Tag Archives: BZT

Any Cracking Due To The Heavy Snows

The Croyden Affair
The Croyden Affair
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Date: Thu Mar 28, 1996 7:24:35 AM America/New_York

"...profane my domain" Har har har! That's rich! Elizabeth started bad-mouthing Big Al over the mic at his bar on Columbia Road. She was ranting while on the portable phone with him, airing her dirty linen over the P.A. system, we heard screams outside, whipped the camcorder around, Big Al had Elizabeth in a choke hold from behind, a bear-hug. The cops came, Elizabeth wants to sue, I just returned from small claims court, my lawsuit is coming along fine. It's like they say at BZT "Sue Thy neighbor!" (registered trademark, BZT Industries, used by permission). —Tom Howell

Hey Bob, our illustrious neighbor, did your walls suffer any cracking due to the heavy snows this year? We sustained minor runs in the bedroom plaster along the partition where the column we installed props up the crossbeam opus the library so proudly rooted inspires, and also in the dining room, a near perfectly spent straight line approximately one and a quarter inch to the right (east) of a wallpaper joint streaks a crack the full height of the wall, splitting open the wallpaper quite nicely as if it were a planned joint. The damage however is merely cosmetic and since our "never mind the bollocks" indoctrination we don't care, we find it only slightly irritating. I suppose in a counting our blessings way we are lucky, very lucky. Some buildings collapsed under the weight of two feet. Of snow.

Ah...spring, seems so oddball, heavenly even, some six months after the impressionistic post-nickeldog renovations, to randomly gaze out into the backyard hubris and spy large tufts of greener than green grass, a few choice flowers, a stray but environmentally harmless cat, and a fence that just won't quit articulating rumors of a vestal nature about the subsequent rise and fall of my character. Go figure. It's a shipwrecked idea, but I enjoy my delusions of mediocrity.

You don't know any of the precious folk save the writer himself, in that forwarded piece (Oh yeah, Big Al, you know Big Al) but I just thought I'd rankle your pieces of mind with a few choice words Tom inspired. Oh yes, there is the Thomas Jeff Howellnyms, whom you know, a fair piece of shoddy workmanship himself, or just another snow job in today's vernacular. Anywaze, have a goody too shoes afternoon. You deserve it, and please, just this one favor, for the glory of expatriate Pennsylvanians everywhere, flash off a quick glance at the wicked little office artchik in your best Aqualung resolve just once for me. Whatever else you undoubtedly launch you should claim as your own.

GT

Actually That Was Hangover Harry At The Door

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Exactly, right.
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Originally published on December 7, 1995

Figgered there was something lonesome Gabriel must do for Tom Howellnymns when I saw the length of that last note. Yep that's the ONLY time that rascal ever shows his face OR his furnace around here. Funny thing about that music quip you made. My rocker pals chide me because EVERY time they come over Dylan's on the box, and EVERY time old hippie Tom has a mumble to make, there's punk or hardcore on the drive. Powerful dichotomy, my music. Tom still occasionally remarks on how stunned he was to learn I had several Donovan Leitch albums since he knows me only from the punk stage. Sho nuff, there's no pleasin' the w-o-r-l-d, say I, in the ninth chapter of Isaiah.

Cool that Russell Braen has an unabridged archive of those Jewish texts on his server. Have I shown you the wierd CD-ROM biblical exegesis Sue bought me for my 40th trek around the sun? And listen here Senator, no more cheaper than cheek moving services. Gabriel's a desperate artfag now, and has scaled back his back graces, having finally given up that ghost of petty pushover you've taken for granted for oh so long. You, like thousands around me, are always whittling away at my goodwill, but shuffle brilliantly silent when I ask direct questions, or a favor for myself. Do not fear me, a lowly human, albeit more inspired & more aromatic than angels' dung, but fear G.O.D...

That said, I SHALL respect your request for new letterhead the next time you show up around here, but I press with this question once again. Have you put forth that Photoshop LE & Hypercard 2.2 deal (both for $130) on the table for Robert Cole to address, OR NOT? Frankly I've grown beyond sick of getting caught inside everyone else's voice loop, an impeccable void where I hear the same references over and over, but little which directly benefits the one I serve. You fill in the pronoun, Hangover Harry.

If this sounds bitter, perhaps it is, but it is written with a BZT smile on my forehead. Perhaps I am near death. I feel terribly ill begotten, but ripe on the vine. Cocky only in daring to become cockless, the fatty delicious juices of the battered ram oozing down my chin as I wonder when you might want to pawn that rented RCA camcorder back to its previous host for a devils' bargain, since what little friendship we have is always numbed by the dead works of your silence as you make your way into the Hall of Skewed Genius Dr. Bracken has erected for you.

Until we meet again.

Dunaway Ka