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Doomed to Obscurity Issue 38
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/ /
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/ / oomed to obscurity #38
/ --- / written on 5/6/98
/ /
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....
$01$ introduction -- by trilobyte
$02$ young life -- by trilobyte
$03$ i would like breakfast -- by trilobyte
$04$ blue gill -- by trilobyte
$05$ try me on -- by trilobyte
$06$ trunks and garbage -- by trilobyte
$07$ refreshments #3048: qualified liquer' -- by trilobyte
$08$ percent -- by trilobyte
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(=====***) introduction
by trilobyte (***=====)
LEDs are light emitting diodes or something. they light up when
they get electricity, much like other forms of lightbulbs. if they
were attached to my nerves, they might not light up. or they might.
i really don't know, because i'm not a scientist.
if i /were/ a scientist, i might be able to attach light emitting
diodes to someone's nerves to show when there is some sort of
electricity flowing through them. but that would be dumb because i
am stupid.
now to this month's issue. surprisingly, it is very well balanced,
containing virtually one piece of literature from every virtual genre
that dto is virtually known for. i know you're thinking, "that's
virtually impossible," but with #38, it seems that nothing is
impossible!
(=====***) young life
by trilobyte (***=====)
marcia was sixteen years old. she collected flowers. becky, a
local paleontologist, was in her room smelling the flowers when all of
a sudden marcia's hair became knotted.
"where's my hairbrush?" marcia asked becky.
"it was on your bed last time i saw it. check there. you ought to
find it there."
marcia looked on her bed, but all she saw was the forgotten image of
her past love. she shrieked in pain and anguish. she fell down on the
floor and cried a lot.
"waaaaaaaaaaah," shrieked marcia.
"what's wrong, marcia?" becky asked. marcia didn't reply. "you are
crying. what's the matter?"
"i wonder. i wonder -- where he is. what ever happened to BOBBY?"
marcia again wailed. she was so sad that all the roses in her room
turned black with symbolism.
"marcia, bobby died. he was in a car accident. he was killed by a
drunk driver."
"i hate drunk drivers! why did they kill my boyfriend? WHY? WHY MY
BOYFRIEND? WAAAAAH!"
becky gave marcia a big hug and then suggested that they get up paint a
picture together. since both of them were abstract thinkers, it ended up
looking like this:
+-----------------+
| # $ #$ %@ 3 |
| H $ H$ $Ji $I# |
|^..^$ $09@ 1j 43|
| $( $(4 j2J^ 5 |
+-----------------+
with a sigh, marcia told becky how much better she felt. "releasing
my emotions and frustration by creating this work has shown me a
constructive way to vent my feelings. and you showed me how. i think...
i... um... no."
"what?" becky asked.
"i think i have... well, feelings. feelings for you," marcia told becky.
becky's subconscious, constantly working overtime, understood marcia's
sentiment. she grabbed marcia and engaged her in a powerful, lusty
embrace.
"mmmmh," marcia moaned.
then they took of all of their clothes and did things together.
marcia's flowers returned to their original shades of red, orange, and
yellow. she and becky were very close friends from then on.
(=====***) i would like breakfast
by trilobyte (***=====)
did you ever see that movie... uhmm... Falling Down with michael
douglas? HA HA HA that's a funny movie! that guy goes around and kills
all those niggers and shit. HAHAHAH!%
it reminds me of the LA RIOTS. people fighting for what they
believe in! man! that's what life's all about! if people didn't have
beliefs, what would life be like? it wouldn't be like... anything,
without beliefs! and without, like, thought... man! can you imagine?
if i couldn't like... think about this shit, and then like write
about it, you know? that would suck! and... then, like, while i was
working on my term paper, and i came up with all these badass ideas...
you know? and they all tied in with other things and then stuff... i
wrote them down, in paragraph form. i handed it in. my teacher said
i had "good ideas." hell yeah! my teacher kicks ass!
we were working on like... accents and shit in poetry, and i read
this thing aloud, and i was like making my voice LOUDER and /softer/
for every like part of each word... and i did pretty good, i got a B or
something... there's some people that were better than me, but they're
fucking dorks, so it doesn't matter.
uhmm, we were reading some poetry in that class. it was by an
american guy, but he wasn't so well known or something. it can't be
that hard to write that shit. you just gotta rhyme and shit. it's all
about like... nothing, you know? HA HA i know! i'll write poetry! shit!
a rose
if my love for you was so rose-like dew,
when i think i'd think of you,
and when i think they're thoughts of you,
like, you're the bomb and i love you,
when we have sex you mount 'n' do,
if we broke up i think i'd spew,
but when i do i'll think of you
rolling parts of lands and grass,
lakes are filled with perch and bass,
snooty sailors pass their gas,
a rose can't match you, lovely lass,
scotland bites a doggy's ass.
-- trilobyte
HA HA HA they'll love that shit in 300 years! that's like... the
english language, man. HA HA HA!
so, like, i was walking through the parking lot, and there was this
asshole on a crotch rocket, and then he left and his friend he was talking
to started to back out of his parking spot and i was standing behind him
but he didn't give a shit so i had to run to get out of his way before he
hit me or something. man, what a fucking asshole. i hate his friend, too.
they both suck and probably sell crack.
so, like, kill those people. make the world good and shit.
