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 4 ZZZZZZZZ EEEEEE _____________________________________Winter '95 "A Journal of Substance, Wit, and Dangerous Masturbatory Habits" It's been one year since the annals of Ooze have been leashed upon the uninformed masses, and oh, how the world has been changed. Ooze has triumphantly swept into the mainstream consciousness of our neo-global society, and forever changed its face Who would have guessed just a year ago that we would be responsible for brokering peace between the Arabs and the Jews? Not I for one. Or predicted our successful senate bid, ousting a three term incumbent? Scant few indeed. How about the stellar artistic success of our on-line boil-popping forum? Lancing will never be the same. This issue, in addition to our usual hard hitting journalism, we begin to explore the world at large. Our roving hordes of reporters have, with great danger to themselves, sent us stories and journals from their trips abroad. In part one we focus on Places to Annoy People in the USA. If you are planning a trip, I suggest you print out this guide and throw away that moldy Let's Go book. They're full of crap. Then check out our guide to celebrity restaurants soon to open in your area. Take a simple test to confirm your own god-hood. Found out the lurid truth behind Trigonometry class. Reminisce about asses we were unduly exposed to at a tender, fleshy young age. Marvel at our stunning exclusive with 90210 star, Jason Priestley. Oooh, the excitement, the thrills, the cost to download this modern masterpiece! Bon Poupon! Staff: Matt Patterson Ed Schmidt Joe Wagner Chelsey "Sex" Unwitting Zak Weisfeld Gabe Wardell Pigpile1 Polysorbate 60 MMSDC Stephen Frowe Dan Berg nubba the triple editor Some German Guy and my brother the Official Ooze Consultant. Ooze is copyrighted 1995 by Matt Patterson. Don't steal text or art and claim it as your own, like some record company did with the cover of issue 2. More on that pending case in Ooze 5. Individual authors own the copyrights of their own pieces too. 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 30,000. 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. E-mail drbubonic@aol.com for more details, hate mail, subscriptions, and pies. --- The Lovely Letters in Our Mailbox OOZE sucks! Matt Patterson and his "friends" are dorks! I find you heinously offensive, crude, disgusting, immoral, thoughtless, uncaring and gruesomely ignorant. LOVE! why can't you write about love? Why can't you deliver a message of good will and caring to the world? You can be funny without being mean, boys. Knock-knock jokes are funny and they're not mean. "Growing Pains" was perfectly funny and it wasn't mean. I think people like YOU are what have caused the world to go downhill. By glorifying violence, belittling the sacrament of sex, and making fun of anyone who's just a teeny bit DIFFERENT, you do nothing but promote ignorance, fear, and idiocy. I only wish you could do something more constructive with your time and energy, you awful Generation Xers! Take your Ooze and shove it up your weenie slacker ass! -Bucky@omiv.com Surprisingly most people just aren't aware of the incredible amount of community work our staff actually does. Mr. Wardell visits the Los Angeles County Men's Jail every day and leads hundreds of art-starved inmates in some of the most beautiful ballet sequences seen on the West Coast. Mr. Schmidt and Wagner are known for their generosity towards the Hollywood homeless, sponsoring the bi-monthly jello-bath where any of the teeming destitute are invited to splash around in giant tubs of the gelatinous stuff. Besides writing comedy projects for Alan Thicke, I spend most of my free-time whittling prosthetic limbs from driftwood that washes up along the banks of the LA river. You watch who you call a slacker, Missy. We Care! ++ Ooze is the first e-zine I've read that didn't scream "I was written by 15- year-old losers who think fart jokes are funny and build black boxes because we can't get a date!" Okay, so maybe Ooze is sophomoric„at least it's funny, has clever illustrations, is intelligently written, and most importantly, is spell-checked... And for what it's worth, I liked the format of the first edition, because it had sounds and groovy buttons. It set it apart from the usual DocMaker 'zines. Sincerely, alaskin@aol.com We think this letter is right on the money, except that we ARE 15-year- old losers who think fart jokes are funny and build black boxes because we can't get dates. Now if we could only figure out what to do with all those nice boxes cluttering up my apartment. Oops, I just let out a big stinky fart. ++ Your web page sure does suck, but I guess you could add stuff later. The web site for io.com... now that's pretty cool! SGP3407@OCVAXA.CC.OBERLIN.EDU Be a part of the excitement! visit http://www.io.com/user/ooze ...today! --- 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 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! ANNOUNCING THE ALL NEW 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 previous Mac versions of this award winning publication. Marvel at my inability to grasp even the simplest of programming languages! Link the Ooze home page to your system TODAY! 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] AND AT THESE FINE BBS's ECN BBS 310.204.6009 or Telnet to ecn.ecn.com virtual.village/ a FirstClass BBS call 508.368.4222 If you run a system and post Ooze, you can drop a note to drbubonic@aol.com to get on this list. Whew. 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. --- THE BIG SURPRISE It was a big night out. One of my friends had invited a group of her co- workers and me out to a bar. When I got there I was introduced to an ok- looking Asian girl. She was sort of kooky and had been slamming down the drinks. She entertained the party by demonstrating her ability to put lit matches into her mouth. Amusing, but nothing really out of the ordinary. Until she grabbed my hand. "What are you doing?" I asked. "Trust me." She held my fist and extended my index finger, bracing it with both hands. She started guiding my extended finger towards her face. I thought she was going to insert my finger into her nose to pick some boogers out, but she was guiding my finger towards her eye. Strange, I thought to myself as she poked my finger into her open eyeball, instead of being squishy it was sort of hard. I thought that was a pretty neat trick to freak someone out by making them touch a hard contact lens. "Those are thick contacts," I said. "No, no. That's my glass eye," and demonstrated the fact by asynchronously twirling it around in her skull. A million questions filled my head. "Were you in the same accident as Sammy Davis Jr.?" "Do you have any weird holiday colored eyes?" "Are you available for bar mitzvahs?" But, for once, I was floored. I just stared at the wall. I had just touched a glass eye! I bet soon, once piercing and branding are laughable old fads like bell bottoms, teens will line up to have their very own glass eye. How chic! Here's a cool party trick you can use to cash in on the Glass Eye phenomenon. If you are at a party and someone drops some glass on the floor smashing it, quickly cover one of your eyes and yell, "My Glass Eye!" very loudly. It makes some people really uncomfortable, but most chicks will eventually dig how hip you are to the glass eye phenomenon. --- ARE YOU A GOD? Take this simple test and find out. 1) When you invite people over to your house for a party, they: A) Laugh and question whether anyone will show up at all. B) Come over but everyone just winds up watching TV. C) Prostrate themselves and beg for forgiveness. 2) When you meet a girl you are attracted to, you: A) Ask for her phone number so you can get together again some time. B) Flatter her incessantly and lavish her with gifts. C) Turn into a bull and rape her. 3) Your children won't listen to you. You: A) Threaten them with the loss of TV privileges for a week. B) Try to talk out your differences to make the house a happier place. C) You ignite a bush and engrave your immutable rules into stone tablets threatening to cast any who stray into flaming pits for eternity. 4) You are bored. You decide now is the time to: A) Organize your laundry into dark, and white wash. B) Commit various random violent crimes. C) Finally get around to separating the firmament from the earth and start working on night and day. 5) When you return home from work you take: A) The bus. B) A carpool on the freeway. C) The Rainbow bridge. 6) It's dinnertime. Unfortunately your cupboard is bare and you have no money. You: A) Hunt for varmint. B) Humbly ask your neighbor for assistance. C) Transubstantiate and nibble on your limbs. 7) You are having a child! You: A) Pass around cigars to all your friends. B) Knit a bonnet. C) Buy a lot of strong pain relievers because the doctor tells you the kid will spring forth fully grown from your split head. 8) The people you hang around with have names like: A) Joe, Bill, Mary, Ziggy. B) Pedro, Maria, Zapata, Francisco. C) He Who Has No Name, A'Thothton, Rah, Hera, Jesus, Michael Jackson. 9) At sporting events you fondly remember the good 'ole days when: A) Players didn't charge kids 20 bucks for an autograph. B) The beer had bubbles in it. C) The winners of the handball game would have their chests splayed open, and their still-beating hearts' would be offered to you in sacrifice. 10) Do you believe in God? A) Yes. B) No. C) How dare you question my existence, puny mortal! Total up the number of A's, B's and C's you scored. Compare the result to the chart below. 1-3 C's: You'd like to think you are all-powerful, but lack conviction. You probably only have one or two small altars in someone's shed in the countryside. Apply yourself more in the realms of subjugating mankind and exposing him to your whim. Try forcing some guy to write a book about you. 4-6 C's: You might very well be a God, but you can't be sure. Try going outside every day and hurling thunderbolts around the park. Randomly choose a city to be destroyed. Think happy thoughts. 6+ C's: You don't really need to be told this (since you're omniscient) but most likely you are a God. Don't panic. It's not the end of the world. Well, it could be if you get angry enough, so keep that nasty temper in check. Perhaps you should quit your job and start a band or something. Send Ooze copious riches. --- FREAK FOR A DAY - Ed If you've ever been to Los Angeles, you've no doubt spent a day on Venice Beach. Unlike other warm-weather hotspots, Venice is famous not for its white sand, clear waters, or tropical fish, but for its truly awesome parade of freaks. Other cities may boast of the occasional street performer, but Venice Beach is an entire strip of land devoted to amateur entertainment. You can see escape artists break out of straight jackets, daredevils juggle chainsaws, and even the occasional roller skating, turban wearing electric guitarist. Reflecting the cultural extremes of the city at large, Venice Beach epitomizes the term "fringe element." But just how hard is it to perform on the boardwalk? Thousands of tourists and locals flock every weekend to watch these amateur sensations. Can they spot a fake? Is there such a thing as a "certified" amateur performer? After spending many of my own weekends cruising the beach, watching acts from the exciting to the atrocious, I decided that possibly anyone could join their ranks. The only thing you really needed was gumption. Pure brass cojones. Unlike a club or a theatre, there's no barrier between you and the audience when you're on the boardwalk. And nothing, that is, to stop them from killing you if you suck. A seed began to germinate in my mind. Digging out a long forgotten novelty record, "The Superbowl Shuffle" from my collection, I was filled with inspiration. Within seconds on the turntable, my roommates and I felt the mad urge to breakdance. In fact, we couldn't shake the image of the four of us popping and spinning to this lite-rap chestnut. So, armed with a roll of linoleum (for the spins) and a couple of quickie flyers Matt printed up on the Mac announcing that Eazy-Ez and the Skrewball Krew were available for Weddings and Parties, we drove straight down to Venice the following weekend, determined to outclass even the worst street entertainer. Finding the right place to perform was a daunting task. We finally chose an available stretch of pavement where two sidestreets met, directly across from a burger joint. Not exactly prime, but centrally located, and without much direct competition. After a few long looks and deep breaths, Mark gently laid down the linoleum and Joe slipped the