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The Purple Thunderbolt of spode Volume 2 Issue 31
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SBI-Submarine Pens Proudly Presents:
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THE PURPLE THUNDERBOLT OF SPODE VOL 2, 31
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"One year and REPLIES TO: HailOtis@socpsy.sci.fau.edu
still going strong"
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WRITE TO: IGHF/955 Massachusetts Ave., Suite 209/Cambridge, Ma 02139
####===================================================================####
INTRO
####===================================================================####
Okay. Let's whack this beast together. I'm running a little late so I'll
make this short.
Once again thanks for all the submissions especially from the new people. I
still can use more though. Or at least have some more people submitting
stuff.
One of our readers has expressed some unease about Fawna the Otisian Bimbo.
Apparently Fawna the Otisian Bimbo needs a new name. So I suppose we're
more than open to suggestions. We need a name the will sell the product.
Pretend your some poor innocent sap and suddenly before you is the mighty
Otisian Kissing both. Before you slap down your money you want to know the
name of the Bimbo you'll be kissing. What name would appeal to these saps?
It's important after all. As usual the IGHF needs your money. Otis also
needs money as well. Winter is rapidly approached. New snow tires are
needed for the Chariot of Gods. The Purps Yactch could do with a bottom
scrapping and repainting as well.
Anyway on with the show.
####===================================================================####
####===================================================================####
OPTIMA PLAN PART 6
####===================================================================####
Date: Mon, 14 Oct 91 22:19:33 CDT
From: Rev <UC521832@UMCVMB.missouri.edu>
Subject: Oh no here it comes again
Optima Plan
part 6
by Rev. John
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Stewy soared above the grey shifting waters of the Pacific Ocean in her
amazing invisible plane with the Converse All-Star symbol on the side. She
checked her watch. "Hup, time for DisneyWorld!" She banked the controls and
the invisible SOG plane headed towards Cinderella's Palace. She tossed a
cigarette out the window and moved in for a landing. Below, DisneyCorp
execs were supposedly waiting with a fat check and a tour of the place, led
by Gib Ford of Converse. Her Chucks quivered in anticipation.
Doc Simpson (possibly an illegitimate relative of Doc Savage) examined
the computer screen before him. SamHill had been forwarding some rather
interesting data 'liberated' from the files of DisneyCorp. Looking on
the screen, he saw that they spelled trouble.
"T-R-O-U-B-L-E, that's the password!" cried Simpson joyously as his
fingers flew over the keys. The data provided by Sam had led him as far
as this back door. Now, he'd found the key.
SamHill was worrying him. He'd taken a part time job with Bopping
Big Boy Burgers and almost immediately been transferred to the company's
headquarters down south for 'managerial training.' Just where down
south he refused to say..
But that was for another day. Doc Simpson scanned through page after
page of DisneyCorp memos, all discussing the OTISians. It was clear
that the forces of OTIS had thrown the fear of SPODE into the DisneyCorp
execs, and they were taking harsh measures. Their plan to sterilize
the world was here, spelled out to the last detail. But what was this
about Stewy? And Gib Ford? And...
Doc Simpson hit the OTISian Trouble Alert.
In Florida, red flashing lights and sirens began to go off all over
Commodore Presley's naval complex. Mal sat up in his bunk, rubbed his
eyes and brushed his hair back to permit vision. On the large
projection-screen monitor before him the info rattled off from Simpson.
Mal blinked and squinted. "Hmm.." he said, and then everything went
black.
On the deck, Commodore Elvis Presley unconsciously gyrated as he
fiddled with dials and switches. His crew members ran back and forth
in their spiffy orange jumpsuits, purchased in bulk from Blofeld after
James Bond blew up his volcano. Elvis hummed softly. "Hey y'all
we need to hit the road, you know?" His crew, harried but devoted,
worked even harder.
Shortly Elvis' invisible fleet began to move, shuffling stealthily
along the Florida coast.
Humpy Stumpy climbed out of Mal's pocket. She got nervous when OTIS
possessed Mal; being that close to so much magical energy was a little
unsettling, though not altogether unpleasant. The plucky little bear
made her way along the bunk, as Mal/OTIS got up like a zombie and
walked out of the room. Stumpy plopped down on the blanket in the
middle of the (to her) immense bed and sent comforting vibes to
Fairbourne. Mal/OTIS had work to do and wouldn't need her for a bit.
On board the space shuttle, Shark and Fairbourne slipped stealthily
amongst the scientific instruments in the cargo bay. The massive
killer satellite was one of those here, the one that would punch a
mammoth hole in the ozone and allow the sterilization beams to
coat the planet. She moved along carefully, examining the
equipment. Finally she recognized it.
"Meep!" cried Fairbourne, but it was too late. Three burly Optima
Plan astronauts rushed over and grappled them. Using her awesome
jujitsu moves Shark flipped them all, and they tumbled about
crazily in zero-G.
Shark began punching buttons on the satellite, hoping to shut it down.
Even now the cargo doors were opening, and the huge machine arm that
would raise the satellite out of the hold was whirring into place.
Lights began to flash on the satellite. The astronauts collected their
wits and propelled themselves towards her. Shark was tackled to the
floor and struggled with the Optima Plan goons.
