Copy Link
Add to Bookmark
Report
The Toxic Custard Workshop Episoder 151 to 155
****************************************************************************
### # # ### ##### ## # # # ## ## # # ### ##### ## ### ###
# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #
# #### ### # # # # # # # # # ## # #### ### # #
# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #
# # # ### # ## # # # ## ## ## ### # # # # # ###
____________________________________________________________________________
# # ### #### # # #### # # ### #### ##### # # ##### ####
# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #
# # # # # #### ### ### ##### # # #### ##### # # ##### ###
# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #
### ### # # # # #### # # ### # # # ##### ##### ####
*****NUMBERS 151 TO 155***********BY DANIEL BOWEN (tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu)*****
"Existential Toxic Custard"
____________T__O__X__I__C____________
___ __ __ _____ __ __ _ \
\ | | | |__ | |__| |__| | \ /
\ |__ |__| __| | | | | \ |_/ /
\______________151_______________/
"Doctor Who - Revenge of the Unrealistatrons" Part Four
SCENE ONE:
----------
[On the command deck of the human space-base thingy. Replay the
cliff-hanger from last time, carefully edited to save space.]
TAMPAX: Since the late twentieth century, we have been toying with
your puny space projects. Remember SkyLab in 1979? That was us. The
Space Shuttle in 1986? That was us too. The Optus satellite that got
lost in 1993? It is safe, in the spare room back on Mothball 6!
COMMANDER FLEGGLE: Yes, yes, I see... you've made your point!
PENTAX: I'm glad to hear that, Commander. Because we've just realised
that it's almost time for the cliff-hanger. And you're going TO DIE!
COMMANDER FLEGGLE: (Gasp!) But...
PENTAX: Don't worry, that was just for the cliff-hanger. Now, where
were we?
COMMANDER FLEGGLE: Oh thank goodness. Does anyone know where the
toilet is in this place? C'mon, in the space of four episodes, we get
to see the inside of this base thoroughly, but there's never any
toilet!
PENTAX: For you, Commander, the fate is much worse. After you have
the Doctor's help in defeating us with some sort of gas or chemical
lethal to our race, you will never be seen in a quality drama again,
and will be relegated to panto for the rest of your career!
COMMANDER FLEGGLE: Oh no I won't!
PENTAX: Well, that speaks for itself, really.
JANYETTE: Doctor, what are we going to do?
DOCTOR: Hmm? Sorry, I was just looking at what revolting taste my
last incarnation had in clothing. How can you take anyone with
question marks on his collar seriously? Oh well, another dime,
another Doctor. Well now! We could call in the Timelords, who would
defeat the Unrealistatrons by scaring them off with their robes; or
we could use the self destruct mechanism to blow up the entire base,
with the significant disadvantage that we'd be killed and we're
hoping to film another story next week... or...
COMMANDER FLEGGLE: Yes Doctor?
DOCTOR: ...or we could sneak off to a handily positioned chemical
storage chamber and release gases or chemicals that are harmless to
humanoids but lethal to humanoids dressed up in big green costumes as
Unrealistatrons. Just as Pentax suggested.
COMMANDER FLEGGLE: Sounds good to me.
DOCTOR: Well, it should work, it's worked before, in "Warriors of the
Deep", "The Krotons", "Robot", "Resurrection of the Daleks"...
[The Doctor, Janyette and Commander Fleggle sneak off, unseen by the
Unrealistatron guards. Pentax and Tampax are busy playing a game of
Pong on the Base Defence Computer.]
SCENE TWO:
----------
[One of those endless space base corridors with the high-tech looking
automatic doors powered by transforter beam and a stage hand pulling
it open. Our heroes come up to one door which has a sign on it in
that sort of print you find on cheques (but much bigger) that says
"Chemical Storage Room - Dangerous For Green Aliens". The Commander
puts his hand on a plastic plate which lights up, and the door opens.
Just then an Unrealistatron guard comes lumbering down the corridor,
sees them, and lifts his gun, firing remarkably inaccurately, as the
Doctor and Janyette rush into the storage room behind the Commander,
who closes and locks the door, again with his hand.]
COMMANDER FLEGGLE: That was close. Now what?
DOCTOR: Well, while you two get the cylinders and start releasing the
T3rd gas, I'll climb through a handily placed ventilator that leads
back to the control deck and confront Pentax for dramatic effect,
just as the gas starts to come in and destroy the Unrealistatrons.
[The Doctor pulls a grate from the wall and proceeds to crawl down
the vent, as the Commander and Janyette open up the tanks.]
COMMANDER FLEGGLE: Good luck Doctor!
SCENE THREE:
------------
[The Doctor comes out the other end of the vent, without having got
lost in a maze of sewerage tunnels or been electrocuted by rogue
high-voltage wires. He leaps down triumphantly onto the Control Deck.
Pentax and Tampax swing around to face him.]
DOCTOR: You're finished!
PENTAX: Never! The Unrealistatrons are invincible! No-one can defeat
us! No-one can say "Excellent" with more relish than us!
[Cue the dried ice, as chemically gassy stuff comes onto the set
through a whole bunch of vents. The Unrealistatrons start to melt and
fall all over the floor, and generally die etc. Commander Fleggle and
Janyette re-enter the Control deck.]
DOCTOR: If only there'd been another way. Oh well, c'mon Janyette.
Time to jump back inside the big obsolete blue thing and fly off to
another human colony where we can be mistrusted during the first
episode and generally save the day in the end...
[Roll credits]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thank God that's over.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
--
Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre| LIFE'S MYSTERIES... Why
----Telecom Australia, Melbourne, Australia| do coffee drinkers leave
dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-------------| hot coffee all over the
------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu| house?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Graduating Toxic Custard"
___ ____
__/__ / \ ) (
/ / ) / \__
( o x i c ( u s t a r d / / o r k s h o p ) i l e s 152
\ \__ (_/\_/ __/
Queen's Birthday Holiday, 14th July 1993
CUSTARD UNIVERSITY - FACULTY OF TOXICOLOGY===========================
INFORMATION AND INSTRUCTIONS TO GRADUANDS
(If you don't know what it means, look it up)
ATTENDANCE AT THE ADAM COHEN MEMORIAL HALL
Entrance by admission ticket only. No riff-raff.
1. Graduand's Guests (yellow or green tickets) are to enter the Hall
by the lobby entrance. A limited number of tickets are available, and
all Graduands must ensure they scrape up all the tickets they can
find for the obscure relatives who will come crawling out of the
woodwork for the one day this decade they manage to get out of their
scummy houses in nice clothes and mix with decent citizens. Guests
are reminded to applaud wildly when asked not to, blind the
Chancellor with camera flashes, and to talk during the speeches.
2. Graduands (pink tickets) must collect their gown, hood with the
faculty colour (see TCWF 92) and very obscure looking trencher (that
means a flat hat with a tussle), three hours before the ceremony,
from the carefully hidden Regalia Room in the East Wing, Banquet
Room, 1st Floor (or was it the Ground?), Union Building (not the main
part of the Union building, but the attachment around the back). Yes,
we know it's a bit confusing to graduands from other campuses, but
screw you, we're the biggest. You know the Arts building? Well, you
follow the path through there, to the lawn, and then left past the
cafeteria...
If they ever find where they're going to, Graduands can then spend
the rest of the time wandering through the campus trying to look
inconspicuous, having their photos taken in the few locations on
campus that don't have graffiti and Midnight Oil posters all over the
walls, and trying to get some lunch without getting tomato sauce all
over their gowns.
Graduands may attach small corporate logos to their attire to
indicate to other graduands that they have *jobs*.
THE GRADUATION CEREMONY
1. At the conclusion of the badly played pre-ceremony organ music,
the academic procession will enter the back of the auditorium by way
of the processional ramp. All graduands and guests are to stand and
remain standing until the Mace bearer has entered, slain the orc, and
placed the Mace on its special shiny Mace Placement stand.
Before, during and after the ceremony, the rule about men's caps
is that they are worn when standing and doffed when seated. This is
except for those unobservant graduands who couldn't even be bothered
to read this instruction sheet, and for overseas students who
wouldn't know what "doffed" meant if the "Chambers Dictionary of
Obscure English Vocabulary" hit them on the head.
2. The Chancellor will open the ceremony.
3. Graduands will be admitted to their degrees and then presented to
the Chancellor. The Dean (Mr Dean Green) will call out the name of
each graduate in turn. (Note the quick change over to the word
"graduate". We don't miss a beat, us graduation instruction writers).
