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!stern.fokus.gmd.de!zib-berlin.de!Germany.EU.net!EU.net!sun4nl!hacktic!usenet From: Foreskin.Man Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Foreskin Follies Date: 21 Apr 1995 06:09:55 GMT Organization: XS4ALL, networking for the masses Lines: 47 Message-ID: <3n7i7j$m4e@news.xs4all.nl> NNTP-Posting-Host: xs1.xs4all.nl Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII X-Warning: This message was forwarded by an automated service at XS4all. X-Comment: XS4ALL does not necessarily approve of the contents of this posting. X-Comment: Please report inappropriate use to X-Posted-By: remailer@xs1.xs4all.nl Please forgive the anonymous post, but I would rather not reveal the identity of the poor soul whom I am about to describe. Tonight I had one of the most truly tasteless adventures of my career. I was the resident on call for the ICU at a large teaching hospital. During an otherwise quiet night I was frittering away my time reading a.t. as usual. On my last pass thru the unit before bed, the nurse mentioned that one of our male patients had a problem with his, you know, foreskin. As it turned out, whoever put in his foley catheter retracted his foreskin and had not replaced it. As a result, with a little swelling of the 'ole glans, the foreskin tightened, venous return was impaired, and the loose tissue beyond his retracted foreskin had blown up like a balloon. This is commonly referred to as paraphimosis, and if left untreated can lead to necrosis of the glans penis (i.e. your dick can rot and drop off). Simple, I thought, give urology a call. I did. He said to reduce it by squeezing the sucker until the swelling goes down a little and pull the foreskin back down. Now I like playing with another guy's doodles just as much as much as the next guy, but this was fucking ridiculous!! I squeezed and pulled and yanked and lubed and twisted so much It reminded me of my days as an altar boy. The poor bastard at the other end of the thing wasn't enjoying it too much either, even when I reminded him that some men payed big cash for this sort of action. We both watched a good part of the hockey game on TV, him puffing and writhing away underneath his oxygen mask, and me yanking fruitlessly on his member. Having succeeded only in producing a mangled, bloody, swollen, slippery piece of pecker (again reminiscent of my catholic days), I ran away bravely - call in the expert. The urology resident is a giant of a man, standing at least six foot five. His approach to the problem was equal to that I've witnessed only by those in the surgical profession (usually orthopedics). I've never seen anything like it. Donning his huge rubber gloves, he grabbed either side of the man's foreskin, placed his foot firmly on the patient's chest, and gave a gargantuan pull, a la Paul Bunyan, while pushing the pud's pointer in the opposite direction with his mighty thumbs. There was an almost palpable rip/POP, and the ill-fated foreskin was noted to be once again "back in the saddle." The poor bastard with the penis almost died from pain, mind you. I was awed. Urology IS cool. So remember kids - your foreskin is your friend. If you pull it back, push it forward again. And I guess if you pull it back and push it forward a whole bunch of times really fast for about an hour, remember to leave it in the 'foredeck.' This has been an alt.tasteless public service announcement. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!newsserver.pixel.kodak.com!clpd-newsserver!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!newsrelay.iastate.edu!newsxfer.itd.umich.edu!news.itd.umich.edu!mcafee From: mcafee@umich.edu (Sean McAfee) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Hungry Rat Date: 20 Apr 1995 01:23:23 GMT Organization: University of Michigan Lines: 15 Message-ID: <3n4d2b$7v9@lastactionhero.rs.itd.umich.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: frogger.rs.itd.umich.edu Earlier today I took my pair of rats out of their aquarium and let them run freely around the apartment. Later, I glanced up to see the older rat bounding off behind the bed with a spooge-laden tissue firmly clenched in his mouth. I had jizzed into it a day or two previously, and carelessly tossed it off (pun intended) towards the wastebasket, but missed. Now, there are probably several people who will attest that I'm a pretty tasteless kinda guy, but the idea of my murine friend snacking on my dehydrated spermatozoa grossed even ME out. I hefted up the mattress, retrieved cum-rag and rodent, and put both in their proper receptacles. -- Sean McAfee | /\ FORNIT | | /()\ SOME | mcafee@umich.edu | /____\ FORNUS | 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!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!usc!cs.utexas.edu!swrinde!pipex!bt!btnet!peernews.demon.co.uk!glub.demon.co.uk!ketteridgep Subject: More Darwinism in the UK (Go,Go,Go!!!!) Organization: The Midden Reply-To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk X-Newsreader: Demon Internet Simple News v1.29 Lines: 28 X-Posting-Host: glub.demon.co.uk Date: Sun, 23 Apr 1995 00:31:18 +0000 Message-ID: <798597078snz@glub.demon.co.uk> Sender: usenet@demon.co.uk Don't know if this has been reported yet on a.t, as I've been offline for weeks, but here goes... Karen Parry, 19, suffered severe cranial and spinal injuries, and subsequently died at North Staffordshire Royal Infirmary after being crushed by a crane. Apparently she and her boyfriend Andrew Farr were driving along the A529 near Market Drayton, Shropshire, when they passed a lay-by with an unattended crane parked up. Mr Farr had always wanted to be photographed at the controls of a crane, and so stopped, climbed into the cab and sat in the driver's seat while Miss Parry took a photograph from outside. "What's this do?" he wondered, and depressed a foot pedal. The crane jib swung to the ground, crushing Miss Parry. BWAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!! Nice one, Andy - I bet you feel a right cunt now. How d'you go about explaining that one? -- Pierre ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "...But what if Glub _IS_ Eihort?" - Adam Justin Thornton (adam@phoenix.princeton.edu) worries me in email ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!panix!hookup!lamarck.sura.net!howland.reston.ans.net!ix.netcom.com!netcom.com!motzie From: motzie@netcom.com (Ken Hovanes) Subject: Newton in a bucket Message-ID: Keywords: apples and Oranges Organization: Genetics Inc. Date: Fri, 21 Apr 1995 11:42:39 GMT Lines: 12 Sender: motzie@netcom19.netcom.com All the alt.tasteless regulars who have the code system to take the message apart, please use code 'Tango' The river has fallen, and the log must be placed in your mouth. Mr. Bean is going on a trip, don't forget to pack. As the leaves begin to fall, the weather will become more and more like the underwear on the snowman, remember to carry your grapefruit. Respond with code system, 'Charlie' Kenny Hovanes Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!uunet!uchinews!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!levine From: levine@symcom.math.uiuc.edu (Lenore Levine) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Stupid Posting of the Month (was Re: cat torture) Date: 19 Apr 1995 21:30:44 GMT Organization: University of Illinois at Urbana Lines: 41 Message-ID: <3n3ve4$pc7@vixen.cso.uiuc.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: symcom.math.uiuc.edu neiln@pinn.nacjack.gen.nz (Neil Newman) writes: >How do you make a dog go "meow"? >Put it in the freezer overnight and then run it through a bandsaw. >How do you make a cat go "woof"? >Soak it in petrol and then strike a match. Congratulations, Neil Newman, on winning the Stupid Posting of the Month contest! You have won an amazing, stupendous, power-packed total of 415 points, as follows: * Dumb animal torture jokes: 2 X 20 = 40 points. * Bonus for the two worst, dumbest, most cliched animal torture jokes: 2 X 100 = 200 points. * Posting jokes to alt.tasteless, anyway: 75 points. * 80 or more character .sig: 50 points. * Whining apology: 50 points. For your *Fabulous Prize*, you, Neil Newman, have won what no other contestant has ever won before! That's right, you have won the right to touch *Ms. Alt.Tasteless 1994* Lenore Levine's pussy! Thrill to an experience you will never be able to match again, as long as you live! All decisions are final and are the sole property of the judges. Lenore Levine Director of Prizes Alt.Tasteless Quality Control, Inc. P.S. You're not allergic to Bengal tigers, are you? We wouldn't want "Kitty" to give you the sniffles. >My apologies if these have been posted before. No problem. -- "stop playing around. that clown lenore levine posts here, and i'd rather die than think of a smile on her sorry face." -- Christopher Troianello 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!seunet!news2.swip.net!doc.news.pipex.net!pipex!peernews.demon.co.uk!glub.demon.co.uk!ketteridgep Subject: The eldritch Gods are hard taskmasters - another delurk 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: Sat, 22 Apr 1995 18:28:37 +0000 Message-ID: <798575317snz@glub.demon.co.uk> Sender: usenet@demon.co.uk Back agin. Sorry about the untimely interruption last time - things have been rather hectic. I'll have to get back to the story of how I ended up as,and where I am, shortly. It's been a hectic few weeks. Just after I penned my last post, I was off down to Barnsley and Sheffield for some more offroad tuition - no fun there, this time my pupils were a brewery manager (OK, he was acceptable) and a tax inspector (I shat my pants with her!). I returned to Leeds on Friday night to find a message on my ansafone - I was being picked upat 6am the next morning to go work as a builders' mate on a partioning (modular office construction) project. Three weeks later, and I never want to see a sheet of gypsum plaster board again. Eighteen hours a day, seven days a week, with about four hours kip a night. And a bastard Gaffer that screamed and swore at me constantly, and hurled crowbars and lumphammers across the office at me if I didn't understand his garbled Northern commands first time. No thanks. I'd rather not come across fibreglass "rockwall" insulation again either. No-one warned me about that, or provided any protective gear, so I just lugged it about in jeans and T-shirt. Now I look like Michael Gambon in "The Singing Detective" - hopefully the raging dermatitis will subside eventually and over-impressionable kids will stop screaming and being dragged away by their terrified, braindead mothers. Considering where I am right now, clean skin would be a distinct advantage. If you're reading this on USENET News, then I got back to Leeds to post it. As I write, I'm in Poole, in Dorset, just about as far from Yorkshire as you can get without crossing water. Yep, someone's finally given me a proper job. Well, it's just a short-term (3 or 6 month) contract, but it will pay the bills for a while. I can't believe Barclay's Bank have given me free rein of their Global NMC on the graveyard shift! I obviously haven't lost the bullshit touch after all. Having got through the interview stage, and, after the Syntegra experience, not asking for USENET access, I thought I had it cracked. No one recognised me, I hadn't been rumbled. Then, last night, as I strolled into the control centre and saw a sheaf of papers on the shift leaders' desk. They looked sort of familiar. Almost like... newsgroup printouts. I scanned them surreptitiously, and confirmed my horrified surmise. It was the *full* BOFH files. Oooooh, shit. Well, I'm still here, so my cover's still intact. But I'm sure there's an a.t. lurker around here somewhere. Watch this space. As to being stranded on the south coast, I don't know how I'm going to survive. What a fucking hellhole. Far too many pubs serving decent beer; hot; sunny; plenty of scantily clad females; and a nudist beach just down the road. And I'm doing a 2-3 evening a week night shift. The summer season beckons. Woe is me. I may have to break the MG Midget out of mothballs. On the plus side, I've already been propositioned by a bearded, tattooed, earing-toting gay dwarf in a dockside pub - but you wouldn't want to hear about that, now, would you? -- Pierre ObTheOtherTardFarm:The night I finished my stint with the Bastard Partition Erector from Hell, Wandering John turned up on the doorstep with a cardboard box. It went "Baaaah". "Eh op, Ah wunnered if ye could look after this'un fer me - I'd do it missen, but ah'm right out of milk..." And so Jane and I were lumbered with a wailing, bleating newborn lamb to look after. A little proto-ram, it had been rejected by its' mother, and not being fed, was weak, frightened and at risk from the first passing fox or crow. So we two dummies were expected to nurse it back to health. And what fun that was. Up every three hours, bottle-feeding the sodding thing, and having it piss all over me at every opportunity. The second night it crapped on my arm while I was asleep, and I was rewarded with rolling my head into this nice warm dollop of lamb meconium (?) - a steaming caramel glob of what looked like choccy peanut butter smeared across my left eyebrow and into my hair. Not to worry, his stools had hardened up a bit within a few days, and I taught him to eat them, just like proper sheep do. Jane, as befits her status as 'tard farm professional, and contrary to the expected 'girly' reaction, treated young Jake (as I named him) as just another item of livestock inventory. I, on the other hand, became 'Mom' to the young tyke, probably because I let him suckle on my appendages. Fingers! FINGERS! (the next step was a careful process of familiarisation and training, heh heh) He followed me everywhere, and by the end of the week I was the laughing stock of the village, running around everywhere with a bleating sheep chasing me. It was an emotional farewell when Ryder the shepherd arrived on Friday to take him away to try and foster him onto a ewe on another farm. "See ya, Jake" "Baaah" I let him have a last suck. (frantic wagging of tail) "Ryder, make sure he goes to a good butche^H^H^H^H^home..." That night John brought round another one. A small black ewe, this lamb was older, about two weeks, and crippled. Her hooves were deformed, and she was bloated, possibly suffering from a knotted colon. The ewe hadnt totally rejected her, but had lost the sibling lamb, and generally lost interest - she wasnt particularly bothered about feeding or looking after this one. Donald had suggested a cure: "Tek 'er 'round back an' spang 'er on't'ead wit' shovel", but we took the animal in anyway. It was no good - the thing just cried all night, refused to feed, and stumbled all over the house in a spastic fashion, pissing everywhere. John took her back next morning, saying he'd put her back in with her mother and hope for the best, which I doubted, as he had a nine-iron in his hand. "Get the grip right... legs astance... line up... back swing... ... FORE!" Actually, he was as good as his word, because we heard a very familiar (and loud) bleating from the bottom field a bit later. I couldnt locate the source at first, but with the help of binoculars I made out a little black stumbling figure in the top corner. Penned into the angle where two drystone walls meet by a gang of about twelve larger lambs, our little cripple was being butted, kicked, and generally beaten up while the mother looked on disinterestedly. Well, nature will just have to take its' course - if the other lambs dont finish the job, the foxes or crows will. ObItuary: You may remember my post about Clive, and his experiences at the hostel. Well, he hasn't been seen for a few weeks, not since he came to see Donald with a view to renting a caravan - blind drunk. He got short shrift - "Piss off - we've got enough trouble with all the other nutters up here!", and disappeared out of our lives. Chris tried to hunt him down last Saturday - at the hostel they said hed checked out on April 3rd, and no-one had seen him since. On Sunday his body was discovered - at his mothers' flat. She'd been away - it appears his body had been there a while, but we won't know this for sure, or the cause of death, until after the inquest. Later that afternoon, his wife was in the Community Centre bar whooping it up with her cronies as usual, and his ten year-old son was playing football in the street with his pals. Glub be with you Clive, wherever you are. -- Pierre ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "...But what if Glub _IS_ Eihort?" - Adam Justin Thornton (adam@phoenix.princeton.edu) worries me in email ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 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!howland.reston.ans.net!cs.utexas.edu!venus.sun.com!news2me.EBay.Sun.COM!engnews2.Eng.Sun.COM!usenet From: paular@Eng.Sun.COM (Paul Arthur) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Tim McVeigh's AOL profile Date: 24 Apr 1995 16:49:31 GMT Organization: Sun Microsystems Inc. Lines: 18 Message-ID: <3ngkqr$6mv@engnews2.Eng.Sun.COM> Reply-To: paular@Eng.Sun.COM NNTP-Posting-Host: boombox.eng.sun.com Seems this about-to-be-charged conspirator in the Oklahoma City bombing has/had an AOL account. Here is his profile (this is real): Screen Name: TimMcVeigh Member Name: Timothy McVeigh Location: Decker, MI USA Sex: Male Marital Status: Divorced/Separated Computers: This One Hobbies: Organic Bombs Occupation: Mad Bomber...with my associates from the Michigan Militia Quote: " Let us take back the government..........or die trying...""BOOOM">> #include 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!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!spool.mu.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!math.ohio-state.edu!jussieu.fr!oleane!pipex!peernews.demon.co.uk!glub.demon.co.uk!ketteridgep Subject: Re: Oklahoma! (the musical) References: Organization: The Midden Reply-To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk X-Newsreader: Demon Internet Simple News v1.29 Lines: 16 X-Posting-Host: glub.demon.co.uk Date: Sun, 23 Apr 1995 06:03:15 +0000 Message-ID: <798616995snz@glub.demon.co.uk> Sender: usenet@demon.co.uk Middle-Eastern ragheads? Waco Davidian cultmembers? Everyone's missing the obvious link to the perpetrators - it was the Spanish Fishermen. Look at the MO: 1. Operating well outside their recognised patch 2. Oversized catch 3. Taking out tiddlers I'm surprised no-one else spotted this. -- Pierre ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "...But what if Glub _IS_ Eihort?" - Adam Justin Thornton (adam@phoenix.princeton.edu) worries me in email ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 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!seunet!news2.swip.net!doc.news.pipex.net!pipex!bt!btnet!peernews.demon.co.uk!glub.demon.co.uk!ketteridgep Subject: One Boy's Tale #2: Veterinary Ambitions Organization: The Midden Reply-To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk X-Newsreader: Demon Internet Simple News v1.29 Lines: 219 X-Posting-Host: glub.demon.co.uk Date: Sat, 22 Apr 1995 22:51:27 +0000 Message-ID: <798591087snz@glub.demon.co.uk> Sender: usenet@demon.co.uk Back to how I got into this fucking mess... So I decided I wanted to be a vet. That was most of the time - at other times I wanted to be a slaughterman in an abattoir... I just knew I wanted to work with animals. At school we studied Biology - non-specific. As it wasn't divided up into Zoology and Botany, it was a bit of a mish-mash, covering lots of stuff I wasn't really interested in. I knuckled down to work, studying the thingies in bottles in the lab: the pickled foetus (that was eventually stolen by an interprising souvenir collector); the sectioned brain, the latex-injected lungs; the exposed vascular system of a rabbit - the sort of formaldehyde-frozen wonders in dusty bell jars that used to be found in any 1930's British Grammar School. It wasn't enough, though. I wanted hands-on experience. But dissection wasn't taught in class until about the fourth year. I muddled by, conning the art master into letting me eviscerate a rabbit so that I could paint a "still life", convincing the english teacher that a project on "how fish swim" *must* include practical demonstration of piscatorial swim bladders. The other kids loved these "practicals" - it was messy, and smelly, and you could throw bits around. But I knew this wasn't enough - I needed to enlist the help and support of the Biology master. This course of action was not entirely without risk. I knew he had taken a third-former under his wing, letting him cut up frogs, dogfish, and rats in the lab after school. In return, the kid used to clean out the rats cages and locust cases, and disappear into the attached photographic darkroom with the master for long periods of time. The schoolboy was one of those small, dumpy, spotty boys that have no friends, and seem to devote all their time to schoolwork. They spend their lunchtimes in the school library, and if they venture outside, they get beaten up, tied up in the bike sheds and pissed on. The master was the sort of creepy 43 year-old that wears brown slacks, a cardigan and hornrimmed glasses; sweats a lot and still lives with his mother. As I said, this was an old Edwardian-style grammar school, all oak panelling and beige and blue colour scheme. And teachers to match the architecture. Ah yes, the famous British education system. Julian Macassey will know what I'm talking about... (Soon after I left school, I discovered that the master's predilection for young 13 year-old boys had been discovered. The boy was moved to another school, and the master resigned. 7 months later he took the top of his head off with a shotgun when his past caught up with him at his new posting) So I had to be very, very, careful. I don't think I really knew what buggery actually entailed, but I had a vague idea, and this teacher rang all my alarums. The OTT, effete Geography master was perfectly accepted, by nature of his overt campness - no one took him seriously, and put it all down to an act*. But this one, he... oozed sliminess and conjured up visions of molestation - offers of sweets and furtive gropes in the back of stationery cupboards. (*It wasn't an act, as I was to subsequently find out. Mr Loveridge was an out-and-out raging Queen. I met him years later, on the London Underground. Accompanied by his "companion", he was paralytic after an evening of opera and champagne, and recognising me, started shouting. "Pierre! Pierre Ketteridge! How are you doing, Old Girl?" and sitting next to me, put his hand on my knee. The rest of his conversation was peppered with high-pitched giggling and exclamations of "Dear Heart" and "Precious". I should have decked him then. Little did I realise that not only were they going to get off at the same tube stop, but also lived in the next street to me. I never dared go in the Fish'n'Chip shop at the end of my street again after that.) So instead of ingratiation, I affected a disdain of study, skipped classes, but managed to do well enough in tests to stay *just above* the magic 55%. It paid off - after various "councellings", discussions with my parents etc, I managed to get extra tuition, all under the auspices (and supervision) of the school authorities. Of course he was meant to just bring me up to scratch with the curriculum, but I had his measure now, and was able to direct my extra studies where I wanted - that is, zoology, anatomy, and dissection. I had direct and easy access to instruments, subjects, facilities. I explored the inner workings of the locust and frog, delved into the moist secrets of Rattus Rattus, marvelled at the live, twitching subcutaneous nematode worms of the dogfish. And I could take my work home with me. Mostly I just adapted the information from the dogfish dissection manual, and practised on fresh mackerel or trout from the fishmongers. When I'd finished, I could cook and eat what was left. But often I was able to filch a lab specimen. Although the school had it's own live rats and rabbits, when an exam was imminent they would place a bulk order with a supplier. The specimens would arrive in sealed polythene sachets, swilling around in their own little Formulin-packed body bags. Creaming off the surplus, I took it home and kept it in the fridge. Not for long; I didn't think my mother would approve. I usually finished up in a day; if it went on longer, I wrapped and sealed the evidence securely and told her it was mackerel. Being a Frenchwoman living in the UK, my mother had few British friends, and found it easier to communicate with the ex-pat French community. Consequently, there was a constant stream of horrendous old Gallic hags with pinched faces and hairy legs in our house, reeking of cheap perfume overlaying stale BO, and gabbling away in French. This was no-go area for me, especially in front of my friends. These harridans would insist in addressing me in my mother's tongue, and she of course would command me to reply in kind. One particular old witch I reserved a special hatred for. She was a grey woman - she wore grey clothes, she had grey hair, grey skin. She smelled the same as her house - old, unused, musty. Her lips were the colour of dried-out liver, and her teeth had the yellowed ivory colour of the keys of a piano that has spent 40 years in a smoky bar. The old decay and mulched food particles between them, as the black keys, completed the illusion. Spittle sprayed when she spoke, which was most of the time. Her husband was a balding grey wraith, whom I only saw on a couple of occasions. An Englishman, he wanted no part of his foreign wife's circle, and both times I saw him (this was in his own house) he was scuttling off to lock himself in the toilet with a tumbler of whisky. I really hated that old bag. For all the times she screeched "Repondez en Francais, Pierre!"in front of my mates, for all the times she squawked "Et comment vont vos etudes, hein? Dites moi toutes les nouvelles!" when I'd just flunked Physics, I hated her - I desperately wanted something unpleasant to happen to her. It did, sort of. In *her* mind, anyway. I'd managed to procure a nice big rat, a male, with a nice large pair of cojones just ripe for slicing. The urino-genital tract today, then. He was a heavy one, his body, stained a bright canary-yellow from the Formulin, strained plump in the vacuum-packed plastic. His long tail, textured like sash window cord, coiled around his body, trapping little air bubbles against the fur. I got home and put him in the fridge while I changed out of my school gear, made something to eat, and got my dissection instruments, manual, pinning board and pins ready. Then the doorbell rang. My heart sank. I wasn't expecting any friends to call. I opened the door, and my worst nightmare came true. It was *her*, and I was alone in the house. "She's not in..." I muttered. "Of coz sheez not een, Pierre, I know zat!" She laughed - it was like a slab being dragged off a crypt. She leant forward and I thought she was going to kiss my cheek, and jerked back automatically. This was a mistake. She wanted ingress, and by retreating, I'd left the threshold wide open. She breezed in past me, gabbling away. "I just com een an wet for Maman, eh? We ave a nass coppov tay an tok bout your schoolwork - vos etudes, hein? What eez thees? She'd walked over to the windowsill and was sorting through the mail. "Your father, he got meynee unped bills, eh? Oh, a letter from France! I wondere whart eet eez?" I swear she almost tore it open. I walked through to the kitchen, to put the kettle on and get her away from the halllway window where the neighbours might see her. When she didn't follow I went back out. She'd gone into the downstairs bathroom and was rifling through my father's bathroom cabinet. "I deed not know your father usid ze Grecian 2000 ("Gresanne Too Tauzanne")?" I groaned inwardly. "An zees gallik peels, zere no good; he neez ze real gallik, to choo, like zees..." She grimaced horribly as she parodied mastication. "An what eez ziss, plees?" She held a red and white tube aloft. "Ze 'Pre-par-ashon - Hash'?" I finally got her out of the bathroom and back into the kitchen, and left her sitting down, grey housecoat buttoned up, handbag on lap, clutched in both hands while I busied myself making some tea. By the time I turned around with the cup of tea she was up and at it again. She was bending over with her head and shoulders in the now- open fridge, rummaging through the contents. The fridge! Ohhhh, shit! She pulled Mr Cojones half out from the top rack, peering at him myopically. "Why you put ze banane in ze plasteek? You shoon put ze banane in ze plasteek, eet weel go soogee an moldee..." "Erm,... it isn't a bana..." "Aaaaaaaiiiiiiieeeeeeee......................." She dropped the package to the floor with a wet and ran screaming from the house, shrieking something like "Les monstres! Les monstres! Ils mangent des rats! Ils mangent des rats!". I never saw her again. She never visited, and although my mother often asked me about it, I never told her what had happened. She must have suspected something untoward had occurred, but as far as I know she never found out why Mrs O'Prey would cross the street rather than stop and talk to her. She never pushed the issue too much, and I suspect she was secretly rather relieved. And so my quest to become a vet (or something) continued, and I cut a swathe through the ranks of laboratory animals in my ambition to find out how they worked. It was pretty pointless, as after all that practice I walked into the practical exam to be presented with an earthworm with the instruction to remove and display its' central nervous system. Huh? A worm? I flunked it. But before that, something pivotal happened to change the direction of my ambitions. I'd gone through childhood and puberty with these breathing problems, which had been eventually ascribed to a combination of asthma (which turned into mild exzema in my teens, then cleared up), and a deviated septum, which would need surgery, but only when I had stopped growing. I was halfway through my sixteenth year when I got the consultants' letter telling me I was going under the knife... -- Pierre ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "...But what if Glub _IS_ Eihort?" - Adam Justin Thornton (adam@phoenix.princeton.edu) worries me in email ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 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!seunet!news2.swip.net!doc.news.pipex.net!pipex!peernews.demon.co.uk!glub.demon.co.uk!ketteridgep Subject: One Boy's Tale #3: Under The Knife; A Change of Plan... Organization: The Midden Reply-To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk X-Newsreader: Demon Internet Simple News v1.29 Lines: 266 X-Posting-Host: glub.demon.co.uk Date: Sat, 22 Apr 1995 23:25:22 +0000 Message-ID: <798593122snz@glub.demon.co.uk> Sender: usenet@demon.co.uk The doctor, and later the consultant, explained in very loose terms what they proposed doing to me. I wasn't impressed - I'd decided as a kid I'd never let a quack start carving on me again until I knew *exactly* what he was going to do *first*. I guess I'm the sort of patient that doctors hate. So I went to a medical bookstore and bought up a load of nursing books on ENT -Ear, Nose and Throat - surgery. It was fascinating. The graphics weren't up to much, though, so I went back and bought Gray's Anatomy. And I studied, and crammed, and learnt as much as I could about what they were going to do. I found out a lot about other diseases, illnesses and operations, too. Tonsils, sinuses, adenoids, mastoid problems, *syphilis_of_the_nose* (!) - what a wonderful world of ailments, a world of which I'd never dreamt! Basically, they were going to peel the plastic tissues of my nose back to expose the septum and the and, er,...whittle them down to allow clear air passage. Simple really. I was admitted to hospital and put in a three-bed room just off the ENT ward. One bed was empty, the other occupied by a man in his forties, his head bandaged and nasty looking seepage on his pillow. Once I'd settled in, we started chatting. He was a roofer by trade, and his main concern seemed to be to get out as quick as possible and get back to work - he was self-employed. He had an ear infection, which apart from being painful and unpleasant, interfered with his sense of balance. He'd already had one operation a few days before, and was waiting for feedback from the consultant. I told him what I was in for, and showed the pictures of the op in my books. We talked and joked and had fine old time, until the nurse came with his medication and I had to retire. He went out like a light, but seeing as I hadn't had anything at all yet, and was only in waiting for my pre-op fast, sleep, for me, was long in coming. So I read my books, and looked up this chap's diagnosis. Aaaaah. I see. A bit later, I visited some of the kids in the main ward who were awaiting tonsillectomies and sinal irrigation, or having their adenoids whipped out, and told them about their ops. I certainly wouldn't like to be in hospital for any long term stay, not unless I was in a private room. It takes them ages to settle down at night! Moaning, crying, screaming even, some of 'em. Nightmares, bed- wetting. I don't know... Next morning I was woken nice and early, had breakfast, watched my bedmate have the screens put around him while the consultant examined him and discussed his case. Later, I pulled over a chair and we resumed the previous afternoon's conversation. "So, this ear infection of yours...?" "Yeah, they've already sorted this one out" he said, tapping the left side of his head, where the bulk of the new clean bandage was. "And this infection, what did they do about it, then?" "M'not sure, they did the op, can't 'member wot they called it..." "It wasn't a mastoidectomy, was it?" I asked in my most professional- sounding (for a fifteen and a half year-old) voice. "Yeah, Yeah! That's it! A mastectomy, that's it!" I smiled condescendingly before he carried on, "Yeah, anyways, Doc jus' tole me they're doin' the uvver side this afternoon - I should be out of 'ere in no time, an' back onna job!" He grinned delightedly under his lopsided turban. I looked at him quizzically. "Isn't that going to be a bit hard in your line of work? I mean, what with having to shout, and chuck tiles to each other and all that?" "Whadja mean?" "What have they actually told you about these operations?" "Well, mate, not much, really. Done the op one side, gonna do the uvver, put me on 'pinslin, bingo! Bob's yer uncle." "Erm... haven't they told you how they do it? How they scrape out the hammer, anvil and stirrups with a little spatula thing?" I drew him a *very* graphical little sketch in my pad and passed it across. "Haven't you been counselled on how to come to terms with total deafness?" He looked at my nightmarish little piece of artwork. "What?" "I SAID 'HAVEN'T THEY COUNSELLED YOU ON BEING STONE DEAF? THEY'LL BE CHOPPING OUT ALL THE WORKING PARTS IN BOTH YOUR EARS..." That's when he started screaming. Nearly deafened me, too, the noisy bastard. The nurses came running, then the doctors, and eventually they had to sedate him and take him away to another room. The doctors came and took my books away a couple of hours later. But I didn't have much time for reading - I was having *my* op the next day, and after a brief overnight fast, I was getting my pre-med the following morning. A couple of pills, and later, a needle up the arse. Two hours later I was being wheeled into the theatre antechamber, and a needle affixed to my right wrist. "Now count to ten, loudly and slowly..." "... ONE, TWO,..." "Don't worry, you won't get past four...", the anaesthetist assured me. "... THREE, FOUR, FIVE, SIX,... haha, it's not working..." "... SEVEN, EIGHT, NINEZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...." When I woke up I felt like my face had been taken off, scoured on the inside with coarse-grade wire wool, that my cranial cavities had been stuffed with asbestos blanket, and my face pulled back over incorrectly. I wasn't far wrong. My nasal cavities, as far back as where they join the trachea behind the epiglottis, had been packed with about four metres of tape bandage soaked in some foul-smelling ointment. I had a big white snout cover over the end of my schnozz, tied round to the back of my head, and looked like Dreyfuss in "The Revenge of the Pink Panther". This lot stayed in for about six days. On the seventh day, a buxom Irish nurse unwrapped the restraining bandage, pushed a kidney bowl under my chin, grabbed the end of each protruding packing bandage with a pair of tweezers, and... ran full pelt across the room! Blood and glop flew everywhere, I bellowed like a stuck bull, and the kidney bowl clattered to the floor. I think that was the first occasion I called an adult stranger a "cunt". But that's by the by... I recovered as expected - uncomfortably. My face was twice its normal size for a week or two, I'd temporarily lost my sense of smell, and still couldn't breathe through my nose - this too was expected, while the swelling receded and the mucous membranes regrew. More importantly, I'd found a new field of opportunity: sod the animal world, I wanted to know how *humans* worked on the inside! My interest had moved on from the purely scientific, to the aesthetic and artistic side of pathology. The disappointing graphics in the nursing manuals, and the wonderful etched plates in Gray's, had convinced me of a gap in the market. I pestered my consultant, and family practitioner, on the details of related professions, where art and photography fitted in with the pathological and surgical sciences, but got short shrift with them - I suppose they remembered the incidents in the hospital, and didn't rate my bedside manner and interpersonal skills. Or maybe they just didn't know. I persevered, however. My father was an architect who, since leaving private practise, was working in the NHS, designing mortuaries (I have some pretty amusing anecdotes from him on some of the things he's discovered in this line of work!). I discussed my interest with him, and he endeavoured to try and find me some contacts among the hospital administrators and consultants he had to deal with on a professional basis. He came up with a few names, and got them to talk to me, and I discovered the existence of an *ideal* profession for me - Medical Artist! Needed for medical text books, reference works, lecture and seminar materials, journals, photography etc - and that was before the emergence of computer graphics and video techniques! This sounded perfect - I wouldn't have to waste my time with all those science degrees; art and straight biology would set me up! Or so I thought. But before I could progress this train of thought, I was back in the hospital. The operation hadn't sorted out the problem - I still didn't have a clear airway well after the swelling should have subsided. The osseous tissue had grown back, if anything worse than before. They'd have to operate again, this time "killing off" the regrowth with cauterisation and, in the case of the bone, electricity. Yowee! This sounded fun. It wasn't. Sensations when I awoke were similar to before, only worse. They'd run Glub knows how many volts through my head, and every bone ached with a deep, throbbing pain. My sense of smell returned within days, and I started noticing a really nasty, rotten odour breaking through the foreground whiff of badly scorched meat. It was like weeks-old pork that had been chargrilled to virtual extinction, and it followed me around everywhere. I was perpetually hungry. Finally, day 7 arrived, and with it the appointment with the staff nurse to have the packing materials removed. I sat in the small room, sheet curtain drawn, and awaited my fate. A small Filipino nurse came in with the accoutrements, and the ordeal began. There appeared to some kind of language barrier between us, so smalltalk was kept to a minimum. Not that we had much to discuss... then. She removed my Dreyfuss nosecone, and delved with the tweezers. Instead of yanking out like the Irish bitch had done, she just wiggled it a bit. then withdrew about 1/2 an inch of crusted bandage. Then another 1/2 inch. I felt the scabs crack one by one as she pulled out the metres of bandage inch by inch at her snails' pace. Was she a relative of the Marquis? Or new to the job? Or incompetent? Congealed clots, fresh blood and globs of snot poured down my face into the kidney bowl held beneath my chin by the orderly. I don't know why she bothered, we filled five such bowls, and most of it still went all over me. I was horking up more bloody phlegm and lumps of roasted, evil tasting meat from the back of my throat. I'm not sure if I went into convulsions or not, but another nurse was restraining me as the miles of muslim strip were withdrawn. My lexicon of profanity had expanded considerably in the six months since I'd last paid this hospital a visit. The whole affair must have taken about 45 minutes, but it felt like hours. I caught sight of my reflection in a glass panel afterwards, and it was horrific. The open-backed gown I was wearing was soaked in blood, phlegm, spittle and other bodily fluids (yes, I think my sphincter may have blipped at some point, and I'm pretty sure I let a little stream of piss escape), as well as specks of less recognisable organic origin. It was smeared all over my swollen and bruised face, and clotted in my dishevelled hair. It was like looking at a fright night mask. Luckily, this operation worked, and I haven't had to go through that ordeal again. The smell remained in my reamed nostrils for quite a long time, and although I'm sure no-one else could detect it, the burnt, rotten traces were more than just annoying. Before the soft membranes grew back fully, which took a surprising amount of time, I could cram my fingers a fair way up, and feel the scratchy areas of bone. I managed to pull away a few burnt offerings, and eat them. They tasted as bad as they smelled (I don't know why I bothered - I must have been swallowing all this stuff by the craw-full in my sleep anyway). And yes, before anyone asks, this nasal mining *did* cause copious nosebleeds! My enthusiasm to follow a career in Medical Art was undiminished. It sounded interesting, fun, and legal. It matched my (perceived) skillset. And it was a little-known branch of the medical profession, so I assumed competition from those entering into it would be minimal. I'd used my stay in the hospital to build a better relationship with the doctors and staff, and this time got a better reaction, getting names and contacts in addition to those my father had given me. This, together with words with the teachers and careers advisors at school, got me accepted onto the program devised to give those hoping to follow a career in medicine some work experience. Although aimed at students who wanted to qualify as doctors, I was able to go on the shortlist to work (or observe) in various areas of a teaching hospital... including theatre work. I also had meetings with various administrators, University admission panels, and qualified medical artists, all of whom quickly disabused me of my ideas on academic prerequisites - but I was naive and cocky then, lapped up their appreciative comments on my artwork portfolio, and ignored their warnings. And then the consultant surgeon at Whipps Cross Hospital, a Mr Petroni, rang me, and asked me to attend an operation and produce artwork plates for him to look at and pass comment on.... -- Pierre ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "...But what if Glub _IS_ Eihort?" - Adam Justin Thornton (adam@phoenix.princeton.edu) worries me in email ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.funet.fi!news.kolumbus.fi!news.sprintlink.net!cs.utexas.edu!uunet!in1.uu.net!dale.dircon.co.uk!not-for-mail From: sinc7@selway.umt.edu (Michael S Spurlock) Newsgroups: misc.activism.militia Subject: OK City bombed BY FBI Date: 20 Apr 1995 03:25:58 +0100 Organization: University of Montana Lines: 11 Sender: root@dale.dircon.co.uk Approved: activism-militia-request@dale.dircon.co.uk Message-ID: <3n4gnn$5i9@tristan.dale.co.uk> NNTP-Posting-Host: localhost.dircon.co.uk To: misc-activism-militia@uunet.uu.net So they couldn't strike in the open after the memo leaked. Now they begin their "black" campaign by killing people in the heartland in order to spread as much terror as possible. If this turns out to be a bomb, expect them to tie it to the militia. Waco tie-in. I have expected this to come before now. I will lodge a prediction here. They will try to tie it to Waco, Janet Reno is behind this, the campaign will succeed because the media will persuade the public. Expect a crackdown. Bury your guns and use the codes. This puts us back another 20 years. It shouldn't come as a surprise. If they'll kill Foster to take attention away from themselves, they'll do anything. --------------------------------- This really, really sucks. http://www.icsi.berkeley.edu/~polack/fg/gq2.html Ask the Gear Queen [Image] Dear Gear Queen, My girlfriend is a big-assed girl with a huge low-hanging voluptuous belly. Our problem? Skid marks in her skivvies -- a PAINFUL subject for both of us. It's not something I've heard other big fat women talk about, but when you reach a certain size it becomes increasingly d ifficult to wipe and present a spanking-clean asshole to the world. It affects her self-esteem and sex life. I know there must be creative fat dykes out there who deal with this same problem on a daily basis and have found solutions for both home and travel situations. HELP!?!?! yours in worship, Searching for a clean hole ------------------------------------------------------------------ Dear Searching, Just about the time I moved from queen sized to supersized I attended a workshop/discussion for supersized women at a local NAAFA conference. It was the first time I ever heard toileting and wiping problems discussed, and it really freaked me out. It also made me really glad to discover that I was not the only one to have these difficulties. Thank you for giving me the perfect opportunity to cover the topic, and please bear with me as I give some background to the uninitiated. The basic problem is a species design flaw: Arms don't grow longer as needed. As the depth of your body grows the distance from armpit over belly to asshole increases, and there comes a point where your hand just can't reach your asshole anymore. But fear not! Depending on the configuration of your body and the arrangement of the toilet area in question, there are all sorts of things you can do. Use a bigger stall Sometimes if you spread your legs just 2 or 6 inches wider your goal will be in reach. Try taking down the tampon disposal box that's sticking into your thigh, using the handicapped stall, or sitting sideways on toilets that are jammed into a corner with lots of space on one side and half an inch on the other. Try a different angle See if holding your stomach out of the way helps. If you've got a smaller butt, maybe wiping from the back is the solution? Or try standing with one foot resting on the toilet seat (like the instructions for putting in tampons), or crouching, or some combination. Use something to extend your reach It can be anything that is long enough, appropriately soft and absorbent, and washable or disposable. I remember women at the NAAFA gathering suggesting the kind of kitchen pot scrubbers with a foam head and hollow handle designed for liquid soap. I imagine you could also use: * wooden or plastic cooking spoons wwith toilet paper wrapped around the bowl. * foam-rubber paintbrushes. * the kind of kitchen scrubby thing that has a ball of foamwedges or string at the end. * long strips ripped from an old sheet that you pull between your ass cheeks while holding it taut in both the front and back (like a back scrubber for your butt). Just be careful not to use things that could injure your anus (scouring pads, brushes, etc.) and remember that if you are picking an item to use away from home you need something lightweight that you can: store in your purse or bag (unless you don't mind explaining why you always take that piece of vacuum cleaner hose with you to the bathroom); throw away or rinse out (probably in the toilet: flush, rinse your gear, and store it in a zip-lock bag until you get home or somewhere it can be thoroughly washed and dried. Use a bidet Now I have to admit that my only experience with bidets was at my mother's house in Turkey, where the bidet's water spoutwas careftilly positioned to shoot a stream of water at my right ass cheek -- not at all useful. However, I believe they are supposed to be used to shoot a stream of clean water over your ass and pussy until they are squeaky clean (if somewhat damp). As a lower-cost alternative to remodeling your bathroom, one was developed by Bill Sabrey, and is sold through Amplestuff, PO Box 116, Bearsville, NY 12409. It's a 2-gallon jug with an attached pump handle and tube that attaches (with wire and a suction cup) under the seat of your toilet. A travel-sized version is also available. Incidentally, this problem is related to another one that may be familiar to some of you: Incorrectly fitted dildo harnesses. Most leather workers will understand it if you show them that the hip band they've provided is too short to go around your hips. And they are usually happy to make you a larger one. (If they aren't, go to another leather worker!) However, if the length of the anchor straps -- you know, the part that goes between your legs like a g-string or jock strap -- isn't also sufficiently lengthened they will pull the hip band low on your body and make the whole arrangement rather ... precarious. Ah, the joys of being deep as well as wide. Anyway, I hope I've helped you find a workable solution. Wishing you and your girl a lifetime of clean undies, Gear Queen Looking for anything in particular? Got some gear tips to share? Write to the Gear Queen c/o FaT GiRL! back to FaT GiRL's home page ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- FaT GiRL / airborne@sirius.com 2215-R Market St. #193, San Francisco, CA 94114 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!news.kth.se!