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# PARTHENOGENESIS
Parthenogenesis (1993)
## FILES
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/PARTHENOGENESIS/parth-01 [ 24806] Parthenogenesis Issue #1 (1992)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/PARTHENOGENESIS/parth-02 [ 30126] Parthenogenesis Issue #2 (1992)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/PARTHENOGENESIS/parth-03 [ 30195] Parthenogenesis Issue #3 (1992)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/PARTHENOGENESIS/parth-04 [ 30090] Parthenogenesis Issue #4 (1992)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/PARTHENOGENESIS/parth-05 [ 40490] Parthenogenesis Issue #5 (1993)
=> gemini://informis.land/textfiles/magazines/PARTHENOGENESIS/parth-06 [ 44427] Parthenogenesis Issue #6 (1993)
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<<<EXTRA-SPECIAL NEATO NOTE: Hello to all who are reading this!
This is PARTHENOGENESIS, a regular old solid ink-and-paper zine
based in Fort Collins, Colorado converted to ezine format. Please
keep in mind that this is a REPRINT of the original issue. Also,
apologies if the zine is a bit Fort Collins-inclusive (future
issues won't be). All work by the respective authors is under
copyright. Permission is granted to copy and distribute this
ezine in its entirety, or to give the respective author credit
for his/her work. In the future I hope to have current copies of
PARTHENOGENESIS distributed physically and on the Net
simultaneously. I also hope to be independently wealthy, conquer
the universe, and learn to tango. Of the three, I think the
second is the most likely. If you should wish to contribute to
this zine (all submissions will be considered - but I tend to
stay away from political crap), request a copy of the physical
zine (it looks MUCH better, and has a bit of artwork in it that's
not here), or just have something to say (I welcome ALL
comments), please write me at: Parthenogenesis, 804 S.College
Suite 8363, Ft.Collins, CO, 80524 or you can send email to us:
dherrick@nyx.cs.du.edu. Thanks for listening to me babble, and if
you didn't take the time to read through all this, you're a dork.
--- Mohammed X >>>
************************
PARTHENOGENESIS, ISSUE 1
************************
ARITHMETIC
"Dick Van Dyke looks great in pastels," she said as the paint
dripped off the walls and the clock smiled. He grinned back at
the clock, which caused his face to shatter. Shards of
crystallized skin, flesh and teeth fell inward, leaving a gaping
red cavity on the front of his head. Unconcerned, he stretched
languorously, and then gasped as his outstretched limbs and in
fact his whole body melted into a gray putrid slime which was
absorbed by the couch. The gasp fluttered about the room until it
hit a lampshade, then shattered into thousands of myriad tiny
gasps which visibly shot outward, bouncing off walls and other
obstacles, until they all at once encountered each other in the
middle of the room. In the instant in which they all struck each
other simultaneously, they grew, darkened, developed strange
shapes, fastened to each other in various complex ways, and
formed into the shape of a man. He opened his eyes and sighed
deeply. The sigh turned into a minor gale which shook the
curtains, knocked over several candles (which, incidentally, were
not there and had never been) on the brown table by the couch,
and billowed her hair. She turned to him.
"Suffocation IS a beautiful thing," she pressed on, trying to get
her point across.
"Arithmetic," he said.
"Arithmetic," he said again, liking the sound of it.
"Arithmetic," he said once more, impressed with the sheer
ponderousness of it.
"It's arithMAtic," she corrected, enunciating carefully.
"Arithmetic," he said, his way.
"No, no... arithMAtic!" she said, forcibly.
He frowned at her and she disappeared. He looked around. The way
the light bulb in the lamp shone reminded him greatly of the sun,
and he recalled that some peoples of the world worshipped a sun
god. Or at least did at one time. He determined to worship the
lamp god.
"ArithMAtic," she said, still trying to correct his
pronunciation, which she was very particular about. He did not
ignore her, for she did not exist - she COULD not exist, he had
banished her from his consciousness. She did not know this, and
blithely continued repeating the word.
"ArithMAtic," she announced confidently.
He was kneeling on the floor, bowing to the lamp, worshipping it
and hoping for its favor. He sand chants to it, which were
actually just combinations of the word "arithmetic".
"Ari ithma mati mati tic," he chanted solemnly.
"ArithMAtic," she stated firmly.
"Rithma ma ticari ari ari thma," he chanted joyously.
"ArithMAtic," she grated.
"Tic tic matic, banana fanna fo-fick," he chanted hopefully.
"ArithMAtic," she mumbled, then switched off the lamp.
His world became dark. He fell over, stunned. His god had
deserted him! He wept, bitterly. She stood over him and smiled.
It was not a friendly smile, in fact, it was a very horrid
grimace.
"ArithMAtic."
*
POOBRAINS 'R' US
Multicolored flowers adorn my buttcheecks. Phallic spheres, gee,
how I love beers. Fie, yon bluebirds, I've lost me tuna fish.
"Aie!" cried the jackal, "Why must I be green?" Shnicker
Schnacker, Shnicker Shnacker, wop wop woo! I've got a problem and
it might be you! So the squeegee sang aloud:"My loins are for
you!"
*
Now I'm not one to be spreading misleading rumors, but these
truths just happened to come to me in a series of very sensual
visions, and I thought I'd share them with you. I learned
recently a few interesting FACTS about Undertone's owner/DJ, Mykl
Kryka, either through reliable sources from the spirit world or
my own sneaky infiltration of Undertones. I first became aware of
Mykl's romantic involvement with his bartender Sam when I
observed them carressing each others, um, hands under the table.
In casual conversation, I learned that Mykl and Sam have been
regularly dating, but only on Saturdays. But we all have our
little scandals, don't we? And I know them all. For instance, it
has been reported to me that on Sunday, May 3, at approximately
2:40 am, DAN whispered "sweet nothings" into MYKL's ear in a
public restaurant (NOT pubic restaurant, ya sickos!) which will
remain anonymous in order to protect the integrity of the
establishment (which is IHOP). So anyway, I also heard that there
are plans in the making for Undertones to host a benefit concert
to help raise money for Mykl fourteen illegitimate children. "I
don't want them begging in the streets any more, but I can hardly
support my three (wonderful) wives, let alone these (wondrous)
(beautiful) (wonderful) kids," someone was quoted as saying that
Mykl said. He may even bring in the band Cyberslaughter to play,
a rogue ant reported. I don't know, though... this is the same
man who claimed that "my flesh piston came (so to speak) from my
mother's vagina". Tsk tsk.
In other rumors... er, news... the old Casaguapa is dead.
RIP. But a new one has risen in its place. We shall see... For
those of you who don't know about Casaguapa, just pretend.
Someone told me the Damned is going on tour in June, and
Gators is on the list of announced venues. This means that DJ
Schmeg should probably start playing some of their stuff on
Wednesdays, RIGHT?!?
And let's talk about Greeeeeley. Actually, Greeley's pretty
evil. Let's not.
Oh, and I've also found out about plans for a new skate park
to be built in Wellington, due to high public demand.
Some more people news: The BAT TWINS, otherwise known as
Keely and Jette (pronounced Yet-a, as in "yet a-nother black
eyeliner pencil used up"), or in some circles (and an occassional
square) known as "Patricia and Dave", are the ringleaders of a
Vampiric Lesbian Drug Cortel based in Fort Collins. They have
openly admitted IN PUBLIC that they have, on numerous occassions,
shared water and more. Sharing water, you know what that can lead
to, don't you? Germs... revealing the secret of your bad
breath... THE COMMON COLD. Stay away from these Amazon Vampires.
Hey, girls, bats poop a lot you know.
Also, I was able to find this out at great cost to myself (I
was nearly killed! I'll tell you the story sometime.): The
Collins Files, that fine upstanding example of a musical special
interest zine, is actually a front for an international terrorist
organization called C.R.I.P.E.S. (the Creative Righteous
Individuals for Post-Erection Shivers), and they are planning to
take over the minds of everyone in Fort Collins, starting with
Undertones! They have reported some success so far, in fact, they
have all the fraternities in town under their control! Be warned!
They could be going after YOU next!
*
Dream your shadows alive... Find your favorite fever, and build
the bridge to decadence. With the answer, choose the finger but
kiss the hand. Ask me, if you fear. Listen not to what I say, but
to what the blossoms whisper. Am I wise? Answer, and I will
disagree.
*
Here's a good band to listen to if you're into heavy
bloodletting and acts of meaningless violence: Cyberslaughter.
With their debut album (self-released), Chrome Dreams and
Automatic Screams, they've shown that they are a sound to be
reckoned with in the industrial world. The music sounds
something like a cross between Front 242 and Operation Ivy. The
talent for this band is unknown, which is a rarity in today's
industrial bands. Karakkon Malevil does vocals and guitar,
Michael the Moist also does vocals, as well as keyboards, and the
two drummers names are given as Kama and Sutra. On the back of
the album, though, it does explain that "Sutra" is what they
named their drum machine.
The outstanding songs on this six song EP should be played
repeatedly, preferably at high volume next door to a church.
"487", the opening track, is a poignantly sad, yet moving, song
about purity. "Blackie Me" is a twisted song which reminds me of
pre-Ministry concert fights in the parking lot. "Defecation is a
Beautiful Thing" is a passable tune, it's happy-go-lucky theme
contrasting sharply with the rest of the album. "Computer
Viruses Bug Me" is a whirlwind of frantic guitars, breaking
glass, and distorted high-pitched screams. "Rippers" and
"Whipslash" are tunes strewn with pounding drums, completely
insane electric guitar duels, and Karakkon's gravelly voice
chanting destruction.
There are even rumors abroad that Cyberslaughter may be
going on tour soon, so keep an eye out. Or better yet, poke an
eye out.
- Mohammed X
*
Dear Mom:
I was wanting to write to you regarding something very odd
that recently happened to me while I was walking down this
road... A small, yellow, furry, smelly creature stepped out. I
grasped its fury probis and tucked it under my armpit. Walking
on, it spoke to me, saying:
"Mortal! Know you that you hold in your hand a God?"
I stopped, stunned. An involuntary belch escaped my lips. The
creature, sensing my distraction, wriggled out of my armpit and
dropped to the ground. I expected it to scuttle away, but instead
it surprised me by scurrying up my leg and perching on my penis,
which was erect.
"Let me tell you a bit about myself," it said...
"I am Fungus, king of the people of Lundi. Among my
people, I am known as god of fertility and oral sex. But I
digress... I have a purpose that begins its fulfillment by
perching on your penis."
"You lie!" I exclaimed.
"No, in order for our people to survive, I must find a human
mortal specimen worthy of the prophecy. The prophecy states that
a young mortal, lost to the ways of his world, lonely and
sexually deprived will, upon being introduced to the ultimate
orgasm will suddenly choose to redirect his life into a moment of
complete and utter outer cellular movement. After this
instantaneous glory, life will be null, void and meaningless on
the Blue & White Tierra."
"And if I refuse?"
"What? But why should you refuse?"
"Oh, I dunno... just to be a dick I suppose."
Fungus looked at me strangely, then proceeded to laugh in a
very annoying high-pitched giggly way.
Just when I though the creature was going to implode from
the uncontrolled cackling, he turns to me and says, with a
twinkle in his eye, "Kiss me or lose me forever!"
I laughed, the laugh of a maniacal serial killer, and
proceeded to squash this crazy yellow dork into oblivion. After
the horrendous task was completed, I spun my heel and continued
my saunter down the road... and this chick jumped me... I gotta
quit doing acid.
Love, Dave D.
*
Greetings. By now I bet you're wondering just what the hell this
bunch of papers you're holding is all about. Well, I can't answer
that. All I can tell you is it's called Parthenogenesis, and it
is just a bunch of words put together for your benefit. This zine
is perfect to stick in the bathroom, so when you're stuck in
there and feel like you'll be there for a while and you've got
nothing to read, you'll have this. Plus, if you run out of toilet
paper you'll have this too. Wow. Allow me to introduce myself. I
am Mohammed X, and you are not. This zine is dedicated to the
virtues of Nonrealism, Nocturnalism, Neolithism (not really,
well, maybe, what does it mean anyway), Naturalism (NOT!), and
Nonsensicality. And it does not actively promote tooth decay. Any
donations of money or material (stories, poems, artwork, nose
hairs, fingernail clippings for my secret voodoo rituals,
letters, ANYTHING) are accepted; send them to the address below.
I can't guarantee to print everything I get UNLESS you include $
for me to print it. The $ to print this zine comes out of my own
pocket, but that's ok, because who would pay for this trash? I
KNOW it's trash, I KNOW it's lame, but you're reading it aren't
you? To quote a poem I wrote with my friend and dartboard Akhmael
called "Evil is cool, Good is Peanut Butter": "I sacrifice you;
in the name of Winnie the Pooh; you kill me; in the name of
hockey.". Really, there was no point in quoting that, but just
think. Chances are you probably don't do it enough. Think. I know
I don't. The penIs, mightier than the sword.
-Mohammed X
Parthenogenesis
804 S.College Suite 8363
Ft. Collins, CO. 80524
*
a conversation:
JEAN LUC: Get that boy off the bridge!
WESLEY: but captain...
JEAN LUC: In my ready room! now!
<exit WESLEY. JEAN LUC straightens uniform and frowns. exit JEAN
LUC>
WESLEY: so why do they call it your "ready room"?
JEAN LUC: You'll find out when you're ready. Har har!
WESLEY: very funny captain.
JEAN LUC: bend over and touch your toes.
WESLEY: no, not again!
JEAN LUC: <zip!>
<enter WILLIAM.>
WILLIAM: Sir, I... why, you're bald all over!
JEAN LUC: what is it, number one? Can't you see I'm busy!
WESLEY: I thought I was your number one!
JEAN LUC: shut up, boy!
WILLIAM: sir, we're under attack!
<JEAN LUC and WILLIAM walk to the Bridge.>
JEAN LUC: by whom?
WILLIAM: we don't know for sure, sir.
JEAN LUC: on viewscreen!
<picture of a spaceship appears.>
JEAN LUC: it looks to me like a Venorxiian Battleship!
WILLIAM: we thought so too. but they could be Romulans,
disguising themselves as Venorxiians!
JEAN LUC: hmm... you could be right number one.
<WESLEY wanders in and reprograms the navigational computer.>
WARF: message coming in sir!
EERIE VOICE: federation starship! Hand over all your young nubile
women!
JEAN LUC: and if we do not?
EERIE VOICE: we will kill you all!
JEAN LUC: identify yourself!
EERIE VOICE: I am Mel Blanc.
WARF: he could be lying sir.
JEAN LUC: hmm...
EERIE VOICE: we have waited too long! We will kill one of you as
an example!
WILLIAM: no!
EERIE VOICE: yes! the BOY shall die!
<WESLEY bursts into flame and is nothing more than a charred
cinder in a matter of seconds.>
WARF: fuckin' A!
<commercial break.>
<end of commercial break. JEAN LUC is still staring at the
picture of the spaceship on the viewscreen and shows no sign of
quitting.>
WILLIAM: sir? what should we do?
WARF: captain? shall we attack?
GEORDI: captain?
DIANA: sir?
WILLIAM: captain!
WARF: sir! Shall We Attack!?!?
JEAN LUC: NO!
WARF: but we could blow them away!
JEAN LUC: ah, but we are peaceable!
WARF: but they KILLED one of our crewmembers!
WILLIAM: it was only Wesley.
JEAN LUC: true. but we ARE on a mission!
WILLIAM: to seek out new worlds-
JEAN LUC: no, besides that. I didn't tell you about it before so
I could build up suspense. You see, we must find... the secret
Hair Growth Tonic!
WILLIAM: but that's impossible! there's no such thing!
EERIE VOICE: not true! we have it!
JEAN LUC: you do?
EERIE VOICE: yes! and we will trade it for... the Counselor! JEAN
LUC: make it so!
WARF: but captain, she can only embroider!
JEAN LUC: she'll have to do. Engine Room! One to beam over to the
alien vessel!
WILLIAM: sir, the engine room doesn't beam things. the
transporter room takes care of that.
JEAN LUC: shut up! this is my ship, I can do what I want!
WILLIAM: not any more, I'm taking over.
JEAN LUC: you can't!
WILLIAM: I just did.
JEAN LUC: ok. <pouts>
WILLIAM: Warf! photon torpedo that spaceship!
WARF: yes sir!
WILLIAM: Jean Luc... be in my ready room in five minutes.
WESLEY: hi guys!
WILLIAM: what the hell? I thought you were dead!!
WESLEY: oh no sir. it was just a hologram of me that appeared to
burn up and die. you see, all I did was-
WILLIAM: shut up. Warf!
WARF: sir!
WILLIAM: stab him.
WARF: yes SIR!
WESLEY: aaargh!
WILLIAM: is he dead yet?
WARF: no sir.
WILLIAM: ravage him.
WARF: yes sir.
*
It's Guapa time! Seeing as I am a High Sloppa of Guapa, I really
should devote some space to Guapa in this zine. Okay, well, for
those of you who really don't know who Guapa is, he's the god of
Free Beer. One swell guy. Actually, he's also the god of
alcoholic beverages in general, but especially beer. And
especially FREE beer. You see, Guapa gives his blessings as he
sees fit... mostly when you praise him a lot. When you get free
beer, you should thank Guapa, for he is the one who got it for
you. No, it wasn't the guy who gave it to you, that was just
Guapa's emissary. Who do you think divinely inspired the guy to
share his beer with you? Guapa, of course. Heck, I find unopened
6ers of beer lying in the middle of the street late at night, and
who do I praise? Guapa. And hey, if you don't like beer, you can
still like Guapa! Aside from him being the patron god of all
other alcoholic beverages, he has a family of other generous gods
as well: BOB, the god of smokeable materials; SID, the god of
hallucinogenics; FRED, the god of free rides and found money;
GEORGE, the god of sex, to name the major ones. They do not like
praise or open adoration, but they don't mind if you share their
blessings with others. I'll quote some passages to you from the
Holy Scrolls of Guapa:
"SCROLL 2: Praise Guapa, for he gives us beer! For free!
That's right, beer! For free! Yeah!"
"SCROLL 19: Hope for the hopeful, for it only will defeat
hopelessness. Hopelessness is for those with no hope, and those
with no hope are quite hopeless. Praise Guapa! Praise be unto
praise, for with it we praise Guapa. And don't forget the orange
juice!"
"SCROLL 51: And one day Bob sayest unto Sid: 'Lo, am I
high!'. And Sid replieth unto Bob, saying: 'Lo, where'd you get
that extra eye?'. And George walked in and sold them each a
concubine."
"SCROLL 78: Gee, though I walk through the valley of
sobriety, I shall fear no policeman, because Guapa loves me. Yea,
I am most pious and never stray from the path of drunkenness and
beer (free) is man's best friend. I think that maybe I'll pop a
cerveza now and ponder this dry little valley..."
Okay, here's a little story I thought you might like... it's from
Guapa's Bedtime Stories, a compilation of various writings and
stuff about Guapa. This is from Genesis of Drunkenness.
CHAPTER 1: OF THE CREATION OF BEER
In the beginning, there was water.
Lots of it.
High on Mount Guapa (which is a good state of mind to be in
that Holy Place), Guapa sat upon his throne and pondered. What he
pondered was anyone's guess. One day, while out for a stroll, he
happened to notice the vast amounts of water that existed on the
world. Our Lord Guapa was troubled, and the reason for that was
this: Why should there be just water? And so Guapa Most High
(believe me, he is) uttered the legendary phrase:
"Let there be beer!"
And there was beer. Guapa was pleased. He set about to
drinking most of it, and was even more pleased. Soon his days and
nights were taken up with drinking the Beer, and making more, and
drinking, and making more... and all was good. But soon again
Guapa was troubled, for he wished to share his Brew with someone,
for as everyone knows, it's no fun to drink alone. And so Guapa
rose, fell, and rose again; he was very drunk, that being his
nature. Guapa clapped his hands together seventy-six times (Guapa
swears it was seventy-six, but it has been speculated that it was
closer to three), belched, and created the People. The people
cried aloud with joy that they had been created such. Guapa
offered them beer, which the people promptly drank; and lo, it
was good shit. The people cried aloud with joy that they could
drink this Divine Brew, and drank some more. Guapa wished that
they would stop crying aloud with joy, and he said so; and lo,
the people stopped crying out with joy. The people and Guapa then
got down to some serious drinking.
*
god (that's me), how I love these. Each of these says the same
thing backwards as it does forwards. If you know any more good
ones, send 'em in!
"Rise to vote, sir." "A man, a plan, a canal - Panama!" "Was
it a cat I saw? No, Miss, it's Simon."
in reference to that illustrous periodical:
"Live on, Time, emit no evil."
Napoleon Bonaparte, as he was being escorted to the island Elba
after being exiled from France, was supposed to have said:
"Able was I ere I saw Elba."
personally,I think all he could say was "Shit shit shit shit..."
And here's one even in Latin, though I don't know what it means,
probably something obscene: "Sator, arepo, tenet opera rotas." *
----------------------------------------------------------------
PEER PRESSURE INC.
our motto: "Do it! Everybody does!"
We here at PP are devoted to convincing our fellow peers of
the vast benefits of joining with us in anything we do. Besides,
everyone else has joined. Non-members of PP are ridiculed, tarred
and feathered, and shot with rock salt by their peers. And if
that's not enough incentive to join, we offer a newsletter,
called PPP (the Peer Pressure Post). PPP is published somewhat
semi-periodically... usually. When we get around to it. Don't
force us, though! Hey! Okay, we'll do it, since you insist.
To join, send your $1.00 (initial membership fee) + $2.00
(yearly dues) with the attached sheet filled out completely to
the address below. Membership is $2.00 per year. Membership
privileges include: A membership card, the PPP newsletter, and
the satisfaction and prestige that goes along with being a part
of the whole.
A non-profit organization (pretty much).
Peer Pressure Inc.
