SPC warning in net.rumor

From moriarty Wed May  7 10:54:56 1986
Received: from vax4.fluke.UUCP by colossus.fluke.UUCP (2.2/5.1.0.0); 
Wed, 7 May 86 10:54:51 pdt
Received: by vax4.fluke.UUCP (4.12/5.1.1.1); Wed, 7 May 86 10:54:37 pdt
Date: Wed, 7 May 86 10:54:37 pdt
From: moriarty (Jeff Meyer)
Message-Id: <8605071754.AA14018@vax4.fluke.UUCP>
To: moriarty
Subject: SPC warning in net.rumor
Status: RO
 
Originally posted in net.rumor... don't spill the beans!
 
  If you've got a flame, don't take it to the net.  Take it to court.
 
                   ****** STUPID PEOPLE'S COURT!! ******
 
                                        Judge Moriarty Wapner
                                        Stupid People's Court
ARPA: fluke!moriarty@uw-beaver.ARPA
UUCP: {uw-beaver, sun, allegra, sb1, lbl-csam}!fluke!moriarty
 
DISCLAIMER:The ideas, opinions and implied snide remarks used above do not
           necessarily represent the views of my employers.  They are 
           entirely out of my dark and furitive imagination.
 
======================================================================
 
[Dum-Diddle-Lum-Diddle-Lum-Diddle-Lum-BONANZA!]
 
[SCENE:  A vintage black-and-white television set in the middle of one of
         those overly-upholstered living rooms which existed, commonly, in
         the early 1960's.  Close-up of screen.  "Click" offstage; screen
         blinks, and then begins to clear as the television warms up.
         TV Screen fills field of vision...
 
         Blurry lines coalesce, electronic fuzz dissolves, and we are greeted
         by a colorless NBC TV news set, with a vacant anchorman's desk and
         technicians moving large, bulky pre-transistor TV cameras around
         the set with an air of ordered madness.  A man in a dark business
         suit walks onto the stage from the left; he leans on the desk and
         lights a marijuana joint, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes.]
 
VOICE FROM OFFSTAGE:  "15 seconds to air time, David!"
 
[SCENE:  Man in dark suit swears, throws joint in garbage can and walks,
         unsteadily, around the desk.  He sits behind the desk, breathes
         deeply, and begins to read a pile of papers left on his desk.]
 
VOICE FROM OFFSTAGE:  "10 seconds to air time!  9... 8... 7... 6..."
 
[SCENE:  Close-up on the man behind the desk; the camera's view of him
         becomes our own.  The technicians disappear from the set. The
         man looks up from the shuffled papers; his face impassive, 
         emotionless, slightly sluggish.]
 
VOICE FROM OFFSTAGE:  "5... 4... 3... 2... ON THE AIR."
 
[SCENE:  The noise of a thousand typewriters begins clacking around the
         studio, and then dies into a background hum.]
 
CULTURED VOICE:  "This is NBC News with David Brinkley."
 
DAVID BRINKLEY (man behind desk): 
                 "Good Evening.  I'm David Brinkley.  Our stories tonight:
                  John F. Kennedy seen talking to mallards; Ronald Reagan
                  passes up yet another plum acting role; star of tv series
                  Mr. Ed found with bodies of sacrificed virgins; and Andy
                  Beals still unseen.  Plus an in-depth look at the
                  conspiracy of neo-net.bizarre followers in net.rumor."
                 [Looks straight at camera as his face assumes a sh*t-eating
                  grin].
                 "But who cares?  Arf!"
 
[SCENE:  Hand obscures the left bottom part of screen as Brinkley is handed
         a sheet of paper.  He fumbles with it for several seconds.]
 
DAVID BRINKLEY: "I've just been handed a bulletin..."
 
[SCENE:  Brinkley begins to read.  He stops.  His eyes open, and sweat seems
         to condense from nowhere onto his forehead. The typewriter white 
         noise fades into a claustrophobic silence.]
 
DAVID BRINKLEY (a whisper): "...my god..."
 
[SCENE:  He brings a hand up to cover his mouth; pauses; and then slowly
         drags it down the side of his face, his gaze fixed at a point on
         the desk.  Several shudders, a few seconds apart, trail through his
         frame.  Finally, he raises his head, his eyes boring into the 
         camera.]
 
DAVID BRINKLEY: "...h-he's... he's... bac-"
 
[SCENE:  Suddenly, a Promethean SNAP splits the silence; crashing and
         rumbling erupt spontaneously. Brinkley stares up, and the
         scene seems frozen as the anchor desk and its lone occupant are
         obliterated from view by a gigantic rubber mallet, descending through
         the ceiling and then through the studio floor, carrying a very
         well-paid newsman and about $50,000 of electronic hardware with it.]
 
                        FADE TO BLACK, AND SILENCE.
 
======================================================================
 
                This Warning of Things To Come is dedicated to Frank Miller.
 
                                        
                                        ***** ******** ******
                                        ****** ******'* *****
ARPA: fluke!moriarty@uw-beaver.ARPA
UUCP: {uw-beaver, sun, allegra, sb1, lbl-csam}!fluke!moriarty