Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.kth.se!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!newsserver.jvnc.net!newsserver2.jvnc.net!netnews.upenn.edu!dsinc!ub!newserve!bb05246 From: bb05246@bingsuns.cc.binghamton.edu (John Hollister) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: A Day in the Life Date: 10 Jul 1995 16:41:05 GMT Organization: Rimming the Ancient Mariner Lines: 35 Message-ID: <3trl71$45t@bingnet1.cc.binghamton.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: 128.226.1.20 X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] I am still trying to assimilate into upstate New York society. Last night I showed up at a party in a town with the delightfully PC name of Killawog. We sat around my trick's trailer smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, and discussing the intricate politics of trailer park life. I did not bring myself to ask why trailer parks are named "estates" or "manor". I basically just sat there wondering when Darwin would take care of the other guests so I could get on with my business of porking the host. There was one couple who looked adorable with their matching beer bellies. I couldn't figure out if the one whose tongue hung out of his mouth as he excavated his nose played top or bottom. The trailer itself was quite charming inside. The inspiring original oil paintings brought tears to my eyes. Outside, the US flags and the colorful plastic sculptures blended nicely with the assorted flowers in the garden. When I finally got my chance, I sniffed a bottle of poppers and rather ferociously raped my host. It was a nice balance to be the man; the previous night a young Latino had drawn me aside at a party and insisted I take him to my home. I did, and spent an hour worshipping his meat. Unfortunately a splot of his cum landed in my right eye. It was a kinda awkward situation. I was being set up with yet another man, who seemed to be serious BF material, although his repeated claims to some central European title did reduce his overall credibility. When I finally got into his arms, I could not fully appreciate his charms as my eye was still stinging from latin cum. oink. -- John Hollister bb05246@bingsuns.cc.binghamton.edu I'm not just a human being. I'm a piece of meat. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!gatech!nntp.et.byu.edu!news.kei.com!ub!newserve!bb05246 From: bb05246@bingsuns.cc.binghamton.edu (John Hollister) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: A Day in the Life Date: 12 Jul 1995 16:30:08 GMT Organization: Rimming the Ancient Mariner Lines: 25 Message-ID: <3u0tag$smp@bingnet1.cc.binghamton.edu> References: <3trl71$45t@bingnet1.cc.binghamton.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: 128.226.1.20 X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Jim Thomas Park , Jr. (jp45+@andrew.cmu.edu) asked: : My only question is do you take precautins against those little nasties : that inhabit some people and their bodily fluids?? No, of course not. You see, I am a Vegan and a Life Member of PETA (I may as well let out my secret before Lenore blabs it to the world). I strongly believe in the sanctity of ALL life forms, including those little nasties you so patronizingly refer to. (How would YOU like to be called a 'little nasty'?) To show that I am sincere in my convictions, I am embracing ecological diversity WITHIN my own body, as well as in the tropical rain forests. I am trying to add as many different organisms as possible. I offer them a safe home. I refuse to oppress them with chemical products of White Western Hetero-Patriarchal Capitalist society. Many of these precious living things are Chemically Sensitive. If natural processes of ecological succession happen to transform the appearance of my body, I will post detailed descriptions on the internet so the world will come to appreciate the Differently Beautiful. -- John Hollister bb05246@bingsuns.cc.binghamton.edu I'm not just a human being. I'm a living eco-system. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!Germany.EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!news.sprintlink.net!jupiter.planet.net!usenet From: mbooye@earth.planet.net (Michael Booye) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Autopsy for screenwriters...(Long) Date: Tue, 11 Jul 1995 08:40:46 -500 Organization: Acme Novelty Products Lines: 570 Message-ID: <3ttsga$ftv@jupiter.planet.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: denv7.planet.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-NewsReader: QNews v0.9b3 Beta 14 Apr 1994 (Evaluation period expired -- 81 days). Gleaned this little nugget some time ago. Enjoy. ~From: Ed Uthman ~Newsgroups: sci.med.pathology,sci.med ~Subject: Autopsy-A Screenwriter's Guide (monthly posting, 27K) Summary: This is a narrative account of a routine postmortem examination as performed by a pathologist on a patient who has died in hospital. It is aimed at screenwriters, novelists, and other interested individuals. Archive-name: Autopsy-Screenwriter's_Guide Posting-Frequency: monthly THE ROUTINE AUTOPSY ------------- The Procedure Related in Narrative Form A Guide for Screenwriters and Novelists Ed Uthman, MD (uthman@riter.computize.com) Diplomate, American Board of Pathology Version 1.002, April, 1995 PURPOSE The purpose of this paper is to make available to screenwriters, novelists, and other interested individuals an authentic detailed narrative account of a routine postmortem examination (autopsy) as performed by a pathologist on a patient who has died in hospital. I have based this on my experiences as a practicing pathologist in both academic and community practice settings in several U.S. cities. I have deviated from the dispassionate, unbiased language of my profession to present a more subjective, sensorial view, which I think should be of greater benefit to those using this information for the purposes of entertainment. BACKGROUND Most patients who die in the hospital do not undergo autopsy. In recent years, there has been a decreased interest in the autopsy in the medical community. When an autopsy is requested, it is either by the attending physician or the patient's family. The hospital's pathologist performs those cases of the former type for the educational benefit of the medical staff. Cases requested by the family are best left to an independent pathologist hired by the family. Autopsies performed by the hospital pathologist do not result in cost to the patient's estate; rather, the cost is absorbed by the hospital and the pathologist. "Private" autopsies hired by the family generally cost between US$800 and US$1500. After the patient is pronounced dead by a physician, the body is wrapped in a sheet or shroud and transported to the morgue, where it is held in a refrigeration unit until the autopsy. Autopsies are rarely performed at night, but they are typically performed between 8 am and 4 pm every day, including weekends and holidays. In medium-size and large hospitals, the autopsy is done on the premises in a autopsy suite, which is either within or adjacent to the morgue. Small hospitals that do not have autopsy suites may arrange for autopsies to be done at a larger hospital. Yet other hospitals out in the country can only offer autopsies by having them done at funeral homes. Doing an autopsy at a funeral home is one of the most dreaded things a pathologist has to face. DRAMATIS PERSONAE Immediately before the autopsy, the body is removed from the cooler by a morgue attendant who will help with the autopsy. This individual is called a DIENER (DEE-ner), which is German for "servant." Most dieners do not realize the derivation of this word and would probably object to being called "diener" if they did. Dieners are not formally trained, but many have some background of employment in the funeral industry. For some reason, in the southern U.S. anyway, about ninety per cent of dieners (my estimate) are African-American. I would estimate that less than five per cent of dieners are female. Dieners tend to work at their job for decades. I think this is because 1) management types don't know what goes on in the morgue, and would not care to mess around with its staffing come belt-tightening time, and 2) dieners are pretty much left alone by management and enjoy a much greater degree of autonomy than most workers at their pay grade and level of education. My own impression of the "diener personality" is that they are somewhat secretive and cliquish, and one gets the idea that they have a lot more going on in their lives than they tend to let on. It is not uncommon for them to receive a variety of strange visitors in the morgue, some of whom have a less than savory appearance. For fiction writers, I think there is a lot of character potential for dieners, and I'm not aware that any writers to date have taken advantage of this. There has been a general belief that some dieners also take payment under the table for notifying funeral homes of deaths in the hospital (so that the funeral home can send an agent out to approach the family), but I am not aware of any cases where this allegation was proved. From my own experiences, I know that in some cities the funeral home business is extraordinarily competitive, and I am aware of one case where agents of two funeral homes got into a physical altercation in the morgue over the disposition of a body that each claimed. The other individual directly involved in the autopsy is the PROSECTOR. This is the individual who is in charge of the actual dissection. In small hospitals, the prosector is a Board-certified pathologist, an MD or DO (osteopath) who has undergone a four- or five-year residency in the specialty of pathology, specifically anatomic pathology. In university- based hospitals with teaching programs, the prosector is a pathology resident (a physician who is training to be a pathologist) or a medical student taking an elective rotation in pathology. In larger non-university-based hospitals covered by large pathology groups, the prosector may be a pathologist's assistant. The "PA" is typically a graduate of an associate or baccalaureate program which provides training in several areas of pathology, especially those that involve "hands-on" activities, such as autopsy dissections, dissections of specimens removed at surgery, specimen photography, and video applications. PA's enjoy excellent pay and benefits (US$40,000 to start) in their little-known area, and the demand for PA's continues to exceed supply. Other individuals may be present at the autopsy, usually for educational opportunities. These may include the attending or consulting physicians, residents, medical students, nurses, respiratory therapists, and others involved in direct patient care. The prosector and diener wear fairly simple protective equipment, including scrub suits, gowns, gloves (typically two pair), shoe covers, and clear plastic face shields. Some facilities have sealed-environment "space suits," but I think one is more likely to infect himself as a result of the clumsiness lent by these suits than if he were dressed more lightly in the interest of nimbleness. THE EXTERNAL EXAMINATION The body is taken from the cooler by the diener and is placed on the autopsy table. Experienced dieners, even those of slight build, can transfer even obese bodies from the carriage to the table without assistance. Since the comfort of the patient is no longer a consideration, this transfer is accomplished with what appears to the uninitiated a rather brutal combination of pulls and shoves, not unlike the way a thug might manhandle a mugging victim. The body is then measured. Large facilities may have total- body scales, so that a weight can be obtained. The autopsy table is a waist-high aluminum fixture that is plumbed for running water and has several faucets and spigots to facilitate washing away all the blood that is released during the procedure. Older hospitals may still have porcelain or even marble tables. The autopsy table is basically a slanted tray (for drainage) with raised edges (to keep blood and fluids from flowing onto the floor). After the body is positioned, the diener places a "body block" under the patient's back. This rubber or plastic brick-like appliance causes the chest to protrude outward and the arms and neck to fall back, thus allowing the maximum exposure of the trunk for the incisions. The prosector checks to make sure that the body is that of the patient named on the permit by checking the toe tag or patient wristband ID. Abnormalities of the external body surfaces are then noted and described, either by talking into a voice recorder or making notes on a diagram and/or checklist. OPENING THE TRUNK The diener takes a large scalpel and makes the incision in the trunk. This is a Y-shaped incision. The arms of the Y extend from the front of each shoulder to the bottom end of the breast bone (called the xiphoid process of the sternum). In women, these incisions are diverted beneath the breasts, so the "Y" has curved, rather than straight, arms. The tail of the Y extends from the xiphoid process to the pubic bone and typically makes a slight deviation to avoid the umbilicus (navel). The incision is very deep, extending to the rib cage on the chest, and completely through the abdominal wall below that. With the Y incision made, the next task is to peel the skin, muscle, and soft tissues off the chest wall. This is done with a scalpel. When complete, the chest flap is pulled upward over the patient's face, and the front of the rib cage and the strap muscles of the front of the neck lie exposed. Human muscle smells not unlike raw lamb meat in my opinion. At this point of the autopsy, the smells are otherwise very faint. An electric saw or bone cutter (which looks a lot like curved pruning shears) is used to open the rib cage. One cut is made up each side of the front of the rib cage, so that the chest plate, consisting of the sternum and the ribs which connect to it, are no longer attached to the rest of the skeleton. The chest plate is pulled back and peeled off with a little help of the scalpel, which is used to dissect the adherent soft tissues stuck to the back of the chest plate. After the chest plate has been removed, the organs of the chest (heart and lungs) are exposed (the heart is actually covered by the pericardial sac). Before disturbing the organs further, the prosector cuts open the pericardial sac, then the pulmonary artery where it exits the heart. He sticks his finger into the hole in the pulmonary artery and feels around for any thromboembolus (a blood clot which has dislodged from a vein elsewhere in the body, traveled through the heart to the pulmonary artery, lodged there, and caused sudden death. This is a common cause of death in hospitalized patients). The abdomen is further opened by dissecting the abdominal muscle away from the bottom of the rib cage and diaphragm. The flaps of abdominal wall fall off to either side, and the abdominal organs are now exposed. REMOVING THE ORGANS OF THE TRUNK The most typical method of organ removal is called the "Rokitansky method." This is not unlike field dressing a deer. The dissection begins at the neck and proceeds downward, so that eventually all the organs of the trunk are removed from the body in one bloc. The first thing the diener does is to identify the carotid and subclavian arteries in the neck and upper chest. He ties a long string to each and then cuts them off, so that the ties are left in the body. This allows the mortician to more easily find the arteries for injection of the embalming fluids. A cut is them made above the larynx, detaching the larynx and esophagus from the pharynx. The larynx and trachea are then pulled downward, and the scalpel is used to free up the remainder of the chest organs from their attachment at the spine. The diaphragm is cut away from the body wall, and the abdominal organs are pulled out and down. Finally, all of the organs are attached to the body only by the pelvic ligaments, bladder, and rectum. A single slash with the scalpel divides this connection, and all of the organs are now free in one block. The diener hands this organ bloc to the prosector. The prosector takes the organ bloc to a dissecting table (which is often mounted over the patient's legs) and dissects it. Meanwhile, the diener proceeds to remove the brain. REMOVING THE BRAIN The diener takes the body block out from under the patient's back and places it under the back of the head. This elevates the head so that it is positioned as if it were on a very thick, stiff pillow. The diener uses a scalpel to cut from behind one ear, over the crown of the head, to behind the other ear. Like with the trunk incisions, this one is deep, all the way to the skull. The skin and soft tissues are now divided into a front flap and a rear flap. The front flap is pulled (this takes some strength) forward (like being "scalped") over the patient's face, thus exposing the top and front of the skull. The back flap is pulled backwards over the nape of the neck. The whole top hemisphere of the skull is now exposed. The diener takes an electric saw (typically called a "Stryker saw," even if it's not manufactured by Stryker) and makes cuts around the equator of the cranium. This cut must be deep enough to cut all the way through the skull, but not so deep that the brain is cut (this takes some skill). Typically, the cut is not totally straight but has a notch so that the skull top (calvarium) will not slide off the bottom half of the skull after everything is sewn back up. After this cut, the calvarium is removed and set aside. As the calvarium is lifted off, there is a very characteristic sound that is sort of a combination of a sucking sound and the sound of rubbing two halves of a coconut together. The best recorded representation of this sound that I have heard is in the brain transplant scene of the film _Robocop II_. The outer layer of the meninges (the coverings of the brain), called the dura, stays with the calvarium, so that the top of the brain is now fully exposed. After the chore of getting to it, it is a relatively easy matter to get the brain out. There are no tough ligaments that hold the brain in, so really all that needs to be done is to cut the spinal cord and the dural reflections that go between the cerebellum and cerebrum (called the tentorium). The brain is then easily lifted out. Since the brain is very soft and easily deformable, it is not manipulated at the time of the autopsy. Instead it is hung up by string in a large jar of formalin (a 10% solution of formaldehyde gas in buffered water) for two weeks or longer. The action of formaldehyde is to "fix" the tissue, not only preserving it from decay, but also causing it to become much firmer and easier to handle without deforming it. The reason that it is suspended by string is to prevent it from having a flattened side from lying in the bottom of the jar (the brain is heavier than water and therefore sinks). EXAMINATION OF THE ORGANS OF THE TRUNK At the dissection table, the prosector typically dissects and isolates the esophagus from the rest of the chest organs. This is usually done simply by pulling it away without help of a blade (a technique called "blunt dissection"). The chest organs are then cut away from the abdominal organs and esophagus with scissors. The lungs are cut away from the heart and trachea and weighed, then sliced like loaves of bread into slices about one centimeter thick. A long (12" - 18"), sharp knife, called a "bread knife" is used for this. The heart is weighed and opened along the pathway of normal blood flow using the bread knife or scissors. Old-time pathologists look down on prosectors who open the heart with scissors, rather than the bread knife, because, while the latter takes more skill and care, it is much faster and gives more attractive cut edges than when scissors are used. The coronary arteries are examined by making numerous crosscuts with a scalpel. The larynx and trachea are opened longitudinally from the rear and the interior examined. The thyroid gland is dissected away from the trachea with scissors, weighed, and examined in thin slices. Sometimes the parathyroid glands are easy to find, other times impossible. The bloc containing the abdominal organs is turned over so that the back side is up. The adrenal glands are located in the fatty tissue over the kidneys (they are sometimes difficult to find) and are removed, weighed, sliced, and examined by the prosector. The liver is removed with scissors from the rest of the abdominal organs, weighed, sliced with a bread knife, and examined. The spleen is similarly treated. The intestines are stripped from the mesentery using scissors (the wimpy method) or bread knife (macho method). The intestines are then opened over a sink under running water, so that all the feces and undigested food flow out. As one might imagine, this step is extremely malodorous. The resultant material in the sink smells like a pleasant combination of feces and vomitus. The internal (mucosal) surface of the bowel is washed off with water and examined. It is generally the diener's job to "run the gut," but usually a crusty, senior diener can intimidate a young first- year resident prosector into doing this ever-hated chore. Basically, whichever individual has the least effective steely glare of disdain is stuck with running the gut. The stomach is then opened along its greater curvature. If the prosector is lucky, the patient will have not eaten solid food in a while. If not, the appearance of the contents of the stomach will assure the prosector that he will not be eating any stews or soups for a long time. In either case, the smell of gastric acid is unforgettable. The pancreas is removed from the duodenum, weighed, sliced and examined. The duodenum is opened longitudinally, washed out, and examined internally. The esophagus is similarly treated. The kidneys are removed, weighed, cut lengthwise in half, and examined. The urinary bladder is opened and examined internally. In the female patient, the ovaries are removed, cut in half, and examined. The uterus is opened along either side (bivalved) and examined. In the male, the testes are typically not removed if they are not enlarged. If it is necessary to remove them, they can be pulled up into the abdomen by traction on the spermatic cord, cut off, cut in half, and examined. The aorta and its major abdominal/pelvic branches (the renal, celiac, mesenteric, and iliac arteries) are opened longitudinally and examined. Most of the organs mentioned above are sampled for microscopic examination. Sections of the organs are cut with a bread knife or scalpel and placed in labeled plastic cassettes. Each section is the size of a postage stamp or smaller and optimally about three millimeters in thickness. The cassettes are placed in a small jar of formalin for fixation. They are then "processed" in a machine that overnight removes all the water from the specimens and replaces it with paraffin wax. Permanent microscopic sections (five microns, or one two-hundredth of a millimeter thick) can be cut from these paraffin sections, mounted on glass slides, stained, coverslipped, and examined microscopically. The permanent slides are usually kept indefinitely, but must be kept for twenty years minimum. Additional small slices of the major organs are kept in a "save jar," typically a one-quart or one-pint jar filled with formalin. Labs keep the save jar for a variable length of time, but at least until the case is "signed out" (i.e., the final written report is prepared). Some labs keep the save jar for years. All tissues that are disposed of are done so by incineration. A note on dissection technique: All of the above procedures are done with only four simple instruments -- a scalpel, the bread knife, scissors, and forceps (which most medical people call "pick-ups." Only scriptwriters say "forceps"). The more handy the prosector, the more he relies on the bread knife, sometimes making amazingly delicate cuts with this long, unwieldy-looking blade. The best prosectors are able to make every cut with one long slicing action. To saw back and forth with the blade leaves irregularities on the cut surface which are often distracting on specimen photographs. So the idea is to use an extremely sharp, long blade that can get through a 2000-gram liver in one graceful slice. Some old-time purist pathologists actually maintain their own bread knives themselves and let no one else use them. Such an individual typically carries it around in his briefcase in a leather sheath. This would make an excellent fiction device, which, to my knowledge, has not been used. Imagine a milquetoast pathologist defending himself from a late-night attacker in the lab, with one desperate but skillful slash of the bread knife almost cutting the assailant in half! Note on the appearance of the autopsy suite: Toward the end of the autopsy procedure, the room is not a pretty sight. Prosectors vary markedly in how neat they keep the dissection area while doing the procedure. It is legendary that old-time pathologists were so neat that they'd perform the entire procedure in a tux (no apron) right before an evening at the opera (pathologists are noted for their love of classical music and fine art). Modern prosectors are not this neat. Usually, the autopsy table around the patient is covered with blood, and it is very difficult not to get some blood on the floor. We try to keep blood on the floor to a minimum, because this is a slippery substance that can lead to falls. The hanging meat scales used to weigh the organs are usually covered with or dripping with blood. The chalk that is used to write organ weights on the chalkboard is also smeared with blood, as may be the chalkboard itself. This is an especially unappetizing juxtaposition. CLOSING UP AND RELEASING THE BODY After all the above procedures are performed, the body is now an empty shell, with no larynx, chest organs, abdominal organs, pelvic organs, or brain. The front of the rib cage is also missing. The scalp is pulled down over the face, and the whole top of the head is gone. Obviously, this is not optimal for lying in state in public view. The diener remedies this problem. First, the calvarium is placed back on the skull (the brain is not replaced), the scalp pulled back over the calvarium, and the wound sewn up with thick twine using the type of stitch used to cover baseballs. The wound is now a line that goes from behind the ears over the back of the skull, so that when the head rests on a pillow in the casket, the wound is not visible. The empty trunk looks like the hull of a ship under construction, the prominent ribs resembling the corresponding structural members of the ship. In many institutions, the sliced organs are just poured back into the open body cavity. In other places, the organs are not replaced but just incinerated at the facility. In either case, the chest plate is placed back in the chest, and the body wall is sewn back up with baseball stitches, so that the final wound again resembles a "Y." The diener rinses the body off with a hose and sponge, covers it with a sheet, and calls the funeral home for pick- up. As one might imagine, if the organs had not been put back in the body, the whole trunk appears collapsed, especially the chest (since the chest plate was not firmly reattached to the ribs). The mortician must then remedy this by placing filler in the body cavity to re-expand the body to roughly normal contours. Ultimately, what is buried/cremated is either 1) the body without a brain and without any chest, abdominal, or pelvic organs, or 2) the body without a brain but with a hodgepodge of other organ parts in the body cavity. FINISHING UP After the funeral home has been called, the diener cleans up the autopsy suite with a mop and bucket, and the prosector finishes up the notes and/or dictation concerning the findings of the "gross exam" (the part of the examination done with the naked eye and not the microscope; this use of the term "gross" is not a value judgement but a direct German translation of "big" as opposed to "microscopic"). For some odd reason, many prosectors report increased appetite after an autopsy, so the first thing they want to do afterwards is grab a bite to eat. The whole procedure in experienced hands, assuming a fairly straightforward case and no interruptions, has taken about two hours. Complicated cases requiring detailed explorations and special dissections (e.g., exploring the bile ducts, removing the eyes or spinal cord) may take up to four hours. AFTER THE AUTOPSY Days to weeks later, the processed microscopic slides are examined by the attending pathologist, who renders the final diagnoses and dictates the report. Only the pathologist can formally issue the report, even if he or she was not the prosector (i.e., the prosector was a resident, PA, or med student). The report is of variable length but almost always runs at least three pages. It may be illustrated with diagrams that the prosector draws from scratch or fills in on standard forms with anatomical drawings. The Joint Commission for the Accreditation of Healthcare Organizations (JCAHO), which certifies hospitals, requires the final report to be issued within sixty days of the actual autopsy. The College of American Pathologists, which certifies medical laboratories, requires that this be done in thirty days. Nevertheless, pathologists are notorious for tardiness in getting the final report out, sometimes resulting in delays of years. Perhaps the non-compensated nature of autopsy practice has something to do with this. Pathologists are otherwise very sensitive to turnaround times. THE BRAIN-CUTTING Remember the brain? We left it suspended in a big jar of formalin for a few weeks. After the brain is "fixed," it has the consistency and firmness of a ripe avocado. Before fixation, the consistency is not unlike that of three-day- old refrigerated, uncovered Jello. Infant brains can be much softer than that before fixation, even as soft as a flan dessert warmed to room temperature, or worse, custard pie filling. Such a brain may be difficult or impossible to hold together and can fall apart as one attempts to remove it from the cranium. Assuming good fixation of an adult brain, it is removed from the formalin and rinsed in a running tap water bath for several hours to try to cut down on the discomforting, eye- irritating, possibly carcinogenic formalin vapors. The cerebrum is severed from the rest of the brain (brainstem and cerebellum) by the prosector with a scalpel. The cerebellum is severed from the brainstem, and each is sliced and laid out on a tray for examination. The cerebrum is sliced perpendicularly to its long axis and laid out to be examined. Sections for microscopic processing are taken, as from the other organs, and a few slices are held in "save jars." The remainder of the brain slices is incinerated. Please send any constructive comments concerning this FAQ to Ed Uthman, MD (uthman@riter.computize.com). Copyright (c) 1994, 1995, Edward O. Uthman. This material may be reformatted and/or freely distributed via online services or other media, as long as it is not substantively altered. Authors, educators, and others are welcome to use any ideas presented herein, but I would ask for acknowledgment in any published work derived therefrom. END -- ---- Michael Booye | "Facts are stubborn things." | (c)1995 Shaman, visionary, | -T. Smollett | All rights ethicist, Jeffersonian, | "Tits!" | reserved. rationalist, pamphleteer, | -My Cal Lab manager upon | armchair sociologist. | achieving a good adjustment| 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-e1a.megaweb.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: morbidiai@aol.com (Morbidia I) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Darwin-3 more leave the gene pool Date: 12 Jul 1995 08:25:51 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 20 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <3u0f0f$7vo@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: morbidiai@aol.com (Morbidia I) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com The 11 July Reuters Newsfeed reported that 5 Filipino workers on a drinking binge saw a frog hop out of a murky canal. They thought it was a delicacy so they chased it down, fried it, and ate it as an appetizer. Seems it was no delicacy but rather a poisonous bullfrog. 3 died on arrival at the hospital and 2 were in critical condition. The news article went on to list other items that Filipino workers like to eat as appetizers with their beer (direct quote from news article): "Filipinos love appetisers when drinking and eat just about anything to go with their beers, usually those with supposedly aphrodisiac powers - such as dogs, frogs, beetles, snakes, lizards and crickets, usually fried. Some prefer rotten eggs made into pies. " (this was in the news article, not something I heard from a friend . Could still be an urban legend, news organizations have been known to publish them, but the above is a quote) Rotten eggs made into pies? Eeeeew. How tasteless can ya get? MIM Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!dish.news.pipex.net!pipex!swrinde!emory!news-feed-1.peachnet.edu!usenet.eel.ufl.edu!usenet.cis.ufl.edu!caen!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: MOLE Problem- need your input Date: 12 Jul 1995 01:30:27 -0400 Organization: Der Fuehrer's Water Closet Oompah Band Lines: 40 Message-ID: <3tvmlj$5dv@cyphyn.nai.net> References: <3tr9nm$dtm@alaska.nwlink.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: cyphyn.nai.net X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Bill Gillam (bgillam@nwlink.com) wrote: : Please post any tactics that have worked well for you. Some popular tactics for ridding oneself of moles during the cold war years was to spike their martinis with various types of poison, or to inject them with extremely carcinogenic substances, causing them to have appeared to have died of cancer. Other more mundane tactics used against intelligence agents under deep cover, were to simply plant a bomb in their car, or just run them over as they crossed the street... Oh wait! You're talking about RODENTS! Well, in that case, we used to keep chickens at one time and we had severe problems with rats borrowing around the chicken coups. Their tunnel system was quite extensive by the time we detected their presence. Our solution was to gas the fuckers with carbon monoxide. We took an ordinary gas powered lawn mower and removed the muffler. Luckily, this engine (and I suppose most other small engines) used the same thread as that of standard water pipe, so we screwed a length of pipe into the exhaust port on the engine, added an elbow fitting, and then a shorter length of pipe so that we wound up with an "L" shaped pipe sticking out of the lawn mower. We rolled the thing over to what we thought was the main entrance to the tunnels and inserted the end of the pipe into it. We had blocked off all of the other exits with large stones except for one, which we manned with pellet rifles. We started up the lawn mower and let it run for a while. It didn't take long before the rats came scrambling out of their only exit and directly into our line of fire. Worked like stink. 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!due.unit.no!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!Germany.EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!uwm.edu!news.moneng.mei.com!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!usc!cs.utexas.edu!news.sprintlink.net!simtel!harbinger.cc.monash.edu.au!aggedor.rmit.EDU.AU!matilda.vut.edu.au!cougar.vut.edu.au!cougar.vut.edu.au!not-for-mail From: gerdw@cougar.vut.edu.au (David Gerard) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The Whole World Smelled Of Vomit Date: 11 Jul 1995 22:21:41 +1000 Organization: Victoria University of Technology Lines: 134 Message-ID: <3ttqcl$2ma@cougar.vut.edu.au> NNTP-Posting-Host: cougar.vut.edu.au Summary: a drunken puking tale Keywords: vomit wine shit blood X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] This is the happy tale of my twenty-eighth birthday, a few months ago. But damme if I don't remember it like yesterday. * * * * * * * * * * Decided to cook myself a nice high-lard dinner, in homage to the lower- middle-class Anglo side of my ancestry. That means LARD, boyo. Three sausages and a piece of pork of indeterminate age, but anything's edible if you fry it about an hour. Smothered with mushrooms. Bewdiful. Went over to my buddies' house. No money for beer, so we all chucked in for a cask of extremely cheap shit red wine. Cool. I guzzled six, maybe seven glasses of the stuff. We were all sitting around talking shit, drinking, talking more shit. It just goes down the throat, y'know; you don't bloat, like you do with beer. (That's why I only drink high-bloat beers these days -- that warning signal is *valuable*.) Finished the cask, off to the show: some ratshit bands playing in a tiny pub. Bought a pot (weird term these Melbourne heathens use for a half-pint glass) of beer ... took a sip. Bad move. Suddenly (at last!) the brain kicked in. "I've had enough," the signal went. I took heed. Gave the rest of my beer away (indicator of desperation move), stumbled outside and flagged a convenient taxi (there was no way I was attempting the half-hour walk home the way I felt). Got myself home-delivered. Stumble in; basic autopilot drunken ablutions, lots of water before retiring and so on. I'm an old hand at this. Trust me. Then to bed. Lights out. After about ten minutes, another signal made it to my brain. I was not feeling all that good. No, I wasn't. The urgency of the signal convinced my pickled brain to drag the pickled body back downstairs again. I got up. I started walking downstairs. By the time I got downstairs, I was running. Didn't make it to the toilet, quite. I *did* make it to the kitchen. *BLLLUUUUUGH*!! Monster power-vomit ONE: all over the kitchen sink. And I mean *all* over. Including the old dishes and the freshly-washed ones. A beautiful display of fragments of pork and pork sausage and that lovely pink red-wine tone. Everyfuckingwhere. *BLLLUUUUUGH*!! Monster power-vomit TWO: all over the sink again, but this time it was coming out of my *nose*. What does one do in a situation like this? I knew that leaving it till the next morning would only result in unnecessary household angst and upset: I did the dishes right then and there. (Wearing pink-puke-stained T-shirt and pink-puke-stained towel.) I've always found that it's easier doing these little things while you're still under than it is attempting even to contemplate them the hungover morning after. Cleaned up and made it all *look* nice, anyway. Off to toilet for a monster shit. This shit was quite normal ... the one that followed wasn't, but that comes later. Then to the shower, to clean the puke off myself. Urgh. Left towel and T-shirt soaking in laundry tub, then staggered naked off to my bed. What a sight that would have been for my fellow tenants ... * * * * * * * * * * Next morning: Woke up dead, as you might expect. I had remembered the water *before* the power-pukes, but not *after*. There was a terrible smell of vomit in the air. "Oh no," I thought. Checked all around room. Examined under every sheet and pillow. No vomit. But I could still SMELL the stuff. Just slightly. Just on the edge of my sense of smell. Lay there for about three hours, feeling like a corpse and mapping out my strategies for the day. My twenty-eighth! A celebration of my glorious existence on this planet! What a day for me! Decided I'd stagger on down to the 7-11 and guzzle a two-litre bottle of Coke (caffeine and sugar) and a pile of chocolate (sugar). Ahhh got up. Ahhh sorta got dressed. Ahhh went into the toilet. Ahhh sat down for the red wine anus-burning shit from hell. This stuff is unbelievable. It's not just black, oh no ... it's black with a GREENISH tinge. It doesn't hang together like any proper turd would ... it's a sort of runny paste that drips out of your arsehole and burns holes in the toilet paper. Of which you will use half a roll trying to get yourself rid of it. Shitting the stuff is unbelievably painful. What vicious trick of nature made anuses so sensitive to some of the things that come out of them? And there was just a *touch* of blood in there, too; like the icing on a particularly well-cooked cake. After about twenty minutes and two new haemorrhoids, I finally cleaned up and left that foul den of iniquity. Staggered out the front door. The vomit smell was still in my nostrils. THE WHOLE WORLD SMELLED OF VOMIT. All-pervasive; to every horizon. The smell of pork-sausage puke. Glory be. It was like a tastelessness theme park. The normal, everyday world -- which is, of course, quite tasteless enough -- but the normal, wholesome petrol and pollution smells were overlaid with that beautiful and subtle pork-and-wine vomit odour. It's like a pinch of salt, carefully applied: it really does bring the flavour out. Anyway, yeah. Staggered off 7-Eleven-wards, purchased the goodies. Sick as a dog. Realised *why* the world smelt like it did, blew my nose copiously in an attempt to get rid of it ... didn't work, you'll be happy to hear. Got back, guzzled/ate the crap; then shifted my chair and radio out the back to sit in the sun, getting over my hangover and listening to Melbourne's greatest radio station, Magic 693. But that's a whole tasteless tale in itself. (Radio for the over-65 demographic; you haven't *heard* a funeral-home ad until you've heard Magic.) * * * * * * * * * * This tale amused all my friends, particularly the housemates. Although I decided they didn't need to hear that I only made it as far as the kitchen for the power-pukes, rather than the toilet. Sometimes, people don't *need* to know *everything*. -- <.signature currently under reconstruction -- please wait.> Please email impor- tant followups (crappy and constipated newsfeed) Rev Dr David Gerard VUT SRC Footscray NoName gerdw@cougar.vut.edu.au (preferred) fun@suburbia.apana.org.au July 5, 1998, 7 AM. Saucers. End of the world. Your US$30 is your trip ticket. Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!trane.uninett.no!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!Germany.EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!agate!news.ucdavis.edu!csus.edu!netcom.com!bhatch From: bhatch@netcom.com (Roberta Hatch) Subject: Re: Tourrette Syndrome Symposium Message-ID: Organization: Dykes on Bikes, San Francisco, Ca. References: <3tvahv$lca@news1.halcyon.com> Date: Wed, 12 Jul 1995 14:37:03 GMT Lines: 62 Sender: bhatch@netcom12.netcom.com sicko@iastate.edu (Andrew P Mollman) writes: >dennisq@coho.halcyon.com (Dennis N. Quinn) writes: >>I was listening to NPR this morning and they started talking about >>Tourrette's Syndrome. That's a disease, in case you don't already know, >>in which the patient jerks, yells, and otherwise can't control certain >>similar kinds of behavior... >My only exposure to this disease is the episode of LA Law where one of >the clients says to Vanna White, "It is nice to meet you finally ... >SLUT!!!!" Anyway, think about about 500 TS patients getting drunk at >this thing and the screaming and jerking around that would take place. >You would think it was a bar-brawl. Just so happens that PBS had a program on about TS last night. Besides the WWII stuff they've been showing it was most entertaining stuff that they've had lately. They started off by doing interviews with a few people. Even some guy that plays with the NBA. The program is called, _Twitch and Shout_. Not all of the people 'twitch' with words, but those that do are a hoot! One woman said that her 'twitch' word is *nigger* and she only has the urge to say it when black people are around. One other woman liked to twitch with: "Fuck you in the ass." Those that twitch with movements ranged from not so bad to spastics. The one I thought was the most funny was some woman that moved her eyebrows. Her fucking eyebrows seemed to be alive. They moved halfway up her forehead and the more she talked about it, the more they moved. It was a riot. Oh yes, they did show a convention. Now that was *funny*. They interviewed some poor bastasd that had no idea what was going on at the hotel he was checking into. He said that some guy next to him was twitching by jerking his head toward him and saying something. The clerk pretended that she didn't notice and then he looked arourd. He thought that he might have been going nuts. He was the only one in the place behaving normal. >One other question, what would sex with a TS patient be like? Curious >about the replies. They talked about that too. Seems that sex is pretty normal. The problem is dating and marring people that aren't crips. One woman talked about how hard it was to get dates. I couldn't figure that one out. She was pretty normal. All she did was jerk her head back in the middle of a conversation and make some bizarre noise and then carry on the conversation like nothing happened. When she was talking about the dating problem, she'd sort of bob her head foreward, make a noise that sounds like a horn and continue on. This is one of the best shows I've seen in a long time, a combonation serious/comedy special. Bobbi --- Roberta Hatch '65 Panhead Dykes on Bikes, San Francisco, Ca. (This space for rent) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!noc.netcom.net!netcom.com!bhatch From: bhatch@netcom.com (Roberta Hatch) Subject: Re: Tourrette Syndrome Symposium Message-ID: Organization: Dykes on Bikes, San Francisco, Ca. References: <3u0s22$8jr@hal.brainiac.com> Date: Wed, 12 Jul 1995 20:01:47 GMT Lines: 57 Sender: bhatch@netcom12.netcom.com jh@brainiac.com (Joe Hartley) writes: >Roberta Hatch (bhatch@netcom.com) wrote: >: Just so happens that PBS had a program on about TS last night. ... >: The program is called, _Twitch and Shout_. >: Oh yes, they did show a convention. Now that was *funny*. >My favorite part of the convention was when they were sitting down having >some sort of small seminar, and one lady at the end of the table breaks >out into "MOTHERFUCKER! GODDAMN FUCKING BITCH!" in a voice so hoarse >that I thought it was a man until they showed her. Everyone else >tried to ignore it. Lady?! Are you *sure*? I would have sworn that was a guy. They did indeed try to ignore it. Notice after that person stopped, the person sitting beside her (are you sure?) got a pat on the back from someoen else? Must have been a parent or spouse. Maybe just a victim that endured that crap without slapping her(?). >: One woman talked about how hard it was to get dates. I couldn't >: figure that one out. She was pretty normal. All she did was jerk her >: head back in the middle of a conversation and make some bizarre noise >: and then carry on the conversation like nothing happened. When she was >: talking about the dating problem, she'd sort of bob her head foreward, >: make a noise that sounds like a horn and continue on. >Her problem was that she was this little pudgy redhead with the frizz >thing happenin'. Didn't do a thing for Mr. Tiny here, though I was >thinking about what it'd be like doing the Eyebrow Lady. The Eyebrow Lady was pretty neat. I loved the way they moved. Almost as if they had minds of their own. The redhead was really really funny. It's really hard to describe her actions. Just talking, and suddenly her head would jerk back and she'd let out some really bizarre noise, snap her head foreward again and go on as if nothing happened. If a normal person were to be carrying on a conversation with her, they'd have to do a reality check just to make sure it hadn't been imagined. The funniest part though was her describing her dating problems. Honest to god, she would jerk her head foreward and let out a "honk" noise. Sounded almost like a horn honking. "Hoooooonk!" How'd you like to take her to a 4-star restraunt without being prepared? >All in all, a fine evening of entertainment! A 4 Choads up for this one. I'm hoping that'll they'll re-run it. What am I saying, PBS re-runs everything, for months. Bobbi --- Roberta Hatch '65 Panhead Dykes on Bikes, San Francisco, Ca. (This space for rent) Message-ID: <163346Z11071995@anon.penet.fi> 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.eunet.fi!anon.penet.fi Newsgroups: alt.tasteless From: an260618@anon.penet.fi (BurntEyeballs) X-Anonymously-To: alt.tasteless Organization: Anonymous forwarding service Reply-To: an260618@anon.penet.fi Date: Tue, 11 Jul 1995 16:29:15 UTC Subject: True confessions- Part 8 Lines: 123 Dear at'ers! Once upon at time, I was browsing through alt.sex.bondage and therein I found a "Guide for Slaves" posted by "rage". I read through this guide, when under punishments I found this gem: [Punishment] #25 - "Smear a dildo with lubricant and sprinkle it with red pepper. Insert it into your ass and enjoy the crashing waves of pain. (Only for the truly daring. Serious enthusiasts only.)" I think to myself: HA! That's just right for me. [1] ::now saying in a manly deep voice:: Hey, I'm a *real* man. I can stand this. I am tough and *real* hardcore. ::thumping chest:: So I got a tampon [2](no, back then, I didn't have a dildo ), smeared liberally it not with red pepper, *but* red Tobasco sauce. (Yes, I *am* a man..) The stuff didn't soak easily into the tampon, so it kept running onto my hands. Moving to my knees, I bent forward as if worshipping Glub. Taking the now soaked TobascoTampon(tm), I shoved it deep into my rectum. Even the string that was dangling out was soaked in the red liquid. Taking my reeking Tobasco hands, I rubbed them against my bunghole. Hmm. It started to get warm. I rubbed my asshole a little. It felt good. It got warmer. Oh... I think I like this. ::sigh:: Pleasant. I was stroking my choad. Oh Oh... ::moan:: The heat builds..it gets hot. Yeah. That's what I want. Oh... stronger. Yeah, show it to me. I had now a happy face. Now it gets even hotter. I'm tough. I'm real tough. Yeah, that's what I like, give it to me, yeah, yeah. I have a blissful face. The eyes closed, fantasizing. (No, I won't tell about the rubber clad dominatrix, not this time.) Then...BLAM!! A FUCKING THERMONUCLEAR FUSION BOMB EXPLODED IN MY ASSHOLE. My eyes were wide open. Very wide. My face had a surprised expression. Just like the face you would have, if you'd shower, drop your soap, bend down, only to be suddenly and violently butt-fucked by an 300 ton elephant. I yanked the tampon ("OUCH OUCH OUCH") out. My whole colon was twitching in agony and pain. I felt like I was being impaled with a red hot glowing poker into my anus. My face was twisted and distorted by the crashing waves of pain. No ma'am that's not funny. I bit in the pillow. Nothing helped to fight this fire that was growing stronger. I felt my sphincter melting as if it were being treated by a blowtorch. Terrible amounts of pain drove my sexual arousement away. No...WAIT...STOP... The blowtorch had now turned into an oxygen lance.... charring my colon and flesh. I *ran*, no I *FLEW* into the shower. Ice-cold water. I let it spray onto my ass, and used soap. Suddenly, the *real* tough man was turned into a screaming banshee: "OWWWWAAAAOOOAHHH *DUMB FUCK* *ME DUMB FUCK*" My once hard-looking face had turned into a pain-twisted grimace. But the lava elixir was deep in my skin and my bunghole. All of me smelled like tobasco. I wanted to rub it out with my index finger. But as I touched my burning sphincter, my newly acquired rectal volcano broke out with fierce intensity. So I stood there in the shower, the ice-cold water touched my anus, controlling the pain. A little. Eventually (after 300 years) the pain ebbed. (I guess all the nerves were killed by the evil tobasco). My whole body smelled like this devilish liquid. I dragged myself, wet as I was, onto my bed My whole body was exhausted. Just like after a 100-hour fuck fest. Dead but happy. I was feeling quite normal, but compared to the previous feelings, this felt *extremely* good. Then I slept. For the next few days I was constipated and could still smell the stench of tobasco. When finally the turds came, they had this very familiar odor, the same one my farts had. This was the worst pain in the butt I had ever experienced in my entire life. And trust me. I've done *lots* of things. Six months later, I did it again. BurntEyeballs [1] Note: I had rubbed my genitals and asshole with alcohol on several times. It was just like a bite. Sharp, pain, for a short time. The problem is that my skin was getting dry. It developed little flakes, just like dandruff. In order to increase the effect, sometimes I shaved and rubbed my anus and choad. I think the spooge had some alcohol too. Too bad, since minors weren't allowed to swallow it. *sigh* [2] Note: Some of you may now think: "How comes that he did have a tampon at hand"? Well, I'd just bought some to experiment a little with them. They'd clog up crappers very well and they expand a little, when they get wet (e.g. in the anus). You should have seen the face of the women in the drug-store when I told her: "I want tampons, maximum size, please" Oh and kids: Do try this at HOME. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- 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. Subject: Wank booths revisited Sender: Ivanoff To: alt.tasteless@anon.penet.fi Message-id: <7759300928081995/A14381/ATDM0/1198E25E3800*@MHS> Autoforwarded: false Content-type: TEXT/PLAIN Importance: normal Sensitivity: Company-Confidential Keywords: American imperialism, camel jockeys, wankus interruptus Summary: I need to buy my own video player. [This post is in part inspired by the Great Shame that has of late greatly tarnished down under's proud tasteless repution. Yes you gimp boy, at our national capital's university. Amongst others. My taxes meet the toilet. Fuckwits] Aah, the wank booth. This most priceless artefact of 20th century life. Many a joyous hour have I spent locked in one. For the ignorant amongst you (and judging by my quick peek into a.t this weekend, the majority), wank booths are devices you can hire to view certain videos to allow you to indulge in one of the more pressing of solitary pleasures, usually at a fixed rate per so many minutes of your video of choice. Down under there are two basic types, with their respective versions in smut shops catering to the gay communities typically being the only ones having holes in the walls leading to connecting booths. The first basic type is the Sydney wank booth, which comprises of a coffin shaped box besplattered with cum over all it's walls and has about 2' square to stand in with a monitor at eye level (fellow midgets, this is discrimination that don't make your touchy feely action group agendas, so BYO milk crate. And write your congressperson). These I find to be particularly challenging in trying to beat off in without smearing yourself with some strangers spooge clagged onto the walls, as they typically do not provide tissues and you just spray wherever you like. I have described these in detail before and it provided for quite a choice thread in alt.feminism, culminating in "conclusive proof" of males being violent and irrepressible hornbags. Feh, I open up my heart to the greater sisterhood and THIS is what I get. Fuck 'em. Matters philosophical are obviously beyond the ken of the she-brain. Then there is the Melbourne wank booth, of which I had the pleasure to partake in tonight [*]. These are infinitely more civilised in that they provide enough space for a chair, a roll of toilet paper and a bin to deposit your unneeded potential-children-to-be in. [* A Saturday night of all nights. By Glub, how hollow is my life ? No doubt all sorts of buck's night cretins would be doing the rounds. And not pure aesthetes like my humble self either.] So I cruised into my local wank booth emporium earlier this evening with a heavy sac in need of a fulsome dumping, and was initially grievously saddened perusing the shelves of video entertainment on offer. Where were all the classics ? A year ago we had a huge influx of Europe's finest. And now zilch. Where are the Choc Shit Lovers, To Love a Dwarf and orbital-sander-on-the-cunt titles ? (all real, I kid you not). Where were the Dino Blue movie house titles ? The anal fist/ urine enema sextravaganzas ? The Beate K. catheter sex series ? The radical piercing vids from my beloved Creative Art Collection ? Nothing. Nada. 'Tis evident I am not the only aesthete in town. I did my mad scrabble for the more uncommon erotica, as obviously a lot of my neighbours did, in the fear of the next bout of fascist, clean living, healthy Aryan hysteria and repression. (Porn vids are banned in most states in Australia, but last year a loophole was found in the Victorian laws which, thank Glub, resulted in the overnight appearance of dozens upon dozens of video shops saturated with every kind of filth you could imagine.) *Sigh*. I peruse the now bare shelves. Not so much as a drop of urine, let alone a throat bound grogan or double fist up the poop chute. It's fucked. Nothing apart from Merkin titles. And Merkins are the absolute *WORST* makers of porn there's ever been, bar none. This is cultural imperialism at it's worst. C'mon. People who legislate that it's OK to video 4 fingers up a cooter, yet if you jam a fist up it, it ain't allowable. And they control the local market. Fucken fascists. *Sigh*. I stand there with a heavy heart and watch the first batch of drunken yahoos file into the place to start their nights ObRevelry, which will no doubt end at a table dancing joint and a quick whip around from lads for loose change to pay for a shitty blow job for the married-mug-to-be before pantsing him and dumping him with a ball and chain around his ankle in the middle of the city. "Har har, Baz !!! Rip snorter of a night out, eh mate ?" on the back that would knock the lungs out of an emphysemic. Peasants. Go find some bouncers to wrestle with and leave me in peace to my petty little indulgence. But I forget, this is Australia. I'd have more of a chance of stopping night following day than embedding some culture into these worthless automatons. So, without any real option, I settle for an early Bruce Seven feature, the first of the _Buttslammers_ series. An all girl stuffing things up the bunghole flick. Mr. Seven had a commendable start with the Lipstick movie house, (of which I have fond memories from my teenage years), but like Tobe Hooper, a little bit of success and he sits on his laurels and becomes lazy as a director. And what is it you Merkins have about butt slapping, surgical gloves and baby oil anyway ? Did Hitchcock need baby oil and rubber sheets ? No ! He relied on his basic talents to create a scene. That's bad enough, but why, oh why, try and add a plotline and ask the cunts to try and act ? Eh ? Some kind of effort to alleviate guilt ? Sheesh. Kindly limit the dialogue to grunting. All these unnecessary extras. How to kill a woodie in a nutshell. At least the first couple of vids in the series are relatively purist, and therefore, stimulating (though I must qualify that with _Buttslammers 7_ being the only time I've ever seen a solid frozen ice dildo applied anally. My toes curled in sympathy with those of the starlet in question, though judging by her moans of appreciation, the pay cheque was just the icing on the cake). So anyhow, I lock myself in, pour the coins in the slot, drop the trousers and settle back comfortably to give the ol' cyclops a long overdue work out. While waiting for it to start, I survey the booth to find the light switch and fan control. Ah, there on my right within easy reach. And what's this ? An ashtray ! Oh joy, a rare treat. Most of these places are smoke free. Heaven ! I could quite happily live in one of these. Just bring me a pizza and a cask of Mr. Morris of Rutherglen every now and then. And change the potty occassionally. Eyes glued to the screen, shaft clasped in hand and thumb massaging the glans I watch the credits roll over steamy short takes of the treats on the way. Mmm, wow, wonder what that clear plastic banana thingy with wires coming out of it hooked up to that car battery is ? Only time will tell, as I'm launched into the first scene. A lovely couple chicks having a tiff outside their house. Oh wait, one of 'ems a chicano. Dang it, I hate chicano snatch. It always looks like it needs a good douche and is way too hairy. We cut to some love parlour scenario. A-frames, leather shackles, lots of dildoes scattered all over the floor around a pedestal. Enter, stage left, some blonde chick in a bikini, looking around nervously, like she ain't supposed to be there. "Mmmm, pedestal...", she obviously thinks, and just cannot resist the temptation to straddle it and remove her top and start massaging her crotch. Nice perky nips pierced with thick gauge rings. Hubba, hubba, my cuppa tea, nipples standing a good 1/2" erect. She just works her panties off when, , the 2 bimboes having the love spat enter. Yawn. Standard production line porn scenario #666, "bimbo caught masturbating in a bondage parlour". There goes the woodie. C'mon pal, I'm paying hard currency here. What the fuck is this, eh ? Light a smoke and sit back in disgust. As if enough cliches haven't been commited already, out comes the baby oil. All round protracted run of the mill cornholing. Except the chicano chick. She obviously thinks she's the bee's knees. _She_ gets the others to wear surgical gloves when tangling with _her_ starfish. Y'know, it's shit like this that makes me think "so fucking what ?" when people mention Pinochet or the Shining Path. Fuck 'em. Like I need prima donnas who think their shit don't stink. 15 minutes of yawnfest later, we find the next scene, looking altogether more promising. We got us some spy chicks. Regulation CIA issue 4" stilettos, garter belts, micro minis physically unable to be stretched below the crotch line, wrap around shades and trench coats, scrabbling over industrial refuse and not so much as a ladder in their stockings. They find their target - some warehouse, and after much fumbling with the lock-pick held in razor sharp secret weapon, cyanide coated red fingernails, they're in. Ahah ! It is a dildo warehouse, no doubt a secret communist cache ready and waiting to destroy the Western economy by flooding the market with cut price prosthetic devices. Ho ho, the forces of good seem to have scored somewhat of a coup. But no ! Just as our good babes are analysing their secret intelligence windfall, the forces of Darkness arrive. Two likewise heavily armed Evil secret service bimbos. Then - "HAHA Habib !!! Take this home and stick yer dick in it !!!" Multiple har hars from like minded gentlemen disturb my rapt concentration. Great. A bunch of fucking A-rabs on a boys night out away from their mosques and their sexless mamas. Cunts. Sentence Rushdie to death and pop out to the porn shop, safe from the Imam's eyes. CUNTS !!! You will *NOT* ruin my evening. "Hey !! Lah !! Look over here !! The POOFTAH section !!!" More harharhar-ing. Jeezus. I just want a peaceful wank. PLEASE, PLEASE, I'm wanking, SHUTTHEFUCKUP !!!! I try to re-focus on my flick. Aah, the evil cunts haven't noticed the good ones and they're climbing a flight of stairs, pausing only for a protracted rim session. Little do they know that the forces of good have paused doing likewise and observing all. Hooboy, the back pressure from this diamond cutter may well tip me over to Satori. Keep at it babes !!! This is gooooood ! "HEY !!! Malacca, lookit this faggit !!! He's upta de elbow inta de udder one !!! Hey, Ali gid over here !!!" I groan and ignore. These chicks are really digging the tongues into each other bungholes. The sweat pours from my brow as I passionately stroke away. Light another smoke. Good bimbo 1 is _really_ into it. "WHOA !!! Lookit dis, Lah !!! He got both hands up der bad place !!!" Holy shit, these girls are rilly going for it. Fuck me drunk. This ain't a bad vid after all. Whaow ! Can I keep the spurt off ? I dunno. . Shit, if I come now, I've got what I paid for anyway. "Hey Lah !!! Dis guy takin' a piss all over his pooftah pal !!!" Fuck it. I'll blow now. Save the rest of the input for anthropological discussion. , draw my cigarette, , jeez I wish I could transplant myself into that brunettes body for this scene, another cig drag, a deep one, the flood gates are opening. HERE WE COME BABEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!YEWEEEEE YEWEEEEEYEWEEEEEYEWEEEEEYEWEEEEYEWEEEEEYEWEEEEYEWEEE YEWEEEEEYEWEEEEEYEWEEEEEYEWEEEEEYEWEEEEYEWEEEE....WHAT- THE-FUCKEN-HELL...my nuts seize in mid spurt < YOW!!!>... (ladies, believe me, this hurts)...WEEEEEWEEEEYEWEEEEEYEWEEEEEYEWEEEEYEWEEEEEYEWEEEEE YEWEEEEYEWEEEEEYEWEEEEYEWEEEYEWEEEEEYEWEEEEEYEWEEEEE , "Open up buddy !! What you doing in there ?!?!?! I mean it !!!", , Fucking Jesus H. Christ ! I scrabble to my feet, pull up my jeans and try to jam the snot monster into an inconspicuous place... , "Open it or I'll break it down pal !!!", the same threatening voice screams. The siren wails on, drilling a hole in my ear. "Yeah, yeah ! Hang on", I yell back, zip the jeans up and unlock the door, a thoroughly dishevilled mess. The guy from behind the counter is there with a portable fire extinguisher staring at me, the sand niggers (TM Julian) in one pack behind him laughing. "Hey, Lah, you wank a bit hard, eh ?!?!" one of them grunts and they all erupt in guttural guffaws. Sheesh, what remnants of romance that were left dissipate. The manager examines the booth, reaches for the ceiling and switches the alarm off. "Geez, how'd you manage that ?" he glares at me. My ears ringing, I glare back at him, balls aching, glare at the arabic types, tuck my shirt in and try to walk off, bow legged, with as much dignity as I can muster. I just hope I haven't damaged the plumbing. I really gotta fork out and get my own video. G.T. Dwarf, "No pride, no shame, no problem" Alt.tasteless - Solidarity through moral bankruptcy Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!umdac!fizban.solace.mh.se!paladin.american.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!news.sprintlink.net!jupiter.planet.net!earth.planet.net!mbooye From: mbooye@earth.planet.net (Michael Booye) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Eat me! Date: 14 Jul 1995 22:44:59 GMT Organization: Planet Access Networks - Stanhope, NJ Lines: 74 Message-ID: <3u6s1b$ibp@jupiter.planet.