Have you ever been to the MacDonald's outside the Flamingo hotel in Las Vegas?You know, the one with the giant helium-inflated Clown in the flaming redhotpants sitting seductively astride a rhinestone-encrusted golden arch whilewaving all comers in through a pair of saloon doors with a hand capable ofsqueezing the guts out of a greyhound bus as if it were a tube of toothpaste?Well I've been there, babe, and you can take the work of a Junior Shiner ofGreater Buffalo, it is the best little Chicken McNugget Ranch in Arizona! But aword to the wise: say no when they ask, "do you want fries with that?".

T.

========================================================================
Date Thu, 9 Jan 1992 08:24:52 PST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: <JEFFREY>
Subject: Detente

The kids were all over her now. The noise level had risen to the point of noreturn. They were climbing up her with a determination that only five and sixyear olds could maintain for any given length of time.

"Mommy, I want fries!".

"So do I, Mommy, and a chocolate shake from the clown!"

"Mommy, mommy, Misha is hitting me again."

"Shut up, all of you!" Mom was about done in now. They had clawed their wayup to the front of the line. Thousands of screaming Muscovites were pawingeach other to get to the stainless steel counter, where cheerful counter-helpwere waiting to take their almost worthless money in exchange for a fillingmeal.

Finally, kids in tow, Mom had made it to the front of the line. The rubleswere hot in her hand.

"May I help you, comrade?" said the elderly McDonalds employee to the womanwith the three screaming kids. Mom looked closer. Through the hunger-haze helooked a little like Boris Yeltsin.

"Yes, what do you have left to eat?" asked the woman.

The man merely pointed up to two menus prominently displayed overhead. Theywere identical; Big Mac-kov, Filet-of-Fish-ski, the standard fast-food tripe.There were no prices listed. Though above one menu was the word "Rubles", andthe other menu was headed "Dollars".

"Mommy, Mommy, we're hungry", whined the five year old.

"Yeah, we're starving. We want the clown...". Now they were a united front,a mini-Warsaw-pact, and it was too much for Mom, who was seeing little RedStars floating in front of her eyes. It had been a long time sincebreakfast.

"Comrade, I have only these worthless rubles. Give me please three McNuggets,three Soviet Fries, and three of the Milk-Shakes. I don't care what flavor."

The food came. Mom's remaining rubles were taken in exchange; the family wassoon seated at the formica table, unwrapping the western-style packages.Everyone dug in, famished from the long wait. After a few bites young Gregorspit out his McNuggets.

"Ewwww! My shake tastes horrible!"

"Mommy, this McNugget isn't chicken..."

It was true. The fries were corrupted. The McNuggets were unpalatable. Therubles were truly worth nothing and the clown had lied. Even the shakes weremade of liver.

--Jeffrey

========================================================================
Date: Thu, 9 Jan 1992 18:05:48 PST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: <JEFFREY>
Subject: Down with the Clown

> Sometimes I am amazed at the level of blasphemy reached in this sewerpit of
>litterature. Has not the Clown taken you in when you were cold, fed youwhen you were
>hungry, entertained you with big floppy shoes and talking dung-likeMcNuggets when
>you were depressed about the general down turn in the economy? God (orrather, Ronald
>or the Big Mc), it gets me steamed. One day you will die, Jeffrey, yet,unlike the faithful,
>you will be locked out of that great big golden-arched franchise in thesky, where the cold
>side is always cold and the hot side is always damn-well hot, and insteadbe confined to a
>unclean, dimly lit Burger King with mile-long queues and a menu consistingentirely of
>your own shrivelled, kentucky-fried liver.
> Repent before it is too late.
>
>T.
>
>p.s. I liked the Detente story: topical, yet uniquely stoney-brookish.


Blasphemy? What about your own litany of outrageous sins???
Does not the Happy Star sit in judgement of us all? When was the last time youtook the holy Onion Ring upon your tongue and prayed to the Colonel to washaway your sins? Have you never made the annual pilgrimage to Taco Bell? Doesnot the phrase "Make a Run for the Border" stir your soul? I repent not,sinner T. Rather I sing the song of the holy salvation. Go to the WhiteCastle, and cast the abhorrent spirit of The Clown from your very soul.Cleanse thyself, be whole, and abstain from eating the impure McNuggetsforever.

