From:
[email protected] (Laurence Doering)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: It's a fucking joke
Keywords: drunk, fuck
Message-ID: <
[email protected]>
Date: 2 Mar 92 05:57:53 GMT
References: <=MP+S6#@engin.umich.edu> <
[email protected]> <
[email protected]>
Organization: Lemming's House O' Anarchy
Lines: 61
In article <
[email protected]>
[email protected] (Stephen M. Jones) writes:
>>
[email protected] (Laurence Doering) writes:
>>
>>> In article <
[email protected]>
[email protected] writes:
>>> >
>>> > [lyrics from "Too Drunk To Fuck"]
>>>
>>> Wow. Cool, man. Who sings that, anyway? Hey, I just heard a
>>> rilly rilly great song, I think it was by Godley and Creme or
>>> somebody. No, wait, maybe it was Morrisey. Anyway, it went
>>> something like this:
>
> Dead Kennedys ^^^^^^ its a fucking joke.
>
>--
>
[email protected] ..!uunet!convex!egsner!sdf!6o25
>
> Non-bungee Jumping From The Sears Tower -=- The Great Escape
"Hey, Suicide. Come look at this guy's .signature."
"Fuck off. I'm busy," Suicide mumbled. He was sitting on the floor of
my apartment, methodically tearing the Sunday paper into precise little
strips.
"Keep it down, you idiots. I'm trying to concentrate," said Lemming,
curled up in front of the TV with a pillow clamped between her legs.
She was watching "L'Annee Des Meduses" for probably the fiftieth time.
"What's the matter, Lem? Is Valerie Kaprisky about to seduce the
German tourist couple or something?"
"Yep," she muttered, staring at the screen. She licked her lips and
squeezed the pillow a little harder.
Ratt stopped trying to clean her fingernails with my Israeli Army
bayonet and came over to the desk. She rested her arm on my shoulder,
squinting to read the screen. Her silver chainsaw earring pendant was
cold against my cheek. "I'll read it to you, Suicide. It says,
'Non-bungee jumping from the Sears Tower - the great escape.'"
"So what?"
"Suicide, Suicide. It's supposed to be a fucking joke."
Suicide gave us the finger and turned away, spilling his beer.
Ratt snickered. "Gee, Lar, Mister 6o25 seems to have sort of missed
the point, wouldn't you say?"
"Mmmm, could be. He's the guy who posted the SAME STUPID MESSAGE asking
about skin bleaching four, count 'em, four times."
Ratt tensed suddenly, staring at the userid.
"What's wrong, Ratt?"
"6o25. 6025. It's... wait a sec."
She turned and started riffling frantically through the pile of albums
balanced precariously next to my stereo.
"Yeah. I was right. Lar, look at this," she said, handing me my copy
of the Dead Kennedys "Give Me Convenience Or Give Me Death."
I stared in disbelief, but there it was. The credits on the back cover
listed someone named 6025 as "Other guitar" on "Short Songs" and
"Straight A's." Suddenly I was afraid, very afraid.
"Well, Lar, the fucking joke's on you," Ratt said. "If anybody knows
about the Dead Kennedys, it'd be him."
"Yup," I said, shaken to the core. "I guess I'll have to post a fawning
syncophantic followup, apologizing to this 6o25 turkey for not knowing
who sang 'Too Drunk To Fuck'."
"Fuck that noise," Ratt said. "Here, have another drink, and then
flame the bastard to a crisp for not putting an apostrophe in 'its'."
ljd
