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SOL Post 35 06/15/99
SOL Post 34 05/15/99
SOL Post 33 04/15/99


Volume 34 - http://www.mindspring.com/~mstanon/ - May 1999
Formerly The MSTies Anonymous Newsletter: News for the Obscure Convergence


In This Issue

From the Poobah
"Lament of a Newbie" by MatthewDR@aol.com
"Adam's Views and Observations" by padboy51@yahoo.com
"Jenny For Your Thoughts" by S364128@urgrgcc.edu
"Too Much Time/Too Little MST3K On My Hands" by zapman24@home.com
"Better 'Bots and Satellites" by bgibron@yahoo.com
May MSTie of the Month: hquiej@netwood.net
June MST3K Schedule on SFC
Classifieds 3000

From the Poobah

This month, just a really quick update on the state of the site as I'm busy preparing big changes for the site and as I wrap up my final two weeks of high school. Most importantly, I need all members to visit the site and cast a vote for the new MSTies Anonymous logo and domain name. Your opinion counts regarding the future of the site; vote between now and the end of May. Keep playing Jeopardy!-esque MST3K Trivia for your shot at a Rhino tape!

"Lament of a Newbie" by MatthewDR@aol.com

Hello fellow MSTies.

Many people would consider me a 'newbie.' I began watching the show regularly about a year ago and started recording and collecting episodes about seven months ago.

Anyway, ever since the cancellation I have been seeing people disagreeing and arguing about what we ought to do. Should we write in? Should we sit on our hinders? Everyone has a different idea.

It's been a few months now since the cancellation announcement, and the arguments have all but died down. To give you a familiar example, last month in the SOL Post, one columnist wrote that 'At the risk of upsetting the newbies, I think we should let the show die a dignified death,' or something to that effect. First off, you can't categorize newbies that way. It's sort of like on pages 62-63 of the Episode Guide where Mary Jo Pehl says that she can't provide the women's point of view on MST3K because she is too busy to speak for an entire populace. You just can't stereotype a large demographic of people like that. Second, why do you think it is that a lot of newbies don't want the show to end? Well, I can say that at first, I felt disappointed and maybe a little bit cheated. After all, I missed the first eight years of MST3K's cable TV run, I missed both conventions, I wasn't around for any of the MST Alive shows, and most of all I wasn't around the last time MST3K was canceled. All I can do is look back at what other people did with admiration.

Getting back to the issue at hand. I think that people are doing what they will do, and that people shouldn't try to push them, so what's all this brouhaha? In conclusion, I'd like to say that we should stop all this fightin' and a feudin' and worry about other, more important things. We've got Season 10 on now, a new merchandise catalog that just came out, and MSTies Anonymous needs a new logo. There is also some other stuff going on in the world, too, but why would anybody want to pay attention to that?

"Adam's Views and Observations" by padboy51@yahoo.com

Hi there folks!

Well, I'll tell you, since MST has been cancelled I've been keeping busy so I'd keep my mind off the cancellation. It's not that bad really, actually doing stuff, but I found out that soon I'll have to get a job. To me, having to go to one place day in and day out to earn money -- which is soon stolen by the government in order to build new toll stations -- seems kind of silly. Who in their right mind would do such a thing? I'll tell you who. Adults. When you reach a certain point in aging you have to leave the house and get yelled at by a fat guy named a "Boss."

By now, my might be wondering why you're listening to my whining about getting a job and what does it have to do with MST. Absolutely nothing. I got sidetracked.

Well, since MST got cancelled, I've been wondering what to make of this. Finally, I decided that if it's not picked up, I'll tape trade more. If it's picked up, I'm throwing a party and you're all invited (Loc, I'll pay for your airfare).

So, how are you guys feeling about it? Send me an e-mail and tell me!

"Jenny For Your Thoughts" by S364128@urgrgcc.edu

Well, Season 10 is here and I for one couldn't be happier. Frank and Joel were sight for these sore eyes. I loved "Girl in Gold Boot's" and made me want to get a gold bikini and dance the night away. I don't want to brag, but I can dance better that that girl can. And I don't just walk in place either!

But with the good there are epsiodes I didn't care for, like "Dr. Z." Man, I haven't seen an ending that bad since "Manos: the Hands of Fate." As for "Boggy Creek II", please don't take your shirt off if not physically fit . Both of these movies had way too much narration. "Future War" was somewhere inbetween liking it and hating it. Personally, I don't care for kickboxing, but loved it when Gypsy kickboxed Tom.

But let's review what we learned from the new season.

  1. Don't separate a little boggy creature from its mom.
  2. Don't put Joe Estvez in your movie.
  3. Souls can be stored in rings.
  4. Never lose your pretty mind.
  5. Dinosaurs always hang by water.
  6. Crazy men can turn into a form of aqutic ALF with substance ZaAt.
  7. Girls in bikinis are always a good idea in movies.
  8. Never have a poop scan or say "little creature."
  9. Never trust an icky elf or oily men.
  10. You must be accredited to become a mad scientist.
  11. You can easily make up up your own legend.

One last note: I have helped out with the effort to save MST3K. I took a petition down to "Rocky Horror Picture Show" (both are cult classics and involve yelling back at a movie) and got 40 names! If you have helped to save MST3K in any way, write me and I'll give you big hi-keeba. Write "I helped to save MST3K" in the subject to S364128@urgrgcc.edu.

"Too Much Time/Too Little 3K On My Hands" by zapman24@home.com

Sitting on this bean bag, my computer's got lag
Got the Satellite News blues
And I've given up hope on the SFC soaps
And all my taxes are due
Is it any wonder I'm a MSTie? Is it any wonder I'm happy at all?
Well I've hated losing- My favorite show, it really ticks me off
I go out riffin' but I've no theater and all day to get there
Is it any wonder I'm not a Trekkie?
Is it any wonder I'm listed under "Pants, Hail!"
Is it any wonder I've got

Too little 3K on my hands, it's whittling away at my sanity
I've got too little 3K on my hands, it's 2 times now for this calamity
I've got too little 3K on my hands and it's flowing away from me
Too little 3K on my hands, too little 3K on my hands
Too little 3K on my hands

Well, I'm a networking genius - I solve all of SF's problems
Without even trying
I've dozens of friends and the fun always ends
When they get me cryin'
Is it any wonder I'm not the president (of SFC)
Is it any wonder I'm numb and coit? Is it any wonder I've got

Too little 3K on my hands, it's whittling away at my sanity
I've got too little 3K on my hands, it's 2 times now for this calamity
I've got too little 3K on my hands and it's flowing away from me
Too little 3K on my hands, too little 3K on my hands
Too little 3K on my hands

"Better 'Bots and Satellites" by bgibron@yahoo.com

Vol. 1 Issue 10
Bummertime: Are We There Yet?

Humans are very strange creatures indeed. It seems that every spring, as the snowcaps thaw and Mother Nature gives herself a long overdue makeover, homosapians get this bizarre disease. Out of nowhere they are struck down by an intense affliction. They can be washing the car or shopping for groceries or spaying the cat and BANG! it hits them like a ton of crisps. They contract, suffer and eventually spread it to their families and friends. No, we are not talking about syphilis or St. Vitas Dance, or even Portnoy's Complaint. We are talking about vacation-itis; that truly painful and awkward disease that manifests itself in positively delirious symptoms; the lacerating craving to load up the kids and the luggage and celebrate the land that you love by traversing 85% of it by car; the stinging preoccupation to visit of ones relatives and/or theme-related amusement parks; and the excruciating fancy to sleep in tents and make #1 and/or #2 in the forest.

Yes, vacation-itis, that most dreaded of all human maladies. Usually flaring up in May and running its infected course by the time Jerry Lewis sings "You'll Never Walk Alone", vacation-itis has poisoned each member of mankind at one time or another, directly or indirectly. Recall that time your family spent 6 days in a rusting Ford station wagon trying to get a feel for the 'real' America, and only find a really lame set of caverns and a flatulent Injun selling puca shell necklaces? Remember the night you and your friends pooled your gas money and intelligence to travel to Bismarck to see Emerson, Lake and Palmer in concert, only to discover that "Sold Out" meant the tickets, not the band's musical direction? Recollect your first air flight as an unaccompanied minor, aging stewardess grabbing your arm like the handle of a push cart and hurling you into the seat between an obese talcum powder salesman, and an old lady who couldn't decide if she should pinch your cheeks, your bottom, or both?

Hopefully, Better 'Bots and Satellites can act as your guidebook, a kind of A.A.A. for the M.S.T. crowd. Not everything about vacations should be vapid and pointless. Sometimes they are mud luscious and puddle wonderful. But, more times than not, they are true tests of one's moral, social and intestinal fortitude. Looking to the vast MST3K catalog for enlightenment, we can see the potential horrors that lay ahead for those roving retards who actually require the smell of hydraulic fuel, diesel engine fumes and deep-fried pemmican. So beware, mobile MSTies! The following abominations await you at each and every juncture in your journey.

#1. Come die with me: Airport squalor and plane travel nightmares in 614 San Francisco International.

Not so long ago, there was a momentary breach in time when air travel was considered a privilege. The richest of the rich dressed in their regal best to sip champagne and memorize crash safety instructions. Stewardesses were loose and wild, offer coffee, tea, milk and/or free love at the push of a call button. Large roasts were wheeled on gilded carts, and meals had that 'fresher than Mom' feel, as large wedges of steaming beef were layered onto tray tables. Important men smoked enormous Cuba cigars and ladies puffed away daintily on Tiperellos and Virginia Slims. People worked hard, and forked over large sums of cash in order to relax in the expanse of plentiful leg room, ample and supple elbow expanse, and more over head space than the Sistine Chapel. Overall, flying was a cultured endeavor.

Then along came deregulation and airfare wars and the whole system went to Hell in a hand basket, by way of a 2 hour layover in Atlanta. Sardine manufacturers, looking for a way to diversify their dwindling share of the canned fish market, leapt into the design and reconfiguration of airplane seating. No longer would the normal hinder fit in the L10-11. Kate Moss and Calista Flockhart became the role model for body type and shape. Seat size was formulated on the base 6 system, and head room sacrificed for overhead compartments large enough to hold a lemmings overnight bag. Smaller, more cramped and cheaper became the industry standard, and before long, those airlines that specialized in "no frills" started looking like jetliner versions of the Taj Mahal. First Class was recreated into a minimalist fantasy of unlimited liquor and small screen television, in a ludicrous attempt to hide the inadequate service and scrawnier accommodations. Second class became coach became business became economy became intolerable. Babies found their permanent place as middle seat fixtures, shrieks and odors in abundance to be shared by all.

Sure, some tried to buck the system. MGM Grand Air and Virgin both tried to bring a little something more than a floatation device to the midair experience. All they got for their troubles was financial instability and a minor footnote in Jane's Book of Retired Airline Trademarks. It was just impossible for them to compete when your average aviator wanted nothing more than a not-too-moist seat, in a not-too-hot, not-too-rundown plane with not- so-attractive or attentive menial to dispense flavorless pretzeled bread and an over-iced thimble of Diet Squirt. In the end, the common man won out, and your average flight became nothing less than a hanging-off-the-boxcar-door jaunt from New Delhi to Bombay.

You can sense the beginning of the end of air transport opulence in "San Francisco International". Everything that could possibly be wrong with an airplane, airline or airport are condensed and perspired out into this cinematic version of Memorial Day standby. Our trip begins with a staged midair disaster, and ends with a never-to-know-the-touch-of-a-woman young lad doing donuts in the runway with a stolen single engine Cessna. Pernell Roberts, as a hyperactive and depilated administrator runs this entire fissuring enterprise like his very baldness depends on it. Pilot David "I never met an orthodontist I didn't avoid" Hartman complains about the mushiness of the plane's nose, his failing marriage and his post red-eye flight underpants. Add to this hideous heliport a spaced out and Clu-less Gulager, gaping and slanging as an airport cop with a soft spot for the unwashed and hippy-ish, and you have the ingredients for one long session of air sickness. Don't hate Quantas. Hate this movie.

#2. We'll leave the fright on for you: Motel hell in 424 Manos: the Hands of Fate.

Everyone has seen them along the road sometime in their travels: those little out-of-the-way places that seem to appeal to hobos, transients, migrant farmers, women of wanton virtue or Nicholas Cage in "Leaving Las Vegas". Those antiquated neon signs, missing a few arches and connectors, spelling out cabalistic variations on a similar, ratty theme. The very air around them seems to reek of sweaty failure, alcohol, vomit, and stained, rigid bed sheets. Door after peeling-paint door seems to beckon one to the very entrance of Hades itself. At night, they are poorly lit, with shadows creeping out of the darkness, sharp and jagged. They seem cheerless in the hot sun of the desert and empty even with a full parking lot of travelers. They are almost always named after fairy tale figures (Peter Pan or Bambi) or generic nationalities (Dutch, Oriental, Pan-African).

Its these roadside rashes, these little motels, motor lodges, inns, courts and glorified rest stops that inevitably make up a good quota of the habitation possibilities on a holiday jaunt. Once glanced, the mind is easily transported back to the smell of a junior high locker room, the look of Willem Defoe's teeth in "Wild at Heart" or the feel of a queasy bout of diarrhea. Still, no matter how uninviting they look, leave it to Dad to drive those 3 extra hours and be so dead dog tired that the "Happy Squirrel Motor Inn and Diner" is the only place left available within 110.5 miles to avoid the oncoming interstate collision. Signs that read "Now with INDOOR plumbing" and "Newly Health Inspector Certified" should act as some hint. But eyes too bleary from the endless toil of the road fail to notice the strange skin pallor of the toothless, grinning overnight clerk, or the odd, dark maroon 'stains' on his overalls.

You enter your room as if you expect to find the Donner Party ready to sit down to Sunday supper and notice how easily the lock turned upon ingress, but how damn difficult it is to latch now. The beds appear to be carved out of solid granite and the blankets manufactured from the stuff they put inside padded mailing envelopes. Pillows come in two creepy configurations: marshmallow or extra crunchy. And, like a corrupt piggy bank, the 'Magic Fingers' vibrating bed device sits next to the dial-less phone. Everything is wrapped in opaque plastic, all the better to hide the failed attempts at disinfecting, and the louvered windows act as visual preludes to the police crime scene photographs to come.

But it is the bathroom that turns this disturbance into insanity. Across the rim of the toilet bowl is a sanitary strip, indicating that the only object that is conceivably clean in this entire establishment is the one thing you intend to constantly soil during your stay. The shower seems overused and overscrubbed, as if Henry and Otis had previously taken up residence in the locale. You immediately reach for the soap in a desperate attempt to scrape the filth of the experience off your shingled skin, only to discover that the bar is approximately large enough to properly bathe a millipede. The fact that these horror hotels are located so far from the beaten path actually has some unique benefits; you would have to be completely and utterly exhausted to stay in one overnight, and the distant whereabouts makes your death screams all the less audible.

Similar is the fate facing the family of perplexed and tired travelers in "Manos: the Hands of Fate". There are several things that should have suggested to this merry band of misfits that this rundown and collapsing structure just might not be the place for them to bed down for the night. Two of them are the massive knees of their desk clerk/bellhop/drooling deviant, Torgo. Like the huge cold sore on the bubblegum-glossed lips of the 'easy' girl in your period 5 social sciences class, Torgo, in his very staggering, stammering creepiness, should scream at you that there are certain areas within God's (or Satan's) domain that one should just stay the holy heck away from. And yet, needing a place to repose for the eve and spying a possible "kids sleep and eat free" deal, our dundering Dad allows his semi-coherent family to hiatus at the Casa Del Master.

And as it turns out, the Master runs quite a cozy little dead and breakfast. After the complimentary ogling and body groping by Torgo, the guest is treated to a floor show, which consists mostly of over-the-hill post debutantes dust wrestling (water for mud is $5.00 extra per room, per person per night). One can opt for the midnight show, where the Master truly gets down and funky in an almost blue kinda way. Meals are on the house, and on the floor as roasted Torgian palm fritters are flash fried to sear in all their unnatural slime and pussiness. If you're lucky, the Master will break out the desert Hibachi and mesquite spit broil a rare French delicacy: poodle. Just remember to pay your bill promptly and not to make too many long distance calls. The Master tends to avoid Visa and Diners, preferring, instead, you mortal soul as a guarantee for post 6:00pm check-in, or late check out.

#3. Fear Al Fresco: the pleasures and pests of dining in the taint outdoors in 009 Phase IV.

Maybe, just maybe, your family fails to give into the sheep-like temptation to grab the in-laws and run the road ragged with their brand new white-walled Uniroyals. Maybe, instead, Mom and Pop are sedentary behemoths who only move from their Barco-loungers whenever the hideous mantra of the ice cream wagon calls them to the rocks of gluttony, like sirens on the seas of butterfat. Or perhaps Father works too many hours for too little pay and can only find solace in turning pieces of knotty pine on his multi-speed, college fund draining, lathe into mini versions of a Joe Dimaggio signature baseball bat, praying that the strong and rigid lumber would magically transform into the spinal column of his boss. Perhaps Mother spends too much time at too many country club functions, sipping lukewarm Brandy Alexanders and hoping that the rather disheveled groundskeeper would somehow magically transform into Ricky Martin and sweep her from her pre-menopausal gloom into a Vida Loca all her own.

Or maybe the parental units have misunderstood the psychoanalysist's advice and confused the phrase 'quality family time' with 'burn charcoal and light citronella candles'. Nothing scrawls summer like the harsh scent of charring pig or cow carcass and the temperate crack of insect in bug zapper. Can after can of Deep Woods Off acts as the fragrant potpourri to the annual flesh feast. Anus, lip, hoof and ear are ground and manufacturer to specifically plump upon cooking, and at the sub-cellular level, bacteria like e-coli and botulism perform their own version of the toxic tango, just waiting for the moment that they can take center stage in your lower bowel. Potato salad runs the gamut from cold to warm to runny to crusted and beans are placed in odd combination with vinegars and sugars in a mad attempt at creating something appetizing. The holy trinity of condiments, mustard, ketchup and relish, return from their autumnal siesta and dream of a day that, along with piccalilli, they can rule the world like a culinary four horseradish of the apocalypse.

It's the family cookout/barbecue/BarBQue/BBQ and it is always well- attended. Usually Uncle Carl shows up with a six-pack of generic ice beer and proceeds to embarrass one and all with tales of his various boils and skin conditions. Aunt Helen appears next to give everyone a lesson in how to properly sweat stain a shirt's underarms. Your cousins Larry and Terry tag along, preaching their own ungodly sense of fun by suggesting you play doctor, only to discover that they mean "with real sharp things." Your dad's best friend Joe saunters in, wearing his disturbed psyche across his face like the gold ram's head ring perched on his pinkie finger. Add various and sundry incontinent and semi-senile members of the clan that you only seem to see at funerals and court hearings and the scene is set for a Dixie plate, lap feasting frenzy.

And all the while, as puffy and bloated humans push one more half-cooked mystery meat patty past jagged teeth, the silent majority stands at vigil. Waiting. Anticipating. Six legs poised to jump and move on any fallen crumb, to overcome and rescue any and all forsaken morsels. The ant, natures own vacuum cleaner, spends the majority of their day in three hollow endeavors. One is to find and feed themselves, moving heaven and girth in a comprehensive attempt to maintain health and physical well being. The second is to ruin each and every picnic, cookout and luau with their own pestilent brand of scratch and afflict. The final, and more insidious of these labors is the control and conquer of the human race. You see, ants have ideas, ideas that are more far- reaching and impressive than the little mounds they live in. Ants have organizational, filing and construction skills far and above those they let us witness in the simplistic tunnel show of an Uncle Henrys' ant farm. Ants are plotting the end of man's time on the planet.

Want proof? Look no further than the eerily prophetic film "Phase IV". If ever a scientific sleepover was ruined by a bunch of meddlesome midges, it was this one. You see, a couple of sunstroked scientists believe that a recent solar/lunar/heart totaling eclipse has caused those tiny members of the underground to "move on up" and build oversized bug condos in the desert. After taking a geodesic dome to its futile limits, they begin to run lame experiment after silly observation on the newly intelligent invertebrates. The younger, less heat prostrated scientist senses that the ants may indeed be talking to each other and he revs up his Commodore 64 for a full onslaught of complex computing. Before you can say "Fa loves Pa," he has determined that the ants are (a) up to no good, and (b) not very good in the public speaking arena, but generally have excellent debate skills.

Eventually, the ants discover the humans main weakness: central heat and air. A kamikaze mission to the cooling coils and our half-baked biologists become overheated hacks, running a and in muck. Throw in an entire farm family killed by a shower of Screaming Yellow Zonkers and a nearly incoherent female whose only purpose is to look fetching and/or afeared and you have a feature that only an entomologist could love. In the end, the ants discover that the best way to control humans is to take them to Phase IV, which resembles nothing more than the intro to a soft core pornographic movie. The ants would have been better off renting a room at the Chateau de Torgo and checking out the adult titles on Spectravision.

There are many other decrepitudes that face the weary voyager. The rest stop, off-ramp haven of the damned. The Stuckeys-like roadside eatery and gift shop, advertising food and T-shirts at prices so low you fail to see how they make any money whatsoever. That is, until you step inside and realize a glass of water is $10 and that necessary can of oil equals your company's GNP for the years '89-'92. The sight and sound of children, plucked from their unnatural environment and thrust, irritatingly and unmannerly into the sphere of civilized society. Branson, Missouri! Yet, through it all, one truth flows freely and fully; human seem to like all of it. The pushing, the shoving, the waiting, the stinking. These erect walking mammals really seem to enjoy it, even thrive on it, making it a yearly ritual more prized than their videotape library of "Mad About You". They cherish this sickness. They love taking vacations. And if you ever wanted proof that the human race is doomed, you need look no further than the sign that reads "World's Largest 2 Headed Cow - 5 miles ahead." For you see, there wouldn't be a sign there if someone didn't want to see it. That is truly sick.

May MSTie of the Month: katjar@frontiernet.net

Name: I'm known by several. My friends and family call me Kathy. Online I'm known as Katjar, Kat, and Auntie Kat. Telemarketers and bill collectors call me Katherine.

Other Science Facts: I'm 29 years old and the mother of a future MSTie, evidenced by the fact that once, in the doctors office, when my son and I were waiting by the elevator, I said "Push the Button," to which he replied "I am the Button!" He also riffed an episode of "Hometime". Everytime Robin Hartl scraped on some wood, my son would go "Ouch! Owie! Ow!" Needless to say, I was so proud of my kid.

Where I Live: Near the very rural town of Bear Creek, Wisconsin, population 416 (Sa-LUTE!). Bear Creek is approximately 40 miles west of Green Bay. And yes, I am a Packers fan, but I would rather watch all the others run around in a drunken, panicky mob yelling "PACKERS!!! PACKERS WON THE SUPERBOWL!!! WOO-HOO!!!"

My MST3K Experience: It all started one day, when I was talking with my sister on the phone. She mentioned this show she got hooked on that involved really bad movies and the mocking of those really bad movies. I was intrigued, so I asked her to tell me more. She said that it aired on the cable channel Comedy Central. When I heard that, I was disappointed, as at that time, I didn't have a satellite dish, and because I didn't live in Bear Creek Proper, I couldn't get hooked up with cable. So for a year or so, I have my MST3K experiences by listening to my sister describe 424 Manos: the Hands of Fate or 621 Beast of Yucca Flats. Funny enough, she never taped any of these. When I asked her why, she offered the excuse that her VCR was kind of weird and she couldn't figure out how to run the cable through it. Then, in 1995, my salvation. The MST3K Hour ran in syndication. Through that, I was able to see and more importantly tape 301 Cave Dwellers, 303 Pod People, 321 Santa Claus Conquers the Martians and a few others. But sadly, that ended. But around that time, we finally had enough cash to get a satellite dish. It was a big one with not many channels on it. But it carried the Sci-Fi Channel. So when Sci-Fi started airing the show, I was finally able to watch it every week. And Rhino started releasing the videos, and I bought all of those, too. Shortly after the show aired on Sci-Fi, we switched to DirectTV. And that's my story.

My Favorite Episode: My most favorite episode would have to be 512 Mitchell. My second favorite is Giant Spider Invasion. My third favorite is 424 Manos: the Hands of Fate.

Interesting Info: I live about an hour away from where the movie "Giant Spider Invasion" was filmed.

Hobbies: Reading, honing my writing, and sleeping. That's about all I have time for.

June MST3K Schedule on SFC

North America
{All times are Eastern and tentative}
06/05/99 - 11:00 am - [0803] Mole People
06/06/99 - 11:00 pm - [0804] Deadly Mantis
06/12/99 - 11:00 pm - [0805] Thing That Couldn't Die
06/13/99 - 11:00 pm - [1007] Track of the Moon Beast
06/19/99 - 11:00 am - [1007] Track of the Moon Beast
06/20/99 - 11:00 pm - [1008] Final Justice
06/26/99 - 11:00 am - [1008] Final Justice
06/27/99 - 11:00 pm - [1009] Hamlet

Europe and Africa
{All times are Greenwich and very tentative}
05/06/99 - 24.00 - [819] Invasion of the Neptune Men
06/06/99 - 14.00 - [819] Invasion of the Neptune Men
12/06/99 - 01.00 - [820] Space Mutiny
13/06/99 - 14.00 - [820] Space Mutiny
20/06/99 - 14.00 - [821] Time Chasers
26/06/99 - 01.00 - [822] Overdrawn at the Memory Bank
27/06/99 - 14.00 - [822] Overdrawn at the Memory Bank

Classifieds 3000

[This space for rent. Free.]


All material written by club members in this publication does not necessarily reflect the views or opinions of the staff of MSTies Anonymous. Endorsement of above publicized activities not operated by MSTies Anonymous should not be implied. Published material is subject to editing only for spelling, grammar, clarity, and formatting; other changes are not made without express written consent of the author.

Mystery Science Theater 3000, its characters and situations are copyright 1999 Best Brains, Inc. This publication is not meant to infringe on any copyrights held by Best Brains, the Sci-Fi Channel, or their employees. "Gizmonics" and all related elements are copyright and trademark Joel Hodgson. This publication is not meant to infringe on any copyrights held by him, so please do not sue us.

© MCMXCIX MSTies Anonymous
The Poobah
Jet Jaguar kret0419@blue.UnivNorthCo.edu
Zen Psycho zenpsycho@yahoo.com

"Gypsy, you've gotta have eyewash. That big-ass eye of yours..."

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