DID YOU EVER ASK, "What's on Tap?" and then some beer-belly redneck grabs your collar and says, "This
ain't your kind of place, fuckin' whoosie!" ? This has never happened to me, but if it happens to you,
here's what you should do:
You remember those baking utensils your mother had when she used to cook, before the wonderful
bread machines came about? Well, get the thing that was used to sift flour, it looks like the front-half of a
farm tractor used to cut wheat. Carry that in your coat pocket and mash the jerk's face in when he says
it. You should also carry a laminated police badge, and possibly a rocket-jet pack to get the hell out of
the city ASAP, before your mother finds out you took her cutlery.
But things are getting better. If everyone would buy a computer, soon we will all be connected together
on a worldwide information network, cable television bonanza, home shopping network Puke-fest. Then
you can break protocol and fuck up his bank balance, program 24 hours of science fiction movies on his
TV, and order a 3 month supply of Healthy Choice mIcrowarp dinners. Then sit back and have all night
virtual sex with his fat wife. Technology is fuckin' great!
Double-prints from Wal-Mart make great envelope stuffers for your monthly credit card bills. Somewhere
out there (I think they live in South Dakota) are underpaid, overbored wage slaves ripping open your
business reply envelopes to begin endless keypunch routines, perfect integers translated into binary
boobies, to adjust your self worth. Imagine how surprised and excited they will act when they see that
picture of Uncle Jack carving the turkey on top of the bread machine.
Meanwhile on Oprah, overpaid verb-spitters act as 5 minute career counselors, urging happy housewives
to look inside themselves, stop being a people pleaser, stop slaving over a bread machine, go back to
school, improve your sex life, blah, blah, blah. If they just realized that my problems would be solved if
we could just be born with $100,000 in our bank account and get $2,000 every birthday like in
monopoly. The next time a telemarketer calls you to switch long distance telephones, offer your
sympathy that they have such a crappy job, and then ask them the question at the beginning of this
book. Like most preprogrammed wage slaves they won't know which page to turn to in their sales
script, and will quickly hang up the phone, embarrassed. But if by chance they respond like E.T. in the
oxygen tent, then you have found a new friend, someone to send your double prints to.
This Issue 12 is late as usual. All the books we read, seminars we attend, and clean up your room
marathons, we can't seem to do it any faster. A recent conversion to organic condoms and premium
priced citric fruit metabolism packets have left us begging our bosses for more money to buy stamps and
photo copy tokens. Well-rehearsed speeches by our parents to move back home, and reconsider our
motive in life have confused us to the point of calling 1-900 phone lines for psychic advice. All
indications reveal a master plan by the Queen Bee to eat her young and have a quick fix for bathtub
scrubbings on Sundays. Busloads of morons dragged out to modern day amphitheaters, reveal a missing
link between the prehistoric man and remote control VCR's. Steal the newspaper off the back of a bum
sleeping on a park bench, to read about disasters unknown, encouraging muffled discussion about the
end of the world, the fall of government, the corruption of the church.
Stop. READ.