O O ZZZZZZZZ 0 0 0 0 Z EEEEEE O OO O Z E O OO O z E O OO O Z EEEEE O O O O Z E 0 0 OO z E 5 ZZZZZZZZ EEEEEE _____________________________________Summer '95 "A Journal of Substance, Wit, and Dangerous Masturbatory Habits" See Ooze in Full-Color Splendor at http://www.io.com/user/ooze/ OR download a mac app version. e-mail drbubonic@aol.com for details. FROM THE EDITOR'S DUMPSTER Enter, squids of a rupturing society. Welcome to Ooze #5. It's more than just an oozing comedy magazine, it's an oozing wound, a festering sore, a bleeding pimple on the cracked face of a cruel world. I'm Raven Hate, your guide through this issue's displeasures. Why am I here, at the helm of this pathetic rag d'art? Apparently the former editors of Ooze received numerous complaints about the lack of a female perspective in their tiny, pathetic virtual-world. Naturally, this deeply affected the corporate greed lust kill kill powers who control this shared hallucination, and they sought to find someone to rope and hog-tie the problem, not incidentally, unlike my collection of foreign Boy Scouts in my basement. When I heard about the opening, I drove my throbbing 1200cc Bike up to the corporate offices in Slave City and promised not to leave too many skid marks on their balding, pink heads if they gave me the job. Now I'd like you to read a selection from my self-titled traveling hyper-text, "The Fickle State of Hate." It is for my mother. Through the burning itch of my superego, I saw a torturous rot of a god bleeding and rusty, this god of greed beckoned and like a blind child I fell down the source of my womanhood. Claw at my panties, hot and wet with my urine. And oh, wear upon them on my shorn head. The priests say this is good. FIIIIEEEEEE! You did not breast feed me! Thank you and enjoy this issue. You will howl at the cool phosphorescent glow of your monitor in rage because of the information we implant directly into your brain. Do not be alarmed, oh sheep-like one. You will be among the first to go. If you slaves want to write me and tell me I am Your Savior, send email to: ooze@io.com with 'Raven' somewhere in the subject header. Don't expect a reply, however, as I will not dirty myself with your correspondence directly. Remember, don't let the fear eat your soul. -Raven --- Staff: Raven Hate Matt Patterson Ed Schmidt Zak Weisfeld Gabe Wardell Pigpile1 Stephen Frowe Nubba the Quadruple Editor Laura Knell Whitney Fitzgerald Joe Wagner and my brother the Official Ooze Consultant. Ooze is copyrighted 1995 by Matt Patterson. Individual articles are copyrighted by their respective authors. We reserve the right to edit any correspondence sent to us. Don't steal text or art and claim it as your own, like some record company did with the cover of issue 2. Contact me BEFORE you rip us off. People will be happier that way. Everyone and everything mentioned in this issue is not real. Ooze has a circulation of 31,203. It is free. Pass it along, upload it to your favorite BBS, print up full-color hard copies and give them to the homeless, just keep it in it's current format, and give me a significant cut of the profits. And if you post individual articles to other newsgroups and stuff, mention it is from Ooze, and post the sacred e-mail address so people can subscribe. E-mail drbubonic@aol.com for more details, hate mail, subscriptions, and pies. See the end of this document for more details on subscribing and making contributions. --- THE LOVELY LETTERS IN OUR MAILBOX I, your new editor Raven, am about to channel the internet through my outward being and answer your pathetic, scum-fisted missives. Send all your complaints, blasphemies, pathetic meandering thoughts, dead rabbits, and rotten potato salad to me at: Drbubonic@aol.com I still don't know who this Doctor character is and why they can't get a mailing address with the word ooze in it, but then I am just an artist and not privy to the male dominated techno-spew that seethes through the halls here. Dear Ooze: It started out as a stupid, passing fancy, but Ooze soon got me hooked by its lurid style. "The guys at school would love this!" I would repeat to myself as I read the macabre humor, but what could I do? The answer dawned on me. I would print out the text to Ooze and shine its light among the computer illiterate masses at my High School. I brought a printout to homeroom and passed it around. At first, the reaction of the other students was mixed. Some didn't get it. Others fell back, cackling, drawing the attention of more unspoiled readers. My homeroom teacher didn't seem to react to the issue at all. Most people warmed up to the odd humor of Ooze. At the end of the period, I gave the sacred text to a friend to peruse and went about my day. And that was it, until lunch. A girl walked up to me and brought the news. Ooze, blessed text o' Ooze, had been shanghaied by a teacher. She said she got it from my friend, Jasey, and was trying to read it in class when it was confiscated. I guess something so funny retards the learning process and must be stopped. The girl felt bad, so I waited a while before I called her a bitch for fingering my friend and me as her Ooze "suppliers". We were apparently in trouble. But what teacher would be so cruel as to stifle the free distribution of literature? She informed me that it was, of course, Mrs. Boyce. An ultra conservative World History teacher, Mrs. Boyce had publicly slain the Ooze beast that was threatening the very foundation of our High School. She should have just complained to her senator thinking the National Endowment for the Arts funded Ooze, but probably called the vice-principal instead. I was doomed. Oh, wrathful Ooze, I should have left ye on the computer! I have betrayed you! Smite me and I shall be smoten! The intercom crackled over the entire school. "Stephen Frowe and Jasey Jones..." I felt a trickle of sweat build up in my armpit. "Please report to Mr. Jackson's office." Uh-oh. The principal himself wanted to see us. This must be serious. Jasey and I met in the hall and trudged up to the front office for our beheading. We walked in and were instructed to wait in the chairs right outside his room. He was already busy disciplining another student inside. Only a piece of glass separated me from his deadly room, and I swore I could hear muffled cries of pain. Soon afterwards the other student left the office, visibly shaken. Mr. Jackson didn't look very happy. The air was thick with fear and silence. Through the glass partition I could see Mr. Jackson glance down at the well-thumbed hard copy of Ooze. He read the first page, full of cryptic internet lingo. He flipped the page getting to the meat of the magazine. The first article was "Freak for a Day". It had the word 'fuck' in it, which was a no-no in my school. He kept reading. All the sudden, a magical thing happened. He did something that moved me. He started chuckling. Then he read on. 15 minutes passed. He was laughing! He motioned the receptionist to usher us in. "Boys, Mrs. Boyce may be a bit touchy in this stuff, but don't bring anything into her room any more challenging than 'The Little Engine That Could.' Just don't let it happen again." "Okay" we said in unison. "Bye, boys." "Mr. Jackson?" "What?" He said with a guilty face. He knew what it was. "The magazine?" "Uh, get it from my office... tomorrow." The guy didn't think I saw him laughing from behind the glass earlier. He he he. Why did I betray your computer origins, oh Ooze? I was forgiven, obviously, but at what cost? The best thing, I guess, is that Ooze is no longer unknown at my school. Better than that, my dear friend, is that Ooze is cool. Even the principal knows. I just hope my copy of Ooze isn't soiled when I get it back. Heil Ooze... heil Ooze! singram@future.atlcom.net --That story ate at the barnacles of my gender-driven consciousness. It also reminds me of a poem I wrote: Principal Lifeless - by Raven Hate My my my embryo is you. and i flush it away to the sewer. See you in detention, worm -- Subj: Bow before me you pitiful person Date: Mon, Mar 13, 1995 3:15 AM PDT From: st0611@bims2.cihe.ac.uk I am the Almighty erection. Don't even think about getting a stiffy because I will be watching. amen --Your opressortude has no place in a society free of crusty pus-kill. Your letter reminds me of a poem I wrote: God is A Dick - by Raven Hate I bore your child You put me in a barn Joseph all runny with snot Why did you dump me, you omnipotent bastard?