***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ************* ************* ************* ************* ** *** ** ** *** ** ** *** ** ** *** ** ********* ********* ********* ********* ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ***** ***** ***** ***** SBI-Submarine Pens Proudly Presents: ####========================================================#### THE PURPLE THUNDERBOLT OF SPODE VOL 2, 31 ####========================================================#### "One year and REPLIES TO: HailOtis@socpsy.sci.fau.edu still going strong" * PPPPPP U U RRRRRR PPPPPP SSSSSS *** P P U U R R P P S ***** P P U U R R P P S ******* PPPPPP U U RRRRRR PPPPPP SSSSS ********* P U U R R P S *********** P U U R RR P S ***** P UUUUU R R P SSSSSS ***** ***** ***** ***** * **** * *** *** *** **** * ***** ************************************ **************************************** ************************************ **** ***** ***** *** ***** *** * ***** * ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *********** ********* ******* ***** *** * WRITE TO: IGHF/955 Massachusetts Ave., Suite 209/Cambridge, Ma 02139 ####===================================================================#### INTRO ####===================================================================#### Okay. Let's whack this beast together. I'm running a little late so I'll make this short. Once again thanks for all the submissions especially from the new people. I still can use more though. Or at least have some more people submitting stuff. One of our readers has expressed some unease about Fawna the Otisian Bimbo. Apparently Fawna the Otisian Bimbo needs a new name. So I suppose we're more than open to suggestions. We need a name the will sell the product. Pretend your some poor innocent sap and suddenly before you is the mighty Otisian Kissing both. Before you slap down your money you want to know the name of the Bimbo you'll be kissing. What name would appeal to these saps? It's important after all. As usual the IGHF needs your money. Otis also needs money as well. Winter is rapidly approached. New snow tires are needed for the Chariot of Gods. The Purps Yactch could do with a bottom scrapping and repainting as well. Anyway on with the show. ####===================================================================#### ####===================================================================#### OPTIMA PLAN PART 6 ####===================================================================#### Date: Mon, 14 Oct 91 22:19:33 CDT From: Rev Subject: Oh no here it comes again Optima Plan part 6 by Rev. John ----------------------------------------------------------------- Stewy soared above the grey shifting waters of the Pacific Ocean in her amazing invisible plane with the Converse All-Star symbol on the side. She checked her watch. "Hup, time for DisneyWorld!" She banked the controls and the invisible SOG plane headed towards Cinderella's Palace. She tossed a cigarette out the window and moved in for a landing. Below, DisneyCorp execs were supposedly waiting with a fat check and a tour of the place, led by Gib Ford of Converse. Her Chucks quivered in anticipation. Doc Simpson (possibly an illegitimate relative of Doc Savage) examined the computer screen before him. SamHill had been forwarding some rather interesting data 'liberated' from the files of DisneyCorp. Looking on the screen, he saw that they spelled trouble. "T-R-O-U-B-L-E, that's the password!" cried Simpson joyously as his fingers flew over the keys. The data provided by Sam had led him as far as this back door. Now, he'd found the key. SamHill was worrying him. He'd taken a part time job with Bopping Big Boy Burgers and almost immediately been transferred to the company's headquarters down south for 'managerial training.' Just where down south he refused to say.. But that was for another day. Doc Simpson scanned through page after page of DisneyCorp memos, all discussing the OTISians. It was clear that the forces of OTIS had thrown the fear of SPODE into the DisneyCorp execs, and they were taking harsh measures. Their plan to sterilize the world was here, spelled out to the last detail. But what was this about Stewy? And Gib Ford? And... Doc Simpson hit the OTISian Trouble Alert. In Florida, red flashing lights and sirens began to go off all over Commodore Presley's naval complex. Mal sat up in his bunk, rubbed his eyes and brushed his hair back to permit vision. On the large projection-screen monitor before him the info rattled off from Simpson. Mal blinked and squinted. "Hmm.." he said, and then everything went black. On the deck, Commodore Elvis Presley unconsciously gyrated as he fiddled with dials and switches. His crew members ran back and forth in their spiffy orange jumpsuits, purchased in bulk from Blofeld after James Bond blew up his volcano. Elvis hummed softly. "Hey y'all we need to hit the road, you know?" His crew, harried but devoted, worked even harder. Shortly Elvis' invisible fleet began to move, shuffling stealthily along the Florida coast. Humpy Stumpy climbed out of Mal's pocket. She got nervous when OTIS possessed Mal; being that close to so much magical energy was a little unsettling, though not altogether unpleasant. The plucky little bear made her way along the bunk, as Mal/OTIS got up like a zombie and walked out of the room. Stumpy plopped down on the blanket in the middle of the (to her) immense bed and sent comforting vibes to Fairbourne. Mal/OTIS had work to do and wouldn't need her for a bit. On board the space shuttle, Shark and Fairbourne slipped stealthily amongst the scientific instruments in the cargo bay. The massive killer satellite was one of those here, the one that would punch a mammoth hole in the ozone and allow the sterilization beams to coat the planet. She moved along carefully, examining the equipment. Finally she recognized it. "Meep!" cried Fairbourne, but it was too late. Three burly Optima Plan astronauts rushed over and grappled them. Using her awesome jujitsu moves Shark flipped them all, and they tumbled about crazily in zero-G. Shark began punching buttons on the satellite, hoping to shut it down. Even now the cargo doors were opening, and the huge machine arm that would raise the satellite out of the hold was whirring into place. Lights began to flash on the satellite. The astronauts collected their wits and propelled themselves towards her. Shark was tackled to the floor and struggled with the Optima Plan goons. Above her she saw the satellite propelled into space. "Shit!" she cried, sensing oncoming doom for the human race. Fairbourne squinted his eyes and thought very, very, hard. In one of the deep rooms underneath DisneyWorld, Walt Mickey paced back in forth in his animatronic hell. "Damn OTISians," he squeaked in his forever-perky voice. "Screwing up everything." Star Trek doors whooshed open. Two DisneyCorp execs in powersuits walked in, followed by a hoverpad. On the hoverpad stood Rev, in some sort of stasis field. He appeared absolutely motionless. "Ahh," said Walt Mickey. "Finally some good news. Prepare the Evil Machine!" As the hoverpad moved to the next room, Rev's green hand began to glow... TO BE CONCLUDED ####===================================================================#### SHADES OF BRAZIL ####===================================================================#### RISKS-LIST: RISKS-FORUM Digest Friday 11 October 1991 Volume 12 : Issue 48 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: Fri, 11 Oct 91 09:47:50 pdt From: dbenson@yoda.eecs.wsu.edu (David B. Benson) Subject: Police raid wrong house -- for second time Lewiston Tribune/Friday, October 11, 1991, page 6C Associated Press FEDERAL WAY, Wash. -- King County Police confounded by a typographical error mistakenly descended on the home of Terry and Dean Krussel this week -- for the second time this year. At least this time they didn't break the door down. When the officers from the narcotics unit raided the Krussel home in May, they kicked in the door, ordered Terry Krussel, 57, to get down on the floor and held her at gunpoint while they searched the house. County officials replaced the door at a cost of $2000 and apologized profusely. When the Krussels got a letter from the county prosecutor's office on Sept. 11, addressed to the person officers had sought in the May raid, they worried that their address was still on file as a den of iniquity and dangerous drugs. King County police scrambled to delete their address from the department's computer files, and deputy prosecutor Judith Callahan assured the Krussels in a Sept. 17 letter of the county's good intentions. "Our office is truly concerned that Mr. and Mrs. Krussel not feel that they are victims of county bureaucracy," she wrote. Unfortunately, the Krussels' address remained in the drug dealer's file -- and that's what the officers pursuing the dealer Tuesday night were working from. The officers didn't leave until Dean Krussel showed them Callahan's letter. "This thing just won't go away," he said after the couple's latest run-in with King County's finest. ####===================================================================#### ELVIS LIVES (THEN AGAIN YOU ALREADY KNEW THAT) ####===================================================================#### From: geoff@mdms.moore.com (Geoff Loker) Subject: Re: Weirdest Elvis rumor yet Date: Fri, 4 Oct 1991 15:45:18 GMT This just in. In Ottawa, there is now a laneway called "Elvis Lives Lane". It was named this after extensive lobbying by the "Elvis Sighting Society" which has its world-wide headquarters in Ottawa. Why Ottawa, you ask? Because (and keep this under your hat, since it is a big secret) Elvis is alive and well and living in a small town just south of Ottawa called Tweed. ObUL: Elvis has sat in on a couple of meetings of the Elvis Sighting Society (incognito, of course), and, when he decides to make it public that he still lives, will first do so at one of their meetings. ####===================================================================#### TIN FOIL ####===================================================================#### [One again our alert new Otisian member speaks!] Date: Sun, 13 Oct 91 17:18:39 CDT From: C552270@UMCVMB.missouri.edu Subject: tin foil Mal, The tinfoil helmet is doing the job, but I discovered that I was receiving Alpha-wave transmissions from the frat house across the street. Made me drink a lot of beer for two days, until I installed a magnesium damper with a nichrome wire support matrix. Works great and looks cool too! I put some red LEDs on it for effect. Frightens children well. [stuff deleted] Cool runnings, Dr. Morpheus ####===================================================================#### SOG STORY ####===================================================================#### Date: Sat, 19 Oct 91 11:23:38 CDT From: Stewy Subject: PURPS The invisible SOG plane glided along the powerful waves of air and coasted to the secret Disney Heliport, reserved for the power suits who were flying in from places unknown. Stewy could see the planes lining up for 20 miles, but no radar in the world could detect her plane. Sensing an odd disturbance, she lit another cigarette, rubbed the CHUCKS patch on her jacket and Humpy the Stumpy bear rustled in Mal/OTIS's shirt pocket. "What it is Stewy?" Humpy asked, trying to reposition herself in the pocket. "I dunno Humperooni, but I'm feeling weird. Aw, maybe it's just my anticipation interfering with my SOG powers and all, but do ya 'spose you could like check into a few things?" "Sure, I'll check with everyone and get back to you as soon as I find something out." "WHOOOOA! Whups, damn near hit one of the planes!" Stewy shouted in between puffs of smoke."Cool, beep me when you know something." The SOG plane glided down to a deserted spot near the Heliport and Stewy stepped out of the plane. Humpy rubbed her head with her little paws and began a deep meditation-like stage. In one of the buildings, Gib Ford, Converse President, sat drinking coffee and rubbing his robust stomach. In the inside pocket of his power suit was a check for Stewy and a gift certificate to be used at the Converse Factory Outlet in Florida. Inside of his ear was a clear plastic device that Stewy had not noticed when she approached his table. He was listening to reports from his Secret Team. "Mr. Ford, is that you?" Stewy asked, slightly scared at meeting the man she had swamped with letters during the past few months. "Why yes! And you must be Stewy, our number one Converse fan." "Yes, sir, that's me." Stewy's eyes bulged at the round man in front of her. He handed her the check, gift certificate and other papers and told her to enjoy herself for the afternoon. "We're having a banquet in your honor at 7 p.m., so don't be late. We can't have the guest of honor being late, you know." Mr. Ford stood and shook Stewy's hand before turning to leave. He rubbed his ear as if in pain. "HOLY COW!!! Would ya look at this check! Whuuuu hoooooo!" Stewy ran outside of the building, clicking her heals and jumping into the air. She hit all the main points of Disney within three hours, saving the best for last. She began to notice all the men in power suits parading around the park, but her excitement clouded her mind. When she got off of the Megatron ride three of the men in suits approached her, but she ran as fast as her CHUCKS could carry her. "Run Stewy, run!" Humpy cried to her. The messages from Humpy began to fade as she ran through a door marked "Suits Only!" The hallways were dark, but with her SOG powers, she needed no light. She tried to contact Humpy but got nothing more than static. She could see the outline of a burly man leaning against the wall and in his hands was an automatic weapon. He couldn't see her though, he just sat in the chair and listening to the reports from the Secret Team. Stewy grabbed a steel bar from one of the dusty shelves and pelted the man in the side of his face. Blood oozed from his mouth. "Whups!" Stewy waited for the man to groan and began to unlace one of her shoes. She wrapped it around his neck and began to ask him questions. "Listen pal, this is a secret Tell-Me-The-Truth-SOG-Shoelace, so now you're gonna answer a few questions for me." The man groaned again, drifting in and out of consciousness. "Optima Plan...death..world...Reverend...no time..." The man felt into an unconscious state and Stewy shook him violently. "Whadd'ya mean death, world, reverend, no time?!!!" The man didn't move. "SHIT!" Stewy tried her SOG communication powers again but was still receiving interference. She began to walk the dark hallways and glanced through several cracks in the walls. The banquet room was being set up for her honor that night and she could see a life-size poster of her wearing her CHUCKS being raised to the ceiling. Gib Ford stood in the background ordering the Secret Team around. She continued to walk down the hallway, glancing in various cracks and shuddering and what was happening inside of the rooms. The last crack in the hallway was glowing an odd green. She knew that color and this time she didn't need her SOG powers to tell her something was wrong. Her gut wrenched and she peeked through the crack. The glow was brighter and suspended in the air. Stewy strained her eyes and could see the Rev standing on the platform, the green hand that dangled from his neck was glowing into the dark room. His hands were ziptied behind his back and his feet were tied together with string. "Oh, gosh! Psst. Rev. Psst. Rev" The Rev stood on the platform, waiting for the men in suits to continue their business. He glanced toward Stewy maintaining his silence. "I feel a disturbance!" Stewy's eyes widened and her body froze. The Rev glared at her with sinister eyes. "MAL! MAL! MAL!" Humpy shouted from his shirt pocket. Mal reached inside and pulled Humpy out, cradling her in his hands. "What is it little guy?" "It's Stewy. Our transmission went dead. Something's wrong. Something's terribly wrong! We gotta help her!" ####===================================================================#### THE ARCHBISHOPS ACCEPTANCE SPEECH ####===================================================================#### Date: 16 Oct 91 18:14:00 EDT From: Subject: His Most Esteemed Archbishopric's Acceptance Speech To: "hailotis" What you may have heard from Vic The Slightly Heretical is untrue. as the official pimp and translator to his Archbishoproscity, and (unlike The Vic) being present at the ordainment of our esteemed religious potentate, i will now convey unto the various minions of OTIS (in all of their various states of sobriety and sanity) THE TRUE AND UNBIASED (and probably politically correct) ACCEPTANCE SPEECH OF ARCHBISHOP CHAD THE FORCIBLY ORDAINED! (hail OTIS!) it all began that evening, when Jeophey I (our even more esteemed papalness), saint Zeck and I sat around a table at gund discussing the aesthetic aspects of yak mating rituals. All of a sudden, the table was SWATHED IN A MIGHTY WHITE LIGHT (significant religious passages emphasized for your worshipping pleasure) and A VOICE FROM OTIS ON HIGH (whether legally or not) cried out: "DESPITE WHAT YOU FOOLS DID TO MY CAR LAST NIGHT, I WILL GRANT YOU A CHANCE TO CONTINUE THE GREAT KENYON TRADITION OF RANDOM OTISIAN WORSHIP! I HAVE CHOSEN A BEARDED ONE TO GUIDE YOU!" after the white light left... and after Jeoffee and I recovered from the blinding dazzle of Saint Zeck's beret... We were overcome with the urge to look for the BEARDED ONE. the nearest two bearded ones we could think of were Saint Scott and Saint cHAD, who were upstairs rubbing sticks and fondling balls on a felt table. We vaulted up the stairs, leapt into the game room, and subdued the BEARDED ONES. after some debate, and a healthy amount of coin tossing (we were yakless at the time) we came to the conclusion that the real GUIDE would defy the laws of gravity. immediately cHAD was hefted upon the shoulders of those involved, and, with a hearty "hail SPODE!", launched across the room into the waiting arms of Saint Zeck the Love Bunny. Scott, however, dropped like a rock. When cHAD had recovered from his tossing, he rose up, and in a blaze of bearded glory spoke forth: "ok, ok... hail OTIS. Now will you guys fuck off?" --Saint James of Nothing Yet, Deacon of Cluelessness; pimp and translator to His Eminence Archbishop cHAD ####===================================================================#### LICENSING SOOTHSAYERS AND A CONTEST ENTRY OF SORTS ####===================================================================#### [We haven't heard from this person before and we should have because this is pretty neat stuff.] From: gateh%CONNCOLL.BITNET@YALEVM.YCC.Yale.Edu Date: Tue, 15 Oct 91 17:30:39 EDT Subject: a submission? Don't know if you'd seen this one, it came from the Paranet Digest: --- Forwarded mail from Michael.Corbin@p0.f428.n104.z1.FIDONET.ORG (Michael Corb >From Michael.Corbin@p0.f428.n104.z1.FIDONET.ORG Mon Sep 30 03:45:00 1991 From: kdq@3D.com (Kevin D. Quitt) Date: 25 Sep 91 18:33:43 GMT Organization: 3D systems, inc. Valencia CA Message-ID: <1991Sep25.183343.13839@3D.com> Newsgroups: sci.skeptic,alt.paranormal The Los Angeles Police Commission, in an effort to reduce the fraud perpetrated on the public (to the tune of several million dollars a year in Los Angeles) by crooks using soothsaying as a front, has recommended to the L.A. City Council that the city charge a $450 license fee for soothsayers, so that they can be registered and regulated. The Police Commission report notes that one difficulty in the licensing is that it is not possible to tell "true psychics from fake psychics". --- End of forwarded message from Michael.Corbin@p0.f428.n104.z1.FIDONET.ORG I also am tempted to divulge tidbits and dingleberries of information regarding those Government Warehouses, even though I may be risking all future free and open access to porcelain commodes, but, ah, what the hell, I can always find somewhere else to do my reading, I suppose. What follows should be handled with the utmost security possible, and should only be properly absorbed while firmly clasping a porcelain cleansing utensil, or one of those oversized tootsie rolls, whichever is preferable. It comes from the highest of sources, and if leaked into the wrong hands could potentially bring devastation, destruction, and a general failure to refill vending machines. The simple, ugly truth is that the warehouses are filled with cheap digital watches emblazoned with pictures and hype from professional wrestling. Now, at first glance, it is understandable that the generally stable individual might not see the incredible significance behind this fact, but rest assured, it is the tip of the proverbial Eggo (R) frozen waffle. To elucidate: The Government, who for some time now have realized that the fall of society as we know is inevitable, decided to prepare for that ghastly(?) day. They searched the country, looking for something which would unfailingly unite the people in the midst of such a fracas. They searched with their rem-cons for five days (they started on a Monday, of course) without success, until the morning of the sixth day arrived, and lo, an answer was laid to rest on their ottomans in short notice: Professional Wrestling. Here were individuals capable of convincing entire stadiums that their skulls had been cracked open with a plastic folding chair, who could bring these people to edge of hysteria with a few pseudo-syllables and a ration of spittle. These grand men and women, the Government concluded, could be counted on to fulfill the role of spiritual and moral anchor that would be so desperately needed in our time of crisis. And so began the stock piling... The watches, carefully designed to look exactly like the cheap items used for promotions and produced at great expense in orbiting factories, not only give you the time (and occasionally the correct date, to maintain complete accuracy of the reproduction), but also are capable of receiving communications from those who will be chosen on that fateful day. There it is, the incredible, undeniable, slightly water-logged, truth. I myself refuse to carry a timepiece of any construction at this point (you really can't be too careful, I figure), and I can only warn my fellow readers to consider their own circumstances with regard to this matter. Sincerely, Gregg Gregg TeHennepe | Academic Systems Coordinator | Yes, but this gateh@conncoll.bitnet | Connecticut College, New London, CT | one goes to 11... Of course, I couldn't get Conn College to believe this, so don't attribute any of this to them ;-). ####===================================================================#### PAPAL PONDERINGS #4 ####===================================================================#### Papal Ponderings #4: Pope Jephe I, IGHF, 955 Mass. Ave., Suite 209, Cambridge, MA 02139: This Week the Official Story of the Rise of Archbishop Chad "Something about this religion we've resurrected breeds heresy..." -- Preacher Tim Howland of the House of Blue Light "'Not gangsters, dear, the underworld,' Saunders Harrison Mathews II said."-- Daniel Pinkwater, The Snarkout Boys and the Avocado of Death FIRST A REALLY BORING INTRODUCTION YOU'D BE BETTER OFF SKIPPING: As you are all now well aware, after an official ceremony concocted/ conducted by yours truly several weeks ago, the formerly humble (or at least doing a damn good imitation, probably for tax purposes) St. Chad of Sarcasm added to his religious honors the title of Official Archbishop of Kenyon College and the Greater Gambier, OH, Area. For you netters, Kenyon is a small liberal arts college (conveniently located just a stone's throw from the gates of hell [1] [2]) in central OH. Kenyon is my alma mater, the home of a thriving cabal of dedicated OTISian worshipers, and the birthplace of many of this religion's institutions and traditions (including this magazine). In the four years I attended the school[3], in fact, OTISianism became the college's second most prominent religion, ranking just under atheism and a little above Christianity. OTISian followers attended official papal birthday parties, OTISian libation ceremonies, formal dinners (in the college's beautiful ARA catered dining room), and many other great and glorious activities done in Our God/dess's name to the amusement of the Followers, the bafflement of casual observers and the Perpetual Annoyance of the Kenyon College Christian Fellowship. With my graduation from the school only a few months ago, it became necessary to find a new leader for Kenyon's great and growing flock. Netters and Kenyonites alike, you are now on equal footing. What none of you have heard, however, is the Official Story. St. James of Nothing in Particular graciously provided us all with an official announcement of the event and the Wombatish One kindly transcribed the Archbishop's acceptance speech [4]. But the Full and Official Story is still waiting to be told. I have taken the liberty of assuming, then, that someone would like me to tell it.... AND NOW, THE OFFICIAL STORY OF THE RISE OF ST. CHAD TO THE POSITION OF ARCHBISHOP: "Jeffe", said St. James of Nothing in Particular (newly declared), sitting in the Gund dorm lounge amongst the empty beer bottles and other refuse of a particularly nasty Bar Trek [7] drinking party, "we'll be needing someone to lead here when you're gone. Have you thought about that?" No. Sooo... The first plan was to find an unsuspecting frosh, descend, in full regalia, on his person at some obnoxious hour of the morning, drag him unwillingly through the rites of ascension, declare him Archbishop of Kenyon, take lots of pictures of his baffled expression, and prop him up in an appropriate corner at all formal OTISian functions, bowing at his feet when the ceremony required. It was a good idea. But it was not a terribly practical idea. The newly declared Archbishop could decide not to cooperate, not to show up at formal functions, forcing us to find another, and another, and another. At the time my head spun thinking this through. "Really", said St. James, swaying a little, unless it was me who was swaying, or the room... "What we should do (errrp, excuse me) is to elect...." He paused for effect, and when Chad's (who was selflessly finishing off the rest of the beer now that the party was dispersing) back was turned pointed at it. "He wants to be OTISian spiritual leader for the Kenyon Community?" I asked skeptically. Chad shook his head. "Nope. Hehe-- excuse me. He'll probably-- hehe-- hunt you down and kill you for it. He-- hehe-- he's P E R F E C T." He said the last just like I've written it, drawing it out for effect, and collapsing into helpless sniggers at the end. "I don't know." I admitted. Chad was, after all, a lot bigger than I am (I not being all that terribly big in the first place), and although he had shown no past propensity towards violence, well; I'm a Pope, not a martyr. But the idea was... tempting... "So," said a voice in my ear "what are you discussing?" "Whether I'm going to be flattened to a pulp by an unwilling member of my clergy." "We're making... him" St. James pointed "the Archbishop." "The wall?" asked Reverend Rhob, Screaming Prophet of OTIS Triumphant, and founder of the most popular OTISian heresy to date, innocently raising his eyebrows. "Ooops," said James "him." "The television set." "No... ummm... him", the Saint tried again, after steadying himself slightly. "We're not a wrecked as you drunk we am, I think." I volunteered. "You don't say," said Rhob. "I think Chad would make an excellent Archbishop. Tonight?" "Naw. Next year." "In that case, come away with me to the Cove? [8]" When I stepped over Chad as we left (who, if he wasn't asleep, was doing a remarkable imitation), Rhob looked at him, and then at me and said, "I don't think he knows what you've gotten him