Above her she saw the satellite propelled into space. "Shit!" she
cried, sensing oncoming doom for the human race.
Fairbourne squinted his eyes and thought very, very, hard.
In one of the deep rooms underneath DisneyWorld, Walt Mickey paced
back in forth in his animatronic hell. "Damn OTISians," he squeaked in
his forever-perky voice. "Screwing up everything."
Star Trek doors whooshed open. Two DisneyCorp execs in powersuits
walked in, followed by a hoverpad. On the hoverpad stood Rev, in some
sort of stasis field. He appeared absolutely motionless.
"Ahh," said Walt Mickey. "Finally some good news. Prepare the
Evil Machine!"
As the hoverpad moved to the next room, Rev's green hand began to
glow...
TO BE CONCLUDED
####===================================================================####
SHADES OF BRAZIL
####===================================================================####
RISKS-LIST: RISKS-FORUM Digest Friday 11 October 1991 Volume 12 : Issue 48
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: Fri, 11 Oct 91 09:47:50 pdt
From: dbenson@yoda.eecs.wsu.edu (David B. Benson)
Subject: Police raid wrong house -- for second time
Lewiston Tribune/Friday, October 11, 1991, page 6C
Associated Press
FEDERAL WAY, Wash. -- King County Police confounded by a typographical
error mistakenly descended on the home of Terry and Dean Krussel this week
-- for the second time this year. At least this time they didn't break the
door down.
When the officers from the narcotics unit raided the Krussel home
in May, they kicked in the door, ordered Terry Krussel, 57, to get down on
the floor and held her at gunpoint while they searched the house.
County officials replaced the door at a cost of $2000 and
apologized profusely.
When the Krussels got a letter from the county prosecutor's office
on Sept. 11, addressed to the person officers had sought in the May raid,
they worried that their address was still on file as a den of iniquity and
dangerous drugs.
King County police scrambled to delete their address from the
department's computer files, and deputy prosecutor Judith Callahan assured
the Krussels in a Sept. 17 letter of the county's good intentions.
"Our office is truly concerned that Mr. and Mrs. Krussel not feel
that they are victims of county bureaucracy," she wrote.
Unfortunately, the Krussels' address remained in the drug dealer's
file -- and that's what the officers pursuing the dealer Tuesday night were
working from.
The officers didn't leave until Dean Krussel showed them Callahan's
letter. "This thing just won't go away," he said after the couple's latest
run-in with King County's finest.
####===================================================================####
ELVIS LIVES (THEN AGAIN YOU ALREADY KNEW THAT)
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From: geoff@mdms.moore.com (Geoff Loker)
Subject: Re: Weirdest Elvis rumor yet
Date: Fri, 4 Oct 1991 15:45:18 GMT
This just in. In Ottawa, there is now a laneway called "Elvis Lives Lane".
It was named this after extensive lobbying by the "Elvis Sighting Society"
which has its world-wide headquarters in Ottawa. Why Ottawa, you ask?
Because (and keep this under your hat, since it is a big secret) Elvis is
alive and well and living in a small town just south of Ottawa called
Tweed.
ObUL: Elvis has sat in on a couple of meetings of the Elvis Sighting
Society (incognito, of course), and, when he decides to make it
public that he still lives, will first do so at one of their
meetings.
####===================================================================####
TIN FOIL
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[One again our alert new Otisian member speaks!]
Date: Sun, 13 Oct 91 17:18:39 CDT
From: C552270@UMCVMB.missouri.edu
Subject: tin foil
Mal,
The tinfoil helmet is doing the job, but I discovered that I was receiving
Alpha-wave transmissions from the frat house across the street. Made me
drink a lot of beer for two days, until I installed a magnesium damper with
a nichrome wire support matrix. Works great and looks cool too! I put
some red LEDs on it for effect. Frightens children well.
[stuff deleted]
Cool runnings,
Dr. Morpheus
####===================================================================####
SOG STORY
####===================================================================####
Date: Sat, 19 Oct 91 11:23:38 CDT
From: Stewy <UC541831@UMCVMB.missouri.edu>
Subject: PURPS
The invisible SOG plane glided along the powerful waves of air and coasted
to the secret Disney Heliport, reserved for the power suits who were flying
in from places unknown. Stewy could see the planes lining up for 20 miles,
but no radar in the world could detect her plane.
Sensing an odd disturbance, she lit another cigarette, rubbed the CHUCKS
patch on her jacket and Humpy the Stumpy bear rustled in Mal/OTIS's shirt
pocket.
"What it is Stewy?" Humpy asked, trying to reposition herself in the
pocket.
"I dunno Humperooni, but I'm feeling weird. Aw, maybe it's just my
anticipation interfering with my SOG powers and all, but do ya 'spose you
could like check into a few things?"
"Sure, I'll check with everyone and get back to you as soon as I find
something out."
"WHOOOOA! Whups, damn near hit one of the planes!" Stewy shouted in between
puffs of smoke."Cool, beep me when you know something." The SOG plane
glided down to a deserted spot near the Heliport and Stewy stepped out of
the plane. Humpy rubbed her head with her little paws and began a deep
meditation-like stage.
In one of the buildings, Gib Ford, Converse President, sat drinking coffee
and rubbing his robust stomach. In the inside pocket of his power suit was
a check for Stewy and a gift certificate to be used at the Converse Factory
Outlet in Florida. Inside of his ear was a clear plastic device that Stewy
had not noticed when she approached his table. He was listening to reports
from his Secret Team.
"Mr. Ford, is that you?" Stewy asked, slightly scared at meeting the man
she had swamped with letters during the past few months.
"Why yes! And you must be Stewy, our number one Converse fan."
"Yes, sir, that's me." Stewy's eyes bulged at the round man in front of
her. He handed her the check, gift certificate and other papers and told
her to enjoy herself for the afternoon.
"We're having a banquet in your honor at 7 p.m., so don't be late. We can't
have the guest of honor being late, you know." Mr. Ford stood and shook
Stewy's hand before turning to leave. He rubbed his ear as if in pain.
"HOLY COW!!! Would ya look at this check! Whuuuu hoooooo!" Stewy ran
outside of the building, clicking her heals and jumping into the air.
She hit all the main points of Disney within three hours, saving the best
for last. She began to notice all the men in power suits parading around
the park, but her excitement clouded her mind. When she got off of the
Megatron ride three of the men in suits approached her, but she ran as fast
as her CHUCKS could carry her.
"Run Stewy, run!" Humpy cried to her. The messages from Humpy began to fade
as she ran through a door marked "Suits Only!"
The hallways were dark, but with her SOG powers, she needed no light. She
tried to contact Humpy but got nothing more than static. She could see the
outline of a burly man leaning against the wall and in his hands was an
automatic weapon. He couldn't see her though, he just sat in the chair and
listening to the reports from the Secret Team. Stewy grabbed a steel bar
from one of the dusty shelves and pelted the man in the side of his face.
Blood oozed from his mouth.
"Whups!" Stewy waited for the man to groan and began to unlace one of her
shoes. She wrapped it around his neck and began to ask him questions.
"Listen pal, this is a secret Tell-Me-The-Truth-SOG-Shoelace, so now you're
gonna answer a few questions for me."
The man groaned again, drifting in and out of consciousness. "Optima
Plan...death..world...Reverend...no time..." The man felt into an
unconscious state and Stewy shook him violently.
"Whadd'ya mean death, world, reverend, no time?!!!" The man didn't move.
"SHIT!" Stewy tried her SOG communication powers again but was still
receiving interference. She began to walk the dark hallways and glanced
through several cracks in the walls. The banquet room was being set up for
her honor that night and she could see a life-size poster of her wearing
her CHUCKS being raised to the ceiling. Gib Ford stood in the background
ordering the Secret Team around.
She continued to walk down the hallway, glancing in various cracks and
shuddering and what was happening inside of the rooms. The last crack in
the hallway was glowing an odd green. She knew that color and this time she
didn't need her SOG powers to tell her something was wrong. Her gut
wrenched and she peeked through the crack.
The glow was brighter and suspended in the air. Stewy strained her eyes and
could see the Rev standing on the platform, the green hand that dangled
from his neck was glowing into the dark room. His hands were ziptied behind
his back and his feet were tied together with string.
"Oh, gosh! Psst. Rev. Psst. Rev" The Rev stood on the platform, waiting for
the men in suits to continue their business. He glanced toward Stewy
maintaining his silence.
"I feel a disturbance!"
Stewy's eyes widened and her body froze. The Rev glared at her with
sinister eyes.
"MAL! MAL! MAL!" Humpy shouted from his shirt pocket. Mal reached inside
and pulled Humpy out, cradling her in his hands.
"What is it little guy?"
"It's Stewy. Our transmission went dead. Something's wrong. Something's
terribly wrong! We gotta help her!"
####===================================================================####
THE ARCHBISHOPS ACCEPTANCE SPEECH
####===================================================================####
Date: 16 Oct 91 18:14:00 EDT
From: <carrott@vax001.kenyon.edu>
Subject: His Most Esteemed Archbishopric's Acceptance Speech
To: "hailotis" <hailotis@socpsy.sci.fau.edu>
What you may have heard from Vic The Slightly Heretical is untrue. as the
official pimp and translator to his Archbishoproscity, and (unlike The Vic)
being present at the ordainment of our esteemed religious potentate, i will
now convey unto the various minions of OTIS (in all of their various states
of sobriety and sanity) THE TRUE AND UNBIASED (and probably politically
correct) ACCEPTANCE SPEECH OF ARCHBISHOP CHAD THE FORCIBLY ORDAINED! (hail
OTIS!)
it all began that evening, when Jeophey I (our even more esteemed
papalness), saint Zeck and I sat around a table at gund discussing the
aesthetic aspects of yak mating rituals. All of a sudden, the table was
SWATHED IN A MIGHTY WHITE LIGHT (significant religious passages emphasized
for your worshipping pleasure)
and A VOICE FROM OTIS ON HIGH (whether legally or not) cried out: "DESPITE
WHAT YOU FOOLS DID TO MY CAR LAST NIGHT, I WILL GRANT YOU A CHANCE TO
CONTINUE THE GREAT KENYON TRADITION OF RANDOM OTISIAN WORSHIP! I HAVE
CHOSEN A BEARDED ONE TO GUIDE YOU!"
after the white light left... and after Jeoffee and I recovered from the
blinding dazzle of Saint Zeck's beret... We were overcome with the urge to
look for the BEARDED ONE.
the nearest two bearded ones we could think of were Saint Scott and Saint
cHAD, who were upstairs rubbing sticks and fondling balls on a felt table.
