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Grill 004
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/ =sony= / ~`~
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³\:......-o-..-o-...: | '8888| -=-= LLL |
³ \:.................: | I8,--' -=-= LLL |
U\ ³ ~.~.~.~.~.~ ³ | I8I _ -=-= LLL |
³ \³_____o*oOo*o_____³ | I8L|8I -=-= LLL |
³__U________________ U | I8888I -=-=-=-= LLLLLL |
³\ ³ \³ | `.888' R I -=-=-=-= LLLLLL |
A_\³_________________³ |____________________________|
O\ ³ \³ - = I S S U E # 4 = -
\A_________________A "Ha Ha, you're BABY'S DEAD!"
O O
Original grill ASCII by Swiss Pope
This month's unreadable Grill-font by Quarex (as usual)
=-=-[APRIL 23, 1996]=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
| |
| CONTENTS OF ISSUE #4 OF GRILL (the 'zine for Heretics): |
| |
| <1> Foreward, by Quarex, as usual. |
| <2> Bolt Thrower: "...Authority" |
| <3> Letters From Elementary School Students Who Write To Grill |
| <4> Breakfast Envy |
| <5> Simple Fusion and the Colder Aspects of Infinity |
| <6> From an Official Federal Pamphlet |
| <7> The Quarex File |
| <8> I HATE LOGIC |
| <9> The Grill Event |
| <10> The Clockwork Erik |
| <11> Rant & Rave About Various Things IV: Son of Rant & Rave about etc. |
| |
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
--- The Backward ---
--- By: Quarex ---
--- As Usual ---
Hello out there, all my friends in happy land! This is another issue
of Grill, the happy-go-lucky 'zine for happy-go-lucky people, or anyone who's
seriously considered homicide in the past few weeks. It's been a while
since Grill #3, and that issue wasn't very good, so the way I see it we need
to make this issue good.
The easiest way to make a 'zine more popular is to throw in sex, sex,
sex, and dirty ASCII galore! Let's try!
As Herman approached Patricia's heaving chest, his heaving loins heaved
in heaving anticipation of the throbbing fun his heaving member was about to
throb heave. Heaving heaving throb throb, heaving throbbie doo-doo.
____ ____
0 / \ / \
/|\ | oo | | oo |
| | | | | O O O O O O O O O O O
+========D | | | |
/ \ \/\/\/ \/\/\/
wagga wagga wagga wagga wagga wagga
There, that should boost the ratings a bit. All right now, back to
your regularly-scheduled introduction. A lot of weird shit has gone on since
the last time we wrote grill, but most of it you would only understand if you
were a regular poster on my board. So, we'll keep off of that subject.
ANYWAY! This month's topics are Authority, eating breakfast, and
newspapers. Of course, nobody but me knew the topic would be "eating
breakfast", but that gives me all that much more ground to cover than anyone
else. Back off man, I'm a Lioness. Why the hell DID the Tang company use
Pel to advertise, anyway? Most North American kids hardly knew who the fuck
Pel was in the mid-80s.
So, without much further adieu, here's the new issue of GRILL.
I lied. I'm going to write something else now. How many people do you
know that IRc who HAVEN'T ever written for a 'zine? I think 'zines are an
even worse fad than ANSI was. But, like all fads, this will pass. . and I'll
still be doing it :)
I'm now going to incorporate a small re-enactment of an event that has
not actually occurred yet. Ogre originally had this idea (well, it wasn't
originally his idea, but he was the first one to use it around these here
parts). THE PLAYERS:
Quarex (Drew)
ThrillKil (Jon) (also now known as "Erzabet" :>)
Swiss Pope (Phil)
Ghort (Ghort)
PLACE: Quarex's basement.
TIME: 7:12 on a typical Thursday night
The group is listening to a Morbid Angel CD. Phil is playing with the Run
Yourself Ragged Game. Jon is reading a cracked magazine, and Ghort is
sitting at the computer, flailing away at Drew's board. Meanwhile, Drew
stands in the middle, contemplating.
Jon: "So, what are we gonna do?"
Ghort: "I'm fine right here."
Phil: "Let's do something spontanius!"
Drew: "I think you just spelled spontaneous wrong."
Phil: "I CAN'T FUCKING SPELL WRONG WHEN I TALK!"
Drew: "Who cares."
<Impasse in conversation while the Morbid Angel CD drones on>
Phil: "You know, this music really sucks."
Drew: "Fuck you, you little piece of shit."
Phil: "Don't get mad, I'm just explaining my opinion."
Drew: "Yeah, too bad you're such a little dumb fuck. The only reason you
said that was to get me to yell at you."
Phil: "Whatever."
Jon: "Can we go, now, please?"
Ghort: "I'm fine right here."
Drew: "Where the fuck do you want to go, Jon?"
Jon: "I don't know, let's just get out of here."
Phil: "I'm going to bike home."
<Drew pulls out a shotgun from behind a stack of CDs>
Drew: "I've had enough of you mother fuckers always arguing."
<Drew blows Jon's head off, followed by Phil. He then turns the shotgun on
Ghort>
Ghort: "I'm fine right here."
<Drew changes the CD, and puts in Rush's "Fly By Night" album, then proceeds
to put "Fly By Night" on repeat one>
*()*
Wasn't that great? And now, the same people in a re-enactment of what they
will say when they read this :)
*()*
Phil: "That's pretty stupid, you made yourself out to be the victim."
Drew: "I was just fucking typing what would have happened. Well, except for
the part about me turning the shotgun on Ghort. I would never do
that."
Jon: "Yeah, you never argue with Ghort! You're always on his side just
because he's Ghort!"
Drew: "No, I'm always on his side because he doesn't try to argue with me
every five minutes."
Phil: "Whatever."
<Drew pulls out a shotgun from behind a stack of CDs>
<>-< FIN >-<>
|
|
-+-
|
*** Written By: Ghort ***
Bolt Thrower: "...Authority"
[Now I've thought long and hard about this (actually about 5 minutes) and
I've decided that I can't think of anything regarding authority that is
particularly profound or hasn't been said before. Therefore, I am going to
write about whatever the fuck I want to. No one's going to tell me what to
write.]
There is a young man sitting in his basement tap-tapping away at his
computer. He's not running Windows 95. He's writing out something or other.
It doesn't matter really. The air is cold around him and he's starting to
feel it violating him, penetrating him, desecrating him, complicating him.
[Why did I give you the detail about Windows 95, you ask? Well, for one
thing, I was trying to present more concrete imagery, which is something I
learned in Creative Writing class. Also, I wanted to test out my author's
rights, as outlined in the first paragraph. I just felt like saying, "He's
not running Windows 95." In any case, and with that said, we can return to
the story.]
"It's always too cold in the basement," He thinks to himself. He starts to
get mad at the gods of cold and heat. Rising to his feet and throwing his
hands to the sky (and incidently banging them on the low ceiling), he asks
aloud, "Why must you always make my basement hellishly cold?" He makes a
resolution to get rich and buy a basement with a heater.
Through a logical progression of thought, the young man (let's just call him
Mike) realizes that it's actually his parents fault for the basement being so
cold, he decides to go upstairs and destroy them. Unfortunately neither of
them are home, so he can't. "Damn," Mike thinks to himself, still tapping at
his keyboard. "I guess I could go crank the thermostat up to about 88, but
it would take an hour for it to filter down here anyway. And then when I go
back upstairs I'll be hot. Damn." By this time Mike is talking to himself.
"Oh bother," Mike says, "I'm out of honey."
Making the Winnie the Pooh alusion makes him realize something about Pooh:
there's no one controlling Pooh's life except Pooh. Sometimes Mike secretly
wishes he could be Pooh, because Pooh's life is so simple. He goes out and
has fun in the forest, does things with his friends, eats honey, and makes up
songs about it all. Everything around Pooh is very natural. All his
decisions are basic and unsubstantial. "Insubstantiality is good," Mike
reasons, "Because when everything seems to be very substantial, as it does
now, it's impossible to relax and enjoy life."