into." "I don't think we know what we've gotten him into." I said. It was my last coherent sentence of the night. "Don't," suggested James the next morning at breakfast "make so much noise." "Sorry." "Good Morning!" "Good Morning, Elieen" I said, "You sound bushy-tailed today, and your clothes are so... loud." James covered his ears and kept his head to the table. "Ah." said Elieen, who says she is in training for the 'Mothering' event in the 1992 Olympics, "I see we were baaad boys last night at Bar Trek." "She was there," murmured James, "Wasn't she there?" "Yes.", said Elieen, "but I drank Coke, so I'm bright and chipper!" "Chipper," I concurred, massaging my temples. "Look Jeff", said Elieen, pushing a group of papers into my peripheral, "Do you know hat this is? ... Completed history paper! I'm so happy! Happy! Well, off to get cereal." "Not rice crispies", moaned James. "So," I said, when Elieen got back "Chad for Archbishop, yes or no?" "Does he want to be Archbishop?" "No." "Yes, then. Hehe. I can be so nasty sometimes." "Morning all." "Morning, Wombat." "Morning, Wombat." "Bad night for the Pope?" "Yes, Wombat, bad night." "Sorry. Where's Chad?" "I tried to wake him." said James, "He said something about justifiable homicide and rolled over." "I see," said Wombat, "Well, you wouldn't want to force an issue like that." She pursed her lips and shook her head. "He'll probably be along eventually." "Yep", I said, "Which reminds me, "Chad for Archbishop, yes or no?" Wombat gave a short laugh with her head back. "Chad? Perfect. Does he know?" "No," said James, "and don't tell." "Me?" the Wombat rolled her eyes, "Certainly not. Far sillier that way." "Afternoon." "Hello, Rhob." "Hi, Rhob!" "Rhob! My GOD man! It's been... hours!" I said. "Closer on minutes. Don't squeeze so hard. What's the conversation." "Who should be the new Archbishop." "You mean it's not going to be Ch---" "Hum dum de-o-hum dum!" I said "Hello, Chad? Bright and chipper this morning?" "Guramph." "You're his roommate", Rhob said to James, "pray tell, what did that mean?" "Chad says hello to you all too, thanks you for your cheery smiles and wants you all to know how happy his is to see you." "Harumg." I looked at James quizzically. "He's just off for some coffee, back in a moment." "I always feel so, awake, when he arrives," said Elieen. "Alright," said James to me, "the moment of truth has come. Will Chad Hessuon, now only a Saint, achieve Archbishophood, or won't he?" "Well," I said, "Saints Simpson and Analisa are all for it, the Grinnin' Foole gave his approval over the internet this morning. I believe his exact words were; 'Who the fuck is Chad Hessoun?" Saints Kurella and Tofer are so enthusiastic they offered to tie him down for the ceremony. C Squared thinks it's just dandy. According to Mr. Hamrick, the ministers of the Brown Bucket will honor my decision..." "Cut to the chase" suggested James. "That leaves only St. Zecchin of small Lizards and Furry Marshmellows, I suppose." "Is there anyone in this religion who isn't a Saint?" asked Elieen. "Only the janitor." said Rhob. "Ah." said Elieen. "Actually," I said, "he's Saint of Dirt, but we have a couple of titleless receptionists." "It's easier than paying people." explained James. "Well," said Wombat, "go ask him, by all means." "Chad?" "No Zecchin. Chad's obviously been kidnapped by aliens." "Actually," said Rhob, craning his neck, "I think he's talking to Carl." "So," said James, "Why not get Zecchin now?" "Why," I said, he'll be along shortly". "Hello, all." said Zecchin entering the room. "Hello, Zecchin." "Stop playing with my reality, as Mr. Hamrick says" said James to me. "Has he ever been at breakfast before?" asked Elieen. "Zecchin", said Wombat "Chad for archbishop. Say yes." "Yes." said Zecchin. "Excellent," I said, now here's how we'll do it...." "Did I miss anything?" Asked Chad several moments later. Nunc Scrpisi Pro OTISio, Da Mihi Potum-- PJI NEXT TIME: AN EXCITING CONCLUSION BECAUSE THIS IS TOO LONG ALREADY! Notes By "Bill", an Unfortunate House Scribe 1. According to several notable physics on the Phil Donahue Show. 2. Assuming throwing rocks at hell is your idea of a good time. 3. The Pope graduated cum laude and with honors in English in 1991, but says this is none of your business. 4. See previous issues of this publication. 5. Translation "Beware the dragon that lurks in the hidden lands of Ghonerreah, eating the unwary scholar and munching on the bones of virgins." 6. '5.' was not a real note. I just wanted to see if you were with me. 7. A drinking game done to Start Trek; the Next Generation 8. A drinking establishment. ####===================================================================#### MUTTERINGS OF THE ORACLE ####===================================================================#### Date: 7 Oct 91 21:22:00 EDT From: "MICHAEL S DOW" Subject: Put it in. From: VAX001::TUCKER "RCT" 7-OCT-1991 16:26:03.53 From: VAX001::WINS%"" Subj: a particularly funny oracle session. Date: Mon, 07 Oct 91 15:57:08 EDT From: Telkner Subject: a particularly funny oracle session. The Usenet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was: > O mighty Oracle, endowed with the wisdom of the Universe and one > _really_ nasty babe for a main squeeze, > > Why do people think legalizing drugs is The Answer? I thought The > Answer was 42. And in response, thus spake the Oracle: } The great and mighty Oracle has deigned to give you an answer to this } question. You should offer thanks. } } Throughout time immemorial, it has been asked: What is the purpose of } human existence? } } At first this was easy. The answer was food } } You see, back in the Paleozoooliphic, the answer to everything was } either food or rock. } } What do you want? "Food" Where do you live? "Rock" Look, that guy is } making off with your stuff, what will you do? "Rock make him food!" } } As you can see, conversation wasn't too stimulating, and philosophers } were stuck with saying things like "rock is rock" and "food is not } rock" Luckily rock candy had not been invented yet. } } Many years passed, vocab increased, and finally the ancient greeks got } back around to the question. Socrates explained how the question had no } meaning. He of course was wrong, but he was such a great pain in the } ass that people agreed with him to shut him up. Finally, they slipped } some hemlock in his tea, and that was that. } } Later, once the vocabulary had gotten all settled, the } Romans came up with another answer, one which many of us would agree } with today. This, of course was sex. It was later found, however, that } sex could not be the answer. Sex was the question. Yes was the answer. } } This whole issue got more confused around the time of Jesus. You see, } Jesus was convinced that Love was the answer. By this, he did not mean } what most people think of as love, because then he could have just } said that sex is the answer. That would lead to the problem above, } Now, Love might be a possible alternative to sex, but the Romans } were so upset by the idea that sex wasn't it, that they nailed Jesus } to a couple of planks. } } The Roman empire fell to the barbarians, and it was back to food for } most of the dark ages. } } When the Renaissance finally hit, the answer was Painting. Later on } they decided that that was just too silly, and changed it to } Enlightenment. } This worked fine for the aristocracy, but, at least in France, the } peasants revolted, and settled firmly on food again. } } Not too much after this, drugs spread out through western culture. } Some people at this time suggested that drugs were the answer, but } Opium isn't really powerful enough to blot out all other questions, so } it was quietly shelved for a later date. } } At one point this century, the proposal "Coke is it" was widely } spread, but if Coke was it, what was New Coke? It flat and too sweet? } No, that idea was also disregarded. } } In the '60s, everything disregarded came back with a vengeance (except } painting, it was still too silly) "Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll." } The Republicans hated this (They thought the answer was Money), and } they conspired to break the idea at its weak point; Drugs. So went the } revisionists (who ignored the fact that George Washington grew } Marijuana), and they outlawed drugs. Outlawing sex would have been } nice for them, but even they realized that Republicans, at least, had } to reproduce. } } In 197something, Douglas Adams decided that the answer to Life, the } Universe and Everything was 42. Being irrational, it made it difficult } to refute, and so was popular among young Democrats (Who had lost so } many brain cells due to drugs that they were equally irrational), and } science fiction fans (who were so weird that they could just accept } it). } } You now see where your question fits in. Some people think that the } solution is to legalize Drugs, and some think that the answer is 42. } Others think it is sex, a few still believe in Coke, and food is a } perennial favorite. Of course the true answer is there, and has been } for a while... } } The answer is.... } } Painting. Of course. } } You owe the Oracle a Velvet Elvis. ####===================================================================#### NEWS OF THE WEIRD ####===================================================================#### [Well this is NOTW, but it's not from Steph the NOTW woman herself. Alas she is still offline but we hope some day she'll be back among the living as it were. If not, we can at least keep her memory alive by continuing the tradition she set for Purps.] From: "Reverend John" Subject: NOTW From the Memphis Flyer, the News Of The Weird by Chuck Shepherd FOR SERVICES RENDERED * In July, an Illinois appeals court ruled that attorney Albert B. Friedman could not collect the entire amount he billed a female client for handling her divorce because some of the time he billed her for was for the two of them to have sex. Friedman was also notified recently by the Illinois Supreme Court that he had been appointed to the court's Committee on Character and Fitness. POLICE BLOTTER * Nancy Ann Estevez, 56, former bookkeeper for the Kansas City March of Dimes Birth Defects Foundation, admitted in court in February that she had stolen nearly $80,000 from the foundation in order to pay back money she had stolen in 1985 from a country club. She did herself in when she wrote one check directly from the foundation to the district court's restitution fund. * Police in West Yarmouth, Mass., arrested four suspects at the Windrift Vacation Resort loading tv sets they had stolen from the hotel into a taxicab that they were using to make their getaway. * According to the police log of the Wisconsin Muskego Sun, Rhonda L. Stipe, 22, was injured in April when, driving down the road, she "ran into a 19-ton pile of gravel." * Seattle police arrested a man in April for defrauding a cab driver out of a combined $27.50 fare, incurred for taking him to several stores in order to find one that would cash two non-negotiable checks clearly marked "void" and "sample." * Jason Ray William was sentenced to 90 days in jail in Houston for pleading guilty to shoplifting a $150 ferret from a pet store by putting the animal down his pants and trying to walk out. The arresting officer said he remembered frisking William just a few weeks previous after a report of a suspicious person and had found a 4-foot python wrapped around William's leg. * Baylor University freshman Kyle Krebs was ticketed by campus police in April for breaking wind in violation of the campus ordinance prohibiting obnoxious odors (designed for things such as smoke bombs). Krebs said he wasn't directing his act at the officers: "They were so far away, and cars were driving by. I never thought the decibel level would be so high he would hear it." The ticket was eventually dismissed. ####===================================================================#### POLITICAL EXPEDIENCY ####===================================================================#### Date: 16 Oct 91 11:43:00 EDT From: From: VAX001::WINS%"vhill@math15.gatech.edu" 16-OCT-1991 09:09:24.11 Subj: Political Expediency Georgia Tech has a legally established policy of giving no honorary degrees (not a bad idea, in my view). This led, however, to some embarrassment with regard to Georgia native Jimmy Carter, who attended G.T. for one year before he went to the Naval Academy, from which he was graduated. The G.T. Faculty Senate, and subsequently the Regents, passed legislation that now allows an honorary degree to be given "only to a person who has attended Georgia Tech and who has attained the office of President of the United States." How's that for expediency? ####===================================================================#### AN EPISTLE FROM POPE JEPHE I: ####===================================================================#### pji@well.sf.ca.us "I shall return"-- Anonymous "By hook or by crook we will"-- Number 2 "They're baaaaaaack"-- Poltergeist 2 First of all, let me tell you that it took a little doing. If you students out there appreciate nothing else in your college existence, appreciate your free (at least almost) internet access. Let me tell you, the second you step through those ivy covered gates and into the real world, nifty toys like the net become almost impossible to procure access to. You won't miss the food (though you will miss having it prepared; trust me, there are only so many things one can do with peanut butter), and you won't miss the cramped dorm rooms, but you'll miss the company, you'll miss the parents paying the bills, and you'll miss the internet. [1] At any rate, know first of all that the Pope is back on the 'lectronic fringe and... WANTS MAIL. ANY sort of mail will do, BUT PARTICULARLY STRANGE, BIZARRE, SILLY, OTISian MAIL, which he will happily collect and do strange, bizarre, silly OTISian things with. That's all you need to know for now; let's just say that we OTISians keep archives. In addition, he would also like TO HEAR FROM ALL OF HIS FORMER PEERS AT KENYON. HEY YOU: WOULD IT KILL YOU TO WRITE? So, in case you missed it at the top of this letter, here, again, is the Pope's new address: Send Weird Mail to PJI@WELL.SF.CA.US OR STEVENSJ@VAX001.KENYON.EDU Secondly, now that I'm home again, I figure I might as well make myself useful. This means that if I get enough bites in response to this note, I will begin either a: an internet mailing list of bizarre/fringee stuff, or b: an BRAND NEW, NEVER BEFORE SEEN, REVISED FORMULA, GENUINE, 100% NATURAL, NO MONEY BACK GUARANTEE, OTISIAN MAGAZINE (a la the one you are reading now), tentatively titled: THE ROLLING HEAD OF OTIS! Mind you, that's very tentative. It becomes more tentative, in fact, each time that I read it and wonder what I was thinking at the time. WHAT WOULD THE NEW MAGAZINE BE LIKE: Well, probably a lot like old, or "classic" Purps (issues 1- 20ish), back in the days when I was still editing it. Mind you, I would aim to cover ground not yet covered by Mal, so I could sneakily wean away his best clients... err allow loyal Purpsians to be entertained by both publications. For those of you (a great number) who joined Purps more recently, generally Classic Purps was a bit shorter, a little more ruthless about borrowing from a great number of sources, a little bit longer on letters, rants and news, and shorter on serial fiction, and a lot more full of my stuff because at that point the audience was a little bit more lazy. That's all there is to it really. Anyone who might be at all interested in either the Rolling Head or a Papal mailing list, please contact me at: stevensj@vax001.kenyon.edu or PJI@well.sf.ca.us, and I'll try to get the ball rolling. Lastly, I'd really appreciate it if someone (VICTORIA!, HOW NICE OF YOU TO OFFER! hehehehehe) would mail this letter off to ex-Purps subscribers who stopped reading it when I left, or at least help me remember who all of these folks are. As you know, all converts are GOLDEN to OTIS, and I'd hate to have a few slip though the cracks over stylistic differences-- HAIL OTIS! PJI [1]PS: My other project now that I'm back, is an attempt to produce a USEFUL "How to get on the Internet" post graduation guide. I'm familiar with the WELL, and the glory that is gnome.eskimo.alaska, but am trying in vain, so far, to locate other cheap sources of net access for non-students. Anyone with information on the topic could PLEASE e-mail me at PJI@WELL.SF.CA.US ####===================================================================#### THEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEEND ####===================================================================####