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The Purple Thunderbolt of spode Volume 2 Issue 42
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SBI-Submarine Pens Proudly Presents:
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THE PURPLE THUNDERBOLT OF SPODE VOL 2, 42
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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
####===================================================================####
Welcome to yet another issue of Purps, I hope which is more or less on
time, or close enough to meet with most folks satisfaction. As you see I'm
trying to turn over a new leaf here and have Purps come out on time.
I must say this issue was a bit tough to scrape together, but it got done.
I only had one real submission this time around and it was a pretty good
one. Hand written(well typed) and everything. So this issue special thanks
goes to GARBETT@utkvx.utk.edu.
I've been threatening this for some time. So this time around I
finally did it. I broke out an old serial I used to do on the computer back
around 87 or 88. There are 24 episodes written for it so far. That
should help fill up a few issues. It's called ART or _A Religous Tale_ and
was orginally written as sort of a counter story to a story Rua sent me.
Then she twisted my arm and forced me to write more. Lord knows where Rua
is these days. Maybe she'll see this some day floating around on the net.
It's all her fault it got created and I suppose it's all your fault for not
submitting enough material that I ended up having to inflict this on you.
Also in this issue amazingly enough we have another installment of the
Messenger of the Gods. (Yeah I wrote an awful lot of this issue.)
I also received some word from the Pope, hence the advertisement at the
end. The latest news is he bought a bloody damn fast modem and should be on
the internet very soon now. Hopefully, we can hear more from him. If you
have any interest at all in rubbing elbows with the marginals, the Yellow
Pages may be a good way to start. Hey, look where it got me. Chained to a
computer doing the work of Otis.
One last detail. As of late I've been receiving threats of grievous bodily
harm if we do not change the name of Fawna the Otisian Bimbo to something
less Fawnish. Please send your ideas into the HailOtis address as soon as
possible. Maybe we can make it a contest or something. This is sort of an
emergency. I may get my face ripped off soon becuase of this name. It's
not my fault. Fawna came along all by herself. I had nothing to do with
her. We were just discussing the Toilet Mysteries around the campfire one
night and there she was.
Anwyay come up with something creative. For example: How about Bunny? Bunny
rhymes with money so we can use it in IGHF songs. "Send us money/ you'll
meet Bunny/ By Otis she's a honey".
This is an important event all of you probably have forgotten. (And by gum
Otis knows and is keeping track of your omission.) On August 9th, 1991 the
divine child was born to Shark. Gifts should be showered on her at this
time and each of you should take the oportunity to praise Otis for this
event. The coming of the Divine Child was written in the stars and recorded
on the artifacts found in the Gobi desert which I dare not name.
Enough yammering at you. On with the show.
####===================================================================####
NO-BRAINER
####===================================================================####
[From Ann Landers 8/9/92 ]
Dear Ann: You've featured several letters over the years that have
testified to the ignorance of Americans, not only in matters relating to
foreign culture but their own, as well. I believe the following story
drives the point home perfectly.
On a recent 'Wheel of Fortune," the clue left after the puzzle was solved
was "American University and Paris Cathedral."
The first contestant guessed, "Harvard." The second contestant said,
"Yale." The third contestant gave the astonishing no-brainer "Washington,
D.C."
When the correct answer, which, of course, was Notre Dame, was revealed,
one of the contestants piped up half apologetically, "How would I know
THAT? I'm from Indiana." Just sign me- Still Shaking My Head in New Jersey.
####===================================================================####
ART CHAPTER ONE
####===================================================================####
[For Rua wherever the heck she is.]
On the morning of the third day in the month of the smiling squid, it
came to pass that a plain and simple maker of wire sculpture was having
brunch on his veranda when the sky was filled with a strange unearthly
light and the air smelled of wildebeests.
And down from the glowing heavens descended a messenger from on high
smoking his pipe and ruffling a tangled knot of forms. As the sensible shoe
clad feet touched the carved ivory of the veranda the messenger raised a
bull horn to his lips and spoke in a voice that shook the mountains.
"Well, well, what do we have here? Perchance a foolish mortal whose
been wasting his life bilking the public by selling them little bits of
twisted wire he calls art? Well it's time you straightened up your act and
girded up your loins because we've got a job for you."
"Who me?" asked the simple, but rich artist choking on his grapefruit
juice.
"YES YOU!" yelled the divine messenger into his bull horn that
squealed with feedback.
"Why me?" whimpered the artist trying to wedge his fat body under his
breakfast cart.
