437 lines
13 KiB
Plaintext
437 lines
13 KiB
Plaintext
Mike's Madness #19
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This is Steven Tyler of Aerosmith and you're reading Mike's Madness no. 19!
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OWW!
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(Note: Steve Tyler didn't REALLY endorse this edition of Mike's Madness.
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He's never even HEARD of Mike's Madness. He's never read it, or read of it.
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Just because HE'S famous and I'm a total nobody doesn't give him the right
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not to read my stuff and ignore my threatening telegrams! THE BASTARD! THE
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COMPLETE BASTARD! ARRRGH!)
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And now . . .
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BrrrBrrr BrrrBrrr BrrrBrrr . . .
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[CLICK!]
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"Good afternoon, Isley POST. Can I help you?"
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"Yes, this is Mr. Meatbeater. Why hasn't my photo been run?"
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"Because there's no interest in a photo captioned 'My Dog looks like Adolf
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Hitler'."
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"And why not?"
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"Because he doesn't."
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"He does! He does!"
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"Mr. Meatbeater, if there's anything in the universe that looks less like
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Adolf Hitler than your dog, science has yet to discover it."
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"But what about the moustache?!"
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"Ah yes -- the moustache. We took the liberty of examining it and
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discovered it was not a moustache, but half a shellacked dog dropping
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which you attached to your dog's nose with a roofing staple."
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"Be fair! The glue wouldn't hold -- too much moisture. . ."
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"Regardless of how it was attached, we are not running your photo because the
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citizens of Isley have no interest in a dog that looks like Adolf Hitler,
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especially when it doesn't."
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"That's just your opinion! Many people have told tale of how eerie the
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resemblance between my dog and the late Chancellor Hitler is!"
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"We figured you'd put forth that hypothesis, so we tested it beforehand.
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We went out with a picture of your dog and several other file photos and
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asked people which one looked the most like Hitler. The vote for your dog
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was quite low."
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"How low?"
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"None."
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"I can't believe that!"
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"I counted the votes twice."
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"Well you've seen the photo! YOU must admit the resemblance!"
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"Sir, the only reason there is any 'semblance in that photo is because you
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re-touched it with a black Crayola. It's a crafty ruse, I admit, but one
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our readers are sure to see through."
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"Blimey! The photo must have generated some interest!"
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"It did. The R.S.P.C.A. was quite interested, as they are in any photo of
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a German Shepard with a turd stapled to it's nose, the word HITLER shaved
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into its back and a Nazi flag sticking out of its ass. . ."
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". . . oh bloody hell!"
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"In fact, they were so interested in your dog that they insisted we give
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them your address, which we did gladly. They should be by any time now. . ."
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"Uh . . . Well . . . uh . . . I must be going now! Cake in the oven, you know!"
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(sound of knocking at the door) "Keep the photo!" (sound of door being
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broken down, dog starts barking) "Cheerio!"
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[CLICK!]
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Next week in the Isley POST:
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Strange Resemblances!
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---------------------
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A cat that looks (nothing) like Benito Mussolini!
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A dolphin that was (never) mistaken for Joseph Stalin!
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A stoat that has (no) resemblance to Kaiser Wilhelm!
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Dan Quayle and a Horse's Ass: Can YOU tell them apart? (not bloody likely)
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. . And now on BBC-2:
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(occasionally)
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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I N T E R E S T I N G P E O P L E
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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"Good evening and welcome to Interesting People! And tonight, we have
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many interesting people on our show, the first of which is Ron Plots,
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a council fox catcher in North Hampton! Welcome Mr. Plots!"
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"Good evening, Fred!"
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"Mr. Plots, how do you catch foxes?"
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"Well, I bait a trap with a dead chicken, and when the fox comes into the
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trap, the door closes in behind him, thus immobilizing the little bugger!"
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"And then?"
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"I stick me tongue up its. . ."
