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*****NUMBERS 156 TO 160***********BY DANIEL BOWEN (tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu)*****


"Lost and found Toxic Custard"


TOXIC            Number                Written
    CUSTARD           One hundred            by
          WORKSHOP              and           Daniel
                 FILES            fifty-six        Bowen

Little boxes, on the hillside
Little boxes made of ticky-tacky
...And any one of the bastard things could contain the tiny object
you've been searching for for the last three hours. Why are some
things more prone to be lost than others? Some objects just seem to
be hell-bent on getting themselves out of your life and back to
whatever they were doing before you acquired them. Pen lids. Pens.
The back bit off the Walkman that stops the batteries falling out. "I
just know I left that cable somewhere..." And as the search goes on,
you get paranoid. "I didn't give it away to the school fete did I? Or
sell it... no, of course not, it's part of the (x). Or did I lend it
to whatsisname?" And after the paranoia, the *real* paranoia.
"Omigod. What if it's been stolen? What if a burglar got in here and
stole my priceless packet of AC to DC adapter power attachments??"
[Yes, that's what I've lost]

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Good evening and welcome to Idiot, the gameshow where we encourage
people to do something bloody dangerous just to get on the telly.
We'll see Footscray accountant James Turtle stick his head through
his television while it's tuned to Hinch, surgeon Betty Cutler throw
herself off a five story building, and flaming idiot Geoff Smith set
fire to himself while covered in kerosene, and dance the tango solo
while on a tightrope suspended four hundred metres above the Yarra.
But we start tonight with Frank Moron who will be knocking his own
head off with a rusty meat cleaver.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

THEY SAY: Press any key

BUT THEY MEAN: Press any key except Shift, Caps Lock, Alt, Ctrl...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

    "So tell us what happened."
    "Okay. It all started when-"
    "Hold it. Hold it just a fucking moment. We haven't been
introduced yet. Wait a sec, for the title to come up."

                 THE SEVENTH ADVENTURE OF MR POPSICLE
                 ------------------------------------

    "Right. That's a bit fucking better. Continue."
    "Well. It all started when I was on a mission in Peru, spying on
a visiting Columbian colonel."
    "Peru eh? How did he come to be there?"
    "Hold it. Hold it a fucking moment again. Oi! Bowen! What's with
this skimping on the narrative? We don't know who's meant to be
saying what and when! Now explain yourself a bit more, before I
fucking jump out and take you down to Russell Street for a little
interrogation, if ya know what I mean."
    "Ah, that's better", said Popsicle.
    Trouble continued from his position in the interrogation room. It
wasn't the most comfortable of positions, in fact it... oh well,
let's just say that if the fire alarm went off, there would be one
person who would have some difficulty in getting out of the building.
"Well, the rumour is that he was corrupt, dealing with one of the big
nutmeg smuggling gangs", he said.
    "Oh no, not that old chestnut again", said Inspector Unnecessary-
Violence.
    "No no, *nutmeg*", corrected Trouble, who was quickly in deep
trouble. Trouble with a capital T. If there was one thing the
Inspector hated (and as it happened, there were several million
things that the Inspector hated), it was being corrected.
    "Now fucking listen, Trouble", he said, lowering his face down to
Trouble's level, so that Trouble could see the scars from at least
the last two dozen pub fights the Inspector had been in. "This
episode is all far too fucking nice so far. So maybe we'll fucking
make it a bit more interesting and bring back those worms. You're a
traitor. And in my book, that makes you a traitor."
    The interrogation continued in this vein for several seconds. The
information that Popsicle and the Inspector discovered was, to say
the least, very interesting. But the author decided not to reveal all
of it yet, since that would tie him down to a plot for the rest of
the story.
    Popsicle and the Inspector decided to follow up one of pieces of
information they had gained, and made their way to a pub in Malvern.
Then they decided that they really should be following up that
information, and continued on to a laneway in St Kilda, where Trouble
had claimed there was a "dead letter box", or, to put it another way,
a mailbox with a dead body inside it. Actually, now he comed to think
of it, maybe that wasn't quite the jargon he was looking for. He
tried to think back carefully to his collection of Usborne "How To Be
A Spy", "Codes For Beginners", and "Intermediate Political
Assassination" books.
    Anyway, it was here that various enemy spies would come along
with their secret documents, surveillance photos, and so on, and get
them sent back to their various headquarters. It was much like a
regular civilian post-office, except that they didn't use Postpaks,
they used black briefcases with secret combinations (and they
actually *used* the secret combinations); they didn't put stamps on
items, they put bullet holes in them; and the staff there actually
worked.
    Although Popsicle would have liked to have staked out the place,
the Inspector preferred to just skid up in his big car and blow the
crap out of everyone in sight with a shotgun. In the end they tossed
for it, and Popsicle (and any innocent civilians who happened to be
around at the time) won. Though the Inspector shot the coin later.
And the civilians.

