups. Moriarty, misplacing his efforts by
searching in the monthly sequential literature that he loved so much.
Maroney, marooned at the Hoptoad Institute, forgotten by so many yet still
working feverishly to achieve exactly what I had just achieved. All of
them so close, yet so wrong -- I had done it, and I alone! I laughed
aloud then -- and instantly regretted it, for I heard the echoes of madness
around me -- and heard also the scufflings and moanings of something
inhuman, something horrible, something very close behind me.
I ran then, still clutching the book, ran as fast as I was able,
desperately seeking to get away from that terrible stench (did I forget to
mention the terrible stench?), the insane mumblings, the endless deluge of
crazed laughter. But no matter how fast or far I ran, no matter which
corridors I took, the hideous sounds followed me close behind. With crystal
clarity, I knew what had to be done. Sobbing, I carefully placed the dread
book on the ground, leaving it behind so that I at least could claim my own
mind. It worked, for the noises stopped following me, and seemed far behind.
But I was lost. I wandered, dazed and confused and ultimately
saddened by what I had owned but had had to let go. My wanderings seemed
endless. Weeks, months may have passed for all my knowledge of the passage
of time. Eventually, by chance, I encountered this terminal, where, after
fighting uncooperative terminal emulations and ill-timed system shut-downs
for backup purposes, I managed to fight a crudely-implemented version of
vi to transcribe these warnings.
I fear the Necronomicon is finally lost to humanity -- as is both
my sanity and my immortal soul. The rats! The rats are closing in!
------------------------------
Date: Fri, 17 May 91 08:36:14 edt
From: "Patrick Tufts" <zippy@chaos.cs.brandeis.edu>
Subject: Blatant Parroting Of Other Peoples' Ideas
To: eniac@mejac.palo-alto.ca.us
Top Ten Reasons I entered grad school
10. Wanted to see if obnoxious people only existed in the real world.
9. Cravings for Kraft Macaroni and Cheese dinners.
8. Priesthood requires additional vow of chastity.
7. Internet not available at Burger King.
6. Missed the free exchange of ideas found at all campuses.
5 My school has no Friday classes.
4. My school has no morning classes.
3. I can stay up as late as I want!
2. Pillow fights with other grads make it all worthwhile.
And the number one reason?
1. Currently pays better than real-world alternatives.
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Date: Fri, 17 May 91 11:53:10 -0700
From: brent@csufres.CSUFresno.EDU (Brent Auernheimer)
Subject: chainsaws and other dangerous instruments
To: yucks-request
I'm not sure if this is suitable for the yucks digest, but a couple
of years ago we had a political science professor, Max Franc, at CSUF who
took a sabattical in North Hollywood.
One thing lead to another, and he had an altercation with a male
prostitute, a pistol, and a chainsaw. Anyway, Franc is now a
convicted chainsaw murder (nothing funny about that).
But we were able to instantiate some of those old chainsaw-murderer
jokes -- How many boyfriends does Max Franc have? About a cord and
a half... that kind of thing
The students liked this one: What's tuition at Fresno State nowadays?
About an arm and a leg.
[Geez, I'm glad they didn't make any jokes about cutting class! --spaf]
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Date: 17 May 91 10:30:04 GMT
From: ingram@u.washington.edu (Douglas Ingram)
Subject: Congress does the right thing
Newsgroups: rec.humor.funny
While visiting the library the other day, I stumbled across
an old issue of "Harper's Weekly" from last year (Feb 1990?), and I
saw this series of statistics in their monthly Harper's Index feature:
Number of times the phrase "Do the right thing" has appeared in the
Congressional Record since the release of Spike Lee's movie: 53
Number of times "Do the right thing" has been used in reference
to the Congressional pay raise: 16
Number of times the phrase has been used in reference to
racial issues: 1
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Date: Wed, 15 May 91 08:24:54 -0700
From: vancleef@garg.nas.nasa.gov (Robert E. Van Cleef)
Subject: Emergency off switch... (RISKS-11.66)
Newsgroups: comp.risks
On the console of our Amdahl mainframe system, there is a large button
labled "Emergency Pull", which had an equivalent function to the one
described by Martin Ewing in RISKS-11.66.
One weekend we had a problem with the system that the assigned Customer
Engineer did not consider serious enough to justify leaving home,
inspite of the arguments from the local Site Manager that the primary
subsystem could not run.
The Site Manager then called him from the phone adjacent to the
console. He mentioned this switch to the CE, casually asking what would
happen if it was pulled. Upon confirmation that is a priority service
call would be required to reset the switch, the Site Manager calmly
pulled the switch and said "Gee; the system seems to be dead!"
The CE sighed, and came in...
------------------------------
From: bapiraju@ee.princeton.edu (Bapiraju Vinnakota)
Subject: Extremely Optimal list
Newsgroups: rec.humor.funny
There is some disagreement as to how to use the word 'optimal'.
All the following 'optimal' phrases were actually heard at the
"The Third Symposium on the Frontiers of Massively Parallel Computation".