"How nice it would be if I weren't governed by a society of biased thought
and political power struggles," Mike thinks. "Not to mention a bunch of total
imbiciles. Pooh isn't pushed around by people who think they have something
important for the whole world to experience. Pooh doesn't have to care about
the things that don't matter." Mike is often subtly forced to care about
things that don't matter. Math, success, and abuse of liberty are excellent
examples of such things.
"Maybe I'm just being too idealistic, and to expect a lot from the human race
is as ridiculous as them expecting me to care about learning about conic
sections."
"I wish..."
Suddenly two tiny ears somewhere perk up, listening for someone about to say
the words.
"I wish that I..."
Two large eyes blink open in anticipation.
"I wish that I were Pooh." Mike says defiantly.
There is a scrambling of tiny legs and the tinkle of magic dust. Mike feels
strange for a moment, and he glances down at his hands. "Oh fuck," he mutters
as he notices his yellow skin, tiny red T-shirt, and mittenlike hands. "Now I
can't finish typing my Grill article!"
??? Fi n ???
*** Written By: Swiss Pope ***
Please note: You will more than likely not find this article funny unless
your read a paper which has a section (probably in the sunday
comics) entitled "Flying Horse", where gradeschool children
from the surrounding areas are sometimes forced to write about
a topic and submit it. I don't know if this is a purely local
creation or not, but I'll assume not :) -Q-
LETTERS FROM ELEMENTARY SCHOOL STUDENTS WHO WRITE TO GRILL
POLICE
I like police. When I grow up, I want to be a police man. I want a gun so I
can shoot people. I like guns.
-Bobby, Gr. 2, Chenoa Elementary School-
AUTHORITY
Mom says she won't let me go outside and play football with Jake, so I'm stuck
in here writing to your stupid zine. One time Mom sent me to my room and
locked the door. I opened up the window and crawled outside but it was
storming real bad so I came back in but I was all wet. I was so wet that I
made a big puddle on the floor and Mom tried to vacuum up all the water but
the vacuum broke and I got grounded for a long time. I like ice cream.
-David, Gr. 4, St. Mary's Middle School-
COMETS
I like comets. I got a telescope for my birthday. My brother Spud stepped on
it and it broke. I hate Spud.
-Mike, Gr. 1, Oakdale Elementary-
PASSWORD
When I play spy, I always know the password. Do you know what the password is?
Shhhhh! It's a secret!
-Suzie, Gr. 3, Fairview Elementary-
BOATS
If I were a ship captain, I would clean up all the poop on the poop deck and
keep it in a big box. But not the box that I put my Micro Machines in.
I like poop.
-Scott, Gr. 5, Epiphany School-
BUS DRIVER
One time I was watching COPS and almost missed the bus but I ran after the bus
until the bus driver stopped the bus. He got real mad when I got on the bus
and made me sit in the front. I hate the bus driver.
-Robbie, Gr. 1, Sugar Creek Elementary-
CHURCH
Mom says God likes me. That's okay because I like God. God is neat. I bet
God is really big. If you lived in the sky you'd be big too!
-Micah, Gr. 3, homeschooled-
GUNS
I just got a big squirt gun. I'm going to shoot Dad. I hope he dies.
I like guns. I hate Dad.
-Bobby, Gr. 2, Chenoa Elementary School-
CANTEENS
When I go camping I bring a canteen. Bill is the pack leader. He makes sure
that the cub scouts don't get lost. I lost my canteen but Bill loaned me his.
I'm glad that I didn't die of thirst. Bill died of thirst. I felt bad. I like
canteens.
-Robert, Gr. 6, Washington Elementary School-
PONY
I want a pony. One day I am going to go into the big forest that's in my
backyard and look for a pony. I hope I find a pony. I am talking about ponies
that come from horses, not Pony League Baseball, you silly goose! I like
ponies.
-Rebecca, Gr. 2, Heyworth Grade School-
BULLIES
I hate bullies. One day I was walking to Ted's because I usually play
Sonic The Hedgehog with him after school. I took a shortcut through this big
field and there was the big cow and I was afraid that the cow was going to get
me so I hid behind this big bulldozer. I thought I was safe until Bobby came
up to me and punched me in the stomach and stole all of my money. I was sad
because I just got my allowance for cleaning my room. So I went home and
forgot all about playing Sonic at Ted's house. Mom grounded me because I was
late. This is all Ted's fault. I hate Ted.
-Sam, Gr. 2, Chenoa Elementary School-
HOMICIDE
Ha, ha, Dad's dead.
-Bobby, Gr. 2, Chenoa Elementary School-
K-6 F i n 6-K
*** Written by: Quarex ***
BREAKFAST ENVY
When you sit down to eat breakfast in the morning, you can partake of
a collossal variety of breakfast cereals. I'm going to examine a few of the
more popular cereals now, to give you a run-down on what you should be
eating.
Let's start with the perennial favorite, CHEERIOS. These wacky little
circles with holes in the middle have even spawned t-shirts, and serve as a
rather popular IRCNAME. But for now, let's pretend we don't know anything
about Cheerios, and we're eating them for the first time.
Cheerios are the most fucking bland cereal on earth, hands down. There
is absolutely no discernable flavor whatsoever, as far as I can tell. I
suppose if you jazzed up the meal a bit with strawberries, bananas, sugar or
tenderloin then it might fulfill your taste buds. But, as it is, give me a
fucking break. Of course it's not bad for you, IT'S NOT FUCKING FOOD!
JESUS!
Now, let's look at HONEY NUT CHEERIOS. The people who make Cheerios
finally figured out that the #1 thing people wanted to be able to do was
taste their food, so they added a flavor. The flavor of honey and nuts.
Now, I don't know about you, but Honey and Nuts is not the first combination
I think of when I want to go grab a bite to eat. "Hmmmm. I know, I'll take
a bunch of Planter's Peanuts and cover them in that Honey that comes in the
thing shaped like a bear."
Yum. Now you've got a revolting crunchy-sweet snack that almost
compares to eating peas & mustard. Don't get me wrong, Honey Nut Cheerios
are a decent cereal, but I can only stand them when covered in cinnamon-sugar
and milk. Otherwise, they're revolting after the second or third one.
However, my biggest problem with this cereal lies with the fucking BEE they
use to advertise. I liked the Bee's voice until a few years back, when they
changed it to sound more "slacker-like", fitting the current young
generation's interest. Now the bee is a fucking worthless piece of shit that
can't even get a bite of its own cereal.
As long as we're on that topic, I'll talk about TRIX. God, words
cannot even BEGIN to describe how awful I think this cereal is. Now, we all
should know that Oranges and Lemons are SOUR things, and not meant to be in a
happy-fun breakfast cereal that kids would solely eat to get a sweet rush.
Cherries and grapes aren't my idea of a good time, either.
But, this isn't even half of my problem with Trix. The fact is, the
commercial continually shows a group of sadistic children taking the rabbit's
favorite food away, making him sad, and laughing at him. What kind of shit
is this teaching children? "If one of your friends really likes something,
then take it away, don't let him have it, and laugh at him. Repeat as
desired".
Let's move on to SUGAR GOLDEN CRISP. This was always a lousy idea, but
got even worse as the magic "Sugar Bear" continually destroyed the wills of
every person that tried to hoard the Sugar Golden Crisp for themselves. I
suppose this is a good "sharing" message, but there are not many assassins in
real life that will go out of their way to make sure you're not hogging the
cereal.
Now, one of my personal favorite cereals, CINNAMON TOAST CRUNCH. I
hope everyone here is old enough to remember when they had THREE chefs as
mascots, not just Chef Wendell (who proved the most popular, I guess). The
other two chefs were presumable devoured by Wendell in his never-ending quest
to rule the earth. When Marduk returns to the belly of the great
earth-serpent, his mating with Chef Wendell will complete the cycle of the
christ-figure and the earth shall rise from its armageddonish depths to
become the body of the great celestial-worm itself, Hotherian.
FROSTED FLAKES, while rather good, are continually dogged by extremely
lousy commercials. "Oh Tony, why can't I orgasm more than once with my wife
anymore?" "We all have bad sex days, tiger, but with a complete breakfast
featuring Frosted Flakes, you'll be back fucking that whore in no time!
Theyyyyyyyyyy're GREAT!"
And now, let me come to the only cereal whose mere name causes me to go
into unstoppable convultions: APPLE JACKS! AAAAAAAAAAAAH!! FUCK YOU APPLE
JACKS! I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU MOTHER FUCKER DIE YOU PIECE OF
SHIT!!*(&!($(!#$!#$$!$*22084590%!$78512TE.DKJN/FJH';HJ906RTOUIAGFOLVIBPIDH
I used to love Apple Jacks. I used to eat them a lot. But I *SWEAR TO
*ODIN** that since they started their new advertising campaign that I have
not TOUCHED the stuff. You know, those commercials that start with the group
of kids sitting around, talking about something incredibly stereotypically
teenager ("Your dad is kinda cute!" "Hey, let's fish!" "Don't piss on the
electric fence!"). Then, the end of it always ends with the kids explaining
that they eat it "You know, uh, BECAUSE!". GOD DAMMIT I HATE THOSE FUCKING
COMMERCIALS! It can't be long now before I see one that goes like this:
"Hey guys, let's go down to the local music store and buy the newest CD by
the newest group! Then we'll smoke pot!"
<dad walks in>
"How's it going, guys?"
"Oh, uh, fine dad."
<quietly>
"Man, your dad is really stupid! He dared to speak to us!"
"You know, in my day, if we were going to eat a cereal called Apple Jacks, it
would probably taste like apples."
"Well, that's not why we eat them."
"Then why do you eat them?"
<downtuned guitar note>
"We just DO, okay?"
"Your dad is stupid."
I FUCKING HATE THOSE COMMERCIALS! GOD DAMN!
The only good cereal is Reese's Peanut Butter Puffs. That, and
"Ancient Grains".
\\\ F i N ///
*** Written By: Erzabet ***
SIMPLE FUSION AND THE COLDER ASPECTS OF INFINITY
I understand that this is the fourth issue of that thing we call
Grill, but still I thought that maybe I might tell you a little bit about the
kind of people that you're dealing with when you open this document and begin
to read it. For, while we are pigeon-holed in the middle of the god-forsaken
wasteland that is the Midwest, we still somehow manage to live halfway
interesting lives. At least, halfway interesting to us. We don't have any
stories of tribulation or childhood trauma (at least, I don't) and for the
most part we are all pretty okay life-wise. I think for the most part we (we
being the collective whole of the clique, some of us are completely
anti-drug/alcohol) stay away from 'da juice and other mind controlling
substances. I hesitate to say that we're straight-edge, because we really
like meat, along with other non straight-edge activities (I'm not, of course,
speaking for everyone, least of all myself :( (:))) (damn, that was alot of
parenthises). However, we do live a cool life, with cool experiences.
You might ask how. I might tell you. Okay, okay, I will. You see,
all around you, in your boring, hum drum world (okay, maybe it isn't either
of those things, but I bet WE'D find your world boring) is a story, a
feeling, an idea, a concept just waiting to be discovered. Something perhaps
dark and arcaic, or new and exciting. Something that has the potential for
great humor, or great sadness. Among the real world is the imaginary world,
one that can become all-too real, if you let it. This is the world that,
when we have nothing better to do, we travel to. It keeps us entertained.
Case in point. There is an old group of buildings on the outskirts
of our quiant town (aptly named "Normal") that was once, long ago, used to
house children orphaned by the war. Now, some of it is remodeled and used as
business and housing. Quite a bit of it, however, is still old and broken, a
relic of an era long passed. When darkness falls on these parts, there are
very few things that can seem spookier. If you try, you can begin to hear
the wispers of the dead children in the wind. That is, if you have the guts
to get out of your car.
The whole thing boiled down from wanting to do something more
exciting than sitting around at a party. So a group of us travelled to this
place, and noticed how spooky it really was. Then, the group saw what they
beleived to be a severed head on a stick. Of course, it wasn't a severed
anything on the stick, but right then and there, a legend was born. The
severed head run went down in Normal history as a place to be feared and
scared of. All in good fun, of course. Some people don't get it. When they
go, they like to show that there is nothing to fear, nothing to be revered.
They miss the point. Of course there's nothing to be scared of! That's what
makes being scared so much more fun. If you treat a place like it is the
embodiment of evil, then to you it becomes the embodiment of evil. Thusly,
out of our twisted imagination, a new plane is born, one of night and death
and darkness. One that we wouldn't trade for anything.
There are other examples, but I don't want to go on boring you. These
are, after all, our lives and stories, and if anything interesting and worth
knowing happens it will probably end up in these "pages" anyway. I think you
get what I'm trying to say, anyway. We are twisted, but in a good way. Our
imaginations are what drive us. Thusly, this 'zine should be VERY
interesting. If not, then we will have failed to live up to our own
expectations. So to prevent that from happening, we'll try to make it as
strange and wonderful as possible. We don't want to compete with any other
'zine out there. Rather, we'd like to carve our own nitch and set up camp in
the odder parts of your head, as well as appealing to your sensabilities
sometimes. In short, who the hell knows whats going to happen? He does.
What that means is entirely up to you.
3u3 F i n 3u3
*** Written by: Swiss Pope ***
From an official federal pamphlet, issued by Swiss Pope.
The U.S. Capitol
|~
||
)(
((()))
(((())))
(((())))
__________ )--------( __________
I==========| || || || |==========I
I I I I I I [ /__\ ] I I I I I I
_I_I_I_I_I_I__I_I__I_I__I_I_I_I_I_I_
Lots of you young people express quite a bit of dissatisfaction for the
U.S. government. Some of you read the daily paper and think to
yourself, "The Government is making the Wrong Choices." We here in
the House of Representatives want to insure you that we are making
the right choices. We were elected by a majority vote to respresent
the citizens residing in our home states.
We want to make a difference. We want to make a better future for you.
We're introducing three new programs to all secondary school systems.
* Bad-Dog
Designed to educate schoolchildren of the dangers of unleashed
dogs in your quaint suburban neighborhood.
* Cool, Cool Hygiene
The cast of the hit TV series, "Saved By The Bell" have created
a video that shows kids, in their own language, the importance
of cleansing oneself.
* Bible-Whiz
Some consider this an unconstitutional breach of the seperation
of church and state, but we call it wholesome family values!
Soon every school in the nation will have an electronic bible
trivia game wired on a network that we will cleverly name:
"The Super-Techno-Hyper-Duplo-Cyber Roadway."
Unfortunately, many of you are still not convinced that Congress is
like your best pal, working in your favor. So, we'll just have to get
straight to the point. Please forgive any violations of the
Communications Decency Act.
You're probably wondering why the Capitol building has a big dome
on top. Ok, we'll just go out and say it. IT'S A BIG FUCKING VACUUM
THAT SUCKS UP ALL OF THE POISONOUS GASES THAT THOSE PESKY RUSSIANS HAVE
BEEN PUMPING INTO THE AIR SINCE 1949.
All of you have been *LIED* to by your liberal, revisionist history
teachers. You want the truth? You think you can handle the truth?
ALL SOVIETS ARE LITTLE TROLLS THAT BURROW DEEP INTO THE GROUND
AND MAKE SPECIAL MACHINES DESIGNED TO CHANGE AMERICAN DNA SO WE
CAN'T SPEAK ENGLISH ANYMORE. INSTEAD, WE WILL BE SPEAKING RUSSIAN,
MORE SPECIFICALLY A DIALECT OF THE SOUTHERN AZERBAIJAN REGION.
This is how it started. Some time ago, at the Yalta Conference, Stalin
and Franklin D. Roosevelt got drunk and started playing boardgames.
Stalin challenged FDR to a game of backgammon. Roosevelt, like any other
person with a life, hadn't the slightest idea how to play the stupid game.
Roosevelt refused, so Stalin called him a coward and pranced around the
negotiating table doing a chicken dance, singing with a thick Russian
accent, "Roosevelt's a rooster! Roosevelt's a rooster!" Roosevelt gave
him an icy cold stare-- this was the beginning of the cold war. Keep in
mind that the cold war was all Stalin's fault. For it was he who called
Roosevelt a rooster. In all foreign entanglements, we can rest assured
that the Communists are to blame.
As the cold war got colder, the Soviets starting building contraptions
designed to contaminate all of the oxygen in the Western Hemisphere.
Trust us, there are machines that pump methane and other nasty shit
into the atmosphere. Your two hundred billion dollars of tax revenue
going to national defense budget goes towards keeping your pitiful-ass
lungs full of fresh air.
We regret to inform you that we will have to exponentially increase
the national defense budget because we have received word that those
Damn Ruskies are at it again, but this time working on a machine that
will resurrect the twenty million Russians who died during World War II.
The Russians will lead an ARMY OF ZOMBIES onto American soil unless
we put a big fucking barbed wire fence along the coastlines.
So look, you tenth-grade, pot-smoking little shits, Congress protects
you from the deadly Soviet gasses that would make you choke on your own
Airwalks, Stussy shirts, and hackeysacks. So quit criticizing things
you don't understand and go back to whatever you were doing.
This is has been a public service brought to you by the:
"What Does U.S. Government Mean to Me?" series of informative pamphlets,
produced by the Giant Pamphlet Corporation of Boulder, Colorado.
.^. Fin .^.
*** Written By: Quarex ***
THE QUAREX FILE
or:
LET'S TALK ABOUT PECKS, BAY-BEE, TALK ABOUT THE WIL-LOW TREE*
* If you understood this title, then you win.
This Quarex file isn't going to be quite the same as usual, since I'm
in a slightly less hateful state of mind right now than I usually am. The
reason for this is simple: I have upwards of 20 women at my high school to
hit on during the day, which makes it easier to forget about my past
multiple-rejection-wounds.
But, that's not the main point. The point of this article is going to
be an argument that Spirit and I were having during Computer Apps today. I
always talk about how Jason (that's Barb's boyfriend) beat me in the quest to
date Barb (that's the girl I've been madly in love with since last year). He
then commented that it was stupid to refer to it as "beating" me, since it
wasn't a competition. I deny that with my whole body, mind, soul, and
especially my armani suit.
Let's examine the most basic case of dating to begin with. There is a
boy, and there is a girl (or, you can go boy/boy girl/girl if you're into
that sort of thing). One of the two will like the other one to begin with.
When it becomes obvious to the suitee that the suitor likes him/her (or they
were attracted to them to begin with), then action will be taken. Even THIS
simple of a dating situation is a competition: Attempting to get the other
person to like you. If you don't come in first, you might as well not come
in at all.
However, when the situation becomes more complex, the competition is
even more apparent. Let's take my situation in order to explain this part.
I'm now going to burst into an un-ending string of symbolism that will most
likely make me laugh, but I'll do it nonetheless.
A big race was being run, with Barb as the trophy. Before the race
even started, there were several people who were already at the finish line,
yet didn't desire to claim their prize. After that group of roughly 20
dispersed, a lone competitor arrived at the starting line. His name was
QUAREX! Although he lacked speed, he had incredible determination, and also
far more confidence than should have existed. The race was a mile long, but
Quarex barely even thought about the finish line until he was already 1/4th
finished. Then, upon reaching the first quarter mark, he caught a glimpse of
the trophy, and realized that he HAD to have it.
Some trouble struck as a buffoon (sorry Jon ;>) named Erzabet walked
onto the field, near the finish line. The trophy actually hopped out of its
place on the altar and started rubbing itself on Erzabet. In his dazed
state, he picked up the trophy and started playing with it. While this was
going on, Quarex had reached nearly the 3/4ths mark on the field.
However, a short time later, Erzabet became bored with rubbing the
trophy, put it down, and left without further adieu. As Erzabet
left the area, Quarex was within inches of the finish line, and the trophy
seriously considered him as the winner. But, it was not to be. Jason & Joe,
the wacky invalids, had been hiding behind the trophy the whole time, waiting
to emerge. Quarex suddenly realized that he had been running on a steep
slope, and fell back to about 3/4ths of the way up the track again. For a
time, Jason, Joe, and the trophy mingled, talked, and tried to figure out who
was the winner. Eventually, due to Joe's tenacity, Jason picked up the
trophy and carried it off.
Quarex swore revenge against Jason for him winning the competition. He
attempted to get him banned from the U.S. Running Team for illegal conduct,
avoided him at all costs, and even considered putting an end to his running
days. This went on for a while. Then, one day, for some reason, Quarex and
Jason met up, and Quarex didn't care anymore. So, they both ran a brief race
together, with no prize. After this race was over, Quarex realized what a
bad idea it had been to run with Jason, but he wasn't going to go back on his
word now.
So see, god dammit, it's a fucking competition. Dating is a
competition, plain and simple. I'm so good at manipulating life that life's
only methods of getting back at me are making me guess wrong in Minesweeper
ALL THE TIME and also screwing me over in every race, relay or otherwise,
that I enter.
Whew! Symbolism overload is now over. It's so much fun to type things
like that :)
:( F i N ):
*** Written By: Erzabet ***
I HATE LOGIC
Random musings from the satillite of cold fusion and other warm places
By Erzabet (Formerly ThrillKil: The Quixotic)
I was sitting at my kitchen table the other day, flipping through the
latest Guns and Ammo, listening to an old Trixter CD I'd found taped to the
bottom of a desk in school with the words "FUCK MEL GIBSON" Etched on the
surface with a pairing knife or some other form of wood-cutting tool that had
obviously been rusty for quite a while before the vandal had used it for this
particular venture, when I noticed something. It wasn't something right out,
something noticable automatically, but rather something sub-concious, that
seeped into my mind slowly, eating away at my mind like a 2-liter bottle of
Mountain Dew eats through my soul. I didn't even realize that I was being
overwhelmed with this particular thought for quite a while, and then it hit
me right between pages 54 (Assault Rifles for Teens) and 55 ("I Was A
Paranoid Schetzophrenic and for THAT They Wouldn't Sell Me a Gun!"). I saw
it. Clearly. Crystal clearly.
Cereals are evil. Pure evil. Pure, unadulterated, unsaturated,
uncut evil. It's so simple, yet so complex, and I discovered the truth apon
staring at a bowl of Lucky Charms. You see, seperated, in a jumbled order,
the charms look harmless enough, a simple mix of cute shapes mixed in with
little colored pieces of sugar that they should not be legally allowed to
call marshmellows. Except, as I sat, the shapes MOVED. That's right, they
moved on their own, ala idependant movement. And they were setting
themselves up in most peculiar shapes. Finally, all twenty seven of the
charms were shaped in an inverted pentagram in my bowl. That was when I
realized that there was something very wrong.
Then the cereal began to speak to me. It spoke in low, hushed tones,
quiet and submissive, yet completely intrusive. My dog was lying there, and
did not move, so I could only assume that only I could here it (Well, the dog
WAS dead at the time, but that is beside the point). It looked out me, and
it began its speech, slow and monotonous, yet hurried and exciting. Don't
ask me how to explain it, it's odd enough that cereal was talking to me...
