to all my tasteless friends,i would like to extend my wishes that all of you have a happy tastelessholiday.

    some of you need to be singled out for special recognition.you are truly ill and i just wanted you to know that it hasn't gone unnoticed.

    now, no list of tasteless people would be completewithout including the infamous Youngie, whose posts i severely miss. whereveryou are, you poor sick fuck, i hope you are having a good time. considerposting some of your disgusting material on someone else's login for thoseof us who find you amusing.

    joni johnson. your poignant posts are always a joyto read. if you ever come to santa cruz, you have a  place to stayand a face to sit on.

    steven snedker, you definitely need a keeper. i'massuming that they let you out in the morning to make your posts and putyou back in whatever cage you live in.

    let's not forget my little brother, Carter. now,for those of you who haven't met him or read his posts, he is my adoptedlittle brother. when i met him, he was a young kid with tasteless potential.now he's a truly sick individual, and i'd like to think i had somethingto do with his development.

    on the ugly side, there's a segment of our a.t populationthat has a tendency to get offended by what we post. i have 2 words foryou.
 

               FUCK OFF

    i read tasteless because i get off hearing aboutall the sick things in life, those intangibles that make life worth living.i hate for people to flame those among us who are only having fun laughingat the absurdity that is our lives and choose to laugh rather than cry.you know who you are, and i hope your holidays are as unhappy as you seemto be.

    here's to another tasteless year.

-==-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Vinnie Jordan                          The Santa Cruz Operation, Inc.
E-Mail: vinniej@sco.COM                Software Inspector II
Work Phone: (408) 425-7222 ext. 4418
"These are my opinions: I hope you don't like them!!"
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=--=-=-

From news.hawaii.edu!munnari.oz.au!uunet!scorn!score!vinniej Wed May6 14:01:56
HST 1992
Article: 10321 of alt.tasteless
Path: news.hawaii.edu!munnari.oz.au!uunet!scorn!score!vinniej
From: vinniej@sco.COM (One Sick Individual)
Newsgroups: alt.tasteless
Subject: Batman
Message-ID: <2201@score.sco.COM>
Date: Tue, 05 May 92 19:54:29 GMT
Sender: news@sco.COM
Distribution: world
Organization: The Santa Cruz Operation, Inc.
Lines: 41
 

Several years ago when I was paying my debt to society in the countyjail, there was this young kid that I was in with. He was a little guy,and 18 or 19 years old, and for those of you unfamiliar with life in stir,that makes for an uncomfortable situation.

There was also this big badass bully type, which is also a not uncommonside effect of being the guest of the state.

Anyway, the bully used to constantly fuck with this poor kid, usingthe typical jail intimidation tactics, like telling him that he, the bully,was going to get this kid alone and fuck him in the ass and there was nobodythat could stop him from doing said acts.

WRONG!!!

One day, the kid had had enough. We were out in the yard playing balland lifting weights. The bully had his back to us waiting for his turnat bat. That's what he got. The kid walked up to the backstop and calmlychose a bat and proceeded to beat the living shit out of the bully. I meanBEAT that fucker. For those of you who have never seen anyone who has beenseverely beaten with a blunt object, it ain't pretty. The dude had bloodpouring from every orifice in his face. He was laying on the ground twitchingand jerking. Now, noone was going to try and stop this action for 2 reasons.First and obviously, the kid was out of his mind and had reached the breakingpoint, making him more than a little bit dangerous.

But second, and most important, was that the kid was right. Few thingsin life are more satisfying than seeing a bully get his due. So after thekid was finished, they threw his ass in solitary. We never saw the bullyagain. I hope he died.

I never knew the kid's name. I doubt that many people in there did,Because after that he was always known as BATMAN.

************************************************************************
Vinnie Jordan
vinniej@sco.COM
 "The meek shall inherit the earth; 6 feet of it!!" *E. Grogan*

Newsgroups: alt.tasteless
Path: diku!dkuug!sunic!mcsun!uunet!scorn!vinniej
From: vinniej@sco.COM (One Sick Individual)
Subject: Just Imagine
Organization: The Santa Cruz Operation, Inc.
Date: Wed, 21 Oct 1992 01:18:12 GMT
Message-ID: <1992Oct21.011812.16671@sco.com>
Sender: news@sco.com (News admin)
Lines: 84
 

Y'know, I got to thinking about the whole animal rights issue. I
realized how fortunate we were to be on top of the food chain.

To the animal rights people, I say, we live in a world where we
are the dominant species among creatures such as rodents and pigeons.
So let's look at it as if we weren't the dominant species on the
earth.
 

Just for argument's sake, let's say that the primates were running
things in the animal kingdom, and they were using us as a food
crop. We'd be kept in pens all day. Since we were only farm animals,
we could do pretty much nothing except fuck and eat. Now, they'd want
us to fuck in order to propagate the species. And they'd want us to
eat a lot in order to make nice chops and roasts.

Now, you'd say, "What's so bad about eating and fucking all day?"

Well, fucking would lose its appeal when you consider that there
wouldn't be no Cindy Crawfords and Tom Cruises. No, no, no, they
would want you big and fat. So all your potential sex partners would
look like Roseanne Barr or Oprah Winfrey, and your male ones like
William Conrad and Meat Loaf and Louie Anderson.

Food would look bad when you consider what we feed our animals that
we use for food. We feed chickens seeds, cows grass, and pigs just
about anything, including pork.

So here's how I picture your last day on earth as a food animal;

You're laying in the back of the pen after feasting on a pail of
slop consisting of rotten vegetables and human scraps. You're all stretched
out, with one of the Roseanne things licking the sweat off of yourhide.
You grunt and roll over. Spotting one of the Oprah things, you sidleup
and begin your mating ritual. After a while, you mount it and pumpaway for a
while into its fat, flaccid body, releasing your spooge and feelingall
the satisfaction one feels after watching Lawrence Welk. As you wanderback
into the shade to sleep, you see the primate farmer coming toward thepen.
He has the stick he always carries. You've seen this before. He chasesone
of the other humans out of the pen, and he has never been seen since.But
no one knows where they go.

As an animal, your senses are heightened. Something instinctively tells
you that the farmer has come for YOU this time. You begin to panic,and
you feebly attempt to avoid him. But he's done this before. As yourun
toward the corner, he steps into your path, causing you to dodge awayto
the other side. You try to change direction. The farmer sidesteps,making
you change direction yet again. This time, you cannot avoid the chute,the
one you saw so many before you run down and never return. As you rundown
the chute, you realize that that's where he intended for you to goin the
first place. A feeling of doom comes over you as the chute narrowsto the
point that there is no room to turn around, only forward.

As you get farther into the pen, the smell of sweat, blood, excrementand
urine are overpowering. Your animal instinct tells you that this isthe place
that you are going to die. At the bottom of the chute is an opening,and you
make a dash for it, as it is the only possible way out. Just as youreach it,
and your hope is beginning to surface, a hammer comes from straightup above
you and crushes your skull. Before you die, everything goes red fromall the
burst blood vessels behind your eyes. As you let out your last breath,you
realize that this had been your destiny from the day you were born.
 
 

Cool, huh?

The moral of the story is;

The animals would not take your side if the situation were reversed.
So take heart, and eat the little fucks. Not only are they a good
source of protein, but you get the satisfaction of knowing that the
little bastard died in order for you to survive. It's hard to be humble
when you know that.
 
 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Eat your meat. It's good for you!"           My mom
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Newsgroups: alt.tasteless
Path: diku!dkuug!sunic!mcsun!uunet!scorn!vinniej
From: vinniej@sco.COM (One Sick Individual)
Subject: Kids I knew
Organization: The Santa Cruz Operation, Inc.
Date: Fri, 13 Nov 1992 22:53:09 GMT
Message-ID: <1992Nov13.225309.20789@sco.com>
Sender: news@sco.com (News admin)
Lines: 48
 

Remember how, in high school, there was a caste system of sorts?
I mean, there were the cool kids, there were the hardasses, and
of course there were the nerds, so everyone had someone to pick
on. And then, there were the kids who were so fucked up that
even the nerds gave them a hard time. Today, I'm gonna tell you
about some of the more memorable freaks in my school.

Fat Frank was so fucking fat that he blocked the sun during gym
class. The sight of him in his gym shorts huff-puffing his fat
ass around the track was a truly grotesque sight. Plus, he had asthma,
but we were all required to take phys-ed, so the poor fat bastard
would exert himself and periodically would treat us with an asthma
attack. It was really quite comical to watch as he sat there, all
bleary-eyed, gasping for breath while he waited for someone to go
get his "whiffer," an aerosol spray thingie that I'm sure you've
all seen before. Whoever was sent to get it would invariably take
his time while the rest of us watched him turn colors. I never went
for the whiffer; I always wanted to stay for the show.

Then, (my favorite) there was Hnurt. No, that ain't no typo. His
real name was Stuart, but he had a fucking gnarly-looking hairlip,
and whenever he said his name, it came out Hnurt. Every time I saw
him, I'd say, "Hey, Hnurt, how's it hangin'?", and he would always
answer the same way, "Huck you, nan!"

(Translation: Fuck you, man!)

Three eyed Stevie was a really creepy looking kid with this eye
disease that caused the colored portion of his eyeball to be covered
by this milky white coating that caused him to be blind in that eye.
And he wore glasses. Now, four-eyes is the standard nickname for
kids with glasses. But he only had three. Couldn't never figger out
why he wore glasses, instead of a monocle, like those Nazi fuckers
wear in the war movies. Perhaps they don't make them here, but it
sure would've made him look cool!

And to round out the list was Sparky. Sparky was a big ugly kid.
He was ugly because, as a small child, he was playing with matches,
(Kids, don't try this at home!) and caught some curtains on fire,
and scorched the shit out of his face, leaving him disfigured,
but the proud owner of a new nickname, Sparky, which I gave him
personally.

And people say I'm insensitive. Go figure.

Newsgroups: alt.tasteless
From: vinniej@sco.com (Missing Link)
Subject: Re: Under The Covers
Organization: The Santa Cruz Operation, Inc.
Date: Mon, 22 Mar 1993 14:47:27 GMT
 

In article xxxxxxxxxx.xxxxxx.xxxxx@xxxxxxx.xxxxx.xxx.xxx xxxxx@xxxxxxx.xxxxx.xxx.xx(Charlie Lear) writes:
>Get married. It's FIVE times as much fun then!
>After you've eaten a particularly bad combination of foods and yourfarts are
>the toxic eye-watering concert-hall-clearing type of excellent quality,go
>to bed with your wife. Wait for her to fall asleep.
>Quietly and carefully make sure the covers are well tucked in, snuggleup
>close and loose off the afterburners. Let it simmer under the coversfor
>thirty seconds or so, then roll over, elbow your SO in the back, andfluff
>the covers in one easy movement.
>You then get to pretend to be asleep while listening to the gaggingsounds
>and agonised mewling gasps of your loved one...
>From one who knows: don't lose it and burst out laughing...
 

Spoken like a true married man.

My first wife was a good match for me when it came to creating thatlate night air pollution. We never discussed it, but I can picture herlying there in the dark with a big smile on her face when she felt me jerkout of a semi-coma due to the fact that my olfactory had been violated.

And here's me next to her, trying to act like it had no effect. I wasn'tas versed in tastelessness then.

Wife #2 was a coke freak, so she didn't have the interest in food thatcreates those loving, middle of the night episodes, like a Mexican foodand Corona diet allow you to have.

Present one is a little prudish. Leaves the room when she has to fart.Won't blast one under the covers, like me. But she doesn't fool me. I canfeel it when she tries to slip a silent one past me when I feel the warmair on my leg.

In article xxxxxxxxx.xxxxxx.xxx@xxxxxxx.xxxx xxx@xxxxxxx.xxx (Chris"Systems Stud" Pikus) writes:
xxxxxxxx@xxxx.xxxxxxxx.xx (Chops) writes:
>> Being pretty much of a newbie to the group, I don't know when the
>> winning posts appeared on a.t., but I suspect that anything posted
>> shortly before the call for nominations had a big advantage.

