xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx X ________ ____ ___ Failed Telewriting Experiments X X \______ \ _ _ _ __ ___ \ \/ / Volume I: The Chouler X X | | \ | | | | '__/ _ \ \ / ---------------- X X | ` \| |_| | | | __/ / \ by Snarfblat and Random Tox X X /_______ / \__,_|_| \___|/___/\ \ X Xxxxxxxxxxx\/ Blender Corporation \_/xxxxxxx[DBC014(WWWT)-DB.930824]xxxxxxX [What follows is the actual, UNEDITED sysop log of the late night chat between Random Tox and Snarfblat. We apologize profusely.] 12:29 am Tue Aug 24, 1993 Recorded with user: Snarfblat #4 ------------------------------------ i think so. i'm not sure whrer it is. u it might be in my 1.2 meg mail file ohm. well upload it to the bbs if possible... oh yeah i keep forgetting that.. I did write some textfiles but tye're not really textfiles, i just random weirs stuff at 6am a couplke days ago. it seemed funnier when i wrote it than it does now thats the way textfiles are. butlittle thingszZZ are k00l too, u can make bizarre collection/compendiums yeah i could make the sleep deprevation mix or something, and now that moynz got locked in a bathroom we can write about it. yay. Works sysops are doomed to get in car accidents,, and Durex guys are doomed to all be locked in bathrooms yeay! Let me contrive a method of being locked in! we could just put a chair in front of the door when you go to the bathroom sometime and then write about how you had to do it to ensure my existence,otherwise i would fade away since i wouldnt be a real durex exec. yeah or maybe i was chaging the lightbulb outside the bathroom and i needed to stand on a chair so I did but i forgot to move it away And it accidentally moved sideways and was wedged under the doorknob... Very PLausible! Ahem yeah! wow. we;re so elite. indeed this looks like that st00pid cDc telewriting textfile. hey lets wrire one of those! Okay! There was this guy named uhh, Chouler! And he was a chouler too, thats why he was called chouler and he was just lame and he ran around in the woods screaming all day! and on day he realised he had to become a turnip farmer because that was the only way he could ever achieve true happiness, so he got on a bus to New York because that's where the REAL turnip farmer scene is. And thus Chouler arrived, fearful and naive with his little leather satchel carrying some simple goods, in New York, where sentences have poorg grammatical structure. what's going on here? asked chouler? He could not understand why the people were placing the verb at the end of the sentence. Then he realised that they were speaking a combination of latin and yoda's twisted english dialect "I just don't understand it. There were no nets and people were falling everywhere. It was crazy." Said Chouler. He squinted as he spoke, "I got so much petroleum on my glasses it became difficult to see." This was probably because he was in New York, where smokestacks continually spew petroleum onto everything, but the people don't mind because they are actually robots and that's all they eat.. Chouler also realised that while he spoke normally, his words were minced by the New York grammar parser and thus "it was crazy" came out as "it crazy was". It unfortunate was, but so it goes. Choulder in new york to live decided. He this place liked. There plenty of petroleum his pet robotic goat to feed was. He himself shook, and in the mirror stared. "This grammar too demented is! I stop it using must!" chouler knew that to get his sanity back find out where the grammar parser was he had to and destroy it. This would not only relieve his grammar difficulties, but change his name back to Chouler, from Choulder, which the evil grammar controllers had changed it to And not only that, but it would also add the vague elements of a plot to Chouler's unfortunate existence. He looked far and near, and invested in a pair of Doc Martens because the soles said they were fat and oil resistant and there was petroleum all over the city. And a good thing it was that he bought those kool boots, because as he walked out of the store he noticed that while people were swimming and singing in the petroleum, rivers of fat were carrying people off to their deaths. Perhaps, thought Choul[d]er, if I could save those people I would be a hero and have my grammar set back to the default. But the pain was getting worse! Choul[d]er mutated into C[h]oul[d]er and he became Coulder, and then Could, and then Should, and then Would, and then Wood, and then a Tree, and then a Logpile and then a Balrog, and then an Ointment and then last of all he became the Fly In The Ointment. Still wearing his docs, he flew over the river of fat to the huge, swirling whirlpool at it's terminus. But how could he stop