tape in his boom box. The beat started to sputter out: "We are the Bears shufflin' crew Shufflin' down, doin' it for you We're not here to start up a scuffle We're just doin' the Superbowl Shuffle" As dancers, each one of us took on a different persona: Matt became a slowly spasmodic David Byrne; Mark, in his purple robe, had kind of a mystical Tai Chi going; Joe flashed some "robot" moves, and I just flapped around like a chicken, all while the Casio-style rhythm section chugged along behind us. It was "Electric Boogalo" time! Embarrassed, maybe even frightened, our audience tried its best not to make eye contact. People would drift by, glance over, hear the awful music, and quickly move on. Some would crack up when they got about ten feet away, genuinely amused but somehow unwilling to mock. Still others would laugh right in our faces. The first paranoid thought that went through my mind was that somebody might shoot us. "What the fuck are you doing, assholes?!" some guy would yell, ripping lead bullets straight through our satiric little hearts. A militant breakdancer, some bent out of shape extra from "Beat Street", his pride destroyed would blow up in a fit of rage. "How dare you mock the great Shabba Doo Quinones!" he'd say before lynching me with his parachute pants. Suddenly, my adrenaline started to give way. "Shit, this is hard," I thought, my chest beginning to heave. Not really knowing how to pace myself, I was becoming exhausted in a matter of minutes. Those spins on the mat and kicks in the air were going to send me flat on my back. In an effort to seem convincing, we were really giving it our all; one hundred percent spaz entertainment. I developed a genuine admiration for the boardwalk entertainers who went on all day, without breaks. It's a true workout, aerobic and otherwise. And it isn't easy to maintain your enthusiasm when the crowds treat you like a festering leper. But as the tape moved past "Shuffle" and into "Pac-Man Fever", something magical began to happen. We started to pick up a little momentum. People actually stuck around to watch us, nodding and tapping in time to the music. Kids came out of their apartments to cheer us on. Maybe "Fever" was so obviously out of date that people HAD to know we were kidding. One guy came and dropped a quarter in our hat. This retarded girl paused and stood in front of Mark for a full five minutes, mesmerized by his tricky moves. My back was killing me but we were on our way to success. By the time the tape came to an end, we'd blazed through four "Shuffles" two "Fevers" and, as an added bonus, The Chipmunks rendition of The Cars' "Let's Go." This turned out to be the surprise hit of the afternoon, drawing hoots for our herky-jerky lip synching dance fest. Although no one tossed us roses for the big finish, we did get some warm applause from the teenage balconeers. A second guy flipped us a quarter. (I think he even took one of Matt's fliers). The kicker was this very cute, very hip looking girl with a gold nose ring came out of her apartment as we were wrapping up the linoleum and approached us. Her review? "I've lived on Venice Beach for years and you guys are the best thing I've ever seen." But even after her glowing review, she wouldn't have sex with any of us. So much for groupies. Chainsaw jugglers, roller skating guitarists, and escape artists can all kiss my ass. No one shot at us. No one even gave us the finger. It's true: any enterprising soul with a little home cooked eccentricity can join the big leagues of weirdness. You don't need a degree, or funding from the NEA to make a splash on Venice Beach. We waved our flag in the parade of deviance, and quite possibly, won the prize, or at least made a dollar and some assorted change. It had gone so well we even entertained the thought of going back another weekend, but thankfully this never came to pass. Fifteen minutes of breakdancing fame was probably about fourteen too many. NEXT: LOOTING ON RODEO DRIVE, SIDE BY SIDE WITH REAL CRIMINALS! --- EYE ON THE NEWS FEATURING JASON PRIESTLEY By Chelsey "Sex" SCJ2818@ocvaxa.cc.oberlin.edu Once again, our crack Ooze reporters have scooped all other media with this ground-breaking interview. Brandon dissed me. I drove all the way to Bemidji, Minn., five hours north of Minneapolis, to the Paul Bunyan Mall parking lot on a gray Saturday morning just to see Jason Priestley, star of Beverly Hills 90210, and snap a few photos. I was quivering with excitement. We arrived at 11:30- Jason was going to be racing his own little car in the wilds of northern Minnesota. And I was on an assignment from my local newspaper to track him down and get an exclusive. The drivers were supposed to hang out by their cars around 12 pm. We waited. 12 came, but no Mr. Hunky. 12:15 came, and no Jason. Finally, in comes his Toyota All-Trac-- and out steps some other guy, his co-driver. "Jason's really tired," he said. "He's probably not going to make it." I have been stood up. Jerk. My friend and I were so pissed we vowed to hate him forever. Rachel was even going to boycott 90210 but I quickly convinced her to at least watch the season premiere. Jason finally did come to a restaurant in my town for a pit stop that evening When he got there he was really pissed because there were a hundred people there waiting to see him. I wrote in the paper that he would be coming to town that evening-- So in a way I was an individual target of his wrath which satisfies me enormously. He acted like a big old pissy rockstar (TVstar, whatever) and was a dick to everyone for a while. Here's what the interview would have been like if he had actually bothered to show up: Jason: Wow! I'm sure glad I came all the way up to Minnesota! Me: Really? Why? Jason: Because you're so hot. My girl friend, Emily Valentine, looks dopey after she cut her hair. Me: Get on the floor and bark like a dog. Jason: Woof! Woof! I never did see him myself, but my editor sent me a big picture of him scowling in his car while trying to look sexy at the same time. I lost my big scoop, but he lost the race. --- MIX 'N MATCH MEDICAL FOOD FUN CHART Mix and Match the terrible disease with the appropriate school cafeteria meal that causes it. This puzzler has even baffled certified doctors! The first one is done for you. 1) Dysentery \ A) Chicken on Bun 2) Colitis \ B) Tuna Bumsted 3) Tapeworm \ C) Tofu Lo Mein 4) Trichinosis \ D) Bo Weevil 5) Botulism \ E) Shrimp Jumbalya 6) Illietius \ F) Escalloped Hamburg 7) Gastroenteritis \ G) Tuna Jack 8) Peptic Ulcer \ H) Curly Fries 9) Hernia \ I) Mexican Pizza 10) AthleteÍs Foot \ J) Chicken Fajita 11) Lyme Disease \ K) Spanicopita 12) Appendicitis \ L) Spicy Spinach Stromboli 13) Gingivitis \ M) Milk 14) Gonorrhea \ N) Chili Dogs 15) Salmonella \ O) Human Tooth 16) Blindness \ P) Veggie Tempura 17) The heartbreak of Psoriasis Q) Beef Stew With Biscuit --- PLACES IN A FOGOTTEN LAND The following text was found sealed in wax, locked in a rusty iron strongbox washed ashore after the recent storms here in the Los Angeles area. The brittle, stained pages within documented a dangerous, mystical journey across an ancient land. Many of the pages were torn, or at best indecipherible but our crack Ooze cryptographers were able to piece together these notes as translated from a previously unknown toungue. They are worthy of serious scholarly study. *** World's Largest K-Mart - near Oberlin, Ohio off I-80 Imagine a regular large sized K-Mart. Now add a food court, a pharmacy, a beauty salon, video store and full-sized grocery, and you may only begin to comprehend the scope of this shopping Mecca. Where else can you go to pick up a cantelope, some rollerblades and a rifle all in the same store? A great way to annoy the employees is to pick up one of the many store phones that line the walls and use the PA to broadcast your very own made-up sales to the whole store. The instructions are right on the wall next to the phone. My brother made the announcement, "This is God. You will Buy Coca-Cola Products. I Command It," to the whole store one busy Saturday. Some employees strarted to chase him, but he easily got away by ducking into the housewares department. The soda is only 25 cents. *** Mr. T's House - Lake Forest, Illinois If you're heading north from Chicago, stop by friendly Lake Forest. Go to their charming town square and ask the first person you see, young or old, where Mr. T's House is. They will happily point you towards the area's most infamous citizen. Residents of this mostly white, up-scale community were up in arms a few years ago when T chopped down a whole bunch of trees in front of his country estate. Ask them how hurt they felt at the sight of muddy stumps littering his once sylvan lawn. The house itself isn't that exciting, except perhaps for the red warning signs posted on the fence, and the two savage dogs who run out and bark at you. Neither of the dogs however wear gold chains, nor has a mohawk haircut. We shouted towards the house that we too, still pitied the fool, hoping maybe Herr T heard our message of peace. +++ Mars Cheese Castle - Racine, Wisconsin From the interstate, the Cheese Castle beckons all who enter America's Land Of Milkfat. How could anyone resist the chance to stop in and snarf handfuls of free samples? Who could pass up foam hats in the shape of a cheddar wedge? Not me. A nearby sign pointing the way to Wisconsin's Bong Recreation area makes a great photo-op to show off your new cheddary hats. *** House On The Rock - Wisconsin Dells How can anyone accurately describe House on the Rock? My architecure professor sure didn't, and he showed slides. In the middle of nowhere, a twisted prophet assembled a shrine to the assorted junk of an industrial world, and the people came. Part tourist trap, hallucinagenic architectual vision, museum, and garage sale, House On The Rock (HOTR) is simply the absolute last word in bizare attractions. Like Mecca, every person should make a pilgrimidge here at least once in their otherwise ordinary lives to witness the possible effects of long-term exposure of heavy metals on the brain. The tour begins in the actual house itself; a twisted, shag-rug encrusted maze of rooms. Most notable is the infinity room, a hall in forced perspective suspended over the ground by an overhead steel beam. Jumping up and down at the far end of the room makes tourists run in sheer panic. The rest of the "museum" is a collection of twisted folk-art, "self-playing" musical pneumatic instrument ensembles and other assorted collectible crap. A giant 50ft. high whale battles a giant squid while a bunch of proto-animatronic sea creatures blurt out twiney strands of "Octpuses' Garden". Another room has the World's largest Carosel... and not one animal on it is a horse. It is surrounded by "angels" (actually maniquens with wings) hung from the ceiling. Of course, you can't ride the thing. When we tried, steam-driven robots came out of hidden compartments and chased us away. In a section of diaromas depicting fully armored knights battling each other and hairy elephants, we came across a mother who was lecturing her children on the exhibit ("Kings wore big crowns..") The kids, weren't paying attention to their mom, so she started smacking them around. "You kids are hear to learn!" she screamed. Learn what?, I asked myself. If you put enough crap together in a series of rooms, provided little or no explanation as to what it was or why it was even there, you can charge people $14 to look at it? I guess that's educational. After that we decided to run the last 1/2 mile to the exit. When we left, I felt as if I was put through a sadistic tribal comming-of-age ceremony, and had emerged a man. A man who could survive any onslaught of cultural garbage. *** World's Largest Ball of Twine (made by one man)- Darwin, Minnesota Darwin (pop. 208) might be small enough to pass through on US route 12 before realizing you're even in it but its got a big heart, and a big ball of twine. Pieced together from bailing twine for over a thirty year period, the ball sits in a protective plexiglass cupola in the town square. It's forty feet in circumfrence, weighs 8.7 tons and is 100 percent American ingenuity. Unlike most rural amercians Ed Whateverhisnamewas wasn't satisfied with the drinkin' and screwin' that usually passed for entertainment in rural areas before satillite TV. He sensed a higher calling beyond milking cows and thrushing wheat. He was going to do something no one else had ever attempted before, and in the process save his tiny town from certain economic extinction. He would singlehandedly create a twine monstrosity. Every year, people from miles around come to Darwin for one weekend in mid-August to celebrate this brave and heroic act. The Twineball Days are said to fill the town with jubulant revelers to witness the twine parade, a dramitc re-creation of the unsettling car ride which brought the twineball from Ed's yard to its new pavillion showcase in the town square where it would be protected from the unkind weather, and even unkinder vandals. Everyone then bounces around while loudspeakers boom Weird Al's obscure ditty, "The Biggest Ball of Twine in Minnesota", celebrating the very twine monument that rests in Darwin. Afterwards partiers grab a bite to eat at the Twine Inn, a down home country resturaunt featuring a sweeping vista of the ball itself. The fifteen-year-old waitresses bubble with enthusiasm as they serve up steaming hot $1.50 pancake breakfasts. One can also purchase one of many twine-related souveneers, like a twineball pencil, notebook or the ever-popular bumper sticker (the only one on my car). Unfortunately, not all is well in stringville. It is whispered that an evil corporation in Kansas wanted to put its town on the map by setting a World's Record. They decided THEY had to have the Largest Ball of Twine, and set out to make a mockery of Ed and All He Stands For. Day and night, corporate drones toiled under harsh flourecent lighting in 12-hour shifts to complete the task. And they did. Now Kansas has the Largest Ball of Twine, but like the pyramids, it was built on the filthy backs of corporate slave-laborers for the glory of their "company". Sure, it might be the biggest, but it lacks the true pioneering spirit of Darwin's Twineball which, clearly labeled on the sign, is Made By One Man. *** Mormon Tabernacle Choir - Salt Lake City, Utah Mormon Square, the religous seat of power in downtown Salt Lake City, features bizare castle-like churches you can't go in, statues to celebrate weird "miracles" (like that of the saintly locust-eating gulls), and the old control room used to operate the entire Osmond family by remote-control. Perhaps the most familiar structure is the UFO-like Tabernacle Choir building. If you witness a concert or practice by one of the many Mormon Choirs that performs here, the director begins by introducing the group to the audience. We met a choir of a hundred or so 18-24 year old swigin' singles. Everyone in the audience clapped for them. Then the director introduced the audience to the choir. He asked for all the people from North America to raise their hands. A majority of hands went up, and the choir clapped for them! Then South Americans raiser their hands, and the choir clapped for them too. When they finally got to Africa, although I am as red blooded an American as the next guy, I decided to raise my hand. I was the only one to do so, and the entire Mormon Tabernacle Choir gave ME a hearty round of applause. I was flattered, and ready to start belting out a classic rendition of Hey Mr. Tambourine Man when they began singing themselves. So if you find yourself in Salt Lake City craving the attention of Mormons, then get on over to the Choir and raise your hand for either Africa or Austrailia. They'll clap for you. After this last sentance, the pages became too faded and cracked with age to decipher. We might never know the ultimate fate of this expedition into an ancient land we know little about. --- EXCERPTS FROM THE JAMES BROWN DIARIES Even with a whole new round of legal troubles for the beleaguered rock star, Simon and Schuster announced plans last week to publish Hyeeoww!!: The Official Biography of James Brown. The bookÍs author, Don Corneilus, spent many long hours interviewing friends, family, and even J.B. himself in order to get a true understanding of what it means to go through life with burden of the funk. In addition, Corneilus was granted permission to use a journal that Brown kept during the late 1980s, around the time of the Gravity album, and before his initial imprisonment. Since I spent this winter interning at Simon & Schuster, I was able to sneak a look at the diaries. They turned out to be the most shocking, controversial and explosive memoirs of recent memory; even more sizzling than the Buddy Hackett shocker, Just Call Me Coitus. Luckily, I was able to photocopy a few pages from BrownÍs diary before I left Simon & Schuster in January. The excerpts contained below should provide an insightful look into the many sides of the homosapien commonly known as The Hardest Working Man in Show Business. 7-12-88. Jump back. YOW! Gotta kiss myself. Heh heh ha ha: Make it funky. People, itÍs bad. I need love, love, love. Gimmie gimmie good lovinÍ. Mmm, lovinÍ. Good God. Yeeow. 7-13-88. It was a lovely Thursday morning when I awoke. The beams of sunshine quietly snuck through the blinds and nestled on my pillow, tickling my eyelids ever so gently. I dared not open my eyes yet; I had decided not to rise from my slumber until I could remember all of the ingredients to Mary LouiseÍs succulent quiche recipe. Cheese, eggs, milk.... 7-15-88. IÍve reached a conclusion: I am certainly the baddest man around. Other people walk around trying to say theyÍre bad, but itÍs definitely me whoÍs bad. My qualitative badness quotient is inordinately high. I refuse to accept anyone else as badder than myself. 7-16-88. YEEEEEEOOOOWWWW! HEH HA HOW! THIS PCP SURE IS FLY, BABY, ZIP ZOP ZOOP ABBA ZIM BA...THINK ITÍS TIME TO BEAT MY WIFE WITH A LEAD PIPE, LOAD UP MY SHOTGUN, AND LEAD THE POLICE ON A HIGH SPEED CHASE! YEEEEHHHAAAAHOWWWWW!!!!! 7-17-88. Gotta think of a good lawyer. --- THE SHOCKING TRUTH ABOUT TRIGONOMETRY! - MMSDC@AOL.COM "mental disident and hacker extraordinaire" As I was dozing off today in Trigonometry class, it began to fall into place. As my mind wandered off, I began to perceive another dimension which overlapped our own. Imagine my horror, as I realized that the teacher wasn't solving problems, but was summoning gods from another dimension trying to cross over into our own. Among them, "Nollig" was beaming his nefarious instructions to weak-willed students through the equations on the board. It wasn't really that the teacher was figuring arc cosine, but that it was a sort of pagan fertility/death rite. He wasn't using those expensive graphing calculators to solve quadratic trinomial three-dimensional analysis problems, he was really attempting to build a gateway to this other dimension to release this wholly evil math spawn on earth! It all made sense just then; Trig = Satanism. Now, I wouldn't want to violate my covenant with God, so I've decided to flunk Trig. How can I feel good about unleashing demonic terrors upon an unsuspecting world by giving in and solving these equations? I'd rather flunk trig than be responsible for the death of millions and risking an eternity in hell. That's why I've started a nation-wide information campaign against Trigonometry. Help fight to protect the souls of our nation's youth against the hidden evilness of higher mathematics! Flunk Trigonometry... before it's too late. --- THE HOLLYWOOD PLATE OF FAME Arnold Schwartzenegger & Maria Shriver have Schatzi. Dennis Hopper, Peter Fonda & Dwight Yoakam rev up their cycles at the hash slingin' Thunder Roadhouse. Even Steven Spielberg dishes up deli sandwiches at Dive. Celebrity restaurateurs are nothing new to Los Angeles, but in the last few years, they've become ubiquitous. It seems you're not really somebody in this town unless you've got a fancy chef cooking up risotto "just the way you like it" for the teeming masses. Is there anyplace to eat in this town that isn't at least PARTIALLY owned by a famous name? (Okay, maybe Jack In The Box, but I hear Tom Bosley's itching to get in on that action). In an effort to warn potential "name" investors of the risks involved with this sort of business venture, I've contacted our 1-900 astrologer who has "seen" a number of personality-driven restaurants in the future that are better off never opening their doors. Before putting any money down, it's worth gazing into the crystal ball for the sometimes grim possibilities. EATERY: Benihana Backdraft! INVESTORS: Ron Howard, Kurt Russell STYLE: Flame broiled Japanese cooking...at 350 degrees Celsius! World renowned firefighters bring their favorite recipes to life right in front of your face. Watch as wok, hose and extinguisher work hand in hand to tempt your taste buds. DRESS: Asbestos SPECIALTY: Teriyaki Tongue Lasher, Soot Fried Rice LOCATION: Universal Citywalk FATE: Liquor license taken away almost immediately EATERY: Wacky Hut INVESTORS: "Weird Al" Yankovic, Carrot Top, Gallagher STYLE: Uber fast-food. Twinkies, SPAM, and marshmallow fluff...on a sesame seed bun! Waiters and waitresses play accordion, tell knock-knock jokes, smash watermelons. DRESS: Clown attire, Devo-style chemical suits, anything Hawaiian SPECIALTY: Cherry Lime Chili Dog, Hot Fudge Halibut LOCATION: Melrose FATE: Attracts hip crowd for awhile but no one will actually touch the food. EATERY: Limey's INVESTORS: Patrick Stewart, Anthony Hopkins STYLE: Very British. Stewart reads from the collected works of Dickens every evening at 8:00 sharp. Latecomers get slapped on the wrist by stern headmaster. DRESS: Smoking jacket, pipe, and bad teeth. SPECIALTY: Fried shepherd pie with chutney glaze LOCATION: Westwood FATE: Visiting group of London punks is so riled up by the oppressive system they slice Stewart's throat and torch the place. EATERY: Rah Rah Riot! INVESTORS: Robin Leach, Rodney King STYLE: The excitement of urban anarchy, every night at dinner. Loot for your food. Take shots at cardboard cutout of Daryl Gates. Burn down, then eat, fake city skyline actually made out of marzipan. DRESS: Whatever you can find SPECIALTY: Stolen TV set Wellington LOCATION: Beverly Hills FATE: Massively successful until Rush Limbaugh is gunned down during midday Christmas lunch. EATERY: Northern Lights INVESTORS: Ivan Reitman, Bryan Adams, Paul Shaffer STYLE: Unpredictable, spontaneous, irresistible: Canada. Old fashioned Canuck food the way your mom cooked it, eh? SPECIALTY: The Brew and Hide Breakfast: 240 oz mug of Molson w/plate of back bacon LOCATION: Sherman Oaks FATE: After big-name celebrity rollout, the question sets in: what exactly IS Canadian cuisine? Shaffer attempts to revive image by getting Letterman to broadcast show there for a week; Letterman's merciless ribbing causes Alberta to secede from nation. EATERY: Der Brat House Baywatch INVESTORS: David Hasselhoff STYLE: German fare with that California beach twist. Hasselhoff croons hits from the "Night Rocker" album while giant fake wave engulfs the crowd after dessert. Stays on hand to perform CPR if necessary. SPECIALTY: Shrimp tostadas with schnitzel, goat cheese struedel LOCATION: Malibu FATE: Closes within three months. Fall 1996 launch of Munich restaurant becomes biggest boon to the German national economy since Hitler. EATERY: Cruel Fate Cafe INVESTORS: Judd Nelson, Andrew McCarthy, Anthony Michael Hall, et al STYLE: Snotty cuisine served up by former waiters turned actors who have now been forced to take their old jobs back. Agents and producers eat half price. SPECIALTY: The Breakfast Club Sandwich; Meatloaf at Bernie's LOCATION: Hollywood apartment complex FATE: More job applicants than possible customers; ugly scene ensues when diner Robert Downey Jr criticizes Judd Nelson's reuben sandwich. Immediately after this last entry Zoltar, one of our many in-house psychics, went limp and whispered, "No more!, no more!" Poor guy. --- FREEDOM IS IRRELEVANT [Recruitment Pamphlet 1] We all know POLITICS are a JOKE. There are too many people in this country to have a truly representative government. Why not SUPPORT a party that Peels away THE BULLSHIT once and for all?? ROSS PEROT is a PINKO COMMIE LIBERAL. HITLER WAS A STAND UP COMEDIAN FROM The Hell State of Delaware. A party destined for the few who shall rule! WE already CONTROL the MEDIA, so no one is aware of the TRUTH-- at least, not anyone still alive. Believe our TRUTH. All lies are truth if you believe they are true. In the Party , not only do you inhale the smoke, and admit it, but you INJECT the BONGWATER on NATIONAL TV! The world is a sandbox, this country is our toy and WE WILL KICK SOME MAJOR ASS if someone tries to take it away because NUCLEAR WAR HAS ALREADY HAPPENED AND WE ALL LIVED. They just don't want us to know because they know the truth about NUCLEAR WEAPONS! It is too sick and disgusting to reveal. [But IÍll let you know that what we think is HUMAN NOW, wasnÍt 50 years ago.] People who you think are your FRIENDS might actually turn into the AUTHORITIES, MORHPHING IN FRONT OF YOUR OWN EYES! Who are we? We are here, we have always been here but not chosen to show ourselves. Now we are Actively seeking Converts to our cause, opening pathways of acceptance so we can finally come above ground and claim what is RIGHTFULLY OURS. We ARE those who hold the puppet strings and have our "hands" up the fleshy colons of most the world leaders. We ALONE decide the fates of emperors, AND his HAREM! We are the political party of the next century BUT WE CAN NOT TELL YOU THE NAME OF IT. You either know.. or you don't. HINT: It's on every ballot. DESTROY YOUR COMPUTER! You ALREADY Know Too Much! Send e-mail to drbubonic@aol.com for more info. [*not affiliated with Ooze in any way. Those saps are just tools of the man.] REMEMBER: Free Thinking isn't! (Enclose 25 cents) --- THOSE WACKY GERMANS Who said Germans weren't a funny people? In that land of blood sausage and fat nude beach-dwelling tourists the spirit of mirth is very much alive! Just look at this gem culled from the internet's vast treasury of Nordic yuks. Patient: "Herr Doktor, bitte helfen Sie mir. Ich bin ganz verzweifelt. Ich rede im Schlaf." Arzt: "Das ist doch nicht so schlimm. Darueber brauchen Sie nicht zu verzweifeln. Stoert Ihr Reden Ihre Frau im Schlaf ?" Patient: "Nein, aber im Buero lachen Jewen ueber mich." Arzt: "Heil Hitler!" Translation-- Patient: "Doctor, please help me. I don't know what to do. I talk in my sleep." Doctor: "That's not so bad. You don't need to despair. Does your talking bother your sleeping wife?" Patient: "No, but in the office the Jews laugh at me." Doctor: "Hi Hitler!" --- ASSES I HAVE KNOWN by Polysorbate 60 (s766184@aix2.uottawa.ca) Everywhere you go these days it's anal-intercourse this, and anal- intercourse that, use a condom, make sure your partner is consenting, don't insert a penis fresh out of the anus into the vagina, use an appropriate lubricant, and so on. People might be focusing a bit too much attention to the anus and not enough on the actual ASS. The gluteus maximus. The buttocks. The cheeks. The duff. The keester. That comfortable fleshy mound on which you sit (on which you are probably sitting RIGHT NOW!) That jolly round fat- cushion on top of which most North Americans spend the bulk of their time. Thus, I dedicate the following oeuvre to the memorably large asses of my early childhood. If you think about it, a large ass can be a very frightening thing for a small child. Consider that most young childrens' experience of adults, when they aren't in their parents arms, is from the waist down. There you are, four or five years old, and you find yourself face-to-fat with an enormous pair of cheeks that not only tower high above you, but also outweigh you by a good twenty pounds. My parents, being reasonably fit, had modest behinds; as such, I was a stranger to the vast, bizarre world of fat asses that so many of us take for granted. The numerous ass- encounters of my pre-school years, while for the most part revolting rather than scarring, have resulted in a select series of bulbous buttocks being permanently blazed into my memory. FIVE MEMORABLY LARGE ASSES OF MY EARLY CHILDHOOD ------------------------------------------------ (names unchanged to indict the guilty) (1) The Next-Door Neighbor-Lady, Dale God did she have a fat ass. I'd go over to call for my friend Chris (her son) and she would answer the door, her joweled, piggish face crowned by a spiky mass of pastel hair-curlers. As she would turn to scream "Chris" up the stairs, I would watch, fascinated, as her immeasurable buttocks rotated through some one hundred and eighty degrees. Slowly, the giant bottom would be revealed to me, passing through the quarter-moon, the half, the three-quarters until the tides changed, the werewolf howled its eternal agony, and I was presented with the fullness of Dale's tremendous backside. Though I did not have the theoretical knowledge to verbalize it, I always had the vague fear, with that innate understanding of physics common to all children, that the inertia of her vast posterior would somehow cause her to overbalance and crash to the floor. I think Chris was terrified of her. I know I was. (2) Linda the Oral Hygienist No child of four looks forward to a visit to the dentist, and I was no exception. My fear, however, was not of whirring drills, sharp steel probes, nor even that awful bubble gum- flavored fluoride treatment, but of Linda's mountainous derriere. There I would be, sitting innocently in the large, tan imitation-leather dentist's chair, my mouth bubble gum-fresh from the fluoride treatment, wishing for another Dixie-cup of water to rinse the horrid taste from my mouth. Linda would come in, smiling her cheerful smile, and gazing owlishly at me through her large round glasses. Everything would be fine until she bent over to get me my new toothbrush out of the bottom drawer. Then, without warning, I would be confronted by her gigantic ass, in all it's stark, hospital-green, bulging obesity. The twin hemispheres would strain mightily at the translucent fabric of her polyester slacks, fighting for freedom as she rummaged for my favorite color. I would watch in horror as the crudely stitched, Made-In-Taiwan seams were stretched to their absolute limit, fearing that THIS time they would break under the strain of her tremendous fleshy bulk. Each time I prepared myself for the worst, praying that the thin thread would be able to prevent ONE LAST escape attempt by Linda's mammoth tush. That expertly- woven Taiwanese fabric continued to fight the good fight throughout my years with Dr. Wilson, and thus my sanity remained intact. (3) Large Woman in Loblaws, circa 1979 I only saw her once. That was enough. It was the biggest ass I think I've ever seen, perhaps the largest that has ever existed. Piled precariously on top of two massive, Suomo- wrestler legs, it MORE than amply filled her tent-like pink jogging pants. I still recall that as I watched, she selected several rows of Mr. Christie cookies from the shelf, gathering her beloved in her flabby arms and arranging them gently in her overflowing cart. Then, to my disgusted delight, she delicately de-wedgied several feet of pink fleece from the dark canyon that divided the two halves of her colossal fat-farm keester. From that day forward, I have never eaten a Mr. Christie cookie. (4) Bob, my Dad's Boss "Call me Uncle Bob" he said after introductions, but all I could think was "That guy has a BIG BUM." So, from then on he was UNCLE BIG BUM BOB. It's not really that common for men to have large asses. Usually men's fat is strictly a gut thing; you know, you see a man with a little tiny bum and this giant, third- trimester-we're- pretty-sure-it's-twins GUT. It's pretty funny- looking when you think about it. But Bob, Uncle Bob, had one of the biggest asses I've ever seen. It used to make me laugh to imagine him farting; I bet his huge cheeks flapped and made a really funny noise. (5) Mrs. Edmunds, the Librarian at my Elementary School OK, so I said this was only going to be pre-school asses. I lied; this woman's ass made such an impression on me, that I had to include it here. Her butt was not just disgustingly HUGE, but it had a certain shelf-like quality to it that was truly amazing. Really, her ass didn't gently SWELL like some fat asses, it actually made a ninety-degree angle with her back. You could set something down on Mrs. Edmunds' shelf-ass and it would stay there. It really was quite an anatomically anomaly. A paradox of pudge. Some recesses, when there was nothing else to do, we would just stand around discussing Mrs. Edmunds' ass. Was it real? Did she have something hidden up there? Was she ass-pregnant? We thought it was very practical; she could carry books around on it if she wanted to. Mrs. Edmunds favored bulky, shapeless skirts, so we could never be completely sure that she had a REAL pair of buttocks and not some sort of strange prosthetic or bizarre ass-disfiguration. To this day, Mrs. Edmunds' ass remains a mystery. If you are around small children, and have a fat ass, remember that you might be affecting these children permanently. --- HOW TO GET FREE INFLIGHT MOVIES AND LOOK LIKE A DORK Stuck on a long boring flight? Finish the scintillating airline magazine? Re-reading the instructions on the barf bag? The stewardess approaches, selling headsets for that latest Hollywood blockbuster. That Ted Danson epic is just the thing to relieve that sky-high boredom. You reach into your pocket to shell out four of your hard earned dollars when you realize, egads! You have no money! Fear not, brave traveler, for I will unlock the secrets of pirating sound from airline movies... guaranteed! Airline headsets operate more like a stethoscope than an ordinary set of stereo headphones. The speakers are built into the armrest of your seat, and the headsets are just tubes that direct the sound to your ears. All you have to do is provide an alternate medium. First, set the station you want to hear on the armrest. The movie is usually on channel one or two. Then, crank up the volume as loud as it will go. Sometimes this alone is enough to make out the soundtrack to the movie, but you usually can't understand what the characters are saying. Not that what Mackulky McClucklin has to say is particularly important, but why do things half-way? Rip the back cover off the handy airline magazine. Rip the cover in half, and proceed to roll each of the halves into a separate funnel. Stick the small end of the funnel into one of the holes where the headsets are supposed to go. It might take a bit of finagling to get the funnel point the right size to fit in the hole. Repeat with the other funnel in the other hole. Point the funnels up, toward your head. You should be able to hear the movie pretty well by now. If you can, bring the arm rest up closer to your ear. People usually look at you funny because you have two big paper funnels aimed at your head, but laugh harder at them. They're the suckers who paid four bucks for this crap! And don't worry if the noise you are making "disturbs" those passengers who are not participating in the cinema orgy being played out. They're hearing the movie for free too. This system has worked on every plane I have ever taken, and thank God it does, or I might have never seen Home Alone 2, Angels in the Outfield, and Uncle Buck. Surely these instructions will improve your life too. --- ñModern Day Medicine Loverî a chart topping song by Jason Tremblay (Mobiuss@aol.com) I can remember quite lucidly, When I was a boy, Laying on a hospital bed in an open-back gown. My parents gazed blankly, politely, out the window As the doctor probed my rectum with his finger. ñNice and tight,î said he, Though I thought it a rather odd thing to say. (CHORUS) Hey, doc, can I have another? Hey, doc, can you put me under? Send in another nurse, IÍm growing slightly worse, IÍm a modern day medicine lover. I can recall only vaguely, hazily Having radioactive syrup injected into my pelvis. Shaved my pubes, talk about razor burn, Think I pissed myself, I blame the drugs. How can they expect smalltalk while youÍre high with a wire running behind your dick? (CHORUS) I can recall painfully, disjointedly, A large nurse saying, ñThis might hurt a little bit,î As she began reeling in a three foot line that ran through my love muscle to my bladder. I still wanted to scream through all the drugs I was on During that fine February afternoon. I pissed in blue- handled water pitchers for days until I could walk again. (CHORUS) Hey, doc, can I have another? (one fer the road!) Hey, doc, can ya put me under? (amaze your friends!) Send in a sexy nurse, IÍm headinÍ for a Hearse, IÍm a modern day medicine lover. --- PREDICTIONS FOR 1995 In the long-standing tradition of tabloid excellence, we gathered together the country's top psychics: Ann Landers, Mr. Wizard, and Billy Barty to make some predictions for the new year. Live by their word. It is assured that someone will win the NBA Championships this year. It will most likely be a basketball team A sequel released this year will gross millions. It will snow several inches in parts of the Northeast forcing some schools to close for the day. A prominent politician will make a fool of themselves in public. There will be a natural disaster. A war will break out and many people will die. The prices of stocks will fluctuate. Gullible suckers will continue to shell out money for predictions by sham psychics. There will be reruns on TV this summer. Ooze will penetrate the minds of millions of weak-willed human- sheep, controlling their minds creating a zombie-like force under the command of the editors hell-bent on world domination. Twinkies will continue to have sugar in them. --- Don't miss another issue of Ooze, SUBSCRIBE TODAY! drbubonic@aol.com Mac or text. Issue 5 out in May. Send submissions!