(Contest: How many a.m.nin inside references can YOU spot? Write them all down on a piece of paper, fold it in three corners, and play table football with it. You'll be happier that way.)

From: circe@cts.com (Hair Goddess)
Subject: Forwarded from Taylor McLaren...

A lot of you (okay, two people) have been writing to me recently, asking why it is that I haven't been posting to the newt nearly as much as somebody of my former Frequent Posters' standing should. The very simple (and, for the terminally clueless, completely untrue) answer is that I've been travelling the world in search of interesting and unusual music. I figured that some of you might be interested, as it were, in hearing what I've managed to track down.

Before I do so, however, I wanted to say that you wouldn't believe some of the completely false information that gets posted to newsgroups such as, say, this one. A while back, I hear there was a big kafuffle over the possible existence of a remix of "the becoming" by none other than Coil. Naysayers notwithstanding, I have managed to unearth a copy on an extremely rare promo disk (simply labelled "Halo Ten, I swear to God!"), and I'm now passing the lyrics therein on to you for your edification. The lyrical structure is strikingly similar to that in the original, but it now features a collection of samples that sound rather like armpit noises and belches in the places of the old synth and percussion lines. Somehow, I find them appropriate.

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BFPT #26003

(yeah, I think I dug up that many old, dumb jokes...)

"the unbecoming"

i stare at the screen... it's a part of me... my bfpt...
i drool on the keys... it's mind-wiped me... it's unbecoming
the me that you know, he had some decent thoughts
he's battered and blue; he's watched broken and more
the me that you know, he cannot come around much
discussion threads aren't very welcome no more --

*SCREEEEECH!*

"What the fuck are you talking about, you wussy, old-style elitist sack of shit? If you don't like the way things are done around here, why don't you just take your dumb music-snob ass and haul it over to rec.music.industrial?"
*biff! pow! fronk!*

*ahem*...

my brain disappears, it's the nature of this insanity
drowns out all i hear, no escape from this talk of His Trentness
the group that you know, it used to make tallies
but sinapple has stopped flowing, no more talk of voltron
the group that you know has given up on its ramen
so now we talk about trent's nose and why a grey porsche is wrong
i can try to get away, but i've subscribed through TIN
i can try to scratch away the newt in my ears
i can see it killing away all of my spare time
i don't like these fishnets, they expose my rear...

screaming louder at all of us, "it was in omaha!"
newbies, stay away from spencer and his big bologna

[screeching and wailing samples begin, with Trent shrieking "I said 'INSECT,' dammit!" waaaaaay down in the mix]

i won't eat it, it strikes me dead
that fucking crunchy peanut spread

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If you feel left out, you're probably supposed to.