683 lines
31 KiB
Plaintext
683 lines
31 KiB
Plaintext
From: MX%"dbowen@kryten" 21-JAN-1994 13:55:19.50
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To: BOWENEX
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13:53:03 --1000
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Date: Fri, 21 Jan 1994 13:53:03 --1000
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From: dbowen@kryten (Daniel Bowen)
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Message-ID: <9401210253.AA16728@kryten.telecom.com.au>
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To: bowenex@vax1.ccs.deakin.edu.au
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Content-Length: 31042
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*****NUMBERS 141 TO 145***********BY DANIEL BOWEN (tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu)*****
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"The battle for Toxic Custard"
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^^^ ^^^ ^ ^ ^ ^^^^ ^ ^ ^ ^ the Toxic Custard Workshop Files
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| | | | | | | | | | Number one-hundred and forty-one
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| | | | | ||| | ||| | Monday 29th March 1993
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| ||| ||||| | | | | written by Daniel Bowen
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The toilet is like a link to the outside world - a gateway through
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which the turds of thought flow. They fall, plop, and sort of bob
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their way around the bowl until it is purged of them. And each one
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of those turds contains the very essence of their owner. Their
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turdiness, their texture, colour, and sweet fragrance. It all
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reflects on the very bottom of the owner. And let us theorise that
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each turd is like a world of its own, the surface teeming with
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people, ordinary people living, eating, breathing in the fumes,
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trying to eke out an existence, just like you and me, trying each day
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to survive what is basically a shit heap.
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Have I talked to you about vomit lately?
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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[Warning: the following is NOT a Klu-Klux-Klan reference]
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HAVE YOU DISCOVERED THE KOSMIC KEY TO KONSCIOUSNESS?
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Let world-reknowned mystic swami Daniel Bowen show YOU the way to the
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highest plane of all. The highest plane is one that cannot be reached
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by the mere mortal. It is a metaphysical existence reached only by
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many years of devotion to the cause, by constant meditation using the
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wondrous mantras of the mystic swami, and by many dollars sent to the
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swami's own bank account.
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Yes, beginning this week in newsagents, you can discover the
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secrets of Kosmic Konsciousness. The new weekly "Kosmic Key
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Discovery" series will unlock the secrets of your existence. You get
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a full-colour magazine every week, featuring:
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- the mantra for the week - collect them all and you'll have
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reached the highest planes by volume 35
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- the latest thoughts of the swami Daniel Bowen, translated from
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the original high-Tibetan
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- an invitation to join the swami Daniel Bowen at his mystic
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temple and outback ranch holiday swimming-pool condominium suite
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in Waco, Texas, for a nominal(+) fee
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- small brass novelty mystic token
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And this week, as a special INTRODUCTORY OFFER, the first "coming" of
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the "Kosmic Key Discovery" series is priced at only $1.95!!!(*) So
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unlock your existence today!
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(*) Introductory offer excludes novelty mystic token. Subsequent
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editions $9.95.
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(+) In the loosest sense of the word.
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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I think my dentist is a tooth fetishist. I don't know, call me
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paranoid, but it's the way he gets a dazed look whenever he's holding
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that fearsome looking metal thing above my mouth. I see him
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salivating, and a look of pure lust comes over him as he inspects my
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molars. Or maybe he's just calculating when he can buy his next
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Mercedes?
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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THE TOXIC CUSTARD INTERVIEW - BORIS YELTSIN (via interpreter)
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TCWF: Boris, how's it goin', man?
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BY: Much good, much good. A little trickiness with the Russian
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parliament at the moment, but nothing that cannot be undone with
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the powers in vest with me.
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TCWF: Good. And how's Mrs Yeltsin these days?
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BY: She is much interested in the situation, although she keeps her
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head out of the political stadium.
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TCWF: That's nice to hear. Has she mentioned to you the US$600,000
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interview she did for Time magazine in which she described you
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as squalid little Russian with a rubber face that would
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actually look better when caricatured by Spitting Image?
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BY: I'm sorry, I do not know this spit in image...
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TCWF: And what about the allegations that you regularly clip those
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revolting eyebrows of yours in bed, which so far this year has
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been enough to refill at least 3 mattresses?
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BY: (to interpreter) What is this person speaking about?
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TCWF: Why not just be honest and admit that you've been smuggling old
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expired packets of Hubba Bubba bubblegum into the country and
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selling it off to Ukrainian peasants for enormous profit?
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BY: So I am thinking you have tumbled my game? Tell me, are you more
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in favour of the strawberry or mint flavoured gum?
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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Another Toxic Custard has come and been
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and gone again, thank God. So that's all
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until next week, when we'll hear the
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author say: "Would your brain enjoy
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feasting on Toxic Custard back-issues?
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For details getting them, reply to this
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message, or mail tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
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--
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Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre|
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----Telecom Australia, Melbourne, Australia| Do vets take the
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dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-------------| hippocatic oath?
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------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu|
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------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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"A nice little Custard in the country"
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TOXICCUSTARDWORKSHOPFILESNUMBERONEHUNDREDANDFORTYTWOFIFTHOFAPRILNINET
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EENNINETYTHREEWRITTENBYDANIELBOWENTOXICCUSTARDWORKSHOPFILESNUMBERONEH
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UNDREDANDFORTYTWOFIFTHOFAPRILNINETEENNINETYTHREEWRITTENBYDANIELBOWENT
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OXICCUSTARDWORKSHOPFILESNUMBERONEHUNDREDANDFORTYTWOFIFTHOFAPRILNINETE
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ENNINETYTHREEWRITTENBYDANIELBOWENTOXICCUSTARDWORKSHOPFILESNUMBERONEHU
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So, how would you rate Jesus' life?
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Immaculate conception... pretty good birth... marvellous water-
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walking... mediocre crucifixion... bloody brilliant resurrection...
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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BANK TELLERS TRAINING - COURSE SUMMARY
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- Licking your fingers to count the notes properly
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- Getting plastic notes unstuck from each other
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- Quick coin counting
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- Diving behind the counter during bank raids
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- Elementary to advanced "Next Please"s
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- How to look like you're busy doing paperwork while 20 people are
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waiting for a teller
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- Shutting down the teller machine at the least convenient time
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- Spelling names wrong on New Customer Account forms
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- Spelling names wrong on Change Of Name forms
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- Losing Change Of Address forms
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- Getting addresses wrong on Change Of Address forms
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- Emptying biros
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- 101 ways to remember the date
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- Providing contradictory explanations of bank procedure (group
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activity)
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- Explaining to customers that no this is not the queue for
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tellers, this is the queue for enquiries and no I can't cash
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the cheque from the will of your dead granny will you please go
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to the other queue.
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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It was time once again for the barber's shop on Saturday. I'd put it
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off for as long as I could - the hair was beginning to get so long I
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couldn't find my way to the station in the morning, and I was a
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little worried that I was looking like a hippy. Euch.
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And so, not wanting to spend my week's pay on what I see as a
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routine head-mop maintenance, I find myself slumming it in the
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barber's chair again, looking around at all the pictures of steam
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engines from 1986, the mouldy washbasin, the huge razor blade that
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looks like a "Man From Ironbark" special... The old barber, in his
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uniform of daggy trousers and light blue tight jacket with
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elasticised sleeves... he totters over with a lethal looking pair of
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scissors in his hand... and asks a simple question: "How would you
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like it?"
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I weakly fumble on the simplest of answers to the simplest of
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questions, and vaguely gesture: "Oh well, a little off the top...
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some off the back..." while thinking "You're the fucking barber, just
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cut my hair, that's what I came here for. If I'd wanted awkward
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questions, I would have gone on Sale Of The Century."
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And as usual, he asks those two routine questions, which I must
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have answered dozens of times before, but which I can never remember
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what I said the next time I get asked. One is "Natural back, or
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square back?" and the other involves whether or not I would like the
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hair from around my ears cut away.
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But all goes well, somehow, and twenty minutes and eleven dollars
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later, I find myself on my way into the world once more, a spanking
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new haircut on my head, and two months worth of clippings down the
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back of my jumper.
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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I went to the petshop for Beatles
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But they were totally out of stock
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I tried gardening supplies for Rolling Stones
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But all that they had was a rock
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How 'bout a clothes shop for Swinging Blue Jeans?
