,... $$$$ $$$$T""P$$$ba, ,gd&P""T&bg. ,gd&P""T&bg. ggggggggggg $$$$ $$$$$b d$$$$ $$$$b d$$$$ $$$$$b ggggggggggg """"""""""" $$$$ $$$$$$ $$$$$ $$$$$ $$$$$bxxP&$$&P """"""""""" $$$$ $$$$$$ T$$$$ $$$$P T$$$$ $$$"""""" " """" $$$$$$ "T&$bxxd$&P" "T&$bxx$$$$$' " """"""$$$ """ """""" """ ggg "Re-Writing HOE Rejects" ggg $$$ by Various Artists $$$ $$$ $$$ $$$ [ HOE E-Zine #940 -- 12/05/99 -- http://www.hoe.nu ] .,$$$ `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""' INTRODUCTION ============ Occasionally HOE gets a few files that are so utterly terrible that we are forced to laugh until we cry and we can't even publish them in our wonderful e'zine. That is, until now. Because our staff is obviously composed of some of the most gifted literary creators ever before dispensed upon the world, we decided that for once, we would lend a helping hand in these rejected submissions. Therefore, I sent out various rejected files to various HOE staff members (and a few "wanna-be HOE writers", as ridiculous as that premise may sound) and asked these affiliates to either take the "original ideas" of the file and re-write the entire file into a better piece, OR to write a critique of the original. The following is the results of this little experiment. TABLE OF CONTENTS ================= ## Reject's Title Original Author HOE Re-Writer -- -------------- --------------- ------------- 01 => "Snap. Crackle. Die." Fake Scorpion Nybar 02 => "The Wigger" Korrupt Nyarlathotep 03 => "Nigger, Nigger..." Edicius Effy 04 => "HOE SUBMISSION" G.T. LilNilHil 05 => "Why TV Sucks" SubZero Oregano 06 => "A Poem" Racket Trilobyte 07 => "What's in a handle?" Dae'raezdus Que 08 => "Back In The Day..." Lucky Aster 09 => "Morbid" Vyrus Tasha 10 => "Gun Control" JrzDevil Quarex 11 => "Dear Melissa" Kojak Caitlin 12 => "Moe's Diner" Mr. Sandman Anjee 13 => "Tricks To Play..." Chris Cox Nyarlathotep 14 => "The Zoo" King Krazy CannibalButterfly 15 => "A Day of a Programmer" Fatslayer Cstone 16 => "Commies" Mercuri Aster 17 => "Presidential Elections" Unrelated AIDS 18 => "The Diary of Manis Goodof" Gilgame Tan Adept 19 => "Your Kettle Korn Sucks!" Kernel Bob Nybar [-----------------------------------------------------------------------] REJECTED FILE #1 ================ "Snap. Crackle. Die." by Fake Scorpion it was basically a good day, for the most part. at about 8:00pm, i headed over to my dad's office. i had been working as janitor there for at least three years. i exited my car and walked up to the door. a noise in the street behind me made me turn around. cause ; a noise, effect ; i turned around. there was an el camino that had stopped in the middle of the street. the driver of the car was gazing at me, and i feared he would attempt something. i quickly entered the office and turned the deadbolt, which was unusual for me to do. three steps into the office, i felt like something wasn't right. i KNEW something was wrong. it was more like a feeling ; a sixth sense. "something bad is about to happen," it seemed to tell me. my eyes reaffirmed the feeling when i noticed a lamp was missing and a chair was flipped over. another three steps into the office, a black male popped out from behind the receptionist desk. "what the hell!@!," i inanely muttered. "guh," he yelled. he dashed towards the back door of the office and spent twenty seconds trying to unlock the door. he finally opened it and ran. of course, i promptly shot a load in my pants. i dialed 911 and then inspected the place. he hadn't gotten away with much, only a pack of female hormones. anyone that takes twenty seconds to open a door is a dumbass, in my humble opinion, and the fact that he had stolen a pack of hormones reaffirmed that idea. he had broken in by throwing a brick through the window (which landed on a computer, forever fucking it up). what is there to learn from this? probably nothing. it was just a good recap of what happened last night. [----------] RE-WRITE OF REJECT #1, by Nybar =============================== it was basically a good day, for the most part. yeah. whatever. i had been floating through time and space, waiting for the call, when i heard it. the call was not in the form i expected--the phone was ringing. upon picking it up, i was transported to another place--the street. okay. listen up. i've been drinking a whole lot of coffee. i'm going to tell you something about the history of the english novel. at first, authors didn't really know what to do...the concept of the _novel_ didn't really exist. so, long tales were told in the form of letters, back and forth, right? like dracula. haha, but then, the _novel_ started to develop, and we had the english realists. but, the thing is, they were not highly focused people. before jane austen showed headz how to do it, niggas would--uh--go off on diatribes having nothing to do with the narrative for pages on end. sort of like this. hmm, so, i opened my eyes, and landed on the street. there, a car was parked. listen, i'm going to tell you something else. there was a very interesting chess match which happened in Brussels, in 1923. okay? the chess match was between these two italian masters, and so it wasn't _so_ influenced by hyper-modernism, which was sweeping the world at the time (much like the witch's broom). okay, so anyway, they play this guiccio piano game, right (how typical of italians), and have this really interesting tactical game...it's finally won by a tactical shot, where dewd gets mate in 7, alright? but, you see, from this point (of resignation), mate in _2_ existed on the board. now, i'm going to tell you something else. in stanley kubrick's movie, "2001", the chess game shown was this one, right, at the point where mate in 7 is announced...and Hal announces mate in seven, not mate in two! and yet HAL said he was infallible...this is human infallibility--going for the nifty human solution and not the cold, mechanical one! HAL is my NIGGA, yo. and in the car, there was a very scary man. he wore a black fedora and had a lemur in his lap. he grinned at me, exposing completely gold teeth, and made for his door. i ran as fast as my fat legs could carry me to my office door, not wishing to irk such a prodigious (for who is more prodigious than the weirdo) gentle-man. sadly, as i tumbled up the stairs, it seemed to me that each new level was a different state of consciousness...i was once again floating in time and space, but the lemur was following me, vicious as a new york yip-dog and faster than a snail on cocaine...following me through time and space...following me from place to place; from the island of Delaware to the straits of despair...oh, from sea to sea, how the lemur did follow me! finally, I arrived at the DOOR to my OFFICE, and jumped in the WINDOW (shattered...why?) listen, uh, there's a fine line between Henry James and James Ellroy. so don't even go there, girl friend. i had escaped the wrath of the lemur, for it was to short to make the leap of faith... listen, isn't MAN too short in SOUL to make the leap of faith to GOD? NOW, listen, I've got a WIFE, but you give up your LIFE, to malice and STRIFE, if you don't give TITHE...POU CREW PRODUCTIONS, THE NEW DYNASTY... oh, and it nipped and clawed at the door, like a wiener dog exiled from its native France. ahh, inside the evil apartment, i saw a sack of skin of the _brown_ persuasion...stealing female hormones! haha, but i didn't understand why, because i like to spin narratives and give no explanation. _for example_, i will not explain why there were female hormones to steal...-rather-, i will pontificate upon the subject of his stupidity in the stealing, HENCE: "man! what an idiot! why are you stealing female hormones, anyway? uh, we keep all the valuable stuff, like FETUSES, in the other drawer! GORF!" "excuse me, good sir, are you addressing me? we live in a logical world, my friend, and surely this can be solved by dialectic!" "oh--of course..." "the dialectic my GLOCK and your FUCKING MOUTH HAVE!" WACK MCs, dUCK DOWN... and that's the end of my story. but let me tell you something about stories... [-----------------------------------------------------------------------] REJECTED FILE #2 ================ "The Wigger" by Korrupt It all happened, a long long time ago in a place far far away. The place was Los Angeles. The hero of our story is named Charlie. If the dictionary had the definition of white honky, it would have a picture of Charlie. Charlie was sitting in his room listening to some of his favorite jams on the radio. There was a dance coming up at school and he had to be prepared. After years of being a boy-scout, Charlie repeated to himself "Be prepared" Charlie was a bright student, but never very popular with the ladies. Often he fell in love and obsessed over many at first sight, then had his heart broken. "This shall never happen again!" Vowed Charlie, silently under his breath. Charlie danced his way over to his boom-box and flipped it on. "Yo, Homie, dont you know me, im the mother G" blared out of the radio. Charlie flipped. He was astonished at the vulgarity and profane use of words! How did this "garbage" as he labled it, come to play on his radio? He opened the tape deck to make sure his gospel tape was still there. "whew" Charlie blew, in a sigh of relief. "The station must have gotten changed on accident" With that behind, Charlie went on his way to bed. That night his dreams were filled with sights of gun shots, and naked booties dancing around. People drinking 40s and cussing were all about. In a sweaty sweat, Charlie leaped out of bed. These vulgar thoughts had cosumed him. They controlled him. He was commanded by an unseen force to go turn on his radio. Without hesitation, the radio was on again, and the song was all too familier. "Rolling up the road, all my ho's"followed by a heavy beat. Charlie loved it. He realized then, that that would be the key to get the popularity and women he so desired. He could hardly wait for the dance tommarow. The doors to the dance flew open. The music practically stopped playing. Everybodys heads were turned toward the enterance. There, standing in the doorway was Charlie. No longer did he hang his head between his legs when he walked. Even that funny limp seemed to be gone. And that greasy hair was no longer. This was not the Charlie everybody expected. Charlie walked up to the nearest group of girls, and with a smooth casual grin, he blurted "Yo yo yo, whats up baby-doll". Everbody just giggled at first. But Charlie was not through. He slided across the dance floor in his new XXXX large Cross-Colours, (Bright green by the way) and approached another girl. (This time he was prepared) In one smooth motion, Charlie pulled out his "Black Like Me" Dictionary. It was filled with phrases that would make the impression he wanted. He flipped past the definitions for Homie, G, and Phunky, until he came across the word he was looking for, he had to try it out. "Yo baby, you are crazy PHAT!" blurted Charlie. Again, he was greeted with inconsistant giggles. Ashamed he headed home, his baggy cross-colours trailing far behind. "Why did it not work??! I'm fly!, Well they shall see!" Still determinted to prove his so called downess, Charlie headed toward the local hang out for the other color folks in the town. He knew this was dangerous, but he had to learn. Charlie strolled into a cafe, greeted by unfriendly stares. He took a seat, right behind a few of the "brothers". Charlie took out his pen and paper and jotted down all they said. He had to learn. This went on for many weeks. Charlie followed any of the "brothers" he could find, and listened to how they talk and act. He even got the walk down. Charlie strided with his head in the air, listening to only music he could seem to hear. He thought he was truely the man. Now he had to prove it. Heading for the mall since it was a weekend, Charlie had his hopes high for a piece of the action. "If white people wont accept me, then they arnt worth it! Ill get me a few real homies"Charlies dreams were soon coming to reality. With his new dope walk, he strided over to the first group of blacks he could find. Pretending like he cared not, Charlie stated in general "Yo homie, whats up G" and continued to walk on. He did not get very far before a muscular hand grabbed at him. Turning around, Charlie was face to face with the biggest, ugliest, and smelliest black person he ever saw. "What the fuck did you call me honky" was his only greeting. Still eager to prove his newfound "blackness" Charlie tried again "Yo homie, why you sweatin me G, we all brothers here" Endless laughter surrounded Charlie. His ears were flooded with mindless laughter. His head begin to spin. Out of all the words and punches thrown at him in those few seconds he could stay concious, one word stuck clearly in his mind. "Fucking Wigger!" Waking up in a trash can, Charlies head hurt. His clothes were ripped and his wallet gone. What will happen to poor Charlie? Will he ever proove his downness? Will he EVER get laid? It doesnt look like it, infact chances are his life gets worse, probably even killed. Charlie went to school the next day and he was not greeted very warmly. You could say the hospitality was less than generous. Charlie got jumped by a bunch of kids at school. The whites hated him because he disgrased them. The blacks jumped him because, well, they jump anybody white. He got bashed until he died. Thus ended life adventures of a Wigger. But there are still thousands, no millions of them out there, so do not feel bad if this is a sucky ending. You can go to your school and find your very own wigger and beat the shit out of him! Just like everybody did to Charlie! [----------] A CRITIQUE OF REJECT #2, by Nyarlathotep ======================================== I don't have any particular problem with the concept of this story itself... the idea is at least passable. The problem that I have is more in the execution. I don't really care at all for the plights of Charlie. And since I don't care about his plights, the whole purpose of reading the story is negated. One thing which I would do is provide a bit more of history on Charlie. Perhaps if the reader was shown some of his past life, we would sympathize more with his desire for change. Summing his entire life up in one half of a paragraph doesn't really seem to do the character justice. On top of the fact of poor character development, there are inconsistencies in the story that distracted me. One of note is right near the beginning, when Charlie is listening to some of his "favorite jams" on the radio, but then he flips on his boom-box to hear the rap music? What sense does that make? And who would call gospel music "jams?" Maybe I am being a little too picky, but minor details like that can spoil the entire reading activity. So now that I've picked through the very beginning of the story, I should go on to the middle. The middle of the story is actually the best part of the story. It is far from perfect, but it did do an ok to pick up my interest from what started out at a very low level. I think that, by and large, the dialogue in this story is rather distracting. I understand the effect that the author was trying to convey... that of a clueless suburbanite trying to speak the language of the street... but that doesn't change the fact that it is distracting. But at least the story moves on fairly. And now on to the end of the story. Again, the author uses cheap gimmicks that end up being distracting. I don't think that asking questions of the audience is called for in this case. Particularly when the conclusion of the story is rushed in the next paragraph. And once the end of Charlie is mentioned in passing, the so called message of the story is reiterated in black and white, in case the reader didn't understand it from the story itself. Of course I don't really agree with the message of the story, but thats not a reason in and of itself to find fault with the story. But it does add to my disliking of it. So to sum it up, if the story had more character development, less gimmicks, and a more exciting ending it would have at least been a nominally written, mediocre story. As it stands, it is a poorly written, mediocre story. [-----------------------------------------------------------------------] REJECTED FILE #3 ================ "Nigger, Nigger, Go Home..." by Edicius "I can't believe we fucking lost to a school full of niggers!", Lou says in disgust. "I know. Did you see the fucking running back? He looked like he just got off the boat from Africa. He grandfather was probably a slave", Frank says laughingly. "God. We lost to niggers. I think we better show these kids what happens when they mess with us, ya know?" "Good call Lou. Hm, you know how the buses leave through the Elementary School's exit? We can stand over by the edge of the school, and yeah and throw shit at them when they leave. Then make a clear getaway through the woods." "Sounds cool. Heh. This will show them nigs." With this, Lou and Frank slip through a hole in the fence, and cut across a parking lot without being seen. They slip into place while watching the buses load up with kids from the nearby rival school. Football players, cheerleaders, and fans. They get in one by one. "C'mon assholes. We're waiting," Lou says with a snicker, as he takes out a can of jolt which he bought prior to leaving the game at the concession stand. "Jolt! Yeah! Hmm. I think i do. Yes! I do. I have spray paint and toilet paper in my backpack. We were going to use them on Simpson's house, but fuck it. We'll use it on them!" "Right on. Wait, I think they're coming. Yep. The three buses are loaded. Hm, ok, here's what we do. We're gonna want to hit the last bus, cause if we hit the first, the other two can stop. Give me the spray paint. I'll throw it at them, lets see if i can break a window. Dont forget to shout out 'nigger' really loud. Hehehe. This'll rock." In the dark woods behind them, a slight rumble and crackle of twigs can be heard. Emerging from a trail are a group of three teenagers, maybe 17 or 18 years old. They spot the 15 year olds standing at the corner of the building. "Cool, here they come!" Lou whispers in sudden joy. The first bus goes by, and they remain hidden. The second bus pulls out going only a few miles per hour, and then the third bus appears. "Lets get them!" "FUCKING NIGGERS GET OUT OF HERE," Frank shouts, and throws the toliet paper at the front of the bus. It appears that it spread out and made a mess on the hood of the bus. He starts to turn around to make his getaway. "Holdon, my turn. NIGGER! NIGGERS! NIGGERS!@$#" The spray paint and soda can be seen thrown through the air, the soda breaking open and making a big spill on the roof of the bus, and the spraypaint seems to break a window, but in the darkness, Lou can't see well. "C'mon, run Frank." They start running, and dont notice the group of kids standing, blocking the entrance of the trail that leads to the deep woods. One of the kids, an 18 year old black kid, is spotted by Lou. "Oh shit Frank, i think we are in trouble." "Now, you boys wouldn't be the ones that just shouted stuff at that bus and threw stuff at it, right? Nah. Good white kids like you wouldn't think of calling anyone a nigger, right? And if you were to do something like that to an unsuspecting busful of kids, you would also do that to any black person you meet, like myself, right?" "Umm. Well.. You see.. Well.. The bus.." Lou mutters, trying to get a complete sentence, or at least, a complete phrase out. "Fuck you. Listen boy. We saw what you did, and now we are going to show you something else," says the one who looks to be the 'leader' of the group as he pulls a butterfly knife out of his coat. "Some of my friends were on that bus. I don't think you would call them a nigger if you met them on the street, now would you?" "I don't know.. But i do know I'm going now..", Frank says as he makes a run for the opposite side of the parking lot. "I don't think so whitey! You're coming with me!" "No! No! Let go of me! Ahhh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean it! No!" Lou screams in agony as a knife it placed into his back. Blood squirts out and slowly he drops to the pink stained asphalt below him. Frank keeps running. "No! You fucking niggers! You can't do that to him!" Frank shouts as he runs, but he doesn't run fast enough. The other two teenagers grab him, throw him onto the ground, and kick him without mercy. They spot a large rock nearby on the ground and throw it at his head. Suddenly, at the other side of the parking lot, a police officer who was called by the bus company to investigate objects being thrown at their bus, sees the melee. "Stop it! Get off of them!" "Oh shit, Danny, run, pigs!" The three let go of Frank, but not before they knock him unconscious. They start to make off through the woods. The aging, slow cop cannot keep up with the speed of the young boys, and stops the chase without even starting it. He cannot get a good description of the three, and he just calls the paramedics for the Lou and Frank. Lou, who by this time is dead, starts to slip into his purgatory. He is long removed from the asphalt filled jungle that we call Earth, and is now is a trance. He looks down, and can see the paramedics putting him into a body bag. He also sees the paramedics working furiously trying to bring his dear friend back to life. Frank didn't make it back. He died too. The three boys were never identified, so they were never caught. One of them went on to be arrested for drug possession 2 years later, and is on probation now. Another one is a pre-med student at Columbia, and the last one, the so called 'leader' of the group, went on to be a successful politician. Frank and Lou's life ended tragicly that day. But sometimes a tragic end is the only way to end the oppression. [----------] RE-WRITE OF REJECT #3, by Effy ============================== Somewhere in the southern states, Lou and Frank stand outside after a high school football game. They are a couple of 16-year-old southern Baptist bastards who possess the intelligence, wit, and potential of a paint chip; and have minds as open as an Arab virgin's legs. "I can't buh-LIEVE we lost dih football game tuh a school fulla niggas!" Lou says in disgust as he tugs at his shit-covered overalls. "I know dis. Didja see dih running back? He look like he jist got off dih boat from Africa. He so black he woulda left finguh prints on coal," Frank drawls with a loud, southern guffaw. "Dear Lowd, I hope dey rot in Hell. We lost tuh niggas. I think we betta show deez blackies what happens when dey mess wit us, ya know?" "Yeehaw, Lou. Hmm, ya know how dih buses leave through dih Elementary School's exit? We can stand over by dih edge of dih school, and throw stuff at 'em when dey leave. Den we can make a clear getaway through dih woods." "Dis'll show dem nigs." Lou and Frank gather some loot to throw from Frank's rusty old Chevy pick-up truck, and sneak over by the buses in front of the woods. They wait a few minutes, chewing on some straw they find in the pocket of Lou's plaid flannel. At their feet lie three dead chickens, a bible, a pitchfork, a wooden cross, and an empty bottle of mash whiskey. Behind them, a group of several older, bigger black teenagers appear silently. They notice the white boys hiding by the buses, and their lips curl in anger and resentment. Lou and Frank hee and haw in delight as the buses begin to pull out. They run out flailing their arms. Lou flings the dead chickens at one of the buses and feathers go flying everywhere as blood splatters on the windows of the bus. He then lights the cross on fire and sticks it in the wheel of the bus, while Frank throws the whiskey bottle through a bus window while reading verses from the bible as a black boy on the bus bleeds profusely from a shard of glass in his skull. "NIGGUH, NIGGUH, NIGGUH!" screams Frank, throwing the bible through the broken window. "C'mon Frank!" Lou yells, grabbing the pitchfork and tugging Frank's arm. They dart towards the woods as the burning cross catches the tire on fire and the entire bus explodes. Screams of fear and agony are heard. Frank guffaws. "Dih nigs are burnin' up like crispy critters!" They stop dead in their tracks at the sight of the huge black teenagers in front of the woods who are glaring at them with murderous vengeance. "Dear Lowdy Lowd," whispers Lou, trembling. "I think we in trouble." He looks over at Frank, who is shaking like an old man on crack. The black boys grab Lou and Frank by the backs of their overalls and sneer in their faces. One of them speaks. "You racist fuckers, you just made a BIG fucking mistake!" There is no need for the boys to say more. Lou and Frank whimper for mercy until the black boys knock their few rotting teeth out of their mouths with their large fists. They take the pitchfork from Lou and stab Lou and Frank repeatedly in the back, and finally slit their throats, leaving them to die in a large pool of blood. Suddenly, footsteps approach, and a voice can be heard. "Freeze, nigguhs!" yells the cop, who appears to be very old, very slow, and very Baptist. "Pig!" screams one of the boys, and they dart off into the woods, easily escaping the police officer. The old cop huffs and puffs, but the perpetrators are too fast for him. He calls for an ambulance, but it is already too late. Lou and Frank are deader than dinosaur dung. He sighs sadly as their bodies are taken away and calms himself with a bear claw. All of the football players and cheerleaders on the bus have ceased to live also, dying a painful, fiery death. The scene is quiet, but the onlooking southern white Baptists secretly rejoice under their solemn facade. Later, they mourn the loss of the white boys, and angrily declare vengeance on the unidentified black boys who had so vengefully taken their lives. Hypocrisy and intolerance flourishes in the small town, and yet another instance of the asinine practice of southern Baptism is evident. [-----------------------------------------------------------------------] REJECTED FILE #4 ================ "HOE SUBMISSION" By G.T. When you enter the everlasting realm of cardboard box textured couches, you can feel the cinnamon in the air, even with your heavy winter gloves. So i stepped outside which I thought was inside because the carpet had just been vacuumed, but there was a car parked just outside, the chandelier swayed accordingly to the strength of the wind. I felt the soothing bass of the fish jumping in and out of the bowl mumbling.."wingy wingy, why am i wingy?" We painted the seran wrap covered fridge and used it as bait for my robotic brother, he fell for it and we laughed at him. So to conclude, my work is always frosted with the bionic essence of imperial chocoledutwah. [----------] RE-WRITE FOR REJECT #4, by LilNilHil ==================================== When you enter the everlasting realm of cardboard box textured couches, (ok. okay.) you can feel the cinnamon in the air, even with your heavy winter gloves. (yes. more.) So i stepped outside which I thought was inside because the carpet had just been vacuumed, but there was a car parked just outside, the chandelier swayed accordingly to the strength of the wind. I felt the soothing bass of the fish jumping in and out of the bowl mumbling.."wingy wingy, why am i wingy?" (haaaa.) We painted the seran wrap covered fridge and used it as bait for my robotic brother, he fell for it and we laughed at him. (heh.) So to conclude, my work is always frosted with the bionic essence of imperial chocoledutwah. chocoledutwah. a bullet in your face. Gregory sat in his small room reeking of ammonia and the humid stink of menthol tobacco. he wiped off his face and read his note. (you are gregory.) (go to bank and work today.) (come home.) so gregory went to work. he worked at 7-11, the night shift. yes, every week-night, from 9pm to 5 in the morning, you could find gregory thinking this: I think that i say and use too many sentences that start with the word "I". I mean, it's as if all i ever do is talk about myself, i don't mean to.. "..23 cents your change.." it's not like 'Clerks'.. where everybody just asks for a pack of cigarettes.. we have to have 300 fucking brands. and 20 different preferences of each. marlboro lights, they go on the left shelf. we sell more marlboro's lights than gas. "..45 cents your change. thanks." i guess i should find a real job. i suppose working for 'southland corp' isn't a very good career decision. but i get free beer..so. maybe i shouldn't have broken up with her.. just cuz i didn't love her. but that's some stupid shit after awhile.. gets tricky when they say 'i love you', 6 times a day and then move in with that little 5 second pause, that evil fucking vortex of shame before breaking eye contact. and then nick walks in. the gambler. he only smokes black n' milds, and walks around with no shirt on and a quart in his hand at 3 am. ..comes in every night. "hey dawg." i grin. "hi man." "yo you got any dice man.." no dude "well alright.. guess what.. i'm gonna throw this lighter in the air. and guess which side it's gonna land on.. you got a dollar?" um.. wait.. what? "we'll see if it lands on the sticker side or the blank side, we'll bet a dollar." but, why? "i dunno dude i just like to gamble. haaa" oh ok. here and nick loses a dollar. "double or nothin'!" and nick loses two dollars. "double or nothin' comon." and nick gets himself out of it. "well dawg. sweet. is it too late for beer?" yeah sorry. "aw.. well i got a riddle man. check it" wha.. "there be three words in english speakin' that end in the letters gee, are, why. g.r.y. check it? there's hungry angry, and one more.. what is it dawg?" um.. i dunno. "alright man peace out.." wait, what the.. g.r.y. so i'm off work. took a cab home.. cost me ten, spent ten on food while workin.. means i made 15 bucks in 8 hours. right on. Morning. 5pm. the next day. I've started wondering about things.. this riddle. I checked the dictionary. There's hungry, angry, malgry, algry, even gry itself is a word. so what is it? i think it's too easy.. hungry and angry are commonly used words.. but whoever heard of 'ogry'? it's old english... not common word. for weeks the riddle bothers me. it seems to be all i can really think about at times. my entire mindset has sortof changed because this little flaw.. one unanswered question, is always there. so i read into the riddle more. i discovered this, that the gry riddle.. began sometime ago.. and was stated as follows.. "There are 3 words in the english language that end in the letters "gry", there's hungry, angry, and what else?" i found out that the answer was "language". and then in history it sometimes was answered as "what". a riddle based on wordplay.. it was stupidity from the start. but it had an effect. i searched right into the riddle because it bothered me. does the fact that i took it so seriously show that i'm too stubborn.. how i seek a solution that's out of hand? did this have anything to do with anything at all? At work again. the entire population thinks a different way, acts a different way. they flaw their own idea's in such a fashion that they make no sense, their questions are unanswerable. nothing ever gets done. each individual is only responsible for his or her fuckups. the less fuckups you maintain, the better you are perceived as. i am a fuck up. this is a energy compounded into small vibrations. we are all this energy. it's maintains all things. nothing is real, there is no death, or life, there is only the mind. the soul is a fog. i am different. i show it. show me your enemies. a manic blue. mumbling i painted in the bionic essense of a manic blue. the chi, the force, the anarchists and taoists.. objectivism. mass cohesion. the wriggle of an insect climbing down your throat. the chocoledutwah. Gregory was found in the vault of the 7-11, dead with a gun in his hand and a bullet in his face. his body temperature was 30 degree's. there were traces of lsd in his blood. Nick was found jammed inside the electronic doors leading into the store. with 5 bullets in his chest and a box of black and milds shoved into his right eye socket. the chocoledutwah. our fuckup is an awesome fuck up. [-----------------------------------------------------------------------] REJECTED FILE #5 ================ "Why TV Sucks" by SubZero Television. I never have liked TV, it's boring, and much of it makes no sense. So i'm sitting here trying to think if something to write my first HoE file and I look over at the television. Well, there's nothing else to do and I can't get any ideas for this file so I guess i'll turn it on. So, I turn on my TV and i'm greeted by a Pay-Per-Veiw add for "The Fight Zone", wow, big sweaty men grabbing and touching each other. I think i'll pass. Next channel I come across PBS, do people actually watch this? Ahh, MTV, why the hell do they call it Music Television when there is only two hours a day of videos on? The rest of the time is filled with crappy reject shows from other stations. How pitiful, My So Called Life. How can they play this show every day for over three months when this show didn't last more than a week on a ABC. The Catoon Network, this looks good Scooby Doo meets The Harlem Globetrotters. Hmph. It's the same damn plot everytime. Scooby and the gang goto some weird place and find there is a ghost. Eventually Scooby and Shaggy accidentally foil the ghosts and the guy with the blonde hair takes of their masks and it's the gardener and the maid. Gilligan's Island! This show is so great! The scenary is so real and The Skipper is so cool! Actually, no. This show is so fake it makes no sense and does anyone really think they'll get off the island? The Rabbit will get his Trix before the "seven stranded cast-aways" get of the island. Now onto Hogan's Heros. Another quality show. Well, I've had enough of the moronity that the media is feeding us. I made a top ten list of my best and worst shows. You probaly don't care about it but check it out anyway. *Best* 10. TV