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          ͼ ͼ  ͼ   

         Doodah Humor Magazine     Volume 3, Number 11
                                            June, 1991
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Editorial Offices:

Charlie Radd, Editor and publisher
Paul Forrester, supervisory editor

plus a staff of K's submitting articles under various aliases
and/or real names.

The editor can be reached through the Politics Conference on the
ILink  network found  on PCBoard.  No guarantee is made that you
will receive  a reply.  We read the  mail, but we may or may not
answer it.
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                           CONTENTS THIS ISSUE:
                          Letters To The Editor
                      The Lost Art of Letter Writing
                         Don't Get Mad, Get Even

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                            IMPORTANT NOTICE!

Due  to a typesetter's error we must make the following announcement:  If
you  are one of hundreds of parachuting enthusiasts who bought our course
entitled  'Easy  Skydiving  In One Fell Swoop', please make the following
correction:   On  page  8,  line 16, change 'State Zip Code' to 'Pull Rip
Cord'.

                                Thank you.
                    The Montezuma Mail Order Company.

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Sirs:

Are  any  of  the  letters  going to be real next issue?  Please reply as
soon  as possible, as I have a bet with my boyfriend on who's going to do
the housework for a month.

F.K.,
Portland, Oregon


Editor's  Reply:   We hope so.  We are reliably informed that Miss Debbie
Raymond   is   at  this  very  minute  processing  some  genuine  letters
downstairs.   You  will be able to tell the real thing.  They all read as
if  they've been written by a drunk after a party who has, unfortunately,
lost  the  letters  file.   The  made  up ones, we find, have a much more
sober air about them.

---------------

Sirs:

I  cannot  fully  express  how disappointed I am with the content of your
magazine.   It  used  to  be of a steamy X-rated consistency and I always
bought   it  --  willingly  going  without  such  essentials  as  hamster
deodorant  for my pets to ensure I got my copy, despite the huge purchase
price.

Now,  alas, I am not interested in your publication which I can no longer
make head or tail of.

You  see,  I  suffer  from a handicap in life.  To put it simply, without
using  medical  jargon,  I can only *read* the letter X.  Therefore, most
printed words are nonsense to me.

This  is not as rare a handicap as you may think, and I am astounded that
you  make  no  concessions to us X-literate people.  The odd inclusion of
words  like  Xerxes,  for  example,  would make all the difference to our
enjoyment.

Yours Truly,
Xavier Xenophob,
North Kansas City, Missouri


Editor's  Reply:   Regular readers will remember that all letters seeming
to  come from North Kansas City are made up.  Except, that is, those that
really  do  come  from  North  Kansas City which we always sign off as if
they came from Dayton (which is in Ohio and takes a lot less typing).

----------------

Sirs:

I  like  most  of  all  the  close-up  shots  you  feature  in your great
publication,  especially the asses in tight panties.  Can we see a set of
lovely  buttocks  encased  in  white,  see  through panties, close up and
polka  dotted for that final effect?  One shot should feature the covered
cheeks  and  the  next the cheeks exposed and the panties pulled up tight
between them?

Hear my plea.
Regards,
P.L., Chicago


Editor's  Reply:   This  letter  has  been  scientifically  altered  by a
computer.   We  apologize for any annoyance or inconvenience to Mr. P.L.,
who was trying to say something entirely different.

---------------

Sirs:

I just read Weirdhouse Number 309, and boy are my lips tired.

Ronald Reagan,
Washington, D.C.

---------------

Sirs:

Ashtrays  are aliens from outer space!  That's right, I said ashtrays are
aliens  from  outer  space.   They might act very quiet, but they're just
waiting for the right moment to strike.  Here is my proof:

     -- Ashtrays all look alike
     -- Ashtrays all smell alike
     -- Ashtrays sit in on important meetings
     -- Ashtrays make a humming noise (if you listen carefully)

What  can  we  do about it?  I don't know.  But putting out cigarettes in
ashtrays  should  be  avoided at all costs, because it really pisses them
off.   Also, never throw a cigarette into a toilet, because they're in on
it, too.  And there are billions and billions of ashtrays and toilets.

Carl Sagan,
Jet Propulsion Laboratory


Editor'  Reply:   We  thank  you  for  your  kind  offer,  but due to the
necessarily   limited   size   of  "Nutworks",  we  cannot  accept  large
documentary-type pieces for publication.

