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The Schidt Issue 05
Newsgroups: rec.humor
Subject: SCHIDT #5 - JAN 93 **21K**
Message-ID: <sanderso-030393225702@ch-lab-mac-h.gac.edu>
From: sanderso@gacvx2.gac.edu (Scott T. Anderson)
Date: 3 Mar 93 21:57:25 -0600
Organization: Schidt, Schidt, My Kingdom for Schidt
Lines: 391
T H E S C H I D T
Issue Number 5; January 1993
Published by Scott T. Anderson and Dale Houston
E-mail version created much by accident on 24 Jan 1993
Several hours have been spent preparing this for your consumption. Enjoy.
Note: This was created using ClarisWorks and converted hastily for VAX.
Any seemingly misplaced R, S, T, or U is probably supposed to be an
apostrophe or quotation mark. Sincere apologies.
"God, he's like a fuck parade, you know?" --Lance Hampton
Condom Boy's Corner
By Scott T. Anderson
Welcome back to the Schidt and happy new year to all. I am very excited
about what we have in store for this year in the Schidt (actually, I am
full of shit, but who really cares), I made a new year's resolution this
year to not reveal my new year's resolution. Obviously I have failed.
What a shame.
I'd just like to take a moment and say what a douchebag Nathan Bohlig is.
At precisely around 10:30 AM on Thursday the seventh, only hours after the
TAG game began, he assassinated me most rudely. I have become deeply
disturbed and thus retreated into my own world. Any of you who may be
wondering who is to blame for my schizoid nature now have your culprit. I
hope you are destroyed in a most unsatisfactory manner, Nathan. I will
laugh viciously at your funeral. Thank you.
I'd like to make a correction from last issue. When compiling my Top Ten
Humorous Audio-Visual entertainment, I inadvertently omitted This is Spinal
Tap, which should have been ranked number 3. My sincere apologies, since I
know all of our faithful readers were traumatized by this error.
To all of you who were thinking I was kidding at the beginning of this
article, when I said I was full of shit, I hope you now realize that I
could not have been more serious.
To conclude, I'd just like to say that at this point I feel that this is
the end of my article.
Scott's Top Ten "Ren and Stimpy" Episodes, Carefully Compiled for the
Excessive Enjoyment of our Highly Interested Readers
By Scott T. Anderson
10. "Rubber Nipple Salesmen"/"Marooned" (tie)
9. "Black Hole"
8. "Haunted House"
7. "Nurse Stimpy"
6. "In the Army" ("Congrabyoolations! You grajooa-ted!")
5. "Maddog Hoek" (especially when Ren bites the blister)
4. "Stimpy's Invention"
3. "Sven Hoek"
2. "Ren's Toothache"
1. "Space Madness" ("Wax paper, boiled football leather, dog breath!")
BASTARD WEAR UPDATE
By Scott T. Anderson
B.U.M. Equipment got you bummed? Have you had enough of those E.N.U.F.
sweatshirts? Can I think up any more stupid puns? (No.) Basically, are
you tired of being dragged in the wake of current fashion trends? Why not
ride the crest of the wave? Take a step ahead of today's rapidly changing
fads and get your own...
Bastard Wear
Are you a bastard? No, I just dress like one.
t-shirt! A few are currently on the scene here at Gustavus, and more are
on the way. Be the first person on your floor (or in your dorm room) to
sport the newest name in ridiculously overpriced trendy high fashion! And
guess what... they're not even overpriced! They just look like they'd be.
Bastard Wear t-shirts are screened on 100% cotton Fruit-of-the-Loom shirts.
The quality is astounding. Other such "high-fashion" t-shirts can cost
$30... $40... but Bastard Wear t-shirts are available now, through this
special Schidt offer, for only
$10!!!!!
Others have paid as much as $18 for these Bastard Wear shirts (no foolin'),
but they're just not as cool as you. Supplied are limited, so get yours
today! Orders will be taken IMMEDIATELY, for delivery in mid-February.
Order Your Own Bastard Wear T-shirt!
Speak to me (Scott Anderson) personally or drop me a note in the P.O.
Specify size (default-XL), color (default-whatever I can find), and
alternate color if your preference is unavailable. Dark shirts will have
white print, light shirts will have black print. All orders must be
prepaid ($10). T-shirts will be personally delivered with a smile by me in
February.
Bastard Wear
Fashion for the '90s. Fashion for bastards.
Concept by Lance Hampton
Design by Scott Anderson
Technical assistance by David Crowe
Scott's Album Review Trilogy
You will read the album reviews. You will love the album reviews.
Caustic Semen by Leather Congregation
(Hooch Records, 1992)
Reviewed by Scott T. Anderson
INCREDIBLE! STUPENDOUS! UNBELIEVABLE! EARTH-SHATTERING! LIFE-CHANGING!