sucks read a t-file 9. TV sucks read a t-file 8. TV sucks read a t-file 7. TV sucks read a t-file 6. TV sucks read a t-file 5. TV sucks read a t-file 4. TV sucks read a t-file 3. TV sucks read a t-file 2. TV sucks read a t-file 1. Late Show with David Letterman *Worst* 10. Any news show 9. Any game show 8. Tonight Show with Jay Leno 7. Hogan's Heros 6. Gilligan's Island 5. Three's Company 4. The Jon Stewart Show 3. Any show on PBS 2. Any thing with OJ in it 1. Any Nick at Nite show [----------] RE-WRITE TO REJECT #5, by Oregano ================================= I used to be a big fan of television, while growing up it pretty much occupied all my life. I can't tell you exactly when it changed, I still am not sure why, but sometime in my college life I curtailed my TV input greatly. This was not some scheme of mine to improve my life, it just occurred. And over the years I have watched less and less TV to the point where there is only one show I regularly watch each week. Sure, I will turn on the TV if people tell me that I have to watch some specific show. But even when I watch a recommended show, I get bored and end up flipping channels, then turning the box off. One reservation I have about talking about my boredom with TV is that I do not claim to be some higher intelligence who is too smart for the programming. I am one of the few who think that television programming is at its best ever. There are tons of shows now which eclipse by far the crap I watched with delight in the '70s. I do not see TV as a vast wasteland; but there are recurring themes which grow tiresome. Watch enough TV and you know how everything ends, no need to see the whole show. Lets take a typical night of TV. I see that Pay-per-view has "The Fight Zone." I like wrestling as much as the next guy, but there is a pay-per-view every month, there is nothing special about it anymore. Wrestlemania used to mean something. I suppose that pay-per-view is a good reason to get together with a few of your friends to defray costs and spend a nice Sunday night together. I on the other hand prefer to be locked in my bunker on Sunday thinking of all the horrible things I did or said on Saturday night, a self-imposed confinement. At my office there is a youngster who watches MTV. She tells me all the great stuff that is happening on MTV's The Real World, enough to make it seem interesting, but when I tune in I find it too much about people whining about their emotions. The only two MTV shows I enjoy are Tom Green and TRL. Total Request Live is the '90s version of Dick Clark's American bandstand. Teens listening to marginal music, lots of yelling, bad band interviews and all the songs getting mangled in the editing room, half each song getting lopped off in the interest of time. I enjoy this. Not sure why. Perhaps I like that the music is a commodity and not a piece of art, somehow treating this music with the proper disdain this music deserves. Tonight MTV is...commercials. I cannot sit through the commercials, I don't know what the program is, but the commercials are numerous enough for me to list that as the programming. The Cartoon Network seems like a good idea. I like to laugh like a moron at Scooby's speech impediment, and Shaggy stoned all the time looking for something to eat. But the stories are always the same. The culprit, who had supernatural powers in the first 10 minutes of the show now turns out to be the maid or the gardener. There is too much cheating in this cartoon universe. There needs to be consistency. This is why I hate giant-monster movies. A monster is in one scene as big as a hotel and in another just a little larger than a bus. My fault with the Cartoon Network is that they show the worst of the '70s animation. I much prefer the newer cartoons like Animaniacs or Rugrats. The newer cartoons have better writing and animation. The few decent cartoons on Cartoon Network are Space Ghost, Powerpuff Girls and JetCat. The haze of boredom is pressing on my shoulders and this TV watching cannot go much further. I see Hogan's Heroes and Gilligan's Island, each of which needs no insight from me. To answer the question I somewhat raised earlier, the only show I watch regularly is Saturday Night Live. There are many people who spend their entire lives bashing this show, how can I justify taking special pleasure in watching it every week (even the reruns)? To me the show is a special event, perhaps it stems from the grand celebration around its first few seasons when I had to sneak out to the family room to watch it, well past my bedtime. I have liked the show in the good years and the bad and in many ways my sense of humor comes from there and is nourished in its bath of constant renewal. Currently Horatio Sans makes me laugh in every sketch he is in; for moments of joy like these I continue to watch. That said, I do not give up on TV, I am sure that in my old age I will see it again as an old friend to take away the loneliness when my family abandons me to the cattlepen known as a nursing home. Rather than spend my last hours crying for a life wasted, I will turn to Comedy Central and laugh again at seeing Tom Hanks in Big for one last time. [-----------------------------------------------------------------------] REJECTED FILE #6 ================ "A Poem" by Racket Here comes one pissed off cop, He's sees me take just one drop. I say to him it's only lsd, Then he says sure that's what I thought it'd be. Then he get's mad cause i'm smoking grass So I tell him to just shove it up his ass He said, Drop and spread 'em And I told myself not to let him So he shoves his nightstick up my back Just as if I was possessing crack I took his arm and threw him on a car He let out a yell that could be heard near and far My supplier told me that wonderful trick! Then since he was so nice to me, I decided to give him one good kick What's this? Yet another scream This time it was really extreme It's not as if I kicked him in the rear Well, not quite there, but it was near! I took out his cuffs, and slapped 'em on his wrist This time he got really pissed I told the nice officer, "How ever will you drive?" And he said, "I don't need your fuckin' street jive" I thought I heard enough outta this squealer So I thought I'd bring him to my dealer When we got there, my dealer was busy with two other guys But when he was done business, I turned the pig in for a surprise I went back to the streets, and heard screams of pain But I just carried on, sniffing my free cocaine. I noticed the screaming was coming from my dealer's spot, I thought it was just another guy getting shot. Just to make sure....this isn't my best poems, i just did it when there was nothing else to do.... i will be coming out with an anarchy article, that i'm 1/4 completed, and a list of the hottest women [I WILL include Winona, Mogel!] I thought you might like these other poems, that i didn't make, but they are cool poems we sing at school, and the sort. I also have to give credit to Wonko, and Ascii Express, even though they aren't the coolest or most liked or most heard of people.... but i have to give credit..[Wonko isn't VERY cool as most of you know, but he wrote it... and that's enough of that.] Roll roll roll your joint, Twist it at the end, Take a puff, now that's enough, and pass it to a friend. (Sung to Row, Row, Row Your Boat) Marijuana, Marijuana...LSD!, LSD! College kids are making it, High school kids are taking it, Why can't we?, Why can't we? (Sung to Frere Jacques) [----------] RE-WRITE TO REJECT #6, by Trilobyte =================================== Ah, Immaturity :: or :: The Raping of Racket by Trilobyte everyone loves drugs, because drugs are cool. or, at least, that's the assumption made by 'racket'. there is a drug called marijuana -- in case you didn't know -- and it makes people mellow, often enticing them to sit still for hours. some people think a lot about interesting things while they sit still, and others just think about nothing. they're effectively passed out. though they might be doing the 'cool' thing by 'smoking pot', in no way are they cooperating with or enhancing society. this 'racket' fellow might be deeply immersed in the 'drug scene'. he might 'smoke pot' and then 'pass out' for hours. when he's not 'smoking pot' or indulging in other drugs, he might think about how he could be, what might happen if he were, or what situation led to the fact that he currently isn't. this might lead racket to chant songs about drugs, or write poetry about drugs and drug-related scenarios. but i also wish to point out that there's a good chance mister 'racket' hardly does drugs at all, and hasn't ever left his parents' house. when he sits alone in his room, which likely has posters for bands like Korn and Marilyn Manson, he frets over how uncool he is. but, being one who works to improve himself, he thinks of ways that he could become cooler. he wonders, "what do the cool people do?" and then thinks to the writings of ezine demigods like mogel and cDc. "they're cool!" he tells himself. "and they talk about drugs! drugs are great! all i have to do is get drugs!" poor racket decides to improve himself through drug use. but, as he does not want to go to 'bad ghetto neighborhoods', which are the best places to find drugs, and since he doesn't leave his house or know anyone at all, he just sits in his room and draws marijuana leaves on college-rule notebook paper. his mother gets done fucking a chair, comes in to 'racket's room, and asks if he wants anything. "can i have some weed, or some uhh cocaine or crack or something?" he asks. "i knew it!", she shrieks. later that night his mother and father decide to send him to drug rehab, where he eventually meets a number of great new friends who tell him all sorts of drug experiences. one guy, jamal, has been to the rehab place twelve times. he likes the high from the injections they give him. when 'racket' and jamal get out of rehab, they hook up, and 'racket' eventually becomes addicted to heroin, after ingesting numerous other drugs. here's one of the poems he wrote in the rehab clinic. oh, i mentioned that 'racket' is a white suburban boy -- but did i mention that he has no rhythm? and that he writes about trite subjects? and that he has a poor grasp of grammar? and that he's a retard? lines beginning with Mo-Money symbols ($) are the poem's contents. numbers in the metal clink [1] [2] [3] link to footnotes at the end of the poem. to start the poem off, let me describe one widely-used technique of the mindless drug loser authors. as with poetry by other authors with dormant brains, 'racket' obviously has used the literary technique of 'understood walking-down-the-street'. this technique nullifies the author's need to waste time setting a scene for his/her story, by allowing the reader to ASSUME that the speaker is simply walking down the street. this technique has the same effect as including an opening line with the following contents: "So I's was walkin down the street and" now, to the poem. $ "A Poem" by Racket [12/22/94] notice the inaccuracy of the title. this isn't a poem. $ Here comes one pissed off cop, $ He's sees me take just one drop. notice the vivid imagery, and brilliant description of the mood of the police officer being spoken of. slang language makes the poem more 'cool', which appeals to drug users (the people 'racket' wants to impress.) $ I say to him it's only lsd, [2] $ Then he says sure that's what I thought it'd be. $ Then he get's mad cause i'm smoking grass [4] $ So I tell him to just shove it up his ass [13] $ He said, Drop and spread 'em the police officer, being confused, thought racket had asked to shove it up HIS OWN ass. he was wrong, though, because that's not what racket said. $ And I told myself not to let him $ So he shoves his nightstick up my back [3] $ Just as if I was possessing crack [1] $ I took his arm and threw him on a car [5] $ He let out a yell that could be heard near and far $ My supplier told me that wonderful trick! $ Then since he was so nice to me, $ I decided to give him one good kick Despite his improper use of pronouns, Racket is _obviously_ not talking about kicking his dealer, because YOU DON'T FUCK WITH YOUR DEALER. $ What's this? Yet another scream $ This time it was really extreme [6] $ It's not as if I kicked him in the rear $ Well, not quite there, but it was near! [7] $ I took out his cuffs, and slapped 'em on his wrist [8] $ This time he got really pissed $ I told the nice officer, "How ever will you drive?" the officer has wild mood swings, sometimes being 'nice', and other times being 'pissed'. FYI, racket is a victorian-age lord of an English province. $ And he said, "I don't need your fuckin' street jive" but the police officer does not understand racket's victorian use of 'how ever' in a sentence, since only classic poets speak like that, and believes it to be a sort of drug user language [9]. $ I thought I heard enough outta this squealer $ So I thought I'd bring him to my dealer A dealer is a person who sells drugs. $ When we got there, my dealer was busy with two other guys And rapes those who can't pay him. $ But when he was done business, I turned the pig in for a surprise one way to keep rhythm in a poem is to drop words. here, racket keeps a steady rhythm by leaving out some word near 'done'. one side-effect of this technique is that sometimes a word is important to the meaning of the line, and dropping it makes the line unintelligible. [10] $ I went back to the streets [11], and heard screams of pain $ But I just carried on, sniffing my free cocaine. $ I noticed the screaming was coming from my dealer's spot, $ I thought it was just another guy getting shot. [12] [1] 'Crack' is a drug used in tenements by poor African-Americans. [2] LSD is a hallucinogenic drug, which sometimes comes in liquid form. Drug users use the term 'drop' to describe taking LSD. [3] LSD eventually ends up in the spines of its users. A way for police officers to test for LSD is to stick their magic nightstick up peoples' shirts. It then telepathically tells the officer if it senses any LSD. Racket's mention of crack possession is due to ignorance. He didn't have any, and that's not what the cop was looking for. [4] racket is ambidextrous. [5] racket is a square dancer. [6] 'scream' and 'extreme' rhyme. [7] areas surrounding the 'rear', or 'ass', include: * thigh * lower back * crotch * upper leg [8] One side-effect of serious heroin abuse is a constant drive to slap arms. Using handcuffs to slap arms induces a 'bad trip'. [9] Hey dude, man, like, you know. [10] Sometimes poems are already unintelligible and dropping words does not change that. [11] the "Understood Walking-Down-The-Street" technique is backed up. [13] Racket again shows his ignorance by referring to 'grass' as a suppository. Grass, aka 'Opium', is NOT used by shoving it into the anus. racket then continues on, to introduce his next pieces of literature he wishes to share, with the following paragraph. it tells us who is cool, and who we know. $ Just to make sure....this isn't my best poems, i just did it when $ there was nothing else to do.... i will be coming out with an anarchy $ article, that i'm 1/4 completed, and a list of the hottest women [I WILL $ include Winona, Mogel!] I thought you might like these other poems, that $ i didn't make, but they are cool poems we sing at school, and the sort. I $ also have to give credit to Wonko, and Ascii Express, even though they $ aren't the coolest or most liked or most heard of people.... but i have $ to give credit..[Wonko isn't VERY cool as most of you know, but he $ wrote it... and that's enough of that.] These are songs that Racket sings at school with his other buddies who like Korn and Marilyn Manson. These buddies of his only hang around with him because they think he might be able to score them some pot sometime. Otherwise they'd leave him alone because he smells pretty bad. $ Roll roll roll your joint, $ Twist it at the end, $ Take a puff, $ now that's enough, $ and pass it to a friend. $ (Sung to Row, Row, Row Your Boat) I knew this next one in 5th grade because I read it in Matt Groening's _Big Book of Hell_. I assume it's been around for a very long time. By my freshman year of high school, it seemed at least half the student population knew the song. But Racket would like to share it with us, because it's about drugs and drugs are cool. $ Marijuana, Marijuana...LSD!, LSD! $ College kids are making it, $ High school kids are taking it, $ Why can't we?, Why can't we? $ (Sung to Frere Jacques) In conclusion, I'd like to thank Racket, for thinking that HOE's staff was cool enough to share his drug poetry with, and I'd like to thank Mogel, and the other head editors of HOE, for not releasing Racket's file. [-----------------------------------------------------------------------] REJECTED FILE #7 ================ "What's in a handle?" by Dae'raezdus Those of us that bbs are aware of the fact that when a BBS we've just logged onto asks us for what we'd like as our alias or handle, we should type something besides our real name. Those newbies that don't are subject to be the butt of jokes for not picking a good handle. (I swear, I'm innocent on that!) But really? What is the point of picking a handle that will please yourself and others? Perhaps before attempting to answer that all important question of bbsing, it'd be best to take a good look at some instances of the past (read my more interesting moments online). I hear lots of things about my handles. All twenty one of them. People can spot a new handle of mine the moment they see it. Okay, so I make it easy, using things like Dae'raezdus, Raec'via, Pstrykna, Arylaenscia, Aryaelae', and so on (I still can't believe i spelled Aryaelae' wrong.. sigh..) and oddly enough it seems that I began to identify with the handle I use the most: Dae'raezdus. I think a friend of mine said it best when he was commenting on why he was having an old handle deleted from all boards: "It's just not me anymore. It's a character I can't play." Think about it for a moment. Is everyone exactly like they are online as when they are offline? I should sure as hell hope not! Read through a few bios and regs and you'll find out (and if you don't have one type /go registry and then y, and answer the damn questions already!