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But all they could show me was denim
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In theory a snake expert should know about Sting
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But he just ranted on about venom
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I asked Police Missing Persons about The Who
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And they looked at me as if talking nonsense
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I tried the gun shop for Guns N Roses
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And they asked if I had a license
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I asked my local vicar about The Church
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And he offered to take me to Jesus
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I also asked him about Faith No More
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And he still offered to take me to Jesus
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Do you think the service station could sell me Midnight Oil?
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Well no, but they did sell me ice
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Then to the Optometrist for R.E.M.
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They said it was my mind, not my eyes
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So to the hardware shop for Things Of Stone And Wood
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But if I didn't want a 2x4 then I was out of luck
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And finally down dark Fitzroy Street looking for Queen
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But to my horror, they would only offer me a fu
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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Ahem well, that's probably about the limit
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of Toxic Custard for this week, so let's
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join together now in that goodbye song we
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always sing:
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"Close your eyes, and I'll kiss you...
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Tomorrow I'll miss you...
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Remember you can always get TCWF back-
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issues by emailing tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu
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or replying to this message..."
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
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--
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Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre| You ain't nothing but
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----Telecom Australia, Melbourne, Australia| ein schweinhund
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dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-------------| Barking alle der
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------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu| time...
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------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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"Marketable Toxic Custard"
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TOXIC CUSTARD WROKSHOP FLIES - EGGSTRA SPECIAL EASTER EDITION!
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MONDAY 12TH APRIL 1993. WRITTEN BY DANIEL BOWEN.
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---------------------------------------------------------------------
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Yes, it's Easter time again, when all the Chocoholics just about die
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of over-eating. What would life be like if there were celebrations
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that embraced other addictions? Well, there's always New Years Eve
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and alcoholism, I suppose. How about... Heroin addiction? To
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celebrate the (non)-stoning of Mary Magdalen perhaps...
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Okay, I admit it, I can't think of any other Easter jokes, other than
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the poser: "Does the Easter bunny have myxomatosis?" So instead,
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here's...
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THE IDIOT'S GUIDE TO THE MARKET
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Now, going to the market is all very well; you get to squish yourself
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around with five hundred of your closest friends all looking for that
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incredible bargain which you can't buy anywhere else for less than
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twice the price it might be here... but really, although the market
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might seem to be a bargain-finding obscure-product locating place
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with loads of variety, it's not. There are in fact hundreds of
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identical stalls, which include, but are not limited to:
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- seventeen stalls of cheapo toys, recognised predominantly by the
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noise of small battery-powered barking dogs, oinking pigs, little
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cars that drive around and around a cardboard box, toy mobile
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telephones (which while they are very mobile, but on the telephone
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side, disappoint) and little crawling commando-type figures. And you
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can usually get a good deal on a Fisher-Price "My First Fax Machine".
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(I kid you not).
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- sixteen stalls worth of various clothing including Levi's going
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back to 1977 and green jumpers with big patches that proclaim
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"Melbourne, Australia!" (or wherever the market happens to be) on
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them, generally with a very badly drawn picture of the local cultural
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symbol (in this case, a tram climbing the Arts Centre spire).
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- fifteen stalls of leather and/or (*beautifully* crafted) vinyl bags
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and wallets, featuring three designs in seven different colours. (Six
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designs if you count the combinations of coin pocket on left, ID card
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space on right/coin pocket on right, ID card on left). And no wallet
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they have will be big enough to hold a $100 note without part of it
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sticking out.
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- fourteen stalls of those big prints which suddenly seem to have
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come into fashion (I dunno, I never used to notice those Print shops
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in the suburbs, now they seem to be everywhere), selling loads of
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black and white pictures of Marylin Monroe, James Dean, muscular men
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holding babies, as well as colourful old Pears Soap ads, very shiny
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olde worlde mappes, scantily clad ladies, artistically shot animals
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and wilderness photos.
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- thirteen stalls of "direct from factory" t-shirts sporting such
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witty captions as "Nookie- Just Did It", "Adihash- For All Grass
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Sports", and pictures of sharks in sunglasses, koalas mooning,
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kangaroos with big balls, and other such subject matter which would
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be perfect for the next family barbecue. (Where else could they be
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from but "direct from factory"? Perhaps "direct from little old man
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outside Bogota who swears he found them in the Himalayas being used
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as dusters by a yeti"?)
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- twelve stalls of Australiana, mainly dozens of boomerangs which
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will no doubt work so well that they end up back with the
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manufacturers, Australiana tea-towels and coasters, sheepskin boots,
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moccies and slippers and hats with corks which no-one would be seen
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dead in. (**NOTE TO PROSPECTIVE VISITORS TO AUSTRALIA: TRUST ME,
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THESE HATS LOOK STUPID. NO-ONE HERE WEARS THEM. WE DO NOT HUNT
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KANGAROOS IN THE BOURKE STREET MALL. DON'T BE FOOLED BY THIS STUFF.
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AND LEAVE YOUR BUM BAG AT HOME. NOT 'COS IT MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE A
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TOURIST, BUT BECAUSE IT MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE A COMPLETE DICKHEAD**)
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- eleven stalls of bargain telephones through which you can't hear an
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earthquake, cheap videotapes especially designed to clog your
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machine and double-adapters and extension leads banned in most
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industrialised countries.
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- ten stalls of shoes of various shapes and sizes, generally
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comprising collections of big boots, slightly less big boots,
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platform shoes (euch, are they really coming back?), and various
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other genuine leather-type shoes made from bits of cows.
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- nine more stalls of other shoes, generally brand and non-brand-name
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runners at bargain prices in every colour and size except yours.
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- eight stalls of various wooden toilet-roll holders, book-ends,
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"meat and two veg" back massagers.
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- seven stalls selling bargain-priced cheap socks. All the good
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designs are available in kids' sizes only, and 79% of the socks are
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out of season, so the boiling-hot thick wool Explorer-clones are all
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the rage around spring.
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- six stalls of slinky ladies' underwear, where you can watch a
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muscular bloke who looks like he might be a Chippendale in his spare
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time try and decide on a purchase which may actually turn out to be
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for himself, if he ever summons up the brain power to work out what
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size he is.
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- five "wicker" stalls, where-in can be found baskets in two hundred
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different sizes, from the size for holding nothing at all to ones
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that can comfortably fit a dead body you may happen to have lying
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around the place. Well, I didn't want it getting in the way and
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leading to awkward questions, and besides, being in the basket would
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cut down on the smell. Especially as it had started to decompose.
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Those maggots which had started to appear were a bit of an eyesore,
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too.
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- four stalls of not-so-moderately-cheap-as-they-could-be CDs.
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Featuring the biggest Country/Western/Yodelling section you're ever
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likely to see this side of Austria!
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- three stalls selling imitation ("alternative") perfumes.
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- two stalls selling shareware at $6.95 a disk that they probably
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pulled off some ftp site
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and finally...
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- one stall selling industrial-strength ladies corsetry, staffed by a
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woman from the Crustacean era, who is probably the only person in the
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state who wears the stuff.
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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That's all once again another Toxic Custard's
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over done and with. Week more next. If you
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would back-issues read to then tcwf@gnu.ai.
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mit.edu reply or send to mail to this.
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
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--
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Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre|
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----Telecom Australia, Melbourne, Australia| Quick, think of
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dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-------------| something intelligent.
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------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu|
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------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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"One Gross Toxic Custard"
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TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES #144 - 19th April 1993
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1993 TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES #144 - 19th April
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April 1993 TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES #144 - 19th
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19th April 1993 TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES #144 -
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Just what is Michael Jackson on about? Does he really want to portray
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a bad boy image? "Bad"... "Dangerous"... what will his next album be
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called - "Not Very Nice"? And while he grabs his groin in half his
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songs, the rest of them are such rebellious street-wise dark alley
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cop killer hits such as "Heal The World... make it a better place..."
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Still, he's getting together his Heal The World Children's
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Congress, from which great ideas will no doubt be put forward for
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preserving the human race:
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"I think there should be more jelly." - Kylie, 8 of Sydney
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"Michael, Rodney's making faces!" - Stacey, 7 of Philadelphia
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|
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"I want my Nintendo!" - Paul, 9 of Chicago
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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|
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Crowd participation is a big thing at the concerts these days. Take a
|
|
big crowd, a seasoned performer, and a classic song, and you have the
|
|
stuff that memories are made of. Let's face it, nothing beats 50,000
|
|
people singing "Hey Jude". It always works with a familiar chorus.
|
|
The crowd sings, waves their hands, and then the performer screws it
|
|
all up by interrupting this outburst of emotion with a random
|
|
rendition of ending of the song which nobody, anywhere, has heard
|
|
before or can possibly sing along with. This then throws the entire
|
|
audience out of their trance, leaving them trying to figure out when
|
|
to start the applause... oh, is it now.. sounds like the end of the
|
|
song... no, oh God, last minute guitar solo... if I start clapping
|
|
now will I look like an idiot and have chapped hands by the time the
|
|
real applause starts...
|
|
And then of course, somewhere in the audience is that over-
|
|
enthusiastic teary-eyed person who is oblivious that he or she is the
|
|
last one to stop clapping and cheering. After *every* song.
|
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|
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
|
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|
|
I woke up this mornin', a blues song in my head
|
|
I looked all around me, and I couldn't find my bed
|
|
Tried to find my bearings, I was in the garden shed
|
|
Hangover the size of a golfball, God I wished I was dead
|
|
|
|
So I tried to get up and look around me. The rhythm had vanished; it
|
|
was just me with my tiny, tiny mind. I moved towards the door. The
|
|
floor lurched. Only it wasn't my hangover, the floor *really*
|
|
lurched. I moved back, making my way for the grubbiest window. The
|
|
window I could see least out of. Not only because it was the closest
|
|
window, but the nearest window.
|
|
A cliff.
|
|
The gaping chasm below the shed moved slowly beneath me, the wind
|
|
rustling through the ventilation. What could I do? I made my way
|
|
towards the door, slowly, carefully. I edged towards it bit by bit.
|
|
"C'mon", I said under my breath. "C'mon you bastard shed, don't fall
|
|
yet; let me outta here."
|
|
A booming voice filled the air. "What did you call me?", the shed
|
|
bellowed, and it lurched over the cliff.
|
|
I watched as safety and my hopes of continuing life galloped a
|
|
little dance around me, then gleefully skipped away, waving a funny
|
|
little goodbye gesture back at me. While the shed and I plummeted into
|
|
the unknown.
|
|
|
|
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
|
|
___
|
|
T o x i c C u s t a r d M e g a p r o d u c t i o n s / \
|
|
present / \
|
|
An Unoriginal-idea-from-TCWF-98-production A M N E S I A
|
|
An Idea-I-got-at-a-party Presentation /\_______/\
|
|
/ M A N \
|
|
A M N E S I A M A N / \
|
|
|
|
"Fighting for truth, justice, and erm.. Oh, I forget. Truth and
|
|
justice will do for the moment, won't they?"
|
|
|
|
The city by night. In the foreground, the lights play with the
|
|
shadows of the people passing by. They play "See You Later
|
|
Alligator". They play short bursts of Rachmaninov. And then they pack
|
|
up their instruments and once again the city is filled with darkness.
|
|
Out of a dark alley steps Amnesia Man. Always ready to fight the
|
|
fight for good[tm] and justice[Registered trademark]. Always ready to
|
|
take on the powers of evil[(c)1993 McDonalds Corporation]. And always
|
|
ready to sneak into dark alleys to relieve himself when he's
|
|
forgotten to go before he came. If you see what I mean.
|
|
Amnesia Man - the man of today, inside the body of tomorrow, and
|
|
the mind of last week, with a body stocking that looks like it's gone
|
|
through several years without a wash.
|
|
Amnesia Man - body of a man, strength of a cannon, and mind of a
|
|
blithering idiot.
|
|
Amnesia Man - the superhero with more introductions than he has
|
|
*ZAPS* *KAPOWS* and *SPLATS*.
|
|
But even now, the nemesis has arrived. For the villainous
|
|
Reginald Completebastardprick. This time working for the National
|
|
Party, he had devised his most downright evil weapon yet - the Mind
|
|
Slurper.
|
|
The Mind Slurper is an ingenious device. Already fully tested on
|
|
Reginald's confidantes, the Mind Slurper can suck from the mind. It
|
|
has been refined and upgraded and researched, and the latest model,
|
|
the mark III, can achieve speeds of 0 to 150 IQ points in 8.5
|
|
seconds.
|
|
But, changing tenses, the Mind Slurper was built for a specific
|
|
purpose. Reginald Completebastardprick had had it in for Amnesia Man
|
|
ever since AM accidentally squashed RC's hamster. With a steam
|
|
roller. AM had said he was sorry, and even offered to try and inflate
|
|
the hamster again, but to no avail.
|
|
And so it was to be. RC had strained for days, and laid a trap,
|
|
which had *killed* his bottom. But it could not fail... could it?
|
|
|
|
***IS AMNESIA MAN DOOMED? DON'T BE SILLY, OF COURSE NOT. HE'S
|
|
A BLOODY SUPERHERO. BUT WE CAN PRETEND, CAN'T WE? YES, WE CAN
|
|
MAKE OUT THAT HE'S IN SOME RISK AT THIS POINT AND ENCOURAGE ALL
|
|
YOU POOR GULLIBLE READERS NOT TO MISS THE NEXT EXCITING EPISODE
|
|
OF "AMNESIA MAN"!!!!***
|
|
|
|
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
|
|
Your eyeballs have been privileged to
|
|
have been exposed to yet another edition
|
|
of the Toxic Custard Workshop Files.
|
|
Back-issues are still hanging suspiciously
|
|
around a number of ftp sites - reply to
|
|
this, or send mail to tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu
|
|
for details.
|
|
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
|
|
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
|
|
--
|
|
Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre|
|
|
----Telecom Australia, Melbourne, Australia| If this was a real
|
|
dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-------------| signature, it would
|
|
------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu| be illegible.
|
|
|
|
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
"Chocolate Toxic Custard"
|
|
|
|
..... .... ...
|
|
. . . . . the toxiC custarD workshoP fileS
|
|
. ... . . . ... . . . ... number 145, 26th of apriL 1993
|
|
. . . . . . . ... . writteN bY danieL boweN
|
|
. ... ..... . . . ...
|
|
|
|
MRS IRENE BUSYBODY SPEAKS OUT ON...
|
|
Philosophy. What a load of bollocks it really is. Is it really
|
|
important for the human race to find out why it's here, what are we
|
|
doing, where are we going... I can tell you in one sentence that I'm
|
|
here to do housework, I'm vacuuming right now, and after this I'm
|
|
going to a Tupperware party. No great mysteries there.
|
|
Of course, there's always that great philosophical question "If a
|
|
tree falls alone in a forest, does it make any sound?" What a stupid
|
|
question. 'Course it makes a fucking sound. A sound not unlike a tree
|
|
falling over.
|
|
Me and the girls have been workshopping this at our weekly
|
|
Philistines Anonymous meeting (corner of Adolph and White Streets,
|
|
Richmond, Thursday nights), and I think we've come up with the
|
|
solution. What we need to do is get all the philosophers, throw them
|
|
in a big ship along with the arts students, playwrights (what a
|
|
stupid, moronic way to spell that word), actors, painters and poets,
|
|
push the ship out to sea and sink it, and then let them find the
|
|
quickest way of finding out if there's a God or not.
|
|
|
|
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
|
|
|
|
And now for a quick poem...
|
|
|
|
The colours dance before my eyes
|
|
They swirl and turn into meat pies
|
|
While camels join and twirl and sing
|
|
And butterflies flutter gently*ARGGHHHH%$*'}{*SPLASH* *GLUG* *GLUG*s$}|y4\./?e>"fs`'
|
|
|
|
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
|
|
___
|
|
/ \
|
|
/ \ A M N E S I A M A N
|
|
A M N E S I A
|
|
/\_______/\ "The Mind Slurper"
|
|
/ M A N \
|
|
/ \ Part Two
|
|
|
|
You'll remember in our last episode, well, if you read it, and if you
|
|
happen to remember it, that is, and if you happen to... oh forget it.
|
|
We'll just run a compressed version of the last episode right now.
|
|
Here's the first letter of every paragraph again, just to refresh
|
|
your memories (however many you happen to have):
|
|
|
|
TOAAABTBAI
|
|
|
|
Got the picture? Well tough. On with the story.
|
|
|
|
Amnesia Man tried to find the zipper on his body suit, gave up,
|
|
and continued walking down the especially darkened alleyway. High
|
|
above on the roof of a city building, Reginald Completebastardprick
|
|
waited, his thighs (oops, that should be eyes) gleefully crotching
|
|
(oops, that should be watching) Amnesia Man's erotic (oops, that
|
|
should be erratic) path along the cobblestones. He waited and
|
|
watched. Watched and waited. Waited and watched. I guess there's only
|
|
two combinations of watching and waiting, eh? Okay.
|
|
Reginald waited (*GET ON WITH IT!*) until Amnesia Man was
|
|
directly below the huge suction cup of his mind slurper device, and
|
|
then with an evil laff, pressed the vastly impressive "On" button on
|
|
the side of the machine. The button had been wisely placed by the
|
|
designers of the machine next to a number of large notices with such
|
|
captions as "Warning Warning Warning Do not operate this machine
|
|
ever, it sucks out brain waves, use it at your peril if you're not
|
|
already a gibbering idiot", and "Warning: This machine rots brains,
|
|
and may contain substances dangerous to the stability of the mind.
|
|
Not recommended for children under 6 years of age."
|
|
The machine started to hum. Not the quiet little domestic hum of
|
|
your average fridge, but the hum of a 747 which is warming up for
|
|
take-off on your front lawn while you're in the livingroom trying to
|
|
hear all the dialogue from the quiet bit of the movie.
|
|
Amnesia Man looked around, startled, as the giant suction cup
|
|
came down towards him. But he was too late. It slurped onto his head
|
|
just like the Polymorph in Red Dwarf and the alley began to pulsate
|
|
with the noise of the mind slurper, not unlike the sound of two dozen
|
|
teenagers sucking on their McDonalds thickshakes simultaneously, and
|
|
probably just as dangerous for the ol' grey matter.
|
|
Amnesia Man's face began to turn an attractive shade of blue, as
|
|
his brain decided to stop thinking about what colour his face should
|
|
be, and start worrying about the outside influences which seemed to
|
|
be slurping, one by one, brain cells out of his head. It was an
|
|
alarming situation, and Amnesia Man's brain, quite rightly, hit panic
|
|
stations.
|
|
This, it has to be said, was unfortunate. When a part of the body
|
|
has a problem, it panics. It sends a warning signal up to the brain,
|
|
which dutifully notes which part of the body is panicking, presses
|
|
the "Ache & Pain" button, and it starts to hurt. But the brain? What
|
|
does it do? Cause a headache? Yeah sure, so a giant suction cup is
|
|
sucking out your brain cells, and you suddenly have a headache.
|
|
Thanks a lot brain, tell me something I don't know. And the brain is
|
|
so busy producing the headache that it has no time left to think
|
|
about actually getting out of the current predicament, which, as
|
|
predicaments go, is quite predicamous.
|
|
And the solution? I dunno. My brain's outta time too.
|
|
|
|
***WILL THE AUTHOR SUMMON UP THE BRAIN POWER TO FIND A SUITABLE
|
|
CONCLUSION TO THIS STORY BY NEXT WEEK? IF NOT, WILL THE READERS
|
|
REBEL AGAINST THIS MENTAL CRUELTY AND GO AROUND AND BEAT THE
|
|
SHIT OUT OF HIM? FIND OUT SOON, IN THE VERY NEXT EPISODE OF
|
|
"AMNESIA MAN"!!!!***
|
|
|
|
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
|
|
That's all for another edition of the
|
|
Toxic Custard CHOCOLATE Workshop Files.
|
|
Back-issues (well, most of them,
|
|
anyway) are CHOCOLATE available through
|
|
anonymous ftp or via a mail server.
|
|
Reply to this CHOCOLATE, or send mail
|
|
to tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu for details.
|
|
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
|
|
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
|
|
--
|
|
Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre| If Van Gogh were alive
|
|
----Telecom Australia, Melbourne, Australia| today, he wouldn't be
|
|
dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-------------| able to use a Walkman
|
|
------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu| very well.
|
|
|
|
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
|
|
the Toxic Custard Workshop Files by Daniel Bowen, Melbourne, Australia
|
|
|
|
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen. May be freely distributed without
|
|
profit provided this notice remains intact.
|
|
|
|
For subscription information, contact tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu
|