"Because it'll make a swell story," and with these words the messenger
explained exactly what task the fat, rich, and scared artist had to
perform.
***********************
We join our hero the next day as he set out on his quest. Dressed from
head to toe in the finest adventuring clothes he could find at the local
Banana Republic Outlet. On his back was an alice pack bulging with stuff he
decided he might need such as clean linen and spray disinfectant he might need
to use on any gas station restrooms he was forced to use.
In one hand he clutched his tool box and in the other a roll of wire.
He shook slightly in anticipation of his great quest, wishing that he had
been smart enough to have stayed poor. "How come the gods don't pick on the
poor people?" he wondered out loud.
"Because rich people can afford to go on adventures!" said the
divine messenger stepping out from behind a rose bush. The artist, whose
name was Fredric Wilberforce, leaped back in fear, falling over and denting
his tool box on a rock. The divine messenger went over and picked up
Fredric and then began to unpack his backpack, tossing most of its
contents into the bushes, occasionally pocketing this or that item for
later perusal.
"Now see here Mr. Wilberforce, this is a holy quest. We can't have you
having fun now. And I'm sure these dirty magazines are not doing your
eternal soul any good. After all, the big guy is watching you closer than
Santa does."
Finally unpacking everything in the backpack, he threw that into the
bushes and handed Fred a Scooby Doo lunch box. "Carry your possessions in
here and nowhere else."
"But," protested the fat artist.
"SHUT UP AND DO IT. YOU ARE SPOILING THE STORY!"
***********************
We once again join our hero several hours later just entering the
tavern filled with angry Hell's Angels playing darts and a bit of
Ping-Pong. Fred waddled up to the counter and began to speak to the
innkeeper.
"Excuse me, could I have a room for the night? See I'm on a quest and
need to sleep."
"A quest?" asked the innkeeper suspiciously.
"Yes, see, I have to carry all my possession in this lunch pail," said
Fred placing his lunch box on the bar.
Several of the Hell's Angels who'd been listening in started to laugh
and ambled over carrying pool cues and wiffle bats.
"So you're on a quest aye?" asked a large foul smelling brute.
"Why yes."
"Well, what's you're quest then, mate?"
"I can't tell you, it's a secret."
"Well, what if we make you tell us, mate?"
This is a holy quest. You're not supposed to mess with me. It's a
sin."
The bikers roared in laughter at this and begin to drag poor Fred
outside. "We'll show you what's a sin," they told him with evil grins on
their faces. Fred rolled his eyes in fear and looked around for help but
none was in sight. This looked to be the end for our hero.
####===================================================================####
Craziness in Idaho
####===================================================================####
Date: Mon, 3 Aug 92 13:23:51 MDT
From: eiverson@NMSU.Edu
Subject: [mike_p@cheshire.oxy.edu: Craziness in Idaho]
From: mike_p@cheshire.oxy.edu (Michael John Petterson)
Subject: Craziness in Idaho
Date: 31 Jul 92 23:38:00 GMT
From: Dan Lester <ALILESTE%IDBSU.BitNet@pucc.PRINCETON.EDU>
Subject: Friday afternoon and 103 degrees
Libraries get the darndest things....particularly the poor Circulation Desk
folks who tend to be in charge in off hours and slow times.
About an hour ago, with a clear sky and 103 degrees outside, the folks at
the circulation desk were faced with a patron who was quite agitated... not
about an overdue book, but "What were we going to do about the naked man
out there in the fountain?" Of course all adjourned to the front door to
observe a man of about 35 frolicking in the fountain, completely naked. He
danced around. He splashed in the water, which is about a foot deep. He
"swam". Between gawks and giggles, the sheriff was called (Ada County
Sheriff has a branch on campus, and is contracted to serve as campus
security, though we are otherwise in city limits). The officers arrived.
The man would not leave the fountain, subject himself to the demands of the
officers, or dress himself with his t-shirt or jeans, which were floating
in the fountain.
At one point he jumped out and tried to run away, still sans clothing, but
was pursued by the three officers who had arrived by then, so circled back
into the fountain and stood in the middle of the water sprays and bent some
of the pipes to aim the water towards the officers. Meanwhile a couple of
patrons came in and used the public campus-only phone in the lobby and
called security again to complain that the officers weren't "doing anything
about the pervert in the fountain". Physical plant then arrived to shut
off the water pumping mechanism. After another five minutes one of the
officers waded into the fountain, in full uniform and shoes and told the
fellow to come with him out of the fountain. The man refused and was maced
and subsequently handcuffed. The officers put his pants back on him and
took him away; he finally decided to walk instead of being carried or
dragged after being threatened with the mace again.
