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Angstmonster 14
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+ _____ ____ ____ ______/ |_____ ____ ___ ______/ |___________ +
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+ / __ \_ | \ /_/ >\__ \| | Y Y \<_> ) | \__ \| |\ ___/| | \/ +
* (____ /_| /___ /____ >|__|__|_| /___/__| /___ >|__| \__ \|__| *
+ \/ \/____/ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ +
* 12.02.02 angstmonster issue 14 *
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¡edited (poorly) by gir¡
<oregano2k> ezines are better than hard copy crapy-designed zines
§+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++¡contents¡++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++§
+ +
+ Brief Words from gir +
+ Hi, My Name is Zhixel (which doesn't mean anything.) zhixel +
+ Danger in the Sink oregano +
+ I Killed My CompPuter tildaq +
+ Optimization - Angstmonster koolpeith +
+ Permanently Restless alice +
+ Dr. Mindbender, PhD zhixel +
+ Penny's oregano +
+ W T Fuck and the Poodle Shampooers gir +
+ +
§+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++¡contents¡++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++§
<trilobyte> angstmonster is that which makes my veins sizzle
<jamesy_> but the fact of the matter is, the reason that zines are zines and
not magazines is because they're pretty much crap most of the time
<jamesy_> so while I do enjoy going back and reading stuff I read long ago or
even wrote, I can't say it had much impact on the world
<jamesy_> it only had an impact on me personally
<jamesy_> and it would be vain for me to say that EZINES were an integral part
of the online experience, or in any way groundbreaking
---------------
: Brief Words :
: From gir :
---------------
So we survived the fate of coming near anything numbered 13 (you know, the last
issue) but I am afraid that this issue I must confess. You see at first I
thought it was a lie, a warp of time and delusional space creatures.
(Hamsters perhaps?) Alas, faithful readers of the monstering angst, I confess,
what you are about to read is the truth (of all sorts of truth) about
angstmonster and how it came to be. Read on with heart and be brave,
especially you young ones. Don't let the following scare you...
Æ-x-x-x-THE-x-x-TRUTH-x-x-BEHIND-x-x-ANGSTMONSTER-x-x-x-Æ
<bujoe> oh, nice to met you. did you start angstmonster?
<zhixel> I did
<zhixel> but I did nothing with it so I sold angstmonster
to gir for 1.5 million dollars
<zhixel> ezines are all corporate nowadays you know
<gizzir> bujoe: yeah, i started it late this summer
<gizzir> but i let zhixel pretend he bought it from me
<zhixel> yeah
<gizzir> the money he's talking about is just payments
for sex
<gizzir> but that's another story altogether
Æ-x-x-x-THE-x-x-TRUTH-x-x-BEHIND-x-x-ANGSTMONSTER-x-x-x-Æ
Well, now that we let that out into the wild, I'm sure there are lots of
questions to be answered. Rather then answer them, I'll just litter this issue
with references to zhixel, the holy almighty and not really creator of
angstmonster all though, it's funny to think he created it! Let's have a good
laugh at this conversation.
Ok if you didn't laugh, maybe ch33z-1t will say something really funny to make
you laugh. I know it works for me.
So the passed couple of nights, in between coming home from work and sleeping,
when there's nothing else to do, I've found myself watching the episodes of
sifly and olly I downloaded a couple of months ago. I must say, it's a great
show. Something about it makes me wanna dedicate a whole issue of angstmonster
to sock puppets and their power to command their audience's like no other
puppets I have ever seen. (Imagine the unstoppable force of a sock puppet
leader commanding an army of muppets. Wouldn't that be the coolest thing ever?
Cooler than an army of sneetches and angstmonsters? Well, equally as cool. I
doubt there'd ever be a war between the two factions, but it's yet to bed said
what would happen if a sock puppet took Jim Henson's place. Speaking of Jim
Henson, Kermit just recently got his own star on the Hollywood walk of fame.
That's pretty cool. I want to live in a world where lots more muppets/puppets
and creatures from the fairy tales we know and love have their own stars on
such a walk of fame. We need more ways to congratulate and give thanks to
those that were given birth in our imaginations.)
Ok, I just added the last article to the issue so everything is nearing
completion. I regret to reform our avid readers that ch33z-1t is sick and all
passed out in bed so he will not be making you laugh like I promised earlier.
Fret not, because tildaq provided us with an mp3 to go along with his tfile and
there's a DOUBLE (that's right TWO TIMES AS MUCH) DOSE of oregano as he rock
and rolls all night!
But enough from me, on with what makes a fitting second intro to this issue...
------------------------------------------------------------
: Hi, my name is zhixel (which doesn't mean anything.) :
: OR :
: I don't have to explain my art to you, but I will anyway :
: by zhixel :
------------------------------------------------------------
I have always written and have had an interest in ezines since I first
graced my eyes upon I Bleed For This?, HoE, DTO and other zines which opened
me up to the creative world of ezines outside the "How to hack a WWIV
BBS!!!1" and "Phone Phreaking for Popular Phoolz@!#" articles of hacker
'zines
In the interest is trying to save my failing imagination I wrote a story
which you may wind up reading in this issue! This is actually the first time
I've bothered to write anything to be published in a 'zine.
Everything I have written in this issue has been the result of me sitting
in bed during the early AM hours with a laptop. In closing I'd like to thank
my friend Gir who taught me how to love again.
xoxo,
zhixel
Ö-_-_-_-A-_-_-_-TOM-_-_-_-MOMENT-_-_-_-Ö
<gizzir> germans eat poopy!
<atom> well
<atom> poopy with vanilla sauce
Ö-_-_-_-A-_-_-_-TOM-_-_-_-MOMENT-_-_-_-Ö
----------------------
: Danger In The Sink :
: by oregano :
----------------------
Authors note: This is based on a true story. I have exaggerated it a little
for dramatic purposes, but otherwise this really happened.
One hot summer day, at work, just a few years ago, I had finished reading
the cheap local newspaper, and I had ink all over my hands. I went to the sink
in the company's kitchen area to wash the ink from my fingers, lest I spoil my
desk with inky fingerprints. Icky.
I was tired that day, probably worn out from the heat, so I rested on my
elbows while I lazily washed my hands with the lovely smelling dish soap we
used to have here. While I did so, someone brushed by to get to the Coke
machine. But I did not turn around, I was captivated by the pleasure of
washing my hands on a hot summer's day. I then dried my hands and went back to
my desk.
Then the trouble began.
Beau, one of the company roustabouts, came to my desk and said, "Did you
just wash your face in the sink?"
"No," I said, "I just washed the ink from my hands, I was reading the
paper."
"I just saw you wash your face, that is disgusting, you should go into
the bathroom to do that. Not in the kitchen sink."
I replied, "I only washed my hands, not my face. Go away."
He went away, and I got back to work in my big important job and about ten
minutes later I got a call from the managing editor of the magazine. He
no longer works here, thank goodness. "Murray, can you come here for a
minute?"
So I got up and went to the editors office thinking he had some assignment
for me. "Murray, I am told you have been washing your face in the kitchen
sink," he said.
"No," I replied, "I just washed my hands, I had been reading the paper
and got ink on my fingers."
"Well, whatever, I just want you to know that if you are going to wash
your face you should use the bathroom sink."
"But I did not wash my face, just my hands," I said. "Why am I being
accused of washing my face?"
"No one is accusing you of anything, just letting you know that it is
inappropriate to wash your face in the kitchen sink, people bring food in there
and that it is just disgusting."
I said, "But I did not wash my face, only my hands, so why are we having
this argument?"
He said, "There is no argument, I am just letting you know that there are
some things appropriate and some things inappropriate, and using the kitchen
sink to wash your face is inappropriate."
"But I was not washing my face, I was washing my hands," I replied.
"Just don't wash your face in the kitchen sink and we will not have any
problems, okay?"
