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Up from Underground (Site manager's note, December 1998: The Amis Discussion Web has become a veritable carnival of the grotesque in recent weeks--which is not entirely regrettable. Some wincing humor and even an occasional illumination can be gleaned from the subterranean depths. Even when he is "fizzing with rabies," that "quivering condom of neurosis and ineptitude" Terry Service has his moments, after all. This page will feature occasional dispatches from the--front?--rear?--underground? E-mail suggestions for additions). MEMO TO: BrooklynFrom: originally-from-Hackensack bigfatturd Remember that humoristical piece that Martin had in The New Yorker about McEnroe & Connors & Nastase & their concomitant obnoxiousness? It's a funny conceit based around Martin's coy use of the word "asshole"... Can you guess where I got the word "humoristical" from? Michael Herr's "Dispatches." Some regular Army clown used it on Herr when he found out that Herr was writing for Esquire: "Are you planning to do any humoristical pieces?"...I still can't believe that any American was able to live through Vietnam without going berserk. Either through grief or terminal misanthropy or survivor-guilt or any combination thereof...Philip Caputo once quoted a line in a movie. It's spoken by a combat soldier. It goes something like this: "Eventually we began to think of replacements as being corpses that had been given temporary use of their arms and legs."... I think I insulted Diedrick without meaning to. I casually used the term "purist dickweeds" and Jimbo might have misinterpreted that as a punning insult directed at him. But it wasn't...Thank goodness for those dreary blond-beast Danish hordes. If it hadn't been for Scandinavian emigration to England a thousand years ago, we would all still with a Germanic word order speaking be... Yesterday I accidentally came across one of those tribute websites to a dead child. This woman was so obsessively heartbroken that it devastated me. Those Earthlings who aren't drowning in blood are drowning in tears...Ned Rorem was right. That old song lyric got it backwards. The truth of the matter is: "Cry and the world cries with you. Laugh and you laugh alone."...Have you ever read something called "Sylvia" by Leonard Michaels? There's this bit where Leonard mentions his dutiful attendance at Michelangelo Antonioni movies. In order to experience the wide world of cosmic emptiness. Christ, what an obsession. It's like -- once you've glimpsed The Void, there's no going back... Let me leave you with this pearl of wisdom from Mickey Rooney: "It takes a Jew to make you laugh. It takes an Irishman to make you cry. And it takes an Ava Gardner to put a smile on your face at one o'clock in the morning." SeX PistoLFrom: Margaret Thatcher Good afternoon. I was flicking through the web when I discovered this discussion site and am appalled at the language and themes it contains. My period in office coincided with the rise to fame/notoriety of the afore-mentioned sex pistols. It was like a dream come true, in fact it was a dream. As I slumbered in late '76 I wondered what kind of revolution I could effect. I didn't want my period of office to bland or grey, I wanted challenge and conflict, anecdotes and mountains of autobiographies written in my honour. When that young man said what he did on television I clapped and kissed the television shouting 'Yes!'. I recently discovered the fiction of Mr. Amis (By mistake actually- I was actually looking for his Father's more distinguished work). I was shocked and appalled by the content of these novels. London Fields is violent and angry, Money is a shameful, lamentable trawl through one man's fantasies of porn and gluttony. The '80's were never like that really. I searched the globe during the eighties for rebellions to crush and evil to oppose yet not one of my undersecretaries brought to my attention the work of this man. The '80's was a cultural vacuum yet under the carpet this was circulating. I find it hard to believe his work is considered serious fiction. Dickens would whip his ass. You people are similar to the warped experience of life Amis represents. This world is perhaps one you would like to believe in, where evil roams freely and life is dark and romantic. You people are addicted to blackness and pessimism when joy is never far from hand. You only have to look and get off the drugs. My advice is lighten up, and stop talking about sex. There's nothing wrong with sex of course. I made love a number of times in order to conceive and found the experience satisfactory, though I never came. Sorry Dennis. And what kind of a name is bigfatturd, that's almost as bad as Optimus Prime or Xenophile......though there's nothing wrong with healthy zenophobia. I must go now, there is an anti-abortion meeting at the local parish and I am scheduled to speak on the evil of child murder. I might not go though if the football is on. Ta Ta for now. MEMO TO: Mistress MadgeFrom: yer luv-slave, bigfatturd Hey squeezypie: I love what John Major said about you on "Desert Island Discs." Remember that, toots? He said that instead of bringing along phonograph records to a hypothetical desert island, he'd rather bring along an effigy of you and a baseball bat. And what can you say about a woman who misspells her own husband's first name? It's "Denis." With one "n." Y'know--like they spell it in France? Remember France, Madge? That's the place where you & your Great White Trash soccer-hooligans murdered Joan of Arc...But hey. What the hell. Who the fuck needs a light sparkling bordeaux anyway? Up Watney's! Open Letter to that "Turd" guyFrom: President Clinton Didn't we kick your ass in the Rev. war so we wouldn't have to be exposed to people who think use of the word "turd" is funny? You probably think New Yorker cartoons are funny, too. Not me, I like Howard Stern. You could use a little of him. But I've got bigger problems than a pretentious geek like you. Bye, now. MEMO TO: Mr. PresidentFrom: presidential legal-counsel bigfatturd, esq. I could stand to learn something from Howard Stern? Hey punk -- you could stand to learn something from the business end of my enema hose. What are you -- one of Diedrick's apple-polishers? Did Diedrick hire you to pester me in exchange for a B+ or something? I read Howard's books. He's a gloating bully. I wish him agony and death. Stern & Limbaugh deserve each other. Carnally and otherwise. They're the Skinny & Fatty world-wrestling-federation tag-team fun-couple for phonetically-impaired dickweeds like you. I keep hoping Rush will use Howard for a toothpick and bite Howard's head off. And then Rush could choke to death on Howard's head. Alright Mr. President. Here's the judicial lowdown: You're a perfectly shameless piece of human garbage. You have brutally humiliated your wife and your daughter. And for that alone you deserve to be soul-kissed by the malevolent ghost of Truman Capote. What's my esteemed and highly sought after legal recommendation? Very simple: Lock yourself inside the Oval Toilet and chuggalug a pitcher of barbiturate-flavored margaritas, thereby putting yourself and the rest of Planet Earth out of our frigging misery. Or better yet, why don't we both just shut the hell up and show some respect for this website. By keeping it Amis-related instead of anus-related. The defense rests. That'll be 600 dollars, please. A simple message for all mankindFrom: His Holiness Pope John Paul II Yo. Martymaniacs. Supreme Pontiff here. Hey listen--I just read that scene in "Money" where John & Fielding get in a few sets of smackball singles. And Fielding runs John ragged to the point where John can't even squeeze in a point edgewise. I mean like--Fielding is chewing up the court and he's not even working up one bead of sweat. And meanwhile John is zigzagging around the place like a meth-addict chicken with its head cut off. That's the fine irony. John is BUSTING his ASS for ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. I know EXACTLY what that feels like. I vas dere, Chahlie. It happened to me just last Tuesday after the high mass for Oscar de la Renta. What's that C-of-E doofus they got over there in Limeyland? What's his name? Not Runcible spoon. The new one. Some sorta token mick or something. Carey. That's it. The head honcho of the anglican apostate-scum is a frigging mick named Archbishop Carey. How do ya like that for racial high-treason? Well anyway, I kicked that punk's ass last year at the No-Holds-Barred Heavyweight-Ecumenical Church-Wrestling Cage-Match Championship at Canterbury. "Murder in the cathedral" is putting it mildly. Forget Latin. I body-slammed that bozo back into the Aramaic vulgate. By the time I executed my signature pile-driver, that archweenie was audibly wondering (in the original Semitic dialect) why God had forsaken him. And lemme tell ya something. That dork has had it in for me ever since, I swear to hell. So I finally agreed to a smackball grudge-match right here on my own turf. (The Vatican Courts. Designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. I shit you not. Beautiful marble playing-surface. None of that faggoty-ass limey grass nonsense, I can promise you.) So anyway I'm thinking this jerk's a cinch. I didn't even bother to practice. So whaddaya know happens?.....That great-white-episcopalian sonnuvabitch BEAT the CRAP outta me. I still can't believe it. I felt like an infallible dickhead out there. Those visiting Trappist pricks from Lourdes broke their vow of silence just to heckle me. My own Jesuit homeboys were throwing me off-color Italian hand gestures. Ya know Mary Pierce? Her psychotic father tried to beat me up because I cost him a hundred-dollar bet. I had to brain the bastard with my racket. And you can imagine how embarrassed I was when I tripped on my dress and fell flat on my ass after Carey broke my serve in the first set. Jesus H. Christ. Go placidly amid the noise and waste. And remember what comfort there may be in owning a piece thereof. Gracefully surrender the things of youth, birds, clean air, tuna, Taiwan. And let not the sands of time get in your lunch. You are a fluke of the universe. You have no right to be here. And whether you can hear it or not, the universe is laughing behind your back. Therefore, make peace with your God. Whatever you conceive Him to be -- hairy thunderer or cosmic muffin. Dominus vobiscum blah blah blah. Ciao baby.
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