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The Toxic Custard Workshop Episoder 141 to 145
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From: dbowen@kryten (Daniel Bowen)
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*****NUMBERS 141 TO 145***********BY DANIEL BOWEN (tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu)*****
"The battle for Toxic Custard"
^^^ ^^^ ^ ^ ^ ^^^^ ^ ^ ^ ^ the Toxic Custard Workshop Files
| | | | | | | | | | Number one-hundred and forty-one
| | | | | ||| | ||| | Monday 29th March 1993
| ||| ||||| | | | | written by Daniel Bowen
The toilet is like a link to the outside world - a gateway through
which the turds of thought flow. They fall, plop, and sort of bob
their way around the bowl until it is purged of them. And each one
of those turds contains the very essence of their owner. Their
turdiness, their texture, colour, and sweet fragrance. It all
reflects on the very bottom of the owner. And let us theorise that
each turd is like a world of its own, the surface teeming with
people, ordinary people living, eating, breathing in the fumes,
trying to eke out an existence, just like you and me, trying each day
to survive what is basically a shit heap.
Have I talked to you about vomit lately?
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
[Warning: the following is NOT a Klu-Klux-Klan reference]
HAVE YOU DISCOVERED THE KOSMIC KEY TO KONSCIOUSNESS?
Let world-reknowned mystic swami Daniel Bowen show YOU the way to the
highest plane of all. The highest plane is one that cannot be reached
by the mere mortal. It is a metaphysical existence reached only by
many years of devotion to the cause, by constant meditation using the
wondrous mantras of the mystic swami, and by many dollars sent to the
swami's own bank account.
Yes, beginning this week in newsagents, you can discover the
secrets of Kosmic Konsciousness. The new weekly "Kosmic Key
Discovery" series will unlock the secrets of your existence. You get
a full-colour magazine every week, featuring:
- the mantra for the week - collect them all and you'll have
reached the highest planes by volume 35
- the latest thoughts of the swami Daniel Bowen, translated from
the original high-Tibetan
- an invitation to join the swami Daniel Bowen at his mystic
temple and outback ranch holiday swimming-pool condominium suite
in Waco, Texas, for a nominal(+) fee
- small brass novelty mystic token
And this week, as a special INTRODUCTORY OFFER, the first "coming" of
the "Kosmic Key Discovery" series is priced at only $1.95!!!(*) So
unlock your existence today!
(*) Introductory offer excludes novelty mystic token. Subsequent
editions $9.95.
(+) In the loosest sense of the word.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I think my dentist is a tooth fetishist. I don't know, call me
paranoid, but it's the way he gets a dazed look whenever he's holding
that fearsome looking metal thing above my mouth. I see him
salivating, and a look of pure lust comes over him as he inspects my
molars. Or maybe he's just calculating when he can buy his next
Mercedes?
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
THE TOXIC CUSTARD INTERVIEW - BORIS YELTSIN (via interpreter)
TCWF: Boris, how's it goin', man?
BY: Much good, much good. A little trickiness with the Russian
parliament at the moment, but nothing that cannot be undone with
the powers in vest with me.
TCWF: Good. And how's Mrs Yeltsin these days?
BY: She is much interested in the situation, although she keeps her
head out of the political stadium.
TCWF: That's nice to hear. Has she mentioned to you the US$600,000
interview she did for Time magazine in which she described you
as squalid little Russian with a rubber face that would
actually look better when caricatured by Spitting Image?
BY: I'm sorry, I do not know this spit in image...
TCWF: And what about the allegations that you regularly clip those
revolting eyebrows of yours in bed, which so far this year has
been enough to refill at least 3 mattresses?
BY: (to interpreter) What is this person speaking about?
TCWF: Why not just be honest and admit that you've been smuggling old
expired packets of Hubba Bubba bubblegum into the country and
selling it off to Ukrainian peasants for enormous profit?
BY: So I am thinking you have tumbled my game? Tell me, are you more
in favour of the strawberry or mint flavoured gum?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Another Toxic Custard has come and been
and gone again, thank God. So that's all
until next week, when we'll hear the
author say: "Would your brain enjoy
feasting on Toxic Custard back-issues?
For details getting them, reply to this
message, or mail tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
--
Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre|
----Telecom Australia, Melbourne, Australia| Do vets take the
dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-------------| hippocatic oath?
------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu|
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"A nice little Custard in the country"
TOXICCUSTARDWORKSHOPFILESNUMBERONEHUNDREDANDFORTYTWOFIFTHOFAPRILNINET
EENNINETYTHREEWRITTENBYDANIELBOWENTOXICCUSTARDWORKSHOPFILESNUMBERONEH
UNDREDANDFORTYTWOFIFTHOFAPRILNINETEENNINETYTHREEWRITTENBYDANIELBOWENT
OXICCUSTARDWORKSHOPFILESNUMBERONEHUNDREDANDFORTYTWOFIFTHOFAPRILNINETE
ENNINETYTHREEWRITTENBYDANIELBOWENTOXICCUSTARDWORKSHOPFILESNUMBERONEHU
So, how would you rate Jesus' life?
Immaculate conception... pretty good birth... marvellous water-
walking... mediocre crucifixion... bloody brilliant resurrection...
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
BANK TELLERS TRAINING - COURSE SUMMARY
- Licking your fingers to count the notes properly
- Getting plastic notes unstuck from each other
- Quick coin counting
- Diving behind the counter during bank raids
- Elementary to advanced "Next Please"s
- How to look like you're busy doing paperwork while 20 people are
waiting for a teller
- Shutting down the teller machine at the least convenient time
- Spelling names wrong on New Customer Account forms
- Spelling names wrong on Change Of Name forms
- Losing Change Of Address forms
- Getting addresses wrong on Change Of Address forms
- Emptying biros
- 101 ways to remember the date
- Providing contradictory explanations of bank procedure (group
activity)
- Explaining to customers that no this is not the queue for
tellers, this is the queue for enquiries and no I can't cash
the cheque from the will of your dead granny will you please go
to the other queue.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It was time once again for the barber's shop on Saturday. I'd put it
off for as long as I could - the hair was beginning to get so long I
couldn't find my way to the station in the morning, and I was a
little worried that I was looking like a hippy. Euch.
And so, not wanting to spend my week's pay on what I see as a
routine head-mop maintenance, I find myself slumming it in the
barber's chair again, looking around at all the pictures of steam
engines from 1986, the mouldy washbasin, the huge razor blade that
looks like a "Man From Ironbark" special... The old barber, in his
uniform of daggy trousers and light blue tight jacket with
elasticised sleeves... he totters over with a lethal looking pair of
scissors in his hand... and asks a simple question: "How would you
like it?"
I weakly fumble on the simplest of answers to the simplest of
questions, and vaguely gesture: "Oh well, a little off the top...
some off the back..." while thinking "You're the fucking barber, just
cut my hair, that's what I came here for. If I'd wanted awkward
questions, I would have gone on Sale Of The Century."
And as usual, he asks those two routine questions, which I must
have answered dozens of times before, but which I can never remember
what I said the next time I get asked. One is "Natural back, or
square back?" and the other involves whether or not I would like the
hair from around my ears cut away.
But all goes well, somehow, and twenty minutes and eleven dollars
later, I find myself on my way into the world once more, a spanking
new haircut on my head, and two months worth of clippings down the
back of my jumper.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I went to the petshop for Beatles
But they were totally out of stock
I tried gardening supplies for Rolling Stones
But all that they had was a rock
How 'bout a clothes shop for Swinging Blue Jeans?
But all they could show me was denim
In theory a snake expert should know about Sting
But he just ranted on about venom
I asked Police Missing Persons about The Who
And they looked at me as if talking nonsense
I tried the gun shop for Guns N Roses
And they asked if I had a license
I asked my local vicar about The Church
And he offered to take me to Jesus
I also asked him about Faith No More
And he still offered to take me to Jesus
Do you think the service station could sell me Midnight Oil?
Well no, but they did sell me ice
Then to the Optometrist for R.E.M.
They said it was my mind, not my eyes
So to the hardware shop for Things Of Stone And Wood
But if I didn't want a 2x4 then I was out of luck
And finally down dark Fitzroy Street looking for Queen
But to my horror, they would only offer me a fu
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ahem well, that's probably about the limit
of Toxic Custard for this week, so let's
join together now in that goodbye song we
always sing:
"Close your eyes, and I'll kiss you...
Tomorrow I'll miss you...
Remember you can always get TCWF back-
issues by emailing tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu
or replying to this message..."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
--
Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre| You ain't nothing but
----Telecom Australia, Melbourne, Australia| ein schweinhund
dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-------------| Barking alle der
------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu| time...
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Marketable Toxic Custard"
TOXIC CUSTARD WROKSHOP FLIES - EGGSTRA SPECIAL EASTER EDITION!
MONDAY 12TH APRIL 1993. WRITTEN BY DANIEL BOWEN.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Yes, it's Easter time again, when all the Chocoholics just about die
of over-eating. What would life be like if there were celebrations
that embraced other addictions? Well, there's always New Years Eve
and alcoholism, I suppose. How about... Heroin addiction? To
celebrate the (non)-stoning of Mary Magdalen perhaps...
Okay, I admit it, I can't think of any other Easter jokes, other than
the poser: "Does the Easter bunny have myxomatosis?" So instead,
here's...
THE IDIOT'S GUIDE TO THE MARKET
Now, going to the market is all very well; you get to squish yourself
around with five hundred of your closest friends all looking for that
incredible bargain which you can't buy anywhere else for less than
twice the price it might be here... but really, although the market
might seem to be a bargain-finding obscure-product locating place
with loads of variety, it's not. There are in fact hundreds of
identical stalls, which include, but are not limited to:
- seventeen stalls of cheapo toys, recognised predominantly by the
noise of small battery-powered barking dogs, oinking pigs, little
cars that drive around and around a cardboard box, toy mobile
telephones (which while they are very mobile, but on the telephone
side, disappoint) and little crawling commando-type figures. And you
can usually get a good deal on a Fisher-Price "My First Fax Machine".
(I kid you not).
- sixteen stalls worth of various clothing including Levi's going
back to 1977 and green jumpers with big patches that proclaim
"Melbourne, Australia!" (or wherever the market happens to be) on
them, generally with a very badly drawn picture of the local cultural
symbol (in this case, a tram climbing the Arts Centre spire).
- fifteen stalls of leather and/or (*beautifully* crafted) vinyl bags
and wallets, featuring three designs in seven different colours. (Six
designs if you count the combinations of coin pocket on left, ID card
space on right/coin pocket on right, ID card on left). And no wallet
they have will be big enough to hold a $100 note without part of it
sticking out.
- fourteen stalls of those big prints which suddenly seem to have
come into fashion (I dunno, I never used to notice those Print shops
in the suburbs, now they seem to be everywhere), selling loads of
black and white pictures of Marylin Monroe, James Dean, muscular men
holding babies, as well as colourful old Pears Soap ads, very shiny
olde worlde mappes, scantily clad ladies, artistically shot animals
and wilderness photos.
- thirteen stalls of "direct from factory" t-shirts sporting such
witty captions as "Nookie- Just Did It", "Adihash- For All Grass
Sports", and pictures of sharks in sunglasses, koalas mooning,
kangaroos with big balls, and other such subject matter which would
be perfect for the next family barbecue. (Where else could they be
from but "direct from factory"? Perhaps "direct from little old man
outside Bogota who swears he found them in the Himalayas being used
as dusters by a yeti"?)
- twelve stalls of Australiana, mainly dozens of boomerangs which
will no doubt work so well that they end up back with the
manufacturers, Australiana tea-towels and coasters, sheepskin boots,
moccies and slippers and hats with corks which no-one would be seen
dead in. (**NOTE TO PROSPECTIVE VISITORS TO AUSTRALIA: TRUST ME,
THESE HATS LOOK STUPID. NO-ONE HERE WEARS THEM. WE DO NOT HUNT
KANGAROOS IN THE BOURKE STREET MALL. DON'T BE FOOLED BY THIS STUFF.
AND LEAVE YOUR BUM BAG AT HOME. NOT 'COS IT MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE A
TOURIST, BUT BECAUSE IT MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE A COMPLETE DICKHEAD**)
- eleven stalls of bargain telephones through which you can't hear an
earthquake, cheap videotapes especially designed to clog your
machine and double-adapters and extension leads banned in most
industrialised countries.
- ten stalls of shoes of various shapes and sizes, generally
comprising collections of big boots, slightly less big boots,
platform shoes (euch, are they really coming back?), and various
other genuine leather-type shoes made from bits of cows.
- nine more stalls of other shoes, generally brand and non-brand-name
runners at bargain prices in every colour and size except yours.
- eight stalls of various wooden toilet-roll holders, book-ends,
"meat and two veg" back massagers.
- seven stalls selling bargain-priced cheap socks. All the good
designs are available in kids' sizes only, and 79% of the socks are
out of season, so the boiling-hot thick wool Explorer-clones are all
the rage around spring.
- six stalls of slinky ladies' underwear, where you can watch a
muscular bloke who looks like he might be a Chippendale in his spare
time try and decide on a purchase which may actually turn out to be
for himself, if he ever summons up the brain power to work out what
size he is.
- five "wicker" stalls, where-in can be found baskets in two hundred
different sizes, from the size for holding nothing at all to ones
that can comfortably fit a dead body you may happen to have lying
around the place. Well, I didn't want it getting in the way and
leading to awkward questions, and besides, being in the basket would
cut down on the smell. Especially as it had started to decompose.
Those maggots which had started to appear were a bit of an eyesore,
too.
- four stalls of not-so-moderately-cheap-as-they-could-be CDs.
Featuring the biggest Country/Western/Yodelling section you're ever
likely to see this side of Austria!
- three stalls selling imitation ("alternative") perfumes.
- two stalls selling shareware at $6.95 a disk that they probably
pulled off some ftp site
and finally...
- one stall selling industrial-strength ladies corsetry, staffed by a
woman from the Crustacean era, who is probably the only person in the
state who wears the stuff.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That's all once again another Toxic Custard's
over done and with. Week more next. If you
would back-issues read to then tcwf@gnu.ai.
mit.edu reply or send to mail to this.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
--
Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre|
----Telecom Australia, Melbourne, Australia| Quick, think of
dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-------------| something intelligent.
------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu|
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"One Gross Toxic Custard"
TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES #144 - 19th April 1993
1993 TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES #144 - 19th April
April 1993 TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES #144 - 19th
19th April 1993 TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES #144 -
Just what is Michael Jackson on about? Does he really want to portray
a bad boy image? "Bad"... "Dangerous"... what will his next album be
called - "Not Very Nice"? And while he grabs his groin in half his
songs, the rest of them are such rebellious street-wise dark alley
cop killer hits such as "Heal The World... make it a better place..."
Still, he's getting together his Heal The World Children's
Congress, from which great ideas will no doubt be put forward for
preserving the human race:
"I think there should be more jelly." - Kylie, 8 of Sydney
"Michael, Rodney's making faces!" - Stacey, 7 of Philadelphia
"I want my Nintendo!" - Paul, 9 of Chicago
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Crowd participation is a big thing at the concerts these days. Take a
big crowd, a seasoned performer, and a classic song, and you have the
stuff that memories are made of. Let's face it, nothing beats 50,000
people singing "Hey Jude". It always works with a familiar chorus.
The crowd sings, waves their hands, and then the performer screws it
all up by interrupting this outburst of emotion with a random
rendition of ending of the song which nobody, anywhere, has heard
before or can possibly sing along with. This then throws the entire
audience out of their trance, leaving them trying to figure out when
to start the applause... oh, is it now.. sounds like the end of the
song... no, oh God, last minute guitar solo... if I start clapping
now will I look like an idiot and have chapped hands by the time the
real applause starts...
And then of course, somewhere in the audience is that over-
enthusiastic teary-eyed person who is oblivious that he or she is the
last one to stop clapping and cheering. After *every* song.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
I woke up this mornin', a blues song in my head
I looked all around me, and I couldn't find my bed
Tried to find my bearings, I was in the garden shed
Hangover the size of a golfball, God I wished I was dead
So I tried to get up and look around me. The rhythm had vanished; it
was just me with my tiny, tiny mind. I moved towards the door. The
floor lurched. Only it wasn't my hangover, the floor *really*
lurched. I moved back, making my way for the grubbiest window. The
window I could see least out of. Not only because it was the closest
window, but the nearest window.
A cliff.
The gaping chasm below the shed moved slowly beneath me, the wind
rustling through the ventilation. What could I do? I made my way
towards the door, slowly, carefully. I edged towards it bit by bit.
"C'mon", I said under my breath. "C'mon you bastard shed, don't fall
yet; let me outta here."
A booming voice filled the air. "What did you call me?", the shed
bellowed, and it lurched over the cliff.
I watched as safety and my hopes of continuing life galloped a
little dance around me, then gleefully skipped away, waving a funny
little goodbye gesture back at me. While the shed and I plummeted into
the unknown.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
___
T o x i c C u s t a r d M e g a p r o d u c t i o n s / \
present / \
An Unoriginal-idea-from-TCWF-98-production A M N E S I A
An Idea-I-got-at-a-party Presentation /\_______/\
/ M A N \
A M N E S I A M A N / \
"Fighting for truth, justice, and erm.. Oh, I forget. Truth and
justice will do for the moment, won't they?"
The city by night. In the foreground, the lights play with the
shadows of the people passing by. They play "See You Later
Alligator". They play short bursts of Rachmaninov. And then they pack
up their instruments and once again the city is filled with darkness.
Out of a dark alley steps Amnesia Man. Always ready to fight the
fight for good[tm] and justice[Registered trademark]. Always ready to
take on the powers of evil[(c)1993 McDonalds Corporation]. And always
ready to sneak into dark alleys to relieve himself when he's
forgotten to go before he came. If you see what I mean.
Amnesia Man - the man of today, inside the body of tomorrow, and
the mind of last week, with a body stocking that looks like it's gone
through several years without a wash.
Amnesia Man - body of a man, strength of a cannon, and mind of a
blithering idiot.
Amnesia Man - the superhero with more introductions than he has
*ZAPS* *KAPOWS* and *SPLATS*.
But even now, the nemesis has arrived. For the villainous
Reginald Completebastardprick. This time working for the National
Party, he had devised his most downright evil weapon yet - the Mind
Slurper.
The Mind Slurper is an ingenious device. Already fully tested on
Reginald's confidantes, the Mind Slurper can suck from the mind. It
has been refined and upgraded and researched, and the latest model,
the mark III, can achieve speeds of 0 to 150 IQ points in 8.5
seconds.
But, changing tenses, the Mind Slurper was built for a specific
purpose. Reginald Completebastardprick had had it in for Amnesia Man
ever since AM accidentally squashed RC's hamster. With a steam
roller. AM had said he was sorry, and even offered to try and inflate
the hamster again, but to no avail.
And so it was to be. RC had strained for days, and laid a trap,
which had *killed* his bottom. But it could not fail... could it?
***IS AMNESIA MAN DOOMED? DON'T BE SILLY, OF COURSE NOT. HE'S
A BLOODY SUPERHERO. BUT WE CAN PRETEND, CAN'T WE? YES, WE CAN
MAKE OUT THAT HE'S IN SOME RISK AT THIS POINT AND ENCOURAGE ALL
YOU POOR GULLIBLE READERS NOT TO MISS THE NEXT EXCITING EPISODE
OF "AMNESIA MAN"!!!!***
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your eyeballs have been privileged to
have been exposed to yet another edition
of the Toxic Custard Workshop Files.
Back-issues are still hanging suspiciously
around a number of ftp sites - reply to
this, or send mail to tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu
for details.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
--
Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre|
----Telecom Australia, Melbourne, Australia| If this was a real
dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-------------| signature, it would
------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu| be illegible.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Chocolate Toxic Custard"
..... .... ...
. . . . . the toxiC custarD workshoP fileS
. ... . . . ... . . . ... number 145, 26th of apriL 1993
. . . . . . . ... . writteN bY danieL boweN
. ... ..... . . . ...
MRS IRENE BUSYBODY SPEAKS OUT ON...
Philosophy. What a load of bollocks it really is. Is it really
important for the human race to find out why it's here, what are we
doing, where are we going... I can tell you in one sentence that I'm
here to do housework, I'm vacuuming right now, and after this I'm
going to a Tupperware party. No great mysteries there.
Of course, there's always that great philosophical question "If a
tree falls alone in a forest, does it make any sound?" What a stupid
question. 'Course it makes a fucking sound. A sound not unlike a tree
falling over.
Me and the girls have been workshopping this at our weekly
Philistines Anonymous meeting (corner of Adolph and White Streets,
Richmond, Thursday nights), and I think we've come up with the
solution. What we need to do is get all the philosophers, throw them
in a big ship along with the arts students, playwrights (what a
stupid, moronic way to spell that word), actors, painters and poets,
push the ship out to sea and sink it, and then let them find the
quickest way of finding out if there's a God or not.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
And now for a quick poem...
The colours dance before my eyes
They swirl and turn into meat pies
While camels join and twirl and sing
And butterflies flutter gently*ARGGHHHH%$*'}{*SPLASH* *GLUG* *GLUG*s$}|y4\./?e>"fs`'
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
___
/ \
/ \ A M N E S I A M A N
A M N E S I A
/\_______/\ "The Mind Slurper"
/ M A N \
/ \ Part Two
You'll remember in our last episode, well, if you read it, and if you
happen to remember it, that is, and if you happen to... oh forget it.
We'll just run a compressed version of the last episode right now.
Here's the first letter of every paragraph again, just to refresh
your memories (however many you happen to have):
TOAAABTBAI
Got the picture? Well tough. On with the story.
Amnesia Man tried to find the zipper on his body suit, gave up,
and continued walking down the especially darkened alleyway. High
above on the roof of a city building, Reginald Completebastardprick
waited, his thighs (oops, that should be eyes) gleefully crotching
(oops, that should be watching) Amnesia Man's erotic (oops, that
should be erratic) path along the cobblestones. He waited and
watched. Watched and waited. Waited and watched. I guess there's only
two combinations of watching and waiting, eh? Okay.
Reginald waited (*GET ON WITH IT!*) until Amnesia Man was
directly below the huge suction cup of his mind slurper device, and
then with an evil laff, pressed the vastly impressive "On" button on
the side of the machine. The button had been wisely placed by the
designers of the machine next to a number of large notices with such
captions as "Warning Warning Warning Do not operate this machine
ever, it sucks out brain waves, use it at your peril if you're not
already a gibbering idiot", and "Warning: This machine rots brains,
and may contain substances dangerous to the stability of the mind.
Not recommended for children under 6 years of age."
The machine started to hum. Not the quiet little domestic hum of
your average fridge, but the hum of a 747 which is warming up for
take-off on your front lawn while you're in the livingroom trying to
hear all the dialogue from the quiet bit of the movie.
Amnesia Man looked around, startled, as the giant suction cup
came down towards him. But he was too late. It slurped onto his head
just like the Polymorph in Red Dwarf and the alley began to pulsate
with the noise of the mind slurper, not unlike the sound of two dozen
teenagers sucking on their McDonalds thickshakes simultaneously, and
probably just as dangerous for the ol' grey matter.
Amnesia Man's face began to turn an attractive shade of blue, as
his brain decided to stop thinking about what colour his face should
be, and start worrying about the outside influences which seemed to
be slurping, one by one, brain cells out of his head. It was an
alarming situation, and Amnesia Man's brain, quite rightly, hit panic
stations.
This, it has to be said, was unfortunate. When a part of the body
has a problem, it panics. It sends a warning signal up to the brain,
which dutifully notes which part of the body is panicking, presses
the "Ache & Pain" button, and it starts to hurt. But the brain? What
does it do? Cause a headache? Yeah sure, so a giant suction cup is
sucking out your brain cells, and you suddenly have a headache.
Thanks a lot brain, tell me something I don't know. And the brain is
so busy producing the headache that it has no time left to think
about actually getting out of the current predicament, which, as
predicaments go, is quite predicamous.
And the solution? I dunno. My brain's outta time too.
***WILL THE AUTHOR SUMMON UP THE BRAIN POWER TO FIND A SUITABLE
CONCLUSION TO THIS STORY BY NEXT WEEK? IF NOT, WILL THE READERS
REBEL AGAINST THIS MENTAL CRUELTY AND GO AROUND AND BEAT THE
SHIT OUT OF HIM? FIND OUT SOON, IN THE VERY NEXT EPISODE OF
"AMNESIA MAN"!!!!***
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That's all for another edition of the
Toxic Custard CHOCOLATE Workshop Files.
Back-issues (well, most of them,
anyway) are CHOCOLATE available through
anonymous ftp or via a mail server.
Reply to this CHOCOLATE, or send mail
to tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu for details.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
--
Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre| If Van Gogh were alive
----Telecom Australia, Melbourne, Australia| today, he wouldn't be
dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-------------| able to use a Walkman
------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu| very well.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the Toxic Custard Workshop Files by Daniel Bowen, Melbourne, Australia
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen. May be freely distributed without
profit provided this notice remains intact.
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