What will happen at the stake out? Will they catch a falling spy?
Will they be mugged by passing Mormons, kidnapped and taken to Salt
Lake City? Will they be walking down the street only to slip on their
own vomit? How the hell should I know? I haven't written it yet...
oh, Christ, you'll just have to be reading next week for the next
amazing episode of Mr Popsicle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As you've carefully and correctly predicted,
that's all for another edition of the Toxic
Custard Workshop Files. Unfortunately it
looks like there'll be another one next
week. Oh well. If you're the type of warped
human animal that would like to get his or
her claws, paws and teeth all over Toxic
Custard back-issues, just reply to this
post, or send mail to tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu
for details on how to obtain said back-
issues.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
--
Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre|RECYCLED TCWF SIGNATURES#3:
Telecom Australia, Melbourne---------------|
dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-------------| Pope gets grit in mouth!
------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu|                     [TCWF 78]

------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"We present... Toxic Custard!"


         DIRECT from a diseased brain in Melbourne, Australia
               VIA a computer account in Massachussetts
       ON RELAY throughout The Internet and associated networks
               WITH PROFITS going directly to chocolate
            FEATURING the Popsicle Atomic Delight Dancers
                    WE PRESENT the one - the only

 //////// /////// //    // ///////    // ////// ///////         Toxic
   //    //      //    // //         // //          //        Custard
  //    //      // // // //////     // //////      //        Workshop
 //    //      // // // //         //     //      //            Files
//    /////// //////// //         // //////      //    19th July 1993

Good evening ladies and gentlemen... we've got a truly wonderful(*)
episode for you this week. Later on we'll have really bad puns about
music, but right now to kick us off, heeeeeeeere's Popsicle!
                                                (*) where appropriate

                 THE SEVENTH ADVENTURE OF MR POPSICLE
                 ------------------------------------          Part 4

    Our heroes have decided to throw crime prevention and community
policing in information caravans to the wayside for the moment, and
are hot on the trail of a spy network based in a laneway in St Kilda.
    Mr Popsicle and Inspector Unnecessary-Violence arrived at the
laneway, and did whatever the past tense of "to stake out" is. (Stook
out? Stake outed? Never mind.)
    They located a first floor flat nearby to the scene, and managed
to con the tenants into lending them the front room, where they
assembled the customary cameras on tripods looking in black and white
through the gap in the curtains to the street below. Popsicle took
the first watch, which basically involved looking through the camera,
occasionally discussing the movements below into his walkie-talkie,
and taking the odd sequence of pictures, which generally made the
view click like a camera and freeze for a few seconds. It's often
asked why police forces around the world (or at least, those on the
telly) always use black and white film, and take about ten pictures
in a row of every suspect they see whilst on surveillance. And if you
think you're going to find the answer here, you're wrong - it was
just a cheap way of relating something stupid and errmmm... yeah.
    After about five hours of this (and be thankful you don't have to
live through it too), Popsicle saw something moving in a hedge
opposite. Those who remember the relevant details will recall that
the spot they are watching is in fact a spy equivalent to a post
office, and what Popsicle was now seeing was the spy equivalent of
the morning collection.
    A hand had slowly reached out of the hedge, and was moving
towards a brick sitting on a nearby wall, which, although our heroes
didn't know it, contained a number of secret documents. Popsicle,
however, saw the hand, and quickly rounded off the film in the
camera, before waking the Inspector and running out of the flat
towards it.
    The hand, with the brick in its grasp, had, understandably,
decided against remaining in the vicinity of Mr Popsicle, hero of the
Australian Royal Security Establishment, and the looming, armed and
dangerous figure of Inspector Unnecessary-Violence, crazed thug and
lunatic law enforcement representative, of no fixed abode.
    This disappointed Popsicle, who decided to run after and
apprehend the hand, the brick, and their respective owner/s. The
Inspector was too angry to be disappointed, and *he* decided to run
after and alter the biological structure of the hand, the brick, and
their respective owner/s so that they would be in very, very many
bits.

WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT - THE USUAL TEMPORARY BLOODBATH, OR
SOMETHING JUST SLIGHTLY MORE SUBTLE? PROBABLY NOT. BUT
WHICHEVER OR WHATEVER HAPPENS, YOU CAN BE SURE TO DISCOVER
IT IN THE NEXT INCREDIBLE EPISODE OF MR POPSICLE.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Ever since New Kids On The Block blew the minds of the world with
their amazing musical... erm... talent, some have mocked. Many have
laughed, and made fun of them. Like me. But, incredible as it may
seem, others have imitated, and tried to take advantage of the
precedents they have set, for a bunch of talentless gits leaping up
on stage (and falling through it, occasionally), to mime to mindless
lyrics and dance to music that would make Pavarotti cringe with
embarrassment.
    One such imitation group from London, "New Geezers On The Estate,
Know What I Mean Guv'nor", have enjoyed increasing success on the
world stage, particularly amongst very thick teenagers who should be
told to spend their pocket money on more sensible things, lest it be
taken forcibly from them.
    When TCWF contacted New Geezers' manager, Johnny Dork, for an
interview with the group, we were told no, that we'd probably do a
typically critical story about how crap they were. So we lied and
said we were all big New Geezers fans, and his ego managed to get us
this EXCLUSIVE interview with two members of the band, Donny Rotten
and Ronnie Morbett:

TCWF: Guys, welcome to Toxic Custard. Could I first ask you, Donny,
about the group's philosophy. Many bands have thoughts, or beliefs
that move them to incorporate themes into the lyrics, that tax the
listener's emotional thinking, that promote thought - whether it be
on a theme of social injustice, youth's lack of communication with
its elders, or the horror of war. I just wonder, what is New Geezers'
theme?

DONNY: Basically that dancing is fun.

RONNIE: Yeah. Dancing.

TCWF: Erm.. yeah. And what of criticisms of your music? How do you
find the various criticisms...

RONNIE: Well we just open the paper...

TCWF: ... that claim you know nothing about music? How do you answer
that criticism?

DONNY: Just by saying that we love what we do, and look who's got the
two gold albums.

TCWF: So, in particular reference to that criticism of your lack of
musical experience, skill and ability... what's a stave?

DONNY: A stave? Isn't that what you cook your dinner on...?

TCWF: And a crotchet?

DONNY: A unit of grumpiness...?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On that musical note, that's where we say
goodbye to another Toxic Custard. Have a
nice day. Back-issues are available to
those gifted persons with ftp available
to them. Email tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu for
details.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
--
Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre|RECYCLED TCWF SIGNATURES#4:
Telecom Australia, Melbourne---------------|
dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-------------|    World's biggest cat does
------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu|  world's biggest cat dropping!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"A Toxic Tale"


/\/\/\    /\/\        /\    /\         /\/\
  \/      \/          \/    \/         \/
  /\oxic  /\  ustard  /\ \/ /\orkshop  /\/\iles            Number 158
__\/______\/\/________\/\/\/\/_________\/______________26th_July_1993

TOXIC TALES - "Alfred The Incontinent Dragon"

    Once upon a time there was a big old dragon, who spent most of
his time terrorising the nearby villagers, due to his terrible
incontinence (and flatulence too). His name was Alfred, which was a
pretty good name for a dragon. Alfred was over 400 years old, and he
got his dragon pension regularly, and went to dragon bingo at a
nearby mountain dragon hall.
    One day the villagers, who were sick of having to shovel away
Alfred's deposits, decided to go up to the valley where Alfred lived,
and do nasty things to his bottom. The village elders had worked out
a plan, which was this:
    They would send a team of men into the forests, to search for the
absolute hugest biggest mother of a tree they could find. Then they
would bring it back to the village, where the wood worker and his
apprentice would carve it into the absolute hugest biggest mother of
a cork that had ever been made.
    This having been done, the village's bravest men would gather one
night with the cork, torches, ropes and any other supply stuff that
they would need for the trip, or that the local supplier had managed
to con them into buying for the occasion.
    They set out at 8pm that cruel winter night, and by 11:30 they
had reached the domain of the dragon. And there he lay, in his glory,
snoozing the night away, for it had been a particularly satisfying
game of dragon bingo that night. The villagers snuck up quietly from
behind, carrying the cork with them, their intentions probably quite
obvious to the reader by now without having to spell the situation
out vis-a-vis the incontinent dragon and the large cork.
    With their torches lit so they could see and watch where they
were walking (for some of them had bought new boots off a visiting
merchant that week), they silently approached the dragon's anal zone.
    Suddenly, the dragon stirred in his sleep, and there was a
horrifying low vibrating noise... The torches' flames caught the
draft, and suddenly a huge fireball fried the villagers, and their
new boots, and made its way down the valley, accompanied by a stench
that made the surrounding areas uninhabitable for thousands of years.

                               The End

         And the moral of the story is... never light torches
           when you're standing next to a dragon's bottom.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

                 THE SEVENTH ADVENTURE OF MR POPSICLE
                 ------------------------------------          Part 5

    Mr Popsicle, ace secret agent, and Inspector Unnecessary-
Violence, vegetarian peacenik, are even now in pursuit of a person or
persons last seen behaving suspiciously near a brick. Normally this
wouldn't be considered too serious, but when the person/s involved
is/are known to probably possibly be related to the long-lost brother
of a foreign spy's cat, well, the security people have to act. And
very badly they act too.
    The Inspector, not being the fastest runner in the world, elected
to use his possessions to his advantage, the possession in this case
being a bloody big gun that someone in authority had been foolish
enough to allow him to possess.
    The result of this was rather messy, and will be neatly glossed
over for the moment. Popsicle was not entirely happy about this, as
he had hoped to question the suspect. But considering that the
suspect was now in two bits, comprising of the suspect's upper bit,
and the suspect's lower bit (along with a number of smaller, liquid
bits that probably aren't worth mentioning at this point), Popsicle
correctly guessed that should questioning take place, a mountain of
information would not be forthcoming from this particular source.
    Popsicle therefore elected to make use of his handy rubber blood-
proof gloves to search the body for any other evidence, before the
Inspector, in a classic case of overkill, decided to make use of the
rest of the bullets he had on him by shooting up the suspect a bit
more. The Inspector basically wanted just a little fun, and,
considered Popsicle, it was not as if the suspect could be any more
dead.
    Yes, this episode is turning out to be rather unpleasant.
    But if you were expecting anything else from a serial that
features a character named "Inspector Unnecessary-Violence", then you
should have known better.
    The evidence that Popsicle obtained was quite interesting, and
was as follows:
    - a knitted bag with a small collection of slate coloured rocks
    - a small glossy autographed photograph of Ralph Snider
    - a 9 volt battery
    - two dozen pen lids
    - a roll of stickytape
    - a coloured condom with the caption "Torpedo Of Love"
    - a large number of papers addressed to various foreign
         governments, mostly featuring cooking instructions for
         different desserts
    Popsicle took most of the evidence back to his scientific
adviser, Doctor "Goose" Wedge, back at the A.R.S.E laboratories. All
except the knitted bag with the slate coloured rocks, that is, which
was just what he had always wanted.

    What will be discovered amongst the startling new evidence?
Bugger all, you may suspect, but not so! Find out in the next
delicious episode of The Seventh Adventure of Mr Popsicle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Toxic Custard's over four another weak.
If you have enjoyed this episode, and
would like to take a look at some of the
back-issues, then you're a twisted
little twerp of a human being. But that's
your problem. Reply to this mail, or
write to tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu for details.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
--
Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre|RECYCLED TCWF SIGNATURES#5:
Telecom Australia, Melbourne---------------|
dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-------------| Why are historians so
------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu|  backward?        [TCWF 64]

------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Taxable Toxic Custard"


TTTTTTTTCCCCCCCCWWWWWWWWFFFFFFFF111111115555555599999999
22222222nnnnnnnnddddddddAAAAAAAAuuuuuuuugggggggguuuuuuuusssssssstttttttt
bbbbbbbbyyyyyyyyDDDDDDDDaaaaaaaannnnnnnniiiiiiiieeeeeeeellllllllBBBBBBBB
oooooooowwwwwwwweeeeeeeennnnnnnn........