We vaulted up the stairs, leapt into the game room, and subdued the BEARDED
ONES.
after some debate, and a healthy amount of coin tossing (we were yakless at
the time) we came to the conclusion that the real GUIDE would defy the laws
of gravity. immediately cHAD was hefted upon the shoulders of those
involved, and, with a hearty "hail SPODE!", launched across the room into
the waiting arms of Saint Zeck the Love Bunny.
Scott, however, dropped like a rock.
When cHAD had recovered from his tossing, he rose up, and in a blaze of
bearded glory spoke forth:
"ok, ok... hail OTIS. Now will you guys fuck off?"
--Saint James of Nothing Yet, Deacon of Cluelessness; pimp and translator to
His Eminence Archbishop cHAD
####===================================================================####
LICENSING SOOTHSAYERS AND A CONTEST ENTRY OF SORTS
####===================================================================####
[We haven't heard from this person before and we should have because this
is pretty neat stuff.]
From: gateh%CONNCOLL.BITNET@YALEVM.YCC.Yale.Edu
Date: Tue, 15 Oct 91 17:30:39 EDT
Subject: a submission?
Don't know if you'd seen this one, it came from the Paranet Digest:
--- Forwarded mail from Michael.Corbin@p0.f428.n104.z1.FIDONET.ORG (Michael Corb
>From Michael.Corbin@p0.f428.n104.z1.FIDONET.ORG Mon Sep 30 03:45:00 1991
From: kdq@3D.com (Kevin D. Quitt)
Date: 25 Sep 91 18:33:43 GMT
Organization: 3D systems, inc. Valencia CA
Message-ID: <1991Sep25.183343.13839@3D.com>
Newsgroups: sci.skeptic,alt.paranormal
The Los Angeles Police Commission, in an effort to reduce the fraud
perpetrated on the public (to the tune of several million dollars a year in
Los Angeles) by crooks using soothsaying as a front, has recommended to the
L.A. City Council that the city charge a $450 license fee for soothsayers,
so that they can be registered and regulated.
The Police Commission report notes that one difficulty in the licensing
is that it is not possible to tell "true psychics from fake psychics".
--- End of forwarded message from Michael.Corbin@p0.f428.n104.z1.FIDONET.ORG
I also am tempted to divulge tidbits and dingleberries of information
regarding those Government Warehouses, even though I may be risking all
future free and open access to porcelain commodes, but, ah, what the hell,
I can always find somewhere else to do my reading, I suppose.
What follows should be handled with the utmost security possible, and
should only be properly absorbed while firmly clasping a porcelain
cleansing utensil, or one of those oversized tootsie rolls, whichever is
preferable. It comes from the highest of sources, and if leaked into the
wrong hands could potentially bring devastation, destruction, and a general
failure to refill vending machines.
The simple, ugly truth is that the warehouses are filled with cheap digital
watches emblazoned with pictures and hype from professional wrestling.
Now, at first glance, it is understandable that the generally stable
individual might not see the incredible significance behind this fact, but
rest assured, it is the tip of the proverbial Eggo (R) frozen waffle. To
elucidate:
The Government, who for some time now have realized that the fall of
society as we know is inevitable, decided to prepare for that ghastly(?)
day. They searched the country, looking for something which would
unfailingly unite the people in the midst of such a fracas. They searched
with their rem-cons for five days (they started on a Monday, of course)
without success, until the morning of the sixth day arrived, and lo, an
answer was laid to rest on their ottomans in short notice: Professional
Wrestling.
Here were individuals capable of convincing entire stadiums that their
skulls had been cracked open with a plastic folding chair, who could bring
these people to edge of hysteria with a few pseudo-syllables and a ration
of spittle. These grand men and women, the Government concluded, could be
counted on to fulfill the role of spiritual and moral anchor that would be
so desperately needed in our time of crisis. And so began the stock
piling...
The watches, carefully designed to look exactly like the cheap items used
for promotions and produced at great expense in orbiting factories, not
only give you the time (and occasionally the correct date, to maintain
complete accuracy of the reproduction), but also are capable of receiving
communications from those who will be chosen on that fateful day.
There it is, the incredible, undeniable, slightly water-logged, truth. I
myself refuse to carry a timepiece of any construction at this point (you
really can't be too careful, I figure), and I can only warn my fellow
readers to consider their own circumstances with regard to this matter.
Sincerely,
Gregg
Gregg TeHennepe | Academic Systems Coordinator | Yes, but this
gateh@conncoll.bitnet | Connecticut College, New London, CT | one goes to 11...
Of course, I couldn't get Conn College to believe this, so don't
attribute any of this to them ;-).
