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Dollop Exhibits

Below are some selections of transcripts of The Dollop (left) alongside our original writings (right). Note that these examples of plagiarism are illustrative, not comprehensive. Yellow highlights indicate text that is identical to our originals. Sensitive readers/listeners: be aware that the Dollop excerpts contain some profanity.

Exhibit A:

Example of Dollop Usage

source

Dave: “My name is Joseph Cassel.”

Joseph was a 58-year-old patient who at that time had been inst…institutionalized for almost twenty years.

Gareth: Okay.
Dave: He was quite bald, and he grinned often despite missing half his front teeth.

Gareth: Mmm…don’t grin as much.
Dave: His shirt and trouser pockets were bulging with belongings such as eyeglasses, tobacco, pencils, handkerchiefs, books, and magazines.

Gareth: Books in his pockets?
Dave: Mmmhmm.
Dave: Joseph tended to be

inex…Joseph tended to inexplicably fling his reading material from windows when he thought no one was looking.

Gareth: Well, that’s an interesting trait.
Dave: So he’s a classic madman.
Gareth: Yeah, yeah, he’s book tossin’!
Dave: Although he was not from England, nor had he ever visited, he yearned to return there someday.

Gareth: Oh…
Dave: He was the most mild-mannered of the Three Christs.

Gareth: Wait…
Dave: Joseph…
Gareth: Okay, wait, wait wait.
Dave: Yes.
Gareth: He…he’d never been to England.
Dave: Mmmhmm. But he wanted to go back.
Gareth: But he wanted to go back?
Dave: Yeah.
Gareth: Cool, that’s how I am with Russia.
Dave: “Joseph, is there anything else you want to tell us?”

the doctor prompted.

Gareth: Oh bo…Oh, just one more thing!
Dave: “Yes, I’m God.”

Dave: The next to speak was the eldest of the three. “My name is Clyde Benson,” he mumbled in a low voice that characterized most of his speech. “That’s my name straight.” At 70 years old, Clyde suffered from dementia, but in moments of lucidity he tended to reminisce about working on the railroads, and fishing. He was quite tall and almost entirely toothless.

Gareth: Wow, so we’re losing…we’re losing teeth as we get further…
Dave: Yeah. Apparently Jesus…
Gareth: …down the Jesus spectrum.
Dave: Yeah, Jesus does not have teeth.
Gareth: Yeah.
Dave: “Do you have any other names?”

the doctor asked. “Well, I have other names. That’s my vital side and I made God five and Jesus six,” Clyde replied.

Gareth: Hmm…interesting. I didn’t see that game of one-on-one playing out like that!
Dave: The third Christ to introduce himself was Leon…

Gareth: Wait, what does “God five, Jesus six” mean?
Dave: I don’t know.
Gareth: Just sounds like a score that shouldn’t happen.
Dave: It’s something that…that people who are schizophrenic say.
Gareth: Yeah, I mean…
Dave: And you just nod and go, “Okay, cool.”
Gareth: I was just curious what it was connected to, but it doesn’t matter really.
Dave: So then Leon introduced himself. He was 38. He had been raised by a single mother, a militant Christian woman who had…

Gareth: And had no lower jaw.
Dave: Who had…who had struggled with her own mental health. Some five years earlier his mother had come home from her daily church session to find Leon in the process of destroying the crucifixes and other Christian ornamentation that covered every wall in the house. Leon then commanded his mother to reject such false images and worship him as Jesus.

Original

Three Thrown Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
by Alan Bellows
published 22 November 2013

“My name is Joseph Cassel,”

the man said. Joseph was a 58-year-old patient who at that time had been institutionalized for almost twenty years. He was quite bald, and he grinned often despite missing half of his front teeth. His shirt and trouser pockets were bulging with belongings such as eyeglasses, tobacco, pencils, handkerchiefs, books, and magazines. Joseph tended to inexplicably fling the reading material from the windows when he thought no one was looking.

Although he was not from England, nor had he ever even visited

the place, he yearned to return there someday.

He was the most mild-mannered of the Three Christs.

“Joseph, is there anything else you want to tell us?”

Rokeach prompted.

“Yes.”

he replied. “I’m God.”

The next to speak was the eldest of the three. “My name is Clyde Benson,” he mumbled in a low voice that characterized most of his speech. “That’s my name straight.” At 70 years old, Clyde suffered from dementia, but in moments of lucidity he tended to reminisce about working on the railroads, and fishing. He was quite tall and almost entirely toothless.

“Do you have any other names?”

Rokeach replied.

“Well, I have other names, but that’s my vital side and I made God five and Jesus six,” Clyde replied.

The third Christ to introduce himself was Leon

, the youngest at age 38. He had been raised by a single mother, a militant Christian woman who had struggled with her own mental health. Some five years earlier his mother had come home from her daily church session to find Leon in the process of destroying the crucifixes and other Christian ornamentation that covered every wall of the house. Leon then commanded his mother to reject such false images and worship him as Jesus.

 

Exhibit B:

Dollop Usage

source

Dave: Then one day in November of 1983, Peter Tomarken’s

appearance on…appeared

on one of his televisions. Tomarken was the host of a new game show called Press Your Luck which was giving away more money than any other game shows at the time.

Gareth: Oh boy.
Dave: Do you know what this is now?
Gareth: Uh, I don’t know what Press Your Luck is, but I definitely think he’s about to press his luck.
Dave: Larson was most interested

…interested in the board. It was an electronic array of prize boxes which operated by lighting up squares in a rapid and random fashion until the player pressed a big red button to stop the action.

So it was like, it’s like a big square, and then just random lights come on on the, on the board.
Gareth: You hit your button.
Dave: And whenever you hit it…
Gareth: It would stop on there.
Dave: Whatever one it’s on, it would stop.
Gareth: And there’s like a prize there?
Dave: There’s prizes, or there’s a thing called whammies…
Gareth: Oh, whammies!
Dave: …or there’s money.
Gareth: Okay, right.
Dave: Yeah. Yeah, whammies. This is the whammy game show.
Gareth: That’s where I know whammies. Right. Okay.
Dave: Um…the player’s

random…randomly selected box might contain a vacation, a prize, cash rewards, and/or extra spins. But with each spin there was a one-in-six chance of hitting a whammy which would cause an animated character to appear on the screen and take all of

the player’s winnings.

Gareth: Okay.
Dave: The player had been whammied.
Gareth: Okay. What the fuck?
Dave: Larson invested in a video cassette recorder and began taping episodes of Press Your Luck.

Gareth: Oh boy.
Dave: After weeks of

studying the show, Larson realized that the bouncing prize selector did not actually move randomly; it always followed one of five sequences.

Gareth: Oh shit.
Dave: This information was only

slightly useful

because of the rapidly shuffling positions of the prizes and penalties

, so the prizes are moving, too. So everything’s…
Gareth: Right.
Dave: …changing. But he wasn’t done. His analysis led to another

discovery. Of the eighteen squares on the Big Board there were two that never had whammies: #4 and #8.

Gareth: Oh shit. Can you imagine being like the producer of Press Your Luck thinking that nobody will ever have 30 TVs just devoted to fucking finding out the sequence of the whammies?
Dave: This meant that all a player

had to do was avoid whammies and


Gareth: It’s a great sentence already.
Dave: So he would have to memorize five

almost never-ending series of numbers and develop

superh…superhuman reflexes.

Gareth: So he’s a smart…he’s a guy who’s able to use his brain…
Dave: Right.
Gareth: To, like, he’s…he’s…he’s able to calculate and use his brain for good but instead he’s just sitting at home figuring out the whammy sequence.
Dave: Well, he’s one of these guys who wants to get rich quick and so he’s spending all of his time looking for a get rich quick thing, but all the time he spends looking for a get rich quick scheme…
Gareth: He could have…
Dave: …if he’d just gotten a regular job, he would have probably made more money.
Gareth: Right. He’s penny wise, dollar foolish.
Dave: That’s how these guys always work.
Gareth: Right, right.
Dave: Larson was thrilled and began fine-tuning his timing using his VCR’s pause key as a surrogate big red button.

Gareth: Oh my God.
Dave: Six months later, in May

eight…1984, Michael Larson was in Hollywood

being interviewed during the Press Your Luck auditions.

He pulled out all the emotional tricks for his story. He explained that he was an unemployed ice cream truck driver.

He said he had borrowed the bus money to get to Hollywood from Ohio because he loved Press Your Luck. He had stopped at a thrift store down the street to buy a 65 cent dress shirt. And he was unable to afford a gift for his six-year-old daughter’s upcoming birthday.

Gareth: The, I mean, you could just see the producers going like looking at each other like, “Yeah, we’ve got a fucking winner.”
Dave: Executive producer Bill Carruthers said of

Lar…Larson’s audition, “He really impressed us. He had charisma.”

Gareth: Mmmhmm…sure he did.
Dave: But the contestant coordinator was uneasy about Larson,

although he couldn’t quite articulate why.

It was just a feeling. The executive producer overruled him.

Original

Who Wants to be a Thousandaire?
by Alan Bellows
published 12 September 2011

One fateful November day in 1983, Peter Tomarken

‘s dapper countenance appeared

on one of Michael’s many monitors. Tomarken was the host of a new game show called Press Your Luck which was giving away more money than any other game shows at the time.

What most interested

Michael was the game’s “Big Board,” an electronic array of prize boxes which operated by lighting up squares in a rapid and random fashion until the player pressed a big red button to stop the action.

The player’s randomly selected box might contain a vacation, a prize, cash rewards, and/or extra spins. But with each spin there was also a one-in-six chance of hitting a Whammy which would cause an animated character to appear on the screen and expunge all of a player’s winnings.

Larson invested in a

newfangled video cassette recorder and began taping episodes of Press Your Luck.

After weeks of

painstaking scrutiny Michael realized that the bouncing prize selector did not actually move randomly; it always followed one of five

lengthy sequences. This information was only

moderately useful

due to the rapidly shuffling positions of the prizes and penalties

, but his

methodical analysis led to another finding. Of the eighteen squares on the Big Board there were two that never had Whammies: #4 and #8.

This meant that all a player

must do to avoid Whammies—and

thus retain his hundreds of dollars in winnings—would be to memorize five

interminable series of numbers and develop superhuman reflexes.

Giddy with the thrill of discovery, Larson began fine-tuning his timing using his VCR’s pause key as a surrogate big red button.

Six months later, in May 1984, Michael Larson

sat beardily in the interview room for the Press Your Luck auditions in Hollywood. His story

left few heartstrings unpulled: He explained that he was an unemployed ice cream truck driver. He had borrowed the bus money to get to Hollywood from Ohio because he loved Press Your Luck. He had stopped at a thrift store down the street to buy a 65 cent dress shirt. And he was unable to afford a gift for his six-year-old daughter’s upcoming birthday. Executive producer Bill Carruthers said of Larson’s audition, “He really impressed us. He had charisma.”

Contestant coordinator Bob Edwards was uneasy about Larson,

but he couldn’t quite articulate why,

so Bill overruled him.

Exhibit C:

Dollop Usage

source

Dave: In a desperate, long-shot attempt to

save his friend, Dr. Stevens

gave Ralph a shot of adrenaline directly into

his heart.

Gareth: Now hold the fucking phone.
Dave: What up, girl?
Gareth: If this motherfucker, okay.
Dave: Yeah, what?
Gareth: Uh, let’s, I mean, if this, if he gets Pulp Fictioned.
Dave: No, this is the end.
Gareth: Okay.
Dave: That’s the end of the story.
Gareth: Okay.
Dave: He waited several minutes,

but it appeared to have no effect and the

upset Dr. Stevens left the hospital. Sometime in the next twenty minutes,[h] Ralph [h]sat up,

looked around…
Gareth: What the fuck are you talking about?
Dave: …and walked out of the first aid room.

Gareth: Walked out?
Dave: Well, there’s no one there.
Gareth: Ain’t I got a thirst.
Dave: Here I go!
Gareth: What?
Dave: He headed across the grandstand towards the jockeys’ room…

Gareth: Okay, alright. Now let me just tell you if you’re watching this shit, right, okay?
Dave: Uh-huh.
Gareth: You’ve just watched the Portuguese pepper pot’s horse land on him and kill him.
Dave: Yeah.
Gareth: You’ve announced that he’s dead…
Dave: Yeah.
Gareth: …and it’s time to stand in silent prayer.
Dave: Yeah.
Gareth: About I’d say an hour or so later…
Gareth: …you’re still at a horse race…
Dave: Yeah.
Gareth: …when you see a zombie jockey…
Dave: Yep.
Gareth: …sort of walking through like, “Duh, hey!”
Dave: Horse, horse, horse!
Dave: He headed across the grandstand toward the jockey’s room…

Gareth: Is Bing Crosby here?
Dave: …wearing nothing but his pants and one boot.

Gareth: Oh hey, probably didn’t know where his clothes were. They probably…
Dave: I loved that they left one boot on and toe-tagged the other one.
Gareth: Pros. Pros to a “t.”
Dave: When the crowd realized that the shirtless, blood

y, toe-tagged man who was staggering across the grandstand area was

Ralph Neves, who had been declared dead about

an h…half hour earlier,

they rushed towards

Ralph. Shock turned to celebration. “At one point,” Neves recalled later, “I think everyone on the damn track was chasing me.”

So he’s trying to run away from everybody because everybody’s trying to get to him.
Gareth: Oh, oh, well, well, that’s uh, ev…the people should be a little more respectful of the man who just came up from the dead.
Dave: Upon arriving at the jockeys room, where his colleagues were conducting a collection for his widow, Ralph demanded to be allowed to ride the rest of his races.

Gareth: What?
Dave: The…
Gareth: That day?
Dave: Yeah.
Gareth: Well, I, oh, oh, oh, that day?
Dave: I’m not dead now, am I?
Gareth: Come on!
Dave: The

amazed r…stewards refused to let him return to riding until he spent a night in the hospital under observation.

Original

Jockey Tragically Killed Thursday, Wins Title Friday
by Alan Bellows
published 09 December 2005

In a desperate, long-shot attempt to

revive his friend, Dr. Stevens

administered a shot of adrenaline directly into

Neves’ heart.

For several minutes it appeared to have no effect, and the

discouraged Dr. Stevens left the hospital.

Sometime in the next twenty minutes,

Neves sat up and walked out of the first aid room.

He headed across the grandstand towards the jockeys’ room, wearing nothing but his pants and one boot.

When the crowd realized that the shirtless, blood

ied, toe-tagged man who was staggering across the grandstand area was

the jockey who had been declared dead about a half hour earlier, the crowd and the race officials rushed towards

Neves. Shock turned to celebration. “At one point,” Neves later recalled, “I think everyone on the damn track was chasing me.”

Upon arriving at the jockeys room, where his colleagues were conducting a collection for his widow, Ralph

Neves demanded to be allowed to ride the rest of his races. The

astonished stewards refused to let him return to riding until he spent a night in the hospital under observation.

Exhibit D:

Dollop Usage

source

Dave: But the damage from small arms fire and the extra weight of the armor were taking a toll on the vehicle. The radiator had sprung a leak, and the Killdozer was losing horsepower. As the

bulldozer crashed through the wall of the hardware store the floor beneath the beast broke, and the front end of the bulldozer fell into a shallow basement.

Gareth: Oh, Jesus.
Dave: It’s like a…it’s like a…it’s like a trap. It’s like when you put, um…
Gareth: Yeah.
Dave: …like leaves and stuff…
Gareth: Yeah.
Dave: …over a hole and a tiger falls in.
Gareth: Which is why I’m always very careful when I see a pile of leaves.
Dave: It’s why I don’t crash into hardware stores.
Gareth: Yeah, same thing.
Dave: Uh, the engine

tried, but could not

pull itself out of the pit. SWAT teams surrounded…

Gareth: Couldn’t reverse out of a pit?
Gareth: With two tons of steel on its…
Dave: I can’t believe this isn’t working!
Dave: The SWAT teams surrounded the

immobilized Killdozer, one of the SWAT team members reported hearing a single, muffled gunshot from within the cab.

Gareth: Oh boy.
Dave: The Killdozer stopped moving, ending a rampage that had lasted two hours and seven minutes, and caused $7 million in damage.

Gareth: Wow.
Dave: But they still couldn’t get into the cab.
Gareth: Whoa!
Dave: Explosives were

used to try to open the tank, but

they were unsuccessful.
Gareth: Oh my God.
Dave: In the end it took twelve hours with an

oxyacetyl…oxyacetylene torch


Gareth: Okay.
Dave: …and a crane to crack the armored top

off.
Gareth: Holy shit.
Dave: Inside Heemeyer was found dead, having shot himself with a .357 handgun. He was the lone casualty in the destruction spree.

Original

The Wrath of the Killdozer
by Jason Bellows
published 29 July 2009

The damage from small arms and the extra weight of the armor were taking a toll on the vehicle

, however. The radiator had sprung a leak, and the Killdozer was losing horsepower. As the

fatigued machine crashed through the wall of the hardware store the floor beneath the beast broke, and the front end of the bulldozer fell into a shallow basement.

The engine struggled, but

it could not

power itself out of the pit.

As SWAT teams surrounded the wounded Killdozer, one of the members reported hearing a single, muffled gunshot from within the cab.

The vehicle didn’t move again, ending a rampage that had lasted 2 hours 7 minutes, and caused about $7 million in damage.

Explosives were

employed to try to open the tank, but in the end it took twelve hours with an oxyacetylene torch and a crane to crack the armored top. Inside Heemeyer was found dead, having shot himself with a .357 handgun. He was the lone casualty of the destruction spree.

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