textfiles/magazines/TCWF/tcwf001-005.txt

              You'd have to be really twisted to understand

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***************************THE BACK ISSUES**********************************
*************************EPISODES ONE TO FIVE*******************************
     (Written by Daniel Bowen, Monash University, Melbourne Australia)
______________________________________________________________________________


			    PART ONE - 12/8/90

 In the  beginning was the writing.  But it was dark, and no-one could read
 it, so the author decided to write the start again.
        In the beginning  there  was  a light. But lo, the Lord did try the
 switch and it did not work.  And so the Lord did say unto Adam: "Thou must
 travel down the 7-11 for a globe."
        And Adam did hear the  Lord,  and  did  do his bidding. The journey
 across the road was long, and dangerous, but Adam  did  walketh  up to the
 traffic  lights.  And  he did presseth the button, and lo! The traffic did
 part down the middle. And Adam did crosseth in peace.
        And Adam did enter  the temple of 7-11, and he did consult the holy
 one, "Dost thou have a  light-globe?"  And  lo! They were down the back on
 the bottom shelf. Adam did findeth the globes,  and yea, he was shocked at
 the price, and there was a great wailing, and  gnashing  of  teeth. But it
 was too early to go to the supermarket, for it was only the first day, and
 the Lord had not got round to creating them yet.
        So he did buyeth the amazing globe on plastic. And did he  make the
 long  trek back unto the place of the Lord, and the Lord did  say  "Thanks
 very much, but it was the fuse."
        But suddenly, there was darkness again,  for the Lord had forgotten
 to pay the bill. And Adam did look to the heavens in despair, and walked
 down the corridor into another joke.
        The corridor  was long,  and full of  hidden dangers.  And as  Adam
 continued down it, he realised,  from looking at his new wrist-watch, that
 he was late for the next spoof. Adam,  being a student of life,  knew that
 it had to be set in a school. But what was happening to him? He looked up,
 and realised that the author was just trying to fill in time. He was using
 ADAM to  link to  the next  stack of jokes!  But when would  the new spoof
 start?
        The author grinned,  gazing into his word-processor.  "Only another
 few lines to go",  he thought, as he continued  to type his glorious prose
 into the keyboard.
        Adam had  come to a doorway.  Not any old doorway though.  This one
 had a door in it.  Adam pulled the axe from his  hither-to unwritten about
 knapsack, and broke the door down.  Bursting into the room, he spotted his
 foe, and with one swing of his axe, took the man's head offffffffffJKRY&%"
 @@s:{}``}

 OH DEAR. THE AUTHOR SEEMS TO HAVE HAD HIS HEAD CUT-OFF BY A MAN WHO HAS
 JUST COME THROUGH THE DOOR. WHAT WILL HAPPEN NOW? IS IT REALLY THE END OF
 'THE TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES'? NOT ON YOUR LIFE MATEY. STAND-BY FOR
 THE SECOND INSTALLMENT... COMING SOON TO A MAINFRAME ACCOUNT NEAR YOU.

______________________________________________________________________________


Oh no, not another installment of
____       __    ____  ___        __     __       __  __  __  __   _
 /   /__/ /_      /   /  / \/  / /      /   /  / /_   /  /_/ /_/  / \
/   /  / /__     /   /__/  /\ /  \__    \__ \_/ __/  /  / / /  \ /__/
        ___  __        ___       __  __             __         __  __
 / / / /  / /_/  /_/  /__  /__/ / / /_/            /_  / /    /_  /__
/_/_/ /__/ /  \ /  \ ___/ /  / /_/ /              /   / /__  /__  __/

B Y - M R - L U X U R Y - Y A C H T - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
P A R T - T W O - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 1 5 - A U G - 1 9 9 0

    Adam  Cohen looked up. He could see the words "Part Two" scrawled
across the wall. Obviously, the author (whom he had just killed), had
regenerated. But  it was worse. Now he was doing really crappy titles
made out of back slashes.
    Adam made his  way  back  out the door, into the corridor. He put
his axe back into his bag,  and  walked round the corner to his maths
class.
                       *          *          *

