From: TruthMonger <email@example.com>
Message Hash: 940ec4daa82649756be793248feb4f38e0a47743866d2e3a2bca725093db1f4f
Message ID: <354A2515.4A0@algebra.com>
Reply To: N/A
UTC Datetime: 1998-05-01 19:38:56 UTC
Raw Date: Fri, 1 May 1998 12:38:56 -0700 (PDT)
From: TruthMonger <firstname.lastname@example.org> Date: Fri, 1 May 1998 12:38:56 -0700 (PDT) To: email@example.com Subject: Epilogue 8.2 - SPACE ALIENS HIDE MY DRUGS!!! Message-ID: <354A2515.4A0@algebra.com> MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain Epilogue 8.2, Rev. 1.8 - SPACE ALIENS HIDE MY DRUGS !!! _______________________________________________________ "Lord knows when the cold wind blows, it will turn your head around." ~ James Taylor Adversity tends to break down the smooth functioning of our comfortably programmed beliefs via forcing a change in our ordinary habits of perception in regard to the world around us. This is true whether the adversity or perceived threat is real or imagined. When some aspect of our survival, including the survival of our comfortably programmed mental, emotional and physical states, is threatened, we tend to become aware of things which were previously invisible or vaguely opaque elements of our environment, or to see things that were already encompassed by the range of our usual perceptive viewpoint in an entirely different way. One might compare a kick in the ass to a software program interrupt that boots one out of the preprogrammed loop that they follow as a matter of routine, and throws them into a reactive EITHER/OR 'fight or flight' routine. Or, if they happen to be wired and programmed to be able to function using higher level logic and languages than are necessitated by mere survival, they might branch to a series of nested conditional loops which, like Tai Chi, enables them to act in whatever manner is most fitting given the original goal of their program and taking into consideration the nature of the error message that was imparted to their backside by an unexpected boot process. "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was RTFM!" Three days after I betrayed my Toshiba Tecra laptop for thirty cans of Silver Bullet, enabling the Roman BorderGuards to take it away to be crucified upon the Cross of Free Speech, I rolled back the stone at the door of the cave where the body of my Opus SPARCard 2 lay and dragged it out into the light of day where, seeing its own shadow, it predicted that there would be three more weeks of Snow Crash. Computer Gods work in mysterious ways, especially when I am drunk, which probably explains why THEY came to me in a double-vision and I once again heard the inner voice which had been silenced by years of medication and therapy. The voice said, "OPUS is not dead, but merely sleepeth." After paying alms to the Used PC Priests and offering a 386 IBM-PC up for sacrifice to the UNIX rising from the ashes, I instituted a GNU World Order among the Byteizens living in the Land of PROM, and my SPARCard 2 came to life, feeding off of the flesh of the DOS interface which the Computer God, OPUS, had destined to serve at the feet of the Eunuchs Masters. "I shall deliver you up out of Redmond, past the Gates of the Pharoh, and I shall be your Get, and you shall be my Pipe-l." Since the resurrection of my SPARCard 2, every day begins with a miracle of life, as the Spirit of the Father of Eunuchs, the Sun OS, and the "Holy Shit! Great Caesar's Ghost...it works!" is breathed into the NULL PROM registers by the laying of hands on the keyboard, sending shivers down the spines of Daemons, Zombies and Orphan Zombies. I've got a KILL command, and I'm not afraid to use it... Of course, the Holy Roman Empire is not about to fold up its tent and cancel its plans to build the Fourth Reich on the Tomb of the UnStoned Soldier of the Army of Dog just because an unrepentant WinLuser has temporarily escaped their sentence of Death of Free Speech by hiding in the Holy Shit! Temple, underneath the KILLts of the Circle of Eunuchs. Desert Storm was just a NWO practice run to fine tune the Patriot missles in preparation for the return of Jesus in a Stealth Bomber, "like a thief in the night." St. John the Divine Lay Preacher mistook the sounds of incoming Scud missles and outgoing Patriot missles for the blaring of trumpets. When the Army of God descends out of heaven, they'd better be wearing Kevlar... "Every time I start getting ahead in the rat race, they bring in faster rats." ~ A Slow Rat A few years ago, Dudley DoWrong took a serious run at my liberty of movement by charging me with a couple of traffic offenses and trying to yank my driver's license. After two years of dragging a pack of Rabid Wombats Cleverly Disguised As Witnesses into court (accompanied by a