--Jeffrey




========================================================================
Date: Fri, 10 Jan 1992 16:40:00 EST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Bill Anderson <LIBWCA>
Subject: Threnody (Still Life With Seltzer)

Ronald McDonald, my stony brooklings, is a fucking sideshow. These bizarrepretensions to divinity need not be taken as anything but the dementedexcretions of a mind driven in to the pit by the constant pressure of redrubber pressing the bridge of the nose into the frontal lobes, exacerbated by asteady diet of apple pie and worm burgers. The rumors are true, of course- thesobbing cartoon flowers found crumpled by the monkey bars, bleeding fromunspeakable orifices; the special sauce enemas administered by the glassy-eyedpipehead McCheese- but a five minute conversation with the paranoid andfrantically misanthropic huckster himself is enough to tell the tale. He knowsit's over. Things have just gotten a little too strange, and even theHamburglar is looking for the back door. One day- a week, a month from now-he's going to run out of pills and excuses, find a piss-stained mattress tosoak up the blood, and suck a gun. For those of us who've had to endure hiswarped fantasies and cruel "humor" all these years, that day can't come soonenough. Requiescat in Pace, Clown.



========================================================================
Date: Mon, 27 Jan 1992 20:09:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: The San Julienne Telegraph Post <H.UNIATZ>
Subject: Re: curtsey to Karin

>How's that for a sop to your ego?

From time to time, she gazed puzzledly at the tank in her backyard as
though unsure of quite what to do with it. She had spent a while driving
figures of eight through the forests of the region, but the authorities had
objected and the amusement had palled. A licence, she was told, wasrequired
to mow down the skateboarding children and the police were not amenable to
her pleadings in favour of population control. The vicar had, in a
persuasive, if misspelt, missive, objected to shots being fired outside of
day-light hours. Typically, the Underground had neglected to provide her
with an instruction book; left to her own devices, she was somewhatperplexed
by the task of charming a tank.

Like everything she owned, she called it Ferdinand; as the weeks went by,
it learnt to answer to its name, looking up in an engagingly enthusiastic
manner when she appeared. Two (2) ducks, a one-time juvenile delinquent
(for some years meriting only the latter half of his social categorization),
together with the founder of the East-Coast Cheese Empire, made their home
in the engine section, while in no way upsetting the continued functioning
of the engine. She flew a crepe-paper American flag on a stick ofspaghetti
over the gun-turret; when it rained, the flag drooped and the colours merged
--in the interests of veracity, she mixed together some red, white and blue
acrylic paint while researching the description; the result was a deadish
shade of puce, which seemed inappropriate as well as uninspiring; veracity
was thus consigned to the shredder.

Her ego flew a Sopwith Camel (1917) and correspondingly crashed.Earthbound,
she grew to love the tank, useless though it was, and welded to it a
battery-powered Batman laser whirligig, lit on nights when the fog settled
closely round Castle H760, to reassure herself of its presence.

When a month had passed, they came to take it away, pointing out that her
lease had expired. She had come to regard it as a forever proposition and
would not let go. They shook their heads and stared doubtfully at their
clipboards when she explained her intention of keeping it. They had their
orders, no problem with that; the delicate matter was the carrying out of
those orders in, as prescribed by their handbook, "an appropriate manner".
The determining of what, precisely, was appropriate had been left to their
wit and initiative, requirements (together with a hat which would not
disgrace the Underground if it were seen on TV) for their privileged posts.
It was advocated that she should be disposed of quietly, perhaps dumped in
a lake, if one could be found, weighted with stones from the rockery.
Strangulation with the washing-line was also proposed, but filed under
"wit" rather than "initiative", as a corpse would remain and the neighbours
were on no account to be alarmed. Other suggestions were made; the full
list, running to three and a half (3.5) A4 pages, may be seen in thearchives
of the Ministry of Internal Affairs when the fifty(50)-year no-access ruling
expires in 1997. Not until then, and perhaps not even then, will the exact
manner of her enforced death be revealed.

The tank, a T-72, may now be viewed from 8am to 6pm in the Victoria &Albert
Museum. The fate of the ducks and the Cheese Magnate is unknown; the
ex-juvenile delinquent, re-classified as a "tramp (grade 3)" in the 1995
government revision of the "Social Labelling in a Classless Society" Act, is
known to have been gravely wounded by a blow from a milk-bottle during the
Hammersmith Shelter riots of the early fifties, and is presumed to have
entered the state of immobility commonly ascribed to expired lifespan.



========================================================================
Date: Tue, 28 Jan 92 22:52:33 CST
From: GR4302@SIUCVMB
To: Sbrhym-l@SBCCVM
Subject: neither vex a stranger nor oppress

are we not still strangers in Egypt? waiting for a vow already come and lost
in the multifariousness of our absurdity hoping for a gun before the days
done someone to lead us back up out of our painted boxes our minds yearn but
bodies clinging heavily to delights never denied we weave and sow and press
our bricks with straw or no for the burrito vendor and the crome yellow
foglight message of silence and consumer accomplishment sliding behind and
around you on old 13 east with a whisper of power and taste for unknown
highway butcherings we speak and say see we no and no and still you tellus
that our souls are whole out there? come come away jacob come ephraim out
to manasseh joseph's seed become jacob's eldest by decree and the salvation
of his father's stick and all his ten sons come away to the rock andscorpion
snake and bitter sky to feast on the message of the earth and life and the
constant giving way of force and its fine day around these mountains areyou,
say, some creep in a grey flannel suit? climb out of your shit and intothese
rags if you can man no great servant of god would let a man live who smelled
as little of goats and as much of cheap cigars as you do the conspiracy,see,
has always been one of the stinky and by damn we'll roast ye'alls rosescented
balls before the days done free men, indians, bedouins, masai, peon trust
manasseh's love of god and give too willingly for me and i believe if someof
us can keep free of more blood than we're born with we might just be theneeded
quirk the willing jerk who could feed the necessary info into their livers
and die the greatest betrayers ever to have toppled a thousand year plus
pyramid scheme extraordinaire come on and get it don't you: the shepherd
kings are dead as the face of brass on the door these may speak to you of a
day but their corrupt hamitic accents betray the blood on their choking blue
lips, colder than the day the embalmers knife will sing them to pieces and
various vessels the brotherhood of the knife hath fled again to themountains
not to return but to bring the mountain to the world and crush its feet of
clay long live those who'd rather live filthy and human for 40+ years than
be a filthly rich and barely animated 90+ corpse stinking of fermaldahyde
before the final resting home daily pain and comfort injection is even
administered we have the capital and will let's send the pyramids to the
bottom of the ocean to make atlantis true and the whole fucking westernworld
a lie living a lie is already more than we have and we might be able to
do something with it if our hands were thusly untied
WHOSOEVER LIETH WITH A BEAST SHALL SURELY BE PUT TO DEATH



========================================================================
Date: Wed, 29 Jan 1992 23:04:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Phaedra <H.UNIATZ>
Subject: to je pre teba

Hocused in turbulent truculent times, the Times crossword tenders no
dalliance; volleying to titubancy, our hero lurches, sways the subjacent
tale in deliberative legerdemain. In exclamatory mode (thirteen (13) !'s),
time as foretold (the enemy meticulous: austere exactitude "or don't
bother"), and of decidedly morbid bent. Je m'excuse, you've lost me again
("yippee!... another potential failure to understand", and he gleefully
shirt-cuffed it): "Washington 19-14", your alleged quandary: what now
signifies a dexter spin? Your delirium may be derv-caused, mine was
delve-caused, and I tell you this, Cheating at Sbccvm: your rule-bookstinks.
CHEATING keeps its undoubtedly redoubtable self in operation, folding paper
hats, wing-dinging, steaming open the neighbours' letters, twaddling in
parentheses (another transferred performative), while our heroine(mesallied?)
surveys departures in katzenjammer, sbrhym's farrago her dyslogistic haven.
The enemy self-sufficient, doggone it, whether I dance attendance or not.
It's a winsome lose some business, Cheating at Sbccvm, and M's a
role-to-be-run-over.

