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Text File
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1993-12-27
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16KB
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217 lines
that announces to the world that "Here, there be white trash". I
speak of "The Green Mirrored Ball, Placed on a Concrete Pedestal". All
this scene needs is pink flamingos, in an NFL 'Double Wideout' formation.
There is the rusted hulk of a car, on blocks, to complete the exterior
treatment. The bullet holes, in the car, lend a certain ambience... Some
say that the landscaping was done by Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, after a 3
week ether jag. That has not been confirmed, but not denied, either. The
place has an odorous haze of virgin polyester that suffuses it, no matter
what the weather. The kind of place that most people cross the street,
rather then walk past.
We are drawn to the window, driven by the same impulse that makes us stop
at accidents, on the interstate, where vehicles are reduced to their base
molecular structure; Where we gawk and say things like, "GOWLEEE! I never
thought that the human body had THAT much blood in it! HEY! What's that
stuff that looks like riccotta cheese, but slimier, huh?!?".
Peering into the window, we gaze upon a scene that is ANYTHING but
pastoral. The room looks like a someone blew up a garbage truck, and then
threw the contents of several goodwill boxes into it, just for the ambience
that would afford. In the midst of that splendid chaos, our eyes are drawn
to a sickly glow. Just the kind of sickly glow that a 1084 monitor would
make, after going through 15 owners, knowing this was it's last hurrah,
quietly thanking god for small favors, and hoping it's demise would come
swiftly, being a 1084 used to far better surroundings than this squalid
scene. Sitting in front of this monitor is Him. The fitting cap to this
horror show. The Cherry on the top of a spoiled cheesecake. The rotten
olive, in the martini of life. The true defining point. The nadir of all
that is Amiga. With Moon Pie breath.
I speak of the man-boy of many complexions. All of them bad, and getting
worse. He of the colon like 5 miles of Manhattan roadway, after a bad
winter. The man whose system has adapted so perfectly that he can get all
of his recommended daily nutritional requirements from a bag of Hot 'n
Spicy Pork Cracklin's, and a 6-pack of Big Red's. The man who can drink a
gallon of Beano, and not miss a beat. The man who was the prototype for
"Beavis and Butthead", but in the finest tradition, didn't know what
'royalties' meant, so said no. HE hates Prince Charles, since he dumped
Diana.
Him is back. Did you doubt, for a moment, that we'd release any software
without Him?
Yes our hero, Mendicant (His full name is Mendicant-Bob Odom) is back.
His maturation, in the world of Amiga telecommunication has continued
apace. Through the ugliest of trial, error, and the dumbest of luck (Like
when most of us got Matt Dillon's AmigaUUCP running, but don't know how we
did it...), He has succeeded in getting a FULLY FUNCTIONAL BBS running. No
one can quite tell what he has succeeded in getting to run on his Amiga 250
(an Amiga 500 that runs, in spite of several attempted hardware hacks, by
someone intellectually disadvantaged, like when he tried installing his
version of a bridgeboard, with a hammer, nail, and an Intel 286 chip,
straight into the 68000. Damn thing still runs, though...).
Mendicant's BBS, "The Realm of Confusion, and Knightly, Studly Stuff" has
become active. He has specialized in GIF's, IFFs, and JPegs of Knightly,
Studly Stuff, that being a special interest of people who sPeLl LiKe tHiS,
D00000000000000000d!. He has become so popular, that, he learns, that
people want to "Freak his Warez"! They want to know what "Warez" he has?
What are warez, he asks in a sweat soaked fit of existential confusion! Do
I have them? What color are they? Sounds like? How many words? Bigger
than a breadbox?
In spite of himself, after several days of near-schizophrenic withdrawal
from those around him, to ponder this, he, in a flash of what passes for
inspiration, for ol' Mendy, comes up with what he feels is the answer. "I
need something to make a list of all my knightly, studly pictures, so
people can easily see how many knightly, studly pictures I have, and then
know that I, too, am both knightly, and studly! But how?".
Off he goes, to the Last Amiga Software Store in The Western Hemisphere.
Humming a tuneless, idiotic song, all the way. He walked, having lost his
license for DUIS (Driving under the Influence of Stupidity).
Arriving at The Last Amiga Software Store in the Western Hemisphere, he
makes a grand entrance, by running smack dab into the glass plate of the
door, leaving a large greasy, pussy smear on the glass, that would prove to
take the store owner two hours, and a gallon of Nitromethane, to remove.
After readjusting his glasses, and rearranging his pure virgin polyester
leisure suit top, he approaches the counter, behind which is a swarthy
gentleman, of shady mien, and well chewed toothpick, with a hairdo best
suited to a revival of "Grease". His name is Hector. Hector is on the
verge of cowering, for he knows, full well, what lies before him. Yes, our
hero's reputation looms large in this town's Amiga community, and his
reputation goes thusly: "Avoid the geek with the pizza puss, at all
costs!". Hector tries to put off our hero, by picking his nose, openly,
but Mendy being Mendy, he takes this as some secret Amiga-dude greeting,
and a pretty good idea, all in all, and decides to lustily join in the fun.
Hector immediately develops a hurl on deck.
Hector, as his only perceived line of immediate defense, decides to speed
the pinhead on his way; "Alright, geek, what loony idea you got up your
sleeve, today?". "Well, Hector, I am sure that you know about my rad new
Fidonet BBS, The Realm of Confusion, and Knightly, Studly Stuff".
"Yeah, Mallomar-breath, I know about that BBS. Known far and wide as the
lamest thing to ever attempt electron excitation!" Shrugging that sling (or
was that an arrow?) off, our hero decides to cut to the chase; "Well, many
of my users have asked me how they can 'F-R-E-A-K' my knightly, studly
pictures, which I specialize in, on the BBS. I wish to offer that service,
and I can, since the Great God of Arexx gave me his magic Freak software,
Quick Silver. The problem is, I need to buy some more software that will
make a list of my knightly, studly pictures, so users can Freak my pictures
wisely. Do you sell such software, sir?" Hector's eyes look rapidly for
the top of his head. " You know, geek, if I put your brain on the edge of
a razor blade, it would look like a well-oiled BB, rolling down an
interstate." "Well, sir, I really don't have any idea what I need. Do you
have anything I might buy, that would fulfill my expectations?" "NO!
Christ, kid, go pray to your Arexx god. And tell him his friend, the
Italian, with the Indian name, and the Mexican nickname, you know, the
confused bastard, owes me for the CD-ROM of "Love, and Leather" that I
advanced him. Tell him to get his nose out of SAS/C 6.51, and pay his
bill! Now, get out of here, and stop making the customers throw up!".
Our hero is destitute. He is shattered. He is also hungry. A hunger
that can only be assuaged by the one food that gives him true peace. To
him, the nutritional version of Xanax. So off he goes to the local 7-11,
for a extra-large order of Cheese Nachos, with extra denatured jalapenos.
Once he has procured the Golden Morsels of Zen-like Contemplation (If, at
the time of ingestion, our hero were to be hooked up to an
electroencephalogram, he would have the same brainwave pattern as a Zen
Roshi. Go Figure.). Our hero slips into a deep, trancelike state, due to
the fact that the four pounds of nachos he is ingesting is drawing all his
thin fluid doctors call blood, for lack of a better name, away from his
already overtaxed brain. His surroundings begin to blur...
He is transported to a pastoral scene. A scene that seems like his
fantasy of that fabled Emerald Isle. Rolling Hills. Verdant landscape. A
river that looks a lot like the Thames, near Shepperton. The M1, complete
with the Watford Gap Services. As he gazes out, upon this green, lush
vastness, he sees, off in the distance, something out of his wildest
fantasies. A horse, but not just any horse. A proud white horse, wild of
mane, with nostrils flaring, streams of vapor issuing from its flared
nostrils, in the typically cold, and terminally damp, British weather. On
the back of this proud steed, is ...OHHHH... HIM! As Him sees himself.
The mount, and rider approacheth.
As the scene unfolds, our hero quickly begins to lose control of the
functions of most of his important spherically-ordered muscular groups.
Much to his chagrin, but hey, this ain't the first time. The rider is
EVERYTHING he ever wanted to be, especially the great silver armour. This
guy CAN'T shop at K-Mart, and get stuff like this! He must shop at Sam's!
But, he seems surprisingly familiar. A familiarity that he can't put his
finger on (Due to the fact that said finger is firmly embedded in his left
nostril, and very, very busy...). As the horse and rider gets closer, our
hero feels his excitement mount, by orders of magnitude. IT'S HIM! His
prayers are answered! It is he, of all the hairbrained software solutions
THE AREXX GOD!
The Rider bids his steed quiet, and dismounts. He turns and gazes at our
hero, one mailed fist placed on a hip, deep black hair gleaming in the sun,
and softly rippled by the wind. His armour is like a mirror. His sword is
like a... well, a sword. He smiles a gleaming smile at our hero, a quick
"*" bouncing off of his left incisor. He speaks;
"SCHMUCK!"
"WHA?"
"Just can't seem to figure out that you couldn't find your ass with both
hands, a flashlight, and a roadmap, huh?"
"uh, uh, uh, heheheheheh, uh, so?"
"For some reason, CheeseWhiz, we seem to be metaphysically joined at the
hip. Every time you get yourself into a software jam, and retreat to
eating bales of food that would kill Susan Powter, and have one of your
little trance states, I get dragged out of a warm bed, to bail your sorry
ass out. Well this time, you've done it. There is a new sheriff in town.
and He's a she. SHE doesn't like me dragged out of ANY bed!"
The Arexx God whistles.
Across the Bonny Dale rides HER, our hero's OTHER fantasy. A goddess.
Red of hair. Bountiful of cleavage. Shithouse of stacked. Wearing the
black leather outfit that The Arexx God wore, last time they met. You
know, the one with the holes in all the right places? Well, on this
Titan-haired Goddess, the holes seem to be so... so... CORRECT. Is that
a...never mind. Our hero wouldn't know one if it bit him in his gluteal
protruberance.
As the Titan-haired goddess dismounts, it becomes very clear to our hero
that he must get out of the house. more.
She speaks.
"Pissant! IF WE EVER GET ANOTHER 4:00AM METAPHYSICAL CALL TO BAIL YOU
OUT, IN YOUR PATHETIC, WORMY ATTEMPTS (She hyperventilates, having LIVED
for this day), I WILL CRUSH YOU LIKE THE VERMIN YOU ARE."
In a blinding flash, our hero knows True Love.
SHE reaches into her all-too-ample cleavage, and brings out a diskette.
"Here, you pus factory! This is what he had to come up with! Mercury!
Now, pull this again, and your procreative SÇf⌠`p`*JFjDC╓çlDâr
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