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Date: Fri, 19 Jun 1992 10:17:48 CST
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: GR4302
Subject: my list! my list!
what has happened?? i pop out for a week and all this shit comes rolling
in... New List Owner??? No-one can own this list! Go to Fnord-l you
running dogs! Yes, god is married, several times...he's a polygamisty'know.
M., M., you've shown interest. It's not a novel but nonetheless I'll will
soon begin to post it because you have shown interest. If more e-folks
would do this I'd post more. I'm always threatening and rarely get any
response. Maybe you'll even get those promised songs (no ref #--"my brain
is public doman.") History will git y'all sooner or later. Foss, take a
nap, take a break, forgive yourself and come back with some ideas. You are
the running dog of sbrhym-l, BUT THAT'S OK!! ENUF!!
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Date: Fri, 19 Jun 1992 15:44:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "Strangler@Cheating's-Landing" <H.UNIATZ>
Subject: Re: The sunstress in seamly pallories
Hi, m'dear, "Can you type?" "Mais, oui." I was thinking so. Anytjinh he cann do,; i ca n dp bettwr: Strangler learns to type. "Dp,ryjomh vs,r i[" : Oops! wrong keys Something Came Up
Bowie, feelin' tragic like he's Marlon Brando says "Ziggy played GuitAr", only Strangler the typist cannot find the Z and it's only post-empting Phillpott's (sic), viz: "Xjqiggy played GuitAr"
& gently, Cheating, stewheart, baby, you choose not to be insulted<& this is nice of you: nice nice >your fault. nice nice nice nice nice...! My fault. Always. You&I may yet deal well. Apologies & Apoplexies Keep it up. & Life Eternal Darling. inculpation.
Come the reverbolution when I rilly do learn to type you can have longer frequainter letters done so quickly I don't reconsidle & delete the viciousnesses; won't that really blow yr mind? Darling.
>bribery. Now, there's a thought. My life and assets yrs yrs yrs If only you tell me what time it is As my watch seems to have stopped And I love (sic) you as well as [fish]ing you -- but, Casbah you know that. --CABASH!-- "(How'm'I doing?)" Rilly rilly well: never a step wrong, and charming de profundis. "What proof do you need?" None; I'm told it sadly tastes of tapioca & strangler the foolhardy takes tapioca on faith. H H HHH H H.
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Date: Fri, 19 Jun 1992 12:35:06 EDT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: LIBWCA
Subject: Re: The sunstress in seamly pallories
In-Reply-To: Message of Thu,
18 Jun 1992 18:18:18 GMT from <cheating@CCVM.SUNYSB.EDU>
>LIBWCA would lend his back ciphers of Secret Wars which o remind him
>of us in our attemptations to increment subscripture.
Don't know from secret wars; they keep me pretty busy here at the malt
shop(pe). I used to have a slight problem with red kryptonite, but
that's cleared up now. Gotta run. Late for numismatics club.
Bill
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Date: Fri, 19 Jun 1992 19:19:19 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "Xjqiggy [tapioca] strangler" <cheating@CCVM.SUNYSB.EDU>
Subject: Re: The sunstress in seamly pallories
In-Reply-To: <9206181835.AA24909@casbah.acns.nwu.edu>
Darling. Thanks be as conditioned. Responsive.Might I inculcate you into full bloomof inculpation? It's a lovely shade.Telegram: "darling stop what is a leopard messiah question mark stop I await further instructions stop or so she said stop" LIBALP: Add'l local colo(u)r: seeing as how she's such a Bowie fan (revealed), you might consider taking her to Little Five Points -- if it's still standing.& this is so very nice nice noice noice noise noise noise! [end]Kaballah Cobolt Cabal & if you look quickly, you might just see a viciousness which she has failed to dequaint. Darling. The time at the tone shall be: 361 Zero Data PicnicGR4302: hwo wsa yoru trpi? I loko forwadr ot all futuer installmenst.Or: as it once was put to me very carefully: PURE MONODROMY of a stacked sheaf. Darling.MM MMM M MM M or so she said.(hoping that we shall continue to deal well for now and for as long as...)
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Date: Fri, 19 Jun 1992 18:39:02 EDT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: LIBWCA
Subject: WHY NOT BIG FIVE POINTS
Arthur isn't here- he says he's gone to Florida, but he doesn't really
pay much attention to me anymmore since I stopped disemboweling people,
and I thing he may have gone back over to the Masons, or maybe the pope.
Anyway, I can't imagine he's approve of this nightclub idea. Perhaps
we can arrange an escort from LIBJRM, who's a bit less severe in his
moral views. I'd take her myself, but there's this glee club thing to
attend to, and to be honest, we haven't really met yet... I keep meaning
to walk right up and introduce myself, but there's that gleam in her
eyes, and I have to get over to the student center for the conduct
council elections, and the really do keep me pretty busy down at the
malt shop, you know, and besides, I'm pinned. But if Uniatz really
wants to go listen to the hippies pick out Hotel California on an old
Slivertone, I'm sure we can work something out...
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Date: Sun, 21 Jun 1992 21:03:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "strangled@cheating's.landing" <H.UNIATZ>
Subject: Tales of Death and Disinterest
Those things you mistook to be undeleted viciousnesses were
undepleted unviciousnesses; the deleted viciousnesses were much
more viscous; consider yrself murky. Any viciousnesses, ever,
were unindented. Except when you had infideliberatrociousilly
annoyed me. Which was not all that seldom. Darling.