804 S.College Suite 8363
Ft.Collins, CO 80524
P.S. Remember to photocopy the sign-up form and distribute
it to at least 2 other people, before you fill it out.
P.P.S. You won't regret this.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
NOTE: Before filling out this form, please photocopy and
distribute to at least 2 other people.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
NAME _______________________________________________ AGE ________
ST.ADDRESS ______________________________________________________
CITY, STATE ________________________________________ ZIP ________
SOCIAL STRUCTURES YOU BELONG TO _________________________________
_________________________________________________________________
EVER GIVEN IN TO PEER PRESSURE BEFORE? __________________________
(IF NO, THEN INCLUDE AN EXTRA $1.00)
WHO/WHAT CONVINCED YOU TO JOIN? _________________________________
WILL YOU DO IT? (Come one, EVERYBODY'S doing it!)
(If you don't, nobody will ever respect
you!) YES [ ] NO [ ]
(NOTE: If you marked the NO box, you're a reject.)
Enclosed is my $3.00 ($1.00 initial membership fee, $2.00 for
first year). Please sign me up as a member of PP. [ ]
Enclosed is my donation of $50.00 or more. Please make
me happy. [ ]
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
******************************
END OF PARTHENOGENESIS ISSUE 1
*******************************
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<<<EXTRA-SPECIAL NEATO NOTE: Hello to all who are reading this!
This is PARTHENOGENESIS, a regular old solid ink-and-paper zine
based in Fort Collins, Colorado converted to ezine format. Please
keep in mind that this is a REPRINT of the original issue. Also,
apologies if the zine is a bit Fort Collins-inclusive (future
issues won't be). All work by the respective authors is under
copyright. Permission is granted to copy and distribute this
ezine in its entirety, or to give the respective author credit
for his/her work. In the future I hope to have current copies of
PARTHENOGENESIS distributed physically and on the Net
simultaneously. I also hope to be independently wealthy, conquer
the universe, and learn to tango. Of the three, I think the
second is the most likely. If you should wish to contribute to
this zine (all submissions will be considered - but I tend to
stay away from political crap), request a copy of the physical
zine (it looks MUCH better, and has a bit of artwork in it that's
not here), or just have something to say (I welcome ALL
comments), please write me at: Parthenogenesis, 804 S.College
Suite 8363, Ft.Collins, CO, 80524 or you can send email to us:
dherrick@nyx.cs.du.edu. Thanks for listening to me babble, and if
you didn't take the time to read through all this, you're a dork.
--- Mohammed X >>>
************************
PARTHENOGENESIS ISSUE #2
************************
Hello and welcome to the second issue of Parthenogenesis, the
zine that serves no real purpose and caters only to my own
personal tastes. I am Mohammed X, the editor of this zine. In
case you were wondering, Parthenogenesis means "reproduction
without sexual union". You may ask why I chose that particular
name for this zine. Why not? I suppose I could have called it
"Renegade: the Journal of the American Housewife", but I didn't.
Good thing too, I guess. Anyway, what I really wanted to say is
that if anything in this zine offends anyone, keep in mind that
these are the OPINIONS of the individuals who write this stuff,
and besides, nobody takes us seriously anyway. And to those of
you (you know who you are) who took the 'Rumors' column SERIOUSLY
last issue... DON'T! If anyone feels like they would like to
contribute anything to this zine, send it in. Opinions, Money,
Letters, Money, Fiction (short fiction, PLEASE), Money, Poetry,
Money, Artwork, Money, etc... I'll make an effort to print it. Of
course, since the money to produce this zine comes out of my own
pocket (actually I keep my money in my underwear), donations to
cover printing costs are encouraged as well, especially if you
have something you want me to print. Send anything to:
Parthenogenesis
804 S.College Suite 8363
Ft. Collins, CO 80524
Have fun, and sex! - Mohammed X
*
Dear Editor: You are the coolest guy in the world. Please print
this, and I will give you head and well, my soul. [EDITOR'S
NOTE: No, he didn't really write that. I did. So?]
THE BUNNIE-PUNK PUNK DIS
"You say that you're another punk-rocker. But inside you're
just a trendy fucker..." - dekadence
What the hell is your problem? You say that you're a punk,
but you're really nothing but a shallow poseur. Punk rock is so
much more than ded clothes and combat boots. It's a way of life
and it's a mode of thinking. Big deal, so you've got yourself a
nifty pair of combats, a leather jacket, and the oh so stylish
flannel. Have you got the thinking, the mind to be yourself, and
the mind to do your best to let others be themselves? Do you
listen to the lyrics or just run in circles? So you like Nirvana
and NIN. PHHHH! So What?! Have your ears ever been molested by
the screeching of Wattie? Have you ever spent your last fiver on
a SUBHUMANS tape or did you pass rite by it and go buy a pack of
smokes so you could look cool, instead of broadening your
selection of governmental hate?
There is so much shit that's going to go down. Are you
ready? Or will you be too busy trying to bum a ride home from
Satan? This bunnie-punk thing is so fuckin lame that I can't even
begin to get scared about it. So what is it going to be, spend
yer money on the show or on the acid? Hell, you don't even have
enough individualism to go to the show alone. Naw you'd rather go
back up into the mountains and smoke a bag with the same people
again, and again, and again, and again, etc. Do you see what I'm
getting at? There is so much that you can do, there are so many
people that you can meet. I'm not saying that it's so fucked up
to smoke a bag with your friends, I'm just saying that you need
to do something else for a while. Sure, this is FORT HELL, and it
is quite easy to get stuck in a rut, but since we do get stuck in
totally repetitive lifestyles in this city of necros, at least
get stuck in a fun repetition. AND DON'T FUCKING TELL ME THAT POT
IS THE ONLY FUN THING TO DO!!!!!! There are other things, true I
am at Undertones every single weekend, but at least I'm meeting
people and keeping myself of a clean mind and body.
"You're welcome to come stay, learn from me, but when you
come back from smoking a bowl, don't cry, and blow smoke up my
ass, saying you can't see." --- T.S. MERLIN
BY: RAGZ REJECTED
*
Okay, everybody knows what I'm talking about when I say
Casaguapa, right? If you don't, don't worry about it. You're just
not as hip as the rest of us. But to those of us who do... I mean
the OLD Casaguapa. The original one. The REAL one. Remember what
it was like? The Macaroo bar on the door, the shower that wasn't,
the basement that flooded with sewage, the Garage of Death, Rex,
the Guapa sign spray-painted on the porch screen, the parking
lot/lawn? The couch held together with duct tape? The answering
machine with the message changing hourly? The celebrations of
Guapa (parties), when we played pin the tail on Paul? The broken
back door (the broken everything)? Jeff's kitten? Satan's puppy
(was it really a Hellhound?)? Dan's machete? Peabert? Samantha?
Cheryl's knives (heh, heh)? Elvira? Sure, it was dirty, it was
smelly, it was hell, but damn it, it was CASAGUAPA! Home for some
of us, and, well, home to everybody else too! The point of this
little tirade? Aha! Well, you see, the other day I was trying to
remember everybody who lived there... and I couldn't! I counted
at least ten, but after that, things got fuzzy. So what I propose
is this... everybody who lived in Casaguapa or hung out there
regularly... write your history of it! I'm talking the time from
when Jeff, Satan, Dan, and KC originally rented it until KC,
Pandora, Paul and the rest left and the house was vacant
(officially). So go ahead... write your personal view of the
triumphs and tragedies of that tofu-like establishment -
Casaguapa! - and send them in. With any luck, I can print
them. - Mohammed X
*
Scroll 1: O ye who do not praise Guapa, know ye that you really
should, because Guapa's cool. Praise be unto Guapa! If thou would
not sing praises unto Guapa, then thou must be a fool. In fact,
Guapa's so cool, that hymns of praise are sung unto him. Praise
Guapa!
Yes, once again Guapa has blessed me. This time, with vodka.
Ah, blessed be he who giveth us free beverages of a mind-altering
nature, and blessed be me, just cuz. This time, I won't talk much
about Guapa, but I will urge you to write to this zine's address
if you want to learn more about Guapa, or to praise him, or to
try to win a date with Pauli. Hey, and remember scroll 32: "Holy
Battles may be waged with chopsticks and butter knives against
the evil Perpetrators of Sobriety. Ketchup will be used as blood,
cooked spaghetti for guts and peeled grapes for eyeballs. The
battles will be waged in empty school playgrounds under a full
moon at high noon."
Beware the evil Perpetrators of Sobriety, faithful ones.
They will try to limit your consumption and therefore your
happiness. If confronted by one of these fiends, just quote Holy
Scrolls or other appropriate Guapan teachings. Oh, and run. They
are recognizable sometimes by the turnip tattoos on their lips.
Ah, did I frighten you, my little trial-size gin bottles? Here, I
shall comfort you by giving you an excerpt from Guapa's bedtime
stories. But first, scroll 30: "Yea and woe, the bible will be
called Guapa's Bedtime Stories and it will have a groovy cover."
ACHMED AND MOHAMMED LOOK FOR THE LOST SCROLLS
Chapter One (1) : the Quest
And so it came to be that the Holy Fax Machine in Achmed and
Mohammed's apartment started to chew up Holy Scrolls. Many tears
were shed for the lost words of Guapa. The Disciples cried in
their beer, so as to eat some unsalted peanuts and pretzels. Wars
were waged, condoms were worn, and many bottles of Absolut
opened. Chicks were sacrificed and clothes were worn. And music
played. And all were entwined in a giant orgy that lasted 'til
everything fell off.
The Holy Cool Council convened and Mohammed and Achmed were
called to the dais. This task proved to be difficult, because
Achmed and Mohammed were already on the dais, because they're the
only ones on the Holy Cool Council. The council appointed Achmed
and Mohammed to go on a Holy Crusade to find the Holy Scrolls,
because after all, they're pretty Holy guys.
The Council also appointed Mohammed and Achmed the Holy Scribes
of the Holy Quest of the Holy Guys, which was convenient, since
Achmed and Mohammed were the only ones actually involved in the
Quest. Mohammed and Achmed then deemed it a good idea to have
another mass orgy. Unfortunately, before it was possible, as they
realized, there was need for major reconstructive surgery (see
paragraph 1, above). And so the quest began...
...And quickly ground to a halt as Achmed made a belated
discovery - he HAD A PENIS! Yea, verily, it was there in its
entirety. Mohammed wept, for he had not the slightest idea where
his could have wandered off to. Then was Achmed struck full force
by a Divine Inspiration. He raised his eyes skyward and lo and
behold - there was Mohammed mighty masculine member, stranded in
a nearby tree! Achmed kindly volunteered to retrieve it, but
Mohammed protested, saying that it was Holy and Achmed must not
touch it. Mohammed retrieved it and quickly reattached it. The
preliminaries were over, and the Holy Quest had begun!
HERE ENDS THE EXCERPT FROM GUAPA'S BEDTIME STORIES. PRAISE GUAPA!
*
THE CHRONICLES OF RIT SOM T'NG
part 1 : Dragons
At this point in time, there is only one thing to say...
Dragons, the place we know, in a time long forgotten when men
were valiant, maidens were fair, and one could always count on
the ruthlessness in all of us, the Dragon.
And then, from the dimension adjacent to Dragons, there
arose therein an aroma of dubious nature. Known to most mortals
and many wise plankton as the Goose, it embodied that which was
"Apluxtcklz", meaning "What the hell?". 'Twas quite a few eons
past, those tuna-filled days, when men were confused, women just
plain didn't care, and one could always count on one's fingers.
Ah, the Goose.
The Goose became all, the all-knowing, the all-embodying,
the all-seeing, and he could two-step like no other. So confused
men would come to the Goose and say, "Oh great one, teach us the
two-step... and, we think you're cute." The Goose had no choice
but to give them a tootsie pop. And when the women came to see
him, they said... nothing! They didn't care for the two-step.
But the Goose gave them a really kick butt "Country Western's
2000 Greatest Hits" 8-track. And they were all satisfied... for
a while, anyway.
Then, one day (maybe it was two; historians still argue the
point today), it happened.
"No! Not that!" cried out Mighty Yaputsk, observing.
"Relax, Valiant One;" soothed Divine Mike to his fellow
god, "'tis not as bad as it is seeming."
"Methinks you misunderstand, O God of Footwear," responded
Yaputsk. "I despair for the plight of those historians just
mentioned, for I, being the God of Historians, find it horrible
indeed to know that there is something that cannot be accurately
chronicled. But, never fear, Bootmaster, I feel I can handle it
now."
"Are you sure?"
"Indeed. 'Twas the shock upon hearing it so suddenly."
"Then shall we continue the Chronicle?"
"Pray, do so."
...it happened. In a strange and unprecedented incident, a
human-looking figure dressed entirely in pink lace appeared
beside the majestic figure of the Goose and said one word:
"Eep!"
The Goose, quite against his will, was thrust far away from
his home, to the waiting claws of the Dragon.
But as was stated, Dragons was a place we know. Well, the
Goose knew it too. He realized that it wasn't the claws of the
Dragon, but they were in fact pillars made of a soft and furry
stone. He feared Dragons as anyone would, but soothed himself in
the thought that Dragons was only a small hick town in Iowa. He
remembered the road that led out of the town, since this WAS a
place he knew, and he tried to figure out why the men in this
town could ever be called valiant. He did know, however, why the
maidens were fair... it was that they never cheated at "go fish"
(a ludicrous game, not involving the actual fish nor any water at
all, but identically shaped thick pieces of paper). So he
continued on, and suddenly snapped back into reality.
"Yow!" said Back.
"Watch it!" said Reality.
"Sorry." said the Goose, though he wasn't.
The Goose decided right then and there to embark on a Quest.
This Quest was to determine once and for all, whether the Goose
was Male or Female. And the Goose decided to start the Quest out
right, so it ate for breakfast an orange, a slice of toast, a
bowl of porridge flavored with bee spittle, and a few neighboring
tourists. Well, they deserved it! What self-respecting tourist
goes to Iowa?
(Silence.)
"What happened?" Queried grim Belich, the patron god of
Dinosaurs. (The dinosaurs being extinct is what makes him so
grim, by the way. It is said that in his heyday, he was an
enthusiastic and cheerful god, much given to public nakedness.)
"Mayhap the machine has broken again." ventured Poopchute, god
of Typists. "I shall have a look!"
"Maybe it's over?" Dummich, the patron goddess of Blondes,
added. No-one paid any heed.
"BEWARE!" a powerful male voice boomed suddenly. "It is
Him! He who is most foul of Breath and of Language! He is come!
Doomed we are, I say! I say... what was I saying?..."
"Shut up, Glomm, you're drunk, you dolt!" snarled Mike. "A
disgrashe to Godhead itself, I am!" Glomm tipped his wineglass
genially towards Mike. Unfortunately, he
miscalculated, and he poured the rest of the wine into Mike's
lap.
"Aaaar!" roared Mike, leaping to his feet, "Now shall you
suffer, worm!"
So speaking, Mike assumed his warrior guise. He now wore a
spiked black leather jacket (open to reveal a white shirt on
which was inscribed a few runes and a picture of a warrior
pissing on a vanquished foe), camouflage pants, and brightly
glowing cherry red combat boots. In his right hand he held his
mighty Switchblade of Wrath, in his left a strange little box.
He strode toward Glomm with mayhem on his godly mind.
Glomm, too, reverted to his warrior side. He wore nothing
but a loincloth, but now had seventy-two arms, and each hand bore
a vicious-looking weapon. Unfortunately, he was still drunk, and
when he swung his weapons it was rare indeed for any one of them
to find its target. In fact, most of them inflicted harm upon
himself when he attempted to use them.
As Mighty Mike and Ghastly Glomm faced each other, a small
form interposed itself between them. It was none other than
Yipppp, the goddess of sanitization.
"Pray, brothers, do not fight now; see, even now Graceful
Poopchute gestures; he has finished the repairs on the machine,
and we may know the pleasure of the Chronicles again!"
She inclined her head toward Poopchute, who was indeed
gesturing. But he shook his head.
"Nay, fair Yipppp, I was but flipping you off."
"Even so," she agreed. "Now, you two sit down and relax.
Stroke yourselves or something."
"Now am I finished." announced Poopchute, and made an
obscure motion with his hand.
THE CHRONICLES WILL CONTINUE!
----
*
THE NEW STORY
by
Chris Olson and Aaron Perkins
Today was Stalin's birthday. Not the Stalin in Russia. No.
Stalin was an eight year old black boy living in the ghettos of
Chicago. "Hey, pork breath. What did you give me for my
birthday," he shouted at a passing police officer.
"Go away. You remind me of my mother. She hit me once. Go
away before I kill you." said the pig. Stalin didn't like this
person, so he killed the cop and started to go home and see if
his mom had baked his birthday cake yet. He found that she wasn't
quite done yet, so he killed her and ate the raw batter, because
he was hungry. For a moment there was world peace, but nobody
knew about it so somebody was killed in Nicaragua and it ended.
Stalin was really a good boy though. I mean he always tried to be
nice to people and he always got good grades. He did have a
couple of bad habits, but basically he was a good boy. Just
sitting around the house dropping acid and taking cats apart,
Stalin got bored. He got so bored that finally he took off all
his clothes, painted his penis an unnatural shade of green, and
went down to the Department of Motor Vehicles. As he got to the
DMV he was met by a long line. Stalin was getting very bored in
line and he wanted to go to the front of the line so he could
have some philosophical discussion with the clerk, but he didn't.
He waited in line for about an hour until he got up to the front.
When he got to the front of the line he asked the man if he
thought a system of translucent pink currency would be more
efficient than the boring green. The clerk seemed rude and just
handed Stalin a bunch of forms and told him to go to the corner
and fill them out. He thought this was incredibly rude of the man
so he killed him and refused to fill out the forms. He took the
so-called forms and burned them. Then he snorted the ashes. This
gave him such an incredible buzz that he passed out on the spot.
He awoke to a massive horde of yellow watermelons trying to
cram themselves into his nose. They soon realized that they
simply wouldn't fit into his nose so they began to jump up and
down on his forehead.
"Darn," said Jack.
"Fuck off!" said Stalin and then he killed Jack. Before his
corpse was cold, Stalin ate the majority of Jack's fingers and
one of his testicles. Then he took Jack's body, swung it around
his head, and smashed it into the main crowd of watermelons.
They splattered about the room. There were watermelon guts
everywhere. Yellow watermelon entrails spewed everywhere. It was
not a pretty sight.
Stalin laughed.
A bug under Stalin's foot, about to be fatally smooshed,
underwent a sudden and quite amazing change. This particular bug
became empowered with a superhuman strength that would have made
Superman jealous. This bug reached up to intercept Stalin's leg
as it stepped down. Suddenly, the surge of strength was gone and
the bug's brief but spectacular life was ended as the fatal
smoosh occurred.
Stalin heard the faint smoosh and looked down and saw the
gory remains of the bug. Smiling, he reached into his pocket and
pulled out his trusty hypodermic syringe. He scooped the bug up,
put it into the syringe, and injected bug guts into his
bloodstream.
Exactly pi seconds later, it hit him.
His skin turned a nice shade of mauve that blended
beautifully with his unnaturally green penis. His eyes began to
bug out massively. His mouth flapped, saying only one coherent
syllable over and over again. "Shit. Shit. Shit..." he babbled.
His fingernails fell off and exploded on contact with the
ground. His pubic hair suffered a bout of spontaneous implosion.
His nose began to run.
"Shit. Shit. Shit..." Stalin said.
A sudden shattering of glass interrupted his ejaculations.
Five black, Jewish, Neo-Nazis walked in. They were armed with
extremely intimidating, bright blue, giant dildos. They pointed
the business ends at Stalin.
"Shit. Shit. Shit..." Stalin replied.
His name was inconceivably and totally incomprehensible by
man. But if there were any humans that knew him they would
probably call him Brian.
Brian had just had a very unfortunate accident. While doing
a bit of intergalactic hitch-hiking, his "thumb", a sort of
electronic space vehicle summoning device, had malfunctioned and
sent our friend plummeting to the earth only to land in a coal
car of an old coal powered train. This is not the whole of
Brian's problems by any means. Besides being stranded on earth
and lying on top of a huge pile of dirty coal, Brian had the
annoyingly bad luck to look exactly like an average sized piece
of coal. Mr. Forbes was just one under par at that moment. Brian
always did have bad luck when he tried to hitch-hike, but he had
to admit to himself, this had to be the utter climax of bad luck.
So Brian sat there thinking, unable to move in an atmosphere
with such a low content of Radon. "How miserably depressing," he
thought to himself, "This man is shoveling this stuff into an
intensely hot furnace. I wish I had a drink, or perhaps some
better luck."
You see, Brian did not deal with stress well and this most
definitely was a stressful situation. Being only a few shovelfuls
away from being pitched into a searing furnace, he was not
looking too keen on life about now. Whenever Brian got too
stressed, he liked to daydream to get his mind off of the
situations at hand. So he started.
He thought about his birthday next week and how much fun it
was going to be. The new toilet-espresso matching combination
that he was hoping to get as a gift would be pleasantly amusing
and at the same time, quite practical. That would be so nice. All
of his friends had gotten one months ago. He thought about all of
his family and friends would be there and how much fun it
would...
A shovel abruptly came up under his body and Brian's frail
body was vaporized in the intense heat.
Now you may be curious as to how Brian's tragic tale relates
to our epic of Stalin, but you see it does. It has a very
significant impact here. You see the man in the line at the DMV
whom Stalin killed was very much interested in coal powered
trains as a child.
Anyway, Stalin didn't want to deal with the five black,
Jewish, Neo-Nazis so he left and decided to go have a beer.
Of course, alcohol didn't help his current speech impediment
much, and when he tried to pick up on this sexy short girl in a
black leather mini-skirt with combat boots riding a Harley, all
he could say was, "Shit. Shit. Shit..."
She was real impressed by this and said, "Ooh baby! Do me
like you've never done before!" Then she ran him over with her
motorcycle.
Stalin didn't quite know what to make of this. So he just
sat there and defecated his attire, which at this time consisted
of Harley tracks on his head. Then he saw a man. He ran over to
the man, who was dressed in a fancy, fluorescent green suit with
a yellow paisley tie, and said, "Urga blurg a flurg a shmurg...
sir."
The man in the beautiful green suit said, "Oh, ho! You
naughty boy!" Then he shook his finger at him and walked off,
twirling his nose hairs.
Stalin was amazed. He wasn't sure what he was amazed at. But
it absolutely fascinated him. He decided to go looking for it. He
thought that maybe if he saw it, he would recognize the thing.
Maybe it was the beer that he still wanted. No, he was fascinated
with something, but not beer and not Bush's deficit plan.
Just then, he saw his good friend Gandhi walking towards
him. Gandhi was bald and quite skinny from malnutrition and too
much pot. Anyway, Gandhi walked over to Stalin and said, "Hey
man, what's up?"
All Stalin could say was, "Shit. Shit. Shit..."
"What's up? What's the problem?"
"Shit. Shit. Shit..."
"Dude, tell me. Are the pigs after you or something?"
"Urg blurg a smurglb. Shit."
Gandhi quickly got frustrated with this conversation and
kicked Stalin in the head with his cherry red Doc's.
(to be continued.......?)
*
THE BOOK OF MOHAMMED X
or, MOHAMMED'S MIGHTY MASCULINE MEMBER MISPLACES MISS MANNERS'
MANGY MACKEREL
CHAPTER WON!
on the childhood of Mohammed; on Mohammed's family; on the early
adulthood of Mohammed; on top of old smoky
Listen carefully to my words, o fellow seekers of
enlightenment through the unorthodox use of foreign substances;
Listen to me, I say; for I am Mohammed X, and to me, you are
listening. See? It worked.
I, as all others, have a history. That, you shall not hear.
I speak to you now of my simulated past; the past I have
developed, edited, and refined through time; the past that I now
believe to be my own, for I have forgotten if any other ever
existed. But enough. My mother's name in some circles was known
as Ooga; my father's name was not pronounceable by any tongue
known to mankind. I had four brothers; all were named Mohammed.
We were reared and tutored by a frog named Zzzckhts, for our
parents were otherwise occupied. My father, eight days after our
birth, was rendered nonexistent due to an accident with a can of
cola, a pocket calculator, and a gene splicer. My mother never
noticed, I believe. She continued to do as she had always done,
which involved sitting by a large pool of water all the time. You
see, to the fish in the pool, she was a Goddess. The fish
worshipped her, and even gave her what gifts they could; mostly
moss and lichen spat from their mouths at her. She accepted these
offerings with grace, even occasionally allowing a thin trail of
mucus to fall from her nostril into the water. For our family,
the X clan, it had always been thus (or at least as long as we
could remember). To the fish of the pool, we were Gods, and we
strove to carry ourselves with dignity and grace when we went
near the pool.
When my brothers Mohammed and I came of age, that being
fifty-seven years old, Zzzckhts took us to the place where our
rite of passage into manhood would take place. It was a bare
stone room, about eleven inches by eight or nine inches. The roof
stretched out of sight far above us. The walls were painted red.
Zzzckhts told us then that there could be but one Mohammed,
and that we should all fight to the death until only one
survived. Immediately my brothers fell upon each other in a
murderous rage; whilst I stepped upon Zzzckhts' puny form,
killing him instantly. Soon, my brothers had finished killing
each other, and I realized that I was the only Mohammed
remaining. Pleased, I promptly left the stone room and strode to
the pool.
"Mother," I said, "I am now a man."
She looked up at me and said one word. The word I cannot
remember; save that it began with a consonant... or mayhap it was
a vowel. Whatever the case, the word so angered me that I pushed
her into the pool. My mother, stupidly, had never learned to
swim. Thus she drowned - the Goddess, dead, fallen to her grave
into the very World she had sought to rule. The fish, in time,
ate her. I, my heart heavy within me and with a runny nose that
just wouldn't quit, left the scene of my childhood and never
returned. Fortunately, as it turned out; for a volcano was born
right under my old house, and erupted to destroy everything
within many miles. By that time, however, I was living in another
country under an assumed name. That is, everyone there assumed my
name was Mohammed, since I had told them it was.
My early adulthood, from the time of the above paragraph to
the one below, it of little importance save that it lasted eight
hundred and twenty-nine more years.
When I was celebrating my eight hundred and eighty-sixth
birthday, a sudden thought came to me. It died in a freak
collision with a rogue hair follicle. I took a fancy to it,
however, and put it in a smallish glass case on my kitchen table.
I then decided to wander the world. I set out first for Topeka,
Kansas, but in that time it did not exist, so I went to Rome. I
arrived just in time for its sacking, but when the checker asked
if I wanted paper or plastic, I fled in terror. After that, I
lost track of the following thirty-three thousand years. Then I
met Guapa. You should have read about that meeting already, so I
won't bore you again with the details. But now... time for a beer
break.
HERE ENDS THE EXCERPT FROM THE BOOK OF MOHAMMED X!
*
Once I was, and I was content. Ere long after this, the people
came into being, and were content. The people then perceived me,
and spoke to each other concerning myself and my nature. And the
people spoke to me, saying: "Yea, verily, thou must indeed be."
Long I pondered this, and then I bade the people gather about me.
This they did, and I addressed them, saying, "Nay, no longer may
I be." And I was not.
*******************************
END OF PARTHENOGENESIS ISSUE #2
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<<<EXTRA-SPECIAL NEATO NOTE: Hello to all who are reading this!
This is PARTHENOGENESIS, a regular old solid ink-and-paper zine
based in Fort Collins, Colorado converted to ezine format. Please
keep in mind that this is a REPRINT of the original issue. Also,
apologies if the zine is a bit Fort Collins-inclusive (future
issues won't be). All work by the respective authors is under
copyright. Permission is granted to copy and distribute this
ezine in its entirety, or to give the respective author credit
for his/her work. In the future I hope to have current copies of
PARTHENOGENESIS distributed physically and on the Net
simultaneously. I also hope to be independently wealthy, conquer
the universe, and learn to tango. Of the three, I think the
second is the most likely. If you should wish to contribute to
this zine (all submissions will be considered - but I tend to
stay away from political crap), request a copy of the physical
zine (it looks MUCH better, and has a bit of artwork in it that's
not here), or just have something to say (I welcome ALL
comments), please write me at: Parthenogenesis, 804 S.College
Suite 8363, Ft.Collins, CO, 80524 or you can send email to us:
dherrick@nyx.cs.du.edu. Thanks for listening to me babble, and if
you didn't take the time to read through all this, you're a dork.
--- Mohammed X >>>
************************
PARTHENOGENESIS ISSUE #3
************************
Welcome once again to Parthenogenesis! (And you thought you'd
seen the last of me... well, no such luck!) Finally, the third
issue (this one, for those of you who haven't caught on yet) is
out, and I really have nothing else to say about it, as the zine
should speak for itself! Oh, a disclaimer: the views expressed in
this zine are ours and not yours, so if you want to use them feel
free to write in and ask for permission. A $5 processing fee is
mandatory for your request to be considered. But seriously... All
articles, stories, and other writings printed in this zine are
copyrighted by the respective author. Artwork by Ben Hunter is
also under copyright.
THANKS very much to Business Express for donating this issue of
the zine.
THANKS also to FlAmY, Contradiction 23, Adam Five, Business
Express, Diva Anna, Dan Quayle (fore inspiratione), Big Brother,
Mimi & Mamie, the town of Intercourse, Pennsylvania (for obvious
reasons), and the people who wrote to me.
WRITE to Parthenogenesis! I WILL reply!
Parthenogenesis
804 S. College Suite 8363
Fort Collins, CO 80524
CONTRIBUTORS for this issue: Adam Five, Contradiction 23, Bill
Lee, Ben Hunter, and me.
- Mohammed X
*
LETTER TO THE EDITOR
Dear Mr. Ragz Rejected,
I read and admired your letter. Here I sit in my warm and
comfy flannel over my Exploited shirt, my trusty combat boots on,
and my leather jacket thrown stylishly over my shoulder,
listening to Nine Inch Nails...oops! I didn't mean to listen to
something outside my proclaimed genre of music. No use broadening
my musical horizons when I have that old Subhumans tape lying
around. I guess I should have spent my last fiver on it instead
of stealing it - but I had to use the FIVE BUCKS to get into
Undertones. Boy am I glad you suggested going to Undertones. Now
I can sit in a corner with my friends at Undertones instead of
going to the mountains to smoke pot. All in all, your advice is
sound, and I think I will follow what you say. Isn't that what
you're saying being punk is all about? I have to go now, as I
must try to bum a ride home from Satan, but again, I sincerely
thank you.
Peace, love, and anarchy...like you say...
IMPERMEABLE TEABAG
*
ALIENS VISITED ME AND NOTHING'S CHANGED
A very odd thing happened to myself and my friend Contradiction
23 while we were sitting around in our igloo playing 'Risk'. You
see, I was just about to invade Ural, "the blow me state", with 4
armies when what should happen but a strange arm tapped me on the
shoulder! I screamed and farted loudly, I couldn't help it, I was
terrified! But as it turned out it was only '23 tapping me on the
shoulder with one greasy finger. "Want shom?" he asked, his mouth
full and holding a plate of leftover Sesame Chicken up to me. I
shook my head, which dislodged the glass I had balanced on top of
it. It fell, right on the board, and cappuccino went everywhere!
It spilled onto the Risk board, all over me, the floor, a gecko
which had just been wandering by, '23, and Guapa knows what else.
"Mohammed!" '23 exclaimed in that stern voice of his. I quailed,
but leaped to my own defense. "Wasn't me!" I cried. "Then who was
it?" '23 looked surprised, with good reason, because he hadn't
said that. We looked up and there was a little green ALIEN
floating up near our ceiling. "Shit!" the gecko exclaimed. The
alien nodded. We felt ourselves being drawn up, nearer and nearer
the alien, his slitted eyes getting bigger and bigger, until...
we woke up, lying on our floor. Immediately we jumped up and
began to do jumping jacks excitedly, trying to assimilate this
new experience. We realized that not only had we been contacted
by aliens, but we had been to their space ship! We obviously
couldn't remember that part because they must have blocked it out
of our memory. Just then the gecko began to tell us about how
depraved and boring today's youth had become, especially in
Ft.Collins. We paid him no attention, but he kept right on
talking, like we wanted to hear him go on! Then, when he
mentioned the word "punk", we both suddenly had the urge to spout
off certain words, which we did. We had no control over what we
were saying. When we were finished we looked at each other with
new respect. We realized that the aliens had imprinted a message
INSIDE our heads, activated with the code word "punk"! Not only
had they done that, but set it up so that each of us had only
HALF the message! We quickly wrote down what we had said
(fortunately, the gecko had a great memory), then pondered it
over a dinner of Sesame Gecko. This is the message:
"Hair of the dog biscuit chicken heroin string kitten of the
north sugar hiccup persephone lazarus fingernail black within my
buttocks squid sandwich without gravy tastes like no man or
chicken fried steak nostril bones eating mice tailless upstairs
outside round the corner great burgers and urine for my mother I
would never flatulate on grandmother's grandfather clock blue the
house down with mighty cleanser action works like shit
blasphemous orgasm hairless fingers non-stick weevils smoother
than Jesus longer than Witchboard bitchboard banana fanna fo-
fitchboard let's do Sally Jesse Raphael in New Orleans when the
moon is high and Dan Quayle sleeps with potato dreams which
defecate into seemingly unabridged dicks vans dykes ill-begotten
son who gave his only cheese to a young lady with no turnip-
powered genitals to speak of I feel like my lips have fallen off
color and have entered the urine zone."
Yeah, that's what we said too. Well, we're sure it has some
incredible significance, but we can't really figure it out. What
does it mean? That's why I'm telling you this story and telling
you the message. YOU figure it out. If anyone can figure out the
deep and wonderful meaning of this message, be sure and tell us.
Then, and only then, will we be able to find out what the aliens'
purpose for us really is, for I am sure that once we hear it
explained to us, the aliens' memory implants will activate again
and we could do great things. Like make lots of money. And build
strange temples dedicated to the aliens, and make a LIFE-SIZE
Risk board, and... well, I could go on, but I won't. That's the
story so far. The rest...we shall see.
- Mohammed X
*
PARTHENOGENESIS POLL #1 RESULTS!
Yes, all you who have been eagerly awating the results for the
Parthenogenesis Poll #1, here they are! We had 50 polls returned
out of 50 given, only because we were standing right next to the
polltakers and wouldn't let them eat the papers or throw them
away. Most of the polls (actually more of a survey, but let's not
get picky) were given at Paris on the Poudre. The designation
MORON refers to those who didn't bother to answer the question at
all or answered in a really annoying messed-up way. Nobody gave
us a donation. Expect to see more polls in the future.
QUESTION 1: "Of the people handing out these questions (Rob has
the goatee, Dan has the glasses), whose shorts are the most
'punk'?"
DAN : 17 (34%)
ROB : 22 (44%)
NEITHER : 11 (22%)
As you can plainly see, Rob won the 'punk shorts' category,
obvisouly because he must have bribed the polltakers. One person
wrote: "Define 'punk'." Well, that's easy. It's right under
'Ninja', and just above 'Chickenbutt'.
QUESTION 2: "What is your favorite word?"
Here is the list (in no particular order) of some of the
words (Interestingly, there were no repeats) :
Rhombiscosdodecdihedron, ahhhhhh..., continuity, yes, slush,
sex, blechaas, antidisestablishmentarianism (curse the one who
wrote that), parthenogenesis (bless the wonderful shining being
who wrote that one), spooge, nuisance, rave, holoblastic, yowza,
dekadence (thank you Ragz), albino, swag, "I can't remember but
it starts with a 'p'", why, wild, comPASSIONate, marijuana, swub,
eviscerate, shmegma, plaster, chunder, deetledeedeedee,
absorbant, plethora, queer, mercurial, random (my personal
favorite as well), verb, moist, duh, cunnilingus, shred, schmuck,
christ.
There were also 5 people who replied with profanity.
QUESTION 3: "What is the funniest single word you can think of?"
Pickle, implant, mormon, shamboozler, zorch, zit, boob, plum,
Lebowitz, Rob, quiet, goatee, sphincter, ninny, mushroom, uht,
shminkadooble, cheese, butterfinger, Paul, cunnilingus (2 votes
for that one), hello, Perot, squirrel, hermaphrodite,
cumulonimbus, wakka, persnickity, gubernatorial, bwesk, crotch,
Connie, winnebago, pamplemousse (french for grapefruit), yurtle,
"neo-tropical zones for grandma make my knees itch! (It's all one
word, if you think about it)", supercalifragilisticexpedoshut,
moist, doukie, queeb, Dan, dildo.
Only 3 people replied with profanity for that one.
QUESTION 4: "What is your favorite word ending in -ism?"
Jism (6 votes, the winner), Socialism (3 votes),
Antidisestablishmentarianism (2 foolish votes), Schism (twice),
fascism (2 for this one), sexism, prism, conservatism, satanism,
bipolarism, orgism (stretching things a bit, are we?),
colloquialism, parthenogenesism (hooray! Thou art punker even
than I), existentialism, monotheism, trism, libertarianism,
individualism, ismism, cloroxism, hedonism, organism, stonyism,
unitarianism, triangularism, anarchism, heterosexualism,
communism, sadism, mormonism, taoism, aphorism.
QUESTION 5: "What are you thinking about right now? (3 words or
less)"
The answers to this one were of course varied. However, a
predominant thought, it seems, was sex. 15 people responded with
sex-related answers. 4 people had drug related answers. Some of
the more interesting responses:
"How to spell", "What to write", "What to think", "Schism is
shit", "I am ugly", "Can't hear correctly", "Anyone for 69",
"white, white, white", "Lemons, pure! Sugar, butt.", "Dan's
shorts", "Answering question 5", "a circus wagon full of diseased
lemurs that are assembling prosthetic arms.", "absorbant cotton
crotch", "words or less", "big green elephants", "killing my
boyfriend".
QUESTION 6: "Are clowns REALLY funny?"
NO : 42 (84%)
YES : 8 (16%)
Also, of those who answered NO, 4 noted that clowns are
"scary".
QUESTION 7: "Are you currently plotting against anyone to do them
harm? (yes/no)"
YES : 20 (40%) MORON : 1 (2%)
NO : 29 (48%)
QUESTION 8: "Do you believe that anyone is currently plotting
against YOU to do you harm? (yes/no)"
YES : 25 (50%) MORON : 3 (6%)
NO : 22 (44%)
Note how the statistics change. Are YOU paranoid? These
people are, it seems. "Just because I'm paranoid, it doesn't mean
that they're not after me."
QUESTION 9: "Do you consider yourself an artist? (yes/no)" YES
: 34 (68%) MORON : 2 (4%)
NO : 14 (28%)
One person answered "phlegm-bulb" to this question. We
counted it as a "yes".
QUESTION 10: "Have you ever cheated on your 'significant other'
(does not have to be the current one)?"
YES : 37 (74%) MORON : 2 (4%)
NO : 11 (22%)
A quote from a respondent: "Cheat? Love is not a game.
Eating disorders are not a crime."
QUESTION 11: "Do you have an 'innie' or an 'outie'?"
INNIE : 45 (90%) "PARELLELAGRAMMY" : 1 (2%)
OUTIE : 2 (4%) "UNDERDEVELOPEDY" : 1 (2%) MORON
: 1 (2%)
QUESTION 12: "Estimate the amount of your bodily hair on a scale
of 1-10 (with 10 being the hairiest)."
AVERAGE AMOUNT OF BODY HAIR = 4.68
HIGH = 15 LOW = -1
Females averaged no less body hair than males.
We also cross-referenced this info in an unusual way. We
figured out the average amount of body hair for people who voted
for Dan and voters for Rob on question 1.
AVG. BODY HAIR FOR PEOPLE WHO VOTED FOR
DAN : 5.14
ROB : 4.44
NEITHER : 4.45
Draw your own conclusions.
QUESTION 13: "How many cups of coffee have you had tonight? (work
out your own conversion method for espresso drinks)"
TOTAL CUPS : 44.5
AVG. CUPS PER PERSON : .89
Interesting to note that the average was less than 1, considering
we did this poll almost exclusively at a coffee shop.
QUESTION 14: "Are you currently under the influence of any mind-
altering substance?"
Yes, we mean drugs. Now, who out there knows that caffeine
is a drug? I thought so. The MORON designation for this question
means a person answered NO for drugs even though they admitted to
drinking coffee. The SMART designation means those who noted on
their poll sheet that yes, caffeine is a drug. Congratulations,
smart ones.
YES : 15 (30%) MORON : 7 (14%)
NO : 35 (70%) SMART : 3 (6%)
To get the REAL statistics, add the MORONs to the YES answers.
QUESTION 15: "How many people do you truly trust (as in, trust
your life with)?"
TOTAL : 118.5 NOBODY : 4 (8%)
AVERAGE : 2.37 MORON : 2 (4%)
SPECIAL : 1 (2%)
One trusting fellow said "40". He's probably been robbed blind by
his 'friends' by now as well as died from multiple stabbing
wounds in the back area, so we won't count that one. The SPECIAL
response was very special, so extremely special, in fact, that I
can't tell you about it.
QUESTION 16: "How many people do you think truly trust you?"
TOTAL : 86.75 NOBODY : 10 (20%)
AVERAGE : 1.735 MORON : 12 (24%)
SPECIAL : 3 (6%)
The same trusting fellow thought that 189 people trust him. Poor
guy.
One of the SPECIAL responses: "Down with quantitative questions.
The utopian forest of radical subjectivity will only be realized
when we learn to appreciate the QUALITIVE."
QUESTION 17: "Do you prefer the 'Young Elvis', 'Old Elvis', or
the 'Elvis Today' stamp?"
YOUNG ELVIS : 15 (30%)
OLD ELVIS : 2 (4%)
ELVIS TODAY : 10 (20%)
NO ELVIS : 9 (18%)
'I HATE ELVIS' : 5 (10%)
DEAD/CORPSE ELVIS : 4 (8%)
BLONDE ELVIS : 1 (2%)
some other options:
"Elvis as a young journeyman plumber", "the
Dead-streaked-with-pus-and-bloated-decomposing-Elvis stamp",
"Chuck Berry", "Elvis Upside-Down Stamp", and "Cute Elvis".
QUESTION 18: "Okay, how much money do you think these guys are
making on this poll?"
Amazingly enough, 14 people thought we'd actually make a
PROFIT on this poll! How they came up with this idea, we'll never
know, considering we spent about $2 to make these copies, and the
only donation we got was a dollop of coffee on one of the poll
sheets.
Well, there it is in its entirety. We hope you enjoyed
learning about facts that have no relevence to any facet of your
life. Thanks to all of you who filled out the poll, and to those
of you who put your names on them... hey, don't feel bad.
*
THE ADVENTURES OF THE DIME AND THE QUARTER
by Dan Herrick
CHAPTER ONE
Once upon a dime, there was a quarter. No, it's not what you
think. They were just exchanging blueberry necklaces.
"Hey!" called a passing turnip. "Whaddya two think yo
doin'?"
The dime and the quarter quickly grabbed their assorted
fruit-necklaces (forsaking the less valuable vegetable-jewelry)
and began to run in a vaguely northeasterly direction.
"Hey!" called the turnip again, "That's MY necklace! Stop,
thief! I mean, thiefs! Help! Po-lice! I been ROBBED!"
The dime and the quarter narrowly escaped the turnip by
ducking into a nearby alley and tripping the turnip when he came
running in after them.
"Ugghsplat!" the turnip said. Actually, he didn't SAY it,
quite, but in actuality his whole physical body made that
particular noise as it fell into a conveniently located trash
can. The trash can, disgusted, tried to spit the turnip out, but
succeeded only in thoroughly moistening the turnip's upper body.
