LITERARY JOURNAL The ACST BLAH Serving Your Needs When We're Damn Good And Ready Vol. 1 No. 2 Later That Same Day Yes, But What Would The Children Look Like? Eye Speye Hello, again, ladies and gentlemen, it is that time to bang out some form of entertainment on this my keyboard once again. Yes, that's right, it's me, and I've got a few things to say. First of all, thanks sincerely for the warm reception of our previous letter. We're still looking for a name, although the Blah suits us fine. We'd like to involve you, the Great Unwashed, in our search for a true literary epiphany. We've got our first submissions now, and I've included some poetry written by yours truly, and also a stunning piece by a certain Miss Nour Al Mutlak. I'd like you all to give a big Las Vegas welcome to… Devils! But not just yet. Ha. I've still got a few things to say to you, my captive audience. First of all, we are still definitely looking to expand our staff. A few things can be guaranteed to those of you who dare to take up the pen every… however long it takes us to get this cute little journal out. First off, we are more than ready to grant you a pen name, or you can make one up yourself. We are a democratic organization here, even though we bow to the mighty power of the Mysterious ?! because he/she is just too cool for us. Our first meeting, if everything goes as planned, will be next Wednesday, so anybody who's interested, just pop in during open period. We'll be more than willing to fill you in on what's going on, how we think things should go, and yes, we're very much open to suggestions. If you've got a cool idea, then your idea's just as cool as anything we've come up with, and it will be seriously considered, and probably even implemented on a trial basis. Yes, folks, this isn't our magazine, it's our magazine, and ask not what your country can do for you, ask if they want fries with that. Come on, people, give some input here, and help to make ACST's first literary magazine a real success. Now that we're done with the corn, let's get down to business. By the way, though, I'd like to thank a certain Mrs. Elizabeth Thornton for giving us just the kick in the pants to get this going, and I'd like to thank the entire staff for their pledge of undying fealty to the ineffable incarnation of supreme power that is The Dreadful Eye. I watch from the shadows. Yes. Weather Report As you noticed, we did keep it from snowing last week. What more could you, the Great Unwashed ask by way of a demonstration of our fearsome power? Ha. I thought so. The weather report for next week is as follows: every night, it will fail to get dark. However, if you want another demonstration of our power, we will ensure that it continues to get dark every night. Ha. Bow down before us, you pitiful mortals. We are infinite. Ask The Doctor Dear Doctor: Why is it that we drive on parkways, and park on driveways, and why is it that when we send boxes on a boat, it's called "cargo," and when we send boxes in a car, it's called a "shipment?" I don't understand Laudislaus Nim Hocklenbeefer, Monditiouey Mr. Nim: I'm very glad you asked that question. I was just thinking the same thing myself. Actually, the word shipment comes from the Latin words "shippus," which means "that which is sent by car" and "mentus," which means "that which by car is sent." You figure the rest out yourself. Other than that, I'd just like to say that this is my first time on television… no, wait. I'm sorry, I'm extremely nervous. The Dreadful Eye's Poetry Corner DEVILS Ripped out of my soul, Torn away from my body, Slashed from my life, From my home Beaten like a Beast Chained like a Thief, Tortured like a Sinner, Branded like an animal, Tossed on a ship And sent to the cruel world. Death crawls on my body, Lingers in the air, Odor, Odor of Death. I dare to look around. I see what should not be seen, I hear what should not be heard. Howls of women ripped of their Honor, Screams of babies deprived of their Innocence, Cries of men denied of their freedom. Ghostly beings haunt our lives. Who are they? Spirits? No. Devils. Nour Al Mutlak When my Eye first fell on this piece, I thought it was an offering produced for our poetry class, but I realized later that it was actually an offering describing the Middle Passage, the route taken to transport slaves from Africa to the Americas and the Caribbean. I like this piece a lot, and I'd just like to thank Nour for allowing us to use this poem of hers. Cool. BIG SKY Dogs rule the night and this is just ribald martyrs curse fire from the sky So the fire rained down and Elijah damned the wine cursed it to the roots and died Seeping across the bedroom wall I curse this earth cattle sicken servants burn their chains Hunched over in death I caper with tears so in crying I rain down my fear THE BANDAGED FACE OF VICTORY Mother keep the fires high I am Grendel, do or die Burn the water, damn the wine Curse the sun, she fights to shine In truth Wishes fall and demons break Laws of Hell, the farmer shakes Light the candle steeped in tears Eat my soul, discard the fears Alone. The Dreadful Eye These two pieces are mine, of course, and I guess they're alright. Fit to print, at least. Just wanted something to round out the Corner. So, look, all ye Great Unwashed, it doesn't matter how good or bad your poetry is, at least give it to us so that the Cucumber and I can look it over, and if it's anything remotely like passable, we'll print it. Has to be appropriate, of course, since this is a school-affiliated publication, but we'd like to hear from any every one and all of you. MEALS I had a cucumber for breakfast I had a cucumber for lunch And I left a cucumber for dinner. This is a depressing meditation on the perils of insider trading on Wall Street, written by our very own Demon Cucumber. I especially like the way the Devil calls upon the true name of the demon, Azazel to rectify the mistakes that humankind has made in their hubris. Wait a second, that's a different poem. I'm sorry, everybody, but this one sucks pretty bad. UNTITLED Gathering flows through countless ages. Spitting curses at deformed babies Squandering time in senseless remorses Ceremonies prepared by insane mages Blood-red letters filling millions of pages The time has come The slaughter has begun. This is a piece by our very own Guillermo Rosso, and this time, I was right—this one really actually was from poetry class. Guillermo was kind enough to lend the Editors his entire poetry journal, but the Editors were too stupid and lazy to print more than just this one poem of his. Guest Editorial Flavor of the Month-Type-Thing The shop-till-you-drop urge can sometimes become an obsession. A support group, Debtors Anonymous, exists and people who have maxed out their credit cards and mortgaged their lives discover that they have plenty of company. This is a scathing editorial and satire on our society in this day and age, and was submitted by Guillermo Rosso. Mr. Rosso makes use of the technique known as "copy it from the board and fix the punctuation." Keep up the good work, Guillermo. Amok Is Run! BANGOR, ME, June 2, 1994 On the morning of May 15, 1993, Bremen Hickenridge and his family were out camping in Penobscot National Forest, but little did they know that they had stumbled into Devil-Potato territory, and that they had staked their tents in a six hundred year-old Devil Potato burial ground, sacred to all of the remaining tribes and clans of the North American Devil Potatoes. At 3:00 am, Bremen Hickenridge left his tent to find a place to urinate and heard a furious scuffle coming from the tent shared by his two children, Saffron (3) and Billybob (17). As he drew near to the tent to investigate, suddenly Bremen heard fierce chanting from the tent in what seemed to be the voices, he said later, of "elves, or gnomes." "Well, I went around to the other side of the tent to see if Billybob was telling his little sister a story, but when I heard the screaming, I decided that maybe something was wrong. Elma Sue [his wife of twenty-three years] came out of our tent and screamed that something bad was happening. Well, I opened up the tent, and I looked inside, and I liked to scream my head off." Bremen relates a horrific account of coming face to face with the fierce visage of the Grand High Potato Shaman, wearing full Chapaquiddicka war-paint. The potato's main body consists of a potato-shaped mass of vegetable matter with disproportionately large green feet, and two thin white arms with white gloves. Bremen describes the Grand High Shaman as having "big, red lips, like a woman's," and being "kissable." Of course, when interviewed, Bremen was still in a state of profound shock. When he opened the tent flap, his daughter was bound and gagged, and seven of the potatoes had already chewed off Billybob's arms, legs and head. Miraculously, Billybob survived due to his having a condition known as Buttus Heddis, in which an infant is born with a primitive secondary brain-stem in the region of the anal cavity. Surgeons are still currently at work to find a suitable donor for Billybob's head , leg and arm transplants. Elma Sue Hickenridge was quoted as saying "we want a head that at least looks a little like him." While doctors at Kennebunkport General Hospital continue the search for a new head, arms and legs for Billybob, his torso rests in a second-hand fish tank donated by the Devil Potato Legal Defense Fund (DPLDF). We recently contacted the Grand Shaman of the Passamaquaukus Devil Potatoes (the Shaman of the Chappaquiddicka potatoes declined to comment, pending legal action taken by the family for the dismemberment of Billybob.) The Grand High Shaman stated through an interpreter that "their land was desecrated, and there is no apology big enough, but I think that if Moogatar had not seen that one lone french fry protruding from the McDonald's bag, Billybob might have been spared their swift judgment." The Passamaquaukus Shaman also asserted that, "The American Indians at least got reservations. Our people were hunted down [and eaten] by those treacherous French-Canadian bastards." Bremen and Elma Sue have resolved to sue the Grand High Shaman of the Chappaquiddicka Devil Potatoes for "every last goddamn cent they've got." However, that may be akin to squeezing blood from a rock. If no monetary compensation can be garnered from the lawsuit, Bremen states that "I want those damn potatoes to pay us back in pain., and red, red, blood." But, of course, potato juice is clear. Hootie and the Blowfish front-man, "Hootie" Brown (whose real name, we are unable to include, due to legal reasons), also has a horrible tale to tell concerning an attack conducted by an as yet unidentified tribe of Devil Potatoes on a golf course while the band was teeing off at the ninth hole. "I looked up," he recalls, and "his [the drummer's] leg was just torn out at the roots, and there was blood everywhere, and these little brown things, just screaming and waving spears and gnashing their big, horrible teeth… He [the drummer] wants to stay in the band, and he's already written a song about the incident. It's called ‘The Real Peel Deal.'" Historian, John Edgar Riceman states that the North American Devil Potato was thought to be completely extinct by 1798. However, this horrifying and dramatic evidence has forced North American historians to reexamine French accounts of slaughtering every last potato. The mythology of the New England Indian tribes traces the origin of the North American Devil Potato to an incident in which the shaman of the Chapaquidick tribe choked on a raw potato and cursed the entire patch with his dying breath to a life of continued savage attacks on all human beings. Legend has it that that same night, the potatoes rose and decimated the entire tribe. However, biologists have come to the tentative conclusion that the potato is a fascinating life form that shares many characteristics with both plant and animal species. For instance, scientists say, the potatoes are composed of plant matter, but have a highly sophisticated mammalian brain which has allowed them to develop their own customs and language. Roger Emelhous, at the recently founded Center for the Research of Ambulatory Vegetables (CRAV) states that a similar species of "Weremangoes" exists in the remote jungles of South America. "These newly [re]discovered species may truly be the breakthrough species that links plants and animals. We need to study them." However, if the potatoes have their way, they will be recognized as human beings of a separate race, but if Bremen Hickenridge has his way, a bounty will be declared on the Devil Potatoes, and they will be eradicated from North America forever. Can't we all just get along? Smith Smythe, Troutdale Examiner. Far be it from me to disabuse any of you who thought this was real of your ideas about this piece, (that's a joke) but anyone who's already read this will know that I was sort of cheating to include it. This is a piece that Karim the Dream Gargum, and I wrote together late one night this summer while we were too bored to stay awake and too tired to go to sleep. Forgive us, for we knew not what we did. And this allows me to raise another point—the kinds of submissions we will accept. In short, we'll take pretty much anything—stories, recipes, anything you've got to give us. So try your hand, and give us something. I sound like a broken record, but I don't want to keep submitting my own stuff because people will start to think I'm insufferably arrogant, and that's just a little too close to the truth. —The Dreadful Eye From The Mind Of The Mysterious ?! Yes, all you pitiful mortals, it is I. Once more, I come before you to expound on the subject of something that I'm going to have to make up as I go along. This time, the subject will be… wait. Okay. This time, the subject will be those tags they have on mattresses, that you're not supposed to rip off "under penalty of law." I don't know if they have these anywhere other than the United States, but they make me feel like speaking in Elizabethan English. I don't know. What is it they really do to you if you rip one of those tags off? Is it just another one of those stupid, unenforceable laws like the law where you're not supposed to tape songs off the radio, or do they really throw you in jail with a seven-foot-tall, tattooed man named Boo? I am very interested to know the answer to this pressing question, but I'm afraid to just rip one off, because they might throw me in jail. (I'm not really afraid, but it would be inconvenient for one such as I to suffer incarceration.) I asked the Doctor, but he doesn't know. I asked Nurse Kyle, but she's afraid of walruses, and insisted on telling me how if you play that Beatles song backwards, it says "Surlaw eht ma I" over and over again, and she started crying, and I decided to just leave her alone. Can someone tell me something about this? Please. Of course, this is not to say that I don't know All and see All… but I forget sometimes, or I just like to provoke thought. Take your pick. Nurse Kyle's Health Hints, Or Something Like That Make sure there are no holes in the bag before you give it to a small child to play with. Wait, I know how that sounds, but there's a perfectly good explanation. If there are holes in the bag, the kid won't suffocate. So if you want to suffocate the kid, you need to make sure there aren't any holes. That is, if you want to suffocate a kid. Yeah. Okay. Did I ever tell you about the most memorable day of my life… wait, I forgot. Off Of The Vine And Into Your Head I am the Demon Cucumber! Do you, the Great Unwashed, think it is not so? I do. Well back to that thing. I would like for all our loyal followers to know that I was wrong and that there were seven (not really, but I want the Eye to get off my back). Speaking of Seven, that is a cool movie, huh? But always remember that—wait, gibberish…gal;jkghpsortuygn ba[gpa9rug—It's okay, he's gone. But always remember that the dogs are coming for you!!! Devils! Scared me out of my peal! It reminds me of my dear old cousin Moogatar. I don't care what the government got the Eye to say, he does exist! By the way, I have been recently informed that there has been a clan of primitive weremangoes spotted in Sbeitla, warring with the well-known Shidfesad Devil Potato clan. As you probably know when the Intergalactic Invasions Committee (ICKY) get hold of this piece of real news, I will probably be space dust. Wait, I think I hear one now—gotta go. Whew. It was just the Eye doing that thing with the wall that he always does. But for now, BYE BYE CRUEL WORLD!!! —The Demon Cucumber P.S. Is it just me, or is the Mysterious ?! really scary? Deep Thoughts From Nurse Kyle I've been wondering ever since I was knee-high to those things they always say you used to be knee-high to, why it is that when you put those things in a bottle and shake them up really hard, they don't just get sick and die instead of making fun of you and kicking you in the shins. Shake N. Bake's Recipes That Don't Taste Very Good At All Chicken pie without the chicken, and without the pie: Ingredients: Chicken, pie, marshmallows, cheese First, throw the chicken and the pie away, and forget everything you ever thought you knew; you were wrong. After you've done that, go out and buy a chicken pie. Throw that away, too, because that's just not how life works. Come back home and chew the marshmallows up one by one and spit them into a big pot, then put the cheese in, and whatever spices you have around, and then add water, and boil it all until you think you're just about ready to go clean out of your mind. Throw all of it away. Sit down and lament on the sad state of the world. There. Beaten Cheese Ingredients: cheese, a shovel, some chalk. Go out into the yard behind your house and put the cheese in the middle of the circle that I just forgot to tell you to draw with the chalk. Stare at the cheese until it bursts into flames, or you get tired. If the cheese bursts into flames, forget all about the recipe and go off and get rich—you're pyrokinetic. If the cheese does not burst into flames, roll a seven with the die that I absolutely forgot to include in the ingredients, but is still essential. If the dots are facing to the east, roll again because that's not what I told you to do at all. If the dots are facing towards you, then you're not paying attention. After that, get the shovel and beat the righteous crap out of the cheese with it. When you're done, sit down and rub your head until some of your hair comes off. Then go inside and get really scared. There. French Connection On The Run… As I walked into the bar, I thought to myself that maybe I'd finally found it, that elusive Shangri-La for which I had been searching for fifteen years now. The bar was in a small dead-end town in Sudan called El Zhafedlek'Ghabez, which means in English, "The Place of having beaten something into the dirt, then picked it up again and thrown it back down and jumped on it until it split into really tiny little pieces." This is not a direct translation, but it's close enough for government work. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am the French Connection, travel correspondent for the ACST Blah. I have risked life and limb to offer you a glimpse of the outside world while you sit in your padded cell and scratch out the years on your poorly conceived wall that really shouldn't be there since you're supposed to be inside a padded cell. The bar was sort of a hole-in-the-wall kind of place. Actually, it was a bar/barber shop. I suppose whoever first came up with the idea and money for the place thought it would really be funny to stick hair in people's drinks. Anyway, I walked up to the bar and took off my sunglasses with reptilian torpor. Just then, some idiot decided that it would be a good time to come up behind me with a club. I turned and fixed him with a cold stare, and he started crying and telling me all about how he'd never been right inside his head since hid gerbil Ghazi died when he was six years old. I turned back to the bar, and the barkeep was shaking with fear. "Who are you?" he blurted suddenly. I smiled at him and put my sunglasses back on. "Me?" I asked. "I'm the French Connection." The whispers about my coming echoed around the room like the rustling of dead leaves, and I smiled like a shark. "Barkeep," I said, "Give me a milk on the rocks." There was a collective gasp, and silence descended like death inside the little room. "Hey," I said, and smirked. "It does a body good." Poor guy. He didn't even know that that was the old slogan. With shaking hands, the barkeep poured my milk, and the tremors in his wrists were so bad that he spilled some of the milk, and began to cry. "Hey," I told him with another shark's grin. "There's no use crying over spilled milk." "How can I ever repay you?" the barkeep asked. "Look," I told him. "You don't want to get involved with me. I hurt people. I'm a loner. I'm married to the road, and I don't have time for anything else. I'll only end up hurting you and leaving you alone in some other dead-end town without a penny to your name. I'm tired of going through life ruining things for other people. If you don't get on that plane, one day you'll regret it. Maybe not tomorrow, or the next day…" "What?" the barkeep asked. "Oh," I said, and repeated the whole thing in Arabic, so he could understand me. Just then, I felt a stinging wasp of pain cut a swathe through my calf, and I spun on my one good leg and looked daggers at the man with the smoking gun. "Is that a gun?" I asked him. "Are you pointing a gun at me? You better put that thing away before somebody gets hurt." "Huh?" he asked, and I repeated the whole thing in Arabic, so he could understand. "Oh, yeah," he answered. "That would be me, and yeah, this is a gun. I think I'll maybe just have to shoot you again." "Insolent cur!" I bellowed. "Do you not know that I am the French Connection?!" "Oh," he answered. "Well, in that case, I guess I'll have to shoot you twice this time." I hate people who feel it's their duty to ruin a great line. As he pulled the hammer back to fire again, I pulled my colt .45 out of my leg holster and pressed the gun between his eyes. "You loose, Mariachi-man," I told him, and laughed coldly. I pulled the trigger. "Click," went the gun. "Oh my God!" I screamed, and started to cry. I pushed him backwards and whirled, looking for a place to hide, and then I started running for the door. Just then, I remembered that I'd been shot in the leg, and fell leadenly to the floor. "Hey, French, need some help!?!" a voice called, and Macho Cheez, my right-hand man came swooping down on a vine that I am still to this day at a loss to properly explain. Macho Cheez rammed her fist into the man's face, and hit the ground rolling (she was still dropping from the vine.) The two of us bolted out of the front door of the bar and leaped onto my hog before I realized that I'd come in a Mercedes, and not on the back of a big black sow. I whistled and the Black Mamba came skidding to a halt. By that time, I'd remembered being shot again, and so I was limping. Cheez jumped into the driver's seat as I piled into the shotgun side and shut the door behind me. "Oh my God," Cheez exclaimed suddenly. "This is a standard, and I can't shift!" So we pulled away from the bar in first gear , at 3.4 miles per hour. Mariachi-man came running up next to the window, and pumped the trigger of his gun as he screamed something in Esperanto. Cracks began to spider along the glossy surface of the bullet-proof glass. Damn these government contractors! I thought, and hoped the end would be quick. Just then, a brace of rabid ducks fell from the sky and blew fire at Mariachi-man, totally incinerating him. Once we skidded to a full stop, and we changed sides (I'd forgotten I'd been shot again), I turned on the afterburner, and we went rocketing towards the sunset. Just then, I realized that we could be burned horribly, and put on the break. We took a left down the dusty main street of the town, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Another narrow escape for yours truly… the French Connection. Signing Off Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we leave you to your own thoughts now, and we just want you to remember not to believe anyone but us about anything at all. Everything we say is true, and everything else is of at best dubious veracity. Yes, folks, we are happy to welcome our two new additions to the staff, the French Connection and the Doctor, and remember, Frank Zappa never would have done that thing he did if only he had known that what you do in darkness comes to light… if you're not careful enough. Poke those funky holes, everybody. And remember, forget all of that. Yes. Goodbye. —Dreadful Eye, E.I.C. Uhh… no. Um… well… not much to say… you know how the dogs and the cows get together and the stars and the moon, and they all start singing about how you were drunk that one night, and you fell in love with Mary Sue…? Don't believe any of that. The Government —The Demon Cucumber Executive Editor