You'd have to be really twisted to understand **************************************************************************** ### # # ### ##### ## # # # ## ## # # ### ##### ## ### ### # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #### ### # # # # # # # # # ## # #### ### # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # ### # ## # # # ## ## ## ### # # # # # ### ____________________________________________________________________________ # # ### #### # # #### # # ### #### ##### # # ##### #### # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #### ### ### ##### # # #### ##### # # ##### ### # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # ### ### # # # # #### # # ### # # # ##### ##### #### ***************************THE BACK ISSUES********************************** *************************EPISODES ONE TO FIVE******************************* (Written by Daniel Bowen, Monash University, Melbourne Australia) ______________________________________________________________________________ PART ONE - 12/8/90 In the beginning was the writing. But it was dark, and no-one could read it, so the author decided to write the start again. In the beginning there was a light. But lo, the Lord did try the switch and it did not work. And so the Lord did say unto Adam: "Thou must travel down the 7-11 for a globe." And Adam did hear the Lord, and did do his bidding. The journey across the road was long, and dangerous, but Adam did walketh up to the traffic lights. And he did presseth the button, and lo! The traffic did part down the middle. And Adam did crosseth in peace. And Adam did enter the temple of 7-11, and he did consult the holy one, "Dost thou have a light-globe?" And lo! They were down the back on the bottom shelf. Adam did findeth the globes, and yea, he was shocked at the price, and there was a great wailing, and gnashing of teeth. But it was too early to go to the supermarket, for it was only the first day, and the Lord had not got round to creating them yet. So he did buyeth the amazing globe on plastic. And did he make the long trek back unto the place of the Lord, and the Lord did say "Thanks very much, but it was the fuse." But suddenly, there was darkness again, for the Lord had forgotten to pay the bill. And Adam did look to the heavens in despair, and walked down the corridor into another joke. The corridor was long, and full of hidden dangers. And as Adam continued down it, he realised, from looking at his new wrist-watch, that he was late for the next spoof. Adam, being a student of life, knew that it had to be set in a school. But what was happening to him? He looked up, and realised that the author was just trying to fill in time. He was using ADAM to link to the next stack of jokes! But when would the new spoof start? The author grinned, gazing into his word-processor. "Only another few lines to go", he thought, as he continued to type his glorious prose into the keyboard. Adam had come to a doorway. Not any old doorway though. This one had a door in it. Adam pulled the axe from his hither-to unwritten about knapsack, and broke the door down. Bursting into the room, he spotted his foe, and with one swing of his axe, took the man's head offffffffffJKRY&%" @@s:{}``} OH DEAR. THE AUTHOR SEEMS TO HAVE HAD HIS HEAD CUT-OFF BY A MAN WHO HAS JUST COME THROUGH THE DOOR. WHAT WILL HAPPEN NOW? IS IT REALLY THE END OF 'THE TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES'? NOT ON YOUR LIFE MATEY. STAND-BY FOR THE SECOND INSTALLMENT... COMING SOON TO A MAINFRAME ACCOUNT NEAR YOU. ______________________________________________________________________________ Oh no, not another installment of ____ __ ____ ___ __ __ __ __ __ __ _ / /__/ /_ / / / \/ / / / / / /_ / /_/ /_/ / \ / / / /__ / /__/ /\ / \__ \__ \_/ __/ / / / / \ /__/ ___ __ ___ __ __ __ __ __ / / / / / /_/ /_/ /__ /__/ / / /_/ /_ / / /_ /__ /_/_/ /__/ / \ / \ ___/ / / /_/ / / / /__ /__ __/ B Y - M R - L U X U R Y - Y A C H T - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - P A R T - T W O - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 1 5 - A U G - 1 9 9 0 Adam Cohen looked up. He could see the words "Part Two" scrawled across the wall. Obviously, the author (whom he had just killed), had regenerated. But it was worse. Now he was doing really crappy titles made out of back slashes. Adam made his way back out the door, into the corridor. He put his axe back into his bag, and walked round the corner to his maths class. * * * Mr. Stickleback stalked down the corridor. As he turned the corner, two uniformed students