Will Be: DEATH THREAT !!! to Follow... [Currently Is: Janet Reno is not an Indigo Girl...she's just ugly]

[TruthMonger <tm@sk.sympatico.ca>]

BillyG,
  No doubt world leaders and titans of industry have noticed the 
recent pause in the steady stream of death threats they receive daily,
and are worried about my health, but you're the only one who sent a
"Get Sicker" card...
  Nonetheless, I must put off catching up on my thinly veiled threats
of ChainSaw Justice for a bit longer, in order to address an even more
important concern, namely: "How the hell can fag girls be so cute and
make such great music, when Janet Reno is so fucking butt-ugly and can
only make bizarre, senseless noise?"

  Anyway, when you see the $on Little$ystems and Nut$crape crowd, tell
them that the crazy Canuck who used to roam their hallways screaming,
"Give your software away, you fucking idiots...you'll get filthy fucking
rich!" now says, "Hi...and go fuck yourself."
  It's bad enough that Corporate A$$holes (TM) want me to call a game,
"The MegaCorp Making Money Off Of Amateur Athlete$ Bowl", but when the
fuckers start making Micro$not Ba$hing (TM) a corporate game where the
players wear shirts with little animals where the pocket for your butts
is supposed to be...
  Oil the fucking chainsaw, eh?

  In my last thinly veiled death threat to BadBillyC, I told him to
tell Ms. Justice-Is-Not-Only-BLIND-It's-UGLY-Too that "MICRO$NOT is to
INSLAW...as...ChainSaws are to ButterKnives."
  It had nothing to do with the Indigo Girls CD that woke me up this
morning reminding me of Indio, Indians and INSLAW, and everything to
do with Micro$not Ba$hing (TM) being every bit as sacred as having a
butt on the crapper in the morning. When America can no longer count
on the Little Guy to war against such basic human degradations as Life
Under DOS, then we are doomed--individually and as a nation.

  Which brings me to another rambling point totally unconnected to my
last chain of thought...
  I got to fiddling with the car radio last week and inadvertently
drove past the bar, thus launching the "TRUTHMONGER WORLDWIDE CHAINSAW
RETRIBUTION TOUR." Next thing I know, I'm in goddam British Columbia,
making plans to set a few of the Royal Canadian Mace Police on fire,
pop on down to Seattle try to get all of my Micro$not setup disks 
replaced (why are the setup disks all make out of rice paper?), and set
the final plans for your virtual chainsaw deletion in motion within the
ranks of the Circle of Eunuchs-Redmond Chapter. Next on The LIST (TM)
was stopping in at Tacoma and Portland and ringing a few AP Bells to
bring in the New Year with a pocketful of Ha$hCa$h, and then continuing
my Bombed Blitzkrieg with a Budweiser Battle in the Bay, gathering the
nerve for a frontal assault on Mayonaisse Mountain with A Nuclear Device
To Be Named Later.

  To make a long story short, I woke up on Gomez's doorstep down in
Berzerkeley, with a hangover, a dog, a huge fucking moose bone, the
flu (or perhaps just a touch of The Potato Famine), and no fucking
ChainSaw.
  What is even worse is that I don't seem to be in possession of even
the few meager munitions I always have packed and ready for emergency
situations, but I *do* have some rather vague memories of the last
week that seem to match the newsclippings on my dash in regard to a
trail of ugly little incidents coinciding with the times and dates
on the gas receipts stapled to them.
  At first, I assumed that my inability to recall any details in
regard to several of the incidents was a good sign, but a physical
inventory of my vehicle seems to provide substance to the growing 
thought that the circumstantial evidence against me outweighs the
loss of memory from the alcoholic delerium tremors.

  I seem to have my Opus SparCard II stuff from my pal at ASIX, which
would confirm the vandalism in Seattle.
  I've got payout tickets from the casino in Lake County, which means
the clipping about the flash bomb in Vallejo needs to be burned almost
immediately.
  I was convinced that I would be able to maintain deniability for 
the torching by the Dumbarton bridge, until I realized that the Master
Tapes for "My Way or the Highway" and "Please! Stop Me Before I Sing
Again" must have been picked up from Arcal, in Redwood City.
  I have no fucking idea whose butt that is sticking out of the shallow
grave in my sister's back yard, but since it has my name tatto'd on
it, I assume I'll be on a backroad headed toward Canada very, very
shortly.

  Anyway, I suppose it is proper serial killer etiquette to provide
a legitimate death threat once my travel plans back to CanuckLand are
in place, so I will try to drop one in the email on the return trip.
  Actually, you should probably invite all of the major players from
the Corporate Micro$not Ba$hing Bowl (TM) by Ralphie, et al, to your
place for a "Peace Conference" during my return trip, and then spend
most of your time in the underground bunker playing cards with the
Reptilian Nazi's, or something. To tell the truth, I'd just as soon
snuff those whining fuckers on this trip, anyway, and Seattle's a
nice town, so I wouldn't mind making an extra trip in the future,
anyway.

  Shit!
  I just remembered that TeddyK's trial is in Sacramento, not Vallejo.
I probably ought to do this shit when I'm sober. Hell, I might end up
actually hitting my target, for a change, instead of just another in
a series of random, innocent bystanders.
  I think this potato salad's starting to go bad...which container
did I put the rincin in? Shit...I'd better go put some alcohol in
my system, just in case...

TootMonger
"Smoking Prudentially since 1991."