@) that we are all but shells of an unreality. Although if anyone must ask, yes, I am really a demon. Now that I've gotten the moral of the story out of the way, I can have some fun. Keeping in mind the above rule, let's have some phun and go through rules for picking a handle!@ 1) First of all, pick something people can pronounce for god's sake! Okay, I admit it, I have a very hard time following this rule. My regular handle is Dae'raezdus. The first gt I went to, I introduced myself as such, only to receive puzzled looks from everybody present. At first, I thought that was okay because I was under the impression that I was not well-liked online... But that's another story altogether. Later on, before I left I somehow ended up spelling my handle before everyone... shhh, Listen! Me: Um... My handle? Them: Yeah! How do you spell it?? Me: Uh... D - A - E - apostraphe - Them: Oooooh! That guy! Hey you're cool! Me : Fucking idiots... Unfortunately some of my friends, to this day, still cannot pronounce that handle. I've had it, what, close to a year? And when I try to call someone voice for the first time, confusion is often resultant. So trust me when I tell you that a pronounceable handle is important. And never trust someone that says, "Trust me!". 2) Pick something decent fuckface. It never ceases to amaze me when some cyberidiot decides that a repulsive handle is in order. I find it rather amusing when said cyberjerk picks that handle while the sysop is online. Some beauties I've seen go along the lines of "Kreamy_Spurtz", "Jizz_N-Cumm", and so on. I shit you not. (And yes, the sysop was on.) Accounts with such handles have a life expectancy of no greater than 60 minutes, and that's if one is extremely lucky. Accounts not expected to last more than 5 minutes go along the lines of "Sysop_is_an_asshole" and yes, I've seen that one too. Some 'cleaner' handles get some interesting responses, so unless you're the attention-getting type, I suggest you stay away from such things as Bunghole, and Priapism. The first one, thanks to a particular music network comedy (I find the use of that word for that show questionable) show, has an interesting meaning when really it's just a hole for a cork. The second you can look up yourself, but that's been mocked many a time. Then there are handles like one I had, which have no meaning whatsoever, but people just think they sound disgusting. "Scrawla." I have no clue what it means, I just put the letters together, but my MBBS of choice had insisted that it was an STD. Whatever, guys. 3) Pick something original. From Syphilitic Death: H1 gU>-5!@# From Rixna: another goddamn death handle.. cant you people think of anything worth typing? From Dragon Whore'd: I don't see anything wrong with it. From Lady Dump: Yeah. What's wrong with death handles? :/j rixna Ah... The irritations of having to type /black t: or /dragonl: in order to whisper to someone. You can only see so many Black this and Dragon that before it gets sickening. The only things I can stand seeing repeatedly are my cat, The Wall, and certain attractive females. I will admit, however, that it is quite amusing to watch two assholes duke it out over the modem about who thought of the handle first. "You stole my handle!@" has rung in my ears more than once, and I can only sit back and laugh because no one has ever had a handle like mine. (Well, once my friend made the handle Dae'raezdus Raec'via. just to irritate the hell out of me. Needless to say, it worked. I suggest you try it with someone with a long handle on a free board. Just don't expect any whispers.) I won't start naming original handles that I've seen... but you'll know one when you see one. And the bonus part is: Sometimes people actually compliment original handles! Well I've only gotten one compliment but I get lots of questions like "What's your handle mean?" and shit, so it makes a good ice-breaker. Sort of like Sharon Stone with an icepick. 4) Pick something that fits you. (Better yet, don't, and I'll come pester you) Don't pick something like "Lookingforhotsex" if you aren't out for it. Some dolt is bound to come along and ask you if he or she fits your criteria. In much more indiscrete terms no doubt. (Honestly, one guy was typing in main, "I want to fuck you hard," to some females online. In front of the cosysop. We told him to whisper and this is what he typed: I want to fuck you hard /Poorfemale. His response to us was: You guys are idiots. /Someguy ... But I digress) Handles are You online, so of course if you pick a handle like "Smart Demoness Bitch", then of course somebody like me would immediately start talking to you about the beauty of hell and such. Nothing is more irritating to find someone with a handle that didn't match them, so to avoid potentially pissy people, pick 'ppropriate pseudonyms. (Shit, it almost worked...) 5) And a few other tidbits of information... Of course, I've managed to pick up some interesting stories... Well, not interesting exactly but... Well... Oh hell, I'll just tell them. I have an account on one board called "Metria", which as some of you may know, is the name of a demoness in a popular fantasy series. No sooner do I step into Teleconference then do I see from another male user: "Come on in here baby!", where upon I explain to him the purpose of the M underneath sex on the user scan. Poor him. Odd letter combinations throw people off. One of my handles is "Khisanth", yet another book character, also female. People have this problem with spelling that out, as I've seen everything from Krisanth to Kitanth and so on. When will people learn? Yet another handle of mine was "The Foxophile". I advise people not to use the suffix "-phile" in their handles. If you don't know what that means, get a dictionary. I had to tell the sysop, "No, I don't have sex with animals." Animals don't seem to like me either I think you've had enough by now. That is, if you're still reading... Hello? Hello??? Damn... I knew I should have saved the moral for last... That always shakes 'em when they see it first... A final tidbit of advice. Twenty one handles is a bit much. I hear most people keep it to less than five. Then again, I'm not most people ;) (you know who you are :) ) [----------] RE-WRITE FOR REJECT #7, by Que ============================== Nicknames. What are they? Where do they come from? What do you need to obtain one? Why am I asking questions to you when you cannot respond? I will hope to shed new light on this nickname epidemic by showing you a film from the school archives called; "Your Nickname and you." I hope you enjoy. ______________________________ | | | Your Nickname and you. | | | | (start sound now) | |______________________________| *bleep* Nicknames.... Have been used for several purposes over the years including changing your identity after a crime, and for easy referance. (Picture of a man holding a bag with a dollar sign on it) *bleep* But what should you do when choosing a nickname? This is little Robert Smith. Robert do you have a nickname? (Picture of a blond boy holding an ice cream cone) *bleep* "My Nickname is Bobby." (Picture of a blond boy smiling with mouth open) *bleep* Even little Bobby here knows that having a nickname can be fun. (Picture of Bobby riding a bicycle) *bleep* What are common things you should think of when creating a nickname? (Picture of a large green question mark) *bleep* The ability to pronounce the nickname. (Picture of the words "The ability to pronounce the nickname.") *bleep* Does the nickname reflect you? (Picture of the words "Does the nickname reflect you?") *bl@&^$*&OY@EO*&^Y#EY@&OYO$E&H@&HSDOK*H@?* (Picture of blank white screen) Well... It looks like the film broke. I guess we will have to conclude this tomorrow. Just remember, Nicknames are not only your handle.... they are also your friends.. take care, and remember, call your mom. [-----------------------------------------------------------------------] REJECTED FILE #8 ================ "Back In The Day..." by Lucky i'm 17 and i'm regular i talk about regular stuff - i'm from the regular days. back when your momma had your living room furniture covered with that hard-ass plastic. you sit down and it's poking you in your thigh snagging those polyester bell bottoms. back in the days shag carpet was about three-feet-tall and you'd have to step over it. back in the days of pattent leather loafers and knitted arm rests. crushed velvet cutains. back in the days when when your momma had a dinning room table that weighed about 5000 goddamn pounds and she was determined nobody was gonna scratch it. she had it covered up with eight or nine plastic covers, four or five table clothes, and that country-ass lace cover on the top of that. you could try to blow that off, but that big-ass punch bowl was holding it down, surrounded with about two hundred of those little-ass cups. back in the days when you had carpet on the walls, big wooden fork and spoon - i thought we had it goin' on i didn't know we was poor. momma camoflaged? hell, i thought it was artwork hanging all over the house. i was grown before i realized it was some souvenire plates. momma went to flea markets and bought some plates other people didn't want, still had writing on it "see spain, see italy". we aint been outside the state line! had a china closet like middle class folks but couldn't ever afford no china, china closet just full of stolen salt and pepper shakers. wherever we happened to go momma would steel a salt and pepper shaker. she would just drop em' in her purse. they would still have little names on em' "the waffle house" "the pancake house" "mastedonia baptist church"! she didn't give a damn. the jones familly reunion, our name is curtis. here's the thing that matters. these raggedy ass cars on the highway. oh you can't hardly go no where on the highway now ever been on the highway here come a raggedy car behind you, one headlight you think it's a motorcycle untill it pulls up next to you. be runnin' about a 100 miles per hour the car shaking he trembling blowing out smoke like he's selling bar-b-q. he pull up in front of you then slow down! %oh i just like to set his ass on fire!% usualy a cadilac about a 68, 69 model. he'll be leaning one way the car be leaning the other way. be photo cadilac with three tinted windows, three hubcaps .. missing. a rear back tire on the back of the trunk with a hubcap on it. windsheild wipers just screaching like hell cause they don't have any rubber on them. acoat hanger on the hole where the antena ought to damn be. big dirty baby shoes just dangling from the mirror big furry blue dice glued to the dashboard. raggedy ass vinyl top hanging off just waving to you. be a pair of underwear in the gas tank where the gas cap ought to be! then have a cardboard sign in the back saying 'stolen plates' RIGHT, you know nobody stole nothing off thise piece of shit! if they did, they just stole it back. every time i go through the drive through i get behind that raggedy car, they'll be about three or four cars in front of him so he turns his car off to save gas. ten seconds later the line moves and he can't start his car! horns behind me blowing i can't damn move he'll ask me if i can give him a jump. he'll ask me if i got jumper cables you got the raggedy ass car jump between these two cars so i can smash your silly ass! [----------] RE-WRITE TO REJECT #8, by Aster =============================== once apon a time there lived a little boy. he had many things in his room. he had lost of toys and gadgets and gizmos and everything else entirely. most of all, he had three big orange posters with words ont hem. he did not know how to read so he scribbled all over them. he drew pretty pictures of flowers and trees and a man getting killed with a tic tac and a little pen named ronald. ronald, the little pen in his picture was made of plastic and more plastic and wrote quite blue indeed. blue is, of course, an evil color and ronald always hated himself for it. after he was put into prison for killing the man and the tic tac, he learned a great wonderful game called red or blue or yellow or green. this game was very fun. in it, each person (or pen) picked a different color. and then they all scribbled the sky purples with little black teeth. she also wore a cape and had bright red eyes. sometimes she scared little children with toes, but not always, just sometimes. anyway, when the bicycle left the market it traded places and earned a great deal of cookies int he process. soon, the family of four was quite rich. the end. [-----------------------------------------------------------------------] REJECTED FILE #9 ================ "Morbid" by Vyrus The howl from the bathroom signaled something was wrong. Brad raced in to find Shiela screaming endlessly, clutching her face. The skin was literally melting off her face, dripping and running like a think milk shake. She screamed louder as her eyeball oozed gently from the socket, landing with a soft thump in her palm. Even then, her fleshy hands began to squish and run together, exposing pale bones and the pins put in her wrist when she was eight. The unblinking eyeball stared mercilessly at her as she felt other parts of her body stream away in goopy strands, like melted bubble gum this time. The flesh between her fingers finally let loose, and the bones in her hand separated, letting the eye thunk to the floor, rolling over with bits of fuzz and tile chunks embedded in the iris and scalera. Her screams became half gargles as her throat melted away, yet her mouth still moved, dripping pus and blood and dead skin. She turned away from the mirror, looking at Brad with a helpless expression locked on her decaying form. Brad winced at backed away from her clawing and bare fingers. She curled them inwards, looking at them, and shaking her head violently, drop of a no-longer-identifiable material gushed in spurts from her forehead, flying out like a crushed fruit. A few drops splattered on Brad, sizzling like acid. She continued to melt away, screaming soundlessly. As her last remains pooled into a lump on her bathrobe, her stained skull grinning evilly at him, Brad reached down and picked out the locket he had given her. He opened it, looked inside, and screamed as loud as he could... Until the flesh in his throat began to run. [----------] RE-WRITE FOR REJECT #9, by Tasha ================================ Jarett heard a howl coming from the bathroom and figured something could be wrong. He hopped off the tiny daybed and into the bathroom, which was, conveniently, left unlocked. Jarett found Caitlin sitting on the toilet, clutching her face, with the guitar she had previously been playing dropped next to the toilet. Ordinarily, Jarett would have thought nothing of this. Caitlin often played guitar while relieving herself, it made everything come out better, she claimed. Today, however, Caitlin had her hands clutched over her face and was whimpering like a sick puppy. The skin was literally melting off her thin face, revealing the cheek bones that she was proud of as a young girl. The skin dropped in thick globs onto the floor and onto her guitar, mixing with the kitty litter and such strewn about the bathroom floor. Jarett closed his eyes, hoping to blink away the scene, but opened them to see one of Caitlin's hazel eyes dropping into her hands, which she was now holding out in dismay. The flesh of her hands began to run off into the stream of melted skin that was collecting on the floor. It revealed pale bones and red muscle. As the flesh between her fingers began to drip off, her hands fell apart, and the eye fell from them The screams became gargled as the skin on her throat oozed away and her mouth foamed with puss and blood. Caitlin reached her