    Mr.  Stickleback  stalked  down  the corridor. As he  turned  the
corner, two uniformed students ran  past  him. He cleared his throat,
and they immediately slowed to a brisk walk. Arriving at the door, he
checked his tie, then burst into the room.
    Inside the room, the students were standing  around,  talking  to
one  another.  As  their teacher came in, they began to move to their
places.
    As if being pleased  to have caught them not sitting, Stickleback
shouted short loud orders. "Right!  - Sit! Get your books out. Cohen,
do up your tie properly." The  students  began  to  sit down at their
desks,  carefully  balancing  their books so that none fell off. Some
stragglers failed to comply  in  time, and he screamed at them, as he
always did. "Sit!!" The pupils began  to  think  of  the  many  other
places they would prefer to be, as he spoke rapidly.
    "Now,  before  I  begin the lesson I must reprimand you over your
behaviour.  While  I  realise   that   this   is   a   co-educational
establishment, you must realise  that  members  of  the contradictory
gender sitting together is just not on. And  I  don't  want to see it
happening again.
    "Now!" he continued, "Homework. If I remember correctly it was to
memorise  Pi  -  that's  the ratio of a circle's circumference to its
diameter - to the 75th decimal place. Well now - who's done it? Well?
Anyone?"
    Spadger,  sitting  near the back,  was  listening  to  this,  and
thinking, "Oh please God, don't let him ask me..."
    "What about Spadger?"
    Spadger stood up.  "Err...  no,  sorry  sir.", he said. "Thanks a
lot," he thought silently.
    The  teacher  reacted to this. "'No sorry  sir'?",  he  mimicked.
"What do you  mean, 'No sorry sir'? I'll give you 'no sorry sir'." He
pointed to the door  and  sent  Spadger  out.  "Report to the torture
chamber, now!"

    The rejected student walked out of the room, shuffling  his feet.
Meanwhile, Mr. Stickleback continued at the same fast pace.
    "Now, in today's lesson, we shall be studying the use of calculus
when  using  the  wave harmonic theory of historical perception - and
its applications in working  out  the brand of washing powder to buy.
So in this way..."
    He was slowing down now, not  really  paying attention to what he
was saying, moving stealthily towards one of the  front  desks; where
one  of  the girls appeared to be sleeping; carrying his ever-present
metre-long ruler.
    "... you can  work  out  which breakfast cereal powder is - the -
really - good - buy." He  stopped,  brought  the ruler down loudly on
the desk, and spoke quietly.
    "O'Donald?  Are  you  listening?" There was no response. He spoke
loudly now.
    "Come on girl - sit up! I - hello?" There was still no answer, so
he bellowed.
    "Can - you -  hear  -  me?!<21>Hello?!" As there was still no sign of
life, he prodded her with the ruler, and came to a conclusion.
    "Oh. She's dead." He pointed the ruler  at  a  couple  of  nearby
unfortunates.  "You  and  you, put her in the incinerator, will you?"
They could not refuse.
    "Yes sir." With some difficulty, they carried the corpse out. The
teacher called after them.
    "Oh, and you may as well go to the detention room afterwards. Now
where was I?... Ah  yes."  He  began  to  write  various mathematical
gobbledygook on the blackboard as he spoke.
    "Now, first we must realise how the ratio of the  primary  factor
to  the  third  sequential  lobster in this random geometric sequence
divided by that lobster there will result in the indexed logarithm of
the quotient. Nod your heads."  at  this  point, someone queried him.
"Yes Hayes?"
    "Sir, what's lobster got to do with this problem?"
    "Lobster?! What are you talking about? Report to  the guillotine.
Now - where was that formula I was going  to  ...  what  was  it", he
pondered.   By   this  time,  the  remaining  students  were  looking
completely bewildered.

  WHAT HAS MR. STICKLEBACK FORGOTTEN?
   WILL THE MATHS CLASS BE LIBERATED BEFORE LUNCHTIME?
    WILL THE WRITING OF THIS STUFF IMPROVE BY THE NEXT EPISODE?
     WILL THE FIRST WORD OF THE NEXT SENTENCE BEGIN WITH 'W'?
      NO.
       IS ANYBODY STILL READING THIS SHIT?
        WHAT'S THE POINT OF WRITING IT?
         WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE?
          WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'FORTY-TWO'?
           WHY DOESN'T THIS THING FINISH?
            THE ANSWER TO ALL THESE QUESTIONS AND LESS...
             IN PART THREE... COMING UP AFTER THE NON-TEACHING WEEK

______________________________________________________________________________


Here's a double helping of
    ___      ___           __                                     __
     |        |           |                | | |                 |
     | H E    | O X I C   |  U S T A R D   | | | O R K S H O P   |_ I L E S
     |        |           |__              |_|_|                 |
                             _           ___
                            |_| A R T     |  H R E E             2 7 / 8 / 9 0
                            |             |
                             _       _ _
        | | | R I T T E N   |_| Y   | | | R .  | U X U R Y - |_| A C H T
        |_|_|               |__|    | | |      |_             |


  Rocket Roger whipped out his gun out,  faster than a  cheetah wearing
  "go-faster" stripes. In less time  than  it  takes  an  ant  to  do a
  push-up,  he had shot down the huge oncoming alien monster. He dashed
  over to the fallen figure of the princess, and put his hand firmly on
  her ...  OH  SORRY,  WE SEEM TO HAVE PICKED UP THE WRONG PLOT-LINE. I
  THINK THIS BELONGS TO SOME  POXY  SPACE  SAGA, SET WHEN MEN WERE REAL
  MEN ETC. ANYWAY, BACK TO THE STORY ....  medical supplies. NO, NO THE
  TOXIC  CUSTARD  WORKSHOP  FILES  STORY. Oh sorry. Back to  the  maths
  class.
      Stickleback, obviously having forgotten what  he was going to do,
  resorted to memory exercises at this  point.  He put his ruler on the
  desk,  walked  over  to the blackboard, and hit  his  head  violently
  against it several times.  The  pupils  ceased to look bewildered and
  began  to  look  bored.  After a while  Stickleback  stopped,  having
  remembered.
      "Ah yes. Now." He rubbed  off  the  board,  and  started to write
  extremely  complicated formulae, very messily, in the hand of one who
  is writing  with a broken arm, all over the board. He stopped, looked
  casually over his  shoulder  and  said quietly, "All right. Copy this
  down." Moving back to his enormous  desk,  he pressed a button on his
  stop-watch,  and began timing thirty seconds on it.  It  was  one  of
  those really  neat  stop-watches  which  could  tell  you the time in
  twenty  different places around the world, and, if  you  were  lucky,
  where you  were  as  well.  Just another little labour-saving device,
  which could aid one in the  enjoyment  of  life. His mind moved on to
  food, and that delicious lobster he had had the previous night.
      Meanwhile, the class were writing furiously into their notebooks.
      The thirty seconds was finally up. "Right - that's  enough time",
  said the teacher.
      There was a protest. "But sir -". He shrugged it off.
      "Quiet!  Another  word  from  you and I'll have you all executed.
  Now!" Without another word, he  rubbed  the  board off completely and
  began  to  write the numbers from one to  ten,  pausing  and  looking
  thoughtful between six and seven.
      "Right!" he continued.  We're  going to learn something new! This
  is a very complicated non-algebraic  mathematical  integral notation,
  which we shall learn sequentially, known as counting."
      "We've done this before", called out Cohen,  a  rather  outspoken
  individual, a quality which never brought him good luck at school. He
  seemed  to  think  he was special just because he had been in all the
  episodes of 'The Toxic Custard Workshop Files' so far.
      "Shut up!! You!" Stickleback  was  pointing. "Go and muck-out the
  principal's office!" Yet again Cohen was  being  kicked  out of maths
  into another joke.
      Someone else joined in the protest. "But sir -"
      "You too! You're right - we've done this before  -  last  week  I
  believe.  It  doesn't  matter  though.  We'll  revise  it.  You start
  Bradley!"
      "One", replied the ever-keen Bradley, ready for any challenge.
      "Um... yes", confirmed the learned teacher, checking his notes.
      "Two", called out the next person.
      "Right"
      "Three"
      "Right. You next Heazlewood", said the teacher. But Heazlewood, a
  rather lazy student - and, in the circumstances, suicidal  -  had not
  been listening, something that Stickleback didn't particularly like.
      "What?"
      Stickleback,  alert  as ever, looked up. "I beg your pardon?", he
  said.
      "Sorry?", said Heazlewood,  still wondering what was going on. By
  this time, however, Stickleback  knew  exactly what was going on, and
  reacted to it in his normal manner.
      "Do you mean you haven't been listening?!?" he screamed. "Get up!
  We've  been  doing a complex oral  exercise,  and  you  haven't  been
  listening?!? You little  ...  I'll  have  you whipped for this!!! You
  stinking  pile  of  ..."  At  this point,  his  words  became  rather
  obscured,  as two men in white  coats  rushed  in  and  grabbed  him,
  managing to stuff something down his throat as one of them spoke.
      "All right Mr. Stickleback - it's time for your pills now."
      Within seconds,  they  had  gone  again, and Stickleback was left
  alone at the front of the  room,  feeling his throat. An odd-sounding
  grunt came from his throat, and then he was back to normal.
      "Erg... now! Heazlewood - out!"

    WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT?
     WILL THE PILLS STUFFED DOWN MR.STICKLEBACK'S THROAT CAUSE HIM TO CHOKE,
      GASP FOR BREATH AND COLLAPSE IN A HEAP ON THE FLOOR? OR WILL THE
       CHEMICALS IN THE PILLS CAUSE AN EMOTIONAL REACTION, CAUSING HIM TO
        VISIT A PSYCHIATRIST, WHICH IS ANOTHER JOKE ALTOGETHER. OR PERHAPS
         NOTHING LIKE THAT WILL HAPPEN.
    WELL, YOU'RE ABOUT TO FIND OUT ACTUALLY, BECAUSE THE AUTHOR, IN HIS
     EXTREMELY FINITE WISDOM, HAS DECIDED TO MAKE THIS A DOUBLE
      LENGTH T.C.W.F., TO MAKE UP FOR THE LOSS OF IT DURING THE NON
       TEACHING WEEK HERE AT MONASH.
        SO, ENOUGH OF THESE SUPERFLUOUS CAPITAL LETTERS. AND BACK TO
         THE DYNAMIC, ORIGINAL, REFRESHING AND EVER SO SILLY STORY.

      Mr  Stickleback  was in a minor carpet-eating rage by now. But he
  decided to save it for when the poor defenceless students wouldn't be
  expecting it. Kick them when they're down...
      He headed for his desk, picking a piece of paper on it. "I have a
  message from your  English  teacher,  Mr.  Maniac.  He says that your
  homework  is  to memorise 'Macbeth' word for word.  And  you  are  to
  recite it to him tomorrow." Just then, he saw something in the corner
  of his eye. He pointed to it.
      "You! Using a  calculator!  Right - you can have lines tonight. I
  want you to write out  'I  must  not use a calculator in Maths' seven
  million times."
      "Now sir?" Stephens, the culprit asked.
      "No! Not now - do it at lunchtime.  That'll  give  you  plenty of
  time  to..." At that point, he was interupted by a P.A. announcement.
  He turned  to  face  the  loud-speaker,  stood  rigidly before it and
  saluted. Static emanated, and a distant voice came forth. A telephone
  rang urgently in the background.
      "Err...  announcements  for tomorrow: Executions will be at dawn.
  Torture  Group  One  at  nine  o'clock,  and  Torture  Group  Two  at
  nine-thirty."
      When the announcement  had  finished, Stickleback relaxed. "Stand
  at ease", he said, as  he  began  to pace around the room, only to be
  interupted  by  another announcement, at which he again  saluted  the
  loudspeaker.
      "Oh and Mr.  Sadist,  could you please return my horse-whip to me
  sometime today?"
      The teacher again relaxed. "Right  you  lot  -  get  on with your
  work."
      The  students  all  looked busy working, but Stickleback began to
  nod off. After all,  he  had  had  a long day, and was getting tired.
  Wouldn't  the  school  run  smoother,  he  thought,  if   it  had  no
  students...
      Two students, next to each other, noticed this,  and one began to
  lean over to the other to say something. Suddenly  the  teacher's arm
  sprang  up  and  pointed to the door. The hand connected to  the  arm
  clicked its fingers, and the first student left the room.
      Another teacher entered, and all the students instinctively rose.
      "Ah! Hello Mr. Ectoplasm."
      "Hello Mr. Stickleback. Just  got  a  note  for you", replied the
  visiting teacher.
      "Oh. Thank you."
      "Not at all Reg - Mr. Stickleback" he corrected himself. He left,
  and the students sat down again. Stickleback read  the  notice out to
  the class.
      "Class,  I  have  just been notified of the time of  the  Nuclear
  Holocaust Drill. It will be", he paused, "Now!"
      A bell went off,  and  the  students  were all looking bewildered
  when Stickleback urged them into activity.
      "Hurry up, get on with it. Come on!  You know - Nuclear Holocaust
  Drill!"
      The students were now getting into the spirit of  the  thing, and
  began  to  simulate  dying,  lurching  around the room and eventually
  collapsing. The teacher went back to his huge desk.
      "Right. Now to call the roll. Bannikoff?" There was no answer.
      "Good. Bradley?" Again, the sound of silence.
      "Cummings? ... Good. Dandens? ... Good. Evans?"
  