We are sure he will be charged with resisting arrest, damaging public
property, and indecent exposure...and who knows what else. It didn't
happen inside the library, but is just another day in the life of the circ
desk. It also provided some much-needed entertainment on a hot and slow
Friday afternoon.
dan....in baked potatoland
####===================================================================####
CHEAP EATS
####===================================================================####
Date: Mon, 3 Aug 92 14:54:38 MDT
From: eiverson@NMSU.Edu
Subject: [eiverson@nmsu.edu: Re: CHEAP EATS (WAS Proposed new thread)]
Mr. Eric's infamous Tofu Casserole
1 Pkg tofu
2 cans chinese veggies
1 can tomato soup
1/2 tomato soup can of water
1 cup of rice
soy sauce
Mash tofu with a potato masher until it is the consistency of cottage
cheese. Nuke the hell out of it for 7 minutes or so. Mash it some more
just to make sure it's dead. Prepare 1 cup of rice in the manner of your
choice (I use the microwave.) Stir all the ingredients together and add
soy sauce to taste. Make sure you recycle the cans! Nuke for 5 minutes to
heat up the veggies. Scoop large gobs into a bowl and sit in front of CNN
or MacNeil Lehrer (check local listings) Bon apetit!
This is my own creation, although it owes its existence to that ungodly
concoction "hamburger chow mein." I find it to be a very palatable way to
hide tofu.
####===================================================================####
Baked Bullet Brisket
####===================================================================####
Date: Mon, 3 Aug 92 16:48:11 MDT
From: eiverson@NMSU.Edu ()
Subject: [sfields%NMSU.Edu: recipe]
Date: Mon, 3 Aug 92 16:00:27 MDT
From: sfields%NMSU.Edu
To: eiverson%nmsu.edu
Subject: recipe
Cc:
this is one I received from My Bosnian Pen-Pal (via UN Postal
Services):
Baked Bullet Brisket
2 buckets of grass, wild or domestic
2 cups assorted bullets or empty cartridges
3 small wild kittens or orphans
1 cup dirt
Unless you have electrical power, in which case you can use the oven, put
everything in a large Mason jar and agitate for several minutes. Then, the
next time your neighbor's house gets hit with mortar fire, just sneak over
and poke it into some of the embers. It is done before the jar explodes.
####===================================================================####
MESSENGER OF THE GODS
####===================================================================####
"But aren't we getting married ma?" asked Vasoline.
"We can do that later," said Gasoline licking her lips. Her face seemed to get
all puffed up and red with animal lust. She grabbed at Elvis' hand but he
dodged. Vasoline made a flying football tackle and dragged Elvis to the
ground. His guitar thudded into the floor boards making a very unmusical
bang. Both were on him now ripping away at his clothes.
From out of thin air where the hole into the other dimension was, came a
paper airplane. It sailed lazily along. One of our captors swatted at it.
Another fired his shotgun at it. Most of us dropped to the floor in
surprise. Everything was quiet for a moment except for the two inbred girls
groping away at Elvis who was making retching noises.
The airplane with a few buckshot holes had landed right in front to of me. I
reached for it only to have my hand stamped on by the mother who glared
down at me with her evil eyes. She picked up the paper and scrutinized it,
pulling out a pair of tinny glasses with blue lenses. We got to our feet as
she read the words, moving her lips.
"It is from Mabuto," muttered the Man in Black next to me. He apparently
could read lips. There was no end of amazing things this guy could do.
Maybe they should write a comic about him.
"What's it say?" I hissed back.
"Quiet!" shouted one of our captors, poking me in the back hard enough to
bruise.
"What is this!" asked the mother coming over to stand in front of me. She
peered at me through her blue glasses. I could smell her bad teeth.
"Um..." I began, glancing over at Elvis. Most of his clothes were stripped
off by now. The girls were madly licking him. "It's a sign that you're not
to mess with Elvis," I explained, hoping I could save the King of Rock and
Roll from drowning in inbred saliva. There was a puddle of the stuff
forming around the three.
"But we must have his love children!" said the woman breathing so hard her
glasses steamed up. I suspected she wanted a go at the fellow herself. Come
to think of it most of our our captors probably would want a try as well.
"They're getting drool and slobber all over my valentine!" yelled Otis,
storming around in front of the big screen where they were watching the events
of the story unfold.
"It's probably water proof," muttered Spode deeply engrossed in a paper
from Hong Kong.
"I'm going to do something," said Otis, rolling up her sleeves.
"It's my magazine," pointed out Spode, circling something in the paper with
a red pen.
"Well, it's my valentine!" and with those words Otis disappeared in a cloud
of Paisley colored smoke.
With a roar of thunder and a mighty crash that split open the roof Otis
suddenly appeared out of thin air. He was on his feet and looked very
poised, so I assumed he didn't fall through the hole in the dimension. I
quickly averted my eyes and groped for some sun glasses, only to discover
they'd been broken. Otis looked very mad. Her eyes were lit up like blow
torches and lightning cracked all around him.
The Man in Black leaped back a few paces and put his back to the wall. From
out of his pocket he pulled a Tibetan prayer wheel and began to chant in a
strange droning way like you hear Tibetan monks do. Everyone else in the
room stopped except for the three on the floor.
"STOP THIS AT ONCE!" roared Otis. Stamping his foot and causing most of the
roof to cave in. Mysteriously enough only our captors were hit by falling
lumber. I could see up into the sky. It was night and full of little
planets with rings. We certainly weren't on earth or at least the earth we
were from. The Man in Black has been right. Vasoline and Gasoline still
continued their mad sexual frenzy with Elvis who was now just moaning
incoherently.
"SEPARATE THEM!" ordered Otis.
"With what?" I asked in a small voice. I'd rather face the wrath of Otis
than go wading through the pool of saliva and lord knows what other juices
that were pooled around the three on the floor.
Behind me the Man in Black continued to chant.
"WITH THAT!" said Otis pointing a very shapely arm at a fire hose that had
mysteriously appeared on the wall. I took it down, marveling at the gold
nozzle and the snake skin hose. I motioned for the Man in Black to help me,
but he ignored me lost deep in his chant, his prayer wheel whirling madly.
I sighed and turned on the water, hosing down the three. I'd never done this
before but after a few moments I got the hang of it and using the jet of
water separated the three. I blasted the two sisters out through the door
into the other room leaving poor Elvis lying naked on the floor, his body
covered with love bites and scratches dripping with saliva that would not
wash away.
####===================================================================####
MORE GLOSSARY
####===================================================================####
Campaign for the Prevention of Inherited Flatulence: One of the
organizations Purps has made small (and entirely tax free) contributions
to.
Dentist office Reading: A coveted market for publications in which
purps has attained a niche.
Gates, Daryl F.: Renowned for his liberal drug enforcement policies.
Hallucinogenetics: Something which needs inventing.
International Yak Liberation Front: One of the early Purps arch foes. Now
safely in the custody of the Tibetan Authorities.
Sister Mary Truman: Legendary leader of the neo-Jesuit Apocalyptic Nuns.
Knife fighter and former presidential candidate. Also involved in the
infamous yak tossing scandal.
Spode, The Game: A divine Otisian sacrament.
####===================================================================####
WRESTLING
####===================================================================####
Date: Thu, 6 Aug 1992 16:02 EST
From: GARBETT@utkvx.utk.edu
"Welcome to the World Wrestling Federation and 92 Campaign Playoffs!
Tonight's contestants for the title of world champion include: Bouncing Baby
Bill, The Gipper, Mad Dog Gore, Wild Man Bush, and last but least Clueless
Quayle. Let's go for a quick interview with Baby Bill."
Camera pans out to the ring. Looks like a near riot has broke out. Baby
Bill in his giant diaper seems to be taking several blows from a crazed man
swinging a chair. Wild Man Bush and The Gipper are running around the ring
stirring up the crowd, jeering at Baby Bill and relishing in the screams.
Several big referees pull the crazed man off of Baby Bill and he looks
dazed.
Commercial Break
"Bill that was quite a beating you were taking, even before the championship
rounds started. What happened out there?"
"Well I was trying to make my big intro and Junkyard Brown ran out out the
crowd, obviously pissed about the match we had last week. I was too shocked
to be able to fight back, because I thought he was on my side. But HEAR ME
OUT, I'M MAD AS HELL AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE. YOU CAN BRING ON
ANYONE INCLUDING MAD JUNKYARD BROWN AND I SHOW THEM ALL WHOS BOSS--THERE'S
GOING TO BE A CHANGE THIS YEAR AND I'M GOING TO GET THAT TITLE IF I HAVE TO
RIP SOMEONE'S TEETH OUT!"
