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Tales from the Bizarro Barbelith World

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11:29 / 28.02.03

Haus furiously masturbated into a handful of toilet paper then threw the copy of Razzle away from him in disgust. "Filthy little bitches," he muttered to himself. He considered going to the pub to see if he could look down any girls' tops but decided to log on to BizarroBarbelith.com instead, to see if he could start a discussion about who had the biggest tits, She-Hulk or Tigra.

Flyboy was also just logging on to BizzarroBarbelith, fired up as he was after getting into a fight with a couple of queers outside that poncey wine-bar in town. He smacked that thin one pretty good. He looked at his grazed knuckles and hoped the puff didn't have AIDS or something.

Meanwhile, Runce was sitting on a bollard outside that shop where they sold all the comics with Batman and stuff in them to grown-ups. He took a slug of the White Lightning and started shouting as a furtive-looking student type clutching a brown-paper bag skulked out of the shop. "Got your Superman comics? You big fucking girl!" He called, laughing gleefully.

Ganesh was sitting in his office, logged on to BizzarroBarbelith. He had a shit-load of appointments, but they could wait. Most of them were fucking doolally tap, anyway. They probably thought they were on Mars or something. He opened up a thread entitled: "Help with anti-depressants". Some sad bastard wanted to know if pills would improve their lives. TAKE THE FUCKING LOT. IN ONE GO. Ganesh wrote. He sat back with the satisfied air of a job well done.

Persephone opened her in-box. More e-mail for her www.MachoGrandad.com website. "Please put a link to my self-published book on there," wrote some waster. "Piss off you sad inadequate and get a life", wrote back Persephone.

In his air-conditioned office in Florida, grant gazed at his latest published piece of journalism. A warm glow spread through him. This was possibly his magnum opus. "There is no wonder left in the world," he read out loud. "No mystery or creativity. Go back to your dull lives and weep."

These are just some of the tales from the frightening counter-earth that is home to www.BizzarroBarbelith.com. Do you know any more?

13:12 / 28.02.03

Oxbridge illiterate Sax, having shoehorned himself into yet another pair of impulse-purchased leather trousers, idly logged in to BizzarroBarbelith. Would that irritating cow, the giantess Ariadne be online?

Potus had spammed the board once again, with his ridiculously self-aggrandising homo-bullshit; his tendency to run off-topic had been politely reprimanded by the firm-but-empathic InnerCircle (spinning one of his wittily concise, highly original bon mots) and fecklessly cheerful Jack Fear.

Sax knew it would be mere seconds before the omnipresent Tom Coates added his own frothy epithet - if he wasn't too busy with the wedding preparations. Ms Ricci-Coates would be a happy starlet indeed!

13:19 / 28.02.03

Kit Kat Club flung yet another book to the ground. "Bah, this reading lark..." she bellowed "over-rated! I'm off down the High Street again to pull a moonie at that bus full of pensioners!"

13:22 / 28.02.03

Rizla logged onto Bizarrolith for the first times in weeks, he'd been deeply upset after the news that the Spice Girls meeting hadn't resulted in plans for a new world tour and greatest hits album. He had however been cheered up slightly having just downloaded the new Fred Durst song and couldn't wait to log in to see what had been happening in the world of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

13:27 / 28.02.03

Mordant Carnival adjusted the neckline of her icing-pink gingham gypsy-style blouse, and ran manicured talons through long, sun-kissed locks. Simpering into the mirror she practised her 'ooh, I don't know - you decide' giggle. Which of tonight's suitors would she choose? Shy-but-sweet ModThree, suave and casually-confident Knowledge or shaven lothario Lurid, whose aura of thewy dominance constantly threatened (nay, promised) to overpower her every girlish fibre? Excitedly, she smoothed the candy puffball of her skirt and settled down to wait.

Over on BizzarroBarbelith, Yawn's cut-glass consonants were practically audible as he lambasted Alan Moore...

13:38 / 28.02.03

Meanwhile Joe and Richard Dawkins slapped each others backs in the pub, laughing hysterically at copies of “Prediction” magazine as they waited for Cusm and James Randi to turn up ” These deluded fruitcakes” they spluttered “they really believe in this stuff...”

Reflect walked past outside, head to toe in black with silver accessories. Every inch the satanist. He flashed the sceptics a satanic hand salute and was on his way.

13:51 / 28.02.03

Maominstoat looked at the reflection of the barber.

"Side parting and flicked fringe, please," he said.

14:08 / 28.02.03

The most fearless of investigative journalists still shy away from investigating the Bilderberg-style events known as Barbemeets. The participants spend their time in the public eye orchestrating a show of competing ideologies and political debate at the highest level. Behind the scenes this elite clique of powerful industrial magnates and oil barons, politicos and spin docs, spooks and psycho-sociologists, regularly meet in hastily converted 5-star hotels and secluded island resorts to reveal the awful truth. The public facade drops away and these so-called mortal enemies indulge in drinking, back-slapping, hazing and even rumours of strange ritual observation of some magical or possibly masonic cereminies - these people are playing you like cheap radios, the Tetra fields keep the people compliant so that this tiny superclass of ulrtra-rich parasites can continue in their positions as the secret rulers of the world, etc, etc.

Goodness Gracious Meme

15:01 / 28.02.03

Flyboy finished dressing his grazes and took a long draught on his ice-cold Ty-Nant.

He mused that while he was pretty tasty in a fight, his fearsome rep. was undoubtedly enhanced by discipline and lightning-quick reactions, products of his austere straight-edge lifestyle. Why didn't his sozzled gym-bunny opponents understand that his was the way to physical perfection?

"Fools", he grinned and, reasoning that he deserved a treat, pressed 'play' on the cd player (he'd left it paused for days, waiting until the perfect moment...)

My smile as real as a hyena's
(My smile as real as a hyena's)
Burns an expressway to my skull
(Burns an expressway to my skull)
But I'll stick myself together again
Spirit so low I no longer pretend

"Aaaah". Flyboy sank into his chair, absentmindedly tracing his 'Fuck Richey.4Real' tattoo....

15:59 / 28.02.03

After finishing another scathing dissertation in the Head Shop on the importance of traditional moral values and abstenance among young people until properly married in a Catholic ceremony, May Tricks heads over to The Policy to see the latest in the long running war between the political and level headed administrator of BizzaroBarbelith and the trollish youth who continues to incite unrest amongst the board. Today, it was big news. Knodger, having finally come to the end of it, has begrudgingly terminated the account of Tom Coates for good. Will this finally be the end of Tom's trollish antics? Will the restraining order keep him away from gentle Knodge's flat, or shall the authorities become involved yet again?

20:36 / 28.02.03

Ariadne and Loomis sit on the steps of their double-wide trailer, drinking ice-cold Pabst Blue Ribbon in cans. Loomis uses a pair of long tongs to idly poke the rib-eye steaks he's got burning on his Weber charcoal kettle grill. "Don't leave 'em on too long, you know I like a lotta blood in my meat," Ariadne complains. "Hey there, BiP," she says to BiP who is wafting by with a delicate expression on her face. "You hungry?"

BiP smiles wanly and says, "No, I don't really care for food. I'll just have a slice of processed white bread at home."

The Return Of Rothkoid

20:47 / 28.02.03

Videodrome settles into his seat at the annual Jim Carrey/Joel Schumacher moviefest. "Ahhhhh," he thinks, snapping off the discman that's kept him in thrall of John Tesh for most of the day. "Time for some real quality filmmaking."

Outside the theatre, Jack Fear is giving flowers to strangers - and huggles, too.

Brigade du jour

20:57 / 28.02.03

Finally acknowledging the rhythmic tapping on his shoulder, Stoatie removed his headphones and whitewashed the room in megadecibel Throbbing Gristle. He looked left to the source of this intrusion and the frown fell away from his face as he glimpsed Hattie's Kitchen through tears of anger.

"Ahh give us a cuddle!" he said. "I haven't seen you in ages"

As Stoatie leant across, Hattie's visage seemed to stir ... and then vanish.

Stoatie looked down at his computer keyboard.

"It was all a dream." he realised aloud.

"Cock!"

21:13 / 28.02.03

Pin crosses his arms over his chest just so --so as not to obscure the green alligator that adorns his polo shirt with its collar upturned-- and stands with his khaki-clad legs slightly apart, glaring at the new pledges who have aspirationally chosen to dress exactly as he does. Naturally they look up to him, the president of the fraternity that they will spend the next six months humiliating themselves to belong in. He sneers at them. "So you think you're good enough for Sigma Chi."

The chorus responds, "Not yet, sir!"

"You got that right. You will be when I get through with you. Because I'm a fucking miracle worker. Let's get to work. Pledge, hand me that paddle."

22:32 / 28.02.03

Byron Bitchlaces sensually strokes his thick goatee beard, sets his rucksack down alongside his stack of Wire back issues, and pushes his hand down his white y-fronts, worn hopefully under his khaki combats. His favourite Coldwater Suplex song is starting: the one that knowingly samples Intellect's Highest Achievement by Total Lack of Feeling, subverting the original's failure to maintain complete detachment from its subject matter. His rarely used cock now almost hard, he attempts masturbation to the non-sound of a band that uses every masterful technique in the conceptual toolbox, the only band of geniuses in a world of pathetic physicality. "Fuckers," he thinks. "Step to this. Useless dancefloor scum."

No star here laces

01:33 / 01.03.03

Flux slammed the door on his beat-up ford truck, checking the gun rack was locked and secure. He strolled around to the bed of the truck with his characteristic swagger, as if there was a roll of carpet under each arm and a pound of beef links in his pants. And well he might swagger for there was one hell of a fine buck strapped into the trusty 4x4, blood still oozing from the 9mm bullet hole in it's skull. He spat on that good Montana dirt and thought how lucky he was not to live in the city, to be free in the countryside to shoot the odd mammal and commit regular date-rapes.

"I'll just log on and tear some wussy liberals a new asshole" he thought, then I'll put that deer on a spit and get the boys to bring a keg and some Jenna Jameson videos round and they could have themselves a party...

11:56 / 01.03.03

Barry Auckland sits on a terrace high in the Guatamalan mountains, surfing the web on his laptop via satellite. He's a world traveller, and his Internet account is his only permanent address. He's had a good few weeks in Guatamala, and he's regaling the folks on Bizzaro Barbelith with his adventures... and he's in luck, Bill Posters also happens to be on line from Vietnam. He begins to tell Bill about how he was able to blend right in with the villagers, practically fooling them into thinking he had lived with them all their lives. He has a gift for languages, and it was a piece of cake for him to pick up the particular dialect spoken in this one remote mountain village and nowhere else. His email program chimes.

"Hang on," he types to Bill. "Got a message from HQ."

He reads the message rapidly and fires off a response.

To: hschultz@starbucks.com
Re: Guatamalan coffee

Have secured entire coffee crop --best I've ever tasted, by the way-- in exchange for beads and trinkets. Highest profit margin potential guaranteed. Please find attached photos of happy villagers to use in store displays.

"Still there, Bill? Send me a fresh pair of Nikes from the factory there, old boy. Get your girls to put in a little extra arch support as a favor to me. Ship 'em to Papua New Guinea, they're just had the best peaberry crop in a hundred years & god forbid that I get scooped by those gits from Equal Exchange."

pointless and uncalled for

12:34 / 01.03.03

A chink in the clouds lets in a magnificent ray of sunlight over Bizzarolith. Oh yes, it's been another fantastic and productive day. You could hear the cheers across the ocean when the moderators managed to get get an apology from the network for resurrecting Buffy. At last, the series would die it's long overdue death paired with a full and immutable guarantee that there won't be any reruns, ever, on any channel, across the globe.

The populace were skeptical that yesterday could be beaten when all existing copies of Blakes Seven were eradicated by Tom but it looks like we may have a contender.

Less searchable M0rd4nt

12:34 / 01.03.03

Sfd idly fingered the pot-burns in the hem of her Korn t-shirt as she waited for someone to respond to her most recent request:

j0! u d00dz kno any ph4t warez sites?

14:28 / 01.03.03

((out of topic))

couldn't wait to log in to see what had been happening in the world of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Hey, I like Buffy. Otherwise spot on though.

I'm liking this thread, although I'm not half ruthless enough to take part in it.

Goodness Gracious Meme

17:11 / 02.03.03

Anna de Logardiere wakes up with the lark and sings her 'early to bed, early to rise' mantra (set to a Doris Day medley) to herself.

And pulls on her 'I've opted out of fashion/ style is for suckers' uniform of black long-sleeved Calvin Klein t-shirt, Gap khakis and sensible lace-up brogues, daubed with bootblack in a vain attempt to cover the scuffing. She grabs her Barbour and heads out the door...

Deciding to head into work early, she logs on at Barbelith while pondering her latest campaign for her beloved employers, ASH.

Tryphena Absent

23:25 / 02.03.03

Paleface pulls on his suit jacket, detailed with sparkling blue sequins and steps out of the dressing room on to the dancefloor, flared trouser legs swaying as he pulls off an intricate move. The strong, silent type, he rarely talks despite being the top ballroom dancer in the country. When words whisper from his mouth Paleface tends to comment on the weather or his pet mouse- Mouse3.

Sitting down at his desk he answers a questionnaire for a magazine via email and muses to himself that he might just quickly check Barbelith. He thinks about what to write... and types away. Don't read books, hate films and especially the cinema, like sitting in a blacked out fishtank. Hmmm, major interest in occult magick and I go to the gym three times a day. That should do it.

15:40 / 16.08.04

I'm bored, and this thread is extremely wierd, so i have to add.

(Nothing personal Tom, you where just the first that came to mind.

)

Tom Coates sat back in his chair, swigged down the last of his bottle of Vodka and scrolled down another page at his beloved Barbelith. "Fucking limeys." He said to himself.

"I've fuckin 'ad enuff of this!" He got out of his chair in the cellar, kicked over another empty wine rack and let out a huge scream.

"RAAAAAARRRGHHHH!!!!" He paused in the silence and heard nextdoors Dog bark in response.

"Fucking hoof mongrel! You just carry on fuckin barkin!"

He scrunched up his face, gave in to the darkness and started getting out his black magick tools. He decided to summon the Barbelith entity.

Two minutes later, after spilt blood, shouting of spell and the Dog nextdoor barking again, the Barbelith entity appeared.

"RVM Scanning............complete.
Owner of Barbelith Earth-Based forum site.
Deranged.
Frothing at mouth.
Black Magician.
..
...
.....
......
Try to remember Tom,
Try."

Tom had already had enough.

"You fucker! You never bring me any fit Alien bitches you worthless shit!"

"You never.....
fucking......
asked....." The Barbelith entity replied.

Tom went stark raving mad at that and threw his bloodied ritual skull at the Barbelith entity, it went through it and broke against the wall. Barbelith left the cellar.

Tom, pissed with rage, made a fat joint and sat back down. He took a deep breath, logged back into Barbelith and decided to make a thread in the temple, entitled 'Black Magick Barbelith Bouy Attack, Help Me Through My Nightmare!!!'

He sat back and took a long, deep toke on his joint.

Laughing.
Waiting.

"Fucking limeys will lap that one up in no time.
Ha...
Ha....
Haha......
Hahahaha..........

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

The Dog nextdoor howled along with the cackling, like a finely tuned instrument that was always destined to accompany the chaos filled laugh of the Coates from the cellar.

Regrettable Juvenilia

16:08 / 16.08.04

Eion, arguably the most respected member of the board, whose wisdom so often seemed to surpass his years, and whose knowledge of current affairs and astute critical insights never failed to humble others, finished writing another succinct and worthwhile contribution. It is thanks to posters like Eion that Barbelith has gone from being just another online hang-out for jabbering halfwits, to the best place to find intelligent subcultural discussion on the web.

16:21 / 16.08.04

[off=topic]

Ganesh was sitting in his office, logged on to BizzarroBarbelith. He had a shit-load of appointments, but they could wait. Most of them were fucking doolally tap, anyway. They probably thought they were on Mars or something. He opened up a thread entitled: "Help with anti-depressants". Some sad bastard wanted to know if pills would improve their lives. TAKE THE FUCKING LOT. IN ONE GO. Ganesh wrote. He sat back with the satisfied air of a job well done.

Hmm. I seem to have become BizarroGanesh...

[/off-topic]

16:47 / 16.08.04

[more threadrot]
jabbering halfwit or intelligent subcultural discussion starter?

Yeah sorry about that. I only came here for the Magick/Temple forum and i don't even have anything worthwhile to add there unless i find out what i want to be working with and learn the basics inside out, soooooo, yeah, i'm not Mensa material, but i don't really give a fuck so it doesn't matter.

I'll try my best to get some of my art and/or writing posted in creation or something in the next week or two, then maybe you can be a bit more at ease with my presence here. Dude, it's Bizarro Barbelith, ya don't need a degree to post in this one. I know you love me deep down in there, you must, please tell me it's true. Don't worry Just-I-Fly, i might not be as thick as i seem, there could be hope for me. Maybe i just avoid the long intelligent words because they so often look and sound pretty fucking daft?

How much can you really define someone's intelligence from a message board anyway? Maybe my present way of forming speech with these symbols is really all just a big act simply because i don't feel like playing with the grown up's just yet?

Or maybe i'm just a big, dumb, jabbering halfwit. Yay.
[/morethreadrot]

XXII:X:II = XXX

22:07 / 16.08.04

Meanwhile, at the Bizarro-NYClithers' usual Friday night meeting...

/+,

ONLY NICE THINGS

23:17 / 16.08.04

Oh dear.

Let's start at first principles. Ian, sorry Eion, do you understand what people are doing in this thread?

23:45 / 16.08.04

Yeah it's an alternative Barbelith universe isn't it? I noticed i forgot to type BizarroBarbelith.com though.

23:51 / 16.08.04

[morethreadrot]
That's why did Tom as a black magician, because i'm sure he's skeptical about magick, so i thought i'd do the complete opposite for the Bizarro world. I was bored earlier on.

And it's Eion! Pronounced ey-on, a bit like Aeon. Maybe it's pronounced that way because of the Northern accent. Why am i still typing? I'm gonna probably get a post or two here deleted, this thread doesn't deserve this much rotting.
[/morethreadrot]

01:33 / 17.08.04

Someone should actually make a BizarroBarbelith.com.
That would be the fucking bees knees!

And we could all have fiction suits there that where the exact opposites of ourselves!

Our Lady Has Left the Building

05:19 / 17.08.04

Our Lord of Something Manly Like Lumberjacks logged onto Bizzarolith and sighed at the poor level of debating going on. Within half an hour he'd fired off a barrage of devastating put downs, withering bon mots and germaine argumentation. "That'll show 'em what it means to be a Theory Bastard" He growled and Alt-Tabbed back to the Men&Motors forum.

Haus of Mystery

14:24 / 17.08.04

Bizarro MacGyver sat back in his wicker chair, grimaced, scratched his plums, and stared at the Ultra-web. He saw the floods, the people under oppression, the animals being kicked, and the corporations getting rich on the misery of the poor. And he thought - "well I'm not lifting a fucking finger until someone PAYS ME. Do-gooding's for cunts". Stroking his short back and sides back into place, he rises and makes himself another Night Nurse & Vodka and sits down for another round of Sons & Daughters re-reuns....

14:46 / 17.08.04

Mean while, back on Bizzarolith...

Flyboy is feeling just terrible. He wrings his hands and nervously brushes the lint from his tweed jacket. Perhaps he was a bit too hard on that Haus fellow. It may just be that English was his second language, and his rife spelling errors and poorly constructed grammer excusable, masking an actual grasp of logical argument his writing is unable to betray. 'But the profanities!' he worries. Did he have to insult my heritage so? The thought that he might have embarassed the poor fellow positively ruins his lime jello.

15:05 / 17.08.04

Grant combs the last strands of his well gelled hair into perfect order, juzzes his sleeves, and checks his eye liner again. Its perfect. Of course. Mild mannered columnist for the Conservative Journal by day, Metrosexual Karioke GOD by night. He steps out of the dirty bathroom into the crowded bar. Once he took the mic, they would think one of the Backstreet Boys themselves had come to grace their presence.

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