"Do you know the difference of a baby that falls out of the
window on 1st floor, and a baby that falls out of the window on
The baby who falls out of the window in 1st floor goes 'Bump!
Weeeeeeeeeeh!' while the baby who falls out of the window in
100th floor goes 'Weeeeeeeeeeeeh! Bump!'"
A sick joke by G.E.A.
(Alledgedly, this is the stuff
he uses to make a pass on a girl)
Oh, no! What have I done to deserve...
THE BIRTHDAY THAT ATE MY BRAIN
(The terrorizing tale of how an otherwise innocent page in the
calendar was transformed into a head-blasting, mind-bending,
by Richard Karsmakers
(Inspired by a birthday card and the actual birthday)
(But especially by a guest called Peter Jamin)
Some of you may consider this story slightly rude. If you're
someone like that, exit this article now.
A couple of months ago, I had my birthday. Yes, this does mean
that all you lot out there forgot it - go and hide in a corner
for a day or two!
The thing about my birthday that made it unlike any of my
previous birthdays was that I actually organised a little party
on it. When I was still living at home with my dad I never really
wanted to do it, and in other years something always got between
it. But now there was no possible excuse. Not organising a party
simply wasn't done.
I had spent about a week inviting assorted people I could get
along with nicely. Among these were some Quartermass Experiment
people (Re "Jurie" Layer could not attend, but The "Laurens"
Mind and The Nutty "Alex" Snake could), a QX satellite (Tjeerd),
ancient ST NEWS ex-co-conspirator Frank and girlfriend, and some
people I study with at University (for the sake of completeness,
these were called Monique, Peter, Harriët and Robert; I had also
invited others called Heidi and Debi but these had other
occupations). Last but not least the mysterious Mr. X attended,
someone whom we all know rather well.
I had told people to start coming between 7 and 9 PM, so I was
sitting on the couch as of 6 PM, virtually a nervous wreck
because nobody has bothered to arrive so far. Miranda was with
me, of course, and she kept telling me that people usually drop
in later than at the time they are expected.
I had to go to the bathroom quite desperately. Not just for a
bit of wee wee, but to do some serious crapping if you get my
drift. I really needed to go but decided I shouldn't. After all,
if I were to do something on the loo the entire bathroom (not to
mention the hall adjacent to which it is located) would be
ponging like God knows what.
The sheer thought of not being able to have a crap made my
entire body ache to produce more of it. You may be happy to know
that eventually I managed to withhold it all, and that I will
from now on no longer refer to any bodily processes (as least not
After this nervous phase came the doubting phase.
Did I tell people the right time? Had they perhaps forgotten?
Have they tried to cancel but couldn't they reach me? Is Public
Transport still working? Were all the clocks in the house running
fast? Is today actually the day on which I told them to come?
I looked around the room. All chairs were ready, including the
garden ones that we had had to fetch from the attic. It looked
like the perfect party. Crisps were waiting to be eaten. The
smell of coffee and tea pervaded the air coming from the kitchen.
If only there would have been more people than just the two of us
- Miranda and me.
I decided to shake the sugar pot a bit. It had not been used for
a while and the sugar had solidified into one rather coherent
lump. During the shaking, plenty of it ended up all over the
table and the floor, of course.
Miranda was being her usual Stoical self, only stifling a laugh
when I said or did something silly again.
I, on the other hands, decided that perhaps the milk and the
sugar should swap places. Or perhaps not? I got another chair
from another room.
Then, at about nine, the first people arrived. Only then did my
doubt fall away. I did tell them the right day and time, and the
buses were still driving. All clocks in the house had not been
running fast. I had been on the verge of panicking, flipping out
completely - but now all was good again. My sanity was preserved
Or so I thought.
People who organise a party like this will quickly discover the
same thing I discovered: People arrive at precisely the proper
time distance from one another to make sure that you can sit down
again and take the cake in your hand, but not eat any of it.
Waiting at the door, on the other hand, will assure that they
don't arrive at all - until you sit down and try to actually eat
your cake, that is.
To top off everything, Mr. X came in last - at about 10.
On this particular party, someone (Laurens) had brought a bottle
of Vodka along. He was clearly intent on getting some of it
before he left, so it didn't take long before the first people
started getting intoxicated. Especially Mr. X, Peter and Laurens
knew where to put the stuff. A bottle of Plantiac was eagerly
devoured by Alex, Tjeerd, Robert, myself and (again) Peter. It
was striking that the girls didn't drink anything but soft
drinks or some wine. Frank also refrained from drinking any
alcohol, by the way. I guess he's turning soft - which might be
caused by female influence.
Monique was getting restless as she saw Peter getting more and
more, let's say, tipsy. She had arrived together with him, and
the thought that she might have to get him back home slowly
dawned upon her mind. When she wanted to go home at around
midnight, Peter was showing no signs of wanting to leave (whereas
he was beginning to show signs of getting slightly pissed out of
his skull). She thought 'whattaheck' and went anyway. The other
University people left, too - except for Peter.
It had started to rain quite awfully. Not just any day's drizzle
or even the occasional downpour, no! A real torrent that
thundered on the roofs and made people get wet instantly.
Frank and his girl left not too long afterwards so, soon, there
was nobody left but the hardened core of computer users, Peter,
and Miranda and me.
After all beer in the house had been finished off, together with
that mean litre of Vodka and the litre of Plantiac, the party
quickly transformed into a bozos' gathering or something. Peter
was getting very drunk, laughing sillily all the time. Laurens
was getting very introvert after half a litre of Vodka. Mr. X was
getting pretty active, which primarily manifested itself in the
ejection of "Pop Classics" from the CD player and the inserting
of some Carcass, Napalm Death and Sodom at neighbour-provokingly
loudnesses. Tjeerd was throwing beernuts into anyone who was
prepared to keep his mouth open for them. Alex was laughing a
lot. Tjeerd, too (he laughs really funnily, you know).
After a while, all the attendants seemed to be able to talk
about is alcohol - though the QX members managed to throw in the
odd bit of computer talk regularly. Peter requested more alcohol
every minute. Laurens still had some - Peter took the glass and
the contents vanished as if down a bottomless hole.
Peter laughed a lot, and visited the loo about every quarter of
an hour. He had what he called 'piss orgasms'. He waited for the
feeling of having to pee to grow until he virtually wetted his
pants, then went and enjoyed the release more than ever (I shall
not describe the cries that arose from the loo nor the number of
times he forgot where the door was and ran into a wall).
At about 2 AM, I decided it had been enough. Everybody was busy
laughing in a silly way, the floor was covered with beernuts and
other trampled crisps, and all alcohol had been consumed. Outside
it was raining as if God was doing a dress rehearsal for a sequel
to the deluge that had to minutify the first.
Everybody stumbled outside with the exception of Laurens, Peter
and Mr. X. Mr. X has legitimate reasons, as he was scheduled to
stay over for the night. Laurens would leave soon - after he had
ceased emptying his stomach the wrong way in the loo. Peter,
however, just found it fun to climb on the roof in spite of the
torrential downpour, laughing his silly laughs through the silent
evening sky of Utrecht.
Eventually we got him down (there's no way of telling what will
happen with a drunkard like him on the edge of a roof with a bit
of a storm) and he left too. Thank God. I was glad to see the
back of that one.
Laurens, oddly silent and with a glazy look in his eyes, left at
about the same time. He nearly forgot his raincoat before he
stepped on his bike and disappeared between the cats and dogs.
THE NEXT DAY
It started late, let me tell you that. Although I had been no
way near as drunk as some of the others, I had been quite
intoxicated myself. At about noon I woke up, and so did Miranda.
Mr. X got out several minutes later. He tried to do some
demonstrating on my computer but quickly found it handy to
retreat to the loo to do some serious vomiting.
Yep. Vodka is some mean stuff and he had consumed loads of it.
And beer. And Plantiac.
If I had been him I had rather swallowed my vomit instead of
hanging with my head atop this loo. All of the previous evening
and night, it had been used dozens of times and it was
proportionally filled with the odd bit of 'ill aimed' urine,
pubic hair and God knows what kinds of other stuff.
Mr. X spent the largest part of the afternoon on our couch,
sleeping off his rather severe hangover. I could do naught but
smile in a rather silly way.
Later that day, men in white came to fetch me. This birthday had
been to much for me and my poor remaining brain cell.
I am currently residing in the Ambulor Eight hospital for the
People Who Had Their Brains Eaten.
This article appears courtesy of my nurse (who, incidentally,
looks like an identical twin of Mariah Carey). She took notes of
everything I brabbled incoherently and, along the way, made sure
I had a permanent har...
No. She won't have me say this.
Accidentally, I think I'm in a position to organise a minor
compo here. If you can guess who the person "Mr. X" is who stayed
the night (the one that vomited all over my loo), please write
down his name and send it to me (my address is the address that's
contained most in this issue of ST NEWS, but not the
correspondence address). The person sending in the most original
entry (preferably a long letter accompanied by a disk contained
an article we can use in ST NEWS) will win an enormous amount of
1. A sheet containing the explanation of how to get to the
hidden articles in this issue of ST NEWS as well as those in the
previous one - all of 'em!
2. The video featuring the ST NEWS International Christmas
Coding Convention (see "Merchandise" article), worth 50 Dutch
3. Well...er...what about an autographed copy of the next ish of
4. That's about all. Hardly an enormous list but, hey, I'm a
People who were at my birthday are not eligible to enter. This
compo closes on the date the next issue of ST NEWS (i.e. Volume 7
Issue 2) will be published, so you'd better hand in your answers
before approximately July 1992!
Of course, there are the usual things you can do to increase the
likelihood of winning. You could enclose a picture of your 18-
year old sister in a bathing suit, for example, or large amounts
of green paper. I suppose you have enough imagination to think of
what I might like. Do something fantastic!
Tnx for the birthday card, Mark!
Later, Laurens told me he had spent the next day in bed. So had
Peter, by the way. Isn't that nice?
Tiny parts of this article are copyright © by Paper Moon, off a
card by Matt Groenig and Steve Vance, published by The Ink Group
Pty Ltd in New South Wales, Australia.
The text of the articles is identical to the originals like they appeared in old ST NEWS issues. Please take into consideration that the author(s) was (were) a lot younger and less responsible back then. So bad jokes, bad English, youthful arrogance, insults, bravura, over-crediting and tastelessness should be taken with at least a grain of salt. Any contact and/or payment information, as well as deadlines/release dates of any kind should be regarded as outdated. Due to the fact that these pages are not actually contained in an Atari executable here, references to scroll texts, featured demo screens and hidden articles may also be irrelevant.