"Fine, okay, I have no problem with that and I never washed my face in the
kitchen sink, or any sink, come to think of it," I said.
"Okay, just so you understand. I am glad we had this talk to straighten
things out. Now lets go put out a magazine."
And that was that.
Both Beau and the managing editor found other jobs within the next year
and a half, oddly both went to better jobs where they doubled their pay,
national magazines you all would have heard of. I guess it pays to be
clueless.
The end.
-------------------------
: I Killed My CompPuter :
: by tildaq :
-------------------------
I swear to god this is a true story!
This is a song that was created one night before I had to format my hard disk
due to previous errors and I noticed a small icon on my desktop that I had not
seen before. I clicked on it and the screen turned blue. The message was "I've
got the blues, never had to choose." I was like, "WTF?!" Fruityloops opens up
all of a sudden with a song already loaded that I sure as hell didn't
recognize! I played it, it was a shitload of computery voices with no beat. I
didn't know what the fuck to make of it but I did what any normal person would
do in this same situation, i added a beat. If anyone can make sense of these
lyrics, please email: utopianism@hotmail.com
Liquid shadows of the night Coming from a center of golden light.
Come with me, non-metrically.
Text files are like narcotics, only cheaper.
Sticky situation.
They say it's revolutionary and I believe them.
Believe them....
Believe them....
I've got the
I've got the
I've got the blues!
Never had
Never had
Never had to choose!
I suppose no one knows (that)
I've got the blues.
(I've) Never had.
(I've) Never had.
Never had to choose!
They say it's revolutionary and I believe them.
(Note from the editor: look for the mp3 tildaq's talking about on the site. It
should be there somewhere or another. On with the fucking tfile!)
------------------
: Optimization :
: Angstmonster :
: by koolpeith :
------------------
Last night, like a blind retarded child, I went on an XP optimization field
trip. What is an optimization field trip, you say? Cleanly, simply,
eloquently put: a big waste of time because the phrase "XP optimization" is
a contradiction of itself. If you didn't already dislike the Windows
operating system because of its corporate tyranny or programming
inefficiencies, your eyes will spew electrical signals to your head to get
the adrenaline flowing. (You're going to hate it more.) By default, that
uber-marketed "System-Restore" was using 10 gigs to catologue my computer's
settings. Its not like i've got a terabyte drive or anything; yes, 80 gigs
is large, but setting a windows utility default to use well over 10 % is
just plain mean. I set the usable disk space to some number i forget,
something way lower, then I went to take a crap. In the john, sitting in
existential reflection (as everyone SHOULD while excreting solids) I came
up with the fabulous idea to benchmark my cd-rw. You see, this weekend I
was still riding the high that was popped by a firmware update. That tiny
little download made my 48X16X48 stop maxing out at 16x and I saw it go up
to 49.7x! Ignorance is bliss, eh? Last night the fucking thing was not
getting past 17x. So you know what I did? I used that "neat and essential"
windows tool, yours an my favorite, SYSTEM RESTORE!! "Ok," i say to myself,
"lets take this back to friday, the day after i installed the firmware." A
few easy clicks, a reboot, and WALLA! IT DIDN'T FUCKING WORK. I'm not
talking about getting the burner back up to speed, either. I mean the
goddamn system restore would failed to restore anything. I'm glad, at least,
that the only money I ever spent on this Operating System was the 25 cents
invested in that Memorex CD-R. You know, reader, I just realized something.
Whats the point in cleaning up a computer if we know that the first time we
open a file on a freshly defragged hard drive it will get all fucked up;
that there will be an incomplete uninstaller, that you are not your fucking
desktop wallpaper? Its a sick infatuation, a digital masturbation. Set me
free of this endless task, my PC fucks up everything including my subnet
mask. That rhyming moment is over. Okay, its like this. I admit to
constantly being concerned about the tidiness of my PC. I admit that I am
the perfect targeted consumer to which Windows XP was designed to sell to.