As I may have posted before, when the nominations were called out, itbrought out the competitiveness in an already active and talented groupof certifiably sick people, and the quality of the writing went up, dueto the fact that everyone would love to be in the running for most sick,as voted on by a jury of their peers. That also goes for the newer people.When we all get going, we bring out the best in one another. That's thebeauty of the group.

What I was impressed with was the fact that it was a HEALTHY competition,without any backbiting or putting down of the other contestants among thenominees. It proved to me that you can be tasteless, but still have class.You, as a newcomer, have written to a quality level to where I recognizeyour name. Yet, those who have been here longer would have an obvious recognitionadvantage. If you want some advice from an arguably sane person, keep writingthe way you do, and I've no doubbt that you'll be considered next year.But keep in mind that you'll be in direct competition with the verbosityof a Geoff Miller, the technical knowledge of Eric Schwarz, and the flat-assmeanness of people like me.

I wish you luck in your endeavors. You show the makings of a major contributor,and I look forward to watch your development, as you become a more frequentcontributor.
 

>> If this was the case, how about accepting nominations throughoutthe
>> year? i.e. if people see a post that is worthy of nomination, theysay
>> so. Some noble volunteer can then archive all the nominated posts,to
>> then be reposted on request when the time for voting rolls around
>> again. Rather than relying on people to remember posts that they
>> appreciated a year ago!
>> Whaddya think?
>> Chops
>As to archiving worthwhile articles, I'm doing that already in
>order to get a jump on 1993. If anyone thinks something is really
>outstanding, EMAIL it to me as sort of a proto-nomination. It won't
>be official, but when nomination times comes around on January 1,I
>will sift through these and then include them.

So Chops, my man, you can see that the System Stud is not going to allowthe quality postings get lost. He's got a hell of a job, for which he getslittle recognition, but I think he wants to do a fair, objective job, muchas his predecessor Ashdown did. If your contributions are deemed worthy,you'll be man 'o' year next year.

Just remember, the competition is tough.

Apologies to all for taking up so much space today, I've been on 2 weeksvacation, and I've a lot of catching up to do.

And it's good to be back!!!!

In article <C50LsG.51x@news.cso.uiuc.edu> ken@uxc.cso.uiuc.edu (Thingfish)writes:
>    I just finished reading a biography of Harry STruman in which it mentioned
>TJ Pendergast (Truman's poltical boss in KC) had cancer of the colonand had an
>operation to have his rectum closed.
 

A politician with his asshole sewn shut!!

Now, where is he going to keep his fucking head?

_______________________________________________________________
Vinnie Jordan, 160 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
           "A dirtymind is a terrible thing to waste."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In article <9254.11105@stratus.SWDC.Stratus.COM> bobc@bandit.swdc.stratus.com(Another beer, please) writes:
>Then it hit me.  All these people were old.  I'm talkingnobody
>under 65 here.  As soon as one of the old fuckers would almostbe
>out of the way of the car in the front me, another would start
>across.  It wasn't like there was an old folks stampede in one
>direction. They were either coming from, or going to Longs.

I've always hated old people for two reasons; they remind me that,
if I don't accelerate my drug and alcohol abuse rate, I'm gonna
end up just like 'em. The second reason is that older folks have
this smell about them, like gradual decay. That's why all those
old aunts and grandmothers wear that cheap perfume. To cover up
the smell of impending death.
 

>Ya know, old folks really walk  s o   s l o w.

Which makes absolutely no sense. They have so much less time to
get places than the rest of us do.

____________________________________________________________
Vinnie Jordan, 160 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
           "A dirtymind is a terrible thing to waste."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In article <1reicgINNgko@apache.dtcc.edu> andy@apache.dtcc.edu (ANDREWGREENSHIELDS) writes:
>In article <C60rpI.9tJ@panix.com> roy@panix.com (Roy Radow) writes:
>*The statement "Sex by age eight or else it's too late!"
>*was the slogan of the Rene Guyon Society back in the 1970's.
>  That's right, the NAMBLA slogan is "Sex before seven is absolute
>  heaven!"
 

Sex before six is good for your dicks!!

__________________________________________________________
Vinnie Jordan, 160 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
           "A dirtymind is a terrible thing to waste."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Newsgroups: alt.tasteless
From: vinniej@sco.COM (Missing  Link)
Subject: Re: Dead Dog Deduction
Organization: The Santa Cruz Operation, Inc.
Date: Mon, 26 Apr 1993 20:20:46 GMT
Message-ID: <1993Apr26.202046.7590@sco.com>
References: <19930425153046UOD0603@MVS.UDEL.EDU>
Sender: news@sco.com (News admin)
Lines: 25

In article <19930425153046UOD0603@MVS.UDEL.EDU> UOD0603@MVS.UDEL.EDU(W.Jamison) writes:
> What makes this all the more amusing is that this store is staffed
>primarily with physically and mentally handicapped people who musthave
>had an interesting time with Rover.  "wake up boy" "wake up"

Sorry about muffing the last post. It's Monday, you know.

Anyway, your post reminded me of when my daughter was 4 years
old. I had gotten her a kitten for her birthday. Well, little
kids have no concept of how easy the little fucks die when
handled improperly or too much.

A couple of days later, here she comes, carrying the dead cat
out in front of her, and said, "Daddy, I want a new kitten. This
one sleeps all the time.

No idea how long it had been dead. It was stiff, but the bugs
hadn't gotten at it.
 

______________________________________________________________
Vinnie Jordan, 160 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
           "A dirtymind is a terrible thing to waste."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Newsgroups: alt.tasteless
From: vinniej@sco.COM (Missing  Link)
Subject: I am an aberration!!
Organization: The Santa Cruz Operation, Inc.
Date: Thu, 06 May 1993 20:50:08 GMT
Message-ID: <1993May06.205008.23951@sco.com>
Sender: news@sco.com (News admin)
Lines: 35
 

That's right. I'm a mistake. I always suspected, but wasn't sure untilnow.

What has led me to this conclusion has to do with a visit I had withmy mom and sister earlier in the month. I hadn't seen Mom in 10 years andmy sister in 15. We were all expecting a grand reunion, talking over oldtimes and such.

Then, I found out that there were rules. I hate rules.

Now, my mom is a very demanding woman. She always has questions aboutmy personal life, and when she don't get the answers she wants, she hasa fount of dipshit advice that I don't have time for.

Y'see, the father, like the son, was a heavy substance abuser, so whenhe mounted good ol' Mom and shot her full of mutated sperm on the nightI was conceived, I developed more in his image than hers. That's probablywhy we don't get on so well.

I was sitting on the couch, sipping the second of what was the 3 brandycoffees that it takes to get me off the goddamn couch after a hard nightof playing blackjack, yanking handles, and ogling the broads in the casino.I looked over, and she had a look on her face that seemed to say, "If I'dknown I was going to give birth to such a horrid creature, I'd have stucka coat hanger up my snatch and pulled out my whole fucking uterus!!"

My sister was a little more understanding, but we're really worlds apart.But Mom was such a drag that I ended up cutting my trip short by a coupleof days.

Next time I go to Vegas, I'm staying in a hotel!!

In article <1993May24.130355.26273@galileo.cc.rochester.edu> mprc@troi.cc.rochester.edu(M. Price) writes:
>In <1993May24.091008.1173@nuscc.nus.sg> matmcinn@nuscc.nus.sg (MatthewMacIntyre at the National University of Senegal) writes:
>
>>kevin@rotag.mi.org (Kevin Darcy) writes:
>>: >
>>: >It seems to me that consistency demands us to treat the eatingof meat and
>>: >child cannibalism as essentially falling into the same category-- killing
>>: >and eating a conscious, aware, but nevertheless non-consentingpartner.
>>: >
>>: >If course, if you're prepared to state that child cannibalismis fine by
>>: >you, then your argument remains CONSISTENT, at least, but notparticularly
>>: >popular...
>>:
>>: Animals killed for food would not have existed but for their valueas sources
>>: of food, so as long as the method of killing is humane, it's OK.
>>:
>>: Children, on the other hand, are NOT raised for food, but for otherreasons,
>>: and to kill and eat them, even if the method of killing was humane,would
>>: cause untold suffering to their friends and relatives. So it'sNOT ok.
>
> So would it be OK if you had a child specifically so you could eatit
>later?
>
>mp

Well, if the ugly head of Kevin Darcy, one of the people so vile thathe has his own newsgroup where people flame him, hasn't appeared to nauseatethe humans among us.

This is a post I wrote last year that I feel is relevant to this discussion.Read on Kevin. Then run along and go fuck yourself.
====================================================

OK, you all know what a socially conscious being I am. So, of course,I have a proposal to not only help curb the population problem, but willat the same time put money in the purses of welfare mothers.

Anyway, I'm reading the paper the other day (I know it sounds like anobsession, but at least twice a week I find something that tickles theshit out of me) and there's a little item in the corner that sez "EGG DONORSWANTED."

Now, maybe I'm a little dense, but this confuses me. Here we have aparadox, too many children and not enough food. So we have some women whoseovaries don't work right, and they want women with healthy snatches toGIVE them their eggs, so they can produce more fucking kids than we havethe room to raise or the food to feed them. THAT'S NUTS!!!

My proposal is to take those eggs, and instead of taking them and makingmore kids, we use the eggs to feed the ones we already have. And insteadof giving the goddamn eggs away, the women can sell them to the egg factory,where they are turned into palatable food.

Now, who has the most fertile snatches? Welfare moms, of course. Theyturn out their little future criminals out by the carload, and why not?If they have more kids, they get more cash. But with my plan, they wouldbe encouraged to sell that fucking egg, rather than producing another mouthto feed. Simple, huh? Less kids. More food.

OK, now that we've solved those social problems, let's figure out whatwe can do with our new product. I'm fond of ethnic dishes, so the nationalityof the egg can be used for special dishes;

Mexican eggs served with salsa and chips, Chinese eggs with spring rollsand duck sauce, little black eggs with red beans and rice, Caucasian eggswith Wonder bread and a bottle of Perrier, etc.
 

And what do I call my new creation???? That's easy!!

OVIAR (tm) , of course.
 

In article <1993May27.024647.29808@mnemosyne.cs.du.edu> mreinker@nyx.cs.du.edu(matthew Reinker) writes:
> I'm not feeling very imaginative right now, maybe I'll post an idealater.

Matthew, with no ideas? Yeah, right.

Let me give you a hand. As a twice divorced man, the time I have spentcontemplating acts of violence against the cunts that have complicatedmy existence is quite a chunk.

First off, you have her upside down. Flip the bitch over, so she's stillhangin' from the ceiling, but she's cunt-up, with the legs slightly spread.You followin'?

Get a large funnel, really big. Slam that sumbitch up into Sweet Thang'shoneypot 8-12 inches. At this time, she'll be starting to whimper. Butdon't go soft. Remember, you hate this bitch.

Get a large pot of thin gruel or oatmeal. Consistency should be aboutthat of semi-melted ice cream, thicker than water but not too thick. Mixthis with the drained blood of a slaughtered animal, preferably her favoritepet, but any large animal will do the trick. Mix with oatmeal, and letset, until it becomes a sludge as the blood coagulates.

Next step, get a plunger and a helper. Any divorced man will be gladto give you a hand. Have helper pour blood and oatmeal into wide top openingof funnel, and vigorously plunge that shit as hard as you can into hercavity. Don't despair if it seems tough going at first; it ain't easy toshove that shit hard enough to displace organs, but with perseverance andthe strength of pure hatred coursing through your veins, soon the fruitsof your labor will begin to show in the form of a swelling of the abdomen.As you get about halfway through the gruel-blood concoction, you'll seeit begin to drip out the side of the mouth and out of the nose. She's aboutready now.

I assume you're in some sort of warehouse environment if you got thebitch winched up. So, it seems safe to assume you have access to big tools.Axe? Shovel? Either will do. Surprisingly, you need to separate the ax-orshovel head from the handle. They'll cause a premature end to the upcominggame.

For competition's sake, you and the helper throw $5 in a hat. Then,each of you stand on one side of her and rear back and smack the abdominalarea until the bitch bursts.

Aw!! Your friend won. His axhandle was heavier than your shovel handle.Don't feel bad. You're only out $5. But you'll be rewarded with a cascadeof truly tasteless glop consisting of mixed human and animal blood, congealedoatmeal, bile, digestive juices, and if you're real enthusiastic in theapplication of your paddles, chunks of organs.

Or, if you're pressed for time, just blow her fuckin' head off!!!

Vinnie, on my way to a co-dependency meeting.

So I was reading Strayhorn's post about Olongapo City, and I nearlygot weepy. For those of you smart enough not to have signed a small portionof your life to the US Navy, 'Po City is the tasteless capital of the Orient,if not the world.

As you cross the bridge from the base, headed into the town, you goover what is called the Shit River, a foul waterway that is so impure,if any military personnel fall into it they are required to report it totheir medical corpsmen. But the native kids are seemingly unaffected byit. They float beneath the bridge and yell for you to throw coins in thewater, which they would dive in after. Being a lifelong nasty prick, even20 years ago, I used to throw them slugs. They'd come up out of the watershaking their fists at me and calling me incomprehensible names. I usuallyresponded by spitting on them.

'Po city was under martial law in '73 and '74. And racial segregationwas real common; the black cats and the white dudes hung out on differentsides of town. The Filipino men weren't allowed to go into the bars thatwere frequented by the Navy dudes, even though it was their wives and daughterswe were fucking. Obviously, this created a lot of tension on the streets,and the gangs took out whatever revenge that would present itself whenthey caught the ugly Americans out on the streets after curfew, which wasmidnight, as I recall. Lots of guys got beaten and stabbed, and as theywere more familiar with the nooks and crannies, the Filipinos were realhard to catch by the Shore Patrol, which was little better than a goonsquad of gung-ho servicemen with a thirst for blood and violence, withvery little formal training.

The usual variety of circumstances that exist in conditions were evenmore pronounced. Venereal disease was rampant; I caught it four times ina 9 month period. The citizenry was for the most part destitute, and werevery creative in the way they parted the square bumpkins from their money.A lot of these rubes got their first piece of ass in the Philipines, andyou would not believe how many of these fuckers would ask these fuckin'bar sluts to marry them. I don't know the statistics on how many of thesemarriages ended in divorce inside of a year, but my guess is 90%, 'causethese cunts would hit the ground running when they got to the States, wherethere was food and work, like they had never seen in their lives here.There were also arranged marriages, but those were business, where a welloff family would pay a serviceman to marry their daughter on the conditionthat they would not contest a divorce and they wouldn't try to fuck thedaughter. Which is a paradox, when you consider that the average age forthese young women to get their fuckin' cherry popped was about 13-14. Butthe idea was for them to get a start in the States and get things set upfor the rest of the family to immigrate here. As the wife of an Americanserviceman, she would be free to leave her country and move here. The usualpay was only about $1000-1500, but it's hard to beat the stupidity of acountry boy away from home for the first time when someone flashes cashin their face, and they had no trouble finding takers for the job.

And now, the naval base in Subic Bay is closing, and a lot of youngmen will never do duty in the best and most tasteless environment on earth.

Fuckin' shame.
 

Vinnie, in a mild state of mourning.
 

It was a perfect day for a party, and little Patty Hines was excited,because it was her ninth birthday and she was having a party with her friendsfor the first time. She'd been to birth- day parties before, but she'dnever had one of her own. And she was thrilled. Patty's mom was bakinga huge sheetcake of white cake with berry swirls and a buttercream frostingslathered on the top of it. It was her favorite.

She was in a new dress that her father had bought for her just for thisoccasion. It was pink, with a matching barrette. "Pretty Patty in her pinkparty dress" was what Daddy had called her when she came downstairs toshow it off.

Mommy said,"Why don't you go over to Andrea's and see if she's readyto come over?" "OK, Mommy." She would go in just a minute, but she wantedto fiddle with her hair just a little bit more. This was her first party,and everything had to be just right!

=========================================================

Lee Taylor was cruising down Apple Tree Lane in his new (to him) Camaro.It was a great car. The previous owner had taken uncommonly good care ofit, but was forced to sell it because he was going into the Army and didn'twant to let it just sit, and Lee was able to get a better price on it thanhe could have hoped for. So, he was just cruising around town, drunk asusual. He never worried about the cops, as his dad was a judge, and ina small town such as this a judge wielded a good bit of influence. Thecops knew he was driving around drinking, but none dared fuck with him,lest he wanted reassignment to some dismal desk job. Needless to say, thecops hated Lee as much for his disregard for their position as he despisedthem for their cowardice in dealing with him the way they did.

He turned the corner onto Happy Trail Road, going a bit too fast, allthe while slugging down Jack Daniel's best sour mash and getting sloppydrunk.

=======================================================

Patty adjusted her hair one last time before going over to Andrea's.She fussed and fidgeted until she got the desired effect, and she got itfinally. She winked at herself and bounded down the stairs. She had toget over to Andrea's, because her first birthday party was going to startin less than an hour.

=======================================================

Lee turned onto Fair Avenue, the same street that Patty Hines livedon. Though it was a small town, Lee and Patty had never met. All that wasabout to change.

========================================================

Patty ran down the stairs and into the kitchen. She kissed her motheron the cheek for what would be the last time, before heading out the frontdoor, and over to Andrea's. She was so excited that she was a tad carelessabout looking both ways, the way that her mom had trained her, and whichshe was usually very good about. Out of the corner of her eye she saw theblack Camaro bearing down on her, but it was too late. She attempted toback up, and lost her footing. As she was on the way down, the car struckher square in the face, pulverizing it beyond recognition. The driver,Lee, never saw her, because he was in the middle of taking a pull off thewhiskey bottle. Rather, he heard the impact her face had made on her bumper.He was also unaware that he was dragging the body of the now dead PattyHines underneath his car, but stopped the car to see what the fuck he hadhit.

=========================================================

Frannie Hines had witnessed the entire scene from the kitchen windowwhile slicing the potatoes she was going to use for the salad at the kids'party. She had trouble comprehending the fact that what she'd just seenwas real. She went into a form of functional shock similar to that of aman in the heat of battle, and was in it so deeply that she didn't evenscream, but just walked out into the street, unaware that she was stillholding the knife.

=========================================================

Lee Taylor had gotten out of the car and walked around to the frontand was horrified at what he saw. The little girl in the pink dress thatwas quickly turning crimson was undeniably dead, and was the most disfiguredthing he had ever seen. One eye socket was collapsed, as the fluid fromthe eyeball was running in its viscous manner down her cheek. He had thealmost empty bottle of Jack in his right hand, and he wiped sweat thathad appeared as if by magic with his left. He heard the shuffle of a footstepoff to his right, and saw with relief that some- one was here, HELP washere. He babbled, "Lady, you gotta help me! I think this kid's dead!! Geez,look at all that blood. Oh, you gotta help..." His pleading was cut shortwhen Fran's arm, the one holding the knife, arced out and nearly severedhis nose. He looked at her with astonishment, but his puzzlement was short-lived,as she plunged the knife up to the hilt into his heart.

==========================================================

Sheriff Tom Hinton was sitting at his desk filling out the report onthe Hines woman. As the arresting officer, he had mixed emotions abouthis job of arresting her after looking at the shape of the little girl.He would never forget, as long as he lived, the scene of the crime. FranHines was on top of the Taylor man, arm going up and down in some sortof grisly rhythm, the knife rising and falling. The coroner estimated thatshe had stabbed him between 150-200 timmes, but it would be impossibleto get  an accurate count. The body was actually in tatters. Tom shookhis head again, and bent back to his paperwork.

=================== Epilogue ===================

Fran Hines was placed under observation following the killing of LeeTaylor. Despite a major effort on the part of the de- ceased's father,the charges against her were dropped.

In article <C95370.674@rice.edu> garrett@math.rice.edu (David Garrett)writes:
>Damn straight it would. Bleached-out turds, if you haven't just hada
>barium enema, are usually an indication that your liver has stopped
>working. Bilirubin, produced by the liver, is what colors your grogans
>that lovely shade of brown (well, most of the time) that we all know
>and love. If you honk out a white dirt snake, chances are you either
>have hepatitis or cirrhosis.

Often true, but not always. I've been able to "achieve" the snow turd
effect before. I used to take large quantities of amphetamines, and
follow them up with doses of Vitamin C, not to put badly needed
nutrition back in my body, but because there was a theory that the
C would boost the high of the speed.

The shit would come out white, and very dry. No use bothering to wipe.
As for whether the vitamin actually boosted the high, I would say no.
 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Vinnie Jordan     "SICK, TWISTED FUCK" (tm)                 vinniej@sco.COM
"Liberace was a great piano player, but he sucked on the organ."
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Newsgroups: rec.humor,alt.tasteless
From: vinniej@sco.COM (Missing  Link)
Subject: Re: cough syrup blues
Organization: The Santa Cruz Operation, Inc.
Date: Fri, 09 Jul 1993 16:59:41 GMT
Message-ID: <1993Jul09.165941.7776@sco.com>
References: <1993Jul7.195437.6733@mac.cc.macalstr.edu> <1993Jul8.142200.12035@mnemosyne.cs.du.edu><1993Jul8.125322.6742@mac.cc.macalstr.edu>
Sender: news@sco.com (News admin)
Lines: 39
 

In article <1993Jul8.125322.6742@mac.cc.macalstr.edu> gbrown@mac.cc.macalstr.edu(Dumpster Juice) writes:
>> She blinded me with SCIENCE!
>
>I'll blind you with MY DICK, asshole.
>-- Geof

Now that's a funny image. I can see the headlines now;

MAN LOSES EYE TO DICK

A dipute over a flamewar was settled in a most unusual way yesterday,when the suspect blinded the victim with his penis. The two had arguedover a computer network, and decided to meet to settle their differences.Horrified spectators looked on as the suspect did the deed. A witness,who has requested anonymity, describes the scene thusly;

"The man sneaked up on the victim. He shouted 'Hey Fuckmeat' while unzippinghis pants. No one had any idea what was going on. Looked like two collegekids playing around. Then, when the victim turned around, that fellow Browngrabbed him by the back of the head and shoved his penis right into thepoor guy's eye. As if that weren't enough, the bastard kept shoving awayinto this guy's eye socket. There was this strange sound that you couldhear even above the victim's screams. I can only describe that sound as'SQUICK'"

Lt. Ed Hairball of the NYPD said, "We're going to charge him with assaultwith a deadly weapon. We are unsure on how to confiscate the weapon, though.Here you got a guy who can't spell his name running around assaulting peoplewith his penis. Days like this, it's hard being a cop."

Janice Martin stepped into the small novelty store in Chinatown in orderto buy a present for her daughter. It was almost Xmas, and she was almostdone, but the holidays always brought out her generosity, and even thoughshe had many presents already for little Terry, one more couldn't hurt.

The little wizened proprietor came out from behind the drape that separatedthe shop from his living quarters, and greeted her cordially. She explainedher reason for being there, and also stated that she was looking for somethinginexpensive, but unique. The little shopkeeper regarded her with eyes evennarrower than usual. He thought for a moment, then asked how old the littlegirl was. Janice wouldn't recall until later that she had never mentionedthat she was shopping for a girl.

"She's six, and very smart for her age," Janice told him. The littleman chuckled as he made his way back behind the curtain. Janice wasn'tsure if he was going to come back, if she had been dismissed. "Very mysteriouspeople, the Chinese," she thought. But a moment later, the little man cameback with a large teddy bear. It was almost 2 feet tall, all black andwhite fur so that it looked like a panda. The man looked earnest whiletelling her about the good luck the bear brought with it. "It will protectyour daughter; no one will be allowed to hurt her." Janice thought thathe meant it was a good luck charm, and smiled inside at the solemnity inwhich the little man made his pronouncement. She was not a believer inmagic or the supernatural, but that bear sure was cute. She paid the manand thanked him for his time.