####===================================================================####
PAPAL PONDERINGS #4
####===================================================================####
Papal Ponderings #4: Pope Jephe I, IGHF, 955 Mass. Ave., Suite
209, Cambridge, MA 02139: This Week the Official Story of the
Rise of Archbishop Chad
"Something about this religion we've resurrected breeds heresy..." --
Preacher Tim Howland of the House of Blue Light
"'Not gangsters, dear, the underworld,' Saunders Harrison Mathews II
said."-- Daniel Pinkwater, The Snarkout Boys and the Avocado of Death
FIRST A REALLY BORING INTRODUCTION YOU'D BE BETTER OFF SKIPPING:
As you are all now well aware, after an official ceremony concocted/
conducted by yours truly several weeks ago, the formerly humble (or at
least doing a damn good imitation, probably for tax purposes) St. Chad of
Sarcasm added to his religious honors the title of Official Archbishop of
Kenyon College and the Greater Gambier, OH, Area. For you netters, Kenyon
is a small liberal arts college (conveniently located just a stone's throw
from the gates of hell [1] [2]) in central OH. Kenyon is my alma mater, the
home of a thriving cabal of dedicated OTISian worshipers, and the
birthplace of many of this religion's institutions and traditions
(including this magazine). In the four years I attended the school[3], in
fact, OTISianism became the college's second most prominent religion,
ranking just under atheism and a little above Christianity. OTISian
followers attended official papal birthday parties, OTISian libation
ceremonies, formal dinners (in the college's beautiful ARA catered dining
room), and many other great and glorious activities done in Our God/dess's
name to the amusement of the Followers, the bafflement of casual observers
and the Perpetual Annoyance of the Kenyon College Christian Fellowship.
With my graduation from the school only a few months ago, it became
necessary to find a new leader for Kenyon's great and growing flock.
Netters and Kenyonites alike, you are now on equal footing.
What none of you have heard, however, is the Official Story.
St. James of Nothing in Particular graciously provided us all with an
official announcement of the event and the Wombatish One kindly transcribed
the Archbishop's acceptance speech [4]. But the Full and Official Story is
still waiting to be told. I have taken the liberty of assuming, then, that
someone would like me to tell it....
AND NOW, THE OFFICIAL STORY OF THE RISE OF ST. CHAD TO THE POSITION OF
ARCHBISHOP:
"Jeffe", said St. James of Nothing in Particular (newly declared),
sitting in the Gund dorm lounge amongst the empty beer bottles and other
refuse of a particularly nasty Bar Trek [7] drinking party, "we'll be
needing someone to lead here when you're gone. Have you thought about
that?"
No. Sooo...
The first plan was to find an unsuspecting frosh, descend, in full
regalia, on his person at some obnoxious hour of the morning, drag him
unwillingly through the rites of ascension, declare him Archbishop of
Kenyon, take lots of pictures of his baffled expression, and prop him up in
an appropriate corner at all formal OTISian functions, bowing at his feet
when the ceremony required.
It was a good idea. But it was not a terribly practical idea. The
newly declared Archbishop could decide not to cooperate, not to show up at
formal functions, forcing us to find another, and another, and another. At
the time my head spun thinking this through.
"Really", said St. James, swaying a little, unless it was me who was
swaying, or the room... "What we should do (errrp, excuse me) is to
elect...."
He paused for effect, and when Chad's (who was selflessly finishing
off the rest of the beer now that the party was dispersing) back was turned
pointed at it.
"He wants to be OTISian spiritual leader for the Kenyon Community?" I
asked skeptically.
Chad shook his head. "Nope. Hehe-- excuse me. He'll probably--
hehe-- hunt you down and kill you for it. He-- hehe-- he's P E R F E C T."
He said the last just like I've written it, drawing it out for effect, and
collapsing into helpless sniggers at the end.
"I don't know." I admitted. Chad was, after all, a lot bigger than I
am (I not being all that terribly big in the first place), and although he
had shown no past propensity towards violence, well; I'm a Pope, not a
martyr.
But the idea was... tempting...
"So," said a voice in my ear "what are you discussing?"
"Whether I'm going to be flattened to a pulp by an unwilling member of
my clergy."
"We're making... him" St. James pointed "the Archbishop."
"The wall?" asked Reverend Rhob, Screaming Prophet of OTIS Triumphant,
and founder of the most popular OTISian heresy to date, innocently raising
his eyebrows.
"Ooops," said James "him."
"The television set."
"No... ummm... him", the Saint tried again, after steadying himself
slightly.
"We're not a wrecked as you drunk we am, I think." I volunteered.
"You don't say," said Rhob. "I think Chad would make an excellent
Archbishop. Tonight?"
"Naw. Next year."
"In that case, come away with me to the Cove? [8]"
When I stepped over Chad as we left (who, if he wasn't asleep, was
doing a remarkable imitation), Rhob looked at him, and then at me and said,
"I don't think he knows what you've gotten him into."
"I don't think we know what we've gotten him into." I said.
It was my last coherent sentence of the night.
"Don't," suggested James the next morning at breakfast "make so much
noise."
"Sorry."
"Good Morning!"
"Good Morning, Elieen" I said, "You sound bushy-tailed today, and your
clothes are so... loud."
James covered his ears and kept his head to the table.
"Ah." said Elieen, who says she is in training for the 'Mothering'
event in the 1992 Olympics, "I see we were baaad boys last night at Bar
Trek."
"She was there," murmured James, "Wasn't she there?"
"Yes.", said Elieen, "but I drank Coke, so I'm bright and chipper!"
"Chipper," I concurred, massaging my temples.
"Look Jeff", said Elieen, pushing a group of papers into my
peripheral, "Do you know hat this is? ... Completed history paper! I'm so
happy! Happy! Well, off to get cereal."
"Not rice crispies", moaned James.
"So," I said, when Elieen got back "Chad for Archbishop, yes or no?"
"Does he want to be Archbishop?"
"No."
"Yes, then. Hehe. I can be so nasty sometimes."
"Morning all."
"Morning, Wombat."
"Morning, Wombat."
"Bad night for the Pope?"
"Yes, Wombat, bad night."
"Sorry. Where's Chad?"
"I tried to wake him." said James, "He said something about
justifiable homicide and rolled over."
"I see," said Wombat, "Well, you wouldn't want to force an issue like
that." She pursed her lips and shook her head. "He'll probably be along
eventually."
"Yep", I said, "Which reminds me, "Chad for Archbishop, yes
or no?"
Wombat gave a short laugh with her head back.
"Chad? Perfect. Does he know?"
"No," said James, "and don't tell."
"Me?" the Wombat rolled her eyes, "Certainly not. Far
sillier that way."
"Afternoon."
"Hello, Rhob."
"Hi, Rhob!"
"Rhob! My GOD man! It's been... hours!" I said.
"Closer on minutes. Don't squeeze so hard. What's the
conversation."
"Who should be the new Archbishop."
"You mean it's not going to be Ch---"
"Hum dum de-o-hum dum!" I said "Hello, Chad? Bright and
chipper this morning?"
"Guramph."
"You're his roommate", Rhob said to James, "pray tell, what
did that mean?"
"Chad says hello to you all too, thanks you for your cheery
smiles and wants you all to know how happy his is to see you."
"Harumg."
I looked at James quizzically.
"He's just off for some coffee, back in a moment."
"I always feel so, awake, when he arrives," said Elieen.
"Alright," said James to me, "the moment of truth has come.
Will Chad Hessuon, now only a Saint, achieve Archbishophood, or
won't he?"
"Well," I said, "Saints Simpson and Analisa are all for it,
the Grinnin' Foole gave his approval over the internet this
morning. I believe his exact words were; 'Who the fuck is Chad
Hessoun?" Saints Kurella and Tofer are so enthusiastic they
offered to tie him down for the ceremony. C Squared thinks it's
just dandy. According to Mr. Hamrick, the ministers of the Brown
Bucket will honor my decision..."
"Cut to the chase" suggested James.
"That leaves only St. Zecchin of small Lizards and Furry
Marshmellows, I suppose."
"Is there anyone in this religion who isn't a Saint?" asked
Elieen.
"Only the janitor." said Rhob.
"Ah." said Elieen.
"Actually," I said, "he's Saint of Dirt, but we have a
couple of titleless receptionists."
"It's easier than paying people." explained James.
"Well," said Wombat, "go ask him, by all means."
"Chad?"
"No Zecchin. Chad's obviously been kidnapped by aliens."
"Actually," said Rhob, craning his neck, "I think he's
talking to Carl."
"So," said James, "Why not get Zecchin now?"
"Why," I said, he'll be along shortly".
"Hello, all." said Zecchin entering the room.
"Hello, Zecchin."
"Stop playing with my reality, as Mr. Hamrick says" said
James to me.
"Has he ever been at breakfast before?" asked Elieen.
"Zecchin", said Wombat "Chad for archbishop. Say yes."
"Yes." said Zecchin.
"Excellent," I said, now here's how we'll do it...."
"Did I miss anything?" Asked Chad several moments later.
Nunc Scrpisi Pro OTISio, Da Mihi Potum--
PJI
NEXT TIME: AN EXCITING CONCLUSION BECAUSE THIS IS TOO LONG
ALREADY!
Notes By "Bill", an Unfortunate House Scribe
1. According to several notable physics on the Phil Donahue Show.
2. Assuming throwing rocks at hell is your idea of a good time.
3. The Pope graduated cum laude and with honors in English in 1991, but
says this is none of your business.
4. See previous issues of this publication.
5. Translation "Beware the dragon that lurks in the hidden lands of
Ghonerreah, eating the unwary scholar and munching on the bones of
virgins."
6. '5.' was not a real note. I just wanted to see if you were with me.
7. A drinking game done to Start Trek; the Next Generation
8. A drinking establishment.
####===================================================================####
MUTTERINGS OF THE ORACLE
####===================================================================####
Date: 7 Oct 91 21:22:00 EDT
From: "MICHAEL S DOW" <dow@vax001.kenyon.edu>
Subject: Put it in.
From: VAX001::TUCKER "RCT" 7-OCT-1991 16:26:03.53
From: VAX001::WINS%"<R3JMT%AKRONVM@vm1.cc.UAKRON.EDU>"
Subj: a particularly funny oracle session.
Date: Mon, 07 Oct 91 15:57:08 EDT
From: Telkner <R3JMT%AKRONVM@vm1.cc.UAKRON.EDU>
Subject: a particularly funny oracle session.
The Usenet Oracle has pondered your question deeply.
Your question was:
> O mighty Oracle, endowed with the wisdom of the Universe and one
> _really_ nasty babe for a main squeeze,
>
> Why do people think legalizing drugs is The Answer? I thought The
> Answer was 42.
And in response, thus spake the Oracle:
} The great and mighty Oracle has deigned to give you an answer to this
} question. You should offer thanks.
}
} Throughout time immemorial, it has been asked: What is the purpose of
} human existence?
}
} At first this was easy. The answer was food
}
} You see, back in the Paleozoooliphic, the answer to everything was
} either food or rock.
}
} What do you want? "Food" Where do you live? "Rock" Look, that guy is
} making off with your stuff, what will you do? "Rock make him food!"
}
} As you can see, conversation wasn't too stimulating, and philosophers
} were stuck with saying things like "rock is rock" and "food is not
} rock" Luckily rock candy had not been invented yet.
}
} Many years passed, vocab increased, and finally the ancient greeks got
} back around to the question. Socrates explained how the question had no
} meaning. He of course was wrong, but he was such a great pain in the
} ass that people agreed with him to shut him up. Finally, they slipped
} some hemlock in his tea, and that was that.
}
} Later, once the vocabulary had gotten all settled, the
} Romans came up with another answer, one which many of us would agree
} with today. This, of course was sex. It was later found, however, that
} sex could not be the answer. Sex was the question. Yes was the answer.
}
} This whole issue got more confused around the time of Jesus. You see,
} Jesus was convinced that Love was the answer. By this, he did not mean
} what most people think of as love, because then he could have just
} said that sex is the answer. That would lead to the problem above,
} Now, Love might be a possible alternative to sex, but the Romans
} were so upset by the idea that sex wasn't it, that they nailed Jesus
} to a couple of planks.
}
} The Roman empire fell to the barbarians, and it was back to food for
} most of the dark ages.
}
} When the Renaissance finally hit, the answer was Painting. Later on
} they decided that that was just too silly, and changed it to
} Enlightenment.
} This worked fine for the aristocracy, but, at least in France, the
} peasants revolted, and settled firmly on food again.
}
} Not too much after this, drugs spread out through western culture.
} Some people at this time suggested that drugs were the answer, but
} Opium isn't really powerful enough to blot out all other questions, so
} it was quietly shelved for a later date.
}
} At one point this century, the proposal "Coke is it" was widely
} spread, but if Coke was it, what was New Coke? It flat and too sweet?
} No, that idea was also disregarded.
}
} In the '60s, everything disregarded came back with a vengeance (except
} painting, it was still too silly) "Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll."
} The Republicans hated this (They thought the answer was Money), and
} they conspired to break the idea at its weak point; Drugs. So went the
} revisionists (who ignored the fact that George Washington grew
} Marijuana), and they outlawed drugs. Outlawing sex would have been
} nice for them, but even they realized that Republicans, at least, had
} to reproduce.
}
} In 197something, Douglas Adams decided that the answer to Life, the
} Universe and Everything was 42. Being irrational, it made it difficult
} to refute, and so was popular among young Democrats (Who had lost so
} many brain cells due to drugs that they were equally irrational), and
} science fiction fans (who were so weird that they could just accept
} it).
}
} You now see where your question fits in. Some people think that the
} solution is to legalize Drugs, and some think that the answer is 42.
} Others think it is sex, a few still believe in Coke, and food is a
} perennial favorite. Of course the true answer is there, and has been
} for a while...
}
} The answer is....
}
} Painting. Of course.
}
} You owe the Oracle a Velvet Elvis.
####===================================================================####
NEWS OF THE WEIRD
####===================================================================####
[Well this is NOTW, but it's not from Steph the NOTW woman herself. Alas
she is still offline but we hope some day she'll be back among the living
as it were. If not, we can at least keep her memory alive by continuing the
tradition she set for Purps.]
From: "Reverend John" <UC521832@UMCVMB.missouri.edu>
Subject: NOTW
From the Memphis Flyer, the News Of The Weird
by Chuck Shepherd
FOR SERVICES RENDERED
* In July, an Illinois appeals court ruled that attorney Albert B. Friedman
could not collect the entire amount he billed a female client for handling
her divorce because some of the time he billed her for was for the two of
them to have sex. Friedman was also notified recently by the Illinois
Supreme Court that he had been appointed to the court's Committee on
Character and Fitness.
POLICE BLOTTER
* Nancy Ann Estevez, 56, former bookkeeper for the Kansas City March of
Dimes Birth Defects Foundation, admitted in court in February that she had
stolen nearly $80,000 from the foundation in order to pay back money she
had stolen in 1985 from a country club. She did herself in when she wrote
one check directly from the foundation to the district court's restitution
fund.
* Police in West Yarmouth, Mass., arrested four suspects at the Windrift
Vacation Resort loading tv sets they had stolen from the hotel into a
taxicab that they were using to make their getaway.
* According to the police log of the Wisconsin Muskego Sun, Rhonda L.
Stipe, 22, was injured in April when, driving down the road, she "ran into
a 19-ton pile of gravel."
* Seattle police arrested a man in April for defrauding a cab driver out of
a combined $27.50 fare, incurred for taking him to several stores in order
to find one that would cash two non-negotiable checks clearly marked "void"
and "sample."
* Jason Ray William was sentenced to 90 days in jail in Houston for
pleading guilty to shoplifting a $150 ferret from a pet store by putting
the animal down his pants and trying to walk out. The arresting officer
said he remembered frisking William just a few weeks previous after a
report of a suspicious person and had found a 4-foot python wrapped around
William's leg.
* Baylor University freshman Kyle Krebs was ticketed by campus police in
April for breaking wind in violation of the campus ordinance prohibiting
obnoxious odors (designed for things such as smoke bombs). Krebs said he
wasn't directing his act at the officers: "They were so far away, and cars
were driving by. I never thought the decibel level would be so high he
would hear it." The ticket was eventually dismissed.
####===================================================================####
POLITICAL EXPEDIENCY
####===================================================================####
Date: 16 Oct 91 11:43:00 EDT
From: <hillv@vax001.kenyon.edu>
From: VAX001::WINS%"vhill@math15.gatech.edu" 16-OCT-1991 09:09:24.11
Subj: Political Expediency
Georgia Tech has a legally established policy of giving no honorary degrees
(not a bad idea, in my view). This led, however, to some embarrassment
with regard to Georgia native Jimmy Carter, who attended G.T. for one year
before he went to the Naval Academy, from which he was graduated. The G.T.
Faculty Senate, and subsequently the Regents, passed legislation that now
allows an honorary degree to be given "only to a person who has attended
Georgia Tech and who has attained the office of President of the United
States." How's that for expediency?
####===================================================================####
AN EPISTLE FROM POPE JEPHE I:
####===================================================================####
pji@well.sf.ca.us
"I shall return"-- Anonymous
"By hook or by crook we will"-- Number 2
"They're baaaaaaack"-- Poltergeist 2
First of all, let me tell you that it took a little doing. If you
students out there appreciate nothing else in your college existence,
appreciate your free (at least almost) internet access. Let me tell you,
the second you step through those ivy covered gates and into the real
world, nifty toys like the net become almost impossible to procure access
to. You won't miss the food (though you will miss having it prepared;
trust me, there are only so many things one can do with peanut butter), and
you won't miss the cramped dorm rooms, but you'll miss the company, you'll
miss the parents paying the bills, and you'll miss the internet. [1]
At any rate, know first of all that the Pope is back on the 'lectronic
fringe and... WANTS MAIL. ANY sort of mail will do, BUT PARTICULARLY
STRANGE, BIZARRE, SILLY, OTISian MAIL, which he will happily collect and do
strange, bizarre, silly OTISian things with. That's all you need to know
for now; let's just say that we OTISians keep archives. In addition, he
would also like TO HEAR FROM ALL OF HIS FORMER PEERS AT KENYON. HEY YOU:
WOULD IT KILL YOU TO WRITE? So, in case you missed it at the top of this
letter, here, again, is the Pope's new address: Send Weird Mail to
PJI@WELL.SF.CA.US OR STEVENSJ@VAX001.KENYON.EDU
Secondly, now that I'm home again, I figure I might as well make
myself useful. This means that if I get enough bites in response to this
note, I will begin either a: an internet mailing list of bizarre/fringee
stuff, or b: an BRAND NEW, NEVER BEFORE SEEN, REVISED FORMULA, GENUINE,
100% NATURAL, NO MONEY BACK GUARANTEE, OTISIAN MAGAZINE (a la the one you
are reading now), tentatively titled:
THE ROLLING HEAD OF OTIS!
Mind you, that's very tentative. It becomes more tentative, in fact,
each time that I read it and wonder what I was thinking at the time.
WHAT WOULD THE NEW MAGAZINE BE LIKE:
Well, probably a lot like old, or "classic" Purps (issues 1- 20ish),
back in the days when I was still editing it. Mind you, I would aim to
cover ground not yet covered by Mal, so I could sneakily wean away his best
clients... err allow loyal Purpsians to be entertained by both
publications.
For those of you (a great number) who joined Purps more recently,
generally Classic Purps was a bit shorter, a little more ruthless about
borrowing from a great number of sources, a little bit longer on letters,
rants and news, and shorter on serial fiction, and a lot more full of my
stuff because at that point the audience was a little bit more lazy.
That's all there is to it really. Anyone who might be at all
interested in either the Rolling Head or a Papal mailing list, please
contact me at: stevensj@vax001.kenyon.edu or PJI@well.sf.ca.us, and I'll
try to get the ball rolling.
Lastly, I'd really appreciate it if someone (VICTORIA!, HOW NICE OF
YOU TO OFFER! hehehehehe) would mail this letter off to ex-Purps
subscribers who stopped reading it when I left, or at least help me
remember who all of these folks are. As you know, all converts are GOLDEN
to OTIS, and I'd hate to have a few slip though the cracks over stylistic
differences--
HAIL OTIS!
PJI
[1]PS: My other project now that I'm back, is an attempt to produce a
USEFUL "How to get on the Internet" post graduation guide. I'm familiar
with the WELL, and the glory that is gnome.eskimo.alaska, but am trying in
vain, so far, to locate other cheap sources of net access for non-students.
Anyone with information on the topic could PLEASE e-mail me at
PJI@WELL.SF.CA.US
####===================================================================####
THEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEEND
####===================================================================####
