Subject: Re: Konig, a favor please?
Date: 12 Feb 1999 00:00:00 GMT
From: firstname.lastname@example.org (Mr Tooth Decay)
References: 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
"=?iso-8859-1?Q?K=F6nig=20Preu=DFe?=, GmbH" <email@example.com>
>> On Wed, 10 Feb 1999 22:05:48 -0500, "K=F6nig Preu=DFe, GmbH"
>> <firstname.lastname@example.org> wrote:
>> : Actually, I'm pretty surprised that Mumthra hasn't gone off more
>> :except for for the calamari up my nose part.
>> I'm not going to go off. You'd like it if I go off. Calamari is
>> Mainly, though, I'm not going to go off because this is USENET and
>> it's not FUNNY to threaten people's BABIES when you KNOW that they
>> HAVE THEM and will be MORE THAN ANNOYED when you CAPITALIZE on freely
>> distributed personal data more than THEY will CAPITALIZE random words
>> in an otherwise NOT FUNNY post.
>> Is that perfectly CLEAR?
>Well, honey, if you can't take a joke, fuck you! Right?
>When SubG's tell me that they're going to take a nail gun, nail me
>to the wall and beat me with baseball bats, I figger it's a fine joke!
yeah. Was. Is. Guess nobody in authority decreed a joke has to be
funny to be a joke.
But they were (are) mostly blowhardy, fatass, wheezing dipshits,
wielding their keyboard Huntin'-peckers like photoshopped claymores.
Blustering braggy bug-nutted malcontents secure in nothing much
besides the belief that they were among their own. Pretending to be
nuts and hoping to GOD that nobody believed them.
HAHAHAHA. Is this fun for pretending nuts, the usenet, eh? Behaving
dumbo and talking cleverly trite and antagonizing reasonless. Yeah.
Hardly anyone has spent more time than me chasing buffed brass-button
Bullwinkle suit-style bogus validation by poke poke poking at anyone
and everything within reach (and the net puts anyone and everyone
similarly reaching within reach), especially if they appear
flusterable, as it's no false plumping of the ego-furter at all if you
get coldly snattered at and so showed up being shelled with a superior
barrage of snappy surreal highchair handjob no human cooter hump
livestock freshed inbred jello-bibbed stirring of the same old shit
that even tiny people that live in your houseplants audibly cackle
like jackasses, unless you are actually nuts enough not to hear them
at all, and climb up onto the roof and beat the chest and claim to be
big bwana ANYWAY. Taken as a hole, it's a hollow, hopeless sad little
motorized exercycle of a non activity I can't recommend dubiously
enough to fellow sadasses that have nothing better to do than take
their best shot at getting it up at my expense, at least as long as
the line was mine to define.
So far I think I'm ahead. not sure though. What say you?
Hell, anyway, only the real nut knows, anyway. Who wins and who don't.
And ONLY because ONLY the real nut is an expert on losing, but it's
hard to tell if there were REALLY any of them playing until somebody
has already lost. I think.
Does the nut know he be nuts? Could he really be nuts if he did? Or is
this a cashew 22? DO the nut and only the nut see with unmistakable
clarity the futility of it all, or is he nuts because that's all he
Do only the SANE turkeys decide to drown themselves in the rain?
Maybe. But they'd still look silly doing it.
But catch me staring into the air with my mouth open and I'd just say
I INTENDED to look that way. You too, I bet.
Bet birds would like to, too, If they could and they really did it.
Don't think they do. But if they did, I bet they'd like to think they
were doing the fah fah better thing. Crucifryed for the sins of the
stiff necks and courageously facing and forcing out the nobility
inherant in futility. Going down dumb so that others might put the hen
on the plane in the rain with a stiff wattled "Here's sneering at you,
KEED." Stealing from the callous gods (that stole from them the chance
to fly and crap free) the satisfaction of twisting their skinny necks,
seeing as they CAN'T (with a beak) kiss a little darkmeat biddy on the
way to the stump and get posthooomerousposterioously proud and silly
by getting their picture on a album cover brandishing a bible and a
nailgun they only wish they could actually HOLD in their beaks. Hey,
but that's what programs is for. Got airbrushes we don't have to clean
and ANYBODY, live or just pretending, can have a big old beakgun
that's just as real as it needs to be in the universe WE choose to
see, but still be one we presume can be vaporizied with the touch of a
key. Nobody need the neal McCoy's no more. Got puters. Got the usenet.
The alien all you can ate turkey buffet. The place where shit and
shinola, silly and shrewd, real threats and preschool thwwpp thwppp
thwpping of the lower lip were FINALLY and PROPERLY slurryied into
just another shade of gray, and hey, FUCK you if you can't see it that
The place where everybody loses is the safest place to play. Aye?
To much to expect that someone say something when they have something
to say? Usually. Mostly lucky to chew up and spit out a piece of today
before it's swallowed by Salk's stalker from yesterday, while
hankering for the NEEECHEEEIAN worthwhile enemy, and settling for
pecking at a face in the mud puddle. It falls apart for a second. Then
comes right back. But it'll hardly ever go away until the pecker does.
That's why we never get tired of it. Get tired and you lose. Everybody
Makes perfect sense.
Neighbor has turkeys. Don't think they ever drowned in the rain. (Have
seen 'em peck at mud puddles). But it's a dark meataphor whose
legbone I can't resist twisting).
it ain't done. back in the oven it go, and this time we don't bother
to set the buzzer. If we watch it careful it'll NEVER get done, just
like the folded landscape wormholier than thou shortcut to Me-ville
don't ever seem to get us there, cause (if we're fortunate, lucky all
wrong in this corn text) we keep stepping back and forth across the
fine lines between hip and just plain nuts...bravado and
bluster...profound and fulla shit.... Arty and eyesoring....ritzy
suburban townhouse with a Merc in front, a half-stripped bimbo and
pissed in polyester hand-me-downs and a hubcap fulla noodles cooking
over a busted-pallet alleyway campfire...seeking to cope by finding
some value in any of it and opting to avert dissappointment by
deciding ahead of time that there's no fucking way we ever will.
And Christ, what do we do if we don't do this?
Well. Maybe the lines aren't always fine. Sorta sloppy sometimes. But
easy to cross if you paint on some big shitkicking BOOTS.
Ain't it grand?
ahahah. Ain't been up to much this today.
Spent some time talking tough to the mirror.
"Are you talkin' to ME?"
"I am, I said."
I wasn't impressed. Haha. Face in the puddle gets this round. But it
ain't over till it's over.
In with a yo, out with a yo.
no matter who thinks what and who thinks who started it.
let it go.
this a fine joke no mo.