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The Purple Thunderbolt of spode Volume 4 Issue 55
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SBI-Submarine Pens Proudly Presents:
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THE PURPLE THUNDERBOLT OF SPODE VOL 4, 55
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"Three years 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
Pope Jephe: jstevens@world.std.com
Doc Simpson: scott@plearn.bitnet
Subscriptions: HailOtis@socpsy.sci.fau.edu
Back issues ftp from quartz.rutgers.edu in /pub/journals/purps
####===================================================================####
INTRO
####===================================================================####
I suppose I should bemoan and bewail my fate. Actually, I suppose I should
really give our Loyal Otisian Fan's a good tongue lashing. The lack of
submissions this time around was appalling! Shame shame shame on you! Here
I work my fingers to the bone trying to present a quality product and I
don't have any help from the seething massing of Otis! Oh well, I've made
do. You get another chapter of a Deeply Religious Tale inflicted on you
along with another installment of Messenger of the Gods. Hopefully this
will convince some of you to contribute in order to spare yourselves further
installments.
One note: sorry for the lateness of this issue, for the past month the
editor has been bogged down with a study involving squirming human beings
and had not time to do any editing or much of anything else. Then there was
the veritable plague on high which whipped out said editor for a week and a
half. Still that plague was just a warning sign from Otis that an issue of
Purps was do. Since the editor was not devoting tim to Otis the Editor
would to sick to devote any time to much of anything.
No doubt in this introduction I should welcome all our new subscribers.
This issue should do a good job of making you scratch you head as to why
you actually subscribed to Purps or gotten involved with Otis at all. Well
go get the back issues and read all the Messenger of the God's material.
Then maybe you'll begin to understand. Still it is good to have you aboard,
and I cannot stress how astonished I sometimes get at how subscriptions
continue to pour in. I suppose our loyal Otisian are doing their part and
advertising the amazing Purple Thunderbolt of Spode to the uninformed
masses. Or maybe it's the Black Brothers of Rhotos on one of their campaigns
again. Knockings in the middle of the night, the bright gleam of a razor
sharp knife and the urgent whisper of "Sign up to Purps or die!"
I suppose since we don't have a Papal Pondering, the editor will have to
take that responsibility. Let's ponder the concept of Thanksgiving in
America and how it relates to Otis. It actually does boys and girls so
don't skip over this part. I'm sure most if not all of you have had at
least one lecture on how those original pilgrims sailed to America in
search of religious freedom and how they found it here in America. Of course
they avoid mentions the Salem Witch trials and a few other things or how
old Johny Trumain burned his hand of the Sabbath because he couldn't take
proper precautions in ye old silver shoppe due to the fact he'd have gotten
strung up by his heels if he'd gotten caught mucking about on the Sabbath.
Still let's not digress to much. Remember how they always stress how coming
to America offered religious freedom and new beginnings. Where else can you
have amazing religious freedom? Well maybe in India (look at past articles
in Purps.) Or perhaps Russia where we were supposed to have the apocalypse
earlier this week according to some woman who's rotting away in jail now
because the authorities are afraid of her or something. Or lets not forget
Waco.
Well anyway, with the coming to America came the coming of the Haystack
Monument, which of course all good Otisian know is where the first divine
revelation of Otis occurred in these modern times. The Haystack of course is
centered on a set of ley lines and is in a similar shape to the bee hive
used by the ancient greeks and others as mystical symbols. [If you want to
know more about these mystical symbols you'll need to pay for your
initiation lecture-by-mail pamphlets from the IGHF.] The Haystack also
rested on a much older site of something else, which we can't indiscreetly
reveal here. Nor can we talk about the street layout of Otis Mass which
when viewed from the proper angle and elevation reveals one of the most
ancient and forbidden secrets.
Of course you're all clammering for some real hard facts instead of these
vague mutterings, which will some day get in me trouble. One day I'll slip
and reveal all. So lets have some good hard facts. What should the average
Otis be thankful for on Turkey Day.
1. The Haystack Monument of course and the founding of America. Without
these two events modern Otisanism as we know it would never have come
about and we'd still be doing silly outdated rituals.
2. Otis Mass of course. A taylor made mystery spot on our Planet. The only
spot holy enough to contains the actual Balls of Brow.
3. Pope Jephe of the Many spellings for his yearly assassination. And for his
tireless efforts with Otisianism in general. Without him we'd still be
using those old hymnals we got at that yard sale instead of the 4 color
ones we use now with many of Doc Simpson's new songs.
4. Spode, for living in Hong Kong.
5. Saint Tif, for refraining from using her Bloody Pinking Shears on you.
6. The house of Holiday Foods. Without their eternal vigil and constant
lobbying holiday foods would have been outlawed many years ago.
7. Heether for making fashions interesting.
8. William Shatner, a role model for us all. Who else can boldly go where no
man has gone before wearing a hair piece like that.
9. For Lulu, who occasionally insists Purps gets proofread before sending.
10. And finally of course for Steph who started who whole made News of the
Weird business.
I suppose we should thank Otis too for that matter. In fact that's probably
the most important thing you can do. Thanking Otis is very simple. Since
there are so many Otisians now only a small sacrifice by each and every
Otisian will insure Otis a happy T-day. Simply take the holiday food of
your choice and place it on a pie pan on your back step or equivalent. In a
day or two, or even a minute it will simply disappear. If the food does not
disappear it's probably time you consulted with the Pope about raising your
annual donation to the IGHF.
And so on with the show. It's time to mail this!
####===================================================================####
Weird Stuff
####===================================================================####
From: paganpub@aol.com
Sender: <paganpub@aol.com>
Date: Mon, 04 Oct 93 01:48:49 EDT
Subject: Weird Shit
* Forwarded by Bruce Baugh (1:105/40.23)
* Area : DEBATE (DEBATE)
* From : Russ Wuertz, 1:142/697 (Sunday September 26 1993 20:33)
* To : All
* Subj : whats going on?
----------
Can anyone tell me whats going on. The TV and radio seems to be talking
back to me. I heard that this is called basic paranoia. The problem is,
is that the police seem to be aware of it and make comments like Johnny
Carson is their Chief of police,and repeat what he says, like its what
they're all doing. They're trying to wiretap peoples brains and broadcast
thoughts, and communicate through time, to put down prostitution or some
damned thing like that. How are they involved? Using a brain wiretap? I
really can't understand how they can cause a world war and be called public
servants. Its as thought they are supervising my murder. A broadcasting
station manager told me that If they gave me any thing I'd want everything.
they must owe me so much that they are murdering me.
I'm serious...the police seem to be supervising this. The only sanity I
have is reading printed comments. They seem to be projecting sounds at me
24 hours a day, and waking me up at night. this has been going on since
1986.
I have no idea how anyone recognizes me, but people make comments on the
street about what the TV sys when it talks back to me.
Weird huh?
####===================================================================####
Body Art
####===================================================================####
Date: Wed, 6 Oct 93 23:35:02 EDT
From: buglady@bronze.lcs.mit.edu (Aliza R. Panitz)
Subject: Too weird for my shoes
From: curtis@snake.CS.Berkeley.EDU (Curtis Yarvin)
Subject: futurist body art
Date: 13 Jul 1993 23:30:48 -0700
Eat lard to enlarge your thighs. When they are the size of tree trunks,
excavate them and scrape the skin transparent. Fill the left with water and
goldfish; the right with sand and Gila monsters.
Buy a one-third-scale bronze statue of Stalin and crucify him with
molly-bolts to your chest and arms.
Stretch your lips with guy-wires from nipples and scalp. When they form
great fans sever their blood supply with rubber bands on the gums and shape
them into a bullhorn as they dry.
Graft anaconda to the soles of your feet and never walk alone again.
[Do you think I would have made this up??? - arp]
####===================================================================####
A Deeply Religious Tale
####===================================================================####
((((((((((((((((((((((((Chapter Nine )))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
{As our reader may last recall finally the item of the holy quest was
revealed along with a whole slue of miracles that were performed to impress
everyone. Our hero and his companions have gone to bed and were awakened
bright and early by the divine messenger this time dressed in a pair of
skimpy swimming trunks and a towel.}
"RAISE AND SHINE!"
"Oh shut up!", yelled on of the Angels crawling out of his sleeping
bag.
"I'm hungry," commented another. Several other angels looked up at the
sky expecting it to start raining Captain Crunch and milk. However, this
did not happen much to the disappoint of many.
After everyone had woken up and the divine messenger had shooed away
the chinese peasants who had been collecting baskets of pop corn and beer
he address the group on last time.
"Before you go I have to give you my final blessing along with basic
guide lines for questing."
"Oh dear," muttered Wilberforce shuffling his feet back and forth in
the wet grass.
The messenger gave him a knowing wink and continued. "Ladies and
gentlemen throughout history there have been people who have gone on
quests. Now not a single one of these quests have been a Sunday picnic. So
we can't very well have you having fun now can we?" A moan when up from the
crowd. "So in order to make things more challenging," said the divine
messenger grinning as he pulled out a wand topped with a glitter covered
star, "the panel of experts, the big man upstairs and the chronicler of
this story have decided to do the following."
The messenger turned and pointed the wand at the collection of
motorcycles. Immediately they turn into skate boards. He then pointed the
wand at the bikers and the clothes were replaced by shiny suits of armor
decorated with dayglo smiley faces and tutus. Wilberforce and Trixie were
not affected. The Hell's Angels immediately became very angry and tried to
rip off their new attire only to fine that they couldn't. They tried to roll
in the mud of the rice paddy to get them dirty but that didn't work either.
The messenger ignored them. He spoke directly to Trixie. "Since you're such
an air head and are more or less window dressing all you have to wear is
this sombrero." He then spoke to Fredric. "You look stupid enough as is."
By now the bikers had resigned themselves to their fate. After all
they had asked for it. However several were crying over the loss of their
motorcycles.
"Well there you are. You must use those skate boards instead of bikes
for this quest. Also you my use grey hound buses and water wings but no
other form of transportation. I suggest you use violence as much as
possible when the situation calls for it. Try to avoid intelligent action
since you are a bunch of fat heads. Now one last thing before I leave. I'm
going to the beach today after all. Here is your banner that you must carry
with you at all times as a sign of your faith. Try to get it back to the
Maceys day parade so as not to disappoint the kiddies."
With these words overhead the giant Bullwinkle balloon appeared. It
magically hung in the air just above their heads. "I've modified it a bit
folks so you don't have to worry about losing it I've made it so it will
follow you around."
Everyone protests at these totally silly things as the divine
messenger started to fade out of existence. Seeing this he snapped his
fingers and it began to rain valium and then he was gone.
