130 lines
5.6 KiB
Plaintext
130 lines
5.6 KiB
Plaintext
|
|
|
|
___________________________________________________________________________
|
|
* April 21 Phucked Phreak Productions Vol 19 *
|
|
* Proudly Presents.... *
|
|
* *
|
|
* \ / \ *
|
|
* / / \ \/ *
|
|
* \ \ / \\ . *
|
|
* \ \ / \ ____________________________ *
|
|
* \ / \ ||||||| Bum Trip | *
|
|
* \ \ |||||||____________________________| *
|
|
* ' / *
|
|
* *
|
|
* WARNING: The Attorney General has determined that these files may *
|
|
* be as dangerous to your dogma as that cigarette is to your *
|
|
* Health! *
|
|
*__________________________________________________________________________*
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
From Somewhere in the Universe,
|
|
Hungover,
|
|
A Bum Trip.
|
|
|
|
by
|
|
|
|
J O H N C O N S T A N T I N E
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Whoa! Man! I just found out where it's at. I just met
|
|
the manager... at a drinking party... and that's all I remember.",
|
|
I tell myself as I stare down into someone else's toilet bowl. I
|
|
see myself, complete with bloodshot eyes and sallow face, reflected
|
|
in the tranquil waters. "Jesus! What a mess! I gotta get home.
|
|
where in the hell is home? Where in the hell am I? WHO in the hell
|
|
am I?" These are just a few of the cosmic brainteasers carousing
|
|
through my pounding skull as I shoot a bloody stream of urine directly
|
|
into my reflected right nostril.
|
|
|
|
After pulling up my trousers I dig through the back pocket,
|
|
pulling out some sort of ticket stub.
|
|
|
|
LOTRNOC NOISSIM
|
|
|
|
MESSYS YTILAER: htreE / nywreB / llI.
|
|
|
|
THGILF: :-> DSL <-:
|
|
:-> TOP <-:
|
|
|
|
So here I am, hung-over, in this fucked up reality system
|
|
I've never even heard of. AHA! A memory! All I need to do is
|
|
look up Earth in my handy guidebook to Reality. Aw damnit-to-hell!
|
|
I never picked up a copy. Though I'd never need it. (Now I
|
|
never leave home without it!)
|
|
|
|
Enlightenment strikes! I left with a friend. Maybe if I
|
|
can find my way out of the bathroom he'll bum me a couple of
|
|
aspirin and tell me what the story is. Stumbling out of the john, a
|
|
charmin streamer trailing behind me I yell, "JAY! JJJAAAAYY!"
|
|
|
|
Testicles curl up out of my scrotum and into my stomach as he
|
|
pops around the corner. "Be quiet!", he puts his finger to his lips,
|
|
"you'll wake THEM up!"
|
|
|
|
"Who are they? Let's go wake 'em up and get directions back to
|
|
mission control."
|
|
|
|
"I'm K-K-coo-w-w-wit-wit-it-wit-d-d-em-dem.", (translated I'm
|
|
cool with them) he machine guns back to me.
|
|
|
|
"Where are they? Let's go wake 'em."
|
|
|
|
"I don't know nothing. They're at the party."
|
|
|
|
"What are we doin, Jay? Why the fuck are we here?"
|
|
|
|
"I dunno. i'm pretty sure my current jobs not it though. I'm
|
|
cool with them. I'm cool with them. I'm cool with them."
|
|
|
|
I can see he's worthless, still more fucked up than I am. So,
|
|
using acid logic, I deduce that I can get home merely by walking out
|
|
the front door and into a friendly Reality transport vehicle. Elementary,
|
|
my dear Watson. Elementary!
|
|
|
|
"Ugh! Acid logics not too efficient in "htraE / nywerB / llI."
|
|
No wonder they outlawed the shit. The same problem again. "Where am I?"
|
|
My personal genuis answers, "I'm wandering around in some street...." A
|
|
tattered newspaper blows by. Seeing this commonplace custodian of
|
|
everyday Reality gives me courage. Now... if only I could get Time going
|
|
again, I could walk through Space and go pick it up. My watch chimes the
|
|
hour. It reads xis o' kcolc in 0 dimensional lettering. wow! Good,
|
|
time's moving. I pick up the paper and wrap it around my waist. If any
|
|
cops come they'll think I'm a bum, modern industrial age acid camo.
|
|
|
|
A jogger passes by me as I stagger down the street, "doog
|
|
gninrom!". I come to a panel of payphones. Uh-oh. Three BIG inner
|
|
city black boys. "enmig ruoy tellaw, etihw yob!"
|
|
|
|
"No problem. I'm cool with you. I'm cool with you", finally
|
|
I find a use for Jay's Magickal formula.
|
|
|
|
My memory returns, decaying in my french fried brain, as my
|
|
tormentors depart.
|
|
|
|
"Hello, Jen?... Can you pick me up?.... No I'm at 3400 S. harlem."
|
|
|
|
Kaleidoscopic pigeons chirp the sacrament of Supreme Unction
|
|
as I kick back and light up a fag, waiting for a ride back into
|
|
R E A L I T Y.
|
|
|
|
***************************************************************************
|
|
|
|
Spread this file around freely but please do not claim credit for
|
|
it as it was written by me NOT you.
|
|
|
|
***************************************************************************
|
|
|
|
call these bbs....
|
|
|
|
The Cage --- 708-945-3665 (ppp headquarters)
|
|
Ripco --- 708-528-5020
|
|
|
|
****************************************************************************
|
|
|
|
John Constantine
|
|
Peace \/
|
|
|
|
??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????? |