Happas

I know someone who had a heap of these.... They just whacked them in the grill and had them on toast. Wouldn't reccomend it really, they didn't seem to have to great a time, though the nausea wasn't a problem

Ha ha! That's why i moved back to North West Tassie - sick of going up Mt Wellington only to find the small but persistent and vicious cliques of local pill poppers scouring through the undergrowth...

Some Lines It is most peculiar the line overreaching seriousness and jest follows no curve, regards not a limpid caress. Line over reaching line on the verge of a misbeggotten creation, line piercing voraciously the line- theres blood flowing out the heart of our equation. You know i haven't seen my girlfriend for over a year. Her father, that stolid oak, took her to the abortion clinic. We go for the same footy team the Blues I Imagine an immaculate robotic arm wrenching frail connections from her body- how are we connected to the body? Suddenly i remember the puckered scar running across my mothers belly, what is it my ceasarian birth is telling me? Sheesh you know i haven't visited this website for many years. What am i doing here drunk?? But i'm well schooled in Modern Verse. And though i know no other i know i'm not the first

There were no traces of datura found in his body. I'm originally from the North West and remember hearing about this incident quite a bit. A lot of people think it's a typical example of the cops not giving a shit about or bothering to investigate seriously what happens amongst poorer people living in housing commission homes. There are certainly quite a few inconsistencies among witness testomonies and stuff to add weight to this claim.

Okay then - do you want to send me an email regarding price and method of payment. Also interested in that 'Hallucinations and Culture' book you mentioned on the big list in the 'Trades' section. I'd email you right now but i'm late for a lecture and i've gotta go!

I'm interesteed, but man, you're a bit far away

It was for first year UNI English. Definitley not the type of thing i ever came across in high school.

It wouldn't surprise me if Arnie became Governer. I'd just find it amusing. Afterall the wrestler Jesse Ventura is or was Governor of some state (a southern one i believe). I read 'Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep' this year for English but haven't seen any other PK Dick books about anywhere - though i've read a bit about him. He gets a pretty decent mention in the movie 'Waking Life" - which is pretty sweet anyway and should be watched

Thanks. Haven't read McLibel. A few people have mentioned the realism thing. It's interesting, most of my other stories that i've posted here have been based on actual events, this one was not. I actually wrote it in response to an English question (though i ended up doing another question and not submitting it.) that required you to write a portrait of a 'Dystopian' world - need not look further than the present imo

This wouldn't copy and paste properly and to fix it re Nightmare Revelation in BurgerLand The Boy was only a little bit hungry. It was just a convenience. The neon lights illuminating the path ahead lured him in. How could he resist the vibrant glow of that huge ‘M’, its brilliant yellow warding off the inhospitable vibrations of the crisp night air? It looked warm inside too. And there were more of those fantastically bright colours, their radiance giving off the illusion of life. He was a shy boy too - though not always, but inside that doesn’t matter. Inside you don’t have to talk, well not really anyway, you only have to say what it is you want. And this is a Boy that knows what he wants. A Large Quarter Pounder Meal, with a vanilla thick shake instead of a coke. The familiar aroma of frying fat greets him with a warm gust as he enters through the automatic doors. The smell has ingratiated itself upon him, which is peculiar because it’s an odour that is by no means pleasant. Yet by some miracle of association his senses’ register it as such. The place is jammed with people, a queuing mess of humanity, either calmly waiting to have their appetite sated, or sitting down at the tables stuffing food into their mouths and muttering at one another. The boy looks at them, he looks at them and quite remarkably; he sees them. Now this is the first time anything of this kind has happened to the boy and he is frankly astonished. It throws him into a kind of confusion; just what exactly is the nature of this business? What are these people really doing here, handing over plastic in exchange for brown paper bags with which they intend to satisfy the most animal of urges. The Boy blinks, wipes his eyes, something clicks. A fairly standard spread of people occupy the place. A few families crowded around tables, quite a lot of young folk and two elderly couples sitting at parallel tables by the window. A children’s birthday party is being held in the back, Ronald McDonald performing balloon tricks for toddlers gone berserk from over stimulation. The queue itself is deceptively large, three bunched up somewhat haphazard lines formed before three separate checkouts. The boy penetrates the building further, he feels like he’s never felt before, kind of melancholically aloft. There is a chubby young girl, about 15, sitting alone at a table ahead of him. He stares into her face. It ‘s a face that’s strangled by self-consciousness. Looks at some more. They’re empty faces that yet bear marks. Most of the young ones are grimacing facades of bogus feeling…grotesque etchings of merriness, bemusement, boredom, sanguinity - the whole spectrum of human emotion being blandly played out on cadaverous masks. The older ones contain less show and more resignation. Quite a few appear plainly blank. It ‘s the eyes that disturb the Boy the most, they are eyes with secret agendas that the minds in the heads aren’t aware of. The boy wonders what his own face looks like, what the agenda of his eyes are. Suddenly he wishes he were invisible. Hazily now, the boy latches onto the end of a queue. As he does so a new group of people emerge from the sliding doors. There are four of them; a middle-aged couple wearing lifeless smiles and two spastic twins whose faces in direct contrast are vividly animated. The boy stares at them, they’re clearly excited, it appears almost as if they’re under the influence of a drug, what with their eyes dancing erratically about the room. They jump, fidget on the spot, groan, shriek and wave their hands frantically about their faces all to the consternation of their minders whose routine attempts to subdue them are falling dismally short. The boy redirects his gaze to the queue ahead of him. Three girls working out front, all blondes, might be called pretty were it not for the garish red and white uniforms. He listens to their broken record voices. ‘Good Evening Sir How may I Help you’ ‘Good evening sir how may I help you’ ‘Good Evening Sir how may I help you’ ‘Eat in or Take away?’ His gaze wanders beyond the girls to where the food is being cooked. Glum, pimply adolescents dutifully performing their tasks like retarded mice on a wheel. Equipment sterilised to manufacture grease, plastic coated hands and nets for chemical drenched hair. The only thing that doesn’t look clean is the employees themselves, who’re like gaudily dressed cockroaches working in a soap factory. The boy gives a silent pray of thanks that he is not subject to this monstrous fate. As he does so a series of nightmare visions, without any pre-cognition, enter his head. A Tall pimple-faced, bespectacled young man emerges from the kitchen, wielding a cleaver. He approaches a check out girl menacingly, lops off her breasts and uses them as a hat. Removes pants, begins to penetrate empty chest gushing blood. Customers start masturbating into cash registers. Remaining checkout girls begin emptying ice cream over naked bodies, covering then with gherkin. Another boy in kitchen sticking own arms in vat of oil, statue still grin on face. Carnal carnival in rear of building. Elderly couple slowly peeling clothes off, smearing saliva over one another. Ronald McDonald laughing maniacally forcing soft serve ice cream into hysterical retarded twins strapped to table. Parents hurling children at windows, smashing heads into benches, laughing gleefully. Teenagers sodomizing one another, still stuffing burgers into mouths while balding middle age men watch fondling themselves and eating waffle. Two ill-formed retarded voices snap the Boy out of his terrible reverie. “HAPPY HAPPY WANT HAPPY WANT WANT HAPPY HAPPY WANT” It was the twins who had just entered and were now lined up behind him, shouting out what they wanted. A Happy Meal apparently, but abbreviated to simply “Happy”. Their minders were still having trouble controlling them, muttering in tired voices that they would have their Happy Meals soon. The Boy gave his head a shake as if to purge what had just occurred within it, he decided that this was not a healthy environment. A slight smile played on his lips as a cacophony slowly arose in the service area. The shouting of the spastics necessitated the rasing of everyone else’s voices. The end result being an absurd, gratingly repetitious opera with the voices of the spastic twins providing a demented chorus, counter pointed by the unrelenting and unchanging taking of orders by the check out girls. “How may I help you sir” “I’d like a….” “WANT HAPPY HAPPY ” “Pardon Sir” “Quarter Pounder” “WANT HAPPY” “Would you like fries with that?” “HAPPY HAPPY WANT WANT” “Yes Please” “That Comes to 5.95” “HAPPY” “Eat in or Take away” “WANT HAPPY NOW “Take away thanks.” The Boy decided to let the twins and their minders in front of him. They were quite shocked by this unprecedented act of kindness and gladly obliged. When the man finally reached the checkout the response of the blonde check out girl was the same as ever – “Good Evening sir how may I help you.” No mention whatsoever of the fact that the retarded twins had for the last few minutes been shouting out exuberantly what it was they wanted. The man felt the need to apologise for their enthusiasm, “Sorry about that, we’ll have four happy meals thanks.” “Eat in or Take away” “Eat in, Thanks” “4 Happy Meals to Eat in, that comes to 12.80 Thanks” The man handed over a twenty-dollar note. “Out of Twenty, that’s 7. 20” The girl handed over a five-dollar note a two-dollar coin and a twenty-cent piece. The man said ‘Thanks’ one more time. The Boy had been listening to this exchange with rapidly rising disgust. The words had lost all meaning, been reduced to empty ritual. How was it possible that all these humans clustered together in this small cosseted environment could be so impossibly distant and detached from one another? The Boy blinked and approached the counter. “Good Evening Sir How May I Help You?” Something that might be called miraculous happened to the Boy. He pondered the question. A few moments elapsed before he spoke. “I Don’t Know” The words came out in a slow drawl. The girl, bemused, stared at him blankly. The mindless repetition of the job had rendered her unable to formulate a response. The Boy let out a deep breath. “Gherkin” “I beg your pardon sir?” “Gherkin” “Umm” “I’d like some Gherkin, put it in a small Coke cup” “Err, I don’t think that’s allowed sir” “Why Not? I want Gherkin. Gherkin Gherkin Gherkin” The boy felt lighter every time he mouthed the word. “Gherkin Gherkin, Gherkin. Want Gherkin. Want Gherkin” The Blonde girl looked confused. It was then that a flabby dour looking woman gleaming with authority and bearing a badge with the words “Assistant Manger” approached. She wore that exasperatingly blank look of scorn, adopted universally by those pathetically inflated by a meagre sense of power. “Is there a problem Sir?” “I Want Gherkin” By now The Boy’s voice had reached a high lilt. His self-consciousness was gone, drowned out by this strange and terrible passion that had him in its grip. He screamed at the top of his lungs. GHERKIN GHERKIN WANT GHERKIN With that every conversation in the restaurant ceased. The boy was consumed, seeing the world distant and ridiculous from the disconnected point of immediate action. Any identity he possessed lost within the whirling maelstrom of indescribable, intricately tangled feeling that had charged his spirit. The energy of which was now manifesting itself in this bizarre, totally incongruous act. His eyes widened, a warm wave of euphoria washed over him. He shouted more. “Gherkin Gherkin Gherkin Gherkin!” ‘Sir, would you please calm down or we’ll be forced to ask you to leave the restaurant” It was the Assistant Manager eying him with finely tuned sternness and speaking with a calmness that was specially reserved for this type of situation, the same calmness that dealt with any angry or drunk customer that was causing a disturbance. But the Boy was barley aware of her request, so lost was he in the jubilation of his act. By now everyone in the restaurant was listening to the exchange interestedly. They were either staring blatantly at the event as it unfolded or doing their best to keep eyes averted while listening in. “GHERKIN GHERKIN GHERKIN GHERKIN” A man, wearing shorts and a tank top, looking like he thinks quite a bit of himself gives the Boy a tap on the shoulder. “Stop being a dickhead mate” he says in a tone obviously designed to intimidate. But the boy just spins around wild eyed with exultation and yells “GHERKIN” straight at the man. Tank top is perturbed, he is bigger than the Boy but clearly wasn’t expecting to be confronted by someone glaring at him so crazily, dangerously, without fear. He speaks again but the acerbic tone is replaced by one of forced reasonableness. “Come on mate, just order something normal.” “GHERKIN, GHERKIN” The boy slams his fist on the bench; the line takes a collective step backwards, “GHERKIN, GHERKIN” He throws a ten-dollar note over the register; it floats to the ground and is retrieved by a staff member, “GHERKIN, GHERKIN” The assistant manager pulls a small coke cup off a rack. She had contemplated calling the Police, but decided it was probably better to just give the nut what he wanted and have him leave, less interruption to business that way. She pushes the cup into the Blonde girls hand - who’s slow to recognise what’s happening. “Get him his Gherkin” hisses the Assistant Manager before turning to the Boy and with her best icy glare saying, “We’re getting you your Gherkin, now will you please be quiet” The whole countenance of the Boy changes instantly. That last look of the Assistant Manager subdued his jubilation, replaced it with rage. He leans as far over the counter as possible, stares into the woman’s eyes, sings in a slow operatic voice “Everybody Needs Gherkin….” The assistant manager takes a step backwards, bumps into the Blonde Girl carrying the Gherkin filled cup and loses all grace. The illusion she is in control of the situation has been shattered irrevocably. The Boy is satisfied with this, had she said something else to him, or given him another idiot stare, he felt sure he would have punched her in the face. He wasn’t shocked at this, felt no guilt at wanting to hit a woman as hard as he could. As it is the Blonde girl dumbly hands him the cup. He takes it and slowly says “Thank you Very Much.” The boy then turns around and eyes the man wearing the tank top who throughout this affair has been struggling to regain his pride and muster some courage after being so easily unnerved by someone smaller than him. The Boy stares directly into his scared blue eyes; he reaches his hand into the cup, brings out a fistful of Gherkin and shoves it into his own mouth. Tank top takes a step backwards as if retreating from a wild animal. The Boy laughing and gagging on Gherkin goes for the exit. He is forced to halt briefly as the sensory mechanism of the sliding doors registers his presence and slowly galvanises. They open, the boy leaps outside, turns his back on the glaring neon and runs, madly laughing and spitting up gherkin into the night. Inside the store the customers begin eating again and the din of regular conversation resumes.

I know a buch of miners who smoke pot right up to the week before they're tested. Could be a different test though so i wouldn't reccomend it.

Speaking of missing people. Where is Adrian? Or is he not missing it all, rather time is moving so excruciatingly slow in the midst of my boredom and waiting to move that the illussion that he is not there has been created.

also of interest on SBS this week is teh Complete plays of Samuel BEckett. Should be intersting though i've got no idea how the hell they're going to film some of them. I don't really know what to think of BEckett in general but the plays should make for some extremley trippy viewing if nothing else

Watching it at the moment - seems like a quality doco thusfar... Also cheeck out the movie on after world news. "Children of the Stork" - about car theives who rescue a stork and it starts talking. The fact that the local newspaper reviewer trashed it and said that "mainstream viewers will find little here to take their fancy" has convinced me it'll be brilliant.

What about Calea Z-------- (not even going to attempt the spelling) Have any of you tried that/ With any success? I ordered some but it has not arrived yet. My dreams are actually quite vivid anyway, though i have no control over them