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Capital of Nasty Vol. 07 Issue 02
Capital of Nasty Electronic Magazine
Volume VII, Issue 1, AD MMII
Monday, January 28, 2002
ISSN 1482-0471
-------------------------------------------
<two-c00l> i met eminem yesterday
<rick^MD> eminem is gay, and i hate gays
<two-c00l> eminem is not gay!
<rick^MD> yes he is
<two-c00l> prove it
<rick^MD> ok... i had anal sex with him last week
<two-c00l> um i thought you said you hate gays?
<rick^MD> oh umm... i was just making sure he was gay so i could
prove it to you
http://www.geekissues.org/quotes/?random
-------------------------------------------
<smartboy> "The two goats have sired some 50 diary goats for the
production of silk proteins in their milk."
<smartboy> what the hell is a diary goat?
<smartboy> follows you around recording your day?
-------------------------------------------
1. Editorial
2. The Silence of the "G"s
3. PLANTS MATTER: Stop The Killing Now
4. Worked in a state park cafeteria line
5. CoN (not) at the Movies
-------------------------------------------
This week's Golden Testicle award:
http://www.ratkill.com/ratcam.html
Your rat-hunting headquarters.
-------------------------------------------
1. Editorial
By Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro
Last week, while surfing the 'Net, Colin came upon a site that was
distributing Golden Testicles. What surprised all of us of his
discovery was to see that the drawing being used was the same one we
used here on CoN.
For those that took the time to read our policies on the site,
you'll see that we don't have any hesitation for our material to be
redistributed, as long as it's ours (content provided by other
authors retains the author's copyright), it retains the original
integrity and credit is given where credit is due.
The image in question clearly didn't follow any of the above.
Now, unlike my usual self, where I go gun-blazing into a
confrontation sure of my victory, I wasn't sure how I was going to
win this one. You see, we're in Canada, he was in Italy. Copyright
laws in these two countries work differently. And, knowing Italian
law and bureaucracy, chances were that I'd grow an ulcer before
anything would've got done.
A lawyer friend explained the difficulty in such cases and gave me a
few files to look over to see the problems that arised from over-
the-border cases.
So, I wrote to the abuser of the testicle, the most polite e-mail I
could muster, telling him that we appreciated he liked our drawing,
but would he be so kind to remove it, since it's ours? We'd greatly
appreciate.
Proving that reading, sadly, is not a skill for the tame, he mis-
understood everything we said, claimed he did not like our legal
attacks of the e-mail and, as far as he was concerned, we could
fornicate among ourselves.
I re-explained, again, in a kind and understanding tone that no, he
did not comprehend a single word of what I had originally said.
Would he please re-read the letter, we'd so greatly appreciate.
At this point, probably after having re-read the e-mail with a
little more care, he told me that he had no intention of removing
the image until we could prove that we owned the original. And even
if we did, he'd rather pay a fine and have his site closed down.
Then other colourful descriptions of how to spend our next
half-hours.
I did not desist, thanked him with the sweetest of tones how we
greatly appreciated his reply. As for taking legal action, if that
what he wished, it could be granted. Shame, I sighed towards the
end, that these things could not be solved in a friendly and
amicable way.
At this point, the various people that were following this thread
had sent me what they had found back. Unz had gathered his real
name, real phone number and real postal address. K had sent his
minions in search of weaknesses. Mnemon had discovered other
information.
His second last e-mail was rather bizarre, as he seemed to regain a
more human connotation to his wording. Perhaps the fact that I
mentioned where we'd be sending the lawyer's documentation and his
phone number which we'd call when it was going to be mailed out,
might have had something at to do with that.
He, feeling like he was losing the upper-hand, said he'd either put
the URL http://www.capnasty.org/ on top of the image and/or remove
it at the end of March, when his domain name expired. Other than
that, I was welcomed to grab on to his genitals and dangle off of
them with my mouth.
So, I wrote again, as usual thanking him for his reply and how we
appreciated that he'd remove the image immediately.
He wrote back and said we were going to chat on ICQ. So I
immediately added him before he could add me.
"How did you find all this info out?" he asked.
"That, I'm afraid, I cannot say".
I don't know if that the fact that the e-mails were always polite,
sure of themselves, had details he hadn't revealed was part of the
convincing factor, but we had a decently long chat.
The fellow turned out not to be such a bad bloke after all, but he
lacks understanding on proper use of other people's work. Right
before the end of the very civilized chat, he said that I had high
morals and that he'd remove the image immediately.
And that, he did.
Peter Steen whines like a little girl:
I work my ass off to cobble together that piece of crap article
on Arden and it doesn't make Volume VII, Issue 1?
You're getting an extra-spicy sphincter roti, Gandhi boy. >:(
Richard Campbell rejoices over another hot serving of the Rev:
Good CON
Always love a good Rev in the morning
Cliffy eats mustard for breakfast:
just read your piece on mustard. now i am not nearly so anxious
for breakfast. have you forgiven your sister? have you
considered therapy?
I've considered murder.
Enjoy this issue.
-------------------------------------------
2. The Silence of the "G"s
by Peter Steen
This is a story of love in the time of war - the story of honour and
heroism, horror and pain...without the love, war, honour or heroism.
This is the story of neighbours; a tale of horror and pain...and
dullness. And humus.
Several years ago, after my wife and I bought our first home, we
quickly discovered that the house next to ours - with whom we shared
a driveway - was occupied by an ogre of a woman, her brow-beaten
husband, and their genetically fascinating offspring.
Indeed, so overbearing was this next-door wife, that she could not
pass you without inspiring the lyrics from Pink Floyd's The Happiest
Days Of Our Lives:
"But in the town it was well known
When they got home at night
Their fat and psychopathic wives would
Thrash them within inches of their lives".
They were a nasty lot, indeed. She was a semi-reformed white-trash
matriarch and ex-psychology student. He was (shudder) a child
psychologist, who was forced to lumber through the neighbourhood
while walking his "dog" - a rodent-like Yorkie, no more than a half-
dozen pounds at most.
For years, we lived next to this human freak show, and raised two
young children of our own. Eventually, a lack of space and tolerance
made us decide to move from this house to a new home. Though it was
sadto leave the neighbouring nest of unpleasantness after four
years, we found a new dwelling that offered a better location and
the dreams of new neighbours.
How could anything be stranger than what we were leaving?
We moved to our new home in a December; a nice, semi-detached home
only a few blocks from my kids' school. Relocating in cold weather,
as we did, usually means you don't meet the neighbours right away
(as everyone is tucked into their warm domiciles, waiting out the
eight months of the year we Canadians affectionately call Winter).
When Spring eventually arrived, the neighbours, like the buds on the
trees, started making an appearance. We met our neighbours to the
North of us - an extremely nice, middle-aged couple with two teenage
kids.
But it was the neighbours to the South - to whom our house is
attached - that were of interest. We didn't hear much from the other
side of our mutual wall through the Winter months, nor did we ever
seem to witness the coming and going of any humans from their home.
But, we figured, how could anything be stranger than what we had
left? Then, maybe 100 days into the good weather, came our first
close encounter of the third kind. Not only did we actually see one
of them...we made contact.
It was an awkward approach from her said, as the neighbour mater
quickly, yet in almost inaudible tones, introduced herself and
mentioned a local fair that was coming up. Then she left, as rapidly
as she had descended upon us.
My wife and I stared at each other - as if we had just been dumped
on a lonesome road somewhere, after being abducted by aliens and
anally probed - to confirm what had just happened. We talked,
quietly, between us, trying to remember what she had said her name
was. Klaatu? E.T.? Alf? Boba Fett? Who knew?
A few weeks later, I made contact with the child of the house - a
pre-teen male, who dressed like some proletariat-clad extra from a
Sergei Eisenstein film. I introduced myself and it was then that I
realized that, indeed, things could be stranger than what we had
left.
He said his name was Arden..."Like garden, but the 'G' is silent".
Now I don't know about you, but I don't meet too many people who
define themselves by what they aren't, especially when they're not
part of a homeowner's property. Okay, proletariat boy, maybe you and
your mom are just a bit off. But you really can't be stranger than
what we had left, can you? The answer came soon enough.
Even though no more than 50 words had ever been exchanged between
the two adjoined households, about a month or so later we were asked
to watch our neighbours' house, as they were going away on a short
four-day trip. The request was to water the plants and feed the cat
that "No G", "Alf" and pater (not yet met) kept. Of course, it
begged the immediate question: why, if you were only leaving for
four days, wouldn't you water the plants before you left?
But that's not how things run, it turns out, in their household.
Before they left, I was instructed on which plants to water (all),
and where the cat's litter box was to be found. I also met the
father - just as oddly dull (or is that dully odd?) - who inspired
the entire clan to be referred to as The Dullards. A note with
specific instructions was to be left for me. After The Dullards
departed, I took my oldest child with me into the neighbour's house;
one must be always keen to gain unescorted access inside a
neighbour's - it's an excellent way to find out how soundproof your
walls are, for when you're yelling at your kids.
The first impression was the strong odour of dirt. There were so
many plants in this place that you'd swear a mass grave had just
been dug from the smell. It was "humus-palooza" and as I advanced
towards the scent of tilled soil, I engaged my oldest child in a
game of "Operation Human Shield". (She was "it" first and "Operation
Human Shield" went immediately into effect.)
Then I found the note, with the instructions. Besides asking that
all 4,711 plants be watered, I was to fill the cat's bowl 5/8 full
with food. Not one-half. Not three-quarters. 5/8. After soaking the
plant life and filling the cat bowl to overflowing, I took a quick
look at the layout of the house and calculated how much it resembled
something from "Silence of the Lambs". The basement, I imagined, had
the requisite pit and sewing room, since all that dirt smell
couldn't just be from the living room plants. "Operation Human
Shield" and I then made a hasty retreat.
Two years later, and about another 50 words exchanged, I came home
one night to find "No G" hanging around the sidewalk outside the
houses. When I asked him what was up, he stated that he had
forgotten to take his key to school with him, and that he was locked
out of the house.
Like an idiot, I invited him into my home, to make whatever phone
calls he needed to make. As luck would have it, Dullard mere and
pere are nowhere to be found. Resisting the temptation to simply
turf him back out into the street, I say he can stay in our place
until his parents return home.
Social little thing that he is, about 10 minutes into the impromptu
visit Dullard Jr. pipes up that he's "hungry". No polite request for
food or snack. Just "I'm hungry". Thanking him for the news flash, I
quickly turn on "The Simpsons", hoping that it was a particularly
inappropriate episode that might send the now-unwanted guest into a
temporary coma.
No such luck. In fact, he enjoyed the show (Dullards have no cable,
nor do they watch much television) and remarked on how it makes him
hungrier. By now, it was time to cook dinner for my family... and
the parasite. When I finished BBQ-ing I noticed "No G" discussing
something with my wife, whose smiling her fake smile. I then walk
inside the house, to talk to her, when I catch Dullard the Younger
reading - up close and real personal-like - the list of bills and
letters we have posted on our 'fridge.
"Get the fuck away from my 'fridge, you nosey, going-to-eat-my food,
missing-consonant little bastard!" I yell, in my mind. However,
still unsure of the whole Silence of the Lambs/dirt-smell thing, I
simply ask that everyone wash their hands for dinner.
The Boy Without The Letter G In His Name had eaten more than his
fair share of food when the doorbell rang. It was Alf (or is it
Klaatu?), come to retrieve her offspring. Few words accompanied the
gathering of her child...and I'm not sure whether I heard someone
say "Thank you" or "spank you".
Fewer than 50 more words have followed since, though there's no
animosity between the two houses.
And there seems to be little truly wrong with them, outside of what
must be, medically speaking, a terminal dose dullness. As Bugs Bunny
once put it: "D-U-L, dull." I doubt the bland little heads of this
threesome have never carried lampshades; the only jokes they tell
are in Latin.
As well, I have come to the sad realization that Chez Dullard
probably holds no mysteries, as I doubt the inhabitants are exciting
enough to be serial killers.
And while I also feel sorry for Arden - the human Gnome mapping
programme will one day reveal the humour gene he is missing - I also
feel relieved for him: if the Dullards were to name a child with a
silent "G" in his name, at least they didn't choose to call him
Angus.
---
A highly skilled writer and poet laureate of several recently
independent Pacific-atoll nations, Peter Steen saves his best
work... which is obvious once you're six or seven words into any of
his published material. He wants a German Shepherd puppy for his
birthday, but can't have one.
-------------------------------------------
3. PLANTS MATTER: Stop The Killing Now
By Cliff Yankovich
My current status as a Meatan, one who eats only meat, dairy and
"field killed" grain products, is largely due to the attitude of a
former co-worker. (More about what we Meatan's can and cannot
ingest later.) We hired Her, not her real name, as a temp for a
short term project in our office a year and a half ago.
She was an aggressive Vegan and by that I mean she was really in
your face with her vegetarian agenda. Personally I don't really
care what people prefer to eat or, for that matter, what sexual
practices they engage in. I just don't want to hear about it,
especially not in the work place and I really don't like to have
such things jammed down my throat. One good thing about Her being
in my face with the Vegan thing is that it forced me to think about
my own food preferences. She helped me realize that I had to do
something to combat the ongoing, constant slaughter of living things
done in order to feed people every day in this country and around
the world.
Here's how things happened. We were eating our respective lunches
in my office. Mine was a wonderful piece of grilled chicken cooked
by a gentleman who set up his barbeque barrel in the parking lot of
his restaurant, located just upwind of
my office. "Mmmm-mmm, good", I was thinking to myself as I looked
up at Her. She had a scowl on her face as she condescendingly
watched down her nose as I went about consuming the remains of a
former chicken. She gave me a short speech about how she "used to
eat meat", but now that she was in a more enlightened state, she
only ate fruits and vegetables.
Like a flash the clarity of the cruel slaughter of the vegetarian
lifestyle and the true glory of the Meatan way of life was revealed
to me. I cannot claim an angelic visitation or the aid of Joseph
Smithian magic spectacles, but the reality of who is really being
cruel was delivered like a lightening bolt to the little table in my
office.
Let me digress and bring up two pieces of information, which
together form the foundation of the Meatan philosophy. Does anyone
else remember reading about studies done in the 70s regarding
biofeedback from plants? Some biologist hooked up EKG type monitors
to various types of plants. His work demonstrated that the plants
were alive with electricity much the way we are. The feedback from
the plants differed with soothing music and rock-n-roll, (probably
why my mother gave me the article in the first place.) The plants
registered "pain" when flowers and fruit were plucked off them.
Foundation A: Plants are living, sentient beings.
Foundation #2 is based on the realization that many, if not most,
fruits and vegetables are picked "green" and then ripen during the
subsequent shipment, storage and display time at your favorite food
store. Think of bananas and those lovely tomatoes that are still
"on the vine" ripening in the store. Also, bear in mind the money
grocery stores have spent on automatic watering systems for lots of
the fruits and veggies they stock. Does one water dead plants?
(Ever see them feeding the meat selections at your local store?) It
only stands to reason that fruits and vegetables are still in the
process of growing and developing when we purchase and consume them.
Getting the picture?
On the other hand the meat we Meatans consume is quite dead when we
buy it. In my many years of meat consumption, I have never, ever
purchased orange roughy or a steak that was capable of registering
pain when I put it on the grill or in the oven. (A well mannered
Meatan will only buy frozen lobsters, not those poor tortured
beasties who are dropped alive into boiling water.) The bovine
source of the steak is treated to a speedy death. Likewise the
pigs, chickens, sheep, goats, etc. that we Meatans enjoy are
dispatched to the Great Beyond in an instant.
Conversely, when those of the vegetarian persuasion slice a still-
ripening tomato to top off their salad they are brutally carving
into a living, feeling thing. Consider how the protective coating of
a banana is ripped off to reveal the still-growing-and-maturing soft
inside which is bitten into hunks and masticated into a formless
mass. Barbarism unbound. The clubbing of seals pales in
comparison. It is with deep, rainbow-hued satisfaction that we
Meatans chomp into our VERY DEAD Whopper, (ordered in true Meatan
style with no living lettuce, twitching tomato or sentient onion
aboard).
The doctrine of "field killing" allows Meatans to eat a non-meat bun
on our burger. The wheat and other grains used in breads (and beer,
amen) has been humanely killed in the field by those massive combine
things. It is a quick, instant death - a death with dignity, if I
may be so bold - that is handed out to them. Not to be compared
with the brutal way in which the vegan takes an apple or an orange
that was ripped from its life support system and yet continues to
mature and develop until it is bitten or sliced into manageable
pieces to be chewed and swallowed. Oh, the humanity!
Back to my conversation with Her. With the boundless enthusiasm of
the recently converted, I explained the Meatan Way showing her the
path of True Love Toward Living Things. I contrasted my loving and
humane consumption of a very dead chicken with her unthinkable
murder of the STILL LIVING lettuce, tomato and carrots contained in
her salad. Speaking of unthinkable, have you seen the packages of
Baby Carrots for sale? Something must be done. [Note: Just last
week Meatans in Oregon chained themselves to the produce section in
order to stop the senseless brutality brought upon BABY vegetables
of all kinds.] I have no knowledge of the effect of my revelations
upon Her. I do not know if she has shied away from her mean,
vicious ways. It is my sincere wish that she will learn to
recognize the humanity of only eating dead stuff. One can only hope
the seeds that were planted that day will take hold and grow to
fruition and not be brutally terminated like the ingredients of
today's veggie special.