"Jimmy," it began, despite the fact that Jimmy is not my name, or at
least, was not at that point. "Jimmy, I like you. I think that you're a
good kid. In a way, that is. Mainly, you're just a bit too uptight, you
know. It isn't good to put so much pressure on yourself. You need some
revelation in that life of yours. Only way to do that is to purify yourself.
With blood."
And then, the cereal went silent, and I ate it. Then, I opened my
wrists and let my life force drain out over the table. After that, I felt
much better. Much better indeed.
It all goes to show, cereal is evil. All of it, simply because
personal experience defines history, history is controlled by the people in
power. Since, in my own warped head, I control everything, then I define
History. So you all lose. Except since I'm the loon and you're all decent
people, you really win. So everyone wins! And everyone loses! It just goes
to show, Cereal is Evil.
{{{ FIN }}}
*** Written By: Swiss Pope <and eventually Quarex> ***
The Grill Event
It was Good Friday. Erzabet, his friend Kurt, and I decided to go on a road
trip. Kurt has a girlfriend he met on a MUD. That's Multi-User Dungeon, not
wet dirt. But from the likes of her, they might as well have met in a mud
pit. But I'll get to all of that later.
We were to go to Midway Airport in Chicago and pick her up in the airport. We
decided to leave early so we could do stuff earlier in the day. Erzabet's
plan was to go play virtual reality laser tag at a legendary arcade in
suburban Chicago. My plan was to eat at an authentic Polish restuarant.
Kurt's plan was to get laid. We agreed to combine all three goals into
a day filled with fun and adventure. We were sadly mistaken.
9:25 a.m.
I ate a banana and patiently waited for Kurt and Erzabet to arrive.
9:37 a.m.
Kurt and Erzabet arrived. I entered Kurt's car. The inside looked like the
Knight Rider car. The interior was quite spacious, complete with a secret spot
behind the seat where Erzabet and Kurt cleverly stashed a couple of cans of
Mountain Dew. The car was manufactured in the early 80's, designed to look
futuristic. All of the controls, from the speedometer to the thermometer to
the compass, were digital, glowing Pac-man blue. Kurt started the car and we
heard a cheesy computerized voice from the dashboard say, "Systems engaged."
Erzabet popped in a tape and we headed for the highway.
10:27 a.m.
We had been driving for some time. We just passed Chenoa. On the tape,
we had heard Fear Factory, Gravity Kills, Amorphis, Pop Will Eat Itself,
and other appropriate driving music. Passing over a bridge, we felt the car
"lurch". All of us wondered just what was going on. The speedometer revealed
that we were no longer accelerating, despite the fact that Kurt had the gas
pedal to the floor. We pulled off the side and commented on the sheer
shittiness of the situation.
10:35 a.m.
A highway maintenance truck pulled over. A man wearing an orange vest walked
to the car and informed us that he would call a state trooper. Meanwhile, we
entertained ourselves by watching nearby farmers pick up rocks that lay strewn
about in their field.
10:47 a.m.
A state trooper arrived. "What's the problem?" he asked. Erzabet did all
of the talking. "I think the engine is flooded," Erzabet noted. Kurt
popped open the hood and the trooper peered inside. The trooper thought it
was a problem with the oil, despite Kurt's insistence that he had the oil
checked the previous day.
"I'll call a tow-truck. That's about all I can do," said the trooper. The
trooper went back to his car and waited.
It was about that time when we noticed that we were all dressed like scabs.
Yes, the kind that you peel off of your skin. Kurt had long black hair, long
fingernails painted black, black shoes and pants, and a black leather
trenchcoat. Jon and I looked like unkempt teenagers, who were obsessed with sex
and Dungeons and Dragons. I guess that's true, to an extent.
10:53 a.m.
Tow truck arrived and a fat man came out. He attached Kurt's car to his tow
truck. As he bent over, I noticed that he had about 2 feet of butt crack
showing. I looked away.
"Who wants to ride in the cab?" he asked with a rural Illinoisian drawl. His
teeth, or lack thereof, were exposed to us for the first time. I felt sorry
for his orthodontist.
"Well, Kurt, since it's your car...," Erzabet cleverly said, pushing the
poor kid towards the truck. The trooper offered to give me and Erzabet a
ride to the nearest gas station.
Erzabet hopped in the back of police car, while I took the front seat.
There was quite a bit of fancy radio equipment in the state trooper's car.
I was impressed.
Erzabet started to buckle his seat belt, but the state trooper said, "You
don't have to buckle up back there."
"That's okay, I buckle up out of habit. And I'm not just saying that because
you're a police officer," Erzabet explained.
The state trooper grunted.
11:15 a.m.
Eventually we came to the nearest city: Pontiac, Illinois. Population: 10,000.
The state trooper dropped us off at a service station, we thanked the kind man
for the ride, and he drove away.
11:17 a.m.
Kurt arrived in the tow truck. The three of us entered the service station.
The place was a claustrophobic sort-of place. On the window were posters
of old Corvettes and advertisements for Monarch tires and Red Man chewing
tobacco. We could sense traces of small town pride by observing the painted
picture of the local high school's mascot: the American Indian chief. Car
batteries lined one wall, while another wall was almost entirely taken up by
a vending machine (which heeded the warning, "USE AT YOUR OWN RISK"). The
rest of the free space in the place was either occupied by broken metal chairs,
old metal desks, bent-up filing cabinets, or empty cardboard boxes. There were
three people working: a short man, the fat man who drove the tow truck, and a
teenager. We explained our situation to the short old man wearing a CITGO hat.
He appeared to be the manager of the service station.
He coughed and responded in a gravelly, yet squeaky voice, "If you broke it,
we can fix it!"
The fat man, who introduced himself as having the name of Tock, agreed. Tock
wore a jacket bearing the logo of another service station. Underneath, he had
on a faded Harley Davidson t-shirt. The teenager wore glasses. His upper lip
revealed a bad teenage moustache. We were dealing with serious car people.
They told us that the car trouble was probably caused by a broken belt, so we
rest assured that the problem would be solved quickly, so we could get out of
the awful little town.
"We have to work on another car first, so you might as well get some lunch,"
the old man said. He gave us directions to the nearest snack bar.
11:46 a.m.
We explicitly ignored the old man's suggestion. We spent some time exploring
downtown Pontiac and making completely unwarranted insults towards
small-towners. No, we did not actually go up to small town people and insult
them, but we remarked to each other how incredibly close-minded they must be,
when we ourselves were being as equally as close-minded.
Pontiac's bustling commercial district didn't have much to show for itself.
We thought about holding up the local bank, but then we realized that we
weren't carrying any guns.
A few paces later, we found ourselves walking around inner-city Pontiac: the
residential district. We came upon a park, which contained several pieces of
bizarre playground equipment. For one thing, we were in quite a state of
shock when we saw equipment made out of honest-to-goodness metal. We were
used to the plastic playgrounds of Bloomington-Normal. (Note:
Bloomington-Normal isn't known for its parks; the local McDonalds' has a
higher budget set aside for play equipment than our town's Parks and
Recreation Department.)
One of the pieces of equipment resembled a Moebius strip. That is, if you
crawled up one end and defied gravitational effects, you would wind up landing
on your head, flipped backwards, by the time you readed the other side.
Another piece of equipment looked like a giant Iron Maiden. Excellent!
We were ogled by the local park patrons who had been playing catch. We
decided that it was time to move onward.
12:02 a.m.
We sat in yet another park, making bad jokes and talking about professional
wrestling.
12:15 a.m.
Back in the service station, Tock informed us that the car's motor was dead
and it was virtually impossible to fix. We emitted a collective groan, and
Tock gave us a funny look. Kurt called his mom, who informed us that his dad
would have to pick him up.
"Hey, what's the deal with the black fingernails?" Tock asked Kurt.
"Entertainment," Kurt responded, flippantly.
"Are you making a statement?"
"No..."
"Oh, 'cuz I thought you were making a statement to the dark side. You know
I've got 666 tattooed on my forehead," Tock joked.
The gas station workers burst into laughter. We just smiled politely.
Tock asked me where I went to school.
"Normal Community," I said.
"Is that the one on the corner of Main Street?" Tock asked.
Technically it was true, but not really, and since I didn't want to elaborate,
I simply said, "No, that's U-High."
"Do you know Friday Arbuckle?" Tock asked.
I thought he was referring to some sort of pagan holiday. Not really paying
attention, I mumbled, "Yes..."
"Really? Is he still teaching there?" he asked.
"No! I mean, I don't know who he is," I said.
"Oh..." he said. Tock began talking to the teenager, who had just lit up a
cigarette, about previous shop teachers they'd had. Tock taught us a bit of
mechanic's lingo. He said a "smegma-nism" is a foreign object that gets stuck
in the engine. We were enlightened by this insightful addition to our
vocabularies.
Tock, the teenager, and the old man went into the garage to work on the car.
Erzabet and Kurt read fantasy books that they had brought along for the
trip, while I read Pontiac's local paper. In one article, I read that most
Pontiac high school students wanted to go to college and major in either
mathematics or psychology.
We were all getting hungry, so we asked Tock how to get to McDonalds'. The old
man gave us a sad look. He knew that we had explicitedly ignored his
suggestion to go to the Pontiac snack bar.
"You guys like Chinese?" Tock asked.
"Yeah, but we're not really in the mood," Erzabet said. I glared at him,
for I was definitely in the mood for Chinese food.
"Okay," Tock said, then gave us really confusing directions to the nearest
McDonalds'.
12:45 p.m.
After wandering through the urban sprawl of Pontiac, we finally came upon our
beloved link to the real world: McDonalds'. We went inside, ordered our food
to go, and left. As we walked away from the restaurant, we heard a horn honk.
We walked to the car and *CRUSH* a giant fucking piano crashed upon our heads.
Okay, maybe that really didn't happen. I just had to get your attention.
===
Ok, Quarex says that Grill is due right now. Therefore, I have to end this
article. Shit, I haven't gotten to the part where the old man tells us the
evils of eating fast food or the tyrannical ride to Midway airport and back.
Or the sheer skankiness of meeting Kurt's girlfriend and carrying her luggage
around. Hmm, maybe I could share some of the hate prose I wrote while I was
stuck in the back of Kurt's dad's car. Ack! Ack! Ack! .. must .. end ..
this .. article ..
Oh well, you're probably not even reading this. =]
Meanwhile, Quarex finishes the GRILL EVENT based on what little information
Swiss Pope has provided him with. Quarex is certain that not being there
gives him the unbiased edge he needs to write a good finish.
12:54 p.m.
As we sauntered into the local McDonalds, we were set upon by an elderly man,
clutching a metal bowl close to his chest. "Can't ya please spare a dime for
a former Ozzy guitarist?", begged the decrepit diabolist. We didn't have any
money to spare, so we said we were sorry, and went to order. I obtained my
usual meal, a plain cheeseburger and small water. Erzabet bought four
McChickens, a rather odd order indeed.
Then, as we attempted to leave the restaurant, the old man returned.
Apparently angered that we had spent the money we could have technically
given him, he embarked on a ten-minute spiel about the evils of eating fast
food. Every major topic was there-- what level of hell you go to, who you're
likely to meet, what the best place to eat is, and how long the car would
take to fix. Does Friday Arbuckle still work there? No shit!
1:46 p.m.
After waiting, waiting, and then waiting some more, Kurt's father showed up.
He stood 7'4" and 300 lbs. of pure terror. He barely fit into the hearse
that Kurt's family had called their pride and joy all these years. "GET IN
THE FUCKING CAR", moaned the massive mound of maniacal monster. Merely
moseying would make our minds into mostly motionless matter, since "Dad" had
a .357 Magnum cocked and loaded. We lept into the car with full abandon, and
his dad peeled out. He winked to Tock upon leaving, unnerving all of us
further.
1:49-2:30 p.m.
The car ride was the worst experience of my life. Every few minutes, "Dad"
would turn on the extra-hot seats, permanently scarring each of our backsides
for life. As he cackled wickedly, he would also turn the country station up
to the point where it hurt to exist. I eventually even preferred the pain of
the hot seat to the cacophonic country choruses constantly coming from
conniving cretin central.
He would also occasionally holler "SHUT UP" and whip one of us with the butt
of his gun for no reason. Kurt was hit the least, but his beatings seemed
the most severe.
2:31 p.m.
We finally arrived at Midway airport. After wandering around an impossible
maze of towers, walkways, arab tourists, and popcorn stands, we found Kurt's
girlfriend standing next to a bench. The aura of absolute evil surrounded
her. Anyone who came within 10 feet of her was overpowered by the most
incredible stench imaginable, and to merely look directly into her eyes meant
death for all but the strongest man (or Kurt). She picked up her bags,
growled "SHALL WE GO, THEN?" and looked inquisitive. The remainder of us
ran off at full speed towards the car, full of the most incredible dread
imaginable.
2:51 p.m.
Kurt's girlfriend had nearly caught our speeding hearse. This was odd, since
we had been driving at least 80 MPH the entire time since leaving the
airport. Even "Dad" seemed terrified of this beast they called "THE HILL".
"Dad" handed Kurt his .357, with the warning "Only use it if the creature
gets within 10 feet of us. Then, fire for all you're worth, boy!"
As "THE HILL" came closer and closer, luggage constantly bouncing with her,
Kurt took aim with his gun. This, once his girlfriend, now terrified him
more than the thought of a happy blonde baby with the last name "Sanders".
He lost all control upon that thought and began firing without cease.
"THE HILL"'s head snapped backwards, and the most terrible cry ever
emitted was suddenly heard. It appeared Kurt had been studying up on his
pistol skills. The evil beast faltered, fainted, and fell forward fast. It
then ceased moving. The entire car let out a sigh of relief, and it was
thought that maybe this hell-ride would finally become a day worth
remembering.
3:03 p.m.
We were wrong. We had noticed that all car activity other than our own had
seemed to cease. This seemed odd for a highway at 3 in the afternoon, but we
said nothing about it save a passing remark by Erzabet. All at once,
however, our most horrible fears were realized.
The car itself became alive. It kicked, it reared, it SCREAMED in an awful
mechanical voice, "D O N O T D O T H A T ! ! ! ! !"
Before we knew it, we were all lying on the highway, strapped down by metal
bars. I felt as though my flesh were being slowly seared off with acid. The
pain was intolerable, yet I could not open my mouth to yell. Then, *IT*
appeared.
3:05 p.m.
I noticed a shooting star.
3:06 p.m.
"THE HILL" began to whip mercilessly at Kurt's head, a brutal payback for his
years of love, and one mistake: Those magnum slugs to the head. Kurt lay
motionless, seemingly moments after she began the brutal beating. "And now",
croaked the foul freak, "Your true doom awaits."
She proceeded to rend her flesh off using a fingernail. Underneath the
endlessly evil exterior lay an even more hideous being than we had thought
imaginable. MEGAN GEIGNER! THE AGONY THAT WE ALL FELT SEEMED TO POUR OUT
FROM OUR VERY SUBCONSCIOUS! THERE WAS NO WORSE FATE THAN THIS! PLEASE ODIN,
LET IT BE OVER! LET ME DIE NOW, DO NOT LET THIS BEAST HAVE THE BEST OF ME!
3:08 p.m.
Megan offers us a ride home. Erzabet refuses, but "Dad" and I hop in and
take off. For some reason, we don't even mind that Erzabet is now stranded
somewhere between Pontiac and Normal.
A few minutes into the trip, we realize we may have made an error. Megan
reaches over and tears "Dad"'s heart directly out of his chest, and devours
it with such relish that I still have nightmares. She then turned directly
at me, fangs dripping with blood, and screeched, "SO, WHAT DO YOU THINK OF
THE NEW THESPIAN INITIATION?"
That's when I decided I could take no more of this. Stuffing my trusty
grenade into her mouth and pulling the pin, I lept through the car window,
screaming, "I'LL SEE YOU IN HELL, YOU FUCKING BULEMIC HEDGEHOG!". Then, I
blacked out. Probably from hitting the concrete.
When I awoke,
6:39 p.m.
I discovered that it was much later. An officer was standing over me,
congratulating me on singlehandedly destroying all evil on earth. I thought,
"Hey, job well done, eh?". He then gave me a ride back to Normal. Of
course, Erzabet is still out on a road somewhere, but he can fend for
himself. He's always been good at that sort of thing.
[po] F i N ]op[
*** Written By: Erzabet ***
THE CLOCKWORK ERIK
FORWARD: The following is somewhat of a parody, but it is mostly a homage
to what I consider one of the best books I have ever viddied, I mean, a-hem,
seen. If you have seen the movie or, better yet, read the book "A Clockwork
Orange" by Anthony Burgess (now, sadly, deceased) you will get emmensly
more out of this. Basically I just did it for fun, and it mirrors the story
of the book in some ways, except it is simpler. The main difference is that
this is in my own made up world, and I have created my own slang, some from
T.V. shows, some from roots or meanings, and some just made up because I liked
the sound of them. Below I have included a lexicon of words so you don't get
too confused. Please, please, please, if you have never experienced
A Clockwork Orange in any format, do so. I hope you come away from it with
as much as I did.
LEXICON
batt - battle op - eye
brimy - mess up, stupid pally - friend
brudy - young pit - mouth
bulb - bubble plot - booth
chumied - consumed qlit - police
clique - gang roadrunner - fast
concluded - decided ruck - ruckus
conseeve - think shasta - shoe
dig - stare slightways - patient, patiently
disty - far back, far away slink - grab
doe - money slipslum - quietly
dreguva - teenage boy slurp-slurp - alcohol
dreguvita - teenage girl strike - anger
filletted - hightened The drink - alcohol
fire - strong top-box - head, brain
fray - chaos tick-tock - to punch, to hit
glam - to hear ultraphun - lots of fun
goodies - drugs valkry - adult
heqlavic - good vaporwell - arguement
knick - hand, arm vety - slightly
matt - blood vissy - woman
matted - beaten wall - face
motion bucket - pick-up truck wizdum - wisdom
off-rage - drunk, drunken Wyle E. - slowly
"on the teeter" - crazy, mixed up yums - food
op - eye
Part One of Three
"So, what's it going to be then, eh?"
Slipslumly we sat, me and my pallys, me being Jon, and my pallys being
Phillip, Andrew, and Mike (who was the slightest bit on the teeter, as so
many dreguvas were in that day). We were planted in a disty plot at the
Denny's shake bar, slightways waiting for our shakes, those being trimmed
with the day's finest in real heqlavic goodies. The drink, that firey
slurp-slurp, was out of reach for us dreguvas due to our brudy age, but the
shakes were for all to consume. They didn't push you into any kind of
off-rage like the powerful firey slurp, but rather filletted your senses real
heqlav, until crystal did the images flow into your top-box. Already we had
chumied one a piece, and did only require one more before getting on to a bit
of the old ultraphun.
"So, what's it going to be then, eh?"
Not one of us moved, lest to brimy the slipslum atmosphere we found so
pleasing. A large group of valkries had entered the plot next to us and were
presently engaged in a real strikey vaporwell, ignoring us as most valkries
did ignore most groups of dreguvas. They were causing quite a ruck, and we'd
complained to the high-and-mighties but of course being dreguvas nothing had
been done. So we had concluded to wait slightways until the valkries would
scurry off, and then would we, and then the ultraphun would commence.
"So, what's it going to be then, eh?"
I sat with my knicks pressed against my chin, a real strike look on my
wall, digging at this group of valkries as they vaporwelled on and rucked up
the slipslum atmosphere. When I had said this for the third time, they
turned and dug at me with a real strike look on their ugly walls, and told me
that I was a brimmy dreg and that I and my pallies should best keep their
pits closed, lest they be forced to tick-tock us on them real heqlavic, and
then they turned back around and once again were chumied in their foolish
vaporwell, completely ignoring my plea for slipslum.
Shortly the shakes arrived, and we chummied them up real roadrunner,
then paying out the little doe we had. I then returned to the valkries plot
and said thusly "thankee, my pallys, for being such fine mates, and heeding
our pleas for slipslum" and then tick-tocked the table so that all their yums
went scattering about, and I roadran out of there before they could get their
nasty knicks on me. I met up with my pallys and we did not leave the lot of
Dennys, rather sat down and slightways waited in the cold night air.
We were dressed in the hight of dreguva fashion for the time, all
covered in blue and black suits with dark green shastas on our feet, and long
black stove-tops on our boxs. In our knicks we held our bulb-pipes, gently
blowing the shiney bulbs into the cool starry dark. After a bit of slipslum,
Mike, in his teetering wizdum, stated slowly "what do we have in store for
this eve, me pallies?" And I told him we were waiting for the valkries and
he only nodded, saying he knew this but wanted to know about after, about
moving onto some real ultraphun.
"Be slightways, my pally, my mate, Mike, be slightways," said I, putting
my chilly knick on his shoulder and blowing out a real heqlavic bulb. "Good
things are received to those who are slightways." And he nodded his nod
which was the nod of someone lacking in the top-box and he laughed quietly to
himself as if he had glammed a merry tale, and I let him revel in his pure
ignorance. The others did not sit so tolerant of my musings. "All very
well, all very well, Jon, me pally. The slightways are rewarded, I am to
suppose, but verily I think that these nights of phun and darkness have left
me the vetiest bit empty of substance. Phun and Ultraphun are something we
grasp common, but the doe is Wyle E. to come in, and the riches of the world
are disty always." Andrew spewed this while Phillip nodded in fire support.
My ops thinned and I dug at Drew.
"The doe will come," said I, "when it needs to. Now we are as kings,
the town our kingdom. What more, oh pally, do you require, besides of course
the company of a heqlavic dreguvita?" I added this as spite to Andrew, who's
luck with the vissies was seldom the stuff of legends, rather it was mostly
the opposite. He glared all strikey at me and scowled. "I understand your
concern, mate. But I conseeve that we are fine just as is." Andrew looked
as if he would have liked to either answer in kind or tick-tock my box off my
shoulders, but the ring-a-ding-ding poured through the air, and soon as we
glammed that, we lept into the thick shubbery surrounding the shake-bar.
Indeed, the very valkry culprits that had been so strike before waddled past
us, now quite off-raged due to the slurp-slurp-slurp that had been consumed
by them inside.
They passed us all Wyle E. and did not seem to be in any rush to get any
where. I heard one comment on how he would like to find those rebellious
little dregs and teach them some manners real heqlavic, and a sly smile
crossed my pit, as I rose from the bushes to face their three backs. They
glammed not the noise in their off state, and silently me and my pallies
walked behind them to their motion bucket, all the time them being unaware of
us and our presence. Finally I spoke. "If it is a lesson that you wish to
give, me fine mates, then give give give, oh if you please..." I said, the
festive atmosphere ringing crystal from my brudy pit. "We are but dregs and
do not understand your valkry world. Prettily I beg of you, thine teachers,
to instruct us the brude of the nation in the ways of your brimy universe."
And this set them off real strikey and they made for us with shouts and
curses but being filled with The drink they were too Wyle E. and sluggish to
be effective in the following batt. The two who flanked the biggest were
slinked by Mike, Andrew, and Phillip, who tick-tocked them all strike and
roadrunner in their pits and walls. The biggest and meanest was saved for
me, and I smiled as he reached his grubby knicks out to grab me. In my
filletted state, an effect of the goodies, he was no match for me. I dodged
blow after blow, and he began to grow tired and strikey that I was not
retaliating. The others had finished with his companions, who were now
streched out matted on the hard ground. They trained their ops on me and my
faithful dance partner, not interacting lest they incure my wrath.
"You brimy dreg, fight back I demand!" the oaf growled, but I merely
continued to dodge his goofish ticks and tocks and clicks and clocks, until
he barely could move his knicks, and then I strikey and nastily tocked him in
his pit, imme
diately his pit filling and spewing forth the dark red matt that
I loved to procure so very very much. And then i kicked him hard and
tick-tocked him yet again. This sent him sprawling backwards and he fell to
the ground, and I followed up and layed many stomps on his body and pit and
wall until he was covered in matt and broken on the ground and could no
longer squeal for me to halt my vicious attack. I did only when I glammed
the buzz of the qlits, not-so-far-off in the distance. And I turned to my
Pallies to tell them that it was time to make like fast from the lot. But
they did not look like they wanted to glam to Your Humble Narrorator (that
being me), but rather strike and stubborn.
"Sorry, my mate..." Andrew said. "Sorry, sorry, sorry indeed, but we
have decided that it is in the best interest of our clique if you volunteered
to leave it. So we have volunteered you..." and suddenly these traitorous
thugs that I had called my pallies not moments before slinked me and ticked
me real good in my pit, then going to work on matting me out with the drunken
slurpies, me crying hellish anguishes all the while on how they could do this
to their mate, the mate that had been so good to them for so long, but soon I
was broken and matted and not able to move any of my limbs and my matt was
covering my face and running into my eyes and oh what a mess! and I tried to
get up but could not. Silently I cursed my former pallies and knew that the
qlit would get their brimy knicks on me, and I wished very much at that point
to simply be extinguished. No such luck, however, for the high-and-mighty
had more plans for a dreg like me, plans that I could not possibly comprehend
at that time. And so it was that I, Your Humble Narrator, was dragged off in
the qlit's shiney silver wagon while the drunkards were simply piled in thier
bucket and left to sober. I felt unfortunate, my brothers, but not as
wholey unfortunate as I would very soon. For soon, my fate, as they called
it, would be sealed in the halls of The Clockwork Erik.
END OF PART ONE
*** Written by: Quarex ***
Rant & Rave About Various things, yet again
* * *
With the current trend of making every type of tasty snack into a breakfast
cereal, how long do you think it'll be before we start seeing "Hershey's
Kisses Krunch", "Snickers Stubble", "Butterfinger Bullet Holes", "Easy
Cheese: The Cereal", "The Lard Machine" or "Swiss Cake Rolls & Fibre"?
* * *
Although most crossbreeds of music have been attempted by some artist or
another, there are certain crossovers that I've never heard (that I'd like to
hear): Gabber/Jazz, Techno/Gospel, Trance/Adult Contemporary. . . or. . .
These would also make good "BMG Music Favorite Music Types" choices.
[ ] Gabber/Jazz
[ ] Metal/Ambient
[ ] Techno/Gospel
[û] Trance/Adult Contemporary
[ ] Rap/Polka
[ ] Country/Music
* * *
Can anyone out there honestly tell me that there is a difference between
artists like "R. Kelly", "D'Angelo", "Soul 4 Real", etc.? Now, I might say a
lot that all country songs sound the same, but I can differentiate between
them somewhat easily. However, I honestly cannot find ANY DIFFERENCE between
songs like "Sex Me" by R. Kelly and "Sex Me" by D'Angelo (I have no idea what
the song is called, but they sound exactly alike, as they're the exact same
fucking song). I hate R&B.
* * *
Let's take a moment to reminisce about the glory days of the video arcade in
the early-to-mid 80s. Back then, you could take your date to an arcade and
not be ashamed. You would also be in a line to play at almost any game, not
just the ONE in the arcade that people want to play.
* * *
Let's talk about sleep briefly. It's a well-known fact that most scientists
insist that getting 8 hours of sleep is your best bet for a well-rounded
waking day. However, through countless hours of experimentation (and a lot
of feedback from my friends), we have found that getting 8 hours of sleep
will leave you just as dead tired during Calculus as getting 4 hours of sleep
will, providing no advantage whatsoever with obtaining more sleep.
Therefore, I've started going to bed at 2 and getting up at 6 on school
nights, and being just as awake during the day as when I used to go to bed at
11 and get up at 7. SO FUCK YOU, SCIENCE DUDES!
* * *
Winter almost pulled off a successful Coup De'Etat of Spring this year, but
was narrowly defeated by that annoying hot-feeling that comes around every
year. I hate warmth.
* * *
Was I the only person on earth who thought "The Price Is Right" was the
greatest game show ever? Wheel of Fortune is CRAP compared to it.
* * *
Think for a while about the fact that your CPU most likely has a little
depressed button that says "Turbo" on it.
* * *
Drunk people are really fucking stupid.
* * *
While our gaming group was playing AD&D last Friday, we came to the
realization that making myriads of chocolate dice that you could use for a
night and then eat would make the company introducing them instant
millionaires. I mean, who wouldn't buy things with numbers on them that
tasted good?
* * *
I think the next big "Star-Studded" Tribute album that will come out will be
"The Soulful Sounds of Phil Anselmo". It will feature such artists as R.
Kelly, D'Angelo, and Soul 4 Real.
* * *
In light of the recent Unabomber capture, one very important piece of
information can be gleaned. If you make it a habit of blowing up landmarks,
be sure not to tell your brother about it. TRUST NO ONE.
* * *
There's nothing I love more than having a red-hot poker covered in powdered
sugar etch the words "We the people of the United States" on my forearm.
* * *
Why does America consider it so wrong to show nudity or sex on any medium,
yet consider violence perfectly acceptable? Violence on the news is no more
logical than sex on Cinemax. You might claim that the violence on the news
is necessary, but WHY is it? Because you want to be informed about all the
viciously cruel acts going on around the world. Great. Meanwhile, let the
NON fundamentalist kids grow up thinking sex ISN'T bad. Then, maybe they
won't be so apt to do it in order to rebel against their parents ;)
* * *
Ham should be outlawed.
* * *
Have I mentioned lately that I have a vendetta against women? :)
* * *
Here's a short story for you.
Max flipped the lever, and the swish-swish of the windshield wipers
started up yet again. Those things can really put you to sleep if you let
them.
* * *
This section used to be a lot funnier. Man, what's happening to me? I'm
GETTING BORING! AHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
::: f i N :::
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Submissions to Grill (hee hee! Submissions!) can be sent to:
rwhunt@rs6000.cmp.ilstu.edu -- Quarex
Any comments about their material can be sent to:
jmthomps@rs6000.cmp.ilstu.edu -- Erzabet (TK)
bowinans@rs6000.cmp.ilstu.edu -- Swiss Pope
ecdecke@rs6000.cmp.ilstu.edu -- Ghort
sbaker@Dave-World.net -- Ogre De Latoya
danderso@ice.net -- Obsidian
(or, you could complain about them to me, see if I care. . .)
All material contained within this text file in its entirety is copyrighted.
No part of it may be used in any other text file, archive, book, pork rind,
parchment, papyrus, pigskin, pretty paper, pornographic publication, or
poppapuppapoodipoodapappepodocious without express-written consent of ME!!
AND I AM QUAREX! ALL HAIL QUAREX!
The first issue of GRILL was completed sometime around April 24, 1996.
. . .and King Alexander has run himself over!
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