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The Electronics Cranny: The Truth About Quartz Crystals
File Photo
By Fritz Tennis
Electronics Expert
The type of micro-precision that you find in everyday clocks, door hinges and basketball hoops is entirely keyed to a tiny slab of quartz crystal held under specific temperatures in an extra-special oven. Although the quartz may soon be made obsolete by an even more precise discovery (the little movements of restrained cesium atoms), the crystal still remains the most important device in existence today.
The quartz crystal was known to the ancients and even during the Reign of Pirrapods but it appears that some time after the death of the great King, it was forgotten. It was not until 1837, when Keith Hernandez wandered into a cave in the Inner Depths and was able to hear strange sounds from above, that the power of the quartz crystal was rediscovered. Keith, of course, is now a Hero of Science!
How They Are Cut. Quartz crystals are cut from so-called baby stones by a high-speed carborundum jenny. Don Jars is one of Lankville’s best jenny operators. “You have to know what you’re doing,” he says, by word of advice. “You can’t just step up to the jenny and start cutting. That never works out. I’ve seen guys just walk up to the jenny holding a gigantic sloppy sandwich and think that they can just go ahead and eat the sandwich and operate the jenny with one hand. And still, I’ve seen other guys just walk up to the jenny with an ear of corn. I mean, how can you operate a jenny when you got no hands free?” We had no answer for Jars and the interview collapsed of its own accord.
Although most finished plates come from natural quartz prisms, modern techniques for growing baby stones in laboratories have been perfected to such a degree that the quartz itself may be said to be perfect. Synthetic crystals are often even far superior to natural ones. Zharenendolf Gonzales (foreign Islander) works in one such lab.
A quartz crystal. That’s a hand holding it.
“I would concur with your assertion,” he noted, whilst monitoring the creation of a new synthetic quartz. “We can also make the synthetic quartz to have a pleasing color. Look– this one is green!”
Everyone was very pleased.
Characteristics. The most important single crystal parameter is what is known as “the temperature+mass+coefficient (see table one). You will immediately notice that the temperature coefficient of a certain crystal is given as 1-2-0-6 or 0-2-9-4; hopefully things are beginning to make sense now and you will begin to have an understanding of the megacycle of basic frequency. If you don’t, I wouldn’t really worry about it– it doesn’t really matter. The important thing is to assume that the temperature of your crystal should not exceed x 10=2250 cps= .00225 mc (about the same temperature as it would be if you cooked a bunch of fries in your oven).
Table One
Have another look at table one, specifically rows 3 and 4. Now look at the equation below:
X-cut: t = k/F = 112/4 = .0028″
Y-cut: t = k/F = 77/4 = .0019″
From this it is evident that the wider crystals will grow thicker. You may wish to make a note in your tablets.
Overtone Crystals. An overtone or harmonic crystal is one that has been ground or otherwise agitated by the manufacturer so that it vibrates in two or more parts rather than as a whole. Essentially, this process is very similar to the production of musical instruments where the body vibrates in parts showing nodes and loops along its length (imagine a tuba). If a crystal were to vibrate in two equal parts, you would get the same effect. Imagine a tuba once more and then look at figure one again.
Mounting. It’s important to have a nice holder for your crystal. The consensus at The Electronics Cranny is to utilize some of the recent plastics; you can also use wood if you live in the hills. The crystal should be allowed to vibrate gently but not excessively– excessive vibration may cause coefficient disintegration and ultimately place the operator in a position where he will have to clear the area. “I’ve seen it happen often with these guys that try to mount crystals while holding a big sloppy sandwich,” said Don Jars. “You can’t have that kind of monkey business!”
Now You’re Done! If you’ve made it this far, you clearly have a working knowledge of the quartz crystal. Now, experiment! Put the crystal in some paper and ball the paper up. Send some signals through a long tube. Try drinking some soda through the tube with the quartz still stuck inside. Enjoy!
This has been another session of “After Class” with Fritz Tennis.
Staple Comes Loose from Royer Paddle Ball Game
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By Bernie Keebler
Senior Staff Writer
A staple has come loose from a paddle ball game owned by mall-dwelling Lankville business magnate Ric Royer, according to sources. The executive is believed in repose.
Staples coming loose from paddle games can render them useless and cause extreme emotional distress for the owner, experts agree.
“Mr. Royer had been playing with the game for most of the morning,” said his personal assistant Orpan Gheymook. “By lunchtime, the string was clearly stressed, the staple was bent awkwardly and the endless jackhammer action of the ball slapping against the paddle had rendered the contraption near the breaking point. Mr. Royer was warned but he continued playing at a similar high level and all of the sudden, the staple came completely loose. We never did find the ball.”
Gheymook continued. “Mr. Royer let out a horrific scream and collapsed in a corner. For some reason, he removed his shirt as he went to the floor. He could not be consoled and ultimately we had to remove him to a comfort station. I have no further updates.”
Royer’s whereabouts are currently unknown.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Other World Figures
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By Ric Royer
It was evening and I was alone in the unfinished room above my garage, eating an owl. I had a pictorial magazine depicting doors of all types open at various angles and the radio on low when I heard a soft knock. The sun had just gone down.
It was odd, indeed. The stairway to this mysterious room issued a series of sharp creaks and low moans and yet, I had heard nothing. The knock came again. “WHY?” I called out and then realized my mistake. But by then it was too late. The doorknob turned slowly and three shadowy other world figures entered the room.
The unfinished room above Royer’s garage. The Other World Figures appeared on the right.
There was nothing to them but pure shadow– only the barest outline of past humanity could be discerned. They seemed to be hooded– their arms hung limply at their sides. They stood like the front of a bowling pin formation– two behind the first.
Minutes passed. There being nothing I could do until they fired the opening salvo (whatever it be), I elected to finish off the owl. Then, I drank two two-liter bottles of soda in quick succession. After that, I was ready.
One of the figures in the back suddenly picked up an empty plastic container shaped like a barrel (it had once contained puffed cheese triangles). The barrel hung there in the shadows eerily. Then, it disappeared slowly– as though it were being sucked into a pit of quicksand. The plastic top did pop off and land on the ground– to which one of the figures distinctly said “shit” in an eldritch, ungodly voice but otherwise the passage was perfect.
“Why don’t you get out of here,” I said, electing on a gambit that seemed futile and yet, I could think of nothing else. I picked up a giant newspaper and swung it about in their direction. “Go on now, get out of here.” The trio moved slowly backward towards the door. It seemed to be working. I stepped it up a notch. “ASSES! OTHER WORLD ASSES. GET OUT OF HERE.” I threw a bucket towards them– it disappeared into the shadows. “Get out of my unfinished spare garage room– YOUR KIND ARE NOT WELCOME HERE.”
I had cornered them near the doorway. I continued to hurl objects towards them– another empty plastic barrel, an old decorative ham, a piano. Finally, it was too much for them. They retreated. I watched them move strangely across the lawn– you could see their path in shadow behind them. Finally, they seemed to move off into the night air. Then the path before me slowly dissipated.
I looked over and saw my East Island neighbor. The consensus throughout the area was that she had fine tits for an East Islander. I stared right at them. “To hell with it,” I thought.
“Everything alright?” she asked in her East Island way. “Yeah,” I said, continuing to stare at the fine, perfectly formed titties. “Everything looking real good to me, real good.” I allowed myself to drool a little.
It must not be part of her culture. She was putting dirt into clay pots.
It would happen. Another night.
Win a Free Remote-Controlled Robot Contest!
It’s time again for The Lankville Daily News’ robot contest!
All you have to do to win this fabulous remote-controlled robot without guns (worth $77,000) is complete the official entry form at the bottom of this story. Tell us what you think the robot should be named and why it should be named that in 8 words or less! Then, mail your entry along with your name, address, age and type of car you own and where it’s normally parked to: LANKVILLE DAILY NEWS ROBOT CONTEST, 526 Yelling Street, Eastern Lankville, 2915. All entries must be postmarked by March 30, 2014. You may include your resume.
CONTEST RULES:
1. The contest is open to all residents of Lankville, the Outer Depths, the Desert Area and the Lankville Regional Islands.
2. Duplicate prizes (not robots) will be awarded in the event of a tie.
3. You may only enter ONCE. After that, your name will be permanently removed from our computers and we will no longer recognize you.
4. The scoring system is as follows:
-40% originality
-30% paper
-20% imagination
-10% restraint
————————CLIP WITH SCISSOR(S)——————————-
Name____________________________________________
Address________ Lankville_______ Zips__________
Age____ Health: Yes____ No______
The robot should be named___________________________
________________________________________________
________________________________________________
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Bill
By Ric Royer
File Photo
It came in the mail on a Saturday. I forgot about it and went to the jungle gym.
On Monday, I found it again. I had fallen behind a chair while eating some cereal and there it was, lodged between the molding and a basket of magazines. I opened it out of pure curiosity. It was a bill for $72. I shoved it into the basket and, in the act of doing this, it became torn and crumpled. On Wednesday, I removed the entire basket of magazines and placed them on the porch of a neighbor four doors down.
Several weeks later, I received a phone call while test-driving a golf cart over some hills. The man on the line claimed that I owed him $4,652.
“For what?” I asked. I parked the golf cart in the woods and left it there. I had decided that it was not for me.
He began reading off a series of vendors. There was the model train company, a bookstore, the decorative ham place, several motel rooms. I remembered only about half the purchases.
There was a long pause. “I hate you,” I said. I was just stalling for time.
“The minimum payment is $4,652,” the man said again. “Are you prepared to make your payment today?” He tried to sound cheerful. I suddenly remembered one of the motels. It was a blonde in a green suit. There had been some sexually-charged shoving against some columns.
“Is there a charge for a museum on there?” I asked.
I could hear the tapping of computer keys. “Yes, that’s on the 11th, that was the Lankville…”
“No, don’t tell me,” I interrupted. “Let’s succumb to the mystery.” He said nothing in response. There was nothing but the background cacophony of other voices demanding payment on other accounts.
“I don’t understand you,” I said. And I hung up.
I pushed the phone between two empty accordian folders that I found in a field. They were still factory-sealed.
Then I got in the van and drove.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: Incident at the Candy Counter
By Ric Royer
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We hired a girl to man the candy counter. She had come down from the hills a few days ago.
At the end of the first week, I asked her if she was enjoying the job. She said that yes she was, she enjoyed helping people pick out which candies were best suited for their own personal needs. She did have one complaint though.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Well, Mr. Octotris, it’s this stool,” she said.
“It’s Royer,” I corrected. My bowels released a little and my leg became moist.
“Do you see this stool, Mr. Roypacks?” she asked.
I stared at the stool. I was lost for a moment. Then, I looked past her, out the picture window and saw some bushes suddenly disappear.
“Mr. Octotris, the stool has no cushion left. See?”
She showed me how the upholstery had been torn down to the plywood base.
“By the end of the day, Mr. Roysticks, my…well…my backside (she said the word with extreme embarrassment) is red and sore, chafed even. I’m wondering if we could get another stool.”
It was impossible, I knew it. But I was slowly falling in love with the girl and I knew I had to do something. I muttered some platitude and got the hell out of there.
That night, in my apartment that had become a dark, dangerous trash maze of my own creation, I found a seat cushion. It had been a promotional item I had once received at a baseball game and had the team name “The Balloons” written in script across its front. It was designed, I supposed, to help fans deal with the hard, unforgiving steel benches that passed for seating at the stadium. I squeezed it into my knapsack and fell asleep right away in an old child’s swimming pool.
The next morning I got to the soda fountain early. She had not arrived yet. I tried the seat cushion on the candy counter stool. It did not fit well but I did not want to believe it. I wanted to believe that it hugged the stool, providing a luscious pillowy barrier that would last forever. Outside, I saw that the building across the street had been demolished some time in the night. A cordon had been fashioned to a tree and a mailbox. I threw up a little.
I wanted her to understand that I could take the Balloons seat cushion away and that, without me, there would be no comfort.
Things moved very slowly that day. An enormous shipment of tri-colored gums had arrived and it took her hours to remove them from their cardboard boxes. Mr. Jipps, the owner, had assigned his son Duke candy counter duties for a few hours. I was standing right there when Duke first noticed the cushion. He fingered its edges and almost picked it up. But then his father barked at him and the cushion was forgotten.
It was after lunch when she took her place behind the counter. The after-lunch candy crowd can be brisk and for nearly two hours she did nothing but push gummy drops into special paper sheaths, engage in restrained pleasantries and explain chocolate-to-nougat ratios. I was starting to feel moist with rage.
Finally, at three, there was a lull. She sat down and I could see the look of surprise on her face. Then, she slipped off the chair and fell face forward into the display case. I heard the sound of shattering glass, the screams of the idle women at the fountain. Mr. Jipps shouted CALL A FIREMAN! In the chaos that followed, I was able to slip out the back. A billboard that had once framed the parking lot on the east side had disappeared. I ran blindly through the alley.
I went into a fever dream. I could see, in extreme close-up, the Balloons cushion fitting snugly across the top of the stool and people standing about commenting on it. “Look at that fit,” they said. I awoke at one point to find myself mindlessly gobbling the cans of a fat hooker in a fleabag hotel room. She had the Balloons cushion on her head, was wearing it as a wig. It looked beautiful. She said, “My ex-husband used to follow the Balloons. Do you remember that big Islander they had– Herrera?” I stared at her. Then I blacked out again.
Next morning, I ended up in front of the soda fountain. It was closed. They had put up a sign but someone had stolen it– you could see the drill holes in the door. The candy counter was covered by a thin white sheet.
That was just the beginning of my odyssey.
Royer to Open Series of Automats
By Grady Kitchens
Senior Staff Writer
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Incarcerated executive Ric Royer (who elected to use his given name for this story) announced today that he will be opening a series of automats, many of which will appear at Memorial Yea! Keepsake Auditorium and other sports venues throughout Lankville. The automats are on target to be open by 2014.
Royer, who appeared in front of one of the automats still under construction, was seen laughing and jostling with reporters and fans and engaging in generalized horseplay.
“The mechanism of the automat is of great interest to me,” Royer later explained as a series of ominous storm clouds entered the area, presaging an epoch of great destruction, death, famine and possible cannibalism. “But the tempting array of foods holds an even greater fascination.”
“When you look at the slabs of pie behind the glass,” Royer continued, “you will be instantly deceived. The slab of pie is not as big as it looks. You see a very large piece of pie. You put in your money, open the receptacle and remove an extremely small piece of pie. You will be vastly disappointed. But by then, I will already have your money. I will have already deceived you.”
“Also, the pies are really, really, really terrible,” Royer added.
When asked if the eccentric executive had revealed too much about his scheme, Royer appeared confused and stared towards the sky, lost in thought.
My Name is Mike Squatch
By Mike Squatch
Architectural Correspondent
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My name is Mike Squatch. I am an architect. I designed Vitiello Decorative Hams Arena.
I have a delightful studio paneled in lovely plastic oak which I designed myself. The studio is sunken slightly and my wife Sally has placed large pillows about the steps, creating a plush and luxurious effect. We are married.
Working from home has many advantages. For example, I was able to keep an eye on the foreclosed house next door. Some troublemakers have been placing carryout fliers in the mailbox. I have had to anonymously phone our block watch several times.
After a few months, the house was placed up for sale. Several couples came to a Sunday Open House. I scanned the crowd carefully to be sure there were no interlopers. I asked Sally to do so as well but she was too interested in sitting on the couch to bother. We are married.
Later that same week, my oldest son Kirk came into my studio. “Now, Kirk,” I lightly scolded, “I’m putting the finishing touches on plans for a Pizza Barn. This better be important.” “Gee, it sure is Dad,” he responded in his energetic, effusive manner. “Some people are moving into the old Householder place!” I got up immediately and peeped out the living room window.
To my shock, I saw a corpulent, gaudy sort of person laboring under a tremendous cardboard box that seemed to be wet and splitting open at the edges. He was clad in low-quality garments and sported a small mustache. “Gee, Dad,” said Kirk. “What sort of person is that?” “I don’t know, Kirk,” I responded. “I don’t know.”
Later that night, I asked our maid, Miss Grubers, to make some cupcakes. “Gee Mr. Squatch,” she said, “you’re so much better at making cupcakes than me. Particularly with the frilly decorating.” I thought about that. “You’re right, Miss Grubers. I’ll take care of it myself.” Miss Grubers nodded and joined Sally on the couch. Sally is my wife.
The next morning, I took the cupcakes over to the old Householder place. The corpulent man answered the door. He was wearing pajamas and engaged in extensive mastication of some sort of foodstuff. There was an unspeakable magazine in his hand showing some women wearing garters and hanging about shiftlessly on a green couch.
“My name is Mike Squatch,” I said, by way of introduction. “I’m married and live next door. Just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.”
He looked down at the 24-cup muffin tin, each filled with perfectly-rounded specimens.
“These are for you,” I offered.
“Hey, look at that, would you. Muffins.” He grabbed the tin and broke open a muffin near the corner. “Huh, what’s that, blueberries?”
“Yes, blueberries. My name is Mike Squatch,” I offered again.
“OK, Mike. Thanks a lot. I’ll have these today, get this pan back to you, or whatever.”
He suddenly shut the door.
It’s been a week. The pan has not been returned. He has not mowed his lawn and there are strange moving lights to be seen from his basement windows at odd hours of the night. My work has begun to suffer. I have been short with the children.
I am married.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Bimbi and the Challenge at the Counter
By Ric Royer
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She was a bimbi straight out of the continent. We met in a cafe– I was reading a copy of Behind Enthusiast. Right out in public– I didn’t give a shit.
“Would you like to walk by the old churchyard?” she asked.
“Let’s make it quick,” I said and I showed her the new shorts I had just purchased and their tendency to ride up on the thigh.
“Yes, that must be uncomfortable,” she said. I crushed my lips to hers suddenly. “Forget about the shorts,” I whispered sensuously.
Later, we went for that walk. There was a little wall there but no yard to be seen. I made a comment.
“Yes, there used to be a lovely verdant churchyard here,” she said as the sun glinted off her coiffed auburn hair. “But after a time, the people, they said, no, and then they said , oh fuck this crap, we’ve had enough of this crap and then the yard was plowed over in favor of this cracked asphalt and weed combination that you see today.”
“Must’ve been sad,” I said. Secretly though, I admired the cracked asphalt-weed combination.
“Yes. Yes, it was terribly. I don’t believe that my mother, an immigrant from the Northern Hole Area, ever got over it.”
We walked on and eventually came upon a Pappy’s Chicken. I was suddenly starving.
“Hey, you wanna’ get a 24-piece? Maybe go out into the woods with it?”
She looked at the ground. “No…no…I will wait here.”
It took forever. While in line, I was suddenly challenged by another patron. We fought around back with clubs that had been set on fire at both ends. I came away victorious but with a terrible mark on the forehead. Plus, I had to buy the 24-piece all over again. “I told you to set it aside,” I yelled. But the fucker at the front counter played dumb. I knew he’d have at the bucket as soon as I left.
“I’m sorry,” I said to the bimbi.
“It was a challenge,” she said and shrugged her shoulders. From somewhere, she produced a moistened cloth. “Come back to my room.”
By candlelight, the bimbi nursed me back to health. I admired some paintings that were flanking a battered bureau.
“Those were done by my mother. They are meant to reflect the difficulties of immigrant life in Lankville.”
“I like the yellows,” I offered. I closed my eyes and listened to the trickle of water in the basin.
“Think of things besides the fire clubs,” she whispered.
“I won that challenge. You know that.”
“There are no winners in a challenge. Look at the paintings again.”
They seemed suddenly transformed. The figures had changed, were far more grotesque than before. One was holding a pizza.
“That is what I see when I see Lankville. That is what my mother saw.”
I was beginning to understand.
Nevertheless, we had intercourse.
Columnist Thurston Makes Miraculous Recovery from Fugue
By Brock Belvedere, Jr.
Senior Staff Writer
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Lankville Daily News correspondent Dr. Kevin Thurston (expert on men’s feelings) made a miraculous recovery last night from a rare coma-like condition known as a psychogenic fugue. The therapist and writer is expected back to work tomorrow.
“He was on death’s door. We thought he might be dead,” said the presiding doctor, an island person. “It is very rare for someone to recover from this.”
Thurston was observed sitting up in bed, laughing at some gentle, restrained riddles and eating from a tray of chuck.
“He’s doing real well, just looking forward to getting back, writing about men’s feelings,” said his brother, who then offered this reporter a used portable carpet sweeper for $9.99. “He loves to be out there, servicing men.”
Thurston has been penning the column Feelings by Dr. Kevin Thurston since 2013.
Ric Royer’s Recipe for Thanksgiving Larded Roast Hare
By Ric Royer
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Incarcerated business magnate and sports club owner Ric Royer (who elected to use his given name for this recipe) is not just an innovative executive. He is also quite the gastronome. He shared with The Lankville Daily News his recipe for Thanksgiving Larded Roast Hare.
“Well, we’re going to skin, draw and truss the little motherfucker,” said Royer, from the kitchens at the Foontz-Flonnaise Home of Abundant Senselessness. “Then, you want to lard the back fillets with finely-cut lardons and braise them in a sauce Irlandaise. While you’re doing that, you want to get a square piece of buttered wax paper and just roast the holy hell out of it for twenty minutes. Just incinerate the bejesus out of it. Then, we’ll remove the paper, meanwhile keeping it well-basted, remove the strings, the cheese cloth and the clippers and serve the whole load of bullshit up on a hot dish.
Have the Irlandaise sauce ready to go in one of those old god damn sauceboats. Make a fucking mess of it with watercress– just pummel it diabolically and serve it up with some trenches de jambon aux tomates.
Christ’s ass, it makes a big bitch of a meal, I’ll tell you. You get some of that green gooseberry sauce on the side and you can write yourself a fucking ticket to the goddamn moon.”
Ramping it Up With Some Mail with BIG CHIPS
By BIG CHIPS
Special Correspondent
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Yo, man, “The Cut” and I were hanging out on the porch real late the other night. And “The Cut”, he goes, “Hey man, you ever think about the mail?”
Big Chips was a little discombobulated for a min but then I started to see where he was going.
“You got this dude, man, and he brings you mail.” “The Cut” let the sentence waft through the air and out past the pines.
I looked out at the mailbox– nailed to a stake in the ground by the driveway. I had walked past it a million times without any realization whatsoever of its purpose.
“They could put things from anywhere in the World in there,” I stated aloud. “The Islands, the Snow Regions– man, you could even write to your next-door neighbor and they’d have to put that letter in their mailbox.”
“That’s what I’m saying, dude,” “The Cut” answered. We slammed fists together and “The Cut” made one of those explosion sounds because truly it had blown our minds.
I woke up at 3PM the next day and waited for Pops to come home.
“Hey, Pops. Big Chips wants to know what kind of mail we get,” I said.
“As a matter of fact, Big Chips, I forgot to get it. Why don’t you go grab it for me?”
I didn’t feel much like crossing the yard but I went anyway.
And yo, man, there was like a summons in there. For Big Chips. Something about serving on a jury and all.
“What’s this, Pops?” I said, once I had returned to the kitchen.
“Looks like jury duty,” he said. He started looking through a newsprint circular advertising Decorative Hams. “Everybody has to do it.”
“Pops, it’s like “The Cut” predicted this, man.”
Pops looked at me funny. Then he went back to the Decorative Ham ad.
So, dude, pretty soon Big Chips is gonna’ be ramping it up in the courtroom.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Checkers Grandmaster
By Ric Royer
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She was a checkers grandmaster. Young, from some jerkwater Island town, a little on the cocky side. She needed to be knocked down a peg. I knew I was the man to do it.
She challenged me to a match. I put a bunch of gum in my mouth and started snapping it loudly, nodding in between snaps. I knew something she didn’t.
Then, I pushed five of my pieces suddenly over towards the left side of the board. Some of them fell off. I leaned back.
“That’s right,” I said. I snapped the gum and winked.
“You can’t do that,” she countered, in her thick, jerkwater accent. “You can only move one piece at a time.”
“FUCK THAT SHIT. That ain’t how we play in LANKVILLE”. I got real loud towards the end of the sentence. “You don’t like it, you can haul your little ass on back to the islands or wherever the hell you’re from.”
And then I knew I had her. And then I had her.
We smoked a bunch of cigarettes and stared at the patterned stucco ceiling in some derelict hotel room. There was the noise of something large and conical being slammed repeatedly into the wall of the room next door. I yelled for the asshole to can it and for awhile it was quiet but then the conical slamming started up again.
Later, I would wait for the guy and beat an apology out of him. But for now, I turned up the TV and held the grandmaster in my arms.
There was a show on about a canoe that was attacking a beach with explosives. Some people in spacesuits were hiding in bushes. I couldn’t make head or tail of it but the grandmaster seemed to like it. “We don’t have the TV in my country,” she said. “There are radio shows about the farms and people sit around and listen. But we don’t have the TV.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I said. “Don’t talk in hotel rooms. It’s improper.”
I couldn’t think of anything else to say after that.
Ramping it Up with Some Pumpkins by BIG CHIPS
By BIG CHIPS
Special Correspondent
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It’s about that time of year again when Big Chips starts ramping it up with some pumpkins.
Let me break it down for you.
First off, Big Chips came into a little moolah. Sold off all my Richard and the Postman action figures and playsets on the internet. Then I drove straight out to the country to look at a 1977 Neptune Chariot complete with mag wheels that “The Cut” had told me about. When I first saw that car, I knew it was like having a cool breeze blow through your mind.
A fat old guy in overalls came out to show it to me. There was a big stack of pornography on the passenger seat. “The magazines stay with the car,” he insisted. That was cool with Big Chips, so I handed over my wad. He counted it out and seemed satisfied. Then, he started complaining about foreign masturbators. I didn’t quite get the vibe but I heard him out.
A cow wandered out into the road, followed by the younger version of My Man. “You gotta’ crush a tart in there!” the old man started yelling. I figured it best to head.
I showed Pops the car when I got home. “This car is almost 40 years old, Big Chips,” he said. “What will you do if it starts breaking down?”
“It ain’t gonna’ break down Pops. Big Chips’ new car is a ramped-up, exquisite journey-maker.”
Two nights later though, Big Chips’ chariot broke down in the drive-thru of a Taco Horn.
So, it’s gonna take a little longer than expected but Big Chips is gonna’ get there. Some pumpkins are most-definitely gonna’ get ramped up.
Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Chill of the Institution
By Ric Royer
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I pulled into the parking lot of a large institution– might have been a University, might have been a Pappy’s Chicken. It was impossible to tell.
There was some mail on the passenger seat. Bunch of fat bank statements, bills, important-looking notifications– I rolled down the window a bit and dropped these out. There was also a large brown envelope. I tore it open violently to find an old wrestling magazine. I hadn’t remembered ordering it but was pleased nonetheless. As the sun came up, I read an article on small motel girl wrestling. I found myself rooting for Kendra but, as it turned out, she was vanquished in the end. I threw the magazine into the backseat.
I walked across the parking lot and entered an anodyne brick and glass structure. There were some tables and the pungent odor of biscuits wafted over me but there were also some classrooms. I had no idea what was going on.
I noticed a brunette in the corner reading an oversized textbook. There was something familiar about her.
And I thought: “How can I make her love me?”
Time passed. I was brought some biscuits. “Do I pay you?” I asked the waitress. She said nothing. It seemed, for all intents and purposes, that I was invisible.
A man-boy walked through the door. He was carrying a gigantic skateboard. He sat down next to my brunette. He was loud and raucous but she seemed impressed. They went outside together and she watched him perform a series of little stunts with a wood box and an orange cone. I threw up into the biscuits.
The waitress came back. “She will suck him,” she noted suddenly. She seemed to stare at nothing at all, not even the incredible tableau of vomit, biscuits and wax paper. “You could take her textbook as revenge. It’s just sitting there on the table. There is a grand assumption that it will be safe, a grand assumption made by these lovers. You could teach them a lesson far greater than anything learned in a classroom.” Then, she walked away.
I took the textbook. It was worth $50.
ACCOMMODATIONS
When staying in the Area Beyond the Outlands, pick the Murray. Friendly, creative staff, delightful beds, curtains. Phone Far Outlands 5-6712.
LANKVILLE DAILY NEWS: IN BOOK FORM!
The book is gone. It will never return. We hear stories but they are likely false. We live in the woods now. We make fire with a lighter that we found in the street. It was crushed by a truck but, somehow, perhaps through some intervention that is beyond us, it still works. We are waiting. We are waiting.
Original Pondicherry Association News promotional advertisement (2009)
TONIGHT ON TV! RICHARD AND THE POSTMAN REUNION SPECIAL!
The Hit program from the 1970's returns to Lankville TV tonight on LBC!
ADULT ADVERTISEMENT
Women all over Lankville are just sitting at mammoth computers waiting to hear from men like you! Just insert a floppy disk, write a (non-sexual) message and let the sparks fly! (Computer not included).
ADVERTISEMENT
A Vitiello Decorative Ham makes a great gift. Show that you care today.
BANDED DUFFELS ON PALLETS
Assorted colors. Whatever you want to do, man. Call Lankville Falls, 3247.
BRIAN SCHROPP IN THE LANKVILLE DAILY NEWS
The most important cuisine articles ever written.
CANDY
Jipps Co. Full Service Candy Counter! Our alert girls will push gummy drops into special paper sheaths, engage in restrained pleasantries and explain chocholate-to-nougat ratios. Call Central Lankville 3614.
CAT PHOTO
In compliance with Lankville subsection 11:16-4.
CHAMBERS CO. HAND DRILLS: When Electricity is Not an Option
When electricity is not an option consider the Chambers Company hand crank drills. Perfect for use in tight spaces, on distant islands or for drilling holes in fences to see TITS. Call 4-2309.
EMPLOYMENT
Big Ed's BBQ Shack is looking for a part-time waitress. Someone who doesn't nose around and ask a lot of difficult questions. Call Lankville Rougher Area, 5-2100.
EMPLOYMENT
Nuts, Ah! is looking for an experienced nut-handler. Experience with bagging nuts also important. If you break the nut sack, the nuts will drop onto the floor. Come in person for application to Twin Removed Pines Mall. NO CALLS.
FOX FOR PARTIES
Hire the Poetry Fox for Your Child's Next Party. Reasonable rates. Writes poems, dances, will not stand for any shenanigans. Call South Lankville 2009.
The funny stories of Dick Oakes, Jr. have thrilled millions. Look for them today in The Lankville Daily News!
GELSINGER’S ALLURE CLUB
Topless, bottomless wonderland. Mysterious back rooms. Carpeted entirely in astroturf. NO CALLS.
GREBOV BROTHERS TELESCOPE COMPANY
The Grebov Brothers are Lankville's finest purveyor of telescopes for astronomy enthusiasts. Substantial 4.5" apertures and fast f/4 focal ratios provide bright, detailed views of solar system targets like the Moon and planets, as well as wide-field celestial objects like nebulas and star clusters but also TITS.
GUMP PENETRATES
Only in The Lankville Daily News
HADBAWNIK HAUNTED STAIRCASE COMPANY
The Hadbawnik Company is Lankville's #1 installer of haunted, brush-littered staircases. Friendly non-foreign staff! Call Western (Outer) Lankville, 2154 or 2198 today.
HADBAWNIK HAUNTED BRUSH PILES!
The Hadbawnik Haunted Staircase Company is now offering haunted brush piles for use on your staircase. Create eerie, supernal ambiance. Allow the brush to blow haphazardly in the wind, creates fear, foreboding. Call our friendly staff of white people at Western Lankville, 2154. Brush piles may contain other forms of yard debris.
HEY! WANT A MONKEY?
Hey! Want a live little monkey? They do cute things like climb into pumpkins. Call "The Captain"- Central Lankville Hills, 5264.
HOME DUMP Your Neighborhood Hardware Store 16 Lankville Locations!
Weekly Special: Primitive Forged Hooks. Buy 4, Get a Can of Paint. Or Maybe Not. You'll Just Have to Find Out.
INFLAMED BY STARS AND BLOOD
Lankville's Premier Science Fiction and Horror Magazine Now Appearing in The Lankville Daily News!
JOHNNY PADRES, OPTICIAN
Lankville has been relying on Dr. Johnny Padres for their optical needs since 1973. We offer a full service family eye care center and provide examinations for glasses and contacts and have a large display of designer, traditional and innovative eyewear for both regular prescription eyeglasses and sunglasses all of which will enable you to see TITS better. Call Lankville Business 2618-2.
LIFE LESSONS FUNERAL HOME
Life Lessons Funeral Home has been helping Lankville with dead people since 1932. Contact Eddie or Stummins, Lankville Business, 5-2161.
LOOK AT THESE BEAUTIES!
Really some of our best ever! Have you ever seen anything like it? Call Kelly (male) at Lankville Sound 2615.
MISSING
Missing: adult penguin. Christ, I just let him out in the yard for one minute and now he's gone. Responds to the name "Richard". Call Lankville Eastern Outlands, 5-6213.
NOW PLAYING!
The Unhinged: A New Film by Tom "Vapor" Rayford. Crisp Street Cinema, Eastern Lankville
PINEAPPLE CITY: A New Way of Being
Pineapple City is a new way of being, feeling and having your shirt off. Located in the distant, barren Lankville Pines, Pineapple City is now accepting applications for sheds. Call PINES, 2-5771.
THE PUZZLER
In the pie chart above, what segment represents a certain specific strata of the general population?
REAL ESTATE
Little shed for sale. With door, mailbox, dirt plot. Site of multiple murders but don't worry, they happened around back. To inquire, come to the shed. Go around back.
REAL ESTATE
Four acre lot in Eastern Lankville Cove Area. Price reduced! Site of a fireworks display in which several people fell out of their lawnchairs and died. Locals believe it haunted but that's crap. Call Cove 2751.
THE RECKONER EXACTRA 2.0 : A Danny Madison Product
It's Your Time: CALCULATE
SARAH SAMWAYS: CONTRIBUTING FEMALE
Exclusively in the Lankville Daily News (and some other papers).
SPEAKING ENGAGEMENT
Robin Brox will sit around and get progressively more intoxicated while listening to this other broad natter on about something. LANKVILLE REGIONAL AUDITORIUM, August 4, 11PM.
SPEAKING ENGAGEMENT CANCELED
The Dr. M. Chambers speech and candy-making event has been canceled again following Dr. Chambers' sudden collapse into some baskets. New date TBA
TRAVEL TIPS by Randy Hammers
The Kum Back Inn in the Lankville Desert Area has long been serving road-weary travelers. They feature a restaurant (with cocktails) and two spacious conference rooms. The Kum Back boasts 65 units-- each including window dressing, some chairs and a larger chair (seats two smallish children), a bed with orange comforter, a plastic trash can, clever paintings, and a windowless door. TV also available in 17 (sometimes 19) rooms. Most of the rooms are air-conditioned. Oscillating fans available upon request. Illuminated carports will protect your vehicle from the vicious sudden dust storms that often overtake the Desert Area and the wild thieves that occasionally parade across the landscape like some unmentionable horror. Call now at TU-0780 and ask for Bud or Karen (married).
UTILITY YARD SHEDS
The Lowinger Brothers offer great utility yard sheds at low prices. This one is haunted. Call Lankville Port Area 1072.
VACATION PACKAGES!
Spectacular vacations in campers by little mountains. Your cares will melt away but you will have to be careful of that shack (pictured). A lunatic lives there. Call Mercantile District 2711.
WRESTLING TONIGHT!
8PM, Southern Lankville Man-Arena. Featuring Ric "Wild Boy" Tipps (green trunks).
ZACH KEEBAUGH INVESTIGATIONS
Only in The Lankville Daily News
The Lankville Daily News 
LETTER SACK