--------------

Sirs:

I  can't  take it any more.  I have to come forward.  It was *ME* to whom
Shirley  Maclaine  was referring to when she spoke of the incident in her
past  life  when  she  was  raped by a Mongol invader.  *I* am the Mongol
warrior  whom  she says allegedly attacked and raped her.  However, I can
no  longer  take  her  lies.   It  wasn't  her.   It  was,  ummmm, Morgan
Fairchild, whom I've slept with.  Yeah, that's the ticket.

Tommy "Ghengis" Flanaghan,
Upper Manchuria and Tibet


Editor's  Reply:   We  wish  to  thank  Mr.  Flanaghan  for  his shocking
expose.   Rest assured that will even go so far as to say that we will go
"out  on  a  limb"  to  bring  you  the  shocking details of this amazing
development.

---------------

Sirs:

There  have  been  allegations  that  members  of  the Indianapolis Colts
defensive  squad have been seen hanging out in notorious gay bars such as
the  Don't  Drop  The  Soap bar and others.  Let me explain.  As coach, I
decided  that, to bolster our weak defense, we had to add a new dimension
to  our game plan, so I ordered my men to the gay bars.  Now, whenever an
opposing  player  gets  the  ball,  he  must  worry  not only about being
tackled, but about getting boned up the ass as well.

Coach Ron Meyer,
Indianapolis, Indiana


Editor's  Reply:   Kind  of  gives a whole new meaning to the position of
"tight end", though, doesn't it.

---------------

Readers:

How  many  of  you  could  see the previous reply coming down Main Street
with flags and banners?

---------------

Editor:

Ah,  yes.  We know we're in the middle of summer when the Sparrows return
to  cappuccino.   Yes, once again, the Sparrow family, George and Edna of
Brooklyn,  have  started  drinking  cappuccino.  They go back to it every
year  at  this  time, and I don't blame them.  Who can stand espresso all
the time?

Sterling Rodroar,
Giulissimo's Restaurant


Editor's  Reply:  Roddy, we are still waiting for the next installment of
"Cheerleader With Hot Wet Panties" for our feature book section.


                             ===============

    At  one  time  no  guide  for good etiquette would have been complete
without  many  chaptters  on  letter  writing:   the  forms of address to
various  important  persons,  the  best way to arrange the content of the
missive, and the correct way to sign off.

    The  fact  that  I have come to it so late in my column shows how the
letter has fallen in usefulness in these barbarous times.

    Nowadays,  as a result of television, incomprehensible schooling, and
the  telephone,  it is an outmoded form of communication.  Even among the
gentle  class  of  person,  those  who  still  *can* write do not bother,
knowing,  as  they  do,  that  the few people who *can* still read are no
longer able properly to *understand* thr written word.

    A  glance  at  any  computer bulletin board message base will readily
confirm  this,  res  ipsa  loquitur.   Filled  to  the  gills  with gross
misspellings  and  the  use  of  wrong  words  -- "your" when "you're" is
clearly  called  for,  the  constant  misuse  and  confusion  of "there",
"their",  and  "they're", the ever-present "alot" instead of "a lot", and
the  exchanging  of  "loose"  for "lose" (the former meaning loose, as in
not  tight, and the latter meaning to lose, as in lost, can't find, etc.)
--these  message  bases  show  the  horrendous  failings  present  in our
educational  system.   It's  probably a good thing these types don't take
pen  in  hand  to scribe a letter, else they show *in their own hand* how
woefully  inept at the basic art of communication they are.  At least, on
a bulletin board, they can claim the sabotage of line noise.

    FORMS  OF  ADDRESS:   These  have  sunk to murky depths of vulgarity.
Take,  as  an  example,  a  letter written to one of the highest reigning
monarchs  in the world.  In the old days, a letter to the Prince of Wales
would read:

Sir, (written by hand)
    As  your  Royal highness has intimated a desire to honour my house by
shooting  duck  here  this  day  se'n-night, may I humbly enquire whether
your  Royal  Highness would prefer six crates of champagne in the punt or
five  of  champagne and three of claret as last year.  Knowing this would
make  it easier for me to arrange insurance for my beaters, dogs, and the
other guests.
     (the above paragraph may be typewritten)
    I  remain,  sir,  your  Royal  Highness's  most  loyal  and  obedient
servant.

    Your name (the above two lines to be written by hand)

    By  the  way, for those in the uninitiated class of gracious writing,
"se'n-night"  is  similar  to  "fortnight".  Whereas "fortnight" is short
for  "fourteen nights", can you guess what "se'n-night" might be?  If you
said "seven nights", give yourself 5 bonus points.

    And  so  it  was  -  a  letter  written  by a gentleman to his future
sovereign  in the approved manner.  But no one would -- indeed *could* --
write so today.  Most of the time you would see scrawls such as:

    Dear Chas, (scribbled in pencil)
    I  gave  you  a tinkle but no reply.  Just a notelet to say would you
like   the   herb   tea  before  or  after  the  lecture  on  alternative
architecture?

    A  frightful  collection  of  words  which  will invariably be signed
"Have a nice day!", followed by a caricature of a smiling face.

    THE  MODERN  LETTER:   Given  universal subliteracy, letters are only
written  as  matters  of  record.   They  exist,  in  fact,  to frighten,
impress,  cow,  or  con the poor bastard who, because he can't understand
them, thinks them impressive.

    This  being so, it isn't the content of the things that is important,
it's  the paper they're written on.  Image counts.  You should have paper
that  appears  to  have  come  from  the  office  of the president of the
corporation.

    THE  CONTENT:   Having  got  your paper, what should you put upon it?
Well,  today,  no  one  who  is anyone would write anything that might be
understood.   It  should  be  a  matter of veiled threats and long words.
For example:

Dear Putative Defendant in the case American Excess v Rex,

    Yours  of  the  8th  ultimo  conveying  protensito and sans delicto a
negative  account  surplus in the region of $10K (dollars ten Kay) having
been  issued, published, and uttered abroad to the detriment in factio of
the  person,  stature,  and  character  of the sait Putative Plaintiff in
livres  des  poche  apparantio  (having  abode in the jurisdiction of the
Court  des  petites  Culottes), taking, garnishing, attaching, and pulling
down  the  home  thereof and setting the dog upon (viz:  Rex).  Which can
only  be  forestalled by you giving over in the amount hereunder in small
unused  notes  to wit, $20K (dollars 20k) in default of the urgings which
will  take  place  before  the  Demesne Anno leading to strainings in the
Uncto Domiccus.

    Yours, etc.

    A  letter such as this won the writer stunned silence for very nearly
18  months  from the company in question, which then actually *increased*
his credit rating.

    Of  course,  threats of recourse to law are now almost obsolete among
the  upper  class  of  people.   We just cannot afford to fight those who
claim  legal  aid  which no gentleman can do, even if he qualifies, if he
wishes to be though a gentleman.

    For  this reason a letter like the following -- directed to a plumber
in 1932 -- no longer holds water (pardon the pun) in 1988.


My Dear Huggins,
    The  toilet  which  you  fitted  recently has all but drowned my poor
wife  who  is  suffering  hysterics due to one of the lids, which crashed
down  on her hand before she even so much as activated your device, which
is  now inextricably lodged in the lowered position, causing my wife even
more  grief,  as  I am unable to, to quote a phrase, "be like Dad and not
like Sis, and lift the lid before I piss".
    Put  the  device  to  rights  forthwith,  or  I'll  have  the fullest
severity  of  the  law  executed  upon  you before flinging your wife and
children out of my cottage.

    Yours, etc.


    It  worked like a charm in the dear dead days.  But compare it with a
similar  letter  I  dictated last week from the cockpit of a jumbo jet at
Stapleton Airport:


    To the Director of Housing, Salem, Oregon City Council
    Now  hear this, comrade!  Send your drunken flunkies to mend the roof
of  14 Johnson Mansions, Karl Marx Estate, this very moment, or I'll blow
up this aircraft and all aboard her.


    That  ended two years' struggle to sleep in a dry bed.  Only language
that type understands!

    PUNCTUATION:   Forget this.  Punctuation is neither used properly nor
understood these days.  It is far better to leave your words undotted.

    I  discovered  this  aabter writing a billet doux to a young lady who
had been schooled by modern methods:


Dearest Paula, (I wrote)
    We  must meet soon.  Oh, how I long to tear your clothes off and make
you mine.  Under the clock at Victoria Station at 7pm?


    She,  having  no grasp of punctuation, didn't keep our assignment for
fear  of  being  made a pornographic show off in a public place.  Such is
ignorance, although I will admit to have something of the kind in mind.

    LETTERS  TO  THE EDITOR:  Writing to the editor of the august journal
in  which  I  have  the pleasure of enlightening my public is a thankless
task.   He will only consider publishing letters of complaint.  I suggest
they take the following form:


Sir:   How  dare  you  waste  space  by  letting  that  idiot  ramble  on
incomprehensibly!   Ditch  this  rubbish  and  use  the  space to give us
pictures  of  Melinda's  wide-open, juicy pussy!  I once had a gal with a
cunt like that back in college.  Gave me my very first heart attack.

Yours etc., etc., etc.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

                             Guide To Revenge


                            ABOUT THIS COURSE.

    Ante-Crappi-Crappus.   That  is  the motto of the University of Life,
first  promulgated  by  our  founder,  Ethelred the Loose, in 964 A.D. --
Defecate  before  you  become  feces,  is the translation I prefer to the
vulgar  "shit  before  you  are shat upon", but what can you do when your
principal is an ignorant putz?

    Nevertheless,  the  idea  is sound.  It is not, unfortunately, always
as  practical  as  it  is  desirable.  There are people whose position of
authority  make  them  able  to  defecate  upon  one  from a great height
without warning.

    This,  of course, is designed to help you get your revenge.  It is no
accident  that  it is placed in your curriculum.  It is also here to warn
students  that even a diploma from this university cannot make one immune
from  tiny  turds of the  petty official.  Thus warned, you will not lose
faith in our great alma mater, nor be at a loss what to do.

    The  motto  of  this  Study Module should be Crappus Ruggii Roulettus
(when shat upon, go roll on his astrakhan carpet).

WHAT IS REVENGE?

Study these examples:

1.   A  bartender  barred  a man for complaining about the quality of the
beer.   The  man  went  out, got into his truck, and drove it through the
bar.

2.   A  bartender  barred  a man for complaining about the quality of the
beer.   The  man  bribed  the  brewery driver to deliver eight barrels of
sour  slops.   Then  as the noise of complaint rose high that evening, he
walked  into  the  bar  and apologized to the barkeeper for insulting his
beer.

Number  one  is  not  revenge,  it  is vengeance.  Number two is revenge.
Revenge makes the punishment fit the crime.  It is sweet.

TEACHING BY EXAMPLE.

    There  is  no  telling  which  jumped-up  pipsqueak  will  cause  you
annoyance  or  what  his  circumstances  will be.  Learning in this field
must  be  by  studying  examples and getting into the correct attitude of
mind.   Honing a part of your brain to see what it is your insulter would
least  like  to  happen to him, and working out a way of making it happen
which doesn't land you in court.

LESSON 1 - THE HOTELIER.

    You  book  into a hotel with your secretary under the name of Mr. and
Mrs.  Smith.   The  owner  smells  a rat.  Keeps asking you how your wife
is.   "And the other lady you were here with in June, Mr. er...Smith," he
says, although he's never seen you before in his life.
    You  booked  a  double room but you get a single with two beds pushed
together.   The  heating  is  off.   The  sink  is  blocked and coitus is
continually  interruptus  by  the beds zinging apart on their casters and
dumping you and your lady into the floor.

WHAT DO YOU DO?

    You  dare  not  complain!   The hotelier knows you're on dodgy ground
and  to moan will have the chef pissing in the soup, the bed legs falling
off,  and  the biggest bill you've ever seen at the end of it.  The thing
to do is just grin and tip well and bear it.

THEN  ---  As  soon as you're home, form the Baychester Sports and Social
Club,  get some letterhead printed up (one sheet will do), open up a bank
account at a bank many miles away.  Give a false name and address.

NEXT  ---  Write  to  the  hotel, booking it solid for the Easter holiday
weekend.  Do this in plenty of time.

THEN  ---  A  week  before  the weekend, confirm the booking by phone and
send  a  check to cover the entire accomodation cost for the entire group
for  the entire weekend.  Time it to arrive on Friday.  That way, it will
never  clear  before  the  following  Tuesday.   By  the time the weekend
arrives,  the  hotel  is doomed to be empty.  They will have a check that
will bounce higher than the Moon as well.

AND  ----  Turn up on Easter Sunday.  "I'm sure you're crowded, but I had
such  a  great  time  when  I  was here last...".   You will be given the
Presidential  suite  at  a discount.  Hang around the desk saying, "Quiet
for  this  time  of  year, isn't it?" until the hotelier is taken away in
the  loony van.  Then eat a hearty 18-course dinner.  And leave.  At 3:00
a.m. without paying the bill.  Ha!


THAT CUSTOMS MAN.

    You  know  the one who insists on taking your car  to bits every time
you  re-enter  thr  country  and moves from port to port just to get you.
Ed  "Spray  Job" Malconti had just this problem and took his revenge in a
very lucky way.

    It  so  happened  that the officer's car was stolen, given new plates
and  a  spray  job  and  shipped  off  for  sale.  Ed, who happened to be
passing by, bought the car at an open auction and brought it back.

    He  stood  and  watched  while  his  favorite  officer dismantled the
vehicle.   It  was  only  as the last shreds of the back seat fell to the
ground  that  Ed  discovered  documents  showing  that  it was indeed the
officer's car which he so luckily bought.

    He  offered  to  have  his boys down at the shop put it together at a
reasonable price.  The offer was refused.  Rather violently.

    Another  graduate  of  the  university  got  so  angry  at having his
luggage  turned  over  that  he deliberately put false bottoms in all his
cases, placing jars inside and filled them with various substances.

    One  officer, groping in his case, brought out handfuls of a stinking
brown  paste  full  of  bits  of  sweetcorn.   "And  what..."  gagged the
officer, retching violently, "what ....bafr.... is this?"

    "False  shit,"  smiled  our  friend.   "What else would you expect to
find in a false bottom?"

    This  reply  got  him an instant strip search with an added finger up
the  rectum,  but  he  was not upset.  "You shouldn't have done that," he
said, "not with broken skin on your finger.  You see, I've got...."

    There  was no need to complete the sentence.  The officer was already
in a bath of pure alcohol screaming for his doctors.

    "I  was  only  saying  I suffered from a spastic colon," observed our
friend later.  Much later.


LE SNOB GARCON.

    You  know  this  shit.   You  take  the  lady  to  a swanky joint for
dinner.   But  the  menu's  all  in  French.  And, having told her you go
there all the time, you have to take a go at the language.

    But  does  the  waiter help you out?  Oh, no.  He's got you down as a
lousy  tipper  anyway.   So he sneers and pretends not to understand your
accent.   And says things like, "Does meeshure want his sherry trifle and
green beans with the pancakes or the devilled kidney?"

WHAT TO DO:

    You  move your chair so as to bring the front leg down rather heavily
on his foot.  He will then say one of two things.  Either:

    "Fucking  shit,  you  stupid jerk!"  In which case, compliment him on
his fluent Brooklyn and order a burger, fries, and chocolate shake.

    Or  he  will say:  "Sacre merde, couchon, je te pis au cou...", which
means  he  probably  is  French.  In this case, you say, "Sacre merde?  I
hardly   think   so,  not  with  the  Beaune.   One  doesn't,  you  know.
Leastways, not with the Chateau Incroyable '54, one doesn't."

    Ha!


THE BANK MANAGER.

    "Dear  Sir:   I must  draw  to your attention yet again the fact that
your  account  is overdrawn.  Although I can't see how a bum like you has
any  chance  of  covering  it  with  your pathetic salary, please put the
matter  right  forthwith  or I'll have your cash card torn up in front of
the neighbors."

    The  bastard.   He  wouldn't  talk to you like that if you had money.
But  you  owe  him a miserable hundred and he's all superior.  Of course,
if you owed him half a million, he would be all over you.  Odd, that!

WHAT TO DO:

    Well,  tell  him  you've won an out-of-state lottery.  Ask his advice
on  investing  a  quarter of a million.  Tell him you have to wait a week
until you get the check at the special televised presentation.

    If  he  asks  for  confirmation, get up in a huff and be seen to walk
into  the  bank  across  the  street.  He'll probably drag you out by the
leg.

    During  the  week  before  your  check  comes through, waste his time
advising  you.   Let  him  buy you lunch.  Invent problems.  Phone him at
home in the middle of the night.  Be a real pain in the ass.

    Meanwhile,  run  your overdraft as high as it will go.  Put the money
in  another  bank.   Finally,  inventing  some  excuse, take your account
elsewhere.

    When  you  can't hold out any longer, pay him back his overdraft with
a check.

    Drawn on the Bank of Lichtenstein.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                            Coming Next Issue:

                       Our special Christmas issue!
                        Fun, frolic, and hilarity!
                Amusement, outrageousness, and otherness!
                Low-I.Q. Bimbos and Macho Mental Midgets!
                Spectacular Stories About Stupid People!!