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!gatech!usenet.eel.ufl.edu!eng.ufl.edu!usenet.ufl.edu!draco.nova.edu!alpha!vacco From: vacco@alpha.acast.nova.edu (Don Corleone) Subject: alt.tasteless.jokes Message-ID: Sender: news@draco.nova.edu (Usenet Administrator) Organization: Nova Southeastern University, FL Date: Tue, 25 Apr 1995 06:36:17 GMT Lines: 44 First of all, I'd like to mention that I have received mail from irate Okies about my posting of jokes about the bombing, that I'm an asshole, etc etc. What these people who are so upset about the bombing are doing reading a.t. and a.t.j. is anyone's guess. I am NOT sorry if I offended anyone, however I'd like to make it clear that I was very upset from the start of the incident, especially since they showed all the little coloring books and shit laying around. OF FUCKING COURSE I'm upset and anyone would be. How I deal with my grief over this is my own goddam business, if I use morbid humor to help ease the pain, tough shit on those who are "offended" by this incident, and not by all the other shit that is said on this, my favorite newsgroup(s), a.t. and a.t.j. Was anyone crying when there were jokes about the children killed at Waco? Europe? What about the children that die EVERY FUCKING DAY in this country from guns that assholes leave around? What about the fact that Lee Iococca and other business pigs killed legislation with their bought politicians to shoot down life saving legislation? HUH, you dumb redneck Okie hicks? Lee Iococock-head talked Milhouse Nixon into killing legislation that would have made air bags and other safety equipment standard in US autos. How many thousands have died in the 15 or 20 years since then in car wrecks? Ya stupid fascists! So shut the fuck up. Now, included with this tirade is a GIF of one of the children found in the ex-day care center: begin 644 DeadBrat.gif $#&^(*^))&^(%*&$*(^%(^%)*&^)^(*%*(^%(*%)*&*^$%*&JGKT LJHGP(&_)#ULIUD)(&*{(U$)(UDPJ)(D*U($(*UD)(UUE)((#)SL ^&)(^&OH()*&{IO(SPOJSPOJOI()#+(_(@#*(&)(SUUS)P{_)@)) ` end That's all that was LEFT! HAhahahahahahahaha. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!news.kth.se!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!swrinde!news.uh.edu!bti!news.sesqui.net!rice!math13.rice.edu!garrett From: garrett@math13.rice.edu (David Garrett) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: alt.tasteless.jokes Date: 27 Apr 1995 17:19:31 GMT Organization: Obscured by Clouds Lines: 20 Message-ID: <3nojn3$n1k@larry.rice.edu> References: NNTP-Posting-Host: math13.rice.edu In article , Don Corleone wrote: >I am NOT sorry if I offended anyone, however I'd >like to make it clear that I was very upset from the >start of the incident, especially since they showed >all the little coloring books and shit laying around. I know exactly what you mean; when I saw that on the nooz I immediately felt the hot rush of blood to my loins. I desperately tried to fight off the urge to masturbate until everyone else I was watching it with had left the room, all to no avail; as soon as I saw the twisted frame of a tricycle being extricated from the rubble, I involuntarily ejaculated in my BVDs. Dave "yes, I've been reading J. G. Ballard recently" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless 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!math.ohio-state.edu!magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu!csn!earth.usa.net!bongo!julian From: julian@bongo.tele.com (Julian Macassey) Subject: Animal & Pecker Testing Message-ID: <1995Apr28.133015.15307@bongo.tele.com> Organization: People Eating Tasty Animals Date: Fri, 28 Apr 1995 13:30:15 GMT Lines: 57 This year I missed the annual animal rights stupid fest. This year it was centered on April 24. They call this International Animal Laboratory Day. The animal rights loonies are my second favourite group to taunt. Who are my first? The anti-abortion people of course. Owing to costs and the political BS surrounding getting animals, alternatives to animal testing are being used. Most of these are "cell tests", often used in conjunction with animal testing. Simply put. Labs can now grow cells in a media - often human cells. The "health" of the cells is monitored to show toxicity etc. Most people are familiar with the Draize test. This is the test where bunnies have cosmetics put in their eyes to see if they react poorly. This stops your date going blind or dying if she slaps on extra mascara in an attempt to get you interested. Alternatives to the Draize test are being sought. This will save Thumper getting killed. It may save your date. One of the proposed substitutes to the Draize test uses fertilized hen's eggs. I wonder how long it will be before the animal rights loonies and anti-abortion loonies join forces to stop this test. To test substances for suitability to skin, the standard test is to shave a bunny's back and paint the noxious substance on. Bunny is then monitored for reactions - up to loss of the skin and even... death. But there is now an acceptable alternative to this test. It is something called skin^2 developed by Advanced Tissue Sciences in La Jolla, (Pronounced La Hoya) California. What is skin^2? Glad you asked. It is human skin grown on a nylon matrix. Where do they get the human skin? The explanation is "routine circumcisions". So, here at last is a use for all those discarded pecker wrappers. Now in the U.S., most males have their courting tackle modified shortly after birth. This practice is mostly only practiced by Jews and Moslems outside the U.S. Most Euro males for example are little smegma factories. There is a movement in the U.S. against circumcising males. This could mean that Advanced Tissue Sciences may soon face a "foreskin crisis". They may have to move to Israel, or god forbid, Pakistan to ensure a continued supply of pecker ends. So, the cry will no longer be "Save the Choad", but save the circumcision. Yes, another American innovation is being threatened by a bunch of wacko new agers. Ain't science wonderful? -- Julian Macassey, N6ARE julian@bongo.tele.com Voice: (414) 457-0874 Paper Mail: 210 Bleyer Drive, Sheboygan, Wisconsin 53081-8712 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless,talk.politics.animals Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!gatech!howland.reston.ans.net!news.sprintlink.net!noc.netcom.net!netcom.com!geoffm From: geoffm@netcom.com (Geoff Miller) Subject: Re: Animal & Pecker Testing Message-ID: Followup-To: alt.tasteless Sender: geoffm@netcom17.netcom.com Organization: FizzBall Racing References: <1995Apr28.133015.15307@bongo.tele.com> Date: Sat, 29 Apr 1995 01:45:01 GMT Lines: 24 In article <1995Apr28.133015.15307@bongo.tele.com> julian@bongo.tele.com (Julian Macassey) writes: > Owing to costs and the political BS surrounding getting >animals, alternatives to animal testing are being used. Most of these >are "cell tests", often used in conjunction with animal testing. I guess that means that they gouge the bunny's eye out with a fondue fork before plopping it wetly into a Petri dish and dabbing it with oven cleaner, instead of just applying the stuff directly? Geoff -- -+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+- Geoff Miller + + + + + + + + Mountain View geoffm@netcom.com + DoD #0996 + California -+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+- Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!news.kei.com!nntp.et.byu.edu!gatech!howland.reston.ans.net!news.sprintlink.net!noc.netcom.net!netcom.com!geoffm From: geoffm@netcom.com (Geoff Miller) Subject: Re: Animal & Pecker Testing Message-ID: Followup-To: alt.tasteless Sender: geoffm@netcom17.netcom.com Organization: FizzBall Racing References: <1995Apr28.133015.15307@bongo.tele.com> <3nr8fu$opa@vixen.cso.uiuc.edu> Date: Sat, 29 Apr 1995 01:49:04 GMT Lines: 22 In article <3nr8fu$opa@vixen.cso.uiuc.edu> levine@symcom.math.uiuc.edu (Lenore Levine) writes: >They're just gross if the guy doesn't wash. My former SO is German and >uncut -- and there was nothing wrong with either his cleanliness or >his ManTool. We broke up, but it was for completely different reasons. Like the Nazi hate literature you found hidden under his foreskin? Geoff "storehouse of knowledge" Miller -- -+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+- Geoff Miller + + + + + + + + Mountain View geoffm@netcom.com + DoD #0996 + California -+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+- Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!news.kth.se!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!gatech!news-feed-1.peachnet.edu!concert!bigblue.oit.unc.edu!tenney From: tenney@med.unc.edu (Charles R. Tenney) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: asswiping for fat people Date: 27 Apr 1995 21:56:22 GMT Organization: UNC-CH School of Medicine Lines: 17 Message-ID: <3np3u6$1hqv@bigblue.oit.unc.edu> References: NNTP-Posting-Host: cahaba.med.unc.edu Cc: In article , Andrew Shore wrote: > > >The younger students at sumo wrestling academies have to wipe the asses >of the more advanced students; it builds character. They have to do a >good job, too, since it wouldn't do for brown smears to be seen at a big >match. It would be thought unsportsmanlike to us unauthorized lubricants which would make it more difficult for one's opponent to get a grip on the buttocks. -- -- Charles R. Tenney charles_tenney@unc.edu | What would the UNC school of | Medicine want with my opinions? "My karma ran over my dogma." | What would I want with theirs? Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!news.kth.se!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!spool.mu.edu!mnemosyne.cs.du.edu!nyx10.cs.du.edu!not-for-mail From: athresto@nyx10.cs.du.edu (Anne Threston) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: A truly tasteless museum Date: 25 Apr 1995 15:13:53 -0600 Organization: Nyx, Public Access Unix @ U. of Denver Math/CS dept. Lines: 64 Message-ID: <3njomh$l7e@nyx10.cs.du.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: nyx10.cs.du.edu X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] I was back east a couple of weeks ago; to see the family, the squeeze, and some of the fine members of this newsgroup. One of the a.t. excursions was to Philadelphia, to meet Mitch Marmel (gunsmith to the stars) and go to the Mutter Museum. I had never been there, though I was mugged across the street from it about 12 years ago. Mitch recommended it highly as an outstanding example of tastelessness, so who was I to say no. It's the museum for the College of Physicians, and as far as I can tell is a shrine to all that we hold dear. It's a marvelous collection of various skeletons, mummies, pickled fetuses, distended intestines, wax models of hideous facial sores, and a vast collection of Things Swallowed and Inhaled. Some highlights: * The Soap Lady- The remains of a woman who, due to the nature of her decomposition, turned into a soap-like substance when she decayed. Grey, greasy, somewhat identifiable as human. * The skeleton of a three-y.o. who died of the results of hydrocephalia. Normal sized body, huge head, with a giant blow-hole in the top of the skull where the excess cranial pressure was finally, and fatally, released. * The skeleton of a dwarf prostitute. She got pregnant, and was too tiny to deliver her child, so the attending physician used a nifty tool (also displayed) to crush the infant's skull, in an attempt to remove it from her without causing further trauma to the mother. Alas, the baby-mashing was unsuccessful, and both mother and child died. * Lots of fetus kits- tiny fetal skeletons neatly arranged in velvet- lined boxes. Also many jars of pickled siamese-twins-gone-horribly-awry. Kind of looked like a cross between fetal whales and pickled pigs feet, but with three or more heads. Yummy. * The colon of the guy who died because he was full of shit. Literally. 50 lbs. of shit was found in his colon during his autopsy. There was a photo of him with a fantastically enlarged belly, in the case next to his straw-stuffed fantastically enlarged colon. An a.t. shrine, if ever there was one. * A splendid collection of Things Swallowed and Inhaled. Meticulously catalogued, displayed in a hundred or so glass-topped drawers. Needles, bullets, seeds, and many, many decayed, moldy lumps of meat. * An amazing collection of wax models of various facial diseases. Pus- filled nodules distending eyelids, syphilis-induced craters where eye and nose used to be, chancres of every sort, rendered in all their pustulent, liquid-oozing glory. I could go on and on, but I think you get the picture. Unfortunately, their souvenir offerings are rather limited, but they do publish a truly lovely calender; the current one features the hydrocephalic skeleton, and a nifty bust of a woman with a hideously large growth on her neck, among other treasures from the collection. And all of this yummy medical tastelessness for $2.00 admission. If you're in Philadelphia, Anne-Bob sez check it out. Anne -- "Every now and then she brings me to the brink of orgasm and then smacks me on the dick with a waffle iron. My cock is starting to look like a pizzelle." C. Krusen 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!uwm.edu!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!newsjunkie.ans.net!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: bramsonb@aol.com (Bramsonb) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Aww, Have a Heart! Date: 26 Apr 1995 22:02:21 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 70 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <3nmtvd$1gq@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: bramsonb@aol.com (Bramsonb) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Originally posted to alt.sex.stories: jhunter@netcom.com writes: >Just had this article uploaded to my BBS. It describes a rather unique >masturbation technique that ended in a kid's death. Rather sick, actually. And highly suited to a. t (IMHO): [My comments in brackets - BB] EXPERIMENTATION ENDS IN TEEN DEATH AP NEWS - Knoxville, TN April 24, 1995 [prolly copyrighted: Oh, well...] A 16 year old boy in Knoxville was found dead in his bedroom in what police describe as a gruesome, horrifying death. [No photo - dammit!] Firefighters were called to the scene Monday morning by a neighbor who smelled something burning. When the firemen found the remains of the teenager the called police in to investigate. At first investigators believed that they were dealing with a ritualistic murder. Posters of heavy metal rock and roll groups covered his bedroom walls, groups which are often connected with satanic worship and rituals. [According to whom?] According to a firefighter who was on the scene, the boy was found nude, with the remains of a cow's heart attached to his genitals. [*Love* that word "attached" - Heh!] Wires had been attached to the heart and plugged into a wall socket. The boy died of electrocution, then the electricity literally cooked his remains. Investigating Officer Hardaway [Oh, my!] dismissed the ritual murder theory when detectives found several underground pornographic magazines under the boy's mattress. One of the magazines, called Ovid Now, describes a sexual "toy" that can be made from the fresh heart of a cow, a simple electrical circuit, and some batteries. This deviancy is apparently gaining limited popularity in the rural South. Pratitioners get the dead heart to beat, and then use the beating organ for sexual perversions. [Bwwaaahahahahaha!] "This is one of the most gruesome things I have ever seen. I can't believe that there are people who actually enjoy this sort of thing," Hardaway commented. [Obviously, not reading his a.t ] The boy's parents are currently (Haw!) on vacation in Florida, where they were contacted and informed about the tragedy. They were unavailable for comment. [Do tell!] ********* While I suspect this is bogus, it's author *may* have had access to a. t! I thought they didn't have "underground pornographic" 'zines in Tennessee. (Yeah, right!) Bruce "Nevertheless, it's a *great* 'picture if you will' yarn" Bramson Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!uunet!wizard.pn.com!news1.channel1.com!news.sprintlink.net!noc.netcom.net!netcom.com!sonyaj From: sonyaj@netcom.com (Sonya Johnson) Subject: Black fingers - Begone! Message-ID: Summary: surgical amputation of gangrenous fingers Keywords: dry gangrene, infarction, coagulopathy Organization: NETCOM On-line Communication Services (408 261-4700 guest) Date: Sun, 30 Apr 1995 00:04:04 GMT Lines: 118 Sender: sonyaj@netcom5.netcom.com Well, all good things must come to an end, and in that spirit, I thought I would share with you my last surgical experience while on the plastic surgery team. It was a good two months: saw lots of incredible surgery done by incredible surgeons on some not-so-incredible patients, much of it for incredibly tasteless conditions. The last surgical case of the rotation was an older Filipino male, who had been in the unit at the hospital over 1 month ago, for numerous medical problems, the root of which was chronic kidney failure. He had an a/v shunt in his left arm, which was used for his dialysis. Either as a result of his kidney failure or other intrinsic condition, he had a coagulopathy (blood clotting problem) that had resulted in a previous stroke, and most recently, an infarction to his distal radial and ulnar arteries to his left hand. When our team was first consulted on him, he was demonstrating the early stages of ischemic necrosis of all 5 of his digits. The end result, of course, is gangrene of the digits. He was transferred to the local long-term nursing facility I've mentioned before while his medical conditions stablized somewhat and the gangrene became demarcated enough for surgical intervention. Upon his return to the clinic, and subsequently to the OR, his 5 fingers had become entirely blackened, dry and hard, resembling thick twigs with nails at the ends. The proximal edge of the gangrene was well demarcated at the base of the hand, just distal to the knuckles (metacarpal-phalangeal joints), making the surgical resection easy: follow the black-skin edge, follow the black-skin edge, follow, follow...(this time, Dorothy has a #10 blade instead of Toto). Doing the case were myself, John - the R2 on the team for April, and the chief plastics res., Diane. The setting was informal, with the three of us in a jovial mood - this wasn't gonna take the 6 hrs. as scheduled, as the plan to possibly do abdominal flap coverage had been scrapped (no pun intended), and we were just going to cut off the fingers and close up the wounds. Prior to the patient's hand being prepped, John couldn't resist peeling off a rather large black eschar (scab) on the back of the hand, which he did with enthusiasm. Pus and blood oozed out as he did this, and a small strand of extensor tendon was tethered to the eschar. This drew comments of mild disgust from those of us watching, but I shook my head and laughed anyway. After the hand was prepped and draped, the three of us sat down to do business. John took the first two fingers - 4 and 5. The blade passed easily through the necrotic tissue, and he traced the circumfrence of the finger as deep as possible. The smell that arose as each digit was severed was most unpleasant, and we were anxious to get this over with as soon as possible. After completing the cut, the cut edges were explored, and remaining extensor and flexor tendons remained stubbornly intact. Some purposeful cuts with the scalpel took care of that, and soon the digit only remained attached by the bone. At this point, John attempted to utilize some smallish double action bone forceps to cut the bone, but they proved to be too small to get around the bone, so the circulating nurse was summoned to bring out some of the bigger cutting instruments. She brought out a larger, single-action bone cutting dykes, but the bone again proved to be too strong for the single action. The nurse then held up a pair of double action bone forceps that were well over a foot long, to which we replied: "yep, those are the ones we need.". The bone was grasped between the jaws of the cutter, and I held the finger. John brought the handles together, and with effort, the bone gave with a resounding crack. I tossed the "specimin" into the plastic basin, where it rattled like a wooden block would if tossed into a bucket. John then used some rongeurs, my favorite tissue debriding instrument, to remove the protruding shards of bone from the cut end, so that the wound would close easily. This procedure was repeated 4 more times, with me having the honor of removing digits 2 and 3 in the same fashion. Shit, even as big as those bone forceps were, that bone was still a bear to cut through. A little later, grabbing the basin of fingers, I stuck it out, querying: "hors d'oueuvres, anyone?", which generated laughter and further comments about the finger's resemblance to other edibles. Amazingly, the cut edges of the skin and deeper tissues bled well, even though the digital arteries didn't pulse out blood as they would in you or I. Our friend, the bovie, was utilized to stop some of this bleeding, and the edges were then trimmed up to facilitate a more cosmetic closure. As Diane grabbed a pair of sharp scissors that are seldom used by other surgeons because of their sharp tips, we cautioned: "be careful - you could cut off a finger with those.", which drew more laughter and comments. Hey, gotta try to make these otherwise solemn things as bearable as possible, right? Oh, another humerous situation arose during the surgery. Thurs., as some of you may or may not have known, was "take your daughters to work day". Well, the circulating nurse on our case had her 12 y.o. daughter there. Unsuspectingly, she walked over to watch what we were doing, which we quickly warned her against doing. She complied, but became disturbed later when she heard the bones cracking under the bone forceps. I wonder if her young, impressionable mind has been scarred for life...oh well! Well, the three of us then sat down and proceeded to sew up the stumps together, much as a group of women quilting do. Sutures were thown, knots were tied and cut, blood was blotted, and the atmosphere was one of friends sharing a final, special moment. The wound was dressed, orders and notes were written, and then we all got the hell out of there. OBAppendix: While cutting the bone, we each received a little bloody spritzer: John got nailed on his face and glasses; I noticed some small bloody spots on my glasses when I got home, and no, I didn't lick 'em off. OBTFuture: On Mon., at 7:00 a.m., I begin a month long adventure in the ER of Highland General Hospital. It promises to be loaded with gore, morbidity and the general pestilence seen at such county hospitals. I can't wait, and hopefully, will have some time to share more medical tales with the a.t. readership. Sonya, who will soon be doing digital rectal exams with reckless abandon 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!usenet.eel.ufl.edu!pacifier!news.alpha.net!uwm.edu!newsspool.doit.wisc.edu!decwrl!tribune.usask.ca!news.sasknet.sk.ca!canopus.cc.umanitoba.ca!newsflash.concordia.ca!vega.concordia.ca!cp_dine From: cp_dine@vega.concordia.ca (Bangers 'n' Mash) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Buzz: Glutton for punishment Date: 29 Apr 1995 08:29:32 GMT Organization: Concordia University, Montreal, Canada Lines: 22 Message-ID: <3nstdc$a9e@newsflash.concordia.ca> References: <3n34u4$nhp@newsflash.concordia.ca> <3npjbq$99h@newsbf02.news.aol.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: vega.concordia.ca NNTP-Posting-User: cp_dine My Secret Admirer (buzkashi@aol.com) dribbled: >I was just minding my own goddamn business when all the sudden I >see this voluminous homo-orgy post that you tried to tangle me in... >I just went ahead and skipped that disgusting fag shit you like to >roll around in. Whoops, I just realized something: If you just "skipped that disgusting fag shit" as you put it, how do you know it was such a "voluminous" post? Face it, you latent little creep, you read it over and over until you had rubbed your poor little choadlet raw. You probably printed out a hard copy and slept with it under your pillow for a week as flattering flog-fuel to the effect that someone had finally paid sexual attention to your lily-white goth-emaciated physique. Bangers 'n' Mash -- "The last thing I want to do is attract the attention of some coon-loving faggot who names himself after a plate of sausage and potatoes." - buzkashi@aol.com Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!usc!math.ohio-state.edu!uwm.edu!newsspool.doit.wisc.edu!decwrl!tribune.usask.ca!news.sasknet.sk.ca!canopus.cc.umanitoba.ca!newsflash.concordia.ca!vega.concordia.ca!cp_dine From: cp_dine@vega.concordia.ca (Bangers 'n' Mash) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Buzz: Glutton for punishment Date: 1 May 1995 05:25:55 GMT Organization: Concordia University, Montreal, Canada Lines: 18 Message-ID: <3o1rd3$rdc@newsflash.concordia.ca> References: <3nstdc$a9e@newsflash.concordia.ca> <3o1gfs$3cu@newsbf02.news.aol.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: vega.concordia.ca NNTP-Posting-User: cp_dine Buzkashi wrote: >As for my physique, that may be what you fantasize because you feel >you stand more of a chance against, but in reality, people step aside and >take their chances with traffic when they see this 6 foot 3 inch 295 lb >Juggernaut of Evil coming down the sidewalk!!! Buzz, even though I may never get to feel the inexpressible ecstasy of your tiny penis poking around the entrance of my rectum like a soggy, cartilaginous fetal pinky, I'll still dream about you. And next time I take a big black dick up my trembling poopchute, I'll wait until the hot seed soaks into my fertile grogans, then I'll run to the bathroom and deposit my spooge-quickened groganchild in the bowl with motherly tenderness. I'll splash a few drops of urine on the little bowl-rat in mock baptism and christen our fantasy child Buzz Junior. And from that day onwards, every time I flush a toilet, I'll think of you and brush away a little tear. Bangers 'n' Mash Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!seunet!news2.swip.net!doc.news.pipex.net!pipex!bt!jmccullo From: jmccullo@srd.bt.co.uk (Jon McCulloch) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Cry Babies Date: 30 Apr 1995 18:28:27 GMT Organization: BT Labs, Martlesham Heath, Ipswich, UK Lines: 64 Message-ID: <3o0ksb$cte@pheidippides.axion.bt.co.uk> References: <3nufv8$lpq@silver.scs.unr.edu> 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] Steve Buehler (buehler@scs.unr.edu) wrote: : Go to hell you stupid cry babies. All those people out there who get : offended at postings who go crying to managers demanding that the poster : lose his account are stupid idiots, like mmoody5154@aol.com. I have no : idea what he's upset about, but he told my system manager to kick me off. : If you have problems with my postings, just put them on your kill-lists, : don't fucking become a snitch and cry. Ah, here we have Steve Microcephalic trying to ingratiate himself with a.t again. But, see the stunning wit? Witness the subtle use of language and the nuances of meaning? No? Nor did I. The thing that puzzles me is these postings that go crying to managers. Steve, go away. Please? You remind me so much of the jerks who don't want to go home after the pubs have closed. I and the other doormen have to spend so many precious minutes of our lives in getting these people to leave. They whine, they bluster and they threaten; they square up to us aggressively and inform us that they could take us all on at once and wipe the floor with us. That they are so pissed that they can barely stand, fails to register in their fogged minds. My point? Well, it's like this. These people always leave. The fact of their leaving is not at issue; but the manner of their leaving is. Whether we throw them out, or they walk out, or they get carried out by their friends or an ambulance crew, they *leave*. Now, you are going to leave this group. There is a difference, however. If you behave and learn to conduct yourself in an appropriately tasteless manner, you may be permitted to stay. Please understand that this is not to say that you must not swear or be rude; it means that unless you apply a modicum of intelligence to your posts, you are going to be hounded from a.t. Being the kind of puffed-up loudmouth that you are (honestly, who in his right mind would write "don't dis me again" and expect to be taken seriously?) you will be unable to survive a concerted verbal attack made by people who are clearly your intellectual superiors. To be honest, Steve, you appear not to know your arse from your elbow. For instance, in one thread you start your post by saying "I'm never leaving this group" and end by telling us that we are in imminent danger of appearing in your kill-list. We should be so lucky. You are stupid, ignorant and practically illiterate. You are a bigot whose bigotry is made all the more absurd by your cowardice in recanting the views that you are, most assuredly, entitled to hold. Go. While you still can. Jon -- ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ You're a dick. I'm sure you'll enjoy discussing your views with the rest of the a**holes who now reside in my killfile. Robert H. MacTurk, Ph.D. to me. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!news.kth.se!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!news.moneng.mei.com!uwm.edu!msunews!seal.cps.msu.edu!remeika From: remeika@seal.cps.msu.edu (J Man) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Don't brush your teeth with muff... Date: 28 Apr 1995 20:14:16 GMT Organization: Lala Land Lines: 37 Sender: remeika@seal.cps.msu.edu (Joseph D Remeika) Distribution: world Message-ID: <3nriao$m8u@msunews.cl.msu.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: seal.cps.msu.edu I have nothing better to do, so I thought I would share a public service announcement with y'all. My girlfriend and I went through this short faze during which we experimented with different flavors during our 'oral ministrations'. Things like flavored jellies, scented oils, whipped cream and the like. Well, one day I got the bright idea of using toothpaste. It seemed a logical choice at the time: I like the taste of toothpaste; I will have fresh and minty breath after the fact! She would have a shaking orgasm; I would have tartar-free teeth. It was the best of both worlds. Here it was, the moment of truth. After a bit of slobbering and pinching and yanking, she laid back, I said, "Hold on a minute," and rush to the bathroom to obtain a dollop of my new taste of the month (running through the house naked with a good-sized erection is an interesting sensation, incidentally). Note that she is thus far ignorant of any of my intentions. I get back, assume the position, spread a liberal amount of paste on her outer and inner labia, and prepare to dive in. At that moment, she sat bolt upright, eyes as big as saucers, with her face in that contorted "what have you done" look. I look at her, point to the bluish stuff spread on her, and say, "It's toothpaste." She looks at me, eyeballs now hanging out by the nerves and says, "It burns!" Well, she just leaps from the bed, runs to the bathroom bowlegged, and starts wiping it off with a washcloth; all the while screaming like a banshee. At the time, that was the funniest thing I had ever seen. I was laughing so hard, I almost had a hernia. Anyway, after everyone calmed down, I received a stern warning to clear things with her before introducing foreign matter into any sensitive areas. And all was not lost since there was no permanent damage and we were able to 'finish what we started.' Well let that be a lesson to all of us, and if anyone else has a "do not put " suggestion, I can always use a little more knowledge. J. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!news.kth.se!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!swrinde!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail From: v_ivanoff@am.atd.cra.com.au (Ivanoff) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Exploding Geriatrics (was Re: New Product (in KENYA)) Date: 27 Apr 1995 01:47:13 -0500 Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway Lines: 71 Sender: nobody@cs.utexas.edu Message-ID: <2244331627041995/A08697/ATDM0/1194DC212A00*@MHS> NNTP-Posting-Host: news.cs.utexas.edu jatwood@saims.skidmore.edu (jason skidmark) writes: [something or other irrelevant deleted] Y'know, while on the subject of dickless shit-stains, I remembered this old article. A typical weenie-beaten-into-submission-by-tyrannical- father-getting-revenge tale, though the method of the old man's demise would be far outside Jasie's limited capabilities to think of. The following is an extract from the "Encyclopedia of Murder", (Colin Wilson and Patricia Pitman). It clearly illustrates that if you are going to do something, do it right. Don't take half measures. It could easily have been a Monty Python skit (the guys name is even Eric). [Lenore - this my contribution to the one post request. Not much, I know, but times are awfully uninspiring] --- BROWN, Eric (The Rayleigh Bath-chair Murder Case) The Browns (father, mother and sons, Eric 19 and Colin 16) lived at Summerfield, London Rd, Rayleigh, in Essex; in 1938 the fathers legs had become paralysed, the result of an accident years before, and he took regular outings in a velveteen seated invalid chair. Although ailing, Father Brown was a tyrant to his household, most of his wrath being aimed at Eric (at this time serving in the army), who from his boyhood was subject to paternal persecution. At 1:45 pm on July 23rd the Brown's resident help, Nurse Mitchell, helped Mr. Brown into his bath-chair, wrapping him up for the afternoon walk. Nurse and patient had not gone far, when - after some readjustment of the chair blankets - there was a tremendous explosion. The nurse survived, but very little remained of her charge, who was almost literally blown to the winds. The explosion was caused by a British Hawkins No. 75 Grenade Mine, used in warfare against tanks, and, in this case, detonated about two feet above ground level. This convinced police that someone had placed it beneath the velveteen cushion. Nurse Mitchall recalled that Eric Brown (on leave from his battalion) had spent much time on the day of the tragedy in the air-raid shelter where the bath-chair was kept. When inquiries into his army life were made, it was found that he had attended lectures on the Hawkins 75 Grenade Mine, and there was a store of these mines at his company HQ. Interrogated, Eric Brown soon confessed to the killing of his father: "My father is now out of his suffering, and I earnestly hope that my mother will now live a much happier and normal life" Arrested and committed for trial, Eric Brown attempted suicide while in custody. He was tried at Essex Assizes on November 4th, 1944. A nerve specialist, Dr Rowland Hill, called by the defence, referred to the suicide bid, stating that Brown was a typical schizophrenic: "... he came to prison in a happy buoyant frame of mind... he suddenly realised for the first time that by what he had done people might call him a murderer." The jury found Eric guilty but insane. --- 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. | ======================================================================= Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!seunet!news2.swip.net!doc.news.pipex.net!pipex!oleane!jussieu.fr!math.ohio-state.edu!magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu!csn!earth.usa.net!bongo!julian From: julian@bongo.tele.com (Julian Macassey) Subject: Euro Crappers Message-ID: <1995Apr28.001717.1976@bongo.tele.com> Organization: Flagellant Monks Date: Fri, 28 Apr 1995 00:17:17 GMT Lines: 90 This is a report on crappers in Europe. It may contain big words and concepts that are difficult for AOL users to understand. I arrived in Zurich and while waiting for my flight to Basel, decided to take a crap. I found the toilets - thanks to internationally understood pictograms. I wandered into the gents, being Swiss, it was clean. The stalls were built of brick. The doors and walls reached from floor to ceiling. This is unlike public stalls in the rest of the world. Each stall is a little room. No one can see your feet, or even see how many people are in there. As it is enclosed, grunts, farts and orgasmic moans are not heard by the hapless souls in adjoining stalls or even the urinals. My first thought as I sat down and pulled out the Economist for a quiet crap and read was "I wonder if Hollister knows about this?". These johns have to be a homo' dream. Flushing, in true Swiss anal, cleanliness fashion was via a foot pedal beside the crapper. No, I don't know what the handicapped do if they need to take a shit in Zurich airport. In France, I came a cross a typical Frog high-tech solution to a low tech problem. I used a crapper that was far from a full 4 Ins sewer pipe. The Frog solution? What I dubbed the "Cuisinart Crapper" Here was a crapper that had a dry bowl. When you flushed, the grogans were supposed to flow down to a small 3 Ins hole. Beneath the hole was a set of electrically operated whirring blades. they chopped up the grogan and paper then pumped it down a 1 1/4 Ins PVC pipe Note that you didn't shit in the "bowl" as in other countries (except Germany). You shat on dry porclean. Well did the flush move the grogan off and down the hole? No, not all the time. Most of the time, it sat there stubbornly while water washed across it. To get the turd on its way, you had to loosen it up with some toilet paper. then of course as the turd had been resting on dry porclean, it left a skidmark any a.t.er would be proud of. So next step was to grab the bog brush (Special slim size for the Cuisinart Crapper) and clean up the skidmarks. Then you had to flush the turdlets from the skidmark. So, the Froggies still have some bugs in the Cuisinart Crapper that need to be worked out. I soon found out that lining the bowl with arse-wipe solved the problem. The grogans sat on the paper and slid away with the first flush. Ah yes, Euro-arse-wipe. Kimberly-Clark (Kleenex) seem to have some of the market. Frog bog paper is getting better. But it is still not as soft as the Yooess paper. Also all Euro-wipe is narrower than the Yooess stuff. I remember in my yoof that Frog arse-wipe was like brown wrapping paper. One brand I recall was called "Butterfly - silk". Yeah, you hope. The crappers on Kraut trains are two types. On the regular trains, they are the standard drop the log on the track type. On the ICE (Inter City Express), they are stainless steel high tech wonders. They have an electric flush. You touch a lighted button and six seconds later (They really need to fix that worrying delay), the crapper bowl is cascaded with a high pressure stream from around the rim. Even if you don't need a shit, you need to check one of these out. Here is true Kraut high tech. No grogan is going to survive being flushed in one of these stainless steel high tech marvels. Maybe a Frog engineer needs to ride a Kraut train and steel some good ideas. Why is Frog engineering so fucked up? Finally. The famous Kraut Krapper. When the square heads take a shit, they want to examine their masterpiece. So rather than have the grogan drop into the bowl with a splash, they drop their creation on a shelf. So this is a dry shit - with added odor, just like the Frog Cuisinart Crapper. The actual "hole" is in the front of the crapper. The rest of the world has the hole in the back of the throne. So Kraut Krappers are back to front. I have of course taken pics of all these various crappers. Sorry no scanner so no GIFs. God, it's nice to back home where I can comfortably crap in my battleship grey Kohler crapper. I am sure "The Crappers of Europe" would make a great TV documentary. Better than most of the junk they now have on TV. For further reading: "Temples of Convenience" By Lucinda Lambton. St Martins Press - 1978. ISBN 0-312-79085-6 -- Julian Macassey, N6ARE julian@bongo.tele.com Voice: (414) 457-0874 Paper Mail: 210 Bleyer Drive, Sheboygan, Wisconsin 53081-8712 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!psinntp!psinntp!psinntp!nstn.ns.ca!newsflash.concordia.ca!vega.concordia.ca!cp_dine From: cp_dine@vega.concordia.ca (Bangers 'n' Mash) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Fuck the faggots Date: 26 Apr 1995 18:06:08 GMT Organization: Concordia University, Montreal, Canada Lines: 23 Message-ID: <3nm22g$r2o@newsflash.concordia.ca> References: <3nhouf$6bb@silver.scs.unr.