                ,...
                $$$$
                $$$$T""P$$$ba,  ,gd&P""T&bg.   ,gd&P""T&bg.              
 ggggggggggg    $$$$    $$$$$b d$$$$    $$$$b d$$$$   $$$$$b   ggggggggggg
 """""""""""    $$$$    $$$$$$ $$$$$    $$$$$ $$$$$bxxP&$$&P   """""""""""
                $$$$    $$$$$$ T$$$$    $$$$P T$$$$                      
 $$$"""""" "    """"    $$$$$$  "T&$bxxd$&P"   "T&$bxx$$$$$'   " """"""$$$
 """                    """"""                                         """
 ggg                       "Re-Writing HOE Rejects"                    ggg
 $$$                          by Various Artists                       $$$
 $$$                                                                   $$$
 $$$        [ HOE E-Zine #940 -- 12/05/99 -- http://www.hoe.nu ]     .,$$$
 `"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

                                 INTRODUCTION
                                 ============

	Occasionally HOE gets a few files that are so utterly terrible
 that we are forced to laugh until we cry and we can't even publish them
 in our wonderful e'zine.  That is, until now.

	Because our staff is obviously composed of some of the most gifted
 literary creators ever before dispensed upon the world, we decided that
 for once, we would lend a helping hand in these rejected submissions.
 Therefore, I sent out various rejected files to various HOE staff members
 (and a few "wanna-be HOE writers", as ridiculous as that premise may
 sound) and asked these affiliates to either take the "original ideas" of
 the file and re-write the entire file into a better piece, OR to write a
 critique of the original.  The following is the results of this little
 experiment.

                            TABLE OF CONTENTS
                            =================

 ##      Reject's Title             Original Author   HOE Re-Writer
 --      --------------             ---------------   -------------

 01 =>  "Snap. Crackle. Die."        Fake Scorpion    Nybar
 02 =>  "The Wigger"                 Korrupt          Nyarlathotep
 03 =>  "Nigger, Nigger..."          Edicius          Effy
 04 =>  "HOE SUBMISSION"             G.T.             LilNilHil
 05 =>  "Why TV Sucks"               SubZero          Oregano
 06 =>  "A Poem"                     Racket           Trilobyte
 07 =>  "What's in a handle?"        Dae'raezdus      Que
 08 =>  "Back In The Day..."         Lucky            Aster
 09 =>  "Morbid"                     Vyrus            Tasha
 10 =>  "Gun Control"                JrzDevil         Quarex
 11 =>  "Dear Melissa"               Kojak            Caitlin
 12 =>  "Moe's Diner"                Mr. Sandman      Anjee
 13 =>  "Tricks To Play..."          Chris Cox        Nyarlathotep
 14 =>  "The Zoo"                    King Krazy       CannibalButterfly
 15 =>  "A Day of a Programmer"      Fatslayer        Cstone
 16 =>  "Commies"                    Mercuri          Aster
 17 =>  "Presidential Elections"     Unrelated        AIDS
 18 =>  "The Diary of Manis Goodof"  Gilgame          Tan Adept
 19 =>  "Your Kettle Korn Sucks!"    Kernel Bob       Nybar

 [-----------------------------------------------------------------------]

                              REJECTED FILE #1
                              ================

                           "Snap.  Crackle.  Die."
                              by Fake Scorpion

        it was basically a good day, for the most part.

        at about 8:00pm, i headed over to my dad's office.  i had been
 working as janitor there for at least three years.  i exited my car and
 walked up to the door.  a noise in the street behind me made me turn
 around. cause ; a noise, effect ; i turned around.  there was an el camino
 that had stopped in the middle of the street.  the driver of the car was
 gazing at me, and i feared he would attempt something.  i quickly entered
 the office and turned the deadbolt, which was unusual for me to do.

        three steps into the office, i felt like something wasn't right.  i
 KNEW something was wrong.  it was more like a feeling ; a sixth sense.
 "something bad is about to happen," it seemed to tell me.  my eyes
 reaffirmed the feeling when i noticed a lamp was missing and a chair was
 flipped over.

        another three steps into the office, a black male popped out from
 behind the receptionist desk.

        "what the hell!@!," i inanely muttered.

        "guh," he yelled.  he dashed towards the back door of the office and
 spent twenty seconds trying to unlock the door.  he finally opened it and
 ran.
  
        of course, i promptly shot a load in my pants.  i dialed 911 and
 then inspected the place.  he hadn't gotten away with much, only a pack of
 female hormones.  anyone that takes twenty seconds to open a door is a
 dumbass, in my humble opinion, and the fact that he had stolen a pack of
 hormones reaffirmed that idea.

        he had broken in by throwing a brick through the window (which
 landed on a computer, forever fucking it up).

        what is there to learn from this?  

        probably nothing.  it was just a good recap of what happened last
 night.

 [----------]

                      RE-WRITE OF REJECT #1, by Nybar
                      ===============================

        it was basically a good day, for the most part.
        yeah. whatever. i had been floating through time and space,
 waiting for the call, when i heard it. the call was not in the form i
 expected--the phone was ringing. upon picking it up, i was transported to
 another place--the street.
	okay. listen up. i've been drinking a whole lot of coffee. i'm
 going to tell you something about the history of the english novel. at
 first, authors didn't really know what to do...the concept of the _novel_
 didn't really exist. so, long tales were told in the form of letters,
 back and forth, right? like dracula. haha, but then, the _novel_ started
 to develop, and we had the english realists. but, the thing is, they were
 not highly focused people. before jane austen showed headz how to do it,
 niggas would--uh--go off on diatribes having nothing to do with the
 narrative for pages on end. sort of like this.
	hmm, so, i opened my eyes, and landed on the street. there, a car
 was parked.
	listen, i'm going to tell you something else. there was a very
 interesting chess match which happened in Brussels, in 1923. okay? the
 chess match was between these two italian masters, and so it wasn't _so_
 influenced by hyper-modernism, which was sweeping the world at the time
 (much like the witch's broom). okay, so anyway, they play this guiccio
 piano game, right (how typical of italians), and have this really
 interesting tactical game...it's finally won by a tactical shot, where
 dewd gets mate in 7, alright? but, you see, from this point (of
 resignation), mate in _2_ existed on the board. now, i'm going to tell
 you something else. in stanley kubrick's movie, "2001", the chess game
 shown was this one, right, at the point where mate in 7 is
 announced...and Hal announces mate in seven, not mate in two! and yet HAL
 said he was infallible...this is human infallibility--going for the nifty
 human solution and not the cold, mechanical one! HAL is my NIGGA, yo.
	and in the car, there was a very scary man. he wore a black fedora
 and had a lemur in his lap. he grinned at me, exposing completely gold
 teeth, and made for his door. i ran as fast as my fat legs could carry me
 to my office door, not wishing to irk such a prodigious (for who is more
 prodigious than the weirdo) gentle-man. sadly, as i tumbled up the
 stairs, it seemed to me that each new level was a different state of
 consciousness...i was once again floating in time and space, but the lemur
 was following me, vicious as a new york yip-dog and faster than a snail
 on cocaine...following me through time and space...following me from
 place to place; from the island of Delaware to the straits of
 despair...oh, from sea to sea, how the lemur did follow me! finally, I
 arrived at the DOOR to my OFFICE, and jumped in the WINDOW
 (shattered...why?)
	listen, uh, there's a fine line between Henry James and James
 Ellroy. so don't even go there, girl friend.
	i had escaped the wrath of the lemur, for it was to short to make
 the leap of faith...
	listen, isn't MAN too short in SOUL to make the leap of faith to
 GOD? NOW, listen, I've got a WIFE, but you give up your LIFE, to malice
 and STRIFE, if you don't give TITHE...POU CREW PRODUCTIONS, THE NEW
 DYNASTY...
	oh, and it nipped and clawed at the door, like a wiener dog exiled
 from its native France. ahh, inside the evil apartment, i saw a sack of
 skin of the _brown_ persuasion...stealing female hormones! haha, but i
 didn't understand why, because i like to spin narratives and give no
 explanation. _for example_, i will not explain why there were female
 hormones to steal...-rather-, i will pontificate upon the subject of his
 stupidity in the stealing, HENCE:
 	"man! what an idiot! why are you stealing female hormones, anyway?
 uh, we keep all the valuable stuff, like FETUSES, in the other drawer!
 GORF!"
	"excuse me, good sir, are you addressing me? we live in a logical
 world, my friend, and surely this can be solved by dialectic!"
	"oh--of course..."
	"the dialectic my GLOCK and your FUCKING MOUTH HAVE!"
	WACK MCs, dUCK DOWN...
	and that's the end of my story. but let me tell you something
 about stories...

 [-----------------------------------------------------------------------]

                              REJECTED FILE #2
                              ================
 
                                "The Wigger"
                                 by Korrupt

        It all happened, a long long time ago in a place far far away.  The
 place was Los Angeles.  The hero of our story is named Charlie.  If the
 dictionary had the definition of white honky, it would have a picture of
 Charlie.

        <Day one, Charlie's room, decorated sparsely with posters of his
         idols, Barry Manilow and Rush.>

        Charlie was sitting in his room listening to some of his favorite
 jams on the radio.  There was a dance coming up at school and he had to be
 prepared.  After years of being a boy-scout, Charlie repeated to himself
 "Be prepared" Charlie was a bright student, but never very popular with
 the ladies.  Often he fell in love and obsessed over many at first sight,
 then had his heart broken.  "This shall never happen again!" Vowed Charlie,
 silently under his breath.  Charlie danced his way over to his boom-box and
 flipped it on.

        "Yo, Homie, <BEEP> dont you know me, im the mother<beep> G" blared
 out of the radio.  Charlie flipped.  He was astonished at the vulgarity and
 profane use of words! How did this "garbage" as he labled it, come to play
 on his radio? He opened the tape deck to make sure his gospel tape was
 still there.  "whew" Charlie blew, in a sigh of relief.  "The station must
 have gotten changed on accident" With that behind, Charlie went on his way
 to bed.  That night his dreams were filled with sights of gun shots, and
 naked booties dancing around.  People drinking 40s and cussing were all
 about.  In a sweaty sweat, Charlie leaped out of bed.  These vulgar thoughts
 had cosumed him.  They controlled him.  He was commanded by an unseen force
 to go turn on his radio.  Without hesitation, the radio was on again, and
 the song was all too familier.

        "Rolling up the road, <Beep> all my ho's"followed by a heavy beat.
 Charlie loved it.  He realized then, that that would be the key to get the
 popularity and women he so desired.  He could hardly wait for the dance
 tommarow.

        <Fade in, day two, late at night, a school dance, get the picture?>

        The doors to the dance flew open.  The music practically stopped
 playing.  Everybodys heads were turned toward the enterance.  There,
 standing in the doorway was Charlie.  No longer did he hang his head between
 his legs when he walked.  Even that funny limp seemed to be gone.  And that
 greasy hair was no longer.  This was not the Charlie everybody expected.

        Charlie walked up to the nearest group of girls, and with a smooth
 casual grin, he blurted "Yo yo yo, whats up baby-doll".  Everbody just
 giggled at first.  But Charlie was not through.  He slided across the dance
 floor in his new XXXX large Cross-Colours, (Bright green by the way) and
 approached another girl.  (This time he was prepared)  In one smooth
 motion, Charlie pulled out his "Black Like Me" Dictionary.  It was filled
 with phrases that would make the impression he wanted.  He flipped past
 the definitions for Homie, G, and Phunky, until he came across the word he
 was looking for, he had to try it out.

        "Yo baby, you are crazy PHAT!" blurted Charlie.  Again, he was
 greeted with inconsistant giggles.  Ashamed he headed home, his baggy
 cross-colours trailing far behind.

        "Why did it not work??! I'm fly!, Well they shall see!"

        Still determinted to prove his so called downess, Charlie headed
 toward the local hang out for the other color folks in the town.  He knew
 this was dangerous, but he had to learn.  Charlie strolled into a cafe,
 greeted by unfriendly stares.  He took a seat, right behind a few of the
 "brothers".  Charlie took out his pen and paper and jotted down all they
 said.  He had to learn.

        This went on for many weeks.  Charlie followed any of the "brothers"
 he could find, and listened to how they talk and act.  He even got the walk
 down.  Charlie strided with his head in the air, listening to only music he
 could seem to hear.  He thought he was truely the man.  Now he had to prove
 it.

        <Fade in Day three.  The mall.>

        Heading for the mall since it was a weekend, Charlie had his hopes
 high for a piece of the action.  "If white people wont accept me, then they
 arnt worth it! Ill get me a few real homies"Charlies dreams were soon
 coming to reality.  With his new dope walk, he strided over to the first
 group of blacks he could find.  Pretending like he cared not, Charlie
 stated in general "Yo homie, whats up G" and continued to walk on.  He did
 not get very far before a muscular hand grabbed at him.  Turning around,
 Charlie was face to face with the biggest, ugliest, and smelliest black
 person he ever saw.  "What the fuck did you call me honky" was his only
 greeting.  Still eager to prove his newfound "blackness" Charlie tried
 again "Yo homie, why you sweatin me G, we all brothers here" Endless
 laughter surrounded Charlie.  His ears were flooded with mindless laughter.
 His head begin to spin.  Out of all the words and punches thrown at him in
 those few seconds he could stay concious, one word stuck clearly in his
 mind.  "Fucking Wigger!"

        <Who knows how many days later he woke up.  Fade in Trash-Can.>

        Waking up in a trash can, Charlies head hurt.  His clothes were
 ripped and his wallet gone.  What will happen to poor Charlie?  Will he
 ever proove his downness?  Will he EVER get laid?  It doesnt look like it,
 infact chances are his life gets worse, probably even killed.

        Charlie went to school the next day and he was not greeted very
 warmly.  You could say the hospitality was less than generous.  Charlie got
 jumped by a bunch of kids at school.  The whites hated him because he
 disgrased them.  The blacks jumped him because, well, they jump anybody
 white.  He got bashed until he died.  Thus ended life adventures of a
 Wigger.  But there are still thousands, no millions of them out there, so
 do not feel bad if this is a sucky ending.  You can go to your school and
 find your very own wigger and beat the shit out of him! Just like
 everybody did to Charlie!

 [----------]

                  A CRITIQUE OF REJECT #2, by Nyarlathotep
                  ========================================

	I don't have any particular problem with the concept of this story
 itself... the idea is at least passable. The problem that I have is more
 in the execution. I don't really care at all for the plights of Charlie.
 And since I don't care about his plights, the whole purpose of reading
 the story is negated. One thing which I would do is provide a bit more of
 history on Charlie. Perhaps if the reader was shown some of his past
 life, we would sympathize more with his desire for change. Summing his
 entire life up in one half of a paragraph doesn't really seem to do the
 character justice.

	On top of the fact of poor character development, there are
 inconsistencies in the story that distracted me. One of note is right
 near the beginning, when Charlie is listening to some of his "favorite
 jams" on the radio, but then he flips on his boom-box to hear the rap
 music? What sense does that make? And who would call gospel music "jams?"
 Maybe I am being a little too picky, but minor details like that can
 spoil the entire reading activity.

	So now that I've picked through the very beginning of the story, I
 should go on to the middle. The middle of the story is actually the best
 part of the story. It is far from perfect, but it did do an ok to pick up
 my interest from what started out at a very low level. I think that, by
 and large, the dialogue in this story is rather distracting. I understand
 the effect that the author was trying to convey... that of a clueless
 suburbanite trying to speak the language of the street... but that
 doesn't change the fact that it is distracting. But at least the story
 moves on fairly.

	And now on to the end of the story. Again, the author uses cheap
 gimmicks that end up being distracting. I don't think that asking
 questions of the audience is called for in this case. Particularly when
 the conclusion of the story is rushed in the next paragraph. And once the
 end of Charlie is mentioned in passing, the so called message of the
 story is reiterated in black and white, in case the reader didn't
 understand it from the story itself. Of course I don't really agree with
 the message of the story, but thats not a reason in and of itself to find
 fault with the story. But it does add to my disliking of it.

	So to sum it up, if the story had more character development, less
 gimmicks, and a more exciting ending it would have at least been a
 nominally written, mediocre story. As it stands, it is a poorly written,
 mediocre story.

 [-----------------------------------------------------------------------]

                              REJECTED FILE #3
                              ================
 
                        "Nigger, Nigger, Go Home..."
                                 by Edicius

        "I can't believe we fucking lost to a school full of niggers!", Lou
 says in disgust.
        "I know.  Did you see the fucking running back?  He looked like he
 just got off the boat from Africa.  He grandfather was probably a slave",
 Frank says laughingly.
        "God.  We lost to niggers.  I think we better show these kids what
 happens when they mess with us, ya know?"
        "Good call Lou.  Hm, you know how the buses leave through the
 Elementary School's exit? We can stand over by the edge of the school, and
 yeah and throw shit at them when they leave.  Then make a clear getaway
 through the woods."
        "Sounds cool.  Heh.  This will show them nigs."
        With this, Lou and Frank slip through a hole in the fence, and cut
 across a parking lot without being seen.  They slip into place while
 watching the buses load up with kids from the nearby rival school.
 Football players, cheerleaders, and fans.  They get in one by one.
        "C'mon assholes.  We're waiting," Lou says with a snicker, as he
 takes out a can of jolt which he bought prior to leaving the game at the
 concession stand.
        "Jolt! Yeah! Hmm.  I think i do.  Yes! I do. I have spray paint and
 toilet paper in my backpack.  We were going to use them on Simpson's house,
 but fuck it.  We'll use it on them!"
        "Right on.  Wait, I think they're coming.  Yep.  The three buses are
 loaded.  Hm, ok, here's what we do.  We're gonna want to hit the last bus,
 cause if we hit the first, the other two can stop.  Give me the spray paint.
 I'll throw it at them, lets see if i can break a window.  Dont forget to
 shout out 'nigger' really loud.  Hehehe.  This'll rock."
        In the dark woods behind them, a slight rumble and crackle of twigs
 can be heard.  Emerging from a trail are a group of three teenagers, maybe
 17 or 18 years old.  They spot the 15 year olds standing at the corner of
 the building.
        "Cool, here they come!" Lou whispers in sudden joy.  The first bus
 goes by, and they remain hidden.  The second bus pulls out going only a few
 miles per hour, and then the third bus appears.  "Lets get them!"
        "FUCKING NIGGERS GET OUT OF HERE," Frank shouts, and throws the
 toliet paper at the front of the bus.  It appears that it spread out and
 made a mess on the hood of the bus.  He starts to turn around to make his
 getaway.
        "Holdon, my turn.  NIGGER! NIGGERS! NIGGERS!@$#"  The spray paint
 and soda can be seen thrown through the air, the soda breaking open and
 making a big spill on the roof of the bus, and the spraypaint seems to
 break a window, but in the darkness, Lou can't see well.  "C'mon, run
 Frank."
        They start running, and dont notice the group of kids standing,
 blocking the entrance of the trail that leads to the deep woods.  One of
 the kids, an 18 year old black kid, is spotted by Lou.  "Oh shit Frank, i
 think we are in trouble."
        "Now, you boys wouldn't be the ones that just shouted stuff at that
 bus and threw stuff at it, right?  Nah.  Good white kids like you wouldn't
 think of calling anyone a nigger, right?  And if you were to do something
 like that to an unsuspecting busful of kids, you would also do that to
 any black person you meet, like myself, right?"
        "Umm.  Well..  You see.. Well..  The bus.." Lou mutters, trying to
 get a complete sentence, or at least, a complete phrase out.
        "Fuck you.  Listen boy.  We saw what you did, and now we are going
 to show you something else," says the one who looks to be the 'leader' of
 the group as he pulls a butterfly knife out of his coat.  "Some of my
 friends were on that bus.  I don't think you would call them a nigger if
 you met them on the street, now would you?"
        "I don't know..  But i do know I'm going now..", Frank says as he
 makes a run for the opposite side of the parking lot.
        "I don't think so whitey!  You're coming with me!"
        "No! No! Let go of me! Ahhh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean it! No!" Lou
 screams in agony as a knife it placed into his back.  Blood squirts out
 and slowly he drops to the pink stained asphalt below him.  Frank keeps
 running.
        "No!  You fucking niggers!  You can't do that to him!"  Frank shouts
 as he runs, but he doesn't run fast enough.  The other two teenagers grab
 him, throw him onto the ground, and kick him without mercy.  They spot a
 large rock nearby on the ground and throw it at his head.
        Suddenly, at the other side of the parking lot, a police officer who
 was called by the bus company to investigate objects being thrown at their
 bus, sees the melee.
        "Stop it!  Get off of them!"
        "Oh shit, Danny, run, pigs!"
        The three let go of Frank, but not before they knock him
 unconscious.  They start to make off through the woods.
        The aging, slow cop cannot keep up with the speed of the young boys,
 and stops the chase without even starting it.  He cannot get a good
 description of the three, and he just calls the paramedics for the Lou and
 Frank.
        Lou, who by this time is dead, starts to slip into his purgatory.
 He is long removed from the asphalt filled jungle that we call Earth, and
 is now is a trance.  He looks down, and can see the paramedics putting him
 into a body bag.  He also sees the paramedics working furiously trying to
 bring his dear friend back to life.
        Frank didn't make it back.  He died too.  The three boys were never
 identified, so they were never caught.  One of them went on to be arrested
 for drug possession 2 years later, and is on probation now.  Another one is
 a pre-med student at Columbia, and the last one, the so called 'leader' of
 the group, went on to be a successful politician.
        Frank and Lou's life ended tragicly that day.  But sometimes a
 tragic end is the only way to end the oppression.

 [----------]

                       RE-WRITE OF REJECT #3, by Effy
                       ==============================

	Somewhere in the southern states, Lou and Frank stand outside
 after a high school football game.
	They are a couple of 16-year-old southern Baptist bastards who
 possess the intelligence, wit, and potential of a paint chip; and have
 minds as open as an Arab virgin's legs.
	"I can't buh-LIEVE we lost dih football game tuh a school fulla
 niggas!"  Lou says in disgust as he tugs at his shit-covered overalls.
	"I know dis.  Didja see dih running back?  He look like he jist
 got off dih boat from Africa.  He so black he woulda left finguh prints
 on coal," Frank drawls with a loud, southern guffaw.
	"Dear Lowd, I hope dey rot in Hell.  We lost tuh niggas.  I think
 we betta show deez blackies what happens when dey mess wit us, ya know?"
	"Yeehaw, Lou.  Hmm, ya know how dih buses leave through dih
 Elementary School's exit? We can stand over by dih edge of dih school,
 and throw stuff at 'em when dey leave.  Den we can make a clear getaway
 through dih woods."
        "Dis'll show dem nigs."
	Lou and Frank gather some loot to throw from Frank's rusty old
 Chevy pick-up truck, and sneak over by the buses in front of the woods.  
 They wait a few minutes, chewing on some straw they find in the pocket of
 Lou's plaid flannel.  At their feet lie three dead chickens, a bible, a
 pitchfork, a wooden cross, and an empty bottle of mash whiskey.
	Behind them, a group of several older, bigger black teenagers
 appear silently.  They notice the white boys hiding by the buses, and
 their lips curl in anger and resentment.
	Lou and Frank hee and haw in delight as the buses begin to pull
 out.  They run out flailing their arms.  Lou flings the dead chickens at
 one of the buses and feathers go flying everywhere as blood splatters on
 the windows of the bus.  He then lights the cross on fire and sticks it
 in the wheel of the bus, while Frank throws the whiskey bottle through a
 bus window while reading verses from the bible as a black boy on the bus
 bleeds profusely from a shard of glass in his skull. "NIGGUH, NIGGUH,
 NIGGUH!" screams Frank, throwing the bible through the broken window.
	"C'mon Frank!" Lou yells, grabbing the pitchfork and tugging
 Frank's arm.  They dart towards the woods as the burning cross catches
 the tire on fire and the entire bus explodes.  Screams of fear and agony
 are heard.
	Frank guffaws.  "Dih nigs are burnin' up like crispy critters!"
	They stop dead in their tracks at the sight of the huge black
 teenagers in front of the woods who are glaring at them with murderous
 vengeance.
	"Dear Lowdy Lowd," whispers Lou, trembling.  "I think we in
 trouble."  He looks over at Frank, who is shaking like an old man on
 crack.
	The black boys grab Lou and Frank by the backs of their overalls
 and sneer in their faces.  One of them speaks.
	"You racist fuckers, you just made a BIG fucking mistake!"
	There is no need for the boys to say more.  Lou and Frank whimper
 for mercy until the black boys knock their few rotting teeth out of their
 mouths with their large fists.  They take the pitchfork from Lou and stab
 Lou and Frank repeatedly in the back, and finally slit their throats,
 leaving them to die in a large pool of blood.
	Suddenly, footsteps approach, and a voice can be heard.  "Freeze,
 nigguhs!"  yells the cop, who appears to be very old, very slow, and very
 Baptist.
	"Pig!" screams one of the boys, and they dart off into the woods,
 easily escaping the police officer.
	The old cop huffs and puffs, but the perpetrators are too fast for
 him. He calls for an ambulance, but it is already too late.  Lou and
 Frank are deader than dinosaur dung.  He sighs sadly as their bodies are
 taken away and calms himself with a bear claw.
	All of the football players and cheerleaders on the bus have
 ceased to live also, dying a painful, fiery death.  The scene is quiet,
 but the onlooking southern white Baptists secretly rejoice under their
 solemn facade.  Later, they mourn the loss of the white boys, and angrily
 declare vengeance on the unidentified black boys who had so vengefully
 taken their lives.  Hypocrisy and intolerance flourishes in the small
 town, and yet another instance of the asinine practice of southern
 Baptism is evident.

 [-----------------------------------------------------------------------]

                               REJECTED FILE #4
                               ================

                               "HOE SUBMISSION"
                                    By G.T.

	When you enter the everlasting realm of cardboard box textured
 couches, you can feel the cinnamon in the air, even with your heavy
 winter gloves.  So i stepped outside which I thought was inside because
 the carpet had just been vacuumed, but there was a car parked just
 outside, the chandelier swayed accordingly to the strength of the wind.
 I felt the soothing bass of the fish jumping in and out of the bowl
 mumbling.."wingy wingy, why am i wingy?"  We painted the seran wrap
 covered fridge and used it as bait for my robotic brother, he fell for it
 and we laughed at him.  So to conclude, my work is always frosted with
 the bionic essence of imperial chocoledutwah.

 [----------]

                  RE-WRITE FOR REJECT #4, by LilNilHil
                  ====================================

	When you enter the everlasting realm of cardboard box textured 
 couches, (ok. okay.) you can feel the cinnamon in the air, even with your
 heavy winter gloves. (yes. more.)  So i stepped outside which I thought
 was inside because the carpet had just been vacuumed, but there was a car
 parked just outside, the chandelier swayed accordingly to the strength of
 the wind.  I felt the soothing bass of the fish jumping in and out of the
 bowl mumbling.."wingy wingy, why am i wingy?" (haaaa.)  We painted the 
 seran wrap covered fridge and used it as bait for my robotic brother, he
 fell for it and we laughed at him. (heh.) So to conclude, my work is
 always frosted with the bionic essence of imperial chocoledutwah.

	chocoledutwah. a bullet in your face.

	Gregory sat in his small room reeking of ammonia and the humid
 stink of menthol tobacco. he wiped off his face and read his note.

	(you are gregory.)

	(go to bank and work today.)

	(come home.)

	so gregory went to work.
	
	he worked at 7-11, the night shift.

	yes, every week-night, from 9pm to 5 in the morning, you could
 find gregory thinking this:

	I think that i say and use too many sentences that start with the
word "I". I mean, it's as if all i ever do is talk about myself, i don't
mean to..

	"..23 cents your change.."

	it's not like 'Clerks'.. where everybody just asks for a pack of
cigarettes..  we have to have 300 fucking brands. and 20 different
preferences of each.  marlboro lights, they go on the left shelf. we sell
more marlboro's lights than gas.

	"..45 cents your change. thanks."

	i guess i should find a real job. i suppose working for 'southland
 corp'  isn't a very good career decision. but i get free beer..so.

	maybe i shouldn't have broken up with her.. just cuz i didn't love
her. but that's some stupid shit after awhile.. gets tricky when they say
'i love you', 6 times a day and then move in with that little 5 second
pause, that evil fucking vortex of shame before breaking eye contact.

	and then nick walks in. the gambler.

	he only smokes black n' milds, and walks around with no shirt on
and a quart in his hand at 3 am. ..comes in every night.

	"hey dawg."

	i grin. "hi man."

	"yo you got any dice man.."

	no dude

	"well alright.. guess what.. i'm gonna throw this lighter in the
air. and guess which side it's gonna land on.. you got a dollar?"

	um.. wait.. what?

	"we'll see if it lands on the sticker side or the blank side,
we'll bet a dollar."

	but, why?

	"i dunno dude i just like to gamble. haaa"

	oh ok. here

 	and nick loses a dollar.

	"double or nothin'!"

	and nick loses two dollars.

	"double or nothin' comon."

 	and nick gets himself out of it.

	"well dawg. sweet. is it too late for beer?"

	yeah sorry.

	"aw.. well i got a riddle man. check it"

	wha..

	"there be three words in english speakin' that end in the letters
 gee, are, why. g.r.y. check it? there's hungry angry, and one more.. what
 is it dawg?"

	um.. i dunno.

	"alright man peace out.."

	wait, what the.. 

	g.r.y. so i'm off work. took a cab home.. cost me ten, spent ten
 on food while workin.. means i made 15 bucks in 8 hours. right on.

	Morning. 5pm. the next day.

	I've started wondering about things.. this riddle. I checked the
 dictionary.  There's hungry, angry, malgry, algry, even gry itself is a
 word. so what is it? i think it's too easy.. hungry and angry are
 commonly used words.. but whoever heard of 'ogry'? it's old english...
 not common word. for weeks the riddle bothers me. it seems to be all i
 can really think about at times. my entire mindset has sortof changed
 because this little flaw.. one unanswered question, is always there. so i
 read into the riddle more.

	i discovered this, that the gry riddle.. began sometime ago.. and
 was stated as follows..

	"There are 3 words in the english language that end in the letters
 "gry", there's hungry, angry, and what else?" i found out that the answer
 was "language". and then in history it sometimes was answered as "what".
 a riddle based on wordplay.. it was stupidity from the start. but it had
 an effect. i searched right into the riddle because it bothered me. does
 the fact that i took it so seriously show that i'm too stubborn.. how i
 seek a solution that's out of hand? did this have anything to do with
 anything at all?

	At work again. the entire population thinks a different way, acts
 a different way. they flaw their own idea's in such a fashion that they
 make no sense, their questions are unanswerable. nothing ever gets done.  
 each individual is only responsible for his or her fuckups. the less
 fuckups you maintain, the better you are perceived as. i am a fuck up.
 this is a energy compounded into small vibrations. we are all this
 energy. it's maintains all things. nothing is real, there is no death,
 or life, there is only the mind. the soul is a fog. i am different. i
 show it. show me your enemies. a manic blue. mumbling i painted in the
 bionic essense of a manic blue. the chi, the force, the anarchists and
 taoists.. objectivism. mass cohesion.  the wriggle of an insect climbing
 down your throat. the chocoledutwah.

	Gregory was found in the vault of the 7-11, dead with a gun in his
 hand and a bullet in his face. his body temperature was 30 degree's.
 there were traces of lsd in his blood. Nick was found jammed inside the
 electronic doors leading into the store.  with 5 bullets in his chest and
 a box of black and milds shoved into his right eye socket. the
 chocoledutwah.

	our fuckup is an awesome fuck up.

 [-----------------------------------------------------------------------]

                              REJECTED FILE #5
                              ================

                               "Why TV Sucks"
                                 by SubZero

        Television.  I never have liked TV, it's boring, and much of it
 makes no sense.  So i'm sitting here trying to think if something to write
 my first HoE file and I look over at the television.  Well, there's nothing
 else to do and I can't get any ideas for this file so I guess i'll turn it
 on.  So, I turn on my TV and i'm greeted by a Pay-Per-Veiw add for "The
 Fight Zone", wow, big sweaty men grabbing and touching each other.  I think
 i'll pass.  Next channel I come across PBS, do people actually watch this?
 Ahh, MTV, why the hell do they call it Music Television when there is only
 two hours a day of videos on?  The rest of the time is filled with crappy
 reject shows from other stations.  How pitiful, My So Called Life.  How can
 they play this show every day for over three months when this show didn't 
 last more than a week on a ABC.  The Catoon Network, this looks good 
 Scooby Doo meets The Harlem Globetrotters.  Hmph.  It's the same damn plot
 everytime.  Scooby and the gang goto some weird place and find there is a
 ghost.  Eventually Scooby and Shaggy accidentally foil the ghosts and the
 guy with the blonde hair takes of their masks and it's the gardener and the
 maid.  Gilligan's Island! This show is so great!  The scenary is so real
 and The Skipper is so cool!  Actually, no.  This show is so fake it makes
 no sense and does anyone really think they'll get off the island?  The 
 Rabbit will get his Trix before the "seven stranded cast-aways" get of the
 island.  Now onto Hogan's Heros.  Another quality show.  Well, I've had
 enough of the moronity that the media is feeding us.  I made a top ten list
 of my best and worst shows.  You probaly don't care about it but check it
 out anyway.

        *Best*

 10. TV sucks read a t-file
  9. TV sucks read a t-file
  8. TV sucks read a t-file
  7. TV sucks read a t-file
  6. TV sucks read a t-file
  5. TV sucks read a t-file
  4. TV sucks read a t-file
  3. TV sucks read a t-file
  2. TV sucks read a t-file
  1. Late Show with David Letterman

        *Worst*

 10. Any news show
  9. Any game show
  8. Tonight Show with Jay Leno
  7. Hogan's Heros
  6. Gilligan's Island
  5. Three's Company
  4. The Jon Stewart Show
  3. Any show on PBS
  2. Any thing with OJ in it
  1. Any Nick at Nite show

 [----------]

                    RE-WRITE TO REJECT #5, by Oregano
                    =================================

     I used to be a big fan of television, while growing up it pretty much
 occupied all my life.  I can't tell you exactly when it changed, I still
 am not sure why, but sometime in my college life I curtailed my TV input
 greatly.  This was not some scheme of mine to improve my life, it just
 occurred.  And over the years I have watched less and less TV to the point
 where there is only one show I regularly watch each week. Sure, I will
 turn on the TV if people tell me that I have to watch some specific show.  
 But even when I watch a recommended show, I get bored and end up flipping
 channels, then turning the box off.
     One reservation I have about talking about my boredom with TV is that
 I do not claim to be some higher intelligence who is too smart for the
 programming.  I am one of the few who think that television programming
 is at its best ever.  There are tons of shows now which eclipse by far
 the crap I watched with delight in the '70s.  I do not see TV as a vast
 wasteland; but there are recurring themes which grow tiresome.  Watch
 enough TV and you know how everything ends, no need to see the whole
 show.
     Lets take a typical night of TV.  I see that Pay-per-view has "The
 Fight Zone."  I like wrestling as much as the next guy, but there is a
 pay-per-view every month, there is nothing special about it anymore.  
 Wrestlemania used to mean something.  I suppose that pay-per-view is a
 good reason to get together with a few of your friends to defray costs
 and spend a nice Sunday night together.  I on the other hand prefer to be
 locked in my bunker on Sunday thinking of all the horrible things I did
 or said on Saturday night, a self-imposed confinement.
      At my office there is a youngster who watches MTV.  She tells me all
 the great stuff that is happening on MTV's The Real World, enough to make
 it seem interesting, but when I tune in I find it too much about people
 whining about their emotions.  The only two MTV shows I enjoy are Tom
 Green and TRL.  Total Request Live is the '90s version of Dick Clark's
 American bandstand. Teens listening to marginal music, lots of yelling,
 bad band interviews and all the songs getting mangled in the editing
 room, half each song getting lopped off in the interest of time.  I enjoy
 this.  Not sure why.  Perhaps I like that the music is a commodity and
 not a piece of art, somehow treating this music with the proper disdain
 this music deserves.  Tonight MTV is...commercials.  I cannot sit through
 the commercials, I don't know what the program is, but the commercials
 are numerous enough for me to list that as the programming.
      The Cartoon Network seems like a good idea.  I like to laugh like a
 moron at Scooby's speech impediment, and Shaggy stoned all the time
 looking for something to eat.  But the stories are always the same.  The
 culprit, who had supernatural powers in the first 10 minutes of the show
 now turns out to be the maid or the gardener.  There is too much cheating
 in this cartoon universe. There needs to be consistency.  This is why I
 hate giant-monster movies.  A monster is in one scene as big as a hotel
 and in another just a little larger than a bus.
      My fault with the Cartoon Network is that they show the worst of the
 '70s animation.  I much prefer the newer cartoons like Animaniacs or
 Rugrats.  The newer cartoons have better writing and animation.  The few
 decent cartoons on Cartoon Network are Space Ghost, Powerpuff Girls and
 JetCat.
      The haze of boredom is pressing on my shoulders and this TV watching
 cannot go much further.  I see Hogan's Heroes and Gilligan's Island, each
 of which needs no insight from me.
      To answer the question I somewhat raised earlier, the only show I
 watch regularly is Saturday Night Live.  There are many people who spend
 their entire lives bashing this show, how can I justify taking special
 pleasure in watching it every week (even the reruns)?
      To me the show is a special event, perhaps it stems from the grand
 celebration around its first few seasons when I had to sneak out to the
 family room to watch it, well past my bedtime. I have liked the show in
 the good years and the bad and in many ways my sense of humor comes from
 there and is nourished in its bath of constant renewal.  Currently
 Horatio Sans makes me laugh in every sketch he is in; for moments of joy
 like these I continue to watch.
      That said, I do not give up on TV, I am sure that in my old age I
 will see it again as an old friend to take away the loneliness when my
 family abandons me to the cattlepen known as a nursing home.  Rather than
 spend my last hours crying for a life wasted, I will turn to Comedy
 Central and laugh again at seeing Tom Hanks in Big for one last time.

 [-----------------------------------------------------------------------]

                              REJECTED FILE #6
                              ================

                                  "A Poem"
                                  by Racket

 Here comes one pissed off cop,
 He's sees me take just one drop.
 I say to him it's only lsd,
 Then he says sure that's what I thought it'd be. 
 Then he get's mad cause i'm smoking grass
 So I tell him to just shove it up his ass
 He said, Drop and spread 'em 
 And I told myself not to let him
 So he shoves his nightstick up my back
 Just as if I was possessing crack
 I took his arm and threw him on a car
 He let out a yell that could be heard near and far
 My supplier told me that wonderful trick!
 Then since he was so nice to me, 
 I decided to give him one good kick
 What's this? Yet another scream
 This time it was really extreme 
 It's not as if I kicked him in the rear
 Well, not quite there, but it was near!
 I took out his cuffs, and slapped 'em on his wrist
 This time he got really pissed
 I told the nice officer, "How ever will you drive?"
 And he said, "I don't need your fuckin' street jive"
 I thought I heard enough outta this squealer
 So I thought I'd bring him to my dealer
 When we got there, my dealer was busy with two other guys
 But when he was done business, I turned the pig in for a surprise
 I went back to the streets, and heard screams of pain
 But I just carried on, sniffing my free cocaine.
 I noticed the screaming was coming from my dealer's spot,
 I thought it was just another guy getting shot.

        Just to make sure....this isn't my best poems, i just did it when
 there was nothing else to do.... i will be coming out with an anarchy
 article, that i'm 1/4 completed, and a list of the hottest women [I WILL
 include Winona, Mogel!]  I thought you might like these other poems, that i
 didn't make, but they are cool poems we sing at school, and the sort.  I
 also have to give credit to Wonko, and Ascii Express, even though they
 aren't the coolest or most liked or most heard of people.... but i have to
 give credit..[Wonko isn't VERY cool as most of you know, but he wrote
 it... and that's enough of that.]

 Roll roll roll your joint,
 Twist it at the end,
 Take a puff,
 now that's enough,
 and pass it to a friend.
 (Sung to Row, Row, Row Your Boat)

 Marijuana, Marijuana...LSD!, LSD!
 College kids are making it, 
 High school kids are taking it,
 Why can't we?, Why can't we?
 (Sung to Frere Jacques)

 [----------]

                    RE-WRITE TO REJECT #6, by Trilobyte
                    ===================================

                              Ah, Immaturity 
                                 :: or ::
                           The Raping of Racket

                               by Trilobyte

	everyone loves drugs, because drugs are cool.  or, at least,
 that's the assumption made by 'racket'.  there is a drug called marijuana
 -- in case you didn't know -- and it makes people mellow, often enticing
 them to sit still for hours.  some people think a lot about interesting
 things while they sit still, and others just think about nothing.  
 they're effectively passed out.  though they might be doing the 'cool'
 thing by 'smoking pot', in no way are they cooperating with or enhancing
 society.

	this 'racket' fellow might be deeply immersed in the 'drug scene'.  
 he might 'smoke pot' and then 'pass out' for hours.  when he's not
 'smoking pot' or indulging in other drugs, he might think about how he
 could be, what might happen if he were, or what situation led to the fact
 that he currently isn't.

	this might lead racket to chant songs about drugs, or write poetry
 about drugs and drug-related scenarios.

	but i also wish to point out that there's a good chance mister
 'racket' hardly does drugs at all, and hasn't ever left his parents'
 house.  when he sits alone in his room, which likely has posters for
 bands like Korn and Marilyn Manson, he frets over how uncool he is.  
 but, being one who works to improve himself, he thinks of ways that he
 could become cooler.  he wonders, "what do the cool people do?"  and then
 thinks to the writings of ezine demigods like mogel and cDc.  "they're
 cool!" he tells himself.  "and they talk about drugs!  drugs are great!  
 all i have to do is get drugs!"

	poor racket decides to improve himself through drug use.  but, as
 he does not want to go to 'bad ghetto neighborhoods', which are the best
 places to find drugs, and since he doesn't leave his house or know anyone
 at all, he just sits in his room and draws marijuana leaves on
 college-rule notebook paper.

	his mother gets done fucking a chair, comes in to 'racket's room,
 and asks if he wants anything.

	"can i have some weed, or some uhh cocaine or crack or something?"
 he asks.

	"i knew it!", she shrieks.  

	later that night his mother and father decide to send him to drug
 rehab, where he eventually meets a number of great new friends who tell
 him all sorts of drug experiences.  one guy, jamal, has been to the rehab
 place twelve times.  he likes the high from the injections they give him.

	when 'racket' and jamal get out of rehab, they hook up, and
 'racket' eventually becomes addicted to heroin, after ingesting numerous
 other drugs.

	here's one of the poems he wrote in the rehab clinic.

	oh, i mentioned that 'racket' is a white suburban boy -- but did i
 mention that he has no rhythm?  and that he writes about trite subjects?  
 and that he has a poor grasp of grammar?  and that he's a retard?

 	lines beginning with Mo-Money symbols ($) are the poem's contents.

	numbers in the metal clink [1] [2] [3] link to footnotes at the
 end of the poem.

	to start the poem off, let me describe one widely-used technique
 of the mindless drug loser authors.

	as with poetry by other authors with dormant brains, 'racket'
obviously has used the literary technique of 'understood
walking-down-the-street'. this technique nullifies the author's need to
waste time setting a scene for his/her story, by allowing the reader to
ASSUME that the speaker is simply walking down the street.  this technique
has the same effect as including an opening line with the following
contents:

 "So I's was walkin down the street and"

 	now, to the poem.

 $ "A Poem" by Racket [12/22/94]

	notice the inaccuracy of the title.  this isn't a poem.

 $ Here comes one pissed off cop, 
 $ He's sees me take just one drop.
 
	notice the vivid imagery, and brilliant description of the mood of
 the police officer being spoken of.  slang language makes the poem more
 'cool', which appeals to drug users (the people 'racket' wants to
 impress.)
 
 $ I say to him it's only lsd, [2]
 $ Then he says sure that's what I thought it'd be. 
 $ Then he get's mad cause i'm smoking grass [4]
 $ So I tell him to just shove it up his ass  [13]
 $ He said, Drop and spread 'em

	the police officer, being confused, thought racket had asked to
 shove it up HIS OWN ass.  he was wrong, though, because that's not what
 racket said.
 
 $ And I told myself not to let him
 $ So he shoves his nightstick up my back  [3]
 $ Just as if I was possessing crack   [1]
 $ I took his arm and threw him on a car  [5]
 $ He let out a yell that could be heard near and far
 $ My supplier told me that wonderful trick!
 $ Then since he was so nice to me, 
 $ I decided to give him one good kick

	Despite his improper use of pronouns, Racket is _obviously_ not
 talking about kicking his dealer, because YOU DON'T FUCK WITH YOUR
 DEALER.

 $ What's this? Yet another scream
 $ This time it was really extreme [6]
 $ It's not as if I kicked him in the rear
 $ Well, not quite there, but it was near!  [7]
 $ I took out his cuffs, and slapped 'em on his wrist  [8]
 $ This time he got really pissed
 $ I told the nice officer, "How ever will you drive?"

	the officer has wild mood swings, sometimes being 'nice', and
 other times being 'pissed'.  FYI, racket is a victorian-age lord of an
 English province.

 $ And he said, "I don't need your fuckin' street jive"

	but the police officer does not understand racket's victorian use
 of 'how ever' in a sentence, since only classic poets speak like that,
 and believes it to be a sort of drug user language [9].

 $ I thought I heard enough outta this squealer
 $ So I thought I'd bring him to my dealer  

 	A dealer is a person who sells drugs.

 $ When we got there, my dealer was busy with two other guys 

	And rapes those who can't pay him.

 $ But when he was done business, I turned the pig in for a surprise

	one way to keep rhythm in a poem is to drop words.  here, racket
 keeps a steady rhythm by leaving out some word near 'done'.  one
 side-effect of this technique is that sometimes a word is important to
 the meaning of the line, and dropping it makes the line unintelligible.
 [10]

 $ I went back to the streets [11], and heard screams of pain
 $ But I just carried on, sniffing my free cocaine.
 $ I noticed the screaming was coming from my dealer's spot,
 $ I thought it was just another guy getting shot. [12]

 [1] 'Crack' is a drug used in tenements by poor African-Americans.

 [2] LSD is a hallucinogenic drug, which sometimes comes in liquid form.
     Drug users use the term 'drop' to describe taking LSD.

 [3] LSD eventually ends up in the spines of its users.  A way for police
     officers to test for LSD is to stick their magic nightstick up
     peoples' shirts.  It then telepathically tells the officer if it
     senses any LSD.  Racket's mention of crack possession is due to
     ignorance.  He didn't have any, and that's not what the cop was
     looking for.

 [4] racket is ambidextrous.

 [5] racket is a square dancer.

 [6] 'scream' and 'extreme' rhyme.

 [7] areas surrounding the 'rear', or 'ass', include:

        *  thigh
        *  lower back
        *  crotch
        *  upper leg

 [8] One side-effect of serious heroin abuse is a constant drive to slap
     arms.  Using handcuffs to slap arms induces a 'bad trip'.

 [9] Hey dude, man, like, you know.

 [10] Sometimes poems are already unintelligible and dropping words does
      not change that.

 [11] the "Understood Walking-Down-The-Street" technique is backed up.

 [13] Racket again shows his ignorance by referring to 'grass' as a
      suppository.  Grass, aka 'Opium', is NOT used by shoving it into the 
      anus.

	racket then continues on, to introduce his next pieces of
 literature he wishes to share, with the following paragraph.  it tells us
 who is cool, and who we know.

 $        Just to make sure....this isn't my best poems, i just did it when
 $ there was nothing else to do.... i will be coming out with an anarchy
 $ article, that i'm 1/4 completed, and a list of the hottest women [I WILL
 $ include Winona, Mogel!]  I thought you might like these other poems, that
 $ i didn't make, but they are cool poems we sing at school, and the sort. I
 $ also have to give credit to Wonko, and Ascii Express, even though they
 $ aren't the coolest or most liked or most heard of people.... but i have
 $ to give credit..[Wonko isn't VERY cool as most of you know, but he
 $ wrote it... and that's enough of that.]

	These are songs that Racket sings at school with his other buddies
 who like Korn and Marilyn Manson.  These buddies of his only hang around
 with him because they think he might be able to score them some pot
 sometime. Otherwise they'd leave him alone because he smells pretty bad.

 $ Roll roll roll your joint,
 $ Twist it at the end,
 $ Take a puff,
 $ now that's enough,
 $ and pass it to a friend.
 $ (Sung to Row, Row, Row Your Boat)

	I knew this next one in 5th grade because I read it in Matt
 Groening's _Big Book of Hell_.  I assume it's been around for a very long
 time.  By my freshman year of high school, it seemed at least half the
 student population knew the song.

	But Racket would like to share it with us, because it's about
 drugs and drugs are cool.

 $ Marijuana, Marijuana...LSD!, LSD!
 $ College kids are making it, 
 $ High school kids are taking it,
 $ Why can't we?, Why can't we?
 $ (Sung to Frere Jacques)

	In conclusion, I'd like to thank Racket, for thinking that HOE's
 staff was cool enough to share his drug poetry with, and I'd like to
 thank Mogel, and the other head editors of HOE, for not releasing
 Racket's file.

 [-----------------------------------------------------------------------]

                              REJECTED FILE #7
                              ================

                            "What's in a handle?"
                               by Dae'raezdus

        Those of us that bbs are aware of the fact that when a BBS we've
 just logged onto asks us for what we'd like as our alias or handle, we
 should type something besides our real name.  Those newbies that don't are
 subject to be the butt of jokes for not picking a good handle. (I swear,
 I'm innocent on that!)  But really?  What is the point of picking a handle
 that will please yourself and others?  Perhaps before attempting to answer
 that all important question of bbsing, it'd be best to take a good look at
 some instances of the past (read my more interesting moments online).

        I hear lots of things about my handles.  All twenty one of them.
 People can spot a new handle of mine the moment they see it.  Okay, so I
 make it easy, using things like Dae'raezdus, Raec'via, Pstrykna,
 Arylaenscia, Aryaelae', and so on (I still can't believe i spelled
 Aryaelae' wrong.. sigh..) and oddly enough it seems that I began to
 identify with the handle I use the most:  Dae'raezdus.  I think a friend of
 mine said it best when he was commenting on why he was having an old handle
 deleted from all boards:

        "It's just not me anymore.  It's a character I can't play."
 Think about it for a moment.  Is everyone exactly like they are online as
 when they are offline?  I should sure as hell hope not!  Read through a few
 bios and regs and you'll find out (and if you don't have one type /go
 registry and then y, and answer the damn questions already!@) that we are
 all but shells of an unreality.  Although if anyone must ask, yes, I am
 really a demon.

        Now that I've gotten the moral of the story out of the way, I can
 have some fun.  Keeping in mind the above rule, let's have some phun and
 go through rules for picking a handle!@

        1) First of all, pick something people can pronounce for god's sake!

        Okay, I admit it, I have a very hard time following this rule.  My
 regular handle is Dae'raezdus.  The first gt I went to, I introduced myself
 as such, only to receive puzzled looks from everybody present.  At first,
 I thought that was okay because I was under the impression that I was not
 well-liked online... But that's another story altogether.  Later on, before
 I left I somehow ended up spelling my handle before everyone... shhh,
 Listen!

   Me: Um... My handle?
 Them: Yeah! How do you spell it??
   Me: Uh... D - A - E - apostraphe -
 Them: Oooooh! That guy! Hey you're cool!
   Me <muttering>: Fucking idiots...

        Unfortunately some of my friends, to this day, still cannot
 pronounce that handle.  I've had it, what, close to a year?  And when I
 try to call someone voice for the first time, confusion is often resultant.
 So trust me when I tell you that a pronounceable handle is important.  And
 never trust someone that says, "Trust me!".

        2) Pick something decent fuckface.

        It never ceases to amaze me when some cyberidiot decides that a
 repulsive handle is in order.  I find it rather amusing when said cyberjerk
 picks that handle while the sysop is online.  Some beauties I've seen go
 along the lines of "Kreamy_Spurtz", "Jizz_N-Cumm", and so on.  I shit you
 not.  (And yes, the sysop was on.)  Accounts with such handles have a life
 expectancy of no greater than 60 minutes, and that's if one is extremely
 lucky.  Accounts not expected to last more than 5 minutes go along the
 lines of "Sysop_is_an_asshole" and yes, I've seen that one too.

        Some 'cleaner' handles get some interesting responses, so unless
 you're the attention-getting type, I suggest you stay away from such things
 as Bunghole, and Priapism.  The first one, thanks to a particular music
 network comedy (I find the use of that word for that show questionable)
 show, has an interesting meaning when really it's just a hole for a cork.
 The second you can look up yourself, but that's been mocked many a time.

        Then there are handles like one I had, which have no meaning
 whatsoever, but people just think they sound disgusting.  "Scrawla."  I
 have no clue what it means, I just put the letters together, but my MBBS of
 choice had insisted that it was an STD.  Whatever, guys.

        3) Pick something original.

 From Syphilitic Death: H1 gU>-5!@#
 From Rixna: another goddamn death handle.. cant you people think of
             anything worth typing?
 From Dragon Whore'd: I don't see anything wrong with it.
 From Lady Dump: Yeah. What's wrong with death handles?
 :/j rixna

        Ah... The irritations of having to type /black t: or /dragonl: in
 order to whisper to someone.  You can only see so many Black this and
 Dragon that before it gets sickening.  The only things I can stand seeing
 repeatedly are my cat, The Wall, and certain attractive females.  I will
 admit, however, that it is quite amusing to watch two assholes duke it out
 over the modem about who thought of the handle first.  "You stole my
 handle!@" has rung in my ears more than once, and I can only sit back and
 laugh because no one has ever had a handle like mine.

        (Well, once my friend made the handle Dae'raezdus Raec'via. just to
 irritate the hell out of me.  Needless to say, it worked.  I suggest you
 try it with someone with a long handle on a free board.  Just don't expect
 any whispers.) I won't start naming original handles that I've seen... but
 you'll know one when you see one.  And the bonus part is: Sometimes people
 actually compliment original handles!  Well I've only gotten one compliment
 but I get lots of questions like "What's your handle mean?" and shit, so it
 makes a good ice-breaker.  Sort of like Sharon Stone with an icepick.

        4) Pick something that fits you.  (Better yet, don't, and I'll come
 pester you)

        Don't pick something like "Lookingforhotsex" if you aren't out for
 it.  Some dolt is bound to come along and ask you if he or she fits your
 criteria.  In much more indiscrete terms no doubt.

        (Honestly, one guy was typing in main, "I want to fuck you hard,"
 to some females online.  In front of the cosysop.  We told him to whisper
 and this is what he typed: I want to fuck you hard /Poorfemale.  His
 response to us was: You guys are idiots. /Someguy ... But I digress)

        Handles are You online, so of course if you pick a handle like
 "Smart Demoness Bitch", then of course somebody like me would immediately
 start talking to you about the beauty of hell and such.  Nothing is more
 irritating to find someone with a handle that didn't match them, so to
 avoid potentially pissy people, pick 'ppropriate pseudonyms. (Shit, it
 almost worked...)

        5) And a few other tidbits of information...

        Of course, I've managed to pick up some interesting stories...
 Well, not interesting exactly but... Well... Oh hell, I'll just tell them.
 I have an account on one board called "Metria", which as some of you may 
 know, is the name of a demoness in a popular fantasy series.  No sooner do
 I step into Teleconference then do I see from another male user: "Come on
 in here baby!", where upon I explain to him the purpose of the M underneath
 sex on the user scan.  Poor him.

        Odd letter combinations throw people off.  One of my handles is
 "Khisanth", yet another book character, also female.  People have this
 problem with spelling that out, as I've seen everything from Krisanth to
 Kitanth and so on.  When will people learn?

        Yet another handle of mine was "The Foxophile".  I advise people not
 to use the suffix "-phile" in their handles.  If you don't know what that
 means, get a dictionary.  I had to tell the sysop, "No, I don't have sex
 with animals."  Animals don't seem to like me either <cough cough>

        I think you've had enough by now.  That is, if you're still
 reading...

        Hello?
        Hello???

        Damn... I knew I should have saved the moral for last... That always
 shakes 'em when they see it first...

        A final tidbit of advice.  Twenty one handles is a bit much.  I hear
 most people keep it to less than five.  Then again, I'm not most people ;)
 (you know who you are :) )

 [----------]

                      RE-WRITE FOR REJECT #7, by Que
                      ==============================

      Nicknames. What are they? Where do they come from? What do you need
 to obtain one? Why am I asking questions to you when you cannot respond?

     I will hope to shed new light on this nickname epidemic by showing
 you a film from the school archives called; "Your Nickname and you." I
 hope you enjoy.

                       ______________________________
                      |                              |
                      |    Your Nickname and you.    |
                      |                              |
                      |      (start sound now)       |
                      |______________________________|

 *bleep*

	Nicknames.... Have been used for several purposes over the years
 including changing your identity after a crime, and for easy referance.

	(Picture of a man holding a bag with a dollar sign on it)

 *bleep*

	But what should you do when choosing a nickname? This is little
 Robert Smith. Robert do you have a nickname?

 	(Picture of a blond boy holding an ice cream cone)

 *bleep*

	"My Nickname is Bobby."

	(Picture of a blond boy smiling with mouth open)

 *bleep*

	Even little Bobby here knows that having a nickname can be fun.

	(Picture of Bobby riding a bicycle)

 *bleep*

	What are common things you should think of when creating a
 nickname?

	(Picture of a large green question mark)

 *bleep*

	The ability to pronounce the nickname.

	(Picture of the words "The ability to pronounce the nickname.")

 *bleep*

	Does the nickname reflect you?

	(Picture of the words "Does the nickname reflect you?")

 *bl@&^$*&OY@EO*&^Y#EY@&OYO$E&H@&HSDOK*H@?*

	(Picture of blank white screen)

	Well... It looks like the film broke. I guess we will have to
 conclude this tomorrow. Just remember, Nicknames are not only your
 handle.... they are also your friends.. take care, and remember, call
 your mom.

 [-----------------------------------------------------------------------]

                              REJECTED FILE #8
                              ================

                            "Back In The Day..."
                                  by Lucky

        i'm 17 and i'm regular i talk about regular stuff - i'm from the
 regular days.  back when your momma had your living room furniture covered
 with that hard-ass plastic.  you sit down and it's poking you in your thigh
 snagging those polyester bell bottoms.  back in the days shag carpet was
 about three-feet-tall and you'd have to step over it.  back in the days of
 pattent leather loafers and knitted arm rests.  crushed velvet cutains.
 back in the days when when your momma had a dinning room table that weighed
 about 5000 goddamn pounds and she was determined nobody was gonna scratch
 it.  she had it covered up with eight or nine plastic covers, four or five
 table clothes, and that country-ass lace cover on the top of that.  you
 could try to blow that off, but that big-ass punch bowl was holding it
 down, surrounded with about two hundred of those little-ass cups.  back in
 the days when you had carpet on the walls, big wooden fork and spoon - i
 thought we had it goin' on i didn't know we was poor.

        momma camoflaged?  hell, i thought it was artwork hanging all over
 the house.  i was grown before i realized it was some souvenire plates.
 momma went to flea markets and bought some plates other people didn't want,
 still had writing on it "see spain, see italy".  we aint been outside the
 state line!  had a china closet like middle class folks but couldn't ever
 afford no china, china closet just full of stolen salt and pepper shakers.
 wherever we happened to go momma would steel a salt and pepper shaker. she
 would just drop em' in her purse. they would still have little names on em'
 "the waffle house" "the pancake house" "mastedonia baptist church"! she
 didn't give a damn.  the jones familly reunion, our name is curtis. here's
 the thing that matters. these raggedy ass cars on the highway. oh you can't
 hardly go no where on the highway now ever been on the highway here come a
 raggedy car behind you, one headlight you think it's a motorcycle untill it
 pulls up next to you. be runnin' about a 100 miles per hour the car shaking
 he trembling blowing out smoke like he's selling bar-b-q.

        he pull up in front of you then slow down! %oh i just like to set
 his ass on fire!%  usualy a cadilac about a 68, 69 model.  he'll be leaning
 one way the car be leaning the other way. be  photo cadilac with three
 tinted windows, three hubcaps .. missing.  a rear back tire on the back of
 the trunk with a hubcap on it.  windsheild wipers just screaching like hell
 cause they don't have any rubber on them.  acoat hanger on the hole where
 the antena ought to damn be.  big dirty baby shoes just dangling from the
 mirror big furry blue dice glued to the dashboard. raggedy ass vinyl top
 hanging off just waving to you.  be a pair of underwear in the gas tank
 where the gas cap ought to be! then have a cardboard sign in the back
 saying 'stolen plates' RIGHT, you know nobody stole nothing off thise
 piece of shit!  if they did, they just stole it back.  every time i go
 through the drive through i get behind that raggedy car, they'll be about
 three or four cars in front of him so he turns his car off to save gas.
 ten seconds later the line moves and he can't start his car!  horns behind
 me blowing i can't damn move he'll ask me if i can give him a jump. he'll
 ask me if i got jumper cables you got the raggedy ass car jump between
 these two cars so i can smash your silly ass!

 [----------]

                      RE-WRITE TO REJECT #8, by Aster
                      ===============================

	once apon a time there lived a little boy. he had many things in
 his room. he had lost of toys and gadgets and gizmos and everything else
 entirely. most of all, he had three big orange posters with words ont
 hem.  he did not know how to read so he scribbled all over them. he drew
 pretty pictures of flowers and trees and a man getting killed with a tic
 tac and a little pen named ronald.

	ronald, the little pen in his picture was made of plastic and more
 plastic and wrote quite blue indeed. blue is, of course, an evil color
 and ronald always hated himself for it. after he was put into prison for
 killing the man and the tic tac, he learned a great wonderful game called
 red or blue or yellow or green.  this game was very fun. in it, each
 person (or pen) picked a different color. and then they all scribbled the
 sky purples with little black teeth.  she also wore a cape and had bright
 red eyes. sometimes she scared little children with toes, but not always,
 just sometimes. anyway, when the bicycle left the market it traded places
 and earned a great deal of cookies int he process. soon, the family of
 four was quite rich.

	the end.

 [-----------------------------------------------------------------------]

                              REJECTED FILE #9
                              ================

                                  "Morbid"
                                  by Vyrus

        The howl from the bathroom signaled something was wrong.

        Brad raced in to find Shiela screaming endlessly, clutching her
 face.

        The skin was literally melting off her face, dripping and running
 like a think milk shake. She screamed louder as her eyeball oozed gently
 from the socket, landing with a soft thump in her palm.

        Even then, her fleshy hands began to squish and run together,
 exposing pale bones and the pins put in her wrist when she was eight.
 The unblinking eyeball stared mercilessly at her as she felt other parts
 of her body stream away in goopy strands, like melted bubble gum this
 time.

        The flesh between her fingers finally let loose, and the bones in
 her hand separated, letting the eye thunk to the floor, rolling over with
 bits of fuzz and tile chunks embedded in the iris and scalera.

        Her screams became half gargles as her throat melted away, yet her
 mouth still moved, dripping pus and blood and dead skin.

        She turned away from the mirror, looking at Brad with a helpless
 expression locked on her decaying form. Brad winced at backed away from
 her clawing and bare fingers.

        She curled them inwards, looking at them, and shaking her head
 violently, drop of a no-longer-identifiable material gushed in spurts from
 her forehead, flying out like a crushed fruit. A few drops splattered on
 Brad, sizzling like acid.

        She continued to melt away, screaming soundlessly.  As her last
 remains pooled into a lump on her bathrobe, her stained skull grinning
 evilly at him, Brad reached down and picked out the locket he had given
 her.  He opened it, looked inside, and screamed as loud as he could...

        Until the flesh in his throat began to run.

 [----------]

                      RE-WRITE FOR REJECT #9, by Tasha
                      ================================

        Jarett heard a howl coming from the bathroom and figured something
 could be wrong.

        He hopped off the tiny daybed and into the bathroom, which was,
 conveniently, left unlocked.  Jarett found Caitlin sitting on the toilet,
 clutching her face, with the guitar she had previously been playing
 dropped next to the toilet.  Ordinarily, Jarett would have thought
 nothing of this.  Caitlin often played guitar while relieving herself, it
 made everything come out better, she claimed.  Today, however, Caitlin
 had her hands clutched over her face and was whimpering like a sick
 puppy.

        The skin was literally melting off her thin face, revealing the
 cheek bones that she was proud of as a young girl.  The skin dropped in
 thick globs onto the floor and onto her guitar, mixing with the kitty
 litter and such strewn about the bathroom floor.  Jarett closed his eyes,
 hoping to blink away the scene, but opened them to see one of Caitlin's
 hazel eyes dropping into her hands, which she was now holding out in
 dismay.

        The flesh of her hands began to run off into the stream of melted
 skin that was collecting on the floor.  It revealed pale bones and red
 muscle.

        As the flesh between her fingers began to drip off, her hands fell
 apart, and the eye fell from them

       The screams became gargled as the skin on her throat oozed away and
 her mouth foamed with puss and blood.

        Caitlin reached her arms toward Jarett, and he backed off, wincing
 and rubbing his greasy head.

	She began to shake violently, as unidentifiable objects flew from
 her head.  Droplets of Caitlin's skin splattered across Jarett's stubbly
 beard and he, too, began to wimper.

        As the last bits of Caitlin melted away, Jarett leaned down and
 dug out the used tampon he had been playing with the previous night.  He
 screamed as the blood burned into his palm.

	Screamed, that is, until the flesh of his throat began to drip
 away...

 [-----------------------------------------------------------------------]

                             REJECTED FILE #10
                             =================

                               "Gun Control"
                                by JrzDevil

        It was a Thursday morning.  It had snowed heavily the night before,
 so school had been canceled.  Bobby and his sister Mary Lou were at home.
 They were watching The Flintstone Kids.  The Flintstone Kids ended.  Bobby
 got up and changed the channel.  Mary did not like this.

        "Hey Bobby, I want to watch Gummi Bears."

        "Mom put ME in charge, so we watch what I want.  And we're watching
 Superman!
     
        "Please...."

        "Stop bothering meeeee!  Go play with your little dolly!"

        "I'll get you back, Bobby!"

        Mary Lou ran to her room.  Crying.  Suddenly, a thought came to mind.
 The night before, she had stayed up late with Daddy watching TV.  And there
 was an argument.  But not over Gummi Bears.  The two men were arguing over
 Coke.  She couldn't understand why their Cokes were a pile of white stuff.
 But she then remembered what one man did....

        Mary Lou stepped into her parents' room.  She saw a magazine on the
 bed.  It had pictures.  Pictures she couldn't understand.  There were women
 with no clothes on, with their mouths around a man's private parts.  How
 icky!  But "Beach Blanket Blowjobs" was not what she wanted.  In the
 closet, Mary Lou found what she wanted.  A fully automatic 9mm Uzi
 sub-machine gun.  She had watched enough episodes of GI Joe with Bobby,
 to know that it was loaded.  Daddy had always said that, "A loaded gun is
 needed to protect the house from foreign invaders."  Like Space Invaders?
 She stomped into the TV room.

        Bobby saw the reflection of Mary Lou with the Uzi on the TV screen.

        "What are you doing, Mary Lou?"

        "I want Gummi Bears not Stupidman!"

        Mary Lou pulled the trigger.  The recoil threw her back against the
 wall, and she shot most of the 25 rounds into the ceiling.  But the first
 few bullets had slammed into poor Bobby's young body, turning him into
 Spaghetti-O's. A family's life forever changed.

        The moral to this story is this: It's not about what are kids watch
 or what video games they play, it's about what the parents do.  Had the
 parents actually locked up there gun or talked to their children about guns
 and violence, maybe Bobby would still be around to catch another episode of
 "Stupidman." So talk to your kids about these issues, and just maybe, we
 could put an end to sad stories like these.

 [---------]

                    RE-WRITE FOR REJECT #10, by Quarex
                    ==================================

	Now, first of all, let me say a few words about this article.  
 Gun control is a very serious subject, and Jersey Devil has an excellent
 point in this article about a little girl accidentally getting a gun.

	OH WAIT, NO, THAT IS ALL A BUNCH OF SHIT.  Sure, maybe there are
 too many households with guns easily accessible to children.  However, I,
 for one, could give a fuck less, as could 99% of Americans, as the
 American mentality is, quite simply, if it does not happen to me or
 anyone I care about, it does not fucking matter.  And for better or for
 worse, that is the way it is always going to be, and I like it just fine.

	So, now, about this crap he wrote. . . :

 [JURZEYDEVUUUUL]

 It was a Thursday morning.  It had snowed heavily the night before,
 so school had been canceled.  Bobby and his sister Mary Lou were at
 home.  They were watching The Flintstone Kids.  The Flintstone Kids
 ended. Bobby got up and changed the channel.  Mary did not like this.

 "Hey Bobby, I want to watch Gummi Bears."

 "Mom put ME in charge, so we watch what I want.  And we're watching
 Superman!"

 "Please...."

 "Stop bothering meeeee!  Go play with your little dolly!"

 "I'll get you back, Bobby!"

 . . . [/JERZEYDEVAEL]

 [QUAREX] 

	Okay, now, think about it this way.  First, did this dialogue
 serve any purpose whatsoever?  Well, come to think of it, no!  How about,
 instead of this fucking lame-ass unrealistic dialogue (No kid ever would
 say "Go play with your little dolly," he would say "go away you stupid
 idiot" or something along those lines--little dolly is a term reserved
 for college-age homosexual men), he summarized this entire scene with
 something like,

 	"Bobby and Mary Lou (besides being fucking horrible names) had a
 brief discourse in the TV room about which programme to watch.  After a
 momentary verbal scuffle, Mary left the room, vowing revenge."

	NOW LOOK AT HOW MUCH FUCKING BETTER THAT IS.

 [/QUAREX]

 [JORZEYDAVIL]
 Mary Lou ran to her room.  Crying.  Suddenly, a thought came to mind.
 The night before, she had stayed up late with Daddy watching TV.
 And there was an argument.  But not over Gummi Bears.  The two men were
 arguing over Coke.  She couldn't understand why their Cokes were a pile
 of white stuff. But she then remembered what one man did....
 [/JIRSYDAFUL]

 [QUAREX]

 	AHAHAHAHHAHAHAH

	AHAHAHAHAHA

 	NO!  YOU GODDAMN IDIOT!  THIS IS TERRIBLE!  Do you honestly expect
 the reader to believe that there is a show, anywhere, in which two men
 are arguing over a pile of white stuff, in a manner like your previous
 conversation?

	"D'angelo, I want the coke."
	"You can't have the coke, R. Kelly."
	*uzi*

 [/QUAREX]

 [JURZYDEVOL]

 Mary Lou stepped into her parents' room.  She saw a magazine on the
 bed.  It had pictures.  Pictures she couldn't understand.  There
 were women with no clothes on, with their mouths around a man's private
 parts. How icky!  But "Beach Blanket Blowjobs" was not what she wanted.  
 In the closet, Mary Lou found what she wanted.  A fully automatic 9mm Uzi
 submachine gun.  She had watched enough episodes of GI Joe with Bobby, to
 know that it was loaded.  Daddy had always said that, "A loaded gun is
 needed to protect the house from foreign invaders."  Like Space Invaders?
 She stomped into the TV room.
 
 [/JIRCIDEFFIL]

 [QUAREX]

	Okay, you mother fucker, use your goddamn brain, seriously.  You
 are a fucking idiot.  If she DID NOT UNDERSTAND THE PICTURES--WHICH SHE
 WOULD NOT, BEING A TINY GIRL--then HOW did she understand that the MOUTHS
 were around the PRIVATE PARTS?  When I was 10, watching some random
 terrible softcore porn movie on Cinemax, I honestly had *no* idea what
 was going on.  NONE AT ALL.  NEITHER WOULD THIS GIRL.  SHE WOULD NOT
 THINK IT WAS ICKY--SHE WOULD NOT FUCKING HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT IT WAS.  YOU
 CONTRADICTED YOURSELF.

	And JESUS CHRIST, "Like Space Invaders?" HAVE YOU LIVED IN A HOME
 FOR MENTALLY RETARDED CHILDREN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE?  NO LITTLE GIRL WOULD
 EVEN KNOW THE FUCKING *TERM* SPACE INVADERS ANYMORE! [/QUAREX]

 [JZD]

 Bobby saw the reflection of Mary Lou with the Uzi on the TV screen.

 "What are you doing, Mary Lou?"

 "I want Gummi Bears not Stupidman!"

 Mary Lou pulled the trigger.  The recoil threw her back against the
 wall, and she shot most of the 25 rounds into the ceiling.  But the
 first few bullets had slammed into poor Bobby's young body, turning him
 into Spaghetti-O's. A family's life forever changed.
 
 [/DZJKLKLREAJ]

 [QUAREX]

	DERR DERR DERR!!!!!!!!  DERRRRRRRRRRRRRR!#&*$!#$ DERR DERR DERR
DERRRRRRRRR!!!!!!  SPAGHETTI-O'S!!!!!!  HEHEHEHEHEEEHEEHHEEHEHE

 [/QUAREX]

 [BENJAMINFRANKLINCALIBERBRILLIANCE]

	The moral to this story is this: It's not about what are kids
 watch or what video games they play, it's about what the parents do.  Had
 the parents actually locked up there gun or talked to their children
 about guns and violence, maybe Bobby would still be around to catch
 another episode of "Stupidman."  So talk to your kids about these issues,
 and just maybe, we could put an end to sad stories like these.

 [/WITANDWISDOMOFNELLCARTER]

 [QUAREX]

	The moral of the story is this: It is not acceptable to have
 children, because children might grow up to be Jersey Devil.  Basically,
 it all really comes down to the simple fact that talking to a 4 year old
 girl about uzis being bad is not going to accomplish anything.  If
 anything, it would make the girl wonder what was so special about the uzi
 that made it off-limits.

	If you want to actually fix this problem, if you really consider
 it a problem, which you do not, because none of us know Bobby or Mary
 Dickhole, you will just not buy a gun to begin with.  In the immortal
 words of Henry Rollins, "Guns are tools of the weak."  He is so fucking
 right.  If you want to stop a criminal, buy a fucking axe or something
 AWESOME with which you can slay your enemy with the might of a thousand
 years of Viking Ancestry.

	Granted, that mostly works for people who are my size and are
 convinced they are immortal, but that is another text file all together.

[-----------------------------------------------------------------------]

                              REJECTED FILE #11
                              =================

                                "Dear Melissa"
                                   by Kojak

        dear melissa,
        for such a long time, i've loved you so.  i've watched you grow,
 i've shared experiences with you, i've - at times - become you.  we were
 together for over three years, and leaving you was perhaps the hardest
 thing i've had to do in my life.
        since i left, i've grown .. i've changed.  i've moved on with my
 life, although i've missed you incredibly.  hardly a day goes by when i
 don't back to the lazy afternoons spent in the hammock in your backyard,
 nestled underneath those two pine trees.  we'd slowly rock back and forth,
 pushed by the wind, passing the afternoon by with hardly a spoken word.  
        there are so many sweet and innocent childhood memories i have of
 you, melissa.  the day i asked you out - at a 6th grade roller skating
 party, our first date, our first kiss; they're all moments i will forever
 treasure.  that's what made last night so hard.
        mark - you know mark, right? my best friend? - called me at midnight
 and said that he thought something was wrong with you.  he said you hadn't
 been seen around school lately, and that you were getting lower grades.  i
 thought nothing of it, at first, and then i put two and two together.
 something was wrong.  danny told me to call you, that i would know what to 
 say, and i did.  
        when i called, i first had to laugh at the sound of your accent - i
 forgot that i've been away from you, on the opposite side of the country,
 for well over a year.  i caught traces of fear in your voice, little cracks
 that made appearances in conversation, and i began to worry.  you told me
 how things were, and it seemed like superficial talk.  i stopped you
 mid-sentence and asked what was *really* going on.
        knowing that i have always and will always be there for you, you let
 out a collected sigh - something that had building up for months.  taking
 in a quick breath, you told me horrific stories of being alienated by
 friends, being pressured into trying drugs, almost being raped by some guy 
 you met at a party - all the evil things that had happened to you came out
 in one cleansing breath.
        reminding you that we had plenty of time, you began to recount all
 the things that had happened.  things too horrible to tell anyone else.  i
 was shocked, hearing all of the stories you had to tell, and for once; i
 didn't' know how to respond.  
        i've always been one to help others.. i find myself attracted to
 people with problems like a moth is drawn to light.  i want to cleanse
 everyone's life, to make them happy again - hopefully so they can see what
 i see.  i consider myself a happy person, melissa, and i hope that you can
 be that way as well.  i want to life your problems off your shoulders and
 bear them as my own.  that might sound like i want to be christ, but i only
 want to help.  i want to see the smile that forever brought sunlight to my
 days.
        for three years, we were the two happiest kids that could be found.
 my, how the times have changed.
        we talked for four hours that night.  you told me everything, and we
 evaluated each situation.  i got you to agree to go to a counselor at
 school about help with your newfound liking of drugs.  i got you to finally
 admit the fact that what happened with that stranger at the party was *not*
 your fault.. that there is no way you 'asked' for anything.  we decided,
 together, that you could indeed put a little more effort into your
 school work.  at the same time that we made all this progress, i tried my
 hardest to remind you of the good times.  
        if i was still living near you, melissa, we'd be engaged by now.  i
 know it.  although childhood innocence blinded us to many things, i'm sure
 we could've faced any problem - hand in hand.  that's the way we did things
 back then, as a team.  talking to you that night made me realize how lonely
 my life here has been... and just how much i've really missed you.  
        needless to say, when i got the letter and picture you sent me a
 week later, i cried for hours.  a letter simply comprised of 'thank you for
 saving my life, i love you.'  and a polaroid (i remember buying us that
 camera) of you talking on the phone with a razor blade in your hands - it
 shook me.  i didn't know how to react.  i sat on the floor of my room for 
 quite some time, thinking about things.  i was infinitely happy that you
 finally confronted your problems,  and that you're now working on fixing
 them; yet at the same time, i wondered just how our lives could've taken
 such opposite paths.  we were inseparable at one time, and yet simple 
 geography has taken us so far apart.  
        being young has its disadvantages, and now i see them.  no longer
 can i simply call you up on the phone and talk to you about pointless
 things - i don't have that kind of money.  no longer can i ride my bike
 for 10 minutes and be at your front door - now, that trip would take weeks.
 no longer can i wait for you outside of mrs. curry's math class after 3rd
 period - mrs. curry is nothing but a shadow in my mind now.  
        all of these things have been brought on by seemingly cold and
 unfeeling parents.  how could they move? how could they take me away from
 you?  they had no clue what we shared, nor will they ever.  i only hope,
 melissa, that you cling on to those memories, those photos, those
 late-night phone calls, those afternoons in your hammock, and those poorly
 cooked dinners.  we were pretty mature for fourteen, but looking back now,
 i see that we could've taken things so much further.  not in a sexual
 sense, because we both agreed that we would wait until we married, but in
 an emotional sense.  quite obviously, you've come to grips with your
 emotions, and i've come to terms with mine.  if only we could've done so
 together.
        if only.
        i took the letter and picture you sent me outside just now, melissa.
 i took it out to the driveway and sat down on the cold, hard cement.  the
 moon was out, and that was all the light i needed, although somewhere
 behind me a light was on.  i took a lighter and carefully touched the tip
 of the flame to the corner of your letter, and watched it burn slowly,
 twisting in the wind.  i set it down on the ground and carefully dropped
 the picture on top of the burning letter. everything we had ever done
 together came whirling back through my mind just then, and i smiled at the
 same time i choked back tears.
        after burning the picture, melissa, i just sat there.  the weather
 was nice, and i laid back on the driveway and stretched out like a cat in
 a patch of sunlight.  i didn't want to remember you the way you were on the
 phone last week, and i blocked those thoughts from my mind.  i kept
 returning to the hammock, those two pine trees, and all the lazy summer 
 afternoons we shared together.  melissa, i love you."

                with that, the young man stood up and got an envelope.  he
        addressed it to melissa, first name only, and put a stamp on it.  he
        returned to the spot on the driveway where he had been sitting just
        an hour before, and carefully laid the envelope on top of the black
        spot where he had previously burned her letter.  he dropped a match
        on top of the envelope and sighed, realizing he finally said what
        he had to say.  he could finally move on.

 [----------]

                       RE-WRITE TO REJECT #11, by Caitlin
                       ==================================

        Dear Melissa,

        The day we met was the day that changed my life. I remember it all
 too well.. you smiling at me from across the lunch room - I was in the
 lunch line, and dropped my milk on the ground, the tray following..
 clattering like the rain on the metal trailers in our trailer park. I had
 seen you before, but I was too busy making mud pies to really notice.

        The day I left was the worst day of my life. Although, I have
 moved on, I still think about you at least 10 times every hour or so.

        There are so many memories. Perhaps the fondest was when I called
 you at your Aunt Lisa's house and she told me you were watching Alice in
 Wonderland with your cousin Judy, and you heard and ran to the phone to
 talk invidiously about how much fun Judy was, and how you wished I was as
 cool as her. You told me about how my best friend, Mark, was your new
 dreamboy. After we got off the phone, I hid in my mother's room and
 masturbated, thinking of mark rubbing your girl parts through your pink,
 flowered skirt.
        
	Anyway, Mark called me last night at midnight and informed me that
 he thought you were going crazy. He told me about all the parties.. where
 you were used and abused by the Varsity football team. I told him it
 couldn't be true. He said you even started listening to Third Eye Blind.
        
	I decided to call you to see what the hell was going on. At first,
 I made fun of your accent. It was trashy and too midwest for my liking. I
 caught traces of fear in your voice and just decided to be blunt...

	"What the hell is this gang bang business, Melissa?"

        At first you screamed at me, "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING
 ABOUT?!!"

	I told you I had heard everything, about the heroin, and the
 lesbianism, and about the bad grades. I could tell you were purporting
 the self-confidence in your voice.

	"You trippin'... i be getting the dick and pussy like a fountain
 of gold, baby."


        I have this problem where I only like to date girls who are crazy,
 Melissa. Although, I want to take their burden off of them, in a perverse
 imitation of Jesus Christ. I wanted to make you feel like you could trust
 me. Then I would come to Ohio to see you again, and comfort you.
        
        We talked for four hours that night, and I made plans to fly out
 there and "help you with your problems." I couldn't stop thinking about
 your tight, pink pussy, Melissa, and how much I wanted to fuck it til you
 bled.

        Talking to you that night, made me realize how lonely I've been
 for a good fuck. I keep imaging all those guys abusing you, slapping you,
 calling you horrible names.. and the pre-cum drips down my leg. If I were
 living near you right now, I'd definitely be hitting that shit everyday.
 You wouldn't need those football players. You wouldn't need those
 syphillis strippers to eat your pussy right.
       
	Needless to say, when you sent me that letter a week later with
 the picture of us enclosed, I couldn't help but feel sort of guilty. The
 guilt was quickly supplanted with desire though, my cock filling out to
 all 8 inches.  I sat on the floor, thinking. I was happy that you told me
 what was going on in your life, but I was vaguely confused as to why you
 would tell me all of this in the first place.

        Why did my parents decide to move back in 9th grade? None of the
 other girls could satisfy me the way that you did. They didn't even know
 how to give head.  I only hope, Melissa, that you remember me. I hope you
 remember the first time we fucked, and the first time I took you in your
 grandmothers bedroom and fucked your tight ass.

        I took the letter and the picture outside just now, Melissa. I
 burned them both and remembered the good times that we did have. I
 couldn't believe I would be seeing you in less then a month, and I became
 incredibly aroused again. The moon was out, and I began to touch myself
 through my jeans. After the letter and picture smoldered to ashes, I
 whipped out my cock and rubbed it in the ash.

        I decided not to think about you fucking those other people. I
 knew that you wanted me, and couldn't find the pleasure we had together
 in anyone's touch, but my own. I'll see you soon, my dear Melissa, and we
 will know ecstasy once again!

[-----------------------------------------------------------------------]

                              REJECTED FILE #12
                              =================

                                "Moe's Diner"
                                by Mr Sandman

        Moe's Diner was not the kind of place one willingly chose to eat in.
 Unfortunately, Moe's Diner was the only restaurant open at three in the
 morning off of Route 80.  When one had been driving a truck for hours
 non-stop, and just wanted to grab a cup of coffee, even Moe's was
 acceptable.
        From the outside, Moe's looked like every other diner.  It had a
 tacky neon sign with one of the letters out and a large quantity of small
 windows across the front.  It appeared to be fairly harmless at first
 glance.  However, once one walked inside, it no longer had an appealing
 quality.
        Every person that ever walked into Moe's was first greeted by an icy
 cold stare of a toothless woman.  It was easy to tell she was toothless
 because she used to leave her dentures on the counter next to the cash
 register.  Not once did this woman ever say a word.  She simply stared at
 people like she wanted to kill them.  If someone asked her if they had to
 wait to be seated, she'd merely point to a table somewhere.  But never has
 any customer heard her voice.
        Once one takes a seat in dining area, they begin to notice other odd
 qualities of the diner which provide a very unsettling atmosphere.  For
 example, at every booth, there are radios which play middle eastern music.
 It does not take long for the customers to get annoyed and try to turn the
 radios off.  However, the customer soon discovers that there is no volume
 control on the radios and it is impossible to turn them off.  On one
 occasion, the radios drove a drunken teenager to stand up and kick the
 speakers until they broke.
        Another discomforting aspect of Moe's is the wall of dirty pots and
 pans that have been piled up behind the counter.  They have always been
 there and only seem to get dirtier.  Legend has it that the toothless woman
 has hidden her husband's dead body under all of those pots and pans.
 Though this has never been confirmed, it would certainly explain the
 putrid smell that is always present.  Most customers are never able to get
 the small fear out of their head that the food they are about to order may
 have been cooked in the same pots.
        The bathroom is another area of disgust in this restaurant.
 Unfortunately, there is only one and it is never cleaned.  Numerous drunk
 patrons have relieved themselves on the toilet seat so many times that some
 customers, if desperate enough, have chosen to sit on the basin instead.  
        Eventually, Bell, the only waitress that works at the establishment,
 will acknowledge a customer's existence after about a half hour.  Bell is
 normally the test as to whether or not the customer is going to stay or
 leave.  Bell's outfit is covered with multiple different stains which one
 can see before she arrives at their table.  Once Bell does arrive at their
 table, her odor registers with the customer.  It becomes quite clear that
 not only doesn't Bell wash her uniform, but she doesn't bathe either.  Most
 people, either from a feeling of depression or disgust, lose their appetite
 after encountering Bell.
        The experience which most people have at Moe's is normally enough to
 scare them away from diners for the rest of their lives.  However, there
 are a select few who are not bothered by the odors, Bell, cockroaches, etc.
 They can feel right at home in the filth.  Then again, there are just some
 people who drive long distances and are willing to put up with anything for
 a cup of coffee at three in the morning.

                     CRITIQUE FOR REJECT #12, by Anjee
                     =================================

	WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS FILE IS THAT IT SUCKS ASS.  THE AUTHOR
 OBVIOUSLY WAS TRYING TO BE COOL AND WITTY AND GREAT, BUT IN VAIN.  THIS
 TEXT GOES BELOW EVEN _MY_ CRAPPY FILES, AND THAT'S PRETTY LOW.  THERE IS
 NO POINT, AND SANDMAN SUCKS.  WHEN I FIRST READ "MOE'S DINER," AFTER
 REGURGITATING ON MYSELF SEVERAL TIMES, MY HEAD STARTED SPINNING FROM THE
 NONSENSE THAT JUST STRETCHED ON FOR THE ENTIRE LENGTH OF THE STORY.  I
 DON'T GIVE A RAT'S ASS ABOUT MOE'S DIRTY WRETCHED DINER AND THE FACT THAT
 YOU WROTE IT JUST MAKES YOU AS LAME AS BIG DADDY BILL FOR WRITING ABOUT
 T-SHIRTS.  ALSO, TAKING HOW THE AUTHOR INSISTS ON HOW DIRTY
 EVERYTHING/ONE IS INTO CONSIDERATION REFLECTS ON HOW HE IS A 9 YEAR OLD
 PIMPLE-FACED DYSLEXIC JERK WHO HASN'T YET DISCOVERED THE CONCEPT OF
 HYGIENE.  IN CONCLUSION -- THIS FILE HAS BEEN THE WORSE STREAM OF
 CONSTANT AND POINTLESS BABBLE I HAVE EVER HAD THE MISFORTUNE TO READ.

	THANK YOU.

[-----------------------------------------------------------------------]

                              REJECTED FILE #13
                              =================

               "Tricks To Play On Your Not-So-Friendly Friends"
                                 by Chris Cox

        Get a paper bag. Get some dog shit. Fill le bag with le dog shit...
 Go to this person's house at a reasonable hour. (say, 11 or 12 pm/am)...
 Light the bag of dog shit on fire. Get it going pretty well. Ring the bell.
 Run.

        Effect: Person (or person's parents) come out and stomp on the bag
 to get the fire out, causing dogshit to go everywhere, including on
 themselves.

        At school...find some kid's locker that you absolutely do not
 like...get a padlock (it'll cost maybe 3 bucks..or nothing if you use the
 popular five finger discount method)..and stick it on his locker.

        Effect: Kid will come from his class to his locker to get his
 books...find that there is an impenatrable lock on there, be forced to call
 the janitor to severe the lock off...causing the kid to be A:late for class
 B:laughed at a lot and C: just feel plain old STUPID

        Lighter fluid, what a great tool.  Want someone to get the message
 really quick? Welp, gather a few bottles of the shit.....really late at
 night (during the summer when it's dry)..go to his/her house...draw your
 favorite design or anarchy symbol (or both) in his lawn with the lighter
 fluid. Light. Run. Watch. Laugh.

        Effect: Well duh..what the fuck do you think will happen?

        Welp, that is my first writing of total anarchy. More to come.

 [---------]

                 RE-WRITE TO REJECT #13, by Nyarlathotep
                 =======================================

	What follows are 3 simple recipes for revenge. Or for a good
 time... whichever floats your boat.

 	I. Fun with Feces

		The ingredients to this recipe are simple:

		1                      pile of dog turds
		1                      paper sack
		1                      lighter or match

	Place the dog turds inside of the paper sack. Carry this to the
 front step of your intended victim. Light the bag with the match or
 lighter. Ring the doorbell and run away.
  
	The resident of the house will come out, and seeing the fire will
 attempt to stamp it out. Unwittingly they will step in the dog crap and
 make a big mess.

	II. Fun with the Yale Lock Company

		Ingredients:

		1                     padlock
		1                     enemy's locker

		Place the lock on your enemy's locker. This will prevent
 them from getting to their own stuff. They will be forced to go to the
 janitor to have it cut off from the locker. This will quite likely make
 them be late for class, and will also make them feel very dumb.

		Note: It is possible that there will be no way to attach
 the lock to the enemy's locker because they already have their own lock
 on it. The solution to this is simple: use crazy glue to seal up their
 own lock, causing the same results as above.

	III. Fun with Flammables.

		Ingredients:

		1 or more             bottles of lighter fluid
		1                     dry lawn
		1                     lighter or match

		Really late at night go up to the lawn and draw a message
 or symbol on the lawn using the lighter fluid. Using the lighter or
 match, ignite the fluid.  Run and watch the amazing light show. Note that
 it is quite likely that the fire will spread from the designated pattern
 on to the rest of the lawn, and possibly on to a neighbor's lawn. Use
 this recipe with extreme caution.

		I hope you enjoyed these delicious recipes.

[-----------------------------------------------------------------------]

                              REJECTED FILE #14
                              =================

                                   The Zoo
                                by King Krazy

        Go to the zoo, its fun.  The zoo is great fun.  You get to see all
 the different animals, how exciting! The zoo is even more fun when you
 bring friends with you.  I think, in my own personal opinion, that the zoo
 is the best place on earth. The zoo is like going to the circus but you get
 to run the show.
	
	When you go to the zoo you get to see all the animals. You get to
 see animals from all parts of the globe. What a fine place, where we get
 to see all the animals. The animals are the best part about the zoo; all of
 them cramped into little buildings. Most forced into certain living
 conditions, who could ask for more. I also like the food at the zoo. Zoo
 food is the best. Nothing I like more than eating right next to the animal
 cages. Those signs that say, "Don't feed the animals!", They are so funny.
 I never listen to those signs, I just go about my business and feed them
 all the food I want. Everybody there at the zoo loves feeding the animals
 food that they are not supposed to eat. The grizzly bears love sub
 sandwiches. Watching those bears eat the sandwiches light up my day. 

        Yet every time I go to the zoo I still wonder how they took all the
 animals to the zoo. I guess they just shoot them with some tranquilizer
 and then ship them in boxes to the zoo. I wonder how it feels to be locked
 in a box and taken out of your natural environment; then forced to live
 somewhere you don't understand, or comprehend, and have to live by the
 rules of man.  I don't think I will ever have to experience that; at least
 I hope not.

	Still even though you might think that is cruel, it is really not.
 The animals live in clean cages and get an adequate food supply. They can
 do really whatever they want in the confines of their cage. I also think
 the zoo keepers take very good care of the animals, always petting them
 and treating them nice. I love it when I see the animals get treated nice,
 all animals. 

	Yet the animals just keep on living, even without a slight degree
 of freedom. Though they are confined to their cage, they seem to be
 happily bored. I think if I was stuck in a cage, away from all I really
 knew, I would be happily bored, too. I don't know what happens to the
 animals at night though. I wonder, do they actually sleep at night. Some
 of the animals don't sleep during the night time hours. They sleep during
 the day. I wonder how the animals are treated at night, with the zoo
 keepers gone and all the people not around to watch them. Do you think
 they are still bored? 

	The zoo is a nice place, a fine place to visit. I like to visit as
 much as I can, on free days of course. The zoo is quaint and simple;
 simple as the animal instinct of survival and tolerance. Those two go hand
 in hand like humor and death. The zoo is a place to run your own show, not
 to let the others run it for you. Control is your enemy.

 [----------]

                RE-WRITE FOR REJECT #14, by CannibalButterfly
                =============================================

	"The zoo is a nice place, a fine place to visit. I like to visit
 as much as I can, on free days of course."

	Uhm, why wasnt this man visiting his own kind at the zoo instead
 of writing this piece of trash on an obvious "free day"?

        Don't go to the zoo, it's sickening.  If I wanted to see some wild
 boars behind bars squealing I would visit the local police department
 wearing nothing but a night stick. Even worse, the zoo becomes less fun
 when you bring friends because they have the need to stay 3 hours too
 long and always manage to forget their cash when it's time to visit the
 gift shop. Of course, you turn into an ATM.

 	Then, you mope around the zoo and see the Vet. school rejects
 kicking them dazey dukes. You even get a sneak peek at hairy women from
 all parts of the globe. It's silly how they spend the whole day looking
 back and forth from their own arm pit hair to the monkey cage. They
 always have one of those huge cartoon question marks dangling over their
 heads.  What's that all about?  
	
 	The food at the zoo is sadly the best thing about it. 
 Nothing anyone likes more than eating right next to the very exciting
 petting zoo. The smell is glorious!  I mean, nothing gets my appetite
 going better than the fresh aroma of giraffe shit. I surely don't mind
 spending $5.67 for a  small order of fries just to end up feeding them to
 nagging birds! YEAH!!

	With that said, those signs that say, "Don't feed the animals!" are
  a hoot. No one ever listens to them. I just go about my business 
  and feed them all the rat poison I want. The grizzly bears love used 
  tampons! Watching those bears eat such a nutritious treat lights up my
 day. :)

	Like myself, I'm sure you all wonder how they transport the
 animals to the zoo. Well, I uncovered that best kept secret! They just
 shoot them up with DXM and ship them in crates on Noah's Ark. I wonder
 how it feels to be locked in a box and taken out of your natural
 environment? Maybe I should send in for a Guatemalan mail-order bride
 and ask them.

	Once they arrive at the zoo they are treated like prisoners.  Thrown
 in their new 'homes' and poked at by millions. At least they can do
 whatever they wish in the confinement of their own cages.  Of course, it
 cant require actual movement. I also think the zoo keepers take excellent
 care of the animals, always jamming sticks up their rectum. I love seeing
 animals being treated with some tender loving care, but I especially love
 it when I see them get anally raped!#!@#!!

 	Strangely, this file is putting me in the mood for some wild and 
 crazy fun! Hmm, the Jacksonville Zoo is having 2 for 1 admission this
 weekend. 

	Hi ho! Hi ho! Off to the zoo I gooooo!

[-----------------------------------------------------------------------]

                              REJECTED FILE #15
                              =================

                     "A Day In The Life of A Programmer"
                                 by Fatslayer

 on timer(1) gosub checkvitals

 morning: 
 eat "breakfast"
 batheandclean "fat slayer"
 if not summer then
     activate "crt"
     programandstuff
     irc
     ftp
     webbrowse
 else
     schoolstuff
 end if

 afternoon:
 lunch
 cartoon="animainiacs"
 tv "on"
 tvchannel lookup(cartoon)
 watchtv

 vening:
 dinner
 programandstuff
 programmore
 irc
 programmore
 
 night:
 do
     programandstuff
 loop until sun=up
 goto morning
 
 checkvitals:
 if haftashit then shit
 if haftapiss then piss
 if hungry then eat
 if thirsty then drink
 if extremelytired then sleep
 if bored then program
 if angry then punch "keyboard"
 if keyboardbroken then purchase "keyboard"
 if suicidal then if int(rnd*100)=69 then kill "fat slayer"
 if havehomework then if int(rnd*100)<5 then dohomework
 return

        that's my basic day :)... i really punned that one away.  the point
 of this?  programmers are wierd.  everyone likes a nice demo that has a
 nice effect in it, no??? that requires being creative, 
 and setbiosmode     proc near uses ax, mode:byte
         mov     ah, 0
         mov     al, mode
         int     10h
         ret
 setbiosmode     endp hence it is art!  what about a nice optimized piece of 
 assembler, or a really elegant routine to do something that no one cares
 about, art!  

 tell me now that this isn't art:

 putchar proc near uses ax bx cx dx si di ds, char:byte, x:word, y:word,
 clr:byte
         ; point es:di to the screen location
         mov     es, virtscr
         xor     di, di
         mov     ax, y
         ;mov     bx, 320
         ;mul     bx
         mov     bx, y
         shl     bx, 6
         shl     ax, 8
   
         add     di, ax
         add     di, bx
         add     di, x
     
         ; point ds:si to the font
         lds     si, fontptr

         ; point to proper character in font
         xor     ah, ah
         mov     al, char
         shl     ax, 4   ; * 16
         add     si, ax

         mov     dx, 16
         mov     ah, clr
 @@loop1:
         mov     bh, byte ptr ds:[si]
         mov     cx, 8
 @@loop2:
         shl     bh, 1
         jnc     @@putzero
         mov     byte ptr es:[di], ah
         jmp     @@skip1
 @@putzero:
         ;mov     byte ptr es:[di], 0
 @@skip1:
         inc     di
         loop    @@loop2
         inc     si
         add     di, 320-8
         dec     dx
         jnz     @@loop1
         ret
 putchar         endp

 that's as beautiful as any doodleboy art i've ever seen, yes sir!
 and what about:

 cli
 hlt

 or:

 nop

 those are the three most beautiful lines of source i know of :)

 and the most artful source of all:

 xchg ax, bx
 xchg cx, dx
 xchg bx, cx
 xchg ax, dx
 xchg cx, ax
 xchg dx, bx

        it's a brain teaser :)  

        and always remember, no matter where you go, there you are.

 [----------]

                    CRITIQUE FOR REJECT #15, by Cstone
                    ==================================

 abrasiveness=on

	hey, if you're going to write boring pseudocode, the least you
 could do is make it lexically consistent. instead of fixing it, i will
 insert the missing elements of the life of this type of programmer, and i
 will do it in a similarly inane style.

 > on timer(1) gosub checkvitals
 >
 > morning: 
   read "slashdot"
 > eat "breakfast"
 > batheandclean "fat slayer"
   read "slashdot"
   wear pretentious-geek-shirt
   findporn
   masturbate

   drive high-paying-boring-sellout-job

 > if not summer then
       read "slashdot"
       read "slashdot"
 >     activate "crt"
 >     programandstuff
       read "slashdot"
 >     irc
 >     ftp
       read "slashdot"
 >     webbrowse
       pretend-to-work
 > else
 >     schoolstuff
 > end if
       read "slashdot"
 >
 > afternoon:
   pretend-to-work
   if boss-is-coming then open "_learning_perl_"
   drive home
 > lunch
   read "slashdot"
 > cartoon="animainiacs"
 > tv "on"
   read "slashdot"
 > tvchannel lookup(cartoon)
 > watchtv
 >
   read "slashdot"
 > vening:
 > dinner
   findporn
   masturbate
 > programandstuff
 > programmore
   read "slashdot"
 > irc
 > programmore
   read "slashdot"
 > 
 > night:
 > do
 >     programandstuff
       read "slashdot"
 > loop until sun=up
 > goto morning
 > 
 > checkvitals:
   read "slashdot"
 > if haftashit then shit
 > if haftapiss then piss
 > if hungry then eat
 > if thirsty then drink
 > if extremelytired then sleep
 > if bored then program
 > if angry then punch "keyboard"
 > if keyboardbroken then purchase "keyboard"
   read "slashdot"
 > if suicidal then if int(rnd*100)=69 then kill "fat slayer"
   read "slashdot"
 > if havehomework then if int(rnd*100)<5 then dohomework
 > return

 program:
 programmore:
 programandstuff:
   play "quake"
   reinvent "wheel"
   play "quake"
   return

 >
 >     that's my basic day :)... i really punned that one away.  the point
 > of this?  programmers are wierd.  everyone likes a nice demo that has a
 > nice effect in it, no??? that requires being creative, 

 	this is far from a demo.

	you forgot the 25 lines of greets, group affiliations, and bbs
 ads, sir.

	oh, yay, intel assembly syntax.  for DOS, no less.  hi, we're
 intel.  we're fucking myopic and we can barely read.  so, we have solved
 this problem by creating a new inane way of addressing memory.  we're
 thinking of calling it "segment:offset" addressing.  the fact that
 there's nothing wrong with doing things like everyone else is irrelevant.
 these vms machines that we're using to develop our processors are too
 difficult to use!  we need something easier! what?  i didn't hear you.
 we're innovating and fuck you and will you please buy this week's
 poorly-designed piece of shit, thank you very much.

 > and setbiosmode     proc near uses ax, mode:byte
 >         mov     ah, 0
 >         mov     al, mode
 >         int     10h
 >         ret
 > setbiosmode     endp hence it is art!  what about a nice optimized
 > piece of assembler, or a really elegant routine to do something that
 > no one cares about, art!  

	it's not art.

 > tell me now that this isn't art:

	it's not art.

 > putchar         proc near uses ax bx cx dx si di ds, char:byte,
 >         ; point es:di to the screen location
 >         mov     es, virtscr
 >         xor     di, di
 >         mov     ax, y
 > that's as beautiful as any doodleboy art i've ever seen, yes sir!
 > and what about:
 >
 > cli
 > hlt
 >
 > or:
 > 
 > nop
 >
 > those are the three most beautiful lines of source i know of :)

	very useful ones, too!

 > and the most artful source of all:
 >
 > xchg ax, bx
 > xchg cx, dx
 > xchg bx, cx
 > xchg ax, dx
 > xchg cx, ax
 > xchg dx, bx
 >
 >        it's a brain teaser :)  

	no, that's straightforward.  if you want a real brain teaser, try
 modeling the patterns of SGI's marketing department in as few
 instructions as possible. The current world's record is held by a program
 two instructions long:

 a:	nop
	jmp a

 >        and always remember, no matter where you go, there you are.

 	oops, i forgot.  too much porn and slashdot.

[-----------------------------------------------------------------------]

                              REJECTED FILE #16
                              =================

                                  "Commies"
                                 by Mercuri

        now if you were to walk up to me on the street and say...
        
        "merc, can i ask you a question?"

        then i would respond...

        "yeeee-ep." (i tend to make my yep's sound like that)

        then you would continue on with your question, which is...?

        "what do you think of the peace keeping efforts of the united
 nations?"
        
        and i say...

        "what an interesting question.  this question has many views.  i
 think it's bullshit.  oh, just a factual tidbit, did you know the united
 nations was formed by communist's?  uh-huh, it's true."

        "i don't beleive in peace keeping, the united states doesn't want
 peace. war is our economy and our nation's backbone.  all through history,
 nation's have signed treaty's to keep the peace.  a treaty is nothing more
 than a sheet of paper that makes a promise.  i've broken lot's of promises.
 so has germany, iran, and the u.s..  paper doesn't keep peace, peace is
 something earned, not handed out, debated, and signed to.  peace is
 achieved by respect to another thing.  therefore the only way to bring
 about peace is by having the dueling nation's beat the piss out of each
 other until one, or by respect to another thing.  therefore the only way
 to bring about peave is by having the dueling nation's beat the piss out
 of each other until one, or both, can fight no longer."

        "i tell you one day, the u.n. is going to turn on us when we try to
 withdrawl!  i told the clinton, time and time again, it was a bad idea!
 and what do i get?  24 hour surveillance and time in a mental hospital!
 by god if i had two legs i'd do something about this!"

        please!  merc!  put that cane down!

        "did you ever see the movie patton, my boy?"

        no.

        "it's one hell of a movie.  it start's out like this; patton walks
 up, army band play's the national anthem, and there old blood and guts is,
 standing in front of a huge american flag.  he starts his speech: "a lot of
 you may have heard a lot of talking about america not wanting to get into
 the standing in front of a huge american flag.  he starts his speech: "a
 lot of you may have heard a lot of talking about america not wanting to
 get into the war, america not wanting to fight.  well that's a lot of
 horse dung.  the people who say this know as much about warfare as they
 do about fornicating!  american's traditionally love to fight, they love
 the sting of battle.  the very thought of losing is despicable to
 ameri... where the hell are you going?  you asked the god damn question
 now your going to listen to the god damn answer!"
        
        at this point mercuri is arrested for disturbing the peace and
 setting fire to russian restaurant.  yelling at the top of his lungs;
 "commie bastards!"

 [---------]

                    RE-WRITE FOR REJECT #16, by Aster
                    =================================

	here is my rewrite.

	it is called "shoes"

	"hi"

	"hello mister shoe"

	"have you any shoes?"

	"you are a shoe, silly"

	"oh."

	"you don't need any then?"

	"i do not. but have you seen my friend, his name is bob"

	"i have, he is over there, in the garbage, eating rotten meat.  
 and next he will eat rotten fruit and beans. and paper and twisty ties."

	"i will join him, see you later"

	"see you never again."

	the person without a name now shoots mister shoe in the back. and
 he dies.

	the end.

[-----------------------------------------------------------------------]

                            REJECTED FILE #17
                            =================

                      "The Presidential Elections"
                              by Unrelated

	The time is almost upon us, whence we must decide who shall take
 up the most powerful postition in the world. Their are a lot of issues to
 which we must all balance our decisions upon. (not even one of which has
 yet been discussed) Who's ideas, and visions meet your standards, do you
 want an anal-retentive-conservative in office? A bud smoking hippie? A
 flabby cheeseburger-eating-intern-cigar-banging democrat? Or do you want
 a man of taste, and ettiquete, a man who knows what he wants. BIGGER
 GUNS!

	We need a man of integrity. A man of inspirational quality who
 will lead this country into it's finest years yet. Some may call this man
 a tyrant, some may call him a fool. Others might not even believe he even
 exists. I know I do. Everyone of you, well, most of you, have run across
 this man, or have been affected by him.

	On your ballets this next election, do not vote by party, hell
 don't even vote for the candidate with the most money. Vote for a man who
 truly cares about his people and what happens to them. Vote for a man who
 will never let you down. This man is not on the ticket. He is unheard of
 by the government, but worthy of the title Commander and Chief, President
 of the United States of America.

	Do it for your country, for your family, your friends, do it for
 yourself.

	Vote Ziego Vuantar for President!

	!VIVA REVOLUCION!
	!VIVA HOE!

	This has been brought to you by the ad council for Ziego Vuantar.

 [----------]

                     RE-WRITE FOR REJECT #17, by AIDS
                     ================================

	I knew that time was upon me when the lemurs were outside my
 windows playing gim rummy and slowly dragging their knuckles along the
 window panes like trains over tiers. They were messengers of Ziego, and
 they weren't going to let me get out of my building. There was no way.

	I owed Vuntar /big/. His little sister, Caitlin, was still
 missing. Everyone knew I had something to do with it, but no one could
 prove anything. I wasn't dead... yet. I still could offer Ziego
 something, something he needed badly.

	The election. 

	We knew Fat Sammy Snakeunz was going to try and rig the thing in
 his own special way. He'd thrown his weight in with the Republican
 candidate, Tony "Fish Lips" Gravano, a corpulent Italian business man
 with a penchant for buggery. The Democrats would try something, too,
 there was no doubt, but they were always so unpredictable in whom they
 employed. One week it'd be "Meat Grinder" Schuessler, the most vicious
 Kraut since Himmler, and the next it'd be Hassan i Sabbath. No way to
 tell. No way to know. I'd have to take down Fat Sammy and keep my eyes
 peeled open to figure out who was there for the Democrats. I didn't know
 if I'd have to kill anyone, but in case I did, I brought along my
 serpentine dagger. It was doubled bladed, which meant I could slash a
 throat and bring the blade down across my stomach in a final act of
 sepuku without changing my grip. I always cornered the odds.

	I went outside and the lemurs started screaming. I lifted a gentle
 hand to my lips. They quieted down and lead me on a relocation death
 march to Vuantar's borderlands. He was sitting there on a chair made of
 femur bones, smoking his cigar. His dirty filthy cigar.

	"They still have not found my sister."

	"She's alive, I bet. I don't think she's the type to end up dead."

	"She better not, gringo. She better not." 

	"Ah, well, I hope not." I flashed my grin and added, "I've still
 got to hit that shit from the backside. Her disappearance is as much a
 disappointment to me as it is a loss to you."

	That spic shitbird coughed a little. I hope'd he splatter some
 spit on his zoot suit, but he didn't. He looked at me for a while and
 say, "I want the election."

	"It's yours." 

	The first order of business was finding some scum. We needed all
 the panty-sniffers, drunks, dope addicts, cock hungry fags, and pushers
 we could find. We'd load them into vans and bring them to the polls.
 They'd vote for Zuantar or we'd kill them. It was so simple.

	I don't know how many opium dens we'd raided by the time I saw
 /him/, with his lips stained black laudnum. but there he was. I didn't
 know his name, but there was something startling about him... as if I
 recognized him but from a picture I'd seen years back. Someone I'd never
 met but knew all the same.

	I directed the boys to pick up everyone. "This is the last haul,
 boys, we've got enough to give Ziego the election. Hell, with this many
 jerks, we could probably elect him president." I personally handled him.
 I tried asking him his name, but there was too much drugs in his system.
 He could only drool and stare into space.

	As we drove to the first polling station, his head rested on my
 lap, and his faced stared up into mine. His eyes were empty like robbed
 banks. I could recognize him beyond all doubt; it was true, I'd seen him
 before. But where? With whom? What was his name.

	We got to the first polling station and pulled all the scum in.
 They all voted for Ziego under false names. We brought them back into the
 vans. He was hard to manage and kept falling all over the place, but none
 of the polling attendants took any notice. They've been on my payroll
 since 1649, when we had to behead Charles the First.

	After about the seventh or eight polling station, he started to
 come around. AS we pulled up to another destination, I pulled him out of
 the van, and he could almost walk by himself. I tried to ask him his
 name, but he could only mouth words. No sound escaped his throat except a
 dry chaffing sound.

	Walking towards the station, I saw something black in the shadows.
 Black and mean. I knew it had to be the Democrats' man. Fat Sammy was too
 blatant to hide. He'd rape a nun in the open and pay priests to watch. I
 spun around, and threw the dagger into the bushes. I heard it sink in and
 strike bone. A gasp.

	Ol' Joe ibn Ahtum stumbled out of the bushes, my dagger wedged
 deep in his heart. I tried pulling it out but I couldn't. He died at my
 feet, and I said, "Pardon, effendi."

	I heard a gun shot and I looked at my opium drenched friend. There
 was a single hole in his forehead, and the back of his head had been
 blown off completely. Hollow point exploding. The knife wouldn't come out
 of Joe ibn Ahtum. I had no protection.

	The sounds of Fat Sammy Snakeunz's enormous feet were behind me,
 and I said a silent prayer that it would be quick and painless. He
 slapped one of his sausages down on my back and said, "Well, well, since
 you ain't got no weapon I ain't gonna kill you. I'm just gonna have to
 kill all the scum." Fat Sammy kicked /him/, and gasped when he saw the
 face. "Jesus," he said, "I do that?"

	"Sure did."

	"You know who you got there?" 

	"Some fucking opium addict. And had. I had him here. You got him.
 I had him."

	"That's Edgar Poe."

	"The writer?" 

	"The same."

	"Jesus Christ!" I exclaimed and sunk to the ground. I'd killed
 Poe. My favorite writer. The only man who was like me, and I'd fucking
 murdered him. He looked different from the photographs I'd seen; that's
 why I didn't recognize him.

	"Shit," I said, "this is bad." 

	"It sure is," agree Sammy. "Listen, why don't we say fuck it to
 both our employers? Some dumb fuck election isn't worth all the heat this
 is going to bring down on us. And believe me, it'll be on /us/, not just
 you... or me."

	"I was thinking about a vacation... Maybe in Turkey. I know this
 girl, see, and well, I've been hiding her away in this spiritualist
 resort in Izmir. You're welcome to come if you want."

	"Nah, I've got Mexico. I've always got Mexico." 

	So I said fuck you to the election and fuck you to Ziego and an
 apologetic fuck you to Edgar A. Poe and I hopped the next plane to Izmir
 where I had hidden Caitlin and I found her there and we ate grapes
 amongst the infidel children.

[-----------------------------------------------------------------------]

                             REJECTED FILE #18
                             =================

                 "Excerpts From The Diary of Manis Goodof"
                 'Discovered' by Gilgame (aster's brother)

 Sect. 12, Subsect. 5, Article 12
 -Excerpt from diary of Manis Goodof-

      (Year)     (Half)  (Quarter)(Day)
 Date:Vota 8965, Vita 2, Veta 3,  Vata 14

        Insane! Insane!  That's what those bloody flower people are!  All
 they ever do is block my plans.  When the sky falls, it'll teach them a
 lesson.  I am very angry that Bob and Suzy had to be killed.  Even when
 they are dead, the information still can't be extracted!  I need to know
 the prince and the princess.  They block my path of world domination.  Now
 i have to beat it out of the flower people.  Why can't that fricking sky
 fall!  Those bloody monsters and goblins still block my efforts!  They are
 blocking those fricking bloody flower people from being attacked by my
 robots.  I think I am failing...NO!!!!!!!!!!!! I AM NOT FRICKING BLOODY
 FAILING!!!!!!!! I WILL DOMINATE!!!!!!!!!! RULE!!!!!!!!!!!! CONQUER!!!!!!!!
 Subjugate all those bloody little flower people!!!!!!!!!!! I recieved a
 signal last night!  Someone is coming.  I don't know who, or what, but they
 will help me after the sky falls.  DANGIT!!!!!  WHEN WILL THE SKY FALL!!!!!
 I NEED THAT SKY TO FALL!!!!!!  THE I WILL BECOME THE DOMINANT RULER!!!!!!!!
 EVEN THE FLOWER PEOPLE WILL FAIL!!!!!!!!!!!  YES!!!!!!! YES!!!!!!!!!!
 YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH! YEE-HAH!!!!!!!! I AM
 INVINCIBLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 -End Excerpt-

 Sect. 12, Subsect. 5, Article 13
 -Excerpt from the diary of Manis Goodof-

 Date:Vota 8965, Vita 2, Veta 3,  Vata 15

        NO! NO! NO! I've been caught by those damned Monsters and Goblins.
 I'm locked up in some sort of underground cavern.  I'm very tired.  But the
 machine is ready!  My assistant has activated the robo-flowers to extract
 information from the flower people.  THEN I WILL RULE!!!!!!!!! YES!!!!!!!!!
 THEY WILL TELL ME WHO THE ROYALTY ARE!  I WILL DOMINATE!!!!!!!

 -End Excerpt-

 [------------------]

                   RE-WRITE FOR REJECT #18, by Tan Adept
                   =====================================

                 (Needs a new title, add a third discoverer.)
 
       In the early part of the 1980s, a government research agency
 stumbled upon a hallucinogenic compound which appeared to cause
 permananent changes in the brain.  Preliminary investigation indicated
 that a dosage of this chemical administered to animal test subjects
 caused significant localized alterations in brainwave activity.

       Approximately one year ago, a page of the journal from one of the
 scientists working with this compound had been discovered by two young
 people from Seattle.  More recently, the entire journals were found in a
 USGS office during a remodeling.

 ---- From the journal of Dr. Lauren Marks ----

 Date: September 7, 1981

       My colleagues and I have injected 1cc of CBSO to Christina the rat.
 Her ability to navigate the maze has neither been enhanced or limited.
 However, after completing the maze, her behavior is consistently
 different.  Upon reaching the food, she returns with it through the maze
 to her starting location, awaiting her return to her cage.  Only when
 she is back in her cage does she eat the food.  The control group has
 maintained their original behavior.

 Date: September 11, 1981

       Roberto the rat, after his dosage, does not run the maze at all.
 He sits at the beginning of the maze until returned to his cage.  Prior
 to exposure to CBSO (see earlier entries), he performed admirably in maze
 tests.  My colleagues believe that we will only understand the nature of
 CBSO after we are able to begin a proper test method with sufficient
 sample size.  Unfortunately, we're still waiting on a new batch to be
 synthesized, so we're making do with what we have for now.

 Date: September 16, 1981

       After a long night of testing with Christina, Roberto, and Farooq, I
 remain frustrated.  Their behavior is consistent for early rat, but each
 seems to be completely different with respect to each other.  Had minor
 mishap with needle to inject Alexander, so I think it's time to head
 home.  Still waiting on sample.

 Date: September 17, 1981

       With Dr. Villiers ill and Dr. Fitzgerald going off on a weekend
 hiatus, it's a quiet day, and I'm hoping that the lack of distractions
 help Jennine to be able to run the maze.  Any noise seems to perk her up
 and draw her interest from the path.  Will probably take Friday off.
 Perhaps I will be able to stand at the grocery store and pat children on
 their heads when Frank Sinatra comes to town.

 Date: September 21, 1981

       Put all of remaining CBSO into Dr. Fitzgerald's water.  Refilled
 sample bottle with DI water.  Seems he didn't notice.  I hope that
 ingestion vector is somewhat effective for studying results with human
 test subjects.  Over the weekend, there was a monkey who gave me a hang
 glider so that I can get through the ocean caves.  I must keep my
 journal safe from my coworkers so that they don't know what I'm doing
 and must do.

Date: September 23, 1981

       Dr. Fitzgerald is pouring water on my computer for some strange
 regard.  He is talking to it, and asking if it know where Dr. Villiers
 is.  I think he is crazy.

 Date: September 24, 1981

       I let the mice go.  They promised to make me a lovely gown.  Dr. F
 seems to be going quite nuts.  Dr. Villiers called today.  He said,
 "Lauren, how are things going at the office."  I told him, "The mice are
 very good!"  He reminded me that the new shipment of something would be
 in soon.  I told him to grow well soon.  He said, "I will probably be
 black next Monday."

 Date: September 25, 1981

       Since Dr. Fitz is so crazy, I would like to read his journal.  But
 all good scientists keep their journals private.  Tonight, I will build
 an engine for my hang glider.  The monkeys in monkey-land will surely be
 monkey-like and if I give them offerings of oranges and cough-drops, they
 might even let me eat the royal jelly.

 ---- From the journal of Dr. Michael Fitzgerald ----

 Date: September 22, 1981

       I have developed a tic in my right upper arm.  Lauren's manner
 seems somewhat unusual, but I think she's been working too hard.  Her
 work still seems consistent, though she seems reluctant to show me her
 notes.  Christina and Alexander run the maze well, as do the members of
 the control group.  Of those exposed to CBSO, only Alexander seems to
 show no behavioral change since his injection.

 Date: September 23, 1981

       I think Lauren is an agent of the flowers.  It seems that she had
 been growing one in her computer for the past several months.  I have
 decided to attempt to infiltrate her plans.  During nonchalant
 conversation,
 I poured some water onto the flower, showing my support of her support of
 the flower people.  I am angry at the injustices that the flower people
 have perpetrated upon my friends and pets.  However, if I let my anger
 get the better of me, I will die in my fight for freedom.

 Date: Vota 8965, Vita 2, Veta 3, Vata 9

       I have decided to switch over to using the proper dates.  I hate
 the old system, and since I'm not going to let anyone else read my notes,
 who will care?  I am very angry.  I have spoken to the tree sprites who
 live in the pretty house with me.  Dr. Marks seems to think they are
 "mouses", but I know that they are tree sprites and that they will help
 me.  

 Date: Vota 8965, Vita 2, Veta 3, Vata 10

       She chased the tree sprites out!  Since she has now moved openly
 against me, it is time for me to move openly against her.  Today, I was
 going to kill her for being EVIL and BAD but then she got a telephone
 call!  SHE HAD CALLED FOR REINFORCEMENTS!  She had talked to an agent of
 the flower people yesterday, and she talked to another today.

 Date: Vota 8965, Vita 2, Veta 3, Vata 13

       I had hoped that Dr. Villers would not be another agent of the
 flower people, but he was!  Apparently, Dr. Marks believed that I was on
 her side, and thought it was safe to reveal thar Dr. Villiers was also an
 agent of the flower people.  HOW COULD HE BETRAY ME AS WELL?!?!?  My
 only open was to kill them both.  I don't know how I'm going to do it,
 but I swear that I will break the power of the flower people.  If I have
 to take over the entire world, I WILL DO IT!!!

 Date: Vota 8965, Vita 2, Veta 3, Vata 14

       Insane! Insane!  That's what those bloody flower people are!  All
 they ever do is block my plans.  When the sky falls, it'll teach them a
 lesson.  I am very angry that Bob and Suzy had to be killed.  Even when
 they are dead, the information still can't be extracted!  I need to know
 the prince and the princess.  They block my path of world domination.
 Now i have to beat it out of the flower people.  Why can't that fricking
 sky fall!  Those bloody monsters and goblins still block my efforts!
 They are blocking those fricking bloody flower people from being attacked
 by my robots.  I think I am failing...NO!!!!!!!!!!!! I AM NOT FRICKING
 BLOODY FAILING!!!!!!!! I WILL DOMINATE!!!!!!!!!! RULE!!!!!!!!!!!!
 CONQUER!!!!!!!!  Subjugate all those bloody little flower people!!!!!!!!! 
 I recieved a signal last night!  Someone is coming.  I don't know who, or
 what, but they will help me after the sky falls.  DANGIT!!!!!  WHEN WILL
 THE SKY FALL!!!!! I NEED THAT SKY TO FALL!!!!!!  THE I WILL BECOME THE 
 DOMINANT RULER!!!!!!!!  EVEN THE FLOWER PEOPLE WILL FAIL!!!!!!!!!!!
 YES!!!!!!! YES!!!!!!!!!! YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!
 YEE-HAH!!!!!!!! I AM INVINCIBLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 Date: Vota 8965, Vita 2, Veta 3, Vata 15

       NO! NO! NO! I've been caught by those damned Monsters and Goblins.
 I'm locked up in some sort of underground cavern.  I'm very tired.  But
 the machine is ready!  My assistant has activated the robo-flowers to
 extract information from the flower people.  THEN I WILL RULE!!!!!!!!!
 YES!!!!!!!!!  THEY WILL TELL ME WHO THE ROYALTY ARE!  I WILL
 DOMINATE!!!!!!!

[-----------------------------------------------------------------------]

                             REJECTED FILE #19
                             =================

                         "Your Kettle Korn Sucks!"
                               by Kernel Bob

	I've noticed in my travels on the internet that things are not
 always what they seem.  I'm guessing that you'd like an example
 here...ok..Well..if you to to t50, you get misleading links.  Click on
 the banners that have a button like thing or a slide bar, and it brings
 you to a weird site.  I was taken aback one day when I went to
 kernelbob.com just for shits and giggles.  I figured that there was not
 way in hell that anyone could register MY domain....this is my story:

	What I found made me wretch in disgust.  This particular
 domain was owned by a hick who makes 'Kettle Korn'.  Wrath ensued.  I
 wrote this guy saying that we had the same name, and all that stuff, and
 the guy writes back saying basically "Yeah, we do...How about some nice
 tasty 'Kettle Korn'".  I wanted his domain.  Not having it left a nasty
 sweetened corn-like taste in my mouth.

	Needless to say, I was insulted.  I was after this guy's site.  I
 wanted to make a difference. Kernel Bob is MY name, not some hick guy
 from Maine who has a wife named Bunny and sells sweetened corn products.

	As of late, I have not made that difference.  That guy still has
 the domain, he's still selling 'Kettle Korn', he still has a wife named
 Bunny, and he's still selling sweetened popcorn.  What an asshole.

 [----------]

                      RE-WRITE FOR REJECT #17, by Nybar
                      =================================

	ahhh, butter...how long have I been wandering this city? my
 vagaries have been absurd...kettle corn; ahhh, i remember when, on the
 back of a nickel, i was the winner of an extempore poetry contest...ahh,
 i remember when i was a recalcitrant autodidact with delusions of
 polymathdom. that was when i took the easy moral high ground...the kind
 which leaves one with no one to prove. that was an easy time...ohh, when
 i first began to melt and boil and fizzle and pop in this pot of
 application, i was assiduous; my sedulity was uncanny...oh, how the
 ostensibly abstruse melted under my intense scrutiny. my calendar was
 full, and my life was empty...in short, i was on my way to the top.
	let me tell you a tale, kiddies. i used to be called 'kettle
 corn'...that was before they scorched the sky in 1625 PC. that was before
 marty mcfly's uncle made the city into a kettle-corn controlled,
 orwellian franchise...turned human emotion into butter, and babies into
 cracker jacks...kettle corn. an erudite hick; possessing wisdom from the
 past.
	let me tell you something, kiddies. it's completely possible, in
 these modern days, to envisage a man--or woman; far more likely--standing
 between the gods...an egalitarian romantic hero. no contrast there. st.
 augustine and buddha have dined at the same table;  upon kettle corn, the
 odious, molten gold of capitalism...ohh, my vagaries have taken me many
 places...
	when i graduated from oxford, i spent most of my time striking up
 conversations with strangers on the street. i was working on a project at
 the time, but t'was a Macguffin, and a chimera besides--i don't even
 remember its focus. something about saccades and eidetic images...ohh, my
 real profession was the talks on the street. in the post-kettle korn era,
 after the sky had been scorched in the kettlekorn wars... romanticism
 still did not die. like always, it pulled itself up from underground in
 the post-apocalyptic era, to rule with the cockroaches, Metternich and bf
 skinner.
	"it must be awfully lonely, serving up coffee behind that counter
 at 3 am"
	"life is awfully lonely...my duty is to serve energy to others."
	"oh...someday, i shall join you behind the counter. except i will
 be the energy served..."
	"a noble octopus"
	once, the floor melted beneath me, and i found myself in an
 underground temple. here, a band of associationists genuflected before
 the awesome head of bF skinner, contained in a black box. some offered up
 neural nets, which were trained to laugh at the stupidity of the world.
 they botched their irregular verbs. and i did have a dialectic with bF
 skinner, which is entirely lost to the world--entirely, except for the
 part Augustine cites in his refutation of Dontatism...
	"now, i am described as a fastidious gentle-man, and the fecundity
 of my mind is extraordinary; O, head of bF skinner, how is it that you
 blindly accept subjective, ethereal reports on mental states; _while at
 the same time_ posing as an empiricist? and how can you further
 descartes' error, which others have exposited on so eloquently--the error
 of dichotomizing the brain, yes, and speaking of descarte..."
	"shut up, d3wd. i'm elite. i've got a black box."
	"yo, fuck that, hip-hop flows through my veins, yo, damaj you then
 eat ya, so call me the 'pain killah'; fuck you, bF skinner, and fuck
 Dennis Miller"
	"yeah, fuck me? nigga, fuck you--i'll bust a neural net and that's
 exactly what i do--yo, have your tongue out while i kettle-corn your cob,
 we ain't 'dawgs', but i fuck wit your mind like PAV-LOV"
	kettle corn--and manichaenism...but, kettle corn predominates in
 North America at this time. what's _in_ a name? I used to have a name, a
 given name, too...I used to have a family. _in america_. let me tell you
 something, kid, I walked from ellis island to north carolina, only to
 find an opulent, whiskey sipping hick...ahhh, this has analogue on the
 internet. i discovered 25 years later...ahh...
	things are not always as they seem; vagaries turn into odysseys,
 lovers turn into squirrels, tears turn into mascara. all manner of things
 happen...that's why i write my rhymes in invisible ink; and y'all need
 eye liners. hold up, kids, i'm going to tell just one last story. i was
 the last of the house of KoRn, the last dynasty in the history of rock &
 roll...a strain of bacteria which the world thought would never die. and
 then they scorched the sky...i was surfing the internet, and looked for
 our ancestral domain...kettlekorn.com...(for truly, kettle was my given
 name, yes, and aragorn was my father...)
	what i found made my organs twitch in mortification and bemusement
 (but isn't such always the case?) a hick, a plovdiv forest bomber who had
 never been taught to behave, had usurped my family home. a gopher was in
 my garden; a wombat blew glass inside of my skull; i hung upon a rope of
 sand...but the end was not yet. it was not yet even in sight. i would
 keep the spirit of manowar alive..i would fight. for i knew i was born to
 conquer every shore.
	a war of the roses. yes. i fucked the hick's wife, bunny. i peed
 in his dog's mouth. i got him to talk to NYBAR, yes...and nybar came back
 and talked to me... said:  "he was brought up on a trail of tears and
 sadness; BURMASHAVE, my friend. he knows not what he does. rock & roll
 was glorious, but it will be equally glorious in the museum, in the
 graveyard...it is hip hop's time to shine. oh, ancient god, ancient
 spirit, why do you not rest? you've been wandering the city, wandering
 the world, for such a long time...is it not time for the forest and
 iron-town to finally know peace? why dost thou kick against the hicks?"
	upon saying this, he stuck an ankh dagger in my neck...i was
 dispatched, but this only caused me to realize i'd been dead the whole
 time. this did not discourage me; i still wanted my name back. raekwon,
 the godfather, immobalarity...ohh, so now i gather my victuals, and i go
 to watch "badlands" again...and i continue to kick against the hicks.
	As of late, I have not made that difference.  That guy still has
 the domain, he's still selling 'Kettle Korn', he still has a wife named
 Bunny, and he's still selling sweetened popcorn.  What an asshole.

[--------------------------------------------------------------------------]
[ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS!    HOE #931, BY VARIOUS ARTISTS - 12/05/99 ]