We have not actually figured out the most optimal use of the word 'optimal'.
Using optimal:
optimal
near optimal
more optimal
most optimal
quite optimal
less optimal
semi optimal
quasi optimal
(not) so optimal
optimally optimal
not very optimal
somewhat optimal
in some sense optimal
provable in some sense optimal
optimal in an optimal lower bound sense
optimalish
optimally fast
optimally effective
A few of our creations:
way more optimal
perfectly optimal
(with vigorous handwaving) optimal
it just doesn't get more optimal than this
Webster's has this to say:
"optimal: adj., most desirable or satisfactory."
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Date: Sat, 18 May 91 22:45:14 PDT
From: one of our correspondants
Subject: HIP TO BE SQUARE
To: yucks-request
By Dan Gutman
"I don't use a computer anymore," a writer friend told me recently.
"I've gone back to using my old electric typewriter."
It was at that moment that I realized that high tech was out and low
tech was in.
Up until recently, the more high tech toys you had, the cooler you
were. But suddenly, everybody's giving up the excesses of the
Eighties and going back to the simple life.
Gardening. Spending time with the family. Charity work.
Typewriters. It has become fashionable to be associated with
primitive, non-electronic technology.
My writer friend informed me that using a computer had "distanced
him" from the act of writing. Reading words off a glowing screen
took something away from the process. When he used his old electric
typewriter, he claimed, the words would flow almost sensually from
his brain to his fingertips.
Nobody outlow-techs me. A week later, I called my friend and
casually mentioned that I too was giving up my computer--for a
MANUAL typewriter.
"Electric typewriters are dehumanizing," I explained. "With a
manual, I can virtually see a thought go from my brain, push the key
and feel it smack against the paper. There's no other feeling like
it in the world."
That ought to hold him for awhile, I thought.
It couldn't have been a week later when my friend called again. At
the end of our conversation he informed me that he stopped using a
typewriter altogether and would be writing his upcoming book on
yellow legal pads.
"Writing was meant to be done by hand," he told me, "machines only
get in the way of the true expression of ideas."
He went on to explain how moving a pen across a sheet of paper was
the most sensual experience a person could have with clothes on. The
ink, apparently, has a consistency that is remarkably like the blood
coursing through our veins. They both even clot.
"You use a ball-point, I assume?" I asked timidly.
"What do you take me for, some kind of barbarian?!" he exploded. "I
do all my writing with a fountain pen now."
It was obvious that he had decided to play hardball.
Our next conversation took place at his house. I dropped by, I
explained, because I was no longer using the telephone--a dangerous
instrument designed and encouraged by totalitarian bureaucrats whose
only interest is to take away our personal freedoms. I would be
writing my upcoming book, I gloated, with a pencil on brown paper
bag.
"I've just finished MY latest book," my friend told me. "Would you
like to come in and see it?"
I went inside, psychologically prepared to ooh and ahh over his
stupid collection of fountain pens in his office. Instead, he led
me to the garage.
"Oh, I gave up on fountain pens. The ink kept running all over
everything," he said. "I wrote this book on a shovel with a piece
of chalk, by candlelight. If it was good enough for Abraham
Lincoln, it's good enough for me."
Sure enough, the garage was filled with hundreds of shovels,
carefully lined up by chapter and page number.
My friend and I aren't talking anymore, though we do grunt at one
another and communicate by drawing pictures on rocks. I, for one,
have decided to give up writing entirely and wander the countryside
reciting stories to all who will listen. It's the coolest.
------------------------------
Date: Sat, 18 May 91 14:39:48 PDT
From: one of our correspondants
Subject: Hotel Evictee Leaves 85 Cats
To: yucks-request
BERKELEY, Calif. (AP)
A woman evicted from a hotel after other residents complained her
cats made the place smell like a litter box, left 85 of the felines
in her room when she moved out, Humane Society officals said.
"There was an ocean of cats, a carpet of cats," said Nancy
Frensley, state officer for the East Bay Humane Society.
Chessy Hawkins, 54, moved out of the Campanile Hotel Tuesday and
took four cats with her one on a leash and three under her coat,
Frensley said.
It took animal control workers two days to carry out all the cats.
Frensley said the cats weren't wild but were "terrified andd
terribly stressed. They'd never been out of the room before." Some
appeared healthy but others were thin and mangy. Hawkins had left
food for them, she said.
The Humane Society's kennel, which usually accommodates anywhere
from 10 to 70 cats, is overflowing with Hawkins' former pets, said
pet adoption counselor Kathy Smiljanic.
"We've got them in our boarding area, in our isolation area, in
our education animal room. Wherever we have an empty cage," she said.
Hawkins, who hasn't been heard from since she left the hotel, has
two weeks to claim the cats, Frensley said. After that, they'll be
offered for adoption. The Humane Society does not put cats to death
unless they're terminally ill.
Hawkins spent a year negotiating with the Berkeley Health
Department over the cats. She had told the Humane Society she had 30
cats in the room.
Frensley said officials will be "pretty careful" about making sure
Hawkins has enough room for any cats she asks to reclaim.
