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ColumnsDear Editorbeing, I trust that this article will find itself buried beneath the fold after the Artspec document in your esteemed organ. With any kind of luck, the momentum gained by all six readers of the Snooz as they lean on their <RETURN> buttons will carry them right past this drivel to the exciting Internet gating information. This article is submitted by Doc Logger (163/110) who was eagerly awaiting the 29,000 pounds of bananas which Ruth Argust had shipped to his address. Roll da flic, Henk.... Dear Reverend Visage, Nice work ace. Submitting your petty cash bills to Swamp Swine Magazine and asking for payment in Russian Rubles will surely prop up their sagging currency and avert a global meltdown of various economies. I guess you noticed that the Canadian peso is now worth slightly less than the virtue of an Australian woman. What amazes me in the various commentaries that I have read is that there is a lack of perception about what causes such huge currency fluctuations. What they fail to note is that currency trading is conducted by cocaine-crazed twenty year olds who wouldn't recognize a Gross National Product if it sat on their faces. The little snakes who do the buying and selling of foreign currencies are merely gamblers. The fact that they gamble with your jobs, your national economies, and inflate the costs of blended Scotch to ruinously high levels, is but a mere trifle. What really matters is that the money trading weasels will be paid six figure salaries without having put in a productive day's work in their lives. Only lawyers have a greater claim to being economic bloodsuckers. Mercifully, having invested all of my spare funds in badger sperm futures, I am immune to currency fluctuations. For those of global ambition, this seems like a golden opportunity because there must be countries who can be purchased for a mere $1.95 in hard currency. In last week's Snooz His Immensity, Jerry Schwartz, pointed out that Eldridge Cleaver had become a "diversity consultant" in his dotage. It could have been worse, Cleaver could have become either a sociologist or a statistician. I think most of the fervent revolutionaries of the 60s and 70's have come to the realization that starving has its drawbacks. If George Washington were alive today, he'd be flogging fat free cookware on infomercials. Finding the pithy quote I wanted for this week's Chautauqua will be problematic because I decided to undo the work of my Evil Cleaning lady. My Evil Cleaning lady had arranged all of my books by colour and so I have attempted to put them back in alphabetical order. In the process, I have discovered an immutable law of bookshelves which states: If you unload several bookshelves and then attempt to put the books back, the shelves will become full long before the pile of books has been restored. Somewhere in the pile of books the one I want remains hidden. With the daunting prospect of finding a real quote, I shall dive into my journals and select something random and appropriate. "Your lamp isn't dead...it's just sick." Joe's Lamp Reconstruction, Miami, January 17, 1975. When I recorded that philosophical gem from a billboard, I had a sense that it served as a metaphor for not just ailing lamps, but also for America. When I recorded it, I was on my way to the sybaritic pleasures of a Caribbean Cruise (pass the prune juice, let's party) and was young enough to be optimistically naive about the future. To turn this into a proper Chautauqua, the metaphor should be expanded to encompass the notion that social systems aren't supposed to be terminal conditions, but rather systems capable of being "fixed." I see that same notion of futile optimism expressed by those who think that some gee-whiz technology applied to Fidonet will miraculously stave off its decline. In truth, adding IP connectability will just make for a better looking corpse, but won't breath any new vitality into the medium. Here at Cassandra's 'R Us, I believe that the only thing that matters is the content of messages. There is more than a little irony to be found in the fact that while my opinions are about as welcome as a skunk at a wedding, the style of my messages seems to make some people assert that they remain connected to some echos merely for the opportunity of reading my drivel. What most of these people don't realize is that most of the entertaining writers in Fidonet are long gone...discouraged by the cascades of quoted drooling and the generally cretinous approach to communication. I must go Visage. This has already gone on too long and I know that you'll be pleased that Andrea Santos has returned from her tryst with vegetables. As Fidonet's official Mistress of Antfarms she has been sorely missed. (Special note to Lee Aryton's finch: Cute buns, babe.) I had hoped to meet with you last week but your secretary informed me that you'd missed your flight for the fourteenth straight week. Regards,
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