The graduate will proceed up the steps at the right hand side of the
dais, and stop in front of the Chancellor, who will doff his cap.
Each graduate should either doff their trencher with their right hand
or curtsy to the Chancellor (or for the very confused, do both). They
will then be presented with the degree testamur (ie the bit of paper
they have just spent 3 years and $6000 in HECS fees getting) by the
Chancellor. The Chancellor will shake hands with the graduate and
engage in a few idle seconds of chit-chat. ("Well done" or
"Congratulations" is about all the graduate can reasonably expect at
this point. You don't think the poor old bastard has had time to read
up on the precise details of every bloody student, do you?) After
this, the graduate will move across the dais to the left, down the
steps and return to their original seat where they can fiddle with
their programmes, look at their degree testamurs every five minutes,
and generally get as bored as the Vice-Chancellor (who will fall
asleep several times) for the rest of the ceremony.
If this all sounds a little complex, just watch the person in
front of you. Except for you, Aaron Arnoldson, graduating to
Associate Academic of Applied Arts and Aeronautics! Suffer! Other
graduates, please note that if Aaron happens to slip, trip over, or
otherwise screw up, DO NOT FOLLOW HIS EXAMPLE. We'd look pretty
stupid at the end of the day if all three hundred and seventy of you
had tripped on the steps, knocked over the Mace and kneed the
Chancellor in the groin.
Graduates and guests are requested to reserve their applause until
the graduate in each group has been presented. But we know you won't.
4. At the close of the ceremony, after the very boring speech by some
obscure industry figure who got into this field by mistake, all
graduates and guests will stand. The new graduates will join the end
of the academic procession as it moves out of the auditorium and
disperses in the lobby. Guests should remain standing and jumping up
and down trying to get snapshots of the graduates as they leave.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That's another Toxic Custard been and
written and read and gone. Bye!!! If
you'd like to get your mits on old
TCWF's, well, it may *just* be feasible.
For details, reply to this message, or
send mail to tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Next week in our culture bit, we'll be looking at a traditional dance
in which the participants dress up in silly outfits and prance around
with wooden sticks in remote parts of Russia: Boris Dancing.
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
--
Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre| Happy Birthday O Queen
----Telecom Australia, Melbourne, Australia| Your wealth is obscene
dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-------------| Hope you like your new taxes
------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu| Happy Birthday O Queen!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Just an average Toxic Custard"
T F _ ___ ____
O I | |__ _/
X L | \ \ 21st June 1993
I E | __/ ___/ written by Daniel Bowen
....CUSTARD WORKSHOP.................................................
The smallest country in the world is Vatican City. Of course, it's
inside Rome, but apparently it's an independent country. So the
question is... do they have passport control? Do uniformed blokes
with dark glasses and walkie-talkies hang around the entrances,
picking out the suspicious looking cardinals and demanding luggage
searches? Do they do the occasional body cavity search? "Right you
are bishop, up on the slab please." Is the importation of condoms
banned? Where is this leading? Nowhere.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
You can always tell which is the spare room. 'Cos in there you can
find all the crap that no-one would dream of keeping in the rest of
the house. The bicycles which won't fit in the garage. Because you
haven't got one. Often you can find that anti-style symbol of the
nineties, the record player. Ah yes, records... They went out faster
than flares. Okay, so records are nice and big and "romantic" in
their musicness, but who can really be bothered to find that red
cloth thing you need to dust it with so that you can hear the music
without more than a major fizzle every three seconds. What sort of
technology are we talking here? - c'mon, let's face it, anything that
spins at only 45 RPM can't be very high tech.
But there's more superseded technology to be found in the spare
room. Just under the record player is that old black and white 7 inch
telly you used to squint at until you got the nice new 20 inch colour
tv last month. Somewhere in the corner is a big pile of paper to be
recycled, which you generally remember the day after the monthly
collection, meaning that by next month, it'll be a major paper
mountain with its own symbol in the atlas, which will need ten
kilometres of string to tie it all up.
