Collage 236               H u m o u r N e t               20 MAR 96

Our top-notch security measures have successfully prevented the
first-ever bona fide attempt to distribute illicit mail to the
HumourNet list. In a futile attempt to ensure distribution, the
sender even included an "Approved: moderator" line in the SMTP
header.

As if the listproc would actually distribute anything that *I*
approved. C'mon, the server is *much* smarter than that.... :-)

The "attack" came from Kevin Lipshitz, a rather well-known
low-life on the 'Net. So I ask: Should we, in retaliation, consider
a *nuclear* strike against the offending person, or stick to
conventional weapons?

Before you respond, I'll answer the really important question that
I'm sure is on everyone's mind right now: No, the person in question
is *not* one of our HumourNet subscribers.

I guess this means we can "go nukular." (I once had to sit through
an entire briefing from some guy who kept saying "nukular." If you're
one of those people who ain't speakin the word right, try this: say
the words "new clear" in place of "nuclear" whenever it comes up in
a sentence. Which, if you're a nukular physicist, could be several
times a day. :-)

Just kidding about the military stuff, of course -- I'd never endorse
the use of nukular weapons for something like *attempted* list
spamming. I'd only seriously suggest that if the person actually
*succeeded*. :-)

Speaking of everything military, I'd like to mention a new addition
to the HumourNet "Distinguished Members" list: The Operation Joint
Endeavor soldiers in Kaposvar, Hungary, who recently joined HumourNet
through one of their officers. Apparently, he has been getting
HumourNet forwarded to him by a friend (some might argue that point)
for some time; MAJ Jeff is now a subscriber -- and point man for
secondary distribution to the other personnel. Welcome aboard!

In honor of the occasion, I'd like to do a "Military Humor" Collage,
but I don't have quite enough material to compose an entire issue. So
I compromised ...

We start off with the utterly tasteless "War Zone," contributed by
that siren of Lone-Star humor, Ms. Lorraine.

Jim in L.A. sends us the Reuter news story, "Troops Sell Tank After
a Drinking Binge." (Note, BTW, that articles such as "a" are
generally left out of headlines -- but after bad experiences like
those in Collage 44, the character-austere (in more ways than one)
print media has started looking just a *little* more closely at the
wording in its headlines.)

Finally, I needed something utterly hilarious to fill out the
Collage -- something worthy of "OJE Entertainment Materiel" (intended)
status. And who can fill *that* bill better than Dave Barry? Thus, I
present to you "The Unkindest Cut of All," by the Master, himself --
and provided by Richard in Phoenix.

As always, *huge* thanks to the contributors. Enjoy! (Sir)

- Vince Sabio
  HumourNet Moderator
  HumourNet@telephonet.com
____________________________________________________________________
          Opener (above) Copyright 1996 by Vincent Sabio
  Permission is hereby granted to forward or post this "Collage";
  please observe the guidelines stated at the end of the message.
____________________________________________________________________

SUBJ: War Zone

Al Davis had put together the perfect Raiders team for '96. The
only thing he was missing was a good quarterback. He had scouted
all the colleges, and even the high schools, and he couldn't find a
ringer quarterback that would ensure a Super Bowl win.

Then one night, watching CNN, he saw the war zone in Bosnia. In the
background, he spotted a young Bosnian soldier with a truly
incredible arm. He threw a hand grenade straight into a 15th story
window 200 yards away--ka-boom! He threw another grenade into a group
of people a good 110 yards away--ka-blooey! A car passed by, going 90
miles an hour--bulls-eye! Right into the barely-open window.

"I've got to get this guy," Al says to himself. "He has the perfect
arm!" So he finds the guy, brings him to the states, and teaches him
to play football. Predictably, the young man breaks all NFL records
for completed passes, and the Raiders go on to win the Super Bowl.

The young Bosnian is lionized as the Great Hero of Super Bowl XXXI,
and when Al asks him what he wants, all the young man asks is to
call his mother.

"Mom," the young man says into the receiver, "I just won the Super
Bowl!"

"I don't want to talk to you," the old woman says. "You screwed us.
You're not my son."

"But you don't understand, mother" the young man pleads. "I just
won the greatest sporting event in the world. I'm in the middle of
thousands of adoring fans."

"No, let me tell you," the mother implores. "At this very moment,
there are gun shots all around us. The neighborhood is a pile of
rubble. Your father's been killed, your two brothers were beaten
within an inch of their lives last week, and this week your sister
was attacked in broad daylight...." The old lady pauses, in tears.
"... I'll never forgive you for moving us to Oakland."

========================[ H U M O U R N E T ]=======================

SUBJ: Troops Sell Tank After a Drinking Binge

MOSCOW (Reuter) - Russian troops sold a tank and armored combat
vehicle to Chechen separatist rebels after a drinking binge, the
Interfax news agency said Monday.

The soldiers belonging to the 106th motor-rifle division, based in
the Shali region in the east of Chechnya, parted with the heavy
equipment for $6,000 after getting drunk with rebels loyal to
separatist leader Dzhokhar Dudayev, the agency said.

[Editor's Note: Ah, but the joke is on the Chechen separatists --
the tank is due for its 50,000-kilometer check-up. </vs>]

Interfax, which quoted a military counter-intelligence official for
the report, said an investigation was under way.

========================[ H U M O U R N E T ]=======================

SUBJ: The Unkindest Cut of All
by Dave Barry

I want to warn you right away that today's topic involves an
extremely mature subject matter that might offend your community
standards, if your community has any.

I became sensitive about community standards recently when, at the
suggestion of no less than a U.S. Supreme Court justice, I wrote a
column about a ground-breaking antiflatulence product called Beano.
Some newspapers -- and I do not wish to name names, but two of them
were the Portland Oregonian and the St. Louis Post-Dispatch --
refused to print this column on the grounds that it was tasteless
and offensive. Which of course it was, although it was *nothing*
like the disgusting trash you hear from the Senate Judiciary
Committee.

Anyway, those readers who have community standards should leave the
room at this time, because today's topic is: circumcision. This is
a common medical procedure that involves -- and here, in the
interest of tastefulness, I am going to use code names -- taking
hold of a guy's Oregonian and snipping his Post-Dispatch right off.
This is usually done to tiny guy babies who don't have a clue as to
what is about to happen. One minute a baby is lying happily in his
little bed, looking at the world and thinking what babies think
(basically, "Huh?"), and suddenly along comes a large person and
*snip* WAAAAHHH the baby is dramatically introduced to the concept
that powerful strangers can fill his life with pain for no apparent
reason. This is excellent training for dealing with the Internal
Revenue Service, but it's no fun at the time.

Most of us guys deal with this unpleasant experience by eventually
erasing it from our conscious minds, the way we do with algebra.
But some guys never get over it. I base this statement on a San
Jose Mercury News article, written by Michael Oricchio and mailed to
me by many alert readers, concerning a group of men in California
who are very upset about having been circumcised as babies. They
have formed a support group called RECAP. In the interest of good
taste I will not tell you what the P in RECAP stands for, but the
"RECA" part stands for "Recover A ... "

According to the article, the members (sorry!) of RECAP are devoted
to restoring themselves to precircumcision condition "through
stretching existing skin or by surgery." I swear I am not making
this up. Here is a quotation from RECAP co-founder R. Wayne
Griffiths:

"There are a lot of men who are enraged that they were violated
without their consent and they want to do something about it. I've
always been fascinated by intact men. I just thought it looked
nicer. I had friends growing up who were intact. I thought, `Gee,
that's what I'd like to be.'"

[Editor's Note: Wayne obviously needs to spend a *lot* less time
hanging around men's locker rooms. :-) </vs>]

The article states that, to become intact again, Griffiths invented
a 7 1/2 ounce skin-stretching device that "looks like a tiny steel
barbell," which he taped to the end of his Oregonian and wore for
"four to 12 hours every day, except weekends, for a year." Using
this method, he grew himself an entirely new Post-Dispatch. Other
RECAP members are involved in similar efforts. They meet regularly
to discuss technique and review their progress.

I'm not sure how I feel about all this. I'm a middle-age white guy,
which means I'm constantly reminded that my particular group is
responsible for the oppression of every known minority PLUS most
wars PLUS government corruption PLUS pollution of the environment,
not to mention that it was middle-age white guys who killed Bambi's
mom. So I'm pleased to learn that I myself am an oppressed victim
of something. But no matter how hard I try, I can't get enraged
about it. I've even asked other guys about this.

"Are you enraged about being circumcised?" I say.

"What?" they say.

So I explain about RECAP.

"WHAT??" they say.

I have yet to find a guy who's enraged. And nobody I talked to was
interested in miniature barbells, let alone surgery. Most guys
don't even like to *talk* about medical procedures involving the
Oregonian region. One time my wife and I were at a restaurant with
two other couples, and one of the women, Susan, started describing
her husband Bob's vasectomy, which she had witnessed.

"NO!" we guys shouted, curling our bodies up like boiled shrimp.
"Let's not talk about that!"

But our wives were *fascinated*. They egged Susan on, and she went
into great detail, forcing us guys to stick wads of French bread in
our ears and duck our heads under the table. Periodically, we'd
come up to see if the coast was clear, but Susan would be saying
"And then the doctor picked up this thing that looked like a big
crochet needle..." And "BONK!" we guys would bang our heads together
ducking back under the table.

So Post-Dispatchwise, I think I'm going to remain an oppressed
victim. But don't let me tell the rest of you guys what to think;
it's your decision. This is a free country. In most communities.

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