Article 148921 of alt.religion.kibology: From: bedwarm@KEINE-SPÄMMEN-BITTEcyberspace.org (Bobby Tendinitis) Newsgroups: alt.edgar,alt.religion.kibology,alt.mcdonalds.crew,alt.non.sequitur Subject: Re: the Biggest Usenet Post EVER Date: Tue, 16 Jun 1998 22:12:41 GMT Organization: Yeah! "M. Otis Beard" writes: >James Kibo Parry wrote: >> M. Otis Beard (otis@teleport.com) wrote: >> > James Kibo Parry wrote: >> > > M. Otis Beard (otis@teleport.com) wrote: >> > > > That's the Cliff's Notes to Kibo's .sig. The real thing can be found >> > > > in the Don Saklad Memorial Public Library at the corner of Chickenhead >> > > > Street and Severe Tire Damage Boulevard. You can't miss it -- it's the >> > > > only book in the building. >> > > >> > > And the librarian is Harlan Ellison, and when you ask why Kibo's .signature > >tastes like rancid Orbitz instead of rancid durian, which you might confuse with the taste of Leviticus, but it actually >> tastes like chicken, he makes you sit on an inflatable chair that > >has a built-in whoopie cushion. If you confuse Harlan by telling him he should spend more time with artificial sequins and less time wondering who >> > is taller than he is, he gets really mad and yells at you to ask >> > Asimov, who > >wrote several hundred books on the subject. In this post, Asimov still represents the "abacus," which-- conveniently enough-- >> is trapped inside the chair in a cloud of radioactive ash. The worst fallout > >comes from the whoopie cushion, which is full of Plutonium. Archimedes siphons his Dartmouth diploma through a straw, and finds Elliot Gould's diary >> > is under "The World's Greatest Literature Selected By Bennett Cerf, Whose > >Dog is Not Gay." Cerf, who died while dressed only in fruit because his Spice Girl impersonations went awry. Luckily, my neighbour's >> Wife Mistook Him For A Hat, and whose hat's wife's best friend's doctor's dog's > >mother is also not gay, once had his brain tattoed with the words "My Life And Times: The Sordid Tale of a Diesel-Hustling Motorgoat Whose >> > IQ is Bigger Than Jaffo's Penis." And when you measure Cerf's brain, >> > his > >colon gets all whiny and wants to be measured too. If you bring up >Hitler, his wife explodes into a rage of unbridled dinner mints, knowing that the >> brain's position becomes uncertain, due to the Tiny Brain Principle Thing. My > >brain is the size of an overinflated basketball on Jupiter, so my friends have taken to calling me "Diesel-Hustling Motorgoat whose >> > > IQ Is 503" but Harlan Ellison's "Angry Candy" is in the dumpster behind > >me because I hated it so much that I wouldn't waste a match on it. I >live at S. Tulane Street in downtown Princeton, a mere stone's toss from >> the dumpster factory, a reject thrown out in a super-huge Rubbermaid trash can. > >I was born in the offices of GQ magazine, but when I was a kid we moved >to Shreveport, home of fried butlers, carpal-tunnel ski-lifts, and >> > Mensa's HQ, which is better 'cause it comes before IQ in the >> > alphabet. At > >night, we used to ring people's doorbells and shout from the bushes "at 9:15 am EST, Candice Bergen will fluctuate guitar picks rapidly. At >> the sound of the tone, you will be deaf. (Long silence) Don't eat at Fatbuckle > >Rappe's in Virginia Beach, and whatever you do, DON'T DRINK BOTTLED COKE >at midnight, unless you plan on finding your favourite quarterback hiding in >> > > Arby's, he'll beat you over the head with Kibo's .signature and to escape > >from the ennui of your meaningless existence you'll have to talk to Rone and suggest that someone turn off the refrigerator and back away >> from the doomed planet Earth and its radioactive swirly Asimov chair vapor, > >and Rone will *kill* you. If Rone is your English teacher, stand atop a Slurpee machine and prepare for the news that >> > you'll have to write a dumber story than "The Chocolate Alphabet." >> > Finally, > >you'll be sent to detention FOREVER. The universe will end and then most ape-chasers will be convinced that S. Tulane Street is where >> the story starts. It starts before it ends because time exists, the reason > >being that time (which has mass) is equivalent to space. Which means >that