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========================================================================
Date: Fri, 7 Feb 1992 12:07:24 -0500
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: <TIMFIELD>
Subject: mugwump juice spritzer
>"... to counterbalance all of the love, beauty, and grace pouring out of
>most word processors ..."
>Have a nice day, Tim Field, sweetheart, baby.
Gosh, this is disheartening. I can write shitpissdeathliverseveredhead
line after line and nobody wll bat an eyelash, but, if I include a few
terms of endearment to temper an argumentive posting, I get savaged by
the tiny little e-wolverines of the e-waves.
Is it any wonder that I have grown this hard chitinous shell over my
soft flesh? It is true, I *am* the Michael Jackson of obnoxious postings,
but, Bubbles, I think it is time for our William Tell act... You see, you
just can't tell the difference between exagerration and truth anymore
(how can you expect to write fiction?) and, besides, you keep shitting on
the sofa.
T.
========================================================================
Date: Fri, 07 Feb 92 11:47:41 CST
From: GR4302
To: Sbrhym-l@SBCCVM
Subject: barf and junk
mainstream? what mainstream? sewer? land of big spring water?
LISTEN UP GOOD YOU DUMD FUCKS!!! CULTURAL IS *NOT*, I REPEAT,
*NOT* HEGEMONIC!!! NEVER HAS BEEN NEVER WILL!! shi-it! You
barf head wasichu brain tape worms!
gr
========================================================================
Date: Fri, 7 Feb 1992 13:11:00 EST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Bill Anderson <LIBWCA >
Subject: Hegemony
>mainstream? what mainstream? sewer? land of big spring water?
>LISTEN UP GOOD YOU DUMD FUCKS!!! CULTURAL IS *NOT*, I REPEAT,
>*NOT* HEGEMONIC!!! NEVER HAS BEEN NEVER WILL!! shi-it! You
>barf head wasichu brain tape worms!
>gr
Horseshit. Culture is indeed hegemonic. I can assert this with complete
confidence, since I happen to be the cultural hegemon. Don't believe me?
Then riddle me this, caped crusader- how come nobody's ever published that
fabled book about Lincoln's doctor's dog? Huh? BECAUSE I WON'T FUCKING
HAVE IT, that's why. Dogs make me break out. Doctor's are lying, overpaid
swine. I hate Republicans; even dead ones. Ergo- lots of idle chit-chat,
lots of dismembered would-be authors mysteriously washing up on the banks
of the East River, lots of nervous doctors, dogs and republicans- but nobook,
no way. Just try writing it- I'll have the brown shirts up your ass so
quick it's make your butt hairs spin. Don't fuck with me, man. I'mserious
on this.
-Your Beloved Hegemon
========================================================================
Date: Fri, 7 Feb 1992 10:44:18 PST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: <JEFFREY>
Subject: Lincoln's Doctor's Dog
It was the usual daydream. Little Johnny Edwards sat
on the grass hill overlooking the basketball courts. There
were nine boys playing five on four full-court. They were
13 or 14 years old, and they wouldn't let Johnny play, not
even to round out the teams. It was tough when you were
short, and even tougher when all the kids that played hoops
were several years older than you.
A jet, taking off from the airport on the South Side,
passed low over Johnny's head, it's roaring engines
drowning out the sound of the bouncing basketball and
the shouting boys. The roar of the jets huge engines
engulfed him, like the roar of the ocean, the roar of
the waves, a human wave of cheering voices echoing
cavernously through the Arena, cheering him on and on.
Johnny was in the lane, sandwiched between two big
forwards, tall men, who were poised as a small guard
let fly with a 20-footer from the left baseline. An
elbow was in his chest, and he fought it off, gathering
himself as they all watched the arc of the ball, which
was obviously off-line. The crowd cheered as Johnny and
his fellow All-Stars jostled for position in the lane,
anticipating the rebound.
Little Johnny Edwards gave a mighty leap. Up, up he
soared, higher and higher, beating even David Robinson to
the ball as he grabbed his twelfth offensive rebound of
this, his third All-Star game. The nine-year old Super-
star faked once and leaped yet again, flying over the
outstretched arms of the defenders as he slammed the ball
through the hoop.
"Well folks", (Johnny was simultaneously able to hear the
play-by-play as he ran back toward his own basket), "it
looks like Edwards has completely dominated the offensive
boards for the East. The four foot-eight guard from Washington
Heights elementary has incredible leaping ability!".
The crowd cheered his name rhythmically, stamping their feet,
"JOHNNY, JOHNNY, JOHNNY...". The floor shook, and the scoreboard
flashed his picture as Johnny trotted back on defense. He momen-
tarily felt a pang of regret at not leaving tickets for the
group of older boys he used to play hoops with before he grad-
uated to the NBA. But that was just a moment; now he was watching
the small guard bring the ball up over half-court, approaching
him as he moved sideways near the top of the key to cover the
opposing center.
The guard lobbed the ball into the center's hands, who turned
to face the basket; bent low, he stared right at Johnny as he
dribbled slowly, intent on going right through him to the basket.
The center moved, faking left and then rushing right, timing his
leap. Johnny let him go by, as the other man soared up, trans-
fering the ball to his left hand as he flew through the key for
an uncontested stuff.
The crowd was on its feet as the big man glided through the air,
extending his arm above the basket. Suddenly from out of nowhere
there was a flash and a blur as Little Johnny Edwards leaped directly
up six feet in the air from a flat-footed standing position to block
the ball from behind. The crowd went wild as the tiny boy grabbed
the basketball and dribbled directly through the opposing teams
legs, up past half-court, where he stopped and casually threw up a
forty-two-foot bomb from three-point range. It sailed high in a
perfect eliptical arc to the basket, and as the last second of the
game ticked away, it went straight through the rim, grabbed nothing
but net, and won the game by one point just as the final horn
sounded.
The crowd erupted onto the court, almost trampling the small boy
as they pulled his jersey and grabbed him in a frenzy of hero-
worship. Admidst the tumult he thought how odd it was for him to
have noticed a group of nine fans who came charging at him from the
cheap seats, carrying the barrel of gatorade that was always used
to drench the coach of the winning football team. Football? The
All-Star hero barely had time to wonder why they were even
allowed onto the court with all that liquid when he suddenly felt
the cold drenching spray of a torrent that poured down over his
shirt, soaking his T-shirt and jeans.
Johnny looked down on his dripping Levis's. Even the grass
was wet as the last vestige of his dream quickly dissappeared,
replaced now by gales of hooting laughter and the derisive jeers
that could only come from a gang of kids that had all simultan-
eously spit their Cokes on him. The laughter continued as Johnny,
wet and sticky, rose to his feet, holding the basketball high
in his right hand. The huge man towered above the puny grade-
schoolers, who backed away in awe as the tough looking NBA
Center rocketed the ball down from his gigantic seven foot height
at his nearest tormenter.
The ball whistled down like a mortar shell, severing the head
of the kid as it passed through the atmosphere, blazing a meteoric
trail where it impacted in the grass and buried itself to a depth
of two feet. Johnny looked at the headless body standing there
and what was left of the kids cranium, scattered in bits on the
grass around the silent group of boys. Silently, and with the
great dignity befitting a millionaire NBA All-Star, Johnny turned
slowly away and walked back down the hill towards his house, away
from the inconsequential group of boys that would never know what
it was like to win the NBA Championship single-handedly. His
mom had his lunch waiting.
The knot of nine boys watched Johnny walk slowly away with his
head held high. He looked taller somehow, in his Coke-stained
Air Jordan T-shirt and sticky shoes. One kid rubbed his arm where
the basketball had struck a glancing blow.
--Jeffrey
========================================================================
Date: Fri, 07 Feb 92 11:36:42 CST
From: GR4302
To: Sbrhym-l@SBCCVM
Subject: truffles
well for your information M. Apt I love truffles and would dig through
mounds of pig-shit for a few ounces of them. but hey it's Mapling
season as far north as St. Louis (may Karin have parlines!) so it's
time to poke holes into trees and suck out their juices. if you can
understand this, Aptly, then I'd say you're not a sop even tho you
seem so. yes beauty does peek through (even with blood coming out!),
but remember that any Formalism is ethno-centric. Beauty can easily
become bigotry!
