textfiles/magazines/HOE/hoe-0307.txt

 '##::::'##:::'#####:::'########: VIVA LA REVOLUCION! CERDO DEL CAPITALISTA!!
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  ##:::: ##:'##:::: ##: ##::::::: THE HELOTS OF ECSTASY PRESS RELEASE #307 !!
  #########: ##:::: ##: ######::: ZIEGO VUANTAR SHALL BE MUCH VICTORIOUS!  !!
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  ##:::: ##:. ##:: ##:: ##::::::: "Sand Paper"                             !!
  ##:::: ##::. #####::: ########: by -> Trilobyte                          !!
 ..:::::..::::.....::::........:: 12/6/98                                  !!
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        one time i went out and left a note for my mom saying:

        "left a bit ago.
         be home soon."
         
        she never seemed to notice the vagueness of this note, or the
 fact that i had pulled one over on her.  i came home within hours as to
 not be obscene.  i could have stayed out past proper hours, but for all
 she knew, i could have left two hours before i came home.  my note said
 nothing of the opposite.  it was one of the small square note sheets that
 she always had so many of -- each phone message or note asking me to do
 something for her was written on one of these sheets of paper.  they
 didn't fly very well, like a plane would, and they were of a course
 texture as to discourage one from rubbing them on one's face.  it was
 like a potted cactus, one thing that people would always look at but
 dread touching.  it may look pleasant, and not too harmful, but one wrong
 move and you'll be bleeding uncomfortably.

        if i had come home really really late, it wouldn't have mattered
 because, she could have had no idea that i had even left because i left
 a while ago but really she would have known that i had left a while ago,
 you know, maybe, because she's dumb.  i have to picture things, i have to
 picture angels flying.  angels dressed in white, angels playing ttheir
 typical harps.  why do they have to be playing harps?  she's looking
 down, down into a cloud, and the sky is dark blue.  a dark blue.  she
 grew a beard, she is not a woman, but also a man, and smiled as she
 opened her mouth to say,

        "come here, clarence.  take a look at this one fish."

        and clarence slowly and clumsily glided over to the spot where
 bobi had been standing.  clarence looked down through the spot in the
 clouds and eyed the fish.  it was as if they were on a cloud directly
 above the lake, and only a foot down from them was the surface of the
 man made body of water.

        the fish was sick.  it had been beaten on the head by a rock, and
 then it became mentally ill and began to swallow sand.  sand is not
 pleasant in one's intestines.  that fish, known as mallock, was beginning
 to start to commence death.

        clarence and bobi continued to look on with indifference.  bobi's
 original interest in this one particular fish had begun to fade away when
 he realized that it was worm-infested.  them worms, they eat away at your
 insides and make for unpleasant visiting with family.  swim, poop, greet
 mother, poop, cough, swim, etc.  it showed a sign of weakness and who
 wants to be weak in the world of wrestling?

        his car was an elephant, his muzzle was a faint sparkling hunk of
 jagged rock.  living for ages, seeing none, producing less.  outer, inner,
 jumping around, kicking the flesh of the wrinkled body, frustrated with
 the lack of nose.  it's not the nose, it's the looking towards the sky
 with a sense of awe -- what's up there?  is it love?  is it that friend?
 is it who it is... it's that one, that one that one.  look back down, a
 smile on the face, you have more to discover before you know what truly
 is in the sky besides the clouds and gas and sun and stars and mood --
 it's the purpose, it's the reason -- and there must be someone else.
 there is someone else that completes the search and you won't get there
 before you die.  death is the point when you complete the meld.  the
 union brings you to where you need to be, with the wood and the bark
 that doesn't make any sense.  it makes noise, a hollow sound, and is
 disvcovered by the ancients -- is is discovered, but has not yet been.
 marriage is not the blessed union of souls, friendship is -- marriage in
 the purest form is an extension of friendship, and a marriage with
 friendship is the union which will bring one group to the higher level at
 the end.  without the needed companion, you become a skeleton like the
 rest -- but two skeletons together make one as the flesh, one as the
 leader -- one as the understanding figure and one to follow.  take my
 hand, take it as we travel in the way that leads to ultimate state
 requirements.  my kidney will explode, my ancient form of liver
 transplant makes for tumors and beef, cabbage, are you there?  tear it
 out, rip it up, drink the water from a cup.

        i wasn't sane, i didn't think right, i needed other people there
 to keep my thoughts normal.  when apart, they didn't matter -- what they
 cared, i didn't care.  i knew what worked for me in my head and that's
 how it would ultimately be.  i'm wasting times until it all comes out
 anyway, i might as well get it over with.

        i drive my car to the lake and fall in, sinking to my ultimate
 peril, but my brain does not allow it to end me.  so i escape and bob up
 to the surface.  i gasp for air and then look about, it is dark, the
 water is cold, but it had been light and warm when i had fallen in.  had
 i done something special or had someone else done something special of
 which i was a part?  i had thoughts often, i had thoughts that no right
 person should have.  if out in the open, even in jest, i could scare the
 pants off of jeffrey dahmer, his mother, my wife, the end of the people's
 life.  i could speak and make your mind crawl, your skin ooze from your
 ears, you hair and flesh oily like the grease that coats the insides.
 it's that flesh and gore and grease that permits my plight to laugh at
 how you scream in agony, you do, your black hair sticks to your body and
 head and face as the tears creep down your cheeks.  who made it this way?
 who made this?  what is this?  who are you?  what the hell?

        beer.

        it's the beer, it's always the beer, can't live without the beer.
 it's not the grass, but the wheat that produces the beer, and although
 the grass is growing everywhere, it is not the grass that makes the bear.
 or beer.  it's the grass that makes the sheep, who produce the methane in
 new zealand, who remove the ozone layer, who kill the people of skin
 cancer, and it's the grass's fault that we die.  the grass converts bad
 chemicals into to good chemicals, helping the atmosphere, but then the
 lambs and sheep eat all the grass and then they fart a lot and then they
 end up creating more atmosphering problems.  the sheep and lambs exist
 for our clothing, which is made in factories that produce harmful
 chemicals that harm the ozone.  we wear clothing so that we are not naked
 and keep warm, but we won't need clothing anymore if it gets so hot due
 to the greenhouse effect.  if we don't wear clothing, we will sweat a
 lot, even more than people having sex.  people have sex after drinking
 lots of beer.  though not the only object influencing sex, beer plays a
 large role in much of the sexual activity happening in the world today,
 especially in wisconsin and in germany.  if there was no more sex in
 wisconsin and germany, there would be no more wisconsinites or germans.
 nobody would have any more beer, and the grass could grow peacefully for
 the sheep.  but people would begin having sex with the sheep, because
 they can't have sex with the wisconsinites or germans, and then the sheep
 will all die out because all the people have sexually transmitted
 diseases.  the sheep die out, the grass grows madly, and converts all the
 bad gasses into good fases for the atmosphere.  the atmosphere is very
 happy.

        where is your 60-minute rendition of the anthem of gemorrah?  i
 want you to bend over that table for me, girl, bend over and take off
 your pants.  i will spank you, for you have been bad, then i will turn
 you out on the street and record your bad doings on my diary.  you will
 wander and roam until someone offers to give you a ride.  they take you
 back to their place, and it begins to be bad again, for you are bad.  you
 are the bad one, not i.  i put on the trenchcoat.  i wear the trenchcoat
 to show that i am not the bad one, you all are.  i am not the bad one.  i
 look and see the people -- the people are so bad, they do bad things to
 me and they have done bad things to you.  you refuse to acknowledge the
 bad things. i grow my hair long because it covers my face -- i look
 menacing, oh so scary, i eat anarchy and i breathe industrial -- i work
 in the factory, i eat the gears, i munch on the iron that makes things
 move -- who make sthings move but the poeple i hate, i move things.  i
 move boxes, i am a younger man in a red hat and blue overalls, i am the
 world going round and the thing in the town with a bassett hound and eat
 my shit, eat my shit, gobble it down it's the hund -- the HUND gund gund
 gund gund hund.  DOG DOGOO

        where is the great white north?  it is not there, it is frozen
 and will be frozen until we bomb the hell out of it.  it doesn't deserve
 to live any more that the iraqians, so let's bomb it too, and let's make
 a holiday for the people who remember when casimir pulaski day is --
 honor the young, the proud, the american.  reap the harvest of fine young
 minds to direct the future of our country.  feed them things to help them
 decide they don't want to be fed.

        feed us the mind-mix that taste so foul,
        teaching the minds to scorn and scowl,

 jurisdiction of the holy juistice justic3e
 t6h8is makes xno sense.      who makes sense?
 [oiwhere's my hamburger? 9  -ithe face of the ancientss...   thyey knoew/.

 phugner
 r

        was the sound the part of their lives that made them so smart?
 makingr low slow groaning noises aND SPEEH  to calm people and sooth the
 aching, ihgnorant moind with the things that were natural --- rather than
 share,  discover ------   experience and learn.

 ijiji
 ij

        under the big oak ytree, i find the things that jump to me.
 thery have the soul to rock and roll and beat thei strage.

 each oo
 eacho 
 echo to the 

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 no.

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 !! (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS!   #307 - WRITTEN BY: TRILOBYTE - 12/6/98 !!