-- Dear Ooze-Boy, My name is Lucius Polk Dillon, IV and I had no life whatsoever until I read a copy of Ooze #4. Then I started wearing underwear, people talked to me (instead of kicking me in the groin), and I stopped eating SPAM. Besides my cracked glass eye, everything has been great! LPD4NCSA@aol.com --You remind me of my ex-lover, performance artist Slugrot Mindsuck. During a recent performance of his anti-republican piece entitled "Newt This, Motherfucker!", he suddenly died after inserting the entire 10,000 page 1995 tax code up his anus. That reminds me of a poem I wrote: Eat My Slave - by Raven Hate Grovel, grovel Toil and swallow Hey shiny butterfly! It's a Saturday! With that last churning, remember our motto here at ooze... "Carpe Rectum" or Seize the Ass! --- OOZE INDEX Here are some collected statistics for the whole family to enjoy and to learn from. Isn't the magical world of numbers special to behold? Number of Pecks in a Bushel: 12 Number of numbers needed to count to ten: 10 Gallons of snot produced by the average human per year: 1.71 Height, in feet, from which a cat can be dropped and still survive: 100.34 Height, in feet, from which a baby can be dropped: 5.2 Number of fluid ounces of 7-Up it takes to explode after eating Pop Rocks: 12.6 Number of holes in a human head (no piercings): 5 Number of doughnuts in a "Baker's Dozen": 13 Average number of doughnuts your car can do in the Baker's yard before he calls the cops: 4 Number of orgasms a man can have before a 'blow out': 12,678 How many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop: 12, 678 How many licks it takes to get to the center of a human head: 12,678,876,231 Average number of nipples on a human body: 2.15 Percentage of Americans over 40 who can't remember where they were when they first heard John F. Kennedy died: 17 Percentage of Americans over 40 who can't remember who John F. Kennedy was: 13.1 Maximum number of people stuffed into a phone booth at the height of the 1950s fad: 17 Maximum number of fat guys: 1 Percentage of straight men who admit they are attracted to the women in the cast of "Melrose Place": 89 Percentage of straight men who admit they are attracted to the women in the cast of "Laugh-In": 93 Average number of fingers on the human body: 10.8 Average number of fingers on a dog: .04 Average number of bowel movements a human takes in a lifetime: 103, 261 Average number of times said human finishes, looks into the toilet and says: "whoah!": 27 Approximate number of rodent hairs in a pack of Oscar Meyer bologna: 8 Approximate number of rodent hairs left on the rodent: 6 Approximate number of these entries which are funny: 6 --- YOU WILL -- Zakkk@aol.com I saw the billboard today and I had the same reaction. The furtive, nervous tic returned to my left eye, my kidneys began to ache, and a strange, throbbing heat in my loins left my knees weak. There, strapped to a woman's delicate wrist, was a dark form-fitted plastic manacle. A phone. What's strange about this ad is that, for this brief instant at least, the wrist phone does not yet exist. It is not an ad for anything as mundane as an object. This is an advertisement for destiny. I don't have a wrist phone or a video phone yet, and I still live in the informational improved two-lane asphalt road of non-interactive cable, but that's not the point. The point is, while I may not have these things now and while I certainly don't need them, when it comes to having them, I WILL. I find these AT&T ads terrifying. There's something about the tone, like the narrator in Triumph of the Will, of the juggernaut, of something unstoppable. The YOU WILL tag line carries with it the strong stink of some ominous Orwellian destiny. They all start out the same way, Have you ever... received a phone call, on your wrist? Watched television 22 hours a day? Eaten a Turnip... from 2000 miles away? The opening line is posed as a question but in intonation has a definite declarative edge, like a mean Socratic dialogue, rhetorical questions meant only to reveal your ignorance, to humble you, to bring to you the proper attitude of worshipfulness towards the speaker who has taken on the potent charisma of latter-day corporate prophecy; YOU WILL. But, to me, all that this boils down to is the stripping away of my freedom. Have you ever been unable to avoid a conversation with every asshole, jerk-off, blabbermouth, boss, secretary, husband, wife, kid, loser friend, and unwanted party inviter? I can't remember the last time I had a conversation on the phone that I couldn't just as well have missed. And soon, I won't be able to. I'll be so surrounded by informational tethers that no amount of physical distance will enable me to escape. I always think about that ad of the guy on the beach, the sun setting, his portable computer displaying 256 active matrix color graphs of his tiny startup company's 2000% growth this year and I think, this isn't freedom. This is just a longer leash. I came on this realization particularly strongly during game 5 of the Knicks-Rockets series that was interrupted by the good people at NBC who thought we might like to watch O.J. Simpson's last solitary parade down the 110 freeway in Los Angeles instead of the third quarter of a very tense game. This was information at its most pervasive and most useless. I just hoped O.J. would kill himself so I could get back to watching the Knicks kill themselves. I don't want more information, I want less. My informational fantasy is the early Middle Ages, shortly after the burning of the Library of Alexandria, when a literate person could know everything that was considered knowable. Those were the days. But when I see those ads, there's tightness in my bowels that can't be wholly explained by fear. It is lust. You see, what I know and what AT&T knows is that I want it. I want it bad. I want to be up to my goddamn eyeballs in high definition, 3 million colors, stereovision digital imagery; I want to be dialed in so tight that geography becomes an anachronism--the sleek, ergonomically designed collapse of space and time into speed, into the ceaseless pulse of info like a machine gun pointed at my head gives me a hard- on as stiff as Al Gore; I want to vote by changing the channel. Secretly I want AT&T to tie me up in fiber optics until I beg. When the adrenaline fuzz fades and my heart-rate drops down to its normal paranoid rabbit-thumping, I realize what they're offering. It's like being chained up and fucked by a beautiful, shiny, leather- and-chrome-clad dominatrix. It would probably be exciting for about 35 minutes. I'd still like the option to refuse. I don't think I'll get it. YOU WON'T. --- REJECTED METAPHORS FOR THE INFORMATION SUPERHIGHWAY Most people in this great big world have a hard time visualizing what the Internet is. Al Gore is usually credited with coining the much over-used metaphor Information Super-Highway in an off the cuff statement a few years ago, and we've been stuck with it ever since. Our crack Washington corespondent, Biffy