Graded'n'Rated4302
========================================================================
Date: Fri, 7 Feb 1992 15:10:00 EST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Bill Anderson <LIBWCA >
Subject: Lincoln's Doctor's Dog
Jeffrey-
You were warned. Don't ever say I didn't warn you. I explicitly statedthat
this sort of behavior was not allowed, but you just had to go and write a
story about Lincoln's Doctor's Motherfucking Dog. You're not going to slideby
on this one, Jeffrey. Rebellions like this must be nipped in the bud.Someday
soon- maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon- There'll be a knock on
your door. You'll open it, expecting the Fuller Brush man, but IT WON'T BE
THE FULLER BRUSH MAN! Do you understand, you insignificant pile of tepid,
quivering jello? IT WILL NOT BE THE GODDAMN FULLER BRUSH MAN!
What in the name of the eternally contracting bowels of God made you think,
insect, that you could defy me and keep your entrails intact? I have people
on my SECRETARIAL STAFF who eat worms like you for breakfast. Don't makeany
long range plans which don't involve hand-cranked generators, alligatorclips,
and seven-inch needles, OK pal?
-Your Beloved Hegemon
========================================================================
Date: Fri, 07 Feb 92 14:17:42 CST
From: GR4302
To: Sbrhym-l@SBCCVM
Subject: God Bill
Sorry Billy... didn't mean to offend your deityhood, but I'll tell
you this--If you're the cultural Hegemon of the West then you surely
suck turkey shit through a straw!! Also--you're failing miserably.
I call to wittness all the ethnic strife, PLUS all the dumshits
from Bush to Time Magazine who are futilely clamoring to preserve
something called THE American way of life. What a joke! Death to
Bill the Hegemon! Death to America!! Death to Death!!! WITH
BLOOD COMING OUT!!!!
GonealReady4302
========================================================================
Date: Fri, 7 Feb 1992 15:42:00 EST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Bill <LIBWCA@ >
Subject: God?
GR-
God? Did I say god? Buddy, I brush my teeth with gods. I chew gods up
with my fucking oatmeal and spit them out like RAISINS. And I don't
discuss politics, because it gives me hives.
You're ineffectual threats of revolution do not bother me. The Illuminati
thought they could slip up the back stairs and cancel my ticket, and now
they're dogfood. Why I should I believe that you'll succeed where Weishaupt
failed?
As for the blood coming out- oh, there will be plenty of that soon enough,
my little friend. Don't touch that dial. Whatever you do, don't touch that
dial.
he spoke. and drank rapidly a glass of water.
-Your Worshipful Hegemon, High Epopt and Dynamo of Laceration
========================================================================
Date: Fri, 7 Feb 1992 13:01:31 PST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: <JEFFREY>
Subject: Re: Lincoln's Doctor's Dog
In-Reply-To: Message of Fri, 7 Feb 1992 15:10:00 EST from<LIBWCA@EMUVM1>
Dear Bill;
Unlike the rest of humanity out here in the e-space, I
got a line on you. That last name Anderson (if indeed you
are who you say you are) sounds suspicious to me, like maybe
you are just using an alias. God only knows who you really
are - for all we know you may even be Wall or someone like
Tim (who ate too much damned liver one day and just died),
good lord, with a name like LIBWCA you could even be the
heavenly Ronald and WE WOULD NEVER KNOW IT!
Hmmmm, I really hope the Fuller Brush Man doesn't show up
here again. I caught *THAT* scum-bucket out in the backyard
last Thursday evening sodomizing a Racoon. I don't even
want to begin to guess why he always carries around those
long-handled implements in that evil looking black satchel
of his. He says they're for sale, but I doubt it.
And as far as Lincoln's Doctor's Dog is concerned, I
personally don't give a damn, although I at least don't
suck Turkey Shit through a straw. Down with hegemonists
and Gross Repulsions (4302). Long live Ronald, amen.
--Jeffrey (Ganja Redux)
========================================================================
Date: Fri, 7 Feb 1992 16:27:00 EST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Bill <LIBWCA>
Subject: Turkey Shit
Jeffrey-
If I wanted to suck turkey shit, do you REALLY think I'd use a straw? Think
about it. As for my being Tim, or Wall for chrissake- get real. I usepeople
like that as suppositories. I drink their pancreatic fluid with my morning
bickies, and pick my teeth with their femurs.
Leave the brush man alone. He's only doing his job, and the raccoonsunderstand
Your Magnanimous Hegemon, Poobah, and Wailin' High Priest of Bebop
========================================================================
Date: Fri, 7 Feb 1992 16:52:36 EST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Dan Boyd <consp04@>
Subject: Turkey Shit
In-Reply-To: Bill's message of Fri,
7 Feb 1992 16:27:00 EST
<9202072132.AA06280@>
Forget it, Bill, just get out of town. If the Illuminati didn't punch
your clock it's because they decided you were worth more to them
alive, as an annoying little mosquito flitting around spreading
malaria. Had they wanted to kill you, they would have. The
Illuminati don't care if they have to pump an entire river delta full
of DDT to wipe out one weed. The Illuminati don't care if they have
to nuke an entire city in order to shut down one phone switch.
But part of being the Illuminati means never Having To do anything.
Jeffrey's got ten times your intelligence and a thousand times your
style. You've never submitted anything more structured than a couple
half-assed flames that wouldn't get you more than a sniff on USENET.
Put up or clam up, mosquito.
-- Dan
========================================================================
Date: Fri, 7 Feb 1992 14:04:41 PST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: <JEFFREY>
Subject: Re: Turkey Shit
In-Reply-To: Message of Fri,
7 Feb 1992 16:52:36 EST from<consp04@BINGSUNS.CC.BINGHAMTON.EDU>
Dan;
Thank you for your compliments! My face doth turneth red with
conceit.
I strongly suspect that Bill is God, and that his comments are
merely the joking whims of an omnipotent being; i.e. he don't
mean nothing by 'em.
Personally, I think his ranting psuedo-flames are funnier than
hell. However, he has now submitted five postings to this list,
and the total number of his written words is exactly divisible by
five, and the average number of paragraphs per letter is also five.
Rather than being a target of the Illuminati, I believe he is one
of Them. Double-Agents, beware...
--Jeffrey
(ok, i lied about that five stuff, but anyone with the balls
to flame GR4032 can take a little joke)
========================================================================
Date: Fri, 7 Feb 1992 17:18:00 EST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Bill <LIBWCA >
Subject: Just keep telling yourself it's only the wind, Boyd.
Crawl back into your rathole, Boyd. Cover your head with any convenient
object. Call the phone demons and have your name removed from the
listings. Booby-trap all the windows, and lock down your steering wheel
with The Club (tm). Gather up all your incriminating documents, put them
in a safe deposit box, and send the key to your lawyer. Hire a guy named
Rusty to follow you around with a machine gun. Just don't tell yourself
it'll make any difference, because it won't, pumpkin. Ask your buddies
down at Illuminati HQ. Weishaupt and his gang of sub-masonic thugs can't
get you out of this one, Dan. You're playing with the big boys now.
Oh, and by the way, poppy- I wouldn't take a sniff on usenet if you wrappedit
in gold foil and shoved it down my chimney.
-Bill
========================================================================
Date: Fri, 7 Feb 1992 16:49:52 GMT-0600
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: William Voelker <zaphod>
Subject: slipping
he snuck behind the barrell, surrounded suddenly by rats when the big
rat stood and addressed him--hey, kid--what?--shut up, i'm talking to
you--ok--you are behind our barrell--and--we don't like you
suddenly
illuminati man appeared
--mark my words crime victims, i can help
--bullfeathers!
--bullwhips!
--chains!
--garter belts!
--all of the above!
the rats all left
--hello, illuminati man
--hello
--thank you
he wasn't there
--wha
--i got him
said illuminati man as his tore away the necktie
--say hello to bill...
the rats watched carefully
========================================================================
Date: Fri, 7 Feb 1992 14:40:57 EST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: HAG <HAG>
Subject: Re: no shit is good shit
In-Reply-To: Message of Thu,
6 Feb 1992 12:07:34 -0500 from <<TIMFIELD>>
>You missed the point, sweetheart. My criticism was of people like you
>who hold their breath. You are out of touch; you are masturbating onsome
**Sigh** I have obviously failed to make the point, communicate the
thought, portray the image that I had in mind. When I said that we
breathe in....I was not excluding myself. I live here to, I have been
raised in the same cultural and social environment. What I am trying
say is just because I too am part of this world, it doesn't mean I
should be content to see only this small realm. Late 20th century
Amurica as seen on TV is not all there is or ever was.
>illusory cloud of aesthetics, when you should be working in theenvironment
>around you. What can you say of any import when you deny reality? I say
Reality? This is not the sum total of reality. I say again, look around
look back, look forward, go beyond this narrow pale.
>embrace the trivia, the game shows, the death, the MacDonalds, the shit,
>for these are the stuff of life whether you like it or not. Suck it in,
But that's simply foolish. This is not the stuff of life. This is some
stuff from a very small part of some bit of life. Why deny the rest
of existence. Why limit yourself? It's been done, try something new, try
something even older.
>baby, that's all I'm saying. I'm not dictating what you spew out.
Baby--how cute, how beat-nik-ie, especially since.....well never mind.
Anyway, I may be misinterpreting what you are saying but it does indeed
appear as if you are trying to limit my comments. I suppose I could, if
the list demands that as the only acceptable style, spew out the
basic ratgutsslimedacrossthefetidsewerwherethechildcutsitsthroaton
rustycanlids line--but why should I?
>re: your pigs and Jane Austin reprimand -
Not a reprimand, just a point of mild interest and another way of
saying "look, the world is four dimensional--here's another way to
see this.
>"Pride and Prejudice" is as telling and valid today as it was whenever
>it was that that caustic wit took pen to paper.
Late 18th early 19th century, before the Victorians, in their attempt to
cope with a world turned upside down from industrialization, dropped the
heavy veil that we still have difficulty piercing.
- HAG
========================================================================
Date: Fri, 7 Feb 1992 23:24:00 EST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Bill <LIBWCA >
Subject: You, Boyd.
If and when, Boyd, I am ever even vaguely interested in your opinion ofeither
my intelligence or my style, i will send someone up to Binghamton to fetchyou.
Until that time arrives, you are invited to submit all opinions (intriplicate)
to the commision through the chief counsel, who will pass them on tocongress-
man Ford for shredding. If your material is unexceptional, we may requestyour
permission to publish it in our report; if, on the other hand, you submit
material which is not in publishable form, an agent may make a follow-upvisit
to your home. When challenged, do not make any sudden movements. Everyeffort
will be made to spare your life. Please remember that this is for you owngood
and do not interfere with the process. The central facts in the case arenot
in dispute.
-The Chief Justice
========================================================================
Date: Fri, 7 Feb 1992 22:49:45 EST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Dan Boyd <consp04@>
Subject: Death to Bill
In-Reply-To: Bill's message of Fri,
7 Feb 1992 17:18:00 EST
<9202072225.AA06366@>
Gee, Bill, I guess you're just not well adjusted enough to handle
inter-personal interaction. I'm very sorry that you've got such poor
socialization and do not interface well with your peers. Perhaps you
should request therapy. It's always such a disappointment to us all
when one of our own rejects so blatantly the assistance of others, who
are only trying to help them feel good about themselves. It's a
shame, Bill. Naughty! Naughty!
Now you can't have any cookies and you have to go to nap-time without
your juice, and maybe we should try to be a Do-Bee from now on, don't
you think?
-- Dan
========================================================================
Date: Sat, 8 Feb 1992 20:16:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "if you chose mostly (c)" <H.UNIATZ>
Subject: some sort of spritzer, i forget exactly
>>Have a nice day, Tim Field, sweetheart, baby.
>
>Gosh, this is disheartening. I can write shitpissdeathliverseveredhead
>line after line and nobody wll bat an eyelash, but, if I include a few
>terms of endearment to temper an argumentive posting, I get savaged by
>the tiny little e-wolverines of the e-waves.
Gosh, isn't it? As i recall, Hope A. Greenberg batted an eyelash (albeit
at the phenomenon in general rather than your particular exponency of it),
kept batting, and (whatever the merits of her argument, or indeed yours)
appears to have out-batted you.
As for your being savaged, try glancing again at my remark. First of all,
wide-eyed and innocent, i wished you a pleasant day. Then i tempered my
posting with a few terms of endearment, lest, with the mental and optical
contortions which i have come to expect of you, Tim Field, sweetheart,
baby, you could possibly make the error of reading the smallest hint of
malice into my message.
If there is anything more you wish to say on this subject, please don't
trouble yourself.
Is there anyone out there whom i haven't offended yet? You might be so
good as to send me (next week or sometime; i'm busy just now) your user-ids
and any details of your professions, religious beliefs, etc., which you
reckon could possibly be useful in insulting you, should the need to do so
ever arise. Thanks.
H760.
========================================================================
Date: Sat, 8 Feb 1992 04:11:55 EST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Mollusk Infrastructure <CHEATING@SBCCVM.BITNET>
Subject: Re: mullosk on physic holiday
In-Reply-To: Message of Tue, 4 Feb 1992 18:21:16 CST from<GR4302>
Vortical promises and mineral salts: No, son, I regret: I know nothing,
all of it's out-of-print; my So. Ill. diaretic forays have been far and
few between, the lack of a viable syndicalism simply does not inspire
confidence, and the intermittent blue laws would restrict ware-peddling.
It's far too inconsistent and incontinent, I fear: the Song that does not
have a proper ending (cf. _The Silence of the Lambs_; "not appreciated").
Head-jerks and clutched hands raised pleading. An earnest appreciation
for your suggestions on proper care and feeding of the ensnared courtship,
but all must be administered eventually as depreciation takes hold. As
you may have seen, though, my disparative pressed suit was adeptatively
feinted and returned ruffled with the stripe-pinned note: "Lack of interest
prevents us from adequately caring. Sorry." Alas, an ice age hovers
nearby; warm-blood would assist, as evidenced factually by, even now,
junior-leaguers prompting for a new kick (and it isn't even Spring!)
(((but: although les nouvelles certainly have the swagger, one would
hope they'd bother adding substantiations during their travels in the
ground swell. While the "aptly-named" HAG berates the bereft cool with
much the same secessionist defiant distancing ("And yet..." once more
with feeling (fire with fire, I know)), our would-be Patriarch and full-
time fearless Cattle-Driver, T., drops the Fielder's Choice by a quick-
switch of the terms, reifying shit as aesthetic counter-balance (the
deification of defecation); the motto then becomes "Shit is Truth, Truth
Shit" and "A thing of shit is a joy forever" (Molloy, no?), with no
gainstay but a ragged half-wit performative (and this is the 2nd time
I've gone with Keats -- T. reincarnated?): to the point: if, as T.,
it's necessary to wallow in slop and spew to produce anything of value
(re: Truth), what reason then SBRHYM if the end-result can be anything?
I've no doubt that the Real (collective) T. is able to imbalancesufficiently
in L.V., N.M. (no? how's the eggplant parmesan?), which makes Tierra Despo-
blada City Nirvana, and that's likewise inspiration enough (presumption) for
Jeffty to compose (the untimely sentimental) "Lincoln's Doctor's Dog" (didya
like, Hope?); or is (for T.) SBRHYM supposed to septic filter our quotidiens
(in which case maybe T. needs to look a wee bit harder at his modusvivendi)?
Why manifestize at all -- isn't foundationalism the short, happy SBRHYM-life
of Allan Adler?)))
and one's aroused to their Deft Cottage Rust: It may prove. Cut rates tothe.
========================================================================
Date: Sun, 9 Feb 1992 17:39:49 EST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Mollusk Infrastructure <CHEATING@SBCCVM.BITNET>
Subject: Deft Cottage Rust
It may prove. Cut rates to the. Business flair a plus. So. [To
continue: sorry to GraphicRevulsions4302 for dismembering those recounts,
but abrupt oblivion dictates capsule installments. Thanks for the
parfaits, but it seems I'd best kick the habit. Me? I'm heel-rearing, a
zigzag backlash (yawn). Facilities strafed in the nickname of love, out
dimwitted and having lost the promotion (must pay the rent, y'know),
bridled and braised with comfort, I'm filing in the D.H.S.S. (sorry --
H.M.H.B. in background) and examining my options. Oh -- and if I may be so
brunt: Fuck Eliot's nativity, go South to Beale St. (only 3X the distance):
the crime rate is much higher.]
Her marmoreal restart: A papal rescission (as previously indicated and oft
carrotted before you), and the disaffected rhetor will suffice to say,
"I've never felt better in my life." The Abdication, a priggish ferment,
has been notorized. Mind no renege, no ex-ux-, but also no heed to my
buttered toast henceforth. Forced to play it by memory from having lost
the owner's manual, our hero attempts to assume the role of the Knight
Errant but quickly lands self in prison for brigandry. "Comic hijinks
ensue." Raise the colors: Satrapped by yr declaration (if you may) of
independence, a vagile discharge of duties, and I'm redundancy (obviated).
And, from her latest protean nonpareil, I crack _Enemy in Our Midst_, by P.
Panayi; old news, so it umbrellas shade-slumber instead; far too credulous,
the title alone instead instills detection desires for her bestow (and the
red taped loading ranks finally updated the telephone list: Fear the Worst,
Miss). Amid them, omit them, evict them, mit dem, the Enemy spurious in
slapstick repossession. "Orders are given to the enemy for a time / With
underground proliferation of mould" -- copped? Goodbye to Hollywood, Daffy
Duck; you were upset, it was allowed, but you found your way back.
Splitting the difference, front¢er you&I may now joy-tide ventureif
Sorge has evaporated (topology gives way to topography); "eventually they
reached an agreement by which, after spending the better part of the
morning trimming his paratrichosis, he would rudely bruise her in the
rapidity with which he attempted to board the train to Burnley as she,
having become disoriented through excessive use of the prescription sulphur
base she'd applied just prior to arrival, in the bright and slightly
fluorescent orange sun dress and overalls, dismounted, jostling her to the
paisley parquetry so much the fashion in those days; this served them well
as a pastime and both found it exquisitely fatuous" [from "The Vicar's
Revenge"]. And you? Fare (thee) well, my crystalline crescendo; I shall
be, like yr cat, curious (in that there Orangery) to play pariah unto
undeath, and I've no doubt you shall behave magnificently if not
maddeningly in anechoic envelopes. Play on; the incessance you detect is
the drawstring nature-abhorrence Considerations, and the cheating machinery
wishes you to hear the cognates: our paths shall scissors-kick iterably
yet, and I would love to (in deliberative legerdemain) card-trick those old
bedecked and wire-impaled (non-blue) specs into the promissory/promiscuity
note of "when you least expect it", though don't cancel those reservations.
Should you chance to skin a boat and take after St. Brendan's Land of
Promise, ring me up and I'll front the subsidies; elsewise, no presagicity
to gnaw on, early morning rooftop or dusky withheld plantation meditations
regardless. "To have done with": a verb (intransitive) which you failed to
endorse when given the chance (so much for immortality!); I shall be
redoubtabling my efforts to painstake Chez H760 (@ where, when, who,
however; "best interests", y'know, m'dear, but ONLY H760, leaving H800,
STANEWELL, ENLNIFHLATHU, and even STANIFHLATHU to their forceped fates
(cool!)), stony and steeled (Castled), and, "prithee", please milady to
know that this, already forgotten and discounted, shall oblige for all
future houseband lyrics (the cheating tremolo long ago ran out of words);
curdle yr heart this: when, someday, shifting the cereal box so the coupon
(redemption value nil) is facing away, or thumbing the NY Times crossword
to encompass yr dissipating can of worms, or in cheap revisions of James
portraiture, you landslide lexiconically into these mistakes, apprehend my
apparation deus ex machina marionetting. Give us a kiss, lass;
Interlocutor Embolisms Imago.
No facile decomposition, and thus no simple regeneration either; perhaps
I'll visit with the civil servants in other towns to glimpse ways&means.
Yr Mother was wrong: you are far more clever (by half & then half again)
than I, and the reverence vow is pockmarked. Good Night, Sweet Princess.
[[[---- This is CHEATING@nowhere, embracing the darkness rushing in ----]]]
========================================================================
Date: Mon, 10 Feb 1992 12:06:37 -0500
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: <TIMFIELD>
Subject: lovelovelove
re: sewer stuff
Well you seem to live in a better world than I do,
Hope A. Greenberg. That's good for you. Lets say
I'll write about my world and you write about yours.
You must be getting as tired of this argument as
I am, so let's call a truce, okay? Besides, I think
I've fallen in love with you. Wanna get hitched?
re: GR4302 question
Hey GR, it is just me. My new southerly location
is 1 1/2 miles closer to the northern shore of
Lake Ontario.
Tim
========================================================================
Date: Mon, 10 Feb 1992 10:52:05 PST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: <JEFFREY>
Subject: A Day In The Life
He was a big boy. Both Eddie and Louise could see that
right away. A big, healthy baby boy, barely 16 days old,
sleeping in the arms of his foster-mother, Ginny. Eddie
and Louise could hardly believe it. He was so beautiful.
"He's just had a bottle", said the woman, bringing the
sleeping infant in the door and over to the couch where
the young couple sat. The baby boy lay quietly in Ginny's
arms, his long lashes down over his eyes and his left arm
thrown over his chest, which rose and fell rapidly as he
slept. He wore the smallest shoes that Louise had ever
seen.
It was almost too much for Eddie. The months of paper-
work, the interviews with the social workers, the workshops,
and finally after all that there was the waiting for the call
from the Adoption Agency that seemed as if it would never come.
The helpless, pins-and-needles waiting while their social
worker Valerie showed their resume and pictures to who knows
how many birth mothers, all of whom were looking for the
perfect young couple to adopt their unborn baby.
Louise had been anxious too, wondering if perhaps they had
put the wrong pictures in their scrapbook, or maybe described
themselves as too conservative, or too liberal, or...
Who could tell what some pregnant stranger wanted for the
baby they would give away? Stability, a sense of humor, lots
of money? It was out of their hands, and so Eddie and Louise
went to work, went on vacation, visited their neighbors, and
did everything exactly as they had always done. Except for
the waiting, and the constant jump each time the phone rang,
and the longing looks as the couples with babies strolled by
at the mall, everything was almost normal.
Then there had been the couple who had changed their minds.
Eddie preferred not to think about it. Louise was more phi-
losophical, taking the attitude that the baby girl that the
teen-agers decided to keep wasn't meant to be loved by anyone
other than her birth-parents. It had been a long time since
Eddie had asked God to give him anything, but when Valerie
had indicated that the kids were having second thoughts
about going through with it, Eddie looked out the window of
his office one cloudy Thursday morning and silently asked
for the little girl they had seen in the ultra-sound pic-
tures. It fell through two weeks before Christmas, and Eddie
had dis-assembled the crib and stowed it away in the attic
one night after Louise was asleep.
Now some other stranger was handing them a son, carefully
passing the sleeping newborn to Louise, who sat with him
on the couch and held him as he turned, yawned, and blinked
his eyes. He had no teeth, sandy colored hair, and his head and
features were perfect. "He's big!", said Louise through her tears.
She rocked him back and forth and he fell alseep again, twisting
a little as he settled down. He had on tiny overalls and a white
sweater with bears on it.
"He's easy too.", said his foster mother, smiling. "He sleeps
and eats so well. And he watches everything!". Eddie reached
down and Louise handed him the baby boy. He picked him up and
supported his head with his left elbow, settling him a little
awkwardly but still asleep against his chest, where he watched
the tiny face. Eddie rocked him back and forth a little as he
slept. He didn't feel heavy at all. He was so tiny in Eddies
arms.
His birth-parents weren't tiny though; they were tall kids,
still in High-school, and they were completely unprepared for
what was to come. Tracy and Steve read the resumes that the
Agency showed them, and looked at the photo albums put together
by the couples who so much wanted to adopt their unborn baby.
Eddie and Louise were there first choice, but before they could
even meet each other, Tracy had given birth to Michael Chris-,
topher.
But they had met, and talked, and met again, and finally
Michael Christophers birth parents decided that they wanted
Eddie and Louise to adopt their child and be his parents forever.
They said good-bye, and gave their birth-child a stuffed brown
bunny with long floppy ears. It became the childs special toy, the
one that he always went to bed with, and the first one he awoke
with each morning. Michael Christopher liked to carry it by
the ears.
After they changed his little diaper, and gave him another
bottle to keep him full for the trip home, they had dashed to
the car in the rain, laid the sleeping boy in the infant car
seat and packed rolled towels all around him. He was so small!
Louise got in back with the baby for the long ride from San Jose,
and with the rain pelting down on that windy February day,
Eddie drove carefully south on the freeway towards home. Their
child slept the whole way; Eddie stayed in the right lane and
drove slowly while the rain coursed down and the big trucks
roared by, spraying plumes of water from their many wheels.
In the rear-view mirror, Eddie could see his wife as she
bent over the carseat, adjusting the blanket which covered
their newborn son. Smiling a little, she pushed back a lock
of her hair that had fallen forward over her face. It was
the same color as his son's baby-fine hair. Eddie looked
back up the road, out on the fields near Gilroy that were soaked
with the winter rains, and ahead to where the highway climbed
up through the pass towards Los Angeles. It was raining harder
now, and for no reason at all, Eddie honked the horn twice.
========================================================================
Date: Mon, 10 Feb 92 13:20:43 CST
From: GR4302
To: Sbrhym-l@SBCCVM
Subject: napalm on rye
Blubber flamed stinks is the bucket kicked by roadside dead pool.
No-one can flame the great one greater than all and still standing
with blood running back up yr butt. But who gives a Danny doo-doo?
Dan's hardly one to roll someone else's rill, though I say, D, you're
a better dog than me. Love does that to some. And Uniatz, c'mon,
you've admitted that you're clearly Canadian and now back in the
UKKR, so where's my insult? Haven't I called you a cheap scumbag?
No? Sorry sorry... Ok, you're a cheap scumbag, with blood coming out!
So why you make a soup with me I just don't understand it seems so
bloody tasteless not to mention the big pickle in your hand. If you
could undress for us live on our video screams I bet we'd be in for
the big yod surprise, huh? WHat an insult, huh? I'd tell you to
go to hell, but you're already in East Anglia. Go suck an MP!
========================================================================
Date: Mon, 10 Feb 92 13:41:19 CST
From: GR4302
To: Sbrhym-l@SBCCVM
Subject: Ad Vice # 2A
Can I make any of this work?? It's been three cold days
and the sap has ceased running. I had a whole page of
advice for the one who CHEATS (first loyalty then mutual
respect) but can I now interpret any of these loose
chicken scratchings?? This constitutes your only warning.
*NOTE* After years of marriage, sex becomes a negotiation
like everything else. That's the advantage of the older
generation. You see we purposely feed traditional euro-
romance traditions to the young to put them at a dis-
advantage--well, that's why they're called traditions. I
mean how would any of us over 17 set ever get any if the young
and beautiful were not mostly naive and stuffed with soppy
shit from the radio?? I learned in retrospect that what
all my most satisfying teenybopper relationships had in
common was that sense of negotiation. I went to the
midwest senior prom factor with a girl who negotiated a
six week contract with me, culminating with that culturally
significant night. The next day it was over and we were
both grateful and best friends. And then there was that
time with Margaret (damnit! it's just a goldern porno flick!)
down on the tracks (ok I'll tell you when look--oh Margaret,
look!) and that time behind the sets right before I was on
stage in front of the world, seducing Lizzy Borden and lending
her my axe and absolution. Which (owing to the fact that
Lizzy herself was my negotiated sweetheart) leads me to
believe that if Sartre had been an American his fundamental
question would have been Why not kill your parents? rather
than Why not kill yourself? Anyway, one could as easily
ask Why not marry an electronic blip from East Anglia? And
so: Why not? For me for one, polygamy is sadly illegal in
this bigoted nation, though I'm convinced that this is
only unammendable due to the havoc it'd cause to the tax
law. My second reason is that I don't believe in any of
you. Thirdly: Untill 1754 it was the legal right of all
Western Europeans of Germanic decent including Spaniards AND
Italians to marry simply be bespeaking such intentions to one
another in the presence of three sane wittnesses, literate or
no, (provided the pair fit the set of marriagable pairs
under God's law) for the betrothing, and consumation then
made the marriage legal and binding to God and Monarch. In
1754 Orwell's 1984 rilly started, when THEY made marraige
only legal through state license and a list of laws that
would make any self-respecting social deity ashamed. Hence
when the Salvation Army showed up six plus generations later,
the inner cities were filled with quasi-christianized pagans
living in sin who'd never seen nor desired to see the insides
of a church. A far cry from Chaucer's age. You see all evil
comes from the Enlightenment. Within one hundred years of
the Restoration, England's laws had increased 100,000 times
themselves, and where only a few were capital offenses, then
most became so. MOST PEOPLE WHO HAVE BEEN BLESSED BY LIVING
IN NORTH AMERICA WHO THEN MOVE BACK TO THE OLD WORLD, ESPECIALLY
ENGLAND, ARE A/R MASOCHIST TYPES WHO WANT TO BE BOUND,
REGULATED AND RAPED BY GOD'S RIGHTFUL PENIS THE KING. There
are of course exceptions to the rule, so if you rilly want
to tie the knot, we could all TELNET to a common location and
I'll perform the ceremony being licensed by the Unnamable One
to bind on Earth and Heaven. BUT I still don't see how the
consumation will take place--maybe an e-consumation would do
for an e-marriage and I promise to turn my head. Now of course
this puts the cart before the whorse, and so back to helping
you win--whoops this post is already too long, look for the
next exciting advice column coming right up behind you. BUt
KNOw THIs: I lied, a second warning: I took these notes with
marker on the back of a glossy pages advertising a Sex Telephone
Network--frightening, I know, to the e-world, since a voice is
a voice and an e-stream can never be anything but barking and
skittle-yakking (hence we here on the Underground Mutoid
Buggery list remain the only honest mailing in the e-universe)
hence the 2nd warning. Flush these all those who dare not
dare.
GarbageReactor4302@sou'ernillannoyucvmb
========================================================================
Date: Mon, 10 Feb 92 13:42:22 CST
From: GR4302
To: Sbrhym-l@SBCCVM
Subject: Habber Dab
I found this one what I were working on last time I killed myself.
Decided that lately you're all so full of shit that you deserve it.
I suppose you'll never get PogoStickAmerica... not wait probably
soon if someone begs. I love to hear people beg for this kind
of stuff.... makes is sooo right! Well here goes Habber Dab:
"Arduously coping, the licentious Habberdab rocked and reeled as her
eperphemary lobes rolled the rill in her sotted braincase. Muttering
a medieval Mongolian dialect (harkah) the run-up habberdab could
sense meaning in her mummery but knew only east LA non-argotal Spicka
Inglish. She assumed that the scenes that went with it were the
video track to the text and was convinced that 'micka' meant
'mountain' and 'mitzakari' 'moon'. And indeed the tale was about
Osiro and the race of the Ram Helmet, though we can all see her
mistake. Slowly from some lost middle class memory cell a startling
awareness gripped her spine which proceded to flood her brain
and solar plexus (her most trusted organs) with an amassing doubt
as to her existence, whether or not the intense and snarlingly
majestic reality she and others had built up around themselves here
in the dive dregs of the Kyoto bar scene was the stunning truth of
action that it seemed to them to be, a conviction at once only
strengthened by the incredulous rejection of any such mythos by the
general hoi poloi common bloke(tte) on the street (& in your
neigborhood) yet as unacceptably contradictory at all such very
moments revealed an unmistakable embilical link with the heart of
the very social reality matrices it sought to counter and upset, a
feeding toob to the heart of the beast, as it were, and a truth well
known to the group itself, one that made them smile shyly when
pointed out by the occasional intellectual who happened upon their
microsubculture. Proufound doubt shook her with such force that
she thought of her mother and her ragdoll and wanted to scream and
kill everyone in the room. But the force of her trimensional triangle
was formidable and firmly linked with the six still living power
places, or power beings, left in the butchered geography of
Grandma Earth, and her will was perfectly blissfull, all receptors
finely sensitized, her physical body an intense magnification of
the possiblities of hominid whole-being programming. For a brief
moment she fell still, stared out at the blinking lights and rolling
in the summer icecreamcone infested center of doubt quizically exclaimed:
"Rilly?" But the Mongolian chant was clicking in even stronger
now and it sounded so good her mind in joy clicked right back into
it, and the fact that her she suddenly knew that it was a medieval
Mongolian dialect called Kharki made her whole long body laugh and
she went from muttering to speaking straight and loud into the
microphone of her portble record and relay box and everybody fell
silent and heard and knew that she'd really gotten into it, the
Habberdab had made it and it had worked so quickly and some fell
to the floor on their butts with crumbs falling out of their mouths
and somewhere between the medieval Mongolians and the future of the
stars, hosts of the dead and the living shouted for a sudden overtaking
of joy and a hope that becomes faith and spurns the world to
new endeavors of old study, new resolve to seek out the words of this
old and weary world, to find in their own hearts and in the hearts of
their mothers and fathers a new understanding of life and how to
live it that echoes in harmony with old understandings and reaches
out to the hope of children's futures. And the best part she
understood was that now no-one need know. The sprawled losers on
the floor of the bar were some risk, but odds were that the World
would more readily survive this messiah than any in the past.
But then her optimism faltered and the shooting started."
GrantedRecission4302@PoopBallU.Mamma.Pop
========================================================================
Date: Mon, 10 Feb 92 14:03:32 CST
From: GR4302
To: Sbrhym-l@SBCCVM
Subject: slkdfl,xcccccc (blrrd from other list WARNING! Original SenderSucks
Turkey shit through a straw.....
other truths, and I fear the mask you give us. A drum may take one
to the middle of the Earth, but a flute may make one fly. A tree of
songbirds is the best flute, but it is difficult and immoral to
direct their singing. It is wrong to believe that a mind machine is
a shortcut to the same place as meditation, because the path is the
destination, there is no means and end, no platonic pinnacle. Yet it
is foolish to believe a drum and a computer are essentially different.
Both are wonderfully human, both only tools, and their many functions
are surprisingly similar. But it is always wise to ask oneself
questions when thinking about acquiring a tool: Who made this tool
(drum/computer)? How did they feel while making it? What did they
sing or hum? And also: What limitations am I giving up by acquiring
this new strength? I believe you should keep your drum, if it has
accepted you. But one should only take and give openly without
reservations or hierarchical frames of reference. This is very
important when one kills an animal or a plant to eat it, that one
should take and give freely and respect the other's sacrifice. This
is even more true for preying on knowledge through human conversation.
The tone of smugness and elderly warnings about mind machines & altered
lives I hear on this net only make me question the integrity of
the maker of your drum. These attitudes sadden me because all too
often the most qualified to take a journey are the least willing.
Is it not the shoe-makers guild that resists the new awl?
All that is old is not sacred. Many things that appear new are not.
Most of the fine lines we use to build for ourselves this fine world
are illusions in our eyes, blurs to our children, and holes of
weakness to our enemies.
========================================================================
Date: Mon, 10 Feb 92 14:06:24 CST
From: GR4302
To: Sbrhym-l@SBCCVM
Subject: Ad Vice #3B
Ok, let's see what I can reconstruct from my trashed nerve center. Ok I
already warned you about the spiritual dangers based on sound stimulations,
but hear goes: #1) As you might guess go straight to the negotiating
table,,,,especially now that Tim has entered the race... Don't worry about
Dan (I respect Hopewell more than that despite the fact that I called her
(?) a worthless sorry scumbag with spots).... Negotiate now like a duty for
the future which it is. You're grandchildren and my great grandchildren
will thank you. And it will help later when you want her to let loose and
scream a little during orgasm. Communication makes the best sex, and I
suppose that's what this is all about, huh? huh? OK #2) Remember: 1)YOU
DON'T NEED IT! 2) I forget what remember #2 was supposed to be but I
think #1 says it all, you don't need it, you rilly don't and the sooner
you come ;^) to this realization the better. OK #3) Be willing to wear
a chicken suit if asked of you. OK #4) If all else fails become a Rock
star in such a way that all the females young and old of England (hotwitches
most of 'em) will desire you carnally. She'll then feel obliged to at least
give it a spin, huh? WELL OK the rest is rilly gone except for some
excerpts which I now present as OK #5) heavily censored excerpts of lost
ad-vice: "Watchfullness watchfullness watchfullness watchfullness is a
fine attribute!" And there's a poem I could send about it, which I might
but the essentials is this: Yod zero like a dog is not a questioned use
in the right circumstance.... People are all icons and that's okay....
OK back in the old age many people lived high on Friday's hog in the
swamplands of Northern Europe. A swamp is like a dessert (e.g. Chihuahua--
where everything is best), that is, It's a hard life to live but with help
it yields a plethora of material wealth. In comparison it is fairly easy
and boring to live hear in the midwest and one will never get rich. But
with a dog to help you, the swamp makes one rich. Without the dog you're
just another poor sonovabitch living in a fucking swamp. Get it. Back
then no-one would query it's use. Make like a swamp dog and fetch a duck.
Convince her that with you the swamp is a goldmine but without she'll
just wallow in despair and dream of sacking Rome in a few millenia.
That's it. Sorry I can't be of more help: Ask Flaming Carrot or Peter
Hammill's pet gerbil.... contemplate while on the pot on pot. Try anything
and remember if it doesn't work out you can always flood all East Anglia
with a deadly neuro-toxin and whipe the whole fucking works out. It won't
help, of course, but you also won't get blamed. We'll blame the Sappy HAG
and that dingle dorfus pawn of the now defunct bloated and lice infested
m00se Illuminati who recently crossed our paths. And don't worry about
--well not that either,,,, bye.,,,.,.,
GerbilRimjob4302
========================================================================
Date: Wed, 12 Feb 1992 15:27:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET
From: Castle H760 <<H.UNIATZ>
Subject: proper care and feeding
GR, a word with you. Though quite happy to peruse the osculant activity
handbook, let loose, and orgastically scream a little (velleity subsiding
to duty) as he floods East Anglia with poisonous substances (holding on to
him so he gets neuro-damaged as well (in conceit, I've so much more
determination than he has that he'll have shown virescent tendencies and
gone to meet his maker before I begin to feel the effects at all)), undress
on your video-screen, plan for the future -- health insurance? -- and foryour
undoubtedly stunningly beautiful (all credit to Kersten) grandchildren(admire
my amenability, won't you?), I'll draw your attention to the backdrop of
skepsis: bowled over by your evident generosity and desire to help, I wishto
aid you in clarifying the situation: evading the trip-wires as I solemnly
genuflect before my detersive love, I'm encountering a nascent juncture of
parvanimity: an obsessive gybing in which, regarding Cheating at Sbccvm, Iam
forced to scribe "Lack of interest prevents us from adequately caring.Sorry."
and thus render void your proffered vices. A corrigent measure: the thing
is, GR, now you've become a Cheating-appointed eminence grise to expedite
espousal, your ideas need improving, marginal embroidering, re-cogitating
(bearing in mind that he calmly trounces on when defeated, while gettinginto
a tizzy over the slightest slight), if your vision of romance third-hand is
not to be so idyllic as to be out-moded and ineffectual. This gripingapart,
I can only applaud your samaritan endeavours to aid Cheating, who couldnever
help himself, and urge your further complaisance in his efforts atmachination.
Though I am trying really hard to be a trial to him, I would not wish him to
be denied an even break; hence this, your permit to live.
I guess, if you really wish me to insult you, I could venture to address you
awhile as "GR, sweetheart, baby", but, a jejeune rookie to invective (though
sewer-sorbing), I'm saving it for Tim Field alone. Sorry about that. As I
piously remark to my noble, chivalrous, cheaply scumbaggish and omnipotent
self, "damn you all, collectively". Are you sure i never dysphemistically
addressed you in the past? It seems so very remiss and uncombative of me,
what with your donnerd exanthematic outbursts and all. And, GR, s, b, noneed
for the formality: you can call me H.
H. Uniatz (houri).
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 13 Feb 1992 09:57:46 PST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: <JEFFREY>
Subject: Muffin Conceits
It was another boring evening at home in the dim and
dingy 2-room walk-up flat with the cold and cold runneth
water (that looked sort of rusty as it gushed and gushed
and gushed out of the pipes in a never-ending torrent
of shit that threatened never to stop), and the occupant
never seemed to mind, because as long as it flowed they
were happy (never mind the content, Bartholemew, the tea-
cher grades these things with a produce scale, dontchewknow,
the heavier the tome the bigger the reward, the better the
grade ((USDA Choice, Sweetheart Baby)), and so on and on
and on it went, structureless, threatening to bore us all
to fucking death (in all it's many incarnations), driving
a goddamn tank around, no less, and deliberately, purpose-
fully convoluting everything in sight with obfuscated shit.
The occupant (as we choose to call ((as it were, Bentley)),
him, or rather them, in all their multitudious slinky embroi-
dered finery ((THIS STYLE ISN'T SO HARD TO WRITE!!!!!)) !! )).
fixed a cup of tea, decided it wasn't complicated enough, and
never drank it. It sat there. Pretty soon (with blood coming
out), it dried up, blew away, and, and, came back as an English
Muffin (complicated, with all those little holes, inaccessable,
and there FORE (watch that Titleist there on the links, Jeems)
perfectly acceptable.
asdfjkl, lkjfdsa, blah blah blah, etc. (unmitigated))).
--Jeffrey (one of many, the same as always,
never-ending, but somehow, dif-
((fe {re} N t . )
perhaps a parod (y).
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 13 Feb 1992 11:49:38 PST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: <JEFFREY>
The barn was dark and very cold. Wendell could
barely see the tenuous clouds of vapor that gathered and
vanished with every breath. He sat on his box in the corner
of the cow stall and waited, patiently, while the adults
slept. Little slants of moonlight came down from the roof.
Wendell preferred the dark. As soon as his uncle had left
him and crunched back to the house on the crusty snow, the
boy had extinquished the lantern. Now he could see every-
thing just the way the animals did; shades of gray and dark
that were the sheep, and the big moon-tinted shape in the
stall that was the cow, huge and very pregnant with her
first calf.
Wendell waited, bundled up in his brothers outsized
Parka and warmest gloves. The horses breathed in the corner,
together, and the sheep were asleep. Tomorrow there would
be a calving, but now there was just the waiting. The floor
of the stall was covered with straw, and the big cow lay upon
it with her eyes open, watching Wendell. It smelled wonderful
inside the old barn, the dung and the hay and the musty animal
smell all mingling together.
It was very late. Wendell, warm on his old blanket in
the stall near the big cow, began to doze. Soon he was asleep.
The moon traveled across the sky and the constellations whirled
above the barn. Clouds formed and the snow began to fall,
slowly at first, then steadily downwards, silently covering the
roof of the barn, the orchards, and the hills around the farm.
Nothing moved, there was only the silence of the stars and the
snow; there was the waiting.
A hand shook Wendell's shoulder. He awoke slowly, not
remembering where he was, and then realized it was his Uncle,
and that his shift in the barn was over. He rose sleepily
to his feet. and trudged slowly past the cow, who had not
yet begun labor. He felt her warmth as he passed. Silently,
the older man watched as Wendell walked away down
the aisle between the sheep and cow stalls, headed for the
barn door. Uncle Bill frowned, scratching his head, and looked
down at the cold lantern.
"Wendell, why'd you let the light go out?" he called after
the boy who had just now stepped outside into the cold night.
Uncle Bill could see a thin vertical shaft of moonlit snow
when the barn door creaked open; he watched it dissapear as
it was closed again. "Hmmph. Strange boy, that one", remarked
the older man aloud, as he fished out his matches and began
to light the lantern. Soon the barn was lit with the warm
yellow light; Uncle Bill settled himself onto the old box and
wrapped himself up in the blue blanket. The cow watched him,
patiently waiting as always.
The stars burned through the icy air overhead. Wendell
crossed the yard with his head back, looking up and feeling
the winter chill that stung his cheeks. He stopped, and
turned slowly to gaze first at the Pleidaes, then at the
red star Betelgeuse in Orion, and finally at the glittering
beacon of Siruis, down near the horizon. Jupiter blazed low
in the West. Wendell stopped turning and found himself facing
the barn, silhouetted against the starry sky. It felt like it
might snow again. "Tomorrow", he said softly to himself, there
would be a calving." Now there was just the waiting.
--Jeffrey
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 13 Feb 1992 13:46:29 PST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: <JEFFREY>
Pat, thank you for your compliments (with blood coming out).
And Dan, yes, the recent stuff is not in the bloodgutsvomitsbrhym-l
mode (most of it, anyway). I hope I've completely corrupted the
e-space. Death to Lincoln's Doctor's Dog. Praise be to Ronald.
--Jeffrey
========================================================================
Date: Fri, 28 Feb 1992 10:14:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: MI5 <H.UNIATZ>
Subject: komplaent
Gentelfolk,
Dhere iz a mater wich I must taek up widh uou. Dhis mourning,
in mi mael, dhere waz a breef comunicae innforming me dhat mi subscripshun
to GARDENS@UKCC.uky.edu had bean acsepted. Hand on mi haart, I tel uou
dhat I nevir subskribed to it, did knot kno ov its egsistins. + then, I
reseived a messag on how to pruen graep-viens!
Awl I ask is whi? Migod: GARDENS!
Princess Casamassima.
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 27 Feb 1992 16:35:01 PST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: JEFFREY
Eddie's cat was speaking to him again. It was always the
same. Outside it was a particularly cold day, with a completely
slate-grey sky and the temperature hovering somewhere in the
low forties. Raw weather, but inside near the fire-
place it was warm. Eddie sat brooding in the big armchair
that had belonged to his father. It was the only thing that
Eddie had inherited from his Dad after the cancer finally
killed him two months ago.
His father had been a tough son-of-a-bitch and he made it
tough on Eddie, too. There was no love lost between them when
he had been alive, but now that he was gone, Eddie missed him
terribly. And why? Eddie couldn't figure that one out. His
father almost never praised him, and was always cuffing him
about for the slightest infraction of the rules, which were
never really spelled out in any detail.
They hadn't ever got along, really, except for the
times they went hunting out on the lake with the boat and spent
the mornings blasting anything that moved. They even shot some
things that didn't move, delighting in their own raw destructive
power. Mailboxes, half-submerged logs, and the occasional car
tire were all fair game for them, especially later in the day,
when his father was half-bagged and ready for some fun.
Eddie had been home for about a month, enjoying the freedom
of his Army discharge, when his Dad went into the hospital, and
never came out again. It was a big nasty tumor in his brain that
had probably been there for months, blackly growing and squeezing
it's poisonous pus through his head for months. The cells in his
body had somehow gone berserk, and they killed Eddie's father in
under a month. There had been a small funeral, and Eddie got the
armchair.
Now the damn cat was talking to him again. He tried not to
listen, but ever since he had come home to that big empty house
after the funeral, Gus just wouldn't leave him alone. The stupid
cat had no right to keep bothering him this way, but still some of
what he said made a certain amount of sense, if you just listened
to it in the right way. Actually, listening wasn't the correct word,
since Gus didn't really speak, but when Eddie concentrated, he
could clearly feel the messages emanating from the kitty's brain;
Eddie just picked them up like radio waves. Sometimes Eddie wondered
if anyone else heard what Gus was thinking. He hoped not, because
most of it was pretty weird.
"You'll get the chair, Eddie. Your're gonna get the chair...",
said Gus the cat. Gus seemed to be stuck on this thread for some
reason, and Eddie couldn't figure out why the cat kept telepathing
that particular message into his brain, over and over and over.
It was stupid; Eddie already had the chair. "Gus, you idiot", ex-
claimed Eddie in frustration, "of course I have the chair! I
inherited the damn thing. Now shut up, willya!" Gus jumped in
surprise as Eddie yelled at him, skittering away down the hall
to the bedroom where he hid under the bed.
"Christ", thought Eddie, "that damn cat is gonna be the death
of me yet." Gus was always bugging him with senseless advice and
mysterious portents of the future, and Eddie had recently found
it more and more difficult to ignore the voice that was always
nagging at him from inside his head. Lately Gus had been telling
him that Mrs. Wilkerson, his next door neighbor, was attempting
to ruin Eddie's life. According to the cat the old lady had told
the Post Office and the Phone company to cancel his service com-
pletely, and in addition, was responsible for Eddie's increasing-
ly severe bouts of insomnia.
Eddie paced up and down the room in a state of agitation. It
was certainly true that Mrs. Wilkerson had sabotaged his mail. All,
he ever got anymore were Phone Bills, and Eddie ignored these, ever
since Gus had explained to him how the Post Office and Utility
Companies had interconnected their computers in an attempt to find
out more about Eddie. "Those scheming bastards are out to get me
bit by bit", raged Eddie to himself as he paced up and down the
living room. He was so tired of it all! And he never seemed to
sleep anymore. His nerves were shot; even the slightest noise
made him jump.
Finally Eddie got down the shotgun. He had broken his promise
to Gus, but he could contain himself no longer. He simply had to
break down the weapon and clean it with the oily rags, even if
it was the third time that morning. As Eddie methodically swabbed
out the twin barrels he began to feel something approaching relief.
It was practically the only pleasure he got anymore. Gus said he
spent too much time on the gun, and warned Eddie that he had better
spend more time keeping an eye on his neighbors, who were most
likely working with Mrs. Wilkerson to drive him crazy.
Eddie finished cleaning the big gun and reloaded, keeping the
weapon ready and waiting in the closet in case he needed it. His
breathing was back to normal now. Eddie wiped his sweaty palms
on his jeans and turned to walk back to the kitchen for a glass
of water. He stopped, brought up short by the sight of Gus the
cat, who had emerged from the under the bed and come out into the
living room.
"You promised not to clean the shotgun, Eddie", reproached Gus,
as he stretched and non-chalantly ambled over to the sun-patch
beneath the big picture window. Gus curled up and laid with his
back to Eddie. "You're going to get the chair, Eddie. You'll
get the chair for sure..."
Eddie rolled his eyes. Not that crap about the chair again!
"Shut up Gus!", said Eddie trying to make light of the matter.
"Go catch a rat or something". Gus still lay there in the sun,
seemingly asleep as he beamed his thoughts across at poor Eddie,
who by now was sick to death of the damn cat berating him like
he was some poor shmuck who couldn't tell right from wrong. The
cat yawned lethargically as it drowsed.
Gus spoke again. "You think your're funny but you're not.
Watch out for Mrs. Wilkerson. She talked the mailman into planting
a bug in the house. They all can hear your every move by now.
Watch out, Eddie, you'll get the chair."
Eddie put his hands over his ears, but still Gus went on and
on. He tried humming, softly at first, and then louder, but he
couldn't drown out the cat's persistent monologue. "Damn you,
Gus!", said Eddie as he crossed to the other side of the room in
a vain attempt to distance himself from the cat. Gus turned
around and gazed at the agitated human, a curious look on his
face. Then he turned back to the window and closed his eyes
again, contentedly warming himself to sleep in the sun.
"Eddie, you jerk", continued Gus, "I told you about the Phone
Company and you didn't listen. You should have shot out that
Phone Booth like I told you to, but you didn't listen to that
either. Now it's too late, because the Mailman is coming right
now, up the driveway, to get you". The old cat began method-
ically washing his paws, happily cleaning the lunch from his
fur.
"Aaaaughhh!!" It was Eddie's own voice screaming as he found
himself running down the hall to the closet where the cleaned and
loaded shotgun sat waiting for him. Someones voice was shouting as
Eddie grabbed the gun from the closet and threw the safety back. The
man could hear the yelling but wasn't sure who was responsible for
the noise. All he felt was the cold steel and unforgiving wood
of the big over-under as he pumped two rounds into the breech before
setting out to find Gus, who had retreated into the bedroom again.
In Eddies ears was the distinctive ripping sound of something tearing
loose inside his head. It had a certain musical quality to it.
A movement outside attracted his attention, and Eddie swiveled
his head around just in time to see Mr. Rodriguez, the mailman,
whistling his way up the driveway on his appointed rounds. His
glasses were slightly fogged in the cold, and he watched the
ground carefully to avoid slipping on the icy pavement. Mr.
Rodriguez was pretty old for a mailman, and his big heavy bag
slapped against his side as he lugged his way up to the front
door.
Eddie forgot about the cat and leveled the shotgun, pointing
it through the big window at the blue uniformed mailman. "Goddamn
Post Office! You and your telephone spies are history!!" Grimacing,
he pulled both triggers simultaneously and a huge blast blew out
the window and cut through the five feet of open space separating
the two men. The sound of the discharge inside the small house
was an artillery barrage as Mr. Rodriguez was blown two feet
into a bank of fluffy white snow which banked the driveway.
The concussion stunned Eddie as it reverberated through the
neighborhood; the room was filled with smoke as he leaped out the
window and headed down the road to take care of Old Lady Wilkerson.
She was on her porch, peering up the street at the mysterious
explosion that had rocked her quiet neighborhood at 2:00 on a
Sunday afternoon. She squinted confusedly through her thick
bifocals, shielding her eyes from the winter-glare as she tried to
figure out why the mailman was sprawled on her neighbors driveway.
It was all a bit much for her, and she adjusted her glasses to
try to bring things into focus.
Eddie came striding down the street, waving the gun at her and
screaming about the UFO's she had summoned to help drive him crazy.
She didn't understand what he was talking about, but knew enough
to retreat inside and call the police for help. But her fate was
sealed; it was too late for her as it had been too late for the mail-
man. One part of Eddie's mind was thinking quite clearly as he began
to break the lock on the front door of the old womans house; as it
gave way he strode purposefully into the front room, realizing that
what Gus had said all along was probably true. There was no doubt
about it; for this, Eddie would certainly get the chair.
--Jeffrey
========================================================================
Date: Sat, 29 Feb 1992 19:14:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: MI5 <H.UNIATZ>
Subject: egovamputation
****** Welcome to The Stillness. Please retain yr Cloakroom Tickets.******
Hush, bird.
my mocking-
baby, a
don't you
say buy
a gonna
word, is
H.
========================================================================
Date: Sat, 29 Feb 1992 19:45:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: MI5 <H.UNIATZ>
Subject: + furdherrmor
Gentelfolk,
Uou rimembir Cheating? Dhe oen who slunk out dhe dore a whil
bak widh dhe furtif eggspreshun + dhe beatnik tie?
Wil sumone find him + prezent him widh dhe bil for mi smasched
termenil skreen? It ees 90l 6s 3d + VAT.
Whin mi cumand ov dhe langwidge has betered itzelv, I wil tel
him what I dhink ov him, eggsaktlie. Dhe pitie ov eet is dhat he wil knot
be hear to here me.
Sinseerlie,
Princess Casamassima.
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