Ë Ë Ë º º º º º º ÉÍÍÍ͹ ÉÍÍÍÍ» ÉÍÍÍÍ» ÉÍÍÍ͹ ÉÍÍÍÍ» ÌÍÍÍÍ» º º º º º º º º ÉÍÍÍ͹ º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º ÈÍÍÍÍÊÍ ÈÍÍÍͼ ÈÍÍÍͼ ÈÍÍÍÍÊÍ ÈÍÍÍͼ ÍÊÍ ÍÊÍ Doodah Humor Magazine Volume 3, Number 11 June, 1991 ---------------------------------------------------------------- Editorial Offices: Charlie Radd, Editor and publisher Paul Forrester, supervisory editor plus a staff of K's submitting articles under various aliases and/or real names. The editor can be reached through the Politics Conference on the ILink network found on PCBoard. No guarantee is made that you will receive a reply. We read the mail, but we may or may not answer it. ---------------------------------------------------------------- CONTENTS THIS ISSUE: Letters To The Editor The Lost Art of Letter Writing Don't Get Mad, Get Even ------------------------------------------------------------------------- IMPORTANT NOTICE! Due to a typesetter's error we must make the following announcement: If you are one of hundreds of parachuting enthusiasts who bought our course entitled 'Easy Skydiving In One Fell Swoop', please make the following correction: On page 8, line 16, change 'State Zip Code' to 'Pull Rip Cord'. Thank you. The Montezuma Mail Order Company. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- ** ****** ******** ******** ****** ***** ***** ** ****** ******** ******** ****** ****** **** *** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **** ** ***** ** ** ***** ****** ***** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **** ****** ****** ** ** ****** ** ** *** **** ****** ****** ** ** ****** ** ** **** ******** ******** ******** ** ** ****** ******** ******** ******** ** ** ****** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ******* ****** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ******** ** ** ** ****** ** ******** ** ** ** ****** ****** ***** ******** ******** ******** ***** ****** ****** ******** ******** ******** ****** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ****** ** ** ** ** ** ** ****** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ****** ****** ******** ** ******** ** ** ****** ***** ******** ** ******** ** ** ______________________________________________________________________ Sirs: Are any of the letters going to be real next issue? Please reply as soon as possible, as I have a bet with my boyfriend on who's going to do the housework for a month. F.K., Portland, Oregon Editor's Reply: We hope so. We are reliably informed that Miss Debbie Raymond is at this very minute processing some genuine letters downstairs. You will be able to tell the real thing. They all read as if they've been written by a drunk after a party who has, unfortunately, lost the letters file. The made up ones, we find, have a much more sober air about them. --------------- Sirs: I cannot fully express how disappointed I am with the content of your magazine. It used to be of a steamy X-rated consistency and I always bought it -- willingly going without such essentials as hamster deodorant for my pets to ensure I got my copy, despite the huge purchase price. Now, alas, I am not interested in your publication which I can no longer make head or tail of. You see, I suffer from a handicap in life. To put it simply, without using medical jargon, I can only *read* the letter X. Therefore, most printed words are nonsense to me. This is not as rare a handicap as you may think, and I am astounded that you make no concessions to us X-literate people. The odd inclusion of words like Xerxes, for example, would make all the difference to our enjoyment. Yours Truly, Xavier Xenophob, North Kansas City, Missouri Editor's Reply: Regular readers will remember that all letters seeming to come from North Kansas City are made up. Except, that is, those that really do come from North Kansas City which we always sign off as if they came from Dayton (which is in Ohio and takes a lot less typing). ---------------- Sirs: I like most of all the close-up shots you feature in your great publication, especially the asses in tight panties. Can we see a set of lovely buttocks encased in white, see through panties, close up and polka dotted for that final effect? One shot should feature the covered cheeks and the next the cheeks exposed and the panties pulled up tight between them? Hear my plea. Regards, P.L., Chicago Editor's Reply: This letter has been scientifically altered by a computer. We apologize for any annoyance or inconvenience to Mr. P.L., who was trying to say something entirely different. --------------- Sirs: I just read Weirdhouse Number 309, and boy are my lips tired. Ronald Reagan, Washington, D.C. --------------- Sirs: Ashtrays are aliens from outer space! That's right, I said ashtrays are aliens from outer space. They might act very quiet, but they're just waiting for the right moment to strike. Here is my proof: -- Ashtrays all look alike -- Ashtrays all smell alike -- Ashtrays sit in on important meetings -- Ashtrays make a humming noise (if you listen carefully) What can we do about it? I don't know. But putting out cigarettes in ashtrays should be avoided at all costs, because it really pisses them off. Also, never throw a cigarette into a toilet, because they're in on it, too. And there are billions and billions of ashtrays and toilets. Carl Sagan, Jet Propulsion Laboratory Editor' Reply: We thank you for your kind offer, but due to the necessarily limited size of "Nutworks", we cannot accept large documentary-type pieces for publication. -------------- Sirs: I can't take it any more. I have to come forward. It was *ME* to whom Shirley Maclaine was referring to when she spoke of the incident in her past life when she was raped by a Mongol invader. *I* am the Mongol warrior whom she says allegedly attacked and raped her. However, I can no longer take her lies. It wasn't her. It was, ummmm, Morgan Fairchild, whom I've slept with. Yeah, that's the ticket. Tommy "Ghengis" Flanaghan, Upper Manchuria and Tibet Editor's Reply: We wish to thank Mr. Flanaghan for his shocking expose. Rest assured that will even go so far as to say that we will go "out on a limb" to bring you the shocking details of this amazing development. --------------- Sirs: There have been allegations that members of the Indianapolis Colts defensive squad have been seen hanging out in notorious gay bars such as the Don't Drop The Soap bar and others. Let me explain. As coach, I decided that, to bolster our weak defense, we had to add a new dimension to our game plan, so I ordered my men to the gay bars. Now, whenever an opposing player gets the ball, he must worry not only about being tackled, but about getting boned up the ass as well. Coach Ron Meyer, Indianapolis, Indiana Editor's Reply: Kind of gives a whole new meaning to the position of "tight end", though, doesn't it. --------------- Readers: How many of you could see the previous reply coming down Main Street with flags and banners? --------------- Editor: Ah, yes. We know we're in the middle of summer when the Sparrows return to cappuccino. Yes, once again, the Sparrow family, George and Edna of Brooklyn, have started drinking cappuccino. They go back to it every year at this time, and I don't blame them. Who can stand espresso all the time? Sterling Rodroar, Giulissimo's Restaurant Editor's Reply: Roddy, we are still waiting for the next installment of "Cheerleader With Hot Wet Panties" for our feature book section. =============== At one time no guide for good etiquette would have been complete without many chaptters on letter writing: the forms of address to various important persons, the best way to arrange the content of the missive, and the correct way to sign off. The fact that I have come to it so late in my column shows how the letter has fallen in usefulness in these barbarous times. Nowadays, as a result of television, incomprehensible schooling, and the telephone, it is an outmoded form of communication. Even among the gentle class of person, those who still *can* write do not bother, knowing, as they do, that the few people who *can* still read are no longer able properly to *understand* thr written word. A glance at any computer bulletin board message base will readily confirm this, res ipsa loquitur. Filled to the gills with gross misspellings and the use of wrong words -- "your" when "you're" is clearly called for, the constant misuse and confusion of "there", "their", and "they're", the ever-present "alot" instead of "a lot", and the exchanging of "loose" for "lose" (the former meaning loose, as in not tight, and the latter meaning to lose, as in lost, can't find, etc.) --these message bases show the horrendous failings present in our educational system. It's probably a good thing these types don't take pen in hand to scribe a letter, else they show *in their own hand* how woefully inept at the basic art of communication they are. At least, on a bulletin board, they can claim the sabotage of line noise. FORMS OF ADDRESS: These have sunk to murky depths of vulgarity. Take, as an example, a letter written to one of the highest reigning monarchs in the world. In the old days, a letter to the Prince of Wales would read: Sir, (written by hand) As your Royal highness has intimated a desire to honour my house by shooting duck here this day se'n-night, may I humbly enquire whether your Royal Highness would prefer six crates of champagne in the punt or five of champagne and three of claret as last year. Knowing this would make it easier for me to arrange insurance for my beaters, dogs, and the other guests. (the above paragraph may be typewritten) I remain, sir, your Royal Highness's most loyal and obedient servant. Your name (the above two lines to be written by hand) By the way, for those in the uninitiated class of gracious writing, "se'n-night" is similar to "fortnight". Whereas "fortnight" is short for "fourteen nights", can you guess what "se'n-night" might be? If you said "seven nights", give yourself 5 bonus points. And so it was - a letter written by a gentleman to his future sovereign in the approved manner. But no one would -- indeed *could* -- write so today. Most of the time you would see scrawls such as: Dear Chas, (scribbled in pencil) I gave you a tinkle but no reply. Just a notelet to say would you like the herb tea before or after the lecture on alternative architecture? A frightful collection of words which will invariably be signed "Have a nice day!", followed by a caricature of a smiling face. THE MODERN LETTER: Given universal subliteracy, letters are only written as matters of record. They exist, in fact, to frighten, impress, cow, or con the poor bastard who, because he can't understand them, thinks them impressive. This being so, it isn't the content of the things that is important, it's the paper they're written on. Image counts. You should have paper that appears to have come from the office of the president of the corporation. THE CONTENT: Having got your paper, what should you put upon it? Well, today, no one who is anyone would write anything that might be understood. It should be a matter of veiled threats and long words. For example: Dear Putative Defendant in the case American Excess v Rex, Yours of the 8th ultimo conveying protensito and sans delicto a negative account surplus in the region of $10K (dollars ten Kay) having been issued, published, and uttered abroad to the detriment in factio of the person, stature, and character of the sait Putative Plaintiff in livres des poche apparantio (having abode in the jurisdiction of the Court des petites Culottes), taking, garnishing, attaching, and pulling down the home thereof and setting the dog upon (viz: Rex). Which can only be forestalled by you giving over in the amount hereunder in small unused notes to wit, $20K (dollars 20k) in default of the urgings which will take place before the Demesne Anno leading to strainings in the Uncto Domiccus. Yours, etc. A letter such as this won the writer stunned silence for very nearly 18 months from the company in question, which then actually *increased* his credit rating. Of course, threats of recourse to law are now almost obsolete among the upper class of people. We just cannot afford to fight those who claim legal aid which no gentleman can do, even if he qualifies, if he wishes to be though a gentleman. For this reason a letter like the following -- directed to a plumber in 1932 -- no longer holds water (pardon the pun) in 1988. My Dear Huggins, The toilet which you fitted recently has all but drowned my poor wife who is suffering hysterics due to one of the lids, which crashed down on her hand before she even so much as activated your device, which is now inextricably lodged in the lowered position, causing my wife even more grief, as I am unable to, to quote a phrase, "be like Dad and not like Sis, and lift the lid before I piss". Put the device to rights forthwith, or I'll have the fullest severity of the law executed upon you before flinging your wife and children out of my cottage. Yours, etc. It worked like a charm in the dear dead days. But compare it with a similar letter I dictated last week from the cockpit of a jumbo jet at Stapleton Airport: To the Director of Housing, Salem, Oregon City Council Now hear this, comrade! Send your drunken flunkies to mend the roof of 14 Johnson Mansions, Karl Marx Estate, this very moment, or I'll blow up this aircraft and all aboard her. That ended two years' struggle to sleep in a dry bed. Only language that type understands! PUNCTUATION: Forget this. Punctuation is neither used properly nor understood these days. It is far better to leave your words undotted. I discovered this aabter writing a billet doux to a young lady who had been schooled by modern methods: Dearest Paula, (I wrote) We must meet soon. Oh, how I long to tear your clothes off and make you mine. Under the clock at Victoria Station at 7pm? She, having no grasp of punctuation, didn't keep our assignment for fear of being made a pornographic show off in a public place. Such is ignorance, although I will admit to have something of the kind in mind. LETTERS TO THE EDITOR: Writing to the editor of the august journal in which I have the pleasure of enlightening my public is a thankless task. He will only consider publishing letters of complaint. I suggest they take the following form: Sir: How dare you waste space by letting that idiot ramble on incomprehensibly! Ditch this rubbish and use the space to give us pictures of Melinda's wide-open, juicy pussy! I once had a gal with a cunt like that back in college. Gave me my very first heart attack. Yours etc., etc., etc. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Guide To Revenge ABOUT THIS COURSE. Ante-Crappi-Crappus. That is the motto of the University of Life, first promulgated by our founder, Ethelred the Loose, in 964 A.D. -- Defecate before you become feces, is the translation I prefer to the vulgar "shit before you are shat upon", but what can you do when your principal is an ignorant putz? Nevertheless, the idea is sound. It is not, unfortunately, always as practical as it is desirable. There are people whose position of authority make them able to defecate upon one from a great height without warning. This, of course, is designed to help you get your revenge. It is no accident that it is placed in your curriculum. It is also here to warn students that even a diploma from this university cannot make one immune from tiny turds of the petty official. Thus warned, you will not lose faith in our great alma mater, nor be at a loss what to do. The motto of this Study Module should be Crappus Ruggii Roulettus (when shat upon, go roll on his astrakhan carpet). WHAT IS REVENGE? Study these examples: 1. A bartender barred a man for complaining about the quality of the beer. The man went out, got into his truck, and drove it through the bar. 2. A bartender barred a man for complaining about the quality of the beer. The man bribed the brewery driver to deliver eight barrels of sour slops. Then as the noise of complaint rose high that evening, he walked into the bar and apologized to the barkeeper for insulting his beer. Number one is not revenge, it is vengeance. Number two is revenge. Revenge makes the punishment fit the crime. It is sweet. TEACHING BY EXAMPLE. There is no telling which jumped-up pipsqueak will cause you annoyance or what his circumstances will be. Learning in this field must be by studying examples and getting into the correct attitude of mind. Honing a part of your brain to see what it is your insulter would least like to happen to him, and working out a way of making it happen which doesn't land you in court. LESSON 1 - THE HOTELIER. You book into a hotel with your secretary under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Smith. The owner smells a rat. Keeps asking you how your wife is. "And the other lady you were here with in June, Mr. er...Smith," he says, although he's never seen you before in his life. You booked a double room but you get a single with two beds pushed together. The heating is off. The sink is blocked and coitus is continually interruptus by the beds zinging apart on their casters and dumping you and your lady into the floor. WHAT DO YOU DO? You dare not complain! The hotelier knows you're on dodgy ground and to moan will have the chef pissing in the soup, the bed legs falling off, and the biggest bill you've ever seen at the end of it. The thing to do is just grin and tip well and bear it. THEN --- As soon as you're home, form the Baychester Sports and Social Club, get some letterhead printed up (one sheet will do), open up a bank account at a bank many miles away. Give a false name and address. NEXT --- Write to the hotel, booking it solid for the Easter holiday weekend. Do this in plenty of time. THEN --- A week before the weekend, confirm the booking by phone and send a check to cover the entire accomodation cost for the entire group for the entire weekend. Time it to arrive on Friday. That way, it will never clear before the following Tuesday. By the time the weekend arrives, the hotel is doomed to be empty. They will have a check that will bounce higher than the Moon as well. AND ---- Turn up on Easter Sunday. "I'm sure you're crowded, but I had such a great time when I was here last...". You will be given the Presidential suite at a discount. Hang around the desk saying, "Quiet for this time of year, isn't it?" until the hotelier is taken away in the loony van. Then eat a hearty 18-course dinner. And leave. At 3:00 a.m. without paying the bill. Ha! THAT CUSTOMS MAN. You know the one who insists on taking your car to bits every time you re-enter thr country and moves from port to port just to get you. Ed "Spray Job" Malconti had just this problem and took his revenge in a very lucky way. It so happened that the officer's car was stolen, given new plates and a spray job and shipped off for sale. Ed, who happened to be passing by, bought the car at an open auction and brought it back. He stood and watched while his favorite officer dismantled the vehicle. It was only as the last shreds of the back seat fell to the ground that Ed discovered documents showing that it was indeed the officer's car which he so luckily bought. He offered to have his boys down at the shop put it together at a reasonable price. The offer was refused. Rather violently. Another graduate of the university got so angry at having his luggage turned over that he deliberately put false bottoms in all his cases, placing jars inside and filled them with various substances. One officer, groping in his case, brought out handfuls of a stinking brown paste full of bits of sweetcorn. "And what..." gagged the officer, retching violently, "what ....bafr.... is this?" "False shit," smiled our friend. "What else would you expect to find in a false bottom?" This reply got him an instant strip search with an added finger up the rectum, but he was not upset. "You shouldn't have done that," he said, "not with broken skin on your finger. You see, I've got...." There was no need to complete the sentence. The officer was already in a bath of pure alcohol screaming for his doctors. "I was only saying I suffered from a spastic colon," observed our friend later. Much later. LE SNOB GARCON. You know this shit. You take the lady to a swanky joint for dinner. But the menu's all in French. And, having told her you go there all the time, you have to take a go at the language. But does the waiter help you out? Oh, no. He's got you down as a lousy tipper anyway. So he sneers and pretends not to understand your accent. And says things like, "Does meeshure want his sherry trifle and green beans with the pancakes or the devilled kidney?" WHAT TO DO: You move your chair so as to bring the front leg down rather heavily on his foot. He will then say one of two things. Either: "Fucking shit, you stupid jerk!" In which case, compliment him on his fluent Brooklyn and order a burger, fries, and chocolate shake. Or he will say: "Sacre merde, couchon, je te pis au cou...", which means he probably is French. In this case, you say, "Sacre merde? I hardly think so, not with the Beaune. One doesn't, you know. Leastways, not with the Chateau Incroyable '54, one doesn't." Ha! THE BANK MANAGER. "Dear Sir: I must draw to your attention yet again the fact that your account is overdrawn. Although I can't see how a bum like you has any chance of covering it with your pathetic salary, please put the matter right forthwith or I'll have your cash card torn up in front of the neighbors." The bastard. He wouldn't talk to you like that if you had money. But you owe him a miserable hundred and he's all superior. Of course, if you owed him half a million, he would be all over you. Odd, that! WHAT TO DO: Well, tell him you've won an out-of-state lottery. Ask his advice on investing a quarter of a million. Tell him you have to wait a week until you get the check at the special televised presentation. If he asks for confirmation, get up in a huff and be seen to walk into the bank across the street. He'll probably drag you out by the leg. During the week before your check comes through, waste his time advising you. Let him buy you lunch. Invent problems. Phone him at home in the middle of the night. Be a real pain in the ass. Meanwhile, run your overdraft as high as it will go. Put the money in another bank. Finally, inventing some excuse, take your account elsewhere. When you can't hold out any longer, pay him back his overdraft with a check. Drawn on the Bank of Lichtenstein. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Coming Next Issue: Our special Christmas issue! Fun, frolic, and hilarity! Amusement, outrageousness, and otherness! Low-I.Q. Bimbos and Macho Mental Midgets! Spectacular Stories About Stupid People!!