_____________________________________________________________________________ 
---------------------------- I Bleed for This? ------------------------------ 
------11.26.94-----------------------------------------------------#036------ 
 
                Women with Tatoos Know Everything About Love 
                          Commentary by Snarfblat 
 
By now, IBFT has probably convinced you that you are surrounded by morons 
(and that you are one of them).  So it should come as no surprise to you that 
Machine Magazine exists.  It is an ill-conceived "cyberpunk" zine with a 
cover price of $5.00.  I don't know why a cyberpunk zine would be produced on 
paper in the first place; but that is the least of its faults. 
 
Inside the front cover of my free copy of "Version 1." of Machine, there is a 
photo of an ansgtful alternative guy.  There he is in all his stereotypical 
cyberangstpunk fashion: Billy Idol hair, pierced nose/face, metal cross 
around his neck.  Leather jacket.  Rings.  He is angry and rebellious and he 
has a scrotum full of mercury to prove it.  God you suck.  Not only do you 
have nothing intelligent to say, but you look like a victim of a shark 
attack. 
 
I think the Dead Milkmen said it best: "Ooh baby, look at you. Don't you look 
like Siouxie Sioux?  How long it take to get that way?  What a terrible waste 
of energy." 
 
I found the same picture in another paper zine, used as an ad for a place 
promising "fucked up hairstyles your parents will hate".  Why will you not 
listen to IBFT?  Destroying your body is not an acceptable form of rebellion. 
Stir shit up and kick ass if you think you have a good reason.  Otherwise get 
a job. 
 
Machine Magazine, which is not worthy of being used to wipe my shit off Gary 
Mitchell's face, also contains some crap which tries to be artistic.  There 
is the obligatory cartoon drawn by a retarded one year old, with such a 
stupid pretense that it barely deserves to be mentioned.  "ShadowVenture by 
J.M. Hauber: IN 1944, THE THIRD REICH,UNDER FIELD MARSHAL HERMAN GOERING, 
CREATED A TEAM OF SUPER-ASSASSINS KNOWN AS THE "SHADOW VENTURES". THIS CRACK 
SUICIDE SQUAD WAS THE ULTIMATE DEVICE IN NAZI GERMANY'S STRUGGLE FOR VICTORY 
IN EUROPE. AT THE DEFEAT OF THE NAZI WAR MACHINE THE GROUP DISBANDED. NONE 
WERE EVER TRACKED DOWN.  IN 1961 THE UNITED STATES IMPLIMENTED THIER OWN 
GROUP OF SHADOW VENTURES THAT ACCOMPLISHED SEVERAL "SILENT" VICTORIES 
WORLDWIDE.  THIS GROUP BECAME OUT OF CONTROL AND WAS HUNTED DOWN AND 
DESTROYED, ALL BUT TWO WERE ACCOUNT FOR, UNTILL NOW..........." 
 
[all typos and idiocy are J.M. Hauber's fault  -sna] 
 
I HOPE NO SHADOWVENTURES COME AND KILL ME IN MY SLEEP.  After the intro, the 
strip is 3 panels long.  The main character wears all black, smokes a 
cigarette and has a pierced ear.  I can't tell if that's an eye patch or 
sunglasses.  Who cares. 
 
Some idiot submitted photos of naked women taken at an airport.  How very 
industrial.  Here's my cyber-art idea: spray you and your bitches with plane 
fuel then chop your legs off and videotape you trying to slither off the 
runway as a 747 approaches.   
 
But the crowning jewel of idiocy, this musty wart picked off the ass of some 
pre-pubescent's idea of cyberculture, is a story by Gary Mitchell.  After 
spending the first 13 years of his life in a windowless box with nothing but 
his own vomit to comfort him, Gary stumbled out one day and presented the 
world with this tribute to his flea-infested colon.   
 
I have tried to keep the story as close as possible to the already-mangled 
form I found it in.  Line lengths, typing and spelling mistakes are left 
unchanged of course; pay attention to them, but don't let them distract you 
from the moronic intentions behind the story.   
 
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- 
TATOO 
 
from Vignettes of Vargus 
 
by Gary Mitchell 
 
He was sitting there as preety as a new 
Roosevelt dim.  Sitting there, one leg hooked 
over the leg of the barstool to steady the 
drift leeward, banging at the whiskey and  
whiskeys and spilling his guts to a woman  
with a tatoo. 
Spilling over the side, like a bucket too fulla  
rainwater. 
he was swigging and swaying with the jazz  
of his own invention, captuing her like 
enemy territory. 
She was biting. 
She was blonde, tattood, and a stinker. 
 
She liked them a little skinnier than him. 
Thin like the sax man's reed---never know if 
they'll sing or snap.  She licked her lips and wet 
ol'Reed. 
Then she blew a sweet soulful tune. 
 
He was half-mesmerized by her obviouys 
charms and lack of sophistication. She was  
sophisticated as a checkout girl and twice as 
savy in the ways of the world. 
 
The hat check girl at Marty's had twice on 
the ball what she did.  but then again Gloria  
was smart. 
And it showed. 
 
She was standing next to his stool, not  
doing anything to make him seem taller.   
She was a good six feet, spiked heels and all,  
and that put her shoulders and head over  
Reed. 
 
He hardly noticed because that put her  
nipple-high to her bosom.  And to them was  
who he addressed most of his conversation. 
 
She was silent as roadkill cat and twice as  
slow on the uptake.  She was slowed by too 
many rotten stories stuck in her ears and  
too little loving in her bed.  Tha tmade her  
melancholy  and that is stuf fheavy as 
cement to a woman with tatoos. 
 
Yet, rail-thin Reed kept plucking away at 
them heart strings hoping to catch a good sad tune  
she could whistle a few bars of. 
But no dice. 
She wasn't speaking to him. 
So he did all the talking for her. 
He didn't figure her silence for anything but 
flat out rejection, but he to to rejection like 
a duck to water---it rolled off his back. 
Sorta. 
And she was something to put in your eye. 
She was what the man called a looker.  
 
He told her eveything Held nothing back. 
About how love was a hard, hard road and 
how you had to possess the right mix of  
respect and compassion just like the carburetor  
had to have to proper mix of air and fire.   
And good feelings, they were important too.   
A couple had to know hot to get along  
when times were tough as well. as good.   
How to get over them rough patches---slick  
them down.  
How to talk about the little things people let  
go too long till it spoils their love and  
poisons their hearts againgst each other.   
He kept this up sensing her own deep  
rooted regret.  She even dabbed her eyes  
now and again when it seemed appropriate.  
But she said nothing, just soft  
grunts of "uh-huhs". 
 
This was like spreading manure on weeds.   
He just couldn't give it a rest. 
People ought to spend more time getting  
the details right.  The details were 
everything.  Just about everything. 
 
To the devil with the higher notions of good  
and evil, give me the details, he waxed on.   
He had the notion she wantde to listen but  
was feigning disinterest.  
It was a burning desire in her, he was  
assured. 
 
He wanted to say it all up front. Even if it  
was...well, kinda...you know... a little  
embarassing to talk so sweet about  
things...but he was pretty sure of his  
manhood so the topic of romance wasn't  
threatening to him. 
And besides, he was better or worse for  
wine and it softened his rock-hard 
disposition.  
He was fuzzy and furry now and getting  
sappy about folkshaving no secrets. 
Nothing they couldn't tell each other or say.   
Like late at night. 
When they would lay in each other's  
armsand whisper things. 
She stood there and ordered another  
martini.  She took his money from under his  
glass and passed it to Chuck Conners, the  
bartender. 
Obviously, not THAT Chuck Conners. 
The woman with the tatoos drank her  
martini.  Reeed grew suddenly quiet.  Was 
this to be it ---the sign, the symbol...the  
moment of truth...was she wooed and won!  
Had his charmes charmed her, the woman  
with the tatoos.He bit his lip in anticipation.   
Finally, she spoke. 
 
"Chuck.  Hey, Chuck, you think you could  
get Gilligan's Island on the t.v.?" 
 
Women with tatoos already know everything about love. 
 
============================================================================== 
            IBFT: If we hate you, you don't deserve to know why. 
 
                                Information: 
                           bleed@unix.amherst.edu 
       ftp.etext.org:/pub/Zines/IBFT  The Eleventh Hour (617)696-3146 
==============================================================================