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SOL Post 51 09/15/00
SOL Post 50 08/15/00
SOL Post 49 07/20/00



S.O.L. POST


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Volume 50 http://www.msties.com/ August 2000
Formerly The MSTies Anonymous Newsletter: News for the Obscure Convergence
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GOODBYE, AUCTION!


In This Issue


From the Poobah
"Jenny For Your Thoughts" by Kismetgirl88@hotmail.com
"How Sweet it Was" by agent_moldy@hotmail.com
"The Gateway Con" by jam@townsqr.com
"Untitled" by Joey16000@go.com
"Better 'Bots and Satellites" by bgibron@yahoo.com
August MSTie of the Month: tvgm3000@hotmail.com
September MST3K Schedule on SFC
Classifieds 3000
Disclaimers



From the Poobah


It appears that last month's Gateway Con in St. Louis has re-energized the MSTie populance and demonstrated the ensured continuation of the late show's fan base one year after the fact. It was an honor and a pleasure to meet so many of my fellow MSTies (club members or otherwise) in the presence of four ex-Brains. In this, the 50th edition of the SOL Post are three additional accounts from the convention in addition to those already published. Please be sure to check out my story complete with 74 high-resolution pictures on our site.



"Jenny For Your Thoughts" by Kismetgirl88@hotmail.com


I've decided to do a short VH-1 Behind the Music special on the Del-Aires. Enjoy!


Narrator: Today we look at beach movie bands. Our first look is at the Del- Aires from "Horror at Party Beach", a little band that thought they could, and didn't. From their humble garage roots to bleak futures, this band fell. Take a trip throughout the rise to fame and fall to the heartbeak of defeat on Behind the Music.
The Del-Aires were a four-man beach band. It was made of Tom, Bob, Dale and the drummer Steve. Once a not-so-promising band, the guys now have all become relatively unknowns. Tom is now in mental hospital, Bob lives in a shack, and Steve is now owner of the TGI Friday's chain, and Dale has seemingly vanished off the face of the planet. But the boys were not always like this. Once good friends, they now vow never to speak to each other. No one even knows whose idea was to form the band.
Steve: I think it was Dale's or Tom's idea. I know it wasn't MY idea.
Bob: It wasn't my idea! It was someone else's. Why don't you believe me?!
Tom: I had Jello today...
Bob: I'll kill anyone who says it was my idea.
Narrator: The group formed and practiced in a garage and started to play.
Steve: We had planned on being one of those bands that got really popular, then you got sick of really fast. One of those bands that you want to pummel to death and has but only one song that is constantly played that makes you want kill them even more. Like Tony Bazial, the Spice Girls, or Right Said Fred.
Bob: We wrote a couple songs and played them. Everyone told us we sucked and had no talent but we didn't listen. God, why didn't we listen?
Steve: We didn't want to be big musicians or have a long record contract. Our plan was more down to earth. Become a one hit wonder, milk it for all its worth, and live off the roalites.
Bob: My mis-spent youth... Why didn't I listen?!
Narrator: But the plan worked. One song that nobody remembers got big, but there were fights the band.
Steve: I was angry because I was always in the back. You could never see me. But it was a blessing in disguise. One reason I think I have become the most successful band member is because nobody even knew I was in the band. You couldn't really see me.
Bob: Why did I insist be in the front. WHY?!
Steve: Now I'm the head of a restaurant chain that overcharges people on food and has crap from peoples' attics on the walls.
Narrator: The band's largest and final performance was in movie "Horror at Party Beach".
Steve: We were happy to get the gig unknowing that it would be last time we would play.
Bob: We got paid $2 a day. We were only there for 2 days, and thought it would take longer, but it didn't. I cost us $10 just to get there and pay for all the expenses.
Steve: You know the scene in "That Thing You Do" where The Wonders play at the beach? I gave Tom Hanks that idea. Sure he changed it and didn't pay me, but it was based on us.
Narrator: But tragedy fell group during the taping. Bob got addicted to sodium.
Steve: I don't even know how it happened. We were only there for two days. It was the quickest substance addition I've ever seen.
Bob: I one had live box and pan handing for sodium. I went to rehab years later. But as soon I came through the rehab doors and told them my problem, I was laughed at and thrown out. But I got off the sodium kick and now am a normal alcoholic.
Narrator: Tom went insane during the taping.
Bob: Tom was the most logical one, but he snapped faster than twig.
Steve: I think what caused it was Tom getting into some of our equipment and getting too close to those male beach dancers. After that, he just screamed and tossed things all over place.
Nurse: Tom will get very upset if we say the word 'Del-Aires'. You can't even say Delaware, Delta, or El-Airs, or he'll throw a fit. He starts to scream whenever there are male beach dancers on TV. He is also disturbed whenever he sees a picture of Tom Green and Drew Barrymore together. But that is normal.
Narrator: With Bob's sodium problem and Tom descent into madness, the band broke up, and Dale seemed to disappear overnight.
Steve: I think one reason we broke up was because Dale had been drafted into the war. I think he was killed in battle.
Bob: Dale I think he was abducted by aliens or died at some point, lucky guy.
Tom: I thought you were Dale.
Narrator: Even Dale's parents have no clue what happened to their son.
Dale's Mother: One day after the band broke up, he had the mark of failure on him. Then he just up and left.
Dale's Father: I think he changed his identity and went to Canada to form the band Rush.
Narrator: Wherever Dale is, he's sure never to come back. The band and their record never became a one-hit wonder, thus ending another tragic story of a beach movie band. After the break, we look into another band and air their dirty landry.



"How Sweet it Was" by agent_moldy@hotmail.com


As one of the many who attended the Gateway Convention, I can confirm what everyone else has already said: it ROCKED! Hmm, maybe I should re-word that. The convention itself? Eh, could've been better, but meeting the guys (and girl) from MST3K? THAT rocked!


I arrived at the Henry VIII (I did, I did) on Thursday the 13th, but there's really nothing special to tell about that day, so let's move on, shall we? Friday the 14th was the beginning of a most incredible weekend for me. After joining up with most of my group around noon (Cappers... woo-hoo! Ahem, sorry.), we headed to one of the most important places in the hotel: the bar. Lo and behold, guess who was sitting at the corner table? Yep, Mike, Bill, Kevin, and a woman we didn't recognize at first... until she started to speak. Why, it's MaryJo! Yes, Mary Jo was the "surprise guest" mentioned in the convention program. Who'd have thought she'd look so different with her hair down and less than a pound of makeup on her face? And I mean that in a nice way. Wow, there they were -- the Great Ones -- I was truly in awe.


At that time, I was the only female in our group, and a couple of the guys offered to pay me a grand total of $15 if I would stand up and yell, "OH MY GOD! IT'S MIKE NELSON!!!" Well, fifteen bucks is fifteen bucks, but I figured getting kicked out of the convention before it even started wasn't worth fifteen dollars. The MST folks left before we did, and as we were leaving the bar, they just happened to come around the corner in front of the bar. "Nice puppet," Kevin Murphy noted, as he passed by the MSTies Anonymous Poobah, who proudly displayed his (very nice) Tom Servo. A month later, I wonder if the Poobah's still got that grin on his face and if he ever let go of his Servo...


That afternoon, it was off to the open riffing session. The riffing gods smiled upon us that day, as we were given Joe Don Baker ("Mitchell") and Ben Murphy ("Riding With Death") to have our way with. Ooh, poor choice of words. Anyway, unfortunately, there was a very unfunny woman behind us who felt the need to yell her riffs at the top of her lungs. Why do the unfunny ones always have to be the loudest?


Later that afternoon, the opening ceremonies were held. The MST3K folks definitely got the biggest ovation... a lot of people were standing, even! Leis were then thrown out to all the convention "virgins". I asked one of my friends if she wanted one, and she replied, "Only if Mike Nelson is 'giving out the leis.'" Subtle, that one. After the ceremonies were finished, I headed up to my room for more film. When I returned, the MST folks were pretty much being held captive in the hotel lobby for autographs and photos. Often one to follow the crowd, I "held them up" for a photo, too. Mike's hand is on my shoulder in the photo. My "Only if Mike is giving out the leis" friend was envious, but she got to be touched by Mike the next day, so looks like I get to live after all. The rest of the weekend, one of our many jokes was that I had been "Touched by a Nelson" ...Okay, so you had to be there.


That evening, a second, open riffing session was held. This time we got to "Go ahead on" and riff on "Final Justice" (the uncensored version!), another Joe Don Baker "classic." Once again, there was an unfunny woman yelling her riffs at the top of her lungs sitting 3-4 rows ahead of us. Different loud, unfunny woman this time, but once again, I must ask, why do the unfunny ones always have to be the loudest?


Whew! All that, and that was just Friday!


Saturday brought even more fun for our little group. Once again, around noon, we managed to hit the bar the same time our "gods" did. And, like before, we admired them from afar, never daring to actually go up to them and say, "Hi," or something equally as benign. Saturday afternoon brought the first of two Q&A sessions featuring the MST gang. One hour per Q&A session just wasn't enough time, but that's all that was allowed because, oh yeah, there were other celebrity guests there, too.


After the Q&A, an autograph session was held. I dare say that line was by far, the longest autograph line of all! I almost felt sorry for the other guests whose lines weren't even close to being as long as the MST line was. I managed to get autographs and photos, and laughed much when my turn came. Kevin posed with his bottle of Guinness, telling me all about the goodness of Guinness as I took his picture, and Bill showed MaryJo his box of chocolates and warned her to stay away from them as I took his picture. Even after I had been through the line, I stood around snapping photo after photo as the gang signed autographs. One of my friends made a "Michael Nelson IS Lord of the Dance!" t-shirt for Mike, complete with the photo of Mike as Michael Flatley, and "tour dates" on the back. Trust me, it was way cool. Mike seemed very impressed, yet disturbed... That same guy is making "Touched by a Nelson" shirts for a couple of us. Lucky me!


That evening, I went out to dinner with friends, and missed the Masquerade party, but I hear it was quite a sight! Later, my group once again joined up in the bar where, you guessed it, once again, Mike, et al were there. Some woman literally hung all over Mike the whole time she was there. This time, I had enough "liquid courage" in me to actually attempt to speak to Mike. My friend and I said some rather crude things about the woman who had been hanging on him, but he was very nice and joked with us a bit. About oh, 30, 40 seconds later, we were interrupted by a couple who rudely pushed their way in and took over, and that was the end of our conversation with Mike. Stupid, rassin' frassin'...


After closing down the bar, some of my group... well, we'll just keep our various "after hours" activities to ourselves, and move on to Sunday, heh...


Sunday brought us another Q&A session, complete with Kevin Murphy running around with a microphone to take questions. A few, lucky attendees who asked good questions, as determined by Kevin, received TimmyBigHands hats, as well. Prior to the Q&A session was another autograph session. The line wasn't nearly as long as before, but was still long enough. Bill, Kevin, Mike, and MaryJo were even gracious enough to pose for about fifteen separate photos of the four of them with our group. I just wish I had a photo of the poor girl who took our photos, who had cameras dangling from each arm as she quickly snapped away. That group photo is one of my most favorite memories of the con. The only bad thing to happen during the group photo session was when some woman tried to horn in on our photo. I told her it was a special group photo, but she thought it would be funny to be the "stranger" in the photo, whose identity we'd all be trying to guess. She was wrong.


Overall, I'd have to say that had the gang from MST3K or my Capper friends not been there, I'd have been less than thrilled with the convention, especially with that loud, abrasive, convention worker woman who was beyond annoying. Regarding her, one of the members of my group said, "Can we group beat her up?" But aside from all that, I got to meet some of my online friends who I'd only communicated with electronically before, I got to meet the MST3K gang, had tons o' fun, and I went away with memories I will always cherish.



"The Gateway Con" by jam@townsqr.com


Day One: I arrived bright and early, only to discover that I wasn't quite early enough and had an enormous line ahead of me, composed of the dear people (like myself) who had waited 'til the last minute to register. There were a few disturbing moments (arriving there and seeing my fellow conventioneers for the first time), but all and all, it wasn't so bad. Although I did wonder, at first, if I was going to enjoy myself at all, as things started out so slow. I was disappointed to find that the dealers room had hardly any MST3K stuff for sale in it. I purchased a copy of Mike Nelson's book, Mike Nelson's Movie Megacheese. But then came the big thrill as I was walking out of the dealers room, who should walk past me, making a beeline for the hotel restaurant, but Mike Nelson, Bill Corbett, and Kevin Murphy? I was dumbfounded and rather thrilled... I actually trailed behind them a bit and glanced at them once they were in the restaurant. This was my first-ever brush with fame. I wondered what I should do... Should I run up and ask for autographs? Should I run up and simply say, "I love your show!" Or should I try to come up with some really smart, intelligent question or remark to impress them so that they'll remember me? Unfortunately the final option was not an option for me, since I discovered that when you're in the presence of a favorite celebrity, suddenly all you can think of to say is "I love your show." None of the smart, intelligent questions occurr to you until afterwards. In the end, I decided the option of "letting them have their privacy" was best. After all, one doesn't know whether they enjoy being bugged by fans in public or not. And unfortunately, since following around people and watching them every moment of the time comes under the label of "stalking," I decided not to stare at them in the restaurant any more and wandered off to find my family.


The next time I saw them that evening was at the opening ceremonies. They came up on stage and one of them (Bill Corbett, I think) said that, although they weren't drunk enough to do anything on stage that night, "Tomorrow night we will be!" which got huge applause. Also, it turned out that the convention's mystery guest was MaryJo Pehl, who besides being another bit of MST3K is my favorite TV actress, and so I was thrilled yet again.


Well, I figured that was going to be the last time I saw them until the next day, except that when I walked out of the Main Programming room a while later, who should I spot in the lobby again but all four of them, standing around by the door (as if they'd tried to escape the hotel for a while and been besieged before they could make it), handing out an occasional autograph and allowing themselves to be photographed by fans! I went into minor agonies at this point: on the one hand I didn't want to risk irritating them, yet on the inside, there's this feeling you get when you get to see a favorite celebrity in person for the first time, kind of a desire to just fling your arms around their waist, wildly shrieking, "I love you!" I settled for running up and getting all their autographs on Mike Nelson's Movie Megacheese book, despite the fact that only one of them (Mike Nelson, of course) had anything to do with the book. They were all very charming and normal people, not to mention funny. (Kevin Murphy signed, "Burn this book!" Bill Corbett signed, "Please enjoy my fine book!" and Mike Nelson signed, "Thank you for buying this so I can eat.") I also got to see Terry Pratchett (British comedy/fantasy author) for the first time this day, although I didn't happen to have a book handy so I didn't get his autograph. (I wouldn't have recognized him on sight, but I heard his voice, and he was noticably British...) I had a problem getting to sleep that night, partially due to having gone to bed too early, and partly due to the fact that I was still hugely jazzed about meeting the MST3K crew...!


Day Two: I woke up feeling decidedly better about the whole convention thing. This was the day Terry Pratchett gave his first little show (he's a really funny guy, and quite British) and also the first time the MST3K guys gave their show. After that, they had an official autograph signing. My brother had located an MST3K photograph in the dealers room and had them all autograph it. That picture is now hanging above my computer... I also caught up with Terry Pratchett and got his autograph in a copy of one of his books that I happened to have brought with me.


My mother had an embarrassing incident this afternoon; she had wandered down in to the hotel restaurant to get a cup of coffee, and since there was no one at the front desk, she waited around a bit. Finally, she noticed a waiter or someone stepping out behind the front desk, and turned to ask him for her cup of coffee. As the words were beginning to form on her lips, she noticed that the guy looked vaguely familiar. She stared for another minute, and then realized, with horror, that it was Kevin Murphy. She exclaimed, "Oh, I was going to ask you for a cup of coffee!" Mr. Murphy replied something to the effect of, "Well, it's a good thing you didn't, 'cause I don't have any."


This was also the day of the Convention Masquerade. Originally, I planned on taking part myself, but my costume came out too big, and at the last moment I decided against it. I wish I had now, as the Masqueraders seemed to enjoy the experience! My brother dressed as "Brain Guy II" which got him in with all the other charming MST3K-costumed people, including Mr. B Natural, Manos and two wives, and a Mike and a Servo! There seemed to be a number of technical hitches during the show, and MC (John Levene of apparent Dr. Who fame) filled in time by telling some of the worst jokes I've ever heard in public, but at least he kept the audience's attention. After the Masquerade was done I ambled up to the video room and watched the 1013 Diabolik until after midnight.


Day Three: Final Day. The final event of the day was the second MST3K Q&A, so the whole day just sort of built up to that. It was another very entertaining show, and I finally got up the nerve to ask a question myself, and it was actually something I'd wondered about for a long time. I asked Bill Corbett how he first got involved with MST3K. He began, "Well, I was arrested for drunk driving..." After that, the convention was over (still feeling brazen after the 'questioning' incident, I called out and asked the 'closing ceremonies lady' whether they would have the MST3K guys back for the convention next year, but she replied the negative) so we packed up and got into our van to start the 5 or 6 hour drive back home. The whole way I was thinking of other questions I would have liked to have asked or things I would have liked to have done, but I comforted myself with the thought there will probably be another convention someday, and then I'll get my chance!



"Untitled" by Joey16000@go.com


I attended the Gateway Convention with my dad. After a 7-hour drive from Des Moines, IA to the hotel, we arrived. When we got there I met MSTAnon with his Servo, and we talked and he gave me a pamplet for his site.


During the Con, I was shocked to see tons of Babylon 5 stuff and very little MST content. Bored, we decided to go back to our room (the Holiday Inn 1/3rd of a mile away from the Henry VIII) and I took a nap, washed myself, and did something very stupid: I sat on my glasses!


Don't worry, we managed to tape them back together and return to the con. There we saw a bit more MST3K stuff and I signed up for the 5-minute MSTing contest at 2 pm, the second happiest moment in my life (with the first being the time I discovered the show at 2 am on my local NBC affilate, WHO-13 in September 1995).


I got to see the "MSTie" guys up close, with their jokes and other shenanigans, then I GOT TO MEET THEM. MaryJo signed her name on the character list in my torn-up MST3K Amazing Colossal Episode Guide. Mike signed his name and I complained to him that I couldn't read his name, so I FORCED Mike to print his name on the cover. Bill signed his name for Trace, and Kevin Murphy so gratefully signed his name with the message, "What a mess!"


Then I had to get ready for the MSTing competition. My team consisted of a guy wearing a Pumaman costume and MSTAnon himself, with his Kevin Murphy- signature Tom Servo. We were supposed to start at exactly 4, but technical problems forced us to wait for 20 minutes. Once we finally got started, MSTAnon sat on Servo's side (acutally, his puppet sat on Servo's side and Anon did the voice), Pumaman sat in the middle, and I sat on Crow's side. We riffed on a 5-minute clip from a movie I'd never heard of, but I did well.


Side note: I'm a really good riffer and the movies I've trashed include "Miracle On 34th Street" (1994, yuck), "The Power Rangers Movie" (eww), "Single White Female" (double eww!), "Love Walked In" (triple eww!), etc.


After that, my dad and I decided to bid farewell to the con went to get a pizza. We both fell asleep and woke up at 2 am and took the 7-hour trip back home to Iowa.


And that's the story of my trip to the Gateway Con. Right now I'm watching the latest episode of the Israeli "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?". Bye-Bye!



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


Vol. 3, Issue 1
Meat, Taters: Woah man, I've got the munchies


I come today to sing the praises of food. Rations... Grub... Vittles... Chow... Groceries... Comestibles... to paraphrase Lionel Bart's ode to child bondage, by way of Charles Dickens, 'silage, glorious silage.' Now, I am not talking about that organic stuff, which is grown without benefit of advanced chemical procedures, limited hippie technology and a heaping helping of Bossie's own private anal Miracle Grow. I am not referring to the rapid fire cuisine that shoots out of drive through windows just about as swiftly as it passes through your colon, long lines, blockages and poor curbside manner all thrown in for good measure. And I am surely not discussing your Grandma Ida's Mystery Meat Soufflé Surprise, a smorgasbord of ham, sausage, headcheese, bourbon and piccalilli garnished with a maw-mastering mound of Durkee's French Fried Onion Rings. All of these would warrant enormous investigations by the FDA, FAA and People for the Ethical Treatment of Rectums. No, I am referring to the food of a more innocent time, when meals were nourishing and bellies full of homemade righteousness.


Isn't it amazing how far we have devolved in the last few decades? Where once food was fatty, sweet, chewy, dense, rich and satisfying, it has become limp, porous, empty of flavor and absolutely absent any nutritional, pallatational or educational validity. Fat free, low fat and non-fat have replaced the cream filling, the jelly center and the tunnel of fudge in even the most basic of food fodder. Examples abound to the dejection of the savory and the undermining of the sugary. Twinkies, once a bastion of palm oil and coconut fat wonderment, able to clog a juvenile circulatory system with just a tear of 'Twinkie the Kid's' shrink wrapped hat, have now been reduced to flat angel food pseudo cake stuffed with air whipped lint from under Mr. Hostess' toupee stand. Steak, the king of meals, the master of the dinner domain, hot and bloody, pleasing in all its carnivorous majesty has been reduced to a politically incorrect after school special, the bastard child of a vegan's waist bin. Don't even ask about heavy cream or butter. They have been banished, outlawed to a place in the 7-layer salad of Hell to glutton for all eternity.


Even chocolate, the most basic and primary of factors in the foodstuff foundation gets little or no respect today. Either its good for you or bad, it cures your PMS or causes bilabial fricatives. Smear it on your gums and it treats your cold sores, or your rub it between your palms and they grow hair. With the lone exception of Hershey's, which knows a good bar when it's been looking for it understands to leave well enough alone. They still make the same, safe bar of milked masterfullness that the semi-sweet Svengali of Pennsylvania concocted when looking for a sure fire aphrodisiac for the dangerously under-populated immigrant trade. However, in other parts of the cocoa-ly challenged US of A, these flat bars of opulent obscenity are Giradellied and Godivied into some sort of Euro-trashy truculence, making their basic recipe of solids and butters seem less like a discovery of the Incans and more like Napoleon's stomach plaster. Even Dove screws up a good thing by adding goofy, Zen-like nonsense to their otherwise splendid dark and light nuggets. Who cares if the world around you smiles like a dozen bunnies in a silk snowstorm: I just want tasty chocolate, dammit.


So what do you do? Where do you turn when the world assaults you like two peanuts walking down the Strassa and tells you to eat more fiber and decrease your intake of lard and other nourishing trans-fatty acids? How do you defeat the pitiable protectors of the portly when they decry the placing of hot fudge on frozen custard or the removal of the 'ala mode' from a gooey wedge of Dutch apple pie? How do you intend to live free and not diet? Well, "Better 'Bots and Satellites" has take time to develop a nutritional plan for you, heavy on the sarcasm and light on anything so illuminationally named. A review of several of the short films that have acted like a French fried potato garnish to the main feature hamburger samich dined on by Joel, Mike and the rest creates a complete dietary dogma, one guaranteed to pack on the unwanted waistlines and reduce the overall life expectancy of all involved. So let's review this new version of the four food groups, the MST calorie counter that will soon having you puffy, bloated and winded at the very notion of sitting up.


Food Group #1: Help, I've Got the Chicken Runs Poultry, in the form of "Chicken of Tomorrow" from 702 Brute Man


What do you really want out of a piece of poultry? Are you looking for succulence, a kind of mouth round fullness that screams 'pecking order' every time you take another juicy, luscious morsel between incisor and tongue and proceed to masticate the holy snot out of it? Maybe your looking for a richness in flavor, a meatiness that announces itself in your alimentary canal long before you feel it in the paunch of your pot belly and an overall deliciousness that hangs around like that dopey friend of yours, Hank, you just can't seem to get the hint and move himself, and his entire life, off your trundle bed. Well, if that's the type of bird you're after, my friend, then you are in a great deal of dysentery, as there is nothing like this in the industrial salmonella plantation, the cockerel concentration camp that houses the aforementioned fowls of the future.


And never before has a species been so aptly nicknamed as this gaggle of gangrenous game hens. Herded into steel utility style sheds and compacted into growing pens like so many Sardinians into a $1200 a month loft in New York City, these birds of a rancid feather have very little time, let alone room, to flock together. Instead, they are force fed grain until their livers explode with bile and botulism and their breasts swell to an Anna Nicole Smith after a Peanut Buster Parfait binge bountifulness and then, they are fed some more. Restricted in their movement and their ability to avoid cannibalism, they feast on and around each other in a mad dash toward an oven roasting rack and a date with the Lowry's Seasoned Salt. These pitiful pullets are now so vitamin deficient, so dietarily depleted in the basic makeup of food value that they become generic meat, capable of accepting any flavor that they are given, but offering no essence of their own. They are like cock-a-doodle tofu.


Still, this shape of things to capon offers an excellent starter for the MSTie looking to wean themselves off gourmet platters of fish sticks or the unnecessary loafiness of meat and meat by-products. By waddling down to your local Piggly Wiggly and picking up one of these runny, slimy off white carcasses and carrying the carrion home, you can feast your festering gob everlasting as you hope to keep down about 1/2 of what you actually take in. As this temporal tidbit roasts in your easy wake and bake oven to a smoldering pile of beige, you can sit back in the full knowledge that every germ, microbe and particle of inert bacteria is being awoken from its hen house hibernation and resting comfortably in the juicy giblets and gimlets, just looking to perch in your central nervous system. Then, with apropos side dishes of steamed creamed crap and a plaster log of penicillin, you can down this manufactured mold o' meal and take up a rollicking diaper road rash trip down the old flowing brown river. So when you got a hankerin' for some Buffalo style viral infection, or a casualty Cacciatore, then by all mean, sup 'til you chuck on the rooster than time forgot.


Food Group #2: An Udder-ly Repulsive Taste Teat Dairy, in the form of "Uncle Jim's Dairy Farm" from 607 Bloodlust


John Denver once sang that, "Life on the farm was kinda laid back," and for once, he may have struck the emotional nail on the head, very similar to his own noggin as it careened into the roofing material of the experimental air craft that he so skillfully turned into the Sea View from Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea. After all, a mentality geared toward the harvesting of fingerling potatoes and the sizing and grading of pork testicles must leave lots of time to lay back in contemplation. Otherwise, who would have thought of such an enlightened hypothesis as a hose like squirt of non pasteurized, loaded with grass and other grass born insect and insect parts, body and blood temperature calf formula, drafted with just a little pinch from out of the dirty, near the ass underside of a rutting in its own filth animal right into your open mouth? Explains the whole series of "farmers daughters" jokes in a nutshell, if you ask me. It must have something to do with drawing your own water from a well, or storing your own feces in a pit for future fertilization emergencies, but the average cultivator tends to find felicity in the most bizarre of places.


Take the hayloft, often cited as a place of carnal excitement and some serious rolling. Sure, maybe in the times when there was no such thing as the Serta Perfect Sleeper, the Seely Posturpedic morning and Grandma's feather bed, a good forty winks in a large pile of field mulch seemed like a high paid Tokyo Geisha's foot massage. But for every needle to be found in the proverbial stack, there were chiggers, aphids, millipedes and pitchforks just waiting to make mincemeat out of your midsection. And if you have ever had mincemeat, you know how nauseating that can be. Still, when you've been caught with your second cousin Merle and you are looking for a place to shy away from the altar bound shotgun shenanigans that your Paw seems anxious to commence to having, or if Maw baked up yet another batch of her county famous mountain oyster au gratin, then you could do a lot worse than interring your bib overhauled bottom under a wet, moldering pile of the lone prairie.


Still, when it comes to a primary focus for the dieting devotee of the scientific theater of mystery, a sweltering swig of moo juice is, aside from Keenan and Kel, all that. You see, Galileo was wrong. The world does not revolve around the sun on Uncle Jim's Dairy Farm; it revolves around the bosom of the bovine. A day's toil in the barn, hooking nipple to suction device and spreading ointment on swollen cow cleavage is all worth it, when the result is as hot, sticky and oh so gamy as fresh bull bullion. After a moustache producing mug of processed meadow dew, a steaming stein of steer soda or the familiar mouth to mammary, once can sit back, belly filled to the brim with gooey goodness, and chew over how quickly you too will process this steak milk shake and expel it from your own underside spit valve. So, the next time you think about a plate full of Oreos or a Carnation's Instant Breakfast, don't forget the most important part of the snack time ceremony: a long draw off a cow's privates. Mmm, mmm gag!


Food Group #3: Now is the Winter Vegetables of Our Discontent Greens, in the form of "Truck Farmer" from 507 I Accuse My Parents


Remember when you were younger, knee-high to an ant farm and Mom piled your plate large with steaming heaps of brocoflower and you screamed running out of the dining room, wetting yourself in a mad attempt to avoid and void at the same time? Or how about Aunt Hattie mashed rutabaga platter, a delish dish that caused many a bout of gastric dysfunction, forcing you to go to bed with a stomach distended like the Ambassador to Ethiopia, praying that the odor emanating from under the sheets was merely the result of the gaseous, not the solid state of your dyspepsia? Can you even recall a time when the female members of your family were not foisting those emerald landmines called brussels sprouts onto you like grenades at Charlie during the Tet Offensive, hoping to score a direct hit to your mouth while all the while the fragrant aroma of sulphur filled your nostrils, and your potential night terrors.


I bet that all that time, while you were passing up the parsnips and rejecting the radish, you never once thought about the thousands of migrant workers who sweated, toiled and illiterately labored in the beanless fields of Milagro all along the southern crop belt to make your little plate of black- eyed peas possible. Oh sure, they live in shacks that would have made Sethe's stay at Sweet Home seem like a bungalow at Club Med. And its true, their children must use and reuse their Huggies since the word 'disposable' is merely a suggested application for an underfed urchins diaper to these green bean gatherers. And don't let the fact that they had to permanently stoop their posture and their social position so that you could spit out that slick handful of okra. Just as long as the vegetables are fresh, force labor harvested at their peak and shipped to the store via surly Teamstered truckers, there is no need to worry your poor, mineral deficient head about the fact that a whole generation of the disenfranchised went to a great deal of physical, manual effort to reap that rampian you just chucked at your little sister.


God bless the truck farmer, the transporter of the tomato and the chauffeur of chervil. For it is in his gruff, hemorroided roadside manner and his welded metal State of Texas belt bucket buried under a balloon of belly fat that this noble load-bearer trots and shines and grinds and cleans and greens his way from one portion of 'Amuric' to the other in a frenzied fiesta of fresh fennel and pre-creamed corn. Sure, he does so on the backs of the wet ones who've moved from the utter poverty of the third world to the private hell of indentured servitude in the home of the free and land of the slaves. Of course he called you a beaver, since, you see, you resemble one in so many animalistic ways to a guy hopped up on No-Doze and about 60 liters of coffee. Does he care that he is riding your ass like that bizarre 'wart' you got from the toilet seat at the Public Library as he races behind your vehicle in an awkward one sided version of chicken? No, for you see, he is of the road rage righteous, a mammoth man of miles and piles as he moves everything (except his bowels) in a grandiose gesture of greasy spoons and truck stop trysts. And all so you can spit the wholesome and healthful winter squash out, you ungrateful little freak!


Food Group #4: I'd Rather Be Dead than Have Bread on My Head Grains, in the form of "Out of this World" from 618 High School Big Shot


Ah, the staff of life, the mana from heaven, the perfect platter for peanut butter and, along with water, the complete menu on your average prisoners Deal a Meal. Let's face it, you can't just wish away wheat, pass off pumpernickel or take rye on the sly. Without our whole grain grist millage we would not have a BLT, a McDLT or that hot dog like hell spawn on a hard roll the McRib. I mean, the whole McWorld would be little more than salads in a plastic tumbler were it not for the coming together of yeast and grain. After all, where would the French put their loaf? Or their toast? Would we even HAVE toast if it weren't for that splendid side dish to the messiah's haddock attack? Heck, how many of us would have had our bodies grow in only 11 or, say 10 ways, if it wasn't for a PB and J slapped between two wafer thin portions of bright white Wonder? In the long pantheon of food and food like stuffs that doctors and legal guardians have attempted to force feed us, none have ended up being so useful as that object which is just a skosh smaller than a breadbasket.


And still, we take it for granted. We sprint through our hectic days, gobbling down Reubens and chocking on heroes, poor boys, grinders and hoagies, yet never once considering the lowly rolls upon which our luncheon meats and condiments rest, its crusty outer coating protecting the soft, yielding internal fluffiness. Just spritz on vinegar and oregano and you're in Italian submarine mania, right? But do you care what the bread thinks? Do you wonder what Wonder frets about, or how Hillbilly feels about all of this? Are your only thoughts of Sunbeam followed by lollipops and rainbows? Do you care what cinnamon raisin wants, or are you more in tune with the bagel and his non- gentile breatherin. I, for one, never knew breads lead such interesting lives. According to this 'beyond the planet' short subject, your average baked good cares a whole lot more about his product position in the grocery store food chain and his Q visibility rating than he does staving off mold, and thereby creating antibiotics. Apparently where one rests their crusts in the intricate inner-workings of the grocery store shelf hierarchy makes all the difference to a kneaded knot of onion rolls. It's important to put the dough where it wants to go, otherwise sales will fall off like Robert Downey from the wagon and your hot crossed chignons will be a little more than just ticked off.


So, when you are trolling the store for a quick pick up, either in the feminine hygiene aisle or at the sticky buns display, remember that what you buy, where you buy it from and the exact amount spent could mean social and geopolitical life or death for these spirited piles of unbleached flour. One false expenditure move and you could send that collection of matzo all the way down to the pita aisle, and the last time I checked, there were still some tensions between the kosher and the Koran. It is up to you, the wise Crow lover that you are, to defend and protect the adequate and preferential placement of your best loved baked good within the proper and essential placement for impulse and binge purchasing. After all, how are you gonna bloat your belly like a holiday gobbler when you don't even know where the proper stuffing material is. One must not only eat to live, but one must also know exactly what to eat, from an advertising position, in order to create positive word of mouth and deep penetration into the market share. Just remember, one wrong English muffin purchase and poof, there goes the neighborhood.


And that's all there is to it. Grab yourself a too soft loaf of ultra white thin-sliced sandwich planks, add a grazing of autumnal salad greens, thrust in some slivers of putrid poultry and wash it all down with an alfalfa sprout laden glass of warm cow squirt. A diet fit for a fit, or maybe even a seizure. Try it for about 6 weeks and see if the pounds and inches, as well as the organs and upper layer of epidermis don't melt away. Incorporate warmer dairy into your daily caloric intake. Pray that the backs of the downtrodden and constantly uprooted stay strong for one more season so you can finally try that weird looking white asparagus, hopefully without retching this time. Live for a day when all food is produced via the Henry Ford patented assembly line fashion where fetuses of all genuses go from egg cradle to store crate, living their life in the span of a coffee break. Look to the future and marvel at the nutritional wonders that lie in wait. The self-basting ham steak... spinach that doesn't make your teeth grind... ice-cold milk! But remember, just because it looks like coddled cream, there is no way in this world that car temperature mayonnaise is a member of the milk product meeting house. It does not make a decent cereal topping. It sucks as a pudding. And it creates a lousy malted.



August MSTie of the Month: tvgm3000@hotmail.com


Name: Jeremy (TVGM3000)
Found out about MST3K: Late 1996
First Episode: 418 Attack of the the Eye Creatures
Favorite Episodes: 303 Pod People, 814 Riding With Death and 606 Creeping Terror
'Bots: Tom and Crow were both built in 2 months.
Why: I built my own Tom Servo and Crow for my school's Science Expo; it was about how the motions of Tom and Crow compare to REAL robots.
Grade: A+ and a ribbion.
Number of episodes on tape: 62
Web Site: www.geocities.com/tvgm3000



September MST3K Schedule on SFC


North America
{All times are Eastern and tentative}
09/02/00 - 09:00 am - PRE-EMPTED FOR ABBOTT & COSTELLO MEET FRANKENSTEIN
09/09/00 - 09:00 am - 1009 Hamlet
09/16/00 - 09:00 am - 1010 It Lives By Night
09/23/00 - 09:00 am - 1011 Horrors of Spider Island
09/30/00 - 09:00 am - 1012 Squirm



Classifieds 3000


GypsyJr512@aol.com writes: "I just want to let everyone know that I have some MST stories on fanfiction.net under the pen name Gypsy Jr. Please read and write a review! I'll be more inclined to write more if people tell me they like what I've done."


booboo@davesworld.net writes: "My Shrine of MST3K has moved to http://vonpookie.tripod.com/mst3k.html . Also, if anyone has a site dedicated to MST3K, they can submit their sites to either the Satellite of Love Ring or Torgo's Ring o' MST3K there."


johnny_longbow@hotmail.com writes: "Mat's Mystical Page of Wonder at http://www.geocities.com/johnny_longbow is a site for 'Bot building, tape trading, and of course, awards. Check it out."



Disclaimers


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 2000 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.


© 2000 MSTies Anonymous
The Poobah
mstanon@msties.com
Jet Jaguar kret0419@blue.UnivNorthCo.edu
Zen Psycho zenpsycho@yahoo.com


"These parts, puppet parts!"



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