Dina Moe Hmmm... - SPACE ALIENS HIDE M DRUGS!!! ____________________________________________
Return To Sender: ElvisImpersonatorChainsawMassacre@mccullagh.stihl Return Of Server: MX%RodLaver@west.cscw.pima.edu Date: Fri 13(*2) June 1998 ; 7:09 am/pm Subject: Hmmmm...
"So what prompted you to start writing those missives to cypherpunks?"
Rectum McCullagh-Caulkin (aka Tim C. May, Sir Stan Sequin, Joicho Ito-Dogs, No Body, AnEnvelopeManufacturerToBeNamedLater, Nanny Anna Mess, etc.)
On the advice of my lawyers: GoDoG & DoGoD, Attorneys At Law & Lawlessness, Alpha & Omego Building, Suite 16, Nymphomani aks, N 010101 I have decided to tell the Truth, the Whole Truth, and also a variety of Half-Truths, leaving it up to the responedent to decide what level of truth HeOrShe can deal with without becoming despondent, thus putting even more of a burden on the American R&D Department's booth at Juxtaposition '98 in their competition with the Japanese L&R Juxtaposition '98 Booth, widely rumored to have been behind the Abraham Lincoln assassination. In other words, your chances of getting a 'straight' answer are comparable to the lengthy discussions in regard to the 'dick' of a President whose name isn't even Richard, in the first place. In defense of my rudimentary rudeness in replying ridiculously to a perfectly reasonable and seemingly serious question, I must admit that my intentions to provide an equally serious response to the question above were thwarted by the intervention of a HigherPower- CapableOfSquaringTheShitOutOfJason, in a process providing pretty persuasive proof that the CranialConsipiracyCrapola I am about to provide for your non-racist, but nevertheless discriminating, mind, is nothing more nor less than as honest and direct anwer to your question as I am capable of giving, given the grandoise nature of the nature of the claim I am about to stake claim to, not as a Wooden Indian nor a Vampire, but simply one who is driven by Forces of Light and Darkness that are not only beyond my Ken to understand, but also beyond the Barbie Wired to the MeatSpace Manifestation of the magazine which was ultimately responsible for my ultimately sending my intimate informational infatuations with CypherPunks Issues, whether digital or organic, to the Disturbed Male LISP. In short, it is those depraved motherfuckers at Wired Magazine who must ultimately be held responsible for my continued spamming of a SingleInnocentCypherPunk (TCM-aka Bill Helm-RadiationMan III, Forever Hettinga, Politician Lefty Frissel, ChevyBlazer FloorMatt, and Peter SonOfTheSumOfOneAndTuTuBeNamedLater.) The True Story (TM) of why I originally subscribed to the CPUNX Cardinal & Ms. Spelling LISP has been confirmed by the Nine UnKnowing to be the result of a subconscious desire to destroy the Band of Mary Anarchists by forcing them to band together, forming a well-organized and tightly-knit political organization dedicated to eliminating me from both DigitalSpace and MeatSpace. In draw-string shorts, to yank the CPUNKS cotton chains and expose their private parts in a manner that would leave no doubt about the fact that the Magic Circle of WhiteLipstick around all of the 'members' provides postive proof of the accuracy of Dr. Dimitri Vulis, KOTM's contention that Nun of the CypherPunks were born female, and that they are not, in fact, Anarchists, but merely LostBoys from Lost Alamo who are alone in the world because they cannot accept the diagnosis of Dr. Stephan Goodman, who theorizes that they are "men who love men, every now and then," to whom the phrase, 'blow it out your ass', has more meaning than it does for most people. [Spin Editor: What the Author *meant* to say, is that, as a result of being the subject of Direct Electrical Shock Radio Experiments during his youth, he soon learned that, unless others in the room were gathered around the radio, the correct answer to the question, "Do you hear Voices?" is an emphatic "Nope! Not me...nosiree, Bob. Nope...not me!"] What the Spin Editor *meant* to say, is that my early exposure to the True Agenda (TM) of the MindPolice left little doubt in my mind (little of practically *anything*, actually) that one's career as a TruthMonger would allow them to keep their head longer with a 'CourtJester@dev.null' alias, than as "AnneBolyne@head.null', particularly if the name of the person saying "I'd just like to ask you a few questions." is OffWithSir Head, or who holds a position titled 'Head Doctor' in a non-medical surgical facility. To make a short story long, with a bend in the middle, Dog spoke to me in a Stream piped through the fillings in my teeth, and told me that there was one who would come before me, to prepare my way, who would be a 'voice lying in the wilderness', telling the masses, "I am a messenger for one who will come after me, who is (a) greater (bullshitter) than I, sent by Dog to sniff the rear parts of the front-men posing as wolves, in wolves clothing, who say 'What big teeth I have... the better to make you render unto Ceasar, that which you mistakenly thought was yours." Long before the Starr appeared over DC, I knew that the Virgin Birth of William Lewinski would never have taken place if there had not been no room for burning the double-negatives in the Ovulate Office which told the True Story (TM) of what had taken place in the Lincoln bedroom as a result of a sexual Jones that the King of the Juice could not satisfy, no matter how large a vein he punctured in women, or vice versa, with his dirty needle. Upon purchasing a copy of the Wired Magazine edition which had the Jasons of CypherSpace on the front cover, with an article accompanying it which I did not bother to read, instinctively knowing that their Goal was to XOR the Net, so that after Jesus Saves, Louis Freeh would not be able to put in the rebound, yanking a man's parole as a result of Space Alien FUD indicating he had participated in the VirtualNuclearBombing of pubic buildings eleven KILLometers from MongerItaVille. Knowing that, even though "Ignorance is no excuse." in the 'ayes' of a Rigged Justice System, it is better to remain silent than to speak up and remove all doubt as to one's guilt, I merely glanced through the copy of Wired sufficiently to confirm the Marshall Dillon theory that smoking guns doesn't kill people, the Message kills people, or, more accurately, that the Department of Justice people covering up the INSLAW affair killed those on the List of Adrian Messenger, and then put the magazine away in DeepThroatStorage until Dog, the only Horse I ever bet on (although I have shot a lot of Horse over the years, sometimes on the basketball court, sometimes in a seedy alley behind the GreyHound Computer Buss Station), gave me a No Smoking Gun sign, with the election of a Wise Man who rose from the dead three times, as LazerAss Long (cousin of Johnny Wadd), drinking cold HeinleinKin, playing the SexAPhone at $4.99/minute, running up the WhiteHouse phone bill and the Federal Deficit, and making such outstanding use of BlatantLies that his Pole rose in the Polls at a rate that astounded even Poles named Lewinski, leading me to realize that, had I, like Marlo Branded, the Rifleman on the grassy knoll, despite my reputation as a traitorous, lying coward, followed my instincts and run for President of the United States of America, "I could'a been a contend'a..." My point, if I may be so Bold (although without Italics, having never been to Sicily) to state it plainly (without extra cheese), is that Lucky Green is a fucking idiot... He is such an ignorant, Robotically Programmed Sheeple, incapable of free, independent thought, that the only possible way to accurately impress upon you his total devoidness (coming soon to a dictionary near you) of hope in ever truly understanding the concepts of True Freedom, Liberty and the Pursuit of Felony Happiness, can be illustrated only by sharing with you the "True Story (TM) of TruthMangler", Penguin Books, FrostBack Division. 'The True Story of the InterNet' when stripped of all of the grandoise, pretentious, mystical FUD surrounding its artificial dissemination across HyperSpace, can be summarized by quoting "All My Lies Are True", by Carroll. "All my lies are true. And everything I do, I really am." Believe it or not, Ripley, that's all there is... That's the whole fucking poem. In the end, that's all there really is to say. Upon receiving an email from AnInterViewerToBeNamedLater, who was named earlier, in the 'BumBoy III' chapter of Space Aliens Hide My Drugs (which, correctly, should also have single quotes around the title), I was quite prepared to write a short, simple response to the question, "So what prompted you to start writing those missives to cypherpunks?" As always, the fillings in my teeth convinced Reality to become a participant in an Intervention program designed to thwart my efforts to continue the heavy drug-use enabling me to be 'normal' and 'saved' me from sanity by using the TV program, '60 Minutes', to embody The Voice (TM) coming from the BurningBush, calling for a "New World Order", reminding me that the BurningBush in the bunker outside of Berlin was a clever ruse, later to become a 'play on words' in a Braun Shaver advertising campaign that referred to a 'close shave', to disguise the fact that it is the AdamAntartic that holds the key to FrostBack Musicians embedding hints in their music in regard to the Reptilian Nazis biding their time, emerging from Florida puddles to dine on the gonads of FrenchConnection Poodles, leading me to realize that I forgot to mention how my insanity illustrates Lucky Green's ignorance. (But, before I return to that subject, I should take the time to explain that this disjointed '60 Minutes' diatribe refers to the fact that my efforts at a 'direct reply' to D.M. Stihl's question was interrupted by a sychronicitious eruption from The Tube ("Watch me and I'll bleed you, 'Cause you eat the shit I feed you") during which Leslie Stahl (not to be confused with the chainsaw with a similar name), presented a piece called 'The Rumor Mill', in which she ignored the attempts of InterNet Magazine's Edwin Cantor (?) to explain that the Freedom Of The InterNet was a Healing Force capable of returning HumanKind to a Wholistic State wherein we use our minds to discriminate between FUD (Fear/Uncertainty/Disinformation), MUD (Mind/ Uniformity/Disinformation) and CRUD (Conscious Realists Using Discrimination), thereby forcing the InterNet User/ Consumer to actually Think (TM) before accepting any of the information that is pulled, prodded or pushed into the range of their perceptive attention... Hang on a second, I lost my train of thought... Oh, yeah! Anyway, Leslie Stahl, desperately attempting to maintain the illusion that MainStream Lies piped through the OfficialNewsStream are preferable to Non-Officially- Recognized-Lies on J. Orlin Grabbe's 'World's 50 Greatest Conspiracies' website, subliminally inserted the bent logic of the pricks in DC, using words such as Junk/Regulation/ OnLinePoliceMan(no mention of toilet plungers...go figure)/ BadInformation... Fuck completing that train of thought! 'BadInformation' implies that the Freedom To Choose To Believe BadInformation does not exist, and that NetiZens, like CitiZens, are all Sheeple who need the people from the government, who are here to help us, to step in and regulate/legislate which BadInformation will be magically transformed into Reality by blessing it with the OfficalSealOfApproval. Random Thought That MayOrMayNot Apply #27: Question: "Who was not happy to see the Prodigal Son return?" Answer: "The fatted calf." My point is this: "Penned cattle have been found to gain as much weight when fed a combination of drugs, shredded newspaper and animal excrement, as when fed whole grains." Therefore, it is not in the best interests of the ProfitMongers to feed us the Truth, and, CitiZen or NetiZen, it is in our own best interest, when we meet the Bubba on the road, to kill him.) [Idioter's Note: Good prosecutors, recognizing the limited attention span of the spawn of pawns of modern civilization, due to being force-fed ten-second sound-bytes, and hyphenated words designed to evoke emotive responses rather than logical thought processes, would have long ago begged the Court Of Public Opinion for a short recess, in order to allow the Readers/Jurors time to grab a bite to eat, suck down a cold beer or two, and engage in sexual fantasies about their fellow jurors. However, the Author plans to proceed, uninterrupted, even though HeOrShe risks once again letting the SAHMD manuscript fall into semi-coherent mad ramblings, since HeOrShe realizes that, if the Reader has not yet learned to order Pizza, Beer, and AMasseuseToBeMaimedLater before undertaking the burdensome task of reading the True Story manuscripts, then they are most likely a goddamn Republican, anyway, with little hope of ever truly understanding a missive meant to manipulate their mind toward a realistic, non-discriminatory political point of view which can only be understood by Democrats who are willing to sit in the back of the bus with niggers and spics, although they inevitably shit their pants and jump back on the bus if one of those thieving fucking darkies happens to get off at the same stop as they do.* *This racist interlude is a paid advertisement, sponsered by Democratic Friends of the Kluless Klux Klan. Anyway, I have forgotten where this aside was going, but I just remembered I was attempting to get back to explaining how my derision of Lucky Green is, in reality, a veiled reference to my own idiocy, so I will do that...] I was devestated when Lucky Green, wearing a Prozac T-Shirt, while I, on the other hand, had a pocket full of Prozac, told me, "I read 'The Xenix Chainsaw Massacre', but I didn't understand what it was about." I was devastated as a result of realizing that Lucky was nothing more nor less than a mindless, robotic result of the *new* generation of programmed, robotic Sheeple. I was devastated because Lucky was a reminder that, despite my great pretensions of being an anarchistic, free, individual, capable of independent thought, I was just as guilty of unthinking automatism, with the main difference between myself and Lucky being that the programming I had bought into had tailfins and cruise control, instead of point-and-click and multimedia capability. In effect, although I considered myself some exemplary example of the evolution of mankind (usually remembering to refer to 'humankind' to illustrate my UniSexual/NonRacist/Politically Correct rEvolutionAiryFairy development), I was actually a fraud--not a TruthMonger, but a JokeMonger. While allowing myself the luxury of consternation over Lucky Green being of a GenerationX which could not recognize the prophetic warnings contained in 'The Xenix Chainsaw Massacre', due to having been educated in an era where the 'BB/BB' tattoo on a child's forehead, indicating that one was a BumBoy owned by BigBrother (replacing childhood circumcision indicating that a child was owned by the GodOfMoses), I nonetheless comforted myself with the thought that *my* cowardly acceptance of 'the way things are', illustrated by using my sense of ironic humor to poke fun at things I knew to be insane, instead of taking a firm, serious stand that ultimately results in crucifixion, in Palestine, or to being barbequed, in Texas (see...there I go again), was somehow superior to the cowardice of Lucky's generation, which gives Non-Sexual LipService to freedom, privacy and anarchy, while preparing for an old-age where they will undoubtedly justify their lack of total committment to fighting the GreatEvil of their time by saying, "es, but when the Computer was Fuhrer, the trains ran on time...until the year 2000, of course." I, like Lucky and the rest of the CypherPunks, told myself that the problem was Dimitri, always trying to push Black Unicorn's envelope, and not accepting my excuse that I wasn't really a cocksucker, but merely accepting of the fact that BigBrother had a lot of mouths to feed... [I know that I've rambled on too long to really hold the attention of a generation that traded in twenty-minute guitar solos for a Pentium processor, and really don't have time to wait for me to get to the point of what I am trying to say (despite their refusal to admit that the only reason they need a Pentium processor, in the first place, is to speed up the downloading of the ads on the Anti-SPAM Anarchist WebPage they are accessing, not to mention the mountains of excess commas contained in the 'True Story' manuscripts...). However, I need to run to the Liquor Store, giving the soft-drug old farts on the CPUNKS list a chance to "smoke 'em if you got 'em," (<--correct punctuation, will wonders never cease?) and the young pissants on the CPUNX list a chance to throw on a New Crusty Nostrils CD, 'Ramblin', featuring 'Green, Green', (<--incorrect punctuation) little realizing that the USENET post referring to the album as the product of a CypherPunks Action Project first appeared on April 1st, and that Lucky wasn't even born when it was recorded. BAD NEWS!!! - I'll be back...]