The Not So Pointy Or 'Nointy Issue The Not So Pointy Or 'Nointy Issue The No M M 0000 0000

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-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Not So Pointy Or 'Nointy Issue - The Not So Pointy Or 'Nointy Issue - The No -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- _ /\ _ _ /\ _ / \_/\_/ \_/\_/ \ M M 0000 0000 SSSSS EEEEEEE / \_/\_/ \_/\_/ \ \_____/ () \_____/ MM MM 0 //0 0 //0 S E \_____/ () \_____/ / \ M M M M 0 // 0 0 // 0 SSSS EEEEE / \ / \__/ \ M M M 0// 0 0// 0 S E / \__/ \ /__________\ M M 0000 0000 SSSSS EEEEEEE /__________\ DDDD RRRR OOOO PPPPP PPPPP IIIII N N GGGGG SSSSS D D R R O O P P P P I NN N G S D D RRRR O O PPPPP PPPPP I N N N G GGG SSSS D D R R O O P P I N NN G G S DDDD R R OOOO P P IIIII N N GGGG SSSSS A-M00SE-ING ANECDOTES AND ILLUMINATION BY AND FOR THE PAWNS OF THE M00SE ILLUMINATI Issue #35| Disclaimer: The Editors will place almost anything in |Dec. 08, 1989 ---------- this newsletter out of a frantic desire to fill the -------------- issue, so don't blame them for the quality or content of the submissions. Except -ing those they may have written themselves, the enclosed items do not in any way represent the Editors' fnord opinions. In fact, let's be real safe, and say that as far as this newsletter is concerned, they have no opinions at all. OK? ================================================================================ -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ************************************* STAFF ************************************ -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Editor - Patrick Salsbury Submissions to: DangerM00se Back issue requests: Max Handelsman and Johnathan Clemens or M00se List updates and changes: Darkling M00se (This space to let): Contact WarM00se JoM00se Contacted me, so she gets some space here. So does her sister, BrandyM00se (See what happens when you ask nicely? ;^) ) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- **************************** EDITORIALS AND LETTERS **************************** -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Blah, blah, blah... -Pat - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - (From "Mark Plummer, Parser Repairman" ) A word about AIDS from the virtual majority. Hello, It has come to my attention that you have released a statement on the subject of AIDS. Your first recomendation on curtailing the spread of AIDS bears further comment. You tell people to not do DOS. This is very good advice, but you continue by saying what to do if one must "do DOS". There is no excuse for participating in this evil forced on the computing community, and AIDS (and other associated viruses) are retribution from GOD (or Brian Kernighan) for participating in this evil. Proof of the inherent evil of DOS can be found by looking no further than some of its followers, the most evil of these is by far WordPerfect. Those who feel they are naturally inclined (by owning a PC) toward using DOS must be strong against the temptation toward sin. Abstinence from DOS is the only satisfactory solution. Those who are inststent on using their PCs must find acceptable outlets for their urges such as the various UNIXs (MINIX being even cheaper than DOS) available for PC hardware. God willing we (the righteous) shall prevail against the abomination of DOS, and the world shall be once again free from its scourge. irving r. wasp - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Hello fellow m00ses, and welcome to the Scientific M00se column. Today, I am going to tell you about Munchos, the fairly new potato snack be Frito-Lay. Now, some of you may assume -- understandably -- that Frito-Lay *manufactures* Munchos. However, this is not the case. "What is the truth of the matter, Pickle?" you ask. Well, here it is: Munchos are made by bees. "Bees?" you ask. Yes, bees. It's true. Here is the process: 1) The worker bee, or "beeletarian," flies from the nest and begins looking for potatoes. When it finds one, it masticates and swallows -- but does *not* digest -- the potato. It then flies back to the nest. 2) At the nest, the bee pukes up the potato. Other members of the beeletariat help mash it all up, using tiny mallets and jackhammers. 3) The bees now stomp all over the paste, forming it into a number of relatively flat, chip-sized pieces. 4) The bees add four ounces of salt to each chip. 5) Using their wings to cause a breeze, the beeletariat dries out the chips. 6) The queen bee, a member of the beeseoiseie, phones up Frito-Lay and informs them that some more Munchos are ready. 7) A representative of Frito-Lay arrives at the hive, and gives the queen a sack of money in exchange for the chips. 