+----+ / / _____/ / / / oomed to obscurity #38 / --- / written on 5/6/98 / / +---------- +=##[ CoNteNts hEreIn: ]#######################**+ .... $01$ introduction -- by trilobyte $02$ young life -- by trilobyte $03$ i would like breakfast -- by trilobyte $04$ blue gill -- by trilobyte $05$ try me on -- by trilobyte $06$ trunks and garbage -- by trilobyte $07$ refreshments #3048: qualified liquer' -- by trilobyte $08$ percent -- by trilobyte ```` +=######################################################=+ (=====***) introduction by trilobyte (***=====) LEDs are light emitting diodes or something. they light up when they get electricity, much like other forms of lightbulbs. if they were attached to my nerves, they might not light up. or they might. i really don't know, because i'm not a scientist. if i /were/ a scientist, i might be able to attach light emitting diodes to someone's nerves to show when there is some sort of electricity flowing through them. but that would be dumb because i am stupid. now to this month's issue. surprisingly, it is very well balanced, containing virtually one piece of literature from every virtual genre that dto is virtually known for. i know you're thinking, "that's virtually impossible," but with #38, it seems that nothing is impossible! (=====***) young life by trilobyte (***=====) marcia was sixteen years old. she collected flowers. becky, a local paleontologist, was in her room smelling the flowers when all of a sudden marcia's hair became knotted. "where's my hairbrush?" marcia asked becky. "it was on your bed last time i saw it. check there. you ought to find it there." marcia looked on her bed, but all she saw was the forgotten image of her past love. she shrieked in pain and anguish. she fell down on the floor and cried a lot. "waaaaaaaaaaah," shrieked marcia. "what's wrong, marcia?" becky asked. marcia didn't reply. "you are crying. what's the matter?" "i wonder. i wonder -- where he is. what ever happened to BOBBY?" marcia again wailed. she was so sad that all the roses in her room turned black with symbolism. "marcia, bobby died. he was in a car accident. he was killed by a drunk driver." "i hate drunk drivers! why did they kill my boyfriend? WHY? WHY MY BOYFRIEND? WAAAAAH!" becky gave marcia a big hug and then suggested that they get up paint a picture together. since both of them were abstract thinkers, it ended up looking like this: +-----------------+ | # $ #$ %@ 3 | | H $ H$ $Ji $I# | |^..^$ $09@ 1j 43| | $( $(4 j2J^ 5 | +-----------------+ with a sigh, marcia told becky how much better she felt. "releasing my emotions and frustration by creating this work has shown me a constructive way to vent my feelings. and you showed me how. i think... i... um... no." "what?" becky asked. "i think i have... well, feelings. feelings for you," marcia told becky. becky's subconscious, constantly working overtime, understood marcia's sentiment. she grabbed marcia and engaged her in a powerful, lusty embrace. "mmmmh," marcia moaned. then they took of all of their clothes and did things together. marcia's flowers returned to their original shades of red, orange, and yellow. she and becky were very close friends from then on. (=====***) i would like breakfast by trilobyte (***=====) did you ever see that movie... uhmm... Falling Down with michael douglas? HA HA HA that's a funny movie! that guy goes around and kills all those niggers and shit. HAHAHAH!% it reminds me of the LA RIOTS. people fighting for what they believe in! man! that's what life's all about! if people didn't have beliefs, what would life be like? it wouldn't be like... anything, without beliefs! and without, like, thought... man! can you imagine? if i couldn't like... think about this shit, and then like write about it, you know? that would suck! and... then, like, while i was working on my term paper, and i came up with all these badass ideas... you know? and they all tied in with other things and then stuff... i wrote them down, in paragraph form. i handed it in. my teacher said i had "good ideas." hell yeah! my teacher kicks ass! we were working on like... accents and shit in poetry, and i read this thing aloud, and i was like making my voice LOUDER and /softer/ for every like part of each word... and i did pretty good, i got a B or something... there's some people that were better than me, but they're fucking dorks, so it doesn't matter. uhmm, we were reading some poetry in that class. it was by an american guy, but he wasn't so well known or something. it can't be that hard to write that shit. you just gotta rhyme and shit. it's all about like... nothing, you know? HA HA i know! i'll write poetry! shit! a rose if my love for you was so rose-like dew, when i think i'd think of you, and when i think they're thoughts of you, like, you're the bomb and i love you, when we have sex you mount 'n' do, if we broke up i think i'd spew, but when i do i'll think of you rolling parts of lands and grass, lakes are filled with perch and bass, snooty sailors pass their gas, a rose can't match you, lovely lass, scotland bites a doggy's ass. -- trilobyte HA HA HA they'll love that shit in 300 years! that's like... the english language, man. HA HA HA! so, like, i was walking through the parking lot, and there was this asshole on a crotch rocket, and then he left and his friend he was talking to started to back out of his parking spot and i was standing behind him but he didn't give a shit so i had to run to get out of his way before he hit me or something. man, what a fucking asshole. i hate his friend, too. they both suck and probably sell crack. so, like, kill those people. make the world good and shit. (=====***) blue gill by trilobyte (***=====) i am sitting on my newly reupholstered leather davenport and the thought returned. yes, her checks had pictures of lambs on them... but does that really mean she is a shepherd? i haven't asked her yet what she does for a living... but she can't be a shepherd. being a shepherd takes lots of skill. it's like tying a shoe with one hand. you can't hold the laces and tie them at the same time. i thought about this as i sipped my espresso. the last time i drank espresso was when she was at my apartment. i leaned over to give her a kiss, but must have exploited her personal space, because she shrugged me off and then spilt her shot of espresso on my davenport. that was a few months ago, before she left for new zealand. i went to the store yesterday to buy her some new black leather pants. i thought i should have a gift to give her when she returns. she looks good in black leather pants. she also looks good naked. i can picture her fine female form in my vision. it is slender and fine, like the tender boughs of a maple sapling. her curves are a direct result of her careful living over the years, not eroded by the sands of time. the color in her face is melanin heaven. her natural skin color gives me reason to worship all of bohemia. when i was a teenager, i wore all black and tried to kill myself a number of times. then i met her, we fell in love, and we have been together ever since. at graduation yesterday, she kissed me. she and i are going to go to church tomorrow. i am an athiest, but i go for the beautiful melodies that those christians came up with. they influence my composition of dark industrial melodies. those tunes probably all came from old english pubs, but those aren't around anymore. i looked at the last sip of espresso resting in the bottom of my cup. it rolled around at the bottom of the cup as i gyrated it, leaving streaks of a gentle, wet brown behind it, which quicky evaporated. it reminded me of the muddy banks of the wishka. those waters, those muddy banks. the sand castles and the dead fish. oh, the dead fish. carp, walleye, angler, blue gills... i was rather fond of the blue gills. whenever she and i would visit the beach, i would look for a fresh batch of deceased blue gills. i'd stick my pinky in their fins and then pick them up and swing them around above my head. when i let them fly, they usually hit her, and she had wild orgasms as the warm summer sky gently fell to a restful state. love. passion. anger. that is my period of live. ouch. (=====*** try me on by trilobyte ***=====) hello, try me on. i am the dress on the rack. i will accentuate your curves and make constant love to your formful body. hello, i am a package of oreo cookies. remove my wrapper. examine what's under, open one up, and lick it. lick it clean of all of its white cream. taste good? hi. i am an iron maiden. open me and step inside. but don't close me! hey there, i'm a receptionist's desk. write your name down in my book. we'll let you know when it's ready. until then, i am a chair, too. rest your shapely tush upon my comfortable cushion. doesn't that feel great? wow! oh, and hi! i am abraham lincoln! what are you doing sitting there? get back in the damn fields and work, nigger! lo and behold! you are whom i, the penis, have been longing. grab a hold of me and i will hang you from the ceiling. (=====*** trunks and garbage by trilobyte ***=====) "WHERE THE HELL IS YOUR GARBAGE?" dick yelled. it was 5:45 am. the people who lived in this house had not put their garbage out on the curb. "I SAID, WHERE THE HELL IS YOUR DAMNED GARBAGE? HELLO!" nobody immediately responded, so dick stumbled up to their front door and pounded heavily with his gloved hand. momentarily, a woman of dick's middle age opened the door rashly with disgust. "WHAT the HELL ---" she began to question, then she saw that it was dick looking for some garbage. "oh, dick, it's just you. i had no idea. you're looking for our garbage? well, we didn't have any this week." dick picked up the woman and stuffed her in the back of his truck. he pulled a lever and watched on in glee as the compactor crushed her body into a fleshy mass of pulp. blood squirted out of her major arteries and some ended up resting directly on dick's face. with a swift kick, he sent his truck barrelling down the northern hill. he didn't know where it would be going, but he knew that it would be happy in the colder climate. meanwhile, dick didn't know what to do. he sat down on the apron in front of the woman's house and thought about his future. he couldn't be a garbage man, and he might be arrested for murder. so what should he do? he had been in situations of regret before, but this might be the most serious of all of them. he picked the grass around him and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. they became green. that's it, dick will start his own television show. he walked slowly towards the studio, and on the way he was approached by a man with thick glasses and an unshaven face. "hello," the man said. "yes?" asked dick. "yes, hello. do you collect baseball cards? hehehe! i do," the man told dick. "no, my name's dick. i don't collect baseball cards." "hee hee! hee hee!" the man's face squished and scrunched with the rest of his head whenever he giggled. his shoulders came up an inch and his nostrils flared, too. "i'm kinda in a hurry here, running from the law, and all," said dick. "but no, you see, garbage men are a cliche and, really, it isn't that funny of a profession anymore. people accept that garbagemen are doing a job that truly is necessary, and they respect that." "i know, little man. i couldn't take it anymore. in the 70's i was a greaser. then, when the 80's rolled around, i was a disco dancer. in the early 90's, i became a garbage man. but it trapped me. i couldn't get out of the union, and the good pay was the best way for me to get my cocaine fix. i couldn't live any other way. so leave me alone, and i will be fine," dick told the little man. "do you know who i am?" asked the little man. "no, i don't. would i care to know?" dick asked him. "i, in fact, am chubby checker." "no, you are /not/ chubby checker. i refuse to accept that." "you don't believe," the little man said. he raised his right hand, whistled a short and sweet tune, and he and dick were immediately located in a bagel shop. "have a seat," he said. "you are chubby checker! magical transportation! chubby checker!" "yes. i am chubby checker. have a bagel." (=====*** refreshments #3048: qualified liquer' by trilobyte ***=====) beefcake jones, he was, he was the man. he was the man who wondered of the jar, the jar that was to be -- the jar that once was to be. bar, the man, the masonry, the jar the man the pastery. donuts, rolls, they're all the same, but beefcake live to play the game. having no money, he lived on his own, to roam just where he found his home. to home is to roam, but not alone -- with wives, and kids, and buckets of foam. great debates the debacle phone, teeming with crickets and yummy black bones. watching the wheel, he turned with the pace, but long was it gone, and look on her face. the love that she felt replaced with a welt, he hit and he smacked her and told her she smellt. russian or not, we smoked all our pot, and be as it may, it's gone for today, so read all your rhyme and up the ante, bitch. jumping junipers, it's a plant on a farm -- and plant not to feed, but to look like a weed -- the flowers, the hollihocks, magic of man. nature competes but we still own the land. radios blast the sound of today, music sans feeling and waves of decay. greetings, me grammy, you smell of perfume -- i told you you're coming, you laugh at my doom. i walk on the stage, shake hands with the page, you laugh and you scream till i wake from my dream and i sweat with the fear that more i will hear but it's gone for the morn and it's with me so sworn. [ para graph 2 ] yummy, yummy! cakes on parade! stormy, so stormy, but carefully made! impress me now, before i leave, improve the pictures they paint and weave... seven by count, but not by decree -- fecal and anal, poop and pee pee. throw the table from the auction room atop the tower of babel. i'll wait at the bottom to catch it, provided it is made of lightweight foam and upton sinclair doesn't with to claim the patent. i can't fly up and catch it, you haven't made that yet... air conditioners? no. moral: by not breathing, you are endangering your well-being. (=====*** percent by trilobyte ***=====) imagine. a world in which everything was based on percentages. you can't go to class at school because that class doesn't have enough minority students. imagine. a baseball player who doesn't get into the starting lineup because his batting percentage is .148. imagine. and picture this: multiple television stations. you can flip between them whenever you want. different programs on your tv that you can choose. in a world where percentages and television stations flourished, food would be pentiful for hungry fur-headed africans, and men down south would grow larger penises. teenagers in lousiana would stop having sex with their fathers in remote tents off of the interstate. cement floors would all become tile and hats would stop looking stupid on you. cj's big lips would shrink, and he would smack a big wet kiss on your naked buttocks. i propose a change in the world that would involve putting mentally retarded people in clouds in the sky. they could interact with each other and constantly point at empty nothingness, like they do now. except then there really wouldn't be anything there except other mentally retarded people. and they could open their mouths and drool and it wouldn't matter because they're on a cloud and clouds are moisture so it would just end up coming down in a raindrop. and flute players would all flock to apple trees to help them grow by playing fur elise repeatedly on their wind instruments. they can't play synthesizers, but those people who have taken piano lessons probably could. and if they listened the the musical group "can", they would be cultured and musically ingenius collaborators. they could work together in a black dress to try to take it off so they could all get dressed. or do it. then there's the soprano who is currently on fire, and is shrieking softly to the nothingness of topless torsos. and allusions to past issues of dto would speak of mogel's essay on the few different types of humor that are currently accepted as funny. schools would print this essay out and place it on bulletin boards in cafeterias for students to read as they waited in line for their food. perhaps they're getting chips, but they might not, because they serve apples there too and other things. turtles would climb on rabbits' backs to view the beauty of the world. they would traverse mall parking lots to the evergreens nearby. underneath, the rabbit would pierce his soft pawpads with the sharp dry fallen needles. resting on the paved ground of the gas station is a crowbar. you are art oliver. > pick up crowbar you picked up the crowbar. > smash andrea on head with crowbar you smashed andrea on her head with the crowbar. she is bleeding beautifully and little pieces of her brain squirt out of the hole every few moments. > lick headrest yum! -=+################################################################+=- //doomed to obscurity productions //www.dto.net //send all submissions, comments, inquiries to: //dto@op.net //thanks for reading. -=+#################################################################+=-