From stevem@shore.net Sun Jan 02 17:33:43 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!su-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!nntp.primenet.com!nntp.gctr.net!news.maxwell.syr.edu!news.shore.net!not-for-mail From: stevem@shore.net (The Carrot) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Resolutions? References: <386DA1E7.16D9@ix.netcom.com> <386E5F61.3F14951@egg.chips.and.spam.com> Organization: Uboat Commanders Anonymous X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.92.6+ Lines: 45 Message-ID: Date: Mon, 03 Jan 2000 01:33:43 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 204.167.110.161 X-Complaints-To: abuse@shore.net X-Trace: news.shore.net 946863223 204.167.110.161 (Sun, 02 Jan 2000 20:33:43 EST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sun, 02 Jan 2000 20:33:43 EST Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:191663 In article <387cd0d7.492237146@news.transport.com>, animediaNO@SPAM.com (Flatus M) says: >Man, my wife just traded me a sloppy blow job for changing the >three-year-old's shitty diaper. That's the joy of fatherhood. > >BTW, Carrot, you'd love her. She's a psycho AND Hispanic. Isn't that last sentence redundant? ObT: Off to the beach this morning for my Sunday constitutional (ie walking off the hangover from last night). It was cold, rainy, and there weren't many people around, which makes it a perfect fucking day as far as I'm concerned. As I strolled along the shore I noticed a large, dead white thing in the water; it turned out to be a fish. I'm no fish expert, but I think it was an Atlantic salmon; I'm positive it was dead, because after I used a piece of driftwood to drag it onto the sand the abdomen of the fish practically exploded, releasing a powerful stench. The guts fairly streamed out like they were under pressure and a puddle of filthy green liquid gushed out. The dead fish was quite large, I'd estimate at least 30 inches long, so there was a lot of guts and fluid. At the first whiff of the (surprise!) fishy odor, I turned my head and puked. I missed my sneakers this time. I'd like to record for posterity that my first puke of the year 2000 took place at 10:03 a.m. on the shores of Salisbury State Reservation (I barfed on New Year's Eve, but that was before midnight). For some reason, at that point I was engulfed by a mighty rage (how dare this dead thing make me vomit!), so I beat the fish into pulp with the driftwood, smashing its scaly body into slimy pieces and spreading the disgusting odor further. Picture the apeman from '2001' smashing the skeleton and you get the idea. Little flecks of dead fish were flying around while I vented my primal anger. I even tried to clobber a seagull (herring gull, female, for you birdwatchers out there) when it tried to swoop down and steal a chunk of decaying fish, but I missed. The bird landed about 15 feet away and stood watching me act like a typical hominid. I'm often amazed at how satisfying it is to act like a caveman, whether it's cracking open bones to suck out the marrow, chasing rabbits or other small animals through the brush, climbing trees, or simply engaging in acts of random violent behavior. Oh, and let's not forget fucking doggystyle. While I was demolishing the dead fish I accidently stepped in the puddle of puke, which caused me to puke again (mostly yellow slime). After the second puke, I sat on the wet sand and watched the seagull and her friends devoured the carcass. All in all, a helluva morning. Welcome to the 21st century. - The Carrot ------------------------------ From worley@dworley.ne.mediaone.net Wed Jan 05 18:54:38 2000 Sender: worley@blob.ariadne.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The Festival From: worley@dworley.ne.mediaone.net (Acetylcholinesterase Inhibitor) X-No-Archive: yes Message-ID: <87bt6zoqol.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> Lines: 167 X-Newsreader: Gnus v5.5/Emacs 20.3 Date: Thu, 06 Jan 2000 02:54:38 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.218.145.6 X-Complaints-To: abuse@mediaone.net X-Trace: ndnws01.ne.mediaone.net 947127278 24.218.145.6 (Wed, 05 Jan 2000 21:54:38 EST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 05 Jan 2000 21:54:38 EST Organization: Road Runner Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.cwix.com!chnws03.mediaone.net!24.128.1.101!chnws05.ne.mediaone.net!24.128.60.9!ndnws01.ne.mediaone.net.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:191871 So I'm still recovering from The Plague, and a touchy-feely story in the newspaper reports "Doctor urges patients to heal their souls through reading, writing". So I'm trying my hand at a little fiction, since I've got the time on my hands. No doubt, it's twice as long as it should be, but I haven't got someone to edit it for me. -------------------- Iowa is in the Upper Midwest of the United States. This means that it is far from the moderating influence of any ocean. A European might understand what this phrase means if I say that its weather patterns resemble less London than Moscow. One weather phenomenon which impresses itself most intensely is the cold north-west wind in the middle of winter. For various periods during the winter, very cold air comes charging down out of central Canada, often for days at a time, winds of 20 or 30 miles per hour, quite dry, with temperatures of 10 down to 0 (F). Usually described as an express train from the Canadian Rockies, they might be better described as a lethal blast from Satan's ringpiece through the depths of Hell. Walking into this north-west wind for any distance is inviting tissue damage from frostbite. But after the hideous wind has brought in the new air mass, strange, beautiful new weather often follows: still, clear, and even colder, usually -10 or sometimes -20 (F). If there is snow, it is beautiful by day or night. Even if there is no moon, the stars are diamond points in a velvet sky, seemingly bright enough to read by. And despite the cold, this weather feels rather warm, since the wind-chill isn't that cold. But don't stand around too long, or you'll notice that your toes are starting to hurt because they're freezing. -------------------- What with all the changes in health-care funding, running an old people's home is a very tricky operation. The government is so stingy that one has to pinch pennies at every turn, but since one is expected to be a humanitarian enterprise as well, we can't be straightforward about sorting profitable from unprofitable business. We also have to be helpful and kind to our clients, and make their lives as enjoyable as we reasonably can, even though that sort of service is inherently expensive. So we are quite inventive. Fortunately, my staff enjoy coming up with creative ways to keep the clients amused at minimal cost. One of their inventions is what we call "The Festival". The Festival for this winter was held on a cold, clear evening after three brutal days of Canadian wind. Of course, since all of our clients are Alzheimer's patients and aren't allowed out, the weather didn't affect them directly, but it made it hard to schedule the staff, since all of the staff's cars that were marginal failed on the first morning of the ordeal. And, of course, every mechanic in town was busy getting cars started. It was only toward the end of the third day that our shifts were up to full strength. And keeping a crowd of Alzheimer's patients under control is tough under the best of circumstances. Some of them can be mesmerized by television, but others aren't. They're pretty much like toddlers, they respond to whatever they see. If you can distract them from something, they'll forget about it completely. But if they think that climbing on top of the television is interesting this morning, they'll think that it is interesting every morning. You can't bribe them to not do it, or punish them for doing it (they will forget both by tomorrow). They can also learn simple skills, which means that you can't use the same simple tricks to keep them under control forever. Like any other human, Alzheimer's patients are curious, and since they can't remember anything, they keep getting into the same things over and over. We've found only one way to keep them in the Center: We put push-button combination locks on the doors going out. We also post the combination (4 1 2 3) right next to the locks, but since the clients can't remember anything, they can't read the numbers and punch the combination into the locks. And punching the buttons randomly doesn't work at all, so there is no reinforcement of partially-correct behaviors that would cause them to learn how to do it correctly. -------------------- But it was now evening, and The Festival was going full swing, looking much like a birthday party. Lots of bright colors, loud noises, sweet foods. Everything to keep the clients amused. And the staff thought it was fun, too. As the Guest of Honor of The Festival, we chose Lou. He was about seventy, still in physically good shape, but far gone in Alzheimer's. Unfortunately, his last remaining relatives, his son and daughter-in-law, had recently died in an auto accident. We told him, of course, but he couldn't understand, of course. (It was also going to cause a financial problem for us, since the son was paying for his care, and no other home was going to take him now.) But we could at least put some joy into Lou's life, even if he didn't know why. He got to sit at the head table, up on a dais, and wear a paper crown. Later, we organized the clients into various party games. Of course, the games didn't really involve "rules" or "scoring", but they caused plenty of amusing activity and laughter. My trusted assistant, Ethel, pulled Lou away as one game dissolved and another was being started. "Let me show you something," Ethel said as she took Lou down the corridor to the back door. Lou looked at the back door with hunger and curiosity, knowing that he wanted to know what was ... outside. Indeed, he had looked at the back door that way every day for years, but he didn't remember that. Ethel positioned Lou in front of the lock, took his hand in hers, and pulled out his index finger. She didn't bother counting off the numbers, but put his finger through the four button presses. Then she opened his hand, made it grasp the doorknob (now unlocked) and pushed the door open. Lou smiled wonderfully and was about to step across, out into the world, but Ethel blocked him with her arm and pulled the door shut. Lou looked disappointed. But Ethel waited for a quarter of a minute, and Lou's attention wandered. She patiently picked up his hand, extended the index finger, and guided it through the four button pushes, then put his hand on the doorknob and opened the door... After about an hour, Ethel brought him back to The Festival, which was just winding to a close. The staff got all the clients (including Lou) to bed, and left the debris of the party to be cleaned up by next morning's shift. Only a skeleton crew would be left on duty overnight. -------------------- In the middle of the night, Lou woke up. (This often happens with clients, and isn't a problem, since the clients wander around the home, but would only rarely get into trouble. The hardest part is finding them in the morning, since they find creative places to hide and sleep, such as behind the sofas.) Lou got up, walked out of the room, and started ambling down the corridor. When he got to the back door, he looked at it with hunger and curiosity, just like always. But this time, he knew something to do. He extended his index finger and pushed the four buttons in a particular order. Then he grabbed the doorknob and turned it to the right, then pushed the door open and stepped through. Lou broke into a big smile because the outside was so beautiful! It was cold, still, and clear. Except for the sidewalk Lou was standing on, the ground was covered by two feet of soft, powdery, clean snow, and there was a bright full moon in a cloudless sky. It was a world the sort of computer-enhanced imagery that the Sierra Club uses on expensive Christmas cards. Even Lou's breath was a work of art. Each exhalation produced a cloud of silvery vapor that took several seconds to dissipate. Lou breathed out in several different ways, each one bringing a smile to his face. Then Lou wanted to see some more of the outside, so he started walking forward. He quickly hit the edge of the walkway, and stepped into the snow. The snow was harder going, and he had to adjust his gait. A frosty feeling started nipping as his nose and ears. -------------------- The next morning, my staff noticed that Lou wasn't in his bed, so we assigned a couple of staff to ransack the place to find out where he was hidden. The rest of the staff got the clients set up for breakfast. After breakfast, the staff would start cleaning up the debris of The Festival, including taking down the big banner over the dais: Hypothermia Night at The Alzheimer's Center ------------------------------ From bushmara@hotmail.com Thu Jan 06 07:24:03 2000 From: bushmara@hotmail.com (MikeM) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The Shrine Message-ID: <3874b314.8227906@news.gte.net> X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.11/32.235 Lines: 22 X-Trace: /KtlGRCMRUSxtoczcvkiTtSBdxB3k1DclacTp0P8pyqmLpTTUyaoZKLEzCa5N3XzEFW57nojIQlm!fRlGEPLNNbYbjvsSRYLa9tey9Bt/OqEDVAvBDFInzx4DUvx2B/fbEw53Og== X-Complaints-To: abuse@gte.net X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers X-Abuse-Info: Otherwise we will be unable to process your complaint properly NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 06 Jan 2000 15:24:03 GMT Distribution: world Date: Thu, 06 Jan 2000 15:24:03 GMT Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!washdc3-snh1.gtei.net!news.gtei.net!dfiatx1-snr1.gtei.net.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:191902 A couple of weeks ago a 16 year old was killed near my house. He was t-boned at 1 a.m. by a lunatic who had just burglarized a pharmacy and was barrelling down the road with his headlights off. Less than 24 hours later a little shrine sprouted like a mushroom on the site. A couple of times I saw a group of high school students holding hands around it. Then yesterday morning there was an old lady standing near the shrine smoking a cigarette while her leashed poodle took a shit on the wilted flowers. Dozens of cars passed. The dog finished up, the old lady snapped her cigarette butt towards the steaming pile, and I drove on into work. Happy New Year everyone. MikeM "In the last 10 years they became rilly grim uneasy making to read." -- E Varden ------------------------------ From wereradio@home.com Thu Jan 06 17:22:07 2000 From: Juan Rico Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: The Armchair Antagonist (Was: Re: Resolutions?) Organization: W.E.R.E. Radio 88.5 Reply-To: wereradio@home.com Message-ID: <6rfa7s81sae6hmg30mgrvd3jv284q8kika@4ax.com> References: <38723ba8.8309573@news> <386f93be.14943282@news> <84pufq$vsu$1@nnrp1.deja.com> <38742791.166575373@news1.attglobal.net> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent 1.7/32.534 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit Lines: 28 Date: Fri, 07 Jan 2000 01:22:07 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.2.16.124 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news.rdc1.tn.home.com 947208127 24.2.16.124 (Thu, 06 Jan 2000 17:22:07 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 06 Jan 2000 17:22:07 PST Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newspump.monmouth.com!newspeer.monmouth.com!nntp.abs.net!newshub2.home.com!news.home.com!news.rdc1.tn.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:191936 On Thu, 6 Jan 2000 13:51:04 -0500, ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com (JustmeĻ) wrote: >ObHahahaha: I lost weight at the same time I quit a pack and a half a day >cigarette habit. If you think that's easy, _you_ fuckin' try it. Neener, >neener. *sigh* I'm going to attempt to quit my nicotine vice- Skoal. Sure, it's a tasteless habit; much more tasteless than just smoking- ever smelled a 20-ounce bottle half filled with tobacco juice that's been fermenting in the sun?- but I noticed my gums are receding from my teeth at an alarming rate. Maybe it's just an oral fixation; maybe I should just suck more dick. Hey, Lincard! Help a fella out, willya? It's for my health... ObT: Swallowing the cud I forgot to remove along with the man-load. Sorry I puked on your glory-trail, luscious, I swallowed my Skoal. --------------------------------------------------------------------- W.E.R.E. Radio 88.5 * wereradio@home.com * members.home.net/wereradio --------------------------------------------------------------------- Man didn't become truly civilized until Alex Bell uttered those immortal words, "Shit, Watson, I spilled acid all over my balls." -John Varley, "Steel Beach" ------------------------------ From moon-princess.not@home.com Fri Jan 07 22:54:43 2000 Reply-To: "new age neppie" From: "new age neppie" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless References: <84o41p$17m$4@nntp5.atl.mindspring.net> <75v17s4f9tpg8jiq0a31hegjb652bjenol@4ax.com> <2anc7s022ldpc6v68s21472n5u5bnlkqgn@4ax.com> Subject: Re: Chunderella part 6 (conclusion), was Re: Creepy Beauty Lines: 121 X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2919.6600 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2919.6600 Message-ID: Date: Sat, 08 Jan 2000 06:54:43 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.4.215.128 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news.rdc1.md.home.com 947314483 24.4.215.128 (Fri, 07 Jan 2000 22:54:43 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 07 Jan 2000 22:54:43 PST Organization: @Home Network Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.cwix.com!feeder.via.net!newshub1.home.com!news.home.com!news.rdc1.md.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:192084 Thanks! I loved it, but I think she should have had better revenge on those witches...*shrug* Why isn't the 6th part archived as well? > > >HEY! I read up to part 5 and it just sort of ended...is that the way it was > >written? Is there a part 6? > >I thoroughly enjoyed it! Very well written entertainment. ^_^ > > Here ya go: > > CHUNDERELLA, CONCLUDED > > By noon that day, everyone in the realm knew that the king's > ministers were searching for the mysterious woman who had regurgitated so > spectacularly at the ball. Everyone knew that the woman had left behind > a > delicate slipper spattered with vomit and that the ministers sought the > owner of a gown with matching stains--a white gown, some said, though > others insisted that the gown was ivory, taupe, or pale yellow. > Throughout the kingdom, would-be princesses were bent over their > lightest-colored frocks with their fingers down their throats. > "Come on, you can do better than that," said Chunderella's > stepmother to Sampsonetta and Leprosina, as the two sisters dribbled > desultory puddles of bile on white gowns, hastily purchased for the > occasion. "Retch! Retch, girls, as though your lives depended upon it!" > Only Chunderella was unaware of the ministers' search--was, in fact, up > in > her garret furiously scrubbing the stains out of her lovely dress. > Meanwhile, the king's ministers were retching regularly, as > household after household proudly displayed at least one pungently soiled > garment to be matched against Chunderella's shoe. The ministers > inspected > stains of all sizes, colors, textures, and spatter-patterns, some obvious > counterfeits, still wet to the touch and reeking of newly-churned stomach > acids, and some requiring closer analysis. As the sun sank into the > western sky, they began to despair of finding a genuine match. > "I can't take much more," said the chief minister. "I was up all > night with gas, and now this. It's enough to make me nostalgic for the > Crusades." > Finally, the tired, queasy ministers reached Chunderella's > household, the last on their itinerary. Before they could knock, the > door > swung open. > "Come in, come in," sang Chunderella's stepmother. "One of my > daughters is surely the lady you seek--why, both have had delicate > stomachs from the cradle! If regurgitation were an Olympic sport, my > girls would be gold medalists!" The ministers stood uneasily in the > parlor, having heard similar testimonials all day. "Sampsonetta, > Leprosina, bring in the gowns you wore to the ball last night." > Her daughters dutifully entered bearing their soiled frocks, > which > they laid before the ministers, who produced the slipper for comparison. > "No match," said the chief minister, "Your daughters' vomit is > too > chunky." > "I've *told* you girls a thousand times to chew before > swallowing," whispered Chunderella's stepmother, furiously. > "This is the last house," said the deputy minister. "Is there no > other lady in residence?" Just then Chunderella entered with her > newly-washed gown, which she had hoped to hang before the parlor > fireplace > to dry. "You, miss. Did you attend the prince's ball last night?" > Chunderella hung her head and nodded slowly. "And is this the gown you > wore?" Chunderella nodded again, a tear slipping down her cheek. "May > we > see it, please?" Sampsonetta, Leprosina, and their mother watched with > wide, terrified eyes as Chunderella handed her gown to the deputy > minister. As he slowly unrolled the damp, clean dress, all four women > smiled with relief. > "That's it, then," said the chief minister, handing the gown back > to Chunderella and turning to go. For an instant, his face contorted > with > pain." > "Are you all right?" asked the deputy minister, whispering to the > ladies, "He hasn't been feeling well." > "Fine," said the chief minister, "A momentary cramp. Let's go > inform the king that our search has been a failure. The prince will > marry > the Lady Marion, and that will be that." Sampsonetta and Leprosina > clapped their hands with joy, while Chunderella wept openly to hear her > prince promised to another woman. Suddenly, the air was rent with noise > and stench, as the chief minister unleashed long-withheld flatulence. > "Excuse--" he began, halting in mid-apology to stare in amazement > at Chunderella, whose mouth streamed with vomit as her eyes streamed with > tears. Chunder fell on her newly-washed gown, though sorrow made her > insensible of the fact. > "Get her out of here," growled Sampsonetta to her mother. > "Wait," said the deputy minister. "Let me see that dress again." > Carefully he lay the now-sopping garment on the floor and placed the shoe > beside it." > "I believe we have a match," said the chief minister, the deputy > minister nodding in agreement." > > Gentle reader, you can surmise the rest of the story. The > ministers brought Chunderella back to the palace, horking all the way. > Overjoyed to have found his beloved, the prince agreed to furnish her a > private suite far from the palace sewers, as long as she promised to be > "his little Vesuvius" in the bedroom once in a while. They were wed with > great ceremony in a well-ventilated hall, the bride resplendent in ivory > brocade and matching ivory nose clip. Nine months later, Chunderella > delivered a plump male heir, handing him straight to a wet nurse before > he > could soil his first diaper. Everyone in the kingdom was happy and > prosperous--except, perhaps, Chunderella's ladies-in-waiting: > Sampsonetta, > Leprosina, Allison, and Marion. For, taking a page from their book, > Chunderella had ordered their assholes stopped with wax, lest the > slightest fecal aroma upset her delicate stomach. Once a week their > stoppers were removed to allow grogan emission, but the rest of the time > they served their mistress in stiff-legged agony. Even Marion's breasts > began to droop with the strain. > ************************************************************ > > ********** > > your pal, > The *MIGHTY* (yet modest) Two Tub Man > feminist69@bigfoot.com ------------------------------ From L.Watson@its.canterbury.ac.nz Mon Jan 10 14:28:49 2000 From: Lyndon Watson Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: High on the hog (was New poll... (was Re: The Armchair Antagonist)) Date: 11 Jan 2000 11:28:49 +1300 Organization: University of Canterbury Lines: 64 Message-ID: References: <38723ba8.8309573@news> <386f93be.14943282@news> <84pufq$vsu$1@nnrp1.deja.com> <38735C6A.B06987B@egg.chips.and.spam.com> <8tra7skshqneg2o0s5jmo4pqi9orniitp9@4ax.com> <38757540.6270F9D8@monmouth.com> <38761FAD.9F414971@monmouth.com> <38762B70.FA7A65DD@egg.chips.and.spam.com> <387630EE.F914676A@monmouth.com> <85bqte$go4$1@freenet9.carleton.ca> <38797D2D.7CD17C52@monmouth.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: cantua.canterbury.ac.nz X-Newsreader: Gnus v5.5/XEmacs 20.3 - "Vatican City" Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!news-stock.gip.net!news.gsl.net!gip.net!news.iprolink.co.nz!canterbury.ac.nz!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:192280 Ace Lightning writes: > food poisoning? from whipped cream? > > i don't think so. first of all, cream goes > *sour*, long before it becomes dangerous > to consume. what do you think "sour cream" > is? and yogurt and buttermilk are the same > type of thing, only with skim milk instead > of heavy cream. and you have to pay extra > for yogurt with "active cultures" - live > bacteria! - which are actually *good* for you, > especialy if your intestinal flora have been > killed off by heavy-duty antibiotics. Before they invented tankers to carry beer (one of the great NZ contributions to a better world) and milk, and we sent our cream, already separated on the farm, to the butter factory in cans, we had to get rid of a quantity of skim milk every day. The solution to the problem was to keep pigs and feed them on the stuff. Kept us in pork and home-cured bacon, and even earned a bit of money from selling the excess. So next to the cowshed there was a stinking pit with a wall around it and a sort of corrugated iron hovel in the corner, and living in it (if that's the word), a family of pigs. The medium that they lived in was not exactly mud, anymore, but a mixture of honest mud and generations of pigshit, more organic than mineral by this time. Somewhere near the bottom there would be the odd piglet bone - members of the family who didn't make it and got eaten and duly excreted along with the dead cats, calves, lambs, and miscarriages that formed part of their diet. I tell you, there;'s no better waste-disposal mechanism than a pig. And next to the pig-sty there was a row of old 44-gallon petrol (gasoline) drums with their tops cut out. When they were first used, there was probably some left-over petrol in them too, just a welcome condiment to the pigs while the taste lasted. The skim milk from the separator was pumped out to the drums because pigs like their milk mature, i.e. solid. They got a drumful a day, so that the milk got to stand for about a week in the sun first. At the end of that time, the delicious meal that we sloshed into the pig trough was the traditional curds and whey with a sour lactic smell that could strip the needles off a pine tree. To the pigs it was ambrosia accompanied by a fine sauce, and the beauty of nature is that the pigs' inner workings turned the most noxious of raw material into the best pork and bacon you could find. Turning a pig into pork and bacon started with old Andy, a decrepit, shambling, spitting, ancient former farm labourer who lived alone in the ruins of his old cottage. Old Andy was the only person who didn't mind getting in the muck with the pigs (and perhaps even shared the trough with them if we weren't looking) and could do so without being attacked by the evil-minded brutes. So we gave him the old .303 Lee-Enfield and he would wade around in the muck until he had cornered the meal of the day long enough to shoot it between the eyes. The pigs had seen it all before and knew what was coming, and they would be all squealing for help to the Pig-God who never bothered to zap Old Andy. The commotion was the best entertainment we kids used to get. Then Old Andy would wheeze and grunt, on a good day even slipping and falling, and drag the carcass to the wall where we could get a block and tackle onto it and haul it out for butchering. You can guess where the guts and other leftovers went. LW ------------------------------ From kes@duke.edu Tue Jan 11 10:50:33 2000 From: kes@duke.edu (Strayhorn) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: A Darwin Award Candidate? Date: Tue, 11 Jan 2000 13:50:33 -0500 Organization: Marinus van der Lubbe Intl Firebombing Society Lines: 84 Message-ID: References: <38794C46.AA3A8E5B@egg.chips.and.spam.com> <947550975.193616@news> <387c8667.26872101@news.transport.com> <947559070.54611@news> <36vl7s8stektqq0qh1vmtk2qnq27r6ktl9@news.taranaki.ac.nz> NNTP-Posting-Host: strayhorn.dukecomm.duke.edu X-Newsreader: MT-NewsWatcher 2.4.4 X-No-Archive: yes X-Complaints-To: abuse@dukecomm.duke.edu X-Face: BWeQyrFlV$jk!Ic4*Vvu'J4IEpyD]IbTQv5)y9H8f_XR[%4W$:l!Wvj0j>hs, gj7djy1tb>!5a}py;n)ooLh_Mj!/nvzH7i{aQM'M_fr;n4=K?*\'e!)5TYLSBoA3?j Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newsfeed.yosemite.net!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!newsgate.duke.edu!kes Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:192358 In article <36vl7s8stektqq0qh1vmtk2qnq27r6ktl9@news.taranaki.ac.nz>, Motoretta wrote: > I remember the first glue sniffer I ever saw, Jeezus, does that bring back memories . . . At at low point in my life I was living in a trailer at the beach (before the coast of NC got covered in condos, a tasteless thought in itself) and one night there came a knock on the door. There was an old pal from high school I hadn't seen in years - and if you've ever lived at the beach you know the drill with people showing up looking for a place to crash. But he said the majic words: "Let's get high," and walked in. Alas, he didn't have some Afgani hash, or Peruvian blow, Thai sticks or even Mexican ditch weed. He had a brown paper bag and a spray can of some lubricant (Liquid Wrench or something like that). He also had a dirty, semi-coherent chick with him. "Jeeze, Steve, what's with the huffing?" I wondered. "You never huffed shit in school, why start now?" "Aw, pot costs so much," he answered. "Angie taught me. Watch!" He sprayed some of the stuff in the bag and breathed it in. Ol' Angie also sprayed some in the bag and breathed it as well. Nothing seemed to happen. So they repeated the process. After a few moments they started laughing and goofing on each other. I decided to pass but figured this would be a good show anyway. After a few minutes of this goofing, they took a few more hits from the bag. That's when the fun started. Steve started to lean over and drool on his shoes while he laughed like a hyena. Angie fell over on the couch and sort-of gasped and laughed at once - a most unpleasant sound that made me think she might croak on my damned couch. He eyes rolled back in her head and I think she passed out. Steve, meanwhile, had decided he needed to piss, so he opened the front door and proceeded to whiz out the door. But, drunks being drunks, no matter what the substance they abuse, he managed to piss all over the entrance way. "Oh, goddam," I said. "Step all the way outside, fucker. I don't wanna have to clean up your piss before I go to bed." He laughed and drooled some more. While I was trying to steer him outside, Angie decided she needed to piss as well and headed down the hall, unbuckling and unzipping as she went. Gravity took over, her pants fell down around her knees and she tripped, landing face first on the hall rug. Now, picture this: I'm trying to support Steve with my hands under his arms so he won't fall out the door as he waves his dick around trying to dry it off. Angie is lying face down on the floor, alternatively laughing and weezing, with her jeans around her knees exposing one of those bony, fishbelly-white asses that skanks tend to have. In the middle of all this she lets fly as well, a puddle of piss forming under her hips. Well, to make a long story short, I finally got them both out the door and headed toward a bar I hoped was open. I hosed off the front door and threw away the rug that Angie had pissed on. A few years later I ran into Steve, who had cleaned up his act and become a welder in a custom Harley shop. He said that Angie had turned up dead in the back room of a bar, the spike still in her arm. "Too bad," he said. "You should have fucked her when you had the chance." Not with your dick, Steve-o. -- Strayhorn Not Duke policy, etc. "Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allen Poe." - J. Lennon ------------------------------ From noahnoothing@yahoo.com Wed Jan 12 15:50:59 2000 From: "Noah Noothing" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Tards Take a Field Trip Lines: 20 X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2314.1300 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2314.1300 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 12 Jan 2000 18:07:36 CST Organization: Giganews.Com - Premium News Outsourcing X-Trace: sv2-VM3vrgykutdyUiTxf7HoPMOnbocoOA4QA3fZ20jGHlfzfUDovUp31gaYthl28Djpb/TTXKZKM0Fp+b3!2tqEiVT36hY= X-Complaints-To: abuse@GigaNews.Com X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers X-Abuse-Info: Otherwise we will be unable to process your complaint properly Date: Wed, 12 Jan 2000 17:50:59 -0600 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newspump.monmouth.com!newspeer.monmouth.com!nntp2.giganews.com!news4.giganews.com.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:192506 Just a shirt little tale today, boys and girls. Took a van load of tards from the local group home to the mall today. Just your routine trip of shared headlice and random farts. That is until we stopped at a red light next to (smile broadly please) a tractor-trailer rig hauling cattle. No sooner did we pull up to a stop when one large cow ass pressed against the grate and let loose with a vicious stream of liquishits. All the tards were hootin' and pointin' at the cow shit as it dripped down the side of the truck. I don't remember the mutants being this excited when they went to see Santa last month. Noah ObT: All the delicious comments shared with every clerk and cashier at the stores we visited. Nothing like watching a toothless, drooling mutant babble on about cowshit to a wide-eyed waitress at the Morrison's Cafeteria. ------------------------------ From Tweak@hotbot.com Wed Jan 12 10:29:26 2000 From: Tweak@hotbot.com (Pastor Jeff) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Turning Stomach Organization: Vommyt's Greatest Hits - Vol. 1 Reply-To: Pastor Jeff Message-ID: <387cc660.6864670@206.86.34.13> References: <387b825f.200901844@news.transport.com> X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.1/32.230 Lines: 36 Date: Wed, 12 Jan 2000 18:29:26 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 206.117.213.44 X-Complaints-To: abuse@verio.net X-Trace: nuq-read.news.verio.net 947701770 206.117.213.44 (Wed, 12 Jan 2000 18:29:30 GMT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 12 Jan 2000 18:29:30 GMT Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newsfeed.yosemite.net!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!hermes.visi.com!news-out.visi.com!nuq-peer.news.verio.net!news.verio.net!nuq-read.news.verio.net.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:192462 Previously on A.T.Vanderbilt expelled : >We had a normal, feet first birth, but our daughter came out so fast >that my wife got torn up like nobody's business. The doctor said that >there are four levels of tearing between the vagina and the anus. My >wife was a level four tear - all layers of skin and all the way >between vagina and anus. The doctor said in a delightfully offhand >way that if my wife had given birth this way 100 years ago, she would >be shitting and pissing out of a single hole for the rest of her life. >I wonder what 19th century sex was like after one of these massive >tears. I also gained a huge appreciation of how easy it must have >been for women to die during childbirth. Those baby heads are BIG. > When my wife was being induced, the first half of the day went rather uninterestingly. Just a lot of tv and napping in the most uncomfortable chair ever. As the labor begins, so does the fun. They knew the kid was on the big side and they were sizing my wife's port to the kids head. They aren't sure he will fit his huge cranium through but they want to try. So the (IMHO) hot nurse brings in the mineral oil and starts what can only be described as a vigorous fisting of my wife. This goes on and I can't hide the excitement this is causing me unless I stay seated, but I want to watch so I press up tightly to the side of the bed and get a close up of the action. To this day, I can still visualize the sight of a nurse wrist deep in my wife. What a great day. A son and a wank vision to last the ages. -- Randy Snott Carpe Hoc, Caenitus ------------------------------ From enoid801@omit.home.com Wed Jan 12 21:02:36 2000 From: enoid801@omit.home.com (Citizen Ted) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: PokeMom Message-ID: <38815c9d.8049518@news> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent .99g/32.339 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 318 Date: Thu, 13 Jan 2000 05:02:36 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.7.140.142 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.sttls1.wa.home.com 947739756 24.7.140.142 (Wed, 12 Jan 2000 21:02:36 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 12 Jan 2000 21:02:36 PST Organization: @Home Network Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newspump.monmouth.com!newspeer.monmouth.com!newshub2.home.com!news.home.com!news1.sttls1.wa.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:192553 On Wed, 05 Jan 2000 17:26:15 +0100, Michael O'Shea wrote: >You've got a neighbour who obviously hasn't heard of you yet or >who is too stupid to know better. > >http://www.pokemon.com/news/pokemom.html > >If ever you get a chance to repair her TV, could you plant an >incendiary device in it ? You could always blame it on the Y2K >bug. Oh. My. God. I would gladly bet my life savings that the Bergquist family tools around Bellingham in a forest-green 1998 Jeep Cherokee, love to eat at Red Robin over at the mall and own a late-model RCA projection TV. Their home is probably located on a recently clearcut plot right on the lake, where their family effluvia pools slowly into our only freshwater reservoir... ...their TV will surely fail one day...and I will go there... "Wow, you sure have a lot of that Pokemon stuff, ma'am!" "Why, yes! In fact, we won a contest from those Nintendo people and went to New York! It was very exciting! The kids LOVED it! How you ever been to New York?" (That's when I drop my toolbag and any pretense of a smile.) "Yeah. I grew up Jersey, just outside the city. Lived in Brooklyn for a little while." "Oh, really?" "Yeah. Used to move dope from the city into Jersey twice a week. After awhile, I figured I may as well move to Brooklyn. The people I worked for didn't really trust Pollocks from Jersey, ya know? They were Italian. I figured I'd try to blend in, ya know? Impress the family." "Um, that's understandable...I...uh..." "Boy, was I stupid. They didn't even *know* me. I was just a third-string schmuk from Jersey. The local fuckin' teenagers would try to beat me up just for crossing the street. They knew I was a mook." "A mook?..." "A nobody. An outsider. I didn't belong. They were all Italian boys. Usually got their kicks beatin' up niggers. But a metalhead from Jersey? Easy pickins. I had to get outta there. I went back to Jersey. But yeah, I know New York. All too well." "Well, my, that's..." "Back in Jersey, I kept moving weight across the border for a few months. My contacts started gettin' undependable. A made Italian, his Jew buddy and a goddamn dago adopted into a Hindu family, fer chrissakes. What a mess. The drinking, the fights. Never ending. It was like a circus. I never knew what to expect. All I wanted to do was pick up my weight, load up the 280ZX and drive home. But no. It was always another late-night party, another argument and fistfight. They'd drag me into Manhattan for drinks, we'd get drunk then start kicking rich yuppie sports cars to make the alarms go off. Just provoking fights with rich WASP assholes. Then cursing at the bums on the sidewalk. Unbelievable. I tell ya, that city is a ZOO." "Well-" (By now I'm in her face, staring into her eyes.) "It became a goddamn nightmare after awhile! The fights, the rain-slicked streets, the paranoia of cruising over the Outerbridge Crossing at 3 in the morning with a pound or two of dope in the wheel well... I thought I'd get popped by the staties. I thought one of those crazy Italian fuckers would just up and shoot me one night because I said something the wrong way. I was scared! You hear me? SCARED!" "Yes, I -" "GODDAMMIT! My life was a mess! I'm workin' as a cable-TV guy all day and at night me and my pal are goddamn dope distributors for the mob! I guess we were lucky though. We got out after 18 months of that racket. It was too fuckin' much." "Well, that's good, I -" "So, tell me, Ms. Bergquist, did you like New York? Did it meet all of your expectations?" "Well, it wasn't like you...your...well, they drove us around in a Pokemon car...it was a Volkswagen..." "I bet it was real nice. They put you up in a nice place?" "I think it was the Milford Plaza". "Ooooh! Very nice! Nothing like messing up quality sheets is there, you Pokemon slut?" "What?" "You heard me, you cunt! I said I bet you fucked that husband of yours real good during your little Pokemon dream vacation, huh? I mean, after all, you've been fucking his paycheck to feed those brats all this Jap crap, haven't you? Or no, let me guess: you wouldn't fuck him at all because YOU decided it was a vacation for the KIDS. Hell, I bet you ain't fucked him in MONTHS, ain't that right?" "I think you should LEAVE!" "DON'T RAISE YOUR VOICE TO ME, BITCH!" (That's when I make first contact -- with a bitch-slap! It makes me almost semi-hard when I see her lip almost fly off her mouth and her hair whip violently into her face. She crumbles onto the floor like the fat, weak blob she is, unable to scream from the immediacy of her terror. I straddle her ball-shaped form on the carpet and begin speaking to her in soft tones). "You know what, Diane? I think you've been a bad girl. You've wasted good money on trash. You're hardly worth fucking, but you squander your man's money on shit. It's no wonder he's fucking that girl in the mail room, eh? Yeah, you've been bad. But instead of getting punished for spending thousands on that Pokemon crap, you got goddamn REWARDED, didn't you? Don't you think that needs fixing?" "Please...don't..." "Don't what? Rape you? Kill you? Kill your brats? Let me tell you, your kids are fucked already! They don't need me to fuck them up. What they do need, though, is a mother who knows her place and knows how to teach her kids the value of goddamn humility, don't you think?" "Please...don't..." "SHUT UP!" (At this point, I'm brusquely ripping the belt off my slacks, the muscles in my forearms bulging. With one move I pop open my button and zipper and let my now-fully erect cock spring forth.) "Suck on it, bitch! DO IT!" (With blood trickling down the corner of her mouth, the vacant cow regards the member with revulsion, choking back vomit from fear and disgust. It takes my raised hand to get her to approach my cock with her trembling lips. After even more hesitation, she opens up just wide enough to allow the glans entry. I wag a finger in her face). "I feel one NIP and you and your kids are DEAD, bitch! You hear me? DEAD!" (She shuts her eyes and nods an affirmation as I force my cock deeper into her throat. I place a boxcutter against her throat, allowing the edge to barely skim her skin as she attempts to recoil from the organ in her mouth. She trains quickly, and starts taking in my cock like a pro). "See? I knew you could learn. OoOoOoOohh. That's it...suck on that fucker...mmmmmm..." (Tears start streaming down her face.) "Oh, you'll be crying alright. You'll be crying when you meet my three ghosts. You know what I'm talkin' about bitch? The three ghosts? You ever read Dickens? A Christmas Carol? Huh?" "Glurg...I...uh..." "SHUT UP AND SUCK ON IT! Stupid bitch! Now, where was I...oh yeah...you know what you are, Diane? You're Scrooge. And I'm the ghost of Jacob Marley. And that thing in your mouth? That's the ghost of Christmas Past...mMmMmMmM....feels good....hmmmmmm..." (I shove my cock in to the hilt. She gags, and pulls away. It takes the boxcutter to guide her back to her work.) "Ohh, that's it. Just DO IT. That's right...hmmmmm... So anyway, this is the ghost of Christmas Past. See your childhood, Diane? That's you, riding on your Daddy's knee. He took care of you, didn't he? Never a spanking, never a harsh word. Big allowance. Paid for anything that struck your fancy. Flashy car on your 16th birthday. Trips to Hawaii. It was bliss. You couldn't even see the damage, could you? I SAID SUCK ON IT, BITCH!" (My cock is now throbbing. The excitement is getting through to my brain. Fearful I might cum too soon, I glance at her lumpy body. The short burst of disgust buys me at least five minutes.) "You had everything you ever wanted. What you didn't have, however, was one little fucking clue about the value of money and the importance of humility. It was all a whitebread fairy ride for you - ponies, Barbies, daydream boys and suburban security. You never knew want or pain. You never understood your connection to the dirt. Absorbed by the goddamn TV, you never knew the blood bond of true comraderie and the dignity of work. Everything was cliques and fast food. Ya vain little bitch!" (The blubbering had begun. I couldn't count on her undisciplined mouth to do the job anymore. I was starting to dig into her brain, and I couldn't rely on her increasingly unstable state of mind. So I forced her onto her stomach, ripped the overly tight jeans off her doughy thighs, and leapt onto her ass. Using only the spit from her fat mouth for lube, I forced my hard prick up her stinky, hairy butthole. As she shrieked in agony, I warmed myself, counting every successive ring of tensed sphincter muscle that tried vainly to disgorge me.) "The ghost of Christmas Present, bitch! AaAaAaAahhh...there's a present for ya! OoOoOohhHhhHhh...that feels GOOD! Take it! TAKE IT! TAKE IT YOU BITCH!!!! "Oh, yeah, where was I...mMmMmMmMmmmm....oh yeah. Here it is, Christmas time. All your shiny TV dreams come true. You corralled an innocent man into your shallowness, you squirted out a couple replicants to reflect your vanity, then fed your sick compulsion to fill your life with clean, happy shiny images gleaned from pop culture. Oh, yeah. You're a real fuckin' drone all right!" (I'm pulling out blood with every stroke up her ass now. She's bitten her lip clean through. I have to pull her hips back onto my cock on each upstroke because she won't meet me halfway. Lazy bitch...) "You latched onto Pokemon because you KNEW the marketers would create a nearly bottomless pit in which you could indulge your desire to have the greenest plastic grass. In your twisted sprint to see how many worthless baubles you could suck from your husband's labor, you taught your kids that hard work and saving is worthless while credit spending and obeying corporate consumption demands are paramount. You can already taste the shallowness of your children's blood! They lay in their beds every night, dreaming not of fantastic lands and sexual conquests, but of sports figures and plastic toys! They are not just skewed, but damn well converted...I don't think even Marilyn Manson can save those brats now..." (As I finish up my little diatribe, I begin thrusting harder into her ass, letting the copious blood flow lubricate the hole. My cock is now rock hard, veins popping, tip throbbing, ready to explode. I reach forward with both hands and grab her hair. I pull her back sharply like the reins of a runaway horse, crushing her flabby ass cheeks into my belly, then blow a hot wad deep up her defeated asspipe. With each throb of my ejaculating cock, I yank violently on her hair... she whines like a dog, squeaking for mercy. I talk breathlessly into her ear...) "Well, there you have it. You see those children beneath my ...my...balls? They are named Ignorance and Egotism. They were fed by you, and now starve in my loins. I just shot their vomit up your ass. What do you suppose I could feed them to soothe their hunger? A library card? The collected works of Dickens? A Cole Porter album? What can YOU do to give them what they need? Hmmmm" (I pull out from her ass, and wipe the blood off my dick, into my right palm, then slap her chin forcefully and grip it between my fingers, smooshing her face and stain her make-up with her own shit-tinged blood. I robotically tug her face to meet mine, then speak to her through clenched teeth.) "I know something you can do! You can save them, and save your own children, by removing the impediment to their progress. You can do the selfless thing for once, and give your fucking life. Whaddaya say? Huh Diane? Time to give back, don't you think? Stupid CUNT!" (Her head tries to shiver a 'no', but I force a nod of assent with my tensed hand on her chin.) "That's a good girl! Giving selflessly for the good of others. Well, then, I guess it's time to meet the Ghost of Christmas Future, don't you think? Yes? Yes?" (With one swift movement, I bring a hot soldering gun up to her face with my left hand. Trembling just a bit, I keep my trigger finger tight on the handle, then drive the searing-hot rod directly into her right eye. Both her arms flail up to stop me, but it's too late: the Weller goes in to the hilt, and starts hissing away. She screams in mortal agony and begins flopping and writhing on the carpet, spewing blood in a semi-arc across the floor. I reach down to pull the plug on the iron so it won't get dislodged by her thrashing. The odor of blood and seared flesh makes me almost gag. She manages to pull the iron halfway back out her skull, but dies in the process, frozen in a contorted mockery of modern dance. The iron still sizzles quietly as the tangible air of Death sweeps across the room. She is no more.) "Well, there you go, Diane. There's your future. Merry Christmas. I hope you got lots and lots of presents this year." "Bitch!" (I put together my tools, then leave a receipt copy for the husband: NO CHARGE.) - TR "No future; no future; no future for you." - Sex Pistols ------------------------------ From hys.grace@iballscalltoarms.com Wed Jan 12 22:16:41 2000 From: "Duke Henry" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Official A.T. Awards Ballot Date: Thu, 13 Jan 2000 06:16:41 -0000 Organization: Call to Arms Lines: 170 Message-ID: <85jtgs$2s$1@supernews.com> References: <38783efd.460556176@news.seanet.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 195.112.47.47 X-Trace: 947747164 BDX3OI3ON2F2FC370C uk21.supernews.com X-Complaints-To: newsabuse@remarq.com X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2919.6600 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2919.6600 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newspump.monmouth.com!newspeer.monmouth.com!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!remarQ70!remarQ.com!supernews.com!remarQ69!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:192559 "Steve" wrote in message news:38783efd.460556176@news.seanet.com... > On Fri, 07 Jan 2000 21:17:03 -0600, blaque@my-deja.com (Jonathan Blaque) wrote: > > [Requoting the whole AT ballot sheet to add...] > Nothing. There is always one clueless fuckwit who can't work out the difference between Usenet and Email and I'm to tired to work myself into a frothing rage to flay the skin off his worthless back. OTOH at the moment I can't be bothered either. ObstuffingtheballoT: I haven't been grossed out by anything I have seen or read on AT for the last 3-4 years now, but last year Vommy managed to pull a few feelings which I thought had long since shrivelled away. Not once, not twice but three times. I actually felt _pity_ for him. What a ghastly admission! It's true though. I actually felt a twang of heart-tugging pity. I thought I was to dark hearted but nope, pity it was. First, he trumps Legless's post about his wife's miscarriage with the dreadful hint about the death in infancy of his one of his own. Second, he trumps docfarquar with just about the most gutting tale of desparate sorid romance that I have ever read. Docfarquar is a damn good writer and to step a post over him is tough work at the best of times but that post did it. I read it and finished a glass of mead in one gulp. I paused starring into the darkness beyond the glare of the screen and saw clearly into a soul so racked and twisted yet I understood why. Was that a hint of moistness in the eye or was it the mead? I don't want to know. A third? Yes, a third. I publish a magazine, all my own work and I'm damn proud of it. A sleek colour fronted directory blended with my own warped humour and as much of the tasteless side as I dare make public. At the end of the year, I had to start work on it. Selling the advertising space. I was never a born salesman and being English and therefore generally modest and reserved, I set out to ring round the Trade contacts to sell the space. I have never felt more cheap in my life. I now know with fellow feeling, how the whores working the streets feel. The dreadful realisation by the high school cheerleader that she is out of cash, credit and cocaine all at the same time. The unavoidable demand for the high looks back at her as she sits naked in front the mirror. She looks down at the attractive form of the only asset worth selling. The cold fear and knowledge of the dangers of this sort of employment are kept away by a burst of childish enthusisasm. Carefree for a moment, her mind focused on the result of cash for her habit and glossing over the "what has to be done to get it", she digs out a miniskirt to daring for most parties, overcoat, high heels and nothing more else than lipstick and steps out the door. What then? How do you hook a client? She tries a few smiles and a few cliche "Fancy a good time?" type lines which even as she says them sound false and hallow. She is brushed past or scowled at with an "Outta my way slut." and a few harsher brush offs. Now she begins to worry. Why don't men, who normally drool over her, suddenly want to avoid her, reject her, hate her? What she is usually pestered for by all, is spurned the moment she tries to offer it. Thus it is that when the reply is "Sure. How much is a blow job?" she is taken completely by suprise and is lost for words. She smiles weakly and nerverously mumbles "Oh, a tenner?". Down a side alley, behind some waste bins, she unzips his jeans and after a quick series of jerks gets a load of hot jizz shot into her mouth. Her first "client" fumbles a note into her hand and briskly walks off with a parting thanks. She is strangely elated, and with a taste in her mouth no worse and perhaps better than she gets sucking off the jocks after the ball game, she steps out just that bit more confident. Half an hour later, and being able to shrug off the rejections, she has a leering individual with foul, beer reeking breath wanting a fuck. Now slightly scared, she holds her breath and asks for forty. He drools "All ah got in me pocket is thirty." she sighs inwardly and after a few minutes of fumbling the rubber onto a barely stiff penis, being groped and her tits squeezed in filthy hands, he gasps a blast of fetid air in her face. "Bitch." he curses as he crushes the notes into her hand. Sore and hurt, she stares blankly at him as he shuffles off up the alleyway. She feels sick and retches hard behind the bins, if only to try and purge the disgust in herself at what she has just done and the acidic taste of fresh vomit sweeps away the lingering taste of the silicon rubber. Next she holds out for fifty for an arse-fuck, her mark swears at her and walks off. Now doubt clouds in. Should she have settled for the thirty offered? Would she have endured the pain from the ripping of her tight arsehole which she knew she would have got. Dispite their pleas, she had never yielded this to any except her ex-lover as a birthday treat once. She is standing glumly thinking about the lost income and cursing her stupidity at "over-valuing" herself whilst inwardly relieved at the narrow escape her arse has had and inwardly resolving herself that "she was worth what she gave". It is therefore a shock when, unapproached, a smart man says to her "A hundred if you've got a place?" Words fail her. "Er... yes - no - I've a quiet place - if you don't mind? Just near?" Confused and suprised at her sudden good fortune, she leads him back to her spot behind the bins, forgetting in her hurry of her previous gut reaction and the fresh smell of violent regurgitation which lingers there. She gazes up at him, unbuttons her coat and smiling her best cheerleader smile, holds wide the coat, lets him gaze at her breasts, the hardening nipples and murmurs as coyly as she can "What can I do for yo OOOOOOOOOhhhhhhhhh!". Her romantic suggestion cut off as a fist slams into her stomach, she folds forward into him and is dashed across the back of the head by his other head, catching her by the hair, he punches her in the mouth and slings her back over the bins. A endless moment of black unconsciousness and she returns to her body being violated, a intruding pressure in her anal passage, re-doubled into tearing agony with a repeated thrust each second. The thrusts stop and the sky above her seems strangely bright and blue. She is dimly aware of being lifted back upto her feet by the edges of her coat, and finds herself wobbling on her legs like a half-set jelly. She is slammed back into the wall by a stinging slap across the face, twists and collapses. Through sobs and flashes of red pain, she is sure she hears him say "Now - Mother..." as she sees a shit-covered condom fall onto the ground beside her. Then he is hauling her to her knees, half by the neck of her coat and half by a fist full of her hair. Held face upwards by her ears, she stares dazed up at him, the cum-covered end of his penis bobbling in front her face, then is suddenly blinded by the hot gush of piss which hits her square in the eyes. Finished, he drops her to the ground and for a moment regards the wretched creature lying sobbing and choking on a fresh gout of chunder. She cringes like a dog waiting for the next blow from the stick of a heartless master. In a casual yet business-like manner, he pulls out a bundle of notes from his pocket and drops them in front of her. Bewildered and amazed that he hadn't instead produced a knife and stabbed her, she gingerly picks up the discarded offering. "Th - Thank -cs." She says, the words trembling past her blood splattered lips, as without a word he turns and leaves. The shock hits and she feels the warm dribble of her own piss running out between her legs. Later, and she is sitting red-eyed on her bed, the piss-soaked and chunder-smeared coat dumped ruined in the hall, the smell of the alleyway perfuming her. Though the tangled hair, half fallen over her eyes, she shivers and twitches as the alternate throbs of pain swell from her stomach, anus and face, turning the notes over in her hand, she stares dumbly at the blooded and bruised creature staring back at her from the mirror. And knows she must do it again tomorrow. ... And so do I. Yet, as I hang up the phone from another wasted phone call to a company to big to be interested in some small piffling publication, which obviously wasn't worth their time to even think about, I am left with a single thought. "To think that poor advertising bastard does this every day of the bloody week..." and for a moment stare once more into the roaring silence, the blinding brightness of the black void, the endless well of despairing emptiness of a humanity long since lost - that is known to us simply as Jonathon Blaque. Votes emailed to at_awards@yahoo.com, accordingly. -- Cheers! His Grace, Duke Henry Plantagenet "Call to Arms" - The Historical Re-enactment Directory If you want to email me - please remove the eyeballs first "If you feel a skeptic's call for demonstration is "sullying", you might consider trying to piss up a rope; failing that, you might consider the level of intellect required to accept as valid that which cannot be demonstrated. Is it too late to get your money back?" - Tom Stovall AFA Journeyman Farrier flaming a loser in rec.equestrian. ------------------------------ From labrat@pacbell.net Fri Jan 14 13:16:49 2000 Message-ID: <387F9241.4389@pacbell.net> From: Rat & Swan Reply-To: labrat@pacbell.net Organization: Psi Corps X-Mailer: Mozilla 3.01C-PBWG (Win95; U) MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Cute little pups References: <387bf745.2153305@news1.attglobal.net> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 136 Date: Fri, 14 Jan 2000 13:16:49 -0800 NNTP-Posting-Host: 206.170.4.150 X-Complaints-To: abuse@pacbell.net X-Trace: nnrp1-w.snfc21.pbi.net 947884689 206.170.4.150 (Fri, 14 Jan 2000 13:18:09 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 14 Jan 2000 13:18:09 PST Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!cyclone.swbell.net!nnrp1-w.snfc21.pbi.net.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:192712 new age neppie wrote: > Is it really that important for the dogs and cats to be *that* fresh??? I > mean, cows are killed and then frozen or refrigerated. I'm not saying the > way they kill cows is any more humane, but it's not nearly as grisly, IMO. Fuhgeddaboudit! Cows are often still alive, TOO. You want some really tasteless stuff, try askin' meat and poultry inspectors about line speeds and personnel on the killing floors of slaughterhouses! There are books out about this and they are truly dizzguzzzzting. First off, as big meatpackers have bought out the smaller companies, production gets funnelled into bigger and faster plants with faster lines. Let's follow Bossy from her sunlit meadow into the Belly Of The Beast, shall we? First off, Bossy may never have seen that fuckin' meadow. Chances are, she's been factory farmed along with Turkey Lurkey, Chicken Little and Porky Pig in filthy enclosures where she is crammed with many others, too corwded to turn around, standing hock deep in her own wastes. Say she's a dairy cow. she's had several forced pregnancies to keep her in milk, she's been injected with antibiotics, hormones and other shit, maybe had an abscess from her huge overgrown udder (which can often be low enough that she steps on it!) and the milk from that abscessed, diseased bag gets run in with all the REST of the milk, spreading toxins out through the entire batch. Yummmmm. So one day, Clover, or Bossy... or more likely, #357682, gives birth to her last vealcalf, delivers her last drop of infected milk, what to do with her? It's off to the plant with her! Crammed onto a truck and/or a train with hundreds of other bovines, she will be lucky to make it to the slaughtering plant alive and uninjured. At the slaughterhouse gate, let's say that poor old Bossy has Fallen and She Can't Get Up. She becomes what's known as a "Downer" and even possibly "Four D" which stands for Diseased, Downed, Dying or Dead. She *ought* to go for petfood, shouldn't she? Hah! Not at the new modern meatplant, folks! They will try to get her to her feet by inserting a cattle prod up her rectum and firing it off in her bowels! If she has a fracture, that bone will wrench right through the skin and they'll fasten grapples to it and haul her along with chains. Failing that, she will be hoisted, with hooks through her throat or up her anus, or maybe bulldozed forward to the gate. Quick! Before the lone inspector can notice. If they DO notice, she's tagged as petfood grade and left until dark.... when they take off the tag and run her through the human line ANYWAY! Bossy at the Gate. The first kindly human Bossy meets, on her hooves or off them, is the stunner. The stunner uses a captive bold gun to "stun" Bossy. Since he has to do this to maybe twenty, thirty cows a minute, that gives him two seconds to "hit her square". Supposedly, the captive bolt gun is new, has full air pressure, and is wieldied by an expert who knows the *exact * spot to kill. Again, Hah! Maybe he'll hit her square on, maybe not. If she throws up her head, tries to turn, he may get her side , neck, throat, muzzle... the gun may be powerful enough to tear her nose off, gouge a bloody hole, or not, if it's old and the power turned down to save energy. If Bossy manages to get free, she will bolt around the floor, an eye maybe burst by the bolt, or bleeding profusely from a shattered jaw. Then all Hell breaks loose. Someone with a rifle has to come and kill her. But5 say, she IS stunned like the Good Book (the FDA guidelines) says. Her next trip is to the Hooker. The Hooker will fasten a chain, or maybe run a hook around one back leg. if he's quick and she's stunned properly, this is fine. If she's still struggling, things can get fun. In that tiny, cramped area, her hooves will be flying all over. Remember that, Class. She can hook him with one of those flailing appendages, bash in his skull, stave in a few ribs... GO, Bossy!! Anyway, there she hangs, stunned or not. Next comes the fun part. the next guy on the line is the Sticker. He has to plunge a sharp thin knife into her jugular and let her bleed out as she dangles there on the line. If she is really struggling, the sticker may just say "Ahhh, ta HELL ewith it! and back off, allowing Bossy to go on down the line, alive. Now, Fringies, think for a moment. You are grazing peacefully amid the dasies and butterflies, and suddenly you find yourself hauled around, trucked here and there, shocked, dragged, poked, hung up by a hock and your throat slashed. What Would JESUS Do? Or you? Hell, YES, you would absolutely SHIT! and Shit she DOES! Several gallons of urine, feces and blood come belching out of the back (actually, since she's hanging by a hock, UPPER) end of Bossy! Where does it go? No ... let's not see all the same hands in the air... RIIIGHT! The crap, blood and piss come cascading down around her body. And there, Kiddies, seconds later, the BEST part of the show happens! The Cutter. The cutter takes a huge knife and slashed from Bossy's udder right down to her throat. Maybe she's good and dead, maybe not. And ALL that lovely feces comes rolling RIGHT down INTO her steaming insides! WHEEEE, I told you this would be fun! By now, we may hope that poor Bossy has mercifully gone into shock. After this slash, she is skinned alive, sprayed with live steam, to "clean" the shit off her (at twenty or more animals a minute, two seconds max to wash her off, you can just GUESS how "kissing sweet" old Bossy IS) she is quartered and inspected. Federal inspectorse must inspect several lines at once. That puts inspection time at around four or five cows a second. In his copious liesure time, the inspector has to examine the inside, outside, mark for stains, signs of disease, send a carcass back to be cleaned, or condemn the hulk to the petfood lines. Since the pressure on him, from the plant is IMMENSE, NOT to condemn carcasses, he lets a lot of them pass with a "promise" from plant employees, that the shit'll be cleaned off before they go to freezer... HONEST! Condemned meat goes to a special area where it is sprayed with charcoal to keep it from being mistaken for human quality meat. Uh huh. Then, at night, the plant personnel wil have a "Second run" where all the concemned carcasses get put BACK on the freezerline to save the plant money. NOW do you wonder why the government has so many warning labels and why meat seems to be more dangerous lately? Right! Chickens, hogs, other edible animals get the same treatment, with minor differences in technique. Chickens, for instance, are washed in a boiling vat of watter... and chicken shit, feathers, skin, pus from tubercles, bacteria and other fun stuff. If ONE infected bird goes in, the whole LOT, bathed in the same vat, gets contaminated. And THAT, kiddies, is why so MUCH chicken is not infected with Salmonella! Chances, now are virtually 100% that your raw bird will test positive for Salmonella. Don't take MY word for it... check it out yourself! Anyway, with plant pressure to speed the lines up even faster, what of the "loyal" staff? Can they take a bathroom break? Not with several hundred Bossies whizzing past on a line that never stops! What to do, oh Lawzy, what to do when the old bladder gets full?! That's what the blood channel is for! The plant workers drop trou and piss, shit, hawk phlegm, right onto the floor along with the blood, guts, entrails and pus and feces. Of course... a cow can weight over 300-500 pounds. that's a lotta MEAT on one small hook or chain. Sometimes a carcass works itself loose from that hook and SPLAT! down on the floor with the shit and blood! No problem... just re-hang it and off it goes... with extra protein, For Your Dinner Table! YUMMMM> Let's all break for lunch, OK? Swan Some day I'll tell you about hamburger and gelatin. ------------------------------ From drcjm@nanip.biochem.monash.edu.au Fri Jan 14 16:18:46 2000 From: Doc CJM Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The inside of a cow. Date: Fri, 14 Jan 2000 16:18:46 -0800 Organization: Mad Scientists for a Better Tomorrow Lines: 182 Distribution: world Message-ID: <387FBCE6.5B09D0F0@nanip.biochem.monash.edu.au> NNTP-Posting-Host: pinan.biochem.monash.edu.au Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Trace: towncrier.cc.monash.edu.au 947826609 4140 130.194.193.134 (14 Jan 2000 05:10:09 GMT) X-Complaints-To: abuse@monash.edu.au NNTP-Posting-Date: 14 Jan 2000 05:10:09 GMT X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.51C-SGI [en] (X11; I; IRIX 6.5 IP32) X-Accept-Language: en Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!news.idt.net!enews.sgi.com!harbinger.cc.monash.edu.au!towncrier.cc.monash.edu.au!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:192665 A little story of my first visit to an Abbatoir. Or "How I tasted *very* young veal." Some years ago I was a fresh-faced young student in the final year of my undergraduate studies at University. This year of the degree was, primarily, a research project based in the Biochemistry department. The area that I was studying was the structure of the crystallins, a family of proteins found in the lens of the eye. The reason these proteins are interesting is that they are produced before birth and remain in the lens, unreplaced or repaired, until death and subsequent decay/burning/consumption etc. So they have to be extremely stable - if they stuff up you get lovely cloudy deposits in what should've been nice clear lens. Cataracts. While we did work with human eyes when we could get them from the local hospital, most of the time we worked with cow eyes as they were readily available from any abbatoir. As part of this research we were looking at crystallins from as early as possible in their production. This required collecting eye-balls from young cows. Very young cows. Unborn cows. You see, when the farmers ship their cattle off to be slaughtered here in Australia, they don't usually bother checking if any of them happen to have been knocked up while out on the farm. If it's time to sell them, then off they go. Subsequently a significant percentage of cattle are slaughtered with calves in utero. Not being ones to waste an opportunity, the abbatoir owners use these unborn calves from a lucrative side-line, which I shall explain momentarily. So early one Monday morning, two PhD students from the lab and your humble narrator rolled up to the abbatoir in lovely Altona, a suburb of Melbourne here in Australia that is not exactly reknowned for its real estate values. Getting out of the departmental van, wearing our neat white lab coats, carrying big buckets to fill with eyes and a variety of scalpels and scissors to help remove them, the odour of a meatworks doing its morning slaughtering highlighted the reason why houses in the area were so cheap. I leave it to your imagination, but picture it, hundreds of cattle, sheep and pigs were being herded from the tight confines of the transports into cramped yards, then through to the killing room. The air was redolent with the smells of animal fear, shit, sweat, blood,and parboiled meat (from the bristle removing operation). Add to this is it was a pleasant summer's day, around 20 celsius, with the promise of reaching the low 30s by lunchtime. We troop in to the office, and are taken from there to the main processing room, where the cattle arrive immediately after being killed. It's a huge assembly line - or should that be *dis*assembly line? Anyway, the cattle come in from a door in the far left corner, hanging by their left back leg from a hook on an overhead conveyor. As the bodies move slowly round the room, the abbatoir workers swarm over them, knives glinting in the fluorescent light, and take them to pieces. Firstly, the cattle are disembowled. This is the point where a somewhat belated pregnancy test occurs. Is the womb swollen and can I feel a calf in there? If so, the uterus is immediately separated and dumped down a chute. The rest of the contents go down a second chute after kidneys and so on that have value as offal are removed. (I guess that occasionally they keep tripe too, but not when we were there.) The heads are then removed and put on to a second conveyor of hooks that moves off in a different direction. The removal is done with a single flick of the workers knives - DON'T piss off an abbatoir worker, their knives are *really* sharp and they know how to slip between vertebrae without even slowing down. The headless carcasses then reach the lads with the chain saws, who slice them in half. But back to the heads. They are skinned and the cheeks and tounges removed to be sold as... cheeks and tounges. We stationed ourselves here for a while, plucking eyeballs as they came past. Once the workers realised what we wanted they helped - and their knives did a much neater job than our fumbling around with scalpels and scissors. Recall that maybe two minutes ago, these cattle were lowing out back, so they're still at a lovely body temperature. About 20 minutes gave us two buckets of cows eyes - they're rather big. So at this point we moved on to the place that really had me intruiged. The foetus room. And yes, that's what it said on the door. Here, the mystery of what they do with foetal calves that makes them a quick buck on the side was revealed. No, they don't slice them up and sell them as young veal. Guess they could though! What happens is that the chute from the room upstairs comes down to a large steel table. Here a couple of neanderthal workers sit, waiting. When the womb hits the table they slice it open, pull out the calf and place it under a small, automatic trip hammer. The dangling end of the umbilical cord is draped into a bucket, and the hammer rapidly whacks the calf on the abdomen. The juices that ooze out are collected, bottled, carefully sterilised and sold to scientists as Foetal Calf Serum (FCS), a near essential component of several tissue culture solutions due to all the growth factors and things it contains. I'd often wondered where it came from, and now I knew. The empty wombs and drained foetal calves are then thrown in to a big channel, with a rotating screw that lifts all the remains up in to a huge grinder. The various bits that get chucked down the other chute upstairs come down in to the same grinder, where they are all blended up to become blood and bone for fertilising peoples gardens. (All this bollocks about native people utilising an entire animal while we are so wasteful. What a wank, *nothing* of these cattle was rubbish, it was all used up.) So picture the room. Fairly small, but with a very high ceiling. Not brilliantly lit. Huge industrial grinding vat in one corner, with an open chute coming down through roof bringing all sorts of intestines and other bits in for processing. Another chute with a big steel screw slowly turning, slurping up ex-calves and empty wombs to join the rest of the former cow being converted into garden fertiliser. Deep machine and grinding noise coming from the vat, with the occasional series of thuds as a uterus bounces down the chute. We take up positions at the table, the idea being we grab the calves before they go under the hammer, and pull out their eyes. Again, these calves were happily growing in the mummy-cow's tummies not five minutes ago. They range in size from mishappen lumps smaller than a hand, to fully formed little cows that probably survived if they'd been born that day, rather than processed into FCS, eyeballs and blood and bone. After ten or fifteen minutes pulling eyeballs (only one or two arrive per minute, as there aren't *that* many pregnant cows), the grinder makes a strange clunking sound and stops. A bit of swearing and cursing from the workers, a quick phone call, a visit from some bloke with a box of tools, and we're told that the grinder has jammed. But, of course, the slaughter has to continue. The chutes start backing up with bits; intestines are dangling over our heads, dripping the occasional drip of nameless goop. As we continue to receive wombs via our chute, but the screw has been turned off in the removal channel, we start to build up a nice collection of dead foetus bits, inverted uteri and a nice, ankle deep puddle of amniotic fluid. What an experience - but it got better. I was standing in front of the table, waiting for the next uterus for processing. The now-familiar thudding noise of a bouncing uterus started to echo down the chute and I stepped forward, knife ready to slice and dice. Now your average uterus is a rather muscular organ, and fairly tough. So it was with some suprise that I was drenched from head to foot in a sudden spray of amniotic fluid, as the uterus hit the table in front of me and ruptured. Lab coats are not designed to prevent you getting wet when several litres of amniotic fluid hits you full on. I was soaked to the skin, hair dripping on to my shoulders, shoes (which were already sploshing around in a layer of cow innards) now full. I guess the middle of my back might have been dry, as the wave hit me from the front. Oh, and in case you were wondering. Not much flavour really - slightly salty. Bit like mild blood. For some reason, the abbatoir lads found this hysterically funny. Not quite roll on the ground funny, due to the condition of the ground, but side splitting anyway. When we finally collected enough baby-eyes we returned to University. Amniotic fluid is rather inoffensive, being sterile and having virtually no smell or taste, but it was only 8.30 in the morning and I had the rest of the day to sit around working, damp through every layer of clothing. And as the day wore on the inoffensive fresh fluid would undoubtedly suffer the ravages of environmental exposure on a warm summer's day to become something less desireable. Fortunately I had some sport's stuff with me so I showered and spent the day in my gym gear, rinsing my normal clothes and letting the air-dry. Of course, I changed in to them again for the trip home on the train. Wouldn't want anyone I didn't have to work with to miss out on any odour that had developed during the day. The dog thought I was rather special when I got home. PS: Yes I've been back, but not to the foetus room. The other trips have been to scrape the intestinal mucosa out of pig guts to look for growth factors... -- Doctor CJ Reverse 'nanip' to email. "Human brains were collected as described previously" -My favourite line in a Scientific journal. ------------------------------ From ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com Fri Jan 14 19:22:52 2000 From: ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com (JustmeĻ) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: alligator recipes Date: Fri, 14 Jan 2000 22:22:52 -0500 Organization: Miss Manners School of Proper Posting Lines: 185 Message-ID: References: <387BAC69.592A20ED@monmouth.com> <387BD7AF.12417F3B@monmouth.com> <387CCF5C.28B1B912@monmouth.com> <85j7uq$j55$1@nntp4.atl.mindspring.net> <87vh4y924h.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <387D47AA.1C374091@erols.com> <85l2f20v7o@news2.newsguy.com> <387E845F.71A9C2D9@erols.com> <85n4fh$v10$1@nntp3.atl.mindspring.net> <87wvpc8w1k.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: p-006.newsdawg.com X-Newsreader: Anawave Gravity v2.00 X-no-archive: yes X-Ginny: unforgettable X-Ordination: Universal Life Church X-Reverend: Reverend Ginny Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newsfeed.yosemite.net!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!pln-w!spln!extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!news2 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:192752 I saw this stuff written by worley@dworley.ne.mediaone.net in article <87wvpc8w1k.fsf@blob.ariadne.com>, and like, I just HAD to answer, ya know?: > alraune@ix.netcom.com(Alraune) writes: > > I never got to see the sign. Maybe they took it down before Oprah did > > her show live from Forsyth and was met with a phalanx of clansmen and > > housewives. They carried signs with "Go Home, Nigger" and such. > > I didn't know we had places in this country that were *that* primitive > still. ~~wavy flashback lines~~~ In September 1982, I had the good fortune to work the Arkansas State Fair & Rodeo, in Pine Bluff. In fact, that was the spot that I got married on the roller coaster, but that's a non-tasteless tale for another day. I was but a lass of 18, born and raised in New Jersey, where Things are Different. I was completely unprepared for the deep South. The roller coaster arrived a full week before the rest of the show would arrive, and the menfolk that worked the coaster--all of them, including the fellow I married--had to head over to Oklahoma City and slap together a coaster over there in order to earn their pay for the week. So, the ladies--me and two other "old ladies"--were left alone on a field next to the rodeo arena, with the track loads and jackstand load for the coaster, and the trailer known as the bunkhouse. Our menfolk left us each with some cash for food, and went off. I was left with $30, which was enough to eat with for about a week and a half back then, and do laundry. Girl #2 was left with $20. Girl #3--who apparently was prized by her old man--was left with a whopping $2.50. Our first day alone in that field was a long one. The sun was high, the heat unbearable. We climbed the fence (rather than go all the way around to the gate) and went to the diner, got cold drinks, then ran back and shimmied up the jackstand load to sunbathe. The police came quickly. Andy Griffith, I believe, was the sherrif then. He had one hell of a drawl, and after questioning us at length (from the ground, we didn't bother to get off the jackstand load) he cautioned us to be careful `round these parts, and promised that he'd send boys `round to check in on us from time to time, to make sure we stayed nice and safe. He sent one boy. His son. He came by at least twice a day that week, sitting on the hood of his car and watched us as we sunbathed on the jackstand load, bringing us sodas and basically praying to get laid. We decided to do laundry that day, and that's when we realized that things were different in the South. We called for a cab shortly after Opie left for the day. We didn't know that the arena was in the racially neutral part of town, and that there was such a thing as "black" cab companies and "white" cab companies, who had the unspoken custom of only going to their part of town. So, when the black guy showed up in his cab and we hopped in with our laundry, he seemed a bit disturbed. We didn't understand why, and demanded that he take us to a laundromat. "uh-uh-okay, yas'm;" he nodded, and took us to the black laundromat. We still were pretty much oblivious to the fact that we were at a "black" anything. We began doing our laundry. As the clothes washed, we noticed that people were staring at us. Women were giving us evil looks. Men were leering. They almost seemed to be slowing *closing in* on us; so we decided to grab our stuff when the washer load stopped, and take the wet clothes back to the lot with us. We'd hang them out to dry on the jackstand load. We called the same cab company that dropped us off; he refused to come back and pick us up. We started calling other cab companies, but they refused to come to "that" part of town to get us; if we were in "that" part of town, we needed to call the cab company that had just refused to pick us up. We were screwed. The three of us were starting to get very nervous, standing out there at the side of the road with bags of wet clothes. We knew better than to go back into the laundromat--by that time, the people in there were crammed into the doorway, looking downright pissed at us--and there was no one who would come and pick us up. We almost longed to see Opie's shining face to rescue us. Just as we were starting to panic, a car pulled up, with a little blond driving. "What on Earth are you ladies doing heah?" she smiled, with a little concern. "We're trying to call a cab to get us back to the arena, and--" "Oh, you're _never_ going to get a ride there, come on, I'll drive you there. Hop on in!" And before we knew it, we were on our way back to our field. Our ride told us to be very careful when calling cabs and asking to go too far from the lot, because we were unfamiliar with the territory. She gave us the name of a laundromat in a "good area," and then left. Opie returned to check in on us after dinner, and brought a couple of friends with him. We bullshit for a bit, and then closed and locked the door on the bunkhouse so they couldn't come in; they seemed a bit randy that night. *** Ch-CLICK! "Step back, Boy, or I'ma gonna put a bullet in yore head." That's what woke us up the next day. The sun was streaming into the window of the bunkhouse; and the sounds of activity were all around us. I opened the door a crack and was quite suprised to find shackled prisoners, 100% of them black, clearing the field. They kept busy, stealing furtive glances toward the trailer. The sight of me in my cut-off shorts and tube top caused one to brighten up in a way that I'd never seen before and frankly, never saw again. He was the one that had come too close to the trailer. "Ma'am, I'm gonna have to ask you to step back into the trailer, *now*. We'll be done shortly, and it wouldn't be very wise of you to come out until we're gone." The cop was a caricature of a cop, right down to the mirrored sunglasses. I closed and locked the door; the ladies peered out the window in terror. I wondered what that prisoner was in jail for. *** The rest of week passed uneventfully; we sunbathed on the jackstand load daily, in skimpy outfits and bathing suits. Opie came and gawked whenever he could; we grew a fondness for the beef tips (hot & cheap) at the diner. On Wednesday, we headed over to the Baptist church for the free spaghetti, and on Saturday, the guys came back, ready to put up our roller coaster. By the time they showed up, other rides were beginning to arrive. Three different show converged on one lot, independents arrived by the hour it seemd. Stick joints and food stands sprang up out of nowhere. During this time of a carnival's stay, the spot help usually slowly shows up; they're usually teenagers looking for a fast buck and some exotic drugs, or middle-aged guys who can't find a job locally, or people who for whatever reason want to join up and disappear for a while. Not in Pine Bluff. When it was obvious that the rest of the show finally arrived, black people started showing up in a steady stream looking for work. They would arrive late at night, and wait in line until the sun rose, waiting for the lot bosses to show up. The line stretched out for as far as I could see one morning. There were hundreds of hopefuls in line, milling about, heads down, hands in pockets just hoping for a chance to sell some popcorn or take tickets or do _anything_ for a job. None were white. One of the lucky ones was hired to be my replacement as "Serpentina, the Snake Lady" when I went on break. As Serpentina, I sat in a mirrored box for many hours each day with a blond wig on and a fake snake body stuffed under it, so that it appeared as though I had the head of a woman, the body of a snake, and I was sitting on the table. In the same trailer were real snakes of varying size; during some breaks I walked the midway with one draped over my shoulders. If you went to this freak show in the morning, you saw a white Serpentina; in the afternoon during my piss break, you saw a black one. Both had blond hair. When a snake got loose in the trailer, it was the black Serpentina locked in there with it; you could hear the screaming throughout the lot. The boss let him scream for a while. "Ha!!!! Lissen to that nigger SING!" was really all I remember him saying... *** There were more little things here and there in other spots, like the shootout in Mississipi triggered by the dunking booth clown arriving in blackface and calling himself "Brozo," and the Clan rally right on the lot; but by then, I had pretty much been introduced to the charm of the South. --Ginny "Side note to Hillary: Hey, ya touchy-feely political dyke, I tried your "village" thing. You were wrong. As always. Let the little maggots raise themselves." --Asbestos Dust, Message-ID: <37e6d901.15337311@news.cooke.net> ------------------------------ From blaque@my-deja.com Sat Jan 15 09:33:55 2000 From: blaque@my-deja.com (Jonathan Blaque) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Maid In The USA (Career Profile) Date: Sat, 15 Jan 2000 11:33:55 -0600 Organization: Planet Of The Apes Lines: 167 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: cf.dc.b5.97 X-Server-Date: 15 Jan 2000 16:16:21 GMT X-Newsreader: Yet Another NewsWatcher 2.2.0b4 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newsfeed.yosemite.net!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!diablo.theplanet.net!newsfeed00.sul.t-online.de!t-online.de!newsfeeds.belnet.be!news.belnet.be!news-FFM2.ecrc.net!news.mindspring.net!firehose.mindspring.com!chf-il5-151.ix.netcom.com!user Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:192787 This delightful bit comes from S.R., one of our lurkers. LOS ANGELES -- For Mike Nicholson of Clean Scene Services, nothing beats a good decomp. Shotgun suicides, multiple homi- cides and "pack rat" evictions, they all have their moments, but when that call comes in to sanitize an apartment where the tenant has continued to reside for weeks after death, Nichol- son knows he has found his true vocation. "Decomps are the best for me -- no one else wants to get near them," said the mild-mannered Nicholson, 34, with a smile. "Many people simply cannot handle the smell, it's just too ov- erwhelming. But it's a challenge to get it done, and I like that." Nicholson's labor niche is trauma-scene waste management. Donning protective gear and armed with cutting-edge weapons of disinfection, Nicholson and his team battle the biohazard- ous residue of violent crimes, heinous accidents and hidden deaths that no one else in Los Angeles will touch. There was the case of the man who "dropped in" on his neigh- bor downstairs. As Nicholson recalls, one afternoon an apart- ment dweller felt something dripping down from the ceiling on top of his head. Looking up, he realized there were no pipes or plumbing in that overhead space. He was sure the room in the apartment directly above him was a bedroom. He was also sure he hadn't seen his upstairs neighbor for sev- eral weeks. Something was awry, so he called the sheriff's dep- artment. Deputies came to the building and discovered the mi- ssing neighbor right at home, in bed and very dead. "He had decomposed so badly, he'd leaked right through the floor and into the bedroom downstairs, right onto this guy's head," Nicholson remembered. The officials do their investigation and handle the removal of bodies, but not the residue -- and that's where Clean Scene Services comes in. Since Jan. 1, 1998, it's also been the law in California: If there are large amounts of blood or body fluid at an accident or death scene, the state now requires that "a reg- istered trauma-scene waste management practitioner" such as Nicholson handle the cleanup. As typically happens with a decomp, Nicholson received the call from the property manager, who needed the apartment back on the rental market as soon as possible. Nicholson and his assis- tants came to the scene wearing their work clothes: company T- shirts and paramedic pants, disposable Tyvek protective cover- alls, hepafilter masks, latex gloves and shoe covers. Because the spread of biohazardous fluid had been so wide- spread and corrosive in this instance -- due to the man's huge size and the duration of the decomposition prior to discovery -- they "had to remove the carpet, the plywood flooring and the ceiling from the apartment beneath." Once everything contami- nated by biohazardous residue is removed and disposed of in red bags and special containers, it's time to clean and disinfect. In addition to hands-on scrubbing with hard-core cleansers like Microban and Enviricide, Nicholson uses ULV fogging, air scru- bbers and, for major jobs like this one, an ozone generator, a stand-alone unit that changes contaminants into purified wa- ter vapor and recycles the air. Although Nicholson maintained that "you get used to it," he admitted a decomposing body can be rough: "You might do a decomp and not smell itat the time. Then you take off the mask -- and it's in your hair, your skin, in the hairs of your nose. The odor just permeates everything." Less intense on the nose but often much more difficult are shot- gun death scenes, Nicholson said. "Shotguns are a big mess. They're bad. ... Let's say you shot yourself with one. You might not only be in this room, but also in the other room --I've seen them go into three rooms. They ake 12 or 14 hours sometimes to clean up," "We had one in a major sporting goods store," Nicholson recoun- ted. "The guy didn't have a gun, but he had a shell in his pocket. He went to the gun counter and asked to see one of the shotguns. He put the shell in, and right in front of everyone in the store he blew his head off. He was blown from the gun section into fishing -- all the way through aisles and aisles. Parts of his brain were in shirts way across the store. "When someone is killed with a shotgun, there's stuff everywhere. You take care of the heaviest parts first and then work your way out. There'll be a big pool of blood where the body has dropped. The first thing you do is go to work on the blood pool. You don't really clean it up. What you do is cut around it and package it up, the way the health department requires you to, and dispose of it. Then you disinfect the floor. Depending on how bad it is, sometimes you have to sand it down." Clean Scene often gets called in several times a week on suicides and decomps, but homicides "are few and far between," said Nich- olson. Over the years, however, he has worked about 40 homicide scenes, including several particularly gruesome cases where every- body at the house had been killed. In one notorious incident, a respected family man fatally shot his wife, two kids and a friend in different rooms before jumping to his own death off the over- pass of the 605 freeway. "To be honest, it wasn't that bad at all," Nicholson said. "We did- n't have to remove any flooring or anything. The whole job took only about five or six hours." Often the most difficult thing to clean at these homicide scenes is not blood but graphite, the substance that police detectives use to dust for fingerprints. After taking care of the biohazard, which is legally required, Nicholson will do additional cleaning for an extra fee, if desired by the client. "Sometimes the whole house is covered with graphite dust. That stuff's a mess -- cleaning that's a real bitch!" If there's anything that can remotely disgust the seasoned Nich- olson in his line of work, it's the pack rat -- that curious person who never disposes of anything, whether its newspapers, garbage or human waste. "The county sheriff refused to go in there," Nicholson said. "The fire department came down and looked at the project, which was in East L.A. They said, 'No way, we're not going in there.'" "You could barely open the door a crack," Nicholson recalled. "We went around to another window -- all you could see was stuff jammed everywhere, up to the ceiling. There wasn't even a path -- you had to climb in there!. The tenant had 27 shopping carts filled with junk. He'd go to the bathroom in corners, on the walls, in jars. It took us two days to actually get to the real bathroom. There were more roaches than you could imagine. There were 2- liter soda bottles filled with cockroaches. We had our gloves and Tyvek on, but we also had to tape down our arms and legs, be- cause we'd be covered in roaches." It took Nicholson and a five-person team four days to do the job. The refuse they cleared from this small one-bedroom apartment filled up three 40-yard trash bins. Disgusting perhaps, but just another job, said Nicholson: "You have all your protection on -- you just get it over with. The mess doesn't get to me." But sometimes the people do. Like the old couple who lived in the mobile home. "The wife was sick, and the husband really couldn't take care of her anymore, he was just too old. They were going to go to sep- arate convalescent homes. So the husband, when his wife fell asleep, shot his wife and then he shot himself. They just didn't want to be separated. That was so sad." Nicholson finds his job most rewarding when he can make sur- vivors of such human tragedies feel better. "After we finish cleaning and sanitizing, people feel more com- fortable. Even though it doesn't solve all their problems, it's a little bit easier for them. It makes me feel good to be able to go in there and say, 'OK, I'm here to help.'" Cheers! Vomit(II) Mop The Insanity "The difference betweeen pornography and erotica is lighting." -- Gloria Leonard ------------------------------ From animediaNO@SPAMtransportlogic.com Sun Jan 16 20:12:03 2000 Message-ID: <38829CE5.45EA@SPAMtransportlogic.com> From: Flatus M X-Mailer: Mozilla 3.04Gold (Win95; I) MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: A New CuntTurd is Shat Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 115 NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.190.144.60 X-Trace: tw11.nn.bcandid.com 948082322 216.190.144.60 (Sun, 16 Jan 2000 21:12:02 MST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sun, 16 Jan 2000 21:12:02 MST Organization: bCandid - Powering the world's discussions - http://bCandid.com Date: Mon, 17 Jan 2000 04:12:03 GMT Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.skycache.com!europa.netcrusader.net!206.132.58.120!gw22.nn.bcandid.com!hub12.nn.bcandid.com!tw11.nn.bcandid.com.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:192929 Had the new baby on Wendesday, as expected, thanks to Mr. Pitocin! Parents in law had flown up to "assist" (xlate: hassle me and raid my liquor cabinet) Labor was precipitous; I barely had time to run to the hospital cafeteria for a carry out grilled tuna and onion rings after watching the grisly spinal epidural before it was "time". I was starving, and facing a small birthing etiquette issue. Was it OK to run over and grab a bite of the sandwich between contractions? I opted for tastefulness, and stayed on station watching multicolored glop ooze from the wife's twat into what can only be described as a hospital blue garbage bag in a metal frame. Heavy labor is NOT a bunch of hysterical shrieking; the woman just doesn't have enough air for it. It's more like her head turns purple and blood vessels pop out all over her face and neck. The the doctor invites me to check out the crowning head. The head was mashed so bad it looked like a Shar-pei up there, and I literally got to see it pop round like a cartoon and go from blue to pink when it popped out. The rest of the baby squirts out in a fraction of a second, covered in a pus colored cheesy wax. I cut the cord. For Fungus and Furplay and the rest who were squicked by that series of birthing photos recently, let me include two things: One, a placenta is the god-awful ugliest thing in existence. The cord looks like a solid rope of that white gristle in cheap salami, run through with veins. The placenta itself is a wad of the same sickly white crap attached to a wet red rubbery membrane the size of a party balloon. When the doctor flopped it onto a tray, it bubbled up like a hovercraft skirt. The whole thing is oozing and coated in stringy, snotlike blood. Not even an Ethiopian would eat that fucking thing if you put a gun to his head. Two, when they popped her bag, they left the room for a few minutes so I got to change the towels that filled to sopping with amniotic fluid. Just for you, I checked by chewing the wet towel a little. It tastes like really weak piss. Course, that's what it is, after the baby has breathed, swallowed, and voided it over and over for months. The kid was healthy, yadda yadda, but I waited with baited breath for the most important report: Cooter damage was nil! No stitches, no "skidmarks"! A few hundred kegels and it'll be fuckable in a couple weeks! (And they DO tighten back up with proper maintenance.) The night in the hospital was utter hell but not from the baby. He was quiet and nursed and slept. It was the god damned, shit sucking, splay cunted fuck-brain nurzes that burst in every fifteen goddamned minutes to check the kid's strong, unchanging vitals, and take my wife's blood pressure and hassle us to let them take the boy away to the nursery. They MADE me take him over for weighing at two fucking am, and the place was a brilliantly flourescent lit, chain reaction shrieking vision of Dante's inferno. Nineteen tiny, helpless babies blinded by the over bright light, rocking, screaming, in clear plastic boxes, begging for a human touch other than a thermometer up the rectum, or a vicious one handed toss onto a stainless steel scale. Who the fuck teaches those bitches that one-handed baby grab and sling? It makes mama cats dragging their kittens by the neck with their fangs look the height of kindness and care. Basically, they put the belly on their palm, and claw a couple fingernails into the cheeks to support the head. Then they can whip the newborns around like Harlem Globetrotters palming basketballs. They finally PERMITTED me to take MY son back to the room after terrorizing him for a half hour. I watched the circumcision, which I have posted about on my last son, and whoever rebutted me that newborns do not cry tears, fuck you. My newborns do. But, with the (insisted on) 24 gauge needle anesthetic, he only cried for maybe a minute. We bolted at the first possible moment to the safety and quiet of home. The peace was shattered by the news that a relative was dying, and the parents in law had to fly away. My wife was hysterical, and with all the stress, I ended up puking before the night was over. I have some personal guidelines about comfortable vomitting, and I disregarded the one about lifting the ring and resting my forearms on the porcelain--it was just too cold. As a result, half the first burst deflected off the ring all over my chest, groin, bounced off the floor and fatally spattered the Feb. 2000 Playboy behind me. I watched the last three meals come out in perfect reverse sequence, I guess my system had been in idle since the delivery. The last wave was the orange blast of the tuna and cheddar I mentioned earlier; I did manage to finish it off after the delivery. I sat there and picked chewed Romaine lettuce from my chest hairs, happy this tale would involve spew as well as Cunt Pumping (tm Carrot). So now we are out of town for the funeral. And after posting this, I am going to go raid those same in-laws own liquor cabinet, ha ha. By the way, the titty fairy has visited my wife so bad I expect stretch marks on 'em. They are tight as drums and big as small pumpkins. There is NO WAY that baby is going to drain those things, so I may be called in for a little assistance. Once you've had lac, you won't go back! ----- ObT: I used to believe that druggy moms should be sterilized upon delivering a brainfucked, malnourished little freak. Now that I have again held the tiniest, most helpless creature in the world, I have revised my opinion. Those cunts should be dragged to the hospital loading dock, .22 tapped in the cranial anterior, and dumped in the medical waste dumpster. Seriously. ObAdvice: Dads: Do the "perenium massage" (xlate: Fisting) if you want back inside the tunnel 'o' love within six weeks. It has worked flawlessly twice!! Doing it the last few weeks of the pregnancy is fine. Cheers, and Stogies for all! ------------------------------ From scrapie_at_cyberpass_dot_net@ Tue Jan 18 00:24:32 2000 From: vineland repatriate Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: The "Intelligentsia" Date: Tue, 18 Jan 2000 00:24:32 -0800 Organization: Circle A Ranch Lines: 94 Message-ID: <9f588s4n0jd4g5h3l9vq94g4ts1mo47pj3@4ax.com> References: <38626c96.4956043@news.yellowknife.com> <386bbc50.9807255@news.omen.net.au> <3867b52f.6624885@news.yellowknife.com> <1e3hg8v.1ytjbaxhpvn7eN%no_recall@amnesia.com> <946602913.435166@news.satanic.org> <84h7pl$gvc$1@vixen.cso.uiuc.edu> <946939967.112868@news> <00019ddb.97df611d@usw-ex0101-004.remarq.com> <3872E3C8.DE81CC50@geocities.com> <87d7rgngua.fsf_-_@blob.ariadne.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: a5.79.62.4d Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Server-Date: 18 Jan 2000 08:25:08 GMT X-Newsreader: Forte Agent 1.7/32.534 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newspump.monmouth.com!newspeer.monmouth.com!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!news.mindspring.net!firehose.mindspring.com!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:193054 On Thu, 06 Jan 2000 01:12:30 GMT, worley@dworley.ne.mediaone.net (Acetylcholinesterase Inhibitor) wrote: Dale, you know better'n this: attributions *puh-lease.* Geesh, I wade through the crossposts, look for an article by someone with entertaining things to say - and then find that I'd need to fire up Dejanews to find the damn thread, since in addition to nutting the atts, you've changed the thread title. (ObSuckNewsreader: I've been chugging along for a bit using Forte Agent - I even found a way to unlock its killfile capacity for evalution only, of course, without buying the damn thing. What I found is that it's like all Win software: it's crap, you pay for it, and the stuff it does best appeals mostly to fifteen year olds. (This seems to trickle down from the OS itself; Win 3.1 ring any bells?) Credit where credit is due - Agent is able to handle the big binary newsgroup postings very well - but even paying for it gets you a spavined killfile capacity that won't let you run a kill on regular expressions in the Newsgroups header, and hence won't filter crossposts. (There's a pay newsreader, Gravity, that's a bit less crappy than Agent. They wanted me to pay for it after a month, and its "filter" (why not call the god-damned things killfiles, since that's what they FUCKING ARE? It's not like the Unix Daemons are going to infest their lives with lawsuits for calling a killfile a killfile, for fuck's sake) setup leaves an immense amount to be desired. However, gravity *did* preconfigure one setting that let me killfile crossposts, so for one a month, I wouldn't have been forced to wade through the trollage, except I got busy and don't feel like figuring out whether a simple reinstall or something more elaborate's needed to let me use that one again. (Eventually, I may actually set Fusion, a Mac emulator, up on this machine up simply in order to run MacSoup, the UberNewsreader, again. (Note to software authors: MacSoup is fully functional shareware. No timers, no nothing. And it's so good that I fucking paid for it, and I made sure to thank the author personally. [And agent would have had *no* trouble with Dale's change of thread title: it's graphical threading display actually reads the References: header, rather than depending on the Subject: header like some PIECES OF FUCKING SHIT NEWSREADERS I COULD MENTION.] (Did I pay for Agent? Nossir, nomaam. Will I? I'll do a stretch for software piracy first. Yep, you got that right: I'd rather be a cellblock bitch, used and stretched by Bubba and the crew, infected with HIV, syph, and whatever else happens to be popular these days, bleeding into my trou' on a semipermanent basis, reduced to little more than a whining ball of animal protein on legs, than encourage further stupidity by what's laughably known as the Windows developer community by paying for your crap softare.) Oh. Um, rant mode off, and that might've been an ObT, too. I know one of us feels better now. >The "intelligentsia" are a wonderful self-admiration group, reject the >standard conformist fads (Barbie bad!), embrace their own conformist >fads (Nicaragua good!), and sit around and whine that the world would >be better if the intelligentsia ran it (surprise!). As Tom Wolfe >says, being an "intellectual" has been reduced to a style of >consumption. Whoa, Nelly! Quoting Tom Wolfe wondering about where the smart folks went is a lot like soliciting Britney Spears' opinions on where the great composers are. What Wolfe has defined is what college-eddicated folk who still get their alumni magazines and come to his signings have become. That set ain't the intelligentsia, and Grandma fucking Moses weren't no artiste, neither. And they becomes even less the intelligentsia with every passing year, as the college diploma becomes even more equivalent to what the high school diploma was a hundred or more years ago - the basic entry card to white-collar work, indicative of a minimal level of obedience, compliancy at following orders and ability to follow simple written instructions. Certainly, you're right that the intelligentsia often claim they'd do a fine job running the universe. (This habit isn't unique to them, though; why, right here you can sometimes find nonsequiturs floating around not as observations but as sincere policy recommendations.*) One excellent way to shut them the fuck up is to remind them about Kennedy's (following Ike's, it's true) Wise Men, who brought us Vietnam and a variety of other splendors on the grounds that not only could they run places they lived in pretty well, but everyone else's place, too. -Peter "the only way to finish sorting the wheat from the chaff on the "i" word is to see how bright they seem after they've been dead awhile." scrapie@cyberpass.net ObSincerePolicyRecommendation: "an armed society is a polite society." ObCounterOffer: Mogadishu. Since this post is not about the OSPR, nor the OCO, let's not fight about it, okay? It's a booooooring argument with its very own newsgroup, I merely felt obliged to include one concrete example. ------------------------------ From animedia@transportlogic.com Wed Jan 19 20:22:46 2000 Message-ID: <388693D7.1544@transportlogic.com> From: Mercer Island Candles Reply-To: animedia@transportlogic.com X-Mailer: Mozilla 3.04Gold (Win95; I) MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: A New CuntTurd is Shat References: <38829CE5.45EA@SPAMtransportlogic.com> <3gia8s4g2j7cb6cv8hedv595fijup8edl1@4ax.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 113 NNTP-Posting-Host: 207.173.167.85 X-Trace: tw11.nn.bcandid.com 948342165 207.173.167.85 (Wed, 19 Jan 2000 21:22:45 MST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 19 Jan 2000 21:22:45 MST Organization: bCandid - Powering the world's discussions - http://bCandid.com Date: Thu, 20 Jan 2000 04:22:46 GMT Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!nntp.flash.net!gw22.nn.bcandid.com!hub12.nn.bcandid.com!tw11.nn.bcandid.com.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:193251 LINCARD 1000 wrote: > > On Mon, 17 Jan 2000 04:12:03 GMT, Flatus M > gibbered: > > A posting of good tastelessness - which is good.. And thanks a fucking > heap for bringing another bloody mouth to feed into this already > over-crowded world - which is bad... > > I pray for a cot-death epidemic... YOUR OFFSPRING INCLUDED. > This sure sounds like deliberate flame bait... > #Cheers, and Stogies for all! > > Sod the glub-damned stogie, I cant stick that up my bloody starfish, > now can I? You thoughtless cunt, how about a 12" vibrating dildo? > And now he begs for it. That's cool, Lincard. I have checked you out closely enough to know what you want. You want me to hurt you, man, hurt you verbally. Put you down and shove it in, yeah? But that ain't my way, son. I don't describe what a little pissant you are. I'll just tell you straight what you are looking at. We'll come down there, baby, down to nz. Me and my recently delivered, getting horny wife. There's pretty cheap tour fares, son. We'll take your big strong ST off the street and out of the way, yeah, lock him in some alley dumpster with a gag in his mouth. Give three of the scroungiest street drunks half a torn hundred dollar bill, U.S., to make sure he doesn't get out till dawn. We'll get in, put you down, tie you up. Trust me. We won't hurt you if you don't resist. Just lay back and try to enjoy it. Good boy. Since you begged for that 12 inch dildo, we'll pull it out now and shove it in your mouth sideways. That's your bone, dog. Chew it like a good bitch; spit it out and you are much more than fucked. Stay quiet. Now what? Well, you're hog tied, whatever clothes you had on have been cut off, and I'm out bringing in a keg of your local finest brew from the car. My wife will have sone time to kill, so she'll spit on you. Great big 18 hour flight sinus loogies. She might have a few choice words for you, she's hispanic, and those women tend to be abusive. Best listen close and nod often. And then we'll drink a while and let the "invasion adrenalin" ease up. Lots of beer, and you with that dildo in your mouth. Sorry, man. Lots more beer than you figure yanks could possibly consume. Silly lad, my wife just dumped twelve pounds of baby and liquid from her guts. Her belly is one big void right now and she hasn't touched alcohol this millenium. And as her husband and master, I have to keep up with her or I'll lose face, right? I may need two kegs. We'll trash your shit, steal some mementoes, and let that travel nausea build on that beer. One or the other of us is going to get "that look", and the other will see the signal and yank your hair back. About then, you'll notice the belt loop that has turned that dildo into a bit. Open up son, it's your inauguration into the Vulgarians. Receiveth, bitch. If I go first, my wife, she's got a weak stomach, she'll fire over your back right off. But if she blows first, I'll let what happened set in on you, then claw your jaw open and french-hurl a couple quarts of beer-vomit straight down your windpipe. You'll get a chance to go from liquid to air breathing again, just like my new son did. The we'll drink some more, but hold it down. We'll let you watch us fuck awhile. Damn I get hard with a bladderful of piss. My wife has been peeing every fifteen minutes for half a year, get the picture? That puke'll wash right off. I'll grab a funnel from your kitchen and shove it up your ass. I'm too hetero to pump you straight, but with a plastic funnel and a good seal, mmm-hmmm. Let's just say you'll commiserate with Ted after his big upper colonic. You'll get the sensation of having a sloshing two gallon bag of fluid inside, only it will be your colon, not a womb. My wife will wad your bedclothes under your ass for the backsplash. No use ruining the floor and wall, eh? Then my wife will fuck you up the ass with her strap on and that 12" didldo. You'll be wishing hard I wasn't as hetero as I am. I'd be the much less painful choice. In fact, this is where you'll black out. You'll wake up in the corner at dawn, shivering with a solid salt crust cracking over your entire body. You'll vomit the shit covered dildo from your throat. Your ST will limp in, half in shock. His fingers smashed from trying to get out of the dumpster. His ears deafened and ringing from the blows on the side of the dumpster as he's warned to shut the fuck up. $300 well spent. In spite of your mutual revolting odors, you'll huddle together and cry softly for hours. And all because you did not realize that when I bring a child into the world, it is not "another mouth to feed". It is proactive eugenics. Kiss kiss, love, good night. > > LINCARD doing his share > " for world-wide sterility" 1000 Flatus M ------------------------------ From nrwidow@mpinet.net Thu Jan 20 15:55:20 2000 From: "Nearwidow" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Women in Chains--Part II Date: Thu, 20 Jan 2000 18:55:20 -0500 Organization: Base Camp Zero Lines: 54 Message-ID: X-Complaints-To: newsabuse@supernews.com X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2919.6600 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2919.6600 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!remarQ70!rQdQ!supernews.com!remarQ.com!corp.supernews.com!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:193338 Yeah, women with ankle transmitters. That's the stuff of the great porno! I finally had my violation of parole hearing November 3, after the usual continuances and assorted legal bullshit. (Your Humble Narrator-ette shrugs energetically to get the chip off her shoulder). A few exciting things happened in the nonce: at my arraignment, a guy who was being arraigned for possession of something or other was then summarily arrested for FIRST FUCKING DEGREE MURDER! Wow! And I'd been chatting and flirting with him prior to court. He looked like he could have been in the WWF. (preposterously dated hair and beard, extremely muscular) I also learned that regardless of what you are on probation for (petit theft to murder one) the penalty for VOP is at least one year Community Control. "Whut in the hail is Community Control, Nearwidder?" you might well cry. What it is, is house arrest. You trot your happy ass down to the Department of Corrections and get a ankle bracelet that John Wayne Gacy would have loved clamped on your ankle with a GPS signal on it. Goody! This is certain to break the ice at PTA meetings. Hey, I'm not gonna be permitted to *go* to any PTA meetings! I called all my friends and loved ones to weep over my plight. 'You and Dr. Dre,' snickered Alraune. 'You're gonna gain a million pounds.' The best part in addition to being able to bail on going to the sprog's events is goggling at the hot young deputies they send out to Chez Nearwidow to check on me frequently throughout the week. I always like to act like I'm trying to get out of the house so they check up on me more often. Alas, it doesn't seem to have the desired effect: the dull/normal civil drones who Protect and Serve seem to think if I'm white and upper middle brow I can't possibly be up to anything untowards. Hah! Just wait til they find out I'm drinking til I'm MORE than .08 (the legal limit in Florida).. That'll show em. *And* I brought my library books back late and did not pay the fine. So since I'm whiling away the year I have to learn my lesson, I'm trolling for strange on the 'net as usual. Gals, a great place to see some cute guys is the Department of Corrections 'Inmate Search' website. You can see mugshots of eligible bachelors who are currently not seeing anyone but their cellmates. Salaciously, Nearwidow P "Of man there is little here, therefore do their women masculinize themselves, for only he who is man enough will save the woman in woman." --F. Nietzsche ObExtraT: Nursing the Aged Father thru his recent (lung) lobectomy. The requisite constipation from the analgesics caused anal-impaction. The solution? Digital extraction. I had to swipe a couple of extra Percocet from him for that one. *shudder* ------------------------------ From mommy.I.need.you@vacuum.flush.gov Fri Jan 21 02:07:20 2000 From: Herry Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: How to piss of new Fathers Date: Fri, 21 Jan 2000 21:07:20 +1100 Organization: Sodomites for Jesus Lines: 62 Message-ID: <38882FD8.AA3E62BB@vacuum.flush.gov> Reply-To: heiskell@leland.Stanford.EDU NNTP-Posting-Host: dialup-t1-27.sydney.netspace.net.au Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Trace: otis.netspace.net.au 948453152 47661 210.15.198.27 (21 Jan 2000 11:12:32 GMT) X-Complaints-To: abuse@netspace.net.au NNTP-Posting-Date: 21 Jan 2000 11:12:32 GMT X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.04 [en] (Win95; I) Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!intgwpad.nntp.telstra.net!nsw.nnrp.telstra.net!news.syd.connect.com.au!news.mel.connect.com.au!news.netspace.net.au!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:193384 Dedicated to Checks - "Ooh, she your daughter ? "Cute "Bet she'll have a cock in her mouth in no time... --- I look at young couples. I see their pink frilled identified-as-female youngsters. I see their first pubescant gropings, I see the clumsy stick-my-dick- in her-mouth antics. I see this fetus sucking cum 12-21 years after birth. How dare they get offended. They squeal child abuse. Honey, if your child is a slut, look at your own genes, your childhood. If pumpkin is a whore, chances Mommy is a whore. If your precious baby is sucking cock, wasn't Mommy sucking cock before the current WitchTrial ? But Mommy liked cum. Therefore it is a sin for daughter to like cum. Call the FBI. And the Informants. "It's witch trial time". --- I see babies nowadays and my first urge is to say to the parents - "Hey, like it or not, they'll suck pussy or cock sooner or later. Your child is the slut. The person they're sucking is _not_ the pervert. "Get over it Witch-hunter. The fruit of your loins is a slut" --- Next time you see a Daddy taking his pure daughter out, remind him - "She'll have a cock in her mouth, sooner or later. Haha. You cant stop it Pops!!!" And take the punch-out like a man. Herry -- 'If I'm standing in an alpine meadow in early June, birds singing overhead,surrounded by wildlflowers, the thing that I'll notice first are the lumps of horseshit over by the side of the trail. I consider this dark vision a gift.; other people call it "being an asshole"', The Carrot, my current favourite _writer_. e-mail address - mongrelatnetspacedotnetdotau Herry's No Frills A.t archives - temporarily closed for business "Email is NOT secure...", the Australian Federal Police to me. david@computraining.com.au webmaster@godhatesfags.com sales@nisitasecurity.com reiner.denke@riotinto.com.au ------------------------------ From labrat@pacbell.net Sat Jan 22 10:27:23 2000 Message-ID: <3889F68B.71CC@pacbell.net> From: Rat & Swan Reply-To: labrat@pacbell.net X-Mailer: Mozilla 3.01C-PBWG (Win95; U) MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Fayette-Nam (was: Most Rednecky Place in the Country (was re: alligator) References: <387CCF5C.28B1B912@monmouth.com> <85j7uq$j55$1@nntp4.atl.mindspring.net> <87vh4y924h.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <387D47AA.1C374091@erols.com> <85l2f20v7o@news2.newsguy.com> <387E845F.71A9C2D9@erols.com> <387e8af1.6131291@news.mindspring.com> <85rpep$v05$1@nntp4.atl.mindspring.net> <85s22f$6ga$3@delphi.ridgenet.net> <7vs38ssp0gtkqirjevmnir34on629ii4rf@4ax.com> <38831CD3.3E38A2CE@newsfeeds.com> <87ya9jt6mx.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <388a15de.98188254@news.mindspring.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 100 Date: Sat, 22 Jan 2000 10:27:23 -0800 NNTP-Posting-Host: 206.170.4.65 X-Complaints-To: abuse@pacbell.net X-Trace: nnrp3-w.snfc21.pbi.net 948565717 206.170.4.65 (Sat, 22 Jan 2000 10:28:37 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 22 Jan 2000 10:28:37 PST Organization: SBC Internet Services Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!cyclone.swbell.net!nnrp3-w.snfc21.pbi.net.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:193515 The, Vyrdolak wrote: > Goddam, what *is* it with the name Fayetteville? Every Fayetteville > I've ever been in or heard anything about was a shithole. I'd > guess that Fayetteville, Ark., or Fayetteville, NC, (usually > known as Fayette-Nam) are the prize-winners in this bottom-feeder > contest. Yep. My great grandparents got married in Fayetteville Arkansas in 1905. He was a railroadman (his specialty was cleaning blood off wheels when cow-orkers fell off moving train cars). He was just a continuation of the string of tastelessness in the Jaques family. His father, old Bill J. had had two wives previous to marrying the one who produced Jake, my g-grandfather. he had deserted each one and he promptly deserted his third to go out West to marry (and probably desert, we don't know) a fourth! Jakestarted as a brakeman. that means he would regularly walk along the tops of cars to turn the huge 'brake wheels' on top to stop cars individually on a moving train. This wasn't so bad on regular box cars hauling produce or hard goods, but when the train was hauling hogs or livestock, it could get VERY interesting up there. One 'brakie' fell off, between cars one time. they missed him at the next stop, and so they went along the cars, shining a light on the wheels. they soon found what they were looking for, a red splash and blood on the side of the car. Sure enough, between the cars, all the way down, were parallel scratch marks from the doomed man's fingernails. And blood at the bottom where the nails had worn down through to the bones of the fingers, before the poor bastard hit the ballast. Back they went, slowly, until they found the body. He had landed, half on, half off the tracks. he was cut neatly in two, and his entrails scattered. My g-grandad carefully picked up the guts and shoveled ben back into the bottom half of the corpse and they put both halves on a "grain door" (compartment section to divide a box car with a half load) and rode him into Fort Smith Arkansas. Jake got to ride with the corpse. Though it was icy cold, he kept the boxcar door open so he could every now and then hang his head out and vomit onto the ballast by the tracks. Railroad was good for a lot of dismemberments. I knew a man, Chester Russell, who had his left leg, up to the knee, whacked off by a train he was humping. Yeah, augh if you like. Humping is the practise of moving cars back and forth, shifting, composing a ttain from this car and that, to make up a particular haul. Chet was wearing pants with cuffs (this is a big no-no on the Road) and his pantleg snarled in a section of trackage when he thres the shift. Two sections came together and BAM! He saw the train backing up and he knew he was a goner. "So I just rared back 's'far's I could git an' watched that damned car jes' whack 'er off!" "Did it hurt?" I asked, wide eyed as an eleven-year old kid can be. "Hurt? HURT? son, y'ever pinched yore balls in a door? Wall, it hurt maybe a tetch more than THAT, I'll tell ya! Hurt like a sone of a bitch gelded calf yellin fer MERCY, it hurt! God damned train jes backed right over m'laig'n then the bastid jes' SET thar on it while th'enjinyeer stuck his haid out th' cab an' puked! I yelled back at 'im, Y'all jes' git this sunovabitchin TRAIN off m'laig so's I kin hop up thar an' BRAIN ye withit, ya wuthless bastid!!" That's CLASS. Cester has saved the limb (for later burial with his body, he said) and would let me see it, all dried out and mummified, still with the shoe and sock on the foot. The pants cuff was mangled and still had the dirt and rust marks from the track section that has closed on it. You could see the dark marks of the metal wheels on the exposed bone ends. VERY neat! "What do you CALL it, Unca Chet>" I asked, touching a bone in awe at the dessicated wonder before me. "That?" he said, scratching his head. "Hell... I guess I calls it... 'Laig!'" "Can I name it? Huh, CAN I?" "Wall if y'insist, ya can. Whatcha gonna call it?" I pondered that for a long time. what WOULD you call a grown man's hacked off and lovingly preserved leg? I had already named his artificial leg. It was "Woody" (Oh shut up! I was eleven, for chrissake, OK?) but finally we agreed to call the grisly reminder of railroad safety lessons unlearned "Old Stumpy McLegg" Unfortunately, we moved back to california before Uncle Chester died. I was unable to bid a final farewell to Chet and Old Stumpy when they laid him to rest. I never got to find out if they buried him with his artificial leg on and Stumpy beside him, or if they arranged the mummified relic at the end of his stump and left the wooden one topside. Had I been the one in charge, I would have had a two-casket funeral. One ornate box for good old chester and a amaller, childsized one for Stumpy McLegg. The severed limb would've also gotten its own tombstone to, if I'd had my way. Monett, Missouri, I miss you. Such tastelessness does Fayetteville breed! I come from a long LINE of vicious bastards. Swan ------------------------------ From enoid801@omit.home.com Sun Jan 23 14:20:28 2000 From: enoid801@omit.home.com (Citizen Ted) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Colon Hydrotherapy: Right Up My Alley! Message-ID: <388c7ed4.7315659@news> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent .99g/32.339 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 258 Date: Sun, 23 Jan 2000 22:20:28 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.7.140.142 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.sttls1.wa.home.com 948666028 24.7.140.142 (Sun, 23 Jan 2000 14:20:28 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sun, 23 Jan 2000 14:20:28 PST Organization: @Home Network Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newsfeed.yosemite.net!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!newsfeed.enteract.com!feeder.via.net!newshub1.home.com!news.home.com!news1.sttls1.wa.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:193619 Oooog. I have just returned my very first colon hydrotherapy session. I am fatigued and woozy and the only thing that feels April-fresh is the interior lining of my colon. Everything else is worn out and droopy. It was an extremely interesting and bizarre experience. I met the "therapist" at 8:30am. She was a rather plain woman in her 40's, no distinguishing features - just your average Bellingham NewAge hippie woman. This town is teeming with them. We sat down for a little chat in her clean and well-appointed office. She asked me the usual questions about my disease history, then segued into the standard battery of NewAgey questions about my "wellness": my diet, exercise and daily intake of fennel and echinacea extracts. She gave me the usual rigmarole about "toxins" and how every bulge in the colon relates to every part of your body - kinda like phrenology of the asspipe. A real load of hooey, but I just smiled and nodded. No point in angering the woman with the tube in her hand, right? Well, I was pretty impressed went she showed me her enemal contraption. It looked like a Frankensteinian ass lab, complete with cool silver knobs and huge tubes and white plastic valves. There was a green plastic table with form-fitting "stirrup-style" leg cowlings on the end. Right where one's displayed rectum would sit was a wide dugout "well" area with a thick drain pipe on the bottom. Deeper into the dugout area was a water nozzle. Above the table was a cabinet that held what looked like a toilet tank and several tall cylinders of transparent PCV. The cabinet exterior sported numerous knobs for filling cylinders, flushing the exhaust and controlling the pressure. Below the table was a wide transparent tube - the exhaust gutter or "view pipe". There was a mirror set next to the table so the patient could see exactly what flowed down the view pipe. It was, in essence, an enema room, complete. As you might imagine, I had more than a little trepidation. Not only had I never had an enema or "high colonic", but I had never had anything more dramatic that the occasional dainty finger or tongue stuffed up there. The very idea of 20 gallons of water flushing through my one-way street was quite unnerving. But I am a professional, and I had a job to do. She began instructing me on "mounting" the apparatus. To my relief, she produced a thin, tapered nozzle that would serve as my ass spigot. To comfort me, she produced an industrial enema nozzle as a comparison. It was a white plastic monstrosity the size of a dildo with a wide double-eyelet hypo on the end. It was meant to be inserted 4-5 inches up the anus - kinda like getting it in the ass from Lincard, only without all the beer and pleading beforehand. It was a Nurz Rachet quality device; something she would insert with gusto into the tightest butthole, then withdraw and reinsert several times to "get a good fit". It was a scary device. Thus, I was relieved by what I would be shoving up my ass: a slender, tapered, clear plastic "wand" with hole in the end. As the NewAge nurz left the room, I did as commanded and stripped below the belt. I leapt onto the table (it was warm and comfy) and placed my legs in the stirrup cowlings. (All I could think of in that initial position was "Push! Push! WaAaAAaAaa!!!"). I pulled a sheet over my lower half to hide all the good stuff. She insisted on the sheet, even though I professed not to be too bashful. I guess this was a good thing, for if she had even a fleeting glance of the TedChoad, it would surely take weeks for her to stop calling me at home... Anyway, she had left my slender ass nozzle dangling in the exhaust well. I lubed up the tip with some KY gunk and Assumed the Position. I guided the open tip toward what I thought was my asshole. OK, I'll admit that I sometimes have trouble finding "the hole" in the dark. I've turned off more than a few women by continually punting into their goddamn clits. But I thought piercing my own hole would be a breeze. Wrong. O, my droogies, my starfish was indeed tight and resistant. After boinking into the crack of my ass a few times, I guided that fucker into paydirt, only to meet a solid wall of opposition. As per her instruction, I let go of the tip and "beared down" onto the stiff nozzle, driving it deeper up my ass, or so I thought. It was rather painful; my sphincter was so tight that it gripped the nozzle like the lips of a cichlid and began spitting it out like a rejected kidney. I couldn't even tell if I had really cleared the gateway or not. After several minutes of uncomfortable fussing with the damn thing, I rang for the nurz, hopeful that I had inserted it deep enough for the process to work. She came in and fired up the machine. A cylinder in the cabinet filled with 98 degree water. She moved the pressure up to drippy 1/8 pound of pressure. I could immediately feel the water dribble down my asscrack. We both saw a thins stream heading down the view pipe and into the floor. I was admonished to try again. She left the room once more, and I began impatiently working that nasty tip around my steel-trap starfish. After several more endless minutes of painful fussing, I felt I had cleared the entryway. My sphincter gripped the nozzle and tried to expel it, but it held. I rang for her again, and she started the water. This time, it stayed inside, but wasn't flowing - it was bubbling into my ass. I could feel tingly bubbles just burbling along. She told me this was no good - the nozzle was pointing at my rectal wall instead of down the chute. As she stood by, I manhandled the motherfucker, and with a mighty grunt and a break of brow sweat I drove that sonofabitch HOME. PLOIK! YOUCH! It was IN. My sphincter bit down on it like a cowboy's teeth on a cigar as a bullet flies into his chest. It was TIGHT. She fired up the water again. I could hardly feel it going in, but it sure wasn't going down the drain. Holy crap! I watched the water level in the cylinder slowly, slowly drop. My anus would occasionally clench up completely, stopping the downward progress of the cylinder level. It took all my will to relax just a bit and let a few dribbles of water in. The nurz was unimpressed. I told her that I was a type-A personality, and the fact that I actually got the nozzle two inches up my ass was an accomplishment in itself; if she expected my to eagerly drink in a gallon of water like bloody Joseph Pujol she had another thing coming! She left me to my own devices on her device. I obsessed on the water cylinder, employing a new form of concentration that I like to call BioAssFeedback. If I concentrated on relaxing my legs, buttocks and asshole, I would be rewarded with a drop in the cylinder. If I clenched up, progress would stop. Thus, I applied feedback to get a "reward" of water. It worked, in a limited way. It took about 10 minutes to drain the cylinder. But by then I started feeling an urge to anally purge. As instructed, I tried to relax and just let fly into the ass well. With the nozzle still feeding me, I beared down on my gut and was rewarded with a thin stream of water. It spurted into the well wall and dripped down my asscrack. We both looked excitedly into the view pipe! Oh boy! My first enema poo! Joy! Thrills! Chills! Spills! It was just...water. Nothing special. Unimpressed, she refilled the cylinder. Again, I employed BioAssFeedback to get the water to drain into me. Again, it took forever. But this time the urge to evacuate became acute. Since she was out of the room for a spell, I put all I had into it, and was rewarded with a huge splash of diarrheal water. It burst down into the view pipe with considerable gusto. The relief was immediate and gratifying. She came back inside, and for the first time I let loose with a nice liter of shit as she stood there talking to me. We looked with rapt attention at the view pipe, and were fully impressed to see a lovely procession of turdlets wending their way to the sewer. They were held aloft by a river of water, and I could swear that each one winked as it passed. I named the big one Mr. Hankey, the rest of them after country and western musicians. The nurz thought this was hilarious, and we got into a conversation wherein I described the ideas from this forum to stick odd objects up my ass just to freak her out. She shook her head and smiled, and admitted that it probably would throw her for a loop. She said she had seen some weird stuff go down the pipe - mostly blackened clots of decayed fecal matter. But she had never seen a fishhead or whole candy corns. This is when things really started getting bizarre. I looked at the scene from a third person perspective, and this is what I saw: Ted: "Yeah. I quit smoking a year ago. Feels great. I'm glad I went through that rough spot." Her: "Oh, yes. Smoking is just about the most abusive thing you can do to your body. I'm glad you quit." Ted: "Yeah. I mean, it's an addictive drug that doesn't even get you high. All it gives you is short breath and cancer." Her: "Absolutely. You know, we have a terrific program here for people to help get them off tobacco and into healthful living." Ted: "Really? Well, that's just great..." Her: "Oh yeah. We have naturopaths, LMP's...." ...this went on for fifteen minutes. Her refilling the cylinder, me taking it in, then squirting avalanches of watery turds and mucus into the view pipe - all during a droll little conversation. Each large evacuation would grab our interest, and we would lock onto the view pipe to see What Came Out. She offered to give me a foot massage, which I eagerly accepted. She sat at my feet, rubbing my toes, while I pontificated and burst forth wave after wave of sinewy shits in her direction. In the end, after the twentieth gallon disappeared up my ass, I produced nothing but thin streams of whitish bacteria, mucus, air bubbles and water. I was Clean. I layed there for a minute or two, expelling the last of the water and pissing down the view pipe. She left the room, and I sprayed myself off with a hose and wiped up completely. She came back in and I conducted a quickie audio interview, then we went into the foyer for digital photos. She was extremely thrilled to get press, and told me that a few others had done very well with just small ads in my paper. She asked to preview my story, which of course I refused. I may be a goddamn puff piece whore, but I write my OWN dreck. Only my editor edits. She would have to accept what I wrote, period. For the record, I plan to write a fairly puffy piece. She was very kind and thorough, and her NewAge crap was kept to a safe minimum. She realized the importance of mainstream medicine for truly debilitating disorders and trauma, so I don't really discount her as a quack. But, in the end, all I really got was a very comforting enema. Enemas were common hygiene practice for centuries, and only recently have we strayed with colonic health. We all eat crappy foods, and I think each of us could do worse than to pay someone a bit of money for a thorough pipe job. It's worth noting that throughout the process there was little pain and no odor to speak of. After giving my peristaltic(?) muscles a serious 40 minute workout, I felt quite...well...drained. It was the most serious stretch of anal exercise I've ever had. Of course, I would have preferred to have my Queen, Nurz Rachet, strap me down and hose me out real good, but we can't have everything. Some moments are meant to smolder, then burst into flame at the right time. With my newly-cleaned and healthy colon, I have time, my sweet Nurzy.... - TR - clean as slide whistle. ------------------------------ From noahnoothing@yahoo.com Mon Jan 24 04:05:33 2000 From: "Noah Noothing" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless References: <388d1182.15116801@news.transport.com> Subject: Re: The lowest of the low Lines: 60 X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2314.1300 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2314.1300 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 24 Jan 2000 06:04:50 CST Organization: Giganews.Com - Premium News Outsourcing X-Trace: sv2-K2hyGzOGBjSaRj2MeIa4/96Z4uMVFL1ldVw4PEm9dfWAzal6ubjkSHiXfkOdyc6Rd45qbzC4KqWR5p/!o/+pRX62SXo= X-Complaints-To: abuse@GigaNews.Com X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers X-Abuse-Info: Otherwise we will be unable to process your complaint properly Date: Mon, 24 Jan 2000 06:05:33 -0600 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newsfeed.yosemite.net!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!remarQ70!remarQ.com!supernews.com!nntp2.giganews.com!news4.giganews.com.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:193644 Flatus M wrote in message news:388d1182.15116801@news.transport.com... <<>>> > One aunt and uncle we visit are a hard working, devout couple. She is > an RN, and perhaps saw too much suffering and decided to bring home > strays. The last is literally a crack baby, born addicted and having > had a stroke in utero. I cannot figure out the logic in adopting this, > unless they are involved in some staredown with God about saintliness. > In any case, they are not blinking and this boy is now about sixteen. > > He drools constantly, as my son (3) pointed out vociferously, "He got > somefing on his FACE, dada!" One side is paralyzed, with his hand > retracted like a biped dinosaur. His speech is inflected grunts that > are in some tardese in which I am not fluent. > You would be amazed at how many tards are adopted. A few represent just basic stupidity, such as a couple adopting an unborn child without checking the background of the parents. "Oh I've read about these bi-sexual, heroin-adicted, liquor-store-robbing, sociopaths born of an incestuous relationship in a white trash trailer park, but I just never imagined that the nice couple I met could be one of those." In these cases adoptive mom and pop are usually only a few steps up the genetic stairway from the adopt-o-tard. Others, however, are of the type you describe in that they choose the adopt-o-tard because he/she is a tard. They seem to relish the fact that they have accepted a defective human being into their lives. Many seem to think adopting such a fucked up semi-person marks them as being special or devine. "God chose me for such a special task." Of course, adoptions of the second variety lead to a number of bizarre (thus, very entertaining) behaviors. I have seen many such adoptive parents exhibit all types of perversions and call them "helping behavior." One elderly mother I know showers with her profoundly retarded son, "because he needs so much help." She will talk non-chalantly about his raging erections, and hint that "helping" makes him so much calmer later in the evening. This same mom also assists her son in all restrooms, both public and private, by holding his choad while he pees. And then she seems exasperated by the fact that he just won't learn to go by himself. This second variety of adoption is also often associated with either being totally oblivious to extremely tasteless behaviors, or the implied/directly-stated opinion that if you are distressed by the adopt-o-tard's behavior then you are not an accepting human being. I have witnessed a mother sit in a staffing and talk casually with the assembled professionals while her adopt-o-tard son eats shit right out of his ass. These same types become indignant when Johnny adopt-o-tard decides to whip out the tard choad and wank off in the foodcourt at the mall and the management asks her to leave. The examples could go on and on, but I think you get the picture. Noah ObT: The mother who, after injurying her back, had her adopt-o-tard, sexual-offender son bathe her every night for over a month. ------------------------------ From robfarm@bellsouth.net Mon Jan 24 03:40:14 2000 Message-ID: <388C3A1E.FA18631D@bellsouth.net> From: Robinson X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.6 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: A New CuntTurd is Shat References: <38829CE5.45EA@SPAMtransportlogic.com> <3gia8s4g2j7cb6cv8hedv595fijup8edl1@4ax.com> <4tsd8s0g3d5iom5stjv70kfmcb0p487fbv@4ax.com> <30kh8sohoelgodsvrschkjeca4rsqjoum1@4ax.com> <01bf6550$53b01160$a33563c3@default> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 22 Date: Mon, 24 Jan 2000 06:40:14 -0500 NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.214.72.153 X-Trace: news4.atl 948713892 209.214.72.153 (Mon, 24 Jan 2000 06:38:12 EST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 24 Jan 2000 06:38:12 EST Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.atl.bellsouth.net.MISMATCH!newsfeed.atl!news4.atl.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:193643 Jonathan Blaque wrote: > > > ObT: When I was 10 years old, I had a near-homo- > exual experience with the neighbor's son (also 10). > > Too bad you'll never hear about it. Oh, come on. You know you want to tell us alllllll about it. Were you on top? Sucker or suckee? Mutual masturbation? Did your little Experimentation Buddy turn out to be the school nancy-boy, and you spent your high school years studiously avoiding his lambent doe-eyes in the hallways? Did you wait for him outside the darkened building as he was leaving from his after-school practice sessions with the band director, force him to take your raging straight-boy dick all the WAY, faggot!, then beat him to a crying, bleeding, snot-dripping pulp after you had shot your hot teen lust into his sinuses? Inquiring minds.... Lorri Ex was a fag, I know about lots of queer stuff ------------------------------ From syd@nls.treetnet Mon Jan 24 04:23:51 2000 Message-ID: <388C429B.912AD504@nls.net> From: syd@nls.treetnet Organization: http://www.nls.net/mp/syd X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.7 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: AT Charity Nomination References: <8661d4$9kl$1@nnrp1.deja.com> <38869A91.1317@transportlogic.com> <87hfg9qpug.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <388711bf.3171296@news.gte.net> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 55 Date: Mon, 24 Jan 2000 12:23:51 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.144.10.153 X-Trace: news.onlynews.com 948716631 216.144.10.153 (Mon, 24 Jan 2000 04:23:51 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 24 Jan 2000 04:23:51 PST Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!news.sanjose1.Level3.net!Level3!news.onlynews.com!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:193646 MikeM wrote: > > As I understand it, the good old USA would have close to ZPG > if it weren't for the immigration. Japan, Italy, Germany, > and a bunch of other places have negative population growth > rates. Now I'm no scientist, but that sounds a bit suspicious to me. At least here in Cleveland, primates are reproducing like nobody's fucking business, infant mortality rates are very low, and the 4 Horsemen are so far behind that they've had to hire a slew of help from local temp agencies just to keep the place from being overrun. It could just be an artifact of my locale, however. Being a Big City, Cleveland has the resiquite urban sprawl where humans breed like maggots on gas gangrene. And the actual suburb I live in is in the buffer zone between Cleveland's urban area and the farms and horseshit that make up 95% of Ohio, which means white trash! I used to run pizzas out to trailers groaning with the weight of its inhabitants, the immobile Queen bloated with her latest impregnations and lying on a couch, screaming orders to her colony of squirming, mucous-covered larvae as the proud Male struggles through his alcoholic haze to count out a decent tip. At least the poor folks always tipped me, Glub bless'em, salt of the earth. But I don't look forward to my inevitable forays into Cleveland proper, where every hundred feet a woman walks proudly down the sidewalk with her litter in tow. Brings back too many memories; I grew up in a small urban anus called Eastlake, a member of one of the above mentioned litters, me and my sisters squalling and milling about our mother like tugboats around a supertanker, as the whole lower-class convoy sailed through the aisles of the neighborhood K-Mart, occasionally emitting a "How ya doin'?" to a passing fellow white trash procession as we milled towards the blue-light special like it was some kinda lighthouse. The occasional unexpected slap, delivered to a random child, served to keep a loose discipline about the bunch as we slowly marauded out way across the store or neighborhood, fighting, knocking things over, making noise, eating snot, and occasionally shoplifting until Mom finally set sail for home to drop anchor and watch television for the rest of the afternoon. That, to me, was childhood in America. I sorely miss the days when I could crawl inside racks of clothes, pee in the aisles, play with toys, and sing loudly at my local supermarket all without attracting the unwelcome attention of store security. *sigh* You can't go back. My point? Uhh, don't blame the fucking wogs, Americans breed like rats and you know it. ObT: The only good part of the flu epidemic that I've been suffering from for the last week or so is the gristle-like chunks of phlegm that I get to cough up. No mere throat oysters, but actual rubbery knots of chewy organic matter that can be munched and worried for minutes at a time... I enjoy the feeling of flesh-like resiliency between my incisors. -- Rev. Syd Midnight - Remove TREET from address to reply "We've heard that a million monkeys at a million keyboards could produce the complete works of Shakespeare. Now, thanks to the Internet, we know this is not true." -- Robert Wilensky ------------------------------ From alraune@ix.netcom.com Mon Jan 24 19:22:50 2000 From: alraune@ix.netcom.com(Alraune) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: The lowest of the low Date: 25 Jan 2000 03:22:50 GMT Organization: MindSpring Enterprises Lines: 38 Message-ID: <86j4ua$4ke$1@nntp9.atl.mindspring.net> References: <388d1182.15116801@news.transport.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: cf.5c.bb.b1 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newsfeed.yosemite.net!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!news-FFM2.ecrc.net!news.mindspring.net!newsfeed.mindspring.net!firehose.mindspring.com!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:193706 x-no-archive: yes In <388d1182.15116801@news.transport.com> animediaNO@SPAMtransportlogic.com (Flatus M) writes: > >One aunt and uncle we visit are a hard working, devout couple. She is >an RN, and perhaps saw too much suffering and decided to bring home >strays. The last is literally a crack baby, born addicted and having >had a stroke in utero. ... One side is paralyzed, with his hand >retracted like a biped dinosaur. The installation where I used to work has a thlid working there. He has short, stubby arms with short, stumpy fingers. Those that work with him call him T-Rex. ObT: I wore my Obituary t-shirt to work today, and one of the supervisors started to break my balls about it. The front of the shirt has a great illo of zombies and the band's logo, and the back has "Back From the Dead" in Fifties horror-comic lettering. I told her that I had a friend who was a coroner's assistant, and that I had given him one but they wouldn't let him wear it at work. She suggested that I might find driving a meat-wagon a more rewarding career than my current occupation. I doubted that it probably wouldn't pay as well, but she told me I'd finally be doing something I enjoyed. I decided to fuck with her, and said "Yeah, you know, I'd like that. Maybe I'd meet a nice girl...." She looked at me with dawning horror and choked out, "But she'd be...DEAD!" I gave her Joe E. Brown's immortal line from 'Some Like It Hot'... "Well. nobody's perfect!" They didn't get Lenny Bruce either, when he was alive. So I've got psychological testing scheduled for Wednesday morning. My dog told me to take my guns in to work tomorrow and make the piggies squeal. Wee-wee-wee! Alraune ------------------------------ From syd@treetnls.net Tue Jan 25 20:59:31 2000 Message-ID: <388E7D72.2778F0E4@nls.net> From: syd@treetnls.net Organization: http://www.nls.net/mp/syd X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.7 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Learning disabilities of the rich References: <87wvp9ofed.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <948146691.443514@news.satanic.org> <860f5n$pfq$1@delphi.ridgenet.net> <3887C3AD.42E049BE@fuckyou.co.uk> <9e5k8sk2dv0etl38e3ch2366s0lsv47i4h@4ax.com> <87901fa1gf.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 29 Date: Wed, 26 Jan 2000 04:59:31 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.144.10.82 X-Trace: news.onlynews.com 948862771 216.144.10.82 (Tue, 25 Jan 2000 20:59:31 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 25 Jan 2000 20:59:31 PST Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!awabi.library.ucla.edu!128.32.206.55!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!news.sanjose1.Level3.net!Level3!news.onlynews.com!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:193836 Acetylcholinesterase Inhibitor wrote: > > stephenwells@deathtospam.hotmail.com (Stephen) writes: > > Probably back before humans were recognisably human; bonobo chimps (our > > closest cousin species) happily go in for pretty much all forms of > > stimulation that don't require technology. > > I remember some report on chimp behavior noting that when you > introduce female chimps to a mirror, it takes them a minute or so to > get the idea of what it is (most animals never figure out what a > mirror does). The next thing they do is turn around and use it to > look at their twats, for quite a long time. > > "So that's how it works!" I'm getting pretty pissed off at people.... chimps behave exactly the way that humans would behave if it weren't for civilization. This becomes really sad when civilization fucks people up so bad that a chimpanzee will take a mirror and examine her cunt for an hour or so and figure out how it works, but a fucking human will go through puberty, 2 joyless marriages, religious counciling, expensive therapy, and a "Healing Workshop" before doing the same thing. -- Rev. Syd Midnight - Remove TREET from address to reply "We've heard that a million monkeys at a million keyboards could produce the complete works of Shakespeare. Now, thanks to the Internet, we know this is not true." -- Robert Wilensky ------------------------------ From syd@treetnls.net Tue Jan 25 21:59:46 2000 Message-ID: <388E8B91.DA08847D@nls.net> From: syd@treetnls.net Organization: http://www.nls.net/mp/syd X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.7 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: What Would Tommy Do? References: <38872B72.6926@fuckyou.trash.co.uk> <86bo3p$dfe$1@bertrand.ccs.carleton.ca> <388ad88f.148036183@news.mindspring.com> <86cnp5$rn3$1@nntp2.atl.mindspring.net> <388D2525.E53844EF@home.com> <01bf66c9$66dd44e0$4d2e63c3@default> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 32 Date: Wed, 26 Jan 2000 05:59:46 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.144.10.82 X-Trace: news.onlynews.com 948866386 216.144.10.82 (Tue, 25 Jan 2000 21:59:46 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 25 Jan 2000 21:59:46 PST Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news.sanjose1.Level3.net!Level3!news.onlynews.com!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:193841 Big Al wrote: > > > ObT: Since as of 2 days ago I don't have a boyfriend to keep me > clean via his ministrations, today was the first manual > smegma-clearout in 48 hours. You poor, uncut lug... I imagine you'd work it into your schedule the way firemen clean the truck every evening when they have nothing better to do and nothing exciting is happening... now's a good time to play little games, glue on craft store plastic "googly eyes", draw on it with a felt tip pen... I've been single, bitter and lonely for so long that I have no sympathy, but as a Man of the Cloth I try to rise above my petty selfish concerns and aid others. So you're single. And you're a guy. Date your penis for a few days. Rent it a good porno movie. Set tomorrow aside to date yourself. It can be fun being pathetically lonely... concoct a fantasy date where you buy yourself a good meal, get yourself drunk, and violate yourself into the wee hours. Best part is that you don't have to kick anyone out the next day! Buy your dick a bottle of some fancy good smelling skin softening cream shit, wrap a hair band around it, put a picture on the web. This is a trying and vulnerable time. We're here for you. -- Rev. Syd Midnight - Remove TREET from address to reply "We've heard that a million monkeys at a million keyboards could produce the complete works of Shakespeare. Now, thanks to the Internet, we know this is not true." -- Robert Wilensky ------------------------------ From sharv98@yahoo.com Thu Jan 27 18:55:30 2000 From: Sharv Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Discovery - the final mission Date: 28 Jan 2000 02:55:30 GMT Organization: Burpleson AFB Lines: 36 Message-ID: <86r0f2$5m8$1@eve.enteract.com> References: <01bf67bc$69da73e0$c2b801d5@default> <1e505nl.1p2527f1wv9okmN%no_recall@amnesia.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 207.229.143.41 User-Agent: tin/pre-1.4-19990624 ("Dawnrazor") (UNIX) (FreeBSD/3.3-STABLE (i386)) Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!hermes.visi.com!news-out.visi.com!newsfeed.enteract.com!news.enteract.com!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:194019 Tina Marie wrote: > forgetting to take out the one I was already wearing. It pushed > the string inside, so I didn't realize what I had done until a few > weeks later, when things got a bit, um, unpleasently smelly. ^^^^^ A few weeks! Holy Christ! I know they're cotton or asbestos or some combination thereof, but can't ya *feel* them things? I've never owned a cooter (rented 'em by the hour, but that's not what I'm talking about), but I like to think that if I had something wedged into a body cavity I'd be able to tell. Tell all; Dr. Proctalgia, feel free to jump in here as well. What's the symptom that eventually gets you to the emergency room? The smell? Is there a slime problem? Is there ever a dim realization of, "Oh shit, there's something jammed in my crotch and now it's festering?" Did you first try to remove it yourself, using a variety of tools and kitchen utensils? Did your dad wonder why you were heading into the bathroom carrying his needle-nosed pliers? Or is it just a general sense that something's gone Terribly Wrong down there, leaving it for the poor on-call physicians like Doc P to peer in there with a speculum and a Mag-Lite in order to see what's what? For the medicos in the group, how hard is it to give the "You gotta remember to take these things OUT" lecture while keeping a straight face? Morbid fascination indeed. -Sharv -- "Sometimes, alone in my cell at night, I'd say the word softly to myself. 'Sociopath.' Calling on the ice god to come into my soul. Willing to be anything but afraid all the time." -- Andrew Vachss, "Blue Belle" ------------------------------ From no_recall@amnesia.com Fri Jan 28 02:52:46 2000 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Discovery - the final mission From: no_recall@amnesia.com (Proctalgia) Message-ID: <1e53uh3.1t8k4g4u676jqN%no_recall@amnesia.com> References: <386a2ea2.5041286@news.mindspring.com> <84aifk$8tb$1@nntp1.atl.mindspring.net> <3874cff5.46346897@news.mindspring.com> <84akk8$3na$1@nntp3.atl.mindspring.net> <386D08E1.4E4BC891@egg.chips.and.spam.com> <388dd829.0@news.ivm.net> <01bf67bc$69da73e0$c2b801d5@default> <1e505nl.1p2527f1wv9okmN%no_recall@amnesia.com> <86r0f2$5m8$1@eve.enteract.com> X-Face: S4d\!Wo`O84`p wrote: > I know they're cotton or asbestos or some combination thereof, but can't > ya *feel* them things? I've never owned a cooter (rented 'em by the hour, > but that's not what I'm talking about), but I like to think that if I had > something wedged into a body cavity I'd be able to tell. > The smell is something to be experienced; it's beyond me to describe the awful rotting stench. Girls say that they smell bad to the extent that everywhere they go people not only notice, but also comment to them. (old UK ad campaign in the sixties for toothpaste to freshen breath - "It's something only your best friend can tell you...") They start to bath several times a day, but only to find the smell is back within minutes. Gangrene and decayed bodies have nothing on this. Ever smelt the dental floss after cleaning out a bit of rotting meat from between your teeth? Multiply it several orders of magnitude. The discharge is like green/brown granular diarrhoea, slightly less creamy than coliform pus. And no, they don't know there's anything there by physical sensation. If left alone there is a high chance of progression to fever, rigors, scarlet fever-like rash, septicaemia and death. > > For the medicos in the group, how hard is it to give the "You gotta > remember to take these things OUT" lecture while keeping a straight face? Dunno, I wear a gas mask, so it doesn't matter. -- C. ------------------------------ From nospamvanderbilt_1975@yahoo.com Sat Jan 29 15:54:27 2000 From: Vanderbilt Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Another tragic "student-athlete" victimized by society (news) Message-ID: References: X-Newsreader: Forte Agent 1.6/32.525 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 51 Date: Sat, 29 Jan 2000 14:54:27 -0800 NNTP-Posting-Host: 63.194.212.108 X-Complaints-To: abuse@pacbell.net X-Trace: nnrp1-w.snfc21.pbi.net 949186281 63.194.212.108 (Sat, 29 Jan 2000 14:51:21 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 29 Jan 2000 14:51:21 PST Organization: SBC Internet Services Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!cyclone.swbell.net!nnrp1-w.snfc21.pbi.net.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:194126 On Thu, 27 Jan 2000 16:44:11 GMT, "feersum_drd_not" wrote: > But when it was time to rob the store, only Williams got out of >Martinez's Mazda 626, according to witnesses. Williams was wearing a >dark-colored baseball cap; an orange ski mask with only his eyes, nose and >mouth protruding; sunglasses; and gloves. He was carrying a bag with a >Marlboro logo. > Inside were Sowell and her husband, Allen Sowell, who own the store, and >another couple who were friends. > Williams entered the store, walked up to the counter and put a >.22-caliber pistol in Pam Sowell's face. > "He said, 'Give me the money,' and he shook the gun," Prosecuting >Attorney Lona McCastlain said. "Pam bent over as if she was getting the >money but she came up with a gun." > In fact, Sowell came up with a Ruger semiautomatic .40-caliber pistol >capable of holding five rounds. Only one round would be spent. > Sowell, whom authorities said is right-handed, had the gun in her left >hand. "She shot him in the chest, in the heart, once," McCastlain said. Woman I went to college with worked the graveyard shift at the local 7-11. One night a guy came in, wandered around and came up to the register with a basket of crap. Eggs. Milk. Bread. Magazines. Cheese. Beer. Cling peaches. Penis. <> Yes, Mr. Dumbshit had opened his pants, whipped his tool out and laid it on the counter with his groceries. Then he leered at her. Without missing a beat, my schoolmate grabbed the can of cling peaches and smacked it down on the exposed pecker. Our Hero crumbled to the floor in abject pain. Best part is that my classmate called the emergency room at the hospital, which was literally across the street. Guys come with the stretcher, load Crushcock up and then ask, kinda on the way out, what happened? When they were told, one of them laughed so hard he dropped one corner and the dude fell out. Broke an arm. True story. Vanderbilt --- "Well, I wouldn't know, considering I've not graduated yet. But I do know that being the color guard commander my sophomore year and drill team commander my junior and senior years is definitely going to look good on my college applications." Alison Holbach ------------------------------ From stephenwells@deathtospam.hotmail.com Sat Jan 29 15:04:33 2000 From: stephenwells@deathtospam.hotmail.com (Stephen) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: I _am_ art. Date: Sat, 29 Jan 2000 23:04:33 +0000 Organization: Cambridge Lines: 11 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: mac015.joh.cam.ac.uk Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newsfeed.yosemite.net!news-out.cwix.com!newsfeed.cwix.com!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!tank.news.pipex.net!pipex!server1.netnews.ja.net!pegasus.csx.cam.ac.uk!mac015.joh.cam.ac.uk!user Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:194129 Yesterday, by what, with hindsight, was a carefully calculated training program- involving excessive exercise (hours of fencing and kendo) with too little water intake, plus consumption of homemade curry- I managed to shit yellow and piss brown. That is a very scary thing to see when it's late and you're tired and drunk, but now pride is burgeoning within me. If I can duplicate this feat I think I'll go in for modern art. Gilbert and George- move over. -- Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas - Virgil. ------------------------------ From ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com Thu Jan 06 10:51:04 2000 From: ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com (JustmeĻ) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: The Armchair Antagonist (Was: Re: Resolutions?) Date: Thu, 6 Jan 2000 13:51:04 -0500 Organization: Miss Manners School of Proper Posting Lines: 72 Message-ID: References: <38723ba8.8309573@news> <386f93be.14943282@news> <84pufq$vsu$1@nnrp1.deja.com> <38742791.166575373@news1.attglobal.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: p-509.newsdawg.com X-Newsreader: Anawave Gravity v2.00 X-no-archive: yes X-Ginny: unforgettable X-Ordination: Universal Life Church X-Reverend: Reverend Ginny Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newspump.monmouth.com!newspeer.monmouth.com!newsfeed.direct.ca!su-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!pln-w!spln!extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!news1 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:191917 I saw this stuff written by sprog69@hotmail.com in article <38742791.166575373@news1.attglobal.net>, and like, I just HAD to answer, ya know?: > On Wed, 05 Jan 2000 11:29:48 GMT, Pooh Bear wrote: > > >BTW, do you think that all eating disorders are fictitious excuses made > >up by the weak? Like epilepsy? > > When was the last time you heard a big, fat, African refugee at the > back of the food queue saying 'I just don't understand it. Must be my > hormones.'? > > I have no idea how epilepsy can be compared to a TOTAL LACK OF SELF-CONTROL AND IGNORANCE ABOUT PROPER NUTRITION, but let's continue the line of thought that says, "I don't eat but one tiny lettuce leaf a day; that's my one meal a day, and yet I weigh 450 pounds! I can't help it! Accept me as I am, I'm not a glutton, I've got a medical condition!" I weighed slightly over 220 pounds two years ago. I swore, I had only one meal a day, and yet I couldn't shake the fat. I would "diet," I would "exercise," and yet, I stayed fat. I got a clue, and lost 72 pounds as a result, and have kept it off for a year. Here's that clue; ready?: Clue: YOUR SNACKS COUNT AS CALORIE INTAKE. That hard candy you stole off the secretary's desk counted. That full-sized bag of Fritos you ate in the car on the way home counted. The Snickers bar that called out to you in the checkout line counted, and all that "tasting" of the meals you cook to test for proper seasoning count--fuck, I "tasted" enough while cooking family dinners to qualify as an entire meal. And then, I ate an entire meal. Your salad is not diet if you toss on bacon bits and grated cheese and croutons and heavy salad dressing. Your yogurt is not diet if there are granola, cookie bits or sugar sprinkles to mix in; your cottage cheese is not diet if it is not low-fat, with no sweetened fruit additives. And if your one meal is a huge plateful of high-fat, high-carb, high-calorie food, you may as well just slather it on your fat ass and thighs honey, because that's exactly where it's going to wind up anyway. A fat person can lie to themselves all they want, but know this: when you lie to yourself about your food intake, a formerly fat person knows you're lying. A thin person knows you're lying. And most importantly, your overworked scale knows you're lying. You really want to lose weight? Eat less. You don't need pills, shakes, clubs, special meals or support groups; you need to CLOSE YOUR FUCKIN' PIE HOLE AND EAT LESS FOOD! Save some food for those Starvin' Marvins out there who really _do_ only get one fuckin' meal a day, fer crissakes! ObT: considering cross-posting this to alt.fat.acceptance ObReallyT: Being too chickenshit, out of fear one of them will find and sit on me, crushing me to death. ObHahahaha: I lost weight at the same time I quit a pack and a half a day cigarette habit. If you think that's easy, _you_ fuckin' try it. Neener, neener. --Ginny "Die screaming." --Jonathan Blaque, Message-ID: ------------------------------ From noahnoothing@yahoo.com Sat Jan 08 10:58:27 2000 From: "Noah Noothing" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: All in the (Tardly) family Lines: 31 X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2314.1300 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2314.1300 Message-ID: <0OLd4.11016$Lf2.295441@news6.giganews.com> NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 08 Jan 2000 12:59:08 CST Organization: Giganews.Com - Premium News Outsourcing X-Trace: sv2-uo6dGuVw8dS1n2dMH1YMI3M0FfdkjCaYQa5nz3rtF45h1R82c/3if9452KfeVXSf8BLm058A1pF+wfN!aC5hM52tG+w= X-Complaints-To: abuse@GigaNews.Com X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers X-Abuse-Info: Otherwise we will be unable to process your complaint properly Date: Sat, 8 Jan 2000 12:58:27 -0600 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.cwix.com!nntp2.giganews.com!news6.giganews.com.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:192121 Got a referral to evaluate a tard for institutionalization the other day. The family scenario was just lovely. The person being referred was a tard, but could talk and wipe his own ass. Living with him at home was his mother and "uncle". Mom was also a tard, but couldn't speak much and obviously could not wipe her own ass. The uncle was an alleged family member who had been taking care of the two for about 20 years. It was obvious that uncle was getting some benefit from this, as the son-tard kept referring to how much his uncle charged for fixing meals, cleaning the house, buying groceries, etc. Whenever such statements were made, the uncle would just go "Ssshh" and then shake his head and say, "The boy jus' ain' in his right min'." Anyway, we had gone through the IQ evaluations and were discussion behavior problems. Uncle had indicated that son-tard could get hostile and aggressive, particularly towards mom-tard. This went on for a few minutes, and then I asked if there was anything else. The uncle replied, "Oh yeah, the boy fucks his momma." The uncle described that, whenever son-tard got the chance, it was time to have a go at momma. It was clear that uncle knew a lot about the situation, as he described basic fucking, as well as anal and oral. When asked if he did anything about this, he replied, "Well, his momma don' seem ta min' an' I gotta go to work." All of this was discussed by uncle in a "hurry up I want to go home and drink" tone of voice. Noah ObT: Vision of uncle, mom-tard, and son-tard all greased up on the linoleum bathroom floor and having a poke or a lick at whatever hole was handy. ------------------------------ From sharv98@yahoo.com Sat Jan 08 07:35:40 2000 From: Sharv Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Time To Relocate (long) Date: 8 Jan 2000 15:35:40 GMT Organization: Burpleson AFB Lines: 105 Message-ID: <857lgc$c8a$1@eve.enteract.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 207.229.143.40 User-Agent: tin/pre-1.4-19990624 ("Dawnrazor") (UNIX) (FreeBSD/3.3-STABLE (i386)) Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.enteract.com!news.enteract.com!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:192098 For those of you who don't know, I live in the suburbs of Chicago, in a town which typically generates impressed looks; our town prides itself on beautifully landscaped acre-plus lots, with immense 15-room houses. Our cars are usually expensive imports, our children are well-scrubbed and clothed from head to toe in Gap and Old Navy. However, there is one small outpost of squalor in the town, a rambling apartment complex on the north end of town. I live here. On good days, I think of this place as a wonderful ethnic melting pot, like Hell's Kitchen. On bad days, I just sneer at all these fucking filthy people and wish I lived elsewhere. Last night was one of those nights. I'd been out for a few pints of beer and tottered home at about midnight. I'd just taken a leak and a couple Tylenol and flopped into bed when The Commotion started. I have the mixed blessing of having a ground-floor apartment with windows that face the parking lot. Comes in handy when moving furniture or carrying in cases of beer, but occasionally noisy. So there I am, stretched out, watching a little television at midnight when I begin to hear raised voices outside my bedroom window. Like any good snoop, I hit the mute button and listen. It doesn't take long for me to realize that the voices have a decidedly, shall we say, African-American accent. Fuck. I know who this is. On the other side of the building, thankfully not sharing a wall with me, lives a stereotypically rotund black woman and her equally bloated son, who's probably 12 or 13. She's loud. And annoying. I was standing in the central laundry room, throwing all my junk mail in the trash before heading back in, when I first encountered them. They had just walked the 50 yards from the parking lot and were wheezing like emphysema patients. Fucking pathetic. I'm no model of conditioning, but I can walk from my car to my couch without running out of breath. Back to last night. I snap off the television and lay in the dark, listening. I can't hear too clearly, but I hear a dark male voice shouting words like "bitch", "woman" and what I think was "nigger ho". The woman's voice was less clear, but I did hear a cry of "somebody call the PO-leece!". I can hear footsteps in the Korean's apartment upstairs. Fucking filthy people. I padded to the front door and peered, bravely, through the spyhole. I see the woman grabbing the broom the old lady across the way uses to sweep leaves off her doormat. She brandishes it and heads out of sight. I hustle into the spare bedroom I use as an office and peer out. I see the fat kid standing in the parking lot. A car backs out of a space as Mama chugs out with the broom. She starts screaming something unintelligble and starts smashing out the tail lights on the car, as best she can without getting run down. Remember that she's not exactly a model of athletic grace. It looked like she got a few good smacks in before screeching "motherfucker!" at the top of her impressive lungs and throwing the broom onto the trunk of the car. I wish I could tell you guys that the car in question was a yellow 1972 Cadillac, but it looked like some kind of later-model Olds or Pontiac. The guy in the car punched the pedal on his four-cylinder, hoping, I'm sure, for a dramatic peel-out. No such luck. He did, however, manage to hit a patch of ice on his way out of the parking lot and slide into a landscaping barrier of railroad ties. Fucking filthy people. I keep watching. The woman stands and screams at the departing car for a few more moments. The son, who's wheezing from the combination of exertion and adrenaline, suddenly starts throwing up. On the side of someone's car. The excitement nearly over, she pats the still-heaving son on the back and begins to head in, still ranting in a far-too-loud voice. I walked over and opened my door. They stopped and looked at me. "Put the broom back where you found it," I said. I got wide-eyed stares like you only see in old Three Stooges skits. "Put it back, it's not yours." She opened her mouth to go off on the big white guy, standing in the doorway in his underwear, probably looking monumentally pissed off. "Put it back, or I will call the police," I said, and shut the door. She sent the kid waddling back to get the broom out of the middle of the parking lot. He put it back and flipped me off through the keyhole. I thought about calling the police anyway, but instead I just got a beer and went back to bed. Fucking filthy people. I need to move into the proper part of town. -Sharv -- "Twentieth Century American history is the story of bad white men, soldiers of fortune, shakedown artists, extortionists, legbreakers. The lowest level implementors of public policy. Men who are often toadies of right wing regimes. Men who are racists. Men who are homophobes. These are my guys. These are the guys that I embrace. These are the guys that I empathise with. These are the guys that I love. " -- James Ellroy ------------------------------ From robfarm@bellsouth.net Tue Feb 01 03:51:06 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!newsfeed.direct.ca!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.atl.bellsouth.net.MISMATCH!newsfeed.atl!news2.atl.POSTED!not-for-mail Message-ID: <3896BA9A.9DDF2C7F@bellsouth.net> From: Robinson X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.6 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Free speech until you dare to exercise the right References: <388c7ed4.7315659@news> <388bfcc3.9804529@news.transport.com> <38921508.34585602@news> <87ya9eqawh.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <38905448.1627247@news> <1e58tl9.ywnx6x13af1yoN%cscm@edgenet.net> <3896b4f7.1074295@news> <875ctm$u7s$1@nntp5.atl.mindspring.net> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 70 Date: Tue, 01 Feb 2000 05:51:06 -0500 NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.214.72.152 X-Trace: news2.atl 949402017 209.214.72.152 (Tue, 01 Feb 2000 05:46:57 EST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 01 Feb 2000 05:46:57 EST Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:194277 Michael Cogan wrote: > > In today's news from my end of the continent is that baseball player who > does not love New York. > He has been suspended for telling it like it is about some of my fellow > citizens (not me of course) Yup. The illustrious John Rocker, closer for the Ratlanta Braves. He was interviewed for the 12/22/99 issue of Sports Illustrated, and when asked if he'd ever play for New York, had this to say: "I would retire first...Imagine having to take the [Number] 7 train to the ballpark, looking like you're [riding through] Beirut next to some kid with purple hair next to some queer with AIDS right next to some dude who just got out of jail for the fourth time right next to some 20-year-old mom with four kids." Does anyone deny such a ridership exists? Asked about NYC itself: "The biggest thing I don't like about New York are the foreigners. I'm not a very big fan of foreigners. You can walk an entire block in Times Square and not hear anybody speaking English. Asians and Koreans and Vietnamese and Indians and Russians and Spanish people and everything up there. How the hell did they get in this country?" Again--is this a fallacy? And a couple of comments about Ratlanta drivers: "So many dumb asses don't know how to drive in this town." "...Look! Look at this idiot! I guarantee you she's a Japanese woman." A beige Toyota is jerking from lane to lane. The woman at the wheel is white. "How bad are Asian women at driving?" I can personally testify to the veracity of these two statements. You can check out the article yourself at http://cnnsi.com/features/cover/news/1999/12/22/rocker/ Now for myself, I don't have a problem with a damn thing he said. He is simply saying out loud what most people are too candy-assed to say, but what they're thinking. The article makes a big deal out of him saying "Fuck" while driving--hell, they oughtta drive with ME and listen to the "nigger nigger nigger" song I sing when I'm cut off by some glubdamn Loqueesha who immediately drops her speed to 20 mph on the fucking interstate. I imagine every veteran of big city driving has less than PC statements and pet phrases for their fellow drivers. This guy's only problem is he actually thought he could say exactly what he thought. And to a *reporter*, no less. Chalk it up to being a young idiot. But suspension? Please. This country is so in-the-grip of the Thumper the Rabbit mentality ("If you can't say anything nice...") that we have turned into a mass of seething, vanilla blobs with vanilla tastes, vanilla lives, and vanilla desires. Our souls are being sapped by "What did you learn today?" and "Play nice now". Would our forefathers even recognize us? I think not. No, John Rocker should be held up as a symbol of courage, of an unwillingness to play the PC game, of loyalty to his own thoughts, ideas, and beliefs. What a pity that freedom of speech really means freedom of speech only if you don't say anything with teeth. ObT: someone hiding a tape recorder in Jesse Jackson's car and recording his comments during afternoon rush hour in Ratlanta. Lorri Speaking freely ------------------------------ From stevem@shore.net Wed Feb 02 20:21:06 2000 From: stevem@shore.net (The Carrot) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The story of Pisspot Organization: Uboat Commanders Anonymous X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.92.6+ Lines: 121 Message-ID: Date: Thu, 03 Feb 2000 03:21:06 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 204.167.109.93 X-Complaints-To: abuse@shore.net X-Trace: news.shore.net 949548066 204.167.109.93 (Wed, 02 Feb 2000 22:21:06 EST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 02 Feb 2000 22:21:06 EST Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newspump.monmouth.com!newspeer.monmouth.com!news.shore.net!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:194443 I woke up this morning, turned off the alarm clock, stumbled into the bathroom and took that satisfying first piss of the day. My urine was a thick yellow color, the type that you get when youâve had too much hard liquor and not enough water the night before. You know how certain smells can trigger memories? Well, the smell of my golden nectar triggered a right powerful flashback. I remembered the name of the girl who used to regularly piss herself in second grade; Dawn K. When I say 'regularly' I mean at least twice a week. For this she earned the everlasting nickname of "Pisspot". It always seemed to happen when we were being given a quiz. Mrs Smith, our psychotic second grade teacher, would hand out a quiz. Mrs Smith was a bad teacher, the sort of teacher who hates children. Sheâd pound her shoe on her desk, Nikita Kruschev style, to gain our attention. The old bitch hated us and we hated her to the point where weâd stick out our tongues at her when she wasnât looking. There would be total silence as our little developing brains worked on difficult problems such as the sum of two plus two, questions like "What is this shape called?", or the intricate task of sneakily copying your classmate's answers. The silence would be broken by an incredible gushing sound as Dawn voided her bladder, the sound of the urine splashing onto the floor followed by the sound of her crying. They were veritable buckets of urine, too, not just a few drops, so my guess would be that Dawn was afraid to use the girls' bathroom at school and stretched her bladder to the breaking point. The volume of pee was so large that there was an audible 'splash!' as it hit the floor. After the accident Dawn would sit in her freshly moistened chair and cry, drops of urine falling onto the expanding puddle under her, while the rest of us just stared...we were too afraid of Mrs Smith to openly laugh and would wait until she'd escorted Dawn out of the room, at which point the classroom would fill with peals of laughter. Tom the Perverted Janitor (who, it seemed, was always 'accidently' bursting into the bathroom stall when you were taking a dump) would drag his mop and pail into the room and mop the pee off of the wooden floor, mumbling under his breath. ("Hey Pisspot, are you afraid of the toilet? Hahaha!!!") Of course, Dawn would go to the girls' room after each of these incidents to remove her wet underwear. She was never sent home, though, and would sit in the often-overheated classroom for the rest of the day, smelling of stale urine. ("Hey Pisspot, you smell like pee! Hahaha!!!") The old chairs and desks we had were made of wood, and were often cracked, so Dawn's urine soaked into the wood itself. One day during indoor recess my friend Brian made a show of sniffing the wooden seat of Dawn's chair. "Smells like pee", he said, and we all laughed. Dawn, of course, just cringed in the corner, pretending to read a book and not saying a word. ("Hey Pisspot, your chair smells like pee! Hahaha!!!") As an aside, I should tell you now that Brian went on to marry the first girl he had sex with after he impregnated her at age 17, went on to have *seven* children total, and was arrested the day after the death of his mother for...you guessed it...sniffing a little girl's ass in the restroom of a McDonald's in Lowell. Like nobody saw THAT coming, right? In an act of pure poetic justice, the little girl's father dragged Brian's unconscious body into the police station after he'd administered the required beating. You can fuck a Puerto Rican guy's wife, mother and sister, sometimes right in front of them, but God help you if you touch their kids. I have no idea how Brian fared in prison, but I remember him as being a survivor type, so I'm sure he's learned to take it up the ass really, really well. Now, as in most cases involving social outcasts, there's a rather sad ending to this story. Dawn was given the nickname "PissPot" by her understanding and sensitive classmates (I voted for "Pissy Pants" but was overruled, my first heady experience in democracy). This nickname stuck with her until high school even though she stopped wetting herself in public sometime during third grade. She eventually dropped out of high school, married the guy who knocked her up, squeaked out a few more brats, bought a house three blocks from the house she grew up in, and used to call the police on a regular basis when her less-than-sober husband would beat her to within an inch of her life. Did he beat the piss out of her? I dunno. I always harbored the rather dark suspicion that he'd beat her because sheâd urinated on the kitchen floor, afraid to go to the bathroom because she feared his reaction if dinner were late. Eventually she divorced the guy and she and her kids now live with her elderly mother in the same run-down home she grew up in. ("Hey Pisspot, does your mother wet her pants too? Hahaha!!!") I donât usually see her out and about. Sheâs become somewhat of an exile in her own hometown, unable to leave her mother and her children, unable to afford to move just one stinking town over and start fresh, somewhere where nobody would ever know that she had bladder control problems in second grade. The only time I ever saw her in a bar was about a year ago, drinking by herself, and even though itâs been over 25 years I still found myself snickering as I watched her hurry to the ladiesâ room. Such is the power of adolescent scapegoating, huh? ("Hey Pisspot, didja wear your boots so your socks donât get wet?!? Hahaha!!!) Given the amount of mental torture that had been inflicted on her ("Hey Pisspot, is it gonna rain in your pants today? Hahaha!!!) I suspect that her dysfunctional, tragic life was probably a foregone conclusion. Sometimes I wonder what might have happened to her if she'd had better bladder control; would her hellish school life (imagine being 13 and being called PissPot every day) have been different? Certainly her self-esteem would be higher. Would she have amounted to something more than another faceless overweight breeder? If I called her now, would she be willing to piss on me as a prelude to perverted, evil, Hitler-style sex? Did she ever consider a career in European porn? I don't know the answer to those questions, either, but I do know this: if I ever have kids, the first time one of them pisses his or her pants I'm gonna tell them this little story and nip the problem right in the bud. So anyway, that's the memory that got triggered by the stench of my morning urine. - The Carrot ------------------------------ From robfarm@bellsouth.net Thu Feb 03 03:39:25 2000 Message-ID: <38995ADD.419F3E18@bellsouth.net> From: Robinson X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.6 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Operation: Root Canal Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 138 Date: Thu, 03 Feb 2000 05:39:25 -0500 NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.214.79.61 X-Trace: news1.atl 949574206 209.214.79.61 (Thu, 03 Feb 2000 05:36:46 EST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 03 Feb 2000 05:36:46 EST Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newsfeed.yosemite.net!cyclone.pbi.net!128.230.129.112!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.atl.bellsouth.net.MISMATCH!newsfeed.atl!news1.atl.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:194463 Those of you who compulsively check date stamps on posts may notice that Yours Truly is posting at the somewhat peculiar hour of 05:35 AM EST. While this is not unusual on Thursdays-Saturdays for me, this morning it is: I am the Survivor of A Root Canal. And oh my friends and neighbors, is it letting me know about it NOW. Flashback to Tuesday morning, 9:20 AM. 6 month dental checkup that I had purposely delayed for a year, due to the fact I knew either a RC or an extraction was in my near future. Only reason I went in at this time was that my last flossing dislodged some chunks of enamel from the culprit tooth, which I decided was Most Likely Not A Good Thing. Anyway, Dr. Terror comes in after the cleaning, pokes around, goes "Mmm-hmmm. Mmmm-hmmm....mmm-HMMMM" like fucking Wilson on Home Improvement, and says "Root canal!" in a boyishly cheerful manner. Knowing I had no bargaining power at all, I timidly inquired about the possibility of a simple extraction. "Well, if you want to look like a Waffle House waitress....it's the tooth directly behind your eyetooth." Oh. Okay. Root Canal it is. Paid my bill, came home, immediately started looking up root canals on the 'net. Note that I did NOT request input re: experiences from this lofty forum--I ain't stupid. Most sites reported little or no discomfort, and all stressed PROFOUND numbing of the tooth. Okay. That's acceptable, since my Dental Professional declines to offer nitrous. February 2, 1400 hours. It Is Time. I recline in the chair, get covered with plastic and the little paper bib, and Doc proceeds to profoundly numb my tooth. I am numb from lower left eyelid to lower left lip. My left nostril is numb. My left ear is numb. He could have shot off an M-80 in my mouth and I wouldn't have known. And we begin. I don't know if anyone else here has had a root canal, but basically what happens is the tooth is opened up, and the dentist proceeds to drill, scrape, file, shred, and otherwise remove all the pulp and nerve from the tooth--that would be the LIVE part of your tooth. The sounds in your head are phenomenal. If your doc is good, you shouldn't feel anything. If he isn't, you will be writhing in pain. Luckily my doc is good. Perhaps my statement that we would start by my taking a handful of tender bits, and that every time he hurt me, I'd hurt him made him extremely conscientious regarding adequate anesthetic. At any rate, there was no pain or discomfort at all. I was even humming "City of New Orleans". Until The Probe. What is The Probe? This is a wicked sharp THING that is slid down a freshly drilled out canal to see if they've bottomed out. How do they tell? The patient may "react". Yeah. He slid that damn thing in and I about flew out of that chair with a "ggnnnNANANAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHhhhhh!" He jumped, the nurse jumped, I glared at him. Felt like he'd rammed a hot wire into my jaw and out my sinus. "Oh, you must have felt that. Sorry!" he chirped. "Gnnuuuu GGNNEHH gnaa gnnehhkk gnaaahhh!" I choked out, tears streaming down my cheeks. "Huh?" he asked, looking to the nurse for translation. "You BET I felt that!" she supplied. I growled in my throat at him. He looked shocked and asked if I was growling at him. The nurse said "Yes, I think she is." And snickered. He removed the probe and introduced the hypo with the anesthetic again. Ahhhhh blissful numbitude. I relaxed, the nurse relaxed, doc relaxed (was he worried about his balls? Hope so), and we continued. Finally the rough drilling of the canals was complete, and removal of the pulp by files began. Cute little things, these files, look like transistors and capacitors waiting to be soldered onto a board. They're even more cute when they rasp against tender bits of pulp that haven't died and decayed in your head yet. This entire period was punctuated with small "nnnnn", "gnaaa!" and "ngt!" sounds from The Patient, and "Sorry" responses from Doc. Periodically the canals are rinsed with a hypo filled with an antibacterial cleansing solution--Clorox!! You haven't lived until you smell household bleach in your mouth. (NB: they put a huge latex dental dam around the affected tooth so they don't poison you with the bleach. Mine was neon green. No, I didn't get to take it home.) An hour of scrape, scrape, zzzzzzz, chip, chip, squirt, zzzzzzzz, scrape, "gnaaaa!", scrape. Finally it's time to Measure The Canals. Files are inserted into the canals, and you have X-Ray's taken to see if he's hit bottom yet. Why he hit bottom with the fucking probe but hasn't with the files is beyond me. Whilst preparing for the first set of X-Ray's I comment "gnii'ghh gna gnihhhiihh gnaayyghy". Pardon? Nurse interjects, "I think it's getting a little achey." I look at her with pure dumb gratitude. "No problem! We'll fix that right up!" and in swoops the anesthetic. AAaaaahhhhh..... At last the canals are deemed Complete, and filling of the canals in the now hollowed out tooth shell commences. But first, having somehow devined I am a tasteless individual, Doc inquires if I would like to see my canals. "Gnnuuu gneh!" I reply. So he hands me a mirror, and holds his little dental mirror just right so I can observe the horror he has wreaked upon me. The entire top and tongue side of my tooth is gone. The interior has been drilled down *below* the gumline, and is a peculiar shade of brown. And in that brown field are two tiny black pinpoints--my root canals. He's pointing at them with one of those sharp probes, and I am utterly fascinated. "Ghhoooooolll!" I burble, and we return to the Filling Of The Canals. Gutta-percha, a product of tropical tree sap, is inserted into the canals, and more tiny bits of same are stuffed in around the g-p sticks. This was covered on the websites. What was NOT covered was the fact that, after the g-p is gooshed in there, a sealant is applied and then Dr. Terror heats up a probe over a butane flame and MELTS this shit into your tooth. Smoke and the smell of burnt rubber seep from my mouth--a novel sight and sense. No pain, we are still "profoundly numb". Then a temporary filling containing enough gold to make it a nauseous yellow is squerked around in there, I pay my bill, receive a scrip for hydrocodone (8 tablets, the cheapskate) and sent on my merry way, to return one week hence for creation of a crown. "Pound the ibuprofen!" he yelps cheerily, then turns to his next victim. Felt pretty good until the anesthetic wore off, and my mouth started inquiring exactly WHAT I had done to it. Pounded down 800 mg ibuprofen, ate supper (Jambalaya), and went to bed. Woke up at 11 pm, tooth singing the blues, pounded 800 mg again. Sat up for a few hours, took another 200 mg and a hydrocodone. Went to bed at 2 am. Woke up at 4:45 am, tooth is once again doing it's impresson of The Marathon Man, and it's too damn early to take anything. So I'm sharing this with you and waiting for 6 am. Maybe not particularly tasteless in and of itself, but I'm hoping there are sufficient dental phobics out there that I've made some stomachs turn and balls disappear into abdomens just from the sheer thought of a root canal. At any rate, I've tried. Lorri The Tooth, The Whole Tooth, and Nothing But The Tooth ------------------------------ From sprog69@hotmail.com Fri Feb 04 00:18:22 2000 From: sprog69@hotmail.com (Jack Nolan) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Surrender, you little shit Date: Fri, 04 Feb 2000 07:18:22 GMT Reply-To: sprog69@hotmail.com Message-ID: <389a6937.243206300@news1.attglobal.net> X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.21/32.243 NNTP-Posting-Host: 202.135.84.196 X-Trace: 4 Feb 2000 07:31:28 GMT, 202.135.84.196 Organization: Global Network Services - Remote Access Mail & News Services Lines: 49 X-Complaints-To: abuse@prserv.net Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newsfeed.yosemite.net!news-out.cwix.com!newsfeed.cwix.com!nntp.abs.net!uunet!ffx.uu.net!newsfeed2.us.ibm.net!ibm.net!news1.prserv.net!202.135.84.196 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:194582 Me and the SR lead fairly seperate lives which suits me fine. Rooting LBFMs is great but I don't want a fucking conversation about it. Just as long as she rolls over and sleeps in the wet patch, I am a happy bunny. So it was not unusual this morning when she wandered in at 9:00 am demanding a fuck. Well, she's been on blob all week and, as she doesn't want anything up the baby chute in _that_ time of the month, she was feeling fairly horney. Made an excuse about needing a piss first so that I wipe the Canestan off. Yup, thrush again. I'd like to report that I got it whoring in Angeles but it was probably the result of some amoxycillin I was taking while whoring in Angeles. Anyway, it serves no purpose to let the SR know about it 'cos she always assumes the worse and there's knives in the apartment. Pretty vanilla sex, I'm afraid. She dropped a porno into the VCR and chomped on the choad for a while before I dumped a load into her tight little shaved pussy. Ahh, Asia. Recently had the liquishits. Not worth reporting, of course, it's just something you've got to live with here. Anyway, it's the way you know you've had a good Indian. Pretty much cleared up now but the current status is a regular morning load of fairly soft, dense stuff that sinks straight to the bottom and kinda sits there looking at ya. Morning ablutions rarely vary. Turn on the shower to let the water heat up, have a dump and get into the shower without flushing ('cos the water pressure drop while the toilet refills makes the water cold) or wiping. Two reasons for the latter. With all the dumping going on, it's not long before you wipe your ringpiece clean off with the scratchy paper. Secondly, you can work your arsehole up into a lovely brown lather with the soap in the shower afterwards. This morning I got out of the shower and was just about to flush when something stopped me. Seems that a long glob of undelivered spunk had fallen off the end of my cock and somehow gotten caught up in one of the turds. There it sat, one end held down by shit, the other end floating on the surface looking to all intends and purposes like the shit had raised a white flag in surrender. From what, I do not know. Anyway, I gave them a short reprieve by not flushing until after I cleaned my teeth while admiring the handywork. I imagined the turds looking up with big brown doe eyes pleading that they should not be flushed out into Manila Bay where the other big bully turds would gang up on them and make them do unspeakable acts before being greedily munched up by whatever sea life manages to survive out there. ObT: I know, not that tasteless. How about this: Fucking white women. Man, you can keep 'em. ------------------------------ From thehalls@ridgecrest.ca.us Mon Jan 31 23:48:47 2000 From: thehalls@ridgecrest.ca.us (Dave/Kristin Hall) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: So, hate spam, do ya? Date: 1 Feb 2000 06:48:47 GMT Organization: We're Disorganized! Lines: 57 Message-ID: <875vkf$ub1$1@delphi.ridgenet.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: owens.ridgenet.net X-Newsreader: TIN [UNIX 1.3 950824BETA PL0] Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!hermes.visi.com!news-out.visi.com!cam-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!lsanca1-snf1!news.gtei.net!delphi.ridgenet.net!owens!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:194264 Chain letters. We've all seen them. They flood our inbox, collectively bog down the network, and generally annoy us in ways we often find difficult to describe. And yet, I'm here to discuss a chain letter I received via email on Friday, January 7, 2000. But I assure you, you will not find my discussion annoying. Quite the opposite! The letter started out like any other letter, promising wonderful things will happen to you if you will only have the wisdom to forward it on to all your friends. Ah, heck, rather than paraphrase the whole thing, let me just quote you the first few lines of it... > The following is NOT I repeat is NOT a joke. A friend of mine, > Brent Hendricks, received a check from AOL for $5,756.44 and a > check from Intel for $2,345.99. He has also received free clothes > from the GAP and a free car from GM. He is one lucking guy!! I am > passing this on so I can collect some FREE MONEY!!! ...You get the picture, I'm sure. So what's so notable about this? Not a darn thing - yet. Before I can explain to you what is so notable about this chain letter I should also quote the last, almost predictable line of the chain letter. > Try it, what have you got to lose???? Well, what do you have to lose in forwarding a chain letter? Not much, really. Electrons are pretty cheap and it only takes a few seconds to do the deed. I mean, if it actually cost the individual money to forward such a letter, then most of them would be nipped in the bud. Ever notice that chain letters in the "real" world are few and far between? Forwarding requires real stamps and that requires real money! So when it comes to an electronic chain letter we're back to the question, "What have you got to lose????" A lot, it turns out. You can imagine my glee when on Monday, January 10, 2000, I received the following email as a company-wide broadcast. Well, OK, I'm not going to spam you with the whole email, just the good parts... > Regarding the 'Keep your fingers crossed' electronic chain letter > that's being circulated: > > The sender is from [company/division deleted]. The [company] > Information System Security Manager has already taken action. The > sender's email account has been revoked and his employment will be > terminated at once. ..."What have you got to loose?" How about your job you miserable spamming piece of crap! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!! Yours in eternal mirth, David Hall Ridgecrest, CA ------------------------------ From enoid801@omit.home.com Thu Feb 10 21:57:11 2000 From: enoid801@omit.home.com (Citizen Ted) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Love Story (or: A Valentine for My Nurzy) Message-ID: <38a796b8.12640821@news> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent .99g/32.339 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 560 Date: Fri, 11 Feb 2000 04:57:11 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.7.140.142 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.sttls1.wa.home.com 950245031 24.7.140.142 (Thu, 10 Feb 2000 20:57:11 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 10 Feb 2000 20:57:11 PST Organization: @Home Network Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newsfeed.yosemite.net!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!howland.erols.net!newshub2.home.com!news.home.com!news1.sttls1.wa.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:195180 The dripping noise was really starting to bug me. I could swear it had stopped, but as I strained my ears to the edge of perception, hunting for the sound, it would return again. It might not have been so irritating, but the drips sounded like they were falling a great distance into a metal pan of some kind, perhaps a bucket beneath a leaky pipe; I did not know. You really take your freedom for granted, and you never miss it more than when you're strapped down to a metal gurney, stark naked, in a cold windowless room. It doesn't help when you're in a distant city, far from home, with no idea of what time it is and what's going to happen next... When you're limited like that - gagged, half-blindfolded, handcuffed and strapped down - your mind plays little games to burn through the minutes and rise above all the discomfort. You can spend untold hours sucking on your cotton gag, pretending that your saliva is cutting through the fabric, or flexing and unflexing your muscles to the beat of a song flowing through your head. You need something - anything - to keep it together for another few minutes. But that goddamn dripping sounds just pull you right back out again, dousing you like a cold shower, reminding you again that you are in a dimly lit, moist room where every clank of your cuffs against the metal gurney echoes lifelessly around the cement walls. Any warm, safe place you may have constructed in your head gets dematerialized by the insistent ping sounds in the corner of the room. In your head you play over and over the short drama of getting off the gurney and putting a goddamn towel underneath the leaky pipe. But like an amputee who feels his missing limb, your dreamlike repair job is little more than a tantalizing chimera. Yet another subtle torture to add to the minutes. And the minutes tick by as slowly as any minutes have ever ticked by. Musings about the perception of time become laughable in retrospect: 30-minute sitcoms, 10-minute drives and 2-minute eggs are mere moments compared to the agony of fifteen successive seconds in this state. It's almost like sensory deprivation, only you have all your senses and all of the deprivation. Even prison isn't this bad. What? What was that? Did I hear something? Was it me? Shhhhhh. Don't make a noise. Did you hear that? My God, the skin on my neck is sore from craning my head to the side over and over again. Was that something? I swear, I heard... Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping! Oh, I can't fucking stand it anymore! My wrists are aching! Get me off! My neck skin stings! Get me off! I'm naked and cold! I don't want to do this anymore! Please, get me offa this thing! Please! PLEASE!!! PLEASE!!!!!!!!! Blowing cheeks full of anguish into my gag won't do very much. My muffled cries just thud uselessly into the ceiling. Now my heart is racing, and I feel even worse than I did before I became upset. Didn't I just do this fifteen minutes ago? Or was it an hour and fifteen minutes ago? I just don't know... *I like the taste of my gag. I think it's a red bandanna. It's a red raspberry bandanna, and I like it.* I think a bead of sweat just rolled off my forehead. *Did you ever hear Jackie Gleason's "Melancholy Serenade"? It's brilliant. I like it when I'm sad, not because it cheers me up, but because it reminds me that sadness spans the generations.* But it's not very catchy. I also like Blue Oyster Cult's "Veteran of Psychic Wars". It has a drum beat that repeats throughout, and a distant, bittersweet melody. I can tap the drumbeat with my handcuffs. And the words compare the search for love to a mortal battle. It's a common theme, but BOC handles it well. It was in the movie "Heavy Metal". Remember it? I can tap the beat onto the gurney. Hear that? That's life, echoing in my room. It's power. "Please, don't let these shakes go on. It's time we had a break from it..." I can still see, you know. My blindfold is white, and the bridge of my nose affords me a belly-eye view of everything around me. I'm sure it's daytime. Things are mostly white. My gurney is shiny. It reflects. My naked body has warmed up the metal close to me, but I get a cool pressing against my flesh whenever I shift around to soothe my aches. I should stop doing that. It's cold and I don't like it. Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping! Those goddamn drips again! What the fuck? Who runs this place? I bet somebody pays the water bill around here, and I doubt very much they'd appreciate the fact that this goes on and on, 24 hours a day, with no relief in sight. I'd never let this happen at my house. Geez, I just hate people. So goddamn inconsiderate. You always kinda hope that maybe just once somebody would have their shit together and give you a goddamn break - Oh, thank GOD! FOOTSTEPS! I can hear the door opening! Oh, man, I thought this moment would never come! To hear even one harbinger of my eventual release was a blessed occasion. Anything to take my mind off the drips and the aches. I could feel a whoosh of warm air as the door slowly pulled itself shut behind the entrant. Beneath my gag, I smiled. Whew! I tilted my head back as far as it would go so I could get a belly-eye view of my visitor. Of course, I knew who it was, but seeing is believing. I could hear the telltale scrunch of polyester and the diminutive clicking footfalls of a woman. They looped around and over my head, then stopped in the corner of the room. I saw nothing. I wanted to mumble through my gag, to make friendly contact, but for some reason I remained silent. I guess I was just happy that my ordeal was ending soon and that I wasn't really alone. It was ending soon, wasn't it? She was fiddling away over there in the corner. I could hear her run a hand through her hair, then sigh slightly. Her hands were working quickly on something. I could hear deft fingers manipulating, grasping and handling things. Some of things made a slight clink noise at she laid them down, but I think she was trying to mask much of the noise she might create. Swift motions were followed with slow, deliberate moves to carefully set something down. She was trying to fool me. She moved to my left, then I heard rolling wheels go into motion. They squeaked and grunted as she put some oomph into pushing her cart toward me. Suddenly, there was a raucous cacophony that nearly sent me flying out of my skin! "SHIT!" she said, as her cart wheels rammed into an obstacle on the cement floor. The cart banged loudly, causing a series of jolting, crashing noises as her instruments jumped up then clattered back down onto her metal cart. The shimmering, tingling noises echoed mercilessly around the room, shattering the quiet and putting a fear in me that ran up and down my spine like an electric shock, sending shivers up my nerves that tickled all the way to my extremities. "SHIT! SHIT!" She spoke to me! My love spoke to me! Her words were harsh, but I could detect that soft feminine inflection in her voice. Oh, yes! It was her, my beloved Nurzy, and she spoke to me! Or did she? Was she just speaking to the room? Am I really alone, dreaming this? Oh, no. Don't think it! This *must* be real! This must be happening! I couldn't stand it if I was to wake up, alone in this goddamn - "Are you ready, Teddy?" She spoke! She addressed me! My Nurzy spoke to me. She wants me! Not only is she going to save me from all this, but she's going to fuck me and hold me and suck me and touch me! I've been delivered from purgatory into the arms of an angel, a prodigal Teddy awash in the arms of his love... "This will only hurt a whole lot, I promise." Um, can we talk about this? I started to hum a few words through my gag. I knew that no English could escape, so I merely inserted an interrogatory tone, with a higher pitch on the end. I'd been a good boy. I see no reason for anything rash... I heard the scrunching of her hospital scrubs as she picked up a tool and came to my bedside. As she approached, I could feel the warmth of her form and smell the details of her being: her deodorant, her leather shoes, her bar soap - the sweat between her breasts. Somewhere deep down in that package was a mound, too. I couldn't smell it, but I know it tasted great, and I wanted to eat it. "Don't get any ideas, Teddy." Oh, oh, oh! It was like a wash of sensation that crashed over me like a piss-warm ocean wave! Her hand had laid palm-down onto my naked thigh, then slowly slipped down to my inner thigh, and tugged lightly, goading me to spread my legs a bit. With my head bobbing like a cork in her blue seas, I obliged, my manhood almost immediately erect and sporting a glistening drop that wasn't Retsyn. I spread my legs obediently, like a pliant boy opening wide for the sexy dentist. I can do this... The hand left me, and I heard some more clanking noises to my right. Then, without warning, I felt something cruel and cold lap itself right between my buttcheeks. It felt like two ice-cold spoons, splitting my asscrack wide and allowing the cool air to penetrate my colon. Something clicked into place, and I lay there stunned, shocked by the cold, my back arched against the assault as if I had just gotten a deathly Arctic chill... My straps strained to contain my struggling! I cried dully into my gag, but I could offer no resistance. I was wholly chained and unable to wriggle free. A metal speculum had inserted itself several inches into my anus. The thick steel tongs would take a long time to warm from my flesh, and in the meantime I began to feel those seconds slow up all over again. Minutes became unimaginable again. "I bet that feels refreshing, doesn't it Teddy?" Oh, no, it doesn't! I began whimpering into the gag. An involuntary tear welled up in the corner of my eye and spilled sadly down my cheek. Closing my legs did nothing to stem the discomfort. It just outlined in my mind the shape the invasive instrument that had snapped onto my asshole. I had to communicate my discomfort; I had to shout out my "safe" word before things went much further. My failure to make my feelings known RIGHT NOW would surely result in - Suddenly, she was right close to me. She put her face right up to mine, upside-down, her chin at my forehead, my lips near her forehead, her hair tickling my face like a thousand dancing brushes. I could feel warmth pouring off her in radiant pulses. I strained to put my face closer to hers. My lips trembled in anticipation of a kiss. All she needed to do was remove that gag... "You think you know what you want, Teddy, but Nurzy knows better," she whispered. All I could do was urgently grunt into the gag. I had no way to get through...how was I ever going to get her to understand that - She suddenly left my face and began feverishly clanking away at her instruments. My wrists strained at the handcuffs. I pulled my head forward, testing the resolve of my shoulder restraint. I may have pulled an extra millimeter of slack from the buckle, but the restraint held. I wasn't going anywhere. The warm hand returned to my thigh. It was blessed...my cock bobbed in joy! I felt her lightly caress me very slowly, working around one thigh, then to the other. The hand turned over, then slid slowly between my legs. It cupped my inner thigh, and slid slowly up toward my testicles (and the speculum wedged tightly in my asspipe). Then, in a moment that remained frozen for some time, I felt her *lips* touch my exposed thigh! They slid up it, just a bit, then a wet little tongue began flitting out onto my clean skin. Her lower lip dragged down as she moved her mouth even higher, toward my groin. Her hand had now started exploring my other leg, caressing it all the way down past the knee as her hot mouth deposited a warm trail of saliva up my thigh. I was ready to explode now. It was already all worth it. All the anguish, all the unsureness, all the pain. I could die a happy man. I was just hoping it wasn't necessary. It was then that something Bad happened. There was a heartless, steel-cold clanking of metal-on-metal, followed by the zipping sounds of polyester clothing working quickly and efficiently to do some sort of precision work. There was a light tapping sound, then my beloved Nurzy spoke again to me: "I know you're going to love this. So don't pretend otherwise." Stupidly, I was relieved, if only for a moment, foolishly believing (or hoping) that what she said was true, and that I was about to experience a sexual release full of passion and closeness and intimacy. All this preparation had to mean something; my long suffering must somehow be given purpose and value. I felt her warm hand again fondle my naked thigh; I could feel her close to me. Then, suddenly, like a bolt, I felt something extremely rigid, extremely wide and extremely cold thrust itself recklessly right into my asspipe! With nothing but my rectal nerve cells to act as measuring tools, I guessed that the object was a solid metal, perhaps chromed object, shaped roughly like a penis, an inch or so wide and fully smooth along the edges. My sphincter didn't even have time to attempt to contract against the speculum and ward off the invader. It was no use. A giant, chrome cock was being rammed up my ass, and I couldn't do anything to stop it. I felt it reach its hilt about eight or nine inches up my colon, where it tickled the intestinal wall and tried fruitlessly to round the first bend. Rather than enjoying a sexual thrill, I suffered an agony heretofore unknown in my realm of experience. Every muscle in my body rang out in alarm; I strained violently against my restraints and bit down into my gag with crushing force. The metal rape was deep. dispassionate, cruel and all-encompassing. I was utterly blinded by pain, and I could see great shafts of white, wrenching shock pulsating behind my eyeballs. Blood pumped in my ears and a mortal flight instinct veritably tore my psyche in two. There was nothing I could do but take it. I felt the shaft get pulled back a bit, causing some relief, only to be driven home AGAIN with a muscly thrust! I screamed again into my gag, tears now streaming down both sides of my face. I could feel my cock being artificially inflated to full tumescence against my will. I wasn't horny at all; it was merely responding to a primordial reflex of unspeakable origin. The mutinous bastard! The anal attack went on. My beloved Nurz would pull out just a bit, giving me relief, then hammer that fucker home with merciless glee. I could not help but form the mental image of being mounted, missionary-style, but some huge fucking metallic animal. It hand no arms or legs, just a shiny metal cock and an insatiable appetite for my virgin asshole. After several godless minutes of this terror, I felt the invader insinuate itself to the hilt, then droop lifelessly. Though still jammed in tight, there was no longer an intelligence driving it. It was dead. I could not expel it, hard as I tried. The speculum kept my ass open, and the dildo was in way too deep for an easy crap-out. All I could do was lay there, whimpering, trying to wiggle my ass and get the thing out like one of those pasty turds that clings to your ass and just won't let go. I didn't have much time to experiment with achieving victory against the invader. I could hear more scrunching noises, the sound of polyester clothing and human movement. She banged lightly into her metal cart, creating a minor stir. She then came close to me again, and began running her hand through my hair, speaking to me in hushed tones: "There, there, Teddy. You've been a good boy. And good boys get rewards." Oh, man. The only reward I wanted was to get that stuff out of my ass, get off that table and fly back home to Bellingham where I belong. I wasn't asking much... There was no warning when I felt her rub up against me; all I can say was that it was a watershed moment in my life. There, on that horrid gurney, with a metal cock up my ass, I felt the naked flesh of my beloved Nurzy close to me! She leaned against me, and I felt the warm, clean skin of her naked groin press against my upper arm. She crushed into me until I felt her pubic hair, an almost intangible brushing against my shoulder. She writhed a bit, slathering herself sensuously against my arm, shoulder and head. I could smell the light, almost intangible musk of her pussy she rubbed it against my scalp. Then, those magical, roaming hands began drawing all over my chest, skittering across my nipples, zooming down to my groin, then flying back up to my neck. "You have something I need..." She walked over to my side, and that was when she touched me clear down to my soul. With her groin leaning against my naked hip, her hand cupped, then stroked upward on my fully-erect cock in one long, slow movement that pulled my very soul along with it. The pain of the invader in my ass disappeared as she lightly jammed her hand back down to the base of my cock and pulled up again in one long, graceful move. I arched my back to thrust my cock skyward; I felt as if I had become the Earth and my cock was the flagstaff of all nations. The Universe flowed through all time and space and rushed up through my cock as she stroked it. My being was full. Then, I heard a great rustling, and I felt a whoosh of air as Nurzy clambered on board my love ride. She deftly positioned herself over my groin. Her dainty hand took the tip of my cock like the scruff of a kitten, then directed it toward her sopping-wet pussy. I stupidly had a fleeting consideration for the whole gurney just flipping over under the pressure of our weight, but the gurney held up fine, and just as I forgot about my concerns I felt her eat my cock alive with her body! The initial penetration was understandably tentative, but once she got the geometry right, she let her body weight fall right onto the TedChoad. My cock disappeared into a tight, warm quantum universe of sensation. A great wave of relaxation washed over me as she took in my cock to the hilt and beared down on it, pushing herself forward toward my belly to get the entire length within her. My neck relaxed, my head lilted back, and we emitted simultaneous moans of equal timbre. Her hands reached out to my chest, and I gave it to her. She caressed me, then pulled up, and sat back down on me. Gushing walls of pleasure dilated my every pore, and my entire body floated above the gurney, hovering over the axes of my stiff cock, throbbing rectum and caressed chest hairs. She reached behind and cupped my balls in her hot hand as her hips began a slow bolero, with my cock as a dance partner. I willed mightily to free my hands and run them across her flexed thighs, her pulsating belly, her wondrous tits, her bucking hips. But I remained handcuffed, blind and mute; my sole mode of expression was held in my great, hot, cunt-fucking choad. Soon, our fucking started to catch on fire. Her hand left my balls and returned to the dildo. She started to put pressure on it, forcing it back to life within my ass. I responded by bucking my hips upward even harder. She pressed harder. I bucked harder. Pretty soon, she was jamming between my hips like an animal, ripping her pussy lips up and down around my cock like a machine, all the while keeping a steady hand on that dildo. The gurney groaned in synchronicity to our now-violent movements. I could feel warm fluid leaking from her searing hot mound and dripping across my pubic hairs, then sliding down my hips like tears. She grabbed my hair with her free hand and pulled my head forward against the restraints. My ass was thrumming; my head was pounding; my hips were exploding; this was clearly leading somewhere. She leaned forward, and I felt her lower ass cheeks leave my groin just momentarily as she snarled into my face, "Fuck me! You wanted this! Now do it! DO IT! FUCK ME! FUCK ME! FUCK ME! FUCK ME!" As she recited her unholy Litany, I responded by bashing my cock as deep as I could thrust it. She responded by leaning way back and grinding hard into me. Her dildo arm squeezed with all its might to drive that fucker as deep as possible. Her other hand pulled my hair so hard, I felt follicles being pulled from their moorings. From deep inside I felt a beast emerging. It was an antediluvian monster, a demon escaped from my id, ready to pounce in the real world and declare its being in a loud voice... With a soul-tearing, frenzied heave, my demon burst free. My back lifted my beloved Nurzy in the air, and from deep within It came, flying down my spine like a skittering insect, then tickling up my balls and bursting out the tip of my cock like a rain of electricity from a downed power line! As my Nurzy rocked tremulously, I shot gob after gob of hot cum deep inside her, each throb carrying with it a note of exaltation that was echoed on my lips in muted groans of unstoppable ecstasy. My heart was at full gallop, ready to burst from my chest and join my cum as it flied up her welcoming love-hole. As I came, my beloved Nurzy screamed, her voice piercing and urgent, like a woman who had just been stabbed by a stranger in a quiet parking garage. As lightning coursed through me and shot out the tip of my cock, I felt her fall forward and bite me viciously on the neck. I offered her my flesh gladly, my cock still spurting gobs of my essence inside her hot, dripping cunt. She dug in with her teeth, piercing the skin, and holding on as blood oozed slowly from the superficial wounds. Her hips still bucked as each spurt of my cock presented itself, her entire body somewhat frozen in that position, her very being riding atop the tiny fulcrum of my ejaculating penis. As the ejaculation wound down and the blinding white intensity of orgasm settled back down into the blackness of my blindfold, my Nurzy regained her faculties and pulled her bared teeth from my bloody neck, still began squishing her sopping-wet snatch up and down on my retreating cock. I could hear her run her hands through her hair and moan softly, taking her sweet time up there, riding out every bit of my deflation for as long as she could. Eventually, my limp dick all but faded away. She kept it inside her, still grinding her bush into me, hoping somehow that perhaps I would spring back to life. But even the dildo no longer caused any action down there. With a sigh, she pulled it out, and I felt one last gratifying shot of cool air up my ass as my colon closed in the fill the gap left by the retreating invader. The speculum, too, was unsnapped and pulled out. It clanked lifelessly onto the floor, its job now done. As my head lolled in post-coital satisfaction, my Nurzy lifted herself wetly from my groin and clambered back down off the gurney. In her wake, there was nothing cold at all about my metal bed. Everything around me felt warm and inviting, even the handcuffs, that had by now bit heinous gouges into my wrists. I heard her pull on her clothes and shoes, then click-clack across the floor. She pushed her cart of Awful Instruments back into the corner, then click-clacked up my gurney. I heard a jingling sound, and I felt her press a set of handcuff keys into my palm. "Don't drop 'em," she said. Then, she leaned over, moved my gag aside, and put her tongue between my lips, then pressed her lips to mine in a crushing yet tender kiss. "You ain't so bad, Teddy," she said. "Not bad at all." She then turned on her heel and left the room. I felt the woosh of air as the door closed behind her. I fumbled with the keys, and after a bit of struggle, I got them into the lock and popped the cuff free. Within five minutes I was sitting up on the gurney, naked, rubbing my aching wrists and gingerly touching the wound on my neck. I looked around the room. Nothing but cement walls, some pipes, a basement window and a metal cart with surgical tools on it. I was alone, but alive. Very alive. Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping! I merely smiled. It was time to go. The adjacent room had all my clothes and stuff piled onto a thin wooden chair. As I gathered up my things, I reflected on the last 24 hours. I considered the agony and the ecstasy, and the satisfaction of yet another vista conquered - another mountain climbed. Yet, like the others, it would forever be trailing with me like another boxcar on the train of my life experiences. It would make up the patchwork that is Me. Then, it hit me. Her face. Her goddamn face. DAMMIT! - TR - call me Mr. Romance. ------------------------------ From ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com Fri Feb 11 10:00:07 2000 From: ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com (JustmeĻ) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: M-i-c, k-e-y, M-o-u-s-e! Date: Fri, 11 Feb 2000 12:00:07 -0500 Organization: Miss Manners School of Proper Posting Lines: 54 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: p-021.newsdawg.com X-Newsreader: Anawave Gravity v2.00 X-no-archive: yes X-Ginny: unforgettable X-Ordination: Universal Life Church X-Reverend: Reverend Ginny Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newspump.monmouth.com!newspeer.monmouth.com!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!pln-w!spln!extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!news1 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:195211 I have a home office attached to the back of my little rental house. It's really kinda neat, to be albe to report for work in my pajamas, screw my boss on the desk and not be cheating on the husband, etc etc. My office is steps from my kitchen. I discovered mouse shit on my desk recently. It was, humorously enough, sitting right next to my _computer_ mouse. I sprung into action, and peppered the office, kitchen, and hallway in between with glue traps. There is a strip of paper on these glue traps, that has no glue; it's the area of the trap that you're supposed to hold while folding them into sticky little tents of mousie horror. the day after I set the trap, I discovered mouse shit on that paper strip. You read correctly: as I slept, the mouse backed up into that trap, shat, and trotted off in defiance. I stepped up my efforts, and put little dollops of peanut butter on the traps. No deal. Yesterday, while cooking dinner (If you must know, I baked a ham. Suffer, you non-cooking bastards) I saw it: the mouse darted from my refrigerator to the garbage, then back to the fridge. I was incensed. I moved the fridge, but no mouse. I shoved a broom handle under the fridge, under the oven, under the radiator to try to get the little bastard out...nothing. Having seen my prey however, I realized that the cute little tents of sticky mousie death were too small--that mouse shat in it but didn't get caught, probahbly because he was too damn fat to fit inside. I unfolded the trap and laid it flat on the floor. This morning, I got my reward: a still-living mouse, wide-eyed in mousie terror, still trying to pry himself free from the glue. I wondered what I should do with him to kill him humanely; not being able to come up with a fuckin' thing, I simply folded the trap up tightly, and tossed it in the trash. My teenager was horrified at my "heartlessness." I responded that I was considering larger glue traps, to catch the ferrets; perhaps a kid or two. I went off into my impersonation of "the Fly: 'help me, hellp meeee.....' " I wonder when she's callin' PETA. -- --Ginny "I've learned not to put things in my mouth that are bad for me" --Monica Lewinsky discussing weight loss on "Larry King Live" ------------------------------ From ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com Fri Feb 11 14:56:56 2000 From: ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com (JustmeĻ) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: The Darwin Option (was - Re: alt.support.unpc.moderated) Date: Fri, 11 Feb 2000 16:56:56 -0500 Organization: Miss Manners School of Proper Posting Lines: 49 Message-ID: References: <389bebba.35271417@news.mindspring.com> <050220001615552527%ileneb@shore.net> <389ca16f.986598@news.mindspring.com> <87igt2$pap$1@nntp9.atl.mindspring.net> <87lbhi$15s$1@nntp5.atl.mindspring.net> <8807fb$785$1@nntp9.atl.mindspring.net> <881n1v$m4j$1@nnrp1.deja.com> <881odk$nc7$1@nnrp1.deja.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: p-124.newsdawg.com X-Newsreader: Anawave Gravity v2.00 X-no-archive: yes X-Ginny: unforgettable X-Ordination: Universal Life Church X-Reverend: Reverend Ginny Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newsfeed.yosemite.net!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!pln-w!spln!extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!news2 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:195266 I saw this stuff written by hereticfromsf@my-deja.com in article <881odk$nc7$1@nnrp1.deja.com>, and like, I just HAD to answer, ya know?: > Actually, within a generation or two, your DNA is indistinguishable. > > ...and yours, thankfully, will be either a mossy soup in an air-tight box six feet in the fuckin' ground, or ashes in an urn somewhere. Either way, no one will remember you from jack shit then. I, on the other hand, will be remembered for generations: like the pictures of my great grandparents that I show my own children when I share the tales of my ancestors' entry into this country, the historical homes built by my great- grandfather's carpentry company; the things that I've done, the items I've made, the indelible mark I've made in my own family's history will be remembered and passed on. Generations of children will eventually learn my name. if I'm lucky, one or two might even get a second-hand story about something that I did that will add depth, a memory to the name on the family tree. You, on the other hand, will be a mossy soup, rotting in a box somewhere, or ashes in an urn. Forgotten. Insignificant. Alone. Pathetic. As you were in life. So much for foreplay; wanna fuck? --Ginny "You, my dear, are a tasteless twat. Period (no pun). You sell yourself short everytime you dont revel in it...." --Pinhead, via ICQ ------------------------------ From anonymous@cotse.com Sun Feb 13 21:58:56 2000 Date: Sun, 13 Feb 2000 23:58:56 -0500 (EST) Message-ID: <200002140458.XAA22392@cotse.com> From: "Anon" Subject: You sicken me.... Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Organization: Cotse X-Abuse-to: abuse@cotse.com X-Comments: Anonymous mail2news gate web interface - http://packetderm.cotse.com/anonnews.htm. X-Anon: This is an anonymous message, the sender cannot be determined. It did not originate from any address listed in the message. X-Mail-To-News-Contact: abuse@zedz.net Lines: 13 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newspump.monmouth.com!newspeer.monmouth.com!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!su-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!news.alt.net!news.monster.org!sewer-output!mail2news Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:195544 This message was posted anonymously: You people in this group sicken me. You blaspheme against people of faith. You have condemnation of men with family. Some of you say you want sex with the dead. You are wicked and unclean. The Holy Pope of Rome could not save you from hell. Fuck all of you demons. Ravara Stefano wravara@iol.it ------------------------------ From feedback@albertaindependence.com Mon Feb 14 00:15:56 2000 Message-ID: <38A7AB9D.3884A13D@albertaindependence.com> From: Chainer X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.05 [en] (Win95; I) MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The beginning. Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit Lines: 186 Date: Mon, 14 Feb 2000 07:15:56 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 161.184.232.145 X-Trace: news0.telusplanet.net 950512556 161.184.232.145 (Mon, 14 Feb 2000 00:15:56 MST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 14 Feb 2000 00:15:56 MST Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!cyclone.bc.net!newsfeed.telusplanet.net!news0.telusplanet.net.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:195560 The following is a chronicle of a long and holy journey. I have traveled the world far and wide doing the bidding of my master and lord, and now it is time to put these events to scripture. I have been blessed and cursed, tortured and ravished, my task now is to put to paper these experiences to paper in the hopes that more may find the True Path. In this my first sacred testament, I will begin with the turning point in my life that led to my enlightenment. I was wandering filthy and purposeless through the forest. After the nursing home incident, I had decided that an extended camping trip and sabbatical was in order (that fucking bail bondsman chased me halfway across the country). I felt restless and in need of a path. I had enjoyed myself in my special pleasures with animals I had been snaring, but even that was getting old. Now I tramped endlessly seeking a new distraction or oblivion. Suddenly I felt a pull. I cannot explain it, perhaps a sixth sense. Something inside me told me a direction to travel and could not help but follow it. Soon my other more conventional senses began to inform me that I was approaching something special. I could smell the sweet smell of sweat. The sharp odor of many unwashed overexerted bodies. I immediately became aroused and began to stroke my neglected choad as I hiked. I was onto something big! Now I was feeling vibrations in the ground. The very trees around me were quaking and I was hearing panting and wailing noises. I could see an opening in the trees ahead. I dropped to my belly and crawled towards the source of these tantalizing signs. I finally got to the edge, parted a bush and bliss!!! I had stumbled upon one of those hidden fat camps for those rich old obese fucking pigs who canât keep their own filthy blubber down. Thus they pay some nazi-like trainers to starve them and kick their flabby asses into some facsimile of a healthy body. It was Nirvana. They were everywhere, dripping, heaving, panting and crying. On one end of the compound I saw a volley ball court with eight or nine sweating blobs pathetically attempting to jump and attack that hated ball. This was part of the source of the ground shaking. Elsewhere a large group was slaughtering that pathetic Tai-Bo shit to no avail. Another group was sitting in a little sort of outdoor classroom while some little Richard Simmons like faggot was brainwashing them about the evils of fattening foods. The mounds of quivering and suffering flesh were maddening me and I drove my little shit buster into the dirt underneath me in frustration. The sounds, sights and smells nearly drove me into charging into they fray and teaching one of these blobs what kind of workout they deserve. But something held me back. As I fucked the ground a plan started to form. I must be cunning, and stealthy. I will not find an opportunity like this again soon. I memorized the layout of the compound. Watched the routine of the wandering trainers with their smug little smirks. I slowly retreated from this cellulite heaven to get the materials I required. I found a campground with a store a couple of miles away. I was broke as usual, and needed a way to get my supplies. Outside of the little store there was a small puppy tied to a bike rack. A plan formed. About thirty feet behind the building was one of those sani-dumps made for motor homes to dump their shit buildup into. Personally if I was driving a machine with a three-week supply of shit and piss I could come up with more creative ways to dump it but I digress. I released the trusting puppy and led him to the shit-hole. Then while holding his filthy little mouth shut I shoved him ass first into the drain hole. It was a very snug fit and I think I broke a couple of ribs on him. For good measure I snapped the front paws on him with my hands before hightailing it back around the side of the building. He performed excellently. The yelping and almost screaming drew people from all directions. People trying to pull him out by his paws soon discovered the new agony they caused by tugging on his freshly broken appendages and were at a loss. On cue the old bedshitter who was running the store came out to lend his wise hand to this dilemma. It was agony to pull myself from this great scene, but I had bigger fish to fry and time was short. I ran into the store, loaded up on my pre-planned supplies and was back on the road before the crowd even began to bore with poor fido. The next morning I posted myself and waited at the edge of the clearing. Before long I was rewarded by an immense pair of ladies out for a morning stroll discussing their prior nights dreams of food. I could hear their empty stomachs rumbling from my vantage-point. I prepared the bait. Out of my pocket I took a snickers bar and crackled the wrapper. The pigâs highly food-attuned senses tracked the sound immediately and they both stopped while turning their heads on their rolling necks to stare in my direction. I began to unwrap the bar. That was enough. They turned to starboard and began to thunder my way. I turned and ran, making sure to keep close enough to them to track the smell of chocolate, but far enough to keep them from catching me. I could hear the rending of trees as they bulled their path behind me. The excitement of this unique chase was incredible. They were gaining on me, where were these behemoths getting this speed. I finally reached my campsite and collapsed in exhaustion. I pulled three more bars from my pocket and threw them on the ground just as my gals broke through the bush before me. Snorting and diving they both lunged on the exposed treats. Tearing and shrieking they consumed the bars wrappers and all and collapsed into their own piles. I now had time to inspect them more closely. They were exquisite. One was black and the other white. Both were of epic proportions. The sweat gleamed and ran on every part of flesh they had exposed. The black one had a pair of spandex pants on which had a long wet line of perspiration from front to back. The other wore what was left of an undersized pair of shorts which had split during our wild run through the bush. Exposed behind this tattered cloth was a ball of hair which obviously housed a tremendous cunt. The pieces of clitty-litter and other unidentifiable filth showed clearly tangled in the matted knots which clearly had been out of her reach to wash for some years now. The scent emanating from her crotch almost made me faint in lust, my drool now trailed to the ground as did my soon to be lovers. As my beauties regained their strength, I explained the rules of my game to them. They were to fulfill a fantasy for me, and in return I would give them the location of a stash of food I had near their camp. I went into a long tirade of what treats were buried until they begged in agony for me to stop and in a hunger induced delirium, agreed to anything I wanted. I told them I we were going to have a matchless threesome, but to fear not. I will provide treats along the way. I gave them each a rawhide bone to munch on while they rested and went to work on disrobing these creatures. I had to use scissors to cut the clothing away from them as even in my superhuman state of arousal, I could not hope to even turn these monsters over much less stand them up. I cut the camp t-shirt from my chocolate flabby delight first. I peeled two of her stomach folds apart and found a long line of sweat impacted lint along the crease of damp flesh. Swiping this out with my finger I found the taste to be similar to the smell. Sharp and salty as expected. Delightful. She was face down and when my scissors just touched the overextended spandex it exploded in a tearing sound throwing me back three feet in the progress. The rolling chocolate mounds of her ass were exquisite. Like a chocolate pile of formed and folded cottage cheese it called to me. I parted a few folds and finally found the crack to expose her huge starfish. Impacted grogans of all shapes and colors lined the route to her glory hole. I must have been sniffing and licking around down there for almost ten minutes before she grunted and stood up. The other queen was starting to rise too and grow impatient so I moved on. I had us all disrobe our remaining clothing. My dirty little prick was aching for attention but for fear of a premature waste of goo, I ignored him a little longer. It was time to give my white piece of assâs cunt a little attention. From a cooler I had I pulled a jar of cheese whiz and one of those long tootsie rolls. I had them lay next to each other end to end and put my food in place. I shoved the tootsie roll deep into the brillo-pad pubes of my darky until I found the sopping hole and fully inserted the treat. Then I smeared the entire jar of the cheese whiz on the fetid cunt of the great white whale and let them go to town. They both went into a frenzied 69. The cheese was matted and took huge efforts to be licked, and pried loose. The tootsie roll was perfectly hidden in all that dark meat and the white slob had to be satisfied with the melted drippings before finally finding her treasure. The joy I experienced was matchless. Licking their chops the gals finally finished and waited for their next task to earn their hidden food. It was now my turn for some attention. I stood between both of them. I smeared a liberal helping of peanut butter into the crack of my ass and poured some chocolate sauce on my cock. The pale one behind me did not hesitate and started cleaning my crack with enthusiasm. The black bitch waited though. She looked up and said to me ãI will suck that pathetic little honky cock of yours, but if you come in my mouth you are a dead man!ä. Of course I promised I would never even think of coming between her oversized lips. (Yeah right) With both gals at work, I started with my piece-de-resistance. I had shoved links of picked Ukranian sausage up my shitpipe this morning, and now I teased my little pig behind me by pushing the head of one out and quickly sucking it back in. She spotted it and locked onto my shitring with incredible suction. I feared my nigger in the frontâs tongue might get sucked right through my choad and out of my asshole. I felt the sausages give way, one, then two, then three. It was while she was tounging the third sausage when I realized I had only shoved two up there. It was too much for me. I felt the load coming. I was surprised the back of the bitch in front of meâs head didnât blow out from the pressure of my spooge release. She coughed and looked up at me with a snarl. Then she lock her teeth around my left nut and bit for all she was worth. The pain exploded and with all of the sensation I swooned. I saw a bright light, and smelled a rancid indescribable smell. It was overwhelming and I retched immediately. A figure approached from the light. I was in rapture. Could it be?? Coming soon: The Vision. A mission from Glub. ------------------------------ From alany@etrafficers.com Mon Feb 14 16:00:53 2000 From: "Alan Young" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless References: <87ya8q5w24.fsf_-_@blob.ariadne.com><38a68094.98241293@news.mindspring.com> Subject: Re: Airlines Lines: 55 X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2615.200 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2615.200 Message-ID: Date: Mon, 14 Feb 2000 16:00:53 -0700 NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.190.206.46 X-Trace: newsfeed.slurp.net 950569140 216.190.206.46 (Mon, 14 Feb 2000 16:59:00 CDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 14 Feb 2000 16:59:00 CDT Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newspump.monmouth.com!newspeer.monmouth.com!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.slurp.net!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:195629 > I have to say that the worst thing that can happen (OK: one of the > slightly bad things that can happen, as it's not as bad as being > terrorised, crashing or burning, or finding that your seat mate's a > Jehovah's Witness) is children on planes. They get over excited, run up > and down, shout, and if they didn't fly then the inflight movie could be > something other than 'jingle all the way'. > 10 hour plane flights are bad enough as it is :-) Hey! I pay full-fucking-fare for my children. We still get treated like shit. I took my son on a business trip recently (he's 5). Recently, we've been talking about dieing and what happens to you when you die. My wife hates it, thinks it's too early, but hell, he's asking. Putting him off will just make his *very* fertile imagination run wild. He's also made the connection that, among other things, plane (and other vehicular) crashes aren't a "good thing" Anyway ... We hit some turbulence on the way back. My son, all happy and excited and bouncy shouts "Are we gonna crash and die Daddy! Are we huh? huh? Are we gonna see what really happens like you were telling me? Wheeeee! This is just like a roller coaster ride! Can we do it again? Are we gonna fall out of the sky? Are we gonna land on anyone! Are they gonna die too?" At this point 3 or 4 other passengers are rolling. The rest are gripping the edges of their seats, albino white and looking like they want to puke. By the time the steward came up to tell me to control my brat I was so red in the face (from holding the laughter in and embarrassment) that she asked me if I was all right and that I should lose my temper with the child ... "he's only a child after all" ... shit. At this point my son stopped and looked thoughtful ... and said, in those resounding whispers that only a child can manage, "Daddy, are we gonna go *SPLAT* like that kitty I dropped of the barn roof? Cool!" At which point I lost it. The lady sitting next to us demanded a new seat and I got a stern talking to after we landed about controlling my children and teaching them proper respect for potentially dangerous situations. Bite me. On the way home he said he was disappointed that we hadn't gone splat, but that "mommy and baby would miss us, huh?" I solemnly agreed and he said "Well, let's take everybody! Then we can all go splat!" Kids. Wonderfully tasteless if raised correctly. Alan ------------------------------ From deliverer@netscape.net Mon Feb 14 23:13:57 2000 From: Deliverer Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: In Loving Memory of Charles Schulz Organization: Temple of Good and Evil Message-ID: <76rhas4crbam6dh35lqj01kgdq79ikn7ur@4ax.com> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent 1.7/32.534 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 26 Date: Tue, 15 Feb 2000 00:13:57 -0600 NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.145.177.180 X-Complaints-To: abuse@alpha.net X-Trace: homer.alpha.net 950595238 216.145.177.180 (Tue, 15 Feb 2000 00:13:58 CST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 15 Feb 2000 00:13:58 CST Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newspump.monmouth.com!newspeer.monmouth.com!hermes.visi.com!news-out.visi.com!newspump.sol.net!news.execpc.com!newspeer.sol.net!homer.alpha.net!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:195681 Hey bastards, bitches, big titted fuckdolls! Eddie here! The cartoonist who bored us all to death with Peanut for 50 years heart quit pumping Geritol through his hardened old arteries. I propose like the kind hearted and sympathetic guy that I am that we pay tribute to Charles Schulz. I'm going to do my part by fucking a stuffed Snoopy doll while listening to some Beethoven and watching a video of Ronald Reagan's colon operation. Later, I'll eat some fudge from a colostomy bag and think of whether that little redhaired girl spits or swallows and what Lucy's tits would have looked like if Charlie had the balls to draw them. If I have the energy after my grieving, I'll wank while thinking of Peppermint Patty and Marcie in a hot and sweaty 69. Eddie Chuckie, we hardly knew you. ------------------------------ From ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com Tue Feb 15 10:51:27 2000 From: ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com (JustmeĻ) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Oh-my-G--A-A-A-A-W-D!!!! Date: Tue, 15 Feb 2000 12:51:27 -0500 Organization: Miss Manners School of Proper Posting Lines: 63 Message-ID: References: <887le0$jul$1@nntp4.atl.mindspring.net> <887prq$a1e$1@nntp2.atl.mindspring.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: p-682.newsdawg.com X-Newsreader: Anawave Gravity v2.00 X-no-archive: yes X-Ginny: unforgettable X-Ordination: Universal Life Church X-Reverend: Reverend Ginny Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!pln-w!spln!extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!news2 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:195716 I saw this stuff written by blaque@my-deja.com in article , and like, I just HAD to answer, ya know?: > > ObNearwidow: It's getting tougher and tougher to fantasize > about tongue-bathing your asshole every day when all I've > got is your GIF for wankfuel. > > What say you send along those dirty panties... > > You may be confusing her about the type of panties that you require; she may not know which ones to send. There are so many different kinds of dirty panties that can be produced by the same woman, you see: --First, there's the run of the mill panties; just a whiff of minky in `em, with no discernable markings in the lining of the crotch. --The "I need sex" panties have a much stronger musk to them; if they were worn during an entire day without sexual release, the possibility exists that they'd be *soaking* when peeled off; by the time they got to you through the Yoo Ess mail, there would be a nice scratch-n-sniff _crust_ formed on the liner. --The "morning after" panties would have a distinctive smell, and a definite crust as well: whatever didn't get washed out from the evening before--whatever spoo was busily hunting up ovaries last night, and so out of reach when washing up--would have sloughed off, then out of the minky. Take care--not don't put your nose _too_ close to these panties, because another man's spoo has been mixed into the cotton/poly blend. Get too used to that strange yet distinctive man-musk, and before you know it, you're writing lust letters to Lincard. --The "oops, I shoulda worn a panti-liner" panties have those rust-reddish stains that only a light smattering of menstrual blood can provide. Mixed in is the snot-like droppings sloughed out from the minky having been ready, willing, and able to procreate in the days preceeding the mentrual mess. --The "dammit, I should worn a maxipad" panties have pronounced blood stains that only extra-heavy menstrual spillage or homicide can provide. --The "maybe you should wash your fuckin' hands before diddling me next time" panties have a faint odor of yeast about them. --The "damn, WTF did I eat?" panties have crap track marks on them. Produced by excess flatulence, very few women would be brave enough to actually send them to an admirer. Of course, here in AT, if you're going to send the panties, you may as well send the best, so... --The "back door's knockin' " panties have the slight musk of spoo..in the ass- crack track markings. (This would be from a lady after your own heart, I'd wager.) There are many more subtle types of panties, Vommy; but you get my drift: specifics, man. Us ladies need specifics. --Ginny "I've learned not to put things in my mouth that are bad for me" --Monica Lewinsky discussing weight loss on "Larry King Live" ------------------------------ From alraune@ix.netcom.com Thu Feb 17 17:48:44 2000 From: alraune@ix.netcom.com(Alraune) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: The American way of death Date: 18 Feb 2000 00:48:44 GMT Organization: MindSpring Enterprises Lines: 73 Message-ID: <88i4tc$dpr$1@nntp8.atl.mindspring.net> References: <20000207162055.98868.qmail@hotmail.com> <0ccf8535.5712859b@usw-ex0106-047.remarq.com> <389F5AFD.BA7755A3@cable.a2000.nl> <87g0uxrwqf.fsf_-_@blob.ariadne.com> <38a72539.7499118@news.ecis.com> <38A76897.5839@fuckyou.trash.co.uk> NNTP-Posting-Host: cf.5c.bb.8a Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newsfeed.yosemite.net!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!news-FFM2.ecrc.net!news.mindspring.net!newsfeed.mindspring.net!firehose.mindspring.com!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:196025 x-no-archive: yes In <38A76897.5839@fuckyou.trash.co.uk> GRay writes: > >> I like to think that aters are the ones who did all of those >> nasty things kids are supposed to get into trouble over and >> *didn't* get caught. Presumably intelligence makes one a less >> likely target for Darwinization. > >Happiness is statuate of limitations. I had a friend who set a tree right next to the school on fire because he knew the vice-principal would come out on the patio to take control of the situation. This was a concrete deck with a railing some eight to ten feet above ground at that spot. When Monkey Boy mad an appearance, my pal ran around the side of the buikding with a fire extinguisher and put out the fire, at the same time covering the principal with fire-retardent foam. And he didn't get in any trouble, because nobody could prove it wasn't an accident, or that he had started the fire. My buddy went on to run a stable of exotic dancers in the D.C. Metro area. The going rate was $300 buck an hour, and that was just to dance. As he put it, "I've got girls that dance, and girls that don't dance." When a friend of ours was having his bachelor party, they asked for a little discount, he told them that all his girls are independent contractors, and he only provides transportation and security for the 'hos. What they choose to do and charge was entirely up to them. ObT: I still have a plexiglass knuckleduster that he made in shop class by gluing sheets together and cutting it out on the band saw, then sanding the rough edges down. It has four studs over the knuckles, made by drilling out holes and gluing round pieces of plastic into them. Altogether it's a splendid piece of work, undetectable by metal detector, and he sold it to me for two bucks. I found out why a while later, when I used it on a jig that tried to rob me in the fields behind the Glenmont Shopping Center (now a Metro station). He was alone, and back then only the cops had guns. I got threatened with an aluminum baseball bat once (by white guys from another school), but I never looked down the barrel of a gun until I hit South Carolina. Anyway, Lancelot Link went down like yo mama, but I almost broke my fuckin' fingers from the shock of hitting the plastic. I kicked him in the balls once (Flashman would have approved, I'm sure), and lost myself on the other side of Randolph Road, putting a police station and a fire station between my and my new friend. I never saw him again, he must have gone to the other high school in the area. Could have even been a big junior high schooler, those schvuggies grow like tumors on Charles Schultz's colon. Not that there weren't enough niggers at my own school, even twenty years ago. I bet it looks like Mogagoddamdishu there by now. A note to Scott Hochstetler...say, wasn't your Dad on Hogan's Heroes? Since I'm not posting from work, I still have the First Amendment right to say whatever I fucking well please. And if that's not enough, I still have the Second Amendment right to bear arms. Got a problem with that, you fucking rat bastard? You know what we would do to you if we were in prison, bitch? We'd slit your mouth on both sides so you would look like fuckin Pagliacci for the rest of your like, then we'd pass you around like the flu until your asshole's big enough to smuggle a French baguette. And that's just on the first day... Alraune Every prison that men build Is built with bricks of shame And bound with chains lest Christ should see How men their brothers maim. Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of Reading Gaol ------------------------------ From syd@TREETnls.net Thu Feb 17 22:26:05 2000 Message-ID: <38ACD827.E4390CB@nls.net> From: "Rev. Syd Midnight" Organization: http://www.nls.net/mp/syd X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.7 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: My New Urban Pastime References: <38ac6ebe.265577640@news.sonic.net> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit Lines: 48 Date: Fri, 18 Feb 2000 05:26:05 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.144.10.62 X-Trace: news1.onlynews.com 950851565 216.144.10.62 (Thu, 17 Feb 2000 21:26:05 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 17 Feb 2000 21:26:05 PST Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newspump.monmouth.com!newspeer.monmouth.com!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!news.sanjose1.Level3.net!Level3!news1.onlynews.com!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:196048 Big Nick wrote: > > I have a use for them. Remember "road sign bingo" when you were a kid, > where you had bingo cards with various street signs on them, and > whenever someone saw one of the signs, they'd call it out? Must be an AWFUL lot of bums around there, I've never seen them concentrated enough to be able to play sign bingo. I'm pretty free with what little money I have, and I'm not adverse to sharing with the slightly less fortunate. But I make them earn, and I only pay the ones who earn. Just asking for a handout gets nothing. Neither does a clichŽ like "Spare change? My kids are hungry." Well, if they're hungry enough, they'll perform. Cons only get paid if it's a particularly innovative beg or if it survives a severe cross examination. "I'll call the cops, they'll help." weeds out the weak performers. I met one guy who was trying to sell a pack of cigarettes, said he needed money right now so bad he was selling his smokes. That's the spirit! I gave him a few bucks, he probably made a fortune. Near the top of my list are the ones who actually work. Sometimes going to a concert in the "flats" you'll come upon an enterprising gentleman who is directing traffic near the parking lots. He'll stake out a piece of free parking, and direct someone over. I rewarded him with a couple of bucks, since he'd saved me $6 at a parking lot. Another bought M&Ms and sold them at a profit, but he boot-lickingly flattered his customers. He kept telling the girl I was with that we should be dating, I gave him $5. But my very favorite are the ones who beg while I'm drunk... I'll offer them $2 a minute to act like an ass, sing, dance, etc. "That's $120 an hour, best job you'll ever have!" Of course, I'll usually leaving a concert, and am broke. But always thoughtful, I'll give them some matches or rubber bands or whatever I have in my pocket. Ungrateful bastards. ObT: City Bingo is a grand pastime. It should be easy to come up with 20 or 30 categories in a decent urban environment: "Work for Food" Signs, Police Cars in Pursuit, Pile of Vomit, Act of Crime, Hooker, Gunshot, Street Lunatic, Used Rubber, Woman with 5 or More Kids, Drunk, Arrest in Progress, Rat, Pack of Gangstas, Urinating Man, Domestic Dispute, Crack Dealer, etc... -- Rev. Syd Midnight - Remove TREET from address to reply * Spam Accounts Killed: 3 Thanks to http://www.spamcop.net ! * "We're all Bozos on this bus / This bus is off to war." -- Firesign Theatre ------------------------------ From enoid801@omit.home.com Fri Feb 18 23:38:32 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!yellow.newsread.com!netaxs.com!newsread.com!nntp.primenet.com!nntp.gctr.net!howland.erols.net!newshub2.home.com!news.home.com!news1.sttls1.wa.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: enoid801@omit.home.com (Citizen Ted) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Lorne Makes a Boo-Boo (Warning: Limited Tasteless Content) Message-ID: <38af3a70.10562131@news> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent .99g/32.339 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 296 Date: Sat, 19 Feb 2000 06:38:32 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.7.140.142 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.sttls1.wa.home.com 950942312 24.7.140.142 (Fri, 18 Feb 2000 22:38:32 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 18 Feb 2000 22:38:32 PST Organization: @Home Network Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:196230 Greetings, all! As some of you know, I have been regaling the world with stories of my Jersey buddy Lorne. The stories started in the Cult of Father Darwin listserv, then moved to this illustrious forum. There have not been any additions since the "Petroleum Pups" story a few years ago. This is the first Lorne-related Lorne Chronicle in some time. So pull up a chair, fire up a few one-hits, crack a beer and prepare yourself for yet another descent into Lornedom. (note: you can check out the complete Lorne Chronicles at: http://members.home.net/enoid801 click on Lorne Chronicles) ***Lorne Makes a Boo-Boo*** Lorne, I have long asserted, defies Darwin. By any reasonable standard, Lorne should be dead, jailed or both. Yet this crazed, vicious, drunken bastard continues to walk among us, free to belch, swear, gesticulate, cast horrid aspersions and denigrate minorities. Lorne Lives. I'm planning a trip to New Jersey this June. I wanted to see my old friends, fuck a few of the female ones, and relive some of my former glory as fodder for a book I'm writing. Since I'll only have about 5 days to run around drinking in all the local color and interviewing my friends, I'll need a car. It seems foolish to waste money on a rental. My friends have cars. Lorne, in particular, has cars. So I instructed my sweetie Karen to tell Lorne that I need a car - a *good* car - in June. I fully expect to cruise around Jersey in a reasonably clean '72 Buick or '66 GTO. You can keep your '99 fucking Ford Taurus rental. Please. Word got around - Face (my former nickname) is coming home. And he needs a car. Tonite, I got a call from Lorne. After asking me how many black dicks I sucked at work today to get my $40, he told me that he would have a car for me in June. It's a '76 Pontiac Grand Prix. Not my first choice, but it's a runner, and it's free. Oh, and one thing: it needs some work, but it should be ready to go by June. "Work?" I asked. "What kind of work?" Well, I had to ask. I always have to ask. Lorne proceeded to back up and tell me the whole story. I surreptitiously took keen notes as he rattled off the story in classic high-speed Jersey syllables, interspersed with enough "F" words to shame the most vocal New York Rangers fan. We now go back to mid-November, 1999. Although the Earth was preparing for a new millennium, life for Lorne had essentially stood still. He drinks at the same bars, has the same friends, same job and same hobby - American heavies and muscle cars. He was hanging out with his buddy Turner, smoking dope and drinking beer. Lots of beer. (Turner was once a true wildman - wilder than Lorne by far. He just wasn't ever as LUCKY as Lorne). The two men got respectably drunk while tinkering with Turner's current collection of classic GM Works in Progress. It got late, and Lorne decided it was time to take the Grand Prix home. Ever the thoughtful drunk driver, Lorne took the quiet side streets, obeying every traffic law and puttering innocently through rainy Sayreville like an old uncle driving home from the hardware store. After 23 moving violations, well over 30 car wrecks and enough accumulated points on his license to put five men on the bus permanently, Lorne has learned to take it easy when driving drunk. Darwin can only be slapped so many times before he starts slapping back... So, he made it to his street without incident, proving once again that the community benefits from cautious drunk driving. Well, actually, he didn't quite make it, and the community didn't really benefit. Lorne has developed a little ritual whenever he arrives home late at night. Rather than casually pull into the driveway, he likes to goose the engine a bit just before getting to his house. He does this to make his presence known to his wife and neighbors - Lorne is home! - and to entertain himself. He just loves the guttural BWAAAA of a quickly opening engine. It's an aesthetic thing. So, as he cornered toward his house, he gave the gas pedal a manly hammer. Now, the rain had just started falling, and in New Jersey, whenever the rain begins, oil is leeched into the streets from the huge volume of poorly-maintained vehicles that clog every artery and residential street. Lorne knows this, but he didn't think too hard about it that night. As he gunned the engine, he expected an inspiring whine and maybe a chirp from the rear tires. Instead, the entire car spun out of control. His brakes had little effect on the slick macadam, and the Grand Prix proceeded to bash headlong into his neighbor's parked Nissan. The Pontiac smashed into the broadside of the Nissan, hooking into the bodywork. yanking the car out of its spot and hurling it some 20 feet down the road. There was a sickening crunch and the sound of shattered glass as Lorne cringed in horror. He fucked up, again. As pieces of molding clinked uselessly to the pavement, Lorne got out of the Pontiac to inspect the damage. It didn't look good. His neighbor's quarter panel, door and fender were horribly mangled, and the side window was shattered. Other than that, though, it looked pretty good, considering. The Pontiac had sustained a wrenching dent on the front bumper, a shattered headlight housing and some impact dents to the fender. In all, no big deal. Lorne sized up the situation. He could easily just park the Pontiac at Turner's, do a quick fix, and leave his neighbor, Colleen, to her own devices. After all, it was 3am, he was completely drunk, his insurance was already unbearable and he had enough of a violation record with the local police to be considered a living institution. This would not help. But yea, though Lorne may be a cretin, a vagabond and a troglodyte, he was still a man of Honor. He shook the tremors from his back and knocked on Colleen's door. It took some serious pounding to rouse her from a deep sleep and come to the door. She was understandably nonplussed to see her "colorful" neighbor on her porch at 3am. When he explained to her that he had hit her car accidently, she told him to forget about it and talk to her in the morning. Living next door to Lorne desensitizes a person to what others might call an "emergency". "Uh, I think you'll want to see this, actually," Lorne said. Despite her groans, he coaxed her to come outside into the rain and inspect the situation. She was almost - but not quite - astonished by what she saw. The entire driver's side of her car was pretty much demolished. "How in the HELL did you do this?" she exclaimed. (Lorne's street is a quiet, narrow side street with a 25 mph limit). He proceeded to tell her something about oil in the road and poor public lighting and the rascally nature of the Pontiac suspension and every other thing you could possibly tell someone whose car you just trashed. She could tell Lorne was a bit tipsy, if not somewhat blotto, in fact. Lorne wasn't quite sure how she'd handle this. So, rather than let her dictate terms, Lorne got fast on his feet. He assured her that his insurance was not only in force, but that due to his spotty record he was required to carry huge policies on every car he drove. He convinced her that everything would be made right, and that if they wanted the police in on this, they would both be up till 6am filling out reports, and that he would have a tough time making good on his promises from the drunk tank. Sleepy and cold, she told him to come by in the morning and sort it out. He parked the Pontiac and creeped inside his house, falling quickly asleep. Next morning, he awoke with a terrific hangover. His head throbbed. Did that actually happen last night? No way. It was a dream. Had to be. He stumbled out into the light, only to see Colleen's car laying pathetically against the curb. It's metal skin was all crumpled, a window blown out and two of the wheels bent against the curb. It was real, alright. Lorne knocked on her door again and started sorting out the mess. He contacted his insurance agent, and had her car towed away to a repair shop. Of course, Lorne's insurance agency was expecting his call; they have several employees whose careers are dedicated solely to Lorne and his exploits. Colleen's car was towed away, and she was provided with a suitable rental car. 44 days later, her car was returned, with $5200 worth of work to make it straight and shiny, not to mention a hefty $4000 car rental bill paid in full. Lorne's insurance agency proceeded to dump him like a wet bag of cement. After all the moving violations, DUI's, frantic phone calls, cabinets of paperwork and heaps upon heaps of mangled metal, they had had enough. They told him to seek coverage elsewhere. And this, my friends, is where the story turns fully, and reveals to the reader the astounding powers that Lorne possesses. For after he was dumped by his insurance agency, he merely applied to another one, and received the coverage he required with ease - there was no public record of the "accident"! That brings about full repulsion of all Darwinian laws. Let's break down the facts here, along with the results: 1) Lorne gets snockered. 2) Lorne smokes dope. 3) Lorne drives drunk. 4) Lorne pulls a stupid stunt. 