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Capital of Nasty Vol. 05 Issue 02
Capital of Nasty Electronic Magazine
Volume V, Issue 2, AD MM
Tuesday, February 8th, 2000
ISSN 1482-0471
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Computers Make Fantasia 2000 A Reality
The difference between creating the original Fantasia and the new
Fantasia 2000 (1999) is that much of the new film is created on
computers, according to Disney vice chairman Roy Disney. Appearing on
CNN Wednesday, Disney, who produced the sequel, remarked: "Now we can
add a lot more elements, of course, like if there are bubbles in the
water, the computers can make all the bubbles that you want." All of
which increases the esteem with which Disney regards the studio's
original animators. "One of my more favorite scenes of all time was in
Cinderella when she's scrubbing the floor and the soap bubbles were
coming up, and the reflections of her in each bubble floating around,
all hand-drawn."
-- http://www.imdb.com
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No, [sales reps] don't suck. They all seem to suffer from a horrible
illness that prevents them from understanding the difference between
fact and fiction. The fact being what can be done, the fiction being
what a client is asking for.
Client - "Can you get Pigs to fly?"
Sales rep - "Oh yeah we can get pigs to fly"
Later-
Sales Rep to techies - "You guys can make pigs fly can't you?"
Techie - "Fuck no, are you crazy? We build TCP/IP networks."
Sales Rep (with glaze forming in their eyes)- "Oh..."
Even later-
Sales Rep to client - "Yeah we can do it"
That's why you volunteer to go with them. To make sure they come back
with a gig you can actually successfully deliver on. Not some
Franken-project.
-- From someone who goes by the nickname of "Fuck you"
-------------------------------------------
1. Editorial
2. The Car Alarm
3. What's Worse Than Eating A Shit Sandwich?
4. Does Someone Smell a Rat?
5. Sex is not what everyone brags about.
-------------------------------------------
This week's Golden Testicle award:
Chinese Celebrity Look-Alikes
http://www.acupuncture.com/al/look.htm
-------------------------------------------
1. Editorial
By CoN staff
I've been wondering lately if there are actual human beings that work
at Internic, or if it's just one big computer that does a quick search
on what the e-mail may be saying, vomits a piece of the Internic FUQ
and signs every e-mail I get back with a different name.
I get my bill. I go to the bank, wait in line 45 minutes, make the
money order and mail it out via express, just to make sure it got
delivered. Hey, call me paranoid, but I like having hard proof in my
hands in case something goes wrong.
About a week and a half of this I get a Final Notice letter from
Internic. Apparentely I haven't paid for my domain, despite the fact
that I am holding the receipt of a money order I've made and of the
express delivery.
Considering that I could drive in half a day to Internic's building,
they should've got the letter about 2 days after I sent it out. But
let's be nice, and assume that they just processed the letter
automatically without checking. I e-mail internic and billing and
patiently wait for a response on the query. None of which, not
surprisingly, arrived.
So I check their online status for my webpage. The webpage says that
I paid everything off. Cool. No more worries.
A week after that, I get a letter from Internic's general manager
(some mass produced piece of propaganda he probably never read, much
less signed himself), on how Internic is upset (boo hoo) that I
decided to end my services with them.
Okay. So I write to Internic asking just what's going on. Again,
hostmaster and billing gets a query from me. Do I get a response? Of
course not. Unless you count those automated bot replies a response,
which are as useful as a gnat's testicle hair.
So I finally give in, call their non-toll-free number (it's toll free
only if you are calling, credit card in hand, to pay your bill), sit
there and listen to 6 minutes worth of directions, annoucements and
stupid menus which bring me nowhere, and when I finally found what I
wanted, nobody was there to take my call. This is me calling during
business hours on the same time zone.
Another long e-mail was sent to Internic today. Tomorrow morning, I'm
sure, I'll find a letter confirming my cancellation of the domain. So
if you try to reply to this issue and the e-mail bounces back, you
have Internic to thank.
IGNORE the HYPE writes in regards to the last issue of CoN (and my
women's clothes fetish, the prick):
Hey Leo,
Great issue. Needs a longer editorial though. Run out of people
to take the piss out of? <g>
Glad/amazed to see that "My Favourite Films Of 1999" by Jeff
Wright included the truely entertaining Run Lola Run. Great
fucking film! But I disagree with eXistenZ being on there. That
film sucked. Cronenberg had to much control and it shows. He's
great when working with others but when he has complete control
he tends to over-cook. Just my 2 (non)cents worth.
Having spoke with you electronically and in person, I don't
think you have any problems with English - it's the lisp and
high heels I'd be worried about if I were you <g>
Regards, neil
John Iadipaolo after reading Samantha Craggs' Article, decided to
start smoking:
Leandro & Co:
Great work on the new issue. I'd gone so long without a helping
of CoN that I was starting to wonder whether my email server
wasn't working (again), but I was most relieved to find the
latest issue in my box last week. Samantha's article in
particular impressed me. I am not a smoker, nor do I feel
particularly sorry for those individuals who know all of the
risks associated with smoking, and choose to do so anyways. I
could rant on this subject for weeks, but to sum it up, I think
smoking is a filthy habit; a waste of time, money and health.
However, Samantha- in the very least- made me stop and think for
a moment. In her article, she took three of my biggest gripes
about smoking and produced compelling, intelligent arguments
which I couldn't help but agree with- or at least entertain-
despite my convictions. Her arguments have their weaknesses,
but if she can score points on a guy like me- who likens smoking
to French-kissing the toilet bowl of an overcrowded prison
restroom- she must be on to something.
Keep up the great work guys,
John Iadipaolo
And lastly, Josh Bell, despite having him burnt at the stake for his
post-editorial editorials, writes a post-editorial editorial:
Wow... I haven't read CoN in forever... it's been even longer
(yes, longer than forever) since I've replied to an issue. Oh
well, here goes.
> The brain is a wonderful organ. It starts working the moment
> you get up and does not stop until you get into the office. --
> Robert Frost
I don't know why, but I always figured Frost was queer. Just
one of those things that occur to me from nowhere.
> 1. Editorial
Be careful talking about the millennium, or the 1900's, or any
reference this year, last year, or next year, for that matter.
The public will surely find something to argue with you about if
you mention the big M word. I prefer to call the next few years
the Approxillennium.
> 2. Smoking Can Kill You
A tree almost fell on my house last night because it was covered
in ice. Luckily, it was only my yard and fence that was
demolished... for now. (by the way, I live in Alabama, USA for
those of you who are wondering where the winter storm is)
> 3. My Favourite Films Of 1999
Smokey and The Bandit (1970's) is great. It is the film of the
Approxillennium. Some of the movies on the list were great, but
a lot of them just sucked out the ass.
> 4. New Year
I was stoned, baked, fried, simmered, toasted, boiled --
whatever-- and drunk. Looking off this guy's bluff watching for
the city to explode.
> 5. Carpe fucken' diem.
Macacos me mordam.
> This week's Golden Testicle award:
>
> The streetlight is currently red.
>
> http://www.somethingawful.com/stoplight/
I wish that guy would cut that tree down or whatever. It's
hindering my plans for world domination.
So there, I hope you enjoy my post-editorial editorial.
Hopefully you will receive it looking like I'm hoping it does.
J. Bell
---
J. Bell has found Jesus! He was behind the sofa the whole time.
-------------------------------------------
2. The Car Alarm
By Jason MacIsaac
The car alarm has been ringing for about 15 minutes now.
I'm living in an apartment in one of the largest and most populated
cities in Canada, wearing the clothes I wear to bed. I'll spare you
the gory details. Needless to say, it's the middle of January, and
although it is way too warm for this time of year, I`m not dressed to
go outside.
The car alarm has been ringing for about 15 minutes now while I write
this. Time enough for me to save my work, get dressed, go downstairs,
locate the car with the raging alarm, smash its windows and yank out
the radio, check my hair in one of the sideview mirrors, and then walk
back up to my apartment.
You know, somehow I don't think that the Metro Toronto Car Alarm
Taskforce will swoop down on me and drag away me or anyone else off in
cuffs. Could you imagine if the police were told to respond to car
alarms? They'd say "Yep, sure. We'll do that right after we crack
down on those hardened criminals that bring 9 items to 8 items or less
counters."
Car alarms are marvellous things, if you need something to annoy the
neighbours. If your intention is to prevent crime it's somewhat less
effective. I understand that most crimes against cars don't involve
the actual theft of the vehicle, but the smashing and grabbing of
anything valuable inside. This takes about 1.5 seconds, which is kind
of lean if you want someone to get there on time to do anything about
the crime. I imagine any nifty stickers that proclaim the car alarm
manufacturer might deter the less courageous thieves... but stickers
cost substantially less than car alarms and they don't wake the
neighbours at 4 am. And I'm sure stickers or dumb alarms don't bother
the more experienced smash and grabbers.
The car alarm is still going as I write this.
Now it occurs to me that car alarms serve other purposes too. They
also can immediately alert the owners to the fact that an adult cat
has jumped on the hood of a car, or a careless skateboarder has bumped
into it. I'm willing to bet than in at least 96% of the cases in
which a car alarm goes off, it's not because the window has been
broken and there's a dark gap in the dash with wires hanging out of it
where the radio used to be. I remember once closing my own car door
hard enough to set off the alarm of the car parked right next to me.
And it's not as if I slammed the door. I've seen a marching band
practising in parking lots, and the bass drum alone has sent a car
detector wailing.
That alarm's still going. It's one of those alarms that has a variety
of different noises for maximum annoyance. Wheeoowheeoowheeoowheeoo-
oooh ooohh oooh ooh-pheow pheow pheow pheow--whoooop whooop whooop
whooop-orina orina orina... repeat over and over again, until the
doofus who owns it comes down.
Maybe it's because I haven't driven in years and never owned a car,
but I don't understand some car owners. A car isn't a cheap
investment I understand the need to protect it, but I don't understand
why too many drivers treat their cars better than their wives. Or
believe that buying something expensive has somehow given them control
over nature or the ability to claim land in the name of their vehicle,
like some conquistador jabbing a flag into the ground and declaring "I
claim this land in the name of Spain" while the natives look on and
wonder who this arsehole is.
I was an autoshow with some friends once. My admiration of cars is
purely aesthetic. Some of them have neat shapes and colours, but then
again, so do birds, and I can't name all the families of birds. So
while they were talking horsepower and V whatever engines and strokes,
I was more interested in the models that had been paid to look pretty
and have very little clothing on while standing next to a car.
One thing relating to cars actually did catch my attention though. It
was a demonstration of a car alarm, in fact. Not like the one I can
still hear. This one had some sort of sensor that could detect people
close to it. And it spoke! It warned people that they were too close
to the car, and if they stayed long enough, it would warn them that it
would sound an alarm.
Pretty neat toy actually. And it proves my point about the
conquistador. So what if I am standing close to your car? What crime
have I committed, exactly? You've bought an expensive car and an
obnoxious alarm system, and that gives you the right to determine
where I can stand? Tell you what: can you look deep within your heart
and find it within your soul to stroke it, suck it, then shove it as
far and as fast it will go? Can you do that for me? Unless I'm
masturbating in front of your car, which is something a person who
would buy this kind of alarm would more likely do, I am not doing
anything illegal.
Hm... doofus must have finally staggered downstairs. The alarm is
finally off.
Let's not even talk about the mentality that "everybody on the road is
an idiot but me" that seems to go hand in hand with driving. Even I
thought that when I was driving. But I did remember the basic natural
laws that govern our environment. I remembered, for example, that
there are seasons, including one called "Winter." For drivers and
those unfamiliar with life in the northern climes, we get this
interesting substance dropping from the sky we call "snow." It's
white, it's cold, it's slippery, and if you're a man, you can write
your name in it if there's enough it on the ground. You see, one
"snow-flake" by itself tiny and short lived, not significant. They
tend to travel in packs however, and when there's enough of it on the
ground, roads become slippery, and it can even reduce your visibility
if there's still snow in the air.
It has snowed in this country every winter for quite some time.
Strangely, every year drivers seem surprised that it comes back.
"Stupid weather cycles, how dare it snow?" they rave. "Don't you know
that I've bought an expensive vehicle with an alarm system that talks
to you, in fact it's a far better conversationalist than I am?" As
Mark Twain said, everybody talks about the weather, but nobody ever
does anything about it.
Presumably the now silent car outside my building is surrounded by the
city's finest detectives who are trying to determine what set off the
alarm. Maybe they found the culprit and he's sitting in a cruiser
with metal bracelets behind his back. There might also be a walrus
down there explaining the origins of the Anglican church to a curious
penguin who's writing a term paper on the subject.
Oh fuck, the alarm just went off again.
---
Jason MacIsaac needs a ride home.
-------------------------------------------
3. What's Worse Than Eating A Shit Sandwich?
by Jeff Wright
Scream 3.
---
Jeff wants to see Episode 1 again, to get the taste of Scream 3 out
from his mouth.
-------------------------------------------
4. Does Someone Smell a Rat?
By Mark Driver
Random violence is not cool. Arbitrary destruction and aimless
vandalism suck, and are sad comments on one's inability to
intelligently channel feelings of anger and aggression. I say this not
because of some sort of Donnie and Marie family values seminar I
recently attended, nor do I take the high moral ground of `wrong for
wrong's sake'. I've just been the recipient of enough of this junk to
realize that breaking other people's stuff isn't anarchy or chaos,
it's petty bullshit that makes life tougher for other people, people
you haven't even taken the time to get to hate yet. Far from promoting
a sense of anger against The Man, pointless destruction does little
more than transform everyone around you into a grumpy asshole who
thinks that there should be even more cops on the street.
This being said, cleverly targeted destruction is not something I'm
all together opposed to. I can't say I agree with sneak attacks on
people. Bombs are boring, shootings are unoriginal, and hiding in the
bushes, putting a pillowcase over someone's head, and beating them
with the claw-end of a hammer is downright cowardly. But if the
creative individual can target the property and deal with the enemy on
a psychological level, plenty of damage can still be done and no one
has to go to the hospital. Prison time, which I highly recommend be
avoided whenever possible, is also a lot less of a probability when
you go after property. Some might call this revenge, I call it
justice. I call it standing up for yourself as a human being. I also
call it fun.
Now, when I say enemy, I don't mean someone who just pisses you off.
The enemy must have fucked you over pretty harshly, or else you're
just an unhappy person being petty and stupid. You don't firebomb the
guy with 25 items, using coupons for things he didn't buy, paying with
a credit card and getting money back in the cash only - 10 items or
less line, even though he desperately deserves it.. You don't hire a
pack of thugs to dismember the person you had a one night stand with
that suddenly won't return your calls; that's your own fault for
hooking up with someone lame. You don't destroy a person defending
themselves against an attack you started, and you don't send death
threats to nice Internet writers whom you happen to disagree with from
time to time. Words don't hurt, so don't let them. You must be
innocently wronged in a serious way to embark down the path of
revenge. Your enemy must be clear, your attack must be personal, your
will strong, and your gaze unflinching. And you should make sure
everyone else gets a good laugh out of it in the process.
Back during a summer of my high school years, I worked as a lifeguard
at a city pool in New Orleans. Now, if you enjoy sitting under the
burning sun in 100+ temperatures, blowing a rusty whistle at little
kids to stop them from drowning each other and keeping the teenagers
from drinking beer in the bathrooms while their parents give you
alternating lectures on how you're being too mean, too wimpy, and how
you look like a slob, I would suggest taking up a career in
lifeguarding. It combines the greatest elements of being a janitor, a
chemical worker, a plumber, and a traffic cop. 11 hour days at 5 bucks
per hour, it just can't be beat. The only good thing that can possibly
happen is a thunderstorm, in which case no one's allowed to swim and
you get to read until it blows over, but even then you have three
dozen surly 10-year-olds nagging you to let them back in the water. Oh
yeah, and if anyone drowns you can get sued. Great job.
Around this same time, a friend of mine named Pancho was having
problems with a bonehead named Keva. Keva was about 6 foot 3, a son of
rich parents, stupid as a board, and in love with Pancho's girlfriend.
Keva would show up drunk at her house at 3 in the morning and try to
break in to see her. He followed her everywhere, and always tried to
start shit when Pancho was around. Pancho was pretty stocky, but he
was at least a foot shorter that his aggressor and had never been in a
fight in his life, so he just put up with it and tried to avoid Keva
whenever possible (not too easy when we'd all show up at the same punk
shows). As the incidents escalated, Keva actually tried to punch
Pancho through the open driver side window of a moving car. Things got
out of hand once and for all when Keva ended up punching Pancho's
girlfriend in the stomach after she denied him another date. Pancho
and I agreed, something must be done.
Not only was Keva was pretty big himself, he had tons of big friends
who had nothing going for them other than the fact they were big, a
condition that usually manifests itself in belligerence, nastiness,
and physical violence to everyone else. A frontal attack was out of
the question. We needed a weak link in the chain of power. Property.
Something that was beloved by the enemy, almost an extension of the
enemy himself. We put our heads together. A bit of reconnaissance
yielded a target, and synchronized evil smiles spread across our
faces: Keva's pride and joy; his brand new BMW 850I. It sat in his
parents driveway every night, begging for a little attention. It was
up to us to provide that much needed affection. But with so many
options, what to do?
Two days later, as I stumbled into another day work and opened the
fence, I saw that the generous and all-giving Lord provided me with
what I needed floating belly up in the pool: 3 and a half pounds of
pure, drowned, Louisiana water rat. I fell to my knees and gave
thanks, stood back up, got the skimming net, scooped and dumped the
dead rodent into an empty airtight chlorine bucket. I sealed the
bucket and put it in the back of the guard house to let it `ripen'.
The guard house, more of a tar paper shack filled with pumps for the
pool, always reached a good temperature of 140 degrees by noon,
letting the rat slowly steep in it's own juices. After a day, the
guard house started stinking, so I put the pail in 3 plastic garbage
bags. That lasted for another day before it started stinking. I put it
in a bigger plastic airtight pail, and 4 more garbage bags. It still
stunk up the guard house, so I hid the bucket in the woods behind the
pool, and forgot about it for a week. When I saw Pancho again, he
asked about our plan. "Pancho, Keva's about to get another rat for a
friend".
We waited until about 2 in the morning, taking the bagged and bucketed
rat to a shopping center near Keva's house. Pancho's girlfriend had
conned this girl from the city to drive out and help us so no one
would recognize the car. I took off the first bags and opened the
largest pail. The smell made me gag, it was like rotten garbage boiled
in bloody garlic and horseshit. I opened the second layer of bags. The
smell got worse. I borrowed some perfume from one of the girls to
spray on the collar of my shirt and pulled it up over my nose (to this
day, whenever I smell `Paris' I think -'dead rat'). I finally got to
the main pail. The smell was unbearable. I left the main pail shut and
put it in the trunk of the girl's car. Pancho and I ducked down in the
back seat and we pulled out of the shopping center.
We pulled up across the street from Keva's house, a white pillared
mini-mansion in an upscale neighborhood. His dad was a big man at one
of the gas companies, and his mom sat at home and had ugly babies in-
between tirades against the minorities, the environmentalists, and the
decline of American values (I suppose she was too busy preaching
values to raise a son with them). Keva's car was parked in the
driveway with the, gasp, sun roof partially open. I said another quiet
prayer of thanks, got out of the girl's car, ran around to the trunk,
and grabbed the bucket. Pancho ran into the street to serve as
lookout.
I sprinted over to the car with the sloshing bucket in my hand. I
pulled open the lid and looked inside. The rat was hairless and
bloated, stewing in about 3 inches of rat water. I grabbed the bucket
by the bottom and turned it upside down, dumping its entire contents
through the sunroof onto the beige leather interior of the Beamer. As
I pulled the pail back, some rat water ran down my arm. I started
gagging and threw up all over the outside of the car, no small mess
considering how many bean burritos I had choked down at Taco Bell
previous to the mission. I grabbed the lid and put it back on the
bucket as I ran back to the getaway car. The girls had smartly turned
the vehicle around to speed our escape. Pancho was already back
inside. I threw the bucket back in the trunk, jumped into the car, and
we took off. Everything went without a hitch, the getaway was clean.
I, unfortunately, wasn't very clean, so we all drove to the pool and
went skinny dipping to celebrate.
So what did this act of destruction solve? Not much. Keva freaked out.
He and his friends started an inquisition to find out who did the
deed, but never got more than a laugh from the people he tried to
interrogate. The car was totally ruined. From what I heard, they sold
it for cheap and got some insurance money. Keva eventually gave up on
Pancho's girlfriend and began stalking another girl who ended up ODing
on speedballs while hiding out from him. I haven't talked to him
since, but my friends back home said that the girl's death fucked with
him enough to shock him out of whatever asshole coma he had been in
for all those years. Although we were prime suspects for the rat
incident, it was never proven. The four of us never told anyone what
happened. That's another thing about revenge, don't brag about it, or
if you do, at least until the statute of limitations runs out. Then
put it up on the Internet for thousands to see. Give everyone a good
laugh; that's the best revenge of all.
---
Stolen with permission from http://www.blindwino.com
"World's a party horse and it needs some fucking" - Mark Driver
-------------------------------------------
5. SEX IS NOT WHAT EVERYONE BRAGS ABOUT
or Children, don't Believe the Porn Industry
By Luke de Sade
Before some of you start a lynch mob and come to burn me at the stake,
hear me out first. I'm one of those people that can either have sex or
don't have sex. I don't care about sex as most people do, and because
of this, I get all sort of comments by my friends. And by the way, I
lost my virginity when I was 15 years old (I'm 23 at the moment.)
I remember one time that I was at my best friend's house drinking some
beers because it was his birthday. We were there up until 4 a.m. in
the morning. At that time, my friend had a "great" idea. We should go
to a whorehouse and fuck some bitches. I was way past drunk at that
time, and I said "sure, let's go". So off we went, drunk as hell, and
(my two friends who were with me) horny as dogs.
I had no money, as usual, so my friend decided to pay me a hooker. To
the place we went, a hooker is 10 bucks for 15 minutes, so my friend
gives me 20 bucks to "enjoy" her for half an hour. Another thing you
should know about me, I'm very afraid of Venereal Diseases, or any
other diseases at that, and I also find any kind of woman's internal
fluids (sweat, vaginal fluids, blood, etc.) completely gross (hey, I
gross out quickly). So, my friend gave me 20 bucks for a hooker and he
even chose one for me.
The hooker and myself walked to a room, and when she closed the door
and started to undress, told her my plan. I would give her 10 bucks,
because I refused to have sex with her, and she would keep her mouth
shut about this to my friend (seems like my friend was a regular). I
would keep the other 10 bucks for myself. She agreed to the plan, and
we stayed 15 minutes talking shit in bed.
My friend never knew about it, and I got to keep 10 bucks of his.
I tell you all these because what I'm about to tell you guys will
freak some people out. Last month I met this chick over the internet.
She was my age and she was really smart. We became good (internet)
friends in two days, and then she invited me out. We went out to eat
and then a movie.
Days later, she told me I was very handsome (as if I didn't knew that
already) and that she was having a hard time trying to control her
impulses of jumping on top of me then. I just laughed at all this,
because to tell you the truth, she was none too good looking. In fact,
she was downright ugly, but had a good body.
Then, one day, I was commenting this with some friends and they told
me things like "go for it", "fuck her silly", and shit like that. I
was like "man, I don't want to," and they began calling me a sissy,
fag, etc. You know peer pressure sometimes work, so I decided to give
her a shot.
Was that the worst most idiotic decision I have ever taken! God
dammit! I regret ever doing that with her! I was completely uninspired
with her and I was not even excited. She, on the other hand, was
moaning like a raving lunatic. We were at it for like two hours, and
nothing. I didn't even came. Then, I suddenly stopped, completely
bored, and told her I was going home (we were at her house) and since
I didn't have any money for a cab, she should give me a lift. Well,
her car didn't start, so she gave me 25 cents to get a bus to go home.
For God's sake! 25 fucking cents to get a fucking bus at fucking 1:30
a.m.! There were no buses at that time, so I had to walk home (I live
like 30 minutes away from her).
When I was walking, I smelled myself. I reeked of her and her juices!
That's when I started running. I wanted so bad to get a shower and
clean myself off her filth, but I was so far away from home...
Then something hit me. I had a reeking-of-her underwear and one used
condom on my pocket (with all the rush about me wanting to go home, I
threw the condom in my pocket). I found a dark corner and took off my
pants and underwear and then put my pants back on. With my underwear,
I took the condom out of my pocket and folded the underwear around the
condom. I was so grossed that as I passed a house, I threw the
underwear on their front door (I still imagine the looks of the person
that received that little "package" in the morning and the chaos that
it would bring).
I finally made it home and I stripped off all my clothing and threw
them in the trash (honest to God), then I hit the showers and I was
there for about 45 minutes cleaning myself.
That's been the single most aweful sex related experience I've had,
and I don't want it to repeat itself.
I know some of you will probably think I'm a closet gay, or whatever
the name is, but really, I'm not. I like women. I like romance. I'm a
romantic guy. I've never had a sexual thought about men before, and
I've never been attracted to any men. Call me sick or whatever you
want, but that experience grossed me out. She still calls me everyday
to see when we can "see" each other, but I don't want to. If I never
see her again, it will be too soon.
---
Luke de Sade is contemplating what to do with the $10 he saved.
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http://www.capnasty.org ISSN 1482-0471
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Leandro Asnaghi-Nicastro Colin Barrett
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ZimID 708EC8D1 1994/09/14 EC B0 97 59 1D FE 7C 32 7E 04 2C 66 47 41 FB 7D