A leper messiah is what Xjqiggy is lika, while a leopard messiah
is a leper messiah that has changed its spot-lights and stars
in the movie _The Return of the Crystallised Fruits_, which
knocks the audience no less sideways second time around. An
unqualified mess-i-a-h is a mess with poor grammar claiming to
be a `h': self got there first; tough.
* * *
The Post Office Tower falls from his nerveless hand as the door
slowly opens. Double-crossing the threshold, in, out, he
whizzes around the moat in a pleasure-boat, wondering if he
dare brave the chilly blackness of the hall. Carefully screwing
his courage to the brass door-plate, he re-enters the castle,
clobbered on the way by the threshold's Jewish Mama, who will
not forgive wrong done to her lowly offspring. Signing the
visitors' book under the name of "m. cheating", he gazes at
the wallpaper at about the height of a receptionist's head and
haughtily announces that if he had had a woman with him, she
would most certainly have been his wife, thank you very much.
Seemingly heartened by the crushed silence of the space on
the wallpaper at about the height of a receptionist's head, he
reaches confidently into his briefcase, abstracts another Post
Office Tower, and grimly reloads it. His footsteps echo on the
marble cakewalk as he reels in the staircase, stands at its
base, and, jerkily humming songs of his youth, begins to climb.
A small child out walking its frog glimpses something floating
on the oily waters of the moat, and, coming closer, fishes out
a filofax. Having wrung it dryish, he notices the City-&-Provincial
Bus Timetable tucked into the back flap. The 3.30 to Gateshead is
ringed in green. Over the hill, the town hall clock is heard
striking 2.47 BST. Allowing for distance, gravity, and the mayor
having one of his turns, the child estimates the time to be 2.52 BST.
Presuming the owner of the damp filofax to be both within the castle
and unwishful of missing its bus, the child leaps over the moat and
through the scullery window. He is a boy-scout. They are like that.
In the control-room behind the morgue, A. M. Ward, long believed
dead, listens to the sounds of intrusion floating at him from
the surveillance-pipes, opens his safe, and, moving aside the
blood-encrusted receptionist's head, picks up a small curved
dagger. Patiently swiveling in his chair, he observes his
reflection in the dagger's steel blade, removes the price-tag,
and giggles to himself as he waits.
Happily, the child explores the vast hall, pocketing any spiders
in its path. In matchboxes. With breathing-holes. He is a
boy-scout. They are like that. As he follows an almost extinct
Hungarian lesser splodged specimen upstairs, he chances upon
our hero seated on a step, having a coffee-break. Union rules
allow for a seven(7)-minute coffee-break at 3.00 BST. Dialogue
ensues, during which the frog falls from between two railings and
plunges five hundred (500) feet to what is assumed, for the
avoidance of overproliferation of characters within the narrative
framework, to be its death.
Speeding through the morgue, the almost extinct Hungarian lesser
splodged spider scuttles under the door of the control-room,
attracting the unsteady monocled eye of A. M. Ward. The dagger,
now priceless, is hurled through the brownian movement and embeds
itself in the door-frame, carrying with it a not insignificant
percentage of the arachnid, which has become even more of a
collector's item, being four(4)-legged as well as Hungarian &
lesser & splodged, the only known one of its kind. Footsteps are
heard in the morgue. Ward retrieves his dagger and turns a faded
photograph of his mother face-downwards on his desk. He leans
back in his chair as the door opens.
* * *
Will our hero catch his bus? Are the possible death of Ward and that
of the frog mutually exclusive? Why don't you take me to night-clubs
instead of down-loading yr squiring duties onto malte-shopping libs?
Will the child discover &/or suffer the fate of the receptionist?
What else does that briefcase contain?
[tbc, subject to whim]
M M MMM M M.
========================================================================
Date: Sat, 20 Jun 1992 21:58:45 EDT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Juniper Sage <CHEATING@SBCCVM.BITNET>
Subject: Congratulations, of sorts
It would seem that evidence is being provided against me, and that
powers that would "be" if not nearly so short-sighted and lacking a
sense of humor would ascertain my location to make certain that all
my fricatives become liquids. But that scarcely pertains to the matter
at hand, to wit:
Tomorrow, the 21st of June, 1992, in the sleepy hamlet of Norwich,
England, at the St. Stephens Church, there shall be a Marriage Reunion
Service for those Americans who, during World War II, married "G.I.
Brides". This celebration is part of the ongoing "Return to England"
events taking place in the domain of East Anglia in 1992. (For more
information, contact Jane Sullivan, Toppesfield Hall, Hadleigh, Suffolk.)
What significance has this for our "darling" list, which is, after
all, located at the site of Stony Brook, New York? Simply put: tomorrow
a new marriage will be initiated that very day, likewise involving
two from opposite sides of the Atlantic Ocean.
Will our happy couple survive in this maddening world? I most certainly
hope so. Will her exasperating tendencies towards untowards inconstancy
and his needlessly complicating palpitations of sincerity and doggerel
provide undue pressure on their scant sanctity? Undoubtedly.
I hope all the members of the list will join me in wishing them well.
Juniper Sage
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Date: Mon, 22 Jun 1992 22:18:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "M's wife, JS's minder. [1]" <H.UNIATZ>
Subject: Re: Congratulations, of sorts
I do believe Mother would be mildly interested to
hear that I am married, and as I appear to be suffering from
post-nuptial inarticulateness, you might be so kind as to mail
her a short message to let her know. Never wanted to get
married in summer, hate summer [2], but, seeing it was you, I
made an exception. I have already sent Jane Sullivan a slice
of the cake, though, if truth be told, I've seen you bake better.
