131 lines
7.1 KiB
Plaintext
131 lines
7.1 KiB
Plaintext
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T ||==\\ || || ||==\\ ||==|| || || B L E N D E R C O R P O R A T I O N
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|| || || || || || || \\ // ------------------------------------
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H || || || || ||==// ||=|| >|< >>> Presents <<<
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|| || || || || \\ || // \\ IPROSE-2.DBC
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E ||==// \\==// || \\ ||==|| || || #009-RT02 -- [08/20/91]
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______________________________________________________________________________
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Irrelevant Prose
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Volume Two: Boxer Shorts
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-------------
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by Random Tox
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Televised Executions
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--------------------
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Everybody died. Everyone. Every single human being on the planet Earth,
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Terra, died. It happened soon after World President Yassir Johnston followed
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up on his pledge to have a television in every home.
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The devastating combination of both the power drain (when three billion
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people turned on their sets at 8 o'clock) and the brain-damaging quality of
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the plethora of mindless programs took its toll. After one week, only ten
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percent of the original world population remained, but after CBS bought out
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PBS, Earth's doom was sealed, the last man expiring while watching a "Dallas"
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re-run.
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In every home across the planet, a televesion blared, the loving glow of
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sitcom repeats illuminating the rotting corpses sprawled before each set. The
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twenty-four hour emission of radiation left its mark as well, as the growing
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mases of proletariat housepets began to evolve.
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The Quiet Man
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He was a quiet man. He sat there at the table, not moving, not speaking.
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Everyone else was chattering, their American voices bleating, "Whaddaya
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know?" and "Lemme tell ya something!" The quiet man said nothing.
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For a brief moment, the conversation had a lapse, no one speaking, and
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the air still. The quiet man said nothing, and his silence was deafening. The
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conversation resumed in a moment, with the occasional sidelong glance at the
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quiet man.
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Dinner finished, and everyone stood and shook hands, mumbling their
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goodbyes and reaching for their hats. The quiet man just sat still in his
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chair and said nothing. On the way out, Mister Lapson accidentally kicked the
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quiet man's chair, knocking the corpse over.
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Irish Coffee
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Irish Coffee. There it sat, a rich aroma filling the swiss cafe, the
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aroma of coffee and liberal amounts of whiskey and various other alcoholic
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fluids. Stan was oblivious to it all, and looked over the cafe table at
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Elbrun. He smiled and slid his eyeballs up her slim legs, past the
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tight-fitting brown miniskirt and the ribbed black pullover that hugged her
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torso like Saran Wrap, accentuating her figure. Stan brought his hand to his
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mouth, both catching and concealing the string of spittle that hung from the
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corner of his mouth. Elbrun looked up and smiled, sipping her coffee in small
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mouthfuls, savoring each one and letting it trickle down the back of her
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throat, appreciating the fine Swiss workmanship of alcoholic coffees.
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Stan grinned back at her, and in the best tradition of the beat poets,
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slammed a good deal of the highly-flammable coffee past his tonsils, feeling
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the warmth slosh violently in his stomach as it seared its way down his
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gullet. He wiggled an eyebrow at Elbrun and grinned smugly with the knowledge
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that he was cool.
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Stan leaned across the table, his shirtsleeves crackling merrily in the
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flame of the solitary candle as he brushed the wick with his elbow. He looked
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into Elbrun's eyes and smiled. Then he vomited.
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[Note: Any resemblence to persons living or dead may not be a
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coincidence. Then again I'm sure Deviator knows who I'm talking about. And as
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a sideline, Elbrun is damn real too, quite attractive, and at the time of
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this writing, 12 years old. Yeesh! She doesn't look 12. At all. Not close.]
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The First Illusion
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------------------
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I was walking through the park on a crisp spring morning, quite clear-
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headed, the cool, damp air chilling my lungs when I inhaled. At the sound of
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children's giggling, I glanced over my shoulder in time to see a small brown
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and white bulldog run headlong though a tree, passing through unharmed, as if
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the tree was not there.
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"Well," I thought. "If it is indeed an illusion, that of a moving dog
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must certainly be more complex than that of a tree, so the tree must be an
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illusion and not the dog." And with this firm logic I backed up, bent over
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and charged headfirst at the tree.
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A week later I woke up as the nurse was emptying my bedpan. I was never
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very good with logic.
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The Real Writer (2B or not 2B)
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------------------------------
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He was a writer. He had all of the apparati: The black shirt, the dark
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beret at a provocative angle, the dark sunglasses that prevented him from
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hitting the toilet in the grimy cafe men's room, a smouldering cigarette
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hanging from his mouth at an impossible tilt, stuck to his lower lip with a
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week's worth of stagnant saliva. The straggling hairs of his goatee were
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crusty and brittle with the residue left from all the times he had dozed off
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and dipped his chin into his cafe-au-lait. Like a real writer, he no longer
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washed. He did change his underwear about twice a month or so, in secret, but
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he would never admit it to the other writers, who most likely had their own
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deep dark secrets.
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So he sat in the sidewalk cafe and smoked cigarettes and drank
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cafe-au-lait and fell asleep in his food and was a writer. He was a real
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writer. He wrote about the streets, the night, drunk people and the other,
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equally odiferous writers, the latter two often being the same. He wrote
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about hope, love, getting drunk, sex, and the joy of wearing black
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turtlenecks. He liked black turtle- necks, they made him feel more like a
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real writer.
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He sat in the sidewalk cafe until the bartender yelled loud and harsh
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things at him in French and threw him out. The owner locked the doors and
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left, leaving the writer alone in the gutter, his beret no longer at a jaunty
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angle. He cried and thought about hope, love and the odd sewage stains on
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his black turtleneck. Unfolding his legs, the writer returned to the attic
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flat he shared with two other foul-smelling people, one a poet and the other
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a painter. They got drunk together and he vomited.
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"I'm very glad to be a writer." He thought, and wrote it down on a piece
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of paper. The wind blew the note out the window. He sobbed and watched a
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spider burn to cinders in a candle.
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"Two wicks." He observed. He was very glad to be a real writer.
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[Note: Some "deep" stuff in here... Email me if you understood the "Two
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Wicks" bit... . Literary Schnozzle Supreme, neh?]
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______________________________________________________________________________
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(C)1991 by The Durex Blender Corporation & Random Tox
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All Rights Revered. Even yours.
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*** Spread the word of Turnex, the Blender for the Next Millenium. ***
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The Durex Blender Corporation : Boston (617) 696-8156 - 24oo/8N1 - 24 hours
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