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Grill 010
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___________________ `~~~`~
/ =King Nothing= / ~`~
/ / ~~
/................../ ~' !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
|:...@@..../\......: ~ !______________________________!
|\:...@@...\/...C=..: !___&&&&___&&&__&&&_&____&_____!
| \:.................: !__&____&_&___&__&__&____&_____!
U\ | ~~.~.~.~.~.~~ | !__&______&__&___&__&____&_____!
| \|_____o*oOo*o_____| !__&__&&__&&&____&__&____&_____!
|__U________________ U !__&____&_&__&___&__&__&_&__&__!
|\ | \| !___&&&&__&__&&_&&&__&&___&&___!
v_\|_________________| !______________________________!
O | | !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
\ | \| - = I S S U E # 1 0 = -
\v_________________v "Sex means freedom from liberation!"
O O
ASCii mostly courtesy of Swiss Pope
Highly Unreadable GRILL font-logo by Quarex
x??-[JUNE 21, 1997]-QuarexOgreDeLatoyaSwissPopeQuarexKheldarGhortAlAa
e b
r CONTENTS OF ISSUE #10 OF GRILL (The 'Zine for Heretics): Y
a o
u <1> Flight of the Skajaquada s
Q <2> Man s
x <3> Inspector Gadget a
e <4> Why my life is Ruined: Part 2 r
r <5> Poetry written in 6th/7th Grade i
a <6> Ask Ghort a
u <7> Single, Bilingual! n
Q <8> Everything you ever wanted to know about Sects (omitted) (
x <9> The Art of Conversation o
e <10> The Art of Conversation, Addendum. m
r <11> Gary Hart-ache [Editor's title] i
a <12> The Reagan Administration Sex-Chart t
u <13> A Bunch of Things I would like to do to Ogre t
Q <14> Mancer Grey e
& <15> A Gothic Rant d
a <16> A Seinfeldian Rant )
y <17> Rant & Rave about Random Things S
o w
taLeDergOratSiniSayotaLeDergOtaRniatpaCepoPssiwSyojharaSxerauQepoPssi
(*) WHO GOTS THE FUNK?
(*) By: Quarex
In light of Seinfeld's enormous popularity, which even includes
select writers for Grill, I have decided it would be a good idea to
merely turn this into a Seinfeld .FAQ file. So, henceforth, anyone
writing for Grill will be ignored unless the article sheds light on any
subjects which we have not yet covered, such as Newman's shady past or
Kramer's affinity for dowsing rods.
On second thought, I am instead going to write a brief Seinfeld
script and continue on with Grill as usual.
[SCENE: Jerry's apartment. Jerry and George are standing in the living
room, talking.]
JERRY: George, do you have any Orange Skittles?
GEORGE: (Cynically) Why would I have any Orange Skittles?
JERRY: I don't know! It was just a simple question! Maybe you happen
to have Orange Skittles!
GEORGE: Why do you want to know if I have any Orange Skittles?
JERRY: Because I'm all out of Orange Skittles! You know, they're the
best kind!
<KRAMER bursts into the room, audience applauds>
KRAMER: You guys will not BELIEVE what I just saw.
JERRY & GEORGE: What?
KRAMER: A truck overturned on the expressway. Spilled its cargo
everywhere!
JERRY: What was it carrying?
KRAMER: Orange Skittles.
GEORGE: ORANGE SKITTLES?
<buzzer sounds, ELAINE informs Jerry that she is coming up>
JERRY: What are the odds of that happening?
KRAMER: Say Jerry, I was just wondering. Could I borrow your soap?
Mine is all gone.
JERRY: What kind of person wants to use someone else's soap?
<ELAINE bursts into the room, crying>
JERRY: Elaine, what happened?
ELAINE: (through sobs) My bag of Skittles got run over!
JERRY: Really? . . . Were there any Orange ones in the bag?
ELAINE: How can you ask me that at a time like this?
<NEWMAN appears in a puff of smoke>
NEWMAN: BOW TO THE GOD OF FILTH!
At least, that is how I think Seinfeld works. So, you think you
are man enough to stop a truck? Well, here we go!
@@@ FIN @@@
@---** Title: Man
@---** Author: Ogre De Latoya
I want to be an array.
I could hold so much more information that way.
In my brain, all this shit,
stored in my array.
My name would be Ogre[].
And my brain would be like a folder
with pockets.
Man, it gettin' colder.
If my index ticked away,
and my thoughts did twist and sway.
Yeah, I would be cool
on that day.
I would go from zero to one-hundred.
Because one-hundred is the maximum that I could be fed.
Because the stupid fuck who coded me
initialized me to one-hundred.
That fuck.
Stupid fuck.
Can't code worth a shit.
Cursing is funny as fuck.
)(* FIN )(*
@---** Title: Inspector Gadget
@---** Author: Swiss Pope
I just now realized how fucked-up Inspector Gadget looks.
Let me draw a simple ascii of him:
___
/ \
\\\\<----->////
\\\ O O ///
\( / )/
| <_ |
| _ |
\ /
\_/
I mean look at him, he looks pretty fucking weird.
$$$ FIN $$$
@---** Title: Why my Life is Ruined: Part 2
@---** Author: Quarex (with special Wallabee addendum by Spirit)
In Issue #9 of Grill, I ripped open my twisted past like a ripe
mango in its prime to give you a special kind of entertainment through my
own humiliation. Now, I will do it again!
Act III - "The Wallabees develop Genetic Engineering"
,, ,,
,, ,,
,, ,,
@@@@ @@@@
@@ @@@ @@ @@@
@@ @@ @@ @@
With this creature I will @@@@ @@ @@@@ @@
,, surely rule the known @@@@ @@ @@@@ @@
_@@ / universe! @@ @@__________
( )* @@@@ @@@@ __________
** ** (( ))
** ** (( ))
By Jove! You've ********* (( ))
,, done it again! ********* (( ))
_@@ / what are we going to ** ** (( ))
( )* do with our tire ** ** (( ))
factory, though? (( ))
MOTOR COORDINATION OF BABIES
1 Month -- Some ability to turn head from side to side.
6 Months -- Increased ability to sit on own.
1 Year -- Ability to set up own ISP.
One fine day during my First Grade education, I was witnessing
quite a crude act take place between two of my classmates. One of the
boys had said "crap" to one of the girls, upon the girl asking if she
could borrow some glue. My response to that, which is apparently
Central-Illinoisian specific "kidslang", was to repeat the phrase
"UM UM UM", indicating that someone had performed in an inappropriate
manner.
