Subject: Re: Konig, a favor please?

Date: 12 Feb 1999 00:00:00 GMT

From: (Mr Tooth Decay)

Reply-To: ----------------------------------

Organization: ----------------------------------

Newsgroups: alt.foot.fat-free

References: 1 , 2 , 3 , 4


"=?iso-8859-1?Q?K=F6nig=20Preu=DFe?=, GmbH" <>





>Mumthra wrote:


>> On Wed, 10 Feb 1999 22:05:48 -0500, "K=F6nig Preu=DFe, GmbH"

>> <> 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.


Maybe not.


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

knows that.


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.




nuffs enuff.


no matter who thinks what and who thinks who started it.


let it go.


this a fine joke no mo.