arms toward Jarett, and he backed off, wincing and rubbing his greasy head. She began to shake violently, as unidentifiable objects flew from her head. Droplets of Caitlin's skin splattered across Jarett's stubbly beard and he, too, began to wimper. As the last bits of Caitlin melted away, Jarett leaned down and dug out the used tampon he had been playing with the previous night. He screamed as the blood burned into his palm. Screamed, that is, until the flesh of his throat began to drip away... [-----------------------------------------------------------------------] REJECTED FILE #10 ================= "Gun Control" by JrzDevil It was a Thursday morning. It had snowed heavily the night before, so school had been canceled. Bobby and his sister Mary Lou were at home. They were watching The Flintstone Kids. The Flintstone Kids ended. Bobby got up and changed the channel. Mary did not like this. "Hey Bobby, I want to watch Gummi Bears." "Mom put ME in charge, so we watch what I want. And we're watching Superman! "Please...." "Stop bothering meeeee! Go play with your little dolly!" "I'll get you back, Bobby!" Mary Lou ran to her room. Crying. Suddenly, a thought came to mind. The night before, she had stayed up late with Daddy watching TV. And there was an argument. But not over Gummi Bears. The two men were arguing over Coke. She couldn't understand why their Cokes were a pile of white stuff. But she then remembered what one man did.... Mary Lou stepped into her parents' room. She saw a magazine on the bed. It had pictures. Pictures she couldn't understand. There were women with no clothes on, with their mouths around a man's private parts. How icky! But "Beach Blanket Blowjobs" was not what she wanted. In the closet, Mary Lou found what she wanted. A fully automatic 9mm Uzi sub-machine gun. She had watched enough episodes of GI Joe with Bobby, to know that it was loaded. Daddy had always said that, "A loaded gun is needed to protect the house from foreign invaders." Like Space Invaders? She stomped into the TV room. Bobby saw the reflection of Mary Lou with the Uzi on the TV screen. "What are you doing, Mary Lou?" "I want Gummi Bears not Stupidman!" Mary Lou pulled the trigger. The recoil threw her back against the wall, and she shot most of the 25 rounds into the ceiling. But the first few bullets had slammed into poor Bobby's young body, turning him into Spaghetti-O's. A family's life forever changed. The moral to this story is this: It's not about what are kids watch or what video games they play, it's about what the parents do. Had the parents actually locked up there gun or talked to their children about guns and violence, maybe Bobby would still be around to catch another episode of "Stupidman." So talk to your kids about these issues, and just maybe, we could put an end to sad stories like these. [---------] RE-WRITE FOR REJECT #10, by Quarex ================================== Now, first of all, let me say a few words about this article. Gun control is a very serious subject, and Jersey Devil has an excellent point in this article about a little girl accidentally getting a gun. OH WAIT, NO, THAT IS ALL A BUNCH OF SHIT. Sure, maybe there are too many households with guns easily accessible to children. However, I, for one, could give a fuck less, as could 99% of Americans, as the American mentality is, quite simply, if it does not happen to me or anyone I care about, it does not fucking matter. And for better or for worse, that is the way it is always going to be, and I like it just fine. So, now, about this crap he wrote. . . : [JURZEYDEVUUUUL] It was a Thursday morning. It had snowed heavily the night before, so school had been canceled. Bobby and his sister Mary Lou were at home. They were watching The Flintstone Kids. The Flintstone Kids ended. Bobby got up and changed the channel. Mary did not like this. "Hey Bobby, I want to watch Gummi Bears." "Mom put ME in charge, so we watch what I want. And we're watching Superman!" "Please...." "Stop bothering meeeee! Go play with your little dolly!" "I'll get you back, Bobby!" . . . [/JERZEYDEVAEL] [QUAREX] Okay, now, think about it this way. First, did this dialogue serve any purpose whatsoever? Well, come to think of it, no! How about, instead of this fucking lame-ass unrealistic dialogue (No kid ever would say "Go play with your little dolly," he would say "go away you stupid idiot" or something along those lines--little dolly is a term reserved for college-age homosexual men), he summarized this entire scene with something like, "Bobby and Mary Lou (besides being fucking horrible names) had a brief discourse in the TV room about which programme to watch. After a momentary verbal scuffle, Mary left the room, vowing revenge." NOW LOOK AT HOW MUCH FUCKING BETTER THAT IS. [/QUAREX] [JORZEYDAVIL] Mary Lou ran to her room. Crying. Suddenly, a thought came to mind. The night before, she had stayed up late with Daddy watching TV. And there was an argument. But not over Gummi Bears. The two men were arguing over Coke. She couldn't understand why their Cokes were a pile of white stuff. But she then remembered what one man did.... [/JIRSYDAFUL] [QUAREX] AHAHAHAHHAHAHAH AHAHAHAHAHA NO! YOU GODDAMN IDIOT! THIS IS TERRIBLE! Do you honestly expect the reader to believe that there is a show, anywhere, in which two men are arguing over a pile of white stuff, in a manner like your previous conversation? "D'angelo, I want the coke." "You can't have the coke, R. Kelly." *uzi* [/QUAREX] [JURZYDEVOL] Mary Lou stepped into her parents' room. She saw a magazine on the bed. It had pictures. Pictures she couldn't understand. There were women with no clothes on, with their mouths around a man's private parts. How icky! But "Beach Blanket Blowjobs" was not what she wanted. In the closet, Mary Lou found what she wanted. A fully automatic 9mm Uzi submachine gun. She had watched enough episodes of GI Joe with Bobby, to know that it was loaded. Daddy had always said that, "A loaded gun is needed to protect the house from foreign invaders." Like Space Invaders? She stomped into the TV room. [/JIRCIDEFFIL] [QUAREX] Okay, you mother fucker, use your goddamn brain, seriously. You are a fucking idiot. If she DID NOT UNDERSTAND THE PICTURES--WHICH SHE WOULD NOT, BEING A TINY GIRL--then HOW did she understand that the MOUTHS were around the PRIVATE PARTS? When I was 10, watching some random terrible softcore porn movie on Cinemax, I honestly had *no* idea what was going on. NONE AT ALL. NEITHER WOULD THIS GIRL. SHE WOULD NOT THINK IT WAS ICKY--SHE WOULD NOT FUCKING HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT IT WAS. YOU CONTRADICTED YOURSELF. And JESUS CHRIST, "Like Space Invaders?" HAVE YOU LIVED IN A HOME FOR MENTALLY RETARDED CHILDREN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE? NO LITTLE GIRL WOULD EVEN KNOW THE FUCKING *TERM* SPACE INVADERS ANYMORE! [/QUAREX] [JZD] Bobby saw the reflection of Mary Lou with the Uzi on the TV screen. "What are you doing, Mary Lou?" "I want Gummi Bears not Stupidman!" Mary Lou pulled the trigger. The recoil threw her back against the wall, and she shot most of the 25 rounds into the ceiling. But the first few bullets had slammed into poor Bobby's young body, turning him into Spaghetti-O's. A family's life forever changed. [/DZJKLKLREAJ] [QUAREX] DERR DERR DERR!!!!!!!! DERRRRRRRRRRRRRR!#&*$!#$ DERR DERR DERR DERRRRRRRRR!!!!!! SPAGHETTI-O'S!!!!!! HEHEHEHEHEEEHEEHHEEHEHE [/QUAREX] [BENJAMINFRANKLINCALIBERBRILLIANCE] The moral to this story is this: It's not about what are kids watch or what video games they play, it's about what the parents do. Had the parents actually locked up there gun or talked to their children about guns and violence, maybe Bobby would still be around to catch another episode of "Stupidman." So talk to your kids about these issues, and just maybe, we could put an end to sad stories like these. [/WITANDWISDOMOFNELLCARTER] [QUAREX] The moral of the story is this: It is not acceptable to have children, because children might grow up to be Jersey Devil. Basically, it all really comes down to the simple fact that talking to a 4 year old girl about uzis being bad is not going to accomplish anything. If anything, it would make the girl wonder what was so special about the uzi that made it off-limits. If you want to actually fix this problem, if you really consider it a problem, which you do not, because none of us know Bobby or Mary Dickhole, you will just not buy a gun to begin with. In the immortal words of Henry Rollins, "Guns are tools of the weak." He is so fucking right. If you want to stop a criminal, buy a fucking axe or something AWESOME with which you can slay your enemy with the might of a thousand years of Viking Ancestry. Granted, that mostly works for people who are my size and are convinced they are immortal, but that is another text file all together. [-----------------------------------------------------------------------] REJECTED FILE #11 ================= "Dear Melissa" by Kojak dear melissa, for such a long time, i've loved you so. i've watched you grow, i've shared experiences with you, i've - at times - become you. we were together for over three years, and leaving you was perhaps the hardest thing i've had to do in my life. since i left, i've grown .. i've changed. i've moved on with my life, although i've missed you incredibly. hardly a day goes by when i don't back to the lazy afternoons spent in the hammock in your backyard, nestled underneath those two pine trees. we'd slowly rock back and forth, pushed by the wind, passing the afternoon by with hardly a spoken word. there are so many sweet and innocent childhood memories i have of you, melissa. the day i asked you out - at a 6th grade roller skating party, our first date, our first kiss; they're all moments i will forever treasure. that's what made last night so hard. mark - you know mark, right? my best friend? - called me at midnight and said that he thought something was wrong with you. he said you hadn't been seen around school lately, and that you were getting lower grades. i thought nothing of it, at first, and then i put two and two together. something was wrong. danny told me to call you, that i would know what to say, and i did. when i called, i first had to laugh at the sound of your accent - i forgot that i've been away from you, on the opposite side of the country, for well over a year. i caught traces of fear in your voice, little cracks that made appearances in conversation, and i began to worry. you told me how things were, and it seemed like superficial talk. i stopped you mid-sentence and asked what was *really* going on. knowing that i have always and will always be there for you, you let out a collected sigh - something that had building up for months. taking in a quick breath, you told me horrific stories of being alienated by friends, being pressured into trying drugs, almost being raped by some guy you met at a party - all the evil things that had happened to you came out in one cleansing breath. reminding you that we had plenty of time, you began to recount all the things that had happened. things too horrible to tell anyone else. i was shocked, hearing all of the stories you had to tell, and for once; i didn't' know how to respond. i've always been one to help others.. i find myself attracted to people with problems like a moth is drawn to light. i want to cleanse everyone's life, to make them happy again - hopefully so they can see what i see. i consider myself a happy person, melissa, and i hope that you can be that way as well. i want to life your problems off your shoulders and bear them as my own. that might sound like i want to be christ, but i only want to help. i want to see the smile that forever brought sunlight to my days. for three years, we were the two happiest kids that could be found. my, how the times have changed. we talked for four hours that night. you told me everything, and we evaluated each situation. i got you to agree to go to a counselor at school about help with your newfound liking of drugs. i got you to finally admit the fact that what happened with that stranger at the party was *not* your fault.. that there is no way you 'asked' for anything. we decided, together, that you could indeed put a little more effort into your school work. at the same time that we made all this progress, i tried my hardest to remind you of the good times. if i was still living near you, melissa, we'd be engaged by now. i know it. although childhood innocence blinded us to many things, i'm sure we could've faced any problem - hand in hand. that's the way we did things back then, as a team. talking to you that night made me realize how lonely my life here has been... and just how much i've really missed you. needless to say, when i got the letter and picture you sent me a week later, i cried for hours. a letter simply comprised of 'thank you for saving my life, i love you.' and a polaroid (i remember buying us that camera) of you talking on the phone with a razor blade in your hands - it shook me. i didn't know how to react. i sat on the floor of my room for quite some time, thinking about things. i was infinitely happy that you finally confronted your problems, and that you're now working on fixing them; yet at the same time, i wondered just how our lives could've taken such opposite paths. we were inseparable at one time, and yet simple geography has taken us so far apart. being young has its disadvantages, and now i see them. no longer can i simply call you up on the phone and talk to you about pointless things - i don't have that kind of money. no longer can i ride my bike for 10 minutes and be at your front door - now, that trip would take weeks. no longer can i wait for you outside of mrs. curry's math class after 3rd period - mrs. curry is nothing but a shadow in my mind now. all of these things have been brought on by seemingly cold and unfeeling parents. how could they move? how could they take me away from you? they had no clue what we shared, nor will they ever. i only hope, melissa, that you cling on to those memories, those photos, those late-night phone calls, those afternoons in your hammock, and those poorly cooked dinners. we were pretty mature for fourteen, but looking back now, i see that we could've taken things so much further. not in a sexual sense, because we both agreed that we would wait until we married, but in an emotional sense. quite obviously, you've come to grips with your emotions, and i've come to terms with mine. if only we could've done so together. if only. i took the letter and picture you sent me outside just now, melissa. i took it out to the driveway and sat down on the cold, hard cement. the moon was out, and that was all the light i needed, although somewhere behind me a light was on. i took a lighter and carefully touched the tip of the flame to the corner of your letter, and watched it burn slowly, twisting in the wind. i set it down on the ground and carefully dropped the picture on top of the burning letter. everything we had ever done together came whirling back through my mind just then, and i smiled at the same time i choked back tears. after burning the picture, melissa, i just sat there. the weather was nice, and i laid back on the driveway and stretched out like a cat in a patch of sunlight. i didn't want to remember you the way you were on the phone last week, and i blocked those thoughts from my mind. i kept returning to the hammock, those two pine trees, and all the lazy summer afternoons we shared together. melissa, i love you." with that, the young man stood up and got an envelope. he addressed it to melissa, first name only, and put a stamp on it. he returned to the spot on the driveway where he had been sitting just an hour before, and carefully laid the envelope on top of the black spot where he had previously burned her letter. he dropped a match on top of the envelope and sighed, realizing he finally said what he had to say. he could finally move on. [----------] RE-WRITE TO REJECT #11, by Caitlin ================================== Dear Melissa, The day we met was the day that changed my life. I remember it all too well.. you smiling at me from across the lunch room - I was in the lunch line, and dropped my milk on the ground, the tray following.. clattering like the rain on the metal trailers in our trailer park. I had seen you before, but I was too busy making mud pies to really notice. The day I left was the worst day of my life. Although, I have moved on, I still think about you at least 10 times every hour or so. There are so many memories. Perhaps the fondest was when I called you at your Aunt Lisa's house and she told me you were watching Alice in Wonderland with your cousin Judy, and you heard and ran to the phone to talk invidiously about how much fun Judy was, and how you wished I was as cool as her. You told me about how my best friend, Mark, was your new dreamboy. After we got off the phone, I hid in my mother's room and masturbated, thinking of mark rubbing your girl parts through your pink, flowered skirt. Anyway, Mark called me last night at midnight and informed me that he thought you were going crazy. He told me about all the parties.. where you were used and abused by the Varsity football team. I told him it couldn't be true. He said you even started listening to Third Eye Blind. I decided to call you to see what the hell was going on. At first, I made fun of your accent. It was trashy and too midwest for my liking. I caught traces of fear in your voice and just decided to be blunt... "What the hell is this gang bang business, Melissa?" At first you screamed at me, "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!!" I told you I had heard everything, about the heroin, and the lesbianism, and about the bad grades. I could tell you were purporting the self-confidence in your voice. "You trippin'... i be getting the dick and pussy like a fountain of gold, baby." I have this problem where I only like to date girls who are crazy, Melissa. Although, I want to take their burden off of them, in a perverse imitation of Jesus Christ. I wanted to make you feel like you could trust me. Then I would come to Ohio to see you again, and comfort you. We talked for four hours that night, and I made plans to fly out there and "help you with your problems." I couldn't stop thinking about your tight, pink pussy, Melissa, and how much I wanted to fuck it til you bled. Talking to you that night, made me realize how lonely I've been for a good fuck. I keep imaging all those guys abusing you, slapping you, calling you horrible names.. and the pre-cum drips down my leg. If I were living near you right now, I'd definitely be hitting that shit everyday. You wouldn't need those football players. You wouldn't need those syphillis strippers to eat your pussy right. Needless to say, when you sent me that letter a week later with the picture of us enclosed, I couldn't help but feel sort of guilty. The guilt was quickly supplanted with desire though, my cock filling out to all 8 inches. I sat on the floor, thinking. I was happy that you told me what was going on in your life, but I was vaguely confused as to why you would tell me all of this in the first place. Why did my parents decide to move back in 9th grade? None of the other girls could satisfy me the way that you did. They didn't even know how to give head. I only hope, Melissa, that you remember me. I hope you remember the first time we fucked, and the first time I took you in your grandmothers bedroom and fucked your tight ass. I took the letter and the picture outside just now, Melissa. I burned them both and remembered the good times that we did have. I couldn't believe I would be seeing you in less then a month, and I became incredibly aroused again. The moon was out, and I began to touch myself through my jeans. After the letter and picture smoldered to ashes, I whipped out my cock and rubbed it in the ash. I decided not to think about you fucking those other people. I knew that you wanted me, and couldn't find the pleasure we had together in anyone's touch, but my own. I'll see you soon, my dear Melissa, and we will know ecstasy once again! [-----------------------------------------------------------------------] REJECTED FILE #12 ================= "Moe's Diner" by Mr Sandman Moe's Diner was not the kind of place one willingly chose to eat in. Unfortunately, Moe's Diner was the only restaurant open at three in the morning off of Route 80. When one had been driving a truck for hours non-stop, and just wanted to grab a cup of coffee, even Moe's was acceptable. From the outside, Moe's looked like every other diner. It had a tacky neon sign with one of the letters out and a large quantity of small windows across the front. It appeared to be fairly harmless at first glance. However, once one walked inside, it no longer had an appealing quality. Every person that ever walked into Moe's was first greeted by an icy cold stare of a toothless woman. It was easy to tell she was toothless because she used to leave her dentures on the counter next to the cash register. Not once did this woman ever say a word. She simply stared at people like she wanted to kill them. If someone asked her if they had to wait to be seated, she'd merely point to a table somewhere. But never has any customer heard her voice. Once one takes a seat in dining area, they begin to notice other odd qualities of the diner which provide a very unsettling atmosphere. For example, at every booth, there are radios which play middle eastern music. It does not take long for the customers to get annoyed and try to turn the radios off. However, the customer soon discovers that there is no volume control on the radios and it is impossible to turn them off. On one occasion, the radios drove a drunken teenager to stand up and kick the speakers until they broke. Another discomforting aspect of Moe's is the wall of dirty pots and pans that have been piled up behind the counter. They have always been there and only seem to get dirtier. Legend has it that the toothless woman has hidden her husband's dead body under all of those pots and pans. Though this has never been confirmed, it would certainly explain the putrid smell that is always present. Most customers are never able to get the small fear out of their head that the food they are about to order may have been cooked in the same pots. The bathroom is another area of disgust in this restaurant. Unfortunately, there is only one and it is never cleaned. Numerous drunk patrons have relieved themselves on the toilet seat so many times that some customers, if desperate enough, have chosen to sit on the basin instead. Eventually, Bell, the only waitress that works at the establishment, will acknowledge a customer's existence after about a half hour. Bell is normally the test as to whether or not the customer is going to stay or leave. Bell's outfit is covered with multiple different stains which one can see before she arrives at their table. Once Bell does arrive at their table, her odor registers with the customer. It becomes quite clear that not only doesn't Bell wash her uniform, but she doesn't bathe either. Most people, either from a feeling of depression or disgust, lose their appetite after encountering Bell. The experience which most people have at Moe's is normally enough to scare them away from diners for the rest of their lives. However, there are a select few who are not bothered by the odors, Bell, cockroaches, etc. They can feel right at home in the filth. Then again, there are just some people who drive long distances and are willing to put up with anything for a cup of coffee at three in the morning. CRITIQUE FOR REJECT #12, by Anjee ================================= WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS FILE IS THAT IT SUCKS ASS. THE AUTHOR OBVIOUSLY WAS TRYING TO BE COOL AND WITTY AND GREAT, BUT IN VAIN. THIS TEXT GOES BELOW EVEN _MY_ CRAPPY FILES, AND THAT'S PRETTY LOW. THERE IS NO POINT, AND SANDMAN SUCKS. WHEN I FIRST READ "MOE'S DINER," AFTER REGURGITATING ON MYSELF SEVERAL TIMES, MY HEAD STARTED SPINNING FROM THE NONSENSE THAT JUST STRETCHED ON FOR THE ENTIRE LENGTH OF THE STORY. I DON'T GIVE A RAT'S ASS ABOUT MOE'S DIRTY WRETCHED DINER AND THE FACT THAT YOU WROTE IT JUST MAKES YOU AS LAME AS BIG DADDY BILL FOR WRITING ABOUT T-SHIRTS. ALSO, TAKING HOW THE AUTHOR INSISTS ON HOW DIRTY EVERYTHING/ONE IS INTO CONSIDERATION REFLECTS ON HOW HE IS A 9 YEAR OLD PIMPLE-FACED DYSLEXIC JERK WHO HASN'T YET DISCOVERED THE CONCEPT OF HYGIENE. IN CONCLUSION -- THIS FILE HAS BEEN THE WORSE STREAM OF CONSTANT AND POINTLESS BABBLE I HAVE EVER HAD THE MISFORTUNE TO READ. THANK YOU. [-----------------------------------------------------------------------] REJECTED FILE #13 ================= "Tricks To Play On Your Not-So-Friendly Friends" by Chris Cox Get a paper bag. Get some dog shit. Fill le bag with le dog shit... Go to this person's house at a reasonable hour. (say, 11 or 12 pm/am)... Light the bag of dog shit on fire. Get it going pretty well. Ring the bell. Run. Effect: Person (or person's parents) come out and stomp on the bag to get the fire out, causing dogshit to go everywhere, including on themselves. At school...find some kid's locker that you absolutely do not like...get a padlock (it'll cost maybe 3 bucks..or nothing if you use the popular five finger discount method)..and stick it on his locker. Effect: Kid will come from his class to his locker to get his books...find that there is an impenatrable lock on there, be forced to call the janitor to severe the lock off...causing the kid to be A:late for class B:laughed at a lot and C: just feel plain old STUPID Lighter fluid, what a great tool. Want someone to get the message really quick? Welp, gather a few bottles of the shit.....really late at night (during the summer when it's dry)..go to his/her house...draw your favorite design or anarchy symbol (or both) in his lawn with the lighter fluid. Light. Run. Watch. Laugh. Effect: Well duh..what the fuck do you think will happen? Welp, that is my first writing of total anarchy. More to come. [---------] RE-WRITE TO REJECT #13, by Nyarlathotep ======================================= What follows are 3 simple recipes for revenge. Or for a good time... whichever floats your boat. I. Fun with Feces The ingredients to this recipe are simple: 1 pile of dog turds 1 paper sack 1 lighter or match Place the dog turds inside of the paper sack. Carry this to the front step of your intended victim. Light the bag with the match or lighter. Ring the doorbell and run away. The resident of the house will come out, and seeing the fire will attempt to stamp it out. Unwittingly they will step in the dog crap and make a big mess. II. Fun with the Yale Lock Company Ingredients: 1 padlock 1 enemy's locker Place the lock on your enemy's locker. This will prevent them from getting to their own stuff. They will be forced to go to the janitor to have it cut off from the locker. This will quite likely make them be late for class, and will also make them feel very dumb. Note: It is possible that there will be no way to attach the lock to the enemy's locker because they already have their own lock on it. The solution to this is simple: use crazy glue to seal up their own lock, causing the same results as above. III. Fun with Flammables. Ingredients: 1 or more bottles of lighter fluid 1 dry lawn 1 lighter or match Really late at night go up to the lawn and draw a message or symbol on the lawn using the lighter fluid. Using the lighter or match, ignite the fluid. Run and watch the amazing light show. Note that it is quite likely that the fire will spread from the designated pattern on to the rest of the lawn, and possibly on to a neighbor's lawn. Use this recipe with extreme caution. I hope you enjoyed these delicious recipes. [-----------------------------------------------------------------------] REJECTED FILE #14 ================= The Zoo by King Krazy Go to the zoo, its fun. The zoo is great fun. You get to see all the different animals, how exciting! The zoo is even more fun when you bring friends with you. I think, in my own personal opinion, that the zoo is the best place on earth. The zoo is like going to the circus but you get to run the show. When you go to the zoo you get to see all the animals. You get to see animals from all parts of the globe. What a fine place, where we get to see all the animals. The animals are the best part about the zoo; all of them cramped into little buildings. Most forced into certain living conditions, who could ask for more. I also like the food at the zoo. Zoo food is the best. Nothing I like more than eating right next to the animal cages. Those signs that say, "Don't feed the animals!", They are so funny. I never listen to those signs, I just go about my business and feed them all the food I want. Everybody there at the zoo loves feeding the animals food that they are not supposed to eat. The grizzly bears love sub sandwiches. Watching those bears eat the sandwiches light up my day. Yet every time I go to the zoo I still wonder how they took all the animals to the zoo. I guess they just shoot them with some tranquilizer and then ship them in boxes to the zoo. I wonder how it feels to be locked in a box and taken out of your natural environment; then forced to live somewhere you don't understand, or comprehend, and have to live by the rules of man. I don't think I will ever have to experience that; at least I hope not. Still even though you might think that is cruel, it is really not. The animals live in clean cages and get an adequate food supply. They can do really whatever they want in the confines of their cage. I also think the zoo keepers take very good care of the animals, always petting them and treating them nice. I love it when I see the animals get treated nice, all animals. Yet the animals just keep on living, even without a slight degree of freedom. Though they are confined to their cage, they seem to be happily bored. I think if I was stuck in a cage, away from all I really knew, I would be happily bored, too. I don't know what happens to the animals at night though. I wonder, do they actually sleep at night. Some of the animals don't sleep during the night time hours. They sleep during the day. I wonder how the animals are treated at night, with the zoo keepers gone and all the people not around to watch them. Do you think they are still bored? The zoo is a nice place, a fine place to visit. I like to visit as much as I can, on free days of course. The zoo is quaint and simple; simple as the animal instinct of survival and tolerance. Those two go hand in hand like humor and death. The zoo is a place to run your own show, not to let the others run it for you. Control is your enemy. [----------] RE-WRITE FOR REJECT #14, by CannibalButterfly ============================================= "The zoo is a nice place, a fine place to visit. I like to visit as much as I can, on free days of course." Uhm, why wasnt this man visiting his own kind at the zoo instead of writing this piece of trash on an obvious "free day"? Don't go to the zoo, it's sickening. If I wanted to see some wild boars behind bars squealing I would visit the local police department wearing nothing but a night stick. Even worse, the zoo becomes less fun when you bring friends because they have the need to stay 3 hours too long and always manage to forget their cash when it's time to visit the gift shop. Of course, you turn into an ATM. Then, you mope around the zoo and see the Vet. school rejects kicking them dazey dukes. You even get a sneak peek at hairy women from all parts of the globe. It's silly how they spend the whole day looking back and forth from their own arm pit hair to the monkey cage. They always have one of those huge cartoon question marks dangling over their heads. What's that all about? The food at the zoo is sadly the best thing about it. Nothing anyone likes more than eating right next to the very exciting petting zoo. The smell is glorious! I mean, nothing gets my appetite going better than the fresh aroma of giraffe shit. I surely don't mind spending $5.67 for a small order of fries just to end up feeding them to nagging birds! YEAH!! With that said, those signs that say, "Don't feed the animals!" are a hoot. No one ever listens to them. I just go about my business and feed them all the rat poison I want. The grizzly bears love used tampons! Watching those bears eat such a nutritious treat lights up my day. :) Like myself, I'm sure you all wonder how they transport the animals to the zoo. Well, I uncovered that best kept secret! They just shoot them up with DXM and ship them in crates on Noah's Ark. I wonder how it feels to be locked in a box and taken out of your natural environment? Maybe I should send in for a Guatemalan mail-order bride and ask them. Once they arrive at the zoo they are treated like prisoners. Thrown in their new 'homes' and poked at by millions. At least they can do whatever they wish in the confinement of their own cages. Of course, it cant require actual movement. I also think the zoo keepers take excellent care of the animals, always jamming sticks up their rectum. I love seeing animals being treated with some tender loving care, but I especially love it when I see them get anally raped!#!@#!! Strangely, this file is putting me in the mood for some wild and crazy fun! Hmm, the Jacksonville Zoo is having 2 for 1 admission this weekend. Hi ho! Hi ho! Off to the zoo I gooooo! [-----------------------------------------------------------------------] REJECTED FILE #15 ================= "A Day In The Life of A Programmer" by Fatslayer on timer(1) gosub checkvitals morning: eat "breakfast" batheandclean "fat slayer" if not summer then activate "crt" programandstuff irc ftp webbrowse else schoolstuff end if afternoon: lunch cartoon="animainiacs" tv "on" tvchannel lookup(cartoon) watchtv vening: dinner programandstuff programmore irc programmore night: do programandstuff loop until sun=up goto morning checkvitals: if haftashit then shit if haftapiss then piss if hungry then eat if thirsty then drink if extremelytired then sleep if bored then program if angry then punch "keyboard" if keyboardbroken then purchase "keyboard" if suicidal then if int(rnd*100)=69 then kill "fat slayer" if havehomework then if int(rnd*100)<5 then dohomework return that's my basic day :)... i really punned that one away. the point of this? programmers are wierd. everyone likes a nice demo that has a nice effect in it, no??? that requires being creative, and setbiosmode proc near uses ax, mode:byte mov ah, 0 mov al, mode int 10h ret setbiosmode endp hence it is art! what about a nice optimized piece of assembler, or a really elegant routine to do something that no one cares about, art! tell me now that this isn't art: putchar proc near uses ax bx cx dx si di ds, char:byte, x:word, y:word, clr:byte ; point es:di to the screen location mov es, virtscr xor di, di mov ax, y ;mov bx, 320 ;mul bx mov bx, y shl bx, 6 shl ax, 8 add di, ax add di, bx add di, x ; point ds:si to the font lds si, fontptr ; point to proper character in font xor ah, ah mov al, char shl ax, 4 ; * 16 add si, ax mov dx, 16 mov ah, clr @@loop1: mov bh, byte ptr ds:[si] mov cx, 8 @@loop2: shl bh, 1 jnc @@putzero mov byte ptr es:[di], ah jmp @@skip1 @@putzero: ;mov byte ptr es:[di], 0 @@skip1: inc di loop @@loop2 inc si add di, 320-8 dec dx jnz @@loop1 ret putchar endp that's as beautiful as any doodleboy art i've ever seen, yes sir! and what about: cli hlt or: nop those are the three most beautiful lines of source i know of :) and the most artful source of all: xchg ax, bx xchg cx, dx xchg bx, cx xchg ax, dx xchg cx, ax xchg dx, bx it's a brain teaser :) and always remember, no matter where you go, there you are. [----------] CRITIQUE FOR REJECT #15, by Cstone ================================== abrasiveness=on hey, if you're going to write boring pseudocode, the least you could do is make it lexically consistent. instead of fixing it, i will insert the missing elements of the life of this type of programmer, and i will do it in a similarly inane style. > on timer(1) gosub checkvitals > > morning: read "slashdot" > eat "breakfast" > batheandclean "fat slayer" read "slashdot" wear pretentious-geek-shirt findporn masturbate drive high-paying-boring-sellout-job > if not summer then read "slashdot" read "slashdot" > activate "crt" > programandstuff read "slashdot" > irc > ftp read "slashdot" > webbrowse pretend-to-work > else > schoolstuff > end if read "slashdot" > > afternoon: pretend-to-work if boss-is-coming then open "_learning_perl_" drive home > lunch read "slashdot" > cartoon="animainiacs" > tv "on" read "slashdot" > tvchannel lookup(cartoon) > watchtv > read "slashdot" > vening: > dinner findporn masturbate > programandstuff > programmore read "slashdot" > irc > programmore read "slashdot" > > night: > do > programandstuff read "slashdot" > loop until sun=up > goto morning > > checkvitals: read "slashdot" > if haftashit then shit > if haftapiss then piss > if hungry then eat > if thirsty then drink > if extremelytired then sleep > if bored then program > if angry then punch "keyboard" > if keyboardbroken then purchase "keyboard" read "slashdot" > if suicidal then if int(rnd*100)=69 then kill "fat slayer" read "slashdot" > if havehomework then if int(rnd*100)<5 then dohomework > return program: programmore: programandstuff: play "quake" reinvent "wheel" play "quake" return > > that's my basic day :)... i really punned that one away. the point > of this? programmers are wierd. everyone likes a nice demo that has a > nice effect in it, no??? that requires being creative, this is far from a demo. you forgot the 25 lines of greets, group affiliations, and bbs ads, sir. oh, yay, intel assembly syntax. for DOS, no less. hi, we're intel. we're fucking myopic and we can barely read. so, we have solved this problem by creating a new inane way of addressing memory. we're thinking of calling it "segment:offset" addressing. the fact that there's nothing wrong with doing things like everyone else is irrelevant. these vms machines that we're using to develop our processors are too difficult to use! we need something easier! what? i didn't hear you. we're innovating and fuck you and will you please buy this week's poorly-designed piece of shit, thank you very much. > and setbiosmode proc near uses ax, mode:byte > mov ah, 0 > mov al, mode > int 10h > ret > setbiosmode endp hence it is art! what about a nice optimized > piece of assembler, or a really elegant routine to do something that > no one cares about, art! it's not art. > tell me now that this isn't art: it's not art. > putchar proc near uses ax bx cx dx si di ds, char:byte, > ; point es:di to the screen location > mov es, virtscr > xor di, di > mov ax, y > that's as beautiful as any doodleboy art i've ever seen, yes sir! > and what about: > > cli > hlt > > or: > > nop > > those are the three most beautiful lines of source i know of :) very useful ones, too! > and the most artful source of all: > > xchg ax, bx > xchg cx, dx > xchg bx, cx > xchg ax, dx > xchg cx, ax > xchg dx, bx > > it's a brain teaser :) no, that's straightforward. if you want a real brain teaser, try modeling the patterns of SGI's marketing department in as few instructions as possible. The current world's record is held by a program two instructions long: a: nop jmp a > and always remember, no matter where you go, there you are. oops, i forgot. too much porn and slashdot. [-----------------------------------------------------------------------] REJECTED FILE #16 ================= "Commies" by Mercuri now if you were to walk up to me on the street and say... "merc, can i ask you a question?" then i would respond... "yeeee-ep." (i tend to make my yep's sound like that) then you would continue on with your question, which is...? "what do you think of the peace keeping efforts of the united nations?" and i say... "what an interesting question. this question has many views. i think it's bullshit. oh, just a factual tidbit, did you know the united nations was formed by communist's? uh-huh, it's true." "i don't beleive in peace keeping, the united states doesn't want peace. war is our economy and our nation's backbone. all through history, nation's have signed treaty's to keep the peace. a treaty is nothing more than a sheet of paper that makes a promise. i've broken lot's of promises. so has germany, iran, and the u.s.. paper doesn't keep peace, peace is something earned, not handed out, debated, and signed to. peace is achieved by respect to another thing. therefore the only way to bring about peace is by having the dueling nation's beat the piss out of each other until one, or by respect to another thing. therefore the only way to bring about peave is by having the dueling nation's beat the piss out of each other until one, or both, can fight no longer." "i tell you one day, the u.n. is going to turn on us when we try to withdrawl! i told the clinton, time and time again, it was a bad idea! and what do i get? 24 hour surveillance and time in a mental hospital! by god if i had two legs i'd do something about this!" please! merc! put that cane down! "did you ever see the movie patton, my boy?" no. "it's one hell of a movie. it start's out like this; patton walks up, army band play's the national anthem, and there old blood and guts is, standing in front of a huge american flag. he starts his speech: "a lot of you may have heard a lot of talking about america not wanting to get into the standing in front of a huge american flag. he starts his speech: "a lot of you may have heard a lot of talking about america not wanting to get into the war, america not wanting to fight. well that's a lot of horse dung. the people who say this know as much about warfare as they do about fornicating! american's traditionally love to fight, they love the sting of battle. the very thought of losing is despicable to ameri... where the hell are you going? you asked the god damn question now your going to listen to the god damn answer!" at this point mercuri is arrested for disturbing the peace and setting fire to russian restaurant. yelling at the top of his lungs; "commie bastards!" [---------] RE-WRITE FOR REJECT #16, by Aster ================================= here is my rewrite. it is called "shoes" "hi" "hello mister shoe" "have you any shoes?" "you are a shoe, silly" "oh." "you don't need any then?" "i do not. but have you seen my friend, his name is bob" "i have, he is over there, in the garbage, eating rotten meat. and next he will eat rotten fruit and beans. and paper and twisty ties." "i will join him, see you later" "see you never again." the person without a name now shoots mister shoe in the back. and he dies. the end. [-----------------------------------------------------------------------] REJECTED FILE #17 ================= "The Presidential Elections" by Unrelated The time is almost upon us, whence we must decide who shall take up the most powerful postition in the world. Their are a lot of issues to which we must all balance our decisions upon. (not even one of which has yet been discussed) Who's ideas, and visions meet your standards, do you want an anal-retentive-conservative in office? A bud smoking hippie? A flabby cheeseburger-eating-intern-cigar-banging democrat? Or do you want a man of taste, and ettiquete, a man who knows what he wants. BIGGER GUNS! We need a man of integrity. A man of inspirational quality who will lead this country into it's finest years yet. Some may call this man a tyrant, some may call him a fool. Others might not even believe he even exists. I know I do. Everyone of you, well, most of you, have run across this man, or have been affected by him. On your ballets this next election, do not vote by party, hell don't even vote for the candidate with the most money. Vote for a man who truly cares about his people and what happens to them. Vote for a man who will never let you down. This man is not on the ticket. He is unheard of by the government, but worthy of the title Commander and Chief, President of the United States of America. Do it for your country, for your family, your friends, do it for yourself. Vote Ziego Vuantar for President! !VIVA REVOLUCION! !VIVA HOE! This has been brought to you by the ad council for Ziego Vuantar. [----------] RE-WRITE FOR REJECT #17, by AIDS ================================ I knew that time was upon me when the lemurs were outside my windows playing gim rummy and slowly dragging their knuckles along the window panes like trains over tiers. They were messengers of Ziego, and they weren't going to let me get out of my building. There was no way. I owed Vuntar /big/. His little sister, Caitlin, was still missing. Everyone knew I had something to do with it, but no one could prove anything. I wasn't dead... yet. I still could offer Ziego something, something he needed badly. The election. We knew Fat Sammy Snakeunz was going to try and rig the thing in his own special way. He'd thrown his weight in with the Republican candidate, Tony "Fish Lips" Gravano, a corpulent Italian business man with a penchant for buggery. The Democrats would try something, too, there was no doubt, but they were always so unpredictable in whom they employed. One week it'd be "Meat Grinder" Schuessler, the most vicious Kraut since Himmler, and the next it'd be Hassan i Sabbath. No way to tell. No way to know. I'd have to take down Fat Sammy and keep my eyes peeled open to figure out who was there for the Democrats. I didn't know if I'd have to kill anyone, but in case I did, I brought along my serpentine dagger. It was doubled bladed, which meant I could slash a throat and bring the blade down across my stomach in a final act of sepuku without changing my grip. I always cornered the odds. I went outside and the lemurs started screaming. I lifted a gentle hand to my lips. They quieted down and lead me on a relocation death march to Vuantar's borderlands. He was sitting there on a chair made of femur bones, smoking his cigar. His dirty filthy cigar. "They still have not found my sister." "She's alive, I bet. I don't think she's the type to end up dead." "She better not, gringo. She better not." "Ah, well, I hope not." I flashed my grin and added, "I've still got to hit that shit from the backside. Her disappearance is as much a disappointment to me as it is a loss to you." That spic shitbird coughed a little. I hope'd he splatter some spit on his zoot suit, but he didn't. He looked at me for a while and say, "I want the election." "It's yours." The first order of business was finding some scum. We needed all the panty-sniffers, drunks, dope addicts, cock hungry fags, and pushers we could find. We'd load them into vans and bring them to the polls. They'd vote for Zuantar or we'd kill them. It was so simple. I don't know how many opium dens we'd raided by the time I saw /him/, with his lips stained black laudnum. but there he was. I didn't know his name, but there was something startling about him... as if I recognized him but from a picture I'd seen years back. Someone I'd never met but knew all the same. I directed the boys to pick up everyone. "This is the last haul, boys, we've got enough to give Ziego the election. Hell, with this many jerks, we could probably elect him president." I personally handled him. I tried asking him his name, but there was too much drugs in his system. He could only drool and stare into space. As we drove to the first polling station, his head rested on my lap, and his faced stared up into mine. His eyes were empty like robbed banks. I could recognize him beyond all doubt; it was true, I'd seen him before. But where? With whom? What was his name. We got to the first polling station and pulled all the scum in. They all voted for Ziego under false names. We brought them back into the vans. He was hard to manage and kept falling all over the place, but none of the polling attendants took any notice. They've been on my payroll since 1649, when we had to behead Charles the First. After about the seventh or eight polling station, he started to come around. AS we pulled up to another destination, I pulled him out of the van, and he could almost walk by himself. I tried to ask him his name, but he could only mouth words. No sound escaped his throat except a dry chaffing sound. Walking towards the station, I saw something black in the shadows. Black and mean. I knew it had to be the Democrats' man. Fat Sammy was too blatant to hide. He'd rape a nun in the open and pay priests to watch. I spun around, and threw the dagger into the bushes. I heard it sink in and strike bone. A gasp. Ol' Joe ibn Ahtum stumbled out of the bushes, my dagger wedged deep in his heart. I tried pulling it out but I couldn't. He died at my feet, and I said, "Pardon, effendi." I heard a gun shot and I looked at my opium drenched friend. There was a single hole in his forehead, and the back of his head had been blown off completely. Hollow point exploding. The knife wouldn't come out of Joe ibn Ahtum. I had no protection. The sounds of Fat Sammy Snakeunz's enormous feet were behind me, and I said a silent prayer that it would be quick and painless. He slapped one of his sausages down on my back and said, "Well, well, since you ain't got no weapon I ain't gonna kill you. I'm just gonna have to kill all the scum." Fat Sammy kicked /him/, and gasped when he saw the face. "Jesus," he said, "I do that?" "Sure did." "You know who you got there?" "Some fucking opium addict. And had. I had him here. You got him. I had him." "That's Edgar Poe." "The writer?" "The same." "Jesus Christ!" I exclaimed and sunk to the ground. I'd killed Poe. My favorite writer. The only man who was like me, and I'd fucking murdered him. He looked different from the photographs I'd seen; that's why I didn't recognize him. "Shit," I said, "this is bad." "It sure is," agree Sammy. "Listen, why don't we say fuck it to both our employers? Some dumb fuck election isn't worth all the heat this is going to bring down on us. And believe me, it'll be on /us/, not just you... or me." "I was thinking about a vacation... Maybe in Turkey. I know this girl, see, and well, I've been hiding her away in this spiritualist resort in Izmir. You're welcome to come if you want." "Nah, I've got Mexico. I've always got Mexico." So I said fuck you to the election and fuck you to Ziego and an apologetic fuck you to Edgar A. Poe and I hopped the next plane to Izmir where I had hidden Caitlin and I found her there and we ate grapes amongst the infidel children. [-----------------------------------------------------------------------] REJECTED FILE #18 ================= "Excerpts From The Diary of Manis Goodof" 'Discovered' by Gilgame (aster's brother) Sect. 12, Subsect. 5, Article 12 -Excerpt from diary of Manis Goodof- (Year) (Half) (Quarter)(Day) Date:Vota 8965, Vita 2, Veta 3, Vata 14 Insane! Insane! That's what those bloody flower people are! All they ever do is block my plans. When the sky falls, it'll teach them a lesson. I am very angry that Bob and Suzy had to be killed. Even when they are dead, the information still can't be extracted! I need to know the prince and the princess. They block my path of world domination. Now i have to beat it out of the flower people. Why can't that fricking sky fall! Those bloody monsters and goblins still block my efforts! They are blocking those fricking bloody flower people from being attacked by my robots. I think I am failing...NO!!!!!!!!!!!! I AM NOT FRICKING BLOODY FAILING!!!!!!!! I WILL DOMINATE!!!!!!!!!! RULE!!!!!!!!!!!! CONQUER!!!!!!!! Subjugate all those bloody little flower people!!!!!!!!!!! I recieved a signal last night! Someone is coming. I don't know who, or what, but they will help me after the sky falls. DANGIT!!!!! WHEN WILL THE SKY FALL!!!!! I NEED THAT SKY TO FALL!!!!!! THE I WILL BECOME THE DOMINANT RULER!!!!!!!! EVEN THE FLOWER PEOPLE WILL FAIL!!!!!!!!!!! YES!!!!!!! YES!!!!!!!!!! YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH! YEE-HAH!!!!!!!! I AM INVINCIBLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! -End Excerpt- Sect. 12, Subsect. 5, Article 13 -Excerpt from the diary of Manis Goodof- Date:Vota 8965, Vita 2, Veta 3, Vata 15 NO! NO! NO! I've been caught by those damned Monsters and Goblins. I'm locked up in some sort of underground cavern. I'm very tired. But the machine is ready! My assistant has activated the robo-flowers to extract information from the flower people. THEN I WILL RULE!!!!!!!!! YES!!!!!!!!! THEY WILL TELL ME WHO THE ROYALTY ARE! I WILL DOMINATE!!!!!!! -End Excerpt- [------------------] RE-WRITE FOR REJECT #18, by Tan Adept ===================================== (Needs a new title, add a third discoverer.) In the early part of the 1980s, a government research agency stumbled upon a hallucinogenic compound which appeared to cause permananent changes in the brain. Preliminary investigation indicated that a dosage of this chemical administered to animal test subjects caused significant localized alterations in brainwave activity. Approximately one year ago, a page of the journal from one of the scientists working with this compound had been discovered by two young people from Seattle. More recently, the entire journals were found in a USGS office during a remodeling. ---- From the journal of Dr. Lauren Marks ---- Date: September 7, 1981 My colleagues and I have injected 1cc of CBSO to Christina the rat. Her ability to navigate the maze has neither been enhanced or limited. However, after completing the maze, her behavior is consistently different. Upon reaching the food, she returns with it through the maze to her starting location, awaiting her return to her cage. Only when she is back in her cage does she eat the food. The control group has maintained their original behavior. Date: September 11, 1981 Roberto the rat, after his dosage, does not run the maze at all. He sits at the beginning of the maze until returned to his cage. Prior to exposure to CBSO (see earlier entries), he performed admirably in maze tests. My colleagues believe that we will only understand the nature of CBSO after we are able to begin a proper test method with sufficient sample size. Unfortunately, we're still waiting on a new batch to be synthesized, so we're making do with what we have for now. Date: September 16, 1981 After a long night of testing with Christina, Roberto, and Farooq, I remain frustrated. Their behavior is consistent for early rat, but each seems to be completely different with respect to each other. Had minor mishap with needle to inject Alexander, so I think it's time to head home. Still waiting on sample. Date: September 17, 1981 With Dr. Villiers ill and Dr. Fitzgerald going off on a weekend hiatus, it's a quiet day, and I'm hoping that the lack of distractions help Jennine to be able to run the maze. Any noise seems to perk her up and draw her interest from the path. Will probably take Friday off. Perhaps I will be able to stand at the grocery store and pat children on their heads when Frank Sinatra comes to town. Date: September 21, 1981 Put all of remaining CBSO into Dr. Fitzgerald's water. Refilled sample bottle with DI water. Seems he didn't notice. I hope that ingestion vector is somewhat effective for studying results with human test subjects. Over the weekend, there was a monkey who gave me a hang glider so that I can get through the ocean caves. I must keep my journal safe from my coworkers so that they don't know what I'm doing and must do. Date: September 23, 1981 Dr. Fitzgerald is pouring water on my computer for some strange regard. He is talking to it, and asking if it know where Dr. Villiers is. I think he is crazy. Date: September 24, 1981 I let the mice go. They promised to make me a lovely gown. Dr. F seems to be going quite nuts. Dr. Villiers called today. He said, "Lauren, how are things going at the office." I told him, "The mice are very good!" He reminded me that the new shipment of something would be in soon. I told him to grow well soon. He said, "I will probably be black next Monday." Date: September 25, 1981 Since Dr. Fitz is so crazy, I would like to read his journal. But all good scientists keep their journals private. Tonight, I will build an engine for my hang glider. The monkeys in monkey-land will surely be monkey-like and if I give them offerings of oranges and cough-drops, they might even let me eat the royal jelly. ---- From the journal of Dr. Michael Fitzgerald ---- Date: September 22, 1981 I have developed a tic in my right upper arm. Lauren's manner seems somewhat unusual, but I think she's been working too hard. Her work still seems consistent, though she seems reluctant to show me her notes. Christina and Alexander run the maze well, as do the members of the control group. Of those exposed to CBSO, only Alexander seems to show no behavioral change since his injection. Date: September 23, 1981 I think Lauren is an agent of the flowers. It seems that she had been growing one in her computer for the past several months. I have decided to attempt to infiltrate her plans. During nonchalant conversation, I poured some water onto the flower, showing my support of her support of the flower people. I am angry at the injustices that the flower people have perpetrated upon my friends and pets. However, if I let my anger get the better of me, I will die in my fight for freedom. Date: Vota 8965, Vita 2, Veta 3, Vata 9 I have decided to switch over to using the proper dates. I hate the old system, and since I'm not going to let anyone else read my notes, who will care? I am very angry. I have spoken to the tree sprites who live in the pretty house with me. Dr. Marks seems to think they are "mouses", but I know that they are tree sprites and that they will help me. Date: Vota 8965, Vita 2, Veta 3, Vata 10 She chased the tree sprites out! Since she has now moved openly against me, it is time for me to move openly against her. Today, I was going to kill her for being EVIL and BAD but then she got a telephone call! SHE HAD CALLED FOR REINFORCEMENTS! She had talked to an agent of the flower people yesterday, and she talked to another today. Date: Vota 8965, Vita 2, Veta 3, Vata 13 I had hoped that Dr. Villers would not be another agent of the flower people, but he was! Apparently, Dr. Marks believed that I was on her side, and thought it was safe to reveal thar Dr. Villiers was also an agent of the flower people. HOW COULD HE BETRAY ME AS WELL?!?!? My only open was to kill them both. I don't know how I'm going to do it, but I swear that I will break the power of the flower people. If I have to take over the entire world, I WILL DO IT!!! Date: Vota 8965, Vita 2, Veta 3, Vata 14 Insane! Insane! That's what those bloody flower people are! All they ever do is block my plans. When the sky falls, it'll teach them a lesson. I am very angry that Bob and Suzy had to be killed. Even when they are dead, the information still can't be extracted! I need to know the prince and the princess. They block my path of world domination. Now i have to beat it out of the flower people. Why can't that fricking sky fall! Those bloody monsters and goblins still block my efforts! They are blocking those fricking bloody flower people from being attacked by my robots. I think I am failing...NO!!!!!!!!!!!! I AM NOT FRICKING BLOODY FAILING!!!!!!!! I WILL DOMINATE!!!!!!!!!! RULE!!!!!!!!!!!! CONQUER!!!!!!!! Subjugate all those bloody little flower people!!!!!!!!! I recieved a signal last night! Someone is coming. I don't know who, or what, but they will help me after the sky falls. DANGIT!!!!! WHEN WILL THE SKY FALL!!!!! I NEED THAT SKY TO FALL!!!!!! THE I WILL BECOME THE DOMINANT RULER!!!!!!!! EVEN THE FLOWER PEOPLE WILL FAIL!!!!!!!!!!! YES!!!!!!! YES!!!!!!!!!! YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH! YEE-HAH!!!!!!!! I AM INVINCIBLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Date: Vota 8965, Vita 2, Veta 3, Vata 15 NO! NO! NO! I've been caught by those damned Monsters and Goblins. I'm locked up in some sort of underground cavern. I'm very tired. But the machine is ready! My assistant has activated the robo-flowers to extract information from the flower people. THEN I WILL RULE!!!!!!!!! YES!!!!!!!!! THEY WILL TELL ME WHO THE ROYALTY ARE! I WILL DOMINATE!!!!!!! [-----------------------------------------------------------------------] REJECTED FILE #19 ================= "Your Kettle Korn Sucks!" by Kernel Bob I've noticed in my travels on the internet that things are not always what they seem. I'm guessing that you'd like an example here...ok..Well..if you to to t50, you get misleading links. Click on the banners that have a button like thing or a slide bar, and it brings you to a weird site. I was taken aback one day when I went to kernelbob.com just for shits and giggles. I figured that there was not way in hell that anyone could register MY domain....this is my story: What I found made me wretch in disgust. This particular domain was owned by a hick who makes 'Kettle Korn'. Wrath ensued. I wrote this guy saying that we had the same name, and all that stuff, and the guy writes back saying basically "Yeah, we do...How about some nice tasty 'Kettle Korn'". I wanted his domain. Not having it left a nasty sweetened corn-like taste in my mouth. Needless to say, I was insulted. I was after this guy's site. I wanted to make a difference. Kernel Bob is MY name, not some hick guy from Maine who has a wife named Bunny and sells sweetened corn products. As of late, I have not made that difference. That guy still has the domain, he's still selling 'Kettle Korn', he still has a wife named Bunny, and he's still selling sweetened popcorn. What an asshole. [----------] RE-WRITE FOR REJECT #17, by Nybar ================================= ahhh, butter...how long have I been wandering this city? my vagaries have been absurd...kettle corn; ahhh, i remember when, on the back of a nickel, i was the winner of an extempore poetry contest...ahh, i remember when i was a recalcitrant autodidact with delusions of polymathdom. that was when i took the easy moral high ground...the kind which leaves one with no one to prove. that was an easy time...ohh, when i first began to melt and boil and fizzle and pop in this pot of application, i was assiduous; my sedulity was uncanny...oh, how the ostensibly abstruse melted under my intense scrutiny. my calendar was full, and my life was empty...in short, i was on my way to the top. let me tell you a tale, kiddies. i used to be called 'kettle corn'...that was before they scorched the sky in 1625 PC. that was before marty mcfly's uncle made the city into a kettle-corn controlled, orwellian franchise...turned human emotion into butter, and babies into cracker jacks...kettle corn. an erudite hick; possessing wisdom from the past. let me tell you something, kiddies. it's completely possible, in these modern days, to envisage a man--or woman; far more likely--standing between the gods...an egalitarian romantic hero. no contrast there. st. augustine and buddha have dined at the same table; upon kettle corn, the odious, molten gold of capitalism...ohh, my vagaries have taken me many places... when i graduated from oxford, i spent most of my time striking up conversations with strangers on the street. i was working on a project at the time, but t'was a Macguffin, and a chimera besides--i don't even remember its focus. something about saccades and eidetic images...ohh, my real profession was the talks on the street. in the post-kettle korn era, after the sky had been scorched in the kettlekorn wars... romanticism still did not die. like always, it pulled itself up from underground in the post-apocalyptic era, to rule with the cockroaches, Metternich and bf skinner. "it must be awfully lonely, serving up coffee behind that counter at 3 am" "life is awfully lonely...my duty is to serve energy to others." "oh...someday, i shall join you behind the counter. except i will be the energy served..." "a noble octopus" once, the floor melted beneath me, and i found myself in an underground temple. here, a band of associationists genuflected before the awesome head of bF skinner, contained in a black box. some offered up neural nets, which were trained to laugh at the stupidity of the world. they botched their irregular verbs. and i did have a dialectic with bF skinner, which is entirely lost to the world--entirely, except for the part Augustine cites in his refutation of Dontatism... "now, i am described as a fastidious gentle-man, and the fecundity of my mind is extraordinary; O, head of bF skinner, how is it that you blindly accept subjective, ethereal reports on mental states; _while at the same time_ posing as an empiricist? and how can you further descartes' error, which others have exposited on so eloquently--the error of dichotomizing the brain, yes, and speaking of descarte..." "shut up, d3wd. i'm elite. i've got a black box." "yo, fuck that, hip-hop flows through my veins, yo, damaj you then eat ya, so call me the 'pain killah'; fuck you, bF skinner, and fuck Dennis Miller" "yeah, fuck me? nigga, fuck you--i'll bust a neural net and that's exactly what i do--yo, have your tongue out while i kettle-corn your cob, we ain't 'dawgs', but i fuck wit your mind like PAV-LOV" kettle corn--and manichaenism...but, kettle corn predominates in North America at this time. what's _in_ a name? I used to have a name, a given name, too...I used to have a family. _in america_. let me tell you something, kid, I walked from ellis island to north carolina, only to find an opulent, whiskey sipping hick...ahhh, this has analogue on the internet. i discovered 25 years later...ahh... things are not always as they seem; vagaries turn into odysseys, lovers turn into squirrels, tears turn into mascara. all manner of things happen...that's why i write my rhymes in invisible ink; and y'all need eye liners. hold up, kids, i'm going to tell just one last story. i was the last of the house of KoRn, the last dynasty in the history of rock & roll...a strain of bacteria which the world thought would never die. and then they scorched the sky...i was surfing the internet, and looked for our ancestral domain...kettlekorn.com...(for truly, kettle was my given name, yes, and aragorn was my father...) what i found made my organs twitch in mortification and bemusement (but isn't such always the case?) a hick, a plovdiv forest bomber who had never been taught to behave, had usurped my family home. a gopher was in my garden; a wombat blew glass inside of my skull; i hung upon a rope of sand...but the end was not yet. it was not yet even in sight. i would keep the spirit of manowar alive..i would fight. for i knew i was born to conquer every shore. a war of the roses. yes. i fucked the hick's wife, bunny. i peed in his dog's mouth. i got him to talk to NYBAR, yes...and nybar came back and talked to me... said: "he was brought up on a trail of tears and sadness; BURMASHAVE, my friend. he knows not what he does. rock & roll was glorious, but it will be equally glorious in the museum, in the graveyard...it is hip hop's time to shine. oh, ancient god, ancient spirit, why do you not rest? you've been wandering the city, wandering the world, for such a long time...is it not time for the forest and iron-town to finally know peace? why dost thou kick against the hicks?" upon saying this, he stuck an ankh dagger in my neck...i was dispatched, but this only caused me to realize i'd been dead the whole time. this did not discourage me; i still wanted my name back. raekwon, the godfather, immobalarity...ohh, so now i gather my victuals, and i go to watch "badlands" again...and i continue to kick against the hicks. As of late, I have not made that difference. That guy still has the domain, he's still selling 'Kettle Korn', he still has a wife named Bunny, and he's still selling sweetened popcorn. What an asshole. [--------------------------------------------------------------------------] [ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! HOE #931, BY VARIOUS ARTISTS - 12/05/99 ]