Lima Bean
11.4.2k1
Back by pop-ee-lar demand, it’s the Thursday Night Social Club Venue Announcement!! If yer one to pay attention, you might have noticed that two whole weeks have gone by with no VA! Ayiiiieee! I reckon that’s the first time that’s happened in more than two years! Ya, sure, there was a holiday in there, but we usually have a not-so-secret Secret Meeting at the Owl Tree. Who knows? Mebbe there was one. This Founding Member was not remiss in his duty to hoist one or two last Thursday, and I’m sure y’all did too. Turkey Day is a great opportunity to hoist several, you ask me. You need one or two merely to take the edge off the travel. Or if you didn’t travel, you had the cooking. Or the parents. Or the sibs. Or the In-Laws. Or the Dee-Troit RockCity Lions game. It usedta be the Bears always played on Turkey Day, but that seems to have gone the way of the Dodo. Anyway, I enjoyed my Thanksgiving drinks in a land far from my own, where the holiday is seldom celebrated, even then only by ex-Pats or tourists. I hoisted my beers in Peru!
Boy was it cool! The weather was great and the Incan ruins were neat. The beer down there is named after the city it is brewed in. For example, the city of Cuzco served Cuzquena beer and the city of Arequipa served Arequipena. I’m not sure why we’re not doing that up here. If yer drinkin’ beer in a foreign land while on vacation or business, it’s handy to have a reminder of what town yer in right in your hand. “Let’s see … are we in Lima? Ollayantytambo? Urubamba? Oh (looking at beer bottle), we’re in Puno! Mmmmmmmm … this Punoquena sure is good.” Anyway … the trip was really wonderful, despite the frustration of the language barrier. I don’t speak the Espanol very well at all. I can form crude sentences and ask and answer generic tourist-speak questions, but aside from that I’m not too good. I had a semester of the Espanol back when I was a freshman in college and only a bit has stayed with me in the fifty-or-so years since then. I made a mess out of communication, but I documented my clumsiness to share with you today. What follows are some of the Spanglish sentences I said, crammed back into English. In the cases where I didn’t know the Spanish word, I did what every silly tourist does, I did me some word fabrication.
Hello. I am to be liking some beers, please.
Why is that wall with mildew?
Is this water of the tap?
Please, where is the bar (barro) in that town?
Thank you, no more guinea pig.
They are not with me.
Is this the National fruit?
She is true.
What is it? Beans? OK!
Please to open this bottle.
I have fire in the caboose.
I cannot buy this for fifty soles (Peruvian money). Sixty. (Haggling up the price.)
My name is Melissa.
I figure I’ll take me another class then go back and apologise. And I already know where the bar is.
Tonight: The el Bobo. “The Idiot.”
News: One lovely list member had some problems and ended up going to Bing’s two weeks in a row because the VA had not changed. That is part Robots fault for not changing the page, but pls. be sure to note the date of the VA and if it’s last week’s date, it’s an old, outdated Venue Announcement. That said, sorry about the confusion.
TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: I would say that for Tonight’s Dramatic Reenactment we will collectively reenact the 23 1/2 hours of travel time it took to get from Arequipa, Peru to SF, USA, but it sucked, so let’s not.
TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: Jimi Simmons. A hell of a guy. Do you know him? You’re lucky if you do.
PORN TITLE OF THE WEEK: Pimped by an Angel
I'm sure you all have a lot of great Turkey Day stories to tell. Tonight's venue is a great place to share the hilarity. And after a two week drought of NO meetings, I'm sure you're all dying. I know I am. So c'mon out! Bring yer bumpershoots and bring yer pals. I know I will. See you there. bye-ee!
Thursday, November 22, 2001
Thursday, November 15, 2001
Thursday, November 08, 2001
Butch
11.2.2k1
You likea the Lipton Cold Brew Iced Tea drink? I'm not bein’ paid for endorsing that product, but I think it’s all right. Throw in a slicey of lemon and it tastes just like weak-ass tea with lemon. Good enough for dopey freelance Robots.
Yeh, so, I had a dream the other night that I was an ace car mechanic. I could tear ‘em down and build ‘em back up faster than anyone in the Tri-state area. I’d build ‘em to be slick and quick and tear-ass. They’d fly off the line and blow the doors off anything they raced. Legal race or not. I woke up and thought of how far off the dream was.
I know nothin’ about cars. Well, very little at most. The obvious stuff, sure. How to flick on the wipers, how to check the oil, how to do donuts. Peel outs. Lawn jobs. What have you. I know so little about cars that when the horn on the family station wag I was driving to and from school some fifty years back went shit-crazy nuts I had no idea how to disable it.
I was on a camping trip up in the mountains when it first started to go South. I was high-tailing it back to town in the cold, cold morning air when the horn started to go off whenever I’d turn the wheel past 10 or 2 o’clock. This was often, mind you, coming down the twisty mountain road. The horn gave a mighty bellow too. Must have woke up lots of campers and mountain critters on that drive. But the day warmed up and the horn stopped its monkey-business. However, a couple days later the goddamn thing went ballistic again. By now I was back home in the city. This time the thing went off when I turned the engine over – didn’t need to turn the wheel or anything. I popped the hood and stood there like a dope looking at a big V8. Hoses, tubes, belts, wires … uh … there’s that’s that ya put the jumper cables on … I was at a loss. And god it was loud. It’s going to town for a good five minutes and I’m standing there going deaf when this little old nonagenarian blue-haired widow comes walking from three doors down and stops right next to me. She stands there for a moment and stares at me going deaf and staring at the engine, then gives me a look that says, “pathetic.” She reaches somewhere into the engineering marvel that is the engine of the 1985 Olds Custom Cruiser and yanks! The din stops except for the ringing in my ears. Gladys turns on her heel and goes on home without even a word. I know less now about cars than I did then.
Tonight: Mr. Bings
News: I don't know about you folks, but I'm feeling pretty good about things. Some stuff is still terrible, sure, but things within
TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: Your parents dancing to crappy music. You know who you are. Your parents liked some really terrible music and when they were young they danced to it. It's bad enough to knock you down today. (nameless) will be dancing to her folks' bad music, Tama will be dancing to her folks' bad music, as will Jerry, Dee and Ced. It'll be a hoot.
TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: Long Time List Members in attendance after a long drought.
PORN TITLE OF THE WEEK: Terms of Endowment
The Founding Members hope you are all in the mood for a dive-bar, because with Bing's, it's the divey-est. Just remember, drink from the bottle and don't touch anything. Who's in? I know I am. See you there. bye-ee!
11.2.2k1
You likea the Lipton Cold Brew Iced Tea drink? I'm not bein’ paid for endorsing that product, but I think it’s all right. Throw in a slicey of lemon and it tastes just like weak-ass tea with lemon. Good enough for dopey freelance Robots.
Yeh, so, I had a dream the other night that I was an ace car mechanic. I could tear ‘em down and build ‘em back up faster than anyone in the Tri-state area. I’d build ‘em to be slick and quick and tear-ass. They’d fly off the line and blow the doors off anything they raced. Legal race or not. I woke up and thought of how far off the dream was.
I know nothin’ about cars. Well, very little at most. The obvious stuff, sure. How to flick on the wipers, how to check the oil, how to do donuts. Peel outs. Lawn jobs. What have you. I know so little about cars that when the horn on the family station wag I was driving to and from school some fifty years back went shit-crazy nuts I had no idea how to disable it.
I was on a camping trip up in the mountains when it first started to go South. I was high-tailing it back to town in the cold, cold morning air when the horn started to go off whenever I’d turn the wheel past 10 or 2 o’clock. This was often, mind you, coming down the twisty mountain road. The horn gave a mighty bellow too. Must have woke up lots of campers and mountain critters on that drive. But the day warmed up and the horn stopped its monkey-business. However, a couple days later the goddamn thing went ballistic again. By now I was back home in the city. This time the thing went off when I turned the engine over – didn’t need to turn the wheel or anything. I popped the hood and stood there like a dope looking at a big V8. Hoses, tubes, belts, wires … uh … there’s that’s that ya put the jumper cables on … I was at a loss. And god it was loud. It’s going to town for a good five minutes and I’m standing there going deaf when this little old nonagenarian blue-haired widow comes walking from three doors down and stops right next to me. She stands there for a moment and stares at me going deaf and staring at the engine, then gives me a look that says, “pathetic.” She reaches somewhere into the engineering marvel that is the engine of the 1985 Olds Custom Cruiser and yanks! The din stops except for the ringing in my ears. Gladys turns on her heel and goes on home without even a word. I know less now about cars than I did then.
Tonight: Mr. Bings
News: I don't know about you folks, but I'm feeling pretty good about things. Some stuff is still terrible, sure, but things within
TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: Your parents dancing to crappy music. You know who you are. Your parents liked some really terrible music and when they were young they danced to it. It's bad enough to knock you down today. (nameless) will be dancing to her folks' bad music, Tama will be dancing to her folks' bad music, as will Jerry, Dee and Ced. It'll be a hoot.
TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: Long Time List Members in attendance after a long drought.
PORN TITLE OF THE WEEK: Terms of Endowment
The Founding Members hope you are all in the mood for a dive-bar, because with Bing's, it's the divey-est. Just remember, drink from the bottle and don't touch anything. Who's in? I know I am. See you there. bye-ee!
Thursday, November 01, 2001
SAILA
11.1.2k1
Yeah I guess I’m sorta sick to death of them email surveys or questionnaires or whatever you call ‘em. Those unsolicited, invasive two-dozen questions that reveal the number eleven is behind every single bad thing that ever happened in the history of the universe. The 20 poignant queries that determine without a doubt that you are (or are not): A racist, a Commie, in love with yer ma, going to die within five years, too stupid to graduate from grammar school or if you are better suited as a career horticulturist.
I delete most of these emails unread, but sometimes I read ‘em through if they come from a creditable source (e.g., brother, girlfriend, etc.). I got one the other day and one of the questions was “Person least likely to respond to this email.” Their answer was “Josh.” Heh heh. The long string of bullshit questions reminded me of something that happened a long, long time ago.
A pal and I were driving around really late one Saturday night. The kegger we were at ran out of beer, or we were on a smoke run or something. The point here is that it was late and we were driving around. We happened down one street and were surprised to see lights on in a strip mall storefront. (The town I grew up in went to bed at 8pm every night. Even Saturday.) My friend and I (it wasn’t Phil) looked at each other and laughed because it seemed the scientologists were the only ones up this late aside from us. Not-Phil said, “Let’s go see if we can bum some smokes from the scientologists.” What the hell, I thought. I said, “What the hell.” So we parked and went in.
Three or four rather normal “looking” folks were sitting around chatting and not looking the least bit sleepy. “Oh, no. We don’t have any cigarettes, boys,” they said, “but we do have coffee. Would you like a cup?” I’ve loved coffee for a long time, even way back then, so I said, “Hell yeah, I’ll have some coffee.” The coffee sucked. I mean it was terrible. But I wasn’t expecting much. They asked us what we were doing up so late and we told them we were on a smoke run. I asked them what they were doing up so late, and they said they were reading over the new “questionnaires” that just got back from the printers. “Would you like to fill one out,” one of them asked. “Sure,” I said, thinking that it would be a gag: “Are you a scientologist, Y/N. Wanna be a scientologist, Y/N. How much money do you make, wink-wink, $ _____.” I would answer, “No, No, Nothin’,” and laugh. Well here we were being handed this booklet with more questions than the SAT verbal and math combined. Oh! And how queer some of them were: “Do you ever read the phone book?” (A: Yes.) “Do your neighbors talk to you about your yard?” (A: What?) “Have you ever stood on the top step of the ladder, even though it says not to?” (A: What the hell does this have to do with anything?) It was 25 minutes into the bullshit questions and the suck-ass coffee had gone right through me. I had to pee like a racehorse. So I didn’t even read most of the last questions, but I sorta mumbled interest and checked off Y, N, N, Y, N, Y, Y, Y, N, N, blah, blah, blah.
I jumped up and said, “All done, fellas, c’mon, Not-Phil, let’s beat it. S’gettin’ late.” I think he had the same idea as me because he was faking the last couple answers himself. The scientologists said they would calculate our answers and the scores would determine how much training we would need or some such nonsense. When asked for my address, I put down the address of the Catholic high school I was attending and as Not-Phil and I had been using fake names, I used that name on the “Attention to” line. This was funny because my fake name was a real person at my school who I didn’t care for and would most likely be asked by a priest why he was getting personal mail AT SCHOOL and more importantly why he was getting it FROM THE SCIENTOLOGISTS. Hardy har.
Tonight: POW!
News: Well the redesign of the site is underway. Soon there will be all sorts of interesting and fun things, but the design has been revealed. Founding Member and Linkey-Loo Coordinator Alan J. Chimenti reported that he had come to despise the Spartan layout. The aforementioned Founding Member and Linkey-Loo Coordinator Alan J. Chimenti is on a work-related hiatus from coordinating the weekly Linkey-Loo, so Longtime List Member and Porn Title of the Week Coordinator Tama is filling in.
TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: The origin of the Hokey Pokey. While most people are familiar with the beloved song/dance, the Hokey Pokey, many do not know that the composer labored intensely to find the perfect body parts to put in, out, in, out and then shake all about. Tonight our players will demonstrate some of the tried and failed alternate body parts. Don’t miss this one. Really.
TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: Any list member who was laid off this week.
PORN TITLE OF THE WEEK: Nymphomercial
SATANIC WORD OF THE WEEK: had
Okey then. Here's the non-Spartan layout. Hope you like it. Or not. I sorta don't care either way. It was fun. Anyhoo ... Get your asses in gear and head on over to POW! for a pop. Bring your friends. I'm sure I will. See you there! bye-ee!
11.1.2k1
Yeah I guess I’m sorta sick to death of them email surveys or questionnaires or whatever you call ‘em. Those unsolicited, invasive two-dozen questions that reveal the number eleven is behind every single bad thing that ever happened in the history of the universe. The 20 poignant queries that determine without a doubt that you are (or are not): A racist, a Commie, in love with yer ma, going to die within five years, too stupid to graduate from grammar school or if you are better suited as a career horticulturist.
I delete most of these emails unread, but sometimes I read ‘em through if they come from a creditable source (e.g., brother, girlfriend, etc.). I got one the other day and one of the questions was “Person least likely to respond to this email.” Their answer was “Josh.” Heh heh. The long string of bullshit questions reminded me of something that happened a long, long time ago.
A pal and I were driving around really late one Saturday night. The kegger we were at ran out of beer, or we were on a smoke run or something. The point here is that it was late and we were driving around. We happened down one street and were surprised to see lights on in a strip mall storefront. (The town I grew up in went to bed at 8pm every night. Even Saturday.) My friend and I (it wasn’t Phil) looked at each other and laughed because it seemed the scientologists were the only ones up this late aside from us. Not-Phil said, “Let’s go see if we can bum some smokes from the scientologists.” What the hell, I thought. I said, “What the hell.” So we parked and went in.
Three or four rather normal “looking” folks were sitting around chatting and not looking the least bit sleepy. “Oh, no. We don’t have any cigarettes, boys,” they said, “but we do have coffee. Would you like a cup?” I’ve loved coffee for a long time, even way back then, so I said, “Hell yeah, I’ll have some coffee.” The coffee sucked. I mean it was terrible. But I wasn’t expecting much. They asked us what we were doing up so late and we told them we were on a smoke run. I asked them what they were doing up so late, and they said they were reading over the new “questionnaires” that just got back from the printers. “Would you like to fill one out,” one of them asked. “Sure,” I said, thinking that it would be a gag: “Are you a scientologist, Y/N. Wanna be a scientologist, Y/N. How much money do you make, wink-wink, $ _____.” I would answer, “No, No, Nothin’,” and laugh. Well here we were being handed this booklet with more questions than the SAT verbal and math combined. Oh! And how queer some of them were: “Do you ever read the phone book?” (A: Yes.) “Do your neighbors talk to you about your yard?” (A: What?) “Have you ever stood on the top step of the ladder, even though it says not to?” (A: What the hell does this have to do with anything?) It was 25 minutes into the bullshit questions and the suck-ass coffee had gone right through me. I had to pee like a racehorse. So I didn’t even read most of the last questions, but I sorta mumbled interest and checked off Y, N, N, Y, N, Y, Y, Y, N, N, blah, blah, blah.
I jumped up and said, “All done, fellas, c’mon, Not-Phil, let’s beat it. S’gettin’ late.” I think he had the same idea as me because he was faking the last couple answers himself. The scientologists said they would calculate our answers and the scores would determine how much training we would need or some such nonsense. When asked for my address, I put down the address of the Catholic high school I was attending and as Not-Phil and I had been using fake names, I used that name on the “Attention to” line. This was funny because my fake name was a real person at my school who I didn’t care for and would most likely be asked by a priest why he was getting personal mail AT SCHOOL and more importantly why he was getting it FROM THE SCIENTOLOGISTS. Hardy har.
Tonight: POW!
News: Well the redesign of the site is underway. Soon there will be all sorts of interesting and fun things, but the design has been revealed. Founding Member and Linkey-Loo Coordinator Alan J. Chimenti reported that he had come to despise the Spartan layout. The aforementioned Founding Member and Linkey-Loo Coordinator Alan J. Chimenti is on a work-related hiatus from coordinating the weekly Linkey-Loo, so Longtime List Member and Porn Title of the Week Coordinator Tama is filling in.
TONIGHT'S DRAMATIC REENACTMENT: The origin of the Hokey Pokey. While most people are familiar with the beloved song/dance, the Hokey Pokey, many do not know that the composer labored intensely to find the perfect body parts to put in, out, in, out and then shake all about. Tonight our players will demonstrate some of the tried and failed alternate body parts. Don’t miss this one. Really.
TONIGHT'S SINGLED-OUT LIST MEMBER: Any list member who was laid off this week.
PORN TITLE OF THE WEEK: Nymphomercial
SATANIC WORD OF THE WEEK: had
Okey then. Here's the non-Spartan layout. Hope you like it. Or not. I sorta don't care either way. It was fun. Anyhoo ... Get your asses in gear and head on over to POW! for a pop. Bring your friends. I'm sure I will. See you there! bye-ee!
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