Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!lunic.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!spool.mu.edu!darwin.sura.net!maze.dpo.uab.edu!uabdpo.dpo.uab.edu!ZU02063 From: ZU02063@uabdpo.dpo.uab.edu Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Anatomically correct dolls -- great news! Date: Thu, 12 Jan 95 14:06:36 CST Organization: University of Alabama at Birmingham Lines: 17 Message-ID: <17324C672S86.ZU02063@uabdpo.dpo.uab.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: uabdpo.dpo.uab.edu Just got the latest edition of the APA Monitor, the monthly rag put out by the American Psychological Association. Ho-hum. However, in the advertisements in the back I found a wonderful update from Teach-A-Bodies (they make the anatomically correct dolls used by sexually abused children to show the court psychologist what happened to them): "Teach-A-Bodies anatomically detailed dolls have been improved over the years, thanks to suggestions from professionals who use them every day. We've added ears to all of the dolls, and a clitoris to each female doll. Now we look forward to your ideas!" Yahoo! If anyone wants their address, let me know. Ellen Ellen M. Cotter "Nobody should have to pay for University of Alabama at Birmingham your shit unless you eat gold" Department of Psychology -- Patricia Cornwell UAB might, but probably does not, agree with anything I say at any time. Newsgroups: alt.tasteless From: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk (Prophet of the Great God Glub) Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!trane.uninett.no!eunet.no!nuug!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!pipex!peernews.demon.co.uk!glub.demon.co.uk!ketteridgep Subject: Dream Team Vacation??? Organization: The Midden Reply-To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk X-Newsreader: Demon Internet Simple News v1.29 Lines: 102 X-Posting-Host: glub.demon.co.uk Date: Mon, 16 Jan 1995 02:36:42 +0000 Message-ID: <790223801snz@glub.demon.co.uk> Sender: usenet@demon.co.uk Well then, what's happenin' to Pierre? Not so much, it would appear... anyone remember the a.t. charity drive '94, and the Milles Rivieres rally? Did any of you catch the Jan '95 issue of Land Rover Owner Magazine? Nah, I didn't think so... the *sanitised* Rally Report... anyway, Chris Aedo will scan pics when I get them to him, that's when I get copies etc... don't hold your collective breath... I was sort of hoping that this new foray into journalistic circles might open the doors to further commissions in motorsport. Wrong, dude. Instead, I'm getting loads of calls from charities asking *me* to support their drives! Oh yes, ideal choice, Pierre Ketteridge, champion of the suppressed and disenfranchised. Caring, sharing Pierre, understanding, gentle, the soothing balm of humanity. Fuck off. One in particular is Project 4x4xFUN. It's an organisation set up by a friend (no, scratch that, aquaintance) who runs a 4x4 school (Aha! spot the impending trade-off!). Martin's org has raised funds to build up and equip a hybrid Land Rover for use by disabled *drivers* (dual controls, hand controls etc). So far so good. Now they want someone to promote it and advertise the availability of the vehicle and workshops (now d'ya see the trade-off?). So they ask me (I'm unemployed). OK, lots of calls to newspapers, magazines, media etc. Most are just newsdesks so no dosh, just press releases - maybe the followup articles with jolly grinning 'tards stuck up to their necks in mud will generate cash. Just think, a Land Rover full of crips and porridge-heads setting out into the wild brown yonder. And getting stuck. And losing it, and freaking out, and shitting and pissing themselves. Maybe I'll get a Pulitzer Prize. I did actually take Martin aside and tell him I thought it was all a waste of money. He sort of agreed, saying "It's not the mental cases that bother me, I mean, round up a load of Downs Syndromes and stick 'em in the Landy and you're guaranteed coverage. Plus all their limbs work, all you've got to do is hold their heads facing forward and they can drive a straight line across a flat field... these physically handicapped ones, though, shit, you've got to adapt the vehicles, and then they want to *really* go offroad, I dunno..." I pointed out that if that was the case you might as well dump 'em in a cardboard box and drag 'em around the room, if entertainment value was at a premium, but that what I'd had in mind was developing a 4x4 motorised wheelchair, then they could bugger off on their own and sod the supervision crap. He gave me a careful look, and I reckon he's considering it.... I went down to inspect progress. At the workshop I found Martin and his crew working on the project Landy. There was also this guy, Graham, a paraplegic, in a shiny chromed wheelchair, buzzing about checking the vehicle out. It turns out that he was the originator of the whole idea, and he was fully caught up in the project. At the back of the barn, I noticed another construct of gleaming metal, but this one contained a slumped bag of bones, head slumped to one side, a creamy line of spittle running down into his collar, muttering "Du... du... du... [I expecting him to burst into "Dook of Earl", but he just continued] ...dududududududududududududududududududududududududu....... "Jesus wept!" I thought, "they're expecting someone as disabled as *that* to drive this sodding thing?", but as it transpired, they were just using him as ballast to work out where to bolt the seats. It was at this meeting that Martin mentioned "Operation Bader Spirit"*, an attempt to break the London-Cape Town-and-back overland record, using disabled drivers in similarly-equipped project vehicles. Cloud cuckooland, I remember thinking. [* For those not in the know, while the US of A was saving the rest of the civilised world, the Brits were playing around over the hopfields of Kent having dogfights with Baron Von Rottweiler - Douglas Bader was a famous legless pilot (weren't they all - wouldn't *you* need to be?) who scored several famous victories for perfidious Albion] So, I went away and have been trying to flog this thing to the papers. A lot of interest, no dosh (as expected). Anyway, a couple of days ago Project 4x4xFUN rang up and asked if I'd "be interested in joining the expedition... only for one leg, of course..." Martin couldn't understand why I cracked up at that point. He continued "It'd be the London to Cairo run, six weeks, sleeping rough and in the vehicle; no, you can't drive; just as navigator/supervisor; full responsibility for your charges..." I dunno, six weeks through Eastern Europe (Bosnia, Croatia, Serbia etc), Greece, Turkey, Syria and Palestine and Israel and all that shit, in a vehicle full of doylems and divots and dingdongs an' that? Is this the Dream Team Vacation or what? What do the rest of ya in a.t. think? Should I do it? And if I do, is a.t. ready for some more (even stranger) Rally Reports?..... (Gotta pack my rubber truncheon and saw down my baseball bat - essential 'tard control gear) -- Pierre (Who now completes the Ketteridge quorum of Community Carers) ObEggs: Jane brought some reject eggs back from the 'tard farm on Friday - you'd love 'em: some have lumps, boils and polyps, some are almost square, some have chickenshite embedded *in* the shells, but my *very*, *very* favourite ones must have come out still soft and malleable, with perfectly-formed starfish-marks on 'em! -- Pierre Newsgroups: alt.tasteless From: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk (Prophet of the Great God Glub) Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!trane.uninett.no!nac.no!eunet.no!nuug!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!pipex!peernews.demon.co.uk!glub.demon.co.uk!ketteridgep Subject: Farewell to Rocky Organization: The Midden Reply-To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk X-Newsreader: Demon Internet Simple News v1.29 Lines: 188 X-Posting-Host: glub.demon.co.uk Date: Sun, 15 Jan 1995 13:48:31 +0000 Message-ID: <790177711snz@glub.demon.co.uk> Sender: usenet@demon.co.uk Hello folks, and New Year Greetings from the Midden. It's been quiet up here in Yorkshire, tasteless-wise (or so I thought), so I've not been posting much recently. But things are picking up in '95, so I thought I'd clump everything together in an update post. My life seems to be getting populated by ever-increasing weirdos and nutters. You're already familiar with Wandering John, Richard the Midnight Zunussi-Piddler, Cabbage Chris and Fingers.... but I suddenly realised that I've still to mention Ian the Neo-Nazi, Addled Alan and Rocky the Breakdancer. A new year and I haven't introduced all the players yet! But tragedy was to strike... I'll have to call this post "THREE WEIRDOS AND A FUNERAL". You see, Rocky died just before Christmas. A tragic tale indeed, it has elements of Rain Man, Dirty Dancing and Carousel. Rocky was one of the more entertaining fruitcakes to cross the threshold of the "Woodcock Inn" on a regular basis. In common with most nutters, he was of indeterminate age, could have been anything between 55 and 80. He used to come gliding in to the Tap Room, red baseball cap turned back-to-front, USAF bomber jacket zipped at the hip, gleaming white Nikes on his feet. And those feet! He'd duck'n'dive, and bop, and jive, and... breakdance! Man, that was a sight worth seeing! His displays were unpredictable in frequency, but always expected. He may have been slumped against the bar for hours, mumbling to himself or anyone who came within gabbling distance (he usually had one end of the bar all to himself), drinking himself stupid on mixed cider and pilsner lager, when suddenly he'd leap up and approach the pool table giggling. He'd start circling the table doing a sort of robotics of his own invention, dropping balls down the pockets and cackling in a high- pitched voice. The hustlers would stand back, nervously fingering their cues (if they were strangers or out-of-towners, the regulars would hold them back - Rocky *was* harmless, after all). At this point, a loony- baiter in the know would put MC Hammer or something similar on the juke box, and with a scream of triumph, Rocky would leap onto the table and start his act. Heh. I'd have paid good money to see this at the "City Varieties". Spins, tumbles, backflips, Rocky's repertoire had the lot! If he went on too long, the landlord would chuck him out, but usually it was just a couple of songs. He'd end off with a somersault off the pool table and saunter back to the bar and his pint of "Snakebite". Terry the landlord gave up getting the table re-covered years ago. Anyway, a couple of days before Christmas I took the bus oop t'pub, and saw Rocky get on at the stop before I alit. I didn't take much notice, as he obviously wasn't going to the Woodcock. A couple of hours later, reports started filtering through. "Ayup, 'appens ol' Rocky's dead!", "No!", "Aye, jus' 'eard it missen", " 'owsat, then?" and the story started being pieced together. It transpires that Rocky had turned up, drunk, at his sister's house in Morley to wish her a Merry Christmas. They'd drunk a bit more, until he felt the call of nature, and staggered off up the stairs. His sister, worried by his continued absence, had found his body sprawled by the porcelain bowl an hour later, neck broken. Scuff marks on the carpet would suggest that he'd felt the urge to breakdance in the bathroom. The autopsy confirmed the broken vertebrae, and contusions to the cranium, consistent with banging ones' head on the crapper. And he'd had a heart attack. What is not clear is whether he had the attack while breakdancing and fell against the toilet bowl, cracking his head and breaking his neck, or whether he slipped and cracked his head, precipitating the cardiac arrest. Not that it makes any difference. Rocky, you are sorely missed. Rap away in the place of your choosing. Which leaves one mystery. Who did I see on the bus? Rocky had been dead for three hours by then. Since then, other people have claimed to see Rocky, always getting on the same bus at the same stop, and *never* alighting at the Woodcock. Is Rocky a tormented soul, trapped on this plane until some terrible injustice is resolved? Or is he just looking for his baseball cap? *** Still, it's not as if there's a dearth of nutters in New Farnley. Since Rocky's unexpected demise, Mad Alan has reasserted his presence in the Woodcock. A lunchtime presence, he sits alone at the bar, coccooned in his own insane universe. "Buggers! Buggers! Buggers!..." is all he says, foaming at the mouth. After a couple of pints, the staff refuse to serve him, and he shouts "Buggers!" at their turned backs for hours until he loses patience. If he's in a really foul mood, he wanders over to other drinkers, mumbles "buggers..." and delivers a clotty lump of green sputum into their glass. He's been known to empty the pub that way... Once out in the carpark he has to cross the main road. This can take up to two hours, but once he's on his way, he avoids the hooting cars with a surprising nimbleness and fluidity. He's been likened to one of those crows on the hard shoulder of a motorway who've apparently learnt the concepts of relative speed, momentum and vehicle displacement. Until he decides it's time to move, however, he rails at the traffic, waving his arms and screaming "Buggers! Buggers! Buggers!..." I was driving the Landrover back from Gildersome the other week, and saw Alan, presumably wending his confused way back home from the pub. I wondered if he'd recognised me (probably). Would he smile, or wave, or scream? None of these. He jerked to attention, and started doing the "Egyptian Sand Dance" in the middle of the road. Phew. He's never been known to do *that* before. I feel kind of honoured. *** And so onto Iain. Iain Horridge (Horrid/Herod/Harrods/Hurried? - it's hard to tell as he's got a cleft palate and a hare lip). Now this one is a real character - one to rival Richard in the "being bopped with God's silly stick" stakes - definitely addled! A short, blobby young lad who works for t'Corporation on the refuse trucks (he can often be seen in his bright orange rubber overalls, sneaking black plastic bin liners into his granny's house - "P'p'p'perks o'o'ot' job") he is certainly short the full shilling, but that doesn't stop him from excitedly trying to give contestants at the weekly Quiz his idea of the answers - particularly Jane, who seems to inspire adoration in these unfortunates: Iain: Uh, kn,kn,kn,kno' th,the,th'that'un!" Jane: "Oh yes, Iain? What is it then?" Iain: "Hmph unghh flbbrt aankh zzpt" Jane: "Sorry?" Iain: "Hmph unghh flbbrt aankh zzpt" Jane: "Sorry, Iain, you'll have to run that past me again..." Iain: "HMPH UNGHH FLBBRT AANKH ZZPT" Jane: "Pardon?" Iain: "Uhnh... HMPH UNGHH FLBBRT AANKH ZZPT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Jane: "Sorry Iain, you're going to have to spell that one out for me..." Iain: "UHH, UMM, PHHH, UNNHH, UGHH, OUFFH......." At this point most people give up and write down anything. Now that I think about it, no-one can actually be sure *what* his name is - we only *think* he's called Iain, as that is precisely what he told us when we were introduced: John: " I don't think you've met the lad from the next farm up, have you, Pierre?" Me: "No, I don't think I have. Hello, and what do they call you, then?" Iain: "EEEUUNNNHHH!!!" He is very exciteable, which makes his speech disability worse, but he does consider himself a very learned scholar. If you can be bothered to make the effort, he is a mine of fascinating stories. I have recently been informed that the Pyramids were built by aliens from Mars; that Sasquatch (Bigfoot) was an alien who crashed his flying saucer in Canada a million years ago and can't find his way out of the woods; and that the Japanese is the *one true* Aryan race. Oh yes. Did I mention that he's a neo-nazi as well? He idolises Adolf Hitler, and is eagerly awaiting his resurrection from a deepfreeze somewhere near Fray Bentos (the city, not the canned meats). He is convinced that, come the uprising, he will be elevated to the exhalted ranks of the new elite (he considers himself emminently qualified, as he holds the estimable post of "Standard Bearer" for the Batley and Morley sealed Knot Society). There's been a lot of talk recently about the National Lottery (for the benefit of you Merkins, Cajuns and assorted deportees, Great Britain has broken new ground in cultural advancement by *inventing* a... National Lottery!). Iain was most excited at the prospect of winning 18 million quid! Me: "So what would you do with the money, Iain?" Iain: "Ffahr uhnn eebbly minh queeb uuhhd baht euch rayon" (translation: If I won eighteen million quid I'd buy the Ukraine) Me: "What?" Fireman Andy (Who's also in the conversation): "Why?" Iain (translated): "If I bought the Ukraine, I'd have lotsa subjects" Fireman Andy: "So?" Iain (translated): "So I could hire a merc'nry army, take 'em in, and kill all the peasants" Fireman Andy: "Fuck off you stupid little turd" and, picking up his beer, walks off. Iain's idea of real-life wargames obviously doesn't appeal. At least, that's what I *think* he's been saying. Maybe he just wants to buy a new crane. *** So, we're still strong on Loonies here. And Jane's finally got a job (sorta). That deserves a seperate post. As does what *could* be a new venture for me... Later, -- Pierre Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!ugle.unit.no!trane.uninett.no!nntp.uio.no!ifi.uio.no!sics.se!eua.ericsson.se!erinews.ericsson.se!cnn.exu.ericsson.se!convex!cs.utexas.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!news.sprintlink.net!pipex!uunet!newsfeed.ACO.net!fstgds15.tu-graz.ac.at!fhtupc04.tu-graz.ac.at!david From: david@htu.tu-graz.ac.at (David Skreiner) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: FTP SITE CLOSING DOWN Date: Sat, 14 Jan 1995 13:02:19 GMT Organization: OEH - TU-Graz Lines: 48 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: fhtupc04.tu-graz.ac.at Dear friends, We have a new sysadmin here at the Students' Union. The previous admin and postmaster largely ignored the site here, letting most people do as they wanted. Now that things have gone out of control, with only a few parts the network here working somewhat reliably, we have a new sysop who is young, energetic, and a good friend of mine. Already, he had frowned upon the material in the ftp site, and the political leadership of the student union for the first time found out that the primarry purpose of the ftp site here was to spread tasteless material. Trouble is: The first week in office, he received an email from some fuckhead congratulating him (admin@htu) for the fantastic Hitler pics on our ftp site. [Even though a message after login very explicitly asks that all mail regarding the site should be sent to me]. What the fuck, he (understandably) asked himself. Now even more people here want the site gone; in the clean-up of all the things our previous admin failed to do, the a.t ftp site is going to be cleared off the server here along with other users' games, 200-MB-porn collections and other various nice but ressources-costly stuff. Since I'm spending my time in uni studying now and no longer full-time in the student union goofing off, there is nothing I can do to prevent this. So: The ftp site is closing down. I will move the files from it into my private directory now. Please notify everyone who has set up WWW links or similar pointers to this site. I am sure that with the Internet growing at the enormous rate that it is now, there will be a place on the net - somewhere - for those few megabytes of files. A safe, publicly accessible place, not one that is constantly threatened by imminent closedown. A note aside: It was not the PC people who wanted the site closed down - the main protests against the material came from the catholic-conservative corners of the student union. They had earlier threatened to report the site to the police (in which case the server would have almost certainly closed down, the student union lost its net access, the uni itself could have been in trouble). It was the leftists and liberals who let me install the site, in all the time it existed, it was the conservatives who could not bear to have this subversive material around. dave Newsgroups: alt.tasteless From: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk (Prophet of the Great God Glub) Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!trane.uninett.no!eunet.no!nuug!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!swrinde!pipex!peernews.demon.co.uk!glub.demon.co.uk!ketteridgep Subject: Jane's New Job (was: Here come the 'tards) Organization: The Midden Reply-To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk X-Newsreader: Demon Internet Simple News v1.29 Lines: 93 X-Posting-Host: glub.demon.co.uk Date: Sun, 15 Jan 1995 18:46:10 +0000 Message-ID: <790195570snz@glub.demon.co.uk> Sender: usenet@demon.co.uk So, I hear you ask, what's new under the sun in West Yorkshire? Well, Jane has got herself a 'job', of sorts. Having been on the dole, or 'pancrack' (unemployment benefit to those unfamiliar with Brit expressions - yup, I've been reading other threads), she finally qualified for this 'job', or State initiative, working on an 'Urban Farm' for the princely sum of ten pounds a week! I wasn't best pleased, as I was myself, by this time, scrabbling about with the Great Unwashed (sic) for a crust or two. Ten pounds wouldn't exactly pay the mortgage, or feed us either. But she was undeterred... despite my warnings of impending financial ruin, and the fact that there *must* be a reason for the scale of pay... all to no avail. She found out alright on her first day, though. Within five minutes of arriving on that fateful first day, she saw a young lad, Lee, careering across the yard with a wheelbarrow-full of goatshit, with an old man hot in pursuit, shouting. "Oy! Oy! Oy! OY! OY! OY! Lee! Lee! Stop that! Stop that!". Lee is deaf. The old man finally caught up with Lee and spun him round. "Don' go so dam' fast, Lee, or the buggers' 'll find us summat else t'do!". Apparently not all the workers are happy to be there. Yup, you've guessed it... Jane has qualified for a "Care in the Community" 'Tard Project! After her first introduction to shovelling goatshit, and a stint at milking said goats (I explained to her that the ones with *two* udders and *one* big teat are best left alone) her first job was to help trim the baby goats' hooves. Now, her job was to hold the kid steady while her 'colleague' (another divot) wielded the clippers. Understandably, the young goat struggled and started chewing on Jane's waxed cotton jacket. Fair enough. But after a while, the kid turned it's attention to the other lad's Levi jacket. He screamed, burst into tears, and ran off into the yard, leaving a bemused Jane holding the baby goat and wondering what to do next. He came back about 5 minutes later, and, tugging at her arm, asked: "Whassis then?", pointing at his jacket. Nonplussed, Jane puzzled awhile, then, comprehension dawning, hazarded a guess: "A denim jacket?". "Oh," replied the boy, and grabbing the young goat by the throat and shaking it, screamed: "YOU MUSTN'T EAT THAT, IT'S... A...DENIM ...JACKET!!!". I can't wait for the retelling of the "burning baby goats" story (or a variation on a theme, anyway). After that, Jane asked for a transfer, and was put on the egg production side. She found that the documentation (dates, temperatures etc) were about three weeks out of date, and that half of the eggs were in the filing cabinet, and half of the files in the fridge. So they falsified the paperwork and sent 'em off to the farm shop anyway. Now she's responsible for the incubators. This didn't go too well at first, until she discovered one of the doylems was removing the eggs from the incubator after she left, and putting them in the fridge, and putting them back in the incaubator before she got in in the morning. Must be OK now, as we're babysitting a duckling called Ed. By Friday of the first week, Jane was seconded to the forestry team, and charged with clearing a 'woodland walk ' in the grounds. Apparently she's one of only three of the 35-strong workforce entrusted with sharp implements (even then, chainsaws are *out*!). What else? The man who's frightened of animals, and stands in the centre of the yard throwing handfuls of straw at the cowsheds hoping to fill their pallets up... the minibus trip to the Supermarket which donates it's 'off' or 'past sell-by-date' produce - only the 'tards try and eat it themselves... oh, and the goatboy showed Jane a wormhole in a field and said "that's where I live", and later, "My front entrance is 90mm away from that bus stop". Yeah, hmmm.... Ian the farm manager, who has great amusement at his charges' expense, has promised to make Jane dairy manager next... ...six months to go - I think a.t. can be assured of some interesting stories in the weeks to come... And my sudden interest in amputees, the disabled and handicapped? Well, that's another post again... -- Pierre ObFunnyFarmShennanigans: Cabbage Chris has been complaining about Richard up in the big farmhouse again. Apparently he's up to his old tricks once more. Chris heard voices the other night, and thought "I don't fucking believe it! That old doylem has copped 'isself a bird! The same noises (baritone and falsetto voices) were heard the next night, and Chris investigated (eye to keyhole). Behold! Richard in his jockey shorts, wanking furiously, and ordering (deep, commanding tone) his 'bird' to perform all sorts of debasing acts, followed by Richard throwing himself to the floor, spreading his cheeks and simpering (high falsetto) all manner of cajoling endearments. Chris ran back to his room, locked and bolted the door, and got horrendously drunk in an attempt to blank the mental images out. More in a mo', -- Pierre Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!ugle.unit.no!trane.uninett.no!nntp.uio.no!ifi.uio.no!sics.se!eua.ericsson.se!erinews.ericsson.se!cnn.exu.ericsson.se!convex!cs.utexas.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!news.sprintlink.net!pipex!uunet!cns.usa.net!bongo!julian From: julian@bongo.tele.com (Julian Macassey) Subject: Re: Peter Cook is gone Message-ID: <1995Jan14.124847.20058@bongo.tele.com> Organization: Vicarious Groupies Inc. References: <3f28su$dob@ccshst05.cs.uoguelph.ca> Date: Sat, 14 Jan 1995 12:48:47 GMT Lines: 61 It was with some sadness that I heard of the passing of Peter Cook. He was the witty, good looking one of the Peter Cook & Dudley Moore comedy duo. For some reason, the short ugly one of the duo got more fame and more pussy. Peter Cook, the man who raised British comedy above the Benny Hill level with "Beyond the Fringe", also brought British comedy below below the Benny Hill level with "Derek & Clive". He was also known to many as "Lord Gnome". The fabled proprietor of the British satirical mag Private Eye. In the past decade, Peter Cook appeared in a U.S. sitcom. It was a show about a 'merkin working muvver who had a Brit butler. It failed - how could anything more cerebral than Roseanne gain ratings? But I digress. The real reason I am posting is not to eulogise one of the great men of the British yucks industry, but to recount my part in his life. A part he never knew about, but I am sure it would have given him a chuckle. In the late 60s, I was living in Earls Court (Home of Barry McKenzie - see other posts). I was leaving my palatial apartment and the landlord had my phone number in the ad. My job was to take calls and show prospects the pad. One afternoon, the phone rang. It was a girl looking for a place for herself and the boyfriend. She wasn't interested in the place from the description I gave her. But she said "You sound just like Peter Cook. I have to come round just to see what you look like." So about an hour later a girl was ringing the doorbell. I went through the motions of showing her the place, pointing out the taps (faucets U.S.) with the "Thos Crapper & Sons - Sanitary Engineers" logo. So I as "The Peter Cook Soundalike", I was able to show her what the bedroom ceiling looked like from over my shoulder. She then told me that her boyfriend was the lead singer of the Belfast pop group "Them". Boyfriend is now known as Van Morrison - a miserable though talented fellow. Obviously getting dicked by such a miserable bugger caused her to cast about for more amusing fucks now and again. I was one of the lucky ones. A few years later, Van Morrison was living in Copenhagen, I always resisted the tempation to go up to him and say "I fucked your spooge receptical one August afternoon." It appears that in retrospect this was a good idea. A couple of months ago, Richard Geere, Van Morrison and others were in a bar in Brighton, England (used to live there too). Geere made a complimentary noise about the piece of snatch Van Morrison had with him. Van Morrison punched out Richard Geere's lights. Any man that is worried about Geere running off with his fuck needs professional help. Anyhow. All in all, Peter Cook will be missed by all of us, especialy Rita Chevrolet. -- Julian Macassey, N6ARE julian@bongo.tele.com Voice: (414) 457-0874 Paper Mail: 210 Bleyer Drive, Sheboygan, Wisconsin 53081-8714 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!news.funet.fi!news.eunet.fi!EU.net!Germany.EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!news.cac.psu.edu!news.pop.psu.edu!ra.nrl.navy.mil!bdcv8.nrl.navy.mil!weiss From: weiss@bdcv8.nrl.navy.mil (Warren W. Weiss) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The Death of an AT Shrine... Date: 17 JAN 95 14:39:42 Organization: Naval Research Laboratory-on-the-Potomac, Washington, DC, US of A Lines: 83 Distribution: world Message-ID: <3fh84e$7q4@ra.nrl.navy.mil> Reply-To: weiss@bdcv8.nrl.navy.mil NNTP-Posting-Host: bdcv8.nrl.navy.mil News-Software: VAX/VMS VNEWS 1.3-4 Well, it seems that a well-known AT shrine is about to be demolished in the name of progress... Reprinted ENTIRELY without permission from the front page of the Tuesday, 17 Jan 1995 Washington Post: YEARS AFTER SCARE, RESTON 'MONKEY BUILDING' COMING DOWN BY Maryann Haggerty (Washington Post Staff Writer) "As they opened the door, the smell of monkey almost knocked them over ...The building stank of monkey. Something ugly was happening here." "The Hot Zone" by Richard Preston In the five years since soldiers in orange space suits invaded its halls in a war against a mysterious tropical virus, the monkey building in Reston has been cursed. Ever since it was the site of a unique biological scare, the building at 1946 Isaac Newton Square has stood empty, even though medical experts say no danger remains. It's been tangled in bankruptcy, foreclosed on and resold. Now it's about to be knocked down. On the outside, the one-story building's bricks are streaked and discolored; the vent sytems on the roof are rusted. Inside, ceiling tiles have fallen and floor tiles are ripped loose. There are puddles in the halls from leaks in the roof, and old, sodden sheets of paper are scattered everywhere. It reeks of mildew, not monkeys. "It's in a total state of disrepair. It's really not salvageable," said David Ross, whose company, Atlantic Realty Cos. of Tysons Corner, now owns the monkey building. In 1989, to halt the only known US outbreak of the tropical Ebola virus, the Army killed 450 infected monkeys who lived in the building in the aging office park. At the time, the government feared this could be a real-life Andromeda Strain, a deadly virus that could wipe out most of humanity (and some Frenchmen). It was front-page news. Now the tale's being retold in scary detail in a best- selling book, "The Hot Zone." The virus story has a happy ending of sorts: Humanity survived. Although some strains of Ebola are among the deadliest viruses known, this particular strain- now called Ebola Reston-doesn't hurt people. The monkey building-not a formal name, but it's what everyone in the real estate business calls it-was never very glamorous. It was built in 1965, one of the first commercial buildings in Reston. It was rented to Hazleton Corp., a Herndon-based biological testing firm that's now part of Corning, Inc. Hazleton has divisions throughout the area; this was the Reston Primate Quarantine Unit. Imported monkeys were held there for a month before being sent to research labs. [some worthless, uninteresting bullshit deleted] Maybe maintenance wasn't their highest priority. In "The Hot Zone," Preston wrote: "A problem developed with the building's heating and air-handling system. The thermostat had failed, and the heat would not go off." That was in November 1989, when the monkeys started to die from the then- unidentified disease. "The Hot Zone" climaxes with the Army's euthanasia mission and the decontamination of the building-it was gassed for three days with formaldahyde. "That building was decontaminated very thoroughly," said Cheryl Parrot, a spokeswoman for the US Army Research Institute on Infectious Diseases. "If it's dangerous to go into, that might be because there have been pigeons roosting in there or something," but not because of Ebola, she said. [more deletia] There was talk of an Ebola movie-not something that made the bank happy, Shue recalled. (The movie deal has since collapsed.)... _____________________________________________________________________________ Warren W. Weiss VMI '87 email: weiss@bdcv9.nrl.navy.mil AMA# 409056 "Think for yourself and question authority" Unknown Rides: '85 Honda Interceptor 700 '74 Kawasaki S3 (foster bike) "Deus Ex Machina" _____________________________________________________________________________ Newsgroups: alt.tasteless From: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk (Prophet of the Great God Glub) Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!pipex!pipex!howland.reston.ans.net!news.sprintlink.net!peernews.demon.co.uk!glub.demon.co.uk!ketteridgep Subject: Re: What's the worst thing to have stuck up your butt? References: <3drj0e$mae@taco.cc.ncsu.edu> <3el4o6$1lh@newsbf02.news.aol.com> <3es46h$mdn@oak.oakland.edu> Organization: The Midden Reply-To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk X-Newsreader: Demon Internet Simple News v1.29 Lines: 21 X-Posting-Host: glub.demon.co.uk Date: Wed, 11 Jan 1995 10:39:07 +0000 Message-ID: <789820746snz@glub.demon.co.uk> Sender: usenet@demon.co.uk In article thx1138@sam.neosoft.com "Buck Satan" writes: > In article <3es46h$mdn@oak.oakland.edu>, agreen@chaos.eng.wayne.edu (Face > on Mars) wrote: > > > First, the Rectal Pear. It looks like an elongated pear, but with > > an internal mechanism that opens up 3 segments that the outside > > surface is divided into. The ends of the segmants were pointed, > > too, to provide better access to other adjacent intestines. For > > the *Final Accomplishment" in width. > > I actually saw one of these in a museum in Italy. It was called the "Anal > Pear", and was administered by the Church to a man upon being found guilty When I was last in Hamster Jam, I went to the Torture Museum, where apart from the above, they also had a Vaginal Pear (tho' why they couldn't use the same one for both orifices I have no idea). Didn't see any little Urethra Pears, though. I wonder why? They *must* have existed... -- Pierre Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!pipex!pipex!howland.reston.ans.net!agate!newsxfer.itd.umich.edu!news.itd.umich.edu!mcafee From: mcafee@umich.edu (Sean Michael McAfee) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Who remembers white dogshit? Date: 12 Jan 1995 15:24:41 GMT Organization: University of Michigan Lines: 42 Message-ID: <3f3hjp$b3i@lastactionhero.rs.itd.umich.edu> References: <3etotu$67v@nof.abdn.ac.uk> <789796021snz@glub.demon.co.uk> NNTP-Posting-Host: pong.rs.itd.umich.edu In article <789796021snz@glub.demon.co.uk>, Prophet of the Great God Glub wrote: >In article <3etotu$67v@nof.abdn.ac.uk> > eng355@nof.abdn.ac.uk "c.j.goldsworthy" writes: >> One guy at the party reckoned that the reason that the white shite >> was no longer seen is that the dogfood manufacturers are no longer >> allowed to put ground bone into the dogfood and this was the origin >> of the colour, since it couldn't be absorbed and so passed straight >> through the dog and bulked up its turds. Then, as the moisture >Is this right? You can still get bone meal and all that kinnda stuff, >can't you? And if it's indigestible, wouldn't that make it good roughage, >like All Bran? Wouldn't that be *good* fer a dog? Several months ago, I saw an essay by Carl Sagan in that weekly weekend newspaper supplement "Parade", the official mouthpiece of the Franklin Mint. (I can't imagine a reason that Sagan would stoop to submitting an article to Parade, except that he must have spent all the royalties from his last book on beer and hookers.) Anyway, in the essay, he speculated that if aliens were to observe Earth from high in orbit with a powerful telescope, they might observe humans getting into cars, travelling about, and getting out again, and conclude that the cars were a life-form engaged in a symbiotic relationship with man, the parasite. This thread brings to mind a similar scenario. Suppose alien archaeologists visit our planet after humans become extinct. They excavate the skeletons of canines fed with bone meal, and observe dog-turd-shaped skeletal remains within the animals. Might they conclude that dog shit is a life-form unto itself, exoskeletal and parasitic? I like to think that they would. >If I get another dog, I'm gonna feed it ground up bones and see if I can >reintroduce the lamented White Dog Turd to Great Britain. Why don't you slip the dog your own bone, as well? That'll whiten up them dog turds, sure. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sean McAfee | "Wood good. School bad." mcafee@umich.edu | -- Beavis ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!ugle.unit.no!trane.uninett.no!eunet.no!nuug!EU.net!Germany.EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!swiss.ans.net!newstf01.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: hintysen@aol.com (HinTysen) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Who's got the nastiest grogan catcher? (LONG) Date: 13 Jan 1995 14:35:43 -0500 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 96 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <3f6kmf$6mv@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: hintysen@aol.com (HinTysen) I've been gone for several days (fuck you, Dallas, TX, Irving, TX and especially the Dallas Cowboys), and returned to the beautiful fog of western Wisconsin to find a shocking new development in my tasteless home. My thinks-she-is-my-GF-but-is-more-like-a-spooge-bucket-with-pubic-hair waited until I was a thousand miles away, then had the absolute gall to clean my toilet! The cunt! I want my apartment key back. She said it took her an hour and a half-gallon of bleach. I told her to mix some ammonia with the bleach next time and take a deep breath. She said "that couldn't smell much worse than the toxic waste in there before." She shoots, she scores! One point. I called her a bitch and I didn't whisper. That grogan catcher was my pride and joy. The yawning maw of porcelain was spotted on the outside with dozens of tiny dried chunks of vomitus, spewy reminders of bouts with the flu, bouts with Sammy Adams, or bouts with too fucking much ice cream. If I developed an itch on my left calf whilst burning a log, I could scratch it simply by scraping it against the dried niblets on the outside of the bowl. And on the inside? Oh, holy world of fecal stupendousness! A cavalcade of elimination! I have thought long and hard (extremely hard) about this, and I believe the only item which CAN be expelled by the human body but HAS NOT been cycled through my throne of dung would be a miscarried/aborted/stillborn/live feto-infant. Snot, shit, rectal blood, spooge, nosebleed, vomit, lung butter, menstrual goop, eye jism, cock cheese, urine both clear and tasteless and yellow and odiferous... My bowl has known them all. Let me attempt to describe its multi-colored beauty (alas, all of this is now in the past tense, thanks to the bitch). The seat cover is always up, reflecting a Jackson Pollock-like display of hues and splashes from former vomits, loogie-hockings and misplaced urinations. Underneath, where the seat bolts to the bowl, resides an extended family of various molds, spores and bacterium (undoubtedly a few virii, also), skating across a frozen sea of black-brown goop which has dried into every out-of-the-way crevice. Some of these families have hitched up their wagons and traveled cross-country, moving in under the seat itself. (Which, of course, never comes up, never, never). A visitor tried to lift it once, but said it stuck. The seat has a crack back by the hinge, and of course, it has become a brown-colored crack because some shit had been rubbed into it. The seat also has, from time to time, shown footprints from shoe-tying; red splotches from nosebleeds or Plax spits, brown-yellow marks from guess what... And then there is the holy place, the receptacle of the rectal sacrament, the inside of the bowl itself. The first impression is the odor -- not like shit or a fart, not like rotten food, but more like an animal which crawled under your porch to die. It has conditioned me so that just the smell of rotten meat makes my rectum pucker, in anticipation of a few good pushes. The color is past brown, past yellow, all the way to a shiny golden film-like coating -- except at the water line, where years of inattention have ground away the porcelain to reveal the cast iron of the bowl itself. (Which tells me there are some strong acids at work down there). The gold coating under the water behaves like Teflon(tm), helping to rush my sinking grogans through their circular dance and down, down toward their sewer-plant breeding grounds. Of course, you may also take early notice of the sticky splotches of brown which coat the back of the bowl from the rim to the water line. These are the result of high-velocity, gas-powered fartshits, gluing feco-Hersheykisses to the back of the bowl. (A tear came to my eye when, on post-cleaning inspection, I found that she couldn't get all of those Turd-darts to scrub away). And no discussion of my turd shrine could be complete without a description of the area around the bowl -- the surrounding floor. The tile has peeled away from the front of the bowl, thanks to near-constant contact with poorly-aimed urine. (Of course, my favorite piss story was when I had to pee whilst loaf-launching. Only problem: I was semi-turgid and, thus, my initial squirt cleared the top of the rim, bounced off the underside of the seat and drained down the front of the bowl, thus soaking both my socks). There was a penny on the floor about 8 inches from the bowl (at 2 o'clock from launch position), and it was completely stuck to the floor. When the bitch finally peeled it up with a screwdriver or something (probably my butter knife), it left a stain of deep brown-orange which could not be scrubbed up from the tile. "Must've been stuck there with jism," I said. But now, it is no more. It actually sparkles in its cleanliness. And since it would be unethical to fuck it up on purpose, I am anticipating a long period of hard work -- turd by turd -- before it is back to its normal, glowing state. So, I feel I am within my rights to ask: Who out there in a.t-land has a toilet as fucked up as mine once was? It would warm my bowels to see some GIFs of particularly messed-up receptacles. Please post to the fnovhtu. ftp site so that I may wank over them, as I hope you have wanked to this post. Rest assured that I am hell-bent on bringing my can back to its usual point of greatness. From alt.tasteless Mon Jan 23 14:37:50 1995 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!uunet!news.sprintlink.net!interactive.net!usenet From: bohmanj@interactive.net@bohmanj@interactive.net Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Homeless person blow jobs Date: 20 Jan 1995 04:23:58 GMT Organization: InterActive Networks, Inc. - Paterson, NJ Lines: 45 Message-ID: <3fndsu$7bm@ns1.interactive.net> Reply-To: hjohnson@seds.ldl.aroizona.edu NNTP-Posting-Host: user28.interactive.net Keywords: smegma, oral, blowjob X-Newsreader: IBM NewsReader/2 v1.09 This is my first post ever, but I think this story needs to be shared. I was walking up Second Ave. on New Years Eve with two of my friends. We were going to a local pub to celebrate. Off to my left, in the corner of my eye, I saw a homeless man lying on his back on a subway grate. There was someone standing about five feet away from him staring at him. I didn't look to closely- in NYC, you don't look at the homeless because if you do, they hit you up for money. After we'd walked another block or so, one of my friends said, "Did you see that? That homeless guy was getting a blowjob!" Now that got me thinking. . . the homeless tend to be, well, rather _unwashed_. Just try to imagine what it was like to give that blowjob: Imagine trying to unfasten the pants. They look like you used them to clean your engine, oil stained and torn. The zipper is half broken and the pants are closed by numerous rusty safety pins. You try to undo the pants and slice your fingers open on the pins and have to rip the pants open because the crotch area is so crusty. The underwear smells like stale piss and fresh shit. You peel the pants down and see his underwear. It has green and blue fungus growing all over it, especially concentrated on the piss stains. There is not a single spot of white fabric. The reek is overpowering. You peel the underwear off taking clumps of pubic hair with it. You part the matted bloodstained pubic hair to reveal his pride and joy. His pus-dripping infected cock is before you, covered with red chancres oozing blood-tinged pus. Imagine gripping the shit-stained balls and taking them in your mouth. A true symphony for your taste buds: two-year old sweat mixed with dried shit and piss. A feast! Imagine licking the shaft and wearing a track through the accumulated congealed scum. Hair and lint build up at the each end of the track. You roll the hair around your tongue and swallow. Half goes down, half builds up in your throat, and you gag uncontrollably as your eyes water and your nose burns. You start sucking on the shaft and feel the smegma build up behind and between your teeth like a waxy avocado. (It's about that color, too!) He starts moaning that he's gonna come and he starts farting uncontrollably. Shit particles, mixed with mucus, shoot over your face and up your nose. He grabs your head and jams it as he shoots his load. Rancid clumps of sperm ooze out like snot. Occasionally a clod of jams the passageway, and the pressure builds up behind it and shoots it down your throat. Your mouth cannot accept the quantity of sperm and it shoots up through your nose, giving you a chance to enjoy its powerful odor. You vomit the sperm and the shit back up all over the homeless guy. He grunts with satisfaction and uses your hair to clean up. I just hope that the woman doing it was the wife of some Park Ave. plastic surgeon fulfilling her New Year's resolution to be nice to the homeless. From alt.tasteless Mon Jan 23 14:38:02 1995 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless From: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk (Prophet of the Great God Glub) Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!pipex!pipex!howland.reston.ans.net!news.sprintlink.net!peernews.demon.co.uk!glub.demon.co.uk!ketteridgep Subject: Jane's New Job (First *good* story...) Organization: The Midden Reply-To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk X-Newsreader: Demon Internet Simple News v1.29 Lines: 107 X-Posting-Host: glub.demon.co.uk Date: Wed, 18 Jan 1995 19:26:42 +0000 Message-ID: <790457202snz@glub.demon.co.uk> Sender: usenet@demon.co.uk This bounced back on the first attempt, so here goes, 2nd try... Foetal Fun on the Funny Farm ---------------------------- I knew it wouldn't be long before I got a newsworthy story for a.t. from the 'Tard Farm (the Urban Valley one, _not_ Harper Farm, that is). Jane came home yesterday sorrowful of mien. Apparently it had been a _bad_ day. Panic in the dairy. Daisy, the expectant cow, was in some severe discomfort, and the vet was called. In the meantime, the day progressed as normal. Wobbly Ron from the market garden team had been creating a nuisance of himself, chasing the girls about and whipping up his teeshirt at them, oscillating his dirt-streaked, flaccid belly and shouting "Lookit this, then!". He was eventually led away by one of the receptionists, but not before it was understood that this was _not_ one of his "funny turns". Apparently Ian the farm manager had been teasing him, calling him a "smelly sod", and telling him he was "so fucking filthy, you could grow 'taters in yer bellybutton". Wobbly Ron had taken this advice to heart, and had crammed three or four seedling potatoes (the little pea-sized ones you find among the roots) into his abdominal cubbyhole, and was proudly displaying his wares! When the vet arrived Jane used his appearance as an excuse to get away from the mundane 'tard-supervision duties and offered help. Looking around him, the vet readily accepted. The cowshed was like a nativity scene, with a gaggle of concerned inmates crowding around the 'patient'. Daisy lay on the floor, sides heaving, breath ragged, while John hugged her round the neck, eyes closed, tears streaming down his wide face. Darren stood by the door, one set of knuckles in his mouth, the other hand pointing, mumbling "Cow...cow...cow...". Philip sat on the floor crosslegged by the cow's rump, patting her energetically on her distended flanks with the flat of his hand . "Duh, Duh, Duh, Daisy! Good girl Duh, Duh, Daisy!" . The vet took one good look, checked the cow's flanks (suspicions confirmed - dead foetus) and mustered some help to clear the area. He didn't think the workforce would like this very much. The sorrowful wellwishers were led away. "Bye, bye, Duh, Duh, Daisy...", "Cow... cow... cow...", . Jane found she really couldn't be of much help after all. She prepared the bucket of soapy water, laid out some other stuff the vet gave her, and held the Daisy's tether, though this wasn't really necessary, as the poor beast was exhausted, and running a fever from an (as yet unidentified) infection. It was all that Daisy could do to lie there, wheezing and rattling, with the occasional low or weak bellow. So the vet carried out some initial physical examination, his arm up to the bicep in Daisy's calfcoot, and (here's where I realised that my years of tutelage had paid off - Jane's graphic descriptions are getting *excellent*) spent the next twenty minutes clawing out handfuls of "clotty ground chili beef, bound up in Tabasco" and flinging it down onto the straw. It took a while, but they got the calf foetus out in one piece, eventually. Sorry, but they didn't need to section it, so no need to bring out the cheesewire. Next time, perhaps. Mind you, it might have been better if they had, because what came out was somewhat of a tasteless surprise. Jane tells me that the the cow was about 5 or 6 weeks short of term, but this *thing* was NEVER going to develop, even if it had lived. It came out suddenly with a low and fell to the floor, in a flood of putrefying amniotic fluid, and trailing rotting placenta and other undifferentiated afterbirth. It was a blueish-grey colour, with purple highlights where the blood had coagulated. The vet reckoned it had been dead for weeks. A miasma of decomposing flesh and fluid filled the shed, and Jane nearly gagged. But worst of all was the dead foetus itself. Jane could make out the hooves, a muzzle, one black eye and part of a malformed ear. The rest was a sort of sac, possibly an inverted peritonium. Most, if not all of the abdominal organs appeared to be on the *outside*! She bundled this mess into a sack and helped the vet clear up. Daisy is in a pretty poor state having been carrying this thing about inside her. The vet cleared her out and has administered some antibiotics to try and clear up the uterine infection. I'm not a vet, and Jane hasn't given me any clear details about what else he may have done for the bereaved bovine. It won't bode well for Jane's career as Dairy Manager if Daisy snuffs it - they've only got two cows. But here comes the good bit. Ian the Farm Manager decided it was time for a 'tard test - sort out the men from the cabbages an' all that, see who could "cut the mustard" as a farm worker. He asked Jane to take the sack around to the other sections (market garden, forestry, arable, egg production, farm shop etc) and show them what was in it. Yee-Hah!!!! Some cried, some screamed, some puked. Some shat their pants. Philip patted it . Darren stroked it, then sniffed and licked his fingers. Wobbly Ron showed it his stomach and asked if it had a name yet. Remember Lee, the deaf lad with the fast wheelbarrow? Jane went up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned around, she opened the sack. Lee had to be taken to the sickroom for a lie down. Ian seems pleased with the results of this "shock therapy", but I can't help wondering how many of the 'tards showed up for work today... Hell, I'm beginning to love this new job of Jane's... Everyone wish Daisy a full recovery, now. -- Pierre From alt.tasteless Mon Jan 23 14:38:56 1995 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!ugle.unit.no!trane.uninett.no!nac.no!ifi.uio.no!sics.se!eua.ericsson.se!erinews.ericsson.se!cnn.exu.ericsson.se!convex!news.ssc.gov!fnnews.fnal.gov!uwm.edu!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail From: v_ivanoff@am.atd.cra.com.au (G.T. Dwarf) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Who's who diffs and a time of international mourning Date: 19 Jan 1995 01:31:40 -0600 Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway Lines: 64 Sender: nobody@cs.utexas.edu Message-ID: <0130211619011995/A05703/ATDM0/11919C151C00*@MHS> NNTP-Posting-Host: news.cs.utexas.edu 'Tis with a heavy heart that I clambered into my high seat and logged on with my grubby little mitts. For as you probably know by now, the official alt.tasteless FTP site in Austria has been shut down by the forces of darkness. Our collective efforts to bring the light to this vulgar and mean spirited planet crushed under the jack-booted heel of a bunch of concerned fuckwad book burners who fear we may change their children into noble, independant free thinkers. I now turn to you, the a.t readership, imploringly. Your numbers have been estimated at up to 80,000. Surely someone out there has a site, or knows someone who does, with a large chunk of space available for the archiving a.t's collective wisdom. Please speak up and let St. Ool (case@diku.dk) know about it to carry on with his mission. By doing so you will guarantee your own salvation and bring joy to many a heart. Ask not what a.t can do for you, but what can *you* do for a.t. GTD --- WiW Diffs Brian Saunders (saunders@luther.che.wisc.edu). Fat and mean. Anne Threston (athresto@nyx10.cs.du.edu) another one who found our "contributions" in rec.pets.cats, and followed us home. Disappointed us all by proving that they’re not all humorless drekks. Anne likes to sharpen her claws on the intestines of people who make stupid postings. And in the divorce casualty ward we have Jeff Angus (jangus@skyld.grendel.com) Has two ex-wives. Hates one more than the other. The one he hates the most is called Gypsy. With her he spawned defective children. Looks like a biker, talks like a biker. Is too broke and scared to be a biker. Like most a.t. regulars has a large arsenal of the kind of weapons that send Pres. Clinton into spasms of rage. Kept company by Joseph Betz (bwahaha@earth.execpc.com), O. J. Simpson (ojsimpso@netcom.com) and most recently Chris Chiesa. Anthony Hegedus: this homophobic Limey hedgehog crawls out of his den once every few years, in a lame attempt to drum up support for his points of view. Invariably, he gets flamed en masse, receives no support, and then drags his road-kill body back out of the group, all the while hoping he will receive support the next time he returns. Fortunately, a few of the elders recognize this pin dick, and clue others in on his game. Rocqueforte 'Rocky' O'Leary (roleary@arthur.st.nepean.uws.edu.au) maintainer of http://www.st.nepean.uws.edu.au/~rocky/tasteless.html and http://www.st.nepean.uws.edu.au/~rocky/at.html St. Ool set up The Official Alt.tasteless ftp-site with the tireless and thankless assistance from Dave Skreiner (david@htu.tu-graz.ac.at), operational as of 1st August, 1994 at : fnovhtu.tu-graz.ac.at /pub/tasteles or (129.27.203.150). Lasted until the first weeks of January, 1995, when admin changes and the actions of a bunch of small minded concerned nazis closed it down. If you know of a place with a secure space of around 10 Mb ready for filth please notify case@diku.dk and become everyones hero forever and ever. From alt.tasteless Fri Feb 10 21:08:54 1995 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!uunet!solaris.cc.vt.edu!insosf1.infonet.net!news-feed-1.peachnet.edu!gatech!howland.reston.ans.net!news.moneng.mei.com!uwm.edu!lll-winken.llnl.gov!trib.apple.com!gallant.apple.com!apple.com!uuwest!phin From: phin@west.darkside.com (Phineas) Newsgroups: alt.slack,alt.tasteless Subject: A DAY AT AUSCHWITZLAND (Story by Phineas Narco) Message-ID: <0y1LZc1w166w@west.darkside.com> Date: Fri, 27 Jan 95 15:12:20 PST Organization: The Dark Side of the Moon +1 408 245 SPAM Lines: 166 Xref: diku.dk alt.slack:24435 alt.tasteless:71706 Warning: This story is EXTREMELY sick. Don't read it. A DAY AT AUSCHWITZLAND by Phineas Narco (with creative inspiration from Janor Hypercleets) Little Billy strained to look out of the crack in the rotted wood of the slowing train as it entered the camp. Aunt Bertha stood next to him peering out the window slit he was too small to reach. "Let me see! Let me see!" yelled Timmy excitedly. "Oh, okay you big baby" said Billy, and moved aside so his brother could see. Peering out, he could see little animatronic children with grotesque smiles on their faces lining the tracks as the train rumbled by. Their little index fingers sawed back and forth mechanically over their little plastic throats. "Wow! Cool!" said Timmy. After a few minutes the train lurched to a violent stop and almost sent the people in the boxcar sprawling. Billy grabbed the hem of Aunt Bertha's shawl and steadied himself. "Now boys," Aunt Bertha said reprovingly, "I want both of you to be on your best behavior. Remember, JESUS is watching you and will judge you accordingly and might throw you into the pit of vipers and scorpions." "Okay, Aunt Bertha!" they both chimed. Billy and Timmy skipped down the ramp and into the cold dusk air. "Look, Billy! It's snowing!" said Timmy happily. "That's not snow, stupid. Look! It's coming from Ovenland!" Billy looked past the seemingly endless rows of barracks in the camp to the towering smokestacks that dominated the scene. A deep rush and tremble of some nearby, profound inferno enveloped everything as the smoke poured out in gray torrents from their tops. "Just like in the movie!" said Timmy. "Stick your tongue out and get one on your tongue!" said Billy and Timmy complied. After a second or two, several ash flakes landed on his outstretched tongue causing Timmy to giggle. "Ha! It tastes like bubble-gum cotton candy! Can we go to Oven-land first, Aunt Bertha?!" said Timmy. "Now boys, let's go through in proper order. We have to be selected first" The trio made their way with the crowd past ornately sculptured shrubbery, mostly of some variation of the swastika or iron cross theme. Little loudspeakers barked out harsh words in German but Billy and Timmy couldn't understand what was being said. It sounded like the same verbal routine repeated over and over after awhile. Finally, it was their turn and Aunt Bertha stepped up to a black-uniformed employee who took their tickets and admitted them into the park. Billy and Timmy got stamped on their arms with a blue ink series of numbers as they passed through the gate. "Look, Aunt Bertha! I got a tattoo! Four... uh, 5, 8, 7, 6... 6, 2, 3!" Said Timmy "Mine's 624!" Said Billy. "Those are just temporary tattoos, boys. They'll come off in a day or two. But for today, you'll be able to get in the park again if you have to leave." "Cool!" chimed Timmy. Showerland was next and Timmy pulled Aunt Bertha's arm to get her to move faster so they could get in with the next group. They were able to make it in just before the heavy metal doors slammed shut behind them. "Are we going to take a shower with our clothes on?" asked Timmy. Then the lights went out and plunged them into utter blackness, goading a delighted yelp from the crowd. "Aunt Bertha... I'm scAAAIyred!" whimpered Timmy, not completely seriously. He was having fun. He knew it was part of the show. Aunt Bertha held and patted his little hand comfortingly and then the gas exploded from the showerheads and everyone screamed. But after a few seconds, something very strange happened. The pitch of the screams rose all at once making them all sound like little birds or monkeys. Billy covered his ears for a second but then grabbed onto Aunt Bertha's shawl again. "Oh my goodness!" said Aunt Bertha, but her voice sounded like Mickey Mouse! Timmy burst out laughing, chattering like a chipmunk. "Helium!" Timmy said in a little cartoon voice. "It's helium!" Hearing Timmy's voice made Billy erupt into laughter like a giddy Castrati, which made Timmy laugh even harder. "You sound like Woody Woodpecker!" said Timmy. "So do you!" said Billy and laughed some more. After a minute or so, the exit door was opened and the crowed poured out of the shower area and into the open air. Billy and Timmy loved their new high voices but after a minute or so the helium wore off and things were back to normal. Next was Workland and Aunt Bertha gave Billy and Timmy some Deutschmarks so they could play such video games as DIRT whereby they competed to fill a hole with dirt, and then to empty it again, before the other could. The winner was awarded with an electronic version of Deutschland Uber Alles, while the loser's man got shot in the back of the head with a luger. After that, the boys had worked up an appetite, so Aunt Bertha took them to the commisary next and they got some lukewarm water which tasted slightly like raw potato and a stale crust of bread full of little candy maggots. Aunt Bertha had the gruel. Aunt Bertha then took the boys to the gift shop. "You can each have one toy, boys" she said. Billy wanted to get the Hitler doll but it was way to expensive, as was the Nazi Medical Experimental Examiner Action Set(tm). Timmy decided on a Klaus Barbie Doll(tm) which had Kung Fu Nazi Grip(tm) and which said things like "Raus! Schveinhundt!" and "I Vass Only Following Orders!" when you pulled the string. When you pressed the button at the small of his back his arm would spring up in a salute and he would say "Heil Hitler!" and you could make him do a goosestep too. Billy got a Juden doll(tm), a skinny little stick doll that wore a greasy rag for a costume. When you pressed the button on the back it said things like "Can I eat this month?" and "No, that's okay, I don't need a shower". He also got a t-shirt that was made to look like it was made out of human hair that said: MY PARENTS WENT TO AUSCHWITZ AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT Aunt Bertha got some cosmetic soap and a nice lampshade that had a tatoo and a belly button on it. By the end of the day, Aunt Bertha and the boys finally made their way toward Ovenland, the grand finale to the park's many wonders. The line was long, but after about 40 minutes of waiting Billy and Timmy went through while Aunt Bertha waited in the parents waiting area. A black and red uniformed guard grabbed the boys by the scruff of their necks and threw them in the ovens that looked red-hot at first but it was clear after a few delightful seconds it was only because of the red and orange bulbs inside. The metal door closed behind the boys sealing them in the long cramped space. The boys clung to each other in frightened glee as a deep, cacatenating, utterly evil, spooky voice intoned something in German at them and then erupted in fits of evil cackling laughter. The inside of the oven suddenly tilted and with shrieks, the boys slid downward as the back of the oven lifted and sent them on a wheeling, twisting slide ride. They zoomed through the shafts of the oven, laughing and screaming, through colored strobe lights and eerie sound effects. It seemed to go on forever! But after awhile, when they least expected it, the slide ended at a sheer wall and Billy and Timmy went tumbling end over end falling at least 20 feet, and landing safely on a huge pile of latex stick-corpses at the bottom of the ride. "Yaaaaaay!" Cried Timmy. Billy grinned broadly and jumped for joy. "Yaaaaaay!" As the sun set on Auschwitzland, and Aunt Bertha and the boys boarded the train out, she reflected that the day hadn't been cheap, but, oh well, it was a once in a lifetime kind of thing. Looking at Billy and Timmy's happy, smiling faces, she knew it had been worth it. -=-Phineas From alt.tasteless Fri Feb 10 21:09:45 1995 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless From: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk (Prophet of the Great God Glub) Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!news.tele.fi!uunet!solaris.cc.vt.edu!news.duke.edu!agate!howland.reston.ans.net!pipex!peernews.demon.co.uk!glub.demon.co.uk!ketteridgep Subject: Anus Horribilus Organization: The Midden Reply-To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk X-Newsreader: Demon Internet Simple News v1.29 Lines: 47 X-Posting-Host: glub.demon.co.uk Date: Sat, 4 Feb 1995 19:19:19 +0000 Message-ID: <791925559snz@glub.demon.co.uk> Sender: usenet@demon.co.uk My arsehole has been killing me this last week. Itchy and sore as hell, and feeling like I've had all sorts of foreign objects rammed up there. I don't know if it's just a lack of personal hygiene (congealing sweat, piss, and spooge running down and congealing with the dags), or if Jane is fisting me while I sleep, getting in some practice for lambing (I found a large hairbrush in the bed the other morning). Either way, it's damned uncomfortable, and so I started searching out my economy-sized tube of Germalene. I used to use Savlon, but that stuff really fucking stinks. Everyone recognises it, and wrinkle their noses, pointing at you and whispering "crotchrot". I caught a dose of thrush off some filthy bint once, and the itch was driving me nuts. I had to liberally fill my trusty jockey shorts with Savlon, and squelch around the office for a week. The stench was appalling, and I even took up smoking menthol cigarettes to mask the smell. By Thursday my suit trousers had a dark greasy patch from my belt almost down to my knees, and paperwork used to slide off my lap, or go transparent. So now I use Germalene. It still stinks, but it's a nice stink. Anyway, I've made a startling discovery about Germalene. This stuff is an enema-fetishists dream. It says "not to be taken internally" on the tube, so I was very careful with the application. I squeezed a load onto some TP, and crouching over, gave myself a careful arsewipe. Amazing results. Not only was my arse anathetised, but also everything else up to about the bellybutton. I don't know if it's osmosis, or hungry little tastebuds in my lower colon schlurping it all up, but this stuff invaded my cavities. An hour later, while I was pottering around the farmyard, my whole digestive tract let go WITH NO PRIOR WARNING WHATSOEVER, and I filled my keks with hot, steaming liquishit. Luckily I had my wellies on, and was able to slooch my way back to the cottage and run that bath I probably should have had in the first place. -- Pierre ObDon't try this at home, Chillen: God knows why, but when I got up this morning I decided to cook myself the biggest, hottest chilli possible for breakfast. This was not a good move. I have been barfing and shitting simultaneously ever since, and I've got body tremors as well. At lunchtime I went to the Valley Inn for a few pints of Sam Smith's bitter - kill or cure, I thought. I guess it's going to be death, then. -- Pierre From alt.tasteless Fri Feb 10 21:10:38 1995 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!news.funet.fi!news.tele.fi!uunet!panix!zip.eecs.umich.edu!newsxfer.itd.umich.edu!agate!howland.reston.ans.net!ix.netcom.com!netcomsv!netcomsv!bongo!julian From: julian@bongo.tele.com (Julian Macassey) Subject: Artistic Endevours Message-ID: <1995Feb4.204416.22808@bongo.tele.com> Organization: Mr Tiny's Playpen References: <3grege$avg@news.ycc.yale.edu> <3gvuvh$icf@nyx10.cs.du.edu> Date: Sat, 4 Feb 1995 20:44:16 GMT Lines: 92 In article <3gvuvh$icf@nyx10.cs.du.edu> athresto@nyx10.cs.du.edu (Anne Threston) writes: >Peter Bell (bell@mercury.cis.yale.edu) wrote: (in resposne to Adam T.) >: "I assume she already has the plaster cast, if she wants one" > >Actually I don't have a plaster cast, though it _does_ sound as if >it would be great fun to make one, especially the part about maintaining >erection long enough for the plaster to set... You can make a "death mask" of your fave man's courting tackle. It can be done with plaster of Paris, but there are some medical rapid casting materials that are better - check your local artificial limb maker in the yellow pages. There is some dental material that sorta works but isn't very elastic, there is some medical stuff that is rapid setting silicone - good but expensive. Can't remmber all the names for this stuff, its been a few years. Maybe the a.t. Medical correspondant Sonya can help here. The advantage to an elastic casting medium is that it is easier to remove from the courting tackle after it has set, and BIG BONUS, you can cast more than one model without making an intermediate mold whicjh you have to do if using plaster of Paris. Pre-requisites: A willing and able partner. If if you think you can maintain a hard-on while mixing goop and slapping it on Mr Tiny and then stand about dripping casting material on the kitchen floor while it sets, you obviously have better concentration than most. You will have more fun with a partner and the partner can help with the stiffie, as well as the mixing and applying. Get full agreement before starting. Nothing destoys a good prize winning hard-on faster than the Spooge Recepticle walking out of the room saying "You're sick and disgusting! I never want to touch you again." Shave Mr Tiny, the balls and surrounding areas. The casting material will conform to your body, it will grip every hair you have. You do not want to rip all your pubes out as you remove the casting. Apply a liberal amount of vaseline to the whole area. Do NOT use Crisco. It says right on the can "shortening". This is not what you want near the family jewels. Also do not use KY or other water based lubes. This includes Moisturising creams which are emulsions and therefore water soluble to some extent. Use Vaseline, grease, lard, or if you are a YUPPY, olive oil. The advantage to olive oil is that after the cast is removed, your willing helper can lick your pubic area clean, maybe with a nice bit of crusty bread on the side. Size of cast: Should it be just of the ol "magic wand", or should the nuts be included. I discussed this with a wop engineer once, his decision was: "With the eggs - must be with the eggs". It is trickier to make a cast with the nuts, but if it is succesful it has several advantages. First of all, it gives some sense of proportion to the final casting. Then it can be adjusted so the nuts provide a natural base so it can stand on the family knick-knac shelf along with the souvineers from Dismaland etc. Mothers love to visit their daughters and see their current fuck's courting tackle proudly standing on the mantel piece. The other advantage is if the original owner of the courting tackle is ill or away, the model can be pressed into service. With the nuts as a base, it can be firmly gripped and every exciting inch can be rammed down the tunnel 'o love. How to: These are abreviated instructions. The makers of casting material can provide detailed instructions, plus the library probably has books on casting models and prothesis. Smear lots of grease over a well shaved Mr Tiny. Get Mr Tiny excited and then mix the molding material - some of this stuff sets in under 10 mins. Slap it around Mr Tiny and keep him angry until it has started to set. When fully set, carefully remove. If using plaster of Paris, you now need to pour casting resin in the "cavity" that is the negative mold. You can use more plaster of paris, but you gave to coat the original plaster of paris mold for this. If your mold is flexible material, you can pour plaster of Paris in it then peel off the mold to make another copy. Rather than use plaster of Paris, you can use various casting resins. Some of these come in "granite texture" etc. You can of course paint your "sculpture", add pubic hair or if you are artistic, do some extra sculpting. The more artistic of you may want to make a final casting in bronze - something to leave the grandkids. -- Julian Macassey, N6ARE julian@bongo.tele.com Voice: (414) 457-0874 Paper Mail: 210 Bleyer Drive, Sheboygan, Wisconsin 53081-8714 From alt.tasteless Fri Feb 10 21:13:37 1995 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!nic.tip.net!maggiore.dsnet.it!peernews.demon.co.uk!uknet!strath-cs!st-and!Aberdeen!eng355 From: eng355@nof.abdn.ac.uk (c.j.goldsworthy) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Important News about Pierre Ketteridge Date: 7 Feb 1995 11:39:34 GMT Organization: University of Aberdeen, Scotland Lines: 95 Message-ID: <3h7m5m$gm8@nof.abdn.ac.uk> NNTP-Posting-Host: emps.abdn.ac.uk Summary: A cautionary tale.. Keywords: Glub, lies X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] The pan-dimensional polymorph sat in the shabby armchair, feverishly stabbing at the stained keyboard with one clawed hand and twiddling his genitals roughly with the other. His appearance in the eyes of those who beheld him had fallen from the once suave and elegant exterior known as "Pierre Ketteridge", to a mere shadow of his former self. Service to the Great God Glub is expensive. The mental and physical tolls involved in being the True Prophet to a Being such as Glub had reduced the self-confessed Frenchman to a wreck beyond even that attainable with Gauloise and Absinthe by the metric shitload. As he frantically pecked at the keyboard in an attempt to find suitable work for a high-level minion of Glub, he knew time was running short. The tribute must keep coming, though it took such a terrible toll. < BING > < BONG > The doorbell startled the seated figure and he hurried to his feet, pulling his sticky hand from the waistband of his filthy trousers and licking it clean. He made his unsteady way to the cottage door and blearily peered through the fisheye lens. The face on the other side of the door was altogether too round and too bloated, the mouth impossibly wide and with enough teeth to make Jaws slope off in shame. The shabby grey suit lent the appearance of a salesman, aided by the bag he clutched to its skinny chest. Pierre saw the chance to use this salesman as a bargaining pawn to appease Dread Glubs' awful needs and retrieve his flagging status as Prophet. He quickly worked the dozen bolts from the door and beckoned the stranger into the foetid depths of the Midden..... However, as he crossed the threshold, the stranger seemed to melt and mutate before Pierres eyes until at last he realised that he had been tricked by his own fell master. Glub had visited his True Prophet. "TEEEEEEEE KEWWWWWWWWWW EMMMMMMMMMM" Glub uttered as he towered over Pierre in the hallway, absentmindedly patting at Plib the familiars' distended scrotum. As Pierre watched with awe and a certain savage pride, Glub inserted His Choad of Chaos into the hard drive of Pierres PC and wound His urethral teeth up to 3000rpm, to be rewarded by a shower of metal flakes and globules of melted plastic as a catastrophic hard drive integrity loss wiped the memory of the overworked unit. Simultaneously, He reached for the modem squatting beside it with his nether mandibles, crushing it to a fine powder that combined with the seminal discharge continually drooling from the emerald tip of His cosmic Glubhood to form a molten plastic lump on the edge of the table. He looked at the keyboard but decided that even Gods have limits and that the smegma-encrusted, drool-soaked lump of semi- functioning plastic was beyond His. With a final whispered, "TEEEEEEE KEWWWWWWWWW EMMMMMMM" Glub managed to sketch the pentagram first time and stepped through to his own foul dimension followed immediatly by Plib. Pierre hesitated, not knowing what lay ahead. Glub chuckled, and handed him a piece of paper bearing the legend; "Total Quality Management for Pan-Dimensional SuperBeings: How to Achieve and Implement BS5750 in the Application of Mayhem and Pure Evil. A short course for upper-middle hierarchy pan-dimensional polymorphs" Pierre grinned his best rictus smile, it was time for the Prophet to get his refresher course, makeover and a chance to sample the unearthly delights of Glubs own domain. A holiday. He smiled still further and stepped willingly through the portal, knowing that in a weeks time all would be well chez Ketteridge. And knowing that the world had better watch out for the return of the Prophet of the Great God Glub. ------------------------------------------------------------------- Or at least that's the story that Pierre told me when he rang last night to say that he will be away from A.T. and the net in general for the next week or so. Since Glub executed his modem, he's lost his access to e-mail and all the other shit as well, so you'll have wait if you want to contact the Prophet. He wished me to convey to you all his sincerest apologies and to explain that if he doesn't/hasn't reply/replied to your mail, it's not because he's a miserable cantankerous old bastard at all, nor is it because your mail has somehow offended him due to it's terrible quality or the fact that he just doesn't like you. Although all of them _could_ be true....... Yours, keeping the masses informed Colin "Temporary Assistant to the Prophet" G. -- "I'm shooting babies from the end of my dick, This ain't science, baby, this is magic" - Z. Mindwarp From alt.tasteless Fri Feb 10 21:14:47 1995 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!nic.tip.net!maggiore.dsnet.it!peernews.demon.co.uk!doc.news.pipex.net!pipex!howland.reston.ans.net!