There are also boxes of stuff that you've been "meaning to sort
out" for about fifteen years. This is the stuff which, if you've been
living in the current location less than a year, is still left packed
from the last time you moved. The odds are that *next* time you move,
it will still be packed. Which saves time and boxes. Contained in the
boxes tend to be old clothes that even the Salvo's would have no
difficulty in rejecting, obscure bits and pieces from long forgotten
hobbies, and papers containing deduction receipts that really would
have been handy at tax time last year. But don't throw any of it out
- or you'll probably need it tomorrow.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Oh let me tell you of a tale
A tale both brave and true
Of brave and fair knights trav'ling the land
And the bloke who boiled the stew
This bloke who boiled the stew he had
A fairly average na-ame
Which to fit awkwardly into this poem
Was conveniently named as Graham
He put whatever he could find
It didn't matter what
He cared not how the stew would taste
Everything went in that pot
So rats and frogs and gnats and turds
All dropped into the pot
Then Graham went to McDonalds
While the knights scoffed the lot
The knights took the taste in their stride
They thought they were being tough
And Graham knew when they were through
That they'd have had enough
But when Graham returned that eve
The knights had spread the word
And as he came around the corner
The knights they used their swords
And so to the end of this short tale
You ask if there's a moral
But if there's a lesson to be learnt here
I think it's bugger ar-all
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Winter, of course, is bloody cold. Apparently it's the winter
solstice today: the beginning of winter. But if it's the shortest
day of the year, doesn't that make it the *middle* of winter?
Anyway.
Winter, of course, is bloody cold. Yes, we do have winter in
Australia. But there's stuff missing, and it's principally related to
Christmas, snow, and other white icy cold issues. Lack of snow is no
problem to me - if God had wanted us to ski, he would have given us
feet a metre long and arms with spikes on the end. Perhaps we should
move Christmas to June, but then, there'd still be no snow and
Santa's reindeer would get lots of grit in their paws when they
landed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This has been, to say the least, a very
difficult Toxic Custard to write. Maybe
it's because I'm not in a very funny mood
tonight, but probably it's because I've
suspended upside-down in a bucket of
*expired* lard for the last 48 hours.
If you'd like to get your hands on back-
issues, you'd better consider mailing
tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu for details.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
--
Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre| We're naming a new
Telecom Australia, Melbourne---------------| computer at work! Send
dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-------------| your suggestions to
------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu <------------------'
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Explosive Toxic Custard"
__ // || And now it's time once more for that weekly phlegm
1 |_ //__||_ or parody and parable, the Toxic Custard Workshop
_) || Files, this week featuring a record 3% joke factor.
............||.......................................................
You just *know* the author's run out of ideas when he runs a driftnet
through his brain and the only thing he can come up with to pad out
Toxic Custard to a decent length is another one of those boring
predictable repetitive stories that relate the adventures of some
poorly conceived two-dimensional characters, the title of which is...
THE SEVENTH ADVENTURE OF MR POPSICLE
------------------------------------
Let's rewind back to the Australian Royal Security Establishment once
again and re-introduce the main players in this cast of dozens, for
the three people on the planet who haven't read and been bored by the
Rt Hon Mr Popsicle before.
* Mr Popsicle (insert lengthy applause and adulation here), the
incredibly stylish secret agent, so smooth that if he were any
smoother he'd be able to do something... umm.. very smooth.
* Doc "Goose" Wedge (insert applause here), the incredibly brainy
and, some would say, nerdy forensics expert for the Australian Royal
Security Establishment. A man with three honours degrees, a wardrobe
full of corduroy and an unhealthy interest in bathroom plumbing.
* Inspector Jock Unnecessary-Violence (insert fear and foreboding
here), incredibly over-zealous cop with a mean streak a mile wide and
a pet cannon to match. He's tough, he's rough, he breaks all the
rules, but inside, he's got a heart of... umm... barbed wire.
And the scene of our story? Let's start, as (almost) always, at ARSE
HQ. Somewhere below the inner-city of a certain unnamed Australian
city the name of which cannot be divulged for reasons of
mysteriousness, a rat stirs in its sleep as it is bothered by a
distant rumble below. But it's probably just an underground train.
Somewhere below the inner-city of a certain *other* unnamed
Australian City, a tramp stirs in his sleep as he is bothered by a
distant rumble below. Metres below, the staff of the Australian Royal
Security Establishment is clocking in for the morning.
Inspector Unnecessary-Violence knew he was late, and blamed his
alarm clock. But he was confident it wouldn't happen again, not after
he had adjusted it with a shotgun. He'd managed to race into the
office anyway, and shoot up the antiquated, and increasingly
battered, clock in the foyer as well, for the hell of it.
He got into the lift and went down. In fact the whole building
was below ground, which meant the lift shouldn't have been called a
"lift", it should have been called a "descend", or, when out of
order, a "drop". Not that the lift would have minded much, it was
more worried about staying intact. For before the Inspector had got
more than two floors downwards, he had lost his temper again (though
many believe it was lost decades before by some expert losers at an
airport luggage terminal. The more dignified and demure readers
amongst you should be thankful that the dialogue used by the
Inspector has not been reproduced here. Though we will be making a
point of reproducing all of his dialogue in the next episode.)
Reloading his gun as he left the lift, the Inspector went down
the hallway, and into the biggest mystery he had encountered so
far in his career.
WHAT would be the consequence? WHO was at the bottom of it all?
And most of all, WHY did the author have this annoying habit of
cutting off a Popsicle episode in the middle of the story?
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
So, Baghdad has been bombed because they reckon the Iraqis tried to
assassinate Bush. Yeah - serves them right. That'll teach them to do
the job properly next time.
(to be sung in three part harmony with piano accompaniment)
Let's put a bomb under Bush
Let's make a major mess of Major
Let's blow the crap out of Kennett
We'd be doing all the bloody world a favour
Let's blow a politician up
Let's put Semtex in their cars
Let's get rid of the whole damn lot
Premiers, PMs and Tsars
And let's machine-gun teddy bears
Let's firebomb Santa's house
Let's cut off limbs from Andrew Lloyd Webber
And feed them to a mouse
Let's behead John McEnroe
'Cos I don't like him one bit
And the same for Andrew Lloyd Webber
'Cos he is an ugly git
Let's kidnap Sly Stallone
And put him against a wall
Along with Arnie, Segal and Van Damme
And even Lauren Bacall
I don't really like Tchaicovsky
But he's already dead
And I hate Andrew Lloyd Webber's guts
Oh, have I already said?
Peter Andre, Beadle, Limbaugh
They all deserve to die
I think it's time to reveal that
This poem has no punch li....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your senses have just been taken in by
another edition of the Toxic Custard
Workshop Files. And if you ask me, they
ought to be ashamed of themselves.
For information about back-issues
to this literary turd, send email NOW to
tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
--
Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre|RECYCLED TCWF SIGNATURES#1:
Telecom Australia, Melbourne---------------| "We all live in a mellow
dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-------------| submarine..."
------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu| - The Jamaican Beatles
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Day old Toxic Custard"
________ _______ _ _ _______ __ ______ ______
/_______/ /______/ | | _ | | /______/ /__| /_____/ /_____/
| | | | | | | | | | |_|___ | | |_|____ |_|____
| | |_|____ |_|_|_|_|_| /____/ | | ____|_| ____|_|
|_| \______\ \_______/ |_| |_| /_____/ /_____/
TOXIC==CUSTARD==WORKSHOP==FILES=======Number 155==5th July 1993======
Toxic Custard Megaproductions present a Thin Excuse For Laughs
production of Jonathan Swift's epic tale of swords, sorcery,
witchcraft, and not only that, but bad grammar and rotin spalling....
starring MEL GIBSON, MEL BROOKS, MEL SMITH, and MEL BOURNE in...
THE SEVENTH ADVENTURE OF MR POPSICLE
------------------------------------
We reconnect with the story just as Inspector Unnecessary-Violence
is about to foolishly enter his own office...
% make popsicle 7 2
* * * TOXIC CUSTARD POPSICLE STORY GENERATOR * * *
Generating Popsicle episode 2 of story 7...
Calculating pun variables...
Retrieving cliche database...
Beginning episode...
[
The door seemed to be unlocked, but you couldn't usually tell for
sure, not unless it was a glass one with "PUSH" written on the side,
and a Coca Cola card showing the hours open stuck to the glass.
Inspector Unnecessary-Violence had faced closed doors before, even in
this building - in fact, even this very door, the door to his own
office. He thought about his entry techniques on previous occasions.
Well, *technique*. Okay, so shooting in the lock, battering it down
with the nearest thick, heavy object (for instance, his head), and
bursting through shouting "Police, nobody move" wasn't the most
subtle method of entry, but it generally got him in without too much
resistance. In fact, he'd used the method to gain entry to some of
his friend's parties, which had been a great laugh, generally,
despite the ambulance bills. He didn't really get invited to those
"do"s anymore - not just because nobody liked him anymore, but also
that most of the people who *did* like him were still in intensive
care.
The Inspector went for his usual method, and, after the shooting,
battering and bursting had concluded, discovered that the door was in
fact unlocked, and that the well reknowned super-sleuth-spy Mr
Popsicle was inside the room. (In fact it turned out later that it
had been Mr Popsicle's room all along, but Popsicle didn't mind too
much, since he had been wanting to replace the door anyway. Reading
of signs on doors was never Inspector Unnecessary-Violence's strong
point.)
"G'day Jock, how are ya?", shouted Mr Popsicle above the
shooting.
"Shuddup and tell me where the money is! Oh, good morning sir,
I'm very well. How are you?"
"Enough of the nastisities Inspector, we have work to do. Did you
hear about the spy arrested overnight?"
"... He went of his own accord?"
"Well," said Popsicle, pushing on regardless, "there was a spy
arrested last night. It seems he got off a train at Flinders Street
and when they found he didn't have a ticket, he broke down and
confessed to being a spy for the French Secret Service 'Espyonage a
trois', to having been involved in the Petrov affair, the Ivanov
affair, the Karamatzov affair, the Kennedy assassination, the Sadat
assassination, and having been a personal friend of Saddam Hussein,
Peter Andre (euch) and Slobodan Malosovitch, or however you spell
it."
"Oh. I see", said the Inspector, who had got lost after the first
sentence.
"And he admitted failing in his mission to blow up the Fifth
Annual Real Estate Agents Convention in Bogota. So I'm just off to
the tortu... err interrogation area to see him now. Are you coming?"
"No sir..."
"Oh okay. I'll see you later", said Popsicle, closing the door
behind him.
"...I'm not even excited. Hey, fuckin' wait for me!"
So they made their way down into the depths of the ARSE
Headquarters, to the very lowest of the low dungeons of the building,
where they found the suspect. He was drinking a cup of Ovaltine. With
worms in it. Live worms. They swam around the Ovaltine like a bunch
of little kids at the pool in summer. The spy was known as Mr X,
naturally but we shall know him by his real name, which is of
course...
"Trouble. Well well well. If it isn't our old pal Dick Trouble. I
thought you were on our side", said Popsicle, who recognised him at
an instant.
The Inspector was thoroughly less dignified about meeting an
adversary. "You fucking fugitive double-crossing bastard fucker!!",
he screamed at his usual pitch. "I fucking treated you like a friend!
I didn't think you were the type to have been seduced by an enemy
agent female impersonator, to be found hanging upside-down in a lift
at the Hilton, dressed in only suspenders and a small earwig, a
frozen fish finger sticking out of your ear, to be blackmailed,
enlisted to the other side, taken to some enemy country somewhere -
like France - to be trained in the art of killing, sabotage,
kidnapping and cooking snails, placed back here as a double agent, to
spy on your own people, to wreak havoc in the place of your birth, to
betray your own kind, to kidnap, blow up, assassinate and use your
cunning to bring down this country, its government, its people, and
everything it stands for!"
"I didn't."
"Oh."
]
Unsuitable episode ending detected. Terminating episode.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Went to the cinema the other day. You queue up for tickets, counting
how many teenagers are trying to get into Sliver, and how many adults
are sneaking into Aladdin *without* twenty kids trailing behind them.
Anyway, the cinema itself is one of those ones with the humungous
screens (well duh!), the Dolby digital surround sound... and they
still manage to have most of the advertising on dusty slanted slides
with accompanying crackly sound. Not exactly a great leap in
technology, unless it's sort of sideways.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That's all for this week. This much, and
even less, next week. Have a nice day.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
--
Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre|RECYCLED TCWF SIGNATURES#2:
Telecom Australia, Melbourne---------------|He who quoteth himself in his
dbowen@vcomtelc.telecom.com.au-------------|own signature is a conceited
------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu|bastard. [Daniel Bowen, '91]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh shit, I almost forgot. If you'd like
to get your hot little thumbs on TCWF
back-issues, just send mail to
tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
the Toxic Custard Workshop Files by Daniel Bowen, Melbourne, Australia
Copyright (c) 1993, 1994 Daniel Bowen. May be freely distributed
without profit provided this notice remains intact.
For subscription information, contact tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu
