**************************************************************************** ### # # ### ##### ## # # # ## ## # # ### ##### ## ### ### # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #### ### # # # # # # # # # ## # #### ### # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # ### # ## # # # ## ## ## ### # # # # # ### ____________________________________________________________________________ # # ### #### # # #### # # ### #### ##### # # ##### #### # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #### ### ### ##### # # #### ##### # # ##### ### # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # ### ### # # # # #### # # ### # # # ##### ##### #### *****NUMBERS 136 TO 140***********BY DANIEL BOWEN (tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu)***** "Vegetarian Toxic Custard" ..... .... . . ..... . .... ..... . . . . . . . . Toxic Custard Workshop Files . . . . ... . .. ..... . . . . . . . . . . Number 136, 22nd February 1993 . .... . . . . .... .... written by Daniel Bowen WELL. After last week's rather un-worth-a-thousand-words-like picture, let's dredge up all the shit that was almost TCWF 135. MRS IRENE BUSYBODY SPEAKS OUT (A LITTLE LATE) ON... Valentine's Day. Well, I can see why they had a massacre that day. Probably a massacre of florists who had run out of roses. Actually, Fred managed to find me what he thought were roses. Problem is, Fred is colour blind. And has the gardening skills of a turd on heat. What he actually managed to give me was a marijuana plant. S i - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - d e We had a dinner party the other night. Unfortunately we w accidentally invited a vegan, so I gave him a carrot and told him to a eat it quietly in the corner. y Call me stupid if you wish. It's a free country (*). But what idiot s thought up the Imperial measuring system? Rather than milk this joke with rods, hands and perch's, I shall merely ask - why the difference m between a nautical mile and a normal average run-of-the-mill mile? Did e they think sailors could be fooled into sailing further? Did people s think something wasn't as far if they didn't have to walk? s a (*) Where available g e - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ? MR POPSICLE RETURNS - Part 14 W h With the end of this far too long Popsicle adventure very nearly in a sight, we now return to Popsicle, Inspector Unnecessary-Violence, and t fifty of their closest armed and dangerous buddies, who are set to blow the shit out of every living thing in the vicinity of their nemesis, s the most violent and dangerous Whelan brothers, who are suspected of i atrocities against large amounts of innocent money which was formerly d contained inside an armoured car on its way to a Sale Of The Century e recording session but which was intercepted by the aforementioned w villains before reaching its destination. Phew. This precis has been a entered in the 1993 Annual World Longest One Sentence Precis y Competition, to be held in Stratford in June. s With the Whelans, Mick and Donny, well-known for their violent tactics in dealing with their enemies, the media, visiting aristocracy m etc, and the Inspector and all the other Australian Royal Security e Establishment thugs being keen fans of Stallone movies, this s confrontation was going to be dangerous and bloody. Dangerous and s bloody, and yet strangely compelling and spectacular, with just a hint a of bloodlust. g The Inspector, under Popsicle's direction, made the first move, by e getting out the loud hailer and making the usual calm demands for ? surrender: "Yo!", began the Inspector, having watched Hill Street Blues the night before. "Yo, dirtbags! It's the pigs here! We've got a fucking huge load of guns and stuff, so just stay right there. We're coming in to blow your heads off." It surprised most of the ARSE entourage when another, louder hailer delivered the reply. "Over your fucking dead fucking bodies, coppers!" Popsicle ordered a more powerful loud hailer to be brought, and briefed the men in his usual highly cool way. "Kill 'em." He pulled aside one young protoge, a young agent who had recently joined ARSE. "What's your name?" "The name's Trouble. Dick Trouble", replied Trouble, who was doing very well in his Opening Lines course. "Okay Trouble. Do the usual sneak around behind the villains bit." With the other men in position, the Inspector was about to order them to open fire when the Whelans did so first. A row of bullets thudded into the command jeep the Inspector was directing things from. He dived from the back of the jeep into a convincingly placed pile of rotten potatoes as the jeep's petrol tank exploded, nicely frying the unfortunate driver. The Inspector, watching his precious "FUCKOFF" personalised number plates melting, vowed that not one villain would live to see the dawn, the next day, jail, court, parole, award winning interview on A Current Affair, sleazy story on Hard Copy, or best selling book of murder anecdotes. Pulling the rocket launcher he'd been saving out of his pocket, he aimed it at the warehouse and yelled an incomprehensible battle-cry, before running forward through the gates and aiming it in the direction of the gunfire. The ARSE men, returning fire also ran forward, a few of them being cut down by the Whelan's gunfire. Their armoured jackets pierced, they fell to the ground winded, unable to get up again, like tortoises on their backs. Dick Trouble managed to get mixed up in the crowd at this point, and his earlier introduction to the plot gets completely lost in the gratuitous violence, which continues now. The Inspector, still shouting his battlecry, fired the rocket launcher, and it shot from his shoulder into the building, which promptly exploded, to be captured by cameras from a number of different angles so it would look really spectacular. Debris flew in all directions, as you can imagine it would. Flames erupted around all corners of the building, shooting into the air, as remnants from the warehouse continued to fly out. (It was at this point that the old lady across the road elected to call the fire brigade.) Mick Whelan's head landed just next to Popsicle, still hanging around the gates trying to look cool. Most of Donny Whelan landed nearby to the Inspector, who proceeded to kick what was left beyond recognition, while ARSE men proceeded to set up a quick game of football with Donny's head. A few wily seagulls came down to pick at the brains which were coming out of ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Err, I think that's about enough from that Popsicle story. Villains defeated, story over, we can all go home, okay? Next week... more TCWF stuff. Dunno what, yet. You'll find that out next week. Back-issues can be obtained by ftp or by a mail server. For details, reply to this, or send mail to tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen -- Daniel Bowen, Melbourne, Australia| daniel@yoyo.cc.monash.edu.au------| I hate walking... it's so pedestrian. (but not for long)----------------| TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu | ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Sleepy Toxic Custard" ___ ___ ___ _____ |___ / \ / / | / \ / Toxic Custard | | \ / |__ | __/ / Workshop Files | | \ /\ / | | \ | - - - - - - - - \___ \___ \/ \/ | | \___/ | 1st March, 1993 NEXT WEEK IN TOXIC CUSTARD - Leaping over the fine line of bad taste, we talk to Eric Clapton after the tragedy of one of his Grammy's falling out of his apartment window - And we look at the new Philips Digital Compact Cassette - All the inconvenience and unreliability of a cassette, at the cost of a Compact Disc - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - We had a dinner party the other night. Unfortunately we accidentally invited a vegan, so I gave him a carrot and told him to eat it quietly in the corner. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Call me stupid if you wish. It's a free country (*). But what idiot thought up the Imperial measuring system? Rather than milk this joke dry with rods, hands and perch's, I shall merely ask - why the difference between a nautical mile and a normal average run-of-the- mill mile? Did they think sailors could be fooled into sailing further? Did people think something wasn't as far if they didn't have to walk? (*) Where available - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Do the Liberal Party really expect me to vote for an economist? - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Archaeologists claim today to have uncovered rare samples of electronic humour from the late 1980's. They were found whilst digging through a pile of floppy diskettes during the search for Brad Templeton's tomb. Amongst the gems found are old Rocket Roger episodes, several screensworth of Mike's Madness, Toxic Custard's from *before* the advent of that long Mr Popsicle adventure, and, most incredibly, an episode of Henry Cate's Funky Stuff which is believed to actually be original material. Early reports that the Green Golfball Joke had been found have now been denied. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Suddenly I found myself vanquished from the normal world. It just vanished before my very eyes, at least from my point of view. Everything vanished, and was replaced by void. Nothingness. For a few seconds. Then it began to appear... I had been transferred into a world without logic or sense, a world created by Arts students, or so it seemed. I was on a hillside field of bananas. Large cream jugs bounced by on their merry ways to what I presumed was a Large Cream Jug Convention. A vacuum cleaner sat nearby sucking up bananas, until the bananas objected. I started walking through the field, trying not to step on the bananas, especially the little ones. Some of them lay sunbaking, their skins beside them. I kept walking. The hill went up, and up, and up, and eventually the bananas were above me, as I walked upside down the way I'd came. Or something like that. The bananas decided to turn into melons around about now, which were rather more awkward to walk on. A chocolate bar passed the time of day, and suddenly the whole thing seemed a bit too silly, and I ended up back in reality, and out of the world that my brain had created. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ODE TO THE BODY O testicles, O testicles Thou art so round and firm But so deflated and wobbly After outpouring of sperm Armpit, yes my armpit With hairs all cropping down Keep nose away on a hot day Lest mouth turn to a frown Feet, two feet for walking With hearts, minds and soles Toenails, blisters, warts And on real bad days, moles Tongue, always waving Some can curl, some not Talking, tasting, licking Lips teeth nose and snot Meanwhile the nerve centre We sometimes call The Brain Is being prodded and poked Until declared insane And what do they all do? What does humanity create? What bodily substances Do spurt out day after day? Snot, saliva, sperm, Pus, blood, urine, Faeces, mucus, sweat Ear wax and nice spew ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ On that delightful note, Toxic Custard is thankfully over for another week. Unfortunately, it returns next week at around about the same time. Bummer. Meanwhile, TCWF back-issues are still available. Reply to this, or send mail to tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu for details. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen -- Daniel Bowen, Melbourne, Australia| LOST - Toxic Custard daniel@yoyo.cc.monash.edu.au------| sideways message. (but not for long)----------------| Answers to the name TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu | of "Verty". ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Toxic Custard's late again..." ___ __ _ _ ____ . __ __ / | \ / \ | | | /| / \ / \ | | | | |_ | __/ \__/ Toxic Custard Workshop Files | | | | | | | \ / \ Number 138 - 15th March 1993 .|. \__/ \/ \/ .|. .|. \__/ \__/ Written by Daniel Bowen..... **ALL NEW MATERIAL!** Everything has rules. The simplest things have complex rules that bind them, order them, and generally change them from the simple things they once were into much more complicated things, involving complex decision-making stressful experiences. Okay, so I'm walking down the street. Not a busy city street, but a quiet suburban street. Just got off the train, perhaps. There's someone only a few yards in front of me. Walking at about the same pace as me. And my paranoid brain clicks into gear: "*I* know I'm not following him..." (or her. And for a man, the paranoia doubles if he's just behind a woman). "But what if he thinks I *am* following him? Omigod, I've just turned into the same side street as him. Again. He thinks I'm a mugger. He thinks I'm a psychopathic evangelist about to save his soul and despatch him straight to heaven in one breath." So the brain works out the logic. And the conclusion: "If I overtake him while walking, it will prove to him that I'm not following/about to attack his goolies with a meat-cleaver/offering him a free personality test." And so my legs go into third gear as I try to veer around onto the nature-strip to overtake, all the while, scanning the radar for any concealed dog turds that have been conveniently left there by some uncaring bastard dog owner with his uncaring bastard dog, just waiting to add an interesting new aroma to my shiny(ish) new(ish) Florsheim shoes. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Spike was a man, rebellious at that When teenag-ed, he'd been a bit of a twat But now grown up, his mind in a funk He decided one day that he'd go punk So he cut away heaps from his fine mane And got a haircut to match his name Shitkicker boots and leather and studs Tattoos on his knuckles: "SHIT" and "MUD" But all the elation came down with a crash When he suddenly realised that he needed cash So for a day or three he stopped looking yob And valiantly tried to find a job He borrowed a suit and a nice loop tie Went to be interviewed in some building up high After training and uniforms, he was a new man And started his job - driving a tram. SPIKE... THE PUNK TRAM DRIVER Spike the tram driver is on my line He wears studs and earings all the time He has a nail on a piece of wood The schoolkids all stand when they should He swears and screams and foams at mouth He's the meanest tram driver in the eastern-south He's a history of arguments with trucks and cars If you don't believe it, see the scars Now the car drivers on route seventy-five Don't block Spike if they want to stay alive He nudges the cars into the left lane He'd swerve if he could rather than let them get away The wheels screech, people hold the rails As Spike does ninety down the 75 trail The tram's nose is burning a bright bright red The conductor's afraid he'll end up dead The tram is rattling like a DC10 Spike's got his foot right down and then... We skid to a halt and all is fine For tram 75 is at the end of the line. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The state environment minister announced today in a press conference that he'd had enough of environmental issues, and would be renaming the Ministry of The Environment "The Ministry For Building Big Grey Buildings, Freeways And Poisoning Baby Penguins". He explained that "environment" was far too wishy-washy for a real MAN like himself, and that he personally enjoyed bashing the brains out of small furry animals for a pastime, and that his own personal pick-axe could be inspected for blood stains if any of the vultures of the press would like to see it. The Minister then went on to use a black marker pen to indicate which 95% of the city's parks were to be bulldozed within 24 hours, the 5% which were to be bulldozed next weekend, the smog production factory which was to be opened next month, and the sudden realisation of the author of Toxic Custard that this was developing into something far too similar to an episode of The Goodies. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ You have been watching yet another one of the very many (and fast growing) numbers of Toxic Custards. Toxic Custards are now a recognised pest in most parts of Australia, and the government has now authorised the use of bazookas against them. A plague of old back-issues of Toxic Custards has now taken hold of the ftp sites of ftp.cs.widener.edu [192.55.239.132] and ftp.ee.mu.oz.au [128.250.1.80]. Toxic Custards have also been seen living in relative comfort in the confines of the mail server at Widener (send "help" or "index tcwf" to archive-server@cs.widener.edu for details). ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen -- Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre| If I got out of ------Telecom Australia, Burwood, Melbourne| the wrong side of dbowen@vcomtelb.telecom.com.au-------------| bed, I'd hit the ------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu| wall. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 139 "Barely Toxic Custard" There will be no Toxic Custard this week. There will be no Toxic Custard this week. There will be no Toxic Custard this week. There will be no Toxic Custard this week. There will be no Toxic Custard this week. - WHY NOT? There will be no Toxic Custard this week. There will be no Toxic Custard this week. - I SAID WHY NOT? There will be no Toxic Custard this week. There will be no Toxic Custard this week. - OI! WILL YOU FUCKIN' ANSWER ME? WHY NOT? Because I've been far too fucking busy this week at work. That's why not. There will be no Toxic Custard this week. There will be no Toxic Custard this week. - OH. OKAY. There will be no Toxic Custard this week. - I SUPPOSE THAT'S ALL RIGHT THEN. SEEMS FAIR ENOUGH TO ME. Oh for Chrissake. Look, you can have one item, and then I'll expect you to shut up! - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Surname please? - ERM, FRIEDGRASSHOPPER *Douglas* Friedgrasshopper? 24 Buffalodung Drive, South Molehillton? - YEAH. And have you voted already today? - YEAH. Okay, well here's your Senate voting paper and one for the House of Rep... pardon? - WELL, I MEAN. YEAH, I VOTED. You voted already? - YEAH. WELL, I VOTED FOR MY MATE. 'COS HE HAD A LONG NIGHT LAST NIGHT, AND THEY DON'T EXPECT HIM TO BE CONSCIOUS BEFORE TOMORROW, AND I DIDN'T WANT HIM TO GET FINED. THAT'D JUST ADD INSULT TO SERIOUS INJURY, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. Well I hardly think that makes a difference. You can't vote for someone else. He can vote absentee... - YEAH, BUT CAN HE VOTE UNCONSCIOUS? ANYWAY, I KNEW HOW HE WAS GOING TO VOTE. "EXTREME LUNATICS FRINGE WHO WANT TO MINE THE RAINFORESTS AND KILL THE DOLPHINS AND FEED THEM TO THE RICH" PARTY. HE ALWAYS DOES. That makes no difference. Voting for someone else is against the law, and a heavy penalty will be enforced. - OH. WELL. SO WHAT HAPPENS NOW THEN? Well, I think unless the author has any more ideas, we finish up right around about here. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen. Though I don't know why he bothered. -- Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre| ------Telecom Australia, Burwood, Melbourne| I'm allergic to dbowen@vcomtelb.telecom.com.au-------------| the western suburbs. ------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu| ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Tried and true Toxic Custard" -------- ----- / / ---- Carefully sculpted / ---- / / / / / / / / by Daniel Bowen / / / / / /--- / ---/ / / / --- /-/-/ / / / ---- TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES #140 - 22nd of March 1993 It is sometimes surprising, nay devastating that what we laughably, even grudgingly entitle "life" can be so widely varied. What am I on about? Well, to be perfectly honest, I'm far from certain. The manifestations of life come in many... manifestations. And if you don't think that's true, then that's your decision, and I for one would support you for that decision, no matter how petty minded and moronic the brain behind it. We do, after all, have minds. Well, most of us do. And it is this fact that is often forgotten when we don't. But the very uncertainty of where this paragraph is going does tend to worry many people in society. There are those who theorise about its inherent usefulness, and other, perhaps wiser souls who theorise about its inherent uselessness. But useful or useless, one cannot deny that it *is*. Well certainly I can't deny that it *is*, but then to my mind the one thing that *isn't* is not something which can be explained away by a crack-pot theory like existence. And yet I can feel the very fervour of all those people who want to rebel against all this. They want to say "what the fuck is this idiot Bowen drivelling about now". And I support that too. For it is those feelings that for me give new meaning to the word "oblong". I thank you all. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - THE TOXIC CUSTARD INTERVIEW - HRH QUEEN ELIZABETH II TCWF: Hiya Betty. QE2: [Patronising smile of the type directed at spastic children in a sheltered home during a royal visit] TCWF: Hiya. Tell me, in all your monarchical duties, what's the most enjoyable thing you do? QE2: Well, I suppose it would have to be all the activities with horses. I just love horses. I cried when I saw The Black Stallion, you know. TCWF: I can believe it. Tell me, what do you think of the allegations in the popular press that you have been having regular sexual relations with horses since your early teens? And that members of the royal family going back to Charles The First regularly had horses as secret visitors to the palace chambers at all hours of the night and day. And of the suggestion that Henry The Eighth's fourth wife was in fact named "Trotter", a 5 year-old mare, the beheading of whom actually inspired that scene in the Godfather... QE2: Erm well, I... you do seem to have your finger quite on the pulse... TCWF: And further more, what do you say to the claims by a "Sun" photographer that he has a colour photograph of you in the Buck House gardens performing fellatio with a Stallion named "Big Boy"? QE2: Good God. Well, I would challenge you to produce that picture. TCWF: Certainly. Here it is. QE2: Ah, Well. Now look, this is a gross invasion of privacy. TCWF: But your comment on the picture and the allegations themselves? QE2: Well I would refer you to a sermon by the Archbishop of Canterbury last month, when he read from Psalms chapter 149:- 6 Let the high praises of horse be in their mouth, and a twoedged wanger in their hand... - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - MRS IRENE BUSYBODY SPEAKS OUT ON... Competitions. What a load of crap they are. What do you really think the chances of winning one of those ocean liner cruises on a condemned ship with 200 elderly German tourists is? 300,000,000 to 1? And for this, some company that makes devilled spam really think we're going to rush out and buy their product? Too right. Well, it seems to work. They've got us conned into buying 700 cheese slices to win a $4 Lego toy. Then there's the scheme to get everyone to eat so much Sultana Bran that they have to buy double the normal amount of toilet paper, just to win a coffee maker - when half of them probably don't drink coffee anyway. And besides that, what's so special about South Australians that they don't have to buy the product to enter? Those gits can just send in a drawn replica of the packet... Any logic? Please??? I've gone right off competitions ever since I won $50 in Tattslotto last week. At first, I was rapt. $50! It was only after collecting my prize from the newsagent that I suddenly realised that this was the first fucking prize I'd ever won in Tattslotto, and that to win it, I'd actually spent around $500 in tickets over ten years! Still, it's all relative. A old lady neighbour of mine (a nosy old bitch if you ask me, always poking her nose in. And her with *that* problem at home...) bought tickets every week, year in, year out, same numbers every time. Jeez, you'd think after twenty years of not winning more than $5 on the same numbers you'd give up and try some other bloody numbers! Anyway, last January, she bought her ticket as normal on the Wednesday when she went shopping. And come Saturday, the numbers were drawn, and by Christ, I swear, every number came up! Every single fucking number! With a $3 million prize-pool! A fortune to be had! Only problem was, she'd died in her sleep on Friday night. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Your eyeball(s) have been privileged to have been viewing another Toxic Custard. If any other parts of your body would enjoy relations with a pert, succulent Toxic Custard back-issue, you might like to reply to this message, or email tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu for details. And I promise I'll update the TCWF ftp sites soon, guys! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen -- Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre| WHY DID THEY BOTHER... ------Telecom Australia, Burwood, Melbourne| to put the drum machine dbowen@vcomtelb.telecom.com.au-------------| all over that Sonia Dada ------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu| song? ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ the Toxic Custard Workshop Files by Daniel Bowen, Melbourne, Australia Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen. May be freely distributed without profit provided this notice remains intact. For subscription information, contact tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu