[Prev][Index]
Yucks Digest V6 #14
Yucks Digest Sun, 22 Dec 96 Volume 6 : Issue 14
Today's Topics:
Holiday Greetings
12 Days Before [The /dev/null Xmas Collection, #1]
[The /dev/null Xmas Collection, #2]
[The /dev/null Xmas Collection, #3]
Chanukah Greetings
Christmas musings...
Comedian's Eye View of 12-04-96
DANGER! VIRUS ALERT!
Evil Genius
funny about snow
FW: Bill Gates Wants Half!
Hermann Hates #20
How Santa knows.
I have no idea where this originates.
JOTD (4 msgs)
KKI offers christian-based religious holiday marketing...
the only Christmas album by a born-again, ukulele-playing man-boy...
The XMas-Files
Try this one!
Undies
Well, at least he's likely to get his wish.
Santa Pick-up Lines
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
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: Sun Dec 22 23:29:41 EST 1996
From: spaf
Subject: Holiday Greetings
To: Yucksters
No, Yucks hasn't died off. It was in hibernation. An exhausting and
emotionally rocky few months have had me put most things on hold while
I try to cope with multiple crises. Let's simply say that I have had
some difficulty getting into a "Yucks" state of mind *and* find an hour
or so to sift through the backlog.
Time heals, and the holidays are upon us. Whether you celebrated(ed)
Diwali, Chanukah, Christmas, the Solstice, Kwanzaa, New Years, or
something else entirely, I hope it is a peaceful and joyous time for
all of you. Be sure to celebrate with those you love -- time moves
ever onwards, and someday you may have only the memories. Ensure
they are joyful and warm.
Yucks will continue into 1997 and beyond. However, if my schedule
continues to be as full as it has been, I will make no guarantees about
regularity. (And yes, I know that high-fiber fruitcake will help that.)
Enclosed are some holiday-related Yucks from the collection that I hope
Yule enjoy. :-)
Check out my favorite WWW page of the holidays -- yet another sign
I am one sick individual:
<http://www.iaonline.com/users/tmangan/rat.htm>
Ho ho ho.
--spaf
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 10 Dec 1996 11:05:01 -0500 (EST)
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@bsdi.com>
Subject: 12 Days Before [The /dev/null Xmas Collection, #1]
To: /dev/null@mongoose.bostic.com
Forwarded-by: Keith Sullivan" <KSullivan@worldnet.att.net>
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!
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 10 Dec 1996 12:05:01 -0500 (EST)
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@bsdi.com>
Subject: [The /dev/null Xmas Collection, #2]
To: /dev/null@mongoose.bostic.com
[This is edited from Keith's original -- many of the items elided have
appeared in Yucks in years past. --spaf]
[FTP'd from ds.internic.net]
Network Working Group B. Hancock
Request for Comments: 1882 Network-1 Software and Technology, Inc.
Category: Informational December 1995
The 12-Days of Technology Before Christmas
Status of this Memo
This memo provides information for the Internet community. This memo
does not specify an Internet standard of any kind. Distribution of
this memo is unlimited.
Discussion
On the first day of Christmas, technology gave to me:
A database with a broken b-tree (what the hell is a b-tree
anyway?)
On the second day of Christmas, technology gave to me:
Two transceiver failures (CRC errors? Collisions? What is
going on?)
And a database with a broken b-tree (Rebuild WHAT? It's a
10GB database!)
On the third day of Christmas, technology gave to me:
Three French users (who, of course, think they know
everything)
Two transceiver failures (which are now spewing packets all
over the net)
And a database with a broken b-tree (Backup? What backup?)
On the fourth day of Christmas, technology gave to me:
Four calls for support (playing the same Christmas song over
and over)
Three French users (Why do they like to argue so much over
trivial things?)
Two transceiver failures (How the hell do I know which ones
they are?)
And a database with a broken b-tree (Pointer error? What's a
pointer error?)
On the fifth day of Christmas, technology gave to me:
Five golden SCSI contacts (Of course they're better than
silver!)
Four support calls (Ever notice how time stands still when on
hold?
Three French users (No, we don't have footpedals on PC's. Why
do you ask?)
Two transceiver failures (If I knew which ones were bad, I
would know which ones to fix!)
And a database with a broken b-tree (Not till next week? Are
you nuts?!?!)
On the sixth day of Christmas, technology gave to me:
Six games a-playing (On the production network, of course!)
Five golden SCSI contacts (What do you mean "not terminated!")
Four support calls (No, don't transfer me again - do you HEAR?
Damn!)
Three French users (No, you cannot scan in by putting the page
to the screen...)
Two transceiver failures (I can't look at the LEDs - they're
in the ceiling!)
And a database with a broken b-tree (Norway? That's where this
was written?)
On the seventh day of Christmas, technology gave to me:
Seven license failures (Expired? When?)
Six games a-playing (Please stop tying up the PBX to talk to
each other!)
Five golden SCSI contacts (What do you mean I need "wide"
SCSI?)
Four support calls (At least the Muzak is different this
time...)
Three French Users (Well, monsieur, there really isn't an
"any" key, but...)
Two transceiver failures (SQE? What is that? If I knew I would
set it myself!)
And a database with a broken b-tree (No, I really need to talk
to Lars - NOW!)
On the eighth day of Christmas, technology gave to me:
Eight MODEMs dialing (Who bought these? They're a security
violation!)
Seven license failures (How many WEEKS to get a license?)
Six games a-playing (What do you mean one pixel per packet on
updates?!?)
Five golden SCSI contacts (Fast SCSI? It's supposed to be
fast, isn't it?)
Four support calls (I already told them that! Don't transfer
me back - DAMN!)
Three French users (No, CTL-ALT-DEL is not the proper way to
end a program)
Two transceiver failures (What do you mean "babbling
transceiver"?)
And a database with a broken b-tree (Does anyone speak English
in Oslo?)
On the ninth day of Christmas, technology gave to me:
Nine lady executives with attitude (She said do WHAT with the
servers?)
Eight MODEMs dialing (You've been downloading WHAT?)
Seven license failures (We sent the P.O. two months ago!)
Six games a-playing (HOW many people are doing this to the
network?)
Five golden SCSI contacts (What do you mean two have the same
ID?)
Four support calls (No, I am not at the console - I tried that
already.)
Three French users (No, only one floppy fits at a time? Why do
you ask?)
Two transceiver failures (Spare? What spare?)
And a database with a broken b-tree (No, I am trying to find
Lars! L-A-R-S!)
On the tenth day of Christmas, technology gave to me:
Ten SNMP alerts flashing (What is that Godawful beeping?)
Nine lady executives with attitude (No, it used to be a mens
room? Why?)
Eight MODEMs dialing (What Internet provider? We don't allow
Internet here!)
Seven license failures (SPA? Why are they calling us?)
Six games a-playing (No, you don't need a graphics accelerator
for Lotus! )
Five golden SCSI contacts (You mean I need ANOTHER cable?)
Four support calls (No, I never needed an account number
before...)
Three French users (When the PC sounds like a cat, it's a head
crash!)
Two transceiver failures (Power connection? What power
connection?)
And a database with a broken b-tree (Restore what index
pointers?)
On the eleventh day of Christmas, technology gave to me:
Eleven boards a-frying (What is that terrible smell?)
Ten SNMP alerts flashing (What's a MIB, anyway? What's an
extension?)
Nine lady executives with attitude (Mauve? Our computer room
tiles in mauve?)
Eight MODEMs dialing (What do you mean you let your roommate
dial-in?)
Seven license failures (How many other illegal copies do we
have?!?!)
Six games a-playing (I told you - AFTER HOURS!)
Five golden SCSI contacts (If I knew what was wrong, I
wouldn't be calling!)
Four support calls (Put me on hold again and I will slash your
credit rating!)
Three French users (Don't hang your floppies with a magnet
again!)