TOXIC TALES - "William The Explosive Goblin"

    Once upon a time there was an enchanted forest. Inside the forest
lived gnomes, elves, fairies, and all sorts of other enchanted things
that you generally find in enchanted forests. And somewhere near the
middle, in the very deepest part of the forest was a magic cave. You
could tell it was magic, because it had a big sign saying "Magic
Cave" above the entrance.
    Inside the magic cave, there were rumoured to be many treasures,
such as gold, silver, and some of the biggest ganja plants this side
of Snake Gully. Naturally, all the naughty creatures of the
surrounding areas wanted to get their claws on the treasure. And none
more so than William, who was a goblin who lived just a short bus
ride away, in Muck Swamp.
    [We now apologise for the first two paragraphs of this story,
which have absolutely no bearing on the rest of it. It's all a bit
pathetic really, isn't it?]
    William was a big goblin, with horns, and big teeth, and whatever
other features goblins usually have to distinguish themselves from
all the other bloody creatures in these fantasy stories. William
didn't enjoy the regular goblin pastimes the other goblins enjoyed,
such as frightening goats (by chasing, then eating them), slopping
around in the mud, and playing a few rounds of golf.
    The problem with William was, he tended to explode. At least,
that's what it said at the start of the story, so I suppose we'd
better stick with that for the moment. Not emotionally of course, but
literally. He'd be picking flowers, or chasing butterflies, or doing
some such thing delightfully shot in soft focus, when he'd stop dead
in his tracks, look up at the sky, and he'd feel his head start to
swell. It would get bigger and bigger, and suddenly, **BANG**, his
head would explode into hundreds of bits of skin, bone and brain
tissue. And that was the end of William.

                               The End

          And the moral of the story is... never believe you
             can have a proper story with a character who
                   explodes in the fifth paragraph.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

MRS IRENE BUSYBODY SPEAKS OUT ON...
Walkmans. Okay, so Walkmans seemed like a good idea at the time.
Personal music, choice, all that. But really, couldn't they have got
through the technical difficulties? The Japanese have some brilliant
scientists, who have performed modern miracles when it comes to
consumer electronics, but how come they still can't make a Walkman
that doesn't cause the listener to scream their head off while trying
to participate in an average conversation? And another thing - that
annoying treble that surrounding people can hear. Makes it sound like
the whole cassette is one long drum machine solo. Or a Kylie & Jason
remix.
    My husband Fred has been trying to update his stereo at home.
Problem is, he just can't find a dealer who can sell him a CD player
with Dolby on it.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I just broke a light shade. It's just the kind of thing that can
really round off the weekend, you know. I don't know who decided that
our livingroom should have low hung shades made of super brittle
Smasho-Glass. Presumably either very short energetic people, or
moderately tall non-energetic people. Or even very short
non-energetic. Whichever it was, they obviously decided that
moderately tall energetic people would never inhabit this abode. Or
that nobody would mind splinters of glass showering down on them. (Oh
yes, there's nothing that keeps you clean better than a few well
placed shards of glass in the morning). In the end, no injuries,
although some blood decided to evacuate my ear a few minutes later.
Which means that as I write this, I have a truly ridiculous looking
Mickey Mouse band-aid on my right ear. Time to call an electrician.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Tax time again. Yes, once again it's time to dig around the house for
all the papers that you "filed" into five hundred million different
places, all of which might possibly have something that someone might
ponder being worth nominated for consideration to the title of the
magic word: Deduction.
    I'm not sure who it was that invented the TaxPack. It seems like
it was someone who decided that rather than have a four page Tax
Return with a 15 page book of notes and helpful hints, they would
merge the two and come up with a 90 page blockbusting Tax Return. And
there's still a detachable 4 page bit which is the actual Return.
    And whose idea was it to shuffle all the questions up? So that if
you can count, you probably think you've lost the art, and if you
can't count, you read through the thing and probably think it's not
worth bothering to learn. Seems to me that the whole tax thing would
be a lot easier if they simply said: "Okay, you earned $25678, you
paid $6789 in tax. Bad luck, we're keeping it." No pressure of
filling in the Tax Return before the end of October, no half a
million trees laying down their trunks, and no huge Tax Department in
Canberra to swallow your Return for three months before finally
announcing that you owe them $1.37.
    This may be a rather simplistic view. I'm not apologising for it,
I'm just pointing it out to you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This has been another edition of the
Toxic Custard Workshop Files. TCWF
will return next week, whether you like
it or not. Back-issues are available,
and information pertaining to these is
available from tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
--
Daniel Bowen, NTC Systems------| RECYCLED TCWF SIGNATURES#6:
Telecom Australia, Melbourne---|    BOGOGRAPHY: If you haven't
dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-|    enjoyed reading this,
TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu|    then you can bog off.      [TCWF 3]

