[3247] in Central_America
New quotes for Tue Mar 5
daemon@ATHENA.MIT.EDU (Initializer.SysDaemon)
Tue Mar 5 01:31:39 1991
Date: Tue, 5 Mar 91 01:31:07 EST
From: root@charon.MIT.EDU (Initializer.SysDaemon)
To: ca-mtg@bloom-beacon.mit.edu
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abrand (Adam D. Brand):
{From system: This user's .plan file is not world readable}
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allenshu (Luke Skywalker):
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To own the world,
To own the universe,
To own all that there is,
To make the people serve me,
And call me Master.
That is my plan.
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bealin (Beatrice L Lin):
{From system: This user's .plan file is not world readable}
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dmweis (David M Weisberg):
Hi, my name is Dave Weisberg, and this is my plan file.
* * * *
Sorry, I don't exist any more. I left Athena at Mon Mar 4 15:20:17 EST 1991.
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jab (J. B. Gumby):
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**** The Package Tour Complaint: TOUR PYTHON ****
**** From the third series of Monty Python's Flying Circus ****
What's the point of going abroad if you're just another tourist carted around
in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Coventry in
their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their
Sunday Mirrors, complaining about the tea - "Oh they don't make it properly
here, do they, not like at home" - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling
fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting
in their cotton frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy
raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos they "overdid it on the first day." And being
herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Continentales with their
modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming
pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they're acrobats forming
pyramids and frightening the children and barging into queues and if you're
not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell's Cream of
Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every
Thursday night the hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny
emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair
brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners. And
adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying
to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel and once a week
there's an excursion to the local Roman Remains to buy cherryade and melted
ice cream and bleeding Watney's Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so
called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to
a party from Rhyl who keep singing "Torremolinos, torremolinos" and
complaining about the food - "It's so greasy isn't it?" - and you get
cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and
Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday's Daily Express and he drones on and on
about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages
Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres. And
sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even
visited to "All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an
'X'. Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden
away in the back streets where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and
onion crisps and the accordionist plays 'Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner'."
And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package
tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can't even get
a drink of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England and the bloody
bar closes every time you're thirsty and there's nowhere to sleep and the kids
are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep
telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland
and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m.
in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of
"unforeseen difficulties", i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control
in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when
you get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing "enterovioform" and queuing
for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for
the bloody bus that isn't there to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been
finished. And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the
Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi
you find there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the taps, there's
no water in the bog and there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet. And half
the rooms are double booked and you can't sleep anyway because of the
permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door
- and you're plagues by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending
to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers' wives busily buying identical
holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the
Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy-buttocks
and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it
up long enough when they finally let it all flop out. And the Spanish Tourist
Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild
Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which
killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are
busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting
anyone under nineteen who doesn't like Franco. And then on the last day in
the airport lounge everyone's comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante,
buying cartons of duty free "cigarillos" and using up their last pesetas on
horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight
posters with your name on "Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich"
and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody's talking
about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you
are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane.....
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jcbourne (Juliet C Bourne):
where there is confusion, there can be no plan.
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I lie awake at night / Wait for the sun to shine / I still feel you next
to me / Your lips on mine / Without a warning / You made our love a lie /
You said you were sorry / But you never told me why
...
Maybe my love is in vain / Maybe you're the hurting kind / Can't take no
more of this pain / I've got to get you off my mind
--Richard Marx, "Angelia", _Repeat Offender_
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jdavies (John L Davies):
{From system: This user's .plan file is not world readable}
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jfc (John F Carr):
Thought for the day:
I'd rather be a Boring Systems Developer than an Advanced
Interactive Executive.
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jgk (John G Kusters):
{From system: This user's .plan file is not world readable}
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jmnerney (Jacqueline M Nerney):
You can't steal second base with your foot on first... Risk!
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marcoman (Marco Morales):
Marco A. Morales
EC Box 343 8626 South Exchange Ave.
3 Ames Street Chicago, IL 60617-3117
Cambridge, MA 02139
(617)-225-6172 (312)-734-1867
We must learn and be willing to push ourselves beyond our expectations
if we are to achieve excellence. We must be willing to accept that
there are those who can do certain things better than us.
Use whatever means is necessary to achieve your goals. We are in
competition with the rules, the environment, and each other.
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mjhostet (Mat Hostetter):
Faustus begin thine incantations,
take care to draw thy circle true,
by God you must prevail
for if you fail these
demons make a meal of you.
Your soul shall be their meat -
a kingly feast for them to eat,
beware your future is at hand,
alas for thou are damned.
GOOD ANGEL:
"Faustus seek repentance,
abjure this evil art,
cease this wretched wickedness
and cleanse thy foolish heart,
for the evil that once served you
has made of you a slave,
and transformed your `bed of roses'
to a premature grave."
Then in a mighty flash of light
before thee Mephistopheles appears.
FAUSTUS:
"I charge thee go and change thy shape,
for you fill my soul with fear.
Now swift as hell back to the fire,
return an old Franciscan Friar."
MEPHISTOPHELES:
"Mortal command me while you can
For surely thou art damned."
BAD ANGEL:
"Faustus be though resolute
In what thou wilst perform,
ignore these righteous idiots -
their trinity to scorn,
for years of deprivation you receive eternal life,
but fame and wealth and maidens-fair
are by far the better price."
FAUSTUS:
"Temptations all around me,
is there nowhere I can turn?
Hellfire is all about me,
now I know that I shall burn,
I face excommunication for the error
of my ways -
to burn in Hell for all my days.
bell, book and candle,
candle, book and bell,
forwards and backwards
to damn me to Hell.
Jehovah I beg thee have mercy on my soul.
Be gone foul beast that stands before me,
my God! The midnight hour chimes,
oh Lord have mercy he comes for me,
I haven't got much time.
I am awake this is no dream,
I cry - but terror takes my scream,
and now my future is at hand,
alas for I am damned."
GOOD ANGEL:
"Think for just one moment
and I'm sure that you will see,
the moral of this story -
that what shall be must be.
He who gives his soul to Hell,
must dare to pay the price,
he versed in divinity must
live a noble life -
or else he is damned!"
-Sabbat, "A Cautionary Tale"
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rburkhar (Robert Burkhardt):
Spring '91 courses (Lowell Institute School):
C Programming I (2 sections)
C Programming II
Call the school office (E32-105) at 253-4895 for more information.
Other interests:
GKS (Graphical Kernal System)
Mathematical programming
Tensegrity
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roopali (Roopali Garg):
{From system: This user's .plan file is not world readable}
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rui (Christopher Rui Tung):
"I'm the best there is
at what I do,
But what I do
isn't very nice."
-Wolverine
so don't ask!
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therese (Suntioinen Therese M.):
Beethoven's gone but his music lives on
and Mozart don't go shopping no more.
You'll never meet Liszt or Brahms again
and Elgar doesn't answer the door.
Schubert and Chopin used to chuckle and
love whiles composing their long symphony.
But one hundred and fifty years later
there's very little of them left to see.
The decomposing composers.
There's nothing much anyone can do.
You can still hear Beethoven
but Beethoven cannot hear you.
H{ndel and Haydn and Rachmaninov
enjoyed a nice drink with their meal.
But nowadays no one will serve them
and their grave it is left to conceal.
Verdi and Wagner delighted the crowds
with their highly original sound.
The pianos like Pleyel does still working
but thereabout six feet under ground.
The decomposing composers.
There's less of them every year.
You can say what you like to Debussy
but there's not much of him left to hear.
Claude Achille Debussy. Died 1918.
Christoph Willibald Gluck. Died 1787.
Carl Maria von Weber. Not at all well 1825. Died 1826.
Giacomo Meyerbeer. Still alive 1863. Not still alive 1864.
Modest Musorgski. 1880 going to parties. No fun any more 1881.
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vonneidt (Perry N. Finley):
{From system: This user's .plan file is not world readable}
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xjyan (Xiaojian Yan):
{From system: This user's .plan file is not world readable}
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zach (John Z. Ambrose):
drink beer
raise hell
& get laid (by Jill Wright)
--- End of Central America ---