Two transceiver failures (How should I know if the connector
is bad?)
And a database with a broken b-tree (I already did all of
that!)
On the twelfth day of Christmas, technology gave to me:
Twelve virtual pipe connections (There's only supposed to be
two!)
Eleven boards a-frying (What a surge suppressor supposed to
do, anyway?)
Ten SNMP alerts flashing (From a distance, it does kinda look
like XMas lights.)
Nine lady executives with attitude (What do you mean aerobics
before backups?)
Eight MODEMs dialing (No, we never use them to connect during
business hours.)
Seven license failures (We're all going to jail, I just know
it.)
Six games a-playing (No, no - my turn, my turn!)
Five golden SCSI contacts (Great, just great! Now it won't
even boot!)
Four support calls (I don't have that package! How did I end
up with you!)
Three French users (I don't care if it is sexy, no more nude
screen backgrounds!)
Two transceiver failures (Maybe we should switch to token
ring...)
And a database with a broken b-tree (No, operator - Oslo,
Norway. We were just talking and were cut off...)
Security Considerations
Security issues are not discussed in this memo.
Author's Address
Bill Hancock, Ph.D.
Network-1 Software & Technology, Inc.
DFW Research Center
878 Greenview Dr.
Grand Prairie, TX 75050
EMail: hancock@network-1.com
Phone: (214) 606-8200
Fax: (214) 606-8220
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
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!
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 10 Dec 1996 13:05:01 -0500 (EST)
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@bsdi.com>
Subject: [The /dev/null Xmas Collection, #3]
To: /dev/null@mongoose.bostic.com
'Twas the night before Christmas and Santa's a wreck...
How to live in a world that's politically correct?
His workers no longer would answer to "Elves",
"Vertically Challenged" they were calling themselves.
And labor conditions at the north pole
Were alleged by the union to stifle the soul.
Four reindeer had vanished, without much propriety,
Released to the wilds by the Humane Society.
And equal employment had made it quite clear
That Santa had better not use just reindeer.
So Dancer and Donner, Comet and Cupid,
Were replaced with 4 pigs, and you know that looked stupid!
The runners had been removed from his sleigh;
The ruts were termed dangerous by the E.P.A.
And people had started to call for the cops
When they heard sled noises on their roof-tops.
Second-hand smoke from his pipe had his workers quite frightened.
His fur trimmed red suit was called "Unenlightened."
And to show you the strangeness of life's ebbs and flows,
Rudolf was suing over unauthorized use of his nose
And had gone on Geraldo, in front of the nation,
Demanding millions in over-due compensation.
So, half of the reindeer were gone; and his wife,
Who suddenly said she'd had enough of this life,
Joined a self-help group, packed, and left in a whiz,
Demanding from now on her title was Ms.
And as for the gifts, why, he'd ne'er had a notion
That making a choice could cause so much commotion.
Nothing of leather, nothing of fur,
Which meant nothing for him. And nothing for her.
Nothing that might be construed to pollute.
Nothing to aim. Nothing to shoot.
Nothing that clamored or made lots of noise.
Nothing for just girls. Or just for the boys.
Nothing that claimed to be gender specific.
Nothing that's warlike or non-pacific.
No candy or sweets...they were bad for the tooth.
Nothing that seemed to embellish a truth.
And fairy tales, while not yet forbidden,
Were like Ken and Barbie, better off hidden.
For they raised the hackles of those psychological
Who claimed the only good gift was one ecological.
No baseball, no football...someone could get hurt;
Besides, playing sports exposed kids to dirt.
Dolls were said to be sexist, and should be passe;
And Nintendo would rot your entire brain away.
So Santa just stood there, disheveled, perplexed;
He just could not figure out what to do next.
He tried to be merry, tried to be gay,
But you've got to be careful with that word today.
His sack was quite empty, limp to the ground;
Nothing fully acceptable was to be found.
Something special was needed, a gift that he might
Give to all without angering the left or the right.
A gift that would satisfy, with no indecision,
Each group of people, every religion;
Every ethnicity, every hue,
Everyone, everywhere... even you.
So here is that gift, it's price beyond worth...
"May you and your loved ones enjoy peace on earth."
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 10 Dec 1996 17:05:01 -0500 (EST)
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@bsdi.com>
Subject: Chanukah Greetings
To: /dev/null@mongoose.bostic.com
Forwarded-by: tale@UU.NET (David C Lawrence)
From: Gary Wasserman <grw@teleport.com>
Portland, OR -- Brueters News Service -- Dec. 5, 1996 -- The Chassidim
are rolling into town but this time they're not driving their famous
Mitzvahmobiles. Times have changed, and so have the Chassidim.
"Channukah is blast!", roars Chiam Goldsmith above the roar of the
straight pipes of twenty Harley Davidson motorcycles. The bikers, most
clad in traditional biker garb, are gathered in Pioneer Square in
Portland's city center for the annual lighting of the Menorah. The
Menorah lighting commemorates the Jewish holiday of Chanukah. "Chanuakah
is about turf and kicking butt, but it has a beautiful, spiritual side,
too", Chiam continues, "and that's why we're here in Portland today."
Chicky, as Chiam prefers to be called, is the nominal leader of this band
of "in your face" Chassids. The gang, The Maccabees, takes its name from
the band of Jewish resistance fighters who, almost 2000 years ago, drove
the Assyrian invaders from Judea and restored Jewish control to the
country.
The Menorah lighting in Portland is a little different this year.
Normally the local Chassidic community places its twenty foot traditional
menorah in Pioneer square. But this year The Maccabees have built their
own menorah, or "channukiah", with a special biker theme. And no one in
Portland has ever seen a channukiah quite like this one.
"It's awesome!", says one customer at Starbuck's Pioneer Square outlet.
"What a gas.", "Far out!", and "Cool!!!" are heard over and over again as
people round the corners into the square. Most pedestrians are going to
and from work. Lots of holiday shoppers are in evidence.
"I don't think they should have let these people build this here", says
Doris Crantz of Salem. "It's disgusting and the city shouldn't permit
it" she continues. But most passersby are positive about the biker
message and the biker theme in the channukiah.
The Maccabees spent two weeks constructing the steel and aluminum menorah
at a site near Pioneer square. But only today have all the pieces finally
been assembled in the square. The menorah measures a stunning forty feet
from the tip of the "shamos" or servant "candle" to the ground. The
entire structure is made up of welded motorcycle frames, chromed to a
brilliant shine. At the top of each branch of the nine branched
candelabrum is a large steel basket approximately three feet wide and
three to four feet high.
"This is not your ordinary Chanukah menorah", Chicky continues while
directing members of the gang in completing the setup. "According to
tradition each night we light the shamos, that's the tall one, and one
more candle than the previous night." But candles of any sort are not in
evidence. That's when the real kicker is delivered by Chicky. The gleam
in his eye says it all.
"Each night we're going to hoist some Jap bikes up to the baskets and at
sundown we're going to set them burning. It's going to be way cool."
Chicky predicts that the flames will be visible from low earth orbit.
The Pioneer Square Burning Bike Menorah project is the most ambitious
project undertaken by The Maccabees in their five years of existance as
a gang. Usually they roam the backroads and cities of the Pacific
Northwest supporting themselves by selling kosher mezzuzah scrolls or by
charging a small fee for blessing bikes at local synagogues. There have
been some rumors of hot mezzuzah scrolls and some allegations of kickbacks
in the blessing fees, but nothing has been proven, according to Chick.
In addition to the distinctive "colors" or jacket insignia worn by members
of the gang they are also distinguished from other bikers by their use of
fringed T-shirts. "Other bikers might have fringes on their jackets or
on their rides but we wear them on our underwear and let'em hang out where
God can see 'em." say Shmuel "Skullcap" Bernstein, the gang's treasurer.
No women appear to accompany The Maccabees on their travels but Skullcap
says all the gang members are married. "My old lady's a software engineer
in Seattle and she couldn't take off to be here. It's a bummer, but life
on the road has its own rewards", he says.
"Sure, it's about the ride, about the sweet wine, about the whole biker
experience. But we're really out here to lay teffilin and try to get
other Jewish bikers back to the faith." Skullcap darts across the street
to Nordstroms to intercept a biker on an ST1100 waiting for the light to
change, to hand him literature and try to convince him to "doven with the
'bros". Maybe in some ways nothing much has changed.
===============
Happy Chanukah!
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 18 Dec 1996 09:05:00 -0500 (EST)
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@bsdi.com>
Subject: Christmas musings...
To: /dev/null@mongoose.bostic.com
Forwarded-by: Carl Staelin <staelin@hplms2.hpl.hp.com>
Forwarded-by: "J. Stuart Read" <sread@diba.com>
All I want for Christmas is Santa's list of naughty girls.
-----
What do you call it when you are afraid of being in a small room with a
bunch of fat guys in red suits?
Santa Claustrophobia!
-----
Ever notice how Christmas is like a day at the office?
You do all the work and the fat guy in the suit gets the credit.
-----
I wish you a Hawaiian Christmas -- POI TO THE WORLD.
-----
How come you never hear anything about the 10th reindeer "Olive"?
Olive?
Yeah, you know, "Olive the other reindeer, used to laugh and call him
names..."
------
But Santa, naughty IS nice...
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 3 Dec 96 17:10:30 -0800
From: Peter Langston <psl@langston.com>
Subject: Comedian's Eye View of 12-04-96
To: Fun_People@langston.com
[I know I said I was going to cut down on these Comedian's Eye Views, but I
got several flattering letters that made credible arguments for the value of
these excerpts, so...
-psl]
Excerpted-from: 12-04-96-- ShopTalk
Wednesday December 4, 1996
The Christmas shopping season is off to a brisk start, says Steve Tatham,
"as politicians try to unload those post-election campaign promises."
Adds Jenny Church: "For families scraping to provide gifts for all the kids,
there's advice in that book by Hillary Clinton, 'It Takes a Visa.'"
Adds Buzz Nutley: "The hot gizmo of the year is Nintendo 64. Apparently,
that's how many they made- and they were all gone first day."
Adds Jerry Perisho: "A popular item is the new Holiday Barbie. Send in her
registration card and you receive a copy of her ruined credit history, her
cut-in-half charge cards and- especially exciting- collection agencies will
call you every hour until you get her payments current."
Space jammed: Astronauts aboard the Columbia had to cancel their spacewalks
because of a jammed hatch. Says Bob Mills, "You know how hard it is to find
a locksmith around the holidays. One NASA sub- contractor suggested they
try picking the lock with a $600 paper clip."
In the news: Los Angeles police found $1.3 million worth of pot in the trunk
of a 1975 Pinto they pulled over. Says Argus Hamilton, "The driver said he
wasn't going to deal the dope, he was just trying to give his car a higher
street value."
In England, 14-year-old Prince William shot his first stag. Says Bob
Thomas, "The queen was panic-stricken until someone explained to her that
it was a deer, not a movie."
The USDA is drawing up new standards for frozen pizza. Says the Cutler
Daily Scoop, "Actually, they're just borrowing the old standards for
perforated cardboard."
In an interview, Shirley MacLaine said she would never have plastic surgery.
Says Easley, "And why should she? She looks great for a woman of 8,000."
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 18 Dec 1996 21:15:50 -0600 (CST)
From: meo@schoneal.com (Miles O'Neal)
Subject: DANGER! VIRUS ALERT!
To: jb@pencom.com (Jason Behm), doug1@home.com (Doug Hosking), paul@sware.com (The Thoob), sl11@prism.gatech.edu (Sue Liebeskind), spaf (Gene Spafford), jds@wildride.schoneal.com (Jonathan Schober), chuys@pswtech.com, taylor@pencom.com, pda@FrobNotz.Org (
Date: 12/18/96 11:35 AM
From: Dave Lapham
[Not strictly Christmas, but very timely considering all the bogus
warnings that I've gotten in my mailbox in the last few weeks. --spaf]
READ THIS:
Goodtimes will re-write your hard drive. Not only that, but
it will scramble any disks that are even close to your computer. It
will recalibrate your refrigerator's coolness setting so all your ice
cream goes melty. It will demagnetize the strips on all your credit
cards, screw up the tracking on your television and use subspace field
harmonics to scratch any CD's you try to play.
It will give your ex-girlfriend your new phone number. It
will mix Kool-aid into your fishtank. It will drink all your beer and
leave its socks out on the coffee table when there's company coming
over. It will put a dead kitten in the back pocket of your good suit
pants and hide your car keys when you are late for work.
Goodtimes will make you fall in love with a penguin. It will
give you nightmares about circus midgets. It will pour sugar in your
gas tank and shave off both your eyebrows while dating your
girlfriend behind your back and billing the dinner and hotel room to
your Discover card.
It will seduce your grandmother. It does not matter if she
is dead, such is the power of Goodtimes, it reaches out beyond the
grave to sully those things we hold most dear.
It moves your car randomly around parking lots so you can't
find it. It will kick your dog. It will leave libidinous messages on
your boss's voice mail in your voice! It is insidious and subtle. It
is dangerous and terrifying to behold. It is also a rather
interesting shade of mauve.
Goodtimes will give you Dutch Elm disease. It will leave the
toilet seat up. It will make a batch of Methanphedime in your bathtub
and then leave bacon cooking on the stove while it goes out to chase
gradeschoolers with your new snowblower.
Listen to me. Goodtimes does not exist.
It cannot do anything to you. But I can. I am sending this
message to everyone in the world. Tell your friends, tell your
family. If anyone else sends me another E-mail about this fake
Goodtimes Virus, I will turn hating them into a religion. I will do
things to them that would make a horsehead in your bed look like
Easter Sunday brunch.
------------------------------
Date: Thu, 31 Oct 1996 09:05:01 -0500 (EST)
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@bsdi.com>
Subject: Evil Genius
To: /dev/null@mongoose.bostic.com
Forwarded-by: Keith Sullivan <KSullivan@worldnet.att.net>
THE EVIL GENIUS BEHIND MERCHANDISING
-- by Randy Shore
People say I'm not the most cheerful person around Christmas time and maybe
they're right. It's not that I have anything at all against Santa, cutting
down Douglas Fir saplings or even spiced rum. Christmas to me means facing
the merchandisers.
Perhaps I fear what I do not understand. It's a human enough failing. No
one in my office will be surprised to learn that none of the 25 or so jobs I
did before this one involved selling anything. Between my penchant for
brutal frankness and colourful exaggeration, I'm just not suited to dealing
with the public in a situation where politeness, patience, and strategic
silence are key to success. I also tend to find outrage and rudeness
hilarious -- even when it's directed at me. (But if you get mad after
reading this and call me, remember, I'm laughing with you not at you.)
So, sales is a foreign territory to me. All I ever know for certain in a
buying situation is that someone wants my money almost as much as I want to
keep it. It's an attitude I find very threatening and I frequently startle
and mystify sales clerks by bolting from their stores the minute anyone
offers me assistance of any kind. (I seem to have no trouble getting rid of
my money before payday each month. I do not need to be "helped.") As if
obsequious sales staff are not reason enough to shop by catalogue there are
merchandisers who are infinitely more sinister.
