_____________________________________________________________________________ ---------------------------- I Bleed for This? ------------------------------ ------11.26.94-----------------------------------------------------#036------ Women with Tatoos Know Everything About Love Commentary by Snarfblat By now, IBFT has probably convinced you that you are surrounded by morons (and that you are one of them). So it should come as no surprise to you that Machine Magazine exists. It is an ill-conceived "cyberpunk" zine with a cover price of $5.00. I don't know why a cyberpunk zine would be produced on paper in the first place; but that is the least of its faults. Inside the front cover of my free copy of "Version 1." of Machine, there is a photo of an ansgtful alternative guy. There he is in all his stereotypical cyberangstpunk fashion: Billy Idol hair, pierced nose/face, metal cross around his neck. Leather jacket. Rings. He is angry and rebellious and he has a scrotum full of mercury to prove it. God you suck. Not only do you have nothing intelligent to say, but you look like a victim of a shark attack. I think the Dead Milkmen said it best: "Ooh baby, look at you. Don't you look like Siouxie Sioux? How long it take to get that way? What a terrible waste of energy." I found the same picture in another paper zine, used as an ad for a place promising "fucked up hairstyles your parents will hate". Why will you not listen to IBFT? Destroying your body is not an acceptable form of rebellion. Stir shit up and kick ass if you think you have a good reason. Otherwise get a job. Machine Magazine, which is not worthy of being used to wipe my shit off Gary Mitchell's face, also contains some crap which tries to be artistic. There is the obligatory cartoon drawn by a retarded one year old, with such a stupid pretense that it barely deserves to be mentioned. "ShadowVenture by J.M. Hauber: IN 1944, THE THIRD REICH,UNDER FIELD MARSHAL HERMAN GOERING, CREATED A TEAM OF SUPER-ASSASSINS KNOWN AS THE "SHADOW VENTURES". THIS CRACK SUICIDE SQUAD WAS THE ULTIMATE DEVICE IN NAZI GERMANY'S STRUGGLE FOR VICTORY IN EUROPE. AT THE DEFEAT OF THE NAZI WAR MACHINE THE GROUP DISBANDED. NONE WERE EVER TRACKED DOWN. IN 1961 THE UNITED STATES IMPLIMENTED THIER OWN GROUP OF SHADOW VENTURES THAT ACCOMPLISHED SEVERAL "SILENT" VICTORIES WORLDWIDE. THIS GROUP BECAME OUT OF CONTROL AND WAS HUNTED DOWN AND DESTROYED, ALL BUT TWO WERE ACCOUNT FOR, UNTILL NOW..........." [all typos and idiocy are J.M. Hauber's fault -sna] I HOPE NO SHADOWVENTURES COME AND KILL ME IN MY SLEEP. After the intro, the strip is 3 panels long. The main character wears all black, smokes a cigarette and has a pierced ear. I can't tell if that's an eye patch or sunglasses. Who cares. Some idiot submitted photos of naked women taken at an airport. How very industrial. Here's my cyber-art idea: spray you and your bitches with plane fuel then chop your legs off and videotape you trying to slither off the runway as a 747 approaches. But the crowning jewel of idiocy, this musty wart picked off the ass of some pre-pubescent's idea of cyberculture, is a story by Gary Mitchell. After spending the first 13 years of his life in a windowless box with nothing but his own vomit to comfort him, Gary stumbled out one day and presented the world with this tribute to his flea-infested colon. I have tried to keep the story as close as possible to the already-mangled form I found it in. Line lengths, typing and spelling mistakes are left unchanged of course; pay attention to them, but don't let them distract you from the moronic intentions behind the story. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- TATOO from Vignettes of Vargus by Gary Mitchell He was sitting there as preety as a new Roosevelt dim. Sitting there, one leg hooked over the leg of the barstool to steady the drift leeward, banging at the whiskey and whiskeys and spilling his guts to a woman with a tatoo. Spilling over the side, like a bucket too fulla rainwater. he was swigging and swaying with the jazz of his own invention, captuing her like enemy territory. She was biting. She was blonde, tattood, and a stinker. She liked them a little skinnier than him. Thin like the sax man's reed---never know if they'll sing or snap. She licked her lips and wet ol'Reed. Then she blew a sweet soulful tune. He was half-mesmerized by her obviouys charms and lack of sophistication. She was sophisticated as a checkout girl and twice as savy in the ways of the world. The hat check girl at Marty's had twice on the ball what she did. but then again Gloria was smart. And it showed. She was standing next to his stool, not doing anything to make him seem taller. She was a good six feet, spiked heels and all, and that put her shoulders and head over Reed. He hardly noticed because that put her nipple-high to her bosom. And to them was who he addressed most of his conversation. She was silent as roadkill cat and twice as slow on the uptake. She was slowed by too many rotten stories stuck in her ears and too little loving in her bed. Tha tmade her melancholy and that is stuf fheavy as cement to a woman with tatoos. Yet, rail-thin Reed kept plucking away at them heart strings hoping to catch a good sad tune she could whistle a few bars of. But no dice. She wasn't speaking to him. So he did all the talking for her. He didn't figure her silence for anything but flat out rejection, but he to to rejection like a duck to water---it rolled off his back. Sorta. And she was something to put in your eye. She was what the man called a looker. He told her eveything Held nothing back. About how love was a hard, hard road and how you had to possess the right mix of respect and compassion just like the carburetor had to have to proper mix of air and fire. And good feelings, they were important too. A couple had to know hot to get along when times were tough as well. as good. How to get over them rough patches---slick them down. How to talk about the little things people let go too long till it spoils their love and poisons their hearts againgst each other. He kept this up sensing her own deep rooted regret. She even dabbed her eyes now and again when it seemed appropriate. But she said nothing, just soft grunts of "uh-huhs". This was like spreading manure on weeds. He just couldn't give it a rest. People ought to spend more time getting the details right. The details were everything. Just about everything. To the devil with the higher notions of good and evil, give me the details, he waxed on. He had the notion she wantde to listen but was feigning disinterest. It was a burning desire in her, he was assured. He wanted to say it all up front. Even if it was...well, kinda...you know... a little embarassing to talk so sweet about things...but he was pretty sure of his manhood so the topic of romance wasn't threatening to him. And besides, he was better or worse for wine and it softened his rock-hard disposition. He was fuzzy and furry now and getting sappy about folkshaving no secrets. Nothing they couldn't tell each other or say. Like late at night. When they would lay in each other's armsand whisper things. She stood there and ordered another martini. She took his money from under his glass and passed it to Chuck Conners, the bartender. Obviously, not THAT Chuck Conners. The woman with the tatoos drank her martini. Reeed grew suddenly quiet. Was this to be it ---the sign, the symbol...the moment of truth...was she wooed and won! Had his charmes charmed her, the woman with the tatoos.He bit his lip in anticipation. Finally, she spoke. "Chuck. Hey, Chuck, you think you could get Gilligan's Island on the t.v.?" Women with tatoos already know everything about love. ============================================================================== IBFT: If we hate you, you don't deserve to know why. Information: bleed@unix.amherst.edu ftp.etext.org:/pub/Zines/IBFT The Eleventh Hour (617)696-3146 ==============================================================================