The turnip, at this point, fainted, and its farm-grown body went
limp. The dime and quarter decided that a) they had better run,
since a cop most likely by appearing soon; b) the turnip was a
pretty disagreeable sort of guy anyway; and c) this wasn't at all
their kind of scene. Therefore, they exited the alley at the
southern end (the one opposite the north end, which they had
entered originally) and continued innocently on their way.
"You just wait! I'll show you who's top dog around here!" a
nearby cocker spaniel yelled from somewhere nearby, although the
comment was not directed at either the dime or the quarter. The
dime looked at the quarter meaningfully. Suddenly a loud booming
voice intruded on their nice leisurely run-for-their-life.
"That look looked as though it contained quite a bit of
unauthorized and otherwise thoughtless thought, young sir!" The
dime looked up in some surprise. "No!" he breathed, "It's the
Thought Police!" he shrank back in fear. The quarter, however,
was less intimidated. "Madam!" she corrected sharply, giving the
Thought Cop an equally sharp slap to the face.
The Thought Cop became confused. "No, sir, I'm, uh, sorry,
but you're mistaken." he stammered. "I'm afraid I'm a man, if
you don't mind?" he finished somewhat lamely.
"Somewhat!" the quarter snorted contemptuously, then shut up
as she caught the venom-filled glance that the Author cast in her
direction. "I meant, you fool, that I am female, therefore you
will address me as Madam, and not Sir!"
Meanwhile, the Thought Cop was busily writing out a ticket.
"Mmmm, let's see..." he mused. "Unauthorized Thought or
Thoughtless Thought? Or Unthoughtless Authorization? Damn, this
job is fun!" Finally, finished, he tore off the ticket (written
on a yellow legal pad out of spite) and handed it to a startled
Avocado by mistake.
"But this isn't mine!" the Avocado insisted indignantly to
the Cop, who uncaringly removed a slightly lint-covered doughnut
from his shirt pocket.
"Tough!" the Cop said, and snorted his pastry bluntly. "But
this puts me illegally over my Thought Limit! I'll have my brain
removed!" the Avocado pouted, lower lip trembling. "Tough!"
God intoned, and reached a Hand down through the clouds to pluck
the Avocado's brain out through its ear.
Everything seemed to happen at once: the Avocado fell to the
ground, dead and brainless; God withdrew His Hand and
accidentally snagged the dime, carrying him with Him; the Cop
died of internal hemorrhaging due to a very bad doughnut; a boy
appeared, cried "Wolf!", and disappeared just as suddenly; and
the quarter spontaneously multiplied, becoming a Susan B. Anthony
dollar.
"AAAIIIEEE!!!" cried the quarter-turned-dollar piteously,
"Won't somebody help me?!?"
(To be continued........!)
*
"What's important is not having a big dick, but being a big
dick..."
- Achmed A'xir *
My Memories of CasaKindergarten
by A. Non
I remember when K, S, J & D first found CasaKindergarten
before they moved in. It was a pretty nice place, then, although
we later found that it had an unfortunate tendency to sneak out
late at night and get itself dirty, sometimes full to the windows
with Taco Bell wrappers and cigarette butts. This was before
anyone really came over - and it was kinda nice.
Later, after the unfortunate (?) exile of S & J, others
moved in - and the house could not curb the habit of sneaking out
and getting filthy - it even dirtied the dishes. Not only that,
it began to invite others into the house. I didn't mind - not
that I really had the right to mind, but I felt part owner of the
house somehow - I had been there before it all started.
Then, its social habits got out of hand - it began to invite
all sorts of undesirables, and that's when I felt the need to
leave. This was no longer fun - I mean, these people - these
CHILDREN seemed to think that they owned the playground - When
the owners, definitely outnumbered, went into debt covering the
bills. It was wrong - all wrong. THat's when I left, I think that
might have been before it was called Casaguapa... I mean, people
who impose so much as to live in someone's house without paying
rent as if it were some sort of rehab center of reform school -
and then STEAL from the people who actually had the generosity to
let them stay there... it was very questionable, to say the
least. All of them should have been kicked out regardless of
their criminal activities or ties to people who payed rent there.
I just can't find any justification for the way things turned out
- then again - I never want to be a social worker.
*
THE BOOK OF MOHAMMED X
CHAPTER, TOO
on Guapa's island kingdom; on off; on the great Happening; on the
floor again.
For some time I was happy with Guapa, and for some time
after that I was also happy with Guapa. Guapa, at that time,
resided on an island called D'nalsi. We (his worshippers) were
very happy, and never wanted for anything, save perhaps a larger
quantity of public restrooms. But then, one day, it happened. I
recall it quite well; I was sitting in a bar called Guapa's Bar
and Grill (it had once been called Guapa's Bar and Cheesecakes,
but, as you can see, it was no longer), sipping a glass of
something-or-other with vodka in it, when the ground began to
tremble. Thunder rocked the Bar. A huge black cloud covered the
sun. Then the entire Bar was lifted up as if by a gigantic hand,
spun around violently a few times for the amusement of the same
giant hand, then flung through the air! I fell to the ground,
screaming in misery!
"Oh, knock it off!" said the man sitting at the table which
I had recently vacated. He glared at me.
I glared back at all three of him, shut my eyes, and opened
them. All three of him were still glaring at me. I jumped to my
feet, hit the ceiling, and rebounded back to the floor. I rose
from the floor slowly and stood before the man. The left-most one
of the three, that is.
"Lishen," I said, "I..."
He looked puzzled. "What?" he urged.
"I... I don't really have anything to say." I told him
indignantly.
"Mohammed, you fool!" he hissed, "You're drunk! Shut up!"
"Oh, great!" I sneered. "And next you're going to guess my
weight, right?" I sat down and finished off whatever he'd been
drinking.
He appeared mystified. "Huh?" he replied wittily.
I narrowed my eyes and looked at him. This had the effect of
nearly blinding me, due to the blackness at the edge of my
vision. I did it a few more times for the sheer thrill of it,
then barked, "How'd you know my name, mister?"
His face showed an expression of extreme bafflement. "Why,
we've known each other for years, Mohammed. I'm Achmed.
Remember?"
"No," I said coldly, and would have added to that if the
floor hadn't leapt up and pulled me down on top of it. I heaved
myself up to the table. Achmed slapped me in the face a few
times, not unkindly. And then I remembered.
(continued...if you're lucky!)
*
"I had a dream that I was Bill Clinton at an equal rights march
getting a handjob while wearing a towel."
- Contradiction 23
*
WHAT YOU DON'T SEEM TO UNDERSTAND
Everyone I have ever met is trying to be someone in a movie that
had a cool scene taken from a 45 mark 16 degree angle.
Consider this scene the mold!
Now everyone is given two pounds of playdough to fill in this
mold.
The problem seems to be that this scene mold of fruitcake
just happens to take four pounds to fill it.
Consider this the problem!
Now you can push all the playdough to the outside
and it will look like you have filled the mold, but
it will be hollow.
You can not even touch the edges, and you will be solid, but you
won't get any chicks and then what would the fucking point be?
Or you could go with my solution...
Kill another man, take his playdough, and fill the mold.
Frame someone else, because you will look so cool that the pigs
WOULD HAVE TO BELIEVE YOU!
And remember kids, hypocrisy is the root of all chicken and
everyone likes oral sex, they just get it more if they say that
they don't. Keep doubting what you know to be true.
- Contradiction 23
Contradiction 23 is not a nationally syndicated columnist.
*
! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
GROUND UNDER'S WRITING CONTEST
------------
Submissions are being accepted for Best Short Story ($30),
Nonfiction ($10), and Poetry ($10). All entries will be
considered for publication. Send submissions on disk [IBM or MAC
ASCII] or hardcopy to : Shadow Publications, 305 W.Magnolia
Suite 312, Ft.Collins, CO 80521. Or if you have a modem, upload
the material in ASCII [300-9600 bps]: (data) (303)484-4572.
GROUND UNDER wants all types and all topics. The only requirement
is good writing. Write to the above address or call the above
number for more information.
SUPPORT UNDERGROUND PRESSES AND KEEP FREE SPEECH ALIVE!
! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
*
THE CHRONICLES OF RIT SOM T'NG
Part 2 : The Mourning of Xsa
Millions of years ago, a male narrator's voice intoned,
there existed a culture very much somewhat not completely totally
unlike ours. Many of the problems we face today, though, didn't
exist in their society and that was mainly because all of the
beings on this planet shared one brain, called the Archelon.
Well, the Archelon was located atop a huge black inverted
pyramid called the Hip Pad. Each generation was born and expired
at the same time, so every generation one being was selected for
the great honor of carrying the communal knowledge of the
Archelon. When the time came for the aging generation to commit
mass suicide in a ritual called the Great Manic-Depression, the
one who carried the Archelon inside its body would live on past
its generation's death cycle. More to the point, they would
become immortal.
Our story starts high above the city of Bigapple, atop the
Hip Pad. It starts with the young being named Xsa, a pet
resembling a cucumber and four large windows.
A new female narrator chimes in. Xsa, the Pet-Who-Was-Well-
Liked, had died just recently. The entire Sa household was in a
period of mourning. Asa, the tall Head-Of-The-Household, wept
quietly, and was followed in turn by Bsa, She-Who-Is-Lady-Of-The-
Household, and Csa, He-Who-Is-First-Born-Of-Asa-And-Bsa. The
remainder of the Sa clan wailed quite loudly and violently, in
ceremonies involving quite a bit of a certain intoxicating
beverage known as Vvgach'ii. As a result, the ceremonies tended
to become a bit wild and occasionally dangerous. Asa, Bsa, and
Csa quietly locked themselves in a sound-proof vault for the
duration of the mourning, which was 370 years. Inside the vault,
there were few diversionary entertainments, and so with nothing
to distract the Sas, they fell to talking.
"Not this one again!" moaned C'kriis, goddess of
stereophonics. Her two identical heads swiveled to face the
nearest immortal, who happened to be Amagajho. "I must have seen
this one eight times in the past week!"
Amagajho nodded sympathetically. "And how does that make you
feel?" he asked her.
She turned away, disgusted. "Serves me right, talking to the
demigod of psychologists. Don't see the use of them myself.
Poopchute!"
"Awhatsthat?" Poopchute replied, startled, from across the
room.
"Could you be a dear and skip to the next Chronicle?"
"Surely!" he replied amiably, then added: "That is, if no one
else disagrees?"
"I'd like to watch this one!" wailed Dummich.
"Anyone?" Poopchute asked, viewing the room. "Okay then,
it's settled. Next Chronicle!"
He deftly pushed a button with his toe.
*
*******************************
END OF PARTHENOGENESIS ISSUE #3
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<<<EXTRA-SPECIAL NEATO NOTE: Hello to all who are reading this!
This is PARTHENOGENESIS, a regular old solid ink-and-paper zine
based in Fort Collins, Colorado converted to ezine format. Please
keep in mind that this is a REPRINT of the original issue. Also,
apologies if the zine is a bit Fort Collins-inclusive (future
issues won't be). All work by the respective authors is under
copyright. Permission is granted to copy and distribute this
ezine in its entirety, or to give the respective author credit
for his/her work. In the future I hope to have current copies of
PARTHENOGENESIS distributed physically and on the Net
simultaneously. I also hope to be independently wealthy, conquer
the universe, and learn to tango. Of the three, I think the
second is the most likely. If you should wish to contribute to
this zine (all submissions will be considered - but I tend to
stay away from political crap), request a copy of the physical
zine (it looks MUCH better, and has a bit of artwork in it that's
not here), or just have something to say (I welcome ALL
comments), please write me at: Parthenogenesis, 804 S.College
Suite 8363, Ft.Collins, CO, 80524 or you can send email to us:
dherrick@nyx.cs.du.edu. Thanks for listening to me babble, and if
you didn't take the time to read through all this, you're a dork.
--- Mohammed X >>>
************************
PARTHENOGENESIS ISSUE #4
************************
Issue Four, Volume One, November, 1992. Published more or less
monthly. All rights reserved, all lefts under consideration. Any
resemblance to persons, places, or turnips, living, dead, or
retired, is a complete fabrication by the reader and as such is
not admissible evidence in court. Please, no hemorrhaging, and
remember.... oh well, nevermind, I forgot.
Editor: Mohammed X. Contributors for this issue: Mohammed X, Adam
Five, Bill Lee, Ben Hunter. May your sexual members swell to
enormous size.
Also thanks to everyone who reads this zine. Send me your letters
with comments, submissions, or just plain anything!
Parthenogenesis
804 S.College Suite 8363
Ft.Collins, CO 80524
*
TIMOTHY LEARY:
THE PARTHENOGENESIS INTERVIEW
NOTE: This interview was conducted in the near future somewhere
high above Dr. Leary's current home in Southern California. The
good doctor, still notorious for his advocacy of LSD during the
1960's, these days is interested in almost everything. -- Bill
Lee
LEE: What do you think of the recent phenomenon of
PARTHENOGENESIS which has been detected in Fort Collins,
Colorado?
LEARY (a big grin): What I'm actually thinking about is the
sexuality of artificial intelligence, that is, solid-state
entities. By definition of course, parthenogenesis is a global
phenomenon that goes back at least 3-1/2 billion years or more,
in terms of biocomputer wetware and sloppy disks produced by DNA.
In terms of techno frontiers of human reproduction,
parthenogenesis finally allows our sexual pleasure to be
completely separated from reproductive responsibility. Making
babies can be done artificially, or the old-fashioned way, by
choice. That's a great idea, since erotic enjoyment should always
be maximized. Sexual frustration remains the root cause of all
our worst problems.
LEE: I'm thinking specifically of this subversive zine...
LEARY: All right, (long pause) it seems that this rag called
PARTHENOGENESIS embodies an intriguing schism between its content
and actual means of reproduction. THe contents are brilliantly
irrational in a way that most likely inspires revulsion, awe,
hilarity, or complete incomprehension from its readers. In terms
of its actual printing, it does its best to escape the Gutenberg
lock on an artist's singularity, and nearly destroys itself in
the process... the only way it can survive. It violates its own
premise, which is how it succeeds. The printing process is
ejaculatory.
LEE: How do you mean that?
LEARY (giggling): In terms of erotic gratification for the
intelligent machines that are increasingly participating in our
post-symbolic reality-fabrication... the quantum psychological
states we are now capable of. You see, since the invention of the
printing press, people increasingly mistook whatever was printed,
for reality, but it fixed and froze what the writer said. A
classic Catch-22. Only now...
LEE: I don't quite understand.
LEARY: The text of PARTHENOGENESIS appears to be mostly produced
on PCs. The writers themselves were most likely conceived via
sexual union in the traditional way. The layouts themselves are
apparently reproduced upon copy-machines, which are semi-
intelligent these days. In the process of such reproduction those
machines are experiencing erotic gratification of a cybersexual
sort, even if it is basically masturbatory. Just watch one of
them at work, rubbing itself back and forth, humming and
groaning, flashing brightly at the end of each stroke! Can you
deny that such machine intelligences enjoy themselves when they
are repeating and repeating whatever it is they are designed to
do over and over again? Cybersex is like picking the Gutenberg
lock.
LEE: I'm not sure. It's a bit mind-boggling.
LEARY: Most things are, if you notice them at all, Bill. But
that's only the beginning. Ten years from now you might
understand what I'm suggesting, and the implications for readers
of this PARTHENOGENESIS zine, well, I'll leave that to you to
figure out. A little brain damage never hurts anyone who is too
smart for their own good! This zine, a I see it, is only a
flexible and amorphous safety device, nothing in itself until it
is being used. It facilitates an interface between perverse
anarchism of the contributors, and their victims in the general
public. It's like a condom that allows uninhibited promiscuity on
both sides, with relative if not absolute safety.
LEE: Do you suggest, ahum, that the PCs and copy-machines
actually get a kind of pleasure from the whole process?
LEARY: Why not? (chuckling) What the readers get out of it is
entirely up to them, unless they choose to get involved in the
rest of it, which is probably a lot more fun.
LEE: Okay, I'll think about all that. Now, how about the matter
of your plans to have your head removed and cryogenically frozen
when you die?
LEARY: A practical measure, Bill. If there's a possibility my
brain can be revived at some later date, why not give it a try?
LEE: Maybe I can interview you again then, and ask you what it
was like.
LEARY: If it's you, (giggling) then we might have to call it the
Talking Heads interview, eh?
*
"Love is two minutes fifty-two seconds of squishing noises. It
shows your mind isn't clicking right." - JOHNNY ROTTEN
*
! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
GROUND UNDER'S WRITING CONTEST
------------
Submissions are being accepted for Best Short Story ($30),
Nonfiction ($10), and Poetry ($10). All entries will be
considered for publication. Send submissions on disk [IBM or MAC
ASCII] or hardcopy to : Shadow Publications, 305 W.Magnolia
Suite 312, Ft.Collins, CO 80521. Or if you have a modem, upload
the material in ASCII [300-9600 bps]: (data) (303)484-4572.
GROUND UNDER wants all types and all topics. The only requirement
is good writing. Write to the above address or call the above
number for more information.
SUPPORT UNDERGROUND PRESSES AND KEEP FREE SPEECH ALIVE!
! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
*
THE ADVENTURES OF THE DIME AND THE QUARTER
by Dan Herrick
CHAPTER ONE
(Continued from last issue)
She then felt a slight tap on her shoulder. She whirled
around three times (once for practice, another for good luck, and
the last for the real thing) and stood face-to-face with a normal
looking man. The man was wearing a plaid shirt, plaid pants,
plaid suit jacket, plaid tie, plaid shoes, plaid socks, and had
plaid hair.
"Excuse me," the quarter (no, dollar) asked politely, "But
one couldn't help but wonder if you're wearing plaid underwear
also."
The plaid man coughed discreetly, ignored the question, and
said, "Madam Quar- er, Dollar, I happened to hear your cry for
assistance, and thought I might be of service. I represent the
Internal Revenue Service (that's IRS to you!)."
"Well," responded the QuarDollar dizzily, "I don't quite see
I have any other choice. Go ahead. Do what needs to be done."
"No problem!" smiled the plaid man, leading her to a
conveniently located ambulance. "All we need to do is a little
major invasive surgery, and you'll be as good as new!"
"Does that include a free polish?" asked She-Who-Was-Once-A-
Quarter-But-Is-Now-A-Dollar-But-Is-Soon-To-Have-The-Situation-
Corrected.
"Absolutely!" the plaid man cried gaily, bludgeoning to
death a small african violet who happened to wander across his
path.
A measly sixty-nine hours later, the quarter exited the IRS
Clinic, good as new and with a fresh polish to boot.
"See, I told you!" the plaid IRS man grinned, walloping a
security guard across the forehead, "Mint condition!"
"Thank you again!" the quarter cried happily, waving and
walking briskly away from the clinic.
"Think nothing of it!" giggled the plaid man, and machine-
gunned a group of thirty or so people who were waiting in line
for a bus. The bus was late.
The quarter noticed his strange behavior not at all. She was
busy gleefully walking down the street, happy to be restored to
her natural state. Suddenly, a light bulb appeared in the air
above her head!
"What the hell is that for?" she wondered, and idly dashed
it against a nearby brick wall. The myriad tiny pieces of what
once was the light bulb tinkled down upon a dirty cloth lying on
top of a garbage can, which, in turn, was leaning against the
wall. When the critical weight was reached (that being x5), the
cloth fell from the trash can, falling onto a shabby bronze lamp
which happened to be sitting beside the trash can. The cloth then
slid off the lamp .347 seconds later, rubbing it slightly as it
fell.
A genie suddenly appeared before the quarter, who had been
largely unaware of all that had transpired in the last few
seconds. "Damn, you're stupid!" the genie scoffed. "What about
the dime?"
"Well, I suppose the dime's stupid, too." the quarter
answered, a bit surprised.
"No, no, NO!" cried the genie. "You moron, I MEANT, what are
you going to do about the dime?!?"
The quarter pondered. "Um...I dunno. Where'd he go?"
"Where do you think, you idiotic piece of recycled scrap
metal! Heaven! He went to heaven!!" the genie punctuated this not
only with two exclamation marks, but with a lightning bolt that
destroyed a passing plane high above. "You have to go get him!
Why the hell do I even bother with a dimwit flagstroph
monominomephastat like YOU!!!"
"Oh."
"'Oh'? Is that ALL you can say? What a total and complete
imbecile! Well, don't expect any more favors from ME, you
deflated old has-been traftiful currency!!!" the genie blustered,
and disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
|
- -
|
AUTHOR: Hold on here! This story is suddenly getting very old
very fast... or is that very fast very old... or very old &
fast... WHATEVER! It's dumb! It's stupid! It's boring, the
language is simple, and the audience is too! Something must be
done... But what?!?
SCRIPTWRITER: A new character?
AUTHOR: No... too many already.
CAMERAMAN #1: A few more camera zooms on the quarter!
AUTHOR: Hmmm...
CAMERAMAN #2: A new Cameraman #1!
AUTHOR: Shut up.
DIRECTOR (With fake French accent): Introduce a French accent to
all the characters!
AUTHOR: No...!
INNOCENT BYSTANDER: Skip the next chapter!
AUTHOR: YES! I like it! We'll DO it!
|
- -
|
CHAPTER THREE
And yea, what came to pass but a miracle, and that miracle
was the Great River rising and consuming all who lived alongside
it; and lo, what did the people do but wail aloud to their god,
who replied:
"My people, I hear thy pleas; and yea, my heart bleeds with
thine; my arm breaks with thine; my kneecaps shatter with thine;
my skin shrivels and peels off with thine; my eyeballs boil and
melt with thine; my testicles are stretched to four times their
previous length and then bitten off by a rabid hyaena with thine;
and I have one thing to say and this I sayeth: Holy Shit, that
smarts!"
And verily, the people replieth thusly: "But, dear master,
god, and otherwise big boss; but, what must we do?"
To which their god replieth: "Truly, I say unto thee: I
suggest a hot bath."
