From: Anonymous <nobody@replay.com>
Date: Tue, 24 Nov 1998 17:11:41 +0800
To: cypherpunks@toad.com
Subject: Space Aliens Address cpunx
Message-ID: <199811240839.JAA02315@replay.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain



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[Bienfait Nutly News] THE COALDUST SALOON, SCENE OF MUCH DEBAUCHERY 
of late, was host tonight to Guest Sprinkler Jeff Gordon on the 
annual Golden Showers of Nuggets celebration of Notable Peons, with 
numerous notable peed-ons in drunken attendance (when not 
staggering outside to do some notable peeing-on, themselves).

Lamely trying to establish some common philosophical ground with the 
rowdy crowd, Jeff tried to cast his organization's mission as 
embodying "less is more." Realizing that "you have less, we have 
more" is not exactly what the Taoist concept means, the attendees 
raised catcalls to a pitch sufficient to shatter beer mugs within 
a radius of 100 yards. That in turn led to outpourings of grief so 
profound that Jeff was momentarily forgotten in the frenzy to order 
refills.

Trying another tack, Jeff launched into his "Nation of Laws" speech, 
ignoring shouted questions about selective prosecution, 
institutional revenge-taking, political hit lists, taxpayer 
suicides, and his organization's complicity in incidents of 
mysterious death more numerous than those trailing behind El Prez 
Klinton himself. When he delivered the line about "the price we pay 
for a civilized society," the extremes of apoplectic laughter so 
engendered were alarming enough that he paused in the interest of 
avoiding the necessity to explain deaths of attendees by traumatic 
mirth to the Canadian authorities. When he resumed, so many of the 
recovering crowd had gone to the restrooms to clean themselves up 
after pissing their pants and some of them vomiting from the effect 
of convulsive laughter that his later points were largely lost.

The question and answer period was somewhat stunted by Jeff's 
seemingly uncontrollable habit of asking each questioner's SS 
number. He didn't seem to comprehend that out of his usual 
institutional context such requests set off everyone's alarm bells, 
being the hyperparanoid rebel fucks that they are.

Of those who persisted, two threw Jeff curve balls he seemed 
unprepared to catch. One asked him his relationship to the Gordon 
who penned the Treasury's notorious Gordon Report of 1981, in which 
the author proposed using Letters of Marque and Reprisal against 
uncooperative tax haven nations, denying their flag airlines 
landing rights in the U.S., and blatantly stated that the U.S. must 
use every means at its disposal to pressure other nations to change 
their laws, even their constitutions, if necessary, to conform with 
the wishes of the U.S. Treasury and submit themselves to U.S. 
extraterritorial jurisdiction. Jeff seemed flustered, then changed 
the subject. 

The other asked him if it wasn't true that since the USG can create 
money at will out of thin air, and that therefore tax collections 
are obviously not needed to run the government, but that since 
increasing the money supply one-sidedly to fund government would 
obviously lead to hyperinflation, that the true function of the 
income tax and therefore the IRS is to take money out of 
circulation and destroy it to keep the money supply in balance. 
Jeff stammered, a few syllables slipping out as if to ask, "How did 
you...? who told you...?" Jeff hurriedly gathered his things and 
made his exit, trailed by the slow-thinking guer^H^H^Horillas he 
brought as bodyguards, his APC kicking up streams of packed snow as 
he sped away down the road.

Declan "Chainsaw" McCullough didn't seem to notice Jeff's premature 
withdrawal (as, indeed, he hadn't seemed to notice Jeff's entrance), 
and continued trying to charm two buxom blonde reportwhores with his 
tales of journalistic derring-do and wildly exaggerated claims of 
his manly proportions.

Blanc, tiring of this reportwhore's incessant questions about her 
panties, settled the issue once and for all (or at least for _that_ 
evening) by slipping them off while seated, and placing them over my 
head in such a way that I could see out the legholes while inhaling 
her womanly fragrance. My dizziness prevented me from noticing much 
else for the rest of the evening, my reaction to The Scent being not 
unlike that of a cat to catnip. I was told later that after 
collapsing to the floor I squirmed my way from table to table, 
making the complete circuit of the Coal Dust Saloon, confirming 
everyone's suspicions that I can't be taken anywhere. But then, 
neither can they.

I was recovered enough at night's end to help with the ritual 
decontamination of the Saloon that always follows the infectious 
presence of government thugs. In addition to the spiritual 
cleansing, some half-dozen subminiature bugging devices were 
recovered, followed by much entertaining speculation on which local 
asswipe they should be planted on to encourage the most dangerous 
life forms around to feed on each other.

TruthMonger

"Just because you have part of me locked up doesn't mean you 
have all of me locked up."

When I heard them say,

"You have the right to remain bent over. Anything you say or we 
imagine you said or would like to tell people you said can and 
will be used against you. You have the right to an attorney 
who works for us. If you cannot afford one, an attorney will 
be provided to help you cop a plea. Your ass belongs to us,"

I realized the Revolution had already begun.



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