8) The queen keeps 90% of the money, giving 10% to the thousands of workers in her hive. As you might guess, the beeletariat is getting rather sick of this. Worker bees see human beings as the benefactors of their oppressor, and occasionally will strike out in the only way they know how, sacrificing their lives for the great revolution. So far, this tactic has not been successful. But remember, fellow m00ses, when a bee stings you, that it is not out of maliciousness. The bee truly believes that it is doing what is right, not only for its own hive and the beeletariat, but for all living things. So have mercy, salute the bee's efforts with a "bl00p," and above all, don't buy Munchos -- the snack of oppression! Another semi-coherant article by Pickle -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ******************************* EVENTS AND NEWS ******************************** -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Submissions are still on the decline. Feh. I think I'll invest in some new stock... - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - T-shirts? T-shirts! WOW! M00se Illuminati T-shirts? Where? I dunno. I just edit this thing. Why don't we have everyone who's interested in M.I. shirts write to DICKSON@HARTFORD and tell Bill to get cracking! :) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - From V115QRJ8@UBVMS Description Yum cookies... [I got this from a friend at Drew. Thought y'all'd appreciate it. Spread the word, and happy baking. BlAcKDoG/MightyM00se] ========================================================================= A friend of a friend +of a friend; had lunch at Neiman-Marcus in Dallas last November, and for dessert she had a cookie. she thought it was the most wonderful cookie she had ever tasted and asked if the recipe was available. She was told that it was, but there was a charge of two-fifty. She said that was fine. She got the recipe and told them to charge it to her account. In December, when she received her bill, there was a charge for $250.00. She called Neiman's and told them it was a mistake -- the charge should be $2.50. She was told there was NO mistake -- that the charge for the recipe was correct. They told her it was not a returnable item and she would have to pay the amount charged to her account or become delinquent. The bottem line is she paid. She vowed to get back at Neiman's and wants to give the recipe out to everyone she possibly can. She asks that everyone who gets a copy send it to everyone they know. So here it is: Neiman's $250.00 Cookies 2 Cups butter 1 tsp. salt 2 Cups gran. sugar 2 tsp. baking powder 2 Cups brown sugar 2 tsp. baking soda 4 eggs 24 oz. chocolate chips (2 large bags) 2 tsp. vanilla 1-8oz. Hershey bar, graded 4 Cups flour (yes, this is really = lb.) 5 Cups blended oatmeal** 3 Cups chopped nuts ** Blended oatmeal: Measure and process in blender to a fine powder Cream butter and both sugars. Add eggs and vanilla. Mix together with flour, oatmeal, salt, baking powder and baking soda. Add chips, candy and nuts. Roll into balls and place two inches apart on a cookie sheet. Bake for 6 minutes at 375 F. Makes 112 cookies. [Ed. Note - I've gotten back two reports on this recipe. Both said that they were good, but a bit (or more than a bit) dry. -Pat] -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ***************************** FICTION AND POETRY ******************************* -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- From BOWERS@UTKVX.BITNET "Bob Daedalus" Don't know why, but thought you guys might like this. Jack Reese, Phil Scheuer, Ed Boling, Lamar Alexander, Jerry Askew, et al, are all various administrative patsies at the good ole U of T. The Last Weird Days of Mad Jack Reese Jack whined, "It ain't over till the fat man sings." "Phil Scheuer?" "Who?" "Never mind," I said. "Look Jack, it's not that easy. You've been out of touch for years now. Been buried in the depths of the buracracy, you're out of touch. Dazed and confused." Jack, you know, Jack Reese, he was being fired, after all those years. After the crazy years, the drug riddled mania that was the reign of King Boling the First, it was over. No more drinking champange from a cheerleader's B-cup, no more Cary Grant smiles at press conferences, no more Gatlinburg ski trips while holding school open during record snow falls. Had to go back to teaching. We were at the Faculty Club, throwing back a few beers. At least I was. Jack, he was hitting the hard stuff. Flaming Gorrila Tits. "I know I can make it, I can. I've still got the form. A year or two in the English Department, dazzle them with my wit, I can be back in Administration in no time." As if to prove his point, he stood up, staggered a bit, and showed me his moves. It was true. That man could stand behind a podium better than the tenured wimps half his age. "Okay, you've got poise, you've got charisma, you've got patches on your elbows. That's just not enough, Jack. Things have changed." Things had changed allright. The University of Tennessee was a disease gone into remission. Babyface Lamar, the halfwit bastard of King Ed, had assumed the throne. Aged and withered bueracrats were dropping like DDT striken flies, either retiring to Martin in defeat, or forced out of power like Reese. Out with the old, in with the new. And Jack was turning to me for help. "You can help me. You're an undergraduate, have been for years now. You know what makes this campus tic. Please, I'm begging. Either I start teaching, or they make me assistant to Jerry Askew." I think this over. "Askew? He's not the worst of the bunch." "You don't know him. He's a madman. I can't even get him on the phone any more. Humans weren't meant to be Dean of Students for that long. And his hair!" Maybe he was right. Lately Askew had been spotted hang gliding over the sunroofs of womens' dorms, picking out tanned sorority girls, like a vulture hunting roadkill. I decided. "Right. What is it you want