****************************************************************************
### #  # ###    #####  ##  #   # #  ##     ## #  #  ### #####  ##  ###  ###
 #  #  # #        #   #  #  # #  # #      #   #  # #      #   #  # #  # #  #
 #  #### ###      #   #  #   #   # #      #   #  #  ##    #   #### ###  #  #
 #  #  # #        #   #  #  # #  # #      #   #  #    #   #   #  # #  # #  #
 #  #  # ###      #    ##  #   # #  ##     ##  ##  ###    #   #  # #  # ###
____________________________________________________________________________

#   #  ###  ####  #   #  #### #   #  ###  ####     ##### # #     #####  ####
#   # #   # #   # #  #  #     #   # #   # #   #    #     # #     #     #
# # # #   # ####  ###    ###  ##### #   # ####     ##### # #     #####  ###
# # # #   # #   # #  #      # #   # #   # #        #     # #     #         #
 ###   ###  #   # #   # ####  #   #  ###  #        #     # ##### ##### ####
*****NUMBERS 136 TO 140***********BY DANIEL BOWEN (tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu)*****

"Vegetarian Toxic Custard"

.....   ....  .     .  .....  .  ....    .....
  .    .      .     .  .      .      .  .        Toxic Custard Workshop Files
  .    .      .     .  ...    .    ..   .....
  .    .       . . .   .      .      .  .    .   Number 136, 22nd February 1993
  .     ....    . .    .      .  ....    ....    written by Daniel Bowen

WELL.
After last week's rather un-worth-a-thousand-words-like picture, let's
dredge up all the shit that was almost TCWF 135.

MRS IRENE BUSYBODY SPEAKS OUT (A LITTLE LATE) ON...
Valentine's Day. Well, I can see why they had a massacre that day.
Probably a massacre of florists who had run out of roses. Actually,
Fred managed to find me what he thought were roses. Problem is, Fred is
colour blind. And has the gardening skills of a turd on heat. What he
actually managed to give me was a marijuana plant.                            S
                                                                              i
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -       d
                                                                              e
    We had a dinner party the other night. Unfortunately we                   w
accidentally invited a vegan, so I gave him a carrot and told him to          a
eat it quietly in the corner.                                                 y
    Call me stupid if you wish. It's a free country (*). But what idiot       s
thought up the Imperial measuring system? Rather than milk this joke
with rods, hands and perch's, I shall merely ask - why the difference         m
between a nautical mile and a normal average run-of-the-mill mile? Did        e
they think sailors could be fooled into sailing further? Did people           s
think something wasn't as far if they didn't have to walk?                    s
                                                                              a
(*) Where available                                                           g
                                                                              e
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -       ?

MR POPSICLE RETURNS - Part 14                                                 W
                                                                              h
With the end of this far too long Popsicle adventure very nearly in           a
sight, we now return to Popsicle, Inspector Unnecessary-Violence, and         t
fifty of their closest armed and dangerous buddies, who are set to blow
the shit out of every living thing in the vicinity of their nemesis,          s
the most violent and dangerous Whelan brothers, who are suspected of          i
atrocities against large amounts of innocent money which was formerly         d
contained inside an armoured car on its way to a Sale Of The Century          e
recording session but which was intercepted by the aforementioned             w
villains before reaching its destination. Phew. This precis has been          a
entered in the 1993 Annual World Longest One Sentence Precis                  y
Competition, to be held in Stratford in June.                                 s
    With the Whelans, Mick and Donny, well-known for their violent
tactics in dealing with their enemies, the media, visiting aristocracy        m
etc, and the Inspector and all the other Australian Royal Security            e
Establishment thugs being keen fans of Stallone movies, this                  s
confrontation was going to be dangerous and bloody. Dangerous and             s
bloody, and yet strangely compelling and spectacular, with just a hint        a
of bloodlust.                                                                 g
    The Inspector, under Popsicle's direction, made the first move, by        e
getting out the loud hailer and making the usual calm demands for             ?
surrender: "Yo!", began the Inspector, having watched Hill Street Blues
the night before. "Yo, dirtbags! It's the pigs here! We've got a
fucking huge load of guns and stuff, so just stay right there. We're
coming in to blow your heads off."
    It surprised most of the ARSE entourage when another, louder hailer
delivered the reply. "Over your fucking dead fucking bodies, coppers!"
    Popsicle ordered a more powerful loud hailer to be brought, and
briefed the men in his usual highly cool way. "Kill 'em." He pulled
aside one young protoge, a young agent who had recently joined ARSE.
    "What's your name?"
    "The name's Trouble. Dick Trouble", replied Trouble, who was doing
very well in his Opening Lines course.
    "Okay Trouble. Do the usual sneak around behind the villains bit."
    With the other men in position, the Inspector was about to order
them to open fire when the Whelans did so first. A row of bullets
thudded into the command jeep the Inspector was directing things from.
He dived from the back of the jeep into a convincingly placed pile of
rotten potatoes as the jeep's petrol tank exploded, nicely frying the
unfortunate driver.
    The Inspector, watching his precious "FUCKOFF" personalised number
plates melting, vowed that not one villain would live to see the dawn,
the next day, jail, court, parole, award winning interview on A Current
Affair, sleazy story on Hard Copy, or best selling book of murder
anecdotes.
    Pulling the rocket launcher he'd been saving out of his pocket, he
aimed it at the warehouse and yelled an incomprehensible battle-cry,
before running forward through the gates and aiming it in the direction
of the gunfire.
    The ARSE men, returning fire also ran forward, a few of them being
cut down by the Whelan's gunfire. Their armoured jackets pierced, they
fell to the ground winded, unable to get up again, like tortoises on
their backs. Dick Trouble managed to get mixed up in the crowd at this
point, and his earlier introduction to the plot gets completely lost in
the gratuitous violence, which continues now.
    The Inspector, still shouting his battlecry, fired the rocket
launcher, and it shot from his shoulder into the building, which
promptly exploded, to be captured by cameras from a number of different
angles so it would look really spectacular. Debris flew in all
directions, as you can imagine it would. Flames erupted around all
corners of the building, shooting into the air, as remnants from the
warehouse continued to fly out. (It was at this point that the old lady
across the road elected to call the fire brigade.) Mick Whelan's head
landed just next to Popsicle, still hanging around the gates trying to
look cool. Most of Donny Whelan landed nearby to the Inspector, who
proceeded to kick what was left beyond recognition, while ARSE men
proceeded to set up a quick game of football with Donny's head. A few
wily seagulls came down to pick at the brains which were coming out of

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Err, I think that's about enough from that
Popsicle story. Villains defeated, story over,
we can all go home, okay? Next week... more
TCWF stuff. Dunno what, yet. You'll find that
out next week. Back-issues can be obtained by
ftp or by a mail server. For details, reply to
this, or send mail to tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
--
Daniel Bowen, Melbourne, Australia|
daniel@yoyo.cc.monash.edu.au------| I hate walking... it's so pedestrian.
(but not for long)----------------|
TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu   |

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Sleepy Toxic Custard"

       ___               ___     ___  _____
|___  /    \          / /     | /   \     /    Toxic   Custard
|    |      \        / |__    |   __/    /     Workshop  Files
|    |       \  /\  /  |      |     \   |      - - - - - - - -
 \___ \___    \/  \/   |      | \___/   |      1st March, 1993

NEXT WEEK IN TOXIC CUSTARD
- Leaping over the fine line of bad taste, we talk to Eric Clapton
after the tragedy of one of his Grammy's falling out of his apartment
window
- And we look at the new Philips Digital Compact Cassette - All the
inconvenience and unreliability of a cassette, at the cost of a
Compact Disc
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

We had a dinner party the other night. Unfortunately we accidentally
invited a vegan, so I gave him a carrot and told him to eat it
quietly in the corner.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Call me stupid if you wish. It's a free country (*). But what idiot
thought up the Imperial measuring system? Rather than milk this joke
dry with rods, hands and perch's, I shall merely ask - why the
difference between a nautical mile and a normal average run-of-the-
mill mile? Did they think sailors could be fooled into sailing
further? Did people think something wasn't as far if they didn't have
to walk?

(*) Where available
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Do the Liberal Party really expect me to vote for an economist?
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Archaeologists claim today to have uncovered rare samples of
electronic humour from the late 1980's. They were found whilst
digging through a pile of floppy diskettes during the search for Brad
Templeton's tomb. Amongst the gems found are old Rocket Roger
episodes, several screensworth of Mike's Madness, Toxic Custard's
from *before* the advent of that long Mr Popsicle adventure, and,
most incredibly, an episode of Henry Cate's Funky Stuff which is
believed to actually be original material. Early reports that the
Green Golfball Joke had been found have now been denied.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Suddenly I found myself vanquished from the normal world. It just
vanished before my very eyes, at least from my point of view.
Everything vanished, and was replaced by void. Nothingness. For a few
seconds. Then it began to appear... I had been transferred into a
world without logic or sense, a world created by Arts students, or so
it seemed.
    I was on a hillside field of bananas. Large cream jugs bounced by
on their merry ways to what I presumed was a Large Cream Jug
Convention. A vacuum cleaner sat nearby sucking up bananas, until
the bananas objected. I started walking through the field, trying not
to step on the bananas, especially the little ones. Some of them lay
sunbaking, their skins beside them.
    I kept walking. The hill went up, and up, and up, and eventually
the bananas were above me, as I walked upside down the way I'd came.
Or something like that. The bananas decided to turn into melons
around about now, which were rather more awkward to walk on. A
chocolate bar passed the time of day, and suddenly the whole thing
seemed a bit too silly, and I ended up back in reality, and out of
the world that my brain had created.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

ODE TO THE BODY

O testicles, O testicles
Thou art so round and firm
But so deflated and wobbly
After outpouring of sperm

Armpit, yes my armpit
With hairs all cropping down
Keep nose away on a hot day
Lest mouth turn to a frown

Feet, two feet for walking
With hearts, minds and soles
Toenails, blisters, warts
And on real bad days, moles

Tongue, always waving
Some can curl, some not
Talking, tasting, licking
Lips teeth nose and snot

Meanwhile the nerve centre
We sometimes call The Brain
Is being prodded and poked
Until declared insane

And what do they all do?
What does humanity create?
What bodily substances
Do spurt out day after day?

Snot, saliva, sperm,
Pus, blood, urine,
Faeces, mucus, sweat
Ear wax and nice spew

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On that delightful note, Toxic Custard is
thankfully over for another week. Unfortunately,
it returns next week at around about the same
time. Bummer. Meanwhile, TCWF back-issues are
still available. Reply to this, or send mail to
tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu for details.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
--
Daniel Bowen, Melbourne, Australia|   LOST - Toxic Custard
daniel@yoyo.cc.monash.edu.au------|   sideways message.
(but not for long)----------------|   Answers to the name
TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu   |   of "Verty".

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Toxic Custard's late again..."

 ___    __   _     _  ____   .   __   __
/ | \  /  \  |     |  |     /|  /  \ /  \
  |   |      |     |  |_     |   __/ \__/  Toxic Custard Workshop Files
  |   |      |  |  |  |      |     \ /  \  Number 138 - 15th March 1993
 .|.   \__/   \/ \/  .|.    .|. \__/ \__/  Written by Daniel Bowen.....
                         **ALL NEW MATERIAL!**


Everything has rules. The simplest things have complex rules that bind
them, order them, and generally change them from the simple things they
once were into much more complicated things, involving complex
decision-making stressful experiences.
    Okay, so I'm walking down the street. Not a busy city street, but a
quiet suburban street. Just got off the train, perhaps. There's someone
only a few yards in front of me. Walking at about the same pace as me.
And my paranoid brain clicks into gear: "*I* know I'm not following
him..." (or her. And for a man, the paranoia doubles if he's just
behind a woman). "But what if he thinks I *am* following him? Omigod,
I've just turned into the same side street as him. Again. He thinks I'm
a mugger. He thinks I'm a psychopathic evangelist about to save his
soul and despatch him straight to heaven in one breath."
    So the brain works out the logic. And the conclusion: "If I
overtake him while walking, it will prove to him that I'm not
following/about to attack his goolies with a meat-cleaver/offering him
a free personality test." And so my legs go into third gear as I try to
veer around onto the nature-strip to overtake, all the while, scanning
the radar for any concealed dog turds that have been conveniently left
there by some uncaring bastard dog owner with his uncaring bastard dog,
just waiting to add an interesting new aroma to my shiny(ish) new(ish)
Florsheim shoes.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Spike was a man, rebellious at that
When teenag-ed, he'd been a bit of a twat
But now grown up, his mind in a funk
He decided one day that he'd go punk

So he cut away heaps from his fine mane
And got a haircut to match his name
Shitkicker boots and leather and studs
Tattoos on his knuckles: "SHIT" and "MUD"

But all the elation came down with a crash
When he suddenly realised that he needed cash
So for a day or three he stopped looking yob
And valiantly tried to find a job

He borrowed a suit and a nice loop tie
Went to be interviewed in some building up high
After training and uniforms, he was a new man
And started his job - driving a tram.

SPIKE... THE PUNK TRAM DRIVER

Spike the tram driver is on my line
He wears studs and earings all the time
He has a nail on a piece of wood
The schoolkids all stand when they should

He swears and screams and foams at mouth
He's the meanest tram driver in the eastern-south
He's a history of arguments with trucks and cars
If you don't believe it, see the scars

Now the car drivers on route seventy-five
Don't block Spike if they want to stay alive
He nudges the cars into the left lane
He'd swerve if he could rather than let them get away

The wheels screech, people hold the rails
As Spike does ninety down the 75 trail
The tram's nose is burning a bright bright red
The conductor's afraid he'll end up dead

The tram is rattling like a DC10
Spike's got his foot right down and then...
We skid to a halt and all is fine
For tram 75 is at the end of the line.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The state environment minister announced today in a press conference
that he'd had enough of environmental issues, and would be renaming the
Ministry of The Environment "The Ministry For Building Big Grey
Buildings, Freeways And Poisoning Baby Penguins". He explained that
"environment" was far too wishy-washy for a real MAN like himself, and
that he personally enjoyed bashing the brains out of small furry
animals for a pastime, and that his own personal pick-axe could be
inspected for blood stains if any of the vultures of the press would
like to see it.
    The Minister then went on to use a black marker pen to indicate
which 95% of the city's parks were to be bulldozed within 24 hours, the
5% which were to be bulldozed next weekend, the smog production factory
which was to be opened next month, and the sudden realisation of the
author of Toxic Custard that this was developing into something far too
similar to an episode of The Goodies.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You have been watching yet another one of the very many
(and fast growing) numbers of Toxic Custards. Toxic
Custards are now a recognised pest in most parts of
Australia, and the government has now authorised the use
of bazookas against them. A plague of old back-issues of
Toxic Custards has now taken hold of the ftp sites of
ftp.cs.widener.edu [192.55.239.132] and ftp.ee.mu.oz.au
[128.250.1.80]. Toxic Custards have also been seen living
in relative comfort in the confines of the mail server at
Widener (send "help" or "index tcwf" to
archive-server@cs.widener.edu for details).
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
--
Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre|    If I got out of
------Telecom Australia, Burwood, Melbourne|    the wrong side of
dbowen@vcomtelb.telecom.com.au-------------|    bed, I'd hit the
------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu|    wall.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

139 "Barely Toxic Custard"


There will be no Toxic Custard this week.

There will be no Toxic Custard this week.

There will be no Toxic Custard this week.

There will be no Toxic Custard this week.

There will be no Toxic Custard this week.

- WHY NOT?

There will be no Toxic Custard this week.

There will be no Toxic Custard this week.

- I SAID WHY NOT?

There will be no Toxic Custard this week.

There will be no Toxic Custard this week.

- OI! WILL YOU FUCKIN' ANSWER ME? WHY NOT?

Because I've been far too fucking busy this week at work. That's why
not.

There will be no Toxic Custard this week.

There will be no Toxic Custard this week.

- OH. OKAY.

There will be no Toxic Custard this week.

- I SUPPOSE THAT'S ALL RIGHT THEN. SEEMS FAIR ENOUGH TO ME.

Oh for Chrissake. Look, you can have one item, and then I'll expect you
to shut up!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Surname please?

    - ERM, FRIEDGRASSHOPPER

*Douglas* Friedgrasshopper? 24 Buffalodung Drive, South Molehillton?

    - YEAH.

And have you voted already today?

    - YEAH.

Okay, well here's your Senate voting paper and one for the House of
Rep... pardon?

    - WELL, I MEAN. YEAH, I VOTED.

You voted already?

    - YEAH. WELL, I VOTED FOR MY MATE. 'COS HE HAD A LONG NIGHT LAST
      NIGHT, AND THEY DON'T EXPECT HIM TO BE CONSCIOUS BEFORE TOMORROW,
      AND I DIDN'T WANT HIM TO GET FINED. THAT'D JUST ADD INSULT TO
      SERIOUS INJURY, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

Well I hardly think that makes a difference. You can't vote for someone
else. He can vote absentee...

     - YEAH, BUT CAN HE VOTE UNCONSCIOUS? ANYWAY, I KNEW HOW HE WAS
       GOING TO VOTE. "EXTREME LUNATICS FRINGE WHO WANT TO MINE THE
       RAINFORESTS AND KILL THE DOLPHINS AND FEED THEM TO THE RICH"
       PARTY. HE ALWAYS DOES.

That makes no difference. Voting for someone else is against the law,
and a heavy penalty will be enforced.

     - OH. WELL. SO WHAT HAPPENS NOW THEN?

Well, I think unless the author has any more ideas, we finish up right
around about here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen. Though I don't know why he bothered.
--
Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre|
------Telecom Australia, Burwood, Melbourne|        I'm allergic to
dbowen@vcomtelb.telecom.com.au-------------|      the western suburbs.
------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu|

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Tried and true Toxic Custard"

--------           -----    /  /     ----    Carefully sculpted
  /  ----  /   /  /        /  /  /  /   /    by Daniel Bowen
 /  /     / / /  /---     /  ---/  /   /
/   ---  /-/-/  /        /     /   ----
TOXIC CUSTARD WORKSHOP FILES #140 - 22nd of March 1993

It is sometimes surprising, nay devastating that what we laughably,
even grudgingly entitle "life" can be so widely varied. What am I on
about? Well, to be perfectly honest, I'm far from certain. The
manifestations of life come in many... manifestations. And if you don't
think that's true, then that's your decision, and I for one would
support you for that decision, no matter how petty minded and moronic
the brain behind it. We do, after all, have minds. Well, most of us do.
And it is this fact that is often forgotten when we don't. But the very
uncertainty of where this paragraph is going does tend to worry many
people in society. There are those who theorise about its inherent
usefulness, and other, perhaps wiser souls who theorise about its
inherent uselessness. But useful or useless, one cannot deny that it
*is*. Well certainly I can't deny that it *is*, but then to my mind the
one thing that *isn't* is not something which can be explained away by
a crack-pot theory like existence. And yet I can feel the very fervour
of all those people who want to rebel against all this. They want to
say "what the fuck is this idiot Bowen drivelling about now". And I
support that too. For it is those feelings that for me give new meaning
to the word "oblong". I thank you all.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

THE TOXIC CUSTARD INTERVIEW - HRH QUEEN ELIZABETH II

TCWF: Hiya Betty.

QE2: [Patronising smile of the type directed at spastic children in a
     sheltered home during a royal visit]

TCWF: Hiya. Tell me, in all your monarchical duties, what's the most
      enjoyable thing you do?

QE2: Well, I suppose it would have to be all the activities with
     horses. I just love horses. I cried when I saw The Black Stallion,
     you know.

TCWF: I can believe it. Tell me, what do you think of the allegations
      in the popular press that you have been having regular sexual
      relations with horses since your early teens? And that members of
      the royal family going back to Charles The First regularly had
      horses as secret visitors to the palace chambers at all hours of
      the night and day. And of the suggestion that Henry The Eighth's
      fourth wife was in fact named "Trotter", a 5 year-old mare, the
      beheading of whom actually inspired that scene in the
      Godfather...

QE2: Erm well, I... you do seem to have your finger quite on the
     pulse...

TCWF: And further more, what do you say to the claims by a "Sun"
      photographer that he has a colour photograph of you in the Buck
      House gardens performing fellatio with a Stallion named "Big
      Boy"?

QE2: Good God. Well, I would challenge you to produce that picture.

TCWF: Certainly. Here it is.

QE2: Ah, Well. Now look, this is a gross invasion of privacy.

TCWF: But your comment on the picture and the allegations themselves?

QE2: Well I would refer you to a sermon by the Archbishop of Canterbury
     last month, when he read from Psalms chapter 149:-

       6  Let the high praises of horse be in their mouth,
          and a twoedged wanger in their hand...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

MRS IRENE BUSYBODY SPEAKS OUT ON...
Competitions. What a load of crap they are. What do you really think
the chances of winning one of those ocean liner cruises on a condemned
ship with 200 elderly German tourists is? 300,000,000 to 1? And for
this, some company that makes devilled spam really think we're going to
rush out and buy their product? Too right. Well, it seems to work.
They've got us conned into buying 700 cheese slices to win a $4 Lego
toy. Then there's the scheme to get everyone to eat so much Sultana
Bran that they have to buy double the normal amount of toilet paper,
just to win a coffee maker - when half of them probably don't drink
coffee anyway.
    And besides that, what's so special about South Australians that
they don't have to buy the product to enter? Those gits can just send
in a drawn replica of the packet... Any logic? Please???
    I've gone right off competitions ever since I won $50 in Tattslotto
last week. At first, I was rapt. $50! It was only after collecting my
prize from the newsagent that I suddenly realised that this was the
first fucking prize I'd ever won in Tattslotto, and that to win it, I'd
actually spent around $500 in tickets over ten years! Still, it's all
relative. A old lady neighbour of mine (a nosy old bitch if you ask me,
always poking her nose in. And her with *that* problem at home...)
bought tickets every week, year in, year out, same numbers every time.
Jeez, you'd think after twenty years of not winning more than $5 on the
same numbers you'd give up and try some other bloody numbers! Anyway,
last January, she bought her ticket as normal on the Wednesday when she
went shopping. And come Saturday, the numbers were drawn, and by
Christ, I swear, every number came up! Every single fucking number!
With a $3 million prize-pool! A fortune to be had! Only problem was,
she'd died in her sleep on Friday night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your eyeball(s) have been privileged to
have been viewing another Toxic Custard.
If any other parts of your body would
enjoy relations with a pert, succulent
Toxic Custard back-issue, you might like
to reply to this message, or email
tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu for details. And I
promise I'll update the TCWF ftp sites
soon, guys!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen
--
Daniel Bowen, National Telemarketing Centre|   WHY DID THEY BOTHER...
------Telecom Australia, Burwood, Melbourne|   to put the drum machine
dbowen@vcomtelb.telecom.com.au-------------|   all over that Sonia Dada
------------TCWF stuff: tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu|   song?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

the Toxic Custard Workshop Files by Daniel Bowen, Melbourne, Australia

Copyright (c) 1993 Daniel Bowen. May be freely distributed without
profit provided this notice remains intact.

For subscription information, contact tcwf@gnu.ai.mit.edu

