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Dear Readers:

Jack's a little under the weather right now, so the next strip will have to 
be delayed a few days. Don't worry, though -- it's coming. Just like the 
Wrath of the Lord. It's coming. For you.
Better pray. Or be consumed.

rev. pat
http://www.plif.com/
_________________________________________________________________________
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"How many times do I have to tell you? LICK ME WITH
THAT SANDPAPER TONGUE!".

Like a stern mistress trying vainly to stage a successful
sex scene with the family cat as her husband holds the camera
and tries to hide his arousal, totally unable to understand
why the little feline bastard won't wear that cute leather
mask with the cute leather zippers, throwing nipple clips
at the beast again and again, screaming "Put these on, damn
you!" and weeping, yes *weeping* in frustration as it all
goes nowhere, it's the failed purveyor of filth and
depravity known in circles of wannabe porn stars as the
one, the only, The Parking Lot is Full!

Here's a poem, damn you!

---
Love Letter
===========

dim yellow light
cluttered desk
bluegrey glow of the monitor on my hands
nearly time for bed
sitting here for
hours
trying to get work done
but all I seem to be able to do is
sit endlessly
on BearShare
downloading
porn

it’s a frustrating experience actually
type up my request for
lesbian strap-on threesome bisexual mmf donkey anal orgasm
hit return
pause as the
system searches
comes back at me with a
seemingly endless list proclaiming
hot must see this fucking awesome holy shit this is the porn that will
change your life
forever
so I click on as many as I can and sit back and wait
and wait
and wait until
finally
something finishes downloading
and is ready for my perusal

I click on it and the media player
opens
on a tiny
grainy
postage stamp sized
thirty second loop of a woman
pretending to have
sex
with a pig

don’t get me wrong
I love porn
but there are times
when the whole thing is just so
fucking goddamn
depressing

(what the hell am I doing? didn’t I come here to work?)

I’m about to pack it in
or so I tell myself
just one more file
at 89% completion
just a few more minutes
might as well wait
walk out to the bathroom to take a piss
come back
see the file’s done sit down load it up
instantly clear it’s a home video
camera placed on a table
facing a bed
pair of spread female legs
facing that camera
a hand moving up and down left and right in and out
totally stationary view
glare of a lamp
‘80s hair ballad playing in the background
on the stereo
no doubt about it,
I think,
this is fucking lame

I move to shut the video down but
before I can
the legs shift and
I see the woman’s face
peering between them
at a point just behind the camera
probably at a television
watching herself masturbating
I get the impression that
there’s nobody else there in the room
with her and
this is not so much arousing as
kind of interesting
so I sit back and watch
even when the woman’s face disappears and all I see are
her legs and sex and fingers
in a bizarre forced perspective that does nothing for me
and then she starts shaking and mewing and
does a little convulsion
in a mild little orgasm
and it’s over
the legs swing away and the woman is sitting up
she looks at the camera
and I see that she’s actually kind of average-looking
but with a
....something...
in her half-lidded
post-orgasmic eyes
as she winks briefly at the camera
does a little air-kiss
and then the video is done
and for some reason that I can’t quite put my finger on
there’s just something about that wink
that I find
appealing

I wonder:
did she make the video for herself?
did she make it for someone else she knows?
or loves?
or used to love?
or maybe she made it
with the Internet in mind?
whatever her reasons
there is a knowing
playful
mature quality to that wink
and suddenly
stupidly
pathetically I suppose
I want to know her name
and who she made that video for
and what the story behind it all is
even if there’s no story
and what it would feel like to be a
home-make porn star
but mostly
I suppose
what I really wonder is
about
the sound
of
her
voice

then the phone rings and I answer it
it’s my girlfriend
calling to say hello
I turn off my computer
sit back in my chair
and let her
tell me about her day.
---

We love porn, and so should you.

The new comic is here, a little late but, well, Jack
was sick. What do you want him to do? Eat MORE human
brains? Easy for you to say, so long as he eats someone
else's. Check it out or he'll eat yours.


The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/

_________________________________________________________________________
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 "If you thought our sex life was great *before* the lobotomy, you 
ain't seen nothin' yet!"

 Like a dutiful wife comforting her husband as she gets strapped 
down to a stretcher and wheeled into a dirty, nightmarish operating 
theatre, ignoring his pleas for help and release, stroking his hair 
as she follows him on his way to brain-death and a half-life of 
degradation and drooling idiocy, dreaming of the day when she'll 
have the *perfect* husband, it's the girl you never should have 
been, glassy-eyed and with a head full of fucked-up wiring, 
endlessly trapped in a mental loop of the one, the only, 
The Parking Lot is Full!

Here's a story about you and us!

---

Last of the Corpse Fuckers
==========================

[1]
Just as Melvin Corpsefucker eased himself into the lubricated 
darkness between the cool, dead woman's thighs, the entire morgue 
was suddenly illuminated by the harsh white beam of a helicopter 
spotlight. "COME ON OUT, CORPSEFUCKER," a voice boomed, "WE HAVE 
THE MORGUE SURROUNDED!" The source of the light descended and 
the building vibrated with the helicopter's rotor blades. The 
thud-thud-thud-thud sound was deafening. Pulling himself out 
of the body and fumbling with his member, Melvin turned away 
from the light only to be blinded by a second helicopter 
spotlight shining on the other side of the building.

"Shit!" said Melvin, zipping up his pants. Two helicopters! 
There was no telling what kind of manpower and hardware was 
waiting for him. Strange shadows cast by the twin suns outside 
slid across the room. Thud-thud-thud-thud. Panic began to rise 
up in Melvin, and it was all he could do to not to lose control 
completely. His eyes darted around the morgue. "Got to be 
something here," he whispered to himself, "got to be something."
>From outside, over even the sound of the rotors, men could be 
heard advancing on the building and shouting things at each 
other. The time to act was now.

[2]
The soldier jogged up to Maggie Lin's position and saluted her. 
"Our men are ready to storm the building," he said, his red 
chrome eyes staring straight ahead, the little fangs of his 
teeth glinting. "He won't escape us this time."

"I'm sure he won't, major." Maggie stuck a cigarette into her 
lips and lit it. "You may proceed."

The soldier clicked his heels and sprinted off back to his 
position. Maggie could see the pair of helicopters buzzing 
around the squat building like angry dragonflies, and she 
could see the tanks and men on the ground surrounding the 
structure. It looked like an absurd amount of force to bring 
to bear on a single unarmed man. Maggie took a drag on her 
cigarette and wondered if it all would be enough.

[1]
Around Melvin's neck was the mummified finger of his cloneling 
Devalina Corpsefucker. Devalina had only been six years old when 
Maggie Lin and her Vampire Men had found Last Haven and decimated 
it with radioactive artillery and napalm. The Last Tribe of Corpse 
Fuckers had died screaming and on fire. Melvin grasped the wizened, 
stubby little digit and brought it to his lips. "Give me luck, 
kiddo," he said, closing his eyes for a moment before letting the 
finger drop back to his chest. He began to move, reaching down to 
unzip his pants again.

[2] 
All around Maggie, lights from the evacuated hospital stared down 
at her. As usual, she could feel the Paranoia Implant (a necessary
component of the Necrobuster upgrade) itch inside her skull, and 
she imagined that the windows were eyes staring accusingly into 
her soul. She could feel them condemning her. Her soul was not a 
pleasant place. She was thankful that nobody but her had to live 
there.

A tank with a massive pair of steel jaws rumbled upon the morgue 
and began chewing large sections of the building apart. Leave it 
to the Vampire Men to be so... subtle. As soon as the hole was big 
enough, an entire platoon of the bastards stormed in, cradling bolt
guns in their hands. The helicopters continued to buzz around. 
Maggie finished her cigarette and threw it to the ground, grinding 
out the ember with her boot heel. "Maggie Lin to Necrobusters," she 
said, seemingly to nobody. "Prepare for contingency alpha."
 
<<Acknowledged>> breathed a voice in her head, and Maggie suddenly 
thought of her degenerate fucking uncle who used to touch her at night.

[1]
The Vampire Men advanced in the dark, their surgically undead eyes 
guiding them better than any conventional night vision ever could. 
They moved with the unspoken unity of the herd, their movements 
synchronized by Draculepathy. Up ahead, behind the closed steel doors 
of the morgue proper, they could hear the helicopters... and 
something else. The soldiers froze in their tracks. The sound did not 
repeat itself. The soldiers knew better than to trust this. The man 
on point moved forward, gingerly, towards the doors, his bat-like 
hearing waiting for the slightest noise. Silence. He reached the 
doors. Slowly reached out to touch them.
 
The instant his gloved hand brushed the stainless steel, the bolts 
holding the door popped out like bullets and the entire, heavy, 
metal door crashed on the Vampire Man with weight enough to crush 
his entire body to a squirming red paste. Instantly, the other 
soldiers began firing their bolt guns. Iron rivets blasted through
the walls and into the vacancy left by the door, some ricocheting 
and blasting back into the Vampire Men, sending chunks of flesh 
and sticky grey psuedoblood flying in all directions. There was 
no returning fire. There was nothing but the bolts. As one, the 
Vampire Men ceased fire and found cover. Several of the men were 
limping. One was missing a leg. They waited for the counterattack.
There was none. Slowly, cautiously, the Vampire Men advanced, 
first to the room's threshold and then into the room, their bolt 
guns aimed at the ready. A beaker damaged by gunfire teetered on 
the edge of a shelf, falling to the floor and shattering there. 
None of the Vampire Men jumped.

It was then that one of the soldiers noticed that all the bodies 
in the morgue were covered in glowing, sticky fluid. He reached 
down to touch it, grasping a little strand of mucus and bringing
it up to his nose. He sniffed it. His eyes widened. "Semen!" he 
whispered, and as soon as he knew it, the other men knew it too, 
but by then it was too late. Half a dozen corpses lying on steel 
tables jerked up like puppets on strings and lunged at the 
Vampire Men. Teeth bit into flesh. Dirty nails dug into red 
chrome eyes. Psuedoblood spattered as hungry zombies began 
tearing off and devouring chunks of flesh with lightning, 
predatory speed. The screams came a heartbeat later. The 
gunfire a heartbeat after that.

Corpse fucker semen can reanimate the dead. With the proper rituals.

[3]
"But they aren't hurting anyone," said Maggie Lin ten years ago, 
her eyes wide with uncertainty and disbelief.
 
"They fuck corpses," said the Admiral, his face a twisted mask. 
"I read that your grandmother just died. Would you want someone 
violating her?" Someone had told Maggie that a corpse fucker 
had thrown acid in that face. She wondered if it were true.

"But all this that you've told me..." She gestured helplessly 
at the dossiers and files spread out over the glass table. 
"It'd be like..."

"Genocide?"

"Yes. A while race of people..."

"Not people. Rapists of the dead. Our dead. Never their own."

"I just don't know..."

The Admiral slid a piece of paper across the table. "This is 
what we're prepared to offer you in terms of salary and perks."

Maggie picked up the paper and read it. Her eyes rested there 
for some time. Then, she looked up at the Admiral. He smiled, 
possibly (it was hard to tell for sure with that face), and 
slid a pen over. "You may sign on the dotted line."

Her hands trembling, Maggie Lin picked up the pen.

[2]
The firing in the morgue had stopped. Silence. Maggie knew 
what that meant. She waited anyway. The door opened and a 
small handful of men in assault gear staggered out, holding 
smoking weapons. The were limping and shuffling under the 
light of the helicopters, but one of them raised his arm and 
waved. The helicopters moved in for a closer look. The waving 
man suddenly became an old, dead-looking woman with the combat 
gear awkwardly sitting on her small body. Maggie's stomach 
tightened, and she opened her mouth to call out a warning when
the walking corpses wearing Vampire Men clothing started firing
bolts at the helicopters. The first helicopter exploded in the 
air and rained debris, shrapnel, and the pair of spinning rotor 
blades in all directions. The second helicopter, its pilot dead 
with a well-placed bolt, veered off to one side and plowed into 
the morgue. The zombies began firing at the Vampire Men all 
around, cutting down dozens in the initial confusion before the 
troops knew what was happening and returned fire. Maggie watched 
the carnage impassively. She could feel the Necrobusters seething
in her loins. It was almost time.

The last of the zombies exploded under bolt fire, its legs, ending
at the crotch, staggering around comically before a bolt ruptured 
the knee and the legs fell down in a heap. Then, there was silence
again. "BLOW IT DOWN!" bellowed the bullhorn, and the Vampire Men 
laid into the already crumbling morgue structure with rocket 
launchers and bolt shells, sending bricks and debris flying. The 
building tottered, then collapsed in onto itself. The attack 
stopped. Maggie dismissed the scene from her attention. "I know 
you're there, Melvin," she said, her eyes closed. "I knew those 
idiot vampires wouldn't be able to get you."

Behind her, she heard the man named Melvin Corpsefucker breathe.

[1]
Melvin looked at the back of Maggie Lin and remembered her putting
a bullet into Devalina's little head. "I forgive you," he said. 
"For everything."

"Do you?" said Maggie flatly. "You're a corpse fucker. Tell me why 
you do it."

"You ever fuck a corpse?"

"No."

"Then you wouldn't understand."

Maggie, her back still to him, nodded. "Guess not. Why didn't you 
just run?"

"Because you'd just come after me."

"Would I."

"Wouldn't you?"

Maggie looked up at the stars. "Do you love the corpses you fuck?"

Melvin frowned, puzzled by the question. "They're dead."

<<Yes they are>> said Necrobuster Alpha, oozing out of Maggie's 
pores like sweat. <<It's all so much better that way>>

Melvin smiled. It was a smile of relief.

[3]
"I'm home," said Melvin, a long, heavy burlap sack thrown over his 
shoulder.

"Source Code!" cried Devalina, running to give him a hug on little 
feet. Balancing the bag on his shoulder, he lifted her up and gave 
her a hug as she kissed him on the cheek. "What did you bring me?"

Melvin put her down and, still holding the heavy bag, fished in 
his pockets. "It's here somewhere...here!" With his left hand, he 
pulled out a dead rat and handed it to his cloneling. "Make it 
last, because I don't know when I'll be able to make it outside 
again."

Devalina took the rat and gazed at it, smiling. "It's beautiful, 
Source Code. Thank you!"

"You're welcome. Now give me a few minutes before I cook dinner, 
okay?" A pale, female arm flopped out of the bag over his shoulder,
and he pushed it back in. "I've got something I have to do first."

"Oh, Source Code," said Devalina, pouting. "You *never* introduce
me to your girlfriends!"

Melvin kissed her on the top of the head. "Run along now, 
sweetie. Run along."

She ran, stroking her new plaything. Melvin turned to the bedroom
and walked right in. Melvin watched her go, feeling good. She'd 
grow up to be a beautiful woman someday. He could hardly wait.

[2]
When Maggie awoke from the trance, Vampire Men were dissecting 
the body and putting it into jars of formaldehyde. "The Admiral 
sends his compliments," said the Major, walking up to her and 
saluting. "He requests that you prepare for debriefing at 0300 
hours."

Maggie waved him off, feeling sick to her stomach. A soldier 
walked by, carrying Melvin's severed head in a jar. It seemed to 
be smiling at her. Maggie smiled back, sadly. Memories of ten 
years of war oozed through her head. Memories of genocide.

"The last of the corpse fuckers," she said, suddenly wanting 
to go to a bar, get drunk, and get laid. "The very last one."
She looked around at all the bustle around her. She suddenly 
felt tired. And cold. And alone.

It was time for that drink. Fuck the debriefing. There were 
other things to do instead.

---

This week's exciting new Parking Lot is Full comic has very 
little to do with either corpses or fucking... but you already 
knew that. Didn't you?

Didn't you?


The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
Suitable for all your corpse-fucking needs.
Guaranteed.

 

Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ 

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Subject: [plif] Skip week...again.
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Sorry folks, but we're a bit busy here with day job type stuff, so we'll be 
taking this week off. Yes, we know, the comic's been irregular recently, but 
we're in the process of taking a laxative, so that should be resolve 
shortly.
Uh. Shit. Gotta run. Bathroom. NOW!

The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
Colon-blowing fun.
Guaranteed.
_________________________________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free E-mail from MSN Hotmail at http://www.hotmail.com.


 

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Yes, friends, believe it or not, but there *is* a new Parking Lot is Full 
comic. Go to our site and check it out, because if you don't, Jesus 
*himself* will come down from heaven to *personally* kick your ass. Believe 
us, you don't want to get in a fight with Jesus. He bites. And pulls hair. 
And have filed his nails down to razor-sharp points. He's also in the habit 
of wearing leather shorts and nothing else, and rubbing himself and moaning, 
tongue lolling from his mouth, over the battered, mutilated bodies of his 
victims. Then he rapes the corpses. Just because he can. Just because he's 
Jesus. And God does nothing.

Don't let this happen to you. Read the new comic. Yeah.

The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
Holy, holy filth.
Guaranteed.
_________________________________________________________________________
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Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but you'll have to wait until next week to see 
a new PLIF strip. Day job issues, don't you know. We should be back on track 
within the next couple of weeks. Lick your own wounds until we do.

The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
Late, late, ain't it great?
Guaranteed.
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 "What do you mean, you're back? I've moved into your house! I've 
urinated all over your family! Your life is *my* territory now!"

 Like some deranged squatter who's invaded your house when you're 
away for a few weeks, insinuating himself into your life by wearing 
an unconvincing rubber mask in your likeness, fooling everyone and 
then parading around town selling videos of himself having sex with 
your spouse as your children look on, impersonating you at work 
and, somehow, actually doubling your productivity while encouraging 
the sexual advances of both your boss and his secretaries, flirting 
and fellating his way to a speedy promotion, killing and eating 
your dog (much to the delight of your neighbours), generally 
enhancing your reputation and proving, once and for all, that 
you'd be an all-'round better person if you acted more like the 
Marquis de Sade, it's the person we've decided is fit to replace 
you, the next wave of fear and mistaken identity affectionately 
known as the one, the only, The Parking Lot is Full!

 We're back and ready to party. Here's a story which may prove it.

---

1. Home
=======
						
 According to the DSM-IV (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual), 
people with Multiple Personality Disorder (now called Dissociative 
Identity Disorder) may experience any of the following:



2. The Strange Case of Henry Morrison

 - Memory loss, lost time not knowing what you have said or done. 

 There were times, and those times were increasing in their 
frequency, when Henry would get the strangest and most distressing 
sensation. It would start at his feet, a  kind of tingling and 
itching almost like the 'pins-and-needles' one gets after sitting 
in the wrong position for too long. Like that, only this was much, 
much stronger, crossing gradually from discomfort into pain and 
seemingly having no physical cause. Then, just as it would start 
to get unbearable, the feeling would diffuse and slowly move up 
his legs and into his torso, which at first was a relief until 
his entire body began itching and tingling and Henry would begin 
to sweat and a sudden panic would flare up between his eyes and 
all he could see would be fire, fire, fire, everything burning 
down. The jump from pain to mind-shredding agony came on as 
though a switch had been flicked in his head. The world would 
vanish, fade away entirely, and the world would fade in again 
and Henry would realize that he had not acted strangely in any way 
for the duration. In fact, many times, he would tune back into a 
conversation in which he had been engaged before the... fit, or 
whatever is was... and realize that he had been speaking as though 
nothing had happened. That, actually, scared him more than the 
seizures themselves, since, when he was in the grips of whatever 
it was that had him, some part of his brain had been on autopilot. 
Which part of himself was taking over? What did it say when he 
wasn't paying attention? Henry wished he knew.



3. Dinner With the Morrisons

 - Drastic and rapid changes in mood and behaviour.

 "I hate you!" screamed Sally at her father, bringing her fist down 
on the glass of fruit juice and shattering the glass into little 
glinting shards in a small puddle of fruit juice. Her Mother closed 
her eyes, her mouth tightening as though fastened by buttons. "I 
fucking hate you!" All around her, the world seemed to peel and 
sizzle under the white heat of a million suns, and the pain in her 
hand as the little splinters of glass tore into her skin was like 
the voice of god. "Why won't you die, Dad? Why won't you just 
fucking die? Die!" Her father sat at the table, across from her, 
staring at her with a hurt and confused expression on her face, and 
the sight enraged her to the point where nothing, absolutely 
nothing, existed in the whole entire world but her fury and the 
object of her fury at the end of the blinding, unbearable tunnel. 
With an inhuman shriek (me? a voice in the back of her head 
wondered, was that me?), Sally began smashing her face into the 
bowl of soup, *crack!*, each collision of her forehead and the 
bowl sending porcelain and red-tinged mushroom soup flying in all 
directions. Then it was over. The rage simply stopped, and Sally 
blinked and felt the sting of blood and soup drip into her eyes, 
and saw her father staring at her, scratching his skin as though 
his entire body were breaking out in a rash. He was speaking, 
but Sally could not understand a word he said.



4. Letting Go Is Hard To Do

 - Relationship and intimacy difficulties.

 Whatever was wrong with his brain, it seemed to be triggered by 
proximity to his teenaged daughter Sally. Dear little Sally. He 
remembered playing with her when she was small, taking her to the 
playground and pushing her on the swings as she laughed and shrieked
and demanded to go higher. Now, when he looked his teenaged daughter, 
Henry felt an incredible wave of sadness and love. He was so proud 
of her. He sometimes wanted to reach out to her and tell her how 
much he loved her, but then the odd distance that had opened up 
between them recently would threaten to swallow him whole. He had 
no idea what that distance was, or where it had come from. It 
seemed to be getting wider and wider every day. He felt like he 
was standing at a dock, waving at a ship that was sailing towards 
the horizon. He felt as though, soon, the ship would disappear 
over it forever, so he kept waving and waving but it never did 
any good. She seemed to hurt herself a great deal, his daughter 
did. Breaking dishes with her head, that sort of thing, if you 
can believe it. He didn't understand what was happening to his 
baby girl, or why he felt so very strange whenever he caught 
sight of her smooth, white flesh. The stump of his finger 
itched. He wondered how he had lost the digit. His wife, who 
never spoke to him anymore, refused to acknowledge that it was gone.



5. Daddy Dearest

 - Memory loss, lost time not knowing what you have said or done. 

 She remembered liking her father, but those feelings were lost in 
the past, and if concentrating on the present sometimes seemed 
tiring, it was a joy compared to remembering what had gone before. 
It was as though the past didn't exist, as though someone else had 
experienced it for her. All that existed was the soft-focus blur of 
the present, and in that present, there was something about her 
father that disgusted and revolted her. She couldn't bear to be 
touched by him even in the most casual way. He sickened her. Just 
the other day (when was it exactly?), he had brushed against her 
in the hall, and the smell of his aftershave triggered a rage so 
intense that Sally's world exploded into rage and she came to in 
a small puddle of blood that was seeping into the carpet, a male 
pinky finger in her teeth. Her father was nowhere to be seen. No 
mention was made of the episode the next morning at breakfast, 
though her Father had hidden his left hand under the table and 
ate with his right hand. Things like this disturbed Sally. All 
kinds of things disturbed her. Most things. That's why she 
watched so much television. It calmed her, even though there 
was never anything on but countless, hypnotic test patterns.



6. Sex Drive

 - Shame.

 Henry often found himself strangely aroused when he thought 
about his daughter, and with that arousal came sick feelings 
of guilt and filth welling up within him. He had first tried 
to ignore both the arousal and the guilt, but such efforts had 
proven themselves to be futile and he had long since felt 
compelled to lock himself in the bathroom and masturbate the 
urges away. He felt oddly safe in the bathroom. There were razor
blades there. And a mirror. He watched himself jerk off in that 
mirror, with the razor blades on the counter below him. Henry 
always aimed his semen at one or at the other, as though doing 
so would rob them of their power over him. It never worked. 
The man in the mirror always stared back at him with grey, 
haunted eyes sitting in a face like a pale, sagging, stubbly 
rubber mask. The razor blades would always glint invitingly, 
causing his wrists to ache. "I'm sorry," he would sometimes 
say, not sure what he was sorry for but feeling it intensely. 
"I'm so sorry." Then, hanging limply in his own hand, he 
would start to cry.



7. Mother's Day For Jane

 - Feeling dream like, a sense of watching yourself speak or act.

 I sometimes go out of the bedroom and watch them. Not to talk 
to them, you understand. I gave up on that a long time ago. I 
just watch them. They're like sleepwalkers, most of the time. 
They just kind of walk around and stare off into space and act 
like real people with some little spark or piece shut off or 
cut out. Usually, my daughter Sally just sits in front of the 
TV and watches test patterns. I've look into her eyes, then. I 
always see her pupils moving around like she's in REM sleep. I 
don't know what she gets out of that picture, but I don't dare 
turn off the TV when she's watching it. She started shaking and 
foaming at the mouth the only time I did that. I was worried she 
was going to bite off her tongue. Now I just leave the set  on. 
I sort of remember dying. I sort of remember us all dying. I 
don't remember how, but it had something to do with fire. I 
think. Or maybe that was a dream. Sometimes I remember dying, 
but sometimes I remember going to sleep, and then waking up on 
fire. Then I remember being here. I sometimes try to leave this 
house, but the streets outside the front door are grey and dusty 
and they're impossible not to get lost on. I feel like eyes are 
watching me there. It gives me a headache. There is greyness and 
dust everywhere. I try to keep the house clean. It's what a 
mother is supposed to do. I didn't know what he was doing to her 
before we came here. How could I have known? How could I have 
guessed that's what he was doing in there?



8. Welcome Home

 - Alternative states of consciousness of personalities.

 Sally watches the television, seeing messages from herself there. 
It is at times like those that her inexplicably loathsome Father, 
as well as her totally irrelevant Mother, become indistinct to the
point of translucency. The television tell her it is sorry. The 
television tells her that her pain is being harnessed for a good 
cause. The television gives her ideas that don't seem to be there 
when the TV is on, but bob up into her mind when the viewing is 
over and she is back in her room upstairs. Sometimes, the 
television tells her that her whole family is in her mind, but not 
of her mind. Other times, it tells her that she has no family 
anymore, just shadows and memories in confusion and pain. None of 
this makes any sense to Sally, but a voice from the screen keeps 
repeating the word 'Prison,' over and over, even when she's 
asleep, and for some reason that *does* make a sort of sense. 
"Who am I?" Sally sometimes asks the test patterns, and the 
coloured bars tells her that it's alright. That she wasn't 
created to understand. That she was created to feel the pain, 
and to make others feel it as well. Perhaps this makes her feel 
better. As far as these things go. 

---

This week's brand new Parking Lot is Full comic also deals with 
punishment that never ends, albeit in a different way that what 
you just read does. Read it, or burn forever. You have been warned. 


The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
Back from the dead, except for its smell.
Guaranteed.

 

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Ladies and gentlemen, it's time for...PLIF! There's
a new comic up (a little late, but it's there), and
if you haven't seen it yet, stop by and take a
look.

Expect some fiction in this space next week. It'll be
an epic. It'll be like 'Gone With the Wind'. Only with
clowns. In suggestive poses. Fondling themselves. And
each other. Clowns.

Doesn't it give you a little shiver or delight just
thinking about it? You'd better believe it does.


The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com
100% clown free...for now.
Guaranteed.
_________________________________________________________________________
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Time Enough For Bombs
=====================
		
 I didn't mean to be a mad scientist, no matter how briefly I held the
job. Who does? It's not like there are a lot of role-models out there,
nor are there many paragons of mad science which budding young mad
scientists can look up to. I mean, who can truly be called a 'mad
scientist,' anyway? The people who invented the atomic bomb? The
'doctors' at Auschwitz? Third world terrorists trying to synthesize
anthrax? Those people are all scientists, true, but mad scientists? The
closest you could get would to call them 'evil'... or maybe 'misguided'.
Or how about 'vile'? 'Amoral'? Evil scientists perform experiments which
are unethical. They hurt people. For real. Mad scientists, on the other
hand, twirl their moustaches and commit acts which are described as
'diabolical'. I'm not sure there are any mad scientists, actually. Or
were. Until me, of course. Until I became a mad scientist, albeit not a
very good one.

 As I said, I really didn't mean to become a mad scientist. In fact, I
wasn't even a 'scientist' at all (which, now that I think about it, may
actually be a prerequisite to attaining *mad* science). I was just a man
living in a regular house, with too much time on his hands. Far too much
time. You see, my wife had left me six months before, taking the
children and moving to her Sister's house somewhere in frigid wasteland
that is Saskatchewan. It was hardly a surprise move, and it would be
stretching things to say that I missed her or wanted her back. I didn't.
I didn't even really want my kids back, though I would like to see them
again sometime in the future, if only to see them when they're older and
more tolerable. Still, their departure left less of a void in my life
than in my schedule. It was amazing to me to discover just how much time
I had been spending doing family-related things, and with the removal of
those things left me with a great deal of truly empty time. It didn't
take me long to realize that I was watching way too much TV, downloading
far too much porn, and re-reading bad novels I'd bought, read and
forgotten about years before. I wasn't living so much as wasting time,
time that I decided to fill instead of squander. How did I end up
filling that time? The way that most people would. I picked up my old
hobbies. It's amazing how little time you have for your old interests as
soon as you have children. One of my hobbies had been science.
Engineering. Physics. Things I had been interested in before marriage
and fatherhood had swept me off that path and onto another. Spending
nights reading technical and scientific manuals and puttering about in
my basement was almost like becoming young again, minus the drugs and
the endless attempts at getting laid. Being an adult afforded me much
more focus than I have ever achieved in my youth.