========================================================

Christmas morning came, and Terry and her eight year old brother, Donny,were opening presents. They were delighted with their new things, whichwere plentiful. Even though Daddy had left with the woman that Mommy called"The Tramp" he was diligent about making sure his children had everythingthey needed. As he made a great deal of money, and Mommy never had to pesterhim to send the money, the transition to a Daddy-less household was notas dev- estating as it could have been.

Donny was opening the last present, a police car with a siren that wassure to drive Mommy nuts. She half-suspected that was the reason her ex-husbandhad sent it. Strange sense of humor, the asshole.

Donny was rolling the car on the floor and trying to imitate the sirennoise the car made, and Terry was preparing to open her last present, whichhappened to be the teddy bear Mommy had bought two days earlier. She peeledthe wrapping off of it, and she was in love at first sight. "Oh, Mommy,I like this the bestest of all my new things!!" she shrieked, and Janicecould only smile. She didn't notice that Donny had stopped what he wasdoing and was staring with all the concentration that an eight year oldboy could muster at the new bear. It was a look that said "I want that."

========================================================

Two days later, the kids were still playing with their toys, and theyhad another week before school started. Janice was downstairs, cookingdinner for the kids and humming a tune that she couldn't get out of herhead. She was very happy, now that Bill had gone. He was a good man andgreat provider. But he stifled any attempts Janice made to better herself.When she had told him she wanted to go back to work, he was adamantly againstit, and the more she tried to persuade him to let her make something ofher own life, the more their relationship had deteriorated, until he hadrun off with the young model. Now, for the first time in her life, shewas living the way she wanted to live.

=======================================================

Upstairs, Terry and Donny were playing. Donny had been trying to getTerry to let him play with Simba, which Terry had named her precious bear.For reasons she couldn't understand, she would not allow herself to bepersuaded to let go of the bear. Finally, Donny attempted to grab the bearfrom the little girl. They struggled, and Janice yelled up the stairs forthem to "Play nice!!" She went back to the kitchen, figuring they wouldwork it out. And work it out they did.

Terry was holding on to the bear for all she was worth, and Donny keptattempting to yank it out from her grasp. He yanked at the ear of the bear,and a most amazing thing happened. Blood began seeping from a partial tearwhere the ear had been yanked, and a sudden metamorphosis began to takeplace in the "animal." Its eyes glowed yellow. There was a sound of materialbeing punctured as four claws popped stiletto-like from both of its frontpaws. It drew one of the paws in a long arc across the left side of theastonished young boy's face, severing the ear and releasing a gout of fresh,red blood. It began screaming in a high pitched and totally unbearlikevoice. Another swipe, and the child's throat was slashed. Terry began screaming,and Janice recognized it as different from the one that Terry used whenDonny was teasing her; this was a scream of abject terror, and Janice wentup to see what was going on. She had a premonitory bad feeling, and herheartbeat accelerated.

=======================================================

She reached the top of the stairs,  and she could hear Terry still,but nothing from Donny. That sinking feeling hit her again as she cameinto the bedroom, and she was not prepared for the sight she came upon.The first thing that hit her was the sickly smell of blood, followed bythe sight of her only son having his throat ripped open by some wild animaland her daughter with her hands held out in front of her, eyes wide andscreaming as if to wake the devil himself. She was frozen at first, butthen she snapped together and grabbed the broom that was in the hall outsidethe bedroom.

She hit the bear-thing with the straw side of the broom, and it hadno effect on the little beast as it chewed into the soft flesh on her son'sneck, so she reversed it and smmacked it on the head with the handle. Thisgot the animal's attention, and it turned on her with surprising quickness.She backed up in respect for its unbelievable speed, then swung the broomhandle again. The little creature dodged as best it could, and was avoidingmost of the blows, moving under the arc of the blows and moving in, snappingand shrieking as it attempted to get at the legs of the woman that wastrying to hit it. She swung as hard as she could the next time, and caughtthe animated toy on the side of the head, and the bear went tumbling once,twice and lay at the baseboard. It jumped back up, snarled in rage, andran out the door, down the steps and out of the house and into the groveof trees behind the house.
 

================ Epilogue ================

Janice Martin and her daughter Terry were taken to the hospital, bothin an extreme state of shock. Terry was the worst of the two, and residesin St. Joseph's home for the mentally insane to this day. Janice told thepolice a preposterous story about a teddy bear that had come to life andattacked her child. She was convicted of first degree murder and sentencedto life in prison. The murder weapon was never found.
 

Newsgroups: alt.tasteless
From: vinniej@sco.COM (Missing  Link)
Subject: Re: Wisdom Tooth Tastelessness (was: The worst smells at avet clinic)
Organization: The Santa Cruz Operation, Inc.
Date: Thu, 22 Jul 1993 21:18:21 GMT
Message-ID: <1993Jul22.211821.22414@sco.com>
Keywords: blud, AIDS
References: <69518@mimsy.umd.edu> <22mgga$5ip@cville-srv.wam.umd.edu><18060@news.duke.edu>
Sender: news@sco.com (News admin)
Lines: 38
 
 

In article <18060@news.duke.edu> kes@acpub.duke.edu (Ken StrayhornJr.) writes:
>Well, Mirian, you've come to the right place. I've had surgery onmy
>gums/teeth/jaw pretty regularly since 1972, when I was in a bad wreck.
>You name it, I've had it done to me.
>However, the last set of surgeries were particularly entertaining.Part
>of the proceedure was the "flaying" of the gumline. Yes, that's right,
>the gum between the teeth was cut and the gum snipped at regular
>intervals so the gum could be laid open to allow access to the
>roots and jaw.
 

Nothing so fancy for me. My wisdom teeth, like my dick and my acid
fucking tongue, popped out with minimal provocation.

The fun part was the aftermath; I conned the prick out of a 'script
for Percodan. For those who haven't had the pleasure, Percodan is a
synthetic opiate whose main side effect is that it gets ya all fucked
up and causes you to lapse into something like a coma. I popped 4 at
the drugstore when I got the prescription filled, and went across the
street to my favorite watering hole. After a couple of double brandies,
I went back home, where I fell asleep. Well, that's a bit of an under-
statement. I passed out cold, and the blood from the freshly opened
wounds seeped out of the side of my comatose mouth, saturating a silk
pillow that my ex-wife had recently purchased at a garage sale. Those
of you who read my drivel know that my ex-wives ain't no Rhodes scholars.
(Look at the company they keep!!) But what does this numb cunt do?She
bitches at me, then throws the pillow away and replaces it with theother
one that she bought as a set. Do I have to tell you what happened next?
Yup. Bled all over that one too!

Now you know why I divorced her.
 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Vinnie Jordan     "SICK, TWISTED FUCK" (tm)                 vinniej@sco.COM
       "Being an asshole means neverwanting to say you're sorry"
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Newsgroups: alt.tasteless
From: vinniej@sco.com (Dirty White Boy)
Subject: Re: GenericFlame (TM)
Organization: The Santa Cruz Operation, Inc.
Date: Wed, 28 Jul 1993 13:30:22 GMT
 

In article xxxxxxx.xx@xxxxxxx.xxxxxxxx.xxx xxxxx@xxxxxxx.xxxxxxxx.xx(Bill Letourneau) writes:
> The other day, while I was pissing on some graves, I was
>reflecting on how many dry and repetitive low quality flames have
>been cropping up on a.t. lately, inspiring me to create a nifty
>time saving device <drumroll> : the GenericFlame (TM)! With the
>help of this trusty little companion and the search and replace
>feature on your favorite editor, you will now be able to put the
>opposition in their place and still have time left over to wash
>down a plateful of aborted fetuses with a nice cold mug o' piss.
 

Although I enjoy a good flame, we have been mired in just too many ofthem lately.

But if we are gonna have a generic flame, let's add a generic .sig totag on the end.

Here's my submission...
 

================================
Your daddy's a faggot, your mama's a whore.
Your sister sells pussy by the hardware store.
So shut the fuck up, you're nothing but a punk
With a face like an ass and a mouthful of spunk!!!
=================================

Just a thought,
Vinnie.

Newsgroups: alt.tasteless
From: vinniej@sco.COM (Dirty White Boy)
Subject: Re: Grossouts Galore in Today's Paper!!!
Organization: The Santa Cruz Operation, Inc.
Date: Wed, 28 Jul 1993 13:14:53 GMT
Message-ID: <1993Jul28.131453.16062@sco.com>
References: <CAt2J4.9sz@csn.org> <1993Jul27.143233.4424@sco.com><PETONIC.93Jul27175555@dachi.hal.com>
Sender: news@sco.com (News admin)
Lines: 23
 

In article <PETONIC.93Jul27175555@dachi.hal.com> petonic@dachi.hal.com(Michael A. Petonic) writes:
>Yeah, we all know that you don't like what she thinks, but the real
>question is:  would ya fuck her?

I may or may not have told this story before. If I'm repeating, I
apologize.

When I was 24 years old, I picked up on this older woman, took her
home and fucked her. She was noticably older than me, but when you
get tanked, men and women always look better to you. But when I woke
up with her the next morning, I found out she was 71 years old!! It
was quite a wake-up.

Now, Ol Mom Teresa is 83, out of my age limit at 24.

But after all, I'm 37 now..........Got her phone number?
 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Vinnie Jordan     "SICK, TWISTED FUCK" (tm)                 vinniej@sco.COM
       "Being an asshole means neverwanting to say you're sorry"
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Newsgroups: alt.tasteless
From: vinniej@sco.COM (Dirty White Boy)
Subject: Re: pissin'
Organization: The Santa Cruz Operation, Inc.
Date: Thu, 05 Aug 1993 13:15:51 GMT
Message-ID: <1993Aug05.131551.13908@sco.com>
References: <acs-581-020893192331@134.29.65.81> <CB9owH.Ctu@unix.portal.com>
Sender: news@sco.com (News admin)
Lines: 29
 

In article <CB9owH.Ctu@unix.portal.com> xetwnk@shell.portal.com (ChrisF Chiesa) writes:
>(For what it's worth, I _also_ used to piss out my bedroom windowinto
>the yard in the middle of the night, every now and then.  Rightthrough
>the screen.  I'd probably still be doing it to this day, exceptthat
>where I now live there's a street light outside my window...)

When I was going through my period of heroin addiction, I lved in anup-
stairs apartment. I'd stay so fucked up that it was pointless to getout
of bed, so when I had to piss, I'd just fill up this little plastic
pitcher I kept by my bed and dump it out the bedroom window. Over theperiod
of time that I lived there, about 8 months, I killed a bush and rendered
a large patch of grass area barren. Alienated a landlord in the process,
and got evicted. The whole area underneath my room had the faint smellof
untreated sewage.

For those of you who don't know, heroin acts as a supressor of manyof the
bodily functions that we tend to take for granted. One of those functions
is the urinary process. The ol' bladder freezes up, and if you don'tdrink
copious amounts of fluid, you can often go for 18-24 hour periods without
milking your lizard. The resultant urine is a treat for the olfactory,and
tends to be fairly well concentrated in toxins, hence the killing ofplant
life.
 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Vinnie Jordan     "SICK, TWISTED FUCK" (tm)                 vinniej@sco.COM
       "Being an asshole means neverwanting to say you're sorry"
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Article 64632 of alt.tasteless:
Newsgroups: alt.tasteless
From: vinniej@sco.COM (Dirty White Boy)
Subject: That Fiend Cindy
Organization: Joe's Bar Annex, Santa Cruz
Date: Tue, 10 Aug 1993 14:54:44 GMT
Message-ID: <1993Aug10.145444.12486@sco.com>
Sender: news@sco.com (News admin)
Lines: 138
 

                     - That Fiend Cindy -
 

Chapter 1:  A Fiendly Pet

Nearly a year had past.  Spring was in  the  air, the  daffodils were  blooming  and  all  the commotionover the hornets had died down.  Rose had finally died and a young  family  had  moved  in across the street.

There he was in his make-shift lab, whipping up yet another batch of speed.   Tony  the biker sold a lot of it and Bob providedit for him.  A pesky mosquito was just finishing up a snack on  his arm.   Bob didn't care because he was trying tomake friends with this one.  She was getting real big because Bobnever swatted  at her -- he liked insects.  He made sure notto let her escape from the house.  But, she was very wary of him.

