From: daniel@yoyo.cc.monash.edu.au (Daniel Bowen)
Subject: TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES #121 (Plus! another crappy cartoon!)
Followup-To: rec.humor.d,aus.jokes.d
Summary: Ironed flat Toxic Custard
Reply-To: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu
Organization: Monash University, Melb., Australia.
Date: Mon, 9 Nov 1992 06:10:54 GMT

                     __       __
\___   ___          /     \  /  \  \        the TOXIC custard WORKSHOP files
 \     \     \ \ \  \__    \    /   \      NUMBER one-HUNDRED and TWENTY-one
..\___..\___..\_\_\..\......\../___..\................NINTH of NOVEMBER 1992...

MR POPSICLE RETURNS! for the third episode in this decreasingly normal
adventure mystery thingo

With the heroes of the story having not even made a single appearance
yet, and the victims of the story wishing they bloody well would show
up quite soon, here is the latest news on the search for the plot: A
Ruthless gang of people who quite like money are in the process of
robbing an armoured truck at gunpoint.
    The gun was huge. I know you've probably seen all sorts of big guns       S
in your time. Gulf War footage, Rambo films, you reckon you've seen the       h
lot, right? Wrong. This gun wasn't so much big as it was vast. The top        o
of it scraped the ozone layer and it was entirely possible that if the        c
gun was held the right way, it could span continents. This was a bloody       k
big gun, and, had that joke about naming things as "fucking big xxxxx"        ,
not already been done to death in previous Toxic Custards, this gun
would have been named the "Fucking Big Gun". That's how big it was. It        h
also looked threatening, which was the other requirement that the gang        o
had been looking for in their purchase of high-class weaponry for the         r
modern fashionable armed-robber. After all, you can have the biggest          r
mother of a gun pointed at your foe, but it won't cut much ice in the         o
scary department if it's pink with pictures of blue elephants all over        r
it.                                                                           ,
    The guards were scared shitless. All the faeces they had been
saving up for several hours considered the situation and decided              g
unanimously to immediately evacuate the guards' posteriors for the            a
hopefully sunnier and safer climes of their trousers.                         s
    The spokesman for the members of the gang holding the gun in the          p
guards faces had been decided by quorum several weeks ago, and his job        !
was to announce to the frightened guards what their demands were, what
the consequences would be if they weren't followed, and to generally
add a few demeaning comments about their height, intelligence,                T
political stance and sudden smelliness.                                       h
    This he did, and was relieved when, all according to the plan the         e
gang had put together one drunken night at the pub, one of the guards
reached for the button to open the rear door of the armoured truck,           p
which was concealed in the nose of a furry toy on the dashboard.              r
    Yet another member of the gang, who had been awaiting this very           e
moment by the rear door, was rather surprised at this point to find           s
himself almost literally drowning in the wads of notes that came              i
tumbling down on him. A colleague managed to throw him a line and pull        d
him to safety before they began the arduous task of gathering up the          e
money and piling it into the big bag (one of those ones that says "Big        n
Bag" on the side) they had brought along for carrying the dosh.               t
    It took them almost an hour, and the story of their escape from the
impending forces of goodness and sweetness and light and stuff is the         h
subject of the next episode in this series of episodes, which are             a
serially and numerically numbered, which will in fact make the next           s
episode number 4. See you then.
                                                                              a
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -       i
                                                                              d
[The following thankfully brief joke is written in "Cliched Oriental          e
Speech Difficulty Mode", for maximum laughs from minimum effort due to        s
emergency innuendo implementation]                                            !
                                                                              !
           Conglaturations to Birr Crinton on his erection!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -       (
                                                                              b
Ironing. Don't you just hate ironing? For those of you who do do              o
ironing, isn't it just about the lowest of the low household jobs?            o
Well, not quite. But imagine, if you will, a nice lovely clean shirt.         ,
It sits there, looking innocent, on the ironing board, just waiting for
your steaming hot iron on "Cotton" setting (the setting that burns your       h
hands off if you put them within a two metre radius of the iron)... the       i
shirt sits there on the board, seemingly flat, just crying out for the        s
iron to run it over, a bit like a masochistic pedestrian. You pick up         s
the iron, and begin to run it over the shirt... smooth as (ironing)           ,
silk, or so it seems... and just as you get towards the end of this
genius stroke of ironing, the shirt begins to fold in on itself, and by       a
the time you've lifted up the iron, you've just ironed yourself a brand       c
new IRREMOVABLE crease in your practically brand new and probably quite       t
expensive shirt. Doesn't that just piss you off? You bet.                     u
                                                                              a
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -       l
                                                                              l
It has been pointed out to me that birds have only two wings. Now,            y
while this may undoubtedly be true, it can also be said that humans           )
have two legs (each). What is the significance of this? Well, well may
you wonder. It is in fact of no significance whatsoever, but who really
cares? - it gives me an excuse to rave on about it for several
paragraphs at a time, doesn't it. Yes, it most certainly does.
    Well, now that argument has been hatched, what to do about those
small pains in the back of the neck that people get in the late
afternoon whilst hunched over a computer screen reading what can only
be considered to be Toxic Custard.
    Many favour the amputation of the head, but I prefer to think that
the problem can be solved by a swift massage of the neck with a large
rock, followed by an even swifter kick up the arse. That usually does
the trick for me, the only disadvantage of this treatment being that it
can't be self-inflicted err applied. Well, unless you happen to be
rather good at that sort of bodily twisting and turning.
    But back to the eggs. Some people have commented that a boiled egg
tastes more or less like peanut butter spread over a dog turd (or, if
this prospect alarms you, a tog durd). This simply isn't true. I know.
I've compared them. Following extensive lavatory tests, the conclusion
that has been reached is that a boiled egg tastes most like the turd of
a giraffe. Now, this might not be true, but the majority of you lot
aren't likely to ever get the chance to prove me wrong. So it really
doesn't matter very much, does it?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That was another Toxic Custard. I'm sure you
knew that, but did you know that you can get
an email subscription? Just reply to this,
or send mail to tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu for
details.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright (C) 1992 Daniel Bowen
--
Daniel Bowen, Monash University | I often wonder who the hell invented
Melbourne, Australia------------| sticky tape. And why the fucker couldn't
daniel@yoyo.cc.monash.edu.au----| have taken that tiny bit of extra time to
TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu | invent a way of finding the end.


And now here's yet another stupid and badly drawn cartoon, entitled "Not The
Rainbow Warrior".  Just my luck if some smartarse newspaper cartoonist
somewhere on the planet has already done this joke, but that's life.
(oooh.. TCWF gets political! Watch out for those French farmers!)

Anyway, once again, uudecode it, throw it at a GIF viewer, and laugh
merrily, if you feel you ought to. And if you have problems doing all
that, go on a quest to see your local computer geek.

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