Gotta problem with the gossip below? Sue me. Well,
actually, if you've got a "real" problem, let me know and I'll redact
names to protect the innocent.
Don't believe me? Honest Amos. In the last issue,
I had a request from an ex-girlfriend to remove all references about
her. Oops. Guess I really boobed up. Anyway, she
told me to zap the stuff, and *presto* -- it was as if she never existed.
Gardening After Dark with Wendy
Community Access Local Virginia Cable is proud to present Wendy Hannan
in her debut television appearance: Gardening After Dark.
This edition, Wendy explains the basics of gardening at night:
Well, it takes three people really. Two people
are responsible for the digging, spading, turning of the earth, and
Stay tuned: Next time, Wendy will explain the intricacies of
planting tomatoes in the evening. The series will be called:
Tomatoes Under a Tahitian Moon.
The third person is crucial, though. The third gardener
hops around the backyard in front of the neighbor's motion-sensitive
security light. As long as the light stays on, everything
is just peachy.
While gardening, it's good to have a shovel, a hand spade, and a
garden weasel. While not crucial, the garden weasel is
quite useful. It is easily distinguished from the garden
gerbel due to the weasel's double rotary blade action.
Other shows brought to you by Community Cable in Arlington, VA:
- Cuisinart Cutting with Chris
- Data Entry by Lisa
- Smoking with Scott
- Baking Biscuits with James
- Green Card Follies with Kikke
This has been a House presentation.
Christmas in July Party
A date hasn't been set, but folks from around the globe are already
planning a jaunt to D.C. to take part in a whirlwind of summer festivities.
Don't be left out. If you've been a loser your whole life,
now is the time to pull yourself up, get on the road, and join the millions
of hipsters that'll be letting their hair down at 704 S. 20th Street.
Are you a party animal?
Please e-mail gossip about yourself or others to The
Vomitorium. Feel free to spew about your friends. I
We recently made a call for personal ads (i.e., SWF seeks psycho roommate)
and cholesterol counts. The response has been less than spectacular.
People just tend to send in whatever is on their minds. That's great!
Except, in the case of quite a few of you, that ain't much to speak
Eric Hayot's cholesterol count in late October 1996 was 108.
The doctor told him that the count was a little too low, and maybe he
should eat some more eggs.
At the same time, Moira McManus had a count of 190, something hovering
on the edge of sudden death. Her doctor did not seem too pleased by
her tally of recent visits to Taco Bell. Here's what she had to say:
"I actually found this out this summer by accident when I submitted
to parental pressure and had a physical. For you men out there who've
never had the experience of a full gynocological exam, you won't understand
why I'd been avoiding this like the plague for four years. Let's just
say lots of wide-angle plastic instruments in
various internalized places are not the best way to start your
day. This experience can only be described as ick-yuck-poo."
Jay Lane, always p.c., is quick to note: "While I sympathize with
Moira's full gynocological exam, I've never been able to understand
why women feel they are the only ones to get this type of "pleasure."
"The thrilling rectal exam is a treat as well. Aside from the interesting
positions (imagine trying to kiss the floor while, at the same time,
striving to touch your butt to the ceiling), water hoses are involved.
If you thought a gynocological exam could be explained as 'ick, yuck,
poo . . .'
"The neat thing is that the rectal exam doesn't discriminate on
the basis of sex like the gynocological exam, so *everyone* has to
potential to experience the procedure in all its glory."
Two issues ago, we also asked for pee stories. They've been flowing
Liz Green writes:
In the wee early weeks of the semester, Jack & I had a tender
young first-year graduate student over for dinner. Darrel (said grad
student) was chattering away about his fascinating avocation in astrology,
when Jack made a trip to the potty.
He emerged looking a little alarmed, but didn't appear to want to
discuss it in front of Darrel. Later, he told me that he had felt
a peculiar burning session immediately after beginning to pee. It
seems the poor lad had been chopping up jalapenos and hadn't washed
his hands before heading for the potty.
He thought about telling the hilarious story to both Darrel and
I, but thought that perhaps Darrel didn't want to think about Jack
touching his penis while cutting up dinner. Anyone want to come over
for Mexican tonight? Australian felchers need not apply.
Another flushingly good story
This also flows from the pen of Lizrod:
While in college, I worked for a fine, upstanding, student-owned
corporation, known as the Corp. One of my duties as a shift manager
at the grocery store was to take out the garbage at closing time.
So, I had had to pee for about a half-hour, but having an iron bladder,
I figured I could wait until my shift was over. I merrily wheeled
the truck of collapsed cardboard boxes out to the trash compactor,
loaded the boxes in, and turned the key that started the compactor.
The machine was quite old, and rumbled and shook as it crushed the
boxes. This time, the shaking action shook up something deep inside
my bladder, because for the first time in about15 years, I wet my
pants. Completely and totally. I was so shocked, I couldn't even stop
the peeing before my bladder was completely empty.
Oh the horror.
Then I had to go back inside and lock up the store. Thankfully,
I had a rather long shirt on that day, which I tugged down as low
as possible over my wet tushie. No one noticed. At least, not that
I know of.
Depends diapers can be mailed to Indiana University. Once again,
Australians need not apply.
Hal Stiles, a random visitor to
this Web site, decided to submit the following inspired verse. Enjoy the
'Twas a party long ago, when I was just a lad,
I wanted to get drunk, but tequila is all I had.
I had a bottle of Cusano Rojo, in the bottom was a grub,
We decided to compete for it and therein was the rub.
We passed it 'round the table, chasing that last drink,
It sounds so very easy but it's tougher than you think.
I made the final move and gagged down that foul shit,
And proudly showed that worm to all before I swallowed it.
The room began to spin and my stomach was on fire,
I went searching for the toilet, but I soon began to tire.
I don't know when, I don't know how, my mind is still a blank,
But early the next morning, the worm was floating in a tank.
The worm, the tequila, some pizza and something brown,
Had all joined the poor goldfish, floating upside down.
A Round of Applause, Please
Doug Morris writes:
I don't know you, but I'm from Portland, Oregon. I visited your
Loppy Letter. Pretty nifty. I was visitor 481. I was so proud to be
that "1." I felt like my vote really counted.
This story comes from Peter McLean,
who hails from the great Land of Haggis. He says that he is studying at
university in Manchester doing a joint honours degree in Window Licking
and Communicating With Aliens Using Only Bodily Functions. Sure, Pete,
whatever you say. At least you write -- unlike my lame-ass friends:
I would like to submit a little life story about some of
your possible distant relations, the Lop family in Stranraer, SW Scotland.
[Editor's Note: The remainder of the story was censored. It was just plain
sick. Peter McLean, if you're out there . . . and I'm sure you are . .
. GET A LIFE! GET A PSYCHIATRIST . . . GET SOMETHING QUICK!]
My friend Davey Lop has a dad that leads an extraordinary double
life. When Allouiscious Hiscus (for that is his dad's adopted stage
name) eats a pound of mince (which apparently isn't that good when
it's in your face, if you get my salt flavoured drift) he magically
transforms into . . . Santa Claus.
In the past Mr Hiscus, a man of distinguished beardiness, had used
his facial hair talents to great effect in that thrash metal band,
ZZ Top. However, he was forced to leave the group due to him "not
being punk rock enough" for the band. Nevertheless, an exclusive source
close to the band later exclusively revealed in an interview exclusive
to us at Scotsport Extra Whine that the real reasons behind the sacking
had been his unhealthy interest in small mammals and young children.
Keep the stuff flowing in. Make sure to type "soapbox" on the subject
E-mail submissions to Soapbox Rantings.
Challenge of the Issue:
In 200 words or less, describe the most embarrassing thing
that has happened to you in the past year.
E-mail entries should include "contest" in the subject line. Send them
to The Loppy Letter.
Entries containing some semblance of creativity, humor, or strangeness
will receive extra points from the judges.
Every issue or so, a winner will be selected. The top entry will receive
a prize -- like a coveted mention in ,
an expense-paid trip to Rio, a dinner party for you and 20 guests, a
pamphlet on the caloric value of a Maine lobster, or $10.2 million.
The management reserves the right to republish all disturbing responses.
The determination of the East German judge is final.
Winner of Issue Three Challenge:
Red Dwarf takes the cake!
Last month's contest simply asked for a really scary story. Here's
what Dave McManus (alias Red Dwarf) had to say:
I've got a friend, I'll call him "John" (his REAL name!).
Making john gag is one of my favorite pastimes.
"John, imagine a pop can full of phlegm..."
"What if someone DRANK it?"
Then I laugh an evil laugh.
One day john came over and I had a special suprise for him.
A .jpeg from one of those RUDE newsgroups.
A "scat" picture. A dude eating shit right out of some chicks ASS!
I showed it to john, and offered him an emisis basin.
Then I made a crucial error, I spoke:
"Don't think about the texture...the taste...squish between your
Well, old John started gagging to beat the band. I was laughing
my ass off.
Then I noticed that now John was doing the "technicolor yawn" all
over my living room! OOPS!
It smelled worse than the shit in the picture probably did!
I learned my lesson.
Congrats Red Dwarf! You win a full-fledged mention in this publication.
And if I ever see you walking down the street, I'm crossing over to
the other side.
A bit scarrier for the long-time readers of this newsletter: Who the
hell is this Red Dwarf guy, how did he find this Web site, and does
he own a gun?
First Runner Up:
Alex McKinnon wins a toothbrush!
First a traitor executed at dawn,
Then witches three lead him on.
On murderers he did depend
To kill father, son and also friend.
But this just wasn't right,
So darkness claimed him in the night.
His accomplace driven, insane, to bed,
Then by the sword he lost his head.
A story that sparks loathing in every lad and every lass,
Yes, it's Shakespeare's MacBeth -- required for class.
Second Runner Up:
Jill Marsteller wins nothing -- except the privilege of having her
story republished. How cool!
My Dad has taken to exploring the Net on his lunch hour.
Not a problem, until I realized that he might find your publication.
[Editor's Note: Indeed, this is a *scary* story. As for your inability
to find the scarf story, please feel free to click on Jill's
Chili-Dog Story. Come back real soon.]
While surfing the Web during lunch, I typed in my last name. After
weeding out some advertising agency, 5 of the hits had to do with
either your publication or meeting presentations on health care reform.
Two referenced your name in the "Loppy Letter."
Figuring the "Loppy Letter" had to be a newsletter for a terribly
trendy, but liberal PAC, I gingerly called it up. The results indicated
that Lopata is obviously underutilized at work, has no life at all,
or plans a serious career as a blackmailer. But then again, if it
weren't for Chris, I wouldn't know about the scarf.
The reason I find this frightening: My delicate little Chili-Dog
story was sure to have impressed Pop. What do you think he's talking
about with reference to the scarf? Was it in a back issue? I couldn't
find anything in this edition.
To all other contestants, thank you for playing. Please come again!
Double Pleasure Publication!!
We want, yes we really want, you to have a fab time reading this newsletter.
We present to you *two* (2) features in the Double Feature Bonus Section.
Check out the following:
Choose wisely and enjoy.
Nobel Prize Commitee: Take Note!
The following data set is the paradigm
of 21st century scientific research. Some of the finest professionals
in the commuter community have come together to discuss, test,
critique, and yes, parade the following information so that travelers
around the world can hop the Metro with peace of mind.
The National Science Foundation in conjunction with
Swatch, Inc. with the assistance of
The Washington Area Metropolitan Transit Authority (WMATA) as prepared by
The House, Inc. are pleased to present
The Helsinki Time Trials as an empirical study.
To determine whether it is better, stronger, faster to walk from
The House to Pentagon City or Crystal City. Pentagon City is one
stop closer to D.C., but it is also a further walk from The House.
Inquiring Minds Want To Know:
Which stop? Pentagon City or Crystal City?
The data are still being accumulated. However, in the interest
of the global scientific community, Drs. Lopata and Harris have
opted to post their preliminary data on the Web so that all may
draw attention to this incredible information. Conclusions are
forthcoming. Feel free to draw your own and forward them to the
Why Is It Relevant to Your Life:
Visitors to this Web site may ask: Who gives a flying rat's ass?
Point taken. But consider the following hypothetical -- a true story
(although some names have been changed to protect the innocent):
A gentleman from Zaire -- let's call him Muyoba -- is planning
his first trip to the United States, and the nation's capitol
is one stop on the jaunt. Like many visitors to the D.C. area,
he has booked a hotel room in Northern Virginia. One day, while
taking a pleasant stroll, a stroll off the beaten path, he finds
himself on a residential block. Not any
block! He finds himself standing in front of The House
at 704 S. 20th Street.
Lisa Harris, with her friendly English disposition, and James
Thomas, with his friendly Southern hospitality, decide to take
the lost gentleman inside. They feed him, charm him with stories
of adventure, and casually inquire where he is heading. The man
says (and I quote):
"I am heading to the Metro, but I don't know whether I should
go to Crystal City or Pentagon City. Which would you suggest?"
Lisa and James, with a knowing collective smile, hop on the
Web and introduce Muyoba to this following information. Lisa,
a bit concerned about the lingering English imperial influence
on Africa, refuses to draw conclusions as to the meaning of the
data set. Muyoba should do it on his own -- thereby constructing
his own identity and conclusions. James thinks he studied something
about that in his English Lit Masters program, but scratches his
navel -- a practice commonly known as omphaloskepsis.
How often does this happen?
Tons! Lost wandering tourists, with their Nikon cameras and
backpacks, meander past The House nearly every day! In fact, you
may have done so -- and you didn't even realize it.
For the traveler who likes to plan ahead: The following information
will even assist in making vacation itineraries. Simply calculate
(in minutes) the amount of time that it takes to travel from your
home to Washington-National Airport, add 7 minutes for the taxi
ride to The House (22 minutes if you walk), and then factor the
following information into your travel plans. Good luck!
||Train Time (Crystal to Pentagon)
||Crowd Density (Train Color)
||Date & Tester(s)
||windy, sunny, slightly chilly
||Lisa dropped mail; almost hit
by 2 cars
CL & LH
||biting, very windy
||Lisa stopped at bank; bad hair
CL & LH
||sunny, brisk, damp ground
||Chris stepped in puddle; bad
||sunny and pleasant
||met neighbor Jeff who talked
alot; Chris left wallet at home
||Standing Only (Yellow)
CL & LH
||bitter and windy, esp. with wet
||Standing Only (Yellow)
CL & LH
||sunny; blue sky
||Lisa had 2 backpacks
CL & LH
||rainy and sticky
||annoying tourists on escalator
Destination: This is the Metro stop which is randomly
drawn from a hat each morning. The point of origin is The House,
located at 704 S. 20th Street, Arlington, VA 22202.
Time: Don't be silly. This is the amount of time that
it takes Chris Lopata, Lisa Harris, or both of us, to walk from
the porch of The House to the platform of the Metro station. Measured
in minutes and seconds.
Climate: All readings have been confirmed with the National
Weather Service. Really.
Adversities: Unexpected obstacles that may have affected
travel time. These factors should be considered in your overall
analysis. Aesthetic pleasantries (or lack thereof) have not been
included, unless otherwise noted.
Train Time (Crystal to Pentagon): Since Crystal City
is one extra stop away from Washington, D.C. (as compared to Pentagon
City), the travel time from Crystal to Pentagon have been clocked
using the Nevada Project Atomic Timepiece. Measured in minutes
Crowd Density (Train Color): Chris takes the Yellow train.
Lisa takes the Blue Train. Don't say we didn't cover all the bases
for this project!
Departure Time: As determined by the second hand on Chris'
watch -- a Pulsar Quartz; battery last changed on September 13,
1995. Measured by the hour, minute, and second. All hours are
Date & Tester(s): When we did it, and who performed the
Sappy Advice Column!!!
Time for a true story. In fact, this
may be the only item in the
that sounds like a bald-faced lie, but in fact, is 100% true:
A national celeb stumbled across
during the cold month of November. This person thought it would be "funky"
(the person's term, not mine) to write something for the publication.
Well, I was blown away. Actually, at first, I didn't believe the person.
So I requested verification. I got a phone number, and sure enough,
I was *then* blown away when you-know-who answered the phone. (Actually,
you don't know "who" -- that's the point.)
I recommended an advice column. The person said "groovy" (again, not
my term). But there was one condition: I couldn't reveal the identity
of our guest writer. Fair enough. We're into mystery, mystique, and
misnomers at .
After some serious brainstorming, we settled on a name for our mystery
person. In honor of the Communications Decency Act, the celeb shall
forthwith be known as...drum roll please...
Here's the Doctor's first column. I've solicited a few questions,
but the rest is up to you. Dr. W. awaits:
Dear Dr. Wellhung:
I've got a BIG problem. One night in bed, my boyfriend and I were
munching donuts and I foolishly tossed one onto his "dingie". He liked
it, alot. Now everytime we do the nasty, he wants me to do the donut
toss first. It's too sticky for my taste. How do I stop this crazy
ritual? To make matters worse, the donuts are pudging me up.
--The handy, dandy donut girl
Dear Girl Who Is Good With Her Hands:
You have a small problem not a big one. Measure the size of a donut
hole. Okay, depending on whether you really want to keep "pencil dick"
around, you can do one of two things. One, you can make your own donuts.
Donut makers are available at K-Mart. Day-by-day make the holes smaller.
Then you tell lover-boy that he's "too big" for the game. Believe
me, he'll bear it well. Or two, you can use crunchy, tough water-bagels.
Honey, one game of bagel toss will take all the fun out of the ritual
and if he leaves you (given that he can walk), the bagels will provide
Dear Dr. Wellhung:
All my friends are turning into lawyers. These were nice people
who used to talk and act normally. Now, if I mention "Sesame Street,"
they start discussing zoning laws, and mention that Bert and Ernie
would have to change their living arrangements in some municipalities.
How do I get them to talk and act like they used to before the J.D.
followed their names?
--Maybe the only non-lawyer in D.C.
Dear Maybe Not Scum:
Their mothers must be so proud. Anyway, the Doc is going to give
you some advice that always works. This not only works on friends
who are attorneys, but friends who have become doctors, dentists,
and plumbers. You interrupt them (just this once, it's not NICE) by
saying, "Oh yes, I forgot...I called your mom's house looking for
you because I thought you were home for [insert: the weekend; the
holidays; the funeral; money] and maybe you should call her. Out of
nowhere, she started to tell me all about her sex life with your father."
I guarantee that your friends will run from the room or simply freeze.
Whichever, they will revert back to the lovable friend that you knew
and it will last for hours upon hours. It has something to do with
jolting someone back into their childhood and causing a temporary
time-warp horror. By the way, my Uncle Sy was good... I mean really
Dear Dr. Wellhung:
What ever happened to my purple Nerf football? I just can't concentrate
without it. Last week I slammed my hand in the car door.
Remember your Marvel comic books that would now be worth a fortune?
And the Ronald McDonald plastic plate with the Hamburgler on it? And
how about that original "Sit and Spin" that made you barf?
Your parents threw them O-U-T along with your purple
Nerf football. That's right hon...Mom, Dad, and almost every
other American parent threw away a fortune in memorabilia. And then
the toy elves at Nerf found out that although "purple" is ususally
the first color kids like, they outgrow it fast. So the Nerf elves
(in the name of capitalism) went to colors that would attract a larger
audience. To sum this up sweetie, GROW UP. Bite the Nerfy bullet and
Oh yes...slamming your hand in a car door will only distract you
from your painful Nerf memories for a short while but ain't that ever
changing bruise a blast of cool colors?!!!
Dear Dr. Wellhung:
I find that computer sex is more appealing than the corporeal thing.
My partners are more nimble, creative, witty, and thrilling. Is there
anything wrong with me?
"The corporeal thing"...Darling, honey, sweetie, you're young and
too sweet. You're attracted to nimble fingers and electrons. Well,
that's a woman alone or with a vibrator.
As to the "quick wit," boobala. Women know that orgasms are mostly
brought on by what's in their head not what's in their pants, and
NO woman believes what a man says during sex -- if he talks at all.
So she listens to what's in HER head!
Of course e-mail or chat-room yum-yum is appealing. It's the best
of all worlds! However, as physically safe as CN (computer nookie)
is, men can be somewhat innovative and you need more "hands-on" experience.
I'll put you in touch with the handy, dandy donut girl (above).
The Doctor Is "In": Send your questions, comments,
problems (sexual or otherwise) to Dr. Wellhung.