That day was different.  She landed on a large pile of the white powder  that  was on the scale.  A pound of it tobe exact.  Now, normally Bob would have made her fly off.  Hewas an  honest  man and  wouldn't  cheat  a customereven out of a mosquito amount of his product.

He checked the scale and it was off a little.   He  had about  a half  an  ounce still on the table, next to hisstraw, so he just scooped a little up and put in with the rest.  Tonywould  get  a little free that time.

Bob was just about ready to put the powder in a plastic bag  whenshe  started  doing  what  all mosquitos love to do-- fly around your ear.  Very annoying to most people, but not Bob.

"Bizzzzz,  bizzzzzzzzz."   Then  he  heard a  different   sound. "Bizzzzzob, bizzzzzob."  Startled,he stood straight up.  Then he heard it again, "Bizzzzob."  "Yes?!"he responded.  She landed on his  ear.   "Bob, I feelgreat.  I wondered why your blood always tasted so much better afteryou'd  been  down  here.   It's  that whitepowder, isn't it?"  "Why yes it is, you like it?" he asked. "Yes,"she replied "but I can't really  eat  it  unless  it's in blood."

Bob picked up his straw and snorted up a bit more of  the powder that  was  on  the table.  "OK," he said "nowhave a drink."  She walked down to his ear lobe and pushed her beak  into  the  soft skin and sucked in her fill.

"Bob," she said, "this is really great!"  Then  the magic  words came  out  of  her  beak,  "Canwe be friends?"  "Yes, of course. That's what I've wanted all along. That's why I never  tried  to kill  you,"  he said.   "I  wondered  about  that," she replied."What's your name," he asked.  "You can call me Cindy,"  she re- plied.

The next day, when Bob delivered the speed, he got a syringe from Tony.  Tony warned him about AIDS.  Bob told him not to worry -- he wasn'tgoing to use it on himself.

Bob needed a supply of fresh blood for Cindy since he didn't want to be  Cindy's  host forever.  But, what to use?  He hatedcats. Making a speed freak out of cat would  have  been fun,  but  the thought of a fucking litter box in the house turnedhis stomach.

So, he decided to go to a local pet store and shop around.  Par- rots  were out -- to much money.  Monkey -- to expensiveand eats to much.  A boa constrictor -- to much care.  Rats -- needed  to many.   Then at a small pen, surrounded by severalsmall children he spotted just what he needed.

Two little girls were holding them, pleading with their mother to buythem.  Bob asked, "Lady are you going to buy those bunnys for yourgirls?"  "No," she replied "I'd  like  to,  but my  husband wouldn't  like it."  "Good," he said, "I'llbuy 'em.  I like bun- nys."

He grabbed both bunnys, by the ears from the girls.   Both girls started  crying.  "Shut-up ya whinny little brats," hesaid.  The woman was shocked by what he had just said and tried to  respond to  him.  "Please, blow it out your ass bitch,"he said.  Bob al- ways tried to be polite to ladies.

The woman at the sales counter tried not to look shocked at  whathad  just happened.  Bob set the bunnys on the counter and asked,"How much?"  "Sir," she said, "Bunnys should never never be car- ried  by  the ears..."  He cut her off with, "Thankyou very much for pointing that out.  How much?"

"That'll twenty five dollars for the pair, sir," she finally  re-plied.   "Pair?!"  Bob  asked.   "Yes sir,"  she said "They're a matched pair.  A boy bunny and littlegirl bunny."  "Oh,  goody!" Bob  said  as he handedher a fifty spot.  "May I have a box too, please.  Show me whichone is the boy," Bob said after  she  gave him his change.

After he got home he put the bunnys in a humane animal trap.  He normally used it to trap the neighborhood cats.  He enjoyed play-ing with any of cats he caught -- before turning them over to the SPCA.

After he put water and food in the  cage,  Cindy  came over  and landed  on his ear.  "Bob," she said, "what arethose?"  "Bunnys, Cindy," he replied, "your  new  hosts."  "Are  they  good?"  she asked.   Bob said, "Idon't know, you tell me."  He picked up the boy bunny that he hadnamed Humper, and said, "Take a  drink  off of his nose."

Cindy landed on Humper's nose, pushed her  beak  in and  took  a quick nip.  She flew back up to Bob's ear andsaid, "Yummy.  What about the speed?" "Don't worry Cindy," Bob replied,"I'll shave a nice spot on each of their backs and shoot Humper up anytime you want.  I'll keep the girl bunny, Slutie, for regular feeding."

Bob shaved patches of the bunnys fur so Cindy could feed  off of them.   In  the  evenings Bob would shot Humperup with a healthy dose of speed and watched the fun.  Everyone knows what  rabbits do  best  --  fuck.  When Humperwas high that's all he wanted to do.  Slutie was always ready too. Humper slept  a  lot  when  he wasn't high.

It seemed the speed-laced blood had changed Cindy's body  chemis-try.   She  was now the size of a horsefly.  Bob enjoyedwatching Cindy feed now.  When she drank from Humper, or Slutie, the bun- nys would scream like babies.  It was fun to watch.

Slutie was pregnant and was going to have babies.  Bob figuredhe keep a few; even more blood for Cindy.  After all, the bigger shegot, the more blood she would need.
 

[ Stay tuned for chapter 2, Springtime in the Woods ]

--- This person is currently under going electic shock therapy at AgnewsDevelopmental Center in San Jose, California.   All his opinionsare static, please ignore him. Thank you,  Nurse Ratchet

                     - That Fiend Cindy -

Chapter 2:  Springtime in the Woods

The weeks had passed and Slutie had a big litter of babies.  Bob had bought a playpen at garage sale to keep the bunnys in.  Cindyhad grown as big as a crow.  Bob had to extract  blood from  the bunnys  with  the syringe and mix the speed in. He still shot-up Hummper though, it was fun watching him literary rapeSlutie  and a  few  of  his  offspring.  He  was  quite the speed freak -- a viscous one too.

Bob supplemented Cindy's diet by catching  the  occasional stray cat,  tie  it up, then shoot it up with as much speed asit could handle.  She would jam her beak right into the  cat's heart  and suck  the  life out of it.  Bob thoughtit was fun to watch.  Bob would dispose of the cat carcass' by dumpingthem  alongside  the road  on  the way into work. He figured he was making the SPCA's job much easier.  The local newspaperhowever had  picked  up  on the  story  and was  spreading rumors about a satanic cult being responsible.

Cindy no longer had to fly onto Bob's ear to  be  heard.  They'd watch  the WWF on TV.  They both liked to watch `Doinkthe Clown' beat the shit out of his opponents.  He would lay there  on  the couch and scratch the back of her head. She liked that.

Cindy was very pretty -- as far as mosquitos go.  Her large bul- bous  eyes  and hairy body were beautiful.  Her beakwas at least four inches long and very feminine.  The  sound she  made  while flying had become more like a bird than an insect.

Bob would put her in his backpack when he went into the woods for hisdaily walks.  When he was out of sight of any neighbors, he'd letCindy fly off and do some hunting.  It  was  spring and  she would find squirrel and bird nests.  The mothers wouldhide, then Cindy would dine on the offspring.  It was spring and  life  was renewing itself everywhere.

As the weeks passed Cindy kept growing --  as  well as  her  ap- petite. Bob now had to extract a lot of blood fromthe ever grow- ing supply of bunnys.  Cindy was the size of a large  house  cat now and just as voracious.

One evening in the woods,  Cindy  found  a  mother opossum.   It amused  Bob watching Cindy kill it. Momma opossum was valiant as she tried -- but failed to fend off Cindy. After Cindy  polished her off, Bob pulled each of the brood out ofher pouch.  He loved watching Cindy dine on babies.

As the weeks passed and Cindy grew even larger.  Bob  found that Cindy would get very testy if she didn't get enough speed.  Cindywas now up to a sixteenth-ounce-a-day habit.  He also had to waittill  it  was  nearly dusk to sneak Cindy out for her dailytrips into the woods.

She had become quite the hunter.  One evening in  the woods  she spotted  a deer with her fawn.  The deer paidlittle attention to Cindy as she moved in for the kill.  They probablythought  Cindy was just another bird.  They were very wrong.

Cindy dove down and landed on the  fawn's  back.  Startled,  the fawn  ran  with  Cindy stabbing intoit looking for a sweet spot. They both disappeared into the forest withCindy  riding  on  the fawn's back like a cowboy.

Bob tracked the fawn down and found Cindy finishing off her meal. This was  perfect for Bob.  He pulled out his Buck(tm) knife and dressedout the fawn.  He dined on fresh deer  meat  that night. No  animal  in  the forest was safe from Cindy. None had any de- fense -- except for the skunks.

By that time Cindy was to large to sneak out of the house, so she had to  live  in the forest where she could find plenty of prey.Bob taught her not finish off any of her deer  victims  until he came  around.   He'd  then draw blood from the animalwith a 50cc syringe and mix the speed in with it.  That seemed tokeep  Cindy happy.

The bunnys became burden on Bob.  He took a few  of them  around the  neighborhood  selling  them for twodollars apiece.  He made his initial  investment  back, as  well  as  earning  trust  and respect.  The entire neighborhood thought Bob loved little fuzzy animals and wasn'tso bad after all.  Some  even  talked  to  himonce in awhile.

As for the rest of the bunnys, Bob slit their throats and drained the blood  for  Cindy.   He  enjoyed  rabbitfor dinner.  Humper turned out to be the best meal.

Bob still thought most of the neighbors  were  assholes, but  he still  liked Fat Freddy.  Fat Freddy had a new ol'lady.  She was really stupid, but would invite Bob over for dinner. So, she was OK  in  his  book.  They even had a barbecueone Saturday and Bob supplied the meat.  Venison was one  of the  things  Fat  Freddy really liked and Bob had plentyin his freezer.  Bob never had to buy meat -- Cindy would supply it. This was good, because he had to spend a lot more money manufacturing speedfor Cindy.

The one day Cindy landed in front of Bob and said, "Bob, I really miss human blood, please let me have some more."  "Well, Cindy," Bob replied,"let me see what I can do for you."

There were a number of homeless people that  would  hang out  in Joe's  Bar  and  bother  him.  Alwaysbadgering him to buy them a beer, ask for a hand-out or just try and havea conversation with him.   He  hated  them.  Especially Ranger Rick -- he was a real pest.  He camped out withthe other low-lifes in  the  park  near the river and firehouse.

The next evening, Ranger Rick started pestering Bob.  Bob figuredthis  was  a good time to turn Ranger Rick onto a sixteenth-ounceof speed.  "Rick my man, sell some and keep the  rest  for your- self.   That  should  keep  you high andin money for a couple of days," Bob told him.  That shit-head Rick,never even bothered to thank  Bob.   It was OK as far asBob was concerned.  Rick was to be Cindy's dinner that night.
 

[ Stay tuned for chapter 3, A Fiendly Demise ]

--- This person is currently under going electic shock therapy at AgnewsDevelopmental Center in San Jose, California.   All his opinionsare static, please ignore him.

Newsgroups: alt.sex,alt.sex.wizards,alt.feminism,soc.men
From: vinniej@sco.COM (Dirty White Boy)
Subject: Re: Asking for rape ?y
Organization: The Santa Cruz Operation, Inc.
Distribution: na
Date: Tue, 17 Aug 1993 15:11:58 GMT
Message-ID: <1993Aug17.151158.736@sco.com>
References: <1993Aug14.021815.3622@leland.Stanford.EDU> <1993Aug16.222547.3471@sco.com><24p6ok$fe9@agate.berkeley.edu>
Sender: news@sco.com (News admin)
Lines: 85

In article <24p6ok$fe9@agate.berkeley.edu> bsmith@mickey.CS.Berkeley.EDU(Brian Smith) writes: >What evidence do you have that the only femalesoffending by the term
>"girl" are extreme feminists?  Because they're the only one'swho told you?

Yeah, Brian. I would think that anyone was offended enough would probablytell me so. If they are offended, why shouldn't they say so? Because theydon't have the fortitude to speak for themselves?
 

