These articles appeared in this issue:
A couple weeks ago, I was watching President Clinton's State of the Union address. Unlike many viewers, I was not simply watching it in anticipation of the reading of the O.J. Simpson civil trial verdict. I actually want to know what my government is doing for me. Of course, what they say they are doing and what they really are doing are two totally different things, but that's for another time.
The main focus of the President's speech was improving the quality of education in America. Basically, he wants to bring our public school students up to the level of the world's best. Of course, Bill has gone to private schools all of his life. So has Hillary. So has their daughter. And so we must ask ourselves if Bill really knows what it's like in America's public schools.
Now I'm not gonna profess to know, since I've also gone to private schools all my life as well. However, I do know one thing: state educational requirements force students to take a set amount of phys-ed classes in order to issue those students diplomas. At my private school (which is of course somewhat bound by state regulations regarding curriculum), this stipulation means a semester of swimming. And not fun swimming either. This is more like Bataan Death Swimming.
Basically what happens is we all show up and change into our swim gear, whatever it may be. We assemble and the below-average IQ swimming instructor takes the role and then tells us to swim approximately one-fifth of a mile as a warm-up. Then comes the torturous part. We are required to swim two lengths of the pool (one-thirtieth of a mile) in 90 seconds or less. Sounds easy right? Not after the twelfth or sixteenth time. See, if you make the trip in less than 90 seconds, you get the remaining time to rest before you have to do two more lengths. If you don't make it, you're basically fucked and you have to keep going.
After swimming 8 lengths non-stop at a back-blistering pace, the human brain begins to produce things that usually can only be seen with the help of psychoactive drugs. I remember one specific session not long ago where I actually saw myself in the little Vietnamese village that gets napalmed to death to the tune of "Ride of the Valkyries" in Apocalypse Now. Dum-dum-da-dum-DA-dum-dum-da-dum-DA-dum-dum-da-dum-DA-dum-dum-da-dum-DA. Straw houses are being incinerated around me, the jungles are ablaze, machine gun fire, etc. etc.
Anyway, the point is that time served in phys-ed for America's students could be better utilized for study and learning. I could use an hour a day to study my math. You could use it for film history if you didn't identify the classic scene described above.
Points of Light:
"I try playin' that pianoforte...you know, they tell you to pound out the lowdowns on the old pianoforte, but Lord be damned, so many keys was broken and the tone was dirty. People was all rowdy, spilling whatever they was drinking on everything and they wasn't attentionin' me sittin' back there pounding out the lowdown dirty tones. I tell ya, one man ain't never seen such a mess of hooligans, pimps, sharks, and whores...but that was before they closed up Storeyville, you know." -"Red Eyed" Charlie Montgomery
I first would like to pose a brief response to Mr. Deltoid's last column. My article on poseurdom was quite incomplete. I do agree with the stated idea that everyone is a poseur. In some respects, everything applies to everyone. I would also like to clarify that my article's intent was not to assert an elitist view with myself being Punk God Anti-poseur-extraordinaire, and everyone else being, of course, poseur-scum at which I scoff. Actually, my article did not go far enough in depth to come to terms with the issue presented. Oh well.
Anyways, I am now announcing my selling-out. That's right, I, Thaddeus D. Maximus, surname David Pemberton, have officially sold out. The Cooper Union for the Advancement of Arts and Sciences will be receiving my soul in a three week installment plan. I think I'll buy an Offspring T-shirt to celebrate my innanity and defaulted life.
By the way, you can e-mail me at tmaximus@antisocial.com. Please do this.
"They use ta put me playing for Ma Riney, and she say, 'Boy, go back to b-flat.' Shit, I didn't know b-flat, all I know is C and G, so I try then just to catch her voice, but that wasn't going down. So I go to Memphis Slim, he know all these facts about chords in his head, an' I buy a pint of whiskey...Slim, he love whiskey, so yeah, I got hip through Slim." -Drive 'Em Down
I severly dislike the company McDonald's. Just one reason is that they did not serve me once. My friends and I were making a movie and one scene included a guy (me) who drove through the drive-thru at McDonald's I had to order a small Coke, a small portion of McFries, one McNapkin, and one BulkStraw. As I waited in line behind some cars (it was a Saturday night and all the disco-people were on the road ordering tons of "food" at McDonald's before going out to "dance" to their "music"), I was given some puzzled looks by people who were working inside, but we decided we were to continue our quest for food. So then we approached the ever important microphone and the camera team was trembling with anxiety. I ordered the items mentioned above. The person responsible for taking my order didn't understand the words "BulkStraw" and "McNapkin"; probably nobody except McDonald's PR people actually use these words. I decided to insist on these items and the chief employee was brought to the counter. He understood me, but by then all the cars in front of me had pulled out of the drive-thru section and he could see me sitting on my bike and five people with a camera behind me. He told me to drive to the counter, which I did, and he came out steaming with anger. He went straight to the guy with the camera, stopped it, and took the film. He shouted at us that he would not allow anyone to make fun of McDonald's (HE who doesn't even get paid properly!), and that he would call the police instantly if we didn't give him our names and addresses and PISS OFF. Which we did, none of us could use trouble with the man. A week later, all of us received a letter that we were not to visit McDonald's EVER again. Of course, we celebrated this event with beer & schnapps in front of McDonald's. There is no German rule against drinking on the streets, so no one could do a thing about it. We even printed a letter of advice never to use McDonlad's again because their staff is unfriendly to bicyclists and handed it out to people leaving the place. All in all, this was good fun. Sadly, ther are no Burger King drive-thrus in the area where I live.
Punk news: Just recently, the german punk band WIZO got arrested on stage. They had insulted the government by implying that all government officers take money from companies and that they are basically fat swine feeding on the stupidity of the people. Then they sang a song about the german police being the most active fascist organization in germany and that they learned a lot from the SS as far as killing innocent people is concerned. Then some undercover cops stormed on stage and arrested the band. That's what happens when you tell the truth. Of course, a court finally had to clear the band of all charges. That much of so-called democracy is still left. How long it will be, I do not know.
I wish to complain about EPO. Several features of this self-declared "fine publication" disgust me. Let me just complain about every contributor separately:
Thaddeus Maximus is a whining, dumb idiot who blames society, not himself, for his failures. He complains about all the things that have made America rich and prosperous in the past. It is silly complainers who have no idea about true virtues and values like him who cause most of the problems in modern America. It is because of them that the pure power of capitalism cannot unfold. It is because of people like him that the kids of today are not one proud American crowd that will lead the USA into a bright and shining future. He and his fellow dissidents have made it their sole purpose to destroy all the remains of the good old middle class American Dream. His cover drawings look exactly like the pictures that were produced in the USSR during the Stalin era. And Thaddeus Maximus can't even draw a decent comic strip.
But Jay Arrgh is no better than this. He complains about a radio station that is one of the most valuable college radio stations in the USA. These people won't allow any dirty punk to talk over the National Anthem, the ancient symbol under which the proud citizens of this country gather. He evn criticizes the station for adopting professional business methods. Professional business methods are what modern society is about; without them, we would still be in the Stone Ages. Judging by the looks of it, EPO is still in the Stone Ages anyway. Jay Arrgh takes a pride in being un-American. How can anyone be so ungrateful? This country feeds him. He takes all the advantages of living in the USA. If he really is so unhappy about America, he can emigrate to Great Britain anytime. That country still has lords, so it is a bit nearer to the Stone Ages. All of his essays stink.
ERG MAD. What can you say about this person? He makes fun of the University of Toledo. This institution offers a fine education to all those in need of it. It gave a life to a lot of people who were badly in need of one. And the entrance exams that ERG MAD made fun of? Well he probably wouldn't even be allowed to TAKE them. He uses the word "ponder" twice in an essay containing around 250 words. Did he ever try to "ponder" ANYTHING? I guess not, otherwise he would be able to give a decent explanation for his name.
P.R. Deltoid is no better than this. He cannot write a proper English sentence, his political views are disturbing, and he writes about America although he knows nothing about it. He showed his real self in EPO when he tried to impress American girls with talk about his sex life. If that is what he really is after, he should better write for some pornographic magazine in Asia and keep his filth out of America.
The rest of this so-called "Media Collective" consists of some freaks of whom some are internet nerds who are of no use to society, some are ex-radioshow hosts who want to make people think they were any good, and one disgusting person who uses this magazine to talk dirty about some of the best American companies, some of the companies that still make America Number One in the world.
I want to ask you, the readers of this letter not to allow EPO to corrupt your thoughts. You probably only picked this thing up because it was free. Don't allow these people to influence your life. And you, members of this collective, start to think. I doubt you will, but you sure will stop throwing your filth at Toledo. One day the people of this town will hopefully get you into serious trouble. Underatand me?
Good chemistry is the key to the success of any band from country to death metal. Chemistry is something that the band Nine Inch Wojciak has in spades, though you wouldn't guess it if you knew their background. I recently had the opportunity to drop in on one of Nine Inch Wojciak's marathon practice sessions.
Jay Arrgh, the principal songwriter and singer of this group, is the undisputed master of his genre. The genre, in this case, is hard-edge punk rock that is still catchy enough to get stuck in your head for days. From his melodic crooning of "City Diner" to the hide-the-women-and-children intensity of "Calvin College", Jay has written some incredible material that will leave the unbelievers stunned.
However, one musician doesn't make a band, and that's where the chemistry question comes into play. NIW's bass genius, Yahweh Mod, collaborated with Jay on his last musical project, Slop, which was a marvelous failure. Nevertheless, Yahweh continues his brilliance and has even penned a few songs for the group, including the anguish-of-love-lost hyper-ballad, "Betrayal". Also, contributing to the band's sound are Otto, the no-holds-barred, stereotypical rhythm guitar player formerly of the band SubGenius (a cult favorite), and Joe Rocker, the also-no-holds-barred drummer whom no one in the band had previously known until the time came to start the band (Joe was even clueless to the meaning of the band's cryptic name).
When all is said and done, Nine Inch Wojciak have left you with a new kind of feeling: terror. Just as quickly as you were lured into a feeling of contentment through their first few songs, they do a 180 degree turnabout and destroy everything that they've created. By the end of their set, you're not sure what to think about these "four fine young lads" from Toledo. But one thing's for sure: don't you dare miss Nine Inch Wojciak when they play at the SFS Battle of the Bands on March 7 at the SFS Gymnasium. Doors open at 8 PM. Admission $3. All door profits go to some missionaries or something in Butt Fuck South America.
Greetings fanzine readers. I'm the big fat pontificator Gush Limbarge, back this month for another big fat rant and rave about the state of who gives a damn. As you know I haven't been doing crap on or off the radio. Me and my wife Sparta have had lotsa sex, and that's about it. I am working on a book entitled "Better Nodes and Fatrolls". It will be a detailed description of how to maintain fatrolls and slovenly grossness like mine. That's it people. I'm a VEG Danny! How about TV ratings? Let's chat about those stupid ass bugs that are supposed to make ignorant mommies and daddies of the world think they know what the fuck. "Son, this is PG13 and you're only 12." "But dad...this is the Sesame Street episode where Big Bird admits to Oscar that he and Mr. Snuffaluffagus are lovers! I hafta see it!!" What a crock. Who are the brain police?-to quote Mr. Zappa. The biggest problem is that the same show has different ratings each week. I had a big enough problem with those freakin' VCRplus codes. (Man I loved that VCRplus. I had it pre-programmed so I wouldn't miss an episode of Essence of Emmeril. Some of the foods he makes...oh GOD. I get moist just thinking about it. I even shorted out a picture tube once from the drool...but I won't go into it.) So one week, that extra gruesome episode of ecch files may have the dead people with the fungus and mushrooms and tomatoes and bean dip growin' out their skull...next week, Skully has a hangnail cured by an alien named "Gazoo" who is voiced by master thespian Harvey Korman. Both get different ratings. Jeeze. Could this be the worlds worst idea ever? (Well, since the Parental Advisory sticker...which was placed on a DEVO release because of the lyric from the song "Penetration in the Centerfold" which is..."There's a girl in the middle with her finger in her gash." Finger in her GUSH? (Heh, Sparta likes to do that every now and then, as long as I'd douched beforehand.) Gush wishes to propose his very own ratings system. The FAT system for rating television. If this has been done many times over, tough darts. I'm PONTIFICATING here.
That's it People...do we really need to rate another thing? Nope!! As rating stuff gets out of hand...pretty soon, our deaths will be rated...our sex will be scored...our snot will be measured...and they'll find a way to tax it all. ACK! Did I say all that? Geeze I'm fat. Anyway...that's it. Take time out for fun.
I'd like to start out by saying I do not watch talk shows. But sometimes I just can't help it. (Don't criticize! You've seen more than 10 minutes of a talk show in your lifetime!)
My point: I watched a portion of a talk show a couple months ago. There was a guy talking about how on a resumé, instead of writing your race (black, white, whatever), you should write "human". I say, screw you, dude! That's being too humanitarian.
Blind assholes say, "America is the Great Melting Pot". You know what? That was a catch-phrase to commercialize America during the time when immigration was the "thing to do". There IS such thing as race. I'm not prejudiced. You just can't deny that race exists. That's as dumb as saying there's no difference between the sexes.
Now why did I bring up race? Because of SEX. My question: should there be procreation between two people from different races? People say the products of bi-racial marriages are often made fun of and are generally not happy. Who knows? Some say that because of this tendency, bi-racial couples should not procreate. I say that the way that the child is brought up should determine whether the child will be happy, not the race which their parents represent.
You may have noticed that one of the trademarks of EIIGY POCR OFF is the fact that we never cut off the blank excess paper at the bottom of the page. Basically, the only reason we don't do it is because we don't own a paper cutter and I'm too lazy to find one. So, we publish EPO with the ubiquitous blank space at the bottom.
Some of you readers (namely Thaddeus Maximus) have expressed some concern over the "tackiness" of this unexplained blank space. To you, I say, "Hey, pal, this is D.I.Y. at its finest. If we don't wanna cut that stuff off, we won't and you're basically S.O.L." But since that would be crude, I thought of these Top Ten Things You Can Do With The Bottom Of This Page:
10) Use it during the ticker-tape parade you are gonna throw us when we take over the country and solve all of your problems for you.
9) Roll a joint with it. (Not that we're condoning the use of illicit substances, Bog forbid!)
8) Make a papier-mache pinata of Carty Finkbeiner's head.
7) Walk into a crowded lobby holding it carefully in your hands, bend over and hold it up to your ear as if it were talking to you, then start screaming obsenities and crumble it up and set it afire, all the while mumbling something about "being ungrateful that it was saved from fungus infestation."
6) Tear it apart fiber by fiber looking for the microscopic transmitter that the federal government implanted in it to track your whereabouts.
5) Fold a paper football with it and play incessantly during your lunch period and kick high, wild field goals that annoy people at nearby tables.
4) Cut the bottoms off and mail them back to us at the address on the back cover. (We'd give you a deposit, but you didn't pay for this.)
3) Make a pinhole eclipse viewer.
2) Torture people in front of you at the movies by tickling their ears slightly with it.
1) Type all over it and publish your own damn zine!
Leo (July 23-22)
You'll be super attractive this month! Unfortunately, the result of this will be attracting the lousiest dirty old lushes from every porthole this side of Brooklyn. Three guys will ask you out. Unfortunately, the only one who wasn't completely inebriated got so nervous he wet his pants.
Lowpoint: This pathetic month of your life will reach new lows when you realize your rump has been superglued to the toilet seat. Upon standing up, you bring the seat with you as it remains steadfast to your ass. A quiet realization that you cannot pull up your pants causes you to projectile vomit, further destroying your Gap sweater which, so unfortunately, you resorted to use in place of toilet paper, which had been curiously absent from the stall.
Virgo (August 23-September 23)
You die.
Libra (September 23- October 22)
Lots of new interesting new people will notice you. In fact, one of them is curiously dressed in a poop-stained Gap sweater, and no pants, with a toilet seat glued to his ass.
Love: An intense guy will see past the charm you exhibit, and look deep into your soul. And you'll be mesmerized; that is, of course, until you realize that he's O.J. Simpson.
Lucky Days: Your luck ran out a long time ago. Stop reading this immediately and slit your wrists.
Scorpio (October 23-November 21)
A special love will come into your life. Just like it does every single other month you read these horoscopes in your pathetic girl magazines. You insecure piece of trash, you vile waste of life. If I ever fing you, I swear I'll kill you painfully and excruciatingly slow.
Sagittarius (November 22-December 21)
An older lover will fall for you. His charming thirty-something style simply takes your breath away. Suddenly a large tumorous growth spurts forth from your armpit, and in the excitement of the moment, your older lover bites it off and cooks it into a souffle for your mother. Boy was she ever pissed!
Aquarius (January 20-February 18)
Everyone you meet will think you're wonderful! You may start going out with a gay married man just to see what it's like. Then volunteer to do the decorations for your brother's bah mitzvah. A slow, sinking feeling of unimportance and non-uniqueness will consume you, leaving you with no other choice but to snuff it.
Pisces (February 19-March 20)
So you just had your birthday or maybe it's coming up. Yeah, so fucking what? You'll get a bunch of lousy cards from Hallmark and clothes that you'll never wear, but worst of all is that your father is struck in the face with a sausage so hard that from that point on, he believes he is Snuffaluffagus.
Aries (March 21-April 19)
New adventures are ahead. Two guys will be after you this month. Get to know them both! That is, before your mother tries to have them both arrested for stalking you.
I rolled two dice and got a six. That's your lucky day, loser.
Taurus (April 20-May 20)
(your dice roll was a four.) You'll be intuitive this month! While sitting in your calculus class getting bored out of your mind, you will fling a booger out of your nose. By an odd cosmic coincidence (actually, Mercury moved into your house), the booger becomes quantized and gains enough energy to jump to a higher level. In doing this, it accelerates to near light speed within feet and its size increases exponentially. Fortunately, it's headed directly for your teacher and collides with his head with such impact that he is reduced to a pile of quarks. Your classmates applaud.
As for Gemini, Cancer, and Leo, I, Walter Kingsley, am gettin tired of writing these things so you'll just have to check out for yourself what inevitable fate awaits you. You can find these in the back pages of any teen magazine.
Sincerely,
Walter