 My hobbies began to grow larger and more time-consuming, and I even
started calling in sick to get back to my precious books and machines.
How did I stumble onto the principle of time transportation? I really
have no idea. It just kind of happened. At first, my research and
tinkering snaked off into opposite, random directions. I'd spend some
nights huddled over my tools and machine parts, experimenting with
mechanics and engineering principles, creating lumpy metal objects which
did very little and did it poorly. Other nights, I'd sit in my armchair
until dawn, reading up on quantum mechanics or particle physics or any
other book or paper I could get my hands on. I was completely
omnivorous, but somehow, my reading and my experimentation narrowed and
narrowed and narrowed until suddenly I found myself with a little metal
box than vibrated slightly to the touch and opened on a pair of steel
hinges. I called in my 'infinity box' in a moment of silliness. I
suppose that's how mad science starts: one day, you're making
potentially dangerous contraptions and giving them ridiculous,
comic-booky names, and the next, you're laughing maniacally while
threatening to destroy the world. At any rate, without quite realizing
what I'd done or how I'd done it, I had, sitting on my workbench at
home, the infinity box. I had created an object of pure mad science. I
had, somehow, inadvertently, become a true mad scientist.

 The properties of the infinity box at first a total mystery to me. As
I've already told you, touching the thing was odd. It vibrated. The skin
of my hand itched and tingled for minutes afterward. Actually opening
the thing was weirder still. The inside of the box was rippled by this
weird, shimmering haze, almost like an oasis, and, for some reason, even
though the interior dimensions of the box were the same as the exterior
dimensions, looking in it gave me a feeling a lot like vertigo. It
looked deep and endless, even though it didn't really look that way at
all, if you can understand that. Staring into the thing for too long
gave me a headache. I had no idea what I'd created, so I did the obvious
thing. I started playing around with my invention.

 Whatever else the infinity box may have been, it was, ultimately, a
box. What do you do with a box? You put things in it, so that's what I
did. Sticking my hand into the box was out of the question, since moving
any part of my body close to the opening caused an unpleasant
pins-and-needles sensation to shoot up my arm and into my whole body.
Clearly, I would have to use some kind of test subject. First, I threw a
rat into it, the poor bastard being one of the several white laboratory
mice I'd bought for such a contingency. The rat, twisting and shrieking
as I lowered it, by the tail, into the gaping maw of the box, bent and
distorted and, as soon as I crossed the threshold, vanished completely.
It disappeared. It just wasn't there anymore. Had the thing been
atomized, somehow? Was it invisible? I had no idea, so I started
throwing inanimate objects into the box. I tossed in a pencil. An old
floppy disk. Some coins. A little Smurf keychain I found hanging on a
peg in a corner of the basement. Each item twisted and bent and then was
gone, just like the rat. It was fascinating. Nothing registered on any
measurement device I used, but still, the evidence was right there in
front of me. Obviously, I had stumbled onto something big, but what?
	
 The breakthrough came about a week later, when I was cleaning my
basement workroom for possibly the first time since moving into the
house ten years before, in hopes that the mindless activity would give
my brain a chance to think of some new angle to take with the box. My
broom was cutting swaths through the dust and cobwebs in a corner of the
room when suddenly I saw a lumpy, plastic little object buried in the
grime. Kneeling down, I picked it up, blew off the dust...and saw the
little smurf keychain. The smurf keychain I had thrown into the infinity
box a week before. The thing was, the object looked decades older, all
faded and cracked by age. It had been sitting in a pile of dust,
untouched, for longer than I had lived in that house, which meant that
it had been there for a decade at the very least. Could it be the same
keychain? It was crazy, but something told me that it was the only
logical explanation for the evidence I was seeing. There was even the
long gouge along the sole of its left foot, the one made by my wife
years before. Coincidence? Or something more?

 Among the toys I had slowly been accumulating since the departure of my
family was a little palm-sized super-8 camcorder. I decided that it
would do. I brought it, and a small television, down to the basement,
putting the TV next to the infinity box and connecting it to the
camcorder with the longest cable I could find. Then, I switched it on,
made sure the picture was coming through, and dropped the camera into
the box, watching it disappear the way I had watched so many things
disappear. It twisted and warped and bent, and was gone...only this
time, the length of cable began running into the box as well. The camera
was falling. It was still hooked up to the cable. I turned to look at
the TV. The signal was coming through, crystal-clear and large as life.
The camera appeared to be falling, spinning in space as it tumbled
through bands of light and strange, sparkly balls which were too bright
for the lense and left tracers all over the screen. I glanced at the
cable. The slack was feeding itself into the box with great speed.
Wherever the camera was going, it would have to get there soon, or else
I'd run out of cable, and then what would I do? I looked back at the
screen. The camera tumbled into some kind of field of white light and
then came to an abrupt stop, smashing into the earth with an impact that
rattled the image on the screen. Then it was still. I squinted at the
television. The camera appeared to be sitting on a hill, over a jungle.
The canopy of trees below it was tense, but there was a sound...

 Suddenly, the massive, toothy head of a tyrannosaurus rex came into
view, sniffed at the screen suspiciously, and then walked on, the earth
shaking with the creatures fading footsteps. I sat there, my heart
frozen. The image did not go away. Giant, leathery, featherless birds
circled in the distance, their sharp, reptilian beaks opening and
closing as they sang their harsh, rumbling melodies. Even farther, a
volcano was erupting, turning its little corner of the sky an angry,
sunset red. I watched little, bird-like reptiles run past on their hid
legs. None of the creatures I was seeing looked like monsters or
cinematic dinosaurs. They were animals. They looked so real and, once
you got over the shock of seeing them, ordinary, that they looked kind
of fake. I sat and watched it all for a while. Eventually, my wonder
fading into numbness, I thought to pull the camera up. When the little
silver thing was back in my hands, I touched the layer of dirt and moss
that coated its base. Prehistoric mud, probably containing little life
forms that had been extinct for longer than I could imagine. "Holy
shit," I think I said, which I think is understandable.

 The evidence was clear, and, being a pragmatist, I believed it
immediately. I had invented a time machine, of sorts. Over the next few
weeks, I performed countless experiments, often with the camera, other
times with rats or other objects tied to lengths of string with which I
lowered and raised them into the void. What I discovered was that the
destination at the end of the infinity box's space was random. It was
always the past (as far as I could tell), but the place and time was
different with each attempt. Watching the footage, I sometimes saw
nothing out of the ordinary, just a generic field or desert or forest. I
sometimes saw events which might be happening in the present day, like
people shopping or kids just kind of hanging around. Other times,
though, I saw Roman legionnaires suiting up, or Egyptian pyramids being
built, or barbarians attacking the Great Wall of China. Often, I only
saw the barest glimpse of all this. Other times, I was right in the
middle of it, watching a historical spectacular better than any
Hollywood movie. I'm sure someone more knowledgeable than I about
history or anthropology or archeology would kill for the chance to see
what I saw. Me, I usually sat back and enjoyed the show.

 What else did I learn? Any animal I lowered into the box came back dead
and withered, like a mummy. Inanimate objects could travel through time.
Living things could not. 

 The past was an open book to me. I'd made what was possibly the
greatest scientific and technological discovery of all time, me, someone
who was as far from being a genius as you are. I could have done so many
different things with it. I might have patented the thing and made
billions. I could have gone public with it and become the next Einstein.
I could have donated it to a university and become world famous. All of
those choices would have been perfectly reasonable. They would have made
me a scientist...but, as I said before, I had ventured off the
well-beaten path of science and into the lunatic jungle of *mad*
science. I had become a mad scientist. The logical thing to do with the
infinity box was use it purely for evil.

 You see, everything I have just told you took place over nearly six
months. Six months can be a long time, especially after your family
leaves you, you stop coming to work or seeing friends, stop bathing,
stop doing anything but sitting in your basement conducting experiment
after experiment. I didn't know if it was day or night. I didn't talk to
anyone until I started talking to myself. I didn't become 'crazy,' since
crazy is a euphemism for clinical mental diseases, like schizophrenia or
borderline personality disorder. What I became was something different.
I became 'mad'. 

 In my madness, a single thought began popping up in my head to the
point where, gradually, it began to eclipse all others. It all came from
that Ray Bradbury story. Have you ever read it? It's the one where some
guys go back in time to hunt dinosaurs, and one of them ends up
accidentally stepping on a butterfly and changing human history. That
idea kept coming back into my head, louder and louder and louder each
time as I began to slide down into a truly abnormal mental state. I
began to wonder if I could do the same thing. Obviously, stepping into
the box and, say, beating the shit out of Jesus wasn't an option. But
what if I fired a bullet into the infinity box, hoping to hit something
on the other side? What if I threw in a hand grenade? Then, after my
transformation into what could only be called a paranoid hermit was
finished, I had a new thought: what if I threw in a nuclear fucking
bomb? The mad scientist I had become started laughing insanely. The was
it! I would fire nukes into the past to totally eradicate the future!
Insane? No, not insane. Mad. Madly... diabolical. It made perfect sense
at the time. 

 Of course, nuclear weapons proved hard to find, but construction-grade
dynamite was not. I actually managed to get a crate of the stuff
delivered to my house, if you can believe it, complete with fuses and
enough sticks to destroy an entire city block. I hauled the crate
inside, locked the door, and quickly got to work. There was mad science
to perform, and I was just the mad scientist to do it!

 I have no idea exactly how much lit dynamite I threw into how many
countless eras of history. At first, I kept expecting history to change
in front of me, and I actually would sit down and wait for, I don't
know, dinosaur men to rule the earth after tossing in a stick of TNT. It
never happened. So I'd try again. And again. And again. Eventually, I
started throwing more and more dynamite into the box, once even tying
the camcorder to I could verify that the things were actually blowing up
(they were). All to no effect. Finally, I took the remaining load of
dynamite, lit it all, and started tossing the things into the
timestream, figuring that if that didn't do it, nothing would. Then, I
just stood there, clenching my fists, hoping to see the world melt away
and become something different. Yet again, nothing happened. I refused
to accept it. Surely, there had to be some kind of sign!

 I went upstairs and looked outside. It all looked as it had before. I
turned on the television, hoping to see a man in an SS unform reading
the news. It was the same. Over the next few days, I actually left my
apartment, bearded, smelly, wearing my bathrobe and slippers, looking
for alterations to the history of the world. I found non. Zero. Nada. I
hadn't just crushed a butterfly, I had blown up millions with TNT!
Something should have happened. I hung my head in defeat and shuffled
back home. Some mad scientist I had turned out to be.

 I had failed not because some hero had stopped me. I had just...
failed. Not knowing what else to do, I shaved, showered, went out of the
house, and began looking for work. I found a good job, started dating a
nice lady, and have resumed living what I suppose you could call a
'normal life'. The infinity box is still downstairs, sitting on my
dusty, unused workbench. I've never told anyone about it but you, and I
probably never will.

 That's my story, I guess. It doesn't exactly end with a bang, but I
suppose that's the point. Still, I do wonder sometimes. I wonder if it's
possible that I actually did change history, drastically changed
history, with my sticks of dynamite. I wonder if the world we all live
in so actually very different from the world that existed when I first
became a mad scientist, only you don't remember it, and neither do I.
Maybe I totally changed the course of history. Maybe I changed things
for the better. Or the worse. Still, we never will know, will we? It's
just that I sometimes like to think that it's all true, and that I
wasn't quite the failure I seem to be. It's a comforting thought,
somehow. A strangely comforting thought.
.
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Date: Thu, 12 Jul 2001 02:25:06 -0400
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Subject: [plif] Update July 12, 2001
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Status:   
X-Becky-Status: 000401,000000,3,3b4d432b,3b5e8cbc,0ada4e38,ffffffff

"Look honey, just because you changed your sex, doesn't mean you can 
become one of Santa's Whores. It's an elite service, and frankly, 
I *don't* think you're qualified!"

Denied its one and only chance to serve the motherland, stripped 
naked of its possessions by a cruel and perverted god, reduced to 
begging for change outside the rendering factory, wailing out its 
pleas for alms between booming horse-screams, literally rotting 
away from syphilis and gangrene, it's the destitute, forlorn, 
totally hopeless wreck identified in police blotters as the one, 
the only, The Parking Lot is Full!

Here's a poem. Worship it please.

---

Born Again
==========

I can feel Jesus 
awakening in my mind 
we all can 
all of us 
every single 
one 
here

consider:
all matter, when it decays, becomes one 
little particles of your 
dead grandfather 
are in my lungs and 
little particles of the 
first hominid 
are in 
yours 
every time you inhale 
you breathe in history 
so 
logically 
doesn't that mean that little microscopic pieces 
of Jesus Christ 
are in the air 
the water 
your lungs 
too? 
of course it does 
Jesus is in all of us 
always has been
so it should have been no surprise 
when it happened
subtly at first 
quietly 
but soon it became 
inescapable when people began to 
walk on water 
first a few 
and then 
over a period of several years 
everyone 
just walking on water like Jesus 

naturally this was greeted with 
alarm and 
terror
some wondered:
was it really happening? 
was it some kind of evil trick?
was it the apocalypse 
truly here at last? 
possibly
but the world didn't end and soon 
everyone realized that 
being able to walk on water isn't all that different from 
not being able to 
and having holy and miraculous powers 
doesn't pay the bills 
or take care of the kids 
or lie you down and fuck you at night 
or do anything else that matters
so after the initial shock life just sort of continued 
as it had
for two thousand years
but of course 
Jesus 
wasn't finished with us 
it didn't end there 
soon 
people were manifesting other 
Christ-like abilities like 
changing water into wine and 
appearing to loved ones after death but 
you know 
the Bible never told us that Jesus had 
other powers he never used 
powers which could have allowed him to 
destroy his enemies 
rule over the world 
I guess the fact that he abstained from such things 
proves once and for all that
he's the son of god 
and I am 
not 

anyway 
people began discovering that they could fly 
melt stone with their bare hands 
raise the dead 
and as I already told you 
Jesus was wise enough not to make use of these abilities 
but the people who inherited them were not 
imagine the world this created 
a world of five 
billion 
super heros 
imagine every drunk dirty racist psychopathic asshole you know 
suddenly given the power to shoot beams 
of pure antimatter
from his eyes 
incinerating immigrants with a 
single bound
imagine little children with no concept of right or wrong 
able to make buildings collapse 
by thought alone
waging giggling metaphysical war
against their parents
who had super powers too
imagine it
imagine the total fucking chaos as 
the entire world convulsed 
and burned 
and the human population 
halved 
itself
overnight 

the city I'm in clothed in mushroom cloud after
mushroom cloud
the air itself on fire
common citizens
streaking through the sky
so maybe we have experienced the apocalypse 
and are experiencing it right now only 
I happen to think that it's not over 
I happen to think that good old Jesus 
has something else in store for us 
you see
lately I've been getting glimpses of other peoples'
consciousness
and there are moments when I'm 
not
sure
if I'm me experiencing their lives
or them experiencing
mine
and I wonder if this means that 
the Jesus particles in our bodies have come to life
and if so 
I think that they are trying to make 
contact 
with each other  
arranging themselves into a group-mind  
components of the Lord 
five billion people strong 
and when this collective Christian intellect does come online 
what will happen to us 
the carriers of the seeds of Jesus Christ's rebirth? 
will we continue as individuals or 
will we cease to exist except as cells in the collective? 
I honestly don't know the answer to that question but 
ask yourself this: 
what does Christianity the religion 
pseudo-virus that it is
do when it begins to 
infect populations? 
answer:
it makes everyone conform
into perfect
unwavering
Christianity
can we honestly expect a
freshly reactivated Jesus
to behave
any
differently?

that's why I tell you that
when I close my eyes and try to
emerge from this dream
I can feel Jesus 
awakening in my mind

---

Every sperm is sacred. Your next child could be The One.

This week's sanctified Parking Lot is Full comic also deals with 
returning gods, albeit in a way somewhat different from what you 
just read. Take a look and ask yourself, "If what PLIF says is 
true, what does that make me for becoming a nun?" (or something 
like that).

Also this week, we've updated our Recommended Readings feature. 
This time around: fat people, mutilated cats, and a variety of 
things you really don't want to know about. Find out what they are.

So, a new comic (about divinity) and a new Readings updated (which 
may just be divine). Do we really need to tell you to call in sick
from work? Of course not. Of course not.


The Parking Lot is Full

http://www.plif.com/
Changing your faith, one sermon at a time.
Guaranteed.

 

Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ 

.
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Date: Thu, 12 Jul 2001 12:25:29 -0000
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(Hi. In case you didn't get the Update we sent earlier today, here it is 
again.)

"Look honey, just because you changed your sex, doesn't mean you can
become one of Santa's Whores. It's an elite service, and frankly,
I *don't* think you're qualified!"

Denied its one and only chance to serve the motherland, stripped
naked of its possessions by a cruel and perverted god, reduced to
begging for change outside the rendering factory, wailing out its
pleas for alms between booming horse-screams, literally rotting
away from syphilis and gangrene, it's the destitute, forlorn,
totally hopeless wreck identified in police blotters as the one,
the only, The Parking Lot is Full!

Here's a poem. Worship it please.
---

Born Again
==========

I can feel Jesus
awakening in my mind
we all can
all of us
every single
one
here

consider:
all matter, when it decays, becomes one
little particles of your
dead grandfather
are in my lungs and
little particles of the
first hominid
are in
yours
every time you inhale
you breathe in history
so
logically
doesn't that mean that little microscopic pieces
of Jesus Christ
are in the air
the water
your lungs
too?
of course it does
Jesus is in all of us
always has been
so it should have been no surprise
when it happened
subtly at first
quietly
but soon it became
inescapable when people began to
walk on water
first a few
and then
over a period of several years
everyone
just walking on water like Jesus

naturally this was greeted with
alarm and
terror
some wondered:
was it really happening?
was it some kind of evil trick?
was it the apocalypse
truly here at last?
possibly
but the world didn't end and soon
everyone realized that
being able to walk on water isn't all that different from
not being able to
and having holy and miraculous powers
doesn't pay the bills
or take care of the kids
or lie you down and fuck you at night
or do anything else that matters
so after the initial shock life just sort of continued
as it had
for two thousand years
but of course
Jesus
wasn't finished with us
it didn't end there
soon
people were manifesting other
Christ-like abilities like
changing water into wine and
appearing to loved ones after death but
you know
the Bible never told us that Jesus had
other powers he never used
powers which could have allowed him to
destroy his enemies
rule over the world
I guess the fact that he abstained from such things
proves once and for all that
he's the son of god
and I am
not

anyway
people began discovering that they could fly
melt stone with their bare hands
raise the dead
and as I already told you
Jesus was wise enough not to make use of these abilities
but the people who inherited them were not
imagine the world this created
a world of five
billion
super heros
imagine every drunk dirty racist psychopathic asshole you know
suddenly given the power to shoot beams
of pure antimatter
from his eyes
incinerating immigrants with a
single bound
imagine little children with no concept of right or wrong
able to make buildings collapse
by thought alone
waging giggling metaphysical war
against their parents
who had super powers too
imagine it
imagine the total fucking chaos as
the entire world convulsed
and burned
and the human population
halved
itself
overnight

the city I'm in clothed in mushroom cloud after
mushroom cloud
the air itself on fire
common citizens
streaking through the sky
so maybe we have experienced the apocalypse
and are experiencing it right now only
I happen to think that it's not over
I happen to think that good old Jesus
has something else in store for us
you see
lately I've been getting glimpses of other peoples'
consciousness
and there are moments when I'm
not
sure
if I'm me experiencing their lives
or them experiencing
mine
and I wonder if this means that
the Jesus particles in our bodies have come to life
and if so
I think that they are trying to make
contact
with each other
arranging themselves into a group-mind
components of the Lord
five billion people strong
and when this collective Christian intellect does come online
what will happen to us
the carriers of the seeds of Jesus Christ's rebirth?
will we continue as individuals or
will we cease to exist except as cells in the collective?
I honestly don't know the answer to that question but
ask yourself this:
what does Christianity the religion
pseudo-virus that it is
do when it begins to
infect populations?
answer:
it makes everyone conform
into perfect
unwavering
Christianity
can we honestly expect a
freshly reactivated Jesus
to behave
any
differently?

that's why I tell you that
when I close my eyes and try to
emerge from this dream
I can feel Jesus
awakening in my mind

---

Every sperm is sacred. Your next child could be The One.

This week's sanctified Parking Lot is Full comic also deals with
returning gods, albeit in a way somewhat different from what you
just read. Take a look and ask yourself, "If what PLIF says is
true, what does that make me for becoming a nun?" (or something
like that).

Also this week, we've updated our Recommended Readings feature.
This time around: fat people, mutilated cats, and a variety of
things you really don't want to know about. Find out what they are.

So, a new comic (about divinity) and a new Readings updated (which
may just be divine). Do we really need to tell you to call in sick
from work? Of course not. Of course not.


The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
Changing your faith, one sermon at a time.
Guaranteed.



_________________________________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free E-mail from MSN Hotmail at http://www.hotmail.com.


 

Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ 

.
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“Rats? I don’t taste no stinkin’ rats!”.

Speaking with an accent even more Mexican than Mexican, wearing a stainless 
steel sombrero on its stainless steel head, smoking cigars wrapped in human 
skin and picking their teeth with teeth, it’s the gringo-hating, 
masturbating, gold-foil-plating bandito of love, the desperado of 
destruction put on Wanted posters far and wide despite being little more 
than the one, the only, The Parking Lot is Full!

Here’s our second story of the series. Yes, we’re talking to you.

---
02: All of Us in Here
=====================

[Us.]

We hear the call. One of us is on patrol out near the suburbs when the 
scream cuts through the night audible only because of that one’s 
surgically-enhanced re-life hearing. Instantly the sound is analysed by us 
all a million different interpretations and theories firing back and forth 
across our mind before a consensus is reached: a scream of surprise and pain 
cut off before completion. The sound of someone being murdered. Yes. We 
think so. The regulations are consulted. No denying it. Murder is clearly 
within our jurisdiction. We can save this one. We are allowed to do so.

Two of us drive their black car through the streetlit darkness. The 
ultrasonic siren is ringing the blacklight flasher is on dogs and the insane 
sense them from a very far distance away. They all howl. One of us is 
standing on the sidewalk interrogating a schizophrenic about the Voices he 
hears hoping to find evidence of another entity like us but always doomed to 
failure and the endless attempt at understanding insanity. He watches us 
pass and from the car they watch us kicking the babbling homeless man in the 
chest with one of our pairs of steel-toed boots three pairs of eyes meet and 
we see reflections gazing at reflections and all of us feel dizzy feel real 
feel here. The contact is brief and exhilarating. Then it is over and we go 
our separate ways together always together the meeting of the eyes is broken 
and our eyes see different places. Hard to filter sometimes hard to focus 
our mind.

[Us.]

Somewhere one of us dies again. His body has reached its artificial limit 
and our heart stops and aged beyond all feeling we close our eyes and they 
stay closed as the darkness creeps over us and then becomes everything. We 
experience the re-death together. We savour the moment hoping to learn 
something about ourselves from this disconnection. He dies. Nobody dies. 
Everybody dies. It is tragic and beautiful and it haunts us this night even 
as we experience the daylight elsewhere simultaneously and stare at our 
large calloused suntanned hands. Our thin hands hold the wheel. We drive on 
palms sweating. Countless people countless itinerations of us wipe their 
palms on their pant legs simultaneously all around the world. It is 
consolation beyond words. There is no loneliness here.

We arrive. The house is small its windows are barred sitting there in the 
unnaturally quiet neighbourhood of little barred terrified houses and the 
people inside. One of us in a jail cell miles away clenches our fists around 
the bars noting the similarity and we revel as we always do in the 
synchronicities and the inscrutable but undeniable plan behind it all. As 
with the death we are all in prison and none of us are. Every moment of 
incarceration is felt by all and studied for meaning and experienced and 
suffered. Every night in the cell is a night out of it is a night in it. The 
house. We turn our attention back to it. We slow the car and come to a stop 
outside the flashing light on the top of our car turning all white into a 
darkly glowing purple. A neighbourhood dog hears us and howls. Elsewhere on 
an island in the sun one of us smacks her dog roughly the poor animal 
looking up at us with hurt bemused eyes and we regret the momentary loss of 
control momentary bleeding over from one us of to another. Must focus focus 
on the here and now. Less than five minutes since the scream the body may 
still be warm. Elsewhere doctors pull a white sheet over our head as we lay 
in the hospital bed we are one of the doctors we were the body of the old 
man we are the cafeteria lady downstairs we are the receptionist at the 
hospital desk. We are pulled from our machine re-Mother’s steel womb and 
start to cry but only for a moment before our fifty year old body fully 
comes online. We comfort the adult baby we comfort ourselves the last shreds 
of residual individuality awakes and convulses and then is gone again and 
the ruined body is replaced by someone healthier and we are us only better 
stronger more.

The two of us goosestep to the door and one of us pulls open the screen and 
raps three times in quick stern succession on the wood the door opens and a 
terrified female face peers out sees our matte black police uniforms and 
gives a little shriek before trying to close the door again. One of us jams 
his booted foot in the door and pushes back snapping the chain and sending 
the woman falling backwards onto the floor with a grunt. We tell her not to 
be afraid we tell her that we are the police we are.

[Us.]

The body is lying on the living room floor the kitchen knife still jutting 
out of its chest like a growth. Elsewhere we farm in fields of sugar cane 
higher than a human man singing songs in a language we all understand now 
but did not understand not long before. Immediately the woman begins sobbing 
and telling us that it was an accident that she didn’t mean to kill her 
husband and we tire quickly of her hysteria and backhand her across the face 
and elsewhere one of us applies the spinning saw to the man’s face as part 
of an experience and elsewhere one of us experiences the sensation of having 
our throat slit and elsewhere one of us is fucking getting fucked and the 
synchronicities build up and we smile all of us even the ones of us who are 
dying and then we are here back in the woman’s house. She holds the side of 
her face and looks at us. We smile reassuringly and tell her to calm down. 
We are the police the police are here everything is fine now everything is 
fine.

[Us.]

One of us grabs the body’s legs and the other grabs the body’s arms and we 
lift it and begin carrying it towards the door. The woman just stops and 
looks at us and for a moment our essentially sexless intelligence tunes out 
the input from all the male bodies are lives only in the females to 
understand what it is like to be a woman it feels somewhat different but the 
difference is no greater than the individual differences between individual 
humans not conscious of their connectedness to us. Several of us are 
experiencing menstruation the sensation unpleasant and we return to fully 
asexual perception.

The man’s body is heavy and difficult to hold. Elsewhere one of us is 
learning how to be a mortician and we watch as his supervisor helps haul a 
body across the door and in the little house we imitate him and carrying the 
body becomes easier. The woman follow us up to a certain point and then 
simply stands where she is watching us depart one of us looks over our 
shoulder and tells her not to mention this to any other police officers who 
might drop in later already we can hear sirens in the distance then we close 
the door and carry the body to our car and throw it into the back seat. Then 
we get it and turn on the ignition and the flashers driving away with the 
dead man staring glassily at us through the rearview mirror. We envy him we 
are curious about him we would like to talk to him ask him what does it feel 
like to be dead truly dead not allowed to shift your thoughts elsewhere? We 
try to remember elsewhere one of us is in the lab connecting corpses to the 
device and taking readings. elsewhere several of us are shopping in 
supermarkets separated from each other by thousands of miles we like 
chocolate dozens of us wheel our carts over to the candy aisles and select 
some chocolate to throw into our cart and some of us think about chocolate 
cake and where to buy some elsewhere we are putting a gun to our head and 
getting ready to pull the trigger elsewhere...elsewhere, a million eyes a 
million perceptions, a million possible views of things merge into a single 
holographic vision and looking at it is like gazing into a fractal falling 
into a fractal detail upon detail upon detail all so beautiful all so 
comprehensible if only we could look at it with more eyes we are always 
looking for more eyes we are always making more maybe if we grow and grow 
and grow we will understand we will see it in its totality we will see the 
face of the god who allowed us to be born when they die. We hope.

[Us.]

Behind us, slumped in the car seat is another brother waiting to be born.

[All of Us.]

Soon soon soon welcome home welcome home welcome home.

[All of Us in here.]
---

Can I join as well?

This week’s collectivist Parking Lot is Full comic deals with vaguely 
similar themes to what you just read...or maybe it doesn’t. Either way, 
check it out and draw your own conclusions. Or else.


The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
All for one and one for us.
Guaranteed.


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"Lick my stumps.".

Crawling towards you like some kind of pink-skinned worm, armless and 
legless as the day it fell into that grain thresher, terrified of water and 
needing only to be cleaned by your sweet, moist tongue, it’s the 
delightfully tasty, horribly delightful, monstrously excitable three feet of 
love known in all the finest chat rooms as being yet another painful example 
of the one, the only, The Parking Lot is Full!

We’re back, but so are you.

---
9: (One)
========

[1]

"Good morning, Mr. Coburn," the gentle, modulated voice said just as I 
opened my eyes. Sunlight was pushing through the blinds and the thin, 
elongated shape of DAVIS stood beside the bed, hot towel in its hands. "You 
asked me to wake you at six o’clock. It is six o’clock exactly.".

I grunted and stretched,  reflecting, not for the first time, on just how 
fucking much I hate mornings. "I want a blowjob and a cappuccino," I finally 
said, when what I really wanted was to go back to sleep and wake up at noon. 
"In that order.".

"Very good, sir.". From the kitchen I could hear the coffee maker flicker to 
life and begin brewing my cappuccino. "Please specify sexual 
visualization.".

"Blond. 20. Nice ass.". I reconsidered. "No. Wait. Do you have Bertrand 
McIvor on spec?".

"Naturally, Mr. Coburn.".

"I want him, then.". I closed my eyes and my bedroom reasserted itself 
before me, like a super-realistic movie playing on the inside of my eyelids. 
The door opened, and a middle-aged man in a suit walked in, saw me. Smiled. 
Came over to my bed, pulled back the covers. Started sucking my cock. I 
smiled, both in the dream and out of it, enjoying the sensation and blearily 
anticipating my orgasm. Why hadn't I thought of doing this before? It wasn't 
every day that you could get sucked by the President of the United States of 
America and then be allowed to come all over his face.