With its funky start menu and capacity to have the tidiest desktop this side
of DOS, its hard for me to not use XP.
A posse of clouds.
No one told them about wind.
We all miss someone.
I like to write haiku to curb my frustration about my damn hard drive
optimization and my frustration at myself for being concerned about hard
drive optimization.
Solitary leaf.
Inevitably you die.
Ashes shall scatter.
That one continues my mockery of myself. It says that nature wills things
to scatter elsewhere to combine with other things. Thats how we get rich
soil, its how we get elemental compounds and other kool things. As long as
we are organic (and not digital) beings, why stop this? I don't condone
giving up what brings you joy, but I encourage seeking joy from all of that
which is worldly. Read a book, meet some people, get a job you can have fun
at, meet a member of the opposite/same sex. Take up meditation. Ride a
bike. Stop sitting and move your body. Expend some of that stored ATP and
find a planet of opportunities.
---------------
: Permanently :
: Restless :
: by alice :
---------------
It all began with B. Everything began with B. If it hadn't been for
B, she never would've joined marching band. If she never joined marching
band, she never would've met June. If she never met June, she never
would've gone to Australia. If she never went to Australia, she never
would've ran away.
She set out alone, with only two hundred dollars in her pocket. She was
wearing her daddy's fishing hat on her head.
Eleven days and eleven nights passed before she met Louis on an
abandoned street at midnight. He was carrying a guitar case.
She followed him blindly to the dock and hopped excitedly over the gap
between the sea burnt wood of the dock and the slippery edge of the
boat. The water below was black and thick.
She sailed with Louis, for years and years, entranced by his hypnotizing
music. They had no need to keep track of time.
And they had no need for shoes.
-The Beginning-
A group of children, not much older than thirteen, set out together for
two weeks in a foreign country one summer. But not long after the
airplane took off, the natural habit of thirteen year olds showed
itself. These children segregated into groups, based on clothing and
popularity. All but one girl were included. This one girl was left out.
She was picked on and made fun of at every chance given. She sat alone
at the front of the tour bus. She ate meals by herself. She was shoved
to the back of the line. She even got spit spat in her hair.
She escaped the towering flashing hotels at night and walked to the edge
of these foreign cities alone, ideas brewing in her head. Ideas of revenge.
-An Idea-
At midnight in Sydney, sitting on a park bench next to a flickering
street lamp, she realized what she had to do.
...to be continued
-----------------------
: Dr. Mindbender, PhD :
: by zhixel :
-----------------------
He woke up at 5 AM this morning. By 6:30 AM he was walking
through the doors of his practice, sipping tentatively from the styrofoam
coffee cup in his hand. This had more or less been the morning ritual for
the past seven years without fail. Every morning mustering up the courage to
blindly charge head first into the day, screaming at the top of your lungs
to overcome the sheer terror of it.
His name was Mindbender, Arlen Mindbender. Dr. Arlen Mindbender, PhD as he
was known professionally. A frugal man, born to a middle class family,
Graduated in the middle of his class in medical school, and proceeded to
open a mid-sized practice in a mid-sized town with a fellow doctor seven
years ago.
Originally he had the faint glimmer of hope at becoming a cardiologist or
brain surgeon or someone who actually made a meaningful difference in
people's lives. However, at his fathers urging, he had become a
Dermatologist. "Health may come and go", his father had said, "but vanity
will last forever."
The morning hurdle completed yet again, Arlen proceeded to see his first
patients of the morning. One had a particularly disgusting rash covering 95%
of his body, another a routine acne outbreak. By the time lunch rolled
around he had poked, prodded, and prescribed various creams and lotions to a
number of patients.
. . . X_X . . .
Twelve O clock, out the door to the mall for another cheap fast food meal
at the food court. Arlen's disgust at the job was satiated only by the
knowledge that he was making absurd amounts of money and could retire from
the hideous profession all the sooner, thus he was notoriously frugal about
all aspects of his life in hopes of speeding up the process. Every weekday
lunch was the same: a medium drink, cheeseburger, and a small order of fries
from McFriendly's.
He was deep in thought about this plan, as he was every weekday going to
lunch, as he walked swiftly through the food court. He was just passing the
Cinnabon when all of the sudden he was jolted out of the thought as he
bumped into a young man wearing a black leather jacket with a big crimson C
on the back...
The standoffish, short young man let loose a short yell which pierced
Arlen's ears. "Oi!" he yelled as a group of young men in similar jackets
loitering around Cinnabon immediately took notice of their partners sudden
cry. In short time Arlen was surrounded by the surely lot as the man he
bumped into glared up at him with the fire of righteous indignation in his
eyes that such a square dare intrude on his personal space.
The young men in question currently intimidating Arlen were the
Cinnagangsters: A gang of local nogoodnick youth with a common loving
devotion to sweet pastries. Such outrageous personalities were not
particularly uncommon as this was the era of the super villain. The romantic
criminal with the genius plan, the arrogant attitude that confounded the
police, the flashy, stylish outfit, or like the Cinnagansters, just a theme
for deviant behaviour.
The short man barked gruffly at Arlen.
Arlen tried to step back but was quickly shoved from behind by the
surrounding Cinnagangsters.
"Look 'ere, think maybe ya outta be taught some manners!"
Shoved back and forth between the gang of toughs, Arlen was
eventually deposited in the nearest trash receptacle.
As Arlen woke up in some Taco Loco wrappers something in his encounter with
the Cinnagangsters struck a chord within Arlen. He had seen various accounts
of supervillain escapades on the television but had never had a first hand
encounter with anything like that. These were not merely criminals, Arlen
thought to himself, they were a step beyond. These were men who dared to
escape beyond the confines of society's rules and rat race construct. They
took their life into their own hands along with anything they wanted. Truly
taking hold of their own destiny and riding it without mercy.
The next day Arlen took his life savings and bought a castle. One of those
giant, foreboding castles on a mountain just outside of the city that you
always find mad doctors living in. Arlen was mad. He was mad at his whole
life up until this point, but he was taking it back now. He was going to be
the one to take destiny by the reigns and pull as hard as he could.
He was Dr. Mindbender, PhD.
--------------
: Penny's :
: by oregano :
--------------
The desperate shop at J.C. Penny's. The store attracts those beaten up by
life. How terrible and twisted life has to be to step foot through the doors.
The rage and scream of life gets muffled in its walls and a horrifying
blandness envelops like a blanket of soft mud.
Many immigrants are among those who shop there. Later, their kids will
not. The immigrants came to America for a better life, for freedom, for
opportunity. And while their lives here might be better than in a hut with a
dirt floor, they find their lives as nothing compared to what they see around
them. They see people in high-priced sedans, throwing money away on disposable
fashion, eating fast disposable food. And all these people looking down on the
immigrant. They hate. They hate the immigrant for being different and daring
to have less. They hate the immigrant for working hard but having nothing.
The immigrant has nowhere to turn. They come to J.C. Penny's
J.C. Penny's embraces these people. Walking inside is like bathing the
brain in the same endorphins released by morphine. The senses dull. The dream
of louder, faster, flashier gets lost and distorted in a funhouse mirror and
they find their moment of comfort in this lesser dream when the original dream
becomes too twisted to be remembered or recognized. They tell their children
they are in a big American department store, living a good life, but they know
it is all they can afford. They can't stop on the rich side of town where
sunglasses go for $400. Here at Penny's they spend $25 and call it splurging.
The signs are fancy, but not in the same way as other stores. At a Best Buy
the music is loud and the signs are bright: BUY BUY BUY. But at Penny's there
is a subduedness, you wander through the store in a haze of fog, watch the
world from 30 feet below water.
The children of the immigrants understand that this is not the American
Dream, the adults can fool themselves but their children cannot be fooled, they
will never shop there once they leave home. The store reeks of failure, it
stenches of a desperate desire to fit in. A desire that cannot be fulfilled,
only resembled, approximated. Ninety minutes of illusions; standing on a stage
in clown paint is no different, but with the clown face you know it is just
there to entertain.