>Isn't is possible that you are offending some not-extreme-feminist>women when you call them girls, and they just figure it's not worth the>effort to fight it?  You would never know if they didn't tell you.

I sincerely doubt that, in the circles I hang out in, that any of thewomen I know are offended by the term. But then I don't live in Berkeley.I know it sounds like I'm railing against college students. I'm not. But*Berkeley* is the hotbed and if I'm not mistaken, is also the birthplaceof political correctness. Which I'm beginning to think is what this conversationis really all about.

Let me hip you to what the PC "philosophy" has done for our society.It's given us mistrust in the workplace, friction between the sexes andmade a total sham of any hope of harmony between races. Know why, pal?Because the doctrine laid out by the PC weenies and the climate it createsmakes any comment a potential source of offense.

But the source of the offense is the people behind this movement tellingpeople they should be offended. Until someone creates the thought in theirheads, most people don't take offense at the average daily human encounter.

Furthermore, let me clear up a misconception. Political Correctnessis not a philosophy or a lifestyle. It's a fucking illness, and one thatis especially virulent on your campus there at Berkeley. And the real dragof it is that these morality legisltors and behavior dictators find theiractions and views virtuous. I find them rather sad, in that their beingso uptight and busy looking for infractions leaves them too busy to relaxand dig what's happening around them as something to enjoy, rather thandissect and find fault with. Life is short. If you choose to battle yourway through it, dodging imaginary enemies, that's your business. I'll avoidyour ilk and enjoy the people that realize the beauty of human companionship,even with those who don't think exactly like I do. And, when we both endup in hell, we'll see who had the best time. And you can ponder how littleyou really contributed to the world with your little life.

Take your PC crap and shove it.
 

>So, at the risk of being practical, let me ask: does it make any differenceto >*you* whether you use the term "girl" or "woman"?  From the toneof your >response, I get the feeling you think it's a trivial difference. If you >don't care which is used, why not just get into the habit of usingthe >term "woman"?  I've never met a mature female who found "woman"derogatory.

Correct. I do feel it's trivial.

As to why I don't get used to telling people exactly what they wannahear, it's all got to do with I don't let anyone tell me what to do orthink. People have the right to not associate with me. Many choose thatoption. Yet no one has the right to tell me what to think. I think formyself, and anyone who tries to tell me otherwise will be dealt with swiftlyand without mercy.

You PC types are chasin' your tails. There are real problems out thereto deal with that are a hell of a lot more important than whether someself-important asshole gets his sensibilities hurt. You wanna do somethingnoble? Try working toward getting teenage kids from shooting each otherover imagined boundaries. No, that'd take nuts, leaving you unqualified.Much safer to besmirch someone from behind a computer than to tackle areal challenge.

I already know what's gonna roll out of your mealy mouth. "What are*you* doing to make the world a better place?" The answer is, Nothing!Because I truly don't give a tin shit. The difference between you and Iis that I don't make the pretense that I do. You chose to be an anal-retentivefuckstain, and I chose to be an insensitive hedonistic shithead. But I'msure I'm having a better time.
 

__________________________________________________________
Vinnie Jordan, 160 lbs. of rompin' stompin' sonofabitch. vinniej@sco.COM
"A dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sorry to drag you folks off the subject here. But as this message iscrossposted to alt.tasteless, I wanted to take an opportunity to say goodbyeto all my tasteless brothers and sisters. My place  of work has takenthe repugnanat step of removing all the alt.groups from our newsfeed. Theydecided it was vital to keep the sci. groups, so I was able to receivethis post.

I always tell people that I work for a forward looking company. It appearsI must rethink that position. I remember saying last week how I abhor censorship.Now I'm surrounded by it.

Julian Macassey, watch out for that cat fanatic.

Adios, my friends.
 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Vinnie Jordan     "SICK, TWISTED FUCK" (tm)                 vinniej@sco.COM
       "Being an asshole means neverwanting to say you're sorry"
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
 

The request? I was perusing some articles Mike Weber sent me, and Isaw this in someone's .sig. I'd like to use it in my inter- company postingsas a signature, but even a cheap fuck like me ain't gonna resort to plagiarism.So, if someone can sned me the attribution, I'd be appreciative.

Checkered Demon, if you're out there, send me some mail.

Now, the gripe.

Fucking security guards. I hate the cockbites. If there are any reading,and you're the kind that harasses people for no good reason, I hate you,too.

These little cop wannabes walk around all puffed up like peacocks, stickingtheir nose where it don't belong, and that's especially true if they'resticking it in my shit. Most of you have no idea what I look like, butsuffice it to say that I have a face that cops and their ilk like to talkto. I don't dress for success, either. I was out in front of this cafe,waiting in line, as it is a popular breakfast place in Santa Cruz. I hadon a raggedy flannel shirt, faded jeans, and my constant companions, flipflops.This little punk guard comes up and says, "Move along" like I'm a fuckin'panhandler or something. "Move along? Fuck you, I'm waiting for breakfast."I got 2-300 bucks in my pocket, and this prick treats me like a transient.

Then, he takes his club out of his belt, and starts slapping it in hispalm. He sez "Y'know, in 5 minutes I could have 3 or 4 cop cars down hereand have you taken in."

I deadeye this prick, and say,"In 10 seconds, I could take that stickaway from you and shove it up your ass!!" He starts sputtering and thenkinda walks away, saying something to the effect that I should leave assoon as I'm finished eating. I yelled after him, "I'll go anywhere I goddamnplease." He kept walking. The people waiting out with me clapped.

Fuckin' security guards.

     =============================================
     The world, quite simply, is my urinal. You'veplaced yourself
     in the dubious position of self-styled deodorantmint, and you
     can't understand why you keep getting pissedon. - Geoff Miller
     ==================================================
 

Brandon,

I mentioned you in a previous post. Apparently you didn't see it. Telnetinstructions ain't happening, 'cause the thought police done scrambledmy signals. All I get is heiroglyphics. But it's a temporary condition.Thanks all the same.

For the rest of you, Brandon's mail is screened. So I have to communicatewith him in this hallowed forum in the face of bad net.etiquette. Be patient.I'll be connected soon.

So, it's Saturday mornin' and I have to work. Before I came in, I waswatching wrestling, and if there's a more tasteless pursuit, I ain't foundit yet. Where else can you hang with dudes like BamBam Bigelow and theHeadshrinkers?

Wrestling crowds are more intense than anyy you'll find at a footballstadium or soccer game. There are more fights in the stands than thereare in the ring. I hold the high honor of pelting Andre' the Giant witha wadded up paper cup when he turned heel. (Heels are bad guys, faces aregood guys) The funny part is; it's all fake!! Coupla years back, VinceMcMahon, who runs the World Wrestling Federation, was forced to publiclyadmit that the whole thing was a farce. But yyou wouldn't know it by talkin'to the fans in the stands. I once got into a shoving match with some cockbitewho thought that Macho King Randy Savage was justified in attacking HulkHogan at the Cow Palace in San Francisco. He really believed it was important;I just like to fight.

There was a time, and I can't remember the cat's name, that a wrestlerdied in the ring. He was scrambling in there with another dude, and hisfuckin' heart burst on him. For showmanships' sake, his opponent had toroll his dead carcass over and pin him, but they had to gurney his dyin'ass outta there, and the fans were duped into thinking that it was allpart of the hype that is professional wrestling.

Bob Christ is a wrestling fan. Last time there was a payperview showon cable, he was at the house, suckin' down beers and marvelling at theridiculousness (is that a word?) of it all. There was this 565 lb. motherfuckerwho just happened to be the champ. Like, who's gonna pick this prick upn' throw him down? Well, this one guy did it. Picked his lard ass off theground and slammed him. You could tell it was choreographed, but it wasimpressive, nevertheless.

Soap operas for men, that's what I call 'em.

Times are tough when the best I can do is a wrestling post. But I'vegot a hangover you wouldn't believe, and it's amazing I can even type.I guess I've got the "Happy feet" syndrome, and I'm just glad to post anythingat this point. You never really realize how much you appreciate somethinguntil someone takes it away from you.

Sick, Twisted Fuck, signin' off.......
 

From: vinniej@sco.COM (Dirty White Boy)
Newsgroups: alt.tasteless
Subject: The things we do for love.....
Date: 27 Sep 1993 09:12:20 -0500
Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway
Lines: 42
Sender: daemon@cs.utexas.edu
Message-ID: <9309270810.aa01393@specious.sco.COM>
NNTP-Posting-Host: cs.utexas.edu

My old lady is a saint. She is, without a doubt, the most patient womanon earth, and you gotta admire her intestinal fortitude for living andsleeping with a pig like me.

So, when she wants something, and it's in my power to give, it's hers.Some are harder than others. On Sunday nights, I pay the price for livingwith this wonderful woman. We watch "Murder, She Wrote." And I hate AngelaLansbury with a passion. She's that dried-up, wizened old cunt who sticksher nose in everybody's business and solves unsolvable murder cases bydrawing on her experiences from writing bad fiction. Now, I'm not surewhy I hate her, but I suspect it's one of two things; she's a snitch, andshe's old.

Everybody's got their own personal pet peeve. Miller hates newbies,and frequently has one for lunch at the beginning of the school year. BobChrist hates cats, and if I had one, I wouldn't leave him alone with it.Youngie hates everybody. That's why he cracks me up.

Now me, I hate old people. It's depressing to see the state puttingpeople to death for killing these drains on society, when they should begiven grants to continue their work. People should come equipped with anexpiration date, much like that found on your milk cartons, and when theyhit a certain age, say 65-70, you load them into the truck and take 'emto the recycling center. Imagine their surprise when they get to the endof the conveyor belt, and fall into the giant Mixmaster that transformsthem into puree to fertilize crops or make pet foods, rather than suckingmoney out of *your* paycheck so they can eat, so they can keep their strengthup for drooling and babbling.

And Lansbury? I hate her most of all. I have this fantasy, where I wrapmy fingers around her throat, and I bang her head on the ground, over andover and over, until I end up with a handful of neck, surrounded by a puddleof brain tissue and scattered skull fragments.

Then I go into the bathroom and masturbate.

From: vinniej@sco.COM (Dirty White Boy)
Newsgroups: alt.tasteless
Subject: Let's talk about tattoos
Date: 29 Sep 1993 08:58:51 -0500
Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway
Lines: 43
Sender: daemon@cs.utexas.edu
Message-ID: <9309290756.aa21480@specious.sco.COM>
NNTP-Posting-Host: cs.utexas.edu
 

Folks ask me, as they think I'm the kinda person who would have one,why I don't sport tattoos. Well, it ain't because I have any moral objectionor nothin'. It's just that often a tatt is a memory of where it came from.How many dudes do you know that have their ex-girlfriends' names tattooedon their arms, and don't see these women anymore? How many? Thousands,if not millions.

Personally, as a participant in the penal system, I didn't want no memoriesof where they came from, and I've seen a lot of dudes with markings thatsay, " Look at me! I'm an ex-con!!" It's a real detriment to re-establishingyourself in straight society.

Speaking of tattoos, remember earlier this month when Herve Villechaisedied? You guys probly did this to death, so if I'm belaboring somethingyou've already covered, sorry but tough shit.

Always hated the little bastard. His height. His accent. And his basicpuppydog mentality, following RM like a hungry dog. Hell, if I had knownthe little prick was suicidal I'd have sent him a gun.

Read his obit, and laughed my ass off!! They said he shot himself inthe chest 'cause his arms weren't long enough to blow his puny head off.What did they bury him in, a fuckin' shoebox?

The funniest line in the obit was when they said, "The actor was depressedbecuase of failing health, and the fact that after Fantasy Island, he wasable to find little work." What the fuck did he want, to be a stevedoreon the Brooklyn docks? He should have been happy to find "little work!"

The real loser is Ricardo Montalban. Talk about a perfect fit! All thelittle bastard had to do was turn around, and his little quivering lipswould have been right around cock level.

HV: (slurp, slurp) Boss, de plane, de plane!!!!!