Wilberforce looked about himself trying not to laugh. What a strange
sight they were. How could they ever complete their quest now? Trixie was
not too pleased with her sombrero and already one of the bikers had gotten
a bloody nose from falling off a skate board. Oh if he had only been born
poor.
Now where to begin? The film they had seen last night had not been
much help really. It had had far to many commercials in it and poorly
spelled english subtitles hadn't helped either. A chill ran down our heroes
spine. If this was all the forces of good could put out they surely were in
trouble. Might as well just give up and sign over his soul. Then a vision
of the man from Hell entered his mind and he broke out in a cold sweat.
He attention was brought back to the real world when someone shoved a
screaming chinese peasant boy into his face. "Look this kid's got a
beanie," has a fat Angel, looking totally ridiculous in his armor. Mr.
Wilberforce regarded the child tugging on his blinking bow tie. The young
child dressed in muddy tattered clothes had a brand new beanie on his head
with a propeller. It looked like it could be a lead.
"Put the poor thing down you're going to hurt it," admonished Trixie.
"This could be a clue," said the artist spinning the propeller on top.
"Tell us were you got the beanie boy or we'll rip you head off and
puke down you're neck!", growled the biker holding the kid.
The child cried louder and wet his pants. The other bikers had come
over to see what all the commotion was. Suddenly and explosion seemed to
rip their rants as several of the older chinese peasants came to the rescue
of the child using some strange form of Judo. The bikers put up a valiant
fight with chains and bottle openers but soon were reduced to tangled
masses of unconscious bodies. Fred seeing this ordered the biker to put the
child down. As as soon as the biker did this the peasants stopped and
returned to tending field.
Our hero breathed a sigh of relief and looked down at the piles of bodies.
Trixie raced over to her husband lying face down in a mud puddle and tried to
revive him. Wilberforce realizing that this child could be an important to his
quest wandered over and tried to start up a conversation with the busy peasant.
This, however, proved futile since the peasants didn't speak english and the
only chinese word Fredric knew was egg roll.
Clearly they could not simply take the kid or the beanie without being
killed. These were one mean set of peasants. He looked around again at the
sprawled Angels in disgust. What a bunch of worthless human beings. He'd
never get anywhere with them. No wonder the man with the bull horn had not
given him any more silly bits of stuff. These clods were twice as bad as
the electric bow tie. A pang of guild passed through him as he noticed
Trixie with the biker leader. What had he gotten these poor people involved
in?
####===================================================================####
Out of Body Celebs
####===================================================================####
Date: Tue, 5 Oct 1993 13:38:14 CET
From: <K3016E2@ALIJKU11.BITNET>
Subject: Gorbi
Lines: 8
An Austrian OOBEer claimed in TV that he knows only one person (beside
himself) who can leave the body: Michail Gorbatschow (hope, the spelling is
correct).
Question: Does anybody know something about that?
####===================================================================####
New Literary Find
####===================================================================####
[Not since they discovered that the Effiel Tower was a fake has french
culture been struck such a devastating blow.]
From: V_COCCIA@unhh.unh.edu (Vincent J Coccia)
Subject: Lemurs in Literature
Date: 7 Oct 1993 22:53:21 GMT
STARTLING NEW LITERARY FIND IN PARIS
7 Oct 93- Today, literature professors at the Sorbonne released evidence
that Alexandre Dumas (pere) had lemur assistant writers during the
serialization of "The Three Musketeers". This astounding new evidence shows
that the original names for the musketeers were changed just before the
story went to press. The main character was originally named D'arPTANGian,
and his companions Frinkthos, Frinkamis, and WoooOOOthos.
Other previously unpublished fragments unearthed by literists at
the Sorbonne detail the birthplace of Milady DeWinter as the Jersey Islands
(a proposed location for the wreckage of a cow-ship) and the original title
of Richelieu as COW-dinal.
The prosimian assistant writers were apparently compensated for
their assistance by bulk purchases of some sort of pastry and a very rare
vintage of wine from the "Grande-K" region of Burgundy. Records show that
the prosimians were released from service after a night out at the opera
with Dumas. It seems that several of the writers were ejected from the
opera after swinging on the chandelier, and stealing the instruments of the
entire brass section. The resulting chaos caused Dumas to be deeply
embarrassed and thus the sections written by the lemurs were re-edited.
####===================================================================####
Thought of the Day
####===================================================================####
From: Jeffrey Stevens <jstevens@world.std.com>
Subject: Thought of the day
A priest asked: What is Fate, Master?
And he answered:
It is that which gives a beast of burden its reason for existence.
It is that which men in former times had to bear upon their backs.
It is that which has caused nations to build byways from City to City upon
which carts and coaches pass, and alongside which inns have come to be
built to stave off Hunger, Thirst and Weariness.
And that is Fate? said the priest.
Fate ... I thought you said Freight, responded the Master.
That's all right, said the priest. I wanted to know what Freight was
too.
-- Kehlog Albran, "The Profit"
####===================================================================####
Kidney Fat
####===================================================================####
From: lrudolph@black.clarku.edu (Lee Rudolph)
Subject: Aboriginal "Kidney-Fat" Guards?
Date: 9 Oct 93 23:47:56 GMT
Yesterday, National Public Radio (here in the USA) aired an interview with
an Australian Aboriginal who's in the States promoting outback tourism.
Besides playing his digeridoo (sp.?) and beating time with a couple of
boomerangs, he told us about the three kinds of guards his particular group
of people have to keep themselves on their own territory and out of
trouble. The third, and most fearsome, of these guards are the
"kidney-fat" guards, whose job it is, when someone just won't behave, to
punish him as follows: hypnotize him into a deep sleep ("hypnotize" was the
word used by the Australian); slice open his back and cut away the
kidney-fat; sew him back up with human hair.
####===================================================================####
The Dangers of Fruit
####===================================================================####
From: "P.Harris" <P.Harris@southampton.ac.uk>
Date: Sun, 17 Oct 93 12:12:23 BST
Subject: Some dangers of fruit
Abstracted from The Guardian, Weekend Supplement October 16th.
* Dangerous Food - In Motion.
"A maniac who hurls corn cobs at pedestrians from his moving car is being
hunted," reports Today. "Retired engineer John Snowden, 60, felled as he
walked his dog, said: 'I keeled over. I thought I'd been shot.' Police in
Lodden, Norfolk, said: 'Corn on the cobs can be very dangerous when thrown
out of a car at high speed.'"
* Dangerous Food - In Pocket.
"A banana caused a French passenger aircraft to go on hijack alert and turn
back in mid-flight on June 18," reports Reuters. "A passenger on board an Air
Inter Airbus from Paris to Malaga, Spain, mistook a bulge in another
passenger's trousers for a gun and alerted the crew. After the return to Orly
airport, paramilitary gendarmes discovered the fruity nature of the bulge."
* Dangerous Food - Incredible.
"Last January, Nigel Hayward was released from a two-year sentence for
robbery using a banana," records the Daily Mirror. "The next day he walked
into a bank with a banana under his shirt and a cashier gave him 295 pounds.
The same trick worked in a building society where he got 1,500 pounds. Later,
he was arrested for arguing in a nightclub called Joe Bananas in Bristol. He
was jailed for another six years."
* Dangerous Food - In Memoriam.
"The Mafia Cookbook, just published by Simon & Schuster, was written by
Joseph Iannuzzi after he spilled the beans about his Cosa Nostra colleagues,"
records the International Herald Tribune. "When cooking for the mob, he
writes, he used plenty of heavy sauces because 'any meal may be their last,
so it better be a good one.' Successful robberies were celebrated with steak.
'But if they went out and hurt somebody or killed them, accidentally or
whatever, they didn't want no red meat at all. So I'd make a shrimp scampi
gambino instead.'"
####===================================================================####
Automated Phones
####===================================================================####
Date: Sat, 30 Oct 1993 12:35:40 -1812
From: iverson@crl.nmsu.edu (Eric Iverson)
Subject: CSP
>From: rejones@whale.st.usm.edu (Robert E. Jones)
>
>>From Information Week, 25 Oct 93
>
>
>AUTOMATED PHONES
>
>
>
> A First Union Bank customer in Roanoke, Va., infuriated over not reaching
>a live operator when he called the bank's automated phone system over Columbus
>Day weekend to complain about an incorrect statement, created a computer
>program to exact revenge. The program automatically dialed eight First Union
>phone numbers, played a recording of an "automated customer complaint," and
>instructed the recipient to press a number to hear a live complaint. When the
>number was pressed, another recording said the customer was busy but to
>please wait on hold. The bank later called the customer and apologized for the
>original inconvenience.
####===================================================================####
Messenger Of the Gods, the next part
####===================================================================####
By Mal 09:41:47 Sat 11-13-1993
{As our readers may recall, in our last exciting installment, Otis had just
appeared in order to save his Valentine from the Goddess Eris that the
messenger of the gods was bringing to her. Elvis, having just shown up in
the alternate dimension with his guitar to save the day, had been attacked
by a pair of inbred beings named Vasoline and Gasoline. He'd been slobbered
on, bitten, and licked by the brace of unearthly creatures. The Man in
Black, hoping to keep his sanity, had begun chanting. Our narrator has just
hosed down Elvis and his attackers like rutting dogs in hopes of separating
them. The mysterious woman from the Mayan flying saucer lies senseless on
the floor after being molested by her supposed new husband. Of course Spode
was off somewhere in yet another dimension reading his paper from Hong
Kong, knowing matters were well in hand. }
Elvis moaned and sat up. With one feeble hand he tried to scrap the oozing
juices of Vasoline and Gasoline off his naked body. Bite marks oozed blood,
abrasions from tongues were angry red and bruises began to appear.
"Where is my Valentine!" cried the mighty Otis, storming over to tower
over the dazed Elvis. Otis almost tripped on a slimy puddle of fluid.
"What..." muttered the King of Rock and Roll, he was in a bad way. He'd
have been dead by now, if his body wasn't in as good shape as it was. The
space friends had done a wonderful job on him.
The Valentine, which was actually in my pocket, {For those of you playing
along at home shame on you if you forgot that detail.} jerked out of my
pocket like a wild thing and hovered in mid-air, its heady scent making
everyone in the room dizzy. Even most of our attackers buried under the
remains of the roof stirred restlessly, causing lumber and slate tiles to
slip and slide. All eyes were upon it. The Man in Black's chant faltered.
His prayer wheel clanked to the floor. An unholy lust began to boil up in
all of us.
"My Valentine!" cried Otis, her hands reaching forth.
The stars overhead were blotted out. The air grew still. Then came a
tremendous sound like a million pins being hit in a bowling alley. The sky
was filled with golden comets that danced around in a strange brownian
motion. All of us in the ruins of the building paid this amazing event
very little attention, being mesmerized by the floating letter. Otis took
a step forward, his fingers writhing in anticipation.
"Wait!" sounded out a voice like a thousand glass chimes. Drawn by the
voice, we looked up into the whirling heavens. I somehow knew that
voice. It was the same voice that had spoken to me over that T.V. what
seemed like years ago. The madly dancing sky was too much for the battered
Elvis, who with a slimy splash fainted, falling into a pool of fluid.
"You may not partake of the sacrament of my Valentine for it has not been
delivered correctly oh Mighty Otis, my one true love," continued the voice.
On the divine countenance of Otis a mightily pout appeared.
"Eris..." I muttered. Out of the corner of my eye I could see beads of
sweat dripping off the Man in Black's wide pale brow as by sheer force of
will he tried to rip his gaze from the scene that was unfolding.
"What!" whimpered Otis his majestic posture turning into a dejected slouch.
Then the realization that he was a divine Entity came to him and his
posture perked back up. She began to glow in an aura that almost
outshone the whirling heavens of golden comets, but not quite.
"I am a god! I don't have to partake in such monkey shines as obeying
divine voices from on high!" he declared taking another step toward the
floating letter.
"Oh yes you do. You big silly!" said the voice of Eris from the heavens.
With those words a ring of fire appeared around the letter. Slowly it began
to close. As we watched in horror the letter began to scorch and its divine
scent began to be replaced by the everyday boring smell of burning paper.
"Stop!" cried Otis meekly, "I yield!"
Suddenly there was a blinding flash. When we could see again, Otis was
gone, the sky was back to its normal sprinkling of stars (or what I assume
was normal for this dimension), and in my hand I held the slightly scorched
Valentine of Eris. Damn I'd still have to deliver the blasted thing. I
thought for a moment that maybe Eris would disappear and I could slip the
relic to Otis on the sly, but he too had vanished.
The Man in Black mopped his forehead with a feminine handkerchief
monogrammed with E.A. Around us I could hear the rubble of the mystery
spot house moving. The inbred denizens of this universe would soon crawl
forth from the rubble and no doubt go back to trying to make Elvis breed
with them.
On the floor lay the rope that had been tied to Elvis' waist. It was soggy
and bitten in places but it still led off into thin air, into the
dimensional hole. Hopefully the rope would lead us back to the Submarine
and we could get this damn quest over with. Nearby, perched on a pile of
dry rot-filled timbers, was the paper airplane.
I went over to see to Elvis, carefully avoiding the puddles of fluid. I
didn't trust that fluid. It would probably eat holes in my boots. Elvis was
moaning quietly. I reached out to grab a hold of him but drew back at all
the gunk that covered him. Luckily, I had some gloves with me. I put them
on, knowing full well I'd have to burn them later. Elvis looked vulnerable
in his naked state. His clothes were completely ruined. I'd have given him
my jacket, but I didn't want it ruined by the crud that covered him.
Carefully with my gloved hands I propped him up and shook him.
"Come on Elvis wake up. We've got to get out of here," I yelled into his
ear. I looked over at the Man in Black. He'd picked up one of the shot
guns lying around and was aiming it at something that squirmed under the
rubble. A head popped up and the gun went off. Brains splattered across the
shattered roof tiles. The Man in Black swiveled on a heel and emptied the
other barrel into another pile of shifting rubble. His cold efficiency was
frightening to behold. Moments ago he'd been as rattled as the rest of us
and now he was back to his old cold blooded self. I suspected the black
dressed creature was more than just keeping the enemy at bay for us. He
was getting his revenge for the embarrassment they'd caused. Men in Black do
not like losing their cool especially in front of people like me who
vaguely knows about them.
"No, no, no girls," muttered Elvis, "Look, I'll let you all ride in the
Cadillac if you'll just leave me alone for a few minutes to collect my
wits." Blearily he opened his eyes. He seemed relieved to find himself in
the ruins of the mystery spot shack.
I helped him to his feet. He was very unsteady and leaned heavily on me.
"Whoo-wee, for a moment I thought I was being attacked by my loving fans
instead of those things," said Elvis, shuddering. He ran a hand through his
soaked hair, shaking it out, and splattered saliva all over the floor. He
made a face, then realized he was naked.
A shot gun boomed again. Both Elvis and I jumped. The Man in Black had
found another shot gun. "Look will you stop that! Grab the girl and lets
get out of here," I said.
"I need some clothes! And where's my guitar," said Elvis. He seemed to be
regaining his senses rapidly. Still, he did have trouble seeing with one
eye almost swollen shut. Elvis lunged for the guitar when he saw it. He let
out a small cry as he picked it up, seeking to gain energy from it.
Miraculously enough, the guitar was intact.
The Man in Black stalked over to join the two of us. In one hand he
casually held the still unconscious woman in the leather trench coat. She
seemed light as a feather tucked under his one arm. He looked Elvis up and
down as if appraising him.
"Hey stop that!" yelled Elvis, trying to hide his nakedness with his
guitar.
"Elvis!" suddenly cried Vasoline and Gasoline as they darted out of the
ruined door way. Both were naked and very wet from the fire hose. Their
eyes still gleamed with animal lust. Elvis screamed in terror and swung his
guitar, solidly connecting with the head of Gasoline, who went down like a
poleaxed yak.
"You know you really embarrassed yourself back there," said Spode from over
his paper to the pacing Otis.
"Yeah I did," agreed the subdued Otis throwing herself into a morris chair.
"You're really going to have to start taking notes. I mean how could you
have forgotten where that Valentine was?"
"Well, I got all excited," muttered Otis, playing with the doily on the arm
rest of the chair.
"You should really start using your head, you know. Here you are, supreme
commander of the entire Sumerians Justice League as it were, and you go
around acting like a drunken Asian yak salesman. No wonder there's still
those yak tossing rumors floating around," admonished Spode.
The three of us dived into the Dimensional hole grabbing onto the rope.
That paper air plane was probably instructions from Mamboto but it was too
late to pick it up. We still had Vasoline on our tail. Her animal lust for
Elvis was so strong we could feel it boiling off her like steam from a
kettle.
The three of us raced along the rope holding onto it much like a handrail.
In the tornado green fog it was as stiff as an iron rod. We couldn't see
anything. I had one arm around Elvis' shoulder to help him along. He was
still very weak. The Man in Black led, holding the woman. Distantly we
could hear electronic noises and explosions. The Man in Black also said he
could hear the two who had led us to the mystery shack cursing. Clearly the
greys were still around somewhere. From behind we could hear an unnatural
keening we took to be coming from the slobbering mouth of Vasoline. Elvis
was very pale and shaking. The keening seemed to be pulling at his mind.
"Something's wrong," Elvis said in a fearful voice. "We took the wrong way.
We should be at the submarine by now." He looked back over his shoulder and
screamed. Vasoline was catching up to us. She loomed out of the fog gaining
on us in huge leaping bounds.
All three of us tripped and fell. We fell on the leathery mutilated bodies
of greys, black eyeballs like glass Christmas ornaments crunched under us.
Vasoline pounced, locking herself onto Elvis again. Elvis feebly clubbed
her with his guitar. The electric noises in the distance were growing
closer as were the explosions. The Man in Black and I floundered to our
feet and waded over to Elvis and Vasoline locked together. Both of us made
faces as we tried to separate the two. It was no good. Vasoline was locked
like a boa constrictor around Elvis, who when his mouth was free screamed
incoherently. No doubt that would attract the greys or whatever else was
out in the fog.
Suddenly two figures loomed out of the fog. One had a large grin on his
face full of green streaked teeth. The other had on that damn hat with all
the bobbing spheres. It was the two how'd originally dumped us in the
mystery spot.
With one smooth motion they scooped up Elvis and Vasoline and ran. The
more human of the pair yelled over his shoulder. "Get your chunks in gear
and run. We'll deal with this later..." They faded into the fog. The Man in
Black and I were up and began to run. Each of us grabbed the arm of the
woman. It was hard going. She really didn't weigh much in the fog but she
did make running awkward, and under our feet were heaps and heaps of greys.
Behind us were heard more yelling and explosions along with the crackle of
machine gun fire.
We ran for what seemed like hours, but it was probably only seconds.
Occasionally we would catch glimpses of the two in front of us. They seemed
to have very little if any trouble with the greys that were everywhere
under foot. One of them occasionally would pull out a weird pistol and
fire off round after round of brilliant energy bursts into the fog at some
unseen target.
On we raced over more chopped up grey corpses. Then underfoot was tile and
we went sprawling, slamming into a wall. We were in a men's room. Or what
looked like a men's room. The rope led around the corner.
What the hell were we doing in a men's room. The Man in Black and I looked
at each other. Then without a word we picked up the even more battered
woman and set out after the rope. Behind us in the stall we'd come out of
we heard an ear shattering electronic buzz and the lights for a second
flickered. Neither of us dared look back.
Around the corner and out into a carpeted hall. We pelted down the hall
following the rope. There were scorched marks in the carpet that looked
like footprints. I assumed the two we were following were making them. Also
the carpet was soaked in places with saliva and worse fluids. Poor Elvis.
We pelted past an open door. It was a computer room full of people.
Stewy and the Rev looked up from the their terminals where they were
working. They saw something small and grey flash by the door, but thought
nothing of it and went back to what they were doing.
On we raced. Around another turn. Behind us we could hear something running
with an inhuman gait. We looked at each other and tried to run faster. The
woman was weighing us down now that we were in some supposedly real
dimension or another.
"Cut the rope," suggested the Man in Black. I started rummaging through my
pockets the best I could. Then I saw a fire axe on the wall. I dropped the
woman and ran for it. My fist flew and the glass broke. Out came the axe.
With a whirling slice I hit the rope. It took three whacks. The Man in
Black grabbed the woman in both arms and ran off down the hall as I did
this. I dropped the axe and followed only to have my feet knocked out from
under me by a grey. It hit me in a football tackle. Its weird leather arms
wrapped around my legs. They were strong. My legs felt as if they were going
to snap. I yelled and punched at the thing. I flailed around, managed to
grab the axe. I had to do something quick before any more Greys would show
up.
I chopped and chopped with the axe. It was awkward and once I hit myself
causing me even more pain. The Grey refused to budge. Its hide was
incredibly tough. It was like trying to chop up a rubber tire.
One of my wild swings connected with the grey's black eight ball like eyes.