ran past him. He cleared his throat, and they immediately slowed to a brisk walk. Arriving at the door, he checked his tie, then burst into the room. Inside the room, the students were standing around, talking to one another. As their teacher came in, they began to move to their places. As if being pleased to have caught them not sitting, Stickleback shouted short loud orders. "Right! - Sit! Get your books out. Cohen, do up your tie properly." The students began to sit down at their desks, carefully balancing their books so that none fell off. Some stragglers failed to comply in time, and he screamed at them, as he always did. "Sit!!" The pupils began to think of the many other places they would prefer to be, as he spoke rapidly. "Now, before I begin the lesson I must reprimand you over your behaviour. While I realise that this is a co-educational establishment, you must realise that members of the contradictory gender sitting together is just not on. And I don't want to see it happening again. "Now!" he continued, "Homework. If I remember correctly it was to memorise Pi - that's the ratio of a circle's circumference to its diameter - to the 75th decimal place. Well now - who's done it? Well? Anyone?" Spadger, sitting near the back, was listening to this, and thinking, "Oh please God, don't let him ask me..." "What about Spadger?" Spadger stood up. "Err... no, sorry sir.", he said. "Thanks a lot," he thought silently. The teacher reacted to this. "'No sorry sir'?", he mimicked. "What do you mean, 'No sorry sir'? I'll give you 'no sorry sir'." He pointed to the door and sent Spadger out. "Report to the torture chamber, now!" The rejected student walked out of the room, shuffling his feet. Meanwhile, Mr. Stickleback continued at the same fast pace. "Now, in today's lesson, we shall be studying the use of calculus when using the wave harmonic theory of historical perception - and its applications in working out the brand of washing powder to buy. So in this way..." He was slowing down now, not really paying attention to what he was saying, moving stealthily towards one of the front desks; where one of the girls appeared to be sleeping; carrying his ever-present metre-long ruler. "... you can work out which breakfast cereal powder is - the - really - good - buy." He stopped, brought the ruler down loudly on the desk, and spoke quietly. "O'Donald? Are you listening?" There was no response. He spoke loudly now. "Come on girl - sit up! I - hello?" There was still no answer, so he bellowed. "Can - you - hear - me?!̃Hello?!" As there was still no sign of life, he prodded her with the ruler, and came to a conclusion. "Oh. She's dead." He pointed the ruler at a couple of nearby unfortunates. "You and you, put her in the incinerator, will you?" They could not refuse. "Yes sir." With some difficulty, they carried the corpse out. The teacher called after them. "Oh, and you may as well go to the detention room afterwards. Now where was I?... Ah yes." He began to write various mathematical gobbledygook on the blackboard as he spoke. "Now, first we must realise how the ratio of the primary factor to the third sequential lobster in this random geometric sequence divided by that lobster there will result in the indexed logarithm of the quotient. Nod your heads." at this point, someone queried him. "Yes Hayes?" "Sir, what's lobster got to do with this problem?" "Lobster?! What are you talking about? Report to the guillotine. Now - where was that formula I was going to ... what was it", he pondered. By this time, the remaining students were looking completely bewildered. WHAT HAS MR. STICKLEBACK FORGOTTEN? WILL THE MATHS CLASS BE LIBERATED BEFORE LUNCHTIME? WILL THE WRITING OF THIS STUFF IMPROVE BY THE NEXT EPISODE? WILL THE FIRST WORD OF THE NEXT SENTENCE BEGIN WITH 'W'? NO. IS ANYBODY STILL READING THIS SHIT? WHAT'S THE POINT OF WRITING IT? WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE? WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'FORTY-TWO'? WHY DOESN'T THIS THING FINISH? THE ANSWER TO ALL THESE QUESTIONS AND LESS... IN PART THREE... COMING UP AFTER THE NON-TEACHING WEEK ______________________________________________________________________________ Here's a double helping of ___ ___ __ __ | | | | | | | | H E | O X I C | U S T A R D | | | O R K S H O P |_ I L E S | | |__ |_|_| | _ ___ |_| A R T | H R E E 2 7 / 8 / 9 0 | | _ _ _ | | | R I T T E N |_| Y | | | R . | U X U R Y - |_| A C H T |_|_| |__| | | | |_ | Rocket Roger whipped out his gun out, faster than a cheetah wearing "go-faster" stripes. In less time than it takes an ant to do a push-up, he had shot down the huge oncoming alien monster. He dashed over to the fallen figure of the princess, and put his hand firmly on her ... OH SORRY, WE SEEM TO HAVE PICKED UP THE WRONG PLOT-LINE. I THINK THIS BELONGS TO SOME POXY SPACE SAGA, SET WHEN MEN WERE REAL MEN ETC. ANYWAY, BACK TO THE STORY .... medical supplies. NO, NO THE TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES STORY. Oh sorry. Back to the maths class. Stickleback, obviously having forgotten what he was going to do, resorted to memory exercises at this point. He put his ruler on the desk, walked over to the blackboard, and hit his head violently against it several times. The pupils ceased to look bewildered and began to look bored. After a while Stickleback stopped, having remembered. "Ah yes. Now." He rubbed off the board, and started to write extremely complicated formulae, very messily, in the hand of one who is writing with a broken arm, all over the board. He stopped, looked casually over his shoulder and said quietly, "All right. Copy this down." Moving back to his enormous desk, he pressed a button on his stop-watch, and began timing thirty seconds on it. It was one of those really neat stop-watches which could tell you the time in twenty different places around the world, and, if you were lucky, where you were as well. Just another little labour-saving device, which could aid one in the enjoyment of life. His mind moved on to food, and that delicious lobster he had had the previous night. Meanwhile, the class were writing furiously into their notebooks. The thirty seconds was finally up. "Right - that's enough time", said the teacher. There was a protest. "But sir -". He shrugged it off. "Quiet! Another word from you and I'll have you all executed. Now!" Without another word, he rubbed the board off completely and began to write the numbers from one to ten, pausing and looking thoughtful between six and seven. "Right!" he continued. We're going to learn something new! This is a very complicated non-algebraic mathematical integral notation, which we shall learn sequentially, known as counting." "We've done this before", called out Cohen, a rather outspoken individual, a quality which never brought him good luck at school. He seemed to think he was special just because he had been in all the episodes of 'The Toxic Custard Workshop Files' so far. "Shut up!! You!" Stickleback was pointing. "Go and muck-out the principal's office!" Yet again Cohen was being kicked out of maths into another joke. Someone else joined in the protest. "But sir -" "You too! You're right - we've done this before - last week I believe. It doesn't matter though. We'll revise it. You start Bradley!" "One", replied the ever-keen Bradley, ready for any challenge. "Um... yes", confirmed the learned teacher, checking his notes. "Two", called out the next person. "Right" "Three" "Right. You next Heazlewood", said the teacher. But Heazlewood, a rather lazy student - and, in the circumstances, suicidal - had not been listening, something that Stickleback didn't particularly like. "What?" Stickleback, alert as ever, looked up. "I beg your pardon?", he said. "Sorry?", said Heazlewood, still wondering what was going on. By this time, however, Stickleback knew exactly what was going on, and reacted to it in his normal manner. "Do you mean you haven't been listening?!?" he screamed. "Get up! We've been doing a complex oral exercise, and you haven't been listening?!? You little ... I'll have you whipped for this!!! You stinking pile of ..." At this point, his words became rather obscured, as two men in white coats rushed in and grabbed him, managing to stuff something down his throat as one of them spoke. "All right Mr. Stickleback - it's time for your pills now." Within seconds, they had gone again, and Stickleback was left alone at the front of the room, feeling his throat. An odd-sounding grunt came from his throat, and then he was back to normal. "Erg... now! Heazlewood - out!" WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT? WILL THE PILLS STUFFED DOWN MR.STICKLEBACK'S THROAT CAUSE HIM TO CHOKE, GASP FOR BREATH AND COLLAPSE IN A HEAP ON THE FLOOR? OR WILL THE CHEMICALS IN THE PILLS CAUSE AN EMOTIONAL REACTION, CAUSING HIM TO VISIT A PSYCHIATRIST, WHICH IS ANOTHER JOKE ALTOGETHER. OR PERHAPS NOTHING LIKE THAT WILL HAPPEN. WELL, YOU'RE ABOUT TO FIND OUT ACTUALLY, BECAUSE THE AUTHOR, IN HIS EXTREMELY FINITE WISDOM, HAS DECIDED TO MAKE THIS A DOUBLE LENGTH T.C.W.F., TO MAKE UP FOR THE LOSS OF IT DURING THE NON TEACHING WEEK HERE AT MONASH. SO, ENOUGH OF THESE SUPERFLUOUS CAPITAL LETTERS. AND BACK TO THE DYNAMIC, ORIGINAL, REFRESHING AND EVER SO SILLY STORY. Mr Stickleback was in a minor carpet-eating rage by now. But he decided to save it for when the poor defenceless students wouldn't be expecting it. Kick them when they're down... He headed for his desk, picking a piece of paper on it. "I have a message from your English teacher, Mr. Maniac. He says that your homework is to memorise 'Macbeth' word for word. And you are to recite it to him tomorrow." Just then, he saw something in the corner of his eye. He pointed to it. "You! Using a calculator! Right - you can have lines tonight. I want you to write out 'I must not use a calculator in Maths' seven million times." "Now sir?" Stephens, the culprit asked. "No! Not now - do it at lunchtime. That'll give you plenty of time to..." At that point, he was interupted by a P.A. announcement. He turned to face the loud-speaker, stood rigidly before it and saluted. Static emanated, and a distant voice came forth. A telephone rang urgently in the background. "Err... announcements for tomorrow: Executions will be at dawn. Torture Group One at nine o'clock, and Torture Group Two at nine-thirty." When the announcement had finished, Stickleback relaxed. "Stand at ease", he said, as he began to pace around the room, only to be interupted by another announcement, at which he again saluted the loudspeaker. "Oh and Mr. Sadist, could you please return my horse-whip to me sometime today?" The teacher again relaxed. "Right you lot - get on with your work." The students all looked busy working, but Stickleback began to nod off. After all, he had had a long day, and was getting tired. Wouldn't the school run smoother, he thought, if it had no students... Two students, next to each other, noticed this, and one began to lean over to the other to say something. Suddenly the teacher's arm sprang up and pointed to the door. The hand connected to the arm clicked its fingers, and the first student left the room. Another teacher entered, and all the students instinctively rose. "Ah! Hello Mr. Ectoplasm." "Hello Mr. Stickleback. Just got a note for you", replied the visiting teacher. "Oh. Thank you." "Not at all Reg - Mr. Stickleback" he corrected himself. He left, and the students sat down again. Stickleback read the notice out to the class. "Class, I have just been notified of the time of the Nuclear Holocaust Drill. It will be", he paused, "Now!" A bell went off, and the students were all looking bewildered when Stickleback urged them into activity. "Hurry up, get on with it. Come on! You know - Nuclear Holocaust Drill!" The students were now getting into the spirit of the thing, and began to simulate dying, lurching around the room and eventually collapsing. The teacher went back to his huge desk. "Right. Now to call the roll. Bannikoff?" There was no answer. "Good. Bradley?" Again, the sound of silence. "Cummings? ... Good. Dandens? ... Good. Evans?" IS THIS THE END OF THE MATHS CLASS? 'FRAID SO, THIS JOKE'S GOT RATHER TIRED NOW. WHAT TWISTED STORY-LINE WILL THE MANGLED MIND BEHIND THIS FARCE THINK OF NEXT? FIND OUT, IN PART FOUR OF 'THE TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES', COMING UP ON WEDNESDAY, 29TH AUGUST. BIBLIOGRAPHY: If you've enjoyed reading this file, you may or may not enjoy reading Diary'90, which is not available from the author unless you plead with him. FILMOGRAPHY: If you've enjoyed this experience in reading, then you may enjoy abusing your ears and eyes to the sight and sound of 'The Book Of Diary 90', which is not available from anywhere near Alpha-Centauri. DISCOGRAPHY: If you've enjoyed reading this file, you may also enjoy listening to a floppy disk called "Double Sided High Density". You won't hear much, but people will stare at you. BOXOGRAPHY: If you've found this to be an enriching and stimulating experience, you may enjoy turning on your funny box with buttons on the side at about 9:30pm Tuesday night, and turning the dial to '2', to watch the new series of ***THE BIG GIG*** BOGOGRAPHY: If you haven't enjoyed reading this file, then you can bog off. FILOGRAPHY: If you've enjoyed reading this file, the you may enjoy reading the story of ROCKET ROGER. Just mail a lunatic called "The Mad Scribe at rocketroger@gnu.ai.mit.edu notifying him that he is a complete telephone box, and including your account number. Many abusive comments... no sorry, many funny letters arranged in amusing combinations will then be forthcoming. Was that okay, Mr Scribe sir? ______________________________________________________________________________ Get down and get depressed! Its __ __ __ __ \ he \ oxic \ ustard \\\orkshop \_iles <----Pathetic-+ \ \ \_ \-\ \ | Part Four 29/8/90 | Written by Mr. Luxury-Yacht | - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - | - - | Adam Cohen was depressed. Not just depressed, injured. He had | gone to his Maths Class, had been kicked out, ordered to muck out the | school principal's office, and been injured, when a large deposit of | bullshit, which had just come out of the principal's mouth, had | landed on him, not only causing him to smell as badly as a computer | programmer, but also breaking his leg. But what really pissed him off | was the miniscule titles that were now being drawn by the author.-------+ Adam had become even more depressed when he had sat down to use his IBM-PC in the small cave with striped wallpaper that he lived it. He had bought the cave at an auction, under a government cave-buying scheme. Fact is, the only things that would fit into the cave were Adam, his pet IBM-PC, and the stray mongoose that provided the electricity. This is what happened when Adam used his computer. C:\> dir CONFIRM FORMAT C: (Y/N)? n OKAY, FORMATTING C: no no no CONFIRM FORMAT C: (Y/N)? n OKAY, FORMATTING C:. PRESS ESC TO ABORT. esc esc esc! CONFIRM FORMAT C: (Y/N)? n OKAY, FORMATTING C: esc esc esc esc! YOU'VE HAD YOUR CHANCE SUCKER. WIPING F.A.T. esc esc esc esc!! TOO LATE NOW. HAHAHAHA FORMATTING... Adam by this point as depressed as a man who had been shot by a Fascist regime for liking the colour green. So, the mongoose suggested that he visit a psychiatrist. The first visit had been reasonably successful, despite the psychiatrist asking deep penetrating questions about his relationship with a local tree. It was time for the second visit... - AH, MY BOY, SO YOU ARE BACK AGAIN FOR YOUR DIAGNOSIS. COME IN, COME IN. - Well, the thing is that I spoke to another doctor. - VOT DO ZAY KNOW, MY BOY. ZAY HAVE NOT THE EXPERIENCE IN CLINICAL PSYCHOLOGY ZAT I DO! I GOT HD FOR PSY192! NOW! TO YOUR DIAGNOSIS. - Um, actually I don't think I... - NOW, YOU HAVE BIG PROBLEMS MY BOY. BIG BIG BIG BIG PROBLEMS. - Yes I know, I've got a broken leg, and I can't walk properly. - NO NO NO, MY BOY. I HAVE BEEN INVESTIGATING YOUR SUBCONCIOUS, AND I HAVE COME TO THE CONCLUSION THAT YOU HAD A REPRESSED CHILDHOOD. BUT MORE SIGNIFICANT THAN THAT, YOUR BROKEN LEG IS CAUSED BY SEVERE SEXUAL PROBLEMS. - What? - A COMBINATION OF CHILDHOOD EXPERIENCE, PSYCHO-SEMITIC DISORDERS AND A GUILT FEELING IN YOUR SUBCONCIOUS HAS CAUSED YOUR LEG TO REJECT THE LEADERSHIP OF YOUR BRAIN, AND ATTEMPT SUICIDE, THUS, BREAKING ITSELF. - You're not serious. - MY BOY, ZIS IS VERY SERIOUS! I HAVE CONSULTED PAST CASE BOOKS, AND HAVE COME TO THE CONCLUSION THAT MUCH OF YOUR BRAIN IS CONVINCED THAT YOU ARE TURNING INTO A FROG. - Rebbit. - ON ZE OTHER HAND, I COULD BE WRONG... (The preview of next installment courtesy of Reich-Nazi Pty Ltd). VOT WILL HAPPEN TO THE INFERIOR JEWISH SCUM ADAM COHEN? VILL HE BE SWEPT ASIDE BY THE GLORIOUS GERMAN ARMY INVADING THE PSYCHIATRIST'S OFFICE? VILL THE BRILLIANT ARYAN MIND OF DR.FROGENSTEINBERG BE PUT TO WORK ON A GLORIOUS NEW WEAPON FOR THE REICH TO BLAST ZE SCHWEINHUND ALLIED FORCES? YES, IF WE HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH THE NEXT VUNDERBAR EDITION OF 'ZE TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES!' SEIG HEIL. OH DEAR. WELL, IF WE MANAGE TO REPEL THE GERMAN ARMY, WHO ARE CURRENTLY BATTERING DOWN THE DOOR WITH A LARGE KNOPFWURST SAUSAGE, PART FIVE WILL BE OUT ON MONDAY 3RD SEPTEMBER. YOU TWISTED MINDS WHO HAVE ENJOYED THIS DRIVEL MAY ENJOY THE AMAZINGLY BORING STORY OF ROCKET ROGER. Just send some mail to the Mad Scribe at rocketroger@gnu.ai.mit.edu, notifying him that he is a complete extension cord, and including your account number. Many words arranged in amusing combinations will then be forthcoming. Was that vunderbar, Mr Scribe sir? _______________________________________________________________________________ To subscribe to the Toxic Custard Workshop Files, mail tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu -- Copyright (c) 1991 Daniel Bowen May be copied or reproduced without permission provided this notice remains intact. -- Daniel Francis Bowen | Remember - jumpers are Monash University, Melbourne, Australia | clothing's way of telling ----THE TOXIC-CUSTARD-WORKSHOP-FILES-----| you to pull over... tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu | [Toxic Custard Workshop]