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SOL Post 43 01/15/00
SOL Post 42 12/25/99
SOL Post 41 11/25/99


Volume 42 www.msties.com December 1999
Formerly The MSTies Anonymous Newsletter: News for the Obscure Convergence


In This Issue

From the Poobah
"Products for MST3K" by RMichel424@aol.com
"Better 'Bots and Satellites" by bgibron@yahoo.com
January MST3K Schedule on SFC
Classifieds 3000

From the Poobah

Well, here we are at the final SOL Post issue of the 1900's. I dare not say the word "millennium" (an entirely different story altogether) for fear of inciting riots throughout MSTiedom all over the world. The very thought that all of this could come tumbling down as the digital doomsday clock strikes 01/01/00 00:00:00 in each consecutive time zone across the world is enough to drive millions of "Y2K survivalists" to close out banking accounts, buy generators, hoard canned food, batteries, and bottled water, then store said survival supplies (plus the complimentary double-barreled shotgun) in a remote underground lair thirteen levels below the Earth's surface. Oh, wait... I just described our favorite mad scientists. Never mind, then. Instead, help MSTies Anonymous celebrate the year 2000 in style with our (tentatively) massive "MST2K" update on Saturday, January 1st, 2000. You'll be able to enjoy a new MST3K Trivia game from our Colorado Potentate-Elect, an array of new episodes' worth of coverage in the Experiments section, a new-and-improved Members' Forum complete with another new password system, and other tasty vittles to supplement all of those surplus canned foods. So boot up your Y2K-compliant computers and don your radiation suits as the pseudo-prophetic "End of Days" occurs, and be sure to ask yours truly how YOU can help out with our "MST2K" update. Hey, what is winter vacation for? See you all on the flip side.

"Products for MST3K" by RMichel424@aol.com

Well, MST3K will is gone. What a lousy way to start the new millennium. I feel the Best Brains in all their glory missed out on another product and that Rhino (thank God for them releasing old episodes) has missed a few product opportunities as well. I have taken the liberty to come up with what they've missed.
First of all, Rhino came out with another volume of shorts in October with a third coming later on. I feel that they should also make a fourth volume of shorts and finish up with almost all of them. Below is what I feel that they need to include on the next two volumes.
Best Brains, on the other hand, have given us two CDs of great music from MST3K, but they still missed some of the best. I have included my picks for Clowns in the Sky III listed below, all of which I have in WAV format.

Clowns in the Sky III
1. Cosmic Freight Train 0603 Dead Talk Back
2. Crow's Jerry Garcia Riff 0603 Dead Talk Back
3. Poopy Suit 0612 Starfighters
4. Sidehackin' 0202 Sidehackers
5. Love Pads The Film 0202 Sidehackers
6. Burning Rubber Tires 0303 Pod People
7. Love Theme Version 6
8. Love Theme Version 1
9. Killer Shrews 0407 Killer Shrews
10. Sandy Frank 0306 Time of the Apes
11. Bouncy Gamera and
Michael Feinstien's Gamera
0312 Gamera vs. Guiron
12. The Many Tunes of Gamera 0316 Gamera vs. Zigra
13. City Limits Rap 0403 City Limits
14. My Wild Irish Ireland 0516 Alien From L.A.
15. Whispering Christmas Warrior 0521 Santa Claus
16. Personal Theme Songs 0610 Violent Years
17. Secret Agent Super Dragon 0504 Secret Agent Super Dragon
18. Satellite of Love MST Alive!
19. Leave Bronx 0705 Escape 2000
20. Crow's Sonnet 0905 Killer Bees
21. Oh, Am I Sad 1002 Girl in Gold Boots
22. KTMA End Theme

Shorts Vol. 3
Mr. B Natural 0318 War of the Colossal Beast
Century 21 Calling 1006 Space Children
Robot Rumpus 0912 Screaming Skull
A Case of Spring Fever 1012 Squirm
Undersea Kingdom Part 1 0406 Attack of the Giant Leeches
Undersea Kingdom Part 2 0409 Indestructable Man
Alphabet Antics 0307 Daddy-O
Snow Thrills 0311 It Conquered the World
Speech: Using Your Voice 0313 Earth vs. the Spider
Progress Island USA 0621 Beast of Yucca Flats
Money Talks 0621 Beast of Yucca Flats

Shorts Vol. 4
Aquatic Wizards 0315 Teenage Caveman
Johnny at the Fair 0419 Rebel Set
Circus on Ice 0421 Monster a Go-Go
Here Comes the Circus 0422 Day the Earth Froze
Is this Love? 0514 Teenage Strangler
Design for Dreaming 0524 12 to the Moon
Selling Wizard 0603 Dead Talk Back
Are You Ready for Marriage? 0616 Racket Girls
Out of this World 0618 High School Big Shot
Once Upon a Honeymoon 0701 Night of the Blood Beast
X Marks the Spot 0210 King Dinosaur

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

Vol. 2, Issue 5
The Grift of the Magi: 'Tis the Season to Fear Folly...

How many times has this happened to you; you walk into a high-powered board meeting, your entire financial future in the balance. Like a teenager on a prom night bender, you see your fiscal life pass before your eyes as mortgage, wife and kids oppress and weigh on your shoulders like Quasimodo's body issues. Just as you make it past the oversized oaken doors with their overly polished brass knobs and equally impressive "real" knockers (not those phony fake silicon ones) your mind fixates on the word "meeting" and you wonder why something as painful as a grade 'A' reaming in front of your fellow future ex- co-workers has to have such a potentially friendly and inviting name. As the small of your back begins to cramp and dampen into a fiord large enough to supply a small third world nation with drinking water, it strikes you, right between the desperation and perspiration. Today is not the end of your economic well being but the beginning of your status as office pariah as you forgot all about that silly "Secret Santa" name you pulled 6 weeks ago and all you have in your sweltering and moist coat pockets is a prescription for Extra Strength Melatonin and several matchbooks from local "gentlemen's" clubs.
Panic gives way to anxiety gives way to dismay until bladder gives way. And as you stand motionless at the threshold, years of college and seniority, pensions and stock options and retirement plans sinking into the stinking puddle beneath you, another lightening bolt of reality hits you like Bing Crosby on a very special episode of The Real World. You could have avoided this. You could have actually remembered the duty that fell upon you when you agreed to pull that damned name out of that infernal hat. And you could have done a right nice Martha Stewart for one and all, with frilly lace and silver leaf covered kumquats and hand stenciled Japanese figure icons in intricate calligraphy spelling "Seasons Greetings" like a perky Haiku on a hand-crafted piece of recycled art paper made from the old growth forest thinned out by Jolly Old Saint Nick when he expanded his DVD division.
But no, you had to go and actually have a life, to try and make home, heart and head all work in perfect synchronicity to achieve that ever illusive, much talked about but hardly ever seen in its native habitat, American dream. You had to go out and earn a decent wage so the wife would not leave you, the credit card companies would not decline you and the kids would not contact local Child Services and proclaim you a neglectful youth rapist. You ran the rat race everyday in beat up Ked's and a fairly rank Adidas jogging suit so that, hopefully, one magnificent and resplendent day, you could walk into the boss' office and do your imitation of Johnny Paycheck. Instead, you are now condemned to be Little Jimmy Dickens, or worse, Red Sovine, individuals whom are the target of ridicule and ribaldry, yet somehow instrumental to their respected fields. Only Jesus H. Savior knows why.
And all because you didn't spend thirty seconds on your otherwise slow descent into death and madness, thirty cents of your meager take home post tax but pre missus pay or thirty shots of Bailey's Irish Cream to work up the nerve or verve to buy the Senior Vice President for Under Managers of Professional Human Services a Ronco Combo Pocket Laser Pointer/Fish Gutter/ Spanish Fly Wheel. They say it's hard to buy something for the man or woman who has everything? Really? What do you buy, then, for the man or woman for whom you want nothing? Or who has somewhat more than you, but not that much more? Or has everything, plus some other crap you never even thought of? Or whom you wish dead? Or whom you secretly imagine what it would be like to open the skull of and feast on the goo inside?
Well, "Better 'Bots and Satellites" has come to your aide in this hour of bequest bestowing bamboozlement and presents that you can present to all present at the present presenting presentation. All are 100% guaranteed to be unique, oblique and fantastique. Never again be frazzled, bedazzled and embezzled by the lack of a calendar imposed personal donation. When you give one of these ChristMST gifts, you not only show how much you care, but that you did not forget to care.