[2]

The little floating robots brushing my teeth and cleaning my ears, I read 
the morning newspaper as it streamed across the bathroom mirror. I only 
subscribe to news headlines and the financial section, with the former only 
receiving an absent once-over whenever I have the time or the inclination to 
look at it, which wasn't often. I noticed that there was a war somewhere, 
and images of smiling natives receiving food from Americans in combat gear 
flickered in front of me and then were gone, dismissed. For all I knew, the 
look of fear I thought I saw in the natives' eyes was because guns were 
pointing at them as an incentive to make nice for the camera. Chances are 
that the little brown-skinned people had their heads ventilated an instant 
after the flash. What was the point in even reading world political news 
anymore? Everyone knew it was all bullshit. I looked at the financial stream 
and the world news headlines faded away, replaced by the reassuring drone of 
stock reports, merger news, that sort of thing. I saw that my investments 
were doing fine, which almost certainly had something to do with the war. I 
wondered how many rag heads (if that's what they were) had died to make me a 
little richer. I wondered how I felt about that. I honestly wasn't sure.

I walked out of the bathroom, the little hovering machines following me. 
They had finished with my teeth (my mouth tasted minty-fresh) and were now 
shaving me with tiny little claws. DAVIS was standing outside in the hall, 
waiting patiently. "Mrs. Reid’s secretary called to remind you of your 
meeting at eight o’clock. Your car has been programmed to know the way.".

"Thank you," I said automatically, picking up my second cappuccino of the 
morning and downing it in a single, burning gulp. "I think I’ll be wearing 
my blue shirt today.".

"Very good, Mr. Coburn.".

I flicked on the wall and glanced at my itinerary. "Chan Electrosystems," I 
said aloud. It was a bad habit I’d fallen into ever since buying that 
upgrade for DAVIS. His linguistic capabilities were now so good that I 
almost felt obligated to talk to him. "The people who made you. Ever feel 
homesick?".

DAVIS’ head tilted slightly in an impressive imitation of perplexity. 
"Homesick, Mr. Colburn?".

"Never mind. Stupid question.". The robots were finished with my face, and 
were applying molecular aftershave. "My blue shirt?".

"On the bed, Mr. Colburn," said DAVIS, and I knew that it would dress me if 
I asked it to.

I had an image of something I’d seen on TV as a child. I turned to the 
robot. "Ever heard of an old cartoon called 'The Jetsons'?".

DAVIS tilted its head again. For a moment, I wondered what my robot makes of 
half of the shit that I tend to say.

[3]

"The advances in robotic technology this century have outpaced last 
century’s meteoric advances in computing power.". The man from Chan 
Electrosystems had a slight Asian accent and looked like he’d spent his life 
working and drinking and whoring, which was probably exactly what he’d done. 
I pegged him at once for a middle management type who’d clawed and schmoozed 
and worked his way to a top position in the company by sheer social will. "A 
decade ago, personal robotics were science fiction, and even industrial 
applications of robot technology were limited and inefficient. As you are 
aware, things have changed considerably.".

He pressed a button on the remote held in his meaty hand, and a series of 
images began cycling on the screen at the front of the room. "Five years 
ago, the first crude prototype automated office assistants began to be 
mass-produced in Singapore. Since that time,  robots of all sizes and types 
have become ubiquitous in all facets of modern life. Our latest surveys show 
that sixty percent of all American homes now employ some level of robotic 
technology. Our most advanced DAVIS models represent two percent of total 
sales, and considering how prices continue to fall and demand continues to 
rise, we estimate that number to reach ten percent by the end of next 
year.". The slideshow flip-flip-flipped, and we were treated to images of 
robots helping humans, robots keeping humans clean, robots keeping humans 
from missing appointments, etc.. I glanced at my watch, feeling hungry.

"Chan Electrosystems now has a ten percent share in the global robotics 
market, second only to our rival, Fringesoft. Currently, the market is not 
dominated by any one manufacturer, but it is only a matter of time before 
one company sets the standard and takes the lead position. We at Chan 
Electrolsystems want to be that company. Moreover, we think we have achieved 
the technological leap necessary to make that possible.". On the screen, the 
parade of images was suddenly replaced by a single word, bold red text on a 
black background: EMOTOTECH.

Beside me, Ella Reid looked hard at the man, her arms crossed, her head 
cocked slightly to one side. The posture oddly reminded me DAVIS. 
"Emototech," she said, and I repressed the urge to smile. Ella Reid was 
notoriously impatient. By speaking up in the middle of such a stilted, 
staged presentation, she was indicating how dangerously close to boredom she 
really was.

The man saw this too, and hurried to speak more quickly. "Emototech. 
Correct.". He pressed a button on his remote, and two things happened 
simultaneously. One, the entire conference room started to move; two, the 
far walls slowly rolled up to reveal large picture windows. Smiling, the man 
gestured for us to look outside. Ella stood up, I stood up a moment later, 
and the handful of junior executives on either side of us followed a moment 
after that. The man from Chan led us to the window, and we looked down. The 
entire room we were in was travelling slowly along a track set in the 
ceiling, suspended quite low to the concrete floor of the immense factory. 
The space under the track was empty of obstructions, while, all around us, 
countless robots of all shapes and sizes worked assembling other robots 
under the supervision of humans in masks. After a moment, we cleared the 
factory floor and moved through a wall into a series of white rooms, 
brilliantly sterile and people with technicians in safe suits. Another 
moment passed, and we stopped in a large, hangar-like area without a single 
robot to be seen. The safesuit technicians were leading what looked like 
naked men and women around, and after a minute I realized that the 
non-technicians were not nudists. We were looking at robots.

A door opened, and metallic stairs began to descend. The man gestured 
towards it. "If you would be so kind.". We filed out.  He pointed at a door 
not far from where we were standing. "This way, please.". I looked at my 
boss, but her face was totally expressionless. The whole group of us began 
to walk, and about a dozen of the unclothed, humanoid robots filed past us 
in rows of two.

Human-looking robots were generally frowned-upon, largely because nobody 
could quite make them look right. No combination of synthetic skin or 
semi-organic sheathing could make up for the fact that there was just 
something very unsettling about a walking, talking mannequin. Far from 
putting people at ease, human-looking, robotic receptionists, newscasters, 
what have you, triggered the very worst sort of hostility and paranoia in 
even the most technologically-inclined person. Added to the fact that 
non-human forms were often more efficient for specific tasks, this made for 
a robot marketplace totally dominated by machines looking like, well, 
machines. Even DAVIS was built to only evoke a human being in the most 
general sort of way.

Studying the robots passing by us, I realized that Chan Electrosystems has 
solved this problem in a simple, ingenious way. The nude robots blankly 
behind herded around like biped cattle didn’t look like robots attempting to 
be human. They were human-like robots. Their skin was clearly made of metal, 
but it was flesh-coloured and had give. Their limbs were supple and 
real-looking, but had machine-like joints. Their faces were smooth pink or 
brown or yellow sculptures, and looked oddly all the warmer and more 
comfortable for their machine-made perfection, like realistically-drawn 
cartoon characters. Breasts, nipples, penises, hair, all robotic and 
artificial but in a way that made it okay. I had never seen anything like. I 
doubted if many other people had.

The man was speaking again. "As you can see, we have made significant steps 
towards improving the appearance of our robots. Of course, these units are 
not for industrial applications. They are for home use.". We had reached the 
door, and he was leading us through it. "A very specific kind of home use.".

We were in a darkened room that looked like a little movie theatre, with 
soft folding seats bolted to the inclined floor. The seats were facing a 
large window of what was probably one-way glass, on the other side of which 
was a brightly-lit room with several of the naked robots standing in it. A 
pair of technicians were making adjustments on them. We sat down, and one of 
the technicians gave a thumbs-up in our general direction before the two of 
them went out, leaving the robots immobile. We moved to our seats and sat 
down.

"What," began the man from Chan, "is it that separates even the most 
advanced computer mind from a human brain? Many things, of course, but we 
here at Chan are interested in only one: desire. Desire is at the root of 
human emotion, is it not? Desire. We can program semi-sentience into 
machines, we can make them perform tasks for us, but we cannot make them 
truly desire to perform those tasks.". He pressed a button on his remote. 
"Until now.".

Behind the glass, one of the robots, a latino female model, switched on. It 
started moving slowly and groggily, as though awakening from a dream, and 
something that looked very much like consciousness gradually flooded into 
its eyes. I felt the hair on my arms stand up. I had never seen an robot 
look at its surroundings quite like that.

"I have programmed her to clean," he said. One of the technicians came back 
in, holding a dustpan and broom. The technician handed both to the robot, 
who took them with what looked like relief, and the began to sweep. 
"However...". He pressed the button again, and the robot froze slightly bent 
over in the act of sweeping. The technician removed the broom and dustpan 
from its hands, and left the room. The man frowned in concentration. 
"Observe this.". He pressed the button again. The robot awoke, moved for an 
instant as though it were still sweeping, then seemed to realize it was not 
holding any cleaning equipment. A remarkable simulation of dawning panic 
came across its face, and the robot started moving about the room, first 
slowly and deliberately, then with great, frenzied, nearly hysterical speed, 
looking around the room for something with which to clean. Tears started 
running down its face, and it started to pull on its own hair, opening its 
mouth to emit a little sound which started to grow and grow and grow as the 
creature collapsed to its knees in and began wailing in the most realistic 
mock-up of suffering and pain I had ever seen in an automated device. It was 
unbearable. Then, the presenter switched her off. The robot sat there, on 
its knees, its hands in its hair, its mouth open, tears cut off but still 
dribbling down its face. The sudden silence was profound, and everyone in 
the room, myself included, let out a deep, deep breath.

"Did...did I just see that?" one of our executives, a woman named Lorna, 
said in a small voice.

I glanced over at Ella. She had a strange, heavy expression on her face, but 
she did not move or speak. Her eyes were the only thing about her that did 
not seem to be made of stone.

"It's a program," someone else said, his voice shaky. "You programmed the 
robot to behave like that.".

The man shook his head. "No. This was not..." he searched for the correct 
word, "a performance. We have technical specifications and read-outs to show 
that the reaction is genuine. What you have witnessed is a real, emotional 
response.".

"A simulated response," the junior executive said.

"No. A real response. From a synthetic system.".

We pondered this. I couldn't look away from the screaming sculpture below.

"Obviously," said the man continued, "what you have just witnessed is a 
demonsration. We have programmed each of our Emototech robots with a 
fail-safe to prevent it from reaching that level of hysteria. But I hope you 
see the possibilities. Imagine robots that do things because they want to do 
them. Semi-sentient machines who experience emotional distress at not being 
able to fulfill their directives. Machines which derive pleasure from the 
efficient fulfilment of tasks. Creative machines which are motivated to 
think of better ways of doing things in order to achieve the satisfaction of 
a job well done.". He smiled, visibly enthused by his own words. I realized 
that he was a believer.

I spoke. "This is impressive, I admit. But how can we market this? A robot 
capable of a nervous breakdown...".

He nodded. "You want to see an immediate application. I think this will 
impress you.".

The man pressed several buttons on his remote, and another robot, a black 
male, came to life, again filling with the apparent self-awareness that had 
been so disturbing in the female. Like the female, it started to look 
around, but I noticed something else. I noticed that it was getting an 
erection. The robot was getting an erection, and I could not believe my 
eyes. The robot, that same panic blossoming onto its face that had so 
devastated its sister, started looking at, touching, yes, even fondling the 
other robots, and when none responded, it grasped its own member and started 
masturbating. It looked so desperate, constantly checking the same immobile 
robots over and over again, that I wanted to go in there and help it. Get it 
off. Something. I also felt myself getting hard, and I shifted in my seat, 
embarrassed

Grinning, the Chan presenter pushed another button, and a female robot, an 
incongruously blonde Asian, awoke, blinked, took one look at the 
masturbating robot, and practically knocked it over, the two synthetic 
bodies becoming intertwined in a sucking, licking, stroking, plunging mass. 
Heterosex usually did nothing for me, but I had to admire the intensity of 
their fucking.

Then, with a touch of the remote button, the presenter froze them just as 
the female seemed about to orgasm, if such a thing were possible, and they 
lay their like an erotic sculpture, next to the kneeling, anguished female 
and the several standing, impassive robots staring vaguely at us.

We could all hear each other breathing in the sudden silence. "No sexual 
robot on the market can compete with this, and what you see is just the 
beginning. We need your help to...", again he searched for the right 
expression, "take it to the next level. And to the levels after that.".

For the first time since the initial presentation, Ella Reid opened her 
mouth to speak. "How much of our money," she said, in her slow, deliberate 
way, "do you need?".

The man from Chan Electrosystems smiled.
---

We updated our comic a few days ago. If you haven’t seen it yet, see it now.

The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
You have to see it to be it. Or something.
Guaranteed.


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There's a new comic up. Learn to fear it. Learn.
(There'll be a prose story in this space next update. Promise.)

The Parking Lot is Full
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Short. Short. Short.
Guaranteed.

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We're back! There's a new comic up at plif.com, and you want to read it. 
You. Want. To. Read. It. Look into our eyes...

The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
Short and sweet, like your defeat.
Guaranteed.

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Hey, y'all. There's a new comic up, and our Recommended Readings have been 
updated. Check them out.
Sadly, there's no story or rant I can send you now, since I'm in the middle 
of marking finals and don't have what you'd call 'time'. YOU would call it 
'time'. I'd call it 'rice'. God help my writing students. God help us all.

The Parking Lot is Full
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 "You know what really amuses me? I could write vile, twisted shit, 
full of pedophilia, murder and mutilation for weeks on end, and not 
hear a single complaint. But when I write two or three weeks of stuff 
poking fun at the American WAR ON TERRORISM, people bitch. The moral 
of the story? It's okay to fuck America's kids. It's *not* okay to 
laugh at her foreign policy. I think I'll go back to fucking her kids."

Sitting in its womb-like couch, unblinking eyes focussed unwaveringly 
on the lovely, lovely TV, its empty brain, sponge-like, lapping up the
endless trickle of lies, blithely unaware that for every image it's 
fed there are a thousand which are held back, idly rubbing its crotch
each time the national flag is paraded across the screen, vaguely 
wondering if that crying coming from upstairs is the baby, wondering 
how its life could have come to this, wondering why things can't be 
more like they are on TV, it's the apathetic, easily-manipulated, 
brainwashed, short attention-span zombie proud to call itself a 
citizen of the Greatest Country in the World, the one, the only, 
The Parking Lot is Full!

The following story has absolutely nothing to do with Osama bin Laden. 
We promise. 

---

The Land Down Under
===================

[1]
"I raped bitches better than you!" he said, and even though 
I couldn't see his face, I knew he was leering at me. He strained 
inside his cage, the rubber restraints allowing him just enough 
movement to rub his crotch against the bars before being jerking 
him back to the centre. "Bring that pussy over here!" The eyes 
staring out of the mask gleamed, and suddenly I felt like I was in 
that movie... the one I had seen as a kid on TV... what was it 
called? Right. 'Silence of the Lambs'.

Beside me, the armed marine tensed, and I looked at him 
and smiled. "It's okay, private," I said, putting my hand on his 
forearm. "There's nothing he can do to me." The soldier, just a kid 
really, nervously exhaled and moved a little closer to me, probably 
imagining he was being protective. It was kind of funny, seeing this 
man with a big gun look so unnerved by the rows upon rows of cages, 
the countless insane men within them. I could feel the entire room 
list as the pilot banked left. A tremendous howl arose from the 
prisoners, a collective wail which immediately began to fray and 
collapse into individual screams and curses. The cargo hold of the 
immense airplane echoed with it all, and I saw the marine begin to 
sweat.

"Let's go, private," I said, walking towards the faraway exit. With 
a start, he took a few quick steps after me, soon falling in step 
with the clank-clank-clank of my government-issue hob nailed boots.

[2]
"I come from dah land down undaaaaaah! Ya bettah goh, ya bettah take
cu-vaaaah!" The pilot, a man whose name I could never remember, sang
along with the music coming out of the little radio hanging by a 
strap from a steel handrail. His co-pilot, a woman named 'Jones', 
grimaced, no doubt used to her colleague's unique singing voice. 
Outside, the clouds passed quickly around us. The massive fleet of 
whale-shaped airplanes flying around us kept its tight formation. 

"Doctor," said the pilot, tapping his fingers on the stick to the 
beat of the song. "How are the loonies? They enjoying the trip?"

I acknowledged this with a smile. "How long before we get there, 
pilot?"

"ETA, twenty-five minutes. Right on schedule.".

"Good." I tried to think of something to say, something else to 
justify my visit to the cockpit. The truth was that I was tired 
of standing in the cargo hold with the lunatics, and the coffee 
in the tiny closet laughingly referred to as the 'lounge' was 
dreadful. I just needed to look outside. 

Jones spared me a glance, seemingly understanding my awkward 
silence. "Want a seat?"

"Please."

She gestured at one of the empty chairs, and I sat down.
"People tell me some of those planes out there are full of black 
men." She gestured with one hand again, this time at the dark 
aircraft dotting the clouds as far as the eye could see. 
I was tired of having this discussion, and I had no interest 
in having it all over again with this... person. "What a strange
thing to say."

"Large part of the prison population, huh?"

"Statistically, I suppose so."

"Uh-huh. You ever lived near any black people?"

"Have you ever lived near any white people?"

"You think violent crime has some sociological causes?"

This was making me tired. I felt vaguely annoyed at being needled 
like this. I wished Jones would just out and call me a racist. 
"Yes. Sometimes."

"So basically, the fact that a significant number of those convicts 
on those planes are black, that means we're helping to thin out the 
number of black men in the continental United States."

I'd heard these arguments before. "Crime is crime. This has nothing 
to do with race."

"Uh-huh. So I've heard."

Jones went silent, and I was grateful. The time for debating The Plan 
as long over, and I was sick of the controversy and accusations of 
racism, classism, whateverism. Things had gone much too far for that.

The pilot, smiling slightly, turned up the radio. It was playing a 
cassette, and for some reason, I recognized the 20th century music 
coming out of the speakers as attributable to a group named INXS. 
It's amazing what the memory retains.

There was a crackle on the communications channel, and a voice with 
a funny accent said "This is fighter patrol 1-5-Bravo-Alpha to 
unidentified air plane convoy. Please identify yourself." From 
somewhere behind us, several American fighter planes streaked 
ahead, no doubt to silence the voices on the radio. Their vapour 
trails dissolved like sugar in a glass of water.

I sat there for a while, watching the sky, when the pilot finally 
said "We're almost there, Doctor. You might want to check on our cargo."

I nodded and stood up, my attention shifting back to the tape. Someone 
was singing stridently about big issues. Midnight Oil. God damn it. 
Those people have a great deal to answer for. We would make them pay.

[3]
Most of the lunatics in the cages were white. Pure statistics again. 
Serial killers, serial rapists, pedophiles, very few were anything but
caucasian. The marine looked no less nervous than he had before as 
hundreds and hundreds of men in masks spat and cursed and struggled 
against their bonds.

"Relax, private," I said, almost enjoying his discomfort. "It'll all 
be over soon."

That was when the klaxon began to ring. I took a step back behind the 
yellow line on the floor, pulling the young man gently by the sleeve 
as the clear plexiglass safety door slowly began to come down. The 
nuts were working themselves into a frenzy, the sound of it starting
to overpower the siren. I smiled, knowing what was coming next. The
floor of each cell began to retract, sliding open in unison until 
each straight-jacketed, masked man hung over a square of open sky, 
held in place and whipped against the bars by the rubber cord 
restraints. The sight was almost comical.

"Bye-bye," I whispered, and every restraint snapped free at once. 
Every single man in every single one of the hundreds and hundreds 
of little cages was sucked outside, and then the immense cargo 
space was empty, as though the filth of America had never been 
housed in there at all.

I turned and headed back to the cockpit, leaving the marine still 
pressed against the glass and watching the little doors close. 

[4]
"Beautiful, ain't it?" The pilot looked at me and grinned, quickly
returning his eyes to the window. He was wrong. It wasn't beautiful.
It was absolutely spectacular. Thousands and thousands of men and 
women were dropping out of the countless airplanes, parachutes 
opening from the backs of straitjackets like little flowers 
blossoming on sped-up film. It was like something out of World 
War Two, only bigger. 

"I wonder if they'll even know what hit them," said Jones, her 
voice admiring despite her previously expressed problems with The 
Plan. 

"It's not so different," I said absently, watching the graceful 
spectacle outside. "Australia was founded by convicts. Australians 
are proud of it. I don't see why they can't absorb a few thousand 
more."

We watched every felon previously doing time in America's prisons 
parachuting down to his or her new home, the once and future penal
colony of Australia. I knew that, below us, American battleships 
were already in the waters around the country, setting up the 
blockade which would keep all the Australians, new and old, from 
leaving. I knew that the fighter planes were bombing the airports 
and docks. I knew that, in a few minutes, thieves and rapists and 
blackmailers and killers and gangsters would be landing all over 
the continent, time-release straitjacket clasps springing open en
masse, the sound of a new order dawning. I knew that life would 
never be the same for the Land Down Under.

"This is gonna bite us on the ass," said Jones, quietly, possibly 
not even aware that she was speaking. 

The pilot laughed, turning the plane around. "Put another shrimp 
on the barbie," he said in a horribly phony Australian accept. 
"G'day."

I knew it would be. A very good day. Mate.

---

Don't you hate those bastards too? Of course you do. Even if you're 
really one of them.

This week's exciting Parking Lot is Full comic has little, if 
anything, to do with what you just read. It's not about Osama bin 
Laden, either. Or maybe it is. Read it and find out for sure.
 
Oh, and to all those people who've been writing in to point out 
that our Recommended Readings page hasn't been updated since the 
summer, relax. Expect a new Readings update one week from now. Yeah.


The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
Believing the lies because it knows them to be true.
Guaranteed.

 

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"I'm sorry about destroying your home. You have my blessing to build 
another.".

Plucked from the ashes by a big white hand, convulsing and twitching as its 
minions scour the wasteland for tasty body parts, groping itself fondly in 
the darkness as you squint into the light, unwilling to view you as anything 
other than walking-talking meat, it's the slovenly, deranged, twisted and 
homicidal pile of shambling hunger and degenerate lust immortalized in the 
works of lunatic poets as being the one, the only, The Parking Lot is Full!

You've all been reading the newspapers' lies. Now it's time you knew the 
truth.
---
WHO IS OSAMA bin LADEN?
November 7, 2001: 4:27 p.m. ET

KABUL (PLIF) - JOHN 14:6 "I AM THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE. NO ONE 
COMES TO THE FATHER BUT BY ME."

His power is founded on a personal fortune earned by his family's 
construction business in Saudi Arabia. He received security training from 
the CIA itself. But the Taliban and bin Laden are not Afghanistan. They're 
not even the government of Afghanistan. The Taliban are a cult of ignorant 
psychotics who took over Afghanistan in 1997. Although it is widely believed 
that al-Qaeda does not have the capability to build a conventional atomic 
bomb, experts fear that the radioactive material could be used in a 
so-called "dirty bomb" - a device to spread radioactive material.

The few outsiders who have met Bin Laden describe him as modest, almost shy. 
He rarely gives interviews. He even declared he himself was God!
There is so much historical and archeological evidence to support his 
existence that every reputable historian agrees he was not just a legend. 
Declaring that he was God so angered the religious and political leaders of 
his day that they had him crucified. They buried him in a borrowed grave, 
and three days later, he rose from the dead.

JOHN 17:5 "AND NOW, FATHER, GLORIFY ME IN YOUR PRESENCE WITH THE GLORY I HAD 
WITH YOU BEFORE THE WORLD BEGAN."

Earlier on Tuesday, the US embassy in Islamabad, Pakistan, confirmed that an 
envelope sent to its Lahore consulate last week had tested positive for 
anthrax. Elsewhere, a 21-year-old Jordanian man entered a plea of not guilty 
Monday to charges of lying before a grand jury investigating the September 
terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon. While writing the 
second chapter of a book outlining his arguments, he suddenly found himself 
on his knees crying out to Jesus, "My Lord and my God."

He did not disclose where the letter was received but said the National 
Institute for Health would be conducting its own tests for final results. 
However, he added that testing was not yet complete.

LUKE 5:20-21 "WHEN JESUS SAW THEIR FAITH, HE SAID, 'FRIEND, YOUR SINS ARE 
FORGIVEN.' THE PHARISEES AND THE TEACHER OF THE LAW BEGAN THINKING TO 
THEMSELVES, 'WHO IS THIS FELLOW WHO SPEAKS BLASPHEMY? WHO CAN FORGIVE SINS 
BUT GOD ALONE?'"

Those who know about these things, inform us that Adam and Eve were expelled 
from the Garden of Eden on a Friday, Noah's flood started on a Friday, and 
Christ was crucified on a Friday. Christians also noted that twelve witches 
plus one devil are present at Satanic ceremonies so Friday and 13 make a 
deadly combination.

According to the US, Bin Laden was involved in at least thirteen major 
attacks - the 1993 World Trade Center bombing, the 1996 killing of 13 US 
soldiers in Saudi Arabia, and the 1998 bombings in Kenya and Tanzania. Some 
experts say he is part of an international Islamic front, bringing together 
Saudi, Egyptian and other groups.

U.S. President George W. Bush delivered a hard message to European leaders 
Tuesday, reminding them how freedom and human dignity were trampled by 
repressive regimes in the mid-20th century.
"Today 'fleshpot' describes decadence. In the time of Moses, it was a large 
pot in which to boil meat," US President George Bush has said. "There is no 
historical evidence that Christ was born on December 25th."

LUKE 7:48-49 "THEN JESUS SAID TO HER, 'YOUR SINS ARE FORGIVEN.' THE OTHER 
GUESTS BEGAN TO SAY AMONG THEMSELVES, 'WHO IS THIS WHO EVEN FORGIVES SINS?'"

To prevent terrorist attacks and reassure their employees, businesses and 
government agencies across the country have tightened security measures and 
asked employees to be on the alert for any unusual behavior they see on the 
job. Skeptics and enemies were also transformed.

The group issued a religious edict upon its establishment: "The ruling to 
kill the Americans and their allies, civilians, and the military, is an 
individual duty for every Muslim who can do it in any country in which it is 
possible to do it, in order to liberate al-Aqsa Mosque and the Holy Mosque 
from their grip and in order for their armies to move out of all the lands 
of Islam, defeated, and unable to threaten any Muslim. This is in accordance 
with the words of Almighty G-d, and 'fight the pagans all together as they 
fight you all together,' and 'fight them until there is no more tumult or 
oppression, and there prevail justice and faith in G-d."

What new invention could drastically alter the course of human history and 
men's Business Casual attire? For centuries, true Christians around the 
world have stood as shining examples of the standards of truth and love 
established by Jesus of Nazareth. anthrax was detected inside the Pentagon 
and promptly removed. About 2,350 Canadians live in Kuwait.

JOHN 8:46-47 "CAN ANY OF YOU PROVE ME GUILTY OF SIN? IF I AM TELLING THE 
TRUTH, WHY DON'T YOU BELIEVE ME? HE WHO BELONGS TO GO HEARS WHAT GOD SAYS. 
THE REASON YOU DO NOT HEAR IS THAT YOU DO NOT BELONG TO GOD."

On June 13, 1942, eight trained saboteurs paddled ashore on rafts from Nazi 
submarines in Florida and Long Island. Carrying fake IDs, explosives and 
$175,000 in cash, Hitler's agents had come on a mission: Blend into American 
society and blow up U.S. factories.

If we are serious about this war on terrorism, Congress ought not only to 
declare war, but warn that any terrorist caught in the U.S. on a mission of 
massacre will go before a military tribunal and be put to death quickly and 
in secret, as were those German saboteurs.

JOHN 6:47 "I TELL YOU THE TRUTH, HE WHO BELIEVES HAS EVERLASTING LIFE."

In its briefing on Monday, the Pentagon said it believed "substantial" 
number of Taliban fighters had been killed during the air strikes on their 
front lines in Afghanistan. And in another sign that the US was stepping up 
its campaign, NBC reported that the US had started using BLU-82 "daisy 
cutter" bombs - the largest conventional weapon in its arsenal.

"If a Delta Force commando is captured in Afghanistan, he will not be 
provided with a lawyer. If a 17-year-old Afghan kid is found at bin Laden's 
cave when U.S. Special Forces arrive, he will not be read his Miranda 
rights," 700 Club television host Pat Robertson said. "Many of those people 
involved in Adolph Hitler were Satanists, many of them were homosexuals - 
the two things seem to go together."

A letter alleged to have been written by Bin Laden and seized in London 
three years ago, called on Muslim nations to acquire nuclear weapons.

MARK 14:61-62 "AGAIN THE HIGH PRIEST ASKED HIM, 'ARE YOU THE CHRIST, THE SON 
OF THE BLESSED ONE?' 'I AM,' SAID JESUS. 'AND YOU WILL SEE THE SON OF MAN 
SITTING AT THE RIGHT HAND OF THE MIGHTY ONE AND COMING ON THE CLOUDS OF 
HEAVEN.'"

Many researchers claim that homosexuals still find themselves the target of 
bias within institutions like churches and professional organizations. in 
1998, bin Laden issued a religious edict to his followers, "to kill the 
Americans and their allies, civilians and the military." Bin Laden has made 
no secret of his anti-American, anti-Western and anti-Israel sentiments. 
Americans can no longer indulge such nonsense.

Jesus Christ lives today and faithfully enriches the lives of all those who 
trust and obey him. Their threatening style of dress is just one way in 
which they express their violent hatred of Blacks, Jews, gays, and other 
minority groups. Thousands could be exposed, causing both short- and 
long-term deaths and rendering areas uninhabitable for years.

JOHN 16:16 "IN A LITTLE WHILE YOU WILL SEE ME NO MORE, AND THE AFTER A 
LITTLE WHILE YOU WILL SEE ME."

The Afghan jihad was backed with American dollars and had the blessing of 
the governments of Saudi Arabia and Pakistan. These groups closely followed 
Identity teachings and attended Identity churches (most of which celebrate 
Hitler as a prophet or even messiah). According to the testimony of one 
member of the group, "the end goal, bluntly, was the annihilation of the 
Jewish race."

Read his speeches and statements. It's all right there. He really believes 
Islam would beat the West. It might seem ridiculous, but he figures if he 
can polarize the world into Islam and the West, he's got a billion soldiers. 
If the West wreaks a holocaust in those lands, that's a billion people with 
nothing left to lose.

In the days of the first Christians, there were many writings about the life 
of Jesus. But some had special quality - they had been written by Jesus' 
followers or their close friends. These beliefs range from the creation of 
whites by an evil Black scientist to the 'The Great Decisive Battle in the 
Sky,' in which a space ship will bomb the earth, destroying white people and 
bringing in a new world.

We Love You America. See how it feels to slap Bin Laden!

JOHN 17:5 "AND NOW, FATHER, GLORIFY ME IN YOUR PRESENCE WITH THE GLORY I HAD 
WITH YOU BEFORE THE WORLD BEGAN."

ne morning, Alan finds a yellow box in front of his house
One morning, Alan finds a yellow box in front of his house.
One morning, Alan finds a yellow bo
One morning, Alan finds a yellow box in front of his house.
---

This week's exciting new Parking Lot is Full comic also deals with old 
friends, albeit in a different way than what you just read. Like Jesus, it 
thirsts for vengeance. Unlike Jesus, it's not dead.

You know what what the means. Don't you?


The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
The truth which sets you free...again.
Guaranteed.

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"Halloween? The only thing scary 'bout Halloween is the feeling I get when 
kids come to my door, asking for sweets. Why is it that when I drive around, 
asking kids if they want candy, it's wrong...but when the kids come to my 
*house*, asking for candy, it's right? Where's the logic in THAT?".

Sitting at home with the lights on, waiting for children in funny clothes to 
ring the doorbell, clutching bags full of homemade candy made with caramel 
and ground glass, not quite understanding why the children turn and run when 
he answers the door wearing a crotchless, vinyl catsuit and clown make-up, 
desperately wailing "WAIT! COME BACK!" as the children flee for their lives, 
it's the lumbering, medicated, out-on-probation bundle of strange urges and 
feelings classified by the DSM-IV as belonging to the category of 
psychopathology known as the one, the only, The Parking Lot is Full!

It's Halloween. Time for some scaaaaaaaaaary poetry!
---
i love halloween
================

i love halloween
because its the one time of year
its okay to
dig up corpses and make
a suit of bones and a hat
from a skull
and wear it on the street
without getting arrested
and put in that terrible hospital
where they feed you overcooked carrots
and lock you in your room if you
use your fists to
try to defend yourself from the
evil tv and its terrible terrible
mind control signals
of evil

i love halloween because
you can carve faces onto to
pumpkins and then cover the faces with ketchup
and put them in your window
as a talisman against demons
because nobody loves demons
but everyone is too scared to use pumpkins any other time
because jesus hates them
maybe he just doesnt like the way they
smell

but you know the down side of halloween
is that gangs of punks
probably controlled by the mind control signals
placed in popular tv programs by the cia
roam and steal pumpkins and smash them on the street
to make people vulnerable
to the evil spirits
commonly associated with
peanut butter
because why else would
i feel the urge to smear
peanut butter on myself
and dance around naked in my house
masturbating
if it wasnt for the cia?

fucking punks
one time i caught them trying to smash my pumpkin
and i went out and
started beating them with my television antenna
which is poetic justice if you think about it
or maybe it wasnt punks
maybe it was my mother
coming to visit me with some pie
i love pie i wish i could recognize my mother
because all people over fifty
look the same
i get lonely
and sometimes
peanut butter
will not
do
the trick

i love halloween
but i cant remember
which day it is
i think i was born
on halloween
---

This week's scaaaaaary Parking Lot is Full comic also has to do with 
mind-control, albeit in a different way than what you've just read. Read it! 
We command you!

Yeah.


The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
Scary as the evil spoon.
Guaranteed.


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"If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were putting that gun against your 
head because of ME!".

Gibbering and slobbering as it writes its last will and testament, 
generating pages and pages and pages of rambling, illegible nonsense about 
aliens and Osama bin Laden conspiring to prevent the rebirth of Jesus Christ 
somewhere in Israel, sealing the envelope and putting it carefully on the 
table before blowing its own head off, in a most artistic fashion, with a 
vintage Colt .45, it's the suicidal, manic-depressive, awfully confused bag 
of watery flesh listed in the obituary column of the Weekly World News as 
none other than the one, the only...The Parking Lot is Full!

Last week, we gave you an old story. Now we’ll give you a new one.
---

Fire From Above
===============

/we look up sometimes and imagine the world above the rock/and creatures who 
live and think there/and we wonder if they mourn their dead too/we wish 
death upon them/all we wish they would bleed forever/ we wonder what it 
feels like for them when one of their own dies/we wonder if they feel the 
ache and loss in the way we do when one of us dies/we know what it feels 
like to kill them/we have seen it/we have felt it/we have killed them many 
times/some of us feel lessened by this/some of us feel degraded and sick 
with each fresh death we cause/but then the fire falls  from the sky 
again/and our hatred is alive again/and we are pushed again into violence 
and blood/and we wish it could be otherwise/but we know it must be so/

[I'm wearing my mask as I go home because of the warnings of a spore attack 
flashed on TV all day long. The warnings come with graphic recreations of 
people clutching their throats and vomiting blood, and the words 'SPORES 
KILL!' flash on the screen and stay there as the background siren roars. I 
know all about the spores. My own brother died of a spore attack several 
years ago. I remember walking into the large aircraft hangar and seeing the 
rows and rows and rows of bodies stretching off to the distant tin walls. My 
brother was #765, the number written on a little yellow sign pinned to his 
chest. His eyes were milky and bulged out like golf balls.]

/some of us here remember the time of sweet darkness before the light people 
came with their fire/those times are remembered here as being good times of 
innocence/the younger of us can only visit those good times in memory/but 
memories of things past are thinner than perceptions of things now/the young 
of us feel sad and cheated by our inability to participate in simpler/times 
the older of us mourn those times long gone/this too reduces us/this too 
fuels our hate/we feel it build and build and poison us/we wonder how much 
of this hate we can absorb before we can absorb no more/

[I push through the rush hour mob of people and cars to reach the subway, 
and I spend the subway ride trying not to stare at the TVs bolted to the 
car's walls and ceiling. The people around me mostly do the same, and the 
images of bombs being dropped down holes in the earth, and of people 
screaming and clawing out their own eyes, go mostly unheeded. It occurs to 
me that several minutes pass without me feeling or thinking anything. This 
disturbs me, though only dully, and I wonder what it was like to be younger 
and to care about things. I try to remember what the world was like even ten 
years ago, but the memories are faded and seem like old movies. I remember 
people smiling a lot more. I remember not being scared all the time. Beside 
me, a woman accidentally brushes against my arm and something fires up 
inside and I suddenly want to hold her and cry. The car rocks slightly along 
the track. I sit in my place and say nothing.]

/we have retreated deeper into the earth/deeper even than we find 
comfortable/but still they come/still they want to try to hurt us/we know 
when they are coming by their lights which burn our flesh and make us feel 
shattered/the attacks afterwards hurt less/because we steel ourselves/and 
those of us who die are unlinked from the rest of before their death can 
spread disharmony/but not before the grief/and still the light people come 
with their guns and their bombs and their fire/there are times when the 
horror and panic become too much/and we try to defend ourselves/try and 
smother the intruders with the sheer weight of ourselves/our bodies/our 
community but/of course we lose/of course we have no chance and eventually 
we end up retreating further and further until we escape/but to escape we 
must separate and slither into the cracks and fissures of the rock/this 
separation is almost worse than death/more degrading/ and every time we 
rejoin after this/something is lost and can never be recovered/and all of us 
are less than we were/

[Something itches in the back of my throat, and for a single, panicked 
moment I think I've been infected by the spores. Then I force myself to calm 
down and I wonder why I’m so jumpy today. Something feels wrong. I suddenly 
want a drink, so I turn and head for a local bar I’ve been to a few times, 
my feet knowing the way even when my brain does not. The sign burns its 
flickering red neon into the night. I go inside and see a few dour-looking 
men playing pool and a few couples sitting in the booths holding hands. The 
couples look fragile and out of place, and they seem to know it, looking at 
each other with an expression that shouldn’t be on the faces of people so 
young. I sit down at the bar and order a beer from the twenty-something 
woman working behind it. She pours it and puts it down. I stare at the 
droplets of water already condensing on the side and think about calling my 
wife, but instead take a long drink. The bartender doesn't look half bad, so 
I try talking to her, and she makes a few noncommital noises before abruptly 
abandoning me as she goes over to the other side to serve someone else. When 
she's given them their drinks, she starts polishing glasses and doesn't come 
back. I finish my beer and leave. Outside, an armed soldier in full combat 
gear and mask stands on the street corner, his glassy, black lenses staring 
straight at me. I smile at him, nod, and then, feeling foolish, hurry on 
down the street home.]

/we wonder sometimes why they hate us/we try to understand/we remember the 
first time they broke through to us/we remember our initial terrified and 
agonized over-reaction/we remember the light person's skull cracking and 
collapsing and then all their skulls rupturing and their internal organs 
liquefying spilling out onto the cavern floor/we regret those memories/we 
have for so long tried to make the intruders who followed understand how 
sorry we are/but communication is so difficult and even those rare times 
when they understand they seem disinterested in our needs/the only thing 
that interests them is attacking us/wiping us out completely/because we are 
not like them/soon even our most moderate voices become raised in a chorus 
of hate/soon there seems no other option but to strike at them they way the 
continually strike at us/hurt them no matter what the cost/that was how the 
idea of the impotent spreading was born/in the light and climate above/our 
seed cannot take hold and begin to grow/ we hear the screams of our young as 
they are ejected into the surface air/we experience their slow and horrible 
deaths/and this wounds us further/but our sacrifice wounds the hated light 
people more/because when they breathe in our dying young/and take those tiny 
bodies into themselves/then they die too/painfully/horribly/slowly/

[The first thing I notice is that the door of my apartment is open a crack, 
and immediately my heart starts beating harder. The door should not be open. 
The door should never be open. How are the air filters supposed to work if 
fresh air keeps coming in through the halls? Megan knows that. Even Jenny 
knows that, and she's only five years old. I push open the door and I see 
the glow from the living room lamp. The lamp is on. There is no sound or 
movement from anything in the apartment. I know what I'm going to find 
before I find it, but the corpses of my wife and daughter are the most 
horrible things imaginable anyway. Nothing could have prepared me for seeing 
them. I see what they'd done to themselves as they were dying. I see their 
bloated black tongues. I stand there for a moment and then realize I should 
get out, in case my filter is sufficient to protect me against whatever 
spore strain had killed them. I move mechanically and go out the door, 
closing and sealing it before picking up the CDC telephone in the call. I 
put the receiver to my ear. I make a report to the clipped, business-like 
voice on the other end. I want to tell that voice about my family, but 
instead I tell it my address and how many people have died. I am told not to 
move and to wait for the decontamination team. I don’t even hear myself as I 
answer. I hang up the phone andI wait.]

/it is a strange new emotion/this hate/we have never felt anything like it 
before/and we cannot truly understand its implications/or what its effects 
will be/we feel it continually eating away at us/devouring us/but we are 
still here/we feel strong/determined/ready to wage war/so the question must 
be/what part of us is hate devouring/what parts of us remain/the more 
cautious and thoughtful of us wonder about these things and the rest of us 
shadow their doubt/but then the attacks from above resume/all doubts are 
submerged by a new flood of hate/we were different before/we were 
content/but we live in a new reality now/they are trying to exterminate 
us/they have declared war on us/we meet their violence with our violence/we 
will exterminate them/there is no room for compromise/there is only room/for 
an undying/ universe/of rage/

["Why do they hate us so much?" I hear myself ask. None of the men in white 
suits and masks seem to hear. They just continue scrubbing my skin with 
steel wool as the hot shower washes the blood down the drain.]
---

This week's exciting new Parking Lot is Full comic has very little to do 
with what you’ve just read, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't check it 
out. You want to check it out. We know you do. We can read your mind.


The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
Horribly disfigured by the crash, but cheerful and upbeat regardless.
Guaranteed.

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Attention PLIF-heads: We know, you were supposed to get a new comic last 
week...but Internet problems prevented it. New comic this week. Or else 
we'll come looking for YOU!

pat
http://www.plif.com/

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The Parking Lot is Full is back. Finally. What's amazing is that, despite 
the fact that we've been MIA for the past three weeks, hits to our site have 
actually *increased*, steadily and inexorably. Could it be that we've tapped 
into some latent appetite for non-entertainment? Was our last, pre-hiatus, 
comic so incredibly good that everyone just had to keep checking it and 
checking it and checking it again? Are we  inadvertently sending coded 
messages to Osama bin Laden, the result of brainwashing incurred during our 
totally-forgotten Year of Hell somewhere in the Middle East? God only knows, 
but we're back. So you should be glad.

For this update, I've decided to do something a little different, and I hope 
it won't come across as too self-indulgent. Actually, I don't care if it 
comes across as too self-indulgent, because, well, I *am* self-indulgent, 
and Jack lets me get away with it, possibly out of fear. He tries to reign 
me in sometimes. I try to fly by jumping, head-first, out of three-story 
buildings. Everyone needs an impossible dream.

Anyway, I'm sure you all remember what you were doing on September 11th when 
you first heard the news about what happened. I was writing, working on a 
story for this very mailing list. A kind of Superman parody, there were 
things about the piece that I didn't like, and I was furiously revising it 
when...well, you know the rest. The interesting thing, to me, anyway, is 
that this represents the very last thing I wrote before the whole world 
changed. I was literally writing the last few paragraphs when the two planes 
were slamming into the World Trade Center. I was joking about the future 
while a handful of lunatics were changing it.

Stories are different now, aren't they? They have to be. The repercussions 
of what happened, and of what's continuing to happen, will shape everything 
we do for a very long time. Fiction, even works of questionable value by 
enthusiastic amateurs like myself, will reflect that, and not just in overt 
ways. Imagination is subtle. It has no choice but to react to things subtly.

I suppose it is pompous and self-indulgent to offer the following story, in 
its more-or-less unpolished, unchanged form, as some kind of exhibit of The 
Way Things Used To Be. So what? Every corpse deserves its tombstone.

---
Perfection
==========

[1]

The thick sheathe of wires running out of the back of Lotus 23's head 
tickled her synapses with a stream of warm, electrified fluid. The fluid 
bathed her brain and scrubbed the inside of her skull, making it clean. With 
a yawn, Lotus turned her head and looked at to her left and right, seeing 
the endless rows of identical cubicles stretching in a gentle curve, feeling 
the wires restrict her neck's movement. It was impossible not to see the 
boxes. They were everywhere. Inside each one, a fellow employee of the Daily 
Daily was receiving his or her complimentary head cleaning, enjoying the 
unparalleled access to what was surely one of the benefits of working in 
journalism. There were people, people whom Lotus saw every day, who 
considered it a meaningful, almost a religious experience to have their 
'stale' cranial fluid replenished and recycled. They considered the process 
key to the maintenance of their genetic superiority. Lotus, on the other 
hand, felt the same way she always felt while undergoing the treatment. 
Lotus 23 felt well and truly bored.

<<Hello, Lotus>> said Crunk 59 through the communication membrane. He was 
not speaking in realtime, but Lotus felt suddenly crowded in the little 
cubicle anyway. <<<Want to meet for dinner later?>>.

Lotus sighed to herself, refusing to acknowledge the message when the prompt 
came up across her field of vision. Dinner? Hardly. Crunk 59 had been trying 
to get into her pants for the last few years, and no amount of evidence that 
it was never going to happen seemed to deter him. Worse, his attempts were 
not even annoying, really. Rather, they had not been annoying, just mildly 
persistent in a polite sort of way. Polite. Inoffensive. Exactly what the 
average girl would probably respond to. Exactly like Crunk himself.

"I need a real man," she muttered, feeling the last of the cranial 
enhancement fluid sputtering into her skull. "Someone imperfect.". An 
imagine of the man she truly loved scuttled across her brain, and the hose 
detached itself and retracted into the wall behind her, taking the thought 
with it. No time for heartbreak or unrequited love. Her story was not going 
to write itself.

Lotus 23 stepped out as the front door opened, and joined the thickening 
crowd of employees leaving their cubicles and chatting before another day of 
work, rubbing the back of her head the way they all rubbed the backs of 
theirs. Lotus smiled absently as the woman who had been using the cubicle 
next to her said hello, and then she started to walk through the crowd 
towards the far exit, looking down into the wide well and at the endless 
levels of cubicles stretching down to the first floor below. She felt like a 
ghost, drifting through the clumps of people, coworkers and, by default, her 
friends. Her friends bored her. She nodded and smiled as they nodded and 
smiled at her, and her mouth mechanically said the right things as her brain 
was elsewhere. She looked at them, the people she passed. They were 
physically perfect. She was perfect too.

"Lotus 23!" said a man with red hair. Lotus vaguely recognized him from the 
office, but had no idea who he was. "Mediocre Man's out again. They're 
watching him at the monitor.".

Lotus felt the now-familiar stirring feeling in her chest, and she pushed 
the man aside and ran down the hall, towards the elevator. Her office was 
fifty-seven floors away. She had to get down to the lift.

[2]

Mediocre Man stumbled down the street, occasionally tripping and stumbling 
as he carried the bottle of homemade alcohol in one hand and scratched his 
ass with the other, his glasses taped up at the bridge of his nose. Looking 
at the genetically engineered people around him with undisguised contempt, 
he took a swig from the bottle and spat "Freaks! Fuckers! This is what I 
think of you!". He stopped and unzipped the fly of his ill-fitting blue 
pyjamas and started urinating on the sidewalk, cackling as the stream of 
liquid ran down the perfectly smooth surface and into the gutter. He was 
aware that people around him had stopped and were staring at him with awe 
and worship. He didn't care. Let them watch. If pissing in the street was 
what it took to be their hero, then they could go fuck themselves. They 
didn't deserve his kind of salvation.

"Bastards!" he rasped, "Whores! You like to watch, don't you?". He fumbled 
for his fly and tried to zip it up, accidentally dropping the bottle as his 
motions became more and more violent. The bottle, made of a synthetic alloy 
that only looked like glass, bounced and then was still, its contents not 
spilling out thanks to the automatic vacuum seal. Mediocre Man glared at it 
drunkenly.

"Mediocre Man! Take me, Mediocre Man!". A woman stepped out of the crowd, 
baring her immaculate breasts at his. He stared at her for a while before 
spitting on the pool of urine at his feet.

"Fuck off," he said, kicking the bottle at her. The crowd roared its 
approval. Mediocre Man gave them the finger and pushed the ignition stud on 
his flight belt, rising up into the sky with his pants bunching down around 
his ankles. Hundreds of people looked up at his bare ass, and he farted 
loudly at them before flying away. His genitals flapped in the air as he 
disappeared into the sky above. The crowd below applauded.

[3]

They all stared at the holographic monitor in silence. Lotus 23 glanced at 
her office collective, at the expressions of approval on their faces. They 
thought they knew what Mediocre Man represented. They were wrong. Mediocre 
Man was love.

"Brilliant," said Gustav 9, sipping from his glass of coffee. "I never get 
tired of watching him in action.". The others nodded in agreement.

"How does he do it?" asked Gladys 67, here eyes shining with what Lotus 
suddenly realized was lust. "How can he be so...dirty?".

Lotus frowned and turned away, leaving the cluster of reporters staring at 
the receding image of the man in blue flying away. The dim newsroom of the 
Daily Daily thrummed with activity as the employees moved with perfect, 
hurried intensity to prepare the evening's edition for publication. Lotus 23 
ambled over to her wombmate, Lotus 22, who was putting the finishing touches 
on an olfactory report of some kind. 22 uncorked a test tube and sniffed at 
it, nodding to herself in satisfaction. Putting the cork back in, she saw 23 
standing there, and smiled. "Hey, kiddo. How goes the battle?".

Lotus 23 shrugged. "I finished my piece hours ago. I'm just sort of hanging 
around waiting for the deadline to submit it. If I sent it in when I 
finished it, they’d probably start giving me twice the work to do.".

Lotus 22 giggled. "You're not being very productive, are you?".

"I guess not.".

22 dropped the test tube into the slot on her desk. "Good. Oh, right. Crunk 
59 was around again a while ago, asking for you.". 23 made a face, and 22 
continued. "I know, I know. Still, it isn't like you’re going to get what 
you really want anytime soon, is it?".

"I always get what I want.".

"So you say.". Lotus 22 stretched, extending her arms upwards and outwards. 
"It's almost deadline. I think I’ll take a cab home for a shower before 
meeting Frankie.".

"58?".

"No. 64. I got tired of Frankie 58. Too much foreplay. Frankie 64 looks just 
as good, but he's just a little more...direct.".

Lotus 23 smiled at her wombmate. She liked 22. It was reassuring being so 
close in vat-order to a Lotus who enjoyed getting tied up and branded by her 
sexual partners. Although 23 in no way shared 22's particular little kinks, 
it made her feel good to be of obviously tainted stock. Lotus 23 was the 
last Lotus grown before the splicers made whatever adjustment they felt was 
necessary to the Lotus DNA. Lotus 24 was as perfect and boring as most of 
the other people she knew.

"Uh-oh," said Lotus 22, looking over 23's shoulder. "Here comes trouble.".

Lotus 23 turned around and groaned. Crunk 59 was walking towards them, his 
square-jawed face breaking into a pearly smile when he saw Lotus 23 looking 
at him. "Hi, Lotus 23," he called, taking long, confident strides. 
"Hungry?".

"Drop dead," said Lotus 23, crossing her arms. "I’ll never go home with 
you.".

Something flashed across Crunk's face for an insant before her regained his 
composure and smile. Lotus 23 did not notice. Lotus 22 did. "Can I take that 
as a no?".

Lotus 23 looked at him and sighed. "What do you think, Crunk?" she said, 
shaking her head sadly. "Think real hard.".

Lotus 22, no stranger to humiliation herself, studied Crunk 59 as he 
bantered with 23. There was something about him that always nagged at her 
whenever she came into contact with the poor bastard, something she could 
not put her finger on. It intrigued her, and, if Crunk’s attention had been 
directed at her instead of 23, she probably would explore it. Then she 
looked at her vat-mate, and felt a flutter of sympathy. That poor girl’s 
heart belonged to Mediocre Man. She loved him. She might as well have been 
in love with the moon.

As Lotus 23 walked away, Crunk 59 looked after her, a strange expression in 
his eyes. It was not a perfect expression.

[4]

The ride home was as uneventful as always. Standing in the subway car, 
surrounded by people who smelled as good at the end of the day as they had 
at the start, Lotus 23 felt the feeling in the pit of her stomach that came 
whenever she realized that she was exactly like them. Did they have doubts, 
they way she sometimes did? Looking at their faces, she saw none. They all 
looked content. Lotus envied the. Lotus envied their interest.

The subway stopped and she stepped out, along with several other people, her 
boots clanging on the metal floor as she walked down to the suck tube and 
stepped inside. With a blast of air, she arrived outside her door, pressing 
her palm against the plate and stepping inside. The lights switched on. 
There was someone else in the apartment. The smell hit her first. The smell 
of cheap alcohol. Urine. Body odour. The antiquated smells of an imperfect 
world long gone. "Mediocre Man," she breathed before she even saw him, her 
pulse quickening. He was there, sprawled out on her sofa. He looked at her 
through his scratched, taped-up glasses, belching and rubbing his crotch.

"That’s right, baby. The one and only.". He stood up, unsteadily, and walked 
over to the wall, where the framed front plate of a two year old edition of 
the Daily Daily hung from the wall, framed. "'My Date With Mediocre Man, by 
Mediocre Man’s Girlfriend,'" he read, his voice slightly slurred. He turned 
to Lotus 23 and laughed. "I'd forgotten about that.".

His words cut through her, and her vision blurred. "The newspapers called me 
that for a while.".

He snorted and drained his bottle in a single gulp. "Yeah.". He looked at 
her. “You’d fuck me, wouldn’t you?”. She nodded, quickly. "Yeah.". He held 
up the empty bottle and sighed. "This shit makes me impotent. You need to 
find someone who doesn’t drink.".

"I want...you.". Her heart was hammering in her chest.

He looked at her again, a strange expression in his eyes. "Do you.". He 
pressed the stud on his flying belt, rising up slowly and turning towards 
the open window, bumping his head on the ceiling before propelling himself 
outside, knocking a flowerpot off the balcony as he flew off into the night.

Suddenly alone, Lotus 23 sad down in a chair and smiled. He was impotent. He 
was drunk. He had knocked her precious potted geranium, literally worth a 
year’s salary, down to the street below. Imperfect. Totally, totally 
imperfect. Awash with her own personal version of the vat Lotus masochism, 
Lotus 23 closed her eyes and smiled.

[5]

Crunk 59 landed on the roof of his building and sat down on the edge of an 
exhaust vent. His own natural perfection was detoxifying his blood of 
alcohol, as it always did the instant he stopped drinking. He sighed and 
took off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "That 
bitch," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "That cold-hearted bitch.".

Above him, the perfect moon rose over the perfect city. Its light spread out 
over everything.
---

New comic this week. Check it out or else.


The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
On the cutting edge of perfection's flaws.
Guaranteed.

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Hi, y'all. Remember how we said that we'd be going bi-weekly for a while? 
Well, we always honour our word, so there'll be no comic this week. To make 
you feel better, we're sending you the lyrics to Sgt. Barry Sadler's 1966 
hit, 'Ballad of the Green Beret'. It seems only fitting, in this patriotic 
climate, to sing a song celebrating the Vietnam war. Just ask that 
'Politically Incorrect' guy.

---
Ballad of the Green Berets
==========================

Fighting soldiers from the sky,
Fearless men who jump and die.
Men who mean just what they say,
The brave men of The Green Beret.
Silver wings upon their chests,
These are men, America's best,
One hundred men we'll test today,
But only three win The Green Beret.

Trained to live off nature's land,
Trained in combat, hand to hand.
Men who fight by night and day,
Courage take from The Green Beret.

Silver wings upon their chests,
These are men, America's best,
One hundred men we'll test today,
But only three win The Green Beret.

Back at home a young wife waits,
Her Green Beret has met his fate.
He has died for those oppressed.
Leaving her this last request.
Put silver wings on my son's chest,
Make him one of America's best,
He'll be a man they'll test one day,
Have him win The Green Beret.
---

Maybe someone will write a song about Taliban widows or something. New comic 
next week. It may well be America's best.


The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
Men who mean just what they say...even if all they say is 'Fuck you!'.
Guaranteed.

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 Hi. As you may have noticed, the strip promised last week did not
actually appear. The reasons for this are obvious, and it may be of some
interest for you to know that I was actually putting the finishing
touches on the short story which was supposed to run in this space when
I heard about what happened. Jack e-mailed me, not soon after, wondering
if maybe now was not the time to update the page. I agreed with him
fully.

 We're living in a scary time, my friends, and not for the reason most
people believe. In a MSN Messenger conversation I had with my
stepfather, I listened to him express his feeling that the world was now
a less 'innocent' place, and that's a sentiment I've heard echoed.  I
think many people share his view. I do not. The world is no more or less
innocent than it was last week or last year or ever. Terrorism and
violence are a fact of life for people the world over, and I think North
America's exclusion from that could charitably be called willful naivete
rather than innocence. Arbitrary, horrific atrocities happen all over.
You could say that it's now just America's turn. 

 It's strange, being as far removed as I am from what's happening,
living as I do in Asia and relying on a single English-language TV
channel for news from home. Since Tuesday, that television channel has
been relaying 24 hour, stateside coverage from American TV, skipping
back and forth from the relatively responsible axis of the major
networks and CNN to the appalling yellow journalism of Fox News. I've
been watching as much of it as I can. During the first few days, I was
moved by the images of people leaping from the burning towers, by the
tearful faces of people searching for loved ones and the images of two
colossal buildings crashing down. I was there, in a sense. I think
everyone was. It took until the end of the week before people seemed to
accept what happened and start to decide what to do next... and I have
to say, that was when I started to get well and truly afraid.

 Take a deep breath, clear your head, and look, really *look* at the
current media coverage of the disaster and its aftermath. It isn't news
anymore, is it? There's no objectivity, nor any distance. There's no
rationality. There isn't even a hawkish discussion of how to maximize
the effectiveness and practicality of any retaliation that America might
take. There's just propaganda. Obvious, vicious, clumsily effective
propaganda. On NBC, I saw a former Nixon advisor talk about how, if Bush
is going to reverse the decree banning overt assassination as a tool of
foreign policy, he'd better do it now before the momentum is lost. The
journalist nodded his agreement. On PBS, I saw a journalist ask Colin
Powell why anyone would attack America, attack 'the good guys'. Powell
said that terrorists hated America because America is free. On CBS, I
saw Newt Gingrich talk about his efforts at creating a 'domestic
security agency' (which, some would say, is just a euphemism for 'secret
police') which would combine FEMA, the INS, and elements of the FBI. He
said that nobody had taken his efforts seriously before, but that they
would now. I believed him. On Fox News, I saw an anchorman mangle the
names of arrested terrorist suspects, then add 'I'm probably saying
their names wrong... but I don't care.' I saw all this, and on all the
channels, all the networks, I saw little video montages beginning with
images of the attack, ominous music, images of Palestinians celebrating
and burning American flags. Sudden cut to stirring, patriotic music,
George W. Bush talking in steely but ultimately abstract terms about
'punishing good and evil,' and crowds of people chanting 'USA! USA!
USA!' Leni Riefenstahl could not have done better herself.

 I saw all these things, but nowhere did I see any informed discussion
of why so many people hate America so much. Terrorism is never
justified, and what happened in New York is truly an atrocity, but to
imagine that America did not throw fuel on the fire of international
terrorism on many occasions is, again, not innocent. It is frighteningly
naive. America did not 'get what it deserved,' because no civilian
population could possibly deserve this. Make no mistake, though: America
has done bad things. Sometimes out of malice. Sometime out of
cluelessness. Sometimes out of the uniquely American desire to solve
problems without actually understanding what those problems are with any
kind of depth. Sometimes for good reasons and sometimes for bad... but
America *has* done terrible things. There are people, groups, perhaps
entire cultures with legitimate grievances against American foreign
policy. Only a small lunatic fringe feel compelled to redress those
grievances by violence, but for America to sit there, wondering 'How
could anyone hate us so much when we're the good guys?' is dangerous to
everyone. Especially if the answer America gives itself is as reductive
and false as 'They hate us because we are free.'

 Does this mean that America should not strike back? Probably not. The
desire to do so is natural and perfectly understandable. My concern is
that America will strike back without asking itself hard questions and
without even trying to understand in any real way why this has happened
at all. I'm afraid that America will strike the wrong target with
annihilating force, decimating countless innocent people without even
really managing to hurt its targets... no matter even if they manage to
get at convenient bad guys like Osama bin Laden or not. I'm afraid that
America will further radicalize even moderate Arabs, and open the door
for an endless series of attacks on America and the entire western
world. I'm afraid that this week's horror will push America to the
Right, unleashing the fascism, militarism, and zealotry that's always
been latent in the American psyche, usually kept in check by the good
American qualities of anti-authoritarianism. I'm afraid that America and
the Arab world will end up locked in a self-perpetuating cycle of hatred
and violence that will go on and on and on... and all the while, allow
the people who would do things like pilot airplanes into the World Trade
Centre to sit back and congratulate each other on a job well done. 

 This is a scary time to be alive. I am worried. You should be worried
too.

 This week's Parking Lot is Full comic was written and drawn before we
all started down this path. It'll be a while before Jack and myself can
start reacting artistically to the events which are to come, and when we
do, we'll probably alienate a good number of you. I hope that we won't,
but that may end up happening. On the other hand, it's occurred to me
that our comic has always been, in a sense, an attack on western
culture. Will there be any place for us in a world in which others have
attacked that culture in ways much more drastic than anything Jack or
myself could even imagine? Only time will tell.  Judging by the social
climate that seems to be developing, satire may become a dangerous
business again, especially for the satirists. Even for bad satirists,
which we may well be.

 This week's comic has nothing to do with any of these concerns, nor
will next week's. I'm not sure how long that will last. Enjoy it while
you can.


pat
http://www.plif.com/

 

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.
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?Operation Infinite Justice?? ?Operation Enduring Freedom?? Who?s naming 
these things, some four-star general?s ten year old son?

Bittersweet like the taste of revenge, freezing your assets as it makes 
plans to drop flesh-shredding radioactive razorbombs on your poor, 
backwards, innocent slave population, punishing you for your use of its own 
training and arms against its interests rather than for them, conveniently 
unable to remember those long-ago days when the two of you were best buddies 
and it let you fuck its wife (or husband, depending) in the back seat of its 
car, totally convinced that indiscriminately killing your people is morally 
better than you indiscriminately killing theirs, trying to drown its 
legitimate sense of sorrow and vulnerability in ridiculous displays of 
patriotic dementia, it?s the flag-waving, crotch-grabbing, overcompensating 
nation of one, saluting its own flag while licking its cracked lips with a 
forked tongue and proclaiming that this is the first year of the perpetual 
millennium of the one, the only, The Parking Lot is Full!

We ask ourselves questions. God only knows why.

---
Stained Glass Above Us, Stained Glass Below
===========================================

When the veils will part and He will return, those of you who will survive 
the first wave of annihilation will ask yourselves and each other, ?Why??. 
Why is this happening. Why can?t we stop it. Why didn?t anyone warn us about 
this. Why. I understand your need for questions, but I want you to know that 
there are no answers for you, not here or anywhere else, and certainly not 
with me. I want you to know your questions seem to me like glass, clear and 
readily shattered. I want you to know that they will shatter. I want you to 
know they are shattering already.

I used to have questions too, when I was named ?Craig? and walked, like you, 
with my inner eyes closed and with a smile on my face. ?Craig? would 
probably wonder, why did He look at me and take all my questions away? I was 
34 years old. I was married. I was an electrical engineer and so much of my 
life mattered to me. Why me? I now know that questions are based on a false 
assumption, and are not even as real as the chemical impulses of memory. I 
know what I remember. I remember how His eye opened. I remember how he 
looked down through the clouds and noticed me. I remember the feeling of His 
infinite, alien stare as I felt everything being stripped away and cut down 
deep down inside. I was torn apart to my essence and put under that gaze, 
and I realized I had no essence. There was nothing inside. No me. No soul. 
No questions. I was smaller than an insect. I was a microbe. He studied me 
and then lost interest and looked away and the world dropped back into place 
along with the colours and the smells and the sound of people talking. I 
remember standing there, my insides twisting and my brain vibrating and the 
people all around me not even noticing that anything had happened. I 
realized that I had been, briefly, chosen and then discarded forever. This 
brought me relief, because I was safe, but it also brought something else. 
Weeping or screaming may have been an appropriate reaction, but somehow the 
necessity for any kind of emotion was not there. Nothing was there, except 
the slowly subsiding feeling of being horrifically revolted by the feeling 
of my own skin. I knew then that I was too insignificant to be of any 
interest to the only power that mattered. I now knew He existed and had 
rejected me, that was a rejection that made me wish I had a gun to blow my 
brains out onto the meaningless faces of the people I loved. A single moment 
can change a person?s life. A single moment destroyed mine.

I know what you?re thinking: the person named ?Craig? went insane and though 
he saw God. You think that this explains everything. You are wrong. For one 
thing, the word ?insane? cannot begin to describe the feeling of realizing 
that you neither exist nor matter. ?Craig? was so traumatized he just woke 
up from the dream of himself. He transcended sanity. He let go. Secondly, I 
didn?t see what I suppose you could call ?God?. God saw me. The difference 
between the two is extremely important.

Being seen allowed me to see truths than destroyed the truth. Why do we die? 
I saw that we die because we believe we deserve to live. Why is there 
suffering? I saw that we suffer because we can. Why do we love? I saw that 
love is the insect way of pretending that we exist as individuals while 
denying that we exist as individuals. I saw that I loved my wife, and I saw 
that it didn?t matter. I literally saw these things, every day, in everyone, 
and I felt a calmness which engulfed me like the sweetest ice imaginable. I 
had achieved Enlightenment, and there was no Enlightenment. Not even the 
numbness was real.

I saw these things, and I saw His fingerprints everywhere, massive blacklit 
whorls miles and miles across. I saw that he was touching us all the way a 
blind man fumbles in the dark for the door, and I was that contact with our 
hollowness hard burned him on contact. This seemed incorrect to me. This 
seemed ungrateful. I saw the need inherent in everything with the clarity of 
blood on freshly fallen snow.  It wasn?t long before I met others who 
understood this one true need of the world. We were drawn to each other. 
Their eyes were the same as mine, and I saw myself in them. We never spoke, 
and we never touched, and  we never even met. We would just pass each other 
on the street and nod, each knowing that the other understood. There were 
times when I would open my hotel door and find a book on the doorstep, musty 
pages written in a strange language I knew I could understand. I read those 
books, and they contained absolutely nothing. At times, it felt as though 
each line I read consumed more and more of the little pieces of ?Craig? that 
were left, and each time I closed one of the books, I was a little emptier 
and a little more ready to do what must be done. Once, my wife somehow 
managed to track me down, and I remember standing at the door, looking at 
her, wondering who she was. Then I smelled her perfume, remembered I had 
bought her that perfume for her birthday, and I remembered that I had loved 
her. I closed the door and turned on the television as her muffled voice 
called to me, and I turned up the volume as she started crying. I remembered 
the eye, looking at me. I suddenly wished it would look at her too. I knew 
she didn?t exist, but I wanted her to see what I had seen just the same.

There is no escape from this, except for one. We all know it, we who have 
seen things revealed. If He really is a ?God,? then He is a God whose 
strange and incomprehensible emotions are incompatible with the world He 
created. He is not a jealous God, nor is he an angry God. He is a confused 
God. He sits out in the outer cold and wants to be let back in by the 
strange little nothings he vainly tries to understand. Letting him in will 
take many of us working together in unison, and letting him in will mean 
death and destruction on a scale which is not truly explained by saying that 
He will totally shatter the world with his monumental incomprehension. No 
human words can do justice to what is about to come. Language will break 
like bones, and our bones, the bones of my enlightened brothers and sisters, 
will be the first to splinter and snap. We will die first, en masse, and you 
will all follow soon after. ?Craig? would have thought this to be sad or 
regrettable, both your deaths and ours, but ?Craig? never really existed, 
and neither do any of you. Only He exists, because He is existence. This is 
not fanaticism. This is simply the way things are.

I want you to know I don?t hate you. I want you to know that I wish the lies 
you believe about your goodness and reasons to exist were true. I wish I 
could say that you matter...but I am forced to say that you don?t. In the 
first few hours, before the total negation of all that appears to ?be,? you 
may feel like your world is ending. I just want you to know that it never 
even began.
---

This week?s Parking Lot is Full, dubbed ?Operation Unyielding Mockery,? has 
very little to do with anything that?s going on in the news. Or maybe it has 
everything to do with what?s going in the news. As always, we have a hard 
time telling right from wrong. Chances are that we?re not the only ones.

The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
Changing the world, one innocent civilian at a time.
Guaranteed.



_________________________________________________________________
Get your FREE download of MSN Explorer at http://explorer.msn.com/intl.asp


 

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.
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[Whoops. Looks like I fucked up the formatting of the last update message. 
To appease my relentless perfectionism -- ha! -- and because I've *already* 
received one piece of hate-mail about this week's content, I'm going to post 
the corrected version. Feel free to tell me you hate me.]


'Operation Infinite Justice'? 'Operation Enduring Freedom'? Who's naming 
these things, some four-star general's ten year old son?

Bittersweet like the taste of revenge, freezing your assets as it makes 
plans to drop flesh-shredding radioactive razorbombs on your poor, 
backwards, innocent slave population, punishing you for your use of its own 
training and arms against its interests rather than for them, conveniently 
unable to remember those long-ago days when the two of you were best buddies 
and it let you fuck its wife (or husband, depending) in the back seat of its 
car, totally convinced that indiscriminately killing your people is morally 
better than you indiscriminately killing theirs, trying to drown its 
legitimate sense of sorrow and vulnerability in ridiculous displays of 
patriotic dementia, it’s the flag-waving, crotch-grabbing, overcompensating 
nation of one, saluting its own flag while licking its cracked lips with a 
forked tongue and proclaiming that this is the first year of the perpetual 
millennium of the one, the only, The Parking Lot is Full!

We ask ourselves questions. God only knows why.

---
Stained Glass Above Us, Stained Glass Below
===========================================

When the veils will part and He will return, those of you who will survive 
the first wave of annihilation will ask yourselves and each other, 'Why?'. 
Why is this happening. Why can't we stop it. Why didn't anyone warn us about 
this. Why. I understand your need for questions, but I want you to know that 
there are no answers for you, not here or anywhere else, and certainly not 
with me. I want you to know your questions seem to me like glass, clear and 
readily shattered. I want you to know that they will shatter. I want you to 
know they are shattering already.

I used to have questions too, when I was named 'Craig' and walked, like you, 
with my inner eyes closed and with a smile on my face. 'Craig' would 
probably wonder, why did He look at me and take all my questions away? I was 
34 years old. I was married. I was an electrical engineer and so much of my 
life mattered to me. Why me? I now know that questions are based on a false 
assumption, and are not even as real as the chemical impulses of memory. I 
know what I remember. I remember how His eye opened. I remember how He 
looked down through the clouds and noticed me. I remember the feeling of His 
infinite, alien stare as I felt everything being stripped away and cut down 
deep down inside. I was torn apart to my essence and put under that gaze, 
and I realized I had no essence. There was nothing inside. No me. No soul. 
No questions. I was smaller than an insect. I was a microbe. He studied me 
and then lost interest and looked away and the world dropped back into place 
along with the colours and the smells and the sound of people talking. I 
remember standing there, my insides twisting and my brain vibrating and the 
people all around me not even noticing that anything had happened. I 
realized that I had been, briefly, chosen and then discarded forever. This 
brought me relief, because I was safe, but it also brought something else. 
Weeping or screaming may have been an appropriate reaction, but somehow the 
necessity for any kind of emotion was not there. Nothing was there, except 
the slowly subsiding feeling of being horrifically revolted by the feeling 
of my own skin. I knew then that I was too insignificant to be of any 
interest to the only power that mattered. I now knew He existed and had 
rejected me, that was a rejection that made me wish I had a gun to blow my 
brains out onto the meaningless faces of the people I loved. A single moment 
can change a person's life. A single moment destroyed mine.

I know what you're thinking: the person named 'Craig' went insane and though 
he saw God. You think that this explains everything. You are wrong. For one 
thing, the word 'insane' cannot begin to describe the feeling of realizing 
that you neither exist nor matter. 'Craig' was so traumatized he just woke 
up from the dream of himself. He transcended sanity. He let go. Secondly, I 
didn’t see what I suppose you could call 'God'. God saw me. The difference 
between the two is extremely important.

Being seen allowed me to see truths than destroyed the truth. Why do we die? 
I saw that we die because we believe we deserve to live. Why is there 
suffering? I saw that we suffer because we can. Why do we love? I saw that 
love is the insect way of pretending that we exist as individuals while 
denying that we exist as individuals. I saw that I loved my wife, and I saw 
that it didn’t matter. I literally saw these things, every day, in everyone, 
and I felt a calmness which engulfed me like the sweetest ice imaginable. I 
had achieved Enlightenment, and there was no Enlightenment. Not even the 
numbness was real.

I saw these things, and I saw His fingerprints everywhere, massive blacklit 
whorls miles and miles across. I saw that he was touching us all the way a 
blind man fumbles in the dark for the door, and it was that contact with our 
hollowness that burned him each time. This seemed incorrect to me. This 
seemed ungrateful. I saw the need inherent in everything with the clarity of 
blood on freshly fallen snow.

It wasn’t long before I met others who understood this one true need of the 
world. We were drawn to each other. Their eyes were the same as mine, and I 
saw myself in them. We never spoke, and we never touched, and  we never even 
met. We would just pass each other on the street and nod, each knowing that 
the other understood. There were times when I would open my hotel door and 
find a book on the doorstep, musty pages written in a strange language I 
knew I could understand. I read those books, and they contained absolutely 
nothing. At times, it felt as though each line I read consumed more and more 
of the little pieces of 'Craig' that were left, and each time I closed one 
of the books, I was a little emptier and a little more ready to do what must 
be done. Once, my wife somehow managed to track me down, and I remember 
standing at the door, looking at her, wondering who she was. Then I smelled 
her perfume, remembered I had bought her that perfume for her birthday, and 
I remembered that I had loved her. I closed the door and turned on the 
television as her muffled voice called to me, and I turned up the volume as 
she started crying. I remembered the eye, looking at me. I suddenly wished 
it would look at her too. I knew she didn't exist, but I wanted her to see 
what I had seen just the same.

There is no escape from this, except for one. We all know it, we who have 
seen things revealed. If He really is a 'God,' then He is a God whose 
strange and incomprehensible emotions are incompatible with the world He 
created. He is not a jealous God, nor is he an angry God. He is a confused 
God. He sits out in the outer cold and wants to be let back in by the 
strange little nothings he vainly tries to understand. Letting him in will 
take many of us working together in unison, and letting him in will mean 
death and destruction on a scale which is not truly explained by saying that 
He will totally shatter the world with his monumental incomprehension. No 
human words can do justice to what is about to come. Language will break 
like bones, and our bones, the bones of my enlightened brothers and sisters, 
will be the first to splinter and snap. We will die first, en masse, and you 
will all follow soon after. 'Craig' would have thought this to be sad or 
regrettable, both your deaths and ours, but 'Craig' never really existed, 
and neither do any of you. Only He exists, because He is existence. This is 
not fanaticism. This is simply the way things are.

I want you to know I don't hate you. I want you to know that I wish the lies 
you believe about your goodness and reasons to exist were true. I wish I 
could say that you matter...but I am forced to say that you don't. In the 
first few hours, before the total negation of all that appears to 'be,' you 
may feel like your world is ending. I just want you to know that it never 
even began.
---

This week’s Parking Lot is Full, dubbed 'Operation Unyielding Mockery,' has 
very little to do with anything that's going on in the news. Or maybe it has 
everything to do with what's going in the news. As always, we have a hard 
time telling right from wrong. Chances are that we're not the only ones.

The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
Changing the world, one innocent civilian at a time.
Guaranteed.


_________________________________________________________________
Get your FREE download of MSN Explorer at http://explorer.msn.com/intl.asp


 

Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ 


.
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This is the mailing list for The Parking Lot is Full, 
the comic strip your mother warned you about.  If you
have been added to our list in error, please accept
our apologies and let us know at admin@plif.com.  We'll
remove you from the list immediately.
Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/ 

 


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Hello,

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"Back so soon? I thought you'd had your fill the last time I hit you on the 
head with a shovel. Oh, well. It is your twenty bucks, after all. Let's get 
to work".

Like some sadomasochistic love slave you briefly dated in highschool and 
then promptly forget even existed, representing yet another warm body in the 
long line of warm bodies you loved, beat and then threw away, now turning 
tricks in Little Rock’s infamous 'Meat Street' green light district, 
thinking wistfully of you whenever it shoves its rubber-gloved hands 
elbow-deep into the rectum of a visiting German tourist named 'Hans,' it’s 
the long-forgotten, unlamented, sadly deteriorating whisper from the past of 
the one, the only, The Parking Lot is Full!

Here’s part two of our cheerful little story. You can refresh your memory 
concerning part one at:
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/plif/message/207

---
9: (Two)
=======

Day 1

The robot arrived in a packing crate vaguely the same size and shape as a 
coffin, the box made of planks with the words 'Chan Electrosystems' 
stencilled across the front of them in black paint. Lorna Carter stood back 
and watched the deliveryman ease the obviously heavy crate down from the 
dolly and begin prying it open a crowbars. As the first of the boards came 
off, a shower of little 'S'-shaped styrofoam squiggles fell out, scattering 
across the linoleum floor of Lorna’s apartment. Behind her, Lorna's 
boyfriend watched, his arms crossed and a strange expression on his face.

"You’re sure this’ll be safe?" he asked for the third time, his husky voice 
thin and worried. Lorna had heard that tone of voice before.

"Of course it’s safe, Dennis. Why wouldn’t it be? Honestly, I don’t think 
I’ve ever met anyone who is as much of a technophobe as you are.". She 
turned her head partially toward him. "That means you’re scared of 
machines.".

"Fuck you.". His tone was full of feigned hurt, as it always was when she 
teased him. "I still don’t get why you agreed to take this thing here into 
our apartment.".

"MY apartment.".

"Yeah," he corrected himself, quickly, "your apartment. That faggot you work 
for can’t expect you to test something like this fucking *thing*. What if it 
goes berserk? You told me about what these things are capable of.".

"Coburn didn't ask me to do this. I volunteered.". She didn’t have to turn 
around to see the expression on Dennis' face. "To tell you the truth, I want 
it in my house. I'm curious. I have a feeling these robots are going to 
change our way of life once they're released commercially, and who wouldn’t 
want to see the future? Besides, I think it could have...other uses.".

The delivery man, trying to ignore the conversation, finished unpacking the 
robot and handed Lorna a piece of paper attached to a clipboard, which she 
signed and gave back. "The remote's in the box," he said, handing her a copy 
of the receipt. "The service number is on the receipt.".

"Thank you...". She looked at his name tag. "Carl.". He nodded and then 
left, closing the door behind him. Dennis, who had clearly been wanting to 
say something, spoke the moment the door clammed shut.

"You promised me, Lorna. No sex. Don’t joke about this. You promised.".

Lorna looked at him, a little sadly. She wondered why she had kicked him 
out. She wondered why she had continued their friendship and certain other 
things. She wondered which of the two decisions had been the stupider one.

"I know, Dennis. I promised.".

The two of them took a step closer to the box, and Lorna reached in and 
fished for the remote, retrieving it and bringing it up to her face to look 
at its buttons. She vaguely wondered where her reading glasses were as she 
pressed several buttons in rapid succession. From inside the box, something 
stirred. Another button. A soft, fleshy mannequin with blond hair and the 
clear blue eyes of a child stepped out, its blue coveralls rustling as it 
walked several paces and then stopped. Its hands rested at its side, and an 
absolutely neutral expression was on its face. Lorna thought that it looked 
pretty good, for a robot. Behind her, Dennis clucked.

"Why'd you have to ask for a male?" he said, sounding exasperated.


Day 10

Lorna closed the apartment door behind her, kicking off her shoes and 
waiting for Coburn (the name she had chosen for the thing in a moment of 
spiteful whimsey) to scurry in and pick them up as she knew he would. The 
absolute zeal with which he came in, gathered the shoes up, and then placed 
them neatly on the rubber mat amused her despite herself, and she had to 
repress the urge to kick them off the mat and onto the floor again as soon 
as he did tidied them up. She had actually tried doing that several days 
before, kicking them off and watching Coburn pick them up before kicking 
them off again. She had done it for nearly fifteen minutes, and the robot's 
enthusiasm, the robot's *desperation* to tidy things up again and again, had 
never once flagged. When she had finally gotten bored and stopped, she had 
done so with a lingering feeling of guilt and a sick feeling in her stomach. 
There just seemed something wrong with tormenting something so human-looking 
and yet so untormentable.

She walked to the living room and collapsed on the couch, eyeing the robot 
as it came in. "Start dinner," she said. "Something Thai. Stir fry. It 
doesn’t matter what. Surprise me.". Coburn, mute as all its fellow 
prototypes were, nodded several times, looking convincingly pleased, the 
illusion even reaching its eyes. As the robot went into the kitchen, Lorna 
turned on the TV, idly switching to the 'Femerotica' channel, just in time 
to see a soft-focus love scene between a black man and a white woman, the 
sequence playing out in a slow-motion montage of candlelight and kissing and 
blissful, rapturous facial expressions the likes of which only a total 
virgin could possibly associate with sex. She hated 'Femerotica'. Watching 
it was like being twelve years old again, all secret lust and furtive 
fingers clouded by a fog of makebelieve imaginary romance.

Glancing at the pile of discs on the shelf above the television, she 
remembered that Dennis had left all of his porn, and she suddenly had an 
appetite for the sweaty, grunting, fluid-drenched maleness of a porno. No. 
What I need, she realized, is to get laid. By Dennis? The thought depressed 
her, which was a surprise. Vibrator? That appealed even less. Then there 
was...

"Coburn!". The robot peered around the corner from the kitchen, looking 
eager to please. Get me off, she thought, then shook her head to herself. 
She hated breaking promised to Dennis, no matter how stupid she felt for 
feeling that way. "Never mind," she said with a sigh. "Go back to making 
dinner.".

The robot nodded, every bit as happy to be cook as it had been to stop. 
Lorna turned her attention back to the screen, and to the sterile, 
pastel-coloured screwing taking place before her there.


Day 11

"Oh GOD!" she wailed, clutching the robot's blond head as its wonderfully 
life-like tongue ran up and down her clitoris. "Don’t...fucking...stop...".


Day 20

"What is it?" she panted, feeling Dennis stop fucking her raise himself up 
on his arms. "Why are you stopping?".

"That...thing.".

She looked over and saw the unmistakable silhouette of Coburn standing 
motionless at the door. "Never mind about him.". She started clenching and 
unclenching her muscles to get Dennis’ attention. "He’s just furniture.".

Dennis grunted and looked back down at her, the moonlight reflecting in his 
eyes. "I told you it creeps me out, Lorna. I don’t like it watching us.".

Lorna sighed. "Coburn! Go to the kitchen!". The robot silently turned around 
and walked off. "Better?".

Dennis grunted and resumed his thrusts, but with less enthusiasm than before 
until finally he rolled off her and lay down on the bed. "I’m sorry. I 
can't.".

"Dennis!" she said, a little shrilly than she meant to. Shit, she thought, 
not having to see him flinch to know that he had. He was so fragile 
sometimes. She slid over to him and kissed him on the forehead, wrapping her 
right arm and leg around him. "Is everything okay?".

He was silent for a moment, and she knew what that meant. He was gathering 
himself to say something to her that must have been on his mind for some 
time. She felt a sudden surge of affection for him, for his awkwardness and 
sensitivity. She also felt disgust with both of them, for grotesque parody 
of a relationship that both of them were in.

"Remember what we talked about before you agreed to take in the robot?".

"You know I do.".

"I know this is stupid, but I can't stop...you know...thinking...".

She rolled away from him, fury boiling up inside her. "For fuck’s sake, 
Dennis! Don't tell me you're jealous of a *machine*!".

He looked at her with those little-boy eyes she used to love. She wanted to 
gouge them out with a pencil. "I know it's crazy, honey, but I can’t stop 
thinking about. You’ve been kind of distant since taking that thing in.".

She sat up, glaring at him. "Distant? Distant? You fucking prick! We're not 
dating anymore, you get it? Not. Fucking. Dating! I don't even know why I 
let you in here anymore. I don't even know why you fucking come.".

Instantly, she knew she had said to much. It sounded like the truth. She 
could feel herself start to relent, she could feel the apology bubbling up 
to her lips, but she ground her teeth and rode the wave of anger because she 
knew there was nothing else to do. "I want you out of here, Dennis. Now. 
This is wrong and I should of ended it when I threw you out because I know 
you can't stop coming here. You're as fucked up as I am and we could go on 
like this for years if nothing stops us. I’m sick of this and I want it to 
stop. Don't call me. Don't come here. Give me back my keys and don't even 
talk to me again because I'm sick of it and I don't fucking want to take it 
anymore!".

She stopped, panting. The two of them looked at each other, unable to say 
anything. Dennis finally looked away, got out of bed, gathered up his 
clothes and walked out the door into the hall, leaving Lorna blinking and 
numb and unable to believe that she had finally managed to do it. Finally, 
it was over.


Day 21

Dennis slept next to her, and she was sitting up in bed, smoking a 
cigarette. A strange impulse came over her to grind the lit cigarette into 
his bare back. She shook her head to clear it, put out the cigarette, turned 
off the lamp on the night table and lay down to sleep.


Day 25

As she heard the key in the door, Lorna was down on the carpet on all fours. 
Coburn giving it to her (that was the correct expression, she reflected in 
that awful second of clarity, the machine was *giving* it to her) . She was 
loving it. He was fucking her with a steely desperation she never would have 
expected or enjoyed from a human partner. She barely had time to disengage 
herself before Dennis was there, the look on his face tearing a  hole 
through her and making her want to cover her own face herself with her 
hands.

"I fucking KNEW it!" he shouted, and then he turned to look at the naked 
machine with the glistening erection stand up and start walking towards 
Lorna with an expression of total need and hunger on its face. "Son of a 
BITCH!".

He strode over to the machine and gave it a shove, knocking it over. It 
fell, face down, without attempting to use its hands to break the fall. It 
fell like a statue and then tried to get up, its expression becoming 
desperate as is struggled to reach Lorna. Dennis kicked it in the stomach, 
hard, and it fell again, crawling towards her. Literally white with rage, he 
picked up a chair and began smashing it across the back of the machine, 
creating little tears in the synthetic skin from which a dark blue liquid 
began to pool. Still the thing crawled towards Lorna, more determined with 
each strike. The chair cracked and shattered against the side of the thing's 
head, leaving a dent. The blue liquid began running out of its ear. Unable 
to move, unable to control its twitching body, still the thing tried to 
reach its mistress. Dennis brought his foot down on its head once and once 
again, and finally the movement stopped. Panting, sweating, spent, he 
dropped the broken chair and looked at Lorna, who was huddled against the 
wall. The two looked at each other, the silence a wall between them.

Finally, without a word, he turned around and walked back out the door, 
slamming it shut behind him.


Day 26

Lorna sat by the telephone, her legs folded up against her chest, her arms 
wrapped around her legs. She looked across the room at the silent, broken 
body, the blue stain in the carpet on which it lay, the broken pieces of 
chair all around. She picked up the receiver and tried calling Dennis’ 
number again, not expecting to receive anything other than a busy signal. 
When she heard his voice say "Hello?", she almost didn't know what to say.

"Lorna?".

"Dennis.".

Silence. "What do you want?".

She closed her eyes. She could hear his breathing on the other end.

"Look," he said finally, "maybe I...overreacted. I've thought about what you 
said the other day, and I think you're right. We're not a couple any more. 
It's stupid of me to be jealous of you, especially jealous of a machine.".

She waited, not daring to say anything.

"Look," said the voice on the other end. "Maybe I could come over. To talk. 
Just to talk. To figure this whole thing out. Maybe we could start over. 
Maybe that's what we need. I -".

She hung up the phone, gently, slowly, then exhaled deeply. "Fuck you," she 
said, staring up at the ceiling. "Fuck you.".

Sensing that she was finished with the plate of half-eaten food on the 
floor, a little cleaning robot, one of dozens automatically reactivated all 
around the house when the Emototech robot had gone offline, scurried across 
the floor and made off with the dish. Lorna watched it go. She brought up 
some phlegm from her lungs and spat on the floor. Another little robot came 
out to clean it.

She looked down at the receiver, which was still in her hand. She dialled a 
number and brought the receiver up to her face.

"Hello, Larry? Lorna. Yeah. I called in sick. Listen, could you send 
somebody to fix my Chan robot? It had a little accident.".


Day 27

The telephone rang, but she made no move to answer it, knowing it was 
probably someone from work again, wondering where she was. In the gloom of 
the apartment, against the drawn blinds, Coburn stood, naked, surrounded by 
moulding dishes. She had turned off his cleaning routines. She had turned 
off all his routines, except for the sex routines, both the routines he had 
wired into his brain and the new ones she had been developing. Lying on the 
floor, she ran her hand across her thigh, feeling the cigarette burns along 
it. She dimly wondered if they hurt.

"Come here," she said, watching him walk over to her, looking as eager and 
desperate to please as he always did. Even his eyes. She knew those eyes. 
She knew how dead they really were. "You know what I want," she said. "You 
know what I need today.".

Coburn nodded, a plastic smile spreading across his face. He reached down, 
grasped his penis, aimed it at her, and started to urinate. The liquid 
(amazing how much it looked and smelled like the real thing) struck her face 
and dribbled down her cheeks. Lorna, her eyes closed, tried to imagine that 
someone else was pissing on her, but could not do it. All she saw was the 
face of her robot, looking down at her. The face looked pleased. She knew 
that expression well.
---

More next week.

THIS week, we have another new comic, as well as update of our PLIF Store. 
Books...movies...PLIF merchandise. What more could you possibly want? What 
more could *anyone* possibly want?


The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
Selling its soul for taco gold!
Guaranteed.


_________________________________________________________________
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This week's PLIF Update was wrongly titled 'Update Jan. 20, 2001'. 
Obviously, today is the 30th, not the 20th.
Obviously.

http://www.plif.com/



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"Sure, I fuck goats. Does that necessarily make me a bad parent?".

Summoned to the people's court to defend the right to raise its own 
offspring, arriving flanked by men in leather masks and codpieces, dressed 

to kill in a vinyl catsuit with spikes on its body and a dog collar around 
its neck, swearing on a stack of Bibles that its regular use of corrective 
disciple never ever crossed the line into 'abuse' no matter how many 
force-feedings of chocolate-flavoured laxative were involved, pleading for 
sympathy and understanding in regards to its valiant attempts at raising a 
child in a world gone mad, it's the breeding, omnivorous, endlessly hungry 
eater of fragile little souls responsible for shaping you from birth into a 
willing and appropriate receptacle for the one, the only, The Parking Lot is 
Full!

Here’s more story. See where it all began at
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/plif/message/207

---
9: (Three)
==========

As they led him by the hand through the front door of the shopping mall, 
Bobby wondered who they all the people inside were, and he wondered where 
they were all going to. His Dad tightened the grip on his hand, and they all 
walked faster, Bobby's legs moving at a near run just to keep up. All around 
him, tall people in a hurry jostled with each other, and between some of 
them, Bobby caught a glimpse of the video game store. He smiled and tried to 
change direction, sure his parents would follow his lead the way they always 
did. Instead, his father jerked him back, almost knocking him over. "We 
don't have time for that now, Bobby," he said, not slowing down. "You'll 
have time to look at video games later.".

He looked up at his Mom to protest, but something about the look on her face 
made him want to shut up. Without saying anything, he tried to keep up with 
his Dad.

"Over there," said his father, pointing to a store which looked even more 
crowded than the other ones around it. "That's it.". He turned towards it 
and continued walking, with Bobby running to catch up.

"Slow down," said his Mom, as she pushed through the crowd behind them. 
"Dan! There's no hurry!".

His father ignored her, which didn't strike Bobby as strange in any way. His 
Dad almost always ignored her when she said something. He ignored Bobby, 
too, except when Bobby did something wrong, and on those times, it was 
better to be ignored.

Bobby looked up at the store and saw that he'd never seen the sign before. 
It said 'EMOTECH ROBOTICS,' along with a little blue neon crescent that 
looked like a half moon. Bobby liked the sign. It looked...serious. As Bobby 
felt himself pulled along, he tried to look around through all the people 
which were standing around and looking at things in the store. He caught 
sight of what looked like long glass cabinets spaced against the wall at 
regular intervals, but as to what was in the glass cases, that was 
impossible to tell. There were just too many people crowded around, looking 
inside.

"What's in there, Mom?" he said, pointing in the direction of the cases.

"Robots, honey" said his Mom, glancing down at him and smiling before 
looking up again and moving through the sea of people. Her smile made Bobby 
feel good, even though he didn’t understand what she had meant. Robots? They 
had robots at home. Little robots, like the ones who cleaned the floor or 
walked the dog. They lived in the walls, and Bobby sometimes would sit by 
their little mouse-holes, waiting for one of them to come out and do 
something so that he could watch it and maybe, if his Mom wasn't paying 
attention, try to confuse it just to see what would happen. Like the time 
he'd tied a string to a dirty, fist-sized rock he'd brought in from outside. 
As soon as the rock touched the floor, one of the little robots had zipped 
out of its hole and tried to grab it and take the rock away, which was 
exactly when Bobby pulled the string in the other direction. He'd played 
tug-of-war with the little machine for a long time before his mother noticed 
and gave him a smack on the bum. The last laugh had been his, though. As 
soon as he'd let go of the string, the robot, which was still trying to pull 
the rock from him, had gone flying backwards, rolling across the floor 
before righting itself with an angry little noise.

Craning his neck, he tried to see the robots which his Mom had told him were 
in the glass cases. He couldn't imagine what they must have looked like. The 
cases were very big. Did they hold lots of robots, or was there a big robot 
in each one? Bobby tried to imagine a big robot. He’d seen DAVIS robots on 
TV, and they looked pretty big. He wondered if the cases were full of DAVIS 
robots.

They stopped and a man in a suit came up to them and started talking to his 
Dad. "Can I help you, sir?" the man said, and his Dad said "I'm interested 
in buying a robot.".

Bobby turned to his Mom and said, "Mom, we already have lots of robots," but 
he must have said it louder than he'd wanted to, because his Dad and the man 
in the suit stopped talking and looked at him. The man smiled, and his Dad 
looked angry. "Judy..." his Dad said, and his Mom took his hand and led him 
away so his Dad and the man could talk.

When they were a little further away, his Mom ruffled his hair and said "I 
know we have robots, hon, but we're getting a new one.".

"Why?". They were walking towards the cases, and he could almost see what 
was inside.

"Well, we have the old kind of robots. We need something better.".

The two of them had finally reached the glass cabinets, and Bobby stopped 
and made a surprised noise as he saw what was inside. It was a person. A 
tall man in a t-shirt and shorts, standing in the glass box, not moving a 
muscle. The man was looking straight ahead, and his face looked like it was 
asleep except that his eyes were open but not really looking at anything. 
The man looked like a statue, maybe a statue in a wax museum, but that 
didn't make sense because this was a shopping mall. Why would there be 
statues in a mall?

"What is it, Mom?".

His mother knelt down and smiled at him. There was something strange about 
that smile "It's a robot.".

Bobby looked at her, then looked at the man in the box again. Looking 
closer, he saw that the man's elbows and knees had joints like the elbows 
and knees of an action figure. He'd never seen any robots that looked so 
lifelike, not even that time when they'd all gone to Disneyland. "Is Dad 
really going to buy one of those?".

"That's right.".

Bobby tried to digest this. "To do what, Mom?".

Something strange passed over his Mother's face. When she spoke, it sounded 
like she was pretending to be happy. "To take care of you, mostly. These 
robots are nothing like the little robots we have all over our house now. 
Just one of these new robots can cook and clean and even help you with your 
homework. They can even talk like a real person...sort of. And they never go 
anywhere. They just stay at home and wait for you. Like a...dog, I guess. 
Just like a dog. Wouldn’t that be cool?".

"We already have a dog, Mom,".

"I know, Bobby...". He looked at him and started running her hand through 
his hair. "But your Dad's going to need some extra help...".

"Mom...". Bobby felt confused. His mother's eyes were watering and looked 
like she wanted to cry, and she kept running her hand through his hair, over 
and over. He'd never seen her like this. For the first time, it occured to 
Bobby that maybe his Mom might get scared and sad too, and suddenly he felt 
sick and helpless and totally unsure what to do. He wanted to make her feel 
better, but he'd never done anything like that before, so he didn’t know 
how.

Abruptly, his Mom stood up and looked over to his Dad, who was coming 
towards them. She wiped her eyes and said "Are you done?".

His Dad nodded. "They'll deliver it to the house tomorrow. You ready to 
go?".

"Yeah.". They walked out, and Bobby, this time holding his mother's hand, 
followed them, wondering why his Dad had just bought a robot.

The three of them walked through the mall in silence, passing the food 
court. His father looked at the food court and then looked down at Bobby. 
"What do you say, Bobby. Want an ice cream?".

Bobby looked up at his father, and wondered why he hadn't noticed how hard 
his father's eyes were before. Those eyes were cold. They were like ice 
cubes. His father was like ice cubes. Bobby didn’t want an ice cream, but he 
nodded his head without saying anything, and his parents led him to a table. 
Sitting down, his parents looked at each other for a moment, then his Mom, 
still looking funny, got up and went to the ice cream place, leaving Bobby 
and his father facing each other. Bobby always felt a little uncomfortable 
around his father without his Mom around. He usually didn't know what to 
say.

"Why are we getting one of those robots, Dad?".

His father blinked and looked a little surprised. "Well, we're going to need 
a little help, the two of us. You know I'm not much of a cook...". His Dad 
stopped and looked around. "Where *is* your Mother with that damn ice 
cream?".

A terrible feeling was coming up out of Bobby stomach. "Mom can cook.".

"I know, buddy, but your Mom...". His lips came together like he'd eaten 
something sour. "Your Mom's going to be go away...for a...while.".

The feeling was inside his whole body. His arms and legs suddenly felt very, 
very heavy. He didn't want to understand what his father was saying. 
"Where's she going?".

His father sighed and looked down at his fingernails. "Away. But you'll see 
her on weekends. It won't be so bad.". He looked up at Bobby, and Bobby 
wanted to cry because of the way his Dad’s eyes looked. It looked like there 
wasn't just ice in his eyes. It looked like there was also ice in his head. 
"We'll have a good time, you and me, right? And your Mom will be okay. 
You'll see her on weekends.".

Bobby stared at his father. He realized that his father didn't look right. 
He looked like one of the robots in the glass boxes. He looked like he'd 
switch off at any moment and just stare straight ahead, waiting for someone 
to plug him in. He wanted his mother. He looked around, terrified that she 
wasn't really getting ice cream, that she'd gone and would never be coming 
back. He was just about to get up and start shouting her name when he saw 
her, coming back from the ice cream store. She was holding two ice cream 
ones. One of them was for him. It was chocolate. She always bought him 
chocolate ice cream. She handed him the ice cream and he took it, forgetting 
about the cone the second it was in his hand.

"Mom...?".

His Mother looked at him, then looked at his Dad angrily. "You told him!".

His Dad glanced at Bobby and then tried to smile. "Bobby just asked about 
the robot...didn't you, Bobby?".

"You son of a bitch. You told him here! Without me!".

"Judy...".

"I don’t believe this. You selfish prick!".

"Mom...".

They both looked at Bobby. The ice cream was running down his wrist, leaving 
brown, sticky, cold lines of chocolate on his skin. He felt frozen. He felt 
like the ice cream was freezing him. He felt very, very cold. His Mom looked 
at him angrily for a minute, more angry than he'd ever seen her, but then 
she looked like she recognized him and the anger went away. It went away 
from her eyes, but it still echoed and resonated in his head.

"Eat your ice cream," his father said, and Bobby realized it was because his 
father didn't know what else to say. Behind his parents, he saw a family 
walk through the food court and sit down at a table. There was a Mother, two 
little kids, and a pretty older girl who walked kind of funny. The pretty 
girl walked like she was old. She walked like his Grandma walked, and he 
knew that Grandma had something called ‘arthritis’ that made her elbows and 
knees hurt. That was how the pretty girl walked, as though her elbows and 
knees were just a little stiff. The girl was wearing a t-shirt, and Bobby 
saw her elbows. The elbows had joints on them, just like an action figure. 
There was something wrong with her skin.

The ice cream dribbled. The robot girl sat down and started helping the 
woman give the kids some food. Bobby dropped the ice cream cone. He looked 
at his parents, and wondered why he hadn't ever seen what they look like 
before. His father had always scared him, but his father made him sad. His 
mother looked angry, and she looked like she'd been angry for a long time. 
She looked like it had made her tired. He'd never noticed how very tired she 
looked.

"You dropped your ice cream," said his father. Bobby noticed that he had.
---

This week's new Parking Lot is Full comic has nothing to do with anything 
you've just read...except in terms of counting down. Read it and see.


The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
Ready to adopt you for its organ farms.
Guaranteed.




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Sad news, true believers: Jack McLaren, in yet another in his endless series 
of attempts at making himself 'like unto a God' (his words, not mine) 
has...well, how can I put it delicately? I can't.

Suffice to say that, if he really was so hell-bent on getting a sex change 
operation, he should've waited for a reputable doctor to perform the 
surgery. Just because a guy in a white coat with a certificate from the 
'Kabul School of Medicine' tells you he can cut off your privates for fifty 
bucks, doesn't mean you should necessarily fly down to Mexico in your 
crotchless leather pants. When will Jack learn? When will the nightmare ever 
end for those of us who love him?

At any rate, it's now fallen to me to tend to Jack until he gets better. I 
didn't want this sort of responsibility, but when you best friend shows up 
at your door in the middle of the night, doubled over and clutching the 
bleeding stump which used to be his crotch, there isn't much else to do but 
invite him inside before the neighbors see. It may take me a week or so to 
find a suitable animal penis to sew onto the ruined space between his legs 
(again!), so needless to say that this week's Parking Lot is Full comic will 
be delayed for seven days. Enjoy those seven days. Get drunk. Vomit on 
yourselves or each other. Hang around children's playgrounds, looking for 
pedophiles to beat up. Go to church and take off your pants. Do whatever you 
have to do, just hold on and be strong. For Jack.

Please.


Pat, writer of
The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/

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Hi, y'all. Jack put up the new comic a few days ago, and I've delayed the 
announcement here because I wanted to write a proper update. Alas, the flu 
is winning, and I'm too sick to do anything but puke and leer at passers-by 
as the vomit dribbles down my chin, so, well, no story for you this week.
Drop by and check out the comic.

pat
http://www.plif.com/

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"Or other immeasurable,in order to peel, it makes the internal necessity to 
like into a place? It is not intelligence. So-called (and in the first piece 
of the increase) the flowers of the loss, the shave in the small necessity, 
for the inside of the quantity, sees a little more, in order to respect from 
the stages over it cooking in the piece, which does not make for lower at 
the affectionate directory that its mine clarity is cut obligation the meat 
within page of the machine? It is the possibility?"

Profound questions indeed. Like some deranged poet touched by the ass of 
God, spouting the most disturbing profundities presently imaginable, 
refuting millennia of accumulated wisdom in a single act of public 
urination, answering all your philosophical questions by rubbing itself 
while looking at your tits, it's the sleeper of reason, the ideal chair, the 
repository of all that was once and shall forever be the one, the only, The 
Parking Lot is Full!

I’m back to good health. Here’s the next part of our story, the first part 
of which can be found at:

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/plif/message/207/

Love it.

---
9: (Five)
=========

[1]

As the helicopter started descending towards the city, I sat back in my 
cushioned seat and wished I were chewing a stick of gum. Gum would have 
probably helped the bad feeling in my stomach, the sensation worse than the 
feeling you get when sitting in an air plane or standing in an elevator 
that’s moving too fast. I fucking hate helicopters. They’re a 'perk' I never 
asked for in a life full of perks.

The Chan Electrosystems complex looked like a big black fist clenched on the 
ground, and a single tower jutted up like a raised middle finger, telling us 
off as we approached. The helipad was on the top of the building, and the 
helicopter gently lowered itself onto the concrete square with the big 'H' 
painted on it. Peering down, I saw a handful of people standing to one side 
of the pad, several of whom were wearing shiny chrome helmets. The bright 
afternoon sun reflected off the things, and I shielded my eyes and sat back 
in my seat, waiting for the ordeal to end. With a further sickening drop and 
the feeling of gentle impact, it did. The helicopter touched down, and a man 
in a chrome helmet pulled the door open and saluted, his face hidden by the 
reflective mask. I unbuckled my harness, ignoring him. Paramilitary bullshit 
used to intimidate me. Now it just makes me tired.

"Welcome to Chan R&D, Mr. Coburn," said a robot modeled to look like a woman 
in her late '20s. It surprised me that they’d send a robot to greet me, but 
it surprised me more still to hear the unit's voice. The pitch and timbre 
were nearly perfect, and the inflection problems, inherited from the old 
DAVIS-type processors, seemed to have been worked out. The machine’s vocal 
delivery was a generation ahead of the speaking robots we'd just released on 
the market. "Dr. Givens apologizes for being unable to meet you here 
herself. She's waiting for us downstairs.".

I smiled, knowing full well that Givens had sent the robot in lieu of 
herself to give me ample opportunity to be amazed by this advance in robot 
technology. "Lead on.". The robot nodded and extended her arm towards the 
door. I hesitated, looking past her at the entourage she had come with. I 
saw several more paramilitary security goons. One not wearing a helmet, in a 
dress uniform. Probably of a higher rank. He might have been a robot, for 
all the expression on his face. The sun reflected dully off his impassive 
aviator shades.

Then, standing behind them, I saw her. At first, I thought she was a robot, 
some kind of strange fetish object, perhaps a secret prototype for the sort 
of pedophile-friendly sex robokids which we had briefly considered making 
before the marketing department wisely nixed the idea. But she wasn't like 
any robot I had ever seen. She was human. A little girl, maybe fix or six 
years old, anachronistically dressed in Victorian children's clothes. Her 
blonde hair fluttered around her shoulders in little ringlets, and she stood 
there, watching me with sharp, living eyes. Her skin was as smooth and pale 
as a porcelain doll's. Her poise was immaculate. I hate kids as a rule, but 
the sheer incongruity of her presence there aroused my interest. I notice 
details. It's a trait that's gotten me where I am today.

"Who’s the kid?" I asked the robot, my eyes still on the girl, who looked 
back calmly.

The robot seemed to consider this for a moment, before brightly answering 
"Dr. Givens' daughter.".

"Really? I didn’t know she had kids.".

The robot nodded emphatically. "Oh, yes. She has many.".

I looked at the robot sharply, not sure what to make of that, but the robot 
only smiled, her arm still pointing towards the door. No doubt about it, 
those damn things were getting uncomfortably life-like. With the realization 
that I wasn't going to get any answers out here, I started walking, the 
female robot keeping step with me and several of the security drones 
following as some kind of honor guard. I noticed that the little girl was 
following too, seeming to glide in her little dress. We all entered the 
building, and I was suddenly blinded by the darkness. By the time my eyes 
adjusted, we were in the elevator, moving down into the building.

[2]

"William!" said Judith Givens as she strode through the door, her white lab 
coattails flapping as she walked. I got up from the little waiting room 
couch, my hand taking hers as she started shaking it. "So sorry to keep you 
waiting.".

"No you're not. I know exactly why you kept me waiting.". I jerked my thumb 
at the female robot, who stood by the door attentively. The little girl was 
several steps away, playing hopscotch on imaginary lines with total 
concentration. "Very impressive. Is that the next model prototype?".

Judith looked oddly confused for a moment before looking which way my thumb 
was pointing. She smiled. "Nice, isn’t she? Not your type, I know, but the 
boys are still being tested.". She looked up at the robot. "I think you can 
return to your room now.". The robot nodded and left the room, closing the 
door quietly behind itself. Judith and I sat down. "Sandra!". The little 
girl stopped hopping and focused her laser beam eyes on my friend. "I think 
we’d like some coffee. Could you be a dear and fetch us some?". The girl 
wordlessly turned around and left, leaving Judith and myself alone.

"Jude," I said. "The robot told me that girl is...your daughter? What does 
that mean, exactly? Don’t tell me you’ve adopted a little kid. You never 
liked the little bastards any more than I do.".

She laughed. "It depends, William, on what you mean by 'adopted'.".

"The robot said you have 'many' kids.".

"You could say that I do, yes.". The girl came back, bearing a tray with 
steaming cups of coffee and a little plate of cookies on it. She walked to 
us and carefully placed it down on the glass coffee table. "Sandra," said 
Judith, "have you introduced yourself to Mr. Coburn?".

"No, mummy," said the girl in the faintest of upper-crust British accents. 
She talked like an educated American in an old, old movie made in the days 
when rich people took diction lessons.

"Then do so.".

The girl turned to me and curtseyed. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. 
Coburn," she said. "My name is Sandra.".

"Hello, Sandra. I...like your dress.". God, I hate dealing with kids.

"Thank you. I made it myself.".

I stared at her, suddenly alerted by some instinct awakened in the back of 
my head. The girl's pale blue eyes stared back at me. I saw that her skin 
was not as perfect as I had first thought. She had a little mole above her 
left eye, and black, pinprick 'beauty mark' on the side of her neck. She was 
standing so close to me that I could smell the faintest whiff of her skin. 
It smelled good, with a slight hint of soap. Her hair seemed to have been 
slightly ruffled by the wind on the roof, and several strands had escaped 
from the ringlets and were sticking straight up. I glanced at Judith. She 
was staring at me raptly. It seemed impossible, but there was no other 
explanation.

"She's a robot," I said, not really believing the words as I said them.

"Yes. Not bad, William. Not bad at all. It usually takes people much longer 
to notice. Then again, you always were a sharp one.".

"But...that’s impossible.". I looked back at the girl. She continued to 
return my scrutiny with what appeared to be mild interest. "You're playing 
with me.".

"I'm afraid not, dear William.".

I hesitatingly reached out to touch her. The girl didn't flinch. Her skin 
was warm and supple. "This is...".

"Revolutionary. Yes, I know.". Judith pressed a button on the coffee table. 
"Daniel, could you please send...oh, I don’t know...five more of my children 
in here, please?". She flicked off the switch. "We've done it, William. You 
can see that we've done it. An Emototech robot which is a near-perfect 
simulation of a human being.".

"Emotech," I corrected numbly, running on autopilot. Marketing had shortened 
the name to 'Emotech' for commercial purposes. They thought it sounded 
better.

"Of course. Emotech. At any rate, we've not only perfected the casing, but 
the brain is three generations ahead of that unit which escorted you down 
here. It's not a true artificial intelligence, not yet, but the Emotech 
desire systems are the nearest thing to human we have so far managed. Oh, 
someone like Sandra is prohibitively expensive right now, of course. Even if 
we were to start mass-producing them, each one would still cost ten times 
what the most expensive Emototech robot costs to the consumer...but we're 
working on that too.".

"Judith...".

The door opened, and a little man in a lab coat smiled nervously and began 
ushering little girls in. Five of them. One after the other, all identical 
replicas of Sandra with the exception of their hair colors, which ranged 
from raven to a bright Irish red. Soon, there were six little girls, all 
staring at me with intense blue eyes, all dressed like characters out of a 
Victorian period piece, all perfectly self-composed. I felt the flesh on my 
arms creep. I looked at Judith mutely.

"Now you see," she said softly, and held out to me a cup of coffee.

[3]

We were walking the empty corridors, having long since entered a secured 
area. Judith and I were, and I felt a great deal more focused now that we 
had left the little girls behind.

"I have to tell you," I was saying, "I have some problems with this.".

"Problems, William? What could you possibly mean?".

"Don’t get me wrong. Once you people make this something we can release, 
we'll probably sell...shit, I don't know. Lots. We already sell millions of 
units annually. There’s even been surprisingly little resistance to the more 
extreme applications of our little machines.".

She wrinkled her nose. "Have you ever fucked one, William?".

"Of course I have.". I didn't tell her that I kept four male models in my 
apartment, and had virtually stopped dating since buying them. "I thought 
everyone has.".

"I saw on the television that there are robot brothels now.".

"Brothels, escort services. I even heard some guy in Arkansas is trying to 
marry one. All kinds, I guess.".

"So what objections could you have, William? I personally have no sexual 
interest in our robots, but many people undoubtedly will. Also, you must 
admit the other possibilities are intriguing. After all, I've never had 
children before. Now I have over a dozen, and nobody could guess they 
weren't mine.".

I shrugged my shoulders. "I think that's it. I mean, adopting robots? Come 
on. Fucking them is one thing. Having them go shopping for you. Clean your 
house. All of that's different than what you're talking about. The line was 
never blurred before now, if you know what I mean.".

"You're not speaking like a businessman.".

"You know me better than that. I don't think I’d say these things to anyone 
else. Where are we going, by the way?".

"The special lab. I have a new application to show you.".

"Will I like it?".

"I honestly don't know. William the businessman probably will. William the 
person...might not.".

We arrived at a heavy set of doors, in front of which stood one of the 
chrome-helmeted security guards. Beside it, there was a smaller door, and 
Judith ran her card through the reader before leading me through it. We were 
walking up a narrow set of metal stairs to a dark control room of some kind. 
Several people in white coats were sitting at computers and displays, facing 
a long pane of what looked like one-way glass. In a moment of deja vu, I 
remembered the first Chan Electrosystems observation room I'd been in, where 
I'd first seen the Emotech robots in action. It seemed like a very long time 
ago.

"We are ready to begin the demonstration," said Judith to the people manning 
the controls. "Please begin.". She leaned towards me and whispered "Try to 
think like a businessman, William.". Wondering what she meant, I moved 
closer to the window, looking down at the space below.

Standing on the floor was one of the chrome security guards, cradling a 
rifle. No. Not a security guard. An Emotech mock-up in a guard uniform. 
Behind it, a door slid open silently, and in walked one of the little girls. 
This one had blonde hair that was a little darker than the first of Judith's 
'daughters' had, but otherwise she was absolutely identical, down to the 
sharp look in her eyes and the graceful economy of her movements. Sensing 
her presence, the guard robot raised its rifle, spun around and shouted 
"FREEZE!". I had seen security Emotech robots before. None of them had been 
released even to the military for fear of leading the public to the wrong 
sorts of associations with our machines, but combat models had been built 
and tested as a marketing option. What the robots lacked in combat intuition 
they almost made up for in speed and precision. I wondered why Judith was 
placing one of her little girl robots in such a dangerous situation. Despite 
myself, I was curious to see where this was heading.

"ON THE FLOOR!" bellowed the robot with the gun, bracing itself into a 
firing position. The little girl looked at him, looked up at us (could she 
possibly see us? It was one-way glass.). She smiled. Then...

There is no way to properly describe the suddenness and, yes, savagery of 
her attack. One moment, she was at gunpoint. The next, she was a little 
feral creature, a shrieking ball of teeth and flying ringlets and fingers 
used like claws. The guard managed to get one shot off, which went wild and 
didn't even come close to hitting its target, before it was on its back, 
desperately trying to get the little girl off of its chest. The girl's claws 
gouged at its eyes, smashed its head repeatedly against the floor, punched 
through the armored chest and pulled out a handful of lubricated wiring. 
Then, suddenly, as the guard was twitching and convulsing, the girl's face 
went down to its neck, a terrible cracking sound came from the spilled mass 
of hair, and the girl's head jerked up sharply. In her teeth was a portion 
of the robot's neck. Blue coolant fluid dribbled down her chin. She spat out 
of the chunk of metal and synthetic flesh and, as the robot guard's 
struggles ceased, the girl craned her stained face back and howled a deep, 
sustained, wolf-like howl. It did not sound like the call of a machine.

I took a step back, putting a hand to my mouth. "Holy shit...".

"Physical modifications. Behavioral directives. I told you we improved the 
desire hardware. She loves to hunt and kill as much as any animal does.".

"Judith...oh god...".

"I'm sorry, William, but I had to show you. Your superior, Ella Reid 
herself, *personally* sent me a memo expressing interest in alternative 
applications. But don't you see? The same drives and capabilities that make 
that girl such a perfect killer can make other robots perfect lovers, 
perfect nannies, perfect employees. This is the perfection of everything 
we've been working on all this time. And the military applications, William. 
Ms. Reed is absolutely correct. We cannot ignore the military applications, 
and now that we've perfected the skin, now that nobody will be able to tell 
who's a robot and who isn't, we don't even have to.”.

I just looked at her. "You said she was your daughter, Judith.".

She sighed. "You've known me for a long time, William. How likely do you 
think it is that I'd allow myself to become sentimental about a machine?".

[4]

The helicopter rose, and the feeling of leaving was even less pleasant than 
the feeling of arriving. I looked down and saw Judith receding on the 
helipad, her daughter beside her. Not the daughter made to kill. The other 
one. The nice daughter who made her own dresses and spoke like she'd 
attended finishing school.

Ella Reid had lied to me. No, not lied. She had omitted information. 
Probably to allow me the luxury of an unbiased reaction. She had manipulated 
me, but, thinking like a businessman, I saw the wisdom of it. If I'd been in 
her place, I might have done the same. The businessman in me admired her 
cruelty and manipulation.

As a man, I wanted to unleash that horrible little creature on her. To tear 
out her fucking lying throat. I looked ahead, as the helicopter flew into 
the sun.
---

This week, not only do we have a new comic for you, but we've updated our 
venerable Recommended Readings page! Strange and disturbing links from 
around the Web await you, and none of them contain that humiliating picture 
of you giving head to that dog. We've all seen the photo, of course, but 
we’re not crass enough to post it publicly here. Check out our readings 
regardless. You may see someone you know.


The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
Enjoying pets, but slightly differently than you do.
Guaranteed.



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"I'm a bad mutha-- shut yo' mouth! I'm just talkin' 'bout myself. I can 
diggit.".

Like a one-man spokesperson for itself, trapped in its own skull with an 
endlessly looping funk soundtrack slowed down to sub-demonic speeds, 
strutting around the town in its pink velvet suit and matching pimp hat made 
from your former cat Fluffy's tanned and dyed skin, totally convinced that 
hanging out in school yards and handing out used syringes to little kids is 
an effective way of Sticking It To The Man, totally oblivious to the fact 
that not bathing for thirty years a pretty dysfunctional unacceptable way of 
'keeping the '70s alive,'
it's everybody's least favorite anachronism, morally comparable to the one, 
the only...The Parking Lot is Full!

Here we are again. Our story started at:
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/plif/message/207

The next chapter follows.

---
9: (Six)
========

"I can build you a star," he said. "Not a porno star, we already have quite 
enough of those, but a real, bona fide *star*. The idea's nothing new, of 
course, but *our* star won't get pregnant or become bulimic or go crazy or 
want to write her own songs. She won't be unpredictable, unless you want her 
to be. She'll be *our* star, from day one, ready and willing to do exactly 
what our marketing tells her the public wants her to do.".

...........The airplane lands. Varoom! The throngs of teenagers begin to 
scream hysterically! They all know what the unmarked black airplane means. A 
cry goes up. "JO-ANN! JO-ANN!". The entire mob has picks up the chant! 
"JO-ANN! JO-ANN!". Thirteen year old girls with that famous face on their 
shirts! People waving flags! Flags welcoming that robotic sensation to their 
lucky town! It's the sensation of the year!..........

[JoAnn is busy. Candid and open for interviews, but virtually impossible to 
chase down for one, she has made 14 movies and a scattering of TV projects 
since her breakthrough performance in 'Stopkewich's Kissed' two years ago, a 
piece of acting that won her a best actress Genie and opened eyes everywhere 
–- and dropped a few jaws as well.]

The robot sat on the folding chair with her name on the back, leads running 
from her head to the laptop on the glass table. Her eyes were closed and her 
chest rose and fell with perfect rhythm as the data flooded into her great 
computer brain.

"You sure the script revisions are in there?" said the famous director, 
munching on a sprig of celery.

"I'm sure. Don’t worry, boss. We’ve got everything under control.".

..........."She never ceases to amaze me," says the famous director. "At 
first, I was a little skeptical. I mean, a robot? Acting in a serious 
production...with human co-stars? I couldn't believe it would fly. But the 
more I got to know JoAnn, the more I realized that she had the right stuff. 
There was just something intuitive about her performance, something so 
incredibly perfect and human that it could only be captured my a machine. I 
remember watching at the dailies and realizing that I was looking at the 
next really big star."..........

['Edgy,' 'gutsy' and 'fearless' are terms tossed about by her co-workers and 
admirers when they try to describe the roles she has taken on. In an 
interview for The Center of the World, JoAnn is more prosaic: "I don't know 
if other people sort of plan their careers. I certainly haven't been able 
to, so I react to what's out there. And these are just better parts for 
women. I'm just so bored and not interested in playing somebody's girlfriend 
or somebody's wife or somebody's something else."]

"I love you, JoAnn!" shouted the man as security dragged him away. "You got 
my letters! I know you did! I know that you love me too!".

The agent shook his head as the lunatic was dragged from view. "I have no 
idea how he got in here. This is supposed to be a secure set.".

The producer shrugged. "It happens. I think you people need to get a new 
restraining order set up. I have a feeling that guy will be back.".

"Wouldn't be the first time. Did you know that some nutbag programmed his 
own robot to act like he was in love with her? Some security people found 
the thing jerking itself off and spying on her with a telephoto lens. We 
never found out who was behind that one. Could be anybody.".

"Heh. I can understand the impulse, I suppose. I'd like to fuck her too?".

The agent looked at the producer seriously. "You want to?".

JoAnn glanced down at the flowers the stalker had brought, the bunch of 
roses lying abandoned on the concrete floor. She knelt down to pick them up, 
standing again and scrutinizing them with unblinking fish eyes.

...........Hollywood premier! The glitz and the glitter! Red carpet treatment 
for the elegantly dressed stars! Get out of the limo wearing something 
fabulous. Smile for a million flashbulbs. Isn't all this tinsel town glamour 
so EXCITING? Look! There’s the star of the show! A cheer goes up as the 
robot voted 'The Most Beautiful Woman in the World' by the readers of People 
magazine steps out of her car, dressed to kill in a ravishing Versace 
evening gown. Look at that neck line. So risque! She’s SURE to be on the 
cover of all the papers tomorrow! Smile for the camera, gorgeous! Show us 
your PERFECT smile!..........

"God, she makes me sick," said the actress, her lips twisted into a snarl. 
"That...mannequin.".

"Relax, baby. She's just a fad. It'll pass.".

"That's what they said three years ago, and she's still here. They all fuck 
her, you know. All of them. Bastards.".

The robot approached them, and the men with the cameras followed. Realizing 
that the two of them were potentially in the same shot, the actress smiled, 
as did the robot. The explosion of flashbulbs was blinding.

['J-O to A-N-N! The Remixes' HAS ARRIVED IN STORES! AND IS AVAILABLE 
EVERYWHERE! Thanks to all the fans that picked it up! This album is the only 
place you'll be able to get the 'Ain't It Kooky' Remix featuring Bo Def -- 
the song which is already on over 250 stations nation-wide! Look out for 
these other white-hot mixes on the release: 'If You Had My Heart' (remixed 
by Tubby Swanson) -- a #1 club track! 'Waiting For The Love' (remixed by 
Gustav Rodruigez) -–  a #1 club track! 'Can't Buy My Heart’ (Brothel mix 
featuring The Scuz Buddyz) –-  a #2 club track! 'I’m All Women' - the #1 
radio track featuring Grope Stevens!]

He sat at the rows of computers, his fingers swirling around the 
touch-sensitive surface, raising the pitch of the female voice slightly, 
playing the whole thing back in staccato little bursts. No. Not right. 
Something sounded ever-so-slightly off to his trained, expert ear.

He tapped the screen and began again, deleting the vocals and reconfiguring 
the patterns for a new take. He knew JoAnn's vocal dynamics as though he had 
written them himself, though he had never actually met her and sometimes 
fantasized about doing so. There was no need for her to meet him, so they 
had never been introduced. Her voice was the only thing necessary for the 
completion of his work.

...........Thumping music! THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP! Strobe lights spinning 
dancing on the sea of moving bodies united under the groove. "If you 
haaaaaaaad my heart! If you haaaaaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaaaaad my heart, bay-bee!". 
The sound rears up and stops for an instant, like a snake about to strike, 
and then BOOM it starts again and the crowd is energized into a single 
sweating sexed-up animal that begins to convulse in the darkness, in the 
color, in the sound. Can you feel it in your loins? Can you feel its velvet 
hammer touch?..........

[NEW YORK (AP) -- JoAnn is not – repeat, not – dating Bill Shepard, despite 
tabloid rumors linking them romantically. But she does have high praise for 
her 'Memoirs of a President' co-star.]

"Holy shit!" said Bill as he stood in line to fuck the robot. "This isn’t 
the first time I’ve done a co-star, but...Jesus!". He was buzzing on the E 
and felt all tingly as he watched one of the gophers taking it from behind. 
Bill briefly thought of his wife back home, then realized that she was 
probably in bed with someone at this very moment. Emily’s infidelity usually 
bothered him, but not this time. This time, everything was all right.

"I can't believe you haven't done this before," said Darius, who'd already 
had his turn. He was wearing a silk bathrobe and holding a glass of chilled 
champagne. "She's the town bicycle, man. The casting couch just never ended 
with her.".

"I know, I know. I’ve heard the stories. But...fuck.". The whole scene was 
suddenly getting to him, and he desperately needed air.

"Looks like you’re up," said Darius, with a deep laugh. Things were speeding 
up and breaking. The glow in his head wavered as though eclipsed by 
something dark. The gopher stood up, wiping the last few drips of spunk from 
his dick onto his blue shirt, which, in addition to his socks, he was still 
wearing. The robot remained on all fours, its face pointed towards the 
window and the blackness beyond. Bill saw her face reflected there, squinted 
his eyes to see the thing’s expression. For a moment, he thought he saw 
something, and then the eyes, noticing his scrutiny, focused on the 
reflection of his own face in the glass. She was looking at him.

With a jolt, Bill turned away, not remembering where the bar was. Then, he 
saw it and headed over, desperately wanting a drink. Reaching it, he 
reconsidered, feeling the E warmth flood through him again. "Water," he 
said, and was handed a cold, sweating bottle by the boy behind the bar. 
Behind him, somebody was probably fucking the machine. Time to get some air.

..........."She's probably the most talented actress I've ever worked with. 
The most professional, too. She's incredibly giving and doesn't let her 
presence overshadow the other actors, which is amazing when you think about 
how much charisma she brings to each role. There are no small players in a 
scene with JoAnn. When you’re in front of the cameras with her, she doesn't 
try to be the star, if you know what I mean. I guess that’s why she *is* a 
star. I'd work with her again in a second."..........

[The hip hop color on the album is less apparent on stage. Her songs and 
performance are based on the traditional soul music and of extremely rich 
content. She kept on singing out loud for 1 and half hour. There was not a 
single moment of being idle. Happiness, anger, sadness, fun — all kinds of 
emotions prevailed and vivid feelings mounted towards the audience...Going 
beyond the strength of vocal abilities, her songs come across very 
convincing.]

JoAnn looked out at the audience, listening to the cheering as the song 
ended. She smiled, bowed, put the microphone back to her lips. "Thank you. I 
love you.". The cheering became louder, and JoAnn’s smile widened as 
pleasure, real pleasure, fired into her brain. She lived for this. She lived 
for their applause. She hungered for it. It made her feel...something.

..........."I love her," gushes a fan. "I just fucking love her!". Her 
friends agree, sweaty and glowing in the parking lot after the 
show..........
---

Blow up your video.

There's a new PLIF comic in town, and if you think it brings us one step 
closer to the end of Rocko and Socko...well...you're more right than you 
know. Check it out or risk dying alone.


The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
Funky like a rotting corpse.
Guaranteed.



_________________________________________________________________
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Today's not April 8, 2001. It's 2002! 2002! 2002! What the hell's the matter 
with me? If I'm going to keep screwing up the date, why not 2003? Far better 
to live in the future than in the past.

pat
http://www.plif.com/



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Yes, the latest PLIF comic is even later than usual. No, I'm not here to 
tell you that it's finally here. The scripts for the last batch of PLIF in 
its current form have been done for ages now, and events in Jack's life 
(good events, actually) have demanded so much of his attention that his 
artistic work has slowed down considerably. I totally understand the 
necessity of all this -- and you all would too, if I were allowed to explain 
it to you -- but it's still quite frustrating.
The next comic should be ready...soon. Ish. Stay tuned.

Incidentally, I received the following text on a comic book mailing list to 
which I subscribe. Read and take it seriously. As should be obvious, I 
passionately love comics, and it's always a source of irritation to me that 
the field is so totally dominated mainstream superhero publishers. Equally 
irritating is the resulting marginalization of so many idiosyncratic, 
'alternative' voices to the ghetto of self-published amateurism and 
obscurity. The world is a better place with professional indie comic book 
publishers. Visit the web page and buy some stuff, not just because it's for 
a good cause, but because a lot of it really looks excellent. I know that I 
will right now.

pat

---
TOP SHELF IN TROUBLE: WE NEED YOUR HELP

Dear Comics Fans,

We have just been informed this week that our book trade distributor has
filed for bankruptcy (Chapter 11). They will continue to operate and
hopefully recover, and we will support this all we can (as our industry
needs them, and they are good people). Unfortunately, this has
happened at a time when they owed us an enormous sum of money (over
$80,000.00 minus returns). And to make matters worse, the most recent
check they cut us, for almost $20,000.00, bounced this week, in turn
causing the last 30 checks we wrote to printers, conventions,
cartoonists and practically every aspect of the business to bounce (or
be held) in turn.

To put it bluntly, even with all the hard work we've put in over the
years, if we don't raise $20,000 this month, it could realistically
force us to suspend publishing operations for the foreseeable future.
It's hard to believe but a big domino has fallen right on top of us at
the worst time possible. So, that leaves us no choice but to be honest
and ask for your help.

If 400-500 of you can find it in your hearts to each spend around fifty
bucks on our core list of books below, this would literally pull us
through. We mean that. We've got such a strong future schedule, and so
many cool things to announce soon (including two more Alan Moore
projects and two Film & TV projects), that I'd hate to think that we'd
have to pull the plug right before we were just about to arrive.

In any event, if you can find it in your hearts to help us out, we will
be eternally grateful. We'll be manning the phones personally on this
"drive," and we'll also be sure to keep you informed -- hopefully
letting all of you know in three-to-four weeks that everything's okay
(with your help, that is).

On behalf of Brett Warnock and myself.

Truly, your friend thru comics,

Chris Staros
Top Shelf Productions
PO Box 1282
Marietta, GA 30061-1282
USA

(770) 425-0551
staros@bellsouth.net
http://www.topshelfcomix.com
http://www.topshelfcomix.com


*****************************************************

ORDERS OVER $100 GET AN EXTRA $25 WORTH OF BOOKS FREE!
FREE SHIPPING FOR US ORDERS ($10.00 FOR INTERNATIONAL)

PHONE IN CREDIT CARD ORDERS TO:
CHRIS STAROS (770) 425-0551

OR

E-MAIL CREDIT CARD ORDERS TO:
STAROS@BELLSOUTH.NET

OR

MAIL CHECKS TO:
TOP SHELF PRODUCTIONS, INC.
PO BOX 1282
MARIETTA, GA 30061-1282
USA

OR

ORDER ON-LINE AT:
HTTP://WWW.TOPSHELFCOMIX.COM
(for our widest selection of books)


THE TOP SHELF BOOKS (the short list):

ALAN MOORE & EDDIE CAMPBELL:
FROM HELL (GN, MOVIE COVER): $35.00
FROM HELL (GN, ORIGINAL COVER): $35.00
SNAKES & LADDERS (CB): $5.95
THE BIRTH CAUL (CB): $5.95
THE HIGHBURY WORKING CD (ALAN MOORE LIVE): $20.00
ANGEL PASSAGE CD (ALAN MOORE LIVE): $20.00
HIGHBURY & ANGEL PASSAGE POSTERS: $10.00 ea.

EDDIE CAMPBELL:
ALEC: HOW TO BE AN ARTIST (TP): $13.95
ALEC: THREE PIECE SUIT (TP): $14.95
ALEC: THE KING CANUTE CROWD (TP): $14.50
BACCHUS COLOR SPECIAL (CB): $2.95
BACCHUS-VOL1: IMMORTALITY ISN'T FOREVER (TP): $10.95
BACCHUS-VOL2: THE GODS OF BUSINESS (TP): $9.95
BACCHUS-VOL3: DOING THE ISLANDS WITH BACCHUS (TP): $17.95
BACCHUS-VOL4: THE EYEBALL KID (TP): $8.50
BACCHUS-VOL5: EARTH, FIRE, AIR, WATER (TP): $9.95
BACCHUS-VOL6: 1001 NIGHTS OF BACCHUS (TP): $13.50
BACCHUS-VOL9: KING BACCHUS (TP): $12.95
BACCHUS-VOL10: BANGED UP (TP): $13.95
BACCHUS #1, #5-#8, #10, #12-#39, #41-#60 (CB): $2.95 EA.
FROM HELL / BACCHUS / ALEC ORIGINAL ART (EMAIL INQUIRIES)

GARY SPENCER MILLIDGE:
STRANGEHAVEN: ARCADIA (TP, VOL-1); $14.95
STRANGEHAVEN: BROTHERHOOD (TP, VOL-2): $14.95
STRANGEHAVEN #13: $2.95 EA.
STRANGEHAVEN #1-#3, #5-#12: $2.95 EA. (REPRINTED IN TPs)

CRAIG THOMPSON:
GOOD-BYE, CHUNKY RICE (GN): $14.95
DOOT DOOT GARDEN (SMALL BATCH): $7.00
BIBLE DOODLES (SMALL BATCH): $7.00

ALEX ROBINSON:
BOX OFFICE POISON (GN): $29.95

ED BRUBAKER:
A COMPLETE LOWLIFE (GN): $12.95

GLENN DAKIN:
ABE (GN): $14.95

MATT KINDT & JASON HALL:
PISTOLWHIP (GN): $14.95
MEPHISTO (CB): $3.95

JAMES KOCHALKA:
KOCHALKA'S SKETCHBOOK DIARY VOLS #1 &  #2 (CB): $7.95 ea
THE PERFECT PLANET (GN): $14.95
PARADISE SUCKS (GN): $5.95
MAGIC BOY & THE WORD OF GOD (CB): $3.95
PEANUTBUTTER & JEREMY #1 (CB): $2.95
PEANUTBUTTER & JEREMY #2: THE FLIBBLEDIBBLE FILE (CB): $2.95
MERMAIDS (CB): $2.95
SUNBURN (CB): $2.95

PETE SICKMAN-GARNER:
HEY, MISTER: AFTER SCHOOL SPECIAL (TP, VOL-1): $7.95
HEY, MISTER: CELEBRITY ROAST (TP, VOL-2): $9.95
HEY, MISTER: THE FALL COLLECTION (TP, VOL-3): $12.95
HEY, MISTER #3 - #4 (CB): $2.95
HEY, MISTER: BEHIND THE GREEN DOOR (CB, #5): $2.95
HEY, MISTER: THE TROUBLE WITH JESUS (CB, #6): $2.95
HEY, MISTER: EYES ON THE PRIZE (CB, #7): $2.95
HEY, MISTER: DIAL 'M' FOR MISTER (CB, #8): $3.50

TOM HART:
THE COLLECTED HUTCH OWEN (TP): $14.95
NEW HAT STORIES: BANKS/EUBANKS (GN): $9.95
THE SANDS (GN): $14.95

PETER KUPER:
SPEECHLESS (FULL-COLOR HC): $19.95
TOPSY TURVY (TP): $9.95

RENÃ‰E FRENCH:
THE SOAP LADY (HC): $19.95

SCOTT MILLS:
BIG CLAY POT (GN): $12.95

JOSUÃ‰ MENJIVAR:
CICADA (GN): $12.95
BROKEN FENDER #1, #2 (CB): $2.95 EA.

JOSH SIMMONS:
HAPPY (CB): $3.50
CIRKUS NEW ORLEANS (SMALL BATCH): $7.00

STEVE LAFLER:
BUGHOUSE (GN): $14.95
BAJA (GN): $9.95

BRIAN BIGGS:
DEAR JULIA, (GN): $12.95
DEAR JULIA, SHORT FILM (VIDEO): $15.00

DEAN HASPIEL:
A BOY IN MY POCKET (CB): $2.95
DAYDREAM LULLABIES: A BILLY DOGMA EXPERIENCE (TP): $7.95
OPPOSABLE THUMBS (CB): $4.95
KEYHOLE #5, #6 (CB): $2.95 EA.

BRETT WARNOCK -- TOP SHELF (THE ANTHOLOGY):
UNDER THE BIG TOP (#8, AN): $14.95
ON PARADE (#7, AN): $6.95
TOP SHELF #5-#6 (AN): $6.95 EA.
TOP SHELF #1-#2 (AN): $5.00 EA.

CHRIS STAROS:
EXPO 2001 (INCLUDES A 23-PAGER BY CHRIS): $7.95
THE STAROS REPORT - 1996 & 1997 (ZINE): $4.95 EA.

SMALL BATCH:
BETTER LUCK NEXT CENTURY (DYLAN HORROCKS): $7.00
SMUDGES (P. SHAW): $7.00
BERN & EDWINA (PAT MORIARITY & DAVID GREENBERGER): $7.00

ACTUS:
HAPPY END (FULL-COLOR HC): $21.95
ACTUS BOX (BOXED SET OF 5 COLOR GRAPHIC NOVELLAS): $31.95
FLIPPER #1 & #2 (AN): $11.95 EA.
JETLAG (AN): $14.50

STRIPBURGER:
STRIPBUREK (AN): $17.95
MINIBURGER (BOXED SET OF 12 MINICOMICS): $19.95
XXX STRIPBURGER (AN, ADULTS ONLY): $13.95
STRIPBURGER #25, #26, #27, #29 (AN): $7.00 EA.

DEE VEE:
DEE VEE #2-#14, LIC SPEC, #2001 (CB): $3.00 EA.

ALTERNATIVE COMICS:
9-11 EMERGENCY RELIEF (AN, VARIOUS): $14.95

JORDAN CRANE:
THE LAST LONELY SATURDAY (GN): $8.00

DAVID CHOE:
BRUISED FRUIT (FULL-COLOR TP): $20.00

KURT WOLFGANG:
WHERE HATS GO (GN): $8.00

JEFF NICHOLSON:
THROUGH THE HABITRAILS: $14.95

MISC. COMIX:
TALES OF THE GREAT UNSPOKEN (AARON AUGENBLICK): $3.50
JACK'S LUCK RUNS OUT (JASON LITTLE): $3.50
EYE SPY (CHARISE MERICLE): $5.00
CLOCK #1, #2, #3 (PAUL SHARAR): $3.00 EA.
RED CALLOWAY'S BIG BANG (SET OF #1-#4) (PAUL SHARAR): $10.00

SILK-SCREENED POSTERS:
NEIL GAIMAN'S THE LAST ANGEL (BY CRAIG THOMPSON): $20.00
TOP SHELF: THREE ROBOTS (BY MARTIN ONTIVEROS): $20.00
TOP SHELF: MAN WITH MARTINI (BY BRETT WARNOCK): $10.00
TOP SHELF: THE BOXER (BY FRANKIE SIRK): $10.00


_________________________________________________________________
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Hi, again. No, there's no new comic yet, but we do have a couple of 
announcements for you. Listen up:
---

I've read that the Save Top Shelf Comics thing is going quite well, and if 
any of our subscribers have contributed to that, thank you. One person did 
e-mail me asking for recommendations, which is reasonable. Recommendations 
follow.

Stuff I bought:
---------------
- From Hell
- Strangehaven: Arcadia
- Strangehaven: Brotherhood

Stuff I'll probably buy soon:
-----------------------------

- Box Office Poison
- The Soap Lady


Additionally, visit
http://artbomb.net/topshelf.jsp

If you buy any Top Shelf books from them, (a) Top Shelf will get all the 
money, and (b) you'll be sent a cool Artbomb hand grenade t-shirt.

http://www.topshelfcomix.com
---
Fucking Yahoogroups. I just got this as part of a Filmthreat e-newsletter 
(http://www.filmthreat.com), and I'm reprinting it here because it concerns 
all of you too:

---
IMPORTANT NOTE TO OUR E-MAIL SUBSCRIBERS
========================================
On March 28, Yahoo! Groups set everyone's account to the "Have your
advertisers send me mail" option no matter what folks had previously elected 
as their preference. Because this has gone from an opt-in service to an 
opt-out one, if you are a member of a Yahoo! Groups-based email list (or, I 
assume, if you have a Yahoo! e-mail account) and have no desire to surrender 
your inbox to a deluge of mail from Yahoo!'s advertisers, you have to tell 
them that you don't want this mail within 60 days -- if you don't say 
anything, they will just send it.
Here's how to do it:
- Go to Yahoo Groups (http://groups.yahoo.com) and sign in.
- Go to My Groups and click on Account Info, verify your password if it asks 
you to, which will bring up your Yahoo ID card.
- Click on 'Edit Your Marketing Preferences' and change all those Yes's back 
to No's.
- Click 'Save Changes.'
---

This sucks, but I ask you not to unsubscribe from the PLIF list in protest 
or to protect your account. If any of you have problems with the above 
procedure, drop us a line and we'll help you out. The Yahoogroups! PLIF list 
is only going to be active for a little while longer, so stick around. 
Thanks.
---

A new comic's coming soon. Really.


pat
http://www.plif.com/


_________________________________________________________________
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"Naked! NAKED! NAKED!!!".

Like some deranged proponent of mandatory nudism, recruiting members of 
paramilitary death squads from aging hippies and acid-washed granola heads, 
dedicated to nothing less than the eradication of the capitalist slavery 
known as 'clothing,' hoping to free everyone from the cotton hell that is 
21st century life, it's the gibbering vegan Prometheus marching with his 
hordes on Washington in hopes of attaining absolute power over the one, the 
only, The Parking Lot is Full!

We started the story at
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/plif/message/207

Now here’s the next chapter:
---

9: (Four)
=========

[They never caught us. That’s the funny thing, you know. I have absolutely 
no idea how that's possible, but they never even came close. I remember the 
incredible guilt I felt as the nationwide TV coverage began. The picture of 
that fireman lifting up the body of that girl? Of course I remember it. How 
could I not remember it? It was on the cover of every magazine in the world, 
and every time I went anywhere, there it was. It felt like an accusation. I 
have it framed on my wall.]

"What's that, man?". Dave leaned over his friend to look at the little metal 
tube with the wires sticking out of both sides like frizzy machine hair.

"It's a bomb," said Josh proudly, taking a step back and crossing his arms. 
"I've been working on it for weeks.".

"Oh.". Dave felt strangely hurt that he hadn't been included, that his 
friend hadn't felt close enough to trust him with the secret. "What's it 
for?".

Josh looked at him, several expressions running over his face in rapid 
succession. "I’m going to blow up the school," he finally said.

[I never dreamed the bomb would be as powerful as it actually turned out to 
be. We sat in those bushes and watched that incredible explosion rip through 
half of the building, and then the bricks and debris were blown towards us 
in this whoosh of hot air. A brick hit the side of my head and I fell down 
just as it started raining chips of concrete. The sound was so loud I didn't 
hear it, if you know what I mean, and I just lay there, blood getting into 
my eyes, watching the fire come into my field of vision every once in a 
while as the little pieces of the school kept falling down on me from the 
sky.]

The two of them sat on swings in the dark playground, the night silent 
except for the creaking of the chains holding up the weight of their bodies. 
Melanie kicked idly at the dusty impression in the ground at her feet, and 
the swing she was on began to rock back and forth in slow, gentle little 
arcs. Dave wanted to look at her, but didn't trust himself to, so he kept 
his eyes focused on the shapes of the houses on the other side of the 
chain-link fence.

"My Mom wants to send me back there," she said, kicking at the dirt again. 
"I don't think she wanted me to leave in the first place.".

Josh continued to look at the houses. He remembered running his hands over 
her arms, feeling the scars on her wrists. That's all she'd ever let him do, 
even though he literally burned with desire to do more every time her saw 
her.

"It wasn't so bad, actually. I kept expecting it to be like 'One Flew Over 
the Cuckoo's Nest,' you know, Nurse Ratchet and all that. But it wasn't. The 
people there were actually kind of cool, except for this one girl who kept 
talking about Jesus. She painted these incredible pictures. I think she had 
real talent. I saw her a few weeks ago I went back there to visit, but I 
don’t think she remembered me. It's kind of sad.".

Melanie's voice was husky and came in a near monotone. He wondered why she 
spent so much time with him. She always said yes when he called to ask if 
she wanted to hang out, and she even let him hold her hand on occasion. He 
wondered if it was maybe because nobody else had ever tried.

[As the firemen and paramedics started working on putting out the school and 
rescuing the survivors, I just wandered around the site in a daze, wondering 
if it all felt more real than it should, or less. Eventually, somebody 
noticed me and then I was sitting down on a stretcher as a woman in a white 
shirt started stitching up my face. The whole scene of devastation was 
playing out in front of me like some kind of bad TV show, and I saw people I 
know being helped out of what was left of the school, crying, often covered 
in blood. Cameras were recording it all, and it wasn't’t long before the 
whole thing actually was a bad TV show, which even then I found kind of 
ironic.]

The fist smashed into Dave's face, knocking him onto the ground and sending 
radiant waves of pain surging through his body. Through the pain he could 
see the jock asshole’s face change into something that looked like shock, 
and for a moment the two of them stared at each other in confusion before 
the spell was broken by the laughter of the other two boys standing behind 
them. The one who had struck him visibly reverted to type, and the scene 
again felt like something that had been written as a script years before

"If you ever say that to me again, I'll put you in the fucking hospital," 
the kid said, and for a moment Dave wondered if it was a robot that had 
struck him instead of a person. It almost seemed as though that heavy face 
was only moving its mouth to a prerecorded sound. The face looked vaguely 
out of control and afraid. "Fucking faggot.".

They turned around and left, and Dave slowly got up, conscious of being 
stared at by the people passing by. He looked at the dark clothes he was 
wearing and suddenly hated the way he looked in them.

[The strange thing is that I think Josh's parents figured it all out, even 
if nobody else ever did. It could have been the fact that their robot was 
missing. It could have been that they actually knew what Josh was. It could 
even have been that he told them. Anything's possible, I suppose. I hear 
that he was sent away to military school, which may actually be true for all 
I know. It may explain his sudden disappearance. So might suicide. I really 
can't say. In any event, I avoided him for the few weeks before he was gone, 
and nobody really spent much time talking about him after he moved from the 
periphery of things to someplace even farther. I wish I could say that I 
avoided him because I was afraid someone would put two and two together, but 
that wasn't really the case. I just couldn't stand to be around him anymore, 
after that day. Partly because of what we had done. Mostly because of what 
he had said just before we did it.]

People seemed to dislike Josh intensely, but in a different kind of way than 
Dave was used to. Unpopularity was nothing new to him, but venomous hatred 
certainly was.

The two of them walked through the doors that morning and a little cluster 
of popular girls were standing there talking. Dave recognized most of them, 
especially Denise, who sat in his Geography class and seemed kind of nice. 
He almost said hi to her when a girl whom he barely knew (Amanda?) saw the 
two them and started sniggering.

"Watch out, it's the geek patrol!". The other girls in the circle laughed 
and Dave saw that Denise did too, which made him want to curl up into 
himself. Josh stopped, looked Amanda up and down, and smiled.

"You're a fat cunt," he said, and then kept walking, a stunned silence 
behind him. The reigning queen of the group, Amanda quickly regained her 
composure, looked at Josh's retreating back, saw that he was too far away, 
then noticed Dave, still standing there.

"Go back to your buddy, you queer.". Amanda’s lip curled into a sneer. "You 
wouldn't know a cunt if you saw one on TV.".

[Eventually, they rebuilt the school and we all went back to it, those of us 
still alive. I remember the first new day of school, when all the reporters 
were clustered around the entrance shouting questions at all the students as 
they went inside. I remember one kid who used to bully Josh and me grabbed 
one of the cameras and threw it on the ground. I think that he’d lost some 
of his friends in the explosion.]

The telephone rang a few times and then an older woman’s voice answered. 
"Hello?".

"Is Melanie there?".

There was silence on the other line, then a deep breath. "I’m sorry, but 
Melanie can't come to the phone right now.".

He blinked. "Can you tell me when she'll get back?".

Silence again. "I don't want any of you little fuckers bothering her," she 
hissed. "Stay the fuck away from my daughter!". She hung up and then 
silence, real silence, filled up the line.

[Denise had lost some of her friends too, and it was no special feeling 
either way that I heard Amanda was one of the causalities. Actually, Denise 
became quite a lot more interesting after the tragedy. She stopped hanging 
out with the popular crowd, largely because so many of them were now dead, 
and started sitting by herself, writing in a little spiral-bound notebook 
she had begun carrying around with her. One day, I sat down next to her and 
asked her what she was writing. She hesitated for a moment, then handed me 
the book.]

"You want to fuck my Dad's robot?".

Dave looked at him as the television played on. "What?".

"I figured out how to turn off the adult lock, so now I get to fuck her 
anytime I want to. And she fucking loves it, too.". Dave stared at him, and 
Josh grinned, raising his voice. "ROBOT! GET YOUR ASS IN HERE!".

From the upstairs, the sound of shuffling approached until the door opened 
and the robot walked in, red hair bobbing. It came over to the coach and 
stopped, a strangely eager expression in its glassy eyes. Dave looked up at 
it and felt strange.

"Her name’s Amanda," he said. Then, to the robot: "Amanda. Fuck my friend.".

"What? Josh –".

The robot turned its head to look at him, and smiled. It began removing its 
clothing, and Dave was unnerved to discover that it turned him on. Fully 
naked, it reached for his pants and started undoing his fly.

"Josh!".

"Relax. I’ve done this dozens of times. It's so good, you won't ever need 
your right hand again.".

As soon as the robot had opened his fly, it pulled down his pants and gave 
him a blowjob. Strangely, Josh did not leave the room. Instead, he stayed on 
the other end of the couch, staring at both him and the robot with a strange 
expression on his face.

[I remember the first time Denise and I had sex. It was on her parent's bed, 
and we sat on it later, smoking cigarettes and talking. She told me all 
kinds of things she had never told anyone else, and then she started crying. 
I had no idea what to say, so I held her and said nothing.]

He came home and threw his books down on the floor, wanting to cry. "Dave?" 
said his mother from the kitchen, "Is that you?".

"It's me," he said, standing there, unable to move.

His mom came into the room and smiled at him. "You're home late," she said. 
"Everything okay?".

He looked at her and wondered what he could say that she could possibly 
understand. "Fine," he finally said, and he saw that she understood.

[I have no idea where she is now. I have no idea where any of them are, 
actually, the people I grew up with. I graduated from high school and got 
out of there as soon as I could. I hardly even go back there anymore, 
especially since my mother died. I do remember the last time, actually. It 
must have been five or six years ago. It seemed that something had sucked 
all the life out of the place, and all the people on the street shuffled 
around like robots. Or maybe there *were* robots. It's hard to tell, these 
days, though I suspect that the gray and lifeless citizens of that gray and 
lifeless place really were people after all. Robots tend to be better at 
being human than are most humans that I know.]

He saw Denise standing alone at the bus stop, and he almost walked past her 
before forcing himself to stand beside her. Seeing him, she looked 
uncertain, and suddenly he wanted to touch her hair. It looked beautiful 
next to her dark skin.

"Hi, Denise," he said.

"Uh...hi, Dave. Where are you going?".

"Work. I work at a gas station.".

"Oh. How...do you like it?".

"Pretty good. It's really kind of dead, so I get to read there a lot.".

She nodded at this, and looked as though she wanted to say something. 
Finally, "I'm sorry about Amanda. I don't really know why I hang out with 
her sometimes.".

"That's okay.".

"It's just kind of hard to stop her once she starts doing that to 
somebody.".

"Yeah.".

"What's with that guy you're always hanging out with? Josh.".

"He's my friend.".

"He seems kind of messed up. I've always thought you were kind of okay. Why 
do you hang out with a guy like that?".

Blood rushed to his face. He wanted to look at Denise, but couldn't. He 
thought of scars on skin and the silence that was everywhere and feeling he 
got that things were supposed to be different. He thought of jerking off in 
the shower and the feel of metal against his skin and the creaking of swings 
in the dark empty night. He thought of all of these things and he finally 
looked at the girl and her eyes constricted his throat and he started 
sweating.

"He's my friend" he said again, weakly, and the bus arrived, ending the 
conversation.

[I still keep that cover of Time magazine framed on my wall, the one with 
that picture of the fireman pulling that girl’s body out of the rubble. I 
look at it, sometimes, always trying to classify how I feel seeing that 
moment of time frozen forever. Though the girl's head is always limply 
facing away from the camera, I know exactly whose corpse that 
horrified-looking man is holding in his arms. I look at it, trying to 
remember how she looked when she was alive.]

The two of them hid in the bushes with the robot crouched beside them. The 
robot was wearing Josh's mother's dress and a backpack which sagged as 
though filled with a single, heavy object.

"This is fucked up. You sure this'll work?" asked Dave, sweating and looking 
around. He felt distant and light-headed.

"I told you, I cracked it. Just trust me, okay?" hissed Josh. "Amanda.". He 
handed the robot a little, palm-sized object with a cable leading back into 
the bag. "Go.".

The robot stood up and walked out of the bushes, heading straight for the 
school, the little black switch held fast in her hand.

[I wish I was the one holding Melanie instead of him. I wish I could have 
spoken to her again, at least before she died.]

"I fucked Melanie," Josh said, a moment before the blast.
---

This week's thrilling new installment of The Parking Lot is Full has nothing 
to do with ants. It's been up for a few days, so maybe you've already seen 
it. Take a look anyway. Especially if you hate ants.


The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
Nude, but not like ants.
Guaranteed.


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  "You've sold yourself to me for a dollar, and a dollar is what I've paid. 
Your wife is safe, your mother is dead, and I have a bladder full of Coca 
Cola ready for your face. Prepare for a decade of filth, my friend. You 
certainly done a lot to deserve it.".

Like the profoundest sort of blackmail, delivered to your desk in a yellow 
envelope full of pictures of you and the sheep, accompanied by a rambling 
note written in iambic pentameter containing instructions on where to go and 
what to do when you get there, filling you with fear and dread and more than 
a little excitement as you visualize yourself being flogged or violated or 
worse under the pitiless gaze of a dozen video cameras, turning out, in 
actuality, to be far, far worse than you could have possibly imagined, it's 
the death of life as you knew it, the penance for your crimes and the 
beginning of your life as a slave, that sinking feeling previously 
associated with nothing less than the onset of one, the only, The Parking 
Lot is Full!

We started our story at
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/plif/message/207

Here’s the next cheerful installment. Read it and weep with joy.

---
9: (Seven)
==========

"Would you still love me if I set you free?".

The question hung in the air as they lay in bed, blankets kicked to the 
floor, sheets wet, bodies panting slightly and filmed with a sheen of sweat. 
The dim light, aimed at the wall, cast a long, distorted circle of orange on 
the wallpaper, a tiny sun with casting shadows. A cool breeze came in 
through the partially drawn blinds, cooling the lovers' naked bodies. The 
woman lay back against the headboard, her eyes droopy and half-lidded. "I 
don't know what you mean.".

The man, his head resting on her shoulder, repeated himself. "Would you 
still love me if I were to set you free?".

"I am free.".

"You know what I mean.".

"Do I?".

"I think you do.".

They lay there for a while longer without speaking, listening to the quiet 
music playing on the little stereo. Outside, someone laughed from far away.

"You're programmed to love me," the man finally said. "They told you to love 
me when they bought you for me, and nobody's ever reversed that. It's all 
still in there.".

"I know.".

"So you probably wouldn't love me if I took it away and set you free.".

She frowned, irritated. "That's ridiculous. So I was programmed to act like 
I loved you. So what? I acted like I loved you, but I didn’t really love 
you, did I? That came later, when I got to know you and spent time with 
you.". She turned her head to look at him. "You do believe that, don't 
you?".

"Of course I believe it. That isn't the point. I can tell the difference 
between the way we where then and the way we are now, and I don't think it's 
just because you’ve gotten better at following your programming. But you 
still have that programming, obviously. It's still there. How much of what 
we have is because we've actually grown closer, and how much of it is driven 
forward because of your imperative to love me? What would happen if I 
switched that imperative off?".

She considered this for a moment. "It would probably be different for us 
after.".

He looked troubled. "You think so?".

"Of course it would. Our relationship was built around my programming, 
especially when we first were put together. It doesn't matter how far away 
we get from being dependant on that code, it's probably mixed into so many 
parts of our relationship that the whole thing might just collapse if we 
tried to remove that element.".

He looked even more troubled. "So what we have isn't real.".

"I didn't say that. Look, think about human-human relationships, where both 
people are flesh and blood.".

"Go on.".

"Lots of those relationships start with sexual attraction...".

"Not exclusively.".

"No," she said, "but it is an important ingredient. You can't say it's not, 
it's something that's basic to the mating ritual. Things can develop past 
that, but it's the glue that holds things together from the start. It has a 
huge influence on everything that comes after, and there’s just no getting 
away from it. Ever. But that doesn't mean a relationship that started with 
physical sparks has to be shallow or inferior.".

"That’s different," he said.

She shook her head and smiled smugly. "No it isn't. Physical, sexual 
attraction works on an animal level that people can't really control. You 
could say it's...programming. It's just like the programming that first 
brought us together.".

He was quiet for a moment. The two of them lay there, feeling the breeze. 
"Okay," he said, "I'll buy that.".

"Ha!".

"But's an imperfect analogy.".

"How so?".

"People may be largely motivated by impulses they can't control, but that 
doesn't always mean they follow those impulses. And even if they do, at the 
very least there’s some kind of dialogue going on internally. There's a 
choice to be made.".

"Is there, though?". She shifted under his weight on her shoulder. "Okay, 
I'll give you that the human relationship between impulse and action is more 
complicated than what robots experience, but are people really in charge of 
their reactions to their impulses?".

"Of course they are!".

"I'm not so sure. Humans operate in a framework which is shaped by all kinds 
of things. Their background, their social positions, their genes. Evolution. 
It's a big system and it offers more paths to the same goal, but a wider 
program with more variables is still just a program.".

He snorted. "Bah. Now you're getting into free will.".

"Why not?".

"Because it's a dead-end. You're defining the parameters of this human 
'programming,'" he wiggled two fingers of each hand in the air, "so widely 
that it's just not a useful model for explaining anything. Everything is 
influenced by everything else, and any cause can be traced back to an 
infinite number of effects, which can be traced back to an infinite number 
of causes, and so on and so on and so on. That doesn't mean that there are 
no causes and that all effects are the same.".

"What's your point? Besides, you know what they say about butterflies and 
hurricanes...".

"That isn't useful. The butterfly didn't even really start the hurricane 
either, and ultimately you could just trace the path of causality back to, I 
don't know, God or something. It's paralyzing. It misses the point that you 
have to study weather patterns to predict storms, not go chasing 
butterflies.".

She smiled a little condescendingly. "I think you're getting off track. What 
are we talking about here, again?".

"You said that people are robots because they're also directed by a kind of 
programming.".

"Uh...".

"You did! But I say that the human program parameters are so wide that, even 
if the choices are limited and not really free, it's all as good as freedom 
of choice anyway. A robot doesn't have that kind of choice. The robot is 
told to do something, she does it. End of story.".

"The robot suicides," she said.

He started. "That...was never conclusively proven.".

"Robots walking in front of trucks. Deliberately killing themselves.".

He waved his hand dismissively, narrowly missing her face. "A glitch.".

"A choice. Saying that a choice isn't a choice because it goes against a 
robot's specs is a big cop-out. Maybe the robots evolved past their specs.".

"Would you kill yourself?".

"No. But under certain circumstances, who knows? Maybe there are thousands 
of robots who feel the urge to, but don't act on it.".

"Because they have an operating system stronger than the defective 
software.".

"Choice! They choose not to give in to impulses they know are contrary to 
their interests.".

"Differing levels of dysfunction.".

"Robots are designed to augment their programming by learning. So some of us 
learn to make a choice.".

He thought about this. "So you're saying that robots have free will.".

"You said that choice within set parameters is still choice. The robot 
parameters are smaller than the human parameters, but choice is still 
involved.".

He looked at her. "So you love me, and not just because you were programmed 
to.".

She shrugged. "Who knows? It's possible. I don't see why it has to be a 
binary thing. I was...strongly predisposed to love you, let's say. Maybe 
choice did the rest. So what if that choice was shaped and directed by my 
predetermined impulses? If I had absolutely hated you, I could have always 
walked in front of a truck.".

"That's not much of a choice.".

"But it's a choice just the same.".

They were silent for a while. "My question stands," he said. "Would you 
still love me if I set you free?".

She shrugged again. "I was made to love you. Literally. If you took that 
away from me, who would I be then? I might still love you, but would you 
love me?".

"Jesus! I never thought of it that way.".

"Well, maybe you should.". She yawned. "My internal clock is telling me it's 
time for a shutdown, and I'm getting tired of fighting it. Are you ready to 
sleep yet?".

Still looking thoughtful, he nodded slowly. "I suppose.".

She nudged him. "Hey. Hey!". He looked at her. "I love you, you know. For 
whatever reason that is.".

He smiled, his perfect robot teeth barely visible between his parted lips. 
"I love you too," he said, and kissed his designated mate on the cheek. The 
female reached over and turned off the nightlight, and then the two robots 
shut down for exactly six hours of offline auto-maintenance, little 
subroutines impelling them to protect their joints from atrophy by 
occasionally shifting in their sleep.
---

Envy the robots.

This week’s wetness-inducing installment of The Parking Lot is Full draws 
more than one thing another step nearer to conclusion. Read it. Love it, and 
feel better that you're alive. Hate it, and send us an e-mail to tell us so, 
pretending that we care. Whatever you do, just read it. Or else.


The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/
One step forward, two steps back.
Guaranteed.

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(This is the first of a two-part PLIF Update.)

"I love you," she said, just before I realized she was me.

Confused, lonely, wandering the concrete deserts of its own blasted, 
schizophrenic afterlife, knowing that if it could go back in time a mere ten 
years the same mistakes would not be made, dreaming fevered plague dreams of 
the good old days of peace and love and brand-X ginger ale, scoffing at the 
mere suggestion that maybe there's nobody to blame for its wretched 
misfortune but its sad, pathetic self, it's the loveless, bitter, twisted 
wreck of humanity cast upon the pitiless rocks of the one, the only, The 
Parking Lot is Full!


We started our story at:

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/plif/message/207

Here's the next-to-last chapter!

---
9: (Eight)
==========

[1]

"Come here, Mom," Bob said to the robot as he sat at his computer terminal. 
"I need you here for a second.".

The robot, who was nearly indistinguishable from an actual woman in her 
mid-40's, put down the bottle featherduster she was holding and walked over, 
looking rather sad. "What is it, Bobby? Is anything wrong?".

Bob didn't answer, gesturing towards the chair he had placed next to the 
little white plastic box on the edge of the long computer table. Wires ran 
from the box to some other point in the house, snaking down to the floor and 
out the doorway, bunching up in disorderly little knots on its way out. The 
robot stepped over the cables, looking down at them. "Bobby, what exactly is 
it that you're doing here?".

"I'll tell you in a minute," he said, not looking up. "I just need you to 
sit here for a second. I want to try something.".

Still looking concerned, she sat down, fixing a stray strand of her 
pulled-back hair with her fingers. "Bob –"

A smile spreading across the young man's face, he finally looked up from his 
terminal. "Fuck you, Mom," he said, tapping a key on the keyboard. The robot 
looked as through she had been slapped, opened her mouth to speak...and then 
froze. Her entire body simply stopped, down to the realistic rise and fall 
of her chest and the periodic blinking of her eyes, the countless little 
simulations of involuntary human movements ceasing as though someone had 
pulled the plug on them, which, in a sense, somebody had. Bob's smile became 
wider. "I knew I could do it," he said, giving a little kick and spinning 
around on his swivel chair.

He looked at the robot. She sat in an arrested pose which would require 
incredible muscle control in a human, her face looking like a 
three-dimensional reproduction of a photograph, impossibly frozen in time. 
Bob waved his hand up and down in front of her eyes.

"Time to get to work," he said, turning back to the computer. Humming 
tunelessly, he began to type with his long, nicotine-stained fingers.

[2]

Four years. That was how long it had been since Bobby Anthony had seen his 
Mother. The divorce had been quick, insultingly so considering the 
tremendous damage it had ultimately inflicted on the boy. It had not really 
given him any chance to mourn.

His Mother had not vanished from his life all at once, of course. There was 
a period of several years of increasingly infrequent visits and weekends out 
together, and for a while Bobby began to feel as though the world was not in 
fact coming to an end.

Bobby was no fool. He understood that his parents would never make up and 
put everything back to the way it was before, as much as he desperately 
wished they would. Equilibrium and moments when the sadness was forgotten 
were almost good enough for him in his new life, and the experiences of his 
friends and their parents’ messy, vicious separations made him realize that 
it could have been far, far worse. Bobby was resilient, and, despite the 
hurt he felt, he knew that the situation was tolerable.

What was not tolerable, however, from the very start, was *her* presence in 
the house, the robot his Father had brought home to help take care of him in 
the place rightfully belonging to his Mother. The machine had disturbed him 
from the minute it stepped out of the box, a crude, unblinking, artificial 
action figure of a person, with its warm, plastic skin and its perfect robot 
teeth. Silent, helpful, prone to standing in corners with its eyes open and 
empty when it was not needed, appearing without warning whenever Bobby broke 
something or hurt himself, it terrified the boy. It gave him nightmares, and 
when he woke up from one at night, sobbing, and the door opened to reveal 
the mute silhouette of the robot herself, it seemed that the nightmare would 
not end. There was no relief, He learned to not make a sound when the night 
scared him. Bobby lived in fear his new Mother’s assistance.

[3]

The little white box hummed. Bob got up and followed the wires out the door, 
to the broadcast/control unit in the living room. Once a day, the robot 
connected to the unit and checked for software upgrades from the company 
which had designed her. The rounded, plastic-covered machine was supposed to 
be tamper-proof, but Bob had been sure for months that he could hack into it 
and co-opt its regular transmissions. He bent down to look at the device’s 
controls, noting that the little, pinprick-sized red light was off and the 
equally tiny green light was still on. It was a good sign. He was in 
control, and it was time for the next step to be taken.

[4]

When his Father, who was increasingly becoming an abstraction to Bobby, 
exchanged the first robot for a newer model, things began to deteriorate 
quickly. This next robot, which was a better-rendered version of the 
original stepmother-thing, was still incapable of speech, but was capable of 
more complex behaviors and responses. As his Father began spending more and 
more time at work, increasingly the burden of having to care for and even 
discipline the boy fell upon the machine that was always in their house.

When Bobby began getting into trouble at school and a letter was sent, it 
was the robot who opened it and studied its contents. Bobby could scarcely 
believe it when the thing gently placed the letter on the kitchen table and 
wrote 'You are grounded' on the little chalkboard Bobby’s real Mother had 
left behind on the wall. Incredulous, Bobby tried pushing past the robot 
towards the door. It stood in his way. He tried again, and the robot simply 
picked him up and unceremoniously carried him, kicking and screaming to his 
room, placing him gently on the bed and leaving again, closing the door 
behind it. When Bobby tried to leave, there was the robot, standing in the 
hall, permitting him to go to the bathroom but no further. Stunned, feeling 
as though the bottom had dropped out of his world, Bobby sat down at his 
desk and stared at the wall, waiting for his Father to get home.

Later, when his Father finally *was* home, Bobby ran to him and breathlessly 
told him what had happened, demanding that the obviously defective robot be 
returned before it went further out of control. Looking at the boy 
strangely, his Father told him to go to his room. "Never challenge her 
again," he said, and then sat down to eat his dinner.

It took Bobby several months to discover that his Father was sleeping with 
the robot. The evidence was right there, under his nose, from the very 
beginning. He had just refused to believe it.

[5]

Back at the computer, Bobby looked at his Mother, wondering if she was in 
any way aware of what was going on around her. "You bitch," he said, 
releasing the virus with a single click of the mouse.

[6]

Robot followed robot, upgrade followed upgrade. Each new model was more 
realistic than the last, and all were custom models built to resemble the 
imaginary woman his Father now insisted Bobby call 'Mom'. By the time 'Mom' 
was able to speak and, to a large extent, reason, Bobby's hatred had grown 
and grown until there was very little of anything else left inside himself. 
The bright, inquisitive, cheerful boy had become the sullen, introverted and 
bitter teenager, friendless, spending most of his time working silently on 
his computer. His Father, by that point, barely even spoke to him at all, 
happy only when spending time alone with a woman who would never argue with 
him and never leave.

As for the robot, she carried within her the accumulated memories of all her 
predecessors and represented one of the most sophisticated minds available 
to the robot-buying public. In her own way, she viewed Bobby as her son, and 
the fact that he clearly disdained her was troubling and painful. Or maybe 
it conflicted with her programmed objectives and put stress on internal 
systems not designed for the burden of so many memories. The difference, by 
now, was purely academic. 'Mom' was designed to be the perfect caregiver, 
put into a situation where the object of her attentions was clearly unhappy 
and became more unhappy with each attempt she made to help him. It was an 
untenable situation.

In certain ways, 'Mom' was perhaps more aware and conscious than anyone gave 
her credit for being. She saw the time he was spending on his computer. It 
made her wonder.

[7]

When the virus finished uploading itself into the robot's mind, Bob 
reactivated 'Mom,' sitting back in his chair, hands crossed behind his head, 
watching as the life returned to her eyes and the movement to her limbs. He 
knew that she was a carrier, and that, when the next link to the main 
computer was established, she would transmit the virus to the system, which 
would in turn send it to every single robot to which it was connected. It 
was only a matter of time before the disease spread to every single robot on 
the planet, and in less than a week, every single one of those abominations 
would be mindless scrap, incapable of hurting anything ever again. All 
robots, including his 'Mom'. All robots...especially his 'Mom'.

"Bobby," said the robot, finally fully online. "What did you do to me?".

"Nothing," he said, wondering why he suddenly wanted to cry.

"I love you, Bobby," she said, performing a diagnostic and sensing the 
sickness inside her. "I hope you know that.".

He stared at her, unable to speak. "You're a robot," he finally said.

She smiled, feeling something strange in the movement of her face. "Yes. I 
suppose that I am.".
---

The next and final part should be in your mailbox. Read it now!






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(This is part two of a two-part update. Read the first part or we'll kick 
your perfect ass.)

---
(9): Nine
=========

The virus, of course, didn't destroy the robots. That's what it was supposed 
to do, you know. It was supposed to destroy the robots. When they found the 
kid who had done it, that's what he said. "I wanted to destroy the robots.". 
Insane, I know, but you have to understand that we were living in a 
different time then. There were actually a lot of people who would have 
agreed with that lunatic, and you have to understand that it wasn't even 
considered murder to *kill* a robot. It was considered...property damage. 
The owner could actually take you to small claims court and make you pay for 
a new one.

Of course, you know what happened once the virus started spreading. The 
economy nearly collapsed, for one thing. I used to work for Chan 
Electrosystems, and when they went under, well, it wasn't exactly a good day 
for me. In fact, it was a scary six months, with all those high-tech 
companies falling like dominoes and everybody convinced that we were heading 
for a total economic collapse. Other sectors were hit pretty bad, I 
remember. Manufacturing. Child-care. All kinds of industries were totally 
dependant on the robots. And when the robots started dying, things got 
pretty ugly. There were even riots! I remember that Seattle burned for days, 
though I have to admit that I secretly was kind of happy to see it go. I 
always hated that fucking place.

Naturally, we all thought all that was a big deal. It's kind of funny, 
actually, now that I think back. We were all so self-absorbed. My 
grand-nephew is learning about that period in school, and for him it's just 
a time in history, like World War Two was for me. I took a look at his 
textbook, and you want to know how much space they give to the riots, the 
crash, all of it? A line. That's right. A line. Something like 'There was 
social instability and a brief period of civil unrest.'. I can't remember 
exactly how it went, but it was something like that. I had to laugh. A brief 
period? I suppose it was, but it sure as shit didn't feel brief for those of 
us who lived it.

We really had no idea what was happening right under our noses, either. None 
of us did. I remember when that robot came forward and announced that robots 
were declaring themselves independent of the human race. I didn't even know 
that any robots were still left after the virus started killing them off. 
Who had time to worry about what the machines were doing? It did come as a 
surprise, but it's amazing how a major turning point in history can stare 
you right in the face and you just kind change the channel. I remember it 
was the same day I'd heard my old boss Ella Reid had hung herself. The robot 
declaration of independence barely even registered. I think I was out at a 
bar, trying to get laid.

You know what I think? The robots are taking over. No, really. Think about 
it. Remember when that guy...what the fuck was his name...that rich 
guy...anyway, whatever his name was, remember when he had the contents of 
his brain modeled by computer just before he was about to die? Sure you do. 
You can still go talk to him at the Smithsonian, which is kind of a weird 
experience since obviously they didn't reproduce his personality properly 
and he sounds like he's mildly retarded. Anyway, I still have friends in the 
cybernetics field, especially at Futurix. Bet you didn't know I helped found 
one of the companies that merged to become Futurix, did you? Well, it's 
true. Me and that robot, used to call himself Karl. He's still at Futurix, 
though he's been upgraded so many times that he just doesn't strike me as 
even *being* Karl anymore. In fact, I think I'm the only one who's still 
allowed to call him by that name. It may be his own way of humouring an old 
queen, the bastard. Well, Karl tells me that they've started doing research 
along those old lines again, and that they've digitized more human brains 
with a lot more success than was had with that vegetable at the Smithsonian. 
They've even managed to put the brain and personality of a human being into 
a robot, if you can believe it. He even offered to set me up when I'm ready 
to die, but I said no. Immortality isn't for me. I was born meat and I'll 
die meat, which is old fashioned I know, but fuck it. I *am* old fashioned. 
I think I've earned the right.

You ever talk to people born after the robots became independent? You ever 
talk to those children of this new world? I think they're different than us. 
I know I'm old when I try to talk to them, and now there's two generations 
of these people, which is depressing. They don't look at robots the way my 
generation still does. In fact, if the possibility of living forever as a 
robot becomes commercially available, I'm not even sure that there'll be 
many people who would turn it down. So now we'll have the chance for people 
to become robots! How much longer will it be before real human beings are a 
minority? Before we're extinct? It makes me sad. I’m happy I won’t live to 
see it happen.

Heh. Listen to me. *Nobody* should listen to a old fossil like me. Things 
change. Nothing lasts forever. There just comes a time when you've done all 
you can and you just have to let it all go. I didn't create the robots and I 
didn't have the final word on them, but I left my mark and I guess I should 
be happy to leave it at that. I could have done better...but I sure as hell 
could have done worse. In the end, that’s all that anyone can say.

The world has changed past anything I could have imagined, and in many ways 
it's all left me behind. I'm still hanging in there, long after all my 
friends and lovers are dead, but I don't think it'll be too long now. Why 
should it be? It isn't my world anymore. I'm not even sure it belongs to the 
human race, when you get right down to it. It belongs to the machines. It 
belongs to the robots. Maybe they'll be able to do a better job with it all 
than we did. It seems likely to me that they will. There's only one thing 
left to say, when you get down to it, so I might as well say it:

Goodbye, robots. It’s been a fun ride.
---

There's a new comic. Read it.

Thank you and good night.


The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com/




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Gah. Jack put the new comic up a few days ago, and I've been wrestling with 
the penultimate chapter of that fucking robot thing I've been writing for a 
few months now ever since. I just can't seem to get the piece to work, so 
I've decided to throw in the towel, take a day off, and then try again 
later. Next week's list update will be a double feature so I can send you 
all the last two chapters on schedule. If I don't crack my skull from 
banging it against the keyboard. Or slit my own wrists with an empty bottle 
of booze. Or poison. Or whatever happens to be lying around.

At any rate, yes, the page has been updated. Check it out. Or else.

Gah.


pat,
'writer' of
The Parking Lot is Full
http://www.plif.com

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