From: El Queso <the_cheese_23nospam@yahoo.com>
Date: Thu, Mar 18, 2004
"GUTS" by Chuck Palahniuk
Inhale.
Take in as much air as you can.
This story should last about as long as you can hold
your breath, and
then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as
you can.
A friend of mine, when he was 13 years old he heard
about "pegging."
This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo.
Stimulate the
prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can
have explosive
hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little
sex maniac. He's
always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off.
He goes out to
buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a
little private
research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at
the supermarket
checkout counter, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly
rolling down the
conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All
the shoppers waiting
in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he
has planned.
So my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a
carrot, all the
ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.
Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.
At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He
slathers it with
grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing.
No orgasm. Nothing
happens except it hurts.
Then, this kid, his mom yells it's supper time. She
says to come down,
right now.
He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy
thing in the
dirty clothes under his bed.
After dinner, he goes to find the carrot, and it's gone.
All his dirty
clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all
to do laundry. No
way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped
with a paring knife
from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.
This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud,
waiting for
his folks to confront him. And they nev-er do. Ever.
Even now that he's
grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas
dinner, every
birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids,
his parents'
grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of
them. That
something too awful to name.
People in France have a phrase: "staircase wit."
In French: esprit de
l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer,
but it's too
late. Say you're at a par-ty and someone insults you.
You have to say
something. So under pressure, with everybody watching,
you say something
lame. But the moment you leave the party....
As you start down the stairway, then-magic. You come
up with the perfect
thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.
That's the spirit of the stairway.
The trouble is, even the French don't have a phrase
for the stupid
things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid,
desperate
things you actually think or do.
Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.
Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now
say that most of
the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke
while they beat
off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around
their kid's
neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet,
the kid dead.
Dead sperm every-where. Of course the folks cleaned
up. They put some
pants on their kid. They made it look ... better. Intentional
at least.
The regular kind of sad teen suicide.
Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older
brother in the Navy
said how guys in the Middle East jack off different
than we do here.
This brother was stationed in some camel country where
the public market
sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy
tool is just a thin
rod of pol-ished brass or silver, maybe as long as your
hand, with a big
tip at one end, ei-ther a big metal ball or the kind
of fan-cy carved
handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother says
how Arab guys get
their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside
the whole length
of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and
it makes getting
off so much better. More intense.
It's this big brother who travels around the world,
sending back French
phrases. Russian phrases. Helpful jack-off tips.
After this, the little brother, one day he doesn't show
up at school.
That night, he calls to ask if I'll pick up his homework
for the next
couple weeks. Because he's in the hospital.
He's got to share a room with old people getting their
guts worked on.
He says how they all have to share the same television.
All he's got for
privacy is a curtain. His folks don't come and visit.
On the phone, he
says how right now his folks could just kill his big
brother in the Navy.
On the phone, the kid says how-the day before-he was
just a little
stoned. At home in his bedroom, he was flopped on the
bed. He was
lighting a candle and flipping through some old porno
magazines, getting
ready to beat off. This is after he's heard from his
Navy brother. That
helpful hint about how Arabs beat off. The kid looks
around for
something that might do the job. A ballpoint pen's too
big. A pencil's
too big and rough. But dripped down the side of the
candle, there's a
thin, smooth ridge of wax that just might work. With
just the tip of one
finger, this kid snaps the long ridge of wax off the
candle. He rolls it
smooth between the palms of his hands. Long and smooth
and thin.
Stoned and horny, he slips it down inside, deeper and
deeper into the
piss slit of his boner. With a good hank of the wax
still poking out the
top, he gets to work.
Even now, he says those Arab guys are pretty damn smart.
They've totally
reinvented jacking off. Flat on his back in bed, things
are getting so
good, this kid can't keep track of the wax. He's one
good squeeze from
shooting his wad when the wax isn't sticking out anymore.
The thin wax rod, it's slipped inside. All the way inside.
So deep
inside he can't even feel the lump of it inside his
piss tube.
From downstairs, his mom shouts it's supper time. She
says to come
down, right now. This wax kid and the carrot kid are
different people,
but we all live pretty much the same life.
It's after dinner when the kid's guts start to hurt.
It's wax, so he
figured it would just melt inside him and he'd pee it
out. Now his back
hurts. His kid-neys. He can't stand straight.