------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Nmad Ro Dratsuc"


I BET YOU I CAN FINISH OFF THIS FAMILY BLOCK OF COCONUT ROUGH BEFORE
THE END OF THIS WEEK'S TOXIC CUSTARD
__
 \\  Newob Leinad's "Nmad Ro Dratsuc"
  ||
  ||  /      _____/__  tsugu oB leinaD yb nettirW DRATSUC CIXOT
  || |      /    /   \ ,   A w                  O
  || |/\   |    /     |      en                 R
  || |  |   \__/_____/ 1   f                    K
  ||  \/      /      399   o ht9 ,061# SELIF POHS

For some reason, the second Saturday in August seems to be the time
they decide to have that monumental electoral event - the local
council elections. When the residents of the cities of Australia get
to cast their vote to see what colour the traffic warden's tickets
are going to be next year, and other such world-shattering issues.
Does anybody care? Yes, when there's a $50 fine involved.
    So, you mosey on down to the local Town Hall, Church, School, or
other such establishment of doom, and try and get around the small
hordes of campaigners trying to thrust How To Vote cards in your
face, each one extolling the virtues of Jane Kenison as against John
Kewitt and vice versa, neither of which you've ever heard of before,
or probably will again. And unless you live in Camberwell, you're
likely to just say "sod it, whoever it was last time, they can keep
the job".
            ______________________________________
           |                                      |
           |              HOW TO VOTE             |
           |                                      |
           | 1. Attend local polling place        |
           | 2. Shun campaigners                  |
           | 3. Tell Electoral Office staff your  |
           |     neighbour's name                 |
           | 4. Enter booth with voting slip      |
           | 5. Draw noughts and crosses, and     |
           |     characters from "The Little      |
           |     Mermaid" all over slip           |
           | 6. Sign it "Hello to everyone, bet   |
           |     you won't catch me trying to vote|
           |     twice", and your neighbour's name|
           | 7. Put voting slip in ballot box     |
           | 8. Go and vote                       |
           |______________________________________|

