HDTenEightyP/NetNews huggingface dataset:
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: horticulture sang at dawn, covered with moist detergent
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley,alt.pets.chia
Organization: The Gorilla-Shaped Cookie Trust, GmbH
Date: Tue, 29 Dec 1992 16:33:49 GMT

	She looked exactly like the wife I wanted to have when I was fifty:
long, thick gray hair, a cute face, plump buttocks and breasts of good shape.
I complimented her on her looks and told her that she looked exactly like the
wife I wanted to have when I was fifty.
	She smiled.  She had a lovely smile.  "I *am* the wife you'll have
when you're fifty," she said in a throaty alto that I found strangely arousing.
"I've travelled back in time to ensure that you'll marry the young me."
	"How sweet of you," I said, and we kissed.  She knew just how to
kiss me, which was hardly surprising, given that she had been my wife for
eighteen years.  I started to unbutton her blouse, but she drew back and her
pistol, and told me to save my enthusiasm for her younger self.
	By flapping our arms we flew to a small town near Seattle, landing
in front of a small apartment building of small apartments.  We went inside
and she led me to the door of an apartment.  She knocked, and presently the
door opened and I saw a twenty-five-ish version of her, jet-black hair down
to her shoulders and shot with white.  "He's disappointing," said the younger
version, looking at me critically.
	"We've been happily married for eighteen years," said the older.
	"Oh, I guess I can take your word for it," the younger one said to
her, and invited me in.  Within three months we were married.
	But all that has nothing to do with the secret mission I had during
the Tonga crisis.  Cunningly disguised by the Cunning Disguises Division as
a photograph of Christie Brinkley at age seven, I hid in the bottom of one
of the Governor-General's filing cabinets for seventeen months and achieved
absolutely nothing.  Back at Langley I was debriefed, declawed, declined,
delivered, and debunked.  I spent twelve hours a day riding the city buses
in Baltimore, telling the bus drivers privately that I was a sociologist
and fish-strangler, and this seemed to satisfy them but not the Sri Lankan
agents who tailed me.  Three months of this made a new man of me: he was
six inches shorter, named Jimbo MacNostril Garrick, and smoked oak leaves
and marihuana rolled in pieces of the _Baltimore Sun_.

Mark.
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: scallop charities collect used libido for the rich and infamous
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley,alt.politics.gooley
Organization: Canticum Novum, Inc.
Date: Sat, 2 Jan 1993 21:48:31 GMT

	She was not a wife to him but a harem.  When he came home that
fateless evening she had spent all day becoming the first woman he had
ever been seriously infatuated with, one Denise (as opposed to another),
and except that this Denise loved him she was indistinguishable from the
original.  Her body ached from the thousands of alterations, the false
persona chafed, she was unused to being so tiny and had to concentrate
to overcome clumsiness.
	He gasped when he saw her, called her by the name of her form,
and when she smiled he seized her and held her tight.  Tears ran down
her face from the pain, but she elaborated her satisfaction at having
pleased him into a false joy.  As Denise, she was tiny and frail, and
he picked up her body to bring her face closer to his.
	Of course he resumed his infatuation with Denise at once. The
Denise persona didn't particularly like him, but she controlled it,
though with difficulty.  He loved to caress the Denise face and hair,
to fit a little Denise-breast into his mouth, and although she enjoyed
such things, Denise had not, and keeping the false self in check without
letting her own personality show became a great strain.
	Usually she would remain in character until he suggested that
she become someone else, but after three weeks he had said nothing.
Her altered body had stopped aching, her real self and the masking
Denise had settled into a sort of armed truce, and her coordination
had returned.
	I was unsure of what to do.  All of the ways I considered of
finishing this trite little tale seemed unsatisfactory.  The Denise
persona might take control and might or might not force the man to
become the sort of man she desired.  Or the woman could change back, or
shed the Denise persona but not the shape, at first acting like Denise
but over a period gradually returning to her usual behavior -- after
all, he wouldn't have married her if her own personality had been
unsatisfactory.
	I decided to cop out.

Mark., ignore this posting
gooley@netcom.com

Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre,alt.spleen
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: calumny pizza with artichoke and young girl hearts, to go to Togo
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley,alt.religion.santaism
Organization: Cunning Disguises, Ltd.
Date: Thu, 31 Dec 1992 15:25:26 GMT

	He opened his eyes.  Another alternate universe, he thought.
A young woman, face half-covered with tousled, greasy-looking dark hair,
was asleep in bed next to him.  The bedsheets were pink, with stylized
blue flowers and ruffled trim.  He broke wind, and the magical fart
drifted over to the sleeping woman and made her into a big bowl of
chocolate mousse.  He styled his hair with some, and had the rest as
breakfast in bed.
	The whole apartment was excessively feminine: it giggled deliciously
from time to time, sprayed itself with perfume, and ran up huge bills for
huge ducks from compulsive shopping.  He contemplated a transformation
into the woman who had become the mousse, but decided that it was too
predictable a twist in the plot.  Instead he nipped 'round to the Japanese
head shop down the street, and had his head replaced with a Japanese one.
	In a state of euphorbia (a hybrid of uncertain ancestry, but
with ancestors including E. pulcherrima, E. splendens, E. platyclada, and
E. caput-medusae) he staggered to his bank to withdraw seventy-five cents
and from the presidential race riots in Watts, Kilowatts, and Megawatts.
The cute little bank teller stole his heart and had it airlifted to Inhumana
Hospital in Knoxville, where it was transplanted into a baboon from the
Brothelton Zoo, whose own heart had been transplanted into a little girl
the previous year.  Heartless now, he killed the entire staff and rod and
stick and cane of the bank with his halitosis, plundered their bodies for
small change and mascara, and ran off into the night, eyelashes dark and
thick.

Mark., weary
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: toxicity hymnal burrows into hobbledehoy, a most delightful thing
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley
Organization: Cunning Disguises, Ltd.
Date: Thu, 31 Dec 1992 16:09:18 GMT

	Liquid butterflies infest my refrigerator.  They flutter out and
drip to the kitchen floor whenever I reach in to get a beer or an extra
woman.  I've tried mink oil, toluene, magic spells, yak cheese, caraway
seeds, grilled plethoras, and the Oxford English Dictionary, but the smell
won't leave.  It hangs about, guzzling my Madeira, sitting on my footstool
with its feet on my armchair, and inviting such rowdy friends as the
Mohorovicic discontinuity, masochistic bottom quarks, the Society for
Industrial and Applied Masturbation, a small blob of reddish mud, my
superego, Lawrence Eagleburger (available in limited markets because most
types of eagles are still considered endangered), and Catalan.
	I decided to take a vacation.  Several of my colleagues had a few
weeks of vacation coming, so I stole a total of two months from them,
piled into my car despite pain from my piles, and drove off on a whirlwind
tour of the U. S.  I'm proud of my car: mighty three-cylinder engine,
vomit-colored paint, 0-100 kph in 15.9 seconds, inflatable woman permanently
installed in the front seat,

Mark., out of ideas.
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,alt.religion.kibology
From: SENDIAA@YaleVM.YCC.Yale.Edu
Subject: Re: Short Shameful Sugar High
Organization: Yale University
Date: Sun, 27 Dec 92 20:01:50 EST

In article <1992Dec27.210217.24966@tc.cornell.edu>
mdw@db.TC.Cornell.EDU (Matt Welsh) writes:
 
>
>I just finished an entire roll of Tropical Fruit Life Savers [tm] in 34.2
>seconds flat. The coconut flavored ones were the best.
>
>What do I win?
Wishful thinking, como se llama. I eat them in 15.742 seconds average, and I
like the coconut *combined* with tangerine. If you concentrate on a single
flavor, you'll never make it.
Your prize: a coupon, worth 34.2 cents towards your next purchase of coconut
concentrate. It makes a good hair conditioner, and can also be used, with good
results, for cleaning in between the toes. A three-year unlimited warranty is
also available for $19.95. I highly recommend it.
 
Diana
 
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,alt.fan.gooley,alt.pets.chia,alt.fan.matt.welsh,alt.religion.kibology
From: mdw@db.TC.Cornell.EDU (Matt Welsh)
Subject: Re: I would like to wish everyone a...
Organization: Jim's Burger Hut 
Date: Thu, 31 Dec 1992 20:37:43 GMT

In article <1992Dec31.180258.6737@nsisrv.gsfc.nasa.gov> bur@ultisol.gsfc.nasa.gov (MAC) writes:
>
>Happy New Year!
>
>
>M - That means you too mdw, <wink><wink><nudge><nudge>

In about 5 hours, we'll see.