RM: That's OK, just keep sucking, my little friend.
 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
"Political Correctness strives to impose innocuous mediocrity as the
              standard to which we must all aspire."
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Got some bad news the other day. A friend of mine is no longer amongthe living. Big George is dead.

Big George was a huge bear of a man with a huge capacity for alcoholand an undying love of a good time. He wasn't too bright, but everyonewho knew him liked him. He didn't have an education to speak of, but hewas a graduate of the school of hard knocks.

I first met George in the drunk tank in Santa Cruz about 15-20 yearsago. We had something in common; we were both in for peace disturbance.Neither of us were too fond of peace. We preferred to create controlledchaos whenever things got too quiet for us.

Of course, if the chaos got out of control, George had the heart toquickly take control of the situation. He always said he didn't like tofight, but didn't really mind it. My clearest memory of George was thetime we were back to back, slugging it out with a couple of outsiders whocame into the Asti, our neighborhood bar, looking to start trouble. Georgewas bleeding profusely from a blow from a beer bottle over his eye. Hewas bellowing like the bear that he was, and throwing roundhouse blowsat these fuckheads that had tried to ruin his evening. Eventually, we ranthem out, with a warning not to come back unless their attitudes were adjusted.

A couple of weeks ago, we were having drinks together, and he told methat he didn't think he was going to be around much longer. He said thathe'd been pissing blood, and that the doctor told him that his liver wasseverely damaged from the long drinking bouts he was so fond of. I toldhim he was full of shit, ain't nothing gonna kill Big George. He laughed,but without much conviction.

Sunday night, George was rushed to Dominican Hospital. He was havingsevere abdominal pain. He fell into a coma, and never regained conscious-ness.

So now, my good friend with the brain of a turtle and the heart of alion is dead. And the world is a little poorer because of it.

See you in hell, big guy.

So I got this big old fuckin' sty on my eye, and it was nearly swollenshut Monday morning. One of my friends was telling me yesterday to makesure not to drip any sty gravy in the food I was cooking for guests lastnight, and it got me to thinking.

How much bodily secretions do you think fall into the foods we eat whenwe go to a restaurant? Like the dishwasher at your favorite cafe, withthe cold that causes him to wipe the snot off on his sleeve. Or the pimplefacedkid that works the grill at the fast food burger joint. Or the lady thatslices the condiments at the salad bar with the infected cut on her finger.Or the guy who masturbates in the secret sauce.

Now that's what I call food for thought.
 
 

So where are you going for lunch today?

From: vinniej@sco.COM (King of Beasts )
Newsgroups: alt.tasteless
Subject: Religion.
Date: 11 Oct 1993 16:06:06 -0500
Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway
Lines: 37
Sender: daemon@cs.utexas.edu
Message-ID: <9310111402.aa10340@specious.sco.COM>
NNTP-Posting-Host: cs.utexas.edu
 

I'm a rather religious person.

Hey! Don't laugh. It's true. You want proof?

OK, last night, I had some company come over. I made a batch of my famousasshole burning red enchilada, and over the course of the evening, I polishedoff nearly a fifth of Christian Brothers' Brandy.

You say drinking this 80 proof holy water doesn't make me religious?OK, I'll go you one better;

Every morning, as soon as I get up, I go into the chapel and make anoffering to my god. It's true. Let me tell you about this morning's offering.

Between the enchilada sauce and the straight liquor, when I createdmy offering, it felt as if I was shitting burning gasoline. Took me twotries. The first one was this horrid smelling orange liquefied putrescencethat had *me* grossed out by it's sheer intensity. I thought I was done,and took a shower.

As I dried off, I realized that I wasn't finished yet. There was a seriousdisplaced feeling centered around the exit area of my colon, and I knewI was about to produce a specimen to be proud of. I pushed and shoved,and to make a long story shorter, I laid a thing of beauty. It was orangeon the end that came out last, and brown on the front end. How could Itell which end was which? The brown end had corn from Saturday's dinner,and the other end was a kind of bright orange, from the enchiladas, a brightsunset type of orange that was simply gorgeous. A sight to behold.

My god was appeased.

It was 8 in the morning, and Larry Mathis was getting ready to go towork. Well, not really work. He was off to do a stint as Santa Claus atBay Mall. Larry didn't consider it real work, and he'd done stuff likeit before. His last job had been as an Elvis impersonator at a local nightclub,but had to quit when he started getting paranoid that he would die sittingon the crapper, as had the person he was pretending to be.

In fact, paranoia was becoming the dominant emotional characteristicin Larry's personality. Ever since Angie. He'd loved  her. She hadbeen a beauty, and she told him she loved him, also. So why had he caughther coming out of that hotel with that young man? He didn't confront herat the time, but when she had come home that night, he was on her, butgood. She kept insisting it was her friend from work, and she was justpicking up some documents. Bullshit. She was cheating, she had ruined hislife, and he had killed her. It was as simple as that. Strangled her andburied her in the backyard. That's what you did with cheaters, you justkill them, don't you?

But his guilt was overpowering him, and her presence in the yard wasalmost speaking to him, a mental hallucination like something from an EdgarAllen Poe story. He began to fret that someone would connect her disappearancewith him. He had told the police that she had said she was leaving townto live with relatives. No, he didn't know why she had left her job withoutwarning. No, she hadn't seemed distraught, only a little sad that she wasleaving him. Alone, as he had been when he had met her. No, she didn'thave many other friends outside of work that Larry knew of, but Larry wasexpecting that she would send a letter or phone him when she was settled.The police wrote it off, as no one seemed too concerned as to her whereabouts.

But Larry was. Damn right he was, because if anyone were to find outAngie's new address, they sure as hell weren't going to make Larry's lifevery comfortable. He wouldn't be alone anymore, no, he'd have a whole slewof roommates at the state prison, some friendlier than he wanted to get.

So, Larry was a bonafide paranoid motherfucker. He manifested that traitin that he was always armed whenever he left his home, even to go playSanta Claus at the local mall. He slipped a switchblade with a six inchblade into the pocket of his coat, and stuffed a .32 caliber pistol intothe waistband of his pants, under the coat. You never know what might happen.Then, he shuffled on down to his car, and another day at the mall.

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Kenny McCauley and his sister, Heather, were very excited about goingto see Santa. Kenny was seven, and really didn't believe in Santa anymore,but Heather did, and Kenny was going, just in case the fat prick was realand was able to grant him his selfish wishes.

When Julia, their mother, told them to get in the car to go to the mall,they just about dashed themselves to death trying to be the first one tothe car, laughing and pretty much oblivious to anything but the immediatesense that they were going to see Santa, as kids do.

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Larry, fortified with most of a half pint of cheap vodka, mounted thethrone for his first kids of the day. They were all about the same, inthat they were self absorbed little fucksticks, who thought only in termsof what they could get for free, and Larry pretty much hated them all.Every once in a while, one would ask for something like world peace, andLarry hated them, too, for their naivete and seeming inability to unnderstandthat man, as a rule, was a violent, mean-spirited animal, who was onlyhappy killing and maiming his fellow men.

By nine thirty, twelve kids had invaded his space, and he had had togo out to the battered Chevy to finish his bottle of vodka on his break.As he was returning, two little kids waved to him from the seat of a plushMercury. He waved and tried to smile, but it came out as more of a wince.The kids didn't seem to notice though, as they continued to wave franticallyat Santa.

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Inside the Merc, Julia's kids were ecstatic that Santa had taken timeout to notice them. They thought he was beautiful. She thought he was agrisly looking bastard, and remarked so under her breath. She thought theylooked worse every year, as if the Salvation Army or whoever hired theseSantas had to venture further into the Skid Rows to find people to do thejob. But to the kids, they all looked the same, they all looked like Santa,even when it was obvious to the adults that he was padded and drunk offof his ass.

By the time Julia, Kenny and Heather had found a parking space and thangone into the store, Larry was back on the Santa Claus throne, feelingthe warmth of the cheap booze soaking into his body. But it had done littleto calm his psyche, and his nerves were jangled from worrying about thecunt in the garden at home and all the imagined slights of his fellow man,and he was pretty tightly strung. In fact, you could say he was ready tosnap.

Kenny and Heather were lucky. there were only two kids ahead of them,and the kid in Santa's lap was climbing off. The first kid in line in frontof them took his turn, leaving Kenny and Heather with a fat boy with bracesandsmelling vaguely of grease as the only ones in line. Santa wasn't verybusy today, it seemed.

The fat kid said, "Whatcha gonna ask Santa for?" Kenny said he had alist in his pocket, but Heather said her request was a secret. She hadn'teven told Mommy. The fat kid just rambled on about all the things he wantedfor Christmas, and Julia felt that he was as gluttonous as his appearancetestified. She was certainly glad that her children were so much more civilized.

Finally, the fat kid took his turn sitting in Larry's lap, and Larrysaid, "You sure are a big boy. Are you hungry?" The kid said yes, and Larrygave him a sucker from his pocket. The kid slammed it in his mouth, andwithout missing a beat, continued to rattle off all the things he wanted.Finally, Larry said that that was enough, because if he had to bring allthe things this little prick wanted, the other kids wouldn't get anything.The fat kid said he didn't much care, and Larry wanted to assault and batterthe little bastard to within an inch of his life, but thought better ofit. Barely.

The fat kid sauntered off, and Heather told Kenny to go ahead of her.No one there knew about the transformation the fat kid had wrought in poorol' Santa Claus, and there were no indications that he had, indeed, snapped.Kenny adjusted himself in the artificially fat man's lap, and Larry askedhim what he wanted. No "Ho Ho Ho's," no "How ya doin's," just "What doYOU want." Kenny thought that a bit odd, but went ahead and told Santathat he, Kenny, needed a million dollars. Santa did something unexpectedthen, something no other Santa had ever done in Kenny's memory. He toldhim "NO" and went on to inform Kenny that that was a very selfish, greedything to ask for, and that Kenny deserved nothing for Christmas becausehe was a greedy, bad little boy. Kenny looked at him, all illusions shattered,and said, "You're not Santa." Larry, in his altered state, became indignant,and for a brief moment he actually believed he was St. Nick, and said soin a loud voice, startling Kenny. Julia had wandered over to another areaof the store, or she probably would have taken her children away from thefrenzied looking man in the Santa suit.

Heather, though, was blind to anything that might be amiss. She hadcome to make a request, and she wasn't to be denied. So, when Kenny movedoff and away from this fraudulent Good Guy, Heather took his place. WhenLarry asked her what she wanted, she looked him in the eye and said, "Iwant you to bring my Daddy home." Larry asked her if she knew where hewas. She knew, all right. He was dead in the ground, killed in a car accidentthe previous year. Larry tried to convince her that even Santa couldn'tbring dead people back to life, and when she started to cry, he startedto get pissed. Julia and Kenny  were on their way back to the SantaClaus area, with Kenny explaining that he didn't believe in Santa anymore,because this guy was an obvious fake, calling him names and stinking ofbooze.

Heather was struggling to get away from Larry, who put an end to herstruggling by slipping the knife out of his pocket, snapping it open, andinserting the blade in between her tiny ribs. When Julia rounded the cornerand saw the comical look of surprise on Heather's face, she had to smile,and wished she had brought her camera. But when the gout of blood spurtedout of her mouth and landed on the floor at Santa's feet, she screamed,and ran toward her daughter. Larry slung the little girl to the floor,stood up, and freed the gun from his waistband. He yelled, "I'm Santa Claus!!I'm not fucking GOD!!" as he pumped two shots into the face and throatof pretty Julia McCauley, who now looked like something off of a horrormovie set. Kenny, who had witnessed the whole thing, screamed, and rantoward Larry, fists flailing at the monster in the red suit. Larry shovedhim to the floor, very roughly, and popped off two shots into his lungsand heart area, busrting the heart, and causing Kenny to duplicate hissister's feat of spewing blood out of his mouth before he expired. A securityguard heard the pops of the small caliber handgun, and rushed to intervene.But, alas, he was unarmed, and Larry dispatched him with a single bulletto the forehead.

Larry reloaded, and shot shopper's at random, killing an old woman whowas attempting to get out of the store, but as old people are prone tobe, she was too slow. The bullet caught her in the back of the head, causingher to somersault and land face up, eyes wide and her skirt hiked up overher ale, flabby thighs. He blew away a teenage couple while they stoodwith their mouths open, unable to react due to shock. A small boy who hadwandered too far away from his mommy caught three bullets to the upperbody, causing him to twitch and dance into a display of tennis shoes beforedying with an anguished look on his face.

The police finally arrived, and shot Larry once in the chest and oncein the upper arm before arresting him. He was tried, found innocent byreason of insanity, and sent to Harbor Hills for the rest of his naturallife. Most days, he just sits and stares out the window. He wears a sadsmile. They never found out about Angie, the cheating bitch buried in theyard of the house he once lived in, and he feels like now they never will.But each year, around Christmas, Larry gets a little more active, a littlemore social. Every year since his arrival at Harbor Hills, the dour littleman plays Santa Claus at the annual party at the hospital. It's the finestrole he ever played.
 

"Damn. That smells good."

Those were the first words I spoke upon release from Ashton CorrectionalCenter, as I hit the streets for the first time in 17 years. How'd I windup here again? It's a long story. But we'll start at the start, as somefolks like to say.

Anyway, The air was filthy, as it is in a lot of areas on the East Coastwhen the factories spew their exhaust by the ton into the atmosphere. Coal'sfunny that way. It gives life in the form of heat, and takes away lifethrough acid rain and respiratory problems. But it was the best air thatI'd ever smelled. After all, it was air from the previously unattainblefree world.

Sadly, I knew that I wouldn't be breathing free air for long. I hadsome business to take care of. Revenge is a powerful motivator. Revengefor what? Well, I got this little sister. Beautiful kid, she was. She ain'tso much to look at these days. Since the rape, she stopped taking careof her appearance, as if she felt she were enticing the bad guys out thereby looking good. The rapist was a punk named Newton, and when I heard aboutwhat he had done, I sorta went ballistic. She informed the police, whodid their usual shitty job of handling the delicate rape case. She wasadvised to forget about it. Back then, rape cases weren't pursued likethe way they are now. The so-called justice system failed my baby sister,and I decided that *I* wasn't going to fail her, too.

I got the lead-filled pool cue that I had made in shop class in highschool, while the other kids were making ashtrays and lamps for their moms.Then, I paid Mr. Newton a visit, and showed him my shop project. Showedhim by raining blows on his arms and legs until my arms got tired. Dipshitpunk actually called the cops. They came and busted me, but I was releasedon bail until my trial. My sister and I worked together. She was obsessedwith getting this guy. She's a frail girl, and even more so now, afterthe fact. The only time her face lit up, the only time I caught a glimpseof the old Tina, was when we discussed killing Newton.

We had figured out that I was gonna catch some time, so we preparedfor when I got out. We figured I'd probably catch a deuce, but the lawyerand the judge were pretty tight, and after they discussed the reasons formy assault on the Newton punk, I only caught a bullet, a single year, andI thanked the lawyer profusely.

But before I'd gone to court, Tina and I stuck $500 in 20's and a shiny,new .38 Police Special in a safe deposit box down at First Federal, andI was gonna need some walking around money when I got out, and I was gonnaneed a gun to blow Newton's head off. Tina said that no matter what, shewouldn't use the money. She meant it. Nothing was more important than mekilling Newton.

So, I guess you're wondering why it took me 17 years to get out of jail.In a word, Mathis. Mathis was a big, dumb redneck from North Carolina,and he was a predator on the other inmates. Now, I ain't that big, butI'm tight and compact and well trained in the physical aspect of survival.This big bastard decided he was gonna make me his punk, his girlfriend.I tried to explain that he might want to rethink his position, and he gotrather angry at my audacity. He advised me to watch my back. I had everyintention of doing just that.

Every joint's got a Mathis in it, everyone's afraid of him, but nobodytakes the initiative to do anything about it, in case they weren't successfulin taking him out. But that don't mean they don't think about it, and Iwasn't a bit surprised when another inmate, whose name I won't tell you'cause he's still in there, gave me a shank he had made in the prison workshop."Take this, and remember that I helped you. But don't remember me to anyoneelse, OK?" I said yes, and hid the shank in my cell.

The next day, I set Mathis up. I passed the word, through the friendwho had armed me, for everyone to stay clear of the showers that morning.No one got near it, and I sauntered down toward the shower with a toweldraped over my arm, wearing my shower shoes. I passed by Mathis' cell,and he was eyeing me all the way down the cellblock. I went into the showerand just kinda waited. I turned on the water and absent-mindedly brushedmy teeth. I heard footsteps approaching the showers. As everyone knew whatwas going down, it could only be Mathis. I slid the shank from underneaththe towel, and palmed it, with the blade flat against my wrist and halfwayup the forearm. He came around the corner, and said, "Hi sweetcheeks. Readyfor a little get acquainted time?" He took a step toward me, and I spunaround with the shank. His face registered surprise as I parried forwardand buried the shank up to the hilt in his right eye. He was dead beforehe hit the ground, and the bully of Ashton was no more.

Unfortunately, not everyone in the joint holds the credo of silencein it's proper perspective. There's the vile form of human life known asthe snitch. Mine's name was Conklin. They brought me up on murder charges,and I was given life. So, after a simple assault sentence, I was now lookingat some long, hard time. Conklin died shortly after in the mess hall. Somehow,he slipped and fell into a cauldron of boiling water. It happens far moreoften in the joint than it does out in the world, where you never hearanything like that happening to someone. Prison life is funny that way.

My sister was distraught. She thought that I'd never get out and avengeher with Newton. I told her that we deal with what we deal with. A lifesentence don't mean you're gonna be there until you die. It just meansyou won't be out for a long, long time. I told her that if the prick wasstill alive when I got out, I'd still have the gun and the money, and I'ddo the deed then. She would be responsible for keeping the fee paid onthe bank box. "I'll get out. You just keep track of where he lives untilI'm free again."

We had a code. Whenever we talked in the visiting room, or in the mail,we used the name Uncle George when talking about Newton. Uncle George hadmoved several times, always staying in town. My sister watched him getmarried and have three kids, moving up in the criminal ranks. He didn'teven remember her, though they had accidentally bumped into each otheronce in a restaurant. She wanted to scratch his eyes out. He just said,"Excuse me, Miss," and walked on.

Come last February, the Parole Board brought me in for my annual review.Much to my surprise, they cut me loose, stating that I had been a modelprisoner since the "Mathis incident." But it was easy. After killing Mathis,I had gained a lot of respect from the other inmates. I was approachedby a couple of the gangs, but told them I had other fish to fry, and justwanted to do my own time. The guards, secretly grateful that I had putMathis down, basically left me alone. So, I did easy time, but there surewas a lot of it. And now, my sentence was almost over.

Tina came and picked me up at the prison that morning in early April.There was a light in her eyes that I hadn't seen on any of her previousvisits. Her enthusiasm for killing Newton hadn't dimmed, even after 17years. She had faithfully paid the box fee, and she even brought the keywith her, intending to stop at the bank on the way back to the house. Underthe circumstances, I wanted to spend a couple of weeks on the outside,'cause I knew I was going back in as soon as some smart cop saw the connectionbetween my release and Newton's death. Tina understood, but it was stillher only subject of conversation.

After a couple of weeks, I grew weary of Tina's obsession. I made upa pot of coffee, an omelette and some refrigerator biscuits. I took themout on the patio to eat. After the meal, I sat on the porch and smoked3 or 4 cigarettes and thought about how this would likeky be my last mealas a free man in this life, since as a paroled murderer being busted formurder is likely to get life with no possibility of parole. Fuck it. Onceyou're committed, you gotta just carry on. So, after eating my last meal,and making peace with myself, I headed down to the bank with the safe depositbox key in the pocket of the sport jacket Tina had kept in the closet forme the whole time I was in stir. Still fit, too. I kept in shape whilelocked down, and had the tight body of a 25 year old at the age of 41.

I get to the bank, and I'll be damned if the same woman who had issuedme the box 17 years ago. She looked a little older. She looked as if theworld had passed her by, and she was just going through the motions ofliving. We had one thing in common. We chose the paths that led us to thispoint in our lives.

I went into the room with her. She opened her half of the door, I didmine, and she left me alone. No real surprises in the box. The money wasin the same nevelope, though it had yellowed, and the .38 was no longershiny. In fact, it had some rust on the barrel. I slipped it into the jacketpocket along with the money, and left the bank. I spent the rest of theday just strolling around town. I visited the library, checked out a bookand took it to a coffee shop and read about half of it. I almost decidedthen that it all wasn't worth it. But then I thought of Tina. He'd takenher dignity, her life. It was my duty to take his. I left the book at thecoffee shop. What were they gonna do, put me in jail?

Newton lived in Bell Ridge, a few blocks from downtown. I figured I'dgo down to Jasper's and have a drink or two before going to face Newton.Now, Jasper's has been there since I was a little kid. I remember ol' Jasperchasing us away when we would steal beer off the delivery trucks when theyparked out front to make their deliveries. We always got away, and I thinkol' Jasper was making a token effort at catching us. In the back of hisheart, like many other merchants, he was kinda glad to see us beat thebeer distributors who gouged the shit out of small businessmen like himself,who were barely making a living.

After downing a pair of double scotches, I took a breath, got up frommy stool and walked out of Jasper's for the last time, leaving a $5 tipfor Chico, who was about 6 when I went up the river the first time.

I nabbed a cab and had him drop me off about a block away from Newton'shouse. Nice pad, real roomy and modern. The business of crime had beenmuch better to ol' Newton than it had for me, that was for sure. And thatwas about to change.

I ran in a crouch. Darkness was setting in, and the dark slacks andsport coat were helping me to blend into my surroundings. I was on theproperty, and in a moment I was looking into the side window. I seemedto be in luck; the kids and wife were nowhere to be seen. And there wasNewton. I hadn't seen the prick since he lay cowered on the floor, attemptingto ward offthe blows from the lead-filled cue stick 17 years ago. He wasleaning on the fireplace, drinking from a snifter and looking smug as hell.That, also, would soon change.

I went around front and rang the bell. A minute or so passed, and Iheard footsteps coming down the hall. They stopped, and a voice asked,"Who is it?" "Gas man," I say. Newton didn't seem to think anything oddabout a gas man coming at 7 at night, and opened the door. I put my shoulderinto the door at the same time, and he tumbled into the hallway. I wason him at once. I kicked him in the nuts, and he curled up in a ball. Isat on his chest. He looked up at me through teary eyes and I spit in hisface. "You'll be sorry," he rasped. "I doubt it, fuckface," I said. "Doyou know who I am? The guy with the pool cue, the guy whose sister youraped." Comprehension came to him then, and he knew he was gonna die. Amazingly,he appeared calm, like he was resigned to his death, and I had to admit,I had a grudging respect for the creep. Yet, I had to finish what he started,all those years ago. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the .38 andjammed it between his teeth. I heard a couple of them snap off in there,and blood spurted out over the barrel and onto my hand. "This is for mysister. Say goodbye, Newton," I said, just before I pulled the trigger.

Guns are wonderful weapons. They are powerful, efficient and easy tohandle. Their drawback is that they require consistent maintenance in orderto be all those aforementioned things. When they aren't, bad things canhappen. Something bad happened now. The ancient pistol, which hadn't beencleaned, and still had the bullets from before I went to Ashton, blew upin my hand, and the shrapnel struck me in the face, putting out both ofmy eyes. I knew I had been permanently blinded when I put my fingers tomy eye sockets and found them both bleeding a thick viscous fluid. Otherlacerations bled freely, and I was immobilized. I don't know how to explainit, but Newton, rather than killing me, called the cops, and they broughtme back here.

Now, it looks like I'll still be here for the rest of my life. Newton,after a little dental work, was able to return to his life. Me, I'm a blindcon, which is a bad thing to be. So, I hooked up with Bruno. He's a realheavy hitter around here. He treats me good. I have to suck his dick everyonce in awhile, but he never fucks me in the ass. And, he protects me.

All in all, it could be a lot worse.