But the immigrant is only a small part of the clientele. The rest are
older people, poorer people, those who need to pretend. They know the sales
clerks will be nice to them as they talk them into the $20 gold chain ("50% off
this weekend only") they fill their carts with what seem like the latest
fashion. They try so desperately to tell themselves that this is the real
thing. Success awaits. Popularity at school will follow for their children.
But the real world would tell them the truth, if they'd listen. Many of their
children fall into the same trap. Poverty and lack of style and grace is
contageous. The immigrant children have it different since they live in a
different world from their parents, but the children of those who have shopped
at Penny's for generations, they have little chance. They kid themselves and
never look around. Never see the sad knock-off they have embraced. The either
mask has been strapped on and they breathe in deeply. They do not notice the
Valhalla they no longer have hpope for. These are they who have given up but
have to believe otherwise, these are the poor, lonely, desperate; these are the
shoppers of J.C. Penny's.
¿-/-/-\-\-A-/-/-\-\-HUMOROUS-/-/-\-\-MOMENT-/-/-\-\-¿
"And so my advice to all young people who
wish to become poets is: do something easy,
like learning how to blow up the
world-unless you're not only willing, but
glad, to feel and work and fight till you
die."
-e. e. cummings
¿-/-/-\-\-A-/-/-\-\-HUMOROUS-/-/-\-\-MOMENT-/-/-\-\-¿
----------------------
: W T Fuck and the :
: Poodle Shampooers :
: by gir :
----------------------
Every time he told the story, we'd gather around the TV and press our hands
against it, just like he did at our age.
"And then my mother would come in," he'd say with the voice of a nervous eight
year old.
"W T FUCK! WHY DO YOU HAVE YOUR HANDS AGAINST THE TV LIKE THAT!?"
In unison, our mother would scream out the same thing. It was like every
parent across the country knew that when his mother screamed "W T FUCK," we too
would be pulled away from our congregation, our secret they didn't understand.
But they weren't the only ones. W T FUCK, himself knew that his poodle shampoo
squad was being pulled away from this moment, their moment together. And every
week he'd let out a sigh as heavy as ours.
"Better luck next time poodle shampooers! Hehe, I said pooer."
Every time, we'd reply with rebellion in our minds, "You certainly did W T
FUCK!" At dinner I'd look to my little brother and smile, then he'd laugh.
"Pooer" we'd both say and then be hurried to bed quickly without any dessert.
The more I think about it, the more I begin to understand W T FUCK's plight.
He's probably gone without dessert much longer than my little eight year old
mind could fathom. He's been doing this sort of thing since he was five I'm
sure of it. According to my parents, W T FUCK was five years old long before I
was even a twinkle in their eyes (whatever that means)
I didn't like the fact that I had to remain dumb in front of my parents. I
already knew I was much more smarter than my dad, even W T FUCK had told me.
(He told my brother too. Who says he's not as smart as I'll grow up to be.
According to what W T FUCK told him, I'm next in line to be W T FUCK! I was so
excited when he told me that news, but I'm not sure if W T FUCK really told him
that. I suppose that's the trouble with guys like W T FUCK, you're never sure
when he's telling who what.)
Sometimes you have to listen to what the parents say about W T FUCK, if only to
ensure someone isn't trying to take your place in line to be W T FUCK. When
he wouldn't come on as programmed, school would be buzzing the next day. Under
the set of slides in the sandbox, we'd congregate and discuss W T FUCK's plans.
"He wasn't on TV last night because he came to visit me!"
"Why would he visit you?"
"Because, I'm to tell you all about his plans for us!"
"You're a liar, that's why he'd visit you alright! You were visited by another
one of your figments!"
"Now you both just sound like the parents and their silly religions! Listen,
it was something else that kept him. Something we haven't begin to consider
and that he hasn't bothered to tell us about."
"Bothered? Because the great W T FUCK mussn't bother US! A BOTHER!? I'M
surprised you still expect visits from him!"
This is how it would go on and result in an all out brawl. We were more
smarter than any of the other's parents, but we still didn't know how dumb it
was to fight.
Parents fought all the time. They beat each other up or decided that someone
else's parents far away needed beating up. It wasn't fair of the parents to go
around beating each other up all the time, especially when they wouldn't come
back from the beating up.
We didn't worry too much though. W T FUCK said by the time we were parents
both beating up and worrying would be dealt with. W T FUCk, he had a plan. It
was the bestest thing any one of use had ever heard. He himself, had followed
W T FUCK when he was little and talked of all the great things that had
happened. But unlike him and our parents, we weren't interested in great
things, no we just wanted to hear the end of his damned story for once. (And
maybe once he told it, we'd get dessert after supper.)
Y0Y0Y0Y0! THIS INSTALLMENT OF ANGSTMONSTER IS ALMOST OVER SO WE'RE GOING TO
LET DJ KISSES ROCK US OUT FOR A BIT. EVERYBODY READ!?! YOU GOTT GET UP FOR
THIS ONE, YOU JUST GOTTA! SO NOW, DJ KISSES SLAM DOWN THEM FUNKY ASS BEATS!
,,,
o/o. - DJ KISSES IN THA HIZZOUSE!!
>_
.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.
T
H \o_ ... EVERYBODY DANCE
E />
D
A \o_ ... LIKE THERE'S ASS IN YOUR PANTS
N >\
C
E _o/ ... I CALL THIS MOVE THE HADOKEN
F />
L
O _o/ ... SERIOUSLY GETTING JIGGY WITH IT HERE FOLKS
O >\
R
.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.oonf.
,,,
.o\o - PEACE OUT, YO!
_<
(dj kisses art: zhixel)
WOW, THAT WAS AMAZING DJ KISSES! I'M GLAD YOU COULD THROW DOWN THE ACHEWOOD
BEAT LIKE YOU DID JUST NOW! REALLY KEEP THAT SHIT SPINNING INTO THE NIGHT.
IT'S LIKE I'M AT A FOAM PARTY WITHOUT THE FOAM! BUT FOR NOW, THAT'S ALL THE
ANGSTMONSTER THAT'S LEFT. WE BE OUTTA THIS PIECE FOR NOW!
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æ Æfterthought(s) æ
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To anyone reading: If you dig sock puppets, fear not! The gang at here at
angstmonster (and anyone else we recruit) will be collaborating on a special
issue dedicated to the grand wonderfulness of sock puppets. You have only SIFL
& OLLY to thank for this. So you know, if you see them on the street tell em
thanks. (And if you have anything to say about sock puppets, send it out way)
Also, be on the lookout for some Holiday Special Edition action. We'll go all
out just for you oh faithful readers! Just as long as you keep rocking out!
SUPPORT:
http://www.bubblemonkey.org/cheesencrackers/ !CHEESENCRACKERS!
http://members.optushome.com.au/steak/addendum/ ¿ADDENDUM¿
http://turd.angstmonster.org THE UNDEAD RISE, DAMMIT!
http://scene.textfiles.com CURRENT TEXTFILE SCENE
?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?¿?
What you have just read was a step into the unknown spontaneous and poorly
edited thoughts for sharing collectively known as "Angstmonster." All thoughts
on the matter can be sent to <gir@angstmonster.org> or you can just visit the
site http://www.angstmonster.org and see what you think. Submissions of all
sorts are welcome! Everything from prose and poetry to rants and opinions,
creative text art, recipes for yummy food, reviews of stuff, etc.
Thanks and enjoy your day...
copyright 2002 issue 14
angstmonster.org 12.02.02
Feel free to redistribute this document, although no fee can be charged and the
content must not be altered or modified in any way. Unauthorized use of any
part of this document is prohibited. All rights reserved. (and stuff)