then, Jack? What do you want me to do?" "Just show up. I'm teaching my first class in years tomorrow and I'll need a friendly face in the crowd. Moral support. Someone to ask me a question, so the little scavengers will know how smart I am." "Where, Jack? When?" "It's this Friday, HSS 121. It's um.... it's a 7:50." "Jesus. Have they got you teaching freshman composition?" "Not for long, not if you'll do this for me, they can't keep me there. By spring, I'll be in Elizabethan Poetry." I started making my way to the door. If this turned ugly, a fast exit would be necessary. "Maybe Jack. I'll see if I can make it." I wasn't promising to be up at 7:50 for anybody. Not even Jack Reese. His voice trailed after me as I stepped into the afternoon heat. "You better be there! You owe me! What about 'Nam?" I wasn't fully aware that I was awake until I actually stumbled into the classroom. Packing the usual equipment for the first day in a new class; shorts, flip-flops, shades, coffee. It was hotter than a Kiss concert in the room. What was I doing here? I mulled that over as the rest of the class began to filter in. Christ on a mo-ped, they look so young! They look like...freshmen?! Now I remember. Mad Jack and his attempt to return to administrative bliss. The quest for bueracratic power. And I'm here mixed in the middle. It seems prudent to slip to one of the back seats. Easy enough, the rest of my classmates are filling up the front rows. Virgins. They'll learn. Jack's entrance catches me checking to make sure the window is open. Just in case. For a change he looks clear- eyed. No blood-shot squints from doing tequila shooters all night. A little dust around the nostrils maybe, but overall not bad. He's dressed to depress, tweeds, suede elbow patches, over what looks suspiciously like a flak-jacket. He walks to the podium and sets his briefcase on a nearby desk. What does he have in that thing? It bulges in strange ways, rustling as if it held a dwarven wolverine. His eyes immediately find mine, like a doberman finding a fire hydrant. "Ah, good morning class. It's, ah, good to see so many, ah, reassuring faces here, this morning, in class." Silence from the kids. I sink lower, if that's possible, in my seat. "My name is Jack, ah, Professor Reese, and I'll be your instructor for this quarter. I have an alphabetical seating chart prepared for us, so if we can, ah, find our new seats, we can call roll." What was with this "we" and "us" bullshit? The kids stood up and shuffled around. Excellent targets should Jack start firing into the crowd. "Um, excuse me, but I think you're in my seat." Books and backpack, calculator and comb squint at me from above. I grunted, scratched my chest and drank a sip of coffee. Protective coloration. He moved on. As the furor of seat shuffles calmed, Jack-boy started calling roll. He stared down at a computer printout, never looking up to notice one kid answering for three people. He finished and looked up at the class. Looked at me. "Well, ah, perhaps we should start by going around the class, each student giving his or her name, class and major." Good Jack, good idea. That'll warm 'em up. Right. Introductions droned as I considered his start. He was just coasting. Could he handle it when the class really started? Could he manage the furious pace of non-stop give and take of education in a freshman comp class? Could he lick the seamy underside of a freshman's... Why is everyone looking at me? Oh. Right. My turn. "Harrison, fifth-year student, undecided." The frosty gleam in The Reese-cup's eyes told me I was less than appreciated. He had me here for moral support and I had better start to produce. I sat and considered my options to the whine of concluding introductions. Paperwork started filtering around the desks. Sylabii, grading scales, office hours, all on paper the color of Jack's tie. "Before we get started, are there any questions you would like to ask?" Shit. This was it. He stared at me furiously. The time had come to set Jack up with a question that would let him show his stuff. He needed it now. His hands were steady, his hair was smoothly in place, his eyes clear and bright, his age spots covered with Maybelline. If he was ever to impress and intimidate these bovine intellects, now was the time. I raised my hard. "Yes, you have a question? Please, don't be shy, we're all listening." A question, then. Jack needed a set so smooth that he can't fail to spike right through their egos. A volley that would allow him to dazzle and impress the dullest of wits with his return. A query that would permit Jack Reese, demigod on terra firma, to display his superiority over all mankind. Right. "Do you consider the implications John Milton makes on the purpose and value of evil in Paradise Lost to be found or espoused in Dante Aligheri's Divine Comedy, and if so why?" His hands started to palsy, his hair slipped slowly out of place, his eyes glazed over, his leg began to tremor and his age spots flushed a bright mauve. I reached for my coffee. "Well, ah, in response to that, let me just say that, ah, you see that, ah... *WELL WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT FROM ME ANYWAY ?!?!" Shit, he's lost it. He makes a dash for his bag and smoke erupts from somewhere. I throw myself to the floor as gunshots ricochet off the cinderblock walls. Jesus, Jack brought his Uzi to class. A small pig scurries past me on the floor as I start to drag myself towards the window. Some kids run for the door, finding Reese locked it as he came in, some fall to the floor and pray for mercy, others merely sit and ask if this material will be on the test. Sparks fly from a hit light fixture and the smoke clears just enough for me to get a last look at Jack as I make my escape. He's sitting on the floor, weeping openly, stroking a stunted pig and mummering in her ear, "Rosebud, rosebud." Out of control. Crash and burn. Just like in 'Nam. I dropped out of the window and tried to walk away inconspicuously, drinking what remained of my coffee. Students moved toward the building, smoke belched from the windows, sirens wailed to the rescue. It was over now, I suppose. Jack Reese was a relic of the past, a broken reminder of the era of Maddog Ed and his Bad Boys. I would like to say he was my friend, but you know... I don't think any of us ever really knew him. Harrison Fowler is a fifth-year, undecided who swears this will all really happen. Harrison Fowler is also one of many pseudonyms I use for writing in a local underground paper, "The Lame Monkey Manifesto." Comments, criticisms, monetary rewards? - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - This space intentionally left #CENSORED#. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- *************************** M00SCELLANEOUS NONSENSE **************************** -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Usenet Oracle has pondered your question deeply. Your question was: > A friend asks: why do we pay $20,000 to work our butts off? > (that's verbatim). And in response, thus spake the Oracle: } An enemy replies: "It's not nearly enough!" } } A surrealist replies: "The stir-fried threepenny nails! Can they help } me twice?" } } A politician replies: "It is very important that we maintain the } ultimate objectives clearly in mind, while at the same time } nonwithstanding continuing to remember the intended payoff at the end, } and the preservation for future generations of all the things we hold } dear, especially the flag which you can see that I am wearing as } underwear because I do not wish to ever be parted from its sacred } folds." } } You owe the oracle a large cheeseburger, with flags. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- > Why aren't men and women created equal? And in response, thus spake the Oracle: } To give them something to do in their spare time. } } I know what you're thinking, but don't be misled. Humans spend a small } amount of time engaged in sex, and an inordinate amount of time } wondering about it, worrying about it, reading about it, watching it on } television and in films, and participating in various activities to } sublimate the desire for it. Given that the average human male lasts } less than three minutes after penetration has taken place, the ratio of } time spent thinking about sex to the amount of time spent engaged in sex } is greater than 500 to 1. If sex did not occupy the human mind, then } hate, paranoia, and the solutions to most of the world's problems would } certainly settle in. } } You owe the Oracle one pornographic magazine and one condom. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- > When is the end of the world, any signs? And in response, thus spake the Oracle: } It's hard to believe that no human has guessed the signs of the } apocalypse, considering the huge amount of time and energy spent } considering the prospect. The end of the world will occur when } literally hundreds of humans construct and detonate their own nuclear } warheads in a vain attempt to rid themselves of the tremendous, mind- } numbing boredom that has pervaded their lives. The signs that precede } this: } } -- Popular comedy television shows will cease to be funny and will } start moralizing about any random social problem. } } -- Tens of thousands of people will file into stadiums and arenas to } watch men over 50 years of age perform "rock and roll". } } -- Most governments of the world will outlaw recreational drugs and } start simplistic, dogmatic propaganda campaigns to support their } position. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Nothing whatever?!? NOTHING WHATEVER! - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - SUBMIT! SUBMIT! Bend to my will! Know the sweet, sublime pleasure of complete and willful obadience (Not a mistype) to your demonic master! (This has been a thinly veiled attempt to get people to send me stuff... I wonder if it will work? -Pat) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ******************************* MEET THE M00SES ******************************** -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Still nothing on this front.... (Hint Hint!) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- *************** AND, OF COURSE, THE UBIQUITOUS M00SE LIST UPDATE *************** -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Will be sent under separate cover. As soon as I get it from Darkling. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Not So Pointy Or 'Nointy Issue - The Not So Pointy Or 'Nointy Issue - The No --------------------------------------------------------------------------------


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