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[cuts in quickly] "Well that's very nice, but unfortunately, Mr. Plots
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must run off on some very important business! Thank you for being here
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Mr. Plots."
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"No I don't!"
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"Yes you do. . ."
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"I don't!"
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"Hit the road, Plots!"
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"Blimey! I'm not puttin' up with this kind of abuse!"
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"Get off the stage, you great sod!" (two men come out and drag him off)
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"Ha ha . . . What an interesting person! Next we have Mr. Marcel Dubois,
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author of 'Germans: A Complete History of the Bastards'. . ."
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Dubois: "Good evening, mon ami!"
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". . .and Mr. Frederick Von Rickenback, author of 'The French and How to
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Beat the Holy Living Shit out of Them'."
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Rickenback: "You die, froggy!"
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"And tonight they'll be discussing German reunification. Mr. Von Rickenback..."
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**BANG!**
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". . .Well, I'm afraid since you've shot Mr. Dubois, we'll have to award
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the debate to you."
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"Deutchland Uber Alles!"
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"Uh-huh. . ."
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"Tomorrow the World!"
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"Sure. . ."
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"Authentic piece of the Berlin Wall, 50 marks or $25 American!"
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"Now That's more like it!"
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And now . . .
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No. 18: A scene from the 13'th Century
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A scene from the 13'th Century
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"'Oly Relics! Get your 'oly Relics 'ere! Oh, 'ello there Abbot Blackadder!
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Wish to buy an 'oly Relic?"
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"Common scum, what sort of relics might you be selling?"
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"Uh . . . got wood from the Cross, hair from John the Baptist, that sorta
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thing. . ."
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"Hmmmm. I already have all of those. Got anything else?"
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"I got the foreskin of our 'oly Father."
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"Now THAT'S interesting! How much?"
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"5,000 quid for one, or 8,500 for two. . ."
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"TWO?!"
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"Uh yeah, that's right . . . one of the Unmentioned Miracles."
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"And which Unmentioned Miracle might this be?"
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"The Miracle of the Two Dongs."
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"Are you suggesting that Our Lord is built like a Swiss Army knife in the
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genderative sense?"
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"A bit. . ."
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"Funny, that's exactly how much brains I give you credit for."
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"Look, I gotta fob these foreskins off on someone!"
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"UH-HUH! And does the word 'heresy' mean anything to you?"
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"Abbot Marlow at Westminster bought two. . ."
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"THE BASTARD! 'e ALWAYS gets the good stuff! Right! I'll take the same!"
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"8,500 quid, sir. 'Ere you are."
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"Thank you, my good . . . uh, whatever you are."
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"My pleasure, sir."
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"WAIT A SECOND!"
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"Yes sir?"
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"One of these is black!"
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"Uh . . . that would be another one of the Unmentioned Miracles."
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"Funny, I've never heard of these Unmentioned Miracles before. . ."
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"That's because they're unmentioned."
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"Much like your intelligence. Where, praytell, can I find mention of these
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Unmentioned Miracles?"
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"The Book of Clyde."
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"The Book of CLYDE?!"
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"'e was one of the Unmentioned Prophets."
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"And you're about to become a victim of the Unmentioned Kick in the Groin!"
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"Such gratitude after I sold you two good foreskins!"
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"The only thing 'good' about these foreskins is that they're all the evidence
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I need to shove a bushel of burning faggots up your bum! Now I suggest you
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come up, with all possible speed, evidence that these foreskins did in fact
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belong to Our Holy Father and are not just stripped from some poor Turkish
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bastards you caught in the middle of a drunk!"
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"I got it right 'ere! A letter confirmin' their originality!"
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"Let me see that. . .
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Dear Sir, this letter is to confirm that these 10 (crossed out) 8
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(crossed out) 6 (crossed out) 2 foreskins are in fact mine and not just
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stripped off some poor drunken Turkish bastards. Signed, Jesus Krist."
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"All the proof ya need, Abbot!"
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"All the proof I need to have you burned at the stake! I thought Our Lord
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would be a bit better in the spelling department. . ."
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"Maybe he was in a hurry!"
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"Maybe this isn't His writing at all, but that of some poor little sot
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who's about to be pitched into a cauldron of boiling oil!"
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"Are you castin' discretions on this letter wot took me almost five whole
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minutes to write?"
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"Yes. ."
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"Oh, that's alright then."
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"I'm afraid that you must suffer horribly for your crime of fobbing off
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semi-authentic (read that as 'wholly fraudulent') religious artifacts."
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"What's that then? Burning at the stake?"
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"No. . ."
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"Boiling oil?"
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"Nope."
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"I've gotta read the next bit?"
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"Bingo!"
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And indeed, it was truly horrible fate. More than Steven Tyler could
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EVER take (if he read this stuff, which he doesn't and probably for a very
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good reason). God it was terrible! Just nauseating. Wholly repugnant.
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Well, see for your self. . .
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And now it's a good time for. . .
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(Umm, before I start this, I should
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really let ya know there's almost
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no "good" time for this at all. It'll
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be poor in the morning and it'll be
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poor in the evening. In fact, the only
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time it won't be poor is when you've
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burned five good joints and inhaled
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some amyl. Then it'd be passable.
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Just thought I'd let ya know that.)
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A . L . F .
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(Australian Life Form)
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(Oh gawd)
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Whiney Willy: "Hooooooonnnnnneeeeeey, where's AAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLFFF?"
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(John Cleese stomps in drunk, dressed in full Australian garb: Shorts,
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a hat with corks dangling from the brim; that sorta thing.)
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ALF.: "OI! Me name's not ALF, ya basta'd!! It's BRUCE!"
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W.W.: "Sorrrrry Brrruuce. Where have you been?"
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ALF.: "I' been a'chunderin' on the Abbos' lawn!"
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W.W.: "You didn't spew on the neighbor's lawn AGAIN?"
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ALF.: "They're only bleedin' Abbos!"
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W.W.: "They're the Huxables, you twit!"
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ALF.: "OI!!! 'oo you callin' a 'twit' then, aye?!" (Jumps into fighting stance)
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W.W.: "Calm down, ALF. . ."
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ALF.: "BRUCE ya cocksucker!"
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W.W.: "Bruce. . ."
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Kate: (from off camera): "Willlly? Willy, what happened to those three cases
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of Foster's we brought home 10 minutes ago?"
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ALF.: "Blimey! I'm 'ad!"
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W.W.: "You drank THREE cases of Foster's in TEN minutes?!!"
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ALF.: "Well . . . BLIMEY! It's only 8:30 in the morning, in't it?!
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The real drinking don't get started 'til NINE, ya whiner!"
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W.W.: "Ummmm AL . . . uh, Bruce, I think it's time we discussed household
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expenses. Last month we had:
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Phone: $25.00 (Willy should learn to phreak!)
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Water: $10
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Electricity: $56
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Gas: $15
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House and car payment: $3,900
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and . . .
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FOSTER'S: $8,471,259.15 (at least)."
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-------------
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ALF.: "It's thirsty work, chunderin' on an Abbo's lawn, ya wheeze!"
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W.W.: "What about the time you traded in our car for a sheep?!"
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ALF.: "Ya can't fuck a Buick then, can ya?!"
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Lynn: "He's got a point dad. . ."
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ALF.: "OI! oo's the Sheila?!"
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W.W.: "That's my daughter, you stinkin' Aussie! Go play with your sheep!"
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Kate: (still from off camera) "WILLLY! The cat's been shot!"
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ALF.: "Blimey! I'm 'ad again!"
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W.W.: "You shot LUCKY?!"
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ALF.: "'e didn't live up to his name then, did 'e?!"
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Kate: (still off camera, but a few steps to the right of where she was last)
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"And there's a huge pool of vomit on the back porch!"
