Today's Topics:
Conspiracy!
Hey Kids!
not a chance
Submission
<<<<<=====-----=====>>>>>
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Date: Thu, 14 Jul 1994 20:26:21 -0700
From: "D. V. Henkel-Wallace" <gumby@cygnus.com>
Message-Id: <199407150326.UAA22624@cygnus.com>
To: subgenius@mc.lcs.mit.edu
Subject: Conspiracy!
All good SubGenii worried about the connections between the Gehlen
organization and the Con must immediately check out
http://www.nets.com/site/cnn/cnn.html. Special bonus is the Dave
Emory section.
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Date: Thu, 14 Jul 94 09:12:43 CdT
From: andrewm <andrewm@mislink.ipd.anl.gov>
Message-Id: <9407140912.A03135@mislink.ipd.anl.gov>
To: Subgenius@mc.lcs.mit.edu, SLACK@ncsu.edu, nettwerk@phantom.com,
wtaboada%Alpha.CS.Trinity.EDU@vm1.tucc.trinity.edu, house127@teleport.com,
stunaydertho@vax.colsf.edu, stucourtnsea@vax.colsf.edu,
art029@cs.brown.edu, smtplink%Dominiak@mislink.ipd.anl.gov
Subject: Hey Kids!
this is a blatant advertisement. read carefully for full mind-numbing effect!
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------------------------------
Message-Id: <9407141444.AA00629@thelonious.MIT.EDU>
To: president@whitehouse.gov
Cc: "Sen. Kennedy" <senator@kennedy.senate.gov>, subgenius@mc.lcs.mit.edu
Subject: not a chance
Date: Thu, 14 Jul 1994 10:44:17 EDT
From: "Gary L. Dryfoos" <dryfoo@mit.edu>
Dear Mr. President,
Is this true?
} Date: Tue, 12 Jul 1994 20:11:46 -0500
} From: David Banisar <Banisar@epic.org>
}
} CBS Evening News just reported that Clinton has "tentatively signed off"
} on a National ID card recommended to him by a commission on immigration
} reform. The ostensible reason for the card is for employment and
} immigration. Each card will contain a name, photo, mag stripe with info
} and a "verified SSN." It was supported by Senator Alan Simpson of
} Wyoming, a long-time supporter of ID cards. Gov. Pete Wilson of
} California has apparently offered to make California a test-bed for the
} proposal. The proposal was opposed by Xavier Beccera, a Congressman
} from California. A previous effort to impose a national ID card was
} rejected by Congress in 1986.
I hope you don't seriously think that free American citizens are going
to give up what tiny amounts of Slack they have left, and carry any kind
of national ID card.
I burned my draft card, Bubba, and I'll burn this one too.
In public.
In front of _your_ house.
Your pal,
-- dr foo
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------
| Gary L. Dryfoos <dryfoo@mit.edu> |In this world, there are two kinds of
| IS-Athena Training Admin. |people -- those who Get It and those
| MIT Room 11-311, Cambridge, MA 02139 |who Don't. If the meaning of this is
| 617.253-0184 / fax: 253-8665 |not immediately obvious to you, count
| |yourself as one of the latter.
| | -- Episkopos Aloysius Thudthwacker
| http://www.mit.edu:8001/people/dryfoo/home.html
+===========================================================================
------------------------------
Date: 14 Jul 94 01:18:20 EDT
From: Paul Woodford <72772.2633@compuserve.com>
To: Subgenius Digest <subgenius@mc.lcs.mit.edu>
Subject: Submission
Message-ID: <940714051820_72772.2633_FHM22-1@CompuServe.COM>
Forwarded for your delectation . . .
VULGARIAN NIGHTS
By Mark Abernathy
Reprinted without permission from Penthouse (Australian edition)
There are only two rules for membership of The Southern Cross
Vulgarians RFC--"No Trainers" and "No Sippers." You have to keep this
philosophy in mind if you want to play rugby in this team. You'll have to
keep a lot more in mind if you want to party with them.
So says our guide for the evening, Abbo--22 year old law student
and "Press Secretary" of what he describes as the "ugliest and most highly
qualified rugby team in the Southern Hemisphere." The Vulgarians don't
want players who train and they shower disdain on sippers--a Kiwi-ism for
people who drink for all the wrong reasons. But for all their hostility
toward anyone not Of The Faith, there's an arms length waiting list of
young footy players around Wellington just dying to join this team that
boasts the best looking female supporters and the lower North Island's most
generous sponsor and booze provider--the notorious Southern Cross Tavern.
The deal includes four crates of beer for every game played, jugs
on the house every Saturday and give-away crates for the team's infamous
Vulgarian's Picnics--outdoor events for the off season that are so vividly
disgusting that the police are frequently called in by outraged decent
citizens.
The sponsorship deal with the Southern Cross is much envied among
other social footy teams around the country. It's a deal that also raises
eyebrows with some mothers who think young Kiwi males abuse alcohol enough
without a sponsor for the habit. A recent Vulgarian sign up evening at the
pub saw manager Gary Clarke put 1200 (yes, twelve hundred) free jugs (1.125
litres for you northern hemisphere heathen; i.e., over a cubic metre of
beer) of beer on the bar for new Vulgarians.
But it's a deal that suits both parties concerned. The Vulgarians
have a clubhouse and a good supply of booze, and the Tavern gets publicity
and the flow on crowds that follow the team. And a full arsenal of booze
is a fundamental requirement for the Vulgarians. Because they might be a
half good bunch of footballers, but their infamy lies in the way they
socialise. A pastime that is best summed up by yet another of their throw
away slogans: "What goes down, must come up."
______________
So we're sitting here in the Southern Cross. It's a Saturday
afternoon and Abbo is priming me on the arrival of the team.
"Don't call Fritter a sipper . . . he's going quiet because of the
stomach ulcer, but the last time he got called that, someone got hurt.
Don't let it be you this time.
"Red's got a complex about his hair--I should know because I made
him as ashamed as I could about it. But don't say anything about the
hair--in fact, don't even look at it. If you do, I won't be accountable.
"And don't call Shorty 'Shorty.'"
"So what do I call him ?"
"Don't call him anything, for fuck's sake--don't even talk to him,
especially when he's drunk. I'll take care of the questions."
There are other warnings. Like, don't ever ask a Vulgarian to
perform vomiting tricks for you. A person that wants to encourage, but not
partake is worse than vermin--worse even, than a sipper. I'm warned that
one of the lads is likely to puke on me if this kind of question is raised.
______________
Because we're here to witness the New Zealand institution of
Pelican Drinking (vomiting into another's mouth), we are given a quick run
down on the practice. Pelican drinking probably began in the Fifties among
rugby players and rowing crews. It died out around the early Eighties, but
is now seeing a revival.
"And just one thing," says my guide as the barn like bar steadily
fills and the juke box is cranked. "Is the camera insured ?"
I tell him it's borrowed from a mate and he goes into a delirious
monologue that borrows as much from legal Latin as it does from Shakespeare
and Leviticus.
"The Vulgarian RFC can in no way guarantee . . . or give indemnity,
or anything that involves physically giving you anything remotely
associated with losses caused by us or anybody connected or not, to you or
your person ex abundate cautela . . . but YEA! Indeed we LOVE, but bow
down we do not . . . do we make ourselves clear ?"
And he's off another John Knoxian head journey into areas
uncharted, and some girl Vulgarian groupie with eyes only for The Lads and
who seems to be accustomed to this rambling Rumpole-esque rant--and this
girl with a gorgeous mouth gives Abbo a bit of lip and they all go into
hooting laughter when he half turns to the girl and seriously asks her: "Do
I know you ?"
Because this is business, and somewhere between muttering "get thee
to a nunnery," "tread carefully where the lions sleep," and describing one
of the other girls as "most beastly foul and full of vile disdain," the
Lads have staggered, jogged, screamed and swaggered into the bar. More
than 20 of the buggers. And a bloke has to be surprised. They are the
most normal, clean cut bunch of blokes you could hope to meet. Okay, so
they've had a few, and there's a certain ratbag energy about them, but the
handshakes are firm and the inquiries polite. And for a moment it's easy
to forget why we're here--to watch these pleasant, university student,
footy playing blokes perform the unthinkable--to vomit into each others'
mouths.
Around midnight the cry goes up: "RIIIIIIGHT!" It's a sign that
the party is moving elsewhere. There's a restless aura around the
Vulgarians--the charisma of blokes who drink for free and need to move on
to something more. There are more than enough cute girls now attached to
the team for each of the Lads to have a little something for himself.
"You should have seen the chicks at our last picnic," one of the
team tells me. "Everyone was in the bushes rooting--one girl got pissed
and puked on, but it didn't seem to worry her."
There are many stories like this told, but always with good humour.
Girls seek the Vulgarians out to be in their scene, so the guys see no
reason to change the way they act--girls can take it or leave it.
A fast roll call is made by the Vulgarian Shrine near the exit to
the vast boozer. The Shrine is a glass cabinet on the wall containing
photographs of past parties, games and tours. A banner runs across the top
of the Shrine that says: "Kill the body--Feed the horse." There's also a
collection of press releases from the Press Secretary--a slick litany of
phrases referring to players as "horse crutch," "donkey dong," and "Mister
Ed." Sippers, party poopers and other wowsers are referred to as "Lindas"
(Lovelace), as in "Choke on this, Linda."
There is a quorum and someone is sent to pick up a few dozen
flagons of DB Draught--the cheapest beer in town.
One of the guys has to go somewhere with his new girlfriend, and
seeks the approval of the team.
"Fuck off, Linda," one of the others sneers at him. The bloke
decides to stay. The girlfriend rolls her eyes but wears it.
There's beer, girls and a place to party. Cars and taxis roar into
the cold and crystal clear Wellington darkness. Tonight the Vulgarians
ride.
______________
This is Tim's place. Well, all right, it's his parent's place, but
they're cool--they understand a bloke's need to disencumber himself of
pressures with a few selected friends. Tim seems unperturbed by the
drunken revelling on the back patio. He's more interested in how his face
got smashed up. "Christ, I was so drunk I can't remember if I fell or got
a hiding from those fucking Bogans last night."
"You got a hiding, and then you fell over, you mad cunt," one of
the team members, Fritter, says as he walks past.
Fritter is a big, sandy haired guy who gives the impression of
being capable of just about anything--as long as there's ego or money
riding on it. He has recently returned from a prestigious year-long
scholarship at an American university and is going slow on the booze for
medical reasons. But he still has "mana"--respect. Two years ago at a
bar, a friend accused him of being a sipper. Fritter promptly ordered a
jug, sculled it, vomited the contents back into the jug and then drank the
vomit. As the whole bar looked on aghast, Fritter grabbed his mate by the
collar and projectile vomited all over the bloke's face and down his neck.
That, as they say, is class.
Out on the wooden plank patio, things are getting strange. While
most of the Vulgarians sit around a table drinking and flirting, there's a
group of about seven blokes on their own at the other end of the deck.
They have most of the booze. One guy, Red, is drinking vast quantities of
the cheap beer and then forcing himself to be sick all over the patio.
Some of the girls offer encouragement: "Jesus, Red, you're a fucking
beast."
Red is what some footy teams call "the enforcer" or the "ninety
nine man"--a bloke who can deal out the head butts in the mauls without the
ref noticing and put in a quick bit of slipper in the rucks. He's a heavy
set redhead with a bony and indestructible looking head--and he's starting
to look dangerous.
He's joined by the rest of the inner in the vomiting act. I'm told
by Abbo that this is done to purge the stomach of unwanted food--eating is
cheating, and the dog gets an unscheduled feed.
Half an hour later, Abbo approaches again and tells me to prepare
for something that no self- respecting journalist should ever have to
witness.
"Just don't come too close--they're cool about photographs, but
don't become a victim of convenience."
Then Red fills up a jug and drops it down his gob so fast it looks
like a trick. He works his stomach muscles in and out and points to Abbo.
"Recieveth," he commands, and the crowd at the table starts
cheering, but keeps its distance. Abbo goes down on one knee and seems to
be praying. He holds his hands together in front of his chest and tilts
his head back, mouth open. Red is in a trance, his stomach heaving in and
out at speed. Then he takes a step forward so that he's just over a metre
from the praying press secretary and there's this awful noise like the
toilets on the Achille Lauro, and this tawny stream of vomit flies from
Red's mouth and gracefully arcs a few feet through the air and lands in his
team mate's mouth.
This is pelican drinking. And this is Saturday night, Kiwi style.
The crowd at the table are baying for more. Abbo has taken the
puke in his mouth and after thanking Red for the present, heads for another
beer and looks around for his own victim. Red's getting slaps on the back
and the game has just begun.
Tim's pouring himself a big drink, but Red's got more to give and
pukes all over the back of his host's head. Morris has been trying to get
the gas fizzing in his gut but hasn't been able to make it happen. So Abbo
orders him to "receiveth" and Morris goes on to one knee and the Press
Secretary walks over to him but can't get it together. So Morris stands up
to walk away, but Red sees what's happening and yells: "Take it Morris, you
sipper--just take it!"
So he goes down on one knee again, as the main table talks
university gossip, and this time Abbo does The Business, but not in a
graceful arc.
He releases a broad spray of beer and carrot chunks that seems to
go everywhere around the face except the mouth.
Red's fired up again, this time with two jugs force fed into his
gut, just swilling around waiting to come out at unnatural speeds.
"Receiveth," he says and points at Tim, and the host goes down on one knee
and gets a fast gallon down the throat, but before he can recover, his
brother Matty is lurching above him and adding to it. It careens past the
receiver's ear and down his back. Matty gets seconds in the side of the
face from Red, who seems to have done this before.
Morris has three jugs looking for a home and unloads into Red's
mouth with wounded animal noises. The girls at the table cheer because
someone was stupid enough to give Red the pelican he deserved.
Abbo's got the gut working better and gives Matty a few litres to
think about, and Tim and Will are swinging warning punches at each other
near the booze so Red staggers over and threatens to give 'em both a clip
if they don't calm down. So Tim loads up and Matty tells Will to
"receiveth" and the host lets fly with enough chunder to drown a cat, and
Will takes it all.
Will is taking a pelican from Abbo and Matty gets one from his
brother (they are known as the Twisted Sisters). Morris stalks around
waiting to puke into an open mouth when one becomes available, but can't
wait and lets one go into Will's gob as Abbo's chunder stops. Red slips
and slides through the sea of sick and says to me: "Shit, have some fun
man--give it a try?"
And so it goes on. After a couple of hours, the inner circle has
exchanged beer vomit with one another at least five or six times--the Lads
are getting tired and the beer has run low. The garden hose is running and
the team take turns at hosing down themselves and the deck.
All that remains is some kind of explanation as to why. As Press
Secretary, Abbo is used to the question, but makes no attempt to answer.
"Reasons are for sippers," he tells us, as if the most foolish thing a
journo could ask is for a reason for vomiting into somebody's mouth.
"It's all about confusing the journey with the destination."
"So is this the journey or the destination ?"
"This is the confusion," he says, "or couldn't you tell ?"
Bon Apetit,
Paul Woodford
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End of Subgenius Digest
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