***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ************* ************* ************* ************* ** *** ** ** *** ** ** *** ** ** *** ** ********* ********* ********* ********* ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ***** ***** ***** ***** SBI-Submarine Pens Proudly Presents: ####========================================================#### THE PURPLE THUNDERBOLT OF SPODE VOL 2, 42 ####========================================================#### "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 ####===================================================================#### Welcome to yet another issue of Purps, I hope which is more or less on time, or close enough to meet with most folks satisfaction. As you see I'm trying to turn over a new leaf here and have Purps come out on time. I must say this issue was a bit tough to scrape together, but it got done. I only had one real submission this time around and it was a pretty good one. Hand written(well typed) and everything. So this issue special thanks goes to GARBETT@utkvx.utk.edu. I've been threatening this for some time. So this time around I finally did it. I broke out an old serial I used to do on the computer back around 87 or 88. There are 24 episodes written for it so far. That should help fill up a few issues. It's called ART or _A Religous Tale_ and was orginally written as sort of a counter story to a story Rua sent me. Then she twisted my arm and forced me to write more. Lord knows where Rua is these days. Maybe she'll see this some day floating around on the net. It's all her fault it got created and I suppose it's all your fault for not submitting enough material that I ended up having to inflict this on you. Also in this issue amazingly enough we have another installment of the Messenger of the Gods. (Yeah I wrote an awful lot of this issue.) I also received some word from the Pope, hence the advertisement at the end. The latest news is he bought a bloody damn fast modem and should be on the internet very soon now. Hopefully, we can hear more from him. If you have any interest at all in rubbing elbows with the marginals, the Yellow Pages may be a good way to start. Hey, look where it got me. Chained to a computer doing the work of Otis. One last detail. As of late I've been receiving threats of grievous bodily harm if we do not change the name of Fawna the Otisian Bimbo to something less Fawnish. Please send your ideas into the HailOtis address as soon as possible. Maybe we can make it a contest or something. This is sort of an emergency. I may get my face ripped off soon becuase of this name. It's not my fault. Fawna came along all by herself. I had nothing to do with her. We were just discussing the Toilet Mysteries around the campfire one night and there she was. Anwyay come up with something creative. For example: How about Bunny? Bunny rhymes with money so we can use it in IGHF songs. "Send us money/ you'll meet Bunny/ By Otis she's a honey". This is an important event all of you probably have forgotten. (And by gum Otis knows and is keeping track of your omission.) On August 9th, 1991 the divine child was born to Shark. Gifts should be showered on her at this time and each of you should take the oportunity to praise Otis for this event. The coming of the Divine Child was written in the stars and recorded on the artifacts found in the Gobi desert which I dare not name. Enough yammering at you. On with the show. ####===================================================================#### NO-BRAINER ####===================================================================#### [From Ann Landers 8/9/92 ] Dear Ann: You've featured several letters over the years that have testified to the ignorance of Americans, not only in matters relating to foreign culture but their own, as well. I believe the following story drives the point home perfectly. On a recent 'Wheel of Fortune," the clue left after the puzzle was solved was "American University and Paris Cathedral." The first contestant guessed, "Harvard." The second contestant said, "Yale." The third contestant gave the astonishing no-brainer "Washington, D.C." When the correct answer, which, of course, was Notre Dame, was revealed, one of the contestants piped up half apologetically, "How would I know THAT? I'm from Indiana." Just sign me- Still Shaking My Head in New Jersey. ####===================================================================#### ART CHAPTER ONE ####===================================================================#### [For Rua wherever the heck she is.] On the morning of the third day in the month of the smiling squid, it came to pass that a plain and simple maker of wire sculpture was having brunch on his veranda when the sky was filled with a strange unearthly light and the air smelled of wildebeests. And down from the glowing heavens descended a messenger from on high smoking his pipe and ruffling a tangled knot of forms. As the sensible shoe clad feet touched the carved ivory of the veranda the messenger raised a bull horn to his lips and spoke in a voice