I've Got BackDoors Coming Out My AssHole! - SAHMD!!! ____________________________________________________ I am not a sick, degenerate asshole who likes to beat up people in wheelchairs, although I have been known to kick the ass of a one-armed man, given the fact that he may well be the guy who murdered Richard Kimble's wife... Thus, I feel it incumbent upon myself to give an honest account of my life of crime, so that the Law Enfarcement Offals and Persecuting Attorneys who have, so far failed miserably over the years in bringing me to Officially Recognized Justice (TM), will have a fighting chance of throwing my sorry ass in a dark hole until Hell freezes over, by portraying me as the sorry, pathetic, psychotic, monstrous, criminal, scum-bag piece of shit that I am, in Reality (TM). First, however, I would like to insert an totally upaid advertisement for the DigitalRainbowRevolutionaryFamily gathering at the Plaza Hotel in Lost Wages at the end of July (I think). It's some kind of hacker's conference (I think), and they have a Spot The Narc (or somesuch) contest (I think) during the conference. I have all the details on a faded copy of an email to the CypherPunks list that I printed out, but all of my valueable research material is currently fused together, due to it being hastily thrown into the back of my truck, and then rained on, during my Fright From Fleedom Japanese Toulist Tlap that was inspired by my receiving indications that the abundant overgrowth that Government Authorities intended to mow down was not, as I had thought, in my back yard, but on my butt. [WAS: Stick Around, Pal, And our Ass Is Grass!] Anyway, despite the fact that I cannot even remember the proper name or date of the conference (although I have no problem remembering the name of the Plaza Hotel, since it is the home of the Penny Slot Machines which enable one to gamble feverishly for hours with the loose change they have scraped off the floor of their vehicle, after having lost all the money they got by pawning their grandmother's wedding ring), I have made arrangements, during my recent Soft Kmart Tour Of America, to have the winner of the conference's Spot The Snark contest awarded a highly polished and fully functional BackDoor into the Royal Canadian Mounted Police computer system. The award, to be presented by the Offical Mascot of the Spot The Snark contest, "Spot, the Snipe," unfortunately does not have the immense value that one might think, since it has been devalued by the recent proliferation of a large number of BackDoors into Canadian Government computer systems. Nonetheless, it will undoubtedly be the source of countless hours of entertainment for the lucky winner. The award to be presented in Lost Wages has officially been named the 'Jim Bell InterNetional Back Door Revenge Scholarship To The School Of Hard Knocks Cafe." It is an Army of Dog Scholarship meant to impress on the Controllers that PayBack, like Oppression, has now entered the Global Information Monitoring Age, and that the New Secret Squirrel Disorder is alive and well in ButtFuck, Canada. { If you can't fuck the one that fucked you, fuck someone that fucked someone else, and vice-versa, ad infinituum.} In short, any ShortLimpDickedPrick in ButtFuck, Canada, can no longer be certain that HisOrHer violation of both the laws of the land and the laws of human decency will go unpunished, or that the Anonymous Avenger will not be an entity totally unknown to them, from a distant place such as Seattle, with little known connection to the time and place of a monstrous crime against Monstrous Oppressors. And, on the other hand (which has warts), when strange things begin to happen in the Seattle Court computer system, strangely connected to the StrangeButTrue! persecrotchion of a StrangeBedFellow of the Author, James C. "The 'C' Stands For Dalton" Bell, the only thing that Sharon can guarantee in Stone, is that the obvious suspects at ASIX, the adopted parents of the Author's SparCard II, have absolutely nothing to do with the eerie laugh of Vincent 'Cate' Price echoing through their system, since the Army of Dog doesn't shit in it's own back yard (although it sometimes pees in its kitchen sink, when the oung is occupied). In honor of the Royal Rogers Stuffed & Mounted Police currently celebrating their 150th birthday, I recently decided to present them with the ultimate gift. Realizing that I was far from alone in my position of never being convicted of something I was actually guilty of (we may not be guilty of breaking the law, but we are all guilty of *something*--that's in the Bible, I think), I came to the conclusion that the perfect birthday present to the RCMP, on the occasion of being awarded their 150th consecutive 'Fascist Oppressor With The Best Public Image Award,' would be to hand them my head on a silver platter, enabling them to convict me on a charge of which I am completely innocent (from a technical, legal standpoint), and provide them with all of the information necessary to ensure my Public Labelization (I won a game of Scrabble with that word, once) as an Officially Recognized Monster, as seen on 'Cops,' '60 Minutes,' 'Canada's Least Wanted,' and 'World's Slowest Police Chases: The Return Of Beyond The Valley Of The Planet Of Al Cowling.' I had originally intended for my gift to the RCMP to be a professional, polished MultiMedia Entertainment Special, but, since the thieving fucks stole my Toshiba Tecra in order to attempt to shut me the fuck up, I am forced to hoist myself on my own petard in a strictly ASCII computer environment (without a spell checker or thesaurus, so there is little likelihood of my being able to discover, through inference, what a petard actually is, or whether I have spelled it ccoorreeccttllyy). Accordingly, the passages of the following chapters which will describe in perverse, grotesque and disgusting detail the nature of my crimes against sexual normality, will *not* be accompanied with graphic, color illustrations, leaving the reader to use their own imagination, or to pay $ .01 per minute by dialing 1-800-EAT-T0T0, to hear a heavy-breathing tape-loop which provides excellent background stimulation for the sexual imagination, as long as you can ignore the fact that it is the tape of the Author, a sex-pack a day chain-smoker, climbing a single flight of stairs. In the following chapter, the Author, still suffering under the delusion that someone, somewhere, is reading this tripe (besides college students attempting to gain extra credits in a summer session psycho-ology class titled, "An Analysis Of The Results Of Extensive Brain Damage Caused By MKULTA Experiments On The Half-Unwitting Author--Current Technology Cannot Detect Any Difference"), provides complete details of HisOrHer first annual major drug-deal, just as Canadian Authorities always suspected, but could never prove. Smoke 'em if you got 'em... [ou may leave a message for the Author, at the sound of the Bong.]