It shattered with a loud bang much like a television tube exploding. For a
moment its grip loosen. I kicked madly but I couldn't get free.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement. It was the rope. Someone was
tugging on it. If I lost that rope I'd lose my way home. I dropped the
axe and made a grab for the rope. I missed the first couple of times. My
fingers dug into the carpet and I hauled myself toward the rope that was
starting to disappear down the hall. I lunged. The grey dug in its feet, or
what passed for feet. I had the rope in one hand. It tugged. The other end
tugged about dislocating my shoulder. Luckily the rope was wrapped around
my hand. I held on for dear life. I flailed with my other hand and it got a
hold of the rope.
The rope started to jerk and I was dragged down the haul. The damn grey
clinging to my legs. They grey seemed to weight a ton. I doubted if I could
hold on. Then I realized just how silly I must look. Here I was lying on
the floor clinking to a rope with this creature from outer space clinging
to my legs. I could just imagine someone from that terminal room back there
coming along and finding me in this mess. What would they think.
They eye socket on the grey started to leak some glowing bluish fluid. I
caught a whiff of it and about puked. It smelled like rancid blood. The grey
looked up at me with its good eye as we were tugged along. I knew it
wouldn't let go unless I killed it and even then I wondered. I would be
trapped. Its friends would soon come pouring down the haul wielding their
electronic boxes and have me off to Nightmare Alley. I was getting scared.
"Well there goes the damn Valentine quest," I muttered to the alien. Maybe
I could make friends with it and it would let go. The rope jerked again and
I moved along.
"Hey look! It's Elvis and he's making out with some chick and they're all
naked!" cried a high pitched woman's voice from down the hall in direction
of the rope. The roped stopped its jerking and I heard there came a scream.
"Oh now what?" I muttered. I let go of the rope with one hand and rummaged
around in my coat hoping to find something useful. After a minute my hand
closed around the barrel of a machine pistol. I managed to drag it out.
Its clip was empty. The grey wrapped around my legs stirred and tried to
drag us back down the hall in the direction we came. It was too weak to
make much progress so I ignored it.
A strange noise came from the direction of that woman's scream. I wondered
what was going on. Perhaps the greys had circled around us or something.
I found a clip and some how managed to insert it into the pistol. The rope
jerked and we were off again. For a second I thought of dropping the gun.
Then decided to give it one try. The rope jerked again. There went my
shoulder again. I jammed the barrel of the pistol awkwardly into the empty eye
socket of the grey and pulled the trigger hoping I'd not chew up my legs
with hot lead.
The pistol ate into the grey head spattering the near by wall with bluish
fluid, rubbery cartilage and meaty chunks of grey flesh. The grey spasmed
for a second then relaxed. Its head looked like a donut someone had taken
a shot gun too. I stuffed the pistol back in my pocket. The rope jerked again
as I tried to stand up. My legs were too numb.
The rope jerked again and I slide down the hall quite a distance. Now that
the grey was gone the load on the rope was much less.
I was up on one knee as I rounded a corner only to go sprawling again at
the feet of the Man in Black. Slumped on the floor next to him was a woman,
her eyes glazed over. On her head was the dreaded brain caps of the Man in
Black. Near by on a bench lay the bodies of Elvis and Vasoline locked
together still. Occasionally one or the other would give a twitch.
The Man in Black looked down at me. I slowly go to my feet.
"Through there is the Submarine," said the Man in Black triumphantly, point
at the rope which disappeared into a blank wall. It looked as though we'd
made it home at last.
####===================================================================####
Make Your Own Gold
####===================================================================####
From: John_-_Winston@cup.portal.com
Subject: Gold In The Pot.
Date: Sun, 31 Oct 93 06:05:43 PST
Subject: Gold In The Pot.
If you have got a pot, a fire and some things from any store, then maybe
you can make gold. Here is how a man says it can be done.......
Metallurgist Jeff Arnold has concocted an incredible recipe that allows
you to make gold in your own oven -- using ingredients found in any
supermarket!
The 38-year old genius says that anyone with a little cooking experience
and a standard home oven can turn a few dollars worth of readily available
products like lead into gleaming ingots of gold worth a king's ransom.
"It's as easy as turning corn meal into cornbread," Arnold declared.
"Anyone can do it. All of the ingredients can be found in any super-
market or hardware store," he explained as he "baked up" a batch of gold
ingots in kitchen of his home near Taos, N.M.
"However, at this time, I feel I must keep the ingredients to myself.
"It's taken me years of hard work to discover the secret of how to make
gold and I think it only fair that I reap the profits before I share that
secret with the world.
"But as soom as I feel that my financial future is secure, I will make
the ingredients available to everyone .. free of charge!"
Arnold said the only problem is that the amount of each ingredient will
have to be adjusted to be compatible with several variable factors - the
age and type of oven, the local humidity, and the grade, purity and
freshness of those ingredients that have a shelf life.
"For example," Arnold explained, "one of the ingredients - hydrogen
peroxide - will degrade with time. It must be as fresh as possible when
purchased.
"The expiration date on the bottle must be at least three years off.
"And be absolutely certain to use 3 percent, antiseptic-type peroxide,
not the stronger one used for bleaching hair."
He added that the amount of each ingredient and the exact temperature and
cooking time needed to produce gold is the result of much trial and error.
"A beginning goldmaker may hit the time and measures right on the nose
the first time," he said with a smile. "But it's not likely.
"All of the ingredients are blended in equal amounts. For example, eight
ounces of each of the other ingredients.
"The problem is that eight ounces - or whatever the starting amount - may
be too much or too little. The only way to find the proper measure is
through trial and error. But even that is fun to do.
"The ingredients are blended together to make a thick, lumpy but pourable
gruel," Arnold said. "I bring the mixture to a boil, then simmer it for 30
minutes over low heat.
"The cooked mixture is then poured into a teflon coated aluminum mold.
Then I pop it into the oven and cook it for one hour on the highest
setting.
"Then I take it to the bank. It's pure gold.
####===================================================================####
News of the Weird
####===================================================================####
[Here's another installed of News of the Weird directly for the nimble
fingers of Steph the News of the Weird Woman.]
From the Chicago Reader, 1/3/92:
In June in San Marcos, TX, a man reported he had been injured walking along
a road when a passing motorist hit him in the back with a bologna sandwich.
Police in Kewanee, IL, charged Michael Runyon with drunk driving this
summer after he accidentally drove a lawn mower into the path of a freight
train. Runyon, who escaped injury when the train flipped the 5-horsepower
mower 10 ft. into the air, had used the vehicle for transportation ever
since his driver's license was suspended for drunk driving 5 years ago.
Ernest Ray "Ernie" Lynn, son of singer Loretta Lynn, announced in June that
the reason he was having a vasectomy was to stop the seemingly continuous
string of paternity suits ("2 or 3" every year) being filed against him.
And from the Chicago Reader, 4/17/92:
The German Parliament's commission on children proposed in November that
its citizens be required to be more loving and affectionate. Suggestions
included: barring parents from spanking or nagging children, from
threatening them with the bogeyman, and from withholding affection.
Germans are already subjected to public-civility requirements, which
prohibit angry gestures at motorists and insults to civil servants, among
other things. [Can you imagine all of the above in the States? Especially
the latter!-- Steph]
Edalina Rodriguez, 40, was arrested in Lorain, Ohio, in January for
stealing from a produce truck. According to a patrolman, Rodriguez and 2
other men ran away from the truck when the officer approached, but
Rodriguez was the only one of the 3 to leave a trail of cherry tomatoes--
leading to his apartment building, up the stairs, and down a hall, stopping
in front of his door.
####===================================================================####
Signs of the Times
####===================================================================####
Date: Thu, 11 Nov 1993 11:44:24 -1812
From: iverson@crl.nmsu.edu (Eric Iverson)
Subject: More signs of the times
From: trowe@uwspmail.uwsp.edu
From: Ian Chai <spectre@UIUC.EDU>
Subject: More signs of the times
----------------------------------------------------------------------
These are actual signs seen across the USA:
In a New York restaurant: Customers who find our waitresses uncivil ought
to see the manager.
On a movie theater: Children's matinee today. Adults not admitted unless
with child.
In a florida maternity ward: No children allowed
In the offices of a loan company: Ask about our plans for owning your
home.
In a toy department: Five santa clauses, no waiting.
On a Maine shop: Our motto is to give our customers the lowest possible
prices and workmanship.
On military bases: Restricted to unauthorized personnel
On a display of "You're my one and only" valentine cards: Now available in
multi-packs.
In a funeral parlor: Ask about our layaway plan
In a clothing store: Bargains for men with 16 and 17 necks
In a men's clothing store: 15 mens wool suits -- $10.00. They won't
last an hour!
On an Indiana shopping mall marquee: Archery tournament. Ears pierced.
In downtown Boston: Callahan Tunnel/No End
In the window of a general store: Why go elsewhere and be cheated when you
can come right here?
In a Maine restaurant: Open 7 days a week and weekends
In a New Jersey restaurant: Open 11AM to 11PM Midnight
In a Pennsylvania cemetery: Persons are prohibited from picking flowers
from any but their own graves.
On the grounds of a private school: No trespassing without permission
In a library: Blotter paper will no longer be available until the public
stops taking it away
In front of a New Hampshire car wash: If you can't read this, it's time to
wash your car.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Not a Through Street No U-Turn
BUS STOP
Buses Excepted
####===================================================================####
Sox
####===================================================================####
From: lrc@netcom.com (Henry O. Farad)
Subject: Sock conspiracy revealed
Keywords: Socks, driers, hampers, lemurs
It has been revealed to me, by sources which I cannot name, that socks do
not really disappear from hyper dimensional wormholes in driers. That is
merely a coverup rumor spread by the real perpetrators, our very own, fun
loving lemurs.
Lemurs, it turns out, are in cahoots with laundry hampers, and steal the
socks to line transdimensional nests, where they can enjoy twinkies and
grape soda in comfort and privacy. Laundry hampers, unwilling to have their
good name besmirched, refused to cooperate until the lemurs started
spreading the counter rumor about the hampers arch enemies, the driers.
They were fairly secure in this deception, since no one ever counts the
socks when they come out of the hamper or the washing machine, and only
notice mismatched pairs after they have come out of the drier.
There is a way to protect yourself from losing socks this way. Lemurs sense
of aesthetic dictates that no two socks in their nest be the same.
Therfore, if you always buy socks of the same pattern (for example, all
white), it will greatly reduce the number of socks lost in this manner
because the nearer nests (topologically in a transdimensional sense) will
soon become saturated by that particular color/style of sock.
####===================================================================####
THEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHE
####===================================================================####
--Subink 1993