"My, Bill you definitely have a shot at the title with that attitude. What
about the accusations of that wild party with that girl Flowers?"
Bill knocks the announcer over with a head butt and begins stomping on his
head.
Commercial Break
A bedraggled announcer with a black eye is standing next to Wild Man Bush.
"Champion Bush, How does it feel to be back in the ring after last years
win and living the life of a winner?"
"Oh, It wasn't all easy. I went on a Central American and Middle Eastern
Tour, and fought a great match against Saddam Insane. He's still jeering
for a rematch although I showed him who's World Champion."
"Champion Bush, What about the low attendance this year? The fans are
blaming you for it, because you forced management to give your team a fat
raise, raising admission prices and ..."
"SHUT UP! I wouldn't call it my fault. It's a necessary downturn in
attendance. These things just happen, more people are arriving by the
minute, and more will be here soon."
Camera flashes to an empty lobby.
"NOW SEE HERE, TRUST ME, I'M THE ONLY QUALIFIED CHAMPION! NO ONE ELSE KNOWS
THE MOVES LIKE I DO!"
Clueless Quayle wanders up and bumps into Wild Man Bush, they both turn to
face Quayle.
"We win big. Our team good. Me beat opponent. Right Boss?" Quayle says in a
husky voice.
"Clueless Quayle is still a little slow after the head injury he took in
his first match of his life."
"I THINK HE'S FULLY QUALIFIED AND YOU'RE JUST PART OF THE OTHER SIDE'S
CONSPIRACY AGAINST ME, BUT MY FANS KNOW ME AND WHO I AM AND I WILL WIN,
TRUST ME!"
Commercial Break
And now the first round begins: BING!
Wild Man Bush and Bouncing Baby Bill take off their robes and begin leering
at each other from opposing corners. A hush falls over the crowd as someone
starts kicking chairs out of their way from the back. The camera zooms in
and a giant ogre of a man, with muscles rippling like Conan, steps out of
the crowd and starts walking for the ring. The ushers try to restrain him
and are easily flung to the far corners of the arena. Who is this stranger?
He steps into the ring with the greatest of ease. Bush and Bill tremble in
his shadow. Bill looks up to the giant, walks over, closes his eyes and
pelts him in the kneecap.
The giant looks down menacingly and says "I just wanted to play wit you
guys." Tears begin rolling down the giants cheeks and runs out the ring and
out of the arena. The crowd boos as he exits.
Bush and Bill begin looking at one another and pacing. Bill runs over and
immediately tags in Mad Dog Gore. The camera zooms in on Clueless Quayle
still trying to tie his shoes and obviously confused when his Spin Doctor
comes over and helps him.
Bush and Mad Dog Gore begin circling and trading insults. The crowd is
cheering for Gore and Bill, who is sweating profusely outside the ring.
Stay tuned for more after these messages
####===================================================================####
POPSICLES
####===================================================================####
From: finerty@msscc.med.utah.edu (that's mr. wonderful to you)
Subject: popsicles
Date: 7 Aug 92 02:35:46 MST
Have you ever felt the pain of a popsicle facing its last lick? The
suffering involved? The fear that there is no after world? The unknown is
too much. The popsicle faints before the last lick ever begins. Hiding in
its subconscious the popsicle is transformed after the last lick. But into
what? Will we ever know? Most likely not. Some mysteries are not for humans
to know. However, I am not human, so I do know. I know all right. It is so
disgusting and terrible that I cannot possibly reveal it now. Perhaps some
other time after I have made it up. Made up what, you ask? Why, made up its
fate of course. After all, I am in charge here. Heh heh heh.
PJF---->Biochem. grad student "go away"
####===================================================================####
OTIS NEEDS BODS!
####===================================================================####
Yes folks, it's that time again! A new school year. We all know what means
don't we? It's time to recruit new Otisians. There can never be enough of
them in this world. Otis needs bodies! Warm wiggly bodies! Bodies that
will fill the coffers of the IGHF with money. New Otisians who will submit
amazing material to Purps. New Otisians who'll donate a xerox machine so we
can make a photocopy of the manual for the Purps yacht.
So you ask yourself: "How does one go about recruiting new Otisians?" Well
it's easy my friends.
Here's some helpful tips:
1. Recite to the potential Otisian some of the now famous and inspiring
Dogma. Try "Everything forbidden is Optional." or if that fails perhaps
"Scrub my bowl hard!" may do the trick. If all else fails make something
up. If you're not good at that, mumble. They probably won't be paying any
attention to you by then anyway.
