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The Not So Pointy Or 'Nointy Issue - The Not So Pointy Or 'Nointy Issue - The No
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DDDD RRRR OOOO PPPPP PPPPP IIIII N N GGGGG SSSSS
D D R R O O P P P P I NN N G S
D D RRRR O O PPPPP PPPPP I N N N G GGG SSSS
D D R R O O P P I N NN G G S
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A-M00SE-ING ANECDOTES AND ILLUMINATION BY AND FOR THE PAWNS OF THE
M00SE ILLUMINATI
Issue #35| Disclaimer: The Editors will place almost anything in |Dec. 08, 1989
---------- this newsletter out of a frantic desire to fill the --------------
issue, so don't blame them for the quality or content of the submissions. Except
-ing those they may have written themselves, the enclosed items do not in any
way represent the Editors' fnord opinions. In fact, let's be real safe, and say
that as far as this newsletter is concerned, they have no opinions at all. OK?
================================================================================
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************************************* STAFF ************************************
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Editor - Patrick Salsbury <V291NHTP@UBVMS.BITNET>
Submissions to: DangerM00se <V291NHTP@UBVMS.BITNET>
Back issue requests: Max Handelsman <MHANDELS@DREW.BITNET>
and Johnathan Clemens <FSJPC@ALASKA.BITNET>
or <FSJPC@ACAD3.FAI.ALASKA.EDU>
M00se List updates and changes: Darkling M00se <V123NKUX@UBVMS.BITNET>
(This space to let): Contact WarM00se <V291NHTP@UBVMS.BITNET>
JoM00se <JROSENSH@SBCCVM> Contacted me, so she gets some space here.
So does her sister, BrandyM00se <V068MVHU@UBVMS>
(See what happens when you ask nicely? ;^) )
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**************************** EDITORIALS AND LETTERS ****************************
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Blah, blah, blah...
-Pat
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(From "Mark Plummer, Parser Repairman" <MARKUS@LOYVAX.BITNET>)
A word about AIDS from the virtual majority.
Hello,
It has come to my attention that you have released a statement
on the subject of AIDS. Your first recomendation on curtailing the spread
of AIDS bears further comment. You tell people to not do DOS. This is
very good advice, but you continue by saying what to do if one must "do
DOS". There is no excuse for participating in this evil forced on the
computing community, and AIDS (and other associated viruses) are retribution
from GOD (or Brian Kernighan) for participating in this evil. Proof of
the inherent evil of DOS can be found by looking no further than some of
its followers, the most evil of these is by far WordPerfect. Those who
feel they are naturally inclined (by owning a PC) toward using DOS must
be strong against the temptation toward sin. Abstinence from DOS is the
only satisfactory solution. Those who are inststent on using their PCs
must find acceptable outlets for their urges such as the various UNIXs
(MINIX being even cheaper than DOS) available for PC hardware. God willing
we (the righteous) shall prevail against the abomination of DOS, and the
world shall be once again free from its scourge.
irving r. wasp
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Hello fellow m00ses, and welcome to the Scientific M00se column. Today, I am
going to tell you about Munchos, the fairly new potato snack be Frito-Lay.
Now, some of you may assume -- understandably -- that Frito-Lay *manufactures*
Munchos. However, this is not the case. "What is the truth of the matter,
Pickle?" you ask. Well, here it is: Munchos are made by bees.
"Bees?" you ask. Yes, bees. It's true. Here is the process:
1) The worker bee, or "beeletarian," flies from the nest and begins looking for
potatoes. When it finds one, it masticates and swallows -- but does *not*
digest -- the potato. It then flies back to the nest.
2) At the nest, the bee pukes up the potato. Other members of the beeletariat
help mash it all up, using tiny mallets and jackhammers.
3) The bees now stomp all over the paste, forming it into a number of
relatively flat, chip-sized pieces.
4) The bees add four ounces of salt to each chip.
5) Using their wings to cause a breeze, the beeletariat dries out the chips.
6) The queen bee, a member of the beeseoiseie, phones up Frito-Lay and informs
them that some more Munchos are ready.
7) A representative of Frito-Lay arrives at the hive, and gives the queen a
sack of money in exchange for the chips.
8) The queen keeps 90% of the money, giving 10% to the thousands of workers in
her hive.
As you might guess, the beeletariat is getting rather sick of this. Worker
bees see human beings as the benefactors of their oppressor, and occasionally
will strike out in the only way they know how, sacrificing their lives for the
great revolution. So far, this tactic has not been successful.
But remember, fellow m00ses, when a bee stings you, that it is not out of
maliciousness. The bee truly believes that it is doing what is right, not only
for its own hive and the beeletariat, but for all living things. So have
mercy, salute the bee's efforts with a "bl00p," and above all, don't buy
Munchos -- the snack of oppression!
Another semi-coherant article
by
Pickle
<DICKSON@HARTFORD.BITNET>
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******************************* EVENTS AND NEWS ********************************
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Submissions are still on the decline. Feh. I think I'll invest in some
new stock...
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T-shirts? T-shirts! WOW! M00se Illuminati T-shirts? Where?
I dunno. I just edit this thing. Why don't we have everyone who's
interested in M.I. shirts write to DICKSON@HARTFORD and tell Bill to get
cracking! :)
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From V115QRJ8@UBVMS
Description Yum cookies...
[I got this from a friend at Drew. Thought y'all'd appreciate it. Spread the
word, and happy baking. BlAcKDoG/MightyM00se]
=========================================================================
A friend of a friend +of a friend; had lunch at Neiman-Marcus in Dallas
last November, and for dessert she had a cookie. she thought it was the
most wonderful cookie she had ever tasted and asked if the recipe was
available. She was told that it was, but there was a charge of two-fifty.
She said that was fine. She got the recipe and told them to charge it to
her account.
In December, when she received her bill, there was a charge for $250.00.
She called Neiman's and told them it was a mistake -- the charge should be
$2.50. She was told there was NO mistake -- that the charge for the recipe
was correct. They told her it was not a returnable item and she would have
to pay the amount charged to her account or become delinquent.
The bottem line is she paid.
She vowed to get back at Neiman's and wants to give the recipe out to
everyone she possibly can. She asks that everyone who gets a copy send it
to everyone they know. So here it is:
Neiman's $250.00 Cookies
2 Cups butter 1 tsp. salt
2 Cups gran. sugar 2 tsp. baking powder
2 Cups brown sugar 2 tsp. baking soda
4 eggs 24 oz. chocolate chips (2 large bags)
2 tsp. vanilla 1-8oz. Hershey bar, graded
4 Cups flour (yes, this is really = lb.)
5 Cups blended oatmeal** 3 Cups chopped nuts
** Blended oatmeal: Measure and process in blender to a fine powder
Cream butter and both sugars. Add eggs and vanilla. Mix together with flour,
oatmeal, salt, baking powder and baking soda. Add chips, candy and nuts.
Roll into balls and place two inches apart on a cookie sheet. Bake for
6 minutes at 375 F. Makes 112 cookies.
[Ed. Note - I've gotten back two reports on this recipe. Both said that
they were good, but a bit (or more than a bit) dry. -Pat]
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***************************** FICTION AND POETRY *******************************
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From BOWERS@UTKVX.BITNET "Bob Daedalus"
Don't know why, but thought you guys might like this. Jack Reese, Phil Scheuer,
Ed Boling, Lamar Alexander, Jerry Askew, et al, are all various administrative
patsies at the good ole U of T.
The Last Weird Days of Mad Jack Reese
Jack whined, "It ain't over till the fat man sings."
"Phil Scheuer?"
"Who?"
"Never mind," I said. "Look Jack, it's not that easy.
You've been out of touch for years now. Been buried in the
depths of the buracracy, you're out of touch. Dazed and
confused."
Jack, you know, Jack Reese, he was being fired, after
all those years. After the crazy years, the drug riddled
mania that was the reign of King Boling the First, it was
over. No more drinking champange from a cheerleader's
B-cup, no more Cary Grant smiles at press conferences, no
more Gatlinburg ski trips while holding school open during
record snow falls. Had to go back to teaching.
We were at the Faculty Club, throwing back a few
beers. At least I was. Jack, he was hitting the hard stuff.
Flaming Gorrila Tits.
"I know I can make it, I can. I've still got the form. A
year or two in the English Department, dazzle them with
my wit, I can be back in Administration in no time."
As if to prove his point, he stood up, staggered a bit,
and showed me his moves. It was true. That man could
stand behind a podium better than the tenured wimps half
his age.
"Okay, you've got poise, you've got charisma,
you've got patches on your elbows. That's just not enough,
Jack. Things have changed."
Things had changed allright. The University of
Tennessee was a disease gone into remission. Babyface
Lamar, the halfwit bastard of King Ed, had assumed the
throne. Aged and withered bueracrats were dropping like
DDT striken flies, either retiring to Martin in defeat, or
forced out of power like Reese. Out with the old, in with
the new. And Jack was turning to me for help.
"You can help me. You're an undergraduate, have
been for years now. You know what makes this campus tic.
Please, I'm begging. Either I start teaching, or they make
me assistant to Jerry Askew."
I think this over.
"Askew? He's not the worst of the bunch."
"You don't know him. He's a madman. I can't even
get him on the phone any more. Humans weren't meant to
be Dean of Students for that long. And his hair!"
Maybe he was right. Lately Askew had been spotted
hang gliding over the sunroofs of womens' dorms, picking
out tanned sorority girls, like a vulture hunting roadkill.
I decided.
"Right. What is it you want then, Jack? What do you
want me to do?"
"Just show up. I'm teaching my first class in years
tomorrow and I'll need a friendly face in the crowd. Moral
support. Someone to ask me a question, so the little
scavengers will know how smart I am."
"Where, Jack? When?"
"It's this Friday, HSS 121. It's um.... it's a 7:50."
"Jesus. Have they got you teaching freshman
composition?"
"Not for long, not if you'll do this for me, they can't
keep me there. By spring, I'll be in Elizabethan Poetry."
I started making my way to the door. If this turned
ugly, a fast exit would be necessary.
"Maybe Jack. I'll see if I can make it." I wasn't
promising to be up at 7:50 for anybody. Not even Jack
Reese.
His voice trailed after me as I stepped into the
afternoon heat.
"You better be there! You owe me! What about
'Nam?"
I wasn't fully aware that I was awake until I actually
stumbled into the classroom. Packing the usual equipment
for the first day in a new class; shorts, flip-flops, shades,
coffee. It was hotter than a Kiss concert in the room. What
was I doing here? I mulled that over as the rest of the class
began to filter in. Christ on a mo-ped, they look so young!
They look like...freshmen?! Now I remember. Mad Jack
and his attempt to return to administrative bliss. The quest
for bueracratic power. And I'm here mixed in the middle.
It seems prudent to slip to one of the back seats. Easy
enough, the rest of my classmates are filling up the front
rows. Virgins. They'll learn.
Jack's entrance catches me checking to make sure the
window is open. Just in case. For a change he looks clear-
eyed. No blood-shot squints from doing tequila shooters all
night. A little dust around the nostrils maybe, but overall
not bad. He's dressed to depress, tweeds, suede elbow
patches, over what looks suspiciously like a flak-jacket.
He walks to the podium and sets his briefcase on a
nearby desk. What does he have in that thing? It bulges in
strange ways, rustling as if it held a dwarven wolverine. His
eyes immediately find mine, like a doberman finding a fire
hydrant.
"Ah, good morning class. It's, ah, good to see so
many, ah, reassuring faces here, this morning, in class."
Silence from the kids. I sink lower, if that's possible,
in my seat.
"My name is Jack, ah, Professor Reese, and I'll be
your instructor for this quarter. I have an alphabetical
seating chart prepared for us, so if we can, ah, find our new
seats, we can call roll."
What was with this "we" and "us" bullshit? The kids
stood up and shuffled around. Excellent targets should Jack
start firing into the crowd.
"Um, excuse me, but I think you're in my seat."
Books and backpack, calculator and comb squint at
me from above.
I grunted, scratched my chest and drank a sip of
coffee. Protective coloration. He moved on. As the furor of
seat shuffles calmed, Jack-boy started calling roll. He stared
down at a computer printout, never looking up to notice
one kid answering for three people. He finished and
looked up at the class. Looked at me.
"Well, ah, perhaps we should start by going around
the class, each student giving his or her name, class and
major."
Good Jack, good idea. That'll warm 'em up. Right.
Introductions droned as I considered his start. He was just
coasting. Could he handle it when the class really started?
Could he manage the furious pace of non-stop give and take
of education in a freshman comp class? Could he lick the
seamy underside of a freshman's... Why is everyone
looking at me? Oh. Right. My turn.
"Harrison, fifth-year student, undecided." The frosty
gleam in The Reese-cup's eyes told me I was less than
appreciated. He had me here for moral support and I had
better start to produce. I sat and considered my options to
the whine of concluding introductions.
Paperwork started filtering around the desks.
Sylabii, grading scales, office hours, all on paper the color
of Jack's tie.
"Before we get started, are there any questions you
would like to ask?"
Shit. This was it. He stared at me furiously. The time
had come to set Jack up with a question that would let him
show his stuff. He needed it now. His hands were steady, his
hair was smoothly in place, his eyes clear and bright, his
age spots covered with Maybelline. If he was ever to
impress and intimidate these bovine intellects, now was the
time. I raised my hard.
"Yes, you have a question? Please, don't be shy,
we're all listening."
A question, then. Jack needed a set so smooth that he
can't fail to spike right through their egos. A volley that
would allow him to dazzle and impress the dullest of wits
with his return. A query that would permit Jack Reese,
demigod on terra firma, to display his superiority over all
mankind. Right.
"Do you consider the implications John Milton
makes on the purpose and value of evil in Paradise Lost to
be found or espoused in Dante Aligheri's Divine Comedy,
and if so why?"
His hands started to palsy, his hair slipped slowly out
of place, his eyes glazed over, his leg began to tremor and
his age spots flushed a bright mauve. I reached for my
coffee.
"Well, ah, in response to that, let me just say that, ah,
you see that, ah... *WELL WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT
FROM ME ANYWAY ?!?!"
Shit, he's lost it. He makes a dash for his bag and
smoke erupts from somewhere. I throw myself to the floor
as gunshots ricochet off the cinderblock walls. Jesus, Jack
brought his Uzi to class. A small pig scurries past me on the
floor as I start to drag myself towards the window. Some
kids run for the door, finding Reese locked it as he came in,
some fall to the floor and pray for mercy, others merely sit
and ask if this material will be on the test.
Sparks fly from a hit light fixture and the smoke
clears just enough for me to get a last look at Jack as I make
my escape. He's sitting on the floor, weeping openly,
stroking a stunted pig and mummering in her ear,
"Rosebud, rosebud." Out of control. Crash and burn. Just
like in 'Nam.
I dropped out of the window and tried to walk away
inconspicuously, drinking what remained of my coffee.
Students moved toward the building, smoke belched from
the windows, sirens wailed to the rescue. It was over now, I
suppose. Jack Reese was a relic of the past, a broken
reminder of the era of Maddog Ed and his Bad Boys. I
would like to say he was my friend, but you know... I don't
think any of us ever really knew him.
Harrison Fowler is a fifth-year, undecided who swears this
will all really happen.
Harrison Fowler is also one of many pseudonyms I use for writing
in a local underground paper, "The Lame Monkey Manifesto."
Comments, criticisms, monetary rewards?
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This space intentionally left #CENSORED#.
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*************************** M00SCELLANEOUS NONSENSE ****************************
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The Usenet Oracle has pondered your question deeply.
Your question was:
> A friend asks: why do we pay $20,000 to work our butts off?
> (that's verbatim).
And in response, thus spake the Oracle:
} An enemy replies: "It's not nearly enough!"
}
} A surrealist replies: "The stir-fried threepenny nails! Can they help
} me twice?"
}
} A politician replies: "It is very important that we maintain the
} ultimate objectives clearly in mind, while at the same time
} nonwithstanding continuing to remember the intended payoff at the end,
} and the preservation for future generations of all the things we hold
} dear, especially the flag which you can see that I am wearing as
} underwear because I do not wish to ever be parted from its sacred
} folds."
}
} You owe the oracle a large cheeseburger, with flags.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
> Why aren't men and women created equal?
And in response, thus spake the Oracle:
} To give them something to do in their spare time.
}
} I know what you're thinking, but don't be misled. Humans spend a small
} amount of time engaged in sex, and an inordinate amount of time
} wondering about it, worrying about it, reading about it, watching it on
} television and in films, and participating in various activities to
} sublimate the desire for it. Given that the average human male lasts
} less than three minutes after penetration has taken place, the ratio of
} time spent thinking about sex to the amount of time spent engaged in sex
} is greater than 500 to 1. If sex did not occupy the human mind, then
} hate, paranoia, and the solutions to most of the world's problems would
} certainly settle in.
}
} You owe the Oracle one pornographic magazine and one condom.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
> When is the end of the world, any signs?
And in response, thus spake the Oracle:
} It's hard to believe that no human has guessed the signs of the
} apocalypse, considering the huge amount of time and energy spent
} considering the prospect. The end of the world will occur when
} literally hundreds of humans construct and detonate their own nuclear
} warheads in a vain attempt to rid themselves of the tremendous, mind-
} numbing boredom that has pervaded their lives. The signs that precede
} this:
}
} -- Popular comedy television shows will cease to be funny and will
} start moralizing about any random social problem.
}
} -- Tens of thousands of people will file into stadiums and arenas to
} watch men over 50 years of age perform "rock and roll".
}
} -- Most governments of the world will outlaw recreational drugs and
} start simplistic, dogmatic propaganda campaigns to support their
} position.
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Nothing whatever?!? NOTHING WHATEVER!
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SUBMIT! SUBMIT! Bend to my will! Know the sweet, sublime pleasure of
complete and willful obadience (Not a mistype) to your demonic master!
(This has been a thinly veiled attempt to get people to send me stuff...
I wonder if it will work? -Pat)
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******************************* MEET THE M00SES ********************************
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Still nothing on this front.... (Hint Hint!)
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*************** AND, OF COURSE, THE UBIQUITOUS M00SE LIST UPDATE ***************
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Will be sent under separate cover. As soon as I get it from Darkling.
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The Not So Pointy Or 'Nointy Issue - The Not So Pointy Or 'Nointy Issue - The No
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