for 4 November 1999. Updated every WEEKDAY.
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Hit & Run Young Foot Lovers??? The last link on the page ... What the hell did I just look at? Little girls' feet ... WTF This is sick, man, the most twisted, perverted thing I think I've ever seen. Little girls sucking on each others feet, playing at the beach, running around barefoot ... oh shit, I'm getting a hard-on again. Help me Sucksters. Confused and feeling a tad dirty, Christopher Miller <cm007i@mail.rochester.edu> Careful, Chris. If young foot worship is outlawed, it won't go away; it'll just go underground, to the netherworld of back-alley Jellies-sniffing and south-of-the-border bunion removal. the Sucksters  Reading up on yet another defeat of campaign finance reform led by Trent Lott, I'm constantly reminded that for a man who hates gays as much as he does, he's one hell of a cocksucker. Practicing safe politics, Steve Gattuso <doodles@primenet.com> Any party that pays to support and maintain a Dick Armey has no business hating gays. the Sucksters Attn: Sucksters! I thought I'd just go ahead and play Colombo myself, as many of the other readers without much of a life to speak of were doing. So, regarding your AllowanceNET.com coverage and mainly Patti's e-retort: I've found that when reading Patti's seemingly somewhat scatter-thoughted letter it becomes much more concise and understandable if one focuses solely on the words Patti chose to write in all capital letters. In this case, the letter reads: BUT GET IT STRAIGHT!!!! FIRST ARE NOT PIE JUST YOU GUYS HIGH-HANDED CAVALIER ASSUME ACTUALLY BOTHERING TO FIND OUT WE GOT LUCKY RIGHT RIGHT MUCH SECOND ZIP OTHER POINTS OF CONTENTION AOL MTV THEIR NICE TOTAL A TAD IS ROCK GIF BTW GREAT THAT AND TOO >From this I made two deductions. (1) Patti should stick to prose. (2) Patti has, unfortunately, given away AllowanceNet.com's secret and highly hidden agenda. It becomes painfully obvious when reading the above text that their organization is of the devil, urging our children to engage in unmarried, homosexual sex. I say we ship the whole of AllowanceNET.com off to good ol' South Carolina, along with Harry Potter, Tinky Winky, and Ellen. Or, if any of 'em are cute we can give 'em my address and ship 'em off to me. Cheers, Raymie S. <smith.3023@osu.edu> Tinky Winky's pretty cute. Learn to make a good Tubby Custard and you might get lucky. the Sucksters I disagree that killing the Feingold/McCain Campaign Finance bill is a mistake. The bill won't solve campaign abuses, and it limits free speech of all but the press, which is why journalists love the bill. The press will be the only ones allowed to comment on a race in the last 90/60 days, and that's when it really matters. The two in the race can bash each other to the extent their public campaign funds allow, but that's not enough — especially for the guy in the race the press and unions are against. The press isn't holy; most sit on their a****, use Wite-Out on the header of the latest press release handed to them by the White House, run it, and call it news. As an individual, I have very little effect on campaigns other than my one vote and $1,000 to my favorite candidate. As a member of a special interest group, I and all those who contribute to the PAC/special interest group, have real clout. We can hire a lobbyist to watch legislation that affects our interest and we can buy campaign ads to effect the election — real power. Money will always be in politics. If you want reform, make all contributions reportable and easy to access so you know who is pulling your politician's chain. Also, raise the individual contribution to $5,000, as $1,000 is way too low to make an impact. T. Jones <trjones@execpc.com> Thanks for your thoughts on campaign finance. We're sure the Republic is a little safer tonight as your $1,000 gets converted into its weight in chocolate candies in the shape of Tom DeLay. the Sucksters Filler Que Viva Filler y Polly! BrainPlug <brainplug@yahoo.com> PS Is it true, que tu eres una mujer hermosa? Hermosa Beach? I've only been there once, and it was pretty unpleasant. I spent most of the evening with two medical equipment salesmen who're acquaintances of a friend of mine. They had just gotten back from Club Med, where they cheated on their girlfriends to their hearts' content. They were reddish tan, well rested, tired, but still ready for the comforts of home — Jägermeister shots, jalapeño poppers, and endless games of pool followed by early morning DirectTV on a wall-sized screen. It's a beautiful life. Polly Polly, Here's a loose script for a Terry Colon cartoon about Polly Esther. It came to me while I was smoking the dummy pipe (surprise), then I got carried away. Dame Hex <smoke@toke.com> The Sucksth Sense Filler with a surprise ending [Polly is playing a video game. A cuckoo pops from a clock.] Yipes, I played Minesweeper right through lunch! Filler is due in half an hour and my commitment to creating cohesive, original material is hovering around nil. Guess it's back to the old mail bag. Dearest Ms. Esther, I just wanted to tell you that I do a stand-up routine at a prominent local comedy venue and I have a thing in my act (honestly, the only bit that kills every time) that I stole straight from one of your Filler columns. You remember Mr. Flinchy? I start with "I have a nickname, and it's the same nickname I get from every woman I date: 'Mister Flinchy.'" Then I do the whole bit. Come down and see it some time! (name and city witheld) PS Are you as short and squat as you appear in Mr. Colon's illustrations? [Back at the desk. Polly is elongated] Ha ha, that's pretty good. I'll have to put that in this week. What else is there in the old mail hole? Dearest Polly, I just needed to say that the last 10 Fillers have been my favorite Fillers ever! I've collected the whole run on my hard drive and all I've got to say is: BRAVO! Again! Times 10! I hate it when people who aren't you write Filler. Here's to 10 more in a row! [Polly counts on her fingers] Definitely goes in the "for publication" folder. Just the sort of pop-critical incisiveness that makes Suck a leading journal of our cultural moment. Ah, here's one ... Beautiful, sparkling Polly, I'm your scary obsessive fan, and I just want you to know I've been watching you. [Polly looks disturbed] [Polly is in Joey's office] Polly: So then he attached a panel-by-panel script for a cartoon about me and him getting married, and getting guns and water, and making a bunker together in Oregon for Y2K. And if he doesn't see it posted on Wednesday, I'll "regret it forever." Does that sound like a threat? Joey: Sure, very cute. Use it. [Polly back at her desk] Shit! Clock's ticking and I'm scared to look in the mail. I could write about the 37 ways people in relationships get on my nerves. Or I could make a map chart, let's see, empirical/subjective versus on television/not on television. Or ... [Polly back in Joey's office] Polly: See, in this week's Filler, our new character Belle "Bottom" St. Flare calls her mom, reads email, thinks about which guys she'd never date, and then jumps a freight train where she meets a magical hobo who teaches her the true meaning of Thanksgiving! [Joey looks up from his paper, stares at Polly] Polly: See, Filler's been too self-focused lately, a little too "Polly, Polly, Polly." I'm trying to take it in a new direction. [Joey looks back at paper] Joey: Your copy's due in eight minutes. [Polly back at desk] Um ... I know! A cartoon bashing Canadian crack-rabbits and people who use phrases like "punk-rock sense of irony!" Cartoons take up a lot of space. And in the jokes at the end of the column, I can make fun of the jokes I made at the beginning of the column. [Her screen goes black, someone else has taken control] Polly ... it's me ... I'm your No. 1 fan, Polly ... you made me ... you made me love you ... [The stalker appears, is revealed as Mister Flinchy] Polly: OK! You cornered me! What the hell do you want? [He produces metal rectangle] Flinchy: Will you sign my hard drive? [POOF: Polly wakes up; it's all been a dream] Ahhh. Nobody's after me. I didn't miss lunch. And I've still got over 24 hours to fake my way through this week's Filler. [Caption: The next day] [Polly is playing Minesweeper. A cuckoo jumps out of a clock.] Yipes! I'm pressed for time and my commitment to creating cohesive, original material is hovering around nil. [Joey walks by her desk] Joey: What's so hard? You usually just do a strip about you sitting at your computer writing your strip every week. Just do that again! People love that! Polly: OK, how about one where I'm sitting at my computer, and I'm reading my email, and ... there's no mail except fan letters, and I could become tormented by them. Driven mad by my own success! Sort of a haunting psychological portrait thing. [Joey reading paper] Joey: Sure. Who cares? Polly: I can't do it. Joey: Can't do which now? Polly: I can't write something so pointedly self-referential and then put it where hundreds, maybe even tens of hundreds of strangers will see it. Joey: Since when? Polly: I mean it. I'm no longer able to deliver the thoughtful analysis and biting satire Suck pays me for. You'll have to accept my resignation. Joey: Don't be so dramatic. Just pick some long-ass letter from the reader mail and publish it verbatim. Words: Dame Hex Pictures: Terry Colon Oh God. I need a drink. Well. Ahem. It would be the best Filler in months, only I play Tetris, not Minesweeper. So I guess we can't run it. Sorry! Pointy and self-referential, Polly The Examination Table Hello, I am a member of the End of Philosophical Complacency Coalition who has recognized you as one who leads an examined life. Our site. http://members.tripod.com/kud31/ Those familiar with the humiliating ways of the intellect have been know to appreciate it. Sincerely, The EPCC Whatever gave you the impression that we chose this path? Humiliating is right. Living the examined life means subjecting yourself to your own examination table, being probed and prodded and pushed to the limits by your own unsettled, invasively curious mind. See also: neuroticism, obsessive-compuslive disorder, manic depression ... We thirst for philosophical complacency like a tall, icy tumbler of water with a zesty wedge of lime perched on the edge. Unfortunately, we're dissatisfied, searching, nimble only thanks to the constant acrobatic demands our anxious minds place on our otherwise lazy existences. If we weren't so obviously psychologically damaged, we'd be happily flipping burgers right now.
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