atdt7941842
There's a Mystical Kingdom filled with Unicorns and Rainbows! A Place where The Beautiful Princess, dressed all in Lace, invites Those Silly Old Elves for Tea! It's an Enchanted land, a Special Place for Little Girls! USER: LOBO PW: XXXX
R.I.P. - The /<ingdom of Shit - R.I.P.
The /<ingdom of Shit was a BBS which ran from 1986 or so to 1995. It was originally known as the <astle <atatonic, for you history buffs. If you weren't there, you wouldn't understand its significance, and frankly, we don't want you here. Go away. Or don't.
The /<ingdom of Shit, Elite. "We're the beaten up old Nova pulled over on the shoulder of the Information Superhighway, hood up and engine smoking, filled with a bunch of glassy-eyed losers who can't read a map, and even if they could, couldn't afford the gas to get anywhere, and anyway, the Nova's a stick, and no one knows how to drive a stick, and the guy who WAS driving is really, really carsick, and wandered off into the field beside the highway and is presently hacking up his Grand Slam breakfast and 7-11 coffee."
Click here for classic posts by Franken Gibe, /<oS SysGod.
I'm sick of Big Concepts. I'm sick of Cleverness. I'm sick of arrogant manifestoes that declare a New Age, one constructed outta alot of the bits and pieces left over from the old age. I'm sick of mainstream bullshit innundating so-called subculture, sick of seeing the same old prejudices and banalities and castes and hierarchies infecting Outsider Society. I'm sick of Outsider society, with it's rules and styles and stupidity. I'm sick of wanting things for myself that I despise other people for wanting-- like fame, or money, or sex. I'm sick of getting angry cuz i can't convince anyone of anything. I'm sick of being ineffectual. I'm sick of whining cuz i'm inactive and uninvolved. Here's a concept. In a silent basement in the land-locked bowels of America there's an anonymous little pc that hums away lightless hours. It calls itself the kingdom of shit. It's where loneliness comes from. It's run at 1200 baud, a sad, archaic speed. It's few users stumble dully through vacant, dusty subboards, groping in the halflight of their vdt's, tacking up terse requests for contact. Everyone wants to know where anyone is. The pc's cpu silently calculates its billion loneliness algorithms every second, and the bbs's data base fills with digitized confusion, and disorientation, and loneliness. Everything comes from somewhere. This is where loneliness enters the cybernet. The kingdom of shit may be vast, a storehouse of unused megs, like great, cyber-warehouses lit by flickering flourescent tubes; miles and miles of empty warehouse space. Or maybe not. The sysop's never available. Rumor has it he died years back. The bbs seldom crashes, and it's revival is mysterious and abrupt when it does. They say the line (a number somewhere in the texas plains) is sometimes busy for days, but when a caller finally gets through, there's no appreciable difference. No posts. A list of previous callers who never leave a word, a reason or intention or hope or fear for their calls. There's no xfers... nothing to attract the somber legions of wares pirates. Just those creaky old sub-boards, and a few hopelessly out of date messages from lost users, callers from years back, set adrift like messages in a bottle, adrift on a digital ocean. They say loneliness comes from here. That the bbs phones thousands of systems a year, inserting viruses, or subtly manipulating machine code. Seeding the cyberplains with loneliness. The kingdom of shit is like a Johnny Appleseed of despair, mindless, it's coded instructions mirthlessly and mysteriously executed. It's intentions are unclear, a matter of conjecture. And who conjectures? Only a few. Some of the zombies who wander the empty Kingdom's halls. A few old men who've thought deeply and alone about Conditions and their Meanings. Maybe a hebephrenic or two, wandering the midsummer, midnight streets in the great cities of America, murmuring the word 'alone,' or challenging passing cars with a fearful growl: "Kingdom of shit!" Messages in bottles. sick of me... la la la... i'm sick of you... yeah, yeah, yeah.
The management of the /<ingdom of Manly Luv is proud to announce that as of August 13th, 1993, our BBS has been admitted into the presitigious North American Man-Boy Love Association Compu-Network. The benefits of this new relationship will be many. Our highly localized efforts to promote such Positive youth activities as Man-Boy Nude Mud-Wrestling Events, leather-crafts workshops, as well as our continuing attempt to ensure thorough and frequent proctological examinations for our city's young males, will all now receive national support and recognition. /<.o.M.-LUV and NAMBLA -- A Winning Combination for 1993!
HEY HEY HEY aLL y0U r0dEnTzzz!!!!!!
y0U'vE eNteReD tHe
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1200 baud of PURE 'PUTER POWER
- Over 32k of file space -
Headquarters of Elite Leeches & Troublemakers (ELeeT)
ANARCHY!ANARCHY!ANARCHY!ANARCHY!ANARCHY!ANARCHY!
Sysop: Thee HaCKeR
Cosysop: The Kil0byte NINJA
NO R0dEntZZ! N0 FeDs! THIS B0ARD IS F0R ELITE USERS 0NLY!
Did someone say "Parcheesi"?!? Alright, gang, roll-up those sleeves and get ready for some Fun! Parcheesi isn't just good, it's good for you. That's why the /<ingdom of Family Entertainment is proud to endorse Parcheesi. Parcheesi is for the beach, Parcheesi is for the lake, Parcheesi is for the back seat of dad's Buick. Anytime, anywhere, when someone says "Parcheesi," then you know it's time to break out the bondage gear and the Twinkies and prepare for some good, wholesome fun. (Parcheesi is for mutually consenting adults only. Consult with a physician before playing Parcheesi. Parcheesi is NOT for use in the presence of flammable liquids, open sores and wounds, or small household pets.)
FACT: Since the late 1940's, the United States Government has possessed MATERIAL evidence of extraterrestrial life. FACT: Alien technologies are being tested in the Nevada desert while the Government denies such testing. FACT: In the Wxyllaly Year 343, the Great Gray Alien Empire began Project Progeny, an attempt to seed the BBS community with e.t. spies whose mission is to spread confusion, disinformation, and to pervert conventional human sexuality. FACT: In 1956, the /<ingdom of Besieged HumanKind BBS went online, establishing as its mission the overthrow of the Convenience Store Conspiracy and the adoption of the turkey sausage as America's national bird. FACT: In March, 1993, the /<ingdom averted global conflagration by sending 4 million unsolicited pizzas to Trilateral Commission members worldwide.
The /<ingdom of Mystery's 1994 Prognostications! ------------------------------------------------ Zion's dream of indoor plumbing will become a REALITY! Lobo will be afflicted by EXPIRED dairy products! Ratt Fink and SOMEONE SPECIAL will exchange monster truck trading cards. Zippy will convince himself and others that canned tuna is a recreational drug! Swamp Kev will find something ABSOLUTELY UNEXPECTED in his pocket! Shan Winter will short-sheet HER OWN bed! Zen and Genaerik will feel a NUMB, TINGLING sensation for 4 minutes, beginning at 3:19 pm on April 13th. G.A. Matt WILL NOT REMEMBER where he left something. Susan will discover she has SOMETHING IN COMMON with a certain supporting actor on a certain FOX primetime sitcom. Fastmike will become UNCOMFORTABLE with the IDEA of simulated-wood veneers. Trojas will cultivate an appetite for ANYTHING-and-Spam. The /<ingdom of Mystery reminds you that the future is NOT YOURS TO CONTROL, so just relax, and accept the inevitability of your separate, absurd destinies.
At HoHoCon a couple years back, some dorkballs claimed to be hackin' into forbidden cyberspace, rooting around for info on UFO's. Fuck those weiner dogs. Okay, so hacking and systems' intrusion isn't really a strong suit among us /<osers; so what? Just cuz we're parochial incompetents doesn't mean we can't TRY to discover the mysteries of the unknown encrypted in this digital disneyland. So, how about those of us who give a shit about UFOlogy-- and really, about the paranormal in general-- try to figure stuff out. Consider /<os a rolling colloquium on high weirdness and the really far out. Anyone with any sorts of hacking skills ought to email me, and we'll discuss our options. People with relavant files ought to upload 'em. Maybe everyone'll find a little relief from that nagging existential bellyache by focusing on the external and transcendent for a change.
/<ingdom of Shit Regulars
User numbers I can remember are listed. If you want your's to be listed or if you think you should be on here, e-mail Lobo.
This Christmas, say 'I love you' with the gift that keeps giving -- say it with Pipe Cleaners (tm). Nothing will please that Someone Special more than a flexible, fuzzy stick. Nothing. Pipe Cleaners say you care. Pipe Cleaners betray your discretion and good taste. Pipe Cleaners identify you as a discriminating gift-giver. When the ordinary just won't do -- say it with a Pipe Cleaner. (Pipe Cleaners (tm) and Pipe Cleaner Christmas Candles are available at your local /<ingdom of /<ristmass)
Timmy took the dare. As his young friends gaped in astonishment, he finished off his TENTH bowl of SuperFiberBran cereal. No one-- not even lab mice-- had ever defied the principles of dietary fiber with such fierceness, such flair. It was only a matter of moments. The wide stripe of Timmy's victory grin twisted into a confused grimace. A rumbling like a hundred thousand wild hoof-falls choked the morning calm. Timmy's face flushed red, his eyes bulged, and with a Mighty "fffffrrrppppthhhtpt!", the young lad's bowels wrenched asunder, spewing half-digested chunks of SuperFiberBran geyserlike at friends and family. Timmy's BBS? /<ingdom of Shit, of course. 806/794-1842. "The only limit is the size of your colon."
This page is provided as a service for all of my fellow former users of the /<ingdom of Shit by Lobo. It's free for all to see, (not that anyone would actually want to see it) because that's the way Gibe would have wanted it.
/O Scabbie, Official Mascot of the Where's Leif? Society, says, "I wanna fuck that girlie boy in the ass. WHERE IS HE?" ¶µßW£ NO CARRIER