Copy Link
Add to Bookmark
Report
Parthenogenesis 06
**** * *** *** * * *** * * *** *** *** * * *** *** * ***
* * * * * * * * * * ** * * * * * * ** * * * * *
**** *** *** * * * * ** * * * * * ** * * * * *
* * * * * * *** ** * * * * * *** ** * * * *** *** * ***
* * * * * * * * * * ** * * * * * * ** * * * *
* * * * * * * * *** * * *** *** *** * * *** *** * ***
F R E E ! issue 6
"What kind of a slogan is this?"
*****************************************************************
*****************************************************************
* MOHAMMED X FLEES THE COUNTRY! *
* Famed editor of Parthenogenesis skips town with fortune! "We *
* never even saw it coming" exclaim shocked staff. page 1 *
*****************************************************************
* * GUAPA SEEN IN *
* New research proves: * LOCAL BREWERY!*
* CROSSWORD PUZZLES CAN * Deity manifests in *
* CURE BALDNESS! page 17 * patron's beer mug! *
* * page 15 *
*****************************************************************
* Contradiction 23's World Domination Plan in 23 Easy Steps! *
* page 2 *
*****************************************************************
* GODS ANGERED * SCHEMATIC OF * EVIL SCIENTISTS *
* BY TV * NUCLEAR BOMB * ARE BRAINWASHING *
* COMMERCIALS * Build a nuclear * YOU THROUGH TV! *
* page 3 * trigger in your * Beta waves picked up by*
* * home! page 16 * cable companies, then *
* BIGFOOT PLANS ********************** sent to your home! 12 *
* TO WED! * LORD NIWAD ****************************
* Famed monster * TEARFULLY WOMAN RISKS ALL *
* announces * CONFESSES: TO SAVE THE WORLD*
* bridal engage-* "I ate my father, Daredevil lass fears*
* ment!But who's* with relish" no poultry! She uses*
* the lucky * page 6 her ninja training *
* bride? 22 * to repulse evil! *
******************************************* page 8 *
* the PENTAGON BBS: Will they succeed *
* in their goal to take over the world and *
* spread peanut butter all over it? page 11 *
******************************************* *
* Exclusive interview with MAGGOTBOY page 9 *
* Who is this guy, and why does he have such a gross name? *
*****************************************************************
* ELVIS wasn't seen doing anything page 20 *
*World leaders confer. "What could be wrong? WHERE IS THE KING?"*
* Heartfelt plea begs the King to come forth. Four terrorist *
* groups claim responsibility *
*****************************************************************
*****************************************************************
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Parthenogenesis, volume V=ãrýh, issue 6, December 1993. Published
monthly (give or take 5 months). Copyright (c) Dan Herrick,
excepting writing credited to someone else (DUH!). FREE!
Permission is given to distribute or eat this zine in its
entirety, or any part if Parthenogenesis is credited for material
used. Contact us in many ways. Snailmail: Parthenogenesis, 804 S.
College Suite 8363, Ft. Collins, CO, 80524; internet:
dherrick@nyx.cs.du.edu, FTP: etext.archive.umich.edu:
/pub/Zines/Parthenogenesis, Gopher: etext.archive.umich.edu;
FIDOnet: email Dan Herrick at FIDO 1:306/55, FREQ from 1:306/55
(magic name: PARTH); support BBS: The Pentagon BBS, (303) 498-
0864, 14.4kbps (file area #14). What can we say, we're connected.
By reading this, you are now under my control. Begin chanting
praises to Mohammed X and await my pleasure.
Many thanks and flatulations to Roger Jimenez for sponsoring this
issue of Parthenogenesis (paper). Thanks also to Bonehead for
immoral support and nachos.