the fat? He sat and sat and thought, and went into a deep trance. It did him no good, but soon after he woke up, Big Bird's decapitated head flaoted by and gave him the answer. "The source of the fat is Andre the Giant's corpse! Find it, and all shall be well agian!" Chouler the Beetle in the Desenex (he was constantly mutanting, and was forever doomed to be some random insect located in some random lotion or creme) rushed to the source, following the thick, creamy yellowish ooze. The Stuff. The Stuff fat women are made of. The stuff Roseanne Bar is formed of. The stuff you cut off the edge of a juicy pork chop because it's so squeaky. Before chouler knew what was happening, from out of the river of fat came Aurora Brigid Smith. She ozzed before him, a 20 foot tall mass of frothing yellow fat. "How dare you call me a whale! she screamed. Chouler suddenly realised that his grammar was becoming worse, for he had left out the final quote and thus was saying all this. he closed it quickly." lop,-;'p (sorry there was a strange goo on the "L" key. Either I drooled on it or Max the cat did. I think it was me. Oops. I wiped it off.) Chouler did a mighty Russian dance, kicking his feet high in the air so that the soles of his Doc Martens, blessed by a really holy guy whose name will be revealed in the next paragraph, shone in the eyes of the beast before him. Unable to withstand the resistance of fat contained within she imploded, leaving no more than a large pile of stupid letters. "I am so dumb!" cried the L that lay in the heap of fat and letters. "Not have as moronic as me!" yelled the M. Fortunately, Chouler was able to get by these letters, all thanks to his boots, the ingenious creation of Doc Steve Martin, who changed the spelling to Marten whdn he made the boots for no apparent reason. Chouler was now able to continue on his quest He realized that he must die. All men, and all earwigs in vagisil must die, but that is life. He also realized that as the participant of a text file he HAD to die at the end, or else it wouldn't retain the classic "There was this guy and then he DIED!" formula so well known and loved the world over. Furthermore he forgot to mention the name of the very very holy guy as he promised he would. But up ahead he saw a fearsome thing at the side of the river of fat --- A large chubby vampire wearing a business suit and driving a Chrysler. It was Undead Lee Iacocca, and as Chouler watched, he turned into a bat and flew off.... Proving that indeed he was an Auto Exec bat. The lameness of this joke nearly killed Chouler. However, he was able to retain his sanity because he knew deep down that no matter what the last paragraph said, he HAD mentioned the name of the holy guy. It was steve martin. He picked up his lasered out copy of trukdeth.txt, the ultimate "there was a guy and he died" file, which is shamefully underreleased owning to the fact that it was put out by some unknown crazy canadians. Alex, a quadriplegic corpse, floated down the river, along with the remains of Carter who was killed when a keg exploded. ("I'm totally lost on any meaning behind those floating bodies" though Chouler. "Maybe someone will enlighten me as to their meaning.) Chouler pondered this aside as he folded up his copy of trukdeth.txt into a paper boat/hat, climbed in and began to row upstream using the remains of Susie, a young girl who got drunk in Mexico and died, thus being perfect textfile fodder. He flattened her thighbone and poled his way along, singing a happy little song: Lalala I am so very lame lalala I do not know my name lalala oh look there goes my brain lalala I cannot stand this pain. babababa I must now end my life bababa oh please hand me that knife at this point alex broke in, saying "I can't do that, Chouler." "Why not?" "Because I don't have any arms! Aaaaaa!" Chouler suddenly realized his foolishness...Why use a boat when he could WALK?! He jumped out of his boat and into the river. The waves of fat parted for him, in an attempt to avoid his boots. He strode forward leading the scattered tribes of Townies who followed him mindlessly out of the 7-11 parking lot, across the fat river to a new and rich land. However, because the townies did not have docs, since they were not cool enough for them, the waves of fat rushed in and killed them all. Chouler thought that although it was not exactly correct, this episode would have to do for the biblical symbolism inherent in all great works. If they had only been scattered tribes of Artfags in their legion of doc marten boots, both black and colored... They may have survived. But even as he strode forward, he could hear the screams as the level of the river of fat, pushed past its banks by the townie's brain mass, began to flood the art rooms of all the schools in the City. Hopefully they would use their docs properly, but most people hadn't had their docs as fully blessed in an insanely over-holy ritual by a super-holy master who is as yet unnamed, who is not the creator of the boots, but merely the giver of such powers. The flooding of the art rooms caused added debris to flow into the river. Such wonderful artifacts such as ceramice vases depicting naked pregnant dancing women, and sheets of black construction paper with drool stains entitled "Man's Inhumanity to Man" began flowing down the river. However, after the fat had eaten away into the core of the townies brains, the river began to subside, for their brains were actually voids, taking up negative amounts of space. While the intense layers of fat surrounding their braincases raised the level, the voids lowered it, leaving in its wake city streets littered with girls in black and white striped stockings, cappucino drinking idiots who frothed and grinned at the mention of Seattle, and some skinheads who immediately began beating everyone else up. Unfortunately they ran out of people to punch so they began beating each other up, and the net result was a massive influx of corpses with shaved heads flowing down the river to join the rest of the unlucky at the bottom of a massive vortex of fat. "SOul asylum is the best band in the world!" screeched a passing guy with a sorry attempt at dreds, a pierced nipple, and a day-glo purple 18-inch doc boot implanted in his temple. CHouler laugh at their pain, for he alone knew the secret, and as long as he did not eat the secret, he would be fine. However, as he ventured forward in his quest to find andre the giant's rotting, oozing body, he did NOT know that Andre the Giant has a posse. A posse that he owuld encounter all too soon... Reaching into the inside pocket of his Psychedelic Trenchcoat, Chouler pulled out the also-holy-and-blessed Mirror of Truth. He held it in front of every artfag, grunged00d, cyberpunk, townie, skinhead, PTA member and Taco Bell Employee, and upon seeing their true selves they all committed seppuku. When returning the mirror to his pocket, Chouler caught a glimpse of himself, and realized his current form was that of a hornet in a tube of ky jelly But he must go on! And up ahead, he could see the thick black smoke rising into the air over the FatRiver's(TM) source... Uneasily, he made his way toward the very bowels of heck itself! Yes, it was true. A factory was using the fatriver to power their mill. Here, with a huge free energy source, Billy Idol could produce his albums and not worry about whether they sold or not because he expended no money, time or effort making them. If chouler could use his Mirror Of Truth on Idol, perhaps idol would crumble into dust and be gone form the face of the earth forever. But as chouler put the mirror of truth into his pocket, he had noticed that while the jacket's label usually said made in USA, its reflection in the mirror said, "Made by Billy Idol. Rad CyberWare!11!!" His shamew was immeasurable, so he slashed his throat with a cheese grater. Chouler put little bits of toilet paper over the huge swath of oozing cuts on his neck, and was determined to convince all that he had cut himself shaving. He also realized that he had confused Billy Idol with the Bangles, and easy mistake in hard times, and that the jacket was made in Bangle-Desh. What a desh was, he knew not. He entered the factory and showed the mirror to Billy Idol. Nothing happened. "Man, I know I'm a fake... I don't actually BELIEVE I'm a cyberpunk! That's the job of thousands of prepubescent girls." "Whew! I narrowly averted the distasteful doom of a textfile death!" Chouler wiped the sweat from his brow -- He was now a Cockroach in the Suntan Lotion. uNFortunately for chouler, when he had entered the factory of billy idol, his hands had become positively charged and his brow negatively charged. Thus when he wiped his brow, it became magnetized to his hand and was torn off. To make matters worse, he had to keep eating the spots of toilet paper on his neck to avoi d dying of lost blood. Still, he knew he could defeat billy idol. He knew what a desh was, and Idol didn't. A desh is that little piece of plastic that holds the plastic bag that loaves of bread come in closed. Siezing a handful of deshes in his remaining good hand, he threw them at Idol in a last attempt to stop the CyberMadman. Idol's face and ears were pierced and hung with a multitude of deshes, all of which were over a month old.... Idol noticed this and tears began to form, for he knew his fate. A pimply-faced kid in a cheap blue supermarket apron came in and stared dumbly at the deshes. "Dis heah breahd is old!" he sputtered as he threw Idol into a bin. Billy Idol was chopped into bits and sold to 4C, where he became the official Breadcrumb of the Davis Family. Unbeknownst to Chouler, Idolcrumbs soon became the new hip food among cyberpunk weenies. also unbeknownst to him was that he had missed a chance to destroy even more mega-PC freaks and mutants. The bin that billy idol fell into just happened to be the bin that live horses are dumped into so that they can be ground up and made into gelatin. Needless to say, the plany was being picketed by hordes of these cretins. Chouler left via the back door and ran upstream to the FatSource(TM) itself, and gasped.... A massive man sat limply in a cheap lawn chair, as over twenty art students furiously cooked bacon on public park grills, pouring the excess fat into a sort of reverse irrigation system that combined it all into one massive stream. Chouler blinked and realized that the twenty he saw were only taking up part of his left eyeball, and that there were easily thousands... Who were these mysterious bacon cooks? This must be andre the giant's posse. He now saw what he had missed all along. Andre the giant was not, in fact, dead! His posse had cooked bacon to fake his death, and he was in fact sitting in a lawn chair, or more accurately sitting on a lawn chair, which was now crushed under him. As chouler watched in amazement, andre the giant soon was sitting around a chair, as it slowly was enveloped by his huge flapping buttocks. He grunted and made strange hand signals and 50 art students brought him a new chair. This process seemed to repeat itself once every 6 minutes. Prehaps this was the edge chouler needed... How could he stop them3 NO CARRIER >> Carrier lost ... 1:46 am Tue Aug 24, 1993 Recorded with user: Snarfblat #4 ------------------------------------ 1:47 am Tue Aug 24, 1993 Recorded with user: Snarfblat #4 ------------------------------------ doublre shift keys? Yes.. WHO WOULD MAKE DOUBLE SHIFT A LOGOFF?!?!?!! !DAMN! Anyway: How could he stop them? Chouler thought carefully and surveyed the public park around him. He stood upright and shouted out, "Hey! Do you have a permit for this picnic?" The bacon-grilling stopped as all the art students looked up with fear in their eyes. They all turned toward the massive bulk of Andre the Giant, who slumped backwards as yet another cheap aluminum lawn chair made its way into his rectum. He said nothing. He was strangely pale. They gasped.... Andre the giant was imploding! Nobody knew why, but considering that with all the aluminum in his system, and givne the fact that aluminum and fat react together to form something resembling a black hole, this seemed the only logical explanation. As Andre the Giant curled up and began making popping sounds as his feet were consumed by his ankles, the frantic grillers waved their spatulas and sang laments. They howled and cried out to the great Professional Wrestler in the Sky, but to no avail. Chouler, in a final spiteful act, ran back to the Politically Correct mob in front of the factory, and whispered something to a small woman wearing a Hippy Love Shirt. What he said was" Yippy kie yay motherfucker! There's some serious anti-PC stuff going down.. Did you know that professional wrestling has hardly ANY women? It's true! and the ones they do have are really men, like Adrian Adonis. They're mocking women! they suck so much! And there's a whole mob of their fans just up the stream!" She gasped, and Chouler laid the last blow to her soul. "They're cooking," he said with a grin. "They're cooking... MEAT!" She screamed and saw the billowing clouds of bacon grease smoke and knew her mission. The entire raving mob ran up to the source and "Went House" on the posse. They went and "tooled" them. They used every violent slang word they could think of in their fury, including others such as those that follow. "I'll school you! I'll nail you with my gat! I'll poke you with my 9" the PC women shouted. UNfortunately, some of them used words like "Ho" and "fag" which were un-PC and caused them to implode. Also, a girl with hair that looked like a helmet suddenyl realised that although she bragged about being a vegetarian for 4 years, she wore a leather jacket and leather boots. Death was a fate too nice for her, so she decided to inflict the ultimate penalty on herself.... She turned to the grills, the grease dripping thickly from its metal gridwork. Bending over, she began to lick slowly and carefully, consuming all the pork fat she could, swallowing more and more and more, still more pork and more bacon and more! She neared bursting... And then told her Rabbi of her deeds, and even showed him the videotape. He wept, and told her parents who disowned her, and she ended up sprawled out in an alleyway eating anything she saw, Politically Correct or not, at which point the *TRUE* Punishment began! She was immediately transported to the land of the anal sphincter tattoo demons and rabid roger waters fans. The combination of this led to the painfully common occurence of people screaming in pain, writhing in the streets, with roger's glowing face inside their asses. The helmethaired girl was in even more pain than these people, because she strongly objected to the fact that there's the back view of a naked woman on the cover of one of roger's solo albums, and in the european release, there isn't a black box over her butt. This being the land of rabid RW fans, everyone owned the european release, and the woman's butt was all over the town., on billboards and blimps and cans of spaghetti-O's. This was the worst possible place for HelmetHair, because she was also constantly tormented by the fact that whiel everyone else around her had a tattoo, her parents had forbade her form ever getting one. And to make it worse, her tattoo was refreshed every other day so as to avoid any fading of Roger's face. But moving back to the land above, the fray thickened. Bacon-loving Posse members lunged at the PC crowd with their grease-spattered spatulae, (It's a LATIN plural!) while they were in turn threatened with fearsome peace symbols and REM concert bootlegs. There were no deadheads present because they were all stoned when the FatFlood came, and drowned, happily oblivious to much of their trauma. Darting forward, Chouler scooped up the imploding remains of Andre the Giant and hurled it into the River of Fat, where the AndreHole, a tiny spot of incredible density within his appendix, began to suck up the fat. Created by the combination of lawn chairs and fat, this mighty AndreHole sucked and scooped and slurped and consumed fat, following it and dragging the imploding body of Mr. The Giant himself! But what is this? The AndreHole has nearly reached capacity! Andre is exploding now, a sufferer of reverse-implosion! As the last droplets of fat are slurped into his appendix, Andre The Giant stands high above the city buildings, enlarged beyond all normal concepts... The abdrupt transition of the story from past tense to present tense reminds chouler that his original quest was to destroy bad grammar and the Evil NewYork Text Filter. However, he also has a raging posse on his hands. Luckily for him, when he asked the posse for a picnic permit, many of them had ran away. Although they gripped a pretense of rebelliousness, most of them merely were looking to fit in, and were too ugly to be studs/sluts and too slow or broken-legged to be jocks. These ones ran far away. However, there was still the elite squad who called themselves "demented anarchists". Their leader, Jason Demented, and his followers, firmly believed that they were anarchists, and they saw this as an opportunity to achieve even higher levels of anrchisticism. "We don't need a permit, you stupid government official!" they shouted. some of them threw redboxes at Chouler, but most of them then ran and picked them up again because they did not know how to make them. How would chouler fight off this squad of self-righteous lamebrained anarchists? It came to him in a flash. "I'll set them up with the PC crowd!" he crowed to himself... Chouler stood on the wreckage of several lawn chairs and shouted to the warring crowd. "Hear me! I have good news! There is a new 900 number for demented anarchists and gelatin-haters only! The ideal match for any lost soul who desires attachment to any other person! You just want to be loved, I know it! Call now! 1-900-DEMENTEDANARCHISTANDPCLOVELINE!" Chouler rubbed his hands together and thought of all the money he would make. The crown rushed to their homes, where they all began to dial. Chouler began to rake in the money like never before... 900 numbers -- The TRUE American Dream! Especially when they have names longer than the amount of numbers in a telephone number, and ESPECIALLY when people dial all of them! However, eventually the PC women realised that their code of social behavior dictated that they were supposed to hate men. One of them, who was smarter than the others, thought of a plan. They would claim that they were only using the 900 number as a way to infiltrate the demented anarchists. This way it would be a business expense (since they were full-time PC fuckheads) and they could use it as a tax write-off. They did this, and got their money back.. However, since the government lost so much money, they sent assassins after Chouler. The anarchists were having problems dialing the 900 number because when they had almost gotten to the end of the 23 digit phone number, they would make a mistake, hang up, and try again. This infuriated them to the point of insanity, and since they were already insane they decided to build pipe bombs and use them on Chouler. Meanwhile, Andre the giant, who was now andre the MegaMondoGiant because he was 400 feet tall, was wreaking havoc on the small village at the end of the river of fat. The result of insane people going insane became sanity itself, and suddenly thousands of full-time demented anarchists found themselves stabilized, average and normal. They all moved to separate parts of the globe where they ran dry-cleaning joints, many of which were named "Demented Cleaners". Chouler, in a double response to the PC women and the Now-Sane anarchists changed the 900 line to a "PC woman meets PC woman" line, resulting in a massive upsurge of profits. The telephone company's hired assassins set out to assassinate the government assassins who were trying to assassinate Chouler, who was sitting quietly and watching the Flintstones. He tossed a banana peel out his window while laughing insanely at the wacky antics of Fred and Barney, and it slid down the sticky remains of the river of fat until it neared the feet of Andre the MegaS00perMondoGigant0-Giant. Andre the Master of Destruction Huge Motherfucker I'll Rip YOur Fucking Head Off Giant slipped on the banana peel. However, he did not fall as one might have suspected. Instead he was turned into a weeble, and spent the rest of his mortal existance crying, "I'm up! and I can't fall down!". Meanwhile, Chouler had become a demenetd anarchist. Watching the Flintstones had satisfied the demented requirement, and throwing a banana peel on the ground was enough to satisfy the anarchist requirement. Jason Demented came up to him, leaving his cleaning business unsttanded, and pinned a badge on him. "Long live demented Anarchists!" he shouted, his eye all googley like cookie monster. "You now have one wish!" Shouted Jason Demented. "Anything3 NO CARRIER >> Carrier lost ... 2:38 am Tue Aug 24, 1993 Recorded with user: Snarfblat #4 ------------------------------------ gaaahh!! fdlkjgdW;sjfhgelk;ds!!111 "Anything?" Chouler asked, wide-eyed. "Anything, except more wishes." Said Jason Demented. "I wish for more wishes!!!!!11!" yelled Chouler. "I"m an anarchist and you can't stop me!1!!! more wishes!! yehahah!!!" Chouler entered an infinite time loop and spun endlessly in circles. It lasted for all eternity, and he didn't die at all. The very shock of this killed him, and fulfulled the textfile character prophecy. No. after thousands of years of involuntarily wishing for more wishes, Chouler managed to catch hold of a wish. "I wish to be transplanted back into the textfile where I belong." He said. C:\>type trukdeth.txt Once upon a time, there was a boy named Chouler. He always wondered if it was true that you could hear a train coming if you put your ear to the track. He closed his eyes, and put his ear to the track. It wasn't true. He went home in three seperate body bags. The End. is this the end yieah! cool sicne my father is hassling me about bed i dunno why, since he should be sleeping. I thot it would be neat for him to wish for a weeble to fall for once in history, and Andre the Weeble would wipe out everyone in the world, except Chouler, and the very shock of living in a textfile and not dying kills him. heh. hmm. maybe we should write another one. notnow i am tired look at the time! EGah!!! I need to wake up 2morrow so i can go to windows/os/2 world and get shit and demos and stuff and enter 1000 raffles and so forth. I want to go to get blank disks demos. same thing yep. whee so i go and sleep now. Hey i logged all our chats to file so it is all there, from the very beginning of the chat i think i dunno ----------- [Much to Snarf & Random's glee, it was captured.] [And you just read it. Ha.] [Inspiration provided by cDc file #122, by S. Ratte' and Leper Messiah] [Guh.] Haha, you lame plowboy! We bend the truth like we bend steel bars around your neck! It's only 99% unedited. It was slightly formatted into paragraphs. Even we don't type in perfect paragraph form at 2:53 AM. We even had paying jobs back then so 2:53 AM is like 5:21 AM for a jobless wonder like yourself. All actual content remains the same. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xX Copyright (C) 1993 by The Durex Blender Corporation, Snarf and Random Xx xX All Rights Reserved. Text used with kind permission. Xx xX * * * Xx xX The Durex Blender Corporation / Box 381511 / Cambridge, MA 02238-1511 Xx xX The Eleventh Hour BBS 617.696.3146 Xx XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX