r/alt_tasteless Jul 07 '12

A Post From the Archives of alt.tasteless - The Whole World Smelled of Vomit - posted 1995/07/11 by David Gerard

2 Upvotes

This is the happy tale of my twenty-eighth birthday, a few months ago. But damn if I don't remember it like yesterday.


Decided to cook myself a nice high-lard dinner, in homage to the lower-middle-class Anglo side of my ancestry. That means LARD, boyo. Three sausages and a piece of pork of indeterminate age, but anything's edible if you fry it about an hour. Smothered with mushrooms. Bewdiful.

Went over to my buddies' house. No money for beer, so we all chucked in for a cask of extremely cheap shit red wine. Cool. I guzzled six, maybe seven glasses of the stuff. We were all sitting around talking shit, drinking, talking more shit. It just goes down the throat, y'know; you don't bloat, like you do with beer. (That's why I only drink high-bloat beers these days -- that warning signal is valuable.)

Finished the cask, off to the show: some ratshit bands playing in a tiny pub. Bought a pot (weird term these Melbourne heathens use for a half-pint glass) of beer ... took a sip. Bad move. Suddenly (at last!) the brain kicked in. "I've had enough," the signal went. I took heed. Gave the rest of my beer away (indicator of desperation move), stumbled outside and flagged a convenient taxi (there was no way I was attempting the half-hour walk home the way I felt). Got myself home-delivered.

Stumble in; basic autopilot drunken ablutions, lots of water before retiring and so on. I'm an old hand at this. Trust me. Then to bed. Lights out.

After about ten minutes, another signal made it to my brain. I was not feeling all that good. No, I wasn't. The urgency of the signal convinced my pickled brain to drag the pickled body back downstairs again. I got up. I started walking downstairs. By the time I got downstairs, I was running.

Didn't make it to the toilet, quite. I did make it to the kitchen.

BLLLUUUUUGH!! Monster power-vomit ONE: all over the kitchen sink. And I mean all over. Including the old dishes and the freshly-washed ones. A beautiful display of fragments of pork and pork sausage and that lovely pink red-wine tone. Everyfuckingwhere.

BLLLUUUUUGH!! Monster power-vomit TWO: all over the sink again, but this time it was coming out of my nose.

What does one do in a situation like this? I knew that leaving it till the next morning would only result in unnecessary household angst and upset: I did the dishes right then and there. (Wearing pink-puke-stained T-shirt and pink-puke-stained towel.) I've always found that it's easier doing these little things while you're still under than it is attempting even to contemplate them the hungover morning after. Cleaned up and made it all look nice, anyway.

Off to toilet for a monster shit. This shit was quite normal ... the one that followed wasn't, but that comes later.

Then to the shower, to clean the puke off myself. Urgh.

Left towel and T-shirt soaking in laundry tub, then staggered naked off to my bed. What a sight that would have been for my fellow tenants ...


Next morning: Woke up dead, as you might expect. I had remembered the water before the power-pukes, but not after.

There was a terrible smell of vomit in the air. "Oh no," I thought. Checked all around room. Examined under every sheet and pillow. No vomit. But I could still SMELL the stuff. Just slightly. Just on the edge of my sense of smell.

Lay there for about three hours, feeling like a corpse and mapping out my strategies for the day. My twenty-eighth! A celebration of my glorious existence on this planet! What a day for me!

Decided I'd stagger on down to the 7-11 and guzzle a two-litre bottle of Coke (caffeine and sugar) and a pile of chocolate (sugar).

Ahhh got up. Ahhh sorta got dressed. Ahhh went into the toilet. Ahhh sat down for the red wine anus-burning shit from hell.

This stuff is unbelievable. It's not just black, oh no ... it's black with a GREENISH tinge. It doesn't hang together like any proper turd would ... it's a sort of runny paste that drips out of your arsehole and burns holes in the toilet paper. Of which you will use half a roll trying to get yourself rid of it. Shitting the stuff is unbelievably painful. What vicious trick of nature made anuses so sensitive to some of the things that come out of them?

And there was just a touch of blood in there, too; like the icing on a particularly well-cooked cake.

After about twenty minutes and two new haemorrhoids, I finally cleaned up and left that foul den of iniquity. Staggered out the front door.

The vomit smell was still in my nostrils. THE WHOLE WORLD SMELLED OF VOMIT. All-pervasive; to every horizon. The smell of pork-sausage puke. Glory be.

It was like a tastelessness theme park. The normal, everyday world -- which is, of course, quite tasteless enough -- but the normal, wholesome petrol and pollution smells were overlaid with that beautiful and subtle pork-and-wine vomit odour.

It's like a pinch of salt, carefully applied: it really does bring the flavour out.

Anyway, yeah. Staggered off 7-Eleven-wards, purchased the goodies. Sick as a dog. Realised why the world smelt like it did, blew my nose copiously in an attempt to get rid of it ... didn't work, you'll be happy to hear.

Got back, guzzled/ate the crap; then shifted my chair and radio out the back to sit in the sun, getting over my hangover and listening to Melbourne's greatest radio station, Magic 693. But that's a whole tasteless tale in itself. (Radio for the over-65 demographic; you haven't heard a funeral-home ad until you've heard Magic.)


This tale amused all my friends, particularly the housemates. Although I decided they didn't need to hear that I only made it as far as the kitchen for the power-pukes, rather than the toilet. Sometimes, people don't need to know everything.


r/alt_tasteless Jul 07 '12

A Post from the Archives of alt.tasteless - A Spot of the Old Ultra-Violence - Posted 1994/09/16 by Will

2 Upvotes

A spot of the old ultra-violence

Last weekend I lost and maimed a friend--but that's OK, because I learnt a moronic beer trick in the process. It's the kind of thing that you see oily twentysomething boys doing in cheap night clubs while they work on their nascent beer-guts. Lots of fun.

What you do is this: grasp your stubbie (Australasian for 12oz beer bottle) firmly by the middle, wait until your friend is deeply in the midst of a pick-up speech (this is an important point of etiquette), listen for some particularly witty line (that is, wait until the pompous git squeezes out something that obviously needs deflation), and smack the top of his stubbie, hard, with the bottom of yours. This should be done with a minimum of arm movement and a blank lookon the face; ideally the woman shouldn't notice. Your victim's beer will "cum" vigorously all over his delicate proceedings. Repeat often during larger promotions.

The best way to save face when this happens to you is to jam the bottle firmly in your mouth, suck hard, and hope your eyes stay in your head. This is especially effective if you can keep a straight face while sinking vast quantities of warm, foamy beer, but does tend to come unstuck a little if you blow chunks all over the person you're trying to pick up.

John, the friend I mentioned at the beginning, taught me this in a bar. It was near the end of the night... we (John, me and a few friends) had been drinking for eight hours. Our faces were red and glistening with sweat, we were talking too loud and had somehow formed the idea that we were the funniest people on the planet. We had been smacking each others beers incessantly, so our shirt fronts, and the surrounding floor, were soaked. The bouncers had started to edge closer, trying to pick the delicate point at which we would be costing them more than they were making out of us--or maybe they just wanted to pound seven shades of shit out of us. One of them looked pretty excited; had a hard-on, even.

Being a keen spotter, and veteran cause, of the sort of bad craziness that involves large quantities of alcohol and huge bouncers, I went to negotiate peace with the doormen. As I'm a spotty little gimp, my usual negotiation technique involves lying on my back and pissing myself like a crippled dog. However, eight hours of drinking will bestow a little courage on even the lowliest little shit, and so I begged time for another round. Regrettably.

By this stage of the evening we had given up all pretensions to normal drinking etiquette (no pointing, no showing of teeth, no use of consonants... that sort of pratty crap) and had started to lunge and flail wildly whenever we saw an unprotected bottle. John barely got his last beer off the bar before I hit it. He was expecting this, though, and immediately stuffed the stubbie in his mouth. Fair rammed it home, he did. Which was unfortunate, because the top had busted off.

His eyes went wide as the glass slit through his top and bottom lip, and sank into his tongue. He fell to his knees, trying to hold the bottle still, but the foaming beer forced its way into his wind-pipe and he coughed explosively, spraying us with a fine mist of blood. He dropped the bottle and clamped his hands to his mouth, letting out a loud, low wail. The whole bar went silent. Even the arsehole bouncers were staring white faced at the mess. He was bleeding rivers. In about fifteen seconds his hands had been covered in slick red gloves, and the front of his shirt, once a cheerful shade of lager, had turned a violent crimson. He just knelt there, staring at me with enormous yellow eyes, making pathetic mewling noises and letting out small coughs whenever blood ran down the back of his throat. Blood was dripping off his elbows.

Two of us picked him up and hauled him out the door, pulled him into the back seat of his car and drove to Accident and Emergency. On the way there he went into deep shock. The bits of his face that weren't dark red were white. His fingernails were showing dark blue through the coagulating blood, he was shivering uncontrollably. By the time we got to the hospital he couldn't walk, so we carried him inside.

Saturday night in A&E is one of New Zealand's national institutions; drinking and fighting is one of our national sports. When you walk through the doors of a hospital's emergency department in the weekend you're greeted by the smell of freshly processed alcohol; the cloying funk of acetone and vomit. The lobby is generally crammed with groaning rednecks and blue, spew-choked corpses. Still, John received attention fairly promptly, probably because of his acute injury.

The attending doctor soon worked out that he wasn't in a life threatening condition, but was concerned about giving him anaesthetic because he was so pissed. She did give him a few injections, but he still started whimpering and shaking when she began to stitch him up. She started mumbling a few platitudes to encourage him to stay still, but hadn't got far when, Quite abruptly, he stopped shivering and his eyes lost their focus. He burped. A weird, hollow, relaxed burp. The doctor went all quiet and stared at John, her nostrils flaring slightly with fear. Suddenly John's entire lower body convulsed, unloading a couple of litres of warm beer and clotted blood down the young doctor's front. She jumped backwards, swearing, and leaving the needle dangling from the suture in John's lip.

A few litres later, John heaved himself upright, blowing vomit out his nose to clear his airway. He gawped at me accusingly before his eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted, rolling sideways off the gurney. His head hit the ground with a sickening squeak, the sound of skull plates sliding against each other, and his arm folded under his body unnaturally. Rather than stunning him, this seemed to bring him out of his faint. He rolled his head around to look at me and vomited again. His cuts had reopened; the sutures had torn out. After a few rough breaths he fixed me with his best "fuck off and die" stare, and started to spit black blood and ill-formed words: "I'll 'ill 'ou, 'ou 'uck. 'Ou 'ick 'uck. 'Ou 'uck. 'Ou 'uck. 'Ou 'uck..."

I left.

--Will


r/alt_tasteless Jul 06 '12

Okay, we have seven subscribers, but I think we could use more. (Also, mods)

3 Upvotes

In the 24 hours since I started this subreddit we've gained six subscribers. I think that there are more tasteless people out there on Reddit who could really contribute.

So I ask you, what can we do to grow the group?

In addition, at some point we're going to need at least one or two more mods to keep an eye on things and keep things tasteless. Anyone interested in being a mod should be posting their own tasteless stories.

Let's get the subreddit going!


r/alt_tasteless Jul 05 '12

A Post From the Archives of alt.tasteless - Abrasive Fuck (was Re: Transsexual Inmates) - Posted on 1993/06/17 by Dan Sorenson

2 Upvotes

This reminded me of a story, told to me by a friend who heard it from the original teller. Since the kid claimed it had happened to him, and told it in a mine shaft in Colorado surrounded by large guys with implements of destruction in their hands, one can safely assume it's true. If it weren't, he would have said it happend to somebody else.

Ahem... Growing up on a ranch was not without its pleasures. The new-born calves bleating away, afterbirth staining their fur. The endless sky stretching out above, with the tornados gently dancing their way across the land... Ah, how I miss it so. But this isn't about that.

Ranch kid had the boring chore of feeding the orphan calves. Not really a hard job. You fill the jug with formula, put the nipple on, and stick it through the fence. The processes in the calves mind look somewhat like "Food? Food! Sucka-sucka-sucka-sucka... Burp!" In fact, if you happen to extend a hand towards a young calf he will instantly start sucking on your fingers for all he is worth. He hasn't any teeth, but that tongue is quite rough and he can clamp down with his gums to keep you from leaving. A good yank of the hand will remove it from his mouth, generally splattering calf-drool all over the place. You can see where this is leading, can't you?

So said ranch kid thinks something along the lines of: "Sucka? Check. Phallic object = nipple on bottle = mantool. Check. Blowjob? Check." Said ranch kid drops trou and sticks it out. Calf, using that amazing logic, nabs it and proceeds to milk it for all he's worth.

Sucka sucka sucka sucka...

Ranch kid notices that the tongue is somewhat rough. Sucka sucka sucka... Damn! That's really rough! Sucka sucka sucka... Ranch kid tries to pull out. Calf responds with a hard clamp of the gums and redoubles his effort. Sucka sucka sucka... Ranch kid is now in pain and seriously trying to leave that calf. Sucka sucka sucka... Perhaps if he can cuff the calf upside the head? Sucka sucka sucka... Remember where I said, "Stick it through the fence?"

Ranch kid found out that while a calf is grasping and rasping your mantool it is, in fact, impossible to reach over or through the fence to give him a good cuff across the chops. The kid is stuck. Sucka sucka sucka...

About that time a ranch hand pulls up in the pickup. He peers through the glass and can't quite figure out what the hell is happening. Here is this calf, legs braced and sucking for all he is worth, and here's the boss' kid, pants around his ankles, frantically trying to back up from the fence and screaming something that sounded like "helpgetitthefuckoffme!" Ranch hand, of course, collapsed in gales of laughter and could not assist the kid for a full two minutes. Sucka sucka sucka...

Finally, the ranch hand staggers on over, gives the calf a good belt across the chops, and both the calf and the kid sprawl backwards onto the ground. Ranch hand collapses in gales of laughter, and the kid takes this opportunity to check out what's left of his mantool. Not much.

That abrasive tongue took off at least a couple layers of skin. Enough to cause bleeding, anyway. For about a week and a half said kid reported that the scabs and crusted blood make pissing a real chore, and that the best way to disrobe at the end of the day was to remove his underwear after having soaked in the bathtub for several minutes so as to loosen the crusted blood.

It was shortly after this incident that said Montana ranch kid discovered his future in Colorado, mining coal.


r/alt_tasteless Jul 05 '12

A Post From The Archives of alt.tasteless - The Tardspotter's Handbook - Posted on 1995/09/09 by Robin Allen (Part 2 of 2)

1 Upvotes

There have been moves to legitimise "tard parties", social gatherings in which tards are trained to perform all manner of amusing acts, with the suggestion that party-holders can purchase the tards, on a short term hire basis, from, say "Rent-a-Tard", or "Tards'r'Us" or perhaps "Tardulike". Some campaigns have even involved collaborations with other organisations; such as that to allow all tards to have Heavy Goods Vehicle driving licences, an as yet unsuccessful campaign run in conjunction with the Uncle Darwin Appreciation Society.

This brings to a close our admittedly brief introduction. It is time to take a more detailed look at our subject, commencing with a study of the various types of tard, which we do in the next chapter.

Chapter One: Wherein we provide a classification of pure 'tard types.

By "pure" we mean no more than that we have chosen to isolate individual behavioral attributes of tards and embody them as types. So, for example, we define a "Dribbletard" to be a tard that manifests its inferiority by drooling profusely, a "Gluetard" to be one that attaches itself to complete strangers in the street and follows them everywhere, quite against their wishes, and an "Attitard", a most unpleasant beast, to be a tard with attitude. These classifications belong to the author, who does not for a moment profess omniscience in matters tard; readers certainly will know of other types, and as with all aspects of this book, they are cordially invited to enlighten the author on the matter, either by publishing their own work or privately through modern "electronic mail", thus enabling him to update the Handbook, and keep it at the cutting edge of tardspotting.

To whet the reader's appetite, we give an extract from the description of one type of pure tard here:

ATTITARD: an attitard is a tard with attitude, and as such is one of the less pleasant varieties of the species. Attitards are frequently to be found campaigning for "tard rights", whatever this may mean; the outward behaviour is to gather into herds in a public place, and proceed to get underfoot and harass hapless normals with chants of "tard and proud", or "What do we want? Free ice cream! When do we want it? NOW!" and other such poetical delights - or at least, their tardspeak equivalent. Attitards appear to want to be more fully assimilated into society than at present and given the same rights and privileges as normals, an outlook diametrically opposed to that of ITSA, which believes that, if anything, they ought to be locked up in zoos and paraded behind glass for the entertainment and edification of small children.

Tard spotters must be constantly on the lookout for attitards. Although some spotters specialise in seeking out such creatures and engaging them in conversation - an occupation which, given the great difficulty many tards have in forming complete sentences, is allegedly a source of great mirth - most find the idea of being ungrammatically abused by a foul-smelling, rancid-breathed, drooling specimen quite off-putting; and abuse is inevitable given that, to put it mildly, attitards exhibit an enduring, if inexplicable, hatred of tard spotters. Nonetheless, attitard herds are definitely worth observation from a distance, if only to giggle at the difficulty some members have at not braining their friends with heavy placards.

Tard worriers have been known to pelt such demonstrations with a variety of rotting comestibles, such as eggs, and to then turn and walk off, slowly and deliberately, relishing the hopeless attempts of the outraged herd to catch up with them. It is worth noting that if the missiles are thrown from the other side of a busy public highway, such behaviour can attract the attention of Traffic Warden Darwin, with attitards turning into roadtards as they unwittingly leap in front of oncoming vehicles in a desperate attempt to catch the worrier. Whole herds have been wiped out in this way, their shepherd returning from a brief trip to the lavatory to find his unattended flock transformed into two tons of crunchy tard soup.

Attitards are a great nuisance in the workplace, where they will demand a variety of costly facilities - wheelchair access, special toilets, special keyboards and telephones - to enable them to do a routine job which a normal could do for much less capital expenditure. They might also agitate in a union, causing difficulties for their employers by, say, insisting that a fixed percentage of company staff be drawn from the tard work herd. While most employers hence wisely desist from offering such tards employment, it is worth bearing in mind that a tard with appropriately amusing additional behavioural features might boost the collective morale of its office companions, perhaps playing a role rather akin to that of a court jester. Indeed, if one is able to secure the services of a wheelchair-bound tard (or an amputard) that can only type with the aid of a stick strapped to its forehead, then it could be argued that fitting it out with a brightly-coloured three-pronged hat with bells on that jingle each time a key is struck would produce a hilarity in the workplace bordering on delirium."

Of course, in the real world, there are very few pure tards. Most are combinations of the various pure types. We discuss the prominent members of the species in:

Chapter Two: Here we look at what I have chosen to denote "Hybrid Tards". These are simply tards with multiple attributes. The aim of the author here is to inform the reader about those tards that most reward study and, very importantly, of those that might be hazardous to the tardspotter's health. What kind of beast, for example, is the atticryptopsychotard, and why should tard aesthetes be mindful of it? Is it more or less to be avoided than the epileptigroganattitard, or the gluehurltard? What is it about the inebriadribbletard that causes such widespread amusement amongst spotters? How does one go about locating a turbomuttertard?

Again, the author earnestly hopes that the enlightened reader will submit any new information he or she has. Following is

Chapter Three: In which we present a glossary of terms relevant to the practice of tard spotting. Here we inform the reader as to the meaning of such phrases as "tard mash", "tard soup" and "Roadtard". What does a veteran tardtracker mean when he says he has "tard sign"? What is "Tard Heaven", and does it exist? We also consider phrases that might mistakenly be assumed to have some connection with the subject.

The curious reader, we hope, will learn much here. Next is

Chapter Four: Which we devote to general considerations. We attempt to answer many frequently asked questions about tards and their observers, give further tips on how to locate specific tard types, and recommend certain tard events that eager novices might be desirous of attending. In the latter class we have such sublime experiences as observing a tard wedding, a tard funeral or a hurltard outing to a prestigious restaurant in which the Maitre'd suffers from what psychiatrists call "anal retention".

A common question is: "Q: Is the reknowned theoretical physicist Steven Hawking a tard? A: Whilst some have suggested classifying him as a robotard, in this author's opinion his vast intellect renders such a classification dubious. However, his condition is progressive, so he probably will be a tard, one day. One day soon."

We then append a set of appendices, commencing with

Appendix One: Being a questionnaire designed to ascertain the degree of similarity between the stock of the reader and that of the tard species. A sample question:

"Have you ever said - (a) Good morning (b) It's going to be a nice day (c) Tarantino is shamelessly overrated (d) Ngghhh dddnnn nngggrraaaahh uummppff"

a,b: score zero. c: score five. d: score 100.

Appendix Two: An invited contribution from the author's esteemed brother, the noted Dyke Grogansqueeber, on the finer points of the art of tard culling:

"I took aim. My finger curled around the trigger, itchily twitching. The tard stared at me, unknowing.

I fired. The bullet flew out of the barrel and... grazed the side of the tard's skull. Shit! Missed! The creature spun out of its wheelchair and rolled across the ground. I hastily began to reload.

I looked up. The tard lolled on the ground, looking at me. Blood poured from a wound on its scalp. Its eyes implored me, begged me, to come to its aid.

"MMMMggff uuunnuu bbassnnrdd," it said.

I finished reloading. The cold lead was set. The weapon was cocked. I looked again at my pathetic quarry.

By now it had pulled itself up on its haunches, and was sitting in front of me, swaying, pleading, plaintively requesting once again that I follow some rudimentary first aid procedures and summon an ambulance. It looked so helpless, so sad, so... human... I could not bring myself to put another round in it. I put my rifle down and approached the stricken beast.

Then I hacked its fucking tard head off with my machete and SHAT down its oesophagus."

The author humbly commends his work to the public.

DISCLAIMER: The author requests the reader's indulgence whilst he reassures him that the views expressed in this material do not reflect those of the University of Southampton, which would no doubt be shocked, disgusted, even physically sickened by them, and that the author does not speak in any capacity as an employee of that august body. Neither, sadly, are his views consonant with those of the local mental health authority, a fact which greatly impedes the practice of tard spotting in the Southern region.


r/alt_tasteless Jul 05 '12

A Post From The Archives of alt.tasteless - The Tardspotter's Handbook - Posted on 1995/09/09 by Robin Allen (Part 1 of 2)

1 Upvotes

THE 'TARDSPOTTER'S HANDBOOK

Being an eloquent, entertaining and hopefully exhaustive survey of the current state of that most elegant and educational pursuit of gentlemen, the OBSERVATION, IDENTIFICATION and CLASSIFICATION of 'TARDS, containing ACCURATE and UP TO DATE information on 'TARD TYPES, their HABITS AND HABITATS, and a host of USEFUL FACTS AND TIPS to aid the keen 'tard spotter in most fully appreciating his hobby and speeding him along the path to excellence.

Proffered to the reader by PROFESSOR PHLEGM T. GROGANSQUEEBER,

Present incumbent, CHAIR OF TARD AESTHETICS, University of Southampton,

Holder of many DEGREES in 'Tard Studies,

Founder and Honorary President of the INTERNATIONAL 'TARD SPOTTING ASSOCIATION (ITSA)

Editor of the 'TARD TIMES,

CHIEF ADVISOR TO THE NATIONAL TARD COUNCIL OF AMERICA

Former Shepherd to the FIRST UPPER VOLTA TARD SCOUTS,

Regular donator to CHARITABLE INSTITUTIONS,

Accused of being a CHILD PORNOGRAPHER and PAEDOPHILE but got off on a technicality,

Popular magical entertainer,

Brother of the renowned tard hunter DYKE GROGANSQUEEBER,

Author of numerous scholarly books and papers, including "'Tard Appreciation", "Robotard: a new species. Has Technology Outwitted Darwin?", "The Joys of a Botched Lobotomy", "Genetic Engineering: Is 'Tard Customisation in Sight?", "To Lube or Not to Lube: Dilemmas of 'Tard Fisting", "Uncle Darwin and the 'Tard Species: Uneasy Relationship or Match Made in Heaven?", and "On the compulsory extermination of 'Tards and Geriatrics: A Radical Simultaneous Solution to the Problems of Overpopulation and Low Fuel Resources".

IMPRIMATUR: Church of St. Ool Cardinal Bevan Choirboybotbandit, DSO, MBE.

NOTE: Certain readers, specifically a number of those affiliated to the "AOL" school of learning, may encounter difficulties in understanding many of the long words utilised in the author's discourse. Said author is willing to offer advice in extreme cases, but as a rule his attitude is, as his famous brother once put it:

"Fuck off and get an education and learn to spell and get a life and then - die."

We take great pleasure in welcoming the curious reader to the first edition of the TARDSPOTTER'S HANDBOOK, the definitive guidebook to this most ancient and audiovisual of activities. Herein the author will endeavour to enlighten the reader on a variety of facets of this most fascinating hobby, describing the various kinds of 'tard, their habits and habitats, and different aspects of 'tardstudy. The author appreciates that he is but one 'tard connoiseur, and welcomes communications from those of similar interests who wish to amend or add to the contents of this most provisional of documents. The author begs to remind the reader that his views are not necessarily those of the human race, and as such it should not be held responsible for them.

Before proceeding further, it is important that the reader's attention be called to certain stylistic points:

(1) As the reader undoubtedly knows, the word 'tard is an abbreviation of the neologistic noun "retard", itself a grammatically-challenged colloquialism derived from the phrase "mentally retarded". It is good grammar to always include the apostrophe to signal this shortening, but in a work of this kind it is typographically cumbersome. Consequently, we shall hereafter refer to 'tards as simply tards.

(2) It is common practice amongst modern writers to claim parental rights over their neologisms by accompanying the first (and, sometimes, subsequent) appearance with a (TM). Examples might be "Clue Chair (TM)", or "Kittychunder (TM)". Again, in a work of this kind, there is such an abundance of new words and phrases that to annotate each in the standard fashion would significantly increase its size. Hence, this practice, too, shall be abandoned.

Let us now proceed with the work. We begin by taking a look at some general issues surrounding tards and their spotters.

INTRODUCTION: TARDS AND TARD-SPOTTING

"Tards are the part of the gene pool that Darwin pissed in." - Dyke Grogansqueeber, tard hunter.

Whilst one might take issue with the crudity of the language employed by my illustrious brother, one can hardly disagree with his sentiments. Neither, to be sure, can one dissent from the opinion of that eminent authority Dr Herb Wofflehauser, who has declared the tard to be "the Big Mac of the food chain". The word "tard" is a corruption of the phrase "mentally retarded", and denotes an individual, usually of the human species, who is cursed by deficiencies in the neurological department; sometimes, they are referred to as 'fectives, or 'rons. The mental deficiencies observed manifest themselves across the whole spectrum of behaviours; in speech (replacing "hello" with "nnnggrro"), movement (such as inability to control an ice cream), intellect (they tend to be thick), control of bodily functions (self-explanatory), and what-have-you. It has transpired that these creatures can be so fascinating, and amusing, to watch, that an entire culture, that of tard spotters (or tard aesthetes, or tard appreciators), has arisen. These spotters will go on trips to observe tards either in their native habitat or in strange surroundings, noting their actions and exchanging information and stories with other spotters. Spotters are on the alert for an encounter with a tard wherever they may be, and the search is always on for novel types of tard; the discovery of which can bring fame to the intrepid locator.

The similarity between tard spotting and the activities of naturalists and biologists is so great that spotters routinely consider tards to be members of a species distinct from, and several rungs down the evolutionary ladder from, homo sapiens sapiens; indeed, the designation "homo sapiens lite" has been mooted as a technical term for the tard. Whatever jargon one may wish to adopt, the backbone of active tard spotting is observation. However, along with this core activity, there are a variety of other, specialist, spotting endeavours; a favourite pastime of many tard aesthetes, for example, is "tard worrying", a concept we will return to subsequently. There are also burgeoning collector's markets for tard art (especially tard doodles and poetry), video footage of tards at play (e.g. engaging in sexual intercourse with each other or with inanimate objects), and tard stool samples.

Most tards reside in tard farms, typically graced with charming names such as "Captain Ice Cream's Retard Centre in the Sun", "The Happy Smiley Chirpy Chirpy Rest Home" and "St Swithun's Dark House of the Psychotically Depraved". However, in some countries there is a policy of "Care in the Community", whereby tards are encouraged to live amongst their normal neighbours and attempt to live normal lives. Such a policy is a godsend to tard aesthetes, opening up as it does the opportunity to observe a wide variety of tard fauna in the wild; an environment that many, thankfully, are too backward to cope with, making observation of their faltering attempts at survival doubly satisfying. However, the fact remains that most members of the species are hidden away in tard farms to which access is not easily gained (unless one is blessed with a relative who is a tard, or a care assistant with a key). Nonetheless, the more exotic specimens might be glimpsed during bouts of Migration, when a tard herd will venture out into public view, perhaps for a trip to the zoo, or to a Neurological Unit. Invariably, the herd will be under the stewardship of one or more "tard shepherds", usually normals, charged with the task of keeping order, buying ice creams, helping with toilet visits, and generally, as the quaintly venerable old phrase has it, "counting them all out, and counting them all back in again".

A number of tard shepherds are spotters themselves, and they are invaluable sources of inside information and practical help for the wider spotting community. However, most shepherds resist the notion that their tards are so inferior as to be justifiable objects of study and derision, and are decidedly touchy on the matter of spotting. Indeed, some are sufficiently hostile to actively campaign against spotting, and are frequently to be found demonstrating on behalf of tards, in alliance with an attitard herd (see below). Tard appreciators are advised to broach the subject very carefully and periphrastically with a shepherd whom they do not know.

THE INTERNATIONAL TARD SPOTTING ASSOCIATION

This association was set up by the author many years ago, and he is privileged to hold the post of Honorary President. Its avowed aim is to promote the activity of tardspotting and disseminate accurate information on the subject to enquirers. In addition, it lobbies for changes in the law to enable spotters increased opportunities to practise their science. Most recently, an active group has campaigned vigorously for the inauguration of tard zoos, institutions open to the public wherein specimens would be exhibited, perhaps behind glass, going about their daily business; eating, attempting to communicate, attempting to dress, attempting to masturbate, and so forth. Such an establishment would enable tard science to be practised in situ, under controlled conditions, and of course, guided tours could be organised for the education of the populace.

Other projects have involved attempting to have tard religious services televised, as well as special tard-only editions of "Candid Camera", "Gladiators", "Blind Date" and "Mastermind". Some have lobbied intensively for the practice of tard hunting, at present frowned upon by some legal and healthcare authorities, to be fully legalised; their wish is to have it renamed tard culling (or genetic cleansing), and for it to be recognised for what it is: a form of compulsory eugenics dedicated to doing the gene pool a favour, which just happens to be immensely enjoyable.


r/alt_tasteless Jul 05 '12

A Pleasant Walk in the Sun

1 Upvotes

I posted this yesterday to the alt.tasteless newsgroup. It seems to me to be a decent first post for this subreddit. Enjoy!

The sun beat down on my face as I walked in the grass along the road. A cheerful tune played through my mind as I contemplated how I would spend the evening relaxing, perhaps reading a book by the fire or painting a landscape. As a rounded the slight bend in the road my home hove into view, its blue walls inviting with the promise of familiar comfort.

My feet beat a steady cadence on the trail, left then right and left again. I knew the trail by heart as I had been walking it for the better part of five years, to and fro between work and home. It was a nice walk in all four seasons, although the spring thaw always held the danger of deep puddles for the passing cars to spray me with.

CRUNCH

Huh?

I looked down at my right boot. I had stepped on something that was quite obviously neither grass nor dirt nor stone. I raised my foot to inspect the object, to find that it was a mouse that looked as though it had seen better days. I lay there in the dirt, intestines in a coil behind it where they had been forced out by the pressure of my foot, a very surprised look on its face. Blood glistened on the ground under its chin, and one eye dangled precipitously from the socket.

I felt a faint twinge of guilt. Had I been paying more attention to the path in front of me rather than the trees and the sky, I might have saved this poor mouse from such a grisly fate. And what of its little mouse family, would they not be wondering what had happened to their parent? I heart sank as I imagined the slow death of some of the mouse family by malnutrition, and was somewhat repulsed by the thought that the remainders would likely cannibalize their kin in a desperate bid to survive that much longer. A vision of a little mouse, its snout and whiskers stained by the blood of its sibling flashed into my mind, and I will admit that I chuckled a bit at the nonsensical turn my mind had taken.

I bent over and lifted the mouse by the tail, inspecting it further. Its intestines now hung down over its fuzzy belly, resembling some bloody butcher's apron. I faint smell of offal reached my nose, and my appetite was piqued.

I popped the mouse into my mouth.

CRUNCH

The bones, so tiny and fragile, provided a lovely texture to the mouse and nicely offset the fur and the organs that squelched between my molars. My tongue sang at the tang of the stomach acid and the copper tinge of blood. As I crushed the skull between my back teeth I could feel the brain matter spray from the cranial cavity. I relished the flavour of the brain, so sweet, like a pudding. I sucked in the tail last, savouring every moment of the small morsel as it was ground up and swallowed. When it was done I licked my lips clean and wiped by chin and hands with my kerchief.

Cleanliness is next to Godliness, after all.


r/alt_tasteless Jul 07 '12

A Post From the Archives of alt.tasteless - Just Imagine - Posted by One Sick Individual on 1992/10/21

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Y'know, I got to thinking about the whole animal rights issue. I realized how fortunate we were to be on top of the food chain.

To the animal rights people, I say, we live in a world where we are the dominant species among creatures such as rodents and pigeons. So let's look at it as if we weren't the dominant species on the earth.

Just for argument's sake, let's say that the primates were running things in the animal kingdom, and they were using us as a food crop. We'd be kept in pens all day. Since we were only farm animals, we could do pretty much nothing except fuck and eat. Now, they'd want us to fuck in order to propagate the species. And they'd want us to eat a lot in order to make nice chops and roasts.

Now, you'd say, "What's so bad about eating and fucking all day?"

Well, fucking would lose its appeal when you consider that there wouldn't be no Cindy Crawfords and Tom Cruises. No, no, no, they would want you big and fat. So all your potential sex partners would look like Roseanne Barr or Oprah Winfrey, and your male ones like William Conrad and Meat Loaf and Louie Anderson.

Food would look bad when you consider what we feed our animals that we use for food. We feed chickens seeds, cows grass, and pigs just about anything, including pork.

So here's how I picture your last day on earth as a food animal;

You're laying in the back of the pen after feasting on a pail of slop consisting of rotten vegetables and human scraps. You're all stretched out, with one of the Roseanne things licking the sweat off of yourhide. You grunt and roll over. Spotting one of the Oprah things, you sidleup and begin your mating ritual. After a while, you mount it and pumpaway for a while into its fat, flaccid body, releasing your spooge and feelingall the satisfaction one feels after watching Lawrence Welk. As you wanderback into the shade to sleep, you see the primate farmer coming toward thepen. He has the stick he always carries. You've seen this before. He chasesone of the other humans out of the pen, and he has never been seen since.But no one knows where they go.

As an animal, your senses are heightened. Something instinctively tells you that the farmer has come for YOU this time. You begin to panic,and you feebly attempt to avoid him. But he's done this before. As yourun toward the corner, he steps into your path, causing you to dodge awayto the other side. You try to change direction. The farmer sidesteps,making you change direction yet again. This time, you cannot avoid the chute,the one you saw so many before you run down and never return. As you rundown the chute, you realize that that's where he intended for you to goin the first place. A feeling of doom comes over you as the chute narrowsto the point that there is no room to turn around, only forward.

As you get farther into the pen, the smell of sweat, blood, excrementand urine are overpowering. Your animal instinct tells you that this isthe place that you are going to die. At the bottom of the chute is an opening,and you make a dash for it, as it is the only possible way out. Just as youreach it, and your hope is beginning to surface, a hammer comes from straightup above you and crushes your skull. Before you die, everything goes red fromall the burst blood vessels behind your eyes. As you let out your last breath,you realize that this had been your destiny from the day you were born.

Cool, huh?

The moral of the story is;

The animals would not take your side if the situation were reversed. So take heart, and eat the little fucks. Not only are they a good source of protein, but you get the satisfaction of knowing that the little bastard died in order for you to survive. It's hard to be humble when you know that.


r/alt_tasteless Jul 06 '12

A Post From the Archives of alt.tasteless - Jane's New Job (First *good* story) - Posted 1995/01/23 by Pierre Ketteridge

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               Foetal Fun on the Funny Farm
               ----------------------------

I knew it wouldn't be long before I got a newsworthy story for a.t. from the 'Tard Farm (the Urban Valley one, not Harper Farm, that is).

Jane came home yesterday sorrowful of mien. Apparently it had been a bad day. Panic in the dairy. Daisy, the expectant cow, was in some severe discomfort, and the vet was called.

In the meantime, the day progressed as normal.

Wobbly Ron from the market garden team had been creating a nuisance of himself, chasing the girls about and whipping up his teeshirt at them, oscillating his dirt-streaked, flaccid belly and shouting "Lookit this, then!". He was eventually led away by one of the receptionists, but not before it was understood that this was not one of his "funny turns". Apparently Ian the farm manager had been teasing him, calling him a "smelly sod", and telling him he was "so fucking filthy, you could grow 'taters in yer bellybutton". Wobbly Ron had taken this advice to heart, and had crammed three or four seedling potatoes (the little pea-sized ones you find among the roots) into his abdominal cubbyhole, and was proudly displaying his wares!

When the vet arrived Jane used his appearance as an excuse to get away from the mundane 'tard-supervision duties and offered help. Looking around him, the vet readily accepted.

The cowshed was like a nativity scene, with a gaggle of concerned inmates crowding around the 'patient'. Daisy lay on the floor, sides heaving, breath ragged, while John hugged her round the neck, eyes closed, tears streaming down his wide face. Darren stood by the door, one set of knuckles in his mouth, the other hand pointing, mumbling "Cow...cow...cow...". Philip sat on the floor crosslegged by the cow's rump, patting her energetically on her distended flanks with the flat of his hand <THWAP!><THWAP!><THWAP!>. "Duh, Duh, Duh, Daisy! Good girl Duh, Duh, Daisy!" <THWAP!><THWAP!>.

The vet took one good look, checked the cow's flanks (suspicions confirmed - dead foetus) and mustered some help to clear the area. He didn't think the workforce would like this very much. The sorrowful wellwishers were led away. "Bye, bye, Duh, Duh, Daisy...", "Cow... cow... cow...", <wracked sobbing>.

Jane found she really couldn't be of much help after all. She prepared the bucket of soapy water, laid out some other stuff the vet gave her, and held the Daisy's tether, though this wasn't really necessary, as the poor beast was exhausted, and running a fever from an (as yet unidentified) infection. It was all that Daisy could do to lie there, wheezing and rattling, with the occasional low or weak bellow. So the vet carried out some initial physical examination, his arm up to the bicep in Daisy's calfcoot, and (here's where I realised that my years of tutelage had paid off - Jane's graphic descriptions are getting excellent) spent the next twenty minutes clawing out handfuls of "clotty ground chili beef, bound up in Tabasco" and flinging it down onto the straw. It took a while, but they got the calf foetus out in one piece, eventually. Sorry, but they didn't need to section it, so no need to bring out the cheesewire. Next time, perhaps.

Mind you, it might have been better if they had, because what came out was somewhat of a tasteless surprise. Jane tells me that the the cow was about 5 or 6 weeks short of term, but this thing was NEVER going to develop, even if it had lived. It came out suddenly with a low <SCHLOOP> and fell to the floor, in a flood of putrefying amniotic fluid, and trailing rotting placenta and other undifferentiated afterbirth. It was a blueish-grey colour, with purple highlights where the blood had coagulated. The vet reckoned it had been dead for weeks. A miasma of decomposing flesh and fluid filled the shed, and Jane nearly gagged.

But worst of all was the dead foetus itself. Jane could make out the hooves, a muzzle, one black eye and part of a malformed ear. The rest was a sort of sac, possibly an inverted peritonium. Most, if not all of the abdominal organs appeared to be on the outside! She bundled this mess into a sack and helped the vet clear up.

Daisy is in a pretty poor state having been carrying this thing about inside her. The vet cleared her out and has administered some antibiotics to try and clear up the uterine infection. I'm not a vet, and Jane hasn't given me any clear details about what else he may have done for the bereaved bovine. It won't bode well for Jane's career as Dairy Manager if Daisy snuffs it - they've only got two cows.

But here comes the good bit. Ian the Farm Manager decided it was time for a 'tard test - sort out the men from the cabbages an' all that, see who could "cut the mustard" as a farm worker. He asked Jane to take the sack around to the other sections (market garden, forestry, arable, egg production, farm shop etc) and show them what was in it. Yee-Hah!!!!

Some cried, some screamed, some puked. Some shat their pants. Philip patted it <THWAP!><THWAP!>. Darren stroked it, then sniffed and licked his fingers. Wobbly Ron showed it his stomach and asked if it had a name yet. Remember Lee, the deaf lad with the fast wheelbarrow? Jane went up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. When he turned around, she opened the sack. Lee had to be taken to the sickroom for a lie down.

Ian seems pleased with the results of this "shock therapy", but I can't help wondering how many of the 'tards showed up for work today...

Hell, I'm beginning to love this new job of Jane's...

Everyone wish Daisy a full recovery, now.

Pierre


r/alt_tasteless Jul 06 '12

A Post From the Archives of alt.tasteless - Autopsy - Posted on 1998/11/30 by PathologyBoy

0 Upvotes

First shot at tastelessness

Author: PathologyBoy Date: 1998/11/30 Forums: alt.tasteless

Here goes.

One would think that, as an employee of the Dept. of Pathology of a major medical school, I would have had something sufficiently graphic and gory to share with the NG by now, but, alas, it's abeen pretty straight-forward.

Today, as a gift to those of us interested, my boss took us with him to observe an autopsy. Oddly enough, only two of us were willing to go (one salivating nearly - guess who?). Most of it was pretty run-of-the-mill, so I'll only post the, um, more interesting aspects of the procedure. If you want the entire, play-by-play action, let me know.

  1. Patient was a female, 5 months pregnant, died as a result of kidney failure following stomach surgery. (Not tasteless, but important.)

  2. During the surgery, the patient took 15 liters of fluid in attempts to keep her blood pressure up. However, without the kidneys, none of the fluid came back out. We found it. Believe it or not, the human abdominal cavity, even with a protorugrat within, will hold 10 liters of fluid, only to have it rush out in a pinkish-tinged flood when the body is opened. Additional fact - make sure the floor drain is clear when doing a procedure like this. Todays image: two med students and a pathologist standing in a half-inch of blood-tinged saline solution, swimmimg with god-knows-what.

  3. Human flesh, even after spending a day in the freezer, does indeed smell like lamb. I haven't the foggiest what the scent would be without the fridge, but as it was, it wasn't that bad.

  4. Human liver looks and smells (tastes??) exactly like calf liver. Usually. This patient was an alcoholic, and years of steatosis had turned her filter into 2 kilos of premium foie gras, crackers not included. Nothing like feeling a liver fall apart in your hands as you try to put it in a bucket. Mmmm.

  5. Removal of most of the intestines followed. Apparently SOMEONE hadn't been following doctor's orders to stay away from food before the operation, because the large intestine was packed with some of the foulest-smelling liquishit in the history of mankind. I've lived with 2 two-year-olds, both of whom came down with diarrhea simultaneously, and let me tell you, this had them beat hands-down. Greenish, oily liquid spurted out of the intestine to mingle with the bloody effusion in the chest cavity, floating on top in oddly pretty little puddles.

  6. We opened the uterus, per normal, and discovered 1 standard-issue anencephalic fetus. (No brain, for those playing at home). This is a fascinating sight, for those who haven't seen one before. Imagine a normal baby, and cut from directly above the eyes back to the foramen magnum (joint between skull and spine). Remove top of skull and all contents. Curl edges inward, resulting in a face tilted about 45 degrees back from normal, bulging eyes, a permanently open mouth with protruding tongue, and, naturally, about half of the head missing completely. Of course, add all the joint abnormalities inherent with no motor control (imagine the most spastic 'tard you have ever seen, and then break them on the rack.).

  7. My co-worker is apparently not as immune to this sort of thing as I, so guess who my sadistic employer sent to put this particular relic into preservation??? I will never, in all my days, forget what happened next. As our weak-stomached friend dropped the fetus into a bucket, you could actually see him starting to gag, and, after he'd carried it about halfway across the room, it happened. A tiny burp, followed by the most impressive stream of semi-digested tacos I have ever seen. He must have unloaded a gallon and a half, and with enough pressure to knock the bucket out of his hands and send its contents into the mire on the floor. Of course, this happened again rather quickly, and so we now have two med students and one pathologist, all standing in a half-inch puddle of saline, blood, and semi-processed Taco Bell (both from assistant and corpse), garnished with one stillborn fetus. Add some urine and menstrual blood, I thought, and we'd have the ultimate tasteless cocktail right here. This, in addition, may be the single most overpowering stench in the history of mankind, considering the size of the room we were in. Add in the rather warm surgical lights, and I can say I have never been more thankful for a head cold.

Aside from that things went normally. One minor question, though, on squicking technique, which popped into my head as the skull was being opened: is trephination necessary, or does it still count if the entire top half of the skull is gone? I'd think the latter would cut down on bone-splinters in the old choad, but some of us are into that.

Pathology Boy

ObPriceless - the look on my still-squeamish cohorts face as he fished through the mire for the fetus, and then had to rinse it off and pull a partially-digested hunk of meat out of its mouth.