Contributors for this issue: Mohammed X, Contradiction 23,
Maggotboy, Razor-Man, Mrs. Brown, Adam Five, and Zebo the Magic
Clown.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
ÉÍ»ÉÍ»ÉÍ»ÍËÍ» ÉÉÍÍÉ»ÉÉÍ»ÉÍ»ÉÍÍÉ»ÉÉÍÍÉÍ»ËÉÍ» 6
ÌͼÌ͹Ì˼ º Ì͹ÌÍͺººº ººÍ»ÌÍͺººÌÍÍÈÍ»ºÈÍ»
¼ ¼ È¼È Ê ¼ ÈÈÍͼȼÈͼÈͼÈÍͼȼÈÍÍÈͼÊÈͼ
Hi! I bet you'd never have thought we'd be still around! Well,
sadly, we are, and this is issue #6 of Parthenogenesis! Some of
you may be wondering why it took so long for this issue to come
out. After lengthy deliberation, we decided to print the
following by way of explanation:
THE SEARCH FOR MOHAMMED X
He first disappeared in March 1993, just after the printing
of issue 5 of Parthenogenesis. We noticed his absence right
away - despite the fact that he had left us a farewell letter. He
had obviously made a great effort with the letter: He had spent
a considerable number of hours producing the rough draft, and
then spent easily twice as much time re-writing until he had it
perfect; He composed it in four different languages - English,
Latin and Swahili (just on the off chance that the rest of the
staff had somehow suddenly forgotten English and had
spontaneously developed a replacement language), and a language
of his own devising* ; He purchased the finest hand-made
parchment and real Indian ink; He hired a specially-trained
courier to deliver it to us; he even made sure not to dribble on
it at all. Alas, the one small detail he forgot to do was to
actually write it down. But we shrewdly guessed what he was up to
when we saw the movers come the next day to his house. After
helpfully directing them to the wrong house, we searched his, and
came up with a few clues as to his disappearance. The first was
the farewell letter itself, just underneath a handwritten note
from his hired courier**. After quickly sifting through his
fridge for clues and finding nothing but food (which we ate), we
promptly searched the rest of the house. We found out three
things: First, what we believe the real reason for his sudden
flight, a warrant for his arrest; Second, that the phone was
tapped by the CIA (which is what he gets for using the pseudonym
"Boris Yeltsin" on his phone bill); and Third, that none of us
fit any of his fabulous dresses (a pity, that).
Eventually, we traced him to a small town in South Dakota.
He lived on a farm by himself, with only a minimal harem to keep
him company. Through an ingenious arrangement, his luxurious
farmhouse was constructed out of six old Winnebagos, a cargo
plane, a covered wagon, three very large telephone booths, and a
small sailboat. He was out watering his crops when we arrived. He
waved us inside, and soon joined us, beaming. How delighted he
was to see us! We told him what we knew, and asked him to fill in
the gaps.
"Well, chaps," he began, then stopped. He grinned. "I've
always wanted to begin that way. Like it?"
He cleared his throat and started again.
"Well, chaps," he began, suppressing a giggle, "You've got
it mostly right. Pity about the courier not getting you that
letter - it would have explained everything in perfect detail.
What I was TRYING to do was escape to South America with the
fortune I had just acquired. I wished to avoid certain, shall we
say, LEGAL difficulties - "
"Wait a minute," belched Contradiction 23, "What fortune?"
"Yeah, and what legalities?" inquired Bonehead, waving the
arrest warrant at his face.
"Well, it wasn't actually a fortune," admitted Mohammed X,
dabbing at a fresh papercut, "but at the time I thought it was.
Let's just say that nobody had ever bothered to tell me that the
phrase 'a fortune in grass' was completely inappropriate. I
became fantastically rich overnight by mowing my lawn. As to the
legal trouble, that warrant is for nonpayment of fines incurred,
oh, about seventeen years ago."
"What kind of fines?" demanded Zebo, juggling three wallets
(belonging to '23, Adam Five, and Francois Mitterand
respectively).
Mohammed then mumbled something about "...parking ticket...
Big Wheel... all so very long ago... allowance wouldn't cover
it..."
"You've got lots of baby butter!!!" screamed Gristle
suddenly. Everybody looked at him oddly, and that seemed to calm
him down as usual. Presently Mohammed continued.
"So I boarded the next available flight to South America and
I was on my way before the FBI could stop me."
"The FBI was on your trail then?" asked Adam Five.
"Well, not as such, at least I don't think so. But they
could've been! Anyway, due to a series of navigational and
transportation errors, I ended up here. Miraculously, my luggage
continued on to South America, and it's been writing and seems to
be doing pretty well for itself. I didn't realize at first where
I was, and quickly I settled down to enjoy my retirement.
Although, come to think of it," he mused, "it did seem rather a
coincidence that the natives all spoke English, and even took my
Arby's coupons! I soon found out about my slight financial error,
but fortunately could recoup my financial loss - well, financial
nonexistence - by planting my fortune, and making a surprisingly
successful living as a grass farmer."
"So now what?" inquired Schmerd, in binary.
Mohammed shrugged, dislodging the two precariously balanced
pots that Wrinkle had placed on his shoulders. Gristle began to
giggle, and everybody threw themselves flat on the ground until
the worst of the tremors had passed. Gristle was unconscious,
still smiling. Mohammed dusted himself off and announced his
retention of internal... er, intention of returning to Ft.
Collins to continue his unspecified top-secret research***. They
all boarded the UFO they had driven there, and zinklerlled****
away.
* basing itself mainly on the texture of avocado skin... he has
forgotten it now, but he said it was a particularly beautiful and
poignant language
** "no find you friends, took money, oh well" - Juan
*** ...of his shoes.
**** UFO jargon, means something like a cross between flying,
driving, and playing "Defender" with the US Air Force. Great fun.
*****************************************************************
WHAT YOU DON'T SEEM TO UNDERSTAND
So I was sitting in a boring anthropology class, when someone in
the back said: "Hey, I know this is a dumb question, but who was
Albert Schweitzer?"
The Prof said:
"Why, he was one of the more famous philanthropists of our
time... and the only dumb question is one that goes unasked."
At this point, the chick sitting next to me jumped up on her desk
and screamed: "How many more chickens have to die 'till you
realize what you've done???!!! HOW MANY?!?!?!?"
That's when I knew I was in love.
- Contradiction 23
(Contradiction 23 is not a nationally syndicated columnist.)
*****************************************************************
** **
** THE CHRONICLES OF RIT SOM T'NG **
***************************************
** Part 4 : A New Perspective **
*************************************
** by Mohammed X **
*********************************
* * *
Without warning (except to those with a divine psychic
sense) the projection machine gives off a loud 'fwooshing' sound,
a few half-hearted clicks, one despairing 'tweet', and then falls
silent. The screen, embarrassed, goes blank.
"Hey!" a dozen or so voices call simultaneously, followed by
a cacophony of the same voices calling out their favorite curses,
threats, or lightning-storms, as appropriate. Poopchute, patron
god of Typists, and designated official theater technician,
scurries to the machine and begins to console it.
"Peanuts! Popcorn! BEER!" cries a man carrying a box,
passing in front of Belich and stepping on his toes. Belich
shrugs fatalistically and hunches down in his seat, looking as
though he might weep.
"It's okay!" calls out Poopchute, straightening up from the
machine. "It's just the film that's broken! I'll get another one
and have it running in no time!"
A mighty thunderous resounding cheer leaps from the throats
of the Gods and Goddesses assembled in the large theater. In
actuality, the theater was smaller than the average human hair
follicle, but that didn't stop the gods from coming and going as
they would. They WERE gods, after all. Not only that, they got a
Divinity Discount at the ticket booth. Never mind that tickets
are free... it's the PRINCIPLE of the thing, as every god will
explain to you. Carefully. Patiently. With a few fireballs,
thunderbolts, or vicious beasts on a very short chain leash
(visibly weakening every time the beast thrashes, which is
constantly). Generally one gets the point fairly quickly.
"Sodas! Hot Dogs! Flayed Slave Skin!" cries the box-carrying
man, pausing to sell a soda to Dummich, the goddess of blondes.
"Don't I get a cup with this?" queries sodden Dummich, but the
man hurries on.
(Okay, enough mystery. It's obviously not a man, but a god.
Specifically, the god of Vendors. Vvilliminantchallinn is his
name, but generally he's called Vinnie.)
"Who let Vinnie in here?" gripes Glomm, recently returned to
his normal form.
"You." R, the goddess of Curtness (formerly Lard).
"Oh." Glomm ponders for a moment, then asks: "Why?"
"You're drunk." Curtness replies curtly.
"Ah....ookay. Thanks for clearing that up, R..." Glomm
begins, but R walks away abruptly.
"Hey!" Glomm calls out. "Anybody here an Insect God?"
Several hands raise.
Glomm faces them. Or tries to, since there are several of
them in several different directions. "Doesn't that just BUG
you?" he asks, then laughs uproariously.
They turn away, disgusted. "Buzz off," one replies.
"Pretzels! Gizzards! Ginsu Knives!" calls Vinnie, circling
the room predatorially.
"Hey buddy, shut up and go away!" snarled Bork, god of New
York.
The screen chose this moment to come to life again.
* * *
"Without your glasses on you'll wind up killing me!" the
white-shirted guy said as his frown turned to a smile in midair.
The smile turned to a grin, the grin widened until it circled his
entire head, the head split open and a canary popped up. "At the
tone, the time will be 11:40 exactly," it said, but before it
could go on it was smashed by a baseball bat-wielding detective.
"I'm tone deaf," he explained, at the same time the split-headed
man (whose name was NOT Juan) said, "I just want a side of ham!"
(The screen probably chose that moment to come on because
the machine started playing the movie.)
Suddenly the scene changes. The split-headed man and the
bat-wielding detective disappear with a 'pop' and find themselves
in the middle of a pen... a pig pen. A fluffy blonde with frilly
waitress threads descends from the sky and squeaks, "There's your
order, sir. Can I get you anything else?"
(I mean, why else would it come on?)
It seems the machine is experiencing some technical
problems, or perhaps emotional. The picture speeds up, becoming
harder and harder to see, and begins blurring. The sound, also,
speeds, and the resulting overall movie result looks like this:
...drip drop the coffee is brewin', that keeps the coffee
drinkers sane the smile turned to a grin widened and he opened
his mouth and drank more, yet a little more...
Here the machine begins to become a bit introspective, it
seems.
...coffee one other cup then you wonder is the sun behind
the cloud or are the clouds in front of the sun? Or will the...
will the wind push the clouds away? Then will the clouds be side
by side? Or will the cloud be milk in the cup of coffee? Or will
the milk.....
The machine seems to come to grips with itself, and the
movie slows down to a more bearable rate.
...Just be milk in the sky!
The split-headed man and the bat wielding detective were
still wondering how and what was going on. The split-headed man
just put it off as too much LSD in his morning coffee and the bat
wielding detective put it off on his wife and problems at home
and work had finally pushed him over the edge....
Okay, maybe not.
...little did he know that that edge did not so happen to be
anywhere near him but more at the end of the split-headed man's
morning cup of coffee. The only one left dealing with reality was
the waitress whose threads were starting to wear off and the only
thing she could think of was holy --
* * *
"Cheese!" cried Vinnie. "Breadsticks! Tabouli!"
"That's it!" cried Violence-Prone, god of Quotient
Identities. (Nobody really knew why he was the god of Quotient
Identities, but then again, nobody really knew about Quotient
Identities, so there you go. Violence-Prone himself often
lamented the fact that, according to him, humanity had 'but
recently discovered Quotient Identities and so completely missed
the point'. Not so bitter as grim Belich, but more aggravated and
excitable.)
"What's it?" asked Dummich, then looked around warily and
ducked down on the floor. "Uh, just doing my laundry," she
volunteered, but nobody noticed her.
"Stop the machine!" yelled Violence-Prone, jumping over two
rows of seats to reach a startled Poopchute, who cowered in fear.
"W- W- Why?" asked Poopchute. "I just fixed-"
"It's having a nervous breakdown!" replied Violence-Prone
excitedly, taking hold of Poopchute and shaking him. "We have to
stop it!"
Amagajho stepped forward. "I most certainly agree with my
colleague. This machine is displaying classic symptoms of what
the layman terms a 'nervous breakdown', known better as-"
"Just SHUT IT DOWN!" Violence-Prone screamed.
Poopchute quickly flipped the off switch in the face of
Violence-Prone's wrath (and spittle).
The screen, feeling the time was right, turned itself off as
well. All was dark.
"Uh...could someone please turn on the lights?" asked
Dummich. "I'm lost..."
*****************************************************************
* the Chronicles WILL continue! *
*****************************************************************
** **
** YOUNG LORD NIWAD **
************************
** by Razor-Man **
********************
Lord Niwad was born in the year of the great sloth migration, an
omen to be sure. And young Lord Niwad was indeed a precocious
lad. He gave his nurses and tutors no end of trouble. He would
often be found down in the cheese vaults all alone after being
missing for days. He would not answer any questions as to why he
was in the sacred vaults. Other times he would go down to the
village and ask rather embarrassing questions to all the priests
of Shoom. Not more than twice was he found speaking to the High
Chancellor's mysterious and alien pet nail worms. So when young
Lord Niwad became of age his father deemed it necessary for him
to learn the art of wielding a combat spork.
As you may well know the combat spork is not an easy weapon to
master. It combines the effectiveness of a two-handed military
spoon with the vicious attack of an Filanian barbarian fork. So
his master, an old veteran of the Beaver wars, was indeed
impressed and surprised with how quickly the young Lord mastered
his weapon. Within several long and intensive minutes of
training young Lord Niwad was able to defeat not only every
student, his master, but any person to cross his path that
fateful day.
I remember one warm tired August afternoon Lord Niwad and I
spent together down by the Kampari river not far from his
ancestral home. We lazily sat back in the high grass and watched
the river sprites. It was mating season for the small sylvan
creatures. The females floated about on bubble thin wings
taunting the males, who's wings were only vestigial and could not
fly. The woman sprites would dance and sing merrily through the
air together and the young males on the ground would compete
fiercely with each other for mating rights. They would attempt
to attract mates by fiercely chewing on their long grey beards
and then twisting them into the shapes of various boots, shoes,
sandals and other footwear. Others would try seduction by
weaving the water reeds to make finely patterned capes and spats.
Truly earnest males would create stereopitcon art using mud and
leaves. Eventually a female would select a worthy mate by
plucking him up and hovering him off to a secluded bank. There
they would make sweet, gentle and innocent love. After which the
female would tear the exhausted male's limbs off and bathe in his
blood chortling with all the glee of a toddler at the park.
This, of course, got Lord Niwad and I to reminiscing our many
past loves. We spent the greater part of the afternoon telling
each other about our grand romances. It was at this point that I
related to his Lordship my secret desire for Sloane the radiant
young clairvoyant from the Psychic Friends Network. I must have
come off as quite the foolish pup as I gushed on and on about her
beauty, style, and selfless ambition to bring couples together,
for when I was finished with my confession Lord Niwad beamed his
giant toothy smile and let out a great taunting belly laugh.
I stood and began to walk sternly away when Lord Niwad grabbed my
shoulder and apologized saying that it was indeed ironic because
just last year he had pursued an unsuccessful romantic liaison
with Sloane. He went on to tell me that he thought "she was all
wrong for me."
Well of course we came to blows over the matter. Naturally it
ended with Lord Niwad wrestling me to the muck and would not
yield until I looked him in the eye and proclaimed him "the
ultimate thrashmaster."
*****************************************************************
****** CHICKEN by Mrs. Brown ******
*****************************************************************
The chicken stared down at me from his perch on the old, worn
rail, and spoke.
"C-luck. C-luck."
It almost sounded as though he had said, "Good luck."
I asked him, "Did you say 'Good luck.'?" He nodded his head in
that funny way that roosters do. I could only think of two
reasons that this chicken would be wishing me luck: 1) He knew
about my upcoming test in the class Intro to Windows, a Pre-
History of Panes, 2) He knew that the world was ending.
I realized that the world must, indeed, be ending since I
didn't need luck for Intro to Windows. There was only one way
that this chicken could know that the world was ending. This
chicken was God! Since this chicken was God he must be the cause
of the impending world destruction. So what if my class was
lame, I didn't want the world to end! Not yet, anyway (there's
this guy who sits near me that I kind of like. I haven't asked
him out yet). I knew that I would have to save the world.
Unfortunately, in order to do that I would have to fight God. I
wasn't ready. I asked the chicken-God if he was going to destroy
the world today. He looked at me with his black, beady eyes. He
said nothing. I assumed this meant no, so I continued on to my
Intro to Windows class. I couldn't concentrate, what with the
fate of the world in my hands and all, but I aced my test anyway
(I told you, the class is lame). Then I went to my ninja
training. There were five new class members. All were chickens.
The world was going to be overrun with chicken-ninjas! I'd have
to act fast. I whirled through my training- 69 steps in just
three days. I think I broke a record. Guinness wanted me, but I
didn't have time for all that glory. I had to save the world
from the chicken-God. If I could fight him and win I would be
God. The chicken ninjas would be in my control. That would be
wak. It's always handy to have a few chicken-ninjas around. I
went in search of the chicken, er, God. He was on his regular
perch. "C-luck!"
I didn't need his luck this time. I was ready. I jumped him.
In a flurry of feathers that has never been paralleled in this
universe (but perhaps has in a parallel universe), we fought. I
had him down, but the advantage changed. He had me. We went
back and forth like this for an eternity. Feathers were flying -
I should never have brought my pillow. In the middle of the
fight the sky opened. A ray of light bathed us (or was that C-23
with a spotlight and a sponge?). I knew this to be a sign. The
end was near for all but the chicken and his lackeys. I couldn't
let that be. I summoned the last of my strength. I pounced. I
wrung his neck. He was dead. I had won. I was God. The
chicken-ninjas would be in my power. The chicken would be in my
teriyaki.
*****************************************************************
********* MAGGOTBOY: THE PARTHENOGENESIS INTERVIEW *********
*****************************************************************
NOTE: The following was based on an interview conducted at
Perkin's at 4:00 am, and as such reflects the moods and
dispositions of fools like us who stayed up to take part in the
interview. Not to mention the other fools who are normally at
Perkin's. To those of you who haven't heard of Maggotboy, we made
him up. Well, not really. Maggotboy operates a quiet and yet
brash young zine called the Worm's Journal. If you want one, ask:
The Worm's Journal, 1205 W. Elizabeth #147, Ft. Collins, CO,
80521.
SCENE: Perkin's, any Perkin's. Smoking section. Half of the
section is filled, though strangely there are only eight people
present. Four guys walk in, fending off autograph seekers. They
are MOHAMMED X, ADAM FIVE, CONTRADICTION 23, and MAGGOTBOY. They
are seated with a minimum of bribes in a booth near the glass
section divider.
TIME: 3:(something) AM. One cannot be more specific at this
point, as everyone knows that Perkin's obeys its own intrinsic
laws of Time and Space.
{They sit.}
WAITRESS: Coffee, right?
ADAM 5: No, coke.
CONTRADICTION 23: uh... coke.
MAGGOTBOY: Nothing.
MOHAMMED X: Hmm... I'm not sure yet. Can I see a menu?
WAITRESS: Sure, I'll be back in a few. {She leaves.}
X: Heh. One more menu for the collection.
C23: Okay, MBOY, in six words or less, describe your predicted
state of the universe.
MBOY: Entropy, and... we all bring the beer.
C23: Ok, good.
{The girls at the table across the way notice the four. Quickly,
A5 slides underneath the table, MBOY slips on a false wig and
mustache and begins an animated discussion with the glass
divider, While X and C23, completely failing to realize the
danger, greet the girls. The girls walk over.}
STRANGE RED-HAIRED GIRL: Hi, guys. Mohammed, there are some
things that ARE appropriate to be sticking in my face, but this
isn't shaped right.
C23: Mohammed!
STRANGE NOT-RED-HAIRED GIRL: Adam, what are you doing under
there?
A5: <squeak>
MBOY: He's practicing to become a mouse, miss.
SRHG: I don't think I've had the pleasure, Mr....?
MBOY: That's too bad. You would remember if you had.
STRANGE RED-HAIRED GIRL: Ah.
{The girls wander off, replaced by the waitress.}
WAITRESS: Here you go. Two cokes. Have you decided?
X: Could I have a milkshake?
WAITRESS: What flavor?
X: Papercut.
{Waitress leaves. Adam climbs out from under the table.}
X: MBOY, I just want to start this interview by asking you: Why
are we interviewing you?
MBOY: YOU're asking ME? Because... you're astute. And you know
that this tape here, in twenty years, you can sell-
A5: For a dollar.
C23: Millions.
MBOY: Millions? Okay.
C23: Are you in league with the devil?
MBOY: Well, we're not wholesale, phone-in...
C23: But you're discount retail.
MBOY: Something like that.
C23: Could I get 10% off? {breaks into song.}
X: Hmm. Given that it may or may not be Blue Wave, what IS the
"wave of the future"?
{C23 begins singing opera.}
MBOY: Big Wave Dave.
C23: Can I answer this one too? Space Age Polymers.
MBOY: We love Big Wave Dave!
A5: In the Worm's Journal, where do numbers fit in?
MBOY: Where I have space and I don't know what else to do.
{Someone at the table giggles. No one can meet anyone's eye for a
moment.}
MBOY: Here's something I was thinking. What if we had a way, a
system, say... it's something they call counting. What if you had
THINGS... what if you wanted to tell how many things you had? Do
you think there's any system... look. See these glasses here.
What if someone tipped a glass? You'd need some sort of system to
tell how many glasses you had in the first place. You could
figure out if there were more glasses, or fewer glasses.
C23: How do we know this isn't a one... two glass? See what I
mean? How do we know that the TWO glasses aren't simply objects
that are connected in some ethereal way, and really only
represent ONE thing?
X: ..a material...
MBOY: So you're talking about the ultimate glass...
X: ...a material... a material... girl...
WAITRESS: Here you go. Apricot milkshake.
C23: What's your favorite BBS? Just say this: My favorite BBS is
the Pentagon BBS.
MBOY: My favorite BBS is the Pentagon BBS.
X: Why?
C23: Don't worry, it's stupid.
SNRHG: Adam, you are so cool. I mean, I really always kinda
wanted to be your friend, but I wasn't ever quite sure if I
was... {giggles loudly and runs away}
X: What social significance do potato pancakes have for you?
MBOY: You know, I am 23.
X: No, he's 23.
{Dramatic pointless conversation ensues between C23, A5, and
SNRHG.}
X: So in this whole MBOY interview thing... he hasn't said a word
in the last five minutes.
MBOY: And I was enjoying it so much.
C23: Maybe we could just have an interview FOR
MBOY, or at least an interview AROUND MBOY.
MBOY: I am kind of like a catalyst at points. My presence is
changing the flow, and yet...
C23: {Mumbles something}. I just like to say that from time to
time.
MBOY: What?
C23: Nothing.
MBOY: Good. Keep it that way.
X: Let's talk about your zine for a minute. What's it all about?
Why are you doing it?
MBOY: Just so I can get free stuff in the mail, maybe get famous,
and someday I'll be able to beat up Bob Black!
A5: Do you ever feel that you should've been born the opposite
sex?
MBOY: Oooh... let me stretch out my legs and think about that
one.
PERKIN'S EMPLOYEE: Can you move that chair? That's a fire
violation. And let's not pile six in a booth, either, that's not
good for the booth.
SRHG: {To SNRHG} We can stand here.
SNRHG: That's not against the fire code is it?
PERKIN'S EMPLOYEE: Do you think it's time to
leave yet?
*****************************************************************
*** MR. JOHNSON'S DAY AT THE OFFICE ***
*****************************************************************
**** by Maggotboy ****
*****************************************
The man walked through the door with self-absorbed
directness. Without breaking his stride or looking up from the
floor he said: "Today we are starting a new phase. I assume you
are pleased to hear that, Mr. Johnson?" The man's white coat fell
to his knees like the trench-coat of a cruel foreign spy, or a
heartless private eye. The subject didn't watch the coat; he
barely noticed how it's edge billowed and danced with the
rhythmic swing of the man's legs. Unable to focus his eyes, the
subject only saw the repeating pattern created by the movement of
the man's blue slacks and the white tile floor: blue, white,
blue, white. The subject felt the words "It's binary code,"
float into his mind before he blanked out again. Blue, white,
blue, white, stop.
The man looked at his watch and smiled emptily. He said:
"I'm pulling the switch now, Mr. Johnson."
He pulled the switch.
* * *
Mr. Johnson is driving a car. The fingers of his hands wrap
comfortably around a soft leather steering wheel. His left foot
rests lightly on the clutch, his right foot presses the gas pedal
down slightly, causing the car to glide millimeters above the
smooth roadway, soaring at tremendous speeds.
The car screams silently down the one lane road. The scenery
flies by, fading and washing together, too fast for Mr. Johnson
to focus: Fields of green split only by a straight black line,
the only witnesses as a man races free.
Mr. Johnson pushes his right foot down. The engine surges
forward, power running through it's veins and lines, speed the
composition of it's soul. A subaudible hum rises up to beat
heavily on Mr. Johnson's eardrums. The quiet deafens him. Beneath
him tires effortlessly throw him forward. The sleek lines of Mr.
Johnson, of the car, tear the world in half. Mr. Johnson is a
hunter, a steel and titanium eagle, skimming the ground for his
kill. Mr. Johnson smiles.
Mr. Johnson sees a sign. It says this: Mr. Johnson. Please
Turn Here.
Mr. Johnson turns. He is screaming up the on-ramp, stomping
the brake, wildly turning as tires screech and threaten to fly
off the asphalt and into space. He is in the merge lane of the
freeway. He can see headlights behind him, aggressive and growing
bigger. Mr. Johnson anxiously presses the gas pedal, but the car
resists. It shakes and groans in complaint, refuses to answer.
Mr. Johnson remembers. The car is a stick. It is in the
wrong gear.
Mr. Johnson has never driven a stick shift.
He is out of the merge lane. The lights behind him advance,
glaring, blinking from painful to unbearable. Mr. Johnson grabs
the gear shift, pulls vainly. Sweat dripping from his nose, he
kicks in the clutch. The car gasps, the engine whines and shrieks
as it throws all it's undirected energy into a void.
Behind, headlights grow huge. They threaten to smash through
the rear window. Mr. Johnson closes his eyes and prays, feeling
the impending impact in his bones.
Nothing happens. Mr. Johnson opens his eyes to see red
taillights fading away in the darkness. Behind him, in his rear
view mirror, Mr. Johnson sees an entire stream of headlights,
flowing silently through the blackness toward him.
Mr. Johnson fumbles to one side of the steering wheel. He
finds a switch, flips it up, and his own headlights come on. The
pale green glow on the dashboard illuminates the speedometer.
With the clutch still pressed in, the needle points to 20 MPH.
Mr. Johnson pulls the gear shift into neutral and lets the
clutch out. The car continues to slow. The lights behind him
continue to close in, filling every lane.
Mr. Johnson pushes the gear shift again. It responds by
exploding with grinding and fury. He can feel his heart beating
in his neck.
Trying again, Mr. Johnson pushes in the clutch. Around him
the ghostly horns of disapproval sound, breaking in on his
concentration. His face is beaded with sweat, his forehead
compressed into folds of worry. Mr. Johnson pulls the gear shift,
feels it settle into gear. Breathing carefully, he lets the
clutch back out, feels the engine catch, the car jump.
The car starts to gain speed. Lights swarm around Mr.
Johnson, like white water around a boulder. Gingerly repeating
his movements, Mr. Johnson upshifts again, slowly assimilating
himself and his vehicle into the stream.
The green dashboard light shines off the sweat on Mr.
Johnson's shaking arms, off the black of his wide pupils. He
watches carefully, overwhelmed by the continuous movement of
lights, the disorientation caused by the shifting and swirling.
Mr. Johnson sees only headlights and red taillights, not whatever
is in between.
Mr. Johnson holds the steering wheel, his knuckles cracking.
He holds the car straight, parallel to the indistinct yellow
dashes that mark the boundaries of his lane. The freeway melts
and shifts, as lanes disappear, as new lanes grow out like shoots
from side streets. Without shifting his position, Mr. Johnson has
moved from the outer merge lane to an interior lane, surrounded
by the impersonal white and red lights.
High above the road, supported by steel pillars, is a sign,
reflective letters highlighted out of green saying this:
Mr. Johnson. This is your Exit.
Reaching with his left hand, Mr. Johnson clicks the signal
lever up. He glances into the mirror, is blinded by lights,
glances over his right shoulder, is blinded by lights. He moves
his lips in quiet desperate prayer, and turns the wheel to shift
over into the next lane.
Immediately Mr. Johnson feels the honking horns, the jarring
skidding impact. He revs the car forward, sees headlights in the
mirror appear out of the car's trunk, feels the car slip from
side to side. The wheel no longer controls the precise direction
of the vehicle; suddenly free, the car explores wildly, bouncing
off invisible metal and plastic to the left, knocking down road
markers to the right.
The headlights of the car quickly flash over the exit arrow.
Mr. Johnson frantically turns the wheel wide, the car skids down
the off-ramp at a skewed angle.
Mr. Johnson panics. He smashes down the brake pedal, locks
the wheels. He sees a glint of headlights following in his rear
mirror just as he swings the car, pointing it straight over the
edge into a ravine, back towards the rural dirt road that passes
underneath the freeway. Mr. Johnson's eyes follow the quiet pools
of pale color painted by his headlights. Around him, muscling out
the sweet farm sounds, the smooth hum of the freeway, is the
squeal of rubber desperately grabbing roadway.
As the car slides to a rough stop, Mr. Johnson looks out the
passenger window. His door rests against the metal strip of a
guard rail, but the wooden posts snap as two square headlights
smash through the metal and glass.
The lights shine through the car, past Mr. Johnson,
illuminating the ground for him as he watches it rush up to meet
him.
* * *
The man looked up from the long roll of paper and smiled a
wide, genuine smile. The subject continued to sit, but now his
face was covered with sweat, his entire body shook violently.
Without saying anything, the man strode out.
Blue, white, blue, white, alone.
*******************************************************
****** W h y N o t E a t P a r t h e n o g e n e s i s ? ********
*******************************************************
It's been a while since we've heard from Guapa, is this not true?
GENESIS OF DRUNKENNESS
CHAPTER TWO
OF AKMAEL; OF MOHAMMED; OF ACHMED; OF THE REVELATION OF GUAPA
We shall skip the rest of the story up until now; mainly it
deals with the creation of other forms of alcohol, the
introduction of Guapa's family, the casting out of the People
from Mount Guapa, the Great Beer Flood, and other such. For now,
hear the story of the Church of Guapa:
In an obscure land known to the people who live there as the
Fort, two friends dwelt. These two friends were content to live
their lives as they had been, until one day, that being, it is
believed, Friday. On this Friday these two were walking down a
familiar hallway as they were wont to do when they were
confronted by a wall. After several failed and painful attempts
to walk through the wall, they gazed upon its face and lo! What
should be written there but one word, in what appeared to be
green construction paper. That word was simply, "GUAPA". The two
were immediately overcome by the presence of the word on the
wall, and fell to their knees. Their fellows cast bewildered
glances in their direction, but were ignored by the kneeling
pair. At that glorious moment, the two spontaneously decided to
adopt new names for religious purposes. They became, henceforth,
Akmael and Mohammed.
Akmael and Mohammed wrote much poetry and song together
about the deity they knew as Guapa over the course of the next
few years, yet knowing little of that selfsame deity, as Guapa
chose not to reveal his full presence to them as yet. Suddenly, a
terrible calamity came upon Akmael and he was struck dead.
Mohammed was grieved, and drank many droughts of beer in
honor of Akmael. But soon he realized that another must know of
Guapa, and so he approached one named Achmed and told him of
Guapa. Achmed was struck by the truth of Mohammed's revelation,
but Mohammed said that it was only his staff and that he was
sorry; it was an accidental striking, he reasoned.
At that moment, Guapa chose to reveal himself to Achmed and
Mohammed. He appeared to them in the form of an overflowing beer
mug, and addressed them, saying:
"Greeting, my little As-Yet-Untapped-Kegs. Have one on me."
With those words, Guapa handed each of them a small beer-
filled mug. They quickly drained the mugs of the Blessed Brew and
begged for more. Guapa then laughed.
"That you shall have, my children," he said, "For you two
are to be the Holy Pair; the two Vessels to fill with my Divine
Drink; you, Mohammed X, are my Holy One; and you, Achmed A'xir,
are my Other Holy One! Now, drink... to Me!"
And with these words, Guapa filled anew the mugs of the Holy
Pair; they tipped their beer-filled vessels to Guapa; god, maker
of the best Brew anywhere, their lord and master, and all-around
great guy.
G U A P A !
*****************************************************************
The first person to send to us a black & white drawing of Elvis
performing any bodily function will receive the tape "Elvis'
Christmas Album" as a reward!
*****************************************************************
* *
* "I was wondering where all my old friends went. *
* Later, I put on a trenchcoat that I hadn't worn *
* in years. *
* *
* AND TO MY SURPRISE, *
* *
* all my old friends were in the pocket with some line." *
* *
* --- Contradiction 23 *
* *
*****************************************************************
ODE TO A FART.
by Mohammed X
O wonderfully smelly fart, thou breath of living bowels
who announceth thy presence with a motion of friction
the motion of friction that stirreth my soul
like a flurry of birds, escaping from thine lower body parts.
Even somewhat more like a bird, giving out a chirp
and wafting away in the breeze... wandering unto thy neighbor
and that self-same neighbor, not understanding, complaineth
bitterly
he curseth his lot, while plugging his nostrils.
O pity the poor neighbor. But wait! What happens
but the neighbor himself, who snickereth and holdeth his nose
Suddenly his face groweth into a strange position, with the
realization
that he had just now released the sacred vapors of the fart.
*****************************************************************
*****************************************************************
******* HERE ENDETH THE SIXTH ISSUE OF PARTHENOGENESIS ********
*****************************************************************
*****************************************************************
* and if you liked this issue, try public flagellation! *
*********************************************************
