~`~~~`'~~'~~' ~`~~~`~~~~~~~`~~~~`~ ~`~~~,~~~~'~,~~~~~,~~'~~' ~,~~~,~~~~`~~~~~~`~~~~~`~~~'~ ~~~`~~~~'~~~~~~~~~`~~~~~'~ ~~ ~`~~~~`~~~`~~~~~'~~ ~ ~`~`~~,~~~`~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~'~~ ___________________ `~~~`~ / =King Nothing= / ~`~ / / ~~ /................../ ~' !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! |:...@@..../\......: ~ !______________________________! |\:...@@...\/...C=..: !___&&&&___&&&__&&&_&____&_____! | \:.................: !__&____&_&___&__&__&____&_____! U\ | ~~.~.~.~.~.~~ | !__&______&__&___&__&____&_____! | \|_____o*oOo*o_____| !__&__&&__&&&____&__&____&_____! |__U________________ U !__&____&_&__&___&__&__&_&__&__! |\ | \| !___&&&&__&__&&_&&&__&&___&&___! v_\|_________________| !______________________________! O | | !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! \ | \| - = I S S U E # 1 0 = - \v_________________v "Sex means freedom from liberation!" O O ASCii mostly courtesy of Swiss Pope Highly Unreadable GRILL font-logo by Quarex x??-[JUNE 21, 1997]-QuarexOgreDeLatoyaSwissPopeQuarexKheldarGhortAlAa e b r CONTENTS OF ISSUE #10 OF GRILL (The 'Zine for Heretics): Y a o u <1> Flight of the Skajaquada s Q <2> Man s x <3> Inspector Gadget a e <4> Why my life is Ruined: Part 2 r r <5> Poetry written in 6th/7th Grade i a <6> Ask Ghort a u <7> Single, Bilingual! n Q <8> Everything you ever wanted to know about Sects (omitted) ( x <9> The Art of Conversation o e <10> The Art of Conversation, Addendum. m r <11> Gary Hart-ache [Editor's title] i a <12> The Reagan Administration Sex-Chart t u <13> A Bunch of Things I would like to do to Ogre t Q <14> Mancer Grey e & <15> A Gothic Rant d a <16> A Seinfeldian Rant ) y <17> Rant & Rave about Random Things S o w taLeDergOratSiniSayotaLeDergOtaRniatpaCepoPssiwSyojharaSxerauQepoPssi (*) WHO GOTS THE FUNK? (*) By: Quarex In light of Seinfeld's enormous popularity, which even includes select writers for Grill, I have decided it would be a good idea to merely turn this into a Seinfeld .FAQ file. So, henceforth, anyone writing for Grill will be ignored unless the article sheds light on any subjects which we have not yet covered, such as Newman's shady past or Kramer's affinity for dowsing rods. On second thought, I am instead going to write a brief Seinfeld script and continue on with Grill as usual. [SCENE: Jerry's apartment. Jerry and George are standing in the living room, talking.] JERRY: George, do you have any Orange Skittles? GEORGE: (Cynically) Why would I have any Orange Skittles? JERRY: I don't know! It was just a simple question! Maybe you happen to have Orange Skittles! GEORGE: Why do you want to know if I have any Orange Skittles? JERRY: Because I'm all out of Orange Skittles! You know, they're the best kind! KRAMER: You guys will not BELIEVE what I just saw. JERRY & GEORGE: What? KRAMER: A truck overturned on the expressway. Spilled its cargo everywhere! JERRY: What was it carrying? KRAMER: Orange Skittles. GEORGE: ORANGE SKITTLES? JERRY: What are the odds of that happening? KRAMER: Say Jerry, I was just wondering. Could I borrow your soap? Mine is all gone. JERRY: What kind of person wants to use someone else's soap? JERRY: Elaine, what happened? ELAINE: (through sobs) My bag of Skittles got run over! JERRY: Really? . . . Were there any Orange ones in the bag? ELAINE: How can you ask me that at a time like this? NEWMAN: BOW TO THE GOD OF FILTH! At least, that is how I think Seinfeld works. So, you think you are man enough to stop a truck? Well, here we go! @@@ FIN @@@ @---** Title: Man @---** Author: Ogre De Latoya I want to be an array. I could hold so much more information that way. In my brain, all this shit, stored in my array. My name would be Ogre[]. And my brain would be like a folder with pockets. Man, it gettin' colder. If my index ticked away, and my thoughts did twist and sway. Yeah, I would be cool on that day. I would go from zero to one-hundred. Because one-hundred is the maximum that I could be fed. Because the stupid fuck who coded me initialized me to one-hundred. That fuck. Stupid fuck. Can't code worth a shit. Cursing is funny as fuck. )(* FIN )(* @---** Title: Inspector Gadget @---** Author: Swiss Pope I just now realized how fucked-up Inspector Gadget looks. Let me draw a simple ascii of him: ___ / \ \\\\<----->//// \\\ O O /// \( / )/ | <_ | | _ | \ / \_/ I mean look at him, he looks pretty fucking weird. $$$ FIN $$$ @---** Title: Why my Life is Ruined: Part 2 @---** Author: Quarex (with special Wallabee addendum by Spirit) In Issue #9 of Grill, I ripped open my twisted past like a ripe mango in its prime to give you a special kind of entertainment through my own humiliation. Now, I will do it again! Act III - "The Wallabees develop Genetic Engineering" ,, ,, ,, ,, ,, ,, @@@@ @@@@ @@ @@@ @@ @@@ @@ @@ @@ @@ With this creature I will @@@@ @@ @@@@ @@ ,, surely rule the known @@@@ @@ @@@@ @@ _@@ / universe! @@ @@__________ ( )* @@@@ @@@@ __________ ** ** (( )) ** ** (( )) By Jove! You've ********* (( )) ,, done it again! ********* (( )) _@@ / what are we going to ** ** (( )) ( )* do with our tire ** ** (( )) factory, though? (( )) MOTOR COORDINATION OF BABIES 1 Month -- Some ability to turn head from side to side. 6 Months -- Increased ability to sit on own. 1 Year -- Ability to set up own ISP. One fine day during my First Grade education, I was witnessing quite a crude act take place between two of my classmates. One of the boys had said "crap" to one of the girls, upon the girl asking if she could borrow some glue. My response to that, which is apparently Central-Illinoisian specific "kidslang", was to repeat the phrase "UM UM UM", indicating that someone had performed in an inappropriate manner. My teacher, Mr. Zehr (who later won $12,000 on the $25,000 Pyramid, as you may or may not know) was not from Illinois, and therefore was not familiar with this style of juvenile alarm system. Thus, he informed me that I was to put my head down on my desk for the remainder of class. I did so, without question, feeling betrayed by the upper class which had smiled upon my tattletail behavior in the past. - - - - - - - - Might & Magic ][ was the first game I obtained for my IBM XT which would not only run, but also provide me with a great deal of enjoyment (even when I still had an amber monitor). However, for over eight months, I played the game (a standard RPG) thinking that it was impossible to save the characters. My logic was that if I reset my computer after stopping at an inn, that the characters would still be there when I returned. I was incorrect in that logic. So, I would repeatedly go on lengthy screaming/crying tantrums with my parents, being brutally annoying, and only for the sake of doing it. Whenever they would ask if they could call the company for me and ask them about it, I would tell them that the company was out of business, or that I had already done it myself. I have no idea why I would respond in said manner, but I did. Eventually, I figured out how to save my characters, and stopped whining. Then, I punched Hrothgar in the groin and he stopped talking to me. This situation has since been rectified, however. - - - - - - - - At my Junior High School (Chiddix, or Shittix as it was affectionately known by the residents thereof), all 7th graders were required to take a class called "Positive Life Skills". Now, as all of you know, any class called "Positive Life Skills" is going to be one of the most traumatic experiences of one's education. And, so it was for me as well. Introducing myself on the first day of class, I explained that my name was Drew, I had been to over 20 countries around the world, and that I had a big head. Much to my chagrin, my teacher chided me for my eloquation of the obvious, and informed me that it was a bad thing to say about myself. I thought, "But, I *do* have a big head. There is no way to say anything less than, 'I have a big head'." Thus, my immense confusion began, as my teacher told me that everything I had learned was NEGATIVE, even though it was just fucking FACT. The class was awful, my teacher tried to kill me, and at the end of the year, in the "autographs" section of my workbook, a tell-tale sign of the class' effectiveness was unveiled. There were but two signatures. Ryon Penn's, and my own. Underneath my own signature, scrawled in my own handwriting, were the words "I AM THE UGLIEST PERSON ON EARTH." Clearly, another success story for the annals of Junior High Positive Thinking curriculum. - - - - - - - - It would be extremely easy to throw in some of my experiences with women here, but I have already covered most of them in previous issues of Grill, so there really is no point. However, suffice to say that women have the nasty habit of ORDERING A STEAK DINNER and then, instead of just making me pay, GRINDING ME UP WITH THE STEAK. Then, their bulemic asses THROW ME UP INTO THE TOILET and FLUSH IT and LAUGH AS IT SWIRLS AROUND IN A FILTH PUDDLE until it REACHES THE SEWERS with the OTHER FILTH. ??? FIN ??? @---** Title: Poetry written in 6th/7th Grade @---** Author: Kheldar (with commentary by Quarex) - The Masters cage us, body and mind, - They teach us to be violent and unkind, - They are assassins out for hire, - They kill us and turn our minds to mire. In this stanza, Kheldar is establishing a vision of a future earth, a wasteland, a world transformed. Oops, he is talking about teachers, never mind. - 'Oh Master don't put me in a cage, - It confines me but not my rage,' - 'Oh master don't whip me with a flail, - It hurts not my body but puts my mind in jail.' That was some great meter right there, let me tell you. - You hold our chains with a cruel grin, - But you are unheeding to our saddened din, - You won't hear what we have to say, - My freedom won't see another day. This was part of Ronald Reagan's inaugural speech. - Fight for freedom, the right is yours, - We have the boat but not the oars, - To get the oars we need to fight, - Fight and fight with all our might. Is this a ManOwaR song? - We have rights, they say we have none, - Our fight in school has just begun, - You can ignore us, but not for long, - You say we're dumb but you are wrong. Hey you, sitting out there in the cold, feelin' lonely, feelin' old, can you help me? - You say I'm crazy, you say I'm not sane, - But I'll one day become your bane, - The bane of your damn fascist school, - You make me stupid, you make me drool. Seen written on the back of Corky's math book. - So drink this water of martyr spring, - And of all rebellion you'll be king, - They must be afraid of an insurrection, - They must be afraid we'll want an election. To become King of Rebellion, press 1 now. - We want to be democrats but they say no, - We want to be warm but they give us snow, - They don't like us, it's not disguised, - But our brains still keep getting vised. Oh, I get it, the Republic is not good enough for you, you want to go straight from a dictatorship to Democracy? Dude, the only thing that Democracy gets you is Recycling, and that is a lame advance anyway. And what the fuck is up with "We want to be warm, but they give us snow"? Is that the worst line in a poem ever, or what? - You must be strong and win the war, - We'll fight the evil to its core, - So I'll leave you with this final thought, - Break the rules, but don't get caught. I hear that! Down with laws! BLACK MAN, WHITE MAN, RIP THE SYSTEM! ()( DING DING DING GOES THE TROLLEY )() @---** Title: Ask Ghort @---** Author: Ghort ***NOTE: These are actual letters, written by actual people, from this actual universe, which is a true3D universe running on my computer. Dear Ghort, I want to get a new car, but I'm having a dilemna between getting a high quality foreign car such as the Honda Accord or Toyota Celica, or a crappy car like the Chevy Lumina or the Ford Taurus, which are made in America. The advantage of buying the foreign-made car is that it's good. The advantage of buying the domestic-made car is that I will retain my sense of national pride, and all my friends who work at the Mitsubishi plant won't be mad at me. By the way, Mitsubishi is out of the question, because I just don't get the little diamond-triangle thing. What's up with that?! Undecided in Underwood Dear Undecided, First of all, your grammar is horrendous. Get a clue. Second of all, cars are not MADE. Ever heard of the Law of Conservation of Mass? Look, it goes like this: everything in the universe is either energy or matter, and the total amount of energy plus matter in the universe cannot change. If we just 'make' cars, that would be changing the total amount of stuff in the universe, kapiecshe? Cars are put together; an amalgum of various elements and parts. You are basically choosing where the car was put together. Who cares? I mean, global family and shit, right? Third of all, your sense of national pride is completely unwarranted and misplaced. National pride is so... 40s. If you want the most car for your buck, about national pride you should not give a fuck. It's like the whole flag burning thing. I mean, I don't see how people can take this thing so seriously. It's just a piece of cloth with some color on it. It's not like it suddenly becomes our country's lifeblood when you put the lines and stars on it. When you take communion, does the bread actually turn into Jesus' flesh and the wine into his blood? I DON'T THINK SO. It's called a symbol, a representation. The thing itself has no value, it's merely the value the individual places on it. If someone came up and started burning YOUR flag, then yes, I'd say you've got a right to bitch. But if I buy my own damn flag and want to burn it, I should have every right to do so. Fourth of all, I think we all know what REALLY goes on at Mitusbishi. You know what I mean. Fifth of all, what IS up with that diamond-triangle thing? The world may never know. Anyhow, you should go with the Saab, because it has two As in it, But if you have to choose between the four cars that you mentioned, go with the Toyota. Let me tell a story as to why I say this. When I was younger, my uncle had a Toyota. Now, when I was little I was a) really into Star Wars, and b) really naive. Therefore, I thought that the reason it was called Toyota was because there was a Toy Yoda somewhere in the car. I wanted to play with it, but then my parents had to explain to a heartbroken me that there was no toy Yoda, and that I was a moron. Thanks for bringing back such crappy memories, Undecided. By the way, I have aweful grammar too, so pick me up in your new car and we can go get a clue together. Thanks for writing. Ghort Dear Ghort, I like rap music, but I fear ridicule and possibly even physical abuse from my friends. Is there any way to stop this impending doom? Also, can you recommend some good rappers/rap groups that really drop the dope funk? Werd. Chillin' in Crestwick Dear Chillin', I'm glad to hear you have an interest in such an eclectic, intelligent, and increasingly popular form of music. Rap is a very politically-minded and at the same time enjoyable and carefree musical style. Plus, it's a must that we recognize the dope from the wack, the P-Funk from the G-Funk. Especially if you are a young haul, you've gotta make sure you roll thick. Stop set tripping and nut the fuck up. The game is trump-tight, so you gotta check unfadeable motherfuckers because the bass has got to straight bump. Just make sure that you're strapped when you roll with your shank, loc. Anyway, I'll stop rambling. There are several things to do about the problems with your friends. Probably the most complex, but most beneficial in the long run, would be to get them addicted to rap as well. Like a virus, rap is highly contageous. They'll resist if they're in groups, but if you get them alone or two at a time you should be alright. Just pop in some Digital Underground, and soon they'll be converted. That leads me to your other question. Digital Underground, in my opninion, are the masters of "that bomb-ass shit called the funk." Other artists to check out are Dr. Dre, Dr. Drew, Warren G, Sir Mix-A-Lot, and Tone-Loc. I suppose the other option that you have is to just make sure you're strapped when you roll deep, or in the immortal words of Warren G, "Terror, terror, pick which Glok. The black one with the big pin-lock" (11). Ghort Dear Ghort, My girlfriend and I have been going together for about 3.14159265 years now and I'm thinking of 'popping the question'. What do you think? Eager in Eagle Ridge Dear DUMB ASS, WHAT THE FUCK IS 'the question'? HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO ANSWER THAT?! Is it marriage, sex, Burger King vs. McDonalds, boxers vs. briefs, creamy vs. chunky, WHAT?! Give me a sign here, jeeze! Ghort This is the portion of the "Ask Ghort" column in which I write about something from the popular advice column "Dear Abby". Incidently, it is also the column upon which I place almost all of the blame for "Ask Ghort". Today I think I'll write a letter to Abby. Dear Abby, How the hell did you ever become a nationally-renowned sydicated columnist?! I've read your column. Not only could just about anyone give the advice that you do, but you are lame as well. What makes your value judgements so much better than the next old conservative bitch's? What would make your opinion so much better and worthy of my attention than anyone else's? And some people write to you about the most trivial shit! It's actually entertaining to read your column to find out about the guy who wears women's undergarments because they make his tummy flatten, or the cousins who got married and are wonderfully happy because of your column. "What will we do Abby?" They all ask. I'll tell you what they do. They write some long-ass sob story to you, and about six weeks later (if ever) it appears in your column, probably way too late for you to solve any problem that they have. What if someone wrote in "I have a life-threatening disease. The doctor says I have 5 weeks to live. What should I do?" You'd let 'em die, that's what you'd do, you coldhearted Abby-Snake, Serpent She-Demon from Cthulu's Lair. Sometimes it pisses me off that it's me writing to you about how dumb your job is instead of you writing to me. I could offer the same paltry advice that you do. Well, it's time to fight back. Now, in GRILL: The 'Zine for Heretics, will appear "Ask Ghort", the best fucking advice column since "Dear Abby's Mom". Eat that, bitch. Ghort You can also read my column in such popular journals as USA Yesterday, The Pantaglyph, and The New York Please (REALLY please a lot) write to "Ask Ghort" by emailing to mpackard@students.uiuc.edu. Any and all questions are appreciated, and will probably be answered in the next Grill. I'm not anticipating quite the flood of mail that Abby probably gets (Grrr) so that's why I can say that. Whee! ~``FiN''~ <<< FIN >>> @---** Title: Single, Bilingual! @---** Author: Al Aab [ Article crossposted from soc.culture.usa ] [ Author was Al Aab ] [ Posted on Sat, 29 Mar 1997 10:05:12 GMT ] date + time : early sturday 28 mar 96, betw good friday & easter what : a jesusy film on tv so what : all the cast dressed like arabs or romans so what else : peter, mary, jesus have blue eyes no wonder black americans dream of a balck god or a brown mohamed. mohamed was pro-abyssinian/african mohamed's prayer caller had sweet voice and black skin mohamed's mu-ezzin's name was "bilal" a society of african black muslims is called "bilal" in the jesusy films, women are veiled, or sorta in the jesusy films, virgin mary is veiled, or sorta in the jesusy films men wear gowns and turbans, or sorta in the jesusy films men are either jews in gowns + turbans or romans in 1967, after nasser fell to a jewess, golda meir, jews of toronto swept toronto's streets revelling, cat calling, dancing and carrying posters: how could arabs win when arabs wear skirts ! ! what did jesus, the jew, wear (despite his depicted blue eyes) trousers ? HEIL ZION TODAY ARABZ TOMORO THE WEST COZ THE CHOZEN ZION SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH NO DOGZ OR CHRISTIANZ ZIONZ EXCLUZIVELY. HEIL ZION +__ FIN ++_ @---** Title: The Art of Conversation @---** Author: Swiss Pope One might think that when you go to university, you'd meet fellow students who might introduce you to new ideas and attitudes. One might think that some sort of interesting or challenging thought goes on in such institutions of "higher learning". One might even go so far as to think that the youth of today actually has something offer future generations beyond sluggish scientific progress and a perpetuation of the banality of human existence. To be completely realistic, there *are* university students who actually do have something insightful, witty, or halfway interesting to talk about in conversation, but such people are hard to come by. They are buoys in the dark waters of stupidity, beacons of light in the hazy fog of the mundane, and the lean meat in the soft shelled tacos of human dignity. When I refer to stupid people, I am not trying to imply that they are stupid in the sense that they can't get a dishwasher to work, but instead they are stupid in the sense that they are pseudo-intellectuals. They are the poseurs of thought; they read Siddhartha and all of a sudden you find them mediating on your living room carpet. They see a news report on how chickens undergo through horrible conditions when caged in food processing plants, so they then open up an "Educate Yourself On Chicken Rights" booth in the corner of their dorm room as if anyone gives or has ever given a shit in the first place. They are the types who watch an episode of Charles in Charge and develop a pet theory that Charles and Buddy were secretly gay, then they tell you their theory expecting you to find it clever and humourous because after all, anyone who makes pet theories about 1980's television characters obviously possesses that Generation X savoir-faire that is necessary for respect and admiration in today's youth culture. Yes, it's common knowledge that most people in the crowd (especially in a college crowd) are completely clueless pawns of life who really have nothing really to offer in the neighborhood of creative thought. If you disagree, you are probably the exact type of drone who I'm referring to, so you might as well turn off your computer, pour yourself a bowl of Fruit Loops, and go watch Friends. On the other hand, if you can empathize with me in any way, keep reading because I'm going to tell you exactly how to spot a person who is or is not someone intellectually worthy enough of engaging you in conversation. My intention here is not to write an encyclopaedia on stupid conversations-- I could do that, but I hate encyclopaedias. Take that kid from the Encyclopaedia Britannica commercials from a couple of years ago. Remember him? Yeah, that junior high school nerd with glasses and blond hair who was ever-so-stressed out because he could not find enough information for his report, so he looked to the Encyclopaedia Britannica to look up whatever the hell he was doing his report on. About a year later he popped up on followup commercials and was asked, "So how did you do on your report?" to which he responded, "I got a B+. Overkill. Just too much information." Anyway, the kid was a fucking idiot for not copying the particular encyclopaedia article word-for-word, like what you are *supposed* to do in junior high, which would've insured him an A+ on his report. But no, instead he had to be crafty, in his "cleverness" he turned to the ENCYCLOPAEDIA BRITANNICA-- and he sure got what he deserved! But he's far from being the worst type of pseudo-intellectual you can encounter. His existence in relation to you can be eliminated by simply switching off the television. Unfortunately, we can't just switch off reality like we can a television set. It's a terribly nasty situation to be stuck on a charter bus with a pseudo-intellectual or to be introduced to a pseudo-intellectual who happens to be your significant other's best friend from 6th grade who is visiting town for the weekend and would really like to spend some getting-to-know-you time with you. Here are the early warning signs that you have just met a pseudo-intellectual: * Your conversation turns into self-indulgent reminiscing of Saturday morning cartoons within 10 minutes. Really, this world can do without another lengthy discussion about the goddamn Smurfs. Let me sum up every conversation I've ever had about the smurfs. Yes, it is enigmatic that there was only ONE girl smurf and a hundred guy smurfs. No, Papa Smurf probably *wasn't* able to get it up. Yes, Grandpappy Smurf *was* a dirty old man. No, Gargamel wasn't gay. Yes, Gargamel *did* own a cat, but that doesn't make him gay. No, Peewee wasn't gay. Yes, Johann *was* gay, his name was fucking Johann for Christ's sake. And while I'm on the subject, let me throw out about twenty 1980's cartoon show buzzwords that they can stroke themselves to: Dungeons and Dragons, Shirt Tails, Gummi Bears, Duck Tales, Goof Troop, Tailspin, Thundercats, Quicksilver, He-man, She-ra, Grape Ape, Ed Grimley, Mr. T, Laser Tag, that Nintendo show, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and the Pac-Man cartoon. * You're smoking cigarettes, so you start to talk ABOUT cigarettes. Especially gourmet cigarettes. For those who aren't familiar with gourmet cigarettes, I'll clue you in on this: gourmet cigarettes are a big fucking waste of money (not that cigarettes in themselves aren't-- but that's another redundant argument for some other time) and they really don't taste all that better than regular cigarettes. However, pseudo-intellectuals seem to pride themselves whenever they find an opportunity to whip out a pack of Dunhills or Black Death smokes. What? Do they expect us to really care? The only credit I give to people smoking expensive cigarettes as opposed to regular or not at all is that such pseudo-connaisseurs of tobacco are going to develop some sort of artsy, pretentious European cancer instead of generic, unsung North Carolina cancer. * You talk about books you've read when you were 11. Pseudo-intellectuals love to clue you in on books that they've supposedly read. Most of them like to tell you *what age* they were when they read them, too. Am I supposed to be impressed that they've read Crime and Punishment and To Kill A Mockingbird and Brave New World and The Jungle during the summer of their sixth grade? Surprise, I don't! In fact, I'm going to assume that if they *are* telling the truth, their socialization skills were really fucked up back then because their were inside reading thick books instead of doing things that 11 year olds are normally doing like blowing up spiders with grocery store firecrackers or riding bicycles through drainage ditches. You see the warning signs, so here's what you can do to get the pseudo-intellectuals to go away: * Tell them that the most insightful book that you're currently reading is "Curious George Goes To New Zealand", so you really wouldn't care to get into a lengthly discussion about the most well-loved-by-pseudo-intellectuals philosopher of them all, Nietschze. * Whip out your spiral bound notebook and draw some sort of shape and ask them to describe how that shape puts them in their own unique universal harmony. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that pseudo-intellectuals can't resist interpreting shit that really DOESN'T MATTER. * Or just spit in their face and tell them to ride the magical cock rocket to New Jersey. The last one never fails. YEAH fin YEAH @---** Title: The Art of Conversation (addendum) @---** Author: Quarex After reading Swiss Pope's extremely accurate article about psuedo-intellectuals, I felt that I should add some of my own "early warning signs of someone I am not going to get along with", which is essentially a pseudo-intellectual. * The "You are weird" syndrome. If, upon performing any activity which is considered uncharismatic of a typical drone, the person says "You are weird" or "You are being silly", then RUN AWAY as FAST AS YOU CAN. These people REALLY fucking suck. These are the same people who watch Seinfeld and think it is the greatest show on earth, because it takes one fucking joke and runs it into the ground for the entire show. * The "Elvis is Dead" gambit. If, in an attempt to say something weird/funny, any person ever refers to Elvis being alive or on another planet, then see above, and RUN FAR AWAY. These people have the creativity potential of the infamous "urine spaghetti" main course. * The "Talk about awful TV" paradigm. If, at any point, a potential intellectual appears to know anything about shows like 9O21O, Melrose Place, or shows of that ilk, then just e-mail me and I will come take care of it personally. These people are NOT like us, and must be weeded out. * The "You are wearing THAT?" dilemna. Upon deciding to go out into public with someone, that person expresses negativity towards your choice of bizarre dress (for example, shorts in the winter, in my case), then that person is NOT INTELLECTUAL. True intellectuals can accept variances from social norms, whereas pseudo intellectuals can only accept the variances that they decide to set for themselves. * The "I use big words for no reason" inundation. Anyone who goes out of his way to speak in big words is generally not a true intellectual. * The "Here is my animated mailbox" disaster. Anyone who puts a little animated mailbox on his/her webpage in order to be "cute" cannot have the brains god gave the common mule. Those things annoy the piss out of me, and probably everyone else who does not have one. * The "Oh, I see, that was a joke" bitches. One time, Jon brought these two girls to my basement, and they did not think Mike & I were funny. They really sucked. * The "PAN-TERRRA!" vagabond. No-one who likes Pantera can be a true intellectual, simple as that. * The "Oh boy, do I love Beef" invitation. If you are ever invited to a beef-eating contest by a potential intellectual, then this person is not a vegetarian. [ Special Situations ] * The "I am going to take over your irc channel!" reticulation. Anyone who takes over irc channels for the sake of taking over an irc channel has a serious lack of confidence in real life, and is making up for it by exploiting power in the one way he knows how. I say "he" because A> It is traditionally used as a neutral gender term, and forever should be, and B> No women do that. * The "Boris Yeltsin is a Fag" walk-through. Pick up the vodka in Red Square, then go north three screens until you see a pedestrian wearing a communist flag. Give the pedestrian the vodka, and he will give you the key that lets you have access to the Kremlin's armory. * The "Indented asterisks to look like Swiss Pope" feint. Anyone who tries to emulate Swiss Pope's text formatting is a wanna-be lamer. I hope you have enjoyed this additional list of pseudo-intellectual stereotypes, and how to avoid them (Running away generally works). Working together, we can abolish pseudo-intellectuals back into the Dweeb, Geek, and Loser subclasses they came from. Only true NERDS can rule supreme. ^_^ TAR -fin- GET ^_^ @---** Title: Gary Hart-ache [Editor's title] @---** Author: Sarahjoy Standing on the edge of darkness The world disappears behind the night I'm all alone between life and dying Waiting for something Stopping for nothing SCREAMING OUT the words fall as mist into the dark Silence wraps around the blackness I've lost all conscious will to fight The night fades away. . . I'm still alone. . . and crying PSB fin PSB @---** Title: The Reagan Administration Sexchart @---** Author: Swiss Pope (This is probably something that I read in Mad Magazine at age 8.) ________________ | | | ronald_______farah fawcett | | | | | golda _____allotoyah____ | | | meir khomeni | | | | | | | | ed meese | | | | | | | henry kissinger al aab | NANCY REAGAN | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |____metalchic |_general noreiga | | | | | | | | | |___ | | | ollie north | | | | | | | | |___ gary hart | boris |__margaret___| | | | | | | thatcher | |___ | |__geraldine ferraro | | | | | | | | | | | | natasha----gorbachev____| | | pat robertson | | | | | some chick | mr peabody___________________with big breasts_| kramer | | elaine___ogre de latoya It was probably a federal offense to write this, and if not that, it surely falls under the category of slander. This could destroy my reputation as a journalist, even though I'm just kidding and most people know that I'm kidding. For the record, I don't really want you to believe that Nancy Reagan slept with the Allotoyah though it's not entirely implausible. However, Gorbachev sleeping with cartoons characters from Rocky and Bullwinkle _is_ entirely implausible. None the less, if this ever got into the hands of Gorbachev, he'd probably send the Russian mafia after me. Uh oh! I just implied that Gorbachev has ties to the mafia! Damn, I just can't stop making enemies, even though I'm not trying to. Did I mention that I'm going to kill the president? Oops! How did I let that slip out? I'd better cut out this nonsense, because I've probably racked up over one million dollars in lawsuits. It's kinda cool how dangerous a 2447 byte text file can be! ^^^ FIN ^^^ @---** Title: A Bunch of things that I would like to do to Ogre @---** Author: Captain Rat All right, this article began when I thought of a really stupid thing one day. Thus, all the evil began, and here you have. . . A BUNCH OF THINGS THAT I WOULD LIKE TO DO TO OGRE! (not really) 1. (The original) Take Ogre, fully clothed, and bathe him like you would a dog. Ideally, this would result in him running around the house, after the bath, dripping wet and shaking water all over the place. 2. Paint Ogre. Any color, doesn't matter, but just have him stand still and paint him with any sort of brush you have handy. 3. Watch him do a jig to ukelele music. 4. Tie him up in a basement and make him watch a seventeen-way game of Magic. Make him arbitrate every dispute. (Note: This should only be done if you are extremely angry at Ogre) 5. Wrap Ogre in bandages, mummy style, and let him terrorize kids. 6. Make Ogre join a biker gang. 7. After Ogre's death, mount his head on a wall. 7a. As an alternative to 7, after Ogre's death, stuff him like the bear in that one Far Side cartoon. 8. Lock Ogre, Deadlock style, to Chaz Palmenteri. 9. (This is the only feasible option on this list) Watch Ogre play Iron & Blood with the mage and swoop around a lot. 10. Make him talk like a bum ALL THE TIME. __' FIN `__ @---** Title: Mancer Grey @---** Author: Ogre De Latoya Mancer Grey was lying on the ground one Saturday afternoon. His black overcoat and black slacks were dirty and stained. They resembled a dark marble counter top. Mancer was wincing. Blood trailed out of Mancer's nose and dripped into a small puddle of iron on the concrete under his head. Mancer stopped trying to open his eyes and concentrated on the sounds. The steely sounds of a pipe organ rang into his skull. The grind of metal. The shouts of kids. Mancer opened his eyes and blinked. Mancer saw a blurry wheel and thousands of tiny colored huts. His vision cleared very little. He made out the hill and the Ferris wheel and the midway tents. He finally caught the moving specks of people going to and fro. They were blurry, they looked like tiny multicoloured streaks of rain on the windshield of a car. Mancer Grey was in a great deal of pain. He watched the people wandering around the amusement park because that was all he could do. His body was stiff and impossible to move. Mancer's eyes opened wide at the sight of the carnival. Mancer realized that the people he had thought were happy people were not happy people at all. Mancer realized the people were eating the buildings. The Ferris Wheel was being attacked by a mob of metal hungry fiends. The tents and booths were being devoured by famished streaks of color. And some of the streaks had more than two legs. And some of the huts were very odd shaped. They were more like eggs than booths or tents. Mancer's nose itched. He didn't like that, so he tried to move his hand. His hand did not move. His hand hurt quite a bit. A searing pain cut across his wrist. Mancer glanced back at the carnival. Mancer could not find the carnival. Mancer only saw a mixture of blood, vomit, and jelly beans sitting a mere foot in front of him on the same strip of concrete on which he lay. The mixture was being devoured by ants. Mancer had an ant on his nose. Mancer was not happy. "I'm telling you Steve, its easier, it saves paper, and it makes me feel good." A loud voice now entered Mancer's consciousness. "I dunno, Stu. It seems kinda wrong." A second voice said. "Don't knock it until you try it, Steve," said Stu. "All right, all right. I'll try wiping my ass with my hand instead of toilet paper, but I don't know if I'm gonna like it." Mancer jerked his head to look at his surroundings. The room was cavernous. It was a tin-sheeting lined warehouse of some sort. The walls of sheeting glowed from the rays of the sun that must have been shining high in the sky outside. Mancer was not outside. As far as Mancer could tell, the warehouse was empty. "Look, he's awake," said Stu. "So fella, how ya feeling?" asked Steve in a jolly tone. "Ung," said Mancer in a less than jolly tone. "Good, good," said Stu. A loud CLUMP CLUMP rang through the enormous warehouse, and Mancer felt two strong hands on his back. The hands yanked him off the floor. Mancer screamed. Mancer was still in pain. Mancer realized when he was on his feet that his hands were tied together. He also realized that his feet were lashed and that he was wet and cold. A whiff of foul air wafting up from his shorts told him he had pissed on himself. There was also vomit. Mancer wished he hadn't of vomited up his jelly beans. Mancer liked Jelly beans. It was a waste of jelly beans to puke them up. And there was blood on Mancer. And an ant or two. Mancer caught a glimpse of Stu, the man who had hauled him to his feet. Stu was a big man in overalls and a checked T-shirt. Stu had a stubbly face and wrinkled skin. Stu worked hard for his checked shirt, wrinkled skin and stubbly face. Stu reeked of shit. Stu hauled Mancer onto his shoulder with ease. Stu bent his knees, drew in a breath, and leapt with all his might toward the door. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" Stu screamed as he took one giant leap after another, screaming and CLOMPing his way to the door. A half second later someone else screamed and CLOMPed to where they were. It was Steve. Mancer watched Steve CLOMP to where he and Stu already were because Mancer was over Stu's shoulder and could only look behind. Steve was a big man. He had a stubbly face and wrinkled skin. He wore a checked T-shirt. His eyes were half-closed. He reeked of flogiston. Stu opened the door and a deafening wave of noise slammed into the trio. A huge crowd of people were waiting outside. They were screaming and chanting and yelling and making a very loud sound. Mancer felt the sun fall onto his back. Stu took one CLOMP outside and set Mancer back onto his feet. Mancer faced the crowd. They looked blood thirsty. They continued to scream. The audience was a mix of high class lookers, people in business suits and expensive looking hats; and lowlife scum, people wearing four coats and very poor looking hats. Mancer's hands were still tied behind his back. Mancer did not feel well. The crowd yelled obscenities at Mancer. They called him a heretic. They called him a heathen. One man dared to call Mancer a pig-fucker. Mancer looked up at the clouds and the sun. Mancer wanted jelly beans. One man stepped out of the crowd and held his hand up. They crowd stopped yelling. It was quiet. Mancer smiled. The man was in a suit. It was a black suit, and it looked expensive. The man was young and well shaved. He had an expensive watch. He worked hard for his suit, shave, and watch. The man smelled like fish. "You sir, don't seem to understand the vitalness of today's crisis. We bring you here today because you refuse to actuate the very beneficial 'Makeril Locomotion' into your daily routine. In the spirit of the benefit of the doubt, I will demonstrate it for you. Clear me a path." People cleared a path for the man in front of Mancer. The man bent his knees, drew in a breath, and leapt forward. "AAAAAAAAAAGH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! AAAAAAAAAAARH! AAAAAAH!" the man screamed and his leapt forward again and again, keeping his feet together and his arms at his sides, twisting his body to and fro CLOMPing forward until he lost his balance and fell on his face. He pulled himself up and dusted himself off. The crown erupted in a mighty cheer. The man smiled. Mancer frowned. The man waited a short while, basking in the glory of hopping until he fell on his face, and raised his hand once more to quiet the crowd. "Now you do it, sir, and we'll let you go," said the man. "I want my jelly beans back," said Mancer. "You will Makeril Locomotate yourself or you will be declared a traitor of the state!" the man yelled. Mancer stared at the man. The man looked at Mancer incredulously. Mancer felt the sun on his back. He looked at the clouds. He glanced at the mob and then at Stu and Steve. Mancer put his hand in his pocket. Mancer smiled. Mancer bent his knees. Mancer Drew in a mighty breath. Mancer burst out laughing and fell onto the ground. The shocked crowd stood silent for a moment. Then they started screaming again. Some of the people ran forward and began to hit Mancer. Mancer laughed. Mancer was thinking of jelly beans. Mancer didn't feel their crushing blows or hateful kicks. Mancer felt the sun on his back. Mancer was thinking of ants and jelly beans and vomit. Mancer laughed. @@@ FIN @@@ @---** Title: A Gothic Rant @---** Author: SiniStar Where to begin. . . where to begin. The disgust flows so rapidly that it's difficult to choose a good place to start. I've always preferred the middle, it's usually cream filled, but that tends to confuse the eight-year-olds that I have proofread everything, so I'll go for the beginning. In the beginning, there was darkness. And light. And everything else needed for the world to be hunky-dory. This hunky-dory state of being continued for a very long period of time. Then, someone decided that it would be neat to screw things up. Thus, Christianity came onto the scene. Fast forward through lots of wars about not killing and some neighbor-loving genocide, and my personal favorite; not suffering witches to live. And where does this leave us? Playing Vampire, very naturally. The Ramada Inn, which that night just happened to be full of people who believe in the tremendous power of Satan. Yup, you guessed it. . . Christians. How is it that a people who are supposed to believe in - and maybe even follow - a set of well-meaning ideals that don't work out in real life cannot accept the fact that some people just MIGHT not be exactly like them? If nothing else, they should believe that we ARE just like them (because otherwise some shiny-being type thing would smite us) and at the end of our night of hideous sin, we would just walk into a church, tell someone that we're sorry, and have all the bad stuff we'd done be erased. I comprehend the hypocrisy of Christians, but I truly can't fathom what possible cause they could have for such blind close-mindedness. I just wish that someday they will realized a few things about "the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ". For one, he was Goth as fuck. He slept with the dead, hung around with lepers, wore spiky S&M gear, was SERIOUSLY into body piercing, and spent quite a bit of time in tombs. Forgive me God, for I have ripped off material from the web page "Jesus was Gother than you". Ok, everything is fine, and it doesn't matter that I did bad. I hate. Ah, the creamy middle. Spend 3-5 minutes enjoying this line, or have a Coo-Coo Cola. Drugs. Aye, drugs. I'm sure by now all of you have heard my sob-story about self-mutilation because everything around me was turning to shit as everyone I was friends with (it seemed) began to do drugs. I'm tired of that story. Let me tell you a new story. Once upon a time, that time being just about now, people around me are doing drugs. ARE PEOPLE FUCKING STUPID?!?! ALL YOUR MISERABLE SELF-SERVING LIVES YOU'VE HEARD, SEEN, AND REPEATED MESSAGES ABOUT HOW DRUGS WILL _fuck you up_ AND HOW SMOKING WILL KILL YOU. DO YOU KNOW WHAT SECONDHAND SMOKE WILL DO TO OTHER PEOPLE?!?! IT'S MADE ME TYPE LIKE I JUST GOT MY WEB-TV ACCOUNT! This particular little bedtime tale will be about a girl named Becky P. No, that's too obvious, let's just call her B. Phillips. Little B. Phillips was a sweet girl, and no one ever thought that she was stupid or foolish. Everybody loved B. Phillips. Then, one day, B. proved everyone wrong by fucking starting to smoke dope. Just what the fuck brought that on, no one knows. But it is wrong on so many levels that it just sickens me. Everything is going to hell in a handbasket, if you will. People continue to be blind, stupid, self-serving and have I mentioned stupid? Doing drugs will harm your body, kill your brain, alienate those people who once thought you were their friend, fuck you up, and annoy those few people that continue to associate with you as they once did simply out of loyalty to a burned-out shell of a dead friendship. But It's all right, because you're cool, and you have a lot of new friends now. You don't do much with them, but hey, after a few joints, they don't seem to be blithering idiots anymore, and it is oh-so-cool the way they can't stop drooling on themselves. I hate. ... FIN ... @---**: Title: A Seinfeldian Rant @---**: Author: Ogre De Latoya & Quarex Q> I think you should turn it into a Seinfeld sketch. O> Especially since I write for Seinfeld. Q> Yes, especially because of that. O> There is no greater reason than the one that was stated. That being that you write for Seinfeld. Q> The reasons you have given are all appropriate. Especially you working for the writers of Seinfeld. It is a good reason. O> The fact that I write for Seinfeld is a good reason. Especially good for me to write for Seinfeld. That is why I felt it necessary to give a good reason. Writing for Seinfeld, that is. Q> This is the reason, and it is the only reason one would need. The reason is you writing for Seinfeld. You writing for Seinfeld has been the only reason given, and the only reason needed, for you write for Seinfeld. O> I must agree that the reasons you give cannot be denied. And, of course, the reasons are that the reason is that I write for Seinfeld. It is amazing that these reasons need no reasons, but rather are reasons unto themselves. I would not need reasons if I did not write for Seinfeld. But since I do, it self-evident that these reasons are the reasons. Q> I agree. O> Thank you for agreeing and for saying that I made sense. Q> You are most heartily welcome for your thanks, as your reasons have made nothing but sense of the fact that you write for Seinfeld. O> Most freely do I accept your welcome for my thanks. I understand without any doubt that the reasons I gave you, those being my writing for Seinfeld, are the cause of the sense. And I am happy that this is so. Q> Your welcoming of my thanks, in addition to my original presentation of said thanks, are many of the reasons why you are welcome and thankful for said thanks. If you were not to have written for Seinfeld, then none of these thanks nor the gratitude which followed would have been possible. O> I agree. &&& ELAINE &&& @---** Title: Rant & Rave about Random Things @---** Author: Quarex This is a groundbreaking issue of Grill! I have now reverted the title of this column to "Random Things", as it was in issues 1-2, instead of "Various Things", as I mistakenly labelled it from issues 3-9. How could someone as perfect as I do such a thing? Who knows? - * - * - * - I feel that a return to the guild system of medieval towns is in order. What better way to spend your adolescent years than as an apprentice, sweating over an anvil, hammering out shoes for a horse who likes to shit on your head? - * - * - * - I wish Easter were the celebration of something cool, like the production of the first assault rifle. I mean, in a fight between Jesus and an assault rifle, who do YOU think would win? - * - * - * - Sales for Gangrene Barbie are at an all-time low. - * - * - * - Right now, your state's elected officials are passing laws to arrest anyone reading a 'zine after 2:30. In order to combat this horrible nonsense, send mail to edecker@students.uiuc.edu. - * - * - * - PUNS. What do you call charged particles in a hurry? Expressions. What did the tag on Caine's brother's towel read? Washable. You know, that was probably the worst pun I have ever made. What will the name of Bil Keane's comic strip be once Microsoft buys it? The Family Circuit. What was the name of the unsuccessful sexual adhesive? Fuck tape. - * - * - * - AND NOW, direct to YOU, the GRILL READING PUBLIC, from the PIECE OF PAPER that we WROTE IT ON, is the 1997 Pun-off between Quarex and RottenZ, held in their collective ACS 160 class (using the overhead notes for inspiration). What do you call it when you treat a japanese man like a shotgun? Caucasian! What happens when a river is full of prisoners? Concurrent. What do you call a guy getting older? Managing. What is the Australian greeting for women? Allocate. When do Catholics give up Microsoft? On Excellent. What did the caveman talk show host say? Memory. [At this point, Quarex appeared delerious] What is it called when you sell a male cow into prostitution? Horrible. Who is the lead singer of Porno for Pyros? Peripheral. [At this point, Quarex was dazzled by that, the most amazing pun ever] What is Angry Archery? Crossbow. What is a female weapon? Broad Sword. Who is two legit to quit in battle? War Hammer. What do you call the big annual Clown meeting? Silicon. And thus ended the great pun-off. - * - * - * - Let me see, what am I really pissed off about this time. . . women are actually holding a positive spot in my conscience at the moment, so I cannot go off on them. . . Ah, I know, censorship. With the Supreme Court decision on the CDA so quickly approaching, I feel the need to say this, just in case they rule in favor of the CDA: FUCK YOU, GOD DAMN MOTHER FUCKING VATS OF DOG SHIT CUNT DISPATCHING COCK SHUFFLING BITCH-ASS TIT SHIT HALO 7. IF YOU FAVOR THE CDA, THEN YOU CAN SUCK MY MOTHER FUCKING RIGHTEOUSNESS, BECAUSE I AM GOING TO BE SURE TO BREAK THAT BULLSHIT LAW EVERY FUCKING WAY I CAN. - * - * - * - On a lighter note, I have completely stopped using apostrophes (with the exception of indicating possessiveness) since the last Grill came out. I thought back to my Third Grade days, when we were learning what apostrophes were. Little Drew (that is me, if you have forgotten) did not understand why you would want to use apostrophes. It just seemed like another bad idea, along with the whole "cursive" bullshit (which I also abandoned, but a long time ago). I actually got into an argument with the substitute teacher we had that day, insisting that I should not have to use apostrophes if I did not want to, because they served no purpose. She gave me a "U" on that paper, and made me put my head down on my desk. She is going to fucking get it. - * - * - * - There is no greater joy than obtaining a new stereo, but likewise, there is no greater pain than witnessing your stereo slowly deteriorate. As I watched my AIWA Mini-system continue to die on me, I was struck with an immense amount of sadness. Then, it broke for a third time, and my $100 warranty from Circuit City came in handy, and I got a brand new Sony mini-system, which was far superior anyway. What is my point? Simple! Never type in all lower-case. - * - * - * - The ultimate concert would be one put on by artists whose last name was the same as the next artist's first name. I can see it now. . . Boy George Michael Jackson Browne Sugar Puff Daddy Mack Jagger? With second stage acts Morbid Angel & Luther Vandross. - * - * - * - The internet is a great thing, but there are a few things about the people who use the internet that I *REALLY* hate. 1> Anyone who uses a clever animated "Construction" sign on their webpage, in order to indicate that the page is not finished. NO FUCKING SHIT YOUR PAGE IS NOT FINISHED. HOW COULD YOUR PAGE *EVER* BE FINISHED!? IS THERE A CERTAIN WAY YOU WANT YOUR PAGE TO BE, THAT WHEN IT REACHES THAT STAGE, YOU WILL NEVER TOUCH IT AGAIN!? I HARDLY THINK SO, YOU FUCKING IDIOTS. 2> Anyone who sends unsolicited e-mail. IF I EVER FIND ANY OF YOU IN REAL LIFE, YOU ARE FUCKING DEAD. 3> THAT IS ALL. * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * Submissions to Grill (hahahaha) can be sent to: Quarex - Quarex@Atheist.com Any comments about their material can be sent to: SwissPope - swisspope@uiuc.edu Ogre - jmbaker@odin.cmp.ilstu.edu Kheldar - sewalter@oratmail.cfa.ilstu.edu Spirit - Spirit@dave-world.net RottenZ - jmthomp@odin.cmp.ilstu.edu SiniStar - kasande@rs6000.cmp.ilstu.edu Al Aab - af137@torfree.net Sarahjoy - TheFuckifIknowifshehasanemailaddress@shewasinmybasement.com (Or, you could complain about them to me, see if I care. . .) All material contained within this text file in its entirety is copyrighted. No part of it may be used in any other text file, archive, web site, ftp site, gopher site, gofive site, gosix site, I ate a gopher site, irc site, b0!nk site, Great America site, Sight site, Slight site, Site site on site, or Area 51 site without express-written consent of ME!! AND I AM QUAREX! ALL HAIL QUAREX! The 10th issue of GRILL was completed sometime around June 21, 1997. Hypotenuse Now! -------------------------------------------------------------------------