Winkler, reports that this seemingly spontaneous remark was actually the product of several agonizing months of exhaustive research. While looking for a new spring outfit in a dumpster outside the White House, Biffy uncovered a wrinkled scrap of Vice Presidential stationery with these other rejected metaphors hastily scratched out. National Information Smorgasbord Information Sewage Treatment Plant The Information Abandoned Exit-Ramp The Information Shriners' Parade The Information Open Drainage Trench Electronic Buzzy Place Old, Blind Data Pushing Wheelbarrow Full Of Meager Possessions- Way Big Steaming Pile of Information Data Zoomy Land Cyber-Fiber: A High Colonic For Interpersonal Communication Informational Bloody Bout of Diarrhea Hairy Lasagna-Way I Can Use This To Lure Small Boys To My Office Spot the Spectacular Performing Gerbil Whooee! Free pictures of a Naked lady and a Donkey! Hogwash --- I'M A BAD NERD -- Matt Patterson When I throw a football it wobbles uncontrollably. Older kids found me too pathetic to beat up so they would stuff dead leaves down my pants instead. I hadn't even kissed a girl until I was almost 17. Now, I work with computers for a living and LIKE them. I think Star Trek is a good TV show and read mostly science fiction. By any definition, I am a stereotypical Nerd. Pigeon-holed and rejected by mainstream America, I seek solace in other nerds' company in secret lairs where we play Dungeons and Dragons and watch old Tom Baker episodes of Doctor Who. But many times I've had the gates to Nerdvanna slammed closed in my face by others of my kind. Why? Because I don't belong. I am a bad nerd, and I don't know why. Why do hard-core geeks barely tolerate my presence? Because I don't take collectible fantasy game cards or Japanimation seriously? Because I suck at most video games? So what if I can't recite dialogue from Monty Python movies from memory? Perhaps they don't like the fruity smell of my deodorant. I decided it was time to figure out why I couldn't fit into Nature's Most Persecuted Genotype. I would totally immerse myself in nerddom and stalk their sordid haunts to learn where I go wrong. Like the famous anthropologists of our time, I would attempt to live among them freely and, having gained their trust, would finally be welcome as one of their own. Or maybe they'd just throw rotten bananas at me. It was a risk I had to face. STAR TREK What is the nerdiest place on earth I can think of? How about the World's largest Star Trek Convention? 10,000 fans from all over the world converge for three days in sunny Pasadena, California to worship the franchise that saved Paramount and to celebrate the living memory of L. Ron Roddenberry, shelling out tons of money in the process. I knew I could find some like-minded nerds there of all places. I didn't know what to expect when I arrived at the convention center. Most people think of Trekkies as pathetic, drooling nerdlings, and some are. Surprisingly, most of the people at the event were normal, 30-50 year-old yuppies with money to burn. Not having flaming wads of cash on hand, I was forced to sneak into the $30/day event. It was a simple matter of smudging colored magic marker on my hand and flashing it at the guards as I entered. I referred to it as my extemporaneous press pass. Internet media don't get much respect. Once inside, the taste of geek is palpable but overwhelmed by the bitterness of commercialism. The majority of the floor space was devoted to dealer booths selling anything trek related, from Shatner-faced phone cards to Do-It-Yourself Klingon prosthetic kits. Even the Franklin Mint had a booth promoting its $1000+ finely crafted collectibles. One booth made me shiver. It featured the new Star Trek credit card. A smiling pawn approached, patter ready to fire. "The Star Trek(tm) Card comes with a free year's membership to the Official Fan Club(tm)." "Doesn't this go against everything the Federation stands for?" I was trying to stay in character. "We have a low 17.1% APR," he added. "I bet GENE(tm) wouldn't have approved," I added a bit louder. Some heads turn at the mention of the Sacred Creator's name. The drone- of-the-Man quickly tried to divert his attention elsewhere. "In fact," I added, "I don't think there's even money in the Federation." Several employees were openly frowning at me. I took this as a sign that they, too, understood the irony of their situation. "This, my friends, is against all that Star Trek represents! Everyone should be provided for according to their needs!" I was shouting now, and some security people began hovering in the background. My Marxian- Federation diatribe wasn't going over very well, and my impromptu credentials might not hold up to close scrutiny, so I moved on. I had not made many friends yet. The next display that caught my attention featured a big picture of a cruise ship under a banner labeled Cruise Trek. On a table was a scrapbook filled with photos of Scotty and Wesley posing on a shuffleboard court with happy vacation-goers. You can actually go on a cruise with selected members of the cast. Amazing. I had to know more. "Does the cast pilot the boat?" I asked the lady behind the counter. "No." "Do you play shuffleboard with pucks that look like tribbles?" "No." "Does Scotty ever go into the boiler room, bang on the pipes say 'She's givin' all the power she's got!'?" "No. But it's a lot of fun. You get to hang out with the cast for a week. We're going to Bermuda this year." "How much is it?" "$1200. It's really a bargain," she added. I start to wonder if I should purchase the gem-encrusted silver model of the Enterprise-D or go on a trip with Yeoman Rand. My budget just couldn't possibly handle both with the twins in private school and all. "Are you the cruise director?" I asked. "I organize the trip so I guess you could say I am like Julie from the Love Boat." "But you aren't into blow like she was." "Excuse me?" The woman's expression changed from mild amusement to one of shock, as if I had accused her of snortin' coke right off the counter there. I still wasn't making any friends. I do have to admit that the idea of taking a vacation with actors from your favorite TV show could really catch on. I would be first in line to sail to Puerto Vallarta aboard Cruise 90210. My belly-shirt-filled fantasy is rudely interrupted by two men in a heated debate at a 'Klingon Only' dealer's table. "No, you're conjugating K'Luuthh wrong," one man instructed, "It's K'Laugh Shtopek Varratnan!" "K'laan Shotpek Vilavan!" the other shouted. "You just told me that 'the water is dog.'" "No, I didn't!" the second man protested. He was angry. I hesitantly interrupted, "Are you speaking Klingon?" "Of course," said the first guy, "You can learn it too." He gestured towards a display filled with the Official Klingon(tm) Dictionary. I thumbed through it. Some Uber-nerd took the time to invent an entirely fictional language, and these two had bothered to learn conversational Klingon. I guess you never know when you could find yourself late at night out of gas in the Klingon part of town and need directions to the local filling station. Being a good nerd must really be hard work. I took two years of Spanish in college, and about the only phrase I remember is, "Please do not execute me by rifle, I'm an American!" (çNo me fusilas, soy americano!) which is as close to speaking Klingon as I care to get. I put the book down and started to walk away. "Kaplow!" the first one saluted after me. "God Bless You," I replied. After showing my smudged hand to another three security guards, I was ushered into an immense hall filled with about three thousand people cheering the zany antics of Riker and Troi live on-stage. After wowing the audience, they finished their set and people began filing out by the horde. This was a good opportunity to grab a good seat up front for what the program simply described as "Hypno-Trek, A Journey into the Mind." I don't know why people were leaving, but the prospect of seeing people hypnotized to think they're Sulu is my idea of entertainment. Besides, I'd have a great seat when Data would speak afterwards. I made my way halfway through the hall when I noticed the seats change from normal folding to plush red chairs. A nearby sign read "Preferred Seating Only." I certainly preferred these seats, so I decided to boldly go to about the 15th row and sat down. These special seats were each assigned to a Super Trekkie who paid an extra $30/day. What do these people do for a living? Hypno-Trek was a terrible disappointment. Instead of hypnotizing people into believing they were Romulans hell-bent on destroying Earth, this poor excuse of an entertainer hypnotized people into thinking they were too hot or too cold. What a waste of my time. The assigned seats around me began to fill with people waiting to see a real-live Data. I was just hoping the person whose seat I had liberated wouldn't show up. And no one did. But about twenty minutes into his speech, an usher approached the two ladies sitting next to me who whispered something into this guy's ear. "Could I see your Preferred Seating badge?" He held out his hand in that Cop-Want-ID manner I love so much. I played dumb and hoped he would go away. The ladies started glaring at me. "Sir, do you have a ticket?" he added more loudly. Everyone in the immediate area was now upset at this "disturbance" in the expensive seats. I know when I am not wanted, so I packed up my bag and clomped out the back door, rejected. THE 'NET 20 million geeks have some form of access to the internet worldwide. Boiled over with Spam jokes, 'Cyberspace' is the ultimate playground of the nerd. I would find them and make friends at any cost. The most efficient way was through one of the many "chat" channels I had access to. Unfortunately I normally hate "chatting" on the computer. Whether it's on IRC, Compuserve CB, or my local BBS, chatting is usually a big waste of time. People rarely have anything interesting to say at all, and if you start acting "kooky" they freak out. I was committed to my project and nevertheless started to log into the America Online chat rooms when my bosses were out to lunch. Now, I know that AOL isn't the internet, but I've read several magazine articles in the last year in which reporters talk about their experiences on AOL misidentifying the chat rooms as part of the internet so I will too. Besides, if it got boring I could read my e- mail. I entered the chat area, created a room called, "I farted", and waited for my new friends to arrive. And waited. As I was about to conclude that no one wanted to speak with the flatulent, two people entered my room! Here is the transcript of out scintillating conversation: (Dr Bubonic is me.) You have just changed to room "I farted" BIGTEX18 : YOU STINK Dr Bubonic : Thank you. I am farting on the keys to my computer right now. I lost my fingers in the war, and I can only type with my gas. I have great sphincter control. (I waited 30 seconds and neither one of them typed anything, so I continued.) Dr Bubonic : When I lost my throat to Cancer, instead of drilling a stoma into my throat and speaking like a burping frog, I learned to fart my words out. I feel more like a human when I chat online because people can understand me much easier. Unfortunately, I can only produce so much.. excuse me.. gas. (30 more seconds pass) Dr Bubonic : Don't you guys ever fart? Dr Bubonic : Ok. Fine. I understand. You are silently awed by my gaseous ability. Rawmeat1 : wassup. I couldn't believe it. After my heartfelt narrative about a man who could only interact with others through colonic gas spurts, the only response I could elicit from these strangers was "wassup"? These weren't nerds, they were losers. I left them alone to exchange wassups. Rooms with a sexual theme seemed to be the most popular ones, so I decided my next room would be called, "My Mom Wants You." No sooner had I created the room than I was besieged with requests for more information about my mother and her sexual prowess: LustOnly: Ur mom wants me? Dr Bubonic: Ah.. yes. LustOnly: So ur mom does want me! Dr Bubonic: She goes to the highest bidder. LustOnly: What are we using for barter? Dr Bubonic: Gold, wheat or sheep LustOnly: How bout my nude gif for her nude gif? Dr Bubonic: Gee, Mom would love that. LustOnly: Tell me about mom! Does she have a gif to trade? Dr Bubonic: Sure, I have a whole portfolio. My mom is hot. LustOnly: Will send if ur sure mom will send hers. Dr Bubonic: My mom would love to. LustOnly: Sent. Tell mom I luv 3-ways. Dr Bubonic: Great. I'm sure she'll be thrilled. In less than 10 minutes I had received no less than six requests for nude pictures from a bunch of horny guys. Even a bisexual woman wanted to arrange a threesome with her, me, and my mom. I even got a lovely naked picture of my new friend, LustOnly. I may not have found any nerds, but at least I know if my career as an entertainer never earns me any money, I can be a hi-tech pimp. ROLE-PLAYING GAME CONVENTION Before my Junior year of High School, I was furiously into role playing geek games. My friends and I would spend hours blasting each other into simulated atomic chunks. This ended when I discovered alcohol makes you feel funny and feeling girls is even better. I hadn't played these games in years, but when I saw a flyer advertising a local gaming convention, I knew I would find nerds-a- plenty there. But this time, instead of trying to win them over with my rapier wit and irresistible charm, I would pommel them into submission with my superior strategic skills and iron will. Nerds Bow to Me! I got to the airport Hyatt around 9:30 AM, an ungodly hour for a Saturday, but the place was humming with excited and sweaty taped-glasses-fat-guy-with-speech-impediment type Nerds. It was great. Even the people at the Star Trek convention would be embarrassed to be seen here. But not me. Most of the early morning buzz revolved around a game called Magic: The Gathering. It's a simple card game in which players assume the role of a battling wizard who casts spells at other players for no apparent reason other than to kill each other. I'd simply buy a deck of the cards, figure it out and start beating nerds by the fistful. Unfortunately, getting into the game is a bit more complicated than buying a pack of cards. It has a built-in hook: You don't get all the cards to the game when you buy it. The only way to do so is to buy separate incomplete "booster" packs. Like Baseball cards, this creates a demand for rare, powerful cards driving their prices into the realm of feed-myself-for-a-week heights. The flea market area was almost solely devoted to the feeding frenzy of rabid Magic players desperately seeking relative bargains among an assortment of shifty-looking dealers. I couldn't believe the amount of money trading hands. One player-cum-dealer confided that in one hour he had made more than $500. Cash. He had spent about $200 on the cards originally, but was now tired of the game and selling off his cards. He rented a table in the flea market for a mere $15/hour and had sold about a third of his stock . Even a Wall Street analyst would be impressed by those returns. "I don't know who's buying all this stuff," he told me, "but if you wanted to get into the game now, you'd have to shell out hundreds of dollars to be competitive. They're nuts." Playing the game was out of the question, but I still had to get in on this scam. I didn't have any cards of my own, so I did the next best thing. I grabbed some notebook paper and a borrowed pen, sat down at an empty table and made some "collectible" cards of my own. One card, titled The Exploding Head card, would allow you to crush your opponents 'real-life' head with a hammer. A touching graphic demonstrated its proper use. Another allowed carnal relations with a chicken, but when played as an action, your opponent would have to go out and buy McNuggets for you. Pretty powerful if you ask me. I proudly displayed my creations on a table and waited for copious riches to sweep me over. "What's this?" someone asked, approaching my set-up. Ahh! A sucker! "These are a special set of cards for any collectible card game. Each one of these creations is a one-of-a-kind collectible signed by the artist and guaranteed to increase in value." He stared at them for another 30 seconds, shook his head disapprovingly and moved on. "Is this supposed to be a joke?" another asked incredulously. "Does it look like a joke?" "It's not funny." He stomped over to another table shaking his head. How dare I make fun of Magic! It was then that a Person With Badge noticed my activity and approached explaining that they needed my table, and could I please leave, etc. etc. I wonder if these people all come from the same vat. I hadn't really played any games yet, so I picked up my cards and left peacefully. I decided to enter a tournament for a game I used to play called Car Wars. You design a fearsome battle wagon and push a cardboard representation of it around a piece of graph paper while ramming and firing weapons at other player's cars. I used to be good and had won a customized nylon autoduelling windbreaker in a 1986 tournament. These guys had a huge assortment of books, rules supplements and magazines I had never seen before. They spoke in jargon that would make a CB armed trucker proud. "I got an incendiary VMG in the front with 2 linked HDFTs to the left. You're gonna burn!" someone bragged. Uh yeah, me too good buddy. I was in for trouble. Out of the arena gate, my car pounded away at my nearest foe with my giant blast cannon. I sped up and plowed into his side at 60 mph, crushing the driver against the arena wall. A Kill! Spittle foamed at the edge of my mouth as bloodlust filled my warrior-soul. It was then that another player, the Rules Monger, first showed his true coward-self. "You have to roll the dice now," he said. "Why?" "To see if you are unconscious. Look on page 72. It's an optional rule. You have to roll two dice to see if the impact stunned you." I didn't remember this rule, but I hadn't played the game in a long time so I rolled the dice. I rolled high, indicating my dazed driver was now semi-conscious. As my car drifted helplessly, the Rules Monger whipped around and plowed into its damaged front end. Pretty convenient, remembering an optional rule like that. His car's reinforced bumper plowed through my front end, the engine, the passengers, and out the rear of my car leaving a hollow tube of twisted metal on the arena floor. He went on to kill 3 other people too, winning the first round of the competition. A friend of his came into the room and asked how the game went for him. "I wish you were playing. Nobody here is very good," he said loudly enough for everyone to hear. Either he was going down the second round, or I was going to wait by his car in the parking lot and beat him up. The second round started well. I blasted away the tire of one player, rammed the front of another, and set fire to a third. I was racking up the kills! The Rules Monger was quiet. He only needed to kill one player to cinch the tournament and was circling, waiting. After a few rounds of waiting he started to crack. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't kill anybody. Near the end of the game, it came down to me, the Monger and a severely damaged third car. Mr. Monger pounced on the crippled target, ramming him from behind. The other car miraculously maintained control as Rules whipped by at 110 mph. Then I came up from behind and shot his tire out, cinching the lead in kill points. It was just me and Monger... and I was winning. His car was in better shape than mine, but he looked really nervous. Did he know something I didn't? I studied the board. From the sludgy pit of my brain, an idea surfaced. No, better than an idea. A rule. "If I can get my car out of the arena now, I have enough points to win, right?" I watched Senior Monger twitch. "Yeah, you don't have to kill me," he admitted, "You'd win." I punched the accelerator of my cardboard car and sped out the arena to victory. I had out ruled the Monger himself. The nerds around the table congratulated me and tried to strike up conversations asking for advice and tips. Mission accomplished. I had won the momentous battle and the respect of my Nerd peers. For a brief instant I was King of The Nerds. It was late, I was tired, so instead of basking in my new found glory, I mumbled some thank-yous and left. The blue ribbon I won is stuck inconspicuously between some Domino's coupons and my forged Employee of the Quarter certificate on my refrigerator. It's there to remind me that I could be a self- aggrandizing, self-important nerd too. When I think about it, the only difference between acceptance among these hard-core dweebs and the "popular" kids is the criteria they judge you by. Rejecting physical prowess and sexual conquest, the Nerd judges you based on your score at Pac-Man, your SAT score, and the size of your comic book collection. Generally, both groups are dead serious about their chosen pursuits and act threatened when confronted with irony or humor. That isn't to say I've given up on my new nerd pals either. I have since found friends, on and offline, who share a similar love for the same nerdy things I do but don't take them so seriously. I may not have taped glasses, a pocket protector, or be devoted to Tolkien, but I'm still gosh darned nerdy. I have to go kill a Dragon. ---- COOLUMBIA HOUSE OF VD I never get any good Venereal Diseases! I never have any fun anymore! Where can I get the good stuff, like Syphilis? I know what you mean, Marge! It's just Chlymidia over and over again! Hey Girls! Look what I got in here! That's right, 8 hard-to-find sexually transmitted diseases, for just a penny! All I have to do is buy 3 more at regular club prices! Just look at the selections you have to choose from! Life will never be dull again! Coolumbia House of VD- Great Selections at Affordable Prices! Make 8 selections from our wide variety below, send just one penny (plus $293.67 in shipping and handling dangerous cultures illegally over state lines), and you'll get your venereal diseases in 4-6 weeks. Infect all your friends, for only a penny! 12231 MC Hammer- Please Hammer Don't Give Me Gonorrhea 33234 Led Zeppelin- Houses of the Herpes 86854 Tears for Fears- Songs From the Big Clap 23343 Dr. Dre- Okay, Who's the Mutha that Gave Me Syphilis? 23111 Frank Sinatra- Greatest Infections Volume IV 65445 Nirvana- In Genital Warts 34457 Beastie Boys- Check Your Pap Smear 98946 Boys II Men- Come On Get Crabs 52346 Weezer- Dizeazer 32133 Soundtrack- Ebola Bites ----- HAPPINESS IS A HUMAN HEAD --Caligula@aol.com People say I own a lot of stupid things. Junk, they call it, although to me what's a record collection without "The Ethel Merman Disco Album" or "Zingers From The Hollywood Squares"? Many choose to mock my PEZ collection, while others wonder loudly and impolitely how I wound up with my very own copy of the film UHF. "Are all your chemicals in balance? Is there a synapse that's not firing properly in your brain?", their condescending half-smiles and arched eyebrows seem to ask. But perhaps the most useless thing I happen to own is actually the most enduring of all. It's the one item no one should dare criticize, lest they want to be tossed out on the curb. I don't know what drew me to Him in the first place: was it the $5.99 price tag, marked down from $25.99? The endearingly misspelled tag line on the box urging you to "cross his path, hear his laugh...catch his eerie rath [sic]"?? Or was it my persistent friend Matt, who, upon finding himself penniless, nagged me for over twenty minutes to take the damn thing home??? Yes, it was probably all of these things which made me finally fall for "Vincent, The Living Skull", the smiling, shiny plastic human head which adorns my mantelpiece even to this day. Vincent is my watchdog, my Guardian Angel, my friend and confidant. He knows when you are sleeping, and he knows when you're awake, as evidenced by the loud cackle which emits from his body (sorry, his cranium) when you trip the light sensor hidden at the tip of his hollow nose. Even without the 9 volt battery, Vincent lights up my living room with an incandescent grin. He glows in the dark, after all. Why his creators chose the name Vincent, I'm not sure: was it meant to invoke Vincent Price? Vincent Gardenia? Vincent Van Gogh? No, thankfully, this Vincent has both his ears on straight, and rarely does he ask to be called "The Abominable Dr. Phibes." But what's with the laugh? What's so side-splittingly funny about a skull? It isn't scary; it's absurd. (The laugh is accompanied by flashing red lights in his eye sockets...believe me, this Vincent is one full service party skull). Once, in college, we had him as a "featured guest" on our radio show. The interview consisted of us asking Vincent serious questions, then waving our hands in front of his sensor to make him go "HOO HA HA HA HA HA HOO HA HA" over and over again. Brilliant, really. I'm proud to say it almost got us fired from the station. Yes, Vincent is a true prize, a swell bargain at $5.99, and I'm proud to say I've never seen him in anyone else's home. He's beyond mere camp or cheese--his appeal is at once ethereal and inexplicable. For once, Spencer's Gifts had an item actually worth buying. But don't try to find him amidst the slew of farting puppy dogs and baseball hats with beercan holsters. I've never seen a Living Skull before or since that fateful October day in Poughkeepsie, 1989. The jolly angel of death is mine, all mine. God bless ya, Vinnie. --- SCUM-TV With the OJ Simpson trial monopolizing TV programming, it makes sense to turn to other real-life dramatic personalities for our entertainment. It's cost effective, and these people ARE interesting. Why pay through the nose for big name talent when you can get bona fide larger-than-life criminals and deviants for your show? The Turner/ Murdoch group has launched this proposal for what they call SCUM-TV. If psychotics can capture the masses of the media with their real life events, why not channel that "star power" in vehicles designed specifically for their talents? MY MOTHER, THE RENTED TRUCK FILLED WITH FERTILIZER AND FUEL OIL---Comedy Three wacky survivalists from Michigan (Jm. J. Bullocks, Tony Randall and Jimmy Walker) plot to destabilize the government each week with a campaign of terror. But Tony Randall's Mom's spirit is stuck inside their rented truck and is always driving to zany places instead of their intended targets! Watch for a guest appearance of all the Elders of Zion when the crew mistake these leaders of a world-wide conspiracy for simple FBI agents! IN SEARCH OF...---Occult/Science Fiction Each week, John Wayne Bobbit's penis is again severed and hidden in an exotic tropical local. Join hosts Leonard Nimoy and Masters and Johnson as they travel to the Bermuda triangle, the tundra of Antarctica, and maybe even your china closet... All in search of one man's misplaced appendage. HE'LL SNAP AT ANY MOMENT!---Comedy The Zucker Bros. bring you Jaleel White as Young O.J. Simpson: A wacky, zany, mentally unbalanced young college football player. In the pilot, O.J. can't decide whether to lateral to Namath or put a bullet through his skull. Leslie Nielsen and George Kennedy co-star as Voice Coach and Coach House. MENENDEZ, P.I.---Adventure Stephen J. Cannell presents Lyle, Eric, and a nerdy scientist named "Boz" teamed up to solve crime! They wear Hawaiian shirts, live in a houseboat, and brutally kill anyone who tries to get on board. Jerry Stiller and Anne Meara play the voices of their constantly kvetching, constantly dead parents. MUSLIM EXTREMIST BANDSTAND---Music Sirhan Sirhan, Mommar Quaddafi, and Dick Clark bring you this fast paced combo of preachin' and dancin', where if the record's a bomb, you'll know it! Pearl Jam, Aerosmith, and the Rolling Stones are scheduled to appear, under penalty of death. Check out the cute chicks wrapped from head to toe in sexy, traditional Muslim garb. Who knows what secrets lurk beneath those sheets! FULL HOUSE (OF FREAKS!)---Comedy Bob Saget gets locked in the mental ward with some very distinguished company: Charles Manson (Ted Danson), The Woman Who Keeps Breaking Into David Letterman's House (Glenn Close), and yes, John Stamos as the wacky Unabomber. There are eleven kids in the premiere episode, and by the end of the season, there are none. You figure it out. Randy Newman guest stars as the spirit of David Koresh as conjured up through an Ouja board. --- A WEEKEND IN THE COUNTRY Former Ooze corespondent Biffy Winkler disappeared from our offices last January under mysterious circumstances. Recently, a hastily scrawled scrap of paper from an old Sears catalog found its way into our P.O. box. We think that this fragment of a diary is Biffy's way of telling us he is adjusting to his new environment well, but we can't be sure. Day 1, Friday Evening: Bosephus and I decided that the week was so good, we should do something fun tonight. We decide that spotlighting deer would be best. While out in the woods behind our trailer park, Bosephus and I cum across a Negro. We spot-light him. Then I asked Bosephus if spotlight was a verb. Turns out 'cording to the Chicago Manual of Style it may be used as one. I decide that the next time I'm going to ask Bosephus a question, I'll shoot him through the liver first. The Negro does not take too well to all this spotlighting and begins to cus us out. Bosephus is taken aback by his orneriness (the Negro's, that is) and shoots him twice in the face. Sadly, I was too busy trying to open the bottle of Robutussin to get a good look at the action. Around eleven o'clock I drive my truck off the road and into a phone pole. Luckily we picked up some prostitutes at the Mouse's Ear and one of them was sitting on my lap. I believe that her breasts were real. Day 2, Saturday: I awake in jail which is much, much cleaner than my room in my mom's trailer. The food is about the same though. After being severely beaten and anally assaulted by a Negro prisoner with a tattoo that reads, McGovern in 72 on his forehead, Bosephus and myself are released. This is much like a morning at home except that I'm usually not set free so early. I get home just in time to catch the X-Men who are being sorely put upon by a group of cyborg Australians known as the Reavers. Beast is my favorite X-Man. Bosephus and I have a brief disagreement over whether Beast would have a larger than normal dick. I think that he would. Bosephus disagreed. His ad hominum attacks finally force me to slash his other ear off with a broken bottle of BuyLow Bargain Whiskey. Luckily it was almost empty. Sunday Morning: I wake up early and sneak into my Mama's bathroom and eat a handful of her Xanex. I also take a bottle of Aqua Net to wash them down. In a moment of paralyzing blindness as the drugs take effect, I realize Mama's been dead for four years and briefly wonder who's trailer this is. Spend the rest of the day in a coma. Monday: Back to work at the Tyson factory on Westland Road gutting chicken. Bosephus finally took the rented Ryder truck downtown for a little spin. Oh happy day! ---- READER POETRY I found these testaments of sad lives and empty spirit tucked away in one of the former editor's drawers at the office. Relics from a forgotten poetry contest. As I sorted through an endless morass of lost love and spasmodic colons, I came upon a blazing nova. Among the insipid, freak-infested drivel is an early poem I had naively submitted to Ooze a year ago, mistaking it for a radical womyn's zine. To test you, I have removed all the names from these works. It is obvious which entry is mine. --Raven ODE TO UNEMPLOYMENT Hurrah fair sir for today I will graduate from college and now have an $80,000 piece of paper which could burn in less than two seconds DEAD BIRD Yo, dead bird Get up and fly. WOMAN IN HIS BED I went to see her, but she was in his bed that sucked, so I left MIRROR IMAGES OF REJECTION #27 1/4 cup of zucchini 1/3 cup of unbleached wheat flour 1/5 cup of carrots 2 Tblspn Baking Soda 1 Pkg yeast extract mix in a pan and bake at 325 degrees for about an hour at the center rack Then remove from oven and smash it into your own skull As scalding dough dribbles down your chin ask your self why you bake to hate BUDDY BOY Wanna fight Yeah you After School by the bike racks You might bleed after I hurl a brick at your head. SINGLE URBAN MALE Dorito cheese On my fingers Farts from my ass No one else in my bed Except porno I suck. UNTITLED-1 Barney had plenty of hair on his neck. He had friends there. Star Trek ----- THE DAY I GOT TO BE SATAN --matt patterson People dream of making it big in "Hollywood"; hobnobbing with stars, making deals with high-powered executives, being directed on a big movie set, but I've already done it. I've been Satan. How could I, a lowly peon in the entertainment world, aspire to a role that has been portrayed by no less than Jack Nicholson, George Burns and Jerry Lewis? It started with an accident. I was a Production Assistant (or PA) on the set of the cinematic masterpiece Warlock II, starring Julian Sands (Room with a View, Boxing Helena). Being a PA is such a dull, mindless job, a retarded one-pawed dog could handle it. I was paid $100 a week to carry out the insane directives of a dozen delusional bosses for 12-16 hours a day. After excelling in such duties as guarding trucks from thieves in the middle of the desert, and hurling my body in front of the cars of irate residents about to drive into a shot, I was able to secure a scrub position on the more relaxed second unit. The second unit of a film is usually responsible for shooting pick- ups, special effects shots, and other pieces of film that don't need a crew of seventy to complete. My job mostly involved going to the store and buying things. Very glamorous indeed. Until the day we were supposed to shoot Satan's scenes. The scene was simple. Satan was going to come out of a misty pit of Hell to wreak vengeance upon mankind. Everything was ready to go except the mist. You got to have mist to accurately depict a pit to hell. Sammy, the effects guy, wheeled a tank of liquid nitrogen over to the pit. "The nitrogen makes a thick clowwd which'll stay in the pit," he said in his thick Scottish brogue. He forgot to mention that it's also the chemical used to keep 'ole Walt's cryogenically frozen corpse from defrosting before they find a cure for death. A stunt actor paid $ 500 a day to play Satan had been dressed in his latex demon suit and lowered into a vat. It didn't take long for the mist-shrouded stunt man to make a minor complaint. "I can't feel my feet," he whispered. "Let's get this shot off NOW!" yelled the producer. Then the stunt- guy started wheezing loudly. The producer, whose knowledge of chemistry reminded him that although our atmosphere is around 80 percent nitrogen, humans still need oxygen to breathe, and handed the actor a bottle of oxygen. "Suck on this between shots," he added thoughtfully. Unfortunately the stuntman's overwhelming need to breathe caused him to zealously crank the O2 output to max. While waiting for the next shot to begin, the stuntman collapsed from hyperventilation and was rushed to the emergency room. Sammy mumbled something about dry ice and took the tank back to his truck whistling an ancient battle hymn. The producer's evil eye began to scan the room. He and the wardrobe person began nodding at me. "Matt, you're going to be Satan," he said. Oh boy. Well, anything is better than guarding a truck. The outfit, a latex body suit, took about an hour to powder up and squeeze into but I looked super. Something like a rubbery bulimic zombie-goat. "We didn't have time to make this costume look good," the make up effects guy confided in me. "We also didn't have time to put eye-slits in the head so you're not going to be able to see." This was going to be fabulous. When I got back to the set, they weren't ready for my big scene. Rather than have me sit around doing nothing, my bosses put me to work. They were sure determined to get their $1.16/hour's worth out of me. Besides, who else is going to get them coffee? I strapped a walkie-talkie over my Satan suit and made copies for them, cleaned up, and helped keep some wandering extras from embracing the path of good. About an hour later, sweating profusely from the latex, they were finally ready for me, the star! "Now don't worry, CO2 is a much different animal. We dump dry ice in the water and the resultant steam comes out this nozzle. Just be careful it doesn't burrrn ya legs." Sammy backs away from my wood and foam tomb as they placed the goat-headed mask on my head. The second unit director came over to guide my performance in the scene. "Ok, now you're the devil, see, and you've been locked up in Hell for thousands of years, and you're finally free! You're going to stretch and claw your way out of this hole. Now remember, you're going to look twenty feet tall on the screen so you're going to be lifting several tons, so look like you're straining a little. Now you're half- way out of the hole when these two kids mess up your plans, and there's this big flash of light. Now you've gotta cover your eyes because the light is really powerful and it makes you sink back into the ground. Ok?" I nodded. "Great!" The CO2 fumes start pouring in. I can't see, I can't hear, and I'm about to make my debut as Destroyer of Worlds, Champion of Chaos. The director yelled "Action!" The cameras whirred. It was the highlight of my prodigal acting career dating back to High School. My first dramatic role was in a musical adaptation of C.S. Lewis' "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe". I had the pivotal role of The Squirrel who had a singular line at the end of the play. Utilizing the Method, I delivered the line in my best squeaky voice much to the delight of an admiring audience. Obviously the role of Satan was a juicier part. Even though I had no lines, I still had to convey total evil. Drawing on my extensive acting experience, I tried to clear my mind and think of burning children and how much fun it they can be. I still couldn't get beyond the fact I was blind, choking on unknown fumes, and smelled like a giant condom. Besides, I only did that play in High School because there was only one dressing room for the whole cast and I could see girls running around in their underpants each rehearsal. The carbon dioxide was getting to my head as I clawed my way out of Hell onto a Hollywood soundstage. I would Smite the producers for their follies! "Cut," the director yelled out, "let's do it again. Matt, this time don't wave your hands around like that. You look stupid." Did anyone ever say that to Brando? It took three days to film me coming out of the pit from all the angles they wanted. Some takes went well, while others made the crew wince, like when I banged the goat-skull against the side of the pit and knocked it off my head. Surprise! When the shooting was finally finished, the set photographer came over and took promotional shots of me in the costume howling in rage at a virgin world untainted by my evil presence. One of these photos appeared in Cinemafantastique magazine. It was bigger than Julian Sand's, the star! When the Oscar nominations were announced this year, I was floored the Academy overlooked my stellar performance. I had transformed from a movie peon to the Greatest Villain of the Universe. I had plumbed the depths of evil and depravity and emerged unscathed with my sanity and meager salary intact. The real travesty was that I wasn't credited as playing The Devil. How dare they list my credit only as second unit production assistant! Where are my adulating fans? My big trailer? My huge salary? The Devil hath cursed me for portraying him so true. Fie to that demon! And a pox onto Hollywood! ---- FAME IS JUST A NAME AWAY There are just sooooo many bands these days. And naturally, the more there are, the harder it is to stand out. The key to commanding a marquee today seems to be largely in the name. Pick a catchy one and people might at least remember you, even if you suck. Unfortunately, the imagination going into choosing these names seems to be rapidly diminishing. To save an up and coming musician's time and energy when they could be out ROCKIN, I've put together a fully categorized list with potential attention-grabbing monikers. Just match the attitude you want your band to project with the ones listed below, and select a name. POP CULTURE BLASPHEMY Examples: Eve's Plum, Don Knotts Overdrive Attitude: You are a crazy bunch of media savvy iconoclasts whose perky music might just take the pop world by storm. Dress: Very carefully thought out I-Don't-Care look. Lead singer wears an old Donnie and Marie shirt. The drummer has a Starsky and Hutch lunchbox. Proposed Names: Gilligan's Testicles Lorne Greene Day Dead Trumans Sammy Davis Jr's Glass Eye Revue PBJ Simpson Veruca H.T. Salt Fish & Chips Norman Mailer Female? Woody Allen Funt Experience Searching For Eddie Fischer Dredd Foxx Jamie Gwarr Opie's Fallopian Boxing Hitlers Father, Son, and Donny Most SOUNDS COOL BUT MEANS NOTHING Examples: Portishead, Mazzy Star Attitude: You approach the mystical in a commercial new-agey way. Your music is all about spreading a vague message of peace and conspicuous consumption. Dress: Neo-Hippiesque 'don't care' dress accented by your strong unwashed/patchouli odor. Names: Frontal Lobe Muffler Astral Downpour Boggle Flashback The Floating Grandmas Myxlplyx Turnpike Bald Man Fever Lovable Medulla Deja Vu Itch Pancreas Rooftop DRUGS/PHARMACEUTICALS Examples: Morphine, Codeine Attitude: Dangerous drugs are cool. Oh, yeah. We play music too. Dress: Do I have to get dressed?-look. Names: Penicillin Ether Really Strong Magic Marker Asper Gum Bean-O Fun Benadryls Robitusson Jello Retin and the A-tones St. Joseph's For Children Vince Calamine & The Lotions RELIGIOUSLY SIGNIFICANT Examples: Genesis, Jesus Lizard Attitude: You're band is so good, you inspire God Himself to ROCK. Dress: Standard rock fare of the time. You don't want to annoy God too much. Just in case. Names: Corinthians III Buddha Boyz MC 9,000,000,431 Ft. Jesus Hindudes Moog Mormons Go Go God Bible Bleaters Bhagavad Cheetah JUST PLAIN DISGUSTING Example: 4Skins, Revolting Cocks Attitude: Society sucks so we're going to scream and dump stuff on you. Dress: When not taking a dump onstage or running around college campuses naked, you wear freshly killed animal hide. Name: Steaming Cat Puke Urethra Franklin Eye Socket Sandwich With Cole Slaw Rudy & The Felchmonsters Anal Fissure Roasted Bunyans The Psoriasis Explosion Sizzling Foreskin Free Mucous! Pubic Cerconium Raging Dog Cock Sucking Athlete's Foot Fitting Another Man's Penis Inside Your Own For added variety you can mix 'n match name parts together for an almost unlimited variety of results! ---- EVERYTHING I EVER NEEDED TO KNOW... I LEARNED IN MY MOTHER'S WOMB In this world of hate and uncertainty, danger lurks everywhere. Why are people so hurtful and evil? Some have suggested that the world could heal itself if everyone remembered the few things they learned in Kindergarten. After exhaustive research in our Pulitzer prize winning oOze laboratories, we concluded that the answer was even simpler. You learned all you need to know nested inside your mother's womb. This is much more of a universal truth considering everyone is still weaned in a womb, and only Americans and a few Nazis ever attended Kindergarten. If our labs had only reached their conclusion sooner, I might have saved a lot of time and money on needless school. The floating stuff tastes good. Stay inside; it's warm, dark and safe. When you're pissed off, kick a lot. It gets you attention. Don't play with any tube that comes out of your belly. You're liable to choke. Avoid the wire hanger. Even though you can't see him, don't trust the muted-sounding voice who shouts a lot. There is no such thing as an impermeable fluid sac. 9 months is long enough to be with any woman. If someone forces you out of your home, it's best to go head first and let them slap you on the back. When it's over, there will be a light at the end of the tunnel. It will be a big disappointment. ---- WHERE IS OOZE? SUBSCRIPTIONS! ARE A GREAT GIFT Get Text or Mac Ooze in your mailbox! Send a groveling letter to Drbubonic@AOL.com stating whether you want Mac or Text Ooze. I send Mac Ooze to Compuserve, AOL, eWorld and internet accounts. Make sure your account can handle 1 meg+ bin-hex files if you are subscribing to the Mac version over the internet. BACK ISSUES ALSO AVAILABLE! OOZE WEB SITE! Just point your web browser to: http://www.io.com/user/ooze/ and unlock the mysteries of Ooze! View unedited text editions, or download current or previous Mac versions of this award winning publication. Included are cool sites to link to, and subscriber HomePages! Link Ooze to your Homepage and we'll link you to Ooze! Then you can marvel at my inability to grasp even the simplest of programming languages! Link the Ooze home page to your system TODAY! NEW FOR ISSUE 6-- WWW ANNOUNCE SUBSCRIPTIONS! Send us your e-mail address with the statement in the body of your message that you want to be put on the WWW ANNOUNCE list, and we'll send a short e-mail notifying you that a new issue of ooze has been posted on our website. It's easy, fun, and takes a lot less room in your mailbox. Other spots featuring Ooze: Ftp the MAC VERSION from the info-mac archive (sumex- aim.stanford.edu or any one of a number of mirrors) in the Periodical directory. Ftp the TEXT VERSION from ftp.etext.org (file path is /pub/Zines/Ooze/) America Online- Mac Games Forum (Keyword: MGM) Old issues in the publications archive. [edited for content etc.] CompuServe- Go MACFUN. Ooze is in the Game Aids/Add ons Library. [edited for content] eWorld - In the Mac Shareware Games area and the Ziff Net section. AND AT THESE FINE BBS's ECN BBS 310.204.6009 or Telnet to ecn.ecn.com virtual.village/a FirstClass BBS 508.368.4222 Send all contributions (sounds, games, articles, art, oriental rugs) to Drbubonic@AOL.com [if on AOL or file is under 32k] or ooze@io.com if not on AOL and OVER 32k. Ooze #6 is the Back-To-School Issue. Expect it around the end of August. Deadlines for submissions is the end of July. JOIN OUR STAFF TODAY!