EAR-SPLITTING! VOMIT-INDUCING! CAUSTIC SEMEN!!!!!!
All of these words describe Leather Congregation's debut album, but they
do not begin to define it. This is music at its finest moment; music at
its most annoying; music at its day of destruction. This is music that
goes beyond mere words. This is music that goes beyond mere sounds. This
is music that goes beyond mere tolerability.
Leather Congregation is comprised of the dynamic, cataclysmic musical trio
of Scott Anderson (bass, saxophone, clarinet, and spoons), David Crowe
(keyboards), and Lance Hampton (vocals). Together there's no topic they're
unwilling to face, no catastrophe they're unwilling to mock, and no
boundary (like that of tastefulness) they're unwilling to cross.
This review has become little more than a string of cliches, so now I'll
get down to business (there's another). The album begins forcefully, with
the neo-80s power ballad "Ambivalence." Hampton's wrought, strained lyrics
segue into Anderson's powerful saxophone, which explores uncharted
territory in out-of-tuneness. Second up is the uptempo "The Night You Left
me Behind," which sees Hampton dealing in a positive way with the issues he
first addressed in the previous tune.
Sorrow returns for the self-critical "Pleasures of the Flesh," whose
narrator addresses the struggle to satisfy physical needs as a man of the
cloth. The Apostle John contributes some insights near the end of the
piece; a hard-rocking tune that begins with calm introspection and features
a nice Latin breakdown in the middle. Next is the light pop sing-along
"Where the Hell is Dave?" in which Hampton and Anderson masterfully tackle
heavy topics like bestiality and the Somalian famine without missing a
beat.
The band takes a break to jam with the next number, "Jeff Takes a Piss,"
but before long a surprise visit from Jeff Putney sets things back to
business as usual. The album's title cut and centerpiece follows, a dark,
mysterious masterpiece that must be heard to be believed. And believe me,
you will believe. "Scrotalwurst" is next, a tribute to the hard-working
hometown St. Peterans in a style that is appropriate to the locale. In the
closer, "Stupid Bastard," David Crowe shows off his inimitable skill at
ragtime piano, and Lance and Scott offer their support.
In all, Leather Congregation's debut, Caustic Semen, must be considered a
masterpiece not only of our time, but of all time.
Uriah Heep-The Collection
(Castle Communications, 1989)
Reviewed by Scott T. Anderson
I am a fool. I am always aware of this fact, but at times I start to
ignore it. When I do, it's never long before some glaring example of my
stupidity comes along and slaps me back into reality. One of these
awakenings happened recently when I purchased said Uriah Heep album. I
knew Uriah Heep sucked, but as with my idiocy, I chose to ignore my better
senses. The New Rolling Stone Record Guide (1983) calls Uriah Heep "one of
the worst commercially successful bands of the seventies." How true. In
fact, the liner notes to the CD even admit the band's critical failure,
quoting one reviewer who said, "If this band makes it, I'll have to commit
suicide." Take note, I'm sure he's still alive, but he probably has scars
on his wrists.
I won't go into what deep psychological distress led me to purchase this
album, but if my review can save someone from my fate it'll be worth it.
As I have said, I knew Uriah Heep was bad, but nothing could have prepared
me for anything so totally horrendous at this music, if the term "music" is
even applicable. Uriah Heep rode the waves of most of the stylistic trends
in music in the '70s, and plundered them all. Name any '70s music you hate
and I guarantee Uriah Heep has written something in a similar style but
immeasurably worse. Most notably, they trashed progressive rock, the
subgenre I am trying to promote, so please understand that URIAH HEEP IS
NOT PROGRESSIVE ROCK (for that matter, neither are Asia, Styx, or Queen,
all of whom I also hate, but Uriah Heep is like their three-way bastard
child). Anyway, as I listened to this album I had to stop between every
three or four songs and listen to Gentle Giant to clear my mind and to
restore my hope in humanity. But by the second-to-last song, "On the
Rebound," which I can't describe sufficiently except to say that the sound
of every man on earth screaming simultaneously as their scrotums were torn
off would be more pleasant, I could take no more; I yanked the CD out of
the player and threw it against the wall. Uriah Heep-The Collection is the
worst noise ever produced by five mammals in the earth's history.
To summarize: THIS IS BAD SHIT! STAY AWAY FROM IT!
Acquiring the Taste by Gentle Giant
(Vertigo Records, 1971)
Reviewed by Scott T. Anderson
Gentle Giant is the musical antithesis of Uriah Heep. Though the two
bands would probably be classified in the same genre of rock music, I
really feel that they could not be more different. That is one very good
thing.
Gentle Giant is the latest successor in my line of progressive rock bands
that started rather modestly in ninth grade with Rush, followed by Yes and
King Crimson. Each band's albums in the line are more difficult to find
than the previous, which is somewhat of a downer, but Gentle Giant is worth
the search. (Basically, availability is inversely proportional to quality.
This is true not just in music, but a lot of things.) At this point I'd
just like to take a minute to make sure you note, I am talking about GENTLE
Giant, not Giant (which I won't criticize since I've never heard it, except
to say that Time to Burn is a dumb title and I am sick of seeing it
wherever I look for real music).
Acquiring the Taste is an intriguing album from the moment you look at the
cover. At first glance, it seems to be a mouth with outstretched tongue
apparently drooling over a butt (and a rather small, infant-sized one at
that), but when you unfold the cover to see the bottom half of the picture,
you realize that it's not a butt, but rather a peach. Still....
To be honest, the music is rather strange (note: I'm sure "rather
strange" to me is "intolerably weird" to mainstream listeners who haven't
"acquired the taste," if you will), but it is extremely creative, using
dissonance, innovative song structures, and expanded instrumentation
(including brass and strings, played by the members of the band themselves)
to make music "far more substantial and fulfilling" (as the liner notes
boast) than commercial pop.
Well, there are my reviews. I hope they weren't too annoying.
Incidentally, if you are interested in purchasing a copy of Leather
Congregation's Caustic Semen (which may not be available in all record
stores [that is to say, in all record stores, it will not be available]),
they are available from me for $2. I highly recommend it.
How to play...
MAKE DAVID SAY "FUCK"
By Scott T. Anderson, with gratitude to Lance and Dale
EQUIPMENT:
1 or more players
1 David who will not say the word "fuck"
Any devices with which to taunt David for not saying "fuck"
HOW TO PLAY:
Much of the fun of the game can be searching the world for a guy named
David who refuses to say the word "fuck." Some of us have already done so
unintentionally, so we're one step ahead. Once you have located a suitable
David, get David into the room where the players are located. At will, all
players begin to tease David and encourage him to say "fuck." Any devices
that may coerce David into saying "fuck" may be used, provided they do not
result in David's physical harm. The taunting continues until David either
says "fuck" or until he gets away.
HOW TO WIN:
This game is difficult to win. David will often be very persistent and
resilient. If you succeed in destroying David's dignity and self-respect
and he abandons his morals and says "fuck," you win. If he gets away or
kicks you in the balls, he wins.
Note: I have, since this was written, won a game of Make David Say "Fuck."
Poopie Dictionary
By Dale L. Houston and some guy you don't know
GHOST POOPIE: The kind where you feel the poopie come out, but there is no
poopie in the toilet.
CLEAN POOPIE: The kind where you poopie it out, see it in the toilet, but
there is nothing on the toilet paper.
WET POOPIE: The kind where you wipe your butt 50 times and it still feels
unwiped, so you have to put some toilet paper between your butt and your
underwear so you won't ruin them with a stain.
SECOND WAVE POOPIE: This happens when you're done poopie-ing and you've
pulled your pants up to your knees, and you realize that you have to poopie
some more.
POP-A-VEIN-IN-YOUR-FOREHEAD POOPIE: The kind where you strain so hard to
get it out you practically have a stroke.
LINCOLN LOG POOPIE: The kind of poopie that is so huge you're afraid to
flush without first breaking it into little pieces with the toilet brush.
GASSY POOPIE: It's so noisy, everyone within earshot is giggling.
DRINKER POOPIE: The kind of poopie you have in the morning after a long
night of drinking. Its most noticeable trait is the skid marks on the
bottom of the toilet.
CORN POOPIE: Self-explanatory.
GEE-I-WISH-I-COULD-POOPIE POOPIE: The kind where you want to poopie but
all you do is sit on the toilet and fart a few times.
SPINAL TAP POOPIE: That's where it hurts so badly coming out you'd swear
it was heaving you sideways.
WET CHEEKS POOPIE (The Power Dump): The kind that comes out of your butt
so fast your butt cheeks get splashed with water.
LIQUID POOPIE: The kind where yellowish-brown liquid shoots out of your
butt and splashes all over the toilet bowl.
MEXICAN POOPIE: It smells so bad your nose burns.
UPPER-CLASS POOPIE: The kind of poopie that doesn't smell.
THE SURPRISE POOPIE: You're not even at the toilet because you're sure
you're about to fart, but oops!--a poopie!
THE DANGLING POOPIE: The poopie refuses to drop into the toilet even
though you know you are done poopie-ing it. You just pray that a shake or
two will cut it loose.
Jim's Quest for Pants
By Scott T. Anderson
"Goddammit! You damned kids better tell me where the hell you hid my pants
or your ass is grass! You got me?!" --JIM
Jim used his baseball cap to conceal his privates (or more accurately, the
fact that his underwear was slightly soiled) and ran off to hide in the
bushes and contemplate his situation. "This is the fourth time this week
them damned kids've took my pants. I'm gettin' pissed!" Jim said, in his
excited and grammatically unsatisfactory way. Jim knew it was time for
action if he was to retain his dignity, and more importantly, so he could
get down to Lefty's before last call. The only thing Jim prized more than
a good beer was his collection of Hustler magazines. Thusly, he was
especially peeved tonight, because he had had his favorite issue from 1976
rolled up in his pants pocket. "Now them damn kids are gettin' their kicks
from my magazine!" Jim complained, but no one was listening.
Jim decided that he'd best head for home, even though he was only in his
skivvies. "Damn those kids!" he muttered. He was really down when he got
home, his high on airplane glue having worn off. Jim walked in the door,
turned on some WWF Wrestling on the TV, and went into his bedroom to get
some new pants. The bedroom just wasn't the same since Jim's wife Bertha
left him for that grocery stockboy. She'd said she wanted someone more
intellectual. As Jim entered the bedroom, he was overwhelmed with surprise
and delight as he saw Bertha laying exposed on the bed, her 48-56-65 body
glowing in the moonlight. "She's back!" he exclaimed as he flipped on the
light. As the room lit up he noticed all his missing pairs of pants had
been returned. But UH-OH! The Hustler that had been in his pocket had now
fallen into the hands of Bertha. He had kept the collection secret for 23
years, but now she knew. Jim tried to cover for himself, "Uh, those damn
kids must've stashed it there!" But much to Jim's surprise, Bertha wasn't
angry. She liked the magazines, and decided that Jim wasn't right for her
after all, so she got up and put clothes onto her fat, quivering body and
walked out of Jim's life forever.
At least she left the Hustler, Jim thought.
The Adventures of Dr. Shnoogenblagen
By David Crowe (who is spending J-Term out of the country)
Part Three - The Conclusion
"An eternity in Hell, with Satan and all his little devils, will be nothing
compared to fifteen minutes with me and this pencil."
--From "Blackadder the Third"
The next person in line to try out new and exciting uses for kitchen
utensils was tied to a chair by our insane hero. Shnoogenblagen then took
the man's arm and fed it through a meat grinder. The arm came out the
other end in long strips. It was getting late, but Shnoogenblagen wanted
to finish his torture session with a bang, so he got out some of his
nitroglycerine that he had really been looking forward to using. He put a
drop of the powerful, and extremely unstable, explosive on the man's nose,
and then blew sneezing powder into his face. The man tried to hold back,
but to no avail. When he sneezed, the bottom part of his face exploded in
a red spray. The man staggered toward the door, his eyeballs hanging out
of his fragmented face. Shnoogenblagen got out his chainsaw and started it
up. The man tried to escape, but, of course, it was too late. The
chainsaw blade slashed through the air and cut its way through the man's
shoulder. He dropped to the ground, and Shnoogenblagen proceeded to saw
him into tiny bits. As he was doing this, the man who had had his arms and
legs frozen and shattered (Torso-man), who had dragged himself along with
his lips, bit Shnoogenblagen in the ankle. The demented (yet lovable)
doctor jumped around, holding his wounded leg. As he did this, he
accidentally fell into the pot of liquid nitrogen.
The moral of the story is:
If you are torturing people by dipping their arms and legs in liquid
nitrogen and then shattering the body pieces with a hammer, either get rid
of the body, or replace the lid on the pot.
Story Review
By David Crowe
The Adventures of Dr. Shnoogenblagen by David Crowe is an epic that, if it
does not surpass, at least equals other grand epics such as The Iliad,
Aneid, and Paradise Lost.. With a masterful command of the English
language, Crowe spins a magnificent tale of a man and his unending desire
to torture and maim. Crowe develops the hero's character through a series
of gruesome and shocking murders. Small nuances of Shnoogenblagen's
character are crafted by Crowe so subtly, that it is hard not to consider
him one of the greatest writers of all time. (Editor's note: That
sentence, written by Crowe, ought to disprove his claim.) The tragic end
to the saga makes the tale that much more poignant. Having Shnoogenblagen
die at the end due to his own carelessness was a masterful stroke of genius
by Crowe. (Editor's note: Let's just say Crowe had a stroke.) In all, I
would say that this tale would have to be one of the best works of
literature in the history of mankind, and that David Crowe is probably the
greatest writer of all time.
"That not This" will not be appearing in the Schidt anymore due to some
kind of copyright conflict.
The Schidt is published every month or so by Scott T. Anderson and Dale L.
Houston at Gustavus Adolphus College. It is not authorized or endorsed (or
for that matter even known of) by the college. All problems arising from
the Schidt are the responsibility of Scott T. Anderson and Dale L. Houston.
Address correspondence to:
Scott Anderson
Gustavus Adolphus College
St. Peter, MN 56082-1498
or e-mail sanderso@gacvx2.gac.edu
Thanks for reading. Please feel free to pass the SCHIDT on....