Or is it a drawsome business? You vaunt an unsound will (or, for life,
none at all) in an unsound body (our hero laconically lifts epee and, bowed
by the weight, crumbles): idiocy normally more characteristic of herself
than of M. "Friday-- See M about the gin to be introduced into the lemonade
at the missionary whist-drive", and, momentarily ceasing to smile, she
affirms, backed by the might of the French National Assembly (1791), that
"any citizen has the right to build a public theatre and there to present
and perform plays of all kinds", even to the audience's stated annoyance and
its presumed detriment. Asceticism! Pallidity! Romance! Go-Go Dancers!
Though you, my child, disdain fair fight, I love you slightly; the exit
stands clear, if you want it to be: priestly gaps and stochastic loopholes
nullify the badly-written and inappropriate m'aider clause. In abjuration,
you owe me nothing; my offer of the twelfth of October (though lapsuscalami)
abides. I vail; avail when you will. Notched gun concealed (but to hand),
comme il faut, I spifflicate the enemy cavity, the enemy maquillage, theenemy
tenacious, the enemy Einhard to GR's Notker -- ABRACADABRA, the enemy ultra
vires. Your view? After all, M's a Bond-operator, foundering on a bottled
replica of Battleship America, trawling the classifieds for a newer, better,
more painstaking editor to reaffix the tale, chisel pillars from a pillory,
bulldoze through the slush. Brethern, go forth and plagiarise -- and, in
your distracted sideslip into regency romance, you never stood and delivered
those Conde Nast transcripts. Nothing changes, Cheating at Sbccvm: you're
still portraiting victimization (ah, the succours of self-delusion); you'll
lethargically murmur of the means of your declared undoing, and, poleaxed,
I'll say that it's a nice day: not overly cold and with no portent of rain.

Otherwise, mail me the rule-book, Cheating at Sbccvm, so that I may further
investigate my rights as to the sport of brinkmanship -- how do I know
where the enemy makes its glory-hole? A disturbing notion: protectorate
machinery displays and displaces sbccvm; what of, oh say, nuacvm: another
flight of fancy? For the record, you misunderstood: Abercrombie was
Lascelles (but then she (in grave censure) has recently seen how smoothly
the record may be amended). Back to the wall, she deplored her negligence
in not heeding that Review command of June the twenty-second, just before
Cheating decided to pack its haversack, leave a note for the milkman, and
go into virtual hiding. "And bumpetty bump and din din din / Earth fell
on the box and the biscuit tin", Mr Hardy's heart within: Geoffrey Grigson,
poor man, he knew no better; what he really meant was a kettle of fish
(cf. "can of worms"). We've returned, you&I, until sleuthery jades, to
the question of yore: what is Cheating, the enemy chary in secessional
seclusion, DOING @wherever?

The enemy pozorovacie miesto: you smiled in your photo; at what?

"Oh, there is a precedent, legal tradition / To sing one thing when your
song means another": Near Perigord; though my memory may be unsound, my
mail-search facility suffices, and you were a historian only if I wished
you to be; quite so. A siren, a Shrike-Strike (my new toy's a clockwork
bird), "be calm now, be watchful", and ... Molluscs Beware! Nechajme to
tak, srdienko. Another late night, another few shots at that silly game
where you have to get the flickering green blob before it gets you, and
what's more, before it cloisters you (mouse in port two; press Q to abort;
hi-score list contains self alone), in between bouts of M-baiting. Oh,
sorry: I mean engaging in dialogue. Yes, Cheating at Sbccvm, you may be
Autolycus the Shape-Shifter all you wish: enforce the law, uphold the
virtues of stealthiness, wheelery and cony-cathery. And me, I'll still be
wishing you immortality.

H. Uniatz (397 for 4; not out)



========================================================================
Date: Thu, 30 Jan 1992 08:42:27 CST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "Paul A. Byers" <PAULB@>
Subject: Re: so Karin's gone

Of course I'll warn her. Its my Duty. Its my Job. I'm the Poor
Basterd (tm) who refuses to be e-dead, just e-crippled (badly). And
there for can't/won't produce the written art of the rest of you. No,
my area of artistic ablity is all physical. The Properly done
drunking brawl. (can't let them peak to early or end in a whimper)
The noble/stubborn defence of a right idea. The slashing attack of
someones elses idea. (Got to give the other joe a chance to be a hero
too.) In other words I try to live big.

Can't write worth a dam though.

But yes, I will warn her.

Pavel



========================================================================
Date: Fri, 31 Jan 92 11:22:02 CST
From: GR4302@SIUCVMB
To: Sbrhym-l@SBCCVM
Subject: Pavel can't write but hurls with style

Yes, Pavel, you can't write but you hurl with style, that's why we love
you here on the Underground Hurling Zombie Mutoid list. But I'm sure if I
ever saw you in person I'd hurl too, or kill you with a lamp.
gr4302 (I've given up.)