    IS THIS THE END OF THE MATHS CLASS?
     'FRAID SO, THIS JOKE'S GOT RATHER TIRED NOW.
       WHAT TWISTED STORY-LINE WILL THE MANGLED MIND BEHIND
        THIS FARCE THINK OF NEXT?
         FIND OUT, IN PART FOUR OF 'THE TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES',
          COMING UP ON WEDNESDAY, 29TH AUGUST.

  BIBLIOGRAPHY:
    If you've enjoyed reading this file,  you  may  or  may  not  enjoy
  reading  Diary'90,  which is not available from the author unless you
  plead with him.

  FILMOGRAPHY:
    If you've enjoyed  this  experience  in reading, then you may enjoy
  abusing your ears and eyes to  the  sight  and  sound of 'The Book Of
  Diary 90', which is not available from anywhere near Alpha-Centauri.

  DISCOGRAPHY:
    If  you've  enjoyed reading this file, you may also enjoy listening
  to a floppy  disk  called "Double Sided High Density". You won't hear
  much, but people will stare at you.

  BOXOGRAPHY:
    If you've found this to be an enriching and stimulating experience,
  you may enjoy  turning on your funny box with  buttons on the side at
  about 9:30pm Tuesday night, and turning the dial to '2', to watch the
  new series of ***THE BIG GIG***

  BOGOGRAPHY:
    If you haven't enjoyed reading this file, then you can bog off.

  FILOGRAPHY:
    If you've enjoyed reading this  file, the you may enjoy reading the
  story of ROCKET ROGER. Just mail  a  lunatic called  "The  Mad Scribe
  at  rocketroger@gnu.ai.mit.edu notifying  him  that  he is a complete
  telephone  box,  and  including  your  account  number.  Many abusive
  comments...   no  sorry,  many  funny  letters  arranged  in  amusing
  combinations will then  be forthcoming. Was that okay, Mr Scribe sir?

______________________________________________________________________________


Get down and get depressed! Its
	  __     __       __                    __
           \ he   \ oxic  \ ustard  \\\orkshop  \_iles    <----Pathetic-+
            \      \       \_        \-\         \                      |
                         Part Four 29/8/90                              |
                    Written by Mr. Luxury-Yacht                         |
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - | - -
                                                                        |
    Adam  Cohen  was  depressed.  Not just depressed, injured. He had   |
gone to his Maths Class, had been kicked out, ordered to muck out the   |
school principal's office, and been  injured, when a large deposit of   |
bullshit,  which had just come out  of  the  principal's  mouth,  had   |
landed on  him,  not only causing him to smell as badly as a computer   |
programmer, but also breaking his leg. But what really pissed him off   |
was the miniscule titles that were now being drawn by the author.-------+
    Adam had become even more depressed  when  he had sat down to use
his IBM-PC in the small cave with striped wallpaper that he lived it.
He had bought the cave at an auction,  under a government cave-buying
scheme. Fact is, the only things that would fit  into  the  cave were
Adam,  his  pet  IBM-PC,  and  the  stray  mongoose that provided the
electricity. This is what happened when Adam used his computer.
    C:\> dir
    CONFIRM FORMAT C: (Y/N)? n
    OKAY, FORMATTING C: no no no
    CONFIRM FORMAT C: (Y/N)? n
    OKAY, FORMATTING C:. PRESS ESC TO ABORT.
    esc esc esc!
    CONFIRM FORMAT C: (Y/N)? n
    OKAY, FORMATTING C:
    esc esc esc esc!
    YOU'VE HAD YOUR CHANCE SUCKER.
    WIPING F.A.T.
    esc esc esc esc!!
    TOO LATE NOW. HAHAHAHA FORMATTING...