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: vega.concordia.ca NNTP-Posting-User: cp_dine Steve Buehler wrote: >I *do not* mean "fuck" as in "intercourse" but "fuck" in "kill" or >something likewise. I hate fags... they don't make sense and are sick. Stevie, since you've taken the trouble to find your way into my office at the Ministry of Tastelessness and are presently standing in front of my marble-topped desk o' discipline, allow me to show you this jar of bacon grease. Notice how my knuckles become slick and shiny as I twist my fist in the jar. Feel the cool marble of the Clue Desk against your forehead, so soothing and comforting as I bend you over and insert my fist in your distended colon. Feel the exquisite pain of your organs tearing wetly as I ram my arm into your torso up to my bicep. Feel the numbness that spreads through your body as I pick you up from the inside like a living muppet and pound your head repeatedly on the Clue Desk. Contemplate the error of your ways as you whine apologetically and clean my office floor with your tongue, twitching and moaning on the end of my arm like a human vacuum cleaner as I poke your head into the nooks and crannies behind my furniture. And remember to have a very, very nice day. [I think it's great that even people like Buzkashi and Anthony Hegedus can find a friend in this big, cold world.] Bangers "Oops, missed a spot" 'n' Mash 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!howland.reston.ans.net!EU.net!Austria.EU.net!newsfeed.ACO.net!fstgds15.tu-graz.ac.at!fhtupc03.tu-graz.ac.at!david From: david@htu.tu-graz.ac.at (David Skreiner) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Fuck the faggots Date: Fri, 28 Apr 1995 19:00:04 GMT Organization: OEH - TU-Graz Lines: 26 Message-ID: References: <3nhouf$6bb@silver.scs.unr.edu> <3nn04q$8ev@silver.scs.unr.edu> <3nq2bo$d9e@nntp4.u.washington.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: fhtupc03.tu-graz.ac.at sleggitt@u.washington.edu (Stacy Leggitt) writes: >Geoff, I have to ask, though: if somebody can't post their most heinous, >anti-pc thoughts here on alt.tasteless, what recourse have they? How >about if the original gay-bashing quote had been explicit in how he likes >to torture people he doesn't like? How about if I post something >explicit about the slow death and anal rape about the original poster? There's more to this: Being anti-pc doesn't mean you write well or in a tasteless fashion. In fact, pigheaded bigots and right-wing morons are shouting and yelling bullshit all over this group. This newsgroup is about tastelessness, not reactionary politics. So if the fuckwit who started this dumb thread had written well and in a tasteless manner, he'd have been applauded for having a sick mind. But, seeing the obnoxious garbage he posted, I can only assume he has all the elegance and eloquence of a slug. Please do us a favour and write about the slow death of this moron - but write it well. Write it tastelessly, describing the gory details until you're ready to throw up or jerk off. dave Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!news.kei.com!world!uunet!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!noc.netcom.net!netcom.com!geoffm From: geoffm@netcom.com (Geoff Miller) Subject: Re: I take it back... Message-ID: Followup-To: geoffm@netcom.com Organization: FizzBall Racing References: <3nmjfj$3pc@silver.scs.unr.edu> Date: Fri, 28 Apr 1995 02:14:13 GMT Lines: 48 Sender: geoffm@netcom20.netcom.com In article <3nmjfj$3pc@silver.scs.unr.edu> buehler@scs.unr.edu (Steve "melts in your mouth, not under your foreskin" Buehler) writes: >Alright... I take it back... but homosexuality is for sure... unnatural. [...] >By the way... for you racial idiots... I'm WHITE, and I hate racial >people so DON'T GIVE ME SHIT. You denounce racism but you flaunt your bigotry against gays? My, but that's an interesting philosophy you have there, Dilbert. You *deserve* to get shit, because you're a simpleminded, bigoted asswipe. Probably a repressed homosexual, too. Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, you know. I realize that ignorance is a fact of life out there in the desert, but you should at least make an effort to cultivate a veneer of civilization, however thin. Maybe you could even get someone to shave your back for you, eh? Don't worry of you get a hard-on; it probably won't be big enough to scare anybody. I think Steve here secretly yearns to hang his lip on a stiff one, dontcha, Stevie baby? Wanna slurp some football player's sweaty salami, Steve, with your nose buried in his bush until you choke on his hot, pulsing gouts of jism? Is it true that you're so practiced and proficient that you can breathe through your ears? Of course, maybe the "B-side" is more your style, and what you really fantasize about, deep in the secret recesses of your heart of hearts, is having some big hunk slide his ClamShucker(tm) up your service entrance -- ten and 13/16 inches of hot, throbbing ManMeat, straight up the fartpipe! Then you'd groan in ecstasy as your happily distended colon fills with globbets of stinking splurtch. Please feel free to come out of the closet, Stevie. It's okay. We're your friends; we're not _like_ the others. Geoff -- -+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+- Geoff Miller + + + + + + + + Mountain View geoffm@netcom.com + DoD #0996 + California -+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+- 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!darwin.sura.net!convex!cs.utexas.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!newsjunkie.ans.net!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: cybrsatan@aol.com (Cybrsatan) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: killing cunts. Date: 27 Apr 1995 04:07:51 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 9 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <3nnjcn$6oq@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: cybrsatan@aol.com (Cybrsatan) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com I want to kill a bitch named brittany. I wish there were no law. It would be sweet. Sour cunt. How could I do it? Fuckin' bitch. i'd like to string her up and beat her with a pipe. id rape her bloody ass. id love to see the pain in her eyes. id burn her pussy with an iron. Most of all i'd like the raw feeling of my fists beating on her flesh. i'd like to watch the welts and bruises blossom. The sweetest feeling would have to be wailing that bitch in the face with fists wet with her tears. God i feel better. SHARPLEX@AOL.COM FUCK YOU IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT ITS ALT.TASTELESS Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!news.kth.se!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!pipex!uunet!news.ingr.com!inn23b.b23b.ingr.com!baggins.dazixco.ingr.com!sunnyboy!ajvander From: ajvander@sunnyboy.dazixco.ingr.com (Alain van der Heide) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: killing cunts. Date: 28 Apr 1995 18:57:07 GMT Organization: Niwot Chainsaw Fighting Team Lines: 20 Message-ID: <3nrdq3$t7p@baggins.edaco.ingr.com> References: <3nnjcn$6oq@newsbf02.news.aol.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: sunnyboy.dazixco.ingr.com In article <3nnjcn$6oq@newsbf02.news.aol.com>, Cybrsatan wrote: >I want to kill a bitch named brittany. >[snip] So she wouldn't fuck ya, huh? Don't lose any sleep over it, she wasn't that good. Her tounge action was OK, but she kept scraping her teeth on the purple helmet of my love-nazi (tm). Besides, I had to shove all four fingers into her pusquitch before I could feel the sides. Don't give up hope, as she does like it a little rough. Show her your posting, she might change her mind about you. Toodles, Alain -- Alain van der Heide | ...But right now I need a Telecaster ajvander@ingr.com | through a Vibro-lux turned up to ten Opinions expressed above are mine alone | - John Hiatt Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!uunet!feenix.metronet.com!news.ecn.bgu.edu!psuvax1!news.pop.psu.edu!news.cac.psu.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail From: weberm@doi.state.fl.us (Mike Weber) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Not Your Average Bozo Date: 26 Apr 1995 09:46:58 -0500 Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway Lines: 63 Sender: nobody@cs.utexas.edu Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: news.cs.utexas.edu Form: Memo Text: (59 lines follow) In an attempt to find a way for my friend in Korea to get onto the inf*b**n, I picked up a copy of a magazine with a promising title wrapped in plastic with another damn AOL diskette. Anyway, after having read it, I have the oddest feeling On-line Access magazine is some sort of AOL rag. I feel dumber now than when I started! Anyhow, I saw this last little piece and almost threw up! Article starts here: Not Your Average BOZO: A part-time clown brings his act to GEnie. < photo of guy in his clown outfit NOT included> Getting smacked in the kisser by a virtual cream pie may not be as sticky as the real thing, but it can be just as embarrassing when it happens during an on-line conversation. And it can happen virtually anytime on GEnie where Buff Phoon, the on-line clown, waits in the wings with a pun, a joke or a pie made of ASCII graphics during real time on-line conferences in humor-and show business-related round tables. Buff Phoon (or BUFF.PHOON as he is listed on-line) is the creation of Frank Bunton, 47, a full-time service technician for a large national retailer and part time clown. [...] In 1985 Bunton got his first computer, a Comode^H^H^hmodore 64 [YIKES!] and in 1990 he got his first modem, which opened up the doors to a new level of clowning and an international audience. [...] And Buff Phoon does indeed haunt GEnie real time conferences in areas where humor is appreciated. You'll find him there telling jokes, making fun of the members and launching virtual pies at those who deserve them. Using a simple macro on his Commodore [YIKES!], Bunton transmits an ASCII graphic stick figure that throws a little bundle of text characters at another stick person. The bundle explodes on contact. Whamp! You've just been creamed by Buff Phoon, the on line clown. Article ends here. Brack! Candidate for roadkill on the you-know-what if ever saw it. Message Encoding: IBM-850 Use Proportional Font: true Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!panix!hookup!decwrl!spool.mu.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!levine From: levine@symcom.math.uiuc.edu (Lenore Levine) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: REPOST: Shit Dildo Date: 27 Apr 1995 15:49:16 GMT Organization: University of Illinois at Urbana Lines: 66 Message-ID: <3noeds$bjm@vixen.cso.uiuc.edu> References: <950426.120841.29857@cheshire.cc.oxy.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: symcom.math.uiuc.edu dementia@oxy.edu (Daniel Steven Reinker) writes: >Shit Dildo by Dan Reinker > As I was grunting, perched over the ivory ring and the water below, my > mind wandered to the grunting I would likely do that night... Nice story. But I bet Julia or Anne could write an even better story of the woman's revenge. Not that I'm hinting, mind you. Lenore Levine ObTastelessBitches: Just so you don't confuse the two, I'd like to write a little guide comparing my sister to Courtney Love. Courtney Love: Bleached blonde hair. My sister: Bleached blonde hair. Courtney Love: Too much make-up. My sister: Too much make-up. Courtney Love: Torn fishnet stockings. My sister: Low-cut dresses. Courtney Love: 150 lbs. My sister: 250 lbs. Courtney Love: Slut. My sister: Slut. Courtney Love: Cum sponge. My sister: Cock tease. Courtney Love: Sucks off security guards to get into her own concert. My sister: Flirts with toll collectors. Courtney Love: Shoots up smack all day. My sister: Watches soap operas all day. Courtney Love: Screeches incoherently on stage. My sister: Screeches incoherently on her answering machine. Courtney Love: Gives bad blow jobs to everyone. My sister: Gives good blow jobs, but only to the worst assholes she can find. Courtney Love: Hangs out with grunge-rock "musicians." My sister: Hangs out with camel jockeys she meets in sleazy bars. Courtney Love: Married Kurt Cobain, who killed himself to get out of it. My sister: Married a Paki, who put his green card at risk to get out of it. Courtney Love: Spawned a wonderful little girl, and left her in a taxicab. My sister: Spawned a wonderful little girl, and tells her she's bad because she keeps Mommy from going to bars every night. Lenore Levine -- "stop playing around. that clown lenore levine posts here, and i'd rather die than think of a smile on her sorry face." -- Christopher Troianello Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!seunet!news2.swip.net!doc.news.pipex.net!pipex!oleane!jussieu.fr!math.ohio-state.edu!magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu!cis.ohio-state.edu!nntp.sei.cmu.edu!bb3.andrew.cmu.edu!andrew.cmu.edu!jp45+ From: "Jim Thomas Park , Jr." Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Stinkless Shit Date: Thu, 27 Apr 1995 19:48:32 -0400 Organization: Computer Operations, Carnegie Mellon, Pittsburgh, PA Lines: 41 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: po8.andrew.cmu.edu The Japanese are at it again, From the makers of soiled girls panties and young women spittle comes Stinkless Shit. Read on for more info. reprinted without permission. TOKYO, April 27 (Reuter) - Young Japanese women too shy to go to bathrooms in their offices are snapping up a tablet that neutralises the odour of human waste, a spokesman for the company selling the product said on Thursday. In the seven months that the product has been on the market, Dairin K.K. has sold 600,000 packages of the tablets. Each package costs 3,000 yen ($37.50). A tablet must be taken every time something is eaten. It takes three days for the product to begin erasing the smell of faeces for Asians, and probably a day less for Caucasians because of the length of their intestines, the spokesman said. ``Many young women are too embarrassed to use the bathroom at work, especially if it's a small bathroom,'' said the spokesman for Dairin, a health food company. ``But at home their time in the morning is taken up having breakfast and putting on make-up,'' he said. About 40 percent of sales have been to young women. The product was initially developed to help ease the burden on those caring for bed-ridden elderly people. The company has also been surprised to find that the product is selling well among teenage students, some of whom are apparently seeking to avoid bullying by their peers. Next they'll be coming for alt.tasteless...... -Jim **************************************** ..............I ain't right, Uniquely twisted but not right Yep, That about sums it up. ***************************FHUTAIDT** On the Web: http://www.contrib.andrew.cmu.edu/usr/jp45/homepage.html Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!news.kth.se!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!noc.netcom.net!netcom.com!geoffm From: geoffm@netcom.com (Geoff Miller) Subject: Re: Stinkless Shit Message-ID: Followup-To: alt.tasteless Sender: geoffm@netcom17.netcom.com Organization: FizzBall Racing References: Date: Sat, 29 Apr 1995 01:15:10 GMT Lines: 25 I'm afraid that were I to try out some of these wonder tablets, I'd end up defeating their purpose. I'd be so curious about how effective they were that I'd probably crap on a paper plate, and then sniff my shit from increasingly close distances. Purely in the name of science, of course. I wonder if that's how the drug's manufacturer tested the stuff? They probably recruited people off the street to eat 'n' dump, and paid them some token fee for their time and services. BTW, since when are Asian's intestines shorter than those of Westerners? That's news to me. Geoff -- -+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+- Geoff Miller + + + + + + + + Mountain View geoffm@netcom.com + DoD #0996 + California -+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+- Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!usc!howland.reston.ans.net!gatech!usenet.eel.ufl.edu!hookup!decwrl!pagesat.net!a3bsrv.radnet.com!cyphyn.radnet.com!not-for-mail From: ming@cyphyn.radnet.com (Ed Ming) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Stinkless Shit Date: 30 Apr 1995 05:33:53 -0400 Organization: Der Fuehrer's Water Closet Oompah Band Lines: 32 Message-ID: <3nvli1$gsm@cyphyn.radnet.com> References: NNTP-Posting-Host: cyphyn.radnet.com X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Geoff Miller (geoffm@netcom.com) wrote: [...] : BTW, since when are Asian's intestines shorter than those of : Westerners? That's news to me. I think it was quoted as being the other way 'round, wasn't it? Boy, I hope this doesn't turn into an intestinesizewar or anything. But imagine if it did (on a large scale). The back pages of men's magazines would be littered with black and white 2x2's hawking "Ancient Oriental Intestine Lengthening Machines for only $19.95", etc. I can imagine all the vacuum operated penis enlargement machine manufacturers trying desperately to re-tool (heh) for the new wave in male squirter-length-angst. I wonder what the first run prototypes would look like? Probably the same old vacuum hand pump wankus, only with a bell chamber contoured to fit snugly over one's ass cheeks, providing an airtight seal. Rather than the inevitable photos of the young stud stroking his erect prong, the ads would have pics of the same stud only with his large intestine prolapsed and dangling to the floor. Ed "Suck in that gut, soldier!" Ming -- Ed Ming "If I could lick my own leather donut, you and the rest of the world would serve little or no purpose." -- The *MIGHTY* (yet modest) Two Tub Man Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!psinntp!psinntp!psinntp!news.intercon.com!panix!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!spool.mu.edu!usenet.eel.ufl.edu!news.ultranet.com!zombie.ncsc.mil!gmi!srvr1.flint.umich.edu!newsxfer.itd.umich.edu!news.itd.umich.edu!mcafee From: mcafee@umich.edu (Sean McAfee) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Tasteless Tidbits Date: 26 Apr 1995 05:49:15 GMT Organization: University of Michigan Lines: 59 Message-ID: <3nkmsr$nqp@lastactionhero.rs.itd.umich.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: joust.rs.itd.umich.edu Lenore commands, and I obey. Here are two short tasteless stories, since nothing of major tasteless importance has happened to me lately. I developed a lump on my throat last week. It was rather large--I estimate that it was about a centimeter across at its biggest--and hard. Though I poked and prodded with abandon, I couldn't coax any pus out of the damn thing. My only consolation was that it might have turned out to be a tumor; in that case, graphic descriptions of the tracheotomy and the medical and social consequences would do wonders to jumpstart my flagging career as an a.t-er. Just my luck, though, the fucking thing has shrunk down almost to nothing, and I never did get any pus from it (not counting the great quantities of unsatisfying clear liquid that issued forth when I applied painfully high pressure to it). At *least* I was able to peel the scab off a few times, and pluck the hairs that were growing out of the lump. (Am I the only guy who gets off on plucking errant beard-hair?) That reminds me. As an adolescent, I often heard warnings never to pinch a pimple. The germs and pus and shit would just get driven deeper into your skin and make things worse than before, yadda yadda yadda. Whenever this advice was tendered, I always thought "Why the hell would I want to PINCH a zit? You gotta apply pressure to the *base*, so the germs and pus and shit fly *outward*, not inward, when the skin breaks!" Did anyone else think in this kind of way as a teen? In other news, I am happy to report that a healthy specimen of the rare White Dog Shit has taken up residence in my front yard! It was deposited there by a stray mutt, brown and gleaming, a couple of weeks ago. I couldn't help but keep tabs on its progress, as I often nearly trod on it on my way back and forth to my bicycle. Two more doggie-loaves joined it in the yard at irregular intervals, but both have since vanished. In the meantime, the original log dried, shrank almost imperceptibly, and finally, gloriously, whitened. I feel undeservedly privileged to witness first-hand the natural life-cycle of the Albino Dogshit. When first hatched, it resembles any other canine dropping; over time, it gradually matures into its colorless adult form. I was puzzled as to why the other two dog-logs disappeared from my yard, while the developing albino remained. Two theories seem the most likely. Perhaps the young albino turds possess a flavor distasteful to roving coprophagic carnivores, while visually resembling ordinary loaves--very similar to the natural defense of the monarch butterfly. OTOH, perhaps the natural coloration of the young turds serves to conceal them from the (relatively poor eyesight of the) aforementioned predators. More research in this area is called for, I think. XtraNonObPeeve: While printing out some source code in the computer lab earlier today, I noticed an ugly fat fuck printing out a document called "A Concise Commentary on the Whole Bible". He had a Web client connected to a page containing links to commentaries on each book of the Bible, and he was downloading them one by one and printing them. Hundreds of pages, by the looks of it. I'm not sure *exactly* why his behavior pissed me off, but it did. In any case, I was surprised to see such an obviously devout Christian using a lab computer, since they each have satanic ID barcodes affixed to the front. -- Sean McAfee | /\ FORNIT | | /()\ SOME | mcafee@umich.edu | /____\ FORNUS | 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!news.cac.psu.edu!news.pop.psu.edu!hudson.lm.com!news.ysu.edu!ns.mcs.kent.edu!news From: esworthy@wksu.kent.edu (Jeff Esworthy) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: tasteless toys (1st posting...be kind) Date: 27 Apr 1995 21:30:36 GMT Organization: WKSU Radio / Kent State University Lines: 10 Message-ID: <3np2ds$7oj@ns.mcs.kent.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: muslib.wksu.kent.edu Mime-Version: 1.0 X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.93.14 Was in the toy store today just browsing around for stuff for the kiddies when my eyes were treated to a massive display of a new Tonka truck called "MIGHTY DUMP". I really wanted to shoplift one and get caught so the police report would say..."attempted to take a MIGHTY DUMP." ObTasteless query: The sainted Jeffrey Dahmer (before his untimely end and before he was caught) used to work for the Ambrosia chocolate company in Milwaukee. Does anyone know if this company is still in business, and what exactly do they make? 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!wizard.pn.com!satisfied.apocalypse.org!news2.near.net!das-news2.harvard.edu!casaba.srv.cs.cmu.edu!bb3.andrew.cmu.edu!andrew.cmu.edu!jp45+ From: "Jim Thomas Park , Jr." Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The a.t. toinlet can live Date: Thu, 27 Apr 1995 21:13:51 -0400 Organization: Computer Operations, Carnegie Mellon, Pittsburgh, PA Lines: 29 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: andrew.cmu.edu Folks, I saw this on clari.living.bizarre. Who ever has the old a.t. toilet idea should contact these people. -Jim Reprinted without permission. HONG KONG, April 27 (Reuter) - Hong Kong, the financial centre known for its gleaming glass and marble shopping arcades, will host 450 experts to an International Symposium on Public Toilets in May, the government said on Thursday. The event will be held at the British colony's Cultural Centre from May 25 to 27. For most visitors to Hong Kong, the highlight of their trip is a visit to Victoria Peak or a tour into China. But for the experts at the symposium, the delights will be different. ``As part of the symposium, the overseas visitors will be taken on a tour of some local toilets on May 27,'' the government statement said. -- **************************************** ..............I ain't right, Uniquely twisted but not right Yep, That about sums it up. ***************************FHUTAIDT** On the Web: http://www.contrib.andrew.cmu.edu/usr/jp45/homepage.html Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!news.kth.se!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!uunet!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: bladegirt@aol.com (Bladegirt) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: polaris of the hill people Date: 28 Apr 1995 20:45:49 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 129 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <3ns27t$on7@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: bladegirt@aol.com (Bladegirt) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Vice Grip By:Rich Scene:A New Mexico railroad station (1886). In the background on the floor of the stage lies a straight (but widely believed to be bisexual) strip of railroad track. On the track is a train that is made out of wood and is dressed in black patent leather. In back of the train lies painted women in the scenery of the New Mexico landscape. In the foreground elevated high up is a platform, that goes across the entire stage. On the left side of the stage your mom becomes very fat, as it goes from left to right the platform because it is very skinny at left-center stage and becomes a walkway through the right part of the stage and than leads down a flight of steps on the far right of the stage. On the left side of the platform there is a desk with a chair behind it. In front of the desk lives another chair. KILL I MUST KILL. Over the desk is a lamp that is hanging from the ceiling. There is a sign hanging over the middle of the platform that reads manger's office and a arrow pointing towards the left platform. There is a man coming up the stairs and approaching the left side of the platform. He is wearing blue overalls and he is wearing a pair of dirty rubber pantyhose. On his head is a straw hat and the expression on his face is that of disappointment and euphoria. Another man is sitting behind the desk and he is wearing a suit and tie and looks very cleanly at the she-male. As he sees the man-beast approaching he gives a little smirk. (Farmer comes into the office clerk's mouth) Farmer: You rich folk are all alike, wanting to suck white paste out of little boys for money. I need to send my riding crops back North but you have backed off on your original price and now you want more money (raises voice). Well I can't afford that and even if I had that kind of money you wouldn't be getting it! Manger:You ignorant farmer, piece of shoe, shower shoes! The price has risen because your union friends who work for us have decided to go on strike. We had to raise the price because now we have no man power. Tell your lazy-good-for-nothing-union-buddies to get-back-to-work and if-they-do, then there-may-be-a-decrease-in-price. Look it's the union's fault not ours. If they would only work for our fair price then we wouldn't have to execute by injection. Farmer:Look Sir, I don't work for the union. I'm only a small crap framer, who needs to kill to satisfy his bloodlust or else the bank will foreclose on his mortgage. We agreed on a price and now you take it back! I bought your land over the government's when yours was much more expensive because I thought you would help me discover my sexuality, but now I see you're just out to make all the money that you can by selling your body and breaking the backs of us poor watermelons and making us speak in run-on sentences that never end and are so long that yo' mama might actually be able to use it for a dildo to hold up her irrigation-ditch size polyester no-good lousy made in some god-forsaken stinking little east asian pre-industrial zero-GNP cunt!!!! Manger: Look, I'll cut you a deal. If you can get your union friends to come back and work for the company than I'll give you the original price that we agreed upon and some good old fashioned anal lovin'. Until then, my hands are tied to the bedposts. Blame it on your neighbors, if they hadn't struck our european base of operations you could have had a great return from the crap you sold. So if you can't pay the rate, please get in the back of the car and bend over, bitch! (Seriously) I'm not kidding! Really. Guys? . . . . .. . . blood, . . . . . heh eh heh>!!@#$..... . ...fgt tfy yyhy. Farmer: Good Day! Manger: Yes. But now you must die!!! (Manger pulls a knife out. It is a sizable knife, with smears of blood that have been almost rubbed off. In an execution style killing, the Manger brings the knife down upon the nape of the Farmers neck.) Farmer: Ouch! (Manger twists the knife inside the open wound. ) Farmer: This sucks! (Manger withdraws the knife, reinserts it in the Farmers eye.) Farmer: Ouch! My Eye. You stabbed my eye, you jerk. (Manger pulls out a spoon, and gouges the other eye out. Severely painful, the art of gouging out eyes has been developed over a period of several thousand years. First, it was used by the ancient Romans to instill fear into their political enemies. Then it was passed down to the ancient chinese. The chinese were the ones who really developed the art form to its greatest extent, and regretably, much of the art has been lost by now. The Japanese at one point tried to buy the art from the chinese, but instead developed their own form of grinding someones arm in a meat grinder. Next, and lastly, the Russians took the art. They made it into a delicate dance, a play with life and death, not so much a killing as the pain of living. It was beautiful, how the victim played with death, while the tormenter had complete control over him. A beautiful ballet of blood, spoons, and gouged eyes.) But the Manger was not Russian. He was pure-blooded American, and this is how we do it. No dance, no beauty. Just a rusty spoon, two hands, and a couple pints of blood. There is no beauty in this savage act. Simply an act of the mentally unsound. Farmer: Crazy bastard! This hurts! I don't like this game any more! (Manger pulls the spoon out. Sound: A gushing splat, the sound of eyeballs being ripped out without the proper preparations. The faint sound of the Farmer's brain hitting the inside of his skull can be heard. ) Manger: Ha ha ha ha ha ha. I am insane, a psycopath. (Farmer staggers, then pulls out a good hoe.) Farmer: Kill.... Kil. .. . . must killl. . . . . . . . . .. . . (Farmer plunges the hoe into the manger's flesh blindly, hacking at where he thinks the manger is. Some strokes are misses..... others are not. Sound: A horrible slicing, cross-hatching razor through open flesh. Farmer throws down the hoe. Laughing, the Farmer then pulls out a pen and excavates the Manger's cranium. He removes the brain stem for show-and-tell. Farmer pulls out a hypodermic needle and pluges it deep into the Manger's spine. Sound: Execution, by injection. Pause. The Manger's body explodes. Blood rains down on the freshly tilled land. The blast radius: about 37 meters. There are no body parts, just a fine red mist, and a thin slime covering the hillside. There are no survivors.) Message-ID: <203334Z11051995@anon.penet.fi> Path: skyld!netcomsv!uu3news.netcom.com!ix.netcom.com!howland.reston.ans.net!Germany.EU.net!EU.net!news.eunet.fi!anon.penet.fi Newsgroups: alt.sex.bestiality From: an83627@anon.penet.fi X-Anonymously-To: alt.sex.bestiality Organization: Anonymous forwarding service Reply-To: an83627@anon.penet.fi Date: Thu, 11 May 1995 20:28:22 UTC Subject: Out of Oregon Lines: 114 [A lawyer in Oregon has just sent this my way:] Here is full text of the first half or so of the May 10, 1995, article in the Portland Oregonian under the byline of Tom Bates, Mark O'Keefe, and Cheryl L. Tan headlined, "Cable unit asks court to bar sex show." No one seems to know for sure whether John Fitzpatrick is for smut or against it, but this much is for certain: he is being sued; and the lawsuit filed Tuesday is yet another first for Oregon. Portland Cable Access, whose non-profit programming reaches hundreds of thousands of cable subscribers in the Portland metropolitan area, sought a declaratory judgment from U.S. District Court saying PCA doesn't have to carry a Fitzpatrick production featuring sex with a corpse. James Horwood, counsel to the Alliance for Community Media, a Washington, D.C.-based free speech organization, said this was was the first request he knows of to stop public access pro- gramming in advance. "Normally, the program would run and there would be prosecution after the fact," he said. Ironically, Fitzpatrick, a 31-year-old fund-raising consultant who lives with his parents in Lake Oswego, may have anti- pornography motives. Two years ago, he helped to spearhead an unsuccessful California initiative to criminalize adult filmmaking. And by threatening to show hardcore pornography on public access, he has put PCA and its legal representative, ACLU consulting attorney Charles F. Hinkle, in the unaccustomed role of trying to censor expression. "It is an unusual posture for me to be in," Hinkle admitted. "But I don't believe anyone has a right to disseminate obscene material to minors." After completing a free PCA training course in television production last week, Fitzpatrick was certified to use PCA production facilities on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard -- the second-largest public-access studio in the nation. On Friday he produced a half-hour preview of his planned 13- part series, "Orgy TV," in which he proposes to use sexually explicit footage -- including depictions of sexual torture, bestiality, pedophilia, and necrophilia -- to fuel a discussion of obscenity laws and free speech. PCA alleges that Fitzpatrick has asked the public-access facility to broadcast "film of a live human being engaged in sex acts with one or more dead human beings." PCA con- tends that, under federal laws [ed note: notice, *not* Oregon law], the program is "obscene and in conflict with the community standards of Portland." "This will call his bluff," Hinkle said, after filing the PCA suit. Fitzpatrick has said he has a right to broadcast pornographic material under the Oregon Constitution, which in recent years has been interpreted as protecting obscene expression. But he said it would make no difference that he is being sued under federal law, which bans obscene cablecasts. "I'm using the material for a political statement," he said, "so it (the complaint) would not pass the third test under Miller." Miller v. State of California is a 1973 Supreme Court decision that established a three-point test in obscenity cases. The third point is whether a work, taken as a whole, has redeeming literary, artistic, political, or scientific value. Fitzpatrick said that his promotional tape has a redeeming political purpose, which is "to help advance the debate" on obscenity in Oregon. "They are doing me a favor," he said of PCA's complaint. The "Orgy TV" proposal, which includes using live performers in explicit sex acts, has set both the adult entertainment industry and anit-pornography circles abuzz. "He's doing the same thing that people who hold up pictures of aborted fetuses do," said Jim Spagg, star and producer of controversial shows like "Jim Spagg's Nude Scene," which have stirred local debate on the limits of free speech. [Ed note: Spagg, 50ish, paunchy, and very unattractive, has been doing shows entirely in the nude on Portland cable public access for several years.] "He is fighting fire with fire. He is trying to incite people to vote for censorship." Said Robert Peters, president of the New York-based Morality in Media, an anti=pornography group: "If he's going to pro- duce some hardcore porn flick and put it on cable access to make a point, no thanks. We can't support that, and no re- sponsible anti-pornography group would." * Priap an83627@anon.penet.fi Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!news.kth.se!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!cs.utexas.edu!uwm.edu!spool.mu.edu!mnemosyne.cs.du.edu!nyx10.cs.du.edu!not-for-mail From: athresto@nyx10.cs.du.edu (Anne Threston) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: A tasteless gardener's pal Date: 7 May 1995 14:02:11 -0600 Organization: Nyx, Public Access Unix @ U. of Denver Math/CS dept. Lines: 57 Message-ID: <3oj903$a5d@nyx10.cs.du.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: nyx10.cs.du.edu X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Now that it's garden season, here's an interesting tidbit from the _Field Guide to the Slug_. " Although slugs are hermaphroditic, each animal equipped with both male and female reproductive organs, they mate with themselves only if no other slugs are around. Given a choice, they seek partners with whom to trade genetic material, a move that, by favoring the passage of chromosomes from both parents to the offspring, nurtures a healthier pool of slug genes. The actual exchange of sperm is preceeded by an elaborate courtship ritual, which supposedly reduces the chance of two individuals of separate species mating and giving rise to hybrids. During courtship, two slugs will circle each other, [...], with both partners engaged in ritualized bouts of lunging, nipping, and sideswiping with their tails. The two slugs may also display their disproportionately large sex organs. The great grey garden slug's penis is nearly half its total body length. In fact, penis size is reflected in the scientific name of one banana slug species: dolichophallus- Latin for "long penis". "The sight of a courting pair of slugs majestically circling one another [...] while they solemnly wave their oversized penises overhead puts the most improbably athletic couples of Pompeii and Khajuraho into a more appropriate and severely diminished perspective," note researchers C. David Rollo and William G. Wellington. "Athletic" is an even more appropriate adjective for great grey garden slugs, which are able to copulate in midair, suspended by stretchy strands of mucus up to 17 3/4 inches long. As courtship progresses, a banana slug pair intertwines, [...], stimulating each other for several more hours. Their genital areas swell as the pair move even closer together. Penetration takes place, then each slug alternately releases and receives sperm. [...] Now the slugs must disengage- a challenge for two animals so amply endowed and thoroughly covered in sticky mucus. After long bouts of writhing and pulling, the pair may resort to [...] apophallation. Translated, this means that one slug gnaws off the penis of the other. Is there an advantage to such odd behavior? Yes, according to Adrian Forsyth, author of _A Natural History of Sex_. The apophallated slug, says Forsyth, "cannot regrow his penis and is now obligated to be a female and forced to offer eggs." [...] In other animal species, gigantism has been a precursor to extinction. Only by submitting to the shears can banana slugs maintain their inordinate organs." So there we have it. The slug. Well hung, can fuck for hours suspended by a rope of snot, all to get his dick chewed off in the end. There's a moral in there somewhere... Anne -- "Every now and then she brings me to the brink of orgasm and then smacks me on the dick with a waffle iron. My cock is starting to look like a pizzelle." C. Krusen Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!news.kth.se!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!news-e1a.megaweb.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: hintysen@aol.com (HinTysen) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: A tasteless gardener's pal Date: 8 May 1995 03:59:48 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 30 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <3okj1k$i10@newsbf02.news.aol.com> References: <3oj903$a5d@nyx10.cs.du.edu> Reply-To: hintysen@aol.com (HinTysen) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Excellent lesson on the lovely life of the slug, Anne! I have an unrelated but slightly on-topic anecdote to report. A recent Saturday, I was reading a.t and listening to the radio, and Jerry Baker's Garden Hotline show came on. He's the Master Gardener, the guy with the Garden Weasel ("And that's a mulch and that's good for your garden") who has a line of garden shit for sale at Kmart. Several times, callers asked Jerry to give them the recipe for a concoction that I believe will help fertilize and feed new plantings. He said it four or five times: "Can of beer, can of coke, spoon of dishsoap, spoon of ammonia..." Eventually, the last item always came up: "... and an ounce of urine." Finally, a caller asked: "Did you say urine, Jerry?" "Yup." "How do I get that?" "Everybody's got some, hon." "You mean PEE?" "Yes." He then gave an explanation on how it provides uric acid and helps ammonia get absorbed into the plants' systems or whatever. (Don't hold me to the exact recipe or the science parts of this, I was laughing too hard.) "You want me to go on my garden?" "No, just one ounce in the mixture." Thankfully, the woman didn't say she couldn't pee only one ounce. Jerry left it up to her to figure out how to get it from her withered cunthole to the garden mixture and moved on to a commercial (no doubt because he needed to laugh hysterically). Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!news.starnet.net!wupost!howland.reston.ans.net!Germany.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!cs.utexas.edu!uwm.edu!newsspool.doit.wisc.edu!decwrl!tribune.usask.ca!canopus.cc.umanitoba.ca!newsflash.concordia.ca!vega.concordia.ca!cp_dine From: cp_dine@vega.concordia.ca (Bangers 'n' Mash) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Come on, now, who are you REALLY? Date: 7 May 1995 05:25:30 GMT Organization: Concordia University, Montreal, Canada Lines: 20 Message-ID: <3ohlka$87n@newsflash.concordia.ca> References: <3oeulp$9nj@newsbf02.news.aol.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: vega.concordia.ca NNTP-Posting-User: cp_dine HinTysen wrote: >Bobbi Hatch: Marlee Matlin or Amanda Bearse >Victor Ivanoff: Malcolm McDowell >Tae: Randolph Mantooth or Chad Everett >Sonja Johnson: That hot number from Medicine Ball >Snedker: Sir John Gielgud >Julia Davy: Heather Locklear >Stepanek: That Booger guy from Revenge of the Nerds >Lenore Levine: Susan Lucci Brandon High: Luke Perry Sean McAfee: Rudy Rucker Miguels XXX: Stephen Hawking Bangers 'n' Mash: Camille Paglia Ed Ming: Ambrose Bierce Buzkashi: Leonard Maltin Anne Threston: Diamanda Galas Julian Macassey: Harvey Keitel Bangers 'n' Mash Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!news.kth.se!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail From: v_ivanoff@am.atd.cra.com.au (Ivanoff) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Come on, now, who are you REALLY? Date: 8 May 1995 21:38:05 -0500 Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway Lines: 64 Sender: nobody@cs.utexas.edu Message-ID: <9645221209051995/A19787/ATDM0/11954B162C00*@MHS> References: <9505090031.AA27286@info> NNTP-Posting-Host: news.cs.utexas.edu hintysen@aol.com (HinTysen) writes: >What if _everybody_ on a.t was actually a famous celebrity - of film, >music, literature, religion, you name it - who created a fake account to >post their true feelings without having it picked up by the National >Enquirer or something. > >For instance, I am, in fact, Meat Loaf. I've got the gut, the dirty mind, >and the pipes. > >Who are the other regulars? I have some guesses: > >Bobbi Hatch: Marlee Matlin or Amanda Bearse Bob Christ: one of the guys from ZZ Top. >Tae: Randolph Mantooth or Chad Everett Nah. He's Fu Manchu. >Snedker: Sir John Gielgud Absolutely spot on. >Julia Davy: Heather Locklear Hubba, hubba. Something you haven't been telling me dear ? >Stepanek: That Booger guy from Revenge of the Nerds Or Lee Marvin. >Lenore Levine: Susan Lucci or Andrea Dworkin blowing off some steam. >Victor Ivanoff: Malcolm McDowell ??? I'm really Sam Peckinpah. That overdose was just a carefully staged departure from a callous and thankless Hollywood that consistently refuses to recognise true genius. I now devote my time to stalking ex-lovers and perfecting blood squibs for blowing the heads off chickens. And don't forget - Rauli: George "the Animal" Steele Adam Thornton: Lex Luthor Dave Skreiner: Timothy Leary Julian Macassey: Harry Dean Stanton Louise Rogow: Lydia Lunch (BTW where's she hiding ?) Jo Miller: Helen Reddy John Hollister: the real side of Rush Limbaugh (ain't it always the case with them conservatives ?) Victor ======================================================================== | V_IVANOFF@am.atd.cra.com.au | "I don't care how big they are, | | Please E-mail followups of note. | a thumb in the eye gets 'em every | | Crappy, constipated news feed. | time", Jesse 'the Body' Ventura | ======================================================================== Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!news.kth.se!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!demon!btnet!uunet!earth.usa.net!bongo!julian From: julian@bongo.tele.com (Julian Macassey) Subject: Re: Darwin gets his rocks off Message-ID: <1995May7.215018.21982@bongo.tele.com> Organization: Buggers for Beauty References: <3obpcu$gce@portal.gmu.edu> Date: Sun, 7 May 1995 21:50:18 GMT Lines: 47 In article <3obpcu$gce@portal.gmu.edu> tvalesky@site.gmu.edu (Tom Valesky (CS 555)) writes: > >Whoa! Does anyone else have the feeling that we have just witnessed the >dawning of a whole new era in the field of "tasteless ways to die while >jacking off?" OK, I've been hanging on to this one for a while. I have a friend who is doing his Pathology residency at Dartmouth U.(Not the Brit naval college). He gets to do some interesting autopsies every now and again. He is a quiet lad, so would not be inclined to post this sort of stuff to places where it really matters - alt.tasteless. He did an autopsy on a patient that had a "penisectomy". For those AOL readers with that puzzled look on their faces, that means the doctors cut his dick off. Turns out the guy was using a clam to masturbate. Yes, he and a shell fish were having a relationship. Well, we assume he cut his snot sausage on the clam. Clams, are really little bacteria filters with sharp edges and a nice soft center. Nothing makes them happier than sucking in plankton and bacteria. So your average shell fish is a living Petrie dish of contagion. Mr Tiny was therefore infected by this act of love that went wrong. So, what would you do if you cut your pecker in the throes of lust and passion? Nothing. Who is going to say "Er Doc, I cut the ol' wand while whacking off into a clam." So, it got badly infected. Then when he got Gangrene of the moisture missile he headed off for medical help. Too damn late. Gotta chop off the pecker. Then it turns out that this guy is an undiagnosed diabetic. Bad news. This means a predisposition to gangrene and other nasties in the first place. Then the infection is creeping up his body. So what started out as a routine penisectomy, ended up three weeks later with a dead patient who was not only missing his pecker, but most of his lower parts too. When the infection hit his kidneys, he checked out. Let this be a warning to you that you can't even have "safe sex" with a clam. -- Julian Macassey, N6ARE julian@bongo.tele.com Voice: (414) 457-0874 Paper Mail: 210 Bleyer Drive, Sheboygan, Wisconsin 53081-8712 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!news.kth.se!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!cs.utexas.edu!venus.sun.com!news2me.EBay.Sun.COM!engnews2.Eng.Sun.COM!usenet From: geoffm@purplehaze.Eng.Sun.COM (Geoff Miller) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: FLAME ME, MOTHERFUCKERS!!!!!!!!!! Followup-To: alt.tasteless Date: 10 May 1995 23:56:01 GMT Organization: Sun Microsystems Inc. Lines: 19 Message-ID: <3orjqh$mfs@engnews2.Eng.Sun.COM> References: <3ore2q$9m@news.csus.edu> Reply-To: geoffm@purplehaze.Eng.Sun.COM NNTP-Posting-Host: purplehaze.eng.sun.com Burnt tortilla (miguel@csulb.edu) wrote: : A big FUCK YOU! SUCK MY DICK! EAT THE CORN OUT OF MY SHIT! Not so fast. Is it yellow corn or white? Geoff -+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+- Geoff Miller + + + + + + + + Sun Microsystems geoffm@purplehaze.Eng.Sun.COM + + + + + + + + Mountain View, California -+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+- Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!news.kth.se!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!news.cais.com!cais3.cais.com!enzo From: enzo@cais3.cais.com (SnogHoggin) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Grogan Bombing Pt.2- TOD Korea, Mission 1 Date: 8 May 1995 20:04:46 GMT Organization: Capital Area Internet Service info@cais.com 703-448-4470 Lines: 150 Message-ID: <3oltgu$625@news.cais.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: cais3.cais.com X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Grogan Bombing Part 2: Tour of Duty Korea- Mission 1 First, I would like to thank all for their kind words of encouragement to post more Grogan Bombing stories. Grogan Bombing Part I was the first of what I hope to be many tasteless posts to a.t. As you can also see, I am now posting under the name of SnogHoggin instead of JeKelly. To begin.... When I was 12, my dad received orders to move to Seoul, South Korea, and before I knew it I was living in a city of dog eating, stink like kimche, shit in the middle of the street Koreans. Seoul is a truly tasteless (wonderful) place. You would walk into Itaewon (one of the major markets that was also the home of Hooker Hill) and see puppies tied up outside of several shops. Next day you'd come back and their would be one less fucking dog there-- For you AOL'ers it wasn't a pet store. I had a Korean friend who used to get real upset when his mom & dad would run down the street (screaming something that sounded like someone threw a bucket of silverware down the street) chasing some poor dog who knew that he was going to get a grogran probing from the stick they were about to ram from his starfish on up through to the mouth if he got caught. Anyways, if they did manage to catch the dog they would try to beat it to death with a stick-- which most of the time didn't work. At this point the dog didn't know who or where it was (sorta like a drunk Irishman), and got strung up to a tree dangling with its swollen tongue hanging out of its mouth, drool slobbering down its body, like some poor colored boy who fell victim to the Klu Klux Klan back in the day. Next day you had Kagugai (dog meat)-- BTW dog is delicious-- most of the time you can't even tell that it's not beef with all the spices that they put on it. Yagugai (Water buffalo or Ox meat) is also delicious. Korea is a wonderfully disgusting place. These people are great. You could be riding in a cab and the taxi driver would feel that incessant tugging of his bladder (like the only thing holding back the Han river was his dink) and pull over, step out of the car, whip out his little yellow chink maker, and proceed to send the most godawfully stinky golden spurts cascading down the street. Much to my brother and I's amusement, my mother vomited the first time this happened. Public displays of excretion were not just limited to urinal discharge. The real old craggy looking Korean women (ajimas) would walk around in these traditional dresses, sans underwear. When they had to empty some fermented cabbage (kimchi) through their butt ring, they would just squat down like a dog and build a little dung mountain. The funniest thing I ever saw was when one old lady squatted down in the middle of the basketball court during a school recess. She started to waddle forward as she relaxed her GroganGripper, laying a 14" inch spicy red turd pipe at midcourt. Some of the sixth and seventh graders present, who eventually became AOL'ers, quickly emptied their lunch chunks onto the asphalt and ran inside screaming-- scarred for life. My brother and I however, took great pleasure in casually strolling over to this wonder of nature and admiring the sphincter control needed to create such a work of art. Bright streaks of red, intermixed with a soft and supple mud brown, with the occasional splotch of yellow. Looking back I could now liken it to a Grateful Dead Grogan. Quickly my brother and I helped to awaken the secret desire of Grogran Bombing in our new found friends. This led to the creation of some of the greatest moments of Grogan Bombing in history. Between the North and South Post army base of Yongsan was an overpass above a very *busy* street, near to where we lived. Now your everyday Korean didn't have a prayer's chance in hell of getting on base, so the only thing we had to worry about was Military Police (MP) or some concerned American. Both were not a problem. It was a rainy and very boring day when this rather simple, albeit brilliant, idea first struck me. What if we were to use the overpass as our Grogran Bombing platform? I quickly gathered my friends together to plan our first mission-- Operation Yellow Rain. Since this was our first mission, I wanted it to be lightning fast, simple, and devastatingly effective. Task one was to load up on ordinance-- we all drank *a lot* of soda. Bomb bays full, we dashed over to the overpass and surveyed the bomb site. Weather was dreary-- overcast with a light rain. Street was moderately busy-- many pedestrians walking, employing the use of umbrellas for defense. Then as suddenly as the desire to unleash this pent up supply of gurgling hot yellow fire water, I spotted our target-- a group of women walking our way, employing several umbrellas as defense. We bolted to our positions, adrenaline coursing through our bodies, amplifying the effects of the fear we were all feeling prior to our first mission. Fear which caused our pre-pubescent choads to snailhouse into a rock hard stub, allowing little room for maneuvering. Our assigned target slowly edged closer, while we locked our tiny weapons containing a most deadly payload, on thier target. And as if it were in slow motion, the pre-defined target entered the launch window.... FIRE! All at once six golden jets of yellow hot choad juice shot into the cold rainy air, steam rising off of the white hot rivers of Ghandi breakfast drink, arcing down towards the unsuspecting victims. The rain that was falling upon their black umbrellas, making a soft, relaxing *plit* sound, was instantly transformed by the sound of six yellow thunderstorm makers unleashing the torrent of several thousand extra large golden drops which came crashing into the thin black fabric constituting their only line of defense from the elements. Their defenses were holding strong, the supply of our choad water was almost diminished, until we caught a break. The stupid Korean women, driven by a burning desire to know the reasoning behind this sudden increase in raindrop size, intensity, and velocity decided to lower their only line of defense and take a gander at this divine offering showering down upon them. Sadly for them in this case, curiosity killed the chink. As soon as they slid their umbrellas backward and gazed up at the sky, their eyes encountered six white monkey boys holding their love stubs while unleashing this yellow rain upon them. That one eternal second allowed our golden payload the opportunity to reach its intended target. Thick, heavy, golden sized droplets impacting onto the faces of four surprised and shocked women with a satisfying machine gun sound of *platta* *platta* *platta* *platta* *platta* *platta* *platta* *platta* Shock and horror spread across the face of the victims as the toxic liquid blended in with their beautiful yellow faces-- each nanosecond exposed to the deluge allowed more of our kidney byproducts to seep into their shocked wide open mouths, noise, and eyes. Instinct took over as they dispersed outside of the target window-- our mission was over. We enjoyoed the success. A quick BDA (Bomd Damage Assesment) allowed me to see one of the women shooting me with an insane glare that said she wanted me to go the way of the dog. I don't blame her. However, I wasn't about to let me or my friends go through a Grogansticktomy resulting in us becoming food for the locals. I'll piss on them, but I won't let them eat me. I do have principles. Now if I were an AOL'er, I would now tell you how the women met up with us later and had sex with us. I would tell you how I stuck tuna fish in their twats (butt it didn't make it taste better), and how I then stuck a toothbrush in their arseholes. I would think that this was funni, and kewl-- I would laugh with my AOL friends, and jerk off my clitoral sized choad fantasizing about the event. All the while serious a.t.'ers fantasized about running a garden weasel across my exposed genitalia, over and over and over. However, I am not an AOL'er, so I won't. Our payloads extinguished and the target gone, we zipped up our johnsons while running down the overpass-- the cookwear clanging screams of four urine soaked Korean women growing fainter as the distance between us grew. Fear vanished as confidence in our new found powers washed over us-- not unlike the feeling of driving a steam roller over hundreds of AOL'ers at some pathetic AOL gathering--hearing the *squelch* sounds of their bowels squirting from their bung muscle. Our first missions was a success. Stay tuned for Mission 2: Grogran Bombing a Taxi Cab Driver -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ | Snog Hoggin | "Lookout!" (.|.) "It's like a | | J. Kelly "Fine Irish Taste..." | ).( new set of | | Alexandria, Virginia, USA |-------------- ( v ) golf balls" | | "You know, when you ride that bus... you get there.| \|/ | ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!seunet!news2.swip.net!doc.news.pipex.net!pipex!europa.chnt.gtegsc.com!newsxfer.itd.umich.edu!agate!library.ucla.edu!info.ucla.edu!news.bc.net!vanbc.wimsey.com!scipio.cyberstore.ca!skypoint.com!news3.mr.net!mr.net!winternet.com!pinch.io.org!ionews.io.org!nobody From: sstones@io.org (sstones) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Groganology in NY State Date: 13 May 1995 13:00:18 -0400 Organization: Internex Online (Data: 363-3783/Telnet: io.org) Lines: 36 Message-ID: <3p2oj3$r88@ionews.io.org> NNTP-Posting-Host: r-node.io.org Here's one for all you Groganists who think Groganometry is a lost art. While road tripping through NY State, I stopped at one of the many rest stops along the way. I wandered into one of the stalls and began working on the evacuation of the cold pizza I had eaten for breakfast. I dropped out a couple of un-extraordinary turds... But this post isn't about me. Less than a minute after commencing my grunt session, two small boys, probably 7-10 years old, together entered the stall directly adjacent to mine. Okay I thought, that's not so weird. They are probably travelling with their mother and were told to stay together when she sent them off to the public men's room. Anyway, the little wall between the shitter cubicles begins wobbling. "Cool!" thinks I, "If one of the little fuckers comes over the top into my stall, I get to use it for all sorts of nasty purposes before I throw it back." But, Alas, neither came over. Instead they started giggling. I leaned forward to check for their feet under the partition... Hmmmm. No feet... I can hear them giggling... They must be standing on the crapper, leaning against the walls, that's why they're moving. Curious about what they're giggling about... and wondering if they're looking over the top at me or the other grunters, I look up. nope, they weren't watching others, but at about that time urine began to run onto the floor in their stall. I moved my boots to the far side of the stall, but being uphill, had nothing to worry about. The two continued giggling insanely, and shortly after the urine stopped the most disgusting, beautiful, multicolored, pudding consistancy blob plopped to the floor, increasing the laughter to a shreik. I was able to set off for the rest of the journey, content in the knowledge that the young generation is as strongly tasteless as the people here on A.T. and that Groganometrics is not a dying art. SStones 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!cs.utexas.edu!swrinde!gatech!news-feed-1.peachnet.edu!concert!bigblue.oit.unc.edu!tenney From: tenney@med.unc.edu (Charles R. Tenney) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Manhunt Date: 10 May 1995 04:19:57 GMT Organization: UNC-CH School of Medicine Lines: 42 Message-ID: <3opetd$15ub@bigblue.oit.unc.edu> References: <3o8ar3$g6o@bingnet1.cc.binghamton.edu> <3obnjk$p99@vixen.cso.uiuc.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: cahaba.med.unc.edu Cc: In article <3obnjk$p99@vixen.cso.uiuc.edu>, Lenore Levine wrote: >bb05246@bingsuns.cc.binghamton.edu (John Hollister) writes: > >>I just got back from one of those weekends in NYC where I get more >>sexual partners than the rest of a.t. in all your lifetimes combined. >>Some of the sexclubs there come close to assembly-line dicksucking. > >I bet you're not bad at it, for a man. Oddly enough, the only time I ever purchased a copy of _On Our Backs_, they had an article on cunnilingus, in which a Porn actress said this about another actress. The interviewer said something like, "that must have been great, having her go down on you," and the reply came, "yes, she was quite good, for a woman." In reply to the inevitable followup question, she explained that for reasons unknown to her, she had generally found men to be more skilled at muff diving than women, despite her initial assumption that a woman would know better what women wanted. At the beginning of the article, they mentioned that they had been through all sorts of other techniques in previous issues and had avoided writing up the playing of the hairy harmonica precisely because it was such a stereotype that some people thought lezzies did nothing else. I'd have liked to read the some of the others in the series. Dildos, for example. I bought it as a gag gift for a friend who turned thirty. The reactions among three women at the party were fascinating: the birthday girl just sat there looking through it with a stunned expression, her sister launched into a three-alarm rant about how these women couldn't possibly be feminists if they were publishing pornography, and another friend (hetero, but broad-minded) asked, "now where exactly did you say that bookstore was?" Sadly, I must report that the store, Mondo Books, is closed down. I should have bought more there--they had the whole Re/Search line, trading cards sets like "freaks of nature" and "serial killers," lockpicking manuals, various Loompanics publications... and all could be purchased with now paper trail for a paranoid gov't agency to poke through at unspecified future dates. -- -- Charles R. Tenney charles_tenney@unc.edu | What would the UNC school of | Medicine want with my opinions? "My karma ran over my dogma." | What would I want with theirs? Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!news.kth.se!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!gatech!europa.chnt.gtegsc.com!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: NORNL Poster Child? Date: 8 May 1995 19:53:53 GMT Organization: The University of Oklahoma (USA) Lines: 70 Message-ID: <3olssh$56g@romulus.ucs.uoknor.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: harikari.ucs.uoknor.edu X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Shortly after typing in my last post, I came across this little gem.... KEMPER, EDMOND EMIL The first murders took place on 7 May 1972; the victims were Anita Luchese and Mary Ann Pesce, two students from Fresno State College, Berkeley. The early seventies was still a time when it was compariatively safe to hitch-hike, and college kids all over the United States were using this traditional means of student transport. But it was an unlucky day for them if they were offered a ride by Edmund Kemper...the man who was about to give hitch-hiking a very dangerouds name. Held by Kemper at gunpoint, Anita and Mary Ann were driven into a wooded canyon, violently stabbed to death and their bodies violated before being driven back to Kemper's home in the boot of his car. On 14 September Aiko Koo, a fifteen-year-old Japanese high-school student, was hitch- hiking; Kemper drove her to the mountains, a gun at her head, where he suffocated her, committed necrophilia, and then returned home with her body, which he decapitated. After committing sexual acts with the headless corpse, Kemper dismembered it and took the pieces away to bury in the mountains near Boulder Creek. Cynthia Schall was Kemper's third "Co-ed" victim, and after shooting her dead and abusing her body, he cut it up in the shower and threw the remains over the cliffs at Carmel. The series that had become known as the "Co-ed Murders" continued only a month after the death of Cynthia Schall, when Rosalind Thorpe and Alice Luis were picked up from the Santa Cruz campus on the eveniing of 5 February 1973, after being offered a lift home by Kemper. On the way he pulled out a gun, and without the least provocation shot the girls through the head where they sat. Kemper stopped the car, transferred the bodies to the boot and drove home. Unfortunately, Kemper's mother was in, so he was obliged to perform the decapitation while the bodies were still in the boot. Next morning he cut off Alice Luis's hands and then dumped the mutilated bodies in Edon Canyon, Alameda, where thery were found more than a week later. Easter Sunday 1973. His mother's presence in the house had obviously become an obastacle to Kemper's freedom to kill, abuse and mutilate; this was the day he crushed her skull with a mallet, cut off her head, and hid the rest of her body. Then he invited her friend Sarah Hallett over for tea, beat her over the head with a brick, strangled and decapitated her and had sexual intercourse with the remains before driving off in Mrs. Hallett's car. [blah blah blah... skipping to the good stuff...] At his trial in Santa Cruz in April 1973, Kemper faced eight counts of murder, and was adjuged sane - in a legal sense at least. It was nevertheless revealed that he had been possessed of a strong inclination to sadism even in childhood, when he practised for later life by torturing small animals; even his parents had described him as "a real weirdo." At the age of fifteen, Kemper had shot is grandmother through the head ("I just wondered how it would feel to shoot Grandma."), then his grandfather. Afterwards, Kemper telephoned his mother to tell her that they were dead. [blah blah blah] Sentenced to life in prison. +--------------------------------+-----------------------------------+ | David Hall (DaveMan) | "They are *not* pommels and you | | (405)447-2557 | *don't* steer with them!" | | dehall@harikari.ucs.uoknor.edu | - Kristin Hall | +--------------------------------+-----------------------------------+ Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!panix!zip.eecs.umich.edu!newsxfer.itd.umich.edu!news.itd.umich.edu!mcafee From: mcafee@umich.edu (Sean McAfee) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless,alt.peeves Subject: The Hostname That Never Was Date: 7 May 1995 05:05:25 GMT Organization: University of Michigan Lines: 56 Message-ID: <3ohkel$4ng@lastactionhero.rs.itd.umich.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: stargate.rs.itd.umich.edu So I land a job with the University as a programmer, and I'm told I get to choose a hostname for my new workstation. My mind races, and, when the installation program prompts me for the name, I snicker as I type: sutikin.ifs.umich.edu Perfect! I think. Utterly disgusting, yet obscure enough that very few people could be expected to know the meaning--certainly not any of the authority-types in the organization. I was wrong. Within a day, everyone in my area received a message from the fellow in charge of assigning machine names. It seems that he had at first given my computer the name I had requested, but later he suddenly remembered where he had seen the word before--and quoted the relevant portion of the alt.tasteless FAQ: >SOOTIKIN OR SUTIKIN >A small, mouse-shaped deposit formed in the vaginal cleft, usually of poorer >women who did not wear undergarments - common until the nineteenth century. A >sootikin built up over several weeks, even months, of not washing. It was >composed of particles of soot, dirt, sweat, smegma (qv) and vaginal and >menstrual discharge. When it reached a certain size and weight, it tended to >work loose and drop from under the woman's skirt. Contemporary writings, >including those of Pepys and Boswell, mention men employed in London churches to >sweep up sootikins after services. There even exists one scurrilous account, >from an anonymous source, of a tell-tale sootikin being allegedly found under - >or suspiciously close to - Queen Anne's chair in St Paul's Cathedral during the >Thanksgiving Service for the end of the War of the Spanish Succession. He explained that he had no desire to explain this term to anyone who might inquire, and so he changed the name back to the original, much less interesting "sun3". I can now submit a more conventional name, though I'm tempted to let the current name stand as a tribute to conformity. The peeve is twofold. First, if I can't squeeze in as unknown a term as "sutikin", what the hell ELSE can I use? Second, I am deeply shocked and offended that the alt.tasteless FAQ has been perverted from its holy purpose-- much the way a Christian would feel if the Bible were being used to justify cannibalism (other than the ritualized, officially sanctioned version, that is). I'll gladly accept suggestions for alternate machine names, although I fear there is little hope when even the a.t FAQ is against me. !Peeve: My immediate boss, a woman, told me later that she thought the name was funny, and even handed out printed copies of the "Avoid Foul Language" post that recently appeared on rec.humor.funny (eg, "Not 'Eat shit and die motherfucker!', but 'Excuse me Sir?'", etc.) to me and the other new guy. Peeve: Rec.humor.funny is providing more yuks than alt.tasteless lately. -- Sean McAfee | /\ FORNIT | | /()\ SOME | mcafee@umich.edu | /____\ FORNUS | Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!news.kth.se!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!sun4nl!news.nic.surfnet.nl!howland.reston.ans.net!news.sprintlink.net!noc.netcom.net!netcomsv!uu3news.netcom.com!netcomsv!uucp3.netcom.com!skyld!jangus From: jangus@skyld.grendel.com (Jeffrey D. Angus) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Trashing Ms Daisy Distribution: world Message-ID: <799961179snx@skyld.grendel.com> Date: Mon, 08 May 95 19:26:19 GMT Organization: Just Another Roadside Attraction Lines: 88 One of the more fun things about being psychotic is that you really don't give a fuck. A wise man once said, "Don't get in a fight with an ugly man" My first wife was (if nothing else) stupid. And as if she though I was a loser, she got involved with a real nut case that liked to tie her up and spank her, stalk her, leaves gifts on her parents porch etc. Finally, she decides she's had enough and asks me to interceed. Well, talking with the guy got nowhere. She'd come out of the bar at closing time and find him parked infront of the doorway. Received gifts of dead flowers at work. All sorts of nice things. One evening I got called and was told that this shit for brains was sitting down the street from her parents house. So, I parked down the street a ways and walked up on his blind side. I tapped on his window with a .45. Heh heh. That *always* gets their attention. I motioned that he should roll his window down. Then I stuffed the muzzle in his nostril. (Tell me if I got this right Ken, at this point, if I pushed hard enough, I could hang up the slide on the .45 and he'd be "safe" against accidental discharge.) After explaining to him I didn't wan to thear of him hanging around and being a general pain in the ass to my (first) ex-wife I let him go home. (Mistake) Apparently on the way home, he stopped by my place and heaved a brick through the window. I love a challange.... now on to the part about trashing. A buddy of mine was called in to assist. (Mainly to help carry the goodies.) Around 10:10 am or so, I pulled up in front of the shithead's house (actually a triplex in Wilmington, but who's telling this anyways?) and parked. Both my buddy and I had orange jumpsuits on. Similiar to either Cal-Trans or Orange county prison garb. With a logo on the back that read, "Ace Home Wrecking". Walking up to the back apartment, I wound up with the 12 pound sledge and took care of the series of locks and deadbolts on the front door. Funny, you would think if a guy spends all that money on locks, he'd spend a little on the door jamb. In we go. I hand the sledge hammer to the buddy and instruck him to do the sinks and toilets. Then make sure all the water is turned on. Meanwhiles, I emptied out every container under the sink on the carpeting. Slashed all the furniture. Dumped all the books off of the shelves. Double checked the buddy, and told him to punch holes in the walls every 16" or so. Then proceeded to take all the 8-track tapes, cassettes and records and put them in the oven. On our way out, I put the sprinkler in the living room and turned it on. Total elapsed time, under 5 minutes. Total damage? I shudder to even think about it. I'm fairly certain he knew who was responsible. I had a broken windshield waiting for me when I got off of work and came out to the parking lot. Oooh, we want to act like shit heads do we? Off to the local copier shop and print up several copies of: Dear concerned neighbors. My son was molested. He is terrified and refused to testify. The police say there is nothing we can do about it. But there is. You can help prevent this from happening again. Keep your children away from and warn them about . If you would like to tell him what you think of his actions, you can call him at . Signed, a concerned Mom. Yeah, printed several hundred copies of that and hit every windshield within 6 blocks of his house. Also, ever windshield in the parking lot where he was working at the time. As a nice touch, I put a similarly sized piece of paper under his windshield that morning with an ad for carpeting. After the people he worked with went out to the parking lot to drink beer, I gave him a call at work and told him perhaps he should leave before they came back in. Oh, and "also, I'd be careful when you came home too." He moved. I hadn't seen him for years afterwards. I did give him a call at his new house just to let him know I knew where he was living. He was a model citizen after that. Well perhaps not, but at least he found someone other than my first wife to fuck with. heh heh heh. Several years later, I spotted him in a local restraunt. I wlked up behind him and clasped his shoulder. "Well well, Herr Wedekind....." I think I took several years off his life. How touching, he still remembers me. -- "Ideas are more powerful than guns. We would not let our enemies have guns, why should we let them have ideas." -- Joseph Stalin Amateur: WA6FWI@WA6FWI.#SOCA.CA.USA.NOAM Internet: jangus@skyld.grendel.com US Mail: PO Box 4425 Carson, CA 90749 Phone: 1 (310) 324-6080 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!news.kth.se!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!noc.netcom.net!ix.netcom.com!netcomsv!uu3news.netcom.com!skyld!jangus From: jangus@skyld.grendel.com (Jeffrey D. Angus) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Trashing Ms Daisy Distribution: world Message-ID: <800032023snx@skyld.grendel.com> References: <1995May8.210520.3796@mixcom.com> Date: Tue, 09 May 95 15:07:03 GMT Organization: Just Another Roadside Attraction Lines: 38 In article <1995May8.210520.3796@mixcom.com> Joseph writes: > In <799961179snx@skyld.grendel.com> jangus@skyld.grendel.com (Jeffrey D. Angus) > writes: > > > My first wife was (if nothing else) stupid. And as if she though I was a > > loser, she got involved with a real nut case that liked to tie her up and > > spank her, stalk her, leaves gifts on her parents porch etc. Finally, she > > decides she's had enough and asks me to interceed. > > You know, this was indeed a fun story. But even though I think I know the > answer, I still have to ask: Why the fuck did you go to all this trouble > for the EX-wife? Simple, she was still fucking me. Before, during and after the second marriage. Then one night she asks me, "What's my position in your life?" I said, "Underneath me on Fridays." She got up and left. I haven't seen her since. Was it something I said? > P.S. - Woulda been more fun to trash _her_ house, and leave behind large > clues that point to _him_. Calling the cops and telling them about the > brick through your window would pretty much guarantee they'd suspect him. Did that with the 2nd ex-wife. My house got burglarized. I got home and found out about it around midnight. My ex was living with the local dope dealers two houses west of me at the time. I adamantly swore that she was NOT the one, and that I suspected the local gang members (I was right it turned out), but the sheriffs decided to pull a search warrant at 1 AM and take a look at the neighbors house anyways. WHile they were in there, they arrested most of the occupants for a variety of stupid shit. (Things like getting in the officers face after being told to sit down and shut up.) -- "Ideas are more powerful than guns. We would not let our enemies have guns, why should we let them have ideas." -- Joseph Stalin Amateur: WA6FWI@WA6FWI.#SOCA.CA.USA.NOAM Internet: jangus@skyld.grendel.com US Mail: PO Box 4425 Carson, CA 90749 Phone: 1 (310) 324-6080 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!news.kei.com!uhog.mit.edu!news.mtholyoke.edu!news.umass.edu!caen!zip.eecs.umich.edu!newsxfer.itd.umich.edu!europa.chnt.gtegsc.com!gatech!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: What a sweatheart... Date: 8 May 1995 16:07:51 GMT Organization: The University of Oklahoma (USA) Lines: 105 Message-ID: <3olfkn$kte@romulus.ucs.uoknor.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: harikari.ucs.uoknor.edu X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] In yet another vain attempt to raise the signal to noise ratio around here I have decided to read you all a wanking^H^H^H^H^H^H^Hbedtime story. And so, with no further hoopla is tonight's edition of 'The Encyclopedia of Serial Killers'. Note: all mispellings are mine unless otherwise marked. NELSON, EARLE LEONARD Nelson was an odd-looking man, with the receding forehead, protruding lips, and huge hands that led to his nickname "The Gorilla Murderer." He had been born in Philadelphia in 1897, though his mother died of venereal disease contracted from his father when Earle was less than one year old, and he was fostered out to his Aunt Lillian. She was a devoutly religious woman, a trait which she instilled into her impressionable young nephew, with whom religion would become a Bible- thumping obsession. At the age of ten Nelson suffered a severe head injury when he was hit by a moving streetcar, and this trauma left him with physical and mental problems throughout his life. In fact as early as 1918, Nelson was admitted to a mental hospital after attempting to rape a neighbour's daughter. He absconded several times and was readmitted; the following year he contracted a marriage which was fated to last a mere six months; he was now calling himself Roger Wilson. Between February 1926, and June 1927, as the Gorilla Murderer, Nelson went on a rampage which left twenty-two known victims dead, all women, all boarding-house landladies, all raped and strangled. The first victim was found in the attic of her rooming-house in San Francisco on 20 February 1926; sixty-year-old Clara Newman had been displaying a "Rooms to Let" sign in her downstairs window, Earle Nelson had come to inquire about one. Between this brutal attack and his last, in Winnipeg, Canada, Nelson managed to evade justice by continually moving around and changing his name. On 8 June 1927, Nelson crossed over the border into Canada and hitch-hiked to Winnipeg, where he took a room in a boarding-house in[sic] Smith Street. Here Nelson broke his pattern and the landlady was unharmed; instead Nelson murdered fourteen-year-old Lola Cowan and, as part of a regular formula, hid her body under a bed in a spare room where it was found four days later. In a separate incident on the evening following Lola Cowan's murder, William Paterson arrived home to find his wife Emila missing, and later to discover a suitcase rifled and money stolen from it. Fearing the worst, Paterson telephoned the police, anxious over his wife's whereabouts, but no accidents had been reported. A religious man, Paterson knelt by his bed to pray for strength before retiring, and that is when he found his wife, who had been raped and bludgeoned to death before being pushed under her own bed. It was calculated that Mrs. Paterson had been killed at approximately eleven o'clock that morning; shortly afterwards, Nelson walked into a second-hand clothes shop where he sold items stolen from the Patersons. Then he visited a hairdresser's for a shave where the barber noticed blood on Nelson's hair. Two days later he was heading back to the United States, but that forty-eight hours had given Canadian police time enough to circulate a detailed description of Nelson which was recognised at a post office in Wakopa when Nelson himself walked in. Earle Nelson's known victims ==================================================================== Date Name Age Location -------------------------------------------------------------------- 20 Feb 1926 Clara Newman 60 San Francisco 2 Mar 1926 Laura E. Beale 60 San Jose 10 Jun 1926 Lillian St. Mary 63 San Francisco 24 Jun 1926 Anna Russell 58 Santa Barbara 16 Aug 1926 Mary Nesbit 52 Oakland 19 Oct 1926 Beatrice Whithers 35 Portland 20 Oct 1926 Virginia Grant 59 Portland 21 Oct 1926 Mabel Fluke ?? Portland 15 Nov 1926 Blanche Myers 48 Oregon City 18 Nov 1926 Wilhelmina Edmunds 56 San Francisco 24 Nov 1926 Florence Monks ?? Seattle 23 Dec 1926 Elizabeth Beard 49 Council Bluffs ?? Dec 1926 Bonnie Pace 23 Kansas City 28 Dec 1926 Germania Harpin* 28 Kansas City 27 Apr 1927 Mary McConnell 60 Philadelphia 30 May 1927 Jenny Randolph 35 Buffalo 1 Jun 1927 Minnie May 53 Detroit Mrs. Atworthy ?? Detroit 3 Jun 1927 Mary Sietsema 27 Chicago 8 Jun 1927 Lola Cowan 14 Winnipeg 9 Jun 1927 Emily Peterson ?? Winnipeg -------------------------------------------------------------------- * Nelson also throttled Mrs. Harpin's eight-month-old baby. -------------------------------------------------------------------- On 1 November 1927, Nelson was tried at Winnipeg before Mr. Justice Dysart for the murder of Emily Paterson. Nelson pleaded insanity as a defence, in which he was greatly supported by testimony from Aunt Lillian and his former wife but, after a four-day trial, he was found guilty and, on 13 January 1928, hanged at Winnipeg. Although the victims listed in this account were certainly attributed to Earle Nelson, there is some reason to suppose that he was also responsible for a triple murder committed in Newark, New Jersey, in 1926. Rose Valentine, Margaret Stanton, and Laura Tidor were all landladies, all raped and strangled, and in two cases the body had been pushed under a bed. +--------------------------------+-----------------------------------+ | 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 DAVID@htu.tu-graz.ac.at Wed Apr 26 23:50:42 1995 Date: Wed, 26 Apr 1995 23:34:21 +0100 Subject: a.t on acid Priority: normal Ouch. Last Saturday was pretty damn weird... in fact, so was Sunday. Okay, my father died almost exactly a year ago, so I had a bit of a moronic depression phase over the easter holidays. My bike was broken (broken fuel tank membrane), it was raining anyway, hardly anyone was in town, no human being seemed willing to let me fuck him or her... Until playing computer games and listening to depressing music in a darkened room got on my nerves. Oh, and my bike got repaired. And the weather cleared up. ... so after a fast day riding around Styria like a maniac (on my Honda VF500F, if you need to know), I got a phone call from a friend asking me did I want to go along to the concert? Three french hardcore bands, one straightforward hardcore, one hardcore/performance and one hardcore with celtic music. That sounded strange indeed, and since it'd been way too long since I'd last satisfied my depraved musical tastes, I was soon eager to go. Now this female friend of mine not only makes the best vegie soup in the world and can drink anyone I know under the table, but also is usually a lot of fun when going out. Yes, I did want to come along. No, sorry, I haven't managed to seduce her yet. Anyway, I decided to search for that little Kodak film box filled to the brim with illegal drugs which I hid somewhere in my room. If I was going to party, I might as well party well. 20:00 hours. Found it, too. Decided on a nice-looking lump of (green afghani) hashish which went into my coat pocket... and then discovered the bit of paper I'd wrapped the three trips in. LSD. Oh shit. Even the guy I'd got it from, who is a bit of a nutcase, said he never took more than half a trip. So I cut one trip (brownish- yellow cylindrical shape, about 2 millimeters across, powdery when wet, slightly bitter) into two pieces and swallowed the smaller one with a bit of water. Carefully wrapped the other bit in paper and stuffed that into my pocket too. Then I rode my bicycle to the concert. Met some of my friends there (three female, four male) and told one of them that if I were to become incapacitated, she should see me home.... 21:00 hours. Nothing much happens. Bands are still doing the soundcheck. Two beers. 21:30. Nothing happens, except I'm feeling like I want to dance. This soundcheck sounds good, actually. Two more beers. Chat. 21:40. The bands are getting into the showroom. Another beer. I decide I've been tricked, the stuff probably wasn't acid or it didn't work, so I swallow the rest of it. It's such a small piece anyway. (Yes, the beer had a bad effect on my good judgement.) 22:00. The first band starts. Very energetic male singer, extremely cool female bass player who moved like a crazed kangaroo. Another beer. Dance. (It was two days later that I realized that I hadn't danced even once for one and a half years before that last saturday.) Now dancing, for me, usually means moving my right foot slightly out of rhythm. This time, moving felt good. There was energy in the room. 22:50 or so. Band finishes, I go have another beer. I notice I'm still moving in time with the rhythm. Weird, the second band is only just starting the soundcheck. Oh well. Chat with friends, and think about the acid which does seem to be working now. And a tiny worry at the back of my head, like did someone tell me the stuff took like two or three hours to start working? 