Someone get me net access, quick.

mdw

-- 
Matt Welsh     mdw@tc.cornell.edu     Cornell Theory Center
  "It's a Katana, ya Midwestern Computer Geek." --Tom Payne
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: folksongs run amuck with dull bits of eggshell and alienation
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley,alt.fan.matt.welsh,alt.pets.chia,alt.spleen
Organization: The Gorilla-Shaped Cookie Trust, GmbH
Date: Tue, 29 Dec 1992 17:02:23 GMT

	Cow-tipping should be done at a rate of 15%, 20% if the cow has
provided especially good service (e.g. her own fresh milk in the tea,
infected with pathogens).  Do not ask Italian car-rental agents if they
would rather be amphibians.  It is considered gauche to impale World Cup
skiers on ski Poles named Kowalski.  Some British housewives are men in
drag.  Lock your windows at night and remember the Alamo.
	My book of such suggestions was a best-seller, and on the proceeds
I retired to a small town in Montana.  Loneliness and concern about the
mysterious diseases afflicting local sheep and women drove me to Havre and
to purchase a mail-order bride from Mexico.  Unfortunately she was a Chia
Bride, and I sent her (it?) back with a nasty note.  When the refund came,
I ordered a mail-order bride from Guatemala.  She spoke with a powerful
American accent and knew neither Spanish nor Central American tongues, and
under her glued-on rubber face and coarse (it made obscene jokes and gestures)
black wig she was a woman who had been infatuated with me when she and I were
both in highschool.  I sued the the mail-order bride company and won hundreds
of Austrian schillings in punitive damages, even though the woman became my
cook and eventually (after years of plastic surgery) my pet ocelot.

Mark., burned out
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: luminous panda costumes in specially-marked grandmothers
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley
Organization: The Gorilla-Shaped Cookie Trust, GmbH
Date: Wed, 23 Dec 1992 17:31:01 GMT

	He tried to marry the beach towel, but the Justice of the Peas
and Carrots told him that it was illegal for humans to marry inanimate
objects.  The local Universal Life Church and Plumbing Emporium, run
by a burned-out headlight from a Ferrari and the Very Rev. Adolphus
Vanessa MacBugger, agreed to perform a preformed marriage service --
not legally recognized, of course, but at least he and the towel would
be marries in the eyes of Rev. MacBugger and receive a 5% discount on
PVC pipe as Church members and dismemebers, remember.
	He wore the towel under his clothes so that she would be close
to him and so that they could save the price of an extra plane ticket.
They flew to Ottawa the day after the wedding, checked into the Royal
Hemmorhoid Motel and Bowling Alley to the south of the town in the
maple woods and Maple Leaf Rags to Riches, and consummated their marriage
as best they could.  He took her by rental bicycle to see the Houses of
Parliament, the National Gallery, the waterfalls, and the pornographic
bookshops.  They were shopping for jewelry for her at a major department
store called Major Department Store when he wandered into the Home
Furnishings department and fell in love at first sight with another towel.
She was envious, but he bought it anyhow.  She complained all the way
back to the motel, and fell silent with horror when he suggested a
threesome.
	For a small fee he borrowed ten bath towels from the motel's
proprietors, and his bride looked on in horror as he arranged them,
the two others already in his bathroom, and the new purchase and rival
on the bed.  The details of the orgy are too disgusting to describe,
and halfway through it she wriggled to the bathroom and set herself
ablaze with motel-supplied matches.

Mark.
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: decoupage salad with laughter dressing and Croton bugs
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley,alt.pets.chia
Organization: Canticum Novum, Inc.
Date: Sat, 2 Jan 1993 20:35:45 GMT

