From: John Young <jya@pipeline.com>
Date: Wed, 12 Nov 1997 07:46:44 +0800
To: cypherpunks@toad.com
Subject: Re: Br'er Tim and the Bug Hole
Message-ID: <1.5.4.32.19971111233358.00a03ac8@pop.pipeline.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
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Dumb of me to get in the middle of this, but the bloodlust's
up:

Tim's statements are gutsy and right: there's no gain
in self-censoring, shading one's anger to appease
the goons of whatever firepower. (Bob, go to end.)

Most massive firepower can't focus on or hit exclusively
small targets, that's what's a lie about "surgical" strikes. 
Waste the countryside, yes, hit one rabbit and not the
beloved dog and fellow hunter, little chance. What it
takes is sharpshooting: a one shot, one target, one
pig, one sticker.

True, Horushi's snipe worked, it nailed an innocent, though
a couple of others died to set him up for his own nailing.

True, Waco worked, it charred a crowd of innocents, though a
few others got plugged setting up the roast, and the 2nd roast.

True, firebombing works, as does mass weaponing --nukes, 
chemicals and germs -- but indiscriminately, by terrorism
of the masses, at the price of also terrifying the citizenry 
paying for the megadeath heritage.

All standoff firepower is limited against the individual by 
imprecision of the killing machines and cowardice of the
operators -- artillery, planes, ships, satellites, take your
pick. They savage territory to save the operator's ass,
who, as anyone knows who been around these candyass
strutters, aint got what it takes to cut the guy's throat
who's stabbing your eye.

What's my point? Well, for lack of a better word, it's personal
courage, going nuts when the time's right, the guts to not shut 
the fuck up when you're told to by those who're a whole lot 
bigger, who've got more armaments and thinks they're smarter 
and more ruthless and meaner and have the troops, rank and 
medals to back it up. Just remember that most of those strengths 
are for getting somebody else or a machine to do what is too 
fucking terrifying to do yourself directly.

Do this when the monster accosts: pull your forelock, say sorry 
sir, then upstab the fucker's groin, as he doubles, hack the cord, 
he'll go down quivering, then cut out his liver, kick up his green 
face, squat close, show him the blob, take a bite, chew, savor, 
swallow, put lip to dying ear, whisper, "tasty."

Go home, get a beer, stare the tube, sharpen your tool. Or as
maddog Tim sez, lock and load.

But look, I'm with Bob, too, my tool's philosophy gone berzerk,
trash words, wags, gags, alliterations, mouth shooting. My steel 
weapons are locked from burglars who scare the shit out of me just
by looking like ordinarily ugly wall streeters, that is, like my maddog 
neighbors eyeing me for junk IPO sales.

Sure glad my war's long over, happily getting dimmer, easier to forget
the godawful. Hey, it's veteran's day, anybody want to croak and limp 
to glories past?