From: max@athena.mit.edu (Max Meredith Vasilatos)
Newsgroups: soc.motss
Subject: The Usenet Soc.Motss Tales
Summary: Note: LGBO* pronunciation = ELgeeBOWstar
Date: 15 Dec 92 23:10:59 GMT
Article-I.D.: athena.X1991Aug11.010159.19033
Organization: Massachusetts Institute of Technology
X-Original-Date: 11 Aug 91 01:01:59 GMT

The Usenet Soc.Motss Tales

              The Prologue

When the hot rains of August fall and shoot
Down through July's bad drought to pierce the root
Bathing every vein in liquid power
From which there springs annoyance and of glower,
When also Zephyrus with his foul breath
Exhales an air in workplaces, a death
Upon the heatfilled cube, and the high sun
His full course in the sign of the Ram has run
(So nature pricks us and our heart engages)
Then people long to throw off camouflages
Around the world, and from every shire's end,
Usenet linked, the LGBO* folks they wend
To seek the jokes and spats and satire, quick
In giving help to them when they are sick.
Ready to go on a pilgrimage and start
For Usenet soc.motss, most devout at heart,
Through years there came in curiosity
Some eighty thousand in a company
Of sundry folk happening then to fall
In fellowship, and they were LGBO* all
That towards Usenet soc.motss meant to ride.
The minds and wittiness of motss were wide;
They made us easy, all was of the best.
And shortly, when the sun had gone to rest,
By speaking to them all upon the trip
I was admitted to their fellowship
And promised to stay up late and take the way
To Usenet soc.motss, as you heard me say.
  But none the less, while I have time and space,
Before my story takes a further pace,
It seems a reasonable thing to say
What their condition was, the full array
Of each of them, as it appeared to me,
According to their posts and self decree,
And what personae they were writing in;
And at a John I therefore will begin.
  There was a John, a most distinguished man,
A teacher, student, writer, preacher, poet;
This John impressed me, but he didn't know it.
  He had his ex with him, a fine young Liar,
A lover and cadet, a lad of fire.
  There was a Faggot with him at his side,
No other servant; so he chose to ride;
He cultivated attitude, I guess.
  There also was a Dyke in chain mail dress;
Simple her way of smiling was and coy.
Her greatest oath was only 'By St Loy!'
  Another Dyke, the Liar at her call,
Was riding with her, and three Wives as well.
  There was a Queen, a leader of the fashions;
Inspecting clothes and houses were his passions,
His palfrey was as brown as a berry.
  There was Sadist, a wanton one and merry,
  A Masochist, a very festive fellow.
In all Four Orders there was none so mellow;
This worthy's name was Geoffrey, it appeared.
  There was Hacker with a forking beard
And motley dress; high on his horse he sat,
Upon his head a Flemish beaver hat.
  There was an SF Fan there too, a student,
Long given to Logic, longer than was prudent;
  An Aboriginal wore only leather clothes,
Wary and wise, with piercings in her tits and nose.
  A land-owner, Consultant, had appeared;
White as a daisy-petal was his beard.
  An Engineer, A Dyer, an Activist,
A Lover and Libertarian amidst
Our motley ranks, all in the livery
of one impressive guild-fraternity.
  They had a Twink with them who stood alone
For boiling chicken with a marrow-bone,
As for blancmange, he made it with the best.
  There was a Lesbian hailing from far west;
  A Jojo too emerged as we proceeded;
No one alive could talk as well as he did.
  A worthy Bi from San Francisco City
Was with us, somewhat blind, which was a pity.
  A holy-minded man of good renown
There was, and poor, the Wizard to a town.
  There was a Horseman with him there, his brother.
Many a load of dung one time or other
He must have carted through the morning dew.
He was an honest worker, good and true,
He wore a tabard smock and rode a mare.
  There was a Bear, also a Linguist, there,
A Systems Manager from the Inns of Court,
An atheist Pagan and, in close consort,
An agnostic Programmer, riding at a trot,
And finally myself - that was the lot.
  And there our Host drew up, began to ease
His horse, and said, 'Now, listen if you please,
Good Queers!  Remember what you promised me.
If evensong and matins will agree
Let's see who shall be first to tell a tale.
And as I hope to drink good wine and ale
I'll be your judge.  The rebel who disobeys,
However much the journey costs, she pays.
Now draw for the cut and then we can depart;
The one who draws the shortest cut shall start.
And to tell shortly how the matter went,
Whether by chance or fate or accident,
The truth is this, the cut fell to the John,
Which everybody greeted woebegone.
  But in a cheerful style he then began
At once to tell his tale, and thus it ran.

The John's Tale

          The John's Prologue

The John had opened mouth but hadn't really yet begun
When noises in the distance showed us several white men.
From off the road, not in our happy company,
A Claymer spoke.  'I'll have my say on homosexuality.'
  He started in, 'Republicrats continue to
Screw the pooch of government.  Always do.
Now the gays, they want to take complete control,
Not a tiny bit, but all, the total whole;
Our jobs, our homes, the way I live my healthy life;
My children's bodies they'd molest, perhaps my wife.
See, I'm the Claymer; by my title I proclaim
My wish that gays were all like me, the same.
Homosexuality is getting on my list
Of serious emotional disease, the gist
I'm able to infer from Usenet soc.motss
Where talk of sex in parks and public gropes and lots
Of mentally unbalanced fears of suicide 
And accusations claiming to be based in pride
Have led me to destroy your little mecca, folks.
So pack it up, my friends are here with ready yokes:
A Rayman, A Runzdown, The Lucre, and even an Guy;
We're waiting to hear your tales, so go ahead and try.'
  Many of us laughed, and so the John began
His tale, but some gave up; off and away they ran.
  Our Host addressed the Claymer, speaking very loud,
'Sir, remove yourself.  We're speaking here, and proud
We are, no interest in your children, just a need
To travel talking here, with some amount of speed.'
  The Claymer jumped right in and yelled, 'Look, women
Are crawling over one another, hugging; these men
Swish just this side of camp yet hold onto their jobs;
Just like molestors, say that children who are robbed
Of innocence were coming on to them.  If gays
Have legal rights to make us so uncomfortable,
I have a right to make you all uncomfortable.'
The LGBO* folks, appalled, tried, separate and as one,
But argument and asking went unheard.  The Host again,
'Now by St Helen and the Holy Land
I wish I had your cullions in my hand
Instead of relics in a reliquarium;
Have them cut off and I will help to carry 'em.
We'll have them shrined for you in a hog's turd.'
The Claymer, mad, said nothing, not a word;
He was so angry that he couldn't speak.
'Well,' said our Host, 'if you're for showing pique,
I'll joke no more, not with an angry man.'
  The worthy John immediately began,
Seeing the fun was getting rather rough,
And said, 'No more, we've all had quite enough.
Now, Master Claymer, liven up, look cheerly!
and you, Sir Host, whom I esteem so dearly,
I beg of you to kiss the Claymer.
'Come, Claymer man, draw nearer my dear sir.
Let's laugh again and keep the ball in play.'
The Claymer reddened, said, 'You've had your say.'
The hand grenades came out, and rubber dolls, and sheep.
Too late, the LGBO* people'd left or fell asleep.


The Dyke's Wives' Tale

   The Dyke's Wives' Prologue

Heavens, we are falling far behind!
The flow of network conversation winds
So quick, now that the Claymer's speech is done,
The nonce, our talking space again's been won.
One final tale.  We have to speak about
Our being wives, our names, and coming out.

   The Dyke's Wives' Tale

Right off the bat we have an axe to grind.
This nomenclature's narrow, leaves behind
The women who identify as Gay
And Lesbians who'd never be that way.
Bisexuals appear to feel left out,
But even worse, we ask you, what about
The Others, Spouses, Wives - we're left to stew
On words improbable as POSSLQ?
We'd thought that proper introductions might
Just put this label problem out of sight.
  It wouldn't be so bad, so hard on us
If we were totally monogamous,
But no, we're not, and not by happenstance.
Our modern marriage has significance
And we demand that others recognize
Our partnership.  We opted out for 'Wives'
This once; it doesn't suit us.  Our preference
Is for a phrase that doesn't reference
A long tradition of patriarchs
Who bought girls from their parents at menarche.
  As we are three, we have enough to vote
(A hellish trial, Scribe, do please take note):
'Partners' is too businesslike, too vague;
'Lover' conjures up the silly plague
Of limerance, except in circles where
Such oddities as motas and motsseur
Are recognized.  Same about SO,
We fear  - only people in the know
Will understand, when where we're at
Is coming out to hets.  Imagine that!
There's no solution here, but we can see
For each of us, we answer differently:
That one's a lover, one's a wifely spouse,
And last an SO to the Dyke (the louse).
  Dear woman, she can worry round the terms
For her own preference (now that Liar worm
Is hanging with us):  Bi or Dyke or Queer...
Who knows - we don't - depends upon the year.

Here ends the Book of the Tales of Usenet Soc.Motss,
as much as was found, by Max Vasilatos, on whose soul
responsibility and blame rest.  Amen.
Newsgroups: soc.motss