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

THE SEVENTH ADVENTURE OF MR POPSICLE
------------------------------------

    If you've been concentrating hard for the past fortnight, you'll
remember that Mr Popsicle and Inspector Unnecessary-Violence have
just erm.. disposed of a suspect in their own intimidatory way. And
quite apart from the several dozen bullet-holes, they've have
recovered a number of items of evidence, which are unlikely to be
listed again here.
    Apart, that is, from the small glossy autographed photograph of
Ralph Snider. Popsicle read the note on the back of the photograph,
which simply said "Ralph Snider", and then turned it over, expecting
to find a picture of a weedy little account-type person with an
accountant's voice and charisma to match. He was right. But let's not
dwell on life's unfortunates. (Life's very unfortunate, actually. I
tell you, this guy is such a little we...)
    Ahem.
    Actually, there was some other evidence of interest. Just a bunch
of paperwork though, which doesn't really generally make riveting
narrative. Unless it happens to mention somewhere in its paperness
the sexual antics of certain world leaders. Which it doesn't. Sorry,
I'm mixing my tenses. Which it didn't. I guess it was just a bunch of
papers, really. Popsicle was about to throw them in the rubbish when
Doctor Wedge stopped him, and decided to examine them in great
detail, in order to obtain further information on the case, and to
fill in a little time while he waited for "Barry Bond's Bondage
Hour".
    Well, okay, so the papers did include a bunch of material that
may have been a little use to Popsicle. They told the story of a
woman.
    She had been born at the age of zero, her father having died
three years earlier. Her mother brought her up in the gutter, in the
constant cold and wet, because the gutter she chose was in a car
wash. At twelve she had been in a siege situation with thirteen
cousins she was baby-sitting, and a violent lunatic bastard gunman,
and was dug out of the house by police using only three men armed
with teaspoons. At nineteen she was in a car crash that left her in
traction for 18 months, during which her feet were above her head,
and some of her bones drifted upwards in her body, resulting in her
lungs being jammed in her neck, and having to be shifted back down in
a special operation. At twenty-one, she suddenly gave birth after
falling down some stairs, not even having realised she'd been
pregnant. Two hours after giving birth, the hospital burned down, and
she was back out on the streets in the howling wind, with only a torn
pair of underpants to protect her, and two dimes, which she could rub
together, but not spend, as they weren't legal currency. Then, at
twenty-five, she had her big, and only break, when she was awarded
the Annual BullShitter's Prize For The Biggest Load Of Crap In A Life
Story.
    Her name was Marian, and you'll learn more about her involvement
in this mystery next week.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

      Meanwhile, at the Computer Nerd Arms Hotel Saloon & Bar...

SQL and orange please.

'ERE, YOU CALL THAT NORMALISED?

Pardon?

YOU CALL THAT NORMALISED, YOU STUPID TWAT? I'VE SEEN BETTER
NORMALISATION THROWN UP IN THE STREET BY A TRAMP. THAT DATA WOULDN'T
HAVE INTEGRITY IF IT HAD BEEN KNIGHTED BY THE QUEEN MUM.

What?

LISTEN CHUM, I'VE SEEN RELATIONAL DATABASES IN MY TIME. YOU PUNKS
COME IN HERE WITH YOUR E-R DIAGRAMS, AND YOUR *GRAND* PLANS FOR DATA
DICTIONARIES... AND IT DON'T COME TO SQUAT. SO YOU CAN TAKE YOUR
TRANSITIVE DEPENDENCIES, YOUR SCHEMA DEFINITIONS AND YOUR FIFTH
NORMAL FORM, AND SHOVE THEM RIGHT UP YOUR FLAT FILE.

Oh, all right. I never wanted to be a DBA... I wanted to be a
PROGRAMMER! Debugging from screen to screen... in Visual Basic...
Pascal... C++..., with my best PC by my side, we code... code...
code...

I'm a programmer and I'm okay
I code all night and I sleep all day
(He's a programmer and he's okay)
(He codes all night and he sleeps all day)

I design screens, create DO WHILE's,
I go to the lavatory
On Wednesdays I go gaming
And play X-Tank for tea

(He designs screens, creates DO WHILE's)
(He goes to the lavatory)
(On Wednesdays he goes gaming)
(And plays X-Tank for tea)
(He's a programmer and he's okay)
(He codes all night and he sleeps all day)

I write out docs, I do support
Beta test and release
I sometimes try out FORTRAN
And mess around with Scheme

(He writes out docs, he does support)
(Beta tests and release)
(He sometimes tries out FORTRAN)
(And messes 'round with Scheme...?)
(He's a programmer and he's okay)
(He codes all night and he sleeps all day)
 
I code spaghetti, I quite like FORTH
PL1 and ALGOL
I wish I'd written COBOL
Just like my dear papa

     [Oh Bevis, I thought you were so structured!]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
World leaders have supported the decision
to make this the end of Toxic Custard until
next week. You have been warned. Have a nice
day. Some/A few/Most of the back-issues are
still available by ftp, reply for details.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
--
Daniel Bowen, NTC Systems------|  I'm a rebel, I'm on the
Telecom Australia, Melbourne---|  edge... Don't mess with
dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-|  me, 'cos I'm part of the
TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu|  Big M Generation!

TOLD YOU SO

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

the Toxic Custard Workshop Files by Daniel Bowen, Melbourne, Australia

Copyright (c) 1993, 1994 Daniel Bowen. May be freely distributed
without profit provided this notice remains intact.

For subscription information, contact tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu