Not Fit To Print

It’s back! After relegating it to a lengthy hiatus, we’re happy to present a new installment of Not Fit to Print. This is where we show you some of the most awful, confusing, and sad shit we’ve gotten in the mail recently. We’ve built up quite a pile since the last go-round so let’s dive right into the thick of it…

T

he return address on this Xeroxed mess was for a tiny Southern California noise label, so we can assume that instead of being the product of genuine mental illness, it’s a case of yet another nerd aping mental illness in order to weird people out (which is probably its own mental illness, something like Munchausen’s Syndrome by Dickhead). The typed portion starts out with part of a short story that reads like a high school D&Der’s take on Peter Murphy lyrics…

WHITE SLAVE FOR SALE // ABSURD

The chamber was a makeshift opium den below a faux temple leased by the ambassador. Justine was on the revolving auction block in a solid glass cage. How she—anyone—could breathe in such a contraption, was an unsettling question. The girl was a certified virgin, Caucasian, of noble lineage (Welsh?), and had been in solitary confinement for all of her twelve years—so she knew nothing, nothing at all, not even how to speak (later I found this very true).

A powerful, clear light poured through the cage, exposing in detail every slightest curve, facet… of the pale debutante’s exquisite flesh. The room’s total was illuminated as well—violently—by a refracted madness, or so I remember… the exchange.

An old queen next to me claimed she would have Justine at any cost…that Justine would then be decapitated in front of our privileged group…we would then feast of the child…drink her blood—such remarks horrified me, for I thought the old drag serious. Of course she might have been jesting…the opium I’d smoked was taking its toll.

…On the second page, however, the things hang a sharp left into babble-land…

CAREER ON THE RIVER A CAREER ON THE RIVER OFFERS GREAT OPPORTUNINITIES IF YOU”RE LOOKING FOR COMPETIVE WAGESAND MEDICAL BENEFIT, ? PENSION PLANS, TRAINING PROGRAMS, AND ADVANCEMENT POTENTIAL, YOU’RE LOOKING IN THE RIGHT PLACE. WE HIRE PEOPLE WITH OR WITHOUT RIVER EXPERIENCE, WHO HAVE THE RIGHT BACKGROUND TO WORK AS AASS DECKHAND RIVER SYLE A JOB ON THE RIVER OFFERS UNIQUE LIFESTYLE WORK SCHEDULES ARE 7, 14, 21, or 28 on board a vessel with approximately on equal num,berr of days at home.

The shit scrawled over the whole deal is something like a cross between the two pages, and as best we can transcribe it, goes a little something like this…

Shredder was hotter than most. He got a job with the CIA cleaning toilets for hoes. The Ambass was a fag. Yet SHREDDER WAS THE ONLY TRUE BLACK METAL Killer. AN ELITIST. Shredder. Not another character space. Shredder the kid the boy the woman’s man who could walk straight tall make any woman feel have in her movie. His age about the same as his IQ. 66.10.15.88. Did it matter? Sur does you bet A Woman wants a man not a girl, not a fossil. A woman needs A Man and these girls were women, make no mistake. Not a boy. No teenage Woman, or almost teenage woman, wants a boy. Leave ‘em—the boys—to the candyballs, Celeste heard her governess say after rosary. I mean whats an IQ anyway? The Governess used to ask herself out loud, for she had married a retard who acted like he wanted all the time. “What A Cunt!”

Also on the peddling-nonsense-as-brilliance front, this came to us in a homemade book of “One Page Plays,” by Umlaut Brickauski. If the name alone hasn’t clued you in to the brand of hypercaffeinated non-sequitur zaniness at play, here’s a brief excerpt from Overpopulated Sobriety: Tim: Jane? Jane, a nude girl of 20 years, is twenty years old and does not respond, either because she doesn’t hear him or because she is also twenty years of age. Tim: Um… Jane? Jane: Toodooloo Tim, why so chagrin? Jane talked like this after sex. Tim: The thing is… well, it’s hard to tell, but I think the blasted condom broke. A look of pure and utter hideous moroseness comes over Jane’s face as if it were some sort of pulsing phallus. Jane: (Angry) Again? Oh my god Tim you are such a big asshole slash idiot! Todoleemodolee. Tim: I’m sorry. I am an idiot. (Halfheartedly yelling to the skies with fist in air) The gods and all of their prejudices! …It goes on for 20 pages. This was sent to us in response to an article from urologyhealth.org about how hard-ons are easier to injure than limp dicks. That’s right, it was sent to us, not urologyhealth.org. PENISES ARE FLOPPY AND RESILIENT? THAT’S POPPYCOCK Sure, they’re floppy little things. And listen, black man reading this sniggering, who is now suddenly angry over the word sniggering—yours is a floppy little thing, too. Now, the barnacle, their dicks are ten size their body, they are cock and balls that grew legs, stood up, and pimp-limped their way down where ever barnacles live. That is dick. But why did an animal, namely us, evolve with all its stuff hanging free to be mangled, crushed, or severed, while most other species possess a retractable cock thus ensuring they can pass on their genes. It’s nature’s usual way of protecting cocks. Scientists theorize our dicks are like Nerf. They can be sat on them, squeezed, and if there were people stupid enough—detached. Basically, our dicks hang low, we can tie them in a bow, and throw them over our shoulder like a gay hobo, and after all that abuse, within seconds they reform back into cocks. This ability, the scientists self-assuredly say, is why human dicks are well-protected little things. All I’ve got to say to that is poppycock. Nonsense. Bullshit. Straight up motherfucking lies. Black man start sniggering. Not once, not twice, but thrice has my penis received non-pleasurable mouth-oriented blows. You educated lab coat wearing pricks, if three times my dick was nearly torn, slashed, or chopped off that means it is not resilient and flexible. This genius goes on to describe the four times he’s apparently cut open his dick. You’d think this would make for good reading, but it’s so completely clogged with forced wocka-wockas that we’d be willing to bet a thousand bucks the writer is Australian. Finally, some girl named Emma sent us her list of “monthly funny,” which appears to have been compiled solely from ancient bumper stickers and failed zingers that Henny Youngman crumpled up and threw in the trash… 1. Ninety-nine percent of lawyers give the rest a bad name 2. Borrow money from a pessimist—they don’t expect it back 3. Time is what keeps things from happening all at once 4. Lottery: A tax on people who are bad at math 5. I didn’t fight my way to the top of the food chain to be a vegetarian 6. Never answer an anonymous letter 7. It’s lonely at the top; but you do eat better 8. I don’t suffer from insanity; I enjoy every minute of it 9. Always go to other people’s funerals, or they won’t go to yours 10. Few women admit their age; few men act it Christ, this is as depressing as a secretary in a bank with an “I Love Chocolate” coffee mug on her desk. COMPILED BY VICE STAFF