that shook the mountains. "Well, well, what do we have here? Perchance a foolish mortal whose been wasting his life bilking the public by selling them little bits of twisted wire he calls art? Well it's time you straightened up your act and girded up your loins because we've got a job for you." "Who me?" asked the simple, but rich artist choking on his grapefruit juice. "YES YOU!" yelled the divine messenger into his bull horn that squealed with feedback. "Why me?" whimpered the artist trying to wedge his fat body under his breakfast cart. "Because it'll make a swell story," and with these words the messenger explained exactly what task the fat, rich, and scared artist had to perform. *********************** We join our hero the next day as he set out on his quest. Dressed from head to toe in the finest adventuring clothes he could find at the local Banana Republic Outlet. On his back was an alice pack bulging with stuff he decided he might need such as clean linen and spray disinfectant he might need to use on any gas station restrooms he was forced to use. In one hand he clutched his tool box and in the other a roll of wire. He shook slightly in anticipation of his great quest, wishing that he had been smart enough to have stayed poor. "How come the gods don't pick on the poor people?" he wondered out loud. "Because rich people can afford to go on adventures!" said the divine messenger stepping out from behind a rose bush. The artist, whose name was Fredric Wilberforce, leaped back in fear, falling over and denting his tool box on a rock. The divine messenger went over and picked up Fredric and then began to unpack his backpack, tossing most of its contents into the bushes, occasionally pocketing this or that item for later perusal. "Now see here Mr. Wilberforce, this is a holy quest. We can't have you having fun now. And I'm sure these dirty magazines are not doing your eternal soul any good. After all, the big guy is watching you closer than Santa does." Finally unpacking everything in the backpack, he threw that into the bushes and handed Fred a Scooby Doo lunch box. "Carry your possessions in here and nowhere else." "But," protested the fat artist. "SHUT UP AND DO IT. YOU ARE SPOILING THE STORY!" *********************** We once again join our hero several hours later just entering the tavern filled with angry Hell's Angels playing darts and a bit of Ping-Pong. Fred waddled up to the counter and began to speak to the innkeeper. "Excuse me, could I have a room for the night? See I'm on a quest and need to sleep." "A quest?" asked the innkeeper suspiciously. "Yes, see, I have to carry all my possession in this lunch pail," said Fred placing his lunch box on the bar. Several of the Hell's Angels who'd been listening in started to laugh and ambled over carrying pool cues and wiffle bats. "So you're on a quest aye?" asked a large foul smelling brute. "Why yes." "Well, what's you're quest then, mate?" "I can't tell you, it's a secret." "Well, what if we make you tell us, mate?" This is a holy quest. You're not supposed to mess with me. It's a sin." The bikers roared in laughter at this and begin to drag poor Fred outside. "We'll show you what's a sin," they told him with evil grins on their faces. Fred rolled his eyes in fear and looked around for help but none was in sight. This looked to be the end for our hero. ####===================================================================#### Craziness in Idaho ####===================================================================#### Date: Mon, 3 Aug 92 13:23:51 MDT From: eiverson@NMSU.Edu Subject: [mike_p@cheshire.oxy.edu: Craziness in Idaho] From: mike_p@cheshire.oxy.edu (Michael John Petterson) Subject: Craziness in Idaho Date: 31 Jul 92 23:38:00 GMT From: Dan Lester Subject: Friday afternoon and 103 degrees Libraries get the darndest things....particularly the poor Circulation Desk folks who tend to be in charge in off hours and slow times. About an hour ago, with a clear sky and 103 degrees outside, the folks at the circulation desk were faced with a patron who was quite agitated... not about an overdue book, but "What were we going to do about the naked man out there in the fountain?" Of course all adjourned to the front door to observe a man of about 35 frolicking in the fountain, completely naked. He danced around. He splashed in the water, which is about a foot deep. He "swam". Between gawks and giggles, the sheriff was called (Ada County Sheriff has a branch on campus, and is contracted to serve as campus security, though we are otherwise in city limits). The officers arrived. The man would not leave the fountain, subject himself to the demands of the officers, or dress himself with his t-shirt or jeans, which were floating in the fountain. At one point he jumped out and tried to run away, still sans clothing, but was pursued by the three officers who had arrived by then, so circled back into the fountain and stood in the middle of the water sprays and bent some of the pipes to aim the water towards the officers. Meanwhile a couple of patrons came in and used