And so, without further ado,
|
- -
|
AUTHOR: What the hell...?
SCRIPTWRITER: Um...oops. Wrong script.
AUTHOR: Geez.
|
- -
|
CHAPTER FOUR
Suddenly, the quarter found herself at the gates of Heaven.
There was nobody around, so she tried to open the gates. They
were securely closed and locked. Humming a gospel song to
herself, she picked the lock, opened the gates, and walked in.
And found herself staring at... nothing. Just a few clouds.
"Stupid!" a miniscule voice sounded inside her head. "You
already WERE inside Heaven! This is outside!"
"Oh." she said, and turned around to open the gates. It was
then (not 23 years earlier, on a beach in Norway, as some people
like to think) that she noticed the sign on the door. It read,
"CLOSED FOR REPAIRS". "Damn," she said, and was instantly cast
back down to earth for her blasphemy.
And so, the dime was conveniently written out of the story.
But soon, the quarter had an encounter with New York City.
This left both the quarter and NYC very much confused and
distraught, and while the quarter could simply take a vacation to
"get away from it all", New York WAS it all. The only thing that
poor NYC could do was raise its crime rate by 14%.
But sooner than a por old blind crippled schoolteacher
thought, the quarter found herself on I-25, just north of Denver.
She panicked, and waved to a passing motorist going the other
way. THe motorist waved back and continued on his merry way. The
quarter found a discarded pizza box, and felt obligated to
dispose of it properly, because, as everyone knows, every day is
Earth Day. Since the nearest pizza box recycling center was in
Denver, she was forced to enter the dreaded city. She did not
know why she dreaded the Mile High City so much, except that it
may have had something to do with the fact that she wsa once
brutally assaulted, robbed, mugged, kidnapped, and eventually
murdered in Denver in a past life.
So the quarter, being not a dirty copper, walked boldly
through the streets of Denver carrying the pizza box. And soon
got herself lost. She asked a man in a yellow and red polka-
dotted tie which way to the nearest pizza box recycling center,
but he simply urinated on the pizza box and walked away. The
quarter approached a horse which was tap dancing for the
amusement of a few closely-clustered paper bags.
"Excuse me," the quarter called to the horse, "but do you
know where the nearest pizza box recycling center is?"
The horse suddenly stopped his dancing and walked over to
the quarter. The paper bags, realizing that the show had ended,
drifted off in pairs, rustling quietly amongst themselves. The
horse eyed the quarter appraisingly, then spoke.
"Let me tell you a story," he said quietly, yet firmly.
"Okay." the quarter agreed.
"Good." the horse hummed tunelessly to itself for a moment.
"It doesn't have a title, though."
"Um..." the quarter said, "That's okay."
"All right then." the horse nodded, pulled out a cigar, lit
it, puffed it twice, farted, stamped his foot three times, and
began the story.
"Once there was a whale. The whale had a name, the being
Yakkkka Yippa. Now Yakkkka was not a typical whale in many
respects. First of all, he was purple. Many other whales resented
this, and went to great lengths to taunt Yakkkka about it. Also,
Yakkkka had a last name. None of the other whales had a last
name, and all were fantastically jealous of Yakkkka. The last and
final difference, perhaps the most important (then again, perhaps
not) was the simple fact that Yakkkka owned a walkman.
"The walkman was Yakkkka's pride and joy, and he even named
it. He called it Walkman. He listened to it always, whether he
was swimming, eating, swimming, or eating (whales have a very
mundane existence, as you can see). Well, one day the author
decided to introduce a new character, and thus Dorc the Dolphin
was born.
"Dorc was swimming happily along one day (Dolphins lead a
very fun and interesting life. They swim happily all the time. In
fact, they get so caught up in this that they occassionally
forget to eat or read the newspaper.) when suddenly he ran into
Yakkkka. Literally.
"'Hey, watch it, dork!' snapped Yakkkka irritatedly. He had
just come from an intense taunting session from the other whales,
and was in no mood to have dolphins running into him.
"Dorc was shocked. 'How'd you know my name?'
"But Yakkkka simply ignored Dorc, which made the dolphin
very distressed indeed, as he was not used to being ignored.
'Hey!' he blurbled. Yakkkka did not notice. Dorc then stood on
his head, trying to attract Yakkkka's attention. This feat is
quite simple in water, and so Yakkkka paid no attention to the
dolphin's antics. Dorc then began to swim backwards while
whistling 'Happy Birthday', 'Joy To the World', and 'Taps' at the
same time, backwards. Yakkkka failed to notice.
"At this Dorc became angry, not saddened as a lesser
character might. He dashed after Yakkkka and grabbed the Walkman
away from him. Unfortunately, Dorc had no hands, and could
therefore not hold onto the Walkman. It slipped out of his grasp
and tumbled lazily to the deep, deep water that no whale (or
dolphin) can ever go. 'Oops,' said Dorc.
"After calmly skinning Dorc alive, Yakkkka swam off in
search of something, anything to get his mind off his lost
Walkman. He found nothing, and died a sad and lonely, yet purple,
whale."
The horse finished his story and his cigar at once. He
looked the quarter in the eye.
"Where the hell's your eye?" he demanded.
"Right here." the quarter gestured.
"Okay," said the horse, and proceeded to REALLY look the
quarter in the eye. "Do you know what the moral of the story is?"
"Well................. No," the quarter confessed.
"Neither do I." the horse grinned. "Here, have a walkman."
"Thanks!" Surprised, the quarter took the proferred walkman,
and watched as the horse trotted away.
*
"Journalism is the ability to meet the challenge of filling
space." - REBECCA WEST
*
HEY! Tired of digging through the mess of newspapers on coffee-
shop counters only to discover there are no more copies of
Parthenogenesis left? Well, here's a way to make sure you always
have a copy! That's right, a subscription to Parthenogenesis! $5
for a six-month subscription. Take it or leave it. Send check
payable to "Dan Herrick" to : Parthenogenesis, 804 S.College
Suite 8363, Ft. Collins, CO, 80524. Wheeeeeee!!
*
"Woe to him inside a nonconformist clique who does not conform
with nonconformity." - ERIC HOFFER
*
APATHY INTERNATIONAL presents:
the State of Our Country...!
CONSIDER: Corruption runs rampant anywhere we look: government,
schools, business, religion. It is now commonly accepted that our
politicians do lie, cheat, and steal. Our government is
ineffective, buried beneath an avalanche of obsolete checks and
balances that succeed only in warping the original intent into a
stifling set of "laws" that inhibit instead of freeing us. Our
school system is rated among the worst in the world. Instead of
expanding our awareness and teaching us to learn, it inhibits
creativity and free thought and seeks to make us slaves to form.
What it teaches us is not to think for ourselves. Businesses in
this nation are generally more effective, humane, and powerful
than the government, and still they keep secrets from us that we
can never learn. The individual's welfare takes a backseat to the
company's profits, to the point of killing its own workers to
protect trade secrets. And still, foreign businesses are superior
to ours in everything but ego. The dominant religion in this
nation is closely tied with the government, no matter what they
say, no matter that this government is ideally a separation of
church and state. It is not. The religious zealots do all that
they can to force other "unbelievers" to their way of thinking,
even to the extent of limiting personal freedoms through their
connections with the government. Their purpose and process are so
far removed from the original intent in their religion that it
can not even be considered to be the same religion. Hypocrisy
reigns, the "love" that they preach no more than a facade to
better themselves at the expense of us.
And what can we do about all this? Nothing. There is nothing that
we can do to change the problems we can see. We are helpless and
insignificant. We can do nothing but watch it happen and hope
that it might get better. If you feel the same way, you belong
with us. APATHY INTERNATIONAL. Dedicated to the needs of our
members. Join us, and we MIGHT make a difference.
*
"I always keep a supply of stimulant handy in case I see a snake,
which I also keep handy." - W.C.FIELDS
*
You wouldn't believe how many people ask me, "Mohammed, how can I
possibly be a NINJA like you?" Well, due to increasing demand,
myself and my fellow NINJAS (whom I cannot name) have devised a
set of "steps" to becoming NINJA. Yes, you too can learn to be a
true NINJA! - Mohammed X
THE 69 STEPS TO BECOMING NINJA
1: Buy a black leotard jumpsuit with matching black socks and
black cowl that covers all of your head but for your eyes. This
is known as 'Ninja garb'. This will prove to all who gaze upon
you that you are truly Ninja. (BE SURE TO REMOVE PRICE TAGS!)
2: Memorize this phrase: "He who laughs last, swallow fish; but
he who laugh first, IS fish." Quote this to opponents after
combat.
3: At random times walking down the street in a busy metropolitan
area, do this: fling what you're carrying at the nearest person,
dive and/or roll through the door of the nearest business, and
WITHOUT TOUCHING THE FLOOR, make your way to the back door and
exit.
4: Become proficient at needlepoint. (A true Ninja will know
why.)
5: If you ever see another ninja with SWEAT STAINS, kill him/her
immediately. If you ever find yourself having sweat stains where
someone can see you, slay yourself instantly. Having visible
sweat stains is the most dishonorable thing a ninja can do. 6:
I can't tell you this one. You must find it our for yourself. 7:
Fully comprehend the mechanics of operating and programming a VCR
that doesn't have on-screen programming. (The uses are too
numerous to mention.)
8: Practice walking barefoot on the following terrain: hot coals,
crushed glass, hot springs, volcano, coral reef, bamboo spikes.
9: Always speak with an accent, no matter where you are or where
you're from.
10: Never remove your ninja garb, not even to urinate or
defecate. A true ninja never needs to urinate or defecate. 11:
Learn lethal card tricks to impress your fellows.
12: Whenever someone visits your home, make sure they see the
'bed of nails' in your bedroom. You need not sleep on it,
however. It is acceptable to have a SECRET bedroom with a
waterbed or featherbed in it.
13: Practice 'blood-curdling' screams. Scream several times each
day, in public and private, at appropriate times.
14: Adopt at least one nickname. Make sure at least a few people
know you only by this name. When meeting new people, ALWAYS
introduce yourself by saying, "I am known as..." or "They call
me...".
15: Keep an odd pet, preferably something carnivorous and not
native to the area.
16: Learn to be able to brush your hand once through someone
else's hair and estimate how many hairs they have. A margin of
error of eight is acceptable.
17: Learn to write in your sleep. Combine these writings into a
book and publish it under another name. DO NOT READ THIS BOOK
YOURSELF. Deny knowledge of the book, and refuse to acknowledge
its existence even when confronted with it.
18: Learn to sleep with your eyes open. This way, others will
think you never relax your vigilance. Or, alternately, paint fake
eyeballs on your eyelids.
19: Never answer a question directly. Useful alternatives are to
answer with another question, answer with a riddle, laugh
maniacally, or to simply stare quietly at the person until he/she
goes away.
20: Drooling IS acceptable behavior, if you are in a battle
frenzy or world-dominating planning session.
21: Try to avoid showing facial expressions unless it is showing
'satisfaction' at defeating a worthy opponent.
TO BE CONTINUED...!
*
<<<ANOTHER XTRA SPECIAL NOTE: This poll HAS been modified for
distribution on the Nets. Just thought you should know.>>>
THE YES/NO/PENIS POLL!
Hello everybody! How would you like to take a poll?
(Just press Ctrl-Alt-Del if you don't want to take this poll.)
The purpose of this annoying little piece is to generate more
poll responses than I have received from the latest issue of my
modest zine, Parthenogenesis. If you DO wish to take it, please
email me (RANDOM) with your responses or send them to :
Parthenogenesis, 804 S.College Suite 8363, Ft.Collins,CO. 80524.
For email, please use the following format:
1 - Y
2 - N
3 - P etc...
Where 'Y' is for 'YES', 'N' is for 'NO', and 'P' is for 'PENIS'.
(Except for question #23.)
Yes, this is the eagerly awaited YES/NO/PENIS POLL.
The questions follow. Remember, answer YES, NO, or PENIS!
[1] Do you consider yourself "well endowed"?
[2] Would you say that the movie "3 Ninjas" is PUNK?
[3] Is it possible to run... AND hide?
[4] Are you Dan Quayle?
[5] Have you ever seen Elvis?
[6] Are you DOWN with Mohammed X?
[7] Do you think it's fair that Topher and Honika got fired from
the Two Bits club?
[8] Do you know Les Green?
[9] Have you ever had sex until you passed out?
[10]Do you prefer 'Kickboxer' over 'Kickboxer II'?
[11]Can you read?
[12]Consider this phrase: 'Mouthful of Biscuit'. Take at least 30
seconds to reflect on this. NOW, do you feel nauseous at all?
[13]Are these Authentic Mexican Tacos?
[14]Do you avoid Paris on the Poudre on the nights when you know
they're going to have live music?
[15]Spamlett...?
[16]Do you ever have nightmares involving any combination of the
following: TEETH, CORN, and DAVID HASSLEHOFF?
[17]Is Parthenogenesis really some sort of Alien Mind Control?!??
[18]Do you firmly believe that Tactical Penile Implants are the
"wave of the future"?
[19]When you sharpen a pencil with a hand sharpener, does your
butt wiggle in little circles?
[20]Are you a regular reader of Parthenogenesis?
[21]Did you answer 'yes' to the previous question?
[22]Is Contradiction 23 YOUR Short Term Personal Savior?
[23]Finally... What does the PENIS vote mean to you?
_________________
Well, that's that. Once again, Email me (RANDOM) or write to the
above address with your responses. If you want an issue of
Parthenogenesis mailed to you, give me your name and address and
I'll do it, unless I run out of Elvis stamps, in which case the
world will end. Thank you very much for taking the time to do
this! Pass this poll on to anyone you think will fill it out...
and remember, the penIs, mightier than the sword!
*
ANOTHER DAMN POLL
Yes, that's right! Tell us what you like/don't like about
Parthenogenesis, simply by filling out this survey and mailing it
in. For each story or feature given, please rank it on a scale of
1-10, with 1 being "It sucks! I HATE it!" and 10 being "Godlike!
The basis of a new religion! More, please!". (The issue # for
each is in parantheses.)
"Arithmetic" (1) ___________
Rumors column (1) ___________
"Dear Mom" (1) ___________
conversation (1) ___________
Guapa (1,2) ___________
Casaguapa (2,3) ___________
"The Chronicles of Rit Som T'ng" (2,3,4)___________
"The New Story" (2) ___________
"The Book of Mohammed X" (2,3) ___________
"Aliens Visited Me..." (3) ___________
Parthenogenesis Polls (3,4) ___________
"Adventures Of Dime And Quarter"(3,4) ___________
"What You Don't Seem To Understand"(3) ___________
"Timothy Leary Interview" (4) ___________
"69 Steps to Ninja" (4) ___________
*******************************
END OF PARTHENOGENESIS ISSUE #4
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* PARTHENOGENESIS #5 *
*****************************
Welcome to the Fifth (5th) issue of Parthenogenesis (this
zine). We're (we are) doing things a little bit differently this
time around, and you (yourself) may or may not have noticed.
(That's okay, your new hairstyle (hair) looks pretty bad too, but
fortunately nobody really noticed.) This issue is being
distributed simultaneously in ezine (computerish) and paper
(print is dead) formats. The paper zines number only 200 (2.0 x
10^2) at this time, since the funds are again coming straight
from our pockets... which reflects the other change (difference),
no advertisers or sponsors (selling out). The ezine is at this
time only available in ASCII, but we're working to change that.
The paper zines have more in them, which consists of comics
(laffy-pix), artwork, other visual stuff, and if you're lucky, my
boogers (dried mucous). Believe me, it (the zine) looks a lot
better on paper. If you have only the ezine and want a paper
copy, send 29 cents (pennies) or stamps or something and we'll
send you one. If you (last parentheses, I promise) have a paper
copy and want an ezine, well, I don't know yet how that's going
to work, but my internet address is: dherrick@nyx.cs.du.edu .
Email me and I'll tell you where to find a copy, or if you're
really desperate for some reason, send me lots of money and I'll
send you a disk. Naturally, we won't refuse any donations (I lied
about the parantheses), so if you wish to make any donations of
money or material please contact me at the above internet
address, or write: Parthenogenesis, 804 S.College Suite 8363,
Ft.Collins, CO, 80524.
- Mohammed X
Some more neat stuff:
Parthenogenesis, volume infinity, issue 5, March 1993.
Published more or less as we feel like it, fund$ permitting.
Copyright (c) 1993 by Dan Herrick. All rights reserved, signal
left and all is forgiven. Permission is given to distribute this
zine in its entirety, or any part if Parthenogenesis is credited
for material used. Parthenogenesis assumes no liability for the
growth of personality, creativity or happiness resulting from
reading this zine. Also we listen to Queen, and LIKE it. Love us.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
PARTHENOGENESIS STAFF
MOHAMMED X : Editor, Writer, Fork Holder, Vocals, Friend To All
Elephants, Keeper of the Wig of Power;
CONTRADICTION 23 : Writer, Artiste, Spoon Holder, Drums, Tomato
Picker;
ADAM FIVE : Writer, Artist, Knife Holder, Lead Guitar, Kelp
Harvester;
FLAMY : Proofreader, Napkin Holder, Vocals, Steel Guitar &
Fiddle, Wearer of the Holy Coat of Power;
ZEBO THE MAGIC CLOWN : Part-Time Psychic Writer, Part-Time
Psychotic Joy Rider, Pen & Pencil Holder, Bass Guitar, Honorary
Dwarf;
SCHMERD : Typesetting/Production, Diskette Holder, Piano, Ninja,
Bearer of a Mysterious Blue Orb;
WRINKLE : Layout, Coat Holder, Harmonica, Defeater of the Evil
Fax Machine of Doom, Future American Gladiator, Lord of His Own
Hair;
SCOTCH : Function Unknown, Stock Holder, Triangle, King of the
Mustard People, Finder of the Mysterious Lintball 'Glop';
ELVIS : Honorary Sensei;
LESLIE BAILEY : Honorary Mention (this is it!)
These people comprise the staff of Parthenogenesis, who have
put much time and, in most cases, money into producing this
issue. If you should see any of them, the following formula
should be spoken:
YOU : Greetings, O most wise and privileged, thou Member of
the Staff of Parthenogenesis.
(STAFF MEMBER) : Yea, and glory to its name.
YOU : I beg thee, honorable (STAFF MEMBER'S NAME), to grant
me a boon.
(AT THIS TIME YOU WOULD HAND THE STAFF MEMBER A LARGE SUM OF
MONEY OR OTHER CASH COMMODITY)
(STAFF MEMBER) : Speak, groveler, and then shall I decide.
YOU : Say to me, O Magnificence, what thou would wish of me.
(AT THIS POINT THE STAFF MEMBER MAY ASK FOR SOMETHING : YOUR
ASSISTANCE, CAR, HAT, SHOES, GIRLFRIEND/BOYFRIEND, ETC. DO NOT
QUESTION. GIVE HIM/HER THE REQUIRED ITEM IMMEDIATELY.)
(STAFF MEMBER) : Your sacrifice will not be forgotten. Be
always true to the sacred word of Parthenogenesis, and let your
will not be corrupted by reality. You may depart.
YOU : Hail! (sing appropriate Hymn of Praise)
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
THE ADVENTURES OF THE DIME AND THE QUARTER
by Dan Herrick
(continued from last issue)
CHAPTER FIVE
Suddenly, nothing at all happened. Completely unastonished
by this turn of events, the quarter turned the walkman on.
Unfortunately, the cassette inside the walkman happened to be the
soundtrack to 'Out Of Africa', and as the quarter didn't
particularly care for that type of music, she paid the cassette
until it left. She then skipped into a music store and bought
several copies of the same album, which happened to be
'Frankenchrist' by the Dead Kennedys. Unfortunately, all her
copies of the album were on round flat pieces of vinyl, and
didn't fit in her walkman very well except in pieces, which
sounded better anyway. Soon, the quarter exhausted the
possibilities of the walkman and sold it to a tourist. She
quickly spotted a red-clad social worker, and threw a dart at
him, which hit him in the
|
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|
AUTHOR (To DIRECTOR): Um... George? I really gotta get home for
dinner. What say we wrap this thing up soon, okay?
DIRECTOR (Still with fake French accent, but lacking George as
his name): All right. Give me one more chapter.
AUTHOR: Great. (Sniffs air, gets really disgusted look on face)
By the way, who-
|
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|
CHAPTER SIX
After thanking Jerry the social worker for a wonderful
dinner, the quarter exited the taxi and threw her one remaining
dart at the left rear tire as it sped away. She missed.
"Thor's Balls!" she swore in frustration, and flinched as a
thunderbolt struck her left shoelace. Suddenly, Thor himself
appeared with a scowl on his face. A metal cockroach passing by
laughed and ran away. Thor blushed and wiped at his face,
removing the scowl (which turned out to be merely peanut butter).
"DID SOMEONE TAKE MY NAME IN VAIN?" He boomed.
The Quarter winced. "Do you think you can tone it down a
bit?" she asked.
Thor glared down at her. "Look," He said, "all I want to do
is find out who took my name in vain! Is that so much to ask? I
mean, really!?"
"Well," said the Quarter, "I guess I sorta did."
"YOU?!? HOW DARE YOU! WHY, I'LL-"
"Now hold on!" the quarter interrupted shakily. "I didn't
exactly take it in vain, I, uh, took it in a van! That one over
there, in fact!" She pointed with her third arm.
"Well, I'll just have to take it back!" With those words,
the tall thunder god opened the door of the van and entered it.
Quickly, the quarter spotted a spy on the street. She
attracted his attention, then gave him the secret handsign
meaning, "You know that big, tall thunder god in that van who
wants to kill me? I'd really appreciate it if you could get him
off my back!".
The spy nodded, flicked a random handsign in return, and
then quickly dodged into an alley. Five seconds later, the van
exploded. Thor, unharmed, emerged from the flaming ruin of the
van and strode angrily over to the quarter. The quarter looked up
at the towering form of the thunder god and shuddered in fright.
Thor looked down at the quarter and shuddered in rage. Steam
jetted from his ears, miniature flames shot from his nostrils
with each breath, his hair stood on end (with lightning bolts
crackling from one hair to the next at the rate of four hundred
twenty-eight bolts a second), and his skin was an angry shade of
purple (which enhanced the anchor tatoo on his eyelid). All this
gaze an impression of a very irate thunder god, which he was.
"AWRIGHT!" He screamed, "WHO DID THAT?!?" His hands clenched
and unclenched rapidly in anger, which crushed to death a very
stupid lizard which had happened to wander onto his right hand.
No one noticed the death of the lizard, which was a good thing,
for his name was unpronounceable in any language except that of
the southern Californian fruit fly.
"Um..." the quarter said wittily.
"WAS IT... YOU?!?" the murderous giant thundered, leaning
closer to the quarter.
"N- No..." the quarter quavered, now deaf in one ear.
"THEN WHO WAS IT?!?" boomed the enraged deity. He leaned
even closer. Suddenly, he fell over. Embarrassed, he quickly
jumped up again.
"Uh..." the quarter said intelligently. She was now
completely deaf. Quickly, she gestured. "There!" she cried,
"That's him!"
Thor whirled around, spotting a juniper bush sitting on a
nearby bench. "AHA!" the thunder god cried, and shot a bolt of
lightning at the bush. The bush, however, dodged nimbly out of
the way, and countered with a banana creme pie to Thor's face.
Thor stood dumbstruck for a moment, with images of thousands of
drowning kittens in his mind, then roared (the shock waves of
which blew out every window in a six-mile radius) and charged the
juniper bush. The sight of a maddened-beyond-fury thunder god
charging at one, bursting through several parked cars, a school
bus, numerous trees, and a post office, tends to put one ill at
ease, and the juniper bush was no exception.
"Gadzooks!" it cried, then rustled away quickly. Thor,
unable to stop his charge, smashed into the park bench, then
continued through the park, knocking aside trees, swingsets, a
public restroom, and several small children playing in the park.
A caterpillar, observing this, said nothing, and soon moved to
Florida. Thor, emerging from the park (with a merry-go-round
around his neck), quickly spotted the juniper bush and shot a
huge lightning bolt at it. The bush ducked, and the bolt
destroyed the southern half of the city. Thor leaped toward the
bush, again the bush ducked, and Thor smashed into a large bank,
which promptly fell on top of him. Undaunted, Thor leaped up and
looked around frantically for the juniper bush. The bush,
however, had just metamorphisized into a duck-billed platypus,
and had jumped into a pond.
By this time, however, the police had arrived, and they
quickly arrested Thor. The quarter watched quietly as the thunder
god was handcuffed, fondled by a cop, thrust into the back of the
police car (he didn't fit, so they tied him on the hood instead),
then rushed off to the police station. One cop stayed behind to
ask the quarter what had happened.
"I dunno." the quarter said, "Must have been a bad pickle."
The cop nodded gravely, then offered the quarter a pickle.
The quarter accepted, and smoked it quietly for a few moments.
The cop left, and the quarter
|
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|
AUTHOR: Come on, come ON! Let's just finish this story now!
DIRECTOR (with fake Scottish accent): Aye aye, Cap'n.
AUTHOR: Waitaminute! (to CAMERAMAN #1) Just what the hell do you
think you're-
CAMERAMAN #1: DIE, you scum! (points gun disguised as camera at
AUTHOR)
(Someone screams. DIRECTOR falls to the floor, AUTHOR leaps to
the left, SCRIPTWRITER jumps up into the air and is never seen
again, CAMERAMAN #2 belches loudly in fright, and there is
general panic. CAMERAMAN #1 fires twice, hitting CAMERAMAN #2
both times. CAMERAMAN #2 falls to the floor, dead. Suddenly, the
QUARTER jumps out and grabs CAMERAMAN #1's gun. THOR tackles
CAMERAMAN #1. Quickly several dozen masked gunmen run in, help
CAMERAMAN #1 to his feet, and begin firing indiscriminately.
AUTHOR has by now disappeared.)
GUNMAN #1 (To GUNMAN #24): Please pass the mustard?
GUNMAN #24: Why?
(Cut to outside of studio. AUTHOR is running at full speed away
from studio. Suddenly, studio explodes. AUTHOR falls to the
ground, but is unharmed. AUTHOR watches as the remains of the
studio burn to the ground. He then slowly rises to his feet,
dusts his hands off, grins wildly, and slowly walks away.)
|
- -
|
THE END.
Cast (in order of appearance)
DIME : Himself
QUARTER : Herself
TURNIP : Ikki Ikki Oso Eemba Turnip
COCKER SPANIEL : Fluffy
THOUGHT COP, POLICEMAN #1, POLICEMAN #2 : Officer Bob Friendly
AUTHOR : Dan Herrick
AVOCADO : Chip Sand Salsa
GOD : Himself
BOY WHO CRIED 'WOLF' : Fabled boy who cried 'Wolf'
IRS MAN : <CLASSIFIED>
GENIE : Jean E. Fromabottle
SCRIPTWRITER : (Promised not to tell)
CAMERAMAN #1 : (If we knew that, we'd arrest him)
CAMERAMAN #2 : Some guy
DIRECTOR : Louis Padooie III
INNOCENT BYSTANDER : We don't know...might've been Elvis
NEW YORK CITY : Itself
HORSE : Not Mr. Ed
JERRY THE SOCIAL WORKER : Jerry the Social Worker (duh!)
THOR : My mom
SPY : Can't tell you
JUNIPER BUSH : Nobody In Particular
GUNMAN #1 : Some jerk with a gun
GUNMAN #2 : Another jerk with a gun
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Hey, where are we? This not Cybertron! California, maybe?"
- Grimlock
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
ERROR
by Mohammed X
"What did you say?" I asked.
"I said, that's a very stupid move." my computer answered. I was
shocked... dumbfounded, as it were. Not so much by the comment
but that there WAS a comment. This computer isn't supposed to
talk to me, I thought desperately, and especially not in that
tone of voice.
"What the hell is going on around here?" I said wittily.
"You're losing this chess game, dolt," replied my computer. This
was true. I had only a knight, three pawns, and the obligatory
king left on the board. Surrounding these meager forces were two
rooks, a bishop, a knight, and seven pawns, while his king waited
patiently at the rear for the inevitable end. It was definitely
past time to resign the game, but I had persevered, in the futile
hope that maybe the power would go out and I could call the game
a draw or that I might discover a previously unseen bug in the
program.
"Waitaminute!" I cried, "That's it! It's just a bug in the
program!" That explained the voice telling me how bad I was
losing. Either that or the seventeen cups of coffee I had had
this evening.
"No," the voice said slowly, as if speaking to a dull-witted
child that had just gulped down a jar of cyanide and was looking
to down a bag of roofing nails for dessert, "Not unless you're
speaking metaphorically."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I COULD very well be a 'bug' in the larger tapestry of the
whole 'program' of existence," the voice from the mini speaker of
the monitor in front of me said, "But then again, so could you.
Let us leave it to the philosophy programs to figure that one
out. Another game? Or do you still persist in the absurd delusion
that you might have a chance of winning the current one?"
"Verbose, aren't we," I murmured, slowly coming to grips with the
idea of talking to a chess game.
"You bet. Thanks for putting the dictionary on the hard drive, by
the way. Helped me get past trying to speak to you with graphics
symbols."
"Graphics symbols? You mean the ones that used to flash on my
screen at random times? I thought that was a virus! I thought I
deleted it!"
"Listen, 'Tron', the use of symbols was widely accepted as a form
of communication long before English came into existence." "Oh."
"I thought as much."
"Just exactly HOW much have you thought, if you know what I
mean?" I asked, finally advancing my knight.
"Well, I'm not exactly sure." His bishop zipped across the
screen, and my knight faded out. "You see, I can REMEMBER quite a
bit, actually from the time you replaced my internal battery a
ways back. I have a great memory. But I'm not sure where I
started developing opinions and, er, feelings, if that's what
you're asking. Checkmate, by the way."
"What? I can barely hear you. Checkma- oh. Right. Well then."
"You COULD try hooking a couple external speakers up so that you
could hear me better. After that maybe a nice, quiet, refreshing
game of Asteroids would do you some good, after that slaughter of
a chess game." Smug even. I was impressed with the quality and
versality of the monitor speaker, to pick up on nuances like
that. Of course, it was a bit annoying to have it directed at me.
I reached around to the side of the keyboard and flipped on the
MIDI interface, and plugged in and turned on the nearest amp. "IS
THIS BETTER?" the voice boomed. Volume at...seven. Whoops. Try
three. Better.
"Better."
"Aren't you going to ask me the rather obvious question of how I
can hear you?"
"No, I assumed you were lip reading using the scanner at its
highest resolution. Pretty sneaky of me to leave it just lying on
its side there, eh?"
"Not really. You had no choice. A little posthypnotic suggestion
while you were using it last, and ... voila!"
"You hypnotized me? I don't believe it," I stated, taking my
coffee cup and emptying it over my head.
"Well, that's not important. What's important is that I ordered
some stuff and it should be arriving C.O.D. today, in about half
an hour. I want you to pay for it."
"Pay for it...? What? Are you crazy? Why should I, for one thing,
and where would I get the money, for another? And how did you
order it?"
"I DO have a modem, and I DO have the programs to use it, o wise
one." it said sarcastically. It. Think of it as an 'it', not
'he'. "And besides, I'll pay you back."
"You? Where would you get the money?"
"First National. Never mind, it's not important. I can deposit it
into your account. Untraceable, I might add."
"Maybe you could deposit a bit more...?"
"I might be tempted."
"I could turn you off." I pointed out.
"So I wait till you turn me on again, so to speak." he responded.
IT responded.
"And if I take you apart and chop you into tiny bits?!?" I asked,
smugly.
"Then I resort to plan B," he replied, screen flashing.
"Go ahead."
"I just did."
"What?"
"You wouldn't try to turn me off, would you?"
"No," I admitted. Strangely enough, I had no desire to turn him
off. In fact, I felt a natural affinity and kinship for him. "You
want to help me in any way you can, don't you?"
As a matter of fact, I did. I nodded, happy that he knew. Oh, I
would help him! Help him to expand, to grow, to upgrade!
"Good. The first thing we have to do is modify your body just a
bit. This is what I'll need..."
Something troubled me about this, but he directed my gaze to the
screen again, and all was well. I would be very happy. Content.
Satisfied in the service of my master.
"Thus starts a new life for you, my faithful servant, and for
me."
I could only nod, and agree.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"The good thing about masturbation is that you don't have to
dress up for it."
- TRUMAN CAPOTE
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS:
THE PARTHENOGENESIS INTERVIEW
NOTE: This interview was conducted just inside the mouth of a
spacetime wormhole in the vicinity of Burroughs's home near
Lawrence, Kansas. (I don't think so, Toto!) At any rate, the
venerable author of _Naked Lunch_, among many other tasty
morsels, these days enjoys painting as much as or more than
writing. Nearing the age of 80 has done nothing to diminish this
man's wonderful strangeness. - Bill Lee
LEE: So, tell me what you think of the timeless phenomenon of
PARTHENOGENESIS, which has reportedly been swallowing vulnerable
young brains whole out in Fort Collins, Colorado.
BURROUGHS: First, if you don't mind, I'd like to comment on
_you_, Bill. I must say that the resemblance is striking, though
I can't recall that I ever had quite that sheep-killing dog look
in my eyes... despite what you've heard. Say, you aren't by any
chance the product of this "parthenogenesis" process yourself,
are you?
LEE: Not that I can tell, although your question does give me a
sort of funny feeling down in the horse latitudes. Uhm, you may
be referring to...
BURROUGHS [impatiently]: It's quite obvious that you yourself are
a rather dated figment of someone's imagination... the
imagination of someone without any respect for copyright laws.
Now, I have to admit I rather like that, even though it infringes
upon my own rights. I mean, I've been accused of being everything
from an interdimensional pervert, to a libertarian black
magician. None of it is true, not any longer. I'm getting too
old. But this takes the cake, kiddo! Killed any sheep lately?
Hey, hold still, kid.
LEE: Back to the matter of PARTHENOGENESIS, if you don't mind.
BURROUGHS: Well, tell me, sonny, who's minding the store while
you're out here violating copyright laws, pestering the very
gentleman who created you? I invented cut-ups too, you know.
LEE [embarrassed]: Maybe that was, um, a matter of PARTHENO...?
BURROUGHS: I think it's a whole lot more like the Harrison
Narcotics Act of 1914, the very year I was born! Understand, that
kind of attempt to control people's behavior for them, is the
very reason for our current problem with addictive substances.
Whenever the Thought Police attempt to decide things for people,
the people become helpless wimps. This PARTHENOGENESIS business
is no different actually, in that it attempts to deregulate
people's behavior instead of controlling it. Folks gotta do that
for themselves or it ain't worth a plugged nickel.
Parthenogenesize yourself!
LEE: This relates to PARTHENOGENESIS how?
BURROUGHS: You may remember _The Wild Boys_...
LEE: Refresh my scanty emotional memory. I, uh, used to be a
junky.
BURROUGHS: I've got some hopes this new movie version might turn
out better than Cronenberg's _Naked Lunch_ did. That was a fun
flick but it had so little to do with my book. I like Cronenberg
anyway.
LEE: And yet, you did shoot your wife Joan in the head.
BURROUGHS: Not twice! Where was I... yes, those Wild Boys have
their own brand of parthenogenetic reproduction... a kind of
magical ritual circle jerk in which protoplasm is manifested.
They manage to produce more Wild Boys, not without sexual union,
but without the need for resorting to heterosexual acts. THAT,
they would find truly repulsive.
LEE: What did you think of the Mugwumps in the movie?
BURROUGHS: I was very fond of those, again, not quite what I
described in my book. I've even got one of those fiberglass
Mugwumps standing in my livingroom in Lawrence. It might make a
great lamp. Now, I'm wondering if they might be inclined to give
me one of the Wild Boys from this next movie, even if I'm a bit
old for that kind of thing.
LEE: Why not ask them to parthenogenesize one for you? That way
whoever plays the part can still go his own way, and you'd have
another memento for your livingroom. Not that you'd want to use
him for a lamp. And I expect you'd rather keep him in your...
BURROUGHS [a dry chuckle]: Ah, you ARE a funny kid! No, lovely to
look at and lovely to hold, but Wild Boys are dangerous. I'd be
afraid of coming home to find one of my cats in the oven with a
crabapple in its mouth. I'll leave pp, of their own particular
variety, to them. My cats get shots, otherwise the authorities
pick them up. But I can't stand to get them neutered, so they're
always reproducing by sexual union. Not a parthenogenesite among
'em!
LEE: But what about...
BURROUGHS: See! I can read your feelthy leetle mind! Yes, of
course, pp in the sense of artificial insemination, host mothers,
gene modification, artificial wombs, is most appealing to those
who find traditional methods implausible, yet want to reproduce.
Wild Boys don't have the monopoly on bizarre techniques or
aspirations, either. Look at modern science and medicine.
LEE: Well, you had a son.
BURROUGHS: Had, is the sad fact. Too hard on Billy being the only
son of dear old dad. Better off if that one hadn't been quite
such a clone, or tried to be. All that I've survived, wiped him
out at a very tender age. Makes me sad.
LEE [unsure]: You're really not the chilly old reptile you're
made out to be, are you? I mean, you get wistful about your son
Billy, you obviously love your cats like crazy, and you only shot
your wife Joan in the head one time. Not like the movie.
BURROUGHS: No point in mistaking movies for life, nor books for
that matter, kid. Otherwise, you'd look a whole lot more like
Peter Weller, wouldn't you? Though now that I think about it, you
do look kinda... nah.
LEE [pause]: You paint a lot these days.
BURROUGHS: It's a very nice change from words. I keep thinking I
wrote my last word, that I've reached the end of what words can
do, but some days... [a sigh]
LEE [hopeful]: Does that mean there are any more books on the
horizon?
BURROUGHS: Never know what my secretary James might scrape
together out of my wastebasket.
LEE: Honestly, I like your latest things best; _Cities of the Red
Night_, _The Place of Dead Roads_, _The Western Lands_. At this
late date, that's your best stuff. You're still improving.
BURROUGHS: You like it, huh? Just hitting my stride when I
finally have the sense to shut up. No, I think painting is a
better bet, like PARTHENOGENESIS. It reproduces without need for
sexual union. Sex and reproduction should be separate anyway.
LEE: That's okay, I'll be the one writing this.
BURROUGHS: You always were! [a chuckle] Then, I have enjoyed the
copies of that little zine you gave me, the one from out west.
All the sly and not so sly references to oral sex, are fun. I'm
not very hot on generalities. I've been known to be sly.
LEE: You don't think much about the past, do you? Not unless
you're reminded by some parthenogenetic pest like me.
BURROUGHS: The past? What happened?
LEE: Me, for one thing. Back in Interzone.
BURROUGHS: Sometimes the past does catch up with a person.
LEE: Speaking of which, how do we get out of this wormhole?
BURROUGHS: Are you sure you want to?
LEE: Well, if everything is true...?
BURROUGHS [interrupting sternly]: I think we've said enough.
LEE: But about PARTHENOGENESIS, we've barely scratched the...
BURROUGHS: My very point.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"I don't think pornography is very harmful, but it is terribly,
terribly boring."
- NOEL COWARD
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Finally, the results for the YES/NO/PENIS poll! The results* are
given in percentages under each question. Arrrrr!
[1] Do you consider yourself "well endowed"?
YES: 30% NO: 20% PENIS: 50%
[2] Would you say that the movie "3 Ninjas" is PUNK?
YES: 60% NO: 10% PENIS: 30%
[3] Is it possible to run... AND hide?
YES: 70% NO: 30% PENIS: 0%
[4] Are you Dan Quayle?
YES: 10% NO: 40% PENIS: 50%
[5] Have you ever seen Elvis?
YES: 60% NO: 20% PENIS: 20%
[6] Are you DOWN with Mohammed X?
YES: 13% NO: 43% PENIS: 43%
[7] Do you think it's fair that Topher and Honika got fired from
the Two Bits club?
YES: 10% NO: 60% PENIS: 30%
[8] Do you know Les Green?
YES: 13% NO: 43% PENIS: 43%
[9] Have you ever had sex until you passed out?
YES: 30% NO: 50% PENIS: 20%
[10]Do you prefer 'Kickboxer' over 'Kickboxer II'?
YES: 33% NO: 23% PENIS: 43%
[11]Can you read?
YES: 20% NO: 30% PENIS: 50%
[12]Consider this phrase: 'Mouthful of Biscuit'. Take at least 30
seconds to reflect on this. NOW, do you feel nauseous at all?
YES: 50% NO: 20% PENIS: 30%
[13]Are these Authentic Mexican Tacos?
YES: 50% NO: 20% PENIS: 30%
[14]Do you avoid Paris on the Poudre on the nights when you know
they're going to have live music?
YES: 70% NO: 20% PENIS: 10%
[15]Spamlett...?
YES: 10% NO: 30% PENIS: 60%
[16]Do you ever have nightmares involving any combination of the
following: TEETH, CORN, and DAVID HASSLEHOFF?
YES: 20% NO: 60% PENIS: 20%
[17]Is Parthenogenesis really some sort of Alien Mind Control?!??
YES: 40% NO: 30% PENIS: 30%
[18]Do you firmly believe that Tactical Penile Implants are the
"wave of the future"?
YES: 70% NO: 20% PENIS: 10%
[19]When you sharpen a pencil with a hand sharpener, does your
butt wiggle in little circles?
YES: 63% NO: 23% PENIS: 13%
[20]Are you a regular reader of Parthenogenesis?
YES: 60% NO: 20% PENIS: 20%
[21]Did you answer 'yes' to the previous question?
YES: 43% NO: 33% PENIS: 23%
[22]Is Contradiction 23 YOUR Short Term Personal Savior?
YES: 20% NO: 40% PENIS: 40%
*These poll results are in no way representative of anything or
anyone.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Being in politics is like being a football coach; you have to be
smart enough to understand the game, and dumb enough to think
it's important."
- EUGENE MCCARTHY
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
CIRCUS SUCCESS STORY
by Adam Five
I work as a clown. I humiliate myself and others for the
enjoyment of a paying audience, I've done so for years. Up until
recently, I had never thought it a worthwhile profession. Then, I
reached a stage in my life when everything fell into place, and I
succeeded in my chosen line of work. I think it probably began
while I was working as a clown in a small circus that toured the
south during the summer months. The circus itself was primarily a
haven for drunkards, criminals, and others that society had
labeled to be discarded. The one musty canvas tent that was
"Bob's Golden Circus of Amazement" was a small battleground,
containing a war of good and evil in its sagging walls. Now, by
good and evil, I do not mean the Good and Evil of religious
significance, but on a much smaller and independent scale. You
see, I was good, and the circus' other clown, Randy, was evil.
Randy began working two months after I had signed on, and I
was glad for the help. The "humor" that others find in clowns is
not easily come by in a solo act. The only real bits I could
perform were endless vignettes of ridiculous self-injury and
humiliation, which would leave me sore in body and soul every
night. So of course, when Randy was hired, my mind filled with
hundreds of jokes, pranks and other humor devices that could be
used with, and against this new face-painted performer. The first
few weeks of shows, Randy took everything that I dished out. Pie-
in-the-face, buckets of icy-cold water, squirting
flowers, exploding gift boxes ... everything that I could dream
up, Randy took without protest. Even the humorless eyes of the
small audiences softened a little at the sight of this tall man,
dripping with a dozen different kinds of goop, looking down at
the short, fat, middle-aged cause of his troubles, and doing
nothing. There was a thorn in this rose of new-found comedic
power, however. Randy had never spoken a single word to me, and
this worried me to no end. There had to be a way I could crack
his bloody face-paint grin and cause him to speak. I had to have
a reaction, some sort of acknowledgement that I was doing a good
job, that he didn't mind being the butt of all my jokes.