    Adam  by  this point as depressed as a man who had been shot by a
Fascist  regime  for  liking  the  colour  green.  So,  the  mongoose
suggested that he  visit  a  psychiatrist.  The  first visit had been
reasonably   successful,   despite   the   psychiatrist  asking  deep
penetrating questions about his relationship with a local tree.
    It was time for the second visit...

 - AH, MY BOY, SO YOU ARE BACK AGAIN FOR YOUR DIAGNOSIS. COME IN, COME IN.
 - Well, the thing is that I spoke to another doctor.
 - VOT DO ZAY KNOW, MY BOY. ZAY HAVE NOT THE EXPERIENCE IN CLINICAL
      PSYCHOLOGY ZAT I DO! I GOT HD FOR PSY192! NOW! TO YOUR DIAGNOSIS.
 - Um, actually I don't think I...
 - NOW, YOU HAVE BIG PROBLEMS MY BOY. BIG BIG BIG BIG PROBLEMS.
 - Yes I know, I've got a broken leg, and I can't walk properly.
 - NO NO NO, MY BOY. I HAVE BEEN INVESTIGATING YOUR SUBCONCIOUS, AND I HAVE
      COME TO THE CONCLUSION THAT YOU HAD A REPRESSED CHILDHOOD. BUT MORE
      SIGNIFICANT THAN THAT, YOUR BROKEN LEG IS CAUSED BY SEVERE SEXUAL
      PROBLEMS.
 - What?
 - A COMBINATION OF CHILDHOOD EXPERIENCE, PSYCHO-SEMITIC DISORDERS AND A
      GUILT FEELING IN YOUR SUBCONCIOUS HAS CAUSED YOUR LEG TO REJECT THE
      LEADERSHIP OF YOUR BRAIN, AND ATTEMPT SUICIDE, THUS, BREAKING ITSELF.
 - You're not serious.
 - MY BOY, ZIS IS VERY SERIOUS! I HAVE CONSULTED PAST CASE BOOKS, AND HAVE
      COME TO THE CONCLUSION THAT MUCH OF YOUR BRAIN IS CONVINCED THAT YOU
      ARE TURNING INTO A FROG.
 - Rebbit.
 - ON ZE OTHER HAND, I COULD BE WRONG...

(The preview of next installment courtesy of Reich-Nazi Pty Ltd).

   VOT WILL HAPPEN TO THE INFERIOR JEWISH SCUM ADAM COHEN?
    VILL HE BE SWEPT ASIDE BY THE GLORIOUS GERMAN ARMY INVADING
     THE PSYCHIATRIST'S OFFICE? VILL THE BRILLIANT ARYAN MIND OF
      DR.FROGENSTEINBERG BE PUT TO WORK ON A GLORIOUS NEW
       WEAPON FOR THE REICH TO BLAST ZE SCHWEINHUND ALLIED FORCES?
        YES, IF WE HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH THE NEXT VUNDERBAR
         EDITION OF 'ZE TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES!' SEIG HEIL.

   OH DEAR. WELL, IF WE MANAGE TO REPEL THE GERMAN ARMY, WHO ARE CURRENTLY
BATTERING DOWN THE DOOR WITH A LARGE KNOPFWURST SAUSAGE, PART FIVE WILL BE OUT
ON MONDAY 3RD SEPTEMBER.

YOU TWISTED MINDS WHO HAVE ENJOYED THIS DRIVEL MAY ENJOY THE AMAZINGLY
BORING STORY OF ROCKET ROGER.
Just send some mail  to the Mad Scribe at rocketroger@gnu.ai.mit.edu,
notifying him  that  he  is  a complete extension cord, and including
your account number. Many words arranged in amusing combinations will
then be forthcoming. Was that vunderbar, Mr Scribe sir?

_______________________________________________________________________________

To subscribe to the Toxic Custard Workshop Files, mail tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu

--
Copyright (c) 1991 Daniel Bowen
May be copied or reproduced without permission
provided this notice remains intact.
--
         Daniel Francis Bowen            | Remember - jumpers are
 Monash University, Melbourne, Australia | clothing's way of telling
----THE TOXIC-CUSTARD-WORKSHOP-FILES-----| you to pull over...
          tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu            | [Toxic Custard Workshop]