the public campus-only phone in the lobby and called security again to complain that the officers weren't "doing anything about the pervert in the fountain". Physical plant then arrived to shut off the water pumping mechanism. After another five minutes one of the officers waded into the fountain, in full uniform and shoes and told the fellow to come with him out of the fountain. The man refused and was maced and subsequently handcuffed. The officers put his pants back on him and took him away; he finally decided to walk instead of being carried or dragged after being threatened with the mace again. We are sure he will be charged with resisting arrest, damaging public property, and indecent exposure...and who knows what else. It didn't happen inside the library, but is just another day in the life of the circ desk. It also provided some much-needed entertainment on a hot and slow Friday afternoon. dan....in baked potatoland ####===================================================================#### CHEAP EATS ####===================================================================#### Date: Mon, 3 Aug 92 14:54:38 MDT From: eiverson@NMSU.Edu Subject: [eiverson@nmsu.edu: Re: CHEAP EATS (WAS Proposed new thread)] Mr. Eric's infamous Tofu Casserole 1 Pkg tofu 2 cans chinese veggies 1 can tomato soup 1/2 tomato soup can of water 1 cup of rice soy sauce Mash tofu with a potato masher until it is the consistency of cottage cheese. Nuke the hell out of it for 7 minutes or so. Mash it some more just to make sure it's dead. Prepare 1 cup of rice in the manner of your choice (I use the microwave.) Stir all the ingredients together and add soy sauce to taste. Make sure you recycle the cans! Nuke for 5 minutes to heat up the veggies. Scoop large gobs into a bowl and sit in front of CNN or MacNeil Lehrer (check local listings) Bon apetit! This is my own creation, although it owes its existence to that ungodly concoction "hamburger chow mein." I find it to be a very palatable way to hide tofu. ####===================================================================#### Baked Bullet Brisket ####===================================================================#### Date: Mon, 3 Aug 92 16:48:11 MDT From: eiverson@NMSU.Edu () Subject: [sfields%NMSU.Edu: recipe] Date: Mon, 3 Aug 92 16:00:27 MDT From: sfields%NMSU.Edu To: eiverson%nmsu.edu Subject: recipe Cc: this is one I received from My Bosnian Pen-Pal (via UN Postal Services): Baked Bullet Brisket 2 buckets of grass, wild or domestic 2 cups assorted bullets or empty cartridges 3 small wild kittens or orphans 1 cup dirt Unless you have electrical power, in which case you can use the oven, put everything in a large Mason jar and agitate for several minutes. Then, the next time your neighbor's house gets hit with mortar fire, just sneak over and poke it into some of the embers. It is done before the jar explodes. ####===================================================================#### MESSENGER OF THE GODS ####===================================================================#### "But aren't we getting married ma?" asked Vasoline. "We can do that later," said Gasoline licking her lips. Her face seemed to get all puffed up and red with animal lust. She grabbed at Elvis' hand but he dodged. Vasoline made a flying football tackle and dragged Elvis to the ground. His guitar thudded into the floor boards making a very unmusical bang. Both were on him now ripping away at his clothes. From out of thin air where the hole into the other dimension was, came a paper airplane. It sailed lazily along. One of our captors swatted at it. Another fired his shotgun at it. Most of us dropped to the floor in surprise. Everything was quiet for a moment except for the two inbred girls groping away at Elvis who was making retching noises. The airplane with a few buckshot holes had landed right in front to of me. I reached for it only to have my hand stamped on by the mother who glared down at me with her evil eyes. She picked up the paper and scrutinized it, pulling out a pair of tinny glasses with blue lenses. We got to our feet as she read the words, moving her lips. "It is from Mabuto," muttered the Man in Black next to me. He apparently could read lips. There was no end of amazing things this guy could do. Maybe they should write a comic about him. "What's it say?" I hissed back. "Quiet!" shouted one of our captors, poking me in the back hard enough to bruise. "What is this!" asked the mother coming over to stand in front of me. She peered at me through her blue glasses. I could smell her bad teeth. "Um..." I began, glancing over at Elvis. Most of his clothes were stripped off by now. The girls were madly licking him. "It's a sign that you're not to mess with Elvis," I explained, hoping I could save the King of Rock and Roll from drowning in inbred saliva. There was a puddle of the stuff forming around the three. "But we must have his love children!" said the woman breathing so hard her glasses steamed up. I suspected she wanted a go at the fellow herself. Come to think of it most of our our captors probably would want a try as well. "They're getting drool and slobber all over my valentine!" yelled Otis, storming around in front of the big screen where they were watching the events of the story unfold. "It's probably water proof," muttered Spode deeply engrossed in a paper from Hong Kong. "I'm going to do something," said Otis, rolling up her sleeves. "It's my magazine," pointed out Spode, circling something in the paper with a red pen. "Well, it's my valentine!" and with those words Otis disappeared in a cloud of Paisley colored smoke. With a roar of thunder and a mighty crash that split open the roof Otis suddenly appeared out of thin air. He was on his feet and looked very poised, so I assumed he didn't fall through the hole in the dimension. I quickly averted my eyes and groped for some sun glasses, only to discover they'd been broken. Otis looked very mad. Her eyes were lit up like blow torches and lightning cracked all around him. The Man in Black leaped back a few paces and put his back to the wall. From out of his pocket he pulled a Tibetan prayer wheel and began to chant in a strange droning way like you hear Tibetan monks do. Everyone else in the room stopped except for the three on the floor. "STOP THIS AT ONCE!" roared Otis. Stamping his foot and causing most of the roof to cave in. Mysteriously enough only our captors were hit by falling lumber. I could see up into the sky. It was night and full of little planets with rings. We certainly weren't on earth or at least the earth we were from. The Man in Black has been right. Vasoline and Gasoline still continued their mad sexual frenzy with Elvis who was now just moaning incoherently. "SEPARATE THEM!" ordered Otis. "With what?" I asked in a small voice. I'd rather face the wrath of Otis than go wading through the pool of saliva and lord knows what other juices that were pooled around the three on the floor. Behind me the Man in Black continued to chant. "WITH THAT!" said Otis pointing a very shapely arm at a fire hose that had mysteriously appeared on the wall. I took it down, marveling at the gold nozzle and the snake skin hose. I motioned for the Man in Black to help me, but he ignored me lost deep in his chant, his prayer wheel whirling madly. I sighed and turned on the water, hosing down the three. I'd never done this before but after a few moments I got the hang of it and using the jet of water separated the three. I blasted the two sisters out through the door into the other room leaving poor Elvis lying naked on the floor, his body covered with love bites and scratches dripping with saliva that would not wash away. ####===================================================================#### MORE GLOSSARY ####===================================================================#### Campaign for the Prevention of Inherited Flatulence: One of the organizations Purps has made small (and entirely tax free) contributions to. Dentist office Reading: A coveted market for publications in which purps has attained a niche. Gates, Daryl F.: Renowned for his liberal drug enforcement policies. Hallucinogenetics: Something which needs inventing. International Yak Liberation Front: One of the early Purps arch foes. Now safely in the custody of the Tibetan Authorities. Sister Mary Truman: Legendary leader of the neo-Jesuit Apocalyptic Nuns. Knife fighter and former presidential candidate. Also involved in the infamous yak tossing scandal. Spode, The Game: A divine Otisian sacrament. ####===================================================================#### WRESTLING ####===================================================================#### Date: Thu, 6 Aug 1992 16:02 EST From: GARBETT@utkvx.utk.edu "Welcome to the World Wrestling Federation and 92 Campaign Playoffs! Tonight's contestants for the title of world champion include: Bouncing Baby Bill, The Gipper, Mad Dog Gore, Wild Man Bush, and last but least Clueless Quayle. Let's go for a quick interview with Baby Bill." Camera pans out to the ring. Looks like a near riot has broke out. Baby Bill in his giant diaper seems to be taking several blows from a crazed man swinging a chair. Wild Man Bush and The Gipper are running around the ring stirring up the crowd, jeering at Baby Bill and relishing in the screams. Several big referees pull the crazed man off of Baby Bill and he looks dazed. Commercial Break "Bill that was quite a beating you were taking, even before the championship rounds started. What happened out there?" "Well I was trying to make my big intro and Junkyard Brown ran out out the crowd, obviously pissed about the match we had last week. I was too shocked to be able to fight back, because I thought he was on my side. But HEAR ME OUT, I'M MAD AS HELL AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE. YOU CAN BRING ON ANYONE INCLUDING MAD JUNKYARD BROWN AND I SHOW THEM ALL WHOS BOSS--THERE'S GOING TO BE A CHANGE THIS YEAR AND I'M GOING TO GET THAT TITLE IF I HAVE TO RIP SOMEONE'S TEETH OUT!" "My, Bill you definitely have a shot at the title with that attitude. What about the accusations of that wild party with that girl Flowers?" Bill knocks the announcer over with a head butt and begins stomping on his head. Commercial Break A bedraggled announcer with a black eye is standing next to Wild Man Bush. "Champion Bush, How does it feel to be back in the ring after last years win and living the life of a winner?" "Oh, It wasn't all easy. I went on a Central American and Middle Eastern Tour, and fought a great match against Saddam Insane. He's still jeering for a rematch although I showed him who's World Champion." "Champion Bush, What about the low attendance this year? The fans are blaming you for it, because you forced management to give your team a fat raise, raising admission prices and ..." "SHUT UP! I wouldn't call it my fault. It's a necessary downturn in attendance. These things just happen, more people are arriving by the minute, and more will be here soon." Camera flashes to an empty lobby. "NOW SEE HERE, TRUST ME, I'M THE ONLY QUALIFIED CHAMPION! NO ONE ELSE KNOWS THE MOVES LIKE I DO!" Clueless Quayle wanders up and bumps into Wild Man Bush, they both turn to face Quayle. "We win big. Our team good. Me beat opponent. Right Boss?" Quayle says in a husky voice. "Clueless Quayle is still a little slow after the head injury he took in his first match of his life." "I THINK HE'S FULLY QUALIFIED AND YOU'RE JUST PART OF THE OTHER SIDE'S CONSPIRACY AGAINST ME, BUT MY FANS KNOW ME AND WHO I AM AND I WILL WIN, TRUST ME!" Commercial Break And now the first round begins: BING! Wild Man Bush and Bouncing Baby Bill take off their robes and begin leering at each other from opposing corners. A hush falls over the crowd as someone starts kicking chairs out of their way from the back. The camera zooms in and a giant ogre of a man, with muscles rippling like Conan, steps out of the crowd and starts walking for the ring. The ushers try to restrain him and are easily flung to the far corners of the arena. Who is this stranger? He steps into the ring with the greatest of ease. Bush and Bill tremble in his shadow. Bill looks up to the giant, walks over, closes his eyes and pelts him in the kneecap. The giant looks down menacingly and says "I just wanted to play wit you guys." Tears begin rolling down the giants cheeks and runs out the ring and out of the arena. The crowd boos as he exits. Bush and Bill begin looking at one another and pacing. Bill runs over and immediately tags in Mad Dog Gore. The camera zooms in on Clueless Quayle still trying to tie his shoes and obviously confused when his Spin Doctor comes over and helps him. Bush and Mad Dog Gore begin circling and trading insults. The crowd is cheering for Gore and Bill, who is sweating profusely outside the ring. Stay tuned for more after these messages ####===================================================================#### POPSICLES ####===================================================================#### From: finerty@msscc.med.utah.edu (that's mr. wonderful to you) Subject: popsicles Date: 7 Aug 92 02:35:46 MST Have you ever felt the pain of a popsicle facing its last lick? The suffering involved? The fear that there is no after world? The unknown is too much. The popsicle faints before the last lick ever begins. Hiding in its subconscious the popsicle is transformed after the last lick. But into what? Will we ever know? Most likely not. Some mysteries are not for humans to know. However, I am not human, so I do know. I know all right. It is so disgusting and terrible that I cannot possibly reveal it now. Perhaps some other time after I have made it up. Made up what, you ask? Why, made up its fate of course. After all, I am in charge here. Heh heh heh. PJF---->Biochem. grad student "go away" ####===================================================================#### OTIS NEEDS BODS! ####===================================================================#### Yes folks, it's that time again! A new school year. We all know what means don't we? It's time to recruit new Otisians. There can never be enough of them in this world. Otis needs bodies! Warm wiggly bodies! Bodies that will fill the coffers of the IGHF with money. New Otisians who will submit amazing material to Purps. New Otisians who'll donate a xerox machine so we can make a photocopy of the manual for the Purps yacht. So you ask yourself: "How does one go about recruiting new Otisians?" Well it's easy my friends. Here's some helpful tips: 1. Recite to the potential Otisian some of the now famous and inspiring Dogma. Try "Everything forbidden is Optional." or if that fails perhaps "Scrub my bowl hard!" may do the trick. If all else fails make something up. If you're not good at that, mumble. They probably won't be paying any attention to you by then anyway. 2. Make them an Otisian by example. Drag them along to a game of Bar Trek, or perhaps one of the many Otisian holidays conveniently placed around the calendar. They'll see how much fun you're having and join up. 3. Give them a copy of Purps. This can be done one of two ways. First, simply hand it to them. Second, leave a copy lying around somewhere where they can see it. A good trick, which has worked in the past in several places it to take a copy of Purps and simply staple it to a dorm notice board. One of our more enterprising followers who was a teaching assistant managed to get an entire Purps stapled in among a final exam. Use your head. Get that printed material into their hands. Once they see it, they're bound to join up. 4. Death Threats. Other religions use them. Why not you. 5. Otis is a good investment. It's the beginning of the year. Entering students have a lot of money at this time. Many of them do not know how to handle large amounts of cash properly. Help them out. Point out how Otis is a good investment. It will save their souls. 6. Make new friends through Otis. This works best on lonely freshmen. They are new to school. They have not friends. Show them how Otis can give them friends. How Otis can give them the exciting publication Purps to inspire them every day. And especially show them how by using the powers of the Otis Initiate they can meet members of the opposite sex with ease. If you can find several assistants this last argument can be carried out very effectively. Designate one of them as the "Otisian Initiate". Have the others (preferably of the opposite sex) come racing up to the "Otisian Initiate" and rip all his clothes off showering him/her with amorous affection. This can become even more effective if you have one of your assistants dress up as a member of the Christian Clergy. As the "Otisian Initiate" gets his/her clothes ripped off have this assistant come running up and shout something along the lines of: "Stop all this sinning my fine Christian children!" The "Otisian Initiate then shouts: "I'm an Initiate of Otis! Everything Forbidden is optional. Go jump in a lake!". At this point the clergy should shout "Pagans!" with a shocked look on his/her face and run off in stark terror. 7. Enlightenment. Some students come to school to be enlightened. Point out to them their ignorance in Otis and how any well rounded student should know a little about everything. Show them how it is far cheaper to buy the initiate teaching from the IGHF than take even the simplest and cheapest college entry level course. 8. Brain washing. You'll need a large metal container for this such as a oil drum. This trick usually works best if you present it as a fraternity stunt or one of those college gags like swallowing gold fish or cramming into a phone booth. Paint the drum bright festive Otisian colors. Be sure to use plenty of Paisleys. You'll also need a tape recorder and one of "Pope Jephe's Inspiration Message Tapes." (order from IGHF of course.) Now somehow con/force/entice/blackmail the convert into the barrel. Now turn on the tape and glue all the switches so it can't be turned off. Toss this in the barrel with the convert. Then seal the whole thing. If at this point you cannot hear the tape recording as plain as day, you'll need to open the barrel again and turn up the volume. You may also wish to caper about and laugh a lot. This gives a festive air to the conversion along with hopefully covering up any protests or yells for help the convert is making. Now find a steep hill and roll the barrel down it. A waterfall will work even better. Once the barrel has reached the bottom tip it upside down and wait until the tape is over. Pull out your convert and ask him/her about joining Otis. If they say no. Repeat the performance. They'll soon come to their senses. For especially tough converts you may wish to use a washing machine instead of a barrel or perhaps pound on the outside of the barrel with a ceremonial stick. 9. Pity. Break done and cry. Give them puppy dog eyes. Whimper a lot and tell them about number eight above. Tell them you'll get a number eight if you don't find any converts. 10. Disguise. Disguise yourself as another religion. String your convert along until the last minute and spring Otis upon them. Most will be too lazy to unconvert by this time. ####===================================================================#### TRENDS IN THE FUTURE ####===================================================================#### From: finerty@msscc.med.utah.edu (that's mr. wonderful to you) Subject: TRENDS IN THE FUTURE Date: 2 Aug 92 01:38:50 GMT I have a prediction. In the future people will willingly have limbs amputated. These will be thrown out as imperfect and useless and replaced with new, mechanized, prosthesis'. They will be similar to the bionic appendages seen on t.v. Carpenters will have arms to which a hammer can be attached and which has a built in drill and circular saw. Scientists will also jump on the bandwagon since they are always looking for a new toy for the lab. Arms to which eppendorf tube shakers and incubators can be attached will be in vogue as well as the standard hand held vortex and micro- centrifuge. The military, which is more adept than scientists at acquiring new technology will have soldiers equipped with RPG prosthesis' and other various devices. The ultimate prosthesis will, of course, be a small thermonuclear device disguised to look like a real human arm. Even the weight will be correct. Thus, a spy equipped with such a device might gain entry to enemy territory and then detonate the arm. This sort of device will most popular with the japanese and moslem types who seem to have an interesting idea of dying with honor. I say fuck honor and get me out alive. Obviously I won't be the volunteer to try this one out. Eventually humans will forgo all natural appendages and will have their brains encased in a much stronger and longer lasting artificial shell. The dream of flying will be made possible through the use of appendages which have jets attached to them. Right now I want an arm with a makita drill attached to it so that I could bore a hole through the heads of stupid inane shits who cross my path. Since this story has begun to degenerate a bit I think I will end it here and go get some money from the bank machine. ####===================================================================#### ART CHAPTER TWO ####===================================================================#### ((((((((((((((((( CHAPTER TWO ))))))))))))))))))) {As you may last recall, we left our hero in quite a fix. He was being taken out back by a bunch of Hell's Angels to be shown some good old-fashioned sinning. (Whatever that may be.) For you viewers at home with small children we advise you to have them leave the room. This plot has definitely taken on an adult theme.} "You can't do this to me!" whimpered Fredric Wilberforce as two huge bikers wired on speed dragged the poor fat artist across the parking lot and into a forest of chrome and black motorcycles. They were big mean machines with all nonessentials chopped off leaving nothing but the bare bones and an engine that bucked and roared like a caged demon. They dragged Wilberforce into another world. A world so alien that not even those who lived in it understood it. This looked to be the end for our hero. The bikers were going to smear poor Fred across the pavement and nothing would be left but a bloody mark. He would never again sell one of his twisted bits of metal to the unsuspecting public. Just as all seemed hopeless a voice spoke. It was a female voice that belonged to a leather clad bleached blonde with a beehive hairdo. "Don't kill him, I think he's cute!" she said strutting over to him and tweaking one of his fat jowls. "He's a fat slug!" roared one of the bikers who seemed to be the leader. "Yeah and he carries a lunch box!" argued another. "I say we keep him. He's cute," said the blonde stamping her foot in annoyance. "No! He's a square, we've got to mess him up! After all, we're the Hell's Angels!" cried the leader climbing up on top of a bike. "He either stays or I go back to mother!" warned the blonde tossing her head. "Okay, dear, we'll keep him for now," sighed the leader. "Who's he going to ride with?" asked someone. All this time poor Fred's head darted about trying to figure out what was going on. When it dawned on him that this leather clad woman was trying to save his neck a smile played across his lips. As things begin to settle down, people began to act real chummy passing out beer and drugs to each other. A commotion was started at the edge of the crowd. Over the yelling of angry angels came the sound of a bicycle bell dinging. "Where have you been all my life big fella?" asked the blonde who had introduced herself moments earlier as Trixie. Over the din of the Angels and dinging of the bicycle bell a voice was heard. A very familiar voice, this time not distorted by a bull horn. "Telegram for Mr. Wilberforce!" The messenger for the gods worked his way through the crowd, when someone tried to stop him he brushed them aside with a flip of his hand sending them rolling across the pavement. He quickened his pace slightly when he caught sight of Wilberforce with a blissful smile on his face and Trixie hanging around his neck. The smile disappeared on the artists face and was replaced by a look of consternation. Trixie looked at the messenger too, but only saw a typical telegram boy dressed much like the typical milkman except his suit was blue and he was guiding a bicycle in one hand. "Telegram for Mr. Wilberforce," said the messenger again, handing the man an envelope and staring venomously at the artist until he untangled himself from Trixie. The divine messenger then took a puff on his pipe and held out his hand. Wilberforce, not noticing this action, opened the telegram and began to read. As he finished the first line he turned beet red, crumpled up the telegram and threw it to the ground. "Why?" Fred asked through clenched teeth. "Because holy quests aren't supposed to be fun. And besides, it's a sin." Wilberforce fired off a string of not so pleasant curses in the general direction of the divine messenger that even made some of the Hell's Angels make faces. The messenger took out a small black book and wrote something in it and then held out his hand again. "What? What did you write in the book?" "First off, I'm not holding out my hand for you to shake it. I want a tip. Second, I'm in charge of keeping track of your sins and you just committed one. Shame on you. I guess you must have done it because I didn't have my bull horn. Well, next time I'll know." "A tip?" roared Wilberforce. "Calm down Fred, you'll burst a blood vessel. Now give me my tip so I can leave. I feel really silly wearing this uniform." ####===================================================================#### REINCARNATION ####===================================================================#### From: finerty@msscc.med.utah.edu (that's mr. wonderful to you) Subject: reincarnation Date: 3 Aug 92 17:34:31 MST I get out of the van and walk towards the door. Sure am hungry, I think aloud while staring at the dog in the front yard. It runs away. It felt like it took me twenty minutes to get to the door but it really only took one. When I get to the door I knock loudly. A large woman answers the door with a smile and a loaf of meat. Soul collector, ma'am, here to get your soul, I say to her. The woman's face falls like wax in a flame thrower. Fast. Know what I mean? I shake my head and tell her not to worry. I tell her it doesn't hurt a bit and that you feel much better when it is done. She does not believe me. PLAN II. WOW! I yell, pointing at her ceiling. When she looks up I lay into her like a set of ginsu knives with a mission. She is on the ground, unconscious, before she knows what happened. I set down my brief case and set out the tools of my trade, an empty Kraft mayonnaise jar and an iron pentagram. Using the pentagram, I chase her soul around her body and finally into her stomach. After I get there, I punch her on the abdomen or drop something heavy on it real hard which causes her to vomit up her soul. At this point I catch it in the jar and seal it up. I leave my card on her chest like a good businessperson. For those of you who have not seen a soul, it is pink and looks like a liver. It does not taste good. I evaporated my soul and now I store it in a balloon that I keep in my closet. I keep all of the souls frozen because it keeps them from pulsing too much. When I get bored, which happens a lot, I take a few out of storage and shoot at them with my crossbow. I leave the shattered soul out to be consumed by birds, rodents, insects and unicellular types. So, you see, there is reincarnation. The animal that eats your soul first becomes you. As your soul makes its way up the food chain, you advance in life. There is just no logic or "justice" to it. It is completely random and generally makes me happy. ####===================================================================#### OTISIAN YELLOW PAGES ####===================================================================#### [Here's the dope on the amazing OTISian yellow pages. It's kind of a stripped down OTISian Directory. It's a yellow pages of the underground and it looks pretty good. In these times of Fact Sheet Five being missing in action it's good to see the IGHF has grabbed the yak by the horns and started producing this. If you want weird addresses to write to, try the ones in here. I shamelessly copied this from the back of the YELLOW PAGES Volumes I & II. This issue costs $1.50 and is 8 8x11 pages in amazing yellow paper of all things. Write to the IGHF for more info. They are eagerly looking for more addresses to list. Those listed get a copy free.] THE OTISian YELLOW PAGES If it's 'Out There' it's in Here Some things are too large to navigate without a map. The global underground stretches from New York to London, from Tokyo to Czechoslovakia, from Ottawa to Phoenix, from Boston to Belize. It hides in nooks and crannies in every conceivable corner of the world. It has a representative on your block, as it has a representative on just about every block of every city in the world. Its members regularly produce pamphlets and flyers, spubs, periodicals, photographs, cassette tapes, computer disks, and video. They hold conventions and congresses. They have parties and manage street theater. They open coffee houses and bookstores to peddle their wares. All work at low profit margins. Many will melt your mind for the price of a stamp. Wouldn't it be nice to know where all these people are? We thought so, too, which is why we've created the OTISian Yellow Pages. The idea behind the Pages is simple. Create a publication that makes finding a member of the marginals as simple as finding a business in the phone book. Modest as we are, we think that's a worthwhile task. In fact, we're convinced of it, which is why we're selling the first issue of the Pages for only a buck! (or the equivalent in IRCs. Listees in Pages get a copy for free.) So why not risk the Washington and drop us a line? After all, there's a whole other world out there. IGHF 955 MASS. Ave., Suite 209, Cambridge, MA 02139-9183 ####===================================================================#### THEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHEENDTHE ####===================================================================#### --Subink 1992 [Special Thanks to Lulu for Proofreading]