	We feasted on roast dissonance and machinations.  The wine was
a 1973 Chateau Cucaracha y Menudo, with the famous foot-colored engraving
of a Chia Ram (tm) on its label.  With dessert we had port and starboard,
and Sherry trifle: our waitress Sherry came over and trifled with us most
charmingly, and I was so smitten with food poisoning and her that I removed
my dinner companion's skin and made it into a jacket, pants, a hat, a pair
of gloves, a pair of shoes, and a droll little purse with a face splayed
over it.  Unfortunately, Sherry was already married to a Rolls-Royce (tm)
turbofan jet engine, and I had to pick apart the clothes and sew their
leather back onto my companion, who enjoyed the pain and scars but was
indignant that I had skinned her, without her permission, merely to impress
a silly woman.
	We took the Armored Root Vegetable Carrier, developed for the
Turnip Wars in Botswana by a French arms and wheat combine, back to my
place in Cat's Mews: a stable converted into a stable.  We got out of
the Carrier, examined the fresh damage to the reactive and highly emotional
Ukrainian-made armor (drowning its sorrows in vodka), and headed and tailed
for my adobe abode.  An ingenious device in the doorframe transformed us
into horses, and with a whinny I, now a decrepit old white draft stallion
also available in bottles, offered a bag of oats to the thoroughbred filly
she had become.
	We stood there eating out oats and making little neighs that neither
of us understood.  Presently a van from the local knacker's yard came by
to collect me, and I wondered why these stables were called mews and the
animal disposal people were called knackers when we weren't even in Britain.
Foolishly the two old men came in through the same doorway we had used,
and became moribund old hacks worse than Piers Anthony (tm).  It was child's
play (we went out the way we had entered, becoming human, and borrowed the
forms of playful neighbor children) to lead the creaky old horses through
another doorway, load them into their own van, and sell van and horses to
a competitor for a hundredweight of used chewing gum and a box of back
issues of Playchild (tm), famous for their centerfolds of the prepubescent,
pubes airbrushed to blurriness.

Mark., the new year makes no difference
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre
From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: Vernon Equinox and His Incredible Organic Werewolf Deodorant
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley,alt.pets.chia,alt.prose.d
Organization: Men Who Lust After Small Brunettes With Gray Eyes
Date: Fri, 1 Jan 1993 02:48:37 GMT

	"He sculpted his perfect woman out of clay and begged the gods to
give the statue life.  Nothing happened.  A kindly rabbi made a golem of
it, but all it wanted to do was hang around the local synagogue as a
sort of decorative security guard, and due to troubles with OSHA, the
IRS, the INS, and various other alphabet-soup agencies, the golem had to
be deactivated.  He re-sculpted its clay into a giant statue of a marmot,
moistening it with his tears as he worked.  He had the marmot cast in
bronze and sold it to a marmot-fetishist in Hawaii for a hundredweight
of macadamia nuts and a mile of macadam road.
	"A man calling himself Ronco asked him and the rabbi to create a
line of Chia Golems, but both of them adamantly refused; wielding bits
of adamantine rock and dinner roll, they chased him into the outer darkness,
where there is whaling and gnashing of gnashes and Ogdegn Gnash.  They
sat by a console and the rabbi tried to console him with Talmudic wisdom
and kosher Cabernet Sauvignon, but it was no use.  Within hours he had
put his studio into his satchel and disappeared.  A few months later the
rabbi received a package without a return address; inside was a magnificent
bronze menorah.
	"The sculptor had unpacked his studio in a small town underneath
the Gulf of Mexico, where he learned to breathe water and devised a clay
that could be sculpted undersea.  Friendly sharks taught him the craft
of running an undersea foundry and the sport of biting off people's legs.
Magnificent sculptures of strange patina began to appear mysteriously
at discount stores near Biloxi and Mobile."
	My little niece was sound asleep before I finished the first
paragraph, but out of sheer vanity I proceeded this far with the story.
Then I got two five-gallon plastic buckets from the dungeon, brought
them up to her room, and pulled back the blanket and bedsheet from her
delicate feet.  Gently I unstoppered her, wiggling off her left great
toe, and drained the Little Girl Fluid from her into the buckets, gently
pressing the last of it out of her smooth, girlish skin.  I folded her
skin carefully, and hefted it -- well under two pounds: certainly I
would get the lowest rate from the express service.
	I addressed a Tyvek (tm) mailer-bag to my brother, the girl's
father, and, kissing the sweet little flattened face, picked up her
folded skin and gently fitted it into the envelope.  He would get it
tomorrow afternoon, and, knowing his forgetful nature, I suspected that
he would have to drive down to the corner Green Rooster Pandery and
buy ten gallons of Little Girl Fluid, in ten overpriced gallon bottles
of an inferior brand, so that he could refill her promptly.

Mark.
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,alt.fan.gooley,alt.pets.chia,alt.fan.matt.welsh,alt.religion.kibology
From: mdw@db.TC.Cornell.EDU (Matt Welsh)
Subject: Let there be Mite
Organization: Fear and Loathing: the Linux Gestapo
Date: Thu, 31 Dec 1992 05:03:10 GMT

Instead of filling Mark's mailbox with any more of this tepid psychoranting 
I'll instead shove it upon you, the gentle readers of the various newsgroups
so named, and see what you think. There have been several things on my mind
recently, and I think they need to come to light (or Mite, as wee shall see).

Alpha. I am going blind, and have recently been informed that because of my
selection of 4-pica fonts for each and every terminal, workstation, and 
teletype that I work at during the day that my eyes are slowly elongating and
producing multiple focal points, thus requiring me to get glasses.

The lesson here, kids, is to use large screen fonts, even though they're 
annoying. But that's beside the point.

Beta. There are too many Blood Mites in the North American continent. I think
that we need to look at this phenomenon more closely as we rush headlong into
the 21st century, because along with an overpopulation of Blood Mites there
is sure to be somewhere an underpopulation of blood, a supply-and-demand
situation where the only winners are God and the dust from which we came. In
other words, as the Blood Mite position in North America grows stronger, the
ever-present supply of blood for said mites to feed upon will have to slowly
diminish. This is a problem.

And, Europe, don't think you're not vunerable, too. Blood Mites can and will
travel on boats and indeed aircraft up to 30,000 feet. An infestation is at
hand.

Iota. If anyone tries to tell me that "Gamma" was really supposed to come next
I will be upset.

I'm completely open to suggestions on what we can do about the named cruxen
above, and possibly some recipe ideas for my new Chia Herb Garden from the
good folks over at alt.pets.chia.

Thanks!

mdw

-- 
Matt Welsh     mdw@tc.cornell.edu     Cornell Theory Center
  "It's a Katana, ya Midwestern Computer Geek." --Tom Payne
From: cr614@cleveland.Freenet.Edu (Monee C. Kidd)
Newsgroups: alt.internet.services
Subject: finger
Date: 30 Dec 1992 18:40:37 GMT
Organization: Case Western Reserve University, Cleveland, Ohio (USA)
NNTP-Posting-Host: slc10.ins.cwru.edu


This may be a simple question, but what is the `finger' command?
I see it used in the same place as telnet or ftp.

Thanks
-- 
       "Whatever happened to Peace?"    -Eric B. & Rakim
     ********    This is our year - GO CAVS!!!    ********
                         ~ mc kidd ~
~ cr614@cleveland.freenet.edu ~ kidd47@wilma.wharton.upenn.edu ~ 
Newsgroups: alt.internet.services
From: steff@ims.uni-stuttgart.de (Stefan Momma)
Subject: Re: German language ftp/guides/indexes
Reply-To: steff@ims.uni-stuttgart.de
Organization: IMS, University of Stuttgart, Germany
Date: Fri, 1 Jan 1993 00:45:21 GMT


>>>>> On 26 Dec 92 12:27 PST, Institute for Global Communications <researchdesk@igc.apc.org> said:

HF> Does anyone know of ftp sites in the German-speaking countries?
HF> Are there any good German-language indexes or guides to the Internet?

There are too many of them to list all here.
Check out the ftp-server rusinfo1.rus.uni-stuttgart.de, which has a
selection of handbook like information brochures on verious aspects of
networking on the internet available. A first entry point might be the
directory /pub/info/allgemein/handbuecher. From there you will find
your way to the relevant pieces.

HF> I'm going to be teaching an Internet course at the University of
HF> Salzburg and would appreciate this information.  Thanks

HF> Howard Frederick, Institute for Global Communication Research Desk

Hope this helps.

Happy New Year

-- stefan momma

--
bits     : steff@ims.uni-stuttgart.de
ICBMs    : 48 46 36 N; 9 10 48 E; alt 245 m 
yells    : +49 711 121 1372 (-1366 if you can whistle G3)
sneakers : IMS-CL  Azenbergstrasse 12  7000 Stuttgart 1   FRG
Newsgroups: alt.internet.services
From: rnewman@nyx.cs.du.edu (Rick Newman)
Subject: Fantasy Football stats
Organization: Nyx, Public Access Unix @ U. of Denver Math/CS dept.
Date: Wed, 23 Dec 92 14:54:48 GMT


Looking for detailed, weekly, & timely NFL stats for use with Fantasy
Football league. Is such info available via anon FTP?
Please respond here or via email, if you prefer.
Thanks!!
Rick Newman
rnewman@nyx.cs.du.edu

Newsgroups: alt.internet.services