This kid talking on the phone from his hospital bed,
in the background
you can hear bells ding, people scream-ing. Game shows.
The X-rays show the truth, some-thing long and thin,
bent double inside
his bladder. This long, thin V inside him, it's collecting
all the
minerals in his piss. It's getting bigger and rougher,
coated with
crystals of calci-um, it's bumping around, ripping up
the soft lining of
his bladder, blocking his piss from getting out. His
kidneys are backed
up. What little that leaks out his dick is red with
blood.
This kid and his folks, his whole fam-ily, them looking
at the black
X-ray with the doctor and the nurses stand-ing there,
the big V of wax
glowing white for everybody to see, he has to tell the
truth. The way
Arabs get off. What his big brother wrote him from the
Navy.
On the phone, right now, he starts to cry.
They paid for the bladder operation with his college
fund. One stupid
mis-take, and now he'll never be a lawyer.
Sticking stuff inside yourself. Stick-ing yourself inside
stuff. A
candle in your dick or your head in a noose, we knew
it was going to be
big trouble.
What got me in trouble, I called it Pearl Diving. This
meant whacking
off underwater, sitting on the bottom at the deep end
of my parents'
swimming pool. With one deep breath, I'd kick my way
to the bottom and
slip off my swim trucks. I'd sit down there for two,
three, four minutes.
Just from jacking oft' I had huge lung capacity. If
I had the house to
myself, I'd do this all afternoon. After I'd finally
pump out my stuff,
my sperm, it would hang there in big, fat, milky gobs.
After that was more diving, to catch it all. To collect
it and wipe each
hand-ful in a towel. That's why it was called Pearl
Diving. Even with
chlorine, there was my sister to worry about. Or, Christ
almighty, my mom.
That used to be my worst fear in the world: my teenage
virgin sister,
think-ing she's just getting fat, then giving birth
to a two-headed,
retard baby. Both heads looking just like me. Me, the
father and the uncle.
In the end, it's never what you worry about that gets you.
The best part of Pearl Diving was the inlet port for
the swimming pool
filter and the circulation pump. The best part was getting
naked and
sit-ting on it.
As the French would say, Who doesn't like getting their
butt sucked?
Still, one minute you're just a kid getting off, and
the next minute
you'll never be a lawyer.
One minute I'm settling on the pool bottom and the sky
is wavy, light
blue through eight feet of water above my head. The
world is silent
except for the heartbeat in my ears. My yellow-striped
swim trunks are
looped around my neck for safe keeping, just in case
a friend, a
neighbor, anybody shows up to ask why I skipped foot-ball
practice. The
steady suck of the pool inlet hole is lapping at me
and I'm grinding my
skinny white ass around on that feeling.
One minute I've got enough air and my dick's in my hand.
My folks are
gone at their work and my sister's got ballet. Nobody's
supposed to be
home for hours.
My hand brings me right to getting off, and I stop.
I swim up to catch
an-other big breath. I dive down and settle on the bottom.
I do this again and again.
This must be why girls want to sit on your face. The
suction is like
taking a dump that never ends. My dick hard and getting
my butt eaten
out, I do not need air. My heartbeat in my ears, I stay
under until
bright stars of light start worming around in my eyes.
My legs straight
out, the back of each knee rubbed raw against the concrete
bot-tom. My
toes are turning blue, my toes and fingers wrinkled
from being so long
in the water.
And then I let it happen. The big white gobs start spouting.
The pearls.
It's then I need some air. But when I go to kick off
against the bottom,
I can't. I can't get my feet under me. My ass is stuck.
Emergency paramedics will tell you that every year about
150 people get
stuck this way, sucked by a circulation pump. Get your
long hair caught,
or your ass, and you're going to drown. Every year,
tons of people do.
Most of them in Florida.
People just don't talk about it. Not even French people
talk about
everything. Getting one knee up, getting one foot tucked
under me, I get
to half standing when I feel the tug against my butt.
Get-ting my other
foot under me, I kick off against the bottom. I'm kicking
free, not
touching the concrete, but not getting to the air, either.
Still kicking water, thrashing with both arms, I'm maybe
halfway to the
surface but not going higher. The heartbeat in-side
my head getting loud
and fast.
The bright sparks of light crossing and crisscrossing
my eyes, I turn
and look back ... but it doesn't make sense. This thick
rope, some kind
of snake, blue-white and braided with veins, has come
up out of the pool
drain and it's holding on to my butt. Some of the veins
are leaking
blood, red blood that looks black underwater and drifts
away from little
rips in the pale skin of the snake. The blood trails
away, disappearing
in the water, and inside the snake's thin, blue-white
skin you can see
lumps of some half-digested meal.
That's the only way this makes sense. Some horrible
sea monster, a sea
serpent, something that's never seen the light of day,
it's been hiding
in the dark bottom of the pool drain, waiting to eat
me.
So ...I kick at it, at the slippery, rub-bery knotted
skin and veins of
it, and more of it seems to pull out of the pool drain.
It's maybe as
long as my leg now, but still holding tight around my
butt-hole. With
another kick, I'm an inch closer to getting another
breath. Still
feeling the snake tug at my ass, I'm an inch closer
to my escape.
Knotted inside the snake, you can see corn and peanuts.
You can see a
long bright-orange ball. It's the kind of horse-pill
vitamin my dad
makes me take, to help put on weight. To get a football
scholarship.
With extra iron and omega-three fatty acids.
It's seeing that vitamin pill that saves my life.
It's not a snake. It's my large intestine, my colon
pulled out of me.
What doctors call prolapsed. It's my guts sucked into
the drain.
Paramedics will tell you a swimming pool pump pulls
80 gallons of water
every minute. That's about 400 pounds of pressure. The
big problem is
we're all connected together inside. Your ass is just
the far end of
your mouth. If I let go, the pump keeps working-unravel-ing
my
insides-until it's got my tongue. Imagine taking a 400-pound
shit and
you can see how this might turn you inside out.
What I can tell you is your guts don't feel much pain.
Not the way your
skin feels pain. The stuff you're digesting, doctors
call it fecal
matter. Higher up is chyme, pockets of a thin, runny
mess studded with
corn and peanuts and round green peas.
That's all this soup of blood and corn, shit and sperm
and peanuts
floating around me. Even with my guts unravel-ing out
my ass, me holding
on to what's left, even then my first want is to some-how
get my
swimsuit back on.
God forbid my folks see my dick.
My one hand holding a fist around my ass, my other hand
snags my
yellow-striped swim trunks and pulls them from around
my neck. Still,
getting into them is impossible.
You want to feel your intestines, go buy a pack of those
lambskin
condoms. Take one out and unroll it. Pack it with peanut
butter. Smear
it with petroleum jelly and hold it under water. Then
try to tear it.
Try to pull it in half. It's too tough and rubbery.
It's so slimy you
can't hold on.
A lambskin condom, that's just plain old intestine.
You can see what I'm up against.
You let go for a second and you're gutted.
You swim for the surface, for a breath, and you're gutted.
You don't swim and you drown.
It's a choice between being dead right now or a minute from right now.
What my folks will find after work is a big naked fetus,
curled in on
itself. Floating in the cloudy water of their backyard
pool. Tethered to
the bottom by a thick rope of veins and twisted guts.
The opposite of a
kid hanging himself to death while he jacks off. This
is the baby they
brought home from the hospital 13 years ago. Here's
the kid they hoped
would snag a football schol-arship and get an MBA. Who'd
care for them
in their old age. Here's all their hopes and dreams.
Floating here,
naked and dead. All around him, big milky pearls of
wasted sperm.
Either that or my folks will find me wrapped in a bloody
towel,
collapsed halfway from the pool to the kitchen tele-phone,
the ragged,
torn scrap of my guts still hanging out the leg of my
yellow-striped
swim trunks.
What even the French won't talk about.
That big brother in the Navy, he taught us one other
good phrase. A
Russian phrase. The way we say, "I need that like
I need a hole in my
head...," Russian people say, "I need that
like I need teeth in my
asshole......
Mne eto nado kak zuby v zadnitse.
Those stories about how animals caught in a trap will
chew off their
leg, well, any coyote would tell you a couple bites
beats the hell out
of being dead.
Hell ... even if you're Russian, someday you just might want those teeth.
Otherwise, what you have to do is-you have to twist
around. You hook one
elbow behind your knee and pull that leg up into your
face. You bite and
snap at your own ass. You run out of air and you will
chew through
anything to get that next breath.
It's not something you want to tell a girl on the first
date. Not if you
expect a kiss good night.
If I told you how it tasted, you would never, ever again eat calamari.
It's hard to say what my parents were more disgusted
by: how I'd got in
trou-ble or how I'd saved myself. After the hospital,
my mom said, "You
didn't know what you were doing, honey. You were in
shock." And she
learned how to cook poached eggs.
All those people grossed out or feeling sorry for me....
I need that like I need teeth in my asshole.
Nowadays, people always tell me I look too skinny. People
at dinner
parties get all quiet and pissed off when I don't eat
the pot roast they
cooked. Pot roast kills me. Baked ham. Anything that
hangs around inside
my guts for longer than a couple of hours, it comes
out still food.
Home-cooked lima beans or chunk light tuna fish, I'll
stand up and find
it still sitting there in the toilet.
After you have a radical bowel resec-tioning, you don't
digest meat so
great. Most people, you have five feet of large intestine.
I'm lucky to
have my six inch-es. So I never got a football scholarship.
Never got an
MBA. Both my friends, the wax kid and the carrot kid,
they grew up, got
big, but I've never weighed a pound more than I did
that day when I was 13.
Another big problem was my folks paid a lot of good
money for that
swim-ming pool. In the end my dad just told the pool
guy it was a dog.
The family dog fell in and drowned. The dead body got
pulled into the
pump. Even when the pool guy cracked open the filter
casing and fished
out a rubbery tube, a watery hank of intestine with
a big orange
vita-min pill still inside, even then my dad just said,
"That dog was
fucking nuts."
Even from my upstairs bedroom window, you could hear
my dad say, "We
couldn't trust that dog alone for a second...."
Then my sister missed her period.
Even after they changed the pool water, after they sold
the house and we
moved to another state, after my sister's abortion,
even then my folks
never men-tioned it again.
Ever.
That is our invisible carrot.
You. Now you can take a good, deep breath.
I still have not.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
From: hellpopehuey@subgenius.com (HellPopeHuey)
Ah, good, Christian family stock, the foundation of
our great nation,
which sprouts the Children Who Are Our Future. Hmph.
Now you know why
pet rocks sold so well. If you're too goddamned stupid
to buy a dildo,
you are ignoring both physics and capitalism and DESERVE
to have your
guts sucked out by a pump. You'd think everyone but
anorexic
cheerleaders had entirely forgotten what a cucumber
was. Its more than
just a source of pickles, ho ho ho, Green Giant.
--
HellPope Huey
Darn, its the Apocalypse and I've nothing to wear
"You mean it took him 50 years
just to get his instructions right?"
"Heaven does not measure time as humans do."
- "The Spectre"
"Don't be afraid... here comes the air."
- "Signs"
----------------------------------------------------------------------
From: "Rev. Ivan Stang" <stang@subgeniusNOSPUM.com>
El Queso <the_cheese_23nospam@yahoo.com> wrote:
> "GUTS" by Chuck Palahniuk
>
> Inhale.
>
> Take in as much air as you can.
OH MAN!!!
WHEW!!!
About halfway through that story I totally forgot that
it was written
by somebody else and not YOU.
That has got to be the scariest fucking horror story I have EVER read.
But even though I realized afterwards that you, El Queso,
beloved
creator of many "Bob"ly songs, had just REPRINTED
that story, still,
it was so vividly set up that I will ALWAYS feel sorry
for you when I
think of you and your poor anus. Then I'll remember.
But this tragedy
will be forever tied in my mind to my mental image of
El Queso Narteen
himself.
Speaking of which, I mailed you a VHS a month ago or
so, addressed to
El Queso Marteen... it never came back, so I'm hoping
you got it. Had
"music videos" of recent Dobbs songs inc.
the revised Planet X or Bust,
and also the all-Queso Hour of Slack on CD. Well, Much-Queso.
And I TOTALLY SPACED on Sleepytime Gorilla Museum. TOTALLY
spaced. It
was on my calendar right there behind me but I didn't
look at the
fucking calendar for like 4 days. Kicking myself. It
was only a few
blocks away! Fuckety fuck fuck.
But better than jack-off-related crippling injuries.
Sheesh. I'm still
SHAKING from reading that. God damn you. Like autopsy
photos suddenly
sprung on you in email... something I DON'T NEED RATTLING
AROUND IN MY
HEAD FOREVER!!
I knew a guy that would jack off at the bottom of his
swimming pool...
he would "fuck" the deflated rubber pool raft.
My brother and I
happened to jump into his pool while he was doing it
and saw, clearly,
through our divers' masks, those barbells of sperm slowly
rotating
through the water -- RIGHT TOWARDS US!! You never saw
two poebuckers
jump out of a swimming pool so fast. Like a reverse-motion
film of
somebody jumping in.
The medical literature, and weekly enterment magazine
columns, are full
of reports of guys injured by fucking belt sanders,
tank tread chains,
etc. I must be some kind of homo by comparison. The
sickest thing I
ever did was to majorly lust after a very weird-looking
crippled blind
girl who sat near me in a music class in college. And
I kept that
secret until just now. You bastard.
But I still think of that crippled weird looking blind
girl now and
then. Thank god I never asked her out. She was probably
a jerk.
"My only vice." -- Pretorious
*****
GOD DAMN IT!!! WHAT A FUCKING IDIOT I AM!! THAT BLIND
GIRL -- I just
now realized HOW EASILY I could have STALKED her. You
know, secretly
taking Super 8 movies of her as she wheeled herself
home, etc. I knew a
guy who did that sort of thing in real life. He showed
his footage to
the stalkee one day IN FILM CLASS -- and she SCREAMED
and FLED THE
ROOM. May have pressed charges or at least got a restraining
order put
on the guy.
Anyway, shit, I blew it. I could be jacking off to pictures
of that
weird looking crippled blind girl RIGHT NOW if I'd only
THOUGHT!!
Instead I'm sitting here typing alt.slack.fuk, and waiting
for my
GORGEOUS LONG LEGGED BLONDE WIFE to come home. Oh the
irony!
And believe me, alt.binaries.disabled-devo JUST ISN'T THE SAME.
But maybe as I watch more of that old Woodstock movie
tonight, more
memories of youthful sickness will surface! OH BOY!
Hmm I do remember, not that long ago in Portland, I
trailed behind an
Inuit looking girl for an inordinate extra couple of
blocks because I
was FASCINATED by how... BEAUTIFULLY UGLY she was. She
looked like an
honest-to-god Neanderthal or something, really Stone
Age. REALLY Stone
Age. With a body that wouldn't quit -- if you don't
mind the effects of
rickets. I was in quite a tizzy over her. I don't think
she was JUST a
full-blood "Eskimo" -- I think she was a half-breed
YETI.
But is musing lustfully over really weird looking chicks
as sick as
wanting to get your asshole sucked by a machine while
you whap your
frapper? I think not. Ahh. That makes me feel ever so
much more
regular. I guess it's all relative, but, gosh, it seems
like being kind
of a square has got to be the easier road than full-on
hedonism that
might have NO END... LITERALLY. It might LITERALLY leave
you with... no
actual HIND END. What's a spurt worth, if in so spurting
a man loses
his butt?
--
4th Stangian Orthodox MegaFisTemple Lodge of the Wrath
of Dobbs Yeti,
Resurrected (Rev. Ivan Stang, prop.)
PRABOB
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Subject: Re: ìGUTSî by Chuck Palahniuk
"Rev. Ivan Stang" <stang@subgeniusNOSPUM.com>
wrote:
> I knew a guy that would jack off at the bottom
of his swimming pool...
> he would "fuck" the deflated rubber pool
raft. My brother and I
> happened to jump into his pool while he was doing
it and saw, clearly,
> through our divers' masks, those barbells of sperm
slowly rotating
> through the water -- RIGHT TOWARDS US!! You never
saw two poebuckers
> jump out of a swimming pool so fast. Like a reverse-motion
film of
> somebody jumping in.
Arkansas has a lot of weird pollution going on and
MANY jackoffs, so
those sperm get to be about 4-5 foot long, I reckon.
You'd BETTER
reverse-jump really well. I dunno exactly what might
happen if one of
them GOT you, but it would for sure be like the Rover
from "The
Prisoner" doing its thing, just for starters. Think
"Eraserhead,"
except instead of raining DOWN, they're coming at you
FRONTALLY. Okay,
now its lunchtime.
--
HellPope Huey
Crouching HellPope, Hidden PillMonkey
"Democracy is two wolves and a lamb
voting on what to have for lunch.
Liberty is a well-armed lamb contesting the vote."
- Benjamin Franklin 1759
"The Law is mighty stupid in its implementation
and slower than a Special Olympics medal winner
playing chess with a Simpsons set.
- HellPope Huey
----------------------------------------------------------------------
From: nenslo <nenslo@yahoox.com>
I tried to read a book by that guy once. It was the
one that he starts
out by explaining that I really shouldn't read it and
I won't like it if
I do, so I said okay, that's good enough for me, this
guy is obviously
writing for dumbasses who are going to say oh that's
so cool, this guy
writing a story that starts off with him telling you
not to read it,
this guy must be some kind of real cool dude and totally
great, well I
personally say fuck that shit. There are too many good
books I haven't
read for me to waste my time on some Mister Hip Attitude
crap.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
From: El Queso <the_cheese_23nospam@yahoo.com>
nenslo wrote:
> I tried to read a book by that guy once. It was
the one that he starts
> out by explaining that I really shouldn't read
it and I won't like it if
> I do, so I said okay, that's good enough for me,
this guy is obviously
> writing for dumbasses who are going to say oh that's
so cool, this guy
> writing a story that starts off with him telling
you not to read it,
> this guy must be some kind of real cool dude and
totally great, well I
> personally say fuck that shit. There are too many
good books I haven't
> read for me to waste my time on some Mister Hip
Attitude crap.
His books are a riot, but I thought his new one "Diary"
was proof that
he is recycling a LOT of his best bits and trying to
call it a style.
Queso
----------------------------------------------------------------------
From: nenslo <nenslo@yahoox.com>
Yeah well ... you jerk.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
From: brthrn@dangermedia.org (MRvDC)
Queso was the first bastard to alert me to the existence
of BUBBA HO
TEP.
In addition. The vibe I get from alt.slack is that he
and I are the
only ones here that can appreciate the beautiful childhood
blasphemy
of "Meet the Feebles."
If he's ever in L.A. again. He can swing by my place.
There's a
Scientology Center about a 5 minute drive away. And
I'll perform a
spooky noodle diseased hemophiliac hate dance in front
of it in broad
daylight. Let them harrass me. Far as I'm concerned.
Forcing me to
breath this air is torture enough. And I'll look ridiculous
doing it.
Since I have no external groove. In homage. To Queso.
And I really couldn't give a fuck about Scientology.
John Travolta
orders off the menu. Tom Cruise means well but isn't
very bright. And
ALL organized religions suck. Except one. And that one
isn't very
organized at all FOR GOOD REASON.
What'd YOU ever do for ME! huh! Besides thoroughly CONVINCE
ME that
there's ABSOLUTELY *NOTHING* HERE TO BE INTO.
And I have thanked you for that on a previous occasion. Bastard.
*SAY* *IT*!
My fan. It almost seems alien. In the apartment. "Did
it come with
this?" Of course not.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
From: El Queso <the_cheese_23nospam@yahoo.com>
I'll let you know the next time I'm gonna be in LA.
I want to go sit
through some of the Scientology movies they show at
the center there. I
want to sit there and howl with laughter at all the
wrong times and tell
them how cool their parody religion is.
Queso
----------------------------------------------------------------------
From: polar bear <bear@pole.com>
nenslo <nenslo@yahoox.com> wrote:
> I tried to read a book by that guy once. It was
the one that he starts
> out by explaining that I really shouldn't read
it and I won't like it if
> I do, so I said okay, that's good enough for me,
this guy is obviously
> writing for dumbasses who are going to say oh that's
so cool, this guy
> writing a story that starts off with him telling
you not to read it,
> this guy must be some kind of real cool dude and
totally great, well I
> personally say fuck that shit. There are too many
good books I haven't
> read for me to waste my time on some Mister Hip
Attitude crap.
Man, you are so cool! I bet you didn't steal "Steal This Book" either.
pb
----------------------------------------------------------------------
From: nenslo <nenslo@yahoox.com>
I deny this scurrilous accusation.
Original file name: 'GUTS' by Chuck Palahniuk.txt - converted on Saturday, 25 September 2004, 02:05
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