**************************************************************************** ### # # ### ##### ## # # # ## ## # # ### ##### ## ### ### # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #### ### # # # # # # # # # ## # #### ### # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # ### # ## # # # ## ## ## ### # # # # # ### ____________________________________________________________________________ # # ### #### # # #### # # ### #### ##### # # ##### #### # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #### ### ### ##### # # #### ##### # # ##### ### # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # ### ### # # # # #### # # ### # # # ##### ##### #### *****NUMBERS 156 TO 160***********BY DANIEL BOWEN (tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu)***** "Lost and found Toxic Custard" TOXIC Number Written CUSTARD One hundred by WORKSHOP and Daniel FILES fifty-six Bowen Little boxes, on the hillside Little boxes made of ticky-tacky ...And any one of the bastard things could contain the tiny object you've been searching for for the last three hours. Why are some things more prone to be lost than others? Some objects just seem to be hell-bent on getting themselves out of your life and back to whatever they were doing before you acquired them. Pen lids. Pens. The back bit off the Walkman that stops the batteries falling out. "I just know I left that cable somewhere..." And as the search goes on, you get paranoid. "I didn't give it away to the school fete did I? Or sell it... no, of course not, it's part of the (x). Or did I lend it to whatsisname?" And after the paranoia, the *real* paranoia. "Omigod. What if it's been stolen? What if a burglar got in here and stole my priceless packet of AC to DC adapter power attachments??" [Yes, that's what I've lost] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Good evening and welcome to Idiot, the gameshow where we encourage people to do something bloody dangerous just to get on the telly. We'll see Footscray accountant James Turtle stick his head through his television while it's tuned to Hinch, surgeon Betty Cutler throw herself off a five story building, and flaming idiot Geoff Smith set fire to himself while covered in kerosene, and dance the tango solo while on a tightrope suspended four hundred metres above the Yarra. But we start tonight with Frank Moron who will be knocking his own head off with a rusty meat cleaver. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - THEY SAY: Press any key BUT THEY MEAN: Press any key except Shift, Caps Lock, Alt, Ctrl... - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - "So tell us what happened." "Okay. It all started when-" "Hold it. Hold it just a fucking moment. We haven't been introduced yet. Wait a sec, for the title to come up." THE SEVENTH ADVENTURE OF MR POPSICLE ------------------------------------ "Right. That's a bit fucking better. Continue." "Well. It all started when I was on a mission in Peru, spying on a visiting Columbian colonel." "Peru eh? How did he come to be there?" "Hold it. Hold it a fucking moment again. Oi! Bowen! What's with this skimping on the narrative? We don't know who's meant to be saying what and when! Now explain yourself a bit more, before I fucking jump out and take you down to Russell Street for a little interrogation, if ya know what I mean." "Ah, that's better", said Popsicle. Trouble continued from his position in the interrogation room. It wasn't the most comfortable of positions, in fact it... oh well, let's just say that if the fire alarm went off, there would be one person who would have some difficulty in getting out of the building. "Well, the rumour is that he was corrupt, dealing with one of the big nutmeg smuggling gangs", he said. "Oh no, not that old chestnut again", said Inspector Unnecessary- Violence. "No no, *nutmeg*", corrected Trouble, who was quickly in deep trouble. Trouble with a capital T. If there was one thing the Inspector hated (and as it happened, there were several million things that the Inspector hated), it was being corrected. "Now fucking listen, Trouble", he said, lowering his face down to Trouble's level, so that Trouble could see the scars from at least the last two dozen pub fights the Inspector had been in. "This episode is all far too fucking nice so far. So maybe we'll fucking make it a bit more interesting and bring back those worms. You're a traitor. And in my book, that makes you a traitor." The interrogation continued in this vein for several seconds. The information that Popsicle and the Inspector discovered was, to say the least, very interesting. But the author decided not to reveal all of it yet, since that would tie him down to a plot for the rest of the story. Popsicle and the Inspector decided to follow up one of pieces of information they had gained, and made their way to a pub in Malvern. Then they decided that they really should be following up that information, and continued on to a laneway in St Kilda, where Trouble had claimed there was a "dead letter box", or, to put it another way, a mailbox with a dead body inside it. Actually, now he comed to think of it, maybe that wasn't quite the jargon he was looking for. He tried to think back carefully to his collection of Usborne "How To Be A Spy", "Codes For Beginners", and "Intermediate Political Assassination" books. Anyway, it was here that various enemy spies would come along with their secret documents, surveillance photos, and so on, and get them sent back to their various headquarters. It was much like a regular civilian post-office, except that they didn't use Postpaks, they used black briefcases with secret combinations (and they actually *used* the secret combinations); they didn't put stamps on items, they put bullet holes in them; and the staff there actually worked. Although Popsicle would have liked to have staked out the place, the Inspector preferred to just skid up in his big car and blow the crap out of everyone in sight with a shotgun. In the end they tossed for it, and Popsicle (and any innocent civilians who happened to be around at the time) won. Though the Inspector shot the coin later. And the civilians. What will happen at the stake out? Will they catch a falling spy? Will they be mugged by passing Mormons, kidnapped and taken to Salt Lake City? Will they be walking down the street only to slip on their own vomit? How the hell should I know? I haven't written it yet... oh, Christ, you'll just have to be reading next week for the next amazing episode of Mr Popsicle. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ As you've carefully and correctly predicted, that's all for another edition of the Toxic Custard Workshop Files. Unfortunately it looks like there'll be another one next week. Oh well. If you're the type of warped human animal that would like to get his or her claws, paws and teeth all over Toxic Custard back-issues, just reply to this post, or send mail to tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu for details on how to obtain said back- issues. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen -- Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre|RECYCLED TCWF SIGNATURES#3: Telecom Australia, Melbourne---------------| dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-------------| Pope gets grit in mouth! ------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu| [TCWF 78] ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "We present... Toxic Custard!" DIRECT from a diseased brain in Melbourne, Australia VIA a computer account in Massachussetts ON RELAY throughout The Internet and associated networks WITH PROFITS going directly to chocolate FEATURING the Popsicle Atomic Delight Dancers WE PRESENT the one - the only //////// /////// // // /////// // ////// /////// Toxic // // // // // // // // Custard // // // // // ////// // ////// // Workshop // // // // // // // // // Files // /////// //////// // // ////// // 19th July 1993 Good evening ladies and gentlemen... we've got a truly wonderful(*) episode for you this week. Later on we'll have really bad puns about music, but right now to kick us off, heeeeeeeere's Popsicle! (*) where appropriate THE SEVENTH ADVENTURE OF MR POPSICLE ------------------------------------ Part 4 Our heroes have decided to throw crime prevention and community policing in information caravans to the wayside for the moment, and are hot on the trail of a spy network based in a laneway in St Kilda. Mr Popsicle and Inspector Unnecessary-Violence arrived at the laneway, and did whatever the past tense of "to stake out" is. (Stook out? Stake outed? Never mind.) They located a first floor flat nearby to the scene, and managed to con the tenants into lending them the front room, where they assembled the customary cameras on tripods looking in black and white through the gap in the curtains to the street below. Popsicle took the first watch, which basically involved looking through the camera, occasionally discussing the movements below into his walkie-talkie, and taking the odd sequence of pictures, which generally made the view click like a camera and freeze for a few seconds. It's often asked why police forces around the world (or at least, those on the telly) always use black and white film, and take about ten pictures in a row of every suspect they see whilst on surveillance. And if you think you're going to find the answer here, you're wrong - it was just a cheap way of relating something stupid and errmmm... yeah. After about five hours of this (and be thankful you don't have to live through it too), Popsicle saw something moving in a hedge opposite. Those who remember the relevant details will recall that the spot they are watching is in fact a spy equivalent to a post office, and what Popsicle was now seeing was the spy equivalent of the morning collection. A hand had slowly reached out of the hedge, and was moving towards a brick sitting on a nearby wall, which, although our heroes didn't know it, contained a number of secret documents. Popsicle, however, saw the hand, and quickly rounded off the film in the camera, before waking the Inspector and running out of the flat towards it. The hand, with the brick in its grasp, had, understandably, decided against remaining in the vicinity of Mr Popsicle, hero of the Australian Royal Security Establishment, and the looming, armed and dangerous figure of Inspector Unnecessary-Violence, crazed thug and lunatic law enforcement representative, of no fixed abode. This disappointed Popsicle, who decided to run after and apprehend the hand, the brick, and their respective owner/s. The Inspector was too angry to be disappointed, and *he* decided to run after and alter the biological structure of the hand, the brick, and their respective owner/s so that they would be in very, very many bits. WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT - THE USUAL TEMPORARY BLOODBATH, OR SOMETHING JUST SLIGHTLY MORE SUBTLE? PROBABLY NOT. BUT WHICHEVER OR WHATEVER HAPPENS, YOU CAN BE SURE TO DISCOVER IT IN THE NEXT INCREDIBLE EPISODE OF MR POPSICLE. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Ever since New Kids On The Block blew the minds of the world with their amazing musical... erm... talent, some have mocked. Many have laughed, and made fun of them. Like me. But, incredible as it may seem, others have imitated, and tried to take advantage of the precedents they have set, for a bunch of talentless gits leaping up on stage (and falling through it, occasionally), to mime to mindless lyrics and dance to music that would make Pavarotti cringe with embarrassment. One such imitation group from London, "New Geezers On The Estate, Know What I Mean Guv'nor", have enjoyed increasing success on the world stage, particularly amongst very thick teenagers who should be told to spend their pocket money on more sensible things, lest it be taken forcibly from them. When TCWF contacted New Geezers' manager, Johnny Dork, for an interview with the group, we were told no, that we'd probably do a typically critical story about how crap they were. So we lied and said we were all big New Geezers fans, and his ego managed to get us this EXCLUSIVE interview with two members of the band, Donny Rotten and Ronnie Morbett: TCWF: Guys, welcome to Toxic Custard. Could I first ask you, Donny, about the group's philosophy. Many bands have thoughts, or beliefs that move them to incorporate themes into the lyrics, that tax the listener's emotional thinking, that promote thought - whether it be on a theme of social injustice, youth's lack of communication with its elders, or the horror of war. I just wonder, what is New Geezers' theme? DONNY: Basically that dancing is fun. RONNIE: Yeah. Dancing. TCWF: Erm.. yeah. And what of criticisms of your music? How do you find the various criticisms... RONNIE: Well we just open the paper... TCWF: ... that claim you know nothing about music? How do you answer that criticism? DONNY: Just by saying that we love what we do, and look who's got the two gold albums. TCWF: So, in particular reference to that criticism of your lack of musical experience, skill and ability... what's a stave? DONNY: A stave? Isn't that what you cook your dinner on...? TCWF: And a crotchet? DONNY: A unit of grumpiness...? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ On that musical note, that's where we say goodbye to another Toxic Custard. Have a nice day. Back-issues are available to those gifted persons with ftp available to them. Email tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu for details. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen -- Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre|RECYCLED TCWF SIGNATURES#4: Telecom Australia, Melbourne---------------| dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-------------| World's biggest cat does ------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu| world's biggest cat dropping! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "A Toxic Tale" /\/\/\ /\/\ /\ /\ /\/\ \/ \/ \/ \/ \/ /\oxic /\ ustard /\ \/ /\orkshop /\/\iles Number 158 __\/______\/\/________\/\/\/\/_________\/______________26th_July_1993 TOXIC TALES - "Alfred The Incontinent Dragon" Once upon a time there was a big old dragon, who spent most of his time terrorising the nearby villagers, due to his terrible incontinence (and flatulence too). His name was Alfred, which was a pretty good name for a dragon. Alfred was over 400 years old, and he got his dragon pension regularly, and went to dragon bingo at a nearby mountain dragon hall. One day the villagers, who were sick of having to shovel away Alfred's deposits, decided to go up to the valley where Alfred lived, and do nasty things to his bottom. The village elders had worked out a plan, which was this: They would send a team of men into the forests, to search for the absolute hugest biggest mother of a tree they could find. Then they would bring it back to the village, where the wood worker and his apprentice would carve it into the absolute hugest biggest mother of a cork that had ever been made. This having been done, the village's bravest men would gather one night with the cork, torches, ropes and any other supply stuff that they would need for the trip, or that the local supplier had managed to con them into buying for the occasion. They set out at 8pm that cruel winter night, and by 11:30 they had reached the domain of the dragon. And there he lay, in his glory, snoozing the night away, for it had been a particularly satisfying game of dragon bingo that night. The villagers snuck up quietly from behind, carrying the cork with them, their intentions probably quite obvious to the reader by now without having to spell the situation out vis-a-vis the incontinent dragon and the large cork. With their torches lit so they could see and watch where they were walking (for some of them had bought new boots off a visiting merchant that week), they silently approached the dragon's anal zone. Suddenly, the dragon stirred in his sleep, and there was a horrifying low vibrating noise... The torches' flames caught the draft, and suddenly a huge fireball fried the villagers, and their new boots, and made its way down the valley, accompanied by a stench that made the surrounding areas uninhabitable for thousands of years. The End And the moral of the story is... never light torches when you're standing next to a dragon's bottom. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - THE SEVENTH ADVENTURE OF MR POPSICLE ------------------------------------ Part 5 Mr Popsicle, ace secret agent, and Inspector Unnecessary- Violence, vegetarian peacenik, are even now in pursuit of a person or persons last seen behaving suspiciously near a brick. Normally this wouldn't be considered too serious, but when the person/s involved is/are known to probably possibly be related to the long-lost brother of a foreign spy's cat, well, the security people have to act. And very badly they act too. The Inspector, not being the fastest runner in the world, elected to use his possessions to his advantage, the possession in this case being a bloody big gun that someone in authority had been foolish enough to allow him to possess. The result of this was rather messy, and will be neatly glossed over for the moment. Popsicle was not entirely happy about this, as he had hoped to question the suspect. But considering that the suspect was now in two bits, comprising of the suspect's upper bit, and the suspect's lower bit (along with a number of smaller, liquid bits that probably aren't worth mentioning at this point), Popsicle correctly guessed that should questioning take place, a mountain of information would not be forthcoming from this particular source. Popsicle therefore elected to make use of his handy rubber blood- proof gloves to search the body for any other evidence, before the Inspector, in a classic case of overkill, decided to make use of the rest of the bullets he had on him by shooting up the suspect a bit more. The Inspector basically wanted just a little fun, and, considered Popsicle, it was not as if the suspect could be any more dead. Yes, this episode is turning out to be rather unpleasant. But if you were expecting anything else from a serial that features a character named "Inspector Unnecessary-Violence", then you should have known better. The evidence that Popsicle obtained was quite interesting, and was as follows: - a knitted bag with a small collection of slate coloured rocks - a small glossy autographed photograph of Ralph Snider - a 9 volt battery - two dozen pen lids - a roll of stickytape - a coloured condom with the caption "Torpedo Of Love" - a large number of papers addressed to various foreign governments, mostly featuring cooking instructions for different desserts Popsicle took most of the evidence back to his scientific adviser, Doctor "Goose" Wedge, back at the A.R.S.E laboratories. All except the knitted bag with the slate coloured rocks, that is, which was just what he had always wanted. What will be discovered amongst the startling new evidence? Bugger all, you may suspect, but not so! Find out in the next delicious episode of The Seventh Adventure of Mr Popsicle. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Toxic Custard's over four another weak. If you have enjoyed this episode, and would like to take a look at some of the back-issues, then you're a twisted little twerp of a human being. But that's your problem. Reply to this mail, or write to tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu for details. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen -- Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre|RECYCLED TCWF SIGNATURES#5: Telecom Australia, Melbourne---------------| dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-------------| Why are historians so ------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu| backward? [TCWF 64] ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Taxable Toxic Custard" TTTTTTTTCCCCCCCCWWWWWWWWFFFFFFFF111111115555555599999999 22222222nnnnnnnnddddddddAAAAAAAAuuuuuuuugggggggguuuuuuuusssssssstttttttt bbbbbbbbyyyyyyyyDDDDDDDDaaaaaaaannnnnnnniiiiiiiieeeeeeeellllllllBBBBBBBB oooooooowwwwwwwweeeeeeeennnnnnnn........ TOXIC TALES - "William The Explosive Goblin" Once upon a time there was an enchanted forest. Inside the forest lived gnomes, elves, fairies, and all sorts of other enchanted things that you generally find in enchanted forests. And somewhere near the middle, in the very deepest part of the forest was a magic cave. You could tell it was magic, because it had a big sign saying "Magic Cave" above the entrance. Inside the magic cave, there were rumoured to be many treasures, such as gold, silver, and some of the biggest ganja plants this side of Snake Gully. Naturally, all the naughty creatures of the surrounding areas wanted to get their claws on the treasure. And none more so than William, who was a goblin who lived just a short bus ride away, in Muck Swamp. [We now apologise for the first two paragraphs of this story, which have absolutely no bearing on the rest of it. It's all a bit pathetic really, isn't it?] William was a big goblin, with horns, and big teeth, and whatever other features goblins usually have to distinguish themselves from all the other bloody creatures in these fantasy stories. William didn't enjoy the regular goblin pastimes the other goblins enjoyed, such as frightening goats (by chasing, then eating them), slopping around in the mud, and playing a few rounds of golf. The problem with William was, he tended to explode. At least, that's what it said at the start of the story, so I suppose we'd better stick with that for the moment. Not emotionally of course, but literally. He'd be picking flowers, or chasing butterflies, or doing some such thing delightfully shot in soft focus, when he'd stop dead in his tracks, look up at the sky, and he'd feel his head start to swell. It would get bigger and bigger, and suddenly, **BANG**, his head would explode into hundreds of bits of skin, bone and brain tissue. And that was the end of William. The End And the moral of the story is... never believe you can have a proper story with a character who explodes in the fifth paragraph. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - MRS IRENE BUSYBODY SPEAKS OUT ON... Walkmans. Okay, so Walkmans seemed like a good idea at the time. Personal music, choice, all that. But really, couldn't they have got through the technical difficulties? The Japanese have some brilliant scientists, who have performed modern miracles when it comes to consumer electronics, but how come they still can't make a Walkman that doesn't cause the listener to scream their head off while trying to participate in an average conversation? And another thing - that annoying treble that surrounding people can hear. Makes it sound like the whole cassette is one long drum machine solo. Or a Kylie & Jason remix. My husband Fred has been trying to update his stereo at home. Problem is, he just can't find a dealer who can sell him a CD player with Dolby on it. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - I just broke a light shade. It's just the kind of thing that can really round off the weekend, you know. I don't know who decided that our livingroom should have low hung shades made of super brittle Smasho-Glass. Presumably either very short energetic people, or moderately tall non-energetic people. Or even very short non-energetic. Whichever it was, they obviously decided that moderately tall energetic people would never inhabit this abode. Or that nobody would mind splinters of glass showering down on them. (Oh yes, there's nothing that keeps you clean better than a few well placed shards of glass in the morning). In the end, no injuries, although some blood decided to evacuate my ear a few minutes later. Which means that as I write this, I have a truly ridiculous looking Mickey Mouse band-aid on my right ear. Time to call an electrician. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Tax time again. Yes, once again it's time to dig around the house for all the papers that you "filed" into five hundred million different places, all of which might possibly have something that someone might ponder being worth nominated for consideration to the title of the magic word: Deduction. I'm not sure who it was that invented the TaxPack. It seems like it was someone who decided that rather than have a four page Tax Return with a 15 page book of notes and helpful hints, they would merge the two and come up with a 90 page blockbusting Tax Return. And there's still a detachable 4 page bit which is the actual Return. And whose idea was it to shuffle all the questions up? So that if you can count, you probably think you've lost the art, and if you can't count, you read through the thing and probably think it's not worth bothering to learn. Seems to me that the whole tax thing would be a lot easier if they simply said: "Okay, you earned $25678, you paid $6789 in tax. Bad luck, we're keeping it." No pressure of filling in the Tax Return before the end of October, no half a million trees laying down their trunks, and no huge Tax Department in Canberra to swallow your Return for three months before finally announcing that you owe them $1.37. This may be a rather simplistic view. I'm not apologising for it, I'm just pointing it out to you. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This has been another edition of the Toxic Custard Workshop Files. TCWF will return next week, whether you like it or not. Back-issues are available, and information pertaining to these is available from tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen -- Daniel Bowen, NTC Systems------| RECYCLED TCWF SIGNATURES#6: Telecom Australia, Melbourne---| BOGOGRAPHY: If you haven't dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-| enjoyed reading this, TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu| then you can bog off. [TCWF 3] ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Nmad Ro Dratsuc" I BET YOU I CAN FINISH OFF THIS FAMILY BLOCK OF COCONUT ROUGH BEFORE THE END OF THIS WEEK'S TOXIC CUSTARD __ \\ Newob Leinad's "Nmad Ro Dratsuc" || || / _____/__ tsugu oB leinaD yb nettirW DRATSUC CIXOT || | / / \ , A w O || |/\ | / | en R || | | \__/_____/ 1 f K || \/ / 399 o ht9 ,061# SELIF POHS For some reason, the second Saturday in August seems to be the time they decide to have that monumental electoral event - the local council elections. When the residents of the cities of Australia get to cast their vote to see what colour the traffic warden's tickets are going to be next year, and other such world-shattering issues. Does anybody care? Yes, when there's a $50 fine involved. So, you mosey on down to the local Town Hall, Church, School, or other such establishment of doom, and try and get around the small hordes of campaigners trying to thrust How To Vote cards in your face, each one extolling the virtues of Jane Kenison as against John Kewitt and vice versa, neither of which you've ever heard of before, or probably will again. And unless you live in Camberwell, you're likely to just say "sod it, whoever it was last time, they can keep the job". ______________________________________ | | | HOW TO VOTE | | | | 1. Attend local polling place | | 2. Shun campaigners | | 3. Tell Electoral Office staff your | | neighbour's name | | 4. Enter booth with voting slip | | 5. Draw noughts and crosses, and | | characters from "The Little | | Mermaid" all over slip | | 6. Sign it "Hello to everyone, bet | | you won't catch me trying to vote| | twice", and your neighbour's name| | 7. Put voting slip in ballot box | | 8. Go and vote | |______________________________________| - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - THE SEVENTH ADVENTURE OF MR POPSICLE ------------------------------------ If you've been concentrating hard for the past fortnight, you'll remember that Mr Popsicle and Inspector Unnecessary-Violence have just erm.. disposed of a suspect in their own intimidatory way. And quite apart from the several dozen bullet-holes, they've have recovered a number of items of evidence, which are unlikely to be listed again here. Apart, that is, from the small glossy autographed photograph of Ralph Snider. Popsicle read the note on the back of the photograph, which simply said "Ralph Snider", and then turned it over, expecting to find a picture of a weedy little account-type person with an accountant's voice and charisma to match. He was right. But let's not dwell on life's unfortunates. (Life's very unfortunate, actually. I tell you, this guy is such a little we...) Ahem. Actually, there was some other evidence of interest. Just a bunch of paperwork though, which doesn't really generally make riveting narrative. Unless it happens to mention somewhere in its paperness the sexual antics of certain world leaders. Which it doesn't. Sorry, I'm mixing my tenses. Which it didn't. I guess it was just a bunch of papers, really. Popsicle was about to throw them in the rubbish when Doctor Wedge stopped him, and decided to examine them in great detail, in order to obtain further information on the case, and to fill in a little time while he waited for "Barry Bond's Bondage Hour". Well, okay, so the papers did include a bunch of material that may have been a little use to Popsicle. They told the story of a woman. She had been born at the age of zero, her father having died three years earlier. Her mother brought her up in the gutter, in the constant cold and wet, because the gutter she chose was in a car wash. At twelve she had been in a siege situation with thirteen cousins she was baby-sitting, and a violent lunatic bastard gunman, and was dug out of the house by police using only three men armed with teaspoons. At nineteen she was in a car crash that left her in traction for 18 months, during which her feet were above her head, and some of her bones drifted upwards in her body, resulting in her lungs being jammed in her neck, and having to be shifted back down in a special operation. At twenty-one, she suddenly gave birth after falling down some stairs, not even having realised she'd been pregnant. Two hours after giving birth, the hospital burned down, and she was back out on the streets in the howling wind, with only a torn pair of underpants to protect her, and two dimes, which she could rub together, but not spend, as they weren't legal currency. Then, at twenty-five, she had her big, and only break, when she was awarded the Annual BullShitter's Prize For The Biggest Load Of Crap In A Life Story. Her name was Marian, and you'll learn more about her involvement in this mystery next week. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Meanwhile, at the Computer Nerd Arms Hotel Saloon & Bar... SQL and orange please. 'ERE, YOU CALL THAT NORMALISED? Pardon? YOU CALL THAT NORMALISED, YOU STUPID TWAT? I'VE SEEN BETTER NORMALISATION THROWN UP IN THE STREET BY A TRAMP. THAT DATA WOULDN'T HAVE INTEGRITY IF IT HAD BEEN KNIGHTED BY THE QUEEN MUM. What? LISTEN CHUM, I'VE SEEN RELATIONAL DATABASES IN MY TIME. YOU PUNKS COME IN HERE WITH YOUR E-R DIAGRAMS, AND YOUR *GRAND* PLANS FOR DATA DICTIONARIES... AND IT DON'T COME TO SQUAT. SO YOU CAN TAKE YOUR TRANSITIVE DEPENDENCIES, YOUR SCHEMA DEFINITIONS AND YOUR FIFTH NORMAL FORM, AND SHOVE THEM RIGHT UP YOUR FLAT FILE. Oh, all right. I never wanted to be a DBA... I wanted to be a PROGRAMMER! Debugging from screen to screen... in Visual Basic... Pascal... C++..., with my best PC by my side, we code... code... code... I'm a programmer and I'm okay I code all night and I sleep all day (He's a programmer and he's okay) (He codes all night and he sleeps all day) I design screens, create DO WHILE's, I go to the lavatory On Wednesdays I go gaming And play X-Tank for tea (He designs screens, creates DO WHILE's) (He goes to the lavatory) (On Wednesdays he goes gaming) (And plays X-Tank for tea) (He's a programmer and he's okay) (He codes all night and he sleeps all day) I write out docs, I do support Beta test and release I sometimes try out FORTRAN And mess around with Scheme (He writes out docs, he does support) (Beta tests and release) (He sometimes tries out FORTRAN) (And messes 'round with Scheme...?) (He's a programmer and he's okay) (He codes all night and he sleeps all day) I code spaghetti, I quite like FORTH PL1 and ALGOL I wish I'd written COBOL Just like my dear papa [Oh Bevis, I thought you were so structured!] ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ World leaders have supported the decision to make this the end of Toxic Custard until next week. You have been warned. Have a nice day. Some/A few/Most of the back-issues are still available by ftp, reply for details. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen -- Daniel Bowen, NTC Systems------| I'm a rebel, I'm on the Telecom Australia, Melbourne---| edge... Don't mess with dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-| me, 'cos I'm part of the TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu| Big M Generation! TOLD YOU SO ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ the Toxic Custard Workshop Files by Daniel Bowen, Melbourne, Australia Copyright (c) 1993, 1994 Daniel Bowen. May be freely distributed without profit provided this notice remains intact. For subscription information, contact tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu