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Fingals Cave Issue 2
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> f i l *
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> f i n nnn ggggg a l s
> f i nn n g g aaaaa l sssss
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> c a a v v e February 1994
> c a a v v eee
> c aaaaa v v e Number: 002
> cccccc a a v eeeeee
> Released: 1-21-94
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INDEX
1] Introduction
2] "Smuggler's Blues" (story)
3] "Be Thankful For Regularity" (humor)
4] Closing
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1] Introduction
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Welcome to #2 cyber-urchins! I got one submission from someone I
didn't know, so I'm putting out at least another of these fine
use of bits. I release this thing into cyberspace every month at
about halfway through the month. I post to alt.zines, and it is
available by ftp (thanks Rita) at:
etext.archive.umich.edu in Pub/Zines/Fingals
Please submit your stuff, we only have three guidelines:
1) You wrote what you are submitting. Don't rip someone else off.
2) It is under 5K or so.
3) It is interesting (at least to some people)
If you meet all these three, you may get into this thing. We're
looking for: stories, jokes, poems, editorials, record reviews,
gripes, and things we haven't even thought to include. Our goal
is to produce a zine that anyone can at least find one or two
things inside of interest.
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2] Smuggler's Blues (true story-humor) by: kt
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Smuggler's Blues
"Do you mind if I frisk you?"
Uh-oh. "No Sir."
He checked my legs, crotch, back, and settled on my pocket
containing my wallet. He stepped back suddenly, touched his gun
to remind me he had one, and stepped back.
"Take out the knife," he commanded in a new voice.
"Damn! I forgot."
I took out the lethal switchblade and carefully handed it to
him. He held it away from his body like full diaper. He pushed
the button, and the blade clicked out. He put it on the hood of
his car and said "Turn around and put your hands behind you back,
you're under arrest."
In the time it took to put the handcuffs on until I was in his
Missouri State patrol car, 87 people zooming by on I-70 towards
St. Louis saw me get arrested for the first time. Most saw a
heinous criminal, thought "good job guy", and the old ones felt a
little safer.
"Why did you lie? I asked if you were carrying any weapons on
your person or in the car."
"When you said weapons, I thought guns. I don't have any
guns."
We got to know each other a little better while sitting in his
car. I told him I was visiting my sister in Tucson for two weeks.
He thought it was nice to be able to take daddy's new car across
country. I agreed.
"Do you mind if I search your car?"
"Nope."
"Ok, I'll be back. Don't touch anything."
He tore through my home where I drove, ate, and slept in for
the last three days. He looked exactly like Steve Williams who
played Captain Fuller on "21 Jump Street." I was a young white
male who has never been in any trouble. I think my appearance had
something to do with the fact I was asked to step out of the car
after being pulled over for not signaling a lane change. I was in
need of both a shower and a shave. My hair was long, greasy, and
uncombed. My week old gold stud in my ear didn't help.
He put the other two switchblades I hid carefully on his hood
with the other one. I bought three, but only carried one. It was
for protection on the road. I would have been in trouble if I
needed to actually use it.
He came back in the car listening to my microcassette recorder
for evidence of drugs. All he heard was my now painfully
embarrassing witty observations about my trip. If he liked
listening to that, he must have loved reading my notebook.
"What's in the gifts?" he asked.
"The flat one is a stained glass scene. I don't remember the
others, there from my sister."
"Do you mind if I open them?"
"Nope."
"Good answer, if you said no, you'd go to jail."
He ripped through the gifts like a child at Christmas. He
found nothing but an empty feeling where guilt might be.
By the time he got back to the car, another 594 people zoomed
by and saw me, the apprehended criminal, and a state trooper
finding things to send me to jail.
"I'm going to call for the dogs. Before I do, I'm going to
tell you what I tell everyone. If you tell me now you have drugs
and where you got them, you can get a much lighter sentence. Guys
who cooperate might not spend one day in jail. Are you carrying
any drugs?"
"No sir, none." I tried to sound convincing.
"Now you lied about the switchblades, so I don't know if I
should believe you. If the dogs find anything, you go to jail
today. Now are you sure you don't have any drugs in the car?" He
then showed me a bad polaroid showing bags of coke on a table.
"Any of this?"
"None."
"Ok, if you say so."
I hope he'll call for the dogs. We went this far, why not go
all the way?
"Switchblades are illegal in Missouri, I'm pretty sure they
are in Illinois too. Do you know why they are illegal?"
I felt obligated to answer anything, even a guess. It was just
like school. "Because they are quick to open?"
"Nope, you can carry a better knife that you can open just as
fast. They're illegal because it's machismo, it's a status symbol
to have one. They're illegal because of machismo."
He says machismo like it's a child's toy. Pretty easy to say
for a guy with a large gun between our feet.
"We don't take people to jail for switchblades. Give me your
hands, I'm going to let you go. I gotta catch some bad guys."
I wasn't going to jail, that was great news, but I really
wanted the dogs to come out. I really wanted to prove him wrong,
but somehow he knew I didn't have any drugs. How could he tell my
general terror of being pulled over and searched from the terror
of getting caught with drugs? How did he know I'd be too scared
to try and carry drugs?
"You be careful out there." He said almost friendly.
"You too, and enjoy your new toys." I replied.
All the way home I noticed every officer. I signaled every
lane change, and obeyed the speed limit. Two troopers passed my
in pursuit of someone else. I felt a hot flash both times. I
feared being pulled over a second time in the same day, but I
also wanted it. I had fun being almost a bad guy, for once.
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3] Be Thankful For Regularity (humor) by: fig4
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"Be thankful For Regularity"
I'm not sure what caused my sudden inability to shit. It started
Thanksgiving, I think. I recall my last dump was on Wednesday
before Thanksgiving. It was nothing special, but it got the job
done.
Thursday was the big meal at my parent's house. I ate like all of
us do, like a returned hostage. I was expecting to feel a moment
coming on Thursday night. When it didn't, I was not concerned.
Friday night I recalled that I had not gone since Wednesday. I
was a bit concerned, so I drank a lot of water. I peed a lot. I
sat for a while with zero results. I remembered at this point my
father telling me about his aunt who did not go to the bathroom
for three days and died. I have still never asked him if that was
true or just a story to sway his kid into regularity. He won't
remember.
Saturday morning I awoke optimistic and tried for a morning
release. I had no success. I'm really starting to get worried. I
ate more than usual on Thursday. Friday I ate more too try and
"move the mail" through. It seemed like a good idea on Friday,
but Saturday it was just another dumb step towards my immanent
death suffered by my dad's aunt.
I went to my parent's house Saturday afternoon to go to the
bathroom. I knew I couldn't go there any better, but I knew my
mom had my salvation: a suppository. My mom takes one every day.
I hope it's not hereditary. I read the instructions on the can (a
jumbo size with about 100 of those wax-like bullets) and grabbed
two and put them in a sandwich bag. I went back to my place, and
tried one more time to keep myself from what I knew I needed to
do. I produced nothing, not even a fart.
I turned off the phone's ringer, put the answering machine on,
and prepared for the worst. The instructions were ringing in my
head, "insert deep into the rectum". I put a sandwich bag on my
hand and followed the instructions. I decided my ass is never
going to be an input port. I jumped into bed to lay on my stomach
(wouldn't want it to slide out). In three minutes I urged to
shit. The instructions say 15-30 minutes. I waited it out. The
urge was bad, and it got worse. I tried to think of other things,
like me being someone who actually ate five servings of fruits
and vegetables each day. I tried to think of all the vegetables I
liked. Heck, I was even going to give zucchini a chance. The
clock ticked slower than it ever did in school. I started to
sweat. The urge to shit was unbearable. I felt I could pull down
my pants and paint my bedroom in a new color. I felt good,
because I knew I was going to live.
After 17 minutes of angst, I ran to the toilet. I sat down and
released my tight and sore muscles. I was rewarded with a now
smaller suppository fired into the toilet at such speed it didn't
stop until it was already out of the building and into the sewer
in the street. Immediately following that was the best fart I
ever had. It was so loud I am certain the man in the apartment
above me heard it over his stereo because he turned it off
suddenly to hear more. It was longer than any belch I have ever.
It was both consistent and varying in it's sounds, like a balloon
let loose to fly around the room. Underneath me was only the
clear waiting water swirling from the force of my gale. After
that came nothing. I waited and waited for a follow up, hopefully
solid. I got nothing.
I pulled up my pants and went to the kitchen for more water. I
knew if I was to live, I had to try again. I relaxed a while and
tried again. I don't know why I took two suppositories from my
mom, maybe it was fate. Sometimes things work out I thought. This
time I promised I was going to lay longer. I figured maybe I
needed more gravity help, so I laid on my stomach with my butt
elevated. This is a very uncomfortable position for 25 minutes.
This is when I started thinking about Elvis dying on the can. I
figured it couldn't happen to me because he was overweight and
had too many chemicals in his body. I sang "Heartbreak Hotel" for
no reason. The urge to have a bowel movement was overwhelming
again. I was sweating in no time thanks to my new position. I
promised myself I'd make 25 minutes and somehow I did. I think I
passed out for some time from too much blood to the head. That
was fine with me. At the LCD change, I ran to the toilet. I put
the bag on my hand to catch the little bugger in case I needed it
again. I squatted above the seat and shot the suppository into my
hand. I should have used a baseball mit. With it in hand, I sat
down and released another quieter, but still epic fart. Following
this was the first shit! I'm not going to describe it, but it
looked as happy to be out as I was. I was elated, and followed it
up with more and more and more. When I was done, I wiped. I was
somewhat happy, but still concerned. That was not three days of
shit.
I took my slightly smaller friend and washed it off. I pushed it
back inside my poop chute. (I was getting more rear action than
Ginger Lynn for gosh sakes!) I jumped back into bed and my yoga
position for optimal gravitational effectiveness. I went only
twenty minutes the second time. And twenty minutes the third
time. Both times yielded similar results. I might have tried a
fourth time, but the little fella was too damn small to do
anything. He was like a baby soap now, not useful enough to keep.
At this point after spending my Saturday night trying to drop
mud, I walked over to the store to start prevention. I knew I
would live through the night because I got rid of the lead shit
and there was room for more shit. I bought a can of
fiberblow(tm). A serving is the exact equivalence of putting a
teaspoon of sand in a glass of juice. It's more like a practical
joke than an aid to regularity. I had three glasses of
sandjuice(tm) before going to bed. The next morning the mail was
moving. Between Saturday night and Sunday morning, I cleaned out.
I felt lighter, I could jump higher. I sang.
Today I'm semi-regular. I still have fiberblow(tm) in my cabinet,
but the promise to have five servings of fruits and vegetables
has been forgotten. Sometimes I have three. Roughly twice a week
I have a sandjuice(tm) if I feel stuffy. This will turn to one or
two a day as I get older, and I'll be pushing up suppositories
daily like my mom when I'm 50. Thanks for the anal retentive
genes mom. Oh, and by the way. I'm not coming over for
Thanksgiving this year, I'm fasting.
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4] Closing by: Fingal
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That's it. Please make submissions. As you can see, you don't
have to leave an e-mail address, so send whatever you want. I'm
running out of friends, please submit something. Now go IRC.
submissions: fingal@well.sf.ca.us
end.