(=====***) blue gill
by trilobyte (***=====)
i am sitting on my newly reupholstered leather davenport and the thought
returned. yes, her checks had pictures of lambs on them... but does that
really mean she is a shepherd? i haven't asked her yet what she does for a
living... but she can't be a shepherd.
being a shepherd takes lots of skill. it's like tying a shoe with one
hand. you can't hold the laces and tie them at the same time.
i thought about this as i sipped my espresso. the last time i drank
espresso was when she was at my apartment. i leaned over to give her a
kiss, but must have exploited her personal space, because she shrugged me
off and then spilt her shot of espresso on my davenport.
that was a few months ago, before she left for new zealand.
i went to the store yesterday to buy her some new black leather pants. i
thought i should have a gift to give her when she returns. she looks good
in black leather pants. she also looks good naked.
i can picture her fine female form in my vision. it is slender and fine,
like the tender boughs of a maple sapling. her curves are a direct result
of her careful living over the years, not eroded by the sands of time. the
color in her face is melanin heaven. her natural skin color gives me
reason to worship all of bohemia.
when i was a teenager, i wore all black and tried to kill myself a number
of times. then i met her, we fell in love, and we have been together ever
since. at graduation yesterday, she kissed me.
she and i are going to go to church tomorrow. i am an athiest, but
i go for the beautiful melodies that those christians came up with. they
influence my composition of dark industrial melodies. those tunes
probably all came from old english pubs, but those aren't around anymore.
i looked at the last sip of espresso resting in the bottom of my cup. it
rolled around at the bottom of the cup as i gyrated it, leaving streaks of
a gentle, wet brown behind it, which quicky evaporated. it reminded me of
the muddy banks of the wishka. those waters, those muddy banks. the sand
castles and the dead fish. oh, the dead fish. carp, walleye, angler,
blue gills... i was rather fond of the blue gills. whenever she and i
would visit the beach, i would look for a fresh batch of deceased blue
gills. i'd stick my pinky in their fins and then pick them up and swing
them around above my head. when i let them fly, they usually hit her, and
she had wild orgasms as the warm summer sky gently fell to a restful state.
love. passion. anger. that is my period of live. ouch.
(=====*** try me on
by trilobyte ***=====)
hello, try me on. i am the dress on the rack. i will accentuate your
curves and make constant love to your formful body.
hello, i am a package of oreo cookies. remove my wrapper. examine what's
under, open one up, and lick it. lick it clean of all of its white cream.
taste good?
hi. i am an iron maiden. open me and step inside. but don't close me!
hey there, i'm a receptionist's desk. write your name down in my book.
we'll let you know when it's ready.
until then, i am a chair, too. rest your shapely tush upon my comfortable
cushion. doesn't that feel great? wow!
oh, and hi! i am abraham lincoln! what are you doing sitting there? get
back in the damn fields and work, nigger!
lo and behold! you are whom i, the penis, have been longing. grab a hold
of me and i will hang you from the ceiling.
(=====*** trunks and garbage
by trilobyte ***=====)
"WHERE THE HELL IS YOUR GARBAGE?" dick yelled. it was 5:45 am. the
people who lived in this house had not put their garbage out on the curb.
"I SAID, WHERE THE HELL IS YOUR DAMNED GARBAGE? HELLO!"
nobody immediately responded, so dick stumbled up to their front door and
pounded heavily with his gloved hand.
momentarily, a woman of dick's middle age opened the door rashly with
disgust.
"WHAT the HELL ---" she began to question, then she saw that it was dick
looking for some garbage. "oh, dick, it's just you. i had no idea.
you're looking for our garbage? well, we didn't have any this week."
dick picked up the woman and stuffed her in the back of his truck. he
pulled a lever and watched on in glee as the compactor crushed her body
into a fleshy mass of pulp. blood squirted out of her major arteries
and some ended up resting directly on dick's face.
with a swift kick, he sent his truck barrelling down the northern hill.
he didn't know where it would be going, but he knew that it would be
happy in the colder climate.
meanwhile, dick didn't know what to do. he sat down on the apron in
front of the woman's house and thought about his future. he couldn't
be a garbage man, and he might be arrested for murder. so what should
he do? he had been in situations of regret before, but this might be
the most serious of all of them. he picked the grass around him and
rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. they became green. that's
it, dick will start his own television show.
he walked slowly towards the studio, and on the way he was approached
by a man with thick glasses and an unshaven face.
"hello," the man said.
"yes?" asked dick.
"yes, hello. do you collect baseball cards? hehehe! i do," the man
told dick.
"no, my name's dick. i don't collect baseball cards."
"hee hee! hee hee!" the man's face squished and scrunched with the
rest of his head whenever he giggled. his shoulders came up an inch
and his nostrils flared, too.
"i'm kinda in a hurry here, running from the law, and all," said dick.
