Dina Moe Hmmm... - SPACE ALIENS HIDE MYDR

[Linda Reed--PCC West Campus CSC <lreed@west.cscwc.pima.edu>]

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...]