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W.W.: "Getting sick on the Huxable's lawn I can understand, but why'd ya
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have to puke on MY porch!?"
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ALF.: "It's me scale model of Lake Regurgitation! Reminds me of home. . ."
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W.W.: "You have a vomit-filled lake at home?"
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ALF.: "Ya, it's right in back of The Heave and Spill Bar & Grill in
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Queensland. . ."
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Dear Sirs!
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We here at the Australian Board of Tourism would like to inform the
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readers of this column that there's more to Australian life than drinking
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lots of Foster's and then spewin' it back up again. There's cricket,
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rugby, and lookin' up Sheilas' skirts. Roit good fun, that! Not to mention
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the ever-popular havin' one off with a sheep!
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Uh, Pardon me. . .
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[glug-glug-glug . . . BRRRRAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLPH! {gush gush gush}]
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Old Crone 1: "Eeeewww! That's DISGUSTIN'!"
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Old Crone 2: "Right in the middle of such a nice letter, too!"
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1: "They shouldn't let Aussies on the telly, you know."
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2: (surprised) "Oh?"
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1: "Yes, they cause too much trouble!"
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2: "Mrs. Flatulence saw an Aussie durin' the Blitz!"
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1: "BLIMEY!"
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2: "It was 'orrible!"
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1: "Wot? The Blitz?"
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2: "Noooooo, seein' the Aussie!"
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1: "Wot ever did she do?"
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2: "SHE SHOT 'IM! She shot 'im DEAD! Said a Stuka's wot done it!"
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(cut to German pilot standing in front of a Stuka)
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Pilot: "Ess beeg lie!!"
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(cut back to old crones)
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1: "Did the fuzz believe it?"
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2: "Naaw, they executed her the next day."
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1: "THAT'S A BIG LIE!!"
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(cut back to Stuka pilot)
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Pilot: "Told ya!"
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(cut back to old crones)
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2: "IT ISN'T!"
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1: "I saw Mrs. Flatulence at the shops on Tuesday! 'ow could she be at the
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shops if she was executed durin' the war?! My case is assuredly air-tight!"
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2: "BLIMEY! I'M 'AD!"
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(door comes crashing down and in stomps John Cleese, Australian at Lager
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. . . err, Large.)
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ALF: "MOMMY!"
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2: "BRUCIE! Brucie's come back from 'stralia where 'e's been fondling
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sheep!"
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1: "Nice money, that, 'eh Brucie?"
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ALF: "No mum! I'm livin' with some idiot family in L.A. now! Come 'n join
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us then, aye? Free Foster's!"
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2: "Can we go a-chunderin' on Abbo's lawns?"
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ALF: "All we want, Mum!"
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And so the happy family staggered off to L.A. where the immigration
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laws aren't as well enforced and where even Steven Tyler could find a
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menial job. That was until the next bit. . .
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FECAL SOFT pre-sentssssssssss . . .
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T U R D - P E R F E C T !
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It's a word processor!
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It's a laxative!
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It's Turd-Perfect!
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Not just any shitty software package! Turd-Perfect does graphics, spell
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checking and keeps you regular! Personally endorsed by Dan "Shit for
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Brains" Quayle! Perfect for the up-and-coming Republican. Used to write
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Ronald Reagan's speeches! God it's swell!
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(available only on Macintrash)
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Remember: Only dopes use GUI!
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-----
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(C) 1990 Yucks For You, Inc.
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Comments & Flames to Author:
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{ ucbvax | uunet }!ucdavis!spked!sactoh0!smb (Mike Beebe)
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Mailing List Requests: smbancroft@ucdavis.edu (Steven Bancroft)
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All Back-issues are available by E-mail request from smbancroft@ucdavis.edu
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or by anonymous ftp from bikini.cis.ufl.edu [128.227.224.1] in directory
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/pub/mikesmad.
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