textfiles/magazines/IBFT/ibft036.txt

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---------------------------- I Bleed for This? ------------------------------
------11.26.94-----------------------------------------------------#036------

                Women with Tatoos Know Everything About Love
                          Commentary by Snarfblat

By now, IBFT has probably convinced you that you are surrounded by morons
(and that you are one of them).  So it should come as no surprise to you that
Machine Magazine exists.  It is an ill-conceived "cyberpunk" zine with a
cover price of $5.00.  I don't know why a cyberpunk zine would be produced on
paper in the first place; but that is the least of its faults.

Inside the front cover of my free copy of "Version 1." of Machine, there is a
photo of an ansgtful alternative guy.  There he is in all his stereotypical
cyberangstpunk fashion: Billy Idol hair, pierced nose/face, metal cross
around his neck.  Leather jacket.  Rings.  He is angry and rebellious and he
has a scrotum full of mercury to prove it.  God you suck.  Not only do you
have nothing intelligent to say, but you look like a victim of a shark
attack.

I think the Dead Milkmen said it best: "Ooh baby, look at you. Don't you look
like Siouxie Sioux?  How long it take to get that way?  What a terrible waste
of energy."

I found the same picture in another paper zine, used as an ad for a place
promising "fucked up hairstyles your parents will hate".  Why will you not
listen to IBFT?  Destroying your body is not an acceptable form of rebellion.
Stir shit up and kick ass if you think you have a good reason.  Otherwise get
a job.

Machine Magazine, which is not worthy of being used to wipe my shit off Gary
Mitchell's face, also contains some crap which tries to be artistic.  There
is the obligatory cartoon drawn by a retarded one year old, with such a
stupid pretense that it barely deserves to be mentioned.  "ShadowVenture by
J.M. Hauber: IN 1944, THE THIRD REICH,UNDER FIELD MARSHAL HERMAN GOERING,
CREATED A TEAM OF SUPER-ASSASSINS KNOWN AS THE "SHADOW VENTURES". THIS CRACK
SUICIDE SQUAD WAS THE ULTIMATE DEVICE IN NAZI GERMANY'S STRUGGLE FOR VICTORY
IN EUROPE. AT THE DEFEAT OF THE NAZI WAR MACHINE THE GROUP DISBANDED. NONE
WERE EVER TRACKED DOWN.  IN 1961 THE UNITED STATES IMPLIMENTED THIER OWN
GROUP OF SHADOW VENTURES THAT ACCOMPLISHED SEVERAL "SILENT" VICTORIES
WORLDWIDE.  THIS GROUP BECAME OUT OF CONTROL AND WAS HUNTED DOWN AND
DESTROYED, ALL BUT TWO WERE ACCOUNT FOR, UNTILL NOW..........."

[all typos and idiocy are J.M. Hauber's fault  -sna]

I HOPE NO SHADOWVENTURES COME AND KILL ME IN MY SLEEP.  After the intro, the
strip is 3 panels long.  The main character wears all black, smokes a
cigarette and has a pierced ear.  I can't tell if that's an eye patch or
sunglasses.  Who cares.

Some idiot submitted photos of naked women taken at an airport.  How very
industrial.  Here's my cyber-art idea: spray you and your bitches with plane
fuel then chop your legs off and videotape you trying to slither off the
runway as a 747 approaches.  

But the crowning jewel of idiocy, this musty wart picked off the ass of some
pre-pubescent's idea of cyberculture, is a story by Gary Mitchell.  After
spending the first 13 years of his life in a windowless box with nothing but
his own vomit to comfort him, Gary stumbled out one day and presented the
world with this tribute to his flea-infested colon.  

I have tried to keep the story as close as possible to the already-mangled
form I found it in.  Line lengths, typing and spelling mistakes are left
unchanged of course; pay attention to them, but don't let them distract you
from the moronic intentions behind the story.  

----------------------------------------------------------------------------
TATOO

from Vignettes of Vargus

by Gary Mitchell

He was sitting there as preety as a new
Roosevelt dim.  Sitting there, one leg hooked
over the leg of the barstool to steady the
drift leeward, banging at the whiskey and 
whiskeys and spilling his guts to a woman 
with a tatoo.
Spilling over the side, like a bucket too fulla 
rainwater.
he was swigging and swaying with the jazz 
of his own invention, captuing her like
enemy territory.
She was biting.
She was blonde, tattood, and a stinker.

She liked them a little skinnier than him.
Thin like the sax man's reed---never know if
they'll sing or snap.  She licked her lips and wet
ol'Reed.
Then she blew a sweet soulful tune.

He was half-mesmerized by her obviouys
charms and lack of sophistication. She was 
sophisticated as a checkout girl and twice as
savy in the ways of the world.

The hat check girl at Marty's had twice on
the ball what she did.  but then again Gloria 
was smart.
And it showed.

She was standing next to his stool, not 
doing anything to make him seem taller.  
She was a good six feet, spiked heels and all, 
and that put her shoulders and head over 
Reed.

He hardly noticed because that put her 
nipple-high to her bosom.  And to them was 
who he addressed most of his conversation.

She was silent as roadkill cat and twice as 
slow on the uptake.  She was slowed by too
many rotten stories stuck in her ears and 
too little loving in her bed.  Tha tmade her 
melancholy  and that is stuf fheavy as
cement to a woman with tatoos.

Yet, rail-thin Reed kept plucking away at
them heart strings hoping to catch a good sad tune 
she could whistle a few bars of.
But no dice.
She wasn't speaking to him.
So he did all the talking for her.
He didn't figure her silence for anything but
flat out rejection, but he to to rejection like
a duck to water---it rolled off his back.
Sorta.
And she was something to put in your eye.
She was what the man called a looker. 

He told her eveything Held nothing back.
About how love was a hard, hard road and
how you had to possess the right mix of 
respect and compassion just like the carburetor 
had to have to proper mix of air and fire.  
And good feelings, they were important too.  
A couple had to know hot to get along 
when times were tough as well. as good.  
How to get over them rough patches---slick 
them down. 
How to talk about the little things people let 
go too long till it spoils their love and 
poisons their hearts againgst each other.  
He kept this up sensing her own deep 
rooted regret.  She even dabbed her eyes 
now and again when it seemed appropriate. 
But she said nothing, just soft 
grunts of "uh-huhs".

This was like spreading manure on weeds.  
He just couldn't give it a rest.
People ought to spend more time getting 
the details right.  The details were
everything.  Just about everything.

To the devil with the higher notions of good 
and evil, give me the details, he waxed on.  
He had the notion she wantde to listen but 
was feigning disinterest. 
It was a burning desire in her, he was 
assured.

He wanted to say it all up front. Even if it 
was...well, kinda...you know... a little 
embarassing to talk so sweet about 
things...but he was pretty sure of his 
manhood so the topic of romance wasn't 
threatening to him.
And besides, he was better or worse for 
wine and it softened his rock-hard
disposition. 
He was fuzzy and furry now and getting 
sappy about folkshaving no secrets.
Nothing they couldn't tell each other or say.  
Like late at night.
When they would lay in each other's 
armsand whisper things.
She stood there and ordered another 
martini.  She took his money from under his 
glass and passed it to Chuck Conners, the 
bartender.
Obviously, not THAT Chuck Conners.
The woman with the tatoos drank her 
martini.  Reeed grew suddenly quiet.  Was
this to be it ---the sign, the symbol...the 
moment of truth...was she wooed and won! 
Had his charmes charmed her, the woman 
with the tatoos.He bit his lip in anticipation.  
Finally, she spoke.

"Chuck.  Hey, Chuck, you think you could 
get Gilligan's Island on the t.v.?"

Women with tatoos already know everything about love.

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            IBFT: If we hate you, you don't deserve to know why.

                                Information:
                           bleed@unix.amherst.edu
       ftp.etext.org:/pub/Zines/IBFT  The Eleventh Hour (617)696-3146
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