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Toxic Custard Workshop - #01 to #10
You'd have to be really twisted to understand
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***************************THE BACK ISSUES**********************************
*************************EPISODES ONE TO TEN********************************
(Written by Daniel Bowen [email protected])
______________________________________________________________________________
PART ONE - 12/8/90
In the beginning was the writing. But it was dark, and no-one could read
it, so the author decided to write the start again.
In the beginning there was a light. But lo, the Lord did try the
switch and it did not work. And so the Lord did say unto Adam: "Thou must
travel down the 7-11 for a globe."
And Adam did hear the Lord, and did do his bidding. The journey
across the road was long, and dangerous, but Adam did walketh up to the
traffic lights. And he did presseth the button, and lo! The traffic did
part down the middle. And Adam did crosseth in peace.
And Adam did enter the temple of 7-11, and he did consult the holy
one, "Dost thou have a light-globe?" And lo! They were down the back on
the bottom shelf. Adam did findeth the globes, and yea, he was shocked at
the price, and there was a great wailing, and gnashing of teeth. But it
was too early to go to the supermarket, for it was only the first day, and
the Lord had not got round to creating them yet.
So he did buyeth the amazing globe on plastic. And did he make the
long trek back unto the place of the Lord, and the Lord did say "Thanks
very much, but it was the fuse."
But suddenly, there was darkness again, for the Lord had forgotten
to pay the bill. And Adam did look to the heavens in despair, and walked
down the corridor into another joke.
The corridor was long, and full of hidden dangers. And as Adam
continued down it, he realised, from looking at his new wrist-watch, that
he was late for the next spoof. Adam, being a student of life, knew that
it had to be set in a school. But what was happening to him? He looked up,
and realised that the author was just trying to fill in time. He was using
ADAM to link to the next stack of jokes! But when would the new spoof
start?
The author grinned, gazing into his word-processor. "Only another
few lines to go", he thought, as he continued to type his glorious prose
into the keyboard.
Adam had come to a doorway. Not any old doorway though. This one
had a door in it. Adam pulled the axe from his hither-to unwritten about
knapsack, and broke the door down. Bursting into the room, he spotted his
foe, and with one swing of his axe, took the man's head offffffffffJKRY&%"
@@s:{}``}
OH DEAR. THE AUTHOR SEEMS TO HAVE HAD HIS HEAD CUT-OFF BY A MAN WHO HAS
JUST COME THROUGH THE DOOR. WHAT WILL HAPPEN NOW? IS IT REALLY THE END OF
'THE TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES'? NOT ON YOUR LIFE MATEY. STAND-BY FOR
THE SECOND INSTALLMENT... COMING SOON TO A MAINFRAME ACCOUNT NEAR YOU.
______________________________________________________________________________
Oh no, not another installment of
____ __ ____ ___ __ __ __ __ __ __ _
/ /__/ /_ / / / \/ / / / / / /_ / /_/ /_/ / \
/ / / /__ / /__/ /\ / \__ \__ \_/ __/ / / / / \ /__/
___ __ ___ __ __ __ __ __
/ / / / / /_/ /_/ /__ /__/ / / /_/ /_ / / /_ /__
/_/_/ /__/ / \ / \ ___/ / / /_/ / / / /__ /__ __/
B Y - M R - L U X U R Y - Y A C H T - - - - - - - E D C 9 4 2 D B P 2
P A R T - T W O - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 1 5 - A U G - 1 9 9 0
Adam Cohen looked up. He could see the words "Part Two" scrawled
across the wall. Obviously, the author (whom he had just killed), had
regenerated. But it was worse. Now he was doing really crappy titles
made out of back slashes.
Adam made his way back out the door, into the corridor. He put
his axe back into his bag, and walked round the corner to his maths
class.
* * *
Mr. Stickleback stalked down the corridor. As he turned the
corner, two uniformed students ran past him. He cleared his throat,
and they immediately slowed to a brisk walk. Arriving at the door, he
checked his tie, then burst into the room.
Inside the room, the students were standing around, talking to
one another. As their teacher came in, they began to move to their
places.
As if being pleased to have caught them not sitting, Stickleback
shouted short loud orders. "Right! - Sit! Get your books out. Cohen,
do up your tie properly." The students began to sit down at their
desks, carefully balancing their books so that none fell off. Some
stragglers failed to comply in time, and he screamed at them, as he
always did. "Sit!!" The pupils began to think of the many other
places they would prefer to be, as he spoke rapidly.
"Now, before I begin the lesson I must reprimand you over your
behaviour. While I realise that this is a co-educational
establishment, you must realise that members of the contradictory
gender sitting together is just not on. And I don't want to see it
happening again.
"Now!" he continued, "Homework. If I remember correctly it was to
memorise Pi - that's the ratio of a circle's circumference to its
diameter - to the 75th decimal place. Well now - who's done it? Well?
Anyone?"
Spadger, sitting near the back, was listening to this, and
thinking, "Oh please God, don't let him ask me..."
"What about Spadger?"
Spadger stood up. "Err... no, sorry sir.", he said. "Thanks a
lot," he thought silently.
The teacher reacted to this. "'No sorry sir'?", he mimicked.
"What do you mean, 'No sorry sir'? I'll give you 'no sorry sir'." He
pointed to the door and sent Spadger out. "Report to the torture
chamber, now!"
The rejected student walked out of the room, shuffling his feet.
Meanwhile, Mr. Stickleback continued at the same fast pace.
"Now, in today's lesson, we shall be studying the use of calculus
when using the wave harmonic theory of historical perception - and
its applications in working out the brand of washing powder to buy.
So in this way..."
He was slowing down now, not really paying attention to what he
was saying, moving stealthily towards one of the front desks; where
one of the girls appeared to be sleeping; carrying his ever-present
metre-long ruler.
"... you can work out which breakfast cereal powder is - the -
really - good - buy." He stopped, brought the ruler down loudly on
the desk, and spoke quietly.
"O'Donald? Are you listening?" There was no response. He spoke
loudly now.
"Come on girl - sit up! I - hello?" There was still no answer, so
he bellowed.
"Can - you - hear - me?!^Hello?!" As there was still no sign of
life, he prodded her with the ruler, and came to a conclusion.
"Oh. She's dead." He pointed the ruler at a couple of nearby
unfortunates. "You and you, put her in the incinerator, will you?"
They could not refuse.
"Yes sir." With some difficulty, they carried the corpse out. The
teacher called after them.
"Oh, and you may as well go to the detention room afterwards. Now
where was I?... Ah yes." He began to write various mathematical
gobbledygook on the blackboard as he spoke.
"Now, first we must realise how the ratio of the primary factor
to the third sequential lobster in this random geometric sequence
divided by that lobster there will result in the indexed logarithm of
the quotient. Nod your heads." at this point, someone queried him.
"Yes Hayes?"
"Sir, what's lobster got to do with this problem?"
"Lobster?! What are you talking about? Report to the guillotine.
Now - where was that formula I was going to ... what was it", he
pondered. By this time, the remaining students were looking
completely bewildered.
WHAT HAS MR. STICKLEBACK FORGOTTEN?
