From: Linda Reed--PCC West Campus CSC <lreed@west.cscwc.pima.edu>
Date: Mon, 20 Jul 1998 01:34:07 -0700 (PDT)
To: cypherpunks@toad.com
Subject: BackDoors - SPACE ALIENS HIDE MY DRUGS!!!
Message-ID: <009C9707.23105320.3@west.cscwc.pima.edu>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain


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.]