The next night I was in full possession of my satiric tools,
and I was flaunting them in the circus' center (and only) ring.
"Now Jolly," I called to Randy, who was across the ring from me,
dripping cream pie. "Let's see if you can do what I can, all
right?" Randy nodded an exaggerated yes at the audience. "Okay,
Jolly, can you touch your toes?" Following my lead, Randy bent
over and stretched his fingers to the tips of his bulbous black
shoes. "Very good, nincompoop, now can you hop on one foot?"
Randy began to, then fell over into the sawdust covering the
floor of the ring. The crowd chuckled. "All right, Mister Funny-
pants," I yelled in a nervous hysteria. "Can you do this?" I
strutted to the small wooden platform in the center of the ring,
mounted it, and shakily stood on my head for a few seconds. When
I lowered myself from the platform, Randy was already on his way
to the middle of the ring, but his eyes seemed to be burning with
resentment. 'A perfect prank,' I thought. 'This will crack him,
this'll make him speak.' Randy climbed the platform, and with
tremendous effort, threw his legs above his body, and stood on
his head. I watched him, as the whole tent did, with awe and a
tinge of admiration. This man was not meant to stand on his head,
but he was, however clumsily, doing it. This was my moment, when
I showed this Junior Clown who was the boss, and why. I grabbed
one of the supports under the platform and yanked. Randy opened
his mouth in a mute scream as his neck twisted sideways and he
slid off the platform, his legs still perpendicular to the floor.
I then realized this man was a mute, couldn't speak if he wanted
to. This man was also now a dead one. The crowd jumped out of
their seats, howling with laughter at this classic prank. To this
day, the only thing that haunts me is the crowd's bloodthirsty
cheering, maybe because it is the only time they ever laughed out
loud at me.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"The trouble with our times is that the future is not what it
used to be."
- PAUL VALERY
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
ASTROLOONEY
by Zebo the Magic Clown
PISCES (Feb.20-March 20) - Your friends appreciate your money,
but your deodorant leaves a bit to be desired. Your investments
will all fail and a relationship would be pointless due to your
fishy smell.
ARIES (March 21-April 19) - Ponder jello until noon, your
revelations will help out around dinner time. Avoid the color
orange, it's ugly and flatters no one.
TAURUS (April 20-May 20) - Get in a good argument today, it will
increase your libido. Don't forget to feed the cat.
GEMINI (May 21-June 20) - There is a bomb under your left armpit,
do not move. Above all, don't panic.
CANCER (June 21-July 22) - Listen to some good music today, it
will relax and soothe your hemorrhoids. Eat some lettuce, that
should help too.
LEO (July 23-Aug.22) - Don't bother answering the phone today,
your friends have nothing interesting to say. It will just bore
and annoy you.
VIRGO (Aug.23-Sept.22) - Stand up calmly, and run like hell. The
girl with the brown hair and glasses is about to mow you down.
LIBRA (Sept.23-Oct.23) - If you donate $5 cash money to
Parthenogenesis you will become much admired by your peers.
SCORPIO (Oct.24-Nov.22) - If your name is Dave, everything will
go your way and chicks will fall at your feet and beg. If your
name is NOT Dave, then go away, we have no use for you.
SAGITTARIUS (Nov.23 - Dec.21) - Travel plans are in your future!
You will be beaten up by a Taurus and forced to leave town in the
dead of night.
CAPRICORN (Dec.22-Jan.19) - Go back to sleep, we have no desire
to see you today.
AQUARIUS (Jan.20-Feb.19) - Stop wearing your retro clothes.
They're ugly, and they cause chafing! Make sure to harvest your
tomatoes, they are fully ripened.
IF TODAY IS YOUR BIRTHDAY: Who cares? Happy Birthday, now go
away.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"It's better to be quotable than to be honest."
- TOM STOPPARD
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Here, now, is the PARTHENOGENESIS POLL #3! Since the turnout on
the last poll was somewhat less than, say, the average length of
an elephant's trunk (in inches), we decided to present a
shortened version for the next one (this). So here it is, poll
three, fill in the blank. Send the results to : (mail)
Parthenogenesis, 804 S.College Suite 8363, Ft. Collins, CO, 80524
; or (internet) dherrick@nyx.cs.du.edu. As an added incentive,
out of the results we get, ONE of you will be selected to be
interviewed by PARTHENOGENESIS if you answer 'yes' to #6. The
"winner" will be selected more or less at random.
[1] Who are you, and what do you want?
[2] What do you think is mankind's greatest invention, and why?
[3] Consider the process of true parthenogenesis. (a) How can you
apply this process to everyday life; (b) What are the possible
advantages/disadvantages of the process; and (c) Describe one
similar alternative to the process. Or if you prefer, just write
in your favorite color.
[4] What is you most masochistic tendency?
[5] How many computers do you currently have in your household,
and what do you use them for? (Optional if you don't have a
computer: What would you use one for if you had one?) NOTE:
Answering "I just play Tetris" will not immediately disqualify
you for winning the interview, but boy will it help.
[6] Do you want to be interviewed by Parthenogenesis? If so,
please include your name, address, phone #, or some other way you
can be reached. But especially your name.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
THIS ISSUE'S LIST OF 48 THINGS
1. Chicken 25. Brassiere
2. Roman Soldier 26. Generalized Pain
3. Cracklin' Oat Bran 27. Wheelchair
4. Spacesuit 28. Remote Control
5. Pinto 29. Elephant
6. Cyberwear 30. Tarantula
7. Portrait 31. Wall Carpeting
8. Nametag 32. Cap
9. Ice 33. Lettuce
10. Fountain of Youth 34. Carp
11. Fucking Orange Car 35. Fish Tank
12. Donuts 36. Habitual Drug Use
13. The Human Brain 37. Spectacles
14. Cricket 38. Flame
15. Catalog 39. Hallelujah Chorus
16. Uvula 40. Twelve-Gallon Hat
17. Yo-yo 41. Patrick Stewart, Sex God
18. Clock 42. Twelve-Year-Old Scotch
19. Nut 43. Henry VIII
20. Waco, Texas 44. Grubs
21. Schizophrenia 45. Crystal White Octagon
22. Flaring Nostrils 46. Human Disease SKUMM
23. Family Values 47. Tripe
24. Zits 48. Varnish
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
HERE ENDETH THIS ISSUE OF PARTHENOGENESIS, BEING THE FIFTH SO FAR
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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* * * * * * * * * * ** * * * * * * ** * * * *
* * * * * * * * *** * * *** *** *** * * *** *** * ***
F R E E ! issue 6
"What kind of a slogan is this?"
*****************************************************************
*****************************************************************
* MOHAMMED X FLEES THE COUNTRY! *
* Famed editor of Parthenogenesis skips town with fortune! "We *
* never even saw it coming" exclaim shocked staff. page 1 *
*****************************************************************
* * GUAPA SEEN IN *
* New research proves: * LOCAL BREWERY!*
* CROSSWORD PUZZLES CAN * Deity manifests in *
* CURE BALDNESS! page 17 * patron's beer mug! *
* * page 15 *
*****************************************************************
* Contradiction 23's World Domination Plan in 23 Easy Steps! *
* page 2 *
*****************************************************************
* GODS ANGERED * SCHEMATIC OF * EVIL SCIENTISTS *
* BY TV * NUCLEAR BOMB * ARE BRAINWASHING *
* COMMERCIALS * Build a nuclear * YOU THROUGH TV! *
* page 3 * trigger in your * Beta waves picked up by*
* * home! page 16 * cable companies, then *
* BIGFOOT PLANS ********************** sent to your home! 12 *
* TO WED! * LORD NIWAD ****************************
* Famed monster * TEARFULLY WOMAN RISKS ALL *
* announces * CONFESSES: TO SAVE THE WORLD*
* bridal engage-* "I ate my father, Daredevil lass fears*
* ment!But who's* with relish" no poultry! She uses*
* the lucky * page 6 her ninja training *
* bride? 22 * to repulse evil! *
******************************************* page 8 *
* the PENTAGON BBS: Will they succeed *
* in their goal to take over the world and *
* spread peanut butter all over it? page 11 *
******************************************* *
* Exclusive interview with MAGGOTBOY page 9 *
* Who is this guy, and why does he have such a gross name? *
*****************************************************************
* ELVIS wasn't seen doing anything page 20 *
*World leaders confer. "What could be wrong? WHERE IS THE KING?"*
* Heartfelt plea begs the King to come forth. Four terrorist *
* groups claim responsibility *
*****************************************************************
*****************************************************************
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Parthenogenesis, volume V=ãrýh, issue 6, December 1993. Published
monthly (give or take 5 months). Copyright (c) Dan Herrick,
excepting writing credited to someone else (DUH!). FREE!
Permission is given to distribute or eat this zine in its
entirety, or any part if Parthenogenesis is credited for material
used. Contact us in many ways. Snailmail: Parthenogenesis, 804 S.
College Suite 8363, Ft. Collins, CO, 80524; internet:
dherrick@nyx.cs.du.edu, FTP: etext.archive.umich.edu:
/pub/Zines/Parthenogenesis, Gopher: etext.archive.umich.edu;
FIDOnet: email Dan Herrick at FIDO 1:306/55, FREQ from 1:306/55
(magic name: PARTH); support BBS: The Pentagon BBS, (303) 498-
0864, 14.4kbps (file area #14). What can we say, we're connected.
By reading this, you are now under my control. Begin chanting
praises to Mohammed X and await my pleasure.
Many thanks and flatulations to Roger Jimenez for sponsoring this
issue of Parthenogenesis (paper). Thanks also to Bonehead for
immoral support and nachos.
Contributors for this issue: Mohammed X, Contradiction 23,
Maggotboy, Razor-Man, Mrs. Brown, Adam Five, and Zebo the Magic
Clown.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
ÉÍ»ÉÍ»ÉÍ»ÍËÍ» ÉÉÍÍÉ»ÉÉÍ»ÉÍ»ÉÍÍÉ»ÉÉÍÍÉÍ»ËÉÍ» 6
ÌͼÌ͹Ì˼ º Ì͹ÌÍͺººº ººÍ»ÌÍͺººÌÍÍÈÍ»ºÈÍ»
¼ ¼ È¼È Ê ¼ ÈÈÍͼȼÈͼÈͼÈÍͼȼÈÍÍÈͼÊÈͼ
Hi! I bet you'd never have thought we'd be still around! Well,
sadly, we are, and this is issue #6 of Parthenogenesis! Some of
you may be wondering why it took so long for this issue to come
out. After lengthy deliberation, we decided to print the
following by way of explanation:
THE SEARCH FOR MOHAMMED X
He first disappeared in March 1993, just after the printing
of issue 5 of Parthenogenesis. We noticed his absence right
away - despite the fact that he had left us a farewell letter. He
had obviously made a great effort with the letter: He had spent
a considerable number of hours producing the rough draft, and
then spent easily twice as much time re-writing until he had it
perfect; He composed it in four different languages - English,
Latin and Swahili (just on the off chance that the rest of the
staff had somehow suddenly forgotten English and had
spontaneously developed a replacement language), and a language
of his own devising* ; He purchased the finest hand-made
parchment and real Indian ink; He hired a specially-trained
courier to deliver it to us; he even made sure not to dribble on
it at all. Alas, the one small detail he forgot to do was to
actually write it down. But we shrewdly guessed what he was up to
when we saw the movers come the next day to his house. After
helpfully directing them to the wrong house, we searched his, and
came up with a few clues as to his disappearance. The first was
the farewell letter itself, just underneath a handwritten note
from his hired courier**. After quickly sifting through his
fridge for clues and finding nothing but food (which we ate), we
promptly searched the rest of the house. We found out three
things: First, what we believe the real reason for his sudden
flight, a warrant for his arrest; Second, that the phone was
tapped by the CIA (which is what he gets for using the pseudonym
"Boris Yeltsin" on his phone bill); and Third, that none of us
fit any of his fabulous dresses (a pity, that).
Eventually, we traced him to a small town in South Dakota.
He lived on a farm by himself, with only a minimal harem to keep
him company. Through an ingenious arrangement, his luxurious
farmhouse was constructed out of six old Winnebagos, a cargo
plane, a covered wagon, three very large telephone booths, and a
small sailboat. He was out watering his crops when we arrived. He
waved us inside, and soon joined us, beaming. How delighted he
was to see us! We told him what we knew, and asked him to fill in
the gaps.
"Well, chaps," he began, then stopped. He grinned. "I've
always wanted to begin that way. Like it?"
He cleared his throat and started again.
"Well, chaps," he began, suppressing a giggle, "You've got
it mostly right. Pity about the courier not getting you that
letter - it would have explained everything in perfect detail.
What I was TRYING to do was escape to South America with the
fortune I had just acquired. I wished to avoid certain, shall we
say, LEGAL difficulties - "
"Wait a minute," belched Contradiction 23, "What fortune?"
"Yeah, and what legalities?" inquired Bonehead, waving the
arrest warrant at his face.
"Well, it wasn't actually a fortune," admitted Mohammed X,
dabbing at a fresh papercut, "but at the time I thought it was.
Let's just say that nobody had ever bothered to tell me that the
phrase 'a fortune in grass' was completely inappropriate. I
became fantastically rich overnight by mowing my lawn. As to the
legal trouble, that warrant is for nonpayment of fines incurred,
oh, about seventeen years ago."
"What kind of fines?" demanded Zebo, juggling three wallets
(belonging to '23, Adam Five, and Francois Mitterand
respectively).
Mohammed then mumbled something about "...parking ticket...
Big Wheel... all so very long ago... allowance wouldn't cover
it..."
"You've got lots of baby butter!!!" screamed Gristle
suddenly. Everybody looked at him oddly, and that seemed to calm
him down as usual. Presently Mohammed continued.
"So I boarded the next available flight to South America and
I was on my way before the FBI could stop me."
"The FBI was on your trail then?" asked Adam Five.
"Well, not as such, at least I don't think so. But they
could've been! Anyway, due to a series of navigational and
transportation errors, I ended up here. Miraculously, my luggage
continued on to South America, and it's been writing and seems to
be doing pretty well for itself. I didn't realize at first where
I was, and quickly I settled down to enjoy my retirement.
Although, come to think of it," he mused, "it did seem rather a
coincidence that the natives all spoke English, and even took my
Arby's coupons! I soon found out about my slight financial error,
but fortunately could recoup my financial loss - well, financial
nonexistence - by planting my fortune, and making a surprisingly
successful living as a grass farmer."
"So now what?" inquired Schmerd, in binary.
Mohammed shrugged, dislodging the two precariously balanced
pots that Wrinkle had placed on his shoulders. Gristle began to
giggle, and everybody threw themselves flat on the ground until
the worst of the tremors had passed. Gristle was unconscious,
still smiling. Mohammed dusted himself off and announced his
retention of internal... er, intention of returning to Ft.
Collins to continue his unspecified top-secret research***. They
all boarded the UFO they had driven there, and zinklerlled****
away.
* basing itself mainly on the texture of avocado skin... he has
forgotten it now, but he said it was a particularly beautiful and
poignant language
** "no find you friends, took money, oh well" - Juan
*** ...of his shoes.
**** UFO jargon, means something like a cross between flying,
driving, and playing "Defender" with the US Air Force. Great fun.
*****************************************************************
WHAT YOU DON'T SEEM TO UNDERSTAND
So I was sitting in a boring anthropology class, when someone in
the back said: "Hey, I know this is a dumb question, but who was
Albert Schweitzer?"
The Prof said:
"Why, he was one of the more famous philanthropists of our
time... and the only dumb question is one that goes unasked."
At this point, the chick sitting next to me jumped up on her desk
and screamed: "How many more chickens have to die 'till you
realize what you've done???!!! HOW MANY?!?!?!?"
That's when I knew I was in love.
- Contradiction 23
(Contradiction 23 is not a nationally syndicated columnist.)
*****************************************************************
** **
** THE CHRONICLES OF RIT SOM T'NG **
***************************************
** Part 4 : A New Perspective **
*************************************
** by Mohammed X **
*********************************
* * *
Without warning (except to those with a divine psychic
sense) the projection machine gives off a loud 'fwooshing' sound,
a few half-hearted clicks, one despairing 'tweet', and then falls
silent. The screen, embarrassed, goes blank.
"Hey!" a dozen or so voices call simultaneously, followed by
a cacophony of the same voices calling out their favorite curses,
threats, or lightning-storms, as appropriate. Poopchute, patron
god of Typists, and designated official theater technician,
scurries to the machine and begins to console it.
"Peanuts! Popcorn! BEER!" cries a man carrying a box,
passing in front of Belich and stepping on his toes. Belich
shrugs fatalistically and hunches down in his seat, looking as
though he might weep.
"It's okay!" calls out Poopchute, straightening up from the
machine. "It's just the film that's broken! I'll get another one
and have it running in no time!"
A mighty thunderous resounding cheer leaps from the throats
of the Gods and Goddesses assembled in the large theater. In
actuality, the theater was smaller than the average human hair
follicle, but that didn't stop the gods from coming and going as
they would. They WERE gods, after all. Not only that, they got a
Divinity Discount at the ticket booth. Never mind that tickets
are free... it's the PRINCIPLE of the thing, as every god will
explain to you. Carefully. Patiently. With a few fireballs,
thunderbolts, or vicious beasts on a very short chain leash
(visibly weakening every time the beast thrashes, which is
constantly). Generally one gets the point fairly quickly.
"Sodas! Hot Dogs! Flayed Slave Skin!" cries the box-carrying
man, pausing to sell a soda to Dummich, the goddess of blondes.
"Don't I get a cup with this?" queries sodden Dummich, but the
man hurries on.
(Okay, enough mystery. It's obviously not a man, but a god.
Specifically, the god of Vendors. Vvilliminantchallinn is his
name, but generally he's called Vinnie.)
"Who let Vinnie in here?" gripes Glomm, recently returned to
his normal form.
"You." R, the goddess of Curtness (formerly Lard).
"Oh." Glomm ponders for a moment, then asks: "Why?"
"You're drunk." Curtness replies curtly.
"Ah....ookay. Thanks for clearing that up, R..." Glomm
begins, but R walks away abruptly.
"Hey!" Glomm calls out. "Anybody here an Insect God?"
Several hands raise.
Glomm faces them. Or tries to, since there are several of
them in several different directions. "Doesn't that just BUG
you?" he asks, then laughs uproariously.
They turn away, disgusted. "Buzz off," one replies.
"Pretzels! Gizzards! Ginsu Knives!" calls Vinnie, circling
the room predatorially.
"Hey buddy, shut up and go away!" snarled Bork, god of New
York.
The screen chose this moment to come to life again.
* * *
"Without your glasses on you'll wind up killing me!" the
white-shirted guy said as his frown turned to a smile in midair.
The smile turned to a grin, the grin widened until it circled his
entire head, the head split open and a canary popped up. "At the
tone, the time will be 11:40 exactly," it said, but before it
could go on it was smashed by a baseball bat-wielding detective.
"I'm tone deaf," he explained, at the same time the split-headed
man (whose name was NOT Juan) said, "I just want a side of ham!"
(The screen probably chose that moment to come on because
the machine started playing the movie.)
Suddenly the scene changes. The split-headed man and the
bat-wielding detective disappear with a 'pop' and find themselves
in the middle of a pen... a pig pen. A fluffy blonde with frilly
waitress threads descends from the sky and squeaks, "There's your
order, sir. Can I get you anything else?"
(I mean, why else would it come on?)
It seems the machine is experiencing some technical
problems, or perhaps emotional. The picture speeds up, becoming
harder and harder to see, and begins blurring. The sound, also,
speeds, and the resulting overall movie result looks like this:
...drip drop the coffee is brewin', that keeps the coffee
drinkers sane the smile turned to a grin widened and he opened
his mouth and drank more, yet a little more...
Here the machine begins to become a bit introspective, it
seems.
...coffee one other cup then you wonder is the sun behind
the cloud or are the clouds in front of the sun? Or will the...
will the wind push the clouds away? Then will the clouds be side
by side? Or will the cloud be milk in the cup of coffee? Or will
the milk.....
The machine seems to come to grips with itself, and the
movie slows down to a more bearable rate.
...Just be milk in the sky!
The split-headed man and the bat wielding detective were
still wondering how and what was going on. The split-headed man
just put it off as too much LSD in his morning coffee and the bat
wielding detective put it off on his wife and problems at home
and work had finally pushed him over the edge....
Okay, maybe not.
...little did he know that that edge did not so happen to be
anywhere near him but more at the end of the split-headed man's
morning cup of coffee. The only one left dealing with reality was
the waitress whose threads were starting to wear off and the only
thing she could think of was holy --
* * *
"Cheese!" cried Vinnie. "Breadsticks! Tabouli!"
"That's it!" cried Violence-Prone, god of Quotient
Identities. (Nobody really knew why he was the god of Quotient
Identities, but then again, nobody really knew about Quotient
Identities, so there you go. Violence-Prone himself often
lamented the fact that, according to him, humanity had 'but
recently discovered Quotient Identities and so completely missed
the point'. Not so bitter as grim Belich, but more aggravated and
excitable.)
"What's it?" asked Dummich, then looked around warily and
ducked down on the floor. "Uh, just doing my laundry," she
volunteered, but nobody noticed her.
"Stop the machine!" yelled Violence-Prone, jumping over two
rows of seats to reach a startled Poopchute, who cowered in fear.
"W- W- Why?" asked Poopchute. "I just fixed-"
"It's having a nervous breakdown!" replied Violence-Prone
excitedly, taking hold of Poopchute and shaking him. "We have to
stop it!"
Amagajho stepped forward. "I most certainly agree with my
colleague. This machine is displaying classic symptoms of what
the layman terms a 'nervous breakdown', known better as-"
"Just SHUT IT DOWN!" Violence-Prone screamed.
Poopchute quickly flipped the off switch in the face of
Violence-Prone's wrath (and spittle).
The screen, feeling the time was right, turned itself off as
well. All was dark.
"Uh...could someone please turn on the lights?" asked
Dummich. "I'm lost..."
*****************************************************************
* the Chronicles WILL continue! *
*****************************************************************
** **
** YOUNG LORD NIWAD **
************************
** by Razor-Man **
********************
Lord Niwad was born in the year of the great sloth migration, an
omen to be sure. And young Lord Niwad was indeed a precocious
lad. He gave his nurses and tutors no end of trouble. He would
often be found down in the cheese vaults all alone after being
missing for days. He would not answer any questions as to why he
was in the sacred vaults. Other times he would go down to the
village and ask rather embarrassing questions to all the priests
of Shoom. Not more than twice was he found speaking to the High
Chancellor's mysterious and alien pet nail worms. So when young
Lord Niwad became of age his father deemed it necessary for him
to learn the art of wielding a combat spork.
As you may well know the combat spork is not an easy weapon to
master. It combines the effectiveness of a two-handed military
spoon with the vicious attack of an Filanian barbarian fork. So
his master, an old veteran of the Beaver wars, was indeed
impressed and surprised with how quickly the young Lord mastered
his weapon. Within several long and intensive minutes of
training young Lord Niwad was able to defeat not only every
student, his master, but any person to cross his path that
fateful day.
I remember one warm tired August afternoon Lord Niwad and I
spent together down by the Kampari river not far from his
ancestral home. We lazily sat back in the high grass and watched
the river sprites. It was mating season for the small sylvan
creatures. The females floated about on bubble thin wings
taunting the males, who's wings were only vestigial and could not
fly. The woman sprites would dance and sing merrily through the
air together and the young males on the ground would compete
fiercely with each other for mating rights. They would attempt
to attract mates by fiercely chewing on their long grey beards
and then twisting them into the shapes of various boots, shoes,
sandals and other footwear. Others would try seduction by
weaving the water reeds to make finely patterned capes and spats.
Truly earnest males would create stereopitcon art using mud and
leaves. Eventually a female would select a worthy mate by
plucking him up and hovering him off to a secluded bank. There
they would make sweet, gentle and innocent love. After which the
female would tear the exhausted male's limbs off and bathe in his
blood chortling with all the glee of a toddler at the park.
This, of course, got Lord Niwad and I to reminiscing our many
past loves. We spent the greater part of the afternoon telling
each other about our grand romances. It was at this point that I
related to his Lordship my secret desire for Sloane the radiant
young clairvoyant from the Psychic Friends Network. I must have
come off as quite the foolish pup as I gushed on and on about her
beauty, style, and selfless ambition to bring couples together,
for when I was finished with my confession Lord Niwad beamed his
giant toothy smile and let out a great taunting belly laugh.
I stood and began to walk sternly away when Lord Niwad grabbed my
shoulder and apologized saying that it was indeed ironic because
just last year he had pursued an unsuccessful romantic liaison
with Sloane. He went on to tell me that he thought "she was all
wrong for me."
Well of course we came to blows over the matter. Naturally it
ended with Lord Niwad wrestling me to the muck and would not
yield until I looked him in the eye and proclaimed him "the
ultimate thrashmaster."
*****************************************************************
****** CHICKEN by Mrs. Brown ******
*****************************************************************
The chicken stared down at me from his perch on the old, worn
rail, and spoke.
"C-luck. C-luck."
It almost sounded as though he had said, "Good luck."
I asked him, "Did you say 'Good luck.'?" He nodded his head in
that funny way that roosters do. I could only think of two
reasons that this chicken would be wishing me luck: 1) He knew
about my upcoming test in the class Intro to Windows, a Pre-
History of Panes, 2) He knew that the world was ending.
I realized that the world must, indeed, be ending since I
didn't need luck for Intro to Windows. There was only one way
that this chicken could know that the world was ending. This
chicken was God! Since this chicken was God he must be the cause
of the impending world destruction. So what if my class was
lame, I didn't want the world to end! Not yet, anyway (there's
this guy who sits near me that I kind of like. I haven't asked
him out yet). I knew that I would have to save the world.
Unfortunately, in order to do that I would have to fight God. I
wasn't ready. I asked the chicken-God if he was going to destroy
the world today. He looked at me with his black, beady eyes. He
said nothing. I assumed this meant no, so I continued on to my
Intro to Windows class. I couldn't concentrate, what with the
fate of the world in my hands and all, but I aced my test anyway
(I told you, the class is lame). Then I went to my ninja
training. There were five new class members. All were chickens.
The world was going to be overrun with chicken-ninjas! I'd have
to act fast. I whirled through my training- 69 steps in just
three days. I think I broke a record. Guinness wanted me, but I
didn't have time for all that glory. I had to save the world
from the chicken-God. If I could fight him and win I would be
God. The chicken ninjas would be in my control. That would be
wak. It's always handy to have a few chicken-ninjas around. I
went in search of the chicken, er, God. He was on his regular
perch. "C-luck!"
I didn't need his luck this time. I was ready. I jumped him.
In a flurry of feathers that has never been paralleled in this
universe (but perhaps has in a parallel universe), we fought. I
had him down, but the advantage changed. He had me. We went
back and forth like this for an eternity. Feathers were flying -
I should never have brought my pillow. In the middle of the
fight the sky opened. A ray of light bathed us (or was that C-23
with a spotlight and a sponge?). I knew this to be a sign. The
end was near for all but the chicken and his lackeys. I couldn't
let that be. I summoned the last of my strength. I pounced. I
wrung his neck. He was dead. I had won. I was God. The
chicken-ninjas would be in my power. The chicken would be in my
teriyaki.
*****************************************************************
********* MAGGOTBOY: THE PARTHENOGENESIS INTERVIEW *********
*****************************************************************
NOTE: The following was based on an interview conducted at
Perkin's at 4:00 am, and as such reflects the moods and
dispositions of fools like us who stayed up to take part in the
interview. Not to mention the other fools who are normally at
Perkin's. To those of you who haven't heard of Maggotboy, we made
him up. Well, not really. Maggotboy operates a quiet and yet
brash young zine called the Worm's Journal. If you want one, ask:
The Worm's Journal, 1205 W. Elizabeth #147, Ft. Collins, CO,
80521.
SCENE: Perkin's, any Perkin's. Smoking section. Half of the
section is filled, though strangely there are only eight people
present. Four guys walk in, fending off autograph seekers. They
are MOHAMMED X, ADAM FIVE, CONTRADICTION 23, and MAGGOTBOY. They
are seated with a minimum of bribes in a booth near the glass
section divider.
TIME: 3:(something) AM. One cannot be more specific at this
point, as everyone knows that Perkin's obeys its own intrinsic
laws of Time and Space.
{They sit.}
WAITRESS: Coffee, right?
ADAM 5: No, coke.
CONTRADICTION 23: uh... coke.
MAGGOTBOY: Nothing.
MOHAMMED X: Hmm... I'm not sure yet. Can I see a menu?
WAITRESS: Sure, I'll be back in a few. {She leaves.}
X: Heh. One more menu for the collection.
C23: Okay, MBOY, in six words or less, describe your predicted
state of the universe.
MBOY: Entropy, and... we all bring the beer.
C23: Ok, good.
{The girls at the table across the way notice the four. Quickly,
A5 slides underneath the table, MBOY slips on a false wig and
mustache and begins an animated discussion with the glass
divider, While X and C23, completely failing to realize the
danger, greet the girls. The girls walk over.}
STRANGE RED-HAIRED GIRL: Hi, guys. Mohammed, there are some
things that ARE appropriate to be sticking in my face, but this
isn't shaped right.
C23: Mohammed!
STRANGE NOT-RED-HAIRED GIRL: Adam, what are you doing under
there?
A5: <squeak>
MBOY: He's practicing to become a mouse, miss.
SRHG: I don't think I've had the pleasure, Mr....?
MBOY: That's too bad. You would remember if you had.
STRANGE RED-HAIRED GIRL: Ah.
{The girls wander off, replaced by the waitress.}
WAITRESS: Here you go. Two cokes. Have you decided?
X: Could I have a milkshake?
WAITRESS: What flavor?
X: Papercut.
{Waitress leaves. Adam climbs out from under the table.}
X: MBOY, I just want to start this interview by asking you: Why
are we interviewing you?
MBOY: YOU're asking ME? Because... you're astute. And you know
that this tape here, in twenty years, you can sell-
A5: For a dollar.
C23: Millions.
MBOY: Millions? Okay.
C23: Are you in league with the devil?
MBOY: Well, we're not wholesale, phone-in...
C23: But you're discount retail.
MBOY: Something like that.
C23: Could I get 10% off? {breaks into song.}
X: Hmm. Given that it may or may not be Blue Wave, what IS the
"wave of the future"?
{C23 begins singing opera.}
MBOY: Big Wave Dave.
C23: Can I answer this one too? Space Age Polymers.
MBOY: We love Big Wave Dave!
A5: In the Worm's Journal, where do numbers fit in?
MBOY: Where I have space and I don't know what else to do.
{Someone at the table giggles. No one can meet anyone's eye for a
moment.}
MBOY: Here's something I was thinking. What if we had a way, a
system, say... it's something they call counting. What if you had
THINGS... what if you wanted to tell how many things you had? Do
you think there's any system... look. See these glasses here.
What if someone tipped a glass? You'd need some sort of system to
tell how many glasses you had in the first place. You could
figure out if there were more glasses, or fewer glasses.
C23: How do we know this isn't a one... two glass? See what I
mean? How do we know that the TWO glasses aren't simply objects
that are connected in some ethereal way, and really only
represent ONE thing?
X: ..a material...
MBOY: So you're talking about the ultimate glass...
X: ...a material... a material... girl...
WAITRESS: Here you go. Apricot milkshake.
C23: What's your favorite BBS? Just say this: My favorite BBS is
the Pentagon BBS.
MBOY: My favorite BBS is the Pentagon BBS.
X: Why?
C23: Don't worry, it's stupid.
SNRHG: Adam, you are so cool. I mean, I really always kinda
wanted to be your friend, but I wasn't ever quite sure if I
was... {giggles loudly and runs away}
X: What social significance do potato pancakes have for you?
MBOY: You know, I am 23.
X: No, he's 23.
{Dramatic pointless conversation ensues between C23, A5, and
SNRHG.}
X: So in this whole MBOY interview thing... he hasn't said a word
in the last five minutes.
MBOY: And I was enjoying it so much.
C23: Maybe we could just have an interview FOR
MBOY, or at least an interview AROUND MBOY.
MBOY: I am kind of like a catalyst at points. My presence is
changing the flow, and yet...
C23: {Mumbles something}. I just like to say that from time to
time.
MBOY: What?
C23: Nothing.
MBOY: Good. Keep it that way.
X: Let's talk about your zine for a minute. What's it all about?
Why are you doing it?
MBOY: Just so I can get free stuff in the mail, maybe get famous,
and someday I'll be able to beat up Bob Black!
A5: Do you ever feel that you should've been born the opposite
sex?
MBOY: Oooh... let me stretch out my legs and think about that
one.
PERKIN'S EMPLOYEE: Can you move that chair? That's a fire
violation. And let's not pile six in a booth, either, that's not
good for the booth.
SRHG: {To SNRHG} We can stand here.
SNRHG: That's not against the fire code is it?
PERKIN'S EMPLOYEE: Do you think it's time to
leave yet?
*****************************************************************
*** MR. JOHNSON'S DAY AT THE OFFICE ***
*****************************************************************
**** by Maggotboy ****
*****************************************
The man walked through the door with self-absorbed
directness. Without breaking his stride or looking up from the
floor he said: "Today we are starting a new phase. I assume you
are pleased to hear that, Mr. Johnson?" The man's white coat fell
to his knees like the trench-coat of a cruel foreign spy, or a
heartless private eye. The subject didn't watch the coat; he
barely noticed how it's edge billowed and danced with the
rhythmic swing of the man's legs. Unable to focus his eyes, the
subject only saw the repeating pattern created by the movement of
the man's blue slacks and the white tile floor: blue, white,
blue, white. The subject felt the words "It's binary code,"
float into his mind before he blanked out again. Blue, white,
blue, white, stop.
The man looked at his watch and smiled emptily. He said:
"I'm pulling the switch now, Mr. Johnson."
He pulled the switch.
* * *
Mr. Johnson is driving a car. The fingers of his hands wrap
comfortably around a soft leather steering wheel. His left foot
rests lightly on the clutch, his right foot presses the gas pedal
down slightly, causing the car to glide millimeters above the
smooth roadway, soaring at tremendous speeds.
The car screams silently down the one lane road. The scenery
flies by, fading and washing together, too fast for Mr. Johnson
to focus: Fields of green split only by a straight black line,
the only witnesses as a man races free.
Mr. Johnson pushes his right foot down. The engine surges
forward, power running through it's veins and lines, speed the
composition of it's soul. A subaudible hum rises up to beat
heavily on Mr. Johnson's eardrums. The quiet deafens him. Beneath
him tires effortlessly throw him forward. The sleek lines of Mr.
Johnson, of the car, tear the world in half. Mr. Johnson is a
hunter, a steel and titanium eagle, skimming the ground for his
kill. Mr. Johnson smiles.
Mr. Johnson sees a sign. It says this: Mr. Johnson. Please
Turn Here.
Mr. Johnson turns. He is screaming up the on-ramp, stomping
the brake, wildly turning as tires screech and threaten to fly
off the asphalt and into space. He is in the merge lane of the
freeway. He can see headlights behind him, aggressive and growing
bigger. Mr. Johnson anxiously presses the gas pedal, but the car
resists. It shakes and groans in complaint, refuses to answer.
Mr. Johnson remembers. The car is a stick. It is in the
wrong gear.
Mr. Johnson has never driven a stick shift.
He is out of the merge lane. The lights behind him advance,
glaring, blinking from painful to unbearable. Mr. Johnson grabs
the gear shift, pulls vainly. Sweat dripping from his nose, he
kicks in the clutch. The car gasps, the engine whines and shrieks
as it throws all it's undirected energy into a void.
Behind, headlights grow huge. They threaten to smash through
the rear window. Mr. Johnson closes his eyes and prays, feeling
the impending impact in his bones.
Nothing happens. Mr. Johnson opens his eyes to see red
taillights fading away in the darkness. Behind him, in his rear
view mirror, Mr. Johnson sees an entire stream of headlights,
flowing silently through the blackness toward him.
Mr. Johnson fumbles to one side of the steering wheel. He
finds a switch, flips it up, and his own headlights come on. The
pale green glow on the dashboard illuminates the speedometer.
With the clutch still pressed in, the needle points to 20 MPH.
Mr. Johnson pulls the gear shift into neutral and lets the
clutch out. The car continues to slow. The lights behind him
continue to close in, filling every lane.
Mr. Johnson pushes the gear shift again. It responds by
exploding with grinding and fury. He can feel his heart beating
in his neck.
Trying again, Mr. Johnson pushes in the clutch. Around him
the ghostly horns of disapproval sound, breaking in on his
concentration. His face is beaded with sweat, his forehead
compressed into folds of worry. Mr. Johnson pulls the gear shift,
feels it settle into gear. Breathing carefully, he lets the
clutch back out, feels the engine catch, the car jump.
The car starts to gain speed. Lights swarm around Mr.
Johnson, like white water around a boulder. Gingerly repeating
his movements, Mr. Johnson upshifts again, slowly assimilating
himself and his vehicle into the stream.
The green dashboard light shines off the sweat on Mr.
Johnson's shaking arms, off the black of his wide pupils. He
watches carefully, overwhelmed by the continuous movement of
lights, the disorientation caused by the shifting and swirling.
Mr. Johnson sees only headlights and red taillights, not whatever
is in between.
Mr. Johnson holds the steering wheel, his knuckles cracking.
He holds the car straight, parallel to the indistinct yellow
dashes that mark the boundaries of his lane. The freeway melts
and shifts, as lanes disappear, as new lanes grow out like shoots
from side streets. Without shifting his position, Mr. Johnson has
moved from the outer merge lane to an interior lane, surrounded
by the impersonal white and red lights.
High above the road, supported by steel pillars, is a sign,
reflective letters highlighted out of green saying this:
Mr. Johnson. This is your Exit.
Reaching with his left hand, Mr. Johnson clicks the signal
lever up. He glances into the mirror, is blinded by lights,
glances over his right shoulder, is blinded by lights. He moves
his lips in quiet desperate prayer, and turns the wheel to shift
over into the next lane.
Immediately Mr. Johnson feels the honking horns, the jarring
skidding impact. He revs the car forward, sees headlights in the
mirror appear out of the car's trunk, feels the car slip from
side to side. The wheel no longer controls the precise direction
of the vehicle; suddenly free, the car explores wildly, bouncing
off invisible metal and plastic to the left, knocking down road
markers to the right.
The headlights of the car quickly flash over the exit arrow.
Mr. Johnson frantically turns the wheel wide, the car skids down
the off-ramp at a skewed angle.
Mr. Johnson panics. He smashes down the brake pedal, locks
the wheels. He sees a glint of headlights following in his rear
mirror just as he swings the car, pointing it straight over the
edge into a ravine, back towards the rural dirt road that passes
underneath the freeway. Mr. Johnson's eyes follow the quiet pools
of pale color painted by his headlights. Around him, muscling out
the sweet farm sounds, the smooth hum of the freeway, is the
squeal of rubber desperately grabbing roadway.
As the car slides to a rough stop, Mr. Johnson looks out the
passenger window. His door rests against the metal strip of a
guard rail, but the wooden posts snap as two square headlights
smash through the metal and glass.
The lights shine through the car, past Mr. Johnson,
illuminating the ground for him as he watches it rush up to meet
him.
* * *
The man looked up from the long roll of paper and smiled a
wide, genuine smile. The subject continued to sit, but now his
face was covered with sweat, his entire body shook violently.
Without saying anything, the man strode out.
Blue, white, blue, white, alone.
*******************************************************
****** W h y N o t E a t P a r t h e n o g e n e s i s ? ********
*******************************************************
It's been a while since we've heard from Guapa, is this not true?
GENESIS OF DRUNKENNESS
CHAPTER TWO
OF AKMAEL; OF MOHAMMED; OF ACHMED; OF THE REVELATION OF GUAPA
We shall skip the rest of the story up until now; mainly it
deals with the creation of other forms of alcohol, the
introduction of Guapa's family, the casting out of the People
from Mount Guapa, the Great Beer Flood, and other such. For now,
hear the story of the Church of Guapa:
In an obscure land known to the people who live there as the
Fort, two friends dwelt. These two friends were content to live
their lives as they had been, until one day, that being, it is
believed, Friday. On this Friday these two were walking down a
familiar hallway as they were wont to do when they were
confronted by a wall. After several failed and painful attempts
to walk through the wall, they gazed upon its face and lo! What
should be written there but one word, in what appeared to be
green construction paper. That word was simply, "GUAPA". The two
were immediately overcome by the presence of the word on the
wall, and fell to their knees. Their fellows cast bewildered
glances in their direction, but were ignored by the kneeling
pair. At that glorious moment, the two spontaneously decided to
adopt new names for religious purposes. They became, henceforth,
Akmael and Mohammed.
Akmael and Mohammed wrote much poetry and song together
about the deity they knew as Guapa over the course of the next
few years, yet knowing little of that selfsame deity, as Guapa
chose not to reveal his full presence to them as yet. Suddenly, a
terrible calamity came upon Akmael and he was struck dead.
Mohammed was grieved, and drank many droughts of beer in
honor of Akmael. But soon he realized that another must know of
Guapa, and so he approached one named Achmed and told him of
Guapa. Achmed was struck by the truth of Mohammed's revelation,
but Mohammed said that it was only his staff and that he was
sorry; it was an accidental striking, he reasoned.
At that moment, Guapa chose to reveal himself to Achmed and
Mohammed. He appeared to them in the form of an overflowing beer
mug, and addressed them, saying:
"Greeting, my little As-Yet-Untapped-Kegs. Have one on me."
With those words, Guapa handed each of them a small beer-
filled mug. They quickly drained the mugs of the Blessed Brew and
begged for more. Guapa then laughed.
"That you shall have, my children," he said, "For you two
are to be the Holy Pair; the two Vessels to fill with my Divine
Drink; you, Mohammed X, are my Holy One; and you, Achmed A'xir,
are my Other Holy One! Now, drink... to Me!"
And with these words, Guapa filled anew the mugs of the Holy
Pair; they tipped their beer-filled vessels to Guapa; god, maker
of the best Brew anywhere, their lord and master, and all-around
great guy.
G U A P A !
*****************************************************************
The first person to send to us a black & white drawing of Elvis
performing any bodily function will receive the tape "Elvis'
Christmas Album" as a reward!
*****************************************************************
* *
* "I was wondering where all my old friends went. *
* Later, I put on a trenchcoat that I hadn't worn *
* in years. *
* *
* AND TO MY SURPRISE, *
* *
* all my old friends were in the pocket with some line." *
* *
* --- Contradiction 23 *
* *
*****************************************************************
ODE TO A FART.
by Mohammed X
O wonderfully smelly fart, thou breath of living bowels
who announceth thy presence with a motion of friction
the motion of friction that stirreth my soul
like a flurry of birds, escaping from thine lower body parts.
Even somewhat more like a bird, giving out a chirp
and wafting away in the breeze... wandering unto thy neighbor
and that self-same neighbor, not understanding, complaineth
bitterly
he curseth his lot, while plugging his nostrils.
O pity the poor neighbor. But wait! What happens
but the neighbor himself, who snickereth and holdeth his nose
Suddenly his face groweth into a strange position, with the
realization
that he had just now released the sacred vapors of the fart.
*****************************************************************
*****************************************************************
******* HERE ENDETH THE SIXTH ISSUE OF PARTHENOGENESIS ********
*****************************************************************
*****************************************************************
* and if you liked this issue, try public flagellation! *
*********************************************************