space represents the existential ideal. To understand this further, >> > > you'll have to get into one of those barber chairs that goes up through > >Keir Dullea's refrigerator full of blue food from Space Brother Lawrence's slightly off-center and terribly Protestant version of >> Heaven and goes higher and higher until the cosmic sign bit flips and you're on > >crack. If you make a deal with Satan, your awful story will make a young French girl blush, forcing her grandparents to urinate on >> > the New York Times bestseller list, past Kirkus Reviews and straight >> > into > >Stephen King's rectum, which is wide open ever since it went into labour and delivered a 16 lb. lampshade, which decided to go into >> syndication on channel 50, sandwiched between Al Karprelian's wacky weather and > >Fran Drescher's ugly older sister who talks just like her. Stephen is on methamphetamines when he realises the lampshade looks like >> > > the ceiling except that wasn't real, it was a Bugs Bunny cartoon, so then > >you'll have to use the corpse of Mel Blanc as a ventriloquist's dummy >because nothing says lovin' like a bloated corpse. I was surprised to find that >> Isaac Asimov was really Wile E. Coyote all along, with a business card > >shark in a seersucker suit for a sidekick. Asimov invented a robot that could do nothing but print fifteen-foot high dacquiri billboards >> that said "National Resource & Super-Genius", and he was so smart that > >it couldn't say anything else, so it was really annoying. He thought about translating the text into Afraikaans, but remembered that >> he was able to make this line of the story four lines long despite > >my efforts to thwart his evil plan, but he was wrong. His brane hurt >from trying to collect the nicotine-flavoured kittens that he noticed were >> being trapped inside the radioactive death chair seat cushion cloud thing. > >If you add to this thread with lines longer than 80 characters, or-- shudder to think-- break the flow of this scintillating narrative, >> > Harlan will catch you again and bore you to sleep with his prose and >> > then > >you'll have a highly improbable dream and think it perfectly normal that Leon Trotsky is wearing a baked helmet. Imagine! A band of crazed >> critics will praise his prose, proving he's the prince of penmanship, and > >the President will rename Christmas 'Harlan Ellison Day.' Suddenly, Santa Claus shaves off his beard and tries gluing it to your elbow, and >> > > you'll just wake up screaming. Also please don't call Don Saklad a > >name like Caesar, cause Caesar Saklad is a stoopid name even for an >insane cornhusker. Hell, I can't remember the last time I slapped corn against a >> person. ATTENTION: THE EARTH WILL BE DESTROYED AT TIME T. T MINUS 7. > >T MINUS 6. . . 54321 BOOM! THE END. JUST KIDDING, DON. I know he's a vegetarian, but I can't help myself anymore. I need a burger. So I ge >> > t home after midnight because the library is closed then and he's >> > sleeping, > >dreaming about Harlan Ellison writing love-sonnets for Stacey Keach in the dimly-lit aura of his own styptic indulgence, splashing about >> in a puddle of his own Orbitz. So hungry, he ate his own face, it tasted like > >the face of an unfortunate genetic engineering experiment with a dogleg >and a much larger dogleg, yielding results that even startled my grandfather's >> > > chickenhead. I think he's more of a trog, or maybe eye-morg or even a deeve. > >Whatever Harlan Ellison is, his fiction sure does blow. "One day I was >short. The next day I was rather tall. The day after that, I was Russian. >> Then the Earth blew up and we all died, except for Isaac Asimov, who > >thinks he's better than me just because he's tall. I have a few choice words for him: 'spinach' & 'computer'. Serdar Argic >> was protected by the cloud of deadly radiation that made him strong. > >SMELLING! We went to Philadelphia together and Isaac got mad. Turns out he once swallowed a Burmese elk in Philadelphia. Hmm. >> He crushed the Sears Tower with his sideburns. RRRRRRRR!!! > >I reminded him that the Sears Tower is in Chicago, not Philly. The End." "Or is it?" remarked Elliot, as he skipped along S. Tulane Street.