I think the eggs were what made it sink; I told you that you
shouldn't use so many. You should have ...oops, I mean, it was
perfectly lovely, the central dip was very artistic, and you, as
always, know best. Darling.
Now, as to this "evidence" that's been provided against
you, it's either my doing, which I doubt, or what you would
consider to be none of my business, which is as not on as ever.
You may not know this, but I got married lately, and it's amazing
what a feeling of power it gives one. So just tell me who this
trouble-making x@y is and I shall read up on my volumes of
ancient Chinese methods of torture & practise on the cat so as
to ensure an absence of squeamishness when faced with the
enemy's enemy. [3].
H.
[1] Cop the distinction: this is known as pandering to the
whims of the enemy; I am v. ashamed of self.
[2] Too hot.
[3] Darling.
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Date: Mon, 22 Jun 1992 22:23:22 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "M, M, M, and a whole lotta syrup"<CHEATING@CCVM.SUNYSB.EDU>
Subject: Classical Rondello
Ignoring blissfully the earlier challenge:--
first off, pander only to me, dearest (oops!), and not to any other
imagined whims you may forsooth to forsee.
second, I apologize for the heat; it's a balmy cold front that blows
over the nuptial vows which, as near as I can tall tell (or otherwise),
does not, and could not, apply to me.
third, it would have been the egg substitute; wish to watch your
cholesterol for you, my beautiful, beautiful beauty.
fo(u)rth, do requisition LIBWCA with his Most Impressive Bibliographic
background to find you those volumes: I'm saying, talk to the ex-Godhead,
too importune for re/approach.
fifth, do not dawdle, but rush swoop fly strafe crash into my arms
and we'll find a nice equator to (double-)cross (how'm'I doin'?), in,
out, to find you a Heart of Winter, IceGirl (yr own comic soon to appear).
sixth, because I cannot ignore it, hopeless roaming mantric that I
be, consider (ha): I have never annoyed you. Never. If you misconstrued
the debris as such, then, well, shall I become uppity and insist "Have
Done With" or "Best Interests" or any other? Your town, your city, your
county, your country, your continent -- gee, how far does this go? --
your turnip, your rutabega, your collection of pencaps only slightly
chewed. I am bystander who awaits every crowned king with the heightened
anticipation of someone who goes to chess matches actually hoping to
meet members of the opposite sex, nerveless or no.
seventh, (deleted by order of the High Commander of the Regiment)
eighth, I will glandly take you to any night klub you wish, with
the ever-so-slight condition that they must not play music.
ninth, who is the High Commander of the Regiment? I await further
instructions (good spy that I am, shall I tell you of M?)
tenth, darling.
or so she said.
========================================================================
Date: Tue, 23 Jun 1992 18:39:52 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: A Strangler's Strangler <CHEATING@CCVM.SUNYSB.EDU>
Subject: A very bad mistake
Oh, I shall pay dearly for this, I know ... gerne biete ich mich dir an.
* * * * * *
Dismounting quickly to revive the antequated feelings in self's limbs, the
Roinn Oideachais gazed at the castle & moat which, swaying in thebreeze,
assumed an air of distaste towards its surveyor meant to convey that it
knew full well that it had no business being here but that the burden of
putting the cart to the castle rested solely and dolefully upon the knight
in shining armo(u)r. "Ich erreiche jetzt mein Ziel. Die Falle ist
gesprengt." Turning dime-sharply at this, Roinn beat self's brows in a
slightly exaggerated display of annoyance that self had omitted to ditch
the language before setting out.
Turning over a rock with self's foot, Roinn spat for good luck,
unfortunately missing the earth's depression; the saliva sparkled silverly
in the waning light of day. The Roinn Oideachais did self's best to
pretend that either this had not happened, or it had been intentional, or
it was something which had escaped notice; only the stead gave it the
briefest and most discrete of smiles. Then, the horse began to speak, as
it frequently did -- it had been silent thus far to catch its breath after
what it felt to be an exceedingly long ride, particularly considering that
Roinn did seem to be abusing the outlines specified by the pact which was
in operating between the union and management until the contracts could be
properly notarized --, thus: "Ah, my goodly frere knight! Such chevalor! At
yr equest, I've brought you to this undrinkable water, and I champion at yr
bituminous volition which spurs you on to thoroughly fare well. However,
the sun fades; might I presently be relieved from your service?" Roinn
waved the animal off, evidencing disinterest, but pleased that the creature
had not kept pace so as to require overtime. "Morgen", self spoke away
from the already retreating figure so that the words were lost on the wind.
Placing the left hand index finger along the left side of the nose and
lightly drumming the cheekbone set high from Roinn's tendency to squint
when Smiling, self confronted the affronting circumstances. O!, if only
self had been allowed to continue as a boy scout! Alack, gaining entrance
would be as easy as, well, exactly however easy it would be for a boy scout
to gain entrance. Roinn's ignorance shone. With a wrist-flick on Roinn's
trusty motorcycle, the knight in shining armo(u)r could bound the moat as
per Hollywood action-adventure film stunt double; with only a slight
adjustment for the wind blowing N-NE in Roinn's trusty helicopter, the
knight in shining armo(u)r could after several circumspective approaches
set down on the far shore, or upon the thatched section of roof which might
give way and allow Roinn to, making allowances for the rather insistent
noise of Roinn's trusty helicopter, more or less take the castle guard by
surprise (though Roinn had some hesitancy about this method, it would have
to be admitted, though not by Roinn, who, without the expediency available,
thought it the most grand idea). But, instead, Roinn had decided to cut
costs slightly and settled for a minimal wage-labo(u)r horse who had been
poor company (Roinn would quickly have admitted this). Even so, without
the shining armo(u)r, the knight no longer in shining armo(u)r could
utilize self's trusty Camelot (The Official Supplier of Knight Accessories
World-Wide) Pocket Pole Vault (Item No. 72-3310) to full and glorious
effect (guaranteed still under warranty), but disrobing at present both
seemed unwary and offended the knight still in shining armo(u)r's sense of
Fashion. Thus it came to pass that after exaspirited self-discussion the
Roinn Oideachais called across the moat to a hidden member of the castle
guard as to the least time consuming method of gaining access, and, after
first making clear that Roinn was not a boy scout, was referred to the side
of the castle where a pleasure boat was to be found bouncing noisomely on
the murky waters, which, distrussed, provided the Roinn Oideachais with a
means for passage.
Frightened by something which, for the sake of building up a degree of
uncanny suspense, will not be given an adequate description until much
later in the narrative, if at all, though that might result in unfair
accusations of baiting, the vicar, his face shrouded in a macabre terror of
intensity so great that it was very great indeed, shuddering ceaselessly
with violence, and tripping every few steps so that his condition was made
that much worse by the proliferation of bruises, made his way down
corrosive corridors where, periodically, he would stop to readjust the
quite ordinary pictures of sunflowers and archdukes along the wall, as his
sense of etiquette and aesthetics was as irrational as the fear presently
driving him, though to a much greater degree rooted, until he tumbled
headlong into the chambers of the ardent mycologist, who, without looking
up from the weekly newsmagazine he was reading, declared, "Thirsty work
bein' scared, i'n't it?" The vicar fell nearly motionless on the
parquetry, venting in a manner more appropriate for small rodents. After
some time of this, the vicar was soothingly offered a spot of tea to aid
his nerves, which he accepted in a mute stupor of disjunction, which
unfortunately prevented him from making the essential realization of just
exactly who it was supplying the liquid.
The Roinn Oideachais made an odd squeaking sound as self thundered in onto
the marble cakewalk, gazing with no small satisfaction at the palisade's
balustrades. Self checked self's Digitalis (tm) watch to find that it
displayed a time of 3.45 GMT, which gave Roinn pause to sigh with an
audible disaffection correlating with the fact that Roinn did not quite
know how to mentally convert GMT to BST, as well as the fact that the visor
Roinn wore amplified all the sounds Roinn made so that, if Roinn was
unfortunately made to sneeze, it would result frequently in temporary
deafness; however, it had been a gift, after all, so Roinn felt compelled
to wear it (the watch, not the visor). After flipping it open (the visor,
not the watch), Roinn started down the nearest hallway, uncertain as to how
to find self's way (O!, if only self had been allowed to continue as a boy
scout!), attempting to make as much of a nuisance of self as possible in
the hope that someone might provide directions to the control room behind
the morgue (which also held, the Roinn Oideachais knew, a far more reliable
Town-&-Country Bus-&-Train timetable, -- a comfort as Roinn knew howmuch
more enthralling train adventures were, besides freeing up the need for
transportation to and from the castle); in the process, Roinn rushed right
past a watchman stationed before a banistered walkway. Stopping a few
moments afterwards, self felt that it would be most appropriate behavior to
return and give the watchman satisfaction if so desired, or allow him the
opportunity to try and call up the castle guard before Roinn ran him
through, or even try self's good nature by properly going through the
actions of groveling for his otherwise unnecessary except for a plot device
life. However, before Roinn had managed to turn all the way around, the
detective had quickly altered his disguise from that of a member of the
castle guard to chaise-lounge.
* * * * * *
tbc, subject (as always) to her whim
========================================================================
Date: Wed, 24 Jun 1992 17:06:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: strangler the blissfully ignored <H.UNIATZ>
Subject: Re: Classical Rondello
Listen, strait-set, sunshrike, I have never challenged you. Never.
I would follow you to the selvedges of the world & over, pass you
the salt even if you hadn't said "please", explain to the customs
officers that you were sporadically colo(u)r-blind and really meant
no harm, laugh at your feeblest jokes provided you indicated by
facial expression or subconscious gesture that you had reached
the punchline, agree with you that you having annoyed me (that is to
say, having not annoyed me) and me having been annoyed by you (that is
to say, not having been annoyed by you) were two quite different
things, auditch over-reliance on dubious alliances, watch cholesterol
with you on rainy Saturday mornings, send you the red folder on
LIBWCA, anything rather than challenge you. Not, as you'll find
by reading the minutes, that I care. And, if a correction, which is
a lesser blot entirely than a challenge, may be permitted: there is
no High Commander of the Regiment, with the result that it keeps
mutinundating, taking half-days off outside of holiday-schedule,
and shooting itself in the back.
Excellent story, m'[fish] very [fish] dear [fish], self praises to
hilt & urges tbcontinuation, though you seem to confuse yr Roinn
Oideachais with yr chocolate biscuit, yr Literary Underground, yr M,
and the extenter-hooks of yr failings.
