This script just arrived in this morning's mail from the "Subgenius
Digestifier" list. Anyone know why there's so little crossover between
our two groups?
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Republic Dogs
-------------
By Nathaniel Daw
copyright 1994 and all that.
[Thrasymachus is tied up in a chair. Socrates is brandishing a gun in his
face]
Thrasymachus: Don't kill me, man!
Socrates: Are you finished, fucker?
Thrasymachus: Look, look, man, you can have my ten yoke of oxen. My
virgin daughters? My pomegranite orchard?
Socrates: You like pomegranites? Shit, motherfucker, I hear they've got a
fuckin' all-you-can-eat special going on on pomegranites where you're headed.
Thrasymachus: Don't do it, Socrates. Be fair.
Socrates: [Suddenly contemplative] Fair?
Thrasymachus: [Sees an opportunity for survival] Yeah, fair...think about
my wife and children--
Socrates: Would you say that to be fair is the same thing as to be just?
Thrasymachus: What?
Socrates: Well, I'm just a dull, wandering street philosopher, so I don't
understand quite where you're headed with this particular line of
reasoning. Perhaps [motions with gun] you could further elucidate your
theory of justice.
Thrasymachus: My theory? Of justice?
Socrates: Yes. You do...have a theory of justice, don't you?
Thrasymachus: Uh...
Socrates: Or perhaps you'd like to hear my theory.
Thrasymachus: Oh, yes, yes, yes, of course, your theory. You have a theory?
Socrates: Well, yes, I have been thinking a little about justice--not of
course, so deeply as could a wise sage like yourself. But I've had a
little idea, an insignificant but troubling little idea, and it's been
bothering me a little, and I thought that maybe someone as smart as
yourself could help convince me that it was wrong.
Thrasymachus: Of course, I'll do anything I can to help.
Socrates: So you'd like to hear my theory?
Thrasymachus: I'd be honored.
Socrates: My humble little idea goes something like this. [He is suddenly
extremely loud and violent. Roars:] Justice is only the will of the
stronger. What do you think about that, asshole? [Slaps Thrasymachus
across the face with his gun]
Thrasymachus: Uh, uh, uh ...
Socrates: Come on ... come on, you wanna try and disprove my theory, you
weak little shit? Yeah? Yeah? Shit, I think I feel a proof coming on.
[Shoots him.] Why, thank you Thrasymachus, you've certainly opened my eyes.
Narrator: Thrasymachus. Alcibiades. Aristotle. Socrates--are Quentin
Tarantino's Republic Dogs.
[Enter Alcibiades and Aristotle]
Aristotle: So you're saying you'd give Helen of Troy a foot massage?
Alcibiades: Fuck yeah, in a minute.
Aristotle: You'd touch her feet? She might be the most beautiful bitch
since fucking Aphrodite, but trust me, her feet stink. And her armpits
stink too. Just cuz she's beautiful don't mean she don't smell like the
rest of us. And don't you go telling no deodorant story, either, cuz you
know and I know it wasn't invented during the Trojan war.
Alcibiades: What, you wouldn't do her?
Aristotle: I didn't say I wouldn't do her. I said I wouldn't give her a
foot massage. I don't dig on feet.
Alcibiades: Well, what if before you did her you'd have to give her a
foot massage to get her in the mood?
Aristotle: Allow me to inquire, Alcibiades. What if you had to massage
her armpits to get her in the mood?
Alcibiades: Fuck you, Aristotle.
Socrates: You guys have got it all wrong.
Alcibiades: What, you don't like foot massages either?
Socrates: No, motherfucker, the Iliad, you've got the Iliad all wrong. Do
you wanna know what the Iliad is about? Well, I'll tell you what the
Iliad is about. It ain't about no bitches, that's for fucking sure.
Alcibiades: Sure it is. You're saying Helen of Troy ain't one hot bitch?
Socrates: I'm not saying Helen of Troy ain't a hot bitch, I'm saying the
Iliad ain't about her. She ain't even in it.The Odyssey is about bitches,
I'll grant you that. But I'll tell you what The Iliad is about. It's
about big boats. Didn't you ever read the second Canto? Boats boats boats
boats boats boats boats. Hence, the Trojan War.
Aristotle: You're full of shit.
Alcibiades: Fuck yeah you are; the Iliad is about Achilles' struggle with
his own homosexuality.
Socrates: Maybe I should frame my theory a bit more emphatically.
[Drawing his gun.] Didn't you ever hear of the face that launched a
thousand...boats?
Alcibiades: Uh...
Socrates: WELL?
Alcibiades: Yeah.
Socrates: Well, how'd you like me to launch your face?
Alcibiades: Uh...
Socrates: Ahh, I guess that example cleared up all your objections then.
[Points weapon at Aristotle] You don't have any problems with that, do you?
Aristotle: Hey, man, it's cool. Cool. Boats are cool by me. I was just on
a boat recently.
Socrates: [Putting away his gun.] Well good for fucking you. This makes
you special?
Aristotle: From Mycinea.
Alcibiades: What's it like? I hear they do some crazy-ass shit there.
Aristotle: Man, that place is like Mount-fucking-Olympus. Every night,
they gather round the fire in certain legally designated areas, where
government-licensed civil servants throw the roots of a domestically
cultivated plant in the fire.
Socrates: So fucking what?
Aristotle: So the smoke makes them giddy and lighthearted as if they had
drunk on wine, only they don't have a headache in the morning, that's
fucking what.
Socrates: That's it, I'm fucking going. It's the perfect fucking city.
Aristotle: It ain't the perfect fucking city.
Socrates: You know a better city?
Aristotle: No, I don't know a better city, motherfucker, but that don't
mean fucking Mycinea is fucking perfect. "Perfect" doesn't mean that
there ain't nothing better, it means perfect.
Socrates: Can you explain that lofty idea in terms a base, wandering
street philosopher like myself might be able to understand?
Aristotle: Well, allow me to demonstrate. Let's say there was an
imaginary city, and all the people were divided into three groups. Let's
say I represent the Gold group, I'd be Mr. Gold, you, Socrates would be
Mr. Silver, and, you, Alcibiades, Mr. Bronze.
Alcibiades: Why do I have to be Mr. Bronze?
Aristotle: Because it's only a demonstration. So me, Gold, I'd be the
philosopher king--
Alcibiades: But why can't I be the philosopher king? Look, Socrates, I'll
trade with you.
Aristotle: [Draws a gun, fires a shot into the air, and points it at
Alcibiades] Interrupt me again, motherfucker. Interrupt me again.
Nobody's trading with anybody. This is my allegory.
[Alcibiades gestures submission.]
Aristotle: [Putting away gun.] So as the philosopher king, it would be my
duty to keep seditious literature out of the city--
Socrates: I got it. I understand.
Aristotle: Shut up, motherfucker, how can you understand my perfect city
when I haven't explained it yet?
Socrates: No, dickhead, not that, I understand what you were saying
before, about perfection. It's all about forms.
Aristotle: Forms?
Socrates: Yeah, motherfucker, forms. Like, something don't have to
physically exist for it to be perfect; it exists as the perfect ideal,
the perfect form, beyond mortal comprehension.
Alcibiades: Socrates, you're supposed to pour your libations on the
ground, not drink them till you're talking like a crazy Bacchae bitch.
Socrates: Normally, I'd be pouring libations with your spinal fluid right
now, but since I'm feeling at peace with the universe I'll try to
enlighten your sorry ass instead. Imagine there's this dark, underground
cave.
Alcibiades: Yeah?
Socrates: And there's this rapist-motherfucker, and he's got this gimp,
right, tied up in the cave. See that?
Aristotle: Okay.
Socrates: And this rapist, he's a sick motherfucker, so let's say one day
he sends down a coupla pipe-hittin' negroes to cut the gimp's ear right off.
Alcibiades: Cut his ear off?
Socrates: Yeah, and gouge out his fucking eyes. Now wouldn't you say that
the ear and eye are the proper receptacles of the senses of sight and
hearing, respecitively?
Alcibiades: Clearly so.
Socrates: So, moreover, would you not agree that this gimp's senses are
imperfect?
Aristotle: Why, yes, Socrates, I suppose they would be a trifle damaged.
Socrates: And what do things look like to someone with imperfect senses?
Alcibiades: Dark?
Socrates: No, motherfucker, nine letters, begins with "I."
Aristotle: Imperfect.
Socrates: Bingo. So you'd say this gimp, you'd say this gimp motherfucker
would be unable to perceive true perfection--but that don't mean it don't
exist. Now if you brought him out of the cave, into the light, things
would be less dark, and his eyes might heal a little, he might begin to
see a glimmer of light, thereby gaining the idea of true perfection--
Aristotle: What kind of argument is that? Your theory of the forms rests
on an arbitrary and vicious act of violence.
Socrates: [Draws his gun.] Aristotle, you're Plato's student, I respect
you, but I will put fucking bullets through your heart if you don't take
back what you said about me being violent now!
Aristotle: [Also drawing gun] You shoot, you'll be dining with Lord Hades
tonight. I repeat. You kill me, your ass is eating pomegranite fucking
casserole for the rest of eternity.
Alcibiades: Shit, man, you're acting like a bunch of fuckin' Spartans. Am
I the only philosopher around here?
Socrates and Aristotle: [To Alcibiades] Shut up!
Alcibiades: Guys, guys, calm down. Look, I've got it. Let's have a
symposium--we can all drink wine and make speeches in praise of love.
Aristotle: What are you, some kind of pansy?
Socrates: Shoot that dipshit.
[Socrates and Aristotle turn in unison and shoot Alcibiades, then turn
back and again aim at each other.]
Socrates: [To Aristotle] Don't think you're getting off that easy. You
ever read Plato?
Aristotle: Of course.
Socrates: There's this little passage I got memorized that I like to
recite in situations like this. It is a tale of a brave man, Er, who once
died in war. On the twelfth day, as he was already laid out on the
funeral pyre, he revived, and told what he had seen yonder. He said that
after his soul had left him it travelled with many others until they came
to a marvellous place, where there were two openings upward into heaven,
and between them sat judges. These, when they had given judgment, ordered
the just to go upward through the heavens by the opening on the right.
The unjust they ordered to travel downward by the opening on the left.
For all the wrongs they had done to any person they paid a tenfold
penalty. Savage men, all fiery to look at bound their feet, hands and
heads, and threw them down and beat them, tortured them on thorny
bushes.
Aristotle: What the fuck was that all about?
Socrates: So, motherfucker, prepare to test the hypothesis! See, I've got it
figured out, I'm the just man, and you're the unjust man, my gun is the
thorny bushes, and Mr. dead pansy here is the judge. Now DIE MOTHERFUC--
Aristotle: But what if I'm the just man and you're the unjust man and
this dead dipshit is the thorny bushes?
Socrates: Oh, uh ...
Aristotle: Or what if Alcibiades is the just man, and we're both unjust
men. And the thorny bushes are the judge?
Socrates: Shit, well I guess that all depends on your definition of justice.
Aristotle: Exactly my point. That was what I was working up to with my
description of the perfect city, before I was so rudely interrupted.
Socrates: Shit, I'm sorry. I don't suppose you could explain it to me now?
Aristotle: Only if you stop pointing that thing at me.
Socrates: Well...all right [Both of them holster their guns.]
Aristotle: Whew. That was exciting. [Patting him on the back,] Could I
interest you in a drink?
Socrates: One minute. I'll meet you there.
[Aristotle starts to walk off]
Socrates: [drawing his gun and pointing it at Aristotle's back] But
first, how'd you like to hear my theory of justice?
[they both freeze. the end.]
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
/ sit around the house, stare at the walls nathaniel daw /
/ stare at each other and wait till we die ndd2@columbia.edu /
**************************************************************************
Mail to: Dad's New Slacks - P.O. Box 4272 - Portland, Maine 04101-4272
::::or email me for more info:::::
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Subject: Holy Roller Rant (was: The famous "face launching" scene)
From: mtownsend@interramp.com (Michael Townsend)
Newsgroups: alt.slack
In article <3j4igi$nm9@lucy.infi.net>, dynasor@infi.net (Dennis
McClain-Furmanski) wrote:
>: Michael Townsend (mtownsend@interramp.com) wrote:
>: : This script just arrived in this morning's mail from the "Subgenius
>: : Digestifier" list. Anyone know why there's so little crossover between
>: : our two groups?
>:
>: Because the other is strictly a product of a deranged imagination. It does
>: not exist. Man, I wish I was as lucky as you.
>:
>: So CROSSPOST it.
Ok. Here's another happy little rant that came at the same time:
Date: Wed, 1 Mar 95 7:22:58 PST
From: JEW1%LRN%DCPP@bangate.pge.com
To: Subgenius@mc.lcs.mit.edu
Subject: moving and shaking the Slack!
Yea though I walk thru the valley of De-A-Blow
I shall fear no pinkness
For BoB iz wit me,
And Slack (tm) shall follow me
All de daze of my wife,
Ann I shall dwell in the arms of Connie
For ebber, apemen!
And as BoB as my witless,
I shall nether go to hungary, again!
Dear Friends,
How many times have you said those amoral words to your clench and not
understood, I mean not "stood under" the wisdom of them? Don't tell me; tell
BoB!
Is that his head bleeding in vein, out artery? Is His blood spurting all over
your clean white party dress and you are not wearing even a thin Freudian slip
to cover your nakidness? And is that you a-leaning out over the trunk trying
to get that last piece of His skull spinning, ever spinning as the limo of
life pulls out under the triple overpass of despair? The pillbox hat on your
boo-fant head is all out of those little pink pills that stop your dreaming at
night. Don't you think that Jack Ruby has his slipper-shaped gun ready to aim
you stomach back to Kansas? And doesn't this all make some sorta twisted sense
to you when you realize that the blind and gibbering bankers are putting out
contracts on A-merica? Can't you just feel the weight of your sins like Rush
Limbaugh doing the lamb-a-dada on your spleen?
Well! Neither can I! For I have accepted and excepted the Scientific excrement
of the wHoly church; I am washed in the bodily fluids of our Blessed and
Blasted Savior of slime; I can crawl to the altar altered beyond the belief of
all my Texas kinfolk. I can sit on the edge of razors, I can dance on
exploding grenades, I can drink that Agent Orange and eat those Twinkies at
the same time without even burping, because BoB is with me. Mine eyes have
seen, mine eyes have scene, I said mine ice have screamed the Glory! of the
combing of the lard. Can I have an amen for the Glory?
Do not recline there in the numbness of your living room with your "Leave it
to Dobbs" poster and your Slack Attack(tm) pillow and your N'giki sneakers and
think that you'll get by. Don't believe that just because BoB is dead that no
one is keeping score! The Stark Fist cometh as a geek with the knife. 'Cause
sooner or later you have to walk the dog. Can you hear what I'm saying? Can
you feel the Removal riding His White Bronco of at-one-ment? Can I have an
"again" for the OJ?
It's a-porklips now for all of the QT-Pi's out there. The switch of the
Redeemer has been cut and trimmed. It is time to get right with Dobbs or feel
His wrath on your pink ass. In-the-knees-ya ain't nothing but the path of
Righteousness. Because, dear Brethern and Cistern, if the way to a man's heart
is through his stomach, the way to a man's pineal gland is through his nether
parts. BoB is waiting for you to drop your drawers and assume the position.
Are you washed in the blood of the ram?
BoB's rod and His staff they comfort me. Can I have an "Oh Boy!" for comfort?
When I speak of comfort I am not referring to that false-Slack which leadeth
to the crumbling altar of JHVH-1. I am not mumbling about the pseudo-Slack
which pulls you to the grease-pit of the grey aliens who are even now
operating on Newt Gingrich. I am not slyly hinting at the spurious-Slack which
causes a man to work forty hours a week at a gas station and then turn around
to work an additional 30 at a Six-six-six Quicky Mart. NO! I am talking about
the comfort knowing that when the motherships descend and scoop up the
faithful, I will look down upon the Masses and shout "There ain't no prob with
BoB!!!!!"
Halleluja and rub-a-dub-dub,
The Right Reverend Dr. Nucleus
--
>>>Dad's Fabulous Tape Exchange<<<
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Original file name: Face Launching Scene
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