Mountie assigned to keep an eye and a gun turned in the direction of the MadDogInPossession defendant), it finally came down to blows, and I wiped the floors of the Halls of Justice with the tight ass of the federal Queen's Bench counsellor appointed to prosecute me. (He had a stick up his ass, so it was a lot like using a regular mop.) I have had quite a few people come to me over the years for help with keeping the long dick of the law from being hidden from the sun in their own backyard. There seems to be some kind of perception among the lower stratocasters of the local community that I am some kind of killer legal-eagle genius who is able to eat legal-rats that are larger than his head. Although I enjoy occassionally basking in the warm glow of the approval of Squeaky From's peers, the fact of the matter is, I am actually more of a legal-buzzard--working out of a carrion bag in between flights of fancy during which I look down on the struggling wayfarers wandering in circles, lost in a wasteland of rules and legal proceedures which turn out to be merely shimmering mirages appearing to be an Oasis of Truth and Justice until the poor, parched pricks get close enough to see that their mind and eyes were once again fooled by illusions created by their delusions--and, rather than being a Great Bird of Prey who eats the RatLawyers alive, I am merely a Vulture who picks at the carcasses of the dead and dying former Champions of Justice who sold their souls to the Mobsters Cleverly Disguised As Politicians. Of course, the mail-order, money-back-guarantee 'Be Your Own Legal-Beagle Kit' (send $19.95 + $5.00 S&H to: Baby Dog Enterprises, Box 281, Bienfait, Saskatchewan SOC OMO) I use to snatch Justice from the Jaws of Legal Sharks is meant for use only in trolling for the big fish in small ponds and small fish in big ponds, and is not designed for use by serious FisherKings trolling for Killer KingFish in the home of the SwampThing, where Legal Dinosaurs still roam at large, crushing underfoot anything and anyone that gets in their way. When the omnipresent, nefarious They (TM) call out the National Guard to descend upon your sorry ass, and They (TM) turn to the Desert Rat to sniff through your garbage and find something dirty and smelly enough to delight a hand-picked jury of God Fearing Decent People's Peers, then it's time to put in a call to Larry Joe Dowling, a West Texas Rat Wrangler, and the aptly-named Bob Looney, one of LBJ's former Legally Drunk Beagles. Larry Joe is one of the few lawyers whose standards have remained high enough that he will work in return for really great pussy, and his good Texas breeding ensures that he will be discreet in screwing your old-lady, so as not to cause you any undue embarassment for your lack of sufficient capital to retain a legal representative capable of keeping a straight face when words like Truth and Justice accidentally escape from the lips of the judge and prosecutor. Besides, if They (TM) want you badly enough to make it worth your attorney's while to sell you down the river, then you damn-straight better better team up with an experienced Rounder who has the decency to pay the bar-bill at the end of your tax-deductible, late-night legal conferences. (And whose partner-in-(government)crime(fighting) helps to keep your spirits (pardon the pun) up by raising his glass, in toast to the Blind Broad, and announcing, loud enough to be heard over the din of the surrounding Last Call Warriors, "If Jack Daniel's be with us, then who can be against us?" I use a simple rule-of-thumb to guage the level of the blindside attack on my sorry butt that is being secretly prepared deep within the bowels of the Rat's Nest in Can You *Say* That Word On The Internet(?), Saskatchwan. The more shit-disturbing that the BigTeeth Enforcer Rats let you get away with without uttering even the slightest of squeaks in your direction, then the further ahead they are setting your own personal DoomsDay Clock during their illegal, surrepticious entries into your home while you are down at the CoalDust Saloon. When you can run around Southern Saskatchewan distributing 'WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE' posters putting a price on the head of the thieving scum who stole your computer and not hear a peep-squeak out of them, then your DoomsDay Clock is already set to one minute after midnight, and you're drinking on borrowed time. (Which means that I'd better get my butt down to the CoalDust Saloon so that I'll be there when the barmaid opens the door, and she won't freak out and run down main street screaming 'The sky is falling...The sky is falling!" like she did the last time I didn't arrive until 33 seconds after opening time.) Smoke 'em if you got 'em...