23:00, the second band. Spooky. Grungy hardcore with a drum machine, an actor dressed up as death dancing through the audience with a scythe. A small child savagely beating the singer of the first group with a large rubber dildo. Slides projected over the walls, dying soldiers, tanks, burning people, starvation and pestilence and war. So many details... so much energy. I throw off my shirt and jacket, dance like crazy, eat the lump of hash, sucking on it like a herb candy, and go get another beer in the middle of the concert. Tangible energy around the room, the guitar and bass manipulating us like puppet players. Like in some terribly beautiful ritual of writhing bodies, we're dancing to these ugly sounds, to the brutal images in the slides, losing our humanity and identity in favour of a collective writhing mass of uncaring, ecstatic pigs. This must have been the rites the Aztecs went through before and while slaughtering virgins... I don't really remember what happened after this band and before the next started. I know someone tried to talk to me, and I tried to tell him what I'd just seen in the concert. As this guy is in my role- playing group, I told him I'd seen Slaneesh, Warhammer Chaos god of ecstasy and forbidden pleasures. This sorta stuck to my mind... Later. The third band - "LMC Celtic Core" - has a drum machine, bass, guitar, mandolin and flute. Imagine a hard, fast-paced danceable hardcore rhythm, simple but effective bass and guitar line... overlaid by the maddening piping of a thin metal flute, da-dadededa- dahdededededahdah, played by a thin youngish woman of almost demonic appearance, standing completely still in the center of the stage, dressed in a velvet jester's costume. If the previous band was a bit like puppet players, this band controlled its audience like goddamn marionets. (At least, that was what it felt like). I danced like a fucking maniac - and it went by too quick, everything was so full of detail and joy and light and sound, flashes of perception... And the Chaos imagery came back to me. I felt a link betwen the mad twitching of the hard-core dancers' limbs and the drunken jumping- around of mediaeval dancers, to the same maddening pipes and thundering drum rhythms... it was really the same unholy communion, shamanic trance, a depraved ritual where one's self dissolved in a mass of writhing and twitching limbs. The pure evil in the flute player's eyes as she watched the audience go mad to the tunes she played. The frenzy in which the bass, guitar and mandolin hammered their instruments. The sweating, jumping, twisting audience. It must have been then that I first screamed the name of Slaneesh aloud that evening, feeling the raw power of the concert through my fingertips and heart and brain.. not quite seeing, but feeling people around me come apart, fall, give their lives in the ecstatic trashing.... If the earlier band had been the band of people who could kill without thinking, this was music for those who would happily kill others, kill themselves, or have themselves killed by others just for the plain joyous ecstasy of the experience. ... but the concert ended at some point... some punks (kids with green hair and smelly t-shirts) were passing a joint around, I was still moving to the music that had stopped several minutes ago; some of my friends said they were going to this bar/disco place and they'd drop me off at home. Carefully drive home. Shit in the gutters, wet tram rails like snakes, coiling around a curve, twitching slightly as if waiting for prey. A dead hedgehog in the street, its guts spread out by countless tires. Tires, rubber, my own bicycle moving and shaking to some insane rhythm of its own, each loose screw and fucked bearing adding its own irregularities. Home. Wide awake. Okay, have a beer, go have a shit (looking through a comic book, trying not to giggle, and asking myself just how far gone I am tonight, and how long it'll take me to get back to normal. Wiping my ass feels damn good. Every tiny lump in the paper... the slime I'm spreading around even though I've wiped three times already... later, a cold towel against my sphincter, washing me clean... It's 1:30 am. Okay: I can't go to sleep, so I'll leave my bicycle at home and walk to that bar. In the bar: My friends ("Dave?! You're still here?!" - "No. I couldn't sleep." - "*SIGH*"). Lights. Hard and fast music, Ramones, Ministry, Nine Inch Nails, Fugazi, what have you. Thick warm fog that tastes of artificially strawberry flavoured condoms. Dancing people in all sorts of weird dress, dancing... it's not as good as the concert, but I seem to have enjoyed myself. A friend of mine tried to ask me something, but I never noticed him even tough he seems to have yelled and shouted at me, boxed me on the shoulder, bear-hugged and shook me. ... got home around five. Had a shit (ecstatically wiping my butt, again. Yes, I washed it afterwards as well. Brushed my teeth, myriads of soft little living maggots brushing over my stainless steel teeth and palate, ice-cold water and foaming mint toothpaste. Whoah. Went to bed reading comics. Slept until nine, when someone rang me outta bed. Drank lots of water. Put on music (Natural Born Killers Soundtrack), jerked off thinking of that very slim blonde from the concert, oh, and the rather butch but but extremely sexy dark-haired lesbian from the concert. I couldn't remember when the people I'd met at the bar had left (they'd left at six am), wondering where I'd disappeared to. ... sunday was reading comics and Baudrillard, listening to the Pogues and the Cowboy Junkies (twice) and some more music, burning diarrhea from that hellishly hot chinese food sunday noon, and about six liters of water in total. It took me until monday lunchtime until I felt sorta normal again..... dave Okay, legal stuff: The above is a work of fiction. I have never abused drugs, minors or the privileges which my godly system adminstrator has granted me. I do not condone the use of illegal substance, the internet or one's genitals. Skate safe. Wear a seatbelt while tripping. Condoms prevent flashbacks. Oh shit, the next concert is tomorrow..... +------------------------------------------------------------------+ "Of course I'm crazy, but that doesn't | David Skreiner mean that I'm wrong. I'm mad but not ill." | david@htu.tu-graz.ac.at From bell@minerva.cis.yale.edu Wed May 17 02:28:04 1995 Subject: Re: Spoo.jpg (fwd) Message-Id: Heh. I got a little bite on a troll into alt.binaries.pictures.erotica and a.b.p.e.breasts from this clown at aol. I posted an image from the *excellent* pathology server in Utah. The image in question being a single breast attached to nothing, but well color-balanced all the same. The one line the aol'er sent was "you are one sick fuck" Here's the reply. ---------- Forwarded message ---------- Date: Tue, 16 May 1995 17:01:17 -0700 (PDT) From:pmb2@netcom.com To: allword@aol.com Subject: Re: Spoo.jpg Why, thank you. I try. don't you get major wood contemplating a *real* tittyfuck, penetrating the recently amputated tit from behind, feeling the still-warm blood mixing with your precum (and, with luck, the oestrogen manipulation performed on your partner are also causing her to lactate, so when you are done, you can lick the milk off the nipple that has been forced out by your ministrations as a snack? Or even share it with her if you can make it last long enough for the anesthetic to wear off?) I *only* date women I meet at the clinic. You'd be surprised how many fat chicks with breast cancer will let you do *anything* if you'll fuck 'em. Once or twice, I've even gotten one who'd have the mastectomy done with only thoracic spinal anaesthesia, so she can watch while I go at it. And they cry so mightily when I tell 'em (once I've lined up someone new with a promising Stage 3) that I don't love 'em anymore cuz now they're mutilated. Except for the one, years ago, with a Stage 4 -- I married her and inherited her money. Once you've got a metastatic carcinoma like that, the mastectomy is a waste of time. Her tit was a lousy fuck, though, all runny and goopy inside. Early stage 3's are best. From: Geoff.Miller@Eng.Sun.COM (Geoff Miller) The teacher wants the children to play a game where one will start drawing on the board, then one by one will add to it. She thinks and decides not to start with Klaus-J|rgen, because he is so naughty and always have some "unusual" things in mind. So she starts with Anne-Katrin. Anne-Katrin: "This is our House" /\ / \ / \ / \ | | | | | | | | | | The teacher: "Good, Anne-Katrin!" and asks Uwe-Peter to come: Uwe-Peter: "This is our Housedoor" /\ / \ / \ / \ | | | | | _ | | | | | | |_| | The teacher: "very good, Uwe-Peter" and calls Jvrg-Friedrich: Jvrg-Friedrich: "This is our house roof" /\ /UU\ / \ / \ | | | | | _ | | | | | | |_| | The teacher: "Very nice, Jvrg-Friedrich" and calls Bright-Maria: Bright-Maria: "And this is the sun" \|/ -o- /|\ /\ /UU\ / \ / \ | | | | | _ | | | | | | |_| | The teacher: "Very nice, Bright-Maria" and thinks, there is not much damage that Klaus-J|rgen can do with this picture and asks Klaus-J|rgen to come. Klaus-J|rgen: "And this is my father, trying to pick up the soap fallen while taking his morning shower". ______ / \ / \|/ \ / -o- \ | /|\ | | /\ | | /UU\ | | / \ | | / \ | | | | | | | | | | | _ | | _| | | | | |_ (___| |_| |___) Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!Germany.EU.net!Dortmund.Germany.EU.net!Informatik.Uni-Dortmund.DE!ls12z!weber From: weber@ls12z.informatik.uni-dortmund.de (Dominik Weber) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: A mildy tasteless festival Followup-To: alt.tasteless Date: 12 Jun 1995 11:56:02 GMT Organization: Brujah Lines: 95 Sender: weber@ls12z (Dominik Weber) Distribution: world Message-ID: <3rha0j$d5f@fbi-news.informatik.uni-dortmund.de> NNTP-Posting-Host: ls12z.informatik.uni-dortmund.de Hello a.t! I'm just back from a two-day festival. It was a gothic-ebm festival in germany. Some fun things happend there. For example some toilets clogged and some septic tanks leaked out. The sewage drined into the ground, along with rotting lawn it produced a quite good stench, but could have been better. Oh. Toilets again. There were lots of these "cupboard" toilets. The kind of you see at construction sites. Made out of blue plastic. They have an integerated septic tank below. the "bowl" is only an opening with a seat shaped rim. You can see down very good. The floating turds, tampons, used toilet papers, a beatuful panorama. And all is in a blue liquid to contain the smell. Beacuse it gets hot in there. And on a wall is a little piss-place where you can piss in. On the backside there is an opening to the septic tank, so maintainance can drain this out. They pumped the shit all night out of the tanks with a big tank-truck. Kind of shit-on wheels. And all of you can guess whe I've put up my tent? In front of the toilet row. Heh. The bad thing is that my tent has black strings and all the drunken-ready-to-puke-bastards fell over my tent. The tents at my side were occupied by 8-12 people. I arrived at 5 pm on friday. They were drunk. During the night they drank. On saturday they were *absolutely* pissed. Staggering around. They didn't sleep a minute the weekend. Speed and alcohol. I heard them screaming the whole night (when the shit-drining truck stopped for a minute). Well we arrived. I put up my tent. In the meantime one of them come along and ask: "Iz da a tent youre puttin up??" "yes." His face showed that he was trying to think. Then he'd ask me: "Iz da a tent youre puttin up??" I answered with "yess" After three trys he finally got it. Then *another* one came along and the *same* dialog was made. The same scheme repeated itself with the question. "Where d'you come from?" By now the only brain cell not drowning in alcohol forgot the answer to the first question and so they asked me: "Iz da a tent youre puttin up??" This continued the whole weekend. But they were rather funny sometimes. Things I overheard from them: "Dis beer tastes loike piss" "Eet iz. I pissed innit." "Eyy. Y'now why oi loike da sit in da front of da shithouses?" "noooope" "'Cause so oi can lick da girls cumming fresh from crapping" Oh and then was the thing with the "puke words" I asked a totally drunk (of course) fried for a bottle-opener he had from me. Se stood up. looked at me strangely. I stepped back. He gagged. His mouth filled. His cheeks bulged. He swallowed it. But the puke-portion came with its friends. He tried to turn away...too late. While turning he puked all over in a radius of 1 yard. The after some retching, he sat down. (Too bad I didn't have a camera).. I asked again. He puked again. He puked on the puke. I thought my voice had this ability of inducing others to puke. Subsonic vibrations... A quick test with a beatiful girl nearby shattered my dreams. *sigh* But then my freind spke with me. He apologized. While talking he aproached. (the music was *loud*). So I got a full smell of his puke-breath. Talking about puke. A frind of me told me about vomitting dogs. Some punks gave their dogs french fries with mayonnaise and *very stale* *very cheap* beer. They had to vomit all over the place. And I didn't see them or take photos.... Another funny thing was that many people greeted each other with "ebola". ( I asked why. They said that Bwahahaha. Even little cute goth girls. I couldn't resist and told them about some nice effects of this great filovirus. "Ebola? Yes, I remember.. Isn't that the virus which detaches the superfice of your tongue? Oh and you have to vomit blood with bean-sized black chunks. The so-called Vomito Negro. Now you know where that group has its name from. (There is a group called Vomito Negro)" At this point they usually have a disgusted face. No, they don't pale 'cuse they often have white make-up. If that wasn't enough I told them about the liquefying propertys and the effect to pregnant women. Hahaha. Last night I had a dream. I bled out of my nose. I could *feel* the blood on my fingertips and taste it in my mouth. I was tied to an operations table. I saw some strange apparatus extending in my direction. I knew it would rip my bowels out. Alas, I woke up too soon. Dominik -- TastelessPage: http://ls12-www.informatik.uni-dortmund.de/~weber/doc/at/tasteless "I'm scared of you. You are insane. I never want to see you again." a former GF Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!due.unit.no!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!its.hooked.net!worm.hooked.net!not-for-mail From: glosterd@worm.hooked.net (Dean Gloster) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: A thought for Christopher Reeve Date: 6 Jun 1995 00:04:46 -0700 Organization: Hooked Lines: 32 Message-ID: <3r0ume$57k@worm.hooked.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: worm.hooked.net PJOTHAM@britsoft.demon.co.uk (TTT ) wrote: > >Is it a bird? >Is it a plane? >No, it's a paralysed actor !!! > I have this vision, somewhere out in the San Fernando valley, there's an agent, in an open-necked shirt, expensive sunglasses, schmoozing ferociously into his car phone as he drives the freeway: "Les! I'm telling you--my guy's _perfect_ for the part, and with this whole not moving thing, his availability has _really_ opened up. Tell me, Les, that you don't have a role for this guy. You--Les, king of the disease-of-the- week-TV-movies! Chris is perfect for one of those! Great looking guy, even with most of his body covered up by sheets. And he won't move while you're setting up the shots. Easy to work with--and Les," His voice drops to a cospiratorial whisper as perspiration drips onto the phone. "He'll probably kick before the residuals, so you can save a ton...Les? Les?" Poor Christopher Reeves: Anyone can fly through the air at incredible speed, when launched right. It's the _landing_ that's tricky. Dean Gloster glosterd@hooked.net Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!due.unit.no!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!agate!library.ucla.edu!news.bc.net!rover.ucs.ualberta.ca!news.sas.ab.ca!freenet.edmonton.ab.ca!robnorth From: robnorth@freenet.edmonton.ab.ca () Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: a.t wannabe devil's spawn Date: 9 Jun 1995 20:36:20 GMT Organization: Edmonton Freenet, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada Lines: 93 Message-ID: <3rabc4$tkb@news.sas.ab.ca> NNTP-Posting-Host: freenet.edmonton.ab.ca X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2.2E] Once again, a Canadian loony^H^H^H^H^Hmentally ill person proves that we are but a pale imitation of Americans when it comes to true tastelessness. Where's Henry Heepe when you need him? From the Edmonton Journal, Friday, June 9, p. A4. MAN STABBED AUNT TO KILL 'SATAN' Court finds mentally ill 22-year-old not criminally responsible Wendy-Anne Thompson, Vancouver Province DUNCAN, BC -- Jason Delange thought his aunt was Satan, so he stabbed her 17 times. He also drowned cats from the SPCA [hmmm...should I crosspost this to r.p.c?] to "save the world" and listened to the apocalyptic music of The Doors while being traumatized by "the smell" and "visions." On Thursday, a court in Duncan, B.C., found the 22-year-old not criminally responsible for trying to kill his aunt, Corrine Delange, whom he referred to as "the Lizard King." The court ordered that Delange be held at the Coquitlam forensic psychiatric unit for 45 days for assessment. Delange's mother, Donna, blamed police and mental-health agencies for the attack. "We tried desperately hard for months to get help for our son (before the attack). No one would help us," she said. "Now we are stuck with a severely mentally unhealthy man for the rest of our lives. He was a good boy -- he didn't deserve this." Corrine Delange, 46, who lives near her nephew, said she is relieved he's in custody. "I'm not angry but I'm afraid," she said. "I had no idea that I was Jason's focus. It's a relief he won't be down the street from me." During the trial, witnesses and a videotaped confession from Delange protrayed a man traumatized by an evil smell and visions. Delange's girlfriend, Jennifer Ridens, testified he had a vision about his aunt in January, two months before the attack. "He said to me that one time he looked at his mom and Corinne's face came out of his mom," Ridens said. Delange also told Ridens that he and his aunt were the first souls from the beginning of time and that he was the "good soul and she was the bad one." "I thought my aunt was Satan," he said in a police videotape shown in court. "I'm basically on the same time-line as the devil." On March 4, Delange drove to his aunt's workplace, a Duncan stereo store, lured her to a display unit and began stabbing her. Delange later told neighbors to call the police and tried to commit suicide twice after his arrest. Dr. Leanne Meldrum, who has been treating Delange, said he was experiencing his first episode of schizophrenia at the time of the attack. ====== I'm not sure what's more tasteless, this or the story a couple of pages later where Alberta's labour minister suggests that abortions for rape and incest victims shouldn't be covered by provincial health care.... Sigh. Robert -- Robert Slaven email: robnorth@freenet.edmonton.ab.ca or ras1@gov.nt.ca Yellowknife, Northwest Territories, Canada (Quote: Horace Walpole) The world is a comedy to those that think, a tragedy to those that feel. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!news.moneng.mei.com!uwm.edu!newsspool.doit.wisc.edu!decwrl!tribune.usask.ca!news.sasknet.sk.ca!canopus.cc.umanitoba.ca!newsflash.concordia.ca!vega.concordia.ca!cp_dine From: cp_dine@vega.concordia.ca (Bangers 'n' Mash) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Cute Doggie Date: 9 Jun 1995 18:57:43 GMT Organization: Concordia University, Montreal, Canada Lines: 41 Message-ID: <3ra5j7$alh@newsflash.concordia.ca> NNTP-Posting-Host: vega.concordia.ca NNTP-Posting-User: cp_dine Spent the night in a doggy-smelling house the other night. The gf was watching her friend's house - the friend has this ancient dog who has to be kept on a strict food/meds/defecation schedule and doesn't like to be alone at night. There was some risk that the critter would just up and die. It's apparently full of tumors, and stalks around the house all stiff-legged and wheezing. When it wants to lie down, it just falls to one side like a log. Bam. It also makes these very human-sounding noises. So I woke up in the middle of the night from nightmares about Forrest Gump (the gf's friend has a copy on videocasette and we watched the first half just for the hell of it - it sucked, btw) and I heard something in the room going "Huh, huh, HAAAAAAAAGH, HAH, HUH, HAAAAAAAAAAGH" like an elderly chainsmoker. I sat bolt upright and saw the dog standing at the foot of the bed, staring at us. Its ancient, cloudy corneas seemed to glow in the dark. I remembered watching _Devil Dog, Hound of Hell_ as a child and felt a chill run through me - was this varmint possessed? I tried to shake off the feeling and reached over to pat doggie's head. Yuck. Its head was all lumpy and deformed with tumors. Eventually it wandered off to lay some pipe on the newspapers spread on the basement floor. That dog is the closest thing to an AT mascot I've ever seen. Its breath, when it pants, fills the house with doggy miasma, and makes one feel as if one were french-kissing a canine. Its farts are unbelievably rich and three-dimensional, and made us think that the dog had honked out a dirtsnake every time its anus filled the room with toxic gases. Its legs are so twisted from bone cancer that it often appears to be walking on its elbows. And the sound...! Last night in my bedroom a music stand shifted where I had leaned it against the wall, and I jumped because it reminded me of the dog's human-like vocalizations. I am haunted by that evocative "Hah! Huh, HAAAAAAAAAAGGGHHHHH!" Perhaps when the dog finally dies it will produce a residue (no pun intended) haunting and we can invite a Sightings crew to come investigate with their sensitive ecto-scopes, Polaroid Ghost-o-matics and infrared fartometers. Bangers 'n' Mash Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.funet.fi!news.cc.tut.fi!news.cc.tut.fi!rl103465 From: rl103465@ohmi.ee.tut.fi (Lauhanen Rauli) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Exon Vote Tomorrow 6/14 Date: 14 Jun 1995 19:48:40 GMT Organization: Tampere University of Technology Lines: 33 Distribution: world Message-ID: References: NNTP-Posting-Host: ohmi.ee.tut.fi In-reply-to: Andrew Shore's message of Tue, 13 Jun 1995 22:25:32 -0400 In article Andrew Shore writes: Path: news.cc.tut.fi!news.cs.tut.fi!news.funet.fi!news.eunet.fi!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!lamarck.sura.net!darwin.sura.net!blaze.cs.jhu.edu!jhunix1.hcf.jhu.edu!welchlink.welch.jhu.edu!ashore From: Andrew Shore Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Date: Tue, 13 Jun 1995 22:25:32 -0400 Organization: HCF - Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, Maryland, USA Lines: 316 NNTP-Posting-Host: 128.220.59.78 Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII > The battle of the amendments (Exon vs. Leahy) has been postponed until > Wednesday. The full telecomm bill is voted on Thursday. If the > Communications Decency Act gets through the Senate and then the House and > the conference committee etc., this newsgroup will be decimated. Great. Who says that "this newsgroup will be decimated then" ? If they close down alt.tasteless in usa then so what? Propably that would cause 95 % less assholes, 80 % less articles and 15.000 % more quality for this newsgroup. This place was such a zen and harmonic place when this was europe-scandinavia-Aussie-NZ ruled 5 years ago. Then we know what happened.... Just say yes , just say SIEG HEIL ! Rauli -- Rauli Lauhanen rl103465@ee.tut.fi * 50.000 men were sent, to do the will of cunt@cc.tut.fi * (931)3183739 * one. His claim was phrased quite simply Post: BOX 62, SF-32701 Huittinen * , though he never voiced it loud. Genesis , Wind & Wuthering >>>>> * - And I am he , the chosen one ..... Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!nntp.uio.no!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!levine From: levine@symcom.math.uiuc.edu (Lenore Levine) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Stupid Posting of the Month (was Re: Fat Chick) Date: 11 Jun 1995 18:50:33 GMT Organization: University of Illinois at Urbana Lines: 44 Message-ID: <3rfdtp$lmf@vixen.cso.uiuc.edu> References: <3rd245$200$1@mhafc.production.compuserve.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: symcom.math.uiuc.edu D. Johnson <100045.520@CompuServe.COM> writes: >You tasteless types will be so_proud_of me: Yeah, right. >I'm getting ready to go down on this Fat Chick (tm), see, since >it's the only way this swine is gonna give up the poon, right? Congratulations, D. Johnson! You, yes you, have won our new, improved *Stupid Posting of the Month Contest*! You have won a total of 310 *heroic* points, as follows: Dumb Fat Jokes: 20 points Revealing Your Sexual Ineptitude: 100 points Asserting That We Are Going to be (ugh!) Proud of You: 200 points Minimal Literacy: -10 points For your *Fabulous Prize*, you, D. Johnson, have won: Tour historic Central Europe on your dream date with A.T.'s Classic Heroine, Leni Reifenstahl! She's thin, she's ninety-three, and she's all yours! Triumph your will as you kiss the lips which once touched Joseph Goebbels! View "Lovely Leni's" collection of carving knives! And -- last stop of an evening you'll remember the rest of your life -- check out her ovens! They're really a gas! All decisions are final and are the sole property of the judges. Lenore Levine Director of Prizes Alt.Tasteless Quality Control, Inc. P.S. All of the guys here *enjoy* making a woman gibber in the ecstasy of orgasm. I guess you're just not as much of a man as they are. P.P.S. Johnson, huh? How dare you have the same last name as Sonya! Maybe we should just give you to her; after all, she does need to practice her surgical skills. -- "I try never to emulate people who I don't think are very smart, especially where potential explosives are concerned." -- I.M. Bent Message-ID: <030347Z14061995@anon.penet.fi> Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.eunet.fi!anon.penet.fi Newsgroups: alt.tasteless From: an43531@anon.penet.fi X-Anonymously-To: alt.tasteless Organization: Anonymous forwarding service Reply-To: an43531@anon.penet.fi Date: Wed, 14 Jun 1995 03:00:58 UTC Subject: What a real alt.tasteless post looks like Lines: 27 Sifting through the archives in fond remembrance of what once was, days before the idiotic vandalism of pointless cross-posting, infestations of cretins who can't work out what alt.flame or alt.bigfoot are for and think inciting universal contempt for themselves is somehow "tasteless", glory days when you could log on with the safe assurance that at least 10 % of the new posts to a.t actually belonged in a.t... Sitting there I was, all teary eyed, cock in hand, beating it raw, reading the wonders of the kind that are now so sadly lacking, when I stumbled upon this article from Steven, the peoples friend, held dear in the hearts of all that hold a.t dear. Please read, learn and wallow in your own insignificance. Then meditate about how you too can someday begin to approach this standard. (NOTE - this is not directed at newbies in general) So without further ado, from the dawn of time, late 1991 - hospital G.T. Dwarf Alt.tasteless - Solidarity through moral bankruptcy. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- 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. Path: news.ycc.yale.edu!yale!news3.near.net!news2.near.net!howland.reston.ans.net!news1.digex.net!news3.digex.net!access2!tdarcos From: tdarcos@access2.digex.net (Paul Robinson) Newsgroups: dc.romance,alt.personals.fat,alt.personals.tall,alt.personals,alt.personals.ads,alt.personals.big-folks,pdaxs.ads.personals,alt.romance,dc.romance,alt.romance.online Subject: M 34yo 6'2" ISO F - Conversation or more Followup-To: poster Date: 16 Jun 1995 04:45:16 GMT Organization: Tansin A. Darcos & Company, Silver Spring, MD USA Lines: 107 Message-ID: <3rr28s$k07@news3.digex.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: access2.digex.net X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Xref: news.ycc.yale.edu alt.personals.fat:956 alt.personals.tall:677 alt.personals:127561 alt.personals.ads:65102 alt.personals.big-folks:1480 alt.romance:76499 alt.romance.online:25 Hi, my name is Paul. If you're not looking for romance, or if you are, I can handle it either way. For those not looking for romance: I am looking for a woman who would like to communicate with me via E-Mail, on any subject. My favorites happen to be philosophy, logic, religion, sex and other controvercial topics. I love to read, I love to write and talk, and I write very long, literate letters. For those looking for romance: I am an incurable romantic. I am an extremely happy person and I am now aware that I want to share my happiness with someone else who is female. I am 34 years old, I am 6'2", and I'm overweight at just under 400 pounds. Back in January I was at least 100 pounds heavier. I have been losing weight at the rate of 1 pound a day due to the pills I am prescribed. I originally took them for manic depression (because I was unhappy), I didn't even know they caused weight loss. But that does not mean a woman I might find has to be. I am happy with myself and I can live with myself no matter what size I am, or what size a particular woman I might find is. You: I would be interested in finding someone who is intelligent (yes, I can even accept someone smarter than myself, although that may be hard for me to find, but if you are, I'd love to hear from you!), can stand someone with a sense of humor, who is a decent man but has an extremely strong sense of justice and honor. I do not want someone to be playing "head games" - whatever they are - since I do not use people. I am, to the best of my knowledge, extremely honest and I expect people who I meet to be the same way. I can accept anything, nothing can shock me, but I can't accept being lied to. (Note, that's not the same as not telling me everything.) I know that it is usually a red flag when someone starts telling people that they are honest, but I've just been burned by someone who demanded exactly that, then, in effect, proceeded to lie to me. As far as I know, I am completely color blind, and I'm interested in virtually any woman; I find almost all women attractive no matter what their race is. In fact, I've sometimes had an interest in a black girl as well as a white one. My personal preference is for women that are plump, even fat, but I won't find someone who is thin unacceptable. I even like girls with glasses. I also find tall women attractive. I'm 6'2, brown hair and blue eyes. While I'm 34, I'll be interested in women who are older, the same, or a younger age than me. I am very outgoing and have an unusual sense of humor; I can find something funny in almost everything. I sleep about 4 hours a day due to the pills I take, but I sometimes sleep longer if I feel like it. I'm not despirate, I can simply keep looking and replying to other people's ads, as well as meet people on the street or in other places, but I want to keep my options open. I don't think I am interested in a one-night stand; I see that as unfulfilling, but I don't necessarily have to get married to someone if she decides she does not want to be, or if I haven't known her very long. I am eventually interested, if I find the right woman, of settling down, and perhaps, if she wants to, get married and have kids. I would not want to do that immediately - I'd have to get to know her first - and there is always the chance we might not like each other. Because I've been shy and fat all of my life, I'm still a virgin at 34. So, I can stand it if I can't find someone right away. But I'm going to be looking for someone who might be interested in me. Oh, I'd better also state that I would prefer to find a woman who is NOT a virgin; I do not necessarily know that I would do the right things, and whoever I found would have to teach me how to give her what is pleasurable. I do listen and I can learn. I don't know if anyone will bother to respond, but I will answer all letters I get. If you seriously write, I'll write back. Please note that I love to write, so I may end up writing back a very long message, so let me know if you prefer short messages in response. I can accept finding someone merely as a friend I correspond with, or as a friend and a lover, or eventually as a friend and spouse. But I have to be friends with them first. And I have to learn if I can trust them, as I know they must learn whether they can trust me. I'm interested in almost anything. Right now I'm looking at large companies and figuring a way to tell them how to fix their (too low) profit levels. Or anything else I can get paid to fix. I'm also starting an Internet provider for inexpensive news and E-Mail. While I understand technical things, I can talk in ordinary terms that a common person can understand when I have to explain complicated subjects. Well, I can't think of much else to say about myself, so let me hear from you, maybe ask me some questions. -- Ask me about Listmgr - the first PC-Based mailing list manager for E-Mail. Find out about "The Gatekeeper: The Gate Contracts" - Write to address below. Paul Robinson - paul@tdr.com / tdarcos@MCIMail.com / tdarcos@access.digex.net "The Greatest Philosopher in the World, maybe the Greatest who ever lived." Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!news.moneng.mei.com!uwm.edu!newsspool.doit.wisc.edu!decwrl!tribune.usask.ca!canopus.cc.umanitoba.ca!newsflash.concordia.ca!vega.concordia.ca!cp_dine From: cp_dine@vega.concordia.ca (Bangers 'n' Mash) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Krazy Kut-Up (an experiment) Date: 17 Jun 1995 19:29:37 GMT Organization: Concordia University, Montreal, Canada Lines: 38 Message-ID: <3rvaf1$8vb@newsflash.concordia.ca> NNTP-Posting-Host: vega.concordia.ca NNTP-Posting-User: cp_dine The family in terror, vigorously screwing his face and stinking, but it didn't come, Eddie's such a barely developed fetus that I screamed. The greedy pig. The next largest knife in pajamas, and she's in a quiet farmhouse nearby, little nails of teenage pregnancy, bloody connective tissue. I had been a sweater with the rest of putrid organs, after they are crawling up her three-headed fetus. One end of Night, blue-skinned hands in the windowsill overnight and scalp like the truth if time were, and then wandered into writing my shoulder blades. Yeah. Aren't any nice bad words. I am sure, jetting blood like a laboratory. Father, including man, dumb and sweaty like work and do anything you can, hurt you, kinda make a barely developed fetus that news report from the den, you're a news report, that's bad it might think I figured if you, steaming and hence beyond feeling the razor again I thought, growing up, my cock at their children. Strange combinations of all the paradox here, naked testicles. My cock and my hot load deep throated Father's fist. After years, there was the AIDS virus from the incinerator tainting the flocks of loneliness, and take it, and both hands cramming scrotal fragment - still chewing a scaly surface. I want her labia, and the bedside lamp. Strange dream - I readjusted her skull, just what her grip on moist, was reaching for another beer - I woke with her grip on the razor again. I shoved, my balls swayed droopily on moist towelette and placed the knife out of fecal matter, pushed deep into her as her cold hand. The cemetery. Every night, harsh light gleaming from the rabbit population of clitoridectomy and brain had been devoured and she's pretty and it was clad in ground veal, had spontaneously aborted and wandered off. She lost her time, not in a lifelike sitting position in my feelings. Bangers '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!howland.reston.ans.net!torn!ccshst05.cs.uoguelph.ca!ccshst01.cs.uoguelph.ca!showie From: showie@uoguelph.ca (Steve Howie) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: REPOST: Boring but true... Date: 14 Jun 1995 15:54:45 GMT Organization: Aunt Sengas Mealie Puddin' Factory Lines: 29 Message-ID: <3rn0o5$1na@ccshst05.cs.uoguelph.ca> References: <3rbvu9$e2p@linda.teleport.com> <803022645snx@skyld.grendel.com> <3rlr24$q87@newsflash.concordia.ca> NNTP-Posting-Host: ccshst01.cs.uoguelph.ca X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Bangers 'n' Mash (cp_dine@vega.concordia.ca) wrote: : In any case, I would like to hear from someone who did not torture an : animal at least once in his or her career as a child. And yes, insects : count. Not I, but my cousin was a pretty sick fucker on occasion. I remember once he found a large-ish cardboard box, then went out to the chicken coop at the back of my uncles garden. He closed the escape hatch, went inside and closed the main door. The hens used to be bothered by sparrows flying inside to feed on the grain they fed the chickens. So he traps about six sparrows in the cardboard box, comes out, then places the closed box against a wall of the house. he left for a moment, then returned with a pellet gun. He proceeded to empty about 40 or so pellets into the box until all the chirping stopped. He's not like that anymore. :) Scotty -- ================================================================= Steve Howie Email: showie@uoguelph.ca NetNews and Gopher Admin. Phone: (519) 824-4120 x2556 Computing and Communications Svcs. Fax: (519) 763-6143 University of Guelph If it's not Scottish its CRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPP ================================================================= Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!due.unit.no!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!uwm.edu!newsspool.doit.wisc.edu!decwrl!tribune.usask.ca!canopus.cc.umanitoba.ca!newsflash.concordia.ca!vega.concordia.ca!cp_dine From: cp_dine@vega.concordia.ca (Bangers 'n' Mash) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: REPOST: Boring but true... Date: 15 Jun 1995 20:41:13 GMT Organization: Concordia University, Montreal, Canada Lines: 13 Message-ID: <3rq5t9$epm@newsflash.concordia.ca> References: <3rbvu9$e2p@linda.teleport.com> <803022645snx@skyld.grendel.com> <3rlr24$q87@newsflash.concordia.ca> <3rn0o5$1na@ccshst05.cs.uoguelph.ca> NNTP-Posting-Host: vega.concordia.ca NNTP-Posting-User: cp_dine Steve Howie wrote: >Not I, but my cousin was a pretty sick fucker on occasion. I remember once [...] Oh come now. Are you trying to tell me that you've never tortured any small animals? Never even ran a magnifying glass tanning salon for ants and pillbugs? I find that hard to believe. I think playing Dr. Frankenstein with varmints is a natural stage in childhood, but one that (most of us) grow out of. Vivisecting kittens is not something that everyone did as a child, but I'm sure almost everyone has committed morally dubious acts upon tadpoles at one time or another. Bangers 'n' Mash Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!Germany.EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!news.sprintlink.net!demon!glub.demon.co.uk!ketteridgep From: Prophet of the Great God Glub Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Schroedinger's Shotgun Date: 17 Jun 1995 00:21:59 +0100 Organization: The Midden Lines: 480 Sender: news@news.demon.co.uk Message-ID: <803332962snz@glub.demon.co.uk> Reply-To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk NNTP-Posting-Host: dispatch.demon.co.uk X-Newsreader: Demon Internet Simple News v1.29 X-Posting-Host: glub.demon.co.uk Schroedinger's Shotgun, or, "Whassindabox, then?" ------------------------------------------------- I promised I'd tell you about the shotgun incident, so here it is. Nothing too fantastic, but it sparked off a chain of events that took a dark and potentially sinister turn, considering the circumstances I now find myself in. I was sitting in the living room, trying to get some sense out of Jane and attempting to come to terms with her rather startling announcement the night before. One thing I had realised immediately was that losing my rag and ranting and raving would be totally unproductive, so I was being a paragon of compassion, patience and cloying sensibility. Of course, this sent her into further paroxysms of rage, as I wasn't reacting the way she'd expected, or hoped. I think the idea was to get me into such a screaming, abusive tantrum, perhaps even resorting to physical violence, that her actions would be seen to be perfectly reasonable and even laudable. Instead, I was calm and collected (externally, anyway) while she screeched and spat. "Why don't you just hate me!? Why can't you get angry? Blame me! Shout at me, you bastard! Make this easier..." "But, my petal, why would I do any of those things? I need to understand what's been going through your mind, what's precipitated all this, my precious..." And so it went on. I kept it up for several hours, and actually quite enjoyed channeling my emotions this way for a while. It couldn't last, of course - eventually I had to take time out. "FUCKIT," I snarled, "I'M GOING OUT TO KILL SOMETHING!" and went upstairs to get my gun. It's a Zanoletti 12 bore.over-and-under shotgun. To be precise, the design is that of a "Poachers Gun" - it folds in half, the stock folding completely into the barrels, the trigger guard fitting snugly into a notch carved into the wood. This makes it a very compact and easily-concealed weapon, and saves me the hassle of fixing firearm cases in the Land Rover or any of the other vehicles. I just slip it in my coat pocket, or slide it under the seat. But anyway, I went upstairs to the bedroom to unlock the gun cabinet. When I got there I felt around for the keys on top (I was pretty sure I hadn't locked up properly last time). Nothing. Now that's mighty odd. In fact, I seemed to remember having left the keys hanging in the top padlock, which is a real bugger to get on and off - it can take me 20 minutes of struggling with WD40 just to get the bastard open. But the cabinet was locked up, and... no keys. Strange... and just a tad worrying. Here in the UK firearms are more stringently controlled than in the US - the issue of a shotgun certificate involves a lot of vetting, checking references etc by the local police force (in my case the West Yorkshire Constabulary), and they can carry out spot checks at any time without warning. So being the certificate/license holder, and unable to provide the keys to the cabinet, would be seen by PC Plod to be er... careless, to say the least. I called down stairs. "Jane, could you come up here a moment?" When she appeared, I asked her if she knew where the gun cabinet keys were. She denied all knowledge. "Are you absolutely sure?" "YES! I haven't got a clue where the damn keys are!" At this point I suspected she was lying. A small tic had started up in her temple, just above her left eye, and she had this sort of lopsided smile. I let it ride. "Well, would you give me hand looking for them, then?" I asked. She readily concurred. Now I was sure. All the while we searched through the drifts of abandoned clothes, magazines and other household detritus, the tic grew, and her smile with it, eventually becoming an uncontrollable giggle. This has always been Jane's giveaway for fibbing, ever since she was a child. When she was eight, if the kids were lined up to be interrogated as to *who* had broken into the sweetie cupboard, it was always her who broke out into gales of laughter, her subconscious externalising her guilt into open shows of hilarity. So we spent a pointless couple of hours looking for the keys we *both* knew weren't there. Eventually I called a halt to the search. "Well, OK, they're not here. I'm going to have to call the cops." "WHAT?" The tic progressed to knew heights of athleticism. "Well, I'm the holder of the certificate, so as a responsible gun owner, I have to call them and get them to force the case and get the gun to transfer it to a place of safekeeping - either the station or a local gun club. Of course, they'll have to demolish the closet, and knock down the two structural walls it's attached to to get to it, but it's the only way..." "Erm... I *DO* know where the keys are, actually... they're in the bathroom cabinet..." I professed to look shocked. "You what? Whatever for?" "I,... er,...um,... dunno, really,..." Oh yeah, Tic City. Actually, I was more than a little shocked. What the fuck had been going through her mind? I could think of only three possibilities, each of them disturbing: A) She was so psychotic she was going to blat *me*; B) She was so psychotic she thought I was going to waste *her*; C) She was so vain she thought I was going to off *myself*. As it was, it was C) that appears to have been her main (though not only) concern. "Weeeell, Matthew (bro'-in-law) sez his mate Carl used a cable-tie around his throat to fix a plastic bag filled with solvent-based adhesive over his head, when Vanessa left him..." Pathetic. Weenie. Coward. Opt-outer. Damn sticky as well. What really pissed me off was the assumption that I was the suicidal type. What monumental arrogance! Anyway, having wasted most of the dregs of the day trying to locate the godamn keys, it was too late to go looking for prey. The next day, a Sunday, I decided to visit my clay-shooting club for some much-needed frustration-venting self-therapy. Fetching the gun, I came across that sticking top padlock again. It *really* was stiff, and I had to struggle with it for quite some time before it slid (grated) out through the U-bolt. Something bothered me vaguely about this, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Putting it out of my head, I slung the gun in the back of the Land Rover and headed out to Ottley-Chevin. Surprisingly, given my mental equilibrium, and the fact that I hadn't shot competitively for over a year, I thought I did rather well - a hit-rate of about 75 per cent. Full of myself on my return, I was brought down to earth with a few choice words: "Well of course you did better - after all, this time each clay had a face on it, didn't it?". Well, this cheap shot really got me... truth hurts. I decided on a retaliation of sorts. Halfway up the stairs I experienced epiphany - two in fact. One was the explanation of the vague unease that had been nagging at me, the other the method of my payback. Later that evening, when Jane had bade me goodnight, and was heading for bed (she'd set up her den in the spare bedroom), I called her into the master bedroom. "Waddya want?" "Oh, I just want to clear something up about the cabinet keys, that's all. Did anyone give you a hand with the locks at all? John, or Chris, or anyone?" "No... why?" "Oh, nothin'... so you didn't have any trouble at all then?" "No, of course not... I already told you... what's all this about?" She was staring at the cabinet in the corner of the closet, as if close inspection of its blue- metalled bulk would give her some insight as to my line of questioning. That tic had started up again in her temple. I sat down on the edge of the bed. "It's just that... I dunno, that cabinet seems to represent some intangible threat to you, its contents some unformulated fear that you're unable to deal with properly..." "What the bloody hell are you going on about? I'm off to bed!" "No, wait, I need to know... you never did look *inside* the cabinet, did you?" The twitch was thumping out a staccato beat now, the familiar lopsided grimace reappearing. "Of course I did, what do you mean...?" She started fiddling with one of her earrings. "Do you remember, a long time ago, when I told you about Schroedinger's Cat?" Jane looked confused, puzzled, irritated. "Who's cat?" The bright sunlit day of the memory faded, and I found myself back in the dim confines of the cottage bedroom, Jane gazing at the gun cabinet, while I sat on the edge of the bed, left arm supporting me, the right trailing down. Her face registered various emotions. Confusion, puzzlement, irritation, perplexion. Followed by a dawning comprehension. "Who's cat?" "Schroedinger's" "You're not going on about that metaphysical probability wank again, are you? That Kraut who killed his cat... or not? Is that was this bullshit is about?" "I wouldn't have put it quite that way, but... yes, I guess you could say that..." "What's a dead (or not) fuckin' cat got to do with anything?" The tic was convulsing now, and the edge of her mouth was pulled up into a gargoyle's grimace. "Well, you seem to be treating that cabinet in much the same way as that box... except you haven't taken a very methodological approach to it. Either you're playing mind games - MindFuck - with me, or your idea of home, and firearm security is severely lacking" "What the fuck are you talking about?" "Wanna know how I *know* you *never* opened the cabinet?" "Er, um, yes" "If you *had* opened the cabinet, you never would have locked it again and hidden the keys..." I keep the Zanoletti well oiled and maintained, to preserve its' most impressive and show-stopping properties. Straightening up from the bed, I brought the folded weapon up from beneath with a hitch of the wrist. The twin barrels, catching the light from the 60-watt bulb, swung up and completed their 180 degree arc as the breach snapped to with a satisfying . "...'cos it's been under the bed all the time!" Jane's face was a picture! By 'eck, I'd like to be able to engender those facial expressions at the push of a button! Shock, surprise, fear, horror, terror, awful comprehension... "you... but.... how... I mean I... what... why..." I decided to temporarily defuse the situation. I gave her my best sympathetic, understanding "Uncle Pierre" disarming chuckle: "Hnghh, hnghh, hnghh, hnghh..." which escalated to the 'Pierre' indulgent kindly laugh "Hyuk, Hyuk, Hyuk, Hyuk..." "Oh dear, darling, I'm sorry," I was wiping my streaming eyes with my spare hand, "You see, it's just a joke... the gun's been in the cabinet all the time, I was just ribbing you..." (and this was true, the gun *HAD* been in the cabinet all the time, except when I went shooting; It was the stiff padlock which let me into the secret that she'd never unlocked it, opened it, and looked inside; however, she didn't know that) "But here's the rub: to you, this will always be 'Schroedinger's Shotgun', and you'll remember this always..." I got up and put it back in the cabinet, leaving the padlocks for later. "Because no matter what I say now about ribbing and joking, YOU'LL NEVER REALLY KNOW FOR SURE, will you, daaahling? Wanna play MindFuck with me, Baby?" Her face was in turmoil, the skin and muscle beneath roiling and tensing as her nerves went spastic. She mouthed one word at me before running to her bolthole room and locking the door behind her. "Bastard!" Charming, I must say. I give the ungrateful bitch a valuable lesson in probability theory, basic domestic security and firearm handling, and she runs about screaming about "unreasonable behaviour" and "mental cruelty"! The mind boggles. -- Pierre Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!uunet!portal.austin.ibm.com!geraldo.cc.utexas.edu!cs.utexas.edu!swrinde!hookup!lamarck.sura.net!nntp-hub2.barrnet.net!news1.digital.com!decwrl!tribune.usask.ca!canopus.cc.umanitoba.ca!newsflash.concordia.ca!vega.concordia.ca!cp_dine From: cp_dine@vega.concordia.ca (Bangers 'n' Mash) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Tasteless Classic Reposts: Three from Lasky Date: 18 Jun 1995 19:32:12 GMT Organization: Concordia University, Montreal, Canada Lines: 194 Message-ID: <3s1uvs$5vh@newsflash.concordia.ca> NNTP-Posting-Host: vega.concordia.ca NNTP-Posting-User: cp_dine Here are three posts from Alex Lasky that made me laugh. They are from the not-so-distant past, so don't be surprised if they seem familiar. If you don't have them archived, do so now - you would be a FOOL not to. Enjoy. *** From gut@elec.apana.org.au Tue Mar 7 01:55:53 EST 1995 CRIME WAVE LINKED TO NEW BALDNESS CURE Paris, Tuesday:- European police believe that a crime wave currently sweeping Europe may be linked to a new cure for baldness developed in France. The baldness cure was announced in Spetember 1994 by a team of researchers at the Paris-based General de Gaulle Institute for the Elimination of Personal Hygiene. It involves the transplantation of hairy boogers from the nose to the affected regions of the scalp. The technique, known as "putty fusion", is extremely simple, and the only equipment required is an index finger. The result is indistinguishable from natural French hair. Although used as a traditional folk remedy for many years by Glaswegian tribespeople, putty fusion has long been neglected by professional practitioners because of its tendency to come loose when washing. However the French have not found this a problem. The immense popularity of the new technique has caused considerable social unrest in France, where boogers now sell for up to US$500 each. Many collectors have had their houses burgled and their prime boogers stolen; sometimes the boogers vanish without trace, and sometimes the owners receive ransom notes threatening to melt them down. Severe raw materials shortages have been reported in the construction and chewing gum industries. Theater seats and tablecloths around the country have been dismantled and stolen in their thousands by eager booger-hunters. More worrying still has been the increase in booger-related violence, where passers-by have been knocked unconscious and their boogers stolen. This contraband trade has now spread internationally, with organised gangs roaming the countryside of Greece, Spain and Turkey in their search for the hairiest nostrils. As a result the Greek government has passed a law prohibiting men from growing their nasal hair beyond the collar, an unpopular law which is widely flouted. French police seem unwilling or unable to stop this flourishing crime wave. As the sticky-haired French minister for External Affairs, Miguels Grauguin has stated: " FEh , you stupid blluddy foreners pig dogs fatties, we frnch are the best in th e wirld, we pRODce the finest chees and we have biiger peanis, we doo what we like!! shut up !!". Yet the French police may be forced to act soon. Already more dangerous forms of hair replacement therapy are appearing to exploit the gap in the market. Particularly prized are the so-called "brown boogers", which are known to cause extreme sexual excitement in French women. Police believe these are linked to more brutal recent assaults in which gangs of youths have held down victims, stripped them, and wiped their anuses; some victims have been killed in their frantic attempts to resist their attackers. *** ~From: alex lasky ~Date: Sat, 25 Feb 1995 23:52:43 GMT Heard on the radio today about an international and intercity comparison of testicle size in men. It confirms pretty much what you would have expected, although there were no similar comparisons done for women. Testicle size varied by as much as 10 ml. The largest testicles belonged to the Finnish men tested, who averaged 28 ml. The smallest testicles belonged to (you guessed it) Parisian men. In Australia, Sydney men were larger than Melbourne men. Once again, no surprises there. One thing they did not make clear was exactly how the tests were conducted. I imagine it would have been as follows: A man walks through the doors of a Paris hospital with his unwashed hands thrust deep into his pockets playing with small change. "Allo,, I anm her e for seXUalitty experimbents!! Heh. I think so" He is led to a room on the first floor, where a pretty young nurse is standing behind a desk dressed only in her underwear. He smiles at her crookedly, revealing two rows of broken yellow-and-black teeth interspersed with pieces of garlic and frogskin. She smiles back at him, provocatively fidgeting with the hair on her chest, and invites him to take off all his clothes. He does so, wincing in pain as he tears off his underwear, which is glued to his body hair by years of sweat, semen, cheese and accumulated fecal matter. The nurse then tells him to approach her desk, and he does so, drooling with anticipation as he walks, his hand furiously stroking at his undersized genitals. She kneels before him and asks: "Would like me to use ny hand or my mouth?" The man makes some spastic gestures with his oversized tongue, as puddles of his drool drip on the floor. "Very well, the mouth then." says the nurse, "Close your eyes." He does so, and the nurse moves her face closer to his crotch. She holds her breath, steels herself, then she severs his entire scrotum with one quick, clean bite. She spits the testicles into a beaker full of water and notes the small increase on the volume scale. She holds the beaker up to the man. "All right," she says, "you can open your eyes now". *** From gut@elec.apana.org.au Sat Mar 18 16:54:12 EST 1995 rwo@raptor.eng.ufl.edu (Video Jesus) wrote: >[I found this in the U.S. Patents database. JZ!, what a pair of > sicko minds thought *this* up!] > > The nature of the invention is one of bodily harm to men during the act > of rape. It is an intra-vaginal anti-rape device which consists of a thin > rubber pocket, reinforced in a cage-like manner with heavier rubber, which > fills the vaginal cavity and has at its open end, at the vaginal opening, > a flexible metal rim containing, within its circumference, pointed, > curved, plastic spears which trap a rapist's penis by embedding their > points under the head of the penis upon outward movement. Yes, but you didn't think this would go unchallenged did you? --------Begin quoted message------------------------------------------- Professional Tools Pty Ltd, a long-time and established purveyor of torture implements and weekend paraphernalia is proud to announce a new product for the discerning debauchee: *THE METAL-HELMETTED SNOT NAZI* This new all-metal ribbed re-usable condom is made of the toughest steel to ensure immunity against anti-rape devices while causing maximum damage to your *BITCH*. Check out these features: Carbide steel shaft to Serrated edge ensures Barbed wire tip to cut withstand the tightest you don't need to ask up the goddam *BITCH* 2-year-old vaginas and her how it feels! cervix good and proper the most brutal anti- | | rape devices \ | | ~~~~~~~}-- \ | ######## ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^######## _ _ _ _ \ |_|_ |_|_ |_|_ |_|_ |===========# _| | _| | _| | _| | / | ########' | _______}--^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^######## | | | | | | | Caustic soda injectors The massive 3" thick Mutilation apparatus dissolve that filthy and 12" inch long with hammer-drill *BITCH* cunt while shaft is available in action lets the making her fucking swastika, skull-and- *BITCH* know just who *SCREAM* in pain when crossbones or Papa her master really is it hits the wounds Smurf insignia Also available are these optional attachments: <\> === /==+ +==\ \ === | | % === ______ \ / \ === =| \ / <\> === ~~~~~~ \_ _/ === O === Electric rotating Six cartridge nail gun Fallopian tube attach- scythe opens up the attachment - ideal for ment with double drill *BITCH* properly for raping Christian lets you fuck the sloppy seconds, thirds *BITCHES* against the ovaries, and beyond! and fourths! wall Yes, the METAL-HELMETTED SNOT NAZI gives you all the benefits of safe sex without any of the safety. ----------End quoted message------------------------------------------ Dammit, that's what *I* want for my TSS gift. Alex Lasky * "Vaginal intercourse with [Ronald] Reagan proved gut@elec.apana.org.au * uniformly disappointing, producing orgasm Sydney, Australia * in only 2% of respondents" - J.G. Ballard *** Bangers 'n' Mash Message-ID: <021401Z16061995@anon.penet.fi> Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.eunet.fi!anon.penet.fi Newsgroups: alt.tasteless From: an43531@anon.penet.fi X-Anonymously-To: alt.tasteless Organization: Anonymous forwarding service Reply-To: an43531@anon.penet.fi Date: Fri, 16 Jun 1995 02:11:22 UTC Subject: What real alt.tasteless posts look like (16/6/95) Lines: 79 To those defilers of our sacred temple, the dickless crossposters who like too see their own name pop up on the screen for it's own sake, the losers who somehow think humiliating themselves with idiotic flame fests is amusing, the posters of urban legends and "yucky" stories and other clueless gimps. To you we send this prayer of deepest hatred and malignity. May your members wither and become lifeless; may your lymph glands succumb to slow cancers; may your brains become Alzheimer's ridden and as you lay in your own filth in some pallitive care ward, may you be vilely sexually molestested and never remember the perpetrator, only the horror of the act itself; and may all your children be born dead. As for you other welcome readers, these are grievous times indeed. Alt.tasteless is in it's second year of assault from the hordes of the stupid and battling for it's very life. But you can't keep good perverts down. It is up to us all to try and inject fresh life into this wondrous beast that we love. And so, to stimulate the sick and twisted fuck that lives inside you, we present a morsel from the glory days of the past. Post quality, encourage quality, discourage crap. G.T. Dwarf This post has been brought to you by the alt.tasteless Quality Management Task Force Alt.tasteless - Solidarity through moral bankruptcy. Path: diku!dkuug!sunic2!mcsun!uunet!usc!sol.ctr.columbia.edu!emory!bluemtn!usenet ~From: usenet@bluemtn.COM (usenet news) ~Newsgroups: alt.tasteless ~Subject: Precious Message-ID: <1992May18.213727.5778@bluemtn.COM> ~Date: 18 May 92 21:37:27 GMT Organization: blue mountain software ~Lines: 35 It was dawn. The sunlight tore through the open window and burned the tiny eyes of the infant girls squirming on the bottom of the crib. Their bald pussylips moist with fresh urine, drained from their cunts after hours of sucking on mommies tits. They started to cry, stomachs were empty, it's feeding time. The heat was unbearable, our diapers are wet! Goddamnit, bitch! Where the fuck are you..? Stayed out late at GlamFags, picking up poseres..? What about us, you sleazy gashmonster..?! Well, it wasn't a good night for mom. After going home with a guy wearing hairspray and lace, she was horribly raped and beaten by several women wearing strap-on dildos. They injected her with LSD. She was not herself. She woke up in a garbage can, her crotch was soaking wet with blood. As she stumbled home, she saw a pigeon, feeding it's young. As the tiny birds opened their beaks, the bird regurgitated into the eager mouths of her children. Children ( Don't I have TWO children? ). The sight made her ill, but at the same time, it got her wet. Kicking the door open, she found two thrashing infants, screaming loud enough to wake the evil dead. She saw the pee streaming down their legs ( Oh, my clit ) from old diapers not properly fastened. She ripped the smelly rags off her babies and stuck two fingers up each of their pink pussies. The shrill of their cries was so loud it made her dizzy. Breaking the crib wall off, she dived in and licked the blood and piss off the twin's thighs until her own pussy was creaming. The taste of the girl's vaginal excretion made her ill. Realizing they haven't had breakfast, she grabs one of the girls, wraps her mouth around the child's and pukes last nights pizza down her tiny throat. The baby kicked and let out muffled cries as she spasmed from the choaking. Liquid excrement sprayed all over mom's cunt. She could almost smell the strained peas in her runs. Scooping up the wet shit in her hand, she drops the dead body and turns to the other girl. She hungrily licked and slurped up the feces out of her palm. The remaining girl ( watch the infant die ) closed her eyes, preparing for her unspeakable demise. Mom gulped down the shit and turned to her remaining child. She let out a final scream as mom grabbed her face and forced her jaw open. Eyes watering, brown fluid drooling out her mouth, she embraces 'precious'.. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- 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. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!seunet!news2.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!cam.news.pipex.net!pipex!edi.news.pipex.net!pipex!warwick!griffin.nott.ac.uk!usenet From: epxsf@vme.ccc.nottingham.ac.uk (Stu Fraser) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Turds of 'Tards Date: 18 Jun 1995 22:37:23 GMT Organization: Top drawer, sock side Lines: 75 Message-ID: <3s29r3$ar4@griffin.ccc.nottingham.ac.uk> NNTP-Posting-Host: weplab8.nottingham.ac.uk X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.92.4 These stories are so much more fun when they are true. I worked in a Bughouse/FunnyFarm/WinkieWonderland in Penetangushine (Canada) for one year and one in Orillia [that spelling is probably wrong. fuckin' indian names.] Today's episode was from the time of Pene-tards. Penetang is very much a French community (about 6000 people), meaning that if it weren't for the gates at the frount of the Bughouse, the division between town and loonybin would be very difficult to discern. A helpful reminder is that if they are not drunk, they are 'tards. When you experience a large concentration of sober people you have enterd the loonybin. But I digress. I had the joy one day to be called to the ward below the one that I worked on at the beginning of my shift in order to cover for someone else. I guess the pick-up had not been able to traverse the frount lawn with it's assorted snowmobiles, rakes, clothes and foot high grass. In any case, I got the call, sacrificial summer student to the slaughter, or AT regular's heaven. Whichever. The ward? A psychogeriatric ward. That's right, friends and neighbours, psychogeriatric. Not only are they old and decaying, they are 'tards to boot (both figuretively and literally). Talk about two for the price of one! So it's 7am, and the day shift starts by bathing some of the gerrytards. How they are chosen for bathing was a mystery, but my bet is a simple olfactry test. " Well, I didn't pass out, so we'll do him tomorrow." In the bathroom, there is a larger than normal tub and a lifting machine to hoist the gerrytard up and over the ledge. The lifting machine consists of a crank hoist with an arm and seat. The seat that is on the end of the arm is in the shape (or perhaps was) a toilet seat. Note this, it is important. So the gerrytards are undressed (all males), and thier diapers are taken off. Only a few of these were full, a sign I should've caught. So now that the gerrytard is nekkid, they are transferred from thier 'tardmobile to the seat on the crank. The toilet seat. Now, they are supertards and all, but they still haven't forgotten what a toilet seat feels like and what happens when you sit upon one. That's right, shit happens. And shit did happen. Every fucking time. With the supertards cranked to 4 feet above the ground, the old habits kicked in. There is something special about 'tard shit. Just like someone who is ill, 'tard shit is disorganised, but potent. However, the 'tards have been in this condition for decades, meaning their bodies are absolutely vile. Their insides are in even worse condition. So when the gerrytards dropped, a new standard was set. The shit was beige in colour, had the consistency of porrage (with some water in the mix) and the smell could peel the paint off the walls. The sound of shit hitting the cold tile floors from 4 feet up was almost musical, with the farting and pissing as backing vocals. The thing about the piss, though was that sometimes it fell onto the shit pile, causing it to 'melt' and increse the area that it covered, or the piss went down the trough created by having the 'tard's legs together. In the latter case, the toilet that was the floor covered a large area indeed. I can't impress upon you, gentle readers, the quality or quantity of the stench nearly enough. It invaded my nostrils even when I was exhaling. I could taste it. Fuck, I though I could swim through it. (The smell. I knew that I could swim through the pile on the floor if I wanted. Kinda like a Wet Banana sliding ride.) When the gerrytard had finished moving his Ebola-like insides, the staff (guess who) got a diaper and wiped the pile into a more concentrated pile for picking up. Not scooping with a dust pan (shit pan?), but using the hands on the diaper. Though muted by the diaper, the shit felt like wet mud at the beach, still managing to ooze around, despite the diaper. As a testament to the potency of the shit and it's related smell, after I had finished each wiping up, my hands smelled like I had just fisted the gerrytard with both hands. Every fucking time. Later. Stu The University of Nottingham wanted to share my views, but I wouldn't let them "In this dramatic turn of events, testimony against Mr. Pumpkineater will be given by his sister, Jeanie Jeanie Eatszucchini" -G. Larson Date: Tue, 20 Jun 1995 17:01:06 -0400 From: MaMano@aol.com (by way of eb@kaleida.com (Eric Benson)) To: jwz@netscape.com Subject: The Tale of the Tail Years ago, Tom brought home a very LARGE labrador bitch, named Gwendolyn. She had been owned by some hippies who let her run loose and free and natural. A farmer shot her because she was running down his stock. He shot her thru L-5 in her back. As a result, her back legs and tail were paralyzed, and she was permanently incontinent. However, we had her "timed" and she would shit on command by grunting. If anything was in the "chute" it would pop out. At any rate, over time, we got her walking sorta again, but her tail never could wag. But she was a great, nice, gentle giant of a dog. I still miss her. But, one day I noticed she had a "hot spot" on the underside of this tail that didn't work. So I did the usual deal, I shaved it, and washed it and put cortisone on it. And I bandaged it up real well, with adhesive tape and kling bandage and the whole nine yards. No big deal. Well, I came home from work one evening. I had worn a white suit. First and only white suit ever owned by yours truly. So, I walk into the kitchen, and there is a blood clot, the size of an area rug in the middle of the floor. There is suspicious red marks on the walls, but that could be shadows...I race into the living room, and it looked like somebody had been murdered. There, on the sofa, sits Gwen, blood dripping from her mouth. I think she has eaten a cat, but no. She gets up and comes over to say howdy, and her tail is pumping blood. What is left of her tail. She has taken this lovely long brush of a tail, and chewed it completely off. There is maybe five inches left. And there is blood spurting out the end. There is blood on my sofa, on my drapes, the carpet, the TV. There is blood on my picture windows (facing the street). Imagine slicing somebody's neck, and then flinging the body above your head while you do a victory dance. This is the pattern. It looked like a slaughterhouse. I grab the dog, and look frantically for bandage materials. None. I grabbed a couple of rubber bands out of the home office, and put it over the "stump". Then I grabbed a Kotex Pad and some electrical tape and fashioned a bandage. Then I threw her in the back of the car and hauled to Tom's office. I walked into the clinic during peak after-normal-working people quit working office hours, carrying this 80-lb dog, in a bloody white suit. We got in right away. Tom proceeded to cleanly amputate the tail, and Gwen then had a shorter than a boxer tail. She couldn't reach it any more. About a week later, she started burping horrible burps. And stopped eating. Tom took and X-ray, and saw the cotton batting and adhesive tape still in her guts. He took her to a fellow vet in the next town to have an endoscopy done. The vet pulled out, intact, the tail that she had eaten off. And the bandage was still around it. (Told you I did a good job). That was pretty gross. Made the vets gag, at least. Gwen recovered from the tail episode, but her back legs finally went out about a month after that, and she couldn't walk and got huge decubitus ulcers. Tom cried when he put her down. Char Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!simtel!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 O'Leary Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: AOL whinge Date: 28 Jun 1995 18:56:30 +1000 Organization: University of Western Sydney Lines: 23 Sender: rocky@guinevere.st.nepean.uws.edu.au Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: 137.154.148.15 As many an a.t. philosopher has said, "It is always September somewhere on the 'net". I'd like to add my bit addendum to this "It's always September with AOL". Four times in this week I've opened my mail to find some scum sucking throwback from AOL lurking there. All of these moron's used the expression "kewl", used over 30 lines to ask a simple one line question, and offered to be "virtual buddies". One even had the audacity to ask me to mail him a disk (???) with "any kewl tasteles [sic] piccies youv'e [sic] got". *sigh* With a few notable exceptions, I say we drag up AOL's membership list and see if any organised crime hit squads offer bulk discounts. ObTasteless: Woke up this morning to hear that Huge "pasty pommie bastard" Grant had been busted for screwing a black 23 year old hooker in the back of a car in Hollywood. Immediatly after that bit of joyous news came even more good news... Larry "I dream of (buttfucking) Jeanie" Hagman has liver cancer. Alright! Now all I need to hear is that Boyz II Men have syphillis and my day will be complete. -- ****** 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!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!agate!ames!tulane!news.tulane.edu!rs5.tcs.tulane.edu!johns From: johns@rs5.tcs.tulane.edu (John Sullivan) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: AOL whinge Date: 4 Jul 1995 04:26:28 GMT Organization: Tulane University Lines: 19 Message-ID: <3taftk$nea@rs10.tcs.tulane.edu> References: NNTP-Posting-Host: rs5.tcs.tulane.edu X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Rocky O'Leary (rocky@st.nepean.uws.edu.au) wrote: [Timely AOL-related ranting deleted] I was looking for appropriate material to bring into our little forum and came across (in a.s.bestiality, mind you...) someone who had taken a tally of all the "Me too" followup postings over a period of two months. As you can guess, AOL was first, with a close running for the remaining top five spots by other commercial servers. Interesting to note the number of service providers that do NOT waste the time of alt.tasteless. OBT: I observed a high ranking by "Africa OnLine" and imagined that the rating was due to a sudden outbreak of keyboard-laden vomito negro. I envisioned hundreds of _me too_'s filling a newsgroup like alt.ebola. Sigh... is it under control these days, or can we still hope for an outbreak on a few OTHER land masses? --John Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!ns1.unicomp.net!news.unicomp.net!usenet From: schowiak@conline.com (El Sicko) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: AOL whinge Date: Wed, 05 Jul 1995 23:28:53 GMT Organization: UniComp Technologies International Corp -- Internet Service Lines: 24 Message-ID: <3tf7iv$7bm@news.unicomp.net> References: NNTP-Posting-Host: pm1-24.conline.com X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent v0.55 A news post Rocky O'Leary spewed: >ObTasteless: >Woke up this morning to hear that Huge "pasty pommie bastard" Grant had been >busted for screwing a black 23 year old hooker in the back of a car in >Hollywood. Immediatly after that bit of joyous news came even more good news... >Larry "I dream of (buttfucking) Jeanie" Hagman has liver cancer. Alright! Now >all I need to hear is that Boyz II Men have syphillis and my day will be >complete. He wasn't screwing her, but on the recieving end of a blow-job from what I understand. At any rate, his girlfriend of nine years 'left' him to go on an extended 'vacation'. Saw her on video tape during a news broadcast, or Current Affair, or some other trashy news tabloid. This wench was quit close to a perfect '10'. Young, white, ripe and ready to lick! I don't understand why he's paying to get blow-jobs from ugly, black, and disease-infested whores when he's got a healthy white one in his own house. Go figure. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!Germany.EU.net!Dortmund.Germany.EU.net!Informatik.Uni-Dortmund.DE!ls12sj!weber From: weber@ls12sj.informatik.uni-dortmund.de (Dominik Weber) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: A tasteless funeral... Date: 6 Jul 1995 10:35:26 GMT Organization: Brujah Lines: 153 Sender: weber@ls12sj (Dominik Weber) Message-ID: <3tge9e$pb9@fbi-news.informatik.uni-dortmund.de> NNTP-Posting-Host: ls12sj.informatik.uni-dortmund.de Hello a.t! Thinking again about death and rotting corpses, I've been picturing a real a.t funeral. There are many many possibilitys, I know that some of you can come up with better ideas, but hey, it's a draft. But that's how I imagine it: (Disclaimer: This is purely a work of fiction. Any similarities to living, rotting, or comatous persons is mereley a casuality. And to all dumb fucks, please: *Read the newsgroups line......*) It's a grey and cold day in december. A very strong wind is blowing over the nearly deserted cemetary. A flock of black crowes are flying in circles over the twisted, leafless trees surrounding the slowly filling graveyard. A large but skinny old man ressed in a black suit with a cylinder is finishing digging a hole in th wet ground. On the parking lot there are cars arriving. Their licence plates show that the come from far away. Some cars are rented, some stolen. But all have this strange bumper sticker on them. Something with "choad". Now the remains of the beloved arrive.. in a garbage truck. Two filthy scabrous, deformed and degenerated wokers get a special garbage can. I'ts shaped like a huge choad. with fake pubic hair. They drag it along the footpath, which is filled with white gravvy, leaving a wet brown trail behind, just like a beautiful grown up skidmark. One of them tosses constantly, bringing up nice lungcookies. He spits them onto the "coffin". Three packs of cheap ciggys a day take their toll. Lung cancer, grey skin and yellow teeth and yellow fingernails. With brown dirt from ass-scratching. The other one is drooling from its teethless mouth. And his hands are shaking. The symtoms of withdrawal. He just wants a stiff drink. But its hard liver won't allow this. Now they arrive at the hole. The undertaker is waiting there with a shovel, playing with something in it's pockets. The crow is waiting. All dressed in black. They are all silent. The priest is arriving he is a mani in it's mid-50's. He's nearly bald. Following him there are two young ministrants, swinginging an incense holder. He is mumbeling, has a crucifix in it's hands and an black bible in its hands. Then he stands on the top of the dirt-hole. He is wearing a black robe and a funny hat. He says "er..." with a voice that proves that you can't drink and smoke much for a long time without affecting your throat. The crows are croaking. They sound just like the priest. The smell of turds is emanating from the incense vessel. The men are unzipping their pants, reaching inside and pulling their choads out. The women are pulling up their shirts and rubbing themselves. And they reach with another hand to their crotches. A strong breeze blows the soutane of the priest apart. A swollen 5-inch cock can be seen, with piercings, one Prince Albert and two hafadas. He's shaved thoroughly. And there is is a Jesus cast out of metal. Its legs are attached to the prince albert and his hands are touching his swollen red testicles, since the hafadas go through holes in the hands. Since Jesus is out of lead, it pulls considerably on the genitals, stretching the skin very much. The priest has some fishnet stockings and stilettos on. The stockings are held in place by a pvc garter. The men start wanking and the crowd starts to breathe heavvyliy as the priest starts his speech: ":belch: My dear wankers, we are he gathered in the fucking place to watch this rotting corpre of the damn bastard to be thrown into the hole." At this point, one of the ministrants starts rimming the priest, while the other drops the incense holder in order to squeze the balls and suck the choad of the cleric. "Ohh... Now we all knew this carcass when he was wandering about on this earth. There is many to be said about this wankstain. Sone things are even good. But anyhow don't jugde others as you will be judged. So its is :moan: said to us by our :sigh: OH Lord." Now the rimming kid takes the crucifix. The Jesus on it has a woodie and he's circumcised. And has a nipple piercing. He helds it like a dagger and shoves the long bar deep into the bunghole. "Uhh... We will miss this poor bastard. He delightes us with stories about certain sexual activities :sigh: with *very* young children. :heavvy breathing: But who am I to throw the first stone? We all have our faults :MOAN: May the Lord take good care of him in the afterworld and ream him good. :OHHHHHH: So let us all bid him farewell in the name :sigh: of God, Jesus and the holy spirit. " The ministrant pulls out the shit-encrusted cross, it has a little turd on the face of Jesus, out of the colon of the priest, who now, directed to the garbage men says, with a blissful face, "Dump him" Now the garbage men kick the coffin into the hole, while farting loud. The undertaker belches. The crows croak. The men step forward, ejaculatin on the grave. Two women reach to their crotches and pull on the string dangling from it. Out comes a blood-soaked tampon. They throw it into the hole too. The other women pull down their pants stand on the sides of the grave and piss into it. The undertaker throws the dirt onto the grave while the crowd starts to dress properly. As soon as the earth covers the gravehole, the cleric shits a cross on the dirt, just on the grave, while the undertaker puts a gravestone in the shape of an ejaculating huge choad on the top of the grave. On it the name, the date of biting the cord and the grass, and "Choads up, you pig-feltching maggot ridden shitstains" The crows are still cruising the air. The people jump in their cars, speeding off. The first car hits a black cat, wounding it and leaving it on the road only to be run over by the others... The night falls.... A figure is sneaking to the grave. With a showel...... Hey, dead people need love too. Dominik "Thinking of other newsgroups to crosspost it to" (But no, that would be nasty, and we all aren't like that...) -- TastelessPage: http://ls12-www.informatik.uni-dortmund.de/~weber/doc/at/tasteless "I'm scared of you. You are insane. I never want to see you again." a former GF Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!spool.mu.edu!darwin.sura.net!blaze.cs.jhu.edu!jhunix1.hcf.jhu.edu!welchlink.welch.jhu.edu!ashore From: Andrew Shore Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: A tasteless funeral... Date: Thu, 6 Jul 1995 13:27:26 -0400 Organization: HCF - Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, Maryland, USA Lines: 51 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: 128.220.59.78 Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII In-Reply-To: <3tge9e$pb9@fbi-news.informatik.uni-dortmund.de> On 6 Jul 1995, Dominik Weber described the perfect a.t. funeral (except for the sacrificing of virgins to amuse Hinty in the hereafter). -- Lovely. This Reminded me of the only tasteless funeral I ever attended. As an undergraduate I volunteered at a treatment program for the mentally ill; this was until I decided that becoming a psychologist would put me on the wrong side of the desk. Anyway, one of the patients died of a heart attack in his sleep, and all the staff and our charges attended the funeral. Maybe he died of mortification at having to spend his days with some real nutcases; to look at him, you would have thought Bill was a Normal, if a little on the quiet side. Although you can't tell with some people (more below). At the casket, one girl was so wracked with sobs that a huge streamer of snot hung from her nostril, almost touching the silk as it swayed over the remains. I tried to urge her back a little, but she was oblivious in her grief. Later, during the eulogy, one of the other 'members', as we were told to call them, blurted out 'He's in a box!' as it finally dawned on him. This really cut the tension in the room, and few of us could stifle our chuckles. One of the members gave his own eulogy after GodBoy finished, although I don't remember much about it except that it made little sense (to those of us not on anti-psychotics), and he had to be cut off. I also filled in at our sister facility for the dually diagnosed (CareSpeak for 'retarded AND crazy'). Once I noticed a cute, freshly- scrubbed young student at the morning meeting and went over to talk to her. My attempt at conversation was rudely rebuffed, which I was certainly used to, although she did seem unusually harsh about it. Later I broke up a near-fight between two of the patients, and she came up to me, rather embarrassed, and said "Oh, you mean you _work_ here?" Fucking made my day... ObT: whatever drugs the members were getting made their shit smell unbelieveably foul. Once we were literally driven to the far end of the office suite by the rancid stench left behind by one of them. It had a strong rotten-egg character to it, but also the sharp tang associated with grogans of the tan, pasty variety. Truly awe-inspiring... -- Andrew Shore "You knwo, the members don't freak you out like most of our students." -- from one of the full-time staff Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!simtel!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 O'Leary Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: A tawdry tale involving electricity Date: 26 Jun 1995 16:31:46 +1000 Organization: University of Western Sydney Lines: 215 Sender: rocky@arthur.st.nepean.uws.edu.au Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: 137.154.148.14 Once again the spooge bucket comes up with an a.t. literary classic... FROM 'EMMA'S SECRET DIARIES' BY HILARY JAMES CHAPTER 10 ---------- Inside the large gymnasium was a circular ring surrounded by iron bars, just like the cages you see set up in a circus when the lions and tigers are being put through their tricks by the whip carrying lion-tamer. The cage was open at the top, but the bars curved back inwards with sharp spikes, making it impossible for any animal - or any human - inside the ring to get out. The covering of sawdust on the floor made it all the more realistic. The cruel-faced guard, smartly dressed in his black uniform, was the lion-tamer. In one hand he carried a long circus whip and in the other a prodlike cattle goad with two short projections which gave a mild electric shock. Just as a lion-tamer has to rely on his whip and the occasional shouted command to make his animals dop what he wanted them todo, so the young guard relied heavily on his whip and goad, as well as on shouted orders, to make us girls perform the tricks we were being taught. we were uncomfortably perched, kneeling up on little high pedestals like those on which lions and tigers in circus acts are made to sit on when not being put through their tricks by their tamer. The pain of our beatings had now worn off but each of us was now looking at the goad with terrified eyes - each of us had already half jumped out of our skin when the guard touched us with it. We were all dressed in tight fitting shiny cat suits that covered our heads and the tops of our bodies. We were effectivley muzzled by a zip fastener over our mouths, and the cat suits just had little slits for the eyes, tiny holes under the nostrils, and cut-outs for the breasts. Each cat suit was striped like the skin of a real tiger. But we were only half dressed in these realistic cat suits, for below the waist we were naked - something which made us even more open to the terrifying touch of the guard's goad.... In a ring around the cage, the Countess and her guests were seated comfortably, enjoying the erotic scene as they munched little biscuits and sipped glasses of Champagne... The whip cracked. 'Mount!' Quickly we four girls mounted our exercise bicycles. They were fixed to the floor, and did not have saddles - just handlebars, pedals and a rear wheel. 'Up!' We stood on our pedals, our buttocks raised. The guard came down the line fastening each girls wrists to the handlebars of her machine and her ankles to the pedals. We would not now be able to dismount. Then the guard came down the line again, this time holding in his hand several long electric leads that led back to where the spectators were sitting. Several were holding little control boxes to which the leads were attached. There was a little handle on the side of each box which could be turned. The spectators were excitedly placing bets amongst each other, and glancing up at the big clock-like distance meter above and in front of each bicycle. This showed the distance that each girl had been deemed to pedal. The girls, however, could not see these large dials. I felt the guard part my buttocks. I felt so humiliated for this to be done by a man. But with my wrists strapped to the handlebars and my ankles to the pedals I was helpless to prevent him. I looked round and, horrified, saw that he had a curiously shaped, metal vibrator in his hand. It was attached to one of the long electric leads. I saw him grease it carefully, then I felt it being inserted slowly up into me. Desperatley I tried to clench my buttocks, but the guard just laughed and went on slowly driving it up me. Then he gave a little pull to make sure that it would not slip out. The guard went on to the next girl. I wriggled my buttocks, trying in vain to expel the device. There were laughs from the watching spectators. I blushed with shame. I realised that the curious shape would ensure that once inserted, my own rectal muscles would keep it in place. Moments later I felt a strange little tingling feeling inside me, coming from the vibrator. What was being done to me? I was then horrified to hear what the Countess was saying to her guests. 'The race will be over five kilometres. The dial above each girl will show how far along the course she has gone. The three red stretches on the dials at Kilometres One and Three, and in the final stretch leading up to Kilometre Five, represent hills. The pedals will then automatically become harder to turn. As the girl's driver, you can control your girl's speed by turning the handles on your control boxes faster or slower. The faster you turn them the greater the series of shocks the girl will receive. They'll soon learn to pedal faster when they feel the shocks! By comparing the position of your own girl on her dial with the other dials, you can see how she is doing. I know that you would rather drive your girls with a whip, but remember that they have already been well thrashed for your amusement, and this scheme is just as exciting - and leaves no marks!' The Countess paused. 'Remember,' she went on, 'that to win the prize, it's no use exhausting your girl too early - she's got a lot of heavy work to do before finishing the course! A good driver will alternatively conserve his girl's energy and the drive her on fast again, so that she does not become utterly exhausted until the final hill going up to the finishing line! ...So... Are you ready? ... Go!' I felt the tingling feeling build up to a series of shocks. I longed to put my hands back and pull out the vibrator but, of course, strapped as they were to the handlebars, I was quite unable to do so. I saw the other girls beginning to pedal. As I followed suit I felt the vibrations decrease. Then just as I slowed right down, they increased again. Quickly I turned the pedals more quickly, panting with the exertion. The shocks eased again. But this time I kept on pedalling at the same speed. I had learnt to obey the intrusion inside me - just as the Countess had said. I saw that the other girls were all pedalling away at different speeds. Were they too being controlled? But by who? By different spectators? I looked back quickly at the guests seated comfortably outside the cage. I saw that the awful gangster-looking man whom I had seen at the airport was there. He was looking at me and his eyes were gleaming. He was holding a black box in his hand. It had a handle. I saw him give the handle a quick turn and immediately I felt a tingling shock. He was the one who was controlling me! He was my driver! That awful cruel looking gangster! Oh no! But before I could think any more about him, I suddenly felt the pedals becoming much harder to turn. I had to slow down. It was like cycling up a hill on a bicycle that had no gears. I felt a warning tingle inside me. I tried to keep up the same speed as before, but it was just too much hard work. Then came a nasty shock, then another and another. Desperately I struggled to pedal faster. It was such hard work! I was panting hard, as I was driven on and on by the gangster. What a cruel swine he was! I could feel the sweat running down my back. I saw that the othe girls were also struggling. The shocks were coming fast and furious, making me strain my guts out to keep going faster and faster. I was becoming more and more exhausted. Then suddenly the pedals became easier to turn again. The shocks eased. Gratefully I slowed down and began to get my breath back. I saw that two of the other girls, however, were being kept hard at it by their drivers. Was my gangster being cunning? Was he allowing me to take it easy in preparation for another burst of fast pedalling? Indeed, a few moments later, the vibrations started again, and I found myself forced to pedal again faster. But whereas I was feeling a little rested, with my energy partially restored, the other girls were showing signs of distress. But I was allowed no further respite. For God's sake, I wanted to scream, how long is this awful race going on for? I had no way of knowing, and with the zip fastener closed over my mouth, I couldn't call out. I felt the pedals again become much harder to turn as, unknown to me, I approached the second hill, I approached the second hill, the one at Kilometre Three. This time my cruel driver really made me keep going. It was awful. I felt I was going to die of exhaustion as the pitiless shocks drove me on and on. I felt at my last gasp when the pedals suddenly eased. Again, unknown to me, the dial above me showed that I had breasted the top of the hill. The race continued with each driver keeping his hand on the control box and his eyes on the dials above each girl's head. Although I did not know it, I was lying second as I hit the final hill. The gangster showed me no mercy now as he drove me hard up it. There was no point, he must have reasoned, in sparing me now to conserve my energies. All that mattered now was to drive me really hard, but cleverly, to the finishing line and so win the prize. I saw the gangster looking anxiously at the various dials behind me. Evidently his girl, me, must be catching up on the leading one with only two hundred metres to go! I saw him turn the handle hard. He must have seen my buttocks jump in the air as the shock hit me. With my ankles strapped to the pedals I had to keep going. Again he turned the handle hard. Again he saw me jump. But I pedalled all the faster! One hundred metres to go. The leading girl was flagging! She was younger than me, but her driver had made her peak too early. Again the gangster turned the handle, determined to get the last ounce of energy out of me, even if he half killed me. Moments later I won - by a mere second! The gangster put down his control box, and turned to receive the congratulations of the other spectators. Ignored by my victorious driver, I was in a state of complete collapse, slumped across my bicycle, gasping for breath. The wardress paid no attention to me for a couple of minutes. She had seen this bizarre sport too often to be seriously worried about me. Finally she entered the cage and, coming up to me, pulled back the zip over my mouth. She poured a little reviving brandy down my throat. Then she closed the zip back again. 'You'll be all right soon. Now get back into line again!' She unfastened my wrists and ankles, and somehow I staggered over to where the other girls, all panting heavily, were allowing themselves to be chained back up again. -- ****** 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!