**************************************************************************** ### # # ### ##### ## # # # ## ## # # ### ##### ## ### ### # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #### ### # # # # # # # # # ## # #### ### # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # ### # ## # # # ## ## ## ### # # # # # ### ____________________________________________________________________________ # # ### #### # # #### # # ### #### ##### # # ##### #### # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #### ### ### ##### # # #### ##### # # ##### ### # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # ### ### # # # # #### # # ### # # # ##### ##### #### *******NUMBERS 381 TO 385*****************************BY DANIEL BOWEN******* *****Please note, some of the quoted addresses within this file may no***** ***longer be correct. Please email info@toxiccustard.com for information.*** "False alarm! It's only Toxic Custard" |||||| ||||| || || ||||| Number 381, 2/2/98 || || || || || |||| By Daniel Bowen ||oxic |||||ustard ||||||||orkshop ||iles www.toxiccustard.com ===================================================================== THE YEAR 2031 - Part 3 In terms of programming, it was a small bug. But its effect on the Astronaut Selection System was that instead of selecting the two men who fulfilled every criteria NASA had specified... it selected the two men who fulfilled almost none of the criteria NASA had specified. Fortunately the likelihood of selecting two men who fulfilled absolutely none of the criteria was not high, because the criteria included such requirements as "must have two arms" and "must have fully functioning head." This was of course highly politically incorrect, but such inequality had been deemed essential for the success of the mission. Once all the applications were in, the system ran for more than ten days, completing its processing, and in the end, the two names were spat out. Ralph Snider, 47 - a nerdy weed of a man who had watched the adverts with awe and imagined his life transformed from that of the most boring accountant on the planet to that of the biggest hero in history - was going to get his dream and go to Venus. And Chuck Van Sturmberg, 32 - a muscular, athletic, towering giant of a man, was also going. His only fault apart from the microscopic size of his penis was an unwavering love of a 20th century children's show entitled "Barney". Oh, and a little problem which occasionally made him want to smash up expensive machinery. But he had medication for that. And so possibly the most unsuitable two men on the planet started training for their mission to Venus. Most of the highly skilled men and women at NASA of course realised how unsuitable they were. But it wasn't the highly skilled men and women at NASA who ran the show - it was the highly crap management men and women at NASA who made those kinds of decisions. And so dazzled were they by the Astronaut Selection System, not to mention so far over budget paying for it (the consultants who sold it to them had done an exceedingly good job - of selling it to them, that is) that they outlawed any criticism of it. The mission would go ahead, with Snider and Van Sturmberg. ... Next week: Ralph and Chuck prepare to fly to Venus ... If you missed the previous episodes, see http://www.toxiccustard.com/features/2031/ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - DIARY - Sun 1/2/98 - False alarm It has been what you might call an eventful weekend. After a relaxing Saturday, plodding up and down Southbank, and dropping into Madame Tussauds (how the hell DO you pronounce it, anyway?), on Saturday night, Lori started having regular contractions. By the point that they were three minutes apart, we decided it was time for action. We called a friend to babysit, and called a taxi to take us to the hospital. It's a reasonably irrational thing of mine that I generally call Silver Top taxis, and it's not just because our neighbour, the Ignatius Reilly of Melbourne, drives for Black Cabs. It's because of Paul Kelly, and his song "To Her Door". But a poor reason is better than none, so that's who I called. The taxi arrived. We got in. The taxi driver got out and examined the right headlight. The right headlight was not working. He started fiddling with wires. After a few minutes, he was still fiddling with wires, and not having much success. I decided that since the contractions were still coming, rather than wait to have the baby in his cab and/or have him electrocute himself on a headlight wire, thus making it impractical for him to drive us to the hospital, it seemed like a good idea to get him to call us another cab. This he did. The backup arrived after just a few minutes, and we reached the hospital without too much further excitement. We zipped through Admissions, up to the Family Birthing Centre. It's called the Family Birthing Centre because it sounds much nicer than the Labour Ward. It sounds much nicer because it is much nicer. Well, it's certainly moderately nicer. The carpet is less tacky, the furniture is probably from this decade, and everybody who works up there must have passed a staff smile test. They also place an emphasis on natural childbirth. A minimum of intervention, just let mother nature and mother human do their respective jobs, and hope for the best. I've come to the conclusion that most women hope to give birth this way - at least until it starts hurting. Of course, they will shunt anybody for whom natural childbirth is not quite making the grade, down to the Labour Ward where they can do all the heavy stuff with forceps, copious amounts of drugs and gas, C-sections and other such man made delights. So we arrived at the Family Birthing Centre just after midnight, and got on with it. Only problem was, it didn't happen. It seems that on this occasion, with less than a week til her due date, Lori was overtaken by contractions probably brought on by a touch of gastro. I know she won't mind me mentioning this publicly because she said she plans to document the night's most spectacular visits to chunderland in the Great Vomits Of The Twentieth Century web page. Of course, the knowledge that the contractions are not caused by, and are not helping at all with, the 39 week old foetus inside her stomach, didn't come immediately. We only found this out the next morning, after a several hours of painful contractions, a minimum of sleep (okay, so I'm exaggerating a bit), and what seemed like an eternity connected to a drip and a machine that goes "ping!" Oh, and we also got to see a flying visit to the hospital from Cliff Richard (although he didn't come to our ward) and a debate between a tram and a U-turning car outside. The tram won. By Sunday afternoon we were back to normal at home, once again waiting for the kid inside to make his next move. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ That's all for this week. Wish you weren't receiving this thing? *Don't* hit that reply button! Send mail to request@toxiccustard.com with the subject header "remove". You should receive e-mail confirmation within 24 hours. To get your subscription moved, send a "remove" from the old address, and a "subscribe" from the new one. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ -- Copyright (c) 1998 Daniel Bowen. Excerpts may be distributed for non- profit purposes provided no modifications are made and this notice is included. -- Daniel Bowen, Custard Communications Pty Ltd, Melbourne, Australia ---------- E-mail: dbowen@custard.net.au ------- TCWF information: info@toxiccustard.com Waste your time here---> http://www.toxiccustard.com <---Waste your time here ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Toxic Custard hits Bill Gates!" TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES http://www.toxiccustard.com Number 382, 9/2/98 Written by Daniel Bowen --------------------------------------------------------------------- THE YEAR 2031 - Part 4 The training gave Ralph and Chuck all the skills and knowledge they would need to successfully reach Venus. Of course, whether or not they retained it all was down to the qualities of their minds, but they both seemed hopeful. Some of the training was theoretical - such as the theoretical response when a theoretical Venusian duststorm ripped their theoretical vehicle into half a million theoretical pieces and theoretically distributed them into the theoretically poisoned atmosphere. Some of it was designed to physically and mentally prepare the men for life in deep space. And some of it was just thrown in by the more sadistic NASA scientists as a bit of a joke. Ralph and Chuck, being almost complete opposites - a boring weed of a man and an extremely stupid muscular giant - hit it off very well from the outset. And amazingly, they made it through the intensive training, by using their mental and physical powers to the limit, and by helping each other, though it was technically cheating. Ralph was definitely the brains of the outfit. The problem-solving and mathematical skills for ensuring the correct operation of the rocket's hybrid hydro-solar-nuclear-powered engines, complex trajectory mechanisms and in-built soft-drink machine were no match to a man who had spent most of his life wrestling with fringe benefits tax, depreciation calculations and equitable restaurant bill splitting. Chuck, on the other hand, was a human powerhouse, no stranger to being stretched to the very limits of a human's physical strength. Surviving the rigours of deep space would be no problem to a man who had hoisted sumo wrestlers off the ground with his bare hands (hey, what he does in his private life is his business), had won tug-of-wars with semi-trailers, and who had lifted a whole Saturday newspaper with all the supplements with one hand. While the training continued, the rocket itself was being assembled and tested. Years of research had lead to exciting new developments in lightweight, yet tough materials. Well, exciting if you're into that kind of thing. These materials would be used for the outer shell of the rocket, which would face the perils of the surface of Venus. The best material, for some unknown reason dubbed "Corduroy" by its creator, had shown itself to be impervious to every small missile they'd been able to throw at it. It looked absolutely hideous, but that was a minor consideration in the circumstances. Other technology going into the vehicle included the latest FlingFast booster rockets, the RocketSoft vehicle control system running under Windows 29, a 100,000,000 Km/h speed limiter, and the latest in Earth to deep-space communications multi-frequency telephony, complete with an answering machine and Caller ID. For the crew there would be one-piece MegaDuffel space suits, Space Food Sticks (of course), a gravity-free-ready version of a Portaloo, and for entertainment, a Sony Spacewalkman and magnetic chess. NASA's Mission Control complex was fitted out with the latest and hugest computer systems to support the mission. All sorts of sensors and instruments fitted to the rocket would transmit the most detailed of diagnostic statistics during the mission, to ensure the integrity of the space vehicle. And so, after many months of preparation, of the most intensive equipment testing and astronaut training, the day for lift-off finally came. ... Next week: The rocket is ready to go. The only thing left is the official unveiling of the name ... If you missed the previous episodes, see http://www.toxiccustard.com/features/2031/ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - DIARY - Mon 9/2/98 - A quiet week No, no baby news. Look. I know this doesn't really apply to most of the people reading this, it really applies to friends and especially relatives of ours: Stop bugging us! We'll let you know when something happens - HONEST! Technically, the due date for young Jeremy (yep, we've decided on a name) to enter the world was either Friday or today, depending on which estimate you believe. So it's perfectly reasonable for him to still be up in his womb enjoying a bit of privacy. And despite the best estimates that modern technology and a generation of childbirth experts can give, it's essentially up to him when he comes out. And so, while my uncle's wife, an ex-colleague's wife, and a vaguely-known-met-once colleague have all had their babies in the past week (and Elle McPherson and Deborah Conway can't be far behind), we keep on waiting, trying to get on with life rather than mope around the house just in case labour sets in suddenly. After all, we may as well make the Omigod The Baby's Coming Find Some Hot Towels Let's Get To The Hospital dash, when it finally arrives, at least a little interesting. More on my driving test last month... http://www.toxiccustard.com/diary/1998/01.html#30/1/98 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - TOXIC CUSTARD GUIDE TO AUSTRALIA Edward wrote: Does most Australians have beef with GB - the government in particular? (in reference to taking elizabeth off the currency)? I don't think many Australians have a problem with Great Britain or the government of Great Britain or the people of Great Britain, no matter how much we might refer to whingeing Poms. A great number of Australians, myself included, have grandparents or other ancestors and relatives from the UK. My sister has a problem with some of the cooking in Great Britain - particular my grandparents', but that's another issue altogether. What some Australians do have a problem with is having a foreign queen as head of state. Although it's largely a ceremonial role, Republicans would like to see this role filled by an Australian. If this happens, then I would think that it's likely that Queen Elizabeth will disappear off our currency. Maybe we'll get someone cultured and distinguished, like Les Patterson or Mick Dundee instead. It doesn't mean that the Queen will be beheaded if she visits or anything like that. But perhaps we'll just treat her like any other elderly rich tourist. A few less complimentary perks and a bit more encouragement to inject some of her dosh into the local economy. (I wonder if she carries a credit card that says something like "H M QUEEN OF ENGLAND. MEMBER SINCE 1714.") Come to think of it, the Royal Family is mostly of German origin, isn't it. Has Great Britain considered becoming a republic? More new questions this week... http://www.toxiccustard.com/australia/ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Wish you weren't receiving this thing? Send mail to request@toxiccustard.com with the subject header "remove". You should receive e-mail confirmation within 24 hours. To get your subscription moved, send a "remove" from the old address, and a "subscribe" from the new one. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ -- Copyright (c) 1998 Daniel Bowen. Excerpts may be distributed for non- profit purposes provided no modifications are made and this notice is included. -- Daniel Bowen, Custard Communications Pty Ltd, Melbourne, Australia ---------- E-mail: dbowen@custard.net.au ------- TCWF information: info@toxiccustard.com Waste your time here---> http://www.toxiccustard.com <---Waste your time here ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Another Toxic Custard loose on the world" ==||== // || || //== http://www.toxiccustard.com ||oxic ||ustard || ||orkshop ||=iles Number 383, 16/2/98 || \\ \\/\// || Written by Daniel Bowen Sun 15/2/98 - Another Bowen loose in the world Baby Jeremy poked his head out into the world at about 6:47pm on Thursday the 12th of February 1998. About three minutes later, the rest of him came out into the world as well, and he's been here ever since. He weighed 4060 grams. This of course means nothing to anybody, not even here in the Metric world, because for some reason we continue to compare the weight of newborn babies in Imperial, even a quarter of a century after Imperial got officially thrown out the window. He weighed 9 pounds 1 ounce. This, in childbirth terms, is a severe "youch". But wait, it gets better. I've never had to get something weighing 9 pounds out of my body in such a fashion, and hopefully I never will, but the fact that Lori did this without any help from pain killers or drugs just impresses the hell out of me. Okay, so she had two Panadol afterwards, but that hardly ranks up there with happy gas or having a needle stuck in your back so you can't feel anything whatsoever from the childbirth zone. In fact to move a kid that size through you and then ask for two Panadol, is, I think, more an exercise in showing off than in pain relief. As it turned out, I think getting home was a trickier exercise than getting him out of the womb. On Friday, the hospital people said that since everything had gone swimmingly, and the two main participants in the exercise - Lori and Jeremy - were as fit as fiddles, they could make the trip home that afternoon. A nurse would drop by for a few days just to see how things were going. So, Friday afternoon, they could come home. Friday afternoon. The 13th. The afternoon of Friday the 13th. How prophetic that turned out to be. I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out to be Murphy's birthday as well. We don't have a car. Plenty of people know that. It's something that's in the works - we haven't really needed one until now, but now it's something that is going to be extremely convenient to have, so I'm getting organised. Its arrival is imminent - probably within the next few weeks. But I'm not rushing into anything. I've got a fully fledged family now, so I'm not going out and buying some bomb on wheels that breaks down every two hundred metres like I might have done if I'd done all this ten years ago. Equally, I'm not going to rush out and borrow and spend the equivalent of ten or more years worth of Zone 1 Monthly Tickets on this new mode of transport until I know exactly what I need, want, and am getting. So, how would we get our Brand New Human(tm) home? As it happens, if you walk outside the hospital, there's a tram stop. Of the multitude of routes that stops there, the one generally going by the handle "67" goes within two minutes walk of our house. This sounded like a reasonable plan. Avoid rush hour, and it'd be a piece of cake. Not as fast as the tram/train combination we usually use, but involves the minimum of hassle. The tram: this was plan A. Except the hospital weren't amused. Brand new baby, exposure to people's germs on public transport, what if mum has an emergency, etc, etc. Okay, fair enough. Wish we'd known before, but fair enough, they know about this medical stuff. That's why they work in the hospital. So plan B: What if we take a cab? We need to buy a new car capsule for Jeremy soon anyway since we're buying a car, so why not buy it now? No, wait, we haven't got Isaac's car seat handy, and he can't go in a car without it. And it's too much hassle to go home and get it. Okay, Victoria (a friend, not the state) has our spare house key. Plan B(i): She could bring the car seat in so that Isaac could also go home in the cab. Wait, she's out, at Ingrid's place today. What's Ingrid's phone number? Don't know. What's Ingrid's surname? Don't know. Wait, we have Ingrid's friend's number. Ring Ingrid's friend. She hasn't got Ingrid's new phone number. But she's got Ingrid's surname. Okay, ring Directory Enquiries. Damn, we can't ring Directory Enquiries from this phone in the room. Go to the phone by the lifts. It's out of order, won't accept the coins. Okay, go down to the ground floor, there's more phones there. Zoom down in the world's slowest lifts. There they are, ground floor phones. One being used, one out of order, a notice advises to try first floor. Take stairs to first floor. Two phones there. One out of order, it won't accept the coins. Other works. Dial Directory Enquiries. Give the name and street. Bingo, they've found it. And the number is.... silent. Bugger. And it was a free call anyway. Okay hospital people, here's plan B(ii): We'll buy that capsule for Jeremy, and send Lori and Jeremy home in a cab, and I'll take Isaac home on the train, which is how he and I got in there that morning. Hospital people say no, they'd prefer that mum doesn't go home on her own, just in case a crisis develops. Okay, plan B is up the spout. Time to call in the big guns: my sister - the one with the company car and the boss sympathetic to such domestic crises. And plan C(i): We'll buy the capsule for Jeremy, my sister will take Lori and Jeremy home in her car, and, since we still can't contact Victoria with our spare house key (for getting Isaac's car seat to us), I'll take Isaac home on the train. So, ring my sister Susannah. Hmm, not in the office. Okay, ring her mobile. Not turned on, goes to voicemail. Leave a message. Eventually get hold of her. Does her car have the correct baby capsule bolt on the fensterbunk*? She's not sure. Hold while she runs down to the carpark to check. Yes, it's there. Eureka! So, Isaac and I go to get the capsule. Find one of those adaptable ones that converts to a toddler seat when the kid's old enough. On sale! Great! One problem: the bloody thing is huge. Too huge to carry while trying to direct Isaac to walk in the correct direction in the city crowds, let alone back onto the tram to get back to the hospital. Consider buying it, working out how it works in toddler configuration, putting Isaac in it and catching a cab back, but it all seems too hard. Go back empty handed. Ring sister back. Plan C(ii): she will pick me up, we'll go together to get the capsule, fit it to the car and then pick up Lori and Jeremy. She does, we do (and I spot the D-Generation's Tom Gleisner walking down the street while waiting for her). We spend ten minutes trying to figure out how the hell the capsule works before getting it all fitted nicely - lucky we both have degrees. Lori and Jeremy go home in her car, Isaac and I go home on the train, everybody meets up 45 minutes later, happy ending after all. Phew. (*) Fensterbunk: I'm not sure of the spelling, but my sister claims it is a Dutch word for the part of the car just inside the rear windscreen, for which there is no English equivalent. It would be very convenient at times like these if there was a word for this, so in my family we've taken to just saying "fensterbunk" instead. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - THE YEAR 2031 - Part 5 The world was watching, late that September evening, when after many years of preparation, the manned mission to Venus sat on the launchpad ready for lift-off. Well, not quite the whole world - there were sections of the human population who could barely afford food, let alone a 191cm surround-sound wide-screen high definition TV. But those who could afford both the food and the TV were enthralled by the prospect that some of their race would soon be making their way towards Venus. The biggest speculation at this point was about the name of the rocket. Would NASA have bowed to pressure from corporate sponsor Coke and come up with some name associated with the soft drink? Or would they go for a name from mythology or history or rock'n'roll or science? The name was painted in big letters underneath a huge sheet, which would be pulled away just as the rocket lifted off. As it turns out, the night that the final decision on the name had to be made, the boss of NASA, Pete Brady, had got drunk. Very drunk. He'd got drunk because of all the pressure surrounding the naming of the rocket. Everyone was badgering for their decision to be taken. The politicians... the bureaucrats... the businessmen... even his mother. The naming system was all set-up so that he would just have to enter the final decision into one of the NASA computers. Once it was locked in, computers and robots would take care of everything else until launch day. A special robot would paint the name onto the rocket, thus ensuring that when it was revealed, the name would be a surprise to everybody watching. There was no way the jackals of the press would find out the name before launch day. And it was going to be a surprise. Because by the time the Brady had got to the keyboard to enter the name, he was very, very drunk, and very, very sick of the whole rocket naming business. Someone had thought to ensure that the computer wouldn't take garbage characters or swear words, which was just as well, because if given the chance, he would have given NASA's first manned mission to Venus a completely unpronounceable or unbroadcastable name. Something like F&%8jk49--/, or perhaps... well, you get the idea. So he thought again about the possibilities, and came up with an idea, which he entered. The computer accepted it, locked it in, and the painting robot went about its merry work, painting it onto the rocket. The boss of NASA then staggered happily on his way, a fast emptying whisky bottle in his hand. By the time he woke up the next afternoon, Brady didn't remember what name he'd entered for the rocket. Or if he could, he wasn't saying. No, he really couldn't remember. It would be a surprise to everyone. The countdown continued. Astronauts Ralph and Chuck were already ensconced in the rocket's cockpit. NASA was pretty confident about the state of the rocket, so the crew had only minimal checks to make before lift-off. The ground crew was making their final preparations. Ensuring that the lift-off time and trajectory would be correct. Ensuring that all possible precautions for the safety of the rocket (oh yeah, and the crew too) were taken. And of course ensuring that the huge media circus that was present would have all the pictures they needed. The countdown had begun. Brady was worried though. Try as he might, he just couldn't remember the name he had chosen. All he could remember was getting very drunk that night, and getting kicked out of a bar for singing too loudly (and badly). He would just have to hope the name wasn't anything too embarrassing. It was too late to change it now. ... Next week: The name is revealed... and... lift-off! ... If you missed the previous episodes, see http://www.toxiccustard.com/features/2031/ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ If you don't want to receive this mail, then DO NOT REPLY to this message. Why? Because it won't do any good whatsoever, that's why. Instead, send a message to request@toxiccustard.com with the subject "remove". If you'd like to switch the address that you receive TCWF at, you'll need to send a "remove" from the old address and a "subscribe" from the new address. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ -- Copyright (c) 1998 Daniel Bowen. Excerpts may be distributed for non- profit purposes provided no modifications are made and this notice is included. -- Daniel Bowen, Custard Communications Pty Ltd, Melbourne, Australia ---------- E-mail: dbowen@custard.net.au ------- TCWF information: info@toxiccustard.com Waste your time here---> http://www.toxiccustard.com <---Waste your time here ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Vensterbank! It's Toxic Custard" TOXIC CUSTARD ===== ==== | | ==== Number 384, 23rd February 1998 WORKSHOP FILES | | | | | |== http://www.toxiccustard.com . . . . . . . . | ==== |=|=| | . . . . . . Written by Daniel Bowen A QUICK NOTE (Page down past this if you're looking for the 2031 story) G'day all. Just a quick note to say thanks for all the good wishes received last week after the birth of Jeremy. And also thanks for the plethora of messages about the mysterious bit of the car behind the back seat. The official name in English for it is the "parcel shelf" - though of course it's a bloody stupid place to put parcels, unless you particularly *like* parcels flying around the car like missiles during a sudden brake. One can imagine a poodle asleep up there that flies through the windscreen during a collision. The word in Dutch that I was looking for has turned out to be not "fensterbunk" but "vensterbank", meaning "window sill", though apparently the word normally used for this is "hoedenplank", which means... "parcel shelf". Thanks to all who wrote in, especially the Dutch (maybe they could also explain why their country is known in English as both The Netherlands and Holland? Maybe any linguists reading could explain why every country and city name in the world has to have a different name in every other language in the world?) Oh yeah, I should probably also explain my spam situation. Last month I started what I hoped would be a regular column, profiling a piece of completely and utterly irrelevant spam sent to me during the week. The reason this stopped is that... uhhh... you're not going to believe this, but I've stopped receiving spam. I'm not quite sure how this happened (maybe the major spam companies spotted my article!) I have only received a single spam in the past week, and it hardly seems sporting to judge the most irrelevant for the week out of a field of one. Before I forget, a special hello to anyone reading this in the Auckland CBD: Very well done indeed. And so enough of this dull editorialising... on with the story. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - THE YEAR 2031 - Part 6 Everything was ready, and the world watched with baited breath as the sheath came off, and the name of the rocket that was to take humankind to Venus was revealed. The good ship "Penis I" stood on the launchpad, ready for lift off. The boss of NASA, knowing only he was responsible for the name, was trying to make up his mind whether he should run away and become a hermit or just commit suicide. But nothing would stop the mission now. "Penis I, Penis I", spluttered Mission Control, to the muffled sound of background laughter. "Confirm ready for lift off. T minus Fifteen seconds." "Roger Control", replied Ralph. "Penis I ready for lift off". The flight path had all been designed so that Penis I would launch, skilfully avoid crashing straight into the moon, and head for Venus in record time. When it got there, a landing module would detach itself and land on the surface of Venus. What happened after that was anybody's guess, although the various parties involved in the project had their own particular aims. The scientists wanted the astronauts to gather scientific data about the planet, and to collect samples of anything that wasn't nailed down. Dust, rock, water, plants, anything they could find to bring back that the propellerheads could pull apart and study the atoms of. The PR people wanted great pictures of Venus, showing the power of humankind's skill at getting men onto Venus. They wanted weird alienesque images, and preferably, some contact and an informative conversation with an actual alien. The military wanted to make sure there were no aliens there, especially Communist or Iraqi ones, and to have the crap blasted out of any that they found. They also wanted the planet claimed on behalf of the population of Earth. Penis I lifted off to the cheers and laughter of most of humanity, and climbed through the heavens towards Venus. Some joker back at Mission Control had programmed the computer to say "welcome to the inaugural flight to Venus. We'll be flying at a speed of..." but Ralph, who was not one for joking even at the best of times, shut it off. He didn't even listen to how many frequent flier miles he would be earning. Actually they were frequent flier kilometres, and there would be fifty million of them going each way, assuming that the astronauts survived the Venus mission. Unfortunately NASA didn’t run many public flights, and they weren’t associated with any of the other space flight companies or the airlines, so the chances of using the 100,000,000 points were not very good. ... Next week: The Venus commute ... If you missed the previous episodes, see http://www.toxiccustard.com/features/2031/ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - TOXIC CUSTARD GUIDE TO AUSTRALIA Patrick in Canada wrote: In an episode of Skippy the Bush Kangaroo, one of the Abos (what you Aussies call Aboriginal people, I believe - we call 'em aboriginal peoples in Canada) pulls a large grub from as tree, pops it into his mouth and munches it down with great gusto. Has this habit of plucking bugs from trees and eating them spread to the non-native population, and if I make a trip to Australia in the near future, will I have to eat a grub to prove my manhood? Firstly it's worth pointing out that Australians call Aborigines "Abos" in about the same circumstances as North Americans call African-Americans "Niggers", eg when they want to be derogatory. It's not exactly a friendly term, and one which most of those who are the subject of do not particularly like. For thousands of years the Aborigines have managed to survive in Australia by eating native animals, including grubs and other such beasties that most whites would balk at eating. The most famous example of this were the explorers Burke and Wills, who set off to cross Australia last century and perished in the desert somewhere, after rejecting help from the local Aborigines, apparently because that help, although healthy, nutritious and life-saving, consisted of grubs. Nowadays, it's unlikely that you'd have to eat such things if you didn't want to. You can go to McDonalds instead. More new questions and answers this week, covering beer, Life Savers, more beer, and dags... http://www.toxiccustard.com/australia/ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Just had a filling lunch and looking for that special inspiration to get back to work? Try the Great Vomits Of The Twentieth Century web page, featuring a bunch of new stories this week!... http://www.toxiccustard.com/features/vomit/ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ More next week! If you don't want to receive this mail, then DO NOT REPLY to this message. Why? Because it won't do any good whatsoever, that's why. Instead, send a message to request@toxiccustard.com with the subject "remove". If you'd like to switch the address that you receive TCWF at, you'll need to send a "remove" from the old address and a "subscribe" from the new address. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ -- Copyright (c) 1998 Daniel Bowen. Excerpts may be distributed for non- profit purposes provided no modifications are made and this copyright notice is included. -- Daniel Bowen, Custard Communications Pty Ltd, Melbourne, Australia ---------- E-mail: dbowen@custard.net.au ------- TCWF information: info@toxiccustard.com Waste your time here---> http://www.toxiccustard.com <---Waste your time here ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Slimy Toxic Custard" -***** *** * * **** Toxic Custard Workshop Files * * * * * *** Number 385, 2/3/98 by Daniel Bowen * *** ***** *--------http://www.toxiccustard.com THE YEAR 2031 - Part 7 Life on board the Venus exploration craft Penis I was hard, principally because it was extremely dull. Because the craft had been designed so that most of the crucial features were computer controlled (except in the inevitable case of an on-board emergency), there was actually very little for the astronauts to do during the five month journey. Ralph and Chuck, though having completely different personalities, had come to know each other fairly well during the training. That is, to know in the sense of being friends, not knowing to the point of touching each other's genitalia or anything like that. The day was broken into three shifts. This being space however, they had dispensed with the restrictions of Earth time, and each shift was seven hours and twenty-one minutes. Nobody could quite remember why they'd come up with this amount of time for a shift, but it had something to do with it being easier for NASA to do the paperwork for their pay slips. This made a mission day actually equal to twenty-two hours and three minutes, and for that reason the rocket had been furnished with especially designed clocks and calendars. The clocks were especially complex because the minute hand kept jumping back by twenty-one minutes every shift, but Ralph assured mission control that you got used to it after a while. In any case, it gave the men something to do. While NASA had packed a little recreational equipment, this was confined to Chess and Scrabble. But because Chuck was a human atom-bomb with muscles the size of grizzly-bears and a brain the size of a pea, these weren't a terrific hit. Ralph had considered trying to teach Chuck how to play Chess, but had wisely decided against even attempting it. Chuck had wanted to bring some of his phenomenal amount of gym equipment along, but this had been disallowed because of weight and space considerations. The technicians had calculated that to load his Home Fitness Centre would have meant putting an extra two booster rockets on the craft. Instead Chuck kept himself busy with the only other practical form of physical exercise possible on board. Cleaning. The solar-powered mini-vac soon became his best friend, and in his spare time Chuck could be found thoroughly cleaning the rocket from top to bottom. This of course wasn't widely publicised to the millions watching the mission on worldwide TV every spare minute of the day. NASA was keen to promote the men as heroes, and the publicity people decided that images of Chuck's constant cleaning probably wouldn't help perpetuate that. Ralph had wanted to bring along some of his frightening collection of accounting and tax law text books, but these had been disallowed for much the same reasons. So Ralph kept himself busy doing spreadsheet simulations of various very boring tax scenarios on the craft's computers. And in this way, as they made their way through the solar system, the months passed. ... Next week: Uh oh ... If you missed the previous episodes, see http://www.toxiccustard.com/features/2031/ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - DIARY EXCERPT - Thu 26/2/98 - Close encounter of the slimy kind The members of some occupations have certain reputations. Yesterday I had my first encounter with one of them: The used car salesman. - - > http://www.toxiccustard.com/diary/1998/02.html#26/2/98 DIARY - Sun 1/3/98 - Now we're (almost) motoring It seems like it's only been about a month since I got my driver's licence. Oh, wait, it has been about a month since I got my driver's licence. Well, I'm about to take the next step. I'm about to buy a car. Yes, I know that most people have got their licence and some old bomb that has barely got a Road Worthy Certificate by the time they're a week past their eighteenth birthday. But I'm an individual. I never even considered getting a licence and a car before I was twenty-seven. But now that I've set my mind to it, things have gone pretty smoothly. I started seriously car hunting last week, after having spent much time pondering the various types and models of cars around the place. I had my inaugural encounter with Mr Slime in a car yard last week, and looked at another last Thursday which was quite promising, until somebody else bought it on Friday. But on Friday, I found a car in the Trading Post that looked like it could be just the thing: A '93 Mitsubishi Magna, in my price range (or at least, my bank manager's price range) and just about fitting the bill for what I wanted, which was a nice, safe, not too daggy, family car. It's worth mentioning at this point that I know virtually nothing about cars. Okay, so I can drive them, more or less - it still takes me a couple of minutes to get used to the whole clutch thing, because I've only driven autos since passing my test. But as far as the technical side goes, I don't know one end of a dip stick from the other. Well, no, maybe I do, perhaps I'm exaggerating a bit, but it is definitely the case that I am in no way qualified to tell if a car seems to be in good condition. That's where John came in. John is my sister Susannah's boyfriend, and it just so happens that he knows a helluva lot about cars - or at least enough so that when he fishes around under the bonnet and then climbs under the backside of the car that he does so with some credibility. So John and Susannah and I traipsed out to Upper Ferntree Gully, no less, to check out this car. We test drove it, clambered around inside it, admired the coat of mud that had fallen on it during some very odd weather the previous night, and most important of all, John thoroughly knocked around with the mechanical bits to ensure that all seemed to be in working order. Which it was. Meanwhile, such was my mechanical prowess that although I managed to figure out how the rear door child locks work (after R'ing TFM), I couldn't get the car key out of the ignition. But no matter. With John's preliminary all clear, I was ready to call in the RACV for a full pre-purchase inspection and to start haggling. I beat the guy (whose name was Bart - it's of no importance to the story, but just slightly amusing since I think when he introduced himself we all suddenly thought of The Simpsons) down a reasonable amount without him being mortally offended, and we ended up agreeing that a deposit would be placed, and as long as the RACV inspection on Monday didn't indicate that the car was about to fall apart, I'd cough up the rest of the money and pick up the car on Tuesday. Which is good, because that's the day my weekly ticket runs out. More from the diary as it happens... http://www.toxiccustard.com/diary/ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Even more next week! If you don't want to receive this mail, then DO NOT REPLY to this message. Why? Because it won't do any good whatsoever, that's why. Instead, send a message to request@toxiccustard.com with the subject "remove". If you'd like to switch the address that you receive TCWF at, you'll need to send a "remove" from the old address and a "subscribe" from the new address. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ -- Copyright (c) 1998 Daniel Bowen. Excerpts may be distributed for non- profit purposes provided no modifications are made and this copyright notice is included. -- Daniel Bowen, Custard Communications Pty Ltd, Melbourne, Australia ---------- E-mail: dbowen@custard.net.au ------- TCWF information: info@toxiccustard.com Waste your time here---> http://www.toxiccustard.com <---Waste your time here ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Toxic Custard Workshop Files - http://www.toxiccustard.com - is Copyright (c) 1998 Daniel Bowen, Melbourne, Australia. Excerpts may be distributed without charge provided no modifications are made and this notice is appended. For subscription and back-issue information, send email to info@toxiccustard.com