From: daq@fc.hp.com (Doug Quarnstrom)
Subject: Re: testing tin
Date: Fri, 22 Jan 1993 19:15:53 GMT
Organization: SPUGE
X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.1.8 PL6]

Noah Ramon (narxtc@casc.math.uh.edu) wrote:
: Doug writes :
: > That is it, you miserable wretches. I have dispatched a battalion of
: > bloodstorm troopers to deal with this irreverence. They will not be
: > as kind as I am reputed to be. Oh, they will announce their arrival
: > in the interstices between virtuality and reality. Expect to hear
: > them first in your dreams. When you begin seeing them out of the
: > corner of your eye, you will know that they are close and that your
: > time to pun is short.
: 
:  Well, first things first. I'm not a miserable wretch - I'm a HAPPY wretch!

The appelation is relative and is not subject to debate.  In this
rhetorical context, you are assigned the role of miserable wretch.
You are playing a part in a play; do not seek to rewrite the lines.
Noone thinks that Anthony Hopkins is a cannabalistic murderer, but
he did a wonderful job portraying one upon the screen.

: And those bloodstorm troopers sound kinda messy... Maybe some ammoniatroopers 
: or something like that... (or would they be too basic?) 

Messiness is entirely the point.  The plasticine bloodstorm troopers are 
unstoppable and they are devious and cruel in tracking you through 
your dreams.  The experience is not at all pleasant, but such is 
the punishment for punning in my presence.

Here is the poem written many moons ago in which I first refered
to the mysterious plastic ones.
-----------------------------------------------------------

          War
          ---

  In the steel helmet expanse
   I  (s)a(w) my chance, but all 
                     (there) was (there)

                             was six placid bunnies.

I do I do I do have to confess that the
    !!!!((((((blood-----
              running down my chin barely concealed
              the spatula delight in my (cun)
                                        (nin)
                                        (gly)
              concealed fist.

           Soon the shells would roar in.
           Roaring in is what shells do best,
           and you can test 
           me on this, they do it damned well
           with a smile and a kiss and a
           "do tell do tell"

I (k)new for a fact that the plastic ones 
would come after that.

They always showed far less mercy than I, and their stride
was always so determined in that eerily feary:  crunch crunch
                                                crunch squish.

           I know that you seem to think I 
    have not seen this happen before but I have.
    You can believe me, but for some reason you
                never do.  Never.

           The water the water the water falls down
           and drenches the streets on this meet-your-fate
           town.  The streets stretch from one side of
           town to the other, and are filled with sisters
           and mothers and brothers:  all bowing and
           cowing to merger-filled, mutable, sistine-flight
           feathers.
          
           Never mind.
           They'll not be here for long.  These violets
           soon will wither all.
           
           My eyes my eyes, oh god take my eyes.
           Give them to Nietzsche and make the bitch blink.

           Give him my brain and let him think stink.
           Let him wrench the stench from the s(y)(i)bilant 
           twists.

           Let him guard these wrists.

           Because you see you see, I saw a couple of
           Sunburst Tulips (maybe TM, I really don't know)
           yesterday.  And what could I say?  They were
           there.  There they were.  And when I looked again,
           I swear (I know you won't believe this)
           they were STILL THERE!!!
                  
                     all yellow and orange and yellow and orange
                     and yellow and orange and yellow and orange
                     and yellow and orange and yellow and orange
                     and

           So, I fire up the Chrysler, sixteen cylinder,
           fuel-injected, solid-state, neutra-sweet,
           nitro-burning, turbo-hell engine and roll out
           moe meekly into the vastless expanse.  I saw
           my chance.

           Those six placid bunnies.
              kinda funny

                 i can almost imagine how they would feel against
                 my face 


douglas
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