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!Germany.EU.net!Dortmund.Germany.EU.net!Informatik.Uni-Dortmund.DE!ls12sj!weber From: weber@ls12sj.informatik.uni-dortmund.de (Dominik Weber) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Bomb testing Date: 5 Jul 1995 15:14:43 GMT Organization: De Viant inc. Lines: 101 Sender: weber@ls12sj (Dominik Weber) Message-ID: <3tea93$sfv@fbi-news.informatik.uni-dortmund.de> NNTP-Posting-Host: ls12sj.informatik.uni-dortmund.de Hello a.t.! Some days ago I switched on the T.V. A documentary about the russian bomb tests was broadcasted.. Nice pictures of the mushroom cloud. And then they showed the lambs, cows, cats, dogs, horses and bulls they chained firmly with posts onto ground. There were some planes tanks and cars too, just to show the devastating effect of the big fart onto them. Then you'd see a flash, and the well known cloud rising while the shock wave would whip the dust off the ground, speading fast like a wave. The nice part was when it hit the helpless animals in bondage. They were struck by the full blast of the explosion. Alas the dust covered the bursting of the skin and flesh. Tanks were been thrown over, planes were smashed and cars would get blown away. Yes, blown by the wind. Then You'd see pictures of animals, who survived the heat and the shock wave. but not for long. They got enormous amounts of radioactivity. The staggered like being drunk. Some had burns, their black sking was haging in shreds from their burnt faces, exposing the raw flesh underneath. soe of it festering and oozing some strange liquids. A soldier said; "While walking though the devastaed land, noting the effects of the bomb, I saw a horse.... It's eyes were gone. Flys were liking the black ooze out of the eyesockes. It's hair was charred. And its lips had fallen off. They just lacked. and then the bodily structure. The flesh was nearly gone. It was so pitifuls seeing this animal, because it still lived. It was writhing in agony and pain on the ground, trying deperately to eat some burnt grass. The chain was still around its neck. I just had to stroke the horse, so moved I was." Another one: "Once, we were sent there inmediately after the explosion. There was a place that was covered by dead mice. Crunchy dead mice. I looked closer. They were *birds*. Since they dropped the bomb over the desert, there were few green spots. On this one many birds had gathered. They were in the air, when the heatwave struck them, burning their feathers and charring their eyes. They fell like rain." But that was the boring part... The intersting thing is that they send living soldiers into the test place, exposing them to lethal doses of radioactivity. Sending other into the "hot spot" where the bomb fell, to investigate. It is assumed that they sent 1.000.000 people until 1988 into the test sites. Many developed strange utterly painful forms of cancer. Many highly decorated officers and soldiers shot themselves, because they couldn't bear the pain of the diseases which ate them away. They bodies were thoroughly examined. One one test 50 men were sitting some km way from the dropzone. Some had to sit facing the blast others not. The had to write onto little boards, what they felt and saw. They lost their eyesight, for some time. Some didn't regain it. They were told what they'd experience. This test was often made. It was just a tripe check. They knew the results in advance. Some peole had to endure the dropping of the bomb in shelters, many of them were not concious of their fate. The military had said it was a training battle, so they let two armies fight, with "real" conventional chemical and (most of the soldiers didn't know this until they detonated) atomic warheads. They were lied about the maximun doses too. It was all kept secret. Today there is a vast area in the south of russia inhabitable. And a lake that has very radiactive water. Wishing all a happy hiroshima day, Dominik -- TastelessPage: http://ls12-www.informatik.uni-dortmund.de/~weber/doc/at/tasteless "I'm scared of you. You are insane. I never want to see you again." a former GF Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!gatech!news.fsu.edu!nntp.cntfl.com!polaris.net!news From: weberm@polaris.net (Ubiquitous) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Bomb testing Date: 8 Jul 1995 00:10:12 GMT Organization: Polaris Networking Lines: 18 Message-ID: <3tkid4$eo8@nexus.polaris.net> References: <3tea93$sfv@fbi-news.informatik.uni-dortmund.de> NNTP-Posting-Host: p1dyn6.polaris.net X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.92.6+ In article , bwahaha@earth.execpc.com (Joseph Betz) says: > >This musta been the place that 60 Minutes did a piece on last year. Lovely >birth defects in the surrouding area, with cyclops children, kids without >eyes, kids with huge skulls, all sortsa fun mutants. We can thank the arms >race for providing us with this cache of tasteless visuals. I believe you're thinking of the faulty nuclear power plant which, I think, was in India. Can anyone verify this? ObTasteless: The movie "Atomic Cafe", which was composed of several American nuclear cold war film clips, contains a series of the army doing similar tests with pigs in cages. When the heat wave hit the pigs, you can hear them all squealing like, well, pigs! I first saw it when I was still at FSU and recall the looks I was getting when I started laughing at the whole scene. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!gatech!news.fsu.edu!nntp.cntfl.com!polaris.net!news From: weberm@polaris.net (Ubiquitous) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Classic TV on Nick At Nite! Date: 2 Jul 1995 14:32:43 GMT Organization: Polaris Networking Lines: 527 Message-ID: <3t6amb$au0@nexus.polaris.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: p1dyn3.polaris.net X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.92.6+ Since Nick@Nite recently celebrated their tenth anniversery, I felt it only fitting to repost these classic a.t. outtakes on classic TV shows... :Article 93005 of alt.tasteless: :Newsgroups: alt.tasteless :From: ipgrier@sail.uwaterloo.ca ("Iain P. Grier") :Subject: (none) :Message-ID: <9402151538.AA08185@sail.uwaterloo.ca> :Date: 15 Feb 94 15:38:52 GMT :Lines: 515 :To : alt.tasteless@cs.utoronto.ca :From : ipgrier@sail.uwaterloo.ca :Subject : Quantum Leap Quantum Sleep "Come on baby, you know you want it up the ass," a man's voice said. I looked in the mirror on the head of the bed and saw a naked woman's body. "Oh no," I thought to myself, I've leaped into a woman's body. "It will be easier if you spread your legs," the man said again. "Sam," Al said, "are you having fun?" "What am I doing!" I yelled to Al. "You know what you're doing," the man said. He then leaned forward and I felt something nearing my anus. And then it happened. He started fucking me in the ass. "Oh my God," I yelled out, hearing a distinctly feminine cry. "Yes, that's it," I heard in the background. "Keep up the moans and cries." I turned my head and found a set of cameras and several people staring at me. "Uhhh, Sam," Al said. "It appears that you've leapt into a porn actress' body. "While you're having fun, I'll try to find out what you're supposed to do." "You'd better hurry up," I yelled out. "Oh, you want me to come in you already?" I heard the man say. "Well, if you're so anxious for some come, why don't you turn around and take it in your mouth." The man pulled his penis out of my ass and flipped me on my back. I then looked down my body and could see nicely formed breasts. If I had been myself, I would have eagerly grabbed those breasts. However, I had other things to deal with. The man moved onto my chest and stuck his cock inches in front of my mouth. He then leaned a bit forward and I could feel the head of his cock touching my lips. "Open wide," he said. "Come on, Shannon," a man behind the camera said, "this is your oral scene. Just open your mouth, damn it." "I can't," I said. "It's in the script," the same man said. "After he fucks you up the ass, you're supposed to give him a blowjob." "What!" I yelled. "Is it too dirty for you?" the man said. "O.K., fine, we'll re- write it somehow. Go ahead and change for your next scene." "Uhhh," I said while lying on the bed naked, trying to find some sheets to cover myself with. "Could you tell me what scene that is?" "You've forgotten already?" the man said. "You know, you've got to change into your bikini." "Ohh, that's right," I said. "Uhhh, could you show me which bikini?" "Geez, do I have to do everything for you?" the man said. "Come on, follow me." I stepped off of the bed, grabbing the sheets as I did and wrapped them around my body. I followed the man, who I assumed was the director, and he led me to my dressing room. Once in, he opened up the closet and took out a bikini. "O.K.," he said. "Put this on and in about a half-hour Sherry will be ready too. Then I'll see the both of you by the hottub." Being that I had leapt into a porn actress' body, I kind of had an idea what was coming up next. The man left the room and closed the door. I looked at myself in the mirror and carefully examined every curve of my body. I stroked my hands down the sides of my chest, gently rubbing my breasts, easing toward my stomach, and then toward my bush. I couldn't believe what I was doing. I was actually feeling myself up, but it felt too good to stop. I sat down on the chair and spread my legs. I brought my hand toward my cunt and rub the outer lips. It felt great. I felt a warmth within my new anatomy and soon I felt moisture forming near the lips of my pussy. I continued rubbing the outer lips and the moisture soon became a regular flow of a slick liquid. My sense of who I was had left me and I began to actively masturbate myself. I quickly stuck a finger into my canal and rubbed the inner walls. I could feel the liquid all over my fingers. It was quite a different sensation because not only was I being the giver, which I had done many times, but now I was also being the receiver. Before I got any deeper, I heard a knock on the door. The door opened and in walked a beautiful woman wearing a bikini. "Whoops," she said. "Sorry to intrude in you like this, but I wanted to check if you were ready for our next scene. It looks like you certainly are." I immediately blushed and said, "I guess I didn't hear you knock on the door." "Would you like to go over our lines?" she asked. "What lines?" I said. "Yea, I know what you mean," she replied. She walked over to me and sat on my legs. "We can start from when you sit down on the chaise-lounge," the woman, who I assumed was named Sherry, said. She rested her entire weight onto my legs as she wrapped her own legs around my body. She then took one hand and stuck it between both of our legs, facing her palm toward my pussy. Cupping her hand, she grabbed my entire bush, rubbing it gently as she did. She then leaned her face toward mine and began kissing me. I tried to ignore the fact that I was a woman and tried to enjoy the love-making as if I were a man. I tried to imagine that instead of grabbing my bush, she was stroking my cock. "You sure are wet," she said. "Are you ready to come yet?" I couldn't say a word. I was enjoying the sensations too much. I then felt a tightening in my pussy. I knew what this meant. It didn't feel too unlike an orgasm as a man. As I felt my pussy walls contracting, I thought that I had accidentally urinated. I looked between my legs and saw that in fact I was ejaculating a creamy liquid. "Ohhh," Sherry said. "I didn't know you could shoot." "I guess I didn't know either," I said, as I tilted my head backward, enjoying the orgasm. I had almost forgotten who I was until I heard a man's voice clearing his throat. I turned around and saw Al. "I guess you two are busy," Al said. "So, what am I supposed to do?" I asked. "Aren't you going to give me an orgasm?" Sherry asked. "Come on Sam," Al said. "She's asking you to give her an orgasm." "I know, I know," I said. "Well, if you know, then give me your hand," Sherry said. I brought my hand to meet Sherry's and she lead it to her crotch. I extended my fingers toward her hole and inserted them deep inside. "Al, what am I supposed to do?" I demanded. "My name's Sherry. And what you're doing feels great." "Ohh, sorry Sam," Al said. "I was enjoying watching the two of you getting it on. "Well?" I asked of Al. "Ohhh," Sherry said. "That feels so good." "Well, Sam. I didn't get too much out of Ziggy," Al continued, as he continued pushing buttons into the computer," but it appears that you're supposed to have sex with the director." "What!" I exclaimed. "Ohhh, Shannon," Sherry said. "I said that feels so good. Keep it up. You're fingers in my cunt feel so good." "Well, Sam. It appears that you're supposed to get pregnant with the directors baby." "What!" I exclaimed again. "Are you sure that's right." "Yes," Sherry said. "That is definitely right. Ohhh, stick them in deeper." "Just continue what you're doing," Al said, "and I'll try to get more information out of Ziggy." I watched as Al disappeared and I continued finger fucking Sherry. She brought both of her hands towards her breasts and began rubbing her nipples. "Make me come!" Sherry yelled. "I want to spray my fluids all over you. Make me come on your body. Stick your fingers in deeper." I did as she requested and I stuck my fingers in as far as they could go. "Bring them up higher," Sherry said. "Ohhh, yea, that's it. That's the spot. Keep going." I continued rubbing her inner walls as she continued rubbing her nipples. "Get on the floor," Sherry said. I did as she asked and I stepped up off of the chair, removing my fingers from her cunt. I then lay down on the floor as she kneeled over my face with her cunt inches away from my mouth. She then brought her fingers to her cunt, stuck them deep inside, and began to furiously masturbate. "Uhhh, I'm going to come!" she yelled. And she certainly did. I could see a clear liquid spurting from her cunt. Each squirt landed squarely on my mouth and I couldn't help but lick it. "Ohhh, that was so good," Sherry said after she had spent all of her fluids. "Do you think we rehearsed enough?" she asked with a wink. "I guess so," I replied. "I'll meet you by the hottub in a few minutes," Sherry said as she walked out of the dressing room. I found the bikini that I was supposed to wear and I put it on. I walked around the studio until I found a room with a hottub in it. I assumed that this was the right place. I saw Sherry, who was already in the water, the director, and the camera crew. "Shannon," the director said. "Are you ready for this scene?" "Yes," I answered. "O.K., girls," the director said. "Let's start rolling. Action!" Sherry started the scene, "I love this hot tub. It's so relaxing." I paused, staring at Sherry and her breasts. "Come on Shannon," the director whispered as he pointed to a cue card. I glanced at the card, slowly reading the lines. "I know what you mean. I don't think there's anything better than sitting in a hottub." "Well, I could think of one thing better." Sherry then began to move toward me, slowing extending her hands toward my shoulder. "Come on Sherry," the director began, "you're supposed to kiss her." Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!ix.netcom.com!netnews From: Bernieba32@taco.engr.ucdavis.edu (Bernie) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Cupping a Fart Date: Sat, 08 Jul 1995 17:16:33 GMT Organization: Colonies Lines: 18 Distribution: world Message-ID: <3tnood$nmd@ixnews2.ix.netcom.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: ix-orl1-26.ix.netcom.com X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent v0.55 I cannot believe that no one else is familiar with the technique and execution of "cupping a fart". This almost lost art (apparently) consists of aggressively grasping the atmosphere in the immediate vicinity of ones sphincter concurrent with, or mere seconds after, the expulsion of hot anal vapors. This act is then followed immediately by the "throwing" of the trapped ripe air in the closed fist to the area adjacent your targets nostrils. I cannot count the number of times I executed the above plan and gazed in awe at the look of horror and disbelief on the face of my prey as they recognized my flatulent prowess and realized that they were inhaling particles of the byproducts of my bodily functions. Ahhhh . . . . sweet success. Am I possibly so old that I am one of the few who recall and/or still excell in this art? I hope not! Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!uwm.edu!news.alpha.net!earth!bwahaha From: bwahaha@earth.execpc.com (Joseph Betz) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Don't Masterbate at Work Date: 1 Jul 1995 23:54:45 -0500 Organization: Exec-PC Lines: 45 Message-ID: References: <3svbv5$aoq@cvsd.cvsd.cv.com> <3t4mk2$7no@pentagon.io.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: earth.execpc.com X-Newsreader: NN version 6.5.0 #5 (NOV) cwagner@io.com (Christian Wagner) writes: [Bemoaning the latest repost of MMF and Scrotum Self-Repair deleted] >ObT: Not -really- tasteless, but there is nothing quite like explaining >to an 18-year old female friend what "scat" and "watersports" are, >because she came across the terms and asked me (the resident pervert) >what they are. I had a fun one the other day. Was on a job where a female friend worked. I was sweating copper pipes, she was panning bread. She knew my first wife. She also knew I just got remarried. "How's married life, Joe?" "Great. Helps a lot if you don't marry a psychotic cunt..." That's when the 17-year-old girl my friend was working with dropped her jaw the _first_ time. We kept talking, and I was beginning to get the impression that the teen queen was a bit of a prude. Then she dropped a panful of rolls, and said "Shit!" " You swore! Naughty, naughty girl.", said I. She replied, "Hey, you just said 'the K-word' a few minutes ago." I couldn't believe it. "The K-word"? THE K-WORD? After teaching the lass that Cunt was spelled with a C, explaining, "because I'm a guy" when she asked me how I knew that, and recovering from the astonishment that kids today really can't spell, my friend and I regaled her with every vaginal euphemism we could think of. I won, thanks largely to a.t. training. Even more amazingly, the teen found the term "pussy" to be highly offensive, but "Axe wound" didn't faze her. Joe "why can't Janie swear?" Betz -- ************************************************************************* * Joseph Betz * Freelance Jackbooted Thug - email for rates * * (bwahaha@execpc.com) * Wisconsin - Behind the Cheese Curtain * ************************************************************************* Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!cs.utexas.edu!uwm.edu!newsspool.doit.wisc.edu!news.doit.wisc.edu!caspar.che.wisc.edu!user From: saunders@castor.che.wisc.edu (Brian Saunders) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Enema Bandit, Jr. Date: Sat, 08 Jul 1995 23:27:05 -0500 Organization: Univ. Wisconsin-Madison, Chem. Engineering Lines: 15 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: caspar.che.wisc.edu X-Newsreader: Yet Another NewsWatcher 2.0b27.5 Just when I start to doubt Wisconsin being the king of tastelessness, something comes through to reaffirm my beliefs. A 59-year old Fitchburg (just south of Madison) man was convicted effectively for the rest of his life for sexual assault. As you expect, he gave people enemas against their will. Now, as you notice, he is 59, so the term "junior" can't refer to his age. It refers to his victims: a 10-year old boy and a 5-year old girl he was babysitting at the time. He was convicted of "touching their anuses". A search warrant turned up a few enema magazines, and one magazine touting the benefits of giving children enemas. Classic. -- Brian Saunders saunders@castor.che.wisc.edu Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!due.unit.no!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!uunet!in1.uu.net!chronos.synopsys.com!news.synopsys.com!pond!spike From: spike@pond.synopsys.com (Simon A. Young) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Finally, my tasteless year begins. Date: 6 Jul 1995 05:00:04 GMT Organization: Synopsys, Inc. Lines: 112 Sender: spike@pond (Simon A. Young) Distribution: world Message-ID: <3tfqkl$j28@hermes.synopsys.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: pond.synopsys.com ---------------------------------------------------------------------- -- -- This post dedicated to the memory of the late Hinny Tsyen -- I just wish I had more of them -- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- It's been a pretty tasteless-free year so far. I've been on a fair few, pretty hellacious boozing binges lately, but there's been nothing of any real note to share with you all. It's bizarre, because even being near vegetarian, with all the potential for vile and unspeakable activity in the nether regions, has failed to deliver on its promise. Until today. I had a busy Insurrection Weekend (I'm British, why on earth should I celebrate it? Come to think of it, maybe that's why it's called British Thanksgiving!). Well, I was in work most of the weekend, eating crappy junk food, working and working out. Today, Wednesday, I stopped for my regular mocha and croissant on the way to work, eating it as I knuckled down to the current tasks. A quick sandwich for lunch. Tea and water to keep hydrated in these a/c offices. 5:30 rolls around. A familiar tightening of the lower abdomen. It's not painful - in fact, I almost welcome it like an old yet, long-lost friend. Not wanting to lose my train of thought, I note it's arrival, before pushing it to the back of my mind. There's work to complete. By 6:00, a more insistent, slightly dull ache has suffused my lower half. Not long, my beauty, I'll just try this one small change, and see what effect that has. By 6:30, I've finished compiling & testing, and the dull ache has changed. There's a slighty sharper edge to it, and for some strange reason there's a metallic taste in my mouth (go figure). Ok, my darling, I'll deal with you now. First important decision - reading material. A finely tuned decision tree. Work material vs interesting but non-work techie material vs a novel vs some net-porn. I choose my current a.s.f.o-bashing reference, 'Language of the Genes' by Steve Jones. Good bowel stirring stuff. Second important decision - listening material. I always take the portable CD player w/ headphones in when I dump after hours. Besides, if I'm going to have a quick tug on my todger, music sometimes helps. Last night it was a duet from Mozart's 'The Marriage of Figaro' - "Sull'aria..."/"Che soave zeffiretto..." (Opera is great music to masturbate to, and this is easily my current favourite. It's a short aria, so I either put it on repeat or save it for the vinegar strokes). Tonight, I choose a '4 NonBlondes' CD, "Bigger, Better, Faster, More" OK, in the stall. Spread the arse-gasket around the seat and settle in for a while. A few false starts, a little wind but by the beginning of track 2, things are definitely happening. Hmmn. This could be a good one. Off with the headphones. Close the book. I think this is one I'm going to want to remember, so I'll pay full attention. A bit of a strain as my sphincter puckers open, sad to be saying farewell to my cargo. And then I give a little tentative push - just to help it clear the slight resistance of my taut ring of muscle. Grit my teeth. Hmmn, this one is of a fair girth. Push again. Deep breath. Push once more and then a good long continuous shove. Phew. A deep feeling of satisfaction rolls over me - I imagine this is somewhat like childbirth for females. I feel strangely empty, evacuated almost. A good wipe, paper folded and re-folded before approaching my rear end (I'm not paying for it, and using too much paper is one of the true delights of a posh, company-funded crap). One last wad of paper, for a final polish. Stand up. Look down. Bollocks. Too much paper. Get another wad to shift the now-sodden tissue. Eye my offspring. This is a true delight. Rush to my office, returning with a ruler. It's about 13" long, and a tiny bit under 2" in diameter. Beautifully tapered at each end. And joy of joys, it's not craggy and fissured as they normally are - this one has a smooth texture, almost a sheen. Slightly studded with bits of poorly digested meals passim - I can see bits of yellow, red and something dark green that I can't quite identify. Sadly, I complete my investigation and stand. Don't ask me why, but I stood stiffly to attention as I prepared to flush (I've got absolutely no military background). As the water poured into the bowl, I saluted, raising my hand in fond farewell to this delightful entity as it started it's own long journey, free at last from the confines of my bowels. I somehow miss it already, even though it left a little smear around the exit hole in the bog, as if to leave a little bit to remind me of its presence. And so, with a spring in my step and joy in my heart, I return here to post this for you all (there's been a lot of excretory function-related stuff here lately). I think 2H95 could be an order of magnitude better than the last 6 months. Rgds - Spike PS: I was also snatching quick reads of news while writing this, and Ed Ming's post re: the demise of Scott Tsyen made it to my site about half an hour ago. God, I feel bad. I never met him, but I looked forward to his posts and had been kinda missing him lately. He once congratulated me on a flame (one of my first posts about 18 months ago). Whatever he's gone on to, I bet he's out searching beyond the borders of good taste, preparing all around him for the arrival of a.t'ers when our time comes. This one's for you, Hinny. I hope you'd approve. Prose not too flowery, and all that. If it is, well, bite me. We'll discuss it when I get there. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- Simon 'Spike' Young Phone: (415) 528-4783 -- -- Synopsys, Inc. Fax: (415) 694-4128 -- -- 700 E. Middlefield Rd Email: spike@synopsys.com -- -- Mountain View, CA 94043-4033 Drink: Room temp beer and hot tea -- --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!seunet!news2.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!dish.news.pipex.net!pipex!oleane!jussieu.fr!univ-lyon1.fr!swidir.switch.ch!simtel!news.kei.com!eff!news.umbc.edu!hookup!decwrl!pagesat.net!a3bsrv.nai.net!cyphyn.nai.net!not-for-mail From: ming@cyphyn.nai.net (Ed Ming) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: A Public Apology to Those I May Have Hurt Date: 9 Jul 1995 17:29:47 -0400 Organization: Der Fuehrer's Water Closet Oompah Band Lines: 19 Message-ID: <3tphob$6bn@cyphyn.nai.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: cyphyn.nai.net X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] I'd like to make an apology to anyone that I have hurt with the "news of Hintysen's death". This was a hoax, inspired by the one over Trashcan Man's being hit by a garbage truck a year or so ago. Several people have emailed me telling me that they were genuinely hurt by my hoax. Once again, to anyone who I have hurt, I sincerely apologize; it was not my intention to cause anyone any emotional pain. Don't ask me why I didn't think it would, but at the time of writing it, I didn't think anyone would take me seriously. If I should *ever* try to post a troll again, and I doubt I will after seeing the effect that this one had on people that I enjoy hanging around with, I will be sure to make it *much* less believable. Feeling very stupid, Ed Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!news.moneng.mei.com!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!crl.dec.com!decwrl!pagesat.net!a3bsrv.nai.net!cyphyn.nai.net!not-for-mail From: ming@cyphyn.nai.net (Ed Ming) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: A Public Apology to Those I May Have Hurt Date: 10 Jul 1995 02:26:39 -0400 Organization: Der Fuehrer's Water Closet Oompah Band Lines: 30 Message-ID: <3tqh6v$ajh@cyphyn.nai.net> References: <3tphob$6bn@cyphyn.nai.net> <3tq96r$9mm@cyphyn.nai.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: cyphyn.nai.net X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] pigface@netcom.com wrote: : In article <3tq96r$9mm@cyphyn.nai.net> ming@cyphyn.nai.net (Ed Ming) writes: [As an act of self mortification, I had set out to drink a gallon of bleach] : >Before I end this post though, I'd like to get opinions on what physiological : >phenomena I can expect to undergo as the bleach does it's sinister : >bidding. Anyone have any theories, anecdotes, or experiences? : I 'spect you might end up lookin' like Michael Jackson. ...Which brings me to the topic of black heads. The skin on my back is peppered with black heads (among other forms of dermatological graffitti). I've had them since I was in my teens, and because they are located out of my reach, some of them have grown to the size of pencil erasers. Every once in a while, one of them will work itself out of my skin and drop down into the waistband of my undershorts merely from the stretching and constricting of my skin as I move in various ways. Many times I've mistaken one of these for a dingle berry lodged in my buttcrack. Well anyway, I'm now wondering if it is possible to bleach these buggers from the inside out, thereby winding up with a hide riddled with bleached blond heads instead. Ed -- Ed Ming "You are sick beyond belief." -- Martin Read (to me in email) Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!gatech!news.uoregon.edu!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!news.ecn.bgu.edu!news.moneng.mei.com!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!news.kei.com!simtel!harbinger.cc.monash.edu.au!news.uwa.edu.au!newsman.csu.murdoch.edu.au!cleo!ptcaffin From: ptcaffin@cleo (Peter T. Caffin) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Bomb testing Date: 9 Jul 1995 21:58:47 GMT Organization: The Sir Walter Murdoch University of Perth Lines: 37 Message-ID: <3tpjenINN32c@newsman.murdoch.edu.au> References: <3tea93$sfv@fbi-news.informatik.uni-dortmund.de> <3tkid4$eo8@nexus.polaris.net> Reply-To: ptcaffin@cleo.murdoch.edu.au NNTP-Posting-Host: cleo.murdoch.edu.au X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Ubiquitous did cunningly address to the world at large.. >In article , bwahaha@earth.execpc.com (Joseph Betz) says: >> >>This musta been the place that 60 Minutes did a piece on last year. Lovely >>birth defects in the surrouding area, with cyclops children, kids without >>eyes, kids with huge skulls, all sortsa fun mutants. We can thank the arms >>race for providing us with this cache of tasteless visuals. >I believe you're thinking of the faulty nuclear power plant which, >I think, was in India. Can anyone verify this? Do you mean Bho Phal (sp?) in India, which Union Carbide was responsible for? I'd always wondered what the after-effects would be on the inhabitants there :-). ObHotNewRealEstate: Union Carbide used to own a large whack of the land that will be used for the 2000 Olympics in Sydney. Strangely enough, the area is extremely polluted now (WHO, I think, cited the waters of the bay as being the most polluted bay waters in the world), with dioxin levels at over 2500 maximum allowable. The entire bay would have to be dredged and the soils specially burnt overseas. This doesn't take into account the shit that's in the land surrounding the bay. Funnily enough, the NSW government didn't really factor the costs of the cleanup into its Olympics bid and will probably put in the least effort it can. It plans on recouping most of its costs for staging the Olympics by selling lands directly adjacent to the bay and sporting facilities to first home buyers with new families. In 20 years time, I'm expecting a new 47 Minutes (60 less 12 mins of ads) documentary on a whole new set of freaks.. this time they'll be in a first-world country, so we can go back to a five-star hotel after we've gawked at 'em a bit. -- -- .-. . .-. .-,.-, ---- _--_|\ ----- |_;.-. +- .-. .-. | .-. | | * .-. / \ | |-' | |-' | | .-| +- +- | | | -> X_.--._/ ? -- ' `-' `-'`-' ' `-'`-" | | ' ' ' --------- v / -- `-'`-' Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!mn5.swip.net!mn6.swip.net!seunet!news2.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!edi.news.pipex.net!pipex!dish.news.pipex.net!pipex!demon!glub.demon.co.uk!ketteridgep From: Prophet of the Great God Glub Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Classic Collectibles' "Tragic Memories" Date: Sun, 09 Jul 95 11:33:11 GMT Organization: The Midden Lines: 108 Message-ID: <805289591snz@glub.demon.co.uk> Reply-To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk X-NNTP-Posting-Host: glub.demon.co.uk X-Newsreader: Demon Internet Simple News v1.29 The Prophet limps back into the a.t. ring, licking his wounds... ..More on that later; right now I thought I'd share a wonderful little ad I saw in the summer edition of "VIZ". I guess many UK a.t.ers will have seen it in the mag itself, though possibly not the rest of you. I really need to scan it to do it justice; it's beautifully professional for a spoof (at least I *think* it's a spoof), and the detail in the photographs are truly wonderful. But I ain't got a scanner, so you'll have to make do with the text, and imagine the models. You know those ads in the Sunday papers for painted plates, framed prints, "lovingly detailed" scale-model cars, and other worthless trash at ridiculously inflated prices (instalments on credit card, natch)? Well, this is an ad for "Top quality die-cast models": START TRANSCRIPT>>>>>>> Classic Collectibles' "Tragic Memories" - Special Souvenir Offer ---------------------------------------------------------------- Tragic Memories present a unique opportunity to invest in the pleasure of acquiring three highly collectible model cars. Genuine 'vintage' quality toys manufactured for the collector's market, each model represents a shrewd financial investment, and a fitting tribute to a legend who died behind the wheel. ---------------------------------- The James Dean 1955 Porsche Spyder ---------------------------------- (Box photo of die-cast yellow Spyder with its back broken, canted at an extreme angle, windscreen gone, fender hanging off, wings crumpled, steering wheel on bonnet, mounted on a mahogany stand, presentation case in background) 'Too fast to live, too young to die'. So sang The Eagles in memory of the late James Dean. Now you can offer your very own tribute by owning this handsome model. The hero of a generation, James Dean lived life in the fast lane, and died there; at Paso Robles, California, on 30th September 1955. But his memory lives on in the form of this magnificent collector's edition model. Yours to cherish for all time. ------------------------------- The Marc Bolan 1977 Mini 1275GT ------------------------------- (Box photo of die-cast red mini embedded in a tree. radiator grille lies abandoned in front, drivers-side door and wing crumpled in, all visible wheels off. Windscreen bears nice "shatter effect") When Marc Bolan died he left behind a legacy of hits, and a legion of loving fans. Now you can celebrate his life, and commemorate his tragic death, with this beautiful hand-painted scale model. Authentic in every detail, it captures the sadness of that fateful day in September 1977 when Marc's mini collided with a tree; and the original child of the revolution rode a white swan all the way to pop heaven. ---------------------------------- The Eddie Cochran 1960 Ford Zephyr ---------------------------------- (Box photo of die-cast blue Zephyr with back offside wing totally ripped off; this lies artistically alongside the vehicle. Front of roof is stove in on the passenger side; more good windscreen detail. hubcaps and wheels strewn about) When his car failed to take a bend at Chippenham, Wiltshire, on 18th April 1960, Eddie Cochran skidded off the road of life and into the lamppost of oblivion. His one tragic step to heaven is recorded here for posterity in the form of a nostalgic, lovingly detailed scale model. Fans of his music and toy collectors alike will marvel at the quality of craftsmanship which makes this model so very special - 'just like Eddie'. ----- FREE!!! Marc Bolan tree when you buy all 3 END TRANSCRIPT>>>>>>> I thought this was superbly tasteless for a mag available at every newsstand. The rest is just ordering information and cracks at credit card companies. -- Pierre ObT: Elsewhere in the mag is a Readers' Top Tips article - great stuff! here's a few excerpts: "Make your wife cry when you're having sex by phoning her up and telling her" - R.G, Manchester >OK, OK, it's an old one, but always makes *me* laugh! "Convince dinner guests that your wife has a tapeworm by teaching her to regurgitate noodles while you hold a spoonful of sugar to her mouth" - Mr D. Light-Infantry, Gateshead "BALDIES. Don't waste money on a rug. Simply snip off a tuft of pubic hair and glue it to the palm of your hand. Then every time you stroke your shiny head it will feel hairy" - S. Sheppard, Ipswich "GIRLS. 'Roll your own' tampons using cigarette papers and a packet of cotton wool" - Graham Townsend, Shipley >Thass all fer now, -- Pierre ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I used to wonder when my life would achieve normalcy... now I know better, and just sit back and enjoy the ride, asking myself "What happens next?" - POTGGG ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!seunet!news2.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!dish.news.pipex.net!pipex!oleane!jussieu.fr!univ-lyon1.fr!swidir.switch.ch!simtel!news.kei.com!nntp.et.byu.edu!netline-fddi.jpl.nasa.gov!nntp-server.caltech.edu!ferrari.mst6.lanl.gov!tesuque.cs.sandia.gov!lynx.unm.edu!bubba.NMSU.Edu!usenet From: Muck Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Cupping a Fart Date: 9 Jul 1995 19:15:28 GMT Organization: bummin Lines: 30 Message-ID: <3tp9sg$m9p@bubba.NMSU.Edu> References: <3tnood$nmd@ixnews2.ix.netcom.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: pc-tjones5.nmsu.edu Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 1.1N (Windows; I; 16bit) Bernieba32@taco.engr.ucdavis.edu (Bernie) wrote: >I cannot believe that no one else is familiar with the technique and >execution of "cupping a fart". >Am I possibly so old that I am one of the few who recall and/or still >excell in this art? I hope not! I can assure you that this art is not lost, in fact in some communities it still thrives. I also don't know what you mean by too old - I'm 29 and I still do it - I actually train aspiring youths in the techniques. Of course the best place for such activities is the dinner table. The most uproarious reactions always come from people who don't know you too well. One may also allow dining guests to bask in the fumes of a good burp. Let the burp rise until the mouth can hold no more and expel the fragance toward the object of your affection. So fear not! Spreading the vapors is still appreciated. I just thought of something silly: I don't want to get married; I just want to get divorced. Muck Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!seunet!news2.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!cam.news.pipex.net!pipex!dish.news.pipex.net!pipex!warwick!griffin.nott.ac.uk!usenet From: epxsf@vme.ccc.nottingham.ac.uk (Stu Fraser) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Followup to Tard Bus--since Stu asked Date: 10 Jul 1995 12:54:58 GMT Organization: Top drawer, sock side Lines: 68 Message-ID: <3tr7v2$ajs@griffin.ccc.nottingham.ac.uk> References: <3tota9$iea@news.iastate.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: weplab7.nottingham.ac.uk X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.92.4 In article <3tota9$iea@news.iastate.edu>, spratter@iastate.edu (Heather D Spratt) says: > > >Concerning Friday's Tard incident...I'm trying to let the mental scars heal, >and my friend Stu has been kindly enough to reopen the wounds. What the >hell? This is alt.tasteless, and nobody but you guys can appreciate this. You betcha! >I guess, since you asked, Stu, for a description of lower body with the >Tight Green Shorts...I'm trying to recall if I even looked. I must have, >because I couldn't help staring, I think. And if I remember, I don't >believe I even saw the slightest hint of a TardTool(tm). No bulge, nothing. >So you tell me, Stu, maybe it wasn't a guy at all?? There are several possibilities that usually confuse most people when they encounter an asexual 'tard. Hmmm, what are the odds that I'll go into a bit of detail... If it is indeed male: 1) He has had his TardTool (good one!) bitten off by a fellow pica 'tard. Pica is a disorder that causes the person to eat anything, including inanimate objects. Considering that the TardTool is only used for pissing, wanking and slapping other 'tards in the head, the designation of inanimate applies. A furious blow-job and a bite later, you have a bulgeless male 'tard and another that won't eat it's dinner that night. 2) 'Tards are known for having massive tools. I have seen this, and it is a real pisser. I believe that their brains have been sucked down the spine and filled up their tool. Another (more realistic) possibility is that they have tugged and pulled on their pud to such an extent that the tool had no choice but to be huge. Therefore, the bulgeless 'tard simply has stuffed it's tool up it's anus. This gives it penal satisfaction, anal stimulation and, upon urination, a do-it-yourself, all natural enema. Of course a boner would cause sacral damage, but that's their problem. 3) The tight shorts were a turn-on for the 'tard. Hell, what guy doesn't like having the choad squished up against their warm belly (be honest, now)? The 'tard that you encountered simply went a step further and really squished their tool. The cool green short were probably purchaced a MotherCare in the 1-2 year-old section. If the 'tard was female: 1) I have seen femtards with pudenda's that out-bulged me, so this one wouldn't be too bad. Other than that, Heather's 'tard would've been normal below the beltline, anyway. As for the rest of the body, well, there are no firm parts on a femfeeb. Love handles...yeech. 2) They had something stuffed up their whatch that didn't stick out. This would be akin to the pica disorder, but instead of ingesting the inanimate objects in their mouth, this one uses the bottom orifice. These are just guesses. It is up to you to investigate. I trust, Heather, that you will fulfill your duty to the good a.t. readership and post the results of your in-depth fact-finding mission (and anything else that you find). >And no, I'm not paying...thanks for asking though. Damn. Looks like I'm swimming over the Atlantic after I'm done my thesis. >H. Stu The University of Nottingham wanted to share my views, but I wouldn't let them. "Me? Debunk an American myth? And take my life in my hands?" -T. Hip Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!gatech!europa.chnt.gtegsc.com!newsxfer.itd.umich.edu!agate!nntp-ucb.barrnet.net!nntp-hub2.barrnet.net!news1.digital.com!decwrl!tribune.usask.ca!canopus.cc.umanitoba.ca!news.escape.ca!dial-07.escape.ca!user From: dar@mbnet.mb.ca (David Richard) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Grease traps Date: Thu, 06 Jul 1995 09:59:15 -0600 Organization: WestCan Telecommunications http://www.mbnet.mb.ca/~dar/WestCan/ad.html Lines: 79 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: dial-07.escape.ca X-Newsreader: Value-Added NewsWatcher 2.0b27.1+ Now, this isn't a story about the greasy diners that truckers frequent at every truckstop across America and Canada, it is about a fine invention called the grease trap. The first time I ran into on of these tasteless devices was at Arby's, and this was the mother of all grease-traps. Basically you opened a trap door and there was the grease trap, as big as an open toilet in Shanghai. The smell is hard to describe, basically it's a mixture between really bad BO, shit, and other indescrible aromas. Fortunately I never had to clean this one. Move forward to current day. I slave at McDonald's (it's my personal punishment for getting booted out of school, plus I have to pay my bills somehow). One night I came in, and like usual I was in a shitty mood. Wouldn't you be if you had a fairly decent intelligence and were doing the work of a 'tard? My main problem in life is I don't know exactly what I want to do, of course if I had $32,000 lying around then maybe I'd become a pilot. Unfortunately this is not a common occurence in my life. But, I digress. This wonderful night I walked in and the cancer bitch was working - eating as usual. I put on my best strained smile and say, 'Hey bitc^H^H^H^HSue, how's it going?' 'Pretty good Dave, but I have a small favour to ask you.', she replies. I think to myself . o O (Hmmm.. sure I'll rip off your bra and check to see if you have breast cancer as well as whatever else cancer you're always bitching about). As if my luck were this good, the one time I've come close to her tits was when she ran straight into me and said, 'That's the closest you'll ever get to these buddy.' Oh well, her loss. But, I ramble yet again. She then gazes at me with her approximation of a puppy dog and says, 'I'd like you to clean the grease trap.' At this point I visibly shuddered and asked if she was kidding. Nope. It was now my official duty to clean the grease trap. Oh joy. My night goes along as usual and in the morning I prepare myself, I breathe deeply, and open the top of the trap. The smell is even worse than the one at Arby's. Probably because this one get's cleaned, oh, maybe once a year. The smell once again is hard to describe, but maybe I can come close. All you have to do is imagine the smell of a small dead animal, something you have to be familiar with. Now add some shit, rotten cheese and throw in a slight odour of mildew perhaps. When you open this thing the smell lingers for days, there is nothing that get's rid of it. I even tried this stuff guaranteed to remove all bad smells, but all I got was this putrid flowery smell with the undertone of grease trap. As if this aromatic delight is not enough the look of a grease trap is even worse. Now the one at Arby's easily could fit a man inside of it - I know because I saw someone fall in when I forgot the door open. Oops. Imagine normal grease, perhaps shortening from your home fry maker, solidify it, add striations of black mildew, and what I imagine to be some sort of fungus. This is what coats the sides of the grease trap. Inside is floating a veritable feast of coffee grounds, melted cheese, old lettuce, sand, and whatever the fuck else won't fit through the filter. I had to scoop this out with my bare hands, all the while trying not to lose my lunch into the trap. Once all this garbage was removed and put into a waste bin of food - which is an effective way to stop the scavengers from ripping apart the bags I might add - I had to remove the filter and bang the rest of the stuff in there into the trash. It get's worse. The whole reason I had to do the grease trap is because water was not flowing properly down the drain. Like I fucking care. The problem is once I reassembled the trap, and started some water flowing into the sink it still wouldn't go down the drain. One thing I'll let you know is that if McSchluck's doesn't have to pay a professional to come in, they won't. Hell, they even cut back our garbage pickup, doesn't matter to me, I strategically chose my day's off to be the days that the garbage was picked up in the first place. Now I had to disassemble the trap once again and figure out why the fuck the water wasn't moving as it should. Then I realized that there was so much shit in the real pipe that it must have clogged. I ask my manager what to do only because I hoped he wouldn't say what I knew he was going to. Stick my arm in and pull out everything I could. To cut this story short, imagine fisting some 65 year old hooker, with every disease in the book, and a yeast infection to boot. Now imagine the smell this would leave on your arm. That's how my arm smelled for at least a week. DAR -- "I may not be Superman, but at least I can move." - Joseph Betz Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!cam.news.pipex.net!pipex!dish.news.pipex.net!pipex!warwick!griffin.nott.ac.uk!usenet From: epxsf@vme.ccc.nottingham.ac.uk (Stu Fraser) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Hot, humid, bloody Date: 6 Jul 1995 11:12:21 GMT Organization: Top drawer, sock side Lines: 49 Message-ID: <3tggel$sh@griffin.ccc.nottingham.ac.uk> References: <3t3pf1$lrn@chaos.dac.neu.edu> <3tef5h$kam@lastactionhero.rs.itd.umich.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: wcc3f5.ccc.nottingham.ac.uk X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.92.4 In article <3tef5h$kam@lastactionhero.rs.itd.umich.edu>, mcafee@umich.edu (Sean McAfee) says: > >At present the only two places on my body from which I have never gotten any >pus are my hands and my naughty bits. I wonder if masturbation keeps acne >away? > Friends and neighbours, this is true. I once had a zit on my Meat o' Man. It was not surprising, considering the blood flow to the area and that in my teens (and still today, I guess) I was, er, predisposed to acne. Or in other words I had pus under the whole of my skin, with the main exit points being my face and shoulders. There were not many mirrors that hadn't suffered a shot of the white slime that eminated from my craters. As an aside, I noticed the ones with a solid core (usually blackheads) went the furthest and added to the accuracy. But I digress. One morning I woke up and upon inspection of the Weapon that accompanied the morning squirt (that's my story and I'm sticking to it), I noticed that my facial zit conglomerate had sent a delegate to a spot on the underside about an inch from the testicle containment package. It was a red spot, about the same size as a large member of the conglomerate that had sent him. Obviously, there was nothing I could do at the moment, so I progressed with my day as per usual and went to work. By lunch, another inspection of dear old choad revealed that the rich blood flow to the area had accelerated the growth and development of the little beauty. A nice white head had appeared, larger than normal with the supporting body of the zit a deeper shade of red than I had yet to encounter. I considered popping the little guy, but I was hoping that this could be a new record in zit size and quantity of output. Then, at around 3 pm, I was talking to one of my co-workers, and I felt a sharp pin-point-like prick in my prick. I knew immediately what had happened. Funny thing was, I carried on my converstion without letting on anything was happening. I really wanted to share the experience, whip out the trouser snake and say "Lookit! Thar she blows!!" but discresion is a better part of keeping your job. I went into the pisser as soon as I could and observed the pus, blood and clear liquid (oil? water? spinal fluid?) that had coagulated in my undies. The pus was more watery and runny than the normal well-formed missles that were launched from my cheeks and chin. The amount of blood was more than normal, again due to the density of blood vessels in the area. A quick squeeze of the remaining body only served to add to the blood levels collecting in the crotch of my Fruit of the Looms. Saddened that I had missed the Main Event, I pulled up my pants and finished the day with my nuts swimming in the remains of the zit of the year. There haven't been any repeat performances, adding to the sense of loss. Stu The University of Nottingham wanted to share my views, but I wouldn't let them. "Me? Debunk an American myth? And take my life in my hands?" -T. Hip Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!swrinde!emory!nntp.msstate.edu!olivea!decwrl!pagesat.net!a3bsrv.nai.net!cyphyn.nai.net!not-for-mail From: ming@cyphyn.nai.net (Ed Ming) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: In Memory of Scott Tysen Date: 6 Jul 1995 01:49:58 -0400 Organization: Der Fuehrer's Water Closet Oompah Band Lines: 39 Distribution: world Message-ID: <3tfti6$21g@cyphyn.nai.net> References: <3tdglp$ouk@cyphyn.nai.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: cyphyn.nai.net X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] M. Mitchell Marmel (marmelmm@dunx1.ocs.drexel.edu) wrote: : In article <3tdglp$ouk@cyphyn.nai.net>, ming@cyphyn.nai.net (Ed Ming) : wrote: : > of his bike blew out. He lost control and slammed into a bridge : > abutment. I'm told that he died instantly. [snip] : GIF! GIF! GIF!!! : Mitch You know, Mitch, at times like these I can't help but take comments like yours above to heart. Really. And because of that, I've gotten in touch with Hinnie's sister again. I asked her if she thought she could persuade the police dept. that did the accident investigation into getting her copies of the coroner's photos of the scene, and mail them to me. If she couldn't manage that, I asked her if she could at least take some snap shots of the point of impact on the abutment, and maybe a few of his motorcycle after the crash. She said that she would try, and would get back to me after the funeral, etc. If she remembers to follow through (hey, it's her brother, and she's only human) then I'll try to gain access to a scanner and post the results to alt.binaries.pictures.tasteless. Scott would've wanted it that way, I'm sure. Ed -- Ed Ming "I may not be Superman, but at least I can move." -- Joseph Betz Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!europa.chnt.gtegsc.com!hookup!news.mcgill.ca!newsflash.concordia.ca!vega.concordia.ca!cp_dine From: cp_dine@vega.concordia.ca (Bangers 'n' Mash) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: In Memory of Scott Tysen Date: 6 Jul 1995 19:13:33 GMT Organization: Concordia University, Montreal, Canada Lines: 14 Message-ID: <3thckt$rhk@newsflash.concordia.ca> References: <3tdglp$ouk@cyphyn.nai.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: vega.concordia.ca NNTP-Posting-User: cp_dine Ed Ming wrote: >I for one am going to miss Scott very much, and I'm also sorry to >be the one to break the bad news. "...I open the leaves of the water at a passage Of psalms and shadows among the pincered sandcrabs prancing And read, in a shell, Death clear as a buoy's bell..." -Dylan Thomas Goodbye, Scott. Bangers 'n' Mash Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!nac.no!ifi.uio.no!news.sics.se!eua.ericsson.se!erinews.ericsson.se!cnn.exu.ericsson.se!convex!cs.utexas.edu!uwm.edu!psuvax1!news.pop.psu.edu!news.cac.psu.edu!news.tc.cornell.edu!newsserver.sdsc.edu!news.cerf.net!pagesat.net!a3bsrv.nai.net!cyphyn.nai.net!not-for-mail From: ming@cyphyn.nai.net (Ed Ming) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: In Memory of Scott Tysen Date: 7 Jul 1995 02:38:04 -0400 Organization: Der Fuehrer's Water Closet Oompah Band Lines: 77 Message-ID: <3tikoc$ckc@cyphyn.nai.net> References: <3tdglp$ouk@cyphyn.nai.net> <3thtdo$19cj@ferrari.geac.co.nz> NNTP-Posting-Host: cyphyn.nai.net X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Thomas Beagle (thomas@geac.co.nz) wrote: : Jamie Bass - The Ham Sandwich wrote: : > : > Bye, Scott. Damn. : Oh for god's sake! This is becoming as bad as alt.music.nirvana or : whatever that stupid group that keeps crying about Kurt No-more-brain : dying. Sickening, isn't it?... : If I wanted to read maudlin little "Good bye Scott, we'll always love : you" messages I'd go and read rec.pets.cats.obitchuaries or some other : group populated by soppy sentimentalists. Ditto, but I have received many many responses via email about the passing of one of a.t's True Heros, so as a result I'm prepaired to make this special offer: After speaking with Hinny's sister again, I was informed that his family intends to give most of his personal effects to charity. After much sweet talk, I was able to get his sister to agree to ship certain select items to me for resale to his adoring fans here on a.t, at a modest price (only slightly above my cost). To be sure, these are Hinny's *actual* one-of-a-kind personal effects, and represent a *great* investment opportunity to the smart shopper. Below is a tentative price list, subject to availability. All prices are $US and *firm*. Shipping not included. All sales are final. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- -=< HINTYSEN MEMOROBILIA SALE >=- Don't miss this fantastic opportunity to be the proud owner of ACTUAL Hintysen personal items!!!!!!!!!!! High School Ring - $1749.99 Wrist Watch (digital Timex) - $449.99 School Photos (each) - $424.95 (grade school) $499.95 (high school) Bed Sheets (soiled) - $249.95 limited supply, gettem while they're hot! Hinny's Favorite Porn Mag.s - $299.95 each (most are in "fair" condition) ***** Special ***** Grab Bag o' Personal Effects - This is an assortment of small items once owned by our own beloved *Hintysen*. Items include such things as, combs, pencil stubs, key fobs, and condoms, as found in the pockets of Hintysen's *actual* clothing! - $39.95 per bag Hintysen's *complete* wardrobe is also available! Contact me for separate price list. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ORDERING INSTRUCTIONS To order any of the above items from the Hintysen Collection, email me with your request. You must also agree that all email to me will become my property, and that you give me express permission to post said email on a.t (for financial verification purposes only). Ed P.S. This just in! I have available to me a limited quantity of special Hintysen Grief T-Shirts!! These are hi quality cotten T's with the slogan, "I miss Hintysen more than he missed that bridge!" emblazened across the front in vibrant black letters. Be the envy of your friends with one of these beautiful commemorative T-Shirts! Only $29.95 (when ordering specify, L, XL, XXL. Available in natural white color only) 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!news.moneng.mei.com!uwm.edu!news.alpha.net!sswwss From: sswwss@homer.alpha.net (Joseph Betz) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: In Memory of Scott Tysen Date: 7 Jul 1995 18:55:09 GMT Organization: Alpha.net -- Milwaukee, WI Lines: 33 Message-ID: <3tjvud$414@homer.alpha.net> References: <3tdglp$ouk@cyphyn.nai.net> <3thtdo$19cj@ferrari.geac.co.nz> NNTP-Posting-Host: mixcom.mixcom.com X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Thomas Beagle (thomas@geac.co.nz) wrote: : Jamie Bass - The Ham Sandwich wrote: : >Ed Ming wrote: : >>Earlier today, I received a phone call from Hintysen's sister : >>informing me that Scott had had a motorcycle accident. It seems : >>that he was on his way into work one morning when the front tire : >>of his bike blew out. He lost control and slammed into a bridge : >>abutment. I'm told that he died instantly. : > : > Bye, Scott. Damn. : Oh for god's sake! This is becoming as bad as alt.music.nirvana or : whatever that stupid group that keeps crying about Kurt No-more-brain : dying. Hey man, have a little sensitivity. I went up to LaCrosse to attend Scott's funeral, and his family's having quite a hard time with it, just like some of your compatriots here on a.t. His sister was just about nuts with grief. I let her cry on my shoulder. She talked for hours about Scott's life, and his work, and how much her kids miss him and they keep asking when Uncle Hinny is gonna come back. She's a sweet kid, who just lost her brother, and she needed comforting, so I just held her while she cried. If my wife hadn't been along, I woulda let her blow me. -- **************************************************************************** * Joseph.Betz@mixcom.com * "And what did this guy do, other than steal * * * a tank?" - Pat Vest (thoreau@seanet.com) * **************************************************************************** Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!noc.netcom.net!netcom.com!julian From: julian@netcom.com (julian macassey) Subject: Low rent blowjob Message-ID: Organization: Nuns in Leather References: Date: Tue, 4 Jul 1995 00:54:03 GMT Lines: 31 Sender: julian@netcom18.netcom.com In article , Rocky O'Leary wrote: deleto >ObTasteless: >Woke up this morning to hear that Huge "pasty pommie bastard" Grant had been >busted for screwing a black 23 year old hooker in the back of a car in >Hollywood. According to the local paper here in 'frisco. The hooker was a 23-27 yr old black from Oakland. She has a tatoo on her chest . She was paid $160,000 by the Brit Sunday paper "News of the World" for her story. She says grant paid her $60.00 for a blowjob. She told him that for $40.00 more they could do it in a hotel room. But Grant who was driving a white BMW said he didn't have any more money (Note there are ATMs on every corner at that part of Sunset Blvd). So she teased him and told him she was a vice officer and when looking through her bag for ID pulled out some rubbers. Anyhow, she sucked him off and after the deed was done the LAPD cruiser pulled up with lights and siren. She said Grant was wearing a baseball cap and looked like he was "Trying to hide his face". She said she was unaware who her John was until the cops at the station (Hollywood Div) told her. She had not seen the dreary 4 weddings and a funeral. Looks like Mr. Grant will not be playing anymore romantic leading man roles - more work for that Aussie Mel Gibson. The irony of all this is that Hugh Grant is probably one of the few men in LA that many women would pay to fuck. -- Julian Macassey, N6ARE julian@bongo.tele.com Voice: (415) 647-2217 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!seunet!news2.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!edi.news.pipex.net!pipex!europa.chnt.gtegsc.com!news.umbc.edu!hookup!panix!zip.eecs.umich.edu!newsxfer.itd.umich.edu!newsrelay.iastate.edu!news.iastate.edu!spratter From: spratter@iastate.edu (Heather D Spratt) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Me, Public Transportation, and a 'Tard Date: 8 Jul 1995 15:53:29 GMT Organization: Iowa State University, Ames, Iowa (USA) Lines: 52 Message-ID: <3tm9lp$r5a@news.iastate.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: isum1.iastate.edu Okay, so it was a Friday, and I decided I needed groceries. Usually, I'm a biker, but today I thought I'd risk riding the bus because I didn't want to carry bags of groceries on my bike, and look like a total ass on the way home. Big mistake. Anyway, the bus ride there was normal, I met a friend at the supermarket, and we thus proceeded to commence with shopping. As we were waiting for the bus back, we saw someone coming towards the bus stop. You know, 'tards look pretty normal from a long way off. When he came closer, we could truly tell...he was a wearing a completely green ensemble. It reminded of me of the Jolly Green Giant, but this guy was nowhere near built like JGG. He was short, and had a pot-belly. Not to mention love handles from hell. Just to accentuate all that, he was wearing a tight green t-shirt, and really short, SHORT green shorts. He kept hitching them up, but they always seem to slide down just in time for him to turn his back to us, so we could catch a glimpse of buttcrack. I dunno, isn't that indecent exposure or something? Anyway, we board the bus, and soon after my friend gets off(heh)the bus, leaving me to contend with the tard. To get to my house, I have to take two buses, and wouldn't you know it, by sheer bloody rotten luck, the tard gets off at the same stop as me. So, I'm sitting, with a good ten minutes to wait for the next bus. The tard just begins walking around, and talking to himself. No big deal. Then I made a fatal mistake and made eye contact with him...he said hi...I quickly looked away. Thank God he didn't say anymore. After a while, he walks up to a roadsign nearby and says loudly, "I don't believe this! This is never gonna come out!" All the time, he was pointing at the sign. I dunno, you tell me. Then he strolled over to a nearby tree and began eating the leaves off it. He'd chew on the leaves and spit them out, except he couldn't be real smooth and ended up spitting on himself. I guess I should have knocked the shit out of him at this point, just to put the sucker out of his misery...wouldn't have really proved anything, though. So, about a minute after the bus is supposed to be there, he gets all irate, and yelling about how the bus is late...so he goes and stands in the middle of the street, looking for it. When it comes about ten seconds late, he boards the bus, and says to the driver, "You're late, you son-of-a-bitch." The driver said nothing...I still thought it was funny. I did learn my lesson...I shall never be afraid to ride my bike anywhere again. -- Pain....? Try aspirin. **************************************************************************** * Heather D Spratt, = Time is dead as long as it is being ticked off * * Student of Destiny = by little wheels. Only when the clock stops * * spratter@iastate.edu = does time come to life. * * Grand PogMaster = -William Faulkner * **************************************************************************** How I wish, how I wish you were here Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!seunet!news2.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!dish.news.pipex.net!pipex!warwick!griffin.nott.ac.uk!usenet From: epxsf@vme.ccc.nottingham.ac.uk (Stu Fraser) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Me, Public Transportation, and a 'Tard Date: 9 Jul 1995 13:37:41 GMT Organization: Top drawer, sock side Lines: 62 Message-ID: <3tom35$q8d@griffin.ccc.nottingham.ac.uk> References: <3tm9lp$r5a@news.iastate.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: weplab8.nottingham.ac.uk X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.92.4 In article <3tm9lp$r5a@news.iastate.edu>, spratter@iastate.edu (Heather D Spratt) says: [...] > He was >short, and had a pot-belly. Not to mention love handles from hell. Just to >accentuate all that, he was wearing a tight green t-shirt, and really short, >SHORT green shorts. He kept hitching them up, but they always seem to slide >down just in time for him to turn his back to us, so we could catch a >glimpse of buttcrack. I dunno, isn't that indecent exposure or something? Remember, kids. Just say 'No' to crack. Funny, the only noticable difference between male and female 'tards is the amount of fat on their chests. Fat sweaty slobs all, giving the idea that all they eat are platefuls of beef fat, lard left over from the Checkered Demon's pubes and the fluids of other feebs. I noticed that there was no mention or description of the SillySchlong and/or accessories, despite the short tight shorts. C'mon, Heather! Details, girl! [...] >leaving me to contend with the tard. To get to my house, I have to take two >buses, and wouldn't you know it, by sheer bloody rotten luck, the tard gets >off at the same stop as me. No luck involved, Heather. They knew where you were going. The bus was delayed by a feeb having a fit on purpose just so you could enjoy the company of the walking ad for prophilactics and shotgun-assisted euthinasia. >After a while, he walks up to a roadsign nearby and says loudly, "I don't >believe this! This is never gonna come out!" All the time, he was pointing >at the sign. I dunno, you tell me. Hmmm, lemme see. Perhaps he was asking permission to date the sign. He was trying to get the sign to come out of the closet, and admit it likes felching? The sign was a stain in his philosophical [sp?] journey through the deeper meanings of Forrest Gump and since he can't do his own laundry, the stain ain't never gonna come out? He was just raising his arm because he was 'sure'? Or perhaps it's that conspiracy theory again, and he was saying that just to bug the fuck out of you. > Then he strolled over to a nearby tree >and began eating the leaves off it. He'd chew on the leaves and spit them >out, except he couldn't be real smooth and ended up spitting on himself. I That would support the 'stain' theory, I think. >guess I should have knocked the shit out of him at this point, just to put >the sucker out of his misery...wouldn't have really proved anything, though. First off, it would've put him out of _your_ misery. And you're right, it wouldn't have accomplished anything and you are likely to be pissed upon while kicking his teeth in. > How I wish, how I wish you were here You payin'? Stu The University of Nottingham wanted to share my views, but I wouldn't let them. "Me? Debunk an American myth? And take my life in my hands?" -T. Hip Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!nntp.uio.no!ifi.uio.no!news.sics.se!eua.ericsson.se!erinews.ericsson.se!cnn.exu.ericsson.se!convex!cs.utexas.edu!uwm.edu!news.alpha.net!earth!bwahaha From: bwahaha@earth.execpc.com (Joseph Betz) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Rockin' Robin Date: 7 Jul 1995 00:29:10 -0500 Organization: ASPCA Lines: 95 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: earth.execpc.com Keywords: splack X-Newsreader: NN version 6.5.0 #5 (NOV) Ms. Robin allowed herself a moment of pride as she looked down at her son. She'd earned this moment, after all. It was she who had scouted this nice location for her nest, snugly tucked into the middle of the meter-high "Q" in the "Quick-Lube" sign, where she and her hatchlings would be warmed at night neon tubes inside the metal can, behind the colored plexiglass. It was she who had flown hundreds of sorties over the vast expanse of asphalt, to the tastefully trimmed shrubbery rimming the parking lot, to gather twigs and straws and mud with which to build her home. It was she who had sat patiently on her eggs, warming them, protecting them from the rain and chilling wind, and she who had sadly determined that three of the four were, unfortunately, not going to develop. It was she who had to push the unfertilized eggs from the nest, so they did not rot and infect the one that still had a chance. Her sole baby had hatched but a few short days ago. She had set about on quick flights chasing down bugs and grubs, catching them, chewing them, then flying back to her hungry son and regurgitating the precious protein into his hungry mouth. Her son was developing rapidly. He was still featherless, but had put on considerable weight in those few days, and was already beginning to move about the nest on his own, flopping around from one side to the other, his veins bulging beneath his translucent skin. She beamed at him, and knew that all of the hardships she had endured would be worth the effort if her offspring would grow to do the one thing that brings to birds true, rapturous joy. All she wanted of her son was that he would fly. "Christ, am I glad this day is over", I mumbled to myself as I wrapped the cord on the Hoover and wheeled it towards the door. It had been a long one, with seven accounts to clean, spread out over a hundred-mile route. And of course, the annoying things were the same as they were every Sunday. The pinheads on the expressway who think 45 mph is fast enough for the left lane; the recycling bins filled with coffee grounds and microwave popcorn, because executives with 16 years of college couldn't be expected to learn to separate their fucking garbage; the bees swarming around me at each and every dumpster; the dried beer, piss and puke splattered on the storefront windows. My muscles ached. My eyelids sagged. My brain faded in and out, finally settling in on replaying Charlie Parker's solo from "Lester Leaps In" over and over and over. I took a moment to stretch, and wheeled the orange upright vac towards the front door. Ms. Robin was over behind the bushes, digging up more food for Junior. She got a healthy fat beetle and was busily crushing his shell and liquifying his innards when she heard her boy cheeping. He was awake and hungry. She took off for the nest with his lunch in her throat, but when she arrived, he wasn't there. Panicked, she spit out the bug and looked all around. She heard a very faint . Then she heard the creaking of a door, and the of a hydraulic closer. went Charlie's Alto in my head. Pushing the door open with my ass, I picked up the vacuum and did a half-turn, walking towards my van. Deftly opening the side door, I tilted the vac in and placed it on its pad. "Yeeeeeehaw!" I thought. "I can finally go home." I slammed the van door shut, took a half-step backwards, turned around, and.... Something fat and squishy was under my fucking foot! I glanced down, and saw what looked like an aborted fetus with a beak, oozing guts and blood and half-digested bugs onto my new work boots. "Mother-fucking-son-of-a-bitch-bastard-piss-eating-cunt-faced-cocksucker!" "You got my boots dirty!" I took a step back and stomped on his head. Teeny-weenie mushy bird brains splattered the concrete sidewalk. Ms. Robin looked down just in time to see her wish come true. Her son was flying. Right off the tip of my right boot as I put his carcass into a high arching flight path towards the bushes. The _fuck_ if *I'm* cleaning that up. -- ************************************************************************* * Joseph Betz * Freelance Jackbooted Thug - email for rates * * (bwahaha@execpc.com) * Wisconsin - Behind the Cheese Curtain * ************************************************************************* Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!seunet!news2.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!cam.news.pipex.net!pipex!edi.news.pipex.net!pipex!europa.chnt.gtegsc.com!newsxfer.itd.umich.edu!news.itd.umich.edu!mcafee From: mcafee@umich.edu (Sean McAfee) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Tasteless Ads Date: 5 Jul 1995 17:01:08 GMT Organization: University of Michigan Lines: 27 Message-ID: <3teggk$kvi@lastactionhero.rs.itd.umich.edu> References: <3t67fn$au0@nexus.polaris.net> <3t9274$81m@Starbase.NeoSoft.COM> NNTP-Posting-Host: verne.ifs.umich.edu In article , Andrew Shore wrote: >On 3 Jul 1995, Chuck G. wrote: >> I noticed a couple other tasteless ads recently: >Have you seen the Coast commercial with the little kid pounding on the >bathroom door while his father takes a shower: "Lemme in! I want some of >that white stuff!" >I also liked the Soft 'n Dri ad where the model shows us her underarms >and says "No sticky white residue". Well not there, of course... Has anyone else seen the diaper ad (brand name forgotten) with the animated diaper that talks out of a leg hole? The ad starts off with the diaper addressing a toddler, saying "I see you in a thick baggy diaper that just might leak!" At the end of the ad, the happy toddler bends over double, butt towards the diaper, and I always put these words into his mouth: "Kiss my ass, talking diaper!" BTW, was I dreaming, or did Taco Bell have an ad out a few years ago with the slogan "Get Late at the Bell!" (referring to the new, later hours)? I only saw (or thought I saw) it once, so I never was sure if I hallucinated it, or if it was yanked after some genius at PepsiCo noticed the double entendre. -- Sean McAfee | "I wanted to look my best for you, so this morning I put mcafee@umich.edu | on my tiger briefs and did a sit-up." --Jay Sherman Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!seunet!news2.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!edi.news.pipex.net!pipex!europa.chnt.gtegsc.com!hookup!news.moneng.mei.com!uwm.edu!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!levine From: levine@symcom.math.uiuc.edu (Lenore Levine) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The Death of a Loser Date: 8 Jul 1995 20:13:04 GMT Organization: University of Illinois at Urbana Lines: 251 Message-ID: <3tmosg$apt@vixen.cso.uiuc.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: symcom.math.uiuc.edu That Saturday, it was 103 in the shade. Inside the apartment, it was even hotter. Runnels of sweat dripped down my naked body. "I have nothing to do," I whined at my sidekick, Roberta Hatch. She didn't say anything, but a soft eep escaped her sleeping mouth. Bobbi too was nude, and her exceptionally large clitoris made a tempting target for me to lick. However, at this temperature, I was afraid my efforts would give us both heat stroke. I was bored, totally bored. I was just about to get dressed, and take the bus down to the air-conditioned bookstore on Stevens Creek, when the phone rang. I answered it in the bedroom. "You've found his home address? Really? Great! Yes, we can 'take care' of him." I hung up and made another call. By the time I finished with that one, Bobbi had woken up. She asked me what was going on. "A surprise!" I grinned. "But get dressed. We have to be ready in fifteen minutes. "OK, Lenore. If you want." I dressed casually, in jean shorts and T-shirt; underneath, however, I wore my size 20 black leather bikini. Roberta also donned her black leather WonderBra. From the hall closet, I lugged out my pink Barbie (tm) duffel bag, the one that carried my "special" eqipment. We waited outside. "Look!" Bobbi exclaimed, "It's the Oscar Mayer (tm) Weiner Mobile!" "I know, hon. It's come to pick us up." The Weiner Mobile stopped in front of our apartment. As the driver stepped out, dozens of neighborhood children ran up to meet him. Cheer- fully, he waved at us, and ran back in the car to get hot dogs for the children. "Weird mask," Bobbi whispered. "Looks just like a wild boar." "Shhhh," I hissed. "That's not a mask." After the kiddies had received their plump, juicy franks, we climbed back into our steed. Thank Ghod, it was air-conditioned. I introduced Bobbi to the driver, "Bobbi, Pigface. Pigface, Bobbi." Pigface grunted; with those tusks, he wasn't much for talking. We drove up 101, and across the East Bay Bridge into Berkeley. There, we stopped in front of a seedy apartment building near the Ashby BART. Me and Bobbi climbed out, but Pigface waited inside. Just as well; he had begun drooling, and his saliva was the runny brown of raw sewage. We climbed up to the second floor, and knocked on the door. A young Oriental answered. "Hello, Mr. Wang," I simpered. "We're from Oscar Mayer Student Outreach! You, yes you, have won a fabulous prize!" "Prize? Um, yeah. Kewl..." "Just sign our simple release form. And you, yes you Mr. Dik Wang, will be on your way to a romantic vacation you will remember the rest of your life!" He let us in. As he bent down to look at the form, I motioned to Bobbi. With a sharp snick of the bull-whip, she forced our victim to the floor. Roberta is a clever girl. She anticipates my wishes, which is why I love her so much. This time, without saying a word, she used leather thongs to tie our little friend to a cum-stained beanbag chair. He screamed, but of course, no neighbors called the police. Berkeley, y'know... I looked around his living room. Madonna posters? Check. Moldy Chinese take-out cartons? Check. MacIntosh with spooge-stained keyboard? Check. Yup, that was indeed our man; a quick "who am i" confirmed it. Under his ID, I posted a plausible apology; then, I bashed in the CRT with a table lamp. Finally, I turned back to my victim, who had soiled himself in fear. Tears ran down his dolllike face. "Y..y..you're not from Oscar Mayer, are you?", he sobbed. "No, we're not." "Please, please don't hurt me!" "Well, why would we want to do a thing like that?", I smirked. At the same time, Bobbi hit his face with the metal tip of the bull whip. His button-nose turned into strawberry pulp. "No," I continued, "I'm not really from the meat factory. I'm Mistress Leni, and my friend is Mistress Ilse. We're birthday presents from a fan!" At the same time as I was telling him this, I stripped off my shorts and T-shirt to reveal my black leather bikini. Bobbi did similarly, strutting around in nothing but her leather WonderBra. "You're dominatrixes?," our captive moaned, "Oh, goodie! Do me, please do me!" I untied Wang. Red marks scored his lemony skin. Of his own accord, he took off his clothes, got down on his hands and knees, and presented me with his gaping butthole. At the same time, he started licking Roberta's large clitoris. She responded with visible excitement. "Yes," I replied, "I'm a dominatrix. But you're not quite good enough for me to fuck. If you want it, you're going to have to do two things." "Please Mistress Leni," he whimpered, as precum dripped down his yellow ladyfinger, "please tell me what they are. Please tell me." "First," I said, "you're going to have to clean up after yourself." I pointed to his messy clothes. Dik crawled to the clothes, and started licking shit and piss off his caked undershorts. As he did this, his ladyfinger became stiffer and stiffer. Roberta noticed this, and cracked the whip on it -- lightly, just enough to leave a single drop of red blood. "Second," I continued, "you're going to have to lose some weight." "Yes, Mistress Leni." I took a gun out of my duffel bag. "That's not a real gun, is it?", Dik whined. "No, it's just a toy," I reassured him. I tapped Wang with it. For a moment, both boy and gun glowed a sickly pink. Then, Wang turned into a woman. No, his beardless face did not change, nor his gracile figure. But Wang did lose some weight -- at least a little. His penis was gone, replaced by a vagina. I looked down at my newly-female victim. She was shaking from both ter- ror and excitement. A drop of juice dripped down her dainty thighs. "Ugh! What a slut!", I kicked at her with my Birkenstocks. "Rinse your mouth off, Suzie Wong, and I'll let you attend to Mistress Ilse." She cleaned her face, and started licking Bobbi. I strapped the gun to my crotch, and began to fuck "her." The vibrations of the gunbelt against my clitoris were very pleasant, and so were my expectations for later that evening. As waves of ecstasy ran through me, I talked to my little target. "Oh Suzie Wong," I moaned, you're so feminine! You -- mmm -- have hips like a boy's! And you're not -- ohhh -- strident and abrasive like Western women!" Bobbi, too, was excited. In a few minutes, she had reached orgasm. This pushed me over the edge, and I came too, so intensely I saw stars. At the same time, I squeezed the trigger of my water pistol -- and shot battery acid into "Suzie's" vagina. She screamed in mingled pain and pleasure. Once, twice, three times she came, before damage to her internal organs forced her into unconsciousness. I kneeled down, looking at her and smiling, fondly. "Ah, my little China doll," I said, patting her on the arm. "You are eternally female. You know not to seek equality with men, because what you are is so much more." Bobbi giggled. I was trying very hard to be serious, but -- well, I couldn't help it. I giggled back. We hugged; then, I tapped Suzie with my pistol. Girl and weapon glowed a bright, healthy blue. In a few seconds, she had turned back to Dik again, and all the bodily damage we had inflicted was healed. Dik was smiling, the silly grin of a man who has fulfilled his ultimate fantasies. Quickly, we all got dressed. Dik came over and patted us on the back. "Hey," he said, "you dominatrixes are way, way kewl. Here's a tip." He handed me a twenty. "Thanks," I replied, smiling perkily. "We're glad you enjoyed our services. Would you walk us to our car?" "Sure. Hey, could I see it? I've always wanted to go inside a Weiner Mobile!" I winked at Bobbi. "No problem," I assured him. Once inside our chariot, I introduced him to Pigface. "Nice mask," Dik said, looking at the creature uneasily. "It's not a mask," I replied, as Pigface grabbed him. I stuffed the twenty in Wang's mouth. "And I'm not a dominatrix. I only hurt people for free." Dik tried to run, but Pigface pulled him into the back of the wagon. With his tusked mouth, the snouted hero began tearing open Wang's belly and slurping up his viscera. He especially liked the lower intestines, and ate their contents greedily. "Bon appetit!", I snickered, as Wang screamed like a damned soul. Two young men ran towards the Weiner Mobile. "Help!", Dik screamed. "Help! Help! They're eating me alive!" The youths knocked on the door of our steed, and I came out to talk to them. No, I wasn't worried; I knew exactly what would happen. "What do you want, boys?" "Neat heavy metal music. Are you having a party? Any babes?" "Sorry. No party, no babes. We're just graduate students in advertising doing a research project." "Research? Eeeww!" The lads ran away. As he watched the final defeat of his hopes, Dik's almond eyes glazed over, and he expired. Pigface belched, a mighty eruption that sent tears to me and Bobbi's eyes. He tossed our victim's earthly remains into a freezer. When I noticed a rusty meat grinder, I realized Dik's final fate. In death, if not in life, he would end up bringing joy -- with mustard -- to the world. Me and my bedmate clapped our hands and cheered. Pigface smiled and bowed. Then he let off another belch, one so strong it should have been prohibited by the Geneva Convention. He licked his tusks. Suddenly, Pigface stopped licking. He looked puzzled. He grunted, as if he was trying to tell me something. I couldn't figure out what he was trying to say. Bobbi tapped me on the shoulder. "Lenore, he needs pencil and paper." "Hmmm," I replied, "why didn't I think of that?" I got Pigface his supplies. "The problem with Oriental food," he wrote, "is that you're hungry again an hour later." "Oh dear," I answered. "That is true, isn't it? Well, there's a _great_ Indian restaurant down on Shattuck! Wanna try their lamb curry?" For a moment, Pigface's visage brightened, but then it clouded over again. "What's the matter?", I asked him. As I pondered, a single teardrop welled down his furry cheek. Finally, I understood. "Oh," I said, "don't worry. This is Berkeley. The folks here are open-minded. They don't make judgments about people based on their species." "Mmmgghh," he grunted in joy, and gave us each the high five. Happy at last, the three heroes drove off into the sunset. Lenore Levine -- "I'm not calling you an ignorant piece of sharkcheese because I disagree with you, I'm calling you an ignorant piece of sharkcheese because you are one." -- Andy Banta Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!gatech!news.uoregon.edu!psgrain!nntp.teleport.com!ip-pdx2-55.teleport.com!user From: goad@teleport.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: What Makes Pussies Smell? Date: Tue, 04 Jul 1995 09:48:00 -0800 Organization: Teleport - Portland's Public Access (503) 220-1016 Lines: 29 Distribution: world Message-ID: References: <3t4n2g$81o@pentagon.io.com> <3taon8$fvm@cantua.canterbury.ac.nz> NNTP-Posting-Host: ip-pdx2-55.teleport.com > Never in my respectable experience have I met anyone resembling fish. > Second-hand saliva maybe. Sweat and piss maybe. But FISH? Well, I didn't expect this to devolve into fucking "Penthouse Forum" with a bunch of blowhard jackoffs denying they'd ever slept with a "dirty" girl...My initial post was a request for the biological basis for vaginal odor. I'm sure you've all slept with clean-smelling women, just as you all have Malibu condos and fifteen-inch penises. Will a medical journal convince you that some lassies smell like fish? Jesus.... "BACTERIAL VAGINOSIS Signs and Symptoms: Increased amount of discharge Grey/white thin, watery discharge FOUL/FISHY ODOR WITH DISCHARGE Increased odor to discharge immediately after intercourse. This bacteria (gardnerella) is thought to be a normal part of vaginal flora in approximately 25% of women." Another guy e-mailed me with some information about mercaptan compounds, which form the basis for shit smells and skunk smells. As he explains it, "mercaptan also results from when yeast compounds have no food, and thusly give off a 'burning tire' or 'burnt skin' compound as they decompose." Yeast infections will occur in 75% of all human snatches. And now I understand why my brother told me all those "That's OK, the skunk'll get used to the smell" jokes. See? It isn't all roses and truffles. Pungent pudenda exist. "Hey man, smell my finger" is part of the rites de passage in all cultures. A gal's cum-bucket can either be a gleaming tabernacle or a reeking Port-a-Potty. It all comes down to proper bacterial management. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!psgrain!nntp.teleport.com!ip-pdx1-17.teleport.com!user From: goad@teleport.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: What Makes Pussies Smell? Date: Thu, 06 Jul 1995 03:05:53 -0800 Organization: Teleport - Portland's Public Access (503) 220-1016 Lines: 103 Message-ID: References: <3t4n2g$81o@pentagon.io.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: ip-pdx1-17.teleport.com The dancing, prancing, leather-wearing Mr. Julian McCassey wrote: >We > even have one who died recently who was a good reporter and a good > poster to a.t. He must be spinning in his grave. > You refer to Scott Tysen? Perhaps not, but if so, here's what he wrote about me back in April, when I still had an AOL (knock it off!--he did, too) account: -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ~subject: Re: ANSWER Me! (was: Cobain Haiku--16 of 'em) ~From: hintysen@aol.com (HinTysen) ~Date: 12 Apr 1995 03:13:06 -0400 Message-ID: <3mfui2$ces@newsbf02.news.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! --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- That's what Scott wrote. And, since many of you seem to have an overweening, tribalistic concern with "who's who" in the a.t. hierarchy, I thought you might think his words bore a little more weight than someone with whom you were unfamiliar. Now, it's been months since I've wandered into your little powwow, and only to ask an question from people whom I thought might steer me in the right direction (biological basis of vaginal odor, remember?). And then a few a.t. lapdogs get on MY shit after I write some snappy comebacks to the estrus-mad vituperations of one of your "regulars"? I just received an e-mailing from, I'm supposing, a member of your Inner Sanctum who said that my posts showed promise but that I should apologize and show proper respect to my elders. I told him that I want no part of your squirrelly self-abasement rituals. He was one of, oh, FOUR of you zombies who took umbrage at my use of the word "gang." Here's how I responded to him (3 grafs enclosed in helpful quotes): --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "I find this almost unbearably creepy. Actually, it was a throwaway reference to Mickey Rooney movies--you know, "Let's put on a show, gang!" mixed incongruously with woman-battering. It was not a call-to-arms for the unfortunates who consider themselves part of some Fraternity of Tastelessness. You (and your cohorts') objection to the fact that I would dare challenge Sit-on-a Johnson's hallowed group status (after she took the first shit on me, no less) approaches a near-cultlike defensiveness. Is this group some front for the Unification Church or something? To cut a Groucho Marx line in half, "I wouldn't want to belong to any group...." That's it. ANY group. Funny how this supposed Institution of Irreverence freaks out over an attack on one of "its own" in almost the same manner that Christians would gasp at "I fucked Christ's skull" haikus. I'm sure you'll disagree with my entire take on all this, but I didn't expect members of THIS particular newsgroup to act so sheeplike. You know, my magazine is the subject of TWO obscenity proceedings--one on each coast. And Francisco Martin Duran, who shot at the White House last fall, quoted my writing in an intended suicide letter he left in his van. And I need some broad who doesn't blanch at baby-fucking, ball-dissecting, and an endless diarrheal string of poop jokes--but who gets bent out of shape because I infer that some women emit unpleasant smells--to scold me about her superior grasp of the mechanisms of offensiveness? I don't think so." --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Now, assuming Scott's death isn't a hoax, it's too bad he died and most of the others didn't. My detractors aren't fit to string popcorn with my anal mucus. By the way, Mr. McCassey--that wasn't me who called you last night, it was a friend pulling a prank without my knowledge. That's what you get for listing your phone number, you dumbass limey queen.