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail From: V_IVANOFF@am.atd.cra.com.au (Victor Ivanoff) Newsgroups: alt.feminism,alt.peeves,alt.politics.correct,alt.tasteless Subject: Is it absurd ? Is it insane ? Yup, it's SuperSNAG Date: 7 Feb 1995 22:18:57 -0600 Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway Lines: 190 Sender: nobody@cs.utexas.edu Message-ID: <1832041508021995/A24121/ATDM0/119243C41D00*@MHS> NNTP-Posting-Host: news.cs.utexas.edu Xref: diku.dk alt.feminism:81944 alt.politics.correct:33732 alt.tasteless:72194 Move over Steven King, I’ve just read the ultimate book of horror stories. It’s "THE MORNING AFTER - Sex, Fear and Feminism" by that shameless heretic and peddler of vile c*mm*ns*ns*, Katie Roiphe. I mean, how dare she live her life by herself, for herself, without the mandatory support groups and speakouts. Just who in the hell does she think she is ? Any how the book is highly recommended to those who get flabbergasted at the bizarre progressions of logic some of the sisterhood take, all members of the Patriarchal Conspiracy (who no doubt promoted and funded the project) and other miscellaneous thought criminals. Below is a choicer extract for the guys. I felt genuinely nauseous reading this. The lengths to which some people will go to get laid. <...> denotes italics. ---Begin--- Extract from chapter 5 - The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party They call themselves the new men or antisexists. The less enlightened call themselves feminists, but most prefer the less presumptuous "profeminists". The new men are not interested in feminism; they are devoted to it. They are not men who sometimes think about gender; they are men who study feminist theory. These are men who are active feminists, who attend seminars and marches and workshops. These are the J. Alfred Prufrocks of our generation. They have "heard the mermaids singing, each to each," and they strain to listen even though the song is not for them. Like Prufrock, these are men who grapple to see every side of an issue even if it paralyses them. Nearly every position they take is shaded by descriptions of how , , or it is. As males, and as people who repudiate traditional conceptions of masculinity, these profeminists have a lot of equivocating to do. They couch the inconsistencies that inevitably arise from their position in a rhetoric of sensitivity: their confusion and contradictions become , , and . Peter is not conventionally handsome. He is short, plump, wears glasses. He looks nervous, years of facing schoolyard bullies still show in his face, but as he talks about feminism his face lights up. His voice steadies. His vulnerable eyes fill with confidence and authority. He generally corrects my political incorrectness. When I say "girl" he says "woman", when I say "freshman week" he says "first-year-student orientation". Peter was the only male women's-studies major at a northeastern university. Now that he has graduated, he has started a group of men against sexism. Next fall, the group is going to travel to public and private high schools, giving workshops about sexism and violence against women. Peter is now a part of another, larger group, New York Anti-Sexist Men's Network. This group's statement includes this declaration: "We reject the notion that masculinity has anything to do with being a man of conscience." As Peter explains how important this group is to him, I think of him sitting around a giant table with the other antisexist men. When he talks they listen respectfully. Someone gives a tortured account of recurring rape fantasies. Someone else confesses to reading Penthouse all through adolescence. Peter tells me that his closest friends in high school were women. He says that he never really went through a hanging-around-and-drinking-beer-with-the-guys phase. I think of him now, enclosed in the accepting circle of nonsexist men, participating in the anxious rituals of antisexist-male bonding. Peter explains that embracing the antisexist-male ideology does shake up a guy's identity. Constantly questioning his behaviour, his emotions and his interactions, constantly trying to weed out what is conditioned as masculine, does unsettle him sometimes. "It’s like pulling a rug out from under yourself. It's like all of a sudden you don't know who you are, you don’t know what to wear, you don't know how to interact with people. You ask yourself: who the hell are you anyway ?" But in spite of it all, Peter seems to be doing a pretty good job of self-definition. He has a sense of purpose; he is not caught in the usual mad drift of the recently graduated. Unlike those biding their time waiting tables, working in bookstores, temping in offices, he has found his calling. The pressures of a bad economy and a competitive crowd can’t stop him from bringing his message to the city schools. We are sitting at a sidewalk cafe. A beautiful woman walks by, and I notice that as Peter bends his head to sip his coffee, he glances furtively in her direction. When the subject of sex comes up, Peter is on murky waters. He lowers his voice. Women’s bodies raise tricky questions for the antisexist male. There are a lot of thin lines and delicate balances in Peter’s answers. There are a lot of pauses. He explains that to be an antisexist male, "you have to be aware of the male gaze and the power stuff behind that." Peter looks at me anxiously and fiddles with the sugar packets. What, then, are the ethics of seeing a pretty woman on the street ? Does he gaze at her ? If he’s aware of the "power stuff," the complex network of sociopolitical relations involved in that stare, is he allowed to stare ? His face darkens for a moment. Yes, he does look at women, sometimes. He can’t help it, he feels bad. He worries that they will misunderstand his stares. He worries that they will get the wrong idea. "As far as they’re concerned you’re just another asshole saying ‘Hey, baby, nice ass,’ or something. They don’t know that you’re an antisexist man when you’re looking at them." On the other hand, Peter does believe in sexual attraction. He says, "Frankly, I don’t think sexual attraction to a woman is bad. The feminist community expects that because I’m an antisexist man, I’m not going to be sexual. But no. I love to be sexual. It’s a tough position to be in." And Peter does seem to be in a tough position, juggling sensitivity and sexuality, politics and libido. But feminism profoundly affects the nature of his sexual experience. Peter takes the idea that no means no very seriously. He believes that the dangerous realm of sexuality cannot be governed by ambiguity. It cannot be left to the whim of unspoken consent. He believes consent should be verbal and explicit. I wonder how this sensitive sexuality translates into flesh against flesh, into sitting next to a girl on a couch. Peter explains that "you have to be aware of people’s boundaries, and space, mentally and physically. Rather than just leaning over and kissing somebody, I always ask them, ‘Do you really want me to do this ? Can I do this ? Would you like me to do this ?’ because a lot of women have been conditioned not to be able to say no." Peter says that he continues this line of questioning at each stage of sexual activity. So Peter is talking about more than just no means no, he is talking about "Yes, I’ve really thought this through and I absolutely want to do this" means yes. I can tell by the pride in his voice that Peter has been around this bend before. He is used to being praised for his generosity and caution. I know he means well, but an image flashes through my mind: a man says to a woman in his room late at night, "Are you sure you want to do this, are you sure you really know what you’re doing ?" She doesn’t appreciate his condescension and bursts out laughing. But Peter tells me that the women involved are always appreciative of his sensitivity. In Peter’s mind there seems to be another intersection between sex and feminism. He tells me that someone he knew joined a feminist group because he wanted to sleep with a really sexy feminist and he figured politics was the fastest way to her heart. Peter does not say he himself became interested in feminism to pick up women. He does say, "We have to ask to what extent is a commitment to feminism on the part of a man an attempt to get a woman in bed. To deny that’s true at all would be preposterous. I think a commitment to antisexism be attractive." He goes on to tell me that in the jungle of insensitive men, the male feminist is a rare and welcome flower. "It’s so rare that men do this stuff that a common reaction is that women are totally bowled over and say ‘Oh my God, you’re so wonderful.’" As he smiles, I think of a waif-like feminist looking deep into his eyes as they drink herbal tea together and talk about Andrea Dworkin’s new novel. ---End--- There you go ladies, look proudly upon your creation and rejoice. Me, I think I’ll get some razor blades and run a warm bath. Thank you Ms. Roiphe for a very necessary, though thoroughly depressing, compendium of atrocities committed by pea-brains who think they know best. Victor Chief Judge, Division of Socio-Sexual War Crimes Patriarchal Conspiracy Central ======================================================================= | V_IVANOFF@am.atd.cra.com.au | Still trying to learn to keep my | | Please E-mail followups of note. | "mysogenist" trap shut. | | Crappy, constipated news feed. | Eat vegetarians. | ======================================================================= From alt.tasteless Fri Feb 10 21:16:03 1995 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!uunet!cs.utexas.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!Germany.EU.net!Informatik.Uni-Dortmund.DE!ls12z!weber From: weber@ls12z.informatik.uni-dortmund.de (Dominik Weber) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: on WWW: alt.tasteless trivial pusuit Date: 5 Feb 1995 16:41:41 GMT Organization: Brujah Lines: 21 Sender: weber@ls12z (Dominik Weber) Distribution: world Message-ID: <3h2v45$4kj@fbi-news.informatik.uni-dortmund.de> NNTP-Posting-Host: ls12z.informatik.uni-dortmund.de Hello a.t'ers, I've just worte a script for interactive Q&A. Now, on my tasteless page i've got included very few alt.tasteless trivial pusuit questions. Has anyone collected the questions of the last trivia questions? I'm starting to collect them now, but as I've come up with this idea on friday I didn't archieve them *sigh* How to get to my tasteless page: Answer the questions in the "Hidden realm". (The hidden realm is a page which is hard to find!) Dominik Weber Homepage:http://ls12-www.informatik.uni-dortmund.de/~weber/Homepage Hidden realm:http://ls12-www.informatik.uni-dortmund.de/~weber/doc/hidden From alt.tasteless Fri Feb 10 21:17:14 1995 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless From: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk (Prophet of the Great God Glub) Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!news.tele.fi!uunet!solaris.cc.vt.edu!news.duke.edu!agate!howland.reston.ans.net!pipex!peernews.demon.co.uk!glub.demon.co.uk!ketteridgep Subject: 'Tard Chicks; Mr Grubbins; "How about a ham shank?" Organization: The Midden Reply-To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk X-Newsreader: Demon Internet Simple News v1.29 Lines: 104 X-Posting-Host: glub.demon.co.uk Date: Sat, 4 Feb 1995 18:50:08 +0000 Message-ID: <791923808snz@glub.demon.co.uk> Sender: usenet@demon.co.uk Daisy the cow is much better now, thank you very much (BTW, I changed the names to protect the innoce^H^H^H^H^people likely to litigate). Seeing as they don't milk the cows at the 'tard farm, just the goats (no, I don't know why) they've had to buy in a couple of calves to suckle off her. The story made it into the local daily paper, in the same section as the egg rally was reported. Naturally, they sanitised the story ("her calf died" - they never mentioned the fact that it "died" inside her several weeks before), but it looks like the Ketteridges are getting a regular feature! Jane's chickens and ducks are starting to hatch out, and, true to form, most of them are 'crips and 'tards too. A couple of them stuck to their shells, and upon energetic "help" by the 'tards to bring them into the world, burst. Another one had clawed-up feet, like an arthritic old lady, and could barely walk. There was something wrong with it's neck, too, and it dragged it's head along the floor between it's legs. Jane was about to ask if she could take it home and see if she could nurse it at all, but before she could vocalise the question, Head 'Tard had picked it up, squetched it's cranium between thumb and forefinger, and thrown it in the bin. End of problem. The start of lambing season is just a couple of weeks away, and Jane has been out administering sub-cutanous innoculation injections to the ewes. They tend to wriggle a bit when this is being done, and she reports tthat more often than not the hypodermic comes out the other side of the skin flap she's trying to puncture. What worries me more is the prospect of "fisting syndrome". She's going to have to help deliver the lambs, and has taken to leaving her jewellery off, and washing her hands in skin moisturiser/softener. I never sleep with my back to her, now. As to the 'tards themselves? Well, the fat guy trying to grow potatoes in his navel has taken to following Jane about screaming "Mumm-mie! Mumm-mie! Mumm-mie!" The other day, Jane was asked if she wanted to accompany them to an external presentation at a day care centre. She accepted, naturally enough. Half way there, one of the 'tards in the minibus turned to her, and giggling, said "You're Mr Grubbins, you are! Hur Hur Hur Hur!" She thought about this statement, but decided to ignore it. Then the others started up, chanting "Trashie, Trashie, Trashie, Trashie,... hur hur hur hur", and dribbling into their knuckles. This worried Jane a bit. She was no longer in charge of the situation. Bottom line, she didn't know what the fuck they were talking about. When they got to the 'tard centre, the farm manager confirmed that she was, indeed, Mr Grubbins, the Trash Monster. They dressed her up in some kind of industrial radiation suit, with a hood and gasmask contraption with goggle lenses and dual air filters. The suit was hung with old coke cans, litter, old chewing gum, fish heads, soiled sanitary towels or whatever. She then had to run round the yard with all the day centre 'tards in hot pursuit, lobbing all sorts of refuse out of a sack she was carrying. I don't know, dirty paper, cigarette butts, used rubbers and suchlike. The 'tards chased her, thumping her and screaming "Goway, Trasth Mungthta! Goway, Trasth Mungtha!" until they saw her off the premises. The goggles had all steamed up and all she could see was a white fog with little dumpy hands raining down on her. She nearly ran under a bus in the main road. Oh well, as long as she's learning about farming... Sheesh! Pierre ObWank: You've probably all heard of Cockney Rhyming Slang, but you may not be aware that there are a lot of other regional variations on this theme. One such is Tyke-, or Yorkshire-, Rhyming Slang. One day this week, they were all sitting down having their NVQ lecture. Serious stuff, this. The topic was: "What do you get from pigs?". The question was thrown open for discussion. Silence. Eventually, a hand was raised uncertainly. "Sorsidges?" This opened the floodgates. "Am" "Bekkin" "Pok Pahs" "Pig mit" And so on. The farm manager scratched his chin, and said "What about a ham shank, then?" Jane, woken from her reverie at the back of the class, said "What?" and burst out laughing. "I might have known you knew what I was talking about", muttered the manager. Grinning evily, he turned to the slowest guy in the class, who he calls Wonder Boy. "Well, then, Wonder Boy, dou _you_ like a nice ham shank, then?" Wonder Boy looked at him and said: "Uh, ah, uh, ah doan know." "Come on now, you must have had a few ham shanks in your time!" "Uh, ah, uh doan know. Would the butcher gimme a ham shank on my way home?" By this time the manager was trying not to wet himself laughing. "Well, Wonder Boy, you'll have to ask him nicely, and he'll charge you for it..." Next day, and the manager asks him, "Well, did you get your ham shank from the butcher?" "Uh, ah, uh, ah, no, ah couldna remember whashits called. I got beefburgers..." -- Pierre From alt.tasteless Fri Feb 10 21:18:18 1995 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless From: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk (Prophet of the Great God Glub) Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!uunet!cs.utexas.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!pipex!peernews.demon.co.uk!glub.demon.co.uk!ketteridgep Subject: TSS Defaulter - Glub's First (Personal) Appearance Organization: The Midden Reply-To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk X-Newsreader: Demon Internet Simple News v1.29 Lines: 180 X-Posting-Host: glub.demon.co.uk Date: Sat, 4 Feb 1995 14:08:00 +0000 Message-ID: <791906880snz@glub.demon.co.uk> Sender: usenet@demon.co.uk Glub pays Suzanne Schacherer a visit... --------------------------------------- Suzanne sat crosslegged in the chair by the table, furiously pounding the Italian peppermill between her damp thighs. Clad only in a bathrobe, she arched her back, head flung back, eyes closed. Low moans of approaching orgasm escaped from her slightly-parted lips. She snapped to attention, yanking free the large mahogany condiment receptacle and placing it back on the table. The damned doorbell! Tying her robe, she approached the door and peered out through the fisheye security peephole. As always, the figure in her field of vision was distorted by the lens. Shabby grey suit, big, bloated round face, large aquatic glassy eyes, and a mouth that seemed fixed in a rictus grin that stretched from ear to ear. And what appeared to be _far_ too many teeth. Somehow, the peephole lens seemed to make everybody look like mongoloids. The man was holding something in his arms. A delivery, perhaps? Sighing, Suzanne slipped the latch and opened the door. "Waaah!" The cry escaped her throat as she saw him in the flesh. His head _did_ look like that! The stranger with the shiny bulbous head, bulging fish eyes and reptilian smile was holding a small Pomeranian and stroking it absent-mindedly. As the final vestiges of her sanity fled screaming, Suzanne saw him step towards her, his sharksteeth-filled cheshire cat mouth parting as he uttered a hoarse, sibilant whisper: "TEEEEEEEEE,... EEEEEESSSSSS,... EEEEEESSSSSS..." ------------------------------------------- As he stepped through the door, the stranger let the small dog leap to the floor, and he seemed to... shimmer. His features melted, and Glub resumed his true, horrific, indescribable form. As it hit the carpet, the dog adopted its' normal pangolin appearance, for it was, in truth, Plib, Glub's familiar. Suzanne was on the floor, eyes vacant, spittle and drool dribbling down her chin. She tried to scrabble away as Glub reached for her, but it was a lacklustre attempt. Her mad, damaged mind was in Glub's thrall, as would be her soul, soon. Nether mandibles clacking in anticipation, Glub approached. All his mouths were smiling now. His claspers were squeezing hard as he extruded his cosmic Glubhood. Fully two foot long from scaly scrotal sac to shiny emerald head, it gleamed, slick in the late afternoon light. The bony protrusions, and the four-inch barbed spikes that swept back from the ridge of the glans lent the organ the appearance of a long- necked Triceratops. The veins and arteries pulsed purple. "TEEEEEEEEE,... EEEEEESSSSSS,... EEEEEESSSSSS..." Bringing forward one of his articulated limbs, Glub flicked out a talon and scraped a long slug of smegfeta from behind the head of his Choad of Chaos. Holding it out, he directed it into Suzanne's mouth. She sucked at his finger hungrily, cheeks sinking as she swallowed. The talon burst from the right side of her face, near the ear, and as Glub drew it back towards her lip the cheek was bared to the bone, revealing her molars and the angle of the jaw. Blood sluiced down her neck and shoulder, staining her white terry robe a vivid pink, but Suzanne merely moaned softly. Lifting her up, Glub carried her to the table and laid her out like a sacrifice. And in a way she was, for today, at least, Suzanne Schacherer was Glub's concubine. Sweeping one of his tentacles across to clear the table, the demon deity paused and picked up the pepper mill. He looked at it, smelt it (it was still well-lubricated with Suzanne's love juices and discharge), turned it upside down, and observed the cascade of black particles. He smelt them, and sneezed, and tasted them, and roared his approval. He held it alongside his nightmarish member, and smiled. A primitive effort, but the proportions were right, even if the details were lacking. A nice touch with the black semen powder, he thought. All in all, a worthy piece of religious erotica. He placed it aside and turned his attentions back to Suzanne. Holding his intergalactic pecker in one paw, he moved in. The hood spikes flexed, and his urethral teeth chittered in excitement. He entered her easily, the spikes cutting effortlessly through, tissue, gristle and pelvic bone. The flowing blood helped lubricate his entry as the priapic God pumped away at his chosen bride. The barbs tore great gouges through her belly on the return strokes, and soon clots of diced meat, mixed with blood, bone, faecal matter and ebon demon jizz were bubbling up through the wounds. Her sightless eyes weren't even blinking, although Suzanne's lips were reciting something just below the threshold of human hearing. And Glub? What was he muttering through most of his mouths? "TEEEEEEEEE,... EEEEEESSSSSS,... EEEEEESSSSSS..." Withdrawing with a that brought her uterus and most of her intestines with it, He turned the girl over and created a new, and much larger, puckered starfish for her. As he thrust, dark shit, bright blood and black seed was oozing from her vulva. Her clasped arms tried to hold her organs in, but viscera was escaping from the rents in her belly. Pulling out at last, and ripping half a buttock off in the process, Glub threw her to the ground and sat down in her chair. Reaching into some undisclosed place, he pulled out a cigarette and a box of matches. Suzanne crawled off into the corner, dragging her entrails with her. Glub sat and smoked, patting Plib, who was hopping excitedly from foot to foot. "TEEEEEEEEE,... EEEEEESSSSSS,... EEEEEESSSSSS..." Then it was time for the finale. Glub rose, and approached Suzanne, his Interdimensional Tadger ramrod straight and pointing at her, the urethral lips peeled back, revealing the sharp little gnashing teeth, and the urethra itself screeching shrilly. Suzanne raised her parted lips to Glub's groin, but he grabbed her face roughly with his pubic tentacles and shoved it round. She was to be given the ultimate accolade! Within the urethral neck the teeth were chattering at an incredibly pace, making a sound like a giant high-speed drill. Yes, Glub's omnipotent organ is the multiverse's one and only organic SquickStick... as he pressed it home to her temple, a cloud of fine blood, flecks of skin and fragments of bone billowed around the site of entry. Glub felt down by his scabrous testes and engaged the hammer action... Suzanne's lopsided, Glub-enhanced lips were vibrating in time with the oscillations of the heavenly hammerdrill, saliva flecked with blood spraying around her gaping mouth. One glazed eye was bulging, while the other had collapsed back into it's socket as the cranial wall broke down. Suddenly Glub screamed "TEEEEEEEEE EEEEEESSSSSS EEEEEESSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!" as thick, black, ropy Glubsemen burst from the wound in Suzanne's head. Her eyes welled up with it as it forced its way out through her tear ducts, it poured out from her nose and her ears, and sprayed from her ruined mouth. Where it spattered on to the carpet, it slithered around like quicksilver before scooting up her torso and wriggling inside through one of the (natural, or new) orifices. Plib was keening with repressed glee, and running around Glubs legs. He knew what happened next. Glub withdrew and looked down gently at his bride. She was dying, but would live long enough... just. And then her soul would be his. Her body was starting to bloat up. Thousands of pustules and buboes were forming on her skin, in her exposed organs, in the gaping hole in her head. They grew larger, and more numerous, until they started bursting, and thousands of little yellow-green proto-arachnids started pouring out and spilling to the floor. Plib yelped and dived at them, flicking them up with his long tongue, and gobbling them down. Glub screamed "TEEEEEEEEE EEEEEESSSSSS EEEEEESSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!" and booted Plib across the room. He hated it when Plib ate his babies. Plib sulked in the corner. Suzanne breathed her last as the tide of erupting spiders stopped. Her job was done. Glub mumbled some incantation and described some runic symbols in the air. Nothing. Bugger! Star of David again. He tried once more and got the pentagram right this time. The wall shimmered, and Glub stepped through, back to the Dungeon Dimensions. A whistle was heard, and Plib dived through after him. Just before the dimension rift healed, Glub stepped back through and, looking around, saw the pepper mill and grabbed it. Can't leave offerings like that unclaimed. One last look around. Glub had enjoyed himself immensely. Maybe Pierre's TSS would default again next year. He hoped so. These interdimensional excursions were so rare these days... He stepped back through. -------------------------------------------------------------------- Well, that's the dream Glub sent me anyway. Maybe it's a premonition. Maybe it's not too late yet. Maybe you can still save yourself, Suzanne. Three little letters: TEEEEEEE,... EEEEEESSSSS,... EEEEEESSSSS. --------------------------------------------------- Pierre, Polymorph and Prophet of the Great God Glub --------------------------------------------------- From alt.tasteless Fri Feb 10 21:19:31 1995 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!trane.uninett.no!nac.no!ifi.uio.no!sics.se!eua.ericsson.se!ericom!erinews.ericsson.se!cnn.exu.ericsson.se!convex!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail From: V_IVANOFF@am.atd.cra.com.au (Victor Ivanoff) Newsgroups: alt.fan.courtney-love,alt.music.nirvana,alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Wanted Date: 3 Feb 1995 01:30:34 -0600 Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway Lines: 76 Sender: nobody@cs.utexas.edu Message-ID: <7656171803021995/A19543/ATDM0/11921C913700*@MHS> References: <9502030638.AA05259@info> NNTP-Posting-Host: news.cs.utexas.edu Xref: diku.dk alt.fan.courtney-love:536 alt.music.nirvana:2411 alt.tasteless:71745 v056rrr4@ubvms.cc.buffalo.edu (Subzero) writes: >Zup all, >Anyone know if there is a composit list of your mother jokes floating around? >If so could someone mail me a copy?? Please listen carefully and follow these instructions precisely. This is a matter of grave importance for future generations. Obtain the following items - * one large claw hammer * one smallish anvil * one thermos full of liquid nitrogen * one tea cup Now, carry out the following steps - * Position anvil centrally in your room, and arrange other items within arms reach of it. * Remove all of your clothes. * Fill the tea cup with liquid nitrogen and place on the floor. * Squat down over the tea cup and immerse your testicles in the liquid nitrogen for at least 30 seconds (don't worry. This won't hurt a bit) * Now as quickly as possible place your now well crystallised scrotum on the anvil. * Take the claw hammer and strike down on your scrotum as hard as you can. * Listen to the musical tinkling of your manhood explode across the room. You must not be allowed, at any cost, to pass on your genetic stain. People who cannot work out that alt.tasteless.jokes is the proper forum for infantile humor and post to a.t instead are lower on lifes pecking order than the most insignificant amoeba. Not content to display his idiocy in this one instance, Christopher also deposited the following two items into my mail box - >It is fuck faces like you that make shit smell so bad. Get a life dick and >maybe you can start writing more civilized messages here... I suggest messages >of this nature end right here and now or you could find youself in a world of >trouble... << GRIN >> and when I responded - >BlahBlahBlahBlah.. Looks like its gonna be a battle of wits here so I will >spare you the few remaining cells you hold on to. As far as adolesence I >wouldnt puss my luck if I where you, could get you introuble.. > >Click.. Not a once, but a *thrice* crowned buffoon. And guess where he comes from, folks ! Alt.music.nirvana and alt.fan.courtney-love ! Who would've guessed ? The door is that way, moron. Go soil yourself somewhere else. Victor "Victor Ivanoff is a stupid fucking kangaroo fucking bastard from australia. He likes fucking chia pets and his mother and that fat fucking ugly moron wilf "trent felching" leblanc. Victor Ivanoff has an anus redder than a baboon's" by an119901@anon.penet.fi Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!usc!howland.reston.ans.net!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail From: weberm@freenet.scri.fsu.edu (Mike Weber) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: 1994 Alt.Tasteless Awards addendum Date: 12 Feb 1995 17:20:36 -0600 Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway Lines: 107 Sender: nobody@cs.utexas.edu Message-ID: <199502122313.AA04317@freenet3.scri.fsu.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: news.cs.utexas.edu Oops! Due to some techincal difficulties beyond our control,mainly a fucked up freenet and a lynch mob threatening Bob with his life, the awards were announced before I could add some surprise awards and a simple numerical analysis... I finally had some free time this weekend to append the surprise awards, but notthe numerical data. Maybe next year. ================================================================= Well, 1994 was a strange year. We a load of fuckwits wander into alt.tasteless. Some of the group left for 'greener pastures' and others stayed and fought off the clueless-hordes. We've picked up new members and as most of you noticed, there's more wimmin here now. Mike and I took on the thankless task of taking nominations and votes for the best articles and personalities. I must admit it was kind of fun seeing what some people thought was quality. Tastes really do vary within the world of tastelessness. For those that won, congratulations. To those that didn't, it was an honor just to be nominated. Let's see if 1995 can be an even better year. The winners are.... Mr. Alt.tasteless: Tae Kim Ms. Alt.tasteless: Lenore Levine Mr. Alt.tasteless Rookie of the Year: Pieere Ketteridge Ms. Alt.tasteless Rookie of the Year: Anne Threshton Alt.tasteless Poet of the Year: "Ode to my Choad" Sean Mcafee (smmcafee@mtu.edu) Alt.tasteless Fiction of the Year: In The Ambulance, a Hagiographic Fantasy adam@pentagon.io.com (Adam Justin Thornton) Alt.tasteless Non-Fiction of the Year: Home Penial Self-Surgery Procedure gbernath@oucsace.cs.ohiou.edu (Gregory Bernath) Alt.tasteles Concept of the Year: necrophila donor bank KEOliver@ix.netcom.com (Kevin Oliver) Alt.tasteless Work of Art: "No Masturbation" Sign spank@u.washington.edu (Rick Bruch) Alt.tasteless Flame of the Year: (tie) Re: AVENGE THE PENSICOLA MURDERS! Bob "Another beer, please" Christ Speed Stick HinTysen@aol.com (Scott Tysen) Alt.tasteless Quote of the Year: geoffm@netcom.com (Geoff Miller) Alt.tasteless Poster Child: Henry M. Heepe Alt.Tasteless Pet of the Year: Binky And now, two surprise awards... ^L the "Lifetime Achievement Award" for Jeff Dahmer, (in)famous gourmet who died in a prison foodfight and the "Tasteless Medical Provider" award to Tae and Nash, for boldly risking life and limb to bring the readership of a.t. the tasteless side of health care. Way to go guys! - Some aboriginal Australians and inhabitants of New Guinea routinely ate art of a dead relative's body as an act of respect and to appease the ghost of the deceased. Everyone involved dreaded the "feast" which was accompanied by almost ceaseless vomiting, spitting, and other signs of disgust, sometimes lasting several days." DEATH TO DUST Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!panix!tinman.dev.prodigy.com!prodigy.com!uunet!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!math.ohio-state.edu!magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu!mail-news-gateway From: nobody@alpha.c2.org (Anonymous) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: an arresting tale Date: 14 Feb 1995 05:11:30 -0500 Organization: The Ohio State University Lines: 264 Sender: root@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu Message-ID: <199502141000.CAA27247@infinity.c2.org> NNTP-Posting-Host: charm.magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu [5m The forbidden text!!! [0m Below is the story that played a part in getting that kid arrested.... ~From: kiasyd@umich.edu (Jake Baker) ~Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories ~Subject: Gone Fishin' Organization: University of Michigan ~Lines: 257 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: joust.rs.itd.umich.edu X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Disclaimer: The following is just words. Words have no inherent meaning. Plato is dead. Warning: The following story contains non-consentual rape, torture and snuff of a teenager by her brother and his friend. Consider yourself warned. Gone Fishin' ^^^^^^^^^^^^ RHey. Mom, whereUd Liz go?S That was Pete. PeteUs my age. Liz is his older sister. We needed to find out where she was. See, weUd got to talking earlier. We were in his room, watching some porno flicks with the volume turned down, discussing girls. You see, Pete and I are a lot a like. At only sixteen each, were far more mature for our age. We both have to shave. WeUre rejected by the rest of our peers, so we pal around together. WeUre share very similar tastes, in all matters. So I was talking with Pete, and Pete said, "What kind of girls do you find attractive?" He hadn't actually used the word 'girls'. He'd said 'bitches'. See, several weeks ago we admitted to each other that we both thought more about rape than girlfriends; more about sticking hot needles through girlsU tits than sucking them, more about abusing them than loving them. So we started to refer to girls in derogatory terms. It turned us on. "Girl" or "woman" makes you think of them as people. "Whore", "bitch", "cunt", "slut" makes you think of them as what they are - fuck toys for the men of the world. Only the bitches've convinced most men they have rights, and so most men don't take advantage of them as they should. I thought a while, than said, "I think your sister is kind've cute," I looked at Pete, thinking he might grow upset over that. But he smiled his toothy smile and said, "Ya know, me too! "My sister is such a bitch. I mean, she ignores me. She mocks me. Her cunt friends come over and tease me. Sometimes I see her walk naked out of the shower. I enjoy leering at her body. God I'd love to torture her, make her bleed for me!" My cock grew enormous as I thought about his sister. Liz was only a year older than Pete. She was thin and wispy, with pale skin. Although seventeen, she still looked as if she were only thirteen or so. She had no breasts to speak of. Her narrow face had a pug nose; her wispy brown hair fell to her shoulders. But she was a true bitch, and didn't like either of us. She was smart, got good grades in school, so Pete's mom liked her and not Pete. Pete started to stroke his cock. "Tell me what you'd do to Liz if you caught her alone," He said. I closed my eyes and imagined ... "She'd be all alone, in the house. I'd come in and call out for you. She'd say you weren't in, from where she was sitting, reading a book on the couch. I'd walk over next to her, strike the book from her hand. I'd grab her by the hair and strike her face real hard ..." Just then, there was a knock on the door; we hurriedly pulled our pants up as Pete's mom walked in. "Are you too behaving yourselves?" "Yeah, sure. Hey, mom, where'd Liz go?" "She went with Tom to the fishing hole back in the woods," Tom was Liz's wimpy boyfriend. He'd never even kissed her. When Pete's mom left, I asked him, "Why'd you wanna know where Liz is?" He grinned when he said, "Let's go rape her!" I was a bit apprehensive, but finally Pete convinced me. He said the old fishing hole was two miles deep into the woods. Overpowering Tom would be no problem, and there'd be no-one around to here Liz scream. My hard cock prompted me to go without to much worry over getting caught. First, though, we had to get some "toys". Yeah, sure, we'd fuck Liz, right in the cunt and mouth and asshole, but fuckin' women only's half of what they're good for. The other half's torturin'. Pete got his school bag and we went around the house, putting things into it. We got a bundle of strong cord. We got pliers and his dadUs power drill, with all the tips for it. Pete put a sharp paring knife in; I got a box of needles and a lighter. Heavy electrical wire went in, as did some tent stakes. We got it good and full, then started to hike. The woods werenUt far from Pete's house. We got on the trail and walked. The hard-ons in our pants wouldn't come down. The trip took twenty minutes, but then we were at the fishing hole. We hid behind the bushes and watched. Liz and Tom were doing homework. Tom's fishing pole had been placed into the ground, and was ignored. Tom was a young kid, only 15, a year younger than Pete and myself, and much less well- built. We watched for a while, horrified by the fact that Tom didn't seem the least bit interested in jumping on Liz and raping her. As nothing in this scene changed for fifteen minutes, we sprung up and crashed our way out of the bushes. Pete immediately went to his sister and put her into a bear-hug. Her face smushed against his chest. Meanwhile, I grabbed Tom by his short hair and dragged him into the little muddy pool. He drowned quickly, without much struggle. When I came onto dry land again, Pete was holding his sister from behind. She'd seen what I'd done, and started balling "Stop it! Stop it" I laughed and smacked her. Pete whispered into her ear "We're gonna fuck you, sis. What you think about that?" "Your both perverts and should be locked up!" she cried, then twisted her way out of Pete's arms. (Actually, Pete'd let her go). We chased her around the pool until her unathletic little body couldn't go any further, and she collapsed, "Pete," she pleaded, tears welling into her eyes, "This isn't funny." "It's not meant to be, you bitch!" he yelled at her. He grabbed a handful of her hair, and drug her kicking and screaming into the woods. Forcing her roughly against a tree, we stripped her. Using brute strength, we tore her dress from her body until it was bare. Liz was moaning "No, no, please..." Pete enjoyed smacking her almost as much as I did. When she was fully bare (there's not much to describe. Her barely existent breasts and hairless pussy made her look like a little kid), I punched her in the stomach. She folded up, clutching her stomach and moaning. "Oh, I'll give you something to moan about, bitch!" I said. Taking the rope out of Pete's bag, I tied little Liz in between two trees, her legs and arms spread out, so that we had a clear view of her entire body. Liz struggled against the bonds, but it was useless. With her so restrained, Pete and I undressed. His cock swelled just as much as mine, and its purple tip oozed pre-cum. When Liz saw this, she started yelling for help, "Help me! Help me, somebody! I'm being raped!" She yelled over and over. Pete and I walked over to his naked, helpless sister. She stared at us, eyes wide with fear and blurred by tears. I took her back and Pete took her front. We felt her up. I ran my fingers through her fine brown hair, then they lingered on her soft neck. I imagined it squeezed beneath my hands. They made a quick route down her back, then I reached her butt. It was small and thin, just like the rest of her. I stroked it gently. Liz pleaded with me, "Please, please don't touch me there!" (or maybe that was to Pete's attentions on her tiny nipples). I smacked her rump hard for her complaining. It made a nice cracking sound, so I did it again. Liz yelped in pain and my erection jerked. I kneaded her thin buttocks, digging my fingernails in. I spread them apart so I could get a look at her asshole (Pete had her pussy). It was small like a little girls, all crinkly and dirty. I massaged it with the tip of my pinky, and it started to quiver. Liz jerked and moaned. Pete called me up front to watch as he started to decorate her. I heated the sewing needles up for him. Then he grabbed as much of a breast as she had and yanked. Her body pulled forward, and the nipple squeezed out. Holding it like that, he slowly inserted the pin through it, taking his jolly time as Liz screamed and screamed. "Will you listen to that?" I laughed, "Your sis is quite the vocal brat. Think I should quiet her down!" Once both pins were through her nipples, we removed them and put loop earrings into the holes they'd made, and attached a leash to the loops. I tugged on it a bit, enjoying the reactions this solicited from Liz and the way it made her nipples bulge out. Then we took her down. Pete sat on her back as we made her crouch there. He took out a length of the electrical cord and began whipping her ass with it as I shoved my aching member into her tiny mouth. She looked so much like a little girl! Her screams and sobs and gagging around my cock brought up a load of jism, which I was happy to withdraw for and spread all over her pretty face. Then I smacked her with my aching cock. Liz's ass was a bright red when Pete got off her. We lead her around on the leash for a while. Then I hog-tied her and pulled her along the ground by her hair while Pete lay atop of her, humping her. Pete lashed her over a tree branch and fucked all of her holes while I used the pliers to jerk and tear at her tortured tits. We tied her laying on her back to a log, her small frame contorted and stretched around the huge thing. We inserted the tent stakes into her hairless cunt and asshole and twisted them around. Liz jerked and starined, her voice was getting hoarse from all her screaming. Her body was covered with bright and dark bruises; my cum still lingered on her face; her tiny crotch region was distended by too much violent fucking. She jerked and spasmed from all the attention. Her legs twitched, calling attention to them. I took out the lighter again and lightly burned her inner thighs. They glowed a nice red. Then I whipped them with a thick wire cord. Liz screamed, and Pete shoved his thick cock down her throat again, calling back, "Keep doing that man. It feels so good when she screams," So I obediently kept whipping her, moving from her inner thighs to her stomach and then her bleeding nips. With a huge jerk that broke her nose, Pete gushed a load of cum down his bitch sisters throat. When he pulled away, she tried to spit his white love juice out, but he pushed her jaw back and made her swallow. Her face contorted at the taste. It was so lovely. We hung her upside-down from a high tree branch and used her as a punching bag. She swung back and forth. Pete punched her in her cut-up nip; on the return swing, I kneed her in the face. She made horrible sounding gargling noises as we did this. The cunt's screeching didn't even sound human anymore. She sounded like a wounded rabbit. When we got tired, we left her like so that we could rest, and to get our horniness back. Pete's sister dangled there, in mid-air before us, cut up and bleeding, covered with cum; her asshole leaked shit and her cunt blood. Her mouth swelled up so that she couldn't breath that way anymore. That served as a really effective gag. She made small, helpless sounds that helped make us horny again fast. It was getting dark by the time we got our strength back. We untied Liz, and made her crawl between us, sucking us off while they other spanked her with a whip or a branch or his bare hand. She was so cute! Her tiny body was naked and helpless as we abused her; she made screeching sounds to our direct attentions, and then mewled when we left her alone. Which wasn't often. I was having the best time of my life, and told Pete this. He agreed, forcing his fattened cock through Liz's bruised lips down her throat. I took out the paring knife and started making little drawing on her thighs. Eventually, Liz collapsed from the pain and suffering. We fucked her unconscious body. She cried out and moaned and whimpered still. Her young body was a mess of cuts and bruises, splattered with blood and cum. Pete pissed on her. I cut her nipples off with the knife. She awoke screaming. I cut of the sound as my hands enclosed her throat. I choked her slowly, letting her get gasps of air before tightening again. Her face started turning red and slowly purple. Her beautiful brown eyes bugged out. Pete inserted his entire arm up her asshole and started to scrape at her insides. Her screaming voice was stopped by my hands. Then, she died, and we spent the night fucking and abusing her dead body before burning her in the morning. When we got back to Pete's house (his mom had been worried about Liz but hadn't given a shit about us), we remembered we'd forgotten to take pictures... C'est la vie. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!panix!tinman.dev.prodigy.com!prodigy.com!uunet!in1.uu.net!library.erc.clarkson.edu!ub!newserve!bb05246 From: bb05246@bingsuns.cc.binghamton.edu (John Hollister) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Appetizers Date: 11 Feb 1995 00:52:31 GMT Organization: Rimming the Ancient Mariner Lines: 35 Message-ID: <3hh1of$ci5@bingnet1.cc.binghamton.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: 128.226.1.2 X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Ever use someone as an appetizer? Well, here I am, getting ready for a party, and YZYZYZY the phone rings. It is a familiar voice, a regular heavy breather who calls me from time to time under certain pretexts before shifting the conversation to his fantasies. He gets on my nerves so I figured, what the fuck, and invited him over to blow me. He showed up. Small and squat, very, very fat, glasses thicker than mine ever were, looked much older than he probably was. I quickly herded him into my fuckchamber. He was hesitant. Very hesitant as I started to get to the, um, point. "There is something I should probably tell you. Maybe its better if I just showed you." great. His undersized prick had a sore on it. A big, bloody sore. I don't think it was diseased. Looked more like a few abrasions got, um, out of hand from too much manual stimulation. The lump of bloody coarsened flesh was on his shaft just below the urethra, at about the spot where a Prince Albert would exit the skin before looping back into the pisshole. I let him whack off and set him on his merry way. I saved my own spooge for later. I recommended that he get himself an AOL account. I just wanted an appetizer before heading out to a grad student party in search of at least six inches. Given that they are mostly alternative new age guys, I calculate that it will take three separate tricks to add up to my minimum requirement. -- John Hollister bb05246@bingsuns.cc.binghamton.edu http://www-bprc.mps.ohio-state.edu/cgi-bin/hpp/jwh.html "Honey, I'm more man than you'll ever be and more woman than you'll ever get" -traditional queen's retort Newsgroups: alt.tasteless,alt.support.stuttering Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!news2.near.net!das-news2.harvard.edu!fas-news.harvard.edu!newspump.wustl.edu!trinews.sbc.com!news.mid.net!news.mci.net!lamarck.sura.net!howland.reston.ans.net!ix.netcom.com!netcom.com!geoffm From: geoffm@netcom.com (Geoff Miller) Subject: Does Vikram Rao Suck Cuh-Cuh-Cock? Message-ID: Followup-To: alt.tasteless,alt.support.stuttering Organization: Sverdlovsk State Scabrous Menstrual Clot Institute Date: Wed, 15 Feb 1995 16:00:57 GMT Lines: 189 Sender: geoffm@netcom12.netcom.com Xref: diku.dk alt.tasteless:72791 alt.support.stuttering:85 Well, one would certainly think so; he seems to have swallowed a nasty load of *something,* at any rate. It seems that some of us have run afoul of Vikram's tender sensibilities. In my case, I posted exactly *once* to alt.support.stuttering, and that was all it took to set that vein on his forehead a-throbbin' and get him to embark on a bizarre crusade of virtual bloodlust. I like to think that his monitor screen was covered with spittle as well. Vikram's been a busy little bee indeed, running around whining to people's sysadmins like a playground tattletale (which he undoubtedly was as a child). The funny thing is, most people grow out of that sort of thing early in life. I guess Vikram didn't get his little butt blistered enough for that during his short-pants days. Well, Vikram old shoe, that time has finally caught up with you. You're about to be pantsed and have your figurative eyeglasses thumbed by someone who's been getting quite a chuckle at your expense. The country has turned a corner, you see. The Republicans are in control now, and we're tired of pandering to cripples. The jokes are a-flyin', and they're at your expense! So buh-buh-BITE me, if you please. Vikram warned a friend of mine that he has "high-placed friends. My friend is undoubtedly shaking in his boots at this news. You know, one seldom hears people say that he has "high-placed friends." And there's a good reason for that. Like warning one's tormentors that one's big brother will beat them up, it's not the sort of thing that adults generally spout. Between the fact that Vikram *did* say this and the way he's been reacting completely out of proportion to the relevant stimuli, we can only conclude that he's insecure as hell -- a nobody, a little person who feels hes finally found a platform that will get him Noticed. One suspects that Vikram not only needs to get laid, he could also benefot from a prostate massage. Maybe the doctor would even let him keep the latex glove afterward, as a souvenir of the most exciting time Vikram will have had in recent memory. What amazes me is that this cerebrally flatulent little twerp thinks he can actually get the accounts of users of commercial Internet access providers revoked. I've got news for you, Vikram. We're paying customers, and Netcom and the others rely on people like us for their profits. In fact, Netcom's stated policy is a hands-off one when it comes to the content of its users' posts, as well it should be. And even if you *did* suck-seed in getting my account pulled, I'd simply go to one of the myriad of other vendors who'd be absolutely delighted to have my business. The bottom line, you nattering little slobberdonkey, is that Ms. Hatch and I are quite simply beyond you meager grasp. You can piss your knickers in indignation all you want, but there it fucking is. You're completely *impotent,* you puling little jerkoff. Can you grasp that? There's not a goddam way in the world that you can hurt me, so you might as well start getting used to the idea, little man. You pint-sized, irrelevant little milquetoast. Let's take a look in Vikram's bedroom, shall we? Vikram and a friend are engaged in a romantic tryst. Let's watch! "Would you squeeze my buh-buh-buh-balls while I shoot my luh-load? You nuh-know how h-hot that g-gets me!" "Hnokay." [Note: Vikram's genital confidante not only stutters, she also has a cleft palate.] "But you have to chew puh-puh-pussy af-af-afterward!" "It's a d-deal. Here, tuh-take my throbbing guh-gristle into your hot muh-mouth, buh-buh-buh-baby! Ungh! Ungh! Ungh! Oh Guh-God, I'm cuh-cuh-CUMMING!" And now to invoke Godwin's Luh-Law, so as to nip followups in the provbial buh-buh-bud: \\\_______________________________________________________________________/// \( )/ -=( D E U T S C H L A N D S I E G T A N A L L E N F R O N T E N ! )=- /(_______________________________________________________________________)\ /// || || \\\ || || | || || | | #### ############# || #### ############# || #### ############# | | #### ############# || #### ############# || #### ############# | | #### ############# || #### ############# || #### ############# | | #### ##### || #### ##### || #### ##### | | #### ##### || #### ##### || #### ##### | | #### ##### || #### ##### || #### ##### | | ##################### || ##################### || ##################### | | ##################### || ##################### || ##################### | | ##################### || ##################### || ##################### | | ##### #### || ##### #### || ##### #### | | ##### #### || ##### #### || ##### #### | | ##### #### || ##### #### || ##### #### | | ############# #### || ############# #### || ############# #### | | ############# #### || ############# #### || ############# #### | | ############# #### || ############# #### || ############# #### | | || || | | || || | | || || | | || || | | || || | | || || | | || || | | || || | | || || | HITLER! HITLER! HITLER! HITLER! ,,,,,,,,, ////;;;;;;; ////; ;; | - - | | | | | h | \ ### / HEIL FUHRER! NAZI! NAZI! NAZI! NAZI! NAZI! // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // //__ //__ //__ //__ /__ / /__ / /__ //__ / // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // // PanzerKampfWagen ---------------- ' _||_ `.______________ | -||- |______________[O] `---------------' =========' `========= / O O \ | | ( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) Deutshland, Deutschland, uber Alles! Uber Alles in der Welt! Geoff -- -+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+- "Unnnngh!" -- Helen Keller -+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+- Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!news.funet.fi!news.eunet.fi!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!news.cac.psu.edu!news.pop.psu.edu!hudson.lm.com!newsfeed.pitt.edu!uunet!news.claremont.edu!pomona.edu!CBLANC From: cblanc@pomona.edu ("Invoke the Chaoslord") Newsgroups: alt.thrash,alt.satanism,alt.tasteless,alt.evil Subject: INTERNET ALTAR OF UNHOLY BLASPHEMY Date: Fri, 17 Feb 1995 08:55:11 GMT Organization: 'Do as thy will' shall be the whole of the law. Lines: 13 Message-ID: <0098C189.950F3AC4@pomona.edu> Reply-To: cblanc@kaa.claremont.edu NNTP-Posting-Host: bambi.pomona.edu Xref: diku.dk alt.thrash:10877 alt.tasteless:72874 visit the INTERNET ALTAR OF UNHOLY BLASPHEMY GOAT IS LORD the magic hURL is: http://bacchus.pomona.claremont.edu/goat.htm rise up agaisnt the enslaver! - svn Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!news.funet.fi!news.eunet.fi!EU.net!Germany.EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!news.sprintlink.net!news.clark.net!rahul.net!a2i!olivea!charnel.ecst.csuchico.edu!csusac!csus.edu!csulb.edu!library.ucla.edu!nnrp.info.ucla.edu!malibu!bryce From: bryce@malibu.math.ucla.edu (Alec Bryce Calhoun) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: LYNCHING!!! Date: 17 Feb 1995 17:35:43 GMT Organization: UCLA Mathematics Department Lines: 45 Message-ID: <3i2mpf$vao@saba.info.ucla.edu> References: <31973NPUFPXEQMBRTFP@society.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: pic.ucla.edu GEORGIA, 1899 Sam Hose, a Negro farm laborer, was accused of murdering his employer in a quarrel over wages. He escaped. Several days later, while he was being hunted unsuccessfully, the charge was added that he raped his employer's wife. He confessed the murder, but refused, even under duress, to confess to the other crimes. The following account of the lynching is taken from the New York _Tribune_ for April 24, 1899: "In the presence of nearly 2,000 people, who sent aloft yells of defiance and shouts of joy, Sam Hose (a Negro who committed two of the basest acts known to crime) was burned at the stake in a public road, one and a half miles from here. Before the torch was applied to the pyre, the Negro was deprived of his ears, fingers and genitals with surprising fortitude. Before the body was cool, it was cut to pieces, the bones were crushed into small bits and even the tree upon which the wretch met his fate was torn up and disposed of as souvenirs. "The Negro's heart was cut into several pieces, as was also his liver. Those unable to obtain the ghastly relics directly, paid more fortunate possessors extravagant sums for them. Small pieces of bone went for 25 cents and a bit of liver, crisply cooked, for 10 cents. No indictments were ever found against any of the lynchers. _The American Negro_ (C) 1969 by Arno Press, Inc. Catalog Card # 73-94142 Edited by William Loren Katz It just doesn't get any better than this, folks. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Bryce Calhoun | UCLA UJR English Major -- CS WANNABE | (310) 824-1666 | uh. quote forthcoming. 641 Landfair #103 | LA, CA 90024 | ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "I have a color scanner and, believe you me, I'm willing to use it!" Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!news.funet.fi!news.csc.fi!news.eunet.fi!EU.net!Germany.EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!news.sprintlink.net!news.clark.net!rahul.net!a2i!olivea!charnel.ecst.csuchico.edu!csusac!csus.edu!csulb.edu!library.ucla.edu!nnrp.info.ucla.edu!malibu!bryce From: bryce@malibu.math.ucla.edu (Alec Bryce Calhoun) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: LYNCHING!!! (part 2) Date: 17 Feb 1995 17:36:31 GMT Organization: UCLA Mathematics Department Lines: 44 Message-ID: <3i2mqv$uiq@saba.info.ucla.edu> References: <31973NPUFPXEQMBRTFP@society.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: pic.ucla.edu GEORGIA, 1912 Anne Bostwick, a Negro servant woman subject to violent fits of insanity, who stabbed her mistress to death in one of them, was lynched at Pinehurst, Ga., June 24th. According to the Coroner's jury "she came to her death at the hands of parties unknown." A special correspondent to the Cincinnati _Inquirer_, however, writes: "Great crowds attended and saw the shot-riddled body of the Negress cut from the tree. Sheriff Bennett has made no arrests and none are expected. The truth is that there is general rejoicing over the lynching of the Negress and the lynchers are known to everybody. The Negress was lynched from an auto. The machine in which she was sitting was driven under a tree, a machine was started at high speed and the Negress left hanging. Her body was then shot to pieces. Her eyes were shot out and such a fusillade directed at her waist that she was cut in two." The same paper says of the verdict: "The verdict was rendered in the face of the fact that the automobiles in which the lynching party pursued the slayer and the sheriff are known to be owned by some of the most prominant citizens of Cordele, Vienna and Pinehurst. _The American Negro_ (C) 1969 by Arno Press, Inc. Catalog Card # 73-94142 Edited by William Loren Katz *sploo* ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Bryce Calhoun | UCLA UJR English Major -- CS WANNABE | (310) 824-1666 | uh. quote forthcoming. 641 Landfair #103 | LA, CA 90024 | ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "I have a color scanner and, believe you me, I'm willing to use it!" Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!news.funet.fi!news.csc.fi!news.eunet.fi!EU.net!Germany.EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!news.sprintlink.net!news.clark.net!rahul.net!a2i!olivea!charnel.ecst.csuchico.edu!csusac!csus.edu!csulb.edu!library.ucla.edu!nnrp.info.ucla.edu!malibu!bryce From: bryce@malibu.math.ucla.edu (Alec Bryce Calhoun) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: LYNCHING!!! (part 3) Date: 17 Feb 1995 17:37:22 GMT Organization: UCLA Mathematics Department Lines: 58 Message-ID: <3i2msi$rqs@saba.info.ucla.edu> References: <31973NPUFPXEQMBRTFP@society.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: pic.ucla.edu TEXAS, 1912 Dan Davis, a Negro, was burned at the stake at Tyler, Texas for the crime of attempted rape, May 25, 1912. There was some disappointment in the crowd and criticism of those who had bossed the arrangements, because the fire was so slow in reaching the Negro. It was really only ten minutes after the fire was started that smoking shoe soles and twitching of the Negro's feet indicated that his lower extremities were burning, but the time seemed much longer. The spectators had waited so long to see him tortured that they begrudged the ten minutes before his suffering really began. The Negro uttered but few words. When he was led to where he was to be burned he said quite calmly, "I wish some of you gentlemen would be Christian enough to cut my throat," but no one responded. When the fire started, he screamed, "Lord, have mercy on my soul," and that was the last words he spoke, though he was fully conscious for fully twenty minutes after that. His exhibition of nerve aroused the admiration of even his torturers. A slight hitch in the proceedings occurred when the Negro was about half burned. His clothing had been stripped off and burned to ashes by the flames and his black body hung nude in the grey dawn light. The flesh had been burned from his legs as high as the knees when it was seen that the wood supply was running short. None of the men or boys were willing to miss an incident of the torture. All feared something of more than usual interest might happen, and it would be embarrassing to admit later on not having seen it on account of being absent after more wood. Something had to be done, however, and a few men from the edge of the crowd, ran after more dry-goods boxes, and by reason of this "public service" gained standing room in the inner circle after having delivered the fuel. Meanwhile the crowd jeered the dying man and uttered shocking comments suggestive of a cannibal- istic spirit. Some danced and sang to testify to their enjoyment of the occasion. _The American Negro_ (C) 1969 by Arno Press, Inc. Catalog Card # 73-94142 Edited by William Loren Katz Sorry, but that's it for now. I'll type more shit later. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Bryce Calhoun | UCLA UJR English Major -- CS WANNABE | (310) 824-1666 | uh. quote forthcoming. 641 Landfair #103 | LA, CA 90024 | ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "I have a color scanner and, believe you me, I'm willing to use it!" Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!news2.near.net!howland.reston.ans.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!symcom!levine From: levine@symcom.math.uiuc.edu (Lenore Levine) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The Cheater Date: 13 Feb 95 16:33:38 GMT Organization: University of Illinois at Urbana Lines: 114 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: symcom.math.uiuc.edu Friday afternoon, three o'clock. A gray-haired woman sat at her desk. The warm Santa Monica sun shining through her window made it difficult for her to concentrate on her work. But she couldn't leave yet; she was waiting for something. Near the computer, there was a photograph of a man about her own age. She looked at it and smiled affectionately. Once, twice the mailbox on her workstation beeped. First time, it was a general reminder to clean up spills in the coffee room. Second time, a message from a friend. "You and Phil still on for Thursday night? How about that new Italian place on the mall?" She mailed back her assent. The mailbox beeped again, a third time. It was the message she was waiting for. She replied, briefly, and walked out of her office, stopping at the secretary's desk. "I'm leaving for the day now, Kathie," she told her. "Trying to beat the traffic, huh? Yeah, it's going to be bad tonight. Well, you have a nice weekend." The gray-haired woman stopped one more time, in the ladies' room. She looked at herself in the mirror. No, she wasn't the beauty she had been a generation ago. But the red dress flattered her, and brought out her sensuality and self-confidence. She smiled. She didn't look over fifty, not really, and she still hadn't entered the "change of life." Inconvenient, a few days each month. There were, however, compensations. The woman rearranged her hair, and squirted her mouth with a breath freshener. Earlier that day, she had felt a sharp twinge in her stomach. She didn't want it to recur, not this afternoon, so she took two tablets of Pepto-Bismol. "That roach coach has gotta go, kid," she said to herself. The woman did one more thing. Then she left the building and drove down the freeway in the direction of Los Angeles International Airport. She parked her car at the airport Holiday Inn, and knocked on the door of room 1469. A white-haired man let her in. Like her, he was wearing a gold band on the usual finger. He was in his shirtsleeves, and his tie and jacket were hung up neatly in the closet. A laptop was open on the nighttable near the bed. As soon as the door shut, the two of them kissed, hungrily. They pulled each other down on the bed, pressing their bodies against each other like animals. The woman could feel the man's cock against her leg. After a few minutes, she sat at the edge of the bed. Her legs were open, showing that she wasn't wearing underwear. She had removed it in the ladies' room. The man kneeled between her legs. He kissed her slowly, all the way up her calves and thighs, till he reached the place he wanted to touch. He used his mouth and fingers to bring her to orgasm. The two of them took their clothes off. The man lay down on the bed, and the woman started licking him, touching herself at the same time. She closed her eyes so she could concentrate on the sensations she was feeling. Her mind was almost completely taken over by pleasure. With the small part left, she reminded herself that oral sex was pretty safe, anyway. Of course they used condoms for the other things, but not for this. It would spoil the fun. She wasn't putting her husband in danger, not really... For a few minutes, the woman didn't think at all. She felt another twinge in her stomach, but it went away. She blissed out. Suddenly, she tasted not a beautiful cock but salty, long-unwashed fake fur. Her mouth was dry and sour. She opened her eyes, and dis- covered that she had been sucking the leg of a stuffed animal, a purple dinosaur to be exact. The man was gone. It didn't hit the woman, not yet. It was too strange. She looked around the room for the man, but couldn't find him. She walked over to the door to look through the peephole, but there was no peephole. Her legs shook as she pulled the red dress over her head, and grabbed the card key so she could leave the room. The envelope it came in had "1369" written on it, in neat handwriting. As she remembered, this room had been on the fourteenth floor. But she didn't want to think about that too closely. She tried to open the door, but the handle wouldn't move. The television, of its own accord, came on. No, no program, but in the static, she thought she could hear barely understandable voices. Behind her, she heard a noise. She looked around, and Barney was in the room with her. "You're in Hell, sister," he boomed. Blood ran down her thighs, already wet from saliva and her own juices. Her clitoris had disappeared, cut neatly as if by a razor blade. She knew she would soon hurt a lot, lot more. Baby Bop appeared, next to Barney. "You're never going to leave this room again," she added, in her little-girl voice. "Teeheehee," she giggled. One by one, the children appeared too. "I love you, you love me," they sang. They moved towards the woman, slowly. But it was only when she noticed their fangs that she started screaming. ...On the fourteenth floor, a woman had collapsed and died while making love. A white-haired man stood over her body. He looked at her, but he didn't move. He was, of course, very fond of her. But he didn't have the slightest idea what to do next. -- "My only real vivid recent dream was where a bunch of aliens abducted my fiancee and dissected her. I thought it was pretty neat to watch, but she wasn't too fond of the retelling of it." -- Irfon-Kim Ahmad Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!news.funet.fi!news.csc.fi!news.eunet.fi!news.spb.su!KremlSun!ktts!monoli!csoft!demos!uunet!in1.uu.net!news.sandia.gov!tesuque.cs.sandia.gov!lynx.unm.edu!quasar.unm.edu!eos From: "Wladyslaw of the Flame (P. Dowling)" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless,alt.sex.masturbation,alt.sex,alt.satanism,alt.religion.christian,talk.religion.misc,alt.magick,alt.recovery.religion,alt.religion.sexuality,alt.fan.jesus-christ,alt.recovery.catholicism,alt.politics.correct,alt.tasteless.jokes Subject: Re: alt.fuck.the.skull.of.jesus.* Date: Sat, 25 Feb 1995 13:20:28 -0700 Organization: University of New Mexico, Albuquerque Lines: 14 Message-ID: References: <3h307h$359@sefl.satelnet.org> <3i24ko$q3d@utrhcs.cs.utwente.nl> <3i3pls$jas@news2.delphi.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: quasar.unm.edu Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII In-Reply-To: <3i3pls$jas@news2.delphi.com> Xref: diku.dk alt.tasteless:73503 alt.sex:171784 alt.religion.christian:20273 alt.magick:29257 alt.recovery.religion:2988 alt.religion.sexuality:3444 alt.fan.jesus-christ:1611 alt.recovery.catholicism:2932 alt.politics.correct:37800 alt.tasteless.jokes:50472 Jeeze I wish this string would die. I have only one thing to say to you "Jesus Freaks" out there. He's YOUR God, They are YOUR rules, YOU burn in hell! Dont impose your "Christian Morals" on those of us that aren't Christian. Your not the only religion, and certainly not the only one thats right. Newsgroups: alt.tasteless From: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk (Prophet of the Great God Glub) Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!nic.tip.net!maggiore.dsnet.it!peernews.demon.co.uk!glub.demon.co.uk!ketteridgep Subject: Council Meeting; Crow Clubbing; more Ham Shank Organization: The Midden Reply-To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk X-Newsreader: Demon Internet Simple News v1.29 Lines: 263 X-Posting-Host: glub.demon.co.uk Date: Mon, 27 Feb 1995 21:45:10 +0000 Message-ID: <793921510snz@glub.demon.co.uk> Sender: usenet@demon.co.uk Jane's meteoric rise amongst the 'tards continues unabated. About two weeks ago she was summoned to the Farm Manager's office. He asked her if she wanted to be proposed for election to the Farm Council. Whoo! Whoo! Whoo! Naturally, being eager to help, and greedily hungry for brownie points in her quest for kwalifikayshuns, she accepted. The next meeting was last Wednesday. She finished off her rounds, took the nanny goats back to their pen from the milking shed, and checked on the billy goat and the kids. She's a bit wary of the billy goat, ever since she found him curled up in a corner, blowing himself off. She's also seen him directing a jet of orange piss straight down his throat, chugging enthusiastically. . Duties finished, she dashed home, got changed into something a bit more elegant than reeky old sweatshirt, jeans and wellies, and drove back for the meeting. She had to pick up a couple of 'tards to take along, 'cos the committee wanted to see what sort of "trainees" they were getting... Jane chose "Goat Boy" and Simon. The council meeting was a bit of a shock to her, particularly the members of the committee. Although the farm staff are represented, the majority is made up from do-gooders and interfering scumfucks from the "local community", none of which have the first fucking clue about farming. Within minutes of arriving, someone had resigned. A sad specimen called Chico, complete with trainspotter uniform of mauve Kagoul, "mock" hiking boots and coke-bottle glasses was complaining about the trainees getting priorities over volonteers: "S'not fair! We can only volonteer at weekends. What wiv all these trainees , they won't let us volonteer in the week. When the farm started, I could volonteer any time I wanted, before all these trainees started. S'not right, that ain't..." Madam Chairperson rose to her feet: "I think at this point I should point out that Mr Chico has a vested interest to declare..." "Whaddja mean, "vested interest"?" "... in that he is currently cohabiting with the head of Market Gardening. He is put out that currently, he can only get his rumpy-pumpy among the bean poles at weekends!" Mo, head of Market Gardening, thumped her fist to the table and leapt to her feet. "That's bang out of order! Just 'cos we live in the same house doesn't mean..." she screamed. "Right, that's it, I'm resigning from this poncy Council!" wailed Chico, and grabbing his Thermos flask and Netto carrier bag, flounced out, followed in short order by his Market Gardening paramour. "We had to get him thrown off the Management Committee! whispered the Farm Manager to Jane. "He kept trying to vote Mo a raise every month..." Goat Boy and Simon had started to snivel, upset by all the shouting, and Jane had to wipe their noses and calm them down. The meeting resumed. An old biddy stood up. A cantankerous interfering old bat, she was one of the Farm's founder members, and I shall call her Dottie Alzheim. "Ahem," she coughed, shrilly. "What I want to know is, ahem, why are all our trainees English?" "Pardon?" asked the Farm Manager. "I mean, why 'aven't we got furriners? Like what they 'ave on other Social Services projects." "Furriners?" "Yes, furriners. Darkie Boys." "Erm, Dottie, I think you mean ethnic minorities originating from our erstwhile dependent colonial states..." "Yup. Darkies." "Erm, we don't call them that anymore, Dottie. It's not correct. Anyway, we've been to Chapeltown, trying to drum up support - they're, quite frankly, not interested". "Not intrested? Those Darkie Girls, they just 'ang about on the street, in their miniskirts and wotsits. An' the Darkie Boys jes' sit in their cars, watchin'. Thass not doin' nuthin', that is..." "Uh, Dottie, I don't think we'll tempt them to the farm for ten quid a week on top of benefit, somehow. I think they're *quite* happy as they are, in the circumstamces..." "...Don't see 'ow, I mean..." The conversation was rapidly changed to the topic of the Animal Team's progress. The new calves, the onset of lambing, the status of the chicken sheds... Dotty piped up again: "When are we goin' t'get some real cows, then?" "Pardon?" "Real cows. Like wot they 'ave on real farms". "Er, I take it you mean black and white ones - Freisians?" enquired Ian, the FM, gently. "Yeah, real cows. I mean, s'not fair, showin' the kids those funny little brown ones... I mean, they'll grow up thinkin' they're real cows..." "They are, Dotty. They're shortleg Dexters. Real cows." "Don't look like wot I call a cow," she muttered, vexed. "I say, Ian" barked an old "Colonel" type, "We've been having some trouble breeding from those Dexters, haven't we? Two terminations in three attempts, isn't it? Not on, I say, very bad show..." "Well yes, Daisy did lose a second calf last month - that's why we call them *rare breeds*, after all. That's why I'd like to continue trying to preserve the bree..." "BLIBBY! BLIBBY! BLIBBY!" screamed Goat Boy suddenly, frothing at the mouth. "It worrall blibby! I seenit in innasack. Jane showed me! It worrall blibby!" and he burst into tears. This started Simon off. " I love animals I do! I wanna be a vet! Why can't I be a vet?" and he started blubbering too. Jane had to take them into the kitchen to clean them up and calm them down. I don't know what she said, but I like to think it was along the lines of: "Now, now, dry your tears. Vets are very clever people, with big brains and diplomas and suchlike. But you're special. You may not have a clever brain, or a diploma, or be able to tie your shoelaces or clever stuff like that. And maybe you can't read or write, or count, or remember instructions for more than twenty seconds, but you've got something they haven't. Something you can't buy, or grow, and which no-one can take from you. An extra chromasome." And then again, maybe she didn't. I don't know. Jane took them back into the meeting, where the committe was discussing the disposal of excess stock. Some of the lay people were having trouble getting their heads round the idea that livestock markets *didn't* necessarily send old sheep and pigs to rest homes. "What do they do with them when they send them to market, then, Ian?" asked an elderly pink-rinse matron. "Um, well, they go into auction, are sold off, and removed." "And where do they go then? Another farm?" "Erm, no, usually to an abattoir or slaughter house, actually... I leave the rest to your imagination..." "You mean they kill them? Surely not! That's barbaric, couldn't they go to a sanctuary or something?..." "Ian! Ian! Ian! IAN! IAN! IAN!" It was Simon again, eyes wild. "Yes?" said Ian resignedly. "Ian! Ian! I LOVE ANIMALS, I DO!" "Yes, we know that, Simon, thank you..." "Ian! When the pigs 'n' cows 'n' sheep 'n' goats go t't babitor, d'they hang them up?" Simon was jumping up in his seat, lips flecked with saliva. "Yeees, yes, they do that, yes..." "An' do they cut their throats wiv a big knife? Do they? Do they, Ian?" "Yeees, sometimes they do, Simon..." "An' do their brains come out their ears, an' blood squirt out their eyes an' ears an' mouves and stuff?" Ian glanced sidelong up the table. "Er, yes, that can happen, Simon, why do you ask?" "Cool! EXCELLENT! Wicked!" At this point, Jane placed a hand on Simon's wildly gesticulating arm, and whispered "Simon, I thought you said you loved animals?" "I DO! I DO! I DO! 'Specially when they got brains an' blood an' stuff squirtin' out..." The Chairperson then suggested that Jane take the 'tards back to Reception while the committee saw to AOB... I don't know how long Jane is going to stay on this committee; but while it lasts, I'll keep you informed... __ Pierre ObTasteless: I had despatch a crow yesterday. Had to go and fetch my 12- bore and club it to death (I'd run out of cartridges). Actually, we'd just come back from the Sunday lunchtime sesh at the Woodcock, and were all slightly the worse for wear. Cabbage Chris had his placky bag of 9% superlager that we were going to help him consume. Ain't life grand. As we rounded the corner of the cottage, I saw this big flapping thing on the lawn. Going over and picking it up, I realised it was a massive crow. There was a lot of clotted blood on its tail and on its legs, and it's wicked 4"-long beak was chipped and damaged. Someone, probably Donald, had taken a potshot at it and merely wounded it. It blinked at me, and opened its beak. "Awkkk". I realised it was badly injured, and considered blowing it away then and there, but Jane went apeshit and started screaming at me, so I decided to take it around to Donald at the farmhouse. It was his problem, after all. Anne answered the door, but denied that Donald had done any shooting that day (heh - likely story!). She told me to leave it in the yard and that he'd deal with it presently. An hour later I wandered out, and saw that it was still there. This time, I noticedthat its wing was hanging off, attached just by a small tendon, and that it was hopping about, cawing in pain. "Aawk, Aawk.." I decided that Donald, the sick bastard, had decided to just leave it there to die slowly. Fetching my shotgun and a single cartridge (I wanted no excuse not to kill it cleanly), I picked it up and trudged off up to the midden in the top field. All the way it just looked at me, going "Aark" and "Aawk", not struggling or trying to get away. At the midden, I put it down in the cowshit, loaded the cartridge and took aim. It just stared at me, open-beaked, and went "Aark". Aw, Fuck! Missed. From two feet, no less. I dunno, maybe I flinched at the last moment, or took a bead from the top barrel (trigger #1 detonates the charge in the lower barrel), or something. Whatever, I just stared at this neat little hole in the cowpat just below birdy's blinking eye, feeling a right pillock. And no more cartridges, not unless I walked half a mile back to the farm. So I had to club it to death. Hmmm, didn't feel right proud doing that, smacking away at the feathered bag of bones, hearing it crunch and snap while being buried further into the shit pile. Then, to top it all, it got stuck to the barrels, and I had to wipe the mess off with my foot. Lessons learned: always take plenty of cartridges, and stay well back from the target. Dipshit! -- Pierre ObTastelessAd: Jane saw a good advert in the market on Saturday: "Ham Shank: 99p a pound" Pretty good value if you're a bit of a premature ejaculator, if you ask me. If you can blow your wad in a dozen strokes or so, that's a hand job for under a tenner! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Pierre Ketteridge | "My wife's always complaining: 'I suppose I'm ------------------------------| expected to sleep on the wet bit again?' I say Prophet of the Great God Glub | 'There wouldn't *be* a fuckin' wet bit if you | swallowed'" - Roy "Chubby" Brown ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Newsgroups: alt.tasteless From: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk (Prophet of the Great God Glub) Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!nic.tip.net!maggiore.dsnet.it!peernews.demon.co.uk!glub.demon.co.uk!ketteridgep Subject: Pierre meets the Curryheads Organization: The Midden Reply-To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk X-Newsreader: Demon Internet Simple News v1.29 Lines: 97 X-Posting-Host: glub.demon.co.uk Date: Fri, 24 Feb 1995 03:29:17 +0000 Message-ID: <793596557snz@glub.demon.co.uk> Sender: usenet@demon.co.uk ATZ OK ATDT415890 RING RING RING 450000 CONNECT Phew! Thought I was deaf, dumb and blind for a while there... it's a relief to be back. Thanks to Dave Hodgkinson for the modem loan, Joe Betz for the replacement, and Fuck Off to USRobotics for not honouring their warranty agreement. So, whass' bin goin' on, then? I notice a few more arseholes drawing a.t fire, mainly stutterers, it would seem, and that fucking a.f.t.s.o.j thread lives on still... ... Still no TSS gift... ... Oh dear, time for hostilities to escalate... I had to make a trip to London last weekend, for various reasons: Family christening, kids parties, search for my old WorldPort modem (abortive), and oh yes, to meet the City a.t boys for beer and a curry! I got off the tube at Liverpool Street and found myself in Heathrow's Terminal 4. What the fuck's going on here? They've razed the place and erected a steel and glass shopping mall instead. Outside was just as bad - I thought I was in Stuttgart. After an hour of trying to locate long-defunct landmarks, I eventually found the Fusion office, sandwiched between the "Fat Boy Diner" and an advertising hoarding. It was here that I met Dave Hodgkinson, Mosaic surfer and surviving Deep Purple afficionado. Check out his home page (hee). A very personable chap, he is slight of build with an irrepressible grin (evil grimace? Nah, not *quite*...) - David Cassidy in his "Partridge Family" days. We retired to the pub, where, along with some other Fusion staff, we met up with the "Curryhead" contingent, including some other Internetters. As always, a wide brushstroke of society, including the obligatory train-spotter and Anorak types. Don't get me wrong, I'm not being judgmental, every Anorak has a bright orange nylon lining, as they say... And then Huge Davies arrived, all seventeen and a half stones of him (er, that's about 280lbs, I think). Louder and larger than life, he's like David Mellor with collagen implants and a personality. We chatted a bit, he called me a bastard and said I looked nothing like my photograph. On cue (as he'd mentioned the mugshot in the LRO article) I started talking about my landrover. His eyes glazed over and I realised that he was eyeing at me with that look reserved for train-spotters and Anoraks, so I steered the conversation away to more socially acceptable ground (shooting farm cats, if I recall). Soon after, we retired to a local curryhouse (stopping by the Fusion office to piss through the basement grating and skylights). This specialised in "Balti" cuisine, which is, as I was to learn, porridge-like muck served on a dustbin lid with a sidedish of Nan bread the size and consistency of an eiderdown. Conversation in the group covered the full gamut of social topics, including techno-nerd babble: "Hngh, hngh, hngh... the guy at the next table is explaining reverse ARP, and... hngh, hngh, hngh.... he's _got_it_wrong_!!!! Hngh, hngh, hngh..." The unpleasantness of SOLID FOODS over with, most people drifted off to their hovels in the 'burbs, leaving the three of us (Dave, Huge and myself) to go off looking for a pub. Before we found one, we encountered a strange phenomenon in the dingy, darkened streets around Spittalfields Market. "Ah, Fuck! Dogshit!" No, it wasn't. It was fish. Lots of fish. Big fish. We were ankle deep in the buggers. And they were rotting down nicely into a piscatorial mulch. Must've been chucked out after the market closed. Only, Spittalfields isn't a fish market. So maybe it had just been raining fish? Who knows? We ensconced ourselves in a quiet, deserted pub, to enjoy a postprandial beer and a couple of games of bar billiards. Did I say quiet? Within thirty seconds of our entering the hostelry it was besieged by three or four coach parties of "Jack-the-Ripper Tour" trippers! We couldn't move (couldn't even finish our game), and so decamped for the train station and points residential. Goodbyes were said, and Huge called me an imposter, demanding to know what I had done with the *real* Pierre. Sorry Hugh, WYSIWYG... Oh well, bedtime now... more posts tomorrow I hope: Jane's elevation to the 'Tard Farm Council; Wandering John the Pig Tattooist; Another Death in the Woodcock; My Baptism as an Offroad Instructor. It's good to be back... -- Pierre Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!nic.tip.net!maggiore.dsnet.it!peernews.demon.co.uk!doc.news.pipex.net!pipex!howland.reston.ans.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!news.uoregon.edu!engineer.mrg.uswest.com!cherokee!csn!csus.edu!netcom.com!bhatch From: bhatch@netcom.com (Bob "Another beer, please" Christ) Subject: Posterchild, 1995? Message-ID: Organization: Bernie's Buttplugs, Inc. References: <1734DADA6S86.L668483@LMSC5.IS.LMSC.LOCKHEED.COM> Date: Wed, 22 Feb 1995 23:01:44 GMT Lines: 87 Sender: bhatch@netcom5.netcom.com I'm glad there's a bookstore nearby with loads of out-of-state papers.... ----- Pieces of a woman's dismembered body, some painted blue or gold, were found packed in boxes left at four sites around the El Paso area. The boxes were found Friday, Saturday and Sunday. An autopsy Monday determined all the body parts, including the head and torso, were from the same person. [Big surprise!] The cause of death was probably multiple gunshot wounds to the chest, said police Lt. Paul Saucedo. [Probably?! Uh-oh.] Bright gold paint, grey and baby blue paint were found on some body parts and boxes, placed by the killer in plain view of motorists and residents in two suburban areas and one desert location, police said. [It would have been really funny if the head was on top of a stop sign.] Police believe the killer wanted the body parts to be found. [No shit?!] ``We have different theories,'' said Saucedo. ``But as to what it means, we don't know at this point.'' [Pop art, feh. I hate it too.] [ And, on to the arrest... ] When Pauline Leshman saw the severed head staring from her television screen, eyes wide open as it rested on a cloth, she didn't want to believe it was her new neighbor. But the face looked just like Suzy Hahn Bradley, who had stopped by Leshman's house two weeks earlier to borrow an egg. [This is why she didn't want to believe it. She'll never see that egg again.] Police released the picture of the head in hopes of identifying a dismembered woman whose painted body parts had been strewn across the city. [They should have mounted it on a pike and made the rounds of the city neighborhoods.] Her husband, James Patrick Bradley, was charged with murder Tuesday and jailed on $1 million bond. [It's always the husband! I wonder why?] Authorities knew of no motive for the killing, said Lt. Paul Saucedo. [Maybe he didn't get breakfast on time?] Neighbors said they hadn't seen anything unusual at the home in a moderate-income neighborhood of nondescript tract houses. ``She never said anything negative about her husband,'' said Leshman, who chatted with Mrs. Bradley when she came by to borrow the egg. [Yeah right. "Can I borrow an egg and, by the way, I think my husband might kill me, hack me up and spray paint the pieces before scattering them around town."] The bizarre case captivated El Paso residents as parts of a woman, some spray-painted different colors, began turning up at various locations last weekend. [I wonder what color(s) he painted her tits.] ``This is one of the most gruesome, most bizarre murders we've had in El Paso in a long, long time,'' said homicide Lt. Paul Saucedo. [You mean it's not the most gruesome, most bizarre murder thats' happened in El Paso?! Boy, I'd sure like to hear about the last one!] Mrs. Bradley, 34, was shot to death Feb. 15, then dismembered with an ax, according to a preliminary autopsy report. [I'd guessed he used a butter knife. Good going El Paso police!] Mrs. Bradley's fingertips were discovered Monday, not far from the her home. [....still clutching an egg.] * * * * * Alt.tasteless posterchild, 1995? Bob --- This person is currently undergoing electric shock therapy at Agnews Developmental Center in San Jose, California. All his opinions are static, please ignore him. Thank you, Nurse Ratched Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!inet!zoopsi From: zoopsi@inet.uni-c.dk (Torsten Nielsen) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Tasteless Movie Review Date: Sat, 25 Feb 1995 0:0:23 GMT Organization: News Server at UNI-C, Danish Computing Centre for Research and Education. Lines: 56 Distribution: world Message-ID: <7936704238927@inet.uni-c.dk> NNTP-Posting-Host: inet.uni-c.dk We just saw this great fuckin` movie, and we just have to tell you about it: The movie was called "Video Programme No. 284" or some fucked-up shit like that. It was in 3 parts: The first part was called "SNAKE FUCKERS", and it was really something! It starts with two ugly bitches who goes out shopping, and buys a cupple of fucking eels. When they get home they start coocking those ugly motherfucking eels. It`s real bloody and shit (eel snuff), really great shit. Suddenly one of the bitches starts scratching the other bitches cunt and they start eating each others pussys and kinky shit like that. Then, of course: THE EELS. But they have to hurry, because Svend will be back soon. They put them up their cunts and their ugly asses. Svend comes home and then dinner is ready. The bitches act kind of fucking stupid and Svend just have to grab his fucking dick and fuck the bitches in the mouth. Pretty entertaining! The second part is called "WILD ABOUT HORSES" and it`s even better than the first fucking one!! To ugly bitches lie peacefully in the sun and suddenly a stupid dog is thrown in front of the camera, and they have to fuck it and piss it in its fucking mouth. They start out by giving it a friendly blow job and then they fuck. In the meantime two other sluts are having fun with a horse. It`s cock won't get stiff, but that dose'nt seem to be a problem, the whores suck it anyway. Back at the dog, they have some problems trying to fuck the dog, because it tries to escape. But for the sake of movie-making, they hold it and piss in it`s mouth. Ain't this what movie-making is all about??? Our personal favorite is the last one. It`s called "CHICKEN LOVER" and it`s a pretty motherfuckin` great piece of cinema! It starts out with an ugly postman going his daily route. On one of the farms he has to deliver some personal mail, but no fucking body seems to be home. So he walks around the corner and discovers that the farmers wife is trying to fuck a horse, and he just has to masturbate over seeing this truly beautiful sight!! When her slimy and smelly ass is high in the air, he can`t controle himself and he jumps over to her shouting "Halli hallo die post ist da!" (this is a motherfucking classic!!!). She answers "put it in the mail box" and he replies "I`m gonna put it in your mailslut" and stars fucking her doggystyle. After sucking his dick and all that boring shit, she wants him to fuck a chicken. At first, he`s sceptical, but when he gets his dick in that little slimy hole, he starts enjoying it. But he still would rather have her sucking his dick than him fucking a chicken (What a truly boring asshole!). After some great (and we mean GREAT!) closeups of the bleeding chickens asshole, she tries to get him to fuck it again, but he jumps on his fucking postman-bike and gets the fuck out of there (without his pants). This movie was pretty motherfucking great, so we sugest that you check it out! Your movie pals, Club Mondo Bizzaro ;-) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless From: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk (Prophet of the Great God Glub) Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!doc.news.pipex.net!pipex!bt!btnet!peernews.demon.co.uk!glub.demon.co.uk!ketteridgep Subject: A River Runs Through It; Pig Tattooing Organization: The Midden Reply-To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk X-Newsreader: Demon Internet Simple News v1.29 Lines: 152 X-Posting-Host: glub.demon.co.uk Date: Fri, 3 Mar 1995 08:24:32 +0000 Message-ID: <794219072snz@glub.demon.co.uk> Sender: usenet@demon.co.uk A river runs through it... ... the 'tard farm, that is. Yup, I finally paid a visit, yesterday morning. When we woke up there was a fair depth of snow on the ground, and Jane was unsure as to whether the bus services would be running, so I ran her over in the Land Rover (uh, let me rephrase that: I gave her a lift to her place of employment). It's quite a pleasant little spot, for an inner-city location; a couple of acres set in a wooded valley between "tenement" areas. A brook gurgles through the middle of the plot, and the pens and outhouses are scattered either side of it. Pretty idyllic, really. Its the *people* there that's the scary shit. Jane was just giving me the guided tour when some lunk ran up, shouting. "OI LOIK IT HERE, OI DOOS! OI LOIK IT HERE! OI DOOS, OI DOOS!" another divot ran up behind and led him away. "Huhhhh, huhhh, he's mmmm... mmmm...mad! Hee hee! Hhhe's mmmm...mmm..mad!" Jane looked at me and whispered "Don't... you ... DARE... say... a... word..." so I kept shtum. Seeing as, hitherto, I've just been reporting this secondhand, I made a few interesting discoveries. First, I couldn't believe how friendly the livestock were - the sheep didn't run away in blind panic when they saw me, like they do at Harper Farm. And old Dottie Alzheim obviously wasn't so crazy after all: those cows (Shortleg Dexters) *did* look odd - tiny little dwarf legs and bodies no bigger than a large dog (St Bernard, say, or Pyrennean Mountain). And then the 'tards came ambling in. The change was electric! Those animals *knew* these humans weren't quite right; they became visibly agitated, and tried to put as much distance between themselves and their "keepers". The goat kids went berserk, bleating and jumping around all over the place (one lad chased one about and finally attached a leash; as he led it off to the "fun bus" - a Special School visit was scheduled - the kid dug its hooves in, and had to be dragged, legs splayed, the full 150 yards to the vehicle). Jane's first duty was "ringing" the four lambs which had been born earlier this week: this involved the use of tri-pronged crimping tool (an "elastrator"), passing a very small rubber band over the lambs nutsack and another round it's tail. In about three or four weeks they'll rot, go black and drop off. A "Noo Gurl" started last week, and learnt her object lesson fast. Collecting the eggs, she found a couple of hens that "looked poorly", and showed them to the farm manager. He examined them carefully, agreed that they were "out of sorts", and promptly wrung their necks. "Now ye stand on 'em 'til they stop flappin'" he explained cheerfully. "Off ye go an' bury 'em good an' deep in't midden, lass". "I'll keep my fucking trap shut next time" she confided to Jane later. I think she's a "norm" - pretty tasty looking, anyhow - pert figure, tight jeans and pneumatic cleavage just visible through the open-necked work shirt. Mmmmm. Jane told me to piss off around about then, and went off to do whatever work was scheduled. I wandered over to the cafe. Not bad, good coffee and passable grub; only there was some freak hanging about by the door who distracted me. Pizza-complexioned, he had a crooked mouth with yellowed horses teeth, and a pair of Coke-bottle-bottom NHS prescription glasses that made him look like the front end of a Volvo. He was jabbering away to himself and rummaging away in his trousers. No, sod it, he was WANKING. Masturbating furiously in his baggy stained pants, glasses steamed up, tongue jutting out of his lopsided lips. And grunting and laughing to himself while he did it. I finished my coffee and left. As I walked back to the 'Rover I noticed a little "nature garden" by the carpark. A group of Downs Syndrome children were hanging over the fence and gesticulating wildly at the pond, which was moving of itself. Closer inspection revealed the cause. Frogs. Thousands of fucking frogs. Frogs fucking, actually. I looked back at the Mongoloid kids watching this mass display of coitus, thinking, "God willing, that's the nearest you'll ever get to it". Seeing as I've seen it for myself, I think this will be the last 'tard farm update for a while. Unless something *really* gross happens. Naturally. -- Pierre ObTattoo: Wandering John, the farmer's son, has just bombed out in his latest attempted business venture: Mobile Pig Tattooist. Rummaging around in one of the barns he found an old livestock tattoo kit - you know, the stuff they use to identify a herd; an alternative to branding. So he had this brainwave for getting some extra beer money. There's a girl who lives about a mile up the road, opposite the Woodcock. John knew she had a herd of pigs, some of which had littered recently, and that she'd be needing their ears tattooed. Normally, the vet would do this, but John offered a cut-price service. Eventually, she agreed. Unfortunately, John kept getting pissed in the Woodcock, and forgetting either a) to turn up, or b) the tattooing kit. After several veiled threats, he finally made an appearance. By this time the piglets were about 12 weeks old, when they should have been done at 3 weeks. Heh, heh. Pigs don't like pain. We waited at the bar to see him drag his bruised, battered body back in. Half an hour later he was back, intact, but not looking very happy. "Whassup then, John? You dunnit?" "Nah, ah ent got a ness" "Wha'?" "Ah ent got a ness. T' herd number is S254, an' ah ent got a ness..." "Yer a Stephenson, and ye 'aven't got a ness? "'Ave ye tried a 5?" "Ayup, don't look right. Ah needs a ness". I piped up at this point. "Hang on John, that there's a right old tattooing kit, isn't it? Must've been in the family for generations?" "Ayup, it worr me futher's, and me Granda's afore 'im, and..." "Well there you go... it's ancient... they didn't have esses then, they used effs... you know, like in the old papers: 'The funfet fwept in acroff the land, fending the laft of the day before it. The foldiers' fettlement waf lit by the flickering firef...' - I'd go and ask your futher if I were you..." He was back within the hour. "M'futher clipped me round lug'ole, an sed ah should 'ave knowed better! 'E sed you was 'avin' me on..." shouted John, accusingly. "You ftupid fod! That'f farcafm, that if!" I pointed out gently. So he ordered an 'S', which took a couple of weeks. Then he couldn't do the job because he'd intended using "Zebrite", a black lead used for polishing fire grates, instead of dye. The Rare Breeds trust were not impressed, and insisted on the correct dye (turquoise, no less), which had to be ordered through the vet anyway. Another two weeks gone. By now the "piglets" were four months old, and it probably won't be too long before they're ready for market. Last Friday, John turned up on the girl's doorstep, tattoo kit in one hand, container of turquoise water-based dye in the other. "Ah've come to do yon pigs" He announced. "Ah did 'em messen two weeks ago, ye lazy good fer nowt shit!" she replied. Ah, he'f a fad baftard, if "Our John!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Pierre Ketteridge | "My wife's always complaining: 'I suppose I'm ------------------------------| expected to sleep on the wet bit again?' I say Prophet of the Great God Glub | 'There wouldn't *be* a fuckin' wet bit if you | swallowed'" - Roy "Chubby" Brown ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Newsgroups: alt.sex.masturbation,alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!eunet.no!nuug!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!ix.netcom.com!netcom.com!geoffm From: geoffm@netcom.com (Geoff Miller) Subject: Re: Artificial Vaginas Message-ID: Followup-To: alt.sex.masturbation Sender: geoffm@netcom4.netcom.com Organization: Kaliningrad State Canine Butt-Scoot Institute References: <3ju3rg$otu$1@mhade.production.compuserve.com> Date: Mon, 13 Mar 1995 03:49:39 GMT Lines: 54 In article <3ju3rg$otu$1@mhade.production.compuserve.com> RWork <73450.2663@CompuServe.COM> writes: > Has anyone ever purchased a worthwhile latex vagina? I bought one > mailorder that was supposedly hand molded from an actual vagina. > It did look very real,and although the penetration was somewhat > nice, once your penis is inside it was just a flimsy tube of > latex that were sort of knobby. Well, what the hell did you expect? Surely you didn't expect a lifeless hunk of plastic and latex to have the warm, lubricated, feel of the real thing! Thse things don't even look human. They resemble nothing so much as puddles of pink candlewax with iron filings from some kid's chemistry set sprinkled on to look like pubic hair. Did you think some _thing_ like that was going to get all shivery and start misfiring just before climax, the way Mommy's does? > It was disappointing, as I had (niavely?) thought of the fact > that it was hand-molded from a vagina that it would feel like > one. There's a lot more to "feeling like one" than shape. Besides, I hear that a lot of the latex they make those sex toys out of is recycled from nuclear labs, and is actually a bit radioactive. If you ever wake up some morning and find your green, shrivelled dong rolling around in bed next to you like a Benzedrex inhaler, you'll know what happened. Like the guy in Hill Street Blues used to say, let's be _careful_ out there. Cavenewt emptor, and all that. > Has anyone tried a similar toy that was worthwhile? Well, I once, in a moment of desperation, ordered something similar and attached it to the front of the Frigidaire with refrigerator magnets. I figured that not only would the thing be at a convenient (and adjustable) height, but there'd be the added benefit of convenient access to beer during breaks between hump-sessions. Geoff -- -+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+- Geoff Miller + + + + + + + + Mountain View geoffm@netcom.com + DoD #0996 + California -+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+- Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!nac.no!ifi.uio.no!sia.sics.se!eua.ericsson.se!erinews.ericsson.se!cnn.exu.ericsson.se!convex!news.duke.edu!news-feed-1.peachnet.edu!gatech!howland.reston.ans.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsrelay.iastate.edu!news.iastate.edu!z1dan From: z1dan@exnet.iastate.edu (Dan Sorenson -- Cereal Killer) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Beer farts (was Re: BUD WEIS ER!) Date: 10 Mar 1995 03:50:34 GMT Organization: John Deere Product Development and Pathology Lab Lines: 88 Message-ID: <3joiaa$jcm@news.iastate.edu> References: <794341443snz@dhcs.demon.co.uk> <794437353snz@dhcs.demon.co.uk> NNTP-Posting-Host: exnet.iastate.edu Beer farts. There's just something about a good beer-fart that makes a man's chest well with pride of accomplishment, though at a considerable distance from the scene of the olfactory offense. Now I'm a beer-drinking kind of guy. To me, there's only one taste worth puckering up for, and that is beer of the "liquid bread" variety. Nothing else quite hits the spot. I'm also fond of meat-and-potatoes kinds of food, those that are filling and available for a few bucks (have to watch the pennies to keep the beer budget intact). And thus begins an olfactory tale. One summer I was going stark, raving, homicidal, I'm-gonna-kill-something mad at work and finally decided I needed a vacation. So I packed the saddlebags on the Harley, hopped aboard, and rode from Iowa to Menlo Park, California, there to see some friends and party like a drunken sailor. Given my Navy service, I like to think I was well-versed in the art. Geoff Miller and I, along with some other Team Fizzballers had lunch at the El Paso cafe one day, and I selected the chili. That afternoon I had the chance to sit on my ass and drink beer, a favorite relaxation technique of mine and one I employ often. The pump was primed, so to speak, with Sierra Nevada Pale. That evening, we're at Andy's for the express purpose of helping him swap an engine in his race car. Being a few hours late, we found the engine already replaced and thus hung about the garage drinking beer and admiring the car. As I was walking past Geoff to inspect something-or-other, the pressure built up and like a seeping cloud of chlorine I let it fly. After all, we were Manly Men doing Manly Things, so there was no particular reason to be discrete. Unfortunately, I was. Somehow, there was little to no soundtrack accompanying this malodorous deed, and from the burning sensation on my puckering asshole I knew this to be a potent expulsion. Thus, I warned Geoff by saying, "Oh, sorry" as I walked past. About four seconds later Geoff visibly gagged. Then, eyes watering and breath hitching, he discovered religion. As I recall, his exact words were, "Gaaawwwwdd Daaammmmmn!" and he made a hasty retreat for the driveway. Andy, of course, was at a greater distance and, catching a few stray whifts, staged a strategic withdrawl before the full impact could be felt. I grew up on a farm, with one of my chores being the raising of hogs and cattle. Thus, I have a pretty high tolerance for vile-smelling air. As I walked on out to re-join my friends I passed through the affected area and took an appreciative sniff. It was an interesting aroma, mixing the usual shit-like smell with an overpowering presence of ammonia, chlorine, and methane. Lots of methane. It was not unlike breathing acid. I later discovered that with similar food and drink a fart can be let loose that will cause the cat to leave the room with all speed, and given the smell of cat shit and their habit of sniffing the assholes of other cats, not to mention licking their own, I have to confess that the evidence points to my having a gastrointestinal tract tailor-made for the beer-fart. I suppose I should be glad that the car wasn't running at the time. The extra explosive power of my noxious emmission (certainly unable to pass any California smog check) might have had an adverse effect on the freshly-installed motor, and of course a stray spark from the exhaust would have likely caused the garage to go up like the Challenger. I wonder if the damage from a beer-fart near an open flame would be covered under the standard homeowners insurance policy? Come to think of it, I wonder if beer-farts violate the Clean Air Act passed by Congress? On the other hand, if I can figure out a way to form a pressure seal between my ass and the seat, I might have just discovered an alternative fuel source for the Harley. Well, at least now we have a valid theory for the cause of spontaneous human combustion. Dan "Jet-Propelled" Sorenson -- * Dan Sorenson, DoD 1066, Cereal Killer, z1dan@exnet.iastate.edu * * Vikings? There ain't no vikings here. Just us honest farmers. * * The town was burning, the villagers were dead. They didn't need * * those sheep anyway. That's our story and we're sticking to it. * Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!psinntp!psinntp!psinntp!rebecca!newserve!ub!news.kei.com!news.byu.edu!news.mtholyoke.edu!news.umass.edu!caen!uwm.edu!cs.utexas.edu!news.sprintlink.net!uunet!in1.uu.net!newsflash.concordia.ca!vega.concordia.ca!cp_dine From: cp_dine@vega.concordia.ca (Bangers 'n' Mash) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Charlie the ghoul Date: 12 Mar 1995 09:01:14 GMT Organization: Concordia University, Montreal, Canada Lines: 176 Message-ID: <3jud8q$r9g@newsflash.concordia.ca> NNTP-Posting-Host: vega.concordia.ca NNTP-Posting-User: cp_dine My head is long and narrow, tapering to a muzzle-like point. The hair which covers most of my body ends at my neck, so that my head is bald, pink, and shiny as a vulture's. This is an evolutionary adaptation, allowing me to keep my pelt free from detritus as I plunge my head into cavities and orifices. The people who bring me little treats never stick around to watch me taking dinner. Pfui; their loss. One afternoon, this fellow Jeff rang me up to ask the usual favor. He had been over several times in the past, and I salivated as he described the pretty young thing he was bringing me. An hour later, the door of my trailer banged open and Jeff pushed in his young companion, then slammed the door closed from the outside. Big wimp. The girl screeched as she caught sight of me. I must have looked a sight, sitting in filthy shorts and a puddle of urine amongst the broken bottles on the trailer floor. "Relax," I hissed, "I'm Charlie. You wanna drink?" But she wouldn't shut up, so I got the rope. When I had her tied up good and tight, I stopped to take a good look at her. Hmmm. Cute, about twenty two, blonde and hippyish, with a large tummy swelling under her peasant skirt. Six and a half months gone, I estimated. Just into the third trimester - perfect. She whimpered and tried not to look at me, thrashing her head around and twisting her body as I gently put her down on the gurney. The heels of her '70's style platform boots drummed against the steel tubing of the gurney, producing a hollow ringing that made me think of Mike Oldfield. Yuck. She closed her eyes and whined loudly when I approached and put a hand on her tummy. Was that a kick I felt? Eager little devil... I bent and whipped my head at her torso, snarling and shredding the front of her skirt with my huge, sharp incisors. The bisected, brightly colored halves of her peasant skirt fluttered to the floor like angel wings. I hooked the dirty nails of my thumbs under her pretty blue panties and tore them off. Grabbing her boots, I slid her hips to the end of the gurney and fastened her ankles into the stirrups. She tried to close her legs, but she was tied too tightly to hide the lovely reddish-blonde fur of her peach. I nuzzled the flesh of her inner thighs, relishing the soft, smooth skin and delicate aroma of sweet young pussy as she bucked her hips and shrilled. The puckered flesh of her vulva was dry and warm to my snout; this one would need some lubrication. I trotted to the kitchenette and retrieved a mason jar of bacon fat conserved from a week's worth of breakfasts. I opened the lid and sniffed. Hmmm, a little raunchy, but it would do. I knelt at the foot of the gurney, casually sweeping aside a clutter of bottles and pizza boxes with my knees. The girl was wasting her energy whimpering and writhing, pulling at the rope around her wrists. I took a generous palm-full of bacon grease in each hand and began to slather the buttery substance over my snout. My sensitive sense of smell was flooded by the rancid aroma of charred pig. Little bits of burnt bacon scraped at my skin. The effect was rather soothing, overall. Satisfied with the coverage, I twisted the lid back onto the jar, with my slippery fingers sliding on the glass container and ridged metal lid. I set down the jar with a *thump*. The girl lifted her head at the sound and looked at me. She cleared her throat and spoke in a soft, husky voice. "I mean, like, this isn't really, I mean, that's not really your face...?" My muzzle-full of needle-sharp teeth parted in a grin; I tasted bacon. "No, dear, it's just a rubber mask, and your boyfriend put me up to this little joke." She didn't look like she believed me, and I can't say I blamed her. She looked like she was tensing up for another round of shrieking, so I grabbed her thighs and pressed my snout to the warm, dry entrance of her vagina. She gasped at the touch of my cold, wet snout - hey, I'm a healthy mutt - and let out a lungful of air in a long, heaving breath instead of a scream. I pushed my lubricated muzzle up into her, feeling the walls of her vagina contract in protest. My penis was swelling a little, pushing out from its hairy sheath. My muzzle slid in to the hilt, stretching her open wide. This was good - it would make room for the passage of the meat. Jeff would just have to accept some looseness as inevitable. The girl was breathing in quick, shallow gasps as my snout pushed up against her cervix - going into shock already? I breathed through the corners of my mouth, waiting for her to adjust - I hate to lose a patient. Bad for business. When her respiration had slowed a bit, I pushed against the muscular disk of her cervix, letting the pointy tip of my tongue probe the entrance to her womb. I snuffled within her tummy, enjoying the sensations of her taste and smell which were overpowering the bacon scent. She was rich, meaty and salty, but not coppery. Nothing had torn. Yet. Slowly and delicately, I wriggled my tongue into her womb, enlarging the opening of her cervix. This took a while, but eventually nature began to co-operate; as if sensing the futility of trying to hang on to its cargo, the womb began to spasm and contract. Ah, the wisdom of the body - sensing defeat, her cervix relaxed and yielded to the insistent probing of my tongue. The girl was making noise, but her thighs were pressed against the sides of my head, muffling the sound. Gaining entrance to her womb, my prehensile tongue slid across the surface of the amniotic sac, exploring. Choosing a spot, I began licking vigorously at the membrane with the rough, scaly patch on the tip of my tongue. Something crusty touched the edge of my tongue. I realized that it must be one of the crisp, blackened bits of meat from my bacon grease lubrication. Ick. Mental note: stock up on some nice, mild extra-virgin olive oil. I rasped a hole through the amniotic sac and pushed my tongue inside the tear, ripping sideways to enlarge it. I pushed my snout against the edge of her cervix, blocking my nostrils and holding my breath as the initial gush of hot, watery fluid drained from her womb. There was a time when I considered this fluid to be a delicacy, rarer than the finest wine, but years of experience have taught me to save my palate for the main course - especially with a delightful third trimester treat such as this. I pulled back slightly, allowing the fluid to drain out around my closed mouth. Moving my head away from the girl's thighs, unfortunately, allowed me to hear the annoying, high pitched wail she was producing. I cringed and pushed forward again, letting her thighs act as fleshy earmuffs. Probing her dilated cervix, I felt the warm, throbbing globe of the infant's head pressed up against the birth orifice. As her womb contracted and the cervix loosened further, I pushed my tongue into the womb to help things along. My long, agile tongue slipped over the tiny features of the infant's face - I could feel its displeased expression - and wrapped around its tiny neck like a living noose. I tugged gently. With a liquid, sucking gurgle, the child slid free of its mother's womb and into the delicate embrace of my fanged grin. About bloody time, too - my knees were getting sore from all that kneeling. Mental note: purchase a small, sturdy footstool. I stood, joints creaking, and shredded the umbilicus with my ragged fingernails, tying the ends. I placed a small pan between the girl's legs to catch the afterbirth. Ghod, her noise was getting on my nerves. I fitted a ball-gag into her mouth and carried the dripping fetus over to the sink. I turned on the hot water faucet to wash off my choice little cut - ow! Ouch! the bloody hot water heater was set too damn high again. I dropped the twitching fetus into the stream of scalding water in the sink - *thud* - and licked my reddened fingers. I turned off the water and picked up the lump of meat. Surprisingly, it was still moving. One of its eyes was open and seemed to be looking at me. Before sinking my teeth in and ripping out its throat, I pressed my thumbnails into its eye sockets, popping the tiny orbs. Hey, never eat anything that's looking at you, right? *Chomp* - I severed its throat tissue cleanly. A gush of blood fountained over my torso, matting my chest fur. I chewed the tender meat slowly. Flopping the meat into a tray, I turned to the window. Noticing it was getting dark, I flicked on an overhead light. The filth caked on the linoleum tiles rasped against my bare feet, and the yellowed walls gleamed. I chewed at my treat, taking my time with the gristly trachea. Realizing that Jeff would be back shortly, I untied the girl and threw her a blanket. She covered herself and cowered in the corner. I reflected that she could probably use a nice strawberry douche to clean out the bacon bits, but decided to let it slide. It would be time to open up soon. Before chopping up the fetus and afterbirth into individual servings, I hit the switch that lit up the neon sign on the diner next door: *************************** * Red Lion Bar & Grille * * Olde English Pub Food * * - Fish 'n' Chips * * - Bangers 'n' Mash * * - Steak 'n' Kidney Pie * *************************** Bangers "Rich, meaty goodness" 'n' Mash Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!nac.no!ifi.uio.no!news.sics.se!eua.ericsson.se!erinews.ericsson.se!cnn.exu.ericsson.se!convex!cs.utexas.edu!swrinde!gatech!news-feed-1.peachnet.edu!insosf1.infonet.net!newshost.marcam.com!uunet!in1.uu.net!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: hintysen@aol.com (HinTysen) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Eunuchs newsgroup has some real cut-ups! Date: 15 Mar 1995 13:35:11 -0500 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 44 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <3k7c0v$ks5@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: hintysen@aol.com (HinTysen) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Thanks to that recent posting of all the available sex-related groups, I discovered alt.eunuchs.questions and ventured in for the first time. I saw a survey of eunuchs (or wannabe eunuchs) in progress and thought, ahhh, fuck netiquette, everybody needs to look at some of these responses. ------- From an AOL member, no less: What to do with the severed parts? I have several fantasies. Preserved in a jar is one, but my most common is that she bites it off and eats it slowly (or starts with the head and works down). Another is that she has my penis stuffed by a taxidermist and uses it as a dildo on herself, her girlfriends, and me. When not in use it would be mounted on the wall for all to see. Or she might slice it off and then throw it down and step on it, or feed it to her dog. (Apparently "how did you develop this fetish") My mother caught me masturbating and threatened to cut it off with scissors. At that moment I came involuntarily. She got angry and used masking tape to 'mummify' my penis except for the tip to urinate. This stayed on for several days and I got an infection. She took me to the doctor and told me he was going to cut it off because I had been playing with myself. The female doctor just removed the tape (with scissors, and I screamed and fought, convinced that she really was going to have it cut off, yet when the tape came off, I had another involuntary orgasm which the doctor cleaned up matter-of-factly), told my mother masturbation was natural, and gave her some ointment to put on my penis. My mother didn't trust me to put it on and did it herself, pinching the head of my raw, red penis to keep me from getting an erection. Later, my mother took me back to the doctor to be circumcised so I could not masturbate as easily and also told me that this time the doctor would cut off my penis. Meanwhile, my older sister picked up on the situation and realized what she could do to control me. She became very sadistic and would torture my cock and balls, and know that I'd never tell Mom. ------- And, from yet another AOL'er: I often imagine my testicles being treated and dried, so that they turned into small blue-black beads, which would be fashioned into dangly earrings, which would in turn be permanently affixed to each ear. Thus, I'd always have my balls close at hand, and they'd be there for all the world to see... ------- All this imagination, and only 10 free hours... Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!eunet.no!nuug!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!news.moneng.mei.com!uwm.edu!msunews!harbinger.cc.monash.edu.au!mts04-modem08.cc.monash.edu.au!cdcro1 From: cdcro1@giaec.cc.monash.edu.au (Colin Crossley) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Grandmother's habits Date: Mon, 13 Mar 1995 00:24:13 +1000 Organization: Monash University Lines: 75 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: mts04-modem08.cc.monash.edu.au Keywords: grogan, grandmother X-Newsreader: Trumpet for Windows [Version 1.0 Rev B final beta #1] Many years ago when I was still in primary school, my Grandmother came to stay with us for a while she was ill. Needless to say she was well passed it (ie. OLD- and contrary to popular belief by all around had not died several years earlier :you would have sworn otherwise if you had seen her!). During the weeks we had known her, my brother and I had quickly amassed the assumption that she was quite, quite mad. The story begins when my mother got a job which required her to leave for work earlier than before, meaning for the first time I could now stay back and watch cartoons until the last minute instead of going to school early like my mother always forced me to. The room where I watched my cartoons from was directly opposite my Grandmothers room, and if not for the cartoons I would never have come to seen the events I did, because it was in a fairly secluded part of the house at the end of a long hallway. As I sat mindlessly absorbing the drivel on the screen I gradually became aware of the smell. It was that faint, shitty smell you get when some kid has shit his pants, not potent, but nonetheless there. I was intrigued. Where was the smell coming from ? I checked the room I was in, nothing to be seem and the smell did not seem to eminate from anywhere in the room. As I was searching I heard a noice from the hallway and turned just in time to see the back of GM as she waddled down the hallway, and turned the corner towards the back door. Suddenly the waft hit me - thick, juicy, dripping wet - obviously the parent of the wiff I had gotton earlier. It must have come from GM. I heard the back door shut, she had gone outside for some reason. I took the chance to look into her room. Closer now the smell was increadible, and eyes watering I turned on the light. Spread - no - SMEARED all over the bed were the remains of a ripe liqui-grogan(TM). The very offended nightgown she must have been wearing at the time was arranged beautifully on the floor where I was able to admire the intricate patterns of shit left behind. Naturally I was pretty impressed! I was to be the hero of the grade six class today with this story!. But then I began to think. Why had GM gone outside ? Ok she had painted the bed - fair enough, havn't we all done it (even if just for the fun of it), but wouldn't the logical thing would be for her to have a shower ? I was curious. Returning to the TV room I quickly grabbed a chair and placed it under the high window which faces the back garden. Peering down through the glass into the garden I watched as GM waddled down to the long grass behind the above-ground swimming pool we had back then. She looked around and crouching, placed something in the grass. She then turned went to the tap washed her hands and made her way back to the path towards the house. I recognised quickly what was going to happen next. I jumped off the chair, grabbed my bag and ran out the door to school - the last thing I wanted was for her to see me and make me give her a goodbye kiss before I left! Later that day when I returned home I took a chance to have a look behind the pool when GM had gone that morning. I was suprised to find a small pile of fifteen or so rather deformed grogans, all looking sort of 'rolled' into little cigar shapes. Just what the fuck was going on ? It seemed that every time GM shat the bed, she would scoop up the CSGMG (cigar shaped grandmother grogan) left behind (ie. that which had not become a permanent part of the bed during the night) and carry it out to the collection she was amassing behind the pool. Why ? I guess we will never know - Maybe she was reliving the past when she had an outdoors toilet, may she thought she was the dog. Whatever the reason, it sure cured me of my budding cartoon addiction that year. obEpilogue: My brother, in all of his esteemed wisdom, thereafter took advantage of this find. One of him least favorite jobs around the yard was to clean up the dog turds left by our two dogs. Now, rather than simply put them in the garden refuse bag, he would add them to GM's pile. By the time few months had passed we had quite a nice collection going. obEpilogue2: After GM had died many years later, my brother and I would find great pleasure whenever guests would come and sleep on the now rather heavy and choady mattress she had left behind. When it was turfed many years after, I am sure it turned feral and now roams the dump in search of prey. ========================================================================= Colin Crossley ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Ph : 03-527-8686 Email : cdcro1@giaec.cc.monash.edu.au (uni) Fax : 03-483-7381 or: aucmlcc0@ibmmail.com (work) Snail : 2/328 Dandenong Rd St. Kilda East ========================================================================= Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!nntp.uio.no!ifi.uio.no!sia.sics.se!eua.ericsson.se!erinews.ericsson.se!cnn.exu.ericsson.se!convex!cs.utexas.edu!uwm.edu!msunews!harbinger.cc.monash.edu.au!merlin!mel.dit.csiro.au!its.csiro.au!dmssyd.syd.dms.CSIRO.AU!metro!ob1.uws.edu.au!lancelot.st.nepean.uws.edu.au!rocky From: rocky@arthur.st.nepean.uws.edu.au (Rocqueforte OLeary) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Grandmother's habits Date: 13 Mar 1995 20:40:06 +1000 Organization: University of Western Sydney Lines: 36 Message-ID: References: NNTP-Posting-Host: 137.154.148.14 Keywords: grogan, grandmother cdcro1@giaec.cc.monash.edu.au (Colin Crossley) writes: > mattress pumping asshole you.> Blush! I'm honoured, truely honoured by this dedication. Puzzled by the reasons for it, but none the less honoured. Colin, I dedicate this grogan that I've been holding back whilst reading news, to you. ObTasteless: "I've done a lot of scavenging and never found a human being - but I was 100 yards away when Slash found a human fetus. He put it in a shoe box and took it home.Thus began a weird relationship that lasted about a year. After cleaning it up, he put it in a deluxe specimen jar filled with formaldehyde. He used two clear plastic blocks to make it stay upright, rather than lying on its back. The fetus looked delightful floating in serene, preserved solitude. Slash would talk to her. And he gave her a name - Salina. In fact, he developed what struck me as a rather unhealthy attachment to her. Eventually, however, a friend of Mrs. Spooner's, the head of the Minnesota chapter of the National Christian Pro-Life Council came from the Twin Cities and offered to buy Salina. He wanted to use her in an anti-abortion display, to show how human-like a fetus looks. Slash - very, very reluctantly - said "Goodbye" to Salina, declining to accept any payment for her." From "The Art & Science of Dumpster Diving" by J. Hoffman -- ****** Rocqueforte "Rocky" O'Leary *** CSO,DBA,BOFH *** B.App.Sci.(Comp) ****** ** Work: Uni Of Western Sydney,Nepean, AU * email:rocky@st.nepean.uws.edu.au ** ** Tel: 047 360156 *** WWW:http://www.st.nepean.uws.edu.au/~rocky/index.html ** ** "Don't toss a kid into a dumpster just because you are lazy" ~ J. Hoffman ** Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!nac.no!ifi.uio.no!sia.sics.se!eua.ericsson.se!cnn.exu.ericsson.se!convex!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail From: weberm@freenet.scri.fsu.edu (Mike Weber) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Honorable Discharge Date: 13 Mar 1995 22:57:38 -0600 Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway Lines: 63 Sender: nobody@cs.utexas.edu Message-ID: <199503140457.XAA29926@freenet3.scri.fsu.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: news.cs.utexas.edu (from The Nose, #26) Our nation's captial is home to dozens of museums - but bloody few are more bizarre than the Museum of Menstration. Housed in graphic artist Harry Finley's basement, the museum is a testiment to one man's fascination with women's monthly visitor. After years of research and collecting, the 52-year-old Finley probally knows more about this natural occurance than any other man. Or woman, for that matter."The whole thing is a result of pure curiosity," Finley deadpans. "Menstration is a mysterious phenomenon, and as a male I was pretty much excluded from it. I wanted to learn more, and in the past 15 years I have." (This obsessive interest in female anatomy appears to be a family trait - Finley's grandfather Alexander Finley started the Miss America Paegent). Stationed in Germany while working for the U.S. government, Finley noticed that foreign magazine ads for feminine hygene products were markedly different than those back home. He began collecting ads from all over the world, some dating to the early 1920's. "I find them interesting because they tend to reflect each era's attitude toward menstration," Finley notes. In addition to a large display of feminine hygene advetising thru the ages, the Museum of Menstration also features: A cut-away,life sized model showing what actually occurs during menstration. A chronological chart of femminine hygene techniques from ancient Egypt through the present. "Things havent changed that much," Finley sniffs. A mannequin wearing what women have worn for thousands of years - a plain pad or rag held in place with a belt. A second mannequin shows off a more contemporary concept - washable pads with colorfull designs. "I think it's to show that menstration is a bodily function and nothing to be ashamed of," Finley gushes. A special bowl for washing reusable pads that features a spout so you can pour the bloody water on your plants. It makes a nice fertilizer, added Finley. Finley has noticed a striking difference in attitude between countries about menstration. The U.S. treats it as something secret and shamefull, unlike most of Europe - particuarlly Scandinavia, where people are much more open and direct about it. --------------------------------- At the bottom of the article, it says that Harry Finley welcomes your menstral items, especially advertisements and (unused) pads and tampons. Send them to: Museum of Menstration, Landover Hills Branch,PO Box 2398 Hyattsville, MD 20784-2398. Quarterly newsletter also available. -- "Some aboriginal Australians and inhabitants of New Guinea routinely ate part of a dead relative's body as an act of respect and to appease the ghost of the deceased. Everyone involved dreaded the "feast" which was accompanied by almost ceaseless vomiting, spitting, and other signs of disgust, sometimes lasting several days." DEATH TO DUST Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!nac.no!ifi.uio.no!news.sics.se!eua.ericsson.se!erinews.ericsson.se!cnn.exu.ericsson.se!convex!news.duke.edu!zombie.ncsc.mil!news.missouri.edu!mizzou-ts2-15.missouri.edu!user From: djm8@cornell.edu (Jo Miller) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: How to make a political statement in Thailand Date: Wed, 15 Mar 1995 12:37:37 -0600 Organization: University of Missouri - Columbia Lines: 92 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: mizzou-ts2-15.missouri.edu (from the Bangkok Post) COMMERCE Minister Uthai Pimchaichon was attacked yesterday by a man wielding a bag of faeces who claimed he was trying to protect "good people from being bullied by bad people". The attack took place in front of over 50 senior commerce officials summoned by Mr Uthai to hear why he decided to reinstate Bajr Issarasena as permanent secretary and to introduce Mr Bajr's successor, Charae Chutharattanakul. A large number of reporters and photographers and members of the Solidarity Party were also present. The assailant, who identified himself as Thanit Suwannamaena, 36, was immediately contained by Mr Uthai's aides after they recovered from the surprise attack. The incident took place after Mr Uthai had finished giving his explanation. Witnesses said Mr Thanit, who was posing as a photographer, walked towards Mr Uthai, took two quick photographs, then pulled a plastic bag from his suit pocket and threw it at the minister. The plastic bag hit Mr Uthai in the face and broke open spilling a fetid yellowish fluid over his face and suit. The fluid, a mixture of urine and faeces, also splashed and stained the suit of Deputy Commerce Minister Chalermphol Snitwongchai who was sitting next to Mr Uthai. Mr Uthai appeared shocked by the attack but recovered quickly and maintained his composure. He ordered security guards to arrest Mr Thanit who did not offer any resistance. The Commerce Minister was then escorted by aides to his office where he took a shower and changed his clothes. A scheduled meeting on tapioca policy at the ministry was cancelled. Mr Uthai later said he had no bad feelings towards his assailant and would let the police to handle the case. He also said he did not think the attack was politically motiviated. But some critics suspect the incident might have been motivated by a party conflict. They said several Solidarity Party members who had not visited the Commerce Ministry for some time were present at the meeting yesterday. Among them was Ekkaporn Rakkwamsook, a former secretary to the Commerce Minister. Witnesses said Mr Thanit did not try to escape and just walked calmly away from the minister. He also distributed copies of a seven-page statement and copies of a letter addressed to his parents among the press. In the statement, Mr Thanit explained the reason why he attacked Mr Uthai. He was later taken by police to Phra Ratchawaong police station where he was charged with assault without causing injury, a petty offence which carries imprisonment of one month and/or a fine of 1,000 baht. A defamation charge was also filed against Mr Thanit, police said. Mr Thanit said after his arrest he had carried out the attack at his own initiative. He said he used to have faith in, and respect for, Mr Uthai because of his courage in instituting a suit against Field Marshal Thanom Kittikachorn during the early 1970s. But his faith and respect vanished when Mr Uthai married an air hostess. Mr Thanit, who claimed to be a member of the Thai bar and a tutor at a school in front of Ramkhamhaeng University, said he was angry with Mr Uthai for suspending Mr Bajr from active duty because he thought it was unjust. He also said he wanted to seek temporary shelter with Senator Sitthi Jirarote who he respects highly and would seek bail if his request for shelter is accepted by Gen Sitthi. Bail has been set at 200,000 baht. Mr Thanit said he planned his attack Tuesday when he heard on the radio that Mr Uthai would hold a meeting to explain his decision to reinstate Mr Bajr. He said he felt the reinstatement was an insult to the permanent secretary because he had already been ruined by Mr Uthai and could not resume his job anyway. He claimed he had a just cause in attacking the Commerce Minister. Charae Chutharattanakul, the new commerce permanent secretary, said the ministry might have to step up security to screen visitors, especially reporters and photographers. The Office of the Government spokesman banned the showing of the attack on state television stations after Channel 5 managed to air the incident. Prime Minister Chuan Leekpai refused comment on the attack on his return from Japan last night other than to say it was not connected with Mr Bajr's reinstatement. Metropolitan Police Commissioner Lt Gen Chaiyasith Kanchanakit, who personally questioned Mr Thanit, said the assailant had pleaded guilty to all charges, but denied he had been hired to carry out the attack. Democrat spokesman Arkhom Engchuan said he felt sorry for Mr Uthai and did not know what motivated the attack. He said security would be stepped up for ministers at press conferences even though they did not want the added attention. Jo Miller djm8@cornell.edu ------------------------------------------------------------------------- The sweat of hard work is not to be displayed. It is much more graceful to appear favored by the gods. -Maxine Hong Kingston ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!doc.news.pipex.net!pipex!howland.reston.ans.net!usc!sdd.hp.com!hplabs!hplextra!news.dtc.hp.com!hpscit.sc.hp.com!tonyz From: tonyz@rose.hp.com (Tony Zugec) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: killing of small animals Date: 14 Mar 1995 18:02:16 GMT Organization: Hewlett Packard Lines: 98 Message-ID: <3k4ln8$djj@hpscit.sc.hp.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: hprrc97.rose.hp.com X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Now mind you, these things were done in my younger day. Back when I would have shot at God if I thought he made a good moving target. These days, I love animals. Except dogs. They of course, remain fair game for my rifle sights. Anyway, the meanest people in the world are kids. Not that I understand why they do the things they do to small animals, but it is sometimes a natural thing for some kids to do...be mean and cruel to small animals. And it doesn't mean that they grow up to be psychotic killers and such. I have 3 cats, 2 kittens, 2 large lizards, a bird, fish, hamsters and had a rabbit and enjoy their company. But back then, I was minister of death, destroyer of worlds. Frogs. Ah, yes. Little happy frogs. Easy to catch and fun to torture for little boys because they look like little miniature humans. I grew up in an arid part of the country where it really got hot in the summertime. We had some rains and these rains would produce small 'vernal pools' on the mesa. Soon, there were zillions of small frogs and toads. We learned that these small frogs made perfect victims for 'air assaults' and were great for turning into 'jerky frogs'. Air Combat toe-to-toe with the russkie frogs. We'd take sticks and whap whap whap through a fleeing populace, not unlike Polish refugees running down into the ditches to get off the road and out of the way of diving, wailing Stukas. whap whap whap whap...just so many pitiful innocent civilians at the mercy of superior firepower. Then, we discovered 'thermo-nuclears'. Gasoline likes to take to flame when that kind of desert heat vaporized it in an instant. We would just thump on the crackly, soggy broken mud and thousands of small enemy frogs would awaken and take flight only to meet with doom. 'Jerky' frogs is the only way I can describe it. This was when "hang 'em high" was the popular movie. We made little miniature gallows and would string up little frogs in little rows and wait for the heat of the day to dry them up into cute little curios. Like something you would buy in Mexico that looks like it might have been alive once but you're not really sure what it is. Like the stuffed frog bands. Jeeezus. Anyway, these were neat because you could leave them all over the place, in peoples desks, in the teacher's coffee mug. Lots o' fun. And then, there was Frog-Airline-Crash. We found that we could stuff small glass medicine bottles full of these happy little frogs and throw them off a 300 foot cliff to simulate an airliner burrowing into the ground from 30,000 feet with a full head of steam. The only thing we couldn't figure out was how to make a terrific explosion of fire and smoke. That would have been wonderful. So, part of the fun was scouring the mesa floor for the downed frog-liner. When we did find the debris, that's what it was. The glass had broken into a million small shards. Victims lay about, limp and motionless with pieces of sharp glass sticking out of them. PSA flight 182 without the burning fuel. Ok, remembering that I have seen the error of my ways in my old age and that you morbid fucks still think this stuff is cool, this is Toners signing off. Next time: Rabbits and Squirrels. Lunch time. OK, bye. Your pal, Toner "And, as digestive a good, not smelling portion of open legs"- Michele Dall'Agata Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!nac.no!ifi.uio.no!sia.sics.se!eua.ericsson.se!erinews.ericsson.se!cnn.exu.ericsson.se!convex!cs.utexas.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!levine From: levine@symcom.math.uiuc.edu (Lenore Levine) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless,rec.food.veg,talk.politics.animals Subject: Letter to a Vegan Date: 10 Mar 1995 03:16:54 GMT Organization: University of Illinois at Urbana Lines: 82 Message-ID: <3jogb6$p96@vixen.cso.uiuc.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: symcom.math.uiuc.edu Xref: diku.dk alt.tasteless:74711 rec.food.veg:50348 I must confess, all of a sudden I have the strangest fantasies... In my dreams, you have visited me and my female lover, Roberta Hatch, in Champaign. We are having a ladies' lunch in that Thai restaurant in the campus YMCA. I order the meat pad thai, Bobbi gets the fried rice with eggroll, and you, of course, get the tofu pad thai. You talk about men, and how they Only Want One Thing. As we raise each other's consciousness, Bobbi slips a white powder into your Fruit Smoothie. The next thing you know, you are tied, naked, to a large living room couch. You are staring at a bookcase filled with math books. You try to speak, but you cannot, because you've been gagged with computer printouts. I am standing over you in my size 20 leather bikini, brandishing a whip, while a.t.'s hottest redhead sits unclothed in an office chair, watching with visible excitement. On the floor, dozens of pastel-dyed Easter Bunnies and Chickie- Wickies scamper in fear from my cat Neek; the carpet is slippery with their void. "Time for the broiler, Bobbi," I snicker. You shiver in fear, but Bobbi just takes three porterhouse steaks out of the refrigerator and prepares them for cooking. As the meat sizzles, you listen with horror to the screams of a baby rabbit expiring in Neek's jaws. It sounds just like a stuffed toy. In a few minutes, the steaks are ready. My assistant puts the largest one on a plate, and holds the plate in front of your face. With one hand, I brandish my whip. With the other, I grab a green hare and a purple chicken. "You have a choice, bint," I tell you. "Either eat the meat, or I squash these little critters beneath my black spike heels." "You better believe her," adds Bobbi. "She's crazy." "I sure am," I continue. "And besides, the cow is already dead. If you're good, we might let _these_ animals live." Slowly, you nod. You eat a few bites, with tears running down your dainty cheek. As you eat, your face grows flushed, and you feel strange sensations course through your body. We give you pina coladas, and oddly langorous, you cannot refuse them. You eat faster, and giggle softly. When you are finished, we half-walk, half-carry you into the bedroom. You sprawl on the bed, your hips wiggling. You feel like something important is going to happen. Bobbi is impatient. She shoves her large clitoris in your face, and tells you to lick. You do, at first shyly but then more greedily. At the same time, your legs spread open. I grab a shocking pink Bunnikins and mash it onto your clit. As it struggles, you moan, softly, and juice drips down your legs. I cannot stand it. I press my own turgid love button against the dying rabbit. You, me, and Bobbi surge in threefold ecstasy. Finally, Roberta comes, wetter than ever. Like clockwork, ripples of climax sough through my well-upholstered body. Suddenly, you scream like a banshee and turn blue in the face. I worry that you may be having an epileptic fit. But as your legs contract and the bunny finally expires, I know that this is the very first orgasm you have ever achieved in your life. "Meat, meat, more meat," you whisper, softer and softer, until your voice dies down like a train passing in the night. By the time you stagger to the AmTrak station, bowlegged, we've used up every EasterCritter in the apartment. Neek is sated, fatter than ever. And between the three of us, we've eaten a dozen steaks, and sent out for more. "Thank you," you smile, as you hug us in the waiting room. "I'm a new woman. How can I ever repay you?" "A good deed is its own reward," we reply in unison. Lenore Levine -- "Little wimps like you need agressive assholes like me to flame you and put you in your place....So do yourself a favor and shut-up." -- Vikram Khare (to me) Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!doc.news.pipex.net!pipex!howland.reston.ans.net!newsjunkie.ans.net!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: dersins@aol.com (Der SINS) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: MIDGET ABUSE, AND A FISHING STORY Date: 16 Mar 1995 02:10:37 -0500 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 124 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <3k8o9d$40s@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: dersins@aol.com (Der SINS) If you have not read the threads UMM, CAN SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME and UMM, CAN SOMEONE PLEASE SQUICK ME , read no futher:this will make little or no sense if you haven't. Go read them and come back. . . . . . .OK, you're back? Oh, goody, here we go: 1) Of course Der SINS and Smallguy69 are the same person-- I haven't had a roommate for years. 2) Of course it was a lame troll (as Jim park told me via e-mail): IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE. Yes, in fact, Jim Park and HinTysen, among others, have fallen victim to a new variation of the standard troll. It doesn't have a name yet. but perhaps someone can suggest one. It all started several months ago when I first encountered alt.tasteless and read the FAQ. I lurked for about a month, then made some exploratory posts about MIDGET ABUSE. I received some favorable reaction to these, but goddam if it wasn't quite enough to satiate my lust for the recognition of my awesome talents (or something like that.) So I thought for a while and came up with the new troll variation. 1) Post a really lame, really obvious, really bumblingly incompetent troll. 2) Confuse matters somewhat by posting from two AOL accounts. 3) Sit back, and wait to see what unfolds. 4) The big denouement: while people are condescedingly telling me what a really lame and obvious troll it was, hit 'em in the back of the skull with an incredibly tasteless post. HinTysen unwittingly helped me in my plan by "exposing" the fact that DerSINS and Smallguy69 were (my goodness, can you believe it) the same person. He and Jim Park did the same by rising to the actual bait involved in the troll: not the post itself, BUT THE FACT THAT IT WAS AN OBVIOUS TROLL. Heheheheh...thanks, guys. But wait, you say, what about step 4? Ahh, step 4! Read on, lads and lassies, read on. [THE FOLLOWING CONTAINS GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF MIDGET ABUSE; SMALL CHILDREN AND NUNS ARE STRONGLY ADVISED TO CEASE READING AT THIS POINT] *My Fishin' Trip* Well, there I was, out on a little bitty boat in the middle of the Amozon River-- just me, my native guide Toka, my midget, George Herbert Walker Bush (no relation to the ex-president, of course: those Bushes ain't got that midget gene running in their family), and my fishin' equipment. Toka paddled us over to a certain spot in the river, next to a big sunken log, and pointed to the water. I looked, and, Lo and behold, there they were, literally hundreds of piranha. It was time fer some fishin'.I reached over to little GHWB, and picked him up by the throat. He looked at me with those soft, moist midget eyes of his, so trusting, so loyal. . . .I started banging his head against the side of the boat. It wasn't as easy beating my little companion into unconciousness as I had thought it would be. He had a thick skull. The first few whacks against the side of the boat just broke his nose and got splinters in his eyes. He was bleeind all over the damn place, that dark, thick snot-suffused blood that pours out of the freshly-shattered nasal area. I could tell the poor litttle guy was trying to scream, but I had a tight enough grip on his throat that the only sounds coming from his mouth was a little burbling gurgle that reminded me a little (but not all that much) of the sound of a good squick. Anyway, I kept on smashing the little guy's skull against the boat until finally his little limbs jerked, stiffened, and went limp. There was the smell of freshly-issued feces coming from his lower torso, but that bothered me not a bit. In fact, I kinda liked it.I opened my king-sized tackle box, and took out the biggest damn hook i'd been able to find back in the states.It was, appropriately enough, meat-hook sized. I shoved the barb into GHWB's stochach, just above the belly-button, grinning as I watched it pucture his teeny little tum. I kept a-pushin' 'til it slid around inside and came out his asshole, sticking out about 4 inches, quite visible to even the dumbest piranha. Perfect. I took a whole bunch of little fishhooks, and did the same thing, all over his body, but I left the points of the little ones just barely peeping out through his skin, not easy to spot at all. I sat back and looked at my handiwork: His skull was split open a bit at the hairline, blood and brains leaking out in a grey-red mush. Blood was all over his face. There was a huge, barbed hunk of metal sticking out of his asshole, blood and feces dripping from it's point. Mmm, Yum!! And the little hooks, well, I couldn't see them at all.I had Toka tie a length of rope around the little bugger's neck and drop him overboard, right into the middle of the sschool of piranha. He then commenced to paddle around, while I held the end of the rope and wtached the action. Well, the piranhs weren't fooled for a second. They may be vicious, but they ain't dumb. They saw the end of the meat-hook sticking out of little dead George Herbert's asshole, and they weren't about to` get caught. But, a few of them, being piranha, thought they could get away with chomping at the parts of George Herbert furthest from the hook. Heheheheheh. I watched those suckers rip at his flesh, and pluck bloody little gobbets from his face and chest--- but, eventually, each of them ended up getting themselves caught on the little hooks they hadn't seen, which was, of course, what I had intended all along.well, I hauled GHWB up outta the water, and lo and behold, there were a couple a piranha caught on the little hooks. I just grabbed them off and threw 'em back.Well, 'round about this time ol' Toka looked like he was getting a little hungry, so I handed him the bloody, ragged corpse of my little midget, and my filleting knife, and told him to have fun. He commenced to sawin' and to cuttin' away at GHWB, pluckin' the hooks out, and having himself a grand old cannibal meal. As for me, well, I just hauled a good old pineapple grenade out of my tackle box, pulled the pin, and dropped it in the water. After the mmuffled *WHUMP* of the explosion, those ol' piranha started floating up to to surface all crushed and imploded, and I just laughed. Heheheheheh. Love Ya All, Der SINS Newsgroups: talk.politics.animals,alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.kth.se!nac.no!ifi.uio.no!news.sics.se!eua.ericsson.se!erinews.ericsson.se!cnn.exu.ericsson.se!convex!cs.utexas.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!agate!tcsi.tcs.com!uunet!in1.uu.net!earth.usa.net!bongo!julian From: julian@bongo.tele.com (Julian Macassey) Subject: Mink Fuck Fest Message-ID: <1995Mar16.164408.5563@bongo.tele.com> Organization: Vatican Family Planners Date: Thu, 16 Mar 1995 16:44:08 GMT Lines: 103 I promised last fall that I would post when the mink breeding season started. Minks go into heat depending on the length of the day. As spring approaches, the female's pussies get swollen to indicate they are in heat. The breeding season starts in the beginning of March and lasts for around a month. I dropped by the local mink farm to talk to the farmer and watch the mink fuck. It was an unseasonably warm day when I drove up to the farm. About 25 farm cats, a motley collection of every variation of cat, were sunning themselves. Being farm cats, they were wary and shy. They melted under the barn as I approached. All that remained was a row of wary faces watching me. These were your typical farm cat. Feral and no doubt depending on rodents to flesh out their meager rations from the farmer. I found the farmer. He was sitting in a small booth in the middle of one of the mink sheds. This booth is known as the "Sperm shed". This is a small lab with microscopes where they check the mink sperm for count and motility. Surrounded by dried mink jizz, the farmer was eating his lunch. They have to watch their males for potentcy and also enthusiasm. If a male is shooting good spooge, but would rather lie around on his back than fuck, he becomes a fur coat sooner than he would if he was a good potent horndog. A case where being a good fucker means you live longer. The average stud male lives for four years before he heads off to the fur coat factory. The females live about the same length of time. Minks can live for about 7 years, but the limitation tends to be their teeth. When their teeth deteriorate, they cant eat. Rather than let them starve to death, as they would in the wild, they get gassed and skinned. The females display signs of being in heat by having a swollen pudenda - not unlike your average girl who also displays her willingness to be mounted by having swollen pussy lips. The farmer said that being near females in heat tends to increase the sperm count of the males. The males are in large cages and the females are brought to the males. Some females are muzzled to prevent them from biting the males. I was told that sometime the females are not happy about getting mounted and will bite the male, who will bite back. This can deteriorate to a major fight with the smaller female usually losing the battle. With mink, like most mammals, the male as the largest gender of the species. This enables the male to get pussy on his terms. In the "real world" of mammals, there are no sensitive new age guys who beg and whine for some snatch. When put together, several things can happen. The two minks can start humping immediately. They can fight a bit, then fuck. Or they can ignore each other. The usual scenario is that the male will pursue the female who will play hard to get (Your standard singles scene). Then the male will grab the female by the neck. At this point she usually concedes and allows the male to get on top and mount her. The mink will then stay in this position with the male using short fast strokes. Once on top, the male likes to flip the female on her side and fuck her laying on his side. Some females like it doggy fashion and won't let the male lie on his side to hump her. The farmer said that the male ejacualtes continually. If they hump for under 10 mins they do not count it as a coupling. They allow the two to fuck for about 30 mins. Then they separate the pair. The male is then given a rest. If left alone, they will fuck for up to three hours. They don't leave the males to fuck for that long because they lose interest in girls for a couple of days while they recharge the 'nads. The farmer said that the physical act of fucking is needed to get the female to conceive which is why artificial insemination is not successful with minks. Some work on art' insem' has been done at U.W. Madison, but the best success is by doing it "The old fashioned way". The male gets two partners a day. One in the morning and one in the afternoon. The female gets fucked twice in the season, with a ten day break between fuckfests. The "blue" (grey) females come into heat later than the blacks. This is believed to be a function of the eye pigment. More pigment means they need longer days (more light) to go into heat. The gestation period can vary between 30 and 60 days, also depending on the length of the day. To speed things up, and provide more control, the farmer lights the sheds to lengthen the day. He has a 30 day gestation period. The mating cages are changed to farrowing cages after the breeding season. One problem with the breeding season is the ambient temperature. If it is too warm, the males are not interested in pussy, but just loll about in their cages laying on their backs with their legs in the air. If the mink are making allot of noise in a cage, it means they are fighting. When fucking, they are totally silent. The male has a large piece of girl mink neck in his mouth while humping so couldn't make much noise. -- Julian Macassey, N6ARE julian@bongo.tele.com Voice: (414) 457-0874 Paper Mail: 210 Bleyer Drive, Sheboygan, Wisconsin 53081-8714 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless From: daveh@dhcs.demon.co.uk (Dave Hodgkinson) Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!nac.no!ifi.uio.no!sia.sics.se!eua.ericsson.se!erinews.ericsson.se!cnn.exu.ericsson.se!convex!cs.utexas.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!pipex!peernews.demon.co.uk!dhcs.demon.co.uk!daveh Subject: Save the choad! Organization: The Tommy Bolin Fan Club Reply-To: daveh@dhcs.demon.co.uk X-Newsreader: Demon Internet Simple News v1.29 Lines: 68 X-Posting-Host: dhcs.demon.co.uk Date: Mon, 13 Mar 1995 18:48:01 +0000 Message-ID: <795120481snz@dhcs.demon.co.uk> Sender: usenet@demon.co.uk I don't know if you remember, or even care if it come right down to it, but a couple of weeks ago I was on a course at SGI with one of the London a.t curry heads. We'll call him Paul, 'cause that's his name. Now, one of the joys of staying in what turned out to be a totally crap hotel, is the fact that we got to eat and drink at the company's expense. First night, curry house round the corner. Decent veg. jalfrezi for me and chicken kurma for the wuss Paul. We started kicking around this idea for some kind of group sponsorship by a.t for some kind of deserving sports types. Pierre can vouch for the generosity of the a.t folks, can't you Pierre? Pierre? You still have my oeuf don't you? As far as we could make out, there are several things to consider: 1. Exposure. We want lots of it. 2. Cost. Has to be cheap. Real cheap. 'Cause we know what a bunch of tightwads^H^H^H^H^H^H^H^H^H cost-sensitive bunnies you all are. 3. Nationality. Big problem. We need to find something that transcends nationalistic and religious boundaries. Some initial ideas were: Motor sports. Rules out the states pretty much 'cause as usual, 'Merkins take a perfectly good sport like F1 and turn it into something totally wierd. Upsides? Lots of TV coverage in Yoorp, the Antipodes and points East. Downsides? Very expensive. Yachting. Bit of a minority thing, and a bit national. But mucho publicity if yer boat sinks. Soccer? Nah. Except that in England, you can pretty much sponsor anything a team uses and get a mention in the program so we thought about perhaps sponsoring a team's personal hygiene products. Skaters and rowers. Pisspoor until you get to the very top, but again, not much mega-publicity. So anyway, on the the marketing concepts. I'm not sure the western world is quite ready for FTSOJ (except amongst the raggies), but there's probably mileage in the "Save the Choad!" campaign being extended. I see a logo of a cute, meerkat-like, cutesy choad peering out of its nest on the lookout for any predators ready to steal its eggs. As far as raising the dosh goes, I reckon we could get maybe twenty five or so major sponsors from those who have proper jobs at a hundred bucks a throw, and perhaps a hundred other sponsors at ten or twenty bucks a shot. That could give a couple of thousand bucks to play with. "Save the Choad!" T-shirts and sun visors or baseball caps all round I think. So, I throw it open to the floor.... Dave ObPierre: We could always sponsor Pierre to get lost in the desert with some 'Tards. Hell, with our wondrous government, we could do it on a for-profit basis. We could take 10% of everything we save the country in long-term care for the disabled. -- "You get this on a big job" - Ian Lording Subject: Maggie Thatcher, Sex Kitten Many thanks to Our Man In Vienna for sending along the following: "Early in his erotic career, Graham had discovered that the surest method of delaying ejaculation was to think of Mrs Margaret Thatcher. The forestalling of orgasm was a social requirement of all middle-class liberal men by the mid-seventies; the aristocracy and the working classes, in both of which the link between alcohol and copulation was almost causal, were still permitted the grab, the lunge, the plunge, the thrust, the grunt, the cigarette. [...] The male brain, which (Graham had once read and now thought) was programmed for a quick spurt to further procreation, therefore needed to be sidetracked. Friends at university had suggested the solution, once intercourse was engaged, of algebraic equations. Graham had tried this once but lost his erection by the first minus sign, perhaps because, at school, Maths had been for him a daily ordeal. [...] Luckily, the beginning of Graham's sexual elevation almost coincided with Mrs Margaret Thatcher's election as leader of the Conservative Party. As soon as he first saw on television her (then) yellow hair, shrill voice (tutored to neuter her birthright vowels) and nervelessly certain eyes, he realized that, for almost the first time in his life as a man, he had encoutered a women for whom he felt not even a suppressed tremor of erotic curiosity. She was anti-sexual. And, therefore, the perfect desenitizing picture to divert the attention of the nerve-ends of the penis." (from Mark Lawson, "Bloody Margaret -- Three Political Fantasies", Picador) Subject: abuse of internet privileges To: postmaster@fraser.sfu.ca Date: Thu, 9 Feb 95 13:17:41 EST Cc: sharonro@fraser.sfu.ca, skynxnex@intac.com, ming@cyphyn.radnet.com, postmaster@intac.com, postmaster@cyphyn.radnet.com re: abusive behaviour online by the following: sharonro@fraser.sfu.ca skynxnex@intac.com ming@cyphyn.radnet.com This is a note to the network administrators at sfu.ca, radnet.com and intac.com to inform you that users of your internet services are abusing their privileges. I have observed postings they have made to the alt.stuttering.support newsgroup that have ranged from tasteless/hurtful to vicious/hateful. The people who use that newsgroup and the internet in general for legitimate purposes should not have to be subjected to the kind of abuse these people have engaged in. I know nothing of radnet.com and intac.com, but I do know that as a user of a university account in Canada I am disgusted and ashamed of the behaviour of sharonro@fraser.sfu.ca. Network administrators for the other two services shooed be equally ashamed of the way they have been represented by skynxnex@intac.com and ming@cyphyn.radnet.com. I find it incredible that these individuals would take such obvious delight in attacking people they have never met solely on the basis of a disability or weakness those people posses. One has to wonder if they would be so openly abusive toward others in person - where they would not be separated from their victims by the distance and anonymity afforded by the internet. I believe it is the responsibility of the of those granting internet access to enforce a reasonable code of decency among their users. I expect that appropriate action will be taken - meaning the above-mentioned users will have their accounts revoked. David Forster Department of Psychology Carleton University ^^^^^^^^ ^^^^^^^^^^ Ottawa, Canada dforster@ccs.carleton.ca From alt.tasteless Tue Mar 21 10:18:35 1995 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!doc.news.pipex.net!pipex!howland.reston.ans.net!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail From: v_ivanoff@am.atd.cra.com.au (Victor Ivanoff) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Dead Japs and chemical warfare agents Date: 20 Mar 1995 17:12:05 -0600 Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway Lines: 51 Sender: nobody@cs.utexas.edu Message-ID: <4517340921031995/A17095/ATDM0/1193AA620F00*@MHS> NNTP-Posting-Host: news.cs.utexas.edu A very confused sight greeted when I switched on the telly this morning. Hundreds of oriental people running around in what looked like a subway, people lying on the ground flopping around like pentacostals (TM Joe Bob) with limbs straining in all sorts of unnatural angles, paramedics arriving at the scene etc. Apparently, I was told in a later bulletin, this was the aftermath of a terrorist nerve gas attack in a Japanese subway at peak hour. The one crucial fact I have is that the chemical agent used was Sarin, a German WW2 creation, and one that had been used in a similar attack back in '86. So while we await more details about this incident, lets sort out the science end of it - SARIN, Isopropyl-methanefluorophosphonate, C4H10FO2P, extremely toxic, ingestable into the system in any way possible. Basically, if you don't have a self contained space suit, you're fucked. Primary toxicological effects - totally destroys your blood chemistry by altering it's pH and disrupting electrolyte and oxygen transfer. Is a cumulative cholinesterase inhibitor, destroying your systems ability to metabilise certain components of B group vitamins *permanently*. Severe central nervous system effects with convulsions, pupillary constriction and bronchoconstriction which can lead to asphyxiation. Coma possible in some cases. Other effects - severe eye irritant, causes nausea, diarrhea, vomiting and excessive salivation (mmm, mouth to mouth rescuscitation). You basically start to void your entire system. Estimated lethal dose for humans may be as low as 0.01 mg/kg, so that's less than a milligram for your average person. Pound for pound, that's about as good as they come. Best thing is, this stuff has absolutely *no practical use* for anything other than offing a real lot of people real quick. Makes me proud to be a scientist. Your resident a.t chemist, Victor ======================================================================= | V_IVANOFF@am.atd.cra.com.au | "Reasons are for sippers", Abbo, | | Please E-mail followups of note. | Press Secretary, The Vulgarian | | Crappy, constipated news feed. | Rugby Union Football Club. | ======================================================================= From alt.tasteless Tue Mar 21 10:20:29 1995 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!doc.news.pipex.net!pipex!howland.reston.ans.net!cs.utexas.edu!venus.sun.com!male.EBay.Sun.COM!purplehaze!geoffm From: geoffm@purplehaze.ebay.sun.com (Geoff Miller) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Sarin in the Subway Followup-To: alt.tasteless Date: 20 Mar 1995 21:41:56 GMT Organization: Sun Microsystems Inc. Lines: 23 Distribution: world Message-ID: <3kksr4$2ib@male.EBay.Sun.COM> References: <3kjvbd$ii8@news.ycc.yale.edu> Reply-To: geoffm@purplehaze.ebay.sun.com NNTP-Posting-Host: purplehaze.ebay.sun.com "Sarin in the subway, shoo fly, shoo...!" > Symptoms? Sprayed bugs with RAID lately? Difficulty breathing, > nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, cramps, involuntary defecation and > urination, erection, weakness, involuntary twitching -- just > about anything you can come up with as a CNS symptom. Oh well, at least they died with hard-ons. 'Course, they'll never show that on the evening news... New bumper sticker idea: "I Corpses With Bulges." Geoff -+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+- Geoff Miller + + + + + + + + Sun Microsystems geoffm@purplehaze.EBay.Sun.COM + + + + + + + + Milpitas, California -+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+- From alt.tasteless Tue Mar 21 10:23:17 1995 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!nac.no!ifi.uio.no!news.sics.se!eua.ericsson.se!erinews.ericsson.se!cnn.exu.ericsson.se!convex!cs.utexas.edu!swrinde!howland.reston.ans.net!usenet.ins.cwru.edu!cleveland.Freenet.Edu!do261 From: do261@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Mike Weber) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Talk show incites murder Date: 14 Mar 1995 19:20:01 GMT Organization: Case Western Reserve University, Cleveland, OH (USA) Lines: 90 Message-ID: <3k4q91$hk4@usenet.INS.CWRU.Edu> Reply-To: do261@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Mike Weber) NNTP-Posting-Host: kanga.ins.cwru.edu Talk show under fire after guest charged with murder DETROIT (Reuter) - Prosecutors alleged Friday that a nationally syndicated talk show is partly to blame for a murder -- committed by a male guest angered after being introduced on-camera to a secret admirer who turned out to be another man. Producers of The Jenny Jones Show came under attack for humiliating the Michigan guest, John Schmitz, 34, who later killed his admirer, Scott Amedure, 32. Authorities say Schmitz agreed to appear on the top-rated show to learn the identity of his secret admirer. But during a taping of the show Monday in Chicago, Schmitz was shocked to learn that his admirer was a gay man, and not a woman as he had been led to believe. Unable to control his anger over the incident three days later, he confronted Amedure Thursday and shot him twice in the chest at Amedure's trailer home, police said. Schmitz, who police say confessed to the killing, was arraigned on first degree murder charges Friday. Oakland County Sheriff John Nichols said Schmitz kept his composure during the remainder of the show's taping, but exploded after he found an unsigned note with "certain sexual connotations" at his apartment Thursday. He assumed the note was left by Amedure. Oakland County Prosecutor Richard Thompson said the talk show's "ambus" tactics -- in which guests learn of shocking personal details on-camera -- may be partly to blame for Amedure's death. "In my view, the Jenny Jones Show ambushed this defendant with humiliation," Thompson told a news conference. "And in retaliation, this defendant ambushed the victim with a shotgun." Police said Schmitz, an acquaintance of Amedure, walked on the stage before a studio audience Monday and saw a woman who lived in his apartment complex in Orion Township, Mich., a Detroit suburb. He assumed she was his secret admirer and kissed her. But host Jenny Jones then revealed on-camera that Amedure -- a friend of the same woman-- was Schmitz' secret admirer. "They used a ruse to humiliate an individual on national TV and as a result, one person is dead, and the other person faces a criminal charge that may mean life in prison without parole," Thompson said. The show's producer, Burbank, Calif.-based Telepictures Productions, vehemently denied any wrongdoing by anyone connected with the show. "Before each guest agreed to be on the show, he or she was fully briefed and each was told that (his or her) secret admirer could be a man or a woman. No one was lied to, no one was misled," Telepictures president Jim Paratore said in a statement. "We observed nothing confrontational or any signs of embarrassment between any of the guests before, during or after the taping." Police said Schmitz, a waiter at an upscale restaurant in Bloomfield Hills, Mich., purchased a shotgun and ammunition Thursday and confronted Amedure at his trailer home in Orion Township, shooting him twice after a brief struggle. Schmitz later went to a gasoline station and called police to turn himself in. Amedure's neighbors and friends said it was his idea to go on the show to reveal his crush on Schmitz. They said he was infatuated with such talk shows. "He watched all of them, but Oprah was too mild for him," neighbor Gail Clinton told the Detroit News. "He really liked the shows which revealed the intimate details of peoples' private lives. He would call me up and say, 'You won't believe what they're talking about today.'" ----- COMMENTS: ----- So, why didn't he do what most Americans do and sue the pants off Jenny Jones? Oh yeah, he was an idiot. Go, Darwin, Go! I wonder which one was the one who loiked the talk shows? Plenty of irony either way... -- "This is a test of the Emergency Broadcast System. This is only a test. Had this been an actual emergency, you'd be writhing on the ground in unspeakable agony, bleeding from every orifice, with your blackened skin falling away in ragged strips." From alt.tasteless Tue Mar 21 10:24:25 1995 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!nac.no!ifi.uio.no!news.sics.se!eua.ericsson.se!erinews.ericsson.se!cnn.exu.ericsson.se!convex!cs.utexas.edu!uunet!in1.uu.net!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: buzkashi@aol.com (Buzkashi) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: THE BEST porn phrase ever Date: 15 Mar 1995 22:42:34 -0500 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 21 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <3k8c3a$95@newsbf02.news.aol.com> References: <1995Mar14.172117.26656@gov.nt.ca> Reply-To: buzkashi@aol.com (Buzkashi) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com >Two female college students, one American, one an exchange student from >Europe. The sexual tensions builds, you can tell a scene is about to happen, >and the foreigner, in her delightful broken English, speaks.... >'I want to lick your cat.' That brings to mind another movie I saw, where this incredibly cute girl with a Minnie Mouse-type voice is approached by this nazi leather-clad bull dyke lesbian who asks her, "Dahling, do you like my tits? My ass? You haff to do something for me, dahling!" In her squeaky voice, Minnie replies "What do you want me to doo-oo?" "You haff to eat me and zen ride ze double-dong dildo vith me!" ] - [ + ] - [ = ] - [ + ] - [ = ] - [ + ] - [ = ] - [ + ] - [ Aside from that, did you enjoy the play, Mrs. Lincoln? From alt.tasteless Tue Mar 28 15:53:15 1995 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!pipex!bt!jmccullo From: jmccullo@srd.bt.co.uk (Rat Thing) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Bags of Excrement Date: 21 Mar 1995 22:09:32 GMT Organization: BT Labs, Martlesham Heath, Ipswich, UK Lines: 77 Message-ID: <3kniqs$9cf@pheidippides.axion.bt.co.uk> NNTP-Posting-Host: ariel.srd.bt.co.uk Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Some years ago, my Auntie's daughter (my cousin, I guess) went on holiday to Turkey in a VW camper. This was in the early seventies when Turkey was, at least in the eyes of the British public, still exotic if somewhat underdeveloped. Despite being trendy and flower-loving types, they sensibly took with them a large quantity of clean (ha!) British tapwater, and that most useful of devices, a portable toilet. Now, this toilet was basic: strictly functional and utilitarian. It comprised a plastic seat atop an aluminium frame, and that's it. To use it you simply attached a plastic bag under the seat, filled the bag and then sealed it and disposed of it as you saw fit. Easy. However, because Cousin *was* a member of the British public, she was quite ignorant of exactly how hot it was going to be trundling around Turkey in a metal box, and of just how much water they were going to be drinking. So, inevitably, the water quickly ran out, and they found themselves in a place far from what they considered to be civilisation replenishing their supplies from a dubious standpipe outside a building that you could squint at and generously describe as a fleapit. Equally inevitably, it was not too many hours before the "water" began to have an effect and the diarrhoea started to flow. As they wound their way ever higher into the hills they made ever more frequent stops. The constant stopping and starting and ensuing evacuations of the van by all but one of our travellers, who had his own evacuation to consider in any case, soon exhausted them all and they finally decided to stop for the night. There were six of them in the van and, or so I was told and I have no reason to disbelieve it, the smell was appalling. They pulled off the road into some woods and set up camp. Since they had heard stories of hill bandits and other nasty people who lived in these places, they decided it would be safer if they all slept in the van; but to make room for them all, they had to move a load of stuff out and put it under the camper. This they did, and soon they were all tucked up in bed, safe in the knowledge that the table and chairs and a myriad other camping essentials, as well as the dozen or so bags of diarrhoea that our environmentally conscientious hippy friends had been carrying around all day in the hope of finding somewhere to dispose of them, were all safely under the van. One of them awoke in the night and thought he heard voices. He put this down to imagination and went back to sleep. Morning broke, golden and fine over the mountains. They climbed out of the van feeling refreshed and mercifully free of stomach cramps. But their happiness was shortlived, for they found that they had been robbed. Everything had been pinched from under the van: table, chairs, parasol, the lot. Including the abovementioned dozen or so bags of shit. But there was more to come. Closer examination of the site revealed a pair of badly soiled combat trousers and a pair of socks. Nearby lay one of the bags, split wide open and empty save for a cloying film grey-brown fluid. Everything else was gone. To me, this story is amusing and slightly tasteless; but more important, it is thought provoking. For whoever stole the bags was aware of their contents, to the extent that one bag had split and forced someone to divest himself of socks and trousers. One question has kept me awake often over the years and will undoubtedly haunt me to my grave: why take the rest? Jon From alt.tasteless Tue Mar 28 16:07:44 1995 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless From: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk (Prophet of the Great God Glub) Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!pipex!peernews.demon.co.uk!glub.demon.co.uk!ketteridgep Subject: One Boy's Tale #1: The Angel of Death Organization: The Midden Reply-To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk X-Newsreader: Demon Internet Simple News v1.29 Lines: 149 X-Posting-Host: glub.demon.co.uk Date: Thu, 23 Mar 1995 02:20:47 +0000 Message-ID: <795925247snz@glub.demon.co.uk> Sender: usenet@demon.co.uk What, then, made we what I am? I don't know, the threads are pretty well tangled now. Gas. What a lovely way to be put under. After the smiles and reassurances, they grabbed me and held me down while the anaethesist wrestled with the big black mask. It smelled rank, and rubbery, and I knew it was a *bad* thing. I screamed, and kicked, and struggled, because I knew they were GOING TO CUT MY NOSTRILS OUT. I flailed and fought, the nurses' and porters' smiles turning to rictus grins as they strained against me. My efforts, of course, were futile. I smelt a strange odour; not unpleasant, but *bad* because it was alien. I started to choke, and suffocate, and then... grey. When I came to, I was in pain. My face was all swollen, and my head felt like it had had a wire brush pulled through it, slowly. And the after-effects of the gas made me giddy and nauseous. My nose was still intact, though. It turns out that the surgeon had found no evidence of tonsillitis, and had decided to clear out my sinuses instead, while he was at it. Although I didn't question it at the time, this struck me as rather odd in later years: "Hey, Doc, his appendix is OK!" "Oh well, seeing as we've come this far, let's whip out his gall bladder anyway..." I hadn't asked them to clean my signs, my signs were fine just as they were! And though I was only eight or so, I vowed never again to let doctors perform such an invasion again on my body, unless I new *exactly* what they were going to be doing beforehand. It was a promise to myself I would later have cause to keep... but that comes much later, and in another post... Well the doctors didn't really have any fixed ideas of what was wrong with me, apart that I had trouble breathing at times. They would have to wait until I was fully grown before they were to find that out. In the meantime, they put it down to asthma, and a little while later, to a wonderful pantheon of allergies. Dust, pollen, animal hairs... ah yes, animals. I was told to keep well away from *all* animals. Animals were *very* bad for me... Wrong. Totally wrong. I had a passion for animals. All animals. Domestics, exotics, anything. My parents tried to kill this interest from an early age, but were never successful. I surrounded myself with the animal world. Fur, feather, scale, chitin... they formed the lathe and plaster of my existence. I had a very special gift with animals... a talent... a power. I was *very* bad for animals. I was the "Angel of Death" for animals. I killed them. Every time. Now I don't mean I killed them in the standard alt.tasteless way. I didn't skin them alive, or torture them, or boil them or anything like that. God no! I *loved* animals. It's just that... they died when exposed to me. My first pets were tortoises. Couldn't go very far wrong with a tortoise, my parents thought. And they were right, in a way - they actually lived a few months. I put this down to their escaping in the summer months to other people's gardens, only being returned in the late autumn when the responsibilities of hibernation loomed. "Uh, uh, we er, found it in the garage, it's not *yours*, is it?" And so I'd put Terry, or Timmy, into a cardboard box filled with straw and place him in the garden shed. On the damp, cold floor, where the centipedes and woodlice roamed, and leave him with a lettuce leaf "snack" in case he woke, which rotted down into vegetation mulch as the winter progressed. Of course the tortoises never woke up. The first one seemed to have the most violent passing. When I checked the box one February morning (having forgotten to the previous three months), I noticed a gnawed hole in the cardboard. The rats had got in. All that was left was a shell, and a spotless skeleton. It rattled when I shook it. The other one didn't. This one sprayed a decomposed turtle soup over me when I shook the shell. He must have died early on in the hibernation. I tried rabbits and guinea pigs after that. The pigs lastest longest, about three months. Ginny (yeah, I know, original name) seemed fine, so I bought him a companion, Tiger. Within a week both had croaked, the younger having introduced some nasty bug. Which apparently hung around, as all the replacements after that snuffed it immediately, too. I had a slow worm, a grass snake, and some gerbils, all in the shed. One gerbil killed all the rest, and then was content. Then some local kids snuck in and pulled the lids off their terrariums/cages. When I checked the next day, the gerbil had killed the slow worm, and the grass snake had killed the gerbil. I found the snake dead by the pond. And so it goes on... I ended up with mummified toads and newts when I went on holiday and left the lid off their aquarium in the garden. They had plenty of food, it's just I didn't anticipate the heatwave... I smuggled gekko lizards and praying mantises in from family holidays in the Mediterranean, and wondered why they didn't adapt too well to the British climate... I kept stick insects. They kept dying, until I discovered that it was *privet* leaves they ate, not *laurel*. I tried to breed from them - well, breed is too grand a word, they appear to be hermaphroditic, so all I had to do was collect the eggs. I put these little grapeseed ova, thousands of them, in a little jar with a perforated lid on top and kept it in the airing cupboard. The incubation period was about 4-6 weeks, I seem to remember. I checked them every day for two weeks - nothing. My mother explained that nothing would happen for at least a month. Oh. I forgot to check them again until three months later. The jar was full of hundreds and hundreds of perfect, miniature stick insects. Dead ones. They looked not dissimilar to the dehydrated shrimp and larva in the little fishfood tub, so I fed them to the goldfish. They died. My reputation was preceding me. None of my friends seemed to have animals, or at least, none that I was allowed to see. If neighbours found me petting their dogs, they'd sell them, or have them put down, to save any further heartbreak... But I *loved* animals, I really did. I was the founder of the Animal Protection Fund (APF) with Ginger, Martin and Tony. It was all about protecting endangered species - you see, to me, they were *all* endangered species. Our back garden was a regular "PEt sEmatRy" - neighbours would stop their hoeing to look compassionately over the fence as I went through the oft-repeated motions... "Just look at that little Ketteridge kid... burying another of his pets... poor little bugger..." But they were wrong, at least some of the time. You see, I've always been fascinated by how things work... and why they stop doing so. It didn't take the neighbours too long to work out what I was really doing. They'd look at me, disgusted, whispering: "Look, it's that Ketteridge kid digging up his pets again... sick little bastard..." But I didn't care, I was *learning*... and I had a lot of training to do... 'coz I was going to be a VET... [To be continued...] -- Pierre ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "...But what if Glub _IS_ Eihort?" - Adam Justin Thornton (adam@phoenix.princeton.edu) worries me in email ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Subject: CumCup Cumming >From alt.sex.masturbation and alt.sex.bondage: The Celebrated Cockhead CumCup vibrator-attachment came early today, as did I! That's no especial feat since recently I'm nearly always right on the brink of shooting anyway. I love keeping my obedient tool just an arousal and few firm pulls away from blastoff, despite a certain Waxy Buildup I may incur from my present Albolene ad-dick-tion (another (prolonged) story altogether). So when the hard-nippled, long-hosed UPS stud ("Doug") delivered my CumCup and a new high-powered electric massager/vibrator, I was, shall we say, doubly alert. Making no "head"way in interesting Doug in a demo, I unpacked my new toys alone (CumCup source: Good Vibes, 1-800-289-8423, "Come Cup Attachment," $5.00!, Item #TE016). I then began a comfortable mastubatory ritual (I wouldn't respect myself without a little sly, mischievous foreplay): Insertion of a satisfying butt-device recommended by my newfound anal consultant (from this very newsgroup--the gentle and stimulating Dave, Assplay Coach to the Stars (at an201573, a surprising transposition of my own anon-code digits)); Generous (and, frankly, lingering) application of the beloved Albolene to recently shaved balls (they appreciate considerable jollying lest their spirits and indeed their placement decline); Some sympathetic titwork (they pout when neglected); A few (well, who's counting, anyway?) stern preparatory dry strokes of the upper rod, a slap of the glans, and several probing tweaks of the cumslit (prescribed by another new net-medico pal Jay King (an202442, rates on demand)); Cockring? Well, maybe next time (I don't have a personal advisor for this area yet); Having properly introduced all the erotic participants to each other, my throbbing, gasping prick head now pleads for the seemingly unattainable virgin-pink CumCup. I've already put a pre-cum-like dollop of KY on the interior of the puckered Cup (Albolene is a counterindicated petroleum product, much as I love it). I adjust the flanges of the CumCup over the edges of my yearning corona, fixing it snuggly in place with the band provided. I then attach the Black&Decker/Mixmaster-like electric massager/vibrator to the upper, exterior opening in the CumCup. My left-hand reassuring my anxious lubed nuts that everything will be okay THIS time and my right-thumb poised on the "OFF-LO-HI" switch, drowned-man-like thoughts flood my agitated mind: Is this device going to just go into a highspeed counterclockwise torque, removing my whole engorged organ? Is this going to turn out like the time I put a microwave-warmed, greased Japanese eggplant up my ass? Remember, Luke, shoving your prick in the empty narrow-necked olive jar? Does the word "Musterole" signify anything to you, Luke? And whose dumb idea was it to hide the cockcage-key under his tongue? Some sudden lurch of memory (similar to the one that caused the swallowing of the key) turned the vibrator switch to "LO" and a delightful sensation ensued: nice, very nice, but not intense. I was emboldened to ratchet the speed to "HI" and was soon completely wiped out by a vibration that spread from my cockhead, down the shaved shaft to my lefthand-cupped, waxed balls and the prostate against which Dave's anal-wonder was pressing. The vibration felt as if it were originating from inside my cock. The Old Inevitability engaged shortly afterward and I just couldn't bring myself to lower the speed or to power-off, it felt so good. Long before I'd have chosen, my cum started spurting from the CumCup slits around the glans. And continued. And continued. I'd like to have extended the rapture considerably longer. Should I have been more patient with the lower speed? Was lubing the Cup in the first place an error (maybe the dry latex would more securely anchor itself onto the corona)? Has Doug changed his mind? Unless David (an92252), a CumCup virtuoso, answers soon, or one of you other net-friends can advise me, I'm in the exhausting situation of just having to persist with the experimentation till I get it right. Watch for electrical power-dips cumming in an area near YOU, No-Stroke Luke ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- To find out more about the anon service, send mail to help@anon.penet.fi. If you reply to this message, your message WILL be *automatically* anonymized and you are allocated an anon id. Read the help file to prevent this. Please report any problems, inappropriate use etc. to admin@anon.penet.fi. From alt.tasteless Tue Apr 18 10:47:26 1995 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.kth.se!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!ix.netcom.com!netcom.com!motzie From: motzie@netcom.com (Ken Hovanes) Subject: Amsterdam fun... Message-ID: Keywords: While traveling I... Organization: Genetics Inc. Date: Mon, 10 Apr 1995 12:30:57 GMT Lines: 87 Sender: motzie@netcom19.netcom.com Just another in the series of postings I am trying to get out to the readers of alt.tasteless, so we can all be more familiar with our foreign bretheren.... As anyone here should I know, I have taken a job in Europe, and am trying to examine the areas, and just have a good ole'time. Well, the latest trip I took, ended up in Amsterdam for 3 days. Amsterdam, The Netherlands, Home of the Dutch, Home of the tulips, Home of the windmills and other things. It was as cold as hell. The spring over here has been late in coming, but I have been told eventually it will warm up. My girlfriend and another couple who was visiting from the states drove up to The Netherlands, from central Germany, not unlike the progress the formitable German Army made in WWII, but that is another story, although any Dutchman will tell you how much they hate the Germans. The drive through the countryside was very uneventful drive, and upon our arrival in Leiden, we found our hotel, dropped off all the stuff and got in a taxi for the trip to the train station. The trip into Amsterdam cost about 22 guilders (roundtrip) and took about 35 minutes. We got off at the Central Station, and immediatly looked for the 'Red Light District' and the Live Sex Shows. Well, we found the RLD, and boy were some fat nasty,ulgy bitches, but being fair, there were also some really good looking women as well. If you stood at the door, and asked form a little view of their tits or pussy, they would pull back their underwear, and or bra and give you a free view. The live sex shows were really funny. The music was loud, and the acting for the show was actually humorous. It wasn't even remotely erotic. But this is where the most tasteless women of the evening presented themselves. The first act was a man and a woman (the woman had her vaginal lips pierced with several rings, and nipple rings as well), the guy was just a big muscle head. Although neither had any pubic hair. Next was the woman dancer, she was one ugly dog, and she thought she was hot stuff. She took off all of her clothes, and began to work the audience. Finally she decided on this Japanese guy, who was with all of his business partners. She handed him this big ole vibrator, and presented her business end to him. I was impressed, hedidn't waste any time, he grabbed that big metal vibrator, and stuck the sucker in her twat. She moved all over stage, and he followed, with his little yellow hands working that baby in and out of her like a professional slanty eyed vibro-Jap. 3rd was the lezbo act, I won't even comment, they were pitiful. 4th was the bananna act. It was a classic, this nasty bitch with microphone, and enough drugs in her body for her to float. She can out witha banana and peeled it, and then stuck it in her twat, and called out of the audience members to come up and take a bite. Right. Like anyone would take a munch from that nasty thing. Guess who was wrong, tis one guy hopped up and took a big ole' bite. She kept calling out ofr people to come and eat the rest, but noone in their right mind would have touched her. In the end, this guy in a Gorilla suit came out, and pretended to jack off, and proceeded to spray the audience with monkey cum. Just remember to duck if you go to see the monkey act. 5th was the Batman act. Some wasted drugged lady with hollow eye sockets pretended to be tied up and a black batman with a cod piece untied her, and then fucked her. He pretended to come on the front row, and scared the crap out of everyone. (funny note: We were all at the Anne Frank house the next day, and guess who we saw? Yep. We saw the guy who took the only bite from the banana lady. We all yelled, "Hey, Banana Man!", and he turned around and looked for who yelled. We all waved. He just turned red.) At the cafe's they do indeed sell pot and hash. It seems a lot of people smoke pot there. A whole lot. Other than that, I would highly recommend this cultural mecca for tasteless behavior. On a scale of 1 to 10 (1 being the least number of squicks) I would rate Amsterdam as a 7.8 squick. Ken "Tasteless the European Way" Hovanes From alt.tasteless Tue Apr 18 10:48:58 1995 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!uunet!in1.uu.net!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: hintysen@aol.com (HinTysen) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: ANSWER Me! (was: Cobain Haiku--16 of 'em) Date: 12 Apr 1995 03:13:06 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 31 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <3mfui2$ces@newsbf02.news.aol.com> References: <3mfclg$jl3@usenet.INS.CWRU.Edu> Reply-To: hintysen@aol.com (HinTysen) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com In a previous article, goad2hell@aol.com (Goad2Hell) says: [snip Cobain haiku] In case you didn't make the connection, we have been blessed with a touch from the hand of true tasteless greatness. Goad2Hell@aol.com just happens to be Jim Goad, co-editor of _ANSWER Me!_ magazine, the textbook of tastelessness. Goad is what we a.t regulars all aspire to be: Totally dedicated to himself (and his wife and co-editor, Debbie), his inner rage, and his absolute disgust for the fucked-up conventions of human society. Yet, instead of scattershooting at easy targets, he focuses his anger into a diamond-cutting laser beam aimed toward hypocrites, liars, the self-important, and those who commit true crimes against nature (pedophilia, forced incest and child abuse, murder). No, I am not kissing his ass. I wouldn't want to come anywhere near his ass, or any other part of him, for fear that he would kick my ass just for looking at him wrong. Together, he and his wife are the finest writers of tasteless material/social commentary of our generation. All he needs is to experience a little more human suffering (i.e. arrests, jail time, and the resultant notoriety), and he could very well become the Lenny Bruce of the last quarter of this century. And he's posting right here! From alt.tasteless Tue Apr 18 10:50:12 1995 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!seunet!news2.swip.net!doc.news.pipex.net!pipex!peernews.demon.co.uk!news.demon.co.uk!user From: angus@aegypt.demon.co.uk (Angus McIntyre) Subject: Big Trouble in Little China X-Nntp-Posting-Host: aegypt.demon.co.uk Message-ID: Sender: news@demon.co.uk (Usenet Administration) Organization: Rev'd Jack's Roamin' Cadillac Church Date: Fri, 14 Apr 1995 10:06:09 GMT Lines: 92 From a major UK newspaper, the following heart-warming story. Made to measure for 'alt.tasteless', really - just one more case of life imitating art. Angus "Bon appetit" McIntyre ------------------------- forwarded text begins ------------------------- Chinese trade in human foetuses for consumption is uncovered By Yojana Sharma in Hong Kong and Graham Hutchings in Beijing ABORTED human foetuses intended for human consumption are being sold for as little as £1 in the Chinese city of Shenzhen, according to reports in Hong Kong yesterday. The Eastern Express newspaper said journalists from its sister publication, Eastweek, had gone to Shenzhen, across the border from Hong Kong, to see if foetuses were being sold. Shenzhen hospitals carried out 7,000 terminations last year, including a number on Hong Kong women seeking cheap abortions. At the state-run Shenzhen Health Centre for Women and Children, a female doctor was asked for a foetus. The next day, she handed the reporter a "fist-sized glass bottle stuffed with thumb-sized foetuses". The doctor was quoted as saying: "There are 10 foetuses here, all aborted this morning. You can take them. We are a state hospital and don't charge. Normally we doctors take them home to eat - all free. Since you don't look well, you can take them." At private clinics, aborted foetuses could be obtained for between £1 and £1.75, the newspaper said. There was no evidence, however, that foetuses were being sold in large quantities to middlemen for sale in Hong Kong. A doctor said the foetuses were 'nutritious' and claimed to have eaten 100 herself Zou Qin, a doctor working at the Luo Hu Clinic in Shenzhen, said the foetuses were "nutritious" and claimed to have eaten 100 herself in the past six months. She said the "best" were first-born males from young women. "We don't carry out abortions just to eat the foetuses," she said, but added that the foetuses would be "wasted if not eaten". The newspaper said the foetuses were eaten as a soup, together with pork and ginger. A woman doctor, referred to only as Wang, from the Sin Hua Clinic, Shenzhen, was quoted as saying the foetuses were "even better than placentae" in nutritional value. "They can make your skin smoother, your body stronger and are good for kidneys," she said. Dr Warren Lee, president of the Hong Kong Nutrition Association, said: "Eating foetuses is a traditional Chinese medicine deeply founded in folklore." However, he considered the alleged properties of foetuses little more than old-wives' tales. Others said the practice was abhorrent. The sale and consumption of placentae is common in China Dr Cao Shilin, of the Hospital of Chinese medicine in Shenzhen, said aborted embryos were taken to factories where they were used in the production of medicines. She did not know if any were sold to private individuals, but said there was little medical value in embryos older than eight weeks when, in Chinese terms, they were classified as foetuses. She had not heard of foetuses being sold in Shenzhen, but warned that eating them could be dangerous, given the strong medicines used in abortions. A doctor in Beijing, who declined to be named, said parts of foetuses would have medical value, singling out the liver as something that could help to cure anaemia. But hospitals in Beijing had ovens for the destruction of aborted foetuses, and she had not heard that they had been sold for individual consumption. The sale and consumption of placentae is common in China, though frowned upon by the authorities. Only those with good connections to the medical world can obtain placentae, which cost between £2.50 and £3 each. According to traditional Chinese medicine, it is regarded as particularly beneficial for a nursing mother to eat her own placenta because it improves her milk. It is usually drunk in the form of a soup. -------------------------- forwarded text ends -------------------------- -- angus@aegypt.demon.co.uk http://www.tardis.ed.ac.uk/~angus/ "I am here by the will of the people ... and I will not leave until I get my raincoat back." ['Metrophage', Richard Kadrey] From alt.tasteless Tue Apr 18 10:51:34 1995 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!spool.mu.edu!agate!howland.reston.ans.net!pipex!uunet!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: goad2hell@aol.com (Goad2Hell) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Cobain Haiku Contest! Date: 10 Apr 1995 18:37:22 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 78 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <3mcbv2$c69@newsbf02.news.aol.com> References: <3mbt1v$mhi@usenet.INS.CWRU.Edu> Reply-To: goad2hell@aol.com (Goad2Hell) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Mike weber wrote: "Francis Bean Cobain Your Daddy hated you Suicide dad" Nice try. But, apart from the fact that her name is "Frances," that ain't a haiku. Once more: a haiku has 3 lines, with 5 syllables in first and last lines, 7 in the middle. My 16 Cobain Haiku (modeled on my "Scatological Haiku" from ANSWER Me! #2) were already posted on alt.tasteless. Now for the rest of the 'net. Nirvana broke up Kurt's bass player and drummer Work at McDonald's I wonder if Hole Was named after the cavern Kurt blew through his head?' Musical genius? Voice of a generation? Or dead blond asshole? The world will miss him The world will mourn Kurt Cobain The world is stupid He played his guitar Sang of alienation Wish I'd shot him first A sensitive guy Wore dresses, asked to be raped Worms crawl in his ass How many Cobains Must die to end the madness? At least two more, right? Courtney's such a bitch She won't share her heroin Junkie brains go SPLAT! Grunge king hates his life Frances Bean's dad goes bye-bye 12-gauge in the mouth Call this nirvana? Psycho wife, screaming daughter Give me hell instead I'm always depressed I play depressing music Guess I'll kill myself Smells like teen spirit? No, smells like a dead body Entertain us NOW Boo-hoo, Kurt is dead Let's hope Gen X follows suit Or at least Miss Love Dead junkie rock star Mistaken as a poet By youthful retards "I'm not gonna crack" Sang Cobain in "Lithium" Guess what? Cobain cracked Been dead for a year Don't miss Seattle at all Stomach feels better From alt.tasteless Tue Apr 18 10:54:46 1995 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!torn!nott!dgbt!clark.dgim.doc.ca!news From: brault.simon@istc.ca (Simon Brault) Subject: Fun with Foreskins Message-ID: <1995Apr10.175631.27793@clark.dgim.doc.ca> Sender: news@clark.dgim.doc.ca (#Usenet News) Organization: Communications Canada X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.92.1 Date: Mon, 10 Apr 95 17:56:31 GMT Lines: 88 I don't what it is lately, but the newspapers I read seem to have been reprinting a lot of tasteless and semi-tasteless stuff from other parts of the world lately...Here's one about a San Diego company as reprinted last Friday in the Ottawa Citizen from a story from the London Observer (This has to be one of the catchiest headlines I have seen in a long while): HEADLINE Seen it all? How about a foreskin as big as four football fields? BYLINE Robin McKie SOURCE The Observer LONDON -- Imagine a foreskin the size of four football fields. It sounds like a Brobdingnagian nightmare, but is about to become reality next year. Advanced Tissue Sciences, a San Diego company, is to manufacture human skin grown in vats on an industrial scale. The tissue derives entirely from circumcised babies. From each foreskin, the company will generate 25,000 square metres of human skin, enough to cover four football fields. It will be used in transplants, for treating burn victims and for diabetic ulcer patients. In the past, attempts at cultivation were made, unsuccessfully, on flat, two-dimensional surfaces. Only recently did researchers stumble on the answer: three-dimensional `scaffolds' on which cells can adhere. This is how ATS is growing its foreskins. Cells are separated, dissolved, and the solution passed over lattices of biodegradable meshes, to which the skin adheres. Nutrients and chemicals are added to stimulate growth, producing a hand-size swath of skin that is frozen and stored for use by surgeons. Only one type of skin cell is being grown at the San Diego plant, however. ``Human skin has two layers: an outer epidermis, and an inner dermis,'' said Marie Burke, director of corporate communications.``The outer layer is affected by tissue rejection, so if you transplant pieces from one unmatched person to another, it is destroyed by the recipient's immune system. This does not happen with the inner, dermis layer. Rejection does not occur.'' The company expects to create two major businesses from such skin patches, called Dermografts. The first will treat foot ulcers for diabetics, which can develop into large open wounds, in turn leading to gangrene and amputations. The second venture will use human skin patches to treat fire victims. Badly burnt patients can have lost skin replenished by growing and transplanting unburnt sections. However, it can take months to regrow a surviving section enough times to cover the burns. In the interim, they are vulnerable to infection and have to be wrapped in skin from cadavers. Problems of rejection can develop after a few weeks. ATS is also growing human liver tissue for transplants and bone sections for cranial injuries. ``Ultimately, every structure in the body will be available for us to re-create,' said company scientist Joe Vacante. --------------------- I especially liked the cadavers on the outside, baby foreskin on the inside part. Hence the expression, "Out with old, in with the new", I guess. The article also leads to many interesting, and unanswered questions: Will the mythical wallet-that-when-rubbed-becomes-a-suitcase finally become reality? Could this be used for cosmetic surgery as well? (e.g. Rub your arms to amazing lengths before that all-important basketball game?) The actual cosmetic variations are probably limitless... -------------------------------------------------------------------------- I want you take this and go out and buy turkey so large| This space you'd think its mother had been rogered by an omnibus.| intentionally -BlackAdder | left blank -------------------------------------------------------------------------- From alt.tasteless Tue Apr 18 10:55:56 1995 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!newsfeed.tip.net!maggiore.dsnet.it!news.uni-stuttgart.de!news.rhrz.uni-bonn.de!RRZ.Uni-Koeln.DE!nntp.gmd.de!newsserver.jvnc.net!howland.reston.ans.net!paladin.american.edu!news.ecn.uoknor.edu!news.uoknor.edu!harikari.ucs.uoknor.edu!dehall From: dehall@harikari.ucs.uoknor.edu (David Hall) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Husband/Wife AT Tag Teams Date: 14 Apr 1995 22:01:46 GMT Organization: The University of Oklahoma (USA) Lines: 30 Message-ID: <3mmrca$197@romulus.ucs.uoknor.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: harikari.ucs.uoknor.edu X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] As many of you may or may not know, my wife and I are both avid readers and sometimes posters to AT. As a result, we have some interesting email in the past and this has made me wonder.... Are there any other Husband/Wife AT Tag Teams out there? And no, I don't count Lenore/Roberta as a legit team (although they do work well together). - Dave "Noone we know doubts that we were made for each other" Hall OBTasteless: The thread on fat people wiping their asses reminds me of my mother. She had cancer a few years back and as a result, her entire torso was basically one giant scab. Towards the end, she couldn't move much if she didn't want to tear open the scabs and bleed all over the place. And so, she avoided moving or stretching. See where I'm headed with this?... Let me tell you, there's nothing quite like wiping your own mother's ass. Pretty scary really. I keep thinking that I need to put the whole story from diagnosis to funeral (even the funeral was tasteless) in a post. But I figure to tell the story right it would be *several* hundred lines.... *SIGH* I just haven't had the inspiration. +--------------------------------+-----------------------------------+ | David Hall (DaveMan) | "They are *not* pommels and you | | (405)447-2557 | *don't* steer with them!" | | dehall@harikari.ucs.uoknor.edu | - Kristin Hall | +--------------------------------+-----------------------------------+ From alt.tasteless Tue Apr 18 10:58:32 1995 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!newsfeed.tip.net!maggiore.dsnet.it!news.uni-stuttgart.de!news.rhrz.uni-bonn.de!RRZ.Uni-Koeln.DE!nntp.gmd.de!Germany.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!news.ecn.bgu.edu!willis.cis.uab.edu!nntp.msstate.edu!olivea!nntp-hub2.barrnet.net!news3.near.net!yale!news.ycc.yale.edu!morpheus!bell From: bell@morpheus.cis.yale.edu (Peter Bell) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Pogo: an incidental sexual excercise Date: 13 Apr 1995 02:11:09 GMT Organization: Yale University Lines: 50 Message-ID: <3mi17t$o55@news.ycc.yale.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: morpheus.cis.yale.edu Hello, All -- I haven't been posting much lately. Between lab and a new squeeze, I've been, ah, busy. And walking funny. However, the other night I discovered my partner had started a new (to me) excercise regime, apres orgasm... We've been meaning to get some buttplugs, y'see, but haven't found a place with a set small enough to consider, yet, us being your basic rather jumpy hets. (ie, "Jesus, those look *huge*... do you have anything smaller?"). However, I have a vibrator of the appropriate size and stiffness to use either vaginally or anally. Now, for those of you who haven't used a vibrator for this, remember that 1) putting it all the way in can be a quick drive to an ER and an amusing excercise for the X-ray staff and 2) one of the more common types is egg-shaped at the head, necks in a bit toward the center of its length, and broadens out again, said necking providing a natural brake for one's sphincter to contract around, holding it at a safe depth while leaving perhaps 3" extending out.... This past weekend, we slipped a condom over Mr. Plastic, and added him to our repertoire of Things To Insert In Orifices To Enhance The Number And Duration Of Our Animal Noises. Shortly after the moment when my partner was using about 2/3" of Mr. Plastic anally, a good part of one of my hands vaginally and plenty of good old fashioned full mouth contact to let me bring her into the twitching, spasming, moaning state we both find so entertaining, I noticed she had added some rather odd extra twitches to the repertoire. When she could speak again, her first words were: "Vibrator. Out. Now." Turns out that in the course of cummming and twitching generally, she'd succeeded in landing on the free end of the vibrator. More than once. Inserting it farther, and harder, than she'd considered to be an option up to that point. Grinning, all I could say, in best Homer Simpson voice: "Hmmmmm..... Pogo." It is *extremely* nice to have a lover with a good sense of humor. Fortunately, the final word is that it wasn't overly painful, and no orifices are bleeding. (I realize, I should be disappointed by this. Tough.) So there you have it. Anyone else with any entertaining pogoing experiences? Whaddya think, is this worthy of the Kaka Sutra? -Peter bell@minerva.cis.yale.edu From alt.tasteless Tue Apr 18 11:03:16 1995 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!seunet!news2.swip.net!doc.news.pipex.net!pipex!bt!jmccullo From: jmccullo@srd.bt.co.uk (Jon McCulloch) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The Dead Body Room Date: 17 Apr 1995 18:26:46 GMT Organization: BT Labs, Martlesham Heath, Ipswich, UK Lines: 102 Message-ID: <3mubt6$3fb@pheidippides.axion.bt.co.uk> NNTP-Posting-Host: ariel.srd.bt.co.uk Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Some years after my experiences as a patient in the Leicester Royal Infirmary (see a.t passim), I was fortunate enough to work there as a contractor. In those days I was a mere plebian and spent my days fixing things to walls and making both ends of the cable were connected properly. Such an interesting job held my attention for about twenty minutes and I took it upon myself to try and persuade my employers to send me to University. I did so persuade and four years later, I returned, still a plebian, but a somewhat better paid one. Still, it did have its moments... The Infirmary is one of the UK's biggest teaching hospitals and so they were having a sodding great digital exchange installed, along with umpteen exchange lines, oodles of extensions and light years of cabling to connect it all together. Since it is a teaching hospital, they do a lot of teaching there. An eminently logical and reasonable conclusion, I'll admit, but one that has some rather tasteless, and therefore interesting ramifications. For instance, what are hospitals for? To make sick people well. OK. How do we learn about people's bodies? We read books and attend lectures. Hmmm... What's the *best* way to find out what's in a person? Have a look inside one. Yuk. How can we look inside a body at our leisure? Make sure it's dead. Right. The LRI had an ample supply of dead people. It wasn't so much the people that died inside the hospital being temorarily redirected for a spot of after-death service to the community, but rather those who had died elesewhere donating their bodies to science. ObPotentiallyTasteless: when I was 17 I was offered a job as an apprentice moritcian at this very hospital. Career prospects were incredible (not many people want this kind of job) and the pay was good, too. The only thing that stopped me taking it was that the other part of the job meant that I would be killing laboratory animals for the students to play with. I don't mind preparing bits of already-dead humans for students (or even living ones if they're rapists or murderers, or whatever) but *no way* am I going to execute hundreds of innocent creatures. Sometimes I wish I'd taken it, though... Where was I? Oh yeah, dead bodies. The dead bodies were kept in a room just off from the museum. Sadly I never got to see the museum, which was a real pisser because I knew my old friend Cyst was incarcerated there. I fancied popping in to chew over old times. But I *did* see the body room. It was an eerie place: white and sterile under harsh flourescent lights. The bodies were on wheeled trolleys, arranged in sombre ranks and covered with utilitarian blue plastic sheets. Most of them were completely covered but by the shapes under the blue plastic, you could tell that the bits underneath were not as nature intended them to be. Over the whole thing hung the cloying, sickly smell of death and formaldehyde. It was, in truth, as silent as a morgue. When working in there you would constantly keep peering over your shoulder. Yeah, we all *know* that the dead don't really become the Undead and slide off their trolleys and advance towards you holding a scalpel, with a murderous and malevolent glitter in their cold dead eyes, do they? Fuck that, I'm gonna have a look anyway... Every now and then one of the bodies would shift and sag slightly as gas somewhere inside these cold, dead chemical factories flowed from one cavity to another. I wish I could report that one had sat up and disgorged a belly full of putrescence into the stinking air, but that would be a fiction. But what I can report is this: one of the blokes was working there on his own. We normally worked in pairs but he had just a short job to finish and he nipped in on his way back to tea. We were all gathered there around the table when the door flew open and the terrified fitter flew into the room, pale as death and gasping like a shafted pig. He sat at the table and buried his head in shaking hands. After a few minutes he told us what had happened. He had been working on a box on one of the walls, and had taken a couple of paces back to see if it was square. On stepping back he had bumped into a trolley. The vibration had been enough to cause the trolley's ghastly occupant to let rip with an enormous fart which in turn caused its hand to fall from under the plastic sheet, and slide then off the side of the trolley where its dead fingers brushed our unfortunate colleague's hand. The poor man was wreck. We went with him to fetch his tools and, sure enough, there was the dead hand hanging from the side of the trolley. Cool. Jon From alt.tasteless Tue Apr 18 11:04:33 1995 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!newsfeed.tip.net!maggiore.dsnet.it!news.uni-stuttgart.de!news.rhrz.uni-bonn.de!RRZ.Uni-Koeln.DE!nntp.gmd.de!Germany.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail From: weberm@freenet.scri.fsu.edu (Mike Weber) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The Eyes Have It Date: 12 Apr 1995 17:31:53 -0500 Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway Lines: 47 Sender: nobody@cs.utexas.edu Message-ID: <199504122231.SAA28697@freenet3.scri.fsu.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: news.cs.utexas.edu In October, Marvin Haley of Queen Creek, AZ, was fattally stabbed 45 to 50 times and his eyes gouged out. The attacker also injured Marvin's wife Joan, whose eyes had been gouged out in a family fight last March. The couple's son, Wesely, 34, was charged with gouging out his mother's eyes. Police arrested son Kenneth, 39, in connection with the second attack. A 26-year-old man in Merriam, KA, told authorities that when he looked at his reflection in the mirror on New Year's day, he thought he saw a pentagram, a five-pointed symbol associated with the occult, in his iris. He said he popped the eyeball from his hand, used a knife to cut the connecting tissue, then flushed the eyeball down a toilet. His roomates called an ambulance after finding blood all over the bathroom. "The paramedics said his eye looked puffy and red," police Lt. Bill Lietzke said, "It just looked like somebody punched him. But they opened up the eyelid and pionted a flashlight in there and his eyeball was gone." In September, sisters Doretha Crawford, 34, and Beverly Ohnson, 35, of Acadia, LA, were sentenced to 10 years of probation for gouging out the eyeballs of another sister whom they wanted to free from demonic possession. Myra Obasi, 30, testified that she couldn't remember how she was blinded, but witness Legayla Jones said that she watched the sisters shout and pray across the street from her house for seven hours before they pushed garlic into Obassi's eyes and paper down her throat. ObTastelessOfTheFuture: I just finished my supper, which consisted of 1/2 a spaghetti squash topped with Healthy Choice Super Cghunky Primavera spaghetti sauce mixed with 1/3 bottle of Pace Picante Sauce (Hot)*. Some time tomorrow, after also having drunken jaegermeister tonight, I'm going to be shitting yellow, stinking, stinging LiquiShits[tm] e you've only been able to dream about. *fingers crossed* One thing for sure; the way my lips have been stinging for the last half hour, it's going to hurt. * Of all the Most Mexican foods you can get in the supermarket, this one is the only one that really is HOT! Excuse me while I dry my eyes... -- "Some aboriginal Australians and inhabitants of New Guinea routinely ate part of a dead relative's body as an act of respect and to appease the ghost of the deceased. Everyone involved dreaded the "feast" which was accompanied by almost ceaseless vomiting, spitting, and other signs of disgust, sometimes lasting several days." DEATH TO DUST From alt.tasteless Tue Apr 18 11:06:00 1995 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!uunet!news.erinet.com!pagesat.net!a3bsrv.radnet.com!beefheart.radnet.com!ming From: ming@beefheart.radnet.com (Ed Ming) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Trepanation in the Bush Date: 12 Apr 1995 03:42:35 GMT Organization: Der Fuehrer's Water Closet Oompah Band Lines: 33 Message-ID: <3mfi7b$rbg@a3bsrv.radnet.com> Reply-To: ming@beefheart.radnet.com NNTP-Posting-Host: beefheart.radnet.com X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] At this moment, I am watching "Terra X" on the Discovery Channel. The topic for tonight is primitive tribes that still practice trepanation in the bush. The show has just started and already they have shown a great picture of a man with a *large* chunk missing from his head. The footage now shows "Terrisa" a middle aged woman who has undergone *3* trepanations, one of which took 11 hours to perform! She leans forward to show us a *gaping* hole in her head. Because she is still having "symptoms", she is debating getting *another* one! She must be missing two good handfuls of brain matter already. We are now being made privy to an exploratory skull opening. Sadly, the "surgeon" determines that his patient does not need a full trepanation. Though she was given a head wound by cattle thieves, she merely has a contusion, and not a bona fide fracture. By the way, these people are given *no* anesthesia whatsoever. You either take it, or you die. Your choice. It should also be noted that these people have the option of going to a modern hospital, and in fact, the practice of trepanation has been outlawed in Kenya, but they still insist on having an eighty year old man chop his way into their heads to have a look around without so much as a six-pack of beer as anesthetic. Ed -- Ed Ming "Submit. Surrender. Give it up, and we'll start all over." -- Charles Manson -- From alt.tasteless Tue Apr 18 11:08:21 1995 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!newsfeed.tip.net!maggiore.dsnet.it!news.uni-stuttgart.de!news.rhrz.uni-bonn.de!RRZ.Uni-Koeln.DE!uni-duisburg.de!zib-berlin.de!Germany.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!pipex!swrinde!hookup!usenet.eel.ufl.edu!news.ultranet.com!zombie.ncsc.mil!cs.umd.edu!not-for-mail From: arteaga@cs.umd.edu (Santiago Arteaga) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: What is this huge 100 year old piece of rotting flesh ? Date: 14 Apr 1995 15:22:54 -0400 Organization: U of Maryland, Dept. of Computer Science, Coll. Pk., MD 20742 Lines: 42 Distribution: world Message-ID: <3mmi2e$8r1@lanczos.cs.umd.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: lanczos.cs.umd.edu From the Diamondback (the newspaper of the university of Maryland), april 14th 1995: PROFESSOR DISCOVERS BLUBBER, NOT OCTOPUS Campus professor Sidney Pierce has determined that a giant carcass that washed up on a Florida beach 100 years ago was not the remnants of a giant octopus. In fact, it was just whale blubber. Pierce began his study when Dr. Eugenie Clark, a campus professor emeritus at zoology who taught at class about sea monsters, brought him tissue samples of the St. Augustine carcass and a similar carcass that washed up on a Bermuda lagoon in 1988. Clark asked Pierce to identify the remains. Clark gave the samples to Pierce in 1991. The Florida sample turned out to be from a whale, and the Bermuda sample -nicknamed the Bermuda Blob- came from either a shark or a large turtle. The rest of the article is about suggestion and legends and the kind of shit we don't like here. So, one century ago one huge whale died, hopefully dehydrated after loosing too much pus from some infectious desease. Its vile corpse may have been rotting for months in the middle of the sea. Dozens of sharks may have got at once inside the carcass, biting randomly in a frenzy at the awfully smelling straps of intestinal tissue, taking care of not swallowing the repulsive gas-bloated fat. Even the maggots would avoid the oil-oozing nasty blubber while eating the sickening skin. Eventually, this inmense cover of malodorous grease detached from the discusting skeleton and floated in the sea, getting rid of such a repugnant stink that no animal dared to munch at it, and eventually washed up on a beach. For 100 years, no one dared to get too close to the toxic mess, so everybody was only too happy to say it was a giant octopus and they left it at that. And finally, after 100 years, the god-damned smell had diminished enough so that one bold person could look at it and realize it was not an octopus. There is some moral to this tale. That nature-daring, stench-fearless, morbidness-driven necro-voyeur, tasteless sick, twisted fuck was, of course, a scientist. Santi