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: earth.planet.net X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] More material shamelessly stolen from Fortean Times, for your amusement. I know I'’ve seen a somewhat different version of the first item here, pretty sure the rest are new items here. I spent the better part of the day getting the OCR working, to bring this to you. Enjoy. If you like these excerpts, maybe you could throw these guys a few bucks and subscribe. C A N N I B A L C O U R S E S Starving slum dwellers in the city of Olinda, in the northeast of Brazil, have been eating human remains taken from murder victims or hospital waste at the city's main open-air rubbish dump. An investigation by Olinda's Health Secretary revealed that the dump scavengers had found foetuses, amputated limbs, brains, breasts and internal organs. Usually these are buried, but if the remains look edible and they are hungry enough, they eat them. Adilson Soares, 39, found a good chunk on 14 April and took it back to his mother Leonildes, 65, who fried it with oil and served it up with corn. A neighbour told them it was human breast, but they ate it anyway. [R] 16 April; [AP] 18 April, Lancet 30 April 1994. In a 12-page confession, Gretchen Steinfurt told German police how she killed and dismembered her husband Hermann, and then served him up to her boyfriend in ham-hock soup. At her trial, Conrad Krueger, the unwitting cannibal, said: "I knew it didn't taste like any ham-hocks I ever had before. It was rather gamey." Steinfurt was jailed for life. Europa Times, Jan 1994. Twelve "devil worshippers" ordered takeaway pizzas from the Buen Apetito pizza parlour in Buenos Aires. They were delivered to an abandoned factory in a run-down industrial area of the Argentinean capital by Carlos Sanchez, aged 19. His employer reported him missing and police raided the factory. Nine fiends escaped, but three were found dressed in white gowns around a candlelit table. They had ignored the pizzas but had eaten the delivery boy. All that remained were his bones. Wolverhampton Express & Star, 1 June; Today, 2 June 1994. Yuri Lukin, a doorman at the railway hospital in the central Russian town of Saratov, raided the hospital refrigerator on 12 November 1993, stole some body parts and sold them as cooking meat at a local market to raise money for drink. One woman said she bought some meat for the unusually low price of 1,200 roubles (then about 70 pence) and rushed back to work to boast about her bargain buy. Her colleagues noticed surgical sutures binding together a wound, and human-looking hair. A plastered Lukin was soon arrested. He was sent down for two years in April 1994. [R] 8 April 1994. A drinking binge in the eastern Siberian town of Artyom turned into a night of violence and murder in which one reveller was cooked and eaten by his companions. Two others were killed during the "heinous feast". Itar-Tass didn’t say when the incident occurred or how many people were involved, although there had been one arrest. [R] 9 June 1994. Drink also led to cannibalism last April in Kazakhstan, one of the old Asiatic Soviet Republics, where five hungry convicts in a prison killed their cellmate, skinned the body and cut it into pieces, which they boiled in a kettle and ate. [R] 19 April 1994. Newsgroups: alt.tasteless 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!netcom.com!bhatch From: bhatch@netcom.com (Roberta Hatch) Subject: Mormons, maroons and morons Message-ID: Organization: Dykes on Bikes, San Francisco, Ca. Date: Fri, 14 Jul 1995 14:58:58 GMT Lines: 174 Sender: bhatch@netcom12.netcom.com [ I just want to be the first on to post about this. Reprinted from today's San Jose Mercury. ] BOUNTIFUL, Utah (AP) -- A missing-person report filed by a husband anxious about his wife uncovered the shocking truth: The ``wife'' was actually a man who is accused of taking the husband for up to $40,000 during their 3 1/2-year marriage. [ Bountiful?! Bwahahhaha! ] Felix Urioste is in jail on $20,000 bail on fraud charges, and Bruce Jensen is confused, embarrassed and broke. Jensen told police he didn't know his wife was a man until officers convinced him. [ How the fuck could he *not* know? Good lord! ] "I feel pretty stupid," Jensen, 39, told the Standard-Examiner of Ogden. [ Hahahaha! They printed the moron's name! The poor fucker will have to live with this for the rest of his life! Anywhere he goes, people will talk about him, "Hey Orville, that's the idiot who married a man and didn't have a clue." He won't even be able to buy groceries without the entire market breaking into laughter the moment he leaves. ] The deception -- reminiscent of the Broadway drama _M. Butterfly_ -- unraveled when Urioste, 34, was arrested in Las Vegas for using 33 credit cards that were fraudulently obtained in the names of Bruce and Leasa Jensen and others. At the time, Urioste was traveling as a bearded man. [ You'd think that Jenson could have figured something was wrong when Urioste had a 5 o'clock shadow. ] Prosecutor Bill McGuire said Jensen was "just incredibly naive." [ Really?! ] "You've got a situation where a guy didn't have a normal marriage," [ Big surprise here. ] he said. "The victim is just a really nice guy." [ Any bets Jensen will claim he's the victim? ] Authorities said Urioste was able to pull off the deception because he looked like a woman and because Jensen never saw him naked. [ You'd hope Jenson never saw him naked. ] The couple got married when Urioste told Jensen he was pregnant with twins after a single sexual encounter in 1991, McGuire said. [ With whom? ] The prosecutor said Jensen married Urioste out of a sense of responsibility, and the marriage was basically celibate. [ Hahahaha! Maybe Urioste got pregrant from sitting on Jensen's filthy toliet seat? ] Several months after the marriage, Urioste told him the twins were stillborn and also falsely claimed he had cancer. [ Oh God... ] Jensen is seeking an annulment, citing irreconcilable differences. [ Bwhahahahaha! ] "It ripped me up pretty good," he said. "It trashes you out to believe everything a person says and find out they lied to you on basically 100 percent of it." [ What he really means is; everyone on the planet knows about this now and he'll *never* hear the end of it. ] In April, Jensen filed a missing-person report with Bountiful police when he couldn't locate Urioste, who had said he was going to New York for experimental cancer treatments. Bountiful police investigated and discovered that Urioste had already been arrested in Las Vegas on credit card fraud. Prosecutors said Urioste ran up at least $40,000 in credit card bills. "It looks like she charged up one to pay off another but always got a little more than she needed," McGuire said. Urioste's sister, Jeannie, said her brother fled the marriage in April after he started questioning his longstanding intention to complete sex-change surgery. [ Ho ho, now we're getting to the (lack of) meat of the matter. ] Urioste had had his testicles but not his penis removed and was taking female hormones that gave him slight breasts, she said. He apparently stopped taking the hormones this spring; in his mug shot, he has a thick mustache. [ Oh God, this is getting better! Let this be a lesson to all guys. Always, always, cop a feel before even going out on a date. ] "He was confused about his being, about his wanting to be a woman. He had found out that it was OK to be a man and to be gay," the sister said in a telephone interview from Santa Fe, N.M. [ I'd say it's a little late after you've had your nuts removed! ] Jensen told police the couple first met at a Coke machine at the University of Utah Health Sciences Center while Urioste was masquerading as a female doctor. [ Oh geez. The coke machine must be one of Jensen's hangouts. Jensen was probably trying out what he learned in _Speed Seduction_. ] Later, Urioste claimed that he was from Israel and that his wealthy parents had disowned him because he had married someone who was not Jewish and had joined the Mormon Church, police said. The couple were married in the Mormon Church, and members of the congregation said Jensen was widely respected for caring for his supposedly cancer-stricken wife while working two jobs. [ Morons, not Mormons... ] Jensen's Mormon bishop, Dick L. Smith, said the few members of the congregation who know about the case are heartsick for Jensen. "He's [ Few members?! Hahhaha! The entire planet knows about it now. Not only that but the entire congregation knew about from the get-go. Ever hear of gossip, Bishop Dick? That's probably how this story broke. ] just a little country bumpkin from Wyoming that wouldn't hurt a flea," he said. [ ... and never dicked anything but a cow. ] Jeannie Urioste said her brother ran away from home at 13, lived on the streets, attended college and planned to go to medical school. [ Maybe he cut his nuts off for a science project? ] "Felix has always been a woman to me," she said. "He's very educated, very intelligent. He would never hurt anyone intentionally." She also said the marriage had meant a great deal to her brother. [ Yeah, right. ] "They were happy. They were meant for each other," she said. "Without a doubt he'd never been happier in his life." [ Mr. Nutless met Mr. Moron and they married. Perfect match. Made in Heaven. ] Jensen couldn't immediately be reached for comment Thursday because he has moved out of Bountiful and is staying with relatives. [ In other words: "In hiding." Bwhahahaha! ] He told the newspaper that as soon as the case is over, he'll return to native Wyoming and "crawl in a hole for a few years and not let anyone within rifle range." [ I'll bet. Bruce Jensen, if you're out there reading this: We'll never ever forget this, you moron. I think we've got ourselves a great canidate for 'Posterchild 1995.' ] Bobbi --- Roberta Hatch '65 Panhead Dykes on Bikes, San Francisco, Ca. (This space for rent) Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!umdac!fizban.solace.mh.se!paladin.american.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!news.sprintlink.net!news.onramp.net!news.tcst.com!dildog.lgc.com!news.sesqui.net!oitnews.harvard.edu!RASCAL.MED.HARVARD.EDU!HIGGINS From: higgins@RASCAL.MED.HARVARD.EDU (Steve Kieffer-Higgins) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: My Buttworm Date: 14 Jul 1995 18:07:49 GMT Organization: HHMI / HMS GENETICS Lines: 38 Message-ID: <3u6bpl$pp3@netope.harvard.edu> Reply-To: higgins@RASCAL.MED.HARVARD.EDU NNTP-Posting-Host: rascal.med.harvard.edu D'ja ever get a worm in yer butt? I mean the kind that wraps itself around yer sphincter, diving in and out of the flesh like the Loch Ness fucking Monster? The kind of worm that feed on your nerve cells, the nerves that normally make ya feel GREAT when ya take a dump? The worms I get don't actually KILL the nerves, they jist nibble'n'bite at the dendrites, like munching a flower. See, they don't kill the nerves so thay can come back and chew on 'em again later. Well, I'm glad to say I got one writhing in my hole right now. Y'know that sound in rap music that goes YEENGYEENGYEEE? Well, that sounds like this feels. Like there is a microscopic crochet hook ripping into that densely packed ring of sphincter muscle. This is only a worm, not a fissure like Bob and Nanook, but MAN! he lets you know when he's there! He sticks his head out every now and then but hauls hisself back up my rectum as soon as it sees me coming to pull it out. This one time I was gonna get that fucker, though! So I waited, see, with my legs wrapped around my neck, vise grips in one hand, ice pick in the other, drawing a bead on that hole. Sure enough, pretty soon I felt him coming! Out poked his little hook-shaped head, and I went for him with my vise grips! He was too fast for me, and all I managed to do was to mangle my hole a little. So I went in with the ice pick! Well, I guess that was mistake, 'cause it hurt like hell. The good thing was that my asshole was so bunged up and tattered that all the nerves were swollen up. Buttworms don't like nerves that all swollen like mine were. Well, I'm healed, and he's back. Maybe I ought to try to enjoy it. @@@@@ Steve Kieffer-Higgins @@@(..) @@ o That is not a moon, you idiot! @| ~_~ It is a star! @| @ _/ _ v_\_ Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!seunet!news2.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!demon!btnet!news.netkonect.net!linux.nildram.co.uk!ssbbs!duke.plantagenet From: duke.plantagenet@nildram.co.uk (Duke Plantagenet) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: QUALITY REPORTING Date: Fri, 14 Jul 1995 19:57:00 GMT Message-ID: <9507150011163650@nildram.co.uk> Organization: Nildram On-Line Distribution: world Lines: 38 This posting is quoted verbatim from the pages of the Bucks Examiner, issued 14/07/95, Vol.104. Number 5515. This is posted as an example of high quality journalism, so lacking in the majority of local newspapers. DIED AS LOO BRUSH PIERCED HER EYE --------------------------------- Retired pharmacist Joan Davies-Jones met a grisly death when she slipped and fell head first onto a toilet brush. An inquest in High Wycombe on Tuesday heard how the 72-year old of Little Chalfont, impaled herself through the left eye on the toilet brush. PC Roger Gittings, of Amersham Police, said he was called to Mrs.Davies- Jones's home on April 26 by concerned neighbours. He forced his way into the bungalow and found the old lady lying face down in a pool of blood on the toilet floor. "When I moved her, I saw the toilet brush was embedded in her left eye," said the constable. He added there were traces of vomit in the bungalow and in the toilet bowl, which suggested that Mrs.Davies-Jones had become ill during the night. Pathologist Dr.Michael Turner confirmed that the pensioner died from cerebral trauma after the handle of the brush penetrated 17cms (6.7in) into her skull. ObCopyright notice, "Call to Arms" acknowledges the copyright ownership of the above extract and all rights there associated with it to be the sole ownership of the "Bucks Examiner". Thank you. Duke Henry "The Duke" Plantagenet, Editor of "Call to Arms" "Call to Arms" - The International Historical Re-enactment Directory duke.plantagenet@nildram.co.uk or admin@calltoarms.com "\@mail to: 7, Chapmans Crescent, Chesham HP5 2QU, GB "Of course they're the views of the company, I *own* the company! "Call to Arms" - Taking the Past into the Future! --- * RM 1.3 * Eval Day 37 * Perspicuity - the ultimate paradox? Date: Tue, 18 Jul 1995 13:55:37 GMT From: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk (Pierre Antony Ketteridge) Reply-To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk Subject: The Chinese Curse... Lines: 230 "May you live in interesting times..." OK, which of you bastids put the hex on me? To recap, and explain some of Dave's reports on my recent history, here's a potted account: STEP#1: Jane comes back from 7 days with her family demanding a divorce ("if you sign off the forms it'll be wrapped up in six months"). I find out that the last week has been a G7 summit meeting on how to engineer this. When she refused to discuss the situation, i said "Fuck off then. Consult a solicitor and take your place in the queue". [Lots of screaming and ranting and "I want my way NOW!" deleted] Eventually, she gives me a short, curt explanation. There's no-one else, I'm just bored with you and want you out of my life. I want to start over. I won't be greedy, I just want half the London house, half the amount the Land Rover and MG realise, and half of anything else. Oh, but I'm keeping all the furniture. And I'm staying here in the cottage - you're to move to another part of the country and never come this way again. I considered this briefly - about a nanosecond - and said "Fuck off. Talk to my solicitor, though you'll have to go to the back of the queue". STEP#2: Schroedinger's Shotgun. You know all about that. STEP#3: Looking for my SEMEN WORLD catalogue on the morning I'm travelling back to Poole, Jane tells me it's in her room as she leaves for the 'tard farm. Very precise instructions, but the book's not in the pile - but some very interesting letters are; detailing oral foreplay and other lewd acts with Wandering John, the unemployed pig farmer next door. On reflection, all the evidence points to her equivalent of a "troll", but I wasn't in a right good mood to think clearly at the time. So I ring her up and confront her, explaining that I was going to tear both their heads off and shit down the quivering stumps. She starts screaming down the blower and saying she's going "straight to see my solicitor" and I say "fine" and hang up. My taxi's outside, hooting, so I know I haven't much time. I put the letters together with a cover note, and dash for the cab. Not taking the evidence was a bad, bad move. The cover note was even worse, especially the bit saying "guess who I'm going to call on now?" and "better break out the body bags, Baybee". STEP#3: A day later, in my office in Poole. The farmer rings up, asking why armed police in flak jackets are roaming around the yard. I profess ignorance. Then Jane rings, speaking in smug, self-satisfied tones, saying "I called the police and they sent a SWAT team to take away your shotgun. They've got your note, and my solicitor has a copy too, ha ha". "Wait 'til I get home" I say. "You won't dare touch John with the cops breathing down your throat". "Who said anything about John?" I reply, "seriously though, It'll be justified defence - a 'domestic', I think they call it". "What have you told John?" she asks, worried now. I should have picked up on that - she was only angry when she thought I was going to be violent with him, but seriously worried when she thought I would *talk* to him. "Anyway, you've got your way - I don't think I'll be staying up at Harper Farm much longer, so you'll be able to stay on, on your own" she concluded, and hung up. Shit, that was easier than anticipated, I thought - even the solicitors haven't got organised yet. Then the police rang. They wouldn't discuss the matter, but wanted me to "call in for a chat" on Monday next. OK. Then my solicitor rang, and I had to go through the whole sordid mess again. "I'll let you know when anything important happens", I concluded, and rang off. Then my boss rings and asks why I'm getting so many personal phone calls. "Consult a solicitor," I snarl, "and take your place in the queue" [BRRRRRRR] STEP#4: I get back to Yorkshire on Saturday afternoon. The cottage is dark, and locked up. I had asked Jane to leave my keys out under a brick if she happened to be out, but no, nothing. She's probably out, up the Woodcock, with WJ, no doubt. I've got the Rover keys, though, and smiling grimly, fire her up and go out in search of the house keys. I pop my head into the pub but Jane isn't there. John is, though, with his back to me, but I've no time for him right now, it's Jane and the house keys I want. As I walk off I can hear excited whispers in the background. "Pssst! John! John! Pierre's BACK! D'ye want flowers at't' funeral or worr?" I am gratified to hear later that he filled his pants there and then. People had been telling him all week that this was to be his last weekend on earth, and he'd been in a blue funk all week. I checked out a few more pubs over the next few hours, to no avail, although I *did* have a few drinks. Three seperate locals offered to procure me a 'bent' (unlicensed) shotgun for a consideration, and one of John's brothers offered me a bonus if I "did a good job on 'im". Explaining further, he told me "Well, wot wit' 'im out'ot'way, Ah'm one step 'igher on t'inheritance ladder! Mind you, mek sure ye pay oor Dad 'is rent afore they lock ye oop!" Back at the farm, I tried to get a spare keyset from the farmer, but he was away on holiday. It was dark by now, and stumbling about, I tried to kick the door in, figuring a new lock was not only the cheapest repair option, but would piss Jane off mightily when she did return. All I got was a nearly broken foot. So last, resort, I picked up half the garden rockery and lobbed it through the kitchen window. [KEEERRRRAAASSHHH!!] Unfortunately, the window is four foot up, and I had had a few bevvies. On about the fifth leap I made it, and grabbing the frame with both hands, tried to keep my equilibrium. BAD MOVE. The shards cut straight into my fingers and palms, and, squealing, I pitched forward, catching my upper thighs on the bottom of the frame (more lacerations) before flipping onto my back on the glass -littered floor. OUCH. I just crawled off to bed. Next morning (Sunday) I woke up stuck to the sheets. The bed was a real mess. Peeling them off carefully, I inspected the wounds I could get at. Aah, nasty. Some had crusted over, others were still weeping. These were the ones with glass shards embedded, and I tried to remove what I could. Having done my best, I checked out the house. Still no Jane, so maybe she'd fucked off. I decided to pay John a visit. Peering in through the window, I could see the armchair, almost hidden by a broadsheet (News of the World) newspaper with a pair of jeans protruding beneath. I rapped on the pane. The newspaper jerked down a couple of inches, and I saw John's wide eyes, and heard a shrill "EEP!" as he belted off up the stairs. I suppose I must have looked a bit of a sight, in my ray-bans and covered in congealed blood. About five minutes later the bathroom window opened and a head poked warily out. "Whaddja want?" "Want YOU" "Whaforr?" "Wanna talk t'ya" "Worrabout" "You know" "No" "Where's Jane?" "I don't bluddy know!" "Open the door, John" "No fockin' way!" And so on. Eventually, after about fifteen minutes, when he thought I'd calmed down, he came down and opened the door. I guess he must've shit hisself again, because he was now wearing corduroys. We didn't fight as such, I just threw him around a bit and we exchanged a few blows. It must have looked worse than it was, what with my cuts opening up and spraying blood over his wallpaper. [That "This Little Piggy" Post that Da5e posted for me was just an anger outlet] My heart wasn't really in it, listening to his heated denials and expressions of hurt confusion. We ended up talking over a coffee. I still don't know what to believe, but the village was firmly behind him: "E's a pisspot and can't even 'member wot gettin' it oop's loik!" "E mebbe an arsehole, but 'e 's not stupid enowt t' try that on!" "Wha' worr a sane woman want wit' stickin' tongue in't'mouth worr's orl crusty wit' beer, fags an' stale vomit, eh?" "She's picked t'biggest doylem an' wino in't village an' used 'im as t'scapegoat, Pierre, can't ye see't yerself?" I conceded they had a point. To show solidarity, we went out for a few pints (I'd washed up as best I could and changed my clothes by then). Landlord of the Woodcock: "Condemned man's last wish, eh?" [smirk] Landlord of the Valley: "Why ent ye dead?" [disappointed belligerence] etc etc etc STEP#5: Visiting the Police. They weren't having any truck with me. Locked me up in an "interview room" (read:cell) while they "ran me through the computer". Must've been clockwork if it took three hours. Finally they said they were revoking my licence and keeping the shotgun. I asked how I could appeal. "You can't, seeing as we're not charging you with anything. Licence is at our discretion. We're jus' tekkin' it away". I pointed out that John was willing to act as a character reference, and plead for me to have my gun returned (and he had; it's amazing what people will say with a filleting knife to their throat! Jes' joking). The pigs shook their heads and said that'd have no bearing - Jane would have to withdraw her statement. "What statement?" I asked. "We're not at liberty to divulge that to you". Although I was dressed in my finest "Squire Ketteridge" tweeds, I think the effect was spoiled by the fact that every time I flexed, a new cut would reopen and I'd start dribbling over their nice linoleum floor. One hint as to my misdemeanour: When I said "I was only joking, officer" the pig said "Ahem, let's see, shall we?" and picked up a scrap of paper. "Better break out the body bags, baby..." I smiled winningly "that's just our coded slushytalk, officer..." He looked at me askance and said, "In our line of business we only have one use for that sort of bag..." "Well, maybe I meant bin bag, then, officer" I knew I was losing the argument. He continued: "And that's Acting Inspector to you, Mr ... ah... er... Pierre Ketteridge. PIERRE? Is that your real name, then?" "Of course, it's right there on the licence!" "Oh yar, so 't'is... when we saw your note, and was signed 'your loving husband Pierre', we thought, well, we thought it was acute sarcasm and the sign of a deranged mind. Thass why we took it so serious, like. Sorry". I thought I was in with a chance there, but he immediately dashed my hopes. "Mind you, I still think you might be deranged, Sir..." looking at my steadily bleeding hands. I got one bit of satisfaction. As the door was unlocked and I got up to leave, I turned back and opened my briefcase. "While I'm here, you might as well have these that you missed last time..." and upended the case, dumping about three dozen live cartridges on the desk. He had to write me out a whole plethora of receipts, as they were a mix'n'match of makes and types. His face was a picture! Junior heads will roll, I've no doubt, and I suspect "Acting Inspector" will be back to plain "Sergeant" in short order. Step#6: After a week or so, the glass shards hadn't worked their way out like I hoped, and I presented myself to the staff nurse. She refused to do minor surgery on me. Fair enough, I thought, and had a go myself, with the blade from a pencil sharpener and a watchmaker's screwdriver. Colleagues started gagging and turning green, and called up the nurse. When she saw what I was doing, she relented and did what she could, referring me to Poole hospital casualty dept for the really nasty ones. Lots of pus, mmmm. And there you have it. A bit long, I know, but it's the definitive Pierre story in a nutshell (albeit a very large nutshell). Ciao. Postscript: Jane rang up on Saturday saying she's been on holiday and is returning Thursday. Bright as a button, as if she's just been down the shops for a pint of milk. This should be interesting. John's very, very keen to have a word with her, as is Cabbage Chris, who's been evicted from the farm as an indirect result of all this. And the farmer and his wife (they're not keen on having their son slandered like this, especially if violence is in the offing). And of course, there's me. I'd like a few explanations, too. Roll on Thursday. I remain your humble Prophet, -- 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!news.funet.fi!news.eunet.fi!EU.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!nntp-hub2.barrnet.net!news3.near.net!yale!yale.edu!news.ycc.yale.edu!morpheus!bell From: bell@morpheus.cis.yale.edu (Peter Bell) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Alien Abductee Tidbit... Date: 21 Jul 1995 22:50:17 GMT Organization: Yale University Lines: 21 Distribution: world Message-ID: <3upav9$kko@news.ycc.yale.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: morpheus.cis.yale.edu Saw this in the American Physical Society weekly electronic newsletter _What's New_ today. I believe it speaks for itself: ALIEN ABDUCTIONS AT MIT: CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE WORST KIND. A new book is out on the 1992 conference held at MIT to compare the reports of people who have been abducted by aliens. "Close Encounters of the Fourth Kind," by C.D.B. Bryan includes post- conference interviews with the co-chairs, Harvard psychiatrist John Mack, whose response to patients who thought they had been abducted was to agree with them, and David Pritchard, an MIT physicist and APS Fellow (WN 4 Sep 92), who was interested in the implants that most abductees say were inserted into their bodies. But an "implant" from the penis of abductee Richard Price seems to have been of distinctly terrestrial origin: "human tissue that had accreted fibers of cotton from Price's underwear." Ugh! Peter "wash carefully, campers!" bell@minerva.cis.yale.edu Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!uunet!in2.uu.net!news.ssd.intel.com!ornews.intel.com!news From: Roy Hill Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Darwin calls it a tie Date: 20 Jul 1995 14:54:25 GMT Organization: Intel Corp Lines: 23 Message-ID: <3ulqn1$9jn@ornews.intel.com> References: NNTP-Posting-Host: comp55.sc.intel.com Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 1.1N (Windows; I; 16bit) To: rhill@rahul.net charters@opal.geology.utoronto.ca (Jim Charters) wrote: Unashamedly copied from my weekend newspaper: Bowling Green, Ohio, student Robert Ricketts, 19, had his head bloodied when he was he was struck by a Conrail train. He told police he was trying to see how close to the moving train he could place his head without getting hit. In Wesley Chapel, Florida, Joseph Aaron, 20, was hit in the leg with pieces of the bullet he fired at the exhaust pipe of his car. When repairing the car, he needed to bore a hole in the pipe. When he couldn't find a drill, he tried to shoot a hole in it. Better luck next time, Chuck. --- J.D. Charters, Systems, Networks, etc. University of Toronto Department of Geology Apes evolved from creationists.... Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!seunet!news2.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!sunsite.doc.ic.ac.uk!geriatrix.bangor.ac.uk!iss016@clss1.bangor.ac.uk From: Wolfgang Wuster Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Darwin enjoys the fourth of July Date: Sun, 23 Jul 1995 16:25:52 +0100 (BST) Organization: University of Wales, Bangor. Lines: 14 Message-ID: References: <3upgb5$5eh@nic.umass.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: thunder.bangor.ac.uk Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII X-Sender: bss166@thunder In-Reply-To: <3upgb5$5eh@nic.umass.edu> On 22 Jul 1995, Eric C York wrote: > Heres one I heard just befor the 4th of July. SOme women (near Boston) > mistook a M-80 (it may have been bigger) fire cracker for a CANDLE an > proceded to light it holding it tightly in her hand, and it blew off > several of the dumb bitches fingers. Too bad she didnt think it was a cigar!! The cigar variant happened one New Year's Eve party in Germany. The guy clung to life for 4 days before giving up the ghost. Just as well he did snuff it, as it is difficult to eat without a lower jaw... -- Wolfgang Wuster Thought for the day: If you see a light at the end of the tunnel, it is probably a train coming your way. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!mn6.swip.net!seunet!news2.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!dish.news.pipex.net!pipex!europa.chnt.gtegsc.com!gatech!news.uoregon.edu!news.u.washington.edu!royearle From: royearle@cac.washington.edu (Robert Antonelli) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Darwin on wheels (was Man porking Pooch) Date: 24 Jul 1995 17:18:41 GMT Organization: University of Washington Lines: 31 Message-ID: <3v0klh$6p1@nntp4.u.washington.edu> References: <3uq40f$2k5@bermuda.io.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: bank1.u.washington.edu In article <3uq40f$2k5@bermuda.io.com>, Christian Wagner wrote: > >ObGoDarwinGo: Here in Austin, a van with 11 members of a Bible study >group, of various ages, ran a stop sign at an intersection and Became One >With a large pickup truck. Six fatalities, all from the van, several of >whom because they were thrown from the wreck and the van rolled on top of >them. None of them were wearing their seat belts. I worked with a rabid Christian woman who, when she wasn't blathering about Jesus, would rant loudly against the state seat belt law. She believed the was discriminatory toward Christians because Jesus would "protect true believers" from injury in automobile accidents. I think we can all see where this is headed... She was killed in an accident: thrown from the vehicle and run over by an oncoming car. > >What happens? A huge cry goes up to put in a street light to replace the >stop sign. Nobody seems to care that people who are fucking dumb enough >to run stop signs are usually fucking dumb enough to run red lights. > >Gah. Austin has this -thing- about grieving over idiots who kill >themselved in cars. There's a little memorial on Guadalupe between 45th >and 50th where people have been leaving flowers for over seven years, >because a drunk rich kid killed himself and his girlfriend by embedding >his sports car into a tree. > Maybe they are paying homage to the tree... Robert Antonelli Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!newsfeed.tip.net!maggiore.dsnet.it!news.uni-stuttgart.de!news.rhrz.uni-bonn.de!news.rwth-aachen.de!nntp.gmd.de!newsserver.jvnc.net!newsserver2.jvnc.net!news.cac.psu.edu!news.tc.cornell.edu!caen!usenet.cis.ufl.edu!usenet.eel.ufl.edu!newsmaster From: afn03803@freenet.ufl.edu (William "If it ain't Tool, it's CRAP!" Sullivan) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Darwin Plays Road Soccer Date: Tue, 25 Jul 1995 02:55:21 GMT Organization: Pointing Out the Bloody Obvous but Commonly Ignored, Ltd Lines: 16 Message-ID: <3v1mfp$hk3@huron.eel.ufl.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: dialup28.afn.org X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.0.82 Just heard over the news: A florida man is going on trial for beheading his son. It seems that he decided his fourteen year old son was possessed by the devil while he drove down an intrastate highway. He pulled over and removed the boy's head, implement unknown, in front of his eight year old brother. Drivers by saw the stage show and called the police (everybody's a critic), who responded quickly in hopes of making the encore. During the ensuing car chase, the father chucked the son's head out the window. Name's unknown, and so is the charge he faces (50 buck fine for littering, of course). ---------------------dMMMMMMP--.aMMMb---.aMMMb---dMP------------------------- ---William Sullivan----dMP----dMP"dMP--dMP"dMP--dMP----------Tool is "cool--- -------afn03803-------dMP----dMP-dMP--dMP-dMP--dMP------and rich like silt--- ---@freenet.ufl.edu--dMP----dMP.aMP--dMP.aMP--dMP-------on a river bed"------ --------------------dMP-----VMMMP"---VMMMP"--dMMMMMP------------------------- Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!nntp-trd.UNINETT.no!nac.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!news.sprintlink.net!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail From: gamblez@pentagon-braco.army.mil (SGT Gamble) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Decapitation Date: 21 Jul 1995 09:27:14 -0500 Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway Lines: 153 Sender: nobody@cs.utexas.edu Message-ID: <300FE2DA@pentagon-braco.army.mil> NNTP-Posting-Host: news.cs.utexas.edu From the NandO Times online newspaper: ***Two Saudis beheaded for murder in kingdom*** DUBAI, UAE - Two convicted Saudi murderers were beheaded Tuesday, bringing the number of executions in Saudi Arabia this year to 116, according to an unofficial count. A Saudi Interior Ministry statement, reported by Gulf news agencies, said the two were found guilty of beating a Pakistani taxi driver to death. Since July 12, 10 Saudi men have been beheaded in the kingdom, including two for raping a 12-year-old girl. Saudi Arabia, which implements strict Sharia Islamic law, executes by the sword, and in public, rapists, murderers, drug smugglers and those convicted of violent armed robberies. Many of those beheaded this year were Asians and Africans convicted of drug smuggling. According to unofficial counts, 53 people were beheaded in Saudi Arabia in 1994 and 85 in the previous year. ] ObTastelessShortStory: This reminds me of what happened about a year-and-a-half ago. I lived in Dhahran, Saudi Arabia, and I got to know a lot of the locals. Actually I partied with the locals and drank their highly illegal moonshine that everybody drinks (stupid laws...nobody cares...everybody does it). I hung out with this Fillipino dude during most of my residence there. He was a cool guy, and he always knew how to get ahold of single, Fillipina nurses (ha cha cha). His name was Victor (obviously a traditional Fillipino name). Every once in awhile, Joseph would hang out with us at these speakeasy parties. He was kind of a dweeb, and he never got laid. He was small and scrawny, and he had really bad breath. But he did blow a decent snot-rocket. But one night (at the Halloween party at Al-Gazaibi's) he met a married Fillipina girl whose husband was not with her. I guess the poor sot had terrible hours or something. She was butt-ugly (perfect match). Well, that got rid of Joseph (thank Allah). He didn't attach his ass- licking personality to any more of our great exploits that he tended to ruin (more often than not). I didn't think about him for a couple months, and Victor and I continued our good old game of Russian Roulette with Your Dick. One day Victor and I got together, and he said to me: "Hey, dude, you'll never believe what happened. Remember Joseph? He's in jail...Evidently, old snaggletooth made it a habit of coming over to his apartment for evening plumbing work. Something went wrong one night, and she just up and died...Heart condition or something of the sort...Anyway, she died, and Joseph didn't know what the hell to do....So he put her in the closet...6 days, man...Who knows what the hell Mr. Snaggletooth had been doing all along...Anyway, Joseph gives up and calls the police and tells them that Mrs. Buttface is in the apartment, and she's dead. "Well the cops come and instantly arrest him. [Saudi cops are more likely to shoot first, ask q's later.] They tossed him in the slammer to rot." Well, that's how I found out that Joseph got arrested. It was about a month later when they held the trial for him. They found him guilty of adultery, hiding evidence, having a woman in the house, drinking alcohol, and generally being an infidel. He was given the death penalty. I talked to another friend of mine. He worked in the Ministry of Justice or some other place like that. He was a Saudi and loved Americans (a lot). He liked to touch Americans (a lot). I usually tried to avoid him, but I decided to ask him a favor. "Mohammed," I said (because that was his name), "Someone I know just got the death penalty..." He gave me a strange look like I was about to ask the impossible. "No, I don't want you to free him, I want to know when they're gonna chop his head off." He gave a sigh of relief and said, "Yes, my friend, I find out for you... I will give you a call tomorrow and let you know...and maybe you can come to my place for a party..." I wasn't that happy about him finding out info for me, I just nodded and grinned and said "maybe" a lot....just like they do. Anyway, the moment of truth approached. I planned it out...I took the day off, I got some Riyals out of the bank, and planned my route the night before. I parked about five blocks from Chop Chop Square (nickname that ExPats gave the place where this was going to occur). And I walked the rest of the way. A small crowd of people was already gathered when I arrived, and some guards were already escorting somebody out. Several Saudis looked at me and saw that I was an American and shoved me ahead of them in the square. They started shouting "Amriki! Amriki!" and everybody pushed me to the front. When I got there, I could see that two other curious Americans were already there. They looked rather stunned already, and when I looked at the riser, I saw a gleaming pool of blood. Obviously the last guy had just left. The guards dragged their prisoner out to the square and put him on his knees. Some official read some statement aloud in Arabic (which I have only a small grasp of), the only word I understood was "inshallah" and that means "if god wills it." They laid his arm out on the block and "THWACK" with the sword, his hand popped right off. One guy grabbed it up, and another applied a tourniquet to his arm/stump/wrist. A little blood splashed during this episode, and the guy grimaced in pain and let out a bleat like a suffocating sheep. It was obvious that the guy had been drugged before they chopped off his right hand...I guess it's merciful...and rather disappointing. It seemed like forever before they brought the next prisoner out. Actually they brought out two prisoners. And one of them was good- old Joseph. I hope he learned his lesson about screwing ugly, married women. They made the two guys kneel down for the punishment. The executioner approached with his big, shiny sword and stood between the two prisoners. The official read some sort of decree that probably stated that the two men you now see before you are filthy, infidel swine, we spit upon their heathen ways...blah blah blah. At that, the official sort of looked down at me...making a weird kind of eye contact that made me extremely uneasy. To the side, I could see the executioner turn to the second prisoner who I didn't know. The death-verdict reader continued to hold his gaze with me, and I started to shake a little, and I could feel my heart pumping blood straight to my temples. The executioner raised his sword into the sunlight, and brought it down "THWUP" not decapitating the man. In the same motion, he swung the sword down, around, and up as he turned to Joseph "THWUP" cutting into the skin on the back of his neck. He turned to the first guy "THWUP" back to Joseph "THWUP" and "THWUP" and "THWUP" and the two head landed on the ground in front of the bodies like some sort of ritual sacrifice. Blood pumped out of their bodies rhythmically and pooled about the heads that lay motionless on the riser. The other guy's body sort of slid to the side of the chopping block in slow motion and hit with a soft thump. Blood splashed out into the crowd. One of the Americans near me gagged and ran out of the crowd, and some of the Saudis laughed at him. I looked back up at the official who had so disturbed me with his stare, but he was already walking quickly back to the building as four men cleaned up the mess. As I turned and walked out of the square, all I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears. I barely noticed the locals who stared at me to see my reaction. I guess it wasn't very note- worthy, as they turned away in boredom to see what the third "Amriki" was doing. I drove home with a different outlook on death. It's one thing to shoot enemy tanks at 3000 yards and kick around dead bodies that have been lying in the desert for a few days, and dragging airplane crash victims out of the river. But it sure is something when someone you know gets their head chopped off in front of you. | "I dig no shallow graves." | | | | zeno@us.net | Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!mn6.swip.net!seunet!news2.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!news.uoregon.edu!news.u.washington.edu!uw-beaver!news From: craig@cs.washington.edu (Craig Anderson) Subject: Father Darwin strikes again Sender: news@beaver.cs.washington.edu (Voradesh Yenbut) Organization: Computer Science & Engineering, U. of Washington, Seattle Message-ID: X-Nntp-Posting-Host: mir.cs.washington.edu Date: Fri, 21 Jul 1995 17:46:26 GMT Lines: 29 From News of the Weird: * James Burns, 34, of Alamo, Mich., was killed in March as he was trying to repair what police described as a "farm-type dump truck." Burns got a friend to drive the truck on a highway while Burns hung underneath so that he could ascertain the source of a troubling noise. Burns's clothes caught on something, however, and the other man found Burns "wrapped in the drive shaft." [Kalamazoo Gazette, 4-1-95] Also, in the Incredibly Stupid dept: * In March in San Fernando, Calif., Guy Dean Bouck was charged with the 1987 murder of his wife after police kept the investigation open, waiting for Bouck to slip up and supply them with more evidence. In the ensuing eight years, Bouck (1) bitterly contested the disposition of his wife's estate, which forced a civil court judge to make a ruling that Bouck most likely was the killer and thus was not entitled to any of the property; and (2) alienated the girlfriend who had provided him with his 1987 alibi by raping her (a crime for which he is currently imprisoned). [Los Angeles Times, 3-3-95] Rest in peace, Binky.... -- Craig Anderson craig@cs.washington.edu Visualize World Spam http://www.cs.washington.edu/homes/craig Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.funet.fi!news.csc.fi!news.eunet.fi!EU.net!Austria.EU.net!newsfeed.ACO.net!swidir.switch.ch!simtel!harbinger.cc.monash.edu.au!merlin!mel.dit.csiro.au!its.csiro.au!news.nsw.CSIRO.AU!metro!ob1.uws.edu.au!lancelot.st.nepean.uws.edu.au!rocky From: rocky@guinevere.st.nepean.uws.edu.au (Rocqueforte OLeary) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Found in rec.arts.bodyart Date: 24 Jul 1995 19:25:54 +1000 Organization: University of Western Sydney Lines: 73 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: 137.154.148.15 Thought you all might appreciate these gems from r.a.b.: ~From: slyther@aol.com (Slyther) ~Date: 28 Jun 1995 09:07:50 -0400 ~Newsgroups: rec.arts.bodyart ~Subject: Inhaled backing... Hello all... I had a wacky sort of situation the other day and wondered if anyone else had encountered anything like it. I have two nose rings,one in each nostril. The one in my left side is a conventional starter earing post (yes I did it with an evil gun 3 years ago...) A couple days ago while having sex with my girlfriend it gotcaught in her hair and came out. Those things don't unhook very easy either. Anyhow-I found the post on my pillow but the backing dissapeared. I soon forgot about it and finished my endeavor...Shortly after while coughing up a lung cookie due to bogus allergies I bit into something hard...What do you know- I inhaled my backing into my nasal passage and didn't even know it untill I hadta spit. Just thought I'd enlighten all you serious types about a zany misshap. Am I alone or has anyone else ever had something like this happen to them or have any crazier stories to share? Later-Sly... **** ~From: visitor@crl.com (Sky Renfro) ~Date: 28 Jun 1995 09:00:30 -0700 ~Newsgroups: rec.arts.bodyart ~Subject: Re: Inhaled backing... Slyther (slyther@aol.com) wrote: //snipped parts about the lung cookie// : Just thought I'd enlighten all you serious types about a zany misshap. Am : I alone or has anyone else ever had something like this happen to them or : have any crazier stories to share? Later-Sly... In Chicago a few years ago, my boy and I were attending the Intl Mr Leather contest and of course taking part in all of the *festivities* that were going on. Whilst on the bus that was running us to all the bars in town, we got a little rowdy with the other party goers and well one thing led to another and soon enough the boy was on his knees in the center aisle. All of the sudden he looked up in a fit of panic and says "shit..I just inhaled my spetum retainer". We of course all laughed and thought that that had to be the best story we ever heard to try and get out of being "the boy" to a bunch of leather pervs:). However, he was insistant and after thoroughly checking the surrounding area and making him get naked (well, we had to check all his clothes ya know), it became obvious that, yes, indeed he had inhaled his septum retainer. This was a 10 ga piece of niobium. He was able to feel it resting just inside his right sinus cavity and proceede to try and blow it out by bending over, laying down and hanging over the bus seat. None of these tactics worked. Now he is in a panic. He is having visions of going to the emergency room in Chicago, in full leather, with a septum retainer jammed in his sinus and having to explain how it got there. He is a lawyer and always envisions the worst case scenario. Well, I get him back to the motel room, drag his butt into the bathroom and tell him to lay his head as far back as he can. I take a glass, put about a tablespoon of water in it and proceed to pour it into his right nostril. No where for it to go except right into that sinus passage. He stars coughing and sputtering and low and behold, coughs out that retainer. I wished I would've had a camera for the look on his teary eyed face. S>>>---- -- ****** 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!newsfeed.tip.net!maggiore.dsnet.it!news.uni-stuttgart.de!news.rhrz.uni-bonn.de!RRZ.Uni-Koeln.DE!nntp.gmd.de!Dortmund.Germany.EU.net!Germany.EU.net!howland.reston.ans.net!news.sprintlink.net!gatech!news-feed-1.peachnet.edu!news.duke.edu!eff!news.umbc.edu!leo.towson.edu!dcontr1 From: dcontr1@leo.towson.edu (Daniel Contreni) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: I killed the Possum family! Date: 25 Jul 1995 21:57:11 GMT Organization: Towson State University, Towson, MD Lines: 39 Message-ID: <3v3pbn$1p8@news.umbc.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: leo.towson.edu X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL0] So I was driving down the road last night, way out in the boonies, with my buddy Joe. All of a sudden, from out of nowhere, a possum lumbers into the road. Since I drive a Hyundai, I swerve, attempting to straddle the beast -- I didn't want to injure my car. I hit the little fucker anyways. Must have got caught on the undersides of the car. Dealt the bastard a good solid blow, too. We turn around, wanting to see the results of our little mishap. Lo and behold, the possum is still standing in the middle of the road! "I'm turning around, and running that fucker over for real this time!" says I. So we reverse course again. Our new buddy the possum is still standing there, looking very pissed off. Just as the beast is about to meet his maker, I stomp on the brakes. POSSUM BABIES!! All over the road! About a dozen or so, at best guess. They were little, pink, helpless.... Most of them had been pulverized, either by me, or by the couple of other cars that had passed. A few were still squirming around, their little feets waving in the air. The mother possum is still looking at the Hyundai of Death, trying to scare us off. Eventually, she turned tail and left her brood squirming on the road. I wanted to get out and play with them, for fear of being Darwinized (tm) in the road..... ObLaterThatNight: We drove back the same way a few hours later. The little babies were still there, but they were all smashed by this time... -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ * Gypsy woman told my mother, The Mighty Dan * before I was born: dcontr1@zeus.towson.edu * "You got a boy-child comin -- "I'm the man!" * gonna be a son of a gun." * -- Muddy Waters ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!news.uoregon.edu!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!news-e1a.megaweb.com!newstf01.news.aol.com!uunet!in1.uu.net!psinntp!psinntp!psinntp!psinntp!interramp.com!usenet From: metzlert@interramp.com (Mindless Cynic) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: In case any of you were wondering... Date: 26 Jul 1995 05:28:56 GMT Organization: Necrophiliacs anonymous Lines: 46 Message-ID: <3v4jqo$6ab@usenet.interramp.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: ip50.herndon2.va.interramp.com Mime-Version: 1.0 X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.93.14 What ever happened to Mindless Cynic (surf@access.digex.net, Random99@aol.com)... Well, I got a new job, which I am working at wheedling (like my last job) into one where I do little but supervise others and read usenet. Of course, you don't care about that, what you care about is: what tastelessness has been happening in my life? Some of the old timers (old timers in this case meaning > 1 year) may remember the thread 'Have fun laughing at me' wherein I described fucking some chick and then telling my wife about it. Well, I've fucked a couple more chicks since then, and finally, I'm booting my wife out. Tomorrow is the big moving day. heh. So Victor, you can add my name to the list of soon to be divorced. But wait, there's more: I finally got to indulge my necrophiliac fantasies. No, unfortunately I haven't been raiding morgues, but I got the next best thing. I found myself going out with a girl who strangely enough, slept like the *dead*. I don't mean she was hard to wake up, I mean she was *impossible* to wake up. I tried slapping her hand, I tried slapping her face, I tried snapping her bra. Nada. Zip. Zippo. Zilch. You can see where my mind soon went. I figured 'hey, if she wakes up while I'm undressing her, I can just say I was putting her to bed.' Then, 'Hey if she wakes up while I'm molesting her, I can pretend I was asleeep too.' When she was nice and wet, I spread her legs and went to it. I must say this is a unique experience. Who cares how you perform when your partner is comatose? If any of you guys ever get the chance, you must do this. She was like a living doll. I could move her legs around, up, down, etc. I could roll her over and take her from behind. It was fabulous. I know your next question, but no, I didn't indulge in the sleepytime squick, although I was tempted. Does this make me a Narcoleptiphiliac (TM)? I almost forgot to mention the best part: This usually happened when she was drunk (although she was impossible to wake even when sober). The other thing that happened when she was drunk was that she consistently couldn't remember the last part of the previous night the next day. So when she woke up very sore, I just told her we had sex when we got home. heh. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- | Now is the only thing that's real | Fuck art, let's Kill | ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- | Mindless Cynic metzlert@interrap.com | ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail From: gamblez@pentagon-braco.army.mil (SGT Gamble) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Manson, Courtney, and Blood Drinkers Date: 21 Jul 1995 11:42:14 -0500 Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway Lines: 257 Sender: nobody@cs.utexas.edu Message-ID: <3010014A@pentagon-braco.army.mil> NNTP-Posting-Host: news.cs.utexas.edu And here is the news: +++ *Charles Manson, turning 60, has an album out, with more to come * [The name of this tasteless character always grabs my attention.] LOS ANGELES - Mass murderer Charles Manson has released an album marking his 60th birthday and a lifetime he describes in the notes as a "struggle against cowardice, stupidity and lies." About 5,000 copies of his "Commemoration" have been manufactured by Seattle-based White Devil Records and they are to be distributed around the United States next week, according to James Banner, the label's owner. Banner told Reuters that Manson, serving a life-term for masterminding the brutal Tate-LaBianca slayings of 1969, secretly recorded the songs between 1981 and 1985 when he was incarcerated at the maximum security California Medical Facility at Vacaville. [ObHomerSimpson: Mmmm....Tate-LaBianca slayings.] [For those of you who don t know, the fetus was cut out of Sharon Tate s womb with a knife (insert Tim Allen Male-ego-howl here), and they laid it to rest beside her.] "The stuff from Vacaville that I've got was recorded over in the attic of the chapel in isolation and a makeshift recording studio set up and the sound quality's very nice," Banner said. Manson is currently being held at California State Prison in Corcoran. A first pressing of 1,000 was done last November but most were given away, at Manson's request, to members of the "Manson Family," his devoted followers, some of whom murdered actress Sharon Tate and at least six others on his orders. The new batch will be distributed by Virgin Records-owned Caroline Distribution and a bar code means chain stores will be able to sell them. Caroline distributes "LIE," a collection of Manson songs recorded in the late 1960s, a spokesman said. "Commemoration" will retail for $16 and will kick off an ambitious program of Manson releases, Banner said. He described the songs as a sampling from 30 hours' worth of recordings he bought for $100 from a Manson acquaintance who is now doing time in Colorado for menacing. [Oooh..... menacing .....there s a serious crime for ya.] After "Commemoration," Manson will release two seven-inch singles, one of them featuring a re-recording of "Look at Your Game Girl," a song that Guns 'N Roses controversially covered on their "The Spaghetti Incident?" album in 1993. [Guns N Posers....don t even have the tastelessness to say they fantasize about eating Sharon Tate s rotting fetus as it lay beside her convulsing, bleeding body.] The "Commemoration" songs feature Manson on acoustic guitar and showcase his hillbilly roots with such tunes as "Hobo's Lament" and "A Tribute to Hank Williams." [Now, it s becoming a truly tasteless album; the only thing to make it officially wretched would be to tell people he was a hobo and a poet.] In a soon-to-be-published interview with Seconds Magazine, Manson said he was more of a hobo than an entertainer. "I'm like Woody Guthrie, you know -- I just rap and talk about ATWA (air, trees, water and animals) ... tell poems." Manson said one of his sessions inadvertently recorded the murder of an inmate in the next cell, and the tape was subpoenaed for the resulting trial. "They sat there listening to this tape and some guy's screaming in the back, 'Arrhhh!' It was really a weird tape, kind of a morbid tape." [This, I ve got to hear.] Banner did not know if his tape included the murder. [Well, the least you can do is fake it on the recording so we will think it includes it.] A spokesman for the California Department of Corrections said an investigation was underway to find out how Manson was able to get access to recording equipment and get the tapes out, and the state Attorney General's office said there was a "distinct possibility" California would sue Manson under its "Son of Sam" law designed to prevent criminals from profiting from their deeds. [Mmmm....Son of Sam.....there s another tasteless individual who needs more exposure in this day and age.... teach those killers what a REAL serial murderer does.] Banner said Manson was not interested in getting any money but he paid him a token one penny royalty on each album so Manson could not sue him later on. "He thinks it's kinda cool and it's nice to have his sanction, his goodwill, but it doesn't really interest him," said Banner, who frequently talked to Manson by telephone until he lost his phone privileges in March. The first batch of sales earned Manson a royalty check of $5.77. [I wouldn t exactly call that a gold album....maybe tin?] +++ ***Iranian woman kills husband and drinks his blood *** NICOSIA - A woman has gone on trial in Iran for killing her husband and drinking the blood from his heart which she had cut out and crushed in a mortar, Hamshahri newspaper said on Thursday. [Instant animal gratification.] Mohtaram Mousaei, 45, confessed to stabbing to death her 65-year-old second husband Mohammad Mehdi Soleimani whom she blamed for the death of a son from her first marriage, the newspaper said. [Did she also confess that she had never been able to properly enunciate, not only his name, but her name as well?] She said in court in the holy city of Qom that her other four sons from her first marriage helped cut up the body into pieces which they threw away in small bags, the newspaper said. Final verdict in the case was pending, the newspaper said. [Looks like another public beheading by sword. God, this is great.] Court documents showed that Soleimani had not been responsible for the death of the woman's son who had died of electrocution, it added. +++ ***Father charged with killing wife and two children over two years *** SACRAMENTO, Calif. -- Family members thought Jack Barron was a meticulous man dedicated to his wife and their two children. [Yeah, he was meticulous about a few things all right.] Police call him a murderer who meticulously killed his family members one by one over the course of two years. "He always seemed like he was so taken with his family," said Norma Paget, the mother of Barron's late wife. "He was so dedicated, we never thought he'd do something like this." Barron, 34, is to be arraigned July 26 on three counts of murder. Irene Barron, 34, was smothered to death in June 1992; their 4-year-old son, Jeremy, in February 1993; and their daughter Ashley, also 4 at the time of her death in August 1994. Police also suspect Barron killed his mother, 52-year-old Roberta Butler, in Benicia last February. But prosecutors in Solano County will not file charges until after the Sacramento cases are resolved. All of the victims showed signs of asphyxiation, but there was no criminal investigation until a Solano County coroner ruled Mrs. Butler's death a homicide. That ruling triggered a reopening of the cases of the three victims in Sacramento County, where the coroner initially was unable to determine the causes of death. Barron was arrested Monday after the three deaths were ruled homicides. Friends and family say Barron was obsessed with household chores and personal hygiene. He would follow his wife around the family's south Sacramento home, erasing the fresh vacuum tracks on the rug as quickly as she made them. He carried a damp wash cloth in a plastic bag so he could wash his hands and face during family outings. The children weren't allowed to play outside because they might get dirty. In a letter authorities found after his wife's death, Mrs. Barron bemoaned her husband's request for a divorce. "I have a hard time believing the only reason for this is my inability to keep the house exactly the way you like it," her letter said. "You obviously don't want to talk to me about it and that really scares me." John C. Paget, Mrs. Barron's brother, said he became suspicious of his brother-in-law because of what he believed was an odd reaction to Jeremy's death in 1993. "He didn't seem to have a grasp on the trauma that the rest of us in the family were experiencing," Paget said. "He was at times almost euphoric with the attention he was getting with all the deaths." After Jeremy's death, Barron laughed and joked in the back yard of the family home as he released leftover balloons from his son's funeral, Paget said. [YES! Another tasteless compatriot.] When Ashley died the next year, Barron was captivated by a bouquet of flowers and a phone call from country singer Wynonna Judd, whom he had come to know because he was an ardent fan. [Now, that really is tasteless.] "Jack comes bouncing into the house after the funeral with this bouquet of flowers and for the next 40 minutes could do nothing but talk about Wynonna Judd and this wonderful conversation he'd had with her," Paget said. [I m sorry, I only give Jack 2-1/2 stars in the tasteless category. He indeed smothered his family over a period of years, but there is no evidence to show that he: A) Molested his children, B) Performed necrophilia on any of them, or C) Ate any of them.] +++ And now to present the woman most likely to marry Mr. Darwin... Courtney Love! * Rocker Courtney Love charged with assault at show* SEATTLE - Rock singer Courtney Love, who has had several scrapes with the law since the suicide of her husband Kurt Cobain, has been charged with assaulting a woman at a rock concert, authorities said Thursday. Grant County Sheriff's Detective David Matney said a citation was issued to Love, lead singer of the band Hole, after she allegedly punched a fellow rock vocalist backstage at the first concert of this year's Lollapalooza tour July 4 in George, Wash. The citation was issued after a complaint by Kathleen Hanna, a singer and bass player for the rock band Bikini Kill, who was backstage as a guest of another band, Matney said. "She alleged she was struck in the face by Miss Love," said Matney, who said he interviewed several witnesses to the altercation. A criminal citation for assault in the fourth degree was issued by mail to Love and an arraignment hearing was set for Aug. 14 in Ephrata in central Washington. The charge is a gross misdemeanor, meaning that the sentence could be no more than a year in the county jail and a $1,000 fine. A spokesman for Hole's management declined comment, saying Love or her attorneys had not yet received a citation. Love, currently on tour with the Lollapalooza show, has had a series of run- ins with police since the April 1994 shotgun suicide of her husband, lead singer of the pioneering grunge-rock trio Nirvana. In June, Seattle police were called to her home after she lost consciousness due to an overdose of prescription drugs. Earlier in the year she pleaded guilty to a charge in Australia stemming from unruly behavior on an airplane. [Dr. Grogan...did you incite that incident....or is it mere coincidence?] She was arrested in Los Angeles on drug-related charges the day before Cobain's body was discovered but those charges were later dropped. [And isn t that a shame, folx?] +++ Five bodies found in upscale Washington suburb [I hereby proudly admit that this happened in my neck of the woods... and BTW so did the Bobbit incident.] (c) 1995 Copyright the News & Observer Publishing Co. (c) 1995 Associated Press POTOMAC, Md. (Jul 21, 1995 - 09:06 EDT) -- Two men and three teen- age girls have been found dead in a house in a posh suburb of Washington and police said today they were investigating the deaths as homicides. A man found outside the home when police arrived late Thursday night had been taken in for questioning, said police spokeswoman Ann Evans. Although police were investigating the deaths as homicides, Evans said she did not know how they died. A number of broadcast reports said four of the bodies were found bound and stabbed. Police received a 911 call from the house about 8:30 p.m., Evans said, but the caller hung up. Officers checked the outside, found nothing unusual and left, she said. A second 911 call, about 10:45 p.m., brought officers back. Evans said one of the dead men is thought to be the owner of the home, identified by The Washington Post as David Goff, a podiatrist. The other man, according to Evans, was a painter. She described the man being questioned as "an associate of the painter." She said police were questioning the wife of the man thought to be the home's owner. The woman and another one of the couple's children were in Ocean City, Md., at the time of the killings and returned overnight. Stunned neighbors clustered outside the home. [And revelling a.ters clustered outside the home, looking to convert some good pix into JPGs.] +It's a close neighborhood," said Gary Bortnick, one of the neighbors. "Everybody knows everybody. You hire a painter and you die. This is unbelievable." [This story leads to many possibilities....what happened? Why only 2 men and 3 girls? Maybe it was a triple date gone bad, and the third man escaped. Maybe he was into some really kinky stuff. The police aren t talking...so that means there s something weird here....Necrophilia? We can only hope. Mutilation....I m starting to drool. Maybe genital mutilation....mmmmm. Maybe the teenage girls were under 16....I think I m going to go take a long trip to the bathroom with my color a.t printouts of dead bodies.] ----------------------------------------------------- +Your, bloody pusillaminous behavior makes me vomit! -Graham Chapman. please send all hate mail to zeno@us.net ----------------------------------------------------- Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!math.ohio-state.edu!cis.ohio-state.edu!rutgers!nmt.edu!tobias From: tobias@nmt.edu (Toby Click) Subject: My Trip to the Trinity Site Message-ID: <1995Jul20.173907.8936@nmt.edu> Organization: The Mighty Morphin Tabernacle Choir Date: Thu, 20 Jul 1995 17:39:07 GMT Lines: 73 In article , Jim Thomas Park, Jr. wrote: >Hey kids, > Remember 50 years ago today (Ok yesterday July 16th) our double domes >at Los Alamos touched off a little bang known as Trinity. Under a month >to go until we celebrate the leveling of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The >whiny liberals will be out there crying "we're so sorry. We won't do it >again". I happen to live in the same county as the Trinity Site. It is located on the White Sands Missile Range, and normally it's open only two days a year (would YOU want to be a tour guide in all that radioactivity?), but they opened it specially on Sunday morning. So I went there with one of my right-wing friends. On the way in, we saw a large sign which read: "We are the new abolitionists. We're sorry about Hiroshima and Nagasaki." My right-wing friend, who was driving, yelled out to them as we passed: "NO WE'RE NOT!" After we left, I decided to blow the treehuggers' minds. When we passed again, the sign was on my side of the road, so I made a peace sign at them (or was it one of those obscene British hand gestures? I always get 'em mixed up). What was really funny were the tourists with the particle masks. Little did they know, the air at Trinity is a hundred times purer than the city air they breathe every day. I mean, the biggest effect you'll get from one day's worth of Trinity radiation is maybe a tingling in your mouth if you've had recent dental work. There was one really old guy there who was breathing oxygen from a tank. I wonder if he was just being paranoid, or if he was using it anyway. The original blast went off at 5:29:45 am on the morning of the 16th, so on Sunday, they had the monument open REAL early so people could be there to do whatever rituals they wanted at the exact moment 50 years had passed (of course, the dumb fucks forgot we're on Daylight Savings Time now). Anyway, as soon as they opened it, somebody went to the obelisk that marks ground zero, and threw a vial of red liquid on the marker, claiming that it represented the blood that was shed. I find this ironic, because if you're in an atomic blast, you don't even have TIME to bleed! You are immediately INCINERATED. You don't have time to sniff around and think: "Hmm... somethin's cookin'. Hey, somethin's smellin' purty good. Wait a minute... YEEEEEEOOWWWWCH!" At any rate, we were there for about an hour. I posed for pictures at the obelisk, so I could replace the picture on my homepage of me riding a Nike Ajax missile. There was no trace of the red liquid, or the man who threw it. I didn't even know it happened 'til later, when someone told me how three MP's tackled the guy before the red liquid even landed on its target. If the liquid is supposed to represent blood, I wonder what it represents when someone wipes away every trace of it... Anyway, the area is littered with "trinitite", a sort of green radioactive glass that was made by the ground fusing together during the blast. Most of it was bulldozed away many years ago, but there are still tiny bits all around. The MP's were really paranoid about letting people pick it up. Before we left, my friend and I hunched over to look at a dying millipede on the ground, and five minutes later, the MP that had been following us caught up and stopped short of a strip search to make sure we weren't walking out with any trinitite. Like I'd put ANYTHING up my ass that's radioactive. -- _PP +-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+- | @@--o | When visiting beautiful NEW MEXICO, see |o\__/ + the AMAZING | | | T O B Y C L I C K tobias@prism.nmt.edu + P.O. Box 2421, NM Tech, Socorro, NM 87801 USA http://nmt.edu/~tobias/ | "Just make a wrong turn at Albuquerque." +-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+- Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!cs.utexas.edu!convex!darwin.sura.net!news.fsu.edu!nntp.cntfl.com!polaris.net!news From: weberm@polaris.net (Ubiquitous) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Recipes for Fetus (was Re: Modern Technology) Date: 23 Jul 1995 04:13:15 GMT Organization: Polaris Networking Lines: 76 Message-ID: <3usi8r$fcg@nexus.polaris.net> References: <3u9aai$jvr@vixen.cso.uiuc.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: p1dyn13.polaris.net X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.92.6+ In article , Andrew Shore says: > > > >On 15 Jul 1995, Lenore Levine wrote: > >> ObTasty: Do you folks know any good recipes for fetus? I like to >> share them with my "friends" on a local group. It really gets >> them excited, for some reason. > >There was a long 'excerpt' from The Fetal Cookbook in late '93 or early >'94. It included the dressing of the fetus as well as preparation. Perhaps >someone archived it? Yep! (Original header info missing) ========================================================================= Extract from the cookery section of "Fetus Monthly", March 1993 issue. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE FETUS AFTER 7 1/2 MONTHS: SERVINGS FOR 4 The bones are soft and can be sliced easily with a standard carving knife, but to make labour light, a serrated electric knife can be used. Start by pushing the blade into the top of the breastbone (use gentle pressure, you only want to open up the chest cavity, not liquefy the vitals). Slice downwards through the chest and abdomen to the genitals. Now you can open the ribcage by inserting your fingers and reefing the slit apart to reveal the internal organs. Stop when the backbone splits with a resounding crack. Remove the innards by seizing a handful and yanking firmly. Don't worry about spilling excrement on the meat; there is no excrement in the bowels since the fetus hasn't eaten anything. Dump the guts into a bowl (these can be used as vittals later) and shake the goo off your hand into the sink. For serving four people, the fetus can be quartered. Sit the fetus upright, and put the knife into the crack in the backbone, against the spinal cord, near the top of the shoulder blades. Press through the bone until the point breaks through the skin and extends out of the fetus' back. Cut down through the bone to the pelvis, appreciating how similar the popping vertebrae sound to small-arms fire. Be very careful of small bone fragments ricocheting around the kitchen, especially if using an electric knife - cover your eyes! You'll need extra pressure to cut through the pelvis; keep it up until the knife hits the chopping board. To make the cross-cut, begin at about where the placenta joins the abdomen. Cut horizontally with a sawing motion through the ribcage to the backbone. Don't completely sever the fetus into two though; this makes it difficult to arrange the parts for serving. If serving more than four people, the legs can be separated as drumsticks. Use the back of a meat cleaver or a heavy steel knife sharpener to smash the ball and socket joint in the hip, then place the blade against the groin and slice through the break in the femoral bone to sever the leg. The spherical bearing from the top of the femur can be removed and makes an amusing toy for the cat or kiddies. The arms can also be separated if desired. Pour a good 2-3 cups of brandy over the fetus and bake at 200'C until dark brown, wrinkled and leathery, with the appearance of smoked herring. Place the fetus face-down on a silver tureen covered with dried fruits. Bend the waist and knees into a kneeling position so that the buttocks are raised. Boil the placenta until soft and mushy and place around the fetus; drape the umbilical cord over the neck. The leftover juices can be served as broth for the entree. Arrange sprigs of parsley in the gash down the spine, in the cross-cut, head cavity, eye sockets, and bung hole. For the finishing touch, pull the head back (you may need to slit the throat wide to get the head to lie flat) and poke a cherry tomato into the mouth. For the entree, serve the guests the placental broth and toasty bread rolls. Prepare dishes of butter and brain, stick a knife in each and put them on the table so the guests can butter and brain their rolls. As the main course, the tureen should be handed round the guests so that the pre-cut sections can be torn by hand from the carcass. Eat the flesh with bean sprouts, asparagus, baked potatoes, tartar sauce and a good white wine. The head can be left on the tureen in the center of the table as a decorative feature. It is traditional for this dish that the hostess be served the fetal eyeballs. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!mn6.swip.net!seunet!news2.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!warwick!griffin.nott.ac.uk!usenet From: epxsf@vme.ccc.nottingham.ac.uk (Stu Fraser) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: A.T. Artist of the Year Date: 7 Aug 1995 20:32:10 GMT Organization: Top drawer, sock side Lines: 41 Message-ID: <405t8a$309@griffin.ccc.nottingham.ac.uk> NNTP-Posting-Host: weplab9.nottingham.ac.uk X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.92.4 As a preface, this is the second posting with it's basis from the Sunday Times. There is hope for the media after all! In any case, there ran a story of a certian Damian Hirst "the enfant terrible of British art". Oxymoron notwithstanding, his latest effort got banned from a Manhattan gallery (the Gagosian Gallery). The title? Two Fucking, Two Watching I'll let your sick little minds work up a mental picture of the piece, then let you in on the details. (Hint: It's mostly the first part, and must be encased in a air leak-proof chamber.) OK, got your mental image yet? Here we go! "It involves a hydraulic device being inserted into a dead cow and bull, inside a glass tank, to simulate [copulation] as they gradually rot away." To wit, the guy gets two McPigs wouldabeens, gives them a hydraulic pump enema to get the bull's ass pumping into the cow's and lets them go at it for all eternity (or until the carcases fall off the pump). No word on if there is a fetus falling out of the decaying womb of the cow. A spring system would ensure repeat performances upon demand. On a sad note to the NooYauk readership, the gallery didn't allow the exhibit on the basis that the glass case didn't have a ventilation system. Given the atmosphere there, I can't believe it'd be worse than any other day in the summer. Or most winters, for that matter. Two rotting carcasses fucking. Fuck off with your flowers, pretty boys, *this* is art! Stu The University of Nottingham wanted to share my views, but I wouldn't let them. "I'm heavy loaded, baby. I'm booked, I gotta go!" - Robert Johnson Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.funet.fi!news.eunet.fi!EU.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!btnet!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!warwick!griffin.nott.ac.uk!usenet From: epxsf@vme.ccc.nottingham.ac.uk (Stu Fraser) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: FahQAsso the snot'n'smegma ball Date: 11 Aug 1995 12:21:18 GMT Organization: Top drawer, sock side Lines: 55 Message-ID: <40fhvu$n3d@griffin.ccc.nottingham.ac.uk> References: <40dn6s$4go@newsbf02.news.aol.com> <40f2rq$j5i@newsbf02.news.aol.com> <40f9b6$qeh@fbi-news.informatik.uni-dortmund.de> NNTP-Posting-Host: wcc2y4.ccc.nottingham.ac.uk X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.92.4 In article <40f9b6$qeh@fbi-news.informatik.uni-dortmund.de>, weber@ls12sj.informatik.uni-dortmund.de (Dominik Weber) says: >Let me through! Let me through! Let me through! > >[running] >[squeezing myself through the hoardes of a.t'er all over the world] >[ the knives, the brushes, the drill bits and the other things rattle in my > backpack as i run to this festering clueless flamebaiting asshole ] > >CONGRATULATIONS! YOU JUST MADE AN ASS OUT OF YOURSELF >IN FRONT OF 100,000+ PEOPLE ALL OVER THE WORLD. > >I have got to shout because I have to overcome the shit and >filthplugs in your smelly ears. And the dead bung died there from >the stench. That is not an irreversable problem, however. I'll ask Dom to kindly leave the ears for me whilst he flames and ravages the rest of this unamusing zit on a 'tards cock. Step 1: staple the nostrils together. No, kids, this isn't scrotum self-repair (though dealing with FakHead, it's hard to distinguish a gangerous scroutm from his face), but a means to an end. While the s.s-r. intended to help the person, this is an attempt to show a little ant shit on the bottom of the shoe of life the meaning of life, the universe and A.T. Step 2: stuff a firehose into FakHead's mouth, removing first the assorted choads and dog grogans. Hold a propane torch to the corners of the mouth to fuse the lips together at the side to ensure a good seal. Step 3: cut a slot in the top and bottom lips and insert metal tabs from the firehose nozle into the slots (just like the good old days when it was insert tab A into slot B.). To form a lock, arc weld the metal tabs on the outside of the lips and from a red hot metal knob on the top and bottom. This will fuse the skin to the nozle and ensure it won't be blown out. Step 4: start up the engines to create a water pressure that is just at the tollerable limits of the hose. Then go 5% higher. Step 5: let loose the juice. Either the shit will be blown out of FakHead's ears, or the water will decide not to make the turns and blow straight out the back of the bike seat sniffer's head. In any case, we would have done the world a favour by replacing FukHead's 'brain' with water, as I know water to be the more intelligent of the two. >Your name is fahqasso? Yes I know that this is what you dad says >before ramming his scabrous syphilitic cock up your distended arse. [rest of the reaming of the sub-'tard left to the expert] Stu The University of Nottingham wanted to share my views, but I wouldn't let them. "I'm heavy loaded, baby. I'm booked, I gotta go!" - Robert Johnson Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!news.us.net!usenet From: Zeno Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Happy Nagasaki Day! Date: 10 Aug 1995 02:53:34 GMT Organization: US Net Lines: 46 Message-ID: <40bsbe$sa8@news.us.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: enda04.usnet.us.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 1.1N (Windows; I; 16bit) Pentagon Held Hostage - Day 3 At first I must inform Dominik that I haven't been as crude as I should have been to the Protesters at the Pentagon. I apologize. No "Stop Testing Nukes - Start Using Them" shirts. No "Nuke the Nips". No "Felch my livestock you Jap-lover". Sorry, I have to go to work in uniform everyday, and wearing this over my simple blue-green shirt would probably make every officer within 50 yards chastise my ass (legally). I am left to make shitty comments to the little wankstain bastards as they stand there with their banners and pamphlets. HOWEVER! Today I did score a point for the bad guys! (Please suppress any comments until after I am finished.) The asshole wannabe priest from Pentagon Held Hostage - Day 1 (otherwise known as Happy Hiroshima Day!) was there again at the Corridor 3 entrance. The sappy loser! He was once again spouting FILTH from his little Gideon's Book of Fables. But I had a weapon in my hand. Last night I printed out that wonderful little drawing with the tiny dragon mounting up on the Jesus' skull and sinking his swollen choad into the cavernous crack of his temple. Yes, I pushed this to him over the page he was reading. It did force him to stop reading....especially when all he could see was a copulating lizard, a crucified skeleton, and "FUCK THE SKULL OF JESUS" lying there on his oh-god-grant-me-the-serenity Bible. I'll drag that bastard to hell when I go. And hopefully Satan will make him share a cell with me and my ex-wife (the sperm receptacle bitch). -Zeno. "I fucking hate you, you fucking slut, bitch, loser. Why don't I just come over there and check your fucking oil!" -Me to my ex-wife on a good night in bed. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!uunet!in2.uu.net!newstf01.news.aol.com!newsbf02.news.aol.com!not-for-mail From: hintysen@aol.com (HinTysen) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: It Fucking Lives (Hinny's return) Date: 10 Aug 1995 15:38:04 -0400 Organization: America Online, Inc. (1-800-827-6364) Lines: 62 Sender: root@newsbf02.news.aol.com Message-ID: <40dn6s$4go@newsbf02.news.aol.com> Reply-To: hintysen@aol.com (HinTysen) NNTP-Posting-Host: newsbf02.mail.aol.com Yes, God damn you all, I am back. Couldn't stay away. Didn't really want to stay away in the first place. Didn't really have a choice at first. I was working feverishly on a good comeback story about my absence/resurrection. I scanned medical journals for photos of people killed in motorcycle accidents. I tried to construct a false police report. But then, I thought, shit: Ming, you could have come up with a more creative death for me, for Glub's sake. I mean, fuck, smashing a bike into an embankment? How about having sex with Bobbi Hatch (in a rare sexuality flip-flop fling) on a moving Harley, only to ram into the back of a Wisconsin cattle truck, leaving my head planted firmly up the rectum of a consternated cow. I guess Ed was going for the "believability" angle, which I appreciate. Then I was going to say that I had been signed by the Edmonton Eskimos of the Canadian Football League and started at right tackle for six weeks. But I remembered that some of you know how old I am -- and have access to CFL rosters, I would guess -- so I knew that wouldn't fly worth a fuck. Then, I had to stop plotting and start typing. Why? Because on my second (!!!) visit to AOL in three months, I got an automatic upgrade of my AOL software (full Web access, etc. etc.). It also changed the newsgroups reader. So, when I thought I was sending private E-mail to get the order form for that fucking Mike Diana movie thing, I accidentally posted to the ng. BUSTED! Anyhow, yeah, I'm still living. All of you fuckers that missed me, well, I'm so touched that I'm going to lie down nude on the floor, and the first one who knocks on the door gets to break my reverse rump cherry. I'm still waiting... OK, time's up. It appears my rectum will remain, as I always intended, an out door. (Albeit a magnificent one, though not quite to McAfeean proportions). Here's the truth: I went away for what I thought was a week, and it turned out to be for three weeks. No AOL, no nothing. That's the nature of my new fucking job. Anyway, when I got back, I had so much shit in my mailbox and the ng that I choked on it. And, worst of all, I had pledged myself to take over maintenance of the Who's Who for alt.tasteless. And then I fucking vanished. I was quite ashamed that I had eagerly taken on a duty, then fucked it up. Normally that doesn't happen. And so, like my dating life, I preferred to stay away and avoid contact rather than get the bitching out I deserved. Anyhow, that's the fucking story. Pretty boring? Fuck you. I am here to say that I'm back, though probably not quite as frequently as before, and that I do fully intend to (and look forward to) begin work on the WiW if that task is not taken away from me (which I'd understand). I haven't gotten any E-mail from the regulars lately (hint), so go ahead and discuss the pros and cons of letting a shitstain such as myself return. But, after all, isn't a.t all about being a total fuck-all shithead? Respectfully submitted, Scott A. Tysen Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!news.clark.net!rahul.net!a2i!bug.rahul.net!a2i!news.erinet.com!pagesat.net!a3bsrv.nai.net!cyphyn.nai.net!not-for-mail From: ming@cyphyn.nai.net (Ed Ming) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: I WAS ABDUCTED BY ALIENS!! Date: 6 Aug 1995 05:33:15 -0400 Organization: Der Fuehrer's Water Closet Oompah Band Lines: 38 Message-ID: <40228r$ob@cyphyn.nai.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: cyphyn.nai.net Summary: IT WAS HORRIBLE!! Keywords: aliens, homo pig fuckers from outer space X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] That's right! I CAN'T keep it a SECRET any LONGER!! Ooooh the AGONY! The DEGRADATION of it all!! There were DOZENS of them! BLEAH! Little grey CREATURES with BIG pumpkin heads and HUGE unblinking eyes! They came to me in the night, by my BEDSIDE! I was paralised. I was TERRIFIED but I couldn't MOVE. I wanted to shit my pajamas but I COULDN'T MOVE!! They were able to communicate with me through mental telepathy and they told me not to worry! Then they started playing MARIO LANZA tunes! NON DEMENTI CARR!! Oooh it was horrible I tell you! Horrible! Then they took me to their space- ship using some sort of TRACTOR BEAM! I couldn't MOVE or SPEAK but my mind SCREAMED and SCREAMED. Then I was on a table -- like an EXAMINING TABLE! It was cold and I was NAKED and my mind SCREAMED and SCREAMED!! Then the biggest one -- the leader, no doubt -- climbed up on the table and STOOD OVER ME with his feet ASTRIDE me and the music got LOUDER and LOUDER and he told me to BE CALM and he-he-he- DROPPED TO HIS KNEES AND STARTED PLAYING WITH HIS PECKER!! RIGHT OVER MY FACE!!! BLEAH!! I couldn't MOVE or SPEAK but my MIND SCREAMED and I SOBBED and the ALIEN GRINNED A CRUEL GRIN as he STROKED his LITTLE GREY PECKER OVER MY FACE!! The SMELL was AWFUL!! I FELT SO VIOLATED, like a PIG IN A GEORGIAN PIG FUCK^H^H^HARMER'S BEDROOM MUST FEEL!! The alien tossed back his head and commanded me to OPEN MY MOUTH and HE BEGAN TO CUM ALL OVER MY FACE!! BLEAH!! ALIEN CUM!!! The taste was DISGUSTING! It tasted like a combination of DIRTY SOCKS and RANCID CHICKEN FAT!! It came out in long cold THICK strings like TOOTH PASTE that FLOPPED ONTO MY FACE AND SHOULDERS!! IT KEPT SPURTING AND SPURTING and I SCREAMED AND SCREAMED IN MY MIND!! I THOUGHT I MIGHT DROWN!! GOD!! I'm glad I got that off my chest. Ed Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!cs.utexas.edu!convex!darwin.sura.net!nntp.usm.edu!whale.st.usm.edu!scbrown From: scbrown@whale.st.usm.edu (Sean Curtis-Brendan Brown) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Monkey Attacks Wino Date: 11 Aug 1995 07:07:31 GMT Organization: University of Southern Mississippi Lines: 47 Message-ID: <40evjj$ca9@server.st.usm.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: whale.st.usm.edu X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL1] Hey, AT Haven't posted awhile; life's been too tasteful. Man, can a weekend trip to New Orleans cure that, god I love the French Quarter... if we all lived there we'd have to abandon this NG or maybe go to Bosnia to find more tasteless things to write about... this one's called "The Finger-Monkey." My wife and I had a room at the Provincial on Chartres--definitely not a "dangerous" part of the Quarter, & there's a good reason for that--I always get too fucked up on Maker's Mark & other things & wander out of our rooms to photograph UFOs at 4a.m., etc. So-- tame hotel & taxi to the fun places on Bourbon and Dauphine. So, imagine my surprise to find a new twist on the "organ grinder" panhandler bit right in our backyard (corner of Chartres & St. Philip). It was close to noon, I'd just woken up and was christfuckingod'n my way to Harry's Corner Bar for a Stolis & Advil. Since the sun was exploding two 16 penny nails into each of my massively dilated pupils, I didn't see the monkey, but I _felt_ it: the little fucker reached out and boxed at my legs as I passed. I stopped to look at him, and as I did, he gave me the perfect finger, little middle digit shooting up from the monkey hand. I had to laugh, even in my condition--it was great! The monkey wore a gold filigree vest, and a gold fez, he was dressed to the nines, so I dug into my pocket and stuck a buck into his cup. When I did this, he chittered, grabbed the buck, and ran the length of his thin silver chain to give the dollar to a very old man. The old man tipped his hat, spoke something that sounded Russian (kaopecktate?) and then the monkey gave me the finger again. I laughed again. This went on for the ten minutes I stood to watch the reaction of other passers-by, and they all did as expected--laugh and give the monkey some coins or bills or a piece of donut. Then this wino shuffled by, a real fucking fly-feast, his trousers wet in front with piss and vomit and grease; and the monkey gave him the finger. The wino stared at the old man. "That yore monkey, man?" he asked. "Yeah," the old Russian said. The wino leaned over and spit on the monkey. The spit hit the top of its head, knocking off the fez and revealing the monkey's perfectly round shaped skull topped with fur grown to a peak of gray crew-cut, and the monkey grabbed the spit glob and sniffed it. Then it looked right at the wino and showed its teeth. The wino laughed. Then the monkey was all over him, I mean in a flash, unbelievable how fast they move--it bit the wino's nose, ear, neck, hands, and then the Russian codger jerked on the silver chain, yanking the monkey off the wino's face. The wino went screaming down Philip toward the market, slapping at his own face, blood over his hands, his pants torn in back to show his dirty lesion-covered ass. Beautiful. You can't pay money for that kind of show, or tickets would sell out in a minute and the line stretch for blocks. Only the laughing god Zeus who rules us & fucks with us & keeps life interesting. Until next time... Sean Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!nntp.crl.com!acara.snsnet.net!polo.iquest.com!usenet From: gharris@iquest.com (Gary Harris) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: My Experience with 'Tards Date: Wed, 09 Aug 1995 09:23:16 GMT Organization: interQuest Online Services -- Huntsville, AL Lines: 89 Distribution: world Message-ID: <409uto$6na@polo.iquest.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: gharris.iquest.com X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent v0.55 Well, with everyone else telling of their experiences with 'tards, I thought I'd post one of mine. She wasn't really "retarded", she is my cousin and has Cerebral Palsy, although she is supposedly very smart and "quick on the uptake" she can't talk, her fingers are bent something fierce, as are her legs and arms. She's confined to a wheel chair and is basically, a big fucking baby in one big fucking stroller who takes huge shits in her big-ass diapers. It was Xmas time, the whole family was around (including the 'tard of course) and everyone decides to go to Quincy's then to church, not being a fan of either Family or Church I opt to stay home (and my aunt not missing the oppurtunity to unload care of her slobbering offspring with wheels) asks if I'd watch my cousin while the family is gone, I say sure, then she tells me if she shits her diaper, to change her like a baby (I'd changed babies before, but that's another post). AHHHH! Peace at last, just me and the 'tard and the TV. I pop in one of my granddad's "special" movies, you know the type... We all own one or two of them. I quickly get a woodie and start slapping the choad on my grannies couch and come on one of my aunts' coats (don't know whose it was). A little while later I'm still watching the movie (it's getting pretty good, a nice looking babe was taking it up the poop chute and getting dildoed by her girlfriend and eating some puss at the same time), and I get to thinking about doing it with a real girl. I had yet to do the "wild thing" with anything but my imagination... The more I think the hornier I get, about this time, I smell something... I knew I didn't fart. Then it dawned on me, "Oh great, I gotta change a fucking 20 year old's diaper, fuck". I wheel her into my grandmother's bedroom and lift her out of the chair (I said she only weighed 80 pounds? It felt like 200 lbs of dead weight). I laid her on the bed and took her pants off (she was barefoot) and then undid the big diaper, she had filled it allright, all of that rich food my granny cooks was taking its toll on her digestion. The smell was something any ATer would enjoy, as well as the greenish slime in the diaper, and no, I didn't taste it. I start to clean her up, and the shit is smeared from the top of her butt-crack, all over her cheeks, and up to her fucking clitoris and is in her pubic hair. I finally get it all cleaned up, and find myself paying close attention to the pubic hair and her clit. It's about this time I kinda lost my head and my morals flew out the window... I started massaging her clit, and rubbing it with the baby wipe, I notice it is getting harder, (hell, she's actually getting aroused I think), I then insert a finger in her (wet?? I couldn't believe it) hole and start finger fucking her, she actually got very wet, and made some weird snorting sounds that weren't her normal snorting sounds. I do this for a minute or two then remove her shirt, she's wearing a training bra (how cute) and has very small tits, nothing like the women in the magazines or those movies. I started licking her tits and sucking the nipples. She's lying on her side (she pretty much stays in a fetal position when lying down) and I just position myself behind her and ease my choad into her cunt, and start fucking my first live woman, it was all over very quickly (I'm not gonna lie and say I fucked her for hours) and then the realization of what I had been doing hit me, I felt bad as hell for it, she was crying when I was done, I guess being fucked for her first time maybe hurt her a bit, as there was a bit of blood. I cleaned her up real good and put a fresh diaper on her and wheeled her back into the living room and started watching MTV (now that's tasteless!). I was worried as hell her mom would notice something, but nothing was ever said, and I did get asked to keep an eye on her a couple of other times, along with her younger (normal) sister, though I never did anything like that again (though shoving a purple headed beast in her younger sister's mouth to shut the snobby little bitch up is an idea with its merits). Gary gharris@iquest.com ---and we leave you with ramblings of nonsense--------------- Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!mn6.swip.net!seunet!news2.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!news.uoregon.edu!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!sdd.hp.com!usc!math.ohio-state.edu!caen!zip.eecs.umich.edu!newsxfer.itd.umich.edu!news.itd.umich.edu!mcafee From: mcafee@umich.edu (Sean McAfee) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Peeing in Pool Date: 8 Aug 1995 05:13:11 GMT Organization: University of Michigan Lines: 39 Message-ID: <406rp7$ssv@lastactionhero.rs.itd.umich.edu> References: <3vivr5$nd6@lastactionhero.rs.itd.umich.edu> <3vuhbi$ic3@nexus.polaris.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: verne.ifs.umich.edu In article <3vuhbi$ic3@nexus.polaris.net>, Ubiquitous wrote: >In article <3vivr5$nd6@lastactionhero.rs.itd.umich.edu>, mcafee@umich.edu (Sean McAfee) says: >>It probably all worked out for the best, actually. There were a lot of people >>there, and any one of them might have considered my behavior suspicious if >>they happened to glance over to see the top half of my head above the water, >>eyes glancing around furtively, followed by a couple of grogans bobbing to the >>surface nearby and me swimming away with a forced nonchalance. >Is it just me, or did I just hear that short riff from Seinfeld? >Sean, I think you just came up with the next "controversial" episode >of Seinfeld! I couldn't offer an opinion either way, since I've never been able to stand that humor-devoid bastard Seinfeld. Once, when I was around ten or eleven years old, I happened to see Seinfeld on HBO. At that age, I was extremely nondiscriminate in my television viewing; nonetheless, I remember myself watching perplexedly and thinking "This isn't funny." It wasn't that I didn't understand what he was doing--it was some lame routine about a pair of "comedian's glasses", which he fixed over the camera lens and which made everything in view look goofy. Bleah. Ever since then, I've had an aversion to him. On the few occasions I've been so bored as to watch his show, I couldn't see that he'd improved all that much. I hate those fuckin' comics who Find The Humor In Everyday Life, particularly the ones who take an intrinsically humor-free topic and attempt to make it funny by merely pointing out how it happens to everybody. Seinfeld is an outstanding example of this, but this past weekend I saw two comics on A&E's "Caroline's Comedy Hour" who somehow managed to out-Seinfeld Seinfeld. It was freaking *scary*, let me tell you. My stomach knotted as wave after wave of anti-humor radiated out from the idiot box. It may be years before the full extent of the trauma is known. -- Sean McAfee | "Uh-oh. Pee-pee hurt. Time to die." mcafee@umich.edu | -- Sam Kinison Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!dispatch.news.demon.net!demon!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!warwick!griffin.nott.ac.uk!usenet From: epxsf@vme.ccc.nottingham.ac.uk (Stu Fraser) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Pick me! Pick me! Date: 10 Aug 1995 22:23:32 GMT Organization: Top drawer, sock side Lines: 100 Message-ID: <40e0t4$41u@griffin.ccc.nottingham.ac.uk> NNTP-Posting-Host: weplab8.nottingham.ac.uk Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: multipart/mixed; X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.92.4 Rumour has it a few others have seen this, but I haven't seen it elsewhere on A.T. yet (be it ever so humble, there's no place sicker) so I've reposed most of the message. It adds a lot to the length of the post, but fuck it, we gonna have some fun. ---begin forwarded message--- Subj: Help Us Start Family ~From: JaxBaby My wife and I live in the Jacksonville, Florida area and are unable to have a child together. I am sterile, but all tests show her in perfect health. We have tried to conceive through sperm donation (insemination), but the odds are against us and we have had no luck. We have a limited income, so many of the other processes are beyond our budget. We desperately want to start a family together! We consider ourselves a "normal" level headed couple who just want to have a family like any other married couple. We are looking for someone (male of course) who would be willing to help us conceive. The traditional sperm donation process kills over half the sperm and is rated at somewhere between 30 and 40 percent probability of pregnancy. Live fresh sperm is really what we're after. Of course this would obviously mean that the donor in this case would need to have intercourse with my wife. There are so many moral issues involved in this it's unreal, but the bottom line here is that we want to start a family and donated sperm is donated sperm. I am in the military and am tested annually so it would be beneficial if the donor was also military and in no sexual relationship (which would be hard to come by) or is in a monogamous relationship in which the partner would also be willing to share her man for this process. This is not a joke. We are very serious about this and request that only serious people respond to our post. We wish to keep all information confidential until we determine if any prospective donors are for real. Please help us if you can. Send e-mail to: JaxBaby@aol.com ^^|^ ---end forwarded mess|age--- | Ha! Guess not, fuckwit! But, hey, being a jim-dandy type of guy, let's see what I can do for ya. First off, you have to meet my demands before I let loose the load of gold into that warm pile of flesh you call a wife. This shit is gonna cost ya. As a warm up, I want her (and a friend) to re-create the scene from Bad Lieutenant with the dyke S&M. JaxBaby can stroke my cock on the sidelines (it's a fuckin' honor NoNuts), as long as the little wifey snorts a load of cunt juice from her pal up her nose and displays it on her tounge for me to lick off. If there is the taste of boogers with the twat sweat, the pennance will be to stuff a grogan of mine up her lil' brown orifice. I'll assist by taking a bat and a baseball and with her standing on her head against the wall, give'er a few overhand axe swings driving the ball into the land of Digestion's Last Stop. JaxBaby can devour my remaining steaming grogans if he doth massage Fido's balls until the dog spurts onto girl no. 2's face. That *may* be enough to stimulate me enough to engorge the beast. If so (let's be generous, I am, after all, a jim-dandy guy), we will go on a little train ride. I'll stuff the throbbin' cob up the little wifey's asshole (after removing the ball by giving a running head-but to her stomach. May not be tasteless, but it is something I've always wanted to do.), while she reams your tender pink anus with her left fist. The tearing of your chute of shit will feel sweet as you know it is the symbol of your love (wedding ring) that is digging furrows that will no doubt fester and cause you to expel as much of yourself as your previous meals when you push forth what could be considered the best feature of your pathetic, spermless little self. If I feel so moved, I may try to see if I can get her nipples to touch around her back. I may need something to keep me occupied, as I'm sure her Hershey Highway has been traversed by a carrier crew or two in the past. When I'm about to blow the load of gold, I'm gonna do you a favour, JizBaby. I'm going to throttle the beast 'till it spits into my hand. Then I'll hand deliver the load to the ovaries. When I reach the female nuts, I'll poke my squiggley little boys into her fallopian tubes and plug them with two fingers, just in case my boys recognise the slag into which they have been stuffed and try to make a valiant escape. This is a serious consideration, as you are proof positive of what happens when the better part of the spunk bullet dribbles out the flapping lips of a gaping bearded clam and onto the bedsheets. And we do want the little fuck to be a real man, nuts 'n' all, don't we? Just think of the scene: your wife laying prostate on the bed (nothing new about that, is there?), face like a glazed doughnut from her girlfriend, me lying between her legs (again, nothing new) with my arm stuffed up her snatch, knowing that I'm giving it the 'hang ten' sign at the top of her womb. Just for fun, I'll wiggle my hand in the 'hang ten' tradition and tickle her ribs from the inside. After a couple of days, I'll withdraw my arm and wipe off the washer-like ring from around my elbow. If my little troopers decide that they can repair the fucked up DNA that infests your proto-tard, there shouldn't be a problem. If not, we'll set some other good A.T.'er on the case. I have a strange feeling that a few others may have some suggestions. >Thank You Hey, man, I'm there for ya. Stu The University of Nottingham wanted to share my views, but I wouldn't let them. "I'm heavy loaded, baby. I'm booked, I gotta go!" - Robert Johnson Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.funet.fi!news.eunet.fi!EU.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!news.kei.com!eff!news.duke.edu!news-server.ncren.net!concert!bigblue.oit.unc.edu!tenney From: tenney@med.unc.edu (Charles R. Tenney) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: pika-don Date: 6 Aug 1995 20:53:50 GMT Organization: UNC-CH School of Medicine Lines: 718 Distribution: world Message-ID: <403a4u$1r0i@bigblue.oit.unc.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: cahaba.med.unc.edu Originator: tenney@cahaba Quoting Richard Rhodes, "Just as I looked up at the sky," remembers a girl who was five years old at the time and safely at home in the suburbs, "there was a flash of white light and the green in the plants looked in that light like the color of dry leaves." Closer was more brutal illumination. A young woman helping to clear firebreaks, a junior-college student at the time, recalls, "Shortly after the voice of our teacher, saying, "Oh, there's a B!" made us look up at the sky, we felt a tremendous flash of lightning. In an instant we were blinded and everything was just a frenzy of delerium." Closer still, in the heart of the city, no one survived to report the coming of the light. The constrained witness of investigative groups must serve instead for testimony. A Yale Medical School pathologist working with a joint American-Japanese study commission a few months after the war Averill A. Liebow, observes: Accompanying the flash of light was an instantaneaous flash of heat... Its duration was probably less than one tenth of a second and its intensity was sifficient to cause nearby flammable objects...to burst into flame and to char poles as far as 4,000 yards away from the hypocenter [i.e. the point on the ground directly below the fireball]... at 600-700 yards it was sufficient to chip and roughen granite... The heat also produced bubbling of tile to about 1,300 yards. It has been found by experiment that to produce this effect a temperatoure of [3,000 deg. F] acting for four seconds is necessary, but under these conditions the effect is deeper, which indicates that he temperature was higher and the dureation less during the Hiroshima explosion. "Because the heat in [the] flash comes in such a short time," adds a Manhattan project study, "there is no time for any cooling to take place, and the temperature of a person's skin can be raised [120 deg. F]... in the first millisecond at a distance of [2.3 miles]." [...] "...Extremely intense thermal energy leads not only to carbonization but also to evaporation of the viscerae." People exposed within half a mile of the Little Boy fireball, that is, were seared to bundles of smoking black char in a fraction of a second as their internal organs boiled away. "Doctor," a patient commented to Michihiko Hachiya a few days later, " a human being who has been roasted becomes quite small, doesn't he?" The small black bundles now stuck to the streets and bridges and sidewalks of Hiroshima numbered in the thousands. At the same instant birds ignited in midair. Mosquitoes and flies, squirrels, family pets crackled and were gone. The fireball flashed an enormous photograph of the city at he instant of its immolation fixed on the mineral, vegetable and animal surfaces of the city itself. A spiral ladder left its shadow in unburned paint on the surface of a steel storage tank. Leaves shielded reverse silhouettes on charred telephone poles. The black-brushed calligraphy burned out of a rice-paper name card posted on a school house building door, the dark flowers burned out of a schoolgirl's light blouse. A human being left the memorial of his outline in unspalled granite on the steps of a bank. Another, pulling a handcart, protected a handcart- and human-shaped surface of asphalt from boiling. Further away, in the suburbs, the flash induced dark, sunburn-like pigmentation sharply shadowed deep in human skin, streaking the shape of an exposed nose or ear or hand raised in gesture onto the faces and bodies of startled citizens: the mask of Hiroshima, Liebow and his colleagues came to call that pigmentation. They found it persisting unfaded five months after the event. [Time out here: it bugs me to see descriptions of people "plastered onto the concrete, squashed to a thin layer by the force of the blast." That's not what happened to make these outlines that once were humans: as described above, the people were vaporized, and the rocks, concrete, asphalt, etc. behind them was severely damaged by intensity of the flash, *except* where it was protected by being in the shadow of a human body. The body itself disappears but its presence is recorded in undamaged masonry, wood, or whatever.] [...] Still only light, not yet blast: Hachiya: I asked Dr. Koyama what his findings had been in patients with eye injuries. "Those who watched the plane had their eye grounds burned," he replied. "The flash of light apparently went through the pupils and left them with a blind area in the central portion of their visual fields. "Most of the eye-ground burns are third degree, so cure is impossible." And a German Jesuit priest reporting on one of his brothers in Christ: Father Kopp... was standing in front of the nunnery ready to go home. All of a sudden he became aware of the light, felt that wave of heat, and a large blister formed on his hand. A white burn with the formation of a bleb is a grade-four burn [on a scale of 1-5 corresponding to the familiar burn scale of 1-3]. Now light and blast together; they seemed simultaneous to those close in. A junior-college girl: Ah, that instant! I felt as though I had been struck on the back with something like a big hammer, and thrown into boiling oil...I seem to have been blown a good way to the north, and I felt as though the directions were all changed around. The first junior-college girl, the one whose teacher called everyone to look up: The vicinity was in pitch darkenss; from the depths of the gloom, bright red flames rise crackling, and spread moment by moment. The faces of my friends who just before were working energetically are now burned and blistered, their clothes torn to rags; to what shall I liken their trembling appearance as they stagger about? Our teacher is holding her students close to her like a mother hen protecting her chicks, and like baby chicks paralyzed with terror, the students were thrusting ther heads under her arms. The light did not burn out those who were protected inside buildings, but the blast found them out: That boy had been in a room at the edge of the river, looking out at the river when the explosion came, and in that instant the house fell apart he was blown from the end room across the road on the river embankment and landed on the street below it. In that distance he passed though a couple of windows inside the house and his body was stuck full of all the glass it could hold. That is why he was completely covered with blood like that. The blast wave, rocketing several hundred yards from the hypopcenter at 2 miles per second and then slowing to the speed of sound, 1,100 feet per second, threw up a vast cloud of smoke and dust. "My body seemed all black," a Hiroshima physicist told Lifton, "everything seemed dark, dark all over... Then I thought, 'The world is ending.'" [...] "Within the city," notes Hachiya, who was severly injured, " the sky looked as though it had been painted with light _sumi_ [i.e. calligarphy ink], and the people had seen only a sharp, blinding flash of light; while outside the city the sky was a beautiful, golden yellow and there had been a deafening roar of sound. Those who had experienced the explosion within the city named it _pika_, flash, an those who experienced it further away named it _pika-don_, flash-boom. The houses fell as if they had been scythed. A fourth-grade boy: When I opened my eyes after being blown at least eight yards, it was as though I had come up against a black-painted fence. After that, as if thin paper was being peeled off one piece at a time, it gradually began to grow brighter. The first thing that my eyes lighted upon then was the flat stretch of land with only dust clouds rising from it. Everything had crumbled away in that one moment, and changed into streets of rubble, street after steet of ruins. Hachiya and his wive ran from their house just before it collapsed and terror opened out into horror: The shortest path to the street lay through the house next door so through the house we went--running, stumbling, falling, and then running again until in headlong flight we tripped over something and fell sprawling into the street. Getting to my feet, I discovered that I had tripped over a man's head. "Excuse me! Excuse me, please!" I cried hysterically. A grocer escaped into the street: The appearance of people was... well, they all had skin blackened by burns... They had no hair because their hair was burned, and at a glance you couldn't tell whether you were looking at them from in front or in back... they held their arms [in front of them]... and their skin-- not only on their hands, but on their faces and bodies too--hung down... If there had been only one or two such people... perhaps I wouldn not have had such a strong impression. But wherever I walked I met these people...Many of them died along the road--I can still picture them in my mind--like walking ghosts... They didn't look like people of this world... They had a very special way of walking--very slowly... I myself was one of them. The peeled skin that hung from the faces and bodies of these severly injured survivors was skin that the thermal flash had instantly blistered and the blast wave had torn loose. [...] A junior-college girl: On both sides of the road, bedding and pieces of cloth had been carried out and on these were lying people who had been burned to a reddish-black color and whose entire bodies were frightfully swollen. Making their way among them are three high school girls who looked as though they were from our school; their faces and everything were completely burned and they held their arms out in front of their chests like kangaroos with only their hands pointed downward; from their whole bodies something like thin paper is dangling--it is their peeled-off skin which hangs there, and trailing behind them the unburned remnants of their putees, they stagger exactly like sleepwalkers. [And six other descriptions of people with loose, detached skin. Note, this excerpt may seem long, but it actually leaves a lot out.] The thermal flash and the blast started fires and very quickly the fires became a firestorm from which those who could ambulate ran away and months later Liebow's group found the incidence of fractures among Hiroshima survivors to be less than 4.5 percent. "It was not that the injuries were few," the American pysicians note; "rather almost none who had lost the capacity to move escaped the flames. A five-year old girl: The whole city ... was burning. Black smoke was billowing up and we could hear the sound of big things exploding. Those dreadful streets. There was a strange smell all over. Blue-green balls of fire were drifiting around. [...] Another girl the same age: [...] We were running for our lives. On the way we saw a soldier floating in the river wihth his stomac all swollen. In desperation he must have jumped into the river to escape from the sea of fire. [....] [little children losing their parents, general devestation...] But against the backgorund of horror the eye of the survivor persisted in isolating the exceptional. A thirty-five-year-old man: A woman with her jaw missing and her tongue hanging out of her mouth was wandering around the area of Shinsho-machi in the heavy, black rain. She was headed toward the north crying for help. [...] A sixth-grade boy: Nearby, as if he were guarding these people, a policeman was standing, all covered with burns and stark naked except for some scraps of his trousers. I walked past Hiroshima Station...and saw people with their bowels and brains coming out...I saw an old lady carrying a suckling infant in her arms... [...] At Aioi Bridge: I was walking among dead people.... It was like hell. The sight of a living horse burning was very striking. A schoolgirl saw "a man without feet, walking on his ankles." A woman remembers: A man with his eyes sticking out about two inches called me by name and I felt sick.... People's bodies were tremendously swollen---you can't imagine how big a human body can swell up. [...] A thirty-year-old woman: The corpse lying on its back on the road had been killed immediately.....Its hand was lifted to the sky and the fingers were burning with blue flames. The fingers were shortened to one-third and distorted. A dark liquid was running to the ground along the hand. A third-grade girl: There was aso a person who had a big splinter of wood stuck in his eye--I suppose maybe he couldn't see---and he was running around blindly. A nineteen-year-old Ujima girl: [...] There was a charred body of a woman frozen in a running posture with one leg lifted and her baby tightly clutched in her arms. Who on earth could she be? [...] A history professor Lifton interviewed: [...] The most impressive thing was the expression in people's eyes--bodies badly injured which had turned black--their eyes looking for someone to come and help them. They looked at me and knew that I was stronger than they... I saw disappointment in their eyes. They looked at me with great expectation, staring right through me. It was very hard to be stared at by those eyes. [...] A junior-college girl: At the base of a bridge, inside a big cistern that had been dug out there, was a mother weeping and holding above her head a naked baby that was burned bright red all ovber its body, and another mother was crying and sobbing as she gave her burned breast to her baby. In the cistern the students stood with only their heads above the water and their two hands, which they clasped as they imploringly cried and screamed, calling their parents. But every single person who passed was wounded, all of them, and there was no one to turn to for help. A six-year old boy: Near the bridge there were a whole lot of dead people. There were some who were burned black and died, and there were some who died all stuck full of broken glass. There were all kinds. Sometimes there were ones who came to us asking for a drink of water. They were bleeding from their faces and from their mouthes and they had glass sticking in their bodies. And the bridge itself was burning furiously.... The details and the scenes were just like Hell. A fifth-grade boy: [...] I saw several people plunging ther heads into a half-broken water tank and drinking the water.... When I was close enough to see inside the tank I said "Oh!" out loud and instinctively drew back. What I had seen in the tank were the faces of monsters reflected form the water dyed red with blood. They had clung to the side of the tank and plunged their heads in to drink and there in that position they had died. From their burned and tattered middy blouses I could tell that they were high school girls, but there was not a hair left on their heads; the broken skin of their burned faces was stained bright red with blood. I could hardly believe that these were human faces. A physician sharing his horror with Hachiya: [...] In one reservoir I was a man, horribly burned, crouching beside another man who was dead. He was drinking blood-stained water out of the reservoir....In one reservoir there were so many deceased people there wasn't enough room for them to fall over. They must have died sitting in the water. A husband helping his wife escape the city: While taking my severely-wounded wife out to the riverbank by the side of the hill of Nakahiro-machi, I was horrified, indeed, at the sight of a stark naked man standing in the rain with his eyeball in his palm. He looked to be in great pain but there was nothing that I could do for him. The naked man may have been the same victim one of Hachiya's later visotors remembered noticing, or he may have been another: There were so many burned [at a first-aid station] that the odor was like drying squid. They looked like boiled octopuses... I saw a man whose eye had been torn out by an injury, and there he stood with his eye resting in the palm of his hand. What made my blood run cold was that it looked like the eye was staring at me. The people ran to the rivers to escape the firestorm; in the testimony of the survivors there is an entire subliterature of the rivers. [As the book explains earlier, Hiroshima was founded upon a river delta.] A third-grade boy: Men whose whole bodies were covered with blood, and women whose skin hung from them like a kimono, plunged shrieking into the river. All these bocome corpses and their bodies are carried by the current toward the sea. [...] A sixth-grade girl: Bloated corpses were drifiting in those seven formerly beautiful rivers; smashing cruelly into bits the childish pleasures of the little girl, the peculiar odor of burning human flesh rose everywhere in the Delta City, which had changed to a waste of scorched earth. A young ship designer whose response to the bombing was to rush home immediately to Nagasaki [!] : I had to cross the river to reach the station. As I came to the river and went down the bank to the water, I found that the steam was filled with dead bodies. I started to cross by crawling over the corpses, on my hands and knees. As I got about a third of the way across, a dead body began to sink under my weight and I went into the water, wetting my burned skin. It pained me severely. I could go no further, as there was a break in the bridge of corpses, so I turned back to the shore. A third-grade boy: I got terribly thirsty so I went to the river to drink . From upstream a great many black and burned corpses came floating down the river. I pushed them away and drank the water. At the margin of the river there were corpses lying all over the place. Terrible was what a Hachiya patient found beyond the river: [...] The sight of the soldiers, though was more dreadful than the dead people floating down the river. I came onto I don't know how many, burned from the hips up; and where the skin had peeled, their flesh was wet and mushy.... And they had no faces! Their eyes, noses and mouths had been burned away, and it looked like thier ears had melted off. It was hard to tell front from back. [people forced into the river to drown, by advancing flames, more agonies of the injured...] A six-year-old boy: If you think of Brother's body divident into left and right halves, he was burned on the right side, and on the inside of the left side.... That night Brother's body swelled up terribly badly. He looked like a little bronze Buddha.... [At Danbara high school field hospital] every classroom.... was full of dreadfully burned people who were lying about or getting up restlessly. They were alll painted with mercurochrome and white slave and they looked like red devils and they were waving their arms around like ghosts and groaning and shrieking. Soldiers were dressing their burns. The next morning, remembers a boy who was five years old at the time, "Hiroshima was all a wasted land." The Jesuit, coming in from a suburb to aid his brothers, testifies to the extent of the destruction: The bring day now reveals the frightful picture which last night's darkness had partly concealed. Where the city stood, everything as far as the eye could reach is a waste of ashes and ruin. Only several skeletons of buildings completely burned out in the interior remain. The banks of the rivers are covered with dead and wounded, and the rising waters have here and ther covered some of the corpses. On the broad street in the Hakushima district, naked, burned cadavers are particularly numerous. Among them are the wounded who are still alive. A few have crawled under the burned-out autos and trams. Frightfully injured forms beckon to us and then collapse. Hachiya corroborates the priest's report: The streets were deserted except for the dead. Some looked as if they had been frozen by death while still in the full action of flight; others lay sprawled as though some giant had flung them to their death from a great height... Nothing remained except a few buildings of reinforced concrete.... For acres and acres the city was like a desert except for scattered piles of brick and roof tile. I had to revise my meaning of the word destruction or choose some othere word to describe what it was. Devastation may be a better word, but really, I know of no word or words to describe the view. [and another description, ending "Hiroshima just didn't exist--that was mainly what I saw--Hiroshima just didn't exist."] Without familiar landmarks, the streets filled with rubble, many had difficulty finding their way. For Yoko Ota the city's history itself had been demolished: I reached a bridge and saw that the Hiroshima Castle had been completely leveled to the ground, and my heart shook like a great wave....The city of Hiroshima, entirely on flat land, was made three-dimensional by the existence of the white castle, and because of this it could retain a classical flavor. Hiroshima had a history of its own. And when I thought about these things, the grief of stepping over the corpses of history pressed upon my heart. Of 76,000 buildings in Hiroshima 70,000 were damaged or destroyed, 48,000 totally. "It is no exaggeration to say," reports the Japanese study, "that the whole city was ruined instantaneously." Material losses alone equaled the annual incomes of more than 1.1 million people. [...] Not many of the survivors worried about buildings; they had all they could do to deal with their injuries and find and cremate their dead, an obligation of particular importance to the Japanese. A man remembers seeing a woman in bloodied torn wartime _mompei_ pantaloons, naked above the waist, her child strapped to her back, carrying a soldier's helmet: [She was] in search of a place to cremate her dead child. The burned face of the child on her back was infested with maggots. I guess she was thinking of putting her child's bones in a battle helmet she had picked up. I feared she would have to go far to find burnable material to cremate her child. A young woman who had been in charge of a firebreak group and who was badly bunrned on one shoulder recalls the mass cremations: We gathered the dead bodies and made big mountains of the dead and put oil on them and burned them. And people who were unconscious woke up in the piles of the dead when they found themselves burning and came running out. Another Hachia visitor: After a couple of days, there were so many bodies stacked up no one know who was who, and the decomposition was so extensive the smell was unbearable. Durning those days, wherever you went, there were so many dead lying around it was impossible to walk without encountering them--swollen, discolored bodies with froth oozing from their noses and mouths. Having moved his hospital sickbed to a second-floor room with blown-out windows that fire had sterilized, Hachiya himself could view and smell the ruins: Towards evening, a light sourtherly wind blowing acrosss the city wafted to us an odor suggestive of burning sardines....Towards Nigitsu was an especially large fire where the dead were being burned by the hundreds... These glowing ruins and the blazing funeral pyres set me to wondering if Pompeii had not looked like this durning its last days. But I think there were not so many dead in Pompeii as there were in Hiroshima. Those who did not die seemed for a time to improve. Buit then, explains Lifton, they sickened: Survivors began to notice in themselves and others a strange form of illness. It consisted of nausea, vomiting, and loss of appetite; diarrhea with large amounts of blood in the stools; fever and weakness; purple spots on various parts of the body from bleeding into the skin.... inflammation and ulceration of the mouth, throat and gums....bleeding from the mouth, gums, throat, rectum, and urinary tract... loss of hair from the scalp and other parts of the boody....extremely low white blood counts when those were taken... and in many cases a progressive course until death. Only gradually did the few surviving and overworked Japanese doctors realize that they were seeing radiation sickness; "atomic bomb illness." explains the authoritative Japanese study "is the first and only example of heavy lethal and momentary doses of whole body irradiation" in the history of medicine. A few human beings had been accidentally overexposed to X-rays and laboratory animals had been exposed and sacrificed for study but no large population had ever experienced so extensive and deadly an assault of ionizing radiation before. The radiation brought further suffering, Hachiya reports in his diary: Following the _pika_, we thought that by giving treatment to those who were burned or injured recovery would follow. But now it was obvious that this was not true. People who appeared to be recovering developed other symptoms that caused them to die. So many patients died without our understanding the cause of death that we were all in despair... Hundreds of patients died during the first few days; then the death rate declined. Now, it was increasing again.... As time passed, anorexia [i.e., loss of appetite] and diarrhea proved to be the most persistent symptoms in patients who failed to recover. Direct gamma radiation form the bomb had damaged tissue throughout the bodies of the exposed. The destruction required cell division to manifest itself, but radiation temporarily suppresses cell division; hence the delayed onset of symptoms. The blood-forming tissues were damaged worst, prticularly those that produce the white blood cells that fight infection. Large doses of radiation also stimulate the production of an anti-clotting factor. The outcome of these assaults was massive tissue death, massive hemorrhage and massive infection. "Hemmorrhage was the cause of death in all our cases," writes Hachiya, but he also notes that the pathologist at his hospital "found changes in every organ of the body in the cases he...autopsied." Liebow reports "evidence of generalization of infection with masses of bacteria in ... organs as remote from the surface [of the body] as the brain, bone marrow and eye." The operator of a crematorium in the Hiroshima suburbs, a connoisseur of mortality, told Lifton "The bodies were black in color.... most of them had a peculiar smell, and everyone thought this was from the bomb... The smell when they burned was caused by the fact that these bodies were decayed, many of them even before being cremated--some of them having their internal organs decay even while the person was living." Yoko Ota raged: We were being killed against our will byu something completely unknown to us... It is the misery of being thrown into a world of new terror and fear, a world more unkown than that of people sick with cancer. In the depths of his loss a boy who was a fourth-grader at Hiroshima found words for the unspeakable: Mother was completely bedridden. The hair of her head had almost all fallen out, her chest was festering, and from the two-inch hole in her back a lot of maggots were crawling in and out. The place was full of flies and mosquitoes and fleas, and an awfully bad smell hung over everything. Everywhere I looked there were many people like this who couldn't move. From the evening when we arrived Mother's condition got worse and we seemed to see her weakening before our eyes. Because all night long she was having trouble breathing, we did everything we could to relieve her. The next morning Grandmother and I fixed some gruel. As we took it to Mother, she breathed her last breath. When we thought she had stopped breathing altogether, she took one deep breath and did not breathe any more after that. This was nine o-clock in the morning of the 19th of August. At the site of the Japan Red Cross Hospital, the smell of the bodies being cremated is overpowering. Too much sorrow makes me like a stranger to myself, and yet despite my grief I cannot cry. [...] There remains the question of how many died. The U.S. Army Medical Corps officer who proposed the joint American-Japanese study thought as late as Auguust 28 that "the total number of casualties reported at Hiroshima is approximately 160,000 of which 8,000 are dead." The Jesuit Priest's contemporary reckoning approaches the appaling reality and illuminates further the destruction of the common world: How many people were sacrificed to this bomb? Those who had lived through this catastrophe placed the number of dead at at least 100,000. Hiroshima had a population of 400,000. Official statistics place the number who had died at 70,000 up to September 1st, not counting the missing---and 130,000 wounded, among them 43,500 severley wounded. Estimates made by ourselves on the basis of groups known to us show that the number of 100,000 dead is not too high. Near us there are two barracks, in each of which forty Korean workers lived. On the day of the explosion they were laboring on the streets of Hiroshima. Four returned alive to one barracks and sixteen to the other. Six hundred students of the Protestant girls' school worked in a factory, from which only thirty or forty returned. [...] There died the Mayor, the president of the central Japan district, the commander of the city, a Korean prince who had been stationed in Hiroshima in the capacity of an officer, and many other high-ranking officers. Of the professors of the University thirty-two were killed or severly wounded. Especially hard-hit were the soldiers. The Pioneer Regiment was almost entirely wiped out. The barracks were near the center of the explosion. More recent estimates place the number of deaths up to the end of 1945 at 140,000. The dying continued; five-year deaths related to the bombing reached 200,000. The death rate for deaths up to the end of 1945 was 54%, an extraordinary density of killing; by contrast, the death rate for the March 9 firebombing of Tokyo, 100,000 deaths among 1 million casualties, was only 10 percent. Back at the U.S. Army Institute of Pathology in Washington in early 1946 Liebow used a British invention, the Standardized Casualty Rate, to compute that Little Boy produced casualties, including dead, 6,500 times more efficiently than an ordinary HE [high explosive] bomb. "Those scientists who invented the...atomic bomb," writes a young woman who was a fourth-grade student at Hiroshima---" what did they think would happen if they dropped it?" [We skip to the end of the chapter, overlooking Nagasaki entirely... Not much new, mostly different descriptions of the bomb and different amounts of damage: higher yield from the implosion plutonium device, but less damage as the blast was contained in a valley. Rhodes ends the chapter particularly impressed with a nightmare suffered Dr. Michihiko Hachiya, saying: ] ... "the dream of this Japanese Doctor who was wounded in the world's first atomic bombing and who ministered to hundreds of victims must be counted one of the millenial visions of mankind: The night had been close with many mosquitoes. Consequently, I slept poorly and had a frightful dream. It seems I was in Tokyo after the great earthquake and around me were decomposing bodies heaped in piles, all of whom were looking right at me. I saw an eye sitting in the palm of a girl's hand. Suddenly it turned and leaped into the sky and then came flying back towards me, so that, loooking up, I could see a great bare eyeball, bigger than life hovering over my head, staring point blank at me. I was powerless to move. from Richard Rhodes _The Making of the Atomic Bomb_ Chapter 19, "Tongues of Fire" Simon and Schuster, 1986 ISBN 0-671-44133-7 ISBN 0-671-65719-4 Pbk. The rest of the book is thoroughly researched, and extraordinarily well-written. The story includes the history of 20th century physics, the development of modern warfare, the political climate during WWII, and the confluence of a multitude of factors that led to the development of the atomic bomb and to the decision to use it during wartime. Although liberals might find much in his work to support their positions (for example, there are many good reasons to think that the Japanese might have surrendered before an invasion of Japan without the atomic bombings), he shows a picture more complex than anybody's slogans and sound-bites can cover. His new book, _Dark Sun: The Making of the Hydrogen Bomb_ has been recently published as well. I've only read the first chapter, but the jacket notes include a description of the book as an examination of the nuclear weapons programs on both sides of the iron curtain, and notes the following tidbits: Julius and Ethyl Rosenburg _were_ Soviet Agents. Building the Strategic Air Command, Curtis LeMay made persistent attempts to acquire control of US nuclear weapons independent of presidential authorization. [Yow! "Pissant Motherfucker," a description applied by one of his relatives whom we may recognize, doesn't begin to cover it.] SAC flew daily intelligence missions over the Soviet Union throughout the 1950's , including deliberately provocative overflights of Soviet cities by squadrons of aircraft in broad daylight. At the height of the Korean War, President Truman traded the US Joint Chiefs of Staff nine atomic bombs for General Douglas MacArthur's head. US firebombing of North Korean cities and large dams killed more than two million civilians. During the Cuban missile crisis [during which Curtis LeMay was goading President Kennedy to attack the USSR with everything in the US arsenal--also from the jacket notes], SAC put 7,000 megatons into the air, menaced the Soviets with an unauthorized missile launch and deliberately flew bombers toward Soviet targets. The first and only direct nuclear confrontation between the superpowers was also very nearly the last. Richard Rhodes Dark Sun: The Making of the Hydrogen Bomb Simon & Schuster 1995 ISBN 0-684-80400-X This extended book review is brought to you on the fiftieth anniversery of the world's first military use of atomic weapons at Hiroshima, Japan. -- -- 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.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!swrinde!sgigate.sgi.com!rutgers!utcsri!newsflash.concordia.ca!vega.concordia.ca!cp_dine From: cp_dine@vega.concordia.ca (Bangers 'n' Mash) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Pitbulls Date: 4 Aug 1995 06:31:17 GMT Organization: Concordia University, Montreal, Canada Lines: 68 Message-ID: <3vserl$kuo@newsflash.concordia.ca> NNTP-Posting-Host: vega.concordia.ca NNTP-Posting-User: cp_dine I was bicycling today and came across a woman walking two dogs. One was a little yapyap stomp bait type fuzzball, and the other was a pitbull. Now, aside from the dream scenario where yapyap's leash ends up leading from the woman's hand to the pitbull's mouth (the thought of which gladdened my heart), something grabbed my attention. I was troubled by the way the pitbull turned towards me. He looked like he was fixin' to get himself some meals on wheels. I pedaled faster and zoomed off. There is also a pitbull in a yard along the path where I jog. In the winter, the snow builds up in the yard until the dog is ominously close to the top of the fence. One of these days, I'm going to throw that pooch a 3 a.m. steak snack that simply _won't_ agree with his digestion. Now, is it just me, or are pitbulls much scarier than guns? I mean, guns have no volition, and will not run off and attack someone if their owner passes out on the street of a heart attack. Yet the Canajun Gubbmint, in their infinite wisdom, is tightening firearms restrictions while continuing to allow bandy legged, backwards baseball cap wearing, white trash butt-potatoes to walk around with these baby-eating land sharks at the end of a token bit of cord. I mean, what kind of slope browed, slack jawed, mouth breathing cretins came up with the idea of keeping useless, vicious 150 pound carnivores as house pets anyhow? Probably the same spermy-fisted sacks of pustulent organs who made Tammy Wynette, Bon Jovi and Full House such major cultural phenomena. My Modest Proposal: All pitbull owners should be rounded up, along with their "pets". The owners would be placed in small rooms with _other_ people's pitbulls. Ha! Let's see how quick they are to argue what sweet, loving creatures pitbulls _really_ are when they've got 2 or 3 hanging from their crotches. Survivors and their families, along with the families of the deceased, would be sterilized (if the dogs hadn't gotten around to it yet). This would prevent propagation of the gene which codes for pitbullophilia, and raise the average IQ of white trash for the next few generations. After surgical sterilization, children of the owners would be given lollipops and would get to meet the Olsen twins (who, in my ideal world, would also be sterilized). Alternately, we could just allow pitbull haters to walk the street armed to the teeth: "Officer, the animal was glaring at me balefully. I thought it would pounce at any moment." "Perfectly understandable, citizen. But why are the dog owner, his wife, and his two small children lying also in a spreading pool of blood?" "Officer, my hand must have been shaking from sheer terror as I squeezed off round after round from this handy semiautomatic pistol. My aim was thrown off." "Perfectly understandable. Here, take this ammunition and reload, just in case you should encounter another beast on your way home." "Why, thank you, officer. Good day." Bangers 'n' Mash -- "The worst indeed is that there is no end to anything and that everything will continue to take place in a slow, fastidious, recurring and all-encompassing hysterical manner - like nails and hair continue to grow after death." - Jean Baudrillard Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!psgrain!charnel.ecst.csuchico.edu!csusac!csus.edu!netcom.com!julian From: julian@netcom.com (Julian Macassey) Subject: Re: Pitbulls Message-ID: Organization: Tired Housewives Club References: <3vserl$kuo@newsflash.concordia.ca> Date: Fri, 4 Aug 1995 11:58:52 GMT Lines: 25 Sender: julian@netcom4.netcom.com In article <3vserl$kuo@newsflash.concordia.ca>, Bangers 'n' Mash wrote: >There is also a pitbull in a yard along the path where I jog. In the >winter, the snow builds up in the yard until the dog is ominously >close to the top of the fence. One of these days, I'm going to throw >that pooch a 3 a.m. steak snack that simply _won't_ agree with his >digestion. You must of course be thinking of that tasty "a.t. approved" carnivore snack. Hamburger and ground glass. It is very cheap - especially if you mix lots of ground glass into the meat. It is wolfed down by most nasty, mean tempered dogs. There is no antiodote. The beast will die of internal bleeding. The owners will no doubt spend hundreds of dollars trying to persuade the vet the save Rover's life. -- Julian Macassey, N6ARE julian@bongo.tele.com Voice: (415) 211-2244 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!ix.netcom.com!netcom.com!pigface From: pigface@netcom.com Subject: Re: Pitbulls Message-ID: Organization: Netcom Online Communications Services (408-241-9760 login: guest) References: <3vserl$kuo@newsflash.concordia.ca> Date: Mon, 7 Aug 1995 22:02:03 GMT Lines: 24 Sender: pigface@netcom12.netcom.com In article steven.struthers@icis.on.ca (Steven R. Struthers) writes: >One of my father's cousins recently told me about the problem he was having with >a neighbourhood Doberman that wouldn't let him jog in piece. His proposed >solution to deal with the errant doggie? Soak a sponge in some really tasty >beef or chicken gravy. Dog sniffs sponge. Dog swallows sponge. Dog dies from >blockage of the GI tract (or possibly suffocates from the airway being pinched >off). Watching the news the other morning, there is some town that's had a rash of dog poisonings. The poison? Meat laced with good ol' antifreeze, that wonderfully sweet chemical that little kids just can't resist. I understand it is particularly nasty death, according to the woman whose dog died in her arms. Forgot the name of the town. Which one of you fuckers is it? "How DARE you insult the United Kingdom, you jumped up little yanky bastard piece of shit. Get the fuck out of this newsgroup, and go fuck your sister you dirty inbread shitty little fat yank cunt." *John Graley* Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!swrinde!sgigate.sgi.com!genmagic!bug.rahul.net!a2i!news.erinet.com!uunet!in2.uu.net!newsflash.concordia.ca!vega.concordia.ca!cp_dine From: cp_dine@vega.concordia.ca (Bangers 'n' Mash) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Pitbulls Date: 8 Aug 1995 05:57:07 GMT Organization: Concordia University, Montreal, Canada Lines: 30 Message-ID: <406ubj$gl4@newsflash.concordia.ca> References: <3vserl$kuo@newsflash.concordia.ca> <405tnm$aem@news.sas.ab.ca> NNTP-Posting-Host: vega.concordia.ca NNTP-Posting-User: cp_dine wrote: >The scary part is, I could see CUM[*] and Surete du Quebec police doing >just that. They appear to have quite the cavalier attitude towards >ammunition and where to use it appropriately, at least compared to your >average Anglo police force. I would much rather see guns in the hands of good, honest, pitbull-hating, law abiding citizens than those of the CUM police force. Montreal's local Gestapo deserve nothing more lethal than tasers, considering how often their guns "accidentally" go off when pointed at blacks. Sadly, the average pot-bellied, donut-scarfing fuck of a CUM cop is as likely to have a pitbull as a gun. >[*] 'Communaute Urbaine de Montreal', or 'Metropolitan Montreal', has a >unified police force. This is the official abbreviation, as seen on >SRC-TV news. B'n'M will corroborate, if necessary. I am not making this up. In Montreal, one sees the acronym CUM plastered all over the place, from court buildings and swimming pools to libraries and zoos. This gives Montrealers a constant dick-being-waved-in-my-face feeling of psychosexual paranoia that helps explain our less than warm and fuzzy attitude. Ah, Montreal, the city that never sleeps because we're too busy snubbing one another and cursing at tourists. Bangers 'n' Mash -- " A warm day today?" " Yes they are burning the fat american prisoners." - Dominik Weber Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!nntp-trd.UNINETT.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!news.sprintlink.net!news.texas.net!news.kei.com!ub!newserve!bb05246 From: bb05246@bingsuns.cc.binghamton.edu (John Hollister) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Presbyterians Date: 10 Aug 1995 19:05:43 GMT Organization: Rimming the Ancient Mariner Lines: 33 Message-ID: <40dla7$3bp@bingnet1.cc.binghamton.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: 128.226.1.2 X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] I am still desperate enough for meat to cruise AOL. I guess I deserve what I get. I drove up to Ithaca to play with some twink - he actually had the uncut 8 inches he promised. We met at a certain bridge at 2am and I quickly took care of him. He disappeared and went home to his girlfriend. Okay for an appetizer. I needed a main course. It was too late to hit the bars so I wandered into the night. My standards slowly dropped. 3am, 4am. Remember, these standards are calibrated relative to an AOLer. I sat down in despair on somebody`s Memorial Parkbench in the garden of a Presbyterian church. Along came a Samuel-Delaney-caliber janitor just off the nightshift. He zeroed in on me and took an unusual interest in my grungy sneakers. What the fuck. I stood up to get a better look at this creature and considered the possibility of bestiality. He took off his clothes, and as he leaned over all I could see were an enormous pair of ass-cheeks. As I did the inevitable, I banged my knee against the stone of the bench. The next evening, I was still limping a little, so I got as drunk as I possibly could. Wandering late through the streets of Binghamton after the bars closed, I had to piss like a racehorse. I found a suitable alley and let go. I was not alone. Some truckdriver was sitting against the wall signalling his thirst. Damn. A man after my own heart. No, after my own recycled Red Dog. He drank it all, without spilling a drop. -- John Hollister bb05246@bingsuns.cc.binghamton.edu I believe it because it is absurd. -Tertullian Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!seunet!news2.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!news.uoregon.edu!news.u.washington.edu!bbeer From: bbeer@u.washington.edu (Robert Beer) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Rosie Rottencrotch! Date: 4 Aug 1995 07:12:09 GMT Organization: University of Washington, Seattle Lines: 43 Message-ID: <3vsh89$3o@nntp4.u.washington.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: saul4.u.washington.edu NNTP-Posting-User: bbeer Back when I was in high school in Iowa City, Iowa, I worked in a grocery store. We had several strange folks - the woman with tourette's, the clean lady who sprayed everything with a little can of lysol and wiped it off before she put it in her cart, and payed with money that was wrapped up in a handkerchief to keep her hands from touching it, but by far our favorite customer was a huge 70 year old woman we alled Rosie Rottencrotch. Rosie has a smell emanating from her that was indescribabe - a combination of toe jam and lumburger cheese. She was very nice and pleasant in personality, if you could stay near her enough to talk. Several times she came in, and as soon as she would get around a corner, the assistant manager would walk down the aisle with two cans of lysol spray to kill the stench. Rosie particularly liked one of the checkout girls, and if she was working, Rosie would *always* go through her line. We always teased her mercilessly when Rosie would come in, until she got her revenge by calling the one who teased her the most to sack for her. This checkout girl had the problem that she couldn't ever keep a straight face if anything was even mildly amusing, so there she was every time, about to explode from laughter and simultaneously about to puke. You could always tell who was going to sack for Rosie because you would her the checkout girl call them on the PA, barely able to get it out of her mouth without laughing. Rosie always just took it in stride, she said "boy, you kids work such long hours, I don't know how you keep in such good spirits!" I don't think she could smell herself. She often came in with a daughter though, who didnt' stink...and I'm sure the daughter was aware of it. She was once asked to take care of the problem or not return -- the manager was watching a woman in the meat section choosing a steak. Rosie was coming down the aisle, and just as the woman lifted up the steak and gave a sniff, Rosie's aroma hit her. She made a nasty face and slapped the steak back down. The absolute worst thing you could have to do was load her groceries into her car. This meant actually sticking your head into the car where the fumes had been building up for a while. I usually would try and hold my breath, but Rosie would always want to chat with you while you were doing it - so you would have to breathe through your mouth - which may have been worse...as if you were eating it too. :) Message-ID: <085302Z10081995@anon.penet.fi> Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!nntp-trd.UNINETT.no!Norway.EU.net!EU.net!news.eunet.fi!anon.penet.fi Newsgroups: alt.tasteless From: an334969@anon.penet.fi X-Anonymously-To: alt.tasteless Organization: Anonymous forwarding service Reply-To: an334969@anon.penet.fi Date: Thu, 10 Aug 1995 08:49:05 UTC Subject: Story: Christian family values Lines: 343 'Hello? I'm home!', shouted John, walking in the door after a hard day's work. He'd had a difficult day at the Christian Life and Family Charity Trust, where he worked. He walked into the kitchen, and opened the fridge for a nice cool drink, when he realised that there wasn't any answer to his greeting. 'Oh dear, I wonder why that is?', he thought, pouring a nice orange juice for himself. He took the glass, and walked out of the kitchen. Voices were coming from the direction of the bedrooms, so he opened his son's bedroom door, and there was his wife Margaret, red-faced and quietly panicked. Marty, their eight year old son, sat on the edge of the bed, blubbing into his hands. 'John! Thank the Lord you're here! Marty... he's swallowed something.' 'Marty? What did you swallow?' Marty looked up, with red eyes. 'I was really hungry, so I bought a Kinder Surprise, but I was so hungry I ate all of it, even the plastic lion thing inside! I've got a sore tummy now.' John looked at Margaret. 'What can we do? Have you tried to make him vomit it out?' Margaret calmed down a little. 'That's a good idea. How can we do that?' 'Try putting your finger down his throat.' Marty screamed and leapt off the bed, but John caught him and put him back. 'Now now, we have to get it over with,' he said, forcing Marty's jaw open. "Go on, try it now.' Margaret tried to push her fingers down Marty's throat, but it was useless, with the kid screaming and panicking. Finally, John's grip loosened, and Marty's jaws slammed shut. Poor Margaret wasn't quite quick enough, and though she had pulled her hand mostly out, Marty's teeth sliced neatly through her index finger as she screamed with pain. 'Oh bother,' said John, 'you'd better bind that up.' Margaret grabbed the pillowslip from the bed and wound it round her hand. 'We can cauterise it later', she said, 'first we have to help poor Marty.' 'Yes, you're right,' said John, 'but I don't think it's a good idea to try that again. I've got an idea.' He took off his belt, and forcing Marty's jaw open again, he put the belt sideways through his mouth, and did up the buckle behind Marty's neck nice and tight. 'That'll keep it open. I'll try now.' John rammed his finger down Marty's throat, and they were rewarded with an enormous gush of brown liquid, along with the ever-present carrots and peas, which streamed into John's face, into his gaping mouth, over his shirt, and down his pants, which fell down with the added weight of the puke and no belt for support. 'Ah, wonderful,' said Margaret, full of admiration for her husband. John stripped off his puke-encrusted clothes, and they searched for the plastic toy, with no success. 'What do we do now?', asked Margaret, beginning to worry again. 'Maybe it's time to consider taking him to the hospital.', said John, looking down at his brown-streaked nakedness. 'Oh no, we can't do that. Doctors are the agents of Satan. He'd be eternally damned if we let them touch him with their scaly hands,' replied Margaret, obviously shocked. 'Yes, of course, my dear. I can't believe my faith had become so weak,' said John, 'but we can't just leave him like this. Not only does he have a plastic toy in his stomach, but also your finger. Even if he is our son, I cannot condone cannibalism. We will need to take stern measures. Fetch the knife rack, Margaret.' Margaret scuttled off to the kitchen, pleased that there was another course of action available. Marty had begun to turn blue, and fell off the bed just before she returned. 'Good, he won't move round too much now,' she exclaimed happily, 'he's always so full of energy.' They hoisted him back up, and laid him on the bed again. 'John, I think he's stopped breathing.' 'It's just God's way of telling us to hurry up,' said John,' pass me the carving knife.' She did, and John cut off Marty's shirt with one quick stroke. 'So much for the practice, now for the real thing.' John found the sternum, and placed the knife blade over it. Dealing it quick blow, he broke the bone, and then drew the knife downwards from the base of the neck all the way to the belly button. 'I wonder where his stomach is?', he said, 'I'm pretty sure it's in the ribcage somewhere. Here, you grab this side, and I'll grab the other.' They both pulled as hard as they could, and with a mighty cracking sound, the ribcage opened up displaying the internal organs in all their glistening glory. 'Ah, the miracle of God's creation,' whispered Margaret. 'Right, here goes,' said John, and with a small fruit knife, made a careful slit in a convenient organ, but there was no sign of any toys or fingers. 'Oh you silly man,' giggled Margaret, 'that's his lung! I think that thing over there's his stomach.' John grinned, 'I was never too good with anatomy.' He sliced into the stomach, and the contents flowed out into the chest cavity, with some overflowing onto the floor, where it joined the remarkably small amount of blood. John swished the muck around with his fingers, and saw the glint of silver. 'Oh, my wedding ring! What luck!', said Margaret, and grabbed it, pulling it off the finger it came on, which she tossed into the rubbish bin. 'It seems his stomach is the real problem here,' said John. 'It has caused us many evils, not only has it consumed your finger and a plastic lion, but it also forced out beloved son to buy an evil commercialistic fake egg, which has now probably killed him. What can the Bible teach us about this incident?' 'Ahh, let me see...' pondered Margaret. 'Oh, of course. "If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out. If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off." It's all so clear to me now, thank you, John.' She took a bread knife from the rack, and chopped away at the stomach, until she held it in her hand, its contents dribbling down her arm and dripping off her elbow onto the floor. 'This won't be offending anyone any more.', she said, flipping it out of the bedroom window, where it fell two floors onto the footpath below. However, she was still not sure that they had done all they could for their son. 'But John, where's the plastic toy if it's not in there?' 'I don't know. Could it have gone into the intestines already?' he lifted the stomach up and jiggled it around, but it was very slippery, and fell onto the bed, pulling some intestines with it. John took the fruit knife and cut all the way along the intestines from the stomach back to the body cavity, but there was still no sign of the toy. 'It must be further along,' stated Margaret, and grabbed the end of the intestines, which was now dangling loose. She started pulling the intestines out, feeling along their length for a lump. 'That's no good, the toy might be too small for you to feel,' said John, and slit the intestines along their length as Margaret pulled them out. Soon most of the floor of the small room was covered in intestines and their ex-contents, and it was with regret that Margaret found she had reached the end. 'Oh dear, what a mess,' she exclaimed, taking a bread knife and cutting the intestines off at the base near the sphincter and dropping them to the floor. John kicked and pushed them until they were mostly out of the way under the bed. 'It could have come out of the other end, what with all that pushing and prodding,' pondered John, and cut Marty's trousers off. As the trousers fell to the floor, Margaret caught a glimpse of something hanging out of one of the pockets. 'Look! The toy! He must have been pulling our leg!' 'Well, we certainly pulled his back, didn't we, dear?', guffawed John. 'Oh yes, 'smiled Margaret. 'But there's still the little matter of Marty... he lied to us, and he's never done that before. I wonder what could have brought it on?' 'Maybe he's been possessed by demons,' wondered John. 'We should try to beat them out in that case, unless we've got some holy water around?' 'I'm afraid not, dear.' 'Never mind, the beating will have to do.' John pulled the body onto the floor, and began to jump on it. Margaret joined in, and soon there was a bloody, flat mess of bone and flesh on the floor. 'Ah, that should do the trick. Surely demons couldn't fit in something that flat.' Tired, they sat on the bed to rest for a moment, and John noticed Margaret's bound hand. 'Let's get that finger seen to,' he said. They walked to the kitchen, where John turned on one of the stove elements. 'This should do the trick. Whip off that bandage.' Margaret unwound the pillowslip from her hand, and tried to press the stump of her finger onto the red-hot element, but soon found that the rest of her fingers were starting to smoulder. 'Wait a mo,' said John, picking up a knife and pushing it in between the coils of the element. He forced it down, and the metal bent. Suddenly, sparks flew and John began to shake in a strange way, hair standing on end, smoke rising from the soles of his feet. 'Oh, electrocution,' stated Margaret, 'I don't think I'm supposed to touch the victim when that happens. Or is that when they have an epileptic fit? Where's my C.P.R. video... Don't worry dear, I'm just going to get the tape, if it's God's will that you'll die, I'm sure it'll wait till I get back.' At that point, John went 'Unnngh', and fell over backwards, where Margaret luckily caught him. On seeing the knife point sticking out from between his ribs, Margaret realised that perhaps she should have dropped the knife she was holding before trying to catch her husband. 'Oh dear, it's just not our day, is it? I don't think I'll have time to find the tape, I'll just have to make do as best I can.' She put him on the ground, and began pressing rapidly on his chest. After a few minutes of doing that, with no obvious results, she decided that it wasn't effective enough, so she went to the shed to get some resuscitation aids. She dropped the spade and pickaxe on the kitchen floor. Picking up a wooden breadboard from the kitchen table, she pus it on his chest, and took a mighty swing at it with the pickaxe, which went through the breadboard up to the axe handle. Margaret gave a pull, and the axe and breadboard came away with a sucking sound, and a small fountain of blood shot from the ragged hole in John's chest. 'His heart must still have been beating,' thought Margaret, 'I probably should have checked his pulse first. Well, it must have stopped now.' Picking up the spade, she brought it down flat on John's chest, sending a strong spurt of blood and mucus shooting from his nose, leaving an artistic streak down the length of his body. She continued her new C.P.R. method for another five minutes, apologising every time she heard a rib crack, but it was obviously not doing much good. Maybe she wasn't getting all the force onto the heart, she thought, so she brought the spade down edgewise on his chest, neatly separating the already smashed ribs and flesh. She bent down to listen for breathing, and heard faint breath. Of course, it's not his heart, it must be his brain that's stopped, she realised. But how do you do C.P.R. on someone's brain? Of course, the spade! It had worked so well on his heart that it would have to do wonders for his brain. So she swung it at his head like a strangely shaped sword, where its muddy edge cut neatly through John's eyeballs and nose, but didn't quite penetrate the skull. Margaret left it where it was, and used the blunt side of the pickaxe to pound it through the skull. She didn't quite manage to stop in time to prevent it cutting through the whole head though, and the top half rolled free from the rest, its contents falling out onto the floor. 'Ah, there it is. I didn't think the hemispheres were separated in that direction, I wonder why they didn't call them the top and bottom hemispheres?', she remarked to herself. 'Ah well, here goes.' She brought the spade down on the brain parts on the floor, and the result was a sight to see. Parts stuck to her legs, others stuck to cupboards and the walls, some even stuck to the windows, where they slowly dribbled down leaving a trail of jelly- like substance. 'I wonder if that did the trick? I suppose I should make sure.' She stood with her feet on either side of John's head, and brought the pickaxe down straight into the middle of his lower skull. The point poked out from just below his chin, his jaw open in a surprised smile. Inside, she could see the pickaxe had passed from the roof of his mouth straight through his tongue. 'Oh, I didn't mean to give that C.P.R.,' she aid, annoyed. She pulled the pickaxe back out again, but almost all of the brain came with it. 'Ah, that'll make it much easier to give it C.P.R..' She put the brain in an oven tray, and started kneading it feverishly, Soon, it was a grey mess, spilling onto the bench and dripping away down the garbage disposal. 'Oh no, I'm losing it, and John needs his brain so much at work, too. What will he say when he finds out I've lost some?' She put the plug in, and tipped the rest of the brain into the sink, where it mixed with a few old food scraps and blood from the stump of her finger. After giving it C.P.R. with an egg whisk for a short time, she scooped the sink's contents up with a soup ladle and started spooning them back into John's head. Unfortunately, they leaked out of the hole the pickaxe had left, and dribbled down his chest, where they mixed with blood and bits of rib. Then, Margaret rolled the body into the recovery position, like the C.P.R. tape said, and waited. 'Well, I suppose God decided that he needed you in Heaven,' said Margaret, after watching him for a few days. 'You are starting to get a bit smelly, whatever will the neighbours think if they come around for tea? I think we'd better give you a good Christian burial.' She picked up the spade and walked out to the garden, where she dug a six foot deep hole. She had forgotten about her missing finger, though, and the work reopened the wound. Just as she finished the hole, she fainted from blood loss, and fell in. Luckily for her, one of their neighbours happened to be looking over the fence a short while later, and an ambulance was called. Margaret woke up in hospital, one blood transfusion later. As soon as she realised where she was, she looked down at her arm, and ripped the needle out of the vein, taking with it some of the vein itself plus a small flap of flesh. The next thing she knew, there were nurses all around her, plus a man with what looked to her like a gas mask. 'Agents of Satan, get thee away, do not pervert the course of God's true will!', she screamed, pulling the gas mask away from the man, who produced a syringe with a five centimetre needle and jabbed it into her arm as far as it would go. He only managed to push the plunger down a short way before a fist broke his nose, and he fell to the floor, still holding onto the syringe, now minus needle. Margaret fell unconscious in a moment, not knowing that she was being wheeled into surgery to combat the gangrene which had started to spread from her finger wound in the days since it had happened. The operating theatre staff gathered around her, not knowing how far the disease had spread, and not wanting to miss any diseased tissue. Finally, it was decided to amputate the arm below the elbow, as the junior surgeon on duty hadn't performed one of that sort before, and needed the experience. The surgeon selected a gleaming saw from the surgery table, and began to cut. The flesh was no match for the blade, and it ripped apart, arteries, veins and tendons hanging free. In a moment he was at the bone, and sawed frantically, wishing for a decent electrical bone saw. At that moment, the reduced amount of anaesthetic Margaret had received wore off enough for her to regain consciousness, and she sat up groggily. The bone saw clattered to the floor and the surgeon fainted with shock. Margaret looked at her arm and screamed, battering the nurses away insanely. She was pushed back down onto the table, where her arm hit the edge, breaking the both the bones, and leaving the rest of the arm flailing wildly on a thin piece of flesh as she struggled. Blood was everywhere by this stage, and a second anaesthetist tried to force a mask over her face, but the loose arm hit him in the stomach, and he slipped on the blood on the floor. Margaret rolled off the table and ran for the door, leaving a trail of blood which her pursuers slipped on and fell into. As she ran, she looked down at the arm which was only just still attached; it no longer felt like part of her. She reached down with her other hand and ripped the arm off, using it as a weapon whenever an unlucky nurse or patient got in her way. 'Evil, evil, I won't let them practice their witchcraft on me,' mumbled Margaret, insane with fear and agony. She slipped into a supply closet for a moment, hoping to find a weapon, but all the only items were some full rubbish bags and a couple of gas cylinders. She ripped open one of the bags, not even noticing when a large needle, syringe still attached, buried itself in her arm, sticking there. At that moment, a doctor burst into the closet. 'Come on now, calm down. We've got to get you back to surgery,' he said. Margaret grabbed a bent bedpan from the rubbish, and hit the doctor in the face with it, making a comical 'boinggg' sound. He fell to the floor, and Margaret dragged him quickly in, closing the door. 'Agent of Satan, perverter of Nature, practiser of Witchcraft,' snarled Margaret, 'does not the Bible tell us that we shall not suffer a witch to live?' She grabbed the syringe in her arm and pulled, but the needle was stuck, and all the succeeded in doing was drawing a large amount of blood as the plunger withdrew, finally coming out altogether and splattering the walls with blood. She held onto the body of the syringe this time, pulling the needle out of her arm, and jamming it into the unconscious doctor's belly. Grabbing one of the tubes from the gas cylinders, she held it to the end of the syringe, and knocked the valve with her head, opening it. The doctor inflated like a huge and grotesque balloon. He began to regain consciousness, but as his body inflated further, he couldn't even scream due to the pressure. His clothes ripped and fell off, and he waved his limbs around madly, making Margaret slip. The syringe fell out, and the doctor felt a wave of relief, until his skin started to split at the needle hole. The split got wider, looking to him like someone was making a very tidy incision from the inside. Then, the split turned into a rip, and he exploded, showering the closet with his vital organs. Margaret had to get out of this place of filth and evil, or her soul was eternally damned. She ran from the closet, and kept running until she finally came to a dead end - a truck bay, with a few rubbish skips. She could hear quick footsteps coming closer, and the only place to hide was in the skips, so she opened one and practically fell inside. The sound of footsteps was drowned out by the noise of the roller door of the truck bay opening, and a truck backing in. Escape was all she thought of, the skips being loaded onto the back of a truck, and taking her away from this foul place. Her skip moved, rose, and was tipped up. She fell with all the rubbish, and pushed her way triumphantly to the surface, oblivious to the pain and bleeding. As she looked out of the back of the truck, the last thing she saw was a small crowd of doctors and nurses looking at her. The last thing they saw was Margaret's head exploding under the pressure of the garbage compactor of the truck. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!umdac!fizban.solace.mh.se!paladin.american.edu!news.jhu.edu!jobone!newsxfer.itd.umich.edu!nntp.cs.ubc.ca!news.cyberstore.ca!van-bc!vanbc.wimsey.com!news.rmii.com!newsjunkie.ans.net!howland.reston.ans.net!swrinde!cs.utexas.edu!not-for-mail From: bb05246@bingsuns.cc.binghamton.edu (John Hollister) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Aryan Deathboys Date: 6 Sep 1995 16:45:26 -0500 Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway Lines: 34 Sender: nobody@cs.utexas.edu Message-ID: <199509062145.RAA26457@bingsun2.cc.binghamton.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: news.cs.utexas.edu When I was out installing microchips in the buttocks of White patriots, I came across a set of gay Nazi pedophile GIFs. If you carefully examine the slime molds that grow under some of the larger commercial online services you too can find a few. 1. A well built man stroking his rod. Possibly Mark Furman. In Gothic letters: "Niggerhunt! Aryan Deathboy getting his rocks off after the kill" 2. Young blond stud with a swastika tatoo on his shoulder. He is wearing a jockstrap inscribed 666. "Aryan Deathboys: C'mon, let's jizz our jockstraps with Satan's cock-venom every time we snuff another nigger" 3. Buffed stud in a tacky rubber outfit with SS insignia. "White dudes! Let's spew a pouchful of cock venom whackin a coupla niggers!" 4. Young blond boy (10? 12?) in speedos: "Aryan deathboy ready to service the brutal young champion niggerhunters" 5. Burly man, cock sticking out of his jeans held up by suspenders: "Aryan deathboy snuffsports every nite at Club Treblinka Whiteboys! Let's go get our rocks off together takin out some niggertrash! 6. Very young (8-10) year old Aryan Deathboy in a bikini: "Hot young Aryan toyboy awaits the return of his master from the niggerhunt so he can offer his tight little butt in reward!! In another year or two, he'll be out terrorizing the junglebunnies on his own, just like he is being trained to do!" 7: Muscular teenage boy in swastika underwear "Hey dude, if ya waste another nigger for me I'll suck your cock!" Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!howland.reston.ans.net!math.ohio-state.edu!cs.utexas.edu!convex!news.duke.edu!zombie.ncsc.mil!simtel!harbinger.cc.monash.edu.au!news.cs.su.oz.au!metro!ob1.uws.edu.au!lancelot.st.nepean.uws.edu.au!rocky From: Rocky O'Leary Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Best Father's Day present a man can get Date: 7 Sep 1995 22:18:05 +1000 Organization: University of Western Sydney Lines: 40 Sender: rocky@guinevere.st.nepean.uws.edu.au Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: 137.154.148.15 Last Sunday was the gross commericalisation of sentiment known as Father's Day, and thus it was with joy I read the following this morning: "Three Die in Blaze : Family Tragedy" In a suspected Father's Day murder-suicide a St.Clair woman used petrol to fatally burn herself, her daughter and her eight month old son, while her husband slept in the next room. St.Mary's police said Pushparani Challappah,37, her daughter Lizakha,5, and son Deneshan were burnt beyond recognition in the blaze which erupted at their Explorers Way home about 2:30pm on Sunday. Neighbours said Mr.Challappah fled the home, suffering smoke inhalation and burns to his hands and chest. Watching from across the street, neignbour Joseph Pavlovic said Mr.Challappah ran, in a distressed state, around his home, yelling "my daughter, my daughter". He tried to smash a back window with his bare fist but was driven back by the heat of the flames. Police said an accelerant was used to start the fire. Three witnesses told police Mrs.Challappah visited the Quix Food Stores' petrol station on Bennett Rd. twice on Sunday morning. Police are using footage from the petrol station's video surveillance cameras in their investigation. "We believe Mr.Challappah took a can of petrol off his wife but she returned to the station to fill another two four-litre containers with petrol," Det. Sen Constable Thorn said. "Then while her husband was sleeping she tipped the petrol over herself and her two children, setting them and herself alight." Police are investigating information that Mrs.Challappah was suffering from post-natal depression. From "Penrith Press", Tuesday 5 Sept. '95 -- ****** 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 ** ** "...your gruesome disease obsession scares me!" ~ a nursing student to me ** Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.funet.fi!zippo.uwasa.fi!simtel!zombie.ncsc.mil!cs.umd.edu!not-for-mail From: arteaga@cs.umd.edu (Santiago Arteaga) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Cock Cheese Date: 6 Sep 1995 23:25:30 -0400 Organization: U of Maryland, Dept. of Computer Science, Coll. Pk., MD 20742 Lines: 57 Message-ID: <42lona$92k@chebyshev.cs.umd.edu> References: NNTP-Posting-Host: chebyshev.cs.umd.edu M. Collins wrote: > >Has anyone ever see cock cheese? Only my own. Sigh. You don't usually see it extended on the foreskin or on the glans where it is organically grown; in order to get a noticeable sample you have to harvest it, so you get to see it only after wanking or while cleaning it up. But not after a fuck, it gets lost somewhere; sometimes a girl gets so much of this stuff accumulated that she gives birth to a lawyer. Imagine one of those hot, humid summer days when you have been sweating for 14 hours, you come back home, and you take a shower (hell, I said imagine, OK?) Now you rub with the palm of your hand your humidified skin, say under the armpit, and you get these rolls of salty sweat, dead skin, dust, and several other unidentifiable substances. Well, smegma (aka dick cheese) looks just the same, only white, and its consistency is weaker, easier to mould and spread on crackers. Kind of more greasy, too. >What does it smell like? By itself it doesn't smell nor taste. Unlike sweat, it is not salty. Sorry for this disappointment. But it usually comes in associations with piss and semen. Since I can't stay for long without pumping up my cock, my old smegma reeks like fish. >Can cut guys ever get it? Looks like only whole men can produce it. I am thinking right now that maybe cut men produce it too, but can't tell it apart from sweat; after all, dried, dirty smegma must look a lot like sweat. Maybe you could distinguish them because of the flavour, sweat is salty, smegma isn't... Hollister, can you add something? ketchup? >Why do people talk about it so much when they discuss circumcision? Some people claim it to be a hassle to clean, but they are cut and obviously have no idea what they are talking about. I read also a theory that women whose partner is not circumsized have more cervical cancers, allegedly caused by smegma. I thought it was bullshit. My opinion is that people trying to defend circumcision will make up anything... just like people opposed to it, I read another theory, this one by an uncut guy, that smegma is good because it contains bactericides. I thought it was bullshit too. >Do women like it? It's funny, they seem to be interested in ejaculation, but are usually very happy to ignore other dick byproducts. Well, I had a very dry girlfriend who could use my precum, but that's another story. I think most girls don't appreciate finding it on you; maybe if it could hide other flavours... >mc Santi Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!umdac!fizban.solace.mh.se!paladin.american.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!swrinde!emory!nntp.msstate.edu!Ra.MsState.Edu!not-for-mail From: cmn3@Ra.MsState.Edu (Chad M. Noles) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Dr. Mengele's Foot Clinic Date: 3 Sep 1995 21:28:07 -0500 Organization: Mississippi State University Lines: 106 Message-ID: <42do7n$25r@Ra.MsState.Edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: ra.msstate.edu Keywords: foot toe pain blood make it stop Having been a lurker on this newsgroup now for about four years, I've decided to bring my meager offering to the Altar of Tastelessness. Before this particular episode, I used to think how lucky society is to have what is commonly referred to as "modern medicine." I mean, reading about some of the surgical techniques that were in use around the time of the Civil War makes one thankful that painkillers, not to mention antibiotics, are widely available. Of course the administration of said painkillers is entirely up to the surgeon, as I found out the day I had ingrown toenail surgery. First, a little background. When I was in high school, many years ago, I was a member of the marching band. One of the fond memories I'll always have of my early years is the annual Summer Band Camp. Marching around for hours at a time in Mississippi during the middle of August is a virtual breeding ground for tasteless acts, both voulntary and invoulntary. But I won't go into those during this post. Suffice it to say that in addition to the torture of camp one year, I began to notice that the big toe on my left foot was becoming increasingly painful. Never having had an infected toenail before, I thought that perhaps my shoe was a little too tight, a fact which helped to contribute to the budding infection. Monday passed, then Tuesday. By now it was becoming blatantly obvious to myself, as well as to everyone else as I hobbled around the field, that something was seriously wrong. On Wednesday I couldn't roll step (a walking technique where you roll your foot so that your mouthpiece doesn't knock a tooth out or bust your lip as you strut across the field) and I decided to call Band Camp quits early that year. The fact that I now with every step had blood and pus shooting out of my toe like a geyser also helped with the decision to go see the friendly neighborhood surgeon. So into the car and off to the podiatrist. Upon arrival at the office, one of the first oddities I noticed was how quiet the place was, more like a morgue than a clinic. By this time I was more than a little apprehensive about what would happen to this small but important body part. Considering the gangrenous smell and greenish black color of the nail and surrounding tissues, I thought that my toe and I would soon be parted. However, before I could lovingly kiss it goodbye, the door opened and I was called into a brightly lit room. "Relax, the surgeon will be with you momentarily," the nurse announced in her rasping voice. I suppose she could tell I was a bit tense. Anyway, after a long yet short delay, the surgeon makes his entrance. One of the first things I noticed about this guy was his smile. I don't mean a friendly, "everything's going to be okay, " kind of smile, but a sadistic, sardonic, "I must admit I get a woody everytime I do this, " kind of smile. If his smile had been any wider the top of his head would have fell off. Anyway, he sits down next to the chopping block, I mean table, upon which I've perched my swollen foot and begins to describe his surgical technique. The first thing this concentration camp-trained hacksaw says to me is, and I kid you not, "This is going to be the most intense pain you've probably ever experienced." The whole time he's giving me this introduction, I swear if his damn grin isn't getting bigger. He continues to detail his procedure. Basically, he intends to take a large gauge needle full of some painkiller and inject it, a drop at a time, into my swolen, pus-filled former digit. He mentions that the entire process will require about five injections right next to the bone before the syringe is empty. The insane thing was, this fucker actually thought that he was being merciful by spreading the injections out instead of zapping me once and leaning on the plunger. Before I can object to this butchery, off goes my shoe and there sits my dripping toe, waiting to be mauled. The nurse present in the room leans close and whispers that a football player was in here earlier for the same operation and had to be held down by four nurses. My spirits lifted by this kind soul, I turn to the good doctor and see him coming at me with the biggest needle I've ever seen. "Please lean back," the doctor intones. "I think I'll sit up," I reply back, knowing that as long as I'm sitting up he's still within reach in case he becomes too sexually excited and begins to play Pin the Tail on the Donkey with my foot. "It's better if you lean back, really," he says. "I wouldn't want you to move and break the needle." taking the hint at this veiled threat I decide to opt for the least painful choice and lie back. As I settle againist the cushion, I hear him moving around and then he yells, "1-2-3!" Not having been told that he's going to count off, I yell back, "What...," and then the most excruciating pain lances up my whole leg. I turn completely white and almost pass out. It feels like a starving pitbull has grapped my toe and is chowing down like he hasn't eaten in a month. I fell the needle scrape my toe bone and a wave of nausea washes over me. I fell the needle withdraw only to be plunged deep into the raw meat of my toe again, this time deeper. Once again fireworks go off in my skull. By the third time, the pain isn't as intense. Disobeying orders, I groggily sit up to see what's left of my toe. The first thing I notice is the grin. I get a better look at his dentures than his dentist. I didn't check due to my pain induced semi-coma, but he probably now has a hard-on the size of a redwood. Blood has pooled around my foot and a stream of pus is slowly running off the side. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" he toothily replies. I manage to mumble something. He proceeds to hack at my diseased toenail, removing almost half of it lengthwise. He then proceeds to bring out some kind of cauterizing device, in an effort to staunch (stench?) the flow of blood. The smell of charred flesh fills the room. The doctor begins to drool (not really). With the bleeding stopped, he bandages what's left of my foot and sends me on my way. Suffice it to say that the operation wasn't a success and my toe became infected again. On one of the checkups the good doctor mentions that the procedure will need to be repeated. Thinking that the chance of that happening is about the same as my bending over the table and "taking it like a man", I decide to go to another surgeon. Except for the nightly spewings from one end due to the antibiotics, and from the other end due to the Tylenol III with codeine, the recovery was uneventfull. I'll probably be flamed for the length but thought you might enjoy the story. That is all. -- =========================================================================== * "They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary * * safety deserve neither liberty nor safety" - Benjamin Franklin * =========================================================================== Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!dispatch.news.demon.net!demon!mail2news.demon.co.uk!franb.demon.co.uk From: Martin Kirlow Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Ebola Zaire Date: Sun, 10 Sep 1995 10:09:39 Organization: Happy as a sandboy! Lines: 117 Message-ID: <284130639wnr@franb.demon.co.uk> Reply-To: mkirlow@franb.demon.co.uk X-NNTP-Posting-Host: franb.demon.co.uk X-Newsreader: Newswin Alpha 0.9 I haven't seen this while I've been lurking, and it's not at the tasteless ftp site that I can see... so here y'go. If it turns out to be an oldie, flames from the 'greats' will be gracefully accepted, printed out and framed, and given to loving relatives for Xmas. Lesserflames(TM) will be printed out and used for shithouse paper. =========================================== Ebola Zaire attacks every organ and tissue in the human body except skeletal muscle and bone. It is a perfect parasite because it transforms virtually every part of the body into a digested slime of virus particles. The seven mysterious proteins that, assembled together, make up the Ebola-virus particle, work as a relentless machine, a molecular shark, and they consume the body as the virus makes copies of itself. Small blood clots begin to appear in the bloodstream, and the blood thickens and slows, and clots begin to stick to the walls of blood vessels. This is known as pavementing, because the clots fit together in a mosaic. The mosaic thickens and throws more clots, and the clots drift through the blodstream into the small capillaries, where they get stuck. This shuts off the blood supply to various parts of the body, causing dead spots to appear in the brain, liver, kidneys, lungs, intestines, testicles, breast tissue (of men as well as women), and all through the skin. The skin develops red spots, called petechiae, which are hemorrhages under the skin. Ebola attacks connective tissue with particular ferocity; it multiplies in collegen, the chief constituent protein of the tissue that holds theans togehter. (The seven Ebola proteins somehow chew up the body's structural proteins.) In this way, collagen in the body turns to mush, and the underlayers of the skin die and liquefy. The skin bubbles up into a sea of tiny white blisters mixed with red spots known as a maculopapular rash. This rash has been likened to tapioca pudding. Spontaneous rips appear in the skin, and hemmoraghic blood pours from the rips. The red spots on the skin grow and spread and merge to become huge, spontaneous bruises, and the skin goes soft and pulpy, and can tear off if it is touched with any kind of pressure. Your mouth bleeds, and you bleed around your teeth, and you may have hemorrhages from the salivary glands -- literally every opening in the body bleeds, no matter how small. The surface if the toungue turns brilliant red and the sloughs off, and is swallowed or spat out. It is said to be extraordinarily painful to lose the surface of one's tongue. The tongue's skin may be torn off during rushes of the black vomit. The back of the throat and the lining of the wind pipe may also slough off, and the dead tissue slides down the windpipe into the lungs or is coughed up with sputum. Your heart bleeds into itself; the heart muscle softens and has hemorrhages into its chambers, and blood squeezes out of the heart muscle as the heart beats, and it floods the chest cavity. The brain becomes clogged with dead blood cells, a conditions known as sludging of the brain. Ebola attacks the lining of the eyeball, and the eyeballs may fill up with blood: you may go blind. Droplets of blood stand out on the eyelids: you may weep blood. The blood runs from your eyes down your cheeks and refuses to coagulate. You may have a hemispherical stroke, in which one whole side of the body is paralyzed, which is invariably fatal in a case of Ebola. Even while the body's internal organs are becoming plugged with coagulated blood, the blood that streams out of the body cannot clot; it resembles whey being squeezed out of curds. The blood has been stripped of its clotting factors. If you put the runny Ebola blood in a test tube and look at it, you see that the blood is destroyed. Its red cells are broken and dead. The blood looks as if it has been buzzed in an electric blender. Ebola kills a great deal of tissue while the host is still alive. It triggers a creeping, spotty necrosis that spreads through all the internal organs. The liver bulges up and turns yellow, begins to liquefy, and then it cracks apart. The cracks run across the liver and deep inside it, and the liver completely dies and goes putrid. The kidneys becomes jammed with blood clots and dead cells, and cease functioning. As the kidneys fail, the blood becomes toxic with urine. The spleen turns into a single huge, hard blood clot the size of a baseball. The intestines may fill up completely with blood. The lining of the gut dies and sloughs off into the bowels and is defecated along with large amounts of blood. In men, the testicles bloat up and turns black-and-blue, the semen goes hot with Ebola, and the nipples may bleed. In women, the labia turn blue, livid, and protrusive, and there may be massive vaginal bleeding. The virus is a catastrophe for a pregnant woman: the child is aborted spontaneously and is usually infected with Ebola virus, born with red eyes and a bloody nose. Ebola destroys the brain more thoroughly than does Marburg, and Ebola victims often go into epileptic convulsions during the final stage. The convulsions are generalized grand mal seizures -- the whole body twitches and shakes, the arms and legs thrash around, and the eyes, sometimes bloody, roll up into the head. The tremors and convulsions of the patient may smear or splatter blood around. Possibly this epileptic splashing of blood is one of Ebola's strategies for success -- it makes the victim go into a flurry of seizures as he dies, spreading blood all over the place, thus giving the virus a chance to jump to a new host -- a kind of transmission through smearing. Ebola (and Marburg) multiplies so rapidly and powerfully that the body's infected cells become crystal-like blocks of packed virus particles. These crystal are broods of virus getting ready to hatch from the cell. They are known as bricks. The bricks, or crystals, first appear near the center of the cell and then migrate towards the surface. As a crystal reaches a cell wall, it disintegrates into hundres of individual virus particles, and the broodlings push through the cell wall like hair and float away in the bloodstream of the host. The hatched Ebola particles cling to cells everywhere in the body, and get inside them, and continue to multiply. It keeps on multiplying until areas of tissue all through the body are filled with crystalloids, which hatch, and more Ebola particles drift into t bloodstream, and the amplification continues inexorably until a droplet of the hosts blood can contain a hundred million individual particles. After death, the cadaver suddenly deteriorates: the internal organs, having been dead or partially dead for days, have already begun to dissolve, and a sort of shock-related meltdown occurs. The corpse's connective tissue, skin, and organs, already peppered with dead spots, heated by fever, and damaged by shock, begin to liquefy, and the fluids that leak from the cadaver are saturated with Ebola-virus particles. -- Martin. ObSomethingorother. Browsing through a bookstall and came across Robert Rankin - The Greatest Show Off Earth. The first two lines of the book go as follows: How Raymond came to meet the flying starfish from Uranus. And how that same flying starfish taught him the meaning of the word 'schmuck'. I bought it. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!umdac!fizban.solace.mh.se!paladin.american.edu!zombie.ncsc.mil!simtel!pravda.aa.msen.com!cssun.mathcs.emory.edu!emory!swrinde!howland.reston.ans.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!levine From: levine@symcom.math.uiuc.edu (Lenore Levine) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: History's Mistress Date: 6 Sep 1995 15:15:15 GMT Organization: University of Illinois at Urbana Lines: 52 Message-ID: <42kdu3$19n@vixen.cso.uiuc.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: symcom.math.uiuc.edu _History's Mistress_ is a modern, edited translation of a 19th- century German anthropological work about women. I found the book in a used book store. I'm really glad I spent the three and a half bucks, because this is one of the most tasteless books I've ever read. That is, there are 265 pages, and nearly every page is worthy of a post. A sample (I'm going to open the book at random). About Chinese foot-binding: "Among the poorer classes the mother herself binds her daughter's feet. Wealthy people have specially trained women experts who work in the families on this task. "...The earliest stage at which the operation begins is four years; in other families it is deferred till six or seven. "...Morache describes the first stage as a persistent kneading and molding of the foot. The great toe is left in its natural position, but the four other toes are forcibly bent downwards and pressed over and on to the sole of the foot with steadily increasing force. They are kept in place by means of a bandage 5 cm wide. This bandage is changed daily and as it is removed the foot is 'aired,' bathed and rubbed with spirits of sorghum. If this precaution is neglected severe ulcers are apt to develop. "...The more elegant and aristocratic form is yet further complicated. When the toes have been permanently bent over the sole, a metal cylinder is placed under the sole and bandaged firmly in place. The instep, ankle and lower leg are tightly constricted with firm bandage supports, and the mother or attendants force the toes and heel together under the cylinder so that the bones of the foot are displaced. Finally, the maltreated extremity is forced into a shoe with a thick convex sole. And the bandages remain in place for days, in spite of inflammation, tears, cries and feverish symptoms. The children are forced to stand upright and to walk on their crippled feet, as otherwise they would lose the use of their limbs. The mother and nurses are said to console the tortured child with promises of beauty in the future and of a husband's approval. "...If the girls survive the ordeal and the bones and tissues 'set,' the walk is permanently altered. They sway, or, rather, wobble from side to side with stiff knees, as though on stilts, for the whole weight of the body is balanced on the point of the heel and the ball of the great toe. Morache points out that the extensor and flexor muscles of the foot atrophy, so that 'the leg assumes the shape of a cone pointing downwards.' And he compares the method of progression of the Chinese woman with that of a man whose two legs have been amputated and replaced by wooden limbs." Yes, there's a picture. Lenore Levine -- "If you're about to have sex for the first time...and you're a werewolf, it's OK to be embarassed. The other person's probably embarassed too." -- Will Shetterly Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!usenet.kornet.nm.kr!news.kreonet.re.kr!news.dacom.co.kr!newsfeed.internetmci.com!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!btnet!uunet!in1.uu.net!oak.forest.net!ginko.forest.net!user From: goolsbee@forest.net (chuck goolsbee) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: How a.t. saved my life... Date: Thu, 07 Sep 1995 01:23:58 -0800 Organization: cascade hockey officials association Lines: 88 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: ginko.forest.net Keywords: Puke, LiquiShits(tm), Sinus Infections, Nasal Enema, Veggie-Bits(tm) ...well maybe not my life, but at least my health. Had some friends over for dinner on Monday night, so I did up a great meal: Tom Yum Goom, Green Chicken Curry, a veggie stir fry, some citrus glazed beef, steamed rice, Lime-ade. Lots of fiery nam prik (red chili sauce) on the side. My wife always says she only married me because I can cook. Everyone was duly impressed and left fat & happy. Later that same evening I awake to gastronomic tremblors... and that gulping sensation that precedes the technicolor yawn... I slide down off the end of the bed (obkingsize: we live in a small house with small rooms, and we have a big bed... and my wife laid claim to the side that actually allows you to step off of it. I, being the bastard-that-impregnated-her, am relegated to the side up against the wall, so that I have to throw the covers off, and slide down to the foot of the bed to get out... which always wakes her up, and of course pisses her off. My wife; I love her so much.) I run, as quietly as possible to the bathroom, thrust my head in the bowl, open wide, and wait for the wave... A nice four-heave complete with recognizable veggie-bits(tm). I gulp some water, and a bit of listerine, just for effect, and head back to bed. Shortly thereafter I awake to more rumblings, this time from both my stomach AND by lower bowels. Oh no. I squirm sideways down the bed, trying to clench my ass to prevent shitting in my pants while simultaneously gulping for air to prevent hosing my wife with green chicken curry ala chuck (pun intended.) I do the liquishit waddle(tm) to the throne room and am confronted by a dilema only an a.t.er could truly appreciate: Which end do I service: The bubbling chunder, or the rumbling liquishit? Well I had on a pair of sweatpants (black) and when I chuck, I REALLY chuck good, so I quickly figured that I could probably control my asshole better than my puke, and I REALLY don't want to clean up after myself, whereas in a house full of small children a little shit in the pants is no big deal (besides, I could just throw it in the laundry as gift for my loving wife!). I leant over the bowl and let loose a mighty blow. Now it is no easy feat to loose ones stomach contents with force while simultaneously contracting one's sphincter (try it!) So inevitably I felt that little "squirt" from behind as I let loose in front. So now I dropped my pants and spun, sat, squirt, stood, puked, spun, sat, squirt, spun, stood, puked. (I know, I know that: 1. a true a.t.er would have just stood and let the spray fly just wherever, but my spousal standing has been pretty shaky lately(see above)... AND: 2. A true a.t.er would have had an MPEG of the whole affair, or at least a GIF, but sorry I am remiss.) Of course the results in the bowl would have made an incredible Rothko: a huge greenish brown rounded square above a multi-colored semi-circle of veggie-bits(tm) and curry-chuck, of course all-surrounded by the splashing mingle of the two predominant themes. Now I have a degree in Fine Art, and I tell you this was worthy of its creator! Dazed, weakened, and in awe I rinsed and stumbled back to bed. ****** Now you ask "Sure Chuck, this is standard, if even sub-standard a.t. fare, and how does it relate to a.t., your life and health?" ****** After a while I am awakened by my wife complaining of snoring, and as I lie awke after the beating, my whole head feels as if it is on fire. My nose and sinuses feel raw and hot, I stumble into the bathroom, do one or two gratuitous somewhat dry heaves, and wonder what is going on. Then I remember an a.t. post where someone related the story of having chunderbits(tm) stuck in their sinuses. Thats it! My sinuses are filled with stomach acid and thai chili sauce! What can I do? Don't ask me why the hell it was there, but for some reason, sitting on top of the toilet was one of my many bicycle water bottles (I am a cycle commuter.) So in a fit of 4am genius I fill it up with warm water and give myself a nasal enema. What an exquisitly horrible feeling, but hey I had to do it. The right nostril provided no real rewards, but the left produced to bits of diced semi-digested carrot, and a bit of green curry sauce and coconut milk. He shoots, he scores. I feel much better now, the burning is gone from my sinuses (only now it is in my ears for some reason.) I rinse, drink some water (and chuck IT up an hour later... puking straight water is a strange experience) and head off to bed. I rise several more times to squirt liquid out of one or both ends through the night. It turns out that I was the only one from that nice monday dinner to experience all this joy, so it wasn't food poisoning. All I can assume is that I must have had the flu. ___________________________________________________________________ chuck goolsbee goolsbee@forest.net 206-506-7516 default systems guy the bon marche seattle, wa SunOS, Solaris, A/UX, and of course, MacOS Apple Network Manager's Association - Northwest Chapter http://oak.forest.net/anma/anma.html Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!umdac!fizban.solace.mh.se!paladin.american.edu!zombie.ncsc.mil!news.gmi.edu!usenet.eel.ufl.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!howland.reston.ans.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!levine From: levine@symcom.math.uiuc.edu (Lenore Levine) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Mommy's Little Angel Date: 6 Sep 1995 21:01:10 GMT Organization: University of Illinois at Urbana Lines: 166 Message-ID: <42l26m$ppt@vixen.cso.uiuc.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: symcom.math.uiuc.edu Hello everyone. My name is Jackie, and I have the most wonderful mommy in the world. She smells nice, just like roses, and she has yellow hair and red lips, just like the ladies on television. Yes, mommy is really pretty. Mommy is very special, because she collects angels. She has a whole cabinet of china angels, and big, big, big, books about angels. And even though it's September, we still have our Christmas tree up in the living room with an angel on every limb. (For my birthday, Mommy gave me a Teddy-bear angel. It has real wings.) When I was a little boy, I used to have a daddy. Mommy says he went away. She says I have to take care of her now. She says I'm her little gift from Heaven. Sometimes, Mommy walks all around the living room and cries. She talks to the angels. She says why did he leave me? Why? Why? Why? Sometimes, Mommy says I look just like Daddy. -- Now that it's September, I'm going to kindergarten. We listened to a story about monkeys and lions, and we made paper chains. Kindergarten is fun. Today, Mommy held her hand to my head. She said I was feverish. She said I was going to stay home with her. I had fun with Mommy. We played a card game called Go Fish. We ate raspberry yogurt. Mommy held me tight. She was crying. She said why did he leave me for that pig? Why? Why? Why? I don't want to eat eggs for breakfast any more. I want to eat yogurt. Just like mommy. -- Today was my bestest day in the whole wide world! In the morning, I went to kindergarten, and we ate jelly beans. I was really really hungry, and I ate more jelly beans than anyone in the class. Then we saw a video tape about kittens. I love kittens. They look just like little cherubs. In the middle of kindergarten, my mommy came to visit me. She looked really pretty. Her eyes were bright, and her cheeks were red. She came and got me and took me to the principal's office. She told the prin- cipal that she was withdrawing me from kindergarten, because I was going to live with my father. Big boys don't cry. Then mommy strapped me in the car seat and drove me home. She told me that I wasn't really going to go live with Daddy. She said that was a white lie. She said that I was her little angel, and I was going to live with her in Heaven, forever. I love my mommy. -- Today me and mommy had fun together. She went to the store and got scissors and paste and construction paper. We cut up the pretty books with angels in them, and pasted them all over the walls. Then we cut out gold stars and pasted them on the ceiling. Now we live in heaven. Mommy says I can't leave heaven any more, because I'm a little angel. -- When I was a little boy, I used to like to eat scrambled eggs, and bacon, and sausage, at Denny's. And orange juice! And Daddy gave me toys, from Ronald MacDonald. But now I don't eat meat any more. Mommy doesn't eat meat, and I want to be just like her. Mommy eats yogurt, and carrot sticks. She says if you eat too much, you're a pig. And that's bad. Mommy is pretty. She dances all around the apartment. Today we had fun dancing to music until we were both tired. She said that I look just like Daddy. She held me tight, and squeezed me until I could hardly breathe. She made funny noises. Mommy says it's because I'm special. -- Today, Mommy got some blue paint. We painted the closet, and put stars on the ceiling of it. She says the closet is my extra special Heaven. My gums are starting to bleed. -- I live in the closet now. The closet is my extra special Heaven. Mommy says the bad men are after me. They called from her work, and Mommy told them that she had a new job. Mommy says that's a little white lie. It's OK to go toidey in the closet now. -- Mommy is really happy now that we live in heaven. I'm her little angel, and sometimes she takes me out of the closet. We dance. Mommy is really skinny now. I know, because she doesn't wear clothing any more. Mommy says clothing is stupid. She dances with me, and she presses me close to her and makes funny noises. Sometimes she hits me. She cries then, and tells me she's sorry. Mommy says it's my cross to bear, because I look like my father. I can see my ribs now. Mommy loves me. I'm her little angel. -- Today, again we danced. Mommy and me are beautiful. We can see our ribs real, real, real good. Mommy says boys are bad. She is going to make me into a girl, just like her. Mommy says I look too much like my father. She put my hand on her mousey. She said I was going to have one just like her. She said it would hurt, but to be a brave little angel. She took my peepee and she cut it off with the scissors. Yes! It did hurt, but I didn't cry. And Mommy kissed the hurt. Afterwards, we cut out more stars. From the construction paper. -- My eyes hurt. I don't know whether it's day or night. I can't see very well. The angels on the wall are smiling at me. Mommy and me dance and dance. We don't get tired. Mommy cried and held me. But this time she didn't make funny noises. She said, "I'm sorry, Jackie. I'm sorry you have a crazy mother." She cried, and cried. I'm happy, in heaven. I don't know what she's talking about. -- I've been in the closet for a long time. Mommy doesn't come and get me any more. I'm sort of dizzy, I think. The angels are singing at me. They're singing louder and louder. I'm Mommy's little angel. I love you, Mommy. I'm happy, in Heaven. Goodnight. -- "If you're about to have sex for the first time...and you're a werewolf, it's OK to be embarassed. The other person's probably embarassed too." -- Will Shetterly Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!news.us.net!usenet From: Zeno Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Pierre and Zeno Date: 4 Sep 1995 14:56:04 GMT Organization: US Net Lines: 148 Message-ID: <42f424$icu@news.us.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: enda05.usnet.us.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 1.1N (Windows; I; 16bit) To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk ***The Prophet Visits Zeno's Humble Home*** by Zeno WARNING: This post is not particular tasteless nor free-flowing. It is merely here to let fellow A.Ters meet their brethren. I must let y'all at A.T know that Pierre Ketteridge (The Prophet of the Great God Glub) came by my place Saturday evening to spend the night before flying back to the YooKay. SATURDAY AFTERNOON: I met Pierre at Union Station in D.C. He was wearing a pair of jeans with the back pocket torn off (so no one would put any colored hankies there and mistake him for Hollister). He had black boots, a Virgin T-shirt, and was chain smoking Benson & Hedges. He had this tasteless look in his eye when I found him at Gate G, and I knew almost immediately that it was him without any prior description. We went to my house and I put him on the computer for 2 hours. SATURDAY EVENING: My party started at about 9pm. Some people were early, showing up half-blitzed drinking 40s of Budweiser. BamBam (aka Biff from "Back to the Future") showed up with a 10-inch floppy dildo hanging out of his fly screaming "Party-y-y-y!" and breaking into the keg of Rolling Rock with an unsatiable thirst. Someone brought a fifth of Absolut Citron Vodka that my wife confiscated for later use. The party moved to the back yard where my Rottweiler began entertaining guests by licking at the dildo and then biting and pulling on it in a fashion that reminded me of my ex-wife. The Rottweiler is named Mandy, and she's ready to breed; I wonder if that's why she was so excited. We all but emptied the keg and ate about 200 Jell-o shooters (jelly shooters as Pierre referred to them). It was a pretty active party with my wife screaming my name half of the night for assistance. Pierre later stated: "You wife yells at you an awful lot. Are you pussywhipped?" Was it that obvious? It seems that the only woman who Pierre had any real interest talking to left early on as a designated driver. I had left them on the back steps to talk for a while, and they seemed to hit it off. I got in trouble by wifey when I returned from the store on a cigarette run halfway into the party. I had put in a porno movie on the VCR before we left for the store, and about 5 infantry guys sat around hooting and hollering at it, until Rae looked in through the window and saw them enjoying themselves (by themselves) entirely too much. I guess it seemed rather weird, because one of them had his shirt off. I was called in several times to settle disputes between people. First, my admin buddy Charlie was getting into it with an Infantry soldier because he thought he had been hitting on Rae (Charlie's wife). And later on in the evening Charlie said that he was leaving Rae and taking their daughter with. What am I now? A child psychologist? Gerald (a co-worker) passed out early on and got a few pictures of him getting the 10-inch dildo being pressed in between his lips. When most of the partiers left (about 1 in the morning), there was a rumor that some recreational drugs were in use here at the homestead. But these are highly unverified accounts from untrustworthy sources. Pierre and I spent a good bit sitting out back slurping on Jell-o shooters and emptying the rest of the Rolling Rock keg while we talked about alt.tasteless. I really wish he could've stayed the whole weekend, as he is an unlimited supply of tasteless stories and trivia - a very entertaining character. I'm glad I got to meet him. He left his mark here by carving into a large tree in the backyard" GLUB U.S. TOUR 1995 He was also popular with my Rottweiler. She would put her paws up on his lap to get her ears rubbed, and then he would growl into her ear and say "BARK!" with that British accent out of a rough, cigarette throat. She would then bark at him and come within millimeters of biting his face off. She loved it. Pierre thought it was a real hoot, and the rest of us were in awe. A few of the wimmen-folk were rather put off by it and probably thought Pierre as some sort of pervert or something. The night ended as the wife, Pierre, John, and I retired to the hot tub for bubbly jets and more beer. We fell asleep for some time in there. At one point, my face slipped into the water and I sucked down a pint of hot water. (Ungh!) It was 5:45am when we all finally made it to bed. SUNDAY MORNING: We got up the next morning with a splitting Rolling Rock headache. I cooked a decent breakfast for Pierre the next morning and we were late getting to the train station. He had to spring another $5 for changing his ticket, and we went to the bar for a beer. It turned out that the cheapest beer was Rolling Rock, and Pierre made me suffer through it. A fairly tasteless character showed up at the bar. An old man without a voice box. He kept putting his little thingie-on-a-rope up to his throat and engaging the barmaid in endless conversations about Glub-knows-what. Pierre and I made fun of several people and checked out several bra-sizes of passers-by. Sitting at the bar, we almost missed the 13:35 train also, but a mad dash through the station got him to the gate just in time. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!news.us.net!usenet From: Zeno Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The Nomadic Prophet - A Visit to Bell End Date: 4 Sep 1995 14:59:53 GMT Organization: US Net Lines: 195 Message-ID: <42f499$id3@news.us.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: enda05.usnet.us.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 1.1N (Windows; I; 16bit) To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk ***The Nomadic Prophet - A Visit to Bell End*** I transcribed the following handwritten notes from the diary of the Prophet of the Great God Glub. -Zeno. -------------------------------------------------------------- Peter Bell's got a pretty good apartment, and he doesn't have to share it with anybody. Which is a *good thing*, since stuff is strewn everywhere, like a bomb has just hit it. In fact, it calls to mind those photos of downtown Oklahoma City, except of course without the loose body parts. But then he's got them on the Mac, amongst his impressive collection of pathology JPEGs. Brain tumours, diseased lungs, burns, amputations...my favourite is the excised cancerous tit. It's photographed face on, and looks like an over-baked potato with an "eye" and about a pound of meatloaf hanging out of the back. Other good ones are the baby's ragged necrotised arsehole, photography from the *inside* (Daddy was a bit too frenetic with his "Rod of Discipline"), and the two postmortem shots of failed fistees' ringpieces. In these cases, someone literally *had* "torn them a new asshole". As Peter put it: "That wasn't just fisting - someone really *pounded* 'em up the fartpipe!" He then produced a 1942 edition of a treatise on the treatment of burns - very graphically illustrated - and suggested that I obtain a copy and leave it on Jane's dressing table, after making her watch "After Hours". The idea has merit... He also gave me a case report on Signature Murders, on of whole instances involved the forcible insertion of a 12-bore over-and-under into the vagina (now that's what I call a vaginal discharge!). I wonder what made him think of me? We talked for a bit while we scanned through his JPEGs, and the conversation turned to the "John and Zeno" story (hell, everybody's talking about that!). Peter shot up and dashed to a pile of papers, returning with another sheaf of case studies: "Rectal Foreign Bodies" this time. By Glub, folk put some strange things up their derrieres! The oddest thing on this list must, without a doubt, be the "Kangaroo Tumor"*, although there are some real howlers, including "Frozen Pig's Tail" and "dull knife" (footnoted with the immortal words "patient complained of knife-like pain"!). Someone else had inserted a a knife sharpened, and I can help feeling that these two items should have gone in together, both for sexual satisfaction and to keep the cutlery honed. The most painful item, however, must have been the "tool box"**; it brings tears to my eyes just to think of it... Our thirst for tasteless trivia somewhat assuage, we decided to slake a very real, physical thirst for beer. Peter decreed that we should hit the Cafe Nine, a live music bar downtown. He drove us down in his old Volvo, a vehicle which rather surprised me as I had seen no evidence of 2.4 children, or a Homburg on the rear parcel shelf for that matter. He does have a wooden bead car seet cover, though. (Ungh!) Right then, the Cafe Nine. Despite the $2 entry charge and the execrable band aborting a procession of blues and soul standards. I quite enjoyed it, until Peter nudged me and pointed at the guy standing *just-a-little-too-close-to-me*. A brown hanky dangled from his back pocket. I jumped like I'd been shot and cannoned into someone behind me, who smiled too long and too much for my liking. As he turned, I saw a fucking great leather strap dangling out of *his* back pocket! What the frig does *that* mean? Despite having forked out $2 for about 7 minutes of appallingly bad muzak (a blues quartet where one of the four is a Hammond organ doesn't quite cut the mustard with me). I wasn't too upset when Peter wanted to leave. We hit another bar and played a few frames of pool before retiring to his pad, and of course, more beer. The next evening Peter suggested a restaurant by the waterfront, part of the Chart House chain. Bad Idea. The food was under- prepared and overpriced. Never mind, the waitresses were fit as hell, with legs up to their shoulders and microskirts leaving little to the imagination. Except for one, who looked like she belonged in a Clive Barker movie. Acne, in her case, is a gross understatement. It appeared that her face had been removed that skin grafted back on inside-out. The angry red demis was peppered with yellow and white pustules that glistenend in the dim light. Through the taut, transparent caps of the boils, jiggers were clearly visible, twitching and swirling like unhatched tadpoles in a time-lapse sequence, awaiting the facial contractions which would herald their birth. This girl was an organic incubator in the final stages of gestation. I was mesmerised. "I don't think they let her handle food," whispered Peter, "I think we should be OK..." "Well, just in case," I advised, "Don't order anthing with Mayo, mustard or Hallandaise sauce, and for God's sake, don't let her lean over your plate!" We didn't, she didn't, and at the end of the day, we left her a better-than-normal tip for the floor show. We returned to the Cafe Nine, where this time there was no cover charge, and the band was actually pretty damned *good*. "The Mockingbirds", they played rock'n'roll, rhythm'n'blues, and anything else that took their fancy. I think Peter was in the mood for a bit of cruising, selecting a target and standing behind her, pencil and paper in hand, waiting for her to notice and ask him for his phone number. Well, it's as good a method as any, I guess, but I don't think I've got the patience for that particular game plan... I was getting pretty well trashed by now, trying out all of the local microbrews and chasing them down with shots of cheap white brandy. Out of the corner of my less-than-focussed eye, I caught sight of an emminently unattractive skanky bint, but who sported the most impressive pair of Bawaumbas I've ever seen. "HEY, PETER!" I shouted across the bar, "I'LL CUT HER TITS OFF AND YOU CAN HAVE THE REST!" He looked somewhat embarrassed and edged further behind his selected prey. My sense of time gets a bit disjointed at around this point, but I understand I sank a few more beers 'n' brandies. I do remember some slinky chick knicking my barstool when I went off for a piss, though. When I got back she apologised profusely, and started sliding off the stool. "No, it's OK, you can sit on my lap, and we can talk about the first thing that pops up..." Works for me...I thought she might slap me, but instead she just stammered: "Uh, er, no, I don't think so, I was just getting a drink..." "Oh my God! How could I be so insensitive? That was inexcusably sexist of me, my dear. I can, of course, sit on *your* lap if you prefer..." "Uh, er, no, thank you very much...'bye..." and she disappeared into the crowd. Peter had jioned me at the bar by now. "Heh heh...her boyfriend's standing right behind you..." "Ah. Does he look like he's gonna give me a black eye?" "Nope. Looks more inclined to give you a leaflet or something..." I looked round and saw a be-sandaled Jesus freak with waist-long hair and a goatee beard clutching a plastic bag and glancing at me nervously. Peter snickered. "Uh, huh, heh, heh, huh, uh huh...lookit that babe over there, huh, uh, huh...ahe's lookin' at me...uh, huh, huh...I think she's gonna ask me for my phone number real soon...uh, huh, uh, huh..." He licked his pencil and leered. I stared at him. My initial likening of him to dead comedians or crzy born-again rockers was incorrect. This wasn't Jerry Lee or Danny Kaye...I hadn't seen him in shorts yet, but the hair, the eyes, the sharp features...I was suddenly convinced I was standing next to Beavis... * "Unique case of pedunculated perianal skin tumor habitually inserted into rectum." ** "Inside a convict; contained saws and other items usable in escape attempts." ObTasteless: An excerpt from "Rectal Foreign Bodies" - "One patient who intially admitted to self-insertion of a lemon and a cold cream jar further stated that a drug clerk had advised him to use them for the relief of hemorrhoids." -- Pierre Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!umdac!fizban.solace.mh.se!paladin.american.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!news.sprintlink.net!news.us.net!usenet From: Zeno Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The Nomadic Prophet - Buses, Burns & Bigotry Date: 4 Sep 1995 15:02:09 GMT Organization: US Net Lines: 212 Message-ID: <42f4dh$id3@news.us.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: enda05.usnet.us.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 1.1N (Windows; I; 16bit) To: ketteridgep@glub.demon.co.uk ***The Nomadic Prophet - Buses, Burns & Bigotry*** I transcribed the following handwritten notes from the diary of the Prophet of the Great God Glub. -Zeno. -------------------------------------------------------------- The Greyhound Bus. A cultural icon famous the world over. King of the Road. Route #66 and all that. Bollocks. Names should be desrcriptive, giving some clue as to the nature of the thing being referred to. The Greyhound. A sleek, fleet dog famous for its coursing prowess. This is not a description applicable to the U.S. bus transport network. It should be called the "Fat Three-Legged Labrador" Bus. I bade farewell to Peter Bell and New Haven on Sunday morning, and boarded the FTLL bus, Vermont-bound. I had a bad feeling about bussing it around, but I was fed up with sodding Amtrak and figured a change would be as good as a rest. I was not disappointed in my expectations. Slow, boring stops in every little wankstain hamlet on the route...and no smoking and no drinking. To cap it all, my crotchrot had come back with a vengeance. My glans and prepuce were on fire! I think I must have overdone it witht the Germolene, and induced some sort of chemical burns I resolved to switch immediately to Savlon as a less aggressive genital salve. I made my way to the tiny on-board cubicle toilet. I really should have waited - those cramped conditions are not ideal for a delicate operation of this nature. Bouncing off of the walls and the door, I managed to piss all over myself before smearing Savlon all over my upper jeans and T-shirt. And Savlon sure does stink. It's a unique smell, an unmistakable, scented odour. And everyone knows, if there's no obious visible injury, what it is used for. "Crotchrot!" "Dickscurf" "Cheese 'n' Pepper rollneck!" What? "Piles!" Who said that? Tosser. The whispers preceded me back down the bus. Back in my seat, the deep burning itch intensified - I had to scratch. And squeeze, and knead, and tug - hand thrust deep into waistband. This was not so much of a problem on Amtrak, as the seating arrangement ensures a certain amount of privacy, but on Fat Three-Leg^H^H^H Greyhound buses, you are open to scrutiny from all directions. The little old lady sitting next to me didn't seem overjoyed at the prospect of an eight-and-a-half hour journey next to a shank-puller, either. The whispers intensified: "Hey, see that guy down front? He's jerkin' off , over that ol' lady!" Wallingford, Menden, Hartford, Springfield, Holyoke. To take my mind off of the incessant friction demands of my Scrotemange, I drifted off into reverie, remembering my first Greyhound experience... ..I'd just flown in to Baton Rouge, and the affable South'n Bo' in a suit I'd been talking to on the phone reappeared from the rest rooms in full Redneck regalia, checkered shirt and cowboy hat included. He'd promised me alift with his "friends" to the Bus Station. I ended up in the back of a pickup with a cooler box on my lap, handing out bottles of "Dixie" to the pissed-up, raucous Good Ole Boys. They dumped me at the Greyhound Station with enough bottles sticking out of my pockets to sink a battleship. Rather than throw them away, I risked arrest by trying to speed-chug them before entering the station. Eventually, and feeling rather green and queasy, I boarded the New Orleans bus. Oh Boy! Did I ever feel out of place... a busload of pickaninnies...and me. I got a seat to myself and kept my head down, gazing noncimmitally out of the window. Not for long, though. At the first stop, what appeared to be a pile of garbage got on. Cardboard boxes, plastic bags, brown paper bags, and beneath it all, something muttering obscenities. I reckon there must have been some chickens or goats in there as well. As it trundled up the aisle, I began to make out the vaguely humanoid figure inside the matrix of trash. It was sort of (dirty) white, and king of female (-ish), and it was enormous and pig ugly. Thick wiry black hairs coiled out of its chin and its beetling black brows met in the middle. It, -no, let's be generous- she made a beeline for me and sat in the next seat. Boxes and bags spilled over me and onto the floor. Now at last I could make out the muttering: "God-dam' niggrahs! Dam' niggrahs...niggrahs ever'where...tekkin' our jobs...thievin', rapin'...God-dam' niggrahs!" Oh, Christ, please, no! Go sit elsewhere, you disgusting white trash. Leave me out of this...I want no part of it... "God-dam' jiggaboos...shou'n't be allowt on't bus, dam' niggrahs..." She delved in a paper bag and produced a can of Dr. Pepper and a small bag of salted peanuts. Aghast, I watched in grim fascination as she tore open the packet, popped the ringpull and poured the peanuts *into* the Dr. Pepper. Uerk! I tried to ignore this repulsive creature as it muttered and swigged its horrible "cocktail", until she suddenly turned to me and said: "Look, bo'!" Raising her misshapen head, she made a revolting, drawn-out nasal sound - like a vacuum cleaner sucking up wet leaf mulch. The hissing rush culminated in a burbling hork, as if she was gargling phlegm. "Smell that, bo'? That's niggrah stink, that is...smell 'em more'n a mile off, y'can...stink gits in yer clothes, dam' niggrahs... Ya wanna Doktuh Peppuhs? S'got Pee-nuss in..." I demurred, and wondered desperatedly how to get away from this repulsive fiend. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not making myself out to be anything but normal - I'm as racist as the next man - but, Jesus, this bitch was one cup short of a service...plus I wanted to *live* through this journey! As luck would have it, the bus cleared out somewhat beyond the university, and I was able to change seats, but it was touch and go for a while. Of course, the Greyhound Station in New Orleans is by the Super Dome - lovely part of town, so you can imagine the fun and games I had getting a taxi to get me to a hotel... ..I snapped back to the present as the driver called out Northampton. My hand was still inside my waistband, forefinger idly running in cicles inside my tingling foreskin. The old lady was still staring at me n stark terror. Did I mention the driver? He was a miserable fucking bastard, and on one of the smoke breaks advised me that if I was going to smoke outside the bus, would I mind moving to the other end of the car park? Smartass fucker. There's a little plaque mounted above the driver's seat which says: Your Operator is followed by BUBBA DORK or whatever, and underneath: SAFE, DILIGENT, COURTEOUS Of course this is a total fallacy and it should read: IGNORANT OBSTREPEROUS CUNT I started reading an omnibus of H.P. Lovecraft stories that I had picked up at the airport. Selecting a story at random, I started reading "The Whisperer in Darkness": "My train reached Greenfield seven minutes late, but the north-bound connecting express had been held..." "Greenfield!" snapped the driver. "Anyone for Greenfield?" Spooky. I went back to my book. "...across in New Hampshire I could see the approaching slope of steep Wantistiquet, about which singular old legends cluster. The car stopped, and I alighted beneath the long trainshed of the Brattleboro station." "Brattleboro - three-minute smoke break for those that want! We leave in three minutes! Brattleboro!" This was getting weird. And then, as we were approaching Windsor, I saw evidence of one of those oh-so-rare alt.tasteless shrines - a faded old wooden sign" FELCHVILLE 3 miles Oh, happy day! The rest of the journey flew by, and despite a change of bus at White River Junction (and a visit to the McDonald's 'tard program - the YooEss McTards are a breed apart - whoever first describe this was right - all of their body mass seems to drop into their pants, and they end up looking like Gary Larson's Far Side characters). I found myself all too soon in Burlington, Vermont, and in the capable hands of my Lycanthropic gimp. ObDisarmingHonesty: On my travels I passed a generic MacBurger Hut with a "Hiring Now" banner. Under this was this message: "We value attitude over intelligence." -- Pierre Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!howland.reston.ans.net!ix.netcom.com!netcom.com!lutra From: lutra@netcom.com (Eve Forward) Subject: zoo poo & goo Message-ID: Organization: NETCOM On-line Communication Services (408 261-4700 guest) Date: Thu, 7 Sep 1995 23:53:18 GMT Lines: 90 Sender: lutra@netcom23.netcom.com Ok, so here's a story about innocent little me on one of my first days working at the zoo; The big cats are kept in steel cages on concrete slabs. The way you clean these is first to drag the large clumps of shit out with a bent metal rod through the gaps at the bottom of the fence (in itself tasteless, since a TigerTurd is two inches thick and the opening in the cage is only one inch high, so you end up mushing and squishing this highly-odiferous turd... On second though, TigerTurds (and all big cat turds, but tigers are the largest) really deserve more than just parenthetical mention. Imagine a turd two inches thick, and from 6-10 inches long. There will be 3-5 of them in a pile. The consistency is similar to that of the brownie dough you buy in Pilsbury rolls; doughy and sticky, with lots of fiberousness because of the tiger hair mixed in, but moist enough to cling and soak. The smell. I can't even begin to describe it. But I will try. In my years of lurking here (almost three, now) I have watched the threads come up of "The worst smell ever" and have always wanted to pipe up with my vote for TigerTurd. I have been in outhouses and slaughterhouses, I have smelled rotting maggot-infested bloodfilled fly trap and a half-digested and thoroughly rotten rat chundered up by a snake and discovered three days later in a hot humid terrarium. But NOTHING compares to TigerTurd. It's not just like catshit. Catshit is perfume in comparison. Maybe catshit from a diseased, pus-oozing gangrene-infected feline bowel, thrown in with rotting sewage and a power that sears your nasal hairs, will come close. Next time you go to a zoo, ask the tiger keepers and maybe they'll give you a sample. Most tigers in zoos are all fed the same thing (ground horsie, made by the Nebraska feed co) so the smell is universally known and feared. I have a very strong stomach but this makes my throat close up and spasm. Especially since it really does look like brownie dough, and then the tasteless mind thinks about biting into a big mushy glob of it, smushing it up against the roof of the mouth in delight, feeling it squish through the teeth and fill the cheeks for a big gulping swallow, and then the part of the brain listening to the nose screams "OH GOD NO!!!" and -urrrp-... And when one of the tigers gets the Hershey squirts.... But anyway. I digress...) So anyway. After you've pulled out and scooped up the turds, you hose the cement slab off with a high-pressure stream of water. Simple enough; there's a drain just outside, and the high-pressure stream blasts out the remaining turds and turd-smears and the big puddle of piss and the hair and everything else that's accumulated, and it all goes into a drain. (and there's a cover on the drain that traps all the solids, that you also have to clean, another fun job since that's where all the parasitic worms end up...) The animal usually stays up on its shelf in the cage, and watches in an aloof manner until the cage is all clean, whereupon it will jump down and deposit a nice fresh steaming pile right in front of you. But the animal usually stays out of the way of the water. Usually. But there will always be exceptions. We have a leopard, a black leopard. As I was hosing his cage one day, one of my first days on the job, he watched me awhile with his slitted yellow eyes. Then he leapt down to ground level, and approached the stream of water blasting across his territory. He glanced at me haughtily, and proceeded to straddle the stream of water, his back to me. I think: "Oh, how cute! He wants to play in the water..." The leopard carefully began to lower his hindquarters. I think: "What's he doing?" The little pink LeopardTool emerges and dips into the high pressure stream of water as the leopard begins making those ho-so-typical pelvic thrusting motions. I think: "EEEeew!" The leopard proceeds to hump away, and in disgust (remember I was younger and less tasteless) I move the hose-- and the leopard turns and ROARS over his shoulder at me; I was stunned enough to stand there frozen while he quickly repositioned himself and proceeded to hump that high-pressure stream of cold water, the tip of his LeopardTool just vibrating away in the force of the water; I can't see how that could be anything but painful, but he growled and snarled to himself in ecstacy and then jumped off at last with a final roar and then went back to sit on his shelf, without a backward glance or word of thanks to me and the hose. Typical. I assume he spooged but I couldn't tell of course because of the water. I finished cleaning in a daze and went around the rest of the day feeling perverted and used. I later learned that this is an almost-daily habit of his. Now of course it's just a part of the normal routine to hold the hose for the leopard to get his jollies on; we (the keepers) even critique each other's technique in this area, and there are obviously some of us who are better at it than others, as judged by the apparent enjoyment the leopard gets out of it. I must admit I'm not one of his favorites, (apparently I have poor aim) but now there are a whole bunch of new keepers for him to "initiate"... Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.funet.fi!zippo.uwasa.fi!simtel!noc.netcom.net!netcom.com!lutra From: lutra@netcom.com (Eve Forward) Subject: rats Message-ID: Organization: NETCOM On-line Communication Services (408 261-4700 guest) Date: Thu, 7 Sep 1995 03:47:17 GMT Lines: 36 Sender: lutra@netcom10.netcom.com I'm in charge of the feeder-rat colony at our zoo; to kill the rats before feeding we grab them by the tail and smack them over a table edge or some similar thing. TOday while doing this I felt something damp hit my bare arm, and looked down to see what looked like a clean tapioca pearl, next to a little smear of black. It was a rat eyeball; the black part was the blackness of the eye; I guess it's just a thin film over the eyeball. It fell off and I lost it, but if it happens again I'll taste it and post if it's worthwhile. The rat's head had been crushed on impact with the table, and the eye socket from which this little trophy had spurted was twisted and bloody. The rats supply a lot of tasteless opportunity. I've been working with breeding a few strains, and in doing so have discovered some of the more common and unfortunate genetic problems. One is a tendency towards hair loss, but the other is far more entertaining. These rats grow along normally, looking cute and reaching that slightly-bigger-than-a-mouse size, perfectly fine; then they start getting sick and weary, no interest in food, and yet they grow wide and fat; almost as if they were pregnant. They eventually die, and you can see what has caused this; their little RatBungholes never fully developed, and when they began to be old enough to pass large ratgrogans, the ol' poop-chute gets blocked and swollen, and the little fuzzy Mickey just fills up with its own shit until it expires. There's a great metaphor here for something. That, and watching the gang-bangs of the breeders and seeing a mommy rat happily eating her own baby, or finding the remains of a baby-eating fest (little heads and pelvises and spines scattered through the litter, like the remains of an infant rodent Mortal Kombat game) and similar fun... The zoo itself offers much more tasteless fun. Later I will try and tell about the masturbating leopard, or the monkey with the anal fixation, or maybe the fun of fox piss, or the tiger shit, or our bulimic macaw. Assuming I have time... Message-ID: <062339Z13091995@anon.penet.fi> Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!umdac!fizban.solace.mh.se!paladin.american.edu!zombie.ncsc.mil!simtel!news.sprintlink.net!newsat!engineer.mrg.uswest.com!news.uoregon.edu!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!howland.reston.ans.net!EU.net!news.eunet.fi!anon.penet.fi Newsgroups: alt.tasteless From: an43531@anon.penet.fi (G.T. Dwarf) X-Anonymously-To: alt.tasteless Organization: Anonymous forwarding service Reply-To: an43531@anon.penet.fi Date: Wed, 13 Sep 1995 06:17:39 UTC Subject: A Letter from Albert Fish Lines: 45 ObSig for Mr. Hollister: From the testimony of Dr. Menas S. Gregory, Head of the Psychiatric Department, Bellevue Hospital (one of Fish's many shrinks), circa 1930 - Q. Do you call a man who drinks urine and eats human excretions sane or insane ? A. Well, we don't call them mentally sick. Q. The man is perfectly alright ? A. Not perfectly alright. But he is socially all right. Sadly, even some a.t hardliners are unaware of our beloved Mr. Albert Fish, who, unlike Saint Jeffrey, existed prior to global internet connectivity. So, a morsel to whet your appetites to research the Great Man's history, this is what Albert did in between irretrievably losing sewing needles in his pelvic region and torturing, raping and murdering little kids. You got it - he was a hot, hunka hunka burning manchowder-with-nowhere-to-dump anonymous snail mail romancer, bringing joy to many a lonely spinster in the grips of America's Great Depression. I quote one of his more moving pieces where he masquerades as a big time Hollywood producer - "I wish you could see me now. I am sitting in a chair naked. The pain is across my back, just over my behind. When you strip me naked, you will see a most perfect form. Yours, yours, sweet honey of my heart. I can taste your sweet piss, your sweet shit. You must pee-pee in a glass and I shall drink every drop of it as you watch me. Tell me when you want to do #2. I will take you over my knees, pull up your clothes, take down your drawers and hold my mouth to your sweet honey fat ass and eat your sweet peanut butter as it come out fresh and hot. That is how they do it in Hollywood." Why, oh why, does such beauty not grace my mail box ? Truly is a cruel and uncaring God that runs our Universe. Pardon, the tears of passion pouring over my keyboard necessitate I log off. 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: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!howland.reston.ans.net!swrinde!sgigate.sgi.com!uhog.mit.edu!news.kei.com!ub!newserve!bb05246 From: bb05246@bingsuns.cc.binghamton.edu (John Hollister) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: buttcrack Date: 13 Sep 1995 05:34:58 GMT Organization: Rimming the Ancient Mariner Lines: 17 Message-ID: <435qi2$dfp@bingnet1.cc.binghamton.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: 128.226.1.20 X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Guys, I have to disappoint you. I had to abort a rimjob. Was it the brilliant purple color of the crack - contrasting so sharply with the flabby white of the cheeks? Nooooo. My tongue is more fearless than that. Was it the little colonies of stale klingons? No, those are simply a source of texture and fiber. My limit? The limit of my ravenous tongue? The scoundrel had the fucking NERVE to have eaten a spicy meal. Recyled Tabasco just overwhelms the delicate aroma of buttsweat. Moral of the story? Please be considerate in your dietary habits if you want me to rim you. -- John Hollister bb05246@bingsuns.cc.binghamton.edu I believe it because it is absurd. -Tertullian Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!simtel!news.kei.com!ub!newserve!bb05246 From: bb05246@bingsuns.cc.binghamton.edu (John Hollister) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: buttcrack Date: 15 Sep 1995 17:36:39 GMT Organization: Rimming the Ancient Mariner Lines: 14 Message-ID: <43cdj7$gmf@bingnet1.cc.binghamton.edu> References: <435qi2$dfp@bingnet1.cc.binghamton.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: 128.226.1.20 X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Jim Thomas Park , Jr. (jp45+@andrew.cmu.edu) wrote: : I have a suggestion. If you get to the bung hole and decide that the : flavor is shall we say off a bit and you aren't up to the task at lip : then lick your way out of the situation. That is exactly how I handle such a situation. I scrape my tongue under his balls until I can no longer taste the unwelcome flavors. And all he feels is more tonguework on yet another erogenous zone. My manners remain impeccable at all times. -- John Hollister bb05246@bingsuns.cc.binghamton.edu I believe it because it is absurd. -Tertullian Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!umdac!fizban.solace.mh.se!paladin.american.edu!zombie.ncsc.mil!news.gmi.edu!usenet.eel.ufl.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!news.uoregon.edu!news.delphi.com!uunet!in1.uu.net!comp.vuw.ac.nz!waikato!news.massey.ac.nz!manawatu.planet.co.nz!frankv From: frankv@dogbox.manawatu.planet.org.nz (Frank van der Hulst) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Darwin's New Zealand Tour! Date: 14 Sep 1995 12:47:11 +1200 Organization: PlaNet (NZ) Manawatu, Palmerston North, New Zealand (+64 6 357-9245) Lines: 69 Message-ID: <6o8DBD2w165w@dogbox.manawatu.planet.org.nz> References: Reply-To: frankv@dogbox.manawatu.planet.org.nz (Frank van der Hulst) NNTP-Posting-Host: papaioea.manawatu.gen.nz Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit clear@ibm.net (Charlie Lear) wrote his version before I could post... what the hell, I might as well inflict this on the world since I've typed it in already... Uncle Charles almost made a clean sweep here in NZ... A bunch of people (9 or so) went to a Christening in their housebus... For furriners, these are old buses converted for living in. The trendy greenie hippy types go for really old trucks, build a house on the back. Required features are wood-burning stoves, stained-glass windows, and porches. These bloody things drive round the countryside from dole office to dole office (so that the rest of us can support the occupants via the unemployment benfit) at about 50kph. Except on hills, where they slow down to about 20kph. In the middle of the road. At *all* times, they belch noxious fumes for the rest of us to breathe (the stoves are used to continue gas dissemination when they're stopped). But I digress... So these soon-to-depart-this-lifers went to the Christening in the backblocks where they lived, and got really pissed, then departed for home (some reports say they were going to the funeral of a relative/friend) in their 1958 Bedford mobile Auschwitz to have lunch. Taking along their kids, as well as some friends' kids. And their Staffordshire bull terrier. A truck driver caught up with them (hell, everyone does) and followed (you can't pass the damn things, after all). Watched as they swerved to and fro across the road. Watched as they swerved into the gravel at the side of the road. Was amazed as they bounced back onto the road on two wheels. Called the cops on his cellphone (either he was a spoilsport or a Creationist, I guess). The cops came from about an hour away and caught up with the Belsen-mobile. Stopped it, breath-tested and arrested the driver, removed the keys & locked the bus. Carted the driver back to town. A near miss for us fans of evolution? Uh, uh. The remaining 8 or so gene-pool pollutants waited till the cop was out of sight, then used a spare key to get back in their fume-belcher and set off again. About 10km down the road before they tried bungee jumping. In the bus. Without a bungee. Yup... they accelerated down a hill, swerved a couple of times, then took the big dive, 50m (150ft) down into the Mohaka River. The dog demonstrated its relative position in the evolutionary tree by being the sole survivor. Sadly, one of the kids' fathers didn't go on the bus, so he survived to breed again. (Surely a callous disregard for the safety of your children can't be a species survival trait?) Mind you, looking at him on TV, I haven't seen a grottier greasier individual in a long time. He's only going to breed with a blind person with no tactile sense. Or maybe an a.t reader. Also sadly, there's no death penalty for drunk driving in NZ, so the original driver will also survive. The wimpy cardigan-wearing, warm-fuzzy, (probably house-truck driving) Creationists are now on a witch-hunt: "The cops should have done more to protect these people from themselves", etc. -- frankv@dogbox.manawatu.planet.org.nz (Frank van der Hulst) === Users at this site are charged high mail fees. === Please don't send binaries without prior permission of the account holder. (This is the default system sig. If you see this, assume a Usenet newbie) Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!umdac!fizban.solace.mh.se!paladin.american.edu!zombie.ncsc.mil!simtel!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!math.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: Days of Daughter Chunder Date: Wed, 13 Sep 1995 11:08:44 -0400 Organization: Computer Operations, Carnegie Mellon, Pittsburgh, PA Lines: 54 Message-ID: <8kJjDwO00YUyE4SIMS@andrew.cmu.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: po8.andrew.cmu.edu Well my daughter never ceases to amaze me, Last night after being out to pick up a new answering machine with the family, we were kind of relaxing for a bit. It is about 9:30 pm or so. My son is getting ready for bed. The wife is upstairs changing her clothes and taking a whiz. Marie, my 18 month old daughter is sitting peacefully in my lap in the living room. My wife comes downstairs and goes into the kitchen. Marie goes in to see her. The next thing I hear is Marie kind of coughing then a slight slpat on the carpeting in the kitchen. I then hear my wife say her name in a slightly irritated manner. I ask what is wrong. She says that Marie just threw up. on the floor and on her. I walk out in time to see my wife holding the baby over the kitchen sink as another wave comes forth. The oder is like soure milk or bad cheese. The baby is crying now, of course. There is a large quantity (for her size) of cottage cheese looking stuff on the floor. There is a rather large chunck on the sink that my wife picks up and looks at trying to figure out what it is. We had stopped by Wendy's at the Mall and the baby had some fries and a little bit of the wife's burger. Well it turns out that the baby hit the floor, sink, Mom and I of course had babychunder(tm) on my face. Well we finally got her settled down and bathed. She fell asleep but apparently had a fever through the night. She is OK today. It had to be the Wendy's food because a bit later I felt the strong pressure knocking on the starfish. Something was trying to push it's way out. It was sending exploritory probes in the disguise of farts to try and soften up the defenses of my sphincter. I made it to the loo and sat there reading the instructions to the new answering machine that we just purchused (sp). I gave on decent push and my ass exploded. Thermonuclear Turbo-shit hit the water at about mach 3. This of course caused a large quantity of water to be displaced, mainly on to my ass.Damn I new I should have taken physics. My first wipe was to clear off the excess water, after some of it dripped off of course. My next wipe was the center of the eruption itself, asshole. As I set the paper on to me fish my hand slipped. I immediately pulled my hand out to see if I had a surprise, no I didn't. I wasn't in the mood to taste it anyway, I tasted my own liqui-shit before. The clean up wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.It did not require half a roll of bog paper like I thought it would. As I sat there I was trying to figure out how to piss on myself for the full triple header of waste elimination experiences but alas, I could not figure out a way to piss on myself without making a mess and having to get a shower, oh well maybe next time. Oh the baby is also picking her nose when something is bothering it, that's my girl. -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.sprintlink.net!news.bluesky.net!solaris.cc.vt.edu!homer.alpha.net!uwm.edu!cs.utexas.edu!howland.reston.ans.net!ix.netcom.com!netcom.com!lutra From: lutra@netcom.com (Eve Forward) Subject: exotic hairballs Message-ID: Organization: NETCOM On-line Communication Services (408 261-4700 guest) Date: Mon, 11 Sep 1995 03:11:48 GMT Lines: 33 Sender: lutra@netcom22.netcom.com (Sorry, I accidentally posted this first time through a friend's account... whoops) In article <42tn3r$en5@newsflash.concordia.ca>, Bangers 'n' Mash wrote: >Julian Macassey wrote: >> This "pig's face" dish is known as sylte in Denmark, sultze in >>German (possibly Volga German also), brawn in the YooKay and "Head >Hey Eve - do you ever save anything that the big cats hack up at the zoo? > >B 'n' M Actually the tigers and mountain lions and leopards don't seem to have trouble with hairballs, but then again they all have pretty short hair. Our lion though, he likes to suck his tail; suck and suck, in a pensive sort of glassy-eyed way. He's sucked his tail-tuft off, it's that bad. He'll suck on it, and then acciendtally deep-throat it, and this will make him gag, and he'll puke up a small pile of bile, spit, and hair, usually all over his tail. But then he just licks it all up and goes back to sucking his tail. So we don't get a chance to save it. Our vet does have some chunks of hose, rubber mat, and a small toy football that were all removed from big-cat stomachs at some time or other. -E Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!umdac!fizban.solace.mh.se!paladin.american.edu!zombie.ncsc.mil!news.gmi.edu!msunews!uwm.edu!homer.alpha.net!solaris.cc.vt.edu!news.bluesky.net!news.sprintlink.net!news.azstarnet.com!news.cais.net!news.vbc.net!news.vbc.net!news.gpl.net!news From: mckay@loriens.com (Martin McKay) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Fiberglass Asswipe Date: Wed, 13 Sep 1995 14:31:44 GMT Lines: 58 Message-ID: <436mtu$40t@errigle.gpl.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: loriens.com X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.0.82 I thought it was about time I posted a tastless morsel for you to savour, after 3 months of lurking in fear of having my choad grated for newbieness. Its a curious tale concerning a man who worked for my father for 15 or so years, and who was repeatedly tasteless on an almost daily basis. I'll start off with something mild. First of all I should say that I live in N. Ireland, so if any of you lackwits have trouble translating the nuances of his dialect, tough. Early one morn, he appeared in our yard amid a string of profanities, with one hand down the back of his trousers exhibiting no small amount of discomfort. Being conditioned to unusual behaviour, I didn'y inquire as to the nature of his ailment, knowing full well that it would be made clear to me at some stage during the day in remarkablly tasteless detail. We worked for some hours, punctuated by vigorous ass scratching sessions during which my curiousity was, I must admit, getting the better of me. His eyes turned skyward, and his mouth puckered up .. a small ball of spittle collecting at the corner of his mouth. "FRIG" "Well fuck me for a stupid bastard" .. "Thats a holy tara" ( tara == terror) .. "red raw " .. "me fuckin' arm's sore scratchin'" and so on and so fourth. That afternoon we sat down for a smoke, and a chat. I noticed that he sat down on the point of a large stone .. nuff said. Then he told me. He had gone for a shit, and it was "a fuckin' mess of a shit", and to cut a long story short, there was no TP. Not only no TP, but no newspapers, shiny glossy paper, U-shaped toilet mats, towels, socks, etc. I presume the net curtains were out of bounds. There was on the other hand though the airing cupboard. ( I'm not sure what american types call these things .. the cupboard / closet with the hot water tank in it) .. he looked in there for something to wipe his arse with, and found nothing save the insulation jacket. ... mmm ... I'm sure the thought of starfish irritation crossed his mind, but the urgency of the matter obviously overruled the notion .. Quote "for me arse was a plaster of shit" He reached into the jacket, and pulled out a fistful of glass fibre, and yes .. he really did .. tore his arsehole completely off. The irritation lasted for some weeks .. the difficulty in keeping an anal wound clean is all to apparent. He scrached for 10 days .. and "when me one arm was sore I scratched with the other" .. He was, and still is I suppose, 50 years older than me then, and so I learned from his experience on a daily basis. A regular font of knowledge .. still I digress. OBTasteless: My mate Liam had a viscious dose of 'roids' .. even heaps they were so bad. He got ointment stuff, to squirt up his ginger star, and insisted on leaving a shitty applicator nozzle on the cistern of our toilet. .. what to do with such a chap? M. email :mckay@loriens.com http :www.gpl.net/users/loriens/ the onions expressed here belong to a french man who is keeping alive the tradition of fancy dress. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!howland.reston.ans.net!Germany.EU.net!news.dfn.de!news.ruhr-uni-bochum.de!news.rhrz.uni-bonn.de!usenet From: somebody@somewhere.de Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Granny's accident Date: 16 Sep 1995 15:38:23 GMT Organization: University of Bonn, Germany Lines: 66 Message-ID: <43er1g$jj4@news.rhrz.uni-bonn.de> Reply-To: an251029@anon.penet.fi NNTP-Posting-Host: rhrz-ts1-p13.rhrz.uni-bonn.de X-Newsreader: IBM NewsReader/2 v1.2 This is my first contribution to at. It was November '94, my depressive grandmother visited me for my 14th birthday, this was her last day going on my nerves (or so I thought very relieved), her train was leaving tomorrow. Nobody answered the ringing doorbell as I stopped my bike in front of the house. Strange, something's stopping the inner door from completely opening (thump). What I saw inside once I pushed that object away was quite shocking. Blood. LOTS of liquid dark-red stuff on the cold stone floor, some already dried a bit, also a puddle of suliva with a row of artificial upper teeth in it could be seen. Then I notice her, lying on the floor, next to the door(aha). She tries to sit up to face me, breathing heavily, red spit hanging from her mouth. "Where.. Where am I.." she asks without upper teeth ("Wo.. Wo bin ich denn.." actually(German)). Almost the whole right side of her face was blue-black, especially the eye looked bad. I guess she fell full-impact face-first onto the stone floor. I whimpyly say "Grandma.. What happened to you??". After I get no useful response to that, I tell her I'm going to call the ambulance. I walk into my room to the fone and smear some blood on the carpet in the proccess. I tell the guys from 112 (equivalent to 911) the address and walk back. She wants something to put her head on, so I give her my cushion, which gets totally soaked in blood as she does so. I watch her nervously as I wait for the ambulance to arrive. When they finally do, one of the two guys asks me what happened and some other stuff, then he secures the artificial row of teeth with his plastic glove (he picks it up and flips the glove over it). He informs the old lady that she's going to be carried outside into the ambulance car, to which she only replies "my teeth.. my teeth". After having reassured her that he has them, he signals me to give him a hand in carrying her outside on some blanket-like thing. Just as the doors of the neon-colored car roll shut my mother comes down the street. I fill her in on the major events, but what really shocks her is the bloody mess behind the door, which she has a hard and disgusting job cleaning afterwards. There was so much blood to be sucked up that the whole bucket with cleaning water got a very reddish color. But this was by far not the worst (but the only decently tasteless) part of the story. The really annoying thing were all the forced-by-parents visits to the hospital, where I once got a truly gut-wrenching look at her cunt, as she sat up from her bed and didnt have anything beneath that white hospital-dress. Eeeew. She finally went home well after Christmas. Any comments are greatly appreciated. -----BEGIN PGP PUBLIC KEY BLOCK----- Version: 2.6.2 mQCNAjBJP3YAAAEEALcNf9jj8LKv2rzRQmfUobh7G0BgVCuXFqxYuTQ0XbjAVgNw DWEY3Uq5wBcKw6cSwBxSPUzub0wmLabsYPakHqggbTGz+2Wm40kitMekf+ERch8U rQv01Sq4ISDXtVkNJ2A0Eu8UKpuwl3L8NUAl1SQk+Eg1px3LqcZFxIp4tn3NAAUR tCBwcjBwaGV0IDxhbjI1MTAyOUBhbm9uLnBlbmV0LmZpPg== =+Nix -----END PGP PUBLIC KEY BLOCK----- Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!metro.atlanta.com!nntp.atlanta.com!usenet From: ken@seefried.com (K.J. Seefried III) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Interesting way to die Date: 15 Sep 1995 23:22:53 GMT Organization: Compaid Consulting Services Lines: 81 Message-ID: <43d1sd$f2s@nntp.atlanta.com> Reply-To: ken@seefried.com NNTP-Posting-Host: seefried.atlanta.com X-Newsreader: News for Windows NT X1.0-68 ----- One of my favorite cum dumpsters is something of a specialist in Mideval History, and knowing my penchace for the extremes of the human condition, she related something a colleague had picked up in an old (French?) manuscript. I feel sure this particularly tasteless (indeed, choad swelling) way to join Glub is well known to the estemed intellegensia of A.T. However, not having seen it mentioned before, I humbly submit it. It seems that somewhere shy of the turn of the first millenia, a creative way of dispatching certain offenders (she hasn't figured out if it was for heresy or treason) was developed. The lucky fellow is bound and placed, naked, in a coffin-shaped box, with his head sticking out of a hole in the end. A lid is then nailed on. The box is quite narrow, so as to prevent much move- ment. The subject is then forcefed, alot, apparently with the assistance of a funnel with a tube that could be shoved down to the stomach. Unfortunately, no details on what was on the menu. Nature takes it's course, and the subject shits and pisses. Alot. All over himself. Poor bastard starts to fill his box with yummie excrement. The document apparently goes into some detail concerning the fact that large quatities of flies are seen dining on the feco-buffet, and depositing love childeren to wiggle about and caress the now-corroding skin of their beneficiary. Also mentioned is the exquisit nature of the aroma produced by this application of the sword of justice. It would seem that the stench overpowered the formidable vapours normal produced in a mideval fortess. Must have been quite impressive. Obviously, the several weeks it takes the subject to die are less than pleasant. Upon expiring, victim is buried in the same box, unopened, with head sticking out. Apprarently the heathens who implemented this bit of entertainment didn't have the thirst for knowledge that we of this more enlight- ened age have cultivated. Therefore, they didn't do a proper examination of what is actually happening to the subject inside those little boxes of corruption. Nor did they determine if any particular menu produced more or less horrible deaths. Such valuble knowledge lost to the shifting sands of time. Perhaps the estimed Sonya could consult a few tomes and see if there are any recorded professional insights into what happens to a person (other than the obvious dying) when stuffed in a box full of shit for a few weeks. I can only imagine that an appropriate ATer, with the proper discriminating intellect (Tae? Herr Dominik? Misterss Lenore?), would find this virtually untapped area of research fertile (no pun) with possibilities: "Facinating...a diet exculsively of lamb vindaloo washed down with coffee causes the subject to expire 33% faster but with more than twice the agony." "Yes, but there was a substantial decrease in maggot production, measured by weight. We simply *must* find a combination that increases both suffering in the patient and maggot levels." "Dinner?" "Sure..." Bon appetit... ----- K.J. Seefried III ken@seefried.com, http://seefried.com "Golf combines two of Americas favorite passtimes: Taking long walks, and hitting things with a stick." - P.J. O'Rourke Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!umdac!fizban.solace.mh.se!paladin.american.edu!news.jhu.edu!jobone!newsxfer.itd.umich.edu!nntp.cs.ubc.ca!unixg.ubc.ca!news.bc.net!news.uoregon.edu!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!ix.netcom.com!netcomsv!uu3news.netcom.com!netcomsv!uucp3.netcom.com!bongo!julian From: julian@bongo.tele.com (Julian Macassey) Subject: Re: Interesting way to die Message-ID: <1995Sep16.042238.25304@bongo.tele.com> Organization: Mark Fuhrman Fan Club References: <43d1sd$f2s@nntp.atlanta.com> Date: Sat, 16 Sep 1995 04:22:38 GMT Lines: 32 In article <43d1sd$f2s@nntp.atlanta.com> ken@seefried.com writes: > >One of my favorite cum dumpsters is something of a specialist >in Midieval History, >It seems that somewhere shy of the turn of the first millenia, >a creative way of dispatching certain offenders (she hasn't >figured out if it was for heresy or treason) was developed. The >lucky fellow is bound and placed, naked, in a coffin-shaped box, >with his head sticking out of a hole in the end. A lid is then >nailed on. The box is quite narrow, so as to prevent much move- >ment. The subject is then forcefed, alot, apparently with the >assistance of a funnel with a tube that could be shoved down to >the stomach. Making a prisoner live in his own shit may have been a standard thing in the first millenia, but has not been unknown in the second. The Communist Ruskies in order to show their care and compassion for their fellow man used to do this to political prisoners to help them realign their thinking. The NKVD (pre KGB), used to keep prisoners in special cells which were narrow pits. The pits served two purposes: 1. prison cell 2. latrine. The interrogators would hose off the prisoners before interrogation so as not to soil the rubber truncheons. This form of enlightened "correctional institution" is described in "The Long Walk". An interesting book on the joys and freedoms of Stalinism. They didn't force feed the prisoners. They didn't have to. They were so malnurished, they would eat anything they could get. -- Julian Macassey, N6ARE julian@bongo.tele.com Voice: (415) 647-2217 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!psinntp!psinntp!psinntp!uunet!in2.uu.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!howland.reston.ans.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!levine From: levine@symcom.math.uiuc.edu (Lenore Levine) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Mommy's Little Angel Date: 12 Sep 1995 23:22:53 GMT Organization: University of Illinois at Urbana Lines: 42 Message-ID: <4354od$kto@vixen.cso.uiuc.edu> References: NNTP-Posting-Host: symcom.math.uiuc.edu worley@world.std.com (Dale R Worley) writes: Speaking of angels, I'd like to quote the following. (From an article about Egypt in the _San Francisco Chronicle_.) "One teacher even divided her class (of girls) into 'angels' and 'devils,' the angels being those wearing head scarves." The teacher was fired, but public outcry was so strong that she was hired again. ObTasty: The article continues... "...an estimated 80 percent of Egyptian women, Muslim and Christian, are denied the experience of sexual pleasure because they have been circumcised -- meaning some or all of their clitoris and labia have been cut off. "...The operation is performed between the ages of 8 and 12 to keep a woman 'calm' and to control her sexuality, according to outspoken circumcision proponent Sheik Yousef al Badri. "Clitoridectomies are often performed by people with no medical training, such as the local barber or florist. They can leave a girl scarred and sometimes in pain for life during intercourse or even walking. Infections stemming from the procedure sometimes are fatal. "...'It is unhealthy for a woman to have a clitoris that is too large, like a rooster's comb,' says Badri. 'It gives them yellow, sallow cheeks and makes them unhealthy.' " 'Women in the East often have a larger clitoris, so they need this cut off to just the right length,' he said, making the shape of an outsized clitoris with his fingers and demonstrating where to cut. " 'This operation makes women less excitable and keeps them faithful to their husband, but leaves just enough so the woman will still...you know, want her husband,' the sheik said." Well, every cloud has a silver lining. At least I got a nice new .sig. Lenore Levine -- "It is unhealthy for a woman to have a clitoris that is too large, like a rooster's comb. It gives them yellow, sallow cheeks." -- Sheik Yousef al Badri Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!mn6.swip.net!seunet!news2.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!newsfeed.internetmci.com!nntp.cntfl.com!polaris.net!news From: weberm@polaris.net (Ubiquitous) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Morrisons reflux Date: 14 Sep 1995 05:04:32 GMT Organization: Polaris Networking Lines: 36 Message-ID: <438d50$jrl@nexus.polaris.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: p1dyn3.polaris.net X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.92.6+ To properly set the stage for the story, I must mention I went to Industrial/Goth night for the first time in ages, having planned on spending the day getting the oil in my car changed, etc. I wound up spending about 4 hours dancing, something I haven't done in ages, an activity that gives my abs a nice workout. Dissolve to the next day... After dropping off the car and wandering the mall in search of furniture, I decided to have lunch at Morrisons, a cafeteria-style restraunt I had't been to recently. Since I skipped breakfast, I felt I better eat a large lunch to make up for it. I got a "works" combo, consisting of some sort of cloudy jello salad, chicken fried steak, rice and brocolli caserole, mac & cheese, mexican cornbread, strawberry shortcake (with dayglow-colored berries and "juice"), and a glass of water. Finishing my meal, I noticed that the muscles around my midsection didn't like being forced out of their contracted state, but figured it would pass. After finishing most of my meal, I went to the cashier to pay for it, noticing an odd feeling I could not quite recognise. Only when she handed me my change did I suddenly realize what that feeling meant, but by then it was too late. Blurgh! I spewed a good-sized portion of my lunch on the countertop, on the glass side which was used to display various after dinner mints and candies, and on the carpeting. Momentarily fascinated by the parts of my luch I could identify by sight (oddly enough, I could only taste those fake strawberries), I took the change from her hand, muttered something (I think I said "Ooops"), and quickly split, stepping over the accumulating puddle on the carpet. I guess I won't be eating there for awhile! ObTasteless: (As if it needs it!) If I hadn't missed the lunch crowd, can you imagine what it would have looked like if I had started a chain reaction with the other people in line behind me? Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!seunet!news2.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!in1.uu.net!news.iij.ad.jp!wnoc-tyo-news!spinnews!spin-hsd0-tky!nsggate.sgi.co.jp!news.nsg.sgi.com!news.corp.sgi.com!formula1.csd.sgi.com!ded From: Aryton Senna Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Naughty nannies Date: 14 Sep 1995 20:25:46 GMT Organization: Silicon Graphics, Inc. Lines: 37 Sender: ded@formula1.csd.sgi.com (David E. DiNucci) Distribution: world Message-ID: <43a34a$bu5@murrow.corp.sgi.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: formula1.csd.sgi.com Hey... Did any of you sick fucks see PrimeTime Live last night ??? The opening piece featured a company called BabyWatch that installs surveillance systems in peoples homes so that they can check up on the nanny/babysitter that takes care of their children. There were a couple of doozies but the most compelling was the exceptionally obese (and mustachioed) nanny from the Caribbean. She was to be taking care of a 10 month old baby... However, as soon as the folks left, all caring went out the window. This hippo sat/lay on the couch for the entire 10 hours, watching TV eating, and getting up only to smack the baby *hard* on the head for having had the gall to stand up in her crib and look for some attention. I believe they counted 8+ smacks to this child's cranium. Two standouts were the smack to the head with a cordless telephone and a ruthless grab whereupon the nanny latched onto the infants arm, shook her, and roughly threw her to the bottom of her crib. Another interesting observation was that during feeding time, not only did the nanny *tie* the child's hands behind her head so that she could not make a mess of the Gerber's strained-whatever... But the nanny consumed the lion's share of the meal herself. When confronted with the videotape... The nanny insisted that anything she did to "dat chile" was nothing more than she would have done to her own children. -- ------------------------------------------- "What a waste it is to lose one's mind... or not to have a mind. How true that is." -Dan Quayle ------------------------------------------- Newsgroups: alt.revisionism,soc.culture.jewish,alt.tasteless,alt.peeves Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!umdac!fizban.solace.mh.se!paladin.american.edu!news.jhu.edu!aplcenmp!night.primate.wisc.edu!news.crd.ge.com!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!ix.netcom.com!netcom.com!ezundel From: ezundel@netcom.com (E. Zundel) Subject: Re: THE "HOLOCAUST" NEVER HAPPENED! Message-ID: Followup-To: alt.revisionism Reply-To: loony@the.bin.ca Organization: Temple Sha'arei Shalom, Toronto, British Columbia, Canada Date: Thu, 14 Sep 1995 16:01:15 GMT Lines: 134 Sender: bhatch@netcom18.netcom.com hisjwbx@gsusgi2.Gsu.EDU (Joseph W. Bunkley) wrote: > ************************************************************* > 2. THE HOLOCAUST NEVER HAPPENED > ************************************************************* > 14 FOURTEEN WORDS ! | I am sincerely yours, 14 > 14 We must secure the existence of our | Joe Bunkley 14 > 14 People, and a future for White children. | hisjwbx@gsusgi2.gsu.edu 14 > 14 14 > 14 WWW BANNED MEDIA PAGE: http://www.gsu.edu/~hisjwbx 14 I personally do not understand why the Zionist zealots continue to insist that at least 6 million Jews were murdered by the Nazis during the late 1930s and early 1940s. That is a fabrication by those fanatics. All deaths from all causes, at most were 300,000. Most deaths were from old age or industrial accidents. This continued distortion of historical fact is nothing more than thinly-veiled slander against the Aryan peoples, whom have had shown nothing other than respect toward the Jewish people. An example is Richard Wagner's greatly admired works, especially _Der Ring Das Nibelung_. The Zionists that were allied with the Aryans during the 1930s and 1940s have now turned their backs on them because of the final outcome of the war. The _Protocols of the Elders of Zion_ became the order for the day and the conspiracy against all non-Jews again reared its ugly head and continues to this very day. Many revisionists point to Auschwitz-Birkenau as a slave labour and death camp. That so-called death camp was certainly a factory, but not a forced labour camp. All of the workers were volunteers. Not slaves, but well paid employees. Those people employed there, were working toward a common goal with their Aryan brethren. That being; the establishment of a Jewish homeland, where Jews could continue the Jewish tradition in their ancestral homeland then known as Palestine. The German government in 1935 affirmed that goal. In a speech to the German parliament, Wilhelm Balfour, asked that a declaration be made establishing that region (Palestine) as a Jewish homeland. That motion was seconded by Joseph Gobbels. The motion was carried unanimously and became official German policy, now known as the _Balfour Declaration_. When war finally came between Germany and the Allies, many Jews volunteered for service to achieve the common Aryan and Zionist goals. The German government however felt that the war-burden should be shouldered by Aryans. In 1938, the government, in order to free as many German citizens for actual fighting decided to allow the Jews and other non-Aryan volunteers to work in non-combatant roles. Those roles were only manufacturing and food production. One very famous manufacturing plant, was of course, Plaszow, in Poland. This was Deutche Emailwaren Fabrik's plant to produce enameled cookware for the war effort and was owned by Oscar Schindler. Many of the high quality cooking utensils found their way to the most famous factory of the war, located outside of Oswiecim, Poland. That is the factory that revisionists now claim was a "death camp," Auschwitz- Birkenau. A factory that produced baked goods for the German army, Jewish and other minorities under the care of the German government. A factory that produced baked goods under strict Kosher law. A factory that treated its employees with respect and dignity. A factory where management insisted that the Jewish sabbath be observed, over the objections of its very loyal employees. The factory were the employees coined the phrase; "Arbeit Macht Frei" and in their spare time, fashioned it into wrought iron artwork and installed it over the gateway to the factory grounds. This was one of the factories, were Heinrich Himmler himself participated on several occasions as a Sabbath goy. The Auschwitz-Birkenau factory produced tons of baked goods each day. 5 ovens were kept busy 24 hours a day, 6 days a week. So much baking was done each day that many particles of flour would escape from the chimney and cover the countryside. Trains would pull up to the docks and deliver flour, salt, sugar and yeast necessary to produce those goods and would leave laden with finished goods. Excess goods, not used to sustain the employees, were distributed to the citizens of Oswiecim. The few Jewish employees that died while in Schindler's employment and other factories dedicated to the Zionist and Aryan ideals were cremated and given proper Jewish burials. Cremation had to be done outside of the factories to ensure that the kitchens would remain sanitary. Employees did indeed take pictures of the solemn religious ceremoniess associated with the cremations. Those pictures are now used as "evidence" that the Auschwitz-Birkenau factory was a "death camp." Nothing could be further from the truth and no other so-called "evidence" has ever been proven. As a matter of fact, Rudolf Hoess, Director of the Auschwitz factory, at the request of Hans Frank, Governor General of Occupied Poland, dedicated a beautiful cemetery and memorial were the ashes of those ture supporters of the Reich and its ideals could be laid to rest. Claude Monet's painting; _The Garden_, is undeniable evidence. \\\_______________________________________________________________________/// \( )/ -=( A R B E I T M A C H T F R E I ! )=- /(_______________________________________________________________________)\ /// || * * || \\\ / || * * || \ | || * * || | | #### ############# || * * || #### ############# | | #### ############# || * * || #### ############# | | #### ############# || * * || #### ############# | | #### ##### || * * || #### ##### | | #### ##### || * /\ * || #### ##### | | #### ##### || * ____/_ \____ * || #### ##### | | ##################### || * \ ___\ \ / * || ##################### | | ##################### || * \/ / \/ / * || ##################### | | ##################### || * / /\__/_/\ * || ##################### | | ##### #### || * /__\ \_____\ * || ##### #### | | ##### #### || * \ / * || ##### #### | | ##### #### || * \/ * || ##### #### | | ############# #### || * * || ############# #### | | ############# #### || * * || ############# #### | | ############# #### || * * || ############# #### | | || * * || | | || * * || | | || * * || | Rabbi E. Zundel PS: No flames please. --- North American Man/Boy Love Association -For membership info & brochure write to: NAMBLA, Dept. RR, PO Box 174, Midtown Station, NYC, NY 10018. Send $5 for a sample Bulletin. Publications list available upon request. 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!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!dispatch.news.demon.net!demon!mail2news.demon.co.uk!glub.demon.co.uk From: Prophet of the Great God Glub Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The nomadic Prophet - Points North Date: Tue, 12 Sep 95 17:04:04 GMT Organization: The Midden Lines: 244 Message-ID: <810925443snz@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 WARNING: NOT TASTELESS. JUST THE PENULTIMATE PART OF THE PROPHET'S JOURNEY WARNING#2: ONE MORE PART TO COME: AIRPORT BLUES #2. HONEST. So I found myself getting off the Fat Three-legged Labr^H^H^H^H^Greyhound Bus in Burlington, on the eastern shore of Lake Champlain. The werewolf was back from Survivalists' camp, and back at the homestead, a half-completed barn which one day will, I'm sure, make a very nice house. She lives there with the owners, a theatrical couple and their rugrat, and a menagerie of mutts and assorted felines. Monday morning, and they all pissed off to do whatever Green Mountain folk do during daylight hours. This left me at a bit of a loose end, mooching around the yard, foraging in the woods, and slipping into the shack to raid the fridge for an occasional beer. Problem is, this place is what you might call "remote", with the nearest neighbours being a long-distance phone call away. The nearest town with a bar is like, well, half a world away. So I stayed put, playing with the assorted mongrel hounds, playing "stick". Two of them particularly enjoyed this, especially Worf, a sort of Husky-Alsatian cross which reminded me of the monster mutt that had terrorised the sheep at Harper Farm. . Heh. The only problem was that they didn't want to play "stick", they wanted to play "log" or "tree trunk"! An hour of that and I'd put my shoulder out. Pick up trunk. Heave. ...... "Leggo! DEAD! DEAD! Goooood dog..." Pick up trunk. Heave. ...... "Leggo! DEAD! DEAD! Goooood dog..." Pick up trunk. Heave. ....... "OwpOwpYoopEepOwp!" Stupid fucking dog. Sorry. When the dogs finally tired of dislocating my shoulder, I slunk off to the edge of the forest and sat with my back against a tree, reading my HPL omnibus, smoking Camels and chugging Black Dogs. Sometime in the afternoon the dogs started acting up and I knew someone had rolled up the drive. Turned out to be one or other of mine hosts' parents. I was soon fed up with Gramps telling me more than I ever wanted to know about rustic craft fairs and the US wooden toy industry. I couldn't look at him without thinking of Benny Hill as the Toy Maker in "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang". He told me all about the Amish, and the Pennsylvania Dutch, and the Pennsylvania Germans (ie him), and who wore black felt hats, and who wore straw hats. He gave me a little wooden toy helicopter. Hmmmm. I might have a use for this. Now if he'd only bend over to pick up an old stogie or something.... I might have a new case study item for Peter Bell's "Rectal Foreign Objects" paper... When she got back from her logging (or whatever) job, Jan drove me in Witt, her SIIA Land Rover, to The-Other-Side-Of-The-World for eats. First we ascended "Smugglers Notch" to get our stomachs queasy enough for the coming repast. I was getting used to strange requests after being asked by Russ to "come up Anthony's nose", so driving up a smuggler's notch was, erm, a piece of piss. The food in the diner was, um, interesting. Jan, true to form, dived into half a cow, slavering and rending at the cooling flesh. She complained that it was "overdone", seeing as the muscles had stopped twitching. I decided to try the "eat as much pizza as you want" offer. Noting the "as much as you want" caveat, I reckon this was loaded in the restaurant's favour. Let me see... the "Vermonter": Dough base. Yup. Tomato paste. OK. American/Mozzarella Cheese. Of course. Chunks of ham. Yeah. Slices of apple. Errrmmmm.... The whole liberally coated in Maple Syrup. Yeeuurch! The next day, abandonned again, and resolved not to go stir crazy, I decided to "borrow" Witt and explore the locality. I mean, she wouldn't mind, not really, and I wouldn't stray far. Honest. By 14:00 I was in Montreal. A few formalities at the Canadian border, but not too much hassle. Montreal was a bummer of a place to get through. All of a sudden the route signs give up on road nos and destinations, and just list street names. After spending an hour and a half driving aimlessly around over railway/tram lines, and jumping stop signs, I gave in and pulled into a bar. Directions and Beer - that's what I needed. Beer first. The barman didn't seem very friendly or communicative, grumbling and muttering to himself, but pulled me a couple of 16oz glasses. Then I tried asking directions. He looked at me in disgust, muttered something in Canuck, and walked away. Fuck you then, Pepe Le Pew! I tried some of the other customers, but got the same brushoff. After fifteen minutes of this, I lost my rag and, banging the table, shouted: "PUTAIN! TOUS CE QUE JE VEUX, TRES SIMPLEMENT, SONT DES DIRECTIONS POUR OTTAWA! JE DEMANDE TROP, HEIN?" Silence for a second. Then the place errupted. They crowded round, pumped my hand, clapped me on the back, bought me beer, and chattered away excitably in some archaic Gallic dialect that I could barely understand, and which in my ignorance I guess must be Canuck. In no time the table was covered in maps, atlases, A-Zs, pieces of paper and napkins with scrawled directions. And more beer (none of which I had to pay for). What nice people. I guess at times like this being bilingual *does* have advantages. Armed with my new route information, and loaded with six-packs (don't those bottles burst well against the guardrails?) I found my way out of Montreal, and onto Route #417 towards Ottawa, meeting up with Dale Desprey and Dixon Kenner just under an hour late (I'd rung ahead to arrange a meet - naturally, I didn't find the appointed place and Dale had to chase me halfway around the Ottowa gyratory system; but then his idea of meeting in the parking lot of an Ikea store *not* visible from the road was sheer genius) at about 18:45. A visit to a beer store to stock up with a crate of something or other (Labatts, presumably) and we paid a visit on Bob Wood. Who he? I wondered. "You'll find out", said Dixon. "He used to work for Mitel, but they kicked him out and he now tinkers with Land Rovers." As a job? "No, just hobbying. Bob doesn't work. Bob can't work". Why not? "You'll find out". I did. We pulled into a driveway littered with Land Rovers in various states of (dis)repair, including a pretty rare (I'd imagine) 109" Ambulance, complete with Red Cross regalia. In the back we found Bob. Imagine, if you would, Donald Sutherland playing the part of the loony hermit living down the hole in Monty Python's "Life of Brian". That's Bob. He was even messing around with some berries. OK, they weren't juniper berries, but close. Rose hips, actually. He had a mountain of them on the table, and on his lap, and in his waist-length beard. He waved a knife at us and bade us sit down and help de-leaf them and put them in punnets. In view of the knife, we could hardly refuse, and set to with gusto, interspersing rosehip duty with chugging of beers and general chat. Apart from Land Rovers, Bob, who wandered down from the frozen northern wastes aeons ago and stayed, likes to talk about guns. Any guns. All guns. He came up with some interesting facts (that maybe Stepanek will confirm). To whit, that despite electing pinko Commie bastards and liberal bunny huggers, Vermont has the highest per-capita gun ownership in the United States, *AND* the lowest crime statistics. "What are you going to do with these rosehips, Bob?" "I dunno. What *can* you do with rosehips?" "Dunno" "Me neither" "So, uh, why are we doing this, then?" He leaned forward and waggled his knife an inch from my nose. "Look," he explained softly, "they can stay on the rose bushes, or they can go in the punnets... but they're *not* going on my fucking lawn! OK?" "Oh, yeah, sure, OK" Dale and Dixon were having a beer-guzzling competition, lining up the crown caps as "trophies". The fact that Dixon was stealing mine to add to his pile ensured that he "won". When it turned cooler (about 10pm), we retired to the garage. Dixon's eyes had turned to narrow slits, while Dale was writhing on the floor, begging someone to arm-wrestle him. With his "drunk voice" up a couple of octaves, and his arms flailing about, he was doing a passable impression of Emo Philips. Dixon presented me with a fine set of shiny, chromed dentistry probes (or were they gynaecological instruments?) "for cleaning out Land Rover carbs". Thanks, Dixon, they're wonderful. I had a great time with Israeli security on my return flight to the UK! Bob sat on a bench, flipping a hunting knife around the knuckles of one hand. This disturbed Dale, and he asked Bob to desist. Bob did so, and instead started stroking his chainsaw, murmuring softly to it. We left soon after, Dixon driving (weaving) me home, while Dale refused to get in the Volvo and "jogged" home instead. Back at Dale's, he announced a dearth of beer, but "I'll get some of Dad's wine". He came back with a dusty, cobwebbed magnum with no label (which immediately screamed "VINTAGE" at me) and said we didn't need glasses. We chugged from the neck. I think I passed out at about 4am. I awoke at about 14:00pm and met Dale's mother. She reminded me of someone, but I couldn't place who, exactly. One of the "Golden Girls", I think. She insisted that I eat something. She'd laid some bread and cold meats out. Um. I recognised the ham; everything else looked like sliced, formulaic cat food. I had a ham sandwich. The return journey to the US border was uneventful, but as soon as I hit Vermont I got lost. Big time. I know the Lake Champlain islands like the back of my hand, now. North Hero, South Hero etc. Took me five hours to cover the 45 miles (crow's flight) distance to Jan's cabin, 4 of those within ten miles of the damn place. I know every dirt track in Franklin County, and some of the ditches too. In the pitch black, and losing my patience at finding myself at the same dirt road junction for the *fifth* time (no more than a mile and a half from my destination), I tried a three-point-turn into a field. The ditch was overgrown with weeds and long grass, and I didn't see it in the headlamp glow. . Pitched forward at a 45-degree angle, I massaged the dents out of my forehead and examined my options. Open the 6-pack of Black Dog and have a cigarette. Yes, that sounds about right. I tried reversing out. Spin, spin, spin. OK, then, forward. Spin, spin, spin. Oh shit, what the hell, I'm in a 4x4. Drop it into low box 4WD and try again (actually, I'd forgotten about the freewheeling hubs, but the low ratio traction did the job anyway). I shot out like a high-pressure back zit... and found myself leaning back in my seat at a 45-degree angle. Yes, I'd shot back into the ditch on the *other* side of the road! With beer and cig in hand (my lucky totems) I was back at the homestead in ten minutes, to the great hilarity of everyone else. And that's it, really. Another day in Vermont, back to NYS, onto Zeno's party, and onto Newark, NJ, for my outbound flight. The tale of which forms the end tale in Glub's transatlantic foray... -- Pierre ObSTOOPID: Overheard at the Burlington Community Boathouse: Some drooler parent/guardian trying to appease his 'tard charges. He's looking at the Lake Champlain cruises on the blackboard. "Now, let me see... there's the Captain's cruise, there's the Islands cruise, or there's the Mystery cruise... which shall we have?" "Cwooze! CWOOZE!" "Mis'ry cwooze! MIS'RY CWOOZE!" "CWOOZE!" "OK then," [turns to teller's window] "Four tickets on the "Mystery Cruise", please" "That'll be twenty three dollars and eighty cents, sir" [hands over cash, takes tickets] "Er, miss... this "Mystery Cruise"... where does it go, exactly?" Heh. -- 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!umdac!fizban.solace.mh.se!paladin.american.edu!zombie.ncsc.mil!simtel!pravda.aa.msen.com!cssun.mathcs.emory.edu!emory!swrinde!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!news.sprintlink.net!in1.uu.net!oak.forest.net!oak.forest.net!not-for-mail From: kilbo@oak.forest.net (Chris Kilbourn) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Title anyone? Followup-To: alt.tasteless Date: 11 Sep 1995 22:42:16 -0700 Organization: I am my organization. Lines: 108 Message-ID: <4336jo$smd@oak.forest.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: oak.forest.net X-Disclaimer: All posts are the opinions of the authors themselves. X-Disclaimer: Digital Forest or forest.net take no responsibility for X-Disclaimer: the content of any message. Sometimes I drive my car through the trees pretending that I am the hunter and the whistles in my drawer copulate to the sound of the incessant beat of pulsating needles, waiting to tap, tap tap their staccato medley into the skin of my wrist like icicles frozen to little girls' noses on a cold winter day. Stopping to rest, I notice a spider crawling through my eyes, looking for the moths attracted to the dim glow shining orangely behind rabbits eyes caught in the headlights of the approaching oblivion. And the beat begins again, ever louder, calling me to draw the blade across my toes as one would trail a piece of grass along a lovers breast while looking at the beetles in the dung. Sensing the saliva drip off my nipple into my lap creating a puddle of mercury flashing in the moonlight, I raise my leaden head finding the chewing gum from the last time. Like steel gears caught in a tie, I'm jerked back through the liquid silica as I swallow the soy wheel crushing my teeth like so many pearls under the hammer of a dwarf making paste to patch the hole in his head. Leaking out from my brow are a million crimson balloons all manned by Lilliputians seeking to release their ballast before crashing into the rocky chasms of their kittens sharpening claws on granite flywheels. Finding weightlessness with shit in my seat, I retire to the study looking for the lost library book that explained how to catch and mount trout that like to eat the worms guts as they split out of the sides when the hook pierces the skin reminding you of running over slugs with your bike and watching them explode like tiny projectiles of snot to dry upon the pavement. Feeling like a loose leper, I leave my penis near the station that plays only old music repeated incessantly for urbane forty-somethings to mist nostalgic over while bemoaning the mini-van repair bill and paying lawyers for bail over the beating incident that only occurred when she came home late and smelling like some fucking tuna fish sandwich that had been left out in the sun too long with extra mayonnaise. Cursing myself for forgetting to wipe after loosing my bowel and wondering what the nurse will say as my mother hovers over claiming she told me to change my underwear when it was dirty but I hadn't done my laundry because I was out of soap, I consider flying isn't that bad as long as one does not choke on one's own peanuts on a long flight whilst considering raping the stewardess with the lacy bra upon the washbasin in the bathroom as the blue fluid swishes around like some perverse mouthwash advertisement. Thinking more about this makes my non- existent loins swell mentally as I frantically ponder bark and how weeding really hurts my back if I do it all day. And in that last sharp instant realizing that fir is a hardwood and generally does not yield without proper steaming and bending by a master craftsman, I thought that I was really glad that I beat the shit out of her for mouthing off and listening to the forever sagas of whatever fucking whiney bullshit happened today that was my fault wishing that I smoked cigars so I could burn a constellation on her thighs that would make most astronomers gaze upon that black hole and walk away muttering that some things are best left unknown. -- ____________________________________________________________________ Chris Kilbourn System Administrator kilbo@forest.net Digital Forest forest.net 206.487.6414 http://oak.forest.net Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!mn6.swip.net!seunet!news2.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!btnet!news.compulink.co.uk!cix.compulink.co.uk!usenet From: technodweeb@cix.compulink.co.uk ("Tim Hayward") Subject: Worst Date of all time. Message-ID: Organization: Carlton UK Television Date: Mon, 11 Sep 1995 14:33:27 GMT X-News-Software: Ameol Lines: 158 I was invited to a female friend's birthday party. I was living in a squat at the time and was awed by the knowledge that her Father was going to cover the cost of the entire event which took place at a rather snotty Chelsea Restaurant. In keeping with the social level of the event, we were classically seated, Boy/Girl/Boy/Girl, with seat assignations arranged to provoke sparkling conversation. As we sat down, the seat opposite me was empty. I began to inhale free wine. A little before the arrival of the first course, the door opened and an audible frisson passed around the room. The woman who entered looked not unlike a young Debbie Harry (We're talking the red rubber dress in the 'Atomic' video, not the current bloater) only with a slightly fitter body and better engineered breasts. I realised she was walking towards the vacant seat and seized another fortifying drink. I should make clear that at this point, that I was not in the market for any kind of romantic entanglement as my erstwhile GF was out of the country for a week. Oh well, thought I, if she's that good looking she's probably got the intellect of a potted plant and I usually find that a huge turn off... "This is XXXXXX, said our hostess and then with a wry smile, You'll like her Tim, she's just finishing her Doctorate in Marine Biology". "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!" I wrestled manfully with the burgeoning woody beneath the tablecloth and launched into conversation, taking, as I did, another fortifying draught. As the evening progressed, it became clear that XXXXX was... a) Gorgeous b) Interesting c) Exceptionally sexually adventurous d) Not entirely immune to my charms By a strange coincidence I suffer from a strange, alcohol related complaint. The more I drink, the more devastatingly attractive I become to women. Sometimes I become so attractive that I have to take a little lie-down. I had quaffed aplenty and the evening looked like getting way out of hand. I punished myself with thoughts of getting caught and the subsequent distress it would cause my GF. It was then that she explained that she was leaving for the States in 3 days. At this point the blood drained from my guilt glands into my erection which was, by now, moving the cutlery. We adjourned to the hostess' house where I bolstered my sexual magnetism to the tune of a half bottle of Jack Daniels. By this point XXXX was visible in soft focus and it became physically imperative that we perform the beast with two backs before my entire genital area became further engorged resulting in catastrophic metabolic failure due to bloodloss. She turned to me and, in a voice moist with sexual promise, intoned the immortal words... "Shall we share a cab?" Whatever kindly deities protect the hopelessly drunk smiled down and enabled me to hail a Black cab in an astounding display of manly prowess. I held the door and she climbed in. As I moved to enter the cab a positive tsunami of nausea engulfed me. I lunged through the door and, for some unfathomable reason, sat heavily down on the folding dickie seat facing her. As she resumed the sparkling pre-coital chit-chat, I became leadenly aware that, at any moment, I was going to puke everything I had ever eaten in my whole life, right into her lap. The cab bounced noisily through the darkened streets, the streetlights blurred by tears as I fought the surging anti-peristalsis which would surely cause me to vomit chunks of festering stomach lining. On the back of my tongue, I could distinctly discern a piece of a breakfast I ate in 1978. We pulled up outside her house, a huge pile which clearly contained a wealth of enourmous comfortable beds, firmly supportive couches and intriguingly wrought chairs across which one could spread in the trials of athletic sexual congress. The huge windows would surely cast pools of lambent morning sunlight across her tanned and slender limbs as she lay, in satiated haze. I knew, furthermore, that the kitchen would be stocked with the ingredients of a fortifying, post-coital breakfast. "It's my parent's place. I'm staying with them till I fly out, but they're away till tomorrow afternoon. Would you like to come in for a coffee?" Coffee! Bloody coffee. A hideous vision arose before my eyes of the oily slick on the surface of a cup of rocket fuel java. My eyes filled with tears and I knew that if I even moved, the gallon and a half of pre-digested Italian food lapping at the back of my teeth would burst forth in a plume like spray of projectile vomit which she would be picking out of her hair for weeks to come. I shook my head slowly. "Are you sure", she said, her eyes wide with amazement and disappointment. I nodded carefully as my mind screamed... FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! "Please yourself then, but you don't know what you're missing". Oh Christ! Yes I do. She walked away, her perfect behind swinging as if on ball-bearings, a visible reproach. I inwardly swore that I would shove my head up a dead bear's rectum before I'd ever touch another drink and brusquely told the cabbie where to take me. We pulled up outside my squat and I got out of the cab. I leant in through the passenger window, held out a £50.00 note to the cabby and barfed about four handfuls of pre-owned Calamari Fritti into his lap. Cursing loudly, he placed his hand on my forehead, shoved me unceremoniously out of the window and screached off with my money. I stood in place, abject, hung my head and spewed. I vomited continuously for seven and a half minutes, too devastated, too spavined by sexual anticlimax, too broke to even think about moving. Finally, prying small pieces of after-dinner mint from the space between gum and lip and blowing the last chunk of Amatriciana sauce from my sinuses, I retired to bed. The following day, I had to be up at 5.30 for a shoot. I rolled from my stained palliase with a hangover like the gardens of Babylon and stared at the strange edifice in the corner of my tiny room. There stood my immaculately pressed beige strides, stiffly vertical to the knees with a crust of dried chunder, the remainder slumped over to reveal a gigantic piss stain on the crotch forming a near-perfect map of the Principality of Monaco. At the base of this monument to self abuse were the brogue boots I had worn. Each toecap bore a three inch high mound of Vom. I got dressed and walked out to the street and there, in a cloud of flies stood a cone of puke, pefect but for the two semi-circular spaces where my shoes had been. That was three years ago, but as I look down on the perfectly buffed toecaps of my boots, I still notice the few clogged holes, and I cannot help but shed a quiet tear at the memory of..... THE WORST DATE OF ALL TIME. And I, with these, mine eyes have seen Appalling stuff called Margerine Consumed by men in Bethnal Green... Hilaire Belloc Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!in1.uu.net!news.isp.net!newsadmin From: swan Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: A Note to all you Scrofulous Gits out there! Date: 24 Sep 1995 21:01:54 GMT Organization: Slip.net Lines: 26 Message-ID: <444h02$7r3@news2.isp.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: sfsp80.slip.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 1.1N (Windows; I; 16bit) Just a little bread and butter note to say that you feculent heaving masses are the most fun I have had since my hamster burst her duct tape! Had this group not existed, it would have necessary for me to invent it. My meager efforts would have come to naught when compared to the might cloaca of alt.tasteless! I lift my glass to each and every one of you! Long may you wqve whatever appendage suits your fancy! I wish you Mighty Gutsubmarines in fetic water! I wish you eviscerated cats, mortified mounds of meadow muffins and all the lungbutter your squalid little hearts crave! I doff my brim in homage to the swelling chorus of wheezes, hacks, splutters and gags that presage the arrival of your truly prodigious hairballs! May your gorge ever rise, may your sole be crusted! May you see, smell and touch what others fear to contemplate! Be easy in your corpulent contentment! the best is yet to come! Farewell, my feculent flowers of fetitidity! Until tomorrow! swan In Hawk, Cygno Lungus Arse Scratcha Ars longa! Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!mn6.swip.net!seunet!news2.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!dish.news.pipex.net!pipex!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!sunsite.doc.ic.ac.uk!warwick!uknet!newsfeed.ed.ac.uk!dcs.ed.ac.uk!tal From: tal@dcs.ed.ac.uk (Tom Lichy) Subject: Anti September defences. (Warning - low tasteless content) X-Nntp-Posting-Host: flugga.dcs.ed.ac.uk Message-ID: Sender: cnews@dcs.ed.ac.uk (UseNet News Admin) Organization: Department of Computer Science, University of Edinburgh References: <43c4vn$3sk@ringding.cs.umd.edu> Date: Tue, 19 Sep 1995 08:17:44 GMT Lines: 63 ~Newsgroups: alt.tasteless ~Subject: Anti-September defences? *low tastelessness content* Summary: Expires: ~Sender: Followup-To: Distribution: world Organization: Department of Computer Science, University of Edinburgh Keywords: *Warning: low tasteless content* September is approaching fast. More to the point, that time of September when the yearly flood of clueless newbies is released. Over the summer, a.t. has had a very high signal/noise ratio with many very fine articles being posted. This will soon change. Friends, shitbags, Levinities, Ivanoffites, and 'tards of a.t., we need to construct defences against the upcoming casade of shitty and boring posts. Suggestion #1) Make a.t. moderated, but without a moderator. Thus posters will have to forge a moderator's approval, see alt.hackers for how well this works in practice. It's actually very easy to forge approval in cases like this, and we can bury details on how to do it in the monthly FAQ, thus ensuring new posters have read it. Suggestion #2) Some a.t. regulars may have too few braincells to be capable of simply adding a line to their headers to fake moderater's approval, so as not to loose their fine contributions to a.t., have a robo-moderator scan articles for a code prase, such as 'Ivanoff' or 'grogan' or 'NAMBLA' or 'sutikin', somewhere in the text. Posts without such a key word somewhere in the text will either not be posted by the robo-moderator, or auto-cancelled in the a.t. newsgroup, which ever works out better. Again we can give details of the code words in the FAQ, or on the archive site. I sincerely hope that you will find either or both of these suggestions to your taste, namely a festering pile of guts, full of shit and with a million blow-flies swarming around it. We return you to your daily meal in front of the shit spewing sewer that is a.t. Comming up soon: when I left a swordfish head, 1 metre long, to decompose on the back of my motorbike in front of an old-folk's home, and what happened to a particularly nosy old cunt..... Tom Lichy, Department of Artificial Intelligence. tal@dcs.ed.ac.uk University of Edinburgh. "You're sick, sick, SICK!" - a friend who *collects* ultra-violent videos on being informed of my sexual proclivities. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!umdac!fizban.solace.mh.se!paladin.american.edu!news.jhu.edu!jobone!newsxfer.itd.umich.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!in1.uu.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!nwnews.wa.com!uw-coco!uw-beaver!craig From: craig@cs.washington.edu (Craig Anderson) Subject: Award winning GI problems (News of the Weird) Sender: news@beaver.cs.washington.edu (who else) Organization: Computer Science & Engineering, U. of Washington, Seattle Message-ID: X-Nntp-Posting-Host: sturgeon.cs.washington.edu Date: Sun, 17 Sep 1995 18:26:18 GMT Lines: 33 This guy should be on a.t: * In an April column in Toronto's Globe & Mail, Dr. Shafiq Qaadri selected memorable gastrointestinal patients from his practice and celebrated their "award-winning" problems in detail: Greatest Number of Parasites taken from a patient, Most Obscure Parasite, Best Vomit, and Best Stool. The latter two awards were won by African men whose excretions had yielded worms, each about six inches long, with the stool worm being pregnant carrying 10 babies. [Globe & Mail, 4-22-95] and another somewhat tasteless tidbit: * In May in the Bronx, N. Y., former Boy Scout leader David Weiser, 31, was charged with assault in connection with a private club he ran whose induction ceremony seemed to be the severe paddling of boys' buttocks. About 40 boys and young men were members, and police seized photographs and wooden paddles from the club, as well as club records and copies of its by-laws. Unexplained in news reports was why Weiser called the club the "CB Mafia" and what the club did, other than recruit new members. [New York Times, 5-18-95] Boring copyright notice: Copyright 1995, Universal Press Syndicate. All rights reserved. Released for the entertainment of readers. No commercial use may be made of the material or of the name News of the Weird. -- Craig Anderson craig@cs.washington.edu Visualize World Spam http://www.cs.washington.edu/homes/craig Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!newsfeed.internetmci.com!news.mid.net!sbctri.tri.sbc.com!newspump.wustl.edu!news.ecn.bgu.edu!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!uwm.edu!cs.utexas.edu!swrinde!news.uh.edu!news.uth.tmc.edu!midgard01.mda.uth.tmc.edu!user From: drg@biomath.mda.uth.tmc.edu (David Gutierrez) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Beating a live horse Date: Sun, 24 Sep 1995 00:27:43 -0500 Organization: Univ. Texas M.D. Anderson Cancer Center Lines: 27 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: midgard01.mda.uth.tmc.edu Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain;charset=US-ASCII Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Newsreader: Yet Another NewsWatcher 2.0.2 I'm surprised none of the other Houston-area members of this forum has posted this yet. A couple of days ago, there was a story in the paper about a pack of kids, ranging from 8 to 14, in some small town here in Texas who had gotten bored and were looking for something to do. They started throwing sticks at a horse they found in someone's pasture. It ran and they chased it. The horse ran into some barbed wire and got tangled up. A person contacted later (the sheriff?) commented that a cow would have pulled itself free and damn the damage, but a horse will just wait for someone to come help it. This wasn't Mr. Ed's lucky day - no one was coming to his aid. The kids started beating the horse with sticks and rapidly broke one of his legs, making it impossible for him to emulate the mighty cow and get the hell out of there. The kids continued beating the live horse until they were illustrating the old cliche. They were turned in a couple of days later by some other kids who'd heard them bragging about the killing at school. -- David Gutierrez drg@biomath.mda.uth.tmc.edu "Only fools are positive." - Moe Howard Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!news!grapevine.lcs.mit.edu!uhog.mit.edu!news.kei.com!simtel!news.sprintlink.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!uunet!in1.uu.net!news.cybercom.com!raven.cybercomm.net!blacksta From: blacksta@raven.cybercomm.net (Head Cracker For OCH) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Corporate Takeover via Steamy Liquishit Date: 18 Sep 1995 16:05:11 GMT Organization: CyberComm Online Services Lines: 166 Message-ID: <43k5bn$eib@crow.cybercomm.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: raven.cybercomm.net X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] I've been reading a.t for about 6 months now, but never really posted. Well, I figured I'd finally post. Enjoy. I work in an industrial park here in NJ, taking tech support calls for a mail-order Macintosh company. Alot of our employees are pretty rowdy, and the people next to our building don't appear to appreciate us very much. Anyway... it's a common 'ritual' of a few of us to go to Denny's about 2 nights a week after work, but I don't normally stay out late because I have school every morning. Well, last Wednesday when we went out to eat, I had chicken fried steak and eggs (my favorite). When it arrived, it appeared that the "Southern Gravy" was a bit watery. In fact, when I said something to our waitress, she told me, "Oh, I'm sorry, we have a new cook tonight." I asked her if she heard about the guy who killed his wife over overcooked ziti, and she just gave me a blank stare. Heh, I ate it anyway, but I was a bit cautious. Tasted just fine, but there was a taste to it that I couldn't put my finger on. The eggs were fine, so were the hash browns. I wound up staying out pretty late, and I got in the house at about 5am. My alarm went off at 7:15am, and I dragged my dead ass out of bed to jump in the shower. While in the shower, I burped... but it tasted like nothing I'd ever expect - sulfur. It kind of woke me up in fact. I went to school, and burped most of the day. Around 11:30am (when I get out of school) I drove home, drank some milk to calm my stomach, and then got my ass to work by 12:55pm. I had to leave the house early, because they are doing road construction out in front of our company (too many people complaining of ground effects being ripped off their cars). Turns out, I had to park about 2 blocks down, because they hit a sewer line, and all the cars were being routed to a different parking lot. Fine. I needed exercise anyway. Everything was going ok (except for the occasional foul-tasting burp, and muting customers to do it) until about 2pm. That's when I knew something was terribly wrong. My stomach felt like it started churning, faster and faster. It was giving me gas pains, except not as bad (yet). Since I'm in a room with about 15 - 20 other techs, I don't wanna be rude. I took my break at 4pm, and it was becoming somewhat of a struggle to keep my ass sphincter closed tight. I went into our cafeteria, saw that noone was really in here, and let one go. Really quiet, of course. However, after about 3 seconds, there was this... this... smell. I can't explain it. If I didn't know better, I would say that I kept an egg shoved up my ass (oh wait, maybe THAT'S what it was) for a few weeks, and then decided to sit down, hard. I left, immediately. In less then a minute, I saw 3 other people leave with looks of utter horror on their face. I tried to stifle my laughter, because I knew if I did, it would be all over. I figured I would walk around on the sales floor for a while. Because the door to the tech room is in the cafeteria, I had to go back in there. Now, I floated that ass vapor easily 10 minutes before hand, yet I could still smell it. And it wasn't a faint odor, it was pretty strong. I went into the tech room, and heard a few people talking about it (which really isn't anything new, people burn popcorn in that cafeteria DAILY). I kept to myself, but I could feel my innards trying to have a coup against my brain. I had a hard time retaining my composure, and now, at 5:30pm, they annouced that the road crew had left, and the bathrooms were still inoperable (!!!!). My only hope was to grin and bear it. It was no use, though. I knew I would soon succumb to the festering Denny's Shit. I could no longer contain it any longer at 7:30pm. Now, let me tell you a bit about our tech room. We have 4 rows of cubicles. I reside in the back, near the rear wall. We have, starting from the back of the room, a row of 8 cubicles, then another, then another (wow!), and finally a row of 4, which is up by the supervisor's desk. Now, we all want to goof off, so, of course, we all take up the last two or three rows, which was the case this night (anyway, back to our story). Again, I released some tension on my growing rectum, except this time, I could smell it almost immediately (we had the fans going)(what? Our company pay for air conditioning in a room full of Macs? Never!)(Then again, I hate Macs). I had to put my customer on hold, and get up towards the front of the room. It was like magic. I could hear people, in the midst of calls, "Yes sir, now I want you to... Oh God!" I started laughing, and the more I laughed the closer the shit became to critical mass. Not only did my side of the room put their customers on hold but the OTHER side started getting it as well. There we were, about 9 people, standing in the front of the room, all waving the air. My supervisor got wind of it (literally) and freaked out. My friends were laughing along with me (but pretty much disgusted) but he didn't find it as amusing (well, he was laughing, but..) He kicked me out, and told me that he wouldn't let me come back in until I took a shit, and he didn't care WHERE I did it. Sure, that's all fine and dandy, but the bathrooms were out of order, what did he want me to do? Then - it hit me. In a desperate act, I grabbed about 50 of our "tech support fax" sheets and ran out the door. I left the cafeteria (unfortunately, it didn't smell anymore), and then walked outside to the parking lot. Now, that 'rival company' normally closes around 7:30pm, so there wasn't really anyone over there. I figured that would be my best chance. I thought about leaning up against a tree, but after reading a.t for so long, I knew I'd wind up splashing my jeans with bits of beef and bile. I had to find some way to do this sitting up. As a courteousy, it appeared that this company set up park benches for their smoking area. You know, the kind that has 3 boards for a seat, then 3 boards for the back of the chair, and a nice sized crack in between. I could feel my ass screaming, it was do or die at this point. (too bad the smoking area was in front of the building, eh?) I pulled down my pants, bent over, and squeezed my ass through a 4 inch crack, and then pushed (it didn't take much). I looked under the bench, only to see that much of the spray was hitting about 2 feet behind me, with random solids bouncing about. When I stopped concentrating on pushing, I breathed. Mistake. I felt an iron hand punch me in the stomach, and I kind of shook a bit and bit down hard, so I didn't spew as well. I couldn't believe how terrible the stench was. I looked over, and I could see some people from our company out on a smoke break. They didn't see me (the lights were off over by where I was) but I think they heard something. A couple people looked over, but not much more then that. I sat on that bench for about 5 minutes, pushing to get that last bit of turd out of my ass. After the rumbling in my stomach was completely satisfied that it was done, I kinda scraped my ass on the bench as I got up to wipe off an solids that were sticking, and then grabbed some of that fax paper to wipe. Not all THAT bad, but I'll stick to Charmin next time. I turned around to see what the damage was. I'm sure a few of you remember that story about "riding the last train for Manchester to Buxton". The one were all the drunks had completely molested the toilet, leaving shit all over the place? Imagine this... a park bench, sitting in front of a (now, semi-respected) company with a huge shit streak down the middle of it, with a puddle about a foot and a half in diameter behind it composed of some of the most vile-smelling solids you've ever seen in your life? Tasty. Anyway, I actually didn't get much on me, and I didn't have anything on my clothes. All the papers I used, I collected with clean ones and threw them in the sewer out front. As I started walking back to our building, I noticed something. The wind. It was blowing E - SE, meaning... yes, you guessed it. No smokers were outside our building, imagine that. And when I went inside, security was having a fit. No, they had no idea what that was. I went back into the tech room (which had a faint odor now), and my supervisor was there, waiting for me. "Where were you?!" "I went next door to use the bathroom." "Aren't they out as well?" "I found one that was in order." I went back to my cubicle after easily being off the phone for about 20 minutes, and MY CUSTOMER WAS STILL ON THE PHONE! Sheesh, those Mac people really need help. I came back to the phone exclaiming that I called the mfr, and that they said for him to give them a call, to which they exclaimed, "Sigh, ok, thanks." I felt much better now, and started taking more calls. About 10 minutes later, they made an annoucement that the smoking area was temporarily closed down, and if they wanted to smoke, they could go out back. I just sort of stood up in my cubicle, and my supervisor was staring at me, along with a few other people. I tried to look as innocent as possible, but no avail. It was kind of like a silent admission, but noone said anything after that, even when the industrial park security shit a Miata about it. Security nor the other company will ever know who soiled their bench, for only my friends and a.t knows now. ;) Mass in NJ. BTW - Darwin posts rock. :) Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!usenet.ucs.indiana.edu!silver.ucs.indiana.edu!mlile From: mlile@silver.ucs.indiana.edu (michael bradley lile) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Dahmer's Body Date: 18 Sep 1995 19:06:28 GMT Organization: Indiana University, Bloomington Lines: 20 Message-ID: <43kfvk$o3r@usenet.ucs.indiana.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: silver.ucs.indiana.edu From the "Across the Nation" section of today's Chicago Trib: DAHMER'S BODY CREMATED WHILE PARENTS ARGUE OVER HIS BRAIN The remains of serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer were cremated Sunday, but his brain was preserved while his parents argue over whether to give it to scientists for research. His father, Lionel, claimed his half of the ashes Sunday, while arrangements were being made for his mother, Joyce Flint, to receive the rest. Flint wants her son's brain examined to determine whether biological factors influenced his actions. "Jeff always said that, if he could be of any help, he wanted to do whatever he could," Flint told the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel. Lionel Dahmer has objected, saying he wishes to put his son's actions behind him. A court hearing regarding Dahmer's brain is scheduled for Oct. 3, but his divorced parents reportedly chose cremation in the meantime to save storage costs. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!umdac!fizban.solace.mh.se!paladin.american.edu!news.ecn.uoknor.edu!news.eng.convex.com!hermes.oc.com!news.unt.edu!cs.utexas.edu!news.sprintlink.net!in2.uu.net!news.aurora.net!pagesat.net!a3bsrv.nai.net!cyphyn.nai.net!not-for-mail From: ming@cyphyn.nai.net (Ed Ming) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: For You... Date: 17 Sep 1995 19:13:44 -0400 Organization: Der Fuehrer's Water Closet Oompah Band Lines: 48 Message-ID: <43ia38$2bg@cyphyn.nai.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: cyphyn.nai.net X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] - For You - A Poem of Devotion and Thirst For you, I would crawl naked through A dumpster full of broken glass For you, I would hold a dozen Leeches in my mouth and allow them To attach themselves to the underside Of my tongue For you, I would gouge my eyes out with A serrated grapefruit spoon, on public access TV I'd rip my scrotum open with ViseGrip pliers, And joyfully eat my bleeding testicles. For you, I would feed my hair into the whining Turbo charger belt of a top fuel dragster engine I'd carve your initials into my forehead With a rusty pen knife I'd allow myself to be Gang raped by elephant seals For you, I'd suck off a flock of king penguins And I'd swallow too Now, go get me a beer. Ed -- "Spicoli? Why do I have the image of an Italian intestinal parasite?" -- Jeffery D. Angus Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!umdac!fizban.solace.mh.se!paladin.american.edu!zombie.ncsc.mil!simtel!noc.netcom.net!netcomsv!uu3news.netcom.com!netcomsv!uucp3.netcom.com!bongo!julian From: julian@bongo.tele.com (Julian Macassey) Subject: Re: Nasty Tale of what happens when you masterbate at work Message-ID: <1995Sep20.052452.26206@bongo.tele.com> Organization: Grogan Industries Inc. References: <43nv69$14b@everest.iserv.net> Date: Wed, 20 Sep 1995 05:24:52 GMT Lines: 50 In article <43nv69$14b@everest.iserv.net> nowaks@iserv.net (nowaks) writes: >The following is an article reprinted from the July 1991 issue of the >medical journal "MEDICAL ASPECTS OF HUMAN SEXUALITY." > > SCROTUM SELF-REPAIR > by William A. Morton, Jr, MD > ---------------------------- > Here in California, with the wonderful weather and laid back lifestyle, we sometimes lose track of the time. Let's be honest, we sometimes lose track of the date too. But thanks to usenet, we always know when September rolls around. This poster has of course, never read the FAQ. He also thinks we live in a hole in the ground and don't know about stuff that was widely reported three years ago. Oh no, we have sat here for years on usenet, drumming our fingers waiting for mr "nowaks" to bring us up to date on the goings on in the medical journals. Yes, we are so dumb we don't even listen to the radio so we can hear Dr Dean Edel read the "Scrtotum Self Repair" article on his nationally syndicated radio show. Stand by for the exploding whale story. OnTasteless: My brush with fame. Here in the Gay Bay, there is a prestigious law firm located downtown. They share the top floor with the company I work for. The company was called Weld, Freeland, Cooper, and LeHocky. Suddenly, one day I am in the lobby and the signage people are busy changing the sign to Freeland, Cooper, Lehockey and a new name at the end. Where is Weld? Well, Weld is John Weld, 53. He is out on bail. He was caught creeping around at night videotaping young girls in their bedrooms. He is due to appear in court in the next few days. I think it is nice that ambulance chasers can have a hobby. It is also nice that his partners stood by their senior partner by making him an immediate "non person" before he has even appeared in court. Innocent until proven guilty - yeah, for drug dealers, but not high priced lawyers with hobbies. I am not sure which of the lawyers there was Weld, but maybe we have been stall mates in the john when having our "Early morning rear" (T.M. Baden Powell). Wonder if he wants to trade tapes? -- Julian Macassey, N6ARE julian@bongo.tele.com Voice: (415) 647-2217 Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!uunet!in1.uu.net!chronos.synopsys.com!news.synopsys.com!pond!spike From: spike@pond.synopsys.com (Spike Young) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Sonya and Spike's Tasteless Adventure Date: 18 Sep 1995 19:42:12 GMT Organization: Synopsys, Inc. Lines: 110 Sender: spike@pond (Simon A. Young) Distribution: world Message-ID: <43ki2k$s9v@hermes.synopsys.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: pond.synopsys.com *************************************************************************** ** W A R N I N G ! ! ** ** ** ** Not particularly tasteless, but another all too rare meeting of two ** ** alt.tasteless-ites. If you don't want to read it then just move on. ** ** Flame me and I will devote the rest of my life to hunting you down, ** ** and wiping your bloodline from the face of the planet. Starting two ** ** generations ago, and not stopping until I draw my last breath. By ** ** which time I shall have programmed my male children to carry on the ** ** quest. You have been warned. ** *************************************************************************** Well, I had a short stay up in San Francisco this week, and Dr. Sonya and I arranged to meet. I must say that I was extremely curious to learn what the resident a.t. medical 'spurt was like in person (could she __really__ be as bizarre in person as she appears in other media? Stay tuned for Sonya and Spike's Tasteless Adventure. The evening starts at about 6pm in the lobby of the Marriott - I wander in and have a wee bit of a scout about. Hmmmn, what's that crowd over there? Aha, that must be Sonya, beating off (!) sweaty, corpulent businessmen as she offers prostate massages^W^Hexams, wearing a crotch-less satinex rubber body stocking (shocking pink, which matches her natural colouring nicely). Sure enough, it is she. (I exaggerate. Only a little. She was standing in a most demure manner by a large pillar, lip curled in derision at the guests in the lobby. I guess this was so she didn't get mistaken for a hooker). After introductions, and an exchange of appropriate pleasantries, we're off in search of food. Since I've put myself entirely in Sonya's hands for the evening, we head to Max's Diner @ 3rd & Folsom. Tasteless subjects aplenty crop up repeatedly during munchies, but nothing strong enough to have the waitress gag . A 'Roman Shower' would have made a great post. I see photos of the recently betrothed Webers looking delightfully happy, and of the other Bay Area a.t. useless Brit (Julian). Right, food over, and I'm gagging for a few beers. Let's get ourselves to a source of fine ales, and quickly. Gordon Biersch seems just the ticket. One word of warning. Do not under any circumstances, on pain of death, whatever you do, trust Sonya to give you e^Hdirections. We'd a fair hike back along the wharf, though it gave dinner a chance to settle nicely, making a lovely beer shaped hole in my stomach. Into G.B. we get, grab a table and a few pints of M"arzen, and - oh fuck. Sitting right across from us is a sleazy looking, buck-toothed, mustachioed twat in a suit, fawning over a young bint. Though he sports a wedding ring, she does not. Hmmmn. It doesn't seem to be preventing them from swapping a fair amount of spit. Sonya seems completely enthralled with this, spending a half-hour watching the display of public groping, alternating 'God, he's gross' with impressions of the buck-toothed one. In fear of losing my piece of halibut in ginger sauce, I've already moved my stool so I don't have to look. Never fear, Sonya is determined that I should miss nothing, and gives me a blow, er, um, by blow account - at one point even going so far as to grasp my upper thigh. At least, I told her it was my upper thigh. I had to go to the bathroom to empty my underwear. As this couple get up to leave, we see that the sleaze-bag is a short wimpy little fucker. The woman, OTOH, while filling out a bit in the hind-quarter department, is not altogether unattractive. It's all I can do to physically restrain Sonya from tapping her on the shoulder and saying there are better things than her current DickDonor, sticking to the sole of her shoe. As Mr. Ugly and his conquest leave, the bar starts filling up. Sonya and I resort to scoping out the prowling singles, drawing each others attention to the saddest of these people searching for a few hours oblivion in sexual congress (no, surprisingly enough, not me). Our conversation has sunk down to bizarre sexual practices, and since the place is full, we're having to practically shout to make ourselves heard. You would have thought we'd have some space around us, but no, it wasn't working at all. It's time to leave - we're getting pushed about by a couple of ill-mannered and exceptionally dozy fuckwit juniors, and being British, I generally like a good 8 feet of clear space around me. On the way back to the car (another fuckin' hike!), we pass one of the residents of this fair city, standing by his possessions, leaning against an advertising hoarding, vomiting quietly. The scent of fresh vomitus mixes well with that of sewage, floating off the Bay on the evening breeze. (She swore it wasn't her). Comments about spoons pass between us, as does a frisson of barely contained sexual tension (come on, let me dream). We laugh it off...... I drove Sonya home. She muses aloud that it might not be a good idea, as I could be a stalker (she must have read my mind, I was just waiting for her to go in, get naked and dance around her place singing. Bugger, now she'd close the curtains). Despite an invite in, I have to rally back to Mountain View. It was the admonition that I couldn't post about the interior of her home that did it. That and my desire to pee, and the thought that a mention of watersports might be a bit presumptuous - we'd only just met, for Glubs' sake. Sonya, if you're reading this - maybe next time? So, there you have it - an evening encapsulated. I had a great time, and my memories remain, as do: - the smell of potato in my car, - the damp patch on the passenger seat, - the rampant membre' virilis - I was too tired to have my nightly tug on the todger when I got home last night, (and tonight I intend to be too drunk), - the mocha-tinged scent of halibut and ginger in the bogs at work. ObKodakMoment: Sonya being mistaken for my wife ("How dare you, sir, she's not my wife, she's someone elses"). ObChicken: Ok Sonya, where was it? As promised, I brought the bicycle pump. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- 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 -- --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!ix.netcom.com!netcom.com!sonyaj From: sonyaj@netcom.com (Sonya Johnson) Subject: Re: Sonya and Spike's Tasteless Adventure Message-ID: Organization: NETCOM On-line Communication Services (408 261-4700 guest) References: <43ki2k$s9v@hermes.synopsys.com> Date: Fri, 22 Sep 1995 00:56:10 GMT Lines: 148 Sender: sonyaj@netcom6.netcom.com spike@pond.synopsys.com (Spike Young) writes: [tasteless disclaimer deleted] My adventure with Spike began as I walked up the road from my place to the BART station. As I walked, I pondered: "Will Spike be as tasteless and foul in person as he is over the computer and phone? What should I do when I meet him - point and laugh, or yell out: 'Hey! That's the man that tried to rape me last month!'". I mused over these thoughts as I continued up the road. I was under the freeway overpass when I noticed the pile of used disposable diapers deposited by some conscientious unwed mother of 4 worthless yard apes. Further up, amidst the scattered pigeon shits, I noticed a very fresh pile of wet dogshit. The odor hit me, assaulting my olfactory system in a particularly violent way. Ahhh...these must be signs sent from the Gods of Tastelessness. It was to be a good night. I picked up my step and hurried off to the station... >Sure enough, it is she. (I exaggerate. Only a little. She was standing in a >most demure manner by a large pillar, lip curled in derision at the guests >in the lobby. I guess this was so she didn't get mistaken for a hooker). I walked into the lobby of the Marriot. The place is swarming with yuppy-types in suits and such. Hmmm....Spike gave me a description of what he looks like, and I don't see such a character around here. Perhaps he is in the restroom for one last wanksession with the help of the bellhop. Then I see a man coming towards me, and I know instantly that it is Spike: pants that are too short and a little too tight. As he gets closer, I notice the stains on them. His fly is down, but I pretend not to notice. His t-shirt, also a couple of sizes too small, sports a logo of Microsoft, and the caption: "I [heart] Bill Gates". It is untucked, and part of his enormous Brit Beer Gut is hanging out and bouncing over the top of his pants. His hair is slightly matted, and looks like it could stand to be washed. He recognizes me from my description, and as he approaches, he grins at me. I notice that he has some really crooked teeth (let's hear it for the YooKay's dental plan!), and that a few of them are missing (*). Wow - I think to myself - this is the man of my dreams; I can't believe my good fortune! >evening, we head to Max's Diner @ 3rd & Folsom. Tasteless subjects aplenty >crop up repeatedly during munchies, but nothing strong enough to have the With the exception of Spike's loud laughter, we managed to keep our voices down enough so that we didn't send nearby dining patrons fleeing in disgust. I shared some of my favorite jokes with Spike, including my pedophile joke. He got a kick out that one, to be sure. Perhaps a little more than he should have....??? Hmmm.... >source of fine ales, and quickly. Gordon Biersch seems just the ticket. One >word of warning. Do not under any circumstances, on pain of death, whatever >you do, trust Sonya to give you e^Hdirections. We'd a fair hike back along Christ - no kidding! I've been to Gordon Beirsch one time before, and knew only that it was near the Embarcadero and near some coffee building (that would be Hills Bros; I thought it was the Folger's bldg). We dodged some oncoming cars as we ran across the road without a sidewalk or crosswalk. The pungent odor of sewer gas rose from the scattered manholes we passed, filling me with a sense of desire to do some unspeakable things to Spike later. Hell, I wasn't even gonna need to strap on the beer goggles to engage in obscene behavior with him! >Into G.B. we get, grab a table and a few pints of M"arzen, and - oh fuck. >Sitting right across from us is a sleazy looking, buck-toothed, mustachioed >twat in a suit, fawning over a young bint. Though he sports a wedding ring, And oh, was he a nasty one! An ugly, unctuous creature was he - touching, fondling and kissing this woman, in an attempt to win her charms. When he and she got up to leave, it got worse: He was *short*! >of halibut in ginger sauce, I've already moved my stool so I don't have to ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Heh, heh...and move it he did. Right onto the floor, where it lay in a warm, steaming mass. I wonder if the waitress cleaned it up after we left. >grasp my upper thigh. At least, I told her it was my upper thigh. I had to >go to the bathroom to empty my underwear... ...Of the rest of the stool that didn't fall out onto the floor . Yeesh - talk about skid marks. Spike, were you able to get all the stains outta that pair of undies? >to the saddest of these people searching for a few hours oblivion in sexual >congress (no, surprisingly enough, not me). Our conversation has sunk down Ghod, I love hanging out in bars. At least one guy used our little table to write down his name and phone number on the back of a matchbook cover. Told us it was for his long-lost college buddy. Yeah, sure... >to bizarre sexual practices, and since the place is full, we're having to Hooboy...and bizarre were they! Spike shared his deep secret about what he does with a chicken and a bicycle pump. Sick fucker - they should throw people like you in prison for life for shit like that. >fuckin' hike!), we pass one of the residents of this fair city, standing by >his possessions, leaning against an advertising hoarding, vomiting quietly. >The scent of fresh vomitus mixes well with that of sewage, floating off the It was all I could do to stop Spike from going back and trying to scoop up some to play with later. We pondered about the contents of the vomitus: some stale pizza crusts from the nearby dumpster, some raw chicken gizzards and the bottle of warm Thunderbird wine. Mmmm, mmmm...the delicate splash of the vomit as it hit the sidewalk below it send shivers up my spine, and I looked at Spike longingly. He grinned at me, flashing his crooked, toothless smile. It melted my heart. >View. It was the admonition that I couldn't post about the interior of her >home that did it. That and my desire to pee, and the thought that a mention >of watersports might be a bit presumptuous - we'd only just met, for Glubs' >sake. Sonya, if you're reading this - maybe next time? Uh, he under-exaggerates just a wee bit: as he was driving me home, he kept putting his hand on my knee, and trying to move it up my thigh. "Knock it off!", I kept shouting at him. He pulled up at my place, and I was halfway out of his '79 Pacer before he even brought it to a complete stop. He was begging and begging for a prostate exam, but I was no longer in the mood. I told him he could come in and use my restroom, but only if he lay down and let me piss on his big belly. I was insulted when he turned me down. Feh! >So, there you have it - an evening encapsulated. I had a great time, and my >memories remain, as do: > - the smell of potato in my car, I won't share where this came from...heh, heh... > - the damp patch on the passenger seat, I couldn't help myself, and pissed my pants. Sheesh - I must have been too damn excited. > - the rampant membre' virilis - I was too tired to have my nightly tug > on the todger when I got home last night, (and tonight I intend to > be too drunk), All I asked is that he think of me in some capacity when he strokes his Purple Helmeted Brit Warrior to full battle attention. Oh, and if you ever meet him in person, ask him to tell you the Indian joke I told him, to see if he remembers all the gestures. (*) Actually, I had to use some artistic license in regards to Spike's appearance. He is actually a very nice looking guy, without nary a tasteless thing about his appearance. My description was actually a generic of the typical computer geek/loser. Stay toooned for further Adventures in Bay Area Tastelessness coming soon... Sonya, who now has to answer the pager that went off 10 mins. ago. This was more important to finish than listening to some fucker whine about foot pain that has been present for the last 3 weeks. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.funet.fi!news.helsinki.fi!atkk-varamac1.pc.helsinki.fi!user From: holman@katk.helsinki.fi (Eugene Holman) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Tasteless Russian politician Zhirinovsky fights and kisses Date: Mon, 18 Sep 1995 16:13:20 +0200 Organization: University of Helsinki Lines: 20 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: atkk-varamac1.pc.helsinki.fi Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit Vladimir Zhirinovsky (Mad Vlad) beat up two female members of the Russian lower house of parliament last week. His aids explained his behavior as the result of the frayed nerves he had after having spent a 'sleepless night' with Italian porno star and breast-flasher Cicciolina. A photograph of a satisfied Vlad being kissed on the cheek by La Cicciolina was published in the international press last week. One newspaper has reported that Mad Vlad suggested to Cicciolina that they try having a baby together, a proposition which Cicciolina is said to be considering. In the US the occasional scandals like Whitewater and Dan Quayle's spelling ability. Not even senator what's-his-name's recent resignation for smooching and pinching the distaff derrièrs comes anywhere near being as tasteless as Mad Vlad's remark about parliamentarian Yevgenia Tishkovoya. After releasing her from a half nelson and smashing another female parliamentarianism in the teeth, Mad Vlad says that 'Women like her want to be raped, but they can't find anyone to service them'. Regards, Eugene Holman Zhirinovsky watcher 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!news.sprintlink.net!in2.uu.net!chronos.synopsys.com!news.synopsys.com!pond!spike From: spike@pond.synopsys.com (Spike Young) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Tasteless TV ad in YooKay Date: 22 Sep 1995 00:47:50 GMT Organization: Synopsys, Inc. Lines: 57 Sender: spike@pond (Simon A. Young) Distribution: world Message-ID: <43t13m$b21@hermes.synopsys.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: pond.synopsys.com The Electronic Telegraph Thursday 21 September 1995 Home News [Electronic version of British broadsheet newspaper, and occasional ] [source of tasteless snippets ] |> Snack advert is cut from daytime TV |> |> A TELEVISION commercial for a meat snack, featuring an animated character |> that shreds itself to death, is to be removed from daytime viewing after |> complaints from parents. |> |> The maker of the Pepperami snack, Van den Berghs Foods, will not allow |> the 10-second advertisement to be screened < 9pm after the Independent |> Television Commission received 54 complaints. |> |> The advertisement, with a voice-over by Ade Edmondson, was described as |> "sick" and "aggressive and disturbing" by some viewers. |> |> The ITC will make a ruling next week, but is not expected to uphold the |> complaints. It had cleared the sequence for children's television. |> |> The Pepperami figure, whose slogan is "it's a bit of an animal", is seen |> repeatedly butting a metal cheese grater, screaming until it reduces |> itself to a dying torso and legs. |> |> [deleted some nonsense about a women who complained that one of her ] |> [kids started crying while watching the ad. She said, "it's a real ] |> [intrusion, and I object when it means the youngsters are upset in ] |> [their own homes. ] Firstly, the Pepparami is itself pretty tasteless. Made of reconstituted animal parts and some spices - chewy, about 6" long and the thickness of a pencil. It's 'kin 'orrible. I certainly wouldn't want my kids munching on it. Secondly, it sounds like a remarkably tasteless advertisement and could well be ideal training material for junior a.t.-ers. I'd like to meet the two of this woman's children that DIDN'T start crying (especially if one of them looked invitingly at the cheese grater and then his sibling). Thirdly, re-read the "screaming until it reduced itself to a dying torso and legs" paragraph. Any of you males get an erection? If any of you are found by your SOs/roomies/whatever, crouched by the side of the toilet, bleeding member in one hand and (knob/dick) cheese grater in the other, I wonder if you'll mention this advert..... How to make a good time great. Mmmmmn. mmmmn Yours 'no thanks, I think I'll wash mine' Spike Californi-Brit --------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- 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!uunet!in1.uu.net!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!news.ecn.bgu.edu!newspump.wustl.edu!gumby!newsxfer.itd.umich.edu!news.itd.umich.edu!mcafee From: mcafee@umich.edu (Sean McAfee) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: You're goddam right I'd inhale Date: 18 Sep 1995 16:44:15 GMT Organization: University of Michigan Lines: 27 Message-ID: <43k7kv$dml@lastactionhero.rs.itd.umich.edu> References: <432oep$b9a@larry.rice.edu> <432vob$c4e@larry.rice.edu> <43bqnu$f2f@dub-news-svc-4.compuserve.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: verne.ifs.umich.edu In article <43bqnu$f2f@dub-news-svc-4.compuserve.com>, Michael Booye wrote: >Okay, now _here's_ a topic I haven't seen beat to death. How many of >you practice scab-munching? I'm betting plenty. Personally, I seem >to have a compulsion in this regard, since childhood. Strangely, it's never occurred to me to engage in this activity. Now that I think about it, though, scabs look exactly like oversized boogers, don't they? Hmmmm...it may be about time I tried expanding my diet. It's been a few years since I tried consuming a new kind of bodily secretion (my own cum), so I'm past due to expand my culinary horizons. Unfortunately, like Adam writes in a later article, I don't fall down much these days either. One of the last big ones was the summer of '94, when I was riding home from work, clipped the curb, and took a fall on the sidewalk at about 10-15 MPH. I landed on my hands and face, the latter of which went miraculously undamaged. One of my many minor wounds was a scrape near the base of my right thumb. I don't recall how much I took care of my cuts, but I looked down at the area a few days later at work and noticed a greenish goop oozing from it. Only the thin plastic of my gloves kept the gunk from dropping into the potato salad and other deli goodies I was slavishly dishing out for the customers. Not that I would have given a shit if it *had*, mind you. I hated that fuckin' job. -- Sean McAfee | "Uh-oh. Pee-pee hurt. Time to die." mcafee@umich.edu | -- Sam Kinison Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!newsfeed.tip.net!peroni.ita.tip.net!maggiore.dsnet.it!news.uni-stuttgart.de!news.rhrz.uni-bonn.de!RRZ.Uni-Koeln.DE!news.dfn.de!Germany.EU.net!EU.net!news.sprintlink.net!news.ramlink.net!news From: bkazee@ramlink.net Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: A Plumbers Saga Part 2 (The Tampon Shower) Date: Sat, 23 Sep 1995 15:14:34 GMT Organization: RAMLink Internet Access Service Lines: 112 Message-ID: <4418f5$60j@ram2.ramlink.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: ash29.ramlink.net X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.0.82 The Tampon Shower First off, I would like to thank the wonderful people who emailed me concerning The Saga part 1. It gladdens my soul to know that there are people out there who truly appreciate a real life story and can identify with my experiences as a Sewer phD. I'll try not to disappoint you all. Now one of the things that brings joy to a plumbers heart is receiving a call from a bank explaining to us that their system is stopped up and that they need us RIGHT away. This little story concerns one such call and the results that we had. SCENARIO Ring! Ring.....B&R Plumbing... Bank Manager--This is Jim at 1st and Peoples...we have a little problem down here..our toilets are overflowing! Can you come right away? B&R Plumbing---Sure thing, we'll be right there. And so it begins.............. We arrive at the bank and proceed to make our inspection to ascertain the problem. The bank manager directs us to the ladies room, and there on the floor is the result of an aborted flush....a puddle of water, and one lonely, petite grogan, swimming languidly about. You truly DO have a problem we expound, noticing the embarresed look on one tellers face,and so, get to work. Now our first guess is that the offending toilet is stopped up, so we proceed to use the mini-eel on it. For those of you who are Plumberese deprived, a mini eel is a tool consisting of a flexible cable about two feet long attached to a handle. You stick the cable down into the toilet and twist the handle, hopefully snagging any obstruction in the toilet trap. In he goes..twist,twist, jiggle jiggle..nothing there..apparently this thunderbowl is o.k. so we proceed to the next step in our endeavors. Going outside, we pull out the next weapon in our arsenal of GroganBusters..the hand held Steel Tape. Now this little article is a steel band approx. 1 inch wide, 50 feet long, with a pointed steel head reminiscent of an oversized arrow head. We inserted the tape into the cleanout fixture close to the bank and run him out to his full length---nothing. But upon withdrawal, we do find the tape to be coated with toilet paper and globs of semi-viscous BrownDollars (Plumberese for the money we receive for playing with other peoples shit). Now according to KY state plumbing code, any sewer system must have a cleanout tap every 100 ft. so we proceeded downline on to the next one and inserted the Steel Tape again. Now it just so happens that this cleanout is at the top of an embankment at the edge of the parking lot. The sewer system then proceeds to go downhill at a 60 degree angle for about 30 feet. In goes the tape, and stops after about 20 feet. Eureka!, we exclaim---we have found the blockage! We poke around with the tape for 10 or 15 minutes but can't seem to break through so we bring out our next weapon, the Mighty Electric Eel! Now this little jewel consists of 75 feet of coiled steel connected to a 2 horsepower drill motor and tipped with a steel spiral, which will embed itself into a blockage thus enabling the operator to physically pull it out. Vroooom--in she goes--and stops deader than Kurt Cobain. Damn ,we say. Not only is the line still stopped up but it now has a 95.00 eel spring clutched in its rancid bowels. At this point we are getting pretty frustrated, and there is nothing left to do but dig the damn line out, cut into it, and manually clear the obstruction. So, over the hill we go, shovels in hand and start to dig. One hour later, after finding that the goatdamned line is 30 inches underground we decide to call in the backhoe. In he rumbles and proceeds to uncover this 4 inch vein of shit--he does in 20 minutes what it would have taken 2 days for us to do. OK--now we can work! Ross, my cohort in this business climbs into the ditch and proceeds to saw the line in half close to where we think that it is stopped up. As he cuts through, a brownish trickle begins, and the aroma surrounding us takes on that "smell of money" attribute. All the way through now, and a section of pipe is removed so that we can try to unstop the pipe from this end. Now Ross, being the man of steel that he is (as any good plumber shoud be), proceeds to insert his arm back into the pipe. I can feel it, he says, and pulls out a wad of raw sewage..yum...black gold. Continuing to probe around, he pulls out a shit encrusted pencil ( we save this for our souvenir box), and what appears to be some paper clips--all rusted and coated with Liquishit. Still, there is no flow, but with a mighty effort Ross plunges his arm once again into the gaping maw of this monster of defecation. Yank--jerk---push---pull--one last ditch effort and viola! an eruption so foul that even our jaded senses are overcome for a second---a boiling brownish/white flood of tampons completely inundates Ross!!! He has them hanging from his hair, his clothes, everywhere!! He is awash in a flood of Grogans, tp, kotex, tampons, panty shields--you name it!!! I am overcome with hilarity!!! This is life in the plumbing world at its apex!!! Ross just takes it in stride..another job well done! You see, the shit encrusted pencil had turned sideways in the line therefore catching everything in its path. Now the bank, being a bank, has mostly female tellers, hence the abundance of BloodyPussy items. They had congealed for the most part into a homogenous mass that had confounded our tools, but not our spirit and brute strength. We collected our tools and were soon on our way to the next job, albeit a little smellier, but none the worse for wear. Needless to say, the bank had a sizable withdrawal that day, and I'm sure the tellers received a lecture on the proper disposal of their arcane sanitary devices. Coming next: Wax Bowl Rings--Friend or Foe? The 4 Rules of Plumbing 1. Hot on the left 2. Cold on the right 3. Shit runs downhill 4. If it stinks, it's money [[[[[[[[Bruce]]]]]]]]] 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!uunet!in2.uu.net!wb3ffv!cs.umd.edu!not-for-mail From: arteaga@cs.umd.edu (Santiago Arteaga) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: A.T. Hackers prove yourselves Date: 25 Sep 1995 04:23:30 -0400 Organization: U of Maryland, Dept. of Computer Science, Coll. Pk., MD 20742 Lines: 150 Distribution: world Message-ID: <445ou2$cb@chebyshev.cs.umd.edu> References: <444n6b$qhl@lastactionhero.rs.itd.umich.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: chebyshev.cs.umd.edu FUNKO wrote: >and with it I have masked my real name, email add., >and origin. Can any of you figure any of them out? - Hello? - Hi, this is James William Stepanek, calling from the alt.tasteless Clue Desk, and... - Wow! You guys are fas... - ...and we think that we all could benefit if you were visited by an a.t. regular who would... - A regular? Who? - ...who would explain to you some things about the group, you know, local traditions and that kind of crap. - Yeah, the group! Kewl! Let me tell you th... - Now, there are some things about you that could be improved, so we'll provide some free advice and counseling... - Hey, I must have done really well if... - ...and we are sending you one of our agents on duty. He will meet you at the pigsty in the back of your house in one hour from now. Be there. Your reference number is 24-9-1995-4625-H. - But... 59 minutes later a guy shows up at the pigsty entrance. He has a disgusting rash all over his neck, and is wearing thick glasses and a backpack. He looks like a student, but kind of gloomy. As he gets closer, he gets from his backpack a pencil and a notepad with a form. - Are you 24-9-1995-4625-H? - Hi, how are you? I'm glad to... - Are you 24-9-1995-4625-H? - Well, yes, the guy who called gave me this number, and I'm wondering... - OK, first of all, let me check some things. We keep some statistics about this service, you know? You are male, I guess and single, right? What age? - 19. Hey, you speak funny, which country are you fr... - That's phonetically distinguished for you, boy. You are obviously virgin, aren't you? ... - Well, once my sister... - ...and hetero or so you wished . You have been on the Internet for less than two weeks, right? You use a computer from you university, don't you? Educational level: mediocre , IQ: undetectable external appearance: ugly pale acne, lots of it unwashed, greasy, unshaved, fat circumsized? - Uh... yes... - allergies? Health problems? Hereditary defects? Parasites? - No, the only problem is that since I moved from my parent's I'm putting some weight on because th... - Do you have piercings? - What's that? - You masturbate every day, in your bedroom, with your right hand, your dick is bent leftwards, you wipe your ass backwards, with your right hand, wile standing up, you fold once the paper, you look at the tissue before dropping it into the lavatory, you don't examine your stools for worms. Isn't that right? - Hey, you are good at this , how did you guess it? - ...and you are an unimaginative boring dork . OK, now let's go to the interesting part. Have you read the group FAQ, maintained and posted by Steve Snedker? - The efaycue? - or the WWW FAQ, maintained and posted monthly by John Nash? - What's that efaycue thing? - Have you read the Martial Law FAQ from Ed Ming? - Hell, what's that damned ef... - And have you heard of the Stupid post of the month award, granted by Lenore Levine? - Er... - Have you heard of "flaming newbies"? - Well... - or read something about netiquette? - Huh? - Are you familiar with the Clue Desk, crewed by a legion of volunteers from the group? - I heard it for the first time when this guy called this morning and... - But you *do* have read the alt.tasteless Who's Who file, maintained by Grumpy the Dwarf, and you want to be included in it, right? - Yes, precisel... - Well, you see, there is a lot of people who cares about the quality level in the group, and they have made some institutions to help keep it up. That's why we have plans for you. - Really? You think I can improve the group? - Now, sometimes some person can pass through these controls, like in your case. - Wow, I was _that_ good ? No need to check me out? Great! - Now, before improving on the present situation, I have to ask you a final couple of quick questions. It's you who wrote yesterday a post on alt.tasteless with subject "Re: A.T. Hackers prove yourselves"? - Yes, did you lik... - Did somebody help you? - No, becau... - Was the idea yours alone? Did you receive any help? - Hell, no, I did it all by myself, why do you ask? - Well, you see, we in the Darwin Brigade do not like to make mistakes. We take seriously our responsability. Well, not always, sometimes we enjoy ourselves... anyway, let's start your training. You see this? - What's that? - It's a hand-sized replica of the Clue Desk. Now, have you heard of the aztecs? - ...is that a football team? - Well, it was some sort of team. But they did human sacrifices on altars. - Cool! What's an altar? - *This* is an altar. Well, the real ones were larger, you see, people were laid over here like this, but those altars were very heavy because they were made up of stone, so we can't carry them with us. Also, the modern versions have drawers and stuff. But the point is that the Clue Desks are shaped after those altars used for human sacrifices. - I see. Cool. And what's that handle under it? - Right on, partner. You see, there are many ways to kill somebody with an altar. One of them is to get my hand inside the handle like this... - I see... - ...then I get a firm grip on the desk, you see... - yeah, real strong... - ...precisely. And then, you see this corner of the Desk? - Yes... Ssswwash-BLOPF!! Blam! The student puts the hand Clue Desk into the backpack without cleaning the blood or shaking away the punctured eyeball, and dumps the corpse inside the pig's fence. He waits a couple of minutes to check that the pigs are indeed eating the body, and meanwhile he kicks some dirt over the blood stains on the floor. Then he goes to a nearby phone and dials 1-800-A-CLUE-4-U. - James? - No, this is Captain. - Hi buddy! This is Santi! - What's up, dude? Have you fixed that 24-9-1995-4625-H ? - Yep. Have you cancelled his message? - Sure we did. OK, this one is over . By the way, do you have some spare time? There is a 24-9-1995-76005-WS in Bethesda, but you'll have to be tough on this one, because... Santi Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!news.clark.net!rahul.net!a2i!bug.rahul.net!a2i!news.erinet.com!uunet!in2.uu.net!chronos.synopsys.com!news.synopsys.com!pond!spike From: spike@pond.synopsys.com (Simon A. Young) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Sonya and Spike's Tasteless Adventure Date: 26 Sep 1995 00:23:13 GMT Organization: Synopsys, Inc. Lines: 121 Sender: spike@pond (Simon A. Young) Distribution: world Message-ID: <447h5h$g0r@hermes.synopsys.com> References: <43ki2k$s9v@hermes.synopsys.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: pond.synopsys.com Sonya Johnson, tender cause of my current, perpetual erection, wrote: |> |> [with occasional deletia, and much artistic license] |> |> spike@pond.synopsys.com (Spike Young) writes: |> |> Ahhh...these must be signs sent from the Gods of Tastelessness. It was |> to be a good night. Well, I'm very glad _you_ thought so. I tried so hard to be polite, opening doors and following all the lessons my dear, late mother taught me (even to the extent of walking on the traffic side of you on the sidewalk, with you on my left, leaving my wanki^H^H^H^H^Hsword arm free. And I didn't even get so much as a sniff of your delicately perfumed woman's area. . |> [Sonya's physical description of me deleted - she was too, too kind] |> I think to myself - this is the man of my dreams So how come you didn't put out? I even went to the (not inconsiderable, I might add) trouble of getting my special 1977 commemerative, Queen's Silver Jubilee condom out of the safety deposit box, and buying a brand new bottle of anaesthetic lube. I tried the condom for size - hey, I may have shrunk since I was a massive 2 inches at age 16! No worries, still a perfect, snug fit. Hell, I even wiped, polished AND showered (there's nothing nicer than a clean sphincter). But all for naught. I wonder why I bother sometimes. Actually, I wonder why I bother ever! |> The pungent odor of sewer gas rose from the scattered manholes we passed, |> filling me with a sense of desire to do some unspeakable things to Spike |> later. Hell, I wasn't even gonna need to strap on the beer goggles to |> engage in obscene behavior with him! It was DESIRE?? Damn, I thought you'd had a dodgy Hefeweizen. That slightly distant, bulging eyed look was really starting to turn me on as you belched and farted your way along the sidewalk. The condom was burning a hole in my pocket, as I wondered if this would be the night I would finally get to use it. I rubbed my burgeoning erection, carefully turning my torso slightly so you wouldn't suspect. It was only when you mentioned strap-on that my huge, blood-engorged two inches detumesced back to it's regular flaccid state. In my dreams, ever since that night, I've pictured you in leather harness with strap-on, rogering me senseless as I kneel wantonly over your dining room furniture, urging you to thrust harder, faster, deeper. Every morning since then, I've woken with a bed wet from nocturnal emissions. And a sore arse. And the bedside lamp has started to smell a bit off. |> >Sitting across from us is a sleazy looking, buck-toothed, mustachioed |> >twat in a suit, fawning over a young bint. |> Was he a nasty one! An ugly, unctuous creature was he - touching, |> fondling and kissing this woman, in an attempt to win her charms. Ok, time for some honesty here - I just can't continue the lies any longer. We were sitting opposite a mirror........ Sorry, Sonya, but the truth just has to be told. |> Spike, were you able to get all the stains outta that pair of undies? No, but I've kept them for sentimental purposes. One day, when I'm old and grey, I shall sit with my grandchildren and tell them the story of the a.t. vixen I met and fell for, back in my early thirties. Only then will I have got over being spurned because of the state of my shreddies. |> Spike shared his deep secret about what he does with a chicken and a |> bicycle pump. Sick fucker. Really? Are you quite sure that you're not just trying to divert attention from the fact that you neglected to bring the chicken you promised? During my explanation, you did seem to gaze, unfocussed and with glassy eyes, into the middle distance, repeatedly crossing and uncrossing your legs. I didn't notice you shudder as orgasm rippled through you, but as we left, all eyes were upon you, and the spreading damp patch between your thighs. |> mmmm...the delicate splash of the vomit as it hit the sidewalk below |> sent shivers up my spine, and I looked at Spike longingly. He grinned at |> me, flashing his crooked, toothless smile. It melted my heart. I thought the shivers were from your orgasm - remember you told me how much vomit turned you on? |> He was begging and begging for a prostate exam, but I was no |> longer in the mood. I was feeling _so_ hot, and just wanted to bring the evening to a fitting climax. I mean, it's not as if I wanted much, is it? Just an extended digit up my arse and a good wiggle about - wouldn't have taken very long. I don't know, you treat people right, and what do you get for it? I read in one of a UK paper that 10,000 men die of prostate cancer each year in the UK, and just wanted to make sure I wasn't at risk.... (well, that's my story). |> I told him he could come in and use my restroom, but only if he lay down |> and let me piss on his big belly. I was insulted when he turned me down. Had you bought the chicken, I was hoping all three of us could have had a fun end to the evening, rolling about in a bath of BierschPiss[tm]. Maybe next time? |> All I asked is that he think of me in some capacity when he strokes his |> Purple Helmeted Brit Warrior to full battle attention. Oh, I do, Sonya. I do. I'm not sure it's quite the capacity you would have hoped for, but beggars can't be choosers, can they? |> (*) Actually, I had to use some artistic license in regards to Spike's |> appearance. He is actually a very nice looking guy, without nary a |> tasteless thing about his appearance. Huh! Now you try and sweet-talk me at the end. If only you'd taken the many opportunities I gave you to sweet-talk my end while we were out that night. I enjoyed your f/u (are you really sure that means follow-up?), and got a major kick out of the tasteless parts. But this final paragraph _really_ is the giddy limit. I am "a very nice looking guy, with nary a tasteless thing about my appearance"?? WTF are you trying to do - ruin my chances with all other potential mates that could be lurking out in a.t. land? I mean, for crying out loud, how the hell am I going to look our regular DC watersports poster in the eye? And I just know that Dominik and Julia will never speak to me again. You've ruined me, Sonya. |> Stay toooned for further Adventures in Bay Area Tastelessness |> coming soon... You still up for the forth, fifth, and filth-coming drinkathon? Gonna bring the chicken this time? I've kept the bicycle pump in the truck, along with the barely touched bottle of bourbon and the blunt pair of pinking shears. Rgds - Spike Californi-Brit --------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- 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!news10.sunet.se!news00.sunet.se!sunic!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!news5.ner.bbnplanet.net!news3.near.net!yale!news.ycc.yale.edu!morpheus!bell From: bell@morpheus.cis.yale.edu (Peter Bell) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: A Sad Sack Seeks To Be Misled Date: 5 Oct 1995 20:29:38 GMT Organization: Yale University Lines: 55 Message-ID: <451f7i$3r@news.ycc.yale.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: morpheus.cis.yale.edu heheheh.... Another journalist without friends posts a want ad to the net for tales of net.dating hell.... Go ahead, make something up, kids -- but, make it believable enough, and you can waste a lot of this guy's time. Hell, make it believable enough, and you too can participate in the performance art of media hijacking (though our buddy Una has recently pretty much set an impossible standard in the this category. I think he should probably be given a lifetime achievement and award and retired from competition...) Herewith, The Man Who Would Not Do His Own Homework (But Gives Out His Phone Number To Strangers All Over The World...): Path: news.ycc.yale.edu!yale!gumby!newspump.wustl.edu!simtel!news.sprintlink.net!news.voicenet.com!news ~From: Reid Kanaley ~Newsgroups: alt.personals,alt.personals.ads,alt.personals.misc,soc.singles,alt.romance.online,alt.romance,soc.women,alt.women.attitudes,soc.men,soc.men,soc.misc,alt.personals.bi,alt.sex.services ~Subject: Hurt by online love? Writer needs interviews. ~Date: 4 Oct 1995 21:39:33 GMT Message-ID: <44uuul$le@news.voicenet.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: philly57.voicenet.com Hi. This is my second visit here to find the stories of those of you who've experienced real net-related heartbreak. I'm writing a magazine piece based on the stories of a few people who, for example, have built passionate online relationships, only to see them evaporate in the transition to "real life", or have fallen into unexpected love affairs this way that tore apart a marriage or other relationship, even if it never got to a physical meeting. I realize, of course, that there are a lot of success stories too, so please don't flame me on that count. My aim is to document what happens emotionally when things don't go as expected in this intense medium of the unexpected. If this strikes a note with you, and you would be willing to talk in some detail about your experience, please respond by email with a voice phone number. Or feel free to call me. Thanks so much, Reid Kanaley, staff writer, Philadelphia Inquirer, 610-690-8415 -Let us know what all happens to this Enterprising Journalist.... -Peter -- bell@minerva.cis.yale.edu | http://pantheon.cis.yale.edu/~bell/bell.html Boil up a batch of shrimp: everyone for miles is beating down your door. Boil up a batch of roaches: you're undergoing an extensive psychological evaluation. -- ken@seefried.com Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!news.ramlink.net!news From: bkazee@ramlink.net Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: A Plumbers Saga Part 3 Date: Sun, 01 Oct 1995 13:31:14 GMT Organization: RAMLink Internet Access Service Lines: 65 Message-ID: <44m5em$f3q@ram2.ramlink.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: ash26.ramlink.net X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.0.82 Wax Bowl Rings: Friend or Foe (a prelude to the A-Frame fiasco) Greetings a.t.'ers. Thanks for all of your response to my posts. This one is a day late due to service call on Saturday... Wax Bowl Rings--Friend or Foe? Did you know that in you house, apartment, condo or wherever you live that has a water closet (Plumberese for toilet a.k.a. thunderbowl), there lives a creature so foul, so nasty, so incredibly malignant that even the most jaded of you would find it repulsive? Well, such a monster DOES exist--even in the cleanest of households, just waiting for the day that it quits functioning properly, and requires a replacement, so that it may spew its putrescensce upon the unsuspecting...the Wax Bowl Ring... What is this demon of he plumbing world you may ask, so I will now tell you. The wax bowl ring is a handy (when new) device used it in the process of sealing a toilet to a toilet flange. It is a donut shaped ring of 100% beeswax which is placed on the bottom of your toilet and mates with the flange thus creating a, hopefully, airtight seal. You can see how this works--the weight of the toilet crushes the beeswax down onto the flange and the toilet itself thus forming the seal. In reality what happens is this---the beeswax spreads out far enough over the opening in your waste pipe to form the perfect catch-all for whatever goes down the old shitter. As you know, beeswax is a very soft, and very sticky substance...over the course of time, the wax will collect all manner of shit smears, menstruation streaks, vomit stains and whatever else you subject your bowl to. It also becomes flatter and flatter as the weight of your body on the toilet presses down upon it. Eventually, it becomes so thin as to not function anymore thus precipitating removal. What started out as a nice yellow ring 1 1/4 inches thick has become a 1/8 inch mass of grayish/blackish matter so vile that even MY stomach churns just thinking of it. Removing this creature is an onerous task to say the least. We generally just use a putty knife and hope for the best, but remember, we are dealing with beeswax here, and it has all of the properties of the original plus it is now impregnated with waste products making it MUCH more pliable and about twice as sticky. Woe to the plumber who accidently gets this substance on his skin or clothes--it's virtually impossible to wash off or out and stinks to high heaven! So think about the wax bowl ring next time you go to take a dump...and just pray to bog that it doesn't take on a life of its own and come creeping out from under the toilet some night and join you in your sleep. As an aside, we use pieces of nicely fermented bowl ring in our initiation of plumbers apprentices. Just smear a bit on the back of their hands and let them wear it all day. If they can stomach that, then they have the makings of a good plumber! [[[[[Bruce]]]]]--Tasteless Plumber Team Darkstar This has been a prelude to next weeks post..The A-Frame Fiasco Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!news10.sunet.se!news00.sunet.se!sunic!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!umdac!fizban.solace.mh.se!paladin.american.edu!zombie.ncsc.mil!news.gmi.edu!news.flint.umich.edu!newsxfer.itd.umich.edu!agate!howland.reston.ans.net!vixen.cso.uiuc.edu!sdd.hp.com!swrinde!emory!metro.atlanta.com!news.sprintlink.net!apollo.albany.net!news1.cris.com!viking.cris.com!Katmandu From: Katmandu@cris.com (KatmanDu) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Nastiest shitter you've ever seen? Date: 27 Sep 1995 01:53:16 GMT Organization: Concentric Internet Services Lines: 109 Message-ID: <44aaqc$fvm@spectator.cris.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: viking-fddi.cris.com X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Warning: It's a long one (she whispered softly) A little introduction to the neighborhood is in order: At the beginning of this summer, seeking cheap rent and a landlord who doesn't mind two 60+ pound mildly incontinent canines soiling his cheap carpet, I moved into a recently renovated house mere blocks from downtown. The landlord was snapping up as many decrepit old firetraps as he could, renovating them hastily, and renting them out at exhorbatant rates to frat-boy college students turned stoners. The only problem with this scheme was that the houses he was buying were in the middle of Zone 8, one of the nastier maggot-infested, 80-pound hooker crawling, crack-head ridden sections of town; and Muffy the gapeing cunt bowhead would zip off in horror at spotting the likes of Larry the Lump (further explaination of this individual at a later date), leaving the landlord stuck with an unrentable, but perfectly servicable, house. Enter my roommates and I... employees of the police department, owners of large, nasty dogs, prone to violent projectile vomiting at passers-by. For an incredibly discounted rent and no mention whatsoever of a pet deposit (boy, will he regret that!), we get the house so long as we promise to do our best to scare off the local vermin. On the left side of the house is an abandoned building. We've yet to pry open the doors and look around, but judging from the smell that wafts our way from time to time, such an exploration could be fruitful. On the right side is a crack house... the occupants of which can usually be found shlurping as many 22-oz malt liquors as they can procure or standing on the street corner shouting "I gotcha! I gotcha!" at everything that drives by; making the occassional sale. Across the street is a whorehouse; whose occupants seem to spend their time throwing bottles at the crack house, or wandering out on the corner trying to hawk their scrawny disease infested twats. The rest of the area is just as juicy; there's even a pool hall up the street called (named in a no doubt since unrepeated burst of inspiration) "Tight Pockets". The inhabitants of the area will no doubt provide me with many tasteless anecdotes in the future. Anywho... The whorehouse got bought out by my landlord last month! Woe is me, I cried; where will I go for a $10 piece of triple-bagger ass on the weekends? I'll have to walk up the street... The landlord served 'em with their eviction papers and away they went. I wandered over the next day to check the house out. First bit of effluvia I noticed was a very full trashcan next to the back door. It's a Georgia summer; about 110 degrees with the heat index, and the odor from this yard had been competing with the stench from the abandoned house and the piles of dogshit in the front yard. My sensitive nose followed the stink trail to the can and I gingerly peered inside... Yum, a sort of brownish-yellow unidentifiable lump crawling with maggots. I wondered briefly if it was one solid can full of brown-yellow pudding, or differentiated in layers, but quailed at the thought of digging through the goop... I know, I know, what sort of chickenshit yellow-bellied asswipe am I turn down such an opportunity, but I was tending a particularly large and sensative whitehead on my forearm, and I didn't want to risk rupturing it before it got really turgid... The front door was wide open, so I let myself in. I have to hand it to the hookers, they know how to trash a house. Every square inch of floor, except for little walkways down the hall, was covered three feet deep in trash. Old pampers, clothes, bedsheets, soiled mattresses, broken electronics, ruptured bags of household trash, beer bottles... roaches ranging from centimeter size to the whopping 3 inch palmetto bugs were scurrying over the mounds, hundreds of them.. occassionally a wharf rat would poke his snout out of the clutter and then scurry off. The further back in the house I went, the stronger a familiar odor became... at first I ignored it, figuring it was the detritus at my feet. But it grew stronger and stronger, until I faced an unopened door just off the kitchen (whose entire floor had caved in). Seconds before I pushed upen the door with a trembling hand, I realized what the stench was; and then the door was open and it hit me like a fetid wave full in the face. Waterlogged grogans and old liquishit. You know, the stench you can only get when the toilet quits and the piss and turds stay in the water for a couple of days, or some sick fuck shits in the toilet tank and it decomposes in there. This was the stink, and it was almost a physical, palpable presence in the room. The toilet was amazing. The bowl was completely, absolutely brimming with tarry black liquishit. It has run down the sides and pooled around the toilet in a four foot shitslick, punctuated here and there by a slimy turd torpedo. My eyes were tearing from the incredible stench and the sheer magnificence of what I was seeing. Never in my years of bar bathroom beershit-filled thunderjugs have I seen such a specimen of diarrhetic excellence. Was this the product of one person, one sitting? How could his bowels hold so much watery feces? Or, more likely, had the occupants had a group squat the night before they were ejected? If so, was it possible that ALL of them suffered from the squirts? (side note: does smoking crack give you the serious runs? Hmm... make a note to grab some crackheads off the corner and squeeze 'em 'til they shit; measure results... something to do over the weekend.) Alas, the odor proved too much for me (I was also tired of shaking my feet every few minutes to keep the roaches out of my pants legs) and I retreated to the (relatively) fresh air, the image of a monumental lake of liquishit indelibly burned into my brain. It was cleaned out the following day by a no doubt so-desperate-for-cash-they'd-touch-anything crew of cleaners. But it will remain in my mind as the head by which all others will be judged... -- katmandu@uga.cc.uga.edu * ewilson@phoenix.cs.uga.edu * katmandu@cris.com Theriomorph at large * http://www.cris.com/~katmandu * Certified annoying git "Just say a word and the boys will be right there, with claws at your back to send a chill through the night air. Is it so frightening to have me at your shoulder? Thunder and lightning couldn't be bolder. I'll write on your tombstone 'I thank you for dinner'. This game that we animals play is a winner." -Ian Anderson / Jethro Tull Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!news.vii.com!news1.cris.com!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!newsjunkie.ans.net!news-m01.ny.us.ibm.net!usenet From: clear@ibm.net (Charlie Lear) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Potential AOLer found in NZ! Date: Fri, 06 Oct 1995 17:48:49 -0400 Organization: The Bear's Lair, Wellington, New Zealand Lines: 38 Message-ID: <1HQTmSMRyeiA078yn@ibm.net> Reply-To: clear@ibm.net NNTP-Posting-Host: slip174-205.wl.nz.ibm.net In the same news broadcast as the demise of the huntard we discover that an 18-year-old skinhead living a few miles from here has been charged with several animal cruelty offences following a raid on his flat. Seems he and some friends had got a welfare house, then the others moved out and left our man to pay all the rent. Pictures of three near-death Bag'o'Bones dawgs (all mongrel variants of pit bulls) and the astonishing fact that one of them had been locked in a bedroom of the flat for some weeks. Why? Inquiring minds need to know! Bailiffs had turned up to repossess skinboy's beer-crate lounge suite (must've been - he had nothing else) and discovered the dogs and reported it to authorities. The most tasteless news footage I have seen in many a moon was the glimpse from the doorway ("our camera crew was loathe to get closer") of the dog's bedroom. Picture an echoing room, totally bare save a carpet of doggie poos. Literally every 6-8 inches across the entire floor were dogloaves in varying stages of decomposition. Interview with choadbrain saw him snivelling into the camera about his lack of money and how he cared for the dogs and how it was cruel to take them away from him, and that they had only been without food for about a week, for the first time, he's never done anything like that before, and he really wants his dogs and when he gets some money he'll feed them. Housing NZ might ask him some pointed questions about cleaning up the place first... -- *** Personal Account, Personal Opinions, Spokesman for Nobody *** Charlie 'The Bear' Lear DOD#221 Wellington, New Zealand Night: clear@ibm.net 24x7: http://www.fileshop.com/personal/clear Message-ID: <192303Z06101995@anon.penet.fi> Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!news.vii.com!news1.cris.com!news.sprintlink.net!howland.reston.ans.net!EU.net!news.eunet.fi!anon.penet.fi Newsgroups: alt.tasteless From: an396393@anon.penet.fi (Billski) X-Anonymously-To: alt.tasteless Organization: Anonymous forwarding service Reply-To: an396393@anon.penet.fi Date: Fri, 6 Oct 1995 19:14:59 UTC Subject: Prostate Ultrasound Lines: 78 Here's a story about how I spent one fun afternoon recently... Me and the missus have been trying to have a kid, to no avail. The doctor says to me, "Well, let's get some semen samples just to rule you out". He actually gives me a prescription for a semen evaluation..or looked at another way, a prescription to wank off! Of course, it never entered my mind, the possibility that I could be the one who has the problem, but alas, I'm shooting blanks. So, I discuss things with the doc and he says we should get a prostate ultrasound. Great, I say, where do "we" get "our" prostate ultrasounded? I schedule the appointment at the hospital, and show up on time. Earlier in the day, I had to give myself one of those Fleet enemas, just to make sure I didn't lay a steamy load of shit all over the doctor, I guess. But more on that later. I'm given one of those funky reverse Ass-B-Seen (tm) gowns to put on, and I'm shown to "the room". In the room is a table, lots of evil looking machinery, and a rather attractive ultrasound technician. Have you ever had a prostate exam before? It goes like this: Dr. Ben Dover invites you to drop your pants and panties, and kindly requests you to lean over his table on your elbows. The, he proceeds to pull on the rubber glove (with the ObSnappingSound), and globs his index finger with K-Y jelly. Next thing you know, he's smoking a cigarette, and the two of you are picking out furniture together. Anyway, the prostate ultrasound is similar, except they use a device about the size of your average horse dick. I swear she needed 2 hands to lift this thing. I asked, rather nonchalantly, if that was in fact for me. She grinned, evilly I must add, and told me that indeed it was. So, as if that wasn't weird enough, she pulls out a condom, and rolls it out over this device. And she unrolled it all the way to the end. She then puts a second rubber over the first, and smears a liberal amount of K-Y all over this deviant sex-toy from hell. About this time the doctor strolls in. He has me get up on the table and lay on my side. Then someone from behind uncovers my ass, no doubt to the delight and amusement of all in the room. Then, just because he's a sick fuck, the doctor says he wants to check my prostate before they begin. What the fuck does he need to do that for? Does he think that maybe it moved since the last time he finger-fucked my ass? Or is he just a sicko pervert? Or maybe the others in the room dared him to? I have no idea. Anyway, the technician says that she's going to insert the probe now. I grit my teeth and prepare for the worst. Well, she was good. She got that fucker in all the way on the first thrust. Actually, it wasn't all that bad, and under other circumstances (like when I could be alone with her), I might actually have enjoyed it! So she spent about 30 minutes moving this thing in and out and around. I'm not sure, but I think I heard the doctors chuckling several times during this whole procedure. The other cool part about this was the noises this probe made. Much what I imagine squicking to sound like. Finally, it was all over. ObTastelessBodilyFunctionStory: When at last all was done, she pulled it out of my now tender nether region. As she slowly eased ol' Mr. Ed from my arse, I could suddenly tell that the earlier Fleet thingy didn't do it's job 100%. Yup, sure enough, the anal probe brought forth a small gusher of ass sludge. Absolutely no substance or form to this goo, and as an added bonus, it was all mixed up nicely with the big globs of K-Y that had been up my ass for the last half hour! And talk about hard to clean up! I musta wiped my ass for 15 minutes before I finally got all that K-Y outta there. I wonder who the lucky bastard was that got to clean the table after I left! I shoulda asked to keep the goo as a souvenir, or at least got a picture of me, the goo, and the ultrasound tech together. ...Billski... --****ATTENTION****--****ATTENTION****--****ATTENTION****--***ATTENTION*** Your e-mail reply to this message WILL be *automatically* ANONYMIZED. Please, report inappropriate use to abuse@anon.penet.fi For information (incl. non-anon reply) write to help@anon.penet.fi If you have any problems, address them to admin@anon.penet.fi Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!news.sprintlink.net!in2.uu.net!news.isp.net!newsadmin From: swan Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Wonderfully Tasteless Phonesex! Date: 29 Sep 1995 17:18:41 GMT Organization: Slip.net Lines: 35 Message-ID: <44h9ph$ru6@news2.isp.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: sfsp65.slip.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 1.1N (Windows; I; 16bit) By now, I figure you all know me as the Tasteless Git I am! Well, I have wonderful news for you! If you are SERIOUSLY tasteless, I know a delightful lady, Penny, who is into phone sex! She delights in vile scenes, nasty sound effects and wonderfully tacky descriptions of vileness! If anyone is interested in some nasty vile stuff, I can give you her number and name and hours she is working! She works for a phone sex company that lets it ALL hang out! I mean snuff, bestiality, under 13, over 60, rape, golden, brown and Roman showers, infantilism, fetish stuff and anything else your twisted little mind can come up with! I agreed to post this commentary on her work in return for her promise that she will tell me some really good stuff to put up here on alt.tasteless! All identities concealed of course, but I could NOT pass up the chance for some really great material! For starters, she talked to a guy who was being cornholed by his German Shepherd while he was on the phone! She believes him because she, herself has been shagged by a Great Pyrenees and recognized the unmistakeable sounds of canine copulation! She tells of how her brother taught her anal sex. Her encounter with Anjou, the Great Pyrenees Romeo, how to fuck a bedside lamp, the time a guy's wife walked in on him during a call to her! The guy who murdered a prostitute, Moon over San Francisco. How to walk the streets of SF in full Nazi uniform. How to fuck a horse. The Tijuana Dog and Pony Show Vomiting during sex, the Great Coffetable Shit and dozens of others. If you are interested, tell me and I will publically post her name, her number, the hours she works and how to get hold of her! Gawd what a slut! And deliciously tasteless as well. Swan Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!news10.sunet.se!news00.sunet.se!sunic!sunic!sunic.sunet.se!umdac!fizban.solace.mh.se!paladin.american.edu!zombie.ncsc.mil!simtel!pravda.aa.msen.com!cssun.mathcs.emory.edu!emory!swrinde!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!news.sprintlink.net!noc.netcom.net!netcom.com!bhatch From: bhatch@netcom.com (Roberta Hatch) Subject: Re: Joseph Mengele party games Message-ID: Followup-To: misc.test,alt.test Organization: Dykes on Bikes, San Francisco, Ca. References: <43sfkp$6hd@news.iadfw.net> <4478uh$hns@news.iadfw.net> Date: Wed, 27 Sep 1995 21:08:45 GMT Lines: 134 Sender: bhatch@netcom18.netcom.com sutera@iadfw.net (David Sutera) writes: >bhatch@netcom.com (Roberta Hatch) wrote: Come in. Yes, what can I do for you? >Nice try, bomb boy. I see. Or rather, I should say, I saw. No need to get all huffy. Anything else you'd like to say? >How bout throwing people in a pressure chamber - run the pressure WAY >up and then pop the seal. POP goes the weasle. I see. Well, you've come to the right office. Take a look at the sign on the door. Go ahead, open the door and take a look. No no no, that's my name. Read the permanent sign right above my nameplate. That's right, _Alt.tasteless Clue Administration_. Would you kindly shut the door. Please. Thank you. Now, just to double-check, have you anything tasteless you'd like to share with the readership? >So anyway two jews walk into a oven... Yes indeedy, you've certainly come to the right office. Excuse me for just a moment, mister Sutera. (Mister Artega, hold all my calls, please. Thank you.) Now mister Sutera... Err, mind if I call you "David?" Thanks. David, it's painfully obvious that you haven't bothered to read the FAQ. FAQ: that's spelled, F-A-Q. FAQ is an acronym that means; "Frequently Asked Questions." All new subscribers to alt.tasteless are required to read that document, then sit in the peanut gallery, watching and learning. That's how a newbie, like yourself, can get a good feel for, what is, and what is not, appreciated here, before deciding that they've got what it takes to participate. I want to show you something, David. Let me unlock the _Reality Drawer_ in the _Clue Desk_. I have a surprise for you. Lean over the desk-top and have a look-see inside. Yes, that is a straw. No no, not just any straw. A genuine, John Hollister autographed felching straw! One of a limited 1995 collection of 100, and it's your's. All your's! Go ahead, reach right in and grab it. *Slam!* Surprise! Before I let you wander off with that very valuable straw, we've got to take care of business. The business of clue administration. *Slam-slam-slam-slam-slam-slam!* David, look at me! I've got something very important to try and get through to you. We're talking about a Clue. Gee, you're kind of cute when your face is contorted like that. I especially like that head of hair you've got. *Grab* Look at me, sonny-boy. This newsgroup is not for clueless little twerps, like yourself, to be spouting off meaningless drivel, that goes against the charter of this newsgroup. When people like you show up on our doorstep, we've got to introduce their head to the Clue Desk. That is the only way to drive a clue home sometimes. *Slam* You don't have a clue what you're doing because haven't read the FAQ. You think you've posted something tasteless and, or, original, but you've posted crap. You're a smart-ass. You're in very desperate need of a clue. *Slam* - *Slam* - *Slam* - *Slam* - *CRACK!* I think I've made my point now. Let me unlock the drawer now. On my, that is a rather nasty boo-boo. Don't worry, it's just the hand that operates your follow-up key and you won't need that around here for a LONG time. Here's that straw I promised you. A promise is a promise. Let me just slip it into your breast pocket... There you go. David, do us all a favor, OK? Don't come back until, a; you've read the FAQ and the documents that it points to, be; careful that you clearly understand how things are run around here and, see; that you've got something tasteless to share with the rest of the readership. Like maybe take a trip to Israel, dig up that Goldstein character and felch his filthy, rotting carcass with that straw. Understand? Now let me open the door for you, I can see you've got a wee-bit of a problem with that hand. Now, remember what you've been told. *Kick* Yeesh, what a pathetic case. Bobbi --- Roberta Hatch '65 Panhead Dykes on Bikes, San Francisco, Ca. (This space for rent) Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!newsfeed.sunet.se!news00.sunet.se!sunic!news99.sunet.se!mn6.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!dish.news.pipex.net!pipex!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!oleane!simtel!chi-news.cic.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in2.uu.net!ns2.mainstreet.net!news.isp.net!newsadmin From: swan Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Another Revelation From St.Ool Date: 28 Oct 1995 17:56:28 GMT Organization: Slip.net Lines: 53 Message-ID: <46tqsc$kg5@news2.isp.net> References: <18418.199510271148@diana.ecs.soton.ac.uk> <2N3mDD4w200w@alcyone.darkside.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: sfpm116.slip.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 1.1N (Windows; I; 16bit) M.C. stands for: Motherfucking Catamite Manchoad Chomper Muscle Clencher (relax, it'll hurt less!) Mama's Cooties! Masculinity Cancelled Mary the Cunt Moans for Cocks! Microscopic Cumsplat Missing Choad Makes us Chunder Minus Cerebellum Mufti Cocklicker Mummy's Cuntlapper Mangled Circuncision Messy Cranialsquick Milady's Cuntfart The 2 means he's done it TWICE and is bragging to the world. In ten years, maybe he'll be MC3! But only if some pustulent camel dies and is left out too long! Oh... one other meaning for his initials... Manolo Chingadero! Only a lad who fucks his hand Can know the glory of that microgland! He wanks his palm, serene and calm Sperming freely, his ego balm! Until the day his dicklet saw the creature it was cumming for! One glance at him, the gutless simp Alas, poor MC's dick went limp! In vain, he strove to hide his shame, His choadlet withered at his name! Maskes, he wore, fals beards he donned But MC's dick would not be conned! It stays a noodle unto this day Now, dickless wonder... GO AWAY!! You can't get hard, you can't get heard, Get you gone, you mindless turd! You wankstain dripping down a leg, You're nothing but disgusting smeg! Stuff your keyboard up your ass And seal up that vile crevasse! You whoreson CUR, you shitbreathed TOAD! YOU GUTLESS WONDER!!! HIT THE ROAD!!! SWAN! I do not countenance fools lightly. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!newsfeed.sunet.se!news00.sunet.se!sunic!news.sprintlink.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!howland.reston.ans.net!agate!news.mindlink.net!rover.ucs.ualberta.ca!unixg.ubc.ca!thiessen From: thiessen@triumf.ca (Doug Thiessen) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Armagrogan Date: 26 Oct 1995 01:42:52 GMT Organization: Our Lady of Perpetual Menstruation Lines: 130 Message-ID: <46mp2s$jmb@nntp.ucs.ubc.ca> Reply-To: thiessen@decu17.triumf.ca NNTP-Posting-Host: decu17.triumf.ca Summary: End of the World; Judgement Day X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] The clouds rolled in slowly. They filled the skies everywhere with thick heavy clouds like mucus slowly filling your sinuses. The clouds were viscous and clingy much like the snot that dribbles from your nose during a head cold. Airplanes passing through the clouds would become coated and crash. Some people took it as a sign of impending doom. (Don't you hate it when they're right?) The rains came soon afterward. It rained heavily all over the world for days. Soon there was flooding all over. Mud and sewage began to fill the streets as the heavy rains continued to pound down. Chaos abounded as people ran trying desperately to escape the rising floods. Sewers backed up and overflowed, sending shit and various excrement floating down the streets. On the higher ground, where the flooding wasn't bad, religious zealots began to parade the streets declaring that this was a sign that the end was near. Angry flood victims soon proved that they were right. Carrying shovels and rakes and other implements of destruction, they proceeded to crack open the heads of the demonstrators and generally beat the shit out of them. Nobody likes to hear that it's going to get worse. It was pissing down. Then, this became literal. The rains abated somewhat, and people began to hope that the worst was over. Then the rains changed into piss. Urine began to fall from the sky; and not the kind of dilute urine after a night at the pubs. This was the deep, rich smelling piss that comes from a good meal of asparagus. People tried to run for shelter, but the houses were already flooded by the rains. Many were forced to stay outside and endure. Others, (Hollister for example) rushed into the streets with delight. The ultimate golden shower! They stripped off their clothes and let the piss cover their bodies. Wanking furiously, they would turn their faces upward and drink from this heavenly stream. A good pukefest was had by the bystanders who were repulsed by having to watch this spectacle. Then came the next wave: spooge. The piss stopped suddenly, and in its stead came large, glistening white globs of jism. Few now doubted that this was a sign of the Second Coming. Women ran naked into the streets trying to get hit. They would scoop handfuls of spooge and shove it up their cunts. This was their opportunity to be impregnated with the sperm of God. It came as a surprise and relief to all that the rain of liquishit didn't happen. Instead, after the rain of holy jism had abated, the clouds actually began to thin. And then the Earth shook. Earthquakes of incredible magnitude rocked the globe. Cities fell. Blood began to flow in the streets as millions were crushed and twisted in the wreckage. Massive cracks began to open in the ground, and toxic, sulphurous gases billowed from the fissures. The Earth was blowing an enormous fart. The noxious gases choked and killed the survivors of the rains. People clawed out their eyes and tore at their throats in agony. One man, knowing he was about to die, decided to smoke a final cigarette. Thousands were vaporized in the ensuing methane explosion. The seventh scourge hit shortly afterwards. Vast mountains of shit issued out of the bowels of the Earth. Great ranges of various types of steaming shit grew. Some dark, hard, constipated shit shot straight out. In other places, brown, semiliquid shit oozed out and spread into heaping mounds. Volcanos of liquishit erupted and sprayed their slime over vast areas. Elsewhere there were huge piles flecked with corn the size of boulders. But no-one was left to bear witness. Life on Earth had ceased. Judgement day had arrived. The souls of the dead were gathered to be judged. The massive, towering form of Jesus, the first artificially inseminated man, stepped in front of the crowd. In a giant voice he spoke, "My father and I have always tried to be forgiving. At times, that has become very difficult, but never more so than now. There now exists a group spread throughout the world that has exhibited such utter lack of respect that they have condemned all to destruction. The creators of 'Fuck the Skull of Jesus' will now be brought forth to face punishment." He then read a list of names too numerous to mention which was very similar to an extended A.T. Who's Who. The crowd of A.T.'ers gathered in front of The Holy Son. Once fully assembled, their sentenced was pronounced. "You have all been sentenced to extinction. Your method of execution will be in accordance with the fundamental Christian rule: 'Do unto others before they can do it unto you.'" From behind him, the Lord Our Savior produced a sturdy hand drill. "I'm now going to give you each a good squicking like you proposed should happen to me. Geoff Miller, step forth. As the one who developed the concept of squicking, you will be first." Geoff is brought to the front and strapped to a table. The drill is slowly lowered toward his forehead. As it gets near, his choad starts to rise and stiffen. "Oh yes, give it to me," he cries, "The ultimate A.T. death." As the drill penetrates and the blood and bone begin to fly, Geoff blows the final load of his existence. Throughout the group hands are being lowered toward their genitals. Soon everyone is wanking furiously and coupling together in a massive orgy. The great Holier Than Thou stops drilling to look up at this scene of carnal abundance. He puts a stop to it with a wave of his hand. Lenore steps forward from the group and asks, "Since I am Ms. Alt.tasteless '94, does that mean I get to go next? Please?" Others begin to echo this type of plea. The Lord's Great Offspring looks over the eager group. "Let me get this straight. You people are actually enjoying this?! You're looking forward to your turn?" There is a general murmur and nod of agreement. He throws down the drill and says, "Christ, how can I torture you for your crimes if you're just going to enjoy it? I sure as shit can't send you to hell." Then a shimmering began to appear above the Holy Executioner. All light seem to be sucked into an expanding region of blackness. Through the hole steps the monstrous, demonic form of Glub himself. Towering over His Righteousness, Glub turns to him and speaks, "Hey Christ boy, I love what you did to the Earth. I couldn't have done it better myself. However, I won't let you treat my subjects this way." Glub kicks the Spawn of God in the ass, sending him sprawling. Standing on his chest, Glub grabs the drill. Pressing it against the forehead of Lord Christ Almighty, he calls out, "Hey Pierre, my loyal servant, want to have first go at him?" Cheers, DaeTh ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Doug Thiessen | The thing that separates men from animals is that aka. DaeTh | we don't use our tongues to clean our own genitals thiessen@decu17.triumf.ca| A.J. Rimmer ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!newsfeed.sunet.se!news00.sunet.se!sunic!news.sprintlink.net!news.us.net!usenet From: Zeno Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Clitoris in the Desert Date: 23 Oct 1995 23:33:01 GMT Organization: The Scabwick Papers Lines: 66 Message-ID: <46h8nd$8ir@news.us.net> References: <466ii5$q9g@carbon.cudenver.edu> <3089B8F8.2787@marlin.ssnet.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: enda03.usnet.us.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 1.1N (Windows; I; 16bit) To: thr@marlin.ssnet.com [was Re: Felis "The Stuck Pig" Concolor] Todd Radel wrote: >Lenore writes: >> You're cute when you're mad. Too bad you don't have a clit. > >What's the difference? Who cares if some raghead doesn't have all her >equipment? If they had clits, they might learn to actually enjoy sex >instead of merely enduring it, and would want it more often. Then they'd >produce more rugrats (tentrats?), some of whom might conceivably get net >access. Reminds me of yet another little tasteless tidbit from Saudi Arabia. One of my Candadian friends over there (basically confined in a high-rise hotel with meager facilities and very little visiting time) was working at the nearby Saudi Airbase as a nurse. One of her patients was a teen-aged bedouin girl. The girl had a terrible infection resulting from the crude clitoridectomy performed on her by her mother with the torn metal of a coke can. The girl would cry constantly for death. The accented translations that my Candian nurse friend received referred to how she would be stoned to death outside of her bedouin village if she were to return. See...she was pregnant. By her father. Funny thing with these teenage, out-of-wedlock pregnancies was that the father would be the one to throw the first stone. Talk about irony. Go Daddy!!! Unfortunately for those of us who thrive on situations like this, the girl died after several days of hospitalization in my friend's arms, and never got to return to her desert home. Hmmm....and you thought the Muslims were barbaric. Feh. Time for me to return to my bottle and my chewing tobacco. Have a tasteless day, -Zeno. ----------------------------------------------------------------- "Zeno's merely a collaborator with Hollister, and involved with those funky black helicopters the Lesbian Jewish Conspiracy uses to beam telepathic mind-control messages at people in order to convince them that Elvis and Kurt Kobain are really dead." -Ubiquitous. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!newsfeed.sunet.se!news00.sunet.se!sunic!news.sprintlink.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in1.uu.net!olivea!decwrl!ablecom!ns2.mainstreet.net!news.isp.net!newsadmin From: swan Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Fisting a Friend Date: 27 Oct 1995 19:12:14 GMT Organization: Slip.net Lines: 107 Message-ID: <46raue$23g@news2.isp.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: sfsp62.slip.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 1.1N (Windows; I; 16bit) To: swan@slip.net Well, when my half-sister telephoned me to tell me she was getting married and would I, with my 87 year-old grandmother fly down to Southern California, I had no hopes for any sort of enjoyment! First off, my sister is soooooo mundane! She is a cute little blonde Barbie doll hopelessly normal! Not to mention that a family reunion for US is like corralling the Kallikaks! Well, I managed to ferry my grandmother there, along with three suitcases and a Golden Retriever! The flight was uneventful, save for my grandmother getting the liquishits during landing and getting up out of her seat to go to the john! She's a bit dim just now and it took two flight attendants to convince her that shitting during a landing is against FAA regulations! She finally gave in to their request, but told them "You'ld better tell that pilot to land SOFT! I gotta SHIT like a GOOSE!". We finally got off the plane and into a bathroom where she released a powerfully pungent Old Lady Shit (tm) that bleached the walls of LAX! I stood outside the stall and watched the grafitti liquefy and slid down the tiles! Delsie wagged frantically, certain that that hideous pong was meant for HER! Dogs are SUCH optimists! Anyway, the wedding was a success. Delsie got to eat squirrel shit and she was one happy dog! I spent the days being called by my childhood name (which I loathe!) and told how good I look. My new brother-in-law proved to be tasteless and so we sat at dinner discussing autopsies and whether or not a microwaved eyeball will explode. I welcomed him into the family with open arms! At any rate, we then left the San Fernando Valley for Garden Grove where my aunt lives. She's filthy rich (or WAS at one point. Her kids have sucked her dry and will get zilch when she kicks off. a secret she has kept successfully! I want to see their FACES when the will is read! But I digress! At any rate, a good friend of mine who lives in Culver City asked me if I wanted to ditch the Family Scene and stay with HIM until departure time! YES! Dan isn't gay, but he IS into assplay! He has been inserting things into his rectum since he was a little boy! He discovered that certain toys, inserted into his childish sphincter, resulted in truly wonderful orgasms! Not to mention that his whold body felt better. He has a neuro-glandular condition that results in almost constant unremitting pain. Best way to circumvent the pain is to insert things into the anus and alimentary tract. This is a short and not QUITE accurate description. Anyway, He enjoys being fisted. I have fisted him on several occasions. We settled in for a wonderful session. since he has been ill, he has not been able to do much more than enemas for a whild, so I was not too certain as to how much liquishit was dwelling in his innards. He assisted me in donning the veterinary exam glove (minus fingers) and the latex glove over that. Maximun sensation with minimum cleanup required. With lots of lubricant, I inserted my hand. First, I teased his anus open and slid my fingers in, palm upward. I tucked my thumb into the hollow of my hand and slid in past the wide point. Normally, we can accomplish this in seconds as his ass is quite accustomed to being distended. When travelling, he has been known to fasten three soda cans end to end with duct tape and then sit down on them all! This time we went a bit slower. I worked my hand in and then began the trip up the rectum toward the inner valve there. I felt it and carefully slithered two fingers into the tight area. He moaned and told me that he was having trouble getting that tight section of bowel to relax. Could I get my hand into it? I tried. Since that area of the gut is not anchored to anything, it slips back and forth freely and there is nothing to grab, no traction to work fingers past. I was causing him a great deal of pain, so we rested a while. As I withdrew, I brought out a fair quantity of mucous and a little liquishit. We peeled off the latex glove and turned the exam glove down so that the intestinal fluids would not get on the bedclothes. After a rest and some more internal rinsing on his part, we began again. I re-gloved and returned to the task at hand. Up into the rectal cavity and onward, up into the stenosed area. Finally, to the accompaniment of his moans and outcries, I began making progress. He wanted to stop, but I knew if we did, he would not get the full benefit of the fisting. Finally, I managed to insert all four fingers and "walk" them past the narrowed spot. He screamed into a pillow and cried, but we continued. Now past that point, his bowel opened up nicely. He pressed his hand on his stomach and felt my hand inside him! I located his liver by touch and tickled his diaphragm through his intestinal walls. His bladder was right where I could have gotten mischeivous and emptied it by squeezing, but we were not here for fun and games! I worked in as far as my arm would permit (an inch or so short of the elbow!) and I began gently "punchfucking" his insides! His moans of pain had subsided into deep moans of ecstasy. I stroked his abdominal aorta and felt again the thudding of his heartbeat through it. Finally, we both were exhausted. I began to withdraw my hand, sliding back through the narrow space and down and out the anus. Checking the gloves we found only a bit more liquishit, a lot of mucous and the lubricant. He was VERY happy! Now that the airfare wars are upon us and fare between San Francisco and LA is only $19, pewrhaps he will get fistfucked again real soon! When I got back to my aunt's mansion, the relatives asked me "So how was your visit with Dan?" "Fine" I replied "We had some deep conversation!" "Well, I was JUST telling my son to shove it!" my aunt said "He has annoyed me for the last time!" My ears picked up. "Really? You wnat that job farmed out, Auntie?" I asked. Thinking of my cousin spreadeagled on a table, tied with barbed wire and being reamed out my Yours Truly was definitely getting TO me! She gave me a puzzled stare. Sadly, ,my fantasies of being a fistfucker to the rich and famous were not likely to reach fruition HERE! "Nothing," I muemured to Auntie. "Just wishful thinking..." I fear I am the kinkiest member of my clan. Swan Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!newsfeed.sunet.se!news00.sunet.se!sunic!news.sprintlink.net!EU.net!Germany.EU.net!news.dfn.de!fu-berlin.de!zrz.TU-Berlin.DE!cs.tu-berlin.de!informatik.uni-bremen.de!nordwest.pop.de!news.hamburg.pop.de!usenet From: Peter Lemken Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Hello there, M.C. Deuce! Date: 23 Oct 1995 23:02:07 GMT Organization: POP Hamburg GmbH, FRG Lines: 120 Message-ID: <46h6tf$cb0@popcorn.hamburg.pop.de> NNTP-Posting-Host: plemken.hb.provi.de Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 1.2N (Windows; I; 16bit) "Hi, mc2" "Hi, Peter!" "So, you like classical music as much as I do?" "Yeah, of course, those old Motzard and Batehouwn sure were great guys" "AND you are an ardent addict of A.T. at the same time????" "Yeah, you know, creativity and all that jazz, don't matter, if you write some notes or some creative a.t.-articles!" "Oh, I see, and you are - of course - one of the most creative and original writers of our beloved a.t. newsgroup." "Yeah, well, actually, I try to be modest about it, but then, yeah, I guess I am, and you know, I think all the real at'ers look ayt me with real admiration, ya know, for those witty, one-liners." Oh, I see, that sounds really impressive, really, it does. But I am trying to be creative, too, ya know, I play the piano, I am a musician actually." "And over there that's your grand piano?" "Yes, a nice, heavy Steinway D grand piano. Take a look!" "Well, looks big and black sure enough! "Look at the string, yes, take closer look at them, they make the music!" *BAAANGGG* "Oh my gawd, mc2, the piano lid went down and now you are stuck in the strings. How terrible! Whaddaya say?" "Aaaargh glmpf rrrrhdfgdfdf" "Oh, you mean, you wanna get out of that position? Well, you said you were creative, mebbe now's the time to prove it. But, another thing, I have to tune the piano now, there is a concert tonight. Let me see. Hey, you are leaning over the keys, that's no good. Lemme see:" *WROOOMMMM* "Ooops, guess those were your testicles?! Sorry, but I had to rearrange my tuning tools, and those bastards were in the way. Oh, and, please, can you whine a little less lig a pig, piano tuning is a delicate thing. WHAT DID YOU DO THERE???? Hey, you splashed a grogan on the floor? Are you frightened? Sorry, but that is totally unacceptable." *SWOOOSH* "Sorry for the inconvenience, but I simply had to use the bottle as a sphincter plug. No use to have more shit around. Oh, hm, about shit around, reminds me: Weren't you the guy with those want-to-be-witty one-line comments on a.t.? "Ymmmphysays" "Uh huh, I take that as a positive answer. Ya know, the a.t. folks are not as much aroused about these as you might think, in fact, they are not even admiring you. I guess we have to work on your perception on this." *RING RING RING* "Hello? Oh, Hi, ccaptain, nice to hear from you, actually I was just thinking that I might be in need of the one or other piece of advice from an experienced at'er. I am a little lost her with this....." " " "Oh, YOU sent him here?" " " "And Hollister agreed to THAT????" " " "Ok, talk to you in a couple of hours then. Bye, Captain." (phone down) "Hey MC2, got some great news for you!" "Grmmphflth" "I just talked to ccaptain and he said, I did a wrong thing to leave you in a position as uncomfortable as that, ya know, with your ass bleeding, your balls gone and your face bleeding from 33 vertical scars. He said, it was not nice of me to do something like that. He asked me to leave you alone immediately and not take any further action. He even wants to help you!" "Gweat" (Cough, cough, !"§$%&) "I will leave you alone right now then. He only asked me to give you a message to think about in the meantime:" READ *booom* THE *booom FUCKING *booom* FAQ Poor bastard. No teeth. No nose. No tongue. I just wonder what ccaptain meant by "taking the bastard to the ClueDesk"??? Peter Lemken Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!newsfeed.sunet.se!news00.sunet.se!sunic!news.sprintlink.net!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!sunsite.doc.ic.ac.uk!bright.ecs.soton.ac.uk!bright.ecs.soton.ac.uk!not-for-mail From: R.W.Allen@ecs.soton.ac.uk (Robin Allen) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Hmm. 18th Cent. Cure for Nymphomania, anyone? Date: 24 Oct 1995 15:20:26 +0100 Organization: Electronics and Computer Science, University of Southampton Lines: 46 Sender: rwa@ecs.soton.ac.uk Message-ID: <12416.199510241420@diana.ecs.soton.ac.uk> NNTP-Posting-Host: bright.ecs.soton.ac.uk Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii" X-Sender: rwa@diana X-Mailer: Windows Eudora Version 1.4.3 >From "The General Practice of Physic", 1763: "OF THE FUROR UTERINUS Salacity in women, attended by Impudence, Restlessness, and a Delirium, is called the Furor Uterinus. I should choose to refer this Disorder to the Head, as there is sometimes a Melancholy, and sometimes a maniacal Delirium. The Patients delight to talk obscenely, and sollicit [sic] men to satisfy their Desires, both by Words and Gestures. It arises from a too great Sensibility, or Inflammation of the Pudenda, or Parts wherein the venereal Stimulus resides, which are chiefly the Clitoris and Vagina; or the too great Abundance and Acrimony of the Fluids of those Parts; or both these Causes may exist together. In the Delirium Maniacum, the Patient is intirely [sic] shameless; in the Melancholium more reserved, and her Folly is confined to fewer Objects. It may proceed from the Abuse of hot Aperatives; thus Sal Ammoniac, Borax, and Cantharides [Ed's Note: Spanish Fly?] have produced it; from powerful Emmenagogues in hot and bilious Constitutions; sometimes from difficult and suppressed Menses; from Remedies given against Sterility.Musk dissolved in Oleum Aromaticum, and rubbed on the Membrum virile, has raised a phlogosis in the Vagina, whence a Furor Uterinus ensued. It is difficult of Cure in those whose Menses are difficult at first; in inveterate Cases; in old Subjects. It is easier Cured, when the Furor Uterinus is essential, and the Delirium symptomatic, than when the Delirium is essential, and the Furor symptomatic. The Maniacal Delirium is harder to manage than the Melancholic. If it continues a Month or two, the Fault of the Brain becomes obstinate, for it degenerates into real Madness. The Indications of Cure are to diminish the Heat and Sensibility of the affected Parts. To cool, sweeten and dilute the Blood, and to render it Balsamic; or to pursue both Intentions at once. The first Indication is answered by frequent and copious Bleedings, as in an incipient Madness; even to eight Times in two Days, if nothing forbids; if she faints there is no danger. She must likewise be purged, as mad Folks are, with Salap, Scammony, Diagrid. The Dose must be increased on third, as being hard to purge. Emetics are also good, for they evacuate the Bile, which abates the Acrimony of the Humours. In a Delirium Melancholicum (lawful) Coition may be admitted, for I knew a Woman of some Consequence run to the Guard-Room, and return perfectly cured." Yep: all she needed was a damn good seeing too. Hey, Sonya! Any modern day equivalents? Or has medicine robbed us again? --------------------------------------------------------------- Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!newsfeed.sunet.se!news00.sunet.se!sunic!news99.sunet.se!news.luth.se!eru.mt.luth.se!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!newsxfer.itd.umich.edu!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!btnet!newsfeed.internetmci.com!howland.reston.ans.net!ix.netcom.com!netcom.com!lutra From: lutra@netcom.com (Eve Forward) Subject: Hyenas Message-ID: Organization: NETCOM On-line Communication Services (408 261-4700 guest) Date: Sat, 28 Oct 1995 18:14:50 GMT Lines: 47 Sender: lutra@netcom14.netcom.com Hello all. It's been pretty busy lately at the zoo, but I just recalled something I know you will enjoy; a little natural history about our friend the hyena. Please take as read all the "natural part of the Ecosystem" and "misunderstood and falsely maligned beautiful animal" stuff that I'm supposed to put here as a card-carrying animal "person". On with the tastelessness. Hyenas are well-known to be fierce and agressive animals, competing with each other for position in the pack. Part of the evolutionary process that has allowed this has given the hyenas, both male and female, high levels of testosterone. Hyenas are a female-dominated species. The females grow larger than the males and are usually more fearless. And, because of that testosterone, they have what's called a "phallus"; their urito- gential tract is extending into a long, choadlike structure, through which they urinate. Even better, when hyenas mate, the male has to insert his own true choad up into the female's pseudochoad, which results in some pretty funny contortions of body and choads by both genders. The phallus of the female also contains her clitoris, too, though, so don't feel sorry for her. Yet. Because a few months after mating, that female is going to have to give birth to a puppy about the size of a terrier-- OUT THROUGH THE PHALLUS. I have seen videos of this process, and belive me, it looks just as painful as you'd think. In fact, since the female's phallus is really too small to admit the puppy, the phallus has to SPLIT WIDE OPEN at the end, to permit the passage of the puppy. Imagine shoving a watermelon through a condom, and you'll get a good idea. The first puppy is usually born dead, because of this constriction. The others follow somewhat easier. And once the puppies are out, I mean, within -seconds-, they have something that behaviorists call the "bite-shake response". Anything that gets in front of these puppies, they will grab and shake it, in the traditional "dog-killing-rat" gesture. Especially their sibling puppies. Often, they will end up killing their littermates. And later, as the puppies grow a little older and move to comunnal dens, they will fight and often kill any remaining siblings, or starve them to death by preventing them from nursing. Add to this the hyena's greeting (sniffing and licking each other genitals) and their talent of exuding a sticky white musk-paste from their anal glands, and their ability to crush the bones of an animal and bring it down so that they can disembowl and eat it while it's still alive... I would like to offer this animal for consideration for some form of AT award. Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!newsfeed.sunet.se!news00.sunet.se!sunic!news.sprintlink.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!btnet!news.compulink.co.uk!cix.compulink.co.uk!usenet From: technodweeb@cix.compulink.co.uk ("Tim Hayward") Subject: I guess I'm Just Lucky (uninterrupted) Message-ID: Organization: Carlton UK Television Date: Wed, 25 Oct 1995 16:27:15 GMT X-News-Software: Ameol Lines: 110 It all began at the sixteenth birthday party. My girlfriend (no names, she is now a fairly well known actress in the UK and a raging lesbian)had decided to celebrate by throwing a fancy dress party in a local hotel. My costume for the occasion was that of a clown. Red nose, 2 foot long boots, hoop waisted baggy trousers on elastic braces, rainbow shirt and fright wig. Hers was 'Scarlet O'Hara' in full crinoline and bonnet. Two other points should be added... 1. I was a virgin - though I'm fairly sure,in retrospect, that she wasn't. 2. I had never sucessfully been able to fully retract my foreskin. I could manage about halfway back in a state of detumescence but that was fairly painful. As the evening progressed our hormones ran amok and it became fairly apparent that an alcohol fueled grappling session was in order. We searched frantically for a secluded space which turned out to be a toilet stall next to the deserted children's swimming pool. Within a short time the situation had escalated to a point at which full intercourse became imperative and, somehow, I was leaning against the wall at a sharp angle, trying to hold my waistband down against the pull of the elastic braces. 'Scarlet' pulled the crinoline up, covering her head, slung a leg over me and lowered herself over me as I effected entry up the leg of the Victorian bloomers. Suddenly, things went radically wrong. My foreskin, forced back by penetrating a tight, rather poorly lubricated fud, felt like it was about to split. I yelled and the slick soles of my long clown boots began to slip out from under me on the wet, tiled bathroom floor. 'Scarlet' assuming that my cries and wriggling were ecstatic, bore down with greater weight. My arms flailed to grab a handhold and I released the waistband of the trousers which whipped up, like a reversed guillotine, the wooden hoop slamming into my nuts and I fell, smashing the toilet bowl with my head. I was rendered unconcious immediately but, I was told later, retained enough erection for 'Scarlet', screened from the fiasco by her skirts and unaware of my predicament, to finish the task in hand. I came round in an ambulance, staring at an EMT who couldn't quite restrain her giggles as she explained that I had concussion, cranial lacerations and a split foreskin. In the emergency room, the surgeon kindly explained just how useless foreskins were as the anaesthetic began to work and I lapsed into blissfull darkness. A day later I was walking around with a gigantic bulge in my trousers. My Cock-and-balls unit looked like three large purple tennis balls and I had carefully swaddled them in several layers of cotton wool (I wasn't taking any chances). This, unfortunately, gave the impression that I was hung like a brontosaurus, a promise that I was in no condition to fulfil. It was during the second night of my recovery that the problems began. As male A.T.ers will be aware, men think about sex many times a day and may dream of it at night. Teenage men think about sex almost constantly and are often woken by nocturnal emmissions. It was something of a suprise to me, however, to discover that the male has, on average, eight or nine erections per night. Actually, 'suprise' is not quite the right word. Eight times a night I was woken by the feeling of my swollen broken knob trying to burst it's stitches. Imagine, if you can a 1 1/4" Whitworth thread wingnut, heated to red heat and screwed down over your glans. Hold that thought. After two nights without sleep I called the Doctor who, with somewhat less than professional gravity, suggested sleeping with a bowl of ice next to the bed. For three weeks, each night was broken by eight episodes of plunging the todger into iced water. The last weekend before the stitches were due out was cold and crisp. There was a splendid wind and I had committed to sail in a dinghy race. As I was crew in a Fireball this involved hanging out over the side in a trapeze harness. For the unnautical amongst you, the trapeze harness fits like a diaper with braces and locks a square steel plate with a hook between navel and genitals. The hook connects into a wire leading to the top of the mast and enables one to hang out of the boat and counterbalance it at speed. We sailed well and fast until, quite suddenly, the prow of the boat failed to ride over a wave and 'dug in'. This is an experience akin to hitting a brick wall. All loose items are flung forward. I my case, I described a long, pendulum-like arc forward until gravity overcame momentum and I swung back toward the boat. My harness hook caught on the mainstay and my full weight forced the corner of the steel plate into my genitals. It was so cold that I couldn't really feel much pain and we sailed back to the clubhouse. It was only as we walked to the changing room that my partner noticed the blood leaking from the ankle of my wetsuit. With some trepidation, I pulled down the zip. My chest was stained red and as the zip passed crotch level, what was left of my penis flopped out accompanied by one or two small pieces of flesh and about a pint of blood and seawater. I am ashamed to say that I fainted 15 yrs later Mr Happy functions perfectly. The original circumcision scar is neat on the left hand side but stretches about 2" down on the right to meet the vertical tear and it's 17 stitches. A fair bit of skin was lost so the hairline is slightly higher than I'd like but, generally speaking, it has served it's purpose. At college I gained the nickname 'piefrill' as its crimped edges resembled a Cornish pastie (English joke) but aside from that have received few complaints. Strangely, women seem to regard it fondly, like a beaten up tom-cat with torn ears and scars. I'm rather proud of it really. Face it Guys - could she recognise yours in the dark? ><.><.><.><.><.><.><.><.><.><.><.><.>< And I, with these, mine eyes, have seen Appalling stuff called Margerine Consumed by men in Bethnal Green... Hilaire Belloc Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!newsfeed.sunet.se!news00.sunet.se!sunic!mn6.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!oleane!simtel!chi-news.cic.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in2.uu.net!ns2.mainstreet.net!news.isp.net!newsadmin From: swan Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: M.C.Deuce: A Sign from St.Ool? Date: 26 Oct 1995 23:38:01 GMT Organization: Slip.net Lines: 30 Message-ID: <46p64p$655@news2.isp.net> References: <7184.199510261431@diana.ecs.soton.ac.uk> NNTP-Posting-Host: sfsp89.slip.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 1.1N (Windows; I; 16bit) M.C. Deuce is an anencephalic spermatophageous travesty of a human being. A pitiful example of an hydatidiform mole gone wrong. Timely application of an efficacious abortifacient MIGHT have prevented this tragedy and earned us his putative mother's undying gratitude! I spit in his sister's maggotty twat! I throw his drooling quarterwit brother to the diseased hyenas, I curse his haploid gibbering mother and lament her imability to slough off the feculent fetus in a good healthy abortion! I pity the hormone-goaded monorchidistic mongrel that descended to the level of the beasts while spending his rotting spooge in the crawling tunnel of said haploid horror, his dear sweet Mummy! It is said that when the wretched monster was born, she ate the afterbirth...although they can't be sure! She WAS quite nearsighted in the sunlight! Perhaps I will break out the Urethral Dilator and tenderly slip it into his limp lingam! Turn the dial and watch as his piss tube splits along its inconsiderable length! I shall then pour boiling liquishit into the widened aperture and ligate it securely once his testicles are firm and full of feces! Once he is thus filled, we shall tie him to the branches of a good stout tree and have a pinata party for the flies! Each in turn will go blindfolded with a barbed-wire wrapped pole to flail at and ultimately split his shit-engorged scrotum! If we leave him thus for a while before the party, we shall have maggots to eat as well! Such a treat! Swan! Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!newsfeed.sunet.se!news00.sunet.se!sunic!mn6.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!dish.news.pipex.net!pipex!lade.news.pipex.net!pipex!news.pncl.co.uk!news From: danpetty@pncl.co.uk (DG) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Methods of Execution Date: Sun, 29 Oct 1995 20:18:54 GMT Organization: Pinnacle Internet Services Lines: 82 Message-ID: <46vmkl$sje@eiger.pncl.co.uk> NNTP-Posting-Host: login12.pncl.co.uk X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.0.82 Found this in a magazine, I thought it would be a good idea to share it with you lot. There are some good pictures too which I may post on abpt. if you are interested...? In 1993 Dr Harold Hillman of the University of Surrey published the most comprehensive study of the age old question is there a humane form of execution? his findings make fun reading..... 1.HANGING The method used in the UK until abolition in 1965, hanging is widely regarded as swift and sure. Because it rapidly dislocates the neck, it is also assumed to be painless. But intact skin and nerves above the noose mean the burning of the rope and suffocating action may be felt. Errors setting the noose and drop distance have also occurred, leading to grotesquely slow deaths. 2. BEHEADING Famously achieved by means of the guillotine during the French Revolution, decapitation is still carried out by sword in some countries, notably Saudi Arabia. Like hanging, this method was once thought quick and humane, but the oxygenated blood still in the brain may allow consciousness and pain to persist for many seconds. There have been reports of the eyes of the severed head surveying witnesses after decapitation. In Saudi Arabia there have been 147 beheadings this year. Public executions take place on Friday after midday prayers. The executioner, usually from Sudan or Egypt, forces the condemned to his knees, then lops off his head with one sweep of his sword. 3. FIRING SQUAD Still used extensively, the firing squad has greater claim to be regarded as humane. Bullets fired into the head at high speed are likely to cause instant death, as their passage into the brain causes massive damage to and destruction of tissue. The 1953 Royal Commission into capital punishment rejected firing squad as a means of execution because of the risk of bullets hitting non-fatal areas. 4. GAS CHAMBER First used in Nevada in 1921, the gas chamber is an airtight room with a chair in, to which the accused is strapped. Death is caused by exposure to cyanide gas, produced when sodium cyanide is dropped into sulphuric acid. The suffering caused is deliberate and plain to see: writhing, vomiting, shaking and gasping for breath for many seconds. This horrendous technique is used only in a few US states. 5. ELECTRIC CHAIR First used in New York in 1890 and still in use in 13 states, "old sparky" was the horrific outcome of Thomas Edison's attempt to show the dangers of the AC power supply being promoted by his rivals. The condemned is strapped to a wooden chair, electrodes are attached, and a shock of 30,000 watts is applied. The prisoner is literally cooked internally, and death may require multiple shocks. 6. STONING (good one!!) Dating back to biblical times, the casting of stones is still used in some Islamic states, notably Iran. The condemned is bound hand and foot and buried up to the neck in sand with a sheet placed over the head. A crowd of hysterical bystanders then pelts them until the lack of screams indicates death. Iran’s laws forbid the use of large stones, as they bring death too swiftly. 7. LETHAL INJECTION Introduced in the US in 1977 and now in use in 23 states, this is the most widespread method and arguably the most humane. The condemned is strapped to a table and injected with sodium thiopentone, losing consciousness in 10 to 15 seconds. This is followed by pancuronium bromide, which blocks respiration, and finally potassium chloride to stop the heart. 8.DEATH BY BOREDOM The condemmed is forced to read the purile rantings of MC Deuce untill they croak through boredom or beg for one of the above. Later DG Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!newsfeed.sunet.se!news00.sunet.se!sunic!news.sprintlink.net!cs.utexas.edu!swrinde!sgigate.sgi.com!enews.sgi.com!decwrl!tribune.usask.ca!canopus.cc.umanitoba.ca!newsflash.concordia.ca!alcor!n_maack From: n_maack@alcor.concordia.ca ( NIKOLAUS MAACK ) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Torturer's Day Off Date: 23 Oct 1995 05:55:58 GMT Organization: Concordia University, Montreal, Canada Lines: 274 Message-ID: <46fape$m5a@newsflash.concordia.ca> NNTP-Posting-Host: alcor.concordia.ca NNTP-Posting-User: n_maack X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Warning: The following is fiction, so shut up. You're in alt.tasteless. What the fuck did you expect? Torturer's Day Off The best part about torture, Jake found, was the way it distanced you from your own pain. Whatever little misery happens to be bothering you is gone, because you are cutting at someone, and that focusses you on the other. The person there, that you are working with, their body like clay, like paint, is what you must consider. Your own thoughts and feelings become distant as you relish the suffering of another. You think to yourself: "Well, I might have problems, but at least I'm not this poor, screaming little fucker." Jake was in a mental hospital, when the government approached him and offered him work. The pay was good, although he'd have to stay within the confines of the building he was placed at. He accepted right away. He recognized the sincerity of the offer. He knew that they cared about the work greatly. They insisted that all sessions be recorded. That didn't bother him, he liked an audience. To think that someone else would later observe the whole thing from start to finish made his mouth water. The average session lasted four hours. He didn't mind if the person gave out the information right away. In fact, it pleased him. It meant he could get to the stuff he'd been holding back on. He could damage the eyes, the entire torso and the limbs and all that, but until the person told what they knew, Jake couldn't play with the mouth and the skull in the way that he liked. He liked to saw away portions of the skull. He'd been threatened with lobotomy so many times while in the hospital, it gave him quite a thrill to be performing impromptu ones now. He'd start sawing away at the forehead, carefully letting the blood dribble down into the person's eyes. That always fucked them up. The blood would blind them, and he'd wipe the blood away, and the blood would blind them again. Then he'd peel back at the skin of the face. Having the head peeled like a grape always fucked them up. They'd usually piss and shit themselves right then, if they hadn't already, and they'd scream and gibber. It was beautiful. Jake had read many, many books on the topic of torture. His keepers gladly gave them to him. It improved his work. Jake's success rate was highest in the building. Jake had lately been reading about how much direct stress a human heart can take. Jake liked the idea of being a doctor, and though he had no real medical skills, he enjoyed mimicking the work of professionals. He'd do pseudo-open heart surgery, keeping his patient just conscious enough to know their rib cage was being sawed open one rib at a time. Then, POP. The awareness in their eyes was wonderful. He could see that they were conscious, feeling every tickle and twinge and pierce. He longed to skin a human being and keep them salted, scarring up their entire body, using one being for say, a week, but the government had a schedule, and there was always one more person on the conveyor belt that needed to have information sucked out of their head. When Jake got his hands on them, they'd usually already been gone over by amateurs. The victims were bruised, sometimes had a broken arm. They were usually proud to have survived up until then. That pride didn't last too long, especially when Jake explained to them how things worked. After they were carefully tied up, he'd give his speech. "I was a serial killer," he would explain. "A small time one. No big deal. I was picked up after a while. Put in a mental hospital. I've seen my share of torture. Sure. Life isn't pretty. We both know that, don't we?" He loved pretending to bond with them. It was that sort of tactic that usually led them to believe that it was still an interrogation. Of course, it was beyond that once he got them. "The government recognizes I have skills they need," Jake would explain. He would touch them all over as he spoke. It was this violation of their personal space that established their relationship: artist to materials. Like a one-sided love affair. Painter and paint. Sculpter and clay. "Pardon my forwardness," he always said as he inserted his fingers up their ass, poking about. He never touched cunts. He dreaded he idea of torturing women. Those jobs were always a chore for him. "You have gone through the string of people upstairs who mimick what I do," Jake said. "Upstairs, they have a conscious. Down here, there is no such burden. I feel nothing." Usually at this point he would press his thumb into something soft and vulnerable, like an eye, or a testicle. He'd push down hard, and the person would sometimes scream, sometimes not. Then he'd let go. "You have to understand you have gone past a certain state of affairs," Jake said softly. "They no longer care if you live. That's why they've given you to me. You're already dead. Once you are down here, you are scratched off a chart upstairs. See that hole in the wall over there?" He'd hold up their faces so they could see. "That's where a camera is. It's filming all this. There are also tape recorders rolling. The most sensitive kind available, I'm told. They'll take down your every word. Once I get what I need from you, I get to kill you. Most people think I'm bluffing. They think 'No, he couldn't really be a serial killer. I'll tell him what I know and he'll stop hurting me.' I'm telling you now, I won't even stop if you talk. You will talk, I just want you to know it will make no difference to me. I don't want you to have any hard feelings when you realize that everything I am saying right now is true. I'm not torturing you for the information. I'm an artist." They never believed him, of course. It sounded like an act. They expected some torture, and that would be it. In a way, Jake found it utterly depressing, the hope that is in a human heart. Sometimes, even as they were having all their limbs taken off one by one, they believed it would stop, and soon they would be free. Someone would come in and save them. Some sort of decision higher up would be made and they'd go free. He could see the hope in their eyes, in their tears running down their cheeks, in the way they fought him, fought for their lives. Like a life as a blind, crippled, half-sane thing would be worth something. Jake would then take out his instruments, and start sculpting. He saw each human being that came to him as an uncarved block of stone, and inside them was a work of art. Only, really, it was inside each person was a death, and it was finding this death that was so wonderful. He would poke and prod, and how the person reacted would tell him where to go. Where ever they were most sensitive is where he would concentrate. Some people had sensitive feet, others sensitive genitals, others sensitive eyes. There were occasions where people would fake a sensitivity. That is, he would cut off a few toes, and they would scream like mad, hoping he would just stay working on their feet. He could see through these tricks. He could tell exaggerated pain from real pain any day. No one ever seemed to consider that this was a skill a human being would possess. They quickly found out how they'd underestimated Jake. Feet are incredibly delicate things, really. The skin is thick, but under that are all sorts of delicate bones that Jake just loved picking at. It was like a complex jig saw puzzle that he was taking apart. Shredding feet, gouging in between toes and creating long strips of skin and bone... That was quite nice. Cracking into the spine... Removing testicles and placing them, all bloody, in a person's mouth. Rather a cliche', but effective. Especially when you force their jaw into biting through the tesicle. That sound was inimitable. That crunching egg sound. It gave Jake beautiful chills of joy. Anyhow, it was all good fun. Jake would sit in his chair, reading a newspaper, feeling like the local barber, and then someone would come tumbling down into his play room. Time to get to work. Sometimes he fucked the bodies. He was nervous the first time he did this. He thought the government might get mad. They'd said he could do anything he wanted, but he wasn't sure if this was a part of that anything. He'd sawn a hole in one man's chest, and couldn't resist fucking it. He'd stared at the camera, feeling guilt, but then did it anyway. Warm blood pulsing around his cock, the heart beating right next to the head of his dick. The two throbs, uniting as one. They never said anything about it, and he realized he was really allowed to do whatever he wanted. There were no limits. He was so grateful, he cried. He loved coming on them. When they saw him actually orgasm in their blood, they knew then that there really was no hope at all. They finally, finally saw that Jake was doing it for pleasure. Then, finally, their eyes would fill with the proper respect and fear. "I am an artist," he would repeat to them over and over. Sometimes, when it was a woman, he would apologize, and, even, cry. "I'm sorry," he would say, sobbing, "but I'm an artist." Fortunately, they were very rarely women. Thank god it was a man's world, Jake would think to himself. He couldn't help but think of his mother when he did women. His mother had taught him almost everything he knew about killing. She'd raised him alone. Jake never knew his father, well, not to talk to, anyhow. Mom taught him all the pain points using dad's body. That was the first kill they did together. Mom showed him where to cut so that the person would last longest. Dad's thin face, staring up at Jake when he was 8 years old, the long knife wobbling nervously in his slick red fingers. It was his fondest memory. His mother holding him around the waist and saying "Harder, Jake! Push down harder!" And then the knife crunched through a rib. That was a lesson his mom had taught him: show them their bones. That really panicked them. "Look! See this? It's a rib. It's your rib. I just took it out. See? This is you. Your rib. What I am now going to suck on, stick in my mouth, is your rib. Think about it." Then perform mock fellatio on it. Yeah, mom was a real pro. Jake often wondered where she was now. The government really should be using her too, he figured, but mom never would get caught, and if she did, she'd never work for the government. She was strictly freelance. Jake loved his job. He figured very few people really did. The modern world really is very angst ridden. People commute from here to there and back again, never knowing what to do with themselves. It was sad. There were other killers in the basement. Jake really wasn't allowed to socialize with any one too much, but he'd had some contact with the others through letters. The other torturers seems really crazy. Some of them thought they were death, or god, or even Christ. Jake realized how sane he was when he talked to them. Jake was merely jaded. He had no moral centre. The others though, they were very delusional. One killer believed that once he killed six hundred and sixty six people, he would become Satan. It was all very sad, really. In a way, the other killers had their own sad hopes, just like Jake's victims did. Jake knew he was just a man, and that's what he would always be. Nothing but a human being. He could live with that, but it seemed that no one else Jake knew could. They all wanted to be god, or nothing. It made Jake depressed just thinking about it. And the days went on, and the years went on. Jake killed and killed and killed, and he never got tired or bored, because every death was an art. he was using and refining his skills. The other killers around him came and went, but Jake was always there. The others snapped, or lost their touch, but not Jake. He always maintained his skills. Then, one day, no body came down the chute. Jake had been working for the government for eighteen years. He'd been killing, hacking, sawing, drugging, and had loved every minute. Then suddenly, no more art supplies. Jake stared at the chute nervously. What was going on? Upstairs, very faintly, he could hear yelling, cheering. What was it? Jake had been locked in his room for so long. There were two rooms, really. The room where he did his work, and the room where he kept his books and belongings. They, that is, the government, gave him his food through a slot. He tried to convince his keepers he would never hurt them, that he loved them and was grateful, but they couldn't trust him. Everything was passed to him through a slot. So he was alone with his victims. Maybe that was why he loved them so much. Because they were the only people he ever saw. But now, the source had seemingly dried up. There was always at least two people a day. And what were those noises upstairs? More cheers, and a smashing sound. It sounded like there was a mob of people. And it was getting closer. He could hear the noises. His room was supposed to be sound proofed, but now, the noises outside were so loud he could hear them. So many people... What could be going on? He sat nervously in his chair, and waited. He tried not to fidget, or move about too much. Then his door suddenly just smashed off its hinges. A crowd of cheering people rushed into the room. They yelled to Jake: "You're free! The revolution's come, you're free!" And then they trashed his room. They destroyed all his possessions, and all his tools. He stood back and watched silently, agonized over the loss of his things. The mob tore his books to pieces, smashed his mirror, crushed his bed. He knew he looked like a victim. His hair was long, uneven. He had to cut it himself. He was washed, but he hated showers, and took them infrequently. These people... Who were they? What revolution? Jake grabbed a man by the arm. "Who are you people?" Jake asked. "Revolutionaries, mister," the young man said. "The revolution's come! We've overthrown the government! We're going to set up new rulers who listen to the people! You're free! Any prisoner of the old regime is just a victim of tyrrany!" The young man burbled on and on. Propaganda. Jake recognized it when he heard it. So many of his victims had had it pounded into their heads and they would spew it all up while under the knife. Background noise. Rather unpleasant to have to listen to. "Free?" Jake whispered. "Free!" the man yelled, and ran off, continuing the destruction. Jake slowly walked out of the room. He couldn't believe it. In a way, it was very depressing. He felt like a domesticated animal, kept inside, taught to expect the food being brought to him, his art. And now he would have to hunt on his own. He'd have to track people down and kill them using his own skills. Oh well. Hope had finally arrived for all those people he'd wanted to kill. Too late for them, Jake thought. But what about himself? What would he do? He wandered out into the streets, in to a whole new world, looking forward to whatever would come his way. Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!newsfeed.sunet.se!news00.sunet.se!sunic!mn6.swip.net!plug.news.pipex.net!pipex!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in1.uu.net!newsflash.concordia.ca!alcor!n_maack From: n_maack@alcor.concordia.ca ( NIKOLAUS MAACK ) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Torturer's Day Off Date: 30 Oct 1995 13:35:27 GMT Organization: Concordia University, Montreal, Canada Lines: 22 Message-ID: <472kav$ii8@newsflash.concordia.ca> References: <46fape$m5a@newsflash.concordia.ca> <46tisv$6kp@nexus.polaris.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: alcor.concordia.ca NNTP-Posting-User: n_maack X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Amnesty International said: : It's trash like this that supports and dignifies the torture and : maiming of innocent human beings that keeps brutal dicaters of the : third world in power. Torture and maiming is a serious topic which : should not be made fun or advocated in any manner. Period. : I certainly hope you keep this in mind the next time you post a : story to the information superhighway. Fascinating to here that from you, Mr Amnesty, as I was doing research for a play, and I read many different books on torture and interrogation. My play is non-violent, but Torturer's Day Off was a side-effect of reading all that gore. Some of which came from books from your own little group. Consider that, will you? Almost all the books I read on torture started off saying they wouldn't stoop to describing any sort of torture, as that would glorify it. But then by about page ten, they were in there with the worst of them, describing the brains dribbling out of people's noses. Nik Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!newsfeed.sunet.se!news00.sunet.se!sunic!news.sprintlink.net!EU.net!Austria.EU.net!newsfeed.ACO.net!swidir.switch.ch!simtel!news.kei.com!ub!newserve!bb05246 From: bb05246@bingsuns.cc.binghamton.edu (John Hollister) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Torturer's Day Off Date: 28 Oct 1995 19:24:10 GMT Organization: Oswiecim Summer Camp Lines: 17 Message-ID: <46u00r$65g@bingnet1.cc.binghamton.edu> References: <46fape$m5a@newsflash.concordia.ca> <46tisv$6kp@nexus.polaris.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: 128.226.1.20 X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.2 PL2] Amnesty International (spokesman@amnesty.net) wrote: ^^^^^^^^^ Shouldn't it be 'spokesperson'? Little slips like that reinforce the dominant capitalist racist patriarchy. : It's trash like this that supports and dignifies the torture and : maiming of innocent human beings that keeps brutal dicaters of the : third world in power. Torture and maiming is a serious topic which : should not be made fun or advocated in any manner. Period. I very much respect and admire the work of Amnesia International. They regularly send me some of the world's best BDSM photos. -- John Hollister bb05246@bingsuns.cc.binghamton.edu I believe it because it is absurd. -Tertullian Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!newsfeed.sunet.se!news00.sunet.se!sunic!news.sprintlink.net!news.wwa.com!not-for-mail From: hucke@sashimi.wwa.com (Matt Hucke) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Torturer's Day Off Date: 28 Oct 1995 11:26:59 -0500 Organization: WorldWide Access - Chicago Area Internet Services Lines: 20 Message-ID: <46tlkj$ji7@sashimi.wwa.com> References: <46fape$m5a@newsflash.concordia.ca> <46tisv$6kp@nexus.polaris.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: sashimi.wwa.com In article <46tisv$6kp@nexus.polaris.net>, Amnesty International wrote: >>Torturer's Day Off >> >> /*torture story deleted*/ > >It's trash like this that supports and dignifies the torture and >maiming of innocent human beings that keeps brutal dicaters of the >third world in power. $ whois amnesty.net No match for "AMNESTY.NET". Nice try, lackey. "dicaters" was good for a mild chuckle, though. -- "NO ONE expects the Spanish Inquisition!" hucke@cynico.com Cynico Network Consulting http://www.wwa.com/~hucke info@cynico.com Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!newsfeed.sunet.se!news00.sunet.se!sunic!news.sprintlink.net!in1.uu.net!nntp.crl.com!acara.snsnet.net!polo.iquest.com!usenet From: gharris@iquest.com (Gary Harris) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: A Call for Donations Date: Mon, 23 Oct 1995 04:09:30 GMT Organization: interQuest Online Services -- Huntsville, AL Lines: 125 Distribution: world Message-ID: <46f4cu$2bt@polo.iquest.com> References: <45fnh3$6et@spectator.cris.com> <4640eq$8t7@newsbf02.news.aol.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: gharris.iquest.com X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.0.82 yakityak@dolphin.upenn.edu (Deanna K. Tobin) blurted this: >In article <4640eq$8t7@newsbf02.news.aol.com>, sarahs4151@aol.com >(SarahS4151) wrote: >> this is absurd >> knitting for the homeless??? >> if the homeless need knitted things, they have PLENTY of TIME to make >> their own. maybe they could even sell them and make money? what a concept. >I do not wish to beat this into the ground, however I felt that I had to >respond to this post. You say you are from the west... perhaps it is not >cold there. Over 100 homeless people die each winter from the cold in >Boston alone. That is a far greater number of people than those who died >in the cypress structure in oakland in the 1989 earthquake... an event >that received national coverage. I cannot condemn people to a lonely >death because they made some mistakes in life. I cannot think of a finer >use for extra wool than to save a person who has had so little pleasure >and comfort. >Deanna >yakityak@dolphin.upenn.edu Man, sometimes I wished I lived in the city. I'd love to stumble on a Homeless Popsicle. Think of the fun you and your new friend could have. Though the frostbite of the pecker would be severe, but worth every pain-wracked minute. Seriously though, a 100, gosh I'd have never believed it, where I live we never see homeless people, the old ladies around here call the sheriff and he comes in and gets them and leaves and we never see them anymore. I've always wondered where the sheriff takes those old dudes. That's another thing, why is it that there is like a 10:1 homeless men to homeless women ratio? I'll bet it's tough to get a date, unless your a homeless homosexual. I think instead of knitting scarves you all oughta be knitting straight-jackets, cuz them homeless fellers are crazy. OBHomelessDudeStory: Was out in the parking lot of some dress shop, my wife was getting an expensive gown to be a bridesmaid in a wedding. When this shopping cart wheels into view in my rear view. This tall thin dude is pushing it, well, I made the mistake of making eye contact (I know rule #1 is never make eye contact with the homeless or the retarded). He wheels his cart of trash and stuff over next to my car. "Nice car you have", thanks I tell him (I was driving my '74 Dart Sport, very nice car). "What time you got?" he asks. "2:37PM" I say. "Nice watch, is it american made?" he asks again. "Nope", I say, it's Japan made. This is when he got weird. He threw his hands in the air and screams, "Goddamned fucking japanese, we whip 'em and then let them whip us day after day, fucking japanese is the reason I lost my job!!!" At this point he slams his hands down on the hood of my beautiful car. Out comes the Colt Cobra from the glove box, time to tell Mr. Homeless dude a few facts of life. He sees the gun and I guess those last two neurons smashed together because he became quite lucid at this point. "Gosh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hit your car." he stammered, wide eyed. I just slide the gun into my pocket and grab the steel knuckles from my visor, and wrap the 1/2 pound of steel within my hand. "Not as sorry as you're gonna be!" I then walk up to him and swing my fist in a haymaker for his pelvis point. My hand nearly exploded from the shock of the rings of steel around my fingers smashing into his pointy pelvis. A feral scream erupts from his throat as he falls to the ground. Luckily the dress shop is off the highway in a grove of trees, and behind it is the projects, lucky for me. I threw him on his cart and wheeled him around back of the store. He starts mewling softly from his cart, blood is staining his already putrid pants and runs back to his buttocks (he's lying butt-down on the cart). He looks at me with pleading, blood-shot eyes, he doesn't want what he knows is to come, but is powerless to stop it, or me. I dump him and his cart out, and grab the leg of a mannequin (what was this doing in the cart? Now I'm dealing with a pervert and a loonie). I beat him with it, it is pretty thick plastic and makes a good impression on him as to the seriousness of his offense to my car. I tire of the batting practice and stop beating his bloody, tear stained face with the leg and throw it aside. I then start using my steel knucks for what they were designed to do, give clues to the clueless. I started on his legs, ankles really. I beat in both of his ankles with three, short stiff jabs, blood starts to cover my hand, I think to myself I hope he doesn't have AIDS. I then smash his shinbones with punch after punch, the bones making a gory mess protruding from his legs. I pause only shortly on the knees, giving time for one punch to each cap. Then I punch the other side of his pelvis as hard as I can, the pain in my hand made me wince, but it's a dirty job. I heard a sound behind me, the ladies in the dress shop had heard the screaming, and came out to investigate and watched, transfixed, as I beat the homeless man to oblivion. Interrupted, I give two quick punches to his forehead, causing two jolts of pain to erupt in my hand (god I was sore for a week), and his forehead caved in. One of the women puked, but the rest were, oddly, smiling. "That bastard comes in here all the time, stinking up the place and running off the customers," the owner said to me. "Thanks for helping us out, guess we'll find him tomorrow and call the cops, the gang activity in the projects has been heavy lately" she said, "now come inside and lets get you cleaned up." Now see, homeless people are just like the rest of us, they just need a little love, a little compassion, and once in a while, they need a clue. I see you need a clue as well, let me just grab them steel knuckles, while I e-mail your admin for your home address......... Gary Harris gharris@iquest.com ....... Why, Gary, you are a man of many talents! How comforting to learn you've expanded your horizons from raping your disabled relatives to murine sadism. ....... Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!newsfeed.sunet.se!news00.sunet.se!sunic!uunet!in2.uu.net!nntp.crl.com!acara.snsnet.net!polo.iquest.com!usenet From: gharris@iquest.com (Gary Harris) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Love, Part One Date: Thu, 26 Oct 1995 10:35:08 GMT Organization: interQuest Online Services -- Huntsville, AL Lines: 158 Distribution: world Message-ID: <46no1i$5hm@polo.iquest.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: gharris.iquest.com X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.0.82 God how he loved her. That thought echoed through his mind over and over again. And he did love her. With all his heart, his soul, his body. Not puppy love, no, this was real love. He knew it, it had to be, he'd never felt love like this before, and he was ecstatic. Lust, now that was something he'd had before, a seemingly endless procession of women through the years. Sex, nothing more, no feeling, no emotions. Nothing but a few hours or even days of what amounted to just exercise, exertion, sweat and semen. But that was behind him, for now, he had love. And she loved him, of this he was certain. She would die for him, he knew that, how he knew that, he wasn't sure, no one ever is, but he knew. When he thought about it, it was obviously his mother that taught him about love. His mother was the first and only person to ever love him, until now. She fed him, nursed him, clothed him, and taught him, never asking for anything, only to lose him when he went away when he was eighteen, "You're young, dumb, and full of cum!" she'd told him as he left, with nothing but a duffle bag and the beat up old car she'd gotten him. But she still loved him, even after they seperated. Heather, it was a beautiful name, for a beautiful woman, a beautiful woman who loved Joe despite his many faults. She was a grad student, studying veterinary science, and working at a pet store. It's dark now, Joe thinks as he wakens. He nudges Heather to see if she's awake, hoping she'd be ready for more of what caused Joe to fall asleep in the first place. She didn't move. Just wore out, figured Joe, as he got up to use the bathroom. 0The bedsheets were dried to his crotch and stomach as he got up. No wonder I passed out, thinks Joe, as he pulls the sheets off of him with the sound of ripping paper. The purple satin sheets, Heather picked them out. Joe didn't really like the slipperiness, but Heather said it made her feel more sensual as they made love, so he figured it was a worthy trade-off. Joe stumbled through the dark, tripping over clothes, he didn't want to turn on the lights for fear of waking Heather. She obviously needed her sleep. Absently, Joe scratches at the dried, scaley flecks on his stomach. "Damn, musta came like a horse," he mutters as he flips the switch. PAIN! "OH God no, fuck no, not again, not now, not when I'm happy, not when I'm normal and life isn't fucked up, not here, not her!" Joe screams. His mind reels from the shock, a shock too familiar, too normal, too often. Pain shoots through his head, as he slips on the slippery, wet bathroom floor, his head hits the cool tile and he lies there for a moment, breathing in the coppery taste of the air, feeling the clammy wetness of the floor cling to his hair and backside as he lies there, unmoving, feeling the pain in his head as, once again, he awakens from a dream of light, peace and happiness, into this, the real world, his world, a dead soulless place, uncaring of how Joe feels or of what Joe wants. Unmoving in the midnight stillness, Joe pulls the pieces together and stands up. Pieces, that's all that there is, all that was, all that will be, pieces, Joe's life, pieces, no wholeness, no completeness, just pieces and fragments of what could be, were the night more giving, were Joe's soul less tainted, were life less of a bitch. Pieces in the sink, an eyeball, some hair, teeth, a finger floating in the middle, as if pointing at Joe. "See, see what you've done! See what you've done with what I've given you? And all I did was love you and look what you've done! Look at this mess!" it seemed to say. And look at the mess is what he did. Pieces, floating in blood, for blood was the common, the bond, that linked all the pieces together. Blood, flowing, congealing, dripping, pooling, like the blood of a botched Cesaerian, blood flowing from the cunt of a young girl, with a coat hanger hanging from the bloody gash, as she stumbles down the alleyway, crying for her mother. He collects his thoughts to concentrate on the matter at hand. Cleaning this mess up, the mess had to be cleaned up, and clean it he did, else he'd end up away, locked up, caged, like the bird his mother kept in the living room of his childhood home. He stumbles into the kitchen and grabs the mop and a large bucket. Joe starts in the bathroom, he pulls the foot from the toilet and holds it for a moment, remembering sucking on the toes, and lightly licking the instep, making Heather giggle as she pulled her foot away from him and pulled him closer. Pieces of what was, lying in the trashbag. A hand follows, pulled from behind the toilet, the eyeball, finger and the hair from the sink. The other eyeball in the tub, floating alongside what appeared to be a bicep muscle. They join the other pieces in the bag. Then he mops the blood from the floor. He flips the light on in the bedroom, no sense in worrying anymore, Heather is obviously not waking up, not now. Joe removes the power tools from his bed, it is his bed again, no longer theirs. He wipes the sawzall clean, his cordless drill. Heather bought him the cordless drill for his birthday. To help in his construction job. Guess it helped me a damn bit, Joe thinks, as he wipes the blood and gore from it, and removed the large drill bit and replaced it in the case, which is next to the bed. He takes his tools back to his truck toolbox and returns to cleaning up his bedroom. He picks all the pieces up from the floor. Her other foot and ankle, sawed off just above the tattoo he took her to get at that biker's hangout, a rose, blood red and beautiful, now stained and forgotten in the trashbag, another piece of Joe's shattered life and mind. Her hand follows, still wearing the engagement ring he bought only one week ago. Joe doesn't want to look under the covers. He can't, he won't, but as always, he does. He can't believe it, but he does, because he knows it is true and unbelief doesn't make it go away. Her body is mangled, sawed, drilled, and cut beyond recognition. Both feet, her calf muscle, the kneecaps, one hand, both eyes, the hair, a bicep, most of her teeth, and some intestines were all missing pieces in the puzzle that was Heather. Joe never seemed to find all the pieces afterwards, there were always some he couldn't find. He didn't like to think too much about it, but it was obvious, even to Joe, his appetite was never heavy on the day after. Then he finds the pieces that almost break him completely. Her breasts, lying on the nightstand, pointing up, blood dripping to the floor. Joe remembers those breasts, perfect breasts, large but not tremendous, with not a hint of sag, springy and bouncy. He had spent hours suckling those breasts, enjoying them, and the body they used to be connected to. Now just more pieces of a jigsaw that was missing more pieces than he'd like to consider. Joe dumps her body in some newly poored concrete. It was for a large high rise so she should not be found anytime soon. It was funny, Joe always had a perfect hiding place for the pieces, every time. Time after time, the pieces were hidden, never to be found. Luck or misfortune, guess it depends on your point-of-view, Joe reckons. Slowly, he turns away from the drying concrete and walks back to his truck. Cursing his mother, and loving her, hating her memory, yet cherishing every moment of his life with her. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- That's part one, if a few people want, I'll do more, if not, Oh Fucking Well! Gary Harris gharris@iquest.com ....... Why, Gary, you are a man of many talents! How comforting to learn you've expanded your horizons from raping your disabled relatives to murine sadism. ....... Path: diku.dk!news.uni-c.dk!newsfeed.sunet.se!news00.sunet.se!sunic!news.sprintlink.net!news.clark.net!rahul.net!a2i!bug.rahul.net!a2i!infoseek.com!nntp-hub.barrnet.net!inet-nntp-gw-1.us.oracle.com!news-out.internetmci.com!internetMCI!newsfeed.internetmci.com!howland.reston.ans.net!nntp.crl.com!acara.snsnet.net!polo.iquest.com!usenet From: gharris@iquest.com (Gary Harris) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Love, Part Two Date: Sat, 28 Oct 1995 20:52:01 GMT Organization: interQuest Online Services -- Huntsville, AL Lines: 130 Distribution: world Message-ID: <46u4vq$27b@polo.iquest.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: gharris.iquest.com X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.0.82 Joe slowly trudged back to his truck, memories flooding his mind, memories of Heather, laughing, hugging, loving. He cries softly, no sounds, just tears down his cheeks, dripping to the ground in the pre-dawn light. He wearily climbs into his old truck and heads back to his apartment. He looks the place over, making sure no stray pieces were left, for everything had to be clean for when the cops came. Joe had to report Heather missing, acting out the part of the concerned fiance. After he double checks the house, he undresses and wearily climbs back into bed, figuring on a few hours sleep before calling the authorities. Silence. Joe crashes into awakeness with the suddeness of an explosion. He hears voices, noises really, coming from downstairs. As in a dream, feeling heavy and bloated, walking through Jell-O, feeling slow and drunk, Joe stumbles downstairs. He hears voices in the living room, creaking, accompanied with moans, and sighs, and slaps, and some mumbled words. Joe sees his mothers head over the back of the couch. She is naked, her large pendulous breasts swinging up and down as she crashes her naked body down over and over again onto her partner, who is just a crop of hair sticking over the back of the couch, the hair is the same color as Joe's dad's hair. Joe stands transfixed as more and louder animal grunts come from his mother, sweat glistens on her forehead and cheeks, flushed from the exertion, a smile playing across her face, making her appear almost maniacal as she brought herself to orgasm over and over again, his dad grunting as he's obviously holding himself back from going over the brink of orgasm. Suddenly she looks up, looking straight into Joe's eyes, a slight smile spreads across her face. With an exhibitionist pleasure she starts rubbing her breasts, running her hands through her hair, crashing down even harder yet on Joe's dad as she came closer to the climactic crevice that was the ultimate orgasm. Joe realizes his pecker is harder and more rigid than ever and slowly eases a hand into his pants. Pulling and pulling on his member he reaches the brink of orgasm. He sees his mother is watching him intently as she reaches another small orgasm. He sees this and it excites him. Suddenly his rhythm is interrupted as he hears his dad scream, "OH YES, GOD, YES, NOW, I'M COMING." Slowly, he sees his mother spasm, he sees her hands raise above her head, he sees the hammer crash down, on the very top of his father's skull, as his mother screams, in primal extacy, as she crashes the hammer down again and again, orgasming with each slap of the hammer into his dad's dented skull. His mother beckons him over, he walks around the couch and approaches her, still erect. She doesn't say a word as she unbuttons his pants and then pats her hand on the ribcage of the cadaver that was Joe's father. Joe obediently hops up, sitting on his dad's chest, as his mother lowers her head onto Joe's rigid cock. Slowly, she pulls the full length into her mouth, engulfing every inch of him. Within seconds Joe explodes in her mouth. His body goes rigid as he comes, better than any handjob he'd ever given himself in his bed or in the shower. After his spasms subside, she tells him he must do somethings for her. She makes Joe get off the couch and she pulls the body to a sitting position, and lies down on the couch, with her head in its lap. She pulls Joe's head to her steaming crotch and instructs him in what to do. He licks and sucks, just as she says, and shile he does this, she slowly takes the limp dick, that just moments before she had been riding with lustful abandon. Joe watches his mother sucking his dad's dead cock and becomes even more excited, his limp member quickly standing erect as she sucks the whole thing into her mouth. It is limp as a rag, but she seems not to notice. All the while, Joe is doing exactly what she says, licking her, sucking there, nibbling that, rubbing this. She goes stiff, time and time again. Joe loses count of the orgasms she experiences. She tells Joe to take her place, and he dutifully takes his dad's limp rod in his mouth, the taste of his own semen still sticking to the dead flesh. He sucks it and bites it and does as he's told to do. She positions herself under Joe and lowers his rigid dick into her. Riding pulling him into her harder, faster, deeper, hotter, hotter, hotter. After a few moments of this, she comes, hard, and Joe comes with her, as his whole body spasms, his mouth clamps down on the dead penis, severing it in one bite, as the last of the spasm grips his body, Joe swallows, choking a bit, but getting it down. He then helps his mother clean up the mess, the blood, the pieces, and now, as later, there is a good hiding spot. Silence. Joe awakens around noon, the remnants of the dream still clinging to the spiderwebs of his waking mind. He had forgotten the dream, as he had forgotten most of his childhood, but now he remembered that afternoon, the afternoon he lost his father and gained his mother. The memories of what he did that afternoon to his mother, and father, and what him and his mother did, many times after that with just each other, or with other people, is so strong, that Joe finds himself furiously masturbating in the shower. After his shower, he gets dressed and calls the cops. "17th Precinct, how may I help you?" "Yeah, my fiance left last night for an emergency at work and she isn't there, and hasn't made it home, and hasn't called, I think she might be missing, or something." "We'll send a unit right over, sir." -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- OK, that's part two. Let me know what you think! (I do not proofread these after I type them, please, spare me any spelling or grammar flames, thanks). Gary Harris gharris@iquest.com ....... Why, Gary, you are a man of many talents! How comforting to learn you've expanded your horizons from raping your disabled relatives to murine sadism. .......