| SOL Post 51 | 09/15/00 |
| SOL Post 50 | 08/15/00 |
| SOL Post 49 | 07/20/00 |
S.O.L. POST
==========================================================================
Volume 50
http://www.msties.com/
August 2000
Formerly The MSTies Anonymous Newsletter: News for the Obscure Convergence
==========================================================================
GOODBYE, AUCTION!
In This Issue
From the Poobah
"Jenny For Your Thoughts" by Kismetgirl88@hotmail.com
"How Sweet it Was" by agent_moldy@hotmail.com
"The Gateway Con" by jam@townsqr.com
"Untitled" by Joey16000@go.com
"Better 'Bots and Satellites" by bgibron@yahoo.com
August MSTie of the Month: tvgm3000@hotmail.com
September MST3K Schedule on SFC
Classifieds 3000
Disclaimers
From the Poobah
It appears that last month's Gateway Con in St. Louis has re-energized the
MSTie populance and demonstrated the ensured continuation of the late show's
fan base one year after the fact. It was an honor and a pleasure to meet so
many of my fellow MSTies (club members or otherwise) in the presence of four
ex-Brains. In this, the 50th edition of the SOL Post are three additional
accounts from the convention in addition to those already published. Please be
sure to check out my story complete with 74 high-resolution pictures on our
site.
"Jenny For Your Thoughts" by Kismetgirl88@hotmail.com
I've decided to do a short VH-1 Behind the Music special on the Del-Aires.
Enjoy!
Narrator: Today we look at beach movie bands. Our first look is at the Del-
Aires from "Horror at Party Beach", a little band that thought they could, and
didn't. From their humble garage roots to bleak futures, this band fell. Take
a trip throughout the rise to fame and fall to the heartbeak of defeat on
Behind the Music.
The Del-Aires were a four-man beach band. It was made of Tom, Bob, Dale and
the drummer Steve. Once a not-so-promising band, the guys now have all become
relatively unknowns. Tom is now in mental hospital, Bob lives in a shack, and
Steve is now owner of the TGI Friday's chain, and Dale has seemingly vanished
off the face of the planet. But the boys were not always like this. Once good
friends, they now vow never to speak to each other. No one even knows whose
idea was to form the band.
Steve: I think it was Dale's or Tom's idea. I know it wasn't MY idea.
Bob: It wasn't my idea! It was someone else's. Why don't you believe me?!
Tom: I had Jello today...
Bob: I'll kill anyone who says it was my idea.
Narrator: The group formed and practiced in a garage and started to play.
Steve: We had planned on being one of those bands that got really popular,
then you got sick of really fast. One of those bands that you want to pummel
to death and has but only one song that is constantly played that makes you
want kill them even more. Like Tony Bazial, the Spice Girls, or Right Said
Fred.
Bob: We wrote a couple songs and played them. Everyone told us we sucked and
had no talent but we didn't listen. God, why didn't we listen?
Steve: We didn't want to be big musicians or have a long record contract. Our
plan was more down to earth. Become a one hit wonder, milk it for all its
worth, and live off the roalites.
Bob: My mis-spent youth... Why didn't I listen?!
Narrator: But the plan worked. One song that nobody remembers got big, but
there were fights the band.
Steve: I was angry because I was always in the back. You could never see me.
But it was a blessing in disguise. One reason I think I have become the most
successful band member is because nobody even knew I was in the band. You
couldn't really see me.
Bob: Why did I insist be in the front. WHY?!
Steve: Now I'm the head of a restaurant chain that overcharges people on food
and has crap from peoples' attics on the walls.
Narrator: The band's largest and final performance was in movie "Horror at
Party Beach".
Steve: We were happy to get the gig unknowing that it would be last time we
would play.
Bob: We got paid $2 a day. We were only there for 2 days, and thought it would
take longer, but it didn't. I cost us $10 just to get there and pay for all
the expenses.
Steve: You know the scene in "That Thing You Do" where The Wonders play at the
beach? I gave Tom Hanks that idea. Sure he changed it and didn't pay me, but
it was based on us.
Narrator: But tragedy fell group during the taping. Bob got addicted to
sodium.
Steve: I don't even know how it happened. We were only there for two days. It
was the quickest substance addition I've ever seen.
Bob: I one had live box and pan handing for sodium. I went to rehab years
later. But as soon I came through the rehab doors and told them my problem, I
was laughed at and thrown out. But I got off the sodium kick and now am a
normal alcoholic.
Narrator: Tom went insane during the taping.
Bob: Tom was the most logical one, but he snapped faster than twig.
Steve: I think what caused it was Tom getting into some of our equipment and
getting too close to those male beach dancers. After that, he just screamed
and tossed things all over place.
Nurse: Tom will get very upset if we say the word 'Del-Aires'. You can't even
say Delaware, Delta, or El-Airs, or he'll throw a fit. He starts to scream
whenever there are male beach dancers on TV. He is also disturbed whenever he
sees a picture of Tom Green and Drew Barrymore together. But that is normal.
Narrator: With Bob's sodium problem and Tom descent into madness, the band
broke up, and Dale seemed to disappear overnight.
Steve: I think one reason we broke up was because Dale had been drafted into
the war. I think he was killed in battle.
Bob: Dale I think he was abducted by aliens or died at some point, lucky guy.
Tom: I thought you were Dale.
Narrator: Even Dale's parents have no clue what happened to their son.
Dale's Mother: One day after the band broke up, he had the mark of failure on
him. Then he just up and left.
Dale's Father: I think he changed his identity and went to Canada to form the
band Rush.
Narrator: Wherever Dale is, he's sure never to come back. The band and their
record never became a one-hit wonder, thus ending another tragic story of a
beach movie band. After the break, we look into another band and air their
dirty landry.
"How Sweet it Was" by agent_moldy@hotmail.com
As one of the many who attended the Gateway Convention, I can confirm what
everyone else has already said: it ROCKED! Hmm, maybe I should re-word that.
The convention itself? Eh, could've been better, but meeting the guys (and
girl) from MST3K? THAT rocked!
I arrived at the Henry VIII (I did, I did) on Thursday the 13th, but
there's really nothing special to tell about that day, so let's move on, shall
we? Friday the 14th was the beginning of a most incredible weekend for me.
After joining up with most of my group around noon (Cappers... woo-hoo! Ahem,
sorry.), we headed to one of the most important places in the hotel: the bar.
Lo and behold, guess who was sitting at the corner table? Yep, Mike, Bill,
Kevin, and a woman we didn't recognize at first... until she started to speak.
Why, it's MaryJo! Yes, Mary Jo was the "surprise guest" mentioned in the
convention program. Who'd have thought she'd look so different with her hair
down and less than a pound of makeup on her face? And I mean that in a nice
way. Wow, there they were -- the Great Ones -- I was truly in awe.
At that time, I was the only female in our group, and a couple of the guys
offered to pay me a grand total of $15 if I would stand up and yell, "OH MY
GOD! IT'S MIKE NELSON!!!" Well, fifteen bucks is fifteen bucks, but I figured
getting kicked out of the convention before it even started wasn't worth
fifteen dollars. The MST folks left before we did, and as we were leaving the
bar, they just happened to come around the corner in front of the bar. "Nice
puppet," Kevin Murphy noted, as he passed by the MSTies Anonymous Poobah, who
proudly displayed his (very nice) Tom Servo. A month later, I wonder if the
Poobah's still got that grin on his face and if he ever let go of his Servo...
That afternoon, it was off to the open riffing session. The riffing gods
smiled upon us that day, as we were given Joe Don Baker ("Mitchell") and Ben
Murphy ("Riding With Death") to have our way with. Ooh, poor choice of words.
Anyway, unfortunately, there was a very unfunny woman behind us who felt the
need to yell her riffs at the top of her lungs. Why do the unfunny ones always
have to be the loudest?
Later that afternoon, the opening ceremonies were held. The MST3K folks
definitely got the biggest ovation... a lot of people were standing, even!
Leis were then thrown out to all the convention "virgins". I asked one of my
friends if she wanted one, and she replied, "Only if Mike Nelson is 'giving
out the leis.'" Subtle, that one. After the ceremonies were finished, I headed
up to my room for more film. When I returned, the MST folks were pretty much
being held captive in the hotel lobby for autographs and photos. Often one to
follow the crowd, I "held them up" for a photo, too. Mike's hand is on my
shoulder in the photo. My "Only if Mike is giving out the leis" friend was
envious, but she got to be touched by Mike the next day, so looks like I get
to live after all. The rest of the weekend, one of our many jokes was that I
had been "Touched by a Nelson" ...Okay, so you had to be there.
That evening, a second, open riffing session was held. This time we got to
"Go ahead on" and riff on "Final Justice" (the uncensored version!), another
Joe Don Baker "classic." Once again, there was an unfunny woman yelling her
riffs at the top of her lungs sitting 3-4 rows ahead of us. Different loud,
unfunny woman this time, but once again, I must ask, why do the unfunny ones
always have to be the loudest?
Whew! All that, and that was just Friday!
Saturday brought even more fun for our little group. Once again, around
noon, we managed to hit the bar the same time our "gods" did. And, like
before, we admired them from afar, never daring to actually go up to them and
say, "Hi," or something equally as benign. Saturday afternoon brought the
first of two Q&A sessions featuring the MST gang. One hour per Q&A session
just wasn't enough time, but that's all that was allowed because, oh yeah,
there were other celebrity guests there, too.
After the Q&A, an autograph session was held. I dare say that line was by
far, the longest autograph line of all! I almost felt sorry for the other
guests whose lines weren't even close to being as long as the MST line was. I
managed to get autographs and photos, and laughed much when my turn came.
Kevin posed with his bottle of Guinness, telling me all about the goodness of
Guinness as I took his picture, and Bill showed MaryJo his box of chocolates
and warned her to stay away from them as I took his picture. Even after I had
been through the line, I stood around snapping photo after photo as the gang
signed autographs. One of my friends made a "Michael Nelson IS Lord of the
Dance!" t-shirt for Mike, complete with the photo of Mike as Michael Flatley,
and "tour dates" on the back. Trust me, it was way cool. Mike seemed very
impressed, yet disturbed... That same guy is making "Touched by a Nelson"
shirts for a couple of us. Lucky me!
That evening, I went out to dinner with friends, and missed the Masquerade
party, but I hear it was quite a sight! Later, my group once again joined up
in the bar where, you guessed it, once again, Mike, et al were there. Some
woman literally hung all over Mike the whole time she was there. This time, I
had enough "liquid courage" in me to actually attempt to speak to Mike. My
friend and I said some rather crude things about the woman who had been
hanging on him, but he was very nice and joked with us a bit. About oh, 30, 40
seconds later, we were interrupted by a couple who rudely pushed their way in
and took over, and that was the end of our conversation with Mike. Stupid,
rassin' frassin'...
After closing down the bar, some of my group... well, we'll just keep our
various "after hours" activities to ourselves, and move on to Sunday, heh...
Sunday brought us another Q&A session, complete with Kevin Murphy running
around with a microphone to take questions. A few, lucky attendees who asked
good questions, as determined by Kevin, received TimmyBigHands hats, as well.
Prior to the Q&A session was another autograph session. The line wasn't nearly
as long as before, but was still long enough. Bill, Kevin, Mike, and MaryJo
were even gracious enough to pose for about fifteen separate photos of the
four of them with our group. I just wish I had a photo of the poor girl who
took our photos, who had cameras dangling from each arm as she quickly snapped
away. That group photo is one of my most favorite memories of the con. The
only bad thing to happen during the group photo session was when some woman
tried to horn in on our photo. I told her it was a special group photo, but
she thought it would be funny to be the "stranger" in the photo, whose
identity we'd all be trying to guess. She was wrong.
Overall, I'd have to say that had the gang from MST3K or my Capper friends
not been there, I'd have been less than thrilled with the convention,
especially with that loud, abrasive, convention worker woman who was beyond
annoying. Regarding her, one of the members of my group said, "Can we group
beat her up?" But aside from all that, I got to meet some of my online friends
who I'd only communicated with electronically before, I got to meet the MST3K
gang, had tons o' fun, and I went away with memories I will always cherish.
"The Gateway Con" by jam@townsqr.com
Day One: I arrived bright and early, only to discover that I wasn't quite
early enough and had an enormous line ahead of me, composed of the dear people
(like myself) who had waited 'til the last minute to register. There were a
few disturbing moments (arriving there and seeing my fellow conventioneers for
the first time), but all and all, it wasn't so bad. Although I did wonder, at
first, if I was going to enjoy myself at all, as things started out so slow. I
was disappointed to find that the dealers room had hardly any MST3K stuff for
sale in it. I purchased a copy of Mike Nelson's book, Mike Nelson's Movie
Megacheese. But then came the big thrill as I was walking out of the dealers
room, who should walk past me, making a beeline for the hotel restaurant, but
Mike Nelson, Bill Corbett, and Kevin Murphy? I was dumbfounded and rather
thrilled... I actually trailed behind them a bit and glanced at them once they
were in the restaurant. This was my first-ever brush with fame. I wondered
what I should do... Should I run up and ask for autographs? Should I run up
and simply say, "I love your show!" Or should I try to come up with some
really smart, intelligent question or remark to impress them so that they'll
remember me? Unfortunately the final option was not an option for me, since I
discovered that when you're in the presence of a favorite celebrity, suddenly
all you can think of to say is "I love your show." None of the smart,
intelligent questions occurr to you until afterwards. In the end, I decided
the option of "letting them have their privacy" was best. After all, one
doesn't know whether they enjoy being bugged by fans in public or not. And
unfortunately, since following around people and watching them every moment of
the time comes under the label of "stalking," I decided not to stare at them
in the restaurant any more and wandered off to find my family.
The next time I saw them that evening was at the opening ceremonies. They
came up on stage and one of them (Bill Corbett, I think) said that, although
they weren't drunk enough to do anything on stage that night, "Tomorrow night
we will be!" which got huge applause. Also, it turned out that the
convention's mystery guest was MaryJo Pehl, who besides being another bit of
MST3K is my favorite TV actress, and so I was thrilled yet again.
Well, I figured that was going to be the last time I saw them until the
next day, except that when I walked out of the Main Programming room a while
later, who should I spot in the lobby again but all four of them, standing
around by the door (as if they'd tried to escape the hotel for a while and
been besieged before they could make it), handing out an occasional autograph
and allowing themselves to be photographed by fans! I went into minor agonies
at this point: on the one hand I didn't want to risk irritating them, yet on
the inside, there's this feeling you get when you get to see a favorite
celebrity in person for the first time, kind of a desire to just fling your
arms around their waist, wildly shrieking, "I love you!" I settled for running
up and getting all their autographs on Mike Nelson's Movie Megacheese book,
despite the fact that only one of them (Mike Nelson, of course) had anything
to do with the book. They were all very charming and normal people, not to
mention funny. (Kevin Murphy signed, "Burn this book!" Bill Corbett signed,
"Please enjoy my fine book!" and Mike Nelson signed, "Thank you for buying
this so I can eat.") I also got to see Terry Pratchett (British comedy/fantasy
author) for the first time this day, although I didn't happen to have a book
handy so I didn't get his autograph. (I wouldn't have recognized him on sight,
but I heard his voice, and he was noticably British...) I had a problem
getting to sleep that night, partially due to having gone to bed too early,
and partly due to the fact that I was still hugely jazzed about meeting the
MST3K crew...!
Day Two: I woke up feeling decidedly better about the whole convention
thing. This was the day Terry Pratchett gave his first little show (he's a
really funny guy, and quite British) and also the first time the MST3K guys
gave their show. After that, they had an official autograph signing. My
brother had located an MST3K photograph in the dealers room and had them all
autograph it. That picture is now hanging above my computer... I also caught
up with Terry Pratchett and got his autograph in a copy of one of his books
that I happened to have brought with me.
My mother had an embarrassing incident this afternoon; she had wandered
down in to the hotel restaurant to get a cup of coffee, and since there was no
one at the front desk, she waited around a bit. Finally, she noticed a waiter
or someone stepping out behind the front desk, and turned to ask him for her
cup of coffee. As the words were beginning to form on her lips, she noticed
that the guy looked vaguely familiar. She stared for another minute, and then
realized, with horror, that it was Kevin Murphy. She exclaimed, "Oh, I was
going to ask you for a cup of coffee!" Mr. Murphy replied something to the
effect of, "Well, it's a good thing you didn't, 'cause I don't have any."
This was also the day of the Convention Masquerade. Originally, I planned
on taking part myself, but my costume came out too big, and at the last moment
I decided against it. I wish I had now, as the Masqueraders seemed to enjoy
the experience! My brother dressed as "Brain Guy II" which got him in with all
the other charming MST3K-costumed people, including Mr. B Natural, Manos and
two wives, and a Mike and a Servo! There seemed to be a number of technical
hitches during the show, and MC (John Levene of apparent Dr. Who fame) filled
in time by telling some of the worst jokes I've ever heard in public, but at
least he kept the audience's attention. After the Masquerade was done I ambled
up to the video room and watched the 1013 Diabolik until after midnight.
Day Three: Final Day. The final event of the day was the second MST3K Q&A,
so the whole day just sort of built up to that. It was another very
entertaining show, and I finally got up the nerve to ask a question myself,
and it was actually something I'd wondered about for a long time. I asked
Bill Corbett how he first got involved with MST3K. He began, "Well, I was
arrested for drunk driving..." After that, the convention was over (still
feeling brazen after the 'questioning' incident, I called out and asked the
'closing ceremonies lady' whether they would have the MST3K guys back for the
convention next year, but she replied the negative) so we packed up and got
into our van to start the 5 or 6 hour drive back home. The whole way I was
thinking of other questions I would have liked to have asked or things I would
have liked to have done, but I comforted myself with the thought there will
probably be another convention someday, and then I'll get my chance!
"Untitled" by Joey16000@go.com
I attended the Gateway Convention with my dad. After a 7-hour drive from
Des Moines, IA to the hotel, we arrived. When we got there I met MSTAnon with
his Servo, and we talked and he gave me a pamplet for his site.
During the Con, I was shocked to see tons of Babylon 5 stuff and very
little MST content. Bored, we decided to go back to our room (the Holiday Inn
1/3rd of a mile away from the Henry VIII) and I took a nap, washed myself, and
did something very stupid: I sat on my glasses!
Don't worry, we managed to tape them back together and return to the con.
There we saw a bit more MST3K stuff and I signed up for the 5-minute MSTing
contest at 2 pm, the second happiest moment in my life (with the first being
the time I discovered the show at 2 am on my local NBC affilate, WHO-13 in
September 1995).
I got to see the "MSTie" guys up close, with their jokes and other
shenanigans, then I GOT TO MEET THEM. MaryJo signed her name on the character
list in my torn-up MST3K Amazing Colossal Episode Guide. Mike signed his name
and I complained to him that I couldn't read his name, so I FORCED Mike to
print his name on the cover. Bill signed his name for Trace, and Kevin Murphy
so gratefully signed his name with the message, "What a mess!"
Then I had to get ready for the MSTing competition. My team consisted of a
guy wearing a Pumaman costume and MSTAnon himself, with his Kevin Murphy-
signature Tom Servo. We were supposed to start at exactly 4, but technical
problems forced us to wait for 20 minutes. Once we finally got started,
MSTAnon sat on Servo's side (acutally, his puppet sat on Servo's side and Anon
did the voice), Pumaman sat in the middle, and I sat on Crow's side. We riffed
on a 5-minute clip from a movie I'd never heard of, but I did well.
Side note: I'm a really good riffer and the movies I've trashed include
"Miracle On 34th Street" (1994, yuck), "The Power Rangers Movie" (eww),
"Single White Female" (double eww!), "Love Walked In" (triple eww!), etc.
After that, my dad and I decided to bid farewell to the con went to get a
pizza. We both fell asleep and woke up at 2 am and took the 7-hour trip back
home to Iowa.
And that's the story of my trip to the Gateway Con. Right now I'm watching
the latest episode of the Israeli "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?". Bye-Bye!
"Better 'Bots and Satellites" by bgibron@yahoo.com
Vol. 3, Issue 1
Meat, Taters: Woah man, I've got the munchies
I come today to sing the praises of food. Rations... Grub... Vittles...
Chow... Groceries... Comestibles... to paraphrase Lionel Bart's ode to child
bondage, by way of Charles Dickens, 'silage, glorious silage.' Now, I am not
talking about that organic stuff, which is grown without benefit of advanced
chemical procedures, limited hippie technology and a heaping helping of
Bossie's own private anal Miracle Grow. I am not referring to the rapid fire
cuisine that shoots out of drive through windows just about as swiftly as it
passes through your colon, long lines, blockages and poor curbside manner all
thrown in for good measure. And I am surely not discussing your Grandma Ida's
Mystery Meat Soufflé Surprise, a smorgasbord of ham, sausage, headcheese,
bourbon and piccalilli garnished with a maw-mastering mound of Durkee's French
Fried Onion Rings. All of these would warrant enormous investigations by the
FDA, FAA and People for the Ethical Treatment of Rectums. No, I am referring
to the food of a more innocent time, when meals were nourishing and bellies
full of homemade righteousness.
Isn't it amazing how far we have devolved in the last few decades? Where
once food was fatty, sweet, chewy, dense, rich and satisfying, it has become
limp, porous, empty of flavor and absolutely absent any nutritional,
pallatational or educational validity. Fat free, low fat and non-fat have
replaced the cream filling, the jelly center and the tunnel of fudge in even
the most basic of food fodder. Examples abound to the dejection of the savory
and the undermining of the sugary. Twinkies, once a bastion of palm oil and
coconut fat wonderment, able to clog a juvenile circulatory system with just a
tear of 'Twinkie the Kid's' shrink wrapped hat, have now been reduced to flat
angel food pseudo cake stuffed with air whipped lint from under Mr. Hostess'
toupee stand. Steak, the king of meals, the master of the dinner domain, hot
and bloody, pleasing in all its carnivorous majesty has been reduced to a
politically incorrect after school special, the bastard child of a vegan's
waist bin. Don't even ask about heavy cream or butter. They have been
banished, outlawed to a place in the 7-layer salad of Hell to glutton for all
eternity.
Even chocolate, the most basic and primary of factors in the foodstuff
foundation gets little or no respect today. Either its good for you or bad, it
cures your PMS or causes bilabial fricatives. Smear it on your gums and it
treats your cold sores, or your rub it between your palms and they grow hair.
With the lone exception of Hershey's, which knows a good bar when it's been
looking for it understands to leave well enough alone. They still make the
same, safe bar of milked masterfullness that the semi-sweet Svengali of
Pennsylvania concocted when looking for a sure fire aphrodisiac for the
dangerously under-populated immigrant trade. However, in other parts of the
cocoa-ly challenged US of A, these flat bars of opulent obscenity are
Giradellied and Godivied into some sort of Euro-trashy truculence, making
their basic recipe of solids and butters seem less like a discovery of the
Incans and more like Napoleon's stomach plaster. Even Dove screws up a good
thing by adding goofy, Zen-like nonsense to their otherwise splendid dark and
light nuggets. Who cares if the world around you smiles like a dozen bunnies
in a silk snowstorm: I just want tasty chocolate, dammit.
So what do you do? Where do you turn when the world assaults you like two
peanuts walking down the Strassa and tells you to eat more fiber and decrease
your intake of lard and other nourishing trans-fatty acids? How do you defeat
the pitiable protectors of the portly when they decry the placing of hot fudge
on frozen custard or the removal of the 'ala mode' from a gooey wedge of Dutch
apple pie? How do you intend to live free and not diet? Well, "Better 'Bots
and Satellites" has take time to develop a nutritional plan for you, heavy on
the sarcasm and light on anything so illuminationally named. A review of
several of the short films that have acted like a French fried potato garnish
to the main feature hamburger samich dined on by Joel, Mike and the rest
creates a complete dietary dogma, one guaranteed to pack on the unwanted
waistlines and reduce the overall life expectancy of all involved. So let's
review this new version of the four food groups, the MST calorie counter that
will soon having you puffy, bloated and winded at the very notion of sitting
up.
Food Group #1: Help, I've Got the Chicken Runs Poultry, in the form of
"Chicken of Tomorrow" from 702 Brute Man
What do you really want out of a piece of poultry? Are you looking for
succulence, a kind of mouth round fullness that screams 'pecking order' every
time you take another juicy, luscious morsel between incisor and tongue and
proceed to masticate the holy snot out of it? Maybe your looking for a
richness in flavor, a meatiness that announces itself in your alimentary canal
long before you feel it in the paunch of your pot belly and an overall
deliciousness that hangs around like that dopey friend of yours, Hank, you
just can't seem to get the hint and move himself, and his entire life, off
your trundle bed. Well, if that's the type of bird you're after, my friend,
then you are in a great deal of dysentery, as there is nothing like this in
the industrial salmonella plantation, the cockerel concentration camp that
houses the aforementioned fowls of the future.
And never before has a species been so aptly nicknamed as this gaggle of
gangrenous game hens. Herded into steel utility style sheds and compacted into
growing pens like so many Sardinians into a $1200 a month loft in New York
City, these birds of a rancid feather have very little time, let alone room,
to flock together. Instead, they are force fed grain until their livers
explode with bile and botulism and their breasts swell to an Anna Nicole Smith
after a Peanut Buster Parfait binge bountifulness and then, they are fed some
more. Restricted in their movement and their ability to avoid cannibalism,
they feast on and around each other in a mad dash toward an oven roasting rack
and a date with the Lowry's Seasoned Salt. These pitiful pullets are now so
vitamin deficient, so dietarily depleted in the basic makeup of food value
that they become generic meat, capable of accepting any flavor that they are
given, but offering no essence of their own. They are like cock-a-doodle tofu.
Still, this shape of things to capon offers an excellent starter for the
MSTie looking to wean themselves off gourmet platters of fish sticks or the
unnecessary loafiness of meat and meat by-products. By waddling down to your
local Piggly Wiggly and picking up one of these runny, slimy off white
carcasses and carrying the carrion home, you can feast your festering gob
everlasting as you hope to keep down about 1/2 of what you actually take in.
As this temporal tidbit roasts in your easy wake and bake oven to a smoldering
pile of beige, you can sit back in the full knowledge that every germ, microbe
and particle of inert bacteria is being awoken from its hen house hibernation
and resting comfortably in the juicy giblets and gimlets, just looking to
perch in your central nervous system. Then, with apropos side dishes of
steamed creamed crap and a plaster log of penicillin, you can down this
manufactured mold o' meal and take up a rollicking diaper road rash trip down
the old flowing brown river. So when you got a hankerin' for some Buffalo
style viral infection, or a casualty Cacciatore, then by all mean, sup 'til
you chuck on the rooster than time forgot.
Food Group #2: An Udder-ly Repulsive Taste Teat Dairy, in the form of "Uncle
Jim's Dairy Farm" from 607 Bloodlust
John Denver once sang that, "Life on the farm was kinda laid back," and for
once, he may have struck the emotional nail on the head, very similar to his
own noggin as it careened into the roofing material of the experimental air
craft that he so skillfully turned into the Sea View from Voyage to the Bottom
of the Sea. After all, a mentality geared toward the harvesting of fingerling
potatoes and the sizing and grading of pork testicles must leave lots of time
to lay back in contemplation. Otherwise, who would have thought of such an
enlightened hypothesis as a hose like squirt of non pasteurized, loaded with
grass and other grass born insect and insect parts, body and blood temperature
calf formula, drafted with just a little pinch from out of the dirty, near the
ass underside of a rutting in its own filth animal right into your open mouth?
Explains the whole series of "farmers daughters" jokes in a nutshell, if you
ask me. It must have something to do with drawing your own water from a well,
or storing your own feces in a pit for future fertilization emergencies, but
the average cultivator tends to find felicity in the most bizarre of places.
Take the hayloft, often cited as a place of carnal excitement and some
serious rolling. Sure, maybe in the times when there was no such thing as the
Serta Perfect Sleeper, the Seely Posturpedic morning and Grandma's feather
bed, a good forty winks in a large pile of field mulch seemed like a high paid
Tokyo Geisha's foot massage. But for every needle to be found in the
proverbial stack, there were chiggers, aphids, millipedes and pitchforks just
waiting to make mincemeat out of your midsection. And if you have ever had
mincemeat, you know how nauseating that can be. Still, when you've been caught
with your second cousin Merle and you are looking for a place to shy away from
the altar bound shotgun shenanigans that your Paw seems anxious to commence to
having, or if Maw baked up yet another batch of her county famous mountain
oyster au gratin, then you could do a lot worse than interring your bib
overhauled bottom under a wet, moldering pile of the lone prairie.
Still, when it comes to a primary focus for the dieting devotee of the
scientific theater of mystery, a sweltering swig of moo juice is, aside from
Keenan and Kel, all that. You see, Galileo was wrong. The world does not
revolve around the sun on Uncle Jim's Dairy Farm; it revolves around the bosom
of the bovine. A day's toil in the barn, hooking nipple to suction device and
spreading ointment on swollen cow cleavage is all worth it, when the result is
as hot, sticky and oh so gamy as fresh bull bullion. After a moustache
producing mug of processed meadow dew, a steaming stein of steer soda or the
familiar mouth to mammary, once can sit back, belly filled to the brim with
gooey goodness, and chew over how quickly you too will process this steak milk
shake and expel it from your own underside spit valve. So, the next time you
think about a plate full of Oreos or a Carnation's Instant Breakfast, don't
forget the most important part of the snack time ceremony: a long draw off a
cow's privates. Mmm, mmm gag!
Food Group #3: Now is the Winter Vegetables of Our Discontent Greens, in the
form of "Truck Farmer" from 507 I Accuse My Parents
Remember when you were younger, knee-high to an ant farm and Mom piled your
plate large with steaming heaps of brocoflower and you screamed running out of
the dining room, wetting yourself in a mad attempt to avoid and void at the
same time? Or how about Aunt Hattie mashed rutabaga platter, a delish dish
that caused many a bout of gastric dysfunction, forcing you to go to bed with
a stomach distended like the Ambassador to Ethiopia, praying that the odor
emanating from under the sheets was merely the result of the gaseous, not the
solid state of your dyspepsia? Can you even recall a time when the female
members of your family were not foisting those emerald landmines called
brussels sprouts onto you like grenades at Charlie during the Tet Offensive,
hoping to score a direct hit to your mouth while all the while the fragrant
aroma of sulphur filled your nostrils, and your potential night terrors.
I bet that all that time, while you were passing up the parsnips and
rejecting the radish, you never once thought about the thousands of migrant
workers who sweated, toiled and illiterately labored in the beanless fields of
Milagro all along the southern crop belt to make your little plate of black-
eyed peas possible. Oh sure, they live in shacks that would have made Sethe's
stay at Sweet Home seem like a bungalow at Club Med. And its true, their
children must use and reuse their Huggies since the word 'disposable' is
merely a suggested application for an underfed urchins diaper to these green
bean gatherers. And don't let the fact that they had to permanently stoop
their posture and their social position so that you could spit out that slick
handful of okra. Just as long as the vegetables are fresh, force labor
harvested at their peak and shipped to the store via surly Teamstered
truckers, there is no need to worry your poor, mineral deficient head about
the fact that a whole generation of the disenfranchised went to a great deal
of physical, manual effort to reap that rampian you just chucked at your
little sister.
God bless the truck farmer, the transporter of the tomato and the chauffeur
of chervil. For it is in his gruff, hemorroided roadside manner and his welded
metal State of Texas belt bucket buried under a balloon of belly fat that this
noble load-bearer trots and shines and grinds and cleans and greens his way
from one portion of 'Amuric' to the other in a frenzied fiesta of fresh fennel
and pre-creamed corn. Sure, he does so on the backs of the wet ones who've
moved from the utter poverty of the third world to the private hell of
indentured servitude in the home of the free and land of the slaves. Of course
he called you a beaver, since, you see, you resemble one in so many
animalistic ways to a guy hopped up on No-Doze and about 60 liters of coffee.
Does he care that he is riding your ass like that bizarre 'wart' you got from
the toilet seat at the Public Library as he races behind your vehicle in an
awkward one sided version of chicken? No, for you see, he is of the road rage
righteous, a mammoth man of miles and piles as he moves everything (except his
bowels) in a grandiose gesture of greasy spoons and truck stop trysts. And all
so you can spit the wholesome and healthful winter squash out, you ungrateful
little freak!
Food Group #4: I'd Rather Be Dead than Have Bread on My Head Grains, in the
form of "Out of this World" from 618 High School Big Shot
Ah, the staff of life, the mana from heaven, the perfect platter for peanut
butter and, along with water, the complete menu on your average prisoners Deal
a Meal. Let's face it, you can't just wish away wheat, pass off pumpernickel
or take rye on the sly. Without our whole grain grist millage we would not
have a BLT, a McDLT or that hot dog like hell spawn on a hard roll the McRib.
I mean, the whole McWorld would be little more than salads in a plastic
tumbler were it not for the coming together of yeast and grain. After all,
where would the French put their loaf? Or their toast? Would we even HAVE
toast if it weren't for that splendid side dish to the messiah's haddock
attack? Heck, how many of us would have had our bodies grow in only 11 or, say
10 ways, if it wasn't for a PB and J slapped between two wafer thin portions
of bright white Wonder? In the long pantheon of food and food like stuffs that
doctors and legal guardians have attempted to force feed us, none have ended
up being so useful as that object which is just a skosh smaller than a
breadbasket.
And still, we take it for granted. We sprint through our hectic days,
gobbling down Reubens and chocking on heroes, poor boys, grinders and hoagies,
yet never once considering the lowly rolls upon which our luncheon meats and
condiments rest, its crusty outer coating protecting the soft, yielding
internal fluffiness. Just spritz on vinegar and oregano and you're in Italian
submarine mania, right? But do you care what the bread thinks? Do you wonder
what Wonder frets about, or how Hillbilly feels about all of this? Are your
only thoughts of Sunbeam followed by lollipops and rainbows? Do you care what
cinnamon raisin wants, or are you more in tune with the bagel and his non-
gentile breatherin. I, for one, never knew breads lead such interesting lives.
According to this 'beyond the planet' short subject, your average baked good
cares a whole lot more about his product position in the grocery store food
chain and his Q visibility rating than he does staving off mold, and thereby
creating antibiotics. Apparently where one rests their crusts in the intricate
inner-workings of the grocery store shelf hierarchy makes all the difference
to a kneaded knot of onion rolls. It's important to put the dough where it
wants to go, otherwise sales will fall off like Robert Downey from the wagon
and your hot crossed chignons will be a little more than just ticked off.
So, when you are trolling the store for a quick pick up, either in the
feminine hygiene aisle or at the sticky buns display, remember that what you
buy, where you buy it from and the exact amount spent could mean social and
geopolitical life or death for these spirited piles of unbleached flour. One
false expenditure move and you could send that collection of matzo all the way
down to the pita aisle, and the last time I checked, there were still some
tensions between the kosher and the Koran. It is up to you, the wise Crow
lover that you are, to defend and protect the adequate and preferential
placement of your best loved baked good within the proper and essential
placement for impulse and binge purchasing. After all, how are you gonna bloat
your belly like a holiday gobbler when you don't even know where the proper
stuffing material is. One must not only eat to live, but one must also know
exactly what to eat, from an advertising position, in order to create positive
word of mouth and deep penetration into the market share. Just remember, one
wrong English muffin purchase and poof, there goes the neighborhood.
And that's all there is to it. Grab yourself a too soft loaf of ultra white
thin-sliced sandwich planks, add a grazing of autumnal salad greens, thrust in
some slivers of putrid poultry and wash it all down with an alfalfa sprout
laden glass of warm cow squirt. A diet fit for a fit, or maybe even a seizure.
Try it for about 6 weeks and see if the pounds and inches, as well as the
organs and upper layer of epidermis don't melt away. Incorporate warmer dairy
into your daily caloric intake. Pray that the backs of the downtrodden and
constantly uprooted stay strong for one more season so you can finally try
that weird looking white asparagus, hopefully without retching this time. Live
for a day when all food is produced via the Henry Ford patented assembly line
fashion where fetuses of all genuses go from egg cradle to store crate, living
their life in the span of a coffee break. Look to the future and marvel at the
nutritional wonders that lie in wait. The self-basting ham steak... spinach
that doesn't make your teeth grind... ice-cold milk! But remember, just
because it looks like coddled cream, there is no way in this world that car
temperature mayonnaise is a member of the milk product meeting house. It does
not make a decent cereal topping. It sucks as a pudding. And it creates a
lousy malted.
August MSTie of the Month: tvgm3000@hotmail.com
Name: Jeremy (TVGM3000)
Found out about MST3K: Late 1996
First Episode: 418 Attack of the the Eye Creatures
Favorite Episodes: 303 Pod People, 814 Riding With Death and 606 Creeping
Terror
'Bots: Tom and Crow were both built in 2 months.
Why: I built my own Tom Servo and Crow for my school's Science Expo; it was
about how the motions of Tom and Crow compare to REAL robots.
Grade: A+ and a ribbion.
Number of episodes on tape: 62
Web Site: www.geocities.com/tvgm3000
September MST3K Schedule on SFC
North America
{All times are Eastern and tentative}
09/02/00 - 09:00 am - PRE-EMPTED FOR ABBOTT & COSTELLO MEET FRANKENSTEIN
09/09/00 - 09:00 am - 1009 Hamlet
09/16/00 - 09:00 am - 1010 It Lives By Night
09/23/00 - 09:00 am - 1011 Horrors of Spider Island
09/30/00 - 09:00 am - 1012 Squirm
Classifieds 3000
GypsyJr512@aol.com writes: "I just want to let everyone know that I have some
MST stories on fanfiction.net under the pen name Gypsy Jr. Please read and
write a review! I'll be more inclined to write more if people tell me they
like what I've done."
booboo@davesworld.net writes: "My Shrine of MST3K has moved to
http://vonpookie.tripod.com/mst3k.html . Also, if anyone has a site dedicated
to MST3K, they can submit their sites to either the Satellite of Love Ring or
Torgo's Ring o' MST3K there."
johnny_longbow@hotmail.com writes: "Mat's Mystical Page of Wonder at
http://www.geocities.com/johnny_longbow is a site for 'Bot building, tape
trading, and of course, awards. Check it out."
Disclaimers
All material written by club members in this publication does not necessarily
reflect the views or opinions of the staff of MSTies Anonymous. Endorsement of
above publicized activities not operated by MSTies Anonymous should not be
implied. Published material is subject to editing only for spelling, grammar,
clarity, and formatting; other changes are not made without express written
consent of the author.
Mystery Science Theater 3000, its characters and situations are copyright 2000
Best Brains, Inc. This publication is not meant to infringe on any copyrights
held by Best Brains, the Sci-Fi Channel, or their employees.
"Gizmonics" and all related elements are copyright and trademark Joel Hodgson.
This publication is not meant to infringe on any copyrights held by him, so
please do not sue us.
© 2000 MSTies Anonymous
The Poobah mstanon@msties.com
Jet Jaguar kret0419@blue.UnivNorthCo.edu
Zen Psycho zenpsycho@yahoo.com
"These parts, puppet parts!"