My teacher, Mr. Zehr (who later won $12,000 on the $25,000 Pyramid,
as you may or may not know) was not from Illinois, and therefore was not
familiar with this style of juvenile alarm system. Thus, he informed me
that I was to put my head down on my desk for the remainder of class. I
did so, without question, feeling betrayed by the upper class which had
smiled upon my tattletail behavior in the past.
- - - - - - - -
Might & Magic ][ was the first game I obtained for my IBM XT which
would not only run, but also provide me with a great deal of enjoyment
(even when I still had an amber monitor). However, for over eight
months, I played the game (a standard RPG) thinking that it was
impossible to save the characters. My logic was that if I reset my
computer after stopping at an inn, that the characters would still be
there when I returned. I was incorrect in that logic.
So, I would repeatedly go on lengthy screaming/crying tantrums with
my parents, being brutally annoying, and only for the sake of doing it.
Whenever they would ask if they could call the company for me and ask
them about it, I would tell them that the company was out of business, or
that I had already done it myself. I have no idea why I would respond in
said manner, but I did.
Eventually, I figured out how to save my characters, and stopped
whining. Then, I punched Hrothgar in the groin and he stopped talking to
me. This situation has since been rectified, however.
- - - - - - - -
At my Junior High School (Chiddix, or Shittix as it was
affectionately known by the residents thereof), all 7th graders were
required to take a class called "Positive Life Skills". Now, as all of
you know, any class called "Positive Life Skills" is going to be one of
the most traumatic experiences of one's education. And, so it was for me
as well.
Introducing myself on the first day of class, I explained that my
name was Drew, I had been to over 20 countries around the world, and that
I had a big head. Much to my chagrin, my teacher chided me for my
eloquation of the obvious, and informed me that it was a bad thing to say
about myself.
I thought, "But, I *do* have a big head. There is no way to say
anything less than, 'I have a big head'." Thus, my immense confusion
began, as my teacher told me that everything I had learned was NEGATIVE,
even though it was just fucking FACT.
The class was awful, my teacher tried to kill me, and at the end of
the year, in the "autographs" section of my workbook, a tell-tale sign of
the class' effectiveness was unveiled. There were but two signatures.
Ryon Penn's, and my own. Underneath my own signature, scrawled in my own
handwriting, were the words "I AM THE UGLIEST PERSON ON EARTH." Clearly,
another success story for the annals of Junior High Positive Thinking
curriculum.
- - - - - - - -
It would be extremely easy to throw in some of my experiences with
women here, but I have already covered most of them in previous issues of
Grill, so there really is no point. However, suffice to say that women
have the nasty habit of ORDERING A STEAK DINNER and then, instead of just
making me pay, GRINDING ME UP WITH THE STEAK. Then, their bulemic asses
THROW ME UP INTO THE TOILET and FLUSH IT and LAUGH AS IT SWIRLS AROUND IN
A FILTH PUDDLE until it REACHES THE SEWERS with the OTHER FILTH.
??? FIN ???
@---** Title: Poetry written in 6th/7th Grade
@---** Author: Kheldar (with commentary by Quarex)
- The Masters cage us, body and mind,
- They teach us to be violent and unkind,
- They are assassins out for hire,
- They kill us and turn our minds to mire.
In this stanza, Kheldar is establishing a vision of a future earth, a
wasteland, a world transformed. Oops, he is talking about teachers,
never mind.
- 'Oh Master don't put me in a cage,
- It confines me but not my rage,'
- 'Oh master don't whip me with a flail,
- It hurts not my body but puts my mind in jail.'
That was some great meter right there, let me tell you.
- You hold our chains with a cruel grin,
- But you are unheeding to our saddened din,
- You won't hear what we have to say,
- My freedom won't see another day.
This was part of Ronald Reagan's inaugural speech.
- Fight for freedom, the right is yours,
- We have the boat but not the oars,
- To get the oars we need to fight,
- Fight and fight with all our might.
Is this a ManOwaR song?
- We have rights, they say we have none,
- Our fight in school has just begun,
- You can ignore us, but not for long,
- You say we're dumb but you are wrong.
Hey you, sitting out there in the cold, feelin' lonely, feelin' old, can
you help me?
- You say I'm crazy, you say I'm not sane,
- But I'll one day become your bane,
- The bane of your damn fascist school,
- You make me stupid, you make me drool.
Seen written on the back of Corky's math book.
- So drink this water of martyr spring,
- And of all rebellion you'll be king,
- They must be afraid of an insurrection,
- They must be afraid we'll want an election.
To become King of Rebellion, press 1 now.
- We want to be democrats but they say no,
- We want to be warm but they give us snow,
- They don't like us, it's not disguised,
- But our brains still keep getting vised.
Oh, I get it, the Republic is not good enough for you, you want to go
straight from a dictatorship to Democracy? Dude, the only thing that
Democracy gets you is Recycling, and that is a lame advance anyway.
And what the fuck is up with "We want to be warm, but they give us snow"?
Is that the worst line in a poem ever, or what?
- You must be strong and win the war,
- We'll fight the evil to its core,
- So I'll leave you with this final thought,
- Break the rules, but don't get caught.
I hear that! Down with laws! BLACK MAN, WHITE MAN, RIP THE SYSTEM!
()( DING DING DING GOES THE TROLLEY )()
@---** Title: Ask Ghort
@---** Author: Ghort
***NOTE: These are actual letters, written by actual people, from this
actual universe, which is a true3D universe running on my computer.
Dear Ghort,
I want to get a new car, but I'm having a dilemna between getting a high
quality foreign car such as the Honda Accord or Toyota Celica, or a
crappy car like the Chevy Lumina or the Ford Taurus, which are made in
America. The advantage of buying the foreign-made car is that it's good.
The advantage of buying the domestic-made car is that I will retain my
sense of national pride, and all my friends who work at the Mitsubishi
plant won't be mad at me. By the way, Mitsubishi is out of the question,
because I just don't get the little diamond-triangle thing. What's up
with that?!
Undecided in Underwood
Dear Undecided,
First of all, your grammar is horrendous. Get a clue. Second of all,
cars are not MADE. Ever heard of the Law of Conservation of Mass? Look,
it goes like this: everything in the universe is either energy or matter,
and the total amount of energy plus matter in the universe cannot change.
If we just 'make' cars, that would be changing the total amount of stuff
in the universe, kapiecshe? Cars are put together; an amalgum of various
elements and parts. You are basically choosing where the car was put
together. Who cares? I mean, global family and shit, right? Third of
all, your sense of national pride is completely unwarranted and
misplaced. National pride is so... 40s. If you want the most car for
your buck, about national pride you should not give a fuck. It's like
the whole flag burning thing. I mean, I don't see how people can take
this thing so seriously. It's just a piece of cloth with some color on
it. It's not like it suddenly becomes our country's lifeblood when you
put the lines and stars on it. When you take communion, does the bread
actually turn into Jesus' flesh and the wine into his blood? I DON'T
THINK SO. It's called a symbol, a representation. The thing itself has
no value, it's merely the value the individual places on it. If someone
came up and started burning YOUR flag, then yes, I'd say you've got a
right to bitch. But if I buy my own damn flag and want to burn it, I
should have every right to do so. Fourth of all, I think we all know
what REALLY goes on at Mitusbishi. You know what I mean. Fifth of all,
what IS up with that diamond-triangle thing? The world may never know.
Anyhow, you should go with the Saab, because it has two As in it, But if
you have to choose between the four cars that you mentioned, go with the
Toyota. Let me tell a story as to why I say this. When I was younger,
my uncle had a Toyota. Now, when I was little I was a) really into Star
Wars, and b) really naive. Therefore, I thought that the reason it was
called Toyota was because there was a Toy Yoda somewhere in the car. I
wanted to play with it, but then my parents had to explain to a
heartbroken me that there was no toy Yoda, and that I was a moron. <Sob>
Thanks for bringing back such crappy memories, Undecided. By the way, I
have aweful grammar too, so pick me up in your new car and we can go get
a clue together. Thanks for writing.
Ghort
Dear Ghort,
I like rap music, but I fear ridicule and possibly even physical abuse
from my friends. Is there any way to stop this impending doom? Also,
can you recommend some good rappers/rap groups that really drop the dope
funk? Werd.
Chillin' in Crestwick
Dear Chillin',
I'm glad to hear you have an interest in such an eclectic, intelligent,
and increasingly popular form of music. Rap is a very politically-minded
and at the same time enjoyable and carefree musical style. Plus, it's a
must that we recognize the dope from the wack, the P-Funk from the
G-Funk. Especially if you are a young haul, you've gotta make sure you
roll thick. Stop set tripping and nut the fuck up. The game is
trump-tight, so you gotta check unfadeable motherfuckers because the bass
has got to straight bump. Just make sure that you're strapped when you
roll with your shank, loc. Anyway, I'll stop rambling. There are
several things to do about the problems with your friends. Probably the
most complex, but most beneficial in the long run, would be to get them
addicted to rap as well. Like a virus, rap is highly contageous. They'll
resist if they're in groups, but if you get them alone or two at a time
you should be alright. Just pop in some Digital Underground, and soon
they'll be converted. That leads me to your other question. Digital
Underground, in my opninion, are the masters of "that bomb-ass shit
called the funk." Other artists to check out are Dr. Dre, Dr. Drew,
Warren G, Sir Mix-A-Lot, and Tone-Loc. I suppose the other option that
you have is to just make sure you're strapped when you roll deep, or in
the immortal words of Warren G, "Terror, terror, pick which Glok. The
black one with the big pin-lock" (11).
Ghort
Dear Ghort,
My girlfriend and I have been going together for about 3.14159265 years
now and I'm thinking of 'popping the question'. What do you think?
Eager in Eagle Ridge
Dear DUMB ASS,
WHAT THE FUCK IS 'the question'? HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO ANSWER
THAT?! Is it marriage, sex, Burger King vs. McDonalds, boxers vs.
briefs, creamy vs. chunky, WHAT?! Give me a sign here, jeeze!
Ghort
This is the portion of the "Ask Ghort" column in which I write about
something from the popular advice column "Dear Abby". Incidently, it is
also the column upon which I place almost all of the blame for "Ask
Ghort". Today I think I'll write a letter to Abby.
Dear Abby,
How the hell did you ever become a nationally-renowned sydicated
columnist?! I've read your column. Not only could just about anyone
give the advice that you do, but you are lame as well. What makes your
value judgements so much better than the next old conservative bitch's?
What would make your opinion so much better and worthy of my attention
than anyone else's? And some people write to you about the most trivial
shit! It's actually entertaining to read your column to find out about
the guy who wears women's undergarments because they make his tummy
flatten, or the cousins who got married and are wonderfully happy because
of your column. "What will we do Abby?" They all ask. I'll tell you
what they do. They write some long-ass sob story to you, and about six
weeks later (if ever) it appears in your column, probably way too late
for you to solve any problem that they have. What if someone wrote in "I
have a life-threatening disease. The doctor says I have 5 weeks to live.
What should I do?" You'd let 'em die, that's what you'd do, you
coldhearted Abby-Snake, Serpent She-Demon from Cthulu's Lair. Sometimes
it pisses me off that it's me writing to you about how dumb your job is
instead of you writing to me. I could offer the same paltry advice that
you do. Well, it's time to fight back. Now, in GRILL: The 'Zine for
Heretics, will appear "Ask Ghort", the best fucking advice column since
"Dear Abby's Mom". Eat that, bitch.
Ghort
You can also read my column in such popular journals as USA Yesterday,
The Pantaglyph, and The New York Please (REALLY please a lot) write to
"Ask Ghort" by emailing to mpackard@students.uiuc.edu. Any and all
questions are appreciated, and will probably be answered in the next
Grill. I'm not anticipating quite the flood of mail that Abby probably
gets (Grrr) so that's why I can say that. Whee!
~``FiN''~
<<< FIN >>>
@---** Title: Single, Bilingual!
@---** Author: Al Aab
[ Article crossposted from soc.culture.usa ]
[ Author was Al Aab ]
[ Posted on Sat, 29 Mar 1997 10:05:12 GMT ]
date + time : early sturday 28 mar 96, betw good friday & easter
what : a jesusy film on tv
so what : all the cast dressed like arabs or romans
so what else : peter, mary, jesus have blue eyes
no wonder
black americans dream of
a balck god
or a brown mohamed.
mohamed was pro-abyssinian/african
mohamed's prayer caller had sweet voice and black skin
mohamed's mu-ezzin's name was "bilal"
a society of african black muslims is called "bilal"
in the jesusy films, women are veiled, or sorta
in the jesusy films, virgin mary is veiled, or sorta
in the jesusy films men wear gowns and turbans, or sorta
in the jesusy films men are either jews in gowns + turbans
or romans
in 1967, after nasser fell to a jewess, golda meir,
jews of toronto swept toronto's streets revelling, cat calling, dancing
and carrying posters:
how could arabs win
when arabs wear skirts
!
!
what did jesus, the jew,
wear
(despite his depicted blue eyes)
trousers
?
HEIL ZION
TODAY ARABZ
TOMORO THE WEST
COZ THE CHOZEN ZION SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH
NO DOGZ OR CHRISTIANZ
ZIONZ EXCLUZIVELY.
HEIL ZION
+__ FIN ++_
@---** Title: The Art of Conversation
@---** Author: Swiss Pope
One might think that when you go to university, you'd meet fellow
students who might introduce you to new ideas and attitudes. One might
think that some sort of interesting or challenging thought goes on in
such institutions of "higher learning". One might even go so far as to
think that the youth of today actually has something offer future
generations beyond sluggish scientific progress and a perpetuation of the
banality of human existence. To be completely realistic, there *are*
university students who actually do have something insightful, witty, or
halfway interesting to talk about in conversation, but such people are
hard to come by. They are buoys in the dark waters of stupidity, beacons
of light in the hazy fog of the mundane, and the lean meat in the soft
shelled tacos of human dignity. When I refer to stupid people, I am not
trying to imply that they are stupid in the sense that they can't get a
dishwasher to work, but instead they are stupid in the sense that they
are pseudo-intellectuals. They are the poseurs of thought; they read
Siddhartha and all of a sudden you find them mediating on your living
room carpet. They see a news report on how chickens undergo through
horrible conditions when caged in food processing plants, so they then
open up an "Educate Yourself On Chicken Rights" booth in the corner of
their dorm room as if anyone gives or has ever given a shit in the first
place. They are the types who watch an episode of Charles in Charge and
develop a pet theory that Charles and Buddy were secretly gay, then they
tell you their theory expecting you to find it clever and humourous
because after all, anyone who makes pet theories about 1980's television
characters obviously possesses that Generation X savoir-faire that is
necessary for respect and admiration in today's youth culture.
Yes, it's common knowledge that most people in the crowd
(especially in a college crowd) are completely clueless pawns of life who
really have nothing really to offer in the neighborhood of creative
thought. If you disagree, you are probably the exact type of drone who
I'm referring to, so you might as well turn off your computer, pour
yourself a bowl of Fruit Loops, and go watch Friends. On the other hand,
if you can empathize with me in any way, keep reading because I'm going
to tell you exactly how to spot a person who is or is not someone
intellectually worthy enough of engaging you in conversation. My
intention here is not to write an encyclopaedia on stupid conversations--
I could do that, but I hate encyclopaedias. Take that kid from the
Encyclopaedia Britannica commercials from a couple of years ago.
Remember him? Yeah, that junior high school nerd with glasses and blond
hair who was ever-so-stressed out because he could not find enough
information for his report, so he looked to the Encyclopaedia Britannica
to look up whatever the hell he was doing his report on. About a year
later he popped up on followup commercials and was asked, "So how did you
do on your report?" to which he responded, "I got a B+. Overkill. Just
too much information." Anyway, the kid was a fucking idiot for not
copying the particular encyclopaedia article word-for-word, like what you
are *supposed* to do in junior high, which would've insured him an A+ on
his report. But no, instead he had to be crafty, in his "cleverness" he
turned to the ENCYCLOPAEDIA BRITANNICA-- and he sure got what he
deserved! But he's far from being the worst type of pseudo-intellectual
you can encounter. His existence in relation to you can be eliminated by
simply switching off the television. Unfortunately, we can't just switch
off reality like we can a television set.
It's a terribly nasty situation to be stuck on a charter bus with
a pseudo-intellectual or to be introduced to a pseudo-intellectual who
happens to be your significant other's best friend from 6th grade who is
visiting town for the weekend and would really like to spend some
getting-to-know-you time with you.
Here are the early warning signs that you have just met a
pseudo-intellectual:
* Your conversation turns into self-indulgent reminiscing of
Saturday morning cartoons within 10 minutes. Really, this world
can do without another lengthy discussion about the goddamn
Smurfs. Let me sum up every conversation I've ever had about the
smurfs. Yes, it is enigmatic that there was only ONE girl smurf
and a hundred guy smurfs. No, Papa Smurf probably *wasn't* able
to get it up. Yes, Grandpappy Smurf *was* a dirty old man. No,
Gargamel wasn't gay. Yes, Gargamel *did* own a cat, but that
doesn't make him gay. No, Peewee wasn't gay. Yes, Johann *was*
gay, his name was fucking Johann for Christ's sake. And while I'm
on the subject, let me throw out about twenty 1980's cartoon show
buzzwords that they can stroke themselves to: Dungeons and
Dragons, Shirt Tails, Gummi Bears, Duck Tales, Goof Troop,
Tailspin, Thundercats, Quicksilver, He-man, She-ra, Grape Ape, Ed
Grimley, Mr. T, Laser Tag, that Nintendo show, Teenage Mutant
Ninja Turtles, and the Pac-Man cartoon.
* You're smoking cigarettes, so you start to talk ABOUT
cigarettes. Especially gourmet cigarettes. For those who
aren't familiar with gourmet cigarettes, I'll clue you in on this:
gourmet cigarettes are a big fucking waste of money (not that
cigarettes in themselves aren't-- but that's another redundant
argument for some other time) and they really don't taste all
that better than regular cigarettes. However,
pseudo-intellectuals seem to pride themselves whenever they find
an opportunity to whip out a pack of Dunhills or Black Death
smokes. What? Do they expect us to really care? The only
credit I give to people smoking expensive cigarettes as opposed
to regular or not at all is that such pseudo-connaisseurs of
tobacco are going to develop some sort of artsy, pretentious
European cancer instead of generic, unsung North Carolina cancer.
* You talk about books you've read when you were 11.
Pseudo-intellectuals love to clue you in on books that they've
supposedly read. Most of them like to tell you *what age* they
were when they read them, too. Am I supposed to be impressed
that they've read Crime and Punishment and To Kill A Mockingbird
and Brave New World and The Jungle during the summer of their
sixth grade? Surprise, I don't! In fact, I'm going to assume
that if they *are* telling the truth, their socialization skills
were really fucked up back then because their were inside reading
thick books instead of doing things that 11 year olds are
normally doing like blowing up spiders with grocery store
firecrackers or riding bicycles through drainage ditches.
You see the warning signs, so here's what you can do to get the
pseudo-intellectuals to go away:
* Tell them that the most insightful book that you're currently
reading is "Curious George Goes To New Zealand", so you really
wouldn't care to get into a lengthly discussion about the most
well-loved-by-pseudo-intellectuals philosopher of them all,
Nietschze.
* Whip out your spiral bound notebook and draw some sort of shape
and ask them to describe how that shape puts them in their own
unique universal harmony. If there's one thing I've learned,
it's that pseudo-intellectuals can't resist interpreting shit
that really DOESN'T MATTER.
* Or just spit in their face and tell them to ride the magical
cock rocket to New Jersey.
The last one never fails.
YEAH fin YEAH
@---** Title: The Art of Conversation (addendum)
@---** Author: Quarex
After reading Swiss Pope's extremely accurate article about
psuedo-intellectuals, I felt that I should add some of my own "early
warning signs of someone I am not going to get along with", which is
essentially a pseudo-intellectual.
* The "You are weird" syndrome. If, upon performing any activity
which is considered uncharismatic of a typical drone, the person
says "You are weird" or "You are being silly", then RUN AWAY as
FAST AS YOU CAN. These people REALLY fucking suck. These are
the same people who watch Seinfeld and think it is the greatest
show on earth, because it takes one fucking joke and runs it into
the ground for the entire show.
* The "Elvis is Dead" gambit. If, in an attempt to say something
weird/funny, any person ever refers to Elvis being alive or on
another planet, then see above, and RUN FAR AWAY. These people
have the creativity potential of the infamous "urine spaghetti"
main course.
* The "Talk about awful TV" paradigm. If, at any point, a
potential intellectual appears to know anything about shows like
9O21O, Melrose Place, or shows of that ilk, then just e-mail me
and I will come take care of it personally. These people are NOT
like us, and must be weeded out.
* The "You are wearing THAT?" dilemna. Upon deciding to go out
into public with someone, that person expresses negativity
towards your choice of bizarre dress (for example, shorts in the
winter, in my case), then that person is NOT INTELLECTUAL. True
intellectuals can accept variances from social norms, whereas
pseudo intellectuals can only accept the variances that they
decide to set for themselves.
* The "I use big words for no reason" inundation. Anyone who goes
out of his way to speak in big words is generally not a true
intellectual.
* The "Here is my animated mailbox" disaster. Anyone who puts a
little animated mailbox on his/her webpage in order to be "cute"
cannot have the brains god gave the common mule. Those things
annoy the piss out of me, and probably everyone else who does not
have one.
* The "Oh, I see, that was a joke" bitches. One time, Jon brought
these two girls to my basement, and they did not think Mike & I
were funny. They really sucked.
* The "PAN-TERRRA!" vagabond. No-one who likes Pantera can be
a true intellectual, simple as that.
* The "Oh boy, do I love Beef" invitation. If you are ever invited
to a beef-eating contest by a potential intellectual, then this
person is not a vegetarian.
[ Special Situations ]
* The "I am going to take over your irc channel!" reticulation.
Anyone who takes over irc channels for the sake of taking over an
irc channel has a serious lack of confidence in real life, and is
making up for it by exploiting power in the one way he knows how.
I say "he" because A> It is traditionally used as a neutral
gender term, and forever should be, and B> No women do that.
* The "Boris Yeltsin is a Fag" walk-through. Pick up the vodka in
Red Square, then go north three screens until you see a
pedestrian wearing a communist flag. Give the pedestrian the
vodka, and he will give you the key that lets you have access to
the Kremlin's armory.
* The "Indented asterisks to look like Swiss Pope" feint. Anyone
who tries to emulate Swiss Pope's text formatting is a wanna-be
lamer.
I hope you have enjoyed this additional list of
pseudo-intellectual stereotypes, and how to avoid them (Running away
generally works). Working together, we can abolish pseudo-intellectuals
back into the Dweeb, Geek, and Loser subclasses they came from. Only
true NERDS can rule supreme.
^_^ TAR -fin- GET ^_^
@---** Title: Gary Hart-ache [Editor's title]
@---** Author: Sarahjoy
Standing on the edge of darkness
The world disappears behind the night
I'm all alone between life and dying
Waiting for something
Stopping for nothing
SCREAMING OUT
the words fall as mist into the dark
Silence wraps around the blackness
I've lost all conscious will to fight
The night fades away. . . I'm still alone. . . and crying
PSB fin PSB
@---** Title: The Reagan Administration Sexchart
@---** Author: Swiss Pope
(This is probably something that I read in Mad Magazine at age 8.)
________________
| |
| ronald_______farah fawcett
| | | | |
golda _____allotoyah____ | | |
meir khomeni | | | |
| | | | ed meese |
| | | | | | henry kissinger
al aab | NANCY REAGAN | |
| | | | | | |
| | | | | |____metalchic
|_general noreiga | | | | |
| | | | |___ | |
| ollie north | | | |
| | | | |___ gary hart |
boris |__margaret___| | | | | |
| thatcher | |___ | |__geraldine ferraro
| | | | | |
| | | | | |
natasha----gorbachev____| | | pat robertson
| | | |
| some chick |
mr peabody___________________with big breasts_|
kramer
|
|
elaine___ogre de latoya
It was probably a federal offense to write this, and if not that,
it surely falls under the category of slander. This could destroy my
reputation as a journalist, even though I'm just kidding and most
people know that I'm kidding. For the record, I don't really want
you to believe that Nancy Reagan slept with the Allotoyah though it's
not entirely implausible. However, Gorbachev sleeping with cartoons
characters from Rocky and Bullwinkle _is_ entirely implausible. None
the less, if this ever got into the hands of Gorbachev, he'd probably
send the Russian mafia after me. Uh oh! I just implied that
Gorbachev has ties to the mafia! Damn, I just can't stop making
enemies, even though I'm not trying to. Did I mention that I'm going
to kill the president? Oops! How did I let that slip out?
I'd better cut out this nonsense, because I've probably racked up
over one million dollars in lawsuits. It's kinda cool how dangerous
a 2447 byte text file can be!
^^^ FIN ^^^
@---** Title: A Bunch of things that I would like to do to Ogre
@---** Author: Captain Rat
All right, this article began when I thought of a really stupid
thing one day. Thus, all the evil began, and here you have. . .
A BUNCH OF THINGS THAT I WOULD LIKE TO DO TO OGRE! (not really)
1. (The original) Take Ogre, fully clothed, and bathe him like you
would a dog. Ideally, this would result in him running around the house,
after the bath, dripping wet and shaking water all over the place.
2. Paint Ogre. Any color, doesn't matter, but just have him stand still
and paint him with any sort of brush you have handy.
3. Watch him do a jig to ukelele music.
4. Tie him up in a basement and make him watch a seventeen-way game of
Magic. Make him arbitrate every dispute. (Note: This should only be
done if you are extremely angry at Ogre)
5. Wrap Ogre in bandages, mummy style, and let him terrorize kids.
6. Make Ogre join a biker gang.
7. After Ogre's death, mount his head on a wall.
7a. As an alternative to 7, after Ogre's death, stuff him like the bear
in that one Far Side cartoon.
8. Lock Ogre, Deadlock style, to Chaz Palmenteri.
9. (This is the only feasible option on this list) Watch Ogre play Iron
& Blood with the mage and swoop around a lot.
10. Make him talk like a bum ALL THE TIME.
__' FIN `__
@---** Title: Mancer Grey
@---** Author: Ogre De Latoya
Mancer Grey was lying on the ground one Saturday afternoon. His black
overcoat and black slacks were dirty and stained. They resembled a dark
marble counter top. Mancer was wincing. Blood trailed out of Mancer's
nose and dripped into a small puddle of iron on the concrete under his
head. Mancer stopped trying to open his eyes and concentrated on the
sounds. The steely sounds of a pipe organ rang into his skull. The
grind of metal. The shouts of kids. Mancer opened his eyes and blinked.
Mancer saw a blurry wheel and thousands of tiny colored huts. His vision
cleared very little. He made out the hill and the Ferris wheel and the
midway tents. He finally caught the moving specks of people going to and
fro. They were blurry, they looked like tiny multicoloured streaks of
rain on the windshield of a car.
Mancer Grey was in a great deal of pain. He watched the people wandering
around the amusement park because that was all he could do. His body was
stiff and impossible to move. Mancer's eyes opened wide at the sight of
the carnival. Mancer realized that the people he had thought were happy
people were not happy people at all. Mancer realized the people were
eating the buildings. The Ferris Wheel was being attacked by a mob of
metal hungry fiends. The tents and booths were being devoured by
famished streaks of color. And some of the streaks had more than two
legs. And some of the huts were very odd shaped. They were more like
eggs than booths or tents.
Mancer's nose itched. He didn't like that, so he tried to move his hand.
His hand did not move. His hand hurt quite a bit. A searing pain cut
across his wrist. Mancer glanced back at the carnival. Mancer could not
find the carnival. Mancer only saw a mixture of blood, vomit, and jelly
beans sitting a mere foot in front of him on the same strip of concrete
on which he lay. The mixture was being devoured by ants. Mancer had an
ant on his nose. Mancer was not happy.
"I'm telling you Steve, its easier, it saves paper, and it makes me feel
good." A loud voice now entered Mancer's consciousness.
"I dunno, Stu. It seems kinda wrong." A second voice said.
"Don't knock it until you try it, Steve," said Stu.
"All right, all right. I'll try wiping my ass with my hand instead of
toilet paper, but I don't know if I'm gonna like it."
Mancer jerked his head to look at his surroundings. The room was
cavernous. It was a tin-sheeting lined warehouse of some sort. The
walls of sheeting glowed from the rays of the sun that must have been
shining high in the sky outside. Mancer was not outside. As far as
Mancer could tell, the warehouse was empty.
"Look, he's awake," said Stu.
"So fella, how ya feeling?" asked Steve in a jolly tone.
"Ung," said Mancer in a less than jolly tone.
"Good, good," said Stu.
A loud CLUMP CLUMP rang through the enormous warehouse, and Mancer felt
two strong hands on his back. The hands yanked him off the floor. Mancer
screamed. Mancer was still in pain. Mancer realized when he was on his
feet that his hands were tied together. He also realized that his feet
were lashed and that he was wet and cold. A whiff of foul air wafting up
from his shorts told him he had pissed on himself. There was also vomit.
Mancer wished he hadn't of vomited up his jelly beans. Mancer liked Jelly
beans. It was a waste of jelly beans to puke them up. And there was
blood on Mancer. And an ant or two.
Mancer caught a glimpse of Stu, the man who had hauled him to his feet.
Stu was a big man in overalls and a checked T-shirt. Stu had a stubbly
face and wrinkled skin. Stu worked hard for his checked shirt, wrinkled
skin and stubbly face. Stu reeked of shit.
Stu hauled Mancer onto his shoulder with ease. Stu bent his knees, drew
in a breath, and leapt with all his might toward the door.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" Stu screamed as he took one giant leap after
another, screaming and CLOMPing his way to the door. A half second later
someone else screamed and CLOMPed to where they were. It was Steve.
Mancer watched Steve CLOMP to where he and Stu already were because
Mancer was over Stu's shoulder and could only look behind.
Steve was a big man. He had a stubbly face and wrinkled skin. He wore a
checked T-shirt. His eyes were half-closed. He reeked of flogiston.
Stu opened the door and a deafening wave of noise slammed into the trio.
A huge crowd of people were waiting outside. They were screaming and
chanting and yelling and making a very loud sound.
Mancer felt the sun fall onto his back. Stu took one CLOMP outside and
set Mancer back onto his feet. Mancer faced the crowd. They looked
blood thirsty. They continued to scream. The audience was a mix of high
class lookers, people in business suits and expensive looking hats; and
lowlife scum, people wearing four coats and very poor looking hats.
Mancer's hands were still tied behind his back. Mancer did not feel
well.
The crowd yelled obscenities at Mancer. They called him a heretic. They
called him a heathen. One man dared to call Mancer a pig-fucker. Mancer
looked up at the clouds and the sun. Mancer wanted jelly beans. One man
stepped out of the crowd and held his hand up. They crowd stopped
yelling. It was quiet. Mancer smiled. The man was in a suit. It was a
black suit, and it looked expensive. The man was young and well shaved.
He had an expensive watch. He worked hard for his suit, shave, and
watch. The man smelled like fish.
"You sir, don't seem to understand the vitalness of today's crisis. We
bring you here today because you refuse to actuate the very beneficial
'Makeril Locomotion' into your daily routine. In the spirit of the
benefit of the doubt, I will demonstrate it for you. Clear me a path."
People cleared a path for the man in front of Mancer. The man bent his
knees, drew in a breath, and leapt forward.
"AAAAAAAAAAGH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! AAAAAAAAAAARH! AAAAAAH!" the man
screamed and his leapt forward again and again, keeping his feet together
and his arms at his sides, twisting his body to and fro CLOMPing forward
until he lost his balance and fell on his face.
He pulled himself up and dusted himself off. The crown erupted in a
mighty cheer. The man smiled. Mancer frowned. The man waited a short
while, basking in the glory of hopping until he fell on his face, and
raised his hand once more to quiet the crowd.
"Now you do it, sir, and we'll let you go," said the man.
"I want my jelly beans back," said Mancer.
"You will Makeril Locomotate yourself or you will be declared a traitor
of the state!" the man yelled.
Mancer stared at the man. The man looked at Mancer incredulously.
Mancer felt the sun on his back. He looked at the clouds. He glanced at
the mob and then at Stu and Steve. Mancer put his hand in his pocket.
Mancer smiled. Mancer bent his knees. Mancer Drew in a mighty breath.
Mancer burst out laughing and fell onto the ground.
The shocked crowd stood silent for a moment. Then they started screaming
again. Some of the people ran forward and began to hit Mancer. Mancer
laughed. Mancer was thinking of jelly beans. Mancer didn't feel their
crushing blows or hateful kicks. Mancer felt the sun on his back. Mancer
was thinking of ants and jelly beans and vomit. Mancer laughed.
@@@ FIN @@@
@---** Title: A Gothic Rant
@---** Author: SiniStar
Where to begin. . . where to begin. The disgust flows so rapidly that
it's difficult to choose a good place to start. I've always preferred
the middle, it's usually cream filled, but that tends to confuse the
eight-year-olds that I have proofread everything, so I'll go for the
beginning.
In the beginning, there was darkness. And light. And everything else
needed for the world to be hunky-dory. This hunky-dory state of being
continued for a very long period of time. Then, someone decided that it
would be neat to screw things up. Thus, Christianity came onto the
scene. Fast forward through lots of wars about not killing and some
neighbor-loving genocide, and my personal favorite; not suffering witches
to live. And where does this leave us? Playing Vampire, very naturally.
The Ramada Inn, which that night just happened to be full of people who
believe in the tremendous power of Satan. Yup, you guessed it. . .
Christians. How is it that a people who are supposed to believe in - and
maybe even follow - a set of well-meaning ideals that don't work out in
real life cannot accept the fact that some people just MIGHT not be
exactly like them? If nothing else, they should believe that we ARE just
like them (because otherwise some shiny-being type thing would smite us)
and at the end of our night of hideous sin, we would just walk into a
church, tell someone that we're sorry, and have all the bad stuff we'd
done be erased.
I comprehend the hypocrisy of Christians, but I truly can't fathom what
possible cause they could have for such blind close-mindedness. I just
wish that someday they will realized a few things about "the Lord and
Savior Jesus Christ". For one, he was Goth as fuck. He slept with the
dead, hung around with lepers, wore spiky S&M gear, was SERIOUSLY into
body piercing, and spent quite a bit of time in tombs. Forgive me God,
for I have ripped off material from the web page "Jesus was Gother than
you". Ok, everything is fine, and it doesn't matter that I did bad. I
hate.
Ah, the creamy middle. Spend 3-5 minutes enjoying this line, or have a
Coo-Coo Cola.
Drugs. Aye, drugs. I'm sure by now all of you have heard my sob-story
about self-mutilation because everything around me was turning to shit as
everyone I was friends with (it seemed) began to do drugs. I'm tired of
that story. Let me tell you a new story. Once upon a time, that time
being just about now, people around me are doing drugs. ARE PEOPLE
FUCKING STUPID?!?! ALL YOUR MISERABLE SELF-SERVING LIVES YOU'VE HEARD,
SEEN, AND REPEATED MESSAGES ABOUT HOW DRUGS WILL _fuck you up_ AND HOW
SMOKING WILL KILL YOU. DO YOU KNOW WHAT SECONDHAND SMOKE WILL DO TO
OTHER PEOPLE?!?! IT'S MADE ME TYPE LIKE I JUST GOT MY WEB-TV ACCOUNT!
This particular little bedtime tale will be about a girl named Becky P.
No, that's too obvious, let's just call her B. Phillips.
Little B. Phillips was a sweet girl, and no one ever thought that she was
stupid or foolish. Everybody loved B. Phillips. Then, one day, B.
proved everyone wrong by fucking starting to smoke dope. Just what the
fuck brought that on, no one knows. But it is wrong on so many levels
that it just sickens me. Everything is going to hell in a handbasket, if
you will. People continue to be blind, stupid, self-serving and have I
mentioned stupid? Doing drugs will harm your body, kill your brain,
alienate those people who once thought you were their friend, fuck you
up, and annoy those few people that continue to associate with you as
they once did simply out of loyalty to a burned-out shell of a dead
friendship.
But It's all right, because you're cool, and you have a lot of new
friends now. You don't do much with them, but hey, after a few joints,
they don't seem to be blithering idiots anymore, and it is oh-so-cool the
way they can't stop drooling on themselves. I hate.
... FIN ...
@---**: Title: A Seinfeldian Rant
@---**: Author: Ogre De Latoya & Quarex
Q> I think you should turn it into a Seinfeld sketch.
O> Especially since I write for Seinfeld.
Q> Yes, especially because of that.
O> There is no greater reason than the one that was stated. That being
that you write for Seinfeld.
Q> The reasons you have given are all appropriate. Especially you working
for the writers of Seinfeld. It is a good reason.
O> The fact that I write for Seinfeld is a good reason. Especially good for
me to write for Seinfeld. That is why I felt it necessary to give a
good reason. Writing for Seinfeld, that is.
Q> This is the reason, and it is the only reason one would need. The reason
is you writing for Seinfeld. You writing for Seinfeld has been the only
reason given, and the only reason needed, for you write for Seinfeld.
O> I must agree that the reasons you give cannot be denied. And, of course,
the reasons are that the reason is that I write for Seinfeld. It is
amazing that these reasons need no reasons, but rather are reasons unto
themselves. I would not need reasons if I did not write for Seinfeld.
But since I do, it self-evident that these reasons are the reasons.
Q> I agree.
O> Thank you for agreeing and for saying that I made sense.
Q> You are most heartily welcome for your thanks, as your reasons have made
nothing but sense of the fact that you write for Seinfeld.
O> Most freely do I accept your welcome for my thanks. I understand without
any doubt that the reasons I gave you, those being my writing for
Seinfeld, are the cause of the sense. And I am happy that this is so.
Q> Your welcoming of my thanks, in addition to my original presentation of
said thanks, are many of the reasons why you are welcome and thankful for
said thanks. If you were not to have written for Seinfeld, then none of
these thanks nor the gratitude which followed would have been possible.
O> I agree.
&&& ELAINE &&&
@---** Title: Rant & Rave about Random Things
@---** Author: Quarex
This is a groundbreaking issue of Grill! I have now reverted the title
of this column to "Random Things", as it was in issues 1-2, instead of
"Various Things", as I mistakenly labelled it from issues 3-9. How could
someone as perfect as I do such a thing? Who knows?
- * - * - * -
I feel that a return to the guild system of medieval towns is in order.
What better way to spend your adolescent years than as an apprentice,
sweating over an anvil, hammering out shoes for a horse who likes to shit
on your head?
- * - * - * -
I wish Easter were the celebration of something cool, like the production
of the first assault rifle. I mean, in a fight between Jesus and an
assault rifle, who do YOU think would win?
- * - * - * -
Sales for Gangrene Barbie are at an all-time low.
- * - * - * -
Right now, your state's elected officials are passing laws to arrest
anyone reading a 'zine after 2:30. In order to combat this horrible
nonsense, send mail to edecker@students.uiuc.edu.
- * - * - * -
PUNS.
What do you call charged particles in a hurry?
Expressions.
What did the tag on Caine's brother's towel read?
Washable.
You know, that was probably the worst pun I have ever made.
What will the name of Bil Keane's comic strip be once Microsoft buys it?
The Family Circuit.
What was the name of the unsuccessful sexual adhesive?
Fuck tape.
- * - * - * -
AND NOW, direct to YOU, the GRILL READING PUBLIC, from the PIECE OF PAPER
that we WROTE IT ON, is the 1997 Pun-off between Quarex and RottenZ, held
in their collective ACS 160 class (using the overhead notes for
inspiration).
<Quarex> What do you call it when you treat a japanese man like a shotgun?
Caucasian!
<Rottenz> What happens when a river is full of prisoners?
Concurrent.
<Q> What do you call a guy getting older?
Managing.
<R> What is the Australian greeting for women?
Allocate.
<Q> When do Catholics give up Microsoft?
On Excellent.
<Q> What did the caveman talk show host say?
Memory.
[At this point, Quarex appeared delerious]
<R> What is it called when you sell a male cow into prostitution?
Horrible.
<R> Who is the lead singer of Porno for Pyros?
Peripheral.
[At this point, Quarex was dazzled by that, the most amazing pun ever]
<Q> What is Angry Archery?
Crossbow.
<R> What is a female weapon?
Broad Sword.
<R> Who is two legit to quit in battle?
War Hammer.
<Q> What do you call the big annual Clown meeting?
Silicon.
And thus ended the great pun-off.
- * - * - * -
Let me see, what am I really pissed off about this time. . . women are
actually holding a positive spot in my conscience at the moment, so I
cannot go off on them. . . Ah, I know, censorship. With the Supreme
Court decision on the CDA so quickly approaching, I feel the need to say
this, just in case they rule in favor of the CDA:
FUCK YOU, GOD DAMN MOTHER FUCKING VATS OF DOG SHIT CUNT DISPATCHING COCK
SHUFFLING BITCH-ASS TIT SHIT HALO 7. IF YOU FAVOR THE CDA, THEN YOU CAN
SUCK MY MOTHER FUCKING RIGHTEOUSNESS, BECAUSE I AM GOING TO BE SURE TO
BREAK THAT BULLSHIT LAW EVERY FUCKING WAY I CAN.
- * - * - * -
On a lighter note, I have completely stopped using apostrophes (with the
exception of indicating possessiveness) since the last Grill came out. I
thought back to my Third Grade days, when we were learning what
apostrophes were.
Little Drew (that is me, if you have forgotten) did not understand why
you would want to use apostrophes. It just seemed like another bad idea,
along with the whole "cursive" bullshit (which I also abandoned, but a
long time ago). I actually got into an argument with the substitute
teacher we had that day, insisting that I should not have to use
apostrophes if I did not want to, because they served no purpose. She
gave me a "U" on that paper, and made me put my head down on my desk.
She is going to fucking get it.
- * - * - * -
There is no greater joy than obtaining a new stereo, but likewise, there
is no greater pain than witnessing your stereo slowly deteriorate. As I
watched my AIWA Mini-system continue to die on me, I was struck with an
immense amount of sadness. Then, it broke for a third time, and my $100
warranty from Circuit City came in handy, and I got a brand new Sony
mini-system, which was far superior anyway.
What is my point? Simple! Never type in all lower-case.
- * - * - * -
The ultimate concert would be one put on by artists whose last name was
the same as the next artist's first name. I can see it now. . .
Boy George Michael Jackson Browne Sugar Puff Daddy Mack Jagger?
With second stage acts Morbid Angel & Luther Vandross.
- * - * - * -
The internet is a great thing, but there are a few things about the
people who use the internet that I *REALLY* hate.
1> Anyone who uses a clever animated "Construction" sign on their
webpage, in order to indicate that the page is not finished.
NO FUCKING SHIT YOUR PAGE IS NOT FINISHED. HOW COULD YOUR PAGE *EVER*
BE FINISHED!? IS THERE A CERTAIN WAY YOU WANT YOUR PAGE TO BE, THAT
WHEN IT REACHES THAT STAGE, YOU WILL NEVER TOUCH IT AGAIN!? I HARDLY
THINK SO, YOU FUCKING IDIOTS.
2> Anyone who sends unsolicited e-mail.
IF I EVER FIND ANY OF YOU IN REAL LIFE, YOU ARE FUCKING DEAD.
3> THAT IS ALL.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Submissions to Grill (hahahaha) can be sent to:
Quarex - Quarex@Atheist.com
Any comments about their material can be sent to:
SwissPope - swisspope@uiuc.edu
Ogre - jmbaker@odin.cmp.ilstu.edu
Kheldar - sewalter@oratmail.cfa.ilstu.edu
Spirit - Spirit@dave-world.net
RottenZ - jmthomp@odin.cmp.ilstu.edu
Al Aab - af137@torfree.net
Sarahjoy - TheFuckifIknowifshehasanemailaddress@shewasinmybasement.com
(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,
web site, ftp site, gopher site, gofive site, gosix site, I ate a gopher
site, irc site, b0!nk site, Great America site, Sight site, Slight site,
Site site on site, or Area 51 site without express-written consent of
ME!! AND I AM QUAREX! ALL HAIL QUAREX!
The 10th issue of GRILL was completed sometime around June 21, 1997.
Hypotenuse Now!
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