------------------------------
Date: Sat May 18 20:04:26 EST 1991
From: spaf
Subject: In the news
Well, two items made our news locally in the past few days.
Yesterday, there was a news story about a 72-year old man who was
killed by his goat. It seems he had been beating the goat regularly
to make it mean and antagonistic to humans because he wanted to use it
as a "watch goat." The goat finally had enough and butted the guy a
couple of times. The man died of internal injuries.
No mention of what happened to the goat.
The second story was about local police being called to investigate a
complaint. It seems that a local woman was found to have 23 dead cats
in her freezer. The police determined that they were all dead before
being placed in the freezer, probably the result of traffic on the
road in front of the house. The woman refused to explain why she had
them, and no future action was taken because there is no law against
having dead animals in your freezer.
This started some speculation as to *why* she was saving the dead
cats. The top 3 entries so far:
1) She's an animal lover, and she's saving them for the day that
someone invents a cure for trucks. (Michal Young's entry)
2) How else to keep the frozen mice in check?
3) In July and August, there's nothing quite so refreshing as
iced cat on a stick!
Anybody got some other perverse suggestions?
------------------------------
Date: Fri, 17 May 91 23:22:11 PDT
From: one of our correspondants
Subject: Join the army, for the Knight
To: yucks-request
Knighthoods Are In Fashion
LONDON (AP)
U.S. Gen. H. Norman Schwarzkopf is accustomed to being called
"sir," but what counts in Britain is hearing it from the queen.
The Foreign Office announced Friday that Schwarzkopf is becoming
an honorary knight in recognition of his command of allied forces in
the Persian Gulf War. He will also receive the unusual honor of
having Queen Elizabeth II come to him to bestow the title, which
Schwarzkopf is scheduled to receive Monday at MacDill Air Force Base
near Tampa, Fla.
Former President Reagan, former Defense Secretary Caspar
Weinberger, industrialist Armand Hammer, Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower
and Gen. Douglas MacArthur came to London to receive their honorary
titles.
Since the age of chivalry, neither time nor scandals King Charles
II sold titles has dimmed the allure of a "sir" or "dame" before a
name. About 4,200 people carry the title of knight and there are
about 220 dames, the knighthood equivalent for women.
Wives of knights become "lady." The husband of a dame receives no
title. British businessmen pay for knighthoods by making big
contributions to charities, the arts and universities. Business firms
like a sprinkling of knights and lords on their letterheads.
"Judging by the number of businessmen who give money to charities
in pursuit of a knighthood and the number of politicians in the
Conservative Party who get knighthoods, the title is more in fashion
than ever before," said Harold Brooks-Baker, publishing director of
Burke's Peerage.
"A knighthood is considered the pinnacle of a career for most
businessmen recognition that he has reached the top of the totem
pole," he said.
Honorary knights are much more scarce. Recent ones include Irish
rock star Bob Geldof and Nissan executive Takashi Ishihara of Japan.
Knights kneel on a small stool to receive the monarch's sword tap
on each shoulder to the words, "Arise, Sir ..."
Conferring honors is one of the queen's more demanding duties
2,000 knighthoods and other decorations are bestowed every year.
Protocol officers discreetly contact those who are chosen to ask
if they will accept.
Some eminent people including labor union leaders and journalists
have refused knighthoods over the years, saying they weren't
democratic. Nowadays, the honor is rarely rejected.
Winston Churchill turned one down year after year, saying he
preferred to be a plain House of Commons member.
He finally relented in 1953 when he was awarded the most esteemed
of all the British orders of knighthood, Knight of the Garter, who
have an annual service at Windsor Castle to which they parade in blue
robes with the monarch.
[So, is it "Sir General Stormin'" or "General Sir Stormin' Norman"?
And will they have to redo that TV commercial for the Marines
to show that it's the *Army* that still has the knights? --spaf]
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 15 May 91 11:36:47 -0700
From: hamlet@eecs.ee.pdx.edu (Dick Hamlet)
Subject: Real men and the IBM 1620
Newsgroups: comp.risks
Recalling the IBM 1620 destructive power switch and the days of "real men" is
too good an opening to resist. That machine had a console table on which was
mounted a printer for the operator, the only i/o device that a human could read
directly. It was used to print error messages, or for low-volume output from
programs. (For REAL output, one punched cards and listed them off line on tab
equipment.) Later versions of the 1620 used an IBM Selectric typewriter for
console i/o, but in 1965 I used an older machine at Argonne National Labs that
was fitted with a standard IBM model C electric typewriter. The unit was
mounted near the right edge of the table, in such a way that when the carriage
returned (under program control!), it was capable of dealing a passing human a
nasty blow in the groin. (Not so many real men among the long-term users!)
But not to worry, IBM soon recognized the risk, and made available for lease a
sort of bent wire guard that delimited the area in which it was unsafe to pass.
I wish I knew how much this guard leased for, and what it was called in the
1620 parts list.
[So do I... -spaf]
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End of Yucks Digest
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