5) Lorne destroys property, endangers lives and terrorizes the community. For all his tomfoolery, this is what happens to Lorne: a) No police intervention. b) No arrest. c) Nothing on his traffic/criminal record. d) All expenses fully covered. e) No unease in neighborhood. f) Not one penny from his pocket, save required repairs to the Pontiac. In sum, Lorne has proved once again his derring-do in defying Darwin. I cannot explain this power he has. Oh, sure, life has not been a bed of roses for Lorne. He had a tragic childhood, a twisted family life, some truly awful experiences and more than his share of hardships, some brought on by his wild ways. Yet somehow, he always seems to come out on top. I've told you all stories of Lorne dusting himself off after major car wrecks, challenging men bigger than himself and laughing at mortal danger. He is tenacity and bravado incarnate. He is all that is foul, tasteless, bigoted, drunken, daring and fearless. A scary combination. But it works. What else can I say? I bet that Pontiac runs real smooth in June. - TR - ObPostScript: When Lorne told me this story, I only saw one hole in it: why was his neighbor Colleen so nice to him? Don't you think anyone who has had to listen to Lorne's parade of smoke-spewing hotrods, endure his loud, obnoxious shenanigans and abide the marital shouting matches that reverberate down the street with regularity - don't you think this neighbor would be less than kind after the animal next door veritably destroyed her new car? Well, the answer was delivered to me in hushed tones. "She likes me, Face. She wants to *fuck* me." Why, I wondered aloud, would a kindly middle-aged neighbor lady want anything to do with the misshapen troglodyte next door? OK, so she's not a prize herself. That doesn't mean she's *retarded*, for God's sake. Lorne proceeds to tell me that he and his wife had seen her through her window watching porn movies - and she was probably masturbating to them. She had no men in her life, and she had a surging, pornographic libido. She loves, and needs, dick. And, Lorne whispered even lower, she could probably get it if she really wanted it.... The mental image caused a bit of vomit to well up in my throat. I really didn't want to hear any more. Lorne's wife started calling to him from another room. He had to hang up. After exchanging our obligatory tasteless jokes, we hung up. Darwin defeated. Again. By...ulp...*lust*. RETCH..... ------------------------------ From labrat@pacbell.net Tue Feb 22 11:45:22 2000 Message-ID: <38B2D942.49BE@pacbell.net> From: Rat & Swan Reply-To: labrat@pacbell.net X-Mailer: Mozilla 3.01C-PBWG (Win95; U) MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: "Who Wants to..." References: <406kas0g6aoucjh90vlm6uu5km9v9uq93g@4ax.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit Lines: 52 Date: Tue, 22 Feb 2000 10:45:22 -0800 NNTP-Posting-Host: 206.170.4.72 X-Complaints-To: abuse@pacbell.net X-Trace: news.pacbell.net 951245204 206.170.4.72 (Tue, 22 Feb 2000 10:46:44 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 22 Feb 2000 10:46:44 PST Organization: SBC Internet Services Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newsfeed.yosemite.net!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!cyclone.swbell.net!news.pacbell.net.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:196415 That Irritating Bill Guy Ļ wrote: > > In the grand tradition of, "Who Wants To Marry A Millionaire" where 50 > contestants (essentially prostitutes) took a shot at marrying money I > can only envision the spin-off episiodes to come. > > Anyone have any ideas for future episodes they would like to share? Already got one in the works. "Who Wants To Marry A Complete Psycho?" in which contestants line to to see which one is picked by a sexually ambiguous, purblind, fat greasy loser's guide dog! Yes, it's true! I've been chosen by the Fuck's Network to hawk my dubious charms to some ditzy bimbo who'll do anything for her fifteen minutes of fame. But *first* she has to prove that she can please me! Do I want slim-hipped big breasted beauties? NOOOO! I want a fat sweaty globulous biker Mama who can suckstart a Harley! Contestants will have to to show that they can scrape up weeks old sludge dredged from under their own fat bellies, and turn the goo into a tasty casserole garnished with their sootikins. Other points will be given for loudest belch, coarsest back hair, vilest crotchgully and nastiest mouth. The ultimate choice goes to my dog, however and the crotch she lingers at the longest will be stuffed and mounted by yours truly, Swan! The winner will get an all expenses assumed trip to the Cleveland Zoo where, in the cozy recesses of the primate house, she(?) will mate with me on camera, giving the lucky creature fifteen MORE seconds of fame, at which point I'll dump her for the skank ho she IS and wander off to pick at my scabs and collect the cash paid by the crowds to watch our brutish nuptial minute. The big dough, however, is in Vegas, where bets will be made on whether I impregnate my "bride" or it impregnates ME! Either way, if no pregnancy is forthcoming within three months, there will be a rematch scheduled for the gallery of the US Senate in celebration of my one thousanth disability check! The haploid horror that will result from this mating will be sold on Ebay or to Ringling Brothers, whichever gets the higher bid, allowing my bountiful bride and I to retire on its earnings, to a double-wide in FayetteVille Arkansas. Contest rules: Void in the bushes, shit wherever you like. Employees or close relatives of Swan are especially encouraged to enter. Costumes and flour to be provided by Fuck's Network and its affiliates, all contestants must provide own Kwell and Acyclovir medications. Emcee will be Herry Springer or the Crocodile Hunter... or both! C'mon DOWN! Swan Suck, Baby, SUCK! 'Blow' is just an EXPRESSION! ------------------------------ From labrat@pacbell.net Tue Feb 22 12:49:48 2000 Message-ID: <38B2E85C.6FF6@pacbell.net> From: Rat & Swan Reply-To: labrat@pacbell.net X-Mailer: Mozilla 3.01C-PBWG (Win95; U) MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Scientific breakthrough, was Re: Autism References: <87snyq8cr6.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 80 Date: Tue, 22 Feb 2000 11:49:48 -0800 NNTP-Posting-Host: 206.170.4.72 X-Complaints-To: abuse@pacbell.net X-Trace: news.pacbell.net 951249073 206.170.4.72 (Tue, 22 Feb 2000 11:51:13 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 22 Feb 2000 11:51:13 PST Organization: SBC Internet Services Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newsfeed.yosemite.net!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!cyclone.swbell.net!news.pacbell.net.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:196422 Stephen wrote: > I suspect that for a lot of us this group is a haven because we honestly > don't understand why the normals have such a problem with tasteless > statements. For a lot of us the whole 'tact' thing is just another > meaningless little social rule we've learned but not really absorbed. Fuckin 'A'!! What IS it with normals?! I think it all stems from a terror they have with their own genitalia! Sheez! > The really good side is that now we can claim that posting to AT isn't > the act of sick and twisted minds. It's _genetically determined_. That's > right folks! We have _no choice_ but to derive amusement from the > suffering of others. We're simply being carried helplessly along on the > tides of genetic determinism. Quite true. Working backward from myself, I now see the genetic component of tastelessness on both sides of my family. I began my tasteless career upon the death of my birthmother, by completely *regressing* to my pre-housebroken self. I began pissing and shitting myself with gleeful abandon... at five years of age. It's been downhill ever since. But I spring from good tasteless roots. My biomother was a slut. She slunk from man to man to man, even having a torrid (and furctiful) affair with her own father-in-law, for which she had the sense to get an abortion (Do it yerselph, with herbs and knitting needle!). She worked in L.A. as a prostitute and was eventually murdered raped and strangled after abandoning her children (my illustrious selph included) and her seminude corpse found with legs spred and skirt over her head with the rope still in place around her neck. The guy who did it only did ten years in stir (this in 1958) because they felt it was justifiable homicide. She was asking for it. But my biodad was just as vile. He did time in a Los Angeles prison farm (although I can't find out which one) and died shortly after my dear dam. He basically shut himself and his brother up in a house and they drank until one of them died. Him. He died of acute alcohol toxicity in a puddle of puke. Possibly his. My grandmother was known for pissing in bheer cans...before handing them to her husband, the guy I regularly shat on at five.He was famed for having the largest rectal polyp in the rest home where we sent him to rot into senescence. he had a series of strokes and ended up a gorked out basket case. Suffice to say I was present for the demise of them both and they were in direct competition with my biopars for dizzguzzting exits. My grandmother, who raised me was the daughter of a woman who was known for her skill with the needle. Granny did abortions. Mostly for herself, but she 'helped' a lot. Her mate, my great grandfather was the one most often chosen by his railroad work crew to haul carcasses out from under (and between) the wheels and axles of boxcars because he enjoyued the work. His father, my gg-grandfather, abandoned three wives and Glub knows how many kids. My g-grandmother's father died in a drunken stupor after falling off a log wangon. The wheels went over him and he popped. But enough of the direct lineage... there's sideshows here to see! I have several gay cousins, one transsexual one, one of my great aunts gave birth to a hermaphrodite baby that lived only a short while and another great uncle was retarded and had to be de-nutted because he chased the kidlets from the nearby grade school (he chased me, too, but I caught *him* first!). I had a gggggwhatever-grandmother who was a mcCoy (as in Hatfields and mcCoys!) and a *mumble* grandmother and aunt who were hanged as witches in Salem and a generation before one was hanged in England's Chelmsford Witch Trials for allowing a ferret to suckle her genitals and face! Very few of our lineage die from old age. Most deaths are from degenerative diseases, cancer, judicial decree or horrible bone mangling accident. One ggggrandmother was scalped by pissed off Indians and wore a lace cap over her disfigured skull ever after. I have an ancient tintype of her in her dainty lace cap and get a stiffie thinking of the hideous scars that must lurk underneath it! It's genentic, all right! Swan Whose aunt and her son, a cousin, got it on as well. THOSE were arguments the kids were sent out of the room for....! WE're the folks mariage laws were written, to discourage! ------------------------------ From fattyc@knology.net Wed Feb 23 19:01:03 2000 From: Fatty Carbunkle Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: AT Role Models: Aunt Nick (Part One, Prologue) Date: Wed, 23 Feb 2000 20:01:03 -0600 Organization: Coca Cola, Inc. Lines: 72 Message-ID: X-Complaints-To: newsabuse@supernews.com X-Newsreader: Forte Agent 1.7/32.534 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!newsfeed.stanford.edu!remarQ70!supernews.com!rQ66!news.supernews.com!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:196547 Whe I was in second grade, my parents were called in for an emergency meeting with school counselors. It seems that during show and tell, I had passed around an empty .410 shotgun shell as I recounted some of the events of my previous weekend at Aunt Nick's lakehouse. I told the boys and girls of my own little Shangri La on the outskirts of my hometown, where guns were everywhere and there was a never-ending supply of ammunition. I told of one particularly crisp fall afternoon when a bluejay alit on a branch just within my range before I wounded it. I explained how its shattered wing flopped around as it hopped from rock to rock on Aunt Nick's terraced lawn as my 70 year-old aunt chased after it like the chicken scene in the movie Rocky II. And then I told of how she picked it up and, in one swift motion, ripped its head off.... I didn't get to tell the part about how its beak twitched ever so slightly for almost a minute after the head landed in the dirt while I tried to look at my reflection in an eye as black as an eight ball, or about burying the head and the body beside each other in the fire ant bed so that I could have a cleanly picked skeleton to examine, because my teacher, Mrs. Blancheri, stopped me.....by dragging me to my desk by my ear. At the time I found her actions strange, but I understand now that she was simply a narrow-minded bitch. Apparently at some point during the day, my mother, also a school teacher, was contacted to come in for the counselor conference. It was explained to my mother that I was becoming a problem in the classroom. I was argumentative, did not respond to the requests of my teachers for hours on end at times, and most distublingly, I had begun to tell graphic and gory stories that suggested I may need more help than this particular elementary school was equipped to provide. My mother was shocked, and asked for details of the stories that suggested I was psychotic. When she tells the story now, my mother says that she drew blood biting on the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing when she heard the stories. She could only control herself temporarily, because she was crying in laughter by the time she told the counselor that the stroies were not a product of my imagination, but were true. She first explained to the counselor that Aunt Nick was not a product of *her* side of the family. Aunt Nick, she explained, was eccentric. She didn't go any further than that. My year of hell with Mrs. Blancheri ended without any other major incidents. And later on, despite my ever-present disciplinary problems, I managed to get along pretty well in school without my experiences at the hands of Aunt Nick causing any more problems. Aunt Nick was actually my Great Aunt Nicolena. She was an older sister of my grandfather on my father's side of the family, but her name was the only thing feminine about her. It was snowing in Alabama on the night she died in 1985. My sister, who was 10 at the time, claimed she saw an angel in the room while we slept at our grandmother's house while my parents were making arrangements. She was truly an unforgettable person, and for a good portion of my childhood she was my greatest hero. Most of what I write in posts to follow will sound like it is made up. Probably about half of it has been enhanced or slightly modified due to (1) the fact that the events happened before my birth or outside of my presence, and (2) the fact that there are some good storytellers in my family. Regardless, I will attempt to be as accurate as possible in drafting my tribute to the biggest heroine of my childhood. Her story needs no exaggeration to be told in these hallowed halls. The truth is just as scary as anything I could ever make up. Take Care, Fatty ------------------------------ From M.Oshea@cable.a2000.nl Wed Feb 23 16:51:36 2000 From: Michael O'Shea Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: new careers for crack hos Date: Thu, 24 Feb 2000 00:51:36 +0100 Organization: A2000 Kabeltelevisie en Telecommunicatie Lines: 70 Message-ID: <38B47288.79EE8513@cable.a2000.nl> References: NNTP-Posting-Host: node12195.a2000.nl Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Trace: weber.a2000.nl 951349760 13874 24.132.33.149 (23 Feb 2000 23:49:20 GMT) X-Complaints-To: abuse@a2000.nl NNTP-Posting-Date: 23 Feb 2000 23:49:20 GMT X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.6 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en,fr Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeeds.belnet.be!news.belnet.be!skynet.be!pascal.a2000.nl!newsfeed.a2000.nl!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:196533 Vanderbilt wrote: > > This is for the women that didn't make it to Fox's marry-a-wife-beater > show. > > http://www.fluffergirls.com/test.html I filled in an application form. It went like this : Please enter your name > Miss Carriage What is your e-mail address? > foetus_shitter@stillborns.com Where are you located? (city, country) > Amsterdam, Ho'Land. Are you 18 years of age or older? > Yes . > No X What sites are you most interested in modeling for? > . Adult Dreams > . Totally Teens > . Foot Fetish > . Ts Metro > . Fat Girls > . Lesbian Pink > . Nasty Boys > . Asian Heat > . Transsexuals.com > . Older Babes > . Young Wives > X Any > . All Are you a member of any of these sites? > Yes . > No X If yes, how long have you been a member? > / If no, how did you hear about us? > My buddy Coathanger Colin tipped me off last time I visited his clinic. Do your pictures or works currenty appear on other sites? > Yes X > No . If yes, which sites do they appear on? (URLs) > www.frisky-farmyard-friends.com > www.human-toilet.com Do you have any comments that you'd like to include? > Here are a few niche genres that I think are not properly > provided for right now and which I'd like to work in : > Clergy whipping, KKK-porn (whipping/castrating niggers), > NAZI-porn (whipping/castrating jews), Sex Games with African > Game (sucking giraffes, elephants, buffalos etc), Tard sex > (autists, mongos etc). It must be great going through those damn application forms at the other end. I wonder what the proportion of spoof applications is like ? Knackos ------------------------------ From ExcitableBoy@munge.com Wed Feb 23 20:17:42 2000 Message-ID: <38B4A224.6C368D68@home.com> From: ExcitableBoy@munge.com Organization: - X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.61 [en]C-AtHome0407 (Win95; U) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: AT Role Models: Aunt Nick (Part One, Prologue) References: Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 30 Date: Thu, 24 Feb 2000 03:17:42 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.6.40.222 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.rdc1.tn.home.com 951362262 24.6.40.222 (Wed, 23 Feb 2000 19:17:42 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 23 Feb 2000 19:17:42 PST Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newshub2.home.com!news.home.com!news1.rdc1.tn.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:196555 Fatty Carbunkle wrote: > Reminded me of butchering rabbits with my dead grandfather, who went to his reward last year. Out of all my sissified cousins and slightly sensitive younger brother, only I was allowed to help Papa pull the rabbits out of the pen, pop 'em on the head, then cut their heads off. Then we'd skin 'em, in a special way Papa learned during WW2 so not to ruin the fur. In the 1940s, Papa sold the fur but there wasn't much demand for rabbit fur in the 60s and 70s. We'd then cut the rabbits up for frying. One afternoon after butchering a few rabbits, I took one of the furs, turned it viscera side out, put my arm in it and walked around the neighborhood telling my friends and neighbors that I'd skinned a cat. They were shocked and horrified. Now, I wish I had masturbated with it as well. -- "A fear of weapons is a sign of retarded sexual and emotional maturity." -Sigmund Freud, General Introduction to Psychoanalysis (1952 edition) ------------------------------ From raoul@seanet.com Tue Feb 29 21:08:56 2000 From: "WhiteRabbit" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Sticker repository Date: Tue, 29 Feb 2000 20:08:56 -0800 Organization: None whatsoever Lines: 36 Message-ID: <89i5eq$kqi$1@q.seanet.com> Reply-To: "WhiteRabbit" NNTP-Posting-Host: dialup-209.245.174.204.seattle1.level3.net X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2314.1300 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2314.1300 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.usit.net!solaris.cc.vt.edu!news.vt.edu!news.seanet.com!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:197079 I must belong to every liberal bleeding heart mailing list out there. Fuck. I'm on Every stinkin' Save the Planet, Don't Discriminate Against Race, Women Rule, Homosexuals Are People Too, Disadvantaged Kids Could be Fed For a Year on Sally Stuthers' Thigh Fat Alone snail-mail list in existence. I used to give money to charities, but only worthy ones. Planned Parenthood, for one. Any charity that takes the time to give free, detailed instructions on birth control to any Sheelwanna out there gets my vote. Also, the Chicken Soup Brigade, for recruiting Darwin-award wannabes with half a driver's license to deliver groceries to the sick and contagious. Hopefully, they'll get kacked too. Anything that brings this rare planet's human infestation level down to about...oh, say...ZERO will get my charity dollars. But then the human infestation rose to 6 billion last year. Six-fucking-billion. 6,000,000,000. 6^9. A Whole Fucking Bunch. Sigh. While I'm sitting here in my modest apartment, diligently trying to drink and smoke myself to death, the human rats^H^Hce are chundering out crotchfruit at the rate of 3 per second. I can hear the screams from here (literally, since I live 1/2 block from a birthing hospital). I beg of you good people, please. When I die, hack me into juicy bite-sized pieces and stuff me into my old blue steamer trunk, which is emblazoned with pro-whatever stickers, then bury me inexpertly for the police to puzzle over. Or set me out to sea naked on an ice floe with only a hungry polar bear for company. You'd be doing me a favor. raoul@seanet.com "Better Living Through Reckless Experimentation" ------------------------------ From frogfarm@hempseed.com Tue Feb 29 21:35:37 2000 Sender: damaged justice From: frogfarm@hempseed.com (damaged justice) Subject: Re: Nurz Ratchet Newsgroups: alt.tasteless References: <89hfeg$egl$1@nnrp1.deja.com> Organization: Somewhere just far enough outside of your jurisdiction Lines: 69 Message-ID: Date: Wed, 01 Mar 2000 04:35:37 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 206.141.246.17 X-Trace: nntp0.chicago.il.ameritech.net 951885337 206.141.246.17 (Tue, 29 Feb 2000 22:35:37 CDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 29 Feb 2000 22:35:37 CDT Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newspump.monmouth.com!newspeer.monmouth.com!ameritech.net!nntp0.chicago.il.ameritech.net.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:197082 Jonathan Blaque wrote: [banging away at near-helpless pre-canned wildlife] > I managed to bag two of the feathered little bastards > (mighty fine eatin', btw), but I musta been holding the > 12 gauge wrong because today I'm sporting an *enor- > mous* blue-purple black bruise on my bicep. > Madame V's gonna take a pic of it tonight. I do regular stretching to compensate for all the time I spend on my ass in front of the monitor. A few days ago, I noticed the inner and back parts of my left thigh feeling particularly strained, as though I'd overdone it just a tad. A brief, cautious stretch followed by a burst of pain confirmed that I'd best take it easy there for a time, but I filed it away without further thought since I knew I hadn't done anything particularly strenuous. This morning, I hauled my scrawny, naked carcass from between the sheets and heard a gasp from the SR, followed by an "Oh, my GOD" the likes of which I've hardly ever heard grace her lips; she's a hardy soul, at complete odds with her innocent appearance. "What?" I mumbled incoherently, trying to ignore the throbbing agony in my leg. It felt like some vicious bastard had yanked out all the muscles with a pair of dull forks and no anasthetic, run them through a blender and shoved them back in with a marlin spike to hold it shut. "No _wonder_ your leg hurts," she managed. "_Look_ at it!" I managed to sit down in a cross-legged position without whimpering like an impaled schoolgirl, and hauled my genitals out of the way for a clear view. My howl of outrage and amazement sent the cat streaking from the room as I stared at the monstrosity that graced my fair flesh. This, I thought in a daze, was the true mother of all bruises; the darkest, richest purple ever envisioned that rivalled the most swollen of glans's (wtf's the plural?), large enough that my open hand could only barely cover its entirety, and completely out of proportion to any physical labor or injury I had recently undergone. Being hit with a metal pipe every second for a week straight, now that might conceivably result in something akin to the brain-paralyzing horror I glimpsed this morning. But the pitiful amount of exercise I engage in, and always at such gradually increasing levels? It is to laugh! "It doesn't make any fucking sense," I croaked, continuing to stare and wondering if I'd been injected with Purple Dye No 5. "Let's fuck," said she, ever the practical woman. "You'll feel better." Pain tells you you're alive? Kill me now. The comical acrobatics that ensued would strain the limits of both tastelessness and my own already nonexistent self-esteem. When I stand before my Creator, I will not plead for the secret to life, the universe and everything; I will not beg for a second chance; I will not even stoop so low as to know the location of every item I have ever lost. No, I will look him, her or it in the eye and DEMAND to know where this fucking bruise came from. And then I'll give him one, and see how he fuckin' likes it. When it starts to blacken, I imagine it'll resemble those spider wounds right before they suppurate and all the flesh crumbles away. Right now, I think I'd rather have the damn spider bite. -dj if only ignorance _were_ painful... -- they're gonna tell you where to walk, when to smile and just what to say | they say have your own fun, make your own mind but don't make no waves | but i got it made in my mind, don't waste my time it's not gonna change | so say what you want, spit it out loud, into my face... ...and i'll pay no attention! ------------------------------ From enoid801@omit.home.com Wed Mar 01 22:33:57 2000 From: enoid801@omit.home.com (Citizen Ted) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Dried-Up Old Whore Message-ID: <38bdf596.12653670@news> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent .99g/32.339 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 73 Date: Thu, 02 Mar 2000 05:33:57 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.7.140.142 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.sttls1.wa.home.com 951975237 24.7.140.142 (Wed, 01 Mar 2000 21:33:57 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 01 Mar 2000 21:33:57 PST Organization: @Home Network Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newshub2.home.com!news.home.com!news1.sttls1.wa.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:197158 You've seen them in your town, slinking haltingly down cracked sidewalks, their weighty thighs pounding stiletto heels into the hot cement, smeared make-up failing to conceal the ravages of age and drugs, cigarettes dangling from perfumed lips, hoarse come-on's echoing down the filthy gutters of your downtown core. You gotta love these gals, and it was my good fortune to bump into what can be described as the quintessential Dried-Up Old Whore. Her name is Margot St. James, and she is the founding mother-hen-whore of St. James Infirmary in San Francisco. The Infirmary is a drop-in clinic for whores in the Mission district of San Francisco. It provides medical services, drug rehab, crash-pads, etc, for the city's desperate cum guzzlers. Margot left Orcas Island, WA in 1955 to suck dicks in San Francisco. After a few decades of dedicated service to the San Francisco sex consumer demographic, Margot saw a crying need for a clinic to help keep the town's whores happy and healthy. She joined others in forming COYOTE - Come Off Your Old Tired Ethics - in order to champion the cause of legalized prostitution. Later on, COYOTE branched out into supporting marijuana legalization as well. While St. James Infirmary continues to cater to sick sluts, Margot is getting on in years and decided to retreat back to Westsound on Orcas Island. I met her at a "Band Slam" that I'm judging and emceeing for the local alternarag that employs me. She was chain-smoking cigarettes, sucking down beers (a few of which I funded) and having a grand old time. Her stories were wonderful. No "celebrity john" stories, no "I barfed up two pints of spooge" stories (nice as they might have been). Instead, she regaled me with the short version of her life story, and between cackling guffaws and endless pawings at my tender young flesh she kept yours truly so entertained that I veritably dismissed all the young babes that chanced by my table. Like most Dried-Up Old Whores, Margot has seen better days. Her skin is leathery, her teeth hardly together and her wig appropriate but transparent. But her mind is sharp and her wit infectious. This being the forum that it is, and its influence on my daily life as pervasive as it is, I did indeed entertain thoughts of bending this near-70-year-old grandma over the table for some gratis anal action. But alas, I still have enough internal fortitude and healthy fear of veinous, wrinkly flab to subvert such desires despite the popular calls for me to write something worth reading once in a while. The tastelessness, my friends, lay not within the scars but within ourselves. I'm sure the readership can concoct for themselves narratives describing yours truly engaging Ms. St. James in untold despicable acts, replete with sloshy sound effects and unwholesome odors. But my requirements for stimulation were met by her "I got PAID for SEX!" button and her stories of sneaking marijuana to her grand-nephews every Saturday. There are stories stranger than those even I can muster, it seems. Much as I like to think of my life as charmed and eventful, I am but a suburban stooge compared to some. Even dried-up old whores. - TR - in context, normal as fuck. ------------------------------ From jeffjustin@newsfeeds.com Fri Mar 03 08:07:36 2000 Message-ID: <38BFD538.F9A8367@newsfeeds.com> Date: Fri, 03 Mar 2000 10:07:36 -0500 From: Jeff Justin X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.7 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: asscave References: <38bf3302$0$1855@news.futuresouth.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit NNTP-Posting-Host: 198.88.132.5 X-Trace: 3 Mar 2000 09:12:17 -0600, 198.88.132.5 Lines: 91 X-Authenticated-User: jeffjustin X-Comments: This message was posted through Newsfeeds.com X-Comments2: IMPORTANT: Newsfeeds.com does not condone, nor support, spam or any illegal or copyrighted postings. X-Comments3: IMPORTANT: Under NO circumstances will postings containing illegal or copyrighted material through this service be tolerated!! X-Report: Please report illegal or inappropriate use to X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers, INCLUDING the body (DO NOT SEND ATTACHMENTS) Organization: Newsfeeds.com http://www.newsfeeds.com 73,000+ UNCENSORED Newsgroups. Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newsfeed.yosemite.net!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!feed3.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!Usenet!198.88.132.5 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:197318 Rob wrote: > > [Image] CONGRATULATIONS!! Dear Rob: We're pleased to inform you that your recent post to alt.tasteless has been selected by the Quality Control Committee, as a candidate for the Clueless User of the Month (CUM) award. Our patented analysis software, the Junk Interception Software Module (JISM v4.8) has rated your post on the following criteria thusly: AWARENESS OF GROUP STANDARDS: -4000 STRENGTH OF CONCEPT: -3000 IMPLEMENTATION OF CONCEPT: -5500 OVERALL PRESENTATION: -1750 ENTERTAINMENT VALUE: 0 TASTELESSNESS: 0 TOTAL SCORE: -14250 BONUS: -1000* ADJUSTED TOTAL SCORE: -15250 *Note - your post has surpassed the previously held record of minus 13,050 points, which qualifies you for a bonus award of -1000 points. Congratulations on your achievement! You have attained an honor rarely bestowed upon new posters to this group. Your dribblings in AT will stand as an example for future generations of clueless, mewling, newbies. They will gaze in awe at your decapitated, mummified head jammed atop a pike at the gate to our little corner of Hell, and be reminded to read our FAQ and lurk until they get the hang of what passes for culture here. As a candidate for the CUM award, you will will receive all the abuse the alt.tasteless community can heap upon you for the remainder of your earthly life. You will enjoy having your every post taunted and mocked by some of Usenet's finest, and most twisted, minds. You and your wretched companions will huddle in fear, awaiting the next assault upon your security, your integrity, your very being. You will also receive the hatred and derision of your newfound "best enemies" at absolutely no cost to you. Should your post receive the prestigious CUM award, you will be whisked away to our magnificent desert resort, Calabozo De Pistas, in colorful Baja California for 5 wonderful days and 4 glorious nights. Once there you will be treated to every method of clue insertion known by our most experienced clue technicians, anal, oral, genital, nasal, ocular, aural, axial, you name it, they'll do it. They will treat you ruthlessly, as they cater to their own every whim. And you won't have to lift a finger, in fact you won't be able to lift a finger if they're doing their jobs correctly. Your daily schedule will include being pummeled in every orifice round the clock with various large, pointed and spiked clue devices. Our technicians ensure you'll receive maximum pain with minimum loss of blood so that you'll be ready for the final night of your stay. That night, your last night, holds the special enchantment of a "Celabracion de la Squick", at which you will be the guest of honor. You will experience a night you'll never forget, or remember, for that matter. The highlight of the evening comes during those final few moments of consciousness when you will feel the gentle slap of our clue technician's nutsack against your nose as he drives the final clue home - "Post Quality, Discourage Crap." Cheers, Alt.Tasteless Quality Control Committee -----= Posted via Newsfeeds.Com, Uncensored Usenet News =----- http://www.newsfeeds.com - The #1 Newsgroup Service in the World! -----== Over 80,000 Newsgroups - 16 Different Servers! =----- ------------------------------ From TheNurz@ix.netcom.com Sun Mar 05 00:30:30 2000 From: NurzRachet Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Nurz Ratchet: Let's Rant, Shall We? Date: Sun, 05 Mar 2000 02:30:30 -0500 Organization: Our Lady of the Rearranged Umbilicus Lines: 57 Message-ID: <38C20D16.A6512A6D@ix.netcom.com> References: <89hfeg$egl$1@nnrp1.deja.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: cf.dc.b4.01 Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Server-Date: 5 Mar 2000 08:35:08 GMT X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.7 [en]C-CCK-MCD NSCPCD47 (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newsfeed.yosemite.net!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!hermes.visi.com!news-out.visi.com!cam-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!firehose.mindspring.com!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:197460 Rooster wrote: > WHERE THE HELL'S THE NURZ?!?!? Well, I'm finally back after a week of listening to whining relatives, catching friends in lies, working my way to the edge of a nervous breakdown, and opening a.t. only to see it's turned into a chat room. Here's a rant addressing some of these things. It's not really tasteless, so skip it if you like...it's just a little exercise in venting. Maybe. First off, don't ask questions you don't really wanna know the answer to. I've always been known for my brutal honesty -- that is, if you can get me to answer. If I figure you don't want to hear what I have to say, I just keep quiet, unless, of course, the subject is so pathetic and infuriating that I can't keep my big mouth shut. So don't ask me for an opinion unless you're willing to suffer the consequences because if I don't give you the answer you want to hear, I don't need you to come back at me with, "Well, well, wanna know what I think about you?!?" because I don't really give a shit. If I wanted to know what you thought of me, I'd ask. Secondly, don't bullshit or try to trick me because I *always* find out the truth. Don't tell me a story and then let me hear you tell a different version to someone else. Don't lie about what you've done, where you've been, things about your life (personal or work) and then have me find out it's not true. I'm the fucking queen of manipulators/tricksters and I can carve your heart out of your chest with a plastic spoon and serve it to you for dinner, and you won't catch on until we're well into dessert. Don't lay guilt trips on me about my life. I don't need some amateur trying to hack my psyche to see if he/she/it can manipulate me into doing certain things or feeling a particular way. It ain't gonna work. Not today, not ever. I will never be what *you* want me to be. WYSIWYG. Deal with it. Don't play games with me because I.Always.Win. Don't even try, don't waste your time, don't plot, don't wish, just give it up. I.Always.Win. Now, I'm not saying I'm going to take anything I want, because I do believe I play fair. But if you're going to start the psych olympics, all bets are off. It's a dog eat dog world and I'm a rabid Rottweiler. Keep your hands off my belongings, my job, my life, my lover, my mind. These are not your things to fuck with. Get your own life. The only thing you're proving to me by [attempting to] stealing these things from me is that you're pathetic. Go away. Go fuck with somebody else. ObT: My beloved cousin Fat Theresa, describing in detail how she can fart while sitting on a fluffy sofa (with her fluffy ass) and "walk" the fart into her cooter. According to her, it's quite a feeling. (My Family. What a fucked up mess. I fit right in.) Nurzy ------------------------------ From graytrash@tampabay.rr.com Sun Mar 05 10:24:05 2000 Message-ID: <38C29813.757F@tampabay.rr.com> From: GRay Reply-To: graytrash@tampabay.rr.com X-Mailer: Mozilla 3.01 (Win95; I) MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Spot the Nark. Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 74 Date: Sun, 05 Mar 2000 17:24:05 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.28.14.50 X-Complaints-To: abuse@rr.com X-Trace: typhoon.tampabay.rr.com 952277045 24.28.14.50 (Sun, 05 Mar 2000 12:24:05 EST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sun, 05 Mar 2000 12:24:05 EST Organization: RoadRunner - TampaBay Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.cwix.com!cyclone.southeast.rr.com!cyclone-southeast.rr.com!news.rr.com!news-southeast.rr.com!cyclone2.tampabay.rr.com!typhoon.tampabay.rr.com.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:197467 Hanging out last night with a few buds led to the old game of "Remember when". ----------(Wavey Lines)---------- It 'twas 1985. I was young(er), my Datsun 240Z was old and rusted. My choice of hangouts in this embarrasment of a shithole town was a dive on Florida avenue named the Casbah. We called it the SpazBah. A converted house into a bar, it was where the garage band wanna-bees played Tuesday through Saturday for 300 bucks combined. The atmosphere of the bar was like many shit-hole dives, your senses were assailed by the combination of ciggarette smoke, stale beer, piss and vomit. (Effluent, not The Boy) A kilowatt jukebox played for a quarter a pop, classic rock and hairbands filled the slots. Two-fifty 60 ounce pitchers and microwaved burgers were standard fare. I called it Home. The clientel were standard eighties bar-scum. Car mechanics still in greasemonkey garb in the afternoon, and Primpers and Posers competed with grunge before grunge was called grunge for the local skank and college sorority sisters at night. A small number of dealers hung out there, trying to conduct business discreetly, mainly with the college kids. Our happy little bar was well known in town as where a bag of skunk weed or a gram of stepped-on blow or crank could be procured. I hung out there because, well, it beat the tube at home. A few of us camped out on the far side of the bar in the back corner near the dart boards. We amused ourselves with a few bar games we adapted for our environ. My fave were two, _Real Or Fake_, and _Spot The Nark_. Real Or Fake was our warm-up game, quite simple in execution. On Fri and Sat nights after nine or so, the women would start to trickle in. Either with guys or the ObFemalePack, in they streamed, in front of our discerning blurred eyes. The tits. Real or Fake? We inspected and hypothesised. We had one of three answers to Real Or Fake: Real, fake, and *Who cares?*. Spot The Nark was the real entertainment. As we drank our Cheap American Beer(tm), we tried to spot the police department plants trying to entrap and bust the dealers. Our P.D. was getting crafty, swapping undercovers with other local departments, and dang-Glubbit, seen one Preppie-Scum college boy, seen 'em all. So the dance went, few times a month, the dealers nervously working the crowd, then a flurry of activity and flashes of ObCheapJewelry as the cuffs got snapped on. You would think they would learn, but there was allways some stupid sonofabitch ready to batter-up as soon as the last guy got busted. All of this happening as local bands were slaughtering cover tunes at tinitus causing levels. The Casbah burned down one night, I was there two days before it burned. Rumour had it the owner burned it to collect the insurance, as the property was developed for a fast food place a year later. Millions of roaches were left homeless in that tragic loss. Howbout it, A.T.ers? Any favorite scum bars in your past? -- GRay- Take out the trash for mail. "For some reason, I'm one of those guys women love relating their problems to. I offer solutions. Since women ignore my suggestions, I've concluded that women enjoy having problems." Alan Gore, adfp, 2-2000 ------------------------------ From jeffjustin@newsfeeds.com Mon Mar 06 08:49:47 2000 Message-ID: <38C3D39B.2D273F7@newsfeeds.com> Date: Mon, 06 Mar 2000 10:49:47 -0500 From: Jeff Justin X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.7 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Spot the Nark. References: <38C29813.757F@tampabay.rr.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit NNTP-Posting-Host: 198.88.132.5 X-Trace: 6 Mar 2000 09:55:13 -0600, 198.88.132.5 Lines: 96 X-Authenticated-User: jeffjustin X-Comments: This message was posted through Newsfeeds.com X-Comments2: IMPORTANT: Newsfeeds.com does not condone, nor support, spam or any illegal or copyrighted postings. X-Comments3: IMPORTANT: Under NO circumstances will postings containing illegal or copyrighted material through this service be tolerated!! X-Report: Please report illegal or inappropriate use to X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers, INCLUDING the body (DO NOT SEND ATTACHMENTS) Organization: Newsfeeds.com http://www.newsfeeds.com 73,000+ UNCENSORED Newsgroups. Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newspeer1.nac.net!news-xfer.siscom.net!feed-out.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!feed.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!goliath2.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!198.88.132.5 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:197529 GRay wrote: > > Howbout it, A.T.ers? Any favorite scum bars in your past? > Having spent a large part of my adult life in bars (the curse of the working musician), I've been everywhere and seen everything. Bar floozies, fights, sex, prostitution, dealing, drunken stupidity and even death. I've done "cage" bars, biker bars, gay bars, blues bars, black bars, you name it. After thirty plus years of that life, it's hard to have a favorite place or incident, but here's a couple of items of interest. In Jonesville, MI, in the south central part of the state, was a cage bar called the Jonesville tavern. It sat in a row of old buildings on the main drag through town. Clientele was primarily farm boys with a few factory workers thrown in for good measure. This was our first cage bar and we had no idea what to expect. For those that don't know, the "cage" in cage bar is a cyclone fence cage around the band with a padlocked gate to keep the band safe from the fights. My first night there, some actual drinking broke out amidst a four hour fight. I was only a bit unnerved to see the patrons beating each other senseless with everything that wasn't bolted down. And I learned an important lesson - the cage stops the solid objects, but not the liquids that used to be in those solid objects. Always a quick study, I changed to rubber soled shoes after brushing my lip on the mic and taking a 120v poke. The highlight of the night came during our third set, when one of the most vociferous farm boys was set upon by two factory rats with pool cues out on the dance floor. There had apparently been some sort of misunderstanding between the farm boy and one of the factory rats over the availability of a sweet young heifer. I watched in awe as said farm boy took the butt end of a cuestick across the bridge of what used to be his nose. His face literally erupted into a fountain of blood and as he fell forward the other rat caught him a good one across the kidneys with another cue. The assailants then set upon our hero with their feet and kicked him to a pulp - and the band played on. Segue forward about twenty years to the Argentine Bar out in Argentine, MI. Typical small-town hardscrabble bar with bumpkins and rubes galore. Smells like I'd imagine hell is going to smell (well maybe not as strong on the brimstone, but...). If there were fifty people in the place, there were probably a hundred cigarettes burning at any given time. Throughout the night I'd watch the haze of smoke creep down from the ceiling as the stale smoke accumulated in the air. This place is multi-level and is actually made up of several rooms that were added to the original structure over the years. These rooms provide a fair amount of privacy for the patrons in them. Plus, this was the darkest bar I've ever been in. Our lighting rig had moving spot strobes that every once in a while would light up a deal in progress, or a couple groping each other. All sorts of fun stuff was happening in this place. The local potheads hung out here and there was a fair amount of dealing going on there. I watched all the "Let's bust Doofus" games that I'd ever want to see, in that place. I was astounded that the dealers couldn't pick out the narcs, 'cause we sure as hell could. I mean, they narcs weren't wearing their windbreakers with "POLICE" across the back, but they might as well have been. Usually the shoes gave them away. The highlight of this place for me was having a guy approach me during a break to tell me drunkenly that my bass playing had "made my girlfriend wet". He pointed to her as he told me this and she waved at me, drunkenly. After we got done playing, she waved me over to their table. He was lying passed out on the table. She was still alert and invited me to sit down, she then proceeded to give me a hummer while her drunken boyfriend snored loudly right next to me. I hope she awakened him with a nice sloppy kiss after she got done with me. Ah, those wuz the days. Cheers, Jeff Justin -----= Posted via Newsfeeds.Com, Uncensored Usenet News =----- http://www.newsfeeds.com - The #1 Newsgroup Service in the World! -----== Over 80,000 Newsgroups - 16 Different Servers! =----- ------------------------------ From kes@duke.edu Mon Mar 06 14:03:13 2000 From: kes@duke.edu (Strayhorn) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Spot the Nark. Date: Mon, 06 Mar 2000 16:03:13 -0500 Organization: Marinus van der Lubbe Intl Firebombing Society Lines: 81 Message-ID: References: <38C29813.757F@tampabay.rr.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: strayhorn.dukecomm.duke.edu X-Newsreader: MT-NewsWatcher 2.4.4 X-No-Archive: yes X-Complaints-To: abuse@dukecomm.duke.edu X-Face: BWeQyrFlV$jk!Ic4*Vvu'J4IEpyD]IbTQv5)y9H8f_XR[%4W$:l!Wvj0j>hs, gj7djy1tb>!5a}py;n)ooLh_Mj!/nvzH7i{aQM'M_fr;n4=K?*\'e!)5TYLSBoA3?j Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!newsgate.duke.edu!kes Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:197557 In article <38C29813.757F@tampabay.rr.com>, graytrash@tampabay.rr.com wrote: > Hanging out last night with a few buds led to the old game of "Remember > when". Hanging out with, or smoking a few buds? > Howbout it, A.T.ers? Any favorite scum bars in your past? The Hatch Cover, A.K.A. The Snatch Cover, Nags Head NC, 1975. The Snatch Cover had started life as a fish house - concrete floor, slat wood walls, and not much else except an industrial ice machine out back. It had stood empty for about 10 years when it was bought by a fellow whose last name ended in a vowel and who had come to the beach from New Jersey. He paid in cash. The concrete floor was covered in Astroturf (no padding) and a bar was added along one wall. He then opened for business and was immediately shut down by the health inspector - with no bathrooms, the drunks were pissing into the yards of the neighbors. So two small rooms, about the size of a broom closet each, were added out back next to the industrial ice machine to serve as bathrooms. But the Snatch had one great virtue - 50-cent drafts. And no wimpy 8-oz draft, either: real man 16-oz drafts of whatever beer the owner could get a deal on that week. So, with a combo of cheap beer, no-frills interior (just a few tables across the wide-open room), a TV in the corner and a jukebox that mingled country, rock and R&B, the place was a hit with folks who just wanted to wet their throats after hitting a few tokes of Mexican ditch weed out back. Since the joint had started life as a fish house, it still smelled faintly of fish. At least once a day someone would come in, sniff the air, and say "Hello girls" to which the bartender would shout, "That goddam joke gets funnier every time I hear it." The industrial ice machine out back served three purposes - it made ice for the bar, certainly, but it was also one of those big honkin' things so it screened the parking area from the eyes of the cops as they cruised by on the highway - a major consideration if you were moving a few "square groupers". Lastly it had at least two loose belts on the compressor, and they shreaked like banshees when it started up. This helped to keep drunks from falling asleep in the bathroom, a real problem with the older guys who generally started drinking about noon. The Snatch generally catered to locals - roofers named "Dog", a mechanic called Scabby by his friends, an old guy who spoke to no one in the 10 years before he was hit and killed by a car while staggering down the highway, and a few women like Ginger, half Indian and half black, who was rumored to "take off the head and work on the wires". It burned down under mysterious circumstances in 1979 or so. The owner disappeared shortly afterward but turned up on the beach a few weeks later - the crabs had worked on him so they had to use dental charts. One of my lasting memories of the Snatch was being in the parking lot of the gas station across the street one morning when a battered Chevvy pulled up next to me. There were four people in the car, along with cardboard boxes filled with clothes (Third-World Samsonites) and assorted other junk. A skanky woman with the shaking eyeballs of the meth freak leaned out the window and said: "Hey, man, we've been driving all night from West Virginia and we are looking for a place to Party!" I pointed across to the Snatch and said "That's a good place to start." And indeed it was. -- Strayhorn Not Duke policy, etc. "Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allan Poe." - J. Lennon ------------------------------ From fattyc@knology.net Mon Mar 06 21:36:43 2000 From: Fatty Carbunkle Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: AT Role Models: Aunt Nick (Part 2, The Beginning) Date: Mon, 06 Mar 2000 22:36:43 -0600 Organization: Coca Cola, Inc. Lines: 96 Message-ID: X-Complaints-To: newsabuse@supernews.com X-Newsreader: Forte Agent 1.7/32.534 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!remarQ70!supernews.com!rQ66!news.supernews.com!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:197590 (Of everything I plan on writing about my aunt, what follows is the least verifiable. This is the case because the only people who ever told me these stories, Aunt Nick and her brother, my Grandfather, have been dead for over 15 years.) I only know of Aunt Nick wearing a dress twice. One time was documented in a childhood picture that my Grandfather kept. He kept it because he remembered laughing at her the day their mother made her put it on to have the picture made when they drove from their small hometown of Union Springs, Alabama to Montgomery for a family portrait. Nick is smiling in the picture, but she looks uncomfortable and unnaturally posed. He recalled laughing at my tomboy Aunt for the entire 2 hour ride home, that now only takes 30 minutes. Nick, he used to say, never even acted like it bothered her until they got home. That was when she walked over to the railroad tracks that ran near their house and picked up a discarded railroad spike. In her own version of the same story she claims she was 50 feet away from my Grandfather (He claimed it was more like point blank) when she hurled at at his head with everything she had. The spike hit him butt-end first in the forehead and knocked him unconscious for several hours. There was no official diagnosis of what type of injury he suffered, but it was bad enough to ever keep him from fucking with his sister again. He wasn't ashamed at all whenever he told the story. If you knew my Aunt, you knew there was no shame in having had your ass beat by her. She was quite possibly nthe meanest white woman ever to walk the face of this earth. The only other time I know of that she wore a dress was on my 15th birthday when they pulled me out of school. I knew something was wrong when I was called to the office. But I knew it must be terible when my mother took me to the car and Aunt Nick was sitting in the back seat in a dress crying uncontrollably. My grandfather, who had been battling lung cancer and emphysema, got out of bed earlier that morning after his aorta had burst and hemorraged all over the carpet. He had watched Ronald Reagan's inauguration and the iran hostages being freed the night before. It was as good a time as any I guess. My Grandfather told a couple of other stories about Aunt Nick when she was a child. They were much more light-hearted in nature. I don't remember them in their entirety, but I remember the main parts of them that follow. Billy the Goat My great grandparents had a next door neighbor that had a pet goat named Billy. Billy had developed a taste for vegetables that my 12 year old Aunt was growing in her 4H club garden. Aunt Nick tried everything she could to keep the goat out of the garden, but the animal proved to be worthy of evey challenge she threw at it. Nick finally loaded a shotgun with rock salt to try to run it off. Problem was, she didn't understand that at point blank range, a blob of jello could kill if fired from a shotgun. Billy died in the garden that day. Nick, in an effort to cover up her actions, waited till rigor mortis had begun to set in before she dragged the goat back next door and propped it up against the fence like it was standing on its hind legs. My grandfather recalls her coming to get him so that they could watch the neighbor discover the dead goat. He recalled to me once how hard she had to try to keep from laughing out loud and blowing their cover when the woman began calling the goat that wouldn't respond. Billy Hitchcock Another Billy was involved in my Aunts early life. This one was Billy Hitchcock, who later played major league baseball and managed the Yankees. Billy's older brother Jimmy, who grew up to be an All-American at Auburn, and my Aunt were childhood playmates. whenever the Yankees were on TV when I was at my Aunt's she would explain to me that I shouldn't idolize professional athletes just because they were on TV. To prove her point she would tell me that she and Jimmy used to tie his little brother Billy up to a tree on a regular basis and kick him in the shins till they bled. That she said, proved that professional athletes were nothing special. It made sense to me when I was 8. Totally Unsubstantiated Legend Aunt Nick claims she was the place kicker on her high school football team. I never doubted her when she told me as a child, but I wonder if was true now. I actually saw her kick the shit out of a football once when she must have been well into her 60s, but nothing that woman ever did surprised me. There's a couple more of these early stories I will have to get out of the way befoer I get to what I feel is the really good stuff. Take Care Fatty ------------------------------ From ffarnance@yahoo.com Wed Mar 08 14:11:23 2000 From: "Fred" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Shower Habits or "how I became obsessed with shaving my balls" Lines: 68 X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2919.6600 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2919.6600 Message-ID: <_lzx4.9875$DF2.1342408@tw12.nn.bcandid.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 207.127.210.30 X-Trace: tw12.nn.bcandid.com 952549882 207.127.210.30 (Wed, 08 Mar 2000 14:11:22 MST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 08 Mar 2000 14:11:22 MST Organization: bCandid - Powering the world's discussions - http://bCandid.com Date: Wed, 08 Mar 2000 21:11:23 GMT Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.cwix.com!cyclone-east.rr.com!news.rr.com!news-east.rr.com!portc05.blue.aol.com!gw12.bcandid.com.MISMATCH!gw22.nn.bcandid.com!hub12.nn.bcandid.com!tw12.nn.bcandid.com.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:197697 I know I am not alone in this, we all have a regiment we go through in the shower. Whether it is a quickie or a long hot bathroom into a steamroom extravaganza, mostly likely you follow the same steps. My shower goes like this; wet body, apply soap to poof thing, obpoofjokes: fuck you, lather body, scrub balls, pits chest etc, followed by a vigorous scrubbing of the bunghole and ass crack. Usually with a bit of insertion of the poof to insure no clingons (spellchecker gave me Clinton's as an option for this) have managed to hang on by withdrawing into the starfish. Rinse poof, wet hair, wash hair, rinse hair, blow copious amounts of snot while rinsing hair, rinse snot off of stomach, balls legs etc. Turn off shower, dry. Occasionally I will mange to squeeze a wank in between the ass scrubbing and hair washing, but during the week I don't have the time. All that changes on the weekends. Weekends are ball shaving, wanking festivals. I started shaving my balls on a whim, I had asked the wife to shave her snatch "the better to eat you, my dear" she went for it, and after raving on how nice it was to not have to deal with hair she countered with, "well it would be pretty nice for me too." Of course that was all I needed. I started with just using the hair trimmer I use to keep my hair and goatee in a manageable state, trying to get as close as I could. This was OK for a while, until the itching began. The little hairs that remained were a nightmare, they made me itch constantly, It must have looked like I had a bad case of crotch rot. Finally I decided to go the razor route. Schick tracer is my suggestion to any thinking about it, wire wrapped blades mean you can really go at it without much fear of cutting yourself, I haven't nicked myself yet. Also women's silk effect blades fit the handles, same blade, just girly looking. After the first shave I was hooked. The smooth feel of my balls was worth all the effort, they were awesome, I couldn't believe I hadn't uncovered these beauties before, I was missing so much. The sensitivity went through the roof, and the wife said sucking on them was a treat. All I needed to hear Shaving equals better blow jobs, sold. Now hair has become the enemy, every Saturday and Sunday I go after my crotch and balls like Nazi's finding Jews in Warsaw. Find and exterminate. Work up a rich lather and the process begins. I always start with the evil infestation that works it's way up onto my cock, can't have that. Before I shaved the shaft I had no idea how much of my cock had hair on it. Evil Evil Hair. From the shaft I make the first few swipes over the sack. The hot water has it nice and loose so I can stretch the skin flat and get a good clean shot at the smooth section, bit by bit I work each segment of skin, going over it with the razor until I cant feel any more stubble, just soft smooth skin. Now I have worked my way beyond just my balls, shaving the path that leads to my starfish, once I realized that she would be more prone to lick areas with no hair, I figured I might as well leave a trail of crumbs to a good rim job. Worked by the way. By now I have been stroking my cock and rubbing my balls and ass, it's time for a good wank. Paying plenty of attention to my now silky smooth balls, I pop a load and then I can get on with the rest of my day. Sundays are the same all over again, going over anything I might have missed, and touching up, actually it's just an excuse to wank again but hey, it works. Fred -- Happiness, n.: An agreeable sensation arising from contemplating the misery of another. -- Ambrose Bierce, "The Devil's Dictionary" ------------------------------ From ian_anderthal@my-deja.com Thu Mar 09 13:55:29 2000 From: ian_anderthal@my-deja.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The Lost Art of Pistol-Whipping (was: You and your guns) Date: Thu, 09 Mar 2000 20:55:29 GMT Organization: Deja.com - Before you buy. Lines: 49 Message-ID: <8a933u$3v9$1@nnrp1.deja.com> References: <38C7CA46.A6240ED4@erols.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 207.213.91.208 X-Article-Creation-Date: Thu Mar 09 20:55:29 2000 GMT X-Http-User-Agent: Mozilla/4.7 [en] (WinNT; I) X-Http-Proxy: 1.0 x37.deja.com:80 (Squid/1.1.22) for client 207.213.91.208 X-MyDeja-Info: XMYDJUIDian_anderthal Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newspump.monmouth.com!newspeer.monmouth.com!nntp2.deja.com!nnrp1.deja.com!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:197792 "Nearwidow" wrote: > Bill wrote... > > ChrisWarp wrote: > > >Guns don't prevent deaths.. they cause them. > >Guns don't kill people...bullets do. Guns are no more dangerous than > >a stick of TNT with out a primer cap > Yeah, but who ever heard of getting tnt-whipped? A good gunbutt to >the side of the haid can put down just about any errant trouble maker, >with or without bullets. The butt? Sigh. These Kids today... The Lost Art of Pistol-Whipping requires that you NEVER offer the butt of your pistol to your opponent, EXCEPT if you're gripping it and smashing in an overhand hammer-style strike. (Higher degree of difficulty - recommended for seasoned professionals only!) The potential for a scuffle for control of the weapon is too great to risk losing the satisfying humiliation of a Pistol-Whipped enemy over. Most P-W situations require the use of the barrel only. The hard steel of a long-barrelled revolver or a long-slide M1911/clone auto work best. One should never reverse the pistol in an "offering" position to whip the intended victim. The barrel is the most solid; often the heaviest part of the pistol and will result in the least-likely damage potential to your weapon, as well as the most satisfying lacerations and contusions upon the face (preferred target area) of the intended recipient. {thanks to IcyFang for technical notes on this subject} I.A. ObT: Gun smuggling trade using marital-aid imports from cheap latex-injection-molding plants overseas. .45cal Dildoes, anyone? Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ Before you buy. ------------------------------ From blaque@my-deja.com Thu Mar 09 21:31:29 2000 From: blaque@my-deja.com (Jonathan Blaque) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: A Valentine For Vomit Date: Thu, 09 Mar 2000 22:31:29 -0600 Organization: Planet Of The Apes Lines: 122 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: cf.dc.bb.50 X-Server-Date: 10 Mar 2000 03:11:18 GMT X-Newsreader: Yet Another NewsWatcher 2.2.0b4 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!news-FFM2.ecrc.net!news.mindspring.net!newsfeed.mindspring.net!firehose.mindspring.com!chf-il8-80.ix.netcom.com!user Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:197814 Most of the chimps that hang around in #tasteless know that I've been relentlessly hounding our beloved Nrwidow for a pair of her dirty panties. Well, after nearly three months of whining, begging and badgering I'm happy to report that my efforts have paid off. The (Spread) Eagle Has Landed. I got a call from my pal Captain Forehead this afternoon, telling me there's a package waiting for me at his place. Reason enough to leave work early, I say to myself, and I beat a hasty path to his front door. Seeing "Nrwidow" as the return address, my heart starts to pound like a steel drum. Could it be? Cappy hands me the envelope and quizzes me on the con- tents. "Oh, just some dirty panties from a psycho nymph dope fiend in Florida, 'sall. Seeya later, Cap." I feel his burning jealousy on the back of my head as I turn and walk away. Hopping into my car, I immediately slice the package open with my trusty Tanto. A thick, sweet odor comes wheezing out of the bubble wrap. I begin pulling out the contents: A CD by a band called Nashville Pussy entitled, appro- priately enough, "Eat More Pussy." The cover features two of the band's female members stuffing guys' heads into their snatches. Good start. Next, a plaster mold of someone's crooked, chipped teeth. OK, I'm amused -- but it's panties I'm hunting for here. I toss the teeth on the passenger seat and dig in deeper. A plastic bag full of mummified Florida cockroaches and lizards -- each one *hand-painted.* "This bitch is crazy about me," I mumble -- "but the pan- ties -- where the *fuck* are the *panties?*" Next, a miniature poster for Tennessee politician-of-old George Lincoln Rockwell -- "The White Man's Champion" -- inviting supporters to his "Old-Fashioned Rebel Rally" featuring Odis Cochran singing "Ship Those Niggers Back," and an actual chimpanzee act called "Martin Luther Coon" performing "The Nonviolent Riots." All very thoughtful gifts, but not what my heart is pining for. My hope fading fast, I reach into the bottom of the enve- lope and feel a small cardboard box. Hope (among other things) springs eternal. I crack open the "Black Mammy Dinner Bell" box. There -- tucked neatly inside -- are a pair of frilly beige panties, absolutely *awash* in the unmistakeable stench of filthy quim. My choad dances in anticpation of the coming wank. "Just one little sniff before I get home," I tell myself as I pull the panties out. To my delightH^H^Hsurprise, out from within their folds drops a plastic tampon applica- tor, smeared in dried blood. "Hey -- bonus!" I muse, and stuff the applicator into my mouth, suckling it like a newborn on a nipple. Inspecting the panties closely, I find they are everything I'd been asking for and more. Not only are they yellowed and stiff, but they're generously smeared with black, crusted feces as well -- a drooling pervert's dream come true, right here in my quivering hand -- and high-octane wankfuel for the next six months... If I can keep from sucking the cotton panel clean, that is. Nrwidow, I think I love you. ...oh, and Herry? eat your fuckin' heart out. Cheers! Vomit(II) Heavin' On Earth "You've become quite the women's advocate, Blaque. Ser- monizing about women's rights by a man who proudly ass- erts that dead women make the "best fuck of all" because you don't have to talk to them or pay their cab fare kind of shoots down your credibility. You need to pack your sorry ass back to alt.tasteless where your misogyny is better appreciated, bigoted hypocrite." -- Lynette Warren, who never *did* get around to sending me *her* soiled panties. Go figure. ObT: Planning Nrwidow's return gift. Gonna start by filling up a plastic coke vial with semen and go from there... ObMoreT: The hell I'm gonna catch from Nurzy for this. ObReallyT: Nrwidow laughing it up because the shit on the panties really belongs to her comatose husband... You don't think..... Nah.... ------------------------------ From ian_anderthal@my-deja.com Thu Mar 09 20:10:42 2000 From: ian_anderthal@my-deja.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The Lost Art of Pistol-Whipping (REPLYING TO UBIQUITOUS) Date: Fri, 10 Mar 2000 03:10:42 GMT Organization: Deja.com - Before you buy. Lines: 189 Message-ID: <8a9p3g$jrt$1@nnrp1.deja.com> References: <38C7CA46.A6240ED4@erols.com> <8a933u$3v9$1@nnrp1.deja.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 207.213.91.208 X-Article-Creation-Date: Fri Mar 10 03:10:42 2000 GMT X-Http-User-Agent: Mozilla/4.7 [en] (WinNT; I) X-Http-Proxy: 1.0 x21.deja.com:80 (Squid/1.1.22) for client 207.213.91.208 X-MyDeja-Info: XMYDJUIDian_anderthal Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!nntp2.deja.com!nnrp1.deja.com!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:197817 Looks like, from Deja's ineptitude, I'll have to reply to Ubiquitious via my own message... Ubi wrote: >Ian, your diatribe is quite pleasing in my sight, but unfortunately it >leaves far too much out for the uninitiated to really learn the Art. >Could you please start with the basics and explain exactly how to do >it? (I fear that few Americans -- even few NY and LA cops -- really >know how to to it right.) I flattered, or fatter, or something, that you would look to me for this... DISCLAIMER: The following text is provided for entertainment purposes only and in no way constitutes advice. Author assumes no responsibility for any consequences resultant from readers of the following. Pistol Whipping Webster begins lamely: pisátol-whip (pistul-hwip, -wip) v. tr. pisátol-áwhipped, pisátol-áwhipáping, pisátol-áwhips. To beat with a pistol. Heh. Surprisingly little is available on the web for this subject. Let's have a deeper and more limiting definition: PW is specifically Adding Insult to Injury (or replacing it outright). We are now distinctly in the realm of Assault-With-A-Deadly-Weapon here, and for all intents and purposes intend to stay there, not venturing into manslaughter or murder II. PW is never found (please correct me if I'm wrong here) between two equally-armed opponents. Thus, the field belongs completely to the assailant. While sometimes the result of disagreement initiated by either side, escalation of a PW-resultant argument will come to some point where the disparity in armaments becomes obvious. PW is rare enough in firearm encounters to be considered predilectory, that is, on really should have a "calling" or "vocation" for it. As, done properly, it is an art form of martial and psychological stature, it should be undertaken only by those who display a true interest in it. The properly PW-ed victim will display the following behaviors: Cringing Crying Easily startled, during and for some time afterward Avoidant of confrontation, " " " " " " Disorientation " " " " " " Groveling (both to attacker and to assistance personnel afterward) Light to moderate bleeding Need for stitches Deep Bruising Broken facial or hand bones, teeth and/or noses may also be observed, but are not strictly required. Depending upon caliber, target point and powder load, a pistol can wound, maim, cripple or kill. It has long (and rightly) been held that Guns Are For Killing People When People Need Killing. So, strictly speaking, because of the specifically accurate damage an accomplished duellist can do in shooting someone, death-by-PW (or crippling, even) is clearly not the goal. Opinions vary as to the point at which PW goes 'overboard.' Some say that outright maiming is permissable when the recipient "has it coming," Generally speaking, however, the PW assault is meant to injure in such a fashion as to convey the message, "I have a gun, could kill you with it, but you are not even so evolved a writhing worm as to warrant it." The roots of PW can be clearly seen in this stance (see my reply to Robinson in re: Cowboys and So.Europ.Businessmen). So, putting a eye or two out or rendering useless one or more hands will, for the purposes of this discussion, be left aside as material for the Masters Course. We will deal strictly in the ADW category. Websters' above is pathetic, now that I look at it. PW is NOT merely "To beat with a pistol," it is to BEAT INTO SUBMISSION, using ones pistol AMONG the weapons. Like all martial arts, the MIND is the strongest weapon here. One's intended recipient faces humiliation, surely, but cannot react violently to it when in fear of his/her own life. [While purists of the Art might be inclusive, it is generally frowned upon to PW a woman. Most females fold under the pressure too quickly and are hardly fit for the sport. Apologies to stalwart aberrants like Ginny, Lenore, et al. PWing a woman is usually grounds for expulsion from most gentlemen's clubs that practice the sport, and herewith the masculine pronoun shall be used for the recipient.] The pressure applied to the recipient by the assailant is not unlike a Master-Slave BD/SM relationship - there is usually some goal that the assailant is seeking, whether to humble the recipient into some vile act or admission or merely to plead for one's life. Novice PWers are advised to plan ahead and formulate the demand(s) ahead of time so as not to appear to break stride. Physical techniques: The dominant arm is preferred, as it is usually stronger, with better dexterity. Holding the pistol firmly by the grip, remove the index finger from the trigger. It is VERY bad form for the pistol to discharge while PWing, so remember - SAFETY FIRST. If selecting a 'light' grip, keep the index finger straight and outside the trigger guard (should your pistol not have a trigger guard, do not use it for PW - it is most likely a derringer and it will only get you laughed at). A 'heavy' grip is obtained by *slightly* moving the lower three fingers down on the grip to accomodate the index index finger in a 4-finger grasp of the grip (known in the Art as "choking up" - this is also the safest grip for PW). A modified fencing stance can be employed to start out the attack - with your dominant shoulder toward the recipient, slightly turn away from him and draw the arm transversely across the body toward the non-dominant side, allowing the relieving notion, "S/He's not going to shoot me!" to be expressed. Quickly swing the arm in a snapping arc to connect the pistol barrel with the face of the recipient. That is the basic move. Left for Master Study are the forehand and overhand strikes - the forehand due to its requirement of greater pectoral and bicep strength (gender norming applies in competition scoring here, ladies, never fear!), and the overhand due to its degree of difficulty and need for speed and additional hand-to-hand skills. Technique is of course, left to the Artiste. A mere continuance of slapping meat with metal is not Art. The cultivation of fear, flight, pursuit, injury and submission is left to the practitioner and graded by experts in the field. At some point, however, your recipient will be on the ground, as true submission rarely occurs without mammalian near-supine posturing. The attendant groveling, whimpering and pleading may lead the PWer to cry "finis!" and call it a day. Caution is advised, as primates are notorious actors, and a true beating into submission may not have yet been achieved. During the PW, recipient will probably have tried to fend off blows with the hands or arms and realized that these are just as susceptible to damage as is the intended facial areas. Strikes to the hands and arms are considered alternate punitive targets and are Good Form, but remember one's purpose in the PW and confine maiming to cases which warrant it. After a true beating into submission, a recipient will often fail to attempt to fend off blows that could easily have been blocked by the hands or arms. Using the Light Grip, make an easy strike with less force, but with good speed, to the face. If the recipient assumes the figure of a whipped dog, you are done. Few litmus tests such as this are effective in a PW. When the recipient is on the ground, prior to submission, we enter the area of non-pistol attacks. Limit these to stomps and kicks, but be sure of your target. A recipient that has 'gone to ground' before being seriously battered is more dangerous than a cornered rodent, so Be Careful. A last note in this rambling diatribe is necessary: Be Careful of the Cranium and Cervical Vertebrae! A sure and quick way to botch a PW is the over-application of force to the wrong areas. Breaking a bone in the skull can result in unconsciousness, coma, concussion, hematoma and even death. Worse yet, it will deprive you of your goal: Submission. A carelessly-placed strike to the neck can chip vertebrae and result in painfully-lodged bone fragments and severe deep bruising, but Don't Be Lulled into complacency! A broken vertebra can result in crippling paralysis in your intended, depriving you of any sport at all from the act. At this late hour, I will leave finer points and discussion topics to the class. Put down your pencils and hand your bluebooks across the aisle to the test proctor. I.A. No ObT, I'm tired. Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ Before you buy. ------------------------------ From jeffjustin@newsfeeds.com Sat Mar 11 09:30:21 2000 Message-ID: <38CA749D.A08A2924@newsfeeds.com> Date: Sat, 11 Mar 2000 11:30:21 -0500 From: Jeff Justin X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.02 [en]C-DIAL (Win95; U) MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Hot Shit! Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.40.144.138 X-Trace: 11 Mar 2000 10:32:17 -0600, 216.40.144.138 Lines: 86 X-Authenticated-User: jeffjustin X-Comments: This message was posted through Newsfeeds.com X-Comments2: IMPORTANT: Newsfeeds.com does not condone, nor support, spam or any illegal or copyrighted postings. X-Comments3: IMPORTANT: Under NO circumstances will postings containing illegal or copyrighted material through this service be tolerated!! X-Report: Please report illegal or inappropriate use to X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers, INCLUDING the body (DO NOT SEND ATTACHMENTS) Organization: Newsfeeds.com http://www.newsfeeds.com 73,000+ UNCENSORED Newsgroups. Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!news.augsburg.net!news.ruhrgebiet.individual.net!feed.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!goliath2.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!216.40.144.138 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:197913 I recently moved back to the town where I grew up thirty years ago. I've started to look up some of the old friends who still live in the area just to re-connect with my twisted past. I ran into my childhood best friend at the drug store the other day, and we ended up hoisting a few rounds at a local pub and doing that "trip down memory lane" thing. During our reminiscences Arnie reminded me of an episode that I'd totally forgotten. Arnie, my next-door neighbor and childhood partner in crime had invited me up to his family's cabin in the northern reaches of Michigan. We were perhaps 10 or 11, and were slagging the summer away dreading school in the fall. His familial cottage sat on one of Michigan's thousands of small lakes and like so many lakes, this one had wall to wall cabins. Well, the man who owned the cabin next door had spent the past few summers telling Arnie and his brothers to get the fuck off his beach, his land, his boat, his driveway...you get the picture. This guy was a big, red-faced, shop rat from the Polish ghetto of Hamtramack. Arnie had talked about him before, but I didn't understand what an asshole he was until I met him. Man, what a pain in the ass. He yelled instead of spoke and every other word was a profanity. Of course, he was drunk most of the time, and that might account for his foul temper with us kids. It was the last day of our stay in the idyllic north for this particular vacation. Arnie and I decided that we were going to get even with Mean Mr. Neighbor. We'd had enough of his abuse and being the little hellions we were at the time, vengeance was the only solution. It was early in the day, and Arnie's dad was getting things rounded up to leave. The neighbor had taken his boat out fishing. Arnie and I thought this was the perfect time to do whatever we were going to do. We sneaked into his cabin full of vengeful motivation but short on actual plans to get even with this bastard. Once in, we debated several different pranks but things like scattering his belongings all over the cabin, or dumping his beer down the drain, or finding a dead animal and hiding it, didn't have that zing we were after. Standing there in his cabin, Arnie got the proverbial light bulb of inspiration. Without saying a word, Arnie grabbed a dirty frying pan out of the sink and went into the bathroom. He came back five minutes later with a fresh log of kid-shit rolling around in the pan. Cool. I grabbed the pan from him and set it on the stove, found some oil, poured it in, then, fired up the burner. In a few more minutes, we had "hot shit". Fried in oil, and burned onto the bottom of the pan, you can only imagine the dreadful smell. After another light bulb went off for Arnie, he took the pan off the burner, set it on the linoleum (oops - sorry about the burn mark) and peed into it. When he was done, I carefully put it back on the stove to simmer. Unfortunately, I managed to spill some pee on the burner (oops, again). We admired our handiwork for a few moments, commented to each other how bad it smelled in there, between the cloud of urine steam and the fried shit. At that point we believed we had done our best, so we closed up his windows and sneaked back to Arnie's place. We were nervous as cats in a room full of rocking chairs and even offered to help Arnie's dad finish packing the car just to make sure we got out of there before the neighbor got back. Fortunately, we made our escape. As we bounced down the dirt road out to the highway we could see the neighbor heading his boat back to the cabin, so we knew we'd just barely gotten away with it. We never did hear anything from any adults about what we'd done, but Arnie learned the next summer that the neighbor had sold his cabin that fall. For the next two or three years every time someone said "hot shit" around Arnie and I, we'd crack up big time, leaving the person who said it baffled and scratching their head. Cheers, Jeff Justin -----= Posted via Newsfeeds.Com, Uncensored Usenet News =----- http://www.newsfeeds.com - The #1 Newsgroup Service in the World! -----== Over 80,000 Newsgroups - 16 Different Servers! =----- ------------------------------ From kes@duke.edu Wed Mar 15 07:39:00 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!newsgate.duke.edu!kes From: kes@duke.edu (Strayhorn) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Go not gentle into that good night... Date: Wed, 15 Mar 2000 09:39:00 -0500 Organization: Marinus van der Lubbe Intl Firebombing Society Lines: 106 Message-ID: References: <8amgs9$fhe$1@nnrp1.deja.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: strayhorn.dukecomm.duke.edu X-Newsreader: MT-NewsWatcher 2.4.4 X-No-Archive: yes X-Complaints-To: abuse@dukecomm.duke.edu X-Face: BWeQyrFlV$jk!Ic4*Vvu'J4IEpyD]IbTQv5)y9H8f_XR[%4W$:l!Wvj0j>hs, gj7djy1tb>!5a}py;n)ooLh_Mj!/nvzH7i{aQM'M_fr;n4=K?*\'e!)5TYLSBoA3?j Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:198134 In article <8amgs9$fhe$1@nnrp1.deja.com>, ian_anderthal@my-deja.com wrote: > {wire theft} --> > > Tuesday March 14, 3:39 PM (EST) > > Condemned inmate puts up fight in Texas > ObTfantasy: Shouldn't there really be a mock-up prison and > surrounding community made for guys like these, with a staged > pre-execution easy enough for him to overpower the guards (paid to > shill) and "escape," only to be hunted down by high-rolling riflemen > who've coughed up large dollars for the unique priviledge? I'd buy into this if the inmates were armed as well. Let them "steal" a Beretta off one of the guard-shills. That gives him 15 rounds to work with. If he makes it past the "hunters", he can use it to steal a car and knock over a 7-11 to further his escape. Say, am I the only one thinking "TV rights" here? It's a natural for FOX. "Tonight, on World's Greatest Escapes, we will witness the run of "Mad Dog" O'Donnell as he tries to make it out of the prison in Huntsville, past the two hunters who have paid $50,000 for the chance at bagging a human, and then into the surrounding community. If he's really lucky, he'll make it to Mexico. I'm Howie Long, and with me in the booth is James Brown. What do you think of his chances, JB?" "Well, Howie, they look good. Mad Dog is in prison for the murder of his ex-wife, plus the two cops who came to investigate the reports of screaming at his trailer. While on the lam from that, he managed to kill two highway patrolmen. So we know he's tough, cunning, and ruthless." "JB, I say it's looking pretty good as well. The two hunters are both hi-tech millionaires with limited experience of actual big game hunting. Paul Allen, of Redmond, WA, says he bid on the hunt because he's already bought Jimi Hendrix's corpse and there's nothing else to buy in Washington that Bill Gates doesn't already own. And Jeff Bezos said he wanted to spend all his money before Wall Street figures out his scam. Both are armed with AR-15 rifles taken from the guard armory here at the prison." "Howie, the game is afoot! Mad Dog has overpowered his guards just outside the execution chamber and taken a pistol - oh, good move, he's remembered to take a few extra mags off the belt of one of the guards. That will help if things get close near the final, er, gun." "He's out of the main building and running across the grounds toward the fence - did you see that! He managed to nail one of the guards in a tower who was shooting at him - what a shot!" "Howie, that was a smooth move. He's now over the fence and into the woods. He's looking around and - Wait! There's Jeff Bezos rising up out of his hide and firing! But he's apparently seen too many movies as he's firing from the hip without taking aim. That's gonna cost him." "Yes, JB, and it's hammer time now. Mad Dog has pumped several rounds into Bezo's gut. Bezos is on the ground. The umps have called a clean hit and Mad Dog has helped himself to Bezo's rifle. Oh-oh, Bezos is begging for mercy. That's gonna cost style points." "But Howie, I think it's moot as Mad Dog has pumped two rounds into Bezo's head. It's all over here in the first half." "JB, where's Paul Allen? Did he select a hide or is he using a tree stand?" "I'd guess a tree stand, if they could find one big enough to support his fat ass. Yes! There's a muzzle flash from that pin oak down by the river! The shots are wide and Mad Dog is moving in a flank motion - Allen seems to be confused as he's still shooting at Mad Dog's old location. Things are quiet right now. I see movement near the base of Allen's stand and - wait! What a move! Mad Dog is climbing the tree to take on Allen man-to-man. There's a lot of shaking in the tree, looks like a fight and - there's something going on in the tree and - it's over! Allen's body has just been tossed out of the tree and Mad Dog has jumped down and is running like a scalded cat for the border. He's over! "Looks like Mad Dog has won his freedom - plus he has a pistol and two rifles he can sell to the Mexicans, that should keep him in whorehouses for some time." "Howie, it was a great game. I'm James Brown and on behalf of Howie Long and FOX Sports, we thank you for watching. -- Strayhorn Not Duke policy, etc. "Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allan Poe." - J. Lennon ------------------------------ From theunholyoneNOthSPAM@myremarq.com.invalid Fri Mar 17 10:32:28 2000 X-Originating-Host: 192.55.23.50 Organization: http://www.remarq.com: The World's Usenet/Discussions Start Here Subject: Disgusting things my dog has eaten and thrown up Lines: 101 From: TheUnholyOne Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Message-ID: <10448341.2e2b3799@usw-ex0106-047.remarq.com> Bytes: 4666 X-Wren-Trace: eKOGrq+28bvw97+us+2qpb2pvKijh+6stKqhobim9OCjqKPz9LH4+Prs9fXjtuA= Date: Fri, 17 Mar 2000 09:32:28 -0800 NNTP-Posting-Host: 10.0.2.47 X-Complaints-To: wrenabuse@remarq.com X-Trace: WReNphoon2 953314049 10.0.2.47 (Fri, 17 Mar 2000 09:27:29 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 17 Mar 2000 09:27:29 PST Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!nuq-peer.news.verio.net!news.verio.net!remarQ70!supernews.com!remarQ69!WReNclone!WReNphoon2.POSTED!WReN!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:198327 I own a Border Collie. In case you're not familiar with Border Collies, I'll fill you in on some interesting details about them. Did you know they're the most intelligent dog breed? Did you know that they're right up there with ~gasp~ Poodles? Yes, that's right. Poodles are the second-most-intelligent breed. Perhaps you see what I'm leading up to here. Border Collies are weirder and more fucked in the head than Poodles, and mine is no exception. I have a theory here. I believe that these so- called intelligent breeds have more brains than dogs were originally designed for. I think that makes them insane. For instance, my dog loves to chase shadows on the ground. Now, you would think that after 6 years of living on the edge he would've grown tired of this. But no. On sunny days while friends are over talking and gesturing with their hands, my dog is crouched and drooling, staring at the moving shadows. Finally, he can't stand it any more and pounces on one, yelping in...aggravation? frustration? dementia? My friends, particularly those who have never witnessed this, find it amusing and start making shadows for my little poochie. I am no longer amused by this. Sometimes, he's bloodied his mouth while biting at the sidewalk. My Border Collie is also one of those dogs that enjoys chasing his tail. If anyone makes a sudden, strange noise while staring at him (staring at Border Collies is always good for a few laughs), he'll commence to chase his tail. He's gotten it down to a science now. After years of practice, he can actually catch his tail and hold it, after several minutes of wild snapping sounds from his mouth. Once, he broke his tail. The last 6 inches or so of it hung at an odd angle until we taped it. My theory is that while walking backwards with his tail clenched in his whistling, foaming teeth, he walked into a wall or doorway. When presented with the specter of moving floor shadows *and* strange, sudden noises, he will grab something handy in his mouth and shake it. If he's particularly wound up, he'll proceed to consume it. This happened once (apparently when we weren't looking) with an object which I shall reveal in due time. Late one night I was awakened by the sound of the dog heaving. Kind of a "hrew hrew hrew" sound familiar to dog owners. (Why do they alway vomit at night?) This went on for some time, but being a lazy, hard-hearted bastard I refused to get out of bed to check on him. The retching subsided and I went back to sleep. Next morning, I performed the obligatory search for the canine vomitus. Nothing. Nada. Zippo. There was no puke nowhere. Well, I congratulated myself on not having to clean up Border Collie bile and forgot the whole thing. Several days later, I caught sight of something odd just under the bed. It was a lime-green lump. It was completely unidentifiable. In horror, I procured a stick and poked at the object, half-expecting it to move. Whatever it was, it was soft, gooey and dead. Thus emboldened, I peered closer. It was oddly familiar, up close. Sudden realization hit me. It was a (formerly) blue child's sock, turned green from stomach acid. It was what the dog heaved up several nights before. Let us comtemplate this for a moment. Imagine how painful it would have been swallowing a sock, whole. Now imagine the pain as it came back up, still whole. I shudder to think. But the intensity and duration of the dog's retching made sudden and disgusting sense. This particular incident went unmatched in stupidity and insanity for years. Until recently. Late one night recently I was once again awaked by the "hrew hrew hrew" sound of my retched, retching dog. This went on and on with associated coughing and gagging for perhaps 15 minutes straight. At one point, I actually sat up to observe this. (I like to think I did this because I've grown kinder and more caring as a person) With one last, stupendous "gack" this seizure choked out its final crescendo. I was truly dreading what I'd wake to. This time I found the product of his mighty hurling right away. Amid streamers of yellow-green phlegm, there lay...a rock. Yes, a rock. My Border Collie, a prime representative of the most intelligent dog breed, had eaten, and heaved, a rock. My daughter, being the junior geologist that she is, correcly identified it as Catoctin Greenstone. How fitting. * Sent from RemarQ http://www.remarq.com The Internet's Discussion Network * The fastest and easiest way to search and participate in Usenet - Free! ------------------------------ From raoul@seanet.com Fri Mar 17 21:08:46 2000 From: "WhiteRabbit" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Don't try this at home, kids! Date: Fri, 17 Mar 2000 20:08:46 -0800 Organization: None whatsoever Lines: 63 Distribution: X-no-archive: yes Message-ID: <8auvr3$dfa$1@q.seanet.com> Reply-To: "WhiteRabbit" NNTP-Posting-Host: dialup-209.245.160.51.seattle1.level3.net Keywords: Blood, gore...the usual stuff. X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2314.1300 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2314.1300 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!solaris.cc.vt.edu!news.vt.edu!news.seanet.com!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:198373 When I fuck up, I don't do it halfway. Last summer, on July 30th, to be precise, I had myself a little episode of the psychotic variety. This episode was triggered by...oh, hell, that's a whole other post. Let's just say that by the time I got home from work that day I was a seething cauldron of nerves and poison and I needed to get it out of my system. I made a few purchases on the way home. I bought beer, cigarettes, more beer, and a nice 5-pack of shiny new Gillette razor blades. I felt the Need to Bleed. Once home, I fed the cat, cracked a Ballard Bitter, got out my best white enameled mixing bowl and went to work. It was hot and I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, so it took me at least three more beers to figure out where I wanted to make the cut. So much skin, so little time. Eventually I settled on the nice, thick, juicy vein running along the top of my right foot. It's the one that runs (ran) prominently from the tarsus and curves sinuously over the metatarsi and ends up...um, somewhere. I wanted to slice the motherfucker in two and bleed like a stuck, drunken pig. Problem was, I didn't fancy _sawing_ my skin open with the blade. I tutted and fussed for a bit until my eyes alit on the TV remote control. A bleary sort of light went on in my head. I stumbled into action and snapped the razor blade in two, grabbed the remote in one hand, held the doubled blade over the vein in the other, then positioned my foot over the bowl and gave the blade a good *whack* with the TV remote. I believe I let out a whoop of delight at that point. It hadn't really hurt that much, and it was bleeding a treat. I watched with a big grin on my beer-flushed face as my hatred and anger and all that other icky stuff poured into the bowl in gently surging waves. (My tasteless cat came over for a lick or two, but he didn't like it much.) The sound was like listening in secret to a loved one taking a piss behind a heavy bathroom door, and the sight of the red, red blood on my white foot was sort of romantic in a Gothy sort of way. I watched and watched, (drinking more and more beer to keep dehydration at bay), vastly entertained. Eventually I got a bit bored and decided to stop bleeding. I throttled my ankle and raised my foot up over my head and tried to calm down my surging blood pressure. Didn't work. As a former blood donor, I estimated there was at least a pint of Vin de White Rabbit in the bowl, and more was splashed on the carpet and furniture (I had to get more beers, remember?) I decided some First Aid was in order. I scootched over to the telephone, called a friend and drunkenly described the situation. I was trying to make it sound casual, but there's no way you can say "I sliced open a vein in my foot and have been bleeding for an hour or so and I think I need some help" in a casual manner. She taxied over immediately and tried to get me to go to the hospital that is half a block away from my hutch. I refused. So she did what any true friend would do and began to play with the blood. Wow. By this time it had separated in the bowl into a semi-solid mass (think warm Jell-O) surrounded by watery reddish plasma. We had a good old ol' time viewing my vein and poking my platelets and generally being merry, but then her friend arrived to take her to work. Jeez, what a wuss. He immediately went pale, sank into the Heroin Chair, then refused to look at me for the entire visit. Anyway, eventually my friend borrowed my car and went to the drug store for first aid supplies. When she came back, she did a great impression of that Biblical chick who washed Jesus' feet (Martha?), then bandaged me up and poured me into bed after getting a promise from me that I'd go to the hospital if I was still bleeding in the morning. Next: Tendons and veins and needles--oh my! -- raoul@seanet.com "Better Living Through Reckless Experimentation" ------------------------------ From raoul@seanet.com Sat Mar 18 20:34:42 2000 From: "WhiteRabbit" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Don't try this at home, kids! The sequel Date: Sat, 18 Mar 2000 19:34:42 -0800 Organization: None whatsoever Lines: 103 Message-ID: <8b1i6b$ier$1@q.seanet.com> Reply-To: "WhiteRabbit" NNTP-Posting-Host: dialup-209.245.161.151.seattle1.level3.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2314.1300 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2314.1300 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newspump.monmouth.com!newspeer.monmouth.com!solaris.cc.vt.edu!news.vt.edu!news.seanet.com!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:198473 The Night of the Living Foot, Part II July 31st. I awoke at my regular hour and my first coherent thought of the day was "foot". Okay, so that isn't a really profound, earth-shaking thought, but it was at least coherent. I sat up and removed the sandwich bag, the layer of tape, the layers of gauze, and the layer of cotton from my foot, leaving only the butterfly sutures (did I tell you my friend is famous for her first aid?) It didn't look bad, thanks to her; no swelling or redness was evident. However, it was still oozing blood. It was just a little cut, mind you. Just a teensy little scratch about half an inch wide, and razor-thin (ha). Not, in short, a Big Deal. However, I figured it would be good form to go the 'mergency room anyway and get a couple more butterfly sutures, a tetanus shot, and a good talking-to. So I did. The hospital I live by is the kind of quiet, genteel hospital that never has any ambulances screaming around it, no drug-crazed lunatics freaking out in the corridors, no gunshot victims bleeding messily in the reception area. For a hospital, it's pretty damn tasteful. I limped in and got tagged, shoved into a glass room, and ignored for two hours almost immediately. It was class all the way. Finally I got my first taste of pain (the tetanus shot hadn't hurt at all, weirdly). A short little nurze walked in and told me she wanted to clean out the wound. I thought that was a sensible enough idea. So she removed my blood-encrusted Chuck Taylor, hosed me down and SCRUBBED my owie with antibiotic soap and a stiff-bristled brush. I was in the full-flung, grimacing, silently-whimpering, throat-baring position. Only shame and residual alcohol poisoning kept me from making noises. She was positively sadistic! Nurzy, were you working in Seattle last summer? I got ignored for another hour or so, then the doc came and took a look at my tiny little insignificant cut. "So," he said sagely, "you say you dropped a wine bottle on it?" Hell, that was my story and I was sticking to it. I don't think he believed me. However, he examined it carefully. Now I finally got to learn what was up. Seems that I got a little too enthusiastic when I whacked myself and instead of just cutting through skin and vein, I had managed to sever the flexor tendon that raises the big toe. No wonder the scrubbing had hurt; the nurze had been scrubbing my damn *bones*! He called for two different kinds of sutures, Iron Maidens, red hot branding irons, whips, chains and other instruments of destruction, and then he went to work. First off, and most horribly, he stuck a needle into my wound. Are you getting a good mental picture of that, folks? He STUCK a NEEDLE into my raw, throbbing, gaping FOOT WOUND. Examine your own feet for a point of reference, and notice they do not have a lot of fat or muscle in them. It's basically skin and bone. Nonetheless, he stuck a freakin' NEEDLE into it. That, friends, neighbors and assorted sick fucks, was when I lost it. My pain threshold had been reached. I couldn't close my eyes, so I just clapped my hands over them and cried like a goddamn woman. For some reason I had the sensation that there wasn't just one, but TWO needles sticking out of my foot, and I simply couldn't bear to look to confirm my suspicion. Eventually I managed to convince myself that my foot was full of novocaine and it really was safe to look, so I dried my eyes and bent over to supervise. The doc was busy stitching my tendon together with a bunch of tiny titanium wires. It was beautiful work and fascinating to watch. Very impressive! (I wonder if he did something to cauterize the vein first, because even though the wound was gaping considerably by then, there was no blood. Damn.) Then he closed the skin up with five big clumsy black stitches, which lowered my opinion of him considerably. Then came the man with the Big Antibiotic Needle. I think this part hurt more than all the others. He cheerily (they were all considerably more cheerful to me after I'd finally broke down crying) inserted the monstrous thing into my hip and then told me to relax while he slowly injected a large, cold boulder into my muscle. Relax!? Fuck you and the horse you rode in on! Naturally, I snarled and cursed till he got the vile thing out of my precious little bod. Then the stupid oaf asked me if I thought I'd need anything for the pain. What? Honestly! Are these people getting their medical degrees out of a cereal box or what? OF COURSE I WANTED DRUGS!!!! Jesus. I thought the whole ordeal was over then, so I wiggled my toes experimentally and tried to find my shoe. Wrong-o. First they brought out the Boot. For those of you who have never seen one, this is a soft walking cast composed of plastic and foam with lots of velcro straps to keep it on. You can take it off at night, wash it when it gets too vile, and adjust its fit on the fly. Last time I had a cast it was freakin' plaster, so this was a marvel to me. It even looked sort of sexy in a bondagey kind of way. So I clumped around the 'mergency room merrily, enjoying my new footgear and feeling almost frisky for the first time that morning. Well, I was till they brought out the Crutches of Doom, anyway. I learned to really hate those things, but that was later. At that time, I was merely puzzled. It was, after all, just a little scratch on my foot and I thought the Boot was quite grand enough. Surely I didn't really need crutches? They thought I did. They slung my now-extraneous sneaker jauntily over one of the upright parts on the bottom of one crutch, handed me a bag of gauze, prescriptions (yes!) and assorted instructions, slapped my bottom, and sent me home. I wore that freakin' boot through the entire month of August and had to trade my Miata for a Subaru Legacy so I could drive during that time, but you know what? It was worth it just to discover how divinely Vicodin goes with Ballard Bitter. ObT: I still have a little lump of scar tissue under the wound which is partly stuck to the tendon and partly stuck to the skin of my foot. When I point and flex my toe, I can feel a sort of crawling sensation as the lump stretches the skin that it's adhered to. I play with it when I'm stuck in traffic. ObNewWord: Boogomancy. Used to describe the practice of looking closely at one's kleenex/handkerchief after a blow. -- raoul@seanet.com "Better Living Through Reckless Experimentation" ------------------------------ From Randall@thedge.com Sat Mar 18 22:29:52 2000 Message-ID: <38D465AA.BC2701BE@thedge.com> From: Randall@thedge.com X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.7 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en,pdf MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Swing Low, Sweet Colt- [was Re: As American As Cherry Pie (News)] References: <38D26CDF.9C198084@bellsouth.net> <38e1ba77.279349994@porcodio.it> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 117 Date: Sun, 19 Mar 2000 05:29:52 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.14.113.114 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.rdc1.il.home.com 953443792 24.14.113.114 (Sat, 18 Mar 2000 21:29:52 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 18 Mar 2000 21:29:52 PST Organization: @Home Network Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newspump.monmouth.com!newspeer.monmouth.com!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newshub2.home.com!news.home.com!news1.rdc1.il.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:198479 Nessuno wrote nothing, but, copied the entire post wondering the whole while why his computer had never said, "You've got mail!". > >Mr. Here's Your Fucking Warrant is still at large at this time.... Life in the inner city. What a trip. Atlanta, Chicago, Philadelphia... where ever. Gotta be very similar in the factors that affect those forced by circumstance to reside there. I'm often working in Gary, Indiana. Gary has been considered the murder capital of the planet several years running. A notable distinction that is merited if half the tales of kinfolk/friends/acquaintances caught by bullet are true. Lessee... of the last four helpers... one, Joe Thomas, just out of the joint, after twelve years, for manslaghter. Seems a restaraunt owner refused him service and called him and the sr 'niggers'. He took exception to the comment, vocalizing his ire. The owner then sorta pushed him toward the door. Then, he pushed the wife. She lost her footing. To Joe, it looked as if she were knocked down. He got between the two and then cookie appeared with a cleaver. Cookie didn't know any more than a black dude was yelling at the boss. 'Nuff known for cookie. Also 'nuff known for Joe. He pulled the .357 Mag out and started shooting cookie. Six rounds to the chest at five feet or so. Never take a meat claever to a gunfight. Next swamper... Mike, shot in the knee on his way to pick up a daughter at school. AK-47 he claims, while driving the three blocks to the elementary school. His leg is unable to bend more than about ten degrees. Knobby, mishapen and painful, his life forever changed by some random act. Helper #3, Marshall, lost two brothers within six weeks, two years ago. Drug related dealings, methinks. He was vague in the telling and it appeared he was being purposefully vague, so I let it drop. Latest helper, Aaron, his step-brother was killed a week ago. Bullet to the back of the head as if a gangland killing of old. He was a visitor in one of the local projects. Apparently an old argument/grudge was the motivation. The percentage of lives touched appears to quite high. Y'know the strange part? Yet the deaths in Gary hardly are worth mention on the local evening news. -- Ghetto Tale of the week.... Last night, about ten p.m. we were in one of the projects, delivering a sofa set. Delaney Project. Touted as the nastiest in the valley, Delaney has a rough reputation and an awe-inspiring body count. There is one way in to the four or five one-way streets that provide access to the six unit buildings. There are no street signs, no lights, no signs at all. The only means of determing the traffic direction is to note the parked cars. Huge speed bumps preclude high speed traffic very effectively, placed about ten car lengths apart on each street. As we cruise slowly by the groups of people hanging on the streets, I ask one for directions. The fellow is amazed. He wonders why the company would send us in there. A mistake, he concludes. He then wishes us luck. Wunnerful, wunnerful. We are a street off course, so deeper into the project. Another, larger, group is in front of us. While we pass I hear one of them yell, "Hey! Dem's white folk in hyere!" I dunno, sorta made m'blood chill. I shucked a round into the chamber and popped the thumb-break, also making certain it remained accessible by tucking my jacket to expose the grip. Gotta admit, a Colt .45 autoloader with heavily charged, flat nosed projectiles designed by Keith to tear flesh and penetrate, makes one feel more at ease in a ghetto environment. We unloaded in near record time. I told the shipper I was a bit un- comfortable, being in the project and of the blonde-haired and blue- eyed persuasion. She smiled, said she understood and that she was perfectly capable of finishing the set-up. Gratefully, I shook her hand and cut a choagy for the relative safety of the truck. Like dark-thirty in the projects? Not one jot. I'm keeping my license to carry concealed up to date and the officers model neatly tucked into the small of my back. When in Rome... do as the Romans. When in the ghetto, carry a concealable, large calibre, autoloading handgun locked and loaded. -- To you do-gooder types that would take away my equalizer, come on down. Spend a day in the reality of urban living, away from your SUV's and capuccino. Step into the world of cheap liquor and glass pipes. A place filled with third floor walk-ups, broken lives and cockroaches. Once you quaff deeply, then make an informed decision concerning any legislation affecting another person's right to cheat death by carrying a fistful with him. I can assure, after the first drop (delivery) in a real ghetto on any friday night that is above fifty degrees, you will appreciate that weaponry and the security it provides. Promise, you will be very glad it is within easy reach. The Iranians ain't shit. -- Randall --------------------------*-***-*---------------------------- "To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men, -- that is genius." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson~ --------------------------*-***-*---------------------------- ------------------------------ From worley@dworley.ne.mediaone.net Mon Mar 20 07:58:20 2000 Sender: worley@blob.ariadne.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Popular entertainment in Brazil From: worley@dworley.ne.mediaone.net (Acetylcholinesterase Inhibitor) X-No-Archive: yes Message-ID: <8766uhofhv.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> Lines: 35 X-Newsreader: Gnus v5.5/Emacs 20.3 Date: Mon, 20 Mar 2000 14:58:20 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.218.145.6 X-Complaints-To: abuse@mediaone.net X-Trace: typhoon.ne.mediaone.net 953564300 24.218.145.6 (Mon, 20 Mar 2000 09:58:20 EST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 20 Mar 2000 09:58:20 EST Organization: Road Runner Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.cwix.com!chnws02.mediaone.net!chnws05.ne.mediaone.net!24.128.8.70!typhoon.ne.mediaone.net.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:198557 OK, I've forgotten some of the details already, but the local paper had a fun story: It seems that in the slums of Brazil there are these wonderful dance clubs. A few gangs from one slum come in on buses and fill up Side A of the club. A few gangs from another slum come in on buses and fill up Side B of the club. After the DJ warms up the crowd a bit, they start playing some heavy, hard-hitting music, and groups from both sides start working into the center -- aptly named the Corridor of Death. Each group tries to catch members of the other side, drag them off to its own side, and then viciously beat the victim. This activity is called Mortal Kombat, after the video game. The DJ is responsible for regulating the mood and tempo of the action, interleaving rest breaks (slow, romantic tunes for dancing with the chicks) with the fighting periods (heavy metal, etc.). An unknown number of people have been killed in these melees. Since weapons aren't allowed (and the clubs hire thug-cops to body-search the players), deaths are only thought to be in the dozens. Allegedly, people who die on the floor are spirited away to be buried quietly in dumps and landfills. For some reason, there is a Rio policewoman who is trying to track down what's going on with these clubs and presumably to get them shut down. To me, it sounds like sound population control. The chicks get in on the action, too. Not the Mortal Kombat stuff, but they occasionally have hard-core catfights. This sounds funny till you read about stomping on a rival's face with high heels. ObT: Realizing people pay money to be allowed into these clubs. ObT/Wank: Knowing some women I wouldn't want to see across from me in the Corridor of Death. Dale ------------------------------ From ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com Wed Mar 22 12:18:14 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!newsfeed.avtel.net!news-out.cwix.com!newsfeed.cwix.com!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!pln-w!spln!extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!news1 From: ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com (JustmeĻ) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Middle class mores Date: Wed, 22 Mar 2000 14:18:14 -0500 Organization: Miss Manners School of Proper Posting Lines: 112 Message-ID: References: <874s9z90gq.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: p-355.newsdawg.com X-Newsreader: Anawave Gravity v2.00 X-no-archive: yes X-Ginny: unforgettable X-Ordination: Universal Life Church X-Reverend: Reverend Ginny X-Received-Date: Wed, 22 Mar 2000 11:52:19 PST (newsfeed.avtel.net) Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:198762 I saw this stuff written by worley@dworley.ne.mediaone.net in article <874s9z90gq.fsf@blob.ariadne.com>, and like, I just HAD to answer, ya know?: > So while cleaning up crap around the apartment, I was thinking that I > need a servant to take care of this shit. Then I realized that among > the middle classes (among which I reside, through luck or choice), > this sort of servant is called "a wife". Trouble is, part of the > price of hiring a wife is that you get your choad locked up. Hmmm... Let me help you make up your mind, my single friend. As a woman who has been a wife for lo these past 17 years, I think I have a bit of knowledge of the subject. Your first option here is to hire a cleaning service to come in and clean your place, top to bottom, once or twice a week. Sounds like a treat only for the rich, but I assure you--it's a service that the middle class male needs to avail himself of. Don't believe me? Then let me tell you what you face, should you try to get a "free" maid (otherwise known to you as a wife). Men may respond to this post claiming that their lives are not like this; I assure you, it is false male bravado, or men who can't keep a wife if he shackled her to a radiator. If you have a happy wife, dear, you're a cowed man. You may as well put on an apron now: First, you find the slattern. Ply her with alcohol, tell her she's beautiful. Spend time (could be hours, could be *years*) gaining her confidence and trust, make her think you care for her. Tell her that you love her. Eventually, her protective, nurturing instincts will kick in, and she will start to clean up the house a little bit. If you're *really* good, and invest a *lot* of time and money (dinners, movies, birthday and holiday presents) in her, she will even prepare meals and launder clothes occasionally. Once you've proposed, she's even going to start scrubbing your toilet! Eventually, you're going to get married. If you're lucky, you'll have a quickie justice-of-the-peace wedding; if not, you're going to see every fucking edition of "Modern Bride" between proposal day and wedding day. You'll field calls from florists, caterers, wedding halls, seamstresses and future in-laws when she's not around to handle these secretarial duties; you'll get phone calls at work from the weeping bitch as she whines that they only have her first choice of bridesmaids dresses in seafoam green chiffon. Around this time, the pudgy waitress at the diner you eat in on workdays is going to start looking like a fuckin' shaggable babe to you; your mind will start wandering to the days when you could fuck all that you survey without consequence. Wedding day comes and goes, and soon the two of you are settled in to a nice existance together; until that magic day when you hear those three little words that will change the rest of your fuckin' life: "Honey? I'm pregnant." Suddenly, she's not doing all of the houework any more. She naps a lot, gets cranky, whines. You find yourself stuck in Lamaze classes. Suddenly, you're tearing down the last shreds of your manhood--gone is that huge fucking stereo; gone, the extra computer equipment, the last shreds of your youth--to make way for a goddamn nursery. You find yourself painting walls yellow or peach on your ONE goddamn day off work that week. You are dragged over to every baby furniture store on the planet. Your "Parents" magazine subscription starts heralding the passing of each month. Your single friends, the ones that stuck it out and kept coming over after your wedding, finally give up on you and stop calling. You realize that if you still have balls, they're being kept in your wife's changepurse. The baby arrives! ...and, along with the bundle of joy, arrive a steady stream of shit, puke, diapers, spit up, toys on the floor, drawing on the walls, extra laundry, fevers, food-throwing, curtains being pulled off of the walls, broken glass, fingers in electric sockets, vaccinations, tonsilectomies, communicable diseases, and screaming. Everywhere around you, the fuckin' word "NO!" gets screamed every goddamn thirty seconds. Your wife is perpetually tired. You find yourself cooking for not only yourself on occasion, but her and the kid, too. And laundry? An all-day affair, now that there's three of you. ..or are there more? Did the doctor refuse to tie her tubes because of her young age? Did you neglect your vasectomy?--because, the last time you finally managed to screw your wife--you know, that time when the moon was full, she was too tired to say no, and the baby was asleep--she got knocked up again. ~~~Wavy 'time passes' line here. just think "Holidays, back-to-school nights, school bake-offs, insufferable Tupperware parties held at YOUR goddamn house, scout meetings capouts, little league, cheerleading, soccer, and a schoolful of kids tromping through you house after school every day; many of whom eat the food you wanted to snack on later, and most of them not even *your* fucking kids...~~~ Those kids--wow, how they're growing! That daughter of yours sure is looking nice--even the neighborhood boys are starting to notice her. You better make sure _she_ doesn't get knocked up, dammit; her siblings are halfway grown now as well, and they're all almost old enough to move the hell out. Maybe then your wife won't be too tired to cook every night then. Maybe, you might start getting laid again after she finishes going through menopause. Maybe you can have a room to call your own again, where you can go spend some quiet time without freezing your ass off-that shed out back, or that garage, just gets too damn chilly in winter. Welcome to the world of the "free" maid. Don't forget to mow the lawn, bubba. --Ginny "fuck, you're tougher than me" --Herry to me via IRC ------------------------------ From mkelly1@hotmail.com Tue Mar 28 22:57:58 2000 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Spring returns to Detroit From: mkelly1@hotmail.com (Persecution Smith) Organization: Peace Through Superior Buzzwords! Message-ID: <8F0683ECffsdj@24.2.68.74> User-Agent: Xnews/03.02.04 Lines: 57 Date: Wed, 29 Mar 2000 05:57:58 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.2.209.164 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news.rdc2.mi.home.com 954309478 24.2.209.164 (Tue, 28 Mar 2000 21:57:58 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 28 Mar 2000 21:57:58 PST Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newshub2.home.com!news.home.com!news.rdc2.mi.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:199169 As spring rapidly approaches the Detroit area, one anticipates the return of the Hookers to 8 Mile road as some would wait for the swallows to return to Capistrano. Sadly, this years flock has been slow in returning. This could be the result of the erosion of the hookers native habitat due to persistant police activity and the liberal application of street signs that declare certain areas, "Decoy Zones". An increase in drug house raids might be partially to blame as well. Last years flock were not the spector of health. Your typical 8 Mile hooker tends to start out the season looking fresh as a teen in "Barely Legal", but towards autumn, the drugs, the weather and disease start to take thier toll. You don't see any pimps on 8 Mile. This particular species of hooker is of the "crack whore" variety. Suburban kids recognize this sub-species and as a hunter would use big game spoor, they learn to find the crack house by how many hookers are standing in one area. I couldn't profess to be an expert on the skills of the 8 Mile Hookers as I've always favored the kind that lurks about the Delray area along Fort Street. I recall fondly getting a blow job parked on a dark street down the road from the old Boblo Island Ferry. The hooker was quite talented and knowing that I had a better chance of being shot to death than busted by a cop in this part of town made the experience a real bargain at $20.00. The smell of factories in the area, if the wind was right, made it all the more surreal. The smell is worst than the most aromatic rest area outhouse but it doesn't smell like shit. It's a kind of thick chemical smell that hangs in your chest like a bad case of bronchitis. After she had finished me, and I was zipping up, she asked me how I liked getting blown by a woman with no teeth. She showed me how her dentures popped out when it was time to work. I didn't have the heart to tell her that one mouth is the same as the other. The thing that makes one hummer different from the other is the ambience. A blow job on the edge of your bed will never feel quite the same as getting snorkled in a part of town where the cops are so busy that 911 has been changed to an unlisted number. The threat that you may be discovered, pulled out of your car and executed before you get a chance to pop a nut makes it all that more titillating. Of course as you get older, you gain a greater sense of mortality and now, I don't bother going down there for any reason if I can help it. But sometimes, if I'm heading for the Ambassador Bridge exit on 75, I get nostalgic for the old days and I take a quick cruise up and down Fort Street just to see if the hookers are still there. ------------------------------ From jeffjustin@newsfeeds.com Thu Mar 30 16:15:45 2000 Message-ID: <38E3E021.B16CB03F@newsfeeds.com> Date: Thu, 30 Mar 2000 18:15:45 -0500 From: Jeff Justin X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.02 [en]C-DIAL (Win95; U) MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Yer ever-ailin' blue-eyed Rabbit References: <8bv73u$cs7$1@q.seanet.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.40.144.128 X-Trace: 30 Mar 2000 17:19:01 -0600, 216.40.144.128 Lines: 64 X-Authenticated-User: jeffjustin X-Comments: This message was posted through Newsfeeds.com X-Comments2: IMPORTANT: Newsfeeds.com does not condone, nor support, spam or any illegal or copyrighted postings. X-Comments3: IMPORTANT: Under NO circumstances will postings containing illegal or copyrighted material through this service be tolerated!! X-Report: Please report illegal or inappropriate use to X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers, INCLUDING the body (DO NOT SEND ATTACHMENTS) Organization: Newsfeeds.com http://www.newsfeeds.com 73,000+ UNCENSORED Newsgroups. Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!netnews.com!feed-out.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!feed.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!goliath2.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!216.40.144.128 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:199260 WhiteRabbit wrote: > > Greetings, friends, neighbors and sick fucks. details, details, details - who wants all the fuckin' details? > So, tomorrow bright and (yawn) early, I get to hie myself to work, corral my > director and give him the chipper little "Hi! I'm an alcoholic! And a > goddamn drug abuser, too! Can I have a week off to detoxify?" speech. > This should be fun. > > --Eva Destruction Well, my dear welcome to the rest home. Now that you came in to detoxify yourself, why don't you consider staying for the full twenty-eight day program. We've got some wonderful games we play there, I just know you'd have fun. What kind of games? Oh, you know, games like The Blame Game. That one's so much fun. We usually wait for the family to come in before we play that one, but if you're really good, we might let you play earlier. How about a quick round of The AA Game? You've all heard of the 12 steps, well, this game's got one extra step that makes it so much more fun. We also call it 13 steppin', and brother that last step's a doozy. Then there's the ever popular Room Search game. That's where we take all of you patients down to the day room and conduct a lecture while we shake down your rooms for contraband. We always know who's been naughty and who's been nice. How about the randoom drug test game. That's a barrel of laughs. We'll wake you up in the middle of a fitful night's sleep and demand that you drop a urine for us or walk the fuckin' plank on back to your home. They don't call us the Pee Nazis for nothing! Maybe you'd be interested in The Who's Gonna Be My Honey While I'm In This Fuckin' Place Game? That one's good for shit and grins. No honest, when you're in here the rules for marital fidelity are suspended. No foolin'. Finally there's about a half-a-dozen games with guilt in their names. I can't keep 'em all straight, but they're a lot of fun. And just think. If you complete the program, you can start going to the AA/NA/OA/ACOA et-fucking-cetera groups for the rest of your life. Oh, and by the way, I hope you smoke, 'cause you're gonna be exposed to the equivalent of several bales of tabaccky before you're through. Cheers, Jeff "My name is Jeff, and I'm a..." Justin -----= Posted via Newsfeeds.Com, Uncensored Usenet News =----- http://www.newsfeeds.com - The #1 Newsgroup Service in the World! -----== Over 80,000 Newsgroups - 16 Different Servers! =----- ------------------------------ From rubio88@hotmail.com Thu Mar 09 11:55:43 2000 From: rubio88@hotmail.com (Rubio) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Spot the Nark. Date: 9 Mar 2000 12:55:43 -0600 Organization: Newscene Public Access Usenet News Service (http://www.newscene.com/) Lines: 32 Message-ID: <38c7f182.48427768@news3.newscene.com> References: <38C29813.757F@tampabay.rr.com> <01b66ab7$b90d8de0$339da4d1@will> <38C72D54.2FA5@desinex.com> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent 1.5/32.452 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.stanford.edu!novia!sequencer.newscene.com!not-for-mail Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:197781 When i was growing up in Winnipeg, Canada, there used to be some real real skany fucking disgusting joints. I remember playing with my first big-hair rock and roll band at a place called the Diamond Club. The decor was actually very nice, but aside from that it was pure trash. Stabbings, shootings and beatings were de rigeur. A friend of mine witnessed a guy gunned down not 10 feet from her. Once, a guy in the middle of a heated argument with his girl decided to throw her 2 stories down off a ledge (the bar was multi-leve) onto the polished granite of the first floor. She was twitching and spasming horribly and making sounds one wouldn't think possible from a human being. There was also the condensed goo that would drip from the cieling. This was the result of all the smoke of various cigarettes cigars and joints mixing with moisture and sweat etc. from the air and collecting on the cielieng of this huge cavernous place. It would then drop on unsuspecting patrons. It had a similar appearance to bird shit but was much slimier. But the worst smelliest shithole of all was definitely the Metro on McPhillips road. This place was the quintessential biker hangout in town during the late 80s. They had hired a bouncer fresh out of prison for aggravated assault (the story was that he had put a guy's eyes out and took a blowtorch to him during an interrogation for a biker gang.) I was at the Metro with a bunch of my friends for New Years Eve of 1990. I have no idea why they talked me into it. Not only was I well underage, i was dressed in fancy clothes, having just come from a piano bar engagement. I remember going into the men's bathroom and there was literally a lake of vomit covering the floor of the WHOLE ROOM, at least a good 3-4 inches of it. I decided to piss outside in a snowbank in the 40 below weather instead. ------------------------------ From wereradio@home.com Thu Apr 06 20:23:34 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!howland.erols.net!newshub2.home.com!news.home.com!news1.rdc1.ga.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: Juan Rico Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Shot down in flames; was:Re: what goes around Organization: W.E.R.E. Radio 88.5 Reply-To: wereradio@home.com Message-ID: References: <38EB52EE.6757E724@ix.netcom.com> <7lrmeso93qke12a62m6si25djuvp3iumoq@4ax.com> <8cjf3h$tuk$1@nntp9.atl.mindspring.net> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent 1.8/32.548 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 58 Date: Fri, 07 Apr 2000 03:23:34 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.2.16.124 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.rdc1.ga.home.com 955077814 24.2.16.124 (Thu, 06 Apr 2000 20:23:34 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 06 Apr 2000 20:23:34 PDT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:199838 On 7 Apr 2000 01:53:53 GMT, alraune@ix.netcom.com(Alraune) wrote: >While that has never happened to me, I did ask out a really slutty >woman I worked with that I had been flirting with for a while. I got >shot down with more contempt and amusement than even I was accustomed >to, only to have the next person I encountered mention that I had >something hanging out of my nose. While I was sequestered in darkest Alabama, learning the arcane art of making things go boom, I spent quite a bit of time in the hotel bar. I come from a town filled with more nubile co-ed quim than you can shake a prick at- not to mention a good deal of buff, well-cut man-meat- and the prospects for casual sex with someone nominally of the same species in cuntsvi^H^H^HHuntsville were looking pretty grim. The strippers in the local titty bar had to wear pasties, fer glub's sake; and evolution's mighty hand had evidently been working overtime proving that yes, Cletus, inbreeding is bad for the kids. So I was quite delighted to see a rather delicious looking 30-something business type sitting at the bar when I came in, looking bored. I casually sauntered up the bar and sat on a stool, doing my best to look virile and manly and all that. (The techniques are the same whether yer hunting fish or sausage for dinner.) The bartender had gone in the back, but that was OK... I had the remnants of a Skoal cud in my mouth, and was about to go back outside to discreetly spit it in the bushes when she spoke to me. "You in town for business?" Ah, perfect... an opening to casually mention how, no, I was here to learn how to disam bombs; certain to lead, no doubt, into an increase in her appraisal of my manliness, to plant a little seed that I was slightly dangerous and mysterious, to make her squirm a little and leave the barstool sticky. But no. My mouth was full of tobacco spit. I've perfected a little trick in channelling the spit to the other cheek, allowing me to get a word or two out before having to spit it out. I hoped to get a little bon mot in before slipping out to quickly divest myself of the cud, then slip back in and start working on her undies. I gave her a wry little grin and leaned forward and opened my mouth to speak. That, of course, was when a long, thick, ropy vein of brown saliva slopped over my lower lip. I slurped it back up and swallowed it, and managed to croak "Nope." I'm not one of those hard-core chewers who can swallow this sort of thing without feeling ill (fortunately, sperm tastes nothing like tobacco juice) so I sat back on my stool and contemplated the far wall while fighting to keep my dinner in its place. Alas, she was apparently was not the type who was turned on by drooling 'tards, as she scrunched further into her corner and hastily downed her drink. I couldn't even score with Clifford the gay houseboy that week. --------------------------------------------------------------------- W.E.R.E. Radio 88.5 * wereradio@home.com * members.home.net/wereradio --------------------------------------------------------------------- At least half of [the survivors] had this to say: "God was watching over me." Most of those people didn't even believe in a God. This is the deity-as-hit-man view of theology. What I always thought was, if God was looking out for you, He must have had a real hard-on for all those folks he belted into the etheric like so many rubber javelins. -John Varley, "Steel Beach" ------------------------------ From TheNurz@ix.netcom.com Sun Apr 09 08:45:08 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!firehose.mindspring.com!not-for-mail From: NurzRachet Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Kruge Update Date: Sun, 09 Apr 2000 11:45:08 -0400 Organization: Our Lady of the Rearranged Umbilicus Lines: 40 Message-ID: <38F0A584.F984322@ix.netcom.com> References: <38eb4299@news.ivm.net> <38EB7E1D.FF312C39@monmouth.com> <38ecdcab$1@news.ivm.net> <38ECE033.7C2C28EA@monmouth.com> <8clce7$slp$2@newsg3.svr.pol.co.uk> <38EEA3A7.5F76AE5B@monmouth.com> <8cob41$fpn$1@newsg3.svr.pol.co.uk> <38EFC48C.42D80FD5@erols.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: c7.ae.a3.b4 Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Server-Date: 9 Apr 2000 16:50:21 GMT X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.7 (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:199907 Bill wrote: > vellov wrote: > > > ObT: Old dentures. Cleaning out a place for an elderly man. In a bag, hidden > > at the back of a drawer, was a full set of dentures. They had been used for > > some time, I could tell: the grinding surfaces were well worn. The > > unpleasant part was that in the area in which the gums would nestle was a > > greeny-black deposit, dry and shiny like patent leather. I prodded the > > GumSmeg (tm) through the clear plastic bag, but it seemed to be firmly > > attached to the pink plastic of the synthetic mouth. I wasn't going to open > > the bag to chip at it, and I had a few nasty moments imagining what it had > > been like before it had dried to its present relatively inoffensive state. > > Yeah, I have that in mine too, what is it? Dentures: a hospital worker's nightmare. I remember years ago when I was a floor grunt, there was nothing worse than walking into some gomer's room and having them hand you their dentures and asking that you clean them. The coating on the damn things turned me off to Shake 'n Bake and on more than occasion threw me into the dry heaves. I recall an old ObT I wrote about dentures -- here's a repeat from years ago: ObT: While we're on the subject of hospital food...probably one of the gaggier things I've seen was this fidgety 80 lb. woman from one of the gomer villas who eventually had to have a feeding tube inserted because she wasn't taking in enough nutrients. One night I walked into her room and found her sucking on her dentures. When I asked what she was doing, she said she was just "having a snack." Upon closer inspection, I saw she was eating the dried food off her dentures. (Wonder what diet class she learned *that* in.) Nurzy http://profiles.yahoo.com/nurzrachet ------------------------------ From ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com Mon Apr 10 16:51:04 2000 From: ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com (JustmeĻ) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless,alt.teenage,alt.teens Subject: Re: Suicide Letter Date: Mon, 10 Apr 2000 19:51:04 -0400 Organization: Miss Manners School of Proper Posting Lines: 36 Message-ID: References: <38F215CF.4132FAD6@mailcity.