WILL THE MATHS CLASS BE LIBERATED BEFORE LUNCHTIME?
WILL THE WRITING OF THIS STUFF IMPROVE BY THE NEXT EPISODE?
WILL THE FIRST WORD OF THE NEXT SENTENCE BEGIN WITH 'W'?
NO.
IS ANYBODY STILL READING THIS SHIT?
WHAT'S THE POINT OF WRITING IT?
WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE?
WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'FORTY-TWO'?
WHY DOESN'T THIS THING FINISH?
THE ANSWER TO ALL THESE QUESTIONS AND LESS...
IN PART THREE... COMING UP AFTER THE NON-TEACHING WEEK
______________________________________________________________________________
Here's a double helping of
___ ___ __ __
| | | | | | |
| H E | O X I C | U S T A R D | | | O R K S H O P |_ I L E S
| | |__ |_|_| |
_ ___
|_| A R T | H R E E 2 7 / 8 / 9 0
| |
_ _ _
| | | R I T T E N |_| Y | | | R . | U X U R Y - |_| A C H T
|_|_| |__| | | | |_ |
Rocket Roger whipped out his gun out, faster than a cheetah wearing
"go-faster" stripes. In less time than it takes an ant to do a
push-up, he had shot down the huge oncoming alien monster. He dashed
over to the fallen figure of the princess, and put his hand firmly on
her ... OH SORRY, WE SEEM TO HAVE PICKED UP THE WRONG PLOT-LINE. I
THINK THIS BELONGS TO SOME POXY SPACE SAGA, SET WHEN MEN WERE REAL
MEN ETC. ANYWAY, BACK TO THE STORY .... medical supplies. NO, NO THE
TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES STORY. Oh sorry. Back to the maths
class.
Stickleback, obviously having forgotten what he was going to do,
resorted to memory exercises at this point. He put his ruler on the
desk, walked over to the blackboard, and hit his head violently
against it several times. The pupils ceased to look bewildered and
began to look bored. After a while Stickleback stopped, having
remembered.
"Ah yes. Now." He rubbed off the board, and started to write
extremely complicated formulae, very messily, in the hand of one who
is writing with a broken arm, all over the board. He stopped, looked
casually over his shoulder and said quietly, "All right. Copy this
down." Moving back to his enormous desk, he pressed a button on his
stop-watch, and began timing thirty seconds on it. It was one of
those really neat stop-watches which could tell you the time in
twenty different places around the world, and, if you were lucky,
where you were as well. Just another little labour-saving device,
which could aid one in the enjoyment of life. His mind moved on to
food, and that delicious lobster he had had the previous night.
Meanwhile, the class were writing furiously into their notebooks.
The thirty seconds was finally up. "Right - that's enough time",
said the teacher.
There was a protest. "But sir -". He shrugged it off.
"Quiet! Another word from you and I'll have you all executed.
Now!" Without another word, he rubbed the board off completely and
began to write the numbers from one to ten, pausing and looking
thoughtful between six and seven.
"Right!" he continued. We're going to learn something new! This
is a very complicated non-algebraic mathematical integral notation,
which we shall learn sequentially, known as counting."
"We've done this before", called out Cohen, a rather outspoken
individual, a quality which never brought him good luck at school. He
seemed to think he was special just because he had been in all the
episodes of 'The Toxic Custard Workshop Files' so far.
"Shut up!! You!" Stickleback was pointing. "Go and muck-out the
principal's office!" Yet again Cohen was being kicked out of maths
into another joke.
Someone else joined in the protest. "But sir -"
"You too! You're right - we've done this before - last week I
believe. It doesn't matter though. We'll revise it. You start
Bradley!"
"One", replied the ever-keen Bradley, ready for any challenge.
"Um... yes", confirmed the learned teacher, checking his notes.
"Two", called out the next person.
"Right"
"Three"
"Right. You next Heazlewood", said the teacher. But Heazlewood, a
rather lazy student - and, in the circumstances, suicidal - had not
been listening, something that Stickleback didn't particularly like.
"What?"
Stickleback, alert as ever, looked up. "I beg your pardon?", he
said.
"Sorry?", said Heazlewood, still wondering what was going on. By
this time, however, Stickleback knew exactly what was going on, and
reacted to it in his normal manner.
"Do you mean you haven't been listening?!?" he screamed. "Get up!
We've been doing a complex oral exercise, and you haven't been
listening?!? You little ... I'll have you whipped for this!!! You
stinking pile of ..." At this point, his words became rather
obscured, as two men in white coats rushed in and grabbed him,
managing to stuff something down his throat as one of them spoke.
"All right Mr. Stickleback - it's time for your pills now."
Within seconds, they had gone again, and Stickleback was left
alone at the front of the room, feeling his throat. An odd-sounding
grunt came from his throat, and then he was back to normal.
"Erg... now! Heazlewood - out!"
WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT?
WILL THE PILLS STUFFED DOWN MR.STICKLEBACK'S THROAT CAUSE HIM TO CHOKE,
GASP FOR BREATH AND COLLAPSE IN A HEAP ON THE FLOOR? OR WILL THE
CHEMICALS IN THE PILLS CAUSE AN EMOTIONAL REACTION, CAUSING HIM TO
VISIT A PSYCHIATRIST, WHICH IS ANOTHER JOKE ALTOGETHER. OR PERHAPS
NOTHING LIKE THAT WILL HAPPEN.
WELL, YOU'RE ABOUT TO FIND OUT ACTUALLY, BECAUSE THE AUTHOR, IN HIS
EXTREMELY FINITE WISDOM, HAS DECIDED TO MAKE THIS A DOUBLE
LENGTH T.C.W.F., TO MAKE UP FOR THE LOSS OF IT DURING THE NON
TEACHING WEEK HERE AT MONASH.
SO, ENOUGH OF THESE SUPERFLUOUS CAPITAL LETTERS. AND BACK TO
THE DYNAMIC, ORIGINAL, REFRESHING AND EVER SO SILLY STORY.
Mr Stickleback was in a minor carpet-eating rage by now. But he
decided to save it for when the poor defenceless students wouldn't be
expecting it. Kick them when they're down...
He headed for his desk, picking a piece of paper on it. "I have a
message from your English teacher, Mr. Maniac. He says that your
homework is to memorise 'Macbeth' word for word. And you are to
recite it to him tomorrow." Just then, he saw something in the corner
of his eye. He pointed to it.
"You! Using a calculator! Right - you can have lines tonight. I
want you to write out 'I must not use a calculator in Maths' seven
million times."
"Now sir?" Stephens, the culprit asked.
"No! Not now - do it at lunchtime. That'll give you plenty of
time to..." At that point, he was interupted by a P.A. announcement.
He turned to face the loud-speaker, stood rigidly before it and
saluted. Static emanated, and a distant voice came forth. A telephone
rang urgently in the background.
"Err... announcements for tomorrow: Executions will be at dawn.
Torture Group One at nine o'clock, and Torture Group Two at
nine-thirty."
When the announcement had finished, Stickleback relaxed. "Stand
at ease", he said, as he began to pace around the room, only to be
interupted by another announcement, at which he again saluted the
loudspeaker.
"Oh and Mr. Sadist, could you please return my horse-whip to me
sometime today?"
The teacher again relaxed. "Right you lot - get on with your
work."
The students all looked busy working, but Stickleback began to
nod off. After all, he had had a long day, and was getting tired.
Wouldn't the school run smoother, he thought, if it had no
students...
Two students, next to each other, noticed this, and one began to
lean over to the other to say something. Suddenly the teacher's arm
sprang up and pointed to the door. The hand connected to the arm
clicked its fingers, and the first student left the room.
Another teacher entered, and all the students instinctively rose.
"Ah! Hello Mr. Ectoplasm."
"Hello Mr. Stickleback. Just got a note for you", replied the
visiting teacher.
"Oh. Thank you."
"Not at all Reg - Mr. Stickleback" he corrected himself. He left,
and the students sat down again. Stickleback read the notice out to
the class.
"Class, I have just been notified of the time of the Nuclear
Holocaust Drill. It will be", he paused, "Now!"
A bell went off, and the students were all looking bewildered
when Stickleback urged them into activity.
"Hurry up, get on with it. Come on! You know - Nuclear Holocaust
Drill!"
The students were now getting into the spirit of the thing, and
began to simulate dying, lurching around the room and eventually
collapsing. The teacher went back to his huge desk.
"Right. Now to call the roll. Bannikoff?" There was no answer.
"Good. Bradley?" Again, the sound of silence.
"Cummings? ... Good. Dandens? ... Good. Evans?"
IS THIS THE END OF THE MATHS CLASS?
'FRAID SO, THIS JOKE'S GOT RATHER TIRED NOW.
WHAT TWISTED STORY-LINE WILL THE MANGLED MIND BEHIND
THIS FARCE THINK OF NEXT?
FIND OUT, IN PART FOUR OF 'THE TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES',
COMING UP ON WEDNESDAY, 29TH AUGUST.
BIBLIOGRAPHY:
If you've enjoyed reading this file, you may or may not enjoy
reading Diary'90, which is not available from the author unless you
plead with him.
FILMOGRAPHY:
If you've enjoyed this experience in reading, then you may enjoy
abusing your ears and eyes to the sight and sound of 'The Book Of
Diary 90', which is not available from anywhere near Alpha-Centauri.
DISCOGRAPHY:
If you've enjoyed reading this file, you may also enjoy listening
to a floppy disk called "Double Sided High Density". You won't hear
much, but people will stare at you.
BOXOGRAPHY:
If you've found this to be an enriching and stimulating experience,
you may enjoy turning on your funny box with buttons on the side at
about 9:30pm Tuesday night, and turning the dial to '2', to watch the
new series of ***THE BIG GIG***
BOGOGRAPHY:
If you haven't enjoyed reading this file, then you can bog off.
FILOGRAPHY:
If you've enjoyed reading this file, the you may enjoy reading the
story of ROCKET ROGER. Just mail a lunatic called "The Mad
Scribe", EDC981NBP2 on vx24, notifying him that he is a complete
telephone box, and including your account number. Many abusive
comments... no sorry, many funny letters arranged in amusing
combinations will then be forthcoming. Was that okay, Mr Scribe sir?
______________________________________________________________________________
Get down and get depressed! Its
__ __ __ __
\ he \ oxic \ ustard \\\orkshop \_iles <----Pathetic-+
\ \ \_ \-\ \ |
Part Four 29/8/90 |
Written by Mr. Luxury-Yacht |
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - | - -
|
Adam Cohen was depressed. Not just depressed, injured. He had |
gone to his Maths Class, had been kicked out, ordered to muck out the |
school principal's office, and been injured, when a large deposit of |
bullshit, which had just come out of the principal's mouth, had |
landed on him, not only causing him to smell as badly as a computer |
programmer, but also breaking his leg. But what really pissed him off |
was the miniscule titles that were now being drawn by the author.-------+
Adam had become even more depressed when he had sat down to use
his IBM-PC in the small cave with striped wallpaper that he lived it.
He had bought the cave at an auction, under a government cave-buying
scheme. Fact is, the only things that would fit into the cave were
Adam, his pet IBM-PC, and the stray mongoose that provided the
electricity. This is what happened when Adam used his computer.
C:\> dir
CONFIRM FORMAT C: (Y/N)? n
OKAY, FORMATTING C: no no no
CONFIRM FORMAT C: (Y/N)? n
OKAY, FORMATTING C:. PRESS ESC TO ABORT.
esc esc esc!
CONFIRM FORMAT C: (Y/N)? n
OKAY, FORMATTING C:
esc esc esc esc!
YOU'VE HAD YOUR CHANCE SUCKER.
WIPING F.A.T.
esc esc esc esc!!
TOO LATE NOW. HAHAHAHA FORMATTING...
Adam by this point as depressed as a man who had been shot by a
Fascist regime for liking the colour green. So, the mongoose
suggested that he visit a psychiatrist. The first visit had been
reasonably successful, despite the psychiatrist asking deep
penetrating questions about his relationship with a local tree.
It was time for the second visit...
- AH, MY BOY, SO YOU ARE BACK AGAIN FOR YOUR DIAGNOSIS. COME IN, COME IN.
- Well, the thing is that I spoke to another doctor.
- VOT DO ZAY KNOW, MY BOY. ZAY HAVE NOT THE EXPERIENCE IN CLINICAL
PSYCHOLOGY ZAT I DO! I GOT HD FOR PSY192! NOW! TO YOUR DIAGNOSIS.
- Um, actually I don't think I...
- NOW, YOU HAVE BIG PROBLEMS MY BOY. BIG BIG BIG BIG PROBLEMS.
- Yes I know, I've got a broken leg, and I can't walk properly.
- NO NO NO, MY BOY. I HAVE BEEN INVESTIGATING YOUR SUBCONCIOUS, AND I HAVE
COME TO THE CONCLUSION THAT YOU HAD A REPRESSED CHILDHOOD. BUT MORE
SIGNIFICANT THAN THAT, YOUR BROKEN LEG IS CAUSED BY SEVERE SEXUAL
PROBLEMS.
- What?
- A COMBINATION OF CHILDHOOD EXPERIENCE, PSYCHO-SEMITIC DISORDERS AND A
GUILT FEELING IN YOUR SUBCONCIOUS HAS CAUSED YOUR LEG TO REJECT THE
LEADERSHIP OF YOUR BRAIN, AND ATTEMPT SUICIDE, THUS, BREAKING ITSELF.
- You're not serious.
- MY BOY, ZIS IS VERY SERIOUS! I HAVE CONSULTED PAST CASE BOOKS, AND HAVE
COME TO THE CONCLUSION THAT MUCH OF YOUR BRAIN IS CONVINCED THAT YOU
ARE TURNING INTO A FROG.
- Rebbit.
- ON ZE OTHER HAND, I COULD BE WRONG...
(The preview of next installment courtesy of Reich-Nazi Pty Ltd).
VOT WILL HAPPEN TO THE INFERIOR JEWISH SCUM ADAM COHEN?
VILL HE BE SWEPT ASIDE BY THE GLORIOUS GERMAN ARMY INVADING
THE PSYCHIATRIST'S OFFICE? VILL THE BRILLIANT ARYAN MIND OF
DR.FROGENSTEINBERG BE PUT TO WORK ON A GLORIOUS NEW
WEAPON FOR THE REICH TO BLAST ZE SCHWEINHUND ALLIED FORCES?
YES, IF WE HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH THE NEXT VUNDERBAR
EDITION OF 'ZE TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES!' SEIG HEIL.
OH DEAR. WELL, IF WE MANAGE TO REPEL THE GERMAN ARMY, WHO ARE CURRENTLY
BATTERING DOWN THE DOOR WITH A LARGE KNOPFWURST SAUSAGE, PART FIVE WILL BE OUT
ON MONDAY 3RD SEPTEMBER.
YOU TWISTED MINDS WHO HAVE ENJOYED THIS DRIVEL MAY ENJOY THE AMAZINGLY
BORING STORY OF ROCKET ROGER.
Just mail a lunatic called "The Mad Scribe", EDC981NBP2 on VX24,
notifying him that he is a complete extension cord, and including
your account number. Many words arranged in amusing combinations will
then be forthcoming. Was that vunderbar, Mr Scribe sir?
______________________________________________________________________________
Praise the Lord!
BLESSED BE ### ### ## # # ###
# # # # # # #
# HE # OXIC # USTARD # # # ORKSHOP ## ILES
# # # # # # #
# # ## ##### #
PART FIVE - 3/9/90 - WRITTEN BY MR. LUXURY-YACHT
FIRST, A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR.
Greetings, loyal followers! Now is the time to make the ascent from mere
computer users to rulers of the universe! So cast down your keyboards...
reject your VDUs. Grab your laser cannons, and blast everything! Today,
ordinary people reading pathetic mumblings of a complete looney...
tomorrow, complete psychopaths running around all over the place killing
everything. Hahahahahahahaha!!
AND NOW, BACK TO THE STORY.
Adam immediately went back to his cave, and put a new notice on the door.
________________________ The mongoose that shared the cave with Adam
| A.Cohen (Frog) Pty Ltd | suggested that Adam turn to religion. While
|________________________| there was no church that accepted frogs as
vicars, there was a church run by a
Reverend Skilbey, who, it was claimed, performed miracles on many reptiles.
So, the following Sunday, Adam went down to the Church Of The Sacred Heart
Of The Bleeding Nose Of Jesus. The sign outside said "Special Prayer Today
For Vax Users". Adam went in.
Inside the Church, the Reverend Skilbey was preaching-:
"...and did the mighty God Vax allow two way communications between the
holy users of the System. And one day, did one of the users decide to type
'Mail'. And once the user had uttered the destination of his missive, the
almighty god Vax did reply 'Enter your message below'. And so the holy user
did do so into the board of keys, thinking up any bullshit to filleth in
lots of time.
"Faer downe in the depths of the mighty God Vax, the users did toil
unto their computerterminalmachines. And they did weep, when they saw
282,274 errors appear during the woeful time of compilation. And they did
slave until the arrival of evensong, to cast the errors from the graven
image of the screen. And when the errors had been expelled, they did
rejoice, and they did get pissed, and they did get even more pissed and did
return unto their terminals and riddeth their code of runtime errors.
"As the millenia passed, they did toil and slave, until the great code
was rid of runtime errors. And they did rejoice once more. And it was only
then that the holy users of the great God Vax realised that P1 was due in
two thousand years previous to the climax of their great utterance. And the
utterence was a word. And the word was 'SHIT!!!!!!'
"Here endeth the lesson."
After the sermon, Adam went to see the Reverend, who was playing
records in the Vestry. Adam pleaded with him to help him return to being a
human. Above the din of the power-chords on the holy man's Anthrax record,
all he could hear of the Reverend's reply was "What the bloody hell's that
frog doing in here?"
As Adam left, in despair (and with half his right hind leg missing,
after the vicar had tried to step on him), an old lady with lots of
wrinkles, hardly any teeth, and a moustache approached him.
"Who are you?" he cried. "You look like my SYS lecturer."
"I am the all knowing one. I hold the key to wisdom. I can help you
solve your problem."
"All knowing? You can't be a SYS lecturer... Solve? Really? How?"
"Well, if you adjust the GANTT chart, and change the Data Flow Diagram
to correspond with the additional information provided by past users, then
throw everything into a cauldron with a few ingredients, you will be
cured."
"What ingredients?" asked Adam.
"Try these." She handed him a list.
___________________________________________________
| |
| Eye of newt |
| Wing of bat |
| Elbow of unicorn |
| Index finger of glad-wrap |
| Penguin's toenail |
| Treasurer's braincell (Hard to find) |
| Profit of Pyramid |
| Aerial of Eskimo |
| Buttock of butterfly |
| Glasses of lecturer |
| Unmentionable appendage of whale (av 2.7metres) |
|___________________________________________________|
"Then you must take the cauldron into the Great Dividing Range, gather
up the ashes of an arsoned house, scatter them on the ground, and place the
cauldron on a seven degree angle, facing due north. Wait 43.3 seconds, and
yell 'Shomosentificialismitingsomeoneturnedmeintoafrog', and hop into the
cauldron."
"And that will bring me back?"
"Maybe. Or it might turn you into a giraffe. Or a printer ribbon, for
that matter."
Adam was about to hop off and gather up the ingredients, when he was
squashed by a truck. As the green bits spread all over the road, he made
a satisfied exploding sound, as he thought his last thoughts, which were
"Well, five episodes isn't a bad run."
There were many at the funeral, of the tiny bit of green stuff that the
council scraped off the road. And as they lowered the matchbox used as a
coffin into the hole, the Reverend Skilbey commented.
"Stupid git should have used the pedestrian crossing."
But Adam was soon forgotten, as the world faced the biggest threat
since Ronald Reagan made his first movie...
WHAT FATE IS THE WORLD IN FOR?
WELL, I KNOW, BUT YOU WON'T FIND OUT UNTIL
THE NEXT EPISODE OF
'THE TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES', ON 5TH SEPTEMBER.
And yea! The servants of the mighty God Vax did laugh.
And they did await a message from their God.
And the mighty God Vax did utter the best advice for a long time.
"If thou hast enjoyed this, thou might also enjoy ROCKET ROGER.
Pray to the minor deity EDC981NBP2 for deliverence of the
said verses of hilarity."
______________________________________________________________________________
The end of the world is nigh.
So why bother doing a really
good title for
TOXIC CUSTARD
WORKSHOP FILES
APOCALYPSE EDITION
Episode 6 - 5th September 1990
Written by Mr.Luxury-Yacht
A man. An ordinary human being. Ewen G.MacPerson. He had become tired of
this world. He had become fed up with the wars of the Earth, the endless
pollution and famine, and tired of the way everyone talked when he was
trying to (especially those one or two up the back).
A plan formed in his mind. A plan to get back at this world which had
made him so unhappy. A plan to destroy the world! How long would it take,
he thought, to annilhilate the planet? Five seconds? Ten? A minute at the
most, and Earth would be laid waste.
Ewen went down to the local Brashs. There, he bought the second biggest
hi-fi that anyone had ever seen. The new Sony CDXLOUD-40000, consisting of
a remote-control CD player with 16 times oversampling, a 20 million watt
amplifier with surround-sound, and two hundred 500 metre high three-way
loudspeakers. And all for the cost of a small city.
Perhaps the plan would not have been so lethal, if not for the final,
and most deadly element of this destructive weapon. And yet it cost only a
fraction of cost of the nuclear warheads aimed by the trigger happy thugs
who wanted to rule the world (Mr Tex Fuller, Flatback Missouri USA being
the most obvious one). It was, perhaps, a billionth of the US defence
budget of a year. It cost only $25 but the damage it would do to the planet
was immeasurable. It's creator was a menace to the entire population of
the world. The thing had a simple name. A name which caused fear and panic
throughout the civilised world. It was called "The Young Talent Time
Album".
Ewen had bought it while completely drunk one midsummer morning. There
was an imported American version as well (which contained only half the
songs, all edited and shuffled out of order), but Ewen had settled for the
all-Australian version, made in Korea.
He waited for the moment. Until the time was right to destroy the
planet. He had arranged the speakers in 198 major population centres of the
world, and Melbourne, disguised as skyscrapers, with two in New York
because he hated the NBC Today Show, which came from there.
The complication came in the operation of the amplifier. He had
calculated that to operate it for the required time (at least ten seconds),
would cost him fifty million dollars in electricity bills. But of course,
the SEC would be destroyed as well.
The time was nearly right. Any moment now, Ewen would insert the disc
into the CD player and press play. Then turn the amplifier up to maximum.
* * *
HE HAD SENSED TROUBLE. IT WAS HIS JOB. FOR ONE THING, IDENTICAL
SKYSCRAPERS HAD BEEN APPEARING OVERNIGHT IN ALL THE MAJOR CITIES OF THE
WORLD, ALL WITH ADVERTISING FOR SONY ON THE TOP. BUT THE WIERD THING WAS,
THEY WERE ALL LINKED BY CABLES WHICH WERE MARKED 'MUSICWAY AUDIO'. HE
FOLLOWED THE CABLES AROUND THE WORLD, UNTIL FINALLY, AFTER WEEKS OF
SEARCHING HE FOUND A HOUSE. AN ORDINARY, CONVENTIONAL HOUSE WITH
BARBED-WIRE, MACHINE-GUN POSTS AND SEARCH LIGHTS AROUND THE PERIMETER. COME
TO THINK OF IT, IT LOOKED MORE LIKE A PRIMARY SCHOOL THAN A HOUSE.
ANYWAY, HE WATCHED THE HOUSE, UNTIL FINALLY THE OCCUPANT MADE A MOVE.
WITH THE AID OF INFRA-RED CAMERA EQUIPMENT AND A HYPERSENSITIVE MICROPHONE,
HE SAW THE FIGURE OF A MAN REACH FOR A CD, AND SCREAM 'Die, you
puss-suckers!'
HE MADE HIS MOVE. HE BURST THROUGH THE DOOR, SPRINTED DOWN THE HALL TO
THE ROOM, AND ENTERED FASTER THAN PEOPLE RUNNING FOR COVER AT A KYLIE
MINOGUE CONCERT, AND PULLED OUT THE AMPLIFIER POWER PLUG.
***And the masses did hail the saviour of the world. And the saviour did
come among the crowd and did reveal himself. And it was MISTER POPSICLE.
########## Yes, Mr Popsicle, an eight foot
| /\ /\ | high man with gigantic eyes, a fuzzy
| \/ \/ | haircut, and a gaping mouth. Mr. Popsicle,
| /\ | who looked not entirely unlike a giant
|\______/| icecream.
|\______/|
----|________|---- MR POPSICLE, SECRET AGENT. THE PERFECT
| | SECRET AGENT. WHY? BECAUSE OF HIS
| | INCONSPICUOUS APPEARANCE.
___| |___
Coming up in the next issue of the Toxic Custard Workshop Files...
MR. POPSICLE PIN-UP!
EXCLUSIVE MR. POPSICLE INTERVIEW!
MR POPSICLE TOUR DATES!
WIN THE NEW MR POPSICLE ALBUM!
WIN A CHANCE TO KICK EWEN IN THE HEAD!
ALL IN THE NEXT ISSUE OF THE WEEKLY POPSICLE - 10TH SEPTEMBER.
IF YOU THOUGHT THIS WAS BORING, YOU MAY FALL ASLEEP READING ROCKET ROGER.
Send a message to "The Mad Scribe", EDC981NBP2 on vx24, telling him that
you are an imsomniac, and that he may or may not be a wedding-cake, and
including your account number.
PLEASE NOTE:
The characters in this work are entirely fictional. Any similarities
between them and any real people is really honestly a total co-incidence.
______________________________________________________________________________
-------------------------------------- We would like to apologise for the way
THIS IS A TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES that Ewen was treated in yesterday's
_ ___ _ _ _ edition of TCWF. It was only after
/ \ | \ / \ | / \ / \ \ / publication that we realised that some
|___| |__/ | | | | | | \ / readers would not understand the
| | | | | | | | | _ | significance of the comments, as they
| | | \_/ |___ \_/ \_/ | had never had him as a lecturer.
6/9/90 Therefore, to take full advantage of
-------------------------------------- the insults provided, we recommend
that for 'Ewen', you substitute the name of your favourite lecturer; the small
minded officious opinionated little prat with cords, a skivvy, glasses and a
silly accent. Once again, our apologies for any inconvenience caused.
Raymond Luxury-Yacht.
_______________________________________________________________________________
Popsicle Rules, OK?
T - H - E W - E - E - K - L - Y 10/9/90
======= ====== ======= ====== || ====== || =======
|| || || || || || || || || || ||
======= || || ======= ====== || || || ======
|| || || || || || || || ||
|| ====== || ====== || ====== ======= =======
I - S - S - U - E S - E - V - E - N
(THE ZINE FOR ALL MR POPSICLE FANS)
| Published by Popsicle Magazines
THIS WEEK: | International. Edited by Mr
- Further adventures of Mr Popsicle. | Luxury-Yacht. Mr Popsicle is a
- Win Mr Popsicle's new album. (Well, | trademark of Popsicle PLC.
you could if there was one.) | A TCWF Production, 1990.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
. . _ _ _ _ _ _ _
THE FURTHER |\/| |_| |_| | | |_| |_ | | | |_
ADVENTURES OF | | |\_ | |_| | _| | |_ |_ |_ EPISODE SEVEN
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
IN OUR LAST THRILLING EPISODE, MR POPSICLE, SECRET AGENT, HAD JUST
SAVED THE WORLD FROM A YOUNG TALENT TIME ALBUM.
Mr Popsicle, the ice-cold secret agent, who looked not completely unlike a
giant icecream, crossed the road and entered his apartment. He went straight
into the kitchen and climbed into the fridge. But as he did so, part of his
left elbow melted off, and dripped all over the floor, short-circuiting the
fridge, and killing him.
LOOK, YOU CAN'T KEEP KILLING THE LEADING FIGURE IN THIS SAGA. IF YOU KEEP GOING
THROUGH HEROES AT THIS RATE, THE END OF THE STORY WILL BE ABOUT TWENTY SECONDS
AWAY.
- I'll kill who I like matey; I'm writing this!
BUT THAT'S TWO LEADING CHARACTERS IN TWO EPISODES!
- All right. I take that back.
Just as Mr Popsicle was about to die, the arch-angel Gabriel appeared and saved
him from certain liquidity (sounds like a rescue bid). Mr Popsicle said
"Thanks", and went over to his computer terminal. He logged into VX24, read the
latest episode of 'The Toxic Custard Workshop Files' and laughed hysterically.
Then he reported to headquarters; the offices of the Australian Royal Security
Establishment.
"Secret agent Popsicle reporting for duty, sir!"
"Good to see you Popsicle. We have another mission for you."
"Thank you sir. It's nice to be here, it really is. And I mean that most
sincerely, I really do."
"Good. Here's the file on your latest mission. You'll need to carry some
special equipment that's just been developed in the lab. Go and see Doc Wedge."
"Yes sir."
Popsicle took the lift down to floor -26, and met Doc Wedge in the lab.
"Hiya doc, howya doin'?"
"Fine zank you, Popsicle. And how are you?"
"All right thanks doc."
"Oh good. The weather is quite nice today, isn't it?"
"Yes it is doc. It really is. And I mean that most sincerely, I really do."
"Yes. Although I heard there could be showers tonight. Round at my place."
"Shall we get on with the plot doc?"
"Vell, it's funny you should mention that, because I just spoke to the
author by phone, and he said he's run out of story. He can't think of anything
for you to do that's dramatic, action-packed, dynamic and cliche-ridden
enough."
"Oh dear. Well, should I tell the joke about my stick?"
"No, no, I think someone is about to burst unexpectedly into the room."
Suddenly, someone burst unexpectedly into the room.
"Nobody move. My name is Inspector Unnecessary-Violence. I've been in the
force twenty-seven years. Twenty-seven f'kin years."
"Good morning Inspector", replied Mr Popsicle.
"Quiet you scum! Oh sorry. Hello sir."
"Well Inspector, the reason we need your help is that we've heard that the
Soviet Police And Z-force Organisation (SPAZO) is planning an operation here."
"But", said Doctor Wedge. "Surely an old cliched spy story like that won't
sell now that Glasnost has taken over."
"Yes, but the author is too narrow minded and rabidly right-wing to see
that."
"Oh."
"Never mind", said Popsicle, "We'll just carry on with our espionage
activities. Now. To raise money here in Australia, SPAZO have become engaged in
illegal banana smuggling. They've been hiding bananas in innocent tourists'
suitcases, disguised as packets of cocaine. One poor customs offical found a
packet, and tried to smoke it. As a result, he overdosed on banana, and turned
into a COT lecturer."
"That's terrible", Unnecessary-Violence replied.
"Yes. He had to go into Federal politics to make a living. And as we all
know - POLITICS IS NOT LIKE LIVING."
"That's awful. Are we resorting to political comment this early in the
plot?"
"Yes, I'm afraid so. Now, doctor, what amazing, innovative, and yet plainly
below-the-belt device have you got for us to use?"
Doctor Wedge reached for a gizmo on the bench.
"Here you are - it is ze Banana-detector device. It vill find any build-up
of bananas within ten kilometres. Read the figures from ze meter, radio them
back to base, and ve vill tell you where the bananas are."
"Thanks doc. Let's go, Inspector."
WILL POPSICLE AND THE INSPECTOR BE ABLE TO HALT THE
ILLEGAL BANANA SMUGGLING INTO THE COUNTRY?
HOW MANY MORE STUPID ACRONYMS WILL THE AUTHOR THINK UP?
WILL THERE BE A PROPER CLIMAX AT THE END OF WEDNESDAY'S EPISODE?
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM POPSICLE MAGAZINES INTERNATIONAL:
THE ADVENTURES OF ROCKET ROGER. To subscribe, mail EDC981NBP2 on vx24,
including your account number. Have your VAXcard ready.
______________________________________________________________________________
You're watching VX24, and now it's time for
===||=== ===||=== ||==== || || ||====
|| || || || || ||
|| H E || O X I C || U S T A R D || | || O R K S H O P ||== I L E S
|| || ||==== ||==|==|| ||
E P I S O D E E I G H T T W E L F T H O F S E P T E M B E R
W R I T T E N B Y M R . L U X U R Y - Y A C H T E D C 9 4 2 D B P 2
PLEASE NOTE:
In the interests of our environment, the Toxic Custard Workshop Files are
entirely recycled, made from re-used jokes, found in an old garbage bin outside
the residence of the writers of "Hey Dad." Hence, laughter, which causes untold
damage to the ozone layer, will be prevented.
AND NOW, BACK TO THE STORY. MR POPSICLE, THE WORLD'S MOST ICE-CREAM-LIKE SECRET
AGENT, ASSISTED BY INSPECTOR UNNECESSARY-VIOLENCE, ARE OUT TO STOP BANANA
SMUGGLING BY THE SOVIET POLICE AND Z-FORCE ORGANISATION. WE JOIN POPSICLE AND
THE INSPECTOR IN THE ICE-MOBILE, MR POPSICLE'S SPECIALLY BUILT CAR, CUNNINGLY
DISGUISED AS AN ICE-CREAM TRUCK. THEY HAVE DETECTED A STASH OF BANANAS, WITH
THEIR BANANA-DETECTOR DEVICE.
While the Inspector drove the truck, Popsicle was on the radio to base.
"Roger barbecue tea-kettle one-o-five Hawaii-five-o. Received and
understood. Roger and out."
"Who's Roger?" asked base.
"Shut up and keep up the jargon", replied Popsicle sharply.
"Oh. Alpha Roger Sierra Elephant Sierra out!"
"All right Inspector", said Popsicle, "north, to Modem Avenue. Those Godamn
Red-Bolshie-Commo-Ruskies are there. They've got a banana packing store,
disguised as an electricity generator for a nearby stereo."
As the van screamed into Modem Avenue, Popsicle could make out a large
warehouse at the far end, with a large sign proclaiming: 'Generator Building -
Absolutely Not An Illegal Banana Packing Store Run By The Godamn Red-Bolshie-
Commo-Ruskies.'
"Better watch out", said Popsicle, "I think a stunt sequence is coming up."
The van screeched to a halt opposite the closed warehouse door. With a
movement of the foot that would put Mrs Thatcher trampling on a peasant to
shame, the Inspector pressed down on the accelerator. The van screamed up the
driveway, and went crashing through the door, splinters flying. The Inspector
burst out of the cabin of the van, brandishing a gun, and screaming.
"Police! Nobody move! Reach for the sky! Get your hands up! One move and
you're dead meat! Drop your weapons and surrender! You haven't got a chance!
Don't move dirtbag! Go ahead, make my day! Throw your guns on the floor and
keep your hands where I can see them! Why am I shouting all these mindless
cliches?! If anybody makes a false move, he gets a hole in the head!" His voice
now wavering, as he saw that everyone had their hands up, he continued slowly.
"This is your last f'kin warning. I'm Inspector Unnecessary-Violence, and if
any of you f'kin scum move, I won't hesitate to open fire."
"Thank you Inspector", said Popsicle, climbing out of the upturned van. He
looked around the warehouse. Turning to one of the Russians, he asked, "You
call this an electricity generator?"
Bursting into song, the Russian replied. "People try to get us down,
talking 'bout my generator!"
"WHO on Earth? Shut up! Now, who's your boss?"
"I will tell you nothing", answered the Russian, in a heavy French accent.
"Oh yeah? You'll tell me NOW, or I'll put you in a small room, underground,
where no-one can hear you, and subject you constantly with the most terrifying
torture known to man. You won't last two days."
"You don't mean??" shrieked the Russian.
"Yes - Kylie Minogue records!!" said Popsicle, with two exclamation marks.
"His name is... is..." The Russian looked around for a few seconds, waiting
for someone to shoot at him unexpectedly, just before giving away the vital
information.
"He is known as Walrus-Face, but his real name is... is..."
Suddenly, a shot rang out, and the Russian came crashing to the floor,
faster than share-prices on Black Tuesday, Dark Monday, Charcoal Wednesday, and
whatever other stupid names were thought up for share-market crashes.
Popsicle looked at the direction the shot had come from, only to see a
shadowed figure running away, along a distant catwalk, high above the warehouse
floor.
"Shit, not again," remarked Popsicle, before his stunt-man proceeded to
scale the ladders hot in pursuit, in a display of acrobatics comparable to a
nun falling off some monkey-bars. A shot rang out, as the shadowy figure fired
at him, but because the hero can't die, Popsicle's stunt-man narrowly dodged
it. The man ran off into the darkness, and there was a scream of car tyres, as
he fled the scene in a Volvo.
Popsicle radioed in the details of the car, and returned to the Inspector.
"Did you get a good look at him?" asked the Inspector.
"Only his clothing. He was wearing brown flared cords, a bright-red skivvy,
and platform shoes."
"But that means..."
"Yes!" said Popsicle. "He must be a university lecturer!"
WILL POPSICLE AND INSPECTOR U-V BE ABLE TO FIND 'WALRUS FACE?'
WILL THE PAIN AND MISERY OF BANANA-ADDICTION GO UN-STOPPED IN
OUR COMMUNITY?
YOU MIGHT EVEN FOUND OUT, IN THE NEXT THRILLING EPISODE OF
'THE TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES', OUT ON 17TH SEPTEMBER.
************************************
*AND REMEMBER: Never share a banana*
************************************
FREE COUNSELLING ON BANANA ADDICTION IS OBTAINABLE FROM
A FREE INFORMATION SERVICE, RUN BY THE BANANA OFFENSIVE.
Contact EDC981NBP2 on VX24 for details. You may remain anonymous.
PS
You readers really are a quiet lot, aren't you? Honestly, I mail all this stuff
to you, and do I hear a whisper? Apart from a couple of people, no! C'mon! I
wanna see FEEDBACK, reaction and disgust! I want to see 500 lines of "The Toxic
Custard Workshop is a totally brilliant literary work" by tomorrow lunchtime!
______________________________________________________________________________
VX24 artistes unite!
THE MONASH UNIVERSITY ARTS FACULTY PRESENTS
Hello, good evening, and fraternal greetings to you. And welcome once again to
_ _ _ _ __ __ ____ _____
/ / / \ \ / / \ \___\ \ The weekly computer magazine
/ / /__/ \/ - /____\ \ \_ \ for all lovers and admirers
\__/ / / __/\_ _/ \_ \ \_ \ of fine art on VX24.
Volume One, Number Nine - Seventeenth of September
Well, we hope that you were at peace with your inner self over the weekend, and
are ready once more to delve into the inner-meaning of the world of art.
Among other features this week, we will be looking at-:
- "Bag", the latest highly abstract work by contraversial new artist
Vincent Dan-Coff
- A critical look at an acclaimed episodic work of electronic fiction
- And we will be previewing a new display at the National Gallery
Firstly, our feature artist Vincent Dan-Coff, and his new work "Bag". While
some philistines of the popular press may see this work simply as a plain paper
bag perched on top of a concrete block painted white, more discerning viewers
of the work would see it as a comment of society itself.
The artistic relevance shown in the functional positivism counterpoints the
whole structure of the creationist existence of the piece. A special feature of
the piece is the surroundings - an almost unique and excellent example of the
Creationist Realism & Artistic Purposefulness school of art.
The factors involved in the complex structure of the bag itself show the
inner infrastructure, moralabulations and thinkamullary artisticularity of the
artist's very inner soul. It might be said that for many artistic
displayariums, the medium for the dissemination of the thoughtfulltivity of the
artist is irrelevant. But for this piece, as most viewers will no doubt detect
with great simplification, the very structure of the blank cuboid platform
beneath could be seen as representing the world, or indeed, the universe as a
whole. It rejects the normal Zionist-Cubism of the Schizo-Hiatus-Inter-
Totallitarianism of much art in the civilistic displayational artistic region
of the financi-oriented world.
And now we move on to a much lighter note: the electronic farce-fiction of "The
Toxic Custard Workshop Files". This week sees the publication of the ninth
episode in this series. And here it is-:
AND NOW THE THRILLING NINTH EPISODE 'THE TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES'
Brilliant secret agent Mr Popsicle, and fascist lunatic Inspector
Unnecessary-Violence are on the track of a ruthless banana smuggler, known as
'Walrus-Face'. After an initial confrontation with him and some of his gang,
Walrus-Face escaped in a Volvo. Popsicle radioed in the details of the car, and
rejoined Unnecessary-Violence. Having concluded that Walrus-Face is a
university lecturer, because of the appalling clothing he is wearing, Popsicle
and the Inspector returned to headquarters, where we join them.
"Well, we know he's a lecturer", said Popsicle, "but where?"
"Vell," replied Doc Wedge, the brilliant scientist with a new accent who
was helping them on the case, "if he had only been wearing the red skivvy and
platform shoes, ve would not have known. But, since he was wearing brown flared
cords, ve must conclude that he is in ze field of computer technology."
"That still means dozens of suspects in Melbourne alone", said Popsicle.
"Yes. But where did you get with that license-plate number?"
"Well, there's a problem there sir," answered the inspector. "There's a
strike at police administation, which affects the police computer. All the
regular staff are on strike. So... the management have taken over!"
"Oh no", said Popsicle.
"So vot?", asked the Doctor.
"Well," replied the inspector. "Because they are all management staff, they
haven't done any actual physical work, but have just been sitting around
discussing ways of providing the needs of the administation wing. The first
week of the strike was setting up an agenda for a full management meeting of
the department. In the second week, they were arguing about where everyone
should sit in the conference room. By the third week, they had solved that, but
were stuck over the colour of the paper to be used for the minutes, which took
another three days to solve. The height of the swivel chairs took the rest of
the week, then the actual meeting began."
"So what was the result of the meeting?" asked Popsicle.
"Not much. They set up two committees to report. One to identify the needs
of the administration section, and it's relationship with other departments,
and another to find a way of getting a decent coffee-machine in the board-room.
Apparently they don't know, for instance, that to find a car owner from the
license plate number, you just have to sit down at the police computer and type
the number in; not set up a joint steering committee into discussing Maslow's
theory of needs."
"My goodness me! How did they get like this?" asked the Doctor.
"They all did ADM130 'Introduction to Management' at Monash."
"Oh."
"We have to get the driver's details", said the Inspector, "to try and
catch those Godamn-Red-Bolshie-Commo-Ruskie banana smugglers. So how are we
going to do it?"
"Could we try and use the computer ourselves?" suggested Popsicle.
"No way," replied the Inspector. "You know what management are like. And
now it's worse - they look after security as well. They won't let you in
without the required forms SR4, SR7463 and SR472A in triplicate."
"Hmmm.. There could be a way," said Popsicle. "Why don't we..."
WHAT IS THIS MARVELLOUS, INNOVATIVE AND IMAGINARY PLAN
THAT MR POPSICLE HAS PLANNED. WILL THE PLAN HE HAS PLANNED
WORK TO PLAN? OR WILL THE PLAN FAIL, REQUIRING HIM TO PLAN A
WHOLE NEW PLAN? FIND OUT THE PLAN IN THE NEXT EPISODE, WHICH
IS PLANNED FOR PUBLICATION ON 19TH SEPTEMBER.
CULTURE VULTURES WHO HAVE TAKEN IN THE DEPTH AND VISION OF THIS BRILLIANT WORK,
MAY ALSO BOGGLE AT THE ARTISTIC CREDIBILITY OF ROCKET ROGER.
To obtain your copy, which this week contains a life-size full colour poster of
the new Vincent Dan-Coff work of art 'Bag', mail your friendly VX24 artistes,
at the Academy of Art DeShimbec, EDC981NBP2 on VX24.
______________________________________________________________________________
And now the world premiere of
Luxury Yacht Productions
In association with Electronic Mail Marketing Board
Presents A Rather Silly Production
Of Stephen Speilberg's
### ### # # # ### ### # # ### ### ### ### ## ### ### # # PG
# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # ## #
# # # # # # # # # ### # ### ## # # # ### # ##
# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #
# ### # # # ### ### ### ### # # # # # ## # ### # #
IN GLORIOUS MONO-CHROMO-VISION
MADE IN TERMINAL-SCOPE
Premieres Wednesday 19th September, at the NetCinema
Popsicle and Inspector Unnecessary-Violence were on the way to the site of the
police computer. They had a plan to break in to trace the license number of
that Goddamn Red Bolshie Commo Ruskie banana-smuggler. As they drove into the
street, they passed a sign proclaiming 'WARNING - THIS AREA PRONE TO SICK
MUSICAL JOKES. DRIVE CAREFULLY.'.
The inspector stopped the car outside the administration building and went
to the door [See footnote 1]. Popsicle got out, and according to plan, walked
round to the back of the building, looking for an open window.
The front door opened, and a boring face attached to a boring management
type person looked out.
"Good Morning, Good Morning", sung the inspector, handing him a roll of
toilet paper. "Here's my application for access to the computer."
"Thank you", said the man. "I'll get it processed, duplicated and filed."
Popsicle had by this point got in through a window, and was tapping merrily
away at the terminal. He found the information on the car of that Goddamn Red
Bolshie Commo Ruskie banana-smuggler, got a printout, and walked to the front
door. When he got there, all the management run security men were still
puzzling of the toilet roll that the inspector had given them. As they
feverishly worked, they burst into song; "We Can Work It Out!"
Suddenly one of them saw Popsicle coming down the hall. "How did you get
in?" he asked.
Bursting into song, the inspector replied, "He Came In Through The Bathroom
Window", before they dashed back to the car. A message came on the radio.
"HQ to Popsicle. We've had a message that the author is getting really sick
of your character, so hurry up and get the villain, then get out of the story
pronto. Out."
With a screech of smoke, and a puff of tyres, Popsicle sped the car to the
address on the printout. There they found the mastermind behind the S.P.A.Z.O.
banana-smuggling. They confronted him, speaking quietly, calmly and coolly, and
with several large guns stuck in his face. He surrendered.
"Are you the one known as Walrus-Face?", asked Popsicle.
"I Am The Walrus", sang back the dagily dressed Russian.
"And you're Russian, are you? When were you last Back In The USSR?"
"Been away so long I hardly know the place!"
OH SOD THIS. I REALLY HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF THESE CHARACTERS, MOSTLY 'COS I'VE RUN
OUT OF MATERIAL FOR THEM. SO, WE'LL SCRAP THEM AND START OFF A WHOLE NEW STORY,
IN THE NEXT EPISODE OF "THE TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES"; OUT NEXT MONDAY.
NO NO NO. TCWF WILL *NOT* BE OUT NEXT MONDAY, BECAUSE OF THE NON-TEACHING
WEEK AT MONASH CAULFIELD & FRANKSTON, WHEN ALL SANE AND SENSIBLE STUDENTS ARE
OF COURSE LAZING AROUND AT HOME DOING SOD ALL, AND WHEN THE AUTHOR IS WRITING
MORE EPISODES IN ADVANCE. WHAT'S THAT I HEAR YOU SCREAM? YOU WANT YOUR TCWF?
OKAY, OKAY. YOU CAN HAVE _ONE_ NEXT WEEK, BUT ONLY IF YOU EAT ALL YOUR SPINACH.
SO, LOOK FOR EPISODE 11 ON MONDAY 24/9/90, AND EPISODE 12 ON MONDAY 1/10/90.
NOW, TO RAISE EXTRA CAPITAL (LETTERS), TCWF IS PROUD TO PRESENT A COMMERCIAL
BREAK:
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Don't want to add to the stray cat population, but your pussy fancies a bit of
the other? Why not try out full range of CAT CONDOMS? Including many novelty
designs (rats, birds and frightened dogs now available!).
All from CONTRA-CAT
(Not avail. in Vatican City or Koo-Wee-Rup)
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
IF YOU RECKON THIS EPISODE WAS STILTED AND LACKING IN FUNNY BITS,
YOU SHOULD SEE THE LATEST EPISODE OF ROCKET ROGER.
The Mad Scribe is just waiting to mail it to you. Don't encourage him;
whatever you do, don't mail EDC981NBP2 on VX24 asking him to send it
to you.
FOOTNOTE 1:
The author had a strong urge to use the 'The car stopped with a jerk and
the jerk got out' joke at this point. Count your blessings.
--
Copyright © 1991 Daniel Bowen
May be copied or reproduced without permission
provided this notice remains intact.
--
Raymond Luxury-Yacht a.k.a. DANIEL BOWEN | Remember - jumpers are
Monash University, Melbourne, Australia | clothing's way of telling
[email protected] | you to pull over...
[email protected] | [Toxic Custard Workshop]
^
Please note, these addresses only valid until November 1991.
Thereafter, finger [email protected] to find me.
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