I recently took my two-year-old son Keiran to a store that for legal reasons
I will refer to as "Stuff '4' Kids." This big box-style retailer, employing
a method pioneered by a certain Scandanavian furniture store that our
lawyers advise me has no name for purposes of this column, has a single
entrance that narrows into a cattle chute lined with small, colourful toys
that can be reached from a buggy seat by any reasonably greedy little yard
monkey. Rather than start a shopping visit with a Total All-Out Hissy Fit,
most parents cave immediately and let their youngster have the plastic skull
that oozes real-looking snot out its nasal cavity thinking mistakenly that
they have an ice cube's chance in Beelzebub's steamroom of extricating the
digusting novelty item from the cart before reaching the cash register. (No
case of a parent NOT buying the item has ever been reliably documented.)
Once inside, the already beleagured parent must face thousands of square
feet of loosely wrapped toys (the mere touch of a toddler is enough to blow
the wrapping off any toys marked at more than $20) and other items with
loose arms and wheels that must go into the cart after being tested to bits
by the young consumer. Every parent in the store looked just like me,
red-faced and hoarse due to vocifierously resisting the constant lunging and
screaming of their shopping cart passenger.
But just when you think you can escape you must go through the checkout line
-- an even narrower gauntlet of little plastic things, chips, candies and
other assorted stuff that every child MUST have and, thanks to the genius of
retail design, can actually reach from the baby seat of the shopping cart.
After shelling out several hundred dollars for two bags of cellophane and
broken toys, I found myself recalling fondly being mugged at knife-point in
Morrocco. At least Moustapha was completely upfront about his reasons for
separating me from my cash and I sleep better knowing that at least I wasn't
ripped off by someone who was already a billionaire.
------------------------------
Date: Fri, 20 Dec 1996 10:59:41 -0500 (EST)
From: Marlene Walls <walls>
Subject: funny about snow
To: glc, spaf, jackson
[Forwards lost in editing... --spaf]
The following is a story that applies in one form or another to any
beautiful, cold, wintery, salt on the road state or province.
Sept 12, 1994: Moved to our new home in Montana. It's so beautiful here,
I love it. The mountains are so majestic. Can hardly wait to see snow
covering them.
Oct. 14, 1994: Montana is the most beautiful place on earth. The leaves
are turned all the colors and shades of red and orange. Went for a ride
through the beautiful mountains and saw some deer. They are so
graceful. Certainly they are the most wonderful animal on earth. This
must be paradise. I love it here.
Nov. 11, 1994: Deer season will start soon. I can't imagine anyone
wanting to kill such a gorgeous creature. Hope it will snow soon. I love it
here.
Nov. 24, 1994: It snowed last night! I woke up to find everything
blanketed with white. It looks like a postcard. We went outside and
cleaned the snow off the steps and shoveled the driveway. We had a little
snowball fight (I won), and then the snow plough came by we had to
shovel the driveway again. What a beautiful area. I love Montana.
Dec. 12, 1994: More snow last night! I love it! The snow plough did his
trick again at the end of the driveway. I love it here.
Dec. 18, 1994: More snow. Couldn't get out of the driveway to get to
work. Am exhausted from shoveling. G--D-- snowplough!
Dec. 22, 1994: More of the white shit fell last night. I've got blisters on
my hands from shoveling. I think the snow plough hides around the
corner and waits until I've done the driveway!
Dec. 25, 1994: Merry @#%#$ "Christmas". More g-- d-- snow! If I ever
get my hands on that son-of-bitch who drives the snow plough, I swear
I'll kill the bastard!! Don't know why they don't use more salt on the roads
to melt the @#%#$ ice.
Dec. 29, 1994: More white shit last night. Been inside for 3 days except
for shoveling out the driveway after that snowplow goes through every
time.
Can't go anywhere, car's stuck in a mountain of white shit. The
weatherman says to expect another 10" of white shit again tonight. Do you
know how many shovels full of snow 10" is?
Dec. 30, 1994: The g--d-- weatherman was wrong! We got 34" of the
white shit this time. At this rate it won't melt before August. The snow
plough got stuck just up the street and that bastard came to the door and
asked if he could borrow my shovel. After I told him I had broken six
shovels already shoveling all the shit he pushed into the driveway, I broke
my last one over his @#%$ head.
Jan 4, 1995: Finally got out of the house today. Went to the store to get
food and on the way back a damned deer ran in front of the car and I hit
it. Did about $3,000 damage to the car. Those g-- d-- beasts should be
killed. Wish the hunters had killed them all last November.
May 3, 1995: Took the car to the garage in town. Would you believe the
thing is rusting out from that g-- d-- salt they put all over the roads.
May 10, 1995: Moved to Houston! I can't imagine why anyone in their
right mind would ever live in that God-forsaken state of Montana.
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 1 Oct 1996 09:04:56 -0700
From: Jeff Meyer <moriarty@tc.fluke.COM>
Subject: FW: Bill Gates Wants Half!
To: spaf@purdue.EDU
This originally appeared in "The Onion": http://www.theonion.com/.
___________________________________________________________________
REDMOND, WA--In a move designed to hasten the inevitable, billionaire
Microsoft tycoon Bill Gates announced yesterday that from now on, he
will be getting half.
Gates, whose savvy and aggressiveness propelled his Microsoft Corporation
to the top of the business world and made him America's richest man with
an estimated fortune of $18 billion, announced his plan at a press
conference yesterday from his Seattle-area compound. "I get half," he
explained.
It has not yet been decided if Gates' half will be taken straight down
the middle or by liquidating all assets and dividing up raw capital. The
question will be settled later this week by a special session of Gates'
half of the U.S. Congress.
"Don't touch anything until you're sure it's not part of my half,"
Gates instructed the world's citizenry yesterday via the several million
40-foot-high projection screens he has scattered throughout the globe.
"I don't want anyone messing up stuff in my half."
Until everything can be clearly divided between Gates and persons
who are not Gates, measures will be taken to ensure the integrity of
Gates' half.
Citizens are instructed to remain in their homes, consuming a
carefully monitored minimum of their perishables and subjecting their
personal possessions to as little wear and tear as possible.
In the event something belonging to Gates is consumed or damaged,
Gates announced he will take punitive action, levying fines of up to $14
billion, and may even insist that offenders themselves be included in his
half.
"Don't take from my half," the 36-year-old Gates said. "Ice cream
and cool cars are part of my half." Gates also expressed interest in
possessing Apple, IBM and the former Soviet Union.
"You know, I own the Bettman Archive," Gates said. "You can't look
at it unless I say so."
Gates' half will be collected via an advanced subroutine built
directly into Windows 95. Computer users without Windows 95 will have it
automatically sent to them, with the cost of the program deducted from
their half.
Those without computers will be directed to special Gates-owned
DNA-resequencing centers where a special bio-silicate form of Windows 95
will be injected directly into their bloodstreams. Once in the
bloodstream, the Windows program is designed to breed virally at the base
of its host brainstem and to begin work on calculating Gates' half.
"Everyone must contribute to my half," Gates said. "Any number, no
matter how small, can be divided into two halves, one of which will be
mine."
Gates would not comment on the possibility of eventually increasing
his share from a mere half to a controlling interest.
Sources close to Gates would neither confirm nor deny rumors that
Gates might offer up to 15 percent of his half in exchange for the other
half of the world.
"The transitional period may be difficult," Gates said. "But it
will be quick. I hope that this time will be remembered pleasantly in the
half of people's minds that remain their own."
[ Half of everything? That will amount to a lot of fruitcake. Hmm,
maybe *that* explains the security stratgey in Microsoft products!
--spaf]
------------------------------
Date: Mon, 2 Dec 1996 15:05:01 -0500 (EST)
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@bsdi.com>
Subject: Hermann Hates #20
To: /dev/null@mongoose.bostic.com
Forwarded-by: HermHates@aol.com
HERMANN HATES Christmas
--a gift-wrapped column--
Copyright 1996 by Andrew Hermann
Okay. So I've had my damn Thanksgiving Day turkey and put together all
my damn holiday shopping lists and bought my damn nonsectarian holiday
greeting cards. Now all I have to do is spend every last dime of my
meager savings buying all those presents and the obligatory sacrificial
tree and the wreath and the ornaments and the plane ticket home -- oh
yeah, and I suppose now that I've got all those nonsectarian holiday
greeting cards I should actually write something pithy on each of them
and mail them all out, huh? And I'd better get on the stick and mail out
all the gifts that are going to people I won't actually see this year,
since your friendly neighborhood U.S. Postal Service can't guarantee
delivery of anything mailed out after this weekend till Martin Luther King
Day. And then there's the office Christmas party to attend to. And all
those other Christmas parties to attend.
Am I the only for whom the phrase "Christmas cheer" refers to that whoop
of joy you let out when all this shit is finally over and you've swept
the last of the pine needles out from under the couch?
Don't give me any of this "Peace on Earth" crap. Christmas is STRESSFUL.
I mean, I like giving and receiving gifts as much as the next person, but
why can't you just take all your friends to the mall so they can just
point to what they want? Why all this second-guessing and brainstorming
and gift-wrapping and presentation? How am I supposed to shop for my
family and friends when I forget to buy milk every time I go to the
Foodmaster?
Maybe, just maybe, holiday shopping would be fun if it weren't hyped every
year into such a consumer feeding frenzy that you feel downright seditious
for not plunking down your last ten bucks on a novelty tie for Uncle
Francis.
But it's all become just like that depressing holiday feature "Jingle All
the Way," in which Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sinbad destroy an entire
downtown shopping district (or maybe it's just one FAO Schwartz -- I
haven't actually seen the movie) in a battle-to-the-death over who gets
the last TurboMegaSomethingorOther Action Figure in town. (By the way,
does anybody else think that this entire movie was inspired by the
shopping mall sequence in "Terminator 2"? Arnie cuts a swath of
destruction through consumer utopia! Madcap hilarity for the whole
family! I mean, after all, who hasn't ever looked at one of those
pristinely arranged, beribboned holiday displays of Santa Claus figurines
and eggnog cups and had a crazy desire to take a sledgehammer to the whole
thing?) At some point the mere gesture of gift-giving stopped cutting
the mustard, and like everything else in this fucked-up society, it got
competitive. Now you honestly feel, as you're doing your seasonal
shopping, that you'd better kick ass, take names, and win first prize in
the gift-giving sweepstakes, or you're a big, insensitive, uncaring
hosehead. Macy's may as well hang a banner over every entrance
proclaiming, "Good shopping shows you care." Or perhaps, "Bad shopping
says you don't love them enough."
It's easy to forget, in the midst of all the shopping and parties and
Charlie Brown specials, what this holiday is really all about. It's about
killing a tree for Jesus. No, wait, that's not it. It's about giving
thanks for what we have...er, no. It's about celebrating what makes us
American...no, that puts us right back in the shopping mall again. Hang
on, it'll come to me in a second.
You know, actually, I think this may be the one big holiday of the year
that has no real identity of its own. Once upon a time it was a Christian
holiday, but even that definition was tenuous at best. The birth of Jesus
has about as much to do with evergreen and holly and snow and reindeer
and all the other popular symbols of Christmas as the Detroit Lions have
to do with Thanksgiving. I mean, who are we kidding? Jesus was born in
a desert in the Middle East. Sure, the wise men brought him gifts, but
there the connection pretty much ends. It's not like we all exchange
frankincense and eat dates at Christmas parties (well, maybe in
California). All the other trappings of Christmas are pagan relics
appropriated by the Christians so people would stop dancing around yule
logs at the winter solstice and go to church instead. Christmas is the
Frankenstein of holidays, cobbled together from a bunch of ancient
traditions, romanticized with a dash of Dickens and a smidgen of Capra,
and given a sexy modern spin by good ol' western capitalist greed.
Of course, I can sit here pooh-poohing the Most Wonderful Time of the Year
all I want. It still won't do me any good when I'm standing there
paralyzed in the middle of Copley Place trying to remember if I have
enough money left on my Citibank MasterCard to get Dad the Braun shaving
kit, or if I should just toddle back to Lechter's and settle for the
Tabasco Sauce gift pack. Neither of which dear old Dad, firmly ensconsed
back home in a mountain of electronic gadgets and retiree couture big
enough to keep your average Florida retirement community in geek boxes
and polyester well into the 22nd century, has any real use for. See, for
my Dad, the rat race is over, and even if he didn't exactly win, he
finished far enough out in front to collect some serious consolation
prizes. So there is no "just the thing" for Dad any more. My Dad is set.
He may need a new computer one of these days, since the model he still
uses is an ancient, creaky behemoth from the early 1990's, but he ain't
getting it from me on my arts-and-humanities chump salary.
Although I suppose, in his own impossible-to-shop-for way, my Dad is the
ideal gift recipient in these frazzled times. Precisely because there IS
no "just the thing" for him, Christmas shopping for Dad returns
gift-giving to its pure, old-fashioned, it's-the-thought-that-counts
roots. My Dad knows I love him no matter what's under the Christmas tree.
Of course, if what's under the Christmas tree is a Tabasco Sauce gift
pack, my Dad will know he is loved by an underpaid, underachieving dweeb
of a son who'd rather write humor columns than work overtime.
Any of you readers work for Citibank?
<<If a friend sent you this column, you can save them the trouble
next time by subscribing yourself. E-mail me at
HermHates@aol.com.>>
<<You can also catch up on old hates at my website:
http://www.loop.com/~chaskes/hermhates/hermhates.html>>
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 18 Dec 1996 10:05:01 -0500 (EST)
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@bsdi.com>
Subject: How Santa knows.
To: /dev/null@mongoose.bostic.com
Forwarded-by: "Carolyn P. Meinel" <cmeinel@techbroker.com>
Forwarded-by: "Robert Schmid" <rschmid@skypoint.com>
You'd better watch out,
You'd better not cry,
You'd better not pout;
I'm telling you why.
Santa Claus is tapping
Your phone.
He's bugging your room,
He's reading your mail,
He's keeping a file
And running a tail.
Santa Claus is tapping
Your phone.
He hears you in the bedroom,
Surveills you out of doors,
And if that doesn't get the goods,
Then he'll use provocateurs.
So -- you mustn't assume
That you are secure.
On Christmas Eve
He'll kick in your door.
Santa Claus is tapping
Your phone.
[Supposedly written for and sung at a US Department of Justice,
Office of Legal Counsel Christmas party]
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 19 Nov 1996 08:05:00 -0500 (EST)
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@bsdi.com>
Subject: I have no idea where this originates.
To: /dev/null@mongoose.bostic.com
Forwarded-by: rob@plan9.bell-labs.com
I LIKE MONKEYS
I like monkeys.
The pet store was selling them for five cents a piece. I thought that
odd since they were normally a couple thousand each. I decided not to
look a gift horse in the mouth. I bought 200. I like monkeys.
I took my 200 monkeys home. I have a big car. I let one drive. His
name was Sigmund. He was retarded. In fact, none of them were really
bright. They kept punching themselves in their genitals. I laughed.
Then they punched my genitals. I stopped laughing.
I herded them into my room. They didn't adapt very well to their new
environment. They would screech, hurl themselves off of the couch at
high speeds and slam into the wall. Although humorous at first, the
spectacle lost its novelty halfway into its third hour.
Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive:
they all died. No apparent reason. They all just sorta' dropped dead.
Kinda' like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later. Damn
cheap monkeys.
I didn't know what to do. There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my
room, on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase. It looked
like I had 200 throw rugs.
I tried to flush one down the toilet. It didn't work. It got stuck.
Then I had one dead, wet monkey and 199 dead, dry monkeys.
I tried pretending that they were just stuffed animals. That worked for
a while, that is until they began to decompose. It started to smell real
bad.
I had to pee but there was a dead monkey in the toilet and I didn't want
to call the plumber. I was embarrassed.
I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them. Unfortunately
there was only enough room for two monkeys at a time so I had to change
them every 30 seconds. I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so
it didn't all go bad.
I tried burning them. Little did I know my bed was flammable. I had to
extinguish the fire.
Then I had one dead, wet monkey in my toilet, two dead, frozen monkeys in
my freezer, and 197 dead, charred monkeys in a pile on my bed. The odor
wasn't improving.
I became agitated at my inability to dispose of my monkeys and to use the
bathroom. I severely beat one of my monkeys. I felt better.
I tried throwing them way but the garbage man said that the city wasn't
allowed to dispose of charred primates. I told him that I had a wet
one. He couldn't take that one either. I didn't bother asking about the
frozen ones.
I finally arrived at a solution. I gave them out as Christmas gifts. My
friends didn't know quite what to say. They pretended that they like
them but I could tell they were lying. Ingrates. So I punched them in
the genitals.
I like monkeys
------------------------------
Date: Thu, 12 Dec 1996 07:05:01 -0500 (EST)
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@bsdi.com>
Subject: JOTD
To: /dev/null@mongoose.bostic.com
Forwarded-by: "Manning, Cameron CJ" <Manning.Cameron.CJ@bhp.com.au>
Santa Claus, like all pilots, gets regular visits from the Federal
Aviation Administration, and it was shortly before Christmas when the FAA
examiner arrived. In preparation, Santa had the elves wash the sled and
brush down the reindeer.
Santa got his logbook out and made sure all his paperwork was in
order. The examiner walked slowly around the sled. He check the reindeer
harnesses, the landing gear, and Rudolf's nose. He painstakingly reviewed
Santa's weight and balance calculations for the sled's enormous payload.
Finally, they were ready for the checkride. Santa got in and fastened
his seatbelt and shoulder harness and checked the compass. Then the
examiner hopped in carrying, to Santa's surprise, a shotgun.
"What's that for?" asked Santa incredulously.
The examiner winked and smiled: "I'm not supposed to tell you this,
but you're gonna lose an engine on takeoff."
------------------------------
Date: Thu, 12 Dec 1996 10:05:01 -0500 (EST)
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@bsdi.com>
Subject: JOTD
To: /dev/null@mongoose.bostic.com
Forwarded-by: Don Fitzpatrick <shoptalk@tvspy.com>
Meanwhile, the Northeast got clobbered by a massive snowstorm. Hundreds
of thousands lost electric power. Says the Cutler Daily Scoop, "The man
who wrote 'Let it Snow' is now wanted in five New England states."
Adds Jay Leno, "Good news and bad news for people in New England. The
good news. They're assured of a white Christmas. The bad news: At this
rate, they're also gonna get a white Easter, a white Fourth of July..."
Toy stories: A woman who was working as a mall Santa in New York says she
was fired because she's a woman. Says Leno, "I don't want to sound sexist
here, but I think men do make better mall Santas: Men have bigger bellies,
men are used to sitting for long periods of time, and men have lots of
experience making promises they have no intention of keeping."
Across the nation, toy stores are selling out of the Tickle Me Elmo doll.
Says Argus Hamilton, "It giggles and vibrates when you tickle it. Under
the Communications Decency Act of 1996, they're not allowed to be sold
over the Internet."
Adds Alan Ray, "The furry little creature has already beaten the record
let by last year's big seller, Spank Me Madonna."
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 18 Dec 1996 13:05:01 -0500 (EST)
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@bsdi.com>
Subject: JOTD
To: /dev/null@mongoose.bostic.com
Forwarded-by: Don Fitzpatrick <shoptalk@tvspy.com>
It's a wrap: Monday was the busiest day of the year at post offices.
Says Paul Ecker, "At some, they actually considered opening a second
window."
Baby boomers have passed through three stages of Santa Claus, says
Argus Hamilton. "First, you believe in Santa Claus. Second, you
don't believe in Santa Claus. Third, you discover you are Santa
Claus."
A TV ratings plan is due this week. Says Bob Mills, "It's high time.
Until now, kids had to watch a few minutes of each show to decide if
it was violent enough."
Delta Airlines and Continental have called off merger talks. Says
Alan Ray, "Negotiations never really got started. Neither side would
show up when they said they were going to."
------------------------------
Date: Fri, 20 Dec 1996 13:05:01 -0500 (EST)
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@bsdi.com>
Subject: JOTD
To: /dev/null@mongoose.bostic.com
Forwarded-by: Don Fitzpatrick <shoptalk@tvspy.com>
Angela Lansbury starred in a Christmas holiday movie... It was called
"Mrs. Santa Claus"... Were you like me? You know, Angela Lansbury.
Were you just waiting for a couple of the elves to get murdered?
-- David Letterman
Cox unveiled a system of high-speed information access, with sound and
image, some 50 times faster than using a modem and the Internet. Says
Jenny Church, "It involves looking up from the computer screen and
actually speaking to the person sitting at the next desk."
Dave Thomas, 64-year-old founder of the Wendy's burner chain, needs
surgery for clogged arteries. Says Premiere Morning Sickness, "As
Thomas was under the anesthetic, doctors heard him mumble, 'Beware the
Bacon Classic.'"
A French author has come out with a book called "How to Fool Around
Without Getting Caught." Says Steve Voldseth, "How'd you like to come
home and find your spouse reading that one?"
------------------------------
Date: Fri, 8 Nov 1996 19:05:01 -0500 (EST)
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@bsdi.com>
Subject: KKI offers christian-based religious holiday marketing...
To: /dev/null@mongoose.bostic.com
Forwarded-by: loren@pixar.com (Loren Carpenter)
SANTACO, a subsidiary of Claus Enterprises, Inc., Merges With
The Kris Kringle Institute
NEW YORK--(BUSINESS WIRE)--November 1, 1996-- SANTACO (NASDAQ:HOHO) of
Portland, Oregon, the largest independent subsidiary of Claus Enterprises,
Inc. today announced that it has merged with the privately held Kris Kringle
Institute of San Francisco, California (KKI) through a mutual exchange of
stock and an acquisition of assets and debts by SANTACO. KKI offers
christian-based religious holiday marketing, training, and support for
consumer groups and retailers. Terms of the transaction were not disclosed.
"This merger gives us the leading marketing and training solutions used
by a customer base which includes hundreds of primary retailers and related
non-secular organizations," said Cent A. Klaus, Senior Vice President,
Strategic Initiatives for SANTACO Gift Brokerage Group. "The KKI services
will build upon SANTACO's extensive children's product development and
manufacturing capabilities and enable the creation of an integrated holiday
request processing service, supporting all domestic and international wish
list transactions."
KKI will operate within SANTACO's Gift Brokerage Group with Kris Kringle
continuing to lead the unit and driving the development of an enhanced
training and holiday support for SANTACO's entire line of products. KKI
expects that SANTACO's resources, including its high quality client support
and first class reputation, will provide significant benefits to both
current and future clients.
KKI President and CEO Kris Kringle said, "KKI has specialized for several
years in regional holiday icon training and support. We see tremendous
market demand for national and international training. Our business plan is
similar to Microsoft's, with SANTACO manufacturing and delivering the
product, and KKI reaping huge profits from classes, documentation, remote
support, alcohol retail and on-site training." Mr. Kringle, the only
remaining company founder and principal stock owner, continued, "There are
obvious synergies between our organizations. Besides, the San Francisco
Police Department seemed pretty fed up with us last year. It's time for new
stomping grounds."
Based in Portland, Oregon, SANTACO Gift Brokerage Group provides a wide
range of holiday based products and services. Claus Enterprises, based in
Toyland, North Pole, is one of the world's largest independent holiday
services companies.
CONTACT: Portland Cacophony Public Relations
(503) 727-2428
albob@zzz.com
http://www.iccom.com/cacohome.html
KEYWORD: PORTLAND, SAN FRANCISCO
INDUSTRY KEYWORD: SANTA/CHRISTMAS MERGERS/ACQ
------------------------------
Date: Thu, 19 Dec 1996 10:05:02 -0500 (EST)
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@bsdi.com>
Subject: the only Christmas album by a born-again, ukulele-playing man-boy...
To: /dev/null@mongoose.bostic.com
Forwarded-by: Mike Olson <mao@illustra.com>
Forwarded-by: frew@icess.ucsb.edu (Jim Frew)
Forwarded-by: Ron Dolin <rad@latte.internet-cafe.com>
http://www.addictedtonoise.com/html/hifi/Features/Holiday_Albums/961216/
Christmas Is For Freaks
[Christmas: med-holly_title-NO]
There's Something For Everyone This Holiday
Season...
By Gil Kaufman
If the extreme close-up of Tiny Tim looking
sideways and sullen on the cover of Tiny Tim's
Tiny Tim, "All I Want For Christmas Album (Rounder) isn't enough to scare
Christmas Is My Two Front you off, then maybe the bizarro universe of
Teeth" from Tiny Tim's Yuletide songs on the inside is. The
Christmas Album recently-deceased Tim, who never met a tradition
(45 second excerpt) he couldn't figure out how to tweak, lends his
[Play Stereo MPEG] 1.08MB truly bizarre touch to a host of Christmas
favorites, from a child-like falsetto version of
[Play Mono MPEG] 540k "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" to his
[Play Mono Ulaw] 359k seemingly serious, quivering orchestral medley
[Play RealAudio 28.8k] 28.8k of "O Come All Ye Faithful/Hark the Herald
[Click to buy this CD!] Angels Sing/O Little Town of Bethlehem/Amazing
Grace/Throw Out the Lifeline." And if that
doesn't scare you off, maybe the holy roller
spoken word rant by a very sober-sounding Tim in
the middle of "Silent Night," during which Tim
decries "Fornicating with children/fornicating
with young girls," will lead you screaming out
of the room. One thing's for sure, a) if your
Christmas plans include copious amounts of
psychoactive drugs, this one's for you, b) it'll
probably be the only Christmas album by a
born-again, ukulele-playing man-boy in your
collection.
------------------------------
Date: Wed, 18 Dec 1996 07:05:01 -0500 (EST)
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@bsdi.com>
Subject: The XMas-Files
To: /dev/null@mongoose.bostic.com
Forwarded-by: Rob Mayoff <mayoff@tkg.com>
Forwarded-by: Curt Finch <curt@tkg.com>
Forwarded-by: rsg@austin.ibm.com
The XMas-Files
-- by Frank Cammuso and Hart Seely
57 ELM STREET
BETHLEHEM, PA.
11:51 P.M., DECEMBER 24TH
We're too late! It's already been here.
Mulder, I hope you know what you're doing.
Look, Scully, just like the other homes: Douglas fir, truncated,
mounted, transformed into a shrine; halls decked with boughs of
holly; stockings hung by the chimney, with care.
You really think someone's been here?
Someone, or something.
Mulder, over here - it's a fruitcake.
Don't touch it! Those things can be lethal.
It's O.K. There's a note attached: "Gonna find out who's naughty
and nice."
It's judging them, Scully. It's making a list.
Who? What are you talking about?
Ancient mythology tells of an obese humanoid entity who could travel
at great speed in a craft powered by antlered servants. Once each year,
near the winter solstice, this creature is said to descend from the
heavens to reward its followers and punish disbelievers with jagged
chunks of antracite.
But that's legend, Mulder--a story told by parents to frighten
children. Surely you don't believe it?
Something was here tonight, Scully. Check out the bite marks on this
gingerbread man. Whatever tore through this plate of cookies was
massive--and in a hurry.
It left crumbs everywhere. And look, Mulder, this milk glass has
been completely drained.
It gorged itself, Scully. It fed without remorse.
But why would they leave it milk and cookies?
Appeasement. Tonight is the Eve, and nothing can stop its wilding.
But if this thing does exist, how did it get in? The doors and windows
were locked. There's no sign of forced entry.
Unless I miss my guess, it came through the fireplace.
Wait a minute, Mulder. If you're saying some huge creature landed on
the roof and came down this chimney, you're crazy. The flue is barely
six inchues wide. Nothing could get down there.
But what if it could alter its shape, move in all directions at once?
You mean, like a bowl full of jelly?
Exactly. Scully, I've never told anyone this, but when I was a child
my home was visited. I saw the creature. It had long white shanks of
fur surrounding its ruddy, misshapen head. Its bloated torso was red
and white. I'll never foget the horror. I turned away, and when I
looked back it had somehow taken on the facial features of my father.
Impossible.
I know what I saw. And that night it read my mind. It brought me a
Mr. Potato Head, Scully. It knew that I wanted a Mr. Potato Head!
I'm sorry, Mulder, but you're asking me to disregard the laws of physics.
You want me to believe in some supernatural being who soars across the
skies and brings gifts to good little girls and boys. Listen to what
you're saying. Do you understand the repercussions? If this gets out,
they'll close the X-Files.
Scully, listen to me: It know when you're sleeping. It knows when
you're awake.
But we have no proof.
Last year, on this exact date, SETI radio telescopes detected bogeys in the
airspace over twenty-seven states. The White House ordered a Condition Red.
But that was a meteor shower.
Officially. Two days ago, eight prized Scandinavian reindeer vanished from
the National Zoo, in Washington, D.C. Nobody - not even the zookeeper -
was told about it. The government doesn't want people to know about
Project Kringle. They fear that if this thing is proved to exist the public
will stop spending half its annual income in a holiday shopping frenzy.
Retail markets will collapse. Scully, they cannot let the world believe
this creature lives. There's too much at stake. They'll do whatever it
takes to insure another silent night.
Mulder, I ...
Sh-h-h. Do you hear what I hear?
On the roof. It sounds like a clatter.
The truth is up there. Let's see what's the matter.
------------------------------
Date: Fri, 06 Dec 1996 13:14:29 -0500
From: glc (Georgia Conarroe)
Subject: Try this one!
To: spaf
Forwarded from somewhere....
A Redneck Christmas
'Twas the night before Christmas And all through the trailer
Not a creature was stirrin' 'Cept a redneck named Taylor.
His first name was Bubba, Joe was his middle,
And a-runnin' down his chin Was a trickle of spittle.
His socks, they were hung by the chimney with care,
And therefore there was a foul stench in the air.
That Bubba got scared And rousted the boys.
There was Rufus, 12; Jim Bob was 11;
Dud goin' on 10; Otis was 7.
John, George and Chucky Were 5,4, and 3:
The twins were both girls So they let them be.
They jumped in their overalls, No need for a shirt,
Threw a hat on each head, Then turned with a jerk.
They ran to the gun rack That hung on the wall.
There were 17 shotguns; They grabbed them all.
Bubba said to the young'uns, "Now hesh up ya'll!
The last thing we wanna do Is wake up yer Maw."
Maw was expecting And needed her sleep,
So out they crept out the door Without making a peep.
They all looked around, and then they all spit.
The young'uns asked Bubba, "Paw, what is it?"
Bubba just stared; He could not say a word.
This was just like all of The stories he'd heard.
It was Santy Claus on the roof, Darn tootin'
But the boys didn't know; They was about to start shootin'!
They aimed their shotguns and nearly made a mistake
That would have resulted in venison steak.
Bubba hollered out, "Don't shoot, boys!"
That's Santy Claus And he's brought us some toys.
The dogs were a-barkin' And a-raisin' cain,
And Bubba whistled, and shouted, And called them by name.
"Down, Spot! Shut up Bullet! Quiet, Pete and Roscoe!
Git, Turnip and Tater and Sam and Bosco!"
"Git down from that porch! Git down off that wall!
Quit shakin the trailer, Or you'll make Santy fall!"
The dogs kept a-barkin' And wouldn't shut up,
And they trampled poor Pete Who was only a pup.
Santy opened his bag, And threw out some toys.
Bubba got most, But left a few for the boys.
Since the guns had been dropped He just might not die.
He jumped in his sleigh, Told his reindeer to hurry.
The trailer started to wobble Santa started to worry.
Just as the reindeer Got into the air,
The trailer collapsed, But Bubba didn't care.
He was busy lookin' At all his new toys.
Then a thought hit him, And he said to the boys:
"Go check on yer Maw, Make sure she's all right.
That roof fallin' on her Could-a hurt just a might."
But Maw was OK, And the girls were too.
They fixed up the trailer; It looked good as new.
And as for Bubba, He liked Old St. Nick,
But Santa thought Bubba Was a pure-in-tee hick!
Bubba had a nice Christmas, And the boys did, too.
And the Taylors wish A Merry Christmas to you!
------------------------------
Date: Mon, 16 Sep 1996 14:05:00 -0400 (EDT)
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@bsdi.com>
Subject: Undies
To: /dev/null@mongoose.bostic.com
Forwarded-by: Keith Sullivan <KSullivan@worldnet.att.net>
JUST STANDING AROUND FEMALE UNDIE SECTIONS
-- By Bill Hall, Lewiston, Idaho, Tribune, December 18, 1989
I should have realized that a guy who creeps around the ladies' underwear
section of a department store trying to do something sneaky is risking trouble.
I was considering the purchase of some dainties as a Christmas present for
my wife. And I'll admit it: I'm always uncomfortable in that part of the
store. Every time I gather my courage, throw back my shoulders and march
into that section, half the town walks by. And there I stand surrounded by
undies. A person can get a reputation that way.
Somehow it isn't the same with women, though it should be. If a man who
hangs out in the female scanties section is suspicious, then what of the
woman who seems to spend a lot of time pawing through men's shorts? Yes, I
know, that's different. Women's underwear tends to be a good deal more
provocative. Most men's underwear is about as sexy as a work shirt. If a
man really gets crazy, he buys gray underwear instead of white.
And there is hardly an item of male or female clothing more ridiculous than
boxer shorts. Mickey Mouse wears boxer shorts. Mickey Mouse is not one of
the great male sex symbols of our time.
Women's underwear, by contrast, is lacy and transparent and available in
colors that would make a madam blush, colors that one does not wear when one
is planning to go to church or to go outside and weed the rutabagas. A lot
of female finery is blatantly meant to stimulate the mating urge.
And there is so much of it. The men's underwear section in most department
stores is a couple of shelves. One whole corner of the store is given over
to women's undies. So it is a larger undertaking to shop there. You don't
stop by the women's underwear counter. You disappear into the women's
underwear section.
As I stand there in my bawdy bald head and my dirty-old-man raincoat,
surrounded by panties and bras in hues no decent woman would wear, the clerk
is always busy with someone else. So people walking by see me just hanging
around, doing nothing, apparently just experiencing all that nylon
naughtiness like any other old guy in a raincoat.
And of course, everyone in town walks by the mayor, the judges, most of the
ministers I know, every decent person who ever doubted my morality walks by
and catches me in the act of standing there among the underwear.
But it can be even worse than that. The other day while I was standing
around waiting to ask the clerk about a lovely pair of long wool underwear I
was considering for my wife, the last person I wanted to see walked by: My
wife herself.
I was afraid she would see me and realize one of the things I might be
getting her for Christmas. Just then, the clerk came up and asked if she
could help and I found myself panicking and saying something stupid:
''Cheese it, my wife,'' I whispered to the young female clerk, turning on my
heel and walking in a crouch out the other side of the section before I was
caught there.
It occurred to me too late that it might have sounded to the clerk like I
was buying underwear for my girlfriend and didn't want my wife to catch me.
On second thought, I decided the clerk probably understood. It must be
common this time of year for husbands to hide what they are doing from their
mates lest the surprises of Christmas morning be spoiled.
I circled around behind my wife, greeted her, chatted a bit and sent her on
her way. And then I threw my shoulders back again and marched once more
into all that satin wickedness.
I went up to the clerk and said softly in a conspiratorial tone, ''It's okay
now. I got rid of my wife.''
''I beg your pardon,'' she said.
It was then that I noticed it wasn't the same clerk. It was another young
woman who wondered why this bald-headed old guy in the raincoat was standing
there in the underwear section looking nervous and informing her he had got
rid of his wife.
I quickly explained myself and I think she bought it.
------------------------------
Date: Fri, 6 Dec 1996 13:05:01 -0500 (EST)
From: Keith Bostic <bostic@bsdi.com>
Subject: Well, at least he's likely to get his wish.
To: /dev/null@mongoose.bostic.com
Forwarded-by: Eric Osborne <osborne@notcom.com>
Forwarded-by: Justin Sheehy <dworkin@ccs.neu.edu>
A supposedly true story ...
In the weeks before Christmas the British ambassador in Canada received
a phone call from the CBC (CBC Canadian Broadcasting Company, a Canadian
TV station). The CBC representative on the other end of the line thanked
the ambassador for his prompt arrival at interviews etc, and for a
generally good year. The ambassador returned the thanks. The CBC
representative then asked the ambassador what he wanted for Christmas.
Thinking that it might be inappropriate for him to accept a gift, the
ambassador said that he didn't think that it was a very good idea.
However, The CBC representative insisted, and in the end the ambassador
said that he wanted a small box of crystallised fruits.
The CBC rep seemed a little puzzled at this answer, but they ended the
conversation and the ambassador thought nothing more of it.
Later that month, on Boxing Day, the ambassador was sitting watching the
news on TV with his family when he was treated to this item at the end:
"Before Christmas, we asked three foreign ambassadors what they wanted
for Christmas. The French ambassador said that he wanted world peace and
an end to suffering, the German ambassador said that he wanted a cure for
cancer, and the British ambassador said that he wanted a small box of
crystallised fruits...."
------------------------------
Date: Tue, 10 Dec 96 12:11:33 JST
From: plipe@csfb.co.jp (Phillip Lipe)
To: ee7714@lab3.ca.boeing.com
"Santa Pick-Up Lines"
As presented on the 12/5/95 broadcast of LATE SHOW with DAVID LETTERMAN
10. "I'll make you shake like a bowl full of jelly"
9. "I put the 'scroo' in 'Scrooge'!"
8. "I've got something you can hang a wreath on"
7. "One hour with me honey and you'll see flyin' reindeer"
6. "Buy you a Zima?"
5. "That is a candy cane in my pocket, and I'm glad to see you"
4. "Uh-yeah, that's right, I'm Kenny Rogers"
3. "I got your stocking stuffer right here, Shirley!"
2. "Giddy-up over here and say 'Howdy' to your fat, bearded cowboy of love!"
1. "I've got an elf in my pants!"
"Things Overheard In Santa's Workshop"
As presented on the 12/20/95 broadcast of LATE SHOW with DAVID LETTERMAN
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"
"Signs You're Watching Too Much Football"
As presented on the 12/27/95 broadcast of LATE SHOW with DAVID LETTERMAN
10. Before sex, you flip a coin to see who will receive
9. You've been banned from the A&P for spiking melons
8. To feel closer to some of your favorite players, you tear the cartilage in
your knee
7. The kids bring home a good report card and you dump Gatorade on 'em
6. Most humans: 75% water, you: 75% chip dip
5. During sex, you use a play clock
4. You pay $22 million to have Deion Sanders shovel off your driveway
3. For the last two months, you've been wearing nothing but a cup
2. You fell in love with your wife because she looks like John Madden
1. After sex, you go for the 2-point conversion
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End of Yucks Digest
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