"but no, you see, garbage men are a cliche and, really, it isn't that
funny of a profession anymore. people accept that garbagemen are
doing a job that truly is necessary, and they respect that."
"i know, little man. i couldn't take it anymore. in the 70's i was a
greaser. then, when the 80's rolled around, i was a disco dancer. in
the early 90's, i became a garbage man. but it trapped me. i couldn't
get out of the union, and the good pay was the best way for me to get my
cocaine fix. i couldn't live any other way. so leave me alone, and i
will be fine," dick told the little man.
"do you know who i am?" asked the little man.
"no, i don't. would i care to know?" dick asked him.
"i, in fact, am chubby checker."
"no, you are /not/ chubby checker. i refuse to accept that."
"you don't believe," the little man said. he raised his right hand,
whistled a short and sweet tune, and he and dick were immediately located
in a bagel shop. "have a seat," he said.
"you are chubby checker! magical transportation! chubby checker!"
"yes. i am chubby checker. have a bagel."
(=====*** refreshments #3048: qualified liquer'
by trilobyte ***=====)
beefcake jones, he was, he was the man. he was the man who wondered of
the jar, the jar that was to be -- the jar that once was to be. bar, the
man, the masonry, the jar the man the pastery. donuts, rolls, they're all
the same, but beefcake live to play the game. having no money, he lived
on his own, to roam just where he found his home. to home is to roam, but
not alone -- with wives, and kids, and buckets of foam. great debates the
debacle phone, teeming with crickets and yummy black bones. watching the
wheel, he turned with the pace, but long was it gone, and look on her
face. the love that she felt replaced with a welt, he hit and he smacked
her and told her she smellt. russian or not, we smoked all our pot, and
be as it may, it's gone for today, so read all your rhyme and up the ante,
bitch. jumping junipers, it's a plant on a farm -- and plant not to feed,
but to look like a weed -- the flowers, the hollihocks, magic of man.
nature competes but we still own the land. radios blast the sound of
today, music sans feeling and waves of decay. greetings, me grammy, you
smell of perfume -- i told you you're coming, you laugh at my doom. i
walk on the stage, shake hands with the page, you laugh and you scream
till i wake from my dream and i sweat with the fear that more i will hear
but it's gone for the morn and it's with me so sworn.
[ para graph 2 ]
yummy, yummy! cakes on parade! stormy, so stormy, but carefully made!
impress me now, before i leave, improve the pictures they paint and
weave... seven by count, but not by decree -- fecal and anal, poop and pee
pee. throw the table from the auction room atop the tower of babel. i'll
wait at the bottom to catch it, provided it is made of lightweight foam
and upton sinclair doesn't with to claim the patent. i can't fly up and
catch it, you haven't made that yet... air conditioners? no.
moral: by not breathing, you are endangering your well-being.
(=====*** percent
by trilobyte ***=====)
imagine. a world in which everything was based on percentages. you
can't go to class at school because that class doesn't have enough
minority students. imagine. a baseball player who doesn't get into the
starting lineup because his batting percentage is .148. imagine.
and picture this: multiple television stations. you can flip between
them whenever you want. different programs on your tv that you can
choose.
in a world where percentages and television stations flourished, food
would be pentiful for hungry fur-headed africans, and men down south
would grow larger penises. teenagers in lousiana would stop having sex
with their fathers in remote tents off of the interstate. cement
floors would all become tile and hats would stop looking stupid on you.
cj's big lips would shrink, and he would smack a big wet kiss on your
naked buttocks. i propose a change in the world that would involve
putting mentally retarded people in clouds in the sky. they could
interact with each other and constantly point at empty nothingness,
like they do now. except then there really wouldn't be anything
there except other mentally retarded people. and they could open
their mouths and drool and it wouldn't matter because they're on a
cloud and clouds are moisture so it would just end up coming down in a
raindrop.
and flute players would all flock to apple trees to help them grow by
playing fur elise repeatedly on their wind instruments. they can't play
synthesizers, but those people who have taken piano lessons probably
could. and if they listened the the musical group "can", they would
be cultured and musically ingenius collaborators. they could work
together in a black dress to try to take it off so they could all get
dressed. or do it.
then there's the soprano who is currently on fire, and is shrieking
softly to the nothingness of topless torsos.
and allusions to past issues of dto would speak of mogel's essay on the
few different types of humor that are currently accepted as funny.
schools would print this essay out and place it on bulletin boards in
cafeterias for students to read as they waited in line for their food.
perhaps they're getting chips, but they might not, because they serve
apples there too and other things.
turtles would climb on rabbits' backs to view the beauty of the world.
they would traverse mall parking lots to the evergreens nearby.
underneath, the rabbit would pierce his soft pawpads with the sharp dry
fallen needles.
resting on the paved ground of the gas station is a crowbar. you are
art oliver.
> pick up crowbar
you picked up the crowbar.
> smash andrea on head with crowbar
you smashed andrea on her head with the crowbar. she is bleeding
beautifully and little pieces of her brain squirt out of the hole
every few moments.
> lick headrest
yum!
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