904 Werewolf Shape-Shifting Hairpieces
Does someone in your workplace wander the cubicles and sewing machine lines with a deluded self-image? You know the one, the guy with either a huge hunk of unwashed and dry-looked sideburn draped casually over his hairless pate like a layer of aluminum foil on a holiday squab, or a single row of microscopic fur plugs, so sparse that CIA spy cameras can count the actual number from space and have the effect of rendering the cranial crown reminiscent of a shaved Kitty Karryall. Does he think he is a Lebowski-esque Jeff Bridges when he is really more a Savalas-esque Telly?
Well, step right up and give him (or her, HEAVEN HELP US!) a new do review. Thanks to 904 Werewolf Shape-Shifting Hairpieces, they can have the vogue, confidence and public acceptance that comes from a well-thatched Dutch bob. They can choose from the overweight and wrought gopher look as sported by Joe Estevez, the stringy, oily, Kate Mossy look of his Native American cronies or the fiendish and questionable ethnicity of the ever metamorphosing head helmet of lead bad guy, Yuri. But if they are really bold, or bald, they can opt for the full blown kitten with a Dippity-Do torso and upper body lupine locks look, for those days when a person needs 85% body hair. With Werewolf Shape- Shifting Hairpieces, the office will find this once lifeless beau monde look "ahhb-soo-loot-ly fassss-in-eighting."

421 Monster a Go-Go Boots
Every office has a fashion victim, someone for whom the notion of good style and trend setting went the way of the saber-toothed tiger, the lost city of Atlantis and the career of Ratt. Perhaps you turn your head and snicker when you see them saunter into the break room, wide lapels and multi-pasteled faux fur surrounding the cuffs of their Cliff Richards signature silk body clinging nylon/dacron/pylon asexual blouse with matching metallic green shorts. And something in their hair that may or may not be a bow, but could very well be the missing link between dinosaurs and birds.
So why not help them along the dapper downward spiral with a pair of 421 Monster a Go-Go Boots. Guaranteed to make them 7 feet tall, lumbering and plotless. Manufactured in outer space by stiff and inanimate actors, these awkward, orthopedic like shin waders are 100% irradiated for instant leg and thigh sores and covered in something that looks like dried Cream of Wheat or rotten pizza dough for that pseudo stucco sicko chic look. The next time they crash the annual Christmas party, they will bleed out and die soon afterward.

820 Space Mutiny on the Booty Hot Pants
Or perhaps you have a female boss for whom the years cannot race by fast enough. In her mid-nineties, but dressing like she wants to date Freddy Prinze, Jr., she allows wrinkled thorax and bodice to freely and fatally flap in all their turkey skin glory. No shirt is too tight and confining, no skirt too short and airy. Its not so much that she needs to cover up as you require cataracts to prevent sightlessness from viewing her veiny, spider webbed and misshapen hocks cross and uncross themselves in front of you at the sales meeting like some sort of Sharon Stonian meets Granny Clampett genital geriatric gymnastics.
A pair of 820 Space Mutiny on the Booty Hot Pants can assure you of never ever wanting to engage in carnal relations ever again. Just give this gamy Lady Godiva some short shorts that no one would ever wear, not even in prison. Created by model/actress/Alzheimer's victim Cissy Cameron, they were designed with the express intent of rendering the aged hinder hideous and malodorous, while all the time barely staying in place and shifting in a fornication frightening manner. These mutinous thongs fight their anal captain and the only real victor is Ernie, the slimy janitor who has been known to hang out in the ladies washroom to "chase waterfalls." So give the gift that keeps on chafing; Space Mutiny on the Booty Hot Pants. Approved by the AARP.

206 Ring of Terror Jewelry
They say that diamonds are a girl's best friend. So are homosexuals. Does this mean that all gay men are diamonds? Or is it just Lorne Greene? Burl Ives (not gay, if there is a God) once opined that silver and gold, not red and green, where the true colors of the holiday season. And this came from a guy who sang of how a little bitty tear let him down. What about the little white cloud that cried, Burl? Huh? That defeats you as well? How about the Wailing Wall? When you put on a copy of "Beaches" are you overcome with a sense of failure so complete that you wish for your own personal island of misfit boys? Forget I said that.
Anyway, baubles, bangles and bright shiny beads are always a safe bet around December 25th. So why not add a more malicious touch with the 206 Ring of Terror Jewelry collection. Gathered by octogenarian college students attending the Old School, from morgues, cemeteries and crematoriums around the planet, these "previously owned" estate pieces will look fetching as well as frightening on the finger or eyebrow or "private area" of a jealous lover, battle axe-ish spouse or brown nosed boss. And the best part is that they are 100% recyclable. Really. You have no say in the matter. So the next time you want to appall that co-worker into an urban legendary coma, let ROT do it for you. ROT, old junk for new gifts. Temporarily.

614 San Francisco International Coffee
When you think of a refreshing beverage, what's the first thought that pops (or cold drinks, for you southerners) into your head? Clamato? Mr. Pibb? Orangina? Maybe its a hot steamy mug of Coleman Francis' favorite acting, writing and directing prop; a molten hot cup of Java. Joe. Good Morning America. Rectum's little helper. Coffee. Yes, nothing says, "wake the Hell up" better than a flaming flagon of baked, blasted and boiled Bolivian beans. One blistering lip sip and before you can shriek "Starbucks sucks," your nerve endings are alight with oversensitive stimulation and your pulse is fast enough to anchor a Moby remix dance track.
So when you furnish the favor of fine caffeine, why not go all out and bequeath the bounty of 614 San Francisco International Coffee. Harvested in the mountains of Hollywood by washed up A.M. talk show hosts (AKA David Hartman) each sack of pale and has-beans are carefully sorted, soaked and dry heave roasted until they have reached the peak of their career comeback. Then they are pulverized into a fine, made for TV, ground guaranteed to brew up mushy, flavorless and talent free. So forget the name of that waiter in Paris. The next time you want to remember the lead in that horrible sitcom about the doorman and the infected, talking wombat, just think San Francisco International Coffees.

Gummy 1012 Squirm Worms
There is a traditional gift among the lazy and the fool hearty who think nothing of traversing this great country of ours via trains, planes, automobiles and oversized motor homes in an attempt to recapture, or create from thin memories, some semblance of family life and togetherness during the festival of lights. Along the way, as they waste fossil fuels and fuel fossil wastes, they suddenly realize that the only thing missing from this annual dog and pony show is the pony (the dog is tied to the bumper, or better yet, frozen in a 3x3x3 airline regulation pet palace). So it's a quick trip to the Stuckey's for a pecan log, a walnut sandy or a peanutty juicy.
This year, avoid the fecal configuration all together and give the newest thing to come out of the South since racial insensitivity. Gummy 1012 Squirm Worms are a taste treat that only a conquered confederate could love. Or stomach. Raised on a radioactive dirt farm, these real earthworms are licked clean by an illiterate staff of inbred cousins and then, quickly, licked again. Then they are coated with all manner of corn and raisin liquor flavoring and sold to schoolchildren. They, in turn, pass the savings onto you. Buy a box or two hundred and furnish them to your favorite aunt, slightly likeable uncle or could absolutely care less about grandparent. Gummy 1012 Squirm Worms makes this promise; one nibble and they'll be hooked. Get it? Worm? Hooked? Fishing? WHOO!

Merlin's Rock and Roll Martian Monkey
It's amazing how rapidly technology is out pacing even the most talent heavy artist. The modern era of the DVD, CD-ROM, MP3 and BR549 make it possible for any Tom, Dick and Tone Deaf to convert his stinky sock drawer into an underground techno rave up acid base house rock and roll repository. Music truly has suffered at the hands of angry teens with questionable sexual motives barking drunkenly over distorted guitars and throbbing street beats in an attempt to sound relevant to a generation filled with ennui, intestinal cramps and decades of Fruit Roll-Ups. To paraphrase a line quoted by Max Von Sydow in "Hannah and Her Sisters", if John Lennon came back to life and saw what is being done in the name of music, he would never stop throwing up.
That's why, this year, give your favorite lost member of Generation Blech a Rock and Roll Martian Monkey (patent pending) from 1003 Merlin's Shop of Mystical Wonders. The soothing clan-clang-clang of cheap metal cymbal against cymbal is enough to drive any angst ridden delinquent in the direction of tonal and lyrical music faster than you can say "Cornjob." And talk about attractive? Who needs a high tech 2010 digital LCD readout with on board cost benefit breakdown and a really boss version of Tetris when you can sit and stare at a moldy old monkey in a racially offensive gypsy cap and jugular threatening full tooth smile. Looking at you. Deep inside of you. Into your very soul. No pre or post pubescent battle with identity would be complete without the Rock and Roll Martian Monkey. Remember the slogan: if it's not Martian, it's not Merlin's.

501 Warrior of the Lost World Action Figures
There is a sick breed of person in the world, one rotting lower on the social food chain than pedophiles or members of the Greater Danville Cookie Swap League. These human vermin think nothing of staying up all night, finger poised on the mouse button, waiting for the chance to outbid their fellow pervert on eBay. You see them scouring flea markets and fleeing scour markets in an attempt to quell their jones. Their insidious jones. Their action figure jones. He-Man, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Mighty Morphing Power Peons and the cast of "Mama's Family" are all part of their decomposed mindset. Its goal? To rid the world of fun and play and poly bag it for resale at a later date in G to VG condition.
That's why, this year, give these soulless fun haters an action figure that truly redefines the word 'inert'. The 501 Warrior of the Lost World Action Figure collection gives these bedeviled dufuses true reason to stand up and fear. There is the Paper Chase Guy, face full of man stubble and mouth full of marbles. Pull the string and try to guess what incoherent, non-plot essential drivel he is spewing now. Or how about the Persis Khambatta doll, complete with detachable wig for that "Star Trek: the Motion Sickness" hair coiffeur that all the dull, stalker-esque wan fans are craving. Or the Donald Pleasance, with performance goiter. Don't forget to buy the talking motorcycle accessory kit, complete with inane sayings and politically incorrect character descriptions. Or the Megaweapon play set, with real bombs for true maiming and killing action. But avoid the anatomically correct Mystical Healers marionettes. A little light in the loafers, if you catch my drift.

508 Operation Double 007 Game
Remember that secret desire you had as a child to cut open the neighbor dog to see just what made him so evil and mean? How about the unquenched thirst to vivisect your physics teacher in high school, when he gave you an F- for not knowing what D = R x T meant? How about that curious little pang in the back of your head you have about rendering your bosses body fat to make soap? And remember how 99% of your future serial killer standing was vanquished by that wonderful childhood game Operation. That's right, the goofy game for dopey doctors, or as it is called in 1999 massive medical malpractice liability. In the 60's, it was ok to mock the concept of exploratory surgery. And to provide the odd adolescent or two a mild shock that had them tasting copper and questioning their own personal self worth.
Now, kids in the 90's can have all the fun of the kids in the 60's with only twice as many drugs and ten times the violence. The 508 Operation Double 007 Game is a high tech revamping of the trauma inducing childhood favorite. Instead of a red nosed, bozo haired buffoon waiting to go under the knife, you have an artist's rendition of Sean Connery's talent and career free brother Neil. This dull diversion for defective detectives allows you to kill Neil over and over again, as you plunge into his soft, soft flesh (artificially created, of course) with a rusty nail. What's the object you say? Remove wrenched ankle? Unplug the lower alimentary canal? Nope just pain, pain and more pain. Sweet, therapeutic, healing pain.

322 Master Ninja Video Game
At one point in time, a violent video game was a must on everyone's shopping list. Digitally manipulated death masters with bad ass monikers like Nitro and Pyro and Remo had to fight to a fitting video demise as clots of gore filled the screen and sophomoric graphics spelled out right wing extremists chants of victory and defeat. And this was before the advent of Mortal Kombat, which took the whole genre to a level of violence seen previously only in the films of Hershel Gordon Lewis, or the life of Christian Slater.
Longing for a video game experience that has more Zen than mayhem, more peace than pace? Then unwrap a copy of the 322 Master Ninja Moral Assault game and experience true paralysis at its finest. As cheap Commodore 64 graphics crawl across your high definition television, you are a Van Patten. Don't ask which one, it's less painful that way. You wander the countryside in a beat up camper, gerbil in tow, looking for good times, hot women and Lee Van Cleef. After you conquer the evil sheriffs and reinstall Demi Moore's breasts to the rightful state of fakeness, you then enter the boss level, where a firm butted, post-"Moving On" but pre-Aamco Claude Akins attacks and bores you with stories about working with BJ and that insidious, incontinent Bear. Your final goal? To avoid cancellation and reach syndication, where you can get some real F. U. money.

These are just some of the potential portents of great joy that you can give those loathed ones on your soon-to-dismiss list. You can really paint the seaside blood red with 817 Horror of Party Beach Blankets, or lose a toe or five to the 606 Creeping Terror Bath Mat (complete with voice over narration). How about a set of Pretty Mind Hair Care Products to go with that brand new lycanthropic mane, complete with 18 pairs of false eyelashes and -ees? A little tube of ZaAt compound will go a long way to vanquishing your enemies and returning all metal surfaces to a like brand new glimmer. Don't forget the heifer in the family herd and pick up an industrial size teddy or two from the 523 Village of the Giants Lingerie collection. Or how about a 912 Screaming Skull Alarm Clock for that emotionally tenuous sister of yours?
Anyway you look at it, this annual commercial cockfight to provide everyone with something they can return ASAP on Dec. 26th doesn't have to be a mind altering and bending chore. It can be fun, like kicking a small child or subduing a family or raccoons in your gas furnace. Just remember, you can't spell Christmas without MST. Otherwise, it would be Chria, which if I am not mistaken, is the Hindu God of ridiculous god names. And Hindus do not believe in Christmas. Or Santa Claus. The bloodless heathens. Just for that, no 107 Robot Monster Bubble Magic for you. Who cares if it's the holidays? Go to Hell.

January MST3K Schedule on SFC

North America
{All times are Eastern and tentative}
01/08/00 - 09:00 am - [1006] Boggy Creek II
01/15/00 - 09:00 am - [1007] Track of the Moon Beast
01/22/00 - 09:00 am - [1008] Final Justice
01/29/00 - 09:00 am - [1009] Hamlet

Classifieds 3000

kristjo@flash.net writes: "I have the following items for sale, which usually go on eBay. I've cut the price for newsletter readers. MST3K CD: Image files of newsletter scans, fan club merchandise, early mailings, plus AVI files, and more including Frank Conniff's 1995 radio interview. $6 postpaid. MST3K VHS labels for episodes 101-512. Labels for the top and spine include title of the movie, name of the short if any, original airdate, and episode number. There's a color portrait of Tom, Crow, Cypsy, Joel and Dr. F on the spine label, one for each season. Printed on Avery labels. $12 postpaid. 1994 ConventioCon ExpoFest-a-Rama video. $7 postpaid."


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

"Kiss the bird!"

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