2. Make them an Otisian by example. Drag them along to a game of Bar Trek,
or perhaps one of the many Otisian holidays conveniently placed around the
calendar. They'll see how much fun you're having and join up.
3. Give them a copy of Purps. This can be done one of two ways. First,
simply hand it to them. Second, leave a copy lying around somewhere where
they can see it. A good trick, which has worked in the past in several
places it to take a copy of Purps and simply staple it to a dorm notice
board. One of our more enterprising followers who was a teaching assistant
managed to get an entire Purps stapled in among a final exam. Use your
head. Get that printed material into their hands. Once they see it, they're
bound to join up.
4. Death Threats. Other religions use them. Why not you.
5. Otis is a good investment. It's the beginning of the year. Entering
students have a lot of money at this time. Many of them do not know how to
handle large amounts of cash properly. Help them out. Point out how Otis is
a good investment. It will save their souls.
6. Make new friends through Otis. This works best on lonely freshmen. They
are new to school. They have not friends. Show them how Otis can give them
friends. How Otis can give them the exciting publication Purps to inspire
them every day. And especially show them how by using the powers of the
Otis Initiate they can meet members of the opposite sex with ease. If you
can find several assistants this last argument can be carried out very
effectively. Designate one of them as the "Otisian Initiate". Have the
others (preferably of the opposite sex) come racing up to the "Otisian
Initiate" and rip all his clothes off showering him/her with amorous
affection. This can become even more effective if you have one of your
assistants dress up as a member of the Christian Clergy. As the "Otisian
Initiate" gets his/her clothes ripped off have this assistant come running
up and shout something along the lines of: "Stop all this sinning my fine
Christian children!" The "Otisian Initiate then shouts: "I'm an Initiate of
Otis! Everything Forbidden is optional. Go jump in a lake!". At this point
the clergy should shout "Pagans!" with a shocked look on his/her face and
run off in stark terror.
7. Enlightenment. Some students come to school to be enlightened. Point out to
them their ignorance in Otis and how any well rounded student should know a
little about everything. Show them how it is far cheaper to buy the initiate
teaching from the IGHF than take even the simplest and cheapest college
entry level course.
8. Brain washing. You'll need a large metal container for this such as a
oil drum. This trick usually works best if you present it as a fraternity
stunt or one of those college gags like swallowing gold fish or cramming
into a phone booth. Paint the drum bright festive Otisian colors. Be sure
to use plenty of Paisleys. You'll also need a tape recorder and one of
"Pope Jephe's Inspiration Message Tapes." (order from IGHF of course.) Now
somehow con/force/entice/blackmail the convert into the barrel. Now turn
on the tape and glue all the switches so it can't be turned off. Toss this
in the barrel with the convert. Then seal the whole thing. If at this point
you cannot hear the tape recording as plain as day, you'll need to open the
barrel again and turn up the volume. You may also wish to caper about and
laugh a lot. This gives a festive air to the conversion along with
hopefully covering up any protests or yells for help the convert is making.
Now find a steep hill and roll the barrel down it. A waterfall will work
even better. Once the barrel has reached the bottom tip it upside down and
wait until the tape is over. Pull out your convert and ask him/her about
joining Otis. If they say no. Repeat the performance. They'll soon come to
their senses. For especially tough converts you may wish to use a washing
machine instead of a barrel or perhaps pound on the outside of the barrel
with a ceremonial stick.
9. Pity. Break done and cry. Give them puppy dog eyes. Whimper a lot and
tell them about number eight above. Tell them you'll get a number eight if
you don't find any converts.
10. Disguise. Disguise yourself as another religion. String your convert
along until the last minute and spring Otis upon them. Most will be too
lazy to unconvert by this time.
####===================================================================####
TRENDS IN THE FUTURE
####===================================================================####
From: finerty@msscc.med.utah.edu (that's mr. wonderful to you)
Subject: TRENDS IN THE FUTURE
Date: 2 Aug 92 01:38:50 GMT
I have a prediction. In the future people will willingly have
limbs amputated. These will be thrown out as imperfect and useless and
replaced with new, mechanized, prosthesis'. They will be similar to the
bionic appendages seen on t.v. Carpenters will have arms to which a hammer
can be attached and which has a built in drill and circular saw. Scientists
will also jump on the bandwagon since they are always looking for a new toy
for the lab. Arms to which eppendorf tube shakers and incubators can be
attached will be in vogue as well as the standard hand held vortex and
micro- centrifuge. The military, which is more adept than scientists at
acquiring new technology will have soldiers equipped with RPG prosthesis'
and other various devices. The ultimate prosthesis will, of course, be a
small thermonuclear device disguised to look like a real human arm. Even
the weight will be correct. Thus, a spy equipped with such a device might
gain entry to enemy territory and then detonate the arm. This sort of
device will most popular with the japanese and moslem types who seem to
have an interesting idea of dying with honor. I say fuck honor and get me
out alive. Obviously I won't be the volunteer to try this one out.
Eventually humans will forgo all natural appendages and will have their
brains encased in a much stronger and longer lasting artificial shell. The
dream of flying will be made possible through the use of appendages which
have jets attached to them. Right now I want an arm with a makita drill
attached to it so that I could bore a hole through the heads of stupid
inane shits who cross my path. Since this story has begun to degenerate a
bit I think I will end it here and go get some money from the bank machine.
####===================================================================####
ART CHAPTER TWO
####===================================================================####
((((((((((((((((( CHAPTER TWO )))))))))))))))))))
{As you may last recall, we left our hero in quite a fix. He was being
taken out back by a bunch of Hell's Angels to be shown some good
old-fashioned sinning. (Whatever that may be.) For you viewers at home
with small children we advise you to have them leave the room. This plot
has definitely taken on an adult theme.}
"You can't do this to me!" whimpered Fredric Wilberforce as two huge
bikers wired on speed dragged the poor fat artist across the parking lot
and into a forest of chrome and black motorcycles. They were big mean
machines with all nonessentials chopped off leaving nothing but the bare
bones and an engine that bucked and roared like a caged demon.
They dragged Wilberforce into another world. A world so alien that not
even those who lived in it understood it. This looked to be the end for our
hero. The bikers were going to smear poor Fred across the pavement and
nothing would be left but a bloody mark. He would never again sell one of
his twisted bits of metal to the unsuspecting public.
Just as all seemed hopeless a voice spoke. It was a female voice that
belonged to a leather clad bleached blonde with a beehive hairdo. "Don't
kill him, I think he's cute!" she said strutting over to him and tweaking
one of his fat jowls.
"He's a fat slug!" roared one of the bikers who seemed to be the
leader.
"Yeah and he carries a lunch box!" argued another.
"I say we keep him. He's cute," said the blonde stamping her foot in
annoyance.
"No! He's a square, we've got to mess him up! After all, we're the
Hell's Angels!" cried the leader climbing up on top of a bike.
"He either stays or I go back to mother!" warned the blonde tossing
her head.
"Okay, dear, we'll keep him for now," sighed the leader.
"Who's he going to ride with?" asked someone.
All this time poor Fred's head darted about trying to figure out what
was going on. When it dawned on him that this leather clad woman was trying
to save his neck a smile played across his lips.
As things begin to settle down, people began to act real chummy
passing out beer and drugs to each other. A commotion was started at the
edge of the crowd. Over the yelling of angry angels came the sound of a
bicycle bell dinging.
"Where have you been all my life big fella?" asked the blonde who had
introduced herself moments earlier as Trixie.
Over the din of the Angels and dinging of the bicycle bell a voice was
heard. A very familiar voice, this time not distorted by a bull horn.
"Telegram for Mr. Wilberforce!"
The messenger for the gods worked his way through the crowd, when
someone tried to stop him he brushed them aside with a flip of his hand
sending them rolling across the pavement. He quickened his pace slightly
when he caught sight of Wilberforce with a blissful smile on his face and
Trixie hanging around his neck.
The smile disappeared on the artists face and was replaced by a look
of consternation. Trixie looked at the messenger too, but only saw a
typical telegram boy dressed much like the typical milkman except his suit
was blue and he was guiding a bicycle in one hand.
"Telegram for Mr. Wilberforce," said the messenger again, handing the
man an envelope and staring venomously at the artist until he untangled
himself from Trixie.
The divine messenger then took a puff on his pipe and held out his
hand. Wilberforce, not noticing this action, opened the telegram and began to
read. As he finished the first line he turned beet red, crumpled up the
telegram and threw it to the ground.
"Why?" Fred asked through clenched teeth.
"Because holy quests aren't supposed to be fun. And besides, it's a
sin."
Wilberforce fired off a string of not so pleasant curses in the general
direction of the divine messenger that even made some of the Hell's Angels
make faces. The messenger took out a small black book and wrote something
in it and then held out his hand again.
"What? What did you write in the book?"
"First off, I'm not holding out my hand for you to shake it. I want a
tip. Second, I'm in charge of keeping track of your sins and you just
committed one. Shame on you. I guess you must have done it because I didn't
have my bull horn. Well, next time I'll know."
"A tip?" roared Wilberforce.
"Calm down Fred, you'll burst a blood vessel. Now give me my tip so I
can leave. I feel really silly wearing this uniform."
####===================================================================####
REINCARNATION
####===================================================================####
From: finerty@msscc.med.utah.edu (that's mr. wonderful to you)
Subject: reincarnation
Date: 3 Aug 92 17:34:31 MST
I get out of the van and walk towards the door. Sure am hungry, I
think aloud while staring at the dog in the front yard. It runs away. It
felt like it took me twenty minutes to get to the door but it really only
took one. When I get to the door I knock loudly. A large woman answers
the door with a smile and a loaf of meat. Soul collector, ma'am, here to
get your soul, I say to her. The woman's face falls like wax in a flame
thrower. Fast. Know what I mean? I shake my head and tell her not to
worry. I tell her it doesn't hurt a bit and that you feel much better when
it is done. She does not believe me. PLAN II. WOW! I yell, pointing at
her ceiling. When she looks up I lay into her like a set of ginsu knives
with a mission. She is on the ground, unconscious, before she knows what
happened. I set down my brief case and set out the tools of my trade, an
empty Kraft mayonnaise jar and an iron pentagram. Using the pentagram, I
chase her soul around her body and finally into her stomach. After I get
there, I punch her on the abdomen or drop something heavy on it real hard
which causes her to vomit up her soul. At this point I catch it in the jar
and seal it up. I leave my card on her chest like a good businessperson.
For those of you who have not seen a soul, it is pink and looks like a
liver. It does not taste good. I evaporated my soul and now I store it in
a balloon that I keep in my closet. I keep all of the souls frozen because
it keeps them from pulsing too much. When I get bored, which happens a
lot, I take a few out of storage and shoot at them with my crossbow. I
leave the shattered soul out to be consumed by birds, rodents, insects and
unicellular types. So, you see, there is reincarnation. The animal that
eats your soul first becomes you. As your soul makes its way up the food
chain, you advance in life. There is just no logic or "justice" to it. It
is completely random and generally makes me happy.
####===================================================================####
OTISIAN YELLOW PAGES
####===================================================================####
[Here's the dope on the amazing OTISian yellow pages. It's kind of a stripped
down OTISian Directory. It's a yellow pages of the underground and it looks
pretty good. In these times of Fact Sheet Five being missing in action it's
good to see the IGHF has grabbed the yak by the horns and started producing
this. If you want weird addresses to write to, try the ones in here.
I shamelessly copied this from the back of the YELLOW PAGES Volumes I & II.
This issue costs $1.50 and is 8 8x11 pages in amazing yellow paper of all
things. Write to the IGHF for more info. They are eagerly looking for more
addresses to list. Those listed get a copy free.]
THE OTISian YELLOW PAGES
If it's 'Out There' it's in Here
Some things are too large to navigate without a map. The global underground
stretches from New York to London, from Tokyo to Czechoslovakia, from
Ottawa to Phoenix, from Boston to Belize. It hides in nooks and crannies in
every conceivable corner of the world. It has a representative on your
block, as it has a representative on just about every block of every city
in the world.
Its members regularly produce pamphlets and flyers, spubs, periodicals,
photographs, cassette tapes, computer disks, and video. They hold
conventions and congresses. They have parties and manage street theater.
They open coffee houses and bookstores to peddle their wares. All work at
low profit margins. Many will melt your mind for the price of a stamp.
Wouldn't it be nice to know where all these people are?
We thought so, too, which is why we've created the OTISian Yellow Pages.
The idea behind the Pages is simple. Create a publication that makes
finding a member of the marginals as simple as finding a business in the
phone book.
Modest as we are, we think that's a worthwhile task.
In fact, we're convinced of it, which is why we're selling the first issue
of the Pages for only a buck! (or the equivalent in IRCs. Listees in Pages
get a copy for free.)
So why not risk the Washington and drop us a line? After all, there's a
whole other world out there.
IGHF 955 MASS. Ave., Suite 209, Cambridge, MA 02139-9183
####===================================================================####
THEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHE
####===================================================================####
--Subink 1992 [Special Thanks to Lulu for Proofreading]