A nightclub, dismal, you on yr third (3rd) whiskey planning to
profess eternal devotion & boredom, self on the balcony collecting
snails to throw at you should you dare, you powdering chalk to
sell as illicit substances, self singing quietly memories of la la
la la la till you look up and frown "I Said NO Music", you on yr
mobile phone staking assignations, self calmly penning a note to the
Daily Telegraph ordering one of those Hear a Whispered Conversation
Clearly Across a Crowded Room or yr Money Back thingies, you stopping
the cheque; quick, pass me a handkerchief, I feel a portrait of
Nietzsche & God in the Bahamas coming on & comfortless "rush swoop
fly strafe crash" into yr arm's length hyperbolic whole-lotta-syrup
something-came-upp-up-&-away-ity have-done-with best-interests
business-whose-business stronghold, there to dwell contagiously
unsafe & unwarm as notified even should you smile smil smi sm s...
Then, all comes to a halt as I cop this for a phenomenon. Consider:
Letter A: Mon, 22 Jun 1992 22:18:00 GMT, & Letter B: Mon, 22 Jun 1992
22:23:22 GMT, the important point being that the latter is in reply
to the former. A appears @sbccvm at 22:19:24 GMT. Allowing one (1)
minute for an extravagant estimate of the length of time it would
take to glance cursorily at and totally misunderstand the contents
of A, this leaves, as a passing micro-chip calculates, just short
of four (4) minutes for the composition and typing of a reply. Now,
here is the bit that throws me: another passing microchip informs me
that B runs to 315 words, averaging 78.75 words per minute. Taking
into account the actual composition (albeit slapdash) of the reply
within the same time, and the fact that it was punctuated, I say to
self "migod, he can type." Self's notion of learning to type fast
lasted only the five minutes it took for self to discover that self
does not have an attention span. Letter B also has the infernal
nerve to contain a word unfamiliar to me, viz., "rutabega". I tell
a passing microchip, sorry, I mean H770, to fetch me a dictionary, and
look up said word, to find it actually more or less exists, and
signifies a Swedish turnip, upon which I close the dictionary and
gently place it on a shelf. Self is developing an inferiority simplex,
cannot compete, and is going home.
[jellyfish],
h.
&&&what is a "gerne biete ich mich dir an"?
========================================================================
Date: Wed, 24 Jun 1992 23:37:51 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Tawdry Exercise <CHEATING%ccvm.sunysb.edu@UICVM.UIC.EDU>
Subject: Re: Classical Rondello
In-Reply-To: Message of Wed,
24 Jun 1992 17:06:00 GMT from <H.UNIATZ>
Zanre knows 'er bloody shelves, I suppose. And the tone of it all,
quite the shame, to (re)consider athwart a lovertical shades (HI)story,
sad, the bartender scened it all before into teleplays earning royalty
archequeues for BBC tentertainments with their spoofy-spontaneous
riffs well-designed for hooks from above. "C'mon, you can do it."
And, to top(sy) it (f)all(ow) off(ending article shall cease NOW),
it would seem admist the auditching (very, very nice, indeed), I made
the syntactical error of pins-&-needleesrting a word not native to that
Grolious Stone, a lithium test which never stoppledestrian her, no,
not even in unctious gleanings of praise (the insertions of which
and my coming to grips in fabricating their placement are two quite
different things, as you surmise) for her blasted-yet-still-she-could-
care-less dancing partner. So, as I promenade limpedly towards the
formaldehyde craps table, making certain to avoid remaining but briefly
under the balconied railings so as to not be showered with whatever
tidbits have been left out from the wedding reception's table-treats,
quickly describing a hyperbola for the nice man who failed math,
being told by omniscient voiciferous boastings that that is indeed
the incorrect answer, which is only embarrassing as the nice man who
failed math cannot fail to hear them too (siren-lyke, I should add)
and yet he does the polite thing and pretendencies not to notice,
which results in his being struck by balled-up leaflets from the
Mollusk Infrastructure (which, to be precise, is what I confused the
Roinn Oideachais with (as well, of course, as my H.)). I see that
Moody has made the inevitable appearance on the HISTORY list (they're
a little slow, but that's ... okay); I change my mind about one of the
provisions and, requesting the sound of your voice for accompaniement
(sic), I jig gruesomely. What kind of music would you like, my love?
Having silenced you, I find no alternative but to leave, dropping my
assignature on the guest-book on the way out.
Consider: though I am honored and obeyed (oops oop oo o) to have you
make an assumption of me -- actually consider me, no less! -- I must
stand by my honor-&-obey (rather flimsy things they be) and suggest
that you account for one of the Mayor's whims -- o, but it's your
town -- and reconsider the rumismatics as follows:
by yr leave: 22:18:00 GMT, departs.
22:19:24 GMT, arrives @wherever <a-hem> (actually,22:19:17,
very close; do you monitor that, too?).
22:20:24 GMT (approx.), M. finishes digesting the most
sacred recreclivities of the woman who has been occupying
an unhealthy amount of what passes for his thoughts
("that's not company time, now, there, lady(PB-neutral),
is it?").
22:23:22 GMT, state's evidence B (and, now, for subtraction:
23:22 minus 20:24, by the hum of the microchip, comes
to two minutes fifty-eight seconds, quite short of the
four (4) minutes that you calculate; I of course know
full well that it's microchip H270's fault, her general
piqued condition at being interrupted resulting in
her very quick stock answer: don't trust her if you
have to catch a bus).
This most assuredly affects the division which then follows. But, also,
consider that, your most cherished thoughts are subject to having been
presorted and filed, before there was a header deserving to carry them;
22:23:22 GMT marks the time that M foolishly undertakes to underhand
back to you; the header remains motionless while the intrepid insipid,
nonetoobright, stretches the cavity of fish, or so she said, as far
as capability portends. If it makes it any easier, then we may leave
it that M can type 225 wpm indeedy, but slows so that yr message receives
the attention and care that it deserves, though, according to the
minutes, you do not.
It approaches Midnight on the Eastern shore of Old England; she is, if
a good child, well tucked and comforted for the duration of this
rotation; I shall go home now myself and shall rummage without
discretionary aim until she rises to extract the toast and coffee from
the morning; at this point, I shall dutifully collapse, counting
e-sheep and trying to do so without moving my lips. May her whims be
as frothy as thus far and she allow me her tbc.
M. (I believe that H800 keeps a German-English dictionary in a box of
books labelled "Projects That I Rilly Do Not Intend To Do"; borrow it
from him, or perhaps one of the LIBlads might assist, for I fear I've
forgotten)
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 25 Jun 1992 10:22:34 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "Dktr. Subtilis 'ego vamp -" <cheating@CCVM.SUNYSB.EDU>
Subject: & while we're on the subject,
and while I'm waiting for you to rise
In-Reply-To: <TEST%92062412543277@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
In article <TEST%92062412543277@PSUVM.PSU.EDU> you write:
>Listen, strait-set, sunshrike, I have never challenged you. Never.
> Not, as you'll find
>by reading the minutes, that I care.
Copped, a sticking-point for me, you'll have to pardon, or not,
whichever, it won't affect the fact that this story progesses at
it's interminable rate towards the horizon @nowhere, and that's just
the way you like it. But, I must, as the self(yrs, not mine)-
appinionated archivist, must simply refer all those with programs
to the subject heading of December 23rd, 1991, where, midday, ankle-
deep in snow and body rye-met encumbered in foggery, both external
and internal as self attempted to recant hexen-rules of plane-
boarding and accurate heresies to which, if pressed, she might
confess, she suddenly arrested her own movements, upset her delicate
breathing, and demanded of the gathered and flighty attendant gascons
(fiefdom audience) for a pristine and unfolded item of stationery
to which she put her green stub of a crayon and scrawled a note
which was, magic of magicks!, instantaneously transmitted via ihres
beaux yeux (Hallowed Time o' the year, all the rage, made adequate
stocking stuffers with only a few instances of Dec. 26 return-line
clamoring (ex libris es verdad)) to this "sleeply hamlet" (JS: slip:
try pulpitations) which proves that, whatever else, she's consistent.
Awaiting: "ah, m'[fish], did that state a Challenge to M? Such
assymtoting of excess baggage which is, as always, whatever you say
it is" or "you have forgotten that self reserves the writ-over to
declare all such declamations to be retroactively unwielding or
unyielding, as one sees fit" or "dear me, the cheating network has
confused itself for itself; and it would deign to take a subject
deadending as the outmodus operating as @whereeverwithall".
No matter. However, let the record stand; I care to die with it,
as I have many times before, and am so prepared to do so again.
Could it be that, from you aerie, you know of a microchip that might
be programmed to care? I'd be willing to take the first challenge
meant for me or no (a tad slow but that's ... okay), and only need
the proper return mail code so as not to clutter up yr far more
importune existence.
As performative, though, that time won't let the best of us (you've
done Xjqiggy; how about Iggy?) sysop properly; last Friday, in
reprimand to yr one (1) question, I should have said "359 Zero Data
Picnic", for which ref. consult GR4302's public domain brain terminal.
[GR: I'm at virtue's end; yr non-novel that you've promised? Onword,
son.] Not only can I not spell, I cannot add, either; a fine, fine pair
we shall make.
HH HHH H HH H (or so she said.)
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 25 Jun 1992 13:40:00 EDT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Arthur Parker <LIBALP>
Subject: Welcome back, Arthur!
>Anyway, I can't imagine he's approve of this nightclub idea.
Oh Bill you so wrong. I am approve. In fact, I am very, very approve.
I very looking forward indeed.
"Did I kiss the viper's fang, or herald loud the death of man?"
I show good time you betcha. L5P just full Bowie fans, CHEATING very
hip you know? But i think maybe H. get shot by Kerry Thornley we go there.
Maybe not good idea.
Arthur
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 25 Jun 1992 14:27:00 EDT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Arthur Parker <LIBALP>
Subject: A country song she sang to me
LIBALP, O darlin' LIBALP/
Please don't wear/
That pink/
Pill-Box Hat/
When you go out wif me tonite.
Thank you. The name of that one is called Pill-Box Hat. Thank you.
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 25 Jun 1992 14:37:01 EDT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: LIBWCA
Subject: I'LL SEE YOUSE ALL IN HELL
Arthur is back now, so I am going to go off and live in the woods
now. And grow my beard very long. Because of the little dancin'
men with the shiny flippin' dog. Because of what they told me.
I will not be no trouble to no one in the woods, and I will sing
real loud so that no one will hear me. When you hear my song from
the woods, go to the closet and stay there until I am gone. I
mean this. I am not sick like they say. They won't let me go to
the malt shop no more, I don't want to anyway because of what the
seltzer said when I put it in the egg cream. I can run real fast.
Bill
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 25 Jun 1992 13:13:29 PDT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: JEFFREY
Subject: Re: I'LL SEE YOUSE ALL IN HELL
In-Reply-To: Message of Thu, 25 Jun 1992 14:37:01 EDT from <LIBWCA>
Bill;
You can go to the woods if you want. Just don't take my campsite.
And by the way, it was a blue circle.
--Jeffrey
P.S. He took it all too far, but boy could he play guitar.
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 25 Jun 1992 21:18:42 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "urk." <CHEATING@CCVM.SUNYSB.EDU>
Subject: Correction.
No, no, no, Jeffrey, ringed in green, ringed in green.
or so she said.
M.
Now where were the spiders?...
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 25 Jun 1992 16:24:05 EDT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: LIBWCA
Subject: Re: I'LL SEE YOUSE ALL IN HELL
In-Reply-To: Message of Thu, 25 Jun 1992 13:13:29 PDT from<JEFFREY>
On Thu, 25 Jun 1992 13:13:29 PDT <JEFFREY> said:
> Bill;
> You can go to the woods if you want. Just don't take my campsite.
> And by the way, it was a blue circle.
>
> --Jeffrey
>
> P.S. He took it all too far, but boy could he play guitar.
> Re: I'LL SEE YOUSE ALL IN HELL
>R==
I will see Jeffrey in the woods. WHEN I GO INTO THE WOODS, I WILL
SEE JEFFREY.
Bill
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 25 Jun 1992 21:28:09 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "urk." <CHEATING@CCVM.SUNYSB.EDU>
Subject: Infirm Ifrinn
Does I hear some banjo muzic? Izzat wat I's hearin'?
Actually, one of the most wonderful things in the world is to flip idly
through one of H.G. Lewis' learned tomes on how to write good copy all
the while remembering the barrel-rolling scene from _2000 Maniacs_. He
was from Chicago, you know.
Wouldn't give that up for all the dinars in Pamplona, nosiree.
M.
We are the goon squad and we're comin' to town...
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 25 Jun 1992 21:55:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: strangler <H.UNIATZ>
Subject: Re: Infirm Ifrinn
Ah, there you are, m'dear. Fired again, I see, and nothing
to do all day. Arthur says you're "hip"; what does this mean?
H.
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 25 Jun 1992 21:50:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "in Moral Rutabegatude" <H.UNIATZ>
Subject: how m'dear does mischief-make... (sigh)
I'm very very very sorry, I mis-subtracted and so underesteemed
yr typing skills: 105wpm @very-least, 225wpm to the credulous
[you see, Dr. Haggard, this is why I don't even bother trying].
Concluding that such ability is shamefully wasted on yr civil
service duties, I've checked out the Times Appointments Section
for you, and found THIS: an Executive Opportunity in a publishing
software company, based in either Dublin or London, with starting
celery of 80,000 l. 0 s. 0d. + car. The work seems pretty trivial,
all they require of you is "looking after a personal territory,"
being aware of "the need to endorse third party relationships,"
& becoming "a key figure within the organisation." I would
expect you to fit this by judicious delegation into yr mornings,
in order to have yr afternoons free for my entertaintment. I've
mailed them yr cv; when they get back to you, as they undoubtedly
will, seeing that I didn't mention yr being on bail, just dismember
that you have seven years experience preferably within a software
multinational company, once lost a yacht-race to the director's
charming wife, have no designs on her, and are fluent in several
dialects of ancient Chinese.
No, I still have the German-English dictionary of the aunt of the
gardener of H800; borrowed it last time the echos were schweigening,
just can't seem to find it amid my other precioussions: a sprung
trap and an M. of my wary own, & who could ask for more: this is why
self is tantrumatic at airline-desks, shakes self's head & self's
polished revolver adamantly and states that self is not going
anywhere So There without self's excess baggage.
"Challenge": yes, a charming piece, as I recall, would've posted it
myself if only I'd thought of it, and would probably condone
everything it said except that I have no intention of distressing
myself by reading it. Get it straight, I didn't write that.
I wrote only what I damn well want to have written; soon, I shall
develop a huff and require you to send me back my epthistles
perfumigated in pretty green ribbon: O, how self is stamped upon!
And I cared, and you stayed, and, in the end, programmed to [fish],
I fear I shall be quite care-worn. You, darling, are a confounded
idiot, but, now I've conned & founded you, I'm keeping you (for
as long as ... that's ... okay).
Hello, Jeffrey, haven't seen you for a long long time.
And, while Bowie's having his day, "hope you're happy": ashes
to ashes for you, m'dear, for it must be such a trial looking
up those H.s, uea info being quite a dreadful bore, and if you
search the easy way, from within the system, you're on my
terroritory & I warn you that [text trails off obscured by
scrawled annotations of [jellyfish] [jellyfish] [jellyfish];
scholars differ as to the significance of these comments.]
H. (M.'s Secret Service)
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 25 Jun 1992 16:24:00 -05
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: Merciful Lee Dickens <<DICKENS>>
Subject: PASCHAL LAMBS EAT IVY
In liquid gammy put, I've shossed and not fearful, will so shoss
again:
Hi! Hello! Greetins, Cretins! Shossy, shossy-ho, shossy-hey,
shossy-howdy! And on and on, ad infinitum, nauseum, woof:
I have here a coupon good for 2 large Pepperoni pizzas - only $9.99 -
and the first one of you "People" (and be advised I use the term
loosely, shossy-nonny-no) to reply in a NICE (read: subservient,
boot-and-water slavish kind of way) manner of speaking will have your
name thrown into the Big Brown Bag and be therefore ever so much more
so eligible for a turn at the Big Surprise Grab to be announced at a
later date!
Okay, you literary-types, better button down the pince-nezzes and super
glue those little black berets because I'm feeling PRETTY GOSH DARNED
LITERATE right now and ready to have a go at it!
Okay. So where do I start?
Do you hand me a round-robin story and say "Here - add a paragraph" or
do we all just stand up and say a little about ourselves, maybe recite
some poetry...what?
As you see, I'm from Alabama.
I Love You,
Merciful Lee Dickens
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 25 Jun 1992 22:27:43 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "A Stately Pressure Cooker Did Decry"<CHEATING@CCVM.SUNYSB.EDU>
Subject: Y'See! Y'See! Did I call it, or what?
Well? Oh, that's perfid, acute, dazzling, blarneyed, Dr. Haggard, do
you know how to dance? "I didn't write that" -- dearie me, that's a
good one, not quite in line with the H corpus, closer to an M tone-deaf
reverie in the morning, or so tu m'accuses sich Sich SICH (ach ...
gerne biete ich mir sich an cuz' I'm a sucker for this loveagely woman,
with her maladroit maladies-in-waiting); "no, no, M, not Juniper, M;
remember? I'd proposed marriage, and you..." and it goes on again.
Howdoyoulikeyrblue-eyedlady? "I didn't write that" -- could you kindly
direct me to that which it was that did? You seem to have some sort
of deep-seated fantasia with these doctors and computer programmers
and microchip-off-the-ol'-blocks and others all in a row -- perhaps
one or more of they stooped up from the infighting to scrawl it out.
However, it was definitely transpiffied with your eyes, your eyes to
die for ... 'scuse, lost in love for a triple sec ("nightclubbed by
her eyes").
Care, it would seem, has become a four lettrist timbre, tinny, but
with the pungency to clear the room; I'd like to propose a toast;
would anyone care to join me in drinking to H? Do not be bothered
by yr occasional lapses in precision aptitude math skills -- after
all, it's not like you've entered into a bond whereby it shall have
much greater significance (jellyfish, jellyfish, where for Arthur,
jellyfish -- gonna set your grandma on fire) for your life than the
occasional after-hours coffee-set tricks to wow 'em and get them
disoriented so they appreciate my solemnizing and somnambulizing
amongst them. Ah, we'll be fine, truly.
I honestly hope and prey that you've sent on that cv which I neglected
to forward but which, for a handful of gold and a cookie recipe, you've
no doubt obtained and spruced; "sod off" would be an inappropriate
thank you, no? If I get the job, then, well ... otherwise, consigned
to hell and damnation (been a while, that) I shall wassiling go, but
that's ... whatever you say it is.
And, motorcascading twixt rocks and wet places (Station to Station),
understand that, by having promissoried to consign with and accessory
an idiot, you have only strengthened the convenience chain in its
sundry reproducabilitany. With breathing holes. I never claimed
more for self-stamped enveloping patterns of noise noise noise
(Damnably affectatious): beware: seeing as how I'm "fired", I may
consider the nexus locatives of sociologist or serial killer.
Ah, not bad, just slightly off pace; 174.5318432184132 wpm, according
to the sound of the tone. And rest assured, I never, ever would
look at uea in its acrimonious yet fluid state; I have a collection
of trading cards of the full H series (no gum when you buy them en
masse as I chose to), less one; care to guess who she is?
M.
or so she said.
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 25 Jun 1992 22:37:32 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: A kid <CHEATING@CCVM.SUNYSB.EDU>
Subject: 'll eat ivy too, wouldn't you?
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,"
I'm sorry, that's all I could think of; next?
And I would like that coupon so that I might supply her with pizzas for
her sashays into the forest when she gets here.
or so she said.
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 25 Jun 1992 23:01:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: "no wpm at all" <H.UNIATZ>
Subject: RE: Y'See! Y'See! Did I call it, or what?
That'll get its due tomorrow, unfair & unjust but hopelessly
[jellyfish]; jangle of security keys is heard and though self
has spun stories to security as to self's presence After Hours,
self has done this several times too often, so is leaving
leaving leaving...
(fades into distance happily lilting "good night good night
good night" to tune of London Bridge Is Falling Down which is
self's favourite song so of course what shall be gruesomely
jigged to TRA-LAH!)
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 25 Jun 1992 23:54:00 GMT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: CHEATING@CCVM.SUNYSB.EDU
Fine, just off and leave like that. Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow.
I am looking forward with great anticipation to tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
"Good night good night good night night,
good night night,
good night night,
Good night good night good night night,
My Fair Indecision."
Sleep well, H. Uniatz, you who have plagued me, and know, verily, that,
this time (singular, of course), you are most certainly and demonstrably
Wrong.
========================================================================
Date: Thu, 25 Jun 1992 19:11:00 EDT
Sender: SUNY/Stony Brook Literary Underground<SBRHYM-L@SBCCVM.BITNET>
From: LIBWCA
Subject: THIS IS NOT MEET
I will avoid Jeffrey's campsite. I will do this because I promised.
And because Jeffrey is a good man, and fine friend of the forest and
he was always good to my father when my father worked out here with
the dangerous birds. And because the ugly vines are there. If I can
keep away from the ugly vines, I can be happy here in the woods. We
should all keep away from the ugly vines, except when we get thick
gloves from the Man Behind the Counter and pull them up and strangle
them and step on them and dig big holes so they can never grow again.
They told me about this. I'm just the guy to do it.
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