Meatans can eat all quick-killed products as well as products that
have never been alive in the first place (you know, like Hot Tamales
and Pork Rinds - foodstuff made from various forms of home
insulating products mixed with sugar and/or salt.) Just like the
Baptists and vegetarians, we have various factions in the ranks of
Meatans. There are some doctrinal differences in our ranks when it
comes to things like condiments - one side avoids any form of
tomato, while the others rationalizes the consumption thereof by
pointing out that the tomatoes turned into ketchup were humanely
dispatched with a combination of high-speed rotating knives and
chemical additives. Some will only drink boiled water and
artificial beverages while others argue that "juiced" fruits and
vegetables were converted from life to liquid in a quick, loving
manner.
Our strength is in our diversity and we celebrate it - with meat.
---
Readers interested in exploring the wonders of Meatanhood are
invited to contact the author at Cliffy777@attbi.com.
-------------------------------------------
4. Worked in a state park cafeteria line
By REVSCRJ
Crater Lake Oregon changed my life in ways that will forever make me
a better person. I had been hitch-hiking up California and Oregon
with a friend of mine, Andy, and we had completely run out of money
-- spent our last bit on some soup. It was either spare-change
folks, get a job in a lumber mill, or work at the state park.
Luckily we both got into the park.
Crater Lake sits at the top of Mount Mazama and is roughly fifty
miles from any population center, so basically the 120 or so
employees were trapped in a strange microcosmic society. The
cliques were all there, the socio-dynamics, the in-crowd and
their infighting, all the accoutrements of your larger social
orders but so small that the traits of it were like a Dick and
Jane book for socialization. I was 18 and absolutely non-socialized.
Throughout my entire life I had been either estranged from my peers
or at outright odds with them. I'd never been popular or well-liked
which didn't make me unhappy as most folk, I noticed, just outright
suck and if they like you then there is likely something
dramatically wrong with the way you live your life.
If there is any adversity that I thank God for giving me it is the
inexplicable distaste for me demonstrated by classmates growing up,
if it weren't for that I'd be likely writing copy for some fucking
toothpaste company now; unfortunately this did leave me weak to
positive manipulation.
The first day I am there I am sitting in the locker/lounge room
writing in a notebook. These 3 guys are across the room looking at
me and talking quietly. I pretend not to notice while peripherally
paying direct attention to them - one of the many skills I learned
while trying to be invisible in school. Finally I hear one say,
"Well we won't know if we don't ask him."
They come up to, introduce themselves- Ron, Fred and Mike- and ask
me if I smoke pot.
"Only when it's present."
They laugh and invite me on a hike to the top of the caldera (crater
lip). I accept. As fate would have it, these guys turn out to be
#1-3 on the socio-food-chain at this place and my becoming friends
with them I end up landing at about #2 (and don't think I don't see
the double entender there)- a 'ranking' I'd never even come near
before.
It didn't become clear to me until a few weeks in when I noticed an
inordinate amount of people wanted to hang-out with me, hike with
me, smoke pot/drink with me- women were flirting with me constantly.
Now this is bizarre and initially I was suspicious- like I'd
wandered into some cult who were putting on a big facade until
sacrifice night- but quickly began to accept the role with full
enthusiasm.
People laughed at my jokes when I knew perfectly well that they
weren't funny. They'd run with my tangents like they were trying to
impress me. They'd buy booze and tell me not to throw money towards
it. When women would talk to me, they would do things like grab my
knee when laughing or put their head on my shoulder to accentuate a
request and in retrospect (because at the time I started wallowing
in it).
I think it was just simple and basic attempts to move themselves up
the socio-ladder. Real disturbing. Real false. Turned me into a
jock-like asshole for awhile- playing to the crowd so much that it
controlled me as much as I controlled it. Makes me pity/loathe the
alphas of any group. Theirs is a life of always being the victim.
One night Fred, myself and about four other folks are standing
outside of Fred's van smoking a bit of fine Oregonian green bud.
Out of nowhere a Ranger just appears. He sees the pipe and says,
"Allright, why don't you just make this easy and hand over the dope
too."
We do. Now before you call me a weak-kneed bitch, it bears noting
that we had a couple thousand dollars of stolen goods packed into
Fred's van and the LAST thing any of us wanted was a ranger
discovering that. The ranger, of course, goes to management to
report the incident and suggests that no disciplinary actions be
taken as Fred only had about half a gram left. Management, while we
are all assembled, fires Fred and turns to me. Though I forget the
guy's name, I still recall that face whiskey-perma-reddened face
asking me what I was going to do.
The reason he asked me was that earlier in the month I had organized
a work slow down over the firing of another employee. He was
rehired before we actually had to execute it, so the fat man wanted
to know if he could expect anything of that nature this time. I
say:
"You fire Fred and I'll quit."
"Well, we are firing Fred."
"Then I quit."
Of the assembled 5, the rest also quit. Fat man says we gotta be
out of the park tonight, off the property. He's real pissed. On
the way to packing up our gear, at like 10:30p, we pass a bunch of
people and fill them in on what just went down.
"Damn, all of you guys are leaving? Fuck this place."
Within six hours the most beautiful domino effect began to occur:
roughly 75 of the 120 employees quit and packed up. Many of them
woken up from a dead sleep in the dorms. We all relocated to
Diamond Lake campgrounds where Fred and I broke out the stolen goods
which were, primarily, food and drink...
Crater Lake fed us for like 4 or 5 days - what a good fucking party
that was... we had a mass employee-uniform burning... it was purely
tribal, totally anti-system and powerfully liberating.
As it turned out, Fat man had violated a clause in our collective
contracts by not giving us 24 hours to leave the park so the ENTIRE
group either got severance pay OR their jobs back- nearly all took
the pay aside from a few who took the job in order to funnel us more
food and goods.
Thus the park closed a few months early that year and effectively we
fucked over a few of the bastards in the world - an accomplishment
one should strive towards daily.
I eventually shook off the alpha mentality, realizing how it was
distorting my growth, and learned from it that no matter who you are
you must beware those around you who feed your ego because if you
don't you will become their puppet.
---
REVSCRJ is a writer/musician living in Monterey, California.
Constantly on the verge of homelessness, he hopes that you enjoy his
work or else his life has been in vain. Contact REVSCRJ at
revscrj@cloudfactory.org to lodge complaints, notify of lawsuits, or
receive spiritual advice.
-------------------------------------------
5. CoN (not) at the Movies
with Jeff Wright
S'up bitches!?!?! I've watched a whole 3 movies in the last two
weeks. That be weak. I'd like to blame it on my broken DVD player,
but it just broke a few days ago (fucker!). I just haven't been in
the mood, so I have very little to talk about here. I'll try to pad
it out with a bunch of stupid shit you won't want to read.
Thank you if you haven't skipped to the next article already (here's
hoping mine isn't the last), but really you may as well.
Movie One:
YOU SHOOT, I SHOOT
This flic rocks the house! Best HK flic I saw from last year. It's
a comedy about a hitman who teams up with a Scorsese worshipping
film student to shoot his hits on video as a little bonus for the
client. Definitely one of my fave films'a 2001 yo. Sadly it's not
available on DVD yet, so you'll have to pick it up on VCD.
Movie Two:
GOOD BURGER
Go rent it. If it's not in the COMEDY section of your video store,
it might be rented. Check the CLASSICS section just in case though.
It might be there.
Movie Three:
AH FUCK THIS!
I don't wanna type anything more about no movies. K?
Blah blah blah blah.
And a blahbitty blah blah to you sir!
"I Love My Computer!" That's what my mouse pad says.
Has anyone been watching Survivor? Who's going to win the million
dollars?
Have I asked if anyone has Who Wants To Marry A Millionaire on tape?
If anyone does, I'll pay for a copy.
I'm going to see Weezer and Gorillaz next month. Woohoo!
Anyone still reading? If anyone is... Why?
---
Jeff's attention span has been really short lately.
-------------------------------------------
CoN would not be possible without the great help of Scriba Org.
CoN: Pfizer Corporation announced that VIAGRA will soon be available
in a liquid form, marketed by Pepsi Cola as a "power" beverage. The
new drink will be called MOUNT N DO, on the basis that a man can now
literally pour himself a stiff one.
Capital of Nasty Electronic Magazine "media you can abuse"
In memory of Father Ross "Padre" Legere
Published every second Monday (or when we get around it)
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ZimID 708EC8D1 1994/09/14 EC B0 97 59 1D FE 7C 32 7E 04 2C 66 47 41 FB 7D
