Random Jakes

WHEREIN random people from the White Pages get Jaked.

Sometimes Discordians get bored. Back in the glory days of the Yahoo Group: Discordia (history now deleted by those nefarious Yahooians) we would get random names out of the white pages and Jake them. Here are a few for your viewing pleasure.

Stacy Looney, 1101 Shipley Street Springdale, AR 72764 USA

All PMC did for this Jake was make a Discordian Dating Service PDF (121K) that had her as the return address. Also, we used her address in many later Random Jakes as a return address.

We then promoted her address to that of Looney Advertising Ltd. and sent a letter to Razorback Muffler (in the “Ye Olde Jakes” section). We will try to resist the impulse of using Looney much more though. I'm starting to feel bad for the poor woman.

St. Zebbin's Jake:

First I'm sending her that “Plant Your Seeds” thing from the Principia. Then separately I'm sending four pages of other stuff including this definition:

lunatic: ( lu-na-tic ) n. 1. title of a lunatic. ex: Lunatic Bob. 2. a person bearing the title of a lunatic. v. to lunatic, the act of lunaticing. ex: Lunatic Bob was lunaticing when I walked in.

Anyway, I'm also sending about a one and a half pages of gibberish inspired by ZooMoo which is a MUSH designed for the purposes of quiet mediation. ex: “Fallen bay-vey, towers no hold / Coward mask, cowboy have no jutten / But melkor copper no jeepy bay / Mind make no matter, what iron matter false”.

This eye test (PMC made a PDF (71k)):


A
REYO
UAS
LAV
E

This quote from myself:
“I'm” “not” “up” “for” “arguments” “of” “a” “philosophical” “nature” “.”

And finally:

“This has been a presentation of the LFA Kabal. ((that's me)) Look for our ads on dollar bills in the near future.

K All Rights Deversed – Who Cares?

Published by the LFA Kabal Headquaters in a damp cave near Chattanooga, TN.

Hail Eris! All Hail Discordia!

Pope Salmon the Lesser Mungojelly's Jake:

I have just finished my letter to Stacy Looney. The text of the first page is as follows (largely in magic marker):

DEAR STACY LOONEY ..
WE LOVE YOU!

ERIS DISCO(R)DIA, MOST
BEAUTIFUL AND CHAOTIC,
HAS COMMANDED US TO LOVE YOU.

We Must Obey! You will receive not only letters and musical vibrations (listen carefully!) but also 10,000 RAINDROPS each specially signed, numbered, limited edition just for you! PLEASE DON'T BE SCARED!!!

ALL HAIL ERIS!!!
ALL HAIL DISCORDIA!!!
ALL HAIL STACY LOONEY!!!
today is beautiful! you are beautiful!
your cheeks are so cute!
HOORAY!! HOORAY!!

At the bottom it says in pencil: PENCIL ME IN! and there is a balloon with a five pointed star on it.

The next page is a poem i happened to have written up anyway, which i added a border to which is simply lovely even if i do say so myself. The poem goes like this:

imagine you woke up one day
to discover you had lost your fear of love
laying blissful in bed
staring adoringly at the ceiling
for hours
down the stairs and drinking
the world's most beautiful glass
of orange juice
the mailman comes leisurely walking
yet somehow clockwork precise
and your heart fills up with gratitude
so great you swear it's spilling over and
staining the rug
for the junk mail
which he delivers

imagine how beautiful the dirty snow would look
as it melted so slowly into haunting statuary
imagine the telephone wires majestic
like the walls of an endless cathedral
imagine yourself in your pajamas and messy hair
glowing haloed almost sparkling in the full-length mirror
imagine a choir of angels descending
in the form of cream and sugar into your coffee
eggs resting on toast like
misty ethereal clouds on an eastern mountain
a phone rings
the click as you lift it from its receiver is
the culmination of god's plan for life and death
the voice says
“welcome home.
we love you.”

that is my letter to Stacy Looney, unsigned sealed stamped and ready to go. i'll be sending it soon with or without you slackers!

love,
Pope Salmon the Lesser Mungojelly

Klyf the Not-Quite-Sane, I.S.T.'s Jake:

Eris loves me this I know,
For the Principia tells me so;
Little ones to Her belong;
They are weak, but She is strong.

(Chorus)
Yes, Eris loves me,
Yes, Eris loves me,
Yes, Eris loves me,
The Principia tells me so.

Eris loves me, She who brought
A Golden Apple in a plot
Ruin'd the party at Limbo Peak
'Cause Her presence they didn't seek.

(Chorus)

Eris loves me, loves me still,
Tho' I'm stoned drunk and ill;
From Her shining throne on high,
She laughs at me where I lie.

(Chorus)

Eris loves me, She will stay
Close beside me all the way;
Spreading Chaos and unrest,
She's the Goddess I love best.

(Chorus)

Joshua D. O'Connor's Jake:

I burned a CD for Ms. Looney's listening pleasure (I hope). Just a few songs I like. Some more than others. Some are incredible. Playlist as follows:

Baxter – Television
Beethoven – Moonlight Sonata Techno Remix
Blue Mountain #7 King of Snake part 2
Clutch – Juggernaut
Coil –Red Birds Will Fly Out of the East and Destroy Paris in a Night
Dead Prez – Mind sex
Foetus – Descent into the Inferno
Radiohead – How Can you Be Sure
Radiohead &DJ Shadow – UNKLE – Rabbit in Your Headlights
Techno Animal-megaton
Tori Amos – Caught A Light Sneeze (Wintermute Mix)
Unkle – Lonely Soul

They are songs to make you think at least…. I think… In light of the stuff you all are sending it may make a bit more sense to her than if she was getting nothing more than a CD.

Ernest A. Styloglou, 6121 Hubbell Street, Dearborn Heights, MI 48127 USA

PMC mailed Ernest this document (PDF, 310k) and used his address as the return for several of our other Jakes.

April Showers, 7837 S. May St., Chicago, IL 60620 USA

We sent Ms. April Showers a message asking her to stop taking showers, due to flooding. It was in the form of a telegram from Ernest (PDF, 58k). Also, we added her name and address to other abnormail.

Gwydion Alcaspe Khalid sent her a dirty passage from the bible, a dirty passage from Shakespeare, a homoerotic Japanese poem, and sent postcards to her when on vacation.

Later, he also sent a few more letters to Mrs April with newspaper pictures of floodings caused by the rain in April, all over Europe.

Dan Brewer, 1020 Nebraska Ave, Toledo, OH 43607

I sent Mr. Brewer (addressed Mr. Dan “Dannyboy” Brewer) an extremely weird letter (PDF, 216k) that was written in a ransom letter font telling him to stop watching TV, because of the nasty things it had done to rats and such. It is signed by April Showers.

Also, I tore a piece of paper up and ended up with a jagged edged 4X3 inch sheet. Upon it, I printed the text (very messily and crazily) of my poem PrimeTime (which is about insipid television) and signed it with a KopyLeft symbol followed by April Showers. The envelope said “Do Not Open In Front of Cameras or Window” (with a pathetic little drawing of a camera with a “No” symbol through it and had several fnords scrawled upon it. Also, put his address as return and in the letter for other abnormail.

Linda Harrison, 1205 Shore Rd, Northfield, NJ 08225

I sent Ms. Harrison a letter from the FIX FNORD FOUNDATION, begging her to send barcodes from Campbell Soup Cans to three of our previous Jakees to help battle the terrible disease “Fnord”. Here is the letter we sent her (PDF, 77k). Also, here is a copy of the above that is Impersonal (PDF, 77K), so that you may disseminate it where you wish.

Rachel Gardner, 2417 Travelers Palm Dr, Edgewater, FL 32141

I sent a letter that was just an introductory paragraph and then the first four chapters of Beowulf in really small type and with “x” replacing all “e”s and “Rachel” replacing all “Bxowulf”s.

Zebbin Sent her the following letter:

Dear Rachel,

Something is happening. It is happening right now. It has been happening since you were born. I regret that We have reason to believe that you have been missing out on this, only able to partake of bits and pieces of it.

This is very tragic. It is not your fault. In fact, many people all over the world miss out on this. It's just that, well, We think that you can do better. You see, We have plans for you, Rachel. PLANS.

Rachel, this is probably the only time you will ever be contacted by Us. If you ever meet Us you won't know it. Even so you will probably not meet any of Us anyway. Still, even though I know it is against policy, I am writing this to try to reach out to you. You can partake in what is happening. Seek out Fnord Utopias, Rachel. They are out there. In fact, they are all over the place if you would just look.

Rachel, I must stop writing now. I think that I may have already said too much. But, I must stop writing now. But, I must tell you one thing that you must remember, and remember well: Beware the Man in the Funny Hat. Hopefully you will never have to heed this advice.

– X

Put this as the return address:
Dr. X
1021 'D' Street
Sacramento, CA 94814

Douglas Adams, 9321 Mabry Ave NE, Albuquerque, NM 87109

This one was posted right after the writer Douglas Adams snuffed it. I sent our Douglas Adams this letter.

Maenad Wrote:

I took a little more time with this one. I carefully aligned text to go around a preprinted dragon and castle design on a piece of parchment-like paper (the only pretty paper I had). I stuck shiny stickers in strategic places. I sprinkled glitter and confetti and real faerie dust. The outside of the envelope reads, in gold ink, “Please be careful opening this envelope. It contains much glamour and love, and you wouldn't want to spill them because, well, glamour and love stains are just SO hard to get out of the carpet, you know?”

This is what's inside.

On Seeing The 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning
by Haruki Murakami

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harajuku neighborhood, I walk past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either – must be near thirty, not even close to a “girl,” properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own favorite type of girl – one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the table next to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers – or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.

“Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% perfect girl,” I tell someone.

“Yeah?” he says. “Good-looking?”

“Not really.”

“Your favorite type, then?”

“I don't know. I can't seem to recall anything about her – the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts.”

“Strange.”

“Yeah. Strange.”

“So anyhow,” he says, already bored, “what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?”

“Nah. Just passed her on the street.”

She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and – what I'd really like to do – explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock built when peace filled the world.

After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

“Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?”

Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.

“Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?”

No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the simple truth would do. “Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me.”

No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% perfect boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh well. It would have started “Once upon a time” and ended “A sad story, don't you think?”

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day, the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

“This is amazing,” he said. “I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you are the 100% perfect girl for me.”

“And you,” she said to him, “are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream.”

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of a doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so
easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, “Let's test ourselves – just once. If we really are each
other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?”

“Yes,” she said, “that is exactly what we should do.”

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed on, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should have never undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible influenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. Their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking east to west, both along the same narrow street in the Harujuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in the chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.

He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their lost memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fourteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don't you think?

Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

Kathy Silverberg, 8922 Willow Quill Dr, Houston, TX 77088

I sent Kathy this letter from the Texas Department of Transportation telling her that she owned Willow Quill Drive.

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