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Issue Message
(RevBade) |
Issue
Message
(by RevBade)
So then, It’s the start of 1998, and what have we all got to look forward to? Finals. Those painful little things that take up so much of our time and brain power. Most of us have been through finals before, and know what to expect. The Freshmen though, eh.. they wont be quite as well prepared. Either they will study like mad from now till finals, forgetting all about that thing called a social life, or they will blow it off except for an hour the night before. Either way they’ll probably be screwed. I suppose though that is what comes with being a freshman. We all have to go through it at one time or other.
Most of you are probably expecting me to rip on "The Alternator", but (gasp) I’m not going to. No, the people running it have said nothing bad about The Plug, and I have no preexisting grudge against them, so I’ll keep my mouth shut (for the time being at least). I do have to give them credit for getting that first issue out. Whether they will have a second or not I do not know. Not to put them down in any way whatsoever, but I think they are discovering that it is not as easy as it would seem to put together one of these on such a regular bases.
Things around the school are starting to pick up, and I am thinking that the next few issues of The Plug will be interesting ones. There are a lot of people out there who are starting to voice their opinions more, and I am going to make sure they are heard.
Dharma
Train
(by Masked)
The beige wheat stalks surrounded my spot under the ancient, twisted oak. I sat quietly, enjoying the scented air of the country noon. The sky soared above me in brilliant blues, marred by only faint white scrapes of clouds. I stared ahead of me, entranced by the gentle waving of the wheat in the warm breeze.
A far away sound caught my attention. I awoke from my lazy, waking dream and looked toward the dusty road, and down it, to the south. It stretched from the great southern planes all the way to the forests of the north, and passed within only a few meters of where I sat.
Above the mesmerizing sound of cicadas, I could hear a pulsating thunder, as if a mighty army was coming down the road.
I closed my eyes and listened to the sound, let myself be dissolved into its tidal beats. I discerned that it was not one, but many.
Some laden with heavy goods, some laden with only their meager possessions. I let my mind wander around their possessions, seeing in it many wonderful things.. Masks and banners, golden statues..
Their sound boomed in my ears, and I knew they were very near, they would soon be directly before me, parading by. I opened my eyes and turned them towards the bend in the road in anticipation.
The first ones were solemn, and marched silently, bearing magnificent flags on five meter staffs. The flags were all bright crimson, each with a different pattern. One had a black circle in the centre, and a stylized picture of The Buddha. Another had the wheel of life in black- outlined gold, which seemed to spin infinitely. Yet another contained a number of characters which I didn't recognize, but I surmised where some sort of blessing. The flag carriers wore orange temple robes which whipped around them in the breeze and the wind created by their marching.
Next came old ones. They wore pure, blindingly white robes of some heavy fabric. Young aids dressed in orange attended them, transferring messages between them, bringing them water, and helping them along the rough road. One old woman, whose hair was as white as her robe, and skin as dark and leathery as her sandals, but whose brown eyes sparkled brightly, turned and looked at me as she passed, and smiled knowingly for a moment, before being obscured by a dust cloud and passing from my sight.
Immediately following the elders came a huge gilded Buddha, born by many young orange-robed men. It was simple and unadorned, placidly sitting atop its platform, gazing ahead silently, its hands turned up in a mediative posture. Its bearers grunted and heaved it along, somehow. I let my eyes rest on the Buddha for a long time as it passed, and contemplated its simple form. I turned my attention to those carrying it below. They seemed so small in comparison, and yet, each one was important to its continued motion.
I let my mind wander again, as more passed. Some were carrying objects of great beauty: a silver gong with red tassels, smaller Buddhas, poles with gohei or small banners or feathers; some carried scrolls and books; some packs of food.
A boy, about, 15 with innocent brown eyes and short, brown hair left a group that were walking together and came over to me to sit down silently next to me. I looked at him and smiled. He smiled back. We sat together for a while as the parade continued to stretch on.
Gradually, those wearing orange robes thinned out and gave way to those wearing more normal clothing; whole families marched lazily along, following the gleaming form of the huge Buddha, and the orange-robed ones.
The boy, seeing his comrades pass on, stood up and dashed to the road; he glanced at me one last time with his soft brown eyes before running up the line and out of my view.
Eventually, even the hangers-on thinned out, so only a few stragglers remained. The thunder of footsteps gradually lessened in my ears, and the cicadas began to dominate my hearing again with their mesmerizing song.
As the very last of the train passed from my view, I felt profoundly quiet inside, and I returned to staring ahead at the wheat waving in the warm breeze, as the clouds of dust began to settle.
Billy's
Family
(by Identity0)
Billy felt a bit cheated.
Peter Jennings, the news guy on ABC, had said that the "Average Family" was worth $4,000 more than it was 3 years ago, up to $56,400.
Billy had only gotten $51,000 from the Mr. Caldwell, to whom he had sold his mom, dad, two sisters, one brother, and the family dog. That, Billy thought, must be more than the "Average Family", whatever that is.
When asked, Mr. Caldwell would only say that he was going to use them as "hamster catchers", so he couldn't pay too much for them; Billy countered by saying that the price of hamsters had gone up, so he could easily pay full price for Billy's family.
Little Billy was getting tired of arguing, however, and one day he simply said to Mr. Caldwell that all he wanted was $2,000 more and one of his sisters back, the really pretty one Billy had a crush on. Mr. Caldwell quickly gave Billy what he wanted, glad to be able to go back to a quiet life overseeing hamster catchers and not having to haggle with pesky kids for pay.
Billy was satisfied too, because after he got his sister and $2,000, he sold the car, the house, and everything in it, and ran off to the Bahamas with his sister, who, except for the emotional damage and fits of terror whenever the word "hamster" was mentioned, was fine. They bought a house by a beach, married, and lived happily ever after, in a hamster-free environment.
The
Story of my Life
(by Callan Sullivan)
One day Gumby went out walking and stopped in a part of the park where there were motorized robot ducks. One of Gumby's favourite things was to piss on the ducks and watch as they sparked and crackled, quacking in frantic electronic orgasmics, waddling around until they fell over. Gumby had just reached down to begin this process by untying the knot he made routinely in his penis when he discovered to his mild annoyance that his testicles were missing. "Oh dear, where are my testicles?" Gumby asked the waddling quacking sparking electronic ducks that often ended up covered with his semen for the simple reason that he knew being pissed on got the ducks off, and it was such a pleasure to see them getting off emitting Yoko-Ono-esque electronic roars and squalls and "eating" noises that he himself made a sound like a blizzard inside a cotton sock and began ejaculating madly. The semen-coated ducks would then in turn become a touristy junk-food delicacy much like ballpark franks or sno-cones. "Hey, wanna Gumby-cum-covered robotic duck?" fathers would ask their sons as they strolled through the park possibly walking a dog with a human head but usually just a dog, not that it was always possible to tell the difference. "yeah yeah!" the tykes would say, displaying what had to be an immense knowledge of their own stereotyped image by jumping up and down with enough grabbing hand motions. The thick semen crust more often than not ended up "more in their shirt than in their mouth," or would have except for the fact that the tykes very rarely had either shirt or skin.
An old man sitting on a park bench digging into a bag and bringing out condoms to feed the misty-eyed congregations of begging squirrels, which went away with the contraceptive devices in their puffy cheeks, seemed to be covered with small unseemly pink lumps of clay. Gumby espied this and decided to risk being cut in half by tiny UFOs from the man's anus to take a look.
"Excuse me, aren't those my testicles?" Gumby asked politely. The squirrels, cheeks bulging with condoms, scattered quickly.
The man looked up. Gumby had been wrong about the number of anuses; two bulged sightlessly from where the old man's eyes might have been. But there is an old saying that the clean, decent anus sees more in a day than the eyes see in a lifetime.
"ya sckum-suckin'shit drug dealer o' Corvallis!!!!" the man yelled at one of the squirrels, who had put a condom on and was masturbating wildly, flaunting a phallus which he had reason to pride; it was fully half a foot long. the other squirrels were congregated about it in admiration. He (the man (or was he an emu? such details seem unimportant now)) then turned to gumby, the anuses glowing brightly.
"So, ye want ye're testes back, do ye?" the man said in a mickey mouse voice. The writer of this story looked out the window to his right and saw an apocalyptic outside. It looked as if god had come all over the sky behind the courthouse. "Ye kin have em bak, on one kondition."
"What's that?"
"You must go to the moon, but the moon must be up your ass. You must send little men to explore it, you must go on a quest for visions on the moon, you must be frozen solid by the rolling medusa-head that lurks there on nights when your inner beamforce has silenced and the crowd stares on at you in the desert with dead approval."
"Very Well."
"Set not out on this lightly, boy. The moon must have what it deserves. From those fields at night may you see that be you even blind. The things that streak overhead are not there for no reason, even if we may not understand the reason with the blunt tool of our consciousness. In another time, another world, at night, you thought to yourself, "hey! I'm Claymation!" I can make as many testicles as I want!" But now they rot on me. Testicles are dry. Despite biology's mandate, do you really want to be a testicles, or will you reach for something more? But there is no desert like this one, so stop yapping and send your moon, and i will give you the testicles here and now which are rightfully yours."
"Okay."
"And be careful. They talk. They bounce."
"Gumby left the old man behind. Night had fallen, and blight was creeping in from the walled city. Inner and outer, it was all walls. He stared down at the textbooks in the light of the laughing insane moon. his testicles were poka-dot and pink and had little mouths that were opening and closing rapidly and cutely."WHAT HAS HE DONE TO MY PAINT JOB???!!!!!" Gumby cried out anguishedly in the broken night.
A Life
Less Ordinary
(by Demosthenese)
Do you ever dream of a life lived in greatness? Of changing the world? of living with the knowledge that you made a difference, and that, should our pale friend death grasp you in it's cold arms, you might know that you have kilved your life for a cause? To know that, once that your course here is finished, and you face your god or any other that you may tell them that you lived your life and the things you did were done in honest belief of trust and friendship and the chasing of a dream. and should they tell you that it was just a dream you sowed in the soul of those that followed you in pursuit of you folly, and that they were wrong, then you will spit in their faces and deny them for your dream!
Might we all live a life in the pursuit of an ideal? Some will tell you yes, that any and all may worship at the feet of purpose and feel the righteousness of a cause that sits right with them in the recesses of their soul. but others will tell you that this is all a dreamers folly. that you are no more then the smallest of the cogs in the wheel of larger people's larger ambitions. that the great deeds done will be accomplished by others and the only thing that may result from such fancies is a penniless death.
Well, i tell you to spit in the faces of those that would hold you from a dream! i tell you now, in these pages, that should you falter on your on path to greatness, then you shall never find your way back, and you will hate yourself like so many millions do. you will loath the knowledge that you might very well have accomplished a piece of human history and been remembered for a deed done in the pursuit of justice and the betterment of the human condition, but for a single reason, your own lack of courage, determination and stregth, you failed to achieve more then an ampartment in the middle of town and a sporty car to haul your children around in.
I know people will read my words and scorn them for the fanciful musings they are, but to them i stopped speaking long ago. i speak now to the few that will see what i lay down now and not be cowwed by thoughts of failure. i speak to those that know in the most sacred parts of their hearts and minds that they have a cgreater cause to which others will rally. i speak to those that see the world, not as american or japanese. Not as teenager or adult and certainly not as rich, poor, us, them, i speak to the ones with wider vision. the peolpe who can see beyond their pety ambitions and take in even a measure of the world around them, and i rally them to their respective causes. i call to you to never let your dream's fade! i beseech you, now, to fan the flames of your desires, and to never surrender your fancifull notions of what might be set right, if only others might dare to dream with you.
Studboy's
Guide to Underground Papers
(by Studboy)
Word up G homes, dis time iz ots dis rag dat beat da shit outa da plug, itz called 'Yo Momma wit Studboy' an I writes it wit mah pencil but deres be only one copy ah dis rag cus I gots no cash an copy da paper by hand an I too busy bein cool ta make more copies but yo momma does it kick da plug's sorry ass. Ya should just forget about makin yo own papah 'cuz mine rules all da papahs. Yo.
A Bunch of Screwy
Students
(by Wintermute)
Why would the school be missing screws might you ask? There is a better reason behind the dismantling of CHS, it is the symptom of the problems with public schools. More and more, the bright students are made to feel bored in school and made to turn to other pastimes to fill their time. No one is REALLY encouraging people to think in the schools, let alone the educators. They have promoted the dumb above the intelligent, I challenge any one of them to dispute this if they are honest with themselves!
So a group of students, who shall remain mostly anonymous, but who know who they are and can take pride in it, have taken to dismantling the school. By insulting us, they have asked for us to take apart their precious school. Not just the minor things, but we are outright creating problems for those who have undermined our real education. If you're doubting that the teachers have done a beautiful job of preventing us, then try to go ahead, and you'll find you cannot. Nor is extra effort appreciated enough. When a student understands something and is held back because the others are slower, then education has failed.
This is a call to everyone who is frustrated with the teachers. Grab a screw driver and take apart the school! There are already a number of us, if more join, then it will come apart. Asking them to get their act together hasn't worked, so let's put it another way to them. Already hundreds of screws have been 'liberated' from CHS, let's add more! And for all the faculty reading this and merely getting angry with us, remember, we are laughing at you. Ha ha ha ha.
"In the age of super-boredom, hype and
mediocrity,
Celebrate relentlessness, menace to society!" - KMFDM
Screw You, Dickman!
(by Locke)
Have you noticed that the school seems to be falling apart? Well, that is because there is a group of students taking it apart! That's right! We few, we proud, have taken light switch plates, electrical plug covers, door panels, hinges, signs, and screws from every which thing! Dismantling the school is fun! I know that there is another group or group of individuals out there doing the same, as I have noticed many other things being dismantled as well. To you who do this I say "keep up the good work!"
And now a message to campus support - "hehehe you will never catch me!" A quote from a little known music group comes to mind - "You break my back, you won't break me, all is black, but I still see." Ha. You know, if this school wasn't so damned crappy we might have better things to do than dismantle it. Our classes move at the pace of snails and our teachers have less intellect than some of the students. The very core of
the problem is not destructive students, but stupid faculty! Kunke himself is one of the worst of them all, he pretends to be nice to you, but it is only skin deep. His facade is painfully obvious. He is the type of "fake person" that plagues our society today. He tries far to hard to be nice to everyone and in the process proves to be the most superficial person on the entire faculty! Our work is a physical reflection of the intellectual decay of the school! I could go on and on about the sickness that plagues our school. Intellect is looked down upon even by the teachers, when they recognize a truly intelligent individual in their class they make every effort to make life extra tough on them. They find it entertaining to subscribe extra "pencil pushing" to see if they can get the students who don't need to do any to crack, and sometimes it works (a friend of mine has just given up, one of the smartest damned people I know).
Ah, a fine example of a terrible teacher is Mrs. Kalk. I shudder just thinking of the woman. She thinks that it would be fun to give meaningless titles to simple, self evident concepts and ask students to memorize them. She is an excellent example of a teacher with nothing better to do than attempt to damage the minds of incoming freshmen. Is this malice maybe a product of budget cut backs and disillusionment? Quite frankly I don't really care. I just care that she, along with many other teachers (all the teachers I have had, save Mr. Canan), is ruining the students of our school.
Our staff is a degenerate bunch of nihilists looking for nothing but the disillusionment and decay of the students of our school.
"I killed the king of deceit
Now I sleep in anarchy"