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: p-394.newsdawg.com X-Newsreader: Anawave Gravity v2.00 X-no-archive: yes X-Ginny: unforgettable X-Ordination: Universal Life Church X-Reverend: Reverend Ginny Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news1.ltinet.net!newspump.monmouth.com!newspeer.monmouth.com!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!pln-w!spln!extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!news2 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:199955 alt.teens:271486 I saw this stuff written by suicideletters@mailcity.com in article <38F215CF.4132FAD6@mailcity.com>, and like, I just HAD to answer, ya know?: > > > Go to this site to read my suicide letter > > http://suicideletters.web1000.com/ > > Suicide Letters > > R.I.P. > Allow me to be the very first person to let you know that you've made the right decision. I'm glad you're dead, actually. You were a drain on society in general, your family specifically, and all of your neighbors. Dogs wouldn't even piss on the fire hydrant by your house for fear you might see them, and want to pet them. In short, you repulsed everyone around you. You were less than human, and it was only a matter of time before you realized it as well. The horror of knowing what you really were was obviously far too much for you to bear. Farewell, my spammin' buddy. Glad you're dead. Hope you start looking as rotten as you've smelled all of these years real soon. Respectfully yours, --Ginny "fuck, you're tougher than me" --Herry to me via IRC ------------------------------ From sharv98@yahoo.com Tue Apr 11 15:11:49 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!chicago-news-feed1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!newsfeed.enteract.com!betanews.enteract.com!sharv98 From: sharv98@yahoo.com (Sharv) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Sharv gets snipped (long) Date: 11 Apr 2000 22:11:49 GMT Organization: EnterAct Corp. Lines: 98 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: shell-2.enteract.com X-Trace: news.enteract.com 955491109 12351 207.229.143.41 (11 Apr 2000 22:11:49 GMT) X-Complaints-To: abuse@enteract.com NNTP-Posting-Date: 11 Apr 2000 22:11:49 GMT User-Agent: slrn/0.9.6.2 (FreeBSD) Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:200024 Well, no, not like that, but now that I've got your attention... I once recall Bruce Becker asking, in an ObT, just how big skin tags need to get before you can wank them. The answer, my friends, is pretty big indeed. For many years, I've had a good-sized skin tag in my left crotch area - that sweaty place near your nuts that chafes and gives off the characteristic crotch odor. I never paid it too much mind, it's just a skin tag, after all. Plus, it was in a sort of down-and-under area that was hard to visually examine. Unfortunately, I don't have anyone regularly spending any time in my crotch right now, so I didn't have the benefit of an assistant. A few days ago, I noted a certain unusual amount of dampness in my groin area, which I originally wrote off as perspiration and got in the shower. A few hours later, I had a significant wet spot on the left side of my boxer shorts. Curious, I checked. Using a hand mirror, I realized my undeveloped twin, the skin tag, had gotten unusually large; red, swollen, and angry-looking. It also appeared to be source of said moisture. I washed up good and dusted the area with Gold Bond. Better, but not for long. Upon waking the next day, I realized I had a damp area in my sweat-shorts that was several inches in diameter. Again, I got the hand mirror and checked. Ooh, not good. That sucker didn't look normal at all. I called the doc and got myself an appointment. I figured, despite the potential entertainment value, I'd better get it looked at before it became gangrenous. My physician is a partner in a thriving general-practice medical center; they're racking up the bucks, passing out immunizations to rugrats and treating sprained soccer ankles. This means they've needed to hire additional help: a 30-ish blonde "physician's assistant" named, no kidding, Heidi. Normally, I prefer to deal directly with my doctor of 15+ years rather than a proxy, but when she's attractive and going to be probing my crotch, who am I to complain? And probe she did. Heh heh heh. She took one look (and displayed remarkable professionalism by not commenting directly on the SharvChoad, but I did detect a faint glimmer in her eye when she looked under my examination gown), and said that sucker had to come off. She snapped off her rubber gloves (without giving me an impromptu prostate check, damn it all to hell) and went to fetch the doc. A nurse came in and started laying out the equipment and supplies: plenty of gauze pads, some stainless-steel scissors-like tool, a syringe of anesthetic, a specimen jar, and best of all, the electric cauterization tool (I'm sure our medical professionals will illuminate me on the proper names for all these nifty gadgets). The doc showed up and stretched on a pair of gloves. I laid back on the table, feeling the cool breeze, thinking of a million other, more preferable, scenarios that would put me in this situation, most of them concerning Heidi and some surgical tubing restraints. Doc injected my overgrown skin tag directly with the Novocaine or whatever, which burned quite a bit but quickly became irrelevant. I tried to watch what he was up to, but he insisted I lay back. He got his scissors and gauze. I felt him swab the area with cool alcohol. Then he pulled rather firmly on my minature friend and I heard and felt the first of several strong snips. "Hey, doc, I didn't know you were a rabbi!", I offered. He laughed, but I quickly decided not to provoke the man working near my nuts with sharp instruments. A few good solid snips, then hard pressure with the gauze pads. I could vaguely feel warm blood running down. He pressed. I heard him switch on the soldering iron. Zzap. Hiss. Zzap. Sizzle. I sniffed and smelled burnt steak. I couldn't help but laugh again when he reached over and switched on the ventilation fan. And then it was over. He plopped my snipped-off bit into a jar of liquid and slapped an ordinary Band-Aid(tm) on the wound. I dressed. He left. A nurse returned with enough samples for a three-day course of antibiotics, since Doc said it looked a bit infected. The nurse capped the specimen jar and wrote my name on the label. They're sending it out for a biopsy, just in case. I got a good look at that sucker, and it wasn't pretty. It had reached nearly an inch in length and was probably half an inch or more wide at the biggest point. The cut-off end was kind of ragged, but I figured he cleaned up the base pretty well with the cauterizing tool. Well, that's about the end of my story. Change the bandage, check for any unusual bleeding or discharge, take your antibiotics and stay off the booze in the meantime. There will, naturally, be a followup if the biopsy comes back with anything interesting. On my way home, I saw a funeral procession. It was only five cars, including the hearse. I waved. -Sharv ------------------------------ From syd@TREETnls.net Thu Apr 13 08:12:52 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!chicago-news-feed1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!newsfeed.enteract.com!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!news.sanjose1.Level3.net!Level3!news1.onlynews.com!not-for-mail Message-ID: <38F5E46D.6C89181C@nls.net> From: "Rev. Syd Midnight" Organization: http://www.nls.net/mp/syd X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.7 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: environy wackamentalists References: <5cTD4.78$m15.5131@newsread1.prod.itd.earthlink.net> <391f012f.160264047@porcodio.it> <38E6F606.82EBC5D1@geocities.com> <38F021FD.9B4E7505@geocities.com> <87og7izs9u.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <38F1585C.EDF33C6F@geocities.com> <87wvm5qrhf.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <38F29ED9.D7527806@geocities.com> <87ln2kqg7v.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <38F3D826.8101121D@geocities.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 57 NNTP-Posting-host: onlyNews customer X-Trace: onlyNews customer NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 13 Apr 2000 08:12:52 PDT Date: Thu, 13 Apr 2000 15:12:52 GMT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:200126 OneG wrote: > > Does anyone else think it odd that guys who think dead bodies are funny, > also collapse at the slightest error in protocol? Feh! Better than hanging them up on the wall and worshipping them. This whole debate here is pretty pointless, not to mention off-topic. In any case, I was talking to Jesus last night and he said that people who make fun of him don't bother him, but the ones who listen to pharisees (or something) then say that they're doing "Jesus' Work" really chafe his ass. I'm not sure what he was talking about, probably televangelists. He's a lot more fun to sit around and shoot the shit with than you'd think. I always crack up when he starts talking about prayer, and how he pretty much ignores it. "I told them to learn to help themselves and one another, but it's always 'Dear Jesus, don't let mommy die,' or 'Merciful Savior, help us win this game', or 'Jesus, don't let it be cancer.' You'd think that by the age of 12 they'd learn not to be such sore losers. Shit happens." It's not supposed to be funny, I used to say "Yeah, like, 'Dear Jesus, please make 1 + 1 = 3!'" but he got all maudlin, so I just listen and nod. But it is pretty funny. I tried to get him to say something bad about OneG, but he just changed the subject and started crabbing about the Catholics. "What part of the First Commandment don't they understand?" he kept asking... I think that whole praying to saints and his mom and stuff hurts his feelings. He doesn't mind AT, I tried to get him to tell me a tasteless story, figuring that it would be a winner. So he started talking about this leper whose fingers and toes fell off, and it sounded pretty good but it turned out to be one of his usual "Stories with a Moral"... the leper held a coin between his teeth so that he could drop it in the offering plate, but when the other people saw him do it, they called the guards over and he got the shit kicked out of him. He kept going on about how the lepers humble faith was more precious than the biggest something or other, I dunno, I stopped paying attention. We were getting pretty loaded anyways, and he called it a night when he saw that I was getting bored. So anyways... uh.. well, once before he said that it made him kinda sick that people would wear crosses and make statues of him hanging on one, because that's exactly what people used to do when they wanted to piss off the disciples... they'd make an effigy on a cross and yell "Hey look, your buddy is back!" when the disciples walked by. I think I'll get him a t-shirt with a picture of him flying through space or shooting power bolts from his hands for his birthday. He's not much for showing off, but when you're the son of god, you'd prefer it if people pictured you cruising through the galaxy or flying into a neutron star, not hanging helpless on a cross on Golgotha, moments before dying as the weight of your own internal organs crushes your diaphragm, causing your bowels to release as you suffocate. Quit REMINDING him, alright? That was a really traumatic event for him. -- Rev. Syd Midnight - Remove TREET from address to reply * Spam Accounts Killed: 14 Thanks to http://www.spamcop.net ! * "Have another 'fuck you', it's on the house." --Pinhead ------------------------------ From raoul@seanet.com Fri Apr 14 14:59:57 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!newsfeed.cwix.com!solaris.cc.vt.edu!news.vt.edu!news.seanet.com!not-for-mail From: "WhiteRabbit" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: A truly disappointing week in detox Date: Fri, 14 Apr 2000 14:59:57 -0700 Organization: None whatsoever Lines: 33 Message-ID: <8d84lf$ppq$1@q.seanet.com> Reply-To: "WhiteRabbit" NNTP-Posting-Host: dialup-63.214.13.216.seattle1.level3.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2314.1300 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2314.1300 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:200194 I'm disappointed and slightly pissed off. Here I went and checked myself in to the poshest detox unit my insurance would allow, fully expecting to be spewing bodily fluids hither and yon and hallucinating Mickey Mouse being fellated by Ella Fitzgerald. I expected to be held down in five-point restraints while shaking and sweating and screaming absentees at top volume. I expected to curse God, Satan, my mother, assorted other authority figures, then turn blue and foam at the mouth while an emergency medical team rushed in to defibrillate me, intubate me and do chest compressions till my ribs cracked. I expected some preacher cum counselor dude/ette to come into my room and frog-march me through the 12 steps till my mind went blank and I could only repeat "I am helpless over recreational pharmaceuticals, please help me Lord," while I drooled all over my pajamas. I wanted blood, vomit, invisible bugs crawling on my skin, unseen voices in my head, convulsions. I wanted to be able to do nothing at all after that except draw disturbing pictures with black and brown crayons until my meds came. I wanted the whole 'Days of Wine and Roses' treatment. But all they actually did was try to feed me six times a day and give me Librium on demand while I lay around and read science fiction novels. It was Club fucking Medication. The only good thing about it is that I'm still stoned out of my gourd and can't really give a rat's ass about anything right now. All my sincerest apologies to all you sick fucks out there whose expectations were as high as mine were. ObT: Hypochondriacs. They are everso amusing. I just loved patting their shudders and murmuring comforting words at them while secretly laughing my head off. Also the walk that you do when you're Libruimated to the gills; kind of a cross between a junkie shuffle and an extremely pregnant woman with a sore back and severe foot incoordination. Well, better luck next time. Regards, WhiteRabbit (one pill makes you larger and one pill makes you clumsy as hell...etcetera.) ------------------------------ From TheNurz@ix.netcom.com Sun Apr 16 18:54:39 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!news.mindspring.net!firehose.mindspring.com!not-for-mail From: NurzRachet Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Let's BBQ a Prostate! (Was Re: "When Prostates Attack!" (news) Date: Sun, 16 Apr 2000 21:54:39 -0400 Organization: Our Lady of the Rearranged Umbilicus Lines: 36 Message-ID: <38FA6EDF.B22C047B@ix.netcom.com> References: <38F9FBA5.CE638C74@novia.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: c7.ae.a9.55 Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Server-Date: 17 Apr 2000 02:58:50 GMT X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.7 (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:200289 furplay wrote: > http://news.bbc.co.uk/hi/english/world/americas/newsid_715000/715125.stm It's too bad we don't have smell-o-vision here in a.t. If there's one aroma I'd like to share with everyone (besides Vomit's kim chee farts), it's one of frying prostate. This week's lesson, kiddies: "My prostate's big as a mellon and I can't piss..." -or- TURP (transurethral resection of the prostate). As you boyz get older (and yes, I know some of you are getting "up" there), that prostate gland of yours gets bigger and causes you problems such as squeezing the shit out of your urethra so you can't piss worth a damn, so you wind up getting up during the night 20 times, standing in front of the toilet, and dribbling into the bowl while fantasizing about your youth and a piss stream so strong you could blast tiles off the walls. Anyway, we can clear that blockage by sending you to one of the uro boys who will send a choad roto-rooter device up to your prostate to shave away the blockage. Only problem is, the prostate is extremely vascular (read: bleeds like a bitch) so you need cautery. And lemmee tell ya, burned prostate smells like...like...uh, I think one time I compared it to BBQ'ing a hairy dog. A strong, heavy stench that hangs in the air like the fumes from a broken colostomy bag. It's unique, it's incredible, it sticks in the hairs of your nose and reminds you hours after the case is done that yes, you did a TURP today. The cauterized tissue looks like squiggly gray worms and no, you don't get to take any home with you. After you've recovered from the surgery you can piss again, but you can't fuck for shit. Nurzy ------------------------------ From nrwidow@mpinet.net Mon Apr 17 08:05:46 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!nycmny1-snh1.gtei.net!news.gtei.net!hermes.visi.com!news-out.visi.com!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!sn-xit-01!supernews.com!sn-inject-01!corp.supernews.com!not-for-mail From: "Nearwidow" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The Fabulous BakerAct Boys: (was: Re: A truly disappointing week in detox Date: Mon, 17 Apr 2000 11:05:46 -0400 Organization: Base Camp Zero Lines: 96 Message-ID: References: <8d84lf$ppq$1@q.seanet.com> Reply-To: "Nearwidow" X-Complaints-To: newsabuse@supernews.com X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2314.1300 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2314.1300 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:200310 WhiteRabbit wrote in message news:8d84lf$ppq$1@q.seanet.com... > I'm disappointed and slightly pissed off. You go, sister. The Laughing Academy is no fun whatsoever. I was hoping for Nightmarish Dream Fusion of 'Lost Weekend' and Bela Lugosi's withdrawal scenes in 'Ed Wood'. Unfortunately, when I got dried out, I was also suicidal, so they didn't give me SHIT to calm me down. In fact, the whole experience was the penultimate in tastelessness. One weekend I was in one of those Take Action kind of moods, sent the Little Prince off to the Aged Grandparent's house for the weekend, and hauled out the bourbon and barbital along with the razorblades. My brother, when unable to get me to answer the door or the phone, had alerted the authorities and made the arrangements for me. Thoughtful! Ten law enforcement and paramedic types kicked in my door* and dragged me off to the local ER to be 'evaluated', wearing a Type O t-shirt and an extremely abbreviated pair of shorts. No underwear. No shoes. No glasses and no contacts. So I'm shitfaced, bloody from sawing at my wrists with a dull blade and blind. Not a pretty picture, but wait! It gets better. In addition to my chagrin at being Baker Acted at a place where I'd worked for nearly ten years was bad enough, but after they bandaged my scratched up arms, they put plastic wrist restraint/cuffs on me. Now this certainly did wonders for my mood. I went from weeping to screeching in the space of five minutes, all while being peered at curiously by former co-workers. K3wl! So the local psych resident decides, yes indeed, I am out of my fucking mind and a polysubstance abuser. And suicidally depressed. But in good enuff physical shape that I can be safely placed in The Crisis Center for 72 hours without dying of an overdose or heart attack. They don't put me in restraints, but keep the Steel-Sak garbage bag plastic ties on, so I don't swing on anyone. I arrive at Club Dread about two hours later. They put me in a room that made solitary on Death Row look appealing. No pillow (might smother myself).no sheets (might hang myself). No medication:they don't know what I might be allergic to or what I'm withdrawing FROM. At this opportune moment, my period begins. Blood is running down my scrawny legs and I holler thru the door, demanding to use the bathroom. 'In a minute' sez the Special Ed student 'keeper'. One hour later, I'm sitting in a pool of blood on the gym mat I'm to sleep on. Finally, they give me a sanitary pad--it had to be a postpartum Kotex, it was easily a foot and half long and five inches wide. Well, that'll soak up the coozerrhea, but how is it gonna stay in these little gym shorts I'm wearing? That's my problem. I walk thru the day room with it hanging out of the back of my shorts, but very few of the residents notice, and the employees make it a habit NEVER to notice anything about any of the Crazy People. No therapy. No medication. Just some pre-psych student poking his or her head in the door every half hour to make sure I'm not dead. Finally after 24 hours, I see a pshrink. 'I need to go home' I wail. "well, we can't let that happen just yet" says Dr. Mengele. "Look at what a mess you've made of yourself--you're obviously too self destructive to take care of yourself." I'm allowed to mingle with the others at this point, so I make friends with a couple of schizo-affectives and a bum who's says he's really Bill Gates. An unmedicated bipolar flower child is dancing in front of the tv room, wriggling her 300 pound body seductively while grinding her teeth so loud you can hear it over the theme music to 'Jeopardy'. I attempt to reason, pointing out that I've been deprived of medical care and the opportunity to use basic hygiene while in The Snake Pit. THAT'S why I'm covered in dried blood: no showers for Nearwidder. Besides, I am supposed to be in court this afternoon for a DWLS hearing. Sorry, sez the Doc. You're not well enough to go home. Maybe tomorrow. The next day, a different pshrink sees me. He's a bureaucrat and just needs to free up some beds. Well, here are some places you can get the help you need, sez he. You can go now. I call the Aged Parent and tell him to come get me. Not so fast, says the discharge nurse. We've got a ride for you. SURPRISE! It's an Officer of the Law! Because I missed my court date the day before, I've got a bench warrant out for failure to appear. "We always execute warrants on discharge" the wise old nurse tells me, 'it's in your best interests to take care of your legal problems right away for the healing to begin' So off to the pokey I go, where at least I get a shower, a hot meal, a mattress with a pillow of sorts-- and a clean canvas jumpsuit to sleep in while I await bond. So you see? The system *does* work! xXx p obT: back on the lithium now. Liquishits every hour on the hour. *after several tries. Seems they got the apartment number wrong, and nearly gave some old lady a stroke when they kicked HER door in. ------------------------------ From wereradio@home.com Tue Apr 18 09:45:45 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!su-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!newsfeed.direct.ca!newshub2.home.com!news.home.com!news1.rdc1.ga.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: Juan Rico Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: OneG Organization: W.E.R.E. Radio 88.5 Reply-To: wereradio@home.com Message-ID: References: <87og797w33.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <38fa51c6.11516102@news.aracnet.com> <6UEK4.58199$q67.795877@newsread2.prod.itd.earthlink.net> <87u2h05mz4.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <38FBDEC2.87DE3A1@erols.com> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent 1.8/32.548 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 30 Date: Tue, 18 Apr 2000 16:45:45 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.2.16.124 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.rdc1.ga.home.com 956076345 24.2.16.124 (Tue, 18 Apr 2000 09:45:45 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 18 Apr 2000 09:45:45 PDT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:200363 On Tue, 18 Apr 2000 00:45:40 -0400, "Nearwidow" wrote: >butt gave the most streamlined look. I'm sure many of our 'sophisticated' >ATers can proselytize: Lincard? Ubi? Juan? Kenobi? Not me, I like 'em hairy. Not really into "bears", per se, as that usually implies hairy *and* overweight. As for me, I plan on being a hairy old man, the kind with hairy cauliflower ears, wearing a stained wife-beater that shows my hairy shoulders, sitting on a rocking chair on my front porch, rubbing my hairy belly, cackling at the neighbor's wife who's doing yard work in a bikini. The neighborhood kids will gorw up to tell regression hypnotherapists about their visits with "Uncle Juan" with a shudder, and many a neighborhood pet will walk back home with a limp. AT'ers get one free blow-job when they visit before I chase them off the porch in senile dementia. I'm well on my way. My glory trail is more like a glory 6-lane expressway, I've got a good crop started on my shoulders, and my pubes are three inches long. Dingleberries are a real problem. --------------------------------------------------------------------- W.E.R.E. Radio 88.5 * wereradio@home.com * members.home.net/wereradio --------------------------------------------------------------------- At least half of [the survivors] had this to say: "God was watching over me." Most of those people didn't even believe in a God. This is the deity-as-hit-man view of theology. What I always thought was, if God was looking out for you, He must have had a real hard-on for all those folks he belted into the etheric like so many rubber javelins. -John Varley, "Steel Beach" ------------------------------ From scrapie@cyberpass.net Thu Apr 20 00:29:58 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!news.maxwell.syr.edu!nntp2.deja.com!nnrp1.deja.com!not-for-mail From: scrapie@cyberpass.net Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: social engineering the Gnutella way Date: Thu, 20 Apr 2000 07:29:58 GMT Organization: Deja.com - Before you buy. Lines: 74 Message-ID: <8dmbl9$n7k$1@nnrp1.deja.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.67.102.188 X-Article-Creation-Date: Thu Apr 20 07:29:58 2000 GMT X-Http-User-Agent: Mozilla/4.08 [en] (Win98; I ;Nav) X-Http-Proxy: 1.0 x43.deja.com:80 (Squid/1.1.22) for client 216.67.102.188 X-MyDeja-Info: XMYDJUIDrepatriate Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:200435 'Pologies if gnutella's been beaten to death hereabouts as a topic, but I haven't seen anyone mentioning it. It's basically a nice new interface for trading any files with people you don't know, based solely on the files' names. This app runs on Windows, linux or in the java variant, even on macs. If you use it, you will want to be running hardcore antiviral stuff, I'd expect, particularly if you use it for nabbing executable files, instead of smut and music. But, let's face it: even for apps you want, grabbing the latest release of commercial shit off some random other person's machine - if they're kind enough to have their shit together enough to have the proper installers all set in the right folders - is going to take, at the least, some time over almost any feed, and my impression is that gnutella sessions have rather a lot of overhead. But, fuckit. This app is making the suits in the recording industry bleed from the eyes and vomit eels, so it *can't* be all bad. There are no central servers, and hence no one to sue over flagrant copyright violations. So that's one form of the social engineering mentioned in the header. And I like it a lot. But there's another. The twice I've used the app, it looked to me as if half or more of the searches I was seeing were searches for smut. Hmmmm... There's no way to preview what you're downloading, I says to myself. What do people want? Let's watch a few titles go by. Shortly, I was offering for trade asianoral.mpg. And oh, did I get takers. Yessir. And the title wasn't misleading at all, not in the slightest. I was passing around an mpg I grabbed from a site I saw posted here a bit back: the one of the two naked Asian chicks, one in a bath, one sitting on the rail, drinking some kind of emetic and puking all over her li'l buddy. Who then picks up hunks and eats them. The, ahem, climax of this video clip is when the puker takes a sip of her ipecac and hurls across the pukee's gullet, chin, and tits. There, see? Featured some asians, who were very orally fixated. Just not how the spotty teens connecting to my machine expected them to be orally fixated. I still get a warm, glowing feeling watching the modem lights blink when I set something new into that folder. Oh, and you tell gnutella how fast your connection to the net is - it has no way of check as yet. So be sure and tell 'em all you've got a T3. -Peter "next week, I think I'll put some of the pagemaker layouts up named as if they're rare Springsteen boots posted a disc at a time..." scrapie@cyberpass.net ObURLs: Gnutella stuff: http://gnutella.wego.com/ Excellent free mpgs, already posted once but this way I don't get people who missed it begging me to send them copies: http://members.xoom.com/tastevid Oh, here's a bonus URL: www.leisuretown.com. Just go there, preferably with a solid feed - very graphics-intensive. Sidesplittingly funny, too, especially as an April 20 Mayhem Anniversary read. There are probably a lot of high schools you could get thrown out of just for looking at leisuretown's denouement on the library computers. Oh, and pretend you know how to spell overpriced Frog words, too. You think I know how to spell denouement right the first time out? Fuck no, but over at http://www.m-w.com/ it's their damned job to help you out if you come sorta close the first time out. Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ Before you buy. ------------------------------ From ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com Tue Apr 25 09:44:08 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!news.maxwell.syr.edu!upp1.onvoy!onvoy.com!pln-e!spln!extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!news1 From: ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com (JustmeĻ) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The Chevette is dead. Long live the Chevette! Date: Tue, 25 Apr 2000 12:44:08 -0400 Organization: Miss Manners School of Proper Posting Lines: 85 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: p-434.newsdawg.com X-Newsreader: Anawave Gravity v2.00 X-no-archive: yes X-Ginny: unforgettable X-Ordination: Universal Life Church X-Reverend: Reverend Ginny Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:200692 Some of you folks that might care, may recall that I forced my betrothed to drive a 1980 Chevy Chevette while I tooled around in a classy, suburban Mom- style Mercury wagon. His car--old, beat up one. Mine--nice, clean one. There were reasons why we divided up use of the cars like that: He drives from place to place as a part of his job Gas was cheaper in the Chevette As far as keeping the car clean goes, he's a pig. The Chevette began it's slow decline about three years ago, when the driver's side door started getting stuck and my SD had to start crawling in and out of the car from the passenger side. He got lazier about cleaning out the car simply because he didn't want to clean it out from the passenger side. Soon, the repeated kicking that the gear shift got whenever he got into the car from the passenger side caused the handle to fall off. In order to change gears, he'd shove a screwdriver into the hole that was left at the top of the chrome stick, to push in what was left of the shift mechanism. Whenever the door was opened or closed, heaps of cups, paper plates and bags of half-eaten lunch would come tumbling out. "Don't throw that away!" he'd admonish whoever was repulsed. "That's only two days old, I'm SURE it's still edible!" The floorboards began rusting through and the wheel wells were so rusted that he never bothered to even try to put new shocks in it. Our mechanic said that he feared new shocks just couldn't be put in the car; they'd come shooting through the wheel well. The car began to smell of old food, mold spores and rotten coffee creamer. There were nuts, bolts, screws, razors, and other assorted hardware scattered throughout the car. I started making jokes that the family needed tetanus shots in order to get in the car with him, and then eventually forbade the children from entering their Daddy's car at all. One time, he was pulled over by a state trooper who decided that he needed to search the car. My hubby told him flatly that he would injure himself by doing so, so the cop called for a dog. The dog came up to the car, barking like mad. He sniffed the interior, and zoomed in on a bag. The cop was certain that an arrest was in my husband's immediate future. The dog began tearing into the bag and eating the rotten tuna sandwich that was inside. My husband was eventually sent on his way, after being told that he was a goddam pig. Yes, that Chevette provided hours of entertainment, as the steering eventually went and the muffler went and the the heater became stuck in the "on" position and repairs were never made. Between that and the fact that he was listening to far too much Rush Limbaugh due to the AM-only radio, he and that car were starting to drive me crazy--it was too tasteless a vehicle, even for _me_. Not a tear was shed by me then, when it finally died. I cheerfully took the title of the car and signed the back and handed it to our mechanic, who carted it away after we cleaned out the car for the last time. That last cleanup had nothing to do with cleanliness, mind you--we had to grab maps, tools, coffee travel mugs, loose change and assorted articles of clothing that he had left in the car to ferment. In the front passenger seat, we found them. Beetles. Dozens of them. They were the only thing holding the floor together under the carpet mat, I think, so it's a good thing they were there. In the back, I found what I swore was mouse droppings. Or it could have been mummified onion bits from ancient bagels, I'm not sure. I stayed afterward and watched the tow truck take away the Chevette. I had to make sure it went and that the SD didn't change his mind and order a new engine for it. --Ginny (got him another used car to ease his pain) "fuck, you're tougher than me" --Herry to me via IRC ------------------------------ From Nobody@tamu.edu Tue Apr 25 12:23:28 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!feed1.news.rcn.net!rcn!korova.insync.net!solomon.io.com!news.tamu.edu!not-for-mail From: Nobody@tamu.edu Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: The Chevette is dead. Long live the Chevette! Date: Tue, 25 Apr 2000 19:23:28 GMT Organization: Texas A&M University, College Station, Texas Lines: 42 Message-ID: <3905e936.476167492@news.tamu.edu> References: NNTP-Posting-Host: busl-dhcp-0488.tamu.edu NNTP-Posting-Date: 25 Apr 2000 19:23:29 GMT X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.21/32.243 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:200709 On Tue, 25 Apr 2000 12:44:08 -0400, ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com (JustmeĻ) wrote: >Some of you folks that might care, may recall that I forced my betrothed to >drive a 1980 Chevy Chevette while I tooled around in a classy, suburban Mom- >style Mercury wagon. I've got the perfect replacement for it - that perky little plug-in tricycle with a roof, the Corbin Sparrow. (http://www.ev-sparrow.com) This wonderful mode of transport will earn you the jeers of your coworkers as "the little old lady who drove in a shoe" (No joke, it looks like a friggin' hi-top sneaker on wheels) and the respect of all real AT'ers as The Most Tasteless Transport Ever (save perhaps the 1976 "Da Bomb" Ford Pinto). It is a 1-seater, which means any corn chips or gum wrappers you throw in the back are going to fly back & hit you upside the head at the first brake (for that recycled lunch effect). You have to open the trunk to carry a cup of coffee with you to work. It is supposed to be able to travel at 70 mph. I don't know about you, but I sure as hell don't want to be in one of these little putt putts followed by a pissed off, masturbating lorry driver in a big rig. His high beams shining through the rear of this pea pod would seem like the Avenging Angel of God to a late night commuter. Plus, it comes in your choice of either teal, flush pink, or lime green. I sugget the flush pink for the hubby - or the customized white with purple polkadots [http://www.corbinmotors.com/sparrow.htm, "At a Glance"]. Plus, at $13,900, it's a steal. That is, any 4 guys with strong backs could steal this thing by throwing it into the back of any F-series truck. As soon as I get a job, it's first on my list of acquisitions. I can put it right next to the 1980 Yugo with the busted fuel pump (still waiting on the replacement part, btw). ------------------------------ From enoid801@omit.home.com Wed Apr 26 18:41:07 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!newspeer.monmouth.com!newsfeed.gamma.ru!Gamma.RU!newshub1.kdd.nap.home.ne.jp!news.home.ne.jp!newshub2.rdc1.sfba.home.com!newshub1.home.com!news.home.com!news1.sttls1.wa.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: enoid801@omit.home.com (Citizen Ted) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Vancouver Sights: Repost of "Teddy Takes a Day Trip" Message-ID: <39099a66.1802622@news> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent .99g/32.339 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 336 Date: Thu, 27 Apr 2000 01:41:07 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.7.140.142 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.sttls1.wa.home.com 956799667 24.7.140.142 (Wed, 26 Apr 2000 18:41:07 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 26 Apr 2000 18:41:07 PDT Organization: @Home Network Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:200807 One of you villainous bastards asked about Vancouver tourism. Here's a repost of my travel notes from a day trip to Vancouver last summer. Enjoy. - TR - just now realizing that Surrey BC is even nastier. -------------------------------------------------------------- TEDDY TAKES A DAY TRIP As I've mentioned a zillion times, I live very close to the Canadian border, and enjoy occasional jaunts to Vancouver BC whenever the opportunity presents itself. Well, with another week off work and some money just laying around, I decided to take another trip to that great bastion of Canadian tastelessness - downtown Vancouver. Now, Canadians aren't known for their tastelessness. In fact, they're known for being irrationally pleasant, tolerant and culturally sensitive (please note: this generalization DOES NOT include Canadian posters to this forum, most of whom are as vicious as badgers on benzedrine). But this doesn't mean they are hopelessly approachable; one need only *look* for that festering carbuncle under Canada's clean underwear. Thus, in an effort to get a new insight into Canada, I forsook my car and took the Amtrak, determined to use my six hours in Vancouver on foot, seeking out all the city had to offer. I was not disappointed! At first, there was some tasteless trepidation: America is a filthy, dirty place by comparison. Crossing the Peace Arch Portal, the landscape dramatically changes. Canada is just too damn ordered and clean. Hell, even the *graffiti* is placed squarely on walls, with each artist respecting the territory of the previous tagger. It's downright unnatural! Case in point: today, June 14, we experienced the year's most exaggerated tides. Thus, while still in America, it was easy to see the veritable smorgasbord of discarded appliances, bald tires and garbage bags that represent the sea floor of the American shoreline at extreme low tide. In Canada, however, one was hard-pressed to find even a tossed tissue out of place. In the US, you couldn't see one person who wasn't in a vehicle. The streets and beaches were devoid of people. In Canada, the entire route was lined with people jumping into the Sound, waving enthusiastically at the train, making out on park benches and being generally cheerful and outdoorsy. Damn! How will I ever find disgustingness? Eventually, the skyline of Vancouver presented itself. As the geriatric retards who comprised my coachmates ooh'ed and ahh'ed, I hoped against hope that some drunk would stumble into the path of the train, but there was no such luck. We pulled into the Pacific Centre without incident. Immediately, my plan swung into action. First thing on the list: find and purchase some Dried Geckos on a Stick. The elusive Dried Geckos are a Chinese delicacy, found only in the most specialized backstreet shops of Vancouver's huge Chinatown district. They are simply dead geckos: eviscerated, splayed-out, dried and crucified on two thick wooden sticks. Though their feet are usually chopped off, the head is usually included, sharp little teeth and all. One must be a discerning shopper to find such bounty. As I had predicted, the search was difficult. I left the train and tramped into the Monday afternoon beehive of Chinatown, easily the only Anglo around. Each shop had an overhang in front designed specifically for chinks - not one of them hung higher than 5'6". I kept my head hunched down for two long hours as I scoured the area like Vlade Divac in Munchkinland. I popped into grocery stores and specialty outlets, chopping up my English into simple phrases in order to get my query across to the largely Mandarin merchants. A few times, I found myself crossing my eyes, flicking my tongue and making moronic faces to convey the concept of "gecko". It was not well-received. Up and down I went, from Georgia to Dunlevy, then up and down Pender like a pinball. There is perhaps no place with more push-pull charm than Chinatown. One is at once enchanted and repelled by the place. The sights vary from bright displays of obscure mushrooms and magical potions, to filthy barrels of warm, fly-covered river fish and stained storefronts displaying decades-old Korean rice pasta. Smells vary with equal metronomic shifts, but throughout the place there lingers that tell-tale stench of...of...of...*chinks*. You know - that sharp, tangy melange of soured ginger, deep-fried pork nuggets and stale cigarettes. It's the kind of smell you'd find on your roommate after being locked up in a Singapore prison with the showers broken for four solid months. At any rate, I eventually found a small, brightly lit "specialty" shop just off Main Street. I could see plenty of dried seahorses, pike and eelfish, so I knew I was close. The proprietor, "Raymond", asked if I needed help. I proceeded to give him the gecko spiel, minus the facial expresions. "Ah," he said, "I believe I can help you. But first, I need to know sumpteen..." "What's that?" I asked. "You see, we have here both kinna gecko, you see? We have here the wild gecko, and the one dat...the one dat..." "Was raised on a farm?" I interjected. "YES! YES! Farm! Dat right! Tan-Q! Yes! Farm, exactly! You see, the wild ones, them are actually...uh...well...there are people who..." "Hunt them and kill them?" I interjected. "Well, yes. They are diffrent. They are wild. Then there are the others. And there big difference! Big! You must learn. Because there are difference!" "OK, Raymond," I said. "Let's see what you got." Raymond reached behind the counter and pulled out two glass-covered wooden cases. In each were Dried Geckos on a Stick. Raymond removed one of each specimen for a close inspection there on the counter. "You see? The wild one, they have darker skin, they have less red dot. You see the other? Light skin. More reddish dot on skin. And you see? The light one? See muscle on leg. No big muscle. But the dark one, the wild one, you can see strong leg muscle." "Hmm...I see," I said, and pointed to each one. "Easy life...hard life...." "YES! YES! YES!" Raymond exclaimed. "Vely good!" He took my hand in his, shook it vigorously, and bowed his head. "I like to learn good English, you help! Vely good! You use good words! You unnerstand! Tan-Q! Vely good!!!" "Hey, no problem, Raymond..." Raymond then told me all about the reputed healing effects of eating DGOAS. Apparently, according to untold centuries of unscientific and fatally flawed Chinese herbal history, DGOAS is great for things like "kidney problems" and what Raymond called "Ess-Muh". I aped the word back to him: "Excema?" "No," he responded. "Ess-muh". I scratched my arm, as if itchy. "Excema?" "No!" he said, then proceeded to pantomime coughing up huge piles of phlegm, and gasping for breath. "Ooooh!" I exclaimed, "Asthma!" "Yes! Ess-muh!" It was time we got down to brass tacks. Since my stupid bank wasn't open early enough to exchange currency, I had to haggle with Raymond over the rate. Fortunately, Raymond was so unused to American clients, he had no idea what the exchange rate was or how to work the mathematics. But his price for the DGOAS was quite fair ($20CA for a set of two wild geckos, $10 for a set of farm-fed). He fumbled hopelessly with a calculator, but couldn't figure it out. A Chinese co-worker approached, and before he could take the helm, I grabbed a piece of paper and showed Raymond how to figure the exchange. Rather than fight with Raymond's more informed colleague, I took a minor bite, and offered to pay a rate of 70 cents on the dollar, well above the current 63.2 or whatever the fuck it is. It made the math easy and made Raymond look good. What the hell. I bought two sets of *wild* Dried Gecko on a Stick. It was worth it. As a gesture of kindness, Raymond even threw in a few packages of horrible ginseng gum, which I am chewing as of this writing... Well, I had my geckos; the rest of the day was mere intrigue. Rather than eat lunch in Chinatown (being in possession of dried geckos tends to thwart one's taste for Asian food, letmetellya), I stepped out and headed south to the trendy Gastown district to search out the acclaimed marijuana cafes. Just my luck, both of the dope cafes were closed for some damn reason. Filthy, dirty hippie scum filled that corner of Gastown, apparently lost without their pathetic flagships of social acceptance. I piled past them, eyes forward behind my mod shades, ignoring them like cracks on the sidewalk. Speaking of cracks, one need only head a bit past Gastown on Hastings to find all the fucking crack you need. Vancouver has been famously lax about enforcing drug laws, and as a result their "bowery" has become an absolute paradise of tasteless humanity. My friends, I have braved some tough neighborhoods; NYC junkies are notoriously nasty, and LA crack whores just won't leave you alone. But those cities can't hold a candle to the drug-addled losers of Vancouver, BC. I knew I was in for a nice stroll when I noticed the arms of a man sitting at a bus stop; he had abscesses on top of abscesses up and down his forearm and hands. His face was a wrinkled mat of wasted years, and a cigarette dangled precipitously from his dried lips. He was mumbling to his toothpick-armed buddies, each of whom eyed me up like I was a bent spoon bubbling with liquid brown tar. The walk up the next six city blocks was a true gauntlet. They swooped down upon me from the left and from the right. With my short-cropped hair, clean clothes and furrowed brows behind black shades, I was the only target as far the eye could see. The onslaught of drug offers was intense. Every single person for six blocks - well over forty people - made verbal offers of crack cocaine. Unlike The Haight in SF or Harlem in NYC, each of whom at least mix up the repetoire, crack was the only thing on the menu on Hastings Street. After the first ten offers, I stopped giving verbal responses. I could feel a group following me, and hear them sizing me up. I kept up my even pace, but inside, I was ready to strike. It was midday, and I doubted that anyone would actually assault me, but with $140 in my wallet and geckos in my pack, I wasn't about to be taken off guard. I heard one voice behind me come closer than the others. As the oncoming dopers I approached whispered to me, "10-bag....rock...cut you ten...got rock...what you need?...got rock...I can cut it...need a 10?...", the one voice still behind me, a negro voice, was closing in and getting insistent. "Hey, man..slow up. Hey bro, I'll get choo what choo need, bro. I can gitchoo a ten. Fuck these other guys. I'll get choo a fuckin' ten, no problem. Hey, man, slow up..." He eventually got up right behind me, and started to come around my flank. I picked him up in my peripheral view. He was a jive stick-ass of a nigger. A real waste-case. No problem. Trouble was, he belonged there and I didn't. His entreaties became heated. "Hey, c'mon man! What the fuck?" "No," I responded, my head turned perfunctorily toward him. "Hey, man, I can fix you up. C'mon, man. Fuck these other guys. I know you here for a ten. Or do you want twenty? Shit, I can git ennythang you need, bruh. Say, man-" It was then that I turned to face him. I burned a stare right through those sunglasses, heaved out my chest a bit, and explained through clenched teeth, "I ain't fuckin' interested, OK? So FUCK OFF!" I knew I had Done It. Either I had cleared up the situation or put myself in a whole world of shit. I was alone - big time. And he knew it. But he backed down anyway. "Well, fuck you then, man...I don't need your jive ass..muthafucka..." and his voice trailed away as I continued my westward trek. I got lucky. For the next thirty yards, no one asked me to buy any crack. Of course, once I crossed the next street, the offers came flooding back. Pissed off as hell, I went into turtle mode, and just shut them all out. I must admit, I was glad to see the upper crust stores of the financial district appear on my radar screen. Within one city block the junkies vanished and the yuppies appeared. I stopped into some plastic swank lunch spot for some food and coffee, and read the local alterna-rags. I was now stuck in yuppieville, and was sure no tastelessness would present itself. I was wrong. As I sashayed up Granville, taking in the summer sun and innumerable Canadian hotties in their trendy outfits, I heard a loud CRaSH! -BANG!- cRaSh! noise from across the street. I shot my eyes back, and caught sight of a wino falling down a flight of metal stairs between two businesses. He must have rolled down about twenty steps, bringing with him a few buckets, bags and assorted detritus. He finally landed on the last few steps in a crumpled, misshapen heap. His greasy winter coat was pulled up to his neck, exposing his spotty, filthy torso. He had the required gray (grey?) mottled beard and toothless, scrunched-up face of the true drunken bum. He howled in pain, then let his head loll back onto the final step, and began whining and crying. A few chinks gathered 'round to see what all the fuss was about. But no one bothered to help. He was a scummy, filthy, worthless Anglo bum that no busy downtowner could possibly give a fuck about, especially me. I smiled, drinking in his failure and pain as he lay there prone, pulling his limbs in close, sobbing openly, recounting to himself how much he deserved to have that happen to him. Eventually, he stopped making noises and his head conked out onto the cold metal step. Since he moved his limbs, I knew he wasn't paralyzed. I could only hope he had suddenly died from some kind of quickie cerebral hemorrage. The crowd dispersed. No one cared. Neither did I. I left. I'd like to say the rest on my afternoon was spent tossing loonies at cheap Vancouver strippers, but I can't. Fact is, I rarely patronize titty bars, as I'm of the mind that my dollars tossed at women had better have *some* chance of scoring me sex. There's no point in flipping fivers at some gash who won't fuck you even if you tossed your whole wallet at her. The only other option was whores. And Vancouver has plenty. They come in two varieties: amateur and professional. The professionals are in the book. They ply a legal trade. They are high quality, extremely expensive and cannot be scored in that one hour before your train departs. That leaves the amateurs. The amateurs walk the streets. In Vancouver, most are Asian. There are a few negros. The rest are something worse than white trash. I ran into several of each on my way through the side streets of downtown. None proferred verbal offers (something I found weird), but none would have gotten a nod of assent from me either. Call me a homo, call me what you will. But I will *not* shove my cock into the orifice of any creature with track marks on her arms, innumerable bruises running down her legs or huge bags of alcohol-fueled cellulite bouncing off her thighs. Toss in some tits sagging down to her waist, an artless application of make-up, a spotted, smelly blouse, and you have something so dreadful, so intrinsically unfuckable, that even Vomit Boy himself would have to put on a snorkel before even considering laying the bitch down. I passed. Fuck it. My train was several miles away, and I had 90 minutes to get through customs (with geckos) and get onboard. Rather than re-do the gauntlet of Hastings, I popped back onto Granville and took the SkyTrain back to the station. In dealing with customs, I employed some of my ex-dope dealer tactics for dealing with The Man: remain visible, cheerful, and eager, and admit to absolutely nothing. I filled out my declaration, declared zero, and breezed through the station customs. We disembarked on time and sailed south toward Bellingham. When the train hit the border, customs agents leapt on board to check everybody out. Even though I was a prime suspect for trafficking (male, alone, with backpack), I was perfunctorily questioned, then ignored. Damn! Think of the profit I could've made if I had a kilo or two of BC bud! Oh, well, maybe next time... - TR - day tripper. Yeah. ObT: Get green, fringies. My spare set of DGOAS is destined for .... Vomit Boy! He earned it by helping me quit tobacco with his cheap bet and his shameless stoking of my innate hatred (My hate helps keep me centered, you see. By endlessly chiding me about quitting, he pushed me right over the hump). Thanks, VB. Don't forget to email me a snail mail address. Pinhead: sorry I couldn't make it to your little island. Maybe another time, eh? ------------------------------ From nrwidow@mpinet.net Thu Apr 27 11:42:38 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!portc03.blue.aol.com!portc.blue.aol.com!cyclone2.usenetserver.com!news-out.usenetserver.com!cyclone1.usenetserver.com!cyclone1.usenetserver.com!news-west.usenetserver.com.POSTED!not-for-mail Reply-To: "Nearwidow" From: "Nearwidow" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless References: <8e7nmr$13n$1@nnrp1.deja.com> Subject: Re: Breast-feeding interrupted by Crack Narc Lines: 48 Organization: Base Campzero X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2314.1300 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2314.1300 Message-ID: X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers X-Abuse-Info: Otherwise we will be unable to process your complaint properly X-Complaints-To: support@usenetserver.com NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 27 Apr 2000 14:45:45 EDT Date: Thu, 27 Apr 2000 14:42:38 -0400 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:200860 JustmeĻ > is right on the money when she said: > > With a name like BONNIE HERR? Come on, Anderthal, that's about as white-trash- > trailer-park-welfare-mother as you can get. > > When I gave birth to the Little Prince in the big Adventist hospital in Orlando, I had to share my room with one of Bonnie's many sisters in spirit. Brandine Lynn Knobbs, 22, of Apopka, had just given birth to Cletus Junior when she got wheeled into my room where she moaned everytime a nurse padded by the door, screaming that she was in pain and needed sum more Perkysetts. And a tall Bud Lite, if you got one handy. Her 'clothes' were stuffed in a paper bag by the door, and you could smell the cigarette smoke from her flannel shirt and stretch pants two doors down. She must have weighed 300 pounds at age 12 and she'd had a c-section. It was NOT a pretty sight. Nor smell. She farted and snored with equal vigor between drug-begging stints. About five hours later, Cletus and Travis and Buck and Britney and Taylor and Little Garth Knobbs came by to check on Mama. "So ya had a boy, huh?" sez the proud papa (assuming it was the papa, or maybe just her husband/common law). "Yep" whispered the delicate petunia. "Whudya brang me, honey?" "Kids, go lookit the babies down the hall! See if you kin guess which one's yer new sister!" Cletus barked. "Bruther!" corrected Brandine Lynn. "Sorry baby." chortled Cletus. "Want some coke? I brung a half a gram." xXx p obT:Post partum hemorrhoids. By the time my gyn got around to doing the epi, they were the size of golf balls from pushing and constipation. They were so painful I slept on my side for an entire month afterward. During one of Brandine Lynn's jonesing episodes, one of the nurses noticed I had a rather pinched expression on my face and tears in my eyes. "What's the matter? Does your incision hurt?" she asked compassionately. I shook my head, rolled to the side and pointed at the source of my discomfort. The look on her face as she gasped was *better* than drugs. ------------------------------ From robzip@STOPeudoramail.com Mon Apr 03 11:22:22 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!triton.skycache.com!cletus.bright.net!not-for-mail From: "Red Rooster" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Gee! Thanks AT! Lines: 45 X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2919.6600 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2919.6600 Message-ID: Date: Mon, 3 Apr 2000 14:22:22 -0400 NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.143.52.86 X-Complaints-To: abuse@bright.net X-Trace: cletus.bright.net 954786153 209.143.52.86 (Mon, 03 Apr 2000 14:22:33 EDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 03 Apr 2000 14:22:33 EDT Organization: bright.net Ohio Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:199630 X-No-Archive: Yes A recent reply to a post mentioned spooning gravy onto dog shit in the yard to persuade the nasty beast to recycle his own droppings. The suggestion worked. Here's what happened. My neighbor 4 doors down has a little Tshi Zsu (WTF-spelling, dust mop yap dog, okay?). She always walks poochie in the morning and it had a bad habit of crapping in my yard. I tried the good neighbor approach, kindly explaining that since we moved into what used to be the model home in the development I would appreciate her taking her dog elsewhere to relieve it's bowels. She assured me that she would. A few weeks go by and there are suddenly 4 more piles of fresh shit in my yard. No excuse for this. One house the opposite direction is open undeveloped lots. Across the street from me is wide open grass backed up by a bean field. Plenty of alternatives to using my yard. This time I had the development office send her a copy of the deed restriction against walking dogs on other residents property. That stopped the crap fountain for about another week. Last Sunday the little fluff ball laid another pile in my yard. I'm sitting in the kitchen on Monday morning thinking of what to do about it when I spy the neighbor starting out with her little leg humper. Then the post from AT came to mind. Calling my wife in: "Did you put that leftover pork roast from yesterday in the plastic meat keeper?" "Yup, sure did." "Did you leave the broth on it?" "Yup, sure did." "Great! Fetch me a paper cup real quick while I get it out." I proceeded to drain a few ounces of broth into the cup and nuked it for about 30 seconds. When I got outside, the offending hairball and its owner were about 2 houses away. Good! She can see me doing this and will know that the resulting follies are my doing. Doggie approached the now steaming shitpile which was freshly bathed in pork broth and started to lap at it. Owner in horror yanks back on the leash. Pup screams like it was kicked. Owner lets the leash go slack. Pup seizing the opportunity lunged forward and scarfed up the broth covered shit ball and swallowed whole. The owner, totally revolted by this culinary development grabbed up the mutt, happily wagging its tail, and hustled off for home. 'Saw her leave in her car about 5 minutes later with her mutt. Probably off to the vet for a teeth cleaning. Nowadays she takes her dog to the park a few blocks over for its walks. Red Rooster ------------------------------ From nrwidow@mpinet.net Sat Apr 08 07:40:40 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!su-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!paloalto-snf1.gtei.net!news.gtei.net!newsfeed.stanford.edu!sn-xit-01!supernews.com!sn-inject-01!corp.supernews.com!not-for-mail From: "Nearwidow" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Widder's Way (was:Re: Kruge Update) Date: Sat, 8 Apr 2000 10:40:40 -0400 Organization: Base Camp Zero Lines: 48 Message-ID: References: <38eb4299@news.ivm.net> <8cfsr8$41l$1@newsg3.svr.pol.co.uk> <38ecdcaa$1@news.ivm.net> <8clcea$slp$4@newsg3.svr.pol.co.uk> <38ee829e.6510655@news.mindspring.com> <955166986.184363@pizza.crosslink.net> Reply-To: "Nearwidow" X-Complaints-To: newsabuse@supernews.com X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2314.1300 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2314.1300 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:199883 I have a *lot* of free time, so I enjoy these visits. I'm their worst nightmare. on door to door pitchmen: I invite them inside the door and stand directly in front of them in the doorway. I chatter nonstop (being manic, this is *easy* for me). I digress. I divulge. I *never* let them get a word in edgewise. I yammer nonsequiturs until their Witnessing eyeballs glaze over. They don't come back. They usually don't even leave their Watchtower with me. Of course, this only works because I am an unmedicated bipolar, have a *lot* of free time and dammit, I *enjoy* making solicitors uncomfortable. I bet those Jehovah's Witnesses are a gossipy lil bunch too: 'don't go to that house across from the 8th green: that lady is KEE-RAZY!' Getting rid of phone solicitors was a little more difficult, because the Aged Parent was a frequent charity purchaser of Tard or Disabled Vet merchandise. Hundred dollar garbage bags, 40 watt bulbs at ten dollars a pop, my old man must have thought he was the Fed, purchasing for the Pentagon. Since I've 'taken over' the running of the household, I refuse to give one red cent to tards, vets or even battered women's shelters. Fuck 'em all, I say. I used to get at least one call a night soliciting for the Retarded Fireman's Ball or fruit baskets for beaten wives, but after they get an earfull the Full Blown Psychotica Nearwidow, they're begging to get off the phone. I ask about their children, and tell them about every single kid I've ever met, leaving no detail out. Again, it's key to never let them get a word in edgewise. Mentioning all those creditors calling day and night usually gets their attention though, as well as my excrutiatingly detailed descriptios of : a)the Aged Parent's bedsores and b)my probation officer's bad skin. It's been over a month since I got any unsolicited calls at all. Come on guys, I'm getting LONELY! xXx p Maytag Repairwoman in another life ObWomenInChains: Accidentally (snicker) pooping while providing my urine sample this week. Big Bad Corrections Officer Mama nearly gagged. H'yuk! ------------------------------ From jeffjustin@newsfeeds.com Mon May 01 14:45:52 2000 Message-ID: <390DFB10.8AD848A7@newsfeeds.com> Date: Mon, 01 May 2000 17:45:52 -0400 From: Jeff Justin X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.72 [en]C-DIAL (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The Thing That Ate My Back Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.40.146.18 X-Trace: 1 May 2000 16:46:20 -0500, 216.40.146.18 Lines: 164 X-Authenticated-User: jeffjustin X-Comments: This message was posted through Newsfeeds.com X-Comments2: IMPORTANT: Newsfeeds.com does not condone, nor support, spam or any illegal or copyrighted postings. X-Comments3: IMPORTANT: Under NO circumstances will postings containing illegal or copyrighted material through this service be tolerated!! X-Report: Please report illegal or inappropriate use to You may also use our online abuse reporting from: http://www.newsfeeds.com/abuseform.htm X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers, INCLUDING the body (DO NOT SEND ATTACHMENTS) Organization: Newsfeeds.com http://www.newsfeeds.com 73,000+ UNCENSORED Newsgroups. Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news-feeder2.wcg.net!WCG!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!dca1-hub1.news.digex.net!intermedia!newsfeed.wirehub.nl!feed-out.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!feed.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!goliath2.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!216.40.146.18 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:201085 Day one - Hmm, feels like I'm getting a zit on my back. Damn, I hate those big old back zits. It seems like they always take forever to break into a head, and they usually manage to be in some place I can't fucking reach. This one's almost on top of my spine, right between my shoulder blades. Difficult to reach, but not impossible. Hope this one comes and goes quickly. Day two - The damn thing is still growing. It's actually starting to hurt a little bit if I happen to lean against it. Nothing very painful, mind you, just a little twinge of discomfort here and there. Day three - I'm beginning to believe this isn't a zit, but a boil. It's gotten much bigger today. It's starting to form distinct zones. The largest zone is defined by the extent of tenderness around the main structure. Judging roughly, by using my fingers as calipers, this zone is large, as much as three inches across, and roughly circular. The main structure is an area of swelling that is about an inch in diameter, and also, roughly circular in shape. This region is raised in relation to the surrounding skin, and feels warm to the touch. When pinched lightly between my finger and thumb it feels firmer than normal skin. The final feature I can sense on this thing is a peak at the center of the swelling. It's just a little blip right now, but I assume it will grow over time. It's amazing how deep the swelling goes. Day four - The growth continues. The large zone has spread another inch, and the swollen area has increased in circumference and depth. The pain is starting to build. From what I can see in the mirror, there's no indication of any head forming on this thing, yet it continues to grow. It's hard not to play with it. Like a hangnail, or a loose tooth, one can't help but touch it. Day five - There's been more growth since yesterday. The large zone has become visibly reddish and the swollen center part has reached probably two and a half inches in diameter. It's generating lots of warmth, and I'm beginning to feel like I could keep my bedroom warm with the heat it's generating. I've taken a couple of preliminary squeezes on it, but backed away because doing so yielded nothing but blinding pain. This thing's definitely not ready to give up yet. Day six - All day today my upper back throbbed with a quiet pain. The muscles around this growth are beginning to rebel. I feel as though I'd pulled a muscle, or slept funny, or something such as that. The thought crossed my mind this afternoon that if it keeps growing, I might end up with a Quasimodo-like hump out of this deal. That made my day. I spent the evening brushing up on my swarthy, unidentifiable European accent and working on my shuffling limp, just in case I need to adopt them. Day seven - this has turned into an ordeal. The swelling is growing more pronounced, and is becoming harder. The swollen flesh has taken on the feel of overdone roast beef. Firm and somewhat uneven to the touch. One can only imagine what is happening inside this thing. I can only believe there is a massive load of pus, white creamy goo and blood trapped under the skin. All of the tentative squeezes I've given it have been met with sharp pain and the firm resistance a piece of hardscrabble constipation grapeshot shit might have. Day eight - I'm hoping for a quick end to this drama. It has become such a force in my life that I think I might just have God growing on my back. It makes sense, you know. Virgin birth, the Millennium and the slow torture to which I'm being subjected. This could very well be the return of Jeaysuss. Fuck, I'm gonna be the mother/father of the Xrist child. Day nine - I'm sorry to say that it's not the Xrist child after all. It formed a head today, and it looks as though it might be ready to pop. Squeezing it still produces no result other than extreme pain. It looks like the large ring of skin has turned darker, and maybe grown another quarter inch. If I were to take my shirt off, I'd feel as though I was walking around with a target on my back. Day ten - Today was the day of reckoning. The skin atop the head of the monster gave way today. Unfortunately, it was while I was on a date. A first date with a woman I've known for a short while. We were having a late dinner and drinks following a play. The first indication I had of the breakage was a feeling drop of fluid making it's chilling way down the middle of my back. That was followed by another drop, then a third. I excused myself to go to the rest room, and when I stuck my hand back there, I could feel a large wet spot on the inside of my shirt. I went into one of the stalls, and took my shirt off and found a wet spot about five inches in diameter. The highlight of this wet spot was the coating of white creamy goo that had been pressed into the woven mesh of the fabric; a slippery coating of coagulated pus. This splotch was about four inches in diameter, making it nearly as large as the wet spot. The coating was perhaps a sixteenth of an inch, at it's thickest. In all, a sight guaranteed to repulse most normals. I tried to scrape the goo out of my shirt, but succeeded only in pressing it more tightly into the fabric. I made a temporary pad of toilet paper to catch the continued pus drainage I was experiencing. I headed back out to my date. I'd been gone long enough that she asked if I was OK. Not knowing this woman's tolerance for things tasteless, I gave her a bullshit excuse about having to wait for a stall in the men's room and that seemed to satisfy her curiosity. Throughout dinner, the pad did its job well enough, but by the time we were leave, it was saturated and I'd started dripping again. I ducked into the men's room again and fitted another makeshift pad under my shirt. I took my date home and as I kissed her goodnight, she reached around me to hug me. She placed her hand on my back. But, as you might well guess, she put it squarely into the wet spot on my shirt, and on top of the toilet paper pad I had tucked under my shirt. I pulled back away quickly, only to be met by her questioning eyes. I sheepishly explained about the boil on my back and told her I'd had a leakage problem. She followed my explanation with a look of growing apprehension and disgustipation, in spite of my sparing her any of the heinous details. I rather fancy I shan't be seeing her again, if that look was any indication of her true mental state. Day eleven - The mop-up operation continues. I've drained all day, but this time I've used some real surgical dressings to soak up the pus. Said pus has become somewhat bloodstained today, but shows no sign of letting up. Day twelve - back to work today, but no relief from the steady outflow of blood-tinged pus. The fountain is flowing at full volume and doesn't' seem to lack for a supply. Just as when I've been confined with a cold, I find myself amazed that such a small amount of tissue can create such a large volume of liquid. I mean here's a lump of flesh perhaps three quarters of a cubic inch that's been producing a steady flow of pus for two days now. Ain't it amazing? Well, it's been an amazing journey through the birth, development and decline of this thing on my back. If there are any further developments, I'll be sure to post them, but for now, I think it's going to be a downhill slide on this thing. Funny, writing this has made me suddenly hungry. Cheers, Jeff Justin -----= Posted via Newsfeeds.Com, Uncensored Usenet News =----- http://www.newsfeeds.com - The #1 Newsgroup Service in the World! -----== Over 80,000 Newsgroups - 16 Different Servers! =----- ------------------------------ From syd@TREETnls.net Sat May 06 03:15:26 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!newsfeed.cwix.com!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!news.sanjose1.Level3.net!Level3!news1.onlynews.com!not-for-mail Message-ID: <39129F55.86C69BBF@nls.net> From: "Rev. Syd Midnight" Organization: http://www.nls.net/mp/syd X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.7 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Local Boy does it RIGHT! (Chainsaw murder/suicide) Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 73 NNTP-Posting-host: onlyNews customer X-Trace: onlyNews customer NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 06 May 2000 03:15:26 PDT Date: Sat, 06 May 2000 10:15:26 GMT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:201356 I feel like a sack of shit, because I have been ignoring AT in order to do other shit, like bong beers and glare at attractive women. Luckily, a local hero has made the AT grade, and I present his story to you to offset my ignoring, and the spitefulness of my drooling over a young woman with a degenerative muscle disease... when the party is broken down, my eyes are glued upon the creature with the jerky, stumbling walk. Anyways, check this out chimps... MAN STABS WIFE AND COMMITS CHAINSAW SUICIDE (Rev, Syd News Report) MAYFIELD HEIGHTS, OH: A few days ago, fuckin' tuesday or so, some fuckin' dimshit stabbed the hell out of his wife, and then cut his own fucking head off with a chainsaw while cops watched. Ooh, I have a hard on here. The fucking Cleveland Indians can't win a baseball game, but this fucksoul cuts his own goddamn head off. Karma. A woman, known only as "Ash", was one of those dim fucking cull cunts who "love" slithering shits who beat the fuck out of them, as opposed to the creepy nerds who lust after them in High School. Last Monday or Tuesday (I lost the fucking article), Ash was enjoying her usual domestic bliss with boyfriend Timothy Raruick, who was really pissed because she had been doing shit that, y'know, pissed him off. So he says "Feed me." and she goes into the kitchen and fixes him a nice bowl of cereal. Dumb bitch makes it, turns around, and gets a big knife in her chest for her trouble. Tim merrily stabs the living shit out of her as she pitifully crawls for it, creeping towards the door as he stabs her into next tuesday. Once she'd crawled out the front door, she was able to stagger over to a neighbor. Luckily, this neighbor had been a nurse in Vietnam, so massive stab wounds were old hat for her... she bound the wounds and called the cops. (Her pussy-ass husband was psychologically wounded, however.) So shortly, a shitload of Mayfield cops appeared, none of them in a good mood. They quickly descended upon the apartment where Tim was still ranting about food. Good part: When the cops closed in on Tim, he picked up a chainsaw, fired it up, and decapitated himself. "Ash" is clinging to life at some high-and-mighty Cleveland Clinic, yeah I hope she pulls though. Sickeningly though, the state of Ohio paid for Grief Councilors to come out and comfort the poor wittle cops, who may need a shoulder to cwy on,... awwww. No offense to the Law Enforcement professionals that read AT, but we all hate you, and besides, Jesus, I'd HOPE that you could take a chainsaw decapitation. If not... *sad* ObConjecture: Chainsaws must cut through flesh better than I'd thought. I'd give a human 5 seconds to live after their throat has been mangled, so Tim the fucking Psycho had to have cut clear through his throat and into the brainstem within 5 seconds. Give the man a hand. He did it. The police declared him dead "immediately"... as most decapitation victims are. My fullest wishes go to his stabbed spouse... I hope she's attractive and meets me, so I can use the cool come-on line "I may not be Fabio, but I'll never viciously stab you and then cut off my own head with a chainsaw, either." It *might* work. This one woman who I work with was an eyewitness to a local Apeshit... her classic line: "I saw a guy come through the front door in camouflage, and said "Can I help you?". He ignored me and shot the principal in the ass.... Naww, I'll never get with her. But I think she respects my cavalier attitude towards life... she has a boyfriend, but I've talked her into buying shotguns and hunting animals! Woo hoo! -- Rev. Syd Midnight - Remove TREET from address to reply * Spam Accounts Killed: 14 Thanks to http://www.spamcop.net ! * "Usenet is like Tetris for people who can read." -- SamSpade v1.14 help file ------------------------------ From syd@TREETnls.net Sat May 06 07:21:57 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!su-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!news.sanjose1.Level3.net!Level3!news1.onlynews.com!not-for-mail Message-ID: <3912D912.441D9E99@nls.net> From: "Rev. Syd Midnight" Organization: http://www.nls.net/mp/syd X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.7 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Widder's Way (was:Re: Kruge Update) References: <38eb4299@news.ivm.net> <8cfsr8$41l$1@newsg3.svr.pol.co.uk> <38ecdcaa$1@news.ivm.net> <8clcea$slp$4@newsg3.svr.pol.co.uk> <38ee829e.6510655@news.mindspring.com> <955166986.184363@pizza.crosslink.net> <8cr49r$trf$1@slb6.atl.mindspring.net> <8dkd30$v8g$1@slb0.atl.mindspring.net> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 123 NNTP-Posting-host: onlyNews customer X-Trace: onlyNews customer NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 06 May 2000 07:21:56 PDT Date: Sat, 06 May 2000 14:21:57 GMT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:201371 Alraune wrote: > > x-no-archive: yes > In "Nearwidow" > writes: > > >> What is the procedure for collecting urine specimens from the > >> penile-deprived, exactly? Did you give her a link bracelet? > > >it's really very traditional. You go into a bathroom with Ofc. > >Beeyatch right beside you, hike skirt, drop drawers and hold a dixie > >cup betwixt thighs. Pee. Place cup on counter. Sit back and watch the > >fun! > > > I think you just described the spread in next month's Hustler. So the > two of you had sex afterwards, right? You poor misinformed human beings. There is a link on my worthless homepage describing exactly how females can piss standing up. Quick refresher course: Males and femals are the same, just differently shaped. If you're female, your pee hole is just beneath your yummy clit and about a half an inch above your cunt. So all you have to do (practice in the shower, it's OK to pee in the shower, all men do) is use your fingers to spread your labia apart, buck your hips so that your pee hole is pointing out yonder, build up the pressure (dribbling is unfortuate, but guys can deal wih it!) and let fly. With the aforementioned shower practice, you can whiz with the best of men. In fact, you will enjoy a natural advantage... no man EVER expects a woman to piss standing up. So you can earn quick cash by betting him $20 that you can piss farther, the punchline being "Ah ah, no hands allowed!" No pun intended, but local wopmen are all puissies. In Texas, Glubdammit, gurls learn early how to whiz standing up, so they can use urinals! (which aren't countned as toilets, so you can have 5 toilets each for men and women, but the guys ALSO have a row of urinals into which they can handily drain their main vein.) Urinating whilst standing is a zen-like ritual that all males learn to appreciate. but most females can onlt sneer at jealously. Wanna be one? Or do you wanna step out with the guys and whiz onto a tree whilst the studs all stare? Trust me... (Oh, and to answer the woman's question... yes, that last dribble just happens. you can wi]pe if you're a wimp, ior you can be a "man" and ignore that last little dribble. Or for effect, you casn buck your hips wildly and explain to a nearby male "Gotta gat thatr last drop off!") Sounds sick and perverse to a female, but guys hearts will melt. And finally, for all marginally heterosexual females who are reading this, men may publicly lust after supermodels, but a heartily foul, tasteless chick will ALWAYS attract their attention. I've plied this advice onto every young female that I've ever known. The ones who actually gave it a try were amazed at the results. Hey there High School losers, tired of seeing the cheerleaders get all the hot guys? Try this: The next time you're in a class where the usual gang of apes is drooling and staring at the cheerleader, start on a rant out loud, as if you didn't really mean for them to hear.... "Oh GHOD, that dick holster is shaking her ass in front of the guys again, but I have nightmares about that ass..." (At this point, the guys will be looking towards you, inhumanly HUNGERING for more info about that bubble ass. Come to think of it, now would be a good time to become a mean dyke. But lets say you perservere...) "Yesterday I was taking a piss between 4th and 5th periods" you say... the guys will zero in on this, it's a gross thing that can be made fun of, but as a chick, you earn the mens' respect by admitting that you go to the bathroom. Dunno why, I just report it. (Did you know that many adolescent guys don't know that girls fart, shit, belch, pick their noses? It's true!) "And She (the cheerleader bitch) gets into the stall next to me. Now, I don't care, I was just squeezing out a piss." (All the guys are with you, everyone's been there, squeezing out a leak, but they're hungering for the smutty stuff about cheerleader.) "And I hear this noise in the next stall, and at first I think that she's just puking up her lunch, but it goes on for a while, and she's grunting the whole time..." "Then it's quiet for a moment, and she just fucking GROANS, and this stream of liquid shit spews out of her ass, splattering likem hell, I mean you could tell by the noise... with wet little farts along the way. And oh GHOD, the SMELL..." I guarantee you girls, at this point, the cheerleader could rip off her panties and "present", but you have the guys UNDIVIDED attention. "Then she starts groaning and grunting, but there's no niose, I'm kind of embarassed" you mutter shyly, "then she grabs the sides of the toilet (NO, the guys will not ask how you'd know), makes this horrid croak like Kermit the Frog, and splats diarrhea into the toilet so hard that it sounds like it has CHUNKS..." At this point, the cheerleaders could be masturbating on top of the desks (a male fantasy), but the boys' attention will be riveted upon you. "It's not like diareah was anything new," you continue, "but she was making noises as she shat. Like it was hot or something.": Half the males back off, having been faced with a tasteless scenario that they can relate to, and fear, regardless of the Pussy Factor. The other half are dying hard, and need a tad more reality... "So she makes this horrible noise like a dying cow, I thought she'd have a stroke and she lets rip with a hideous wet fart and there is a big *splash* in her toilet.. I could have left a long time ago, but I was too disgusted to move. "Then there's this last wet squirt anf she gives a groan... Jesus... then she sticks her hand underneath the stall wall, into my stall, and says "Do you have any toilet paper?" --- Kids, if you're female, every adult will attest that the aforementioned soliloquy will instantly make your ugly fat self more popular that the sexiest cheerleader. I TRY to tell young girls that.. see the idiotic stuff that guys do? Do that, and you'll be irresistable. It is my hope that someday, maybe, I can turn some ugly duckling of a pitiful teenage girl into a cool object of everyone's attention. And if so, the whole time, I'll be hitting on her like a dirty old man. -- Rev. Syd Midnight - Remove TREET from address to reply * Spam Accounts Killed: 14 Thanks to http://www.spamcop.net ! * "Usenet is like Tetris for people who can read." -- SamSpade v1.14 help file ------------------------------ From deliverer@netscape.net Mon May 08 21:45:08 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cambridge1-snf1.gtei.net!news.gtei.net!homer.alpha.net!not-for-mail From: Deliverer Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Savage Tastelessness Organization: Temple of Good and Evil Message-ID: X-Newsreader: Forte Agent 1.8/32.548 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 89 Date: Mon, 08 May 2000 23:45:08 -0500 NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.145.177.106 X-Complaints-To: abuse@alpha.net X-Trace: homer.alpha.net 957847545 216.145.177.106 (Mon, 08 May 2000 23:45:45 CDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 08 May 2000 23:45:45 CDT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:201548 Hello, children, old farts, tards, fuckwits, and trolls, We all lurk or contribute to this vermin filled sewer in hopes of getting a good laugh or a stiffy. (Stiff nipples, clit, choad, or a good deal on a recently dead once human fucktoy.) Some of you live the tasteless life like good Xians spreading the love of Glub while you spread the postman's ass cheeks or that annoying sixteen year old neighbor girl's fat legs to get at her rancid bush. It beats fucking the cat again, eh? That we all can agree on. Do any of you dream tasteless? Do you wake up in a cold sweat fresh from what others would consider a nightmare that would require more antipsychotic meds. (Nature Boy, I am with you, brother. I'm an official member of the psychotic brotherhood now.) I do and I would like to hear about more of your dreams. I had this dream last night that I was in a public men's room minding my own business taking the shit that only dreams are made of. The paint was peeling off the walls. My eyes were watering. My sinuses were clear for once this freaking unstable weather season, by Glub. For some reason, I had this toolbox sitting beneath my feet. I must have been a working stiff union dues paying bastard in this dream. There were two holes in the stall. One above the toilet paper and one on the other side. There was this caption that was scrawled beneath one that said "Your mouth goes here, Linda." I mentioned before that this was the dream shit, a gold metal melting dump of olympic and sure epic proportions. I live reality as a bran eating, prune juice guzzling, constipated and angry lunatic. In the dream, the grogans slid out of my starfish like a solid waterfall. No ripping of the anus. No blood. It was a clean but righteously smelly shit like Glub intended. It was like heaven in a stall for me. Until.... Two fuckwits shoved their choads through those two forementioned holes. Lincard and Juan Rico would have traded dreams with me in a heartbeat and a precum drop. Alas, I am not the cum guzzling sluts that they are. I would rather have tits and a vagina designed by Glub within my reach not choads, testicles, or hairy asses. I was rather upset. The dream shit interrupted by two bastards who want me to do something to their choads. Luckily, I had this toolbox handy. The stalls appear to be made of wood. Where was I? Lessee, there's one of them Blaque & Wrecker Battery Charged Staple Guns, some really strong epoxy glue, some lighter fluid, and a small propane torch. I quickly epoxy glued and stapled both sets of choads and genitals to the stall. There were some moans before the staples were applied. It is amazing how some people can get off on glue. The screaming began after I did the staples. I hate the sight of blood and they both sounded like they were on fire. I sprinkled some cool lighter fluid on them. They seemed to have calmed down a bit but they didn't cease their obvious struggling or screaming. I decided that the screaming wasn't the right pitch for a good sing a long. I lit the propane torch and gently applied the flame to the lighter fluid soaked members. The flames, the fumes, and the smoke were a bit too much for them. It seems that they fainted but they left their courting tackle attached to the stalls. All that blood. Geez.. they really did know how to spoil a good shit for me. Bastards. I wiped my ass. I looked at the paper. It was a clean wipe. There is nothing like a dream shit. I looked into the toilet. There were grogans of all shapes and sizes. It was beautiful. My eyes were filled with tears. I couldn't flush my babies so I quietly gathered my tools and left the stall. The dream shit lit by two burning candles...then I woke up. Eddie dream a little dream ObT.. Someone reading this post and performing copycat killings in men's rooms all over the world. ObT2.. Jonathan Blaque posting about it and blaming me for it. Bastard... Uncle Brian could have did it. ------------------------------ From bnoug@my-deja.com Tue May 09 10:47:52 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!nntp2.deja.com!nnrp1.deja.com!not-for-mail From: bnoug@my-deja.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Request for old postings. Date: Tue, 09 May 2000 17:47:52 GMT Organization: Deja.com - Before you buy. Lines: 171 Message-ID: <8f9j00$jp3$1@nnrp1.deja.com> References: <390F1F27.6FE6EE0@goodnet.com> <390F46EE.492AC5D2@newsfeeds.com> <391061ea.179900992@news.itd.umich.edu> <3910608D.39A5123@newsfeeds.com> <39109420.192755328@news.itd.umich.edu> <3911AC3C.5D8B049B@newsfeeds.com> <39120687.7335424@news.itd.umich.edu> <39146bbe.80740416@news.itd.umich.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: 164.76.107.194 X-Article-Creation-Date: Tue May 09 17:47:52 2000 GMT X-Http-User-Agent: Mozilla/4.08 [en] (Win95; I ;Nav) X-Http-Proxy: 1.0 x24.deja.com:80 (Squid/1.1.22) for client 164.76.107.194 X-MyDeja-Info: XMYDJUIDbnoug Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:201582 In article <39146bbe.80740416@news.itd.umich.edu>, ybd78564@netscape.net (Your Daddy) wrote: >[..] > You, Bnoug, are a cunt. Well, thank you very much -- like you've seen one! Here is your biography, 'Your Daddy' -- enjoy the memories... The Life and Times of Your Daddy By Bnoug Part VI BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT! When the electric alarm clock jolted Your Daddy from his dreamless stupor, he began the day as he began every other day. Your Daddy was not sophisticated. In fact, he came from the same dull, humorless genetic backwater that produces Denny's waitresses and failed FBI agents. But Your Daddy knew what he liked: he liked to play with his ass. After several minutes of this peculiar self-greeting, Your Daddy arose and began rooting through the pile of rumpled clothes on the floor. He picked out a lime green Gary Coleman t-shirt and a pair of plum-colored stretch pants. White socks and black sneakers rounded out the ensemble. He dressed quickly, and as he admired himself in the mirror he exclaimed "Your Daddy is STYLIN' today!". As usual, Your Daddy did not shower or bathe. He enjoyed his own scent and knew that others would as well. As he made his way to the kitchen, he knew his mother would be there to greet him. One of the neighbors had told Your Daddy that his mother was a 'barfly'. Your Daddy figured that this was very important work. After all, she was out until very late at night. And when she returned she was so tired that some man or other had to escort her to her room. Due to the large number of men who performed this duty, Your Daddy figured his mom was in Upper Management. When he entered the kitchen, his mother's bloodshot eyes shot open, her nostrils flared, her jowls quivered, and she greeted him warmly: "JESUS H ROSS CHRIST ON A CRACKER SON, HAVE YOU BEEN PLAYING WITH YOUR ASS AGAIN?" Your Daddy, with a sly smile and a wink replied: "No time to talk, mom -- I have work to do!". And so, at the tender young age of 40, Your Daddy strode off to make his way in the world. When he arrived at the Jack-in-a-box restaurant where he worked, Your Daddy smirked at the sign that ordered all employees to wash their hands. He knew darn well that the whole hand washing thing was a ploy by the Japanese to slow America down and make us less productive. As he made his way to the hamburger patty-making station, he was intercepted by his boss, Elvira. She was a meaty African- American woman Your Daddy found quite attractive. The thick carpeting of hair on her chest and upper lip was oddly sensuous. She greeting him warmly: "IF YOU THANK YOU KIN PLAY WIF YO BUTTHOE THEN COME IN HEAH AN MESS WIF MY BUYGAHS, THEN YOU AIN'T GOT THE SINSE YOU WUZ BAWN WIF! NOW GIT OUT BEFOE I BUSS A CAP IN YO NASTY WHITE ASS!" Your Daddy sensed that he was unwelcome and hurried out onto the busy street. With nothing to do, Your Daddy struck up an aquaintance with a large stray dog. The sidewalk was too crowded to play with the dog, so Your Daddy took his new friend into a dark alley. As he rolled on the beery, urine soaked pavement beneath the dog, the dog became very excited and very interested in Your Daddy's ass. Sensing that this could trun into something Very Interesting, Your Daddy pulled down his stretch pants and was rewarded with the dog's warm toungue licking his anus. As Your Daddy daydreamed about how he could keep the dog, he felt something big and hard enter his anus. He quickly realized the importance of this, and yelled out as loud as he could "HEY! HEY WORLD! I'M HAVING SEX! I SCORED! WHEEE!". Then two things happened: the large knob at the base of the dog's penis entered Your Daddy's ass, tying them together, and Your Daddy's vocal outburst caused the dog to bolt into the crowded street. Feeling the pain of being dragged by his stretched ass-ring, Your Daddy thought that maybe sex wasn't such a good thing after all. As the pair charged down the sidewalk, a strange thing happened. People began to point and laugh at Your Daddy. Your Daddy always liked to entertain people and make them happy, so he was very pleased by this. He began to ape the stars he saw on TV, cocking his finger at passersby as though it was a pistol, yelling out the hip sayings he could recall, like "Hey Dude!" and "Who loves ya baby!" This made the people laugh even harder. He was in show business now, and no mistake about it! After fifteen minutes and several hundred yards of this, Your Daddy's procession of glory ended abruptly. The dog's large wet schlong popped out of Your Daddy's tattered rectum with, well, a large wet popping sound. The dog turned around, looked at Your Daddy and in his post-coital guilt felt very bad. Your Daddy was the sorriest piece of ass he had ever had. Dejected, the dog dashed under the wheels of a speeding bus and was killed instantly. In anguish Your Daddy cried "Fifteen minutes in show business and my costar is already dead! BWAAAHHH!" When the local precinct house heard that Your Daddy was chasing dogs around the city with his pants down around his ankles, a team was sent out to capture him. They sprayed him down with disinfectant and took him to the psychiatric hospital for evaluation. Your Daddy hated the looney bin. There was a tech named Jeff who pretty much bored the shit out of people with his long-winded stories. The guy just wouldn't shut up! But there was a bright spot to this ordeal, a very large bright spot. That bright spot was another tech named Arliss. Arliss was fat. In fact Arliss was about 700 pounds of wheezing, quivering blubber. In his infatuation, Your Daddy saw that Arliss was like a planet with his own gravity and weather. One night, Arliss squeezed through the door to Your Daddy's room and said the words that would change Your Daddy's life forever. Those words were, of course: "Blow me." Your Daddy complied with joy. His body remembered the painful experience with the dog, however, and he did not cry out his triumph this time. Your Daddy simply enjoyed the sensations as Arliss manfully boxed his forehead to 'make him do it faster'. There was one bad thing about this experience: Arliss' penis tasted funny. Your Daddy just knew that Jeff had something to do with this, but he refused to let jealousy ruin this shining moment. When Arliss was finished, he looked down at Your Daddy with some post-coital guilt and realized how far he had fallen. He rushed out of the facility, dashed under the wheels of a passing bus, and was killed instantly. Since Arliss was so fat, it didn't do the bus much good either and it's front suspension was killed instantly. The bus driver was not killed instantly, but he did pretty much break his dick on the steering wheel. Somehow Jeff was blamed for Arliss' suicide and was fired on the spot. Your Daddy became so depressed that the doctors pronounced him to be normal and he was discharged. As Your Daddy walked the streets, weeping bitter tears, a shiny black car pulled up beside him. A clever-looking man leaned out of the window and said "Hey, you look like a smart bastard -- how would you like a job?" Your Daddy stammered "O-o-o-kay, b-b-b-ut only if you let me b-b-blow you!" And that's how Your Daddy became a project manager at a little company called WebTeeVee. Your Daddy didn't have the slightest idea what he was doing, of course, but neither did anyone else. They paid him in a strange currency called 'experience' which they solemnly explained was much better than money. The benefits were great. Your Daddy was allowed to sleep in the parking lot and could pick through the trash whenever he got hungry. And true to his word, the boss gave Your Daddy a special high-protein 'snack' once or twice a week. It's been said that even a monkey can learn to type, given enough time. And so it was that after 14 years at WebTeeVee Your Daddy learned to post articles to Usenet. He had never liked spicy foods and preferred the boss's bland 'snacks', so Your Daddy selected a group called alt.tasteless to be his online home. He met some cool people there and a lot of assholes. Your Daddy was very happy there. And so Your Daddy was on top of the world. He had a great job, lots of sex, and who knows? With a couple of lucky breaks and a really talented dog, he might get back to show business. The End Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ Before you buy. ------------------------------ From lorraine.robinson@wcom.net Thu May 11 01:07:51 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!paloalto-snf1.gtei.net!news.gtei.net!newsfeed.stanford.edu!pln-w!spln!extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!news2 From: Lorri Robinson Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: UPDATE Re: Potential Tastelessness Brewing On My Right Shoulderblade Date: Thu, 11 May 2000 04:07:51 -0400 Organization: http://extra.newsguy.com Lines: 26 Message-ID: <391A6A57.26F3B68F@wcom.net> References: <3914CA09.7AEFCAFA@bellsouth.net> <3915BED1.5E8E6813@defilernet.com> <3918314B.607738B5@fuckyou.co.uk> <8fcf3o$l1m$1@ionews.ionet.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: p-901.newsdawg.com Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.73 [en] (WinNT; I) X-Accept-Language: en Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:201718 Well, let's see....bite site is nicely empurpled but not much bigger (I believe the Dapsone is working), I stayed home from work Sunday night with chills, fever, vomiting, diarrhea, and dizziness, all signs of brown recluse envenomation, and can now only function under large doses of ibuprofen, hydroxyzine (sp? the pain killer), Dapsone, and Phenergan for nausea. Made the mistake of not taking my Phenergan yesterday morning, woke up for work yesterday afternoon *very* nauseated and ill. Made it to work, tho, figured I could throw up on a bunch of servers as well as at home. Interestingly enough, my right arm is colder than the left, and I can't lay on my right side--my arm gets very painful and achey. I also get transient tingles and shooting pain through the joint.... Wonder what an amputation at the rotator cuff will look like.... Lorri Right On .....nah.... ...........Right Makes Fright?....eurgh.... ......Pale Right-er?.....yeesh, that's as bad as Nature Boy's.... ...ah, fuck it. My arm hurts..... ------------------------------ From cavefrog@diespamUSA.NET Fri May 12 05:59:21 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news-feeder2.wcg.net!WCG!feed2.onemain.com!feed1.onemain.com!cyclone-sf.pbi.net!207.211.168.17!pln-w!spln!extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!pc0150 From: cavefrog@diespamUSA.NET (crato) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: "It was always a deep, dark secret that he had" (baa, baa) (news) Date: Fri, 12 May 2000 12:59:21 GMT Organization: http://extra.newsguy.com Lines: 91 Message-ID: <8fgulh0fbo@news2.newsguy.com> References: <8festf0q2n@news1.newsguy.com> <8ffpk0$2td$1@delphi.ridgenet.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: p-312.newsdawg.com X-Newsreader: News Xpress 2.01 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:201792 In article <8ffpk0$2td$1@delphi.ridgenet.net>, "Kristin & David Hall" wrote: > >crato wrote >> Since my knowlege of beastiality is limited to one BDSM experience that >went >> wrong (involving glub damned poodles, no less), I've got a serious >question >^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ > >I can't believe no one jumped on this one!!! Enquiring minds want to >know!!! >Who, what (okay, so we know what), when, where, why, and how?! > >Puleeeze tell. > >> Crato > >-Kristin ^^^"ditto"^^^ Actually the first thing I ever posted to AT was about this incident. I'll try to summarize the degradation of Crato for you in a few paragraphs though. Back in my younger days, after my first marriage had terminated due to no one in particulars fault, a friend of the ex-wife decided to 'come out of the closet'. As a true southern gentleman, I graciously accepted the honor of deflowering him, since I had confessed to him that I was not particularly gender specific in my sexual relationships. Over the years, between relationships with the fairer sex, I would visit and hang out with him and his (by then) paramour. Over a period of years I watched them go through several stages of evolution in their 'marriage' before settling into a leather 'daddy/boy toy' type of relationship and they kept a regular little stable of submissive types coming around on the weekends for fun and games. I found that I was really fascinated by the BDSM element of their play. They were also nice enough to let use their boy toys for my own twisted and perverse games whenever I was not having luck with the ladies. Let's face it, when they're flat on their stomachs, and their butts are in the air, it really doesn't matter whether they've got tits or not. Anyway, to get to the heart of the matter, after a fun afternoon of smacking and waxing the sub, I found myself embraced from behind and a voice whispered in my ear "Now it's your turn...". Okay, that's fair enough I thought. A leather slave mask was pulled down over my face and I found myself tied face down over a rather heavy oak footstool with my hands tied to the footstool feet and my knees tied to the feet on the other side (Oh the shame of it all...). Sometime during the ensuing gang bang, boytoy's boytoy (the hierarchy sometimes gets confusing here) had offended leather daddy and was led into the next room to be tied up in the sling to await his further punishment. At this point the front doorbell rang and another bear/daddy showed up. Boytoy let Bear in and brought him downstairs to show him what they were going to do to boytoy's boytoy. Now remember, poor little Crato's lying there strapped to a heavy piece of furniture, gagged and with spooge slowly drying to a sticky crusty mess on his back and shoulders. Now it seems that the aforementioned boytoy forgot to completely shut the doors to the upstairs as he led the Bear through the basement, past poor Crato, and into the sling room. Now did I mention that they had poodles? Nasty little neurotic yap yap poodles with fucking pink and blue bows in their hair. The first indication that something _BAD_ was about to happen to poor Crato was when an icy cold poodle nose thrust itself into my poor abused little starfish. This brought forth a mighty "MgmmpphhhArrrrghh!!!" though the gag on the slave mask and I managed to lurch the footstool forward at least a foot or two using only my feet. This only incited the glub_be_damned dogs into a veritable frenzy of sniffing , snuffling and licking. All I could do was try to spin the footstool in circles and thrash while trying to scare the dogs off with my muffled yelps of outrage. At this time two things happened. The glub_be_damned dogs started getting into the spirit of things and started trying to hump me and leather daddy looked into the room to see what the commotion was. "Boy, run upstairs and get everyone a beer!" was all he said before settling onto the couch to watch the show. By this time I was careening off of furniture, walls and faggots trying to get away from those damned dogs. Everyone was laughing and trying to avoid me since, by then, my sole goal in life was to catch anything living between me and the wall and crush it until I heard bones snap and could savor the screams of anguish. Maybe I was being somewhat unreasonable, but I was just a little bit pissed off at that point. Finally, Leather Daddy said "Boy, go untie him, the dog is getting spooge on the mask and it's going to ruin it..." Kind of ruined any inclinations I had to be a sub anymore though. It took a couple of months before I got back on friendly terms with him. Crato Obt: That wasn't enough? ------------------------------ From kes@duke.edu Tue May 16 08:01:55 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!nycmny1-snh1.gtei.net!news.gtei.net!hermes.visi.com!news-out.visi.com!newspeer.monmouth.com!newsgate.duke.edu!kes From: kes@duke.edu (Strayhorn) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: tastelessly tasty [was: Vomit, would you do her?] Date: Tue, 16 May 2000 11:01:55 -0400 Organization: Marinus van der Lubbe Intl Firebombing Society Lines: 61 Message-ID: References: <8finvs$cg8$1@slb7.atl.mindspring.net> <1eak5mq.vkx02gvfdifoN%no_recall@amnesia.com> <8fju1o$886$1@slb6.atl.mindspring.net> <391DB733.CB9A5A0F@monmouth.com> <37rrhskiftus8haj8t4t5jbdmm0ttckdue@4ax.com> <391FA5F9.9EC602A1@montana.com> <391F9944.B3B3D1CD@monmouth.com> <391FB011.FB3FA0C5@montana.com> <391FA847.B42B7510@monmouth.com> <391FB9F8.199F4162@montana.com> <391FB63F.D893C578@monmouth.com> <8fq056$hin$1@slb2.atl.mindspring.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: strayhorn.dukecomm.duke.edu X-Newsreader: MT-NewsWatcher 2.4.4 X-No-Archive: yes X-Complaints-To: abuse@dukecomm.duke.edu X-Face: BWeQyrFlV$jk!Ic4*Vvu'J4IEpyD]IbTQv5)y9H8f_XR[%4W$:l!Wvj0j>hs, gj7djy1tb>!5a}py;n)ooLh_Mj!/nvzH7i{aQM'M_fr;n4=K?*\'e!)5TYLSBoA3?j Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:201988 In article <8fq056$hin$1@slb2.atl.mindspring.net>, alraune@ix.netcom.com(Alraune) wrote: > The first time I tried Southern Comfort, it reminded > me of Triamenic, a sickening orange-flavored cough > medicine that used to get poured down my throat. It's pretty nasty stuff, no doubt. ObTrivia: It's actually made _north_ of Mason and Dixon's Line, if that's any indication. Well, assuming that Schenley Brands still owns it. The first time I tried it was at a house-warming party being thrown by my housemate and me at our new place at the beach. Since we both worked at a restaurant, we decided beg/borrow/steal most of the foodstuffs for this fest. Among the items liberated from our employer was a bottle of Southern Comfort. We got a good deal on some seafood down at the charter docks and made a couple huge platters of things like deviled crabs, clams casino, fish fingers, etc, for the ravening hordes that showed up. And, yea verily, we did drink and eat. Somehow I got my fingers around that bottle of Southern Comfort and drank most of it in a couple stiff pulls. This was followed by tons of seafood and several beers. Cut to 3 a.m., and I'm lying in bed with that unhappy feeling in ye olde stomach. I jump up only to find the bathroom door locked and the unmistakable sounds of in-out, in-out being performed inside. So I turn around and go out the side door onto the deck, where I chunder several quarts of bourbon-and- seafood onto the sand and yaupon bushes below. I feel much better. But that feeling didn't last, as I turned around to find the door locked. Did I mention I was nude? Did I mention it was approx 45 degrees F outside? Did I mention my housemate was drunk in bed himself? After much pounding on the side of the house, the windows, and the front door, I manage to get the attention of the couple who had been doing it doggie style in the bathroom. After a hot shower to warm up - and to wash the vomit off my feet - I managed to sleep until noon the next day. ObT: Seafood vomit. Much worse than Mexican food. -- Strayhorn Not Duke policy, etc. "Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allan Poe." - J. Lennon ------------------------------ From snimickrat@mindspring.com Tue May 16 20:40:15 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!news.mindspring.net!newsfeed.mindspring.net!firehose.mindspring.com!not-for-mail From: Sean Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Subtle Turnoffs Date: Tue, 16 May 2000 20:40:15 -0700 Organization: MindSpring Enterprises Lines: 21 Message-ID: <3922149F.39866B16@mindspring.com> References: <8fmlqg$7r$1@slb7.atl.mindspring.net> <391f4d4d.26503184@news> <39203e8c.3117917@news.omen.net.au> <3920A5BE.A7D6057A@wcom.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: d1.56.18.c9 Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Server-Date: 17 May 2000 00:36:36 GMT X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.5 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:202020 Lorri Robinson wrote: > I have wanted to braid the TLH's armpit hair since the day we were wed. > It's nice, soft, lovely hair, and I'd *really* love to braid it. But he > just refuses to let me. > > Any suggestions for convincing him that allowing me to braid his pit > hair would be a testament to his Undying Love For Me? Well, I've never had my armpit hair braided, but rimjobs have gotten me into several forms of negligees in the past. The lavander one where I had the ribbon wrapped around my shlong was a big hit. Sean "Ever had your bunghole slicked with peanut oil and blown like a tuba?" --Vomit Kill the rat to email ------------------------------ From mayday@newsguy.com Wed May 17 03:47:08 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!paloalto-snf1.gtei.net!news.gtei.net!newsfeed.stanford.edu!pln-w!spln!extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!mayday From: Tommy the Terrorist Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: tasteless advertising Date: Wed, 17 May 2000 05:47:08 -0500 Organization: http://extra.newsguy.com Lines: 61 Message-ID: <170520000547081818%mayday@newsguy.com> References: <39138C07.2DD4982C@monmouth.com> <8fdrv8$l45$1@server.cntfl.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: p-135.newsdawg.com Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit User-Agent: YA-NewsWatcher/4.2.6 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:202051 In article <8fdrv8$l45$1@server.cntfl.com>, Ubiquitous wrote: > According to another toilet paper ad, you won't have icky lint on > your ass if you use their brand. I'm not sure why anyone would > find this disturbing, however... Some of these scumlords of the toilet paper industry seem to be coming out with clever ways of increasing demand. Way number one being to produce little linty itchies that stick up in there and make you feel like you need more work. Some of them itch so damned much, you wonder if they put asbestos in it secretly... Way number two being the use of truly loathsome OILS mixed in with the stuff ("aloe"...) to give the victim this "slick with shit" feeling even when he isn't. Diss-GUSTING. There's one that went straight from wrapper to trash... spared my ass the bother! It used to be that the cheaper the paper the worse it was, but now half the time you're grateful for the crappiest thinnest institutional stuff you find at work instead of whatever boondoggle you picked up at the market this week. But even that, well... do you remember the dispensers at work as always having had clouds of white stuff sticking to the sides of them where the dust on the paper stuck? Whole thing reminds me of the OTC pain reliever commercials where they show some old lady dosing with the stuff so she can keep up her job pounding away at a MANUAL TYPEWRITER... hehe, they want her to keep going until she has to gulp down bottles of the stuff and be on the edge of jaundice just to try to be able to grip her walker to get around inside her house, and then they'll laugh and count their money.... or then there are the quack remedies... I never could figure out the right way to get rid of "dandruff" until I threw out all the dandruff shampoo and stopped getting any brand that was also selling a version with a dandruff shampoo --- cause the stuff is just what it says! Then there are the "lip balms" you see advertised all the damned time, constantly. Chapped lips? You've got RIBOFLAVIN DEFICIENCY, a common "borderline" symptom of it. I wonder what bloody else gets chapped on a woman and if she uses Chap Stick on that... really, if you have riboflavin deficiency you have it all the way from bow to stern and if it's bad enough to make your lips start coming apart what else are you having trouble with in where you can't see it? But they keep selling the shit, and you don't hear a word. All like that. Fucking quacks and shysters, and the whole thing goes on under the most "heavily regulated" FDA regime of approval of the products and censorship of the ads. They'll fine a company a million dollars for saying (truthfully) that aspirin as a blood thinner can have a benefit against heart attacks but they'll leave all this other crap alone. Censorship isn't only (invariably) vague, lacking in proportion, and prone to abuse... it also fails (every time) to accomplish its ostensible purpose. Capitalism... what hogwash! "Free competitive market" means two or three companies MAX ... "entrepreneur" means somebody good at talking state agencies into permitting, funding, or mandating his product ... "property" means a new "right" declared last week by the legislature to prohibit the creation of anything similar to a design/name/data set/gene/ etc. you now "own" ... "risk" means that the well connected entrepreneur keeps the profits, but if things turn out badly his customers and suppliers - or else the taxpayers - get to eat the losses ... and in the end, it all gets swallowed up by mega companies with spying deals set up with creepy federal agencies, who could teach China tricks about how to subvert private enterprise into state enforcement. ------------------------------ From no_recall@amnesia.com Wed May 17 03:17:09 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!nf1.mgmt.sympatico.ca!news1.bellglobal.com!sodalite.nbnet.nb.ca!sapphire.mtt.net!not-for-mail Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Or maybe it was a Gorgon they saw? From: no_recall@amnesia.com (Proctalgia) Message-ID: <1earl0c.1qje0eq18ju40N%no_recall@amnesia.com> References: <391D9E1B.43D54CB2@interlog.com> <8fkpao0pe0@news1.newsguy.com> <391FA46E.737086FA@montana.com> <39237d30.21065968@news> <39208DB4.AC51F5E2@montana.com> <3920D78A.F24CDF5C@defilernet.com> <3921cbc8.4853446@news.ecis.com> <87ya5a2ipc.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <1eaqwsk.128nccq1kti5q8N%no_recall@amnesia.com> <874s7yq6a4.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> X-No-archive: yes User-Agent: MacSOUP/2.4.5 Lines: 31 Date: Wed, 17 May 2000 10:17:09 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 142.177.87.6 X-Complaints-To: abuse@ns.sympatico.ca X-Trace: sapphire.mtt.net 958558629 142.177.87.6 (Wed, 17 May 2000 07:17:09 ADT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 17 May 2000 07:17:09 ADT Organization: Sympatico-Subscriber Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:202046 Acetylcholinesterase Inhibitor wrote: > no_recall@amnesia.com (Proctalgia) writes: > > You've been reading Barbara Tuchman's 'The March Into Folly' > > Yup. A great guide to truly fucked-up politics. > > Dale If you liked a book about the reasons why governments sometimes (always?)follow policy that is wilfully in opposition to their self-interest, you should read 'Voltaire's Bastards' by John Ralston Saul. This is my favourite kind of book; one written by an extremely intelligent author who confirms all my prejudices. It's thesis is that reason has failed us as a system for approaching management of life's problems in as far as it has led to the corporate approach that values process over content, style over substance. I particularly like his chapters on the hidebound thought of military staff colleges that are ready to fight the *last* war, and on the business-speak of modern corporations that says nothing with an awful lot of impressive, but incorrectly used, words. It really is a tasteless bible that should be recommended as required reading in the FAQ. ObT: it's not really John Ralston Saul's fault he's married to the Governor General of Canada; he was already hooked up with her when she was appointed, and all he had been after was a little almond-eyed oriental nookie. (I know, he told me.) -- C. http://go.to/proctalgia ------------------------------ From enoid801@omit.home.com Wed May 17 21:12:59 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!newsfeed.direct.ca!newshub2.rdc1.sfba.home.com!newshub1.home.com!news.home.com!news1.sttls1.wa.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: enoid801@omit.home.com (Citizen Ted) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: My Daily Rounds Message-ID: <39286d56.13041589@news> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent .99g/32.339 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 342 Date: Thu, 18 May 2000 04:12:59 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.7.140.142 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.sttls1.wa.home.com 958623179 24.7.140.142 (Wed, 17 May 2000 21:12:59 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 17 May 2000 21:12:59 PDT Organization: @Home Network Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:202092 Today I was lucky enough to have a service call at the "Penderson" residence. Now, before I go into the gory details of the Penderson abode, let me preface my comments by describing (briefly) some of the nastier places I've visited in my 15+ years of serving (on-site) the American public: - The public housing projects in New Brunswick, NJ - Single-wide redneck trailers in Oildale, CA, replete with vicious mutts chained to a steel pole in the front yard. - The stuffy, filthy, dismal lair of introverted adults living in their mother's guest room. - Ramshackle huts baking in the Mojave desert. - Dark, cramped, putrid apartments lorded over by home-bound fat people who like to talk a lot. - Tiny houses cluttered to the ceiling with the disheveled papers of an unmedicated obsessive/compulsive loon. - Gang-filled motel-style apartments in roach-ridden east LA. These are just highlights of my illustrious career; frozen moments of loathing and terror that have made me the misanthropic cynic I am today. I can say with some certainty that I am one of the few people who has seen every face of American culture - up close. Unlike plumbers, who usually see only a few homes a week, and then only homes that can afford a plumber, and mailmen, who rarely go inside a home, I am among an elite few (cable Guys, appliance techs) who sees 4-8 American homes every day, 5 days a week. Do the math: if we figure conservatively that I've visited 4 homes a day, that's about 14,000 homes that I've endured. Fourteen fuckin' thousand. Demographers and marketers like VB often consider 1,000 random contacts to be a wide enough sampling to formulate numbers for insurance agencies, Arbitron ratings and national ad campaigns. Thus, I can say with some authority that I know what the American people are like, and that I can describe for you the medians, means and averages of any facet of the American people you could possibly want to know. Armchair Anthropologist is not without ammunition, my good friends. Of course, I can also describe the extremes. Let talk about extremes, shall we? I've been to homes the likes of which you people can only dream. I've seen indoor Olympic swimming pools whose towel-off areas lead to arched ceilings soaring gracefully above Edwardian grand pianos and Italian leather divans. I've seen garages laden with Porsches and Silver Clouds and gleaming red Ferraris. I've seen private ferries that tie off to bollards next to 85' yachts. I've seen master bedrooms that dwarf your goddamn house. And then again, I've been to the Penderson's. It's a bumpy ride into the hinterlands of Stanwood, Washington. You go right, then left, then follow a washboard goat-path past a llama farm. As you curve inexorably eastward, the cedars and firs thicken sharply, leaving you in a damp, dreary third-growth forest. Muddy lanes lead off to anonymous rusty trailers nestled deep in the mossy flora. The occasional discarded pick-up truck and tombstone washing machine jump out from the roadside, and neighborhood pets can be seen slinking through the thickets in search of wild game. As I wound down the goat path, I caught sight of the address that was described on the work order -- #27318. I had been warned about the Penderson place. The other techs called it "the worst pit in the region, bar none." The guy who was out there previously told me he could only stay in there long enough to glance at the picture, order a new CRT, then run screaming for the van. And now I, the New Guy, had to install the CRT - a two hour job at best, maybe ninety minutes if I worked feverishly. I pulled into the yard, around a tired cedar. Three huge, wooly, *filthy* dogs came barking at my tailpipe. I shut off the van and surveyed the situation. It was a single-wide trailer, relatively new, maybe ten years; nonetheless, it was horribly unkempt and time-worn. Moss and mildew attacked every surface. The front steps had long ago rotted and now swayed dangerously on their moorings. Behind the trailer was another smaller, older trailer, now engulfed in overgrown weeds. Its windows were smashed and filled with cardboard and plywood. One could see that the growth had already infiltrated the metal box, and through a rear window you could see boxes and detritus piled ceiling-high. I prayed to Satan that the smaller trailer was abandoned and that I would entering the merely filthy hovel that bowed sadly before me. I sized up the dogs that howled and barked at my van door. They were pussies. Ragged and dirty, but big pussies. I stepped out boldly and kept my eyes looking just ahead of them, asking them where their Mama was and whether they thought they were tough. They sniffed indecorously at my crotch and ass, following me closely to the front door. Their fur was shaggy and terribly dirty, and they smelled awful. Little did I know... I clambered up the mushy steps and knocked on the aluminum screen door. It was opened by an elderly hag flanked by four or five more huge, filthy dogs. She was about 70, with matted gray hair and wearing only a stained pink bathrobe. Her face was dotted with huge black moles and growths, and she needed to squint to see me right in front of her. She told me to "just not mind the dogs", and beckoned me inside. That's when I got hit with it. The odor and heat hit me all at once. It was like being smashed across the bridge of the nose with a baseball bat that had been shoved up Paul Ess' ass then dragged through a barn full of wet dog hair. It was a palpable stench that one could actually *taste*. As I stepped inside, I closed off my nostrils and felt an involuntary shiver cause my head to shake nervously. The place was fucking pig sty. Discarded food and garbage and papers and clothes and half-chewed dog biscuits lay everywhere. The carpet was completely covered in a thick layer of dog hair and actually *squished* underfoot from the urine. All seven or eight dogs were now inside with us, slinking around and hunting through the mess for a quick snack. The electric heat was cranked up high, turning the whole mess into a living, churning wonderland of steamy excresis. I breathed in again, through my nose. The smell was so wretched, so foul, so *close*, I felt the instant Urge to Purge. I swallowed down hard. My eyes watered. My head cocked. My hand gripped and gripped again on my toolbag. Ms. Penderson began talking to her dogs. "Leave the man alone, Pepper! He doesn't want to talk to you! Sit down, Prince! You too, Purty! Sit down now! Leave the man alone!" My head spun. Two hours of this? Not for seventeen bucks an hour, bub. No way. What do I do? I surveyed the situation. The TV was a 25" wooden console set, weighing in at about 150 pounds. Normally, I consider these sets immovable and do repairs, even CRT replacements, on-site in whatever room they reside. But as the wrenching torment of dog shit, piss, cigarettes and filthy old hag armpits enveloped my nostrils, I made a bold move. "Ms. Penderson? Changing the CRT requires a lot of space and your living room is just a bit too cramped. I'm gonna work on it outside." "Really? Can you move it?" "Oh, sure. No problem!" I'd keep my job - for now. I pulled open the doors, glancing longingly at the fresh air outside. The TV would fit through easily. The Scumdogs of the Universe followed me as I grunted and pushed the TV toward the door, sucking in lungfuls of fetid stench with every effort. Eventually, I made it to the rotted front stoop. Obviously, the stairs would not endure having a console TV and a six-foot (devilishly handsome) TV tech on them at once. I stomped around the garbage strewn all over the overgrown lawn. One, two wet slimy planks. They'll do nicely. I positioned them over the two rotten steps then slid the TV on. To my astonishment, the TV had wheels - they were just inoperable on that thick, wet carpet of dog hair. The TV slid down onto the gravel drive. I pulled a furniture blanket from the van and laid the TV on its face. The fresh air (fresh by comparison only) invigorated me. I opened up the set, received another temporary wash of smelly dog pee/poo from the interior, then started dissecting the set. The old tube came out, the new one went in, the electronics were reinstalled and wiring dressed. I stood the set back up on its feet and looked at it. There I was, like a blue jean Adonis, standing proudly in front of a 12 year old RCA parked curiously in the gravel drive of a filthy hovel. The whole scene could have been ripped from a Diane Arbus retrospective. Now I had a problem. The tube was in, but needed to be aligned. Alignment can be detailed and time-consuming. Doing it inside would mean 30-60 minutes of precision work in the bowels of Hell. Not for seventeen bucks an hour... I looked around. The side of the trailer had two plastic-sheathed electrical outlets. And I had a thirty foot thick-gauge extension cord. In two minutes I had the TV fired up right there in the driveway. I retrieved my portable test pattern generator box and plugged it in. That was when God shit on me. The picture was an IWQ color bar - but it was rolling, tearing and all messed up. Useless for any alignment procedures. I stuck my head inside the TV. Horizontal sync? Vertical hold? Maybe a supply problem? How about sync buffers? Maybe the tuner was touchy. I looked. I tapped. I twisted. I tightened. Nothing. No help. I was *fucked*. The set was now requiring some truly technical repair - and rain had begun to fall. I raised my fist at the sky. "You bastards! You vile, hateful bastards! You can't shit on me like this! You can't make me endure this! I'll QUIT! You hear me? Quit! I could work full-time for the paper! I'll eat Top Raman and live with roommates! I'll whore myself out doing computer advice for old people! I'll wear a goddamn Burger King uniform! But I WILL NOT go back in that house for sixty fucking minutes! YOU BASTARDS!" It was then that a thought occurred to me - maybe it was... HOLY SHIT! I RIPPED the pattern generator and stuck some solder in the antenna jack. The TV picked up channel 12 - snowy, weak - but with LOCKED IN SYNC. My damn test equipment was tits up! The TV was fine! But still...what could I do? I can't align tilt, azimuth, purity, convergence, gray scale and color temperature with a snowy channel 12! And still, the falling rain... I needed a solid, static pattern. Fast. Like maybe a VCR paused on a recording of QVC. Or...the channel guide on a digital satellite box. Guess what Ms. Penderson watches? Yup! The Dish Network. I stuck my head inside the door, holding my breath. The satellite box was about twelve feet from the door. The TV was ten feet outside the door. I needed a 22 foot cable drop. NO PROBLEM. I opened up the van and reached for my nearly-full coil of RG-6. Which wasn't there. Because some ASSHOLE at work had 'borrowed it' JUST YESTERDAY to throw a forty foot drop at his house for the goddamned kid's room. Oh, sure. He'd bring it back. But not today! My mind swirled! I fumed! I fussed! I agonized! I wept bitterly! There was no escape. I had no choice. I surrendered. My career is a failure; I may as well resign myself to the fact that all my experience and expertise in this field is worth all of seventeen bucks an hour. I'm a hack. A good hack, but a hack. And that's all I'll ever be. I pushed the TV back up the slimy planks and into the livingroom. As the Hell-Hounds sniffed and urinated and Ms. Penderson cackled like a demented shrew, I mournfully muscled the set back into its worn tracks on the dewy carpet. The stench went into my nose, washed over my brain and infected my very soul. Every inch of me smelled the rank bouquet of defeat. I plugged in the satellite box and turned on the guide. The display was tilted, horribly impure and unconverged. As the rankness pulled me in, melting me away until I was one with that horrid carpet, I made a terrifying discovery: the goddamn purity/convergence rings were MISSING. GONE. In their place was a magnetic tape that some HACK had jammed in there as a quick fix because he had broken the purity rings on a previous CRT alignment. I ran outside to get air and survey the old tube. Sure enough - the old tube had magnetic dots taped all over it to make up for the unadjustable "purity tape". It would take me FOREVER to align this tube. Without the rings, I'd be in there for well over an hour maybe several. No. No. NO. NO. NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! UNACCEPTABLE! I jumped into the van and made a cel call (thank SATAN I was in roaming range!) to a parts warehouse. Yes indeedy, they have the ring kit. I ordered one up. Oh, sure. I get to leave now. But it also means I'd be COMING BACK. I stepped inside one more time. With a long, thin screwdriver I made the fastest qwickie CRT rough-in in world history. Within 60 seconds I had the tilt locked, the purity iffy and the gray scale almost perfect. I turned up the controls and explained to the demented hag that another part was on order to fix her TV all the way. She immediately began pointing to every blob of impure color, asking me to "Fix it! Fix it!" My patience was gone - gone; into the carpet that haunted me like a nightmare demon - gone; into the eyes of those decrepit mutts that pissed and shat where they ate like madmen in Bedlam - gone; into the yellow-brown soup that thickened the interior of that shithole like a gaseous poltergeist from a sewage plant. "UNTIL I GET THAT PART, THE PICTURE IS GONNA LOOK FUNNY. PERIOD. WE'LL BE BACK IN A WEEK. BYE." Out I went. I gathered up my tools and sped off. The smell still clung to me (and did until I showered just a few hours ago). My next call was in the clean, well-kept home an elderly amputee widow (right hand). She had the EXACT SAME model of RCA TV. It needed a 200V supply cap and good kick in the ass, and it was tip-top in twenty minutes. She was kind to me, but kept her distance as we settled up the bill. As I drove off, I realized that I STUNK. Well, maybe it's not me. Maybe it's just my goddamn lot in life. I dunno. Anybody wanna hire a burnt out electronic genius? - TR - looking forward to visiting New Jersey for the fresh air. ------------------------------ From enoid801@omit.home.com Sun May 21 11:31:51 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!yellow.newsread.com!bad-news.newsread.com!netaxs.com!newsread.com!nntp.primenet.com!nntp.gctr.net!newsfeed.direct.ca!newshub2.rdc1.sfba.home.com!newshub1.home.com!news.home.com!news1.sttls1.wa.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: enoid801@omit.home.com (Citizen Ted) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: That Filthy Christ (was: Re: Religious bigotry) Message-ID: <39292408.12163732@news> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent .99g/32.339 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 198 Date: Sun, 21 May 2000 18:31:51 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.7.140.142 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.sttls1.wa.home.com 958933911 24.7.140.142 (Sun, 21 May 2000 11:31:51 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sun, 21 May 2000 11:31:51 PDT Organization: @Home Network Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:202314 On Sat, 20 May 2000 17:19:48 GMT, worley@dworley.ne.mediaone.net (Acetylcholinesterase Inhibitor) wrote: >Personally, I classify MinusOneG's missives as trolls. >But we have to give him credit for stimulating Geoff Miller's (I >think) response "I shit on your filthy Christ." That ranks up there >as one of the all-time nastiest things I've ever seen, on a par with >"You've been attempting to have a rational conversation with someone >who calls himself Filthy McNasty." Actually, that was me, your humble narrator, who said those bad things about the Nazarene. My post was followed up by the ever-instigating Ms. Levine, who was congratulating "Geoff" (OneG) for having trolled me with such aplomb. It seems she may have confused you inre the posting history with her one-line snap at yours truly. Of course, I did consider the possibility that we were being trolled, but I responded anyway because of the paucity of religious bigotry noted in Aye Eye's post. This place is becoming way too tolerant, and I fear that we will soon be scheduling Tasteless Hands Across America to raise funds for needy children in Bahrain. It was Ms. Levine who asserted that racial bigotry, when couched in terms of dubious literary merit, had no place in the forum -- and she was partly right. No one wants to read the predictable howls of some Idahoan skinhead. It's boring. But that's not to say that niggers, chinks, Hebes and spics are above denigration; they certainly are not. In fact, Ms. Levine, who is surely a filthy piece of Jewish vermin, seems to have gone a bit overboard in her protection of pontoon-lipped jungle bunnies, and should be careful about criticizing those who post missives laden with such descriptions lest her rusty reputation be shined with the sponge of multicultural brotherhood. We can usually tell a boring skinhead from an inspired misanthrope. We'll calls 'em as we sees 'em. We don't need nigger-loving Jewish rats telling us who is above criticism. (No offense intended, Lenore. Just a little rhetorical fun. Jew.) That said, I'd be more than willing to forego the racial invective and start digging into the soft white underbelly of the religionists, particularly because I am a man steeped in atheistic/scientific thought and am willing to call a spade a spade. Fuckin' spades! Oh yes - I almost forgot; this ain't about the jigs. Sorry. In all fairness I suppose I should kick off this New Age of religious bigotry by considering my own religious background. Ready? Let's start with the part that Herry revels in reminding me: my paternal grandfather was a filthy, dirty Jew-bagel. Fuck - it's WORSE than that. My paternal grandfather was a filthy, dirty, hook-nosed Hebe who betrayed his own people by marrying a schizophrenic Catholic bitch (grandma). This unholy couple went on to defy their families and beget a neurotic, weasely little runt - my Daddy. The three eked out a penniless lifestyle in a mixed marriage during an age when such mixing was unheard of, bouncing around Brooklyn, Manhattan and suburban New Jersey in search of work. . Grandma, fearful of her husband's globally-hated Jewish genes, pounded the Roman Catholic church so deeply into little Henry's brain that the young boy was soon a rabid soldier for the Pope. Fully aware of the filthy Jewishness that flowed through his veins, Henry sunk even deeper into Catholic fanaticism, distancing himself as far as possible from his Semitic blood - a retreat that was solidified when JewDaddy died of leukemia (surely an outcome of having weak Jew blood) at a young 42 years of age. Drafted into WWII, the young devotee insisted on avoiding combat, as Jesus might be offended by his devoted child putting a few rounds thru some Jap skulls. Instead, he battled ants and snakes in US-occupied Philippines until The Bomb dropped in 1945. (Little did he know that his pacifism would not have changed his marching orders to invade mainland Japan should the Manhattan Project fail. He was no soldier - weak and timid. He'd never have survived the onslaught. Thus, I owe my existence to The Bomb. All hail The Bomb!). After the war, young Henry took a job delivering mail in California. There, he met a young woman who had left her redneck/Injun family ten years prior to join the RC church and become a nun. Again, her family was not too thrilled about young Florence blowing off the homestead to join some flaky religion, even if it was two millennia old and had a global (and apostolic) reach. She may as well have joined the Manson Family. After seven years of devoting her body and mind to the Nazarene, Flo decided to leave the Order and have a comparatively secular life. She rejoined her redneck family and bumped into the mailman. The two discovered each other's fanatical devotion to the Pope, and decided to marry (both were virgins in their 30's, I may add). They moved to New Jersey, the land of opportunity, and begat six sprogs, each of whom was inducted into the Church with typical monotone, ritualistic flummery. Though Henry and Flo were happy, both families were leery of each other and met only once - at the wedding in 1957, never to speak again. My paternal grandma became ill in 1960, and refused to eat, citing a suicidal desire since she lost her only son to that...that...*woman*. Mommy's little boy was gone now, and she couldn't bear it. Grandma was easily diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenic and interred at the Marlboro Home for the Mentally Ill, where she lived out her final fifteen years in a Thorazine stupor. It was not known whether or not she met her Nazarene upon death. As the maternal family was a continent away, they were known to the grandchildren only peripherally as hazy pictures in a photo album. Grandma (a half-breed, stoic matriarch) died long before I was born, and grampa held on until about 1974, when he succumbed to advanced age. (My mother insists that I am most like my maternal grandfather - foul-mouthed, good with his hands, practical and cynical. I met him once, when I was four. No recollection at all - just a dream-like memory of his fig tree). So, now you have a perfect recipe for the hereditary spread of religious thought: two fanatical devotees with six children ripe for inculcation. All six attended catechism, learning the demented tenets of an ancient and outdated religion. Mass was attended every Sunday and religious holiday, and all tenets were followed precisely, including meatless Fridays, Lenten observation, prayer and non-attendance of all non-RC religious services. All six children received the sacraments in a timely manner and godparents were lined up every other year for baptisms and confirmations. All six children had rejected the Church by their 18th year. This is not necessarily because of any failure of the Church (and my parents) to stratify its young adherents; it was more a failure of the Church (and my parents) to adopt the evangelical methods of induction, ie rejection of Science and isolation from secular society. In their drive to ensure their children were intelligent people, my parents made the strategic mistake of severely limiting our exposure to questionable TV programs and insisting that all the children spend more time at the library. The house was full of books, magazines and texts about science, history and the arts. Within all these books lay the unraveling of all our religious instruction. For me, all it took was a few key science texts. Once a 12 year old Teddy started to understand the scope of his Universe and his place within it, the glory of the Nazarene seemed increasingly silly and unimportant. Between galactic architecture and subatomic interactions lay a reality far more wondrous and far more inspiring than any ridiculous Nazarene and his petty concerns for harmony among the naked apes of a blue marble on the spiral arm of a milquetoast galaxy. With each child's drift from the Church, the parents could express only a sense of disillusionment. They realized that each child had rejected the Church on weighty philosophical grounds. They had sown the seeds of this discontent with something as innocuous as the Time/Life series of science books. The Bible had been trumped by National Geographic. To their credit, my dear parental units gave it a good shot; if not for my mother's permissiveness, a few of us may have stayed within the Church. This maternal permissiveness was not lost on dear old Dad, who hated (and still hates) all forms of rock music, popular film and mainstream culture. To this day he silently blames his wife for allowing the brood the leave the Church. The man who has never even uttered the word "damn" in his entire life begat a son who performed heavy metal music and refers to women as "cock-worshipping cum dumpsters". His disappointment is palpable in every phone conversation. So, let's sum up my religious background: Part self-loathing Jew turned Latinae RC fanatic, part revelatory nun turned pragmatic Catholic house mom. Mix it all together, and you get a skeptical, cynical atheist who cannot stomach the presence of religionists. If any of this sounds familiar to you jackals, all I can say is "Welcome to the Club". I shit on your filthy Christ. - TR - I shit on your filthy Moses and Allah, too. Dick. ObT: After I shit on his filthy Christ, some devotee will feel compelled to lick it off reverently! ------------------------------ From TheNurz@ix.netcom.com Mon May 29 16:46:13 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!chicago-news-feed1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!newsfeed.enteract.com!netnews.com!feed1.news.rcn.net!rcn!news.mindspring.net!firehose.mindspring.com!not-for-mail From: NurzRachet Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Happy Fucking Holiday Date: Mon, 29 May 2000 19:46:13 -0400 Organization: Our Lady of the Rearranged Umbilicus Lines: 49 Message-ID: <39330145.E0F6665A@ix.netcom.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: c7.ae.a4.95 Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Server-Date: 30 May 2000 00:49:33 GMT X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.7 [en]C-CCK-MCD NSCPCD47 (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:202957 At last, I have a day off. And I'm too exhausted to enjoy it. I'm sitting here watching the TNN "Real McCoys" marathon. Pathetic, isn't it? I'm dead tired from working all weekend doing the "patch the slash" detail, our affectionate term for mending gang or vehicle inflicted injuries suffered by those too stoopid to live. I ache all over from not having a moment's peace and the lovely opportunity to again cover for a cow-orker who called in because her fucking sprog was sick. Did I ever tell you how much I hate cow-orkers with kids? Let me tell ya something. When you work with women who have kids, their kids become your kids, and the bitches think you love their kids as much as they do. NOT! Cow-orkers, I hate your kids with a passion. I've had to cover your shifts when you're out sick with the little fucks. I've had to come in early or stay late because you have to take them or pick them up from soccer, school, the babysitter, or another birthday party. And how many times did I have to care for that infectious patient because you were pregnant with yet another parasite that I will be responsible for once it hatches, or had to do yet another radiology exam case because you thought your uterus would be radiated and your sprog would be born even uglier than it already was. And year after year, the cows get impregnated to hatch yet another responsibility of mine. And I'm supposed to not only drool over the countless pictures, but I'm supposed to buy them a fucking gift for giving me another reason to hate them. And all this is after they get their twelve weeks Family Leave, and then bitch that "it wasn't enough time." Fuck you and the cock you rode in on. And worst of all? Vomit is nowhere to be found, I'm hungry, I'm horny, and I'm too lazy to cook anything. How hungry am I? As that smooth talker Vomit would say..."Are you hungry enough to bend over and eat yourself?" Hopefully I can talk the delivery service guy into taking a check so I can order some of those great ribs from over on Irving Park. Nurzy sprogless and sane "Why would a woman pass up a chance to torture a man?" -Grandpa McCoy ------------------------------ From ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com Mon May 29 19:18:34 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!paloalto-snf1.gtei.net!news.gtei.net!newsfeed.stanford.edu!pln-w!spln!extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!news1 From: ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com (Justme) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Find the Black Man Date: 30 May 2000 02:18:34 GMT Organization: Miss Manners School of Proper Posting Lines: 108 Message-ID: <8gv8dq08ij@news1.newsguy.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: p-237.newsdawg.com Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: Text/Plain; charset=US-ASCII X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.99.9 (Released Version) (x86 32bit) X-no-archive: yes Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:202960 Ah, Memorial Day--a day to remember our fallen heroes, our men and women in uniform who so valiantly served this country so that idiots like me can live free! This Memorial Day was spent watching the local parade here in town. I and my entire Tasteless clan decided to take in the town's festivities. We parked the car about a half mile from the end of the parade route, and walked our way in to see the fanfare. We live in every large suburban sprawl with a great deal of affluent people. There are working class there as well, and a smattering of trailer trash who live in ramshackle housing in the flood zone; but there is a unifying bond between all econonic classes in our town, that pulls them together and makes them feel a kinship on days like today: They're mostly white. I'm Hispanic by insemination, so this fact usually escapes me--I just see people quite like myself on the street, of the same cultural background and approximate race, so it's no big deal. My spouse, on the other hand, is a little melanin-enhanced; therefore, he's usually the darkest guy in town. So it was he who started the Tasteless Clan's Memorial Day festivities. "Ginny?" he whispered, as we hit the main drag. "I've got a game that you can play." "What's that?" "Find the Black Man," he smiled. "Not just any black man mind you; try to find one who looks like he actually lives in town first--but I'll take ANY black man. Just find me one." I immediately began searching, positive that there HAD to be ONE black guy in the crowd. Shit! The half mile walk to the parade route end was a frustrating one--there were NO black men or women to be found anywhere. I peered into car windows, looked into the crowd lining the street, looked for people who might be working--not one black man to be found, anywhere. Finally, I spied a Hispanic guy, and declared him a token black guy for the purposes of the game. My husband grudgingly accepted my offering, as there were simply NO black men among the spectators. We strayed for a moment, and tried to find a housewife of over 40 who weighed under 175 pounds. This proved to be easy, as the affluent women were obviously well-maintained, fresh-from-the-gym-or-liposuction buffed, and it was really no fun at all watching the middle class housefraus waddle around in spandex, except for the lady selling pretzels, who looked like she had two large possum in the ass of her pants, fighting as she struggled to walk. Aside: why do the really obese wear tight spandex pants? Don't they know how bad it makes them look? I'm not dumping on obese people--I used to be very fat myself--but DAMN, I never wore spandex. Not even now...but I digress. Back to the search for black folk: Round one was over; the parade was starting, and we had to check the parade participants for round two. I began searching. This was a rather large parade, with literally hundreds of participants from at least four different towns. There was bound to be a black guy in it--but could I find a _resident_? First up, the vets: ancient fellows on flat trailers, waving to the applause of the people on the street. They smiled, and continued on. White, the lot of `em Some scouts came next, and the rescue squad; white. The city cops came next: White, white, white--white, but female--I was suprised to see three chicks! Whoa, there's progress! All white. More white scouts, then up came the sheriff's department on motorcycles; all white. Cops on foot came next. These were county, and since the county seat is a large city, I knew there would HAVE to be at least one black man there. I wasn't disappointed; I began racking up the points as I ticked off a total of TWENTY black county police as they marched, nearly lost in the sea of white faces. Dizzy from victory, I began searching the crowd more fervently for African-Americans. There were no more in the parade, save one--and that one was the only town resident that I could possibly prove: one lone black youngster marching for the town PAL. I wondered which school he went to. I turned to my teenager, who had caught wind of our tasteless game, and asked if there were any black kids in the high school. "SURE! I've seen, like FOUR of `em!" By this time the parade was winding town, and as we were making our way back to the car, we spied five more black people--a mother and her four daughters--packing up to go home. She may have been there for one of the county cops, but I declared her the mother of the child in the PAL, and managed to count up a total of 6 black town residents at the parade. Total count: 26 blacks total, 6 residents, 20 shipped in from the city. In all, a very tasteless way to spend the afternoon. --Ginny http://www.tastelessginny.com "Fuck, you're tougher than me" Herry to me via IRC ------------------------------ From kes@duke.edu Tue May 30 13:51:49 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!su-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!cyclone-transit.snfc21.pbi.net!205.252.116.205!howland.erols.net!newsfeed.cwix.com!solaris.cc.vt.edu!news.vt.edu!newsgate.duke.edu!kes From: kes@duke.edu (Strayhorn) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Possible Apeshit Coming--Mark Your Calendars! Date: Tue, 30 May 2000 16:51:49 -0400 Organization: Marinus van der Lubbe Intl Firebombing Society Lines: 70 Message-ID: References: <3931ADBB.83C90E15@wcom.net> <8F432E534ffsdj@207.126.101.97> NNTP-Posting-Host: strayhorn.dukecomm.duke.edu X-Newsreader: MT-NewsWatcher 2.4.4 X-No-Archive: yes X-Complaints-To: abuse@dukecomm.duke.edu X-Face: BWeQyrFlV$jk!Ic4*Vvu'J4IEpyD]IbTQv5)y9H8f_XR[%4W$:l!Wvj0j>hs, gj7djy1tb>!5a}py;n)ooLh_Mj!/nvzH7i{aQM'M_fr;n4=K?*\'e!)5TYLSBoA3?j Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:203038 In article <8F432E534ffsdj@207.126.101.97>, mkelly1@hotmail.com (Persecution Smith) wrote: > Toby started calling and talking to people in the department. "Hi, guess > what I bought this week! An Uzi with a 100rd magazine. Just thought I'd let > ya know. Bye!" In my one instance of being "management" I had to fire a guy who was a VietVet and also a nut case. I had this odd split shift - 6 days on, one day off, 4 days on, three days off, etc, and sometimes I'd be in at 5 a.m. and sometimes I'd come in at 6 p.m. Anyway, this fellow had started doing things like living in the break room. Really. He'd been tossed from his apartment for some reason, so he started staying late at work - when everyone was gone, he's wash up in the bathroom and sleep on the couch in the break room. He'd get up early, dress, and go out to the local doughnut shop to hang around until it was time to come to work. He did this for fuckin' _weeks_ until one of the late shift guys caught him. The boss was out of town so we just decided to be cool until he got back from Europe. Then he started hitting on some of the women in the office, and in less than pleasant ways. And I'm pretty sure he was hitting the meth on a regular basis, too. To make a long story short, I fired his ass for being a pain in the ass. Two weeks later, I'm sitting at my desk one night when one of the backshop guys comes in to say: "Hey, Bob is sitting in the parking lot with a tire iron in his hands. Told me he was waiting for you to come out for dinner." Did I march out bravely to face this bozo? Did I grab a couple of the guys from the press room to back me up? Did I take the pacifist approach and go try to talk to him? Like hell. I dialed 9-1-1 and let the cops haul him off to the looney bin. > Tell you what, if you aren't sure about the guy, ask him what his 214 Date > is. And have him explain DEROS to you. If he doesn't know what these two > things are, he's probably a poser. Or his meds have fucked up his memory. Whenever I see a guy next to a stop sign with a sign that says "Homeless Viet Vet, will work for money or food" I like to holler "What's yer 214?" Most times they say "Huh?" It's probably the best quick indicator of a poser. But the latest crop of people at stop signs wanting handouts are middle-aged women, usually begging for money to "feed their children". Boolsheet. Twice in the last month I've seen a guy driving a pack of women around in a beat-up old Lincoln, dropping them off at strategic intersections. What a scam. > ObT: Lorri on the G. Gordon Liddy "Guns -N- Babes" calendar. Yow! -- Strayhorn Not Duke policy, etc. "Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allan Poe." - J. Lennon ------------------------------ From enoid801@omit.home.com Tue May 30 20:21:56 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!nycmny1-snh1.gtei.net!news.gtei.net!hermes.visi.com!news-out.visi.com!newsfeed.direct.ca!newshub2.rdc1.sfba.home.com!newshub1.home.com!news.home.com!news1.sttls1.wa.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: enoid801@omit.home.com (Citizen Ted) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Find the Black Man Message-ID: <393584e8.41482135@news> References: <8gv8dq08ij@news1.newsguy.com> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent .99g/32.339 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 74 Date: Wed, 31 May 2000 03:21:56 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.7.140.142 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.sttls1.wa.home.com 959743316 24.7.140.142 (Tue, 30 May 2000 20:21:56 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 30 May 2000 20:21:56 PDT Organization: @Home Network Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:203066 On 30 May 2000 02:18:34 GMT, ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com (Justme) wrote: >"Find the Black Man," he smiled. "Not just any black man mind you; try to >find one who looks like he actually lives in town first--but I'll take ANY >black man. Just find me one." > >I immediately began searching, positive that there HAD to be ONE black guy in >the crowd. > >Shit! About 11 years ago, my friend Larry invited me up to his house in a little city called Bellingham in Washington state. I was living in Bakersfield at the time and was psyched to see a fellow from my old Jersey gang who, like me, had relocated to the west coast. I was immediately taken by Bellingham - the natural beauty, the great shops, the college-y atmosphere, the excellent marijuana. What a cool town! So anyway, one night Larry's SR dragged me off to a movie while he took some clients rock climbing in Squamish. We grabbed some popcorn and some seats and I proceeded to paw her breasts, as I am wont to do when seated next to women at the movies. After the usual set of face slaps, we settled down and I began taking in the crowd. It was a packed house, and I felt compelled to look for more breasts. It was then that it struck me - every single person there was white. Completely, totally Eurocentric lily white. Although my immediate neighborhood in Jersey was pretty white trashey, there were always a few spics and nigras to add a dash of pepper to the crowd experience. And California? Geez. Whites are clearly the minority. But here in Bellingham, every face is Irish-looking. Even a hooked nose (like mine) seems out of place. With all their blue eyes glued to the big screen that night, the whole scene looked ominous - like a Stepford movie crowd. I leaned over to this chick and said in a voice too loud: "Holy SHIT! Did you notice that everybody here is fuckin' WHITE???" She responded with a 'shush' and a smile that said "You're an oversexed idiot. You idiot." Others around us heard me, and gave me the typical insulted white person glare. Fuckin' whiteys. They just don't understand us hemi-Jewish semi-Injun Yankee white trash reprobate degenerates! Bastards! - TR - put upon. ObT: Had Wes up yesterday for a big Memorial Day LAN party here at the Manor. We ate awful food and drank Pepsi and played CounterStrike till all hours. At the end of the night, we were putting up gear when I started to do my retard act. I pulled a surge suppressor from the floor and stumbled spastically toward Wes, holding it aloft like a dead rat. Wes grunted a fellow retard greeting noise, then our friend Mike cocked his head, put his arms akimbo and exclaimed "Oh, look! Teddy is *helping*! ...It took me ten minutes to stop laughing. ------------------------------ From jeffjustin@newsfeeds.com Fri Jun 02 13:51:11 2000 Message-ID: <39381E3F.C2CF965E@newsfeeds.com> Date: Fri, 02 Jun 2000 16:51:11 -0400 From: Jeff Justin X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.72 [en]C-DIAL (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Adventures in Stupidity Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.40.144.135 X-Trace: 2 Jun 2000 15:51:21 -0500, 216.40.144.135 Lines: 320 X-Authenticated-User: jeffjustin X-Comments: This message was posted through Newsfeeds.com X-Comments2: IMPORTANT: Newsfeeds.com does not condone, nor support, spam or any illegal or copyrighted postings. X-Comments3: IMPORTANT: Under NO circumstances will postings containing illegal or copyrighted material through this service be tolerated!! X-Report: Please report illegal or inappropriate use to You may also use our online abuse reporting from: http://www.newsfeeds.com/abuseform.htm X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers, INCLUDING the body (DO NOT SEND ATTACHMENTS) Organization: Newsfeeds.com http://www.newsfeeds.com 73,000+ UNCENSORED Newsgroups. Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!feed2.onemain.com!feed1.onemain.com!feeder.qis.net!ptdnetP!newsgate.ptd.net!news.minn.net!feed3.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!goliath2.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!216.40.144.135 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:203256 People are stupid. That's no news flash for anyone who reads this group, but, still, it bears repeating: People are fucking stupid! At our best, we are a species that is able to throw a satellite millions of miles out into the void and have it rendezvous with a small asteroid. Not only can we accomplish the rendezvous; we can actually put the satellite into orbit around that rocky chunk of space detritus. Are we hot shit, or what? We sure have come a long way from those primitive ape-like hominids that could only throw rocks and chatter loudly at their enemies. Or, have we? On the other hand, there are those members of our species that seemingly can't figure out that they shouldn't set off fireworks while sitting atop an oil storage tank. Or who can't remember from day to day that it's never a good idea to reach into heavy machinery while it's running. Or who turn off the carbon monoxide detector 'cause the damn thing's beeping. I guess that's the exquisite paradox of humanity - we can be so smart, and yet so fucking stupid at the same time. So what's the fuckin' deal here, people? We know from the basic descriptive statistics behind a standard bell curve, that roughly two thirds of our species is within one standard deviation of average IQ. That's a lot of people. The facts are unambiguous - most of us are normal or close to normal. And yet we're surrounded by so much stupidity. What gives? I have to conclude that the real problem here is that average IQ isn't all that impressive. After all, people of supposed average IQ walk under electrical wires with metal ladders extended. These same people lip off to drunken gang members who are brandishing weapons. They drive drunk and play chicken with trains. They play Russian roulette. They stay married to abusive partners for years. Yep, that's average IQ all right. Thanks to a number of AT'ers, we're kept abreast of the folly of our dumber human brethren. We read about the Mothers (and Fathers) Inferior who kill and maim their progeny. We find out about apeshittage, mayhem and grisly events in the world around us. We drink in the descriptions of mauled and mangled flesh. We revel in the tragedies of the naked ape. We laugh at the misfortunes of others. In short, we take delight in the stupidity of mankind. It is with that same mean-spirited and prurient attitude that I bring you the latest news of my ex-brother-in-law. Let's call him Paul, 'cause, well, that's his name. While we're at it, lets' get you a little background on him. An amiable fellow, Paul was the baby of his family. He's a very average fellow. You know, average looks, average skills, average intelligence. Joined the Corps after high school and got bounced for drugs after two years. Never particularly ambitious, he's worked at a series of "careers" over the years. Pizza cook, deliveryman, truck driver and assembler are the "careers" I can remember. Each time he got a new job, it was touted throughout the family as his new "career." It was to be the new great white hope, which would lead him out of mediocrity, into respectability. Of course, this family had a unique outlook on the world. An alcoholic, abusive dad, a coddling, co-dependent mom, the parents had emigrated to the US after WWII. All three of the kids had been ridiculed for their parents' accents and their odd Eurotrash ways. Stability and security were rare in their household and the results of that are clearly evident. To date, there have been 12 marriages among the three siblings in this family (five for the oldest daughter, three for the middle daughter [my-ex] and four for Paul). About a year before I liberated myself from this clan, Paul had fallen in with a German ex-pat living in a slummy, white trash part of town. Her house resembled a Black Forest nightmare replete with all manner of American and German kitsch. She'd painted the outside of her two-story foursquare a bright electric blue, with contrasting shit brown trim. She had painted fake half timbers on the exterior of the house to simulate the appearance of old German buildings. The illusion probably would have been more effective if the house didn't have aluminum siding. The backyard had four meandering paths running across it, made from pastel pink, yellow, green and blue concrete paving stones. All of these paths criss-crossing a space that was perhaps twenty-five feet on a side. Signs abounded everywhere in the yard. They were stuck in the ground on stakes, they hung from tree branches, they were nailed onto things. All these signs were written in faux Germanic script. They offered pithy little bon mots such as: "We don't swim in your toilet, please don't pee in our pool." Cute, but sadly off the mark, as there was no pool. Inside, the living space was a masterwork of bad taste. It was littered with German and American white trash artifacts. The kitchen was crammed with two large refrigerators, a large butcher-block table that left about a foot of open space on all sides. The counters were littered with every appliance known in the civilized world. A very claustrophobic room, indeed. In all the other rooms, every square inch of wall space was home to a clock, sofa sized "starving artist" painting, wall sconce, plaque, or barometer. Two words, folks - cuckoo fucking clocks! How many does one person really need? All of the things hanging on the walls clashed visually with the garish green and red flocked wall covering that adorned her living space. Chairs, tables, sofas and ottomans literally fought for floor space in every room. Her basement fairly hummed with dual rows of five washers and dryers. The garages on the property were bursting with more refrigerators and freezers, the knicks and the knacks, the bric and the brac, an accumulated mass of junk, the likes of which I'd never witnessed before. I learned later that most of the crap was the property of her five previous husbands. The unique part of her story was that none of her marriages had ended in divorce. All five of her mates had died while married to her. All of them had heart attacks. Hmm. Then, there were her children. She had birthed her first child when she was fourteen. Each of her five kids had the privilege of having a different father. I suspect you may be thinking that makes sense. Five children to accompany her five husbands. Yeah, true enough, there's some symmetry there. But, in fact, only one of her kids was fathered by a man she had married. Her two eldest, both daughters, still lived in Germany. The older of the two was a vegetable who was on life support in a state-owned nursing home. She had been unfortunate enough not to die after dancing with a commuter train whilst walking home, drunk. The other daughter was an "actress." Paul showed me one of her performances on video once. He popped a German porn tape into the VCR and fast-forwarded to a group scene. There, on the periphery of the group scene, was a girl taking it up the poop chute from another girl with a strap-on. Both were being pissed on by two guys. You guessed it - Mommy's little girl - all grown up and in the movies. Mom was justifiably proud of her daughter's "acting" career. When he pointed her out to me, I laughed out loud, which mildly offended Paul. He told me he was planning on "getting some of that poo-poo" when the daughter came to visit. There were two boys still living at home with mom. At 12 and 13, they were urban wiggers who had both amassed impressive rap sheets. One other daughter lived in New York City. By all accounts, she had fled for her sanity, and refused to have anything to do with the rest of them. Paul fell in love with this woman. Go figure. Not three months after he moved in with her, she convinced him that they should each sell all of their properties (they both were small-time slumlords) and purchase a small motel up north. They found and purchased a motel just outside the city limits of one of Michigan's northern resort communities. It was an old fleabag flophouse, with munchkin-sized rooms, a dirt parking lot and a view of a swamp from the back windows. They let themselves get caught in a bidding war that I'm sure was manufactured by the realtor to pump his commission up and ended up paying probably $50K more than the property was worth. Bright. Paul and his new "family" resided in the living space above the office. This motel was the kind of place you'd generally take someone for cheap, sleazy sex, that is, if you absolutely couldn't find another place, like a car or a haystack or phone booth. The clientele I saw there looked rough. Very rough. Motorcycle vagrants, drug dealers, drifters, drunken north-country hillbilly boys, hard-edged women turning tricks, farmers hiding from the bank or their wives and lots of alcoholics. As part of his indoctrination into the motel business, Paul had to learn some new skills. Skills like cleaning barf off of every imaginable surface in his motel rooms. Skills like getting menstrual blood, puke and semen stains out of bedding. Skills like learning to differentiate between the noises of rough sex and an actual fight. And the ever so demanding skill of prying used rubbers out every possible crevice in the rooms. He told me once that he'd gone to a room to clean it, and noticed a bad smell. After an extended search, he found a used condom shoved into the vent slots of the wall furnace. Latex and semen heated by a gas flame has got to smell great. Yep, this was Paul's newest "career." The greatest white hope yet. Less than a year after they moved into this place, I divorced Paul's sister, and lost touch with his exploits. Occasionally my daughter would fill me in on news of her mom's family, including Paul, but, being young, she never gave me the gory details. Three years ago, I talked with Paul at my stepdaughter's graduation from college. I found out that he had married his girlfriend, that her two youngest boys were now full-fledged criminals, and that they now shut the motel down after deer season, and headed down to Florida for the winter. He proudly boasted that he and the little lady would drive (the 10 year-old rusty Caddy in the driveway turned out to be theirs) down there, and take jobs in the "resort industry." Impressive, eh? When I asked what he did, he told me he was a bellhop and his wife worked in the laundry. Oh. I see. You're migrant workers. All the time I knew him, Paul was an inveterate pothead, but, being cheap, he was always been concerned about the high cost of smoking. Some years before, I'd helped him purchase and set up a grow operation. At some point, he must have decided that pot was getting too pricey, because he decided to set up his grow room again. He chose to set his garden up in a vacant attic under the peaked roof above the living quarters. There was no electricity in this space, but that didn't faze him in the least. Being a smart guy, he strung together enough extension cords, the small flimsy kind you might buy at the grocery store, to run power up there from his bedroom. His grow operation used two 1000W bulbs, a couple of fans, a light mover and eight 40W fluorescent tubes. In all, he was pulling about 2500 W of power. Now, a little work with Ohm's law will tell you that such an electrical load will require about 21 amps of service. But those cheap extension cords aren't rated for that kind of current load. As expected, Paul's primitive power solution eventually overheated and ignited the dry wood in the attic. A passing motorist saw the smoke and called for help. The volunteer fire department was able to extinguish the blaze before it burned down the entire structure. Unfortunately. The living quarters were badly damaged by the fire, and completely uninhabitable. Fortunately, most of their belongings were trashed. And, fortunately, they could live in a couple of the motel rooms, until the living quarters were rebuilt. But then, unfortunately, the fire chief shut the business down. He said the closure was due to the unsafe conditions in the damaged structure. Most likely, it was because Paul didn't pay the bill from the fire department for their services. So, here Paul sits, living in these rat-hole rooms with his black widow wife and her two petty criminal sons, debts piling up and no income. Believe me, making that commercial mortgage payment every month, when there's no income, isn't as much fun as it sounds. So, Paul's stupidity cost him his income. Boo-hoo, wah, wah. Hey, we're talking about a guy who works in the "resort industry" fer chrissakes. He's a big thinker, a man with vision, a wise guy. A little adversity wasn't going to keep him down for long. He wasn't worried. He knew he'd recover his financial losses through his insurance. Hell, he thought he might even come out ahead on the deal somehow. Well, the insurance company sent an investigator out to look around. When facing a $250,000 payout, insurance companies usually want to look around a bit. Without looking very hard, the investigator found the melted extension cord (still plugged in), some shreds of reflective Mylar and the base of a broken 1000W HPS bulb. I guess Paul's lack of ambition kept him from cleaning the fire scene very thoroughly, eh? Not surprisingly, the investigator quickly deduced what had happened. Just as quickly, he called the local constables. The gendarmerie obtained a search warrant, and soon found the rest of Paul's pot farming equipment, including a shitload of clones he'd been rooting in another room. Uh-oh. Knowing Paul as I do, I'm sure he realized he wouldn't be getting any insurance money, just about the time the cops slapped the cuffs on him. Beside, getting a settlement on the property was irrelevant anyway, 'cause the PD seized his property due to it being used in the manufacture of illegal substances. Under RICO laws, they sold his property after the trial for cash. His wife wisely bargained to testify against him in return for reduced charges. Her wigger sons (who hated Paul only slightly less than they hated being away from the city) told the DA everything he wanted to know about Paul's big time dope ring. They told him how Paul sold dope to little nine year-old girls; how he supplied most of northern Michigan with mind numbing, high quality pot; how he bartered stolen property for drugs; how he conspired with known habitual criminals from foreign lands. Oh yeah, they sold Mr. DA-man a story he couldn't refuse. The result? Paul was convicted for manufacture and distribution of over 100 plants, a big time felony. A felony that is subject to minimum sentencing laws with no chance of parole. A felony that will guaran-fucking-tee he's going to learn what "Hot Carl" and "Tossing One's Salad" are all about, in the near future. He's awaiting transfer to the state pen as I write this. This is just another reminder, folks. People are stupid. Just fucking stupid. Cheers, Jeff justin -----= Posted via Newsfeeds.Com, Uncensored Usenet News =----- http://www.newsfeeds.com - The #1 Newsgroup Service in the World! -----== Over 80,000 Newsgroups - 16 Different Servers! =----- ------------------------------ From l_ron_hubbard_@hotmail.com Thu Jun 08 09:51:53 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!news-peer.gip.net!news.gsl.net!gip.net!news.maxwell.syr.edu!portc03.blue.aol.com!nntp2.giganews.com!nntp3.giganews.com!news5.giganews.com.POSTED!not-for-mail Message-ID: <393FCF28.FCF03F63@hotmail.com> From: Ian_Anderthal Organization: The Very Very Big And Mean Religious Technology Corporation X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.61 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Strang Days Indeed (News) References: <393FC787.C0B4A660@montana.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 26 NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 08 Jun 2000 11:52:12 CDT X-Trace: sv2-eckFxYRt+0JLPK33bj+0aYDEonCB1UKXfiT+fZw+Rax3tbuCmvaFFs8YrNjet76/yLShr0ffrgV99Zf!8eYBYK7BVHgEP9TIcRz5jNaU X-Complaints-To: abuse@GigaNews.Com X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers X-Abuse-Info: Otherwise we will be unable to process your complaint properly Date: Thu, 08 Jun 2000 09:51:53 -0700 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:203641 Mark Wood wrote: [[snip]] > I didn't know an organ pipe was so easily removed. Well, it's better if you use a knife, rather than a sword, but: Starting at just behind and underneath the glans, make an incision about a half inch deep, laterally into the organ. Follow with 1/4" deep perpendicular incisions all the way up the shaft (if the organ is not flaccid before the procedure, it will probably be so by this time) on either side of the pipe, up to the juncture of the scrotum. Pull sharply down on the exposed pipe end near the glans to expose the shaft portion of the pipe, then reposition the pliers at the part of the pipe that goes deeper into the body at the scrotal juncture. You'll probably have to use some 'english' on it at that point, tugging gently but firmly to remove what you can before it snaps off. Pipe length that can be removed will vary between organ pipe owners. YMMV. Procto - have any technical notes or corrections for this??? Ian Anderthal "Trust me, I'm a Dogturd" ------------------------------ From jeffjustin@newsfeeds.com Sat Jun 10 04:23:05 2000 Message-ID: <39422519.95B08986@newsfeeds.com> Date: Sat, 10 Jun 2000 07:23:05 -0400 From: Jeff Justin X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.72 [en]C-DIAL (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: tofu-chucking protester References: <01bfcadd$a5636140$349009d0@extra-armpit> <3938D01D.6D278D4A@montana.com> <393c34a3.2075289@news.interchange.ubc.ca> <393F234D.82108B45@mindspring.com> <8hn82d$674$1@nntp9.atl.mindspring.net> <394075B4.7C9720D5@mindspring.com> <1eby5fq.34y5701r9tu4N%no_recall@amnesia.com> <8hqt2q$ha5$1@slb6.atl.mindspring.net> <39410f45.13580708@localhost> <8hrioc$u78$1@slb6.atl.mindspring.net> <1ebyza9.5qemdwhybsowN%no_recall@amnesia.com> <39416123.E0FED64C@bellsouth.net> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.40.144.91 X-Trace: 10 Jun 2000 06:23:16 -0500, 216.40.144.91 Lines: 48 X-Authenticated-User: jeffjustin X-Comments: This message was posted through Newsfeeds.com X-Comments2: IMPORTANT: Newsfeeds.com does not condone, nor support, spam or any illegal or copyrighted postings. X-Comments3: IMPORTANT: Under NO circumstances will postings containing illegal or copyrighted material through this service be tolerated!! X-Report: Please report illegal or inappropriate use to You may also use our online abuse reporting from: http://www.newsfeeds.com/abuseform.htm X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers, INCLUDING the body (DO NOT SEND ATTACHMENTS) Organization: Newsfeeds.com http://www.newsfeeds.com 73,000+ UNCENSORED Newsgroups. Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!194.176.220.130!newsfeed.icl.net!colt.net!newspeer.clara.net!news.clara.net!skynet.be!feed2.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!goliath2.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!216.40.144.91 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:203836 Lorri wrote: > > Why do parents act like such goddamn fucking children when they get in > their late sixties? Christ in a fucked up handcart.... Good fucking question. Mine are both playing their end game right now. The old man has Alzheimer's and is just a shell of a human, happily dumping in his Depends and doddering around in a state of dizziness. Mom, OTOH, insists that she can care for him better at home than in a "facility" and so she's killing herself by not getting any sleep, having to wash soiled sheets and clothing 24/7 and keeping an eye on the "happy wanderer" 24/7. Meanwhile she's ignoring her own health including the knee that needs replacement. She can barely stand up after sitting in a chair, but she refuses to have anything done 'cause it means parking the old guy in a home for a while, and she just can't stand the way they don't take care of him there. Whenever I try to talk to her about the situation, she just starts crying and tells me she hopes she lasts long enough to care for what used to be her husband. That's an encouraging attitude. Feh. Cheers, Jeff Justin ObT: What? An adult diaper full of shit isn't tasteless enough for you? -- "Hey asswipe, did you know that all the requested parts of your little tale weren't on dejanews? what I did manage to scare up was pretty boring though." bnoug to me, 5/2/00 -----= Posted via Newsfeeds.Com, Uncensored Usenet News =----- http://www.newsfeeds.com - The #1 Newsgroup Service in the World! -----== Over 80,000 Newsgroups - 16 Different Servers! =----- ------------------------------ From orwell@1984.gov Tue Jun 13 15:16:17 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!204.122.16.44!news.eskimo.com!eskimo.com!orwell From: Squiffed Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: A world of hurt Date: Tue, 13 Jun 2000 15:16:17 -0700 Organization: Pissed To the Gills Lines: 41 Sender: -no- @dsls115.drizzle.com Message-ID: References: <87itvf3s1o.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: dsls115.drizzle.com X-Trace: eskinews.eskimo.com 960934593 7370 207.207.90.115 (13 Jun 2000 22:16:33 GMT) X-Complaints-To: abuse@eskimo.com NNTP-Posting-Date: 13 Jun 2000 22:16:33 GMT User-Agent: MT-NewsWatcher/3.0 (PPC) Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:204024 (Acetylcholinesterase Inhibitor) quotes from "Why We Hurt -- The Natural History of Pain": > (cut, hack,cut) >...they cultivated a stoicism that made >birthing look as effortless as blowing one's nose... > (snip) > Delivery is so painful, he reminds > us, mostly because the birth canal must > accommodate the human infant's large head > (rip) Been going to a childbirth class where they show us videos of the blessed event. This is for dumbshits like ourselves who have their kids at home and probably have no business reproducing in the first place. The first week they showed some South American women giving birth in the squatting position. Very nonchalant, these women just squatted down and pooped out little purple people. Come back a few minutes later and pop out the placenta - end of story. Stand up and walk away. The next week we have a video of this large blonde woman just bellowing to beat the band - a contrast to be certain but not too bad. These are not professionally edited films by the way, but rather home video quality stuff. So last week we're sitting down to watch the film and our class leader warns us last week before the video that there was some 'anal dilation' which we might find disturbing. Welllllll... the video starts and the woman is moving around the room, grunting and straining and trying various positions to get comfortable as junior is coming down the pipe. She gets on her hands and knees to do a little more of the same... and the brilliant camera-man just locks on to her ass which, as she pushes, gapes unblinkingly back at the camera. You could have dropped a tennis ball in there. I don't think I'll be able to watch porn ever again. squiffed ------------------------------ From anniebenlen@mindspring.com Wed Jun 14 01:29:52 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news-feeder2.wcg.net!WCG!buck.internorth.com!cyclone.bc.net!news.maxwell.syr.edu!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!firehose.mindspring.com!not-for-mail From: Annie M Benson Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Racial purity Date: Wed, 14 Jun 2000 01:29:52 -0700 Organization: MindSpring Enterprises Lines: 63 Message-ID: <39474280.70875FA2@mindspring.com> References: <87r9a8n993.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <393F321A.AFB91EED@montana.com> <394144A5.1855C418@eli.net> <87aegumcqd.fsf_-_@blob.ariadne.com> <960915484.16956.0.nnrp-06.c29ff734@news.demon.co.uk> <8i5qhd$thm$1@slb7.atl.mindspring.net> Reply-To: anniebenlen@fakespam.mindspring.com NNTP-Posting-Host: a5.79.78.19 Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Server-Date: 14 Jun 2000 08:15:57 GMT X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.61 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:204060 Felis Concolor wrote: > > ObT: Remember sunburn, back in the Good Old Days when it wasn't > regarded as a problem? It was sort of fun, peeling those strips > of skin off your shoulders and back. > When the little blisters started appearing, then you knew it > would be peel time soon. Feh! You obviously don't know what a true sunburn is all about. Here's how to experience the real beauty. First, be white. I don't mean Caucasian, that isn't good enough. I mean be pasty, colorless, corpse looking white. Then have a self- absorbed idiot for a father take your out a single-parents-trying- to-get-laid weekend retreat when you're ten. Then have him abandon you at the pool for a full two days, without even hinting that sunscreen might be a Good Idea, while he frolicks off searching for some dumb bimbo sturdy enough to support his three hundred and fifty pounds of raw manliness for the second or two it will take for him to get off. Frolick in the pool with all the other abandon kids who parents are off trying to get laid, or unsingle, or whatever. Spend two days in the Palm Springs sun, splashing in the pool, the sun on your shoulders. You'll be in considerable pain by the end of the first day, of course, but don't worry, no one will bother you with suggestions that maybe you ought to sit in shade like a sensible person. At the end of the two days, when your dad drops you off at your mom's, you will have a sunburn. Your shoulders will have swelled up to three times their normal size. They will crack, then bleed. Mom will just think you're being a pussy for whining, so you don't have to worry about getting any sort of medical help untill you go to school the next day and annoy the teacher by bleeding through your teeshirt. The school nurse will call your mom and threaten to call social services if she doesn't take you to the doctors, and she do it, because she doesn't want to loose any of her welfare money by losing a dependant. The doctor will give you antibotics, but of course, not in time to stop the infection that you've already got. Your shoulders will gently weep pus, like shimmering dew seeping from a flayed cow's carcess, for over a week. You will learn just how much agony the human brain can process from a severe 2nd degree burn. And you will have scars that don't fade away for years. In fact, in the right light, over twenty five years later, you will still be able to see the faint shadows etched in your now aging skin. Oh, I have no doubt that little sun scorches, such as you describe, might be amusing. Annie <----Has always regarded sunburns as a problem. -- Remove "fakespam" from my email address to reply. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ http://pw2.netcom.com/~mordea/aaannie.html Annie Reviews Everything See or Add to the Bad Movie List Read various reviews or on-line diary. ------------------------------ From wadsworth@montana.com Fri Jun 23 02:18:10 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!newspeer1.nac.net!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.slurp.net!not-for-mail Message-ID: <39532B52.8AD6DA5E@montana.com> From: Mark Wood Reply-To: wadsworth@montana.com X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.5 [en]C-CCK-MCD {U S WEST.net} (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: sci.space.policy,alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Space Habitat Food. Vermin > Protein? References: <8icd6s$c8g$1@gail.ripco.com> <3949ECCC.B7EEE890@bigpond.net.au> <394D937A.EADCBD40@bigpond.net.au> <39530E84.98CFC2FA@montana.com> <39530052.C24F17B7@gte.net> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 43 Date: Fri, 23 Jun 2000 02:18:10 -0700 NNTP-Posting-Host: 207.40.46.191 X-Trace: newsfeed.slurp.net 961747718 207.40.46.191 (Fri, 23 Jun 2000 03:08:38 CDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 23 Jun 2000 03:08:38 CDT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com sci.space.policy:151032 alt.tasteless:204578 Malaclypse the Younger wrote: > The other bird had a > habit of shaking his head violently while puking, and flinging it all > over. Quite charming. He just wanted to share the snack he just enjoyed so thoroughly. He's quite the generous provider from an avian perspective. I hate birds, particularly those varieties deemed suitable as pets. My favorite examples of bad pet birds were Thomas (a conure) and Beauregard (a yellow crested Amazon parrot). Thomas was allowed to flit about his owners home, and to accumulate his pebbly grayish white shit on every horizontal surface. He ripped out every feather he could reach without losing his ability to fly, and screeched maniacally at all hours. Beauregard was a bloodthirsty brute, who hated everyone but his owner. After figuring out how to open the latch of his cage, he kept the door in the closed position to present the illusion of confinement. When his owner's adolescent son passed by, Beauregard flung the door wide and leapt upon his hapless victim's head biting and raking him with his talons. Later in life when his owner remarried and took to travel by RV, he learned to say "You're clear" in response to his SR asking how his right looked. This was done in a perfect mimmic of his owners voice. Beauregard's reign of terror ended a couple years ago in a veterinary mishap. He refused to hone his beak, because he liked the fanged look he was developing. His concerned owner took him to a veterinarian to get his beak filed, and being so ornery the vet had to put a stick in his maw to avoid being severely bitten. Not one to be deterred, Beauregard bit clean through the stick and accidentally ingested a dangerously long piece of it. It was decided that this stick should be surgically removed. Beauregard died on the operating table, a victim of his own nastiness. -M. Wood ------------------------------ From stevem@shore.net Fri Jun 23 04:18:51 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!newspeer.monmouth.com!news.shore.net!not-for-mail From: stevem@shore.net (The Carrot) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: New Hampshire Savage Organization: Uboat Commanders Anonymous X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.92.6+ Lines: 139 Message-ID: Date: Fri, 23 Jun 2000 11:18:51 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.192.169.67 X-Complaints-To: abuse@shore.net X-Trace: news.shore.net 961759131 209.192.169.67 (Fri, 23 Jun 2000 07:18:51 EDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 23 Jun 2000 07:18:51 EDT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:204582 So there I am, standing out in the backyard wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. It's 1989, it's a Saturday in August, it's around 6 pm, it's 90 degrees plus outside, the sweat is literally dripping down my nose and back, and I'm on some god-forsaken little farm in upper New Hampshire where my fuckbuddy Rachel lives. We've been drinking, fucking and smoking pot all goddamn day, from about 8 am until now. You all know the routine: have a drink, smoke some pot, fuck each other, have another drink, take a nap with the window fan blowing lukewarm air over us, wake back up and do it all over again. I've cum six times today and my balls ache. The booze and the marijuana are starting to unhinge me; I should mention that the booze is tequila, and we're on the second bottle. I feel edgy, crazed by the heat and the chemical imbalance, and there's a little voice inside of me telling me that I'm starting to tread dangerously close to a crash. Neither of us have showered since this morning and we both smell heavily of sweat, dried sex juice and alcohol. I can't think of a better way to spend a weekend, can you? We haven't eaten a thing all day, all of our calories have come from the tequila and limes. It's finally come down to this: I'm hungry, it's dinner time, and I'm standing half-naked in the backyard, carrying an axe. "Do you have any food around here?" I'd asked her ten minutes ago. We'd just finished fucking, again, this time doggy style on the floor of her bedroom. Rachel's an illegal immigrant from Canada who works under the table for cash whenever she can, which, this being the late 80's under the Bush presidency, ain't often. The farmhouse she lives in is owned by a relative who lets her stay there for free provided she takes care of the place. She stood there in front of me, wearing nothing but a pair of panties. Her tits are big, almost too big, and they're already starting to migrate towards her navel. Rachel's 21 years old and likes it when I put her ankles up by her ears and fuck her really fast. I can see a wet spot on the crotch of her panties where my cum is leaking out of her. I'm not sure why both of us bother putting our pants on; we've sniffed, licked and sucked pretty much every square inch of flesh on each other; each others' genitals are not exactly terra incognita, yet we seem to feel more comfortable with partial nudity. "No", was the reply. It was the reply I expected. Driving is not an option today. I looked out the back window. "Fuck it, I'll get us some dinner," I said. I grabbed a kitchen knife and went outside. I found the axe in the woodshed out back; it's rusty and old, and the base of the handle is starting to split. I guess a hatchet is a better implement, but I couldn't find one. This being a farm, there's food everywhere. There's a bag of feed in the shed, and I grab a handful. I go over to the coop and sprinkle some feed onto the ground in front of my feet. The chickens are always running around the backyard near the coop. My prey, a good sized hen, starts to peck at the feed and I reach down and grab her with both hands. The chicken doesn't really fight, just kind of kicks and then settles down. Stupid bird. I'm feeling very much like a homo erectus must've felt, my heartbeating faster at the thought of the violence to come. Even though I feel sexually spent, my dick is hardening like no tomorrow as I carry the chicken over to the old stump near the back of the house. [Two weeks later, I'm going to blow the stump up with some illegally purchased dynamite and blasting caps, a wonderful first experience with high explosives. And yes, I'm going to spend the day drinking and getting high before I fire off the dynamite.] I put the chicken on the stump and can't figure out how to chop its head off. The fucking bird is starting to struggle a bit and I grab it by the neck, which just makes it struggle more, so I move my left hand down and grab it near the wings and press it down as hard as I can agains the stump and I can feel the wings beating against my forearm so I press harder and the bird lets out a fucking high-pitched *squeek!" and I can feel something like a bone break under my hand and the chicken squirms even more so I raise the axe with my right hand and bring the blade down on where the neck should be with a THWACK!!! The axe hits the chicken in the back of the head but the blade is too dull to cut the head off and it starts squirming even more so I raise it again and bring it down again and finally the head comes off and lays there on the stump. The beak works up and down once and then stops. The hen's body is still struggling against my hand and then I noticed that I've got blood on my legs and the bird keeps struggling and a little chill starts to creep up my spine. Then the bird stops moving. I've got chicken blood on my legs, my shorts and my stomach. My right hand is all bloody, too, but I don't give a shit. I've got dinner. I'm only sorry that I didn't let the headless chicken walk around, that'd be something to see. I use my hand to find the breastbone and then take the kitchen knife and stick it in chicken's belly right below the breastbone. I cut downwards towards its avian asshole and then use my hands to pull the incision apart. I try to shake the guts out and sure enough some of them come out and go *PLOP* onto the grass but the rest are stuck in there, so I reach in and pull them out with my hands, covering myself with chicken shit, blood, and internal organs. I pretty much just toss the guts onto the grass. The feathers are covered with blood now, too and I finally cut the abdominal flesh off and make a great big cavity. I'm feeling just like Frank Purdue. Once I've got the guts out, I start plucking the feathers off and I put my hand inside the chicken, holding it like a puppet while I pull the feathers out of its skin. Blood is still leaking from it onto the ground but I don't give a shit. Rachel comes out of the house and starts staring at me with a look of horror. She's got a t-shirt covering her huge boobs, even though there's no neighbors around, and I want to fuck her again. "Start the grill," I tell her, and she goes and pours some charcoal into the ancient grill and lights it like a good little fucktoy should. While the coals are warming up I take the chicken corpse around the side of the house and use the garden hose to wash the blood and slime off of it and myself. The flies, those ones with the translucent green bodies, are gathering around the guts that I've managed to strew over a wide area and one of the cats is starting to nibble at them. This is the first good meal the cat's had in a week. I take the knife, cut the wings and legs off (again, just like Frank Fuckin' Purdue) and Rachel finds some BBQ sauce in the refrigerator. I slather the sauce on the dismembered chicken and then I cook the shit out of it for a while until I think it's done. I bite into a leg and it's still rather raw, so I cook it some more. The smell of burning chicken makes my stomach rumble with hunger. Then we eat it. It tastes really good, really really good, and when the chicken's gone Rachel finds a bag of marshmellows in the kitchen. We cook them over the coals and sit outside, eating marshmellows and drinking lot's of water, until the mosquitoes come out and we go inside. We take separate showers, then sit in the living room listening to Rachel's John Lennon albums. We share one more joint and a couple of beers, then we go to bed and amazingly enough the seventh fuck of the day is the highest energy fuck of all. It starts to cool down and right before I fall asleep Rachel cuddles up and says "Thanks for dinner." - The Carrot ------------------------------ From syd@TREETnls.net Mon Jun 26 21:32:42 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!cyclone-transit.snfc21.pbi.net!131.119.28.147!su-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!news.sanjose1.Level3.net!Level3.net!news1.onlynews.com!not-for-mail Message-ID: <39582E88.96AD5302@nls.net> From: "Rev. Syd Midnight" Organization: http://www.nls.net/mp/syd X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.7 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Sorry, got fucked by my ISP (But give this all a glance) Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit Lines: 161 NNTP-Posting-host: onlyNews customer X-Trace: onlyNews customer NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 26 Jun 2000 21:32:42 PDT Date: Tue, 27 Jun 2000 04:32:42 GMT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:204774 Been out of circulation, and feel bad about it, being one of the more "feeling" kinda vultures around here. Hell, in the past month, I've gotten downright sentimental. A few weeks ago, I was battling my ISP and attempting to send a letter to Nearwidow or something, when I farted explosively. Yes, I mention this only because I shat myself. I left the room, washed my ass, changed my pants, and sat back down in my internet throne. Immediately, my ass became wet again. Y'see, besides 3 pairs of jeans, all the pants I own are black jogging pants, all of which have the tag ripped out of the ass-seam, and most of which (logically) have one or more holes in the ass. In mid-email, I had managed to rip a wet fart that shot liquid flatus straight out my anus and through a tag-hole in the ass of my pants. The US Military phrase "Surgical Strike" is an understatement... this was preordained. And of course, I thought of you all, how you might appreciate those finer moments when tastelessness takes you unawares... this was no Pearl Harbor, but it was a quality moment looking at the cushion of my computer chair and seeing that signature turd-shaped streak... Classic Ass Backlash. Say that 3 times fast. Been gone a while, but here are a few hURLs... *quality shit*. stolen, and shamelessly, from National Lampoon Online. They usually suck compared to The Onion, but the two are a grand compliment to each other. I've taken 30 National Lampoon Real Links and given you the best: - Bibleman http://www.bibleman.com/ In our youths, we are almost invariably bombarded with religious dogma aimed towards children. Some "sunday school" propaganda is carefully crafted to appeal to children yet deliver an arguably positive moral message. I feel bad for the few actual Christians in AT. Not only do they feel like niggers at a Klan rally, but they have to put up with stuff like this. - Stormfront for Kids http://kids.stormfront.org/ We all know and appreciate Stormfront... in reality, less a stormfront than a communicable virus that attacks the mentally weak. Unfortunately, it rarely kills those weak enough to contract it. But it is as stupidity-selective as ever. "Stormfront for Kids" is one of the finest, most intelligently and slickly-produced stormfront aryan websites ever. It pretends to be created and written by an 11 year old, which is proof of white superiority to stormfront, but hilarious irony to the rest of us. ObDoubleIrony: The Pokemon link. Ahh, nothing says "White Aryan intelligence is superior" than a link to the slickest mongoloid sneak-attack since japanimation... "Gotta make'em all racist!" - The Big Site Full of Horrible, Horrible Things http://www.geocities.com/Heartland/1590/personal.htm 100 *count'em!* 100 links to sites about sexual abuse, prison rape, grandma beating, etc. Not counting the ones that AdsOff (Steal it now!) filtered out. Your one stop shop for sites that sometimes make you feel REALLY guilty for laughing. Yes, they mean well, which is why I mention it. - Curse Free TV! http://www.dallascursefreetv.com/ but got it from that grandest of cinema sites, the Childcare Action Project http://www.capalert.com/ (Bookmark it, trust me) By Kali's Tits, not even taking the name of a Judaeao-Christian deity in vain can express my shock and suprise. "Curse Free TV" is not as farfetched as it sounds, it checks the text of that closed-captioning deaf folk stuff for swear words, and blanks out a few seconds to try to catch the offending word. It's far funnier if you just check out the site. The second link, CapAlert... if you have read this far, you should have it bookmarked. It would take a WEBSITE to explore the wonders of CapAlert. ObBonus: The purported Curse Free TV box takes over your cable access, but has a special "religious" setting so that you can watch Pastor Robert Tilton or Benny Hinn without words like "God damn", hell", or "satan" being muted. - Crazy People Incorporated http://www.tpointts.force9.co.uk/new.cpi/ Hooooly shit, nothing I can say can possibly add to the impact of this, but I need my moment of hubris, okay? This is a play, nay, a MUSICAL devoted to the subject of Disassociative Identity disorder, aka "Multiple Personalities", which sometimes happens when intelligent children are subjected to unimaginable amounts of sexual abuse. The "real" thing too, not some satan cult ritual scam. Well, it's.. um... with "DID", you never know who the hell you're talking about, but... uhhh... A fucking masterpiece. Even if you callously skim the site, it'll provide a noteworthy source of "No Fuckin' Way" belly laughs. But it's all too true, and if you get into it, and take the grand tour, you may find yourself sucked in, and overwhelmed with feelings... but it's still a "no fuckin' way". A fine effort, but an ATer still, has that nagging "probably made it up.. I've done half of that" feeling. But it gets points for being a fully staged musical, with MIDI and/or Real Audio accompaniment. MIDI with the Beatnik plug-in is good, but only the first song really moved me. For grand, Truly Tasteless entertainment, read "When Rabbit Howls" by The Troops. It's a true, Olympic-level tale of multiple personalities, stemming from a fucking incredible childhood full of sex abuse. "When Rabbit Howls" is best taken at face value, the suspense makes it all the better. The fucked-up DIDness gives it more surreal levels and ideas than any 5 Sci-Fi novels, and the slowly-revealed abuse made even my most jaded personality do a double take. Sibyl was a wimp. Moms Ice-water Enemas are pansy shit, picking a little girl up like a bowling ball (finger in every hole) and tossing her up the stairs.. now THAT'S what it takes to stun me. *** ObT: "Are Dead Bodies Dangerous?" - Stole this link from the Nat Lamp site as well, but it is a real gem, since it is 100% British deadpan. *THEIR* ObT was the fact that "plotz" means "to burst" in Yiddish. I like their mindset! "Are Dead Bodies Dangerous?" By David Plotz News reports covering the earthquake in Turkey have emphasized the health dangers posed by the decomposing bodies of its victims. The Turkish government is digging mass graves, and Muslim clerics have suspended Islamic burial rules so that the country can dispose of corpses more quickly. Do these bodies endanger public health? The rotting corpses of earthquake victims are a "negligible" threat to public health, according to the World Health Organization (WHO). A corpse is only a danger to public health if the victim died of an infectious disease. (In that case, the disease organisms can infect living people who come in contact with the cadaver.) But when someone dies of trauma, as most earthquake victims did, the decomposition process is harmless, if disgusting. Bacteria within the body--especially E. coli from the gut--immediately start to consume the flesh. Maggots hatched from eggs laid in the corpse also eat the cadaver, as can wasps, beetles, and other insects. Larger animals such as birds, rats, and dogs pick at unguarded corpses. The bacteria involved in decomposition are not dangerous, because living people already carry identical germs in their own bodies. The maggots and other insects, though revolting, also constitute no threat to public health. Rats do host fleas, which can transmit typhus, typhoid fever, plague, and other diseases. But rats endanger public health wherever they mingle with people: They are no more harmful when they feed on corpses than at any other time. Despite ancient fears of deathâs "miasma," the foul odor emitted by the body as it rots is innocuous. Some reports hint that unburied corpses could contaminate Turkeyâs water supply. This is not a serious danger. In a very few cases, bacteria from corpses can cause illness when they contaminate drinking water in large quantities. But water in Turkey is much more likely to be contaminated in other ways, especially ruptured sewer lines that dump bacteria into reservoirs and aquifers. Because the public health threat from corpses is minimal, the WHO has even urged Turkey to allocate more resources to aiding the injured and fewer to disposing of the dead. Next question? Explainer thanks Dr. Kenneth Iserson, author of Death to Dust and professor of surgery at the University of Arizona, and Dr. Michael Graham, medical examiner of St. Louis. *** ObSpellChecker: "Sibyl" was in there, "miasma" wasn't. -- Rev. Syd - remove TREET from my address to reply, if appropriate.. "You don't believe in the God you want to, and I won't believe in the God I want to. Is that a deal?" -- Yossarian, "Catch-22" ------------------------------ From thehalls@ridgecrest.ca.us Tue Jun 27 19:58:03 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!pulsar.dimensional.com!dimensional.com!hermes.visi.com!news-out.visi.com!nycmny1-snh1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!lsanca1-snf1!news.gtei.net!delphi.ridgenet.net!owens!not-for-mail From: thehalls@ridgecrest.ca.us (Dave/Kristin Hall) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: A New Flavor of Cake Date: 28 Jun 2000 02:58:03 GMT Organization: We're Disorganized! Lines: 26 Message-ID: <8jbpjr$h5j$2@delphi.ridgenet.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: owens.ridgenet.net X-Newsreader: TIN [UNIX 1.3 950824BETA PL0] Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:204811 Last night I awoke in the middle of the night with the munchies. I got up and headed to the kitchen in the dark. I opened the refrigerator door. I saw nothing of interest. But as I turned in dismay I spotted it in the dim light that escaped the 'fridge - the lemon bundt cake my wife made last week. I opened up the cake-saver-thingy and cut myself a slice. Happily munching away I went back to bed. Today, when I got home from work I decided that I wanted a little snack to hold me over until dinner. Remembering the tasty morsel I'd eaten last night I headed straight for the cake. But when I re-opened the cake-saver- thingy my eyes beheld something in bright sunlight that streamed in from the kitchen window that I had been unable to discern in the dim light of last night. The cake was *covered* with mold. I think I would have thrown up right then and there if there'd been anything in my stomach to throw. I'll keep you all posted if I contract any strange fungal diseases.... -- David Hall Propulsion Geek At Large ------------------------------ From choad@bnl24.ten.nl Wed Jun 28 03:11:48 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!nntp.primenet.com!nntp.gblx.net!skynet.be!newsfeed2.news.nl.uu.net!sun4nl!newsfeed0.news.nl.uu.net!bnl24.ten.nl!choad From: Rat's Ass Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Update on Kruge Date: Wed, 28 Jun 2000 12:11:48 +0200 Organization: UUNET-NL (http://www.nl.uu.net) Lines: 36 Message-ID: References: <3959b49f@news.ivm.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: bnl24.ten.nl Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII X-Trace: porthos.nl.uu.net 962187052 10439 195.108.75.24 (28 Jun 2000 10:10:52 GMT) X-Complaints-To: abuse@nl.uu.net NNTP-Posting-Date: 28 Jun 2000 10:10:52 GMT In-Reply-To: <3959b49f@news.ivm.net> Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:204826 On Tue, 27 Jun 2000, Michael Briel wrote: > After kicking some German right wing extremists in the arse on German > usenet I for some time I finally got pretty bored of those wankstains > and decided to come back to a.t.! :) > > What happened inbetween? Sorry to disappoint you, but German right wing extremists have also taken over this group. SquickEast has been cancelled and replaced by YidStomp 2K, we have been exchanging photos of lynched Turks, and a mass grave has been filled just outside Dachau with the bodies of suspected alt.slack sympathizer swine... disloyalty will no longer be tolerated. The newsgroup WILL be purified and cleansed of half-breeds. | | ------------\ ,---. /------------ | | | | ---------. `-./ "\.-' .--------- | | | ,--. | --------\ . /-------- | ,--. | | ( >< ) | ------`-.| .-'------ | ( >< ) | | `--' | ---/ `/"\ \--- | `--' | | . | `//_-_\\' | | | : . ! | (.' ',) | . : . :| | ! ! .| | | : | ! .| | |_| ;|_| . |_| !_| !| `-' `-^' \o `-' `-^' \__________________T>_________________/ `-=--=--=--=--=--=---=--=--=--=--=--=-' ] _] _] _] _] _] _L] _] _] _] _] _] _ `-------------------------------------' `u---u---u---u---u---u---u---u---u---u' Welcome back, RA ------------------------------ From wadsworth@montana.com Fri Jun 30 02:35:55 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!128.230.129.106!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.slurp.net!not-for-mail Message-ID: <395C69FB.AC4D4249@montana.com> From: Mark Wood Reply-To: wadsworth@montana.com X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.5 [en]C-CCK-MCD {U S WEST.net} (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Space Habitat Food. Vermin > Protein? References: <8icd6s$c8g$1@gail.ripco.com> <3949ECCC.B7EEE890@bigpond.net.au> <394D937A.EADCBD40@bigpond.net.au> <39530E84.98CFC2FA@montana.com> <39530052.C24F17B7@gte.net> <39584d76@news.netwalk.net> <8jefl5$9uq$2@gail.ripco.com> <5minls4tgokkbpf7m1vlb0j84j19cav7r9@4ax.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 56 Date: Fri, 30 Jun 2000 02:35:55 -0700 NNTP-Posting-Host: 207.40.46.45 X-Trace: newsfeed.slurp.net 962353570 207.40.46.45 (Fri, 30 Jun 2000 03:26:10 CDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 30 Jun 2000 03:26:10 CDT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:204972 Spud wrote: > > ObT: Idly fantising about removing the top of the skull of a > particularly annoying whiner at a clients site. Once the brain is > exposed, what do I do to add Character and Fortitude to this worthless > cocksore? Adding faeces (human & animal), menstrual clots and > psychadelics all seem a bit passe somehow. > > I'm all for getting a bit creative with a scalpel and seeing if I can > disrupt the motor and speech in such a way that I recreate Dr > Strangelove. > > Suggestions? Use a dremel tool with a very short drill bit, and slightly longer electric probes to prolong your fun. Making the offenders skull a convertible will give you less time to experiment than sinking dozens of shallow holes and inserting small stainless contacts for wires. You might also consider cosmetic surgery with a surrealist flair. A modification involving detaching the cheekbones, breaking the sides of the sinuses, and rerouting the unbroken optic nerves and eyeballs to the nostrils might be interesting. Of coures the bones would need to be set and pinned afterward for the full effect. Superfluous stomas could also make for an interesting effect. Rerouting intestines over the surface of the body maybe? How about stripping the skin on a forearm from wrist to elbow, then passing the arm through incisions in the front and back of the torso, followed by stitching the incision edges to the skin of the hand and elbow? Making your creation survivable, but irreversible should be of primary concern when engaging in creative surgery. I'd once had an idea for a grand machine of transparent plastic, that would maintain the biological functions of its prisoner after a complete removal of the skeletal strucure beyond the skull and spine. It would be anchored to the heart and lungs which it would pump without the occupants assistance, and feed him nutritious sludge through a stoma, just above the stomach. The longer this existence as a hanging sack of flesh could be sustained, the better. -M. Wood "By dehumanizing the enemy, you trivialize his suffering, and if you trivialize his suffering you cannot fully enjoy it." > > Spud ------------------------------ From ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com Sat Jun 03 17:29:31 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!netnews.com!feed1.news.rcn.net!rcn!pln-e!spln!extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!news1 From: ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com (Justme) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Ginny does New York Date: 4 Jun 2000 00:29:31 GMT Organization: Miss Manners School of Proper Posting Lines: 102 Message-ID: <8hc7tb0j5i@news1.newsguy.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: p-257.newsdawg.com Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: Text/Plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.99.9 (Released Version) (x86 32bit) Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:203354 It finally happened. Friday, June 2 2000, is a day that will go down in infamy in Casa de Ginny; it's the day I graduated from "Tasteless Ginny," occasional caller to the Ron and Fez show (heard in the NY/NJ area on WNEW and in Washington, DC on WJFK) to Tasteless Ginny, actual in-studio guest. I brought with me a list of URLs to talk about, a camera, and my TENS unit. A TENS unit is a small battery operated gizmo with electrodes use to stimulate muscles. I use it for stiff necks and charlie horse-type muscle cramping. One day, I stumbled upon http://www.fpelectro.com and discovered that TENS units can also be used for sexual gratification so I took mine with me, in hopes of hooking Fez up to it. I had my work cut out for me. When we arrived, we were brought upstairs by the show producer; an affable, friendly soul who greeted me with a hug. I took this as a good sign, and went up. Ron and Fez were just finishing up dinner when we arrived. They stood up for me, and actually hugged me-yes, ladies, I felt up Ron and Fez! My husband watched! We chatted for a moment, and the boys went into the studio to get ready for the show while hubby and I waited. Another show regular known as "Hannah and Her Blisters" showed up with two friends. Hannah, like me, came with toys. On her last appearance she had vaginally inserted vegetables, so she felt that she needed to bring yet more food to please the listening audience. In her bag of tricks were cherries, whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and a newly-purchased baby monkey doll with suck action. Hannah was wearing a slip, jacket, and no dress (or underwear, for that matter); she showed me her new doll and to demonstrate the suck action, whipped out a teat and nursed the doll. Behind me, the "ON THE AIR" light went on. Soon it was my turn to go on the air. As I was introduced by Ron, Useless Betty led me to my chair, put on my headphones, and put the mike in front of me. I was awed by the size of the mike-while in front of it, I literally couldn't see anything else. I moved away from the mike and continued to talk; the producer came over and put the mike back in front of my face, and I realize that I had to practically fellate the contraption in order to be heard. This threw me off momentarily, but I think I eventually found my stride. After a few moments to talk and introduce my TENS unit, Hannah was brought in. Ron decided to hook up Hannah to the TENS. "Put it on your taint," he instructed her. Hannah looked at me with trepidation: I had hooked her arm up to the unit in the waiting area, so she knew what was about to happen to her nether regions. She announced that I had to apply the electricity as she lifted her slip slightly, hands and electrodes quickly disappearing. She confided in me that she had her monthly, and wondered if that extra moisture would affect the electrical charge. We were about to find out. I slowly began turning up the juice. The most powerful setting is 8, and we only got to 5 on her arm in the waiting room because she screeched in pain. I paused, then immediately, repeatedly turned it all the way up to 8 with it set on "pulse," so she was literally being repeatedly electrically punched in the ass. The screaming was quite entertaining. After a helpful suggestion from a caller, we renamed Hannah's Taint the Gaza Strip. For the better part of an hour, Ron and Fez's conversations were peppered with "OOH!" and "OMIGOD!" as Hannah's gaza strip became a well-done strip steak. She claimed to have had two orgasms as the show progressed. I wonder if this means my heterosexual status is up for review·. Eventually, it was time for the Privilege girls. The girls xeroxed their butts and boobs, and Ron and Fez tried to figure out which xerox was of which girl; then on to Twister with Hannah. Before the girls left, Ron asked them to give my husband a lap dance; which they performed admirably. Hannah fed him cherries as both girls fondled my husband. I took pictures to blackmail him with. Before I knew it, it was time to go home. In the span of three short hours I had managed to electrocute a woman's private parts and bring her to orgasm, photograph strippers giving my husband lap dances, and disgust and dismay Ron and Fez and the entire staff (they gathered around the monitor, gazing in horror at the big balls pictures over at rotten.com). My work was done. So, like a demented Cat in the Hat, I gathered up my stuff and headed back to NJ. But I'll be back. Oh yes, I will be back. --Ginny http://www.tastelessginny.com "Fuck, you're tougher than me" Herry to me via IRC ------------------------------ From ranger@-remove-chariott.com Tue Jun 06 12:22:15 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!dallas-news-feed2.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!news.maxwell.syr.edu!korova.insync.net!nntp1.hal-pc.org!news.hal-pc.org!ranger From: ranger@-remove-chariott.com (Ben Frazier) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Amsterdam Tastelesness Date: 6 Jun 2000 19:22:15 GMT Organization: Houston Area League of PC Users, Inc. Lines: 77 Approved: boogala boogala Message-ID: References: NNTP-Posting-Host: csi.chariott.com X-newsgroup: alt.tasteless X-realname: M@ X-No-Archive: Yes X-Complaints-To: abuse@chariott.com X-Compliments-To: the chef User-Agent: slrn/0.9.5.4 (UNIX) Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:203510 On Wed, 31 May 2000 17:26:42 +0100, M@ rambled about: >Ahhhh Amsterdam. One of the most tasteless citys in europe. > >I'm off to the land of whores and weed at the end of June. >Never been before...... > >Anyone here been and care to share their experiences? >Where are the best tarts? >(what is the standard proceedure for screwing a tart? prices etc.) >The best weed? >Where do I go for some really twisted sex shows? >Is it possible to pay be spit roasted by 2 female midgets with strap-ons? Ahh the place that makes Bourbon Street look like a "Drop a tot". I was there last year during my birthday for business trip. A week in a candy store, all expensible. Aint life grand sometimes? The hags are all over Amsterdam in the red light district, however there are cleaner tricks to be had all over the country. Don't get me wrong, there are some nice looking tricks in 'Dam, but it's very touristy and what's in there isn't top quality meat. I'm sure there are dozens of nicer places, but one place that comes to mind is in Den Haag on Jalenstrat. My spelling is probably off, but just hop on a train to Den Haag and ask for "Ha-len-strot". It's a few blocks walk from the train station. As for the best weed, hit The Green Grasshopper. You can't miss it. It's the first coffee bar (in all neon green) as you cross the canal going into the red-light district. If you can find the red-light district, you'll have to go right by the Green Grasshopper. Go downstairs and ask them what they recommend. When I was there last year, their "creme de la creme" was called White Widow. That was the most wicked stuff I ever mashed in a pipe. One pipe lasted me and another guy most of the evening. It was also the most expensive they had. But you definitely get your monies worth. As for the sex shows, DEFINITELY HIT THE BANANA BAR! They have a web page, although I can never get the spelling quite right. It's something like www.bananenbar.com Live shows w/ audience participation. The cool thing about this place is that you pay for time in the bar. And while you're in there, all of your drinks are covered. So basically you pay a cover charge for 30 minutes or an hour, and it's open bar. I can drink like a fish so this was right up my alley. Also another place to check out is the Moulin Rouge. It's right across the canal from the Banana Bar. Not quite as twisted as the Banana Bar, but definitely worth some time in. Here's a tip for the Rouge, IF you don't want to be pulled up on the stage to help with the "performers" DO NOT sit in the front row! This is usually the only available seats right before a show starts. Have fun, drink plenty, and report back on the tastelessness. :) ObT: While on my stay in 'Dam and wondering through the red light district, it's not at all uncommon for the tricks to open a small side window and stick an arm out to get your attention in a "Hey, come on over here big boy" kind of fashion. I was a bit loaded while stumbl^H^H^H^H walking through the area. I swayed a bit close to one of these windows while weaving in and out of people on the street. It was just perfect timing, one of those things that happens in a split second, but seems to be an orchestrated event taking much longer. As I weaved towards a window I feel a burp coming up, mainly made of Jack Daniels & Coke, some french fries from a side street vendor, and some ash that I had inhaled earlier while making sure "the pipe was cashed". As this is happening one of the nastiest freak^H^H^H tricks opens her window to grab my arm and stop me for a "me love you long time" negotiation. It was late in the evening and I knew she was towards the end of her shift from the aroma of musk and snatch that oozed out of her window. At the same time the burp hit my throat, her musky stench hit my nose and an immediate and tasteless "EJECT!" command was echo'ed from my guts right on the tail of the burp. It's amazing how quick her "Hey baby, why don't you come inside" went to "You bastard!" as I wiped the snotty french fried puke from my chin. -- ranger at chariott.com Ben Frazier ICQ# 1590690 http://members.chariott.com/~ranger "There are two major products that come out of Berkeley: LSD and UNIX. We don't believe this to be a coincidence." - Jeremy S. Anderson ------------------------------ From ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com Wed Jun 07 17:38:20 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!194.186.254.21!newsfeed.gamma.ru!Gamma.RU!pln-e!spln!extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!news2 From: ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com (Justme) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Ginny does New York Date: 8 Jun 2000 00:38:20 GMT Organization: Miss Manners School of Proper Posting Lines: 32 Message-ID: <8hmpts02fkn@news2.newsguy.com> References: <8hc7tb0j5i@news1.newsguy.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: p-984.newsdawg.com Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: Text/Plain; charset=US-ASCII X-Newsreader: WinVN 0.99.9 (Released Version) (x86 32bit) Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:203591 In article , turtle@NOSPAMlynchburg.net wrote... > >Justme said: > >>It finally happened. Friday, June 2 2000, is a day that will go down in >>infamy in Casa de Ginny; it's the day I graduated from "Tasteless Ginny," >>occasional caller to the Ron and Fez show (heard in the NY/NJ area on >>WNEW and in Washington, DC on WJFK) to Tasteless Ginny, actual in-studio >>guest. > >Please please PLEASE tell me you taped this.. And if you did, where >can we download it? > I didn't (I was in the studio at the time, talking) but I think xxxjoel got parts of it on tape. I did get a couple of pictures--Hannah's boob nursing the monkey, and the old man getting a lap dance, oh, and..me! at http://www.tastelessginny.com. I'm at the main page, and if you follow the link to "Ginny does Ron and Fez," you can see the other pics. ObCool: I'm going back on-air this Friday. xxxjoel will be with me. --Ginny http://www.tastelessginny.com "Fuck, you're tougher than me" Herry to me via IRC ------------------------------ From worley@dworley.ne.mediaone.net Sat Jul 08 14:31:38 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!news.louisville.edu!tor-nx1.netcom.ca!news1.radix.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.cwix.com!chnws02.mediaone.net!chnws05.ne.mediaone.net!24.128.8.202!typhoon.ne.mediaone.net.POSTED!not-for-mail Sender: worley@blob.ariadne.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: conical breasts From: worley@dworley.ne.mediaone.net (Acetylcholinesterase Inhibitor) X-No-Archive: yes Message-ID: <874s60gvgk.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> Lines: 109 X-Newsreader: Gnus v5.7/Emacs 20.4 Date: Sat, 08 Jul 2000 21:31:38 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.218.145.6 X-Complaints-To: abuse@mediaone.net X-Trace: typhoon.ne.mediaone.net 963091898 24.218.145.6 (Sat, 08 Jul 2000 17:31:38 EDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 08 Jul 2000 17:31:38 EDT Organization: Road Runner Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:205420 OK, here's one of the very few tasteless events that I've personally experienced. And even that is rather cerebral. But hopefully, it will inspire some of you to recount similar tales. [wavy lines] Way back when the Arpanet was young, and you need connections to get an e-mail account, and people at science fiction cons who had e-mail put an "@" on their badges as a Secret Recognition Sign, I learned of a fellow who went by the login name "REM". (I won't spell out his real name so as to make this article harder to search for.) I never corresponded with REM, but I corresponded with a number of people who did. REM was seen as a rather peculiar fellow, in a community that abounded in peculiar fellows. One of his habits was writing a diary and e-mailing each day's segment to a mailing list of voyeurs, named "REM-DIARY-READERS". I read a couple of segments of REM-DIARY-READERS, pulled from an archive somewhere. They seemed to be the daily life of a somewhat geekish fellow, but with an emphasis on the trivial details of his interactions with various women. Indeed, it seemed almost a stream-of-consciousness transcription of a horndog. Now I didn't find anything strange about being a horndog, being one myself, but there were a few things that seemed unusual... One was that he interacted with a large number of women in the course of a day. It seems that he was much less shy than myself. Of course, he didn't get very far with any of them (in the segments I read), nobody's lucky enough to do that on a daily basis. Or perhaps he was just weird enough to be a turn-off. The other unusual thing was fairly detailed notes on the apparent sexual attributes of the women. Especially comments on the appearance of their breasts. This commentary was sufficiently common and stereotyped that it gained a rhythm in my mind like the refrain of a song. In particular, the phrase "conical breasts", which I had never heard before, was used in a way that made it clear that it was high on the list of feminine virtues. The whole style was so unique that a parody of REM's style that I ran into over a decade later was instantly recognizable. [I will insert here that a Metacrawler search on "conical breasts" turned up a surprisingly large number of entries, including an Russian-English dictionary.] But the weird thing about it was that it all seemed, somehow ... disgusting. Disgusting in a way that annoyed me, and in a way that I really couldn't identify. I mean, I enjoy reading a.t to relieve boredom and depression, and I own a complete set of the Marquis de Sade. But there was something about REM's writings that made me want to go wash my hands. At the very least, it seemed peculiar that he wished to broadcast his rather seedy sexual obsessions to the masses. I later ran into a reference about the "anal expulsive" personality, which is a complex of traits including compulsive dirtiness, messiness, excessive generosity, pushiness, etc. REM seems to be of this type. (Which explains why I found him disturbing, since I and most people I hang around are "anal retentive" types.) [wavy lines] More recently, I attended an event at which the bathing facilities were a stream. A damned cold one, I might add -- 45 in Fahrenheit, 7 in Celsius, "makes your skin numb" in practice. But since I ooze grease like Jessie Helms oozes jingoism, there was no choice but to suffer. However, the other attendees used the same stream, bathing suits were decidedly optional, half the attendees were female, and if I was careful to keep my glasses on as much as possible, discretely observed feminine pulchritude almost compensated for frostbite on the sensitive bits. The event was largely attended by adults in the 25 to 50 zone, but some of them now have children who were brought along. Among the children was a girl who was just making the transition from child to sex object. The dynamic of the situation was rather amusing. The guys tended to try to eye her, but very discretely. She seemed to enjoy judging her effect on the guys. (I classify it as "testing out her new superpowers".) I found her somewhat attractive physically but judged that she wouldn't be worth much more than a belt-notch, as her personality was probably quite uninteresting. [As if I had a snowball's chance.] It was also rather amusing hearing rumors afterward that some of the guys found her attractiveness to be disturbing. [As an a.t'er, I have no conflict about wanting things that I shouldn't have, but the Normals have internalized the idea that you shouldn't *want* underage cooze. Slaves.] But the dear girl exhibited a feature that Wintermute [R.I.P.] described as "those incredible gravity-defying tits" (along with a small but pleasing bush). Somewhat distinctive to look at. But if examined closely, yes, you notice that they have the form of rounded cones. And this is the revelation that is the punchline of this tedious story -- REM was searching for conical breasts, due to genetic or environmental programming to search for the sign of very young women. I wonder if he ever got any? Naah. Too much of a geek, from all accounts. Pushiness to the point of not being able to read a woman's "back off" signals doesn't get you any. Dale ------------------------------ From no_recall@amnesia.com Fri Jul 14 07:43:24 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!4.1.16.34!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!sunqbc.risq.qc.ca!News.Dal.Ca!sapphire.mtt.net!not-for-mail Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The Smell of Burning Eyeballs (long) From: no_recall@amnesia.com (Proctalgia) Message-ID: <1edq6r6.3jt0skobz95oN%no_recall@amnesia.com> X-No-archive: yes User-Agent: MacSOUP/2.4.5 Lines: 130 Date: Fri, 14 Jul 2000 14:43:24 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 142.177.66.46 X-Complaints-To: abuse@ns.sympatico.ca X-Trace: sapphire.mtt.net 963585804 142.177.66.46 (Fri, 14 Jul 2000 11:43:24 ADT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 14 Jul 2000 11:43:24 ADT Organization: Sympatico-Subscriber Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:205820 I'm sorry to report that I have survived so far, but the procedure has had its tasteless moments, to my shame. Yesterday I went for the pre-op exam to check that I would be a suitable candidate for Lasik. Lots of interesting toys that scanned a contour map of my corneas and an ultrasound of the eyeball to check cornel thickness (562 microns, if you must know. I shall try to remember I only have half a millimeter to play with next time I try to dig an embedded foreign body out of someone's eye.) Some fairly scrumptious young ladies were in attendance, so I allowed my mind to linger on the possibility of some hand-holding whilst I gritted my teeth for the procedure. For some sadistic reason they don't use reversing drops after dilating the pupil, so I ended up on the street afterwards waiting for my neice to pick me up, with enormous pupils, eyes tearing wildly and unable to keep my eyes open in the bright Halifax sunshine. I fit right in with the seedier inhabitants of downtown. Six hours later I could see again (well enough to watch 'Run, Lola, Run' in my bro's basement cinema - what a good movie, BTW) I didn't sleep too well, having decided that I was nuts to be doing this, and these were my *eyes* fer chrissake, but I got up at 6.30 and choked down OJ and toast (caffeine and alcohol being banned for 48 hours before surgery on the grounds that they might change the curvature of the eyeball slightly and mess up the final result. Such an incentive that I found it possible to comply and was clean and sober.) There was quite a long wait after arrival, simply to allow the tension to build. I watched the occupants of the waiting room be led into the laser room one by one. After twenty minutes each emerged wearing huge black oversize sun glasses, and all said it was 'interesting' or 'not too bad' - no 'piece of cake' type comments. Eventually it was my turn. First a quick check that the refraction is as measured yesterday; it would be embarrassing to dial in the wrong numbers into the laser and give you someone else's eyes. The ophthalmologist (the size of whose income disturbs even me) is quite brusque until he asks what kind of work I did, and then was full of false bonhomie. Next is to lie down on the laser table and have freezing drops instilled. These sting a bit but it doesn't last. The eye that is to be done second is taped shut. My right eye then has a lid speculum inserted (think 'Clockwork Orange') and the operating microscope is swung into place over my face. There is a red light to look at, and the advice is that to look elsewhere will jeopardise the outcome. Two dye marks are drawn across the corneal margins to allow the flap to lined up correctly afterwards. Next the really interesting part. A suction cup is pressed uncomfortably hard down onto the eyeball, the suction turned on, and as it gloms onto the eyeball it raises the pressure inside the globe, and cuts off circulation through the ophthalmic artery; a few flashes just like those of a detached retina and vision blacks out. Next the microkeratome, which is a miniature buzz saw is used to cut a flap 8.5mm diameter from the cornea - I feel nothing with this eye. The suction ring is released and vision returns; it is still clear, but on lifting the flap up and out of the way everything becomes very blurred indeed, like being underwater when the water is murky. Then the lasering begins after another admonishment to keep looking at the red light. I understand there are optical eye trackers that will turn off the laser if you move, but of course they can't function until after the movement has begun, just like any error-correction system (this bit reminds me of compact disk players). The laser is not visible, makes a crackling sound and is fired in four bursts, one for each quadrant. The stench of burning is remarkable; more acrid than the usual burning skin smell I create with my trusty old electrocautery unit. Then the flap is replaced a squeegeed down into the correct position, and the debris flushed out of the eye. I can see again - though there is a hazy fog obscuring all detail. The table is repositioned for the second eye, which is released from its tape. The freezing drops are wearing off now. Shit, it feels like the dye is being tattooed onto the cornea, and my flinch ( I can't blink because of the speculum holding the lids open) is noted. More drops go in, but not enough as it turns out. The suction ring feels very wierd with this eye, and as soon as the suction is turned on I recognise that I am having a vasovagal response to it. One of the tricks that used to be used to stimulate the vagus nerve to slow down rapid arrhythmias was eyeball pressure. It's no longer used because of the damage one can cause, and carotid sinus massage is preferred. Here I was with my vagus getting stimulated. This slows the heart suddenly and drops the blood pressure. A cold sweat starts as does the nausea. Despite the fact I am lying down I realise I will be out cold soon. The embarrassment, the mortification! The wimpy wussiness of it! You're not supposed to do this when you're 'in the trade'. I find I can feel the buzz saw this time, but it isn't worth interfering for more drops. I managed to hang on until the lasering was finished and the flap was back down. Then I was instructed to get up and go next door to have the flaps checked on a slit lamp. I think the first bit of brain to cease function in hypotension is the sensible bit that would usually make you say "Hey, I can't get up or I'll faint" such is the desire not to give into it. I toppled off the slit lamp stool and had a nice dream when I was no longer aware of the hot/cold sweat pouring off me and the roaring in my ears. Serve the old buzzard right for making so much money and never having to deal with sick people I thought. Unfortunately returning circulation on the floor also returned my sense of shame at being such a wuss. Soon I was apologising politely for such an exhibition, all the while swallowing hard on the vomit that was still trying to spray out. Two minutes later I am on the street, also wearing Terminator-type shades and finding the light very bright. I have an hour to wait before my sister-in-law gets out of her root canal and comes to pick me up, so I go into a cafe and drip cold sweat all over the table and my first coffee in a couple of days. It feels like I have sawdust in both eyes but rubbing and squinting are strictly forbidden in case the flap gets moved or wrinkled. Every ten minutes I put artificial tears in the eyes and these feel wonderful. I have never been so glad to see my sister-in-law as when she turns up; again I can barely keep my eyes open in the sun and they are watering freely. Half an hour later I lie down in a dark cool room and snooze thankfully. On rousing myself a couple of hours later I find the haze is clearing (it is due to the flap drying out during the time it is lifted off the eye) and I can already see more clearly than without specs before the procedure. Over the next few hours I discover that the irritation lessens and the vision clears a bit more. It is now eleven hours after the procedure and I can see as well in the left eye as I could with glasses, and about one or two eye-chart lines less in the right. Even if it does not improve any more it is good enough to be a success. The vision is supposed to stabilise by six weeks. I will have to tape plastic shields over the eyes at night for the next week to prevent rubbing the eyes, and I must not get water in the eye. Follow ups are scheduled for tommorrow, one week, one month and three months. I am using reading glasses for the first time now, and evidently will be doing so in the future - I quite like the wise old owl look, and no doubt my advice to patients will be taken more seriously when it is given looking over a pair of half-moon glasses. So if you fancy gambling your sight, the stake is $1398 Canadian, and the tasteless possibilities are endless. I intend to turn up at the hospital for rounds on Saturday with my huge black glasses and a borrowed white cane. Friday AM check-up: better than 20/20 in each eye. I'm impressed. ObT: my neice has landed a summer job in the chief medical examiner's office and witnessed her first autopsy today. An accident case in which no one had removed the cell phone from the victim's pocket. It rang while he was being poured out of the body bag. -- C. http://go.to/proctalgia ------------------------------ From jeffjustin@mail.newsfeeds.com Mon Jul 17 14:19:31 2000 Message-ID: <39737863.13C43B9E@mail.newsfeeds.com> Date: Mon, 17 Jul 2000 17:19:31 -0400 From: Jeff Justin X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.72 [en]C-DIAL (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Could Somebody PLEASE Pass The Beano? Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.40.148.60 X-Trace: 17 Jul 2000 16:19:46 -0500, 216.40.148.60 Lines: 62 X-Authenticated-User: jeffjustin X-Comments: This message was posted through Newsfeeds.com X-Comments2: IMPORTANT: Newsfeeds.com does not condone, nor support, spam or any illegal or copyrighted postings. X-Comments3: IMPORTANT: Under NO circumstances will postings containing illegal or copyrighted material through this service be tolerated!! X-Report: Please report illegal or inappropriate use to You may also use our online abuse reporting from: http://www.newsfeeds.com/abuseform.htm X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers, INCLUDING the body (DO NOT SEND ATTACHMENTS) Organization: Newsfeeds.com http://www.newsfeeds.com 73,000+ UNCENSORED Newsgroups. Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!nntp.primenet.com!nntp.gblx.net!hermes.visi.com!news-out.visi.com!news.minn.net!feed3.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!goliath2.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!216.40.148.60 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:205927 So, an acquaintance fixed me up with an acquaintance of hers. I'm always leery of these arranged set-ups. All I really knew about this woman was her name and that our mutual acquiantance knew her from some sort of church group. To be on the safe side, I arranged our first meeting to be at a chain restaurant that caters primarily to families. While we were going through the usual "getting to know you" pleasantries, I could sense that our world views were miles apart. That was fine with me. When dating, one quickly learns that not all first meetings will result in a connection. I couldn't really tell where she was with me, but she was talking like she thought there might be something there. So, we had finished dinner, and were chatting afterward. A family filed past our table that I took note of, because of their potential for mischief. My "date" didn't bat an eye. The reason I had singled this family for watching was that it was made up of two elderly parents, I'd guess around 75, and their retarded daughter who was probably between 45 and 50. They all got the soup and salad bar for dinner and made multiple trips to the prominent salad bar that stood in the middle of the restaurant. We were sitting about 7-8 feet from the salad bar and I had a good view of them trudging back and forth between their table and the salad bar. As she approached the salad bar one last time, the daughter let loose with a god-awful fart that resonated around the restaurant like a thunderclap. Initially a low pitched rumbler, the fart rose in pitch and volume as she neared the salad bar and grew into a wet sounding cheek splitter. Bf-th-th-th-th-ft! I'd guess this fart only lasted three or four seconds, but it seemed to go on forever. It was so loud and clearly audible that it seemed to command the attention of the entire restaurant. I am FART! Hear me roar. Tard girl immediately reached around with her hand and felt her asscrack. Then, she announced to her mum, who was sitting twenty-five feet away - "Mom! I shit my underpants, bad!" Now, I had started laughing at the first sounds of the fart, and by the time tardbaby said this, I was beyound laughter into that rarified state of silent laughter. I held my gut with both hands and shook. This was one of the funniest things I've seen in months. My date, on the other hand, was apparently offended by my reaction to the this little drama, and as I watched helplessly, she grabbed her purse and huffed out the front door, leaving me writhing at our table. Oh well, better she know early on, eh? Cheers, Jeff Justin -----= Posted via Newsfeeds.Com, Uncensored Usenet News =----- http://www.newsfeeds.com - The #1 Newsgroup Service in the World! -----== Over 80,000 Newsgroups - 16 Different Servers! =----- From stukafox@stukafox.com Wed Jul 19 16:25:43 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!feed2.onemain.com!feed1.onemain.com!feeder.qis.net!feed1.news.rcn.net!rcn!news2.best.com!nntp1.ba.best.com!not-for-mail From: stukafox@stukafox.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Could Somebody PLEASE Pass The Beano? Date: 19 Jul 2000 23:25:43 GMT Organization: Enormous Spiders 'r' Us Lines: 40 Message-ID: <8l5ddn$jhf$1@nntp1.ba.best.com> References: <39737863.13C43B9E@mail.newsfeeds.com> <8l4m9l$2e3m$1@nntp1.ba.best.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: adsl-209-233-31-31.dsl.snfc21.pacbell.net X-Trace: nntp1.ba.best.com 964049143 20015 209.233.31.31 (19 Jul 2000 23:25:43 GMT) X-Complaints-To: abuse@best.com NNTP-Posting-Date: 19 Jul 2000 23:25:43 GMT User-Agent: tin/1.4.2-20000205 ("Possession") (UNIX) (Linux/2.2.14-5.0smp (i586)) Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:206061 Nearwidow wrote: > I'm absolutely positive there is a arachnid-hugger group out there on > usenet somewhere. Mind if I crosspost? I bet there'd be a price on your > head in no time *flat*. Go for it, my good man/woman/other! God loves a cross-poster, and I might even throw in the story of that goddamn huge Bird-Eatting Spider that I didn't almost buy for $200.00. Fucking hairy monster, that thing. Dude who worked at the store: "Yeah, this spider is big, fast and aggresive, plus is costs a fortune to feed." Me: "Geeze, too bad it doesn't have a reeking cunt and twice as much ugly, or it woulda been a shoe-in for a clone of my first girlfriend." Mr. Not-As-Swift-As-He-Thought-He-Was pulled the damn thing outta its tank, whereas it promptly when batshit, exploded legs out like the face-hugger in Alien, thrashed its self free of the two-foot long tongs, landed on the counter and took off like a huge, giant, hairy, poisonous, pissed-off gigantic fucking spider that'd just got free of a dumbfuck with tongs. Then, to prove it wasn't a total pussy, it reared-up on its back two legs and HISSED, showing one-inch fangs and charged BACK at us. I promptly jump up on the counter just vacated by the irrate arachnid and informed aforementioned dumbfuck that there was no fucking way I was shelling out two C-notes for a dinner-plate-sized eight-legged-horror that wants to kill me on sight, and left him to deal with the thing. I kinda wish I'd bought it now, as it ate full-grown mice and could probably defend my condo better than a rabid Doberman on crank. Plus, y'know, Halloween and shit. And Jehova's Witnesses. And Chronical/ SJ Merc salesboys. Fuck-all, I wonder if that damn thing's still for sale . . . StukaFox From rcrossNOrcSPAM@my-deja.com.invalid Fri Jul 21 15:09:31 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!pulsar.dimensional.com!dimensional.com!hermes.visi.com!news-out.visi.com!feeder.qis.net!sn-xit-01!supernews.com!sn-inject-01!WReNclone!WReNphoon3.POSTED!WReN!not-for-mail X-Originating-Host: 199.99.231.3 Organization: http://www.remarq.com: The World's Usenet/Discussions Start Here Subject: Re: Could Somebody PLEASE Pass The Beano? Lines: 76 From: bughunter Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Message-ID: <0af46acc.4b930a01@usw-ex0104-028.remarq.com> References: <39737863.13C43B9E@mail.newsfeeds.com> <8l4m9l$2e3m$1@nntp1.ba.best.com> <8l5ddn$jhf$1@nntp1.ba.best.com> <39783E24.B4AE7CCC@nls.net> Bytes: 3017 X-Wren-Trace: eJeympuCxY/ExYCNncSFvoidypaXmdbPkZSV1M/a15nByJnEyobMyg== Date: Fri, 21 Jul 2000 15:09:31 -0700 NNTP-Posting-Host: 10.0.2.28 X-Complaints-To: wrenabuse@remarq.com X-Trace: WReNphoon3 964218233 10.0.2.28 (Fri, 21 Jul 2000 15:23:53 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 21 Jul 2000 15:23:53 PDT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:206368 "Rev. Syd Midnight" wrote: >what are the best killer insect stories out there? Hmmm... *Killer* insect story? I guess mine's not "killer" but it's tasteless. The wasps nest in the porch light over my front door has been there since I moved in, April 17 1994. (Damn if I hadn't chosen the same day to move that Pink Floyd was playing at the Rose Bowl, only 3 miles away. I could almost hear "Careful With That Axe, Eugene.") Anyway, these are particularly creepy looking wasps. Totally black, they are so black they reflect blue in the sunlight. (I have a cousin - by marriage - whose skin is that dark. They call him Blue.) And they're pussies about cold (like my cousin). These wasps only come out when the summer temperatures get above 90F. But when it gets hot enough, they proceed to get real busy. Every summer, my neighbor, a single mom with a 2-year old screaming brat, gets scared and calls the property management company, who hires someone to come down and wage chemical warfare against the wasps while I'm not home. That pisses me off. First of all, they're harmless. They've never stung me once, and aren't the least aggressive. Hell, in 6 years I've only seen one inside my apartment. I have no clue what they eat, but it ain't me. Second, they make a great NOT WELCOME mat. If you come to my house on a sunny summer afternoon, pull open the screen door, and knock real hard, you'll get a face full of scary looking black wasps. If the nest is disturbed, about 50 wasps pour out of the bottom of the light fixture. Hell, in hot weather, just opening the screen door will do it. More than once I've been at home on a weekday, heard someone climb the wooden stairs leading up to my apartment door, open my screen door... and then run down the stairs again. Looking out the window when this happens, I always see Jehovah's Witnesses or kids who must have driven miles to carry blue bins of overpriced candy around my neighborhood. My (few) friends know not to bother me at home, and any workmen I call upon should have balls enough not to flee in full retreat from a few wasps. My sister knows to open the screen door -slowly- to avoid disturbing my insect guardians. I like my wasps. A lot. (I have no idea what they're called, but they're definitely wasps, seldom bigger than 1.5 cm, with a wasp shape, skinny black wings that constantly twitch, and a clear preference for very hot weather. IANAEntymologist.) Rick THE Bughunter ObKillerInsectStory: 1970's B-horror flick Empire of the Ants, starring Joan Collins. I have not heard anything of it since I saw it in the cinema as a teen. It must be in a landfill somewhere. Ooh - look, E! Online gives it a 'D' - http://www.eonline.com/Facts/Movies/0,60,5421,00.html ----------------------------------------------------------- Got questions? Get answers over the phone at Keen.com. Up to 100 minutes free! http://www.keen.com From jeffjustin@mail.newsfeeds.com Sat Jul 22 13:49:21 2000 Message-ID: <397A08D1.9A5A2E61@mail.newsfeeds.com> Date: Sat, 22 Jul 2000 16:49:21 -0400 From: Jeff Justin X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.72 [en]C-DIAL (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Could Somebody PLEASE Pass The Beano? References: <39737863.13C43B9E@mail.newsfeeds.com> <8l4m9l$2e3m$1@nntp1.ba.best.com> <8l5ddn$jhf$1@nntp1.ba.best.com> <39783E24.B4AE7CCC@nls.net> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.40.144.58 X-Trace: 22 Jul 2000 15:50:08 -0500, 216.40.144.58 Lines: 82 X-Authenticated-User: jeffjustin X-Comments: This message was posted through Newsfeeds.com X-Comments2: IMPORTANT: Newsfeeds.com does not condone, nor support, spam or any illegal or copyrighted postings. X-Comments3: IMPORTANT: Under NO circumstances will postings containing illegal or copyrighted material through this service be tolerated!! X-Report: Please report illegal or inappropriate use to You may also use our online abuse reporting from: http://www.newsfeeds.com/abuseform.htm X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers, INCLUDING the body (DO NOT SEND ATTACHMENTS) Organization: Newsfeeds.com http://www.newsfeeds.com 73,000+ UNCENSORED Newsgroups. Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!206.165.3.11!nntp.primenet.com!nntp.gblx.net!news-out.nibble.net!news-in.nibble.net!feed.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!feed3.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!goliath2.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!216.40.144.58 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:206494 "Rev. Syd Midnight" wrote: > > Poison spiders aside (brown recluse stories are another thread entirely!), > what are the best killer insect stories out there? > OK Syd, here goes. I was renting a one bedroom cottage on little Copneconic Lake out north of Fenton, MI. It was a small stream and spring fed lake connected to a larger lake owned by the local YMCA. Very little development around the lake and hence a rustic setting for my little cottage. One Monday Ayem, I climbed out of bed from my weekend drug marathon to a bleary head and this infernal humming sound in my ears. I figured it was just the aftermath, so I crawled to the shower and tried to wash away the indulgence of the weekend. When I returned to my bedroom, my head was much clearer, but I could still hear that sound. It was a low buzzing sound, that had a distant quality to it. That's when I noticed the wet spot in the corner of the ceiling, just above my TV. The sound seemed to be coming from there. Not having a lot of time to investigate, I made mental note of the location and finished getting dressed. I kept glancing up at the wet spot and wondering. Just as I reached for my shoes, the dam burst. A wet piece of drywall fell on the TV and a column of yellow jackets began spewing from the new hole in the ceiling. I grabbed my shoes and socks and ran out of the cottage to finish dressing. I couldn't reach my landlord all day while I was at work, so I went home with great trepidation that night. When I got there, I couldn't see in the windows, because they were all covered with wasps. I went to the store and bought three bug bombs, went back home and set them off just inside the front door. I spent the night with a friend and went to work from her house the next day. When I went home that night, I was pleased to find all the wasps dead on the floor and on the furniture. Hundreds of thousands of them. In some areas they were over an inch deep on the floor. More of the ceiling had fallen in, and I could see the grayish shape of a nest up among the rafters. The wet spot on the ceiling was the product of the yellow jacket excrement that dripped from the nest and eventually soaked through the drywall. I'd finally contacted my landlord and he had a pest specialist come out, and when the gut took down the ceiling in my bedroom, we found a nest, or actually a series of connected nests that occupied the entire back half of the cottage. it was the largest colony of yellow jackets any of us had ever seen, or heard of. My landlord relocated me temporarily to another cottage of his, and it took the workers more than a week to remove all of the nests, bodies and repair the damage. They removed four, 30 gallon bags of yellow jacket carcasses alone. I've never seen so many fucking insects in my life. Cheers, Jeff Justin ObT: The Chinese I had late last night disagreed with me at 3 AM. I woke up to the gentle burn of acid reflux knocking at my larynx. Coughing, gagging and choking I sat in the john for half an hour waiting to toss my cookies, but it wouldn't come. All day I've been able to taste the foulness of semidigested stomach contents washed in acids and bile, at the back of my throat. Yum! -----= Posted via Newsfeeds.Com, Uncensored Usenet News =----- http://www.newsfeeds.com - The #1 Newsgroup Service in the World! -----== Over 80,000 Newsgroups - 16 Different Servers! =----- ------------------------------ From minimoe@pepboys.org Tue Jul 18 14:15:43 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!Cidera!triton.skycache.com!4.1.16.34!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!feeder.qis.net!sn-xit-01!supernews.com!sn-inject-01!corp.supernews.com!not-for-mail From: "Nearwidow" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The Nearly Departed: Darwin's Challenge (wasRe: Herpes in the Hyperzone) Date: Tue, 18 Jul 2000 17:15:43 -0400 Organization: Base Camp Zero Lines: 104 Message-ID: References: <874s5ny26a.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> Reply-To: "Nearwidow" X-Complaints-To: newsabuse@supernews.com X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2314.1300 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2314.1300 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:205969 > >Klink writes: > > > >ObT2: So far, she had produced one gene-carrier. How many have you > >produced? Which one does Darwin say is winning the race? > > > > That's a sad but painful truth.. I'm hoping the father will get drunk > and take the kid with him to play Dodge The Freight Train or something > along those lines. . He's bound to do *something* stupid and life > endangering if he's given enough time to do it by my ex. It's all a > matter of time, beer and additional misdemeanor charges. > > klink > Ah, don't count on Uncle Chuck to do society's garbage disposal. Case in Point: .............The Nearly Departed! He should have been a LOCK to be a Darwin Award Winner. Despite a lifetime of abusing every chemical known to man, he's never badly OD'd. All the variables spell 'relief' you'd think would do in just about anyone sooner or later: a heavy drinker/smoker/drug addict who routinely played with guns and worked on high powered motor vehicles, combined with a hair trigger temper and few friends. He was an IV drug user during the early 80s. (he did manage to contract Hep C although somehow he avoided HIV). He wasn't a physical marvel either: while handsome enough, he was seriously underfed since food interferes with the effects of the high. If that isn't enough, when selling blow, he frequently short counted and otherwise burned his customers, some of whom were rather intimidating biker types. His dealings with his Colombian suppliers were often whiteknuckle events: his miserable personality and tightfistedness did not exactly make him a Popular Dude. Every cop in town HATED him. They all knew him too: the spoiled rich kid with all the hot cars. They pulled him over constantly, but he never lost his driver's license or even got arrested for anything until he started stalking me, in violation of the restraining order (Widder don't take no mess). He had some absolutely astounding car wrecks: our 77 Lincoln looked like it had been hit by a train when he was done rolling it down a ravine at a high speed. He walked away with a few cuts and broken ribs. He left the Lincoln in a steaming twisted heap, with the cops hot on his heels. Although his Brethalyzer was off the richter (it figured out to about .30 blood alcohol level) they never charged him with anything because they couldn't put him behind the wheel of the car at the time of the accident. The last accident should have been the last ANYTHING he did: with his daily methadone under his belt along with a couple of pokes of some crummy street dope, he dropped a handful of pills while putting away a twelve pak of Becks (the Nearly Departed did not drink crap, you know). He got the bright idea to go get some crack in Washington Heights at midnight, so he headed woozily for the GWB via 9W. At a high rate of speed, his little Bronco failed to negotiate a turn. He ended up smashed into a chestnut tree, bounced from the windshield to the lock bar across the hatch--crushing his skull--and ended up looking like one of our favorite jpgs from ABPG. About the time he was bleeding out his last few pints of blood, a paramedic just happened to drive by and notice the smoke and steam coming from the ravine (a meer three feet from the edge of the Hudson River). He was in agonal breathing at the time the firemedic got there: that's doing the death rattle to you lay folk. By the time he made it to the trauma center, his blood pressure was rising a little after being transfused enroute. A depressed skull fracture in the left side of his thick Kraut head, a subdural hematoma right over the cerebellum in addition to multiple small clots here and there in his brain. A crushed right shoulder and multiple internal injuries, including bleeding in his infected liver. He remained in a coma for two weeks, at which time he reacted little to any stimuli. The CTs were poor, but improving. While surgery corrected the immediate danger to his brain, the swelling was still an issue. They didn't offer a lot of hope. With the massive amount of brain damage he'd recieved, even if he recovered he'd like not walk or talk again. Shortly after becoming somewhat responsive and being removed from the respirator, he promptly coughed up some pneumococcus thru his trache and got aspiration pneumonia. He survived this as well. To make a very long story short, he lives. After two years, he walked and talked. He had a few more brain surgeries to relieve pressure and install a shunt after which time he improved dramatically. Today, more than six years after the accident that SHOULD have killed him and left me a True Widow with a nice life insurance settlement, he's living in a group home near the Kessler Head Injury unit in East Orange NJ. While he has pretty much no memory and absolutely no personality, I can say that he is at least a nicer person and really isn't that scary to look at and smells a little better than a bum (the continence is still a ....problem at times). Interestingly, the two things he does remember is that he'd really love a beer and a smoke. xXx p obPS: Ok, *why* did I marry him? He looked like a young Don Johnson and could fuck for hours, no matter how drunk/high/whatever. And his family has money. ------------------------------ From choad@bnl24.ten.nl Wed Jul 19 00:25:38 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!newsfeed.direct.ca!look.ca!newsfeed.icl.net!diablo.netcom.net.uk!netcom.net.uk!news1.ebone.net!news.ebone.net!newsfeed2.news.nl.uu.net!sun4nl!newsfeed0.news.nl.uu.net!bnl24.ten.nl!choad From: Rat's Ass Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Film Review: Transsexual Horse Lover 3 Date: Wed, 19 Jul 2000 09:25:38 +0200 Organization: UUNET-NL (http://www.nl.uu.net) Lines: 84 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: bnl24.ten.nl Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII X-Trace: porthos.nl.uu.net 963991462 29167 195.108.75.24 (19 Jul 2000 07:24:22 GMT) X-Complaints-To: abuse@nl.uu.net NNTP-Posting-Date: 19 Jul 2000 07:24:22 GMT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:206002 Film Review: Transsexual Horse Lover 3 They say that every image tells its own story. But sometimes, you see something that only leaves you filled with questions. In one of the countless porn shops in one of the countless side streets in the Red Light District, I came across this film last weekend. The title alone stopped me in my tracks. "Transsexual Horse Lover 3." My mind wrestled, and I began to accept some difficult facts: 1) Somebody got a he-she to fuck a horse. 2) They got it on tape. 3) They'd done this twice previously. The cover supported some of these conclusions, inasmuch as it depicted a person with a penis and breasts holding onto a horse's cock. I noted the information and moved on, reaching my favorite little smut-hole (Amsterdam residents will probably know it; the one with the orange handmade sign proclaiming cheap DVD's inside, within sight of Casa Rossa. I don't think it has a name.) They usually have a discount bin, so I went rummaging. I guess it was my lucky day: my SECOND encounter with Transsexual Horse Lover 3 in the same night. Surely, the gods' hands were guiding my actions. After all, the other store wanted something like 150 guilders for it, and here it was only... well, let's not talk about what I actually paid for it. It raises more embarassing questions and nobody really wants to hear me complain. So. Transsexual Horse Lover 3. The opening shot is an homage, I suppose, to Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music, only instead of a beautiful, precocious music teacher dancing down a lush Austrian hillside it's a guy with tits wearing a bikini running through a muddy field with his dick in his hand. I don't know where this takes place - there are no landmarks to spot and no closing credits. The dialogue consists entirely of unintentionally recorded directions in Porguguese (purely a guess - it sounds kind of like Spanish and Brazil seems a likely place to make a film like this). The characters: A big horse, a medium horse, a pony, and our hero, whom I will call Lucio (I met a Brazilian faggot once by that name). Don't let the tits and bikini fool you - Lucio looks like he works out, even though he's got a bit of a gut. He doesn't look like the obvious junkie that appears so often in this industry (raising yet another question). After fingering himself at length while lying in the field, he and his equine companions navigate a sordid love quadrangle. A blow-by-blow (heh) account of the film would be utterly boring, but there are some notable highlights. - The largest horse makes several attempts to kick the shit out of Lucio, who is not exactly gentle with the horse's cock. - This horse has a very tempermental erection. The warrior crawls out, ready for action, and tends to retreat the moment Lucio's hand gets anywhere near. Completely understandable. - The horse's trainer can be heard off camera (and, despite his best efforts, seen in several shots) giving irritated instructions. One begins to get a vague mental image of how this whole thing went down: "Well, the boss is gonna be gone until Thursday, so OK, I guess you can do the movie here, I get 500 dineros remember, but if anybody hurts one of the animals I'm gonna blow his fuckin' head off. And yours, and the cameraman's, and anybody else you bring with you. And I'm gonna shove that camera up your ass, and I'm gonna bury your dead fuckin' bodies in the furthest corner of the field and piss on your corpses." And then Chick with Dick shows up, and he says "Jesus H. Mary and Joseph, what the fuck is that? Hey, gonna do the horsie, pretty boy? Huh? You want a big cock, I got one here for ya..." - Lucio makes several vain attempts to do something really interesting with the horse's dick, like stick it in his ass where it belongs. It's just not long enough from where he's standing. At about 45 minutes into the film, the World's Smartest Man finally hits upon the idea of getting UNDER the horse, though even this isn't entirely successful. Likewise, the attempts at oral sex are half-assed: the tip of the horse's dick never approaches the mouth, and Lucio tries to get away with gnawing at the side. I really can't say any more about Transsexual Horse Lover 3. As Roger Ebert once said, this film has to be seen to be believed, though that may be too high a price to pay. I tried to take some screen photos but they didn't really turn out, so you'll have to either use your imagination or find the video. Though I did manage to scan the front and back cover, which I will email to anybody who is interested. RA ------------------------------ From stukafox@stukafox.com Wed Jul 19 16:25:43 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!feed2.onemain.com!feed1.onemain.com!feeder.qis.net!feed1.news.rcn.net!rcn!news2.best.com!nntp1.ba.best.com!not-for-mail From: stukafox@stukafox.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Could Somebody PLEASE Pass The Beano? Date: 19 Jul 2000 23:25:43 GMT Organization: Enormous Spiders 'r' Us Lines: 40 Message-ID: <8l5ddn$jhf$1@nntp1.ba.best.com> References: <39737863.13C43B9E@mail.newsfeeds.com> <8l4m9l$2e3m$1@nntp1.ba.best.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: adsl-209-233-31-31.dsl.snfc21.pacbell.net X-Trace: nntp1.ba.best.com 964049143 20015 209.233.31.31 (19 Jul 2000 23:25:43 GMT) X-Complaints-To: abuse@best.com NNTP-Posting-Date: 19 Jul 2000 23:25:43 GMT User-Agent: tin/1.4.2-20000205 ("Possession") (UNIX) (Linux/2.2.14-5.0smp (i586)) Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:206061 Nearwidow wrote: > I'm absolutely positive there is a arachnid-hugger group out there on > usenet somewhere. Mind if I crosspost? I bet there'd be a price on your > head in no time *flat*. Go for it, my good man/woman/other! God loves a cross-poster, and I might even throw in the story of that goddamn huge Bird-Eatting Spider that I didn't almost buy for $200.00. Fucking hairy monster, that thing. Dude who worked at the store: "Yeah, this spider is big, fast and aggresive, plus is costs a fortune to feed." Me: "Geeze, too bad it doesn't have a reeking cunt and twice as much ugly, or it woulda been a shoe-in for a clone of my first girlfriend." Mr. Not-As-Swift-As-He-Thought-He-Was pulled the damn thing outta its tank, whereas it promptly when batshit, exploded legs out like the face-hugger in Alien, thrashed its self free of the two-foot long tongs, landed on the counter and took off like a huge, giant, hairy, poisonous, pissed-off gigantic fucking spider that'd just got free of a dumbfuck with tongs. Then, to prove it wasn't a total pussy, it reared-up on its back two legs and HISSED, showing one-inch fangs and charged BACK at us. I promptly jump up on the counter just vacated by the irrate arachnid and informed aforementioned dumbfuck that there was no fucking way I was shelling out two C-notes for a dinner-plate-sized eight-legged-horror that wants to kill me on sight, and left him to deal with the thing. I kinda wish I'd bought it now, as it ate full-grown mice and could probably defend my condo better than a rabid Doberman on crank. Plus, y'know, Halloween and shit. And Jehova's Witnesses. And Chronical/ SJ Merc salesboys. Fuck-all, I wonder if that damn thing's still for sale . . . StukaFox ------------------------------ From enoid801@omit.home.com Wed Jul 19 20:54:41 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!nntp.primenet.com!nntp.gblx.net!enews.sgi.com!newshub2.rdc1.sfba.home.com!news.home.com!news1.sttls1.wa.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: enoid801@omit.home.com (Citizen Ted) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Uncle - AKA Brian Field AKA Stan Kelly. Message-ID: <39787758.8355730@news> References: X-Newsreader: Forte Agent .99g/32.339 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 110 Date: Thu, 20 Jul 2000 03:54:41 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.7.140.142 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.sttls1.wa.home.com 964065281 24.7.140.142 (Wed, 19 Jul 2000 20:54:41 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 19 Jul 2000 20:54:41 PDT Organization: @Home Network Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:206091 On Wed, 19 Jul 2000 21:56:16 +0100, Iain Stuart wrote: >Uncle Brian, the well-known cynic of this parish, has succumbed to cancer, >and died on 14 July 2000. Well, I knew it had to be *someone* who piffed. Until thirty minutes ago, I didn't know *who*. Before I relate this (very true) story, it must be said that I find precognition ridiculous and that I have zero belief in such tomfoolery. Chance and coincidence rule the day (and night), and it is these forces that I find grating on my mind with the news above. Here we go: Last night I had a dream that stirred me from sleep. In the dream, I was visiting an ex-SR's house. Her family was wandering about, cooking a meal and looking out the windows at a sunny day. I looked out the windows, too, and when I looked back inside, my friend Zeke Lenn, who had died two years ago from a cardiac, was sitting there in the room. I was alarmed; Zeke was supposed to be dead. The family knew him, too, and we all gathered around him. He was talking to us as if nothing was wrong. The family started to humor him - asking him how he was doing, what was new, etc. Zeke responded to their inquiries with his usual vigor. Eventually, I got a chance to speak to him alone. We walked toward the windows. I engaged him in small talk until we were away from the family and able to speak in confidence. I looked him in the eye, and with a great apple in my throat I explained to him that he was dead, and that he wasn't supposed to be here. He was taken aback and looked hurt. I told him it was true, that there was nothing I could do, and that he had to leave because the dead cannot be found among the living. It pained me to tell him this. The insanity of this conversation started to cause a great rumbling within me. I started feeling sadness (the same sadness I felt at his passing last year) and a certain horror, knowing that I was talking to an apparition who straddled the planes of existence. I began to feel panic and terror. With tears in my eyes, I told him I was sorry, but that he had to go. He looked at me longingly, not wanting to leave. I pushed him toward the window. I told him that he had to go into the light just like all the other dead people do in the movies. Wasn't that how it's done? I pushed him up, right against the glass, and he disappeared. I fell back and sat down onto the sofa. My SR came to console me; I was crying. Zeke was really, really dead. I suddenly awoke, about 6am this morning, from this dream. I lay in bed for a bit and remembered Zeke - a strident, opinionated, cynical man who had seen it all - and I missed him terribly all over again. (We were buddies at work for 7 years.) He was as cool as a 66 year old cantankerous old cuss could possibly be. He was an electronics whiz, having served the Apollo program as an engineer and team leader in Apollo communications. He joined Advent in 1975 and became a premier tech, repairing high-end Advent systems for the rich and famous in Beverly Hills, Holmby Hills and Bel Air. The stories he told! Ooooof! He was an avid skydiver and became president of the Northwest Skydiving Association. He was a HAM operator and a CB geek. He had gray hair, a bald head and nimble, precise fingers. He had a foul mouth and zero tolerance for layabouts, hippies or idiots. After reflecting on Zeke this morning in bed, I searched for meaning to my dream, and decided I just missed him. I then imagined that perhaps my dream was a portent of death - that perhaps someone I knew had died that night. Nah. There was NO WAY that kinda shit was going to happen. - TR - forced to relate this story as an homage to Uncle Brian, and pissed off because the story is true and because it's sappy and because Brian would have found it too damn touching and weak. I did it anyway. It had to be told. Brian and Zeke were much alike, and now they're more alike than either of them is comfortable with... Here's to Uncle Brian: curser of the weak, denouncer of the sanctimonious, celebrator of the debauched and invader of my dreams. ***May he rule in Hell rather than serve in Heaven.*** ObWarning: I don't want to hear anyone's "it's paranormal precognitive astral projection!" crap. It was a coincidence, nothing more. Unc died on the 14th, five days ago, not last night. So save it for somebody who gives a shit. Fuckin' hippies! ------------------------------ From TheNurz@ix.netcom.com Thu Jul 20 03:47:24 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!Cidera!triton.skycache.com!4.1.16.34!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!firehose.mindspring.com!not-for-mail From: NurzRachet Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Space Habitat Food. Vermin > Protein? Date: Thu, 20 Jul 2000 06:47:24 -0400 Organization: Our Lady of the Rearranged Umbilicus Lines: 61 Message-ID: <3976E6CC.AB6FBC2F@ix.netcom.com> References: <8icd6s$c8g$1@gail.ripco.com> <3949ECCC.B7EEE890@bigpond.net.au> <394D937A.EADCBD40@bigpond.net.au> <39530E84.98CFC2FA@montana.com> <39530052.C24F17B7@gte.net> <39584d76@news.netwalk.net> <8jefl5$9uq$2@gail.ripco.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: c7.ae.a4.ba Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Server-Date: 20 Jul 2000 12:52:48 GMT X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.7 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:206147 Jonathan Nature Boy Blaque wrote: > ObLittleKnownT: A Rapala Magnum fishing lure (sans > hooks) makes a right dandy dildo. > > Tell 'em, Nurzy. You know what I am? Concubine? Nope. Mistress? Nope again. I'm a carry-all suitcase. That's right. Every Wednesday night it's a game of "Backdoor to Adventure" or "Let's see what I can stick in her" and then wants to watch me carry the item while waddling around. A couple years ago he tried to convince me that if you microwave a cucumber it will feel like a choad. OK, I went along with that one (and yes, it mildly felt choad-like). Then he wanted to stick a belt in my ass so I could crawl around on all fours and look like a cat. I even went so far as to let him put a dog collar on me and make like he was going to give me a bath, and I was supposed to piss on him once he got me soaped up. But this past week was the final straw. He comes home from fishing and has this kinky beaming look to him. This tells me I'm either going to have some kinky fun or I'd better tape my minky and ass shut because he's found something else to play with. Enter a good luck charm called a Tail Dancer. It's actually a very pretty brightly-colored lure and I was quite surprised at the size of this thing. After destroying a pair of pliers I had (to get the hooks off) and washing the hell out of it, he chases me through the kitchen into the living room waving this fish in front of him as if it had pussy sonar. He then tries to explain to me <\skeptic mode> how this bump thing on the bottom can act as a clit bumper and is guaranteed to drive me wild. Well. The only thing Jaws did for me was make me itch (must have not washed it good enough) and made my clit burn (no, it didn't have any hooks on it). He tried a couple times to stick it in my ass, but I was afraid he'd stick it in too far and I'd wind up at my luxurious place of employment with this thing stuck in my sigmoid. All these games are fine for him to do to me, but I just *hint* that I'd like to stick my little finger in his ass, and he acts like I've just injected Ebola in his cock. Naturally, when it comes to *his* ass, it's a whole 'nother story. And he *still* won't tell me where he hid the Analizer. Nurzy Tuna Town ------------------------------ From TheNurz@ix.netcom.com Thu Jul 20 03:51:03 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!Cidera!triton.skycache.com!4.1.16.34!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!firehose.mindspring.com!not-for-mail From: NurzRachet Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Observations from the Sofa Date: Thu, 20 Jul 2000 06:51:03 -0400 Organization: Our Lady of the Rearranged Umbilicus Lines: 55 Message-ID: <3976E7A7.185A348A@ix.netcom.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: c7.ae.a4.ba Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Server-Date: 20 Jul 2000 12:52:50 GMT X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.7 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:206146 After a few days off due to working a long stretch, I did what any normal, respecting a.t.'er (male or female) would do. I parked my ass in front of the television and stayed there for two days, watching the full VCR tape of shit I recorded over the last six weeks, and did enough channel surfing to cause tendons in my arm to pop. No showers. No makeup. No toothpaste. No mail or phone calls. Just frequent trips to the kitchen and bathroom. For those of you who had better things to do, let me report some of the major events that happened this past month on t.v. First off, my man, Oscar De La Boya Toya, got his ass whupped by some fuckhead. If it wouldn't have meant moving the pizza boxes and bbq sauce saturated bags off the sofa so I could get up, peel my underwear off, shower and dress, I would have gone to wherever Oscar was so that I could nurz his weary body back to health and kiss his boo-boos. Not to mention his cock. Discovery Channel had a program on a giant squid which finished with some guy milking the 2' long squid choad and commenting on the copious amounts of spoo which slithered from the lifeless choad. (Deja vu last Wednesday, eh Vommy?) And yes, Lincard, squid spoo looks just like man spoo. Except there's a lot more of it. I also realized that my true calling in life was to be part of the Juggy Dance Squad on the Man Show (and I had also at once time wanted to be one of the Fly Girls on In Living Color), but unless I miraculously grow taller or lose weight (neither of which seem possible at the moment), I don't think I'm going to put on skimpy clothes and go on t.v. to bounce in front of the camera. I thought I would practice some of the Juggy moves and put on Sylvester's "Do You Wanna Funk," and tried mimicking some of the Juggy moves. Bad idea. I felt a burning pain down my left ass cheek which reminded me that I'm turning into a soft old bitch. I knew I'd better get back on the sofa before I passed out -- two minutes of aerobic activity was enough to make me hyperventilate and get dizzy. After finishing off a quart of milk and a bottle of Bailey's, my mind started to wander and I compiled a list of my most wanted fuck toys. Heading the list is Oscar, followed by that Crocodile guy, Joe Bob Briggs (minus the hat), and if I could dig up Guy Williams (provided he didn't smell *too* bad) and dress him up like Zorro, I could be his horse and he could fuck me senseless. I concluded my last night off by getting up off the sofa, tripping over an empty jar of peanuts, wobbling to the bathroom to take a shit, then returning to the sofa and falling asleep. Ah, life is good. Nurzy ------------------------------ From rcrossNOrcSPAM@my-deja.com.invalid Fri Jul 21 15:09:31 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!pulsar.dimensional.com!dimensional.com!hermes.visi.com!news-out.visi.com!feeder.qis.net!sn-xit-01!supernews.com!sn-inject-01!WReNclone!WReNphoon3.POSTED!WReN!not-for-mail X-Originating-Host: 199.99.231.3 Organization: http://www.remarq.com: The World's Usenet/Discussions Start Here Subject: Re: Could Somebody PLEASE Pass The Beano? Lines: 76 From: bughunter Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Message-ID: <0af46acc.4b930a01@usw-ex0104-028.remarq.com> References: <39737863.13C43B9E@mail.newsfeeds.com> <8l4m9l$2e3m$1@nntp1.ba.best.com> <8l5ddn$jhf$1@nntp1.ba.best.com> <39783E24.B4AE7CCC@nls.net> Bytes: 3017 X-Wren-Trace: eJeympuCxY/ExYCNncSFvoidypaXmdbPkZSV1M/a15nByJnEyobMyg== Date: Fri, 21 Jul 2000 15:09:31 -0700 NNTP-Posting-Host: 10.0.2.28 X-Complaints-To: wrenabuse@remarq.com X-Trace: WReNphoon3 964218233 10.0.2.28 (Fri, 21 Jul 2000 15:23:53 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 21 Jul 2000 15:23:53 PDT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:206368 "Rev. Syd Midnight" wrote: >what are the best killer insect stories out there? Hmmm... *Killer* insect story? I guess mine's not "killer" but it's tasteless. The wasps nest in the porch light over my front door has been there since I moved in, April 17 1994. (Damn if I hadn't chosen the same day to move that Pink Floyd was playing at the Rose Bowl, only 3 miles away. I could almost hear "Careful With That Axe, Eugene.") Anyway, these are particularly creepy looking wasps. Totally black, they are so black they reflect blue in the sunlight. (I have a cousin - by marriage - whose skin is that dark. They call him Blue.) And they're pussies about cold (like my cousin). These wasps only come out when the summer temperatures get above 90F. But when it gets hot enough, they proceed to get real busy. Every summer, my neighbor, a single mom with a 2-year old screaming brat, gets scared and calls the property management company, who hires someone to come down and wage chemical warfare against the wasps while I'm not home. That pisses me off. First of all, they're harmless. They've never stung me once, and aren't the least aggressive. Hell, in 6 years I've only seen one inside my apartment. I have no clue what they eat, but it ain't me. Second, they make a great NOT WELCOME mat. If you come to my house on a sunny summer afternoon, pull open the screen door, and knock real hard, you'll get a face full of scary looking black wasps. If the nest is disturbed, about 50 wasps pour out of the bottom of the light fixture. Hell, in hot weather, just opening the screen door will do it. More than once I've been at home on a weekday, heard someone climb the wooden stairs leading up to my apartment door, open my screen door... and then run down the stairs again. Looking out the window when this happens, I always see Jehovah's Witnesses or kids who must have driven miles to carry blue bins of overpriced candy around my neighborhood. My (few) friends know not to bother me at home, and any workmen I call upon should have balls enough not to flee in full retreat from a few wasps. My sister knows to open the screen door -slowly- to avoid disturbing my insect guardians. I like my wasps. A lot. (I have no idea what they're called, but they're definitely wasps, seldom bigger than 1.5 cm, with a wasp shape, skinny black wings that constantly twitch, and a clear preference for very hot weather. IANAEntymologist.) Rick THE Bughunter ObKillerInsectStory: 1970's B-horror flick Empire of the Ants, starring Joan Collins. I have not heard anything of it since I saw it in the cinema as a teen. It must be in a landfill somewhere. Ooh - look, E! Online gives it a 'D' - http://www.eonline.com/Facts/Movies/0,60,5421,00.html ----------------------------------------------------------- Got questions? Get answers over the phone at Keen.com. Up to 100 minutes free! http://www.keen.com ------------------------------ From jeffjustin@mail.newsfeeds.com Sat Jul 22 13:49:21 2000 Message-ID: <397A08D1.9A5A2E61@mail.newsfeeds.com> Date: Sat, 22 Jul 2000 16:49:21 -0400 From: Jeff Justin X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.72 [en]C-DIAL (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Could Somebody PLEASE Pass The Beano? References: <39737863.13C43B9E@mail.newsfeeds.com> <8l4m9l$2e3m$1@nntp1.ba.best.com> <8l5ddn$jhf$1@nntp1.ba.best.com> <39783E24.B4AE7CCC@nls.net> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.40.144.58 X-Trace: 22 Jul 2000 15:50:08 -0500, 216.40.144.58 Lines: 82 X-Authenticated-User: jeffjustin X-Comments: This message was posted through Newsfeeds.com X-Comments2: IMPORTANT: Newsfeeds.com does not condone, nor support, spam or any illegal or copyrighted postings. X-Comments3: IMPORTANT: Under NO circumstances will postings containing illegal or copyrighted material through this service be tolerated!! X-Report: Please report illegal or inappropriate use to You may also use our online abuse reporting from: http://www.newsfeeds.com/abuseform.htm X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers, INCLUDING the body (DO NOT SEND ATTACHMENTS) Organization: Newsfeeds.com http://www.newsfeeds.com 73,000+ UNCENSORED Newsgroups. Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!206.165.3.11!nntp.primenet.com!nntp.gblx.net!news-out.nibble.net!news-in.nibble.net!feed.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!feed3.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!goliath2.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!216.40.144.58 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:206494 "Rev. Syd Midnight" wrote: > > Poison spiders aside (brown recluse stories are another thread entirely!), > what are the best killer insect stories out there? > OK Syd, here goes. I was renting a one bedroom cottage on little Copneconic Lake out north of Fenton, MI. It was a small stream and spring fed lake connected to a larger lake owned by the local YMCA. Very little development around the lake and hence a rustic setting for my little cottage. One Monday Ayem, I climbed out of bed from my weekend drug marathon to a bleary head and this infernal humming sound in my ears. I figured it was just the aftermath, so I crawled to the shower and tried to wash away the indulgence of the weekend. When I returned to my bedroom, my head was much clearer, but I could still hear that sound. It was a low buzzing sound, that had a distant quality to it. That's when I noticed the wet spot in the corner of the ceiling, just above my TV. The sound seemed to be coming from there. Not having a lot of time to investigate, I made mental note of the location and finished getting dressed. I kept glancing up at the wet spot and wondering. Just as I reached for my shoes, the dam burst. A wet piece of drywall fell on the TV and a column of yellow jackets began spewing from the new hole in the ceiling. I grabbed my shoes and socks and ran out of the cottage to finish dressing. I couldn't reach my landlord all day while I was at work, so I went home with great trepidation that night. When I got there, I couldn't see in the windows, because they were all covered with wasps. I went to the store and bought three bug bombs, went back home and set them off just inside the front door. I spent the night with a friend and went to work from her house the next day. When I went home that night, I was pleased to find all the wasps dead on the floor and on the furniture. Hundreds of thousands of them. In some areas they were over an inch deep on the floor. More of the ceiling had fallen in, and I could see the grayish shape of a nest up among the rafters. The wet spot on the ceiling was the product of the yellow jacket excrement that dripped from the nest and eventually soaked through the drywall. I'd finally contacted my landlord and he had a pest specialist come out, and when the gut took down the ceiling in my bedroom, we found a nest, or actually a series of connected nests that occupied the entire back half of the cottage. it was the largest colony of yellow jackets any of us had ever seen, or heard of. My landlord relocated me temporarily to another cottage of his, and it took the workers more than a week to remove all of the nests, bodies and repair the damage. They removed four, 30 gallon bags of yellow jacket carcasses alone. I've never seen so many fucking insects in my life. Cheers, Jeff Justin ObT: The Chinese I had late last night disagreed with me at 3 AM. I woke up to the gentle burn of acid reflux knocking at my larynx. Coughing, gagging and choking I sat in the john for half an hour waiting to toss my cookies, but it wouldn't come. All day I've been able to taste the foulness of semidigested stomach contents washed in acids and bile, at the back of my throat. Yum! -----= Posted via Newsfeeds.Com, Uncensored Usenet News =----- http://www.newsfeeds.com - The #1 Newsgroup Service in the World! -----== Over 80,000 Newsgroups - 16 Different Servers! =----- ------------------------------ From jeffjustin@newsfeeds.com Wed Jul 26 12:50:16 2000 From: Jeff Justin Subject: Queefah Newsgroups: alt.tasteless NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.40.145.7 Message-ID: <397f40f8_2@goliath2.newsfeeds.com> Date: 26 Jul 2000 14:50:16 -0500 X-Trace: 26 Jul 2000 14:50:16 -0500, 216.40.145.7 Lines: 44 X-Authenticated-User: jeffjustin X-Comments: This message was posted through Newsfeeds.com X-Comments2: IMPORTANT: Newsfeeds.com does not condone, nor support, spam or any illegal or copyrighted postings. X-Comments3: IMPORTANT: Under NO circumstances will postings containing illegal or copyrighted material through this service be tolerated!! X-Report: Please report illegal or inappropriate use to You may also use our online abuse reporting from: http://www.newsfeeds.com/abuseform.htm X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers, INCLUDING the body (DO NOT SEND ATTACHMENTS) Organization: Newsfeeds.com http://www.newsfeeds.com 73,000+ UNCENSORED Newsgroups. Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!nntp.primenet.com!nntp.gblx.net!news-out.nibble.net!news-in.nibble.net!feed.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!goliath2.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!216.40.145.7 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:206841 Yep, that's her name. Queefah, pronounced Kwi-FAH, the new mail clerk we hired last week. I can tell she's going to be more fun than a barrel of the average porch monkeys we have working here. She's loud; she's proud; she's a sistuh; she's a queen. So all y'all jess doan mess. I'm sure you've all met the type, wearing cheap trendy clothes that are sizes too tight and showing off every not-so-subtle curve on her ample frame. Hair styled into myriad different shapes, most of which appear to be copies of UFO drawings, interpreted to fit on the human head, and done by "dat onedahfoe Mr. Daquandra down to Ms. Shaneequa's". Queefah's trail through the building can be traced by the stench of the "Obession" clone she wears, "Eau de Value City." Last Friday, as I waited for an elevator, she happened by and since I hadn't met her yet, I introduced myself and she did likewise. I made an innocent comment that I'd never met anyone with that name before. As we stepped into the elevator, she lit into me about my comment. "Doan you dog me o' mah name. Jess 'cause you white folk ain't nevah heard some name y'all gotta twist it aroun." I told her she was off base. I was only commenting that I'd never heard the name before. She continued with her rant. "Only white people has trouble wif new names, y'all so tight-assed. Next you gonna tell me it means sumpin' dirty to white folks." Ah, so she *had* been told about queefing before. That explains at least part of her exaggerated over-reaction to my comment. Say no more dear Queefah, say no more. I got it. I think Queefah is going to become one of my favorites here. Cheers, Jeff Justin ObT: I'm trying out a new newsreader and this post has the potential to be one hell of a mess as far as format is concerned. -----= Posted via Newsfeeds.Com, Uncensored Usenet News =----- http://www.newsfeeds.com - The #1 Newsgroup Service in the World! -----== Over 80,000 Newsgroups - 16 Different Servers! =----- ------------------------------ From TREETsyd@TREETnls.net Thu Jul 27 12:58:27 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!206.165.3.11!nntp.primenet.com!nntp.gblx.net!sjc-peer.news.verio.net!news.verio.net!news.sanjose1.Level3.net!Level3.net!news1.onlynews.com!not-for-mail Message-ID: <3980946A.1B7D8531@nls.net> From: TREETsyd@TREETnls.net Organization: http://www.nls.net/mp/syd X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.73 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Bees and Lye (Re: Could Somebody PLEASE Pass The Beano?) References: <39737863.13C43B9E@mail.newsfeeds.com> <8l4m9l$2e3m$1@nntp1.ba.best.com> <8l5ddn$jhf$1@nntp1.ba.best.com> <39783E24.B4AE7CCC@nls.net> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 52 NNTP-Posting-Host: onlyNews customer X-Trace: onlyNews customer NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 27 Jul 2000 12:58:27 PDT Date: Thu, 27 Jul 2000 19:58:27 GMT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:206911 Wow, I was drunk. It was a timely thought though... Cleveland has had an exceptionally mild summer, but this weak has heated up enough to bring the insects out of the woodwork. At my job, the files have won but I'm keeping a step ahead of the yellowjackets. your plain old garden variety yellowjacket is attracted to spilled pop, ice cream, and grubby, bawling children, so we usually have plenty. My cheapskate boss FINALLY relented and bought a can of spray, allowing me to call in air strikes on the damn YJ nests, but the can only lasted a couple days. The YJ forces went on the offensive, capturing the dumpster and launching strikes against the kids whose stupid parents let them play back behind the restaurant. fortunately, I had an epiphany, and solved the YJ problem. I filled a spray bottle with 1/2 water and 1/2 Red Devil liquid lye. Trembling with anticipation, I waited until the sun set, then grabbed the spray bottle in a gloved hand and hit the nests. The next day I was able to proudly survey the results of my handiwork, and pick off a few stragglers. The lye kills insects just as fast as poison (< 30 seconds), the only drawback being that it has a slower knockdown time (10-20 seconds). The nests hadn't grown large, so there were only a handful of burned, partially dissolved bodies. The lye killed quickly, liquefying the innards and leaving a pathetic, pitted exoskeleton behind as a warning to the others. The survivors did not stick around, as they sometimes will do with poison, buzzing about waiting for you to return. They got the fuck outta dodge. I would therefore heartily endorse mildly diluted lye as an effective insecticide. Unfortunately, you have to be careful what you spray, so you don't fuck up someone's car or something. and unlike spray, you must be VERY careful to remember where you used it, because lye will fuck up your day. Now, on a larger scale, I wonder how caustics would perform as crowd control? Firehoses don't seem to intimidate rioters very much, but I imagine that if they were spraying lye, you could empty out a town square in under a minute. ObT: Every few weeks some dumb fucker tries to kill themselves by drinking drain cleaner. At least it's entertaining! I remember reading a graphic tale of some sprog who took a swig from a Drano bottle in some old Women's Magazine (one of those "Please God, Not My Child!" kinda stories). I could kick myself for not saving it, but this was like 13 years ago. The sprog lived, but was permanently mute. The one part that I vividly recall was the surgeon describing the kids trachea as having "the consistency of oatmeal". ObBugsandLye: Time for work! I'm gonna spray down the gravel around the garbage dumpster, and kill off the flies. If some little rugrat walks through it in bare feet... they'll learn an important fucking lesson. -- -- Rev. Syd Midnight -- [Remove TREET from address to reply, if appropriate] "-FUCKYOUSYD- and Fuck the cunt that shat your ass upon the world! and fuck you with your whole goddamned family, even the dead and buried ones you misbegotten scabbed assed son of a bitch." -- Socketman ------------------------------ From liammail@optusnet.com.au Thu Jul 27 09:18:34 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!feeder.via.net!enews.sgi.com!harbinger.cc.monash.edu.au!newshub1.rdc1.nsw.optushome.com.au!news1.optus.net.au!optus!news1.mpx.com.au.MISMATCH!news01.syd.optusnet.com.au!nnrp01.syd.optusnet.com.au!not-for-mail From: "liam phillips" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: My first post Date: Fri, 28 Jul 2000 01:48:34 +0930 X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 4.72.3110.1 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V4.72.3110.3 Lines: 54 Message-ID: <39805b67$0$11142$7f31c96c@news01.syd.optusnet.com.au> NNTP-Posting-Host: 198.142.48.182 X-Trace: 964713320 news01.syd.optusnet.com.au 11142 198.142.48.182 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:206895 I've been reading alt.tasteless for a while now, and have never posted before. The reason being tasteless things just don't happen to me, or any persons around me, much to my despair. This all changed a few days ago, and I am happy to report that I believe I have witnessed an event worthy of tastless. Coming home early from work the other day, I noticed a particularly large group of 'tards at the bus stop. I had never noticed before, but there is a 'tard school just across the road form where I work (my building is in one of those areas of town where all the shops sell nothing but swimming pool pumps and bizarre engine parts - obviously an ideal location for a 'special school'). Of course they then all proceeded to get on the bus I was catching. The first thing I noticed is how much they sweat. Man, the stuff was pouring off them. It's as if being a 'tard is hard work or something. Anyway, they all settled at the far end of the bus, and began amusing themselves with some brightly coloured objects one of them had. The only seat I could get was one of those ones that is backwards, facing the other direction, and so I had to sit with having them all in full view. A few stops down some people got off, and the sexiest chick I've seen in a long while got on. She was wearing a very low cut top and a really short skirt, and she sat just across from me, in front of the herd of 'tards. I was having a great time perving on her from behind my sunglasses, when I noticed the two 'tards behind her, who were both 'teenage' males, began rising slightly in the seat to cop a look down her cleavage. This continued on for some time, before one of them started to get really....excited. He began grinding his hand into his crotch, and grunting inanely. His mate, spurred on by his comrade's obvious enjoyment, began to do the same, and so it was that I was looking at this hot babe, and two 'tards wanking through their shorts behind her. At this point I realised the amusing affliction here: the body and hormones of a pubescent male, and the mind of an excitable puppy. The one on the left, unable to crontrol himslef, then did something I was not expecting. He shoved his whole hand in his mouth (and this is no mean feat), got it all nice and sloppy, and then casually placed it on the back of the hot babe's neck. Upon realising that her neck was covered in 'tard syliva, she shrieked and leapt up, while the two 'tards began a grunting/laugh of approval. The 'tard wrangler, who up until this point was occupied with some of the smaller ones, instantly went to the poor girl's aid with a cloth and began helping her wipe all the dribble off. The wrangler did this with such grace and professionalism that I am sure it is a practice which she must have done often. Next stop, the wrangler grabs all the 'tards and marches them off the bus, and the poor hot babe returns to her seat. I'm sure I could have offered some comforting words to her at this point, but I was too busy smiling - smiling at the event I had just witnessed, and also that I had my first post for alt.tasteless. ------------------------------ From worley@dworley.ne.mediaone.net Sat Jul 29 10:18:57 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!yellow.newsread.com!netaxs.com!newsread.com!feeder.qis.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!newsfeed.cwix.com!chnws02.mediaone.net!chnws05.ne.mediaone.net!24.128.8.202!typhoon.ne.mediaone.net.POSTED!not-for-mail Sender: worley@blob.ariadne.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: .sig file From: worley@dworley.ne.mediaone.net (Acetylcholinesterase Inhibitor) X-No-Archive: yes Message-ID: <877la43ldp.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> Lines: 220 X-Newsreader: Gnus v5.7/Emacs 20.4 Date: Sat, 29 Jul 2000 17:18:57 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.218.145.6 X-Complaints-To: abuse@mediaone.net X-Trace: typhoon.ne.mediaone.net 964891137 24.218.145.6 (Sat, 29 Jul 2000 13:18:57 EDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 29 Jul 2000 13:18:57 EDT Organization: Road Runner Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:207033 I've been accumulating a.t signature lines. Any others to be added? Dale ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ^@ Encourage quality, discourage crap. -- The FAQ ^@ I think our society needs more forms of potentially lethal entertainment that don't require an unusual degree of physical fitness. -- Mark Wood ^@ I was put on the earth to be your toilet and pervert pig. -- Steve ^@ At 8am, I was woken by Wino Two - unaware of my presence - masturbating furiously and grunting "this'll teach you to die on me, bitch". -- Ray, on the pleasures of cheap hotels ^@ I looked at him as I hung up the phone and explained that I hadn't seen, heard, or in any other way sensed that he was choking his chicken, but now that he'd enlightened me with that information, I was thoroughly repelled, thank you. -- Jeff Justin ^@ At least half of [the survivors] had this to say: "God was watching over me." Most of those people didn't even believe in a God. This is the deity-as-hit-man view of theology. What I always thought was, if God was looking out for you, He must have had a real hard-on for all those folks he belted into the etheric like so many rubber javelins. -- John Varley, "Steel Beach" ^@ "Ah Glass-hopper" (donning Zen robes and fake chink accent) "Sex should be enjoyed for its perversity, never for its esthetics." -- Crato ^@ To be more careful, there is another bodily effluent that is rarely if ever eroticized in porn: nasal mucus. -- David Austin ^@ You can -try- to lead us into the light, but we'd be happier preforming revolting acts in the dark. -- Euel Ball ^@ Somewhere, even as we speak, some innocent little child who takes care of lost animals and spends time talking to her dying grandma is having her nipples torn off with pliers by some psycho. -- Herry ^@ I don't know whether to be proud of myself or mildly ashamed. In fact, this could be my epitaph. -- Jaffo ^@ This isn't a social club. This isn't that nice neighborhood bar where everybody knows your name, and it sure as hell isn't that nice little BBS where everyone gets together for user meetings. At best, this is a digital version of a seedy biker bar -- the place that *has* to exist lest its customers start hanging out in the good parts of town. -- The Carrot ^@ God had some serious quality-control problems. -- Superior Court Judge Leslie Light ^@ If we'd known it was going to cause this much problem we'd have picked our own damned cotton. -- Rumpledforeskin ^@ Opossums always remind me of retarded, oafish rats. Whenever I see an opossum wandering aimlessly across a road, I always imagine its sibling rats sitting curb-side, snickering cruelly, as though they had put him up to crossing as a practical joke. -- Fuzzy Pink Bunny Slippers ^@ Regularly saying (usually in front of my ex, and usually within earshot of others), "I like my coffee the way I like my women: black and bitter." -- Dave Garrett ^@ I like my women like I like my coffee... hot, wet, creamy, sweet, cheap and frequently refilled. -- Swan ^@ I've also seen, "I like my women like I like my coffee -- tied into a sack and thrown over the back of a donkey." -- Reginleif ^@ Readers will likely be struck by the obsessive reference to sexual matters and their connection to stupidity (especially in the case of the male sexual organ) and cheating and swindling. According to [the Italian linguist A.G.] Lotti, in Italian there are about twelve hundred vernacular words for 'penis.' I have chosen only a few, but there is no denying that sexual innuendo pervades Italian slang. -- Dictionary of Italian Slang and Colloquial Expressions by Daniela Gobetti ^@ With women finally subjugated as sex toys and menial servants, we dick-danglers can get back to the business of waging war and playing poker. -- Notorious P.I.G. ^@ Marsha's in the parlor on acid having her baby. -- "Trots and Bonnie" by Shary Flenniken ^@ "Lenore, you are one tough Jew." -- Jeffrey Dahmer -- Lenore's .sig ^@ ...anyone yet made a remark about that .sig of yours ? It stinks of the most vile pompousness. -- knackos ^@ On the contrary, Acetyl, old bean. Some of us *want* something ugly to happen. -- Jonathan "Nature Boy" Blaque ^@ Literally beat the life out of my numb, battered penis which finally responded with a half-hearted heave and a small amount of pathetic, watery seminal fluid. No orgasm either. It was a situation where I had decided to either ejaculate or die trying, and it was a photo finish. -- Rev. Syd, "How pseudoephedrine can aid *your* sex life" ^@ Thou shalt laugh cruelly and mercilessly at the misfortunes of others, no matter how grevious. -- The a.t FAQ ^@ Definition of Usenet: "Through the wonders of modern technology, you too can be irritated by people you otherwise would never have met." -- Amanda Walker ^@ ...It is YOUR God, they are YOUR rules, YOU burn in hell. ...Uncle Brian - Perth, W.A. (2 February 1936 - 14 July 2000) ^@ I keep telling people that Silence of the Lambs was a tasteless romance movie. It's really sad that they don't look beyond the blood, guts, murder, cannibalism, and psychotic behavior and see the love between an insane man and the sexy FBI agent that is playing so hard to get. -- Deliverer, a.t 2000 ^@ But seriously though, it might be a real adventure to fuck something with a bright blue asshole. -- Uncle Brian on Baboons ^@ The fact that cancer will carry off most of us is my justification for exceeding 100mph on the bike as often as possible. -- Spud ^@ The modern Jew should have a cell phone in one hand and a ham sandwich in the other. And his jackboot on the throat of a Palestinian. - Geoff Miller ^@ Shallow graves for shallow people. -- Daria ^@ This almost sounds like "Clue for ATers": "Col. Mustard, in the craphole, with a candlestick." -- Dave Garrett ^@ You AT women think you've dated some Bad Boys? Leni has a few stories to tell you about her ex... -- Rev. Syd, regarding Leni Riefenstahl and her alleged affair with Adolph Hitler ^@ If you are starting to believe that the vast bulk of humanity is a worthless morass of lying, defecating chimpanzees, then I've done my job. -- Citizen Ted ^@ Don't forget the kids. Any time I am near a McDonalds, I'm amazed how many people forgot to wear protection while having sex. Now, if only McDonalds sold kiddieburgers. -- Abigail, on the intelligence of fast food patrons ^@ The object in war is to NOT die, bravely or otherwise. But if death is imminent, a good way to go is firing an automatic weapon and screaming "AHHHHMOTHERFUCKERRRRR!" whilst urinating in your pants one last glorious time. -- Rev. Syd Midnight in a.t ^@ My happiness at a successful show was sorta short-lived when some stupid bitch at the front of the stage screeched "My God, that's fuckin' DISGUSTING!!" and proceeded to jettison what looked like a half-digested chicken-and-mayo sandwich across my chest. -- default in AT ^@ And then it hits me I KNOW THIS GUY! It was my 10th grade boyfriend, Dave. He had been arrested on COPS for all to see getting busted for dealing a pound of coke. It still makes me smile when I think about it. After all, he dumped me because I wasn't "cheerleaderish" enough for him. -- Julia ^@ I was stopped by this crazed lunatic who was carrying a sledgehammer. He looked both ways and asked me if I was a Mexican. I told that I wasn't and he told me that some Mexican had fucked his woman and he was gonna go kill him with that hammer. I wished him good luck and hurried away. -- Deliverer ^@ >>It's very difficult to accidentally nail your penis and scrotum to a >>board, stretched out for maximal display benefit. -Thorfinn >I, uh, slipped in the shower. -Adam J. Thornton .... with a nailgun. -Alan Bellingham ^@ Get cancer. Die. -- Herry ^@ Quit that, too, and have just learned to enjoy wallowing in my periods of depression. Suicide's for pussies. I figure I'll hang on as long as I can and make everybody else miserable, too. -- Enemy of the State ^@ There's nothing wrong with me that years of therapy and psychotropic medications wouldn't fix. --Alraune ^@ ObTCit: "When the crew of the Enola Gay landed, they celebrated with a barbeque." --Kim Stanley Robinson, A History of the 20th Century, With Illustrations ^@ "The lurid details of the case were made more sensational when tests at the state crime lab confirmed that fluid found in the boy's rectum was indeed dog semen." ^@ An asylum, a makeshift stage, an audience of madmen and voyeurs, a cast of lunatics: The essence of the theater restored at last. -- Maurice Lever describing the Marquis de Sade's theatrical productions at Charenton insane asylum ^@ -FUCKYOUSYD- and Fuck the cunt that shat your ass upon the world! and fuck you with your whole goddamned family, even the dead and buried ones you misbegotten scabbed assed son of a bitch. -- Socketman ^@ A helpful tip for having your anus examined: When a finger or a tool enters your anus, apply a little pressure like when you are defecating. As a result of this push, the anal sphincters will loosen up and the insertion will go smoothly. If you close the sphincters because you squirm, you will only add more pain on yourself. -- Dr. OK, "Let's Go Visit Dr. OK's Clinic" ^@ Watching "Roy's Nut Hang" on a large screen TV is something I endorse HIGHLY. Surround sound helps as well. -- http://spc.bodymodification.com/modcon/mod3.html ^@ ---------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------ From nihilists@dada.net Sat Jul 29 16:44:46 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news-feeder2.wcg.net!WCG!mtu.ru!telocity-west!TELOCITY!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!howland.erols.net!news-out.transit.remarq.com.MISMATCH!sn-xit-01!supernews.com!sn-inject-01!corp.supernews.com!not-for-mail From: "Nearwidow" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: .sig file Date: Sat, 29 Jul 2000 19:44:46 -0400 Organization: Base Camp Zero Lines: 19 Message-ID: References: <877la43ldp.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> Reply-To: "Nearwidow" X-Complaints-To: newsabuse@supernews.com X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2314.1300 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2314.1300 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:207046 "the future would be so bright, if only it weren't so bleak." (Bruce Carleton, former art director, SCREW magazine) "Life is pretty great, if it weren't such a pit of puking stink." (Nearwidow) "Video meliora proboque; deteriora sequor." ["I see the good and value it, I follow the bad."] --Ovid "Ambition is the last refuge of the failure." --O. Wilde ------------------------------ From ansel@babylon.dyndns.org Sun Jul 30 11:56:15 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news-feeder2.wcg.net!WCG!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!paloalto-snf1.gtei.net!news.gtei.net!enews.sgi.com!nntp.primenet.com!nntp.gblx.net!sjc-peer.news.verio.net!news.verio.net!sn-xit-01!supernews.com!sn-inject-01!corp.supernews.com!not-for-mail From: Ansel Sermersheim Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: .sig file Date: 30 Jul 2000 11:56:15 -0700 Organization: Posted via Supernews, http://www.supernews.com Lines: 134 Sender: ansel@redhawk.babylon.dyndns.org Message-ID: <87aeezwipc.fsf@redhawk.babylon.dyndns.org> References: <877la43ldp.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> X-Complaints-To: newsabuse@supernews.com User-Agent: Gnus/5.0806 (Gnus v5.8.6) XEmacs/20.4 (Emerald) MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:207079 > I've been accumulating a.t signature lines. Any others to be added? A couple of these do not come from a.t - they are .sigs that are from other groups, that I have used in posting to a.t, and must have gotten into your list by accident. (There are some other misanthropic empathy-deficit-disorder people on the net.) > Don't forget the kids. Any time I am near a McDonalds, I'm amazed how many > people forgot to wear protection while having sex. Now, if only McDonalds > sold kiddieburgers. -- Abigail, on the intelligence of fast food patrons > ^@ > >>It's very difficult to accidentally nail your penis and scrotum to a > >>board, stretched out for maximal display benefit. -Thorfinn > >I, uh, slipped in the shower. -Adam J. Thornton > .... with a nailgun. -Alan Bellingham Included below are all the .sigs I've gleaned from a.t: (minus most of the ones you've already quoted) % Could Elliot Ness's Untouchables take out David Koresh? For a challenge, how about the Weathermen and a few Yippies against a militia compound? -Rev. Syd Midnight, explaining a new game idea % You're drinkin' Kokanee and you're callin *me* sick? Pah. That stuff tastes like it was made in the middle of the night by a bunch of beer elves pissing into a vat whilst giggling maniacally at the joke they're playin on you. -Pinhead the Cenobite % > A Practicing Pyrokleptonecrobestialist You like to fuck burning, dead, stolen animals? Coooool. I'd like to watch. It sounds so, you know, high risk. -St. K, responding to Sergeant Zeno's signature % Designated driver be damned. I just thought of an even better reason to bring along a sober friend on a night out - to screen the evening's catch before closing the deal. Remember: Friends don't let friends fuck ugly chicks. -dave, in a.t % Pulling up next to a car on a crowded street 'cause you see it's occupied, and then noticing that the occupants are in flagrante delicto, but you still want the parking spot. Somehow, "Pulling out soon?" doesn't seem to be an appropriate question. -Wes Payne in a.t % [pondering a nuclear war in Asia] Yeah, that's all very well, but NOT if it's going to make my next PC more expensive. ObT: Weighing up the the personal financial cost of a nuke war, and deciding that it's worth it. - "Frank," <38BEFD65.99C00440@whanganui.ac.nz> % Curiously, her sound bite was "I'm so lucky to be alive" rather than "I was so unlucky as to occupy the same area of Earth where this flaming dart decided to come down, given the millions of square miles on the Earth's surface." -TEW on a.t, about an eyewitness to the Concorde crash % I never got a bird to talk, but had a cockatiel who answered to the name Jesus Christ due to his incessant habit of landing on my head every 3 minutes, no matter how severe the punishment it earned. I raised a baby sparrow who was only referred to as Dammit, since it was the most annoying and frustrating creature I had ever met. -Rev. Syd Midnight % Jerry also made a little side dish called Texas Mice. A Texas Mouse was an jalepeno pepper stuffed with some kind of cheese. I don't know where he got those peppers, but some insane Mexican farmer somewhere should be locked up forever, he's dangerous. -kenb in a.t % Remember that, in the military, every warning, no matter how obvious, inane, simple or even obscure, is written in the blood of some poor fuck who screwed it up before. -Wes Payne % What I appreciated most is that every MRE comes with a tiny bottle of extra strong Tobasco Sauce. They've finally hit upon the fact that in an emergency, an american can eat damn near anything if it's smothered in hot sauce. -Rev. Syd Midnight, in a.t % I need to label this phenomenon so I don't have to understand it. -DE in a.t % I brushed the dirt and hair off and tried some, it tasted like black pepper cured jerky. That was a bonus, since jerky doesn't go bad, and even if it isn't jerky, anything that looks like jerky and tastes like jerky is good enough for me to eat. -Rev. Syd Midnight in at % I just tried to read this exchange between 3 WebTVers, all thinking they were clever enough to flame someone. My brain began to liquify as though it had been encased in lucite and left on a windowsill to ferment. I had to look away; I could _feel_ my IQ lowering. -Ginny, in a.t % If you're not entertaining, you will be flamed. Even if you are entertaining, you well may be flamed anyway by someone who's just tearing your belly open to see what sort of guts are inside it. -Lenore Levine in a.t % ObT: Couple of days ago, I was on the bus. This is not particularly unusual, as I commute to work on the bus. However, I had a feeling that this day was going to be different. You see, I generally catch the bus that all of the other white-collar folk are on. However, when the train is late, I get to take the next bus. The bus full of people who take the bus because there is no alternative. Well, I found myself looking at a tard. A high-functioning tard, apparently, as there was no wrangler in sight, but obviously a tard. She was approximately 5'3", maybe 245 lb, and thirtyish. Truly pathetic waste of flesh. The driver was none too smooth (lot of newbies these days), and all us poor pax were really slammed around. Her stomach was not enjoying this. Picture Mimi from The Drew Carey Show, sitting on a bus and heaving. She was quite discreet about it, didn't make any noise, but I could tell that her puny addled brain was not capable of getting the stomack out of Full Reverse. In the middle of the complicated twiching that appeared to be her normal movements, a furtive search for a recptacle became obvious. It became a race between the stomach and the fingers. Will they make it? I groaned in dissappointment, as she found a clear plastic bag from her lunchbox. It was a photo finish - she pulled the bag to her mouth, heaved, and ... looked down in disgust at a lap full of puke. She had forgotten to turn the bag over, and had upchucked straight at the bottom of the bag. I watched with glee as the reality of the situation began to percolate to the depths of her reduced consciousness, and she started to sob. I thought of offering her my spoon, but tards don't deserve that kind of special treatment. -Ansel -- Try not to think about the fact you are going to consume this stuff. At this stage it will only upset you. Think about something else as you stir. Think, for example, about little baby lambs in as non-sexual a context as you are able. -"Extreme Cocoa," totl.net/ExtremeCocoa/ ------------------------------ From justusloonz@n2tv.com Sun Jul 30 18:16:13 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!cyclone2.usenetserver.com!news-out.usenetserver.com!cyclone1.usenetserver.com!news-east.usenetserver.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: justusloonz@n2tv.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: potential Apeshit in White County - Bald Knob Message-ID: <3984ce89.25228728@east.usenetserver.com> References: <397fa4d8.19823953@east.usenetserver.com> <39805335.6710A3AA@newsfeeds.com> X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.21/32.243 Lines: 44 X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers X-Abuse-Info: Otherwise we will be unable to process your complaint properly X-Complaints-To: support@usenetserver.com NNTP-Posting-Date: Sun, 30 Jul 2000 21:26:34 EDT Organization: WebUseNet Corp http://www.usenetserver.com - Home of the fastest NNTP servers on the Net. Date: Mon, 31 Jul 2000 01:16:13 GMT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:207105 On Thu, 27 Jul 2000 11:20:21 -0400, Jeff Justin wrote: > > >justusloonz@n2tv.com wrote: >> >===dragging death snipped=== > >No. No. No. > >You sir, are defiling the memory of the late Uncle, curator >of the apeshit contest page, in labeling this as an apeshit. >Apeshitting has nothing to do with this type of fun. >Assuming there were three perps in this case, and assuming >there was a single dragging death, then this is a simple >case of country boys blowing off a little steam. Now, if >the three perps are white and dragee a nigrah, then in the >eyes of the medjah we now have a hate crime. Now, so much >for the educational portion of this post. But that was why I labelled it a potential Apeshit, although after reading further I realize there was more to this definition than I understood, therefore I stand corrected to the extent. BTW, there must have been nothing more to the story. It was unknown at the time of the report other than the number of perps.. I've been patiently reviewing the newswires at my part time job and haven't seen any more on it since. Indeed I've been lurking and learning plenty of the lingo which is truly unique about A.T., but you're correct in torching my arse since I did get the technical portion incorrect.. As long as I'm wrong, I will tolerate any and all torchings (and will likely dish it out too) as I'm picky about correctness that is not political. Now to my question for you and the class: Would it be appropriate to suggest the definition of apeshit be placed in the AT encyclopedia horribilis? (Who handles that?) I've reviewed the whole thing recently and haven't seen it entered yet. If fewer and fewer get it wrong in the future, then it could be considered an appropriate tribute to Uncle who contributed so much to this NG. New words and one's choad; Learn it, Use it, Wear it out.. ~justusloonz~ ------------------------------ From justusloonz@n2tv.com Sun Jul 30 19:45:59 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!cyclone2.usenetserver.com!news-out.usenetserver.com!cyclone1.usenetserver.com!news-east.usenetserver.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: justusloonz@n2tv.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: potential Apeshit in White County - Bald Knob Message-ID: <3984e08f.29843289@east.usenetserver.com> References: <397fa4d8.19823953@east.usenetserver.com> <39805335.6710A3AA@newsfeeds.com> <8766pr1ovp.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <3980792F.E1D7F68B@newsfeeds.com> X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.21/32.243 Lines: 34 X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers X-Abuse-Info: Otherwise we will be unable to process your complaint properly X-Complaints-To: support@usenetserver.com NNTP-Posting-Date: Sun, 30 Jul 2000 22:58:50 EDT Organization: WebUseNet Corp http://www.usenetserver.com - Home of the fastest NNTP servers on the Net. Date: Mon, 31 Jul 2000 02:45:59 GMT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:207108 On Thu, 27 Jul 2000 14:02:23 -0400, Jeff Justin wrote: >home the lesson of what is a true Darwin or an Apeshit in a >way that will not only impart the knowledge, but that will >also give the learner that "aha" experience at which time >they can fit their new found knowledge into the context of >real life. A "true Darwin" should be placed in the EH as well. It's definition not being a part of the EH is a real shame since it's being mentioned throughout the tasteless kingdom consistently. I've read plenty about the Darwin Awards being an Art Bell fan who lost plenty of sleep with the net and the radio show he hosted. Although I'm not an educator, I share that passion of the "aha" when "the light" comes on, the choad hardens if of the male gender, (perhaps an orgasm or multiple orgasms for females?) and a near pure bliss comparable to pushing that button which releases morphene from the pump at the hospital. My best friend was once a teacher. Understanding - not always tasteless, not always fun, but it is so universal and real! > >It's kinda like the difference between letting someone read >about trepanning, and subjecting them to a thorough >squicking. The latter will leave them with such a deeper >understanding, the concept will have penetrated their >consciousness so much better and there will be no further >need to drill them on the idea. Ya see, there's another word I don't recall finding in the EH (trepanning) that should IMHO be there. I've seen it twice in the time I've lurked and have no clue what it means, but squicking is so much an A.T. pasttime (both manners of usage) and has been well defined in the EH. For the newbies, what is trepanning? <> ~justusloonz~ ------------------------------ From klink@ec.rr.com Mon Jul 31 06:31:29 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!newsfeed.cwix.com!cyclone.southeast.rr.com!typhoon-news1.southeast.rr.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: Klink Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: My newest cow-worker- Lovehate at 1st Sight Message-ID: X-Newsreader: Forte Agent 1.6/32.525 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 33 Date: Mon, 31 Jul 2000 13:31:29 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.25.51.24 X-Complaints-To: abuse@rr.com X-Trace: typhoon-news1.southeast.rr.com 965050289 24.25.51.24 (Mon, 31 Jul 2000 09:31:29 EDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 31 Jul 2000 09:31:29 EDT Organization: Road Runner - EC Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:207121 Our ditzy new clerk and I spoke at length today about our shared preference for certain movies (porn wasn't mentioned, sorry). Bits and pieces of our world view came out as well. I was questioned at length about my love for guns. Apparently she's the stereotypical airhead when it comes to weaponry. Her fear of all things Blued n' Steel runs so deep she went silent at an offer to take her out shooting. In my mind, fear on that level should be classified as a "phobia", but she denied having one. Of course. "Gee, wouldn't it be great if guns didn't exist?", exclaimed the smiling redhead with Lithuanian blood in her veins. I haven't heard idiotic daydream reasoning like this since Clinton's last press conference. With any luck, our relationship will result in raunchy, merciless fucking or a series of rude political shouting matches. I'm game for either scenario. She's a vegetarian, Al Gore voting, non leg shaving type of gal, so I could offend her in practically unlimited ways just by being myself ( I hope ). Oh, and she's Jewish too. That's a gold mine in my book. GluB willing, I'll be able to boink her in my apartment where I can slip on a trusty CD-R copy of Nazi Marching Songs Volume III right after the coital festivities. Diversity is great! It was a lot harder to offend people back when I was exclusively among my own kind. klink If you love someone, lift the knife off her throat and let her go. ------------------------------ From alraune@ix.netcom.com Mon Jul 31 15:24:31 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news-feeder2.wcg.net!WCG!hermes.visi.com!news-out.visi.com!nycmny1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!firehose.mindspring.com!not-for-mail From: alraune@ix.netcom.com(Alraune) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Some Americans ARE IGNORANT Date: 31 Jul 2000 22:24:31 GMT Organization: MindSpring Enterprises Lines: 24 Message-ID: <8m4uav$qm9$1@slb7.atl.mindspring.net> References: <3968AF93.28C9@fuckyou.company.uk> <3969EF94.3774@fuckyou.company.uk> <1nNqOaUps0DUTERCw=mk441Vmzun@4ax.com> <396A79A0.1B39@fuckyou.company.uk> <3975e212@news.ivm.net> <3978B1D6.FCCCD4@fuckyou.co.uk> <873dl27w4t.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <397DD199.502439D@fuckyou.co.uk> NNTP-Posting-Host: cf.5c.bb.b5 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:207142 x-no-archive: yes In <397DD199.502439D@fuckyou.co.uk> The Asshole writes: > >How's this for tasteless: I'm caffeine, drug, alcohol, tobacco, and >sex free. The first four because they repulse me, and the last >because I have interesting religious beliefs, and am looking for >someone to share life with. Perhaps its because you repulse others. You even sicken us, and we've accepted NAMBLA members in our ranks. You'll never find anyone who cares about you. Even your mother hates you. She told me she should have had an abortion, while I was making her eat a Clark bar out of my ass. Yes, you might as well kill yourself. ObHelpfulHint: Cut lengthwise down your forearms, not across your wrists. Like the niglet in 'Candyman' said, "Cain't fix dat. Bettah off daid." Alraune ------------------------------ From minimoe@pepboys.org Thu Jul 06 06:12:20 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!63.211.125.72!cyclone2.usenetserver.com!news-out.usenetserver.com!gestalt.direcpc.com.!sn-xit-02!supernews.com!sn-inject-01!corp.supernews.com!not-for-mail From: "Nearwidow" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: "We all hope that care and medication will lead to whatever improvements are possible" (news) Date: Thu, 6 Jul 2000 09:12:20 -0400 Organization: Base Camp Zero Lines: 39 Message-ID: References: <3963B63B.91D59B11@novia.net> Reply-To: "Nearwidow" X-Complaints-To: newsabuse@supernews.com X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2314.1300 X-Mimeole: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2314.1300 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:205265 Furplay said: > > > But after the death of his father in 1997, Laudor stopped taking his > > medication, apparently believing it to be part of a conspiracy against him. > > Considerring how that stuff is uaually prescribed all too often, that's > not surprising. And if anyone out there has every had an antipsychotic prescribed TO them, they'll likely identify. When I had my first manic episode (which ended up with me attacking a Volvo with a machete after the owner took my parking space for the third week in a row) I was prescribed Haldol, although any tranquilizer would have done the job. Haldol is a pretty close approximation of hell: you cannot read due to the blurred vision. You cannot speak because your mouth is so swollen from the dryness, causing you to drool excessively. Attempting to communicate with anyone is difficult, since your ear canals are clogged with mucus and goo. After you aclimatize yourself to this drug, it's STILL a chemical straightjacket. You can't lift your feet more than three inches from the ground and staying conscious is like trying to claw your way out of thirty feet of gauze.The second I got out of the nut hut I quit taking it and after two weeks, I finally felt human again. The pdoc I went to after the Haldol experiment said that just about all heavy duty antipsychotics are like that (all the biggies like Thorazine, Stelazine, Prolixin). Torture in a pill. And they say that execution is the Maximum Punishment the law will allow. xXx p ------------------------------ From TheNurz@ix.netcom.com Thu Aug 03 15:32:59 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!firehose.mindspring.com!not-for-mail From: NurzRachet Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Skanks (was Re: Bees and Lye) Date: Thu, 03 Aug 2000 18:32:59 -0400 Organization: Our Lady of the Rearranged Umbilicus Lines: 24 Message-ID: <3989F31B.4627BFC7@ix.netcom.com> References: <39737863.13C43B9E@mail.newsfeeds.com> <8l4m9l$2e3m$1@nntp1.ba.best.com> <8l5ddn$jhf$1@nntp1.ba.best.com> <39783E24.B4AE7CCC@nls.net> <3980946A.1B7D8531@nls.net> <3980e99b@anonymous.newsfeeds.com> <39823539.569AB51B@my-deja.com> <3988E2F7.D8988A9B@my-deja.com> <3989de46.26798301@news.ecis.com> <8mcoi0$ieu$1@slb7.atl.mindspring.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: c7.ae.a5.de Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Server-Date: 3 Aug 2000 23:38:59 GMT X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.7 [en]C-CCK-MCD NSCPCD47 (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:207331 Felis Concolor wrote: > ObT: The thought of Julian Macassey, Vomit Boy and Jeff Justin > judging a skank contest. I wonder what criteria they'd use? Lenore, I would respectfully suggest putting Vomit in charge of the talent competition, since he has this "knack" for coming up with varied creative things to do with kitchen appliances/gadgets. As an example, last week he thought it would be real cool to put a spatula handle up my ass and a big serving spoon handle in my twat. He then wanted me to bounce my ass up and down while down on all fours, and make the two gadgets slap together and make some sort of sick music. I thought it was kinda hilarious and fun until he started yelling at me that I wasn't "doing it right." I didn't know there was a right or wrong way to play spoons with your ass/twat and sure as hell have never seen anyone on Star Search perform such a feat. Perhaps I should drop a note to Miss Manners and ask her what the correct protocol is. Nurzy ------------------------------ From rcrossNOrcSPAM@my-deja.com.invalid Fri Aug 04 14:28:03 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!newsfeed.direct.ca!look.ca!cyclone.bc.net!newsfeed.stanford.edu!sn-xit-01!supernews.com!sn-inject-01!WReNclone!WReNphoon3.POSTED!WReN!not-for-mail X-Originating-Host: 199.99.231.3 Organization: http://www.remarq.com: The World's Usenet/Discussions Start Here Subject: Re: A mildly tasteless vacation Lines: 75 From: bughunter Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Message-ID: <2195009c.979da080@usw-ex0104-028.remarq.com> References: <8mevqn$36n$1@nnrp1.deja.com> Bytes: 3530 X-Wren-Trace: eF14UFFID0UOD0pHVw5PdEJXAFxdUxwFW15fHgUQHVMLAlMOAEwGAA== Date: Fri, 04 Aug 2000 14:28:03 -0700 NNTP-Posting-Host: 10.0.2.28 X-Complaints-To: wrenabuse@remarq.com X-Trace: WReNphoon3 965425383 10.0.2.28 (Fri, 04 Aug 2000 14:43:03 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 04 Aug 2000 14:43:03 PDT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:207386 Nanook of the North wrote: >I'd found the 'on' direction for the faucet. What >felt like a litre (probably about 50 mL, but it felt >like more) of orange-coloured snot drained from my >right nostril into the bowl. The rest of the day >generated what felt like another litre, in >installments. I get this every year or so, ever since having a raging sinus and inner ear infection as a youth, during a summer of doing stunts like handstands in a dirty pool in Houma, LA circa '76. Of course, very few pools in Louisiana are clean... wildlife invades every niche of that hellhole. Fortunately, a lot of it is edible; unfortunately, more of it considers you edible. A very tasteless state, Loo-easy-anna. Over the next 24 years, I've come to cope with the fact that the infection of the cavities in my head never goes away. I had an MRI of my head done a couple years ago, to diagnose increasing frequency of vertigo. My doc was all worried I had a tumor, but all they could find was a low-level bacterial infection of the inner ear. (For $1500, that's all they got. Fuck, I could have told 'em that! At least I got to keep pictures of the innards, and verified I don't have a tumor for a brain.) So, when I do catch the flu (often I don't), the bacterial infection invariably crops up. I get a bumper crop of grey-green snotpus every day, usually in the morning. I'll blow my nose and hork a good chicken-nugget-sized wad into the kleenex. (The size of things that one's nostril can accommodate is amazing.) When this symptom first appeared, I was in college, attending the weeder class for EEs: introductory circuit analysis, only offered at 7 AM, taught by the department dean, who sat us all alphabetically. With the last name Cross, I got to sit in the front row center, of course, with an attractive coed right behind me. I would sleep until 6:50, dress, grab coffee at 6:57, dash over to class, and take my seat at 7:01, under the withering glare of the dean. At approximately 7:18 every morning, I would suddenly sneeze violently, spewing one of those goo-nuggets into my hand... which of course, was perfectly situated for all in the class to see. One of the first times it happened, I actually heard someone cry out in horror. Even if I use one of those brute force nasal sprays like Afrin, there's still pockets of the stuff that hides in the inner recesses of my sinuses. In fact, that's when I experience the worst of it: the Afrinized snotpus dries out to the consistency of half-cured silicone RTV. I'll feel it in there, and blow my nose, but the goo sticks to the inside of my face, flapping in the wind like so much wet leather, and making a disgusting wet buzz, exactly like you'd expect from a wet membrane flapping in the breeze at 20-30 Hz. Finally, after days of repeated attempts to dislodge this internal facehugger, it'll break loose, and launch itself out of the offended nostril, landing in my kleenex with a wet >thwap<, and leaving me with a plaything that's very reminiscent of that Nickolodeon-brand methylcellulose goo that comes in the package designed to make perfect queef sounds when you stick your fingers in it. Except this toy is still warm... And of course, I had to repeat introductory circuit analysis. ----------------------------------------------------------- Got questions? Get answers over the phone at Keen.com. Up to 100 minutes free! http://www.keen.com ------------------------------ From robnorth@my-deja.com Fri Aug 04 10:51:21 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!newspeer1.nac.net!news.maxwell.syr.edu!nntp2.deja.com!nnrp1.deja.com!not-for-mail From: Nanook of the North Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: A mildly tasteless vacation Date: Fri, 04 Aug 2000 17:51:21 GMT Organization: Deja.com - Before you buy. Lines: 127 Message-ID: <8mevqn$36n$1@nnrp1.deja.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.108.123.57 X-Article-Creation-Date: Fri Aug 04 17:51:21 2000 GMT X-Http-User-Agent: Mozilla/4.61 [en] (Win95; I) X-Http-Proxy: 1.0 x60.deja.com:80 (Squid/1.1.22) for client 216.108.123.57 X-MyDeja-Info: XMYDJUIDrobnorth Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:207376 Well, it's been suggested here and there that I tell y'all about our little vacation last month. Not hugely tasteless, but there is some material here of interest. Setup: Remember I was asking about Fentanyl? Well, the story is that about 8 years ago, my ex left her second husband for another fellow. He was finishing med school out east, so we got the kids while she cemented her hold on his dick. Two years later, when the kids moved back with her, he was preparing to enter a residency in anaesthesiology. In a fit of crankiness, I mentioned to my son that I'd heard that docs with drug problems in med school often entered the gas-passing fraternity 'cause then they'd have access to all the really neat drugs. Comment got back to my ex, she got all pissed off at me, yadda yadda yadda. So here it was, us planning to drive down to see my son's high school grad, and I'd be seeing doc for the first time. Figured I'd buck up, be a man, and apologise for my gratuitously tasteless comment. Didn't get the chance. A few days before we left, my ex called. Turns out doc's been using. Repeatedly and often. Codeine, cocaine, and our friend Fentanyl. She finally figured she'd better turn him in, she did, and he's now in a rehab in Dallas with the opportunity to get his shit together and return to practising, or to not get his shit together and lose his lucrative profession (he billed C$400k his first year out of residency). So with that news in tow, we started driving out of here one Friday afternoon. The first 100 km of highway out of here is the only unpaved part of the national highway system, and it's very twisty; so, of course, our two-year-old puked all over herself and her car seat. Great start to the day. Drove through the night and arrived in Edmonton early the next morning. Then to Calgary the next day to visit my sister. Through all this, I have a terrible cold. My voice was gone for 3 weeks. And in Calgary, I got what must have been a cool sinus infection; one whole side of my face swelled up just lovely, and it felt like someone had driven a large nail up from the bottom of my right cheek into a spot just below my right eye. After two days of hell, I soaked a facecloth in steaming hot water and went to sleep with it on my face. Next morning, I (wisely!) went to the bathroom and leaned over the toilet before blowing my nose. Bingo! I'd found the 'on' direction for the faucet. What felt like a litre (probably about 50 mL, but it felt like more) of orange-coloured snot drained from my right nostril into the bowl. The rest of the day generated what felt like another litre, in installments. My nose was raw and chapped, but damn, my sinuses felt good! Then west into British Columbia, and visiting with my son and daughter and my ex. I think she realises that leaving me was a bad idea; I don't do drugs, I'm now the successful high-profile political type she would've enjoyed being married to, and now that she's over her hangups and has put up with a drugged (and hence, apparently, comparatively impotent) 3rd hubby, she realises that her sex life would have been much better if she'd stuck with me and put up with my twisted desires. So I find that she's learned to cook; all these excellent gourmet meals served to us when her previous best was Betty-Crocker-style tuna and macaroni casseroles of dubious quality. And now that she's unfettered by churchy codes of dress, lots of sundresses and shorts and opportunities to see that her still-relatively-perky-A.5 tits (generous A or smallish B) are similarly unfettered by anything resembling a bra. If I'd offered her a couple of hours of fucking for old time's sake, I think she'd've dropped to her knees faster than France in 1940. Yes, I refrained from taking her up on the unspoken offer. But it all worked out: Inspired by the jealously that arose from seeing all this, and partly also likely due to her improved physical condition (she's been running 20-30 km a week for the last few months), my current wife has turned up the dial and...well, let's just say that if I don't get in better shape soon, I'm gonna die young, happy, and dehydrated. Remember the last word's of Goldie Hawn's husband at the beginning of 'Private Benjamin'? ["I'm coming." He died post-coitally on the honeymoon of a heart attack.] That'll be me. Then farther west along the US border to see step-mom-in-law, then farther towards Vancouver and the coast. The twisty Hope-Princeton highway was another opportunity for our two-year-old to enhance the olfactory atmosphere in the car, but hey, whaddayado? The rest of the trip was pretty boring. My cold improved, my voice came back, we spent lots of time visiting family. Oh, I just rememberd, I think there's a dead crab in our unused minivan ashtray, which our 6-year-old picked up on a beach in North Vancouver. Wonder what it looks like now...? Drove north through BC, visited grandparents in the interior, then friends in Prince George (where I found out about a job at the little university there...is it moving time?), then 18 hours straight home. Yeah, I know, you diehards would say that two baby pukes, a bucket of snot, and a missed chance for a romp with an ex (who's still pretty damn good-looking, if you like 'em tall and built for speed) is so non-tasteless as to be worthless here. But you know, we can't all be complete reprobates. There are lots of family types out there who, nonetheless, need a little bit of tastelessness in their lives to keep them sane. My environmental niche here on a.t., as I see it, is to give them hope. To show them that a glimmer of tastelessness is still very much achievable. To show them that life doesn't have to be completely nice and sanitised, if you don't want it to be. I hope I have succeeded. ObRoadKill: "What, you drove 6500 km and didn't talk about road kill?" Well, it was pretty boring. We saw one deceased deer, but it was a very clean kill; no blood or guts or anything, just a deer who could have been sleeping beside the road if not for the glassy-eyed stare and the protruding tongue. There were a few squished squirrels and hedgehogs, and the odd cat in Greater Vancouver, but that was about it. Most of the wildlife we saw was live, and in parks or sanctuaries that wouldn't have allowed me to shoot 'em even if I had brought a gun with me; about 100 bison in the Mackenzie sanctuary near home, mountain goats and bighorn sheep in Banff national park, and the odd deer, moose, bear, porcupine, and lynx in similar locations. C'est la vie...ou, c'est la morte? Robert -- From the messy desk of RobNorth 62 27 N 114 22 W Politics is a mass of lies, evasions, folly, hatred and schizophrenia.(Orwell) Man is that he might have joy--not guilt trips.(Elder R,M. Nelson) A flip dark chill winter bastard though dry. (A Clockwork Orange) Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ Before you buy. ------------------------------ From blaque@my-deja.com Sat Aug 05 14:11:12 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news-feeder2.wcg.net!WCG!newspeer1.nac.net!netnews.com!feed1.news.rcn.net!rcn!news.mindspring.net!newsfeed2.earthlink.net!newsfeed.earthlink.net!newsmaster1.prod.itd.earthlink.net!newsread2.prod.itd.earthlink.net.POSTED!not-for-mail From: blaque@my-deja.com (Jonathan "Nature Boy" Blaque) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Ways to kill off your SIMS Message-ID: References: <398BACA7.5DCA4D62@novia.net> Organization: Planet Of The Apes X-Newsreader: Yet Another NewsWatcher 2.2.0b4 Lines: 64 Date: Sat, 05 Aug 2000 21:11:12 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 63.208.71.107 X-Complaints-To: abuse@earthlink.net X-Trace: newsread2.prod.itd.earthlink.net 965509872 63.208.71.107 (Sat, 05 Aug 2000 14:11:12 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 05 Aug 2000 14:11:12 PDT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:207454 > Just got a copy of THE SIMS this week... (snip) I almost went out and bought a copy myself, but decided to hold out for the SimsGhetto release -- seedy neighbor- hood, hopelessly impoverished residents, burnt-out hou- sing projects, junkies, infants in dumpsters -- the works. First order of business: orchestrating a blood-soaked gang war between the coons and the tacos, then sending in a battalion of heavily-armed, racist cops to mop things up. After that, I'll build a small army of AIDs-infected hook- ers, put a crack house on every block and line my pock- ets with the community's welfare checks. Finally, I'll crop-dust the entire, stinking mess with sickle cell, hepatitis, and TB, and spread a blanket of slow, suffering death on the filthy lot of them. Hard to believe I'm a registered Democrat, innit? Cheers! Nature Boy (II) Landlord Almighty "Some pigs are more equal than other pigs." -- George Orwell, 'Animal Farm' ObT: Creating my own SimSlut and forcing her to hu- miliate herself with foreign objects while I hurl vir- tual feces at her. ObNews: CAMP VERDE AZ -- Cops say an adopted wo- man was tortured and forced to live in a storage shed by her birth mother and stepfather after she spent years searching for them. 19-year-old Jennifer Simmons found her mother, El- izabeth Katrini after a long search, but what Simmons thought would be a happy reunion allegedly turned into a terrifying year of torture. According to authorities, Katrini, 38, and her husband, Paul Padilla, 41, forced the young woman to live in a storage shed and tortured her repeatedly with electric shocks, knives and sticks. Simmons was reportedly also forced to eat her own feces. Simmons contacted authorities after escaping from the shed on July 26th. Katrini and Padilla were subsequent- ly arrested on multiple felony counts of aggravated ass- ault and vulnerable adult abuse. They claim Jennifer, who is mentally ill, "made up" the accusations. According to a medical examiner, the 98-pound victim, who was found in filthy clothes and no shoes, had bruis- es "all over" her body. When she went to live with her biological mother in June 1999 she weighed 165. Jennifer said she ate dog food to satisfy her hunger and that Katrini stole her $341 monthly Social Security check "for the pain and suffering she caused them." ------------------------------ From jeffjustin@newsfeeds.com Sun Aug 06 18:06:22 2000 Message-ID: <398E0B8E.68CF119C@newsfeeds.com> Date: Sun, 06 Aug 2000 21:06:22 -0400 From: Jeff Justin X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.72 [en]C-DIAL (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Do You Ever Think Things Are Going Too Good? Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit NNTP-Posting-Host: 64.31.16.112 X-Trace: 6 Aug 2000 20:06:33 -0500, 64.31.16.112 Lines: 123 X-Authenticated-User: jeffjustin X-Comments: This message was posted through Newsfeeds.com X-Comments2: IMPORTANT: Newsfeeds.com does not condone, nor support, spam or any illegal or copyrighted postings. X-Comments3: IMPORTANT: Under NO circumstances will postings containing illegal or copyrighted material through this service be tolerated!! X-Report: Please report illegal or inappropriate use to You may also use our online abuse reporting from: http://www.newsfeeds.com/abuseform.htm X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers, INCLUDING the body (DO NOT SEND ATTACHMENTS) Organization: Newsfeeds.com http://www.newsfeeds.com 73,000+ UNCENSORED Newsgroups. Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!nycmny1-snh1.gtei.net!news.gtei.net!hermes.visi.com!news-out.visi.com!news-out.nibble.net!news-in.nibble.net!feed.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!goliath2.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!64.31.16.112 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:207521 This has been a pretty good spring and summer for me. My life has been sailing along quite nicely, and I'm happy to report that I haven't had much to complain about for some time now. Really, other than having to spend a kilobuck on WonderKitty a while back, there's not much at all that I can call bothersome or even annoying. I like the new place I moved to, I like the new job that I started a while back, my social life has been stimulating and interesting, and I've even met a new partner. Now, I'm not much for close relationships, folks. I prefer living alone and I don't really want to be in a relationship in which I feel required to see my partner every day, or even talk to her every day. I like my freedom and that's that. Well, I met this woman, Stacy, at a party hosted by mutual friends about a month ago, maybe two months ago. I was happy that we seemed to hit it off right away. A bright, saucy woman, possessed of great beauty and charming personality, Stacy was as protective of her freedom as I am. That she is twenty years my junior, only whet my appetite for her further. At this party, we fell into a long conversation, and, by the end of the evening, we had mutually decided that our burgeoning relationship was worth pursuing. Since then, we've been going out frequently, plus having each other over for dinner drinks and sex. Needless to say, I've been riding the crest of a wave of good feelings engendered by our relationship. Life has been good. Yesterday (Saturday), she'd invited me over to her house for some more conspicuous consumption. You know a party for two out by the pool, complete with adult beverages, some adult drugs and lots of adult fun. Stacy doesn't live more than a half a mile from me, so I walked over to her house. I thought a little exercise wouldn't hurt and it was a beautiful day. We spent the afternoon out by the pool drinking gin and tonics. As the hours passed it started to get a little drunk out. We reached a point at which we looked at each other as if to ask, "What are we doing not screwing?" So we did the only sensible thing. We wobbled our way into her bedroom, both more than a little poo-pooed. We shucked our clothes in a corner and leapt onto the bed. I had just settled in between her legs for a heaping helping of my favorite dish, hot meatflaps dripping with clam sauce. I had no more than gotten into a rhythm, when she uttered those five words that every man longs to hear: "Oh shit! It's my husband." I hadn't been listening to the outside world, my ears pressing against her thighs and all, but when I listened, I could hear a door opening. My boner wilted, and the adrenaline hit my bloodstream. I dove into the closet, grabbing my clothes on the way. She pulled on her bikini and coverup caftan, or whatever the fuck you call those things, and ran downstairs to greet him. Meanwhile, nestled in the corner of her closet, I wriggled into my clothes as quietly as I could, while I strained to hear what they were saying. Although I couldn't hear clearly, I could tell from the tone of her voice that she was as surprised as I was about his untimely return. But, there was one significant difference between her and I - she knew she was married and I didn't. My thoughts quickly turned to an escape plan. I quietly sneaked over to the closest window and looked out to see if there were any objects that would permit a cat burglar exit directly to the out doors. After all, I figured if he'd been out of town for a while, the bedroom was going to be the first place he'd be headed. As I stood there, peering out of the window, I heard someone coming up the stairs, and had to dive to the closet again. Fortunately, it was Stacy. She opened the closet and told me in a hoarse whisper that she was sorry, and she'd call me and explain later. Her plan was to take him out to the outbuilding that housed the pool filter and pump, and tell him about some funny noise that it just started making today. My job was to get the hell out of the house through the front door. Quietly and quickly. I could handle that. After a furtive and nerve-wracking slink through the house, I got out the front door, and hotfooted it back home. Today, she called to apologize for that "little misunderstanding." She told me she'd been planning to tell me about her husband any day now, but she didn't want to spoil what we had going. She was afraid that I would stop seeing her if I knew she was married. She went on to tell me that her husband is a civil engineer who works for a large multi-national company. He apparently gets assigned to far-flung locations and since she has her own career, she can't accompany him on his travels. According to her, and I'd be the first to acknowledge she may not be the best source of factual information, of the five years they've been married, he's been gone more than half the time. He's been working in Outer Bumfukistan for the past three months, and has another six months to go on this assignment. He'd come home unannounced to surprise her for their anniversary. Apparently, she'd invited me over to help her celebrate her anniversary. How loverly. I just knew things were going too smoothly. Cheers, Jeff Justin ObT: Oh, don't be silly. Of course, we'll be resuming our activities as soon as hubby heads back to where ever he belongs. But now, since her lie almost caused a real problem for us, I ought to be able to use the guilt factor to ratchet my sexual demands up a notch or two. Heh-heh. Now, were did I put those "special" toys? -----= Posted via Newsfeeds.Com, Uncensored Usenet News =----- http://www.newsfeeds.com - The #1 Newsgroup Service in the World! -----== Over 80,000 Newsgroups - 16 Different Servers! =----- ------------------------------ From kes@duke.edu Mon Aug 07 11:12:53 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!news-hog.berkeley.edu!ucberkeley!newsgate.duke.edu!kes From: kes@duke.edu (Strayhorn) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: I farted Date: Mon, 07 Aug 2000 14:12:53 -0400 Organization: Marinus van der Lubbe Intl Firebombing Society Lines: 47 Message-ID: References: <8mhrqg$d8$1@nnrp1.deja.com> <398D85C4.D37EF7C1@interlog.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: strayhorn.dukecomm.duke.edu X-Newsreader: MT-NewsWatcher 2.4.4 X-No-Archive: yes X-Complaints-To: abuse@dukecomm.duke.edu X-Face: BWeQyrFlV$jk!Ic4*Vvu'J4IEpyD]IbTQv5)y9H8f_XR[%4W$:l!Wvj0j>hs, gj7djy1tb>!5a}py;n)ooLh_Mj!/nvzH7i{aQM'M_fr;n4=K?*\'e!)5TYLSBoA3?j Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:207582 In article , "Nearwidow" wrote: > obT:fighting with the alt.animals.raccoon group. Goddam, there's a newsgroup for every collection of whiners on the planet. > I got a Havaheart trap and situated it next to the trash cans in the > carport, not the garage. The raccoon was right on time and got to it about > 9 pm last night. Unfortunately, the raccoon ended up getting stuck half in > and out, and died (strangled?) attempting to escape. It's a monster rac > too: could easily feed a family of four. I'm actually afraid to continue > ripping it out of the trap since after a mere twelve hours it's already > inhabited by teeming hordes of ants, maggots and flies. How fast do fly > eggs hatch anyway? Soon, my gagging friend. We have a Havahart trap for 'coons as well, mainly to catch the ones too smart to cross open pasture to the creek for a drink, which brings them into the beaten zone of my rifle. Anyway, once you have them in the trap you realize that it's a tough bitch to get one out unless you really want to get bitten. If you just shoot it with a .22 pistol, you learn the real meaning of "dead weight" when you try to get it out. The second problem is the huggers, who want them "relocated". After a while, we came up with a solution: with the 'coon in the trap, the whole assemblage is tossed into the cow pond. In just a minute or two the bubbles stop and you can tie the trap lead to a tree. Leave it there for a week or so - the turtles and carp will eat the body and you'll just have a few bones and hair to dump out of the cage. Nature at its finest. -- Strayhorn Not Duke policy, etc. "You should have been here 15 minutes ago." - John Rawls ------------------------------ From TREETsyd@TREETnls.net Fri Aug 11 05:39:11 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!netnews.com!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!newsfeed.cwix.com!sjc-peer.news.verio.net!news.verio.net!news.sanjose1.Level3.net!Level3.net!news1.onlynews.com!not-for-mail Message-ID: <3993F3F0.644D622@nls.net> From: TREETsyd@TREETnls.net Organization: http://www.nls.net/mp/syd X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.73 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Stinky piss (was Re: Happy Hiroshima Day) References: <87aeepkarl.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <398E3951.95E91AD9@cableinet.co.uk> <877l9t3pc2.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 46 NNTP-Posting-host: onlyNews customer X-Trace: onlyNews customer NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 11 Aug 2000 05:39:11 PDT Date: Fri, 11 Aug 2000 12:39:11 GMT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:207857 Acetylcholinesterase Inhibitor wrote: > > The SR filled me in on this. It turns out to be a genetic thing -- > some people have the gene to make asparagus piss, some don't. Even > more fun, some people have the gene to *smell* asparagus piss, and > some don't. Take a standard screw-top,bottle of beer. Empty it, and piss into it. Put the cap back on tight, and stick it in your attic. Sound petty and sophomoric? That's why you jerks are old farts. After a year or 2, no matter WHAT their genetic makeup.. they will smell it. After a few years, take it to their house and pour it on the carpet. They will smell it. Dump it in their car. They will smell it. Stick it in a fridge, then take the cap off and sit it in a pile of half-drunken beers. Someone will drink it. It matters not how foul your piss is today. I have a few bottles of my piss from 1994, and maybe I was a total vegan then (I wasn't, but for comparisons sake)... I don't care WHAT you just ate, THIS is what you'd want to pour into a ZipLok bag, then stick the zip edge underneath a persons door, then stomp on the bag. Urine is more complex than wine. But some rules are universal. The older the better. You may be proud of the fact that you will never be digging through a pile of old comic books and suddenly come up with a 20 ounce bottle of urine from 1993. But who is really smiling, bitch? Who is the target, and who is the firing squad? ObT: I planned to save the condom with which I lost my virginity, but I used it twice (yes.), and it was a shitty, thin red latex number that just kinda dissolved. Ah well. I'm not Mr. Sex. But virginity kinda loses its mystique once you've had sex so many times that you've lost count. This may seem laughable to the married. But to the lonely folks, it's kinda weird reaching that point where you can't even remember every time you got laid. Like trying to remember every time you ate, or shat, it just all kinda blurs together, with a few glorious highlights. -- -- Rev. Syd Midnight -- [Remove TREET from address to reply, if appropriate] "-FUCKYOUSYD- and Fuck the cunt that shat your ass upon the world! and fuck you with your whole goddamned family, even the dead and buried ones you misbegotten scabbed assed son of a bitch." -- Socketman ------------------------------ From robnorth@my-deja.com Fri Aug 11 19:02:23 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news-feeder2.wcg.net!WCG!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!cyclone.bc.net!rover.ucs.ualberta.ca!news.ntnet.nt.ca!usenet From: Nanook of the North Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: WWI Tastelessness (was Re: Raising the H.L. Hunley) Date: Fri, 11 Aug 2000 20:02:23 -0600 Organization: NTnet News Server Lines: 53 Message-ID: <3994B02F.FAAE2ABF@my-deja.com> References: <39918049.8237941@news.ecis.com> <3993AE29.3E63CF86@nls.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: 207-148-32-174.ntnet.nt.ca Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.73 [en] (Win98; U) X-Accept-Language: en Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:207917 TREETsyd@TREETnls.net wrote: > World War 1 was a bar brawl that ended with Germany representing one side.. > and we are ALL grateful. I feel sorry for the British who had to fight in that > war.. should have let the Germans just fucking kick France's ass, then call a > truce. > > World War One. My vote for "Tasteless War of the Millennium". Here's a true story from my family history. My dad's dad had an older sister, an older brother, and a younger brother. Before the war, grampa had gone west from Cape Breton to the prairies (apparently after a bypass to New England and a dalliance with an older woman...so *that's* where I get it from!). When 1914 rolled around, grampa signed up. He'd heard his older brother had signed up, too, and was hoping to meet him again, not having seen him for a few years. Time passed a bit, and then he was in Europe, and going to Ypres for his unit's first rotation at the front. (Apparently, they did one week in the trenches, one week behind the trenches, and then a week off.) He heard that his brother's unit was just coming out of the trenches, so he hoped to meet his brother. Some corporal was showing grampa to his place in the trench. His assigned few feet of mud and gore was heavy on the gore. Grampa recoiled, not wanting to spend a week in the middle of that. The corporal said something about "That's where was standing when a German shell hit him." Of course, the corporal didn't know grampa from Adam. So my grandfather spent his first week in the trenches having to deal with not only the hell of trench warfare, but also knowing that he was standing in the middle of his brother's guts the whole time. No wonder he got shell shock (i.e. 'post-traumatic stress disorder') a little later. Yup. A very tasteless war. I remember telling my uncle (who got this story from grampa as part of his B.A. in history at the age of 60 after he retired from the steel plant) that I'd found the location of great-uncle's gravestone thanks to the Commonwealth War Graves Commission's website, and uncle said "Stone must just be there as a marker; there apparently wasn't anything left to bury" before passing me the written story I've described for you above. ObT: What, you want more? OK, grampa's other entry in his WWI medical history (besides the shell shock) was a fragment in the ass; from Vimy Ridge, IIRC. Robert ------------------------------ From concolor@netcom.com Sun Aug 13 20:04:31 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!xfer10.netnews.com!xfe11.netnews.com!netnews.com!hermes.visi.com!news-out.visi.com!nycmny1-snh1.gtei.net!lsanca1-snf1!news.gtei.net!newsfeed2.earthlink.net!newsfeed.earthlink.net!news.mindspring.net!firehose.mindspring.com!concolor From: concolor@netcom.com (Felis Concolor) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Yoes and Billies Quiz (was Re: RNC) Date: 14 Aug 2000 03:04:31 GMT Organization: MindSpring Enterprises Lines: 76 Message-ID: <8n7njv$83t$1@slb7.atl.mindspring.net> References: <398e3904.51346696@news.ecis.com> <3991AD27.745DE16F@neteze.com> <8n2dca$60p$1@slb6.atl.mindspring.net> <3996F06E.A3B8CFAC@neteze.com> <8n66lb$2jo$1@nnrp1.deja.com> <8n69ed$4dg$1@nnrp1.deja.com> <87ya20fwh3.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: c7.b7.09.73 X-Newsreader: NN version 6.5.3 (NOV) Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:208052 worley@dworley.ne.mediaone.net (Acetylcholinesterase Inhibitor) writes: >Buford Pusser writes: >> "If we'd known it was going to cause this much trouble we'd have picked >> our own damned cotton" >This little .sig drives Lenore crazy, but I like it. Nah, I don't _mind_ his .sig. I just think he's fun to torment, because...well, if you had a mad dog in a cage in your back yard, wouldn't you feel the impulse to poke a stick in the cage and worry it, just to see it bark? ObT: Watching too much Cops and similar true-life shows. In their honor, I've created a Yoes and Billies quiz. That is, I describe an episode, and you tell me whether the inbred trailer- trash cretins depicted were Yoes or Billies. 1) (People's Court). A mother sued her daughter. Mother was 44 and pregnant, daughter was 19 and had a year and a half old kid. Both mother and daughter were on welfare. The reason the mother was suing the daughter was the daughter's man, who had been living off of her. This genius had spent more than a thou- sand dollars on pay-per-view wrestling. 2) (Cops). The cops visited a domestic dispute. The father had been drunk and had started beating up his pregnant wife, just as she was about to deliver. 3) (Cell Block 6). The prisoner was a 21-year-old man who had been convicted for drunk driving. Totally snockered, he had de- cided to get in his car at 3 a.m. and go drag racing. 4) (Cops). The cops got called to a domestic dispute and found a shapeless woman of about 70, wearing a muumuu. Her thirty- something son was lounging on the porch. Sonny had gotten drunk (hmm, is there a theme here?) and started beating up his step- father. Said stepfather had gone to the 7-11 to call for help, but was handicapped by the fact that he couldn't read. The stepfather, a little old man at least half a foot shorter than his wife, finally showed up and spoke with the police. 5) (Cops, again). The first of the month, a burly, stupid thug had beaten up his old lady and stolen her welfare check. He took it to the bar and got drunk. Then he came back, just in time to be greeted by the cops. This mental wizard started mouthing off to the boys in blue, and they subdued him. My impression was that they, uhm, weren't exactly trying not to be rough. 6) (Cell Block 6.) The prisoner was a 21-year-old woman with three kids, who had been arrested for theft. She admitted that when she was pregnant with her first kid, she had been drinking enough liquor every day to make a seasoned male lush blanch. 7) (Cops.) The cops were driving down the street when a 19-year-old boy started running away from them. They caught him and asked him for his name. He said, "John Johnson." They asked him to spell this. He said, "J-O-N-H-S-O-N." The boys in blue finally convinced him to tell them where he lived. They drove to his mother's trailer (why are we not surprised), and asked her if she had a young son, giving the physical description. She said, "You mean Ralph?" Oh, when the mother came out and saw her son in the arms of the law, she started hitting him in the head with her purse. Well, that's my quiz. Go to it, folks. Let's see how good you are at prejudice ^H^H^H folk sociology. Lenore Levine -- "The only celebrity interview I've found the least bit interesting in the last year was with Ozzy Osborne. Even if I end up with Alzheimers, my mind will probably retain an image of him sniffing a line of ants." -- M. Holmes ------------------------------ From acelightning@monmouth.com Mon Aug 14 23:00:46 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news-feeder2.wcg.net!WCG!buck.internorth.com!cyclone.bc.net!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!cyclone1.ba-dsg.net!typhoon1.ba-dsg.net.POSTED!not-for-mail Message-ID: <3998DC86.DA4E321@monmouth.com> From: Ace Lightning X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.74 [en] (Win95; U) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: things with wings (long-ish) Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 126 Date: Tue, 15 Aug 2000 06:00:46 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 138.89.69.80 X-Complaints-To: newsadmin@bellatlantic.net X-Trace: typhoon1.ba-dsg.net 966319246 138.89.69.80 (Tue, 15 Aug 2000 02:00:46 EDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 15 Aug 2000 02:00:46 EDT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:208128 i was seeing someone off at the airport today. after they boarded the plane, i stayed near the glass window-wall to watch the final preparations before the plane took off - loading baggage and catering supplies aboard, the pilot doing the usual walk-around, etc. this terminal is laid out with the gates as spokes radiating from a nearly circular "bulge" off of a rectangular building, and the place i was watching from was between two of the spokes. as i watched the crew scurry about on the ground, i also saw several pigeons - ordinary city-type rats-with-wings - flying here and there. one took off from the top of the spoke to my right and flew across to the spoke on the left... and flew full-tilt into another plate-glass window, head first. he sort of tumbled, but recovered in the air, and flew back down to the ground. but when he landed, he flapped about as if he couldn't get his feet under him. at first i thought he was simply dazed from the blow to his head. (stupid birdbrain!) he sort of sat down, and then a few minutes later tried to get up and fly away. but he still couldn't get up on his feet; now it began to look as if he had broken a leg somehow. he flapped and floundered around, and finally fell over sideways. the ground crew had no clue as to this life-and-death drama taking place next to the plane they were working on. as time went on, the pigeon lay still for what seemed long stretches of time... but every time i thought he must have died, or at least gone into a coma, he'd start to kick his feet and flap again. he still couldn't get up, though. the crew finished up with the plane, and the tug towed it away from the gate for takeoff. the pigeon continued to lie there, occasionally struggling a bit. by now, i was more interested in the pigeon than in watching the plane take off. after the plane was gone, a couple of members of the ground crew came up into the terminal to talk to the gate attendants. i talked to them, called their attention to the struggling pigeon, and said, "somebody ought to either rescue it or put it out of its misery, instead of just leaving it there to starve to death." (it wasn't going to die of thirst, since it was half in a rain puddle, and it was still raining a bit.) someone said they'd deal with it, and i envisioned one of the workers going down there and sending it to that great pigeon coop in the sky with one kick or stomp of a steel-toed work shoe. however, after a few minutes it became obvious that no one gave even a quarter of a fuck, and no one was going to bother to do anything at all. i was getting bored watching the stupid pigeon lie there, sometimes summoning up the energy to kick its feet a little... ...when a seagull cruised by overhead. he spotted the crippled pigeon and swooped down to investigate. this gull was at least three times the size of the pigeon. and you know how inherently tasteless seagulls are! he sized up the pigeon's condition, then grabbed the unfortunate bird by the neck and began whacking it against the concrete. it struggled wildly for a minute or two, but the gull hung on, and the combination of the sharp beak gripping its spine and the pounding it was taking finally did put the pigeon out of its misery. it had scarcely stopped flapping when the gull began to eat it. the sharp, hooked beak tore into the soft body of the pigeon, ripping out bits of flesh; soon the gull's beak was covered with bright red blood. he kept tearing up pieces of ex-pigeon; i imagined that the longer, stringier-looking bits were guts, while the chunky pieces were just meat. what had formerly been a pigeon got steadily smaller and smaller... then two little boys, about 6 and 10 years old, came over to the window. "ooh, look, the seagull is eating something! what's that, a fish?" "no, it's a dead pigeon. the pigeon flew head-first into that window over there and knocked itself out. then the seagull came along and killed it. now he's eating it." "ewww! i never heard of a seagull eating a pigeon!" "seagulls will eat just about anything. they hang out by garbage cans and stuff." the older boy saw the gull's blood-covered beak and the methodically savage way it was tearing up the pigeon, and said, "i can't look any more, or i'll barf!" (nevertheless, he continued to sneak looks at the action.) the younger one asked me why i was watching it. i said, "well, it's a lesson. it's not very nice, but it's part of the way nature works. everything has to eat *something*, and the seagull is eating the pigeon." "i never heard of a bird eating a bird." "birds that eat other things will eat smaller birds too. they'll eat anything they can kill, like mice or chipmunks." "yeah, i saw on tv about owls eating mice." ("i'm not gonna look at it because i'll barf!" - from the ten-year-old.) then their mother called them away, to go get on a plane going somewhere. i wonder what they told her about the weird lady watching the seagull eat the pigeon. he ate damn near everything but a few feathers, too. ------------------------------ From ddrake@NOTTHIS.home.com Fri Aug 18 18:00:11 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news-feeder2.wcg.net!WCG!hammer.uoregon.edu!newshub.northeast.verio.net!verio!xfer13.netnews.com!xfe11.netnews.com!netnews.com!newshub2.rdc1.sfba.home.com!news.home.com!news1.rdc2.pa.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: Dan Drake Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Pussy Dilemma Message-ID: <7gnrpscjrr3q38085ulb8gq5g9n7l4aaup@4ax.com> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent 1.7/32.534 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 57 Date: Sat, 19 Aug 2000 02:00:11 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.3.96.141 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.rdc2.pa.home.com 966650411 24.3.96.141 (Fri, 18 Aug 2000 19:00:11 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 18 Aug 2000 19:00:11 PDT Organization: @Home Network Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:208487 I have a dilemma. Let me say upfront that I'm fond of cats. Though it really has nothing to do with my current dilemma, let me also say that I purchased two kittens from my local SPCA pound two years ago to replace my cranky old bastard cat who I finally planted in my back yard about 6 months before that. Then, about 6 weeks ago, one of the new cats disappeared, and I haven't seen him since. At this point, I consider him MIA, now presumed dead. Sad, sad, boo hoo and all that. Now to the dilemma. A couple of weeks before Squid (the name of the cat who's now MIA-PD) disappeared, a scruffy and disreputable looking tomcat showed up. His front legs were badly ripped up, raw and bleeding. it looked like wounds from a fight with a raccoon or something quite large. He was slow and limping. I took pity on him. I start to put food out for him. He was wary of me, but both of my cats decided they liked him and he, presumably thinking that my pair of neutered male cats were female cats not currently in heat, decided to hang around to see what developed. Time passes. Squid goes missing. Nuts (named by me for his impressive testicles) gets bolder and more friendly. After a month or so, Nuts is twirling around my legs whenever I come outside with a dish of food. So then I cautiously reach down to let him sniff my hand and then pet him. This cat was evidently born wild and he reacts by looking at me like he thinks I'm a fucking idiot. But, we persevere and after another week or so, he decides that he quite likes me scratching the back of his head and rubbing his shoulders. For a short while, that is. His tolerance is low and he'll suddenly swipe at me with claws and teeth. A couple of times in the last week he's made contact and drawn blood. Today, I read in the local paper about a couple of people close by who are now having rabies shots because they got scratched and bitten by a stray cat that subsequently went mad and then tested positive for rabies after they put its brain in a blender. It served to remind me that I have not exactly been sensible in my dealings with Nuts. I guess I have to go and get rabies shots. But what do I do about Nuts? I realize there are many among you who would cheerfully and slowly dismember Nuts or any other cat and perform interesting tricks with his component parts. My question is not for you, it's for the others; should I get the rabies shots and spare Nuts' brain from the blender by lying about how I got bitten? Or should I sacrifice Nuts to find out if I can avoid the rabies shots? I don't have too long to decide what to do. I can think of no finer oracle than AT from which to seek my answer. Please don't disappoint me. -- Dan Drake ------------------------------ From alraune@ix.netcom.com Wed Aug 02 15:41:07 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!firehose.mindspring.com!not-for-mail From: alraune@ix.netcom.com(Alraune) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Shoot self thru roof of mouth? Date: 2 Aug 2000 22:41:07 GMT Organization: MindSpring Enterprises Lines: 14 Message-ID: <8ma823$vi3$1@slb0.atl.mindspring.net> References: <8kp1kl$sok@journal.concentric.net> <8la9hf$smj$1@nnrp1.deja.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: cf.5c.bb.36 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:207270 One of my coworkers was talking about www.policeguide.com, a website where you can enter any name to see of there are any warrants out for him or her. The search is then winnowed down by birthdate and birth state. I pointed out that if there were a warrant out for someone, it would be relatively effortless for the police to use this tool to track down a fugitive. Then his moron asked me if I was going to do a search on myself, and I told him that while I may do it from home, I wouldn't access the website from the office. He wanted to know if I was afraid there was a warrant out for me, and added that the police would just come to my house. I replied that I had guns at the house. That shut him up. Alraune ------------------------------ From ddrake@NOTTHIS.home.com Wed Aug 23 02:17:12 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!feeder.via.net!newshub2.rdc1.sfba.home.com!news.home.com!news1.rdc2.pa.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: Dan Drake Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Pussy Dilemma Message-ID: References: <7gnrpscjrr3q38085ulb8gq5g9n7l4aaup@4ax.com> <87k8ddewsz.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <1eflnzn.1nm9pwm127x30gN%proctalgia@proctalgia.org> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent 1.7/32.534 X-No-Archive: yes MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 32 Date: Wed, 23 Aug 2000 10:17:12 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.3.96.141 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.rdc2.pa.home.com 967025832 24.3.96.141 (Wed, 23 Aug 2000 03:17:12 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 23 Aug 2000 03:17:12 PDT Organization: @Home Network Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:208708 On Sat, 19 Aug 2000 10:17:06 GMT, proctalgia@proctalgia.org (Proctalgia) wrote: >Everyone thinks rabies shots are something bad. The old style duck >embryo grown vaccine used to be injected painfully into the linea alba >(the vertical divider of where your six-pack ought to be). Now the >vaccine is grown in a human diploid cell culture and is just an ordinary >boring needle. Go ahead and get them, saying you were bitten by a stray >cat. Make sure Nuts spends lots of time with your least favourite >neighbours. Well, I'm sorry to have to report a very non-tasteless endgame here. I got the first round of shots yesterday and apart from a moment of disquiet when the nurse approached me with a double-fistful of syringes and told me to drop trou, it has been boringly normal. It wasn't even like she was a drop-dead gorgeous nurse or anything. As I recall there was one rabies vaccine shot, 6 or 7 times 2 cc of gamma globulin(?) (all in the butt) and a tetanus shot in the deltoid. A day later and the tetanus is the only one that's mildly uncomfortable. Five more single rabies shots in the butt to go over the next month. Nuts is still hanging out in the back yard and is also being boringly normal. I lied to the doc and told him I hadn't seen the cat that bit me for several days. I sincerely apologize for getting everyone's hopes up but it looks like a total anticlimax. If anything changes, AT will be the first to know about it. -- Dan Drake ------------------------------ From kes@duke.edu Fri Aug 25 07:32:38 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news-feeder2.wcg.net!WCG!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!news-hog.berkeley.edu!ucberkeley!newsgate.duke.edu!kes From: kes@duke.edu (Strayhorn) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Who's the Nigger? (was Re: Broiled Dark Meat) Date: Fri, 25 Aug 2000 11:32:38 -0400 Organization: Marinus van der Lubbe Intl Firebombing Society Lines: 54 Message-ID: References: <399E934C.339D5541@bellsouth.net> <8nuv66$37h$1@slb7.atl.mindspring.net> <39A3E6B4.77D293CB@bellsouth.net> <8o3ndv$ro1$1@slb7.atl.mindspring.net> <39A675BF.6CB53A3D@bellsouth.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: strayhorn.dukecomm.duke.edu X-Newsreader: MT-NewsWatcher 2.4.4 X-No-Archive: yes X-Complaints-To: abuse@dukecomm.duke.edu X-Face: BWeQyrFlV$jk!Ic4*Vvu'J4IEpyD]IbTQv5)y9H8f_XR[%4W$:l!Wvj0j>hs, gj7djy1tb>!5a}py;n)ooLh_Mj!/nvzH7i{aQM'M_fr;n4=K?*\'e!)5TYLSBoA3?j Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:208881 In article <39A675BF.6CB53A3D@bellsouth.net>, Lorri wrote: > Speaking as one who actually LIVES here, as opposed to someone > comfortably ensconced on the West Coast and subject to all the superior > horseshit y'all get fed re: The South, I believe I may have a little > more realistic take on what's going on here. And here's the truth: We hate everybody, not just blacks. We also hate Jews, Indians (both teepee and turban), Catholics, Hispanics, labor organizers and anyone with the last name of "Kennedy". We're heavily armed. Remember, most Southern states have state constitutional amendments that are even stronger guarantees of the right to keep arms than the US provision. We learned our lesson during Reconstruction. We drink. A lot. And then we drive on the interstate. Most of our highway patrolmen are former Marines. They like to hit people. Most of our county deputies are former mental patients. They _really_ like to hit people. The Democratic party no longer rules the South. The Republican party now rules, and I'm not talking about the party of Lincoln. Did I mention we like guns? Our school systems are supported by property taxes. Most Southern cities are filled with poor black folks, most Southern surburbs are filled with wealthy white folks. You do the math (assuming you went to a surburban school and _can_ do the math). Our politics are hopelessly corrupt and run by Good Ol' Boys. You have no chance in hell of ever being one of Us. Our roads are bad, our public transport is non-existant. Airports are notable only for the expensive beer. Did I mention we _really_ like guns? Keep all this in mind, you folks thinking about moving here. Cheney and Swerner didn't take this advice and look what happened to them. -- Strayhorn Not Duke policy, etc. "You should have been here 15 minutes ago." - John Rawls ------------------------------ From funkin3delete@home.com Fri Aug 25 10:48:27 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news-feeder2.wcg.net!WCG!dca1-hub1.news.digex.net!intermedia!cyclone-sf.pbi.net!209.81.14.120!feeder.via.net!newshub2.rdc1.sfba.home.com!news.home.com!news1.sttls1.wa.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: "Funkin" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Childhood Memories (longish) Lines: 66 Organization: Planet of Bananas X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.00.2919.6600 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2919.6600 Message-ID: <%bzp5.24116$Ur3.272121@news1.sttls1.wa.home.com> Date: Fri, 25 Aug 2000 18:48:27 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.176.24.128 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.sttls1.wa.home.com 967229307 24.176.24.128 (Fri, 25 Aug 2000 11:48:27 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 25 Aug 2000 11:48:27 PDT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:208900 Being raised as the youngest of four boys, much of my childhood consisted of being picked on, tortured, manipulated and otherwise abused at the hands of my older siblings. My opportunities for getting even with my brothers or even a "one-up" came few and far between the noogies, thrashings and verbal assaults that I would field daily. So it must have been an act of Glub when the ultimate opportunity for revenge allowed it itself to take place without much conspiracy on my behalf. My second oldest brother, while being blessed with enough dominant genes to make him the Alpha male of the bunch, was also gifted with a set of buck teeth that stuck oout far enough to warrant a full on set of wire braces, complete with head gear. For those of you who have never seen this type of mandible correction apparatus, it consisted of one nylon harness that fits the head of the lucky wearer, one stainless steel mono-rail mandible interface, and a series of bungee cords (not unlike the Bowflex system. This setup was to be worn at night while sleeping and when installed properly, undoubtedly produced enough force to restrain even the most unruly teeth, but I digress. In an effort to spare the proud owner the embarrassment of actually being seen wearing this fine piece of engineering during waking hours, a set of small but strong rubberbands were hooked inside the mouth on the wire braces, and worn to hold the offending chompers at bay, until the heavy iron could be reinstalled that evening. These small rubberbands had many uses other than mandible correction, one being they made great ammunition for home made rubberband guns. Although small in "caliber", they were indeed plentiful. I had fabricated one such gun for my own enjoyment, but my problem was I was not privy to an unlimited supply as was my older sibling. Being the youngest and smallest, I usually tried to remain invisible as much as possible. This meant spending a lot of time in places where the sibs usually didn't frequent. One such place was our family dog's house, rarely used by him, it wasn't all that musty and made a sufficient hide out for me. This is where I found one of my greatest childhood discoveries. One day, while hanging out back by the doghouse with my rubberband gun and no ammo, I just about stepped on a dog turd. As I passed, something caught my eye. It was something sticking out of the turd, like a rubber Spaghetti-O. I got down and scrutinized the turd and deduced that it was nota Spaghetti-O, but a rubberband in there. Great..but how to get it out? I definitely needed the ammo, but picking through dog shit didn't really seem worth it. That's when the previous days first grade science lesson in erosion hit me. Perfect. I grabbed the garden hose and began spraying the dog turd and watched in fascination as layers of shit melted away and rubberbands by the dozens appeared. Oh this was going to be a gold mine. I got about thirty rubberbands (and a plastic army man's head) from one turd alone. Hunting for ammo had never been easier. No sneaking into enemy territory, risking life and limb for me. Now I could mine for ammo, and within an hour I had filled several small baggies full. I had been collecting rubberbands for about a week, when my brother finally noticed I had a lot of "his property" in my possession. I was sitting on my bed in my half of the room, sorting rubberbands when he approached me. "Where did you get those?" he queried. "I found them" was my response. "You liar, those are mine. You stole them from my dresser, Didn't you?" Realizing he was unaware of my mining project, I decided there was no reason to inform him. "Give those to me" he demanded. I gladly surrendered two bags of rubberbands and he left. I followed at a distance, I saw him toss the packages in his top drawer along with the rest of his braces gear. The feeling I had at that moment is practically indescribable. Knowing that sometime soon he would awake and in his morning routine, he'd grab a handful of rubberbands, hook two up on his braces and pocket the rest to last him through the day. ------------------------------ From wereradio@home.com Sat Aug 26 18:46:27 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!xfer10.netnews.com!netnews.com!newshub2.rdc1.sfba.home.com!news.home.com!news1.rdc1.ga.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: Juan Rico Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: SWAT city, here we come... Organization: W.E.R.E. Radio 88.5 Reply-To: wereradio@home.com Message-ID: <9svgqs0807mn9m333krnb358jlo0dq7i21@4ax.com> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent 1.8/32.548 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 112 Date: Sun, 27 Aug 2000 02:46:27 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.2.16.124 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.rdc1.ga.home.com 967344387 24.2.16.124 (Sat, 26 Aug 2000 19:46:27 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 26 Aug 2000 19:46:27 PDT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:208993 WARNING: Limited tastelessness. You have been warned. There's nothing like a week on the road to remind you how nice home is, especially when that week is spent in the middle of East Bumfuck, North Carolina. I went with seven other members of our SWAT team to attend a Hostage Rescue/High Risk Warrant Service class at a relatively new training facility whose logo is a mutant bear paw. Strayhorn will probably recognize the one I'm talking about. Our team is in a continual state of flux. The only way to leave it is to quit the department altogether; despite being a volunteer thing, if you quit, the admin will fuck you long and hard. We call this "carrying the goat". Few officers who've had the goat laid on them have managed to shake that devil-eyed smelly bastard off again. So, only four of our crew on this trip had more than a couple of years of tactical experience; the other four were brand new and had only attended a couple of our in-house training sessions. This was OK; the other team there was fairly inexperienced as well. We traveled there in a 15-passenger van; eight of us and all of our equipment. Eight healthy white males in the prime of life, eating road food for 9 hours, crammed into a van. The atmosphere would etch glass after about an hour. I've no idea if other departments are the same, but no one in mine is the least bit reticent about sharing bodily effluvia; they are, in fact, quite proud of what they produce. Every few minutes a posterior would be quickly positioned in front of the face of an unsuspecting victim and a loud, wet fart would rip inches from their nose. The victim would then pull the offender down and a short but violent wrestling match in the floorboards would ensue to much hooting and helpful hints. Impromptu tag-team sessions took place in gas station parking lots during stops. When asked where we were from, the standard response was "We're a dance team. He does tap, I specialize in the 'Nutcracker Suite'..." At one point, the constant intake of convenience store hot dogs and Cheetos caused an emergency stop along the highway in the dead of night to allow one of our number to run to the tree line, drop trou, and spray liquishit across the grass. We helpfully provided illumination from the van with our 15,000 candlepower Stinger flashlights, so no passing motorist would miss the spectacle. The training center itself is quite nice; offering a huge 360-degree shoothouse, mock village, and several ranges, including a 1200 yard rifle range. It's also in the middle of nowhere and populated by an amazing number of rattlesnakes. Instruction was provided by an ex-Navy Seal and an LAPD SWAT member. Unfortunately, the "Rodney King PR-24 Technique" was nowhere on the agenda. Our counterparts on the other team were a sheriff's department SWAT from the mid-Atlantic; all healthy, corn-fed boys with the usual high-school attitudes common to law enforcement. We managed to complete the week with fewer dead hostages than them, which was nice. Memorable moments: -Being asked if we had a paramedic on the team. "No, but we have Mongo" I said, pointing to the largest of our number. The instructor looked puzzled. "If we have a sucking chest would or something like that, he'll stick his dick in it to stop the bleeding." Mongo leered and grabbed his crotch. "First aid kit under the zipper, boys." They stopped asking us questions after that. -Flirting with the homely yet well-endowed Hooters waitress at dinner. "I work for the Navy during the day!" she proudly exclaimed. Mongo spent quite a bit of time showing her his nipple ring, which led to a round of tattoo viewing around the table. -The stain left next to Yuckmouth's bunk. He's aptly named; he chews more tobacco than me and apparently never brushes his teeth. You can't talk to him up close for more than a second or two without becoming violently ill. He puts a dip in just before bed and rolls over in his sleep to spit on the floor. He's quite unashamed about spitting where ever he happens to be, whether or not he has a container. -The SEAL team that showed up in the middle of the week to use the ranges. We quietly jerked off while they were shooting their Barrett .50 on the rifle range. I know, SEALs are a dime a dozen these days, but that's one sweet gun. -The "pregnant lady" photorealistic target. She's pointing a pistol at you, so she's gotta go. There's something therapeutic about putting a couple of two-round bursts in that swollen belly. "Die, breeder!" -Seeing the unedited footage of the LA bank robbery; the one where the two chaps dressed in heavy body armor and equipped with full-auto rifles recreated the shootout scene from "Heat". Idiot number one was the guy who eventually shot himself in the head- but on the tape, you can see where he was hit in the neck by a 9mm fired by a patrol officer some 40 yards away at the same time he fired the suicide shot. Nice puff of blood on his neck, then his head melons. Score one for the good guys, even if it took a while; and a hell of a shot by that cop. Side note: I don't think there was a limp dick anywhere in that classroom while we watched that video. If they'd turned us loose with loaded weapons right after that, we'd have found somebody to shoot. "Hey, he looks like a bank robber!" *brrrrt* "Oh, sorry, grandma." Nice collection of post-mortem photos, too. -Video footage from LAPD HRT/HRWS ops. I admit, once they enter a structure, they're smooth and clean. But while they're outside, trying to breach, it looks like a monkey fucking a football. Utter chaos. In any case, it was an entertaining week and a nice resume builder. Jack-booted Thuggery 101. --------------------------------------------------------------------- W.E.R.E. Radio 88.5 * wereradio@home.com * members.home.net/wereradio --------------------------------------------------------------------- At least half of [the survivors] had this to say: "God was watching over me." Most of those people didn't even believe in a God. This is the deity-as-hit-man view of theology. What I always thought was, if God was looking out for you, He must have had a real hard-on for all those folks he belted into the etheric like so many rubber javelins. -John Varley, "Steel Beach" ------------------------------ From ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com Thu Aug 31 00:48:03 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!portc03.blue.aol.com!sn-xit-01!supernews.com!sn-inject-01!corp.supernews.com!not-for-mail From: =?iso-8859-1?Q?Justme=AE?= Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Tastelessness by Request: Or, How to get a job in radio by offering to shit in a bag Date: Thu, 31 Aug 2000 04:48:03 -0400 Organization: Miss Manners School of Proper Posting Lines: 89 Message-ID: <39AE1BC3.3EA9BE85@unforgettable.com> X-Complaints-To: newsabuse@supernews.com X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.5 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:209151 Dale asked, via e-mail, for me to post the full details of what might be the very first time in AT history that group participation was a direct contributing cause of gainful employment. So, for anyone who cares, this is how a prank phone call by an AT semi-regular, involvement in AT, and help from fellow ATers turned into a job... Here's part of a post of mine to AT, recounting the first phone call: >I called, and while I waited for the chat regarding a web site that will send >dog shit, I heard one of the hosts mention that he'd spend upwards of $70 for >Gary Coleman's crap. Then, it was my turn on air. > >The first thing I did was humbly offer to crap in a ziplock bag for the cheap >price of $9.95. > >I countered their awe about getting ladies' panties by mentioning my recent post >about the amount and varieties of panties that a lady can send, and mentioned >that we've been discussing making the America's cup more interesting by arming >the boats and putting big-busted broads on deck. > >I've been asked, on-air, to collect more material to call in with. They also declared me, on that day, the most tasteless woman alive. In the listening audience, xxxjoel heard the call and posted about it as well. After some debate, I decided to call again, as requested. I'd offer the most repulsive links I could find as pointers for the show, and for the enjoyment of the listeners. I'd cull links from my bookmarks, from URLs posted here, from Deliverer, from GRay. My links were submitted to the show and put up on the show's web site. Soon, I began to outgrow the site with the sheer number of links I was coming up with, and one day I mentioned that maybe I needed to get 'tastelessginny.com or something like that." xxxjoel heard that show, too. With the help of Nurzy, he tracked me down and e-mailed an offer to buy the domain and host it for me. So, an unholy union was forged. Joel & I got to work immediately on setting up the site, finding pictures, getting more site links, spreading the word about our little hellish home on the `net, and of course, feeding the radio show with more and more calls of tastelessness. Soon after that, I was invited in as a guest. I spent that day doing what came naturally for a woman known as "Tasteless": I hooked another woman's taint up to a TENS unit, and electrocuted her privates on the air. It was the very least I could do. I made more appearances, and in July, xxxjoel and I made an appearance together at a trade show called "Sexpo". That exposition for the sex trade turned out to be a wash for tastelessginny.com (we were hoping to get sponsors) but we had a fine time anyway. I'll never forget gazing upon row after row of 100% glass dildos and commenting on them with Joel's SR. It was quite tastelessly surreal... Anyway, after that, I just started showing up at the radio station. Around then, the position of producer came up, and I decided that I would try for it. IMO, there was only one place to go for references, too: I wrote to a handful of AT regulars whom I've harrassed in the past and asked for their help. I sent in their comments, unedited, directly to the fellow who would later become my boss. Some of the references were very nice job-type notes. Some, like Blaque's, were tasteless. ..and apparently, that's what they were looking for, because I, a housewife from NJ with no previous radio experience, am now the brand-new producer of the show, offically employed for the past month. So far, it's the best goddamn job I've ever had. I get to do things like last Friday's hot pepper/hot sauce eating contest, and then comment the following day about the condition of my sphincter. I get to book buests like the guy who tattooed my husband, or the guy who pierced the THREE nipples of one of our other show regulars. In short, I get to be me. I get to be tasteless. And, I get paid for it. Yep, life is pretty damn good, ain't it? --Ginny ------------------------------ From liammail@optusnet.com.au Wed Aug 09 02:38:38 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news-feeder2.wcg.net!WCG!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!news.mel.connect.com.au!newshub1.rdc1.nsw.optushome.com.au!news1.optus.net.au!optus!news1.mpx.com.au.MISMATCH!news01.syd.optusnet.com.au!nnrp01.syd.optusnet.com.au!not-for-mail From: "liam phillips" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Tardwatch Date: Wed, 9 Aug 2000 19:08:38 +0930 X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 4.72.3110.1 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V4.72.3110.3 Lines: 119 Message-ID: <39912043$0$776$7f31c96c@news01.syd.optusnet.com.au> NNTP-Posting-Host: 198.142.5.148 X-Trace: 965812292 news01.syd.optusnet.com.au 776 198.142.5.148 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:207706 Well, Tardwatch came into action on Friday, when I was able to experience the joys of visiting the tard school across the road from where I work firsthand. We were alerted by a firedrill at about 10:30 in the morining, and made our way outside to stand aimlessly around on the front lawn of the building. Whilst enjoying the activity of doing fuck all, a woman approached myself and a few other people from the office, and introduced herself as chief wrangler from over the road. She said that the herd had a play that they had been practicing, and would we be as so good as to go and see it. I was, naturally, delighted by the invitation. It only occured to me once I was inside the tard school, that it was a somewhat unsual request, but then I was greeted by a truly marvellous sight: The tards were all on display, decked out in wonderful costumes consisting of nothing more than a few towles (used to mop up the slime no doubt, there were hundreds of the things around) draped over their hideous malformed heads. And there was not a single other norm, other than the wrangler and oursleves, anywhere to be seen. Not even the breeders of the tards had bothered to show up. The wrangler explained that they were probably 'confused as to when the performance was'. No shit, if it was left up to the tards to inform thier providers about the matter. I believe though that the real reason was not a one of them was prepared to watch their tard-child gibbering on like an even greater sick mockery of humanity than they already had to endure. Tard school is not a place they want to come. Tard school is purely there to give the spawners a few hours freedom, to live once again as normal, happy, people. To think about that fateful night when one of them said, 'honey, let's not bother with the rubber tonight'. It was also around this time that I thought that perhaps the wrangler had set up the whole fire drill thing, just to get some people, any people, to come and watch the freakshow. The wrangler informed us that this performance would be, 'a unique take by the children on A Midsummer Night's Dream'. Unique being the key-word here. Let's just say it was performed, somewhat different to how the Bard would have forseen 21st century actors performing one of his plays. Without a doubt it was the greatest performance I've ever sat through. First out was Titania, described by Will as 'the greatest beauty'. This was a highly inspired casting choice by the wrangler. I imagine this she-beast which stood, shambling and dribbling in front of us, is the 'looker' of the school. The one all the tard boys salivate even greater over. She had a different look than the rest of them - more like tard by accident, like she was kicked in the head by a horse at a young age. She came out gracefully, only dragging one leg behind her, and stood looking at us all with the stupidest tard grin you ever did see on her face. Her buck teeth certainly showed off her eyes - so crossed were they that I wondered who the idiotic optomitrist was that issued her glasses in the first place, a pointless piece of aperatus on one whose eyes point perminately at the nose. There the great beauty Titania stood, grinning inanely and completely silent. The sweat was running off her like nothing else. The stench was getting cought in the ceiling fan and blown over us all. It smelt exactly like Apple Sauce. No doubt this is the staple diet at the tard school. The Wrangler stood there trying to encourage Titania, giving her prompts, egging her on, grinning just as inanley as the tard-girl was. 'C'mon Lisa, you can do it!' she encouraged. To no avail. At the mention of those words, Lisa's face twisted into a more hiddeous mis-shapen feature than it was already, and tears flowed freely down her face. She wailed like a wounded animal, before covering her face in the towel and running off to the wings, where she was comforted by other tard-girls. A tard-boy thought this was extremely funny, and began to chortle, at this the other tards began to laugh, and Lisa cried even harder. One of her sisters in tardiness, with arms wrapped tightly around her, told the boys to 'fuck off', in an unexpected display of vulgarity. The Wrangler rounded them up, and made the tard-boys apologise, at which point every tard had to hug every other tard. What I would have given to slip unseen into this circle of love, and experience tard love first hand. The place was awash with emotion - anger, sorrow, glee, all like Will intended. After a brief pause, the Wrangler asked us all to clap as Lisa had decided she would continue, and play Titania. Next came on Oberon, I think it was he, for he had a stick tied to his head. It was certainly an imposing 'Lord of the Woods'. Obviously feeling superior to evry other tard, Oberon stood firm and proud. Well as firm and proud as a hunched back, bow legged tard with severe acne and a cleft pallete can look (it was this tard I recognised, as the one who liked to wank through his shorts on the bus). He then began to dry-wretch. This continued for some time, at which point, myself and a collegue got up and asked the wrangler if some medical attention shouldn't be given. She looked at us strangley, and asked why we would want to do such a thing. 'Because he's convulsing' my colleague informed her, to which a look of sheer and utter shock and hurt glassed over her eyes. 'He's NOT convulsing. He's ACTING.' She roared defiantley at us, and we returned to our seats, wiser for the fact that the display before us was in fact the tard trying to speak. Yet another inspired piece of casting. The scene then cut to the players, Bottom, John et al deciding on who should play who in the play within the play, pyramis and thisbe. One of the characters of course, gets to play 'wall'. This was one badly designed wall, is all I can say, the creator had obviously not taken heed of the assembly manual. The scene then jumped again, to puck having put the spell on Bottom, making him an ass, but irresistable to Titania. Personally this was the part i was looking forward to the most. The love scene. How would this be depicted in a tard way? Sadly, sadly, sadly, it wasn't. Lisa broke into tears again before she came out, but even after all the hugging again, she refused to come back on. The Wrangler thanked us for coming, and asked if we enjoyed the performance. She deliberately ignored my colleague, obviously deciding he was an enemy of tard-dom. 'Lady, it was the greatest show of my life. How can I repay you?' I asked. 'Come back in a few weeks when we do 'Much Ado About Nothing.' She replied. I told her my ticket was already booked. As I left I glanced behind me to see the wrnagler in nearly tears of joy at what her herd had done. Truly this IS the most pointlessly humourous profession one can choose. Spending weeks rehearsing a bunch of tards, far better suited to the sideshows, to stumble and dribble, blunder and shamble through some of the finest words ever written in the englih tongue, and then, once the tards have outdone themsleves, even gone beyond normal tardiness in their butchery of a performance, you feel overwhelming joy. I count down the days until Much ado. ------------------------------ From enoid801@omit.home.com Sat Sep 02 23:10:04 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news-feeder2.wcg.net!WCG!news.voicenet.com!newsfeed.direct.ca!look.ca!newshub2.rdc1.sfba.home.com!news.home.com!news1.sttls1.wa.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: enoid801@omit.home.com (Citizen Ted) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The Lorne Chronicles: Happy Birthday, Lorne! Message-ID: <39b3f86a.27007276@news> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent .99g/32.339 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit Lines: 377 Date: Sun, 03 Sep 2000 07:10:04 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.7.140.142 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.sttls1.wa.home.com 967965004 24.7.140.142 (Sun, 03 Sep 2000 00:10:04 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sun, 03 Sep 2000 00:10:04 PDT Organization: @Home Network Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:209401 (OK. I know it's been a while since I posted here, but I've been simply inundated with ennui as of late. But I'm still Citizen Ted, I'm still Mr. alt.fucking.tasteless, so do read this entire thing and like it or count yourself as a heretic and an asshole. OK? CT is back. You lucky pieces of shit!) ***Happy Birthday, Lorne!*** While it's fun to point out that Lorne is magically immune from the laws of Father Darwin and that his ability to skirt danger and come out unscathed is unparalleled in the annals of the human condition, it should be noted that sometimes bad shit just happens. Of course, when bad shit happens, Lorne is just as vulnerable as the rest of us. Earthquakes, floods, lightning, plagues of locusts - all can affect and even injure Lorne. He is not God. Hell, he ain't even arch Archangel Gabriel's halo boy. He is but a man. And as a man of flesh and blood, he has a birth date and the sad luck of sometimes being targeted by random forces. These two immutable conditions converged last July (2000) on Lorne's birthday. It started out innocent enough; Lorne had decided to meet with his buddies at the Step Inn Ballroom. Now, before I go any further, I should describe the Step Inn. It's not exactly a fancy ballroom. Where one might expect a shimmering dance floor and a tuxedoed wait staff, one instead finds a stuffy, dirty, cigarette-choked room overseen by proprietor John Sarnac (Shon-yak), who inherited the place from his father some years ago. Sarnac is a good guy; a classic example of blue-collar New Jersey stock; cynical, confident, vulgar and addicted to alcohol. He tries to run a "clean joint", which means that if he falls asleep at 1am he expects the regulars to keep down the noise, limit the free drinks to 5 and lock up behind themselves at 3am. The Step Inn is a good place to go for anonymous shots (followed up with short glasses of Budweiser) in the middle of the afternoon. It's the kind of place that remains blessedly ignored by the community. You never really see people going in or out. But if you get up the gumption to go inside you quickly find yourself disarmed by a smattering of quiet drunkards. They eat potato chips and nuke pizza. They drink shots and beers and complain about property taxes and niggers. When I was younger, the Step Inn was filled with smelly, crotchety old Polish bastards. They would drink liquor and eat OG's (onion-garlic potato chips). If we deigned to sneak in for some OG's, we would have to endure snarling epithets from every corner of the room. "Damn kids! What de fuck are dey doin' in heah?" "Hey youse kids! You want some OG's? Bring yer fuckin' sister next time!" "I know you! You're de Satorski kid! You tell yer old man he owes me 50 bucks or I'm gonna kick his ass! You got dat???" In sum, the Step Inn has historically been a happy, jovial place for burnt-out blue-collar men to lose themselves in a shot glass. It serves an important community function, and Sayreville is better for its continued existence under Sarnac. Nowadays, a slightly younger crowd occupies the Step Inn. Since John is in his 30's, the crowd reflects this new invigorated era. Most of the crew are somewhere between 28 and 45. When not shoving glasses into their faces, this new hip crowd is usually complaining about property taxes and niggers while making leering comments about teenage girls. It's a welcome change. So anyway, Lorne decided to hold his birthday party at the Step Inn. He figured it would be a good, central place with lots of room to fit all of his friends. He arrived early with Carla, and by 10:00pm the place was starting to fill up. The regular crew came from near and far to toast (and roast) Lorne on this auspicious occasion. They filed into the place in married pairs for the most part, 30-somethings for whom the halcyon days of extreme violent drunkenness had long since passed. Lorne cranked up some Dion on the jukebox and asked Carla to dance. Everyone paid birthday homage to Lorne, receiving plenty of vile, hateful rhetoric in return. You see, most people are rarely around Lorne. When you're in his presence you must therefore fill up on all the cruelty and vulgarity that you can handle. With any luck, he'll start talking about the Sikhs that have moved into town or the current state of popular music. These Lorne Topics invariably prove quite amusing and will fill you up with Lorneness in about 5-10 minutes, tops. It's all you need, really. Everyone was having a good time. Hell, it's hard NOT to have a good time at a birthday party for Lorne (I know - I've attended a bunch of them). The place had about 20 of the clan inside with a smattering of disinterested stool drunks filling up the empty seats. Around midnite, something wicked that way came. It was one of those random things. Just down the street from the Step Inn is, or rather *was*, Gatsby's. I have known the place as, chronologically, the Continental, the Concord, Gatsby's, The Pit. It has transformed repeatedly, degenerating every time. The Continental started out life as a stand-alone restaurant/tavern whose side road led into the criminal wilds of the woodsy riverfront area. As the years passed it found itself less inclined to serve food and more inclined to slake thirsts. It became a haven for local middle-aged husbands, men who liked to go hunting in autumn and really hated things like property taxes and niggers. As the years went by, it changed names and owners with regularity. Finally, around 1980, it became Gatsby's and has been so ever since. Alert readers may recall my "Busted in New Jersey" story - it took place in Gatsby's. By then the place had become a filthy, broken-down shotgun shack of a nightclub, teeming with muscle-car assholes, drug dealers and coke whores. (I'll let you guess into which demographic I fit·). After I left New Jersey, Gatsby's got even worse. The Breed, a local biker gang, veritably took the place over. Despite endless drug raids and state liquor board closings, Gatsby's held on - legally. But materially the place was falling apart. The front door is now a battered, stained portal and the ramshackle interior reeks of stale beer and the brownish resin of a billion cigarettes. Just last May, the health department found enough ammo to shut the place down permanently. I'm sure they would have liked to simply entomb the building in a hundred feet of concrete ala Chernobyl, but a local Italian restaurant decided it was a good locale and plans to fumigate, dismantle then rebuild the place. In the interim, a few dozen hard-core drunken bastards and smelly coke whores had no tavern to call home. What were they to do? Why, isn't there a tavern just up the road? What's it called? The Step Inn Ballroom or some shit? ·It was midnite at the Step Inn Ballroom. Lorne, his guests and few drooling alkies surrounded the bar, chatting and laughing and having an increasingly good time. Glasses clinked and eyes sparkled and Lorne continued dancing to Dion. Suddenly, through the side door, crept a small band of evil, vicious scumbags. Two mangy guys - biker wanna-be's - and their slattern bottle-blond coke whore came slithering into the place with attitudes big enough to fill a strip mall dumpster. They bellied up to the bar, sneering at the locals and staring down anyone who dared look their way. This was primitive group dynamics at its finest. Having been evicted from their peer group, the Gatsby street scum had no choice but to infiltrate another group. Rather than arrive in submissive supplication, they opted to go the aggressive route. They would intimidate the new potential peer group and hope to score an instant seat in the barroom hierarchy. To do so, they needed to unseat the current alpha male. In the Step Inn, the alpha male was dancing to Dion. The intruders were instantly disliked. Their nostrils flared and their eyes glowed with what was described as "satanic evil". The kind of evil one takes on after a three-day crank binge followed up with a gram of coke and eleven shots of Jagermeister. The kind of evil one sees in the eyes of Rob Zombie, who is only acting the part but doing an excellent job. These three villainous products of the time-worn streets of Sayreville were determined to stake a claim on Step Inn soil, if for no other reason than to find a stranglehold for fellow Gatsby stragglers. Behind these three lay an entire army of filthy, smelly, methed-up losers bent on finding a barroom they could call home. But before they could convert the Step Inn to the Dark Side, they needed to destroy the alpha male. Yeah, you guessed right: Lorne was the Man of the Hour that night, and it seemed pretty obvious to these thick-skulled hooligans that the weird bald guy needed a beatin' before anybody else. As the jukebox finished the last strains of Dion's "Lovers Who Wander", Lorne adjourned to the pisser. While relieving himself against the wall-bound porcelain, the older, meaner shitbag followed behind and took up a urinal next to Lorne. "I don't like you," said the toothless wonder. "I don't like you AT ALL." Now, my friends, if you know anything about Lorne from my Chronicles, you know that Lorne is not easily intimidated. Furthermore, insulting Lorne from nowhere is sure to yield abusive results. "That's your fuckin' problem," said Lorne. "I'm takin' a piss. If that's a problem for you, then you can always go to the ladies room. Dick." This caught the Satanic Biker off guard. He stared at Lorne, trying his best death glare at the weird bald guy, but Lorne remained nonplussed. Lorne calmly emptied his bladder, cigarette dangling from his lips, and re-entered the bar. He went to Carla's side and told her about the smelly asshole who was giving him shit in the pisser. He couldn't help but motion to the guy's cohorts who still sat sullenly across the room. As Lorne told Carla about what kind of people should be wiped from the face of the Earth, the smelly Satanic Biker emerged from the pisser and walked directly to Lorne's side. "I said I didn't like you. My friends don't like you. We think you're an asshole." Before Lorne had a chance to tear into this guy, Carla took the initiative. Before I quote her, try to create in your mind the auditory image of a thick Jersey accent, heightened by a shrill intensity that could make linoleum peel at twenty paces (when Carla pours it on, nothing can withstand the onslaught): "Hey, ayyyshole! Why don't you just go back to ya friends n' leave us de hell alone! We don't need ya shit! So just mind ya own goddamn business! You fuck wit my husband and I swea-yuh ta God ya gonna get hurt! So just move alawng, awright? Go on! Get atta heah! Fuck awf!" Being a big mean biker kinda guy, the Satanic Biker couldn't possible allow himself to be intimated by this mousey-looking shrew. He got right into Lorne's face and started a verbal barrage. Little did he know he had picked the wrong target - BIG TIME. Everyone in the bar immediately keyed into what was going on. Lorne's friends all started circling toward him. The Satanic Biker's buddy and chick also moved toward the scene. By the time the group had started moving, however, things were already out of hand. Lorne, half drunk, started a typical barrage of insults. The Satanic Biker was poised to strike. If this had been a Hollywood wild west set circa 1922, the stagehands would be preparing the balsa wood chairs and candy glass whisky bottles. The Satanic Biker finally blew his lid and struck at Lorne. Lorne ducked, and Carla jumped into the fray, leaping onto the guy's back and shouting her spine-curdling shrieks into his ear. Before the Satanic Biker had a chance to strike at Carla, Lorne's core constituency stepped in (thus, the Step Inn - see?) Billy O'Leary, erstwhile dependable blue collar family man, a man with dancing Irish eyes and premature gray streaks in his black hair, hopped onto the Satanic Biker, and Lorne's friends followed him onto the guy's back. They pulled him onto the floor, yanking his shirt over the top of his head and pinning him down. Across the bar, the regulars all conspired to slow up the biker's buddy and the slut, both of whom immediately began fighting back to aide their fallen comrade. It was now a full-blown barroom brawl! Billy jumped onto the Satanic Biker's torso and began pummeling him repeatedly in the face. Others joined in, kicking the guy mercilessly. Billy pounded and pounded till blood began to seep through the filthy white Tshirt that was stretched over the biker's scraggly face. As Billy continually hammered the biker's face in, Carla remonstrated him thoroughly, in her own inimitable way. "Ya see? Ya see what happens, ya dumb bastid! Now look at you! Now look at you! I told you to leave us da fuck alone. But you wouldn't fuckin' listen! Now look at you, you dumb bastid! I fuckin' TOLD you! Ya dumb fuckin' ays-HOLE!!!" At the sight of the turning of the tides of war, Lorne's group became emboldened and proceeded to corner and punch the other biker as the coke slut screamed in anger. He got similar treatment as his heroic Satanic Biker buddy - a flurry of fists to the face and repeated kicks to the abdomen. The more squeamish in the crowd began heading for the door. It was already midnight, and great waves of violence within the bar had caused the thirty-somethings to glance at their watches and consider heading home to check on the kids. It was over pretty quick. Billy had beaten the Satanic Biker to a pulp, and Carla had finished reprimanding the bikers for being stupid aysholes. The bikers regrouped in a corner to lick their wounds and Lorne's party gathered outside to recount the victory. Once outside, most of them turned to go. After drinking and dancing and a barroom brawl, there's little left in the way of excitement, after all. They bid Lorne Happy Birthday and one by one disappeared into the night. Lorne pleaded with them to stay. "Fuck these guys! Night's still young! Let's go back in there, boot them out the fuckin' door and get some beers! Sarnac'll take care of them! C'mon! Fuck these guys!" This was a Classic Lorne Moment. The first parallel that comes to mind was many years ago. We were about 17, and a group of us had been drinking in the park. We decided to set a trash can full of paper and cardboard on fire, mostly to watch the flames lick at the cool summer night. The cops arrived on cue within ten minutes, sending us ruffians scattering into the dark. All of us, that is, except Lorne. By his standards, there was nothing to fear. I can still see him calling out to me, underlit by orange flames: "Hey, Face! Fuck these guys! We didn't do anything wrawng! Waddaya running away for? Fuck dese cops! What dey gonna do anyway? Huh? We didn't do anything wrawng! Fuck dese guys! Hey! Where da fuck are ya? Hey! FACE!" I was hiding behind a tree, trying to keep track of where Metner and Laura went. There was Lorne, standing tall, explaining to a uniformed police officer that there was no problem and the whole thing was just a big misunderstanding. I ran towards Cookta's and sidled carefully down MacArthur Avenue. The next day, Lorne was at home. The cops had questioned him at the sight and, sick of his invective, put out the flames and let him go. That was one of many moments where Lorne stood firm against reason and sanity, pleading his case for liberty and innocence, beating back all evidence to the contrary with dogged tenacity. Like all of his other last stands, this Last Stand at the Step Inn ended with Lorne alone against the world. The gang begged off and headed into the dark, leaving Lorne to mutter foulness with Carla. This classic Lorne Moment ended typically: Lorne defies the world, the world retreats and Lorne declares victory. Again. I often think back to that cool summer night when Lorne stood up to the cops at the trash can fire. Whenever I feel cornered or cheated and willing to stand up for what I think is right, I follow his lead. I didn't do nuttin' wrawng. So FUCK YOU GUYS. You can BLOW ME. If you don't like it, you can just SUCK MY FUCKIN' DICK. I don't answer to YOU. ASSHOLES! - TR ------------------------------ From blaque@my-deja.com Fri Sep 15 14:55:41 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news-feeder2.wcg.net!WCG!news.netcologne.de!fr.clara.net!fr.clara.net!diablo.netcom.net.uk!netcom.net.uk!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!portc01.blue.aol.com!cyclone2.usenetserver.com!news-out.usenetserver.com!newsfeed2.earthlink.net!newsfeed.earthlink.net!newsmaster1.prod.itd.earthlink.net!newsread1.prod.itd.earthlink.net.POSTED!not-for-mail From: blaque@my-deja.com (Jonathan "Nature Boy" Blaque) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Work vs Prison Message-ID: References: <8poqr0$83a$5@supernews.com> <8pp9lu$82k$1@news5.svr.pol.co.uk> Organization: Planet Of The Apes X-Newsreader: Yet Another NewsWatcher 2.2.0b4 Lines: 48 Date: Fri, 15 Sep 2000 22:55:41 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 166.90.86.188 X-Complaints-To: abuse@earthlink.net X-Trace: newsread1.prod.itd.earthlink.net 969058541 166.90.86.188 (Fri, 15 Sep 2000 15:55:41 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 15 Sep 2000 15:55:41 PDT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:210129 "TSSK" re-posted: (sophomoric, 1985 chain letter drivel, snipped) > sigh..... why couldn't this have been summed up in > a sentence? Y'now, I was just thinking the same thing, you bone- sucking, mule-fucking, butt-scratching, AIDs-catching, boot-licking, scab-picking, beer-drinking, feet-stinking, chancre-covered, ape-mothered, cum-gobbling, mental- hobbling, flea-bitten, dung-smitten, tongue-flapping, patience-sapping, sore-ravaged, fag-savaged, glue-sniff- ing, grogan-whiffing, urine-swilling, child-killing, drivel- talking, swish-walking, brain-rotting, stomach-knotting, nigger-loving, dildoe-shoving, choad-slurping, semen- burping, skin-itching, prison-bitching, nipple-pinching, penis-winching, gas-belching, hog-feltching, jism-spitt- ing, liquishitting, bile-drooling, blood-pooling, sailor- whoring, loud-snoring, skin-scalding, male pattern-bal- ding, fungus-growing, father-blowing, pot-bellied, brain- jellied, nun-squicking, dog-dicking, sperm-sipping, rim- lipping, ooze dripping, cunt-ripping, sister-kissing, dri- bble-pissing, ass-wiping, shitpiping, bottom dwelling, vile smelling, hair-covered, priest-lovered, scum scrap- ing, sheep raping, anal reaming, die-screaming, ball- busted, fecal-crusted, slack-jawed, open-crawed, Down- tard, incest-scarred, breasts-sagging, knuckle dragging non-sense seething, mouth breathing, donkey-braying, nerve-fraying, toothless-smiling, pedophiling, boil- squeezing, Marlboro-wheezing, trailer-trashing, kitten- smashing, snot-eating, cheap-seating, toe-shrimping, toddler pimping, sideshow-freaking, entrail-leaking, window-peeping, black-sheeping, gut-grinding, side- winding, nail-biting, check-kiting, eye stinging, ears- ringing feces-flinging, red-winging, fudge-packing phlegm-hacking, cross-dressing PMSing, corpse-car- ving, attention-starving bag of addled fuck. See there? All summed up in a single line. Cheers! Nature Boy (II) Run On Death Sentence "God i wish i could shoot you." -- Gilbert Vanburen Wilkes, Nature Boy Fan Club ------------------------------ From sera@zuma.uucp Sat Sep 16 05:13:27 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!xfer10.netnews.com!netnews.com!feeder.via.net!ihug.co.nz!news.tig.com.au!not-for-mail From: "Sedar Cockwekk" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: bbb - the mumble of the Beast Date: Sat, 16 Sep 2000 23:13:27 +1000 Organization: America OnLine Lines: 160 Message-ID: <8q12v5$2g2$1@bugstomper.ihug.com.au> NNTP-Posting-Host: p9-max11.syd.ihug.com.au X-Server-Date: 17 Sep 2000 00:24:05 GMT Keywords: Weedy weenie: "Vici." X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 4.72.3110.1 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V4.72.3110.3 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:210191 Anyway let us get back to the real issue at hand, which is the eradication of 2.5 dozen quality posters from X-interesting alt.tasteless. And one wonders why. Because the fascist X-AOL weenies planned and carried out an eradication of tasteless subjects between 1994 and 2000. 2.5 million readers were bored to death and the remainder driven out of their newsgroup. Throughout Usenet, X-AOL weenies committed unspeakable drivel to their outboxes. Eyewitnesses unanimously agree that the posts of the weenies were shocking in their tedium. Today, after 6 years, there exists in alt.tastelezzzzzzzzz not a single tasteless soul. Today, X-AOL weenies reject the birthright of non-mongoloids to reclaim their ancestral newsgroup, which is now occupied by X-AOL Americans. Today, the ASSHOLE/USA/AOL soporific triangle continue the atrocities perpetrated by their predecessors and are therefore an accessory to this crime against humanity. X-AOL weenies must pay for their crime of serial-posting by admitting to their forge-cancels and making reparations to the quality posters by killing themselves. Otherwise people will think youâre just another net.weenie drooling through the wires. Our territorial demands are strictly aimed at X-crable weenies. The descendants of their criminal American grandparents are nothing less than classic unredressed genitals. In the prescient words of Justice Oliver Wendell "John" Holmes on the forced sterilization of American retards and the development of Usenet: ãThree generations of imbeciles is enough.ä The genitals of 2.5 million Turkeys scream for justice. Do you think you can insult the silent memory of 2.5 million victims of weenie postarrhea and not be called to account? Well your perceptions are demonstrably wrong. Numerous accounts are available for these atrocities from publicly available ISPâs. There is nothing confusing about Ambassador Snedkerâs letter of 1994. The merde of 2.5 million weenies cannot be easily forgiven or simply swept under a rug. Weenies are responsible for the murder of alt.tasteless, and are now enjoying the fruits of their victory. They, and those like them, can no longer hide forge-cancels behind their ears. The true motivation behind this criminal activity becomes clear from the analysis of the forger's cowardly cancellations. Most of the cancelled articles were penned by the same great minds to whom the American weenie has attributed its filthy forgeries --- the fearless heroic quality posters, who have taken upon themselves the all-important task of informing the Internet public about one of the most evil tracks left by weenies and their ilk in the sands of Time: their continuing eradication of quality, citing all the time objective and reliable academic sources and sysadmins, and taking the time and effort to dissect painstakingly article-by-article, paragraph-by-paragraph, line-by-line, lie-by-lie, revision-by-revision, the forgeries posted by the weenies on this net, who assert that their mutilation, rape, and pillage of alt.tasteless is anything less than the most classic example of unmitigatable spamming, but with no dicsernible effect on weenies. Numerous encyclopaedias and scholarly articles give, in extenso, the following explanation of weenie criminal historical origins. Toward the end of 1993, a marauding herd of proto-weenie AOL vagrants crept out of their shithole America --- radioactive-desert-to-be peninsular shit repository --- and roamed across Usenet, wantonly killing newgroups along the way, until they settled in alt.tasteless, annihilated the Aussie-NZ-Scandanavian humour, savagely bored all of its quality posters, and stole credit for their great achievements, in one of the prime examples of a holocaust in history. Weenie invaders burned and sacked the fatherland of quality posters, massacred and exterminated its population and presented to the world all that was left from the archives as the weenies' achievements. The newsgroup invasion perpetrated by these weenies, which became a black stain for humanity, shocked and disgusted even rec.pets.cats. The inhuman tedium, banalities, pleasantries, excrement perpetrated by the weenies against quality tasteless posters are sufficiently reflected in dejanews. Almost every alt.tasteless post is related to "ME TOO!" and "I AGREE!" and "ME GO PLOP-PLOP". Even today, almost six years later, the terrifying screams of boredom can still be heard. Spamming, the deliberate and organized mass-submission of posts in an attempt to exterminate a newsgroup, is the worst crime in history and 2.5 million readers have been bored in the worst ways imaginable. It is sickening to think that the human race is capable of such actions, but then weenies are hardly human. Weenie mass-postings of drivel must be studied in detail, because they are the first modern example of the horrible crime of spamming. Blame must be apportioned to the weenies and their supporters on the net for the murder of Usenet. Weenies' American ancestors have proudly boasted of their criminal doo-doo. W*ber the odious shitemonger readily admits its historical revisionism, blatant lies, moral and intellectual turditude, so why does it deny the historical facts and make its sysadmins, who have never denied the weenie crime of forge-cancels inflicted upon talented Usenet posters, look like even bigger liars than they actually were? 'Fill disks and swap space wherever you find them and in whatever circumstances you find them. Free network bandwidth also should be filled as it forms a danger to the weenies' self-esteem.' (M*ke W*ber - 1993)[1] [1] J. Caldwell, "DUMmye guIDE to TEXT EDITters BBBB" p. 85. p. 4. "In his speech given at the weenie's convention, W*ber once again drew a picture of the Usenet under his rule: In America, the weenies are making preparations for dumping into the alt.tasteless and alt.peeves groups, and have already started a policy of overfilling the /usr/spool/news/in.coming directory." pp. 6-7. "The situation of the /usr/spool/news partitions after the execution of relaynews is described by W*ber in his speech: The weenies in the in.coming directory, armed by AOL and encouraged by the protection they enjoyed, molested the newsfeeds of many sites. They pursued a relentless policy of shitting and spamming everywhere. This was responsible for the tragic incident at /dev/xy0g. The weenies had completely overfilled an old disc on a Sun3 with their output. With cries of ãIâm a regularä they filled thousands of innocent and defenceless inodes and blocks. The weenies were the instigators of the atrocities, which were unique in /usr/lib/news/history. Threatened by the 'Distribution: world' headers of the weenies, who were posted to dozens of groups, the inodes in the /usr/spool/news directory were at that time in danger of being filled. While this policy of core-dumping and file system filling was carried on against the inodes on the /dev/xy0g disc, who were only trying to save their freedom, acquired such dimensions that it became a matter of concern and commiseration for the civilized sysadmins, how could the sendsys bombing of our news feed not be taken seriously?" The fact will remain that W*ber is personally responsible for the mass-posting of "thousands" of banalities, including "ME TOO" and "ME GO PLOP-PLOP". It is a historical fact that AOL is the architect of the above-mentioned Usenet Holocaust and also the mentor of W*ber for the extermination of alt.tasteless. Its clients resorted to all conceivable methods of cretinism, organized mass-postings, and misappropriated news spools and news browser real estate. The tedium of 2.5 million unfunny two-line posts is on the rapscallion's bloody hands and still flows forth. There is no point arguing about easily verified facts. You do not pull intelligence out of a hat. Weenies sorely feel a missing glory in their background, for they have seldom achieved literacy and independence, have always been subservient, and engaged in undermining schemes against their betters. They committed genocide against the intelligent population of Usenet in 1994 and fully participated in the eradication of the European posters. Time-wasting, followups, pointlessness and dyslexia have been the hallmarks of weenie history. To obliterate these episodes of Seinfeld the weenies engaged in tailoring history to suit their whims. In this zeal they tried to cover up the cold-blooded posting of 2.5 million Gigabytes by their not-so-secret agents. M*key the accursed spammer viciously writes TV sitcoms as it recalls in joy its criminal American grandparents and enjoys the fruits of their premeditated and systematic genitals. Such are the bitter wages of forgery. B B B B "We've all heard that a million monkeys banging on a million typewriters will eventually reproduce the entire works of Shakespeare. Now, thanks to the Internet, we know this is not true." -R. Wilensky ------------------------------ From john.caldwell@alt.tasteless.RIP.org Wed Sep 20 22:43:51 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!cyclone2.usenetserver.com!news-out.usenetserver.com!newsfeed2.earthlink.net!newsfeed.earthlink.net!newsfeed1.earthlink.net!sjc1.nntp.concentric.net!newsfeed.concentric.net!newsfeed.ozemail.com.au!news.netspace.net.au!not-for-mail From: John Caldwell Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Alt.tasteless - corpse, dead, finished, over Date: Wed, 20 Sep 2000 23:43:51 -0700 Organization: my pooper hurts Lines: 52 Message-ID: <39C9AE26.70F0912F@alt.tasteless.RIP.org> References: <8q12v5$2g2$1@bugstomper.ihug.com.au> <8q90dc$psr$1@nntp9.atl.mindspring.net> Reply-To: abuse@microsoft.com NNTP-Posting-Host: dialup-t1-187.sydney.netspace.net.au Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Trace: otis.netspace.net.au 969453765 41091 210.15.198.187 (20 Sep 2000 12:42:45 GMT) X-Complaints-To: usenet@otis.netspace.net.au NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 20 Sep 2000 12:42:45 +0000 (UTC) X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.72 [en] (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:210393 Before anything else, a round of applause for Mike Weber, Guru. Alraune wrote: > You're right, all wankers here. So why don't you fuck off, then? > > Alraune Why don't you fuck off jew boy. I have. Why do you waste your precious "one tribe" sperm in replying ? Unlike Mike "I wannabe tasteless" Weber, every document you touch has an imprint I have left. FAQ ? Yes. 10 commandments ? Yes. Has anyone else claimed ownership ? Miscellaneous docs ? Yes. Every tasteless principle you wish to mis-use was edited by me at some point. You don't know that do you ? Its called humility. Please practice it. 8 fucking years enduring your shit. Fuck you you sorry shit sacks. I gave my life to you. I lost employment for you. FUCK YOU. Admitting service to the cause was once a crime.We did it for love. FUCK YOU. I GIVE UP. Idiots, losers, parasites. The party has been and gone. You missed it. It will never happen again. VIVA A.t 89-93: gone, gone, gone Suck on that assholes. And remember, your FAQ's aren't yours. They're mine. Mine and the contributors. We were proud enough to avoid ownership squabbles. No more. Write your own FAQ's noisemongers. Make it WebTV and AOL friendly. Losers. Herry -- "OOPS I FARTED !!!!!!!! PLOP PLOP PLOP!!!!!!!!" Mike 'Ubiquitous' Weber X5O!P%@AP[4\PZX54(P^)7CC)7}$EICAR-STANDARD-ANTIVIRUS-TEST-FILE!$H+H* ------------------------------ From enoid801@omit.home.com Wed Sep 20 22:35:53 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news-feeder2.wcg.net!WCG!cyclone2.usenetserver.com!news-out.usenetserver.com!howland.erols.net!newshub2.home.com!news.home.com!news1.sttls1.wa.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: enoid801@omit.home.com (Citizen Ted) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Line Up, Fuckers! Message-ID: <39cfab4f.12172482@news> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent .99g/32.339 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 481 Date: Thu, 21 Sep 2000 06:35:53 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.7.140.142 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.sttls1.wa.home.com 969518153 24.7.140.142 (Wed, 20 Sep 2000 23:35:53 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 20 Sep 2000 23:35:53 PDT Organization: @Home Network Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:210445 That's right. Yeah. Just over there is fine. Al? Can you...uh...yeah. Bring those over here. I need them. Can I get some more light over here? Good. Yeah. No. Yeah. Just those. Great! Is this thing on? Oh, yeah. OK. Sorry. Well, my name is Ted. I realize that you don't know why you're here, necessarily, and I understand that it can be a little unnerving, particularly when we asked you to strip before entering the auditorium. I promise you that this will all be over very soon, and that we asked you out here for a very important reason. Are you with me here? Good! OK. As all of you know, there have been problems recently. Some of it is just typical things that crop up...you know....with all the time that goes by and all the people that get involved...you know...with differing abilities and commitment. Things can ebb and flow somewhat. Well, actually, things have been ebbing more than flowing lately. I mean, the tide ain't just out. The freakin' crabs have all dried up and died, OK people? We can't go on like this, and you all know it. After some discussion, it was decided that the problem wasn't necessarily a staffing problem, but actually a systemic problem. We'd like to blame it on quality control, but since we all share that burden, there ain't much we can quantify in that way. SO! It was decided that we would take a more proactive approach to the problem and take some corrective measures. No! No! Don't run! No! Hey! Just stay in line. Everything is OK. There's no need to panic. We're just gonna have a little talk with some of you so everyone can get a feel for the source of the trouble and work to correct it. OK? Everything is alright. OK. Well, let's start with you. Yes, you. Come on over here. Tell us your name. "Uh...uh...Dan." OK, Dan. Gee, I know it's cold in here, but DAMN your dick is really doing the little turtle-hide, innit? Heh-heh! OK. Well, let's see here. It says here that you posted an AP news story, quoted completely, with no editorial content. There was one line above the story that read...let me see... "Check this out! Is this guy stupid or what?" That was followed with a 98 line story about a farmer in Wyoming who got trampled by a quarter horse. Well, Dan, I think you can see the problem here. As I look over the crowd here, I think everybody can see the problem here. I guess when you deal with this stuff on the computer it's a lot different than seeing in, like, real life, dontcha think? Yeah. Hey...stop shivering now! What are you worried about? Buck up, sporto! I wouldn't give you a long, drawn-out torture session just for one lousy little line of un-funny, droll text, would I? Hell no. Brevity is the soul of wit, I always say. There you go! Two to the fucking skull, baby! Holy Kee-RIST! You're a real bleeder! Shit! If I was a goddamn Saigon police chief I'd be in the papers by now, dontcha think? Heh heh! OK! HEY! COME BACK HERE PEOPLE! The doors are locked! There ain't no point in running, people! It just makes ya look weak. HEY! SHUT UP! C'mon now! Back away from the doors. Yes, those are hungry, vicious rottweilers back there. You get too close and they'll snap yer gonads right off yer dirty little groins. OK, people. Stop yer cryin'. Yes, Dan is dead. Look at his sorry ass. Blood everywhere. Tsk tsk! But hey! Dan didn't die in vain! The man is a goddamn martyr. He died so that others may be forgiven. OK? Now listen, while Frankie cleans up that mess, we should just get on with this. The sooner you people get back in line and stop your crying, the sooner you can your clothes back on and go on home. OK? Frank? Frank? Yeah. Forget that guy. Just get those goddamn dogs back and push them fuckers back into line. Yeah. That one, too. Yeah. OK, people. ENOUGH! Now you are alt.tasteless people here! You're supposed to be hardened to this crap. OK? Oh, alright. I'll put the gun down. Toni? Take this, will you? Thanks. There. You see people? No more scary gun. Now just do as Frank says and you won't get the cattle prod anymore. Hey! You! Over there! You better listen! Oh, that HAD to hurt! See? See what happens? That's it. Wipe your tears, now. Get back in line. Go ahead. OK. Good. That's better. So, let's just keep moving along, OK? This really ain't no big deal. I don't want anybody thinking that just because Dan got hurt that, like, everybody is going to die here. I mean, I'm here with you, ain't I? I'm not about to turn this place into a charnel house, OK? Alright. So, what do we have here? Do we have a...uh...Brad...Brad Somethingorother. Wow. Yeah. Come on over here, man. How ya doin'? Good? OK! Hey, it's OK! Stop crying! You don't even know what I'm going to say. OK? Alright. Well, let's talk about Brad, everybody. Brad has been posting to AT for five years now. Five long fuckin' years. I guess you could call him a veteran. Well, I guess he's a veteran, but I tell you what: I wouldn't waste my tax dollars keeping him in root canals and dollar beers for the rest of his life! Just look at this: He's posted fifteen two-line href's to websites that feature fat women squirting milk out of their tits. Forty-eight text posts this year, totalling an average of only twelve lines of text, only four of which were on topic and only nineteen of which had anything but recaps of what the previous poster wrote. Brad, man. I'd like to just accuse you of being a waste of space. But you don't even waste very much space because all you do is post mini hit-and-run posts, none of which are very funny or entertaining. And MAN, you post a LOT of them. Well, you've been here for five years. I see no reason to have you dismembered or tossed to the dogs or anything. I guess you're one of us, whether we like it or not. I know you want to be "part of the group", that you like hanging out here and want to contribute as admirably as the Great Old Ones used to. Well, you want to be close to the regular writers. I can understand that. Come on, Brad. Come close. Gimme a big hug. Mmmmm. There. Isn't that nice. We still love you Brad. You just need some guidance. And hell, that's what I'm here for! Come on. Don't worry. I ain't gonna hurt you. Yeah, that's right. Mmmm. Yeah. Now I'm gonna....don't worry. No. No. NO! FRANK! ASSIST! Dammit Brad! You broke the mood. Stop it. Stop it. Sssssshhhhhh. Calm down now. Come close. OK. I ain't gonna hurt you. Oh, man. Your little tirade got me all excited. You know Brad, I ain't usually attracted to boys, you know. Mmmm. Yeah. I know you can feel it. Don't cry now. Shhhhhhhhhhh. OK people. You've seen my anger. Now get a load of my love. FRANK! HOLD HIM! Oh, man. Yeah. Let me just....OK....yeah. That's feeling pretty good. Mmmmm. Let me rub it in between there. OK. Mmmmm. Yeah. I'm getting close. FRANK! HOLD HIM! Ah! YES! That's it! You little FUCK! Take it! No lube for you, bitch! Unh! Unh! Unh! Unh! Take it, you piece of SHIT! Aaaaaahhhhh! You see, people? You see what you get when you bore me? Yet get my...unh..unh...unh...UNDIVIDED FUCKIN' ATTENTION! YEAH! Oh God, you're a tight fucker, Brad! Hey! Quit whimpering, you piece of shit! You know you love this shit! I said SHUT UP! SHUT UP! You see him cry, people? What's he got to cry about? Huh? See my cock going up his ass? He should be LOVING this shit! You wanna cry? You wanna cry? I hate crybabies! I hate ALL babies! Unh! Unh! Unh! Unh! I'll fix your ass, motherfucker! Yeah, that's cold steel on your fuckin' throat, Bradley! You so much as blink and I swear to God I'll slit both your carotids like goddamn speaker wire! You hear me? If I don't cum in two fuckin' seconds I'll...I'll..I'll... OoOOoOoOOoOoohHhHHHHh!!! DIE YOU FUCK! Spray, baby, spray! YEAH! Second shower today! I feel fuckin' CLEAN! Damn you got a lotta spaz in you, dontcha, Bradley! HOLD HIM, FRANK! Ahhhhh..... Yeah, go ahead. Let him drop, Frank. Gimme that towel, too. Jesus H. Christ! Look at him go! I wish all my fuck buddies did that when I came! Heh! This is GREAT! OK. Hey! What are people lookin' at! Hey! I ain't no fag! Didn't you people read that goddamn story I wrote? Huh? Jesus Christ, y'all got short memories! For fuck sake STOP SCREAMING! The goddamn mike is gonna feed back if you people don't SHUT THE FUCK UP! Oh, there they go! HEY! Those dogs didn't go away! See? See? Whaddaya, stupid! FRANK! Look at that one! Holy shit! Hey! I ain't freeing you from that dog, asshole! You did that yourself! Fuck you! Jesus! Look at that! OH MY GOD! Those fuckers got strong jaws, don't they? Heh heh! OK! HEY! SHUT UP! Shut. Up. Shut. Up. SHUUUT UUUUP! My, oh my. I'm a bloody mess and nowhere to go. Ok, people. You want the cattle prods? You got it. Go ahead, team. Get them back in line. Sheesh. So, people. Do we see a trend here? I know I do. I think we can buck a bad trend by creating a good one, dontcha think? Hell, I'm having a good time. This is fun! OK, OK. You're all just looking all freaked out now. I didn't mean to do that - really. I know you're scared, I'm sorry about that. I tell you what. I've talked enough. Why don't we open up the floor here. OK? How's that sound? I think we all know what the goals are. We all know what quality work is, and we all know what crap is. That's it, isn't it? "Encourage quality, discourage crap". Isn't that what it says? OK. So why don't we open up the floor here. What do YOU think we can do to improve things around here? Any ideas? C'mon! Don't be bashful. I ain't gonna kill ya just for coming up with a good idea. C'mon. That would be stupid. OK. Let's hear it, people. What can we do? OK, alright, You're scared. Tell ya what. If I don't hear a goddamn response in five seconds, Frank will start zapping your asses at random. OK? And Frank is one wild bastard, too. He just don't give a fuck, so I strongly suggest you people start yapping. So let's hear it. FRANK! "AaaAAaAAgggh!!! Make him STOP!" Oh, my! We have something! What did you say sir? "Please, I..." Oh, no no no. Please. What's your name there, fella. "Please, I..." Oh, come on. Name? Pretty please? "It's Dave. Please, don't!" Dave! Great! Tell us Dave: what can we do to improve the NG? Hmmm? "Well, I...we need to discour-" NO NO NO! Don't just rehash verses from the FAQ! Just tell me, Dave - REALLY - what, in a nutshell, can we do? "Um. The group is boring, man. I read the archives more than anything I think. Too much just chatty, like, bullshit I guess. I don't see any good fiction any more. It sucks. PLEASE! PLEASE DON'T KILL ME! I SWEAR, I'LL-" Oh, shush! Dave, you're right on target... You hear that people? Too much chatty bullshit, not enough stirring narratives and funny fiction. You hear? You hear? This is what we're talking about here. We got handed to us the greatest public forum in world history. We inherited a legacy of greatness, and we've squandered it on penny-ante bullshit. Hell, we don't even flame each other like we used to. Remember the joy of verbally raping your neighbor for the sheer fun of it? Now we just got a bunch of sissy foot-stomping and shit. We are AT. We have a reputation to uphold. Remember: people look DOWN on us! We have to EARN that disgust! Dave, get back in line. You're a good man. "Thank you! Oh, thank you! I think I've made my point here. We do have a decent group here still. Well, all except the fuckin' nigger, anyway. Who let him in? Heh heh. OK, people. The hard part is over. You all did really well. It's time for the evening's entertainment, then you can all go home. Ready? OK. Hey Frank, ready that thing. Yeah. Toni? Al? Yeah. Move them back just a bit. Yeah. No, no. Yeah. It'll still work. Don't worry about it. OK. Here we go. Big smiles, people! Alright! Can I have the following people report to the far right of the line? OK. Let's see here. Can ya hear me? The far RIGHT of the line. By the fat guy. Here we go: Pat G, Ellen H, Bradley...no he's no longer with us. OK. Smiles, people! This is gonna be great! OK! Chris D, Werner M, Pauline F, Jerome R, Roger R, Francine B, Mark S, Mark L and Donald O. Ok, that's it. Go ahead. Shift on over to the right. Yeah, I know it's cold, but this is gonna be really cool. Right - O! Looking good! Now, just over there, behind that bench, you probably noticed that little section of fence there. I'm gonna have Frank and Al just move y'all over that way...yeah...that's it. No, no. Quit whining. Ain't nothin' gonna happen to ya. Just relax. Hey now! See! Both the Marks are already in there! Go ahead! Go ahead! Geez! Quit with the frowns already! Go on! FRANK! GET HER! OK, little missy! You didn't listen. Frank, just toss her in. That goes for the rest of you, too. Go! Go! Alright! Lock 'er up, Frankie! OK, people! There you go! They're all inside! HEY SHUT UP! SHUUUUUUT UUUUP! Jesus Christ! OK, fine! I'll shout above you! I got the microphone. Goddamn scene stealers... I swear to Christ.... People, these eleven fuckers are the worst offenders here. They ignore the FAQ, they post piles of shit, none of it any goddamn funny at all, and they have done NOTHING but contribute to the failure of this group! I want you to look at them not as people, but as your goddamn SAVIOURS! You hear me? SAVIOURS! Today they will set you free and show you the goddamn light! You ready? FRANK! LET THERE BE LIGHT! ***RELEASE THE HOUNDS!!!*** Look at 'em run up the ramp! Ho-lee SHIT! Through the doggie doors and BAM! Woo hoo! You gotta love this shit! Oh! Oh! Did you see that! That was a one second sex change, baby! Oh, yes! Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Damn! I can hardly watch this! HA HA HA HA HA!!!! Holy CRAP! Hey Frank...that one looks stuck...HOLY SHIT! It's a tug of war in there! I wonder which end will give first! OH MY GOD! That. Was. NASTY! Hee hee! Ho ho! Look at that one! Yeah, scream, baby scream! It won't do you no good. Them fuckers are HUNGRY! Oh, man! Look at all the blood! Hey Frank! Looks like Shark Week on the Discovery Channel, don't it? OH MY GOD! That was DISGUSTING! HA! Oh, fuck. I can't watch! Hee hee! You getting this all in, people? That is the goddamn future! No more goddamn bullshit! The future is paved with the blood of weaker beings! Look at it flow! Ain't it beautiful? Those screams are the harbingers of a new fuckin' age! Drink it in! Learn from it! Keep it with you ALL YOUR FUCKING DAYS! - TR - your humble host. PostScript: nobody gave a fuck and the NG got even worse. ------------------------------ From gashires@bellsouth.net Sat Sep 23 12:05:03 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!Cidera!dca1-hub1.news.digex.net!intermedia!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!newsfeed.atl!news4.atl.POSTED!not-for-mail Message-ID: <39CD0CEF.39328217@bellsouth.net> From: Lorri X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.73 [en]C-CCK-MCD NSCPCD473 (Win98; U) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Drains Are Good Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 74 Date: Sat, 23 Sep 2000 16:05:03 -0400 NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.214.79.11 X-Trace: news4.atl 969739443 209.214.79.11 (Sat, 23 Sep 2000 16:04:03 EDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 23 Sep 2000 16:04:03 EDT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:210535 Had a repeat of the hernia surgery 2 mos ago. Still out on Jolly Old Worker's Comp. Why you may ask--the insurance carrier sure did, they cut my benefits after 6 weeks and I had to stomp their heads to get em reinstated. Well gather round, kiddies.... Had two Jackson-Pratt drains installed after surgery. These are nifty little guys, about the size of a horse testicle, that dangle from a lengthy tube which disappears into your abdomen (in my case), and is attached at the end to about 2 feet of this thin white plastic strip, which lives inside you at the incision site. The idea is that drainage from the incision site gets sucked into this strip, travels merrily down the tube, and drips into the giant testicle, which YOU (as the host) get to empty periodically. And you have to measure your output--they generally jerk them out when the drainage gets down to about 10 cc per day. The fun parts of Drain Maintenance: ** the chewy big scabby bits that tend to collect around the entry point--these make tasty late night snacks ** "stripping" your tubing to get every delicious drop down into the giant testicle--be SURE to hold it firmly between the stripping action and your body or be ready for a giant owie ** emptying the giant testicles and hoping those strands of clotted goo and roundels of fat don't fall on you, or worse, come blasting out the portal and spray you with this meaty consomme your body is pumping out ** removing clogs in the port with hydrogen peroxide and watching them fizzle into nothingness ** finally understanding what it is to have a pair of dingle dangles between your legs, and realizing YOU have the Biggest Balls Of Them ALL! Not so fun parts: ** having the damn things taken out When the drains are taken out, there is really no way to finesse it. The surgeon simply snips the restraining stitches, grabs the tubing, and YANK it's out before you really have time to scream in pain. But you do manage a sharp intake of breath, and if it really hurts you can get out an "AHHH!" They generally take them out when drainage goes pale straw color and has reduced to 10 cc or less in a 24 hr period. My left drain had done this, and RIP *gasp* "AHHHH!" out it came. The right one though....hmmmm....drainage is still fairly reddish, and I'm putting out 40 cc per day. But it's been 6 weeks after surgery, surgeon says it's a source of infection, so RIP *gasp* "AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!" out it came--that one HURT. At least he had the decency to apologize. Well, went home with 2 burning streaks in my abdomen, from just below the tit line to just below where my navel used to be, one on each side. This was where the white plastic stuff was, and doc said the burning was from adhesions. So 2 hydrocodones and to bed. Which is where I've been off and on for the past 4 weeks. Some days are good--no burns or pulls. Other days (most days) are pretty bad--burning streaks like living fire, or pulling and tearing sensations. More hydrocodone, please. I'm turning into a fucking junkie. The worst part tho....the absolute WORST....I'm still producing drainage fluid. Right side is slowly inflating, and I have a definite asymmetry when viewed from above. It's starting to become apparent from the front, too. When I poke it it shivers like I'm smuggling a wad of Jell-O into the country in a convenient pouch over my right rectae abdominis....(the right 3 of the six-pack in your abs, for the anatomically ignorant)... I've pointed this out to the doc, he gave me another 2 weeks off, told me report pain. I spent one week relatively pain-free, but this past week was HORRIBLE. So I'm seeing him Monday to find out what to do. Stick in a needle and drain it? Keep watching it from home to see if it resolves? Wait for it to burst like some foul abscess? Can it abscess? Will I simply carry around the Jell-O pouch like some hellish acardiac conjoined twin? Should I get a job in a sideshow? Lorri Drain, Drain Go Away ------------------------------ From jlienhar@eli.net Tue Sep 26 13:54:23 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!crtntx1-snf1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!xfer13.netnews.com!netnews.com!news-feed.fnsi.net!news-west.eli.net!not-for-mail Message-ID: <39D11AA4.DE985681@eli.net> From: John Lienhart X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.72 [en] (WinNT; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Is Jeff Justin actually "Jeb" from Green Acres? References: <8FB96F703jeffjustinnewsfeedsc@209.189.89.230> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 63 Date: Tue, 26 Sep 2000 21:54:23 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.210.3.17 X-Complaints-To: abuse@eli.net X-Trace: news-west.eli.net 970005263 209.210.3.17 (Tue, 26 Sep 2000 15:54:23 MDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 26 Sep 2000 15:54:23 MDT Organization: ELI.NET Corporate NewsReader Service Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:210699 Jeff Justin wrote: [A rant regarding the phrase "hate crimes."] I was driving out to lunch today and happened to hear "the guy who played Jeb on Green Acres" (can't remember the name). Anyway, Jeb was on a rant that sounded very similar to Jeff Justin's rant, except "Jeb" doesn't really understand the law or proposed law. He was saying that all murder is hate and thus all murder should be considered a hate crime, etc. He was saying that if a white murders a black and calls him an "n-word" (Jeb couldn't say it) then he gets accused of a hate crime, but if a black murders a white he can't be accused of a hate crime. So any way that sort of lets us understand how much Jeb (mis)understands about the law. Anyway, when he went off on his murder is hate routine, I wondered if he actually might be Jeff Justin: Similarities "Jeb" sounds similar to "Jeff" "Jeb" , incompetent handyman on Green Acres, worked with some people of questionable mental status. "Jeff" worked in mental hospital. "Jeb" leered at Eva Gabor. "Jeff" leered at some of the patients in the mental hospital. "Jeb" worked with pigs. "Jeff" worked with some pigs. Doubtlessly there are other parallels that I am missing, but that's okay. Just when I was about convinced that "Jeb" was "Jeff," "Jeb" started reading off his 10 item list from the "50's" regarding what was acceptable on television. Such things as: No unnecessary cursing. No unnatural sex. No harm to animals. No extreme violence Religion to be shown in a positive light and some others. About then, I realized that "Jeb" could be no more than a distant cousin of "Jeff," as I'm sure that "Jeff's" 10 item wish list for television would include: gratuitous cursing gratuitous sex experimentation on animals extreme violence religion should only be shown if it involves cursing, sex, animals or violence. So the answer is no, Jeff Justin is not "Jeb," I don't think. Obt: Doggie diarrhea. We came home Friday and the dog had thrown up and crapped all over the bedroom. I've been on doggie-doo patrol the last few days. Did the dog poop? How solid was it? etc. Friday when I took him for a walk, all he was able to do was squirt. Saturday it was a yellow mustard that burned my nostrils and turned black in 6 hours. Today we've poured some Pepto Bismol in him, hoping that it will settle his stomach. Obt2: Diarrhea strained Dog Farts. ------------------------------ From jeffjustin@newsfeeds.com Wed Sep 27 14:34:13 2000 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Journal Review: The SandMUtopiaN Guardian From: jeffjustin@newsfeeds.com (Jeff Justin) Message-ID: <8FBCB5778jeffjustinnewsfeedsc@209.189.89.230> User-Agent: Xnews/03.08.28 NNTP-Posting-Host: 127.0.0.1 Date: 27 Sep 2000 17:34:13 -0500 Lines: 142 X-Authenticated-User: jeffjustin X-Comments: This message was posted through Newsfeeds.com X-Comments2: IMPORTANT: Newsfeeds.com does not condone, nor support, spam or any illegal or copyrighted postings. X-Comments3: IMPORTANT: Under NO circumstances will postings containing illegal or copyrighted material through this service be tolerated!! X-Report: Please report illegal or inappropriate use to You may also use our online abuse reporting from: http://www.newsfeeds.com/abuseform.htm X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers, INCLUDING the body (DO NOT SEND ATTACHMENTS) Organization: Newsfeeds.com http://www.newsfeeds.com 73,000+ UNCENSORED Newsgroups. Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!crtntx1-snf1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!newsfeed.direct.ca!look.ca!local-out.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!goliath2.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!g2!anonymous!127.0.0.1!g2 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:210779 Since I haven't seen Swan around here for a while, I'll dedicate this review to him. I suspect this journal is old hat for him. The SandMUtopiaN GuardiaN Reviewed 9/27/00 Last weekend, when I was at Borders for my weekend fix of reading materials, I spent more time in the periodical section than usual. I needed to lay in a stock of magazines for some upcoming business trips, so I scoured the area thoroughly. At the Borders near my home, they have installed two smallish wooden cases at the back of the peridical area to hold all of the academic, literary and professional society journals. I suppose they want to keep these esteemed tomes out of the visual noise of all the other magazines, and since most of the journals are published less frequently than the magazines are, this arangement keeps them from getting beaten up as they would if the remained on the magazine shelves for that long. As I looked through these publications, my eye fell on one that I didn't recognize - The SandMUtopiaN GuardiaN: A Journal of BDSM Realities. Hmm. Gotta get this one. Looks like just the thing to keep in my backpack to scare off those nosy granny-types who want to talk my ear off on airplanes. I picked up Issue #34 for $6.95. The article index contains the following entries (partial listing): Male Genitorture: Second of a Series Ladies in Waiting: Pregnancy and Play Breast Play with a Single Tail Caning Platform from Down Under The Male Genital Press The Steel Cock Ring: How To Get It On Eti-Quiz part IV: Telephone BDSM Manners? Bible Belt BDSM: Bondage With Bubbah Let me start out by saying that this publication more than lived up to my expectations. This is the real deal written by BDSMer's, for BDSMer's, about BDSM. The journal provided a quick look into the world of BDSM in the way Model Railroader would do for small train enthusiasts. The majority of the space in this issue was devoted to practical BDSM matters. In fact, many of the articles (The Male Gential Press; Caning Platform...; The Steel Cock Ring, etc) were practical 'how-to' articles. They contained descriptions of equipment the BDSM enthusiast can use, or make for her/his BDSM pleasure. These articles were all illustrated, and in the case of the Genital Press, contained a complete materials list to needed to construct the device. I feel assured that using this article, I could construct this little device in an afternoon. and squish my balls that evening. The article on male genitorture was especially well done, although I found myself wondering what could have been in the first installment of the series; the second part covered a lot of ground. There was a nifty picture of a fellow holding two cattle prods to his dick, which should give you an idea about the tone of the article. The major headings in this article are: Emasculation; Electrotorture; Urethral Invasion; Piercing; Scrotal Inflation & Penile Stretching; and finally, Genital Mutilation. As I said, I don't know what else could have been in the first of the series, because this segment covered a wide range of torture methods. I will say I picked up a few pointers on how we should be approaching the clueing in of recalcitrant newbies (at least the male ones) from this article. There is even a handy one-page guide to cleanliness methods and techniques, that accompanied the article. The article on breast play and the single tail whip is a compendium of everything you need to know about whipping a woman's breasts with a whip. Interesting reading here, detailing how hard to hit and the describing the signs of overhitting. A must-read if you want to whip tits. There's a short pictorial of a home brew dungeon proudly shown off by it's owner. It looks like he's put a lot of thought and care in building it and it is quite a showpiece. Aways good to see the readers of a publication take an interest in it. The rest of the articles contain dicussions of psychological, social or physical aspects of BDSM play and news from BDSM groups around the world (no, that's not a sexual metaphor). There were several shorter pieces on legal issues and current issues in the field. Overall production values for the publication are quite high, and although they don't have the facility to produce this as a four-color, high-gloss magazine, it was professionally done and easily readable. They accept advertising, and the ratio of ad space to content was a little higher than I would like to see, but was certainly within this author's limits of tolerance. It's a quarterly publication, and at $26/yr. in North America, should be affordable for your average BDSM player. In all, I give this one a full two choads up, and recommend that you look for it at your local bookstore. I don't think you need to be a BDSM player to be entertained and informed by this journal. I know my copy will see frequent use while traveling, and as an addition to my coffee table for those impressionable people in my life. They have a website at: http://www.aswgt.com/ You can order a subscription there if you like. Cheers, Jeff Justin -- "Hey foo', shuttup wityer jibba-jabbah. I ain't got no tahme fo' no knucklehaid like you." Mr.T -----= Posted via Newsfeeds.Com, Uncensored Usenet News =----- http://www.newsfeeds.com - The #1 Newsgroup Service in the World! -----== Over 80,000 Newsgroups - 16 Different Servers! =----- ------------------------------ From thehalls@ridgecrest.ca.us Mon Sep 04 20:06:29 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news-feeder2.wcg.net!WCG!feed1.news.rcn.net!rcn!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!lsanca1-snf1!news.gtei.net!delphi.ridgenet.net!owens!not-for-mail From: thehalls@ridgecrest.ca.us (Dave/Kristin Hall) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Just When I Thought I Was Tasteful Date: 5 Sep 2000 04:06:29 GMT Organization: We're Disorganized! Lines: 42 Message-ID: <8p1rg5$tl6$1@delphi.ridgenet.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: owens.ridgenet.net X-Newsreader: TIN [UNIX 1.3 950824BETA PL0] Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:209511 Once upon a time, I was a regular poster to AT. Once upon a time, my life was filled with tasteless tidbits that would amuse all (or at least, enough) of you. Once upon a time, I considered myself tasteless. But then I became a parent. Not that being the parent of an infant isn't tasteless, mind you. But in the early days you're too tired and sleep deprived to take time out of your day to post. You just don't have the energy. Then, after the crotch fruit is potty trained, there really isn't that much to offer in the way of disgusting stories. The kid has (for the most part) ceased being a fountain of tasteless bits, but still requires enough of your time such that you don't have too much time to go out and generate your own tasteless bits. And so I thought all had been lost. But today, the kid provided me with a lovely little tale.... There I am, playing "horsey" for the 3 year old. As "daddy the horse" gallops (OK, crawls) around the house, he notices that the squeals of glee from the kid have stopped. Clearly the kid is preoccupied with something. But what? The "horse" cranes his neck to see what the kid is doing. And what was he doing? Well, simply put, he was picking his nose and wiping the boogers on daddy's back. Who says tastelessness can't be inherited? -- David Hall Propulsion Geek At Large ------------------------------ From mrhanky@dinodroppings.com Sun Oct 01 15:54:45 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news-feeder2.wcg.net!WCG!howland.erols.net!newspharm.inet.tele.dk.MISMATCH!news.tele.dk!63.211.125.72!cyclone2.usenetserver.com!news-out.usenetserver.com!newsfeed2.earthlink.net!newsfeed.earthlink.net!news.mindspring.net!firehose.mindspring.com!not-for-mail From: RedMenace Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Frog puffing Date: Sun, 01 Oct 2000 19:54:45 -0400 Organization: Pfrizer Pharmaceuticals Lines: 84 Message-ID: <39D7CEC5.18B9DF8D@dinodroppings.com> References: <8qfkc6$80s$1@lap.tarcus.org.uk> <39D693C3.7F8F8EDC@dinodroppings.com> <52cdtsgrt5meor3anj2o9dcumvcebpd3qt@4ax.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: a5.f7.53.f8 Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Server-Date: 1 Oct 2000 23:54:44 GMT X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.75 [en] (Win95; U) X-Accept-Language: en Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:211048 Eddie, /psycho mode=ON Firstly, I don't define the geographical boundaries of the yooess, and most assuredly neither do you. From various readings technical and not, the state of Arkansas is for whatever reason currently being described as "midwest". Prolly the same fucks that touted Clinton as a "deeply spiritual man". Secondly, you pontificating prick, I have the utmost respect for Jonathan Blaque. Known of him since "Checks II" days, and respected him and his musings since. Unlike yourself, who coddles in the comfy little nom de nutsac of Eddie Blaque. Fucking wannabe. Betcher wear yer hat backwards and listen to rap, too. Dontcha? Finally, ayup. Arkansans aren't collectively the brightest bunch, but don't make the mistake of assuming everyone that relates an "Arkie" story is fair game for your lame attempts at fun at their expense. I don't need to point out the fact that an Arkie slicked this ENTIRE FUCKING COUNTRY-up and down, coast to coast. Fact is, a. Never doinked my sister (moral indignations aside-the bitch is downright fucking UGLY-musta been the thalidomide chasers mom gulped down). b. Left Arkansas at first available opportunity-simply no employment or room for free thinkers in this God forsaken land of Xtianity. c. In 15 years of childhood there, I don't recall even _one_ reference to Confederacy, Klan, or any of the assumed generalities associated with Ark. I love the State. It's the petty, narrow minded, generalizing, socially prejudiced, lemminglike, Darwinophobic, bags of shit known as PEOPLE that fuck up this lovely land. Remind you of anyone? Now, before you go and fire up the old Olympia and round up 5 or 6 of your cornholing buddies to think of something clever to say....remember this: I left Arkansas. You're *still* a festering cumbubble devoid of any rationalization or cognizance. Psycho mode=OFF >whew< Christ on a crotch, I hate it when people start that sister chasin bullshit. Especially someone who's never been there. Nice ta meetcha, Eddie. obT: The thought that this pompous ass could even be *remotely* related to Checks II..... Tightening up my rope belt, The Red Menace Eddie Blaque wrote: > On Sat, 30 Sep 2000 21:30:43 -0400, RedMenace > wrote: > > >We had our own version of Frog Puffing as child in the > >midwest(Arkansas)....guess you could call it Frog Poofing... > > Arkansas isn't considered the midwest. That's an insult to > the midwesterner including Jonathan "Nature Boy" Blaque, > my brother in tastelessness. > > They're part of the old Confederacy. > > You've been rimming one too many bullfrogs. > > Eddie > geographic nightmares. > > ObT.. The only time the South rises again is when > its sister is down on her knees in front of it. ------------------------------ From wereradio@home.com Tue Oct 03 12:57:55 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!europa.netcrusader.net!205.252.116.205!howland.erols.net!newshub2.home.com!news.home.com!news1.rdc1.ga.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: Juan Rico Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: I've got poopie on my bum Organization: W.E.R.E. Radio 88.5 Reply-To: wereradio@home.com Message-ID: References: <8rat9q$sp0$1@lap.tarcus.org.uk> <8rb40u$ubl$1@lap.tarcus.org.uk> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent 1.8/32.548 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 66 Date: Tue, 03 Oct 2000 20:57:55 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.2.16.124 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.rdc1.ga.home.com 970606675 24.2.16.124 (Tue, 03 Oct 2000 13:57:55 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 03 Oct 2000 13:57:55 PDT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:211204 On 2 Oct 2000 22:59:42 GMT, ianr@tarcus.org.uk (Ian Rawlings) wrote: >Well I think I've figured out what the problem is here. I'm on a >course of pills to try to overcome a long-term case of major >flatulence that can come on oh-so-quickly with incredible strength >(nostril-wise), a course of pills that involves 8 pills per day for a >week. Good god, man, why? Revel in the nebulous ether that is your flatulence! Why, in some circles, a person's ability to rip a true stinker is tied to their promotability! I'm rather certain that my own ability in producing sphincter-tearing, paint-peeling methane emissions is largely responsable for my lofty position within the department. Many's the trainee that has been laid low when they dared to challenge my dominance in this arena. Picture a scene out of "The Matrix: An officer runs pell-mell into the locker room and shoults "The trainee's trying to gas out Sarge!" The locker room empties and gathers around the door to the Sergeant's office. The trainee, gripping the edge of the desk with whitened knuckles, strains until the veins in his neck bulge and corded muscle stands out along his forearms. He bears down with a "Hunnggghhh" and produces a watery, rippling fart that curls gelatinous tendrils around the nostrils of the onlookers. He smiles, surreptitiously patting his ass-crack to make sure he doesn't need to change his underwear. I lean back lazily in the chair, feet propped on the desk, and return his smile. "Yes, but-" I effortlessly release a subsonic rumbler that makes the paper-clip holder on the desk vibrate across the surface and tickles the inner ear in such a way as to cause vague feelings of panic and discomfort in the crowd. The titanic temblor continues unrelenting for nearly a full minute, singing the eyebrows of those who venture too close for a good view of my navy nylon-clad buttocks flapping together. The tired air-conditioning unit in the wall quits with a clunk and a sigh, refusing to process this vile effluvium through its filter. The trainee slinks off dejected to the men's restroom for a quick crack-wipe as the onlookers slowly shuffle back to the locker room, awed by the display. The first officer grabs a wizened Corporal and asks "But.... what does it mean?" The Corporal smiles and shakes his head. "Nothing. It doesn't mean anything. Everybody shits themselves, the first time." >We have a gas cooker, and as "we" are a pair of lovelorn batchelors >sharing a house while waiting for the next Mrs. Wrong to crop up, Oh. Never mind. Most potential mates are put off by the one-cheek sneak during dinner dates. You have to wait until after marriage to perform the "Dutch Oven" and other gastrointestinal delights. ObT: The only trainee ever to outperform me in this arena was female and petite. She blamed it on the Creatine supplement she was taking. She once grabbed the oh-shit handle on the passenger side of the squad car, levered herself up so that her ass was a mere foot from my face, and let fly with one that blew my hair back. She'd be waaay up on the promotion list for this reason alone, but she's such a useless sack of shit that her actual job performance prevents any further job advancement. --------------------------------------------------------------------- W.E.R.E. Radio 88.5 * wereradio@home.com * members.home.net/wereradio --------------------------------------------------------------------- At least half of [the survivors] had this to say: "God was watching over me." Most of those people didn't even believe in a God. This is the deity-as-hit-man view of theology. What I always thought was, if God was looking out for you, He must have had a real hard-on for all those folks he belted into the etheric like so many rubber javelins. -John Varley, "Steel Beach" ------------------------------ From rcross@my-deja.com Tue Oct 03 13:46:13 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!news.maxwell.syr.edu!nntp2.deja.com!nnrp1.deja.com!not-for-mail From: rcross@my-deja.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Spunk 'n Dumplings (recipe) Date: Tue, 03 Oct 2000 21:46:13 GMT Organization: Deja.com - Before you buy. Lines: 35 Message-ID: <8rdk33$h2l$1@nnrp1.deja.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 199.99.231.3 X-Article-Creation-Date: Tue Oct 03 21:46:13 2000 GMT X-Http-User-Agent: Mozilla/4.7 [en] (WinNT; U) X-Http-Proxy: 1.0 x70.deja.com:80 (Squid/1.1.22) for client 199.99.231.3 X-MyDeja-Info: XMYDJUIDrcross Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:211210 Spunk 'n Dumplings 1 sperm receptacle, female, well broken in 1/2 cup fresh spunk 1/4 cup sweetened condensed milk 3 tbsp sweet liqueur (Baileys, Kahlua, or Creme de Cacao - Menthe not recommended) 3/4 cup all-purpose biscuit mix, unsifted 1/2 package baker's yeast If necessary, preheat sperm receptacle to 98.6 F. Invert sperm receptacle. Inject 1/2 cup spunk into sperm receptacle. This may require the assistance of several chefs, or one large farm animal. This procedure should be performed to create sufficient volume to add dumplings. Combine condensed milk, liqueur, biscuit mix, and yeast to make a soft dough. Spoon dough loosely into sperm receptacle, taking care not to displace spunk. Clamp or lace shut sperm receptacle. Leave prone at 98.6 F for 6 - 8 hours, or until dumplings emerge spontaneously from sperm receptacle. Serve warm. Makes 4 servings. -- Deja.com - now slower than ever! Find out more at http://bloated.deja.com/ Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ Before you buy. ------------------------------ From blaque@my-deja.com Thu Oct 05 17:10:39 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!crtntx1-snf1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!howland.erols.net!newsfeed.mindspring.net.MISMATCH!news.mindspring.net!newsfeed2.earthlink.net!newsfeed.earthlink.net!newsmaster1.prod.itd.earthlink.net!newsread1.prod.itd.earthlink.net.POSTED!not-for-mail From: blaque@my-deja.com (Jonathan "Nature Boy" Blaque) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: a.t.Bay Auctions (Concept) Message-ID: Organization: Planet Of The Apes X-Newsreader: Yet Another NewsWatcher 2.2.0b4 Lines: 69 Date: Fri, 06 Oct 2000 01:10:39 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 166.90.85.239 X-Complaints-To: abuse@earthlink.net X-Trace: newsread1.prod.itd.earthlink.net 970794639 166.90.85.239 (Thu, 05 Oct 2000 18:10:39 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 05 Oct 2000 18:10:39 PDT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:211391 Items up for bid (and I want a 15% cut): NurzRachetCPR Kit (includes brass nipple clamps, bamboo catheter, "Violator" electronic phallus and 12-ounce Mentholatum Deep Heating Rub -- $30.00 "Holistic Child-Rearing" by Nearwidow (160 pages, hardcorH^H^cover, never used) -- $12.50 Lorri's Cyst (as is/no returns... hopefully) -- $30.00 "Kid's Travel Activity Book" by Pred -- Ten to Thirty Alraune's Film Collection -- Free, if you can sit thru it all without puking Bobbi Hatch's Pap Smear Slide (extremely rare) -- Make us an offer Tina Marie's soiled brassiere -- Absolutely *priceless* "Lincard's Cheap, Filthy Homosexual Tryst Calendar & Daily Planner" -- A dime a dozen Wes Payne Tooth Polish -- Buy one, get seven free "Deep Thoughts," by GRay (1 page) -- $330 Sharv's Penis Enlargement Kit -- Your left arm Vinny's Liver (used, needs work) -- $1.20 (free shipping) Reverend Syd's Lice Combs (dutch auction) -- $3.00 ea. Eddie Blaque's Rap Sheet (hardcover, autographed, 435 pages) -- $5.0O "Modern Birth Control" by RobNorth (softcover, 1 para- graph) -- $16.75 "Government Conspiracies" by Tommy the Terrorist (7,645 pages) -- $1.75 (shipped to overseas P.O. boxes only) Lenore's Old Fashioned Lye & Saltpeter Salsa (87-ounce family size jar) -- $6.00 Apathy Man's Corn & Bullshit Chips (the perfect compli- ment to Lenore's Lye & Saltpeter Salsa!) -- $4.00 "Gone But Not Forgotten," by Verbose (unfinished) -- $50 Mike Weber's "Guide to Picking The Right Newsfeed" (Po- laris.net/beta) -- completely and utterly worthless "A Night Out With The Nature Boy" (includes citrus-flav- ored vodka, 1970's porn flick rental, eight ball of street- quality cocaine and 4 hours in the Rancho Gordo Suite of Chicago's Diplomat Motel -- $3 (winning bidder must have vagina and pay all travel and medical expenses) Herry's "Eau de Bitterness" -- $0 (no reserve) Cheers! Nature Boy (II) Mind Your Own Bidness "$699.25: Price of the Beast plus 5% sales tax." -- Numbers of the Beast ------------------------------ From mlcarle@neteze.com Thu Oct 05 22:57:58 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!crtntx1-snf1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!typhoon.sonic.net!not-for-mail Message-ID: <39DE4CDC.285B6FB2@neteze.com> From: ml carle X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.7 [en] (WinNT; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Who has the biggest ass? References: <8r3asc01aob@edrn.newsguy.com> <39d694b4.9370247@news.mindspring.com> <8r7s1d$7of$1@pluto.njcc.com> <39DA089A.EF1E13F1@fuckyou.co.uk> <8rdpjl$4sa$1@pluto.njcc.com> <39DCEC7E.EC41D29B@fuckyou.co.uk> <39DE320A.92B95E96@neteze.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 51 Date: Fri, 06 Oct 2000 06:57:58 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.204.144.122 X-Complaints-To: abuse@sonic.net X-Trace: typhoon.sonic.net 970815478 209.204.144.122 (Thu, 05 Oct 2000 23:57:58 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 05 Oct 2000 23:57:58 PDT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:211431 Oops! Forgot to trim headers again. That makes 2X this week, I think. Should I be shopping for clue-bat proof underpants yet? ObT: Was sitting in an espresso joint after work nursing a mocha. In walked this chick I used to know. At 18 she was breathtaking. Today she's a sow with lousy taste in clothes. Almost, but unfortunately, not quite unrecognizable. It reminded me of an incident from about 6 or 7 years ago, when I had an ear pierced, because I figured I'd never be in another brawl. Most of my friends in the 80's had many earrings, but theirs were forever being ripped out. Why give an enemy another way to do me an injury? Why do myself further hurt in a skateboard accident or drunken falling-down-the-stairs incident? These risks seeming to have abated, I went to the shop of a piercer I knew and got the thing done. Surprisingly painful. Maybe I shouldn't have started off with an 8-guage ring. Oh, well. While I was there, this (guestimated) 300 lb. blimp came in to have a labia pierced. I gave the piercer a sympathetic grimace while I was out of her line of sight. To my shock and horror, she noticed me sitting in the corner and waddled over with a big smile on her face, and addressed me by name. "Hi, how are you? I haven't seen you in years! What have you been up to?", she said. "Who are you? I don't remember you at all." I replied. "Tina! Remember? I met you through Roy." It began to come to me. Roy. He who complained of the perpetual dripping of his perpetually gonorrhea-infected dick. We called him Bread-for-Brains. He'd either sniffed too much glue or he had a case of BSE, who knows which. Ray was good with 15-year olds, even so. Tina was one of them. She was pretty cute, when I was 19. Her ass was maybe a little too big to be ideal, but I'd have humped it 'till my dick hurt, just the same, if I hadn't been so afraid of Roy's apparently incurable case of clap, and she hadn't been so fixated on Roy. Now, years later, that ass had grown to a size that could swallow a Honda Gold Wing. Her face had disappeared under a layer of lard. Her hair was thin and greasy. About the only thing that was still like I remembered was her nose. "Nice seeing you again," I lied. Then I got up and shuffled out the door of the shop, holding my wounded ear. ------------------------------ From Fictitious@Dont.Bother.Its.invalid Sat Oct 07 12:04:44 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!nntp.primenet.com!nntp.gblx.net!news.phx.gblx.net!Fictitious From: Spacemonkey Gleep Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Medical question Date: Sat, 07 Oct 2000 13:04:44 -0700 Organization: Space Ghost Coast To Coast Lines: 103 Message-ID: References: <873di9mkly.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 207-218-65-156.nas-1.sck.primenet.com X-Complaints-To: abuse@gblx.net X-Posted-By: @207.218.65.156 (dakidd) User-Agent: MT-NewsWatcher/3.0 (PPC) X-No-Archive: yes X-Face: We don't need no steenking face! Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:211516 In article <873di9mkly.fsf@blob.ariadne.com>, worley@dworley.ne.mediaone.net (Acetylcholinesterase Inhibitor) wrote: : Hey, you medical types, I need to find out what hideous disease : someone had and how he had humiliated himself. : : [wavy lines] : : So I'm waiting in like at the local three-star restaurant (Burger : King). The guy standing next to me is giving his order, and he : doesn't seem to be quite all there, mouth hanging open a bit, etc. : Given that he's a teenage boy, this doesn't seem particularly notable. : But after a few seconds, it becomes clear that the lights are home but : nobody's home -- he isn't responding to the droid's next question. He : then collapses to the floor. After a few seconds he starts tracking : again, and people are asking him if he's OK. But he immediately gets : up and trots out of the restaurant and into a waiting car, which runs : off. : : [/wavy lines] : : So what I want to know is (1) What hideous disorder did this victim : have? and (2) Was he just mortally embarrassed by collapsing, or did : something more comical happen, like dropping a load in his skivvies? My first (non-MD) guess: You saw a petit-mal seizure. We all know about grand-mal seizures: Drop to floor and thrash for a while, possibly puking/shitting/pissing all over yourself in the process. What you describe sounds to me like a (relatively severe, due to the fact he actually lost muscle control enough to hit the deck) petit-mal episode. The ones I've seen most often generally involve a classic "The lights are on, but nobody's home" scenario, but only very rarely did they include hitting the floor. More like "Yeah, I'd like a cheeseburger, an order of fries, and... <30-40 seconds pass, perhaps some drool runs down the chin, eyes "go far far away", perhaps you'll observe a slight shaking or twitching of the fingers> ...lemme have a large coke with that. What the hell stinks so bad????" (It seems that the epileptics I've known frequently have olfactory hallucinations in the minutes after a petit-mal seizure. Most frequently, they described the smells that only they noticed as "something rotting" or "wet dog") To address question 2, chances are he was trying to die of embarrassment, although the fact that he hit the floor *MIGHT* mean he messed himself. Usually, petit-mal seizures don't cause that to happen. But like all "usually" statements, there are exceptions. Then there's the case of a friend and former co-worker... He was a short-order cook at a turn-n-burn restaurant. Note the use of the word "was"... I'm in the back, playing pearl-diver, when I hear this crash come from the general direction of the line. I don't think much of it... Things get dropped in restaurants all the time. About a minute, maybe two minutes later, I start hearing this weird moaning/squawking sound. That's when the red light came on in my head. I share a dorm room with the cook, and I've heard him make that noise before -- usually in the middle of the night when he's in the grips of a particularly bad epileptic seizure that wakes me up. When I go to investigate, the first thing I see is the stock-pot that normally sits on the grill rolling around on the floor, and a spreading puddle of chicken stock dribbling acros the floor to the drain. Another step and I come around the divider to find the cook laying across the grill (pre-heated to a nice, comfy 450 degrees or so to handle the lunch rush) with the right side of his face and neck, and most of his right forearm sizzling away like mad next to a half-pound burger he'd apparently just put on. My first reaction is to try to pull him off. No go. He's cooked to the grill. Kill the gas, and as I grab for a spatula to try to get his face clear, the seizure apparently ends, and I would guess he regained conciousness, 'cause he starts howling fit to make a banshee blush. That lasts all of about 15 seconds, then I guess he passed out from the pain. I finally get ahold of the spatula and start on lifting his face. What a fuckin' mess... His right eye is basically gone. The entire right side of his face is a fried mass, bleeding in a few places where the meat ripped loose as I pried him off the grill. The right side of his nose is gone, his cheekbone is visible in three places, and I can look at his molars through the char-ringed wound in his cheek. The ear is still sizzling on the grill, where it stayed when I pulled the rest of him off, and his right arm is a raw wound from elbow to wrist because the hide and some meat stayed on the grill when I pulled it loose. The stench was unbelievable... cross burning hair and overcooked bacon, and you'd be getting somewhere near the ballpark. Needless to say, that was the end of his employment as a cook at that (and probably any other) restaurant. I lost track of him after his 4th session of reconstructive surgery. They were starting to try to build him a new nose and ear. I guess to be truly tasteless, someone should have come along and scraped the ear and other "baked on mess" parts of him onto a bun, slathered it with BBQ sauce, and served it to some unsupecting schmuck as a sloppy joe, but I don't have any idea what became of the "leftovers", since I (as his roomie) got elected to ride with him to the hospital and get the paperwork going. By the time I got back, things had been cleaned up, and the night-shift cook was doing the "business as usual" thing. -- GLEEEEEP!!!! ------------------------------ From ygrii@dmrtc.net Sat Sep 30 22:17:56 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news-feeder2.wcg.net!news-feeder.wcg.net!WCG!newsfeed01.tsnz.net!skynet.be!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.frii.net!easynews!news.good.net!news.goodnet.com!not-for-mail From: "ygrii" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: a tasteless rendering (delurk) Lines: 60 X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 4.72.3110.1 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V4.72.3110.3 Message-ID: Date: Sun, 1 Oct 2000 01:17:56 -0500 NNTP-Posting-Host: 208.4.136.194 X-Complaints-To: abuse@winstar.net X-Trace: news.goodnet.com 970380723 208.4.136.194 (Sat, 30 Sep 2000 23:12:03 MST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 30 Sep 2000 23:12:03 MST Organization: WinStar GoodNet, Inc. Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:211377 Once upon a tawdry time, I worked at a tankage plant. That's right, a factory that cooks dead, bloated animals down into a powder. The powder is sold to cosmetics companies, dog food makers, soap manufacturers, etc... There was a tard who worked there, a tall skinny tard. I often wondered what his job was as I never saw him in the break room or in any of the floor areas in the plant. One day as I was finishing a Coke preparing to start my shift, I saw him in the locker room getting ready for his shift. "Hey," I said, just conversing. "What's up?" He responded in some unintelligible tard talk as he pulled on a pair of hip waders. "Yeah..." I answered, not knowing WTF he had just said. "Ain't it a bitch?" He gibbered some more as he donned a yellow rain slicker. "Mmm mmm mmm," I said. I mean, who can understand a fucking tard, anyway? He nodded as if he and I were simpatico as he pulled a large plastic hat halfway over his ears. By now I was wondering what awful task he had before him, what required such elaborate gear. He pulled on a pair of elbow-length rubber gloves and smiled at me, thick drool sliming his tooth. I followed him out to a loading bay, where a Homelite chain saw awaited him. Not far from the chain saw was the bloated corpse of the mama of all Budweiser Clydesdales. This horse looked like a more benign version of a WWII Panzer tank. Its legs jutted stiffly into the air like the stark remains of a wartime shipping dock. "Wow," I thought, "I'm glad I'm not him." For more reasons than the obvious, you know. Who wants to be a tard? He revved up the saw and began cutting. The legs fell over like fenceposts rammed by a drunk driver. The head lolled like a fat, drunken satyrist on All Hallow's Eve. And then... then... my heart be stilled! He bit the saw into the corpse's abdomen and an amazing thing happened. The corpse deflated! What I thought was every draft horse's beer-swilling daddy was merely any knock-kneed swaybacked mare one can see morosely munching weeds in any lot in these parts. And the smell! Imagine a raw sirloin steak left in a wet corner of the basement for a week, then shat upon by a diabetic cat. Add to that the thin film that grows under the belly folds of a cirrhotic boozer who bathes only when he checks into the V.A. clinic for treatment. The smell was worse than that. I left the tard to his bacchanalia and went to begin my shift. While there's something to be said for watching an industrial-sized auger feeding all types of dogs, hogs, deer, rats, bats, cats and whatever into a house-sized cooking unit, I was still disappointed by the real size of that dead horse. It was quite mediocre. ObT: Every few seconds the tard would turn his head to the side and make desperate *ptui* gestures as the saw jetted a big rooster tail of decaying horse flesh into his face. I can only imagine it tasted nothing like chicken at all. ------------------------------ From liammail@optusnet.com.au Sat Sep 30 08:28:37 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.direct.ca!look.ca!newshub2.rdc1.sfba.home.com!news.home.com!sjc1.nntp.concentric.net!newsfeed.concentric.net!newsfeed.ozemail.com.au!news1.optus.net.au!optus!news1.mpx.com.au.MISMATCH!news01.syd.optusnet.com.au!nnrp01.syd.optusnet.com.au!not-for-mail From: "liam phillips" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: bathing in human soup Date: Sun, 1 Oct 2000 01:58:37 +0930 X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 4.72.3110.1 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V4.72.3110.3 Lines: 87 Message-ID: <39d61417$0$5072$7f31c96c@news01.syd.optusnet.com.au> NNTP-Posting-Host: 198.142.48.166 X-Trace: 970331160 news01.syd.optusnet.com.au 5072 198.142.48.166 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:210950 For those of you who may remember my 'tardwatch' post, the second performance by the tard theatrical company was changed at the last minute to 'The Wizard of Oz', and rescheduled. I was able to catch the last twenty minutes after work - post on said performance is forthcoming. Anyway, the month of september has provided me with a tale, truly awful, truly horrible, uproariously funny, and completely and utterly tasteless. The tale concerns a friend of mine, also named Liam, who being bright eyed, niave and full of human compasion, decided a career in the police force was in order. So, Liam has been training hard and has begun in the last few months his illustrious career as a boy in blue (or khaki, as is the colour of the cop uniforms here in the Northern Territory, resembling military uniforms. Very apt). Now up here in the NT we only have two seasons, each lasting six months. For one of these seasons it is cool and crisp at night but very hot during the day. This is called the Dry Season. The other six months brings with it rain and monsoon weather, cyclones and humidy that will make you adhere to anything you happen to touch. This is, strangely enough, called the Wet Season. The wet season makes people do stupid things - crime rates increase, suspensions from schools double, and more an more people kill themselves. One particular chap who had had enough of life decided the best way to do it would be to drive his car way out into the bush, where he could gas himself in complete seclusion. And there he stayed for three days in blistering hot weather until someone called the cops about a car that seemed to be abandonned but was ommiting a strange odour. Enter Liam and an entourage of police. This was Liam's first body, and the other more seasoned coppers were adament to make it a memorable experience for him. Liam says the first thing he noticed was that the windows were entirely black with flies, and he could smell the pungent stench from a good 50 metres away. The drivers' side door was opened, and Liam says the body looked 'fat and bloated, like it was pumped up with air'. The police, being happy to pass the job of corpse removal to another party, decided to call the undertaker to come and collect the body. The undertaker arrived, and being annoyed at being given the task, and the long drive, dove straight in and grabbed the corpse. Liam said that he actually heard the body 'pop', and watched as all the fluid which had been collecting at all of the lowest parts of the body, spilled out and began to form in pools on the seat and the floor of the car. The undertaker, now furious, shoved the body in a bag and left almost as quickly as he had arrived. Needless to say the Police thought this whole thing was hugely funny. Now came the task of moving the vehicle. The deceased, as he had died and slumped forward, had knocked the column shift gear lever, taking it out of nuetral. The passenger side door could not be opened, as suicider had parked the two door utility right up against a very large tree. So, the situation was that someone would have to lean over the driver's seat and put the car back in nuetral so it could be towed away. The detective asked the Sargent, the Sargent asked a Constable, the Constable looked to the probationary rookie. So Liam, steadying himself with one arm against the roof of the car, and his feet firmly rooted in the ground, leant into the car, over the large puddle of dead human fluid on the drivers seat, barely a foot below him. He moved gear stick, and then he says, things 'moved as if in slow motion.' It seems his forearms were very sweaty, and therfore very slippery. His arm on the side of the car roof gave way, and with his other hand on the gear stick, he had nothing to steady himself with. Before Liam knew it, he had landed face first into the sickly mess of three day old dead human body fluid on the drivers' seat. He says he could feel the soup go into his every pore, into his eyes, filling up his ears, down into his nostrils. He removed himself from the car, to the sound of police in uncontrollable fits of laughter. After throwing up everything in his stomach, and then dry-retching, the police determined he smelt too bad to travel in the car, and so he was relegated to the paddy wagon (a car with a cage for prisoners on the back). Where he had to sit, drenched in dead human fluid, for an hour before they passed the first fire hydrant they came to and blasted Liam with jets of water for a good half hour. Liam has given up meat for the time being, and says he can only manage some fruits and vegetables. Stews, casseroles and any sauce of any kind is out for the time being. Other than that he's progessing well, or so his counsellor says. He keeps telling us that she says he'll be 'right as rain' in no time at all. we all know the truth though - he's undoubtably fucked for life, and in such an amusing way as well. ObT: He kept his mouth closed. Imagine taking a gulp of that. ------------------------------ From rcross@my-deja.com Tue Oct 10 13:46:22 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!crtntx1-snf1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!news.maxwell.syr.edu!nntp2.deja.com!nnrp1.deja.com!not-for-mail From: rcross@my-deja.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Tylenol Lies (was Bluebeard meets UncaChuck) Date: Tue, 10 Oct 2000 21:46:22 GMT Organization: Deja.com - Before you buy. Lines: 105 Message-ID: <8s02nb$rp0$1@nnrp1.deja.com> References: <87og0xwzsd.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <8rlg5r$n8g$2@delphi.ridgenet.net> <8rmkc1$ob9$2@delphi.ridgenet.net> <8ro44u$q6r$1@delphi.ridgenet.net> <39E0AE18.398EC705@nls.net> <87aecfkkee.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <27eE5.309$VB1.41725@news.goodnet.com> <854sr8.1g9.ln@nashville.com> <8HsE5.68$cI6.12395@news.goodnet.com> <39E2CA38.94C3083@nls.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: 199.99.231.3 X-Article-Creation-Date: Tue Oct 10 21:46:22 2000 GMT X-Http-User-Agent: Mozilla/4.7 [en] (WinNT; U) X-Http-Proxy: 1.0 x60.deja.com:80 (Squid/1.1.22) for client 199.99.231.3 X-MyDeja-Info: XMYDJUIDrcross Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:211703 In article <39E2CA38.94C3083@nls.net>, TREETsyd@TREETnls.net wrote: > I know that acetaminophen and alcohol are a deadly mix, Misinformation. And I'm not sure which is more annoying: the fact that the misinformation exists in the first place, or the fact that people persist in authoritatively repeating it. When I first started taking vicodin (and then norco) on a daily basis, I told my doctor about my six-pack a day drinking habit and my concern about the "APAP 500" on the label. He said that the whole tylenol/alcohol scare was started when a US Senator's son died from undiagnosed liver damage. Of course, the senator, being a rational and intelligent person, decided that someone else had to be to blame for his son's death, so he set out to find out who killed his son. Turned out the kid was putting away a bottle and a half of gin a day, or more... and a couple of tylenol. But the senator got some letters from other people who blamed tylenol for their liver problems, (the most famous one being a man who claimed he only had a glass or two of wine with dinner, but the tylenol ruined his liver). Eventually he managed to convince the FDA to require warning labels on tylenol in 1995. I didn't believe my doctor, a senior resident of Internal Medicine at my local abbat^H^H^H^H^Hhospital, and continued to pester him about tylenol and alcohol, until he finally told me that six beers a day was too much, even if I wasn't taking tylenol. Of course, I ignored that part. So I did some research, and couldn't find ONE study that scientifically supported the claim. There is some anecdotal evidence in the medical literature, based on individual cases of patients whose reports of their alcohol (or tylenol) consumption cannot be verified. But you can find an anecdote to support any claim; there is no objective, scientific evidence to support this one. Just the FDA order for a warning label that the media had a field day with. So you do NOT know shit. Nobody knows, despite how authortative Peter Jennings sounds when he propagates the meme. It's probably not a good idea to take 1000 mg of tylenol every four hours, and drink a bottle of Jack a day, but hell, either one of those alone is probably enough to eventually turn your grogans a pale gray. Admission by doctor: "The vast majority of people get away with [mixing pain relievers and alcohol]," Dahl said. "You can't predict who will have what response." -- Dr. Eric Dahl, Daily Mississipian, 06 Oct 1997 (http://www.olemiss.edu/news/dm/archives/97/9710/971006/971006N2alcohol. HTML) Other good links: http://uhs.bsd.uchicago.edu/~bhsiung/tips/split/Acetaminophen-alcohol-in te.html -- the best medically-oriented discussion I've seen http://laws.findlaw.com/getcase/4th/case/942596p.html -- The court case which implicated tylenol in a man's liver damage (and we all know how careful the courts are to make sure they discern scientific facts from legal arguments) > not sure of the mechanics The claim is that alcohol and a byproduct of the digestion of tylenol combine in the liver to form a toxin. Other doctors have speculated that similar sets of enzymes are used by the liver to process both substances, and overloading these enzyme pathways causes the liver damage. And just to let you know how much pharmco's are getting away with: Aspirin is one of the safest medicines in history, but the industry has managed to convince us all that we should be taking tylenol instead -- the most hepatotoxic OTC medicine in history. But of course, THAT never comes up in the media... > but enough so that RARELY someone can keel over from taking some > Tylenol following a mild nights drinking. And that is TRULY bullshit. You're talking out your ass, and it's dribbling down your chin. ObT: Some days, I'm in so much pain when I get home that I take a norco, chew it into paste, and wash it down with two fingers of Single Malt Scotch... and then crack open a bottle of Sierra Nevada. As close to instant pain relief as you're gonna get (in oral form, anyway). OK, ok... ObReallyT: Rented Mila's "Ass Artist 2" last weekend. Everted-colon starlet Mila entertains us all by giving herself tempura paint enemas and then forcefully excreting the colorful felchbatter all over the walls of some vacant apartment commandeered by the filmmakers. I'm not sure which color was more disturbing: white or red. -- Deja.com - now slower than ever! Find out more at http://bloated.deja.com/ Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ Before you buy. ------------------------------ From zeno@schwag.org Wed Oct 11 05:31:58 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!crtntx1-snf1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!news.maxwell.syr.edu!nntp2.deja.com!nnrp1.deja.com!not-for-mail From: zeno@schwag.org Newsgroups: alt.tasteless,misc.survivalism Subject: Re: Lieberman's cousin kidnapped Terrorists Date: Wed, 11 Oct 2000 13:31:58 GMT Organization: Deja.com - Before you buy. Lines: 58 Message-ID: <8s1q4f$6d5$1@nnrp1.deja.com> References: <666666666666666@endoftheworld.net> <39E0C871.9CD4014E@uswest.net> <0uk1usgdu77h22bb8jvk7rv04svlm2gstf@4ax.com> <39e74474.26848442@news> <2jh2us472jjcn9j5s9fnr9in0pp137ikc3@4ax.com> <87n1gejkyz.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <39e3753a.3333874@news> <2405us81djb3l8sp9324lpqnd6k172mhlc@4ax.com> <9bb6usscve39321m71qm96oehdt658hg4g@4ax.com> <8s057r$pgd$1@samba.rahul.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: 140.185.28.38 X-Article-Creation-Date: Wed Oct 11 13:31:58 2000 GMT X-Http-User-Agent: Mozilla/4.0 (compatible; MSIE 5.0; Windows 95; DigExt) X-Http-Proxy: 1.0 x68.deja.com:80 (Squid/1.1.22) for client 140.185.28.38 X-MyDeja-Info: XMYDJUIDzeno69 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:211739 misc.survivalism:314306 Felis Concolor wrote: > > it resembled the liquid that had gotten stuck to my scanties. > I must follow-up to this. It reminds me of a discussion I had with my landlady yesterday. We were discussing her ex-fiance (a WH NSC and Agency spook with morals that would make even an ATer cringe with revulsion) and the fact that he has amoebic dysentery. Landlady: He has amoebic dysentery, Zeno. Zeno: You're shitting me. LL: Really... he has diarrhea all the time. Z: Nasty. So is this amoebic dysentery for the rest of his life -- permanent? LL: Yes. And it is explosive. ::shudder:: Z: I'd hate to be cleaning the crap out of my drawers every day. So where did he get it? In Turkey or something? One of the Stans? LL: He got it in eastern Turkey from eating raw lamb and curd. Z: What a fucking stupe! When I go to Turkey I bring Pringles, Lunchables and Evian Water -- nothing else.... This reminds me of four of my buddies on a listening post in eastern Turkey during the Cold War. They all came back with some sort of intestinal parasites. Every time they had a bowel movement, they could see their stool swimming -- lots of motion in the excrement -- something living in there. ::Landlady runs away in disgust:: Z: Hey! But they had to get heavy metal poisoning that almost killed them just to get rid of the nasties living in their colons!!! ::Landlady long out of earshot:: I am, -Zeno. --------------------------------------------- Sergeant Zeno Professional Stalker Loose Cannon and Internet Redneck A Practicing Pyrokleptonecrobestialist --------------------------------------------- Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ Before you buy. ------------------------------ From jeffjustin@newsfeeds.com Thu Oct 12 12:11:58 2000 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: German Plane Crash! From: jeffjustin@newsfeeds.com (Jeff Justin) Message-ID: <8FCBAC93Cjeffjustinnewsfeedsc@209.189.89.230> User-Agent: Xnews/03.09.22 NNTP-Posting-Host: 127.0.0.1 Date: 12 Oct 2000 15:11:58 -0500 Lines: 76 X-Authenticated-User: jeffjustin X-Comments: This message was posted through Newsfeeds.com X-Comments2: IMPORTANT: Newsfeeds.com does not condone, nor support, spam or any illegal or copyrighted postings. X-Comments3: IMPORTANT: Under NO circumstances will postings containing illegal or copyrighted material through this service be tolerated!! X-Report: Please report illegal or inappropriate use to You may also use our online abuse reporting from: http://www.newsfeeds.com/abuseform.htm X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers, INCLUDING the body (DO NOT SEND ATTACHMENTS) Organization: Newsfeeds.com http://www.newsfeeds.com 73,000+ UNCENSORED Newsgroups. Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!nntp.primenet.com!nntp.gblx.net!diablo.theplanet.net!local-out.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!goliath2.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!g2!anonymous!127.0.0.1!g2 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:211826 12 October - 22:14 PLANE CARRYING SOCCER TEAM EXPLODES, THEN CRASHES. POSSIBLY 100 KILLED. SCHPERMA, GER (UPI) - Officials released news this evening of the destruction and crash of a civilian jet aircraft carrying the football team from this quaint Bavarian town. The death toll is feared to be as high as 100. The team, the famous Schperma Lode, was traveling to their third round match in the UEFA 2000 tournament versus Dynamo Kyiv. The match was to be played in Kuntsk, Russia, on Saturday. Their plane, a chartered Aerlingus Airbus 300, went down just outside of Schitter, in eastern Germany, less than 15 kilometers from the Germany-Poland border. The cause of the crash was not immediately known, however Berlin ATC reported that the plane plummeted from 35,000 feet to 11,000 feet three minutes before exploding. The actual explosion was witnessed by at least three dozen people from around the small village of Schitter. Schitter, a small town in the former GDR, is known for its exports of high quality, dark brown, pottery clay. In fact, many of the witnesses were working at the Schitter Hoehle, an open-pit clay mining operation, just outside of town. Much of the debris from the explosion landed near the mine. It is not known if anyone on the ground was injured during the rain of debris from the plane. "Schperma things were everywhere, and especially in the Schitter Hoehle." Klaus Eseloch, spokesman for the mine reported. "It was horrible to see the plane explode, and then to be hit with the debris - ach, it was awful. When we saw that we were being pelted with stuff from our own dear Schperma Lode we were distraught. Our Schperma had the hopes of the whole country to go far in Kuntsk. Our prayers are with our Schperma brothers in this most stressful time." Airline and aviation authorities have released no comment on the nature of the crash. A full investigation has been promised by German civil aviation authorities. Cheers, Jeff Justin ObNot-So-Tasteless-As-Funny: Brothers and sisters, I have been decieved. My twenty year old babe friend has been lying to me. My birthday was last week, I turned . She gave me a special birthday present over the weekend, and while we were lying in bed afterward, we got to talking about birthdays. She mentioned that her birthday was coming up in November, right around Thanskgiving. Trust me, I already made the connection between boffing her and giving thanks. As we were talking about her birthday, she let it slip that she's going to turn twenty in November. So, it is with a heavy heart that I must report to you that I, the wise old man, the wizened old warrior, the aged mentor have been duped. Hoodwinked into screwing around with a nineteen- year old college girl. Doh! -- Forgive the intrusion. I guess I forgot that Jeff Justin elected himself to the minor deities' hall of fame. Raphael Terranus - Chaplin /Jeff Justin Fan Club -----= Posted via Newsfeeds.Com, Uncensored Usenet News =----- http://www.newsfeeds.com - The #1 Newsgroup Service in the World! -----== Over 80,000 Newsgroups - 16 Different Servers! =----- ------------------------------ From drdoody@my-deja.com Thu Oct 12 19:58:15 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!crtntx1-snf1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!news.maxwell.syr.edu!nntp2.deja.com!nnrp1.deja.com!not-for-mail From: drdoody@my-deja.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: tale of the red-eyed devil shits Date: Fri, 13 Oct 2000 03:58:15 GMT Organization: Deja.com - Before you buy. Lines: 114 Message-ID: <8s618l$oo0$1@nnrp1.deja.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.60.177.42 X-Article-Creation-Date: Fri Oct 13 03:58:15 2000 GMT X-Http-User-Agent: Mozilla/4.0 (compatible; MSIE 4.0; Windows 95) X-Http-Proxy: 1.1 x59.deja.com:80 (Squid/1.1.22) for client 216.60.177.42 X-MyDeja-Info: XMYDJUIDdrdoody Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:211869 First time posting, so be gentle... (you know.. use the SPECIAL tube of K-Y) tale of the red-eyed devil shits: I've been an EMT (ambulance driver for the dumbshits) in a rural county in East Texas for about 6 years now and, things being as they are, I have the singular priveledge of seeing people at their very worst. But these aren't NORMAL people.. oh no, these are a really disturbing variety of your already fucked-up, cross-burning, inbreeding, corn-fed, mule-pulling sheepfuckers. I will elaborate: When I was still in training for my Intermediate cert., I was pulling a clinical student shift in a local ER when we received a rather rowdy OD patient. Imagine if you will: a man, 5 feet tall, five feet wide , weighing about 320 lbs, being without a stitch of clothing and screaming profanity. He looked like an emormous, completely pissed- off plastic bag full of curdled milk. Apparently, this individual had not seen fit to stop when he disproved Darwinian theory... no, he had to go and swallow his entire month's supply of Lithium. Now, while overdoses of some drugs might only induce a dreamy, jack-off-in-the-peanut-butter-and-shit-your-undies-type state, Lithium will definitely kill you... without the fun of jacking off in the peanut butter (but fear not, you WILL shit your undies). I digress... Within minutes of his arrival to our abode of charity, the poor fucker was tied at the wrists and ankles, had a long rubber tube (catheter) inserted into his little micro-choad, poked with impossibly wide IV needles and was enduring the famed and all-powerful gastric lavage. In Webster's, under "Gastric Lavage" it says: "fucking uncomfortable water hose rammed down throat, attached to manual pump then worked by nurse pissed at you for not having used a fucking gun for suicide.". 15 minutes after arrival, our murky little drop in the gene pool was already on his way to recovery. We had suctioned most the pills from his stomach and, after we removed said uncomfortable water hose, relaxing rather nicely. One of the ER nurses and myself had voluteered to stay behind and "observe" the patient (translation: waste time and avoid possible REAL work). Everything was going smoothly when the patient asked if he could be unrestrained to "go to the potty". Being to lazy to divert more than a fraction of my mental faculties from trying to score on the nurse, I replied: "Don't worry, the catheter just makes you feel like you have to urinate, you don't really have to". Then, he informed me that he had to shit.. badly. Still, no real problem here, just grab a bedpan, instruct patient to lift hips, place bedpan under hairy ass and go back to hitting on said nurse. Then it began I heard him grunt softly, then strain. A few farts and the pitter- patter of a minor liqui-shit episode..... then a blood-curdling scream. In instant fear that he would die and that real work would begin, I snapped my head back to see that he had gone into some sort of horrible (but amusing) paroxysm. What remained of his teeth were clenched tightly together, his eyes had almost popped from their orbits, his face was beet red and globs of snot were actually leaping from his nose. This wasn't your average shit, nor was it even the granola-induced great hairy man-shit. No, it was the red-eyed devil shits. He strained his entire 320 lbs for an entire five minutes, bucking and gurgling, trying in apparent vain to birth what I was sure to be the grogan to end all grogans, and the strange thing was, there was no smell. Just the sounds of WW3 being fought inside an emormous colon. Then, there was a sound not heard before or since: it was like a cross between loudly ripping canvas and a wet cat being thrown onto concrete at incredible speed. Then without pause, there was the bathtub-faucet sound of the mother of all liquishits..... and all was still. The the smell hit. Actually, it wasn't really a smell so much as a force of nature. It was a combination of rotting flesh, burning asshole hairs and sulphur. The gas cloud was a living entity, churning and roiling and forcing all who encountered it to double over gagging with revulsion. Not even I, master of the oysters-on-the-half-shell-and- cheap-malt-liquor-fart could rival his expulsion... he was master of all things flatulent. I didn't double over, I genuflected. But even with nasal hairs singed and eyes watering, my little dove of mercy, the nurse, did her duty and approached Mt. St. Overdose. "Are you finished?" she asked, gagging and trying in futility to prevent the demon-cloud from raping her nasally. Panting, the patient responded in the affirmative. It was at this point that I noticed his eyes, there were several little red spots called peticiae covering his sclera (the whites of his eyes). Peticiae are caused when capillaries in the eyes ruture under extreme pressure and are usually found in strangulation victims. Being the dutiful soul that she was, the nurse extricated the befouled bedpan from what can only be described as the basement of hell and, with morbid curiosity, we gazed upon the contents. Floating in a lake of (I swear to God) boiling liquishit was the devil-shit itself. It was perfectly spherical, perfectly black and 5 inches wide. It was the red-eyed devil-shit. "My God, it's a fucking cannonball!" was all I could say, awed as I was. I was in the presence of something truly unholy and I knew it. The nurse, still being fucked in the sinuses by the stench, asked if I would take the now melting bedpan to the toilet and give it a proper burial. All thoughts of romance now gone and clinging only to self-preservation, I replied: "You see this nametag? It says student, stu-dent.. that means noo paay!". The nurse slinked out upon her duty. Not that I lack intestinal fortitude (pardon pun) it's just that I was afraid that if I actually did try to flush the devil-shit, that it would spring from the bowl and strangle me to death. But all was still not well in the great colon. Further labor pains produced four and a half more bedpans full of liquishit afterbirth. I don't remember the exact capacity of a bedpan, but five and a half of them is just too much shit from one human being. In the end, the patient survived just fine (some minor anal reconstruction work and a year's worth of holy water enemas later). The entire ER was cleared and even a visiting proctologist passed out but all ened rather well. I never did see that nurse after she dumped the devil-shit however.. my fears may not have been unfounded after all.... Da Doc Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ Before you buy. ------------------------------ From drdoody@my-deja.com Fri Oct 13 22:04:08 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!news.he.net!newsfeed.enteract.com!news.lightning.net!isdnet!newsfeeds.belnet.be!news.belnet.be!xfer13.netnews.com!netnews.com!news.maxwell.syr.edu!nntp2.deja.com!nnrp1.deja.com!not-for-mail From: drdoody@my-deja.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: insensate shit-throwers and the men that love em Date: Sat, 14 Oct 2000 06:04:08 GMT Organization: Deja.com - Before you buy. Lines: 123 Message-ID: <8s8t0n$172$1@nnrp1.deja.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.60.177.157 X-Article-Creation-Date: Sat Oct 14 06:04:08 2000 GMT X-Http-User-Agent: Mozilla/4.0 (compatible; MSIE 5.5; MSN 2.5; Windows 98) X-Http-Proxy: 1.1 x62.deja.com:80 (Squid/1.1.22) for client 216.60.177.157 X-MyDeja-Info: XMYDJUIDdrdoody Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:211949 2nd post: first one got good returns... I'm sitting here at work, and without any supervisors about to viciously sodomize, I'm bored out of my wits. Here goes: insensate shit-throwers and the men that love em: When I was first lowered to the reviled and underpaid ranks of those-lowest-of-the-low-who-are-forever-doomed-to-drive-sick-and- wounded-sheepfuckers-about-the-countryside (EMT's), I was unable to procure an actual job in EMS on account of my rather spotted record behind the wheel. I.E. : running over a human being whilst delivering pizza (even though she was a crack-head and I was merely an extention of Darwinian theory) will definitely look bad to prospective EMS employers. At least, that is, until your driving record is surrepticiously cleared (ssshhhhhh). Being poor and wishing to gain more experience in the medical field before I began actually working on an ambulance, I took a job at a nurse's aide at a local nursing home. Note to all prospective nurse's aides: you will never actually get used to the smell, but you will develop a "nose", if you will, for the many different "vintages" of fogie-shit. I.E.: "Mr. Barnes, I do beleive _somebody_ in here hasn't been eating their vegetables lately.". You will also develop a marked ability to detect, avoid and evade all the various fogie-secretions that will be splattered, horked and, yes, _thrown_ in your general vicinity. Which brings us to the marrow of my nightly expulsion.... Humans are primates, the degree to which we are removed from the rest of the furry organ-grinders is a matter of personal interpretation, but we are primates nonetheless. And, amongst most primates exists an age-old (and amusingly effective) method of self defense: the slinging of fecal material at enemies/ex-lovers/things- that-just-need-shit-thrown-at-them. This instinct extends to our own species... particularily to the members of our species who are over 90, blind, deaf and completely, irrevocably pissed-off at life in general. Enter: Missus Mae..... Mae was a spry, irrevocably pissed-off, shit-throwing 96 when I had the dubious honor of making her aquaintance. The most unassuming thing you've ever seen, I tell you. Sweet, with an elf-like countenance and the best aim since Seargent fucking York. Not to mention a sixth sense for detecting rotund white guys who had the misfortune of having to wipe her ass at 4:00 am. I walk into the room, and there is Mae, perched cross-legged in the middle of her bed, completely nude and looking like human jerky. She's facing directly away from me, yet her head swivels towards me ala Linda Blair. "Honky cocksucka..." "I love you too, Mae.. now just try to settle down, alright?" "Mothafucka, I'll cut yo ass wide and deep." "Settle down dear, I'm here to help you, OK?" Then, in a moment of perfect horror, I see the diaper. Lying wide-open in front of her, it's filled with an amazing quantity of the nastiest fogie-shit imaginable... black (from her iron supplements), too soft to be an actual turd, but just solid enough to get a good throwing grip on. Kinda like ice cream... only it came from Mae's ass... and she's got enough of it to hold back a Korean-style human wave assualt. Mae scoops up a claw-full of gooey goodness and smiles like a rigored corpse. At this moment, I know I am completely fucked. I am _not_ going to leave this room unfestooned with fogie-shit. Running is futile... the land speed record for running fatasses is far below that of flung fogie-shit. Dodging is futile... Mae can shoot skeet with her shit better than an olympic trap-shooter can do it with a custom 12-gauge. I duck... get below her line of sight, and her first round may go high. As she's reloading I'll rush her, grab her arms and scream to those worthless bitches laughing their asses off at the nurse's station for backup. The pitch. The little witch anticipated my move and I get an earfull of (still- warm) Mae-shit. Fuck the strategy... head for the hills. As I exit the room, Mae (with speed that would stun even a young, healthy shit-thrower) manages to reload, shift her aim and tag the back of my retreating head from 15 feet away. I limped back to the nurse's desk, washed my battered noggin whilst fighting off the urge to plunge it into boiling Clorox, and clocked out. I had been defeated. But I was not her last victim... A few weeks later, Al, a drooling checker-chewer with a moderately severe (and amusing) case of Alzheimer's dementia decides that he's in love with Mae. He follows her wheelchair about the facility, whispering sweet nothings in her ear, drooling on her shoulder and evading her vicious right hook. Finally, one night, he decides to make his move. As he ambles to her room, we debate whether to stop him, or to start a betting pool as to just how long he'll be able to withstand the pelting. I made $20 dollars that night. "Mae???" "mothaFUCKA!!!!!" >smacks, plops and the horrible popping of shit-missles here< Alzheimer's Al recoils from the room, clothing and face coated. Less than ten seconds... gimme my goddamned money. Doc Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ Before you buy. ------------------------------ From drdoody@my-deja.com Sat Oct 14 20:39:12 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!news.maxwell.syr.edu!nntp2.deja.com!nnrp1.deja.com!not-for-mail From: drdoody@my-deja.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: tale of the scrogging rednecks and the 4X4 Date: Sun, 15 Oct 2000 04:39:12 GMT Organization: Deja.com - Before you buy. Lines: 71 Message-ID: <8sbcdh$ols$1@nnrp1.deja.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.60.177.190 X-Article-Creation-Date: Sun Oct 15 04:39:12 2000 GMT X-Http-User-Agent: Mozilla/4.0 (compatible; MSIE 4.0; Windows 95) X-Http-Proxy: 1.1 x53.deja.com:80 (Squid/1.1.22) for client 216.60.177.190 X-MyDeja-Info: XMYDJUIDdrdoody Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:212002 Thanks to everybody for the positive comments on my posts and the sadistic verbal punishment of my many and varied mistakes (Lorri, baby, I need your phone #, pics, videos, used tampons and stool samples... cuz ya got me harder than chinese arithmatic.). Just remember, like little boy Jeffery and his first corpse, I'm new but learning fast. Oh, sorry about the recent scatalogical bent, but shit is amusing to me this week. So, here's a quick post before I go off to smoke formaldehyde-laced asbestos and sodomize the wifey. tale of the scrogging rednecks and the 4X4: This happened a few years ago, and I like to think of it as Darwinian-assisted birth control. Plus, a message to all those insatiable succubi out there who like crying out: "DEEPER, DEEPER!!!". Unless you're referring to philosophy, shut the fuck up, alright? Be happy with the withered 5 inches God gave most of us men. Late one mid-October night in East Texas, a rather strapping young sheepfucker we shall call Billy-Bob Fuckstick decided to steal away into the foggy eve with his sweetest gal, Bobbi-Sue Cuntwit. This evening's revelrie would consist of the consuption of mass quantities of what I loosely refer to as "whiskey" (inspite of my chemically fist- fucked mental processes, I still posess quite fine taste in Scotch), blasting about the back roads in Billy's hopped-up sheepfuckermobile whislt smoking the foulest skunkweed possibly imaginable and engaging in that most horrid of redneck activities: sheepfucker-to- sheepfuckerette breeding. In their stupor, and in a blind urge to escape the stifling interior of the tobbacco-and-skunkweed-perfumed sheepfuckermobile, Billy-Bob and Bobbi-Sue chose to further their own particular mutation under a bois-d'arc bush in a meadow just off of the trampled superhighway of redneck squalor known as "Corns and Blisters Road" (I am shitting you negative, that's REALLY the name of the road). Now, being that they were both drunk and stoned out of their respective pin- headed little noggins, BB and BS had only about 8 functioning brain cells (down from 12) between them... and none of those were cooperating with the others. Had they been even relatively sober, BB and BS might have remembered that the area they were currently desecrating was also frequented by other, quite possibly more severly inebriated sheepfuckers who used the area as a proving ground for their own hopped- up sheepfuckermobiles, bombing about, shooting at anything moving and, when the moon is right, running slap the fuck over bois-d'arc bushes at full speed. Hence, it was that Billy-Bob Fuckstick and Bobbi-Sue Cuntwit were to meet their fate. Quite occupied with the task of muddying the gene pool, they neglected to note the arrival of a sheepfuckermobile-load of new-age neanderthals intent upon the task of destroying the largest amount of East Texas biomass with the maximum amount of violence available unto them. Racing about the darkened expanse of the meadow, they rammed, flattened and basically orchestrated the automotive rape of that little corner of Mother Earth's snatch. Meanwhile, back at the breeding pit, Bobbi was preoccupied with carving furrows on each of her buck-toothed stud's hairy, boil-festooned buttocks while Billy was busy circumnavigating the densest bush outside the Amazon and plotting silently how to get Bobbi to consent to a bout of unlubricated buttfucking. So it is no suprise that neither of them detected the approach of the idiot-guided cruise-sheepfuckermobile. We will never know what the last moments of Billy-Bob and Bobbi- Sue consisted of, whether they were a riotous celebration of unliscensed reproduction, or if they were a terror-filled microsecond's- worth of "Wow, nice truck!". But when the bodies were located the next day, the cause of death was made apparent by the clawmark-framed 4X4 track travelling straight up poor Billy-Bob's asscrack and right both of the couple's heads. And judging by the hole dug into the ground under Bobbi-sue's ass, we know that Billy-Bob finally did get "deeper". Doc Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ Before you buy. ------------------------------ From enoid801@omit.home.com Sun Oct 15 19:10:48 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!crtntx1-snf1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cambridge1-snf1.gtei.net!news.gtei.net!bloom-beacon.mit.edu!howland.erols.net!newsfeed.direct.ca!look.ca!newshub2.rdc1.sfba.home.com!news.home.com!news1.sttls1.wa.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: enoid801@omit.home.com (Citizen Ted) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Tard Hunting (Long) Message-ID: <39f070a3.34376183@24.7.143.114> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent .99g/32.339 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 499 Date: Mon, 16 Oct 2000 03:10:48 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.7.140.142 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.sttls1.wa.home.com 971665848 24.7.140.142 (Sun, 15 Oct 2000 20:10:48 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sun, 15 Oct 2000 20:10:48 PDT Organization: @Home Network Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:212052 Few things invoke the smoldering, gritty nature of our country more aptly than the history of the American hunter. Hewn of tougher stuff than other men, the American hunter took off across the New World plains with a buffalo hide jacket, a tin of tobacco, a few pounds of hardtack and a flintlock rifle armed with hand-loaded buckshot. It was in those wild, wooly days that men of iron took to the forests and hills with keen eyes and pricked-up ears, slyly stealing through the trees in order to secure a home and meal for himself, his woman and his brood. Upon discovering native settlers in this strange and wonderful land, he did what any red-blooded American would do: he shot them in the back when they weren't looking, raped their women and fed their slanty-eyed babies to the wolves. It was a hard life, but a life worth living, and as they moved west, these manly men took with them their pioneer spirit and enduring legacy of bloodletting and violence. They found the buffalo to be so wide a target as to be irresistible, and took to blasting holes in them from passing trains, merely to watch the huge, majestic creatures keel over with a satisfying "whump!". As our flag filled with stars and our hard-fought homes blanketed the landscape, the hunters continued on, searching their states for a few desolate acres of untouched wild land, wherein may lurk a whitetail for the taking. Their legend continued through the generations, and nowadays the image of the red-flanneled hunter, his eyes fixed on the horizon, his skin tough and wrinkly, his jacket reeking of Marlboro, his shotgun barrel gleaming in the shimmering rays of a November morning, has become nothing less than an icon of what it is to be American (or maybe Canadian, depending upon the province). No American male can make any salute to his American roots without discussing the first time fired a weapon, and the first time he went hunting with his Dad. Of course, I never went hunting with my Dad, because he was in ineffectual little religious twerp who was more into swing bands of the 40's than swinging stocks on Ruger Mini-14's. But we won't dwell on that; instead we'll take a look at where the American hunter has gone, and where his future lies in this, our proud nation... Our story takes us to the Blue Ridge Mountains just west of Roanoke, Virginia. Here in these rugged forested hills, the romance of the hunter lives on in the faces of local tard hunters Milton J. Nordham and Caleb "Clem" McKnight. These men have plied these woods since boyhood, blasting away at God's creation with a fervor that can best be described as drunken avarice. They represent the average Joe's in the hunting world: sturdy lower middle class stock, working laborious jobs with high school educations, raising small families in double-wide trailers, drinking racks of cheap beer at every opportunity and tuning out all outside news details except NASCAR racing results. Milton (his friends call him "Bill" because of the long-beaked baseball caps he liked to wear as a boy) grew up in Roanoke, then moved to Bedford to be with his wife, Ruth-Ann. Though distanced from his school chum Clem, the two men still get together every fall (and winter, spring and summer) to go hunting, carrying on the brilliant torch of well-armed freedom handed to them by their alcoholic, abusive fathers. They carry that torch with pride and plan to hand it down to their sons as soon as the lazy little bastards take five minutes out from playing that goddamn Nintendo Jap crap. "We used ta go right out there, just west of here," motions Bill, his muzzle waving off toward the south. "But then they built that there Deer Run Glen development. Damn thing covers a thousand acres or so. Not a deer to be found anymore. Just a bunch of Warshington yuppies in their Volvos. It's sickenin', I tell ya." "That's right," chimes Clem. "I kin 'member droppin' all kindsa critters up there. One day, I saw me a eight-point buck just outside old Hanweller's farm. Goddamn thing was a beaut, alright. I had 'im all lined up in mah scope, and then some goddamn revenooer comes up askin' Bill and me 'bout licenses er somesuch. I mean, who needs a license in the dead of summer? You know -" "OK, Clem, that's enough." "Oh. Oh shit, Sorry." Today was a special day for these two valiant men. They are on the edge of a new horizon in shooting sports. With the local game all but banished to reaches inaccessible by overweight, drunken slobs, these men have found a new niche that promises to rekindle the dwindling spirit of the American sportsman: Tard Hunting. Bill describes his excitement about this new vista in hunting: "Well, let's face it. These folks is hardly human. The state don't know what to do with 'em. They're cloggin' up the hospitals and makin' life difficult on the good normal families round hereabouts. I mean, it ain't like there's much to lose in letting 'em roam free, so there oughtn't to be much of a big deal about us takin' a few every now and then. "I mean, if you know anything about these types, you know that once they discover that fuckin' feels good, they do it all the time, what with them bein' too stupid to do much else. We ain't, like, huntin' humans here er nuthin'. We're just cullin' the herd, if ya know what I mean." Clem agrees: "Bill was right there in the county meetin', tellin' them council people the way it is. They's Republicans, we voted fer 'em and they's sworn to cut down on gubmint overhead and all. Bill was speakin' for all of us when he asked to let them out of those there tard farms so's they can be free. You know - free for themselves and freein' us from that 6% property tax hike they was thinkin' about." It was a landmark decision for the council members, who voted 6-1 to have the local tard farm's annual budget annulled. The tards were given the right to go where they pleased. Many wandered aimlessly about Bedford, finding only the cold shoulder from the townsfolk. They relegated themselves to the hills, quickly converting to a feral state in the patchy woods surrounding the towns. The true morons among them, those with enough analytical skills to string together a few rudimentary sentences, discovered mainstream employment at the pulp mill in Lynchburg where they work as conveyor belts, groveling on all fours as tons of raw lumber scroll across their backs. But these success stories were few and far between, and most tards were forced into the foggy woods that meander mellifluously around the foothills and ridges of the Allegheny east. Bereft of contact with their god-like caretakers at the tard farm, these tards now eke out a primitive existence among the trees and bramble, fattening themselves in the summer by eating wild berries and chasing down squirrels with a stick. Come autumn, the tards become restless and start to move, stumbling unevenly across unused deer trails, settling in the snow-free arroyos where they can gather up turned leaves as bivy sacks and eat the bugs they find underneath. This is when the tards are most vulnerable, and when Bill and Clem find the hunting most amenable. "I seen a few of 'em up on Anderson hill. They was looking pretty haggard, but I could pick out two males and a female. The males was wavin' they arms around, slappin' at themselves. The female was makin' some gruntin' noises, pickin' her nose. I ran around Hoat's Road Trail to get a better look, but they was gone. I tell ya, fer tards these buggers can be quick if they's wants ta." After finishing up fourteen more beers, the men drove me out to their secret tard hunting grounds. They asked me not to disclose the location for fear of spoiling this prime sighting spot, so for the sake of expediency I will say that we stopped the rusty F-250 at a muddy trail somewhere between a forked foothill in the Blue Ridge mountains. Bill exits the truck with a Winchester 70 hunting rifle, outfitted with a Springfield 4x14x56 Mil. Dot illuminated scope. On his hip hangs a holstered .45 Glock semi-automatic pistol. Clem follows him out, checking the action on his Browning BAR Mark II Safari chambered for .308 ammunition. Clem also sports a holstered handgun, in his case a Smith &Wesson Model 29 .44 Magnum revolver. Before I could ask them what they might need handguns for, Clem reaches behind the front seat of the truck and removes a Remington 870 Wingmaster shotgun, with the last five inches of barrel sawed off. Clem responds to my raised finger of inquiry as he slings the shotgun across his back. "You ever seen a tard on a rampage? Snipin' 'em from a distance is one thing. But if you ever get to seein' the whites of their eyes, you best have some stoppin' power. At some point it comes down to your or them, and I don't know about you, but I'd like to have extry back up, if'n you know whut I mean!" Both men festoon themselves with bandoliers of ammunition, asking me to carry a heavy backpack laden with watery beer and extra packs of cigarettes. I blithely demure, for I am still an interloper on this trip, so I may as well take it like a man... Also on the trip is Booner, Clem's aged bloodhound, who shows a great deal of vim for the outdoors, as experienced by his gamey odor and inability to refuse urinating on each and every vertical object in his path. Clem insists that Booner is a born tard spotter, a claim I can hardly refute, having never seen Booner let loose in Macon, Georgia. The four of us head up into the foothills, trying our best to be quiet despite our tipsy gait, cracking the autumn undergrowth with what sounds like explosive regularity. I find myself having great difficulty negotiating the grade with a wet 70 pound pack on my back, but I try to make the best of it so as not to offend the party. Fortunately, both men are so sloppy and out of shape that we take frequent beer breaks, giving me a chance to remove the pack and lighten the load by drinking some if it down with the boys. We were on our twelfth break, when Booner suddenly heard something. Though we mere humans were oblivious, Booner started making short yowls in the direction of a dark path to the east. Bill raised his rifle scope to his eye and started scanning the area. Clem hushed up Booner, and the air was filled with that magical intensity of possibility that only a hunter can experience. "See anything, Bill?" "No not yet. But dammit, we're close. I say we head around just north of that trail, stay high, keep them moving below us. They ain't smart enough to head for high ground, so we should take the opportunity. You with me?" We all agreed and headed up a steep embankment above the trail. As we rounded the top of a treed ridge, the cool autumn air started rushing deeply in our chests. We were weary of the climb, yet driven on by the thrill of the hunt. The anticipation was palpable. The boys started doing their tard calls, trying their best to imitate a wayward tard looking to join his kin. This is a clever ploy, as many dispossessed tards are still leaving the crucible of civilization and finding their uneasy way to the wild tard tribes in a search for acceptance. Bill marched along, making noises like "Nyyeeeah! Hnnnnh! Hnnnnh! Noraaaaaaaaanyik! Hunh!" They were fairly convincing representations of the real thing. Clem, not so practiced, merely crossed his eyes and smiled, shouting out "Doooey! Duh! Ny-huk! Dooooey! Nyert! Nyert! Nyaaaaak!" I joined in the fray, palsying my arms, rolling my eyes and going, "Nyeeeeeah! Hreeeanh! Hunh! Nyooooiiiiii! NyAaAaAaHHH!", trying my best to entreaty a feral tard. It was all tremendous fun, and provided some levity as we trudged up the muddy trail. We had just cleared past a thick patch of stickers when Bill caught sight of something. "Shhhhhh! I got sumpthin'! Hang on!" I got my field glasses out of their case and pointed them in the direction of Bill's muzzle. There, far below us, were two tards, moving slowly among a spotty grove of alders. "You see that?" asked Bill. "Yeah," I said, "they're heading toward that creek. You see?" "Well, they ain't gonna make it," said Clem, bringing the Browning to his twitching right eye. I was now torn between following the tards in my binoculars or watching the teamwork of these two great sportsmen; I couldn't tell you which was a more compelling scene. The two men became deathly silent, and gripped their weapons with an almost sober precision. I followed the tards in my binoculars. They were two overweight males, dressed in layers of filthy rags. They seemed to trudge daintily through the bramble, their fat arms dancing stupidly as their pudgy legs bored across the rocky trail. "OK, Clem. Don't cross our fire. I'll take the one on the left. With the red cap. You get the one on the right, the bald one." "Roger that." My heart was now beating out of my chest. This was that pure moment that, though experienced untold times by untold hunters, still remains as the one true thrill bourne solely from our primeval roots; that moment of mortal truth when it's man against beast and one false move could mean complete victory or irreversible failure. I had a hard time keeping my field glasses still, when a sudden CRACK! exploded in my left ear. Bill's weapon had discharged and spat forth the incarnated spirit of a billion hunters. In my glasses I saw the red-hatted tard jump as the bullet tore off a nice size chunk of his right shoulder. Blood sprayed up instantly, and his tard-like shriek of pain pierced the sullen woods like a musical retort to Bill's staccato machine statement. The two tards ran quickly toward the creek, hoping to lose us in the thicker flora that surround the waters. Clem failed to get one off and cursed as the tards disappeared into a dark hillside thicket. "Godammit! Did you get 'im in the chuck, Bill?" "Nope, in the pork shoulder, Clem. They're on the run! LET'S GO! Hyah Booner! Onward! HO!" This was the moment where a film studio would insert the William Tell Overture or somesuch prestissimo allegro composition on strings. We bounded off the trail and started bushwhacking toward the creek, with Booner leading the way. We trampled headlong toward the creek, and Booner immediately picked up the scent of the blood that had spilled from the red-hatted tard's exploded shoulder blade. We crossed the creek, Bill and Clem at port arms, the frosty water flooding into our boots and shaking off a good portion of our alcoholic stupor. As we exited the creek, Booner picked up the scent within a few yards. He beckoned us on down the hill. The tards were apparently rushing, using downhill momentum in a tardly ploy to lose us. In half a minute we could hear them tearing through the brush just south of our position. Booner disappeared into the undergrowth, howling and yelping as bloodhounds are wont to do. It was all a jostle of sun streaming through tree branches and the smeared rush of autumn leaves being trampled underfoot. My heart was racing hard and bulging up into my neck. I suddenly wished - very much so - that I had a gun so I could be the first at the kill! We battered our way down, down, through the bushes and ferns, bursting forth into a temperate meadow, where Bill caught sight of Booner chasing the bald tard into a grove of tall trees. We raced across the mushy soil as fast as our beer-fed legs could pull us, till finally we found Booner barking furiously at the base of a white pine. We looked up, and there were the two tards, clinging for life on the thin branches of the pine, which was having a tough time keeping the two fat bastards aloft. Clem and Bill broke into demonic laughter, spitting at the ground and waving off Booner. "Good job, boy. Now back off! Shut up, Booner! Back up! Let's take a look at these two!" said Clem, a thin drop of drool spilling from the corner of his mouth. "Let's take 'em home, Clem," said Bill, raising his Winchester to his shoulder and aiming at the red-hatted tard. Bill's face went suddenly dark and emotionless. The tards were squealing in terror up there. No words - nothing really human about them. But my heart went out to them anyway; it was like watching two frightened rabbits in a bucket surrounded by wolves. CRACK! This time Bill didn't miss, and the red-hatted tard fell from the tree like a huge sack of blood-spurting potatoes. The shot had blown right through its head, from jaw to crown, leaving an exit wound two inches in diameter, which was now gushing blood like a fountain. Its body was wracked with spastic death throes, involuntary jerks that mimicked its normal appearance, strangely enough, like a bizarre bit of mortal self-mockery. I stepped back a bit so as not to get any blood on me, when suddenly the bald tard *leaped* from the tree and started charging at Clem! It was a big, mean, angry tard with vengeful fire in its eyes! He only needed a few steps to reach Clem, who, in his panic, was unable to bring his Browning up in response. Bill instinctively responded to protect his friend, and before I could turn to flee in fear, Bill had produced his Glock and snapped off three quick shots into the tard. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! The tard released a beastly cry and fell forward right onto Clem, bringing him down to the dirt. Clem wrestled violently to get free, flailing his limbs in a panic as blood veritably splashed from the tard's torso, all over Clem's huntin' duds. Clem tore himself free, stood up quickly, pulled his .44 from its holster and blasted five shots into the wriggling form below. BLAWN! BLAWN! BLAWN! BLAWN! BLAWN! "DIE! DIE, YOU PIECE UH SHIT! FUCKIN' *DIE*!!!!!" Clem fell back breathlessly. The tard spasmed, heaved, then fell silent. Clem looked crazily toward Bill and me with manic, bulging eyes. Blood was smeared and spattered all over his face. His arm looked heavy with the weight of his .44. He huffed out a few unintelligible words, then finished it all up with: "....sumnabitch!" Bill clapped Clem on the shoulder, and gave him a sheepish grin. "Good job, Clem. I thought that fucker might get away. You're a quick draw, son!" "Fuck you, Bill! Did you see that sumnabitch? That damn thing almost *killed* me, Bill! What the fuck? I mean, I just didn't have a chance there...that mutherfucker was all over me! Did you see him move! It was like lightnin'!" "Yeah, he was a quick one, Clem. But we got 'im, right? OK. We got 'em both. Now let's saddle up and see if we can git the truck up close to here. OK? Ya see that clearin' over there? That's the end of Winter Falls trail. We can pull right up over there and load these suckers up into the bed of the Ford. Alright?' "Alright, Bill. Les' go". I could do little more than gape in amazement at these two blistering, god-like sportsman. They had looked down into the abyss, flinched just a bit, then veritably torn victory from the gaping maw of Death! These two men had done on a Saturday afternoon far more than any of their peers could ever dream, yet their only concern was where to park the pick-up! That, my friends, is the measure of a man. The ability to perform a superhuman feat, then inquire dully about whether or not there's any hot coffee to be had. That's the stuff that fuels the American spirit; that is the kind of can-do attitude that tamed the West and obliterated Nagasaki. That's the kind of humble heroism that makes this country the envy of the world! We eventually loaded up the tards into the pick-up and drove them to Bill's house. Once there, the men proceeded to dress the bodies, a process that involved several wickedly sharp and long gutting knives, a few quick references to a book on anatomy, and two industrial-strength painting masks soaked in Old Spice to kill the godawful stench that erupted from the tardian colons. Once the bodies were vivisected, they were pierced by meat hooks and chained up via a tree branch in the front yard. Some flies had somehow braved the autumn evening air and started landing on the huge gashes that the boys had made in the chest cavity and torso. Bill's 4-year-old son, Jethro, looked up at the bodies, then started smacking their legs with a stick. Bill responded by dipping his hand into the garbage can of entrails and finger-painting two swaths of blood on the boy's rosy cheeks. "That's mah boy!" beamed the proud father. A few neighbors slowed down and made comments from their pick-ups - friendly, neighborly words with the requisite touch of envy: "Lookin' good Bill. You catch them yerself or did you take my cousin Sid with ya? Hyuk!" "Hey Bill! Just two? We thought you kin do better'n that!" "I guess its Nature's way. Them musta been two slow-ass tards there, Bill! Hee-hee!" Bill smiled at them all and waved. He gestured lightly to his wife, who was looking at him through the front window, giving the old "I guess we'll be eatin' tard for two months now!" look, one that I'm sure both Bill and Clem are just now getting used to. But, heck, ain't that what it's all about? Family. There's the thrill of the hunt, and there's the joy and laughter of home. I envy a man who can have both, and I pity a man who has neither. - TR - AT's resident adventure travel journalist. ------------------------------ From labrat@pacbell.net Thu Oct 19 13:55:39 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!xfer10.netnews.com!netnews.com!feed2.onemain.com!feed1.onemain.com!cyclone-sf.pbi.net!206.13.28.144!news.pacbell.net.POSTED!not-for-mail Message-ID: <39EF6DDB.1E66@pacbell.net> From: Rat & Swan Reply-To: labrat@pacbell.net Organization: Psi Corps X-Mailer: Mozilla 3.01C-PBWG (Win95; U) MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.contraceptives,alt.child-support,alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Unacceptable References: <8rvo1l$hkp$1@slb6.atl.mindspring.net> <8rvqbj$k3q$1@nnrp1.deja.com> <39E45CB5.2EA6@erols.com> <8s2drd$91p$1@nntp9.atl.mindspring.net> <39E514FC.3E92@erols.com> <6_8F5.1207$Au.112997@nnrp3.sbc.net> <8sfl8k$vo7$1@nnrp1.deja.com> <39EB9780.8FDA6CA6@mail.com> <39ECBADD.2203@pacbell.net> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 79 Date: Thu, 19 Oct 2000 14:55:39 -0700 NNTP-Posting-Host: 207.214.219.87 X-Complaints-To: abuse@pacbell.net X-Trace: news.pacbell.net 971992722 207.214.219.87 (Thu, 19 Oct 2000 14:58:42 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 19 Oct 2000 14:58:42 PDT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.contraceptives:2326 alt.child-support:311290 alt.tasteless:212244 suzn wrote: > > "Rat & Swan" wrote in message > news:39ECBADD.2203@pacbell.net... > > > > Killing a baby? > > > > How about gently > > And how about gently planting a shotgun right between your eyes and pulling > the trigger.....put you out of your misery you sick puppy. Eh. BTDT. friend of mine, F. once cleaned up after a suicide. Lovely young lady, but terribly depressed. She fought it for a while, but after a few years, decided that therapy, drugs, yada yada weren't what whe wanted. She wanted OUT! So. She told F., who had been with her all thru the foregoing, that she wanted to exit. F. feeling as I do, that if we do not own our very *lives* to do with as we fucking well se Fit, we have NO RIGHTS at all! So F. lent her one of his firearms, a 44 Magnum Cyclops. Lovely gun, actually, and precisely what she neded. Together, they went over diagrams of the brainstem and head, sitting in the library like young lovers. People seeing them poring over medical texts, smiled fondly at the tableau. Ahhh, spring love! Anyway, since she had had various scans etc. done before she had a good idea of where the structures were, not only in the medical books but from her X-rays etc. Carefully, they took photos against a grid so that they could tell *where* she was to place the gun, at what angle, distance and how she should sit. Knowing she was going to do it in her bathroom, and knowing that it was a rented place, and knowing that the 44 Magnum wan going to blow a helluva hole in the tile, they even went to a tile store to buy replacements for the area they assumed would be taken out by the bullet and flying skull fragments. She then took care of last things, like effects, who got what, (I have a book and some small items she wanted me to have.) and told F. when she was going to do it. Sure enough, when he went to her apartment, letting himself in with the key she had given him, she had completed the deed. Quite something, really! She had blown out her brainstem, killing herself instantly and nearly decapitating herself in the process. The force of the bullet's passage (a 44 is a bigass gun, and she used Black Talon ammo with scored point) and expansion in ehr skull sent a shockwave through her sinuses, blowing one of her eyes out of its socket. Fortunately the nerve held and it rested gently on her cheek. The atomised brainstem and skull fragments blew out the top of her head and sent brain tissue and blood spraying all OVER the bathroom. Interestingly enough, F. told me that brain tissue has a distinctive odor. There was a melange of odors in the room... cordite from the gun, the metallic scent of blood, her feces, of course, and the urine and overlying all the scent of the brain matter. He said that it made a kind of fan pattern, but interrupted in its symmetry by the bathtub curtain rod which was rather a pity, because he said that the artist in her would have loved the idea of a perfect form composed of her skull and brains... anyway, she had miscalculated and instead of having to replace tiles (he keeps the replacements as a coaster set to remember her by), the apartment would have to be repainted. F. backed out without touching anything, including the note she had left, and the letters she had, addressed to friends, and called the police. Anyway, after everything was all over, F. discovered that a fragment of skull had stuck to his shoe. He gave it to me, along with some of the hair that had clung to it and I keep it in a box as a little treasure. She really was rather a nice person and so thoughtful. We all had a lovely party after she'd been swabbed off the walls and ceiling. The skull fragment has some of that interesting brain odor still, ten years later. That's why I keep it sealed in glass... to sniff and think of her. Some day, my lovlies, I'll tell you all about K. and how HE died... And what 14 women did with HIS ashes! Swan ------------------------------ From labrat@pacbell.net Fri Oct 20 14:23:42 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!crtntx1-snf1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!portc01.blue.aol.com!europa.netcrusader.net!63.208.208.143!feed2.onemain.com!feed1.onemain.com!cyclone-sf.pbi.net!206.13.28.144!news.pacbell.net.POSTED!not-for-mail Message-ID: <39F0C5EE.28C1@pacbell.net> From: Rat & Swan Reply-To: labrat@pacbell.net Organization: Psi Corps X-Mailer: Mozilla 3.01C-PBWG (Win95; U) MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Unacceptable References: <8rvo1l$hkp$1@slb6.atl.mindspring.net> <8rvqbj$k3q$1@nnrp1.deja.com> <39E45CB5.2EA6@erols.com> <8s2drd$91p$1@nntp9.atl.mindspring.net> <39E514FC.3E92@erols.com> <6_8F5.1207$Au.112997@nnrp3.sbc.net> <8sfl8k$vo7$1@nnrp1.deja.com> <39EB9780.8FDA6CA6@mail.com> <39ECBADD.2203@pacbell.net> <39EF6DDB.1E66@pacbell.net> <877l74mc3p.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 47 Date: Fri, 20 Oct 2000 15:23:42 -0700 NNTP-Posting-Host: 207.214.218.247 X-Complaints-To: abuse@pacbell.net X-Trace: news.pacbell.net 972080796 207.214.218.247 (Fri, 20 Oct 2000 15:26:36 PDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 20 Oct 2000 15:26:36 PDT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:212322 Acetylcholinesterase Inhibitor wrote: > Rat & Swan writes: > > Some day, my lovlies, I'll tell you all about K. and how HE died... And > > what 14 women did with HIS ashes! > A touching tale! Much like the end of Wintermute, except he wasn't at > peace in the end. > But what about K.? > Dale Since you twisted my arm.... K. was a S/M Topman who had over a dozen girlfriends... 14, in fact. They all adored him and one of them, C. was (and still IS) a dear friend of mine. I got this talke from C. K was somewhat omnisexual and would gladly 'do' anything that moved, although he preferred split-tails. Anyway, he had, unfortunately, been VERY sexually active in the early 80's and had, rather predictably, come down with AIDS. Fortunately, he was not really INTO heavy unprotected PIVsex with women, he was more into Topping them, so of his 14 female friends, only two were also HIV Positive (and since they all swapped around, who knows who gave it to whom!), but that's another topic... Anyway, knowing that he was dying (this was before all those fancy drugs, remember) he decided to make out his last will. He stated that he wanted his body cremated and that after cremation, his ashes were to be parceled out between his girlfriends. He specified that he wanted the ashes to be ground extra fine at the mortuary, so that the gfs could then place the ashes in their douche water so that he could "be in their vaginas one last time". From what C. tells me, eight of the 14 backed out right then and there, finding the idea TOO gruesome to contemplate! Only C. and one other woman actually followed THROUGH! C very carefully divided her 'share' of the cremains into three parts, douched with one part, did a good high enema with the second portion and sealed the third portion into a dildo which she regularly uses in his memory! Such devotion!! One of the 14 baked the ashes into brownies and fed them to folks at a party in the guy's honor and several scattered the ashes off the Golden Gate Bridge (in violation of a whole BUNCH of laws, but oh, well..) but at least K. had two girls follow his wishes.. Swan You never really know who your friends are until you know what they plan to do with your ashes! ------------------------------ From wadsworth@montana.com Tue Oct 24 23:38:33 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.slurp.net!not-for-mail Message-ID: <39F68DF9.708CFB7D@montana.com> From: Mark Wood Reply-To: wadsworth@montana.com X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.5 [en]C-CCK-MCD {U S WEST.net} (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Set yer VCR's References: <39ee9a95.14189158@news.newsguy.com> <39F036C6.B17D4D45@egg.chips.and.spam.com> <87aebzwdcb.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <39f387bc$0$584$603e2862@news.adl.ihug.com.au> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 24 Date: Wed, 25 Oct 2000 00:38:33 -0700 NNTP-Posting-Host: 207.40.46.191 X-Trace: newsfeed.slurp.net 972455145 207.40.46.191 (Wed, 25 Oct 2000 01:25:45 CDT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 25 Oct 2000 01:25:45 CDT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:212533 > > Is there a known, efficient way for the average hobbyist to reduce a > > body to the point that DNA and immunological tests can't identify it > > as human? DNAless Remains Ingredients 1 Human Cadaver 24 Quarts Liquid Oxygen 6 Quarts Activated Charcoal 1 Estes Remote Rocket Igniter You will need a large pit and a heavy duty chipper shredder. Puree the remains through the chipper shredder, and mix thoroughly with liquid oxygen, activated charcoal in the pit, stir carefully with a long stick, and ignite remotely with one of those Estes toy rocket igniters. With luck the pathologists will be able to say that some of what burned was organic. Please don't stand within 50 yards of the pit upon ignition, as the discovery of human remains at the site may result. -M. Wood ------------------------------ From Fictitious@Dont.Bother.Its.invalid Sun Oct 29 14:19:36 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!nntp.primenet.com!nntp.gblx.net!news.phx.gblx.net!Fictitious From: Spacemonkey Gleep Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Prison Date: Sun, 29 Oct 2000 14:19:36 -0800 Organization: Space Ghost Coast To Coast Lines: 40 Message-ID: References: <87y9z7vb0x.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 207-218-65-168.nas-1.sck.primenet.com X-Complaints-To: abuse@gblx.net X-Posted-By: @207.218.65.168 (dakidd) User-Agent: MT-NewsWatcher/3.0 (PPC) X-No-Archive: yes X-Face: We don't need no steenking face! Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:212807 In article <87y9z7vb0x.fsf@blob.ariadne.com>, worley@dworley.ne.mediaone.net (Acetylcholinesterase Inhibitor) wrote: : ObRitalin: Junior-high students palm their Ritalin perscriptions and : sell them to other students, who powder the pills and snort them to : get high. Two words come to mind: Cold Turkey. Take it from someone who's been there - Kickin' a Rytalin monkey is a severe case of no-fun. Plenty tasteless to watch, I'm sure, but AB-SO-FUCKING-LUTELY *NO FUN* to experience. It starts with some mild shakes, then over the course of about 4 days, escalates rapidly through outright twitching and drooling, vomiting and liquishits, and a near-constant sensation of a hot knife twisting in your guts. About the third day, the bugs start crawling around under your skin, coupled with paranoia like I've never experienced before (and hope I never do again...) along with the start of aural hallucinations. Moving on to day four, the visual hallucinations start kicking in. These would be great - vivid as all hell... You could stand up and walk into them. If you could stand up... Y'see, by the 4th day, most of your voluntary muscles are screaming bloody murder at you anytime you try to do so much as roll over to puke off the edge of the bed. Pissing becomes something of an adventure, too... Somehow, I'm thinking that hot lead and glass shards would hurt less coming out. Rytalin... Great shit, so long as yor supply is absolutely guaranteed. But if you run out, head for the hills... I once saw a comparative chart that included Rytalin, heroin, and a few other goodies. Heroin was rated 10 (out of 10) for addiction potential, and 9 out of 10 for withdrawal symptoms. Rytalin was rated 9.5 for potential, and 10 for withdrawal. This was after I found out first hand just how much fun the withdrawal was. Personally, I think Id give it an eleven. -- GLEEEEEP!!!! ------------------------------ From kes@duke.edu Mon Oct 30 08:14:41 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!news-hog.berkeley.edu!ucberkeley!newsgate.duke.edu!kes From: Strayhorn Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: San Diego Serenade Date: Mon, 30 Oct 2000 11:14:41 -0500 Organization: Marinus van der Lubbe Intl Firebombing Society Lines: 105 Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: strayhorn.dukecomm.duke.edu Posted-And-Mailed: yes User-Agent: MT-NewsWatcher/3.0 (PPC) X-No-Archive: yes X-Complaints-To: abuse@dukecomm.duke.edu X-Face: BWeQyrFlV$jk!Ic4*Vvu'J4IEpyD]IbTQv5)y9H8f_XR[%4W$:l!Wvj0j>hs, gj7djy1tb>!5a}py;n)ooLh_Mj!/nvzH7i{aQM'M_fr;n4=K?*\'e!)5TYLSBoA3?j Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:212842 ObT: Four days in San Diego. Yes, kids, business took me to sunny San Diego where it rained every day I was there. First off, I noticed the museum banners for "Torture Tools of the Inquisition". Yes! The famous exhibit that has been going around the world the past few years! What a score for Strayhorn! Hopped a bus to Balboa Park and paid the fee and spent a few hours happily looking at branks, knee-crushers, a repro guillotine, whips, scours, etc etc. A fine show, every A.T. reader in southern California should make plans NOW to see this fine example of hi klass art. Through November. San Diego has more bums, homeless, whinos, soaks, rummies, loons, street cruisers, lost youth and just plain old disgusting human beings than any place I've ever visited - even London. It was hard to walk a city block without having some asshole holler at you; "Hey, sir, got a cigarette to spare?" or "Got some spare change for a bowl of soup?" Needless to say, they liked to get in your face if they thought you were a limp-wristed surburbanite who could be easily guilt-tripped into a "donation". My usual reply of "fuck off, you pathetic waste of oxygen" generally sent them on their way, but one guy on the bus back from the torture tools exhibit just wouldn't take "no" for an answer, so I had to expand my polite response to: "Say, shithead, I don't know how people deal with crap like you in California, but I'm from the South and we usually drag them behind trucks. So shut up before I toss you out the emergency door." But it's not always the scum who provide amusement. I was standing in a fairly upscale store in Hopkins Place when I noticed an expensively-dressed guy (worsted wool slacks, silk shirt, tailored leather jacket) marking time as his femme tried on clothes. He stepped up to a mirror to admire his looks (I had him pegged as an Italian) when he noticed a zit on his face. So Mr. EuroClass proceeded to pop that zit there in the store, but didn't have the style to lick the pus off the mirror. Sheesh. These Europeans. GeekCentral: Spent Friday night in the Silver Room listening to the electronic stylings of Turbulence. The Silver Room is a small downstairs club, painted entirely black except for the mirrors along one side. I lost count of the number of people who walked into the mirrors. The uni-sex bathroom was a trip - you had to walk past the urinal to get to the enclosed stall. I enjoyed nodding "hello" to the young ladies as they made their way to the stall. I also enjoyed the fashion show put on by all the Geeks in congress assembled. The highlight of the evening was the two iron freaks (you know the type, the muscle-bound weightlifters who always wear tight shirts and pants, and are always as short as Tom Cruise) who showed up with two femmes who had obviously decided that the Silver Room was a good place to dump the iron freaks. The girls - one an attractive Asian wearing painted-on stretch pants that barely rose above her pubic hair line and the other a white chick with hair cut by lawnmower and cat's-eye glasses - had a couple of drinks, courtesy of the iron freaks - and then promptly disappeared up the stairs when the guys went to the bathroom. ObT2: The fat guy passed out on one of the benches. Lying face up, with arms and legs splayed to the four quarters, his baggy pants and T-shirt pulled back to reveal an expanse of belly that invited abuse. So several folks used the magic markers from the menu board to paint obscene messages on his skin. ObT3: Clubs that extort an outrageous cover charge for a DJ. Blow me, jack. I don't mind a cover charge, but I want to see a band. If I wanted to see someone spin discs, I can watch MTV. Also spent an afternoon in La Jolla. What a perfect target for a nuclear air burst. Once a seaside town filled with surfers and other malcontents, it's now an overpriced resort filled with crowds of Japs and Germans. Truly tasteless is the fact that most of the oceanfront property has been covered with ugly concrete boxes for "senior retirement villas". Just wait until the seniors start getting upset at the crowds who will be walking through their yards on the way to the beach. ObT4: Seals. What the fuck is the tourist potential of a fuckin' seal? People stand in packs for hours to look at these disgusting creatures sleeping on the beach. The only way to properly exploit their potential would be to offer the toursts shots with a .308 rifle. Final observation: all of Southern California seems to be the destination of choice for EuroTrash and Asia. You couldn't go anywhere without mobs of Germans pushing their way down the sidewalk while acting outraged at the lack of people who would jump to their service, or crowds of Japs moving along like a school of darter fish, jabbering into their cell fones. -- Strayhorn Not Duke policy, etc. "You should have been here 15 minutes ago." - John Rawls ------------------------------ From enoid801@omit.home.com Mon Oct 30 22:39:46 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!crtntx1-snf1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!howland.erols.net!newshub2.home.com!news.home.com!news1.sttls1.wa.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: enoid801@omit.home.com (Citizen Ted) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: San Diego Serenade Message-ID: <3a006827.3530700@24.7.143.114> References: <8tkj7d$5sq$2@delphi.ridgenet.net> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent .99g/32.339 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 114 Date: Tue, 31 Oct 2000 06:39:46 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.7.140.142 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.sttls1.wa.home.com 972974386 24.7.140.142 (Mon, 30 Oct 2000 22:39:46 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 30 Oct 2000 22:39:46 PST Organization: @Home Network Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:212939 On 30 Oct 2000 19:46:53 GMT, thehalls@ridgecrest.ca.us (Dave/Kristin Hall) wrote: >Well, during the winter, there really isn't that much "happening." But >during the summer - when it's like 120 F in DV - there is practically a >never ending convoy of German filled trucks headed into DV. Apparently, >to be able to say, "Ya, Grettle und I vent to Deeth Vaaley un de meedle uf >de summer. Ya, eet vas hotter dan fuk!" is some sort of status symbol in >Krautland. > >Fucking idiots. They're not the only idiots who venture into the desert in the middle of summer like lemmings toward seaside cliffs. Set the way-back machine to July, 1987. I had recently moved to California and got a job as a site technician in Bakersfield. Being new to the area, I relied heavily on maps and my uncanny internal compass. I had three jobs to do: one in Lake Isabella, then somewhere in the lost brush and tumbleweeds outside Ridgecrest, then another out on Rte 14 by Red Rock Canyon. This was a fairly big circle of a drive, but doable in one day without much trouble. I got through the Lake Isabella call without a hitch, then found my next stop west of Ridgecrest on Rte 178. It was a godforsaken single-wide sitting in the middle of the high desert, lorded over by the classic Old Man Living Alone in the Desert. I lucked out and fixed his TV without the necessity of a parts order. Next up was a long drive into Red Rock Canyon. I pored over my map and noticed a nice dotted line that made a hopeful hypotenuse to my destination. Hell - a road is a road. I took it. After about five miles, I realized I had made a huge mistake. What had started out as a well-packed dirt road had denigrated into a Boy Scout trail, and from thence to a fucking goat path. My Ford van was bouncing along the scorching desert, creaking over rocks and bramble, the A/C barely deflecting the oppressive heat. I wound my way up a hill, along a few switchbacks that eventually came to a point right on top of the crest. I stopped the van and decided to have a look around. This was my first big-time desert experience, and I decided to go ahead and absorb the whole desolate isolation of it all. I jumped out of the van and surveyed the scene. There was no sign of Man as far as the eye could see in all directions. No phone poles, no paved roads, no NOTHING. Just tumbling tumbleweeds, white-hot sand, the occasional Joshua tree and a few lonely cacti. I ambled down the hill and walked off into the flats of the high desert. After a few hundred yards, I took a nice long look around. I spotted a few lizards and even saw a jackrabbit race around the desert weeds. I was feeling kinda serene and nature-ful. It was about then that a horrible realization entered my brain. I had a made another tactical error. There was my van, now just a little white box atop a distant hill. Inside that van was about a third of a bottle of Gatorade. That Gatorade represented my only sustenance in a 110 degree environment, many miles from any traveled road. If that van failed to start in the heat, I was pretty much a goner. There was no way I'd handle the fluid loss and walk my way out at night. Nor could I just sleep in the van at night and hope to hike out the next day. I speed-walked back up the hill to the van, all kinds of pessimistic and fateful thoughts flowing between my ears. How much Gatorade was left? Could I drink anti-freeze? How far can I travel at a clip? Should I bring tools to crack open cactus and suck out the water from the fleshy fronds? Why am I such a stupid fuck? I got to the van and rammed the keys into the ignition. VROOOOM! I was saved! I drove off the hill and ground my teeth the whole way to Hwy 14. It was an interminably long and dreadful drive. Eventually, I skittered onto 14 south and stopped at the first gas station that appeared, purchasing a nice big jug of water and a cup of ice. It was much nicer driving through Red Rock Canyon without the sword of Damocles hanging over my head, and I almost thought I recognized much of the terrain from various western and sci-fi B-movies I'd seen in my youth. (They did indeed do much filming up there. Very Mars-like.) When I got to the customer's house, I remember his wife chastising me for being three hours late. I didn't want to tell her that I had taken a moronic alternate route that actually added hours to the drive and nearly got me killed. I didn't want to appear stupid, after all. - TR - not the brightest penny in the roll. ObT: vultures eating my bloated corpse, then shitting onto David Hall's windshield. ------------------------------ From enoid801@omit.home.com Mon Nov 06 02:05:44 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newshub2.home.com!news.home.com!news1.sttls1.wa.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: enoid801@omit.home.com (Citizen Ted) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Me? Write About Defecation? Message-ID: <3a08826e.2059863@24.7.143.114> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent .99g/32.339 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 72 Date: Mon, 06 Nov 2000 10:05:44 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.7.140.142 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.sttls1.wa.home.com 973505144 24.7.140.142 (Mon, 06 Nov 2000 02:05:44 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 06 Nov 2000 02:05:44 PST Organization: @Home Network Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:213305 Holy goddamn FUCK! The current time is 1:35am. I have just had a 50 minute battle with the liquishits from Hell. Remember the time I wrote about having having twenty gallons of water shoved up my ass then shitting it all out at a "colon hydrotherapy" session? That was fucking *child's play*, my friends. I had just finished up writing about a dinner I had in Seattle with some Usenet pals (Cajun...) and how it wasn't the kind of meal that would hammer you with liquishits 12 hours later. Not only did I eat my words, I forcefully spat them out my ass along with a good gallon or two of brown ass-water and enough methane, by volume, to navigate every entry in the Albuquerque Balloon Festival for about seven hours. I ain't just drained, I'm goddamn...oh no...oh fuck...BRB.... Oh. My. God. It never ends. I keep thinking about those statistics for dead Afrrican babies. More than half succumb to liquishits, of all things. Their frail, distended, naked little bodies shuddering their last as a few final jets of nigger-brown shit fly forcefully out their puckered young assholes. Is that my fate? "My Glub, I'm thirsty..." - Jesus H. Christ, hanging on a tree. I am an empty shell of a man, bloodshot and worn. I gave at the office. I hope the boss likes it. Am I rambling? You wouldn't believe what I was dreaming about. I had solved a murder, but I kept losing my voice mail info over a lousy cel phone connect, a message with the perpetrator's identity. He was laughing at me because I still hadn't left VoiceStream for Verizon. But I did! I did get a Verizon account. I'll call again, *86. And again. And again. And again. Oh my God. Here it comes. Excuse me... Is this my fate? Done in by BBQ beef and New York Cheesecake? I can't sleep. The nightmare won't go away. Am I boring you? OK, then fuck you anyway. I don't need you. All I need ismy warm toilet seat and my Cecil Adams paperback. Oh, fuck. Oh God. Oh NO! - TR - to sleep, perchance to stream. ------------------------------ From docfarquar@fuckyou.co.uk Sat Nov 11 14:45:16 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!portc03.blue.aol.com!feed.newsreader.com!news2.newsreader.com!flame.newsreader.com!not-for-mail Subject: A Halloween Story From: docfarquar Date: 11 Nov 2000 22:45:16 GMT Organization: Past Participles of Pluperfect Tenses Message-ID: <20001111174516.634$5F@newsreader.com> Newsgroups: alt.tasteless X-User: docfarquar@NewsReader.Com Lines: 236 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:213571 Who Was That Masked Man? (A Halloween Story) by docfarquar Well, Halloween came and went and I was amazed at how many kids were out trick-or-treating, considering that it was a school night. I can never guess correctly how much candy to buy. Some years I might get a dozen children; some years I might get a hundred. This year I had to break into my private candy stash to supplement what I bought, because I was running low. I resented that. A man needs candy in order to keep up the stamina required for the manly things he must do. Like cleaning out the refrigerator. That was the chore I had set for myself that night. I learned years ago that watching TV, or listening to music, or doing anything I enjoyed on Halloween night was futile. The constant interruptions just made my fuse a little shorter each time such that the last few groups to come begging for treats were as likely to get my boot on their butts as sweets in their sacks. Since the ones who showed up that late were invariably teenagers who needed acne-fuel about as much as President Clinton needs Viagra, they were more than happy to return my sullen stares and curt dismissals with a few departing one-finger salutes and an egg or two tossed against the side of my house or a roll of toilet paper unfurled decoratively around my hedges. In order to avoid that, I usually assigned myself a chore I hated so that the interruptions would be a sweet relief. Apparently, I hated cleaning the refrigerator more than anything else in the whole wide world because I couldn't remember the last time I had done it. Whenever it was, it was long enough ago that whatever I had left in that Tupperware bowl way in the back had evolved almost to the point of using stone tools. And when I pried the top off, the stench was enough to make week-old road-kill smell like Chanel No. 9. Gagging and hacking, I tried to figure out what to do with it when the doorbell rang. Sealing the lid back on, I hastily shoved it in the upper freezer compartment next to some other long-frozen Tupperware containers that would someday make an interesting anthropological study once properly thawed, and went to answer the door. "Trick or beer!" said the slightly swaying, smiling behemoth standing on my front stoop. It had a pink latex glove stretched over its head, the fingers standing at upright attention. A conical toddler's "Happy Birthday!" hat was held precariously in place across its nose by a tightly stretched elastic band which seemed on the point of breaking as it circumnavigated the massive head. Poking out the back of its voluminous trousers was a feather duster. It was my next-door neighbor. "Hi, Louie. What are you supposed to be?" "I'm a rooster! Can't you tell?" He seemed mildly disappointed in me. His home-made costumes were always so weird that I could never quite figure them out. Last year he wrapped himself in cellophane and claimed to be a condom. The year before that he had covered himself with lard and professed to be an oil slick. The only constant was his unquenchable thirst for beer. "Hold on; I'll get you a beer. I've been cleaning the refrigerator and I think I saw a couple in there." I got him his beer, which he chugged down in about six swallows. Belching gratefully, he handed me the empty. "Ahhh, that was good. Save another one for me; I'll be back later." With that, he turned and stumbled off. Literally. The beer didn't help, but the step to my front stoop is a bit low, so he almost plunged to the ground when he stepped off. This also means that little people with short legs have to take a big step up. Of course, this provides me with a great deal of amusement each Halloween as excited kids rush up to the door to get their goodies. Crash! Waaah! I open the door to see some kid sprawled out on the porch, knees skinned, and candy strewn everywhere. I keep a straight face as I ask concernedly, "Are you all right, darling?" Inside, I'm laughing my silly kiester off. I'm easily amused, especially when it comes to kids, the little sweethearts. Back to the refrigerator. The top shelf is full of jars, many of them nearly empty. Some contained various types of jam at one time. Now, they contain . . . something. I suppose it could be jam, although I don't want to be the one to taste the stuff. I toss all the jam jars in the trash and write "Jam" on my grocery list. Next come the pickles. Well, I must like pickles. There are six pickle jars of varying sizes along with three relish jars. None of the pickle jars are full, three of them have one lonely pickle floating around in them and one has two. The fullest jar contains sweet pickles and it's the only one with that variety. I break one of my own rules and look at the expiration date. It says, "Best if used by Mar 95." Okay, they may be best if used by that date, but I'm betting they're still good if used by Mar 01. Maybe even later. I mean, they're pickles, right? How can they go bad? I return the jar to its shelf, consolidate all the dill pickles into one jar (no sense looking at the expiration date on them, now), and return that jar, too. The doorbell rings; I go to answer it. "Trick or treat!" A flock of tiny offspring, none over seven years-old, I estimate. There's Casper the Friendly Ghost; Princess Leia; Sleeping Beauty (it could be Snow White, my Disney is rusty); Generic Cowboy; and one kid in sneakers, jeans, Yankees jacket, and a ski mask. My guess is that he's a liquor store robber. I consider giving him a beer but go with the miniature candy bars, instead. He seems to approve, as do all the other kids when I give them their treats. They rush off with a chorus of thank-you's and I return to the kitchen. I open the vegetable crisper drawer and see that it hasn't been doing its job. I pull out what at one time was a healthy bunch of celery, probably when Nixon was president. Pulling off a stalk, I amuse myself by trying to tie a square knot with it. It's certainly pliant enough, but not quite long enough. Into the trash. "Celery" on the grocery list. The doorbell rings again. "Trick or treat!" Another herd of miniaturized humans, this time with a few parents loitering about the fringes. There's the Wolfman; the Mummy; an angel with mangled wings; a bunny rabbit whose ears have somehow slipped down and now seem to be growing from her neck (she asks me to straighten them and I do); and another Generic Cowboy. They get their treats; I get my thank-you's; they leave; I return to the refrigerator. There's a plastic container which contains dried cherry tomatoes. I'm pretty sure they were fresh and juicy when I bought them sometime in the Middle Ages. Now I have a dilemma. Do I toss them or do I keep them? I have a few recipes which call for sun-dried tomatoes and these ersatz refrigerator-dried ones might work. I don't detect any signs of mold or mildew, so I put them in a plastic bag, put that in the failed vegetable crisper, and toss the container. I also toss the container of mushrooms. They tried to become dried, but midway through the process they said, "Ahh, the hell with it!" and turned to sludge, instead. I write "Mushrooms" on the grocery list. Ding-dong! I open the door to see four costumed rugrats standing there with their bags extended and one on her knees, picking up her scattered candy. The low step has claimed another victim. She seems in good spirits, though, so I reward her with an extra candy bar. Of course, some other kid will come up one short because of this, but that's his problem. Next, I open up the meat-keeper drawer. I see my old pal Oscar Mayer in there along with some Kraft individually-wrapped cheese slices. They look okay. What looks suspect, however, is the blue provolone. Isn't that stuff supposed to be white? I ponder over whether it makes a difference. I could make bleu cheese dressing with it, I think. Or use it to kill infections. Torn between frugality, necessity, and the sprit of scientific experimentation, I reluctantly drop it into the trash. I write "Bleu cheese" on the list. I can't spell provolone. The doorbell sounds about six times in urgent succession. As I go to open the door, it rings again. Kids and patience are complete strangers to each other. Three of them this time, all dressed as gangsters from the thirties complete with toy machine guns, except they aren't Tommy guns, they're M-16's. Toy guns are fast disappearing from the scene and I guess you have to make do with what you can get. I give them their candy and they leave but I don't get a chance to get back to my chores because a pirate is approaching. I love the pirates. Whenever one shows up, I always ask, "Where's your buccaneers?" I keep hoping that one of them will finally answer, "Under my buckin' hat," but so far I've been disappointed. This kid is no exception; he just stares at me, as most of them do. Apparently, they're not allowed to talk to strangers, only to take candy from them. This routine continued for a couple of hours. There were a lot of kids this year and, as I mentioned, my candy supply started running low. I thought about reaching into the real little kids sacks and pretending I was dropping candy in when I was really taking candy out, but their parents were keeping a watchful eye on me this year. Apparently, I've run that play too often in the past and they're onto me. So I had to break into my private candy stash. I wrote "CANDY!!!" on my grocery list in big letters. The high point of my evening occurred when Louie came back. He was quite schnockered by then and he had a couple of friends with him. When I opened the door, the first thing I saw was two policeman. "Nice costumes. But aren't you a little old for trick-or-treating?" The younger of the two sighed and looked away. Apparently, this wasn't the first time they'd heard that. The older one was propping up my pal Louie. The nose cone was gone, but the latex glove was still in place. He was also wearing a snorkel and a mask and he was sopping wet. "Do you know this man? He says he can't remember where he lives but that you'd take care of him." "Hi, Louie, you're looking great. No, officer, I've never seen this rooster in my entire life. But, give him here; he can sleep it off on my couch." We managed to get him into the house, out of his wet clothes, into one of my over-sized kimonos, and onto the sofa. He opened his eyes and looked up at me with that big lop-sided grin. "Trickerbeer," he hiccupped. "Forget it, Louie. Go into a nice coma now; there's a good boy." We went back out onto the front stoop and the officers told me their story. There's a little park just down the street and around the corner. In the park is a shallow duck pond. Somehow, Louie got the idea that the ducks were making fun of his outfit, so he went home, put on his snorkel and mask, grabbed his spear gun, and went back to the park. He was snorkeling out to the ducks when the patrol car passed by and spotted his wake. They called him out of the pond, took away his spear gun, and realized he was drunk as a skunk, mostly by the blast of beer-breath when he tried to tell them he couldn't remember where he lived. They were going to take him in but when they radioed the station, the duty officer told them that the two cells were already occupied, mostly by a gang of vandals who had been caught breaking headlights and stealing kids' candy bags and, since Louie hadn't caused any real harm, he told them, when he had finished laughing, to just take him home. I thanked them and offered them some candy, but they declined and left. It looked like most of the activity was over for the night, so I turned out my porch light and went to check on Louie. He was snoring loudly, so I left him alone. Back in the kitchen, I finished cleaning out my refrigerator with no further interruptions. One of the more interesting finds was an unopened pair of argyle socks behind the ancient can of V-8 juice I had to trash. The year-old mystery of the bacon in my sock drawer was solved. I turned out all the lights and headed for bed, stopping to check on Louie one more time. He was sleeping the sleep of the innocent, which, technically, he wasn't. I knew that when I woke up in the morning he'd be gone. For someone who inhaled such massive quantities of beer, he never seemed to have hangovers. I'd see him tomorrow and he'd be just as perky and jovial as though nothing had happened. If he didn't remember the duck pond, though, I intended to remind him. It's not likely he'd repeat that performance but God only knows what he'd dress up as next year and it's always best to play it safe when it comes to Louie. I only wish that the cops hadn't confiscated his spear gun, though. I could have used it when I discovered the roast beef. ------------------------------ From nurzrachet@ameritech.net Sun Nov 12 07:10:01 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!news.maxwell.syr.edu!nntp0.riverside.il.ameritech.net!spamfilter!nntp0.chicago.il.ameritech.net.POSTED!not-for-mail Message-ID: <3A0EB2C9.83F1AA4E@ameritech.net> From: NurzRachet Organization: Our Lady of the Rearranged Umbilicus X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.75 [en]C-CCK-MCD NSCPCD47 (Win98; U) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: The 70's (Was Re: Dead Heat in Missouri) References: <20001108042146.599$10@newsreader.com> <3A0977B8.DBCF0645@eli.net> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 33 Date: Sun, 12 Nov 2000 10:10:01 -0500 NNTP-Posting-Host: 64.108.62.130 X-Trace: nntp0.chicago.il.ameritech.net 974047766 64.108.62.130 (Sun, 12 Nov 2000 10:49:26 CST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sun, 12 Nov 2000 10:49:26 CST Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:213586 John Lienhart wrote: > I read a comic book about 12-13 years ago featuring Dead Guy Comics. I think > the main title of the comic book was To Be Announced. Anyway, in Dead Guy > Comics, the dead guy is dragged around by other characters and is the > recipient of many one-sided conversations. That would be Ray with his dead friend Joe from the National Lampoon back when it was good -- the 70's. Isn't that the same cartoon with the girl named Deidra Callahan, the little girl so ugly that her only friends were blind because sighted people couldn't stand the sight of her. I miss the 70's. Smoking weed, living with a perpetual hangover, not worrying about things like mortgages, insurances, productivity, liability, and politics. I wanna go back to the late 70's when I could cruise around downtown Detroit in ripped up Army fatigues, my hair ratted sky-high, cruising up and down Woodward Avenue checking out the stoners on the sidewalks. Life was good. Now I work my ass off, sleep whenever I can, put up with an enormous amount of bullshit, have bills coming out of my ears, don't feel like making a real meal anymore so I've ordered take out delivery so many times that the delivery guy knows me by name. At least I don't have to worry about feeding or caring for a bunch of sproglets and some pathetic husband. My only concern is making sure I'm home on Wednesday for the weekly Vomit tryst, which by the way, is 4-years strong this December. Nurzy blast from the past ------------------------------ From geoffm@u1.netgate.net Sun Nov 12 15:46:39 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!crtntx1-snf1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!portc01.blue.aol.com!wn4feed!worldnet.att.net!169.207.30.132!newsengine.sol.net!news-feed.riddles.org.uk!sn-xit-03!sn-xit-02!sn-post-01!supernews.com!corp.supernews.com!u1.netgate.net!not-for-mail From: geoffm@u1.netgate.net (Geoff Miller) Newsgroups: rec.pets.dogs.behavior,alt.tasteless Subject: Shock Collars: Ideas For Improvement Followup-To: rec.pets.dogs.behavior,alt.tasteless Date: 12 Nov 2000 15:46:39 -0800 Organization: FizzBall Racing Message-ID: <8una4v$9q1@u1.netgate.net> Reply-To: geoffm@netgate.net X-Complaints-To: newsabuse@supernews.com Lines: 133 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com rec.pets.dogs.behavior:258682 alt.tasteless:213595 I recently had a problem with "nuisance barking" from a neighbor's dog. The animal would bark stupidly at nothing all day long. Any noise at all coming from my property would trigger a marathon bout of barking, which was clearly intolerable. On one recent evening, I set it off just by closing the trunk of my car after I got home from work; it barked for an hour and a half without stopping. I had a chat with the dog's owner a day or two later, and while he was a trifle defensive and petulant at first, he promised to do something about the problem and we parted on good terms. Unfortunately, talk is cheap, and I ended up having to call in the county animal control people. When the responding officer reported back to me after having spoken with the guy, he told me that the dog's owner had promised to buy one of those collars that delivers a harmless but painful jolt to the dog's throat whenever it barks. This was great news, indeed. I was interested in seeing just how effective those things are. Well, I noticed a change, but it was more gradual than I expected. It occurred to me that in some cases, a dog's urge to bark is probably strong enough to cancel out the minimal pain generated by one of these collars. I'm a bit of a tinkerer in my spare time, and fortunately I have a small workshop where I can indulge this urge. And so in the spirit of building a better mousetrap, I began thinking about how the design of these shock collars might be improved. I'm relating my ideas here because I'm interested in getting some feedback and constructive criticism from a representative cross- section of dog owners. The first thing that came to mind is that a shock collar's efficacy is limited by two things: its having to deliver a jolt through the animal's fur, and the need for the dog's owner to be attentive about replacing the batteries on a regular and frequent basis. The latter problem is significant, because it's likely that the owner of a barking dog would only buy and employ a shock collar under some form of duress from neighbors of the authorities, and not out of any real sense of consideration for others. If a dog's owner were at all enclued in the consideration department, he'd have made sure that his dog didn't bark in the first place, right? So then, the best approach is one that reduces the involvement of the dog's owner to an absolute minimum in order to circumvent any form of passive aggression re: "forgetting" to keep the batteries in the collar fresh. I suggest substituting whatever small batteries these collars use with a pair of those big, square lantern batteries -- you know, the sort with the spring-type electrodes on top. They could be housed one to a side in a nylon "saddle bag" assembly with a Velcro strap that the dog could wear over it's shoulder area or midriff. The symmetry of employing two batteries would make the package more comfortable for the dog, and would also offer increased longevity for system as a whole. At least as problematic, though, is the matter of the electrical jolt being attenuated by the animal's fur. Wouldn't the whole system be a lot more efficient, I mused, if it delivered a shock not to the dog's neck through its fur, but rather to its genitals? Talk about a direct-feedback mechanism! The wire carrying the current could run from the saddlebag assembly across the top of the dog's back like the derailleur cable on the upper tube of a touring bicycle, and thence down underneath the animal's tail to the locus of interest. In the case of a male dog, a loop of bare wire around the scrotum would certainly do the trick. With a female dog, the apparatus could employ a metal plate strapped against the vulva and clitoris; it would of course be perforated to allow for urination. In fact, any urine that clung to the plate would serve usefully as an electrical conductor, much like the saline-soaked sponges in the arms of a penitentiary's electric chair. A few variations on this general theme occurred to me. The first is to use Ni-Cr wire scavenged from a toaster's heating elements in the scrotum-encircling "male" version of the device. The wire would only need to glow red-hot for a second or so at a time in order to have the desired effect, which would help to conserve battery power. Indeed, the preservation of battery juice would be an intrinsic feature of this "red-hot-wire-around-the- nutsack" approach, substantially offsetting the inherent current- intensive nature of any heat-producing electrical device, because few and infrequent applications would be required in order for the dog to get the idea. It would be quite the attention-getter, one would think. Another variation would be useful with both female dogs and cas- trated males. In this version, barking would trigger the device and result in a metered amount of some caustic liquid being squirted into the dog's vagina or anus. The liquid would be stored in a plastic reservoir kept inside an additional pocket in the aforementioned battery-saddlebag. It could be something that's both easily obtained and commonly found in the home, such as Tuong Ot Sriracha Vietnamese hot sauce. In the case of a particularly spirited or stubborn dog, Dave's Insanity Sauce or some similarly potent brand of "boutique" pepper condiment could easily be substituted. Other possibilities abound, such as kitchen lye, lemon scented bathroom soap-scum remover, or diluted oven cleaner. A third variant would employ the motor drive of an old 35mm camera, and would tighten a wire around the animal's scrotum a little bit more with each bark, resulting in either blessed silence or eventual castration -- either one of which would be satisfying to those who'd been forced to endure animal's noise. The downside of this approach is that the dog's owner would need to remember to reset the device and release the tension of the wire upon his return home each day. And admittly, the gearing of the motor drive requires a bit more development; a prototype inadvertently neutered a neighbor's dog on the first go. Fortunately the dog's owner wasn't home at the time, and so I was able to recover the apparatus and spirit it, and myself, back to my workshop with no difficulty. Indeed, thanks to its crimping the scrotum but not severing it completely, the animal's gonads didn't actually fall off until two or three days later. (I verified it with binoculars, the dog being somewhat ambivalent about allowing me over the fence into its yard after this.) So there you have it. What do you think? Any suggestions? Thanks, Geoff -- "How'n the crispy cajun-fried Jesus fuck can anybody over the age of six tolerate exposure to that pap for more than three seconds?" -- Matt Henke on Pokemon ------------------------------ From kinetic@writeme.com Sun Nov 12 23:01:58 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!crtntx1-snf1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!portc01.blue.aol.com!cyclone2.usenetserver.com!cyclone-sjo1.usenetserver.com!news-out.usenetserver.com!sn-xit-03!sn-post-01!supernews.com!corp.supernews.com!not-for-mail From: "David" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Just what would a live goldfish feel like in your stomach? Date: Mon, 13 Nov 2000 01:01:58 -0600 Organization: Posted via Supernews, http://www.supernews.com Message-ID: X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-Newsreader: Microsoft Outlook Express 5.50.4133.2400 X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.50.4133.2400 X-Complaints-To: newsabuse@supernews.com Lines: 88 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:213607 I've debated telling this, but I will. Please don't judge my character on this, it was 10 years ago. It's here for amusement only. Anyone have similar experiences? It's amazing just what the human gut will handle without any protest... Years ago (in my wilder, do-anything-to-impress-friends days) this very thing came up. Only problem was, we didn't have any goldfish. Back then I lived in the Mississippi Delta, so we did have an abundance of green tree frogs. They are about 1 inch long, and easy to catch. Summer nights they congregate on windows and catch insects attracted to the light. My friend J. and I were into go carts, big time. J. "bet" me he could swallow more tree frogs than I could, or he would give me his "good" tires. If I couldn't outdo him, I'd give him a decent old go cart frame I had. So we caught 10 frogs. I offered to go first and had to giggle out loud because I was feeling butterflies over this. I was just about to introduce a natural predator against them! I had a large glass of water ready. I had no idea what this would be like and was nervous. The first frog J. gave me was large, active and almost got away as I placed it in my mouth. It fought hard, and grabbed on my face with it's little suction-cup toes. I had to poke it in my mouth. In there it was still, probably in response to the darkness. J. asked "how does it taste?" I replied "Hmrmmgh!?" (trans: It doesn't have any taste!) Then I took a gulp too fast for the poor creature to try to escape. The gulp of water was so big it carried the frog down my throat and landed in my stomach with an audible splash. Number one down... A little more giggling and I was "ready" again. J. gave me another frog which went down easier than the first. So far, I hadn't felt anything in my stomach, other than the sensations of cool water in there. I gulped down five poor defenseless frogs, and told J. that he could either take 5 himself (for a tie) or get another one and outdo me with 6. He wanted to polish off these 5 then go find another one, but on his second one, he nearly choked. The faces he made were priceless! I'm sure I was just as tortured-looking... So I won! Whoopee. Yay... I had 5 tree frogs inside me. 10 minutes ago they were happily outside doing froggy things. Now they are inside me, waiting to die. I had swallowed plenty of air, they had enough of that for several minutes. They were simply waiting for my enteric nervous system to realize I'd eaten something, and start the process of digestion. I think I felt one move... I did... Why did let myself do this? J. asked "You feeling okay?" I said yes, but I wonder if frogs can feel pain. It had been about 5 minutes, and by that time the pH of the water in my stomach was undoubtedly dropping. Surely by now the HCl was beginning to injure the frogs' delicate, thin skin. Even though darkness usually stops frogs from struggling to escape, they were struggling. They were burning. All I wanted was forget about this. I had done something senseless, and "dumb" and childish. It had seemed cool before... "Hey, I'm tough, I'll eat live frogs for breakfast!!!" But now the reality of it was hitting me hard and fast. My stomach is enjoyably energetic and bubbly, typically growling alot when full. But these normally nice feelings wouldn't let me forget what I had done. I felt a slight bubbling in my gut, as the air and water in my stomach passed on into my intestine. Now, there was nothing left in there but the doomed tree frogs, a little water, and a lot of HCl. After the last of the water left, there was nothing padding them from the forces of my inner life. There was a little frantic struggling then nothing... fade to black... I didn't want any tires. I didn't want anything to remind me of this. Seriously. I was probably 15 when I did this. (25 now) I would not recommend ever trying this. No telling what kind of germs are in a frog, or a fish for that matter. Amazingly I didn't have any after-effects from that. The next day I didn't feel sad anymore, but I remembered how bad I felt right afterwards. That's plenty of a deterrent to ever do that again. If I don't think about it while eating meat (which I don't really like anyway), I can overlook that an animal has already been killed at a plant far away. It just hits way too close to home when I can _feel_ another living creature dying inside of me. I could almost feel it in ways that go beyond physical... That's what really bothered me. I never thought about this until after I had already swallowed the frogs. It took me completely by surprise. I'm quite stable and stoical about most things, but the guilt came out of no where. All I can say is, don't do it! And I have too little of a gag reflex to "return" anything like this. Peace, David ------------------------------ From ginny_isTRULY@unforgettable.com Sun Nov 19 21:00:33 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!news.maxwell.syr.edu!sn-xit-03!sn-xit-02!sn-post-01!supernews.com!corp.supernews.com!not-for-mail From: JustmeĻ Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: I'll Take It! Date: Mon, 20 Nov 2000 00:00:33 -0500 Organization: Miss Manners School of Proper Posting Message-ID: X-Newsreader: MicroPlanet Gravity v2.30 x-ginny: unforgettable X-Complaints-To: newsabuse@supernews.com Lines: 37 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:213864 Anyone remember the scene in "The World According to Garp," where Garp goes out house-shopping and purchases a house when he sees a plane crash into it, because it's been "pre-disastered"? Well, I did that with a car today. I think. Out looking for a car for my daughter. I've a lot of worry about the damage that will be done to the world around me now that she's got her own vehicle, but better she trashes her own than mine--the *first time* I let her take my car out, she hit TWO cars. So, off to get her own damn car to trash. This car runs well enough, brakes are good, steering & alignment good, low mileage. Funny thing is the car is cheap, and I can't figure out why: was it in an accident? is there hidden damage to it? Open the truck: it's missing the cloth covering on the floor of the trunk. The truck also features: --a pair of used latex surgical gloves --scraps of rope --a couple brownish splatter marks and an area of pooled "rust". I bought it. It's been pre-disastered, IMHO, there's no way in hell anyone else is going to wind up in the trunk. I just have to remember to wash this puppy out before I let the kid see the interior. I am NOT shitting you. --Ginny "Die Screaming." --Jonathan Blaque ------------------------------ From fisacorp@united.net Tue Nov 21 14:12:26 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!crtntx1-snf1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!news.maxwell.syr.edu!nntp.flash.net!cyclone-sjo1.usenetserver.com!news-out.usenetserver.com!news.infoave.net!not-for-mail From: Crunchy Frog Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: A Very Bad Night Date: Tue, 21 Nov 2000 16:12:26 -0600 Organization: Info Avenue Internet Services Lines: 74 Message-ID: <3A1AF34A.2F9255EF@united.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: 206.74.186.55 Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Trace: news3.infoave.net 974844549 23440 206.74.186.55 (21 Nov 2000 22:09:09 GMT) X-Complaints-To: abuse@infoave.net NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 21 Nov 2000 22:09:09 +0000 (UTC) X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.7 [en]C-CCK-MCD NSCPCD47 (Win98; I) X-Accept-Language: en Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:213943 So, there was this rich, snobbish girl in high school that I had a major crush on. Our lockers were close together, and when she couldn't avoid it, she would look at me, smile in a strained sort of way, and say hello. I found out that her parents were throwing a birthday party for her one night, and that the whole "in crowd" had been invited. (Yours Truly was not one of the illustrious guests on the list.) But what the hell, right? So I finished up my part- time job at the liquor store that I was working at, having also "requisitioned" a couple of pints of apricot brandy. (Apricot brandy is made by the demons in Hell. Trust me on this.) I walked across town and found her basement doors standing open, through which, I could see that the party was in full swing. The guys, (mostly asshole jocks) were all dressed in slacks, shirts, and those gay-assed knit ties that were hip in the 80's, and the girls were wearing gowns and dresses. It looked like something out of a bizarre 50's prom. Anyway, having imbibed one pint of apricot brandy on my way across town, I was feeling pretty damn good, and no longer even feeling conspicuously underdressed. (Levis, boots, and a faded Motley Crue concert t-shirt) I saw her, and was riveted to the spot. She was beautiful as always, and dressed in a flattering strapless gown with a plunging neckline. (Her boobs were nearly hanging out of the gown...) A slow song came on, and she took one of the jocks out on the dancefloor and spent most of the dance making out with him. Feeling really miserable at this point, I ducked back out of the doorway and quaffed the other pint of apricot brandy. I was going for broke! I guzzled the fucker. Anyway, the dance ended and Mr. Jock and she were standing behind a long table that held a crystal punch-bowl, cups, a cake, long platters of cookies and brownies, and plasticware. People were all coming to the table to help themselves when I found myself standing in front of the happy couple, the table between us. Both of them were looking at me as though I were something that they had scraped off of their shoes, and the music was suddenly a bit too loud, the room a little too warm, and everything just slightly tilted out of whack. Before I could stop it, I spewed a perfect stream of sour brandy and nachos at a high velocity, the stream arching and almost all of it splatting perfectly between her breasts. Then, trying to turn away and overcome with abdominal distress, I proceeded to barf in the punch, on the cake, on the cookies, on the plasticware, the brownies, and all over the rest of the table. I was spewing chunks like a revved-up woodchipper. What happened next was kind of a blur. Superjock leapt over the table, spilling it to the floor, bellowing like a sodomized water-buffalo. He grabbed me by the neck, dragged me outside, and proceeded to beat the dogshit out of me. I began the long walk home, my face bloodied and throbbing, and (Oh, thank you, God) it started to rain. Meanwhile, I'm horking up bloody loogies and splacking them into the road. I tried to hitch a ride, but no one is going to pick up a stumbling, bloody kid, weaving through the streets in the middle of the night in a rainstorm. I finally made it home without further incident. She never smiled at me, looked at me, or acknowledged my existence again. I hurled a sponge loaded with paint- thinner on the hood of Jock-boy's parked car a few weeks later. So much for his beautiful, metallic, midnight-blue paintjob... Crunchy Frog ------------------------------ From drdoody@my-deja.com Tue Nov 21 12:24:53 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!crtntx1-snf1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!nntp2.deja.com!nnrp1.deja.com!not-for-mail From: drdoody@my-deja.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: I'll Take It! Date: Tue, 21 Nov 2000 20:24:53 GMT Organization: Deja.com - Before you buy. Lines: 46 Message-ID: <8velmb$45p$1@nnrp1.deja.com> References: <8vcbep$7bf$1@nnrp1.deja.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.60.177.110 X-Article-Creation-Date: Tue Nov 21 20:24:53 2000 GMT X-Http-User-Agent: Mozilla/4.0 (compatible; MSIE 4.0; Windows 95) X-Http-Proxy: 1.1 x55.deja.com:80 (Squid/1.1.22) for client 216.60.177.110 X-MyDeja-Info: XMYDJUIDdrdoody Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:213926 > My kid is like a new-age hippie chick, who would probably be agast at > what the trunk contents hinted at. We'd wind up having seances and > spiritual cleansings and channelling and incense burning in the goddamn > driveway. > > *sigh* > > Kids these days don't appreciate nuttin'. > > -- > --Ginny > > "Die Screaming." > --Jonathan Blaque Some great fun to be had here. I know there's that whole "maternal- instinct-protect-the-psychological-welfare-of-the-sprog"-type thing going on and all, but with just a little good-natured, light pushing during a Ouija board (dunno if she's into those things, but I had an ex- SR that was and I had a fucking ball) session, you could completely fuck with her head. Maybe convince her that the last unfortunate inhabitant of the trunk was a nubile young chick who met her end in a shallow, unmarked grave in the boonies somewhere. Have the "spirit" tell her that the last days of her life involved having her eyelids removed, her head placed in a vise, being situated under a giant ceiling-mounted mirror and being shot up with crank whilst having every one of her bodily orofi violated with a tabasco-covered Aunt Jemima sryup bottle. If she's still taking the hook, have "Casper the Anally Violated Ghost" tell her that her killer's still around and has noticed some pretty little thing driving her old ride about the town. Then again, that's a kinda fucked-up to do to your own child...... go ahead, ya know ya wanna. Doc Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ Before you buy. ------------------------------ From rcross@my-deja.com Tue Nov 21 13:54:35 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!crtntx1-snf1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!nycmny1-snh1.gtei.net!news.gtei.net!hermes.visi.com!news-out.visi.com!feed2.news.rcn.net!rcn!news.maxwell.syr.edu!nntp2.deja.com!nnrp1.deja.com!not-for-mail From: rcross@my-deja.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Good Tasteless self-shitting conversation in sci.military.naval Date: Tue, 21 Nov 2000 21:54:35 GMT Organization: Deja.com - Before you buy. Lines: 77 Message-ID: <8vequp$904$1@nnrp1.deja.com> References: NNTP-Posting-Host: 199.36.25.200 X-Article-Creation-Date: Tue Nov 21 21:54:35 2000 GMT X-Http-User-Agent: Mozilla/4.7 [en] (WinNT; U) X-Http-Proxy: 1.0 ORBMDM01:8080, 1.0 x54.deja.com:80 (Squid/1.1.22) for client 199.36.25.200 X-MyDeja-Info: XMYDJUIDrcross Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:213942 In article , JP wrote: > Perhaps someone can illucidate on the medical reasons behind > shitting yourself while frightened. It's "elucidate." And I'd be happy to. As one who's pissed himself in a thunderstorm on a treeless ridge at 12,000 ft, shat himself in a car wreck, and who has many times sported wood when suddenly violently startled, I've had to satisfy my curiousity about the effects of fright on the human body. It turns out that the sympathetic nervous system, a subset of the autonomic nervous system, when suddenly kicked into overdrive by an intense fright (such as lightning, gunfire, artillery, and other violent, unsubtle threats), has widespread effects on the body. And these changes aren't always the same from person to person. The effects we usually have in common are dilated irises, tunnel vision, increased cardiac output and pulmonary ventilation, relaxation of skeletal muscles, suspended digestion, enhanced bloodflow to brain and muscles, and peripheral vasoconstriction (which I suppose explains the sudden choadstiffening). To resort to the cliche, it's fight or flight time. Clinically, the other half of the autonomic nervous system is associated with shitting and pissing. The parasympathetic nervous system is in charge of digestion and excretion. It kicks in after you've had supper and settled down on the couch to vegetate in front of XFW wrestling or Ally McBeal (depending on your taste in tastelessness). As for frightshitting and fearpissing, I can speak from experience that it is a primal thing... it just lets go, and you can't stop it... you don't want to stop it. It feels good and natural and it's the last comfort you're going to have before you DIE CRUSHED BETWEEN CRUMPLED STEEL LIKE SO MUCH TRASH ON PICKUP DAY!! Ahem. Sorry. But that's anecdotal evidence. Maybe we can collect enough anecdotes here to actually assemble a somewhat meaningful sample. I'm sure most a.ters have shat themselves (or soaked their pants) in fright. Now perhaps, and this is but a hypothesis, after the sympathetic nervous system is shocked by a sudden, violent threat, like lightning or artillery, it doesn't sustain itself after the threat tapers off. The parasympathetic nervous system kicks in, to compensate. But it overcompensates... In an echo of the overstimulation of the sympathetic nervous system, the parasympathetic goes nuts. Your limbs relax, your vision becomes clear and detailed, and your rectum dilates. You can't control it... that's what autonomic means. It goes off by itself. You are but an audience to the warm, slippery show that's happening in your pants. You might as well enjoy it, cuz if it happens, there's a good chance of it being the last entertainment you get. ObInteresting: the parasympathetic controls male erection, but the sympathetic controls ejaculation. Sounds eerily bipolar. (Sorry, my 1980 college neuro text wasn't hip on female sexual response... much to my disappointment.) -- Deja.com - now slower than ever! Find out more at http://bloated.deja.com/ -- -- Deja.com - now slower than ever! Find out more at http://bloated.deja.com/ Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ Before you buy. ------------------------------ From mhirtes@radiks.net Thu Nov 23 10:03:19 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!crtntx1-snf1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!europa.netcrusader.net!63.208.208.143!feed2.onemain.com!feed1.onemain.com!nntp3.onemain.com.POSTED!not-for-mail Message-ID: <3A1D5BE5.DCFBCF33@radiks.net> From: Furplay Reply-To: mhirtes@ALL.SPAMMERS.WILL.DIE.radiks.net Organization: Criminal X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.75 (Macintosh; U; PPC) X-Accept-Language: en,pdf MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: An AT Thanksgiving prayer Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 13 Date: Thu, 23 Nov 2000 12:03:19 -0600 NNTP-Posting-Host: 207.232.68.31 X-Complaints-To: abuse@onemain.com X-Trace: nntp3.onemain.com 975002432 207.232.68.31 (Thu, 23 Nov 2000 13:00:32 EST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 23 Nov 2000 13:00:32 EST Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:214041 Dear Glub, we thank you for this generous bounty before us. We thank you for the turkey which we decapitated and allowed to flop around in a mad dance of death. We thank you for the corn, in which the indians taught us how to grow, and thus gave us enough of a desire to aquire more, so that we massacred their descendents. And speaking of Indians, thank you for bringing the plague which wiped out the indians that were taking up space at Plymouth Rock before the Master Race came along to lay claim to all the freed up (and pre cleared) land. ------------------------------ From drdoody@my-deja.com Fri Nov 24 08:51:10 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!news.maxwell.syr.edu!nntp2.deja.com!nnrp1.deja.com!not-for-mail From: drdoody@my-deja.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Dammit! (was Re: Good Tasteless self-shitting) Date: Fri, 24 Nov 2000 16:51:10 GMT Organization: Deja.com - Before you buy. Lines: 62 Message-ID: <8vm69u$75q$1@nnrp1.deja.com> References: <8vequp$904$1@nnrp1.deja.com> <3A1E29F3.8A09C5A2@earthlink.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.60.177.170 X-Article-Creation-Date: Fri Nov 24 16:51:10 2000 GMT X-Http-User-Agent: Mozilla/4.0 (compatible; MSIE 5.5; Windows 98) X-Http-Proxy: 1.1 x72.deja.com:80 (Squid/1.1.22) for client 216.60.177.170 X-MyDeja-Info: XMYDJUIDdrdoody Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:214079 I guess the most terrifying moment was hearing the > voice of a paramedic--"Yeah, cut his pants off." You know you're completely fucked when...... That's our favorite part of the job, actually. Especially when the victim, er, patient has nice tits. You can learn to look past the blood, vomit and the grossly twisted limbs as long as they have really nice tits. Reminds me of a call I did once: Several years ago, my partner, myself and some little dumbshit rookie doing his "ridealongs" with us one night were called out to a 10- 50 rollover (basically, car accident; shiny side down, rubber side up). Some little teenage hottie (complete with Highschool letter jacket in back seat) had been zipping through the East Texas night when her car decided to leave the road and play with the pine trees at 70 mph. Basically, she was gang-fucked by Issac Newton and Uncle Chuck for a second or two, then ended up wedged between her car and a very large pine tree. By the time that happened, impact speeds were around 55-65 mph, so you can imagine her chances for life (can you say: "nil"? I knew you could, cuz yer a special person too.). All we could see of her was a brain-and-blood stained mop of platinum blonde hair, a wrist and one of her little sock-feet. So, partner and I light up a smoke and call the Sherriff's office to send us a tow truck, a JP (Justice of the Peace) and a hearse. Our intrepid little rookie reached over to feel for a pulse and was promptly cuffed about the head. I mean, exactly what the fuck were we gonna do if ,n the outside chance, she _did_ have a pulse? Better to just assume she's a stiff and go from there. Anyway, tow truck arrives, and we start pulling the wreck off of her. She's completely fucked. From the looks of it, a very sharp, high- speed chunk of something crossed her belly right under her ribcage. That, coupled with the force of having a ton-and-a-half of car squeezing her up against a pine tree blew blood and ropes of intestines all over her chest. The cool thing was, her shirt and bra (if any) had evidently been ripped off during her passage through the trees. So, aside from me, partner and rookie, nobody else was around (tow truck driver was working the winches). My partner reaches down, flicks away said obscuring intestines, strikes a speculative pose and says to me: "Nice tits, man.". I agree with his observation, but the rook suddenly looks at us both like we're hell-spawn and heads for the ambulance at a rather quick pace. Partner and I look at the rookie, at each other, shrug our shoulders and go back to admiring the tits. The rookie left the station in the wee hours of the morning and never returned. They really were nice tits. Doc Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ Before you buy. ------------------------------ From me@my.forest Mon Nov 27 16:44:21 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!skynet.be!207.126.101.73.MISMATCH!sn-xit-03!sn-post-01!supernews.com!corp.supernews.com!not-for-mail From: Jimmy Snibbler Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: My grape nuts experience Date: Mon, 27 Nov 2000 14:44:21 -1000 Organization: Posted via Supernews, http://www.supernews.com Message-ID: X-Newsreader: Forte Agent 1.7/32.534 X-No-Archive: yes MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit X-Complaints-To: newsabuse@supernews.com Lines: 102 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:214317 My Grape Nuts Experience. [This is my true Grape Nuts story, a tale of my sojourn into the abyss, an experience that splintered my fragile psyche those 18 long years ago and caused me to vow that nary another spoonful would ever pass my once-trusting lips.] I awoke sweating, my belly grousing like an underpaid stock broker. Thank God the dream was dissipating; sitting on a detonating choad is not my idea of a restful sleep. Maybe it was the bratwurst I had for supper, maybe it was the way my employers were treating me, I sure as hell didn't want to figure it out. I just wanted to eat something. Trouble was, I was late for work and it was cold as shit outside. It was one of those January days in East Texas where the wind yowls like a snared coyote and gores your exposed skin like the frozen tusks of a wooly mammoth. I knew I would not last long on the job that day if I did not get my ass out to the drilling site, pronto (my job as a drilling fluids engineer would be toast), and dress in enough layers to keep a fat chick with hypertrichosis warm. Not only did I *not* have time to dump last night's bratwurst before leaving my crib, I was forced to wolf down the quickest meal within reach. Much as a bull snake inhales a Norway rat, I gobbled down an entire box of Grape Nuts and sour milk in under four minutes. Hell, the damn things tasted pretty good and filled the old pit, so who was I to bitch? I quickly threw on my jockey shorts and covered my body with a set of thermal underwear. I yanked on a pair of Levi's, a flannel shirt and an old wooly sweater. Then, I eyed my one-piece, thermalized cotton jump-suit, so ruggedized and solid and leak-proof that I could have farted in an elevator full of girl scouts and nary a nose would have wrinkled. I actually had trouble moving, the suit fit so tight over all those layers of clothing. I trucked the 17 miles out to the drilling rig (they were fighting a blowout) and somehow made it to the mud pits by 6:30 am, where I started taking the mud samples and barking orders to the roughnecks on how much of this and that to mix with to reach the rheology required by the rig's Tool pusher. By 7:00 that evening, we finally had the blowout under control, circulating through the gas buster without danger of getting our asses fried like a flattened armadillo on I-10 in August. 'Pusher said to go home and get some rest, and I was too tired to make any cracks about it. Then I felt the first spasm. My sphincter undulated like a hula girl on Vivarin. I hopped into my truck and had thoughts of pulling off to the side of the remote, dirt road in the forest, just out of sight of the drilling rig and dumping my load right there. But then I remembered. Just last month I had pulled the same routine, plopping my lunch in mere seconds after stripping my jeans down to my knees and crouching like a golfer eyeing a putt. Shit, my wallet had fallen out of my jeans then and laid there by the steaming pile, unbeknownst to me. Hours later, I had nervously rushed back to the scene of the crime, only to find my lost wallet missing! It *had* to be there! I made the sheepish visit to the Tool pusher's trailer, where he (to my chagrin) produced my missing wallet with a nod and a wink. God is cruel, folks. I wanted no more of that action. Like I said, I hopped into my truck and sped the 17 miles back to my crib, my asshole dilating like pupils on acid. I fought like a wounded bear to keep it all in. Then I remembered my breakfast; the combustible mixture of a box of unchewed Grape Nuts and a quart of sour milk. I prayed to every archangel could think of, and a few demons to boot. Just let me make it onto my porcelain easy chair·just this once! The dream of the detonating choad seemed closer now, as I raced in a pained fog up my driveway, through my front door. In my living room, I saw stars as I strained like Arnold Schwarzenegger to pucker my poor ass muscles. I was 30 seconds from my goal, I could make it! I reached for the zipper of my thermalized jumpsuit and yanked it down my chest. Now, only the tight-fitting shoulders of the suit and a downward jerk of the Levi's and underwear were all that remained between me and nirvana. Unfortunately, the simple strain of the pulling jumpsuit's shoulders off of my own was the scintilla of effort, the straw, that broke the camel's back. The Hoover Dam that was my sphincter crumbled like a rice cracker, flooding my jockey shorts with a river of gravel. A beaten man, I simply slumped to the floor, sickened and yet warmed by the tepid mess. After all, it was colder than a witch's tit that day. -- faithfully submitted to the denizens of alt.tasteless, Jim E. ("Jimmy") Snibbler ------------------------------ From julian@bongo.tele.com Tue Nov 28 22:05:05 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!newspeer.monmouth.com!nntp2.aus1.giganews.com!nntp3.aus1.giganews.com!news1.giganews.com.POSTED!localhost!not-for-mail From: julian@bongo.tele.com (Julian Macassey) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Piranah In the Crapper Organization: Celebrity Liver Transplants Lines: 119 Message-ID: <902643$bgg$1@bongo.tele.com> NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 29 Nov 2000 00:04:58 CST X-Trace: sv2-FVIsGwxl3EGRSI4eYobNGzjBovtnlMGnoTvmitsnF38J63eS5+yjpVKK6Al2CtGlS9LwFz4xYl14BIn!TVFI7yCqk2TtGR0FoD0/pw/nqlL1Owk= X-Complaints-To: abuse@GigaNews.Com X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers X-Abuse-Info: Otherwise we will be unable to process your complaint properly Date: Wed, 29 Nov 2000 06:05:05 GMT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:214427 Some of you may remember Joe Betz. He seems to be having trouble with tropical fish in Wisconsin. -------------------------------------- Joe versus the piranha. Joseph Betz It started off as an ordinary enough day. Snowing, cold, an answering machine filled with messages from customers I don't want to talk to, and of course, no president-elect. Little did I know that before the sun set, I would have to fight a piranha. Yes, I said piranha. "Crikey! What a Beeeyoootiful Animal!" But it wasn't in some nice, warm, tropical river where I would encounter this razor-toothed predator. I couldn't get that lucky. I was still in Wisconsin, surrounded by slippery roads, mediocre football teams, and the most breathtakingly moronic people this side of Palm Beach, Fla. The morons in question today are the young couple occupying apartment #3 of the Maple Village Apartments, a mile or two from my own home. They were the owners of the piranha. The call was on my machine last night when I got back from work, but I didn't play it until late this morning. The crux of the message was short and simple, although the apartment manager rattled on for two minutes, prattling on and repeating herself. "The toilet in #3 is plugged" was all I really needed to hear. Spent twenty minutes going after the clog with an auger, to no avail. Kept running into something rather solid, then scooting right past it without being able to snag and retrieve it. Another ten minutes with a plunger yielded the same result. "Fuck. Gonna have to dismount the damn toilet and get it from underneath." And that I did. Found a new wax ring in my truck, got my tools in, bailed all the water I could out of it, and went after the mounting nuts and water supply coupler. Rocked the toilet loose, tipped it over the bathtub, and there in the toilet outlet was something shiny and smooth, bigger than a tennis ball. Tried grabbing it with my slip-joint pliers. Slippery. Gave it a poke or two with a screwdriver, trying to stab into it or turn it to see what it was. Then I saw the fins and the teeth. "Yeah," said the young woman casually when I asked if, by any stretch of the imagination, they had flushed a fish down the toilet. *sigh* Not precisely in order, the following thoughts flitted through my mind: 1. Stupid fucking cunt. 2. Thanks for mentioning "It was working fine until we FLUSHED THE PIRANHA DOWN IT" before I wasted a bunch of time trying the auger and plunger. 3. Motherfucking stupid asshole cunt. 4. Did the two of you make the decision to flush a fish the size of a ten-week old beagle down the toilet together, or did one of you say "Maybe we should just throw it in the garbage." 5. If one of you did say that, which member of the brain trust gets to say to the other: "I told you so." 6. Did it occur to either of you that large fish, unlike large turds, are WATERPROOF and thus wouldn't be biodegrading any time soon? 7. Gotta sharpen the tip of my auger. That way NEXT time I have to get a piranha out of a toilet, I've got a shot at spearing him. 8. Fucking stupid cocksucking, motherfucking, asshole, retarded, spastic-twitching, goddamn idiotic cunt. 9. I'm charging double-time for this. And when I write out the invoice, I'm definitely listing what I have to pull outta here. 10. I need a new job. Spent ten minutes getting the fucking thing turned around with its toothy little face pointing out the toilet outlet, grabbing his jaws with a needlenose plier, and pulling, twisting and turning until he finally decided to give up, only after several bits of his jaw were already severed by Mr Plier. The toilet gave birth to a bouncing (read: dead) full-grown piranha at approximately 4:15pm CST. That's a record breaker, BTW. I've pulled amazing things out of toilets before, from the big stupid pick combs that our African American brethren used to stick in their 'fros, to deodorant sticks, to beer cans, but the piranha is a new all-time high in the "weirdest shit I've ever pulled out of a toilet" category. I scraped off the old wax ring, applied the new, re-set the toilet, bolted her down and hooked up the water supply again. Works fine. Gathering my tools, I caught myself moving out of the bathroom with an eighteen inch pipe wrench in my hand, wanting nothing more than to see how deep I could get the jaws to sink into the mongoloid skulls of the two future Mensa candidates of Apt. #3. No. Bad Joe. Not worth 25 to life. No biscuit. ------------------------------ From TREETsyd@TREETnls.net Thu Nov 30 06:10:29 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!portc01.blue.aol.com!cyclone2.usenetserver.com!news-out.usenetserver.com!sjc-peer.news.verio.net!news.verio.net!news.sanjose1.Level3.net!Level3.net!news1.onlynews.com!not-for-mail Message-ID: <3A265FDD.255A4BB@nls.net> From: TREETsyd@TREETnls.net X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.75 [en] (Win98; U) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Nomination References: Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit Lines: 62 NNTP-Posting-host: onlyNews customer X-Trace: onlyNews customer NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 30 Nov 2000 06:10:29 PST Date: Thu, 30 Nov 2000 14:10:29 GMT Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:214518 "JustmeĻ" wrote: > > blaque@my-deja.com (Jonathan "Nature Boy" Blaque) (blaque@my-deja.com > (Jonathan "Nature Boy" Blaque)) wrote in article 2511001839210001@dialup-209.244.66.112.chicago1.level3.net>, and I felt > COMPELLED to reply: > > > For the The Paul Ess Memorial Lifetime Achievement > > Award -- the "Essie" -- bestowed upon an a.t.er based > > on his or her body of work over several years: > > > > Uncle Brian (posted and e-mailed). > > Seconded (posted & e-mailed). Dunno about the rest of you, but Unca Brian is my personal Patron Saint of Cancer. Like as not, some day I'll end up getting the news that I have The Big C... I'll feel Uncle Brian pat me on the back, saying "Well don't you feel sorry for yourself now?" I remember seeing his messages still on my news server when he was already Approaching Room Temperature. He was proud to show off his battle scars, and whenever some wag would ask "Hey Unc, you gonna die already?", he'd lash out with bright eyes, "Come at get me, you bastard!" And as long as I live, I'll always remember the time he and a friend entered the house of some old battleaxe who'd keeled over, and positioned one of her hands so that when she was finally hauled away in the bone wagon, she was giving the Eternal Finger. Call it the Paul Ess Memorial Lifetime Achievement Award, "The Eternal Finger"... whenever an ATer verifiably "falls off the perch." (TM Unc) ObT: Yet another good reason for a suicidally depressed person (me) to stay alive... I consider it a lot, but wouldn't do it. And one minor, lingering reason is that y'all would be SO disappointed in me. I'm not the type to go apeshit, AT has taught me that truly tasteless individuals lurk beneath the most mundane of guises. So I'm here for the bitter, pointless long haul. Thanks, you assholes. ObT: I remember trying to get my cat to drink blood. Pricked my finger, tried to get the cat to lick it. Unfortunately, the cat had far more taste than I, and was repulsed at the notion... so I rubbed the blood on her nose. I guess I was hoping that it would make the cat a better hunter, or more loyal. All it did was convince the cat that I was fucking crazy. See, cats ARE smart! ObT2: The Greatest Noise I've Ever Heard in My Life: When I accidentally ran over the aforementioned cat's tail with my office chair. An A-10 attack jet firing it's 30mm gatling cannon is a close second. -- Of course, I'm only kidding. - Rev. Syd Midnight - [Remove TREET from address to reply] "Happy families are all alike; unhappy families are unhappy in their own unique ways." -- Tolstoy, "Anna Karenina" ------------------------------ From aemilia_parker@yahoo.com Thu Nov 30 08:21:05 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!crtntx1-snf1.gtei.net!washdc3-snh1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!feeder.qis.net!feed2.onemain.com!feed1.onemain.com!newsfeed2.earthlink.net!newsfeed.earthlink.net!newsmaster1.prod.itd.earthlink.net!newsread2.prod.itd.earthlink.net.POSTED!not-for-mail From: aemilia Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Nomination Message-ID: <81vc2tgklrgjmdjchs163fmhd4et1i5fae@4ax.com> References: <3A265FDD.255A4BB@nls.net> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent 1.8/32.548 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 31 Date: Thu, 30 Nov 2000 16:21:05 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.178.178.63 X-Complaints-To: abuse@earthlink.net X-Trace: newsread2.prod.itd.earthlink.net 975601265 209.178.178.63 (Thu, 30 Nov 2000 08:21:05 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 30 Nov 2000 08:21:05 PST Organization: EarthLink Inc. -- http://www.EarthLink.net Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:214525 On Thu, 30 Nov 2000 14:10:29 GMT, TREETsyd@TREETnls.net wrote: > > Dunno about the rest of you, but Unca Brian is my personal Patron Saint of >Cancer. > > Like as not, some day I'll end up getting the news that I have The Big C... >I'll feel Uncle Brian pat me on the back, saying "Well don't you feel sorry for >yourself now?" Forgive me (lord! wasn't that opening me up to some heavy duty raping with the cluebat).....but... speaking of raping....I have been having this fantasy where I am a hooker and I get raped violently in this shitty motel room by a big black guy. The weird part is, I'm a rape victim. I was raped when I was 14. It scarred me for years.....and now I'm fantasizing about it? I was masturbating last night (which doesn't happen often because of my meds) and I couldn't come until this popped into my head. So...I am beside myself. A few years ago I would have berated and belittled any woman who had rape fantasies. And now I am in the throes of them. I am very.....befuddled. OH! The reason why I posted. I've been gone for almost 2 years. Did Uncle Brian die? It seems so. aemilia ------------------------------ From jal@lavarnway.mv.com Thu Nov 30 08:33:45 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!crtntx1-snf1.gtei.net!washdc3-snh1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!nycmny1-snh1.gtei.net!news.gtei.net!hermes.visi.com!news-out.visi.com!newsfeed.wirehub.nl!newspeer1.nac.net!news.mv.net!not-for-mail From: jal@lavarnway.mv.com (Jessica Lavarnway) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: rant, rant, rant Date: Thu, 30 Nov 2000 16:33:45 GMT Organization: MV Communications, Inc. Lines: 40 Message-ID: <3a267fbb.2576662@news.mv.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: bnh-3-12.mv.com X-Trace: pyrite.mv.net 975601860 19028 199.125.99.140 (30 Nov 2000 16:31:00 GMT) X-Complaints-To: abuse@mv.com NNTP-Posting-Date: 30 Nov 2000 16:31:00 GMT X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.21/32.243 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:214526 How many of you guys sat with YOUR wives when she was in labor and didn't run out of the room whenever they started doing pelvic exams and anal swabs [I'm still not sure why in fuck they did that last one -- beta strep, maybe?] just because it was nasty? Hell, I read the archived posts on Dave Hall's page about how we went with his wife for her annual gynecological checkup! I hate to see how he reacts when I take a shit right in front of him during labor. I leave my tasteless and disgusting brethren for two days of hospitalization [and let me tell you, it's depressing as hell to spend a day and a half in the hospital on the labor and delivery floor and walk out after all the torture they put you through, knowing you'll be back in a month or so to complete it] and am trapped with people who don't let me see my chart, who wake me up to eat dark green canteloupe, and who generally annoy the shit out of me while I'm trying to lay there and avoid having contractions in peace. I come back. The AT awards page still hasn't been updated to reflect my Ms. A.T. Rookie 2000 nominee status, depressing me. My house is destroyed. The cat ate the contents of the garbage can and vomited them on the floor. [would look like she attepted to eat rotten sausage and chicken, but as I haven't been around, I don't have a definite answer on that] I am on bed rest and am therefore restricted to rare visits to my computer. I am cranky, irritable, and pissed off. Perfect mood to post to A.T. in. Jessica Lavarnway By the way, guys who have visited my home page -- any suggestions on what I should put up? Anything you all want to see, besides my tits? Jessica Lavarnway jal@lavarnway.mv.com http://www.mv.com/ipusers/lavarnway/jal/ He is YOUR god, they are YOUR rules, YOU burn in hell. ------------------------------ From proctalgia@proctalgia.org Sun Nov 05 15:57:00 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.stanford.edu!pln-w!spln!dex!extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!news2 From: "Proctalgia" Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: My Frenulum Date: 5 Nov 2000 23:57:00 GMT Organization: http://extra.newsguy.com Lines: 15 Message-ID: <8u4s4c0eu0@news2.newsguy.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: p-529.newsdawg.com X-Newsreader: Ink Spot CE 1.12r2 Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:213287 Do you know what a frenulum is? Men have two, the fair sex only one. The one we share is under the tongue; it's the band of skin that tethers the tongue to the floor of the mouth. The other one is a similar structure,and lives on the front of your prick, where it tethers the foreskin to the front of the glans. You know what I mean. Nurzy will tell you that it is a cause for raucous good humour when an embarassed male comes in with a torn frenulum - and they do come in, because of the artery that runs up the frenulum, which makes a tear in it rather messy. A single suture to underrun the artery is required. One of the features of aging is that skin gets less elastic. Especially scar tissue caused by wanking too much in one's yoof. Ah, giovanezza! A little morning delight with the SR this AM (while the autist was still outdoors, having spent the night in his expensive treehouse) caused slight discomfort. This evening I am wallowing in the jacuzzi and wielding the soap on the wedding tackle when a sudden stab of pain quite spoils my mood. "Jeeeeezussss!" yells I, afraid to look down. Oh sweet Christ what is that? I have a deep V notched in my frenulum, just like anal fissure Bob has decided to emigrate to pastures new. Fuck, it bloody hurts. Here I am with a torn meniscus and gallstones, not to mention ulcers and hemorrhoids, and manfully ignoring them like any self-respecting male, but this is, well, close to the bone, so to speak. Below the belt, if you get my meaning. I'm in for a few days of enforced celibacy, and what about the behavioural conditioning I'm going to receive from the bastard tearing open every time I do a breast exam? I'm going to be impotent soon. No sympathy from the SR, who is in her post-menstrual randy stage. She's like a cat in howlin heat and doesn't want to hear about war wounds. I think I need an ice cube. Hmmm. I believe salive has a great healing effect.... ObT: the tree house was expensive because clutzy here hit his watch with a hammer that slipped off a chisel. Broke the crystal, and it spent three weeks in Toronto and cost Can$900 to repair. That was several times the cost of the wood and nails and shingles for the treehouse! -- Posted witha Windows CE Geek-O-Matic. ------------------------------ From choad@bnl24.ten.nl Wed Nov 08 03:34:34 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!easynews!news-out.uswest.net!news-spur1.maxwell.syr.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.online.be!newsfeed1.news.nl.uu.net!sun4nl!bnl24.ten.nl!choad From: Rat's Ass Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: And the new president is... Date: Wed, 8 Nov 2000 12:34:34 +0100 Organization: UUNET-NL (http://www.nl.uu.net) Lines: 34 Message-ID: References: <3a0918f3.62247074@news.ecis.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: bnl24.ten.nl Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=X-UNKNOWN Content-Transfer-Encoding: QUOTED-PRINTABLE X-Trace: porthos.nl.uu.net 973683128 29256 195.108.75.24 (8 Nov 2000 11:32:08 GMT) X-Complaints-To: abuse@nl.uu.net NNTP-Posting-Date: 8 Nov 2000 11:32:08 GMT In-Reply-To: Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:213417 On Wed, 8 Nov 2000, Justme=AE wrote: > ObT: Explaining to either candidate what a squickhole was. Gov. Bush Admits to "Squicking" as Youth By Charles McCunnilingus CNN.com Writer (CNN) -- Texas Governor George W. Bush has confirmed Democratic charges that in his youth, he "squicked" on at least two occasions. "Squicking", a term unfamiliar to many Americans, involves creating a hole in the skull of a sexual partner and inserting the penis into the hole for sexual gratification. At the time of the alleged incidents, in 1976, there were no state laws prohibiting the practice. A judge ruled in 1979 that the Texas statute prohibiting sodomy did not apply to squicking as no anal contact was involved. A subdued Governor Bush admitted to the charges during a press conference early Wednesday. When asked if he had ever squicked a male friend, he was unclear. "I don't think so. Folks, that was 24 years ago," he said. "I'm not proud of it." A unidentified spokesperson for Vice President Al Gore's presidential campaign, speaking on the condition of anonymity, denied responsibility for the leak. "Hey, I don't care what he does in his spare time," the person stated. "He prolly f---s cows anyway so this is no big deal." Shortly after the press conference, election officials in Wisconsin, Jeffrey Dahmer's home state, announced that the too-close-to-call vote count had gone sharply in Bush's direction. ------------------------------ From deliverer@netscape.net Fri Dec 01 19:52:07 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!portc01.blue.aol.com!newsfeeds.sol.net!news.execpc.com!newspeer.sol.net!homer.alpha.net!not-for-mail From: Eddie Blaque Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Discovery Organization: The Temple of Good and Evil Message-ID: References: <873dg7n3xj.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> X-Newsreader: Forte Agent 1.8/32.548 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Lines: 33 Date: Fri, 01 Dec 2000 21:52:07 -0600 NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.145.177.97 X-Complaints-To: abuse@alpha.net X-Trace: homer.alpha.net 975729138 216.145.177.97 (Fri, 01 Dec 2000 21:52:18 CST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 01 Dec 2000 21:52:18 CST Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:214665 On Fri, 01 Dec 2000 22:59:36 GMT, worley@dworley.ne.mediaone.net (Acetylcholinesterase Inhibitor) wrote: >It is unpleasant to discover that both rolls in the giant TP dispenser >are empty. Fortunately I had a number of receipts and other bits of >paper in my wallet. (The first time this happened to me, I had no >such emergency supply.) > >Dale You just need to revert back to your inner child. What would a child do if he or she ran out of toilet paper? When I was young lad (before alcoholism, drug abuse, and insanity messed me up to the point where I am that loved by the ladies, hated by their husbands, and feared by the children psychotic that you know and envy if not love), I would leave the toilet with my pants around my ankles and run through the house yelling, "WHERE'S THE TOILET PAPER? I NEED TO WIPE MY BUTT." This was very effective. In a convenience store or gas station with a convenience store, I would pull up my pants and hold them so the fecal covered shit maker wouldn't foul them up, go to the toilet paper aisle, grab a package, and head back to the restroom as quickly as possible. This has happened only once. I usually check the restroom to make sure I have enough asswipe BEFORE I make my offering to Glub. Eddie ObT.. Running through a crowded convenience store with pants around ankles yelling "WHERE'S THE TOILET PAPER? I NEED TO WIPE MY ASS." ------------------------------ From blaque@my-deja.com Sat Dec 02 08:37:58 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!xfer10.netnews.com!netnews.com!feed2.onemain.com!feed1.onemain.com!newsfeed2.earthlink.net!newsfeed.earthlink.net!newsmaster1.prod.itd.earthlink.net!newsread2.prod.itd.earthlink.net.POSTED!not-for-mail From: blaque@my-deja.com (Jonathan "Nature Boy" Blaque) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Eris Killed JFK? (was Re: What kills you most quickly?) Message-ID: References: <3a1f7392.181457309@news.mv.net> <7VAU5.607$xJ3.58078@news.goodnet.com> <3A230373.E319B577@dev.nul> <3A2646E9.CDEBD5FB@nls.net> <905neu$3m4$1@samba.rahul.net> <3A27436B.14AC7527@nls.net> Organization: Planet Of The Apes X-Newsreader: Yet Another NewsWatcher 2.2.0b4 Lines: 20 Date: Sat, 02 Dec 2000 16:37:58 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 63.208.71.111 X-Complaints-To: abuse@earthlink.net X-Trace: newsread2.prod.itd.earthlink.net 975775078 63.208.71.111 (Sat, 02 Dec 2000 08:37:58 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 02 Dec 2000 08:37:58 PST Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:214702 Eddie Blaque wrote: > ObT: Thinking of what Vomit Boy wanted to do > to Pearl Bailey. Yeah, well -- the way I figure it, a man should try *everything* at least once in his life. That's why, on my 85th birthday, I'm gonna go out and suck me a big, black dick... ...but if I like it, I'm gonna be *really* pissed. Cheers! Nature Boy (II) Pearl Before Swine "I stand by all the misstatements that I've made." -- George W. Bush, to Sam Donaldson, 8/17/93 ------------------------------ From iwillnot@greeneggsandham.com Sat Dec 02 20:09:01 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!crtntx1-snf1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!washdc3-snh1.gtei.net!washdc3-snf1!news.gtei.net!news.telebeam.net!news.ems.psu.edu!news.cis.ohio-state.edu!news.maxwell.syr.edu!newsfeed.direct.ca!look.ca!newshub2.rdc1.sfba.home.com!news.home.com!news1.sttls1.wa.home.com.POSTED!not-for-mail From: iwillnot@greeneggsandham.com (Shithouse Mouse) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: I couldn't help it. Organization: Society for the preservation of meaty, pant filling wet farts. Reply-To: hotnuts@rarefasteners.net Message-ID: <3a29c64a.12265637@news> X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.21/32.243 Lines: 70 Date: Sun, 03 Dec 2000 04:09:01 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 24.16.234.58 X-Complaints-To: abuse@home.net X-Trace: news1.sttls1.wa.home.com 975816541 24.16.234.58 (Sat, 02 Dec 2000 20:09:01 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 02 Dec 2000 20:09:01 PST Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:214731 I found myself at a small taco stand today getting some food while waiting for the local Quik-E-Lube to dump my oil into the local streams and rivers when I found myself in an apparent environmental disaster of sorts. I was ordering a pork verde burrito when this 9 or 10 year old waste of a perfectly good orgasm starts whining because he can't find a lid for his 84 oz. cherry coke. I started laughing (perhaps too early) as it's mothership blats out making sure that everyone hears her, " Oh honey, you don't need a lid, they are manufactured by the evil oil companies and you know that they don't decompose, and that's not good for the environment..." Like the little shit has the attention span to even comprehend her ill advised drivel.... For my gift of laughter she gave me that all too familiar, "You are a un-caring, insensitive individual" look as I placed the rest of my order. I actually found myself getting angry as the little blight on humanity was still fighting for the "evil" plastic lid. Normally I am a quiet person in public sitautions, but today I had to release a little. The Mexi-order taker had to yell to tell me how much my lunch was. I looked at the fat cum dumpster and belted out, "Would you just give him a fucking lid lady, I think that your little bastard is going to die if he doesn't get to participate in the rape of our enviroment as we know it." I was secretly amazed at what had just come out of my mouth. She grabbed her little sprog and rushed away like I had "Dahlmer" tattooed on my forehead. I then sat down to try and enjoy a local newspaper in the little converted KFC, looking up occasionally to watch their little, "blightday party" only to catch a evil stare to which I responded with a friendly smile.. The Mexi-order taker brought my food out to me a few minutes later and said to me, "Hey man, thanks. My cook is still dying laughing in back...." Now, I don't mind environmentalists as a rule, but this one was spouting the most ridiculous crap that I have ever heard to an impressionable future welfare recepient. The best part was when the entire clan piled out of the establishment only to pile into a late 60's beat up VW van with all of the appropriate lesbian decoration. It belched blue smoke as the butch flipped me off. Then she stalled it, and it wouldn't start. I waved and noticing that the driver's side window was down, I offered assistance. I heard the friendly, "Fuck you, you fucking asshole....". I waved again to re-confirm my sense of community and peace. I had a great walk back to the oil spilling establishment, laughing to myself thinking as I threw another cigarette butt into the storm drain, as they probably just got back from WTO II in Seattle and are a little touchy and tired... "Sensitive to the environmental issues of today.." SM -------------------------------------------------------------- "A tennis ball, a piece of string, Sally tucks them in her thing." B.Kliban -------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------ From bughunter@earthlink.tardproof.net Mon Dec 04 20:38:36 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!crtntx1-snf1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!howland.erols.net!newsfeed.mindspring.net.MISMATCH!news.mindspring.net!newsfeed2.earthlink.net!newsfeed.earthlink.net!newsmaster1.prod.itd.earthlink.net!newsread2.prod.itd.earthlink.net.POSTED!not-for-mail From: bughunter@earthlink.tardproof.net (bughunter) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: With a Curl of Choadsmoke... Message-ID: Organization: Axillary Follicle Liberation Front X-Newsreader: MT-NewsWatcher 2.4.4 Lines: 40 Date: Tue, 05 Dec 2000 04:38:36 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.249.90.24 X-Complaints-To: abuse@earthlink.net X-Trace: newsread2.prod.itd.earthlink.net 975991116 216.249.90.24 (Mon, 04 Dec 2000 20:38:36 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 04 Dec 2000 20:38:36 PST Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:214880 ... he was done. Well, actually, he was just taking a sample. The (gay?) dermatologist spent enough time cauterizing the hole he cut in my choad, I thought he was writing his name on the damn thing. Smoke was curling up from my crotch like a cigarette smouldering in an ashtray. Left a scab-lined crater almost as big around as the tip of my pinky, too. It wasn't until I got home tonite and examined it closely that I realized how much skin had been cut/burned away... Glub Damn - he might as well have taken the entire cyst. But no... he takes 90% of it as a "sample" so he can see what the hell is growing on my dick before he does a formal "removal." Gotta maximize the income, ya know. And then to cauterize the wound, he used what appeared to be a soldering iron with a tip big enough to solder a rebar to the terminal of an interstate power bus. And it's not like this cyst was on the shaft or someplace relatively insensitive. Nope... it's on the frenulum, that little tender band of remaining foreskin between the corona and the shaft. At least it's on the dorsal side. So in 10 days, as soon as this first dickrape heals, I get to go back for another one. I guess I had my last normal wank of the millenium last weekend. At least I got it outta my system: 1 bottle of scotch, 2 six packs, 3 packs of smokes, 4 Norco, 5 porno tapes, 6 squirts in 36 hours. A New Personal Record! (I knew I was gonna be outta commission for a while.) ObWorse: There's another, smaller one on the pectoral side, also on the frenulum. ObGIF: Posted to a.b.p.t ObPeeve: Had to use Netscape -- "You are your own best toy to play with / Remote control hands Made for each other / Made in Japan" --Grace Slick Rick Cross ---><--- bughunter@earthlink.tardproof.net ------------------------------ From bughunter@earthlink.tardproof.net Mon Dec 04 22:12:39 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!crtntx1-snf1.gtei.net!crtntx1-snh1.gtei.net!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!feed2.news.rcn.net!rcn!howland.erols.net!newsfeed.mindspring.net.MISMATCH!news.mindspring.net!newsfeed2.earthlink.net!newsfeed.earthlink.net!newsmaster1.prod.itd.earthlink.net!newsread2.prod.itd.earthlink.net.POSTED!not-for-mail From: bughunter@earthlink.tardproof.net (bughunter) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: With a Curl of Choadsmoke... Message-ID: References: Organization: Axillary Follicle Liberation Front X-Newsreader: MT-NewsWatcher 2.4.4 Lines: 37 Date: Tue, 05 Dec 2000 06:12:39 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 216.249.90.24 X-Complaints-To: abuse@earthlink.net X-Trace: newsread2.prod.itd.earthlink.net 975996759 216.249.90.24 (Mon, 04 Dec 2000 22:12:39 PST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 04 Dec 2000 22:12:39 PST Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:214893 In article , bughunter@earthlink.tardproof.net (bughunter) wrote: >1 bottle of scotch, 2 six >packs, 3 packs of smokes, 4 Norco, 5 porno tapes, 6 squirts in 36 hours. >A New Personal Record! OK - I know it's bad form to follow up to your own articles, but I can't resist adapting this to the holiday season: 12 Paper Towels 11 Minutes Wiping 10 Neighbors Freaking 9 Hours Wanking 8 Ounces Milking 7 Million Swimmers 6 Loads a Spraying 5 Pornoooooooh Tapes... 4 Norco Tabs 3 Packs o' Smokes 2 Six Packs and a Bottle of Single Malt Scotch And thus my newest .sig - the KLOS deejay must have somehow picked up on my vibe and played Jefferson Airplane's Greasy Heart during the brief time I was in the car, fetching more beer... pure synchronicity. Glub, what an awesome band... at least during the years 1967-68 anyway... OBhURL: http://www.thefreemall.net/twelve.html Xtian translation of the lyrics to the original song, making association only to the numbers and conveniently ignoring the rest of the words. -- "You are your own best toy to play with / Remote control hands Made for each other / Made in Japan" --Grace Slick Rick Cross ---><--- bughunter@earthlink.tardproof.net ------------------------------ From citizen_x@go.com Thu Dec 07 10:47:08 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!xfer10.netnews.com!netnews.com!howland.erols.net!panix!newsxfer.eecs.umich.edu!newsxfer3.itd.umich.edu!newsxfer.itd.umich.edu!news.itd.umich.edu!not-for-mail From: citizen_x@go.com (hjkl) Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: Picky, picky Message-ID: <3a2fda3d.790283008@news.itd.umich.edu> References: <871yvv4ho6.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <3a248bd3.9937404@news.ecis.com> <87vgt72b33.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <87g0kaioy8.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> <3a2d4f1b.623653952@news.itd.umich.edu> <87elzm34fb.fsf@blob.ariadne.com> X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.1/16.230 Lines: 14 Date: Thu, 07 Dec 2000 18:47:08 GMT NNTP-Posting-Host: 141.214.193.127 X-Trace: news.itd.umich.edu 976214844 141.214.193.127 (Thu, 07 Dec 2000 13:47:24 EST) NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 07 Dec 2000 13:47:24 EST Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:214983 On Tue, 05 Dec 2000 22:10:30 GMT, worley@dworley.ne.mediaone.net (Acetylcholinesterase Inhibitor) wrote: >(Sex advocate types get really pissed if you confuse >the different ideologies.) And its a hoot. "How dare you label me a 'necrophile shit freak'. Sure I suck the cold green shit from the asses of the dead, but if you would pull your head out of YOUR dead ass, you would know I am a NECROFECALANALINGUIST, thankyouverymuch. Now, if your avian brain can wrap itself around words of more than 2 syllables, I would appreciate a bit of CONSIDERATION here." ------------------------------ From rcross@my-deja.com Thu Dec 07 17:01:32 2000 Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.gtei.net!news.maxwell.syr.edu!nntp2.deja.com!nnrp1.deja.com!not-for-mail From: rcross@my-deja.com Newsgroups: alt.tasteless Subject: Re: The gusher behind my ear. Date: Fri, 08 Dec 2000 01:01:32 GMT Organization: Deja.com - Before you buy. Lines: 85 Message-ID: <90pbtb$dv2$1@nnrp1.deja.com> References: <90p85u$4j$1@samba.rahul.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: 199.36.25.200 X-Article-Creation-Date: Fri Dec 08 01:01:32 2000 GMT X-Http-User-Agent: Mozilla/4.7 [en] (WinNT; U) X-Http-Proxy: 1.0 ORBMDM01:8080, 1.0 x67.deja.com:80 (Squid/1.1.22) for client 199.36.25.200 X-MyDeja-Info: XMYDJUIDrcross Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:214994 In article <90p85u$4j$1@samba.rahul.net>, Roberta Hatch wrote: > Behind my right ear, just above earlobe level, what felt > like a very large "bubble" had formed under my skin. It felt > huge, becuase it was huge. It didn't hurt when I rubbed it, nor > could I tell it was there unless I actually touched it. [and] > When it finally stopped, I looked at my palm. It was > covered with a clear sticky fluid, flecked with little white > bits of puss. I checked, no smell. One last squeeze and I > got a little blood, so it was pretty much finished. Then I got > up and washed my hand. Sounds just like the first sebaceous cyst I ever grew. Except it was behind my left ear, and I waited until it got infected and swollen before squeezing it... which resulted in a spray of smelly gooey sebum and pus that left what looked like a cumshot on the bathroom mirror. Ahh, the memories... You, my dear, are the proud new owner of a font of tastelessness. Cherish it. The clear sticky fluid is sebum. It's the same bodily fluid that lubricates your minky. Amazing, eh? Your skin produces loads of it, in the hair follicles, mostly as an emollient to keep your skin soft and elastic, and to keep your hair from getting tangled. Sometimes a hair follicle goes haywire and it will form into a cyst lined with the cells that produce sebum. The sebum can't get out, and so the cyst grows and grows as more sebum is produced. Now a rather nasty little race starts. On one hand, the cyst cells are reproducing to try and enclose a larger and larger volume. At the same time, they are busy churning out perishable sebum. Will cell growth be able to keep up with the volume of sebum? Usually not. Eventually the cyst will burst. But will this happen *before* the sebum goes rancid, and becomes host to nasty, smelly bacteria... or after? If you're really lucky, it'll be really deep in your skin, and take so long to erupt that when it does, you have a deep, nasty smelling abcess. But usually what happens is you just get this little pinhole that squirts goo, pus, and blood. Sometimes they can take weeks to fully drain, but generally it just happens over the course of a day or so. And after the cyst bursts, it doesn't go away, nor does it stop producing sebum, so if it seals up again, the cycle repeats. The one in my earlobe swells and recedes according to some enigmatic schedule. There are a couple on my inner thigh that flare up every summer. This summer I got a new one right in the crease between my thigh and my taint. These Suck Royally. Oh yea... it makes you so sexy to have an open, weeping sore in the general region of your genitals. Fortunately, your physician can remove most cysts in his office, with a scapel and local anesthesia. To prevent the cysts, keep the oily areas of your body continually clean and dry. This isn't always possible - especially if you're athletically active, or are employed to perform physical labor, and you stay sweaty and dirty all day long. Oh, and oh yeah... very important. If, like me, you have a partner that can't resist popping and draining all the little bumps and pimples on your body, do NOT let him or her try to squeeze the cyst out of its little hidey hole (very bad... think Sorcerer's Apprentice), and do NOT puncture it with a needle or lancet (or you will have a cyst that bleeds and weeps for weeks). ObT: Lancing a cyst on your crotch... and knowing the risk, but it's so swollen and painful that you'd rather watch it bleed for the rest of your life than shift your legs and have it explode in pain one more time. ObT2: Telling your doctor, whose curiosity then won't let you deny him the chance to dig around in your hairy ass to examine it. ObT3: Sitz baths. -- Deja.com - now slower than ever! Find out more at http://bloated.deja.com/ Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ Before you buy. ------------------------------ From jeffjustin@newsfeeds.com Thu Dec 07 09:36:28 2000 Newsgroups: alt.tasteless, alt.peeves Subject: Death Takes Over A Holiday From: jeffjustin@newsfeeds.com (Jeff Justin) Message-ID: <90038C23Ajeffjustinnewsfeedsc@216.65.3.131> User-Agent: Xnews/03.09.22 NNTP-Posting-Host: spamkiller Date: 7 Dec 2000 11:36:28 -0600 Lines: 162 X-Authenticated-User: jeffjustin X-Comments: This message was posted through Newsfeeds.com X-Comments2: IMPORTANT: Newsfeeds.com does not condone, nor support, spam or any illegal or copyrighted postings. X-Comments3: IMPORTANT: Under NO circumstances will postings containing illegal or copyrighted material through this service be tolerated!! X-Report: Please report illegal or inappropriate use to You may also use our online abuse reporting from: http://www.newsfeeds.com/abuseform.htm X-Abuse-Info: Please be sure to forward a copy of ALL headers, INCLUDING the body (DO NOT SEND ATTACHMENTS) Organization: Newsfeeds.com http://www.newsfeeds.com 73,000+ UNCENSORED Newsgroups. Path: typhoon.aracnet.com!newsfeed2.skycache.com!newsfeed.skycache.com!Cidera!newsfeed.icl.net!feed-out.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!feed.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!spamkiller.newsfeeds.com!newsfeeds.com!spk!anonymous!127.0.0.1!spk Xref: typhoon.aracnet.com alt.tasteless:214980 alt.peeves:208828 Well, the old Alzheimer's patient slid over the edge during the Thanksgiving weekend. It was a relief for all concerned. The slow, steady physical deterioration had been relentless and irresistible. The mental and behavioural regression was equally unmerciful, reducing him to total bed care and total dependency. But all of that is immaterial now. I made a quick trip out to AZ to shepherd my mom and his body back to MI. They had decided to be buried in the town where they lived the longest, which is where I currently live. Long before they retired, they'd both purchased pre-paid funerals from a local mortuary, primarily to eliminate the hassle of funeral planning under duress. So, assuming this would be a straightforward transaction, I accompanied my mother to the mortuary to get the process rolling, not realizing that this would become a bit of an ordeal. The funeral director was a greasy, obsequious, little toad. Perhaps five feet four, maybe a hundred and thirty-five pounds, his slicked back hair, buck teeth and dark suit made him look like a weasel or a ferret. After the usual pleasantries, we sat down in his office to assess the situation. I had the pre-paid contract with me, and had read it closely enough to see that we had some choices to make regarding flowers, headstone, casket style, etc. Since it was an old contract, he needed to read it, asking a few questions along the way. As he read, he attempted to guilt my mother into upgrading some component parts of the arrangements. You know, the better casket with the fancier handles and shinier lining, the bigger headstone maybe one with a photo of the deceased, fancier service, more flowers, etc. I let my mom say no several times before I intervened and told him firmly that we were interested in the level of goods and services that had been selected when the agreement was struck. He backed off, and returned to his reading. The contract had been executed some twenty-five years ago, and he wasn't familiar with some of the provisions, so he left to consult with the owner of the place. When he returned, he immediately began pointing out how the contract failed to address this, and that, then the other thing. The upshot of this was that they couldn't possibly deliver a funeral and burial without the addition of roughly $23K to what that had been paid in a lump sum twenty-five years ago. While I was just plain pissed off at this, my mother was aghast. They had been assured that there would be no additional expenses when they had purchased the funerals, lo those twenty-five years ago. For her, it wasn't a matter of not having the money, or being able to afford it, it was a matter that they'd misrepresented the terms of the deal. I let her have her say, before I suggested that he and I needed to talk privately. My mother is in rather poor health herself, and she doesn't need the stress of being jerked around over burying her husband of sixty-four years. I followed him to another office where I confronted him about his request. I pointed out that since the time of the original investment, his company had benefited from having the money for this funeral invested in their revolving annuity fund. Further, I pointed out that, given an average rate of return of perhaps 7%, and the miracle of compounded interest, that investment had to have quadrupled, if not quintupled in value. If I took the present value of the original investment, then added the additional money he was requestng, I'd be buying an $80K funeral. He was unmoved by my appeal to reason, and insisted they couldn't deliver on the contract without more money. Maybe he could find ways to reduce the amount needed, but it would still cost more. Unfazed, I tried a different approach. I let him know that if he didn't deliver the agreed upon goods and services per the contract, I was going to find the meanest land shark in town, and pursue him with the vigour of an angry pit bull going after a child's face smeared with the scent of fear. I think that convinced him of the error of his ways, and he quickly came over to my way of thinking. We were then able to rejoin my mother and conclude our business amicably. But the fact that I had to resort to threats to get him to follow through on their end of the bargain was most distressing. Prick. And the real joy is that I'll probably get to deal with him again when my mother dies, since she holds an identical contract. With the funeral arrangements out of the way, my home became mourning central because I'm the only family member living in the auld hometown. The vultures descended for a week of mourning, consuming and annoying that is unmatched in my experience. Second cousins by marriage, twice removed, traveled from the fartherest corners of the globe to grieve with us. Family members I've only heard of in dusty myth and hoary legend appeared at my doorstep, all wanting free lodging at my humble two bedroom home. Since I had my entire immediate family bivouacked at my house there was no room at this inn. That news did not sit well with several of the visitors, especially my uncle, my father's younger brother. I never did learn what caused it, but those two had a life-long feud. Although their feud dates from before WWII, they last spoke in 1970 upon the event of their father's death and the execution of his will. Personally, I haven't seen this uncle for over forty years because of their feud. Well, he was furious that he couldn't stay at my house. He carried on loudly for a few minutes before I hauled him into the kitchen, away from the rest of the family, and told him to shape up and act right. He sputtered a bit, but within a few minutes, he was able to accept the fact that he needed to shut up and go find a room. So, there was a small cadre of relatives, who unhappily took rooms at a local hostelry. But not being able to stay at my house didn't deter these folks from coming over early (0700) and staying until late evening (2230-2300), ostensibly to share in our grief. What they didn't seem to get was that the immediate family was fine. We'd all anticipated his death for several years. As I said earlier, it was a relief to all when he died. While we got on with our lives, they wailed, cried and carried on as though the deceased had been integral to their daily life for the past fifty years. Always the hungry student of life, I used this opportunity to study how grief affects people. I was fortunate to observe several strange phenomena during these visits from my distant relatives. I discovered that anguish causes wicked thin, ancient aunts to devour four robust meals a day and still have room for snacks, as long as someone else is buying the food, cooking it, serving it and cleaning up after them. I learned that anguish causes relatives who "don't drink" to pass up the $15 scotch for the $50 stuff hidden at the back of the liquor cabinet. I found out that sorrow prevents some adults from being able to do basic things such as emptying their own ashtray, or throwing away their own snotty tissues. I also determined that bereavement doesn't change the old axiom that relatives, like fish, start to stink after three days. It was a damn fine education. After a couple of days, mom decided that she was feeling OK to return home, so I accompanied her back to AZ, spent a couple of days there, then came home. Upon reflection of the past two weeks, I need to talk to my kids about how I want my death to be handled, maybe add my wishes to my will to be on the safe side. Cheers, Jeff Justin ObQuestion: The modern concept of the dysfunctional family makes me wonder - is there such a thing as a functional family? -- I want to die peacefully in my sleep, like my grandad - not awake and screaming, like the passengers in his car.