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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Cyber Impulses
--------------
Downloading your history.........
Wasting time.........................
Finding it................................
Looking for............................
Graduate...............................
history stored.......................
Jobs waiting to be filled.....
Wasting time........................
Do them................................
Use it.....................................
Crack it man.........................
Global positioning..............
Pulling rank..........................
Crack the code... what could be more simple.....?
I'll give you one answer you have the question for.
Not understanding is the begining.
So does it end before or after it starts?
Continue this transmission with the right answer.
Lock and load baby............
Standing next to the pres. doesn't give you a green light....
but it does leave a lot of doors open for you.........................
Crack the bank and ask away for one answer will del@y
If you see the pattern then you can read the message. I believe you
will find this information revealing, but then again you already know
the location of it.
But what is this thing?
BZZZZZ
Heather T Maple
p.s. have a good day Mr. J I'll listen to you later ;P
=-=
[Received this in the mail the other day.. short, sweet, and damn
interesting. Anyway, neat mail on an otherwise dreary day :) ]
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, etc etc... =
= Internet : jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= gote land +27.31.441115 =
= Arrested Development +31.77.3547477 =
= Global Chaos +61.2.681.2837 =
= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
= Damnation 212.861.0580 Damnation -Toll Free 888.803.8490 =
= Hacker's Haven 303.516.9969 Unearthly Shadows 303.683.1443 =
= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images -- Down -- =
= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
= The Keg 914.234.9674 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Files through Anon FTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
= FTP.PRISM.NET/pub/users/mercuri/zines/fuck =
= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU - /pub/Zines/FUCK =
= FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM - /users/rage/zines/fuck =
= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
= http://www.prism.net/zineworld/fuck/ =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Overman
-------
Many of you have read my previous works in F.U.C.K., particularly
F.U.C.K. #164, where I relate the mean tales of my youth. How then, you
may wonder, have I come up from whence I was born? How is it that my
situation in life has changed? Or has it changed? Am I now the same
mental, emotional and physical weakling that was me as a child?
No. I am not. I have changed. I have changed considerably. I am now
a veritable mental giant, yet not without the ability to explore and
learn afresh. I am emotionally invulnerable, yet I easily become soft
and tender when the time arises. On a physical level, I am now the
hunter, no longer the hunted. I do not fear a mental challenge, nor an
emotional challenge, nor a physical challenge.
What has caused these changes? How did I raise from the small inner
city child with no social skills, no friends, no future and no value to
become the god of myself and my environment that I am now? How did I
attain such mastery of man and machine as I now posess?
Did I win the lottery?
No.
Did I inherit a million dollars?
No.
Did I find God?
No.
Did I find the answers in the writings of L. Ron Hubbard?
No.
Did I travel to the Far East and study Buddhism?
No.
Was I a six million dollar federal research program?
No.
Was I kidnapped by space aliens and sent back to conquer Earth?
Not even close.
It was none of these. I was none other than a will to power. Yes, a
simple act of human will.
Previously, in my weak and pitiful state, I looked to a divine being to
aid me through this world. I looked to the next world as a place of
rest, a place where I would be safe from the dangers of this life.
This was nothing more than dangerous escapism. This divine being did
nothing but keep me from acting on my own. If god was here to take care
of me, what need did I have to take care of myself? If god was here to
set my ethical and moral standards, what need did I have to think for
myself? Until I escaped this self defeating philosophy, I was doomed to
a life of failure.
Atheism brought me out of this. Athiesm forced me to think of this
world as the first and final battleground. No longer would I have an
afterlife to look forward to. This life would be the only one I would
get, and I had better make it count. No longer would I be able to
accept defeat here, knowing that I would be safe and protected in the
afterlife. If I was to rise victorious, it would be in the here and
now.
Athiesm forced me to think for myself. No longer could I simply look at
an ancient tome to tell me what was right and what was wrong. Instead,
I was forced to examine every bit of life itself and determine for
myself the true nature of right and wrong. I was forced to become my
own god.
No longer was a divine being responsible for my creation, my life, and
my destruction. I was now in charge of me. This engendered a strong
sense of personal responsibility in me. *I* was responsible for myself,
no one else. My actions would ultimately lead to my success or my
failure. And that success or failure would be final, no more would I be
granted a second chance in the afterlife.
I stopped accepting defeat. No one would best me, no matter the cost.
This affected more than the combative side of my interpersonal
relationships. I saw through my previous failures and realized that
many of my previous violent confrontations were the result of the
failure of my own social skills. This must be cured, I realized.
Furthermore, I must cure it myself, as there was no longer a divine
being to assist me or comfort me if I failed.
I fought, fought my way free of the social and socioeconomic state I was
in. I learned computer science as a tool to move myself up on the
economic scale. With only one formal class in computer science, I
aquired employment teaching computer science at a state college. How
did I do this? Hard work, led by force of will. Hard work, and the
mental agility built by the rigors of defining my own system of ethics
and morals. After you have created your own philosophical system,
computer science is childs play!
I fought to meet people and to interact with them successfully. I
fought with myself, with my poorly developed skill set. Now that I was
free of the horrid judeao-christain concept that sex was evil, I fought
to learn how to interact on an emotionally intimate level with women.
Free of the sexism inherent in any religious system based upon judaism,
I was now able to interact with females on an equal intellectual level.
All of these changes made me free of my previous environment. No longer
would I interact with the people I had interacted with before, nor would
I interact with people the same way as I had before. I met new people,
people who had not known me before. People who saw the new me and
judged me for what I was at that time, not what I had been before.
It took two years from the time I started until any appreciable changes
were noticable by those around me. It took another two years before the
new me dominated the old me. I took another two years before I was able
to finish the process. Another 6 years has passed in my life, where I
continue to change and to grow with each passing year.
I cannot compare my life now with my life growing up. If I had to do it
all over again, I might choose to take my own life instead. It was
hard. I would not wish my tribulations on the worst of my enemies.
However, the times and events of my early life have given me a tough
inner strength. Nothing I face now causes me fear, because I know I
have survived the worst that life has to offer. I am invulnerable.
My life now is quiet and peaceful. At times, I have difficulties
dealing with the adjustment. I no longer constantly fear for my life,
and was the case for the majority of my youth. I no longer engage in
constant conflict with the people around me. I create conflict when I
wish to create conflict, and peace when I wish to create peace. I no
longer travel the world alone, just me and my imaginary god. I am able
to share my emotions with those few people whom I choose to become
intimate with. I do not fear their rejection, because I know the value
of myself. I have found hapiness, I created it for myself.
You too can obtain the happiness that I now posess. Take control of
your own life. Stop blaming others for your life. Stop relying on god,
your parents, or the welfare state. Do not let any of these take care
of you, physically, mentally, or emotionally.
If your parents take care of your physical needs, they will also create
a framework for your mental and emotional life. If the state takes care
of your physical needs, it will do the same. The state teaches people
that they are subservient to it. The check every month is a periodic
reminder of who is in control. If you give the state nothing, and the
state gives you money, you are a child of the state. How then can you
have a sense of your own self worth, if you have no value to the state?
How can you have a true sense of your own self worth if your life is
subsidized and managed by your parents? Only when we struggle and
succeed on our own can we know our true value. Only when we know and
appreciate our true value can we guarantee our own mental strength.
Only when these two are fortified can we ensure our emotional
well-being.
Live your own life. Create your own path. Do not rely on other men for
anything. Not for your physical needs, not for your morals, not for
your ethics, not for your ideas of right and wrong, not for your mental
training and education, not for your sense of self worth, not for your
emotional health, not for anything.
Rely only upon yourself, and you will grow until you are able to provide
for yourself. You will grow until you no longer need other men to
provide for you. Not for your physical needs, not for your mental
needs, not for your emotional needs. When this comes to pass, you will
have conquered yourself. Once you have conquered yourself, nothing else
will be able to arouse fear in your heart. You will never face a
tougher opponent, nor will you ever find a more sweet victory.
- Voyager
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, etc etc... =
= Internet : jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= gote land +27.31.441115 =
= Arrested Development +31.77.3547477 =
= Global Chaos +61.2.681.2837 =
= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
= Damnation 212.861.0580 Damnation -Toll Free 888.803.8490 =
= Hacker's Haven 303.516.9969 Unearthly Shadows 303.683.1443 =
= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images -- Down -- =
= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
= The Keg 914.234.9674 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Files through Anon FTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
= FTP.PRISM.NET/pub/users/mercuri/zines/fuck =
= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU - /pub/Zines/FUCK =
= FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM - /users/rage/zines/fuck =
= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
= http://www.prism.net/zineworld/fuck/ =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
The Psychology of Presence
--------------------------
I finished college two years ago, and it was not a very pleasant experience.
It was bad enough that, to this day, while having the desire for a second
degree, I would never seriously consider returning to college.
I am a knowledge junkie. The popularity of the Internet and World Wide Web
would have people define this as someone addicted to the Web. But, I am
different. I hate the Web. Biology. Chemistry. Mathematics. Philosophy.
Psychology. Sociology. These are the subjects which interest me, and college
prevented me from learning them.
All colleges have a policy which stipulates that the grade one ultimately
receives must be based, in part, upon a certain pre-defined attendance
rate. In order to recieve a "C" in any class, you must attend at least
70% of the class sessions, regardless of all other factors. You may be
earning a perfect "A" in the class, but if you only attended 70% of the
lectures, you will be recieving a "C" instead.
On the surface, this seems like a reasonable policy. The more lectures you
attend, the more you will learn. The less you attend, the less you will
learn. But, this policy is seriously flawed, and it is destroying the
academic records of many students.
I do not restrict my learning solely to the classroom. While others can be
found in the local bookstore perusing the best-seller of the week, I can
be found in the science section debating whether I should buy a book on
chaos theory, or a book on human anatomy. If I am able, I purchase them
both, and eagerly run home to begin learning something new.
A student often registers for his next-semester class schedule several
months in advance. Being excited about learning a new subject, I would
often return to the bookstore to buy something along the lines of my
future class subjects. By the time I appeared for the first day of class,
I usually had a solid background on what was to come.
Instructors spend way too much time beating the same basic principles to
death. The class moves slowly as a result, and those who understood the
concept earlier are quickly bored. Those who understood it months earlier
become extremely bored. When a sharp student asks a thoughtful and
intelligent question on the topic at hand, and the rest of the class may
not understand it yet, the anger of others becomes readily apparant.
Some think you are just trying to show off. You lose faith in your ability
to learn what you need from the class. You start missing classes. Eventually,
you only do the homework and show for the tests.
I failed many classes in college. I failed the same philosophy class twice. I
failed because I never attended class. I completed all of the assignments on
time. I took every quiz and test. I read the entire textbook...twice. I often
called the instructor on weekends to debate very esoteric topics of
philosophy, ethics and society. She said she had learned a couple of things
from our debates. She said I knew my subject cold. At the end of the
semester, I had 997 out of 1000 possible points. I received an "F" in the
class based on my 28% attendance rate. She was upset that she was forced to
give me this grade.
This scenario played out in every class, every semester. Then I took
Psychology. On the first day of class, we filled out the basic questionaire
as to who we were, what we wanted to do with our lives, and what our
interests were. We turned them in, and after glancing through them, she
called a few students outside for a few minutes each. I was one of them.
"You don't belong here," she said. "Get out of here. See me during office
hours later this week."
Wondering what was going on, I went to her office a few days later. Why would
an instructor throw me out of her class without cause?
"You're too smart to be wasting away in this class. You stated your interest
was in medicine on your questionaire. I want you to read the textbook and
show up for all of the quizzes and tests. Other than that, I don't want to
see you in class. But, since the law requires a certain amount of hours in
the classroom to receive a grade, this is what we are going to do. You will
spend one hour for each hour of class you miss researching any topic you want
tying psychology with medicine. Then write me a report. Keep a log of your
hours. Agree?"
I could not believe what I was hearing. This was too good to be true! "Yes."
I said to her, and went home.
I did what was asked of me. I missed 51 hours of class, yet spent 132 hours
researching and writing a report on "The Psychology of Steroid Abuse in
Athletes." I received an "A" on every quiz and test. I received an "A" on my
report. I received an "A" in the class. I was ecstatic!
This instructor somehow recognized a student that shouldn't have been there.
She had an alternate idea, and it worked for the both of us. I had learned
more about psychology than any student could ever have learned by attending
every class and taking notes. And it gave me hope for my other classes.
The following semester I approached each of my instructors on the first day
of class with this idea in mind. None of them wanted to hear it. It was
ludicrous to them. I had to attend class or fail. End of story.
By definition, the grade of "A" means "demonstrated mastery of the course
subject and material." Colleges don't care about the definitions contained in
their own policy guidelines. So what if you are a master of "subject x" or
"subject y?" So what if you are doing "A" level work. You missed "x" number
of classes, so you are getting an "F." This is contrary to the definition of
"A" work. Where is the logic in this?
Smart students with a desire to learn are being destroyed by irrational
policies like attendance requirements. I graduated with a GPA of 2.02. I
should have graduated with a 3.80+ GPA. I received offers from almost every
one of my current, and previous, instructors for "Letters of Recommendation."
I became friends with many of my instructors, and even some I never took a
class from. But my desire for knowledge destroyed me. I was different. I
didn't conform. And I was punished for it.
se7en
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, etc etc... =
= Internet : jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= gote land +27.31.441115 =
= Arrested Development +31.77.3547477 =
= Global Chaos +61.2.681.2837 =
= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
= Damnation 212.861.0580 Damnation -Toll Free 888.803.8490 =
= Hacker's Haven 303.516.9969 Unearthly Shadows 303.683.1443 =
= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images -- Down -- =
= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
= The Keg 914.234.9674 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Files through Anon FTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
= FTP.PRISM.NET/pub/users/mercuri/zines/fuck =
= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU - /pub/Zines/FUCK =
= FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM - /users/rage/zines/fuck =
= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
= http://www.prism.net/zineworld/fuck/ =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
(11/23/96)

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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Whoooo are you...who,who...who,who...
-------------------------------------
Act II, Scene I
[Audience enters, sits]
It's been a fair length of time since I took the soapbox for an extended
email sermon. When I did the rapid succession previously, I was entrenched
in a (now lost) war with the forces of nicotine addiction. It's a LOT
easier to expel angst and rage when all you want is a couple hauls off of a
duke (duke (n): another name for a cigarette, based on the fact that
cigarettes killed the Duke). Now, (un)happily smoking again, outbursts
become more analytical and calculated.
I decided to write again because of this new found focus; this new harnessed
outlook. When you detach yourself from society in general, your senses
enhance (much like touch making up for the loss of sight). Like being the
only sober person at a party, you realize that drunks are idiots (i.e., me
(the drunk, not the observer)). Observation is nothing if you cannot share
it though. I can watch the news or see someone in traffic, realize how
pathetic or ridiculous society is, and laugh to myself. Problem: You
laugh, and think how funny said situation is. Then, you think it would be
even funnier if you could tell someone (much the same as thinking 'oooh,
that's what I should have said. that would have REALLY zinged 'em!'). Then
you slowly stop laughing because it is the twentieth time you thought that
today, and still have no one to tell. Then you stop laughing entirely when
you realize that you are a lonely, pathetic man with no life because you
have to amuse yourself. Finally, you compensate by sending long verbose
email ("I have this 'friend' with this problem...").
ANYway...
Whether it be email, chat rooms, AOL, or just computing online in general,
you cannot be yourself. Either your name is taken, or you do not want to be
known. Whatever the reason, we assume names and identities online so that
we can navigate comfortably. Some consider it to be 'clothing' to wear on
the Internet rather than 'bare' ourselves. Using your real name online is
like spirit-gumming your wallet to your head, and then wandering outside the
greater Washington DC area. You will..no, DESERVE to be robbed, beaten, and
raped by the predators that stalk the Ether.
I know that some companies force you to use your real name in email
(Jessidia_Springfield@microsoftinthehead.com), but that is also the
exception to safety. Online scam artists and hackers will largely leave you
unscathed. They realize that any company that makes you give out your name
(first, last, and god-knows-why, middle) in email, falling just short of
making you include your social security number, has already robbed you of
your identity to the point that there isn't one to left to steal. In
defense of these folks (since some are in the To: field), would you feel
safer working for a company that would allow "cuddlyface;)@citibank.com"?
Hell, I'd just as soon take free tube socks rather than participate in THEIR
401k.
So, that just leaves the plain stupid. If you are "Seth_Brundel@aol.com",
you may as well be
"Seth_Brundel_199_W_Main_Chicago_555-1212@anal_pentarate_me.com".
The rest of us live under assumed names. It could be from medieval
warriors, household plants, childhood toys ("Rooossseeebuuuddddd....."), or
Hawaiian words for "male part that dangles"; we all have a story to tell
with user names. Strangely, I have found, that no one wants to know
anymore. It is either a) you would never walk up to a guy in the park with
a shopping cart full of crusted Betamax videos, sharpening a straight razor
on his tongue as he wets himself, and ask how life's been treating him (the
"BETTER not to know" category), or b) you never ask a drug
dealer/spy/undercover cop/hooker their real name unless you want a automatic
round/stiletto/fist/switchblade in your face (the "SAFER not to know"
category). Either way, we are as comfortable with pseudonyms as Agents 86
and 99.
So now that you have your identity, and your unfathomable reason for it, you
go out to play in silicon pastures. Whether it be email, newsgroups, or
chat, you have your cape&cowl on, and your secret identity as
billionaire/philanthropist/playboy carefully hidden. You will send
messages, you will post questions and replies, and you come about as close
to interaction as sex through the glass at quarter peep-show.
Still, despite the entrenched effort to avoid even verbal contact, people
are social animals, and will eventually want to talk or (shudder) meet.
This is when the real spycraft begins. Imagine you have been going back and
forth via email with someone at another company, or you meet through a chat
room. You are intrigued with the way they type, and desire to finally meet
(completely forgetting that in person they will not have 20 minutes to come
up with a typed reply, and thus are excruciatingly dull on-the-fly).
Enter first contact:
"Hello"
"Errrr...hi."
"Hi"
"Who is this"
"Neil"
[silence]
"Who?"
"Neil. You know...wellhung. From AOL."
"Ohhhh. Hi."
"Hi"
[painful silence continues for a long, agonizing time]
Now let's say the silence is eventually replaced with conversation. Let's
go so far as to say you continue to keep in touch. For a long time, you
will need to include your screen name with your real name like some
word-association or foreign language tape. Eventually, this
sign-countersign crap dissipates, but you accept having to go though with it
a little TOO easily.
I mean, wasn't this the reason we have middle name? Aren't we given a
built-in alter-ego in case we later learn our parents cannot be trusted with
dolling out a first name? The real irony is that we go out of our way to
pick out a screen name that (while reflecting our personality in an
otherwise cold, electronic world) sounds ridiculous if said aloud. Even
worse is the fact we have to do it when we FIRST meet someone; during that
crucial first-impression period. Would you go to Denny's on a first date
(no, no one would, but bear with me for the sake of analogy) and order
"Moons Over My Hammy"?
The best comedian laughs at himself. Thus, I admit I have gone through this
with more than one person on this mailing. I have been capone before I have
been me. The fact remains that I live out here in the data quite a bit, so
it's inevitable. The rest of you may not have had the pleasure yet. With
an increasing electronic world, you may still yet.
What is the moral of the story? Duh, none, since I am neither of the
Brothers Grimm. What there is is a pause to think. You MUST pick an
identity to live behind online. It is 'The Club' when parking in the Bronx.
You MAY meet someone based on this name alone. So, try to pick something
you can live with. No little kid wants to be called 'stinky' because they
accidentally messed themselves at the playground one day. By the same
token, no mature adult wishes to be 'love-pistol', 'sleepybaby', 'foofy',
'camero-man', 'sassytabby', or
'five_days_off_of_thorazine_and_remembering_my_hands_are_razors'.
So to you, my sensible friends, I beseech you to be there for a friend when
they sign up for "15 Free Hours!". Counsel them, warn them, coach them. Be
a humanitarian. Friends don't let friends pick #$%^#@ stupid user names.
Nakedly,
Capone
End Act II
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, etc etc... =
= Internet : jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= gote land +27.31.441115 =
= Arrested Development +31.77.3547477 =
= Global Chaos +61.2.681.2837 =
= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
= Damnation 212.861.0580 Damnation -Toll Free 888.803.8490 =
= Hacker's Haven 303.516.9969 Unearthly Shadows 303.683.1443 =
= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images -- Down -- =
= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
= The Keg 914.234.9674 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Files through Anon FTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
= FTP.PRISM.NET/pub/users/mercuri/zines/fuck =
= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU - /pub/Zines/FUCK =
= FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM - /users/rage/zines/fuck =
= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
= http://www.prism.net/zineworld/fuck/ =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
(11/23/96)

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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Killing time on a Sunday afternoon
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Have you ever noticed the way stupid people drive? You know who I'm
talking about. The ones who cut you off on the highway. The ones who take up
both lanes because they can't seem to make up their mind which one they want
to drive in. Those guys.
The ones who piss me off most are the ones who never signal a turn.
Just how hard is it to reach out your finger and flick that little turn
signal lever, anyway? My theory is that these people are simply too lazy
to use their blinkers once in a while. These lazy fucks can't possibly be
productive members of society.
So anyhow, I went to a busy corner last Saturday to do some
observing. I noticed that the worst "blinker offenders" are snobby yuppie
types with nice cars. I wanted to mess up one of these nice cars to show
the offenders the error of their ways.
On Sunday, I grabbed my short-handled maul (like a sledgehammer with
a short handle (hence the name, stupid)) and headed for the corner once
more. Hiding the maul between my back and the lightpost, I waited for an
opportune moment. At last, I saw my target: a trendily-dressed yuppie in a
green Chevy Blazer that sparkled from a recent wash. He pulled up to the
corner (failing to utilize his turn signal actuator) and stuck his head out
the window to look for a clear spot in traffic. I sauntered to his truck,
raised the maul, and brought it *whoomp!*ing down in a perfect arc.
Well, almost perfect. I was aiming for the nice shiny chrome side-
view mirror, but I ended up slamming the 10-pound maul into the offender's
temple. His eyes sort of bulged out and he groaned as he slumped a bit in
his seat. Well, I didn't need any lawsuits cluttering up my busy schedule,
so I figured I'd put the poor bastard out of his misery. I raised the maul
for another go, but his foot apparently slipped off the brake pedal, because
his truck started easing out into the oncoming traffic.
I started jogging alongside the Blazer, giving him a whack every
few seconds when I could lift the heavy maul. "Die, die, shithead, die!" I
screeched while turning his head into spaghetti sauce. But I couldn't hear
myself very well over the sounds of the oncoming traffic swerving around us
with blaring horns, shouting "hey you moron, get the fuck out the road!" But
their taunts didn't disturb me as much as the fact that they didn't signal
before they swerved into the next lane. But that's all right.
I'll take care of them tomorrow.
-Legion
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, etc etc... =
= Internet : jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= gote land +27.31.441115 =
= Arrested Development +31.77.3547477 =
= Global Chaos +61.2.681.2837 =
= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
= Damnation 212.861.0580 Damnation -Toll Free 888.803.8490 =
= Hacker's Haven 303.516.9969 Unearthly Shadows 303.683.1443 =
= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images -- Down -- =
= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
= The Keg 914.234.9674 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Files through Anon FTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
= FTP.PRISM.NET/pub/users/mercuri/zines/fuck =
= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU - /pub/Zines/FUCK =
= FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM - /users/rage/zines/fuck =
= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
= http://www.prism.net/zineworld/fuck/ =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
(11/23/96)

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=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
SOL on AOL
----------
I don't think this is one of those things that you have to know a
lot about publishing to laugh at, so here it goes:
I work for a journal that publishes medical article, amongst other
things. I was talking with the printing house for our journal about how we
could save $1000 a year by emailing articles rather than sending them by
courier. Unfortunately, these stone-chiseling, cave-painting, Gideon
press-running, monk-scribbling, backward scribes have NO concept of anything
reasonably hi-tech other than to say that they came to work in a "horseless
carriage". This guy must have had a bowl of Crispy Wheat and Testicles for
breakfast ('Now with 30% more Cahonies!") because his reply to my request to
email these files was (ahem...)
"My staff tells me it would be too labor intensive."
Pardon!? "Labor intensive"!? Are they going to translate the files
from binary by hand? Am I sending these files in Apache? "Labor
intensive"!?
Now while you may think this is me over-reacting (perish the
thought) because I am (overly) comfortable with email, I disagree. Normally
I'd say yes if it were an Internet application, as I do understand that not
everyone has severed their ties with society and learned the ins-and-outs of
the internet. Unfortunately, this is not the case. Some of you may have
guessed what kind of email it is already, and understand why undies are all
in a bunch.
They are using AOL.
AOL and "LABOR INTENSIVE" go together the same way 'Christian
Coalition' and 'Maplethrope photo exhibit' roll off the tongue.
There are some that will say that AOL is still a little tricky.
Sure, I'll concede to this, too. My friend's grandmother had just a tizzy
trying to do a keyword search for a peach cobbler recipe until he showed her
to look up 'cooking' instead. I mean this woman could STILL BE THERE pining
away at AOL, wasting what could be her last few days of mortality, hung up
on a semantics problem. To this end, not everyone is an AOL guru, or even
needs to be one.
Still, please think with me for a moment: This is the disk that
they send to mailboxes all over the country, and of which over 6 million
people have figured out and use. This does not include the millions of
others that tried and didn't like it, or evolved up to the Internet
(sorry if I offend any AOL'ers, but the day will come when you log-on
with your online opposable thumb). This is the online software they
give to parolees and vagrants. This is the software that is behind every
third paper towel in public restrooms and are stuck to the floor of movie
theaters. It is so popular because ANYONE CAN USE IT. Even if you never
learn how to control satellite orbits from the "WELCOME!" window, there
is one thing that they are even training cockroaches to do after a nuclear
war: Send email on AOL.
I will not know (or perhaps ever understand) what was 'labor
intensive' about AOL email until Tuesday, so I cannot share that with
you, kind reader. For that matter, I may never bring up again as the
concept has the mental equivalent of snorting paint thinner. I did want
to share this to demonstrate a point that those of us without children
have not learned yet. Do you remember giving the LAMEST excuses to your
parents, thinking you had pulled one over on them?
"Who knocked over the milk?"
"Maybe it just FELL over!"
"Are you asleep?"
"Yeah."
"I told you not to do this."
"Well Dad said it was ok!"
Bull. We never pulled any of crap-excuses over on them. I'm told
when you're a parent, you realize what kind of a BS artist you THOUGHT you
were at that age. To me, this whole email issue is the childhood/online
version of this.
"Do think your Mother is an idiot? Go to your room until you're
ready to use AOL email, and that means without dinner young man!"
Capone
capone@dimensional.com
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, etc etc... =
= Internet : jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= gote land +27.31.441115 =
= Arrested Development +31.77.3547477 =
= Global Chaos +61.2.681.2837 =
= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
= Damnation 212.861.0580 Damnation -Toll Free 888.803.8490 =
= Hacker's Haven 303.516.9969 Unearthly Shadows 303.683.1443 =
= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images -- Down -- =
= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
= The Keg 914.234.9674 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Files through Anon FTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
= FTP.PRISM.NET/pub/users/mercuri/zines/fuck =
= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU - /pub/Zines/FUCK =
= FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM - /users/rage/zines/fuck =
= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
= http://www.prism.net/zineworld/fuck/ =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
(11/25/96)

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=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
He's Not A Truthful Person
--------------------------
This is something Voyager recently told another person about me. It has
been gnawing at me ever since, because I know he is right. I do not hold
his statement against him. Why should I? He was telling the truth. More
than I had realized.
I know how he drew his conclusion of me. I will not defend myself or make
excuses. I will try to make you understand why it is true. Nothing more.
My father died when I was three years old. My mother was pregnant with my
youngest sister at the time. She was forced to raise her children alone
for several years, until there came a time when she couldn't do it
anymore, and married for convenience.
My new step-something was a closet alcoholic. After time he stopped
hiding it. He would often beat me when my mother was away. I told my
mother one day, and she didn't believe me. She had asked him about it,
and he denied it. She took his word over that of her son. Maybe it was
for convenience.
I was left to entertain myself most of my childhood. I never received an
allowance. I never received anything I asked for. I never had anything
but the bare essentials. I didn't have many friends.
My mom divorced my step-something after two years. She fell in love with
a neighbor. He had many children, whose source of entertainment was
beating on me. I told my mother. Her solution was to take me to my
ex-step-somethings house for the weekend to be watched while she worked,
along with my sister. Every Saturday morning we were taken there. I was
beaten repeatedly. Every Sunday I was picked up. I knew not to tell my
mother about it, because I had already tried that once, and it didn't work.
But I could tell from the look in her eyes she knew. Knew that each
Saturday morning, she was leading me to slaughter. She brought me there
for convenience.
Her boyfriend's kids kept beating on me. I said something. She asked, and
in the resulting verbal fight, they broke off the relationship. My mother
blamed me. Said it was all my fault. We moved away.
I learned three things from this. Don't trust anyone, because if you
can't trust your own mother, who can you trust. Keep your mouth shut, or
else you will be beaten for it. The truth doesn't mean anything and will
only hurt you.
I built a wall around myself. I lied to everyone, even my mother, about
everything. My reasoning was that you can't be hurt if they knew nothing
about you or what was really going on with you. In time I found the world of
computers a great place to hide from the world and be whoever I wanted to
be. I had the opportunity to build an image of myself among others of
how I would have wanted my life to be had I already not been destroyed
by others.
Over time, this image of who I wanted to be became so ingrained in my
psyche that it is who I became. I became this person without a foundation
for it to rest on. As time went on, I became trapped.
I stumbled upon philosophy one day and renounced god and religion. I
became my own god, and Objectivism became my new bible. I started to
become who I really was. I was happy. I had found meaning and direction.
But the ghost of my previous image I had built among others kept
returning to haunt me. I was not that person anymore, and I tried to
distance from it by simply being myself.
I made new friends. I took old friends who's friendship I valued aside
and talked about what you are reading now. I learned a new lesson by
doing this: The truth will set you free. Because once the truth is out
there for all to see, no one can use it against you. I refused to become
a prisoner of my past, living in fear of the truth.
My journey has been recent; it is only two years old. Voyager said his
journey took six years. I still have several years to go. Those of you
who have met me in the last year know the real me. I was actively
renouncing my past before I came out from the underground. But there is
still some of the old me mixed within that real me. People I have met in
the last year that I consider valued friends are seeing more of the real
me everyday. I am still shedding my past as I continue to grow and learn
more about myself, and having friends like Jericho make this whole
transition rewardable. I still have a long way to go, but I am slowly
making my way there.
I ask one thing of all who know me, whether you consider yourself my
friend or my enemy. Can we go from here? Ask and I shall tell you the
truth. No matter what the consequences.
se7en
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, etc etc... =
= Internet : jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= gote land +27.31.441115 =
= Arrested Development +31.77.3547477 =
= Global Chaos +61.2.681.2837 =
= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
= Damnation 212.861.0580 Damnation -Toll Free 888.803.8490 =
= Hacker's Haven 303.516.9969 Unearthly Shadows 303.683.1443 =
= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images -- Down -- =
= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
= The Keg 914.234.9674 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Files through Anon FTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
= FTP.PRISM.NET/pub/users/mercuri/zines/fuck =
= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU - /pub/Zines/FUCK =
= FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM - /users/rage/zines/fuck =
= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
= http://www.prism.net/zineworld/fuck/ =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
(11/25/96)

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=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
An Old Debt
-----------
I am a wanted man. Not in the sense that anyone really wants me, of
course. I have a few friends who wish me to be around me, but this is
not to what I am referring. In this meaning of the term, I am wanted by
the United States government for past misdeeds which it holds against
me.
Most, if not all, of the government employees responsible for marking me
as a wanted man have moved on to other job assignments and new lives. I
doubt any of them would recognize me if they ran into me on the street.
Nevertheless, the paperwork remains.
I have lived these past 15 years in peace. During this time, I have
lived in a country that is not my own under a name that is not my own.
These have been prosperous years. My education in the United States and
my business skills have served me well.
I am now returning to the United States. This is my first visit to my
own country since 1981. Although I miss my home greatly, that is not
the reason for my return. My return to America, at great personal risk,
is an attempt to partially repay a past debt.
Fifteen years ago, my partner and I were involved in some shady business
dealings. Hell, it was outright crime. We took CitiBank for over a
million dollars, and we got caught. They took John, but I got away. I
got away because I ran fast and I ran far. I had no one and nothing to
hold me back. Before they noticed my absence, I was out of the country
and travelling under a false identity. It cost me quite a bit of money,
but CitiBank was footing the bill.
John wasn't so lucky. John couldn't run. John wouldn't run. John had
a daughter. John loved that little girl more than I've ever loved
anything in my entire life. John loved that little girl more than I
have loved everything I have ever loved all put together. John lived
for that little girl. John stayed put. John stood trial. John stood
trial for his crimes and for mine.
John was convicted and sentenced to two consecutive 20 year sentences.
John couldn't take it. John was never strong that way. Perhaps he
simply couldn't stand to be apart from his daughter for that long. John
killed himself in prison.
John could have taken better care of his daughter had he lived. He
should have known that. John just couldn't have been thinking that when
he kicked that chair out from underneath himself. It was less than a
year into his sentence.
The little girl was raised by her mother and John never once had custody.
Her mother left John before the girl was ever born. John would see the
child only on weekends. She was all he ever talked about. She was his
life, and when he lost her, he just stopped living.
The little girl's mother wasn't the best of people. John had loved her.
John didn't love her anymore. She burned out that love in ways only a
woman can. I never did understand why she did what she did, and neither
did John.
I haven't been a father to the little girl. I've been living in hiding.
The little girl's mother does not approve of me, and she has little
reason to. I was part of what John killed. She was a part too,
although she will never know that.
I hope she has raised the child well, but I have no reason to believe
that to be the case. She was never fit to raise a child, but she was
the only one who was allowed to. Some kids grow up right in spite of
their parents. I only hope this is one of those kids.
I've come to America to see this little girl. Only she's not so little
anymore. She's seventeen and she's in high school. It's in school that
I will meet her. Well, not in school exactly. I can't risk being
identified in her school. I can't risk being identified by her mother.
Nevertheless, I must risk this journey to see the girl.
My salvation is, as has often been the case, an old friend. I have a
friend who is a doctor and who is a female. You see, no seventeen year
old girl in her right mind would allow herself to be approached by a
lone adult man. My good friend will be there though. She will be
my ticket to safely speak with John's daughter. Using a simple pretext,
my friend will arrange for me to meet the girl.
As soon as we are together, I will come clean. My freedom depends on
the girl trusting me enough not to scream out. I do not know the girl,
but I knew the father. I have enough faith in the blood to risk what I
am risking.
I do not come to bring the girl money. I do not owe John or his
daughter any money. I have plenty of money, and I would give it all to
John's daughter, or anything she needs just as if she were my own daughter.
But money is not the purpose of my visit. Money is base and dirty and
money is part of what caused the death of her father.
I come with a message for the little girl. I come to tell her about her
father. I come to tell her about his wit, his sensitivity, his love of
life and his wonderful sense of humor. Most importantly I come to tell
her about how much he loved her.
I don't know what the girl's mother told her about John, but I'm certain
he would have wanted her to know the truth. Her mother was never strong
on the truth, in fact, I bet she even lies to herself. The little girl
deserves to know what kind of a man her father really was and how much
he loved her. If her mother was never able to love her and if no one else
in her life ever loves her, her father loved her, and she deserves to know
that.
I am an old man. I am risking the last years of my life to tell a
seventeen year old girl how her dead father felt about her. Is it worth
it? You bet your ass it is.
*** A work of fiction by the Voyager.
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= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
= Damnation 212.861.0580 Damnation -Toll Free 888.803.8490 =
= Hacker's Haven 303.516.9969 Unearthly Shadows 303.683.1443 =
= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images -- Down -- =
= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
= The Keg 914.234.9674 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
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(11/25/96)

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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Unhappy Birthday
----------------
The following is something I got from a friend of mine:
> "The latest is the fact that I was reprimanded for refusing to take part in
> singing Happy Birthday to Teri yesterday. I bought her a present and a
> card, and wished her a good day. (Which, I might add, is more than she
> did for ME.) Anyway, I'm a horrible person, apparently. I've explained
> my aversion to this task to everyone MANY times. Since I was at least
> EIGHT I've hated it. I've decided that, nearly 25 years later, it's time
> for me to stop doing what I don't wanna do. I think, perhaps, I was
> bludgeoned to death by someone who happened to be singing Happy Birthday
> WHILE they were bludgeoning."
So, after reading this, I starting thinking about the singing of "Happy
Birthday". I read an article by Dave Barry last summer talking about group
singing. He pointed out that you can't get two people, let alone a whole
office or party, to sing "Happy Birthday" ('HB') on key. Yet, to his
amazement after watching endless seasons of B-ball, everyone can chat "Air
Ball" in perfect pitch and harmony. He said to watch a game sometime and
listen when the chant starts. After about the second chat, everyone is
singing at the correct pitch with impeccable timing. Hmmmm....
Point being, like many things, if you cannot use it right do not use it at
all. This goes for singing 'HB'. Hearing those off-key voices is about as
charming a thought as hearing the whooping and yelling of the Bloods or
Crips as they chase my lilly-white butt through S. Central. I think that
singing 'HB' is more traumatic than birth itself. Leaving the warm, fluid
comfort of the womb for a cold, bright, loud world is piddle next to mock
excited-faced co-workers trying to bellow out "HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU....."
grrrrrr......
I mean, is this a Viking chant or Klingon war cry as a warrior grows one
year closer to death. Does this crap-song announce the beginning of my
journey to Valhalla? Like some Gregorian chant, at best, I think this song
is sung to ward off the reaper who shall not approach the wailing of the
office banshees.
The simple fact is this: Most people cannot sing. When they do, they are
hit with rounds of comments about keeping their day job. If you asked
someone to sing you Layla at work, they wouldn^t. Then WHY, I ask you, do
they get together and sing on your birthday. If their voices are so awful
that they wouldn^t even sing a song they like in the car alone at night,
why yell one in your face while you^re trying hard to deal with the cruel
fact of mortality.
Marilyn Monroe; sing your brains out. Beatles; I'll take that ditty any
day. Trapped in the lunchroom at work? I'd just as soon hear my initials
carved in my teeth with broken glass.
And a One, and a Two..
-Capone
capone@dimensional.com
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= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, etc etc... =
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=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= gote land +27.31.441115 =
= Arrested Development +31.77.3547477 =
= Global Chaos +61.2.681.2837 =
= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
= Damnation 212.861.0580 Damnation -Toll Free 888.803.8490 =
= Hacker's Haven 303.516.9969 Unearthly Shadows 303.683.1443 =
= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images -- Down -- =
= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
= The Keg 914.234.9674 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
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= Files through Anon FTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
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= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU - /pub/Zines/FUCK =
= FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM - /users/rage/zines/fuck =
= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
= http://www.prism.net/zineworld/fuck/ =
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= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author =
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(11/25/96)

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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Jake Bastard
------------
Complete shit. Daily life had hit an all time low as far as the
standard of living.. and everything else for that matter. The turn
of the century did not bring radical changes for the better like
the president had promised. In fact, things had become much worse,
and much quicker than ever before.
It was over a year ago that Congress passed laws making provisions
for private individuals to become certified law enforcement officers.
It was only two weeks later before those individuals became half
mercenary, half bounty hunters. Not exactly the "private police" the
government had intended.
Senators that had drafted the bill envisioned law-abiding
citizens taking certification classes that resembled police training.
With that certification, these people would patrol bad neighborhoods
as regular police, but only respond to calls they wanted to.. ie:
get paid for. The promise of police-like soldiers sounded good to
the violent streets, so people pushed for it to pass.
Jake was not exactly a clean cut guy. "Low life", "scum",
and "bastard" were the usual colorful adjectives used to describe
him by the street cretin, his clients, and everyone else. The petty
insults didn't affect him though, rather the condition of society
did. Crime was on a drastic spiral downward with no end in site.
He couldn't complain too much about business though, the
need for police service was always present. Fortunate for him, victims
of crime weren't always lucky to get state funded officers, and
had to rely on the 'private' police. Dispatch for all of the officers
was done through a central service with 'real' officers getting
routed whenever possible. Once that buffer of 'real' police had been
crossed, people like Jake stepped up to do the job, and get paid for
his services.
He looked at his watch and sighed out loud. He had promised
himself to complete each shift even though he set his own hours. About
the only thing keeping him motivated was thinking about later. He had
planned on renting some flesh and kicking back with a few beers. His
Big Gulp came to an end too quickly and concluded his break once again.
Settling back into the front seat of the hummer he turned the radio
back on to monitor police traffic, waiting for the next call. It was
only a matter of minutes before it came through.
"One Eight two.. please respond.. Four Eleven in Progress"
A quick response to acknowledge the call and he was off.
The tires squeeled as the big vehicle slid onto Colfax. This was the
only road he patrolled, and for good reason. Recent reports indicated
that 30% of the crime in Denver revolved around the long and dirty
street. Some chalked that number up to the fact it was the longest
continous road in the country, others because of the inhabitants
of the area. Either way, it was very profitable for the 'private'
cops that braved it's dangers.
The call told him there was an armed robbery in progress but
hostages were involved. Not his favorite job, but typically very
rewarding financially. Using his knee to keep the wheel steady,
he barrelled down Colfax checking his two guns for ammo. As usual,
both were loaded and ready to go. The white flashing lights on the
top of the hummer was more than enough to clear the road for him.
The hummer screeched to a stop about fifty feet from the
front of the building. All of the lights were off inside, but the
hundreds of bullet holes on the front facade told him he was in the
right place. Jake looked over to the two 'real' officers that had
arrived and guessed that dispatch couldn't scrape together any
backup. He didn't like that.. the 'real' police hated the 'private'
police more than anyone.
Both of the uniformed officers had their guns out and were
trying to keep their eyes on the front of the building. Neither could
help a quick glance to see who had come to help them. The look
in their eyes told Jake that they didn't approve of the blue jeans and
flannel appearance he preferred. Under the flannel was a D1 rated
bullet proof vest that had stopped over a dozen bullets in the past.
Jake pulled out his two Sig .45s and moved over to the police car
to talk with the officers.
Not ones for chat, the officers roughly clued him in to the
situation of five well armed individuals inside, all trigger happy.
With no light around, and the few street lights shot out, Jake
pulled out his glasses and switched them on. It took a few seconds
for him to adjust to the night vision, but it was something that
had saved his life almost as much as his vest.
Now his real dilemna. If he moved in now, the officers would
not back him up since there was no other backup. If he waited with them,
he didn't get paid. Not a hard choice really, but he always gave it a
chance. The glasses switched over to infrared giving him a look inside
the building. Looked like four dead figures, two hostages, and only
three armed individuals. Typical, the cops had lied to him in hopes
of keeping him out of the way.
Jake ran to the very corner of the building and looked around.
There were several cases in the past where a sniper lurked from nearby
buildings to take out any police that tried to interfere with a robbery.
Considering this was a high risk robbery, a sniper was not out of the
question. He panned around looking at windows, balconies, and roof tops
trying to ascertain just how many people were involved in this hit.
"There he is.."
He didn't speak very loud, but was happy to notice the extra
person. The figure on the rooftop had what appeared to be a high powered
rifle aimed at one of the officer's backs. It was kind of ironic that
the person didn't consider him a threat, but was willing to take out
a few cops to help his friends out. He brought both of the sigs up
to take aim, and unleashed. Two rounds from each gun shot out and across
the street. The glasses he wore allowed him to zoom in and watch as all
four rounds struck the sniper in the face.
The two officers snapped around to see what he shot at and
immediately realized how vulnerable they had been, and how lucky
they were for Jake. Both nodded to Jake and looked back at the
front of the building. He knew that was the most he would ever get
out of them, but it only costed him two bucks for the ammo. Back to
the task.
With his back to the wall, he slid down the south side of the
building heading for a back door. He hoped the back door was the entry
point for the robbers, and that it would also offer him that same
service. As he moved farther from the street, he began to thank his
glasses again as they offered him near perfect vision.
Taking position at the back door, he peered around the corner
hoping to get a better look inside. The infrared told him how many
people were in there, but robbed him of the depth perception of other
forms of vision. He kneeled down at the back door and scanned the
interior. The back room of the building contained boxes and shelves
lined with electronics gear. It was then that Jake realized he hadn't
noticed what kind of store this was.
Pawn shops always brought around the worst robbers. Not only
were they well armed, they were stupid. Even if they went in with
minimal firepower, once in they had access to anything the store
was trying to sell off. That almost always included some nice guns.
Robbing pawn shops was something that amateurs did as most stores
were equipped with timed safes, remote video monitoring, and other
security devices. Beyond that, they rarely brought in cash.
Between all of that, the sniper, and some gut feeling, something
seemed out of place. Maybe he was about to shoot three really ignorant
people, or maybe there was something else he was missing. Either way,
should be easy money for him.
Both guns lead the way, one at chest level, one at waist level.
Jake approached the wall that seperated them to determine what it was
made of. He silently cursed at the reinforced alloy wall knowing he
couldn't shoot through it. Jake also took comfort in knowing the
robbers couldn't shoot him either.
This was it, time for his move. He took a split second to close
his eyes and pray to nothing in paticular before this went down. Moving
toward the door he readied himself for the firefight to come. The
door between him and the next room was held open with a small radio.
One kick and the door flew open exposing him to the occupants within.
His two guns blazed in front of him firing in rapid succesion.
It was obvious he caught the robbers off guard as he shot the first two
in the back, delivering at least five rounds into each. The third robber
was quick enough to dive behind a display case in hopes of avoiding
the fate his friends had just received. Jake scanned the room quickly
and made sure the two employees were still alive. He had to get paid
by someone.
The proverbial standoff again. Jake kneeled down behind one
display case while his opponent stayed behind his. The fact that he
was able to take out the first two so easily was indication that
they were amateurs. The firepower they carried suggested they were
some of the better mercenaries you could hire. Either way, the third
guy should be pretty spooked right now, and not expecting..
Jake broke into a run across the small store and dove over
the opposing counter. As he sprung from the ground his Sigs let
out their fury until he rolled to a stop just inches away from the wall.
The fact that he didn't get shot in the back as he stopped told him
he was successful. He turned around to see several wounds in the
chest of the robber. Apparently, he was lying on his back waiting
for Jake to make the move. Obviously, he wasn't expecting that move.
Cycling through all the forms of vision on his glasses, he
verified that no one of danger was left. Holstering his guns, he moved
toward the two forms huddled in the corner. After the glasses came off,
he assured the two people they were out of danger, and explained who
he was. Along with that information came the typical routine of moving
them to the front window where they could see the 'real' police
out front.. doing nothing to help them.
That was usually all it took to get the money. As the police
entered the building and began to fill out the report, he started
bargaining with the two people there, which turned out to be the
owners of the store. Jake was done negotiating his price long before
the police finsihed their reports.
Another Big Gulp, and another two hours before shift was over.
He had made his money for the night, but kept his promise to stay out
there the whole shift. He was number 182 out of just over 700 'private'
police roaming the city. Not exactly the best guy, but one of the best
for the job. This was his life, his claim to big money and some kind
of future. A kind of future he wasn't sure about, but one that he
had to keep his faith in. It was the only way to make it day to day.
-dis
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, etc etc... =
= Internet : jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= gote land +27.31.441115 =
= Arrested Development +31.77.3547477 =
= Global Chaos +61.2.681.2837 =
= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
= Damnation 212.861.0580 Damnation -Toll Free 888.803.8490 =
= Hacker's Haven 303.516.9969 Unearthly Shadows 303.683.1443 =
= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images -- Down -- =
= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
= The Keg 914.234.9674 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Files through Anon FTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
= FTP.PRISM.NET/pub/users/mercuri/zines/fuck =
= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU - /pub/Zines/FUCK =
= FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM - /users/rage/zines/fuck =
= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
= http://www.prism.net/zineworld/fuck/ =
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= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author =
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(11/26/96)

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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Doin' it in Texas
-----------------
Here it is, the file to break my writer's block. No matter what,
this will be the time to get past over four months of no serious writing.
You never know exactly why it happens, and normally you can't tell what
it is that makes you break out of that cold room and begin to throw your
thoughts out to the world. So this time.. lets try forcing it.
Sleep no longer comes easy to me. In the past I haven't been one
to sleep the days away or anything, as I usually get somewhere between
two and six hours a night. These days, things have been different. For
the past month and a half, I have spent my nights in a hotel in another
state. That may be one of many things lending to my sleepless nights.
Every night I fall asleep to music, typically something very calm and
relaxing to make the transition from chaos to rest as smooth as possible.
These past few weeks I find myself staying awake listening to
entire CDs, getting up, changing discs, and listening to more. Every
night I can tell something is missing from my life but I can't put my
finger on it. I know what isn't missing, and I know what I flat out don't
want. I have friends, at least all I could want right now. It isn't
female companionship right now, as I have no real desire for any
relationship or commitment.
Something out there is missing.. its out of my grasp. My hobby
has turned into my job and I enjoy working more than ever before. I see
my family and aquaintences frequently, so no on that one. I keep running
down a list of things that might be that missing link, but I still can't
put my finger on it. I know motivation in certain areas is right out
the door. I have been sitting on a ton of writing projects that I will
someday get to. Oh well, just a a matter of time. Until then, onward..
more things annoy me.
What else is up. Got to spend thanksgiving down here in Texas
at my boss's house (My boss down here that is). Other than that I have
spent my weekends with some really good guys, all of which I have met
through the internet. Just happens that quit a few live within a couple
hours of where I am which makes the weekends much more interesting than
sitting in the hotel room watching overpriced pay per view movies.
Back to music real quick. My latest interest has been in the
various femme singers. Tori Amos, Sophie B. Hawkins, Poe, Milla, Suzanne
Vega, Jewel, Enya, Shakespear's Sister, and others. Something about
these artists is just really impressive and worth listening too. For
most of them, not only the incredible voices, but exceptional lyrics
and great instrumental backup. I have thought a little about trying
to put words to express the feelings that kind of music brings about
in me, but just can't do it. Anyway, if my word means anything, go out
and purchase large quantities of music by those artists.
Been doing mass quantities of that email thing. I have always
been one for writing rather than talking on the phone. Since I am now
out of touch from most of the people I know, I have relied on mail as
a quasi-escape from hotel life. It works. Every day I would guess
my friends and I write well over 50k (about five times the length
of this file) back and forth talking about the normal stuf. Kinda funny,
how distance affects email. While in Denver, it always seems mail is
much shorter and much more to the point. I guess it is just knowing
that you can pick up the phone and make a local call if you have to,
or something else. Maybe it is just feeling that distance.
So what the hell is the point of this whole file? Who cares.
I learned long ago that expressing your daily thoughts like this
does wonders to help you clear your mind, see your own thoughts, and
more. Just knowing that other people will read your raw emotions
makes you feel kinda weird, at least it makes me feel that way. Think
about it; a dozen, hundreds, maybe thousands of people reading what
is beyond second nature to you. So next time you are out on that
newsgroup, or on some BBS, or in mail with a friend, just write about
what is on your mind. About once a week I get a piece of mail like
that from someone who has read a newly released file, had some thoughts,
and turned it into a healthy letter about what is on their mind.
I read and respond to all mail so feel free to write.
I'm a computer geek if you haven't been able to tell. Don't
exactly look like one (at least the stereotypical one). Found out
two things that really annoyed the hell out of me yesterday. I use to
play a lot of sports, everything from soccer to rugby to baseball to
tennis to just about everything else. So I went down to play basketball
at the little court here at the hotel. Met a co-worker and we shot for
a while before a couple more guys joined and asked to play a game.
Both of these kids were younger than I, one was much bigger but looked
pretty dense. The first thing that annoyed me was their style of playing
ball. This wasn't a friendly pickup game, this was a battle to the death.
It was obvious they took it a lot more serious than I did, but there is
a line that needs to be drawn.
I couldn't help but think of how much they imitated the basketball
players on TV, talked about them, and everything else. Its funny watching
them try to be like them, but knowing how pathetic they are at the sport.
I'm not saying I am better than they are (even though my outside shot
puts them to shame), but all they could do was elbow their way under
the basket and throw up a little layup for two points. Also funny how
they never called their own fouls even though I did, kept encouraging
each other to drive in on me since I wasn't playing as active defense
as my partner, or hit half of their outside shots. So overall they
annoyed me.
The other major thing that annoyed me was myself. A few years back
I found out I had excercise induced asthma which really puts a downer
on any sport. I played the two-on-two game for maybe fifteen minutes
before I was coughing and wheezing trying to catch my breath. I really
do like sports too, and really wish I could partake a little more often.
So until some miracle cure comes out, more billiards and computing for me.
Welp, now I get to flip a coin. Heads I release this to the world,
tails, you never see it. I wonder how many other people do that with
their writing. I also have to wonder if people even know that this is done
with some of my files. No idea how many I have deleted because of the
toss of a coin. Not a lot or anything, but a few. Not wasted thoughts either,
but more a mental release than anything.
So, after all is said and done, is my writer's block gone?
Who knows, but I certainly hope to hell it is. Although it isn't the
worst thing as I have had some great writers pick up the duty. Hopefully
they will keep writing and sharing their thoughts with the rest of us.
Things are most definitely not diminishing...
I'll wrap it up here, and leave you with this thought:
"As I stand in darkness, I feel the warmth of the light upon my
skin and I know my face is turned toward the sun. I can look into
the sun, for my eyes are forever shrouded by darkness. But if you
who can see look too long in the sun, you will lose your sight,
just as those who live too long in the darkness will gradually lose
theirs."
Weis & Hickman
- dis
shout outs: Major, Plexor, Vidiot, z3ns, Apok, El_jefe, Dave_SOB,
Capone, T*P, Voyager, Patty, Rage, Daemon9, se7en,
Freya, Presence, all the fans of the zine, the users of
'The Lemming', all my cats, and then some.
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Suicide Note
------------
As the last flicker of life died in my wife's eyes I looked at my hands
around her neck and remembered that I was a religious man. Religion is
about love, and I loved her even as I killed her but of course she didn't
get it. If she'd gotten it maybe I wouldn't have killed her'll never know
because I agree with the group of particle physicists who say there's
really no such thing as if. The things we do are just events in a
multi-dimensional universe where everything we do here has an opposite
and equal reaction in another unseen but congruent universe. I'm not
kidding. There really is a large group of reputable physicists whose
study of the behavior of light quanta has led them to that conclusion.
But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? You're probably out
of the same herd of one-dimensional cows as my wife. Not that I didn't
love her.
Not that I don't love you. I love all you credit-wearing consumer units
who trek out each day to do the one meaningful act in your slot-track
lives, which is...but you don't get the reference to slot-track do you?
They were little powered cars that raced around a preconstructed track in
slots. They got their power and direction from the slots, but I'm sure
you didn't get the reference because they haven't been hot in over six
years and anything that happened more than three months ago is automatically
erased in a consumer unit's mind. Because a consumer unit's one
meaningful function is to buy, and if your buying is to continue on
schedule you have to forget that anything is supposed to last, including
wisdom, truth, faith or history.
That's why it will take most of you about a week to forget I killed my
wife. That little fact will be erased by a blizzard of sitcom stars
shining out at you from the supermarket tabloids that are your only
memorable source of information. No? What do you think is the source of
conventional wisdom? What do you remember, the fact that the latest space
shuttle is going to carry forty-three pounds of plutonium on top of a
liquid-fueled bomb that has a one in seventy-eight chance of exploding or
that Rosanne Barr has become "difficult"? The fact that forty-three
pounds of plutonium is enough to give every person on the planet lung
cancer or that the president didn't catch any fish while he was on
vacation? Not that you'll remember who Rosanne Barr or the president is
in a few years.
Remember this though, as you take your daily tabloid pill from Doctor
Rather. It's something you might even be able to recall at the end of the
evening when Cosby's sent the kids to bed for you and you're tired of
struggling through those long sentences in TV Guide. There's a darkness
that doesn't need night to come because it's there waiting behind
whatever it is you don't know you desire. And there is a witchcraft that
doesn't need a full moon because the moon always orbits full around the
dark side of any light you care to name, including television screens,
including love.
And love is what religion is all about. Did I tell you I was a religious
man? Religion: sin and redemption. That's what religion was originally
about. Sin is a word you'll never see in the tabloids unless it's a quote
from one of the wig-merchant preachers who use it as a crowbar to pry
open the poor. And I know to that to most of you redemption is a tax
refund, but originally it meant forgiveness for your sins, and better
yet, release from them.
That was the problem; I wanted forgiveness but not release because my sin
was feeling like God. Redemption would have meant giving up that feeling,
and I couldn't. God: I still capitalize his name; an affectionate
gesture. He can't help it if he inspires emulation and I can't help it if
I emulate. Can you see the bind I'm in? I still believe in God but resent
him deeply for creating me in his image. That's what the bible says, you
know. He created us in his image. So what are we supposed to do about
this potential for cheap imitation?
I mean just what the hell was I supposed to do after the first time Sella
lay facedown across the motel bed, midnight hair spread on the floor, and
said in her little tin growl, "You can do anything to me you want, anything."
That's what she said. Then she raised the short leather skirt, showing me
the straps of the garter belt as they extended up the tightly flared
white of her thighs like the tails of a lash. Then she rose to her knees
and with a soft grunt pulled the skirt to her waist. She was small and
thin, but her ass flared wide and pulsed outward like some giant white
heart. It was shocking in its solid abundance, a secret thrill that only
the favored could know. She raised it higher and as it swayed there over
her head the little growl in her voice was changed to a light shriek by
the way her face was pressed into the mattress. "Anything," she said
again. "Anything you want. You can hurt me. I like to be hurt. I like to
be humiliated. I'll do anything you say. I deserve it."
I swayed on my feet as the blood rushed from my head to my groin and back
again. I felt like I was expanding in all directions. She meant it. She
was giving me power, Godlike power. Sure. it was a cheap imitation, like
a little electric shock compared to a lightning bolt, but it was the
closest I'd ever come. I know a lot of you consumer units are thinking
you would have refused, saved by the atheism of your dead imaginations.
And maybe you would have. But that wouldn't have saved you because any of
you who've ever come but once would have asked yourselves why. Women too,
if Sella had been a man, and she could have been, if she wanted you to
think so. And the question why is the thing that puts the first hole in
the safety of your ignorance. It's the question that comes for you when
bad things happen, and they will, because I met Sella.
Through some helix of irony that now seems as fated as poisoned strands of
DNA I met her through my wife. My wife's name is, excuse me, was Marian.
She was a tall honey blonde with a face like Meryl Streep's plumper
sister and one of those big-boned Minnesota Swede bodies. You know, a
hundred and forty pounds maybe but not fat, just big through the
shoulders with cream-pie breasts and haunches instead of hips. She was
about a half-inch taller than me and very attractive in an earthbound
way. I admired her. She had intelligence and guts. As I was strangling
her, just as her face turned purple, she whacked me so hard I had a
bruise on the side of my face for a week. I don't say that to be crude,
just to illustrate one of her better qualities. If I was able I'd miss
her, but of course I'm no longer able. To miss her I'd have to imagine
she was real and people are just a collection of feelings, aren't they?
When I killed her I took those feelings which comprised the entity
named Mirian into myself. So she's just as real now as before. That's a
concept I wasn't conscious of when I met Sella in the discussion group.
Mirian was a sociology instructor at the local community college. She was
heading an adult education seminar on modern mores or some such thing and
asked me if I wanted to participate. I didn't, but she'd been carping
about me showing no interest in her career, so I agreed to sit in a few
times just to see what she was up to. We decided to keep the fact that I
was her husband a secret so it didn't inhibit the group or me.
My eyes locked onto Sella as soon as I entered the room. She was wearing
a black sheath dress with black hose that matched the crow-wing sheen of
her hair. She had a long thin face that suggested an American Indian , or
rather an Indian's idea of someone he might come across in a forbidden
part of the desert: tomahawk cheekbones and a mouth so wide it made the
rest of her face look like something it had kissed into existence. Her
nose was a bit too long and had a cruel little hook to it that matched
the one at the corner of her cunt-curl mouth. It was her eyes though that
locked onto mine and sucked my brain to climax. They were as ice gray and
hungry as those of an arctic wolf; tundra eyes reflecting the hiss of
some winter sun that lay deep-gone over the horizon.
She said nothing in the session; an attitude souffle about honesty that
was punctured every time Sella moved her eyes from my crotch to my face
and back again. She flicked them at first and then did it slower,
hungrier each time with a kind of tongue-lolling languor that made me
feel like I was being licked all over. Sometime during the middle of all
that she began showing me flashes of thigh, crossing her legs, slumping a
little in her chair so the sheath rose higher, then uncrossing her legs.
It took only a few minutes of that for me to realize from the black and
white contrast of her upper thighs that she was wearing a garter belt and
stockings. There may be a man over the age of thirty-five somewhere who
isn't aroused by a garter belt and stockings on a pair of high-flow legs,
but don't trust him because he's a liar.
When we were boys all women wore them and women is what we wanted. Girls
knew it and wore them too. I spent untold classroom hours looking for
that not-too-subtle tan-white promise I'd somehow seen in prepuberty
fever dreams. That night in my wife's classroom with Sella I was doing it
again; feeling overheated and dizzy, becoming more capable of rape by the
minute. Ten minutes before the end of class she crossed her legs one last
time, took off one high heel, and used her architecturally arched foot to
massage the back of her other leg up to the knee, down to the heel,
slowly, tongue slowly. The slight buzz of nylon against nylon sounded as
faint and plain as a zipper in a dark room. Five minutes before the end
of class I left and waited at a far turn in the hall so I could catch her
while Marian was collecting her papers.
Sella knew. I saw her wait until the rest of the class was almost to me
before she started down the hall; her breasts small enough to move free
inside the knit sheath; ram's-head nipples butting strong against rolling
black circles. She had an insect-thin waist and a swaybacked walk
propelled by an ass so mobile you could see it move from the front. The
others were already out the door when she got to me. I was going to step
in front of her but she stopped, turned, faced me with those ice-dog eyes
and said in a voice like a fingernail on my spine, "Marian is talking
about honesty with a student. She'll probably be about five minutes."
Then she looked at my crotch again and up to my eyes, emitting something
between a sigh and a groan as she did. It was that little tin shriek that
was to become so loud in the upcoming months that it was all I could hear.
I grabbed her by the upper arm and yanked her around the corner. She gave
me a little groan again but didn't resist. "Why?" I asked. "Why were you
doing that?"
She turned so that one of her breasts kissed the back of my hand. "You
mean trying to show you I wasn't wearing any panties?" she said in her
little growl.
I released her arm and leaned against the wall, attacked again by fever
dreams. She stepped forward so that the rounds of her thighs hugged my
legs. "You didn't notice," she said. "I tried to show you but you didn't
notice."
"Why?" I managed to croak. "Why are you doing this?"
She rocked a little on my leg, raising the knit dress as she did so,
bringing raw nylon in contact in contact with the jeans I was wearing.
"Because I can always spot a husband," she growl whispered close to my
ear. "You're Marian's husband, and I like husbands."
"Why?"
"Because I'm bad." She whimpered a little, a sound that made me ashamed
for her, and hard. "Because I'm bad," she said. "I'm so bad only a man
who's being bad can give me what I need."
I almost walked away but I felt the wet breath of her sentence on my
neck. "And what's that?" I asked instead.
She gave the tin growl as she rocked on my leg so hard that the dress
slipped above the top of her stocking and I felt white thigh-fever
against my leg. She leaned forward into my neck and slipped a piece of
paper into my pocket. "Anything you tell me I need," she said. "And I
mean it." Then she leaned back, looked at her watch, and said, "Five
minutes, don't forget I mean it."
She went out the door in a way that made me wish I was a door and I was
alone against the wall, dripping sweat onto my shirt, prostate fluid into
my pants.
That night in bed with Marian I was like a lion on an antelope. I wanted
to draw blood. I wanted to crack her spine. Our marriage had always
included regular sex but the method was always what magazines with douche
ads call "comfortable." Marian would lie on her back or, when she was
especially passionate, on top of me and give out a few oohs and a "that's
nice" or two then come with all the regularity and passion of the morning
newspaper.
The night I met Sella Marian sweated like a boar and grunted like a sow.
She trashed and raked me and even tried to throw me off but I'd just flip
her into a new position and drive on because my semen was boiling inside
me and I wanted to make it hurt her as much as it was hurting me. She
made birth sounds and came three times, but afterward she looked at me
from the other side of the bed like I'd suddenly grown fangs. "You
frightened me," she said in an apprehensive voice.
"You came three times," I answered in my defense.
"I didn't even know it," she said. "I was lost."
It was then that I felt the beginnings of power, the thrill of subsuming
another person into your desires, making them a seed out of which your
fulfillment grows. If she had only agreed to it things might have been
different but of course it was her fate to die rather than agree to it
just like religion tells us. You know, disobedience is sin and the wages
of sin is death. It's right there in the Bible, you could look it up but
you won't. You'll just go on reading douche magazines and believing in
"relationships" that are "comfortable."
That's what Marian wanted to do. After a bout with Godlike sex during
which she came three times and couldn't remember two of them all she
could say was that she wanted to know it when she came. Mind you, she
didn't deny she came three times but she wanted to know when, wanted to
enjoy it. She went to heaven but didn't like it because she couldn't
remember the address. She wanted low-fat no-cholesterol bite-sized safe
sex instead of pig-slop pleasure, and it killed her. Because then I knew.
I knew I had to have Sella and once I had Sella I had to have it all. If
Marian had only submitted it might have saved us both. After all, Abraham
was willing to kill his son for God. All Marian had to do was be a sex
object. Not that I think I'm God. What a cliche. I don't even want to be
God. I just want to feel like him. It's not my fault. I didn't make the
world but if I had I wouldn't have told my children they were created in
my image. I'd have let them come without knowing it just like I did
Marian. I tried to save her but she'd too many douche ads to accept dirty
love. So I had to find another way to love her. I learned that way from
Sella.
"I know what you want," she said on the phone, and told me to name the
time and place, any time and place. I did. The next day I found myself in
a room watching Sella rock the garter-whipped purity of her veinless
white ass against the darkness while begging me to hurt her. And I did. I
whipped her. I told her to stay in exactly that position while I whipped
her with my belt and every time she moved I whipped her some more. When I
saw her skin beginning to redden to the point of blood I stopped until it
passed but I told her stay in that position the whole time.She did. It
was a transcendent experience. At first I could see her whole body in all
its pornographic glory as I vented my anger at Marian on it. Sella's ass
shook with each blow, sending ripples of force up each side of her body
to her breasts and down her legs where they straightened her toes. The
more I whipped her the angrier I became at Marian for refusing to allow
me to stop of what I was now doing. Because I would never have whipped
Marian, unless she'd asked me and of course she wouldn't have asked me.
Not that I'd have wanted to. She wasn't built for it; too big, too
unsegmented. It would have been as erotic as driving a mule team.
I would have continued normal animal sex with her though, watching the
sweat splash as she flopped around the bed, but she wouldn't and that
made me mad, which sent me to Sella who received anger like an offering,
which after a while it was. Because after the first flush I got when I
realized I was actually whipping her, after the first time I'd rested so
she wouldn't mar the occasion by bleeding, I ceased to see her body at
all. Rather I ceased to see her as a body. The blackness of her dress
blended with the dark of the room and the white of her skin with the
lightness of bed and bathroom beyond until I imagined myself alone in the
room and her ass a blank page upon which I was writing a save-me note to
the world. The more I whipped the more articulate I became, the tip of my
belt landing just where I aimed and eliciting a different note in the
continuous keening wail that came from Sella but which seemed to come out
of my own screaming frustration at being locked onto two legs in a world
that is mostly air. When I became aware of Sella's noises I stopped
writing and became a musician. Every cry of rage or pleasure or fear or
want I'd ever felt in my life I was able to bring to her lips through the
instrument of my belt, and as it got more accurate and more intense there
was no remaining difference between Sella, the room, and myself. I was
creating a world through the mediums of pain and violence and I didn't
stop until she became me and I was feeling the burn in my head more
strongly than she on her skin and we were two poles of an electrical
field so strong that if anyone else had touched the belt at that moment
it would have killed them.
It was in that moment that I drew the belt aside, leapt onto the bed, and
shoved into her like a coked-up angel sent by the Almighty to cuckold
Lucifer, and the only way to cuckold Lucifer is to give his wife more of
what she wants than he does. So I used myself as a weapon. I banged
against the backs of her thighs so hard that her head drummed against the
bedboard with the doomlike thud of the slave-master's hammer on a galley
ship. I bit her and slapped her and bent her into positions that made her
nothing but an orifice with a body attached. And I used every orifice she
had, finishing with the one Lucifer likes the most; the one that makes
the cunt seem like a debutante at her coming out party, the one on the
side of town where the lights never shine, the gateway to the gardens of
perversion where the black roses of hubris grow out of wells of dark
satin. And as I did it I could read her spine from the inside and it
said, "Yours is the thing that writes the limits of my life. Yours is the
alchemy that changes my pain to bone and my bone to come." And I did it
harder and her wail swallowed itself into a muted roaring grunt so I
could feel it sitting on the end of my spear, and as I came I could see
the limits of my life expand like the speed and reach of the universe. I
could squeeze air and feel it run between my fingers. I could bite
minutes and feel the seconds run down my chin. Afterward I couldn't
remember coming. I was lost.
I don't remember how many times I saw Sella after that, only that they
were never enough and the times between felt like a flourescent dream
from which I wanted to awake. Each time I entered a shady motel room with
Sella felt like balm to a burn wound and each time I came out I felt like
I'd been singed all over and needed the balm worse than before.
Whatever I did she wanted more. I tied her hair to the top of the bed,
wrapped a rope around her feet, and pulled her taut using the bathroom
doorknob as a pulley. She spread her arms and called it flying through
hell, and asked for more. I had her suck me until her neck was stiff and
her jaws were sore and when I needed time to keep from coming I made her
use that time to suck everything else in the room; table legs, doorknobs,
bathtub fixtures, her own toes. She called it tasting exotic fruit and
asked for more. I used appliances on her; an electric shoe shine machine,
a slow-turning power drill with a sponge bottle washer attached, a wire
attached to a tape-player's LED flashers so that small shocks were
delivered in time to the music. She called it lips of fire and came until
she cried, and asked for more.
And me? My days were like slow-flying mud and my time with Marian like a
sensory deprivation tank without the hallucinations. I began taking time
off from work to meet Sella. I bought leather outfits from Frederick's,
whips and harnesses from feed stores, new appliances from hardware
stores, liquor by the case, and drugs by the kilo because they all
enhanced the erotic imagination and Sella wanted more. And as she got it
Marian got less and noticed. She also noticed our dwindling bank account
and my decreasing weight. I was getting quite thin and liking it because
I was able to fit into the zipper front leather bikini underwear which
never seems to come in husky sizes. She wondered about the porno films I
rented for posture concepts and the two pack a day cigarette habit I'd
picked up because they enhanced the drugs and were handy for inflicting
controlled burns. She nagged about them all and said she'd think I was
having an affair but I didn't have the look of love. She didn't know much
about the look of lust so she chalked my behavior up to a mid-life
crisis. Unintentional irony is, after all, the hallmark of the uninformed.
And it was an ironic statement because I was about to face the crisis
that sealed both our fates and many of yours. It began when I met Sella
at the motel we'd been using because it was fairly soundproof and had a
bed that was anchored to the floor. She was dressed in the outfit she'd
worn the first night I whipped her: leather skirt short enough to show
the fasteners on her garter belt, black silk blouse sheer enough to show
her nipple erections. The outfit summoned up a wave of nostalgia in me
and I decided to whip her again just like our first time but this time
she called it old and said it wasn't enough. She sat up, slithered off
the bed, sat at my feet, and said in a pouty little groan, "Ooh, I feel
like such a bad girl tonight. This just isn't enough to hurt it out of
me. I need something special, something very special."
I asked her what and she told me I had to be in charge, that it wouldn't
do any good for her to think of it. She asked me to go home and think of
something really special and then come back, without phoning in advance,
walk in the room and just do it, whatever it was, just do it. She said
she'd wait there until I came back, even if it was days or even weeks.
That's how bad she needed me to do it.
On my way home I suddenly realized that God chose to be love instead of
pain because it's so much easier. All you have to do to love is just do
it, just open your arms and passively let it flow. Pain requires
imagination, constant innovation. And that is of course the reason why
humans are only a cheap imitation of God and Satan a very good imitation
of humans. We're all in his image and have a taste for it. But the only
kingdom we can be masters of is the kingdom of pain, which requires
constant thought, which induces fatigue and depression, which causes us
to be tired and pitiable creatures which makes us even easier to love.
You can't win.
That's the state of mind I was in when I got home to Marian that night
and she started on me about money. The bank statement had come and she
couldn't help but notice the dent my last cocaine buy had put in our
funds. She wanted to know what all that money was for. And, by the way,
why had the latest Frederick's fall catalog come in that day's mail? She
even hinted that I might be a transvestite. I considered it for a minute
but decided that wasn't what Sella had meant by something special. Sella!
What the hell did she want? How far into cruelty could I go without
rounding the bend into love? Then I realized that was it, the most
dangerous thing to Sella of all, a thing so cruel that it stopped just
short of love. I knew what she must want.
Marian was in my face, literally, leaning in, waving the bank statement
under my nose. I stared blankly at her face and thought of all the times
we'd seen each other through. Hard economic times when we were both still
in school. Hard emotional times when members of our families had died. I
knew I loved her with an intensity just short of hate. Ah hell, what are
we to do about this capacity for cheap imitation? And I was an imitator,
a sincere flatterer, a man in desperate need of something special,
something to keep him from the land of the ordinary. My blood now flowed
too fast for me to go back to being God's navel or the devil's fantasy. I
needed something special to stay king in the kingdom of Sella. I needed
something on the cusp of love and hate.
Marian was in my face, shouting for my attention, and I gave it to her. I
reached out, hoping she would understand, and put my hands around her
neck, just as an experiment at first, to see if I was on the right track.
Then I started to squeeze. The more I squeezed the more I realized it was
what Sella wanted. They say hanged men die with a hard-on and I knew
strangulation would give Sella the biggest orgasm of her life and that
once she had it there would be no repeating it so she wouldn't want to
live anyway. And without Sella I could never go back to Marian no matter
how much I loved her. I had the power over all of us at that moment and I
took it, rather I thought I took it. Now I can see it took me. An
imitation's not the real thing after all, is it? But once I was squeezing
I kept on, feeling myself emigrate permanently into the realm of
imitation power as I did it. I was still a religious man but then so was
Lucifer. Let me tell all you consumer units who only read parts of the
Bible quoted in the elevator version of Bob Dylan songs that Lucifer was
an angel who became the devil when he decided to be equal to God. He
became a real imitation rather than a fake original.
After killing Marian I raced to the motel, knowing that Sella would
appreciate it all, that she'd been waiting there for me to kill her. I
could hardly wait to hear her groan with pleasure when I told her. I was
on fire with the thought of finally uniting her and Marian in my hands,
of squeezing my two great loves into one.
But she wasn't there. All I found was a garter belt lying like a black
corsage on top of a pair of black bikini underwear. A white note lay in
jarring contrast on top of the small pile of nylon. I read the hooked
scrawl: "As you can see I'm not here, and I'm still not wearing any
panties. As you know, witch rhymes with bitch. Now you know I'm one. I'll
leave it up to you to decide whether I'm the other. I know we'll meet
again when you become really special. Until then I'm always yours in
pain. Sella."
So good-bye, kind world. This is my last note to you, and my only
warning. Like all religious men I know that there is only one sin God
will not forgive and that is the sin of rejecting forgiveness. And sadly,
I reject it because I have discovered that Sella was the bitch and I am
the witch. In using her as a window to the caverns of pain where the fires
of small power burn I cast a spell on myself. Now I sit in those vaginal
halls on a throne of God's excrement beside a river of blood where I
baptize myself daily in dreams of Sella's neck gripped in my hands as I
squeeze in masturbatory pleasure. As she dies maybe the spell will be
broken and I can accept the forgiveness that lies just across the now
impassable membrane where love meets power.
The problem is though, that to find her I must remember her and I can
only remember her through action. So, just as Marian did, the ones of you
I select will in your final moments become Sella. I will love you as I
loved her and some of you will in those moments find that you love me.
Yes, it's true, you will. Because you are consumer units and each
purchase is nothing but a small and thrilling act of submission, a
voyeur's ticket to the kingdom of pain.
So as you stare at your televisions each night, know that I am the dark
moon that orbits full behind the piano key grins and the toylike wrecks
of the expendable cars. I'm the darkness in the center of the mother's
whispered douche advice to daughter. I'm here, behind the tube, outside
the window, and around any impulse you might have to leave fake reality
for real imitation.
I wait for you.
I want you.
I need you.
I Love you.
And, to paraphrase that most romantic of songs: You always love the
one you hurt.
(submitted anonymously)
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, etc etc... =
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=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= gote land +27.31.441115 =
= Arrested Development +31.77.3547477 =
= Global Chaos +61.2.681.2837 =
= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
= Damnation 212.861.0580 Damnation -Toll Free 888.803.8490 =
= Hacker's Haven 303.516.9969 Unholiness Rising 303.980.2404 =
= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images -- Down -- =
= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
= The Keg 914.234.9674 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
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(12/5/96)

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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
A Lesson in Trailer Park Utopia
-------------------------------
I got this email forwarded to me the other day about a group of neo-morons
and their new foray into the sometimes sorted world of newsgroups. The
plea follows:
"A group of NEO-NAZIS are trying to form a newsgroup on
Usenet called "rec.music.white-power", so that they can get their
message of hate out to young people using the Internet.
Newsgroups are public discussions on the Internet and their
formation requires enough support from the Internet community.
EACH AND EVERY ONE OF US HAS ONE VOTE when it comes
to creating a new Usenet group. I hope you will vote NO and
thereby tell these NAZIS we don't want their stuff on the net."
As you might suspect, this set me musing.
The whole thing took me by surprise to some extent. I guess, in the
interest of punctuating any points, knowing what newsgroups are will be
vital. While I'm sure most of you have NO interest in learning any of the
Intergeek things that make up my livelihood, please bear with me for just
a moment for the sake of giving the point continuity.
Newsgroups are like electronic bulletin boards, spanning more than 20,000
separate topics. If you have an interest, it is there.
When you decide on looking at one, you get to read
questions/subjects/statements that other people have posted. To do this
they just write their opinion to the group, and it is posted online for all
to read. Point being, it's like an interactive newsletter for every little
subject in the world.
Now, the newsgroups are NO stranger to the strange. Perversion, hate,
obsession, depravity, and paranoia has its place here as it does on the
city streets. From 'alt.blow.a.giraffe', to
'alt.korean.elvis.impersonators.will.die', there is that and a plethora more.
Now, at long last, I get back to my surprise and musing (to the relief of
many, I'm sure). This would not be the first nazi, or hate group, to have
their own newsgroup. Not only are there plenty, but they post to other
groups indiscriminately. You could be in an napkin-folding newsgroup and
find "White Power!" messages at random.
Yes, it sickens as much as it enrages to see this. Still, there is no way
to stop it.
If it can be kept off, great. Where these monolithic #%$@!%s got the thumb
to logon is beyond me (guess they learned it from the pediaphiles and
stalkers), but like the rest of us, they are here. Still, I would never
want to see such groups banned. One of the things I do agree with the ACLU
about (man, disagree with them most of the time, but you have GOT to admire
their spunk...) is that free speech must be preserved.
Still, I think the greatest enigma here is just hate itself.
I was just having a conversation about these hate-groups yesterday (score
again for synchronicity...). It amazes almost me as much as it disgusts.
'I'm poor white trash with no skills or education, so it must be the jews
fault because THEY'VE got all my money.'
It always boils down to this. They (insert gender/faith/orientation/race
here), whoever, has worked hard, managed to produce success in some way,
and the mini-minds hate them out of insecurity or inferiority. I'm
financially oppressed by the jew, sexually inferior to the black,
intellectually inferior to the Japanese, et #$%@! al. Get rid of them,
and I'd get all of what's coming to me...
You have got to tremble at this thought. Let's say it worked. Let's say
we got rid of any group that threatened their little worlds, and now it was
just one big white nation. I can only imagine that they think they would
somehow be able to walk into UCLA, become presidents of banks, and date
models. Yeah, 'Gee thanks guys! I guess it's just us good 'ol white folks
here now! Here, call off your marriage to cousin Eithie and marry my 18
year-old virgin daughter Courtney instead!
They have to believe this, or else the reality would be too much to handle.
If it were all to happen, they would still be ignorant, ugly people.
So what then? Next it would be anyone making over $60K a year, and then
the attractive people who turn them down for dates, or anyone so uppity to
have anything more than a GED. They wouldn't stop till this country was
trailer park coast-to-coast.
In the end, they'd be at each others throats over septic-tank superiority.
*sigh*
Capone
capone@dimensional.com
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, etc etc... =
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=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= gote land +27.31.441115 =
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= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
= Damnation 212.861.0580 Damnation -Toll Free 888.803.8490 =
= Hacker's Haven 303.516.9969 Unholiness Rising 303.980.2404 =
= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images -- Down -- =
= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
= The Keg 914.234.9674 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
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= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
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(12/6/96)

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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Death of ...
------------
The Internet died over a year and a half ago. There is no one to
blame. Oh yes, many of you would love to point your fingers at NCSA for
creating Mosiac, or at AOL for allowing some of the stupidest beasts known
to this planet on the Internet. We would all love to point the finger, it
makes us feel better for what we have done. You, pointing your finger at
the imagined demons of the destruction, You, who sits at your Windoze
terminal with 2 copies of Netscrape open and Eudorla sucking down your
email. Do not give in to the hypocrisy, it will do you no good. The
Internet as I once knew it is dead. We are now witnessing the rebirth
of a new Internet, a user friendly Internet, just point and click your
way to salvation.
This Internet will be your gateway to a digital heaven where no
one will have to leave their homes for anything. Just open up your web
browser and order a pizza for dinner and go shopping for groceries at the
same time. Your whole house will be a point and click operation. Click,
lights on, Click, door open, Click , preheat to 450. You will sit back and
get fat on your new found technology, you who two years ago thought
computers were for mathematicians and geeks in acounting firms. Oh yes,
you will think you have the world at your fingertips. My gosh, you are so
smart. You have browsing the web down to a science and you can send email
to anyone at the click of a button. Do you know how any of this "neat
stuff" works? Do you know "why" when you click that button your lights in
your house turn on? Do you know how your money is transferred from the
bank to that pizza joint when you ordered that pizza? No. You think you
don't need to. Damn, if it breaks I will just call that computer guy over
here and have him fix it. "Why should I have to know why any of this
stuff does what it should? "There are guys who do this stuff for a living
that make it work perfectly, and if it didn't work right, then they
wouldn't have released it."
In 10 years you will be hooked into a life support system
connected to the Internet so that the doctor can check your progress while
he is at home spending quality time with his family. You will lie in that
hospital bed, thinking to yourself "I am in the best hands, I am in a
hospital, surrounded by the best doctors in the world, I feel safe." All
of a sudden all the machines in your room stop operating and the IV drip
you have going into your arm speeds up. You try to call out for help but
you can't , there's nobody around. But wait, there is someone with you,
deep inside the humming of the machines that surround you. It's one of
those "computer guys", you know, the ones you called when your mouse
locked up or your screen saver wouldn't work. When they left, you would
always exclaim to yourself "what a geek that guy was, he must have no life."
Guess what, he just turned off the respirator and wrote the words
"Deceased" on your e-medical file. Maybe in your next life you'll realize
how naive you had been about the people who control technology.
- tersIan
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, etc etc... =
= Internet : jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= gote land +27.31.441115 =
= Arrested Development +31.77.3547477 =
= Global Chaos +61.2.681.2837 =
= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
= Damnation 212.861.0580 Damnation -Toll Free 888.803.8490 =
= Hacker's Haven 303.516.9969 Unholiness Rising 303.980.2404 =
= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images -- Down -- =
= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
= The Keg 914.234.9674 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Files through AnonFTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
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= FTP.PRISM.NET/pub/users/mercuri/zines/fuck =
= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU - /pub/Zines/FUCK =
= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Fading Away
-----------
Another e-mail sent. The worlds gotten so small since
the day of her untimely demise. The world was so big then,
not any more. It seems that all there is now are shadows cast
from electronic dungeons, wandering over every person. There
are no souls, there is only greed, money, and power. There is
no room for compassion, only stress and lies. The world has
taken a dark turn in my eyes, and the blackness is everywhere.
I'm standing here with a razor clutched in one hand
and blood streaming down my wrists. My eyes are bloodshot and
reflecting in the mirror. But maybe that's not even me in
the mirror, who am I anyway? I remember when things were so
innocent, but I'm not all that innocent anymore. There's a
pair of dark circles around my eyes, and my world is crumbling.
I feel like I'm out on the ocean. As soon as I think I have my
foothold, I slip because a new wave hits me. I topple off into
the ocean.
These nights when I tuck myself into bed I get no
sleep. The demons of the night are everywhere. They haunt
my dreams, they haunt my spirit. Since her death things just
haven't been the same, darkness have invaded. There is no
use trying to get sleep in a tired exsistence.
I think things will be quite a bit better when I'm
gone. No one is going to have to worry about me, think about
me, anything. It's not as if anyone gives me the time of day
anyway now.. In the words of Silverchair, "I'll kill myself
to get my head in the news."
I don't know why my eyes are going woozy. I don't know
why nothing seems to matter anymore. I don't know if it's
my destiny to feel this way, or if I made it this way myself.
All I remember is not being able to say goodbye, I was never
ever good at that anyway. Remember everything when only memory
remains, but I can't remember a damn thing.
The darkness of the night is rolling over me now.. I'm
starting to drop to the floor.. My eyes are closing shut and
my last breath is being exhaled.. But I can't help but feel
that I'm doing the right thing.. For me, and for everyone. It's
better to burn out then to fade away, but I can't help but feel
I'm fading away.
-dropcomm
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, etc etc... =
= Internet : jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= gote land +27.31.441115 =
= Arrested Development +31.77.3547477 =
= Global Chaos +61.2.681.2837 =
= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
= Damnation 212.861.0580 Damnation -Toll Free 888.803.8490 =
= Hacker's Haven 303.516.9969 Unholiness Rising 303.980.2404 =
= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images -- Down -- =
= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
= The Keg 914.234.9674 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Files through AnonFTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
What Are You Really Like?
-------------------------
Many times I have been up late on the phone with one random friend or
another, and quite often I get the question (not in these words, but
in the general sense) "What are you really like?"
Do you want to know what I'm really like?
If you want to know that, then you'd have to know why.
And if you want to know why, open your eyes, glue your ass to your chair,
and keep your finger postitioned over that pagedown key.
---
I was the kid who was always picked on. I was the dork who wasn't good
for anything except to make the little Commie 64's work in elementry
school. If i opened my mouth to say ANYTHING, some kid four inches taller
and twenty pounds heavier would come shut it for me. Of course, being the
first kid with braces and zits in the sixth grade helped it along.
I was the outcast. Me and my friends are outcasts. I see cliques of people
running up and down the street downtown, and i compare them to my group
of friends. We are the outcasts. I the the leader of the outcasts, or so
i've been told.
But it wasn't always that way. Very rarely was I able to spend time with
my friends. I was grounded for weeks upon weeks. I had privledges taken
away as if they were articles of clothing. Come home five minutes late?
Blam. You lose your computer for a month.
Around 7th grade i started running away from home. Frequently. The longest
i stayed away was a week, but it got worse. I could not control my temper.
I got in fights even when i knew i had no chance and got the shit beat out
of me. Didn't matter, i couldn't help it. Eight grade came drugs. Pot was
my personal favorite. Still is.
I met the first love of my life. The only, it seems. She dumped me so
hard i cried for three days on end. Afterwards i was numb. So numb. I
couldn't feel anything for anyone. And so began the practice of bottling
up my feelings.
In 9th grade, i dropped acid for the first time. i started seeing life in
a different light. Smoked pot every day. Grades dropped, grounding con-
tinued. I became suicidal and spent my eighth and ninth grade years
slicing my wrists to see the blood. My parents threw me in a inpatient
psychiatry unit for a week, to see if it would get better. I let it get
better just because the people there were worse then me.
The summer after my ninth grades year, i ran away from home yet
again and moved in when four friends who got me hooked on crank for nearly
two months straight. My real friends i didn't see forever, and when i did,
i was told i looked like a skeleton from so much nose powder and not enough
food. I swear i almost died one night, after smoking a half ounce
with three people, i staggered around the house in a stupor, when my room-
mate told me to take several lines of crank. I passed out for four days and
didn't fully recover for two months. The same night i set the bathroom on
fire and moved out the next day.
Living back with my parents was hell. Smoked more pot. After two months of
tenth grade, I was tossed into a continuation high school with the types of
people i hate. Gangbangers, violent crack addicts, the works. I started
going crazy there, shaving my head in weird styles, then just completely
off. I hadn't had a girlfriend in two and a half years, and i was still
hating it.
I don't really remember my full 10th and 11th grade years except that i
dropped out of high school after i finish 10th grade. I smoked so much
pot i became incredibly stupid and forgetful. I bet i would be a l33t h4x0r
if i could remember half the shit i read. It is now the middle of what
would be my 12th grade year. My father gave me money to sign up for the
fall semester several months ago. I took the money and spent it on drugs,
and dropped out of school after three days. It was four months before my
parents found out.
Here i am now.
And you want to know what kind of person I am?
I'll tell you.
I hate people. I hate confrontations. I hate you. I hate myself. I hate
the people who try to tell me what's best for me. I hate the people who
envy me because of my lifestyle. I will never tell you how i feel, because
i don't want you to know my weaknesses. People used to know, but now they
won't. I will never SHOW you how i feel, because i don't want you making
fun of me. I hate being judged. You will never see the inside of me. I
may tell you in a momemt of softness, but soon my shell will harden and
you will be left to wonder if it's true. It is true, but it amazes you
because i don't seem like the type. I refuse to release my secrets to
anyone. People cannot keep their mouths shut. I have withdrawn from my
family. I can't talk to them anymore, they don't understand. And neither
do you.
If you want to know the real me, treat me like a person. Treat me like I
have feelings, and i want to be known and loved. Don't make fun of me.
Don't criticize me. If i do or say something stupid, don't laugh at me,
it will only make you one more person i hate.
All i'm asking is that someone tries to understand me.
-anonymous.
world through T.Y.M.E.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, etc etc... =
= Internet : jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= gote land +27.31.441115 =
= Arrested Development +31.77.3547477 =
= Global Chaos +61.2.681.2837 =
= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
= Damnation 212.861.0580 Damnation -Toll Free 888.803.8490 =
= Hacker's Haven 303.516.9969 Unholiness Rising 303.980.2404 =
= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images -- Down -- =
= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
= The Keg 914.234.9674 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
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= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
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= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU - /pub/Zines/FUCK =
= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Intimidated By The Sun
----------------------
Why moon goddess?
Why does the sun intimidate you? Why do you hide from its
rays in its relative anonymity? Why sister of the planet
Earth, do you hide behind cloaks of darkness?
Yes, it does hurt. But everything hurts doesn't it Moon
Goddess? Pain is everywhere, it's not central to a specific
being. You feel the pain it feels, everywhere.
The rays might hit you different then others, in a little
less darkness then before. Perhaps that mirror is casting
some more light into your eyes. One can't be too sure what
exactly they are seeing, maybe they aren't seeing, maybe
they are believing.
Believe in me Moon Goddess.
They cast upon the Earth.. shimmering on the lakes.. But
that gives no comfort in the empty vacuum that you know.
You ponder the meaning of this light.. What does light
have to do with the darkness you know? What are you
contemplating? Why is the pinpoint of blackness inside
of your soul reaching out and manifesting into the physical
dimension?
Why have you lost your soul?
There is a darkness in your eye that is pondered not today.
Your way of thinking astounds me.. Your kindness floods
over me.. But the blackness in your eyes is frightening..
Your heart is a million miles away.
You can't kill the Moon Goddess, she's death itself.
Your sigh blows out the candle that is your life.. and
you drift away.. slowly..
-dropcomm
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= gote land +27.31.441115 =
= Arrested Development +31.77.3547477 =
= Global Chaos +61.2.681.2837 =
= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
= Damnation 212.861.0580 Damnation -Toll Free 888.803.8490 =
= Hacker's Haven 303.516.9969 Unholiness Rising 303.980.2404 =
= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images -- Down -- =
= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
= The Keg 914.234.9674 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
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= Files through AnonFTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
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= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
They Don't Know Better
----------------------
I met a girl today. Less than 36 hours later I wanted to kill
just about every male in her home town. When I say I want to kill these
people, it is more than an idle threat. If she asked me to, I would.
There is no doubt in my mind that I could, and would, do it.
So what would drive me to that level of hatred and anger, that
desire to rid the world of human lives. That action that could get me
a lifetime in jail, or death to myself. Three seconds of gunfire in return
for years of drawn out legal battles followed by life in a ten by ten
square room.
I know I have harped on this to my friends and girlfriends in
the past. They are probably tired of me showing my hatred toward this
one thing, but deal with it. There are too many in our society, all
hurting us every day. I know I have been vague enough so you probably
can't guess exactly what it is, but I can assure you, you have most
likely run into it in the past.
Degenerate abusive guys who don't have the first clue about
treating others, especially girls. I'm not talking about the inconsiderate
guys who don't pay attention to their girlfriends/fiances/wives. I
am talking about the most severe kind of loser who mentally and physically
abuses their significant other for whatever reason they have convinced
themselves of. Until recently I thought it was a fairly rare case that
this happened, but the more days that go by, and the more girls I meet,
the more I question that number. Based off what I have seen in the past
few days, there are entire towns with over twenty thousand losers like
this.
So I'm out of state with a friend, visiting some of her old
friends from her home town. Some of her friends are really good people
and very down to earth. They have no false facades, no fronts to put
up for me or anyone else. They are very modest, truthful, and all victims
of past abusive relationships. My new femme friend is a rare individual.
I think it is a combination of her strong will, sense of individuality,
and desire to do what she sees right. There is only one problem I can
find in her.. her ex-boyfriends.
The second day I was there she awoke to find all four tires of her
car flat. Apparently, while we were at a bar the night before, one of
her ex's didn't like the fact she was with me (or any other male). His
way of showing his continuing love to her was to pop her tires. This is
also not the first time he has gone out of his way to piss her off.
I don't know the circumstances behind everything, but one ex held
a gun to her head, others have physically abused her, one tried to rape her,
one has taken thousands of dollars from her in cash and furniture, and
more. What bothers me the most about all of this is her reaction to
these events. They have become so common in her life, that she thinks it
it is a normal occurance. From what I have heard from her and others,
every female in this backwards town expects some form of abuse or another
during their relationships.
Beyond being completely fucked up, it gets more baffling believe
it or not. Now that she has a non abusive friend (who also has a job,
knows how to clean, is halfway nice, etc), she is actually having a very
hard time coping with it. She is honestly intimidated and scared by our
potential relationship. Why? Because I am not the fucked up, backwards
ass, loser, degenerate abusive boyfriend she is used to. What the fuck..
So I am in a town where this is common, and accepted. I look around
at the place and consider the population (36800 or so) and think to myself.
Is this just one town out of thousands with this problem? Or do many
midwestern towns about this size suffer the same thing? If not, then a
full scale surgical military strike on this town is fully warranted. If so,
then I think we have a new national crisis to deal with. Consider the amount
of towns out there like this, multiply to find the total loser count, and
I think you would be quite alarmed.
After meeting a few guys that fall into the above category, I truly
wonder what makes a girl fall for scum like that. I also wonder why girls
let these guys get away with half of the shit they do. Most of the guys
I met have nothing going for them except this macho bravado they throw
around like the presidency. I do understand getting trapped in a relationship
if you are in love, and I do understand it can be hard to leave because
of problems in fear of retribution. I don't understand how it can happen
over and over like clockwork.
Back to the big guns in loser's faces. What else do they deserve?
Certainly no sympathy or understanding. The only thing I can think fitting
for this situation is death or removal of the ability to function in society.
Why do they deserve it? Because of the basic lack of understanding, respect,
sympathy, compassion, morals, ethics, and everything else that should be
considered when dealing with other people. To consistently treat all girls
(or guys as they case may be) like shit for any reason is wrong. It is along
the same lines as racism, the global hatred or dislike based on one feature
of a person.
Now you may be thinking "chill out dis, this is one girl, one town,
one incident." Wrong. I have seen this in several small towns myself, and
have talked to dozens of females from others that have told me the same
thing. That makes me think it is a nationwide problem; a problem that
can't be solved in this generation. That level of a problem can not be
de-programmed from an individual because of the way we are. Certain
fundamental beliefs that are developed from society and parental influence
can only be masked, suppressed, and sometimes altered on the surface.
Rather than remove the bad beliefs, they can only be slightly changed
at best.
The next step is to hit the next generation at a young age, and
make sure they aren't brought up with the same contempt based on a single
feature like skin color, age, nationality, etc. The problem there lies
in the locality. These people are brought up in small towns often led
by community officials with the same values. They are taught by educators
with the same beliefs. In order to change a younger generation, it would
require an unpolluted environment in which to work. Not going to happen.
That puts us back to square one. A big problem that has no easy
solution. Much like other problems in today's society, there seems to be
little that can be done. I guess what really bothers me is the common
sense or fundamental lack of respect involved with this. I honestly thought
it was human nature that kept people in check. I thought that hurting
someone like that would make one develop a level of guilt that would
make them seriously reconsider their actions, and possibly stop them from
doing the same thing.
I guess I am different. Maybe that is one thing that bonds me to
my friends and makes me appreciate them so much. Maybe that is also why
I seem to be drawn to the type of girl that isn't used to being treated
right. I wish I could show every single girl in an abusive relationship
that things can be better, and that I know hundreds of guys who know how
to treat women.
In some cases, I think they simply don't know better.
- dis
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= gote land +27.31.441115 =
= Arrested Development +31.77.3547477 =
= Global Chaos +61.2.681.2837 =
= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
= Damnation 212.861.0580 Damnation -Toll Free 888.803.8490 =
= Hacker's Haven 303.516.9969 Unholiness Rising 303.980.2404 =
= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images -- Down -- =
= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
= The Keg 914.234.9674 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
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= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
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= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU - /pub/Zines/FUCK =
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Legion's Rants
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is a non-canonical list of things I hate and things that I hate slightly
less. Continue at your own risk.
Things I hate (in no particular order):
Sports and the idiots who watch them on TV. It's pretty fucking sad to
see a front-page shot of a Broncos running back on a paper that relegates
the US bombing of another mideastern country to page three. Funding for
Denver public schools is so low that students no longer have textbooks they
can take home, making a joke of the word "homework," yet Denver voters
proudly showed where their priorities lay by voting against a tax hike
for schools while voting for a new stadium for the Denver Doncos.
Stupid people (see also: sports fans). I explain things twice at most.
If you still don't get it, then ask somebody with more patience.
Abortion protesters (see also: stupid people). According to at least one
of the higher-ups in Operation Rescue, the murder of abortion doctors is
acceptable provided it will "save babies." In this light, I propose the
murder of abortion protesters to save this country's moral integrity.
Religious idiots (see also: all of the above). I really don't give a shit
*what* you worship. But if you get in my face and try to force me to
worship the same thing, then I'll gladly explain to you why you are: (a)
stupid, (b) delusional, (c) a waste of oxygen, and (d) ill in the head. I'll
also explain why your religion is logically unsound (this goes for any
religion, BTW) and I'll throw in an explanation of how your particular
religion came into existence in the first place.
Sitcoms. Unless you consider _The Simpsons_ a sitcom, I have never
seen one that made me so much as crack a smile. Each and every one of them
is trite and lame (come to think of it, this describes about 98.21% (this
is an approximation to the exact amount of TV programming I can't stand) of
all television shows).
Hunters (see also: sports fans). Now don't get me wrong; I have nothing
against hunters *per se*. I just hate the ones who think that they're
manly men for going into the woods with their RVs, cell phones, microwave
dinners, etc. and shooting a deer with a 30-06 from a blind and wearing
odor neutralizers. Real sporting, chimp. Let's see you take on the deer
without a backup supply of food. With a knife. Let's see you survive for
even a single night in the wilderness with only your knife and a sleeping
bag. Why are you so proud of the heads on your wall? Fucking weekend warrior.
Yuppies. The same people who look at me with disdain the day I wear my
leather jacket will look at me with approval when I wear my wool trenchcoat
and have my laptop with me. Hypocritical scum.
Cops. Don't take this personally, piggy, but I'm going to start throwing
a party every single time a pig is killed in the line of duty in
Colorado. Have a nice fucking day, and watch your back (or don't, ha ha).
I'll include the Boulder police under this one...the body was in the
basement, you bumbling fuck-ups. How did you manage to miss it the first
time you "searched" the house? Exceptional work, Officer Bong.
Housing development. A clever euphemism for "kiss your individuality
goodbye, motherfucker." I have an aerial photo of a condo community around
here somewhere...if I find it I'll scan it in and put it up here somewhere.
It's really quite terrifying.
Bigots (see also: sports fans, stupid people, religious idiots). Racism is
illogical. Homophobia is illogical. Sexism is illogical. "But Legion," you're
probably thinking, "aren't you a hypocrite for writing this after all that
mean stuff you said about cops, not to mention religious people?" No. Cops
aren't cops by nature. Religious people aren't religious by nature. Bigots
aren't bigots by nature. All of those are unnatural things.
Self-appointed moralists (see also: stupid people, religious idiots). What
business is it of Senator Helms whether I look at pictures of naked women?
In general, if you worry about what other people do in their spare time,
then you have far too much spare time of your own. But just to help the
moralists keep tabs on every instance of turpitude in the country, I propose
that we send them email each and every time we look at "smut" (which
includes, in no particular order: naked women, naked men, bra advertisements,
religious icons, pop stars like Madonna and Elvis, Calvin Klein ads,
congressional hearings, witch burnings, female ministers, book burnings,
women without veils over their faces, The Holy Bible, and anything else deemed
"indecent" by anyone anywhere in the world). I'll end this one on a cheery
note: go fuck yourself (go send that email now; I'll wait).
Email spammers. Fortunately, there are several cures for this particular
blight (see the "Hunting/Phishing" section of my links page).
In conclusion, you suck. Don't ask me what I think the weather will be
like; I don't care. Don't ask me if I caught the game last night; I didn't.
Don't try to force your religion down my throat; it's a sham. This section
will be added to as I think of more things I hate.
Things I hate slightly less than the above:
Breaking email spammers' servers in half like a calcium-deficient egg.
Getting away with telling people exactly what I think of them, to their
face, due to my physical size. Note that this doesn't mean that I'm an
asshole, just that wimps who would pick fights with smaller people don't try
to pick them with me.
Prozac (r). Mmmm, mmm, good.
Sony Playstation. Currently the leader in world sales of "next generation"
game consoles, and with good reason. Tekken 2 is the best fighting
game I've ever seen (and this is coming from a huge Virtua Fighter 2 fan).
Ganbare Goemon 5 (pronounced "gawnbaray go-ay-moan") is due out soon, along
with several other cool Japanese ports.
Japanese everything (except food). I love the country and the people (even
though they're all extremely xenophobic), as well as everything produced in
Japan (better games, better electronics, better cars, more interesting
history, etc.), but I don't particularly care for Japanese food.
Women. Don't ask me why, but I like almost all of the women I know, even
the ones I wouldn't expect myself to like (religious nuts, etc.). Of
course, this sets me up for a fall (due to various incompatibilities) when
I start liking a particular one more than usual. Call me crazy.
The Internet (r). Even though it's exactly the vast intellectual desert
that people say it is, I love it. Call me crazy.
Movies. Even though I prefer books, I'll gladly watch a crappy sci-fi
flick. In fact, I think I'll go watch one right now.
-Legion
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, etc etc... =
= Internet : jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= gote land +27.31.441115 =
= Arrested Development +31.77.3547477 =
= Global Chaos +61.2.681.2837 =
= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
= Damnation 212.861.0580 Damnation -Toll Free 888.803.8490 =
= Hacker's Haven 303.516.9969 Unholiness Rising 303.980.2404 =
= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images -- Down -- =
= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
= The Keg 914.234.9674 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
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= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
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= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Get Lost!
---------
I went to the movies last night. Every trailer shown prior to the
start of the movie had a website, complete with a domain name to match
that of the movie. Afterwards, I flew home to San Francisco. I read
the airline magazine. They had a website. In fact, so did almost all
of the advertisers. The subway I took from the airport had a website.
The place I ate dinner at had a website. The bookstore I went to after
dinner had a website. The club I went to had a website. I just found
out that even the fucking Pillsbury Doughboy has a website being
advertised on TV. Can I go anywhere or do anything without having a
URL thrown at me?
The World Wide Web has become the death of the Internet. Every company
feels it is imperative to have a presence on the web. I mean,
afterall, they have shit they want to sell you. (And I do mean shit!)
And every two-bit loser in the world feels compelled to go to a local
bookstore and buy a book, or three or four of them, named something
along the lines of "Learn to Build a Web Page in 15 Seconds" and then
run home and throw their useless shit onto the Internet.
But it doesn't stop there. Then all of these people feel it is
absolutely necessary to tell the whole world to come visit their new
creation with a fervor that matches the second coming of the almighty
himself. I just opened my inbox for the first time in several weeks
and found eleven messages along the lines of "Please visit my new web
page."
So what do I find if I do take them up on their request? Poor design
and layout. Broken links, or nothing but links to other places, like
to their favorite fucking pony web page or something else equally as
lame. Childish animated JAVA applets that were stolen from other lame
pages. No content even worth mentioning. People who haven't taken the
time to keep thier site current. News Flash: Your commitment to a web
site doesn't end after you upload it for the first time! Even worse
are the jerk-off webmasters whose sites say nothing but "PLEASE BUY
SOMETHING FROM ME WITH YOUR CREDIT CARD!" as the whole purpose of
their existence.
But the biggest complaint I have is that just about everyone who does
build a web site puts NO FUCKING THOUGHT into it before they do upload
it to the Internet. I am reminded of a sentence in a book on HTML I
scanned briefly about two years ago: "Before you build a website, ask
yourself one question: Why?" So simple it is almost poetic.
So my web site is history. I no longer wish to be associated with the
web and the scores of people who build useless shit and add to an
already horrible bandwidth problem. The web is for children. Go do
something else with your time. Learn something useful. A
recommendation from my current reading list is "Applied Cryptography"
by Bruce Schneier. Read it. Learn it. Master it. And once you do, oh,
but I forgot, you won't. You'll continue typing in URL after URL in a
vain attempt to find something useful on the web. Sure there are some
useful sites out there. But how many versus the whole? When, and if, I
ever find something useful to warrant putting up a web site again, I
will. Until then...
So, until you close your browser window, you will always be nothing
but a useless piece of shit to society.
[INLINE]
people have nothing
better to do!
- se7en
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= Internet : jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
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= gote land +27.31.441115 =
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= Global Chaos +61.2.681.2837 =
= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
= Damnation 212.861.0580 Damnation -Toll Free 888.803.8490 =
= Hacker's Haven 303.516.9969 Unholiness Rising 303.980.2404 =
= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images -- Down -- =
= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
= The Keg 914.234.9674 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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A Femme's Philosophy
--------------------
Right now my best "frend" is over, pacing around the house talking to
=Stud o' The Week=, paying absolutely no attention to me AND using my
telephone line. Rushing over to ask me if I've read some book as a child
called _The Phantom Tollbooth_, because this guy thinks it's cool if she has.
Wellllll, she never read it, but I have, so I told her parts of the book
to convince him that she read it. hehe....
But anyway, that leaves me sitting here alone with abstract thoughts
flying around in my head. Thinking of how much I've changed lately, and
more particularly, in the past couple years. I think about it a lot. Do
you ever reminisce about the good old care-free days? When I was younger
I used to imagine myself as older, wonder what I'd be doing, as I sat in
the mud and made mud pies and weed bouquets for Barbie. I never had a
computer and I used to be normal. I guess I still am, to some extent.
Then again, it depends on your idea of "normal." Where did my mother go
wrong???
Anyway, here I am now. A cyberwhore (yep, I'm femme!) if nothing
else. OK, well maybe not, but do fall hard for guys who talk in 'codes'
instead of cheesy pick-up lines. =P I keep getting side-tracked..... Like
I was saying, I think about change.... I do a lot of things that people
normally wouldn't do (feel free to question me on that), take pretty much
any dare. But it's the way of thinking I've taken on; it's completely
different than it used to be. At times I feel so much more mature than
people my age.
I fear nothing; I like nightmares; I like to dominate. Control.
There is no such thing as control. There is no All-Powerful God who is
in control either. There are too many random acts of tragedy to put much
faith in that. Control is just some concept made up by humans. Much like
the idea of time, just something created....
I have a major trust problem. This is because damn near everybody
in my life that I put any faith into were "here today, gone tomorrow" types.
Who isn't..? I used to revolve my life around people and put everything I
had into 'frendships' and then one day...CRASH. I realized that not a soul
was around to hear me.. to care. I was really sad about it, I used to cry.
And then I hardened myself and quit crying too. Nothing really makes me
cry anymore. No shock value, I've seen it all. And in high skool I never
really talked to anybody, felt quite detached from them. I was smart, I got
good grades, but I was always picked on for keeping to myself. That never
really changed. But at least now I've learned to deal with it and be
self-sufficient. Don't get me wrong, I have a lot of 'frends', but it
sucks because I can't trust a single one of them. Is pain so bad when one
believes in nothing? Take one pain-killer and call me in the morning.....
OK, time to wreak some havoc on the "frend" using up my phone line....
SkiNFloweR
skinflower@cyberjunkie.com
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Nice Dreams
-----------
With a din of noise I wake from my long slumber,
Wishing that it would be two hundred hours later instead of now.
I sit up in bed, still surrounded by the feeling of death warmed over,
Still wishing that I could go to back sleep to rid of that feeling.
But the radio goes on with mindless chatter,
And I get out of bed to start another day.
As I stand in front of the mirror I am reminded of last nights dream,
And I shutter as I try to forget that nightmare plagued me last night.
I can recall that nightmare in all its frighting entirety,
That the nightmare has forever burned itself into my very soul.
And that it will only remove itself when I have taken my very last breath,
And when darkness silences my eyes forever.
I can still see the accusing giants standing over me,
Charging me with crimes that are still not clear.
I can still remember falling in the bottomless blackness,
As the howling wind passed my ears.
I can remember having the thousands of spot lights pointed at me,
And the thousands upon thousands of eyes looking at me.
Of being suspended over a pit of dangerous snakes,
And being slowly lowered into the pit.
Of seeing the disembodied creatures all around me,
And as they slowly closed in on me.
Or of being surrounded by blazing fire,
And no escape in sight.
All these visions that I can recall of that terrible dream,
Still dance sickly in my half conscious head.
So as I reach into the sink to splash my face,
I wake to the sound of the mindless chatter of my alarm clock.
Sick_Boy
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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StereoTyping
------------
Since stereotyping is such a big topic now a days with gender appearance
and attitude, I felt the need to rant and rave about it. The biggest comment
I get as a practicing Satanist is, "You don't look like a Satanist.." At
first I was amused by this, but now I am annoyed. I know that we all have
this impression that Satanist are mean looking people that wear all black
all the time and talk in morbid tones. Well, I am not that type of person
and I really don't think that I need to change my apperance to fit the role.
The same goes for the other side, when most people think of Christians they
think of clean cut and never us fowl language. I knew a man that never cut
his hair and wore rags most of the time, yet he was a devout Christian.
I think that it is human nature to stereotype. People today act as
if it is one of the greatest injustices in the world. In my psychology 102
class they were fighting about the differences in men and women. The women
saying how men are insensitive and an affectionate, and the men claiming that
the women are over zealous in there attempts at a relationship. This is all
caused by stereotyping. The main reason that we stereotype is that our
brains are attempting to organize chaos, that is why we have dispositions or
feelings about people that we have never met. We register them and then
compare them to past experiences. I think that people that deny that they
do this are lying to themselves. When you see somebody, anybody, walking
down a street you are going to stereotype them and then have a preconceived
notion about them as a person.
I know that when I see somebody in baggy clothes and a team jersey on
I automatically think "wannabe gang-banger" when in fact they might be
some kid that is attempting to imitate some rapper. I just recently
had an experience that kind of changed my view of blacks for instance. I
am now working closely with a black man, he is intelligent and doesn't talk
in ebonics <or whatever>. We sat down after work and he told me that a lot
of his family and friends claim him to be 'white' because he doesn't
communicate in slang. He said that he use to use slang to fit in, but
learned propper English to be able to communicate with society as a whole.
I found great respect for him because it was almost like he was getting it
on both sides. This one man changed my stereotype of blacks in general. So
it isn't like stereotypes are set in stone and that you will never ever
change your mind. That is why I feel they are so overrated by people.
I think that people that complain the most about stereotyping are
usually the ones that do it the most themselves. So in essence I wrote
this to say that stereotyping isn't the greatest thing hurting humanity
and that most if not all of us at one time will break the stereotyping
we have of certain sects of people.
- malloc
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master?
-------
Looking at himself in the mirror....reflecting back a stud in
tight black leather pants, a fishnet shirt, and a leather collar with a
silver metal ring. Attached to that ring is a short chain. The chain is
used more for fun and looks than anything else. After this last passing
glance, he's on his way out.
On his way to _The Dungeon_, the premiere bondage club, he ponders
his expectations of the night. Why is he even going? Will he feel like a
poser because he's not really into bondage all that much? Some people
make it a lifestyle; they own a wide array of whips, nipple clamps,
paddles, and other "torturous" toys and use them on a regular basis. Some
couples even go as far as role-playing: That is, the slave/master bit.
The master being called 'top' (dominant) and the slave being called
'bottom' (submissive).
=-=
The bondage scene is not very "society-orientated;" most people in
the lifestyle (scene) do not talk about it publicly. And if they do, it's
most likely that they do it more for attention or fashion than getting
actual pleasure out of it. The rumor about bondage is that it is all pain,
pain, pain, and no pleasure. This misrepresents the whole meaning of
bondage; as the majority of people who engage in the act of bondage really
do enjoy it.
There are certain degrees of bondage: one being the type of person
that is very hardcore about it, and actually gets into the painful part of
it. The big question for them is, "What is my partner's pain-threshold?"
These people are quite heavily into flogging, melting hot wax, biting,
nipple clamps with teeth on the end (ends being the part that squeezes the
nipple), small amounts of electric shock, and vigorous paddling. Another
type are the ones who are not into pain at all. They may use handcuffs,
telephone cord for the phreaks, cat-5 cable for the haxors, rope, duct or
electrical tape, gentle biting, ice, hot wax, and whips and paddles as
well, but only teasingly. The last type, where the majority falls in, is a
combination of both. This is where the term "pleasurable pain" comes in.
To clear up confusion, melting candle wax on a partner is both a
pleasurable and painful experience. It's all psychological; if you want
to be pleasured from it, that's the result you'll get. Same goes for
"pain."
=-=
As he arrives, he scans the dance floor and checks out the action.
Anything can happen at these kinds of places. He wonders if there are any
computer-literate grrrls in the house tonight. As he's thinking that, he
looks at the beauty and forgets about the brains. Some hot chixors come up
and teasingly tug on his chain. He feels more insecure by the moment. He
watches the action on the stage; there is a big St. Andrew's cross, to
which someone is bound, and getting "the royal treatment." Wow, there are
a lot of seemingly hardcore people here.... He wonders if he is in over
his head when he's getting pulled over to a corner and asked if he's like to
join in the menage de trois. Fr3aKy.
The swirling colorful lights, the loud fast techno music, all the
people, all the blackness..... was overwhelming. He escaped the "friendly"
atmosphere. In the men's room, he looked himself in the eye in the mirror.
He could have fun here, if he would just relax. But he had absolutely no
control here. He just can't get the hang of this whole bondage scene; he
feels so out-of-place and so out of control. He feels so insecure, as he
realizes he isn't into this scene, and that makes him feel that he is *being*
controlled. (No no no, I need to be in a place where i understand the
system and control it). This place was the sort that his mother had
warned him not to go to, for fear of her son coming back corrupted. ;)
Just then, he realized that he is such a poser that he'd better go home
and practice.
He blows goodbye kisses to the grrrlies and goes home, to his
computer. But he does some serious thinking....he wants to break into
this scene. He needs to practice, gain skills, but with who? Brainstorming,
he gets connected and peruses the Yahoo Personal Ads. Ha, here we go, an
innocent sounding grrrl with a wicked website. It's time to practice.....
Sitting and staring at the blank screen momentarily, he is suddenly hit with
exactly what he should write:
"I'm a 23yo DWM (dominant white male) Sadist
5'10" 180# w/medium length black hair, and blue eyes.
I have a B.A. in Cinema and I presently work in the
construction trade. I was involved in a six yr. BDSM
(bondage/S&M) relationship when I was in the Philippines.
I would still be in that relationship, but my slave got her
stupid ass arrested. From the tone of your post, I would
be pleased to correspond with you. You seem like
a sub who will require an extremely short leash.
I enjoy that. To give you a preview of some of
the discipline you will endure under my ministra-
tion. I have extensive experience in the use of
flogs, paddles, crops, bamboo canes, switch,cat
belt etc. U will know crucifixion, mummification,
suspension, and sensory deprivation. I will use
hot wax, ice, and nipple clamps on your nipples
and bound breasts. Ropes,chains,cuffs,tape,
gags etc.will be used on your squirmming body.
Toys of various shapes and sizes will invade
your dripping cunt and puckered ass. There will
be days, when you disobey me, that you have
so many cloths pins and surgical clamps on your
sweat drenched body that you will be certain of
your impending madness. You will experience heart
pounding fear, bone chilling pain, and mind
numbing ecstasy in the same breath. And
that's when you'll know that you are truly mine.
My masochist submissive.....my slave. If this
is the relationship that you need, e-mail me
and we will discuss it. But be advised, I am a
strict Master. And if you disobey me, these
things WILL happen to you. E-mail to:
nimbus38@mychoice.net "
.....and he hit the send button. For a split second, he could imagine
himself doing these things and felt he had control over the "scene" as
well...... *hmph* a few more letters like this and he will be master.
=-=
*this "scene" can be fun, but is not for everyone*
SkiNFloweR
skinflower@cyberjunkie.com
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Inner Turmoil
-------------
"Why do we, crucify ourselves, every day..."
It's the opposite of writer's block, but equally as bad. I sit here
alone in my bed trying to express what I am thinking. I have this
sudden need and desire to tell the world exactly what is on my
mind, what is coursing through my veins. But I can't. It's always
the not so comfortable thoughts like these that end up plagueing
me.
"My pain.. is self chosen..."
I sit here with my laptop on the pillow, head touching wrist, eyes
closed. Can't see anything right now and quite frankly don't want
to. Sleep sounds so much better with each passing thought. Don't
know whats up with me but something really has me in a bind. My
mind gives my body a list of things to do, but they don't get
executed.
"No one should brave that underworld alone..."
I guess now is the best time for things to be like this. Not only
are my thoughts really jacked up, but a good friend is going
through a really hard time in his life. A time where he faces
losing his girlfriend and daughter.. maybe for days, months, or not
at all. You just can't tell with the court system today.
"That old dog has chained you up alright..."
Other friends are seeking me out for advice on various matters,
most of which I am not qualified to lead on. One friend is having
problems with a girl he is interested in. Another has a problem but
I have no idea what its about. Dozens of people mail me a day
asking me for technical advice on just about everything. Why me?
I can't be that qualified to answer all this. Especially the
advice on girls and life.
"Tongue tied and twisted, just an earthbound misfit.. I.."
The thing bothering me is more frustrating than it has ever been. I
think it stems from the fact that even I don't know what I want.
Since I can't figure it out as far as my own thoughts are
concerned, how am I supposed to be able to guess what someone
else's thinking? That leaves me with way too much time to ponder my
dilemna before I will get the answer I am looking for. Doesn't
really matter what the answer is, just the fact that the answer
looms around the corner.
"No you can't take that away from me..."
No matter what happens in my life, I keep getting the feeling that
no one really understands me. Like everyone else, I have my world
of problems but I can't talk about them because it seems like
no one else comprehends. Or maybe they don't want to. The more I
think about it the more I wonder if they even realize it. My
inner turmoil has been with me for so long, I wonder if I disguise
it, or wear it so openly that my friends don't even notice it.
"Hold onto nothing, as fast as you can..."
I know things will work themselves out, but I always worry if they
will do so in an orderly fashion. Part of my anal retentive nature
or some other ancient curse on me. Twenty three years of survival
tell me things will right themselves.
"I don't mean to pick you apart you see..."
What to do until then? Figure out what I want at this point in
my life. After talking to a friend tonight, I find out others
out there are unsure of what they want. Why the indecision? Why
the lack of focus or direction? There must be some underlying
desire for a new perspective on life. Or maybe a need for a little
action out of life.
"I've got enough guilt to start my own religion..."
Until I have clarity of thought, I can only hold on to the things
I have. My castle, my work, my hobbies. Solace of music, escape
of movies, and freedom to do. My handful of friends, wishful
thinking, and vision of daily monotony. Anger, content, guilt,
and comfort.
damn.
dis.
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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What are you going to do? Shoot me?
------------------------------------
It seems that more and more when I get into a disagreement with someone
about something and they always have to say "What are you going to
do? Shoot me?" I know then that the discussion is going nowhere. I own a
gun, a 9mm Baretta. People seem to have this image from a movie that when
somebody disagrees with a person with a gun they get shot. I am not someone
that carries a gun with me all the time and it isn't like I illegally have it.
I own it and have registered it with the government. I do carry it on me when
I know I will be out late or driving in a certain part of town. I am not a
gun fanatic or someone that has to have a gun to feel secure. Still whenever
anyone anywhere gets in an argument with me about the smallest thing they
always say "What are you going to do? Shoot me?"
This really gets annoying and seems to be a cheap shot of sorts. I have
never threatened anyone with a gun nor have I even pulled it in self defense.
It is added security when I know that I will be out late or in a bad side of
town. If I was to get into a fight or any other physical confrontation I can
handle myself with out a gun. Now whenever anyone says or mentions my gun as
a way of myself being a man I think of how uncomfortable it must be for them
to know that I own a firearm. I think that the media in our society portrays
people that own guns as either gang bangers or people that need to resort to
violence as a mean to solve their difficulties. It seems now society sees
gun owners as people that are outcasts, it seems almost like an elite
social crime to own a gun.
It is also perceived that peoples own fear of being shot plays a roll in
this as well. They believe by saying this to me that I won't shoot them
because they do not fear me. I know that this is reading into the way that
people think, but when you hear a comment so many times you must wonder to
yourself "Why does he keep saying this." I know that most likely this FUCK
file will not be published because of the editor, but I know that this is
something that I needed to get off of my chest. People need to learn that not
everyone that owns a gun will go nuts and then shoot anyone that has ever
disagreed with them. A gun, like pepper spray is a method of self-defense,
it can be used to be an offensive weapon. The first thing they teach you when
you buy your gun is "Don't point it at someone unless you intend on using it."
I think that people that have this complex against regular people like myself
having a gun needs to learn what that phrase means, not "What are you going to
do? Shoot me?"
- malloc
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Being Heard Hurts
-----------------
Expressing oneself is a dying art. No longer is it encouraged
by the powers that be. No longer it is sought-after by the
educational process. No longer is it the predominate goal of
all of our country. Why has this goal been dismissed from our
thoughts? Simple, no one wants to think for themselves because
they are all too lazy and dedicated to the one minded logic of
the masses. What is this new goal that is clouding our social,
political, and economical future? The new goal to be achieved
by one and all is very dangerous to free thought, the goal
I am talking about is Conformity. How can you hope to escape
from the barriers? Read on.
Nonconformity is looked down upon for the most part.
Many think of nonconformists as hairy eyed anarchists
who have plans to slaughter millions and massacre the
government. It is just another piece of the systems
bullshit. There are legendary nonconformists in a place
that you wouldn't even expect to see them, in the
history of the United States of America.
Where can I find this information you ask? Look no
further than the War that revolutionized the entire
world. The War for Independence. I will relate this tale
to you, though I am sure you've heard it countless times.
But I ask you to listen with an open mind, and to sink
in the feeling that the nonconformist viewpoint on certain
subjects can make the world a better place for all of us.
Many early Americans were by definition nonconformists.
They would not allow their minds to be oppressed by following
the tyrannical rule of Great Britain. For these actions,
they were punished. But did they simple give up their hopes,
dreams, and goals? No! They fought back, kicking and screaming,
and they were liberated. After the war, these Americans put
their will power to the test. They grappled the task of
controlling a nation, and they succeeded. Today that nation
has risen to become one of the worlds superpowers.
How does this effect the discussion at hand? Think of
it this way. If a group of rebels can change the world,
why can you not change your surroundings? Surely, by thinking
for yourself, expressing your views, and having a clear
goal in mind, you will be able to. No one will be able
to hold back the real you. They will not be able to
judge you, you will be the ultimate wielder of power in
your life.
But DropComm, you say, isn't the system going to slam me
into the ground for this? Most likely. Then, why do you
advise me to do this? For your own good. How can this be
for my own good if it's just going to get me into trouble,
you ponder. I reply indignantly, feeble minded human, this
process is not meant to land you in unnecessary anguish,
it is meant to make you learn about yourself, and the
options that are available that you were to blinded to
see before. You will become the all-powerful person in
your existence. You will not rely on others views to
contort your ideas. You, perhaps for the first time in
your life, will be free.
If you are having trouble launching your plan to be free
from an intellectual jail, then I have some suggestions for
you. Write down some promises to yourself and come through
with them. In time, you will feel a tinge of responsibility,
and it will grow. You will know the truth, that if you put
your mind and will power towards a goal, that you will achieve
it. I believe that you will feel quite gratified by this
should you carry through with it.
Once you are free from lies and false realities, nothing
can touch you. You will control everything that happens
to you. You will no longer need to rely on others to do
everything for you, you will be renovating yourself. You
will know that nothing can stop you from achieving anything
that your heart desires.
This journey will not be easy. It will not take a short
period of time to complete. There are many things that
you will learn on your adventure. Perhaps one of the most
important is that there is no progress without struggle.
But the one I believe to be most important is, that all
of this will pay off. And one final thing to remember,
in the immortalized words of Bob Marley, everything is
going to be alright.
-DropComm
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Can't Fight the Seether
-----------------------
Blood curdling madness. Then helplessness. Then revenge.
That's my thesis.
Sitting in class, feet up on the desk...letting my mind seethe.
Thoughts keep drifting back to my own private madness. Every time I get
to thinking about it, my anger is refreshed. I sit there just staring
off into space, occasionally crash-landing back into reality, and tuning
out and seeing red again.
OK, you're wondering what the hell I'm so pissed about. Well
this file began as a result of someone invading my privacy. By "invasion
of privacy," I mean that my eMails are being read and my files are
disappearing, then reappearing. Also, my password happens to come up as
invalid at irregular intervals. At first I thought my ISP was to blame. I
don't know what I think of this. Half of me is impressed. Impressed that
anyone would bother taking the time to annoy me. Impressed that my account
has been haxored. A silly thing to be impressed with, yes, but...I was.
The other half of me was m a d. Mad because I could not dial-up, check
the mail, play in unix, or practice writing and compiling more c0des (I'm
learning C++; that is equivalent to another women driver). It was taking
my baby from me. But I was stung most by the fact that mail I sent was no
longer private. Excerpts from letters I wrote could be stolen and show up
anywhere. Things I said could be twisted around and come back to haunt
me. The main thing I phear about having my mail read is somebody might
figure me out after reading them. I am stubborn about giving people the
chance to get to know "the real me." Recently, someone said:
"It is very difficult to sort through all the layers of
reality that aren't really reality to get to the real
Skinflower. And you never know when you're at the
center of the Tootsie Roll Pop. Each layer of reality
looks just as real as the last. And they are all so
very unreal."
I thought it was a great analogy; comparing me to a Tootsie Roll Pop, heh.
I should just shut up about it, since seemingly harmless pranks like these
are expected from the g33ks in the scene. But I'm femme, and I won't shut
up.
My initial reaction was fear. Don't ask why - I thought I had
eliminated that emotion ("i'm baaack..."). My heart pounded momentarily.
But only momentarily; the next minute I wanted to choke something. My dog
was nearest so I choked her (just kidding, just kidding!). My mind was
racing though. Damn it, I was in a position where I couldn't do anything.
Hmmm...I don't think I am too good at expressing my thoughts. I listen to
music pretty much most of the day. Sitting at the computer most of my life
(or so it seems), with a plethora of industrial bands pounding their music
inside me. So, to better express myself, I can say I thought screeching
keyboards and the beat of a drum machine looping at 10,000 beats per second
("kill kill kill").
A couple days and a hundred rejected ideas later, I have resigned to
the fact that somebody was able to ruffle my feathers (er, petals). :) I'm
much more subdued about the situation, but it is nowhere near forgotten.
I've almost gotten over the initial rage; I can joke sarcastically about
it. With my wry smile and icy eyes, I find comfort in pushing myself
along at maximum speed towards my goal: revenge. I always get revenge.
Sometimes the opportunity falls into my lap, other times I have to play it
like a chess game ("time to pay the piper..."). I don't put up with any
kind of shit. So I'm biding my time thinking skippy little bass beats and
ambient guitar.
But my mind never sleeps, and, snakelike, I will strike when I know
I have a dead-sure shot. I am not all-consumed with revenge; I have a
life to live and will go on with it full force. But what goes around comes
around baby......
- SkiNFloweR
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Dialogue of Eyes
----------------
Typical 50's diner, upbeat staff, lazy Sunday afternoon. John and
I are sitting there with drinks only, lunch a few hours in our past. He is
learning Russian in between sips of lemonade, trying to keep an eye on the
room. No more lemonade, only water and 62 pages left in the Russian
picture book.
Here I sit with a whirlwind in my mind and a feeling of uneasiness
all about. Twenty four hours of history behind the trepidation, a full
day that doesn't need to be spoken of. I fancy myself somewhat of a casual
writer but I can't write what's on my mind, let alone sift through the
disorder of my mind. We all know what's up, just a matter of us breaking
through the fear and admitting the obvious. Mostly because our subsconscience
hides our true desire.
She is catching me staring at her more than I am catching her
returning the favor. I say favor because of the mutual interest that is
readily apparent. Why her? Last night I was sipping my diet coke when I
couldn't stop myself from drawing a comparison. Her facial features are that
of the women in Michael Parkes artwork. His work is slightly exaggerated
as most art is. She has those features and they speak volumes in a sense.
Despite the appearance of youth, the look tries to conceal a subtle wisdom
that derives the naivete' inherent in age.
It's always dangerous making snap judgements about the intelligence
or wisdom of someone. If you expect one thing and find another, you typically
hold it against the person even though it is your own build up that caused
the dissapointment. She is avoiding that routine by having one of her
co-workers check me out, talk to me, size me up, and if needed, rake me over
the coals. I don't have that option. Even a casual inquiry will get back
to her faster than I get the answer. Why is it so awkward to start a
conversation? Or a relationship for that matter?
Been thinking recently, of just about everything under the moon.
I have my castle, my son, my hobby, my library, my army. Translated:
my apartment, my cat, my computers, my books, my friends. The only thing I
need or want is a queen to share my wealth. Nothing serious really, just
someone that actually cares, can show a slice of understanding, and
someone that simply enjoys my company.
Of course, you will never see the real file, as it is handwritten
on a yellow pad. The black ink barely forming words because of the general
slopiness of my handwriting. Part of it because I only type any more and
never have a chance to write. The other lending factor is my nervousness.
I can't express my desire for us to meet.
Maybe another day...
.dis.
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Love in Vein
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hi. You might remember my whiny FUCK file from a while back in which I
wrote about a woman I loved but who turned out to be Queen Bitch of the
Universe. I can recall feelings of nervousness mixed with abject fear,
self-pity, and low self-esteem in the days before I opened up to her. I
was so nauseous that I couldn't eat for literally days at a time. In
short, I had a major depressive episode -- all before I even talked to
her. This came about mainly because I knew her well, had known her for
years, and didn't want to jeopardize the friendship (which, as it
happens, meant more to me than it did to her). When I did open up to
her, I found that my fears were true -- she didn't feel the same way.
Additionally, she ended the friendship not long after when I made the
mistake of mailing her a letter; she was paranoid (this observation was
made by people other than myself, so no clouded judgment here :) and
believed I was stalking her, so she threatened to file harassment
charges if I ever contacted her again. So I stepped back and
re-evaluated her as a potential partner, and discovered that she was, in
fact, nowhere near what I think I want in a woman.
This all occurred before last November. I've been feeling like shit over
it for almost the entire time, but no more. Now I truly understand the
meaning of such cliches as, "there are plenty of fish in the sea" and,
"the worst thing she can do is say no" (not true in my case, but...). A
few months ago I asked my shrink (don't ask) how a person like me who
doesn't drink can meet people. She couldn't come up with any quick
suggestions, but I think I've found a nice solution. A couple of weeks
ago, Disorder took me and some TACD & PLA doodz to a dance club, where I
saw perfect strangers dancing and hanging out together after exchanging
a few words. As this was my first time in a club, I was amazed. The
music was great and the women were great looking. Thanks to Dis, I've
found a way to meet people without fear of rejection (if one doesn't
want to dance, hey, I'll move on to the next :).
By a nice coincidence, the club Dis introduced me to was the one which a
friend of mine had told me I should go to. This was back in December,
when I was still feeling like shit over the last woman, so it didn't
occur to me that when my friend said, out of the blue, "why don't you
ever go to the Wreck Room?" -- and then told me I should go sometime --
that she may have been asking me to go with her. Earlier this week she
and I flirted a bit...when I told her we went on a Saturday, she said
that I should go on Sunday instead, as that's when she's there. After
she said this several times, I responded that she would have to take me
there sometime and teach me to dance. We dropped it there, but she
smiled at me the rest of the day. As it happens, I chickened out on
asking her to go this weekend, but I think I'll show up anyway and dance
with her if she's there.
Since Dis is probably sick of getting rambling, abstract submissions
from me, I'll try to get a moral in here. For those of you who, like
myself, have never had a long-lasting or serious relationship (my
brother, who is gay, has had more girlfriends than I have. Digest that
one), I would advise you to not fixate on one person. As stupid as it
sounds, there ARE plenty of fish in the sea. I worried about getting one
woman so much that it became the only goal in my life (but not so much
that I stalked and killed her *<coughOJcough*>), and that's what fucked
me up so much when I talked to her. With this one I think I can
truthfully say that it will be no great loss if she doesn't go for me.
There were several fish at the club on Saturday. Comparatively speaking,
though, she's a far better match for me than the last one (who was a
Catholic (I hate religion), a heavy drinker, and not particularly
smart). This may sound like I'm dumping on her, but those are the facts
that I couldn't see while I was blinded by the love in my blood.
I'm making a fresh start this weekend. Wish me luck.
-Legion
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Lost and Found
--------------
I sit here alone on the balcony of a not unfamiliar apartment but
one I have been accustomed to for less then the length of time it has taken
me to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes (yes I was trying to quit at the
time but you get my point). As I listen to the cars passing by and the
omnipresent breeze carrying its song, and its winged passengers to wherever
it is that birds go at this time of the year I am reminded, reminded of my
constant displacement no matter the environment (quite the contrary to my
apparent complacency to be any given place at any given time). This has been
an ongoing battle in my head since I was about sixteen years of age, forced
to face the world alone as a young man, a boy. Given the total lack of
stability I had at the beginning of this long tiring journey of mine my
total lack of stability at present doesn't bother me as one would expect, or
does it?
I've moved from the balcony into the computer room to continue
this rant not because I don't like the outdoors, but because I find
that I can type much faster and more legible than I can write these days.
Another casualty of technology I guess.
This trek I have unknowingly embarked upon has taken me to over
twelve states in this country and several brief visits to a corrupted
land far south of where I am now. In all these places I have heard the
passing cars I hear now, and the same breeze blows whether it be from the
north, south, east, or west. I guess what I'm really trying to say is
that no matter where you go you never really leave where you were. The
same instability is there, the same people are there with only faces that
change. Sure no two people are alike but no two people are really that
different either, there are good people, there are bad people, there are
people you really wouldn't bother pissing on if they were on fire. Most
importantly of all you are there, the same person you have always been.
Maybe you have changed some things about yourself but you cannot escape
from your true self. I don't know if this is what I was trying to do but I
know now its of no use.
In looking at my present surroundings I think I have found a
location I would like to stay at for a while. The opportunity is here,
there are people I like to be around here, even the view in certain
places is quite majestic. Granted it does get rather cold at times but
hey, you cant have everything. I know it will take some time for me to
settle into a place of my own but I think its time for me to stop moving.
I have heard my constant movement about the country referred to as "running"
and "hiding", but I think of it more as living, and learning. I have
learned a great many things from a great many people, much of which would
be considered trivial to most people because they take the world in which
they live in for granted. I have laid my head on concrete and I have laid
my head on the pillows of thousand dollar a night hotels. Its still my
head.
zens
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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me and a gun
------------
When I was seven or eight years old, there was a kid in my neighborhood
that received his fair share of abuse from the others. He was real
small, a little younger than I am, and feisty as hell. We often wondered
if he liked the abuse since he continually asked for it in his own
way. I don't recall all of the events but one day he decided to strike
out at those around him for his previous punishment. Some of my friends
and I were playing behind some of the condos when he came toward us
brandishing a knife. It was apparent he took the foot long butcher
knife from his kitchen, but the size alone made us think about things.
He only chased me swinging wildly for about five minutes, but it left
a mark on me for a long time.
Many parts of my childhood are a blur by choice. I can't remember exactly
how old I was at the time, must have been twelve or thirteen years old.
The local bullie was a boy named scotty. Everyone in the neighborhood
knew he was a mean spirited boy with way too much anger in him. His family
was a good model of why he ended up that way. When police showed to their
door for a noise complaint they sicked dogs on the two cops.. after being
asked to put the shotgun away. scotty had this thing where he liked to
pick on me more than others for his own reasons.
I remember looking for one of my cats who had been missing for days. It
was a nice day out and I had hurried over to where someone saw my cat.
Going barefoot didn't bother me since I was fairly used to it. Didn't find
the cat but ran across scotty. As soon as he saw me the fire in his
eyes consumed him and he began to chase me. My only thought was to go
straight for my house since that was the only place that could guarantee
my safety. Damn he was a fast runner. I had speed on him as well as a good
25 yard head start. The first half mile was no problem as I stayed ahead
of him only occasionally looking back to check the distance. His persistance
was admirable as he kept chasing me. Trouble hit me after that first half
as I couldn't run on the grass any more. I was forced to run on a small
dirt field littered with tiny jagged rocks. Each step sent bolts of pain
up my legs and I felt the rocks digging into my feet. Something in my
mind must have reminded me that the pain he offered would be worse than
the rocks. I did make it home finally, and avoided a fight.
In the south you run across stacks of hay bails in developed neighborhoods.
It is commonly used for putting around tree beds, in areas where grass
is soon to grow, etc. Often times there would be hundreds of the bails
stacked in different parts of the neighborhood, and as usual, would become
a sort of playground for everyone. Not only could we jump around and play
on them, but we could move them about and make our forts and our castles.
After a while of playing on one of these stacks, some friends and I had
left a sort of 'well' in the stack. After my friend Rob left to go home
for a minute, scotty showed up out of nowhere. That all to familiar look
crossed his eyes and he approached me quickly. There wasn't a chance in
hell of me running or getting away from him so I took my punishment. Rather
than hit me for a while he decided to shove me face first into this 'well'
and watch me try to get out. It took a while with him kicking the sides
of the hay in.
Three months passed before the next major episode with Scotty. A few
friends and myself were swimming in the pool at the clubhouse enjoying
the cool water on a typically hot day. Low and behold, Scotty shows
up for a swim. I was treading in about six feet of water when he
dove in and swam toward me. (Remember, I was much smaller then.)
I watched him swim past me underwater, and thought he would do just that.
Instead, I found myself being pulled underwater suddenly. When your
mind panics, it is hard to keep track of time or anything around you
as you struggle for air. I have no idea how long I was under, just that
my lungs burned in a way I never knew. I guess I either struggled enough
to get free or he voluntarily released me. I came up out of the water
gasping for air but feeling more discouraged than before. Not a single
one of the thirty people around the pool had bothered to help. Only
to stare at me in amazement.
Years passed before my curse returned. I lived in New Mexico at the time,
in a very nice neighborhood. As it often happens there are always a few
bad apples in every place. The local bad apple happened to be an extremely
violent kid. It was his nature to lie and steal any chance he got. We
all became used to it and began to expect it. Because of his attitude
and lack of intelligence he was often being corrected on just about
everything he said. Because of his lies, he was always being questioned
about his sources. At times when he was caught in one of his bigger lies,
he would often try to intimidate everyone into believing him even though
he knew it never worked. One night we were all playing basketball when
this kid (Neil) decided he would try to pass a big lie on. Almost an
hour later he was really upset because no one would believe him so he
tried starting fights with each of us, one by one. Neil chose the
wrong person eventually and my friend Marc smacked the hell out of him.
As soon as this happened I had a feeling Neil would do something rash
in return. After being hit he turned and headed into the garage we were
near, as I feared, in search of a weapon. My first instinct was to protect
my friends so I ran back to my garage in search of something to deter
Neil from his course of action. I returned to the court holding a pair
of dowel rods ready to defend. I had played around with fighting
'Florantine' (fighting with 2 hands and 2 weapons) and felt I could
at least stop him. Neil emerged from the garage brandishing a pretty
big knife and headed towards my friend Marc seemingly unaware of my
presence. Seeing the new threat he took one more step toward me and
demanded I leave him alone. My reply was surprisingly calm and smooth
as I told him I could not do that. He threw the knife at me instead.
All I remember after that is deflecting the knife with one of my dowels
and asking him to leave.
College life was decent. I kept to myself usually and made a point to
avoid contact with others. I just didn't like dealing with other people
at that point in my life. One day on the way back from some place or
another I pulled up to a stoplight a few blocks from my dorm. I sat
there at the wheel looking forward waiting for the light to change.
Something caught my attention out of the corner of my eye and i glanced
over to the vehicle next to me. I did a doubletake and turned a little
farther to watch the guy in the jeep next to me yelling and screaming..
at me. I know that I hadn't done anything as far as cutting him off or
messing with him on the road. He sat there half banging on his window
yelling and cussing at me. The light changed and I drove on thinking
it was over. But he followed me. I didn't want to deal with this whole
thing so I sped up and headed to the dorm parking lot as quick as possible.
Luckily he underestimated the speed of my little Escort and I got to the
parking lot before he did. I managed to pull in and duck into an empty
slot while he was making one of the turns. I ducked down and he passed me
without event.
I had just logged off the internet and sat back in my dorm room thinking
of what to do next. My friend Chad walked in the room and shut the door
behind him as he usually did. We sat there and talked about some unimportant
issue or another and decided to watch a movie that night. I think I
remember some noise outside the door, then quiet, then a knock. I went to
the door and Chad looked around the corner to see who was there. A turn
of the knob revealed a person holding a large revolver, aiming it at my
head. The first thing I thought about was who held the gun, in this case
a guy from a few doors down. I had never really liked him, but we had
maybe traded half a dozen words since he lived there. Second thing that
went through my mind was why, and that is something I still question to
this day. The third thing was to duck, and I did that. It was only a
split second after I realized the gun was there that I found myself slamming
the door shut while diving into the corner. Likewise, Chad had jumped back
around the corner looking for cover and then something to fight back
with. We sat there behind closed door wondering what would come next.
Ten minutes later I checked the door and he was gone, back to his room
apparently.
Over three years passed before the next situation. A large group of our
friends (several F.U.C.K. writers included BTW) were hanging out at
a bar in downtown Denver. It had been a fun night of drinking, pool,
darts, and playing on computers (yes, the bar had them). Voyager
and I were verbally jousting when he called me a name. Unfortunately
it had bigger effects on a fairly small guy near us. The guy jumped up
and got in Voy's face yelling at him for using the word 'nigger' even
though it wasn't in the formal context, and it wasn't directed at him.
Voy kept explaining that it was a) none of his business b) not going
to be apologized for c) futile to argue with him. While this went on
one of the guy's friends kept back and put his hand in his back pocket.
Out came the switchblade ready for action. Major and I stood behind the
friend with the knife and waited for him to try to move. Major had his
9mm on his back and he kept a hand near. Things difused by themselves
and we kept enjoying the night.. until we left. We had all walked back
to the cars and were waiting there for something or another. Major dropped
his gun off in the car while he and Voy went a block over to check something
out. Twenty minutes later Voy and Major returned from getting jumped
by *8* guys, all lead by the original guy who instigated things. Even
though they held their own and fought the guys off, things would have
gone a lot better had Major kept his gun on him. They weren't looking
for trouble.. just more booze.
Since then it has been a steady barrage of minor situations. Nothing
too big or bad, but equally annoying and somewhat unerving. For a while
I wondered why I was the target of seemingly random abuse. It took me
a while to remember a few times in the past where I had done it, or
friends had done it. One time sticks out in my mind above others. A
good friend in college who was just like a big brother, a sensai, and
best friend all in one once lost it in front of me. He was a very calm
and very disciplined guy, one that never let anything bother him.
We were driving on the campus near the soccer fields in my little car.
Both of us sat there listening to the music enjoying the beautiful
day. With no warning, my friend Shawn turned to his right and yelled
at the top of his lungs, "You fucking whore". His anger was directed
toward some girl walking the opposite direction. The look of terror
on her face indicated that she heard his scream of rage. I sat there
in disbelief for a minute before I asked who that was and where he
knew her from. The look on his face was that of a timid mouse, as
if he was scared of his own shadow. "I don't know why I did that."
After that incident I thought to myself: "If my 'sensai' can lose
it like that, anyone can."
Today, when I leave the house I carry a Rueger P89 9mm with a high
capacity clip full of hollow points. It is rare that I leave the
house without it somewhere in my possession. Instead of carrying
it on my body, I usually have it in a bag which is close to me.
I like having the gun for the basic protection it offers me. I know
it won't help me in some situations, but it will in others. And
'good' odds are better than 'no' odds. I can't begin to explain the
security it gives me knowing that if needed, I can protect my friends
and family if a situation arises. That means the world to me.. always
has, and always will. My friends are my friends and that is the final
word. Nothing you or anyone else says to me will make me lose some
of the ability to protect them.
=-=
Don't ask why, but i have recently found the need to rationalize why
I carry a gun. Not justification for my discomfort, but for someone
else's. And since I respect their opinion, I want to be able to do
that.. this was it. I guess people can also see some similar traits
between Voyager and myself now that I look back at this file. Think
what you will...
.dis.
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Death Wish 93
-------------
Some call it the "hard road" and others know it as the road of ugly
head-on fatalities. We are talking about Highway 93 which extends
from Phoenix, Arizona up through Montana and into the great white
north--Canada. The stops, much less cities, are few and far
between with much of the route two lanes.
It's January 9th, 1996 and in a few moments I'll be leaving Las
Vegas where I spent a few days exploring what the Winter Consumer
Electronics Show had to offer. My trip has lasted a little more
than a week, taking me from my home near Fort Lauderdale, Florida
to this "city of sin." I've put about 3500 miles on my car (yes, I
drove) and burned quite a bit of rubber off my Bridgestone RE71's.
So far the only casualties we've suffered, besides sickness, has
been some damage to my bumper when I hit a high curb while parking
my car in Zion National Park--be sure to watch the curb near the
River Walk trail.
Michael, my accomplice, is from Berlin, Germany and is someone I
met over the internet. He is the only person interested in going
with me on this drive to Las Vegas. I guess I can see why now--it
has been a tough ride with lots of 12 hour driving days and minimal
stops. Michael didn't talk very much on the trip which make it
tougher on me. Thank goodness I brought a lot of CDs and tapes.
I fucked up a turn on the airport road which I hoped Michael would
help me navigate so I ended up dropping him off at arrivals. He
got nervous cause all the doors said EXIT and wanted me to take him
to departures. I told him I might get lost again and that his best
bet was to enter the exit and find his check in area.
Once Michael made it inside I took off. After about a week of
traveling together I was actually glad to see him go. The
communication gap or Michael's silence annoyed me. Sometimes
talking to him was like talking to an invisible friend except if
you were really lucky your invisible friend would talk back.
It is still dark as I attempt to make my way out of the city. With
no city map I take a guess at the road which should take me out of
the city. After questioning my judgment for several miles I decide
I better stop at a gas station and ask for direction. The gas
attendant tells me I should continue on the road I am taking and I
will make it to the highway I am searching for. I drive a few
miles and begin to question the directions but finally see the
highway.
Within a couple hours I make it to my first stop--Kingman, Arizona.
I gas up and decide to stop at a tire shop to have my tires
rotated. The front tires (140 traction) are almost slicks on the
side and down to the "time to replace nub" on the center grooves.
The back tires are wearing thin too but have enough tread to make
the rotation worthwhile.
I'm heading east on I-40 towards my Highway 93 turn off doing about
75-80mph and notice the tire rotation has actually provided me with
a smoother ride. The tire shop only performed a rotation not a
balance; definitely a good decision that will make the remaining
2500 miles go a bit easier.
My decision for taking Highway 93 is so I can take a different
route home instead of I40. I could take I40 east to I17 and take
I17 south to I10 but looking at the map that would take about an
hour or two longer. Highway 93 looked to be the smart choice plus
with the extra time I could stop by another national park.
I make my turn on Highway 93 and realize not only that the speed
limit is less but it seems to be a limitless two lane highway not
as sparsely driven as I had hoped. Oh well, at least the
occasional passing lane will make the ride easier.
I do my best to maintain about 70mph on the road even though there
is a posted 55mph limit. Sure I'm speeding but how many cops are
going to be watching cars out in the middle of the Arizona desert?
The long stretches of land with few oncoming vehicles allowe me to
pass a lot of the initial backlog of trucks and campers. Sometimes
a third lane shows up and I use it, other times I pass when it
clear.
Then the inevitable happens. I caught up to a truck, a camper, and
a car doing the speed limit (55mph) and sometimes slowing down to
45-50mph. Taking a quick peek tells me all three vehicles are too
close together to pass one at a time so if I want to pass it is
going to be all or nothing. Or, as a last result, I could wait for
a passing lane. Behind these vehicles time seems to stop. Tick,
Tick. Seconds seemed like minutes and minutes like hours. The
road is not clearing and there are not any passing lane in sight.
My frustration builds. Then, dead ahead I see my chance. It is a
passing lane but for the oncoming traffic. I looked ahead and see
no one using the passing lane so I decided my chance to pass is
now.
I downshift and pass the first car and truck in fourth with no
problem. I notice oncoming traffic in the other lane but no one
using the passing lane so I am still safe to finish the pass.
About another half mile or maybe more of the passing lane remains.
It is hard to tell. I do know that traffic is approaching so I
better get moving. I shift to fifth and am doing about 80 but
barely passing the camper. Is that fucker speeding up or is the
slight hill holding me back I wonder. Oncoming traffic is very
close now with a semi in the lead. The hill is getting closer and
my time is running out; I'm now doing 85.
All of the sudden a cold sweat starts to come over my body as I
watch the semi and oncoming traffic approach. I see my passing
lane end up ahead and now head is starting to feel strange like all
my blood is racing for my head. I'm starting to tingle, my head
feels fat, I'm sweating and my body is cold. I pull out of the
passing lane to complete the pass at the same moment the semi pulls
into the expanded lane (lane right of the passing lane). I finish
the pass doing 85mph--thirty miles over the speed limit.
Still, it wasn't fast enough for me. The tingling sensation starts
to go away as I slow down and come to my senses. Those last few
seconds felt like all the blood in my body went directly to my
head. I can't describe it much better than that though it is not a
pleasurable feeling but more of an extreme fear feeling--not
something I care to experience again anytime soon. It was like my
body knew death was a possibility and pumped as much blood to the
brain to preserve it as long as possible in the case of an
accident.
In the miles that followed the close call I was extremely
frightened and became really pissed with my stupidity after I saw
"our" passing only a mile after passing the three vehicles. The
next hour or so on Highway 93 I kept shaking my head (no) wondering
how I come I'm so fucking impatient and why I pulled a stupid stunt
like that (using the other vehicles lane to pass even though it is
legal).
The rest of my trip I kept thinking this is a sign. I've been
given a new life or at least the opportunity to finish the old and
start living the "new life." During the days and months that
followed I slowly forgot about Highway 93 and my close call and my
life went back to normal.
Looking back I wonder if it taught me a lesson. Maybe all it
taught me was I should have a more powerful car as one with 145
horses is not enough. Or maybe I was just lucky that day and I
shouldn't try to think anything otherwise. Perhaps it is me but
something tells me it was more than luck that kept me alive. I try
to ask "why" but there is no response. I ask what is my destiny
and why was I spared. I look for meaning but all I get is silence.
My new life is just my old life painted with one more stripe. I'm
the same person with another experience, that of a death wish on
the hard road of life.
Looking for reason,
Pallbearer
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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The Waiting
-----------
I feel very alone. All around me is darkness, but not in
the heart or the soul, for in those places, she exists. She is
with me now, maybe not physically, but I can feel her presence.
Right now, thoughts of her plague my head. I cannot rid myself of
my visions of her, I fear that I might love her.
But how can I love someone I've never met face to face?
How can I love someone who I'm not always there for, who I don't
have all the answers to give to? I don't know. I just know that
right now I miss her so bad that my stomach is turned in knots,
and that I feel that I need to speak with her now. Right now.
The waiting for the time in which I can speak to her
again just is not fair. These days I may not be so happy, I
still feel sad when I'm all alone. I hate her father. That
asshole forced her off of the phone, for no reason. Oh, he has
important business. Fuck business.
I don't know what's wrong with me. I normally don't
care about people that much. But right in this very instant,
my mind is so caught up in her that I can't even think straight.
I really just want to be with her, but I know it is not possible.
Some say love is expressed in unattachment, I think they are a
bunch of liars. I'm too attached.
I wonder what she is doing right now. I can imagine
that she is sleeping soundly in her room, even as the glow
of my monitor is cast over my face. My thoughts wander off
to why I can't be with her, and why the world isn't so small
when you love someone. Life isn't fair, it never is. Not
in matters of wanting, of needing someone, who just is so
far away. Maybe I just have to let go.
I'm sick of waiting. Very fucking sick. I should've
told her I love her. Maybe I'll never get the chance to again.
Who knows, the world is so messed up. Right now, I don't know
if I can make it through tonight without her. Right now, I
feel worthless. Right now, I want her by me. Right now, I
want to tell her I love her. Right now, I'm so gone.
-DropComm
: dedicated to Rach in Maine.
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Fortunato's Logic
-----------------
When I think back to the injustice they served me,
Only rage and sadness come to my heart and mind.
What they did to me is inexcusable and can only be met with vengeance,
But not the kind that fast and painless,
That would be too easy.
What I plan to do them is so ingenious, so vile, and so simple.
I will show them that I am not one to be toyed with.
And that when my vengeance unfolds I will prove that they are nothing more,
Nothing more than hypocritical, two-faced, and above all simple minded. Which
will hurt more than a bullet ever would.
It enrages me to know that they have gotten away,
Away with this injustice against me.
It also angers me to know that they have gotten away with this injustice,
For so long and no one has noticed.
But that will all change.
I am not insane, but after being abused by their "sense of humor" all these
years, Who would be?
No, I am just fed up with them and their actions and I am going to deal with
them, In a way that will harm only the two thing they hold dear,
Their pride and their pity will be destroyed.
See I know I am not insane,
Because insane people do not think, they act.
And I think before I act, so I am not crazy.. just smart.
Another fact is crazy people are locked up for a reason,
And they are forced to wear a white dinner jacket for a reason.
When my revenge unfolds they will be locked up,
And they will be forced to wear white dinner jackets.
You see I am justified in my vendetta against them,
For I have bore there insults and been the brunt of their jokes.
So vengeance is mine alone,
And I will carry it.
What fun I shall have when it is done.
Even though my plan for revenge are expertly laid out there is a problem,
For without it I could be well on my to what is mine.
I am sort of embarrassed to talk about this small problem, But it must be
said to help me carry it out. Could you please remove my straight jacket!
Sick_boy
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= To receive new issues through mail, mail jericho@dimensional.com with =
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= Files through AnonFTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
= FTP.SEKURITY.ORG/pub/zines/fucked.up.college.kids =
= FTP.PRISM.NET/pub/users/mercuri/zines/fuck =
= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU/pub/Zines/FUCK =
= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
= http://www.prism.net/zineworld/fuck/ =
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Security is Obscure
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Obscure (adj.): [...] 4. Not famous or well-known. 5. Difficult to
understand." -- _The American Heritage Dictionary_, 2nd ed., 1983.
Okay, so it's an old dictionary. But the meaning of the word "obscure"
really hasn't changed much in the last decade.
I wanted to write this file as a word of encouragement to beginning
hackers who think everything has already been done and security
everywhere is tighter than the pope's ass (but not the alterboy's, ha
ha). I intend to illustrate the base ignorance of many system
administrators who know less about unix than the average hobo does.
Security is obscure in the sense of the first meaning I quoted; most
*.edu systems have admins who haven't got the slightest clue as to how
they can secure their system, as well as letting their users (recall that
the weakest link in any "secure" system is usually the people who use it)
choose poor passwords. Thus, if Joe Admin sets up a system and restricts
access to dial-up and computer labs, Joe Hacker will still be able to get
in using Joe User's password ("sex") and a modem.
One case I wanted to mention specifically in this file happened over the
course of the past few weeks. I requested and received a copy of an
unnamed school's passwd file from an unnamed source (you know who you
are. Thanks again!) after he told me that it was unshadowed and
world readable. I ran jack on it using a few wordlists before I
found out that the passwd binary forced users to use non-dictionary
passwords. Then, because I was bored and needed to brush up on my C
knowledge (very little, actually), I whipped up a program to output all
possible 8-character printable password combinations. After some quick
calculations, I discovered that I would need at least 6,500 9-gig Seagate
drives and several decades to store all the combinations and use them
with jack. Discouraged, I dropped the matter for a while.
Then a co-worker asked me to step her through the "reading email"
process on her account, which happened to be on the system in question. An
account she had never used. One with the default password still in place.
I helped her log in and incidentally discovered that default student
passwords on this particular system were the first 8 digits of the
social security number. I also found that the .login script *didn't
force first-time users to change their password*! I guided her through
the "changing your password" stage and was astounded to find that this
poor-security system forced users to use non-dictionary passwords but
wasn't set up to force an initial password change.
I let it sit for about a week before I got around to modifying my
program to output combinations of 8-digit numeric combinations. After
further trimming it down to output only the combinations beginning with
521, 522, 523, 524, and 525 (CO-issued SSNs) (the "full" output would
take about 110 megs), I had a 5-meg wordlist file that has netted me
over 60 accounts from this system. These accounts were snagged over a
total period of about 10 hours or so, and I used my very limited SSN
list. Imagine how many I would have if I used the "full" SSN output and
gave jack a few weeks.
The second definition of "obscurity" that I quoted does not seem to
apply at first; most people who work with computers have some
understanding of security, and admins should be especially aware of
security issues. Yet I have found and continue to find just the opposite,
nearly every day. This is why you should use PGP and SSH; why should you
trust your admin to secure his system? If you have faith in his sysadmin
skills but I have reason to believe otherwise, then you'll be the one
who loses when I start hanging out in your home directory.
As an addendum to this file, I'm including "Things overheard while scanning
cell frequencies". I started it as a separate file, but I don't have nearly
enough:
"Oh shit, I just ran a red light."
"People can listen to cellular conversations with one of them hand-held
walkie-talkies."
-Legion
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= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, Submissions =
= Mail: jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
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= Files through AnonFTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
= FTP.SEKURITY.ORG/pub/zines/fucked.up.college.kids =
= FTP.PRISM.NET/pub/users/mercuri/zines/fuck =
= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU/pub/Zines/FUCK =
= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
= http://www.prism.net/zineworld/fuck/ =
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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The Talking Cure
----------------
I've done it again. Blood is so warm and vibrant, and long
sleeves are in fashion. I made the phone call, but I'm not into
it. Personally, blabbing about my inner hell to a paid stranger
feels like a failure. Teenage angst has evolved into adult illness,
but who am I to complain? There are thousands out there like me,
thousands who write poetry about their writhing souls and the
emptiness therein.
I guess you think things change. You kind of go along in
a happy daze until you realize that your personal demons have
been whispering to you, cutting through the daze like a dull knife.
Suddenly, you notice that they have been cutting at you for
months, and that they have already won. I acquiesced. It is easier
that way. You see, everyone has demons. You have them. Your parents
have them. Your partner has them. But the demons wear different
costumes for different people and some have more demons than others.
So I'm off to see the Wizard of Id, Ego, and SuperEgo.
I doubt he'll work any magic for me. You see, I don't trust anyone
anymore. I have learned that the only way others can endure the
gaggle of imps that follow me is to disguise them as angels, or
something even more frightening than angels. Then they will run
away. But I have learned that I can never be me again. I learned this
lesson a final time about 3 months ago, and there is no turning
back. To be raw, exposed, emotionally naked - these are things I
can no longer enjoy because I arouse fear in others. It is time
for my mask, and my wall, to return. Suddenly I will transform
into The Picture of Normality, and only I will know who I truly
am.
You see, that's what The Talking Cure is for. It doesn't
matter that I know what he is going to say. They use a fierce and
honest logic that I know better than my own, but somehow the
predictability gets you back in the Habit of Being Emotionally
Well. I guess life is merely the process of answering your own
questions, and the Wizard can help you pretend that your questions
are normal. They like to talk about spectrums of normality, and
they paste you onto the spectrum somewhere in the normal range
just so you can feel guilty about seeking help when the Abnormal
need it much more than you do. They smile quietly and tell you
that you are ok, and that all you have to do is put things into
perspective. They direct your sessions and make notes on yellow
pads, and you can see your life outlined neatly between the cage
of those thin blue lines. They write numbers on your insurance
claims, and, if you look them up in the Big Blue Book, you will
see your problems explained in thinly disguised clinical terms.
Borderline Personality Disorder. Clinical Depression. Bipolar
Disorder. They ask questions incessantly. Biting questions, the
kind that make you buy tissues before your next session. And then
you write them a big check, and you have to smile knowing that
you are essentially paying someone to be your best friend. Yet
all of this is worth it, somehow. It is easier to label yourself
with Mental Illness, because then you can hide behind it forever.
My friends think I am crazy. I know I am.
Palpable Obscure.
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= FTP.SEKURITY.ORG/pub/zines/fucked.up.college.kids =
= FTP.PRISM.NET/pub/users/mercuri/zines/fuck =
= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU/pub/Zines/FUCK =
= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
= http://www.prism.net/zineworld/fuck/ =
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Because I'm Alive
-----------------
"I'm Not a Trendy Asshole
do what i want
do what i feel like
I'm not a trendy asshole
dont Give a fuck if its not good
enuf for you.
Becuase I'm Alive"
- The Offspring "Smash"
Well there you have it. Probably one of the most true and meaningfull
things a band has ever said. "Because i'm alive." I found one of my old tape
mixes from a few years ago, and i was playing it just for fun. And when i got
to this, it just suddenly hit me how much we need to make it a part of our
lives.
Society today says "why cant we all be equal" and "originallity
creates racism","blah blah" etc. It seems like our country is trying to
crush all of what makes us who we are.
Schools say "hmm how can we make all our students feel equal?" so
they introduce dress codes, codes of conduct and crappy uniforms to make us
all feel the same. Things like that decrease morals, and incite rebellions.
But the rebellions are getting fewer and fewer. People start to say "who
really cares its just clothes." Next thing you know, the whole country will
be clockwork, everything running the same, everyone equally rich and equally
sucsessfull. Were all being herded in the same direction, the same way.
My school started off as being more or less "democratic." Students
got opinions on school issuses, activities, what subjects they picked, what
they wore , etc. Then, the school decided to change the "student" council
into a "teacher" concill. Slowly, things that we had a say in deteriorated.
Our school introduced the "morally corect dresscode". In other words, no
shirts with "swears" or things promoting sex, beer, drugs, or cigarettes. No
hats, no ripped jeans, no shirts showing "shoulders" for girls , etc.
Everyone complained, and the principle's answer was "this will make
us all more equal and appreciative of eachother". What a bunch of BULL.
And the sad part is, people say "eh, who really cares, we'll do what they
want". There letting society controll them. and therir hopelessly lost.
So in my school, i go against the "laws". I wear ripped jeans, and a
hat. And when they say "you can't wear that or we'll call your parents", i
say "call my parents, their sensible enough to realize your crushing our
spirits". Then the teachers get a worried look in their eyes. "Could he
possibly be showing uniqueness?!?" so they send me to the principle, who
more or less tells me to "stop spreading my individualism".
I was ready to follow him home and blow up his house. "Stop spreading
my indidualism?!?!" My principle is just another example of someone who wants
to end human civilization, by crushing all our originality.
We must rebell against these factors that try to make us all like
them. If it risks suspension, punishment, etc, don't be afraid to speak out.
Our country's basis is freedom of speech, and thats one thing that they can't
take away from us.
The population worries about being killed by a nuclear war, famine,
and other such problems our earth faces today. But global problems aren't
whats going to destroy us, but our lack as seeing our selves as Us, living
individuals. If We think that were are all one unit, instead of 6 billion
living, breathing, individual units, we will wither away.
We will not go quite into the night..
- Rabies
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= To receive new issues through mail, mail jericho@dimensional.com with =
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= FTP.SEKURITY.ORG/pub/zines/fucked.up.college.kids =
= FTP.PRISM.NET/pub/users/mercuri/zines/fuck =
= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU/pub/Zines/FUCK =
= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
= http://www.prism.net/zineworld/fuck/ =
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
The Void
--------
Nowhere is the only place
In which we safely show our face;
The public calls it cyberspace
To us, it is our home.
Faceless names, pseudonyms,
Hiding under an alias dim,
On the edge, the digital rim,
Together yet all alone.
Empowered oligarchies great,
Breeding violence and utter hate;
Maybe yet it's not too late
To bring them to atone.
Communcation, that's the way,
The information of the day,
Freedom to do and to say
Whatever there is known.
The politics we care not,
Government rule may well rot,
And not leave one passing thought
Of the anarchy that has grown.
Now off to improve hacking skill,
Sharpened by the bit-byte drill,
Charge it on another's bill,
Hey! Pick up your phone!
"Hello, this is AT&T network security...."
Todd Vierling, 17 June 1995
(formerly) Disk Jockey of Warped Reality
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= To receive new issues through mail, mail jericho@dimensional.com with =
= "subscribe fuck". If you do not have FTP access and would like back =
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= Files through AnonFTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
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= FTP.PRISM.NET/pub/users/mercuri/zines/fuck =
= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU/pub/Zines/FUCK =
= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Out of the Closet
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(For Aurelius: I never knew you, but you were one of us.)
I'm writing this file for a few reasons. One of them is that just about
everybody in 303 (and 970) who's on IRC knows I hang out in #depression.
Another is that several people probably know I wrote the "anonymous" FUCK
file concerning suicide some time ago (mailed from a hacked account on my
school's mainframe; there are only two other people in the scene who
attend the school in question). The main reason I am writing this, though,
is because I want to shed some light on things that people--even those who
have clinical depression--might not realize yet.
I am currently on 40mg of Prozac per day. I've been informed by my
psychiatrist that I will have to maintain this level or higher of the drug
in my bloodstream every single day for at least five more years in order to
get the seratonin levels in my brain back to some semblance of normality.
Seratonin is a neurotransmitter, which is a substance in the brain that
helps send electrical impulses across the synapses. In most people who are
diagnosed as clinically depressed, the brain abosorbs excess seratonin
too quickly, which lowers the amount of synaptic activity associated
with seratonin, which gives rise to a host of symptoms associated with
depression: excessive crying, sleeping disorders, eating disorders,
fatigue, feelings of hopelessness, and suicidal inclination. This is my
understanding of clinical depression, which I've been studying first-
hand for 25 years now. I'd appreciate any comments or corrections to
this information.
That is the medical side of clinical depression, which does nothing to
explain how depressed people actually *feel*. I hope I can give you a
sense of what we feel nearly every day of our lives.
Hello. My name is Steve. I was diagnosed with clinical depression
(commonly known as major depression) in 1992. I was diagnosed at Baylife
Acute Care Center in Florida, where I checked myself in for suicide
intervention after slicing my forearms with a knife. I was started on
Prozac in the hospital and they kept me for two weeks against my
will--when I found out that they wanted to keep me, I tried to leave,
but Florida state law requires crisis units to hold suicide risks for a
minimum of one or two weeks.
Since my visit to Chez Baylife, I've had several more "episodes" of
depression, that usually end in me going to a shrink and doing whatever
I can to stay alive. One of the things I do to get the pain out of me is
to externalize it; I'm what's known colloquially as a "cutter," or
formally as a "self-harmer." When the hell of everyday life begins to
hurt me too much inside, I slice myself with a knife I keep at my desk.
I sharpen the knife often with a diamond sharpener, and it is literally
sharp enough to shave with--if you look closely at the insides of my
forearms, you'll notice that there is no hair on them for a width of
about half an inch on each side of the veins. my upper arms (usually
hidden under t-shirt sleeves) are masses of scars both new and old, and
they aren't something I'm particularly proud of. Kids, don't try this at
home. It's not "cool" to be a cutter, it's just a way to get the pain
out.
I recently met someone from the hacking scene on irc who is also a
cutter. He was surprised when I told him that I was a cutter; he didn't
think anybody else did it besides him. So this is written in part as a
nod to him and to inform other cutters who might read this that you are
not alone.
"Hope is an illusion" is a topic I set on #depression every so often,
and most of the time that's how I view life. I've learned not to accept
hope because every time I do, something happens to remove that hope, and
another part of me dies with it. Depression has been likened to a dark
cloud over the mind, but I feel it more as a crushing weight that I must
carry every day.
Sometimes I go without eating for three or four days at a time, and
sometimes I deprive myself of a full night's sleep just so that I can
*feel* something, anything. This is also another reason why I slice my
arms; I want to know if I am still capable of feeling. Sometimes I can feel
the physical pain and sometimes I can't. The mental and emotional pain are
always with me, though.
I've had a traumatic past. I'm not ready to write about much of it yet, and
I don't think I'll ever be ready, but there it is. I don't try to use my
childhood as an excuse for my behavior, but sometimes it's hard not to
wonder if it contributed something to my depression. Most of the seratonin
problems I have are hereditary, but hey, you never know. I grew up in an
extremely violent environment. I've been held hostage by a man with a 30-06
who raped my stepmother in my presence. That "man" was my father back when
alcohol had changed him into a demon. He shows none of the deadly traits he
used to since he stopped drinking six years ago, but he still has a
tendency to smash things (fortunately not people anymore) up when he's
angry. I firmly believe that this country created his dangerous side during
the Vietnam War, in which soldiers were encouraged to stay drunk and high
so that they wouldn't question their country's involvement in Vietnam, and
were sanctioned by Uncle Sam to fire upon anything that moved.
This is the part I can write about my past; other events involving other
people still haunt me to this day, and I still can't write about them.
I often see people on #depression talking about how they had the gun to
their head/knife to their veins/etc. but "didn't have the courage to end
it." This is a misconception I'd like cleared up right now. It takes far
more strength and courage to live on in the unceasing hell of a
depressive's life. At the same time, I do not scorn suicide as "the
coward's way out"; it is a means of escape as surely as are booze and
drugs. And if everyday life is hell, the only thing I would fear from a
Christian notion of hell would be the absence of my friends, who at least
make life bearable.
Those of you who know me personally should not take this file as a hint to
watch what you say around me or anything of the sort. Many friends and
family members of clinically depressed people feel that they have to
tiptoe around issues of depression, but that's not the case. An admission
of clinical depression is also not a play for sympathy, because it's
something that is fairly hard to do in the first place. I know people who
have been fired because they were depressed, which is a violation of the
Americans with Disabilities Act, but employers get away with it anyway.
An admission of suicidal feelings is something that should be taken
seriously, because generally the person admitting to these feelings is
asking for help.
When people I know on irc started doing a "whois" on me they saw
#depression and popped in to see what I was doing there. At one point this
alarmed me so much that I changed the channel's mode to +s (secret, so it
won't show up in a whois). One of the other regular ops immediately
switched it back to -s and said, "no secrets." I agree now. No secrets.
(Aurelius, a #depression regular, ended his life on February 28, 1997.)
-Legion
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= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, Submissions =
= Mail: jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= To receive new issues through mail, mail jericho@dimensional.com with =
= "subscribe fuck". If you do not have FTP access and would like back =
= issues, send a list of any missing issues and they will be mailed. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Files through AnonFTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
= FTP.SEKURITY.ORG/pub/zines/fucked.up.college.kids =
= FTP.PRISM.NET/pub/users/mercuri/zines/fuck =
= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU/pub/Zines/FUCK =
= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
= http://www.prism.net/zineworld/fuck/ =
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Red Casino
----------
<Knock> <Knock>
"What's your name?" Yelled a deep damanding voice through
the small hole in the large metalic door.
"Mr. O." Replied the tall skanky man with dark brown hair.
His cheep ugly three piece suit almost made you want to shoot
him right there.
"What's the password O?" Questioned the man behind the
door useing a more relaxed voice this time.
"Orange Sidewalk." Convincingly replied the sickining man.
"Alright, Come on in." Grunted the death butler. As the
door opens you can see a glimpse of the man, he reminds you a
lot of Mike Tyson. You quickly make a mental note that what
you are about to do had better work or you will probably be
dead within the next two minutes.
<Nock> <Nock> <Nock>
"What's your name?" He yelled, almost sounding annoyed.
"Mr. T." You say in a calm, almost chilling voice.
"Well what's the password T?" He asks, trying to play a
tough guy.
"Orange Sidewalk." As the words leave your mouth you can
hear the door man shiver from your voice.
"You may enter." This time he almost sounded polite. You
turn around before entering. Good, no more visitors.
As you exit the hallway, the Casino opens up for you.
Nothing catches your eye as being unique. Just the usual sight
one would see in a private Casino. Poker, 21, Roulette, and
Craps. Two tables for each game. Most of the people are hung
around the second craps table. Someone must be winning it big.
You see the same ammount of whores you would normaly see in a
place like this. About two for every lucky winner. Only a
handful of women are actually gambling. Their husbands must
have died recently.
You walk over towards the first Roulette table. There are
about ten people hanging around it already. Of those ten,
three women are hanging around three of the guys. You quickly
look down at the table. Two of those men have what appears to
be $500,000 total bet on black. The other has about $50,000 on
00 and about $140,000 on red. The other two men at the table
are not even worth mentioning.
"New bet," you quitely say as you take the last seat at
the end of the table. You say it just loud enough for everyone
at the table to hear what you have said, but not loud enough
for anyone to have taken a notice to you. You pull out
$10,000, the minimum bet, and place it on red. It is such a
small ammount that no one pays any attention to you.
"All bets final." Says the man behind the wheel as if he
were hosting an auction. He spins the roulette wheel like a
professional. He then tosses a silver metal ball on the
outside of the wheel, it rolls in the oposite direction that
the wheel is turning. The ball falls onto the spaces, and
after hopping around for ten seconds it drops on a red space.
The number of the square is completely irrelavent.
After Mr. Auctionier announces the space he gives you and
the man sitting next to you, wearing a white suit and some
blond slut, your winnings. You notice her sad attempt at a
sexy smile. The two men who had bet on black are now swearing
and yelling. As the two men walk away, you hear one crying as
he exists the Casino. That is a very lucky man. The other one
walks over to one of the Poker tables. On his way over he
turns to the woman that was strung out on him a second ago and
mentions something about being better at poker. The other
women transfers herself to the second Craps table you noticed
on your way in.
A new man in a bizzare green outfit replaces the seat of
Mr. Super-Poker-Man and says "New bet," in the best used car
sales man impression he could conjure. You don't take notice
to what he betted on, it doesn't matter to you at all. You
collect all your money from the table.
"Are you through sir?" the spinner says in the most
whiny suck-up voice you have heard all day. You are going to
enjoy this.
"No. I will be finished when there are no more black
spaces on the wheel," you reply to him, giving him a cold
glare. He returns the look with a face of complete confusion.
His face then disolves into utter happiness when you remove a
five inch stack of $100 bills from the inside of your trench
coat and toss them onto red. The bills spread across the
betting space completely covering it. You feel a stare.
Looking over your right shoulder you notice the bimbo grinning
at you. She imediately turns her head away completely losing
her smile after you produce the coldest stare you posibly can.
"Very well indeed. All bets final," he says in his most
chearful voice yet.
Once again he tosses the ball onto the wheel. Bouncing
past reds, black, and even green the ball reflects a ceiling
light into your eye. The wheel slows down and you can already
see where it is going to land. Everything is going exactly how
you planned it. Confirming your wishes the silver ball
finally rests on a black space. You can hear sighs from
everyone at the table except for that bitch standing next to
you, she just seems to snicker at you, she will be second.
"I am sorry sir. Are you going to continue in the game?"
He questions you as though you have money flying out your
britches.
"Yes. I have one final bet I would like to make." As your
words fall silent and the seven bodies around you grow quiet
and still, they await to see the next ammount of money you
will pull from your coat. Reaching in you feel the coldness of
what you were looking for. You pull out a silver and bronze
object no bigger than the silver ball that was just spinning
around the roulette wheel. You take a look at your watch.
"Red!" you shout as you toss it into the air so that it
will land on the wheel. As everyone is watching the bullet,
tryin to determine what it is, no one notices you pull out
your two black 9mms. You put the first one just far enough
away from the sluts head so that she won't know it is there.
The second one you point directly at Mr. Auctionieer. As the
bullet lands on the wheel, you see it on red.
"I win." You calmly say as you fire one of the guns at
the annoying bastard behind the wheel. Before his body starts
falling onto the wheel you fire the other gun so that the
whores head explodes into a red flaming mess. You then shoot
the next man in line, he would have had the unfortunate
opportunity of having to sleep with that cunt you just blew
away. You point the other gun towards the entrance expecting
the guard to have responded to the shootings by now. He
doesn't get more than two steeps before blood fills his eyes
from the newly formed hole in his forehead.
After that it doesn't matter who is next. You just start
plugging away. Not one bullet is wasted. Everytime you pull
the trigger on your nine someone dies. You only have to reload
a couple times, which doesn't matter anyways because no one
even knows where you are even if they wanted to attack you.
There was just too much chaos going on, and you are loving
every minute of it, until everyone is apparently dead.
You take another look down at your watch and notice that
only five minues have passed. Grabbing your money off the table
you notice that the blood of the roulette spinner has filled
all the spaces on the wheel.
"They are all red now, and I am finished," you laugh to
yourself.
On your way out you notice that Mr. O, the man who
entered right before you, is crying in a corner of the Casino.
You look around for anyone else, but see no one left alive.
Although you would love to splatter blood all over his ugly
face you remember the promise you made to yourself. He looks
up at you.
"Please...... Don't shoot me!!" He cries to you.
"I won't," are your final words as you continue your
pursuit to the exit of the Casino. As you pass him by you take
a white card out of your coat and toss it on the ground in
front of him. Making your way outside you go to your black
Honda just down the street. Before entering you take out the
fake money in your coat and throw it around the street,
screaming the most evil laugh you have ever been able to
create.
Back at the Casino Mr. O finally gets enough courage to
look down at the white card you had tossed in front of him.
Picking the card up in his shaking hand he makes out the words
"Mr. Tricko"
Rage-303.tr
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Imagine the Possibilities
-------------------------
Imagine the possibilities. Enter a world where a
person's creative thought is not diminished by a teaching
establishment that does not really promote learning. Open
your eye's to a whole new world, where students provide
their own motivation, and teachers can spend more time
focusing on the subject matter at hand. Imagine the
possibilities of a world of information, a world of pure
freedom for the mind. In such a place, the possibilities
would be simply endless, a place without barriers.
There are many students who do not feel academically
challenged with school. For that reason, they are likely to
slack off and humdrum through many of their classes, for no
other reason then pure boredom. They are likely to achieve
adequate grades, but not grades that are equal to their
mental competency. Imagine a world where these students
minds were challenged, perhaps for the first time in their
life. A world where the students creative thought is not
only looked upon as significant, but is openly endorsed.
Enter a world where doing something innovating is as
important as following an academic tradition.
Many teachers complain that they are unable to
properly motivate their students. Imagine the possibilities
that could exist if students could motivate themselves.
An existence where they would strive for academic and
social excellence, and achieve it. In this place, students
would possess the sole power to guide their futures. And
as such, if they were not motivated, they would achieve
nothing.
Today the idea of a world of information is
becoming a reality. No longer is the mind restricted
to the purely physical. Due to scientific breakthroughs
with communications technologies, the mind can expand its
barriers to encompass more every day. Envision a world where
information holds the key to success, and it is sought after.
In such a world, skin color, nationality, and religious bias
would not play a role. The mind would be liberated.
Thinking of what can be accomplished is only
one of the key parts to integrating this or any plan.
Through coordination and planning, such an existence
could materialize. No longer would students and those
who seek information be thrust into academic jails. For
in such a world, information would be free.
- DropComm
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Dry, Emotionless, Random Gripes
-------------------------------
I am sitting here watching the sun come up. I have been up for a day now,
and will be up all day today. See, my body clock is fucked up. And the
more I tried to correct it, the worse it got. I should be on East Coast
time; I am on Tokyo time. I just left the west coast. Extreme measures
have to be taken at this point.
My mind is blank...a GREAT time to be writing a fucking text file. >:(
I really shouldn't say it is blank. I have lots of my mind. I am in love.
She loves me. We live 2700 miles apart. The frequent flier miles are great.
We may not see each other as much as we like, but we talk on the phone
constantly. That's the great thing about being a phreak when you're in
love with someone on the opposite coast from you. You don't have to worry
about any phone bills. Can anyone say "800-redirect?"
Enough of her. It pisses the other her off. She doesn't want to hear about
my love interest. She rolls her eyes at the mere mention of her name. It's
not like we're fucking and she has a right to be jealous. I don't even know
this woman. It's an e-mail thing. Not a fling, a thing. She sends me these
huge e-mails telling me this or that, asking me this or that. She asks, she
gets, she bitches. Go figure. She feels like she owns a piece of me. We've
never even met.
Mailing lists suck. See, I admin a list if you don't already know. Fucking
Area 51 invasion plans that make less sense than Carolyn Meinel's reason
for existence. Whiny female discrimination conspiracies. New AOL subscribers
joining the list like we were giving away free money or something. A flood
of one-line responses CC'd to the whole world and back. Nothing of substance.
Infowar goes batshit. The NCSA goes batshit. Happy Hackers goes batshit. All
of this makes me wanna go batshit.
Moved into my second apartment this morning. It's a really cool place, but
it is fucking trashed. Dirty walls, dirty floors, dirty everything. Nothing
a flame thrower can't fix. Once I clean it up, which I have to, because the
previous tenant was a lazy fucking loser, it will be a really cool place.
But what to do with all these boxes? I hate unpacking.
Club scene sucks these days. San Francisco used to rock with the best night
club scene in the world. They are all gone now. Only one remains...Bondage
Au GoGo. And even that sucks now. Shitty music, too many frat boys trying
to see some tit, and everyone complaining about shit best termed "personal
club politics." Get a life. Someone has a problem with someone else, and
it becomes a drama for the whole staff to talk about for weeks. Like I
give a fuck. I am there to get drunk. Besides, the gorgeous chick bartender
wants me desperately. Been this way for months. I am always gone flying
somewhere. I haven't been there recently. She will be disappointed I am
in love. I don't care either way. Apathy.
Binary schizophrenia has consumed me. I spend a whole night in front of a
computer and accomplish nothing. Go figure. Are these machines really a
productivity gainer? I spent all night typing and didn't accomplish a
fucking thing. About all I care about now is e-mail. This is one fucking
hell of an expensive machine to read e-mail with. I don't care. Even if I
was stupid enough to spend the money for a glorified e-mail reader, my
computer is still better than yours.
I don't care about hacking. I do, but not in the public sense. This made
me realize that hacking is definitely a private pursuit, and should be kept
that way. Public exchange of ideas is bullshit. There are no ideas out
there. Only lamers looking to send you useless e-mail. There should be no
lists. There should be nothing but private pursuit of knowledge and a
friendly exchange with those who know. No one is gonna help you become a
hacker. If you can't realize this, you suck already and never would have
made it anyway. Go weave a basket.
"Hackers bust into military Internet site!" So what? Who cares? The only
people who care are the same people trying to sell you a solution that
doesn't work. They are the ones telling you the headlines in the first
place. Security doesn't exist. Therefore, no industry built around it
should exist. It's a fraud. We all know it. They all know it. But they do
it anyway. People bug me.
I want peace. I want to pursue my relationship and take it somewhere the
white trash relationships of today never go. I have an enormous amount of
free time without having to worry about a job or money. I would like to
capitalize on this time and invest it in her, thereby having it pay
dividends back to me. And when she is off attending to her patients, I
will relax and read a book and learn something. Or pop in a relaxing CD
and lounge around. Then she will come home.
But doesn't she live 2700 miles away? If you haven't figured out that my
new place is with her, then you haven't been paying attention. Or maybe
it is because I am not coherent due to lack of sleep. But at least I can
still spell better than you. I now live on both coasts. Didn't I say enough
about talking of her earlier? Am I talking about her right now? God I need
sleep. Fifteen more hours to go for me.
What's my point here? There is no point. Random gripes. Random, pointless
gripes. I had to get it out. I wanted to torment you by forcing you to read
them. I will send this off to Dis now. Dis. One of the few decent guys left.
I haven't been around much to shoot the shit with him as much as I would
like. This one's for you Dis. Don't ask why. I don't know the answer.
-se7en
4/12/97
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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H@CK Y0URS3LF
-------------
uh oh, I cant seem to fall asleep.....
So I will ramble about something that I think of often. Something
everybody complains about, and might be too stupid to realize they can do
something about it. I mean, you always hear people complaining that
their life sucks. You hear it from your neighbor, on TV, on the phone,
in IRC, maybe even through those lovely walkie-talkie intercepted
cellular phone calls. And people complain about everything under the
sun. They don't make enough money, cant get a job, have stupid kids in
gangs or pregnant, have bad luck, hate their attitude, and/or their life
is pretty much going to hell in a handbasket. In other words, people
pick on themselves because they aren't satisfied. They aren't working up
to potential and they know it (or they might not). I know I have the same
problem, but I'm fixing it. Some people don't even realize that they have
potential, and that's the saddest thing of all. When they cant even
think for themselves. When they don't realize their life is a mess
because they let it get that way. You have to know you can control it,
work towards control, then maintain control. Just like your weight.
A small example: one might take this file I've written, point out the
imperfections, and say you weren't working up to your full potential on
this file. There are fragments, run-ons, bad usage of grammar, and
confusing sentences all over the place.
Well, I could take that criticism, feel bad, and never write a file again
because someone tried to convince me that my writing sucks. OR I could
take that criticism and use it to my advantage. If I actually cared
about the imperfections, I would make it a learned habit to always have a
mental note in the back of my head to strive to be that perfect
writer. To be able to churn out files like a literary genius. So....I
know this file isn't any thing to hang on the refrigerator and be proud
of; I admit it but I don't apologize or get a bad-writer complex. I don't
care, cause these are just some ramblings. It doesn't matter cause I know
I can change; it's all in my head. All I convince myself that I am
capable of. *I* know I can make it the best, but I'm trying to get
everybody else to realize they can change themselves.
It is not very complicated or anything; on the contrary, really simple.
Every belief you have is like a rule (compare it to physics :). For
instance, in a stable system every force has an equal but opposite
force. If a system does not have an opposite equal, then the system will
move, causing a change. An apple doesn't hang in mid-air but falls to the
ground. Cause and effect.
Everything we believe causes some sort of effect. If you believe people
are evil, you will more than likely attract people with evil souls, and
thus get your beliefs confirmed. Then, to be able to change your life
for the better and take responsibility for the way your life goes, you
have to be clear on what your beliefs are and realize the effects your
beliefs have.
This is really interesting. A bit like programming - or hacking
yourself! To be able to realize the consequences of certain programs
(beliefs) and be able to change them to get the desired effect.
Don't just give up on problems and say, "Oh, there's nothing I can do about
it." REALIZE that you don't have to be stuck with being stupid and that
you always have options. In other words,
HACK YOURSELF.
A pro is that you can't actually get caught, but some people will disaprove.
That is the greatest hack of 'em all. Also the most worthwhile one.
skinflower
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Three Zero Zero
---------------
File 300!#@! Bonus!
After 4 years, 63 days, 8 hours, 14 minutes, and 33 seconds...
We finally made it. Why is this such a big goal? Because only two other
online zines of this style made it this far (cDc and uXu)? Because it is
a fuckload of writing. Because the sky is blue. You pick a reason. :)
Below is a list of the writers, how many files they have
written, and if they are currently active. Along with that are some
somewhat inside jokes for their 'positions'. Nothing personal, just
fun and games or something from past conversation or whatever else.
I want to also encourage you to write in with any comments
about any of the issues we release. Do not limit yourself to only
positive feedback either. If you disagree with a file or think it has
problems, let me know. I always forward on the original mail to the
author but will keep it anonymous if you want. Just let the writers
know how they are doing.
=-=
I would like to take the time to say 'thanks' again to all
the people who are writing for the zine. Every contribution makes
our voice a little louder and more diverse. Keep up the kick-ass
work. I'd also like to go a little further out of the way and say thanks
to a few people in paticular. Please don't interpret this as favoritism
or anything, I like all you fuckers just the same.
Legion and Voyager: For taking the big step and spilling the
whole pot of beans to the world. Those kinds of files startle people
more than any others because of how personal they are, and how much
they share.
Demonika: For continually giving me a sanity check along the
way as well as a healthy dose of spelling and grammar. Hopefully
we will continue to see more of your writing.
se7en: For taking the time out of a busy schedule and writing
what is exactly on your mind. I think you give the zine a good portion
of that 'daily reality' feeling.
GNN and Mogel: For writing in the first place. I know how hard
it is to meet your own deadlines for your own zines, let alone write
for others. My article for uXu is almost done (I know, I keep saying
that), but hopefully it will be worth the wait.
So there it is. More years to come, more experiences to write
about, a lot more things to dislike, and then some.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
F.U.C.K. Member List
--------------------
(the revised 'positions' are inside jokes)
Handle Position Status Written
------------------------------------------------------------
- DisordeR - Writer/Editor - Active - 96 -
- Voyager - Philosopher - Active - 13 -
- Demonika - Evil One - Active - 12 -
- Rage - Strange Person - Active - 12 -
- fastjack - Grunt - Active - 11 -
- Legion - Media Play Security - Active - 9 -
- Pallbearer - Artist' - Active - 9 -
- Capone - Sensai - Active - 8 -
- DropComm - Writer - Active - 7 -
- Murc - Arthritis - Active - 7 -
- Illusionary - Warez Pup - Active - 6 -
- se7en - Instigator - Active - 6 -
- Major - Drunk - Active - 5 -
- Malloc - Evil - Active - 5 -
- SkinFlower - Chix0r - Active - 4 -
- Death - Writer - Active - 3 -
- Inverse - Writer - Active - 3 -
- K2 - TNo Bitch - Active - 3 -
- Red Baron - Writer - Active - 3 -
- Anarchy-X - Writer - Active - 2 -
- L. Humongous - Writer - Active - 2 -
- Orestes - Black Sheep - Active - 2 -
- SickBoy - Writer - Active - 2 -
- GNN - uXu Defector - Active - 1 -
- Heather Maple- Writer - Active - 1 -
- Mogel - FUCK Hoe - Active - 1 -
- Nancy Dunlap - Writer - Active - 1 -
- P. Obscure - Writer - Active - 1 -
- Pluto - Writer - Active - 1 -
- Rabies - Writer - Active - 1 -
- Slayer - Writer - Active - 1 -
- Tersian - Writer - Active - 1 -
- zens - Biznatch - Active - 1 -
- Overdriver - Writer - Inactive - 6 -
- Acid Warlock - Writer - Inactive - 4 -
- Max Headroom - Writer - Inactive - 3 -
- Morpheus - Writer - Inactive - 3 -
- Deadkat - Oracle - Inactive - 2 -
- Disk Jockey - Writer - Inactive - 2 -
- Distortion - Writer - Inactive - 2 -
- Loki - Writer - Inactive - 2 -
- PsI - Writer - Inactive - 2 -
- Doc. Z - Writer - Inactive - 1 -
- Far Reaches - Writer - Inactive - 1 -
- Lettus B - Writer - Inactive - 1 -
- Night Hawk - Writer - Inactive - 1 -
- Rice - Writer - Inactive - 1 -
- Shockwave - Chocolate - Inactive - 1 -
- Uncle Elvis - Writer - Inactive - 1 -
- Zach D. - Writer - Inactive - 1 -
- Zen - Stud - Inactive - 1 -
- Zippy - Writer - Inactive - 1 -
------------------------------------------------------------
( 5 files have been submitted anonymously )
( 8 files are reprints from other sources )
( 2 files were contributed by all writers )
(Files written by multiple author are credited to largest contributor.)
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F.U.C.K. Distribution Sites
---------------------------
Board Name Number Sysop Status ST
---------- ------ ----- ------ --
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
zen - me - zine
---------------
A little over four years ago I don't know if I really believed
this magazine would make it this far. I did have the hope and desire
for it to go a long way. The people I talked to about where it might
go all showed doubt or skepticism. This file is for them.
Many things have happened over the last year or so that have
directly influenced the zine, the writers, and myself. I guess that
probably doesn't need to be said since that is the case for just
about everything. My inclination says that most of the writers for
this zine have very dynamic lives compared to the average person.
Looking back at how I used to be compared to how I was a few
years ago shows me the difference between white and black. Literally
and figuratively. I notice a pattern with my life though, and I can
predict the future to a certain degree as far as my being is concerned.
As many people have said before, things move in circles. I personally
like it the way Tommy Lee Jones said it in _Under Siege_. "A revolution
gets it's name by always coming back around in your face." And I feel
that is the case with me. After consideration of more worldly experiences
and engaging in more "social situations", I see myself returning to the
old me.
What does that mean? Nothing and everything. It probably means
nothing to you if you don't know me. For those who do, it means little
or nothing as the case may be. Means everything in the world to me of
course. The older more bitter me. The me full of angst and loathing for
the world I live in. The more mistrusting and calculating me. The cruel
and potentially evil me. But with a twist...
It used to be me sharing my anger with everyone, friends and family
included. Now, I forsee a more refined and passionate anger. Such that
my friends will still see my generosity while my aquaintences will see
a level of distance and aloofness. I question which side of me is my
true nature though. Part of says being distant is my true nature because
of the sheer amount of years that I went like that. Part of me says
my generosity is my true nature because I usually feel better when I
am able to help my friends and give them whatever they need. I think it
will be years down the road before I can ever answer that question.
Voyager got me a shirt a few months back that says "Fuck You,
I have enough friends." I can't help but wonder if he saw the turmoil
I am going through, or maybe even saw the end result of my own questioning.
Maybe it was pure coincidence and he thought it was funny. Now, I certainly
agree with what it says. Part of me now wants to distance myself from
more of my friends while seeking out old friends I have lost contact with.
I don't know what to do. That is real funny considering all my friends
seem to think they know whats up.
Every once in a while friend A will say "friend B is walking all
over you", while friend B is saying "friend C is walking all over you".
Days later friend C is telling me how bad friend A is. Seems none of them
ever realize how they may be acting toward me. If I were to go strictly
on input from my friends, I would have none. I think to a certain degree
each and every one of them is right. Thinking along those lines I begin
to wonder about the nature of people, especially those I call 'friend'.
One thing it has recently reminded me of is an old story about the
nature of things.
An otter was sitting beside a stream enjoying himself when a
scorpion walked up to him. The scorpion said "I must get to
the other side of the stream but I can't swim". The otter
looked at the scorpion and said "I'm sorry, I can't help you."
The scorpion thought about it for a minute and said "Wait,
I can ride on your back and you can swim across." The otter
considered it for a moment before saying "But you would sting
me and I would drown!" The scorpion thought on this for a moment
and replied "But I have to get across the stream, its very
important. I promise I won't sting you." The otter looked
at him with trepidation and then agreed. He got in the water
and let the scorpion climb on his back before starting
to swim. Half way across the stream the scorpion stung the
otter on the back. "Why did you do that?! Now we will both
drown!" yelled the otter. The scorpion thought about it for
a few seconds as they both started sinking; "I don't know,
I guess it's in my nature."
I do place faith in stories like this one because they are so
often true. But I can't figure out if human nature is that cut and dry.
Is it my nature to continually give to my friends without praise? Is
it in their nature to continually take from me without thanks? If so,
should I even consider them friend?
I have burried myself into a deep dark pit. I won't go into
details about all of it, but needless to say I am no longer in a position
to help my friends in the same way I once used to. The truth will emerge
in the weeks to come though. When I cut off the support and help they
are ocustomed to, will they be there? More importantly, will they be
there for me when I am in need of the same type of help? Don't take this
wrong friends, but I seriously doubt it. And that is based off past trends,
nothing else.
As time passes, I find myself missing more of my personal
philosophy. I remember years ago promising never to get drunk, to be
a social drinker only. I remember promising never to get in a serious
relationship, to only date casually. I remember promising myself
a ton of other things, but failed at that. So I think back to my
philosophical side and wonder how I let it all slip away. I know I
haven't read a lot of my books or thought about that kind of stuff
much, but has it really ambandoned me? Or maybe I have supressed
it for one reason or another. I think that is something I need to find
out, to help me answer that and a world of other questions.
So I guess thats it. The zine will keep going, things will
progress. As always, the future is uncertain to a certain degree.
In the mean time, hold onto nothing as fast as you can.
.dis.
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
emotional skin
--------------
"jesus christ michelle, it's like walking on eggshells around you.
can't you ever just take what i say literally? why do you have to
twist everything that i say?"
oh no, here she goes again. fuck. michael ran his hand through
his long dark hair in frustration and looked at his girlfriend,
who was sprawled on the couch, idly smoking a cigarette, her grey
eyes flat and uncaring.
"i am not twisting anything, michael. i can just tell how
you feel. you don't even have to say anything. i just know. and you
think i am a total bitch, don't you? don't you? tell me the truth. i
want to know."
fuck, fuck. all i want to do is go out with my friends,
and she keeps pulling this shit on me. what the hell is wrong with
her?
"what do you want me to say? if i say no, you'll say i am
lying. if i say yes, you'll leave and do something stupid. the same
cycle, over and over again michelle. what do you want me to say?"
"i want you to tell me what you really think. i want you to
be honest with me. fuck, michael. what will it take to just get you
to fucking be honest?"
michael squeezed his eyes shut and imagined slapping some
sense into her. compassion won.
"i can't be honest with you. i don't even know how i feel
anymore. you twist things around so that i don't know what is me
and what it you."
michelle put out her cigarette, stretched, and stood.
her eyes were still dead, but a single tear escaped.
"that's it. it's over. you obviously can't deal with me.
not like you promised. not like you said. you are a fucking asshole.
you abandoned me! you gave up on me. and you promised you wouldn't.
i hate you, michael."
huh? what did i do? abandon her? when i am just going out
for the night? what the fuck is she talking about?
michelle plucked her jeans off of the floor and put them
on.
"i'm going out for awhile."
michael looked at her in amazement. how did we get from there
to here? well, fuck her.
"michelle..."
michelle slapped him once, hard.
"don't talk to me, asshole. go to your little group of friends,
who hate me anyway, and leave me alone."
i'll never understand this girl.
then she walked out.
emotional skin, part ii
michelle laid on the couch and lit a cigarette and looked at
her boyfriend, who was getting ready to go out with his friends. she
hated it when he went out with his friends. she knew that they hated
her, and she knew that they said shit about her behind her back.
"michael, why don't you stay here tonight? you know, you, me,
together? alone?"
michael sighed.
"michelle, i already made plans. you do this all the time."
anger boiled up inside of michelle, a murderous rage. how
dare he? he doesn't love me. his friends are more important than i
am.
"oh, so now you think i am a bitch. just because i wanted to
spend the evening with you. fuck you."
"jesus christ michelle, it's like walking on eggshells around you.
can't you ever just take what i say literally? why do you have to
twist everything that i say?"
michelle closed her eyes. not again, no not again. why do
i have to be so sick? why do i have to think this way? she opened
her eyes and watched michael run his hands through his hair and
sigh. great, now he is really mad at me.
"i am not twisting anything, michael. i can just tell how
you feel. you don't even have to say anything. i just know. and you
think i am a total bitch, don't you? don't you? tell me the truth. i
want to know."
"what do you want me to say? if i say no, you'll say i am
lying. if i say yes, you'll leave and do something stupid. the same
cycle, over and over again michelle. what do you want me to say?"
i want you to tell me that you love me, that you accept me
for who i am, that you will not abandon me. i want you to care about
me forever. i want you to tell me that i am ok, that you understand.
michelle sighed and opened her mouth, teeth gritted.
"i want you to tell me what you really think. i want you to
be honest with me. fuck, michael. what will it take to just get you
to fucking be honest?"
"i can't be honest with you. i don't even know how i feel
anymore. you twist things around so that i don't know what is me
and what it you."
sure, blame it on me. as usual. you typical fucking freak.
michelle put out her cigarette, stretched, and stood. her eyes were
were still dead, but a single tear escaped.
"that's it. it's over. you obviously can't deal with me.
not like you promised. not like you said. you are a fucking asshole.
you abandoned me! you gave up on me. and you promised you wouldn't.
i hate you, michael."
michelle plucked her jeans off of the floor and put them
on. will he care enough to stay? to talk to me? to help me with my
pain? to deal with my aloneness?
"i'm going out for awhile."
"michelle..."
michelle slapped him once, hard. please pay attention to me.
"don't talk to me, asshole. go to your little group of friends,
who hate me anyway, and leave me alone."
then she walked out.
emotional skin part iii
"you have no armor, michelle. you have nothing to protect you
from emotional elements."
michelle glared at her therapist, bored with the same old same
old.
"i know that. give me prozac and i will be on my merry little
way."
michelle's therapist sighed, wrote out a prescription, and
handed it to her.
"you know, you really need to combine..."
"medication with therapy, pure medication is contraindicated
with borderline personality disorder. yeah, i know. but guess what,
doctor? i've been doing this for 10 years, and i really don't have
faith in the oracle of bullshit anymore. thank you, doctor. when
you find a cure, let me know."
"you need therapy."
"yeah? tell my insurance company. thanks for the drugs, doc."
then she walked out.
- Palpable Obscure
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Land of the Priceless
---------------------
What is the American Way?
Or better yet, what is the American Dream?
And if I sing the National Anthem out of key,
will I go to Hell? Or is Heaven for sinners?
What is the American Culture?
Who really is Uncle Sam and what did he do
when he was alone with Betsy Ross?
Is Baby New Year their child?
And what ever happened to Old Father Time
on his first date with Mother Nature?
And why are all those Native Americans
known as American Indians when they were first?
Shouldn't we be whatever name they gave this land?
And did George Washington chop down a Cherry Tree,
and does it really matter? He owned Slaves.
And did Abraham Lincoln want to free the Slaves,
or did he just want his name in the History Books?
And when he walked on the moon, did Neil Armstrong
get an Erection from the cold wind slapping at his Groin?
And what is our preoccupation with Sex being equal to Love,
when all we really need is some Freedom and some Peace.
But someone killed the important Men, and many Women
are being suppressed and they let the Idiots run free.
Don't live in Glass Houses, but stay under Glass Ceilings.
Where is the Logic, the Reality, in shutting down desire?
Finish the Food on your plate because someone, somewhere
has nothing to eat but their Pride, and there's not much left.
And what about all the Poets and Artists who feed on pain,
and what about the Prisoners who feed on tax money.
What about the Students who learn how to enrich Hatred,
and how about those Athletes who break a leg and still get paid?
And when the Millennium comes, I'm going to celebrate
all the truths about Aliens, Mystic Cults and the Armageddon.
But it won't be Jesus coming back to Save all the Sinners
because what we all really need is the Wizard of Oz.
And in the Last Minutes of our lives, we all Smile at memories,
and we all sing our Favorite Song to die with tears in our Eyes.
And when I Stop Breathing, I want them to play a Fast Tune
to remind me that Patience is a virtue, and Truth is a friend.
Christopher Stolle
April 15, 1997
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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ipf-1-hb
--------
How bizarre.
Streams of regret twist through my darkened soul. I see the light of
reason permeate the translucent haze of my understanding but yet I still
cower in the corner. Images of past defeat are the trademarks of my
emotional compass. How many times have I wanted to go back? When did
the resounding clamor of my promises dissipate? Why is it that I am here
again?
How bizarre.
It has often been said that hindsight brings reason into a situation. But
why is it that hindsight hounds me into turmoil? If reason exists in this
contorted reality why can't I see it? I can feel the vibrating chords of
regret's chorus resonate in the chamber of my heart. I can see the
blinding images of my past as they shatter the lens of my soul. Is my
existence a metaphor. Is a metaphor my existence?
How bizarre.
I see the actions which have driven me to the edge. I can nearly taste
the tears upon my lips. Will a clinical diagnosis provide solstice? I
doubt. Nothing more. The logical progression of ideal experiences are
intoned in my conscienceness. But why can I not follow in the path of
such logic? Why must I praise self-destruction like a golden calf?
Even sleep deprives me of the escape it once provided. Dreams spit the
cold venom of failure into the eye of sub-conscience.
How bizarre.
I love. I hate. I rage. Extreme emotions breathe the steady flow of
life into the lungs of my mind. Introverted analysis paints a picture of
mental calamity. Extroverted expressions swath the canvass of reputation
with the dark brush of insanity, dripping with the black ink of Never
Forget. How many visitors to the museum of my soul leave wanting a
refund? How often are the paintings in my gallery scorned? Life is.
Life was. Life will always be. The usher will seat you now.
How bizarre.
-. illusionary .-
.- 15 apr 1997 -.
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Idaho Has Its Revenge
---------------------
So it's around 10:30 on Friday night and we're making pretty good
time. We made it from Portland to Boise in about six and a half hours.
Boise isn't too bad, but Shaedow and I have decided that we really don't
like Idaho as a whole. Driving through there the first time, on our way
up to Oregon, we passed many towns that could easily be the setting for
Deliverance and we had a few laughs by making inbreeding jokes that could
just as easily have been the truth. "I'm gonna make you squeeel like a pig,
boy," kept a' coming to mind.Every time Shaedow even said the word "Idaho"
there was a very distinct tone of contempt in his voice. We stopped in Twin
Falls to eat on our way up to Boise the first time and decided we hated
Twin Falls and we were never going there again. The whole state was just
way too po' dunk, redneck for me. Now that I think back, I shouldn't have
laughed when Troy, our traveling companion, got three of his tires flattened
while staying in Boise. I should have known it was a sign.
So like I was saying, we're making good time. Shaedow is driving
and I'm just thinking about all the shit I have to do when I get home. I'm
a bit anal when it comes to getting things done, so I'm actually working
out my schedule for the rest of the week in my head. I figured I'd get
home by Saturday afternoon, so I would have plenty of time to study for
my test on Monday and I may even get my painting assignments done a little
early. As I'm flipping through my mental day-planner, I see it. Then we hit
it. I'm not sure what it was but it made a none too pleasant noise when
the bottom of the car nailed it.
It takes me a few seconds to regain composure. Shaedow and I just
look at each other, wondering what the hell that was when I smell the
anti-freeze coming through the vents. Shaedow looks at the heat gauge and
it holds itself steadily in the red. We pull over to see what kind of
damage had been done. shaedow goes to the trunk for a flashlight and I
go a few yards away to relieve myself. I'm walking back to the car,
nearly getting my clothes ripped off by the closely passing semi trucks,
when Shaedow says, "Hey. Do you want to see what we hit?"
"Whaddya mean?" I ask as I walk to join him. I look under the front
of the car to where he's shining the flashlight and my chin almost hit the
ground. Evidently we had hit a huge block of wood and it wanted to come
along for the ride, as it was embedded in the radiator, don't ask me how.
I'm not very pleased with this situation. We're in bum fuck Egypt,
right next to the sign pointing out the next exit that will take us to
Wendell, Idaho. There are no signs of civilization in either direction so
I am at a loss. I suggest that we wait for a pig to come by, but Shaedow
isn't into it. At this point our options are to either inch it into Wendell
and work it out from there, or try to make it 20 more miles to Twin Falls
and risk blowing the car up. We decide to creep to Wendell. Fortunately for
us there was a small town hiding in the trees which was comprised of a gas
station, a towing garage, a small motel (with its neon "M" and "O" burned
out), a bar and a movie theater. We leave the car at the gas station and
haul all our shit to the "TEL" two blocks away. We get a room and decide
to find out about the local mechanics in the morning.
We watch a little T.V. and try to relax. After a while we, get to
talking. Trying to make light of the situation, we come up with a theory
about this block of wood we hit. We think that the Wendelltons put that
block there in the road to beef up their economy a bit. Since no one can
even see the town, they figure they can get some business by forcing
hapless travelers into their town by destroying radiators. It makes
sense to me.
The light in this room is creepy and it's giving me a headache.
We're getting up early so we shut it off...
9:30 Saturday morning and my little alarm clock is beeping. We
shower, pack up and check out. Again, we haul all our shit back to the
car and begin looking through the phone book to find a garage. With little
surprise we find that the only mechanic in Wendell doesn't work on
Saturday's, so we just have to get it towed to Twin Falls where the guy
at J.R. Miller said he would work on it.
I'm' thinking, Okay. No problem. We get to Twin Falls, get the car
fixed by this afternoon, we're back on the road by tonight and home by
Sunday evening.
"Just a minute," Idaho says, "I'm just getting started with you."
A half an hour and $100 later, we are in Twin Falls, again. The
towing guy said he had to dislodge the block of wood in order to tow the
car and he left it at the gas station (they probably just want to stick
it back out on the highway). That's kind of a drag since I thought that
it would make a great souvenir. The J.R. Miller guy says that he can't
do anything until he can find another radiator. He says the soonest he
can get one is Monday, so we better get a rental car and a motel room.
It takes me almost an hour to totally absorb the reality of the
situation. I realize that I am going to miss my test on Monday, I am going
to be behind in my photography, literature and ethics classes and I'm
going to have to bust my ass to get my paintings turned in on time. But
I finally accept it and begin to rearrange my mental day-planner.
After getting a rental car, we go to the Denny's which is located
right across the street from "Me 'n Ed's" pizza parlor. I'm not hungry,
but Shaedow shovels down a Grand Slam breakfast in the two minutes it
takes me to go to the bathroom. We decide to get a room at the Motel 6
down the street, unload our shit and drive around town.
After an hour or so of driving, we go back to the room for lack of
anything better to do. Shaedow hooks up his laptop and sinks into his
alternate reality and I sit on the bed and watch our free HBO, since I
have no laptop. I call my mom so she doesn't start thinking that I died.
Right before we went to bed, Shaedow committed the cardinal sin of bad
luck situations. He looks at me and he says, "How much worse can it really
get."
Monday morning and J.R. Miller guy says that no one in town has a
radiator for a Honda Civic, so he'll have to call a place in Nevada to
have it sent in. It should be in by Tuesday and he can have us out of
town by five o' clock. That was an instant headache. My heart sinks and
my mental day-planner has a shit fit. Shaedow relates to me how odd it is
that a town like Twin Falls wouldn't have a new radiator for a Honda
somewhere. Right now I want nothing more than a bottle of tequila.
Passing out for the next 24 hours is sounding better and better. After
much whining and pleading with Shaedow to get me the hell out of this
room for a little while, he agrees to take me to a movie. We go to THE
theater to watch Happy Gilmore. Good flick. It lets out and the token
punk rock kid of Twin Falls bums a smoke from Shaedow. We figured it was
for the 16 year old girl hooked to his waist and it would probably get
him laid.
Tuesday afternoon and J.R. Miller guy just got the radiator. The
only problem is that it's broken. He says he's going to have to call some
place in Washington to get another one sent in for tomorrow. Now i'm getting
pissed. We have already spent entirely too much time is this shitty little
town that we swore never to return to. I just want to go home. That's simple
enough, isn't it? I have been stuck in this room for three days and I am
going to freak out if I don't get out! I try to appeal to Shaedow's sympathy,
but then remember that he doesn't have any. So I annoy him until he agrees
to take me out for coffee. I know I sound like a total nag, but keep in
mind I have nothing to entertain me or keep me company. Nothing good on
T.V. and Shaedow blocks me out completely when he's on the internet. So
we're at the coffee shop and Shaedow bums a smoke to the token skater kid
of Twin Falls. The kid acted like Shaedow had just given him a gold coin
instead of cancer.
We get back from the Blue Lakes Java shop and he goes right back to
the laptop. So I start to contemplate the ever worsening situation. We
must have died back on the highway, I think, because this is most definitely
hell.
Wednesday afternoon and J.R. Miller guy just got the radiator. The
only problem is that it's for a stick shift, not an automatic. I'm going
to scream or cry or go on a killing spree. I can't take this shit! Then I
hear that he can still get us out by tonight, it'll just take a little
longer. Okay, okay. Just do it.
We drive in circles for almost four hours. Killing time in a small
town is nearly impossible, but eventually five o' clock rolls around and
we go to the garage. Just a little longer. A little longer. Little longer.
Longer, longer, longer. Six thirty and J.R. Miller guy is looking everything
over one more time before sending us on our merry way. I am on my toes
waiting to get the okay to get the fuck out when his expression changes.
He starts rubbing the top of the radiator like he's cleaning it. He's
silent for almost two full minutes before he says, "This one's cracked."
Then he goes into this explanation of how hard it is to find a used
radiator and that he could have had us out of town on Monday if we had
wanted a new one. I walked out and smoked three cigarettes before I could
calmly deal with this. I finally go back in and Shaedow is discussing our
options with the mechanic. I gather that we can wait till Friday or
Saturday for another radiator, he could try to weld it shut ("But you
just never know if it'll work or if it'll make a bigger hole"), or we
could get some cold welding bond, which is like epoxy for automotive parts.
We pay J.R. Miller guy and go to Target for some cold welding bond. The
directions say it has to sit overnight to harden properly. SOMEBODY
SHOOT ME!
Thursday morning and the glue looks like it's holding pretty good.
Shaedow put about three tablespoons of the glue on last night and it
solidified like some petrified mass of snot. Shaedow calls his mom to let
her know we were getting on our way. Before he hangs up with her, he says,
"You really didn't have to tell me that."
"Tell you what?" I ask, after he hangs up.
"You know that town Buhl that's about five miles away?"
"Yeah."
"My mom said that she has a cousin there and he just happens to be
a mechanic."
I almost start to cry.
We take the rental back and hit the road. I don't think I have
ever been so excited to be on the highway in my life. We take it easy for
the first hundred miles. We pull off to the Denny's in Pocatello and see
that the glue is still holding. With nothing short of ecstasy, I hop back
in the car ready to go on for the next ten hours. I don't want to stop
until I am home (pee breaks and gas fill-ups aside, of course).
Around four in the afternoon, we reach the state border. I crack a
huge smile as I see the "Welcome To Wyoming" sign. I ask Shaedow, "Are
you ready?'
He smiles at me as we both turn around in our seats to give Idaho
a long overdue, heartfelt middle finger.
epilogue
--------
about six months later I get a call from Shadow late in the afternoon
and he says, "You are never going to believe what I just saw on T.V."
"What?" I ask. "There's this talk show about Wendell, Idaho and -get
this- Wendell, Idaho is the Hokey Pokey capital of the world."
- Wednesday
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Daily Rot
---------
Here I am on a random day with random thoughts, and I've realized one
thing, the thing that strings us all together the people that read this,
all of us disfunctional irc-er's, the hax0rs.. we all have a curse, the
curse of curiosity. We don't except the "truth" as it is told to us. We
question anything and everything. I have also noticed that for the most
part have had a fucked up/ non-existant childhood. The "cyber" culture
not only brings us together, but separates us from reality, and from
ourselves.
We run home everyday (those of us who leave the house) to a blinking
screen, talking to people all over the world, arguing over imaginary
boundaries (all you people who play irk war games know who you are) It
gives a sense of who we are, or rather what we want people to see. We can
be tough, we can stand up to the fears that have kept us in our remote
existence. We can be distant yet at the same time so much closer to
people that don't exist in our "daily routines"
We are the kids that didn't have a voice, but now can bellow and be heard,
we are the ones that don't put up with beurocratic bullshit, we question
it and put up a fight, if not a physically, we don't let ourselves submit
mentally. The net like anything else has been taking over by the
"industry" every time I hit a web page some advertisement comes up (and
that's why i don't watch T.V.) or get some junk email promising a "get
rich quick scheme" .. I get nauseus, I feel like it's being taken over.
Our safe haven, where you don't have to be a certain color, or "type" to
fit in, is once again going to be controlled by mindless fucks who only
care about making money. Information is why we are all here why, stirred
by our curiosity we spent many sleepless nights filling our hunger.
You can dismiss this as some random rambling written by a random person
on a random day.. or you can take some time and think about what i have
said, why we are here why we are reading this.. information == knowledge.
And that is what we strive for what we hope to achieve, not status , or
money but the right to think freely and speak freely. So when you stare
blankly at your screen remember what brought you there in the first place..
-bluerose
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Sniff My Glue
-------------
Ever hear the saying "Alcoa can't wait till tomorrow?" If you
watched NFL football ten to fifteen years ago you did. (In case
you are wondering Alcoa, listed as `AA' on the NYSE, makes
aluminum products). I never liked the commercials because I knew
tomorrow was Monday and Monday usually brought (High) School.
Another day of homework and solitude in a world where I didn't
fit in very well. I didn't like to look a day ahead and looking
weeks ahead usually meant a report or science project (ugh) would
be due. Very rarely did I look forward to going to High School.
Somewhere between Elementary, Junior High, and High School the
world changed and left me behind. It became hard to look forward
to anything those days especially when tomorrow meant going back
to school. Unlike Alcoa I could wait for tomorrow. Tomorrow
meant Monday and Monday's suck--Garfield understood.
It has been almost ten years since I graduated from high school
and it is almost hard for me to believe I'm still around. And
get this, I spent five more years getting a college degree! But
unlike High School I seemed to fit in a little better at college.
Surviving became a bit easier.
Twelve years ago the bell rang telling me it was lunch time. A
time which I mostly spent alone, sat outside on a bench and ate
my lunch. During my four years in High School I sat inside the
cafeteria and ate lunch about five times if that. The lunchroom
was a world of noise, confusion, and alien to me. Rain or shine
most of my days were spent eating outside until my last two years
when I rode my bike (I didn't have a car) home (1 mile) for
lunch. Do you think I could "wait for tomorrow?" You sure as
shit better believe I could. I dreaded it.
So if you can imagine a lot of the last twelve years being
similar to that then maybe you can understand me saying "it is
almost hard for me to believe I'm still around." This way of
life makes one feel like an alien; on the wrong planet, the wrong
country, or at the wrong time.
These days tomorrow IS my glue. Hope of brighter days, new
friendships, experiences, and challenges keep me around to see
the days ahead. I don't look too far ahead just enough to keep me
moving in the forward direction. Something a simple as a movie,
TV program, or package can keep my hopes high for tomorrow.
Conferences (Comdex/CES), vacations, finishing a project, and new
experiences keep me looking a bit further ahead. It is a simple
existence but I don't need or ask for much. I don't expect
understanding as something things can't be understood especially
to those who are not aliens.
You can stop the boo hoo's and bits of sarcasm. I know there are
other people who have "real" problems both physical and mental.
And maybe that IS the problem with a lot of the world today.
Some of us do have problems that can't be seen, measured or even
understood yet we are the ones written off and alienated. This
is who I am to accept or ignore.
Maybe you can smell it now? I'm talking about my glue. It keeps
me together, surviving. And surviving is winning for those of us
who are aliens.
Alien blueprint,
Pallbearer
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Exeunt
------
jane weighed 65 pounds when i met her. she paced constantly,
dragging her iv feeding tube around with her. she thought that if
she exercised enough, she wouldn't gain weight with the tube. she
was 13. she was sweet and generous, brilliant intellectually. her
eyes looked like the vapid holes in a skull emptied of its flesh.
her fingers were so delicate they looked as if holding a pencil
would be too stressful. she died when she was 14. she weighed 54
pounds.
joe was 16 when we met. he tried to kill a kid for calling
him a faggot. he wasn't gay, just angry. he had been in the hospital
4 times, once for a year. he never spoke, except to me. somehow he
felt safe with me. he went into violent rages, kicking and screaming,
begging to die. the beast, he called it, the rage within him. he
killed himself when he was 19. they discovered that he had two y
chromosomes when he died.
maria was hiv positive. she was 15 and had been coking
and prostituting for 3 years when we met. she had this hair, so
gorgeous and long. she was so proud of it. she would spend hours
on it, even when her face was covered with sores. she ran away once,
only to come back on smack, trembling and crying. she died at 20.
cancer, i heard.
john was 18 when he was diagnosed as having paranoid
schizophrenia. once he was a kid who liked science and had a
girlfriend and went to his junior prom. when i saw him he was
curled up in one of the chairs, hands shaking from the meds,
whispering softly to himself. he studied the ceiling a lot, and
had no control of his bladder. they finally put him in diapers.
i don't know where he is now.
i was 15 the first time i cut myself. did it for years.
i tried to kill myself a few ways a few times. i was anorexic
and bulimic. in the psych hospital twice. they had to watch
me eat, drink, and go to the bathroom. they took my blood
every day. i was on 4 or 5 meds at a time. i slept all the time
or not at all. i have been beaten and raped, sexually abused.
i have never been totally happy. i doubt i ever will be.
but i am not dead. and i will not die. i will live.
even if i have to kill myself trying.
- Palpable Obscure
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BUZZ
----
I had called Julie to go out since I figured she would be going
nuts in her apartment by herself since Steve, her boyfriend and my
co-worker and friend, had to go out of state for a family thing. We
didn't really see each other unless we were both with Steve, but I
wanted to be nice to her try to show her a little good will. Besides,
she had been bugging me to take her to "one of those weird coffee shops"
for weeks. I was a little concerned that she might feel slightly out of
place if I took her to any of my usual hang outs, but she seemed undaunted
when I explained to her that she would be hard pressed to find anyone here
who didn't have a nose, nipple or tongue ring. I expected her to be
revolted, but she was really dying to see some of the counter- culture.
Like some kind of researcher, she wanted to see what "they" were like,
first hand and maybe pull out a few sketches for her Monday night drawing
class.
We walked in the door and a boulder of cigarette and clove smoke
rolled out the door just before it closed. Julie took a quick surveillance
of the dimly lit cafe before deciding that we were to sit in the corner
where she could get a good look around. I set up my little work area to
write for my magazine and she puled out her drawing notebook, a few odd
looking pencils and a mangled eraser. She lit one of her narrow, pristine
cigarettes and held it delicately between her manicured fingers. We cracked
small grins at each other in silence for a few seconds, not knowing quite
what to make of the situation. I almost felt like I was trying to hang out
with my mother. I pulled my manic hair up into a pony tail, peeled of my
leather jacket and began writing without another moment wasted. Realizing
that I wasn't going to chit chat, she consulted the menu and scanned it up
and down and back again.
After about eight minutes, the tattooed, pierced, violet haired
waiter noticed our presence came by and asked us for our orders.
"I'll have a double iced mocha" I said.
"I'll try this Mind Melter thing," Julie said pointing to it on the
menu. The waiter paused and looked at her doubtfully, as was I.
"It's pretty strong," the waiter warned, "The boss was considering
taking it off the menu soon due to all the legal threats."
"You know Julie" I said, "you're not a real big coffee drinker.
That might not be such a good idea."
An expression of firm determination planted itself firmly on her
face as she said, "No, I want to try it."
"Okay," the waiter said shaking his head. He scribbled our orders
down and walked back to the bar.
I was on my second page when he returned with our two drinks. Mine
was in an oversized mug and Julie's was in a large glass. The Mind Melter
was an oily black and had the consistency of slightly thinned chocolate
syrup. She picked up her glass and examined it for a minute like it was
some kind of rare animal. She slowly brought it to her lips and cautiously
sipped as though she believed it might actually sear her face off. She
swallowed the first gulp and her whole body relaxed.
"This is really good," she smiled. "I don't know what all the fuss
is about."
I nodded and continued writing. Within a matter of minutes, the
Mind Melter was gone. Julie excused herself to the bar and returned
already sucking down another one.
"What the hell are you doing?" I snapped. "That's enough caffeine
to kill a small horse."
"Oh, stop it," she said joking defiantly. "I think I can handle it.
To be honest, I don't think there's any caffeine in this thing."
I returned to my pad of paper and tried to ignore her. Her second
drink vanished almost as quickly as the first. As the last drop of sludge
went into her mouth, she was up for another one. This one was gone before
she even got back to the table. I noticed the waiter nearby and he was
looking at us with something unmistakably like pity. Julie flashed me an
innocent grin and sat back down to resume drawing. That's when it started.
It was really subtle at first. Julie was only trembling a little.
She toyed with her small diamondstud earrings and clacked her nails on the
table. Every minute or so she would lay her pencil down and steady herself
with a deep breath and/ or a cigarette. The quivers were soon replaced by
full blown tremors. I could see her fidgeting around a lot as if she were
covered in fleas. She was trying to hide it and continued to draw. I raised
my eyes and watched her as she scrawled manically on page after page, each
"drawing" nothing more that a mass of chaotic marks. She began flailing so
wildly that the table was rocking, my mug was clacking around in its dish
and the remains of my drink were spilling all over the table.
"Are you all right?" I asked. She jerked back into her chair and
started laughing. With every breath she got louder and higher in pitch.
By now more than half the cafe was staring at us. Julie just looked around
the room and kept right on laughing. With a sudden jerk, she shot out her
arm and grabbed a handful of the sweetener packets out of the porcelain
bowl on the table and proceeded to throw the little pink, white and blue
wads at the other customers. When she emptied our bowl, she invaded the
table next to us and rapidly fired off all of theirs as well.
When both bowls of ammunition were empty, she jumps onto our table
and began a new assault with half and half creamers. Everyone was shouting
and blocking, but she kept right on going. Then, without provocation, her
attention was diverted to the kitchen. She leaped from the table like a cat
and scrambled through the doorway. Now, I didn't actually see her strip,
but one by one her various articles of clothing came flying back into the
cafe. Someone in back was yelling, "Leave those alone and get outta here."
Then her voice shouting, "Your mailman has gravy in his shoes!"
Julie came bursting back into the cafe, stark naked save her socks
and a rubber glove she'd stretched over her head. She sprinted to the
front doors dodging the scattered tables and plowed her way outside.
Before the doors shut, we saw her take off down the street screaming
"I'm a squid! I'm a squid!"
Two guys in the corner applauded, and some girl burst out laughing
but everyone else was staring at me as if I could even begin to explain
what had just happened. The waiter had come back to the table without me
noticing. He stood beside me, sporting the same bewildered expression I
must have had. He chuckled a little, then turned to me and said, "I think
we should take it off the menu now."
-Wednesday
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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rachmaninov's dream
-------------------
i walked outside my house this morning, the sky was falling, and god was
no where to be found. i walked down between the cracks newly formed around
the earth. there i found an old man with a wooden beard hiding in a chilly
black tunnel. he pointed beyond the gates of hell and asked "when was the
last time you opened a book and saw the fell words of madness dance upon
your mind? how can you name the wickedness any other title then yourself?
these are the ways infinity is formed and darkness begins to prevail."
this man could be no other then the eternal, so i asked him for the
meaning of life. he looked pale within my eyes and responded only "we're
trading places." have no faith but that of endless change, and hold no
truths but that of trickery. this is the time worth waiting for, this is
the end of the beginning and the conquest of the departed. i felt a sharp
stab from realization as my groundlings began to huddle. the old man spoke
once more "this existence is now yours my love. treat it as i have treated
you", and then dove beyond the boundaries of imagination. i began to speak
"my fine dominions, come now to the surface. we shall embark all mindless
men with death, and give those that long, the answer to reality. a new
book shall be formed, and shall be filled with truth. hear the new age of
i, and feel the old pain of tomorrow. with our new beginning we shall hold
these mortal coils with a gentle hand. we shall emerge great palaces
across the world, bring back the face of fantasy and dictatorship. once
order is conquered this earth shall remain cold and still, as a moon
without a world. i alone hold the future and will bring great peace
through my treachery. no soul fumbling through this existence shall have
stance against me. and so arise! arise great visages onto the earth! we
shall walk across the face o' it and bring order to all! hold your shadows
close dear friends for the sun shall never rise again!"
------------
end.rage-303
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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shit list
---------
Shit wednesday hates:
Polyester, pink anything, Tony Benett, Orbitz, yuppie assholes,
hypocrites, politicians, girl flicks, The Human Race, beets, Christmas,
Bob Saget, people that use the term &quot;elite&quot; with a straight
face, anyone who owns a Viper or Diablo that isn't me or someone who
will let me ride/drive in it, The Brady Bunch, Bic pens, Macintosh,
Snapple, meatloaf, Keds, Jello shots, African Greys, technophobes,
Visual Basic, alternators, flourescent lights, cardigans (sweaters and
the band) asparagus, tests of the Emergency Broadcast System, snow,
stucco, 9 volt batteries, Elvis sightings, dinner parties, dirt roads,
insurance, 8 tracks, Shrinky Dinks, front clasp bras, football, daylight
savings time, Hemmingway, Perkins, Volkswagon Rabbits, stupid questions
(yes there IS such thing as a stupid question), kareoke, golfing pants,
"Where's the Beef?" T- shirts, people who walk around impersonating crack
babies, button fly jeans, collection agencies, professional wrestling,
Calvin Klein ads with those English anorexics, Idaho, Superman,
Snuffalupagus, slipper socks, poodles, Easter, Sweet 'n Low, Surge,
velcro, evvironmentalist lesbian buddhist vetranarians, Pat Buchanan,
Pat Sajak, popcorn flavored jellybeans, Fugazi-gone-anti-pit, that fucker
that always beat me up in 3rd grade, ladybugs, Monopoly, Motley Crue,
Ruth's voice, Muddy's, smurfs, Regis Philbin, Bicardi 151, "Free Willy"
(in fact it REALLY irks me that they stuck Mr. Blond from Reservoir Dogs
in that movie as Mr. GoodGuy foster dad), John Tesh, shag carpet, dust
bunnies, Tipper Gore, clogs, caffeine free, parallel parking, pink hearts,
orange stars, yellow moons, green clovers, blue diamonds, purple horseshoes,
red balloons, panic buttons, sticky notes, avacado green kitchen appliences,
country music, black eyes, Martha Stuart (she's the anti- christ, you know),
empty refrigerators, fat chicks in spandex, Rikki Lake, mornings, all the
good bands that are "maturing", cutting their hair and starting to sound
like REM, dental work, run on sentences, good trashing sites next to Black
Jack Pizza, laundry, scratching on the eight ball, hippies or anything that
smells like patchouli, Jehovah's Witnesses, probable cause, Cabbage Patch
Kids, flower prints, the macarena, Speedo's, needle point, tic-tac-toe,
angry Italians, Lil' Feet's attitude problem as well as his wierd ass need
to be so overpowering to a female as small and delicate as I am, standing
in line, Steven Segal, parking violations, "you know you're a redneck
if...." lists, entry level employment, pseudo intellectuals, coffee shop
poetry readings, organized religion, alarm clocks, people asking where
"Norwegia" is, college radio, telemarketing, bee hive hairdo's, lawnmowers,
barbed wire, paper and plastic, pennies, Barry Manilow, crock pots, dorm
rooms, family get togethers, gauze pads, jalapenos, bobby pins, NyQuil,
long distance phone companies, crimping irons, smiley face boxer shorts,
rose tatoos, 12 hour shifts, Menudo, pissy senile old people, abstractions,
packing and moving, "why did the chicken cross the road" jokes, any book
that Fabio adrons the cover of, papercuts, Mentos comercials, useless
college degrees, butt floss, corduroy, No. 2 pencils, Weezer, anger
therapy, Justin Fowler (by request) and anything deemed "cute".
- Wednesday
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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I Pay For This?
---------------
"Fuck you and your little fucking grade book," is all I could think while I
looked down at the slip of paper with my name and an "F" on it. I'm
miserable, feeling hopeless, helpless. The first emotions that come to me
are anger, vengeance. After a few minutes of stewing, the anger subsides and
the sorrow kicks in.
Yes, here I am again, "F" on the paper. The magic paper that is going
to add up with the other papers I have been handed back with A's B's C's and
D's on them. Last week I thought I was doing so well, I was happy. Now I am
feeling empty, alone, helpless. "I should just drop out and get a job,"
echoes in my mind as I stare at the "F" and remember all the times I had
been in this same situation. "What about my father? He'll be crushed if I
don't graduate from college," I ponder other solutions. This is where the
last minute bravery kicks in, where I tell myself, "I'll show them, I'm
gonna get straight A's from here on out." Then I suddenly remember how many
times in the past I've told myself that.
It's back to the depression again, the teacher lectures on and I
wonder how you ended up in such a fucked up situation. I look at him and
wonder, "who gave this asshole the authority to judge me?" I feel a tinge
of that anger coming back.
I'm looking at the grade on the paper again, pondering it's true
meaning. This "F" says to me, "you did nothing, you are nothing, you have
failed." I have failed? How? Just because I didn't produce what that
pompous, over zealous, asshole wanted, I have failed? I don't think so.
I think some teacher that I pay the salary for just told me that my work
isn't worth shit. Why did I even bother doing anything at all?
Class is wrapping up and I am cool, calm, and collected. I get up
from my seat and walk towards him. He's done with class, happy as a lark.
I take out my paper and hold it in my hand. He slowly turns around and I
say to him, "Why?" He asks me "Why what?" I shake the paper in front of
his face. He says "Oh that!" I think to myself, "Yes, this you asshole,
how can you just give someone an "F" and forget about it so quickly." The
anger is back. He begins to tell me how "my group gave no indication that
I did any work, plus my lecture did not show him that I had read the
material and that my notes on other works of the particular author were
of no relevance to the class." "You were supposed to talk about the style
of the story" he says, "but I spoke on the style of the author as a whole,
did hours of research and I deserve an F?"
I am trying to control myself, but it is getting harder as he makes
claims that I had not even read the five page story in the book and that I
was lecturing from "another story I had read in another class." Fuck him, I
had never even heard of this shitty author before I was forced to do this
assignment. I try to reason with him, "perhaps I misunderstood you when you
said we were supposed to teach the class about the author", he snidely
replies "yes, you were, but with the story that is in our book."
He then begins packing up all of his papers into his briefcase and
prepares to leave the classroom. Where the fuck is he going? I'm not done
talking to him! He walks out and I follow behind him still stating my case
"I did do research on the author and that counts for nothing?" He maintains
his point about me not "conveying that I had read the story." So I get an
"F", a "zero" for the assignment because he feels that I did not read the
story. I reassure him that I did read the story, as well as other stories by
the same author. He simply repeats what he had said before and picks up his
pace as we are walking towards his office.
I try again to reason with him, "but what you are telling me with
this grade is that I did nothing, that I should not have even shown up?" He
turns to me and says , "Look, I am just going to say what I have said before
so I am not going to say it." Well, isn't that considerate of him. He turns
and goes into his office, I don't follow. Again, I wonder why I let this
happen, why don't I just say "look, fuck you, I don't give a shit what you
think, I did the reading and you are wrong for giving me an 'F'?" It's
probably because I have my final coming up and I fear that he will give
me an "F" on that too.
Why am I forced to live out my educational career in fear and
powerlessness? Do I not pay for this shit? Are they paying me to attend? At
least in high school I wasn't paying twenty thousand dollars a year to take
shit from egomaniacs that couldn't get a real job if their life depended on
it so they went into teaching. I think I'll just quit school and take one of
the job offers I've received, why do I need this frustration? And people ask
me why I am going gray at 23.
-Tersian
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MaxDaemonChildren
-----------------
My lips are dry for want of kissing. You see, he lives far
away. He has a girlfriend. His life is one of content, all is orderly
and rearranged for maximum psychological stability. He has a stable job.
He cut his hair. He is cleanshaven now.
Not like when we met.
I will never forget it. I was 16, fucked up, scarred. I didn't
eat enough. I was in a psych ward, on the levels system, President of
the freaks. I was IQ tested and put in the same track as him. So we
met 'in school'.
"Why?"
That was it. One question. One word that spoke a thousand.
His eyes were haunted perfection. He stood, too thin, with hands
shoved into pockets, shoulders slumped, large loose sweater over
tye dye. His eyes burned into mine, and I knew that if I lied, he
would know.
One second.
That was all it took, and I knew that we were kindred.
He hummed Jane's Addiction as he typed furiously at a computer with
the monitor switched off. His dark hair covered one eye and touched
his shoulders rebelliously. His arms were scar covered from razors
and bowls. His skin was pale, his face unshaven. I loved him.
"I thought you were lying through your teeth."
We were in group, a tough one with a scary leader. This
is what he told me his first impression of me was. He was right.
He was honest. And he just didn't fucking care how angry he made
me.
I have been searching for him in the shadows of other men
ever since.
We're friends now. He tells me about work and his
girlfriend. He takes anti-depressants. We write hurried e-mail on
lunch breaks. There will always be a part of me, a tiny part of my
soul, that will be devoted to him. And somehow, I know, that I will
never find his equal, that he was my one chance, and that it will
be impossible to find another soul whose poetry is the same as my
own.
We met at the wrong time.
You want the truth? Fine. Here it is. Don't let go. When
someone can speak to your soul, reach you in the dark places,
smile at you when the flames are rushing over you, and laugh when
the sun is on your face, don't let go. It's all in the eyes.
When you know what I mean, then it is right, and you shouldn't
give up on it.
Ever.
Palpable Obscure
"no one, not even the rain, has such small hands."
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Declaration of Digital Independence
-----------------------------------
We, the computer-literate and technologically superior, in order to
break the ignorant chains of those who hold us back, do hereby declare our
freedom from those who control what they do not understand. We wish to no
longer hear the cries of "pornography-superhighway" and "cyber-patrol". We
reject the repulsive nonsense shoved down our throats by all forms of media
telling of the dangers of piracy, pornography, and in general, free thought.
There are no "cyber-molesters" we cannot stop as a people. If you educate
your children like the good parent you should be, they should know what is
right and what is wrong, and will be wise, young judges, with free thought
and judgement. We cannot simply "block" what we find offensive, on the net,
on bulletin boards, and as we all know, in real life. We must learn to deal
with the "day to day inadequacies" of life, and we must not simply become
mindless drones of those that fight to restrict freedom. We must fight even
harder than they, and we must fight to stay free, or all right is lost. If
it's not worth fighting for, then you have already been brainwashed.
The internet (NOT info-superhighway, or i-way, as those terms are simply
insulting and degrading, made up by the ignorant) cannot and SHOULD NOT be
regulated. It should be allowed to make it's own rules. It is bigger than
any world you can and can't imagine, and it will not be controlled. It is
the embodiment of all that is free; free information, friendship, alliances,
materials, ideas, suggestions, news, and more. The "Cyber-Angels" are only
well-meaning do-gooders with nothing better to do than to "tattle" on those
with different ideas than they. They use entrapment, and have twisted their
ideas and values to make them apply to cyberspace, trying to rule an area
they do not understand. Fighting for the freedom to think is good, but to
fight for an idea you believe is the only true idea is itself ignorance. The
nazis believed that they were superior, in ideas and actions, and the "Cyber
Angels" are nothing more. You cannot stop freedom of thought, and they try
anyway, to convert anyone and everyone to their mode of thought. But those
of us who see clearly know that the internet is the greatest invention ever,
topping the telephone and electricity. It is a gathering of the mental body
of billions of people, and we will not be stopped.
The media, as it is known, is the propaganda vending machine of today.
As a whole, they trip over themselves, feeding lies to the ignorant, and we
who are not will watch too, to laugh at the stupidity that is the media. We
sit in front of our televisions, or listening to the radio, or looking at a
newspaper or a magazine, and we laugh. We laugh and laugh, because the media
has become a ridiculous pool of lies and half-truths. They say we're more
dangerous than sicknesses, and nuclear weapons, because we choose to laugh
at their ideas and boundaries, and we fight to expand them. We laugh at the
pitiful security devices used to keep knowledge from spreading, and we rip
down the beaurocratic bullshit tape they put up in virtual doorways. We call
the boards they show on the news, covered in ideas and values different than
theirs, and we like it. We like asking for a computer program that we never
would have bought, and having it show up in our mailboxes. We like leaving
messages on BBS' containing information on how to blow up a building or how
to kill a man with your bare hands. We like it, not because it scares people
or because it's "twisted" or "evil", but because it's forbidden, and lost.
You do not know what a "redbox" is? Come, friend, and I will spread the lost
knowledge. And when I tell you, you will tell another, and we will be held
together by the knowledge which we "should not know". We are the illuminati,
and the enlightened. We look not to the old sciences of textbook learning,
but to the primitive ways, of communication and experience.
We are sickened by the unenlightened. We despise those who wish not to
learn, and those who read the same books, over and over again, under
different names, believing that they are learning. We are the "different",
and the "abnormal", those who are sometimes disliked because we regurgitate
the lies fed to us by the governing. Everyone has the need to know, the
curiosity of the caveman who invented fire, but some have been trained like
monkeys, not ever knowing it's there. They simply accept things, and do what
is expected of them, and this is sad. They are those who never fight back,
and never open their minds. And they are, unfortunately, usually the
governing bodies; the teachers, bosses, police, federal agents, congressmen,
senators, parents, and more. And this, my friend, must change.
We will not be "voted out", and we will not be mentally disfigured. If
they had the chance, government and the media would give everyone a virtual
labotamy. Our minds to be held in chains, forced to take in what is given.
This is unacceptable. We will not be held down, by the ignorant, the
foolish, and especially the lazy. We take your textbooks and your lies,
and we put them back in the dusty storerooms where they belong. And we
share ideas, and make new ones, and sometimes ask for a hand to hold, and
not one around our throat. We see what no others can, and what no others
want to see. It is a technological revolution, and a revolution of ideas.
We will fight in battles for our freedom to think, should there be any, but
we will not start any. We are not a violent group, but our opposition
believes ideas should not be let loose to grow, and they will begin the
battle. They have no honor, stealing from us our rights, our liberty, and
our freedom of thought. And for this, we label them unforgiven...
- Anarchy, and the AoC...
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Convoluted Rants
----------------
Date: 1:11 am Sat Aug 31, 1996
posted less than two hours ago but my mind is screaming.
i find it ever so amazing how much goes through your mind while you are
driving. tonight's music, Tori again. this was different though, in a way
that surprised me. i don't have a good stereo in the car, only at home,
but as i played the tape, i found myself almost jumping as if someone
had startled me each time the bass resounded.
"Looking for a savior, in these dirty streets"
one passage caught my mind this time. since i was a block from the apartment,
I shut the stereo off after that one sentence. i think everyone is well
aquainted with my views on religion and my contempt for christianity among
other religions. after that sentence, i wondered to myself if there was a
savior out there... someone that could truly understand me. i think that is
the only way i would be saved by any means.. save me from my own mind. i sin.
all my friends know it, hell, everyone knows it. if anyone makes a big deal
out of it they are naive. everyone sins.
i admit it. i have no problem with the morals. i take full responsibility for
my actions and don't attempt to blame them on others. i do however blame my
reasons for other's actions.
i am a slave to my pager and cellphone. anyone can reach me at any time. its
to the point if i don't call someone back within three or four minutes, they
take it personal, or question what i was doing. where do they get the
impression they are that important? i have been giving my time and attention
for a year like that, always answering the page, always calling back. there
are some people i know that answer less than 10% of my pages for various
reasons. that same person thinks i wish them dead if i don't return their
page in one minute flat.
i think tomorrow i will turn my pager off, turn the cell off, and keep myself
connected to the net all day. or unplug all the phones. maybe take a bottle
of something and wonder down to the creek and just sit there. think about
it, and how nice it would be... to do nothing. to sit there, breathe the
fresh air, look at the stream flowing, drowning yourself in a bottle. no
one can reach you unless they take the time to find you. sounds like a plan.
of course, i have other plans to work that one around. return computer parts
in the morning, install linux, movie late tomorrow night.
i want no obligations in life as far as friends go. i want unconditional
friends that will put up with me. some of my friends have done that for the
past six months. now, i want them to put up with me for my actions, not me
responding to someone else's desires.
thinking back to my previous posts, i should probably extract them as some
form of diary. some log of my sorrow, confusion, happiness, and anger.
anything to remind me that i am alive.
big things are happening in the future. really neat stuff. when it surfaces i
will talk about it, but can't until then. they say money burns holes in your
pocket. wonder how secrets would compare.. they burn a hole in your soul i
think. something much deeper and more primitive.
"and the pain lingers on"
_The Wall_, watching the movie right now. i watch it at least every 6 months
now. its to the point i am comfortable with the movie and music. i grew up
listening to it, watching it, reading it. it brings back faded half visions
of memory. "goodbye blue sky" is a good representation of where i am heading
i think. if work and stress doesn't consume me, my inner turmoil will.
its nice to vent like this, but i don't want to give the impression that I am
looking for anything. i don't want help. i certainly don't want sympathy, and
the last thing i want to do is give guilt to anyone. even if i were to give
guilt, they wouldn't be reading this.
so what do i want. something grand. something that strikes out and makes
people understand. i want everyone to understand something though, not just a
handful. don't even know what i want them to understand, just that I do want
them to understand. who knows, maybe i will be the prophet i seek. i doubt it
though, just takes too much and i don't know if i have that to give right
now.
chaos is certainly neat.
hi
=-=
Date: 2:26 am Sun Aug 25, 1996
my night. my fuckin night. or my morning given the time.
there are days that just scream out at you that life sucks and
things are never destined to go right.
destiny hates me.
hurt is common in my life now. its like a shirt though, wear
it, everyone sees it, but no one says anything because they
see it so much.
either sleep or rage is taking over my mind. i want to sleep
for a day or kill someone right now. both would be kinda
enjoyable i guess. sleep will win again i bet.. when sleep
fights with something else, it wins because i don't have
energy to do the other.
hate.
=-=
Date: unknown
Now, I can do that. Near my apartment is a nature preserve, with a nice
slow moving stream going through it. The way it sits down in some trees
in a grove gives you a near perfect escape (ie: can't see anything
manmade). You can hear cars, see a few lights, etc, but it is so damn
nice. I go down there sometimes and just wade in the cold water.
Unfortunately, long ago I spent time with a really good friend (femme of
course), and we never really dated, but we knew each other real well...
and I spent time with her there. So, I kinda have regrets going down
there because I kinda miss having someone to talk to and confess my sins
to. (yes, i'm a sinner).
=-=
Date: 1:28 am Thu Aug 29, 1996
secrets are cool. until you have no one to share them with. then they eat you
up. they consume you. they burn you from the inside. i hate being the keeper
of secrets sometimes. i use to be the one to confess your sins to. now, most
don't, but old stuff still haunts me.
setec astronomy
=-=
Date: 12:55 am Sat Aug 31, 1996
why do ex-friends think they can run my life? why do they even have the
audacity to even fucking try to do so? don't they understand it is
easier to shoot them than talk to them? <sigh>
hey you.. all alone sitting cold, can you hear me?
=-=
Date: unknown
guilt is for amateurs
=-=
.d1s.
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Drowning in Rights
------------------
America, the land of opportunity, where one can enjoy the many rights
and freedoms of a democratic society. The land of rights, many rights
of which we have and can use. But have we gone too far? We are
swimming in so many rights that we may be sinking. We need to have
rights. It would be foolhardy not to. Where would this country be
without them? Another oppressed society under a ruthless dictatorship?
Quite possible.
On the other hand, have we gone overboard with our rights? We seem to
be mired in them. It seems impossible to do or say anything without
violating somebody's rights and then getting sued by them for it.
We have the right of freedom of speech, to voice our opinions, and boy
do we ever! We continue to argue, rant, rave, discuss, banter back and
forth over problems and issues that sit and wait for solutions ( many
for decades ). Some, we just agree to disagree on, and others just
lurk on waiting for an answer.
We have the right to freedom of press......oh really? The government
now allows us access to information with the Freedom Of Infromation
Act. We can request documents of information of which they'll gladly
give to us, only after blacking out 99% of it, therefore rendering it
useless to its recipient. They use the ruse of "classified" or
"sensitive material to national security" to prevent you from finding
out what you wanted to know in the first place. Geez, alot of Freedom
there!! We get to read, watch, hear, surf the net, whatever we want.
Yeah right! We are slowly giving up that right because of parents that
are unwilling to monitor their own children and know want the
government to do it for them. Don't you think they'll gladly step in
and do it????
We have the right to bear arms........as long as the government knows
who has them, what they have, and how many.
Criminals have many, many, many rights. Oh but victims are getting
them now, long overdue. But who's side do the scales still tip to???
Alabama is bringing back their chain gangs for prisoners.....I say
HOORAY to them for it. But now the civil rights people are going to
take the whole thing to court for "cruel and unusual punishment"
HELLO, it is prison, not a country club. Aren't you supposed to pay
for your crimes instead of being coddled? Oh I agree that prisoners
are human beings that do deserve certain rights.......three hots and a
cot and work your ass off the rest of the time, and that's it. We
forget that many criminals are very intelligient. They use their
intelligence to manipulate the judicial system, and their unscrupulous
lawyers help them through gaping loopholes. It is their job I guess.
Animals have rights too, and they damn well need them. What other
defense do they have against man and his need to dominate every square
foot of the earth?
Employers in this country can't even fire incompetent employees for
fear of being sued for violating some sort of right.
Parents can't parent their kids because they have rights too. Try to
bring home a runaway if they don't want to come home, or see what
happens when you give your kid an old fashion swat on their butt.
You'll have CPS down on you in a second.
Minorities have rights too... blacks, hispanics,etc. Aren't we ALL
minorities in this country?? Do caucasians have rights? Women have
rights, do men? Just because I happen to be a caucasian male, don't I
have any rights? But I am a minority also, I have American Indian,
Dutch, English, and Irish blood. Just who is the majority here anyway?
I could go on and on, but I realize this post is rather long, and in a
society where many have the attention span of a gnat, it may not even
get read to this point. But I appreciate those of you that do! I have
no solutions to many of our ills nor pretend to. Just expressing my
opinion, after all it is my right!
Joeseattle
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Revenge of Zit-Man
------------------
It had been 20 years since we had encountered the hideous
Zit-Man. Jeremiah had become a very successful architect and had built
his own condominium out in the country. Brian had long since retired as
a pro basketball player after he was injured in an auto accident 15 years
before. Of course, he was set because he was paid over $4 million a year
and began receiving a pension in excess of $1 million per year. Brent
had become the all-time NFL leader in quarterback sacks for a linebacker
before switching to the WLAF, where he shattered every possible record
for linebackers. Andrew had successfully put out some of the hottest
movies of the last decades, including the first Zit-Man movie, a $25
million grosser. Me? I'd sat at home and watched all of my stocks and
bonds skyrocket to an incredible amount. My wife and I constantly
visited our friends, and they constantly visited us. We were all well
off, and we all went out to dinner every other Friday night. The only
thing we didn't have yet were children; our wives had each had a
miscarriage and didn't want to go through the agony again. We happened
to be out on a Friday night, and we decided to stop at the local tavern
before heading home. Since we were all driving in Brian's deluxe
conversion van, we appointed a designated driver, which turned out to be
me. While I had a Coke, everyone else polished off a few assorted beers
and they became generally wasted. On the way home, in the roadside, I
spotted what appeared to be a young woman, clothes torn and tattered,
cuts up and down her leg, and apparently she had been in the ditch for
quite some time. I stopped the van to investigate and when I stepped out
of the van there was a familiar, haunting odor in the air. Half of our
passengers had passed out, so I was on my own. Suddenly the memories
shot back into me like a bullet -- the young woman in the ditch, the
ammunition store, the library, the drug store, the OXY revolver,.... and
Zit-Man. He was back. But how? We'd finished off Zit-Man twenty years
ago -- twenty years ago to THIS DAY! I knew trouble was afoot. All of a
sudden I saw a trail of a foamy sludge. I tested it; it was obviously
fresh. I didn't really know what to do. I realized that there was the
chance of Zit-Man coming back to have vengeance on us; I just couldn't
figure out why he was back, or, more importantly, HOW he was back. I
decided to conduct a little investigation. I followed the trail of
sludge into a thick wood, where I determined his den must be. All of a
sudden, I noticed that the sludge was gone; it had literaly disappeared
without a trace. Then I looked around. I saw a horrifying sight: there
were twisted animal bodies dangling by tree limbs which obviously had
been "popped". I began to realize that I had probably made a mistake by
doing this; the others were out and no one had even realized I'd left.
All of a sudden out of nowhere came Zit-Man. Twenty years had passed but
he was the same hideous creature; but how? I'd killed him twenty years
to this very night! Then he began to speak; Zit-Man couldn't speak
twenty years before! He said: "I have returned, nemesis. That day
twenty years ago is over. After the OXY entered my system I completely
evaporated -- or so you thought. You fool! You failed to realize what
happened! You left a steaming pile of goo in front of the drug store and
took it for dead! But I was able to reform with the help of a young mad
scientist; he threatened to use me but I was able to pop him before he
could stop me. I waited until this night, twenty years after I was
murdered, to return and kill you!"
I had to act fast. I realized I could not withstand the force of
a complete pop. I remembered that Zit-Man could only be destroyed by an
OXY gun, No! He could withstand it, of course! It couldn't kill him
twice. There had to be a different method, another way to destroy it!
But it didn't matter. My main concern was avoiding him destroying me,
not to mention my poor friends in the van! What was there to do? I
started running. Zit-Man popped one and the ooze sprang after me, but I
was able to maneuver out of the way. Then he started giving chase. I
realized that the power of the ooze was not effective against rubber, so
I decided to break for the van and try and outrun him. He then suddenly
appeared in the forest and whistled, revealing hideous Zit-Creatures of
his that possessed the same qualities he did. He started laughing
grotesquely. He blubbered about how the Zit-Creatures were conceived
from his own flesh, able to withstand the effect of any weapon. I
realized that I was hopelessly lost. All of a sudden I saw a vine
hanging from a tree limb. I grabbed it and started climbing while some
of the Zit-Creatures tried to pop at me. Then I realized that my only
way of escape was through -- through the trees. I started leaping from
tree to tree, dodging ooze pops. All of a sudden a Zit-Creature popped
one and hit me in the arm. I lost all feeling in my elbow down and
realized that I had one last chance. I broke for the van and I was soon
within plain sight of it. I leaped out of the trees and raced to the van
to find my wife there, muttering. I inspected -- Zit-Man had been here!
He had left a note: "Ah! You now realize what you must pay for my
destruction twenty years ago! You thought that your friends were drunk,
eh? Try knock-out drug! I know about your little Friday night parties
and I was prepared. I think that if you look in the back seat of your
puny vehicle you might find something very unpleasant!" I went to the
back of the van and started crying. Zit-Man had killed Brent and his
wife, Betty. I couldn't believe it. All of a sudden Zit-Man was no
longer a hideous creature -- he was a personal vengeance. Brent had to
be avenged!
I was able to wake the others and explain what happened; tears
started flowing in their eyes as well. We all vowed immediate revenge
against Zit-Man. We flew out of the can to find another note: "Ha! If
you think that puny ittle mannequin in the rear is your friend, think
again! I have your puny friends and if you want them you'll have to come
get them!" We had to do something; but what was there that could still
be done? OXY wouldn't work this time but there had to be something --
there had to be! Then we developed a brainstorm. Obviously, there was a
way! Of course! We were thinking solely of weapons -- we didn't realize
that it, too, could be killed by means such as drowning or suffocation.
We had to develop a plan. We decided that the only thing we could do was
to try and construct a device that would trap Zit-Man. This way he could
be removed without mortally touching him. We had to work, however.
Jeremiah took the initiative, constructing some unrecognizable entity
which looked kind of like a beat-up old construction crane. We decided
that the best way to do it was to go into Zit-Man's lair and grab him
with our makeshift crane, allowing escape in the nick of time. Of
course, it wouldn't be easy -- there were still Zit-Creatures roaming
around in the forest near his lair. There had to be an easy way to stop
them -- and we developed it. Zit-Man himself was intrigued by greasy
food but he was too smart to fall for a food trap. But the Zit-Creatures
might not be, and besides, they would in all probability go ape over the
grease anyway. We made the decision to act immediately.
We began setting grease-traps when Betty came running out of the
blue. We asked her what happened and she said she was able to escape but
Brent was still being held along with others in Zit-Man's "Cold Storage"
room. Our wives tried to comfort her and took her back to the van, but
they shortly came screaming back saying the van had vanished. This was
obviously another work of Zit-Man but we had no idea that he could have
done this. Suddenly we saw tens upon tens of Zit-Creatures racing for
the grease-surprises. The traps were working!
With the Zit-Creatures out of the way, we were ready for the big
daddy himself. We decided that we would have to blaze a trail through
the forested area for the crane so we racedinto town and got machetes.
We returned in horror, however, as we found the crane had been looted.
It was obvious there was some other way into the lair as the van and
crane could obviously have not made it through the dense forest. We
searched for hours until we found it: a gigantic _underground_ passage.
There was apparently a form of safety device installed on the door to the
passage so we took a look at it. It was some sort of a coded which had
to have the correct code number to open the door. We had no clue as how
to crack the code so we just tried guesswork. We failed.
We soon discovered that this was a trap. All of a sudden a siren
started sounding out of nowhere and Zit-Man appeared with _our_ crane.
He was obviously going to strike so we had to act fast. We couldn't.
The crane, specially designed for him, scooped all of us up and we found
ourselves cramped. He then started to close the jaws, which would have
crushed us with the greatest of ease. We had but one chance. We had
designed this crane for Zit-Man so he probably didn't know about the
fail-safe protection device on the front. The problem was we couldn't
get to it because we were facing the other way and the jaws were coming
down too quickly. We had to go for it. The mouth started slowly turning
around and we caugh a glimpse of the box on the front. We were in too
tight a situation to hit it with anything, though, so we had to clear out
to allow room. Somehow Brian wiggled his left arm free, took a quarter,
and with the same precision from his old basketball days, scored a direct
hit. The crane started whizzing around and stopped as it was about to
close us off for good..
We still had to figure out a way out of the crane mouth, however,
as we were still trapped and helpless. We managed to open it slightly to
find Zit-Man below, popping at us. Then I came up with an idea. Thw
material used in the construction of the crane was NOT necessarily
Zit-Proof, as we had imagined capturing him and THEN managing to hoist
him into a Zit-Proof Container. Besides, the non-resistant part of the
crane was the steel covering to the mouth which he had apparently failed
to operate. A popped entity streamed at the crane and hit the mouth
square, oozing out a hole in the construction. When another one came we
were able to have the mouth dissolve before getting hit. We ran off and
then we tried to get to high ground to escape his pinpoint aim. We
managed to escape the woods, but we had accomplished nothing. Then we
had it. There was only one thing we had not tried. We still had yet to
try pills.
A truck came down the road so some of hitched a ride to the drug
store to get what we thought we would need. Being a chemistry minor in
college, I realized that an effective knock-out drug could be made that
would even knock out Zit-Man. After grabbing the materials, I started
working immediately.
Although he had a new immunity to OXY, I realize that possible
effectiveness was always there so I mixed a formula of sleeping pills,
OXY, hydrogen peroxide, and lye. This was obviously close to a poisonous
substance for any human, and we could only hope that Zit-Man was able to
fall under a similar trap. There still, however, remained one crucial
problem: how would we get him the concoction? There had to be a way.
We knew that grease attracted him; but he wasn't stupid enough to fall
for an obvious trap. We also knew that he ate swamp material if grease
wasn't abundant; but that wouldn't work because we knew he'd catch us
dumping anything in his swamp. Then the idea came. We would have to use
the same type of procedure that we used with the OXY gun twenty years
ago. We returned to town by hitching again and proceeded to the old
ammunition depot.
We were able to get there in the nick of time and bought another
.44 calibre and blanks. We loaded the blanks with the substance and took
a practice shot at a nearby tree. The bullet screamed out of the gun,
hit the tree, and fell to the ground, leaving not so much as a dent in
the tree. We had to find another substance to put in our lively
concoction to get positive results. Although it wasn't quite what we
were hoping for, we found it: nitro-glycerine.
Our new substance was experimented with and when it hit the tree
this time the tree kind of half-exploded and half-disintegrated. We had
the weapon to use. Now to find Zit-Man. It wasn't that hard, though, as
Zit-Man came streaming out of the forested area with something in his
hand -- it was a live grenade pouch! We raced for cover. In the fray
the gunhad been dislodged yet retrieved by Andrew, making him our only
chance against that pitiful creature. He took a shot and missed but
ending up hitting a partitioned area of Zit-Man's den. Someone escaped
from the den and as we looked closely we could tell: it was Brent!
Zit-Man fired, popped, and hurled at us but we managed to play a good
game of dodging. Then he hit Andrew with a direct score on the hand.
The gun went flying and Andrew went tumbling. Zit-Man approached and
started laughing himself hoarse. Then he started speaking again: "Ha!
You fools thought you could defeat a superior life form! Who do you
think you are? Superheroes? I lost two. This one will not escape!"
A grenade was thrown at point blank range at Andrew. He scurried
behind a tree as the grenade went off. He emerged black and cloudy, but
he wasn't hurt. Just then I caught sight of the gun. I lept for it as
Zit-Man was still trying to assail Andrew. Then, out of nowhere, the
crane appeared. Jeremiah was clearing it through the forest. This
distracted Zit-Man long enough for me to make a run at the gun. I picked
it up and went to fire it, but I couldn't. It was jammed. Then Zit-Man
caught sight of me. I dove as a grenade exploded behind me. Then he
threw a sea of red ooze around as though he was making a cage out of a
popper. We were trapped except for Jeremiah and Jenny in the crane.
Then Brian appeared with the van. It seemed it had been ditched in a
remote corner of the woods with the motor still running to exhaust the
fuel. The van broke through a trail of the ooze net and the crane made a
blow at Zit-Man. He was distracted again.
I dove for the gun again, trying to unjam it. Finally all of the
bullets came tumbling out and I had to prevent a pure nitro explosion. I
reloaded the bullets in the .44 and set my sights on the distracted
Zit-Man. The crane had knocked him 25 yards into the trees of the forest
and he was extremely angry. He all of a sudden popped a huge lower zit
which flew directly at the crane. The crane keeled over with Jeremiah
and Jenny inside of it and they were helpless. I had to act fast. I
fired a shot at him but missed over his head, hitting the van. The van
gave a small explosion and Brian evacuated. The van exploded and Zit-Man
was coming after me. I had but three bullets left. I shot again but
missed left and hit another portion of his lair. It exploded and a
sticky film was rained across the forest. He started laughing again. I
had two shots left.
Then he popped one at me. It missed, but I dropped the gun
avoiding it. Brian, Brent, Betty, Zit-Man, and I all raced for the gun
and Brian won the race. He took a point blank shot but missed badly.
Zit-Man knocked it out of his his hands -- right into mine. I had one
shot left -- a shot at point-blank range. I fired and hit him right
above the eyes -- a similar location to that of twenty years ago. All of
a sudden Zit-Man exploded, leaving an oozy trail behind him. We were all
hit by remnants of the oozy substances but managed to make it out to the
road. We flagged down a car and made straight to the hospital.
We were able to get help to get Jeremiah and Jenny from the
crane. Brent had to stay in the hospital for three days because the
Zit-Substance had eaten away at his skin. Andrew was able to develop
another high-grossing blockbuster out of it, and he generously split his
profits with us. I only hope this book can gross as much as his movie --
you can rest assured that I'll be splitting profits. Of course, we
really don't need much in the way of additional profits -- we plan to
have a condominium complex built for all five couples. It'll probably
cost in excess of $1 million, but it'll be worth it. Now, back to work,
trying to lick those rotten miscarriages.
-- murmur
written in 1991
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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"CIA: Conspiracies In Action"
-----------------------------
In order for nations to survive and remain strong,
there are certain factors and institutions which must blend
together. A nation must have a social-political structure
and a viable, functioning economic apparatus to propel it
forward. The foundation for the United States is predicated
on several variables, two of which are the Constitution,
which is a "living, growing document" and an economic system
based on free market principles, namely capitalism. For over
two hundred years, both of these systems have functioned to
create one of the greatest nations in the history of the
civilized human race. For most Americans and people of the
world, the premise of American democracy is based on a
government run by the consent of the people. Our rights are
protected by the Constitution, and the government itself
functions via a system of checks and balances. Each branch
of our government balances its' power through the others.
But something unusual occurred after World War II. A secret
or "invisible" government emerged from "the smoke and rubble
of Pearl Harbor. It was still a child when the Cold War
began after World War II, an adolescent during the 1950's,
and it reached its majority a year after President Kennedy
took office" (The Invisible Government, Wise and Ross, 1964)
It is not a formal institution. In its present state
it has grown into... "...a loose, amorphous grouping
of individuals and agencies drawn from many parts of the
visible government". This second unseen government is
responsible for carrying out the policies (foreign and
domestic) for the first or visible government.
The primary function of the secret government is to
gather intelligence, conduct espionage, and plan and execute
secret operations all over the globe. It is not limited to
the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), although the CIA is
at its heart. There are nine other agencies that compromise
the intelligence community. In no particular order, they are
the National Security Agency, Army, Navy, and Air Force
Intelligence, the State Department's Bureau of Intelligence
and Research, the Atomic Energy Commission, and the Federal
Bureau of Investigation. The complexity and shadowy nature
of the secret government is further insulated by individuals
and businesses, some public and some ostensibly private.
This organization is making decisions regarding peace and
war completely out of public view. In fact, it is so
secretive that few, if any, of our elected officials are
involved in its decisions, and that includes the President.
In effect, the United States has two distinct foreign policy
agendas. One follows a public direction, which generally
promulgates the altruistic myth of America as the good-guy.
The other policy is carried out by the secret government and
works in the opposite direction of the public policy.
The premise of an intelligence gathering agency finds
its inception under President Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1940,
when he created the Office of Coordinator of Information. On
June 13, 1942, this agency was split into the Office of
Strategic Services and the Office of War Information. The
function of the O.S.S. was to gather information, but quickly
expanded to include special covert operations, a policy
still followed by the CIA. In September, 1945, President
Truman disbanded the OSS. Four months later, he issued an
executive order creating the National Intelligence Group
and, under it, a Central Intelligence Group, which became
the forerunner of the CIA. In 1947 the CIA was officially
created by the National Security Act, and its duties were
set forth in five specific areas, all under the auspices of
the National Security Council. To simplify these five
functions, the law appeared to give the CIA the task of
obtaining, correlating, evaluating, coordinating, and
advising the NSC. Today, the question is how could these
guidelines be so blatantly abused? The answer lies in the
"other functions" which the CIA may perform under the 1947
Act. Because there is no specific provision for covert
political operations in the 1947 Act, the NSC issued a
"paper" in the summer of 1948 authorizing special
operations. There were two important guidelines: the
operations must be secret and they must be "plausibly
deniable by the government."
By 1951 the CIA merged and consolidated its power to
the point where it became an operational and at times a
policy-making arm of government, Truman was clearly
disturbed by this diversion of the CIA, but it was during
his presidency that the CIA began conducting special
operations. In time, many citizens and Congressmen began
questioning the actions of the CIA, but to no avail.
Theoretically, Congress controls all appropriations to all
agencies and institutions in the United States, but not to
the CIA. In 1949 the Central Intelligence Agency Act was
passed, exempting the CIA from all Federal laws that
required the disclosure of the "functions, names, official
titles, salaries, or numbers of personnel employed by the
Agency." It gave the director of the Agency the staggering
and unprecedented power to spend money without being
accountable to anyone! The reasoning behind this Act was to
protect the field agents. Without public access to records,
vouchers, or expenditures, the identity of our agents would
remain secure and subsequently so would our national
security.
Through the 1950's the CIA and the "invisible
government" began to acquire unprecedented strength and
further expand the scope of its operations. The emergence of
the Agency in all of its size and power is directly
correlated to the Dulles brothers and their relationship
with the federal government. Uniquely, they embodied the
dualism, and indeed the moral dilemma of the United States
foreign policy. During the Eisenhower Administration, John
Foster Dulles became the Secretary of State while his
younger brother, Allen Dulles, formerly an agent of the OSS,
became the first civilian director of the CIA. Between these
two men, they shaped, developed, and implemented two
distinct foreign policies. Under Foster Dulles the United
States formulated its policy of containment, regarding the
Soviet Unions quest to advance Communism. Publicly, the
United States would never "adopt the evil tactics of
subversion and secret manipulation practiced by the
Communist enemy." In essence, Foster Dulles reflected the
mythic America that Americans had grown accustomed to
seeing, hearing, and reading about via the media. The CIA
propaganda machine in conjunction with Hollywood movie
makers worked overtime, consciously or not, to promote this
ideal. American morality and work ethic was the epitome of
all that was good and righteous; the world as we would like
it to be. While he took this public position, his brother
was free to deal with the realities of foreign policy. He
was able to fight fire with fire. Simply put, overturning
governments whether it occurred through economic warfare,
coup d'etat, assassination, rigged elections, or even
genocide was irrelevent, as long as it paralleled the public
policy expressed by the State Department. The dark side of
the government was in effect largely kept secret from the
American people and Congress. Because of the relationship
between the Dulles brothers, the natural friction between
the State Department and the CIA never materialized.
In order to survive, nations need strong intelligence
services. But the idea that the CIA is primarily an
intelligence-gathering operation is itself one of the
Agency's greatest propaganda triumphs. Despite its name, the
CIA's main purpose is carrying out covert operations. The
Agency is also expert at distorting intelligence to justify
its own goals. This disinformation leads to dangerous
illusions amoung our policy makers. As long as the CIA exists
in its present state, and there is no reason to believe it
will change in the near future, our government can break and
and all laws in the name of national security.
Perhaps one of the most important of all operations
began before the Agency was even born. Towards the end of
World War II, many Nazi leaders recognized the inevitable,
and began negotiating with the United States. These
negotiations contained two areas of primary focus: surrender
and receive safe passage to a neutral nation of their choice
and the possibilty of waging a war against the new threat
to the United States, the Soviet Union. The Soviet Union's
emerging status as a super power created a "new world
order"; a bi-polar world, and with it the onset of the Cold
War. Both of the nations would follow a foreign policy
designed to confront the other in every conceivable aspect
of foreign relations. Sports, trade agreements, space
exploration, the development of weapons of mass destruction,
imperialism (some blatant, some clandestine) spheres of
influence; the list is endless, and the regions of the world
where the confrontations took place span the entire globe.
BEfore World War II came to a conclusion, the United States
and its allies came to comprehend this potential new threat,
as did the Nazi leaders of Germany. What the Nazis had to
offer the United States was a source of intelligence
throughout Eastern Europe. As we know this region became
the buffer zone the Soviet Union sought as compensation for
its role in defeating Hitler's armies. The "iron curtain",
as Churchill called it, would separate the democratic
nations of Western Europe. The Nazi intelligence network
was already in place and the United States recognized this
opportunity.
The man that put this operation in motion was an agent
of the OSS, and future CIA director, Allen Dulles. In 1943
he began secret negotiations with General Reinhard Gehlan,
Hitler's Intelligence Chief for the Eastern front. When these
secret discussions were finalized, General Gehlan was
whisked to Fort Hunt in Virginia. His espionage network,
which became known as the "Gehlan Org", would work for, and
be funded by the United States. For almost ten years, the
Gehlan Org was virtually the CIA's only source of
intelligence regarding Eastern Europe. By 1955 it evolved
into the BND, Germany's equivalent of the CIA. Many fled to
Latin America to live lives in comfort, security, and to
continue working with CIA linked groups.
To ensure that Western Europe remained anti-Communist
(although not necessarily democratic), the CIA organized
secret paramilitary units, with hidden stockpiles of weapons
and explosives. These units existed in Italy (operation
Gladio, 1948), France, Belgium, the Netherlands, and West
Germany. Most were directed by former SS officers and had
connections with an international fascist unbrella
organization called the World Anti-Communist League. This
organization was formed in 1961, and served as a worldwide
network for extreme right wing militants. It boasts of a
membership of extremely dubious and deviant groups. Former
Nazis, Italian terrorists, Japanese fascists, racist
Afrikaners, Latin American "death squads", United States
Congressmen, and "former" CIA agents. In fact, this
organization (WACL) played a major role in the internal
affairs of Latin America. One of the more notable operations
involved the assassination of El Salvador's Archbishop,
Oscar Romero, in 1980. Romero wrote then President Carter
regarding the numerous human rights violations occurring in
his country. The murderous rulers, led by Roberto
D'Aubuisson, an admirer of Hitler, orderered the hit. His
party, known as ARENA, is still supported by the CIA and
rules the country. Between 1979 and 1992, over 70,000
"peasants" have been executed by the ARENA party.
One of the more infamous operations occurred in
Guatemala in the early 1950's. By this time, the Dulles
brothers were firmly entrenched as the "czars" of American
foreign policy. Both remained partners in the Wall Street
law firm of Sullivan and Cromwell. In 1951, Jacobo Arbenz
was elected President of Guatemala by a landslide in a free
and fair election. His primary goal was to transform
Guatemala's backwards economy to a "modern capitalist
state." The first orders of business was to appropriate land
that was controlled by the Rockefeller-owned United Fruit
Company, for which they were fairly compensated. This
company was represented by none other than Sullivan and
Cromwell. They immediately embarked on a propaganda campaign
to discredit Arbenz as a Communist conspirator. The CIA
conducted extensive propaganda operations and sabotage
against the government. In 1954, unmarked CIA planes staged
a series of air raids on the capital, dropping leaflets
demanding the President's resignation. CIA-run radio
stations warned of an impending invasion by a rebel army,
who in actuality were mercenaries hired by the CIA. Arbenz
fled the country and left Guatemala in the control of a CIA
hand-picked "stooge", General Castillo Armas. Over the past
40 years, various CIA backed regimes have murdered more than
100,000 nationals in Guatemala.
While in Latin America, let's examine some of the CIA's
famous and less famous operations. In 1930, Raphael Trujillo
took power in the Dominican Republic via a coup d'etat. He
was enthusiastically backed by Washington for most of the
next 30 years. Trujillo was totally devoted to the U.S. in
the United Nations, and in return, the U.S. raised no
objection to his methods of suppressing dissent - torture
and mass murder. Throughout his years of rule, U.S.
companies enjoyed a "favorable investment climate". By the
late 1950's Trujillo controlled two-thirds of the economy.
His incessant greed threatened the "favorable investment
climate" for U.S. companies, and the U.S. government began
to worry about a "Castro-type revolution." In 1961, Trujillo
was mysteriously assassinated. His predecessor, Juan Bosch,
was deposed by a CIA-backed coup, seven months after he took
office. He was restored back to power in 1965 by a popular
countercoup, only to be deposed again by a CIA invasion. A
series of murderous regimes have maintained a "favorable
investment climate" ever since, even while the citizens of
this island nation suffer from acute poverty.
In 1973, the CIA destroyed the oldest functioning
democracy in South America, Chile. In 1970, a socialist by
the name of Salvador Allende was elected President. The
President of the United States, Richard Nixon, explicitly
ordered the CIA to prevent his inauguration, and failed in an
assassination plot. The CIA thus began a character
assassination campaign to create a "coup climate". The CIA
also orchestrated acts of sabotage, terror, guerrilla
warfare, and arson. Funded by U.S. corporations with Chilean
holdings, the CIA sponsored demonstrations and strikes. CIA
linked media fanned the "flames of crisis". This barrage
eventually eroded Allende's base of support, and, in
September, of 1973, he, along with several cabinet members
was assassinated. A military junta headed by General
Pinochet seized power and began to purge the nation of
radicals. Anyone who opposed his regime or was sympathetic
to Allende was tortured and killed. Three years later, an
exiled Chilean diplomat, an outspoken opponent of Pinochet
(and the CIA), was blown to pieces by a car bomb. Orlando
Letelier was not killed in Chile, but instead on the streets
of Washington, D.C., U.S.A., along with his American aide,
Ronni Moffit. CIA director George Bush told the FBI that
there had been no Chilean involvement in these assassinations.
But the CIA was quite aware of the fact that the Chilean
secret police (DINA) had sent a hit squad to Washington.
Soon after this incident, a Cuban airliner was blown up,
killing 73 passengers. Investigators into the airline
bombing found unmistakable connections to a meeting that took
place between a "former" CIA operative, other CIA and FBI
agents, as well as a violent group of CIA linked Cuban exiles.
The bombing and assassinations were planned at this meeting.
The CIA and FBI coverup is so complex that it is almost
impossible to corroborate any reliable information
regarding these incidents.
One of the CIA's favorite hobbies was mind control
experiments. Behavior control, as the CIA called it, became
a great priority in 1953 (after the Korean War), under a
program code named MK-ULTRA. This program was top secret and
required the highest security clearance for anyone and
everyone. Many of its files were destroyed when CIA director
Richard Helms left his post in 1973. MK-ULTRA personnel
(primarily "spooks and shrinks") tested radiation, electric
shocks, electrode implants, microwaves, ultrasound, a wide
range of drugs, and hypnosis on thousands of unsuspecting
people. How they chose their "subjects" is so difficult to
access that I cannot truly confirm all of the rumors I
became aware of. Nonetheless, hundreds of prisoners have
been used, voluntarily or not. During the mid to late 1950's,
the CIA began to experiment with LSD. For many years it
became the principle source of the drug in the U.S.. Some
insiders insist that the "hippies" were part of their great
experiment of the 1960's, but, personally, I think they used
their own drugs on themselves. How else could you explain
their bizarre behavior? LSD was also used on unsuspecting
Vietnam personnel in the field. While in the field, I heard
countless stories detailing these experiments. When I read
"Jacob's Ladder", I was truly shocked, but it only
confirmed what I thought to be true.
The mass murder at Jonestown, Guyana in 1978 was
actually the culmination of a massive CIA behavior
experiment. Although reports of the incident referred to it
as a "mass suicide", there is a lot of evidence that it was
indeed mass murder. The coroner's report states that the 913
victims didn't drink cyanide laced Kool-Aid. Almost 90% of
the victims received lethal injection, while the rest were
shot. Cult leader Jim Jones had a long affiliation to the
CIA. When he formed his People's temple in Ukiah,
California, he engaged his people to infiltrate
organizations of liberal politicians. San Francisco Mayor
George Mascone and Supervisor Harvey Milk were assassinated
a week after Jonestown. Both owed political favors to Jim
Jones. When reports of murders tied to his temple began to
surface, he fled with his flock to Guyana. The Prime
Minister at the time owed his job to a 1964 CIA sponsored
coup. People that survived Jonestown reported that it was a
virtual concentration camp. Black cultists worked like
slaves enduring beatings, torture, rape, and intense doses
of drugs used in the MK-ULTRA program. When Representative
Leo Ryan, a key congressional opponent of the CIAm arrived
to investigate Jones, he was assassinated. Shortly,
thereafter, the murders began. All of Jones' white
lieutenants escaped as did hundreds of millions of dollars.
Supposedly, Jones died, but no proof has ever been established.
In 1959, Fidel Castro overthrew U.S.-backed Batista
dictatorship in Cuba. He immediately closed down the
casinos, brothels, and nationalized the entire economy. He
put the Mafia and U.S. based multi-nation corporations out
of business in Cuba. He made many enemies. Vice-President
Nixon, who had longstanding ties with the mob, through his
friend Bebe Rebozo, began plotting with the CIA to eliminate
Castro. Both the CIA and the mob expected Nixon to be the
next President, but JFK was elected instead. In effect,
Kennedy inherited the Bay of Pigs operation, which he was
not too fond of. Kennedy did not want U.S. military forces
to get involved, just Cuban exiles. The CIA hoped that they
could coerce him into using the U.S. military. When this
failed, so did the invasion and the whole operation. The
operation called for the Mafia to assassinate Castro at the
same time as the invasion. It was poorly planned,
uncoordinated, and poorly executed. Kennedy took full
responsibility and this incident brought him to the promise
of dismantling the CIA.
The assassination of JFK in Dallas in 1963 was truly
the culmination of a power struggle between Kennedy and the
secret government. After the Bay of Pigs fiasco, the
relations between the two were quite frayed at best. Kennedy
was perceived to be soft on the fight against Communism. In
fact, prior to his death, he planned to pull out American
military personnel from Vietnam, something the CIA was
unequivocally opposed to. He fired CIA director Allen
Dulles, and, because of the Bay of Pigs disaster and his
brother's crusade against organized crime (Robert F. Kennedy
was Attorney General), he was hated by the Mafia. The CIA
and the Mafia had formed an uneasy partnership in their
quest to kill Castro. Now, they shared a common enemy, John
F. Kennedy. They began to weave an elaborate web of deceit,
espionage, blackmail, and inevitably murder, after 1961.
They stretched their reach of power to the very limits, to
plan, coordinate, and execute the coverup of this operation. Lee
Harvey Oswald, the supposed "lone gunman", was a pawn in
their game of chess, as were countless others who were
sacrificed in the name of national security. The list of
players is literally a who's who if government operatives,
Mafia heirarchy, businessmen, politicians, police officers,
and citizens. The coverup is so extensive and complex that
it is conceivable that we will never know the full truth.
In another "assassination scenario", during the last
few years of his life, Malcolm X did several things to
antagonize the CIA. He accused the CIA of assassinating or
overthrowing several third world leaders and their
countries. In fact, he met with many of these leaders, who
were only anti-American. He believed the CIA was behind
the Lumumba assassination (Zaire, 1960), and threatened to
officially ask the U.N. to declare American blacks an
oppressed minority. But what scared the CIA the most was his
radical shift away from the separatist, militant approach to
a more moderate one. One week after his death, he was to
have met for the first time Martin Luther King, Jr.. It is
believed that both the FBI and the CIA had been spying on him in
a coordinated effort, and government agents had infiltrated
his group as well as the Nation of Islam. After his
assassination in 1965, by members of the Nation of Islam, it
was revealed that the conspiracy to kill Malcolm X also
included the FBI and CIA. The FBI and CIA decided to reach
out to the Mafia a second time, this time to plot the
assassination of King. The plot, coordination, execution,
escape, and cover-up that took place was a precision
operation. The shooter, James Earl Ray, another "stooge"
was connected to various members of all three of these
entities. Again, we will probably never know the true story
in this conspiracy or any others I have mentioned. Nor will
we ever clarify Robert F. Kennedy's assassination. Like his
brother, J.F.K., he wanted no part of Vietnam, which of
course was unthinkable for the industrial-military complex.
He pushed for equal rights for blacks and was despised by
the Mafia. People that were among those present at the scene
of J.F.K.'s assassination and subsequent probe were also
present for R.F.K.'s assassination. Is it a coincidence?
Maybe... But maybe there is a common denominator that runs
through all of these events. The evidence is too strong to
believe that the secret government does not exist. From my
personal experience in Vietnam, I witnessed first hand how
"the Company" or "the Agency" operates.
By now it is apparent to the reader, of the extensive
scope of power the intelligence community, and in
particular, the CIA have. Long before the U.S. military got
directly involved there, Vietnam was the CIA's war. At
first, they waged a fully operational clandestine war using
locals, mercenaries, and French and Korean soldiers. They
had the largest "private" airline in the world at the time,
called Air America, but this effort proved to be in vain.
The only way to free the region of the Communist plague was
to fully involve the U.S. military. To do this, they had to
create a favorable environment both in the region and at
home. They accomplished both. Laos, Cambodia, and Thailand
were home to several large, very secret, military
installations. From these "bases of operations", the CIA
could monitor the activities in both the North and South
Vietnam. Through a propaganda campaign in North Vietnam,
over one million refugees were brought to the South by CIA
ships and planes. In the South, the CIA created the
appearance of a democratic government by writing a
Constitution and installing Ngo Dinh Diem as President. When
they no longer needed Diem, he was assassinated, as was
J.F.K.. Following the deaths of both Diem and J.F.K., they had
successfully created the favorable environment they needed
to involve the U.S. military. Within days of the J.F.K.
assassination, newly installed President Johnson reversed
J.F.K.'s plans to withdraw all military personnel. The CIA
then fabricated the Gulf of Tonkin incident, which led to
the Tonkin Resolution.
Even though the U.S. military officially took control
of the war after 1965, the CIA was part of the decision-
making heirarchy. Policy, logistics, strategy, troop
dispersal, air attacks in both the North and South, and
clandestine operations from Laos and Cambodia were all under
the jurisdiction of the CIA. They even dictated to the
military what to tell the U.S. media, who were stationed in
Saigon. This war was to be the crowning moment in the
history of the CIA. They finally had everything they ever
wanted: a full-blown war, with all of the trimmings. They
controlled every conceivable aspect of the war, until
January 1968. By 1968, over 550,000 troops were stationed in
Vietnam. This war had grown into the "career opportunity of
a lifetime" for the military-industrial complex, military
career officers, and the CIA. They could extend the war for
as long as they liked, while millions of dollars of tax
payers' money were spent. But in January of 1968, they made
a fatal mistake. They failed to recognize the coming of the
TET offensive. The TET new year was to be a temporary cease
fire, beginning on January 31. But military intelligence
failed miserably. Instead of a cease-fire, every military
installation in South Vietnam was simultaneously attacked,
including the U.S. embassy in Saigon. Saigon was where the
U.S. media resided. The war, in all of its color, glory,
death, and mayhem finally came to Saigon. Subsequently, all
of this was brought home to the American public via
television. The profound results of the TET-1968 changed the
nation, the people, Congress, and the policy regarding
Vietnam. It was now time to figure a way out of this
quagmire. "Peace with honor", said President Nixon. From
1968 to 1975, at the fall of Saigon, the CIA began to expand
the war into Cambodia and cover its tracks in South Vietnam.
When I arrived in the Nam in 1971, the nature of the
war had changed dramatically. My primary goal in Vietnam was
to survive, not to win the war. My first contact with field
overatives, known as "spooks", came in October of
1971. I was newly assigned to the 25th infantry Division,
located in War Zone C, III Corps, An Loc, Co Chi Province.
We were extremely close to Cambodia, and all of my op's were
in or near Cambodia, along the Ho Chi Minh trail. My
previous unit, the 9th Infantry Division, stationed in the
MeKing Delta region near My Tho, had rotated home. I joined
this new unit primarily because of my skills as a "pointman".
Shortly after arriving at my new area of operatives (AO), I
was approached by a "military type" (spook), to "volunteer"
for a new unit. This unit was to operate in total secrecy from
the rest of the Division. Out AO was in Cambodia, deep behind
"enemy" lines. Our unit was to be affiliated with Special Forces
as an "elite mobilized unit". We were initially divided into
four-men recon teams to acquire extensive intelligence. Our
information led to air assaults by the Air Force, Army, and
Navy on suspected V.C. and N.V.A. strongholds. In time, these
recon teams became "sniper teams" or "hitsquads", as we
called them. Our targets and missions were always highly
classified. We spent days and even weeks at a time on an
operation in the bush. We were highly trained and skilled with
each member a specialist in one or two specific areas. I had
acheived the highest classification for marksmanship. My other
specialty was with knives. I remained in Vietnam for a total of
364 days, 14 hours, and seven minutes, to be exact. I
participated in countless numbers of missions, all of which
were covert in nature, and answered only to the field
operatives running these missions. When my tour of duty was
up, I flatly refused to re-up (re-enlist), and my future
became rather tenuous with the Army. I have run into
countless problems and difficulties with the V.A. and the
Army, since I left in 1972, but that is another story!
by Brooklyn
typed by /<2F>NARCHY
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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While the cats away...
----------------------
My boyfriend has an interesting job, to say the least. For roughly
20 days out of the month, he's off flying somewhere. I knew this when I got
involved, in fact I pushed him to keep working like this. Having him home
all the time would drive me nuts. I need my space. He got upset one night
when we were coming home from being gone all day in San Francisco. I wanted
to go for a walk, he didn't. He threw that "You don't love me!" saying it
with a grin. He wants to spend all of his time with me. Nothing wrong with
that, BUT, somehow I couldn't make him see that I had my own identity.
How we met is interesting, to say the least. I was getting flamed hot and
heavy on a list because I more or less am pretty opinionated and I don't
-really- care what people think of me. I was pissed, people were being
idiots. He flamed me and I flamed back. He emailed me privately, and the
next thing I know we shifted out 500k worth of email within two days.
He pissed me off, to say the least. I knew about his girlfriend. He told me
the story. I don't know why to this day why he chose to confide so much to
a stranger (ie me). He said that he trusted me, and I wasn't afraid of who
he was. He could fuck up my world and it didn't bother me one bit.
He also knew about my 'boyfriend' (nice way of saying my fucktoy). He would
taunt me, saying "You use him!". I would reply back in kind "Your
girlfriend uses you! That is like the pot calling the kettle black!". He
got mad. We argued. We were 'nothing' to each other. Two strangers who were
emailing each other in the middle of the night. And the night turned into
days, and the days turned into weeks.
I couldn't take it anymore. I was becoming too dangerously close to him. I
could see my heart being broken when later on he could very rightly say
"thanks for the trip!". Fuck email/irc relationships. I knew that many
people had success with them. I did not. I need someone here. With me.
No word from Mr Prick (my nickname for him) in days. I wonder whats going
on. I break it on down and send him email. No word. Fuck'em and feed'em
fish heads. No rice. No beans.
I pop my email a few nights later. Mr Prick has sent me numerous letters
from another account. "You don't love me anymore!" he pouts. I sigh
heavily. Men are such children. He already has a girlfriend, what does he
want with me? I jump on the irc server that we use. He starts being even
more of a prick. I keep telling him to fuck off. He gets mad. I say look,
and tell him how I feel about us being 'friends'. Being so honest it almost
hurts. He asks to be excused and comes back and breaks it on down for me.
He is interested in me...I became paranoid...I don't trust people.
Suddenly he wants to see me, not later, but NOW! He threw out dates he was
going to be 'close' in geography to me..I ponder about such things. "What
about your girlfriend?" I ask most innocently. "I will tell her after we
have met". Uh huh..sure...I can see where this is going..I hold back, he
pushes more, suddenly I am 'something' to him.
I don't want anyone to know we are even friends. Its a ruthless world out
there, makes me nervous. I don't know all these people that claim to be my
"friend". Its too loosely used word, "friend", like saying "I love you". I
hate that. People say "I love you" akin to saying "Pass the sodium free
salt". Bullshit, plain bullshit.
Next thing I know, he is pulling out all stops to ship me 2300 miles to San
Francisco. I get on said jet. I fly, I meet him at the airport. He's cute,
physically not my type..but we have 'something' other then just physical
attractiveness. We board the shuttle to go to his place..I go down on
him..he freaks..my my my..I really do come through now don't I?
Now its a week and a half later. I am -living- with him, literally. My
stuff is being shipped across the US as we speak. Unfortunately for UPS,
they lost all of my lifes belongings (valued at 10,000 American
Dollars..majority of it computer equipment..isn't it how sickening how we
have to value everything to the dollar?). I ask for two simple things: 1.
tracking numbers for all 10 boxes and 2. A receipt so that I can be
reimbursed by my employer. I call my 'fucktoy' (whom I convinced to stay
with my stuff). Houston, we have a problem. I call UPS, big fuck up. I
wasn't listed on the manifesto in Grand Rapids to be picked up. Only
through bitching was my fucktoy able to get them to pick it up. They
didn't give him a reciept or tracking numbers. Wonderful. I call UPS, a
nice man sorted everything out. "We will call you back within the hour". I
wait. My phonelines were just installed. I wait some more. No call back. I
call back and get a stupid ass moron named Hayward Green. He asks me for my
zip code. I ask him, three times, "Do you need sending or recieving zip
codes?" He says "You called earlier, you know which one." We start arguing.
I can't get him to tell me "which" zip codes he needs. I become frustrated.
A frustrated simunye is not a happy simunye.
I ask to speak to the supervisor. "She's out to lunch" came the reply. Uh
huh, I know there is more than one supervisor. I prove myself correct when
he goes "I will have my manager take a look at this". I pipe in "I thought
she was out to lunch?" "She is", came the reply, "this is a different
one." Uh huh, sure. I yell and scream. Sure Ms. Rabey, we will give you a
call back within the hour, utmost urgency.
Its now three hours later, and still no call back. I call my fucktoy again.
(Or at this point, should I say, ex fucktoy) and he tells me UPS has been
calling him. Great. He's got the reciept, but no tracking numbers. I get
angry. I get really angry. I am debating on whether or not I should call
UPS, depending on how high my blood pressure is at this point.
Back to the task at hand. My bf is out of town. I get nosy and prowl
through his machine. I wonder if I am breaking any trust laws here ;) I
found out that I am not. hehehe..Nothing interesting, in fact, he wiped it
clean before I moved. Last night I hung out with our housemates. The female
spilled the beans on him. *laugh* She likes me, and everything I *felt*
about him was confirmed through her. I wonder if men really know how silly
they actually are... ;)
And this rant is more or less a cornicopia on whats going on in my mind
during the day. Nothing is coherent or even really related, except for very
indirect ideas. But can you imagine if life was really that simple?
Sometimes the fact that I just upped and moved 2300 miles without a care in
the world frightens me. I wonder if I really am that careless. I wonder
about responsibilities. In June I will be 25, and that scares me. Said bf
keeps telling me that its all down hill from here on in. I take away his
sparkle fun toothpaste (which I bought no less!) and tell him to bite me.
I don't want to grow old and I surely don't want to be old.
And said bf is also pushing 30, which he will be next year. Its funny how
childlike we are. He loves his 'wowwies' and it is nothing for me to buy
bags of them to shut him up when he's being grouchy. He acts like a little
'puppy' and for all his bravedo, and all his talk, I wonder WHAT his
friends would think if they knew he was really like this..a big giant teddy
bear ;)
I laugh when I think about the dangerous game I am playing. I've stolen his
heart haven't I? And now what do I intend to do with it?
Well boys and girls, that would require a lifetime of thinking.
simunye
5-13-97
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
We Sure Bitch A Lot
-------------------
We sure do bitch alot. No, I'm serious. The disenchanted youth of today
and we writers of FUCK specifically seem to relish complaining and
contemplating the worst points in life. I admit that there is much to be
disatisfied about. Life today seems to be a never ending series of
incongruous moments filled with confusion and frustration. Being young we
are members of the most disenfranchised and discriminated minority in
America. Why shouldn't we bitch?
But perhaps there is a secondary perspective that we are overlooking.
Being young, every new difficulty and every new setback dominates that
particular moment. Without a complete background mosaic of life experience
we suffer each wrong without the benefit of comparable crisis. In simpler
terms, we lack the wisdom that is often necessary to handle the stresses
and tribulations of living.
It seems then that we are truly born to suffer, but I would like to suggest
an alternative. Before life has another chance to slap you in the face,
take a moment now and tally up the last year. Actually open up your word
processor and write down all the successes and accomplishments of the
previous twelve months. If you are in the pits currently, this may be
extrordinarily difficult, but try anyway. For instance, let me offer you
a few of the items from my list to give you some ideas.
- I read 42 books in the last 12 months including Atlas Shrugged
and Desert Solitaire, two of the most meaningful books I have
ever read.
- I realized I was in love with the right person.
- I took a new job and got a huge raise.
- I built two new computers.
- I developed my juggling hobby and performed at my first show.
- I went back to college.
This purpose of this list is to serve as an alternative to internalizing
your pain and to serve as a outline for your continued growth. The next
time you are dealing with some serious bullshit, take a moment and review
your list. In addition add any new entries that come to mind. If you do
this you will be able to more easily step back from your problem and view
it in a wider context. This is guaranteed to relieve stress and possibly
lead you to the solution to whatever problem is plaguing you at the moment.
Of course one list may not be the appropiate idiom for you. For instance
I maintain a list of all books I've read and when I finished them. I keep
detailed notes on my work accomplishments as an addendum to my resume.
I keep a list of all the juggling tricks I know too. Jericho of FUCK is
another example. This man has a fucking list for everything. For instance,
he completely catalogues every idea he has for a story or essay.
The point is, that everyone of us, no matter what the odds, has the
potential for not only happiness, but for greatness. Everyone us is
unlimited being that can accomplish whatever goal we truly desire. There
is no need to wallow in misery every time you get screwed. Simply compare
your problems to your accomplishments and you will realize the great success
that you really are.
DeadKat
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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I don't like chick-flicks
-------------------------
How can you say that, as a guy, and not get "the look". How can you 'fess
up to the fact you don't like sappy, romantic, heart-felt films without
looking the standard issue, testosterone-fueled, remote-hogging,
car-fixing, sports-watching, Arine-cheering, guy? It's simple - I don't
like chick-flicks.
I didn't like "Sleepless in Seattle", I didn't like "Pretty Woman", I won't
see "Steel Magnolias", and I can't STAND "Ghost". I don't like 50% of the
"romantic comedies". I did like "When Harry Met Sally", but let's not push
it. If there is woman, a man, and romance at risk facing almost
insurmountable odds, I'd just as soon be on HOLD with Microsoft tech support
than sit through the *@&%!# credits of "Beaches".
Why? Well back off already, 'cause it's NOT for the reason you think. I
also don't need 8,300 rounds of ammo and the explosion of the Nagatomi
building to make a film; It's not because I'm "afraid to love" (hel-lo
1980's...); and it's not because I'm worried about having the 'guys' catch
me weeping at the end of "Tears of Endearment". So then, why?
Because they are not realistic. I'd believe that "Return of the Jedi" was
based on actual events before I'd find chick-flicks believable.
Let's take "Pretty Woman" as an example. First off, I found pairing of
Stallone and Estelle Getty more convincing in "Stop or MY Mom Will Shoot"
(and to save my credibility, no, I didn't see it...), than the billionaire
and the hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold combo. Secondly, if Bill Gates can
hook up, I am POSITIVE that lonely billionaires can meet women without
resorting to prostitutes.
It's not really the discrepancies that make these movies so bothersome
either. I'd just as soon try to explain the physical realities in a Road
Runner cartoon than take action/adventure head-to-head with romantic-drama.
I think it's the standard you are suddenly held to that makes them to
painful to bear.
Gentlemen, how many times have you seen a click-flick with a girlfriend,
and suddenly been faced with the question, "Why don't you do that for me?"
"Do what? Propose to a hooker?"
"NO, I mean romance me like that."
"I dunno...maybe because you weren't a hooker?"
"I'M NOT SAYING THAT. I MEAN would you do all that for me?"
"You mean pick up a hooker?"
You get the idea.
See one of these movies, and suddenly you're romantically inadequate. All
of the sudden you are expected to fill a room with roses, fly in by
helicopter to propose, or travel cross-country on a moped to say you're
sorry. I can't deal with the stress. At least when I see Bruce Willis
escape an explosion attached to a fire hose, I KNOW that there is NO WAY
I'll been held to that standard anytime soon.
The closest I want to get to a chick-flick is "The Crow". Why? Because
if my girlfriend asked me "Would you come back from the dead to avenge my
death?", I could say "Yes" and sit on my laurels after that. You know
why? 'CAUSE I'LL NEVER HAVE TO! In fact, I'd be MORE than glad to send
a gang of thugs to their graves for m'lady - but cut this "meet me on top
of the Empire State at such-and-such remote-date-in-the-future" shit in
order to prove my affections.
I've got nothing against this type of movie if I see it alone. When I'm
not watching with my girlfriend, at least I can't but it in the proper
prospective as far as being a work of fiction. But if this shit doesn't
let up, next time I see "Raiders of the Lost Ark", I'M gong to start asking
why SHE won't drink a bunch of guys in Nepal under the table, mow down a
group of Nazis with anti-aircraft gun, and find religious artifacts with
me anymore....
- capone
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Who's Net Is It?
----------------
There are a few things about the internet that you should be
aware of. The following facts and information were collected from
various articles posted to mailing lists, usenet groups, and
web pages.
=-=
Domain Name registration used to be handled by NSF (National Science
Foundation).
National Science Foundation has turned domain name registration over
to Network Solutions Inc (NSI).
NSI was purchased by Scientific Applications International Corporation
(SAIC) in May 1995
=-=
Over the years SAIC's relationship with the government has had its ups
and downs. A quick check of public databases shows that:
In 1990 SAIC was indicted by the Justice Department on 10 felony
counts for fraud in its management of a Superfund toxic cleanup
site. (SAIC pleaded guilty.)
In 1993 the Justice Department sued SAIC, accusing it of civil
fraud on an F15 fighter contract.
In May 1995, the same month SAIC purchased NSI, the company
settled a suit that charged it had lied about security system
tests it conducted for a Treasury Department currency plant in
Fort Worth, TX. (The company paid the government $125,000 to cover
the cost of the investigation as part of that settlement.)
=-=
SAIC's board members include:
Admiral Bobby Inman, former NSA head and deputy director of the CIA
Melvin Laird, Nixon's Secretary of Defense
retired General Max Thurman, Commander of the Panama Invasion
Donald Hicks, former head of research & development for the Pentagon
Donald Kerr, former head of the Los Alamos National Laboratory.
Recently departed board members include
former CIA director Robert Gates
current Secretary of Defense William Perry
current CIA director John Deutch
Anita Jones, Deutch's procurement officer when he was at the Pentagon.
=-=
Current SAIC government contracts include:
Re-engineering information systems at the Pentagon
Automation of the FBI's computerized fingerprint identification system
Building a national criminal history information system
=-=
SAIC describes themselves as: (http://www.saic.com/)
Science Applications International Corporation, SAIC, is the
largest employee-owned research and engineering company in
the United States. Based in San Diego and international in
scope, SAIC offers a broad range of expertise in technology
development and analysis, systems development and
integration, technical support services, and high technology
hardware and software products. SAIC scientists and
engineers work to solve complex technical problems of
significance to federal, commercial, and international
customers in a variety of market areas, including: Energy,
Environment, Government, Health Care Technology, Information
Technology, Internet, Telecommunications and Transportation.
Founded by a small group of scientists in 1969, SAIC has had
a continuous record of growth in its financial performance
and technical scope. SAIC attributes its success to a
decentralized, flexible working environment which promotes
and rewards technical excellence, individual initiative, and
entrepreneurship. Our ability to attract and retain the best
qualified people, coupled with an environment that fosters
team building, has led to 27 years of sustained growth --
with 22,254 employees, more than 350 locations world-wide,
and annual revenues exceeding $2.2 billion.
Today, SAIC generates about 85 percent of its business
through federal government contracts. In the last few years,
the company has been transitioning its extensive experience
in advanced systems and software engineering to benefit
commercial and international clients.
=-=
Recent Results
Revenues for the 1996 fiscal year ending on January 31
totaled $2.2 billion, an increase of almost 12% over last
years total of $1.9 billion. Net earnings were $57 million,
up 17% over the prior years net earnings of $49 million.
At years end, SAIC's firm order backlog was approximately
$1.1 billion, a 10% increase over 1995's backlog.
This represents the 27th consecutive year of revenue and
earnings growth for SAIC, solidifying its position as one of
the most successful employee owned companies in the United
States.
And viable SAIC certainly is. As their annual report shows, the
company, with over 20,000 employees and 450 locations around the
world, reported $1.9 billion in gross revenues in 1994. Over 90% of
its income was generated by government contracts -- more than half of
that from defense, intelligence, and federal law enforcement
contracts.
=-=
So what does that leave us? A net run by a bunch of spooks and ex-spooks,
all with strong ties to companies and organizations capable of doing
anything. If the SAIC wants to shut down the net, they could. If they
want to monitor all traffic and search for keywords, they can. There is
no way to stop them from controlling the routing of traffic on the net.
Imagine, this text file gets spread to hundreds or thousands of people
over the net as it is released. There is a good chance that every time
it does, it is tripping an alarm so to speak, and being copies for later
review by a SAIC employee. That kind of monitoring by past and present
government officials seems to be a curse the net must live with now.
Remember, anything you send on the net should be treated as if you are
handing it out on flyers at your favorite street corner. Act as if everything
you send on the net is going to be read by thousands of people.
If that bothers you, take the time to learn about encryption and ways
to protect your privacy. Become active in current politics that affect
the way the net grows. Just be aware.
.dis.
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Technology and Adults - Part II
-------------------------------
I have felt it for a couple of months now. I fought the feelings off, but
they returned again and again. Now I can't stand it any longer. This could
be a very long piece here, but I have decided to keep it short. I just don't
fucking care any longer.
I decided to build a new computer a few weeks ago. No problem; it's not
rocket science. So I thought. Dozens of standards, half proprietary. All
bundled with useless software you don't need or can't use. Every box has
a "Works with Windows 95" sticker on it. As if there is any other OS out
there in the sea of idiots using computers these days. The salesman couldn't
tell the difference between a CD and floppy disc. Their response to a
question they can't answer is to help another customer, leaving you with
your dick in your hand.
There are walls and walls of CD software. They don't have FreeBSD. "We
don't get to choose what we get, it just comes in." That explains why ten
thousand CDs are on the wall, with an 85% off sale and still no one is
buying them. Three people are standing next to me. They all want FreeBSD.
Strangely, I find a copy of 2.1.6 behind a lame strip pinball game. I had
to return it the next day as I found out that particular version was
recalled due to a serious and fatal security flaw. The store knew it, but
sold it to me anyway.
I spent serious money buying ultra-optimized components that were on the FAQ
sheet as compatible with FreeBSD. Once completed, this system could rape
your mother and stick your computer system up her ass with time to spare.
But it was not to be. See, all these fucking pieces of hardware has weird
shit to them that you never learn about until you've read all the
documentation, their web site, and have spent three hours on the phone to
tech support. End result is that I returned every single piece of hardware
I bought two to three times over.
Every fucker I talked to assumed I had Windows 95. Ninety percent of them
had never heard of UNIX, and the ten percent that did didn't know shit about
it. One thought it was a video game. No one supported UNIX environments,
meaning you were on your own.
A call to a friend led to a recommendation to a store that has k-rad 31337
UNIX hardware guys. I called them and explained my problems. "Sure. No
problem. We can fix it like yesterday." I haul my 35" tower across town on
the subway, and when I get there, they didn't want to talk to me until I
told them the name of the person I talked to on the phone. "Geez, I didn't
ask." I ended up hauling my system back home. See, customers are scum and
not worthy of attention unless you know the name of the person you spoke to,
and this is not limited to just the computer world.
I realized that all of this effort and headache was just so I could basically
read my email. Yes, a few other things, but email was a large part of it. I
wondered why I was going through all this. I thought back over the last few
months of on-line life. You know what? I decided I didn't care anymore. Fuck
computers. There is so much more to life than sitting in front of a keyboard.
I took my system, with what few parts were left, and put it in my closet.
Out of sight and out of mind. I will pull it out only if I really, really
feel like getting back on-line someday. Don't hold your breath.
Not that I will miss much. I will not miss the thousands of losers who feel
they are so much more important now that they have an email account. People
who feel that their opinion means anything to me. The endless whining over
spam mail and people who post off-topic messages. As if hitting the delete
button is gonna cost them their left nut. The fucking losers who come out
of nowhere left and right wanting or claiming to be a hacker. And to answer
all those assholes who email me wanting me to guide them on the road to
"eliteness," here is your answer: Join a book club or get a library card.
See, if you are not buying or reading three new books a week, then you are
a lost sale to the condom companies. A gleam in the eyes of two drunk losers
who fucked around one night and got pregnant.
The cyberlife. The superinformation highway. The digerati. The wired world.
What the fuck is this all about? And who cares about hackers hacking this or
that, child pornography, on-line scams, children downloading "inappropriate
material," email chain letters, privacy issues, etc, etc, etc. News flash:
pull the fucking plug. Now they can hack me all I want, as I have the most
secure system in the world - one that is not plugged in.
See, my life is total chaos; a side-effect from too much time in front of
the computer, with just a touch a never being home because of my job to
boot. I have vision problems, and have for years. Never had time for glasses,
or the money. When I returned my third hard drive in as many days because of
bad quality control, which is the only consistent industry standard today, I
bought contact lenses and glasses. Now I can see. Colors are brilliant, and
the detail is like nothing I've seen in twenty years. Much better investment
than a having a hard drive to hold all my useless files from useless
software.
I don't have two forms of ID, so I can't open a bank account at a new bank.
My old account is pretty much useless, as they change their account holder
policies on a daily basis. No consistency, no notification. You never know
what will happen until you get to the counter. They seem to forget that it
is my money. I have to prove the source of my income before I can withdraw
funds before the six day holding period. A period that didn't exist
yesterday, and I was never notified of the new policy, despite the fact
they said it was mailed out in the statement. Hmmm. I couldn't find it on
my statement. A different teller gives me my money two hours later when I
return without even flinching. Today I repeat the same shit with the teller
who didn't flinch the day before, but for different policies that came from
nowhere.
I travel a lot. 212,000 miles this year so far, and it's only mid-may. I've
written twenty-seven checks to one airline in the last six months with no
problem. I have never bounced a single check. Last week they wouldn't take
my check because it didn't match the address on my ID. Well, I live in two
different cities. The check had a valid San Francisco address, and my ID
had a valid San Diego address. "Policy," she says. Hmmm. It was never a
problem before. Another airline takes my check with no problem.
Continental employs the most miserable people in the industry. Short on
customer service, big on attitude. Curt and uncaring. I hold a first class
ticket and boarding pass in my hand, bought three hours ago at full fare,
and she won't let me on the plane because my name is not on the passenger
list. I told her I have valid tickets and boarding passes, and to let me
on. Not her problem. I have to check in a second time. No one smiles, no
one cares, it's all the computers fault. Call customer service, and all
they can say is that they've won many awards for customer service, so I
couldn't possibly be telling the truth. I told her to shove her awards up
her ass and dance for me like a slut.
And let me tell you about people who use computers in their job. They should
all have their dicks cut off and shoved into their mouths, left to bleed to
death in the fucking street. Everywhere you call, the computer system is
always down. They can't help you until "somebody" fixes it. I walk into a
hotel last week. I told them I was there a month earlier. Big fucking
mistake. Never, ever, ever, never, ever tell a business that you are
anything other than a new customer; you have never been there before in your
life as far as they need to know. See, I told him this, and he thinks, "Hey,
he's been here before, so all of his information is in the computer, so I
can save him the sixty seconds of filling out the form again by looking his
stuff up on the computer." Five minutes later he is still looking for my
records. He insists on finding me in the database. The one minute I could
have saved turns into a six minute deficit. All in the name of customer
convenience.
This last example plays out all over the world in every corner of business.
Computers were to make life easier for everyone, except no one knows how to
turn computers on, thereby losing all possible advantage of having one. I
have stayed at first class hotels, with pre-paid reservations, only to find
that they had no record of my reservation. Not until I show them the credit
card statement and argue with them for twenty minutes, while they poke around
the database in vain, they hand me a form and ask me to re-register. Why
did I bother in the first place? I have more credits on my statement than
charges, as I have double paid almost everything these days.
Technology and adults and the bastard offspring combined when you put the
two together. Will someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?
se7en
5/17/97
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Louie Armstrong's Sunday Afternoon
----------------------------------
After going through what had seamed to be a eternity of virtual
imprisonment, I decided that I needed a change. Casting off the shadows of
my dark abode, I traveled to a place were the frozen grip of suburban hells
could not find me.
When I arrived in the promised land of downtown, it became easier to
breath the sweet car emission filled air. The sky was not filled with
yuppies judgment and expectations but instead it had taken on a
non-judgemental "I don't give a shit" blue sky. The people around me did not
walk with time's mechanical death grip, but instead walked without care or
purpose. It seemed as though here emotions were allowed to be displayed in
a way that would strangle the 60 hour, work your life away world.
The trees and birds usually ignored and abused by the rest of the week,
were now being as loud a possible to make up for lost time.
Ultra-conservative business men and bad ass bikers let go of their pride
and co-existed in traffic. Old men in tired old faces thought about lost
love and lost faces.
In the park, yuppies in stupid clothing and armed with overpriced
exercise equipment fought a futile battle with the Reaper for a few more
seconds of life. Skaters taking advantage of the virtually empty sidewalks,
took upon themselves to infest the streets and enjoy the day.
Canadian geese with Mexican tourist tans and suitcases full of souvenirs,
stood on the ice and were spoon feed by elderly and children. Office
buildings who spent most of the week nervous and stressed spent today
relaxing and preparing for Mondays onslaught. The wind, tired of being
burdened with it's collection of car noises and pointless commentary,
decided to restyle my hair in some odd fashion.
I walked into a coffee shop to feed my caffeine addiction. At the counter
there was a girl with bright and short cherry red hair and a nice smile. She
did her best not to laugh out loud at the sight of my hair or to spill my
coffee.
Believing that I had left time back in the wastes of the suburban hellhole,
I leisurely drank my coffee and let my eyes take in the afternoon. Without
reason and or warning, time caught me in my downtown nirvana and without a
shred of mercy dragged me kicking and screaming back to the cold suburban
hell.
Now I am back in this cold and unrelenting hell, clone like idiots do
horrible impressions of Beavis and Butthead, and the same dismal sky is above
my head. If it were not for that day of escape I would have most likely have
ended my pointless existence here and now with a bloody exclamation mark on
the wall. As I write this I can feel that day embrace me and for awhile keep
the trails and hells of a superficial life away from me. As I think back to
that day, I thought I recalled old Louie and his froggie voice singing that
in fact it was a wonderful world after all.
Sick_boy
bridley@cabler.cableregina.com (ask for Sick_boy)
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Men are children
----------------
That's correct. My title isn't off. No, I am not femi-nazi bitch from hell.
Men are children pure and simple.
And where do I get off with this lovely piece of anthology? Simple. I have
dated enough men, all various backgrounds, to prove my theory correct.
Now, this really depends on what kind of woman YOU are. If you are a simple
minded, whiny, can't move a muscle without a yes or a no from your man,
then obviously, men are not children to you. They dominate you, even the
weak ones, because of the high amount of insecurities they have.
On the flipside, if your strong minded, independent, and have a brain,
figuring out men is a piece of cake.
Where does my evidence come from? Like I said, I have dated enough men,
with various backgrounds to make this assumption. My proof is in the
pudding (an obviously how many of my ex's still want me back). Call me
conceited, call me a bitch, tell me to pull the poker out of my ass, I care
not young jealous person. For if I wasn't right, I wouldn't be putting my
proof down on paper.
How are men like children?
Lets look at my bf. He's an intelligent guy. His degree is from a fairly
prestigious university. He is a 'computers security expert'. He is well
known and feared in his work. He is arrogant, objectivistic, snobby and
very opinionated. But give me five minutes, and he is on his knee's in front
of me.
In order to get what you want from men, you coddle them. They put up with
this 'macho male attitude' bullshit day in and day out all of their lives.
And when they date women, they have become so accustomed to being 'pricks'
that they feel that they have to be dominate in the relationship as well.
If they meet a semi-strong or higher woman, they instantly back away and
call her everything from 'illogical' to 'irrational' to 'femi-nazi bitch'!
Why? Because a 'strong' woman can see through that bullshit in less then
five minutes. We are an attack to their system, and they in turn, put all
the defenses up to deal with it.
Men in general, from my studies of my own relationships and others
reletionships, have a hard time defining who they are. Media has warped
them so badly into being this 'male macho man' that they literally will
have to be the almighty prick from hell in order to function. They 'need'
release, but to admit that they are 'weak' or 'submissive' in any field:
bedroom, personal life, what have you, is to stipulate they are failures,
and heaven forbid that a male be a failure at something in his life. And
when women, in general, find out that the man is 'submissive', they
generally do not want a relationship with him. Women for the most part have
been bred to want the Marlboro Man, and to date RuPaul, is a little
disenchanting.
Men are for the most part, bred to search and destroy. Look at all the mind
fuck games, the using, the abusing, and the other bullshit they do. Now
women are NOT immune to this type of attitude at all, but I am not talking
about how women are children, I am talking about men. Women for the most
part are catty bitches, but that is another rant.
Lets superimpose a guy, no names, not a real person. We will call him
George. George is very successful at what he does. He is highly
intelligent, very strong willed in his daily life, but, he dates mostly
'weak' women. He mindfucks them because its 'easy' and women are dumb
enough to let him do it. Women for the most part all want this fantasy guy
who will not only take charge of their life, but also will take charge in
the bedroom and personal life. This is pure crap. If the man shows any
amount of 'sensitivity', the woman bitches and screams about it. If he
doesn't, she whines about how her bf/fiancee/husband is insensitive to her
needs and out comes the divorce.
Is it any wonder that our roles in reletionships are so fucked? We ALL have
been bred to believe one thing or another from the time we are tiny tots,
and when we get old enough to make decisions, to make choices, we usually
fuck them up because we don't know what is real and what is fantasy.
Now George flops in and out of reletionships. He meets intelligent women,
sure, there are plenty of them out there, but 'strong' women? Those are few
and far between. Someone who will not only put up with the 'bullshit' but
will also break him, if need to, to get the job done. This is no easy task.
The woman George falls in love with, has to be damned sure she wants this
type of responsibility, because if not, he will be more scared for life.
And he will in the future 'mindfuck' helpless women because he was so
badly hurt from said relationship. He needs release, and only will a
strong woman be able to give it to him.
Now many of you will think of this is shit, but that is your personal
opinion. I have noticed, on various lists that I am on, that I if make a
rather 'independent' or 'strong' comment, I am instantly attacked. As one
woman said, its akin to having your hair pulled in the third grade. Guys do
NOT know what to do with women like me, they are enchanted on one hand
because I can usually break them in about five minutes, or they are pissed
off at me because I can break them in about five minutes. Depending on who
the person is, I can usually break them or figure them out, within (you
guessed it) five minutes. Strong women -are- a threat. Lord knows why, but
men never fail to amuse me. Bash me publicly on the list but try and seduce
me privately off list. Its such a joke its not even funny anymore. I just
toss the private mail with the rest of the losers mail for posterity.
Now the way through a strong man's 'heart' is fuck with him.. literally.
Don't take no shit from him. When he picks on you, beat him to the punch
and argue back. If he says something that bothers you, try and talk it out,
if that doesn't work, tell him to fuck off. Don't make yourself available
to him. Other women do that already. Make yourself as humanly unavailable
as you can,even if its not the truth. Be a challenge. Be yourself. And if
you are yourself, then he will fall more easily then a plucked apple. I
realize this is a contradiction, how can you 'be yourself' but yet mind
fuck him? It is easy my friends, because it has to be part of your persona
already, or it won't work.
Coddle him, treat him like he's the only one. Make him submit to you. Train
him to your way of sexual desires. Be a bitch when he's naughty and be a
loving wench when's he good. And never be afraid to spank his little red
wagon.
The downside to this is that majority, if not all, of the males I have meet
react quit violently to this theory. I don't blame them, because in a
sense, if someone told me something about myself, that was inherently true,
I would and have reacted violently. You don't want anyone knowing your
secret innermost thoughts, desires or feelings known, because that is a
vulnerability, which can be dangerous. It is like hacking a box. If you
pinpoint something that is obscure, you can be powerful with your
information. And is it any wonder that 'hacking' brains is so dangerous.
You could (and I have personally) really fuck someone up with that kind of
information.
And this my friends, is how men are like children. You have to either be
stern like his mother was or be a whore like his favorite fantasy. As
stated before, men are apt to be generally so confused as to what their
roles are, they need someone, like me, to sort them out for them, just like
children have to be taught how to define things for themselves. Its like
parenting, with the added bonus of sex. ;)
-simunye
5-14-97
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Gossip Whore
------------
It's nothing new to me or in general, but seems to be prevalent
in my life again. 'Scene politics'. Let me define a few things to make
sure we are on the same wavelength. The scene constitutes any part of
the online word, who meet via computers, phones, or in person. These
people share the same interests typically, be it hacking, phreaking,
or other reasonably specific areas involving computers. Politics in this
instance is seemingly any communications between said people.
I won't go into specific cases for this file even though there
are enough to write several books with. Why not list specific instances
to better prove my point? Because they propagate themselves in doing
so. Seems that every day some new situation arises that causes some
kind of tension or other problems between people in the scene. One of
the most ironic facets of this problem is that everyone involved in
it recognizes the problem, and claims to hate it as much as I do. Yet
it continues on, hanging above us day in and day out.
For two years now, I have had dealings with someone that lives
in my area who is part of the scene. Every week of those years I have
had to watch my back, wondering what he is doing. Outwardly we are good
friends believe it or not. In social situations or in chat rooms, we
get along just fine, maintain that we are friends, and continue on. Yet
once a month I find yet another example of him plotting or scheming for
some kind of hostile activity for me. Many times there is no direct action,
but implied threat. I don't know why I carry on as if we are friends
when I have to watch my back like I do. I guess from here on out I should
act accordingly. This example is not here to point fingers, but to remind
everyone of how accustomed we have become to the workings of this monster.
How does this happen? Forget the 'why', as that can be easily
and quickly explained as "human nature" for my purposes. As for how,
that is quite simple too. No, fuck it. Change of venue. How is not
important either. The reasons do not become the actions, so we will
not dwell on them. The issue at hand that must be realized is just that,
that it is a problem we all seem to face, and that it must end no matter
the cost. This petty bickering and continued backstabbing serves no
purpose but to alienate each other further.
Every time I pause while writing, I keep thinking to myself
that everyone reading this will know of what I speak. That this is by
no means new to anyone over three years old, and that I shouldn't waste
my time with things known to all. So let me cut this short and just
serve this reminder to everyone out there. There are no secrets, especially
when it comes to your feelings about someone else. If you dislike someone,
it will be known to them whether it communicates itself via your own
actions, or the slip of another's tongue. The bigger the secret, or
the more potent the hatred, the longer it will take to escape and find
home in new minds. But do not deceive yourself, it will escape.
In recent days I have found myself caught up in the middle
of yet another ugly situation. I was brought into the mess by the clever
manipulation of one person to another. Through a clever lie, information
was wrongfully passed that prompted one to question me, thus bringing
me into the fray. Instead of yielding to the politic monsters that
consume us, I let my mind be known and put my involvement to rest
at once. My response to the misplaced question the person posed was
less than hospitable. I did not know the person beyond recognition of
name and place, but my dagger-like response lay all doubt aside to
whether I would be part of the ugliness at hand. True, my response
could have been much less bitter, but anything less and my point
would not have been as clear as it was.
This will be my response, my stance, on all scene politics in
the future. I will not be part of anything of the sort. Realization
that friends may be lost in the process is foremost on my mind, but
a necessary evil in the path I have chosen. If you know about what
I describe above, and are equally as sick as I, then cast away your
participation in the game. Face the consequences of your actions
as well as the penalty in doing so, but know that you are ridding
yourself of inordinant amounts of stress and removing yourself
from those tense situations.
The first response from people reading this will be that of
disbelief. Surely it can't be that easy to distance yourself from
these situations. Of course it is that easy. Why wouldn't it be?
You just have to accept that resolve and force your will upon
others. Let it be known that you will not stand for that kind of
silliness, and that you refuse to be even a neutral observer. Completely
remove yourself from the situation as fast as you can, and let things
work themselves out, without your involvement. It can be done,
and it is that simple. Seeing is believing as they say, so I encourage
you to try that. Don't let scene politics be a part of your life,
and make damn sure they don't control any aspect of it.
.dis.
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Hell's Wrath
------------
It started fomenting last week, peaked last night, and the flood gates opened
up this morning. I will spare you the lead up, but for a good idea, read
http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho/www/fuck0054.htm. The cool people
discussed there are the crux of this story.
Not just niggers, but any idiot in general. Except in an unusual twist for a
non-racist person such as myself, this is gonna be about niggers. Yes. Big,
black, ugly, smelly, ass-scratching in public, hand in the waistband,
big-lipped, dumb ass, no education, can't speak English, whiny, oppressed
by the man, Nike wearing, basketball/football watching,
better-than-thou-because-I-am-an-idiot fucking spear chucking niggers.
Damn. I feel better already.
Now, when one is pissed, one needs to carefully select the music that
expresses his rage before he takes it out on his target of the minute. In
this case, I recommend the album "The Great Southern Trendkill" by Pantera.
I am listening to this CD now as I write this. It rox my fro.
So you can see I am pissed. I recently sat next to a few of these morons on
the subway. Two fifteen year old kids, with their pants around their knees
because they don't know how to read a size label. Sitting with their "cool
slouch." They were talking about the latest sports stars, the latest colors
of Nike shoes, the latest sports fashions. They wanted mommy to buy what
they needed to be cool because they are too stupid for anyone to hire so
they can buy this shit themselves. I was fortunate to listen to this insane
babble for over an hour.
On another subway train ride with half of the DoC, another nigger comes on
with his boom-box blasting his rap fuck music. Pete asks him to turn it
down. He gets bent, and the whore next to him (not with him) says "I can't
believe you just said that to him. I can't believe you went there." The
argument ensues under a sign saying "No Radios" for thirty minutes as police
are called and nigger boy talks about how he's going home to get his "nine."
He's all of eighteen years old.
I walk by two of these "cool" chicks on my way to the store. They are talking
loud like niggers always do, arguing that the other is crazy, and this or
that is "fucked up and unfair." I've heard them coming for two blocks. I pass
them with a look of horror on my face. They look at me with the "fuck you
white boy" look on their faces. Yeah, I'm the crazy one.
Taco Bell comes out with a new chicken menu, and who do they get to promote
these items? Black people. And I'm the racist? Now a white man in Taco Bell
is as rare as the dodo bird. Ever see a dumb nigger shove a bean burrito
into their mouth with lips as fucking big as theirs? Not a pretty sight.
I no longer go to Taco Bell. But they are everywhere. Kentucky Fried Chicken,
Nation's Burgers, "Mickey D's." Yes, that's what they call them. I heard it
last week on the way home from the airport. Three niggers arguing for an
hour on how it sucked that there were no fast food restaurants where they
lived. They had to come down to my city to eat at "Mickey D's."
Geez, ever wonder why corporate America doesn't do business in your city?
Because your all a bunch of poor fucking misfits who destroy your own
backyards. No? What about the Rodney King riots? We laughed our fucking
asses off because you thought you were sending a message to the man. All
you did was burn your own fucking neighborhoods. I sat in my nice, white,
suburban home and laughed my ass off watching it on television. And you
complain that the five year anniversary just passed and none of the
businesses have returned to give you jobs and prosperity? You fucking
monkeys. You were their customers, and you torched them out of business.
Now they are making a killing in my nice, white, suburban neighborhood.
They care fuck all about you.
You assholes litter your smelling, homeless asses all over MY streets. Yes,
MY streets. See, unlike you, I pay taxes. And because I don't blame my
problems on the man, and was smart enough to learn, read and write, I make
a lot of money. And I pay more taxes because of it. Excuse me if I can't
give you any spare change because all I have are hundred dollar bills in my
pocket. And why is it when I wear my Walkman, which I never leave home
without anymore so I don't have to listen to these niggers, I see them from
behind my sunglasses asking me for change? Aren't these niggers at least
smart enough to realize that if you can hear my Pantera CD from a hundred
feet away I may not be able to hear you? They ask anyway.
Ha! I walked by two homeless niggers two days ago. They were quiet until
someone walked by with a San Francisco 49'ers t-shirt on. Then the arms
started flailing around and the loud nigger talk started about how this
sports nigger or that sports nigger was fucked, and this or that team was
better. What the fuck was this all about? See, niggers know sports. Niggers
don't know anything else. Well, that's not true. They know Nike's also.
Uh, Ebonics. Yeah. Right. A stupid attempt by the Oakland School District to
get some federal funding in a tight budget time. "Let's get some money and
let these niggers talk as dumb as they really are." You know, you reading
this have heard of Ebonics by now. You are probably so stunned by the
stupidity of it that you still think there is a punchline in there somewhere.
Well, living in the land where it was founded, let me tell you. They are
serious. And they do talk like this out here. No punchline. It is that sad
here.
I read a rant by Dennis Miller last week in a book. "I don't understand
racism. Why judge someone by the color of their skin when if you took the
time to know them as a human being, you can find so many other reasons to
hate them?" What you've read here is not racism. It was getting to know
these assholes as human beings. And I hate them. It just seems the assholes
I hate are all black. I will no longer take your shit you fucking losers. I
am colorblind now. I refuse to see you or ever acknowledge your existence
ever again.
se7en
5/17/96
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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101 Things for Kids to do Instead of Watching Television
--------------------------------------------------------
(In response to 20/20's 9/27/96 story)
1. Play with matches
2. Get drunk
3. Sniff airplane glue/whiteout
4. Stab someone
5. Kidnap television stars & torture them for being part of the
dark television god's evil reign.
6. Throw things at the neighborhood kids.
7. Play "psychotic freak of nature". (gun or knife recommended)
8. Read (Anarchist Cookbook, Satanic Bible, etc.)
9. Pretend you can fly from roof of house. (Better if apartment).
10. Get a job in a sweatshop.
11. Play at park, get injured, sue the state.
12. Punch your little sister in the head.
(If you don't have one, rent someone else's little sister.)
13. Clean the streets (pick up the used condoms, crack vials, etc.)
14. Chant demonic songs.
15. Make tin foil hats to protect your family from Zhantarr.
16. Ride the subway, selling box-cutters.
17. "Explore" the oven.
18. Hop up and down until you die.
19. Become a convicted criminal's "Bendover Buddy".
20. Watch Oprah (Not on TV, of course. Find out where she lives.)
21. Go to the mall naked.
22. Go to Taco Bell and NEVER LEAVE!
23. Collect your hair, nail clippings, and drool.
24. Draw squares in the air and just yell.
25. Walk around the house naked. (Not your house, of course.)
26. Mail tiny glass shards to your friends.
27. Take a crap in the street and scream "Here comes the poopie!"
28. Go to McDonalds' and ask girls to touch your "McNuggets".
29. See how long you can go without bathing.
30. Instead of watching Beavis & Butthead, BE BEAVIS & BUTTHEAD!
31. Make an original flag, and "claim" your neighborhood.
32. Do #31, and punch whoever comes near your flag.
33. Learn about torture. Practice on the family pet.
34. Make a list of things for kids to do without watching TV.
35. Play chess, lose, and jam a Bishop in your opponent's eye.
36. Unsupervised swimming.
37. Find bugs, keep a record of'em, and make'm into a salad.
38. Feed bug salad to friends.
39. Hitchhike.
40. Play in traffic.
41. Search your neighborhood for tall trees and jump out of them.
42. Go to Kmart and ask where they keep the detonation devices.
43. Rape and pillage.
44. Go to Toys'R'Us and ask why Geoffry the giraffe looks queer.
45. Sacrifice animals.
46. Make a will. (Not yours.)
47. Tell everyone that when you grow up, you want to be Satan.
48. Projectile vomiting.
49. Sudden, uncontrolled urination.
50. "Fuck you, clown!".
51. Figure out what #50 meant.
52. Write "EVIL" on your forehead with red ink/food coloring/etc.
53. Put a roll of aluminum foil in the microwave.
54. Put a hamster in the microwave. (What's that screeching noise?)
55. Gag on people.
56. Do the "live wire" macarena.
57. Call people "Worthless whores" and kick them.
58. Ask your parents what happens when you eat glass, and then say
"Ooops!"
59. Get a chainsaw, turn it on, and spin around with your eyes closed.
60. Play "Pimp".
61. Play "Beat the pimp".
62. Try to buy peoples souls.
63. See what foods will make you crap purple.
64. Drink a whole bottle of Nyquil.
65. Feed Alka-Seltzer to pigeons, and stand back.
66. Make up an imaginary friend, and claim it molested you.
67. Eat Kool-Aid MIX. (Go ahead, it's nasty.)
68. Collect the entire set of "Serial Killer Trading Cards".
69. Huh huh... 69...
70. Find dead animals.
71. Leave dead animals on teachers' doorsteps.
72. Get a hooker! All the cool kids do it!
73. Get VD! All the stupid cool kids do it!
74. Go to hacker meetings.
75. Work for Michael Jackson. Play with his toys, blow Bubbles!
76. Sue Michael Jackson!
77. Make a morgue out of cardboard boxes or Lego Blocks.
78. Play Doctor! (Kevorkian, that is.)
79. Decorate your crackpipe.
80. Beat yourself with a hammer (for free "Light-bright" effect).
81. Help corrupt the other youth.
82. Play a rousing game of "Crucifixion".
83. Go permanently, irrevocably insane.
84. Suck up some computer radiation (Mmmmmm... Mutation...)
85. Lick everything you see.
86. Try to figure out what the voices are trying to say.
(You DO hear them, don't you???)
87. Watch "A Clockwork Orange".
88. Call this # - 18003223884
89. Make sculptures out of human waste.
90. Have Molester teach you about "Jackhammer Rape".
91. Ride in the dryer.
92. Watch "Sesame Street" intently for "the hidden evil commands".
93. Set up a stand, but instead of selling lemonade, sell your sister.
94. Make up a good excuse for your sister being missing.
95. Smoke crayons.
96. Get on a table, fall off, and yell "I'm Bob Dole."
97. Eat fingerpaint.
98. Bring home a Leper.
99. Help me, I want to stop typing but I can't. My hands just won't stop. I think I may have to kill them, they talk about murdering me, while I'm asleep. Oh no, they know my thoughts. Help. Help. He
100. Kill the useless bastard you're attached to.
101. Ready the television for more watching.
by /<2F>NARCHY of the AoC - agentsofchaos@geocities.com
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Losing It
---------
Nervous fingers clumsy undid the first few buttons on my jeans, exposing
untouched skin. Slowly I laid down on the large cold metal chair, in the
corner of the room and shut my eyes....mentally preparing myself for what
was about to happen. I felt him, inching closer, my body now tense with a
mixture of fear and anticipation. His breath against my navel, icy like a
cold winters night, sent shivers racing down my spine. Desperately I fought
to silence the voices screaming in my mind ...YES!..NO!...STOP!...GO!
I heard his voice, "Relax this will only hurt for a minute, and its
smooth sailing from there". I tried to concentrate on the low buzzing
sound that seemed to be amplified by the four white walls. I stuck in what
became my self-induced prison. A surge of pain rushed through me with the
fierceness of a lighting bolt. To late for second thoughts......
FUCK...FUCK...FUCK
He was in and continued to jab his instrument into my skin. Breaking the
thin barrier that separated us, realizing a drop of blood that slowly
trickled down my inner thigh. He insisted on rambling trying to make
light of the situation. I refused to smile, or even budge, the fear of
moving and distorting what was happening kept me firmly in place. I
became his canvas, submissive to the sting of his touch.
After listening to the tick-tok of my wrist watch for what seemed to be
an eternity (in reality it was only forty minutes), it was over. A thick
creamy white gel covered my wound of tainted purity.
I stood up and buckled my jeans with a new found confidence. Walking
out of that room a new-found freedom spread through me faster then
the plague, I felt as if I could fly, the only thing that kept me grounded
was the pain I still carried, a badge of experience. Walking through
the streets of the east village, I wondered how many others shared my secret.
Stained innocence a small price to pay for the orgasmic mixture of pleasure and
pain I felt at that moment.
Although defiance is a drug more addicting then heroin; I prayed my
mother wouldn't find out. I could hear her saying, "Nice girls don't do
things like that." Standing in my room with the full moon my only
companion, I got undressed and removed the bloody napkin from my hip.
Slowly unveiling the blue rose that had become a permanent part of me.
-bluerose
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
The Past Revisited
------------------
I haven't done this in quite awhile.
Things have changed so much in the last month. The girl
I wanted so badly to like me in return does, yet I am not
satisfied. The girl I was so marvelously infatuated with
does not even bring a smile to my face any longer. I don't
really seem to need any female support to keep me upright.
Seems like these days I feel like I'm fading away.
Maybe I am afraid that I don't want to develop a relationship
with someone I really care about because I will lose them
next year when I attend Western Reserve Academy. It really
is quite scary. I'll be separated from everyone and everything
that I love. I don't know why that scares me so much. I
really don't care about too many people.
I feel like a shadow in my own world. Relationships that
used to prosper are down in the doldrums. Girlfriends of
the former have gone straight, renounced their cyberpunk
garb. They have became the uniform straights that inherit
the Earth. I spoke with them today. I was nearly overwhelmed
by the immensity of their minds that had been shattered and
disillusioned by perhaps the commercialism or perhaps the
competition that has arisen on the Internet. It's just all
a dark cloud of evil and betrayal, lies, and corporate denial.
I lost someone else that I very much enjoyed my friendship
with for another stupid error. Just had to use my idiocy to
break up another great relationship. Had to insult one of
those whose personality I very much enjoyed, and whom hates
my guts savagely now. Not much I can do about it. There
probably is, I'm just too lazy. Maybe.
I just spoke to my grandfather that lives out in Colorado.
I tried to humor him a bit. Sometimes I feel that elders
of the society feel a bit downtrodden and downcast in
today's world of technology and information. The gods and
contemporary values that they modeled their lives after
are by day being destructed by the malefactors of society.
Sometimes I wish I lived in a simple era. Something like
the thirties. Maybe the economy was slow, but the heartbreak
and turmoil in lives was so much less. I'm not sure how I
know this. I'm not sure really.. about anything.
Leave me alone. That's what I want to say alot of
the time to everyone. I wake up and I'm fucking tired.
But I drag myself out of a hellacious nights sleep and
throw myself into some clothes and make a dash out of
the door trying to make it to the clang of a bell. I'm
a trained negro, in the words of Ice Cube. And hell, I'm
not even black. I guess I am special.
I also understand that I have accomplished much. I
see that I have had many things to be proud of this
year. Constantly I try to renew my interests in a variety
of subjects and to keep abreast of developments that are
under way in all aspects of my life. I invested in a book
on organizing my personal life. Works pretty well. Seems
like it'd work. Lots of things seem that way. It'll take
time to put the theory into practice. Proactivity is a
tough course to take, and tougher one to pass.
"She's tired and lonely, scared and depressed." Yup.
She keeps losing the one's she loved too. I remember
the days the two of us were together. But now it seems
like every tie I had to her is severed and lost in the
cybernetic void that is the Internet. Her boyfriend is
being investigated, seems like he's taking the path of
outlawish tactics, much like the others she so cleverly
manipulated into loving her. She still brings a smile
to my face.
This girl that likes me says she is going to commit
suicide. She has the perfect life. I tell her she is
fucking stupid. Maybe I contribute to her apathy for
herself. I don't even care.
I want to go back to the way things were but I want to
go on as well. I want to put the skeletons of the former
me far away. Never to be found.
I'm glad I got this out.
-dropcomm
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
You speak to me in riddles, you speak to me in rhymes
-----------------------------------------------------
One thing I hate about my sleeping habits is that I am up, constantly. My
body clock is so wacked that half the time, I am up all hours of the night
and sleep very little. Some how or another it doesn't seem to alter my
cheery disposition though.
But the one thing I like about this 'downtime' is that I feel alone,
literally, while the world sleeps. Living on the west coast now, watching
the clock tick hours, and knowing that the majority of the US is fast
asleep, slumbered in their beds snug as a bug in a rug. It is almost a
powerful feeling, as if its just me against the world, and that empowers
me a bit.
When I get like this, I get very melancholy. I like reading some of my
old writings that are still private (ie not on-line), reading through
email that I sent out or received from ex-lovers. Listening to music that
sets the mood (like Sarah McLachlin). My mind starts shutting down and I
notice how that it is during this time that I can actually function at a
slightly different rate then before.
During the day, my mind is running at such a speed that I need "to break"
in order to get relief. I need to sit back and think about things,
regardless of the relevancy of them, so that I can relax and go "yes, I am
alive after all".
Music helps set the mood because I can then break down and 'feel'
something. All too often I have been called a 'heartless bitch" because I
can be quit mean or cold. And I know that I am quit guilty of it, and yet
I still do it anyways. Often I wonder why I still behave that way.
Sometimes, being the masochist that I am, I put myself through situations
over and over again, in my mind, analyzing why I react the way I do,
wondering why I make compensations for some people while I am merciless on
others. Wondering why I do the things I do. Folding, extracting, folding
again.
There is something magical about the night. Something almost erotic in the
way the sky glows with stars, the world is shutting down, the air if I
stand outside feels almost silky against my skin, regardless of the
temperature. It feels almost forbidden, and in many ways, I like it like
that. It makes it more "mine". Makes me feel more "alone" and perhaps a
bit more elitest.
This is such the perfect time for so many things. Making love. Dreaming.
Writing. Thinking. Staring off into the stars wondering about all the
million and one possibilities that could occur in your lifetime. In my
lifetime.
This is my time. This is my world. This is my domain. This is where I can
rule and where I will survive. This is where I can be most free, to shed
all the masks and become more real to not only myself but to those I
choose to share it with me.
This is where I dream. To shape and to discover what is going on, to see
if what I am doing, regardless of the situation, is right for me. To think
of the future, to mourn the past. To live in the moment. To love
unconditionally, to feel loved and to be loved. To feel desired. To
desire.
Because regardless of when its said and done:
I won't be denied.
by simunye
5-20-97
2:25 am PST
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Welcome to Vietnam
------------------
We left New York City's Kennedy Airport on a commercial
flight on June 28, 1971 - there were many young boys on this
flight. We flew to San Francisco, Hawaii, and Okinawa where
we transferred to a military transport C-130. As we approached
South Vietnam, the pilot came over the broadcast system, "Welcome
to DaNang, South Vietnam, it's approximately `105<30> outside'
and DaNang is presently `engaged in a rocket and mortar attack.'
DaNang was the largest military installation in that part of
Vietnam. Suddenly, the `top' (Staff Sergeant) screamed at
us to "gear up" in preparation to disembark the plane. Just
as suddenly, approximately 200 troops jumped up in anticipation,
hustling our "rucks" (ruck sacks with gear weighed in at about
60-70 pounds) onto our backs. You could feel the tension build.
You could see the "flashes of light" on the darkened tarmac
as we made our approach. There was this odor permeating the
cargo section of our plane. Guys were "shitting their pants",
from the true realization of the impending doom about to engulf
us. We touched down and began to taxi away from the buildings
where the "incoming" mortars and rockets were being directed.
The back cargo door opened and the "top" and other "non-coms"
began to frantically yell instructions to us. We lurched forward
until we hit the "peta-prime" tarmac (a tar-like substance which
stuck to the soles of your boots), and began to run some 100
meters (approximately 300 yards) to the buildings. Before we
began to "sprint" across the tarmac with full pack, the heat
came up and grabbed us like a "steam vice". Sweat was pouring
out of us like a broken runaway faucet. It suddenly dawned
on me - today was my "Graduation Day" from high school. Happy
Graduation Day - hope you learned a lot, welcome to the real
world - Vietnam. While running across the tarmac amid the
confusion and chaos, a brilliant flash of light and a deafening
sound broke my concentration. As if in slow motion, one of
the guys took a direct hit, severing his leg just above the
knee. He seemed to float through the air, landing several meters
away, from where his leg lay. His screaming from the pain and
the frantic calls for "medic", propelled the scene from slow
motion to fast forward. Someone grabbed him, then another,
and they dragged him the remaining distance. A medic scooped
up the remains of his leg and followed them into the barracks.
Thirty seconds in the Nam and he was going home without his
leg... Welcome to the Nam. Thus, our initiation to the Nam had
begun.
Within a two hour period, we had our deployment papers
and everyone was departing for destinations unknown. The
loneliness and fear were overwhelming. There was this "grunt"
over in the corner chain-smoking cigarettes. He just sat there
staring, at nothing. When he looked up, he had this strange,
weird stare, almost like he was looking right through you.
(The Grunts in the bush called it the "thousand yard stare").
I would see that look many more times during my tour of duty.
In fact, I had that stare for much of my time in the Nam.
It was daylight as we approached our new home. We had
been traveling for over 36 straight hours and time was a blur.
Interestingly, as one progressed through his tour of duty,
accuracy in time became more important as we all charted the days
left before we could rotate home to the "world". When you were
officially "short" (90 days or less before rotating out), you
could tell anyone at any time how much time was left on your
tour - almost to the minute! We were going to base camp situated
next to the village of My Tho. We were in the region of South
Vietnam known as the Mekong Delta, assigned to the 9th infantry
Division. The base camp had been under attack for over 24 hours,
The men were tired, frustrated, and zonked out from the "adrenalin
high". The surge of adrenalin that one experiences during a
"fire-fight" is amazing. It carries you, propels you, almost
magically through fatigue, pain and fear. As new arrivals,
we had no idea what we were getting into. We landed and the
new guys, also referred to as: "newbe", "new guy", and the
favorite "F.N.G." (fucking-new-guy), were greeted by the order
- F.N.G.'s load the "bags" onto the chopper before reporting
for duty. The bags were body bags which contained the remains
of the dead guys going home. While handling this repulsive
task, we were reminded that we could be going home any day,
in similar fashion. I would one day learn that all of this,
and what was to come that first day was part of the process
to initiate me into the unbelievable world of the "bush". We
reported to the C.O. (Commanding Officer) bunker only to find
out that he was dead. The "Top" was acting C.O., so we found
"Top". "Top" was a "lifer" (career army soldier), and we
realized that he was terribly bigoted and ignorant. We were
immediately paired off and given our assignments. Our assignment
(myself and a black guy from Chicago) was to "bury the Gooks",
who were "hanging on the wire" (concerta wire - strung around
the perimeter of the camp). The heat in that region averaged
107<30>-110<31> daily. The bodies were bloated and decomposing due
to this intolerable heat. All I could think of was home - and
the amenities I would so desperately miss. Things like a bed,
soap, toilet paper, and flush toilets, cold liquids, a shower,
hamburgers, and any hot food. We couldn't stand the smell,
it overwhelmed us. We began to vomit violently. Naturally,
we attracted some attention from the weary grunts watching us.
We were entertaining them. After all, anything would be "funny"
considering what they had been through. They started to sit
around us, relaxing, drinking warm beer (Vietnamese or American),
or smoking joints, watching the "show" - the "F.N.G. Show".
We couldn't stop, every time we breathed in the odor...and they
howled at us - Welcome to the Nam.
After the "show" and our assignment completed, we had two
more lessons to be learned, unbeknownst to us. "Top" called
all of the F.N.G.'s together. We stood in a semi-circle around
him and a dead V.C. "sapper". Outside of the semi-circle were
some grunts, watching us, "looking through us". "Top" pulled
out his "k-bar" (army issued knife) and proceeded to cut open
the body right down the middle. Needless to say, this didn't
sit too well with "us". He split open the rib cage, put his
hand in and said "...these here are guts!". Then suddenly, the
grunts grabbed our hands and forced them into the open body.
"Get used to them", you don't go out on a "mission" until you
can deal with it. Shock, anger, and sickness spread among us
like a plague. How could they do this to us? We're here to
help them! We were not permitted to wash our hands for the
rest of the day and night. Nighttime meant sleep, we wanted
to sleep. But first, we had to be "educated" on how to sleep
in the bunkers, with the "swamp rats". These rats were the
biggest, meanest and hungriest rats in the world. "Don't take
off your boots, they'll bite your toes." You slept wrapped
in a "cocoon"-like fashion to prevent them from biting you.
That night, the rats came out. They inspected each warm body
like a precision army. If you weren't tucked in properly, they
attacked. Well, my partner that afternoon, "Chicago" wasn't
prepared for the assault. A rat bit him on the cheek. He
jumped up screaming and all hell broke loose. We thought we
were under attack. "Chicago" ran into the compound screaming
frantically, when a shot rang out. The shot silenced "Chicago",
it almost blew his head off. He was hit by a sniper, probably
300 meters out, from within the jungle. We didn't really sleep
for the rest of the night - or for the rest of our tour. Welcome
to the Nam - this is your "initiation."
Brooklyn, and /<2F>NARCHY
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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War is Hell
-----------
During my "tour of duty" in Vietnam, which lasted for 364
days - 14 hours - and 7 minutes, I lived a lifetime. So much
happened in that short period of time that sometimes, it becomes
mind boggling. Going to Vietnam at 18 years old was a
tremendous culture shock. The acclimation and adaptation process
was so swift that a young man could literally go from his room
at home to a "fire-fight" in the bush, in less than 24 hours.
The culture shock was complicated by the nature of the
circumstances upon their arrival. For the guys assigned to
combat units in the field, their introduction to Vietnam was
the most traumatic. Often thrust into an area of V.C. and or
N.V.A. activity. They were literally forced to assimilate the
multitude of nuances as a requiem for survival. Your prior
training was essentially useless. Jungle life and guerrilla
warfare were primitive, barbaric, and the antithesis of American
lifestyles and culture. A F.N.G. didn't lose that label until
they earned their worth. The unwritten rule was, a new guy's
life wasn't worth as much as a combat vet. To gain your comrades
respect, you had to be "baptized under fire". In the bush,
your "buddies" were your key to survival. Everyone needed to
know that their "backs were covered" at all times. Therefore,
trust was a key ingredient. How you handled the "small stuff"
(the heat, rain, mud, bugs, rats, snakes, bad food and water)
and how you responded in a "fire-fight" were the prevailing
criteria.
My "baptism by fire" occurred on my second day in the Nam.
When you first arrive, you count the days "in". Towards the
end of your "tour", you count backwards. How many days are
left. After experiencing and surviving my "initiation", it
was decided that I would be groomed to "walk point". Perhaps
because of my size, and athletic abilities, I was chosen. In
reality, it was because I was an F.N.G.. The man that walks
point is the one that is at the highest risk. They are vulnerable
to snipers, ambushes, trip-wires, and booby traps. Their primary
function is to lead the troops through the jungle with the least
amount of losses. The pressure on the point man was incredible
and the responsibility was to your buddies. If they were wounded
in action (W.I.A.) or killed in action (K.I.A.), subconsciously,
it became your burden. A point man needed total control,
concentration, good instincts, and a lot of luck. This was
strictly an on-the-job, learn as-you-go process, mistakes were
always costly. A point man had to develop a "skill" and a "sixth
sense" for the jungle, an "intimate relationship", if you will.
My first "op" (operation or mission) was a basic "search and
destroy" mission. We were to "hump" the bush in a pre-designated
area of operations (A.O.) to find the elusive V.C.. We
transversed several "klicks" (kilometers), through thick, hot,
wet, steamy, triple canopy jungle. Dealing with the elements
would in time become the "small stuff" you learned to disregard.
I was walking right behind the point man. My heart was
in my mouth. I didn't know where we were going, or what (who?)
we were looking for. The jungle was hot and my ruck sack was
heavy and digging the straps into my shoulder blades. Suddenly,
shots rang out and all hell broke loose. We walked into an
ambush. This was my first experience in a fire-fight, what
grunts called a "mad-minute". Everything was happening so fast,
time was a blur. Bullets were coming out of the jungle at such
an intense rate, I thought we would all die. After a while,
we received orders to "hold our positions" until the size and
extent of the fortifications of the enemy had been accessed.
There was a temporary lull in the fighting, and we were ordered
to move ahead while additional units were called in to "flank
our positions". The strategy was simple. We were to force
the enemy out of their bunkers and as they began our retreat,
our artillery (from base camp) or assault choppers would "finish
the job". Simple strategy theoretically, but realistically,
we had tremendous difficulty. As soon as we began to advance,
they began to intensify the assault. Guys were getting hit,
screaming for a medic, while others walked into booby traps
and anti-personnel mines. The carnage was mounting and there
I was, praying real hard. It's amazing how close one gets to
God when your life is on the line. Suddenly, one of our guys
near me jumps up to throw a "frag" (fragmentation grenade).
He takes several hits to his chest and stomach and goes down,
near me. He's alive, but just barely. I know I've got to save
him. I crawl over to him, take off my ruck and begin to apply
compression bandages to his wounds, all the while, screaming
for the medic. But there would be no medic, too much "incoming"
fire and too many wounded. Eventually, the fighting slowed
down and the wounded were tended to. And eventually, evac'd
out (medical evacuation by chopper). I never knew who he was
or if he ever survived. The ground where he laid was saturated
with his blood. I was covered with mud, blood, and his "guts".
My baptism by fire was etched into my brain forever. It is
as vivid today as it was on that day. It was common to hear
the Vets say that "survival" was the only thing you had to
do in Nam. I was beginning to understand what they meant.
Brooklyn of AoC
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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old ghosts
----------
[ vignette ]
i dated this guy for a long time. he used to beat me.
it was kinda funny in a fucked up way, since at the time
i was self-abusing. (you know, cutting and burning
yourself in order to feel pain, which is better than
feeling nothing.) so, whenever the numbness started to
rush over me, i would harass him until he punched me.
once i remember being in the snow, wearing boxers and
a tee shirt. no shoes. i wasn't allowed to wear shoes
in case i ran away. i was on the ground cause he dumped
me there. i had done something like not eat the food
he brought me or some fucked up thing. he was wearing
these huge combat boots, steel toed. i remember watching
the boots hurtling toward my face and realizing that
something was going to break once they caught me square
enough. once he was done with my face he went after my
ribs and belly. again and again. i didn't say anything.
i just watched the snow fall and breathed in the cold
air, allowing the crispness to fill my lungs.
[ vignette ii ]
i was in the shower. i like my showers hot, so hot that
my legs are red and scalded when i get out. i hadn't
eaten in three days. (anorexia is a bitch.) i felt faint.
i knew i was gonna go. i called for my father, who
thought i had soap in my eyes. he brought me a towel, but
i couldn't see it. everything was going black. when i
didn't reach for it he whipped open the shower curtain in
time to see my eyes roll back into my head as i fell to
the hard slippery porcelain. when i awakened, my mother
gave me a glass of orange juice. i waited until she left
and i flushed it down the toilet. then i got on the scale.
92. only 15 more pounds to go. i admired my bones in the
mirror.
[ vignette iii ]
i was running, running from the unit i had been assigned
to. it was christmas eve. it was cold and dark. i didn't
want to be there on christmas. they kept making me eat and
they had to watch me piss. i hated it. one of the mhw's
(mental health workers) caught up with me and threw me to
the ground. (no no no) two others grabbed my legs and they
dragged me to the isolation unit. the floor was concrete
and the walls were made out of sheet rock. there was a
single all cotton fouton in the middle of the room. it
was the perfect place, so white. i smashed the walls over
and over again with my elbows until they were blue and
swollen. i screamed, a primal rage that tore my throat.
i kicked a nurse in the stomach. they injected me and tied
me to the bed. sleep. the next morning my mother arrived
with christmas presents. my arms were torn and bloody.
my face was black and blue. how could she love me? how
could anyone?
Palpable Obscure
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Possession
----------
In the last week or so I have sent Dis five F.U.C.K files. This is number
six. Second one I have written in an hour. The name 'simunye' will become
synonomous with "shut up bitch!" *laugh*
I warned him though. Pages and pages of articles I have written for my own
sheer pleasure sit on my harddrive. Once they were siting on my webpage,
but no more. I am moving everything over to a new site, and have been
toying with the idea of not putting ANYTHING up that I have written.
Sometimes it seems really pointless because after all my talk of how I
write for only myself, I have this tinge of pleasure when people tell me
that I am neat-o. Makes me feel 'accepted.' Maybe I am not so heartless
after all?
Dis's only word is "gimme".
Well Dis, this one is for you.
I yawn but I am not tired. Liters of Diet Coke run through my veins. My
lungs are clouded with all the tar from my chainsmoking. My eyes feel heavy
and its late. 3:39am.
"You know if I leave you now, it doesn't mean I will love you any less."
-Sarah McLachlin.
I am a big Sarah fan. Have been for some time now. First heard "Possession"
back when I was working for a music store, years ago. Back then I hated
femme music. Majority of the people that worked there were your typical
'alterna-teen' groupies with the black clothes, nose piercings and
worshipping the Sarah's and the Tori's like there was no tomorrow. Drove
me up the wall.
But then I heard "Possession" one night. I remember, I was watching MTV
and was up late at night. It was "120 Minutes". I listened to the words.
And I can remember putting down what I was reading and crying. Crying so
hard that it lasted for a good five minutes before I could get myself
under control.
I went into a different music store the next day and bought the tape. CD's
were a luxury for me back then, hell I didn't even have a computer.
How much her music has come to mean to me over the years. Memories, evoking
images of situations.
Many moons later, someone contacted me on IRC. He thought it was interesting
that not only was I willing to open myself up so publicly on-line (via my
webpages). To talk about the situations, stories, events that have occurred
in my life, regardless of whether they were good or bad. Sarah came up as
the topic. We talked about her music, her ability to evoke emotions (He is
an Objectivist, which explains everything). We both agreed on one thing: we
both ironically do what we call our "Sarah Test". We throw Sarah on the
stereo and lie in bed with our significant others. And if the music can't
lift them to the ethereal world that she creates, then we both no longer
date that person.
Possession still remains the favorite of all her songs to me. The depth, the
passion, the emotions the feelings. Just put the song on now. Chances are I
will now begin to cry.
I have always known what I wanted from a relationship. Prince Charming and
Roark (from "The FountainHead") rolled into one. Some crazy fuck who is not
only brilliant and also his own man, but passionate and sensual as well. Do
you have ANY idea how rare that is to find?
A memory I like to conjure up occassionaly is when I met another Sarah fan.
This was quit sometime ago. Not even a year, and yet it seems so distant and
yet close at the same time.
We had been talking for quit a while, and we both wanted to meet. We agreed
on a time and a place, and he drove 900 miles for a weekend. I remember
pulling into our meeting place, and as I parked my car, "Possession" came
on the radio. I started crying so hard, because it was like an omen that
this was a good thing.
When I actually 'met' him, I remember opening the door and running down the
hall. There he stood all 6'7 of him, and I did a running jump to hug him. I
remember looking into his eyes, and seeing that deep rooted passion for me
burning there.
We listened to Sarah all weekend while making love. That mystical ethereal
kind of love that is so rare, and brings you so close to each other that
you are almost frightened by the power of it.
Sad to say we are no longer together. I have this wonderful habit of
attracting "Intellectual Losers". The overly intelligent guys who lack no
social skills. Even a kiss is shocking to them in many aspects. One by one
they break my heart. "Your too much, your too this, your too that". And yet,
they contact me "I was wrong..I miss/need/desire/love you". By then its too
late. Someone else has taken their place and the cycle repeats itself.
Deep melancholy sigh.
The last serious relationship I was in before I was in the one I am in now
lasted almost a year. He truly loved me unconditionally. Have you ever
had anyone love you unconditionally before? God, its a scary feeling. No
matter how many times we fought, broke up, or I had hurt him, he always was
there for me. One time, a few months ago, I had gone into a panic attack.
Suddenly I didn't want to exist as 'simunye'. I wanted to kill the bitch.
She (or me for that matter) had gotten me into enough trouble with mailing
lists, flame wars, you name it, that I had to kill her. But I knew, to kill
her would be killing my innermost self.
My ex and I had been arguing for sometime previous to this incident. I kept
calling his house. He was literally the only person I could talk to at that
point. No answer. I panicked. If he left me, my life would be over. I
depended on him that much, whether I liked it or not.
I remember driving to his house, all 20 minutes away. I had worked myself
up into such a state that I did not recognize the street I was on, even
though I had driven on it perhaps a million times.
- simunye
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Anarchy's Guide to Life
-----------------------
Chapter 1 - Introduction
Well, welcome to my guide to life. First off, life sucks. It has its good
points, but if you look at it as a whole, it sucks. You need to know a few
things to get through it, and I'm here to provide you with that information.
Well, there are gonna be some things in here that you may not like hearing.
And this text will probably be on television sometime, possibly being called
bad or evil, but everything in this text is the ABSOLUTE TRUTH AS I KNOW IT.
It may not be what everyone tells you, or discusses with you, but it IS THE
TRUTH AS I KNOW IT. Believe it if you want, however, as I also believe in
complete freedom of thought and information.
/<2F>NARCHY
Chapter 2 - Cheating
Have your parents told you "Cheaters never win..."? Well, they almost always
win. And they'll end up getting better grades than non-cheaters, leading to
better jobs, and helping them gain things that those who do not cheat might
never afford. They'll have better cars, better homes, more money, and perhaps
many other things. Do yourself a favor and cheat. Cheat on tests, of every
kind, and do not get caught, and you will be much better off because of it.
Some good advice though: If you score over 90% on a test, there's no need to
cheat. And if you're going to cheat, start small, and do what works, because
if you get caught, you're dead.
Chapter 3 - Education
School: Does it suck? Of course it sucks. The whole system isn't working and
yet it's still being labeled as being "not screwed-up enough" to fix. Well,
the only real education you need is the one you get from experience. Yeah,
that's right, good old fashioned experience. Go through something enough times
and you'll learn to deal with it, or even use it to your best advantage. This
is why lab experiments and hands-on training are the most important parts of
a persons education. If you learn only through textbooks and lectures, you'll
never learn anything that'll really help you, and you might even become so
bored that you'll forever dislike the subject you're learning about. A good
thing to do is when you get bored of a subject, ask the person teaching you
about it, nicely, when you're going to need that subject when you get older.
You may actually get a very nice response. If you don't (like an answer that
includes something like 'if you go into the field of...') tell the teacher
you won't be going into that field, or any like it, and ask if you can sleep
or leave during that subject's teaching.
Chapter 4 - Money
Money is everything. If you examine it closely, you can buy anything with it
including love. I believe I'll be asked to explain this, so I'll do that now.
You use money to go out with people, to buy them things (that might "show your
affection"), to pay for your actions that prove your love, to pay for your
wedding, engagement rings, anniversary presents, etc... Money is good for
everything. The problem is that it's usually very hard to legally get money.
You could work, and that's not what I meant was hard. The hard part is trying
to find a decently paying job that you like, or even can tolerate. Most of
all people who work dislike their jobs, but do them anyway because they've
had a lot of trouble finding a job before and don't want to be unemployed.
Some good ways to get money are to collect things that are worth a small
amount of money and selling them when they become very popular, to sell
old toys and objects you no longer need or use anymore. Toys are usually good
for this, as are books, but don't rule out anything.
Chapter 5 - Freedom
You are not free. If you were free, you wouldn't have to go to school, or do
anything that you, as a free-minded individual, do not want to do. You are
forced to learn little or nothing significant every day on the news and in
the newspapers. You are not free to carry a weapon without a license. If
you go to Rat Shack (A.K.A. Radio Shack) they'll ask for your name and address
and a lot of other information, except if you try to buy things that could be
used to commit a crime, they probably won't sell them to you, or use the
information to help convict you of a crime. A lot of people double-park, but
it's still illegal. If someone tries to hurt you, and you hurt them before
they can hurt you, you could go to jail and they could go free. You are not
free.
Chapter 6 - Fear
The best motivation and only true motivation is fear. People are afraid of
many things in life, and it always affects the way they live and act. People
tend not to sit next to people they think are suspicious in public places.
If you dress differently than the rest of society, or act strangely, people
will tend to be afraid of you. If you are repeatedly bothered by a specific
type of person, whether it's their race, color, number of appendages, you will
act differently towards that type of person. As a child, parents will attempt
to rid you of fear, telling you that you have nothing to worry about, and
that they'll protect you. But they are wrong. They cannot protect you. Your
local police cannot protect you. You are the only person who can protect YOU.
You should fear your police, your government, and anyone else who has some
effect on how your life is run besides you.
Chapter 7 - The Media
Hey, take a guess at who controls your mind. That's right, the media. Not
really books, or magazines even, but those whose job it is to tell you the
news. Newspapers, Radio shows, and Television are all affecting the way you
think. If you watch the news, then you will believe the news unless you take
a stand and realize that news programs want you to watch them. They give you
what you want, and they show you what you want to see. If you want to see less
violence in society, then that's what they will show you. If you are hearing
a lot about technology, then they will do a story on technology, and offer a
viewpoint or information about technology that you will think only they have.
In a news report about software piracy, the only person they questioned to
have both his voice changed AND his face blacked out was put in jail for one
and a half years, for "hacking"..???? What the hell does hacking have to do
with piracy? Is this supposed to make him an authority, on something he has
know idea about? The media is ignorant and manipulative.
Chapter 8 - Wake up
In case you don't know it, all niceties in society are lies. There is no Santa
Claus, and there is no Easter Bunny. There is no savior and there is no cure.
Society is breaking down, and instead of working to rebuild it, the smart are
protecting themselves from it, and the weak are constantly pumping an illusion
of peace into society. Arm yourself. Arm yourself and learn about survival and
protection. And protect yourself, and those you love, because society IS going
to come down.
Chapter 9 - Speak free
Be vulgar. Go ahead and say those words which were formally or are still not
acceptable to come out of your mouth. Release the built up tension, and the
long lost animality, and be vulgar. Learn your rights, and push, push, push
them to their limits, and then build new limits. You must do this or your
rights will slowly and quietly be taken away from you.
Chapter 10 - Justice
Justice does not exist in today's society. No matter how much you work at
something, you'll always be run-over by someone who worked less to get more,
through the ignoring of rules, and laws. If you want something, take it. You
can buy it, but if you deserve it, and you cannot gain it any other way, then
take it. Our government is not working. Don't spend your life trying to make
it better, because it won't work. Either work around it, or work to destroy
it, but feeble attempts to change government (which is now a self-feeding
monster) will not work. You will fail. It used to work with us, the people,
but it does not. It does not need us to survive, and if we get in it's way,
it will trample on us.
Chapter 11 - Fun
Y'know what's fun? Violence, sex, drugs, alcohol, and vandalism. Go out, get
some drugs or alcohol, and mess up your mind. It feels good. Or be a bit more
safe and commit acts of violence or vandalism. Do you go to school? Well, go
to an "Animal Rights"-type club and eat hot dogs. Rip down posters, and draw
pentagrams all over the place. Erase stuff on other peoples' computers. Go
into stores and unplug, misplace, and break things. Call up as many phone
numbers as you can and prank them. When people ask you questions, give them
wrong answers, and when they ask how you got that answer, or why, tell them
"Satan told me" or "The voices in my head tell me to kill". Call every single
company you come across and ask for free things. Spend their money. If they
refuse, tell them that they suck, and you won't buy anything else from them.
And of course, for the greatest fun, have lots and lots of sex. But protect
yourself. After all, no one cares about you, but you.
Chapter 12 - Death
We all will die someday, and when we do, it will be a dark, lonely, and cold
time. We all die alone, and if you think you're going to be saved, or brought
to "heaven" or a utopia, you can forget about it. If heaven existed, then
why would the Pope want a bullet-proof car with bodyguards surrounding it?
Is he afraid to die, and go to HEAVEN??? What the hell is wrong with this
society? Wake up! You will die eventually (unless SCIENCE saves you) and you
will join your ancestors, in a hole in the ground. But if your life is so
bad that you'd rather not live, then don't get your head filled with lies
about trying to find jesus, or smelling the roses. Kill yourself.
ANARCHY
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the rose and the bloodgarden
----------------------------
i often think of myself as a rose, especially
when my inner companions sing their sweet hell
music softly within the white tissues of my
mind. a rose is pure perfection mottled by
wicked thorns that jab the tender places. this
is what i do. this is who i am.
[ 2 of me. & they weep. ]
i hurt the ones i love. i have two halves. one
is loving, passionate, generous. she is known
by her own name, and those who love her are
fools. the other side is heartless and cruel.
she has no name, but she is in control. bloody
words escape from the cage in her mind, and
they cut others without mercy.
[ white & blood dripping. ]
i know others like me. i smile tenderly at
them when they describe their inner agony.
i offer words of comfort, though the advice
i give is hollow. once i received the same
advice. ( it will pass, things get better,
life is too wonderful to pass up. ) i hated
the givers. theirs were lives of beauty and
normality. no demons spoke to them of their
dreams. no images of violence and hatred
disturbed their thoughts. only sweet solace.
i wanted to kill them for it.
[ 2 roads & i took.. ]
i used to find meaning in the words of the
great poets. one could say that i am a
successful young woman carving her place in
a man's world. those who know me are amazed
that i am alive. neither understands me.
it is just as well. insanity cannot be
understood by the sane. tell me, would you
dance with the devil if your own choosing?
[ bloodgarden ]
i live in a bloodgarden, where i can
appreciate the beauty of the rose, but i
cannot keep myself from pricking my skin
on the thorns. for i find more joy in the
pain than in the purity. perhaps you are
reading these words and cannot understand
them. be grateful if this is so. i would be.
[ scribbling, bibbling, bibbling, scribbling.. ]
mozart - amadeus
Palpable Obscure
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EarthFuck
---------
Take me to your leader, earthling
Or I'll atomize your face
As if I need to waste the time
To kill the human race.
I need to breathe quickly
So I don't have to care
About all the kinds of cancer
That I catch from this air.
I stand in the middle of the city
In the middle of the street.
There are many hostile commuters
That I really need to meet.
I don't come here in friendship
I don't come here in peace
I came here for your leader
To make my boss happy, at least.
The police officer tried too hard
To force me out of the street
So I fired my weapon at his head
It is now resting in his feet.
I love it when I do this
To these brave men in blue
They think they control the world
By giving pink papers to you?
They are god, they are the lord
They write down the rules you break
Sometimes put you in restraints
And throw you in "the tank".
They won't do it to me today
I'll put their heads up their ass
But I don't have to do this much
It was placed there in the past
All the years I have been to this place
It seems to be getting worse
The Californians have taken it over
It's the Reagan/Valley curse
Take me to your leader, earthling
I don't want to meet some fuck
I've met Reagan, Quayle, and Bush
And that should say enough.
Your leader's are slow and boring
Can never take them with us
We already have Nixon's men
Those retards are enough.
I'm going to D.C. tomorrow
To meet your president prick
I might actually get off this time
Cause I heard your king's a chick.
Was it Hillary or Chelsea
I really don't recall
But I have a few hours to kill
So I might just fuck them all
It's better than the Kennedy's
Bobby, John, and Ted
They talk too slow and Ted is fat
And two of them are dead.
What about that Jackie girl
I wonder if she is fun
I really can't remember
From all that coke and shooting gun
Yes, I was the mystery gunner
All alone on my grassy knoll
The C.I.A. paid me 3 million
As if I really liked my soul
Killing is a hobby
I would have done it for free
Especially Ronald Reagan
I'm sure Jim Brady would agree
I'd like to give Brady head
But he can't stand up to me
If he started to get hard
I'd make him wait a week
A seven day waiting period
I can do without
Waiting to kill a republican?
That's not what I'm about
He's a strong and powerful man
But he always needs a shove
Shoved in front of Reagan
Shoved down the steps of love
Cuisanarts are to yuppies
As Brady is to stairs
The wheelchair is confining
The staircase didn't care
Take me to your leader, Earthling
I don't think you can today
Because your leader is that box
You stare at and waste away
Who is your leader now, fucker
JUDGE ITO or Nicole Brown
How about Snoop Doggy Dogg
He's always "in da house".
How about Kurtme Kobain
He's always meant what he said
Of course in American culture
The best ones are shot in the head.
Your leader is a purple thing
Who sings dances and plays
Who touches your kids DOWN there
When he lures them backstage.
He's purple, fat, and gullible
He acts like your gay friend
But it's over your stupid barstool
Where your children, he will bend
At first, there was a Mr. Rogers
and now a PURPLE DINOSAUR!
They TOUCH your kids and TEACH them well
And THEN they'll fuck some more
Take me to your leader, asshole
So I can get some love.
With all these stupid T.V. freaks
Or alone with you and O.J.'s glove
Your main leader that you love
Even I can't bump and grind
Because the well hung football SUPERSTAR
Is stuck in court till the end of time
He talks on T.V. all day
So with him we can't lose
Your president is brought to you by
Freshly squeezed SIMPSON ORANGE JUICE!!
I'm going back to my planet
Fuck you and your T.V., too
I'm taking Sandra Bullock with me
She's mine! FUCK YOU KEANU!
Why fear aliens nuking you?
You are great for shits and grins
You are just like a T.V. show
Fun to watch once and again
It takes no brains to watch you
You don't require a remote
Take me to your leader, Earthling?
Sorry, Bill, your shit won't float
Your leader doesn't grab me
FUCK! HE DOESN'T EVEN COUNT
As long as I can get off,
And he gets the fuck out
So, to Chelsea, Billy, and HER
MAY YOU ALL ROT IN HELL
O.J. SIMPSON IS YOUR LEADER
AT LEAST HIS SCANDALS SELL!!!
(edchrist, inc.)
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Stand By Me Day
---------------
This is my first writing for FUCK, so it may be a bit
unpolished... I apologize.
At my school (I am in eighth grade), Friday May 30 is
"Stand By Me Day". On that day, some guest speakers are going
to come and "rap" (yes, that's how the notice put it) with
students, discussing such issues as "sex, drugs, and AIDS".
Also, a couple local 80's bands are rumored to come and play
on that day. Sounds interesting? Yes, it did. Until I heard
the rumor.
Apparently, students are expected to dress "nicely".
What does that mean? Good question. I posed the question to
my English teacher, Ms. X. (I don't know why I'm using
pseudonyms. Just bear with me.) She responded by saying
"dress nicer than usual". Girls should wear dresses, and boys
should wear nice pants. No jeans, if possible. "Just dress
nicely". We surmised that we were being asked to dress nicely
to impress guest speakers, and give the school a good impression
and give the principal a nice warm fuzzy feeling inside. Don't
ask.
Then, Ms. X mentioned that those students who did not
dress nicely would be placed in "a little room" for the day.
(Keep in mind that all regular classes are canceled for the
day.) This room is the equivelant of In-School Suspension,
except not as harsh. No, she was not joking. I have a memo
that only teachers were supposed to see. It's true. Why would
students be placed in a little room for not dressing nicely?
If dress is in good taste, doesn't this sound ridiculous? I
think so too. So, what to do? I don't know what I'll be
wearing that day, but rest assured it will not be "nice". Why
challenge the system?
Why not?
Think about it. Can the school place you in a little
room and force you to miss a "fun" (hah) day out of regular
classes if you don't wear nice clothes? If your clothes are in
good taste, they can NOT. I don't have the name of a law that
says that, but they can NOT. So, my mother wondered out loud
what this "Stand By Me Day" that she'd been hearing about was.
I told her the gist of what I planned on doing. She said "Why
are you doing this, just to rebel? What's wrong with
conformity?" (Except she used many more words to say basically
that.) If everyone were like my mom, we'd all be doing whatever
the school wanted. My decision to challenge this is not going
to be popular. But I feel it necessary to stand up for myself.
And, if I do get placed in this little room this Friday, who
knows. You might read about this in the newspapers sometime
soon. Yeah, I'm a publicity seeking weasel. But, I'm
challenging something that I see as unfair. Not everyone can
say that.
- Chris
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begging for love in a suicide threat
------------------------------------
he watched her sleep. she looked so quiet,
so peaceful. he examined her throat,
watching the soft pulse of blood just
beneath her skin. her skin was pale, and
a thin sheet of sweat slicked her skin.
he held his hand over her mouth, just
a few centimeters from her lips. he
sighed with relief when her warm breath
reached his palm.
she was going to live.
he stared apprehensively at the empty
bottle on the floor. he loved his sister
dearly, but he did not know how much more
of this he could take. he looked away from
the bottle and watched the breeze push the
curtains away from the window. he closed
his eyes tightly and wondered what else
she had done.
might as well find out.
he had noticed earlier that blood had
seeped through her white sheets. the phone
that she had used to call him with was
beneath them, the cord snaking
menacingly from the wall jack. he took
a deep breath and lifted the sheet.
his throat closed.
both of her arms had been sliced
beyond recognition. there was more gash
than skin visible, and a small pool of
blood had collected beneath each arm.
the razor had been cast aside. she was so
beautiful.. how could she destroy
herself this way?
damn her.
he rose from the bed and retrieved the
first aid kit from the bathroom. he
gently bandaged her wounds and checked
her pulse. it looked like everything was
going to be ok. he put fresh sheets over
her and sat in the chair next to her bed.
her journal was on the table next to him.
guiltily he took the journal from the
table and began to read. perhaps he
could help her if he knew what she was
thinking. suddenly he was absorbed in
the details of his sister's life. he
read about everything that had ever
happened to her. he knew her innermost
thoughts, and they made him feel dirty.
hours passed.
he wandered the house aimlessly as dawn
broke. he never knew. he had no idea what
had happened to his sister, and he never
protected her. it was his fault. he would
never forgive himself. no wonder she
embraced death so freely.
elaine woke, wincing at the stiffness of
the caked blood on her arms.
she rose. the house was silent. she looked
around her room. something was different.
(her journal. he had read her journal.)
she ran from the room, hurriedly searching
each room in the house. she finally found
him in her den.
"jake? jake, are you awake?"
silence.
she walked around one side of the chair
and screamed. half of his head was missing,
the rest of it splattered wildly on the
desk. the gun glinted peacefully in the
morning light, lightly dusted with
bits of brain and skull.
she was free.
Palpable Obscure
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In Response
-----------
In response to Mr. "chick-flick" hater...
Coming from the other end of the pasture, I can sympathize with the plight
of the expectations suddenly encountered with the sappy love stories and
romantic storylines. While women suffer from more or less the same type of
unrealistic expectations of a different nature, I will first explain to a
lesser degree of the reasoning behind the meet-me-at-the-top-of-the-Empire
State-building type of psychology.
As with anything, girls are socialized into the role-playing type of
pretending at an early age. Guys, were you ever asked to play "house" as a
child? (I'd talk about the "doctor-nurse roles, but what they evolved into
later in life has no bearing on the innocence of children). Girls played
with dolls, Barbies, and other pink frilly-boxed toys.
Girls were taught by this role-playing to dream or fantasize about the
future. Children's stories emphasize this. Remember Cinderella and her
Prince Charming who went to every household in the land to find his true
love, or Snow White under the evil of the stepmother? What other
role-models did little girls have to place their attentions on?
Where do you think expectations begin for the importance that is placed on
the nature of a spontaneous, unique marriage proposal? Believe me, every
possible romantic outcome was at least touched upon and dreamed about.
Even the wedding day has been fantasized about from an early age. I
understand that it doesn't hold the same importance to men as you were all
blowing up G.I. Joe men and chasing ships with Star Wars figures while most
girls dressed their Barbies and had Ken take them out on their dream dates
(and I do stress most girls, as I personally hated Barbies and owned only
the one that a hapless relative happened to give me for a birthday or
something like that). It is a time in our lives that has been formed from
the early stages of a girls childhood.
So rest assured, my dear men, that the "look" you get when viewing a
"chick-flick" with your girlfriend may have nothing to do with you
personally, but stems from the hundreds of Disney movies watched and fairy
tales bought as a child. I am certain the "chick-flick" has as much
reception from men as the silly love songs played on the radio (how many of
you men out there really hate Chicago and Journey simply for this reason?)
Now that I have brushed upon why these feelings are developed, I do want to
agree to some extent with my little "chick-flick" hater that romance
comedies and sappy love stories are somewhat unrealistic. Learned well
into the psychology 101 semester, these stories only tell the beginning of
these romantic, hot-to-trot couples. Nothing is said about two years down
the line, or six months, or even the following week. As heartfelt as the
ending of "Pretty Women" was and the "hooker-with-the-heart-of-gold"
routine, (and speaking about this movie because it was previously
mentioned), doesn't anyone think that because she was a hooker, it won't
cause any problems for the millionaire and the socialites that he
identifies with? Or that she will put up with his pretentious friends and
actually enjoy the snobby crowd? Possibly, but both extremes simply showed
a need to escape from the present situation (even Bill Gates has to get
tired of the same routine over and over again). So as unrealistic as it
may seem, not altogether impossible.
Romance, however, doesn't have to include rooms of roses, or helicopter
rides, or having your sailboat in the middle of a New York street.
Something simple and unexpected is all that is realistically desired. It's
where we women suddenly become an obligation to fulfill that puts us on the
defensive. "Oh, I took you out last week for an expensive dinner, so why
should I give you a hug today?" or "I guess since it is your birthday, I
should probably take you out." We don't want to feel like what you have to
offer us is out of settling, finality or obligation. We also like to be
reminded often that these things haven't changed.
Women thrive on the smallest, most insignificant gestures that say to us
that you are thinking about us. Not much effort is required to walk into a
jewelry store and pick up the first thing in sight, but a little note to
say "I love you" or an unexpected kiss, or a walk around the block can be
enough to keep us satisfied without you men feeling "required" to be any
certain way.
Also, what are the major components involved within a major romance movie
anyhow? Pursuit above all other women to prove interest, attentiveness to
show the interest is maintained, and connectedness to show there is no fear
of commitment. If your woman is asking "why don't you do this for me?",
then there is probably a reason why. As I've said before, it doesn't take
much to show your lady that she is important to you. Plus, the less
importance shown to us as to where we are in our man's life, the more
important these sappy-lovey dovey-romance movies have on our lives.
Something simple that is guaranteed to receive a response and is NEVER said
often enough is the words, "you are beautiful". Not "you look nice," or
"you look good," or "you are pretty," but "you are beautiful". There is
not much more that will receive as big a response, even if she is hesitant
to receive the compliment.
Even so, as painful as the standard is for men to act romantic and go above
and beyond the call of duty for their significant other, the standard for
women is much higher (even excluding the emotional circumference and
insecurities women already endure). While men are expected to behave
romantically, women are expected to look romantic at all senses.
Men, we know as well as you do that for the most of us, when we go into the
dressing room of Victoria's Secret, we do not suddenly turn into Stephanie
Seymore or Frederique. It is just not possible (as much as many of you
would like it to be). Somehow the garter just doesn't fit as well as the
model, or the bustier is a little too tight. For some women, there is
nothing to fit into the bustier that will make them look like the picture
in the catalogue.
It wouldn't be as bad, except for the fact that now women have a standard
to fill about looking like the model in the ad. We don't. We know it.
It doesn't help that you men spend so much time looking at these models,
whether it be in the catalogue, in a music video, on the big screen or live
at the strip bars. Even general casual conversation typically involves
some part of a woman's anatomy. We now feel that you all have visions of
Cindy Crawford or Jennie McCarthy running through your minds (or the
pictures strapped to your face) while you make love to us "common folk".
We also don't have the luxury of airbrushing and computer graphics in bed
to hide our little imperfections. And this is not supposed to make us
insecure?
I will mention this again for emphasis sake: little things make the world
of difference.
- spyder
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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"No Hablo Espanol"
------------------
Again, someone is speaking to me in Spanish. Staring at her face, I repeat
"What?" hoping she will either realize I don't understand Spanish and try
to speak in English, or just give up. After three or four sentences, she
asks me "No Espanol?" and as usual, I say "No," while shouting "YOU LEARN
HOW TO SPEAK ENGLISH YOU LAZY BITCH!" in my head.
I am not saying that English is superior to any other language, and I
don't believe in "Do as the Romans do." Note that I love Latin American
food, and some people ARE fully bilingual. However, I believe that one
needs to have knowledge of basic English if they live in the United
States. After all, this country consists of various ethnic groups, and we
cannot communicate with each other without a "standard" language.
Somehow, many of the Hispanic immigrants in Miami do not even try to learn
English. They often make excuses that they don't have money to go to
school, they don't have time, they are too old to learn, and so on. Then,
I may ask how I learned some Spanish phrases without taking any classes.
TV or radio programs should be sufficient if one is really willing to
learn. There are free English courses offered on weekends, which my
parents have taken, if one wants to improve his/her conversation skills.
Believe it or not, my college even provides Spanish-speakers special
"bilingual" programs. Some core courses are taught both in English and
Spanish. Then, I ask myself, why there is no classes taught in Japanese.
This upsets me since I suffered so much learning English when I came to
this country four years ago. If Spanish-speakers can pass the class
easily, then all the other International students should be treated the
same way (though I am glad I didn't have such an option since I could
learn English so much faster).
They do not learn English simply because the majority of the society (at
least in Miami) speak Spanish. Provided that the local governments are run
by Spanish-speakers (mostly Cuban-Americans), they often act as though
their culture is the best, and that everyone else should follow their
rules. They seem to forget that it all started to conserve their
ethnicity, not to dominate the society. They should be criticized as well
as Americans who know nothing but English (hey, it should be so much
easier for you to learn Spanish than for me to learn English!).
So I might start learning Spanish if they, at least, TRY to speak English
to me, without making a stupid assumption that I am a Japanese-Peruvian
who understands Spanish. Maybe I should talk back to them in Japanese next
time. Or perhaps I should move out of Miami as soon as I finish my school.
But I'm kind of attached to the taste of Cafe con Leche. Well, you never
know, I might miss the sound of "Spanglish" if I leave here.
June 4, 1997
Psycho
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criminal intent
---------------
spanky the ueber hacker giggled and
snapped and grabbed the info of yet
another lamer who was too stupid to
recognize that he was being socially
engineered.
[ john smith, 666 lame lane, apt #205
phone: 234.1234 dog: booboo ]
he gave him a 'fuck with' rating of 7
out of 10 and closed his info file.
his fingers flew over the keyboard and
ashes from his cigarette fell into the
keys.
*_dumass_* hey spanky, got any ccs?
not bad. he traded one cc for 30 esn/
min pairs. dork. he made a note to
fuck with him in the future. he
swigged his coffee pensively and dialed
some of the local bbs'. they were
always good for a laugh or two. he
liked fucking with lamers.
(two years later)
z, formally spanky the ueber hacker,
sat at his keyboard typing furiously.
he wore all black, contrasting sharply
with his pale skin. the handle of a
silver pistol was visible just above
his belt. he lived in a loft nowadays,
large servers and workstations spread
liberally throughout. the only light
emanated from glowing monitors.
[ yeah, i have what you were looking
for. it was tough to get, though,
so i will be looking for a little
extra.
Z ]
he smiled as he thought of the large
influx of clean cash to come. he
heard that paris was nice this time
of year. he could go there and chill
for awhile, maybe retire for a few
months. his reverie was broken by
the telephone. he snatched up his
headset.
[ yeah, i'm here. just show up. ]
wow. he was going to get his payoff
sooner than he planned. he logged
off and headed for the kitchen, where
some nice 'imported' wine awaited.
he popped the cork and poured some
into a crystal wine glass, bought
and paid for with money he 'borrowed'
from a bank in the Caymans. he took
a sip just as he heard the elevator
squealing.
[ he's here. ]
he went to the elevator, still
carrying his wine glass. he felt
pretty good. the door opened to
reveal an older man wearing an
expensive armani, carrying a silver
briefcase. he smiled at him and
pointed at one of his machines.
they walked over to one of his
workstations. he sat and logged in,
fingers tapping madly. he found
the file for his client, who was
standing behind him, silent.
then z was dead, his neck now
nonexistent.
the client took the file and left.
[ stupid hackers. ]
Palpable Obscure
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DeBucks Sod Farm and Gift Ship
------------------------------
Today, June 4th, would have been my grandfathers 85th birthday. He passed
away on December 23, 1996 and not counting the F.U.C.K files that I have
written, I have not written a peep since his funeral.
This one is for my grandfather, John Preiss, whom I love and miss dearly.
-----------
When thinking about all the poetry, prose, essays, and short stories that I
have written, mainly in the last few years, I realized that I have never
mentioned my family. Not one instance of my relationships with any of my
relatives, save my younger brother. I do believe I mentioned my family's
long history of mental illness in a piece I wrote, but other then that, not
one peep about anything. As far as anyone is concerned, I was hatched by
aliens, which would work for me.
I am writing this piece about my grandfather because of how much I love him
and regret not doing the things I wanted to do with him before he passed
on. Sometimes I hate human nature. How we are always rushing around, gotta
do this, and we have to do that. And we miss out on smelling the roses,
doing the little things like seeing the world around us, and seeing people
we haven't seen in years....
Living only 2 hours from my grandfather in these last few years, I always
promised on going to see him. If anyone out of my fucked up family, he
would be the one I would want to see. And something always came up: a new
job, a new boyfriend, a trip somewhere more exciting then going back home
to Port Huron, a pissant little town above Detroit.
If you can't tell by now, I have absolutely hated where I grew up. For a
town of 30,000 people, it was like living in a town of 300 people. Everyone
knew each other, their families had all grown up together, all partied
together, got in trouble together and fucked together. Even now its the
same way. My cousin Kevin is a good example of that. He has become sort of
a 'infamous' figure in the area (at the tender age of 18) for dealing
drugs. He knew the younger brothers and sisters of the people I grew up
with, who were the kids of the people our parents grew up with. Rumors flew
hot and heavy in the area when I stepped into town, even though I hadn't
lived there for 10 years.
No one has changed, its still white trash, eeking out a life working at
taco bell or super-k. The big excitement came when they opened up a mall in
the area that had a Mervyns as one of the corner stores. Everyone smokes
pot, drinks heavily and pops valium like its going out of style. This is
my family. I come from these people?
Growing up, people always said that I was "just like Jack (my
grandfather)". It was considered an insult to have this said to you. I took
it as a compliment. Out of my whole family, my grandfather was the only
"real" person there. Sure he had a fucked up life, was an alcoholic, did
crazy things (like burn 12 cords of wood in the fireplace in ONE
weekend). But he was real, he was alive, he did what he wanted, not giving
a shit about what others thought of him.
I remember being a little tot, family meetings being held in our main
living room. All 7 of my grandfathers children (with appropriate spouses)
would convey occassionaly to figure out "what to do with him". You see, my
grandmother had died in November of 1972, when I was five months old. My
grandmothers death prompted my mother to leave my father, and move us to
Port Huron. After my grandmothers death, my grandfather had a nervous
breakdown, which ended up with him in a mental hospital for a few years.
After that episode (I had recently found out that he had been in one in the
late 50's to early 60's after he had caused a death in a drunk driving
incident), he had gone "crazy".
My grandfather was the epitome of the typical immigrant in those days.
Illiterate, obnoxious, bigoted, loud mouth, heavy drinker. His own
children shunned him. Those damn "meetings" were about getting him out of
trouble at various senior living places, lawsuits for shoddy work he had
done, his temper, and every other fallacy known to man. He was a
"disgrace", he was "dangerous", and he was "crazy".
Now despite my fucked up, materialistic family way of seeing things, my
grandfather had great charm. He loved all his grandkids. He never forgot
any of our birthdays, christmas's or special events. His "obnoxious" charm
grew on people, and he was forever having people over to our house. He was
protective of his own children, even though they seemed to disrespect him.
I remember when one of my mothers boyfriends took to stalking her in the
early 70's. My grandfather was like a mother lion with her cub, he threw
the guy off our property and told him that if he came back, he would beat
the shit out of him. That was the last we ever saw of the ex-boyfriend.
There are so many memories I have of growing up with my grandfather. He
lived with us for the better part of younger years, and was essentially the
father I never had. Sure my sperm doner lived in Toronto, a mere 3 hour car
ride from us, but I never saw him but for the every odd year in the months
that end in "y".
Regardless, the images of what I grew up with what a man should be and
obviously, from the looks of it, it wasn't good. But regardless, I loved my
grandfather, as he was more real then the shallow children (including my
own mother) he produced.
On December 23, 1996, I got a call from my Aunt Jackie that my grandfather
had passed away in his sleep. He was 84 years old. The last time I had seen
him (that November), he had shriveled away to almost nothing. He was
listless, not eating, and weighed only 140+ pounds on his once 6'4 frame.
He was STILL trying to get out of the nursing home they had him in. He was
loudmouth, he had spirit and he was full of life. Nothing could ever get him
down.
I left Christmas day for the funeral. There was hardly any snow on the the
drive in, though the closer I got to Port Huron, the more nostalgic I got
about growing up there. I passed by familiar exits: Flint, Imly City,
Capac, Goodles. Got pulled over by an anal retentive cop for speeding. No
ticket. Merry Christmas to me.
My aunts all looked like stuffed turkeys: fat and shiny. I felt awkward
being with them. I have never gotten along with my family, there has always
been some tension between me and a majority of my family, but yet I was the
favorite of all the grandkids. Never figured that one out.
A lot of family I hadn't seen in five years, ten years were there. "You
look just like your mother!". Fuck. Just what I needed. Some of the older
relatives actually "thought" I WAS my mother. Shocking, considering I can't
stand my egg donor.
The funeral wasn't what I would have done, if I was in charge. My
grandfather looked fake, and plastic with his stitched up mouth and eyes.
The fake smile, the filling in of teeth when he had been toothless for a
better part of my life. My aunts and uncles, being the idiots they were,
joked about putting a tiny kroger shopping cart in the casket, symbolizing
how he used to walk around with his junk in a shopping cart around the
city. He lost his drivers license after the drunk driving accident, and
that shopping cart became the mainstay in his life.
I didn't cry. I couldn't cry. Family members, old family friends asked me
about my brother, the state basketball star or my mother, the superwoman.
To them, I was just a waste. The trouble maker. The worthless person who
had everything going, and fucked it all up. I was the female version of my
grandfather.
My cousins Kevin, Shelly and I went out to Shelly's car and got high. I
heard family gossip about how Shelly's dad was going over to Kevin's house,
getting high. All the siblings getting together recalling their life with
their dad, drinking cheap beer and getting high off the pot my cousin sold.
The stories I wasn't privelidged to hear till then. My mother was miss goody
two shoes, the back bone of the family, taking care of her 6 younger
brothers and sisters while growing up, and I was her 'disappointment".
And the hypocritical thing, was that all the awful things they said about
me, were not true. Well, majority of them were true. My cousin shelly
related news about ME, regardless of the fact that I had not seen her in
over five years. And here was my "family" busily discussing about my coke
habit (funny, i never touched coke) while my uncle used to deal coke
heavily. A few of my aunts were dealing pot as well, but yet I was the big
druggie. Other stories filtered in about acid use, orgies, all the good
stuff. The funny thing, that is about their LIFE, and they said it was mine.
At the actual funeral, the man who spoke about my grandfather was a baptist
minister. My grandfather was raised catholic, though he hadn't been to
church in years, and more or less was an atheist. Regardless, my
grandfathers general comment to the minister when he would come visit him
would be "So what do you 'really' do for a living?". har har.
The whole service was short and cheap. The "minister" said about 15 words
about my grandfather and spent the rest of his "speech" trying to win
converts to his church. I eyed everyone with disgust. They all weeped and
hung on to the preachers words. My grandfathers casket was closed and
flowers were laid over it. In the funeral possession to the graveyard, I
was squashed in the backseat of my aunts car. Three of the aunts were all
arguing about my grandfathers watch, which was supposed to be taken off his
wrist before the casket was closed. Their voices started escalating higher
and higher, till finally i pitched my cigarette out the window, and in a
calm but stern voice told them to shut the fuck up. They fell silent.
We left the graveyard and drove to a small church for "brunch" or however
they were disguising the buffet they were serving. I didn't talk to anyone,
I didn't want to talk to anyone, I didn't want to sit on the hard folding
chair, pushing my potato salad around. Suddenly what I wanted was to be
home, drinking. Heavily.
A blizzard had hit the area hard that weekend. The aunt I was staying with
begged me to stay over a few days extra because of the weather. My flight
instinct was calling me strong. I drove to her place clear across town,
picked up my stuff and drove home that night.
The minute I got back into my hometown, i stopped at the liquor store and
bought a fifth of vodka. I didn't care what brand. Drove to my parents
house and got ahold of my brother. One of his best friends deals drugs, so
I bought a quarter bag of pot. Drove home, ignored my roommate/fuck toy/love
of my life. Got out of my clothes and into something more comfortable, and
started drinking.
I didn't stop till I finished that whole bottle.
I continued in that manner until the bottle was gone. My roommate/fuck
toy/love of my life drove and bought another fifth. Together we finished
that one, and purchased one more which is still sitting in the freezer
today. In between all the drinking, rolling joints and smoking them while
sitting on irc blasting people left and right.
And I have never talked about my grandfathers death.
What he meant to me.
How I felt.
I just drank that whole weekend, getting high. And the unusual part is that
I had not gotten high since november, and the last time before that was
nearly two years before. Drinking, hell, when I turned 21, I drank like a
fish, and one night it hit me I was following the patterns for the rest of
my oddball family, so I more or less stopped drinking except for when I
went to clubs. And I never bought alcohol *ever*. So I "knew" something
inside of me, snapping like a spiders web, was having me behave in this
manner.
After this binge, I never brought up anything since then nor have I drank
but for a few occasional time.
I don't live in Michigan anymore, but in the sunny state of california. I
called various relatives to let them know I had moved. Short, terse
conversations with me relaying my new contact information. They didn't ask
how I was, they didn't ask what I was doing. Did nothing but bitch moan or
complain about their lives, their worthlessness. I shivered and I hung up.
Received a letter from my egg donor today. She forwarded all my mail not
making it through. I haven't read her letter. Don't know if I want to.
I miss my grandfather, proud to be like him, proud to be alive and wanting
do things differently. Even if it means no acceptance from my family. Fuck
'em and feed 'em fishheads. No rice, no beans.
And what I will always remember, is driving along I-69, passing the green
fields, and the big sign that said "DeBucks Sod Farm" painted on a the side
of a hay bale. To me, the endless green of new hay growing, the contrast of
the earth, the blue sky melting in the back, is the perfect metaphor for my
grandfathers life.
I love you grandpa, hope you are okay wherever you are.
-simunye
June 4, 1997
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end
sum -r/size 26659/13881 section (from "begin" to "end")
sum -r/size 42707/10052 entire input file
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Happy Holidays from the Sheep!
------------------------------
If you know me (and pray you're not accounted for here), you know I don't
like holidays. Although there isn't one in sight at this writing, I
started thinking that it's actually the card-giving holidays that disturb
me the most. Any friggin' significant numerical smear on the calendar that
forces me out to the potpourri-smelling Halmark store in order to purchase
a greeting card of any kind has my ire.
Just the premise alone of having to take my weary ass (take my word for it,
it's weary-looking) out to buy the card is an out-right act of baa-baaa
sheepishness to begin with. That act alone demonstrates to me that I too
have caved into the notion that going through certain holidays without
passing off a card will make me less acceptable than an HIV-positive
Republican candidate in the Ozark voting district. Blame the card
companies, blame the stores, blame Madison Ave, blame the CIA if you're
already doing it for everything anyway, but about half of these holidays
are NOT card worthy. "Happy Arbor Day, You Big Tree Hugging Druid!"
Sheesh..
Next in line is the message in these cards. I would just as soon have a
premonition of my own painful death by rectal cancer than to even PRETEND
to read one of those poem-cards with a hand-holding couple walking on a
beach at sunset. No matter how heart-felt the gesture, no matter no rich
the sentiment when the card was picked out, I just can't realistically
enjoy words from a stranger. It's not even that I fly into a rage, or
something so callously melodramatic. I just know they can see my eyes
water and begin to cross when I read these cards, the same they would if
you made me read a 1040 instruction booklet. Again, don't get me wrong, I
enjoy the thought, but even Pol Pot didn't make his people read greeting
cards - he just shot them outright with some sense of mercy.
What's worse is the absolute tizzy you get into in the card isle. Bless
the Norse gods if you're luck enough to find a commercial greeting card
store, but how many times have you ended up in the one at the supermarket?
AHHHHHH! Boy, these suck! It's doesn't help that your selection amounts
to an entire year's worth of greeting cards in a space only as wide as the
front of a VW. Oh, no they've got to COMPLETELY suck to add insult to
injury. You go to find a decent B-day card, and all that's left is the one
that the other delinquents and late-comers overlooked that has some demonic
clown wishing a 3 year-old a "HAP-HAP-HAPPY Jewish Amputee B-Day Party!"
Yup, and rather than looking insensitive or inconsiderate, you're forced to
buy this for your fiancee's uncle's big 5-0. Yeah, I'm sure he'd much
rather have had you take a big ol' crap on a piece of card-stock, fold it
together, and give him some demented fecal-Rorschach test. At least people
respect home-made card ("Oh! You shat the card yourself! Well it's VERY
pretty!")
Take my advice here: The best default greeting card to buy? The "Sympathy
on the Loss of you Pet" card. Why? One, it's always in stock. Two, it
says nothing about events in particular - A plus since none of them say
anything particularly significant anyway. Three, and most importantly, if
it just so happens their pet just happened to die around the holidays,
you're already covered.
-capone
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Two Plus Two
------------
Intro...
--------
Just a few words that seem to be lost or burried in today's society.
Take the time to read them and THINK about what they mean. Do any of
these seem familiar to you? After reading these definitions, take time
to read a few select quotes about various aspects of life. With these
two steps, put 2 and 2 together and see what you get out of the file.
Definitions...
--------------
comrade (n) 1a. an intimate friend or associate
courage (n) 1. mental or moral strength to venture, perservere, and
withstand danger, fear, or difficulty.
duty (n) 2a. obligatory tasks, conduct, service, or functions
that arise from one's position (as in life or in a group)
3a. a moral or legal obligation
esteem 3. the regard in which one is held
ethic (n) 1. the discipline dealing with what is good and bad and
with moral duty and obligation
fidelity (n) 1a. the quality or state of being faithful
friend (n) 1a. one attached to another by affection or esteem
1b. one that is of the same nation, party, or group
honesty (n) 2a. fairness and straightforwardness of conduct
2b. adherence to the facts
honor (n) 1. good name or public esteem
4. one whose worth brings respect or fame
8a. a keen sense of ethical conduct
8b. one's word given as a guarantee of performance
integrity (n) 2. firm adherence to a code of esp. moral or artistic values
loyal (adj) 1. unswerving in allegiance
1b. faithful to a private person to whom fidelity is due
moral (adj) 1a. of or relating to principles of right and wrong
behavior
1d. sanctioned by or operative on one's conscience or
ethical judgment
1e. capable of right and wrong action
noble (adj) 1a. possessing outstanding qualities
5. possessing, characterized by, or arising from
superiority of mind or character or of ideals or morals
obligation (n) 1a. something (as a formal contract, a promise, or the
demands of conscience or custom) that obligates one
to a course of action
respect (n) 3a. high or special regard : ESTEEM
righteous (adj) 1a. acting in accord with divine or moral law
2b. arising from an outraged sense of justice or morality
virtue (n) 1a. conformity to a standard of right
1b. a particular moral excellence
On friendship...
----------------
"Friends are born, not made." - Henry Brooks Adams
"My sone, keep wel thy tongue, and keep thy freend."
- The Manciple's Tale
"A friend is long sought, hardly found, and with difficulty kept."
- St. Jerome
"My friend, judge not me, Thou seest I judge not thee. Betwixt the stirrup
and the ground Mercy I asked, and mercy found."
- William Camden
"Why should good words ne'er be said Of a friend till he is dead?"
- Daniel Webster Hoyt
"What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies."
- Aristotle
On courage...
-------------
"You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which
you really stop to look fear in the face. you are able to say to yourself,
'I lived through this horro. I can take the next thing that comes along'
... You must do the thing you think you cannot do."
- Anna Eleanor Roosevelt
"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage."
- Anais Nin
"Courage is the price that life exacts for granting peace."
- Amelia Earhart Putnam
"Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absense of fear."
- Samuel Longhorne Clemens
"The courage we desire and prize is not the courage to die decently, but
to live manfully." - Thomas Carlyle
On duty...
----------
"The path of duty lies in what is near, and man seeks for it in
what is remote." - Mencius
"The business of the samurai consists in reflecting on his own
station in life, in discharging loyal service to his master
if he has one, in deepening his fidelity in assoications with
friends, and, with due consideration of his own position, in
devoting himself to duty above all."
- Yamaga Soku (The Way of the Samurai)
"When I'm not thanked at all, I'm thanked enough; I've done my duty,
and I've done no more." - Henry Fielding
"A sense of duty pursues us ever. It is omnipresent, like the Deity.
If we take to ourselves the wings of the morning, and dwell in the
uttermost parts of the sea, duty performed or duty violated is still
with us, for our happiness or our misery. If we say the darkness
shall cover us, in the darkness as in the light our obligations are
yet with us." - Daniel Webster
"Not once or twice in our rough island story the path of duty was
the way to glory." - Lord Tennyson
"I have another duty equally sacred.. My duty to myself."
- Henrik Ibsen
On esteem...
------------
"So much is a man worth as he esteems himself."
- Francois Rabelais
On honor...
-----------
"Of men who have a sense of honor, more come through alive than are
slain, but from those who flee comes neither glory nor any help."
- Homer
"Truly, to tell lies is not honorable; But when the truth entails
tremendous ruin, To speak dishonorably is pardonable."
- Sophocles
"What is left when honor is lost?"
- Publilius Syrus
"Count it the greatest sin to prefer life to honor, and for the sake
of living to lose what makes life worth having."
- Decimus Junius Juvenalis
"All is lost save honor." - Francis I
"My honor is dearer to me than my life."
- Miguel de Cervantes
"Mine honor is my life; both grow in one; Take honor from me,
and my life is done." - William Shakespeare
"As he was valiant, I honor him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him."
- William Shakespeare
"And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the
protection of divine providence, we mutually pledge to each other our
lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor."
- Thomas Jefferson
"To die with honor when one can no longer live with honor."
- John Luther Long
On integrity...
---------------
"In silence man can most readily preserve his integrity."
- Meister Eckhart
"If everyone were clothed with integrity, if every heart were just,
frank, kindly, the other virtues would be well-night useless, since
their chief purpose is to make us bear with patience the injustice of
our fellows." - Moliere (Jean Baptiste Poquelin)
On moral...
-----------
"True eloquence takes no heed of eloquence, true morality takes no
heed of morality." - Blaise Pascal
"Truth is the secret of eloquence and of virtue, the basis of moral
authority; it is the highest summit of art and of life."
- Henri-Frederic Amiel
"If ignorance and passion are the foes of popular morality, it must be
confessed that moral indifference is the malady of the cultivated
classes." - Henri-Frederic Amiel
"What is beautiful is moral, that is all there is to it."
- Gustave Flaubert
"'Tut, tut, child,' said the Duchess. 'Everything's got a moral if only
you can find it.'" - Charles Lutwidge Dodgson (Lewis Carroll)
"The fact that man knows right from wrong proves his intellectual
superiority to the other creatures; but the fact that he can do wrong
proves his moral inferiority to any creature that cannot."
- Samuel Langhorne Clemens (Mark Twain)
"The difference between a moral man and a man of honor is that the
latter regrets a discreditable act, even when it has worked and he
has not been caught." - Henry Louis Mencken
"He who wears his morality but as his best garment were better naked."
- Kahlil Gibran
On nobility...
--------------
"For kindness begets kindness evermore, but he from whose mind fades
the memory of benefits, noble is he no more."
- Sophocles
"Nobly to live, or else nobly to die, befits proud birth."
- Sophocles
"Nobility is the one and only virtue."
- Decimus Junius Juvenalis (Juvenal)
"They are never alone that are accompanied with noble thoughts."
- Sir Philip Sidney
"True nobility is exempt from fear."
- William Shakespeare
"A noble person attracts noble people, and knows how to hold on to them."
- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
"For words divide and rend; But silence is most noble till the end."
- Algernon Charles Swinburne
"Every one of these hundreds of millions of human beings is in some form
seeking happiness... Not one is altogether noble nor altogether trustworthy
nor altogether consistent; and not one is altogether vile.. Not a single
one but has at some time wept."
- Herbert George Wells
On respect...
-------------
"There is no other way of guarding oneself against flattery than by letting
men understand that they will not offend you by speaking the truth;
but when everyone can tell you the truth, you lose their respect."
- Niccolo Machiavelli
"We confide in our strength, without boasting of it; we respect that of
others, without fearing it." - Thomas Jefferson
On righteousness...
-------------------
"The humblest citizen of all the land, when clad in the armor of a
righteous cause, is stronger than all the hosts of Error."
- William Jennings Bryan
"The company of just and righteous men is better than wealth
and a rich estate." - Euripides
On virtue...
------------
"Virtue is not left to stand alone. He who practices it will have neighbors."
- Confucius
"Friendship with a manis friendship with his virtue, and does not admit of
assumptions of superiority." - Mencius
"There is no vice so simple but assumes Some mark of virtue on his
outward parts." - William Shakespeare
"Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful."
- William Shakespeare
"Virtue is harder to be got than knowledge of the world; and, if lost in
a young man, is seldom recovered."
- John Locke
"The only reward of virtue is virtue; the only way to have a friend is
to be one." - Ralph Waldo Emerson
Final thoughts...
-----------------
As I write this file, I can't help but wonder to myself if anyone
will get the point. I find myself doubting that people will actually
read through and consider the definitions and quotes. I have been
sitting here for over ten hours researching quotes that I feel help
reflect my point. But that just leads me to wonder what my point is.
I mean, I know what my point is, but I don't think I can adequately
reflect it through my own words. Furthermore, I know that it is
possible to get a double meaning out of some of these quotes. So I
am trusting you to make the right choice in trying to decipher my
meaning.
I think the best bet is for you the reader to think about things yourself.
Draw your own conclusions based on the text above. After all, your own
thoughts are the most powerful message I can deliver.
.d1s.
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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She Lied To Me
--------------
She'll be mine.. That's how the conversation began if
I recollect correctly. But the past is getting so hazy in my
mind lately.. I just need to write these things down.. You know,
because, I never know exactly when I'm going to forget them..
I remember that night fairly well though..
The sky was dim and the stars were starting to shine
through.. I had the phone reciever pressed to my ear and I
was speaking to the first person that I'd ever
met online over the phone.. We were friends then.. I was
convincing this girl that I'd be able to get one of her sisters
to love me.. Hell, it started as a joke.. But it didn't end
a joke.. After about two hours of discussion on all kinds of
enthralling topics I hung up.
It was about two months later and I signed online very
early. I was startled to recieve a message so early. It was
a private communications directed to me from this girls sister,
Emily. She explained to me that her sister, Katie, had told
her what I had said, and she demanded an explanation. Of course,
being the type of guy that I am, I got a sly grin on my face.
I sent a message back to her and we began a rather lengthy
talk about nothing in particular. We noticed that we had many
similarities, we were both pyromaniacs, single, and both really
disliked authoritarian figures. I asked for her phone number
and recieved three of them.
It was nearing mid-afternoon when I called her. I remember
the first conversation very clearly. She sounded just like an angel
you know.. I knew I was really going to love this girl. A few hours
later we were as you could say, a couple. I remember how blessed
I felt.
Things progressed steadily from there. We became very close
and I felt I could trust her with anything. We told each other
about the hardships in are life and the such and I decided I was
going to go visit her. So I hopped onto a plane and headed to
New York. Now little did I know I'd have quite a time finding
her house. And of course, being a man, I wasn't about to ask
for directions. So, about three days later, I still hadn't
found her house and I got on a plane and came home.
I guess that was the thing that started the relationship
on a downward spiral. Two months later I recieved a herendous
teleconference bill from a PBX that got traced back to my line,
and I was unable to go online. I was unable to touch a phone
and dial her.. Things were getting very grim.
A few months later I was able to return and things seemed
just like normal. Things were upbeat and happy. Or so I thought.
It was nearing spring and I headed out to the Cayman Islands for
break. I stayed there with a few friends and really hit it off
with this hacker girl I met. Things went rather well and I was
on my way back home in what seemed like no time. I didn't think
much of what happened with that girl in the Cayman Islands.. But
it came back to haunt me.
Upon reentering the country I placed a call to Katie in
Minnesota and told her what happened. I told her I was going to
tell Emily and I didn't want her to say anything. But of course,
I couldn't bring myself to say anything. But.. Katie told her,
Emily didn't let me know that. Maybe because she didn't believe
it, maybe because she didn't want to.
It was approaching summer that Saturday morning my life
turned to hell. I called Emily and had an elaborate discussion on
hip replacement surgery with her.. And I said, hey, let me go on
your account and you can go on mine. She agreed and gave me her
account name and password. I noticed she had e-mail so I figured
she wouldn't care if I read it.. I fully expected her to read mine.
I opened her mail box and read a letter from Katie. All seemed
well. But then I came along some lining which I did not like
at all.. It said something along the lines of.. "Yes, Jesse is
coming up this summer.. Your lucky you have such a good guy like
Chris that is going to come visit you.. I guess we're both going
to have a great summer.." I noticed just then my name wasn't Chris.
I stored all over her e-mail on my computer and deleted it from
her mailbox.
Then came the letter I wrote. I wrote up a bitter
and spiteful message in Notepad, and sent it off to Emily's
account. She read it and replied with quite a heart wrenching
note.. A few depressing notes later.. I was out the only thing
I really cared about..
After those notes I called my friends and talked to
them.. But they could offer me no support.. They could offer
me no help, they could offer me nothing. I decided I needed
to get outside, out of the house. I went and hung out with
my friends and went to a party later that night. I tried to call
Emily from a payphone at the party.. But no one answered.
I ended up spending the night over my friends house.. I told
him what happened.. and he replied.. "She was always a bitch
anyway.." and he lit up his joint he had hanging out of
his mouth.
The next morning I was so depressed I could hardly
open my eyes. It seemed like the weight of the world was
coming down on me.. I went home almost immediately and
layed down on my bed and gazed aimlessly at the cieling.
I turned on some music, but nothing was loud enough.. I'd like
to say things got easier from there, but they didn't.
We didn't speak for nearly a month after those
altercations.. But when we eventually did, things were
not the same. As much as I wanted them to be, they weren't,
they never would be again. That summer we briefly got back
together, only to be resplitup because she was cheating on
me yet again..
My heart is still broken from all of this. I learned
that it isn't a good idea to trust or love anyone. Never
trust anyone with secrets and you cannot get hurt. Never
love anyone and you have nothing to worry about. I feel like
my heart got stomped on.. I still do.. I still fucking do.
Remember everything when only memories remain..
-dropcomm
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Lovely Hate
-----------
I'm sitting here on a bus to chicago, I can feel my stomach emptying
more the closer we arrive to the next stop. Surrounding me are sounds,
many sounds. Most of them are coming from behind me as I am sitting a bit
towards the front of the bus. It is the sounds that bother me, not the
hunger in my stomach or the screaming of the children when they dont get
what they want, but these sounds of ignorance. I have heard the saying
"Ignorance breeds hate." I am now a firm believer in that theory.
I can overhear a conversation by what sounds like a small white man
and a large black man. Not a conversation of hate for each other but a
slightly different hate under the pretence of not having hate at all.
Instead of being bitter twoards one another these two ignorant souls found
a mutual hatred, one that they could enjoy together. Just this far into
the trip they have complained about latinos and how they "come to our
country and take our jobs" with such comments as "they are worthless if
they cant speak the language" and with such compassion as "instead of
coming here we should go set up shops down there so they can work" obviously
neither one of them have ever been to mexico and expierenced the way of
life there, the low priced corruption of the government, the degradation
of working on the streets for the big american dollar.
With his nasal whine of a voice the smaller sounding white guy is
insistant on the bus driver stopping this very second so he can have a
cigarette, I myself am a smoker so I can understand the desire for nicotiene
but even after being informed that the next stop is less than an hour away
he makes such commentary as "I should throw the driver out the door and
drive this damn thing myself" he is quite persistent even though some of
the other passengers have asked him to settle down and be patient.
The larger sounding black man speaks of such "high paying" jobs as the
last one he had at McDonalds, apparently content with his lack of income.
Both of them speak broken "white trash" and "nigger" english yet they seem
to be communicating with little to no problem. Both of them are quite loud
and obnoxious. while discussing the worthlessness of latino people in general
(the whole time assuming none of them were born here and all were "imported")
they made a special effort to be heard by the several latinos sitting
directly behind me.
They have now moved onto the topic of people of asian descent and how
they are meant for nothing more than being servants when americans visit
their asianatic countries, and as with the latino conversation they are being
sure to be heard by the asian gentleman sitting to my immediate right,
someone of whom I had just finished quite a stimulating conversation with a
few minutes before I started this article.
As I'm sitting here the stench of diapers has made its way to me and of
course this brings much comment from the two ignorant fools sitting in the
back, such colorful statements as "holy shit what died in here", "mmmm smells
good, just like a burrito", (with emphasis on the word burrito as to offend
the latino passengers) well, its time for a stop, I think I'll go have
something to eat and mabye a cigarette.
After a very filling meal and a smoke I'm back. During our little stop
I got a good look at the two ignorants, just as I had envisioned them, the
white guy, a small framed man with facial hair as you would have expected
to see in the late seventies, the black man still stuck in the "eazy-e"
style of the 80's. They spent most of their time during the breal talking
to one another as I dont think anyone else on the bus would talk to them if
they begged. They seem to have quieted down after being fed. the natives are
restless no more.
<RANDOM THOUGHT>
Why hide hate behind a facade of tolerance for one another?
Why bother continuing to voice your outdated and ignorant opinions when its
quite apparent that the only people listening is yourselves?
Even if one is intent on expressing these thoughts why not do some research
into the subject matter and form valid arguments for you feelings?
Judging by the lack of coherent full sentences and the excuses for their
feelings I doubt either of these men will make a contribution to the world.
I also found it amusing that no matter what their self worth is (at this
point in time I'm thinking its about that of a head of cabbage) they always
found an excuse to belittle other individuals, even entire races and
ethnicities.
</RANDOM THOUGHT>
Well, it was only a matter of time. The two who were so in agreement
are now at each others throats and the large black guy is threatening to
throw the smaller white guy off the bus. I could only hope that they both
fall off and the rest of the ride can be enjoyed. It's time for another
stop, I'll be back.
This short stop proved to be quite interesting. The ignorant white guy
was thrown off the bus and arrested for being intoxicated as he had
apparently been drinking heavily for most of the trip. The black guy has
settled down and remained quiet, so now if I could only get the screaming
kids to shut up I might get some sleep. I can try at least.
-zens
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death and the maiden
--------------------
it was quiet
the forest creaked in it's
[ eternalness ]
like a house
settling
in the dark.
he sat in the
[ moon spun ]
shadows and listened
to the night pass
and he thought
of her.
he thought of the pure
white curve of her
throat and the crease
where it met her jaw.
pale lips and high
cheekbones,
[ achingly ]
beautiful.
sweet hell music
the din
the noise
he had to had to
[ had to ]
do it
(why'd you do it?)
a rain drop slapped
a leaf and he
saw with pure
clarity the
gentle roundness
of her
stomach as
he
[ tore ]
through it with
a glittering
blade.
she broke him.
he heard the
[ shatter ]
when she spoke
the words, the
white teeth like
(fangs)(claws)
as her voice lilted
methodically.
i don't want you
[ anymore ]
you lie lie lie
he giggled and saw
the shadows creep
even further from
his heart
he put her eyes
in his
pocket and
fell
asleep.
Palpable Obscure
"you darkness that i come from i love you more than
all the fires that fence in the world.."
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Playing With Fire
-----------------
I have never thought of myself that attractive.
People say otherwise.
Whatever.
Looks are so materialistic.
But the funny thing is, I am egotistical enough to think I am the best damn
thing since the slice of bread.
Whatever.
My standard response.
Here is the paradox. and while this can be appropriately applied to me, I
have seen this applied to too many people in reality.
When I am put in a situation where in essence I have to prove myself, in
some way or some ideal, I am *the* best damn thing that you will ever see. I
am more stronger emotionally, physically, mentally. the most intelligent,
the most everything that you've ever seen and I *will* rock your world.
And it works, because confidence is attractive isn't it?
On the flipside, media is screaming at me: you are nearly 6' tall? You have
to weigh 8lbs, have hunks of blonde hair, be incredibly stupid and like
sex occasionally.
And that is such bullshit. how can I strive to be "me" in every sense of
the word, to explore and find myself, to stretch and become myself, to grow
and to learn about myself if the goddamn media is feeding me this tripe on
such a basis that I'm literally screaming "fuck off" in my mind every time
that I see some walking clothes hanger walk by me. Because when she does,
for the briefest of seconds I mentally beat myself up for not being the
things that I described above.
Whatever.
That irks me more then anything else. That while I am still learning about
me, my likes, my dislikes, that I have to fight Madison avenue at every
possible moment.
And its not the print, vision or Internet media, its the bimbo's that I see
everytime I step out of the house who are running around with copies of
cosmo, vogue, sticking their fingers down their throat, letting themselves
be taken advantage of by guys in the name of love, being scared to be alone,
to be strong, to be themselves.
FUCK THAT!
All in the name of beauty.
All in the name of being loved.
All in the name of being accepted.
All in the name of getting fucked.
All in the name of every conceivable media muckraking machine piece of crap
that ever existed.
When I was 20 years old, I dated a guy named Alan. This was love. This was
everything I dreamed it would be. Sexually I let loose and did things I had
only dreamed about. And as every post-teenage-angst being fed on a diet of
diet coke and diet pills, we went shopping one day. He turned around and
looked at me while saying most earnestly "you know, with your face and Cindy
Crawfords body, you would make a lot of money modeling". Isn't that nice?
yes, I thought so. Turns out he was fucking another girl for the majority
of our relationship (1.5 years). Isn't that nice? I am sure he liked the
fact that I beat the shit out of his 'fiancee' in a night club after I
turned 21.
Now that I am getting older, I am less conscious of how my face and body
looks. It doesn't stop though. Men still sniff around regardless of how
much I weigh, or if my hair is short/long or if I'm suffering from the
lovely monthly round of zits from pms.
Something about me...
Playing with fire...
This fuck file came along when I was just browsing the web and looking at
sites at random. A friend of mine came online and we were talking about our
first meeting which occurred recently. He had taken me to his place of
business, and we had met an associate of his.
Now this meeting was all innocent between my friend and I. He is in fact my
publisher who contacted me about a year ago about putting my writings in a
book form and actually be printed. We were meeting to talk about various
and sundry things. And I do not have a habit on cheating on my boyfriend's.
But I digress. My friend and I were talking online tonight about the first
meeting and setting up another meeting soon to go over business related
things, when he related that his associate came up and said to him, in
reference of me, "your playing with fire".
This never fails to amuse me. Because it seems that there is something
about 'me' that is different then anyone else. My ex-boyfriend Dan kept
saying that to me when I left Michigan to come to San Francisco. "Something
about you, that I have never seen, will never see again. I love you".
And that is the common thread it seems in all my life. Some deep inner part
of me is calling out to just about everyone. Something inside of me that
seems to shake people at the core of their souls that makes me unforgettable.
Enough of "something" to be the product (indirectly) of marriage breakups,
relationship breakups. I have had guys change their minds about one girl
only to like me. I have been accused of sleeping with a majority of these
people (not true).
And I'm tired.
I'm tired of the competition, of the bullshit, of the pseudo lying and the
theorizing of who and what I am.
And is it not ironic that Dan and I's song 'The Freshman' by the Verve
Pipe is playing on the radio? I traveled 2000 miles to get away from that
song, local heroes gone bigtime, only to be assaulted by it on a 15 song
rotation.
"When I was young I knew everything
and she a punk who rarely ever took advice
now i'm guilt stricken
sobbing with my head on the floor
stop a baby's breath and a shoe full of rice
I can't be held responsible
cause she was touching her face
I won't be held responsible
she fell in love in the first place
for the life of me
I can't remember
what made us think we were wise and
we'd never compromise
for the life of me I cannot believe
we'd ever die for these sins
we were mearly freshman..."
I probably never told him (Dan) what he really meant to me. Maybe I was a
cunt bitch from hell, maybe there was too many wrongs, and I wouldn't
compromise. Because when all is said and done, I walk away being the one
with the most cake.
My friend from the meeting said this about me tonight:
"You are a magnificent puzzle-maker
one of the best I have seen
but like every puzzle-maker, you on some level
want the pieces assembled
and the clues to the puzzle are scattered...
throughout the writing you have scattered on the
Net and such
and if one cares to read your writing verrry verrrry
closely
one finds, in the contradictions, the Scyllas and
Charybdis's"
While my boyfriend is at porno sites.
And while i trip walking down the street looking up at the clear night sky.
I marvel how I got from here to there.
as I walk in city lights bookstore, running my fingers ever so delicately
at all the wonderful books
as I sit indian style at my computer picking a scab on my knee
as my cat gives the both of us evil looks
as I scratch my ear
as I yawn
I wonder what tomorrow brings
where the day breaks
where I begin and end
while loving that I am me, and not some 'normal' mundane person concerned
about their 2.5 kids and picket fence
while I dream about an apt in Chinatown
maybe this made no sense.
I don't give a shit. I never make sense, least of all to myself. But the
moral of the story is that what seems to be lacking in many people is the
need to dream. The need to be. The need to go beyond the bullshit and to
push ourselves into some sort of oblivion that doesn't exist. The need to
break beyond the media, the muckrakers, the fucked up bullshit world we
live in. A place that only exists in our minds. A place of worthy entrance
and only the accepted are allowed to come in.
Maybe all we wanted was to be loved for ourselves.
But we won't allow to that happen now will we boys and girls.
No we won't.
We will be force feed what type of bullshit to buy from our condoms to our
toilet paper to wipe our lilly white asses with.
And we are all struggling thinking we are all so unique and ohh soo
different when all we are is nothing but a bunch of sheep being lead to the
slaughter by mind control of the media.
And me?
Am i included in this we?
Fuck no.
I will be dancing naked around a ring of fire while the rain pours.
Hoping against hope that everything I've begun to search for will come to me.
Plotting the stars.
Reading a book that i bought without the help of ads.
And listening to the voices in my mind.
Because I'm not an addict.
Really.
I'm not.
(and this is a lie.)
-simunye
June 7, 1997
4:31 am
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Losers
------
In my sociology class, the teacher briefly said, "Do not bitch until you do
something to change the situation."
True, only losers keep complaining about the problems they have. They
complain that the government is a mess, the company is treating them like
shit, the educational system is stupid, etc. but all of them say "oh but we
can't change the society because it's already so fucked up." Losers believe
all the politicians only want the power and money without even reading
about them. Of course, they don't vote. They don't vote, yet they still
bitch about the result; they are too ignorant to know they are the ones who
let the Republicans win in their area. Losers believe someone will clean
the trash they threw out of the car window without spending their tax
money. Losers are the ones who do things because "everyone else does."
The society is made of PEOPLE, and if it doesn't change, it's OUR problem.
We are more or less lazy asses that don't even bother to try. We tend to
believe what "everyone else" says, without being sure who that "everyone"
is. We act as though we are cool "individuals" with unique mind, but we
are in fact letting a few people control our whole life. The freedom we
believe in is bullshit because we use it as an excuse to be selfish, lazy
and ignorant to keep ourselves from confronting the "real" problems we
have. And guess what, we still bitch on daily basis, after repeating "we
cannot change anything," without giving up on everything and becoming an
obedient slave. (Hello? Are you waiting for the God or some kind of hero to
change the situation?)
I have no way of liking or wanting to hang out with my sociology teacher
because she is a very religious Catholic who believes in "morality" that I
disagree at some point, yet I do respect her for not being a "loser". Her
life is based on what she believes in, and if someone does not agree with
her, she questions until she completely understands why (that is why we
have arguments sometimes). I've seen her yelling at the manager of the
college bookstore when they raised the price of our textbook without
notice. She is a person who would actually call up the Mayor and tell him
"I don't like what you are doing," even if it doesn't change the situation.
In One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, McMurphy said, "Well, at least I
tried." Can we say the same thing before we start bitching?
Psycho "The Loser"
June 7, 1997
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Do We Condemn Ourselves?
------------------------
(Hypothetically Speaking)
An Answer to that Age-Old Cop-Out
First off, know I am an atheist[and a Satanist, I will not
bother explaining to those who don't understand in this article]--I
don't believe in God. The purpose of this essay is to show the
nature of the Christian God concept, how flawed it is, how it
cannot make sense. Know from here on when I speak of "God" I am
speaking in a hypothetical, "let's say he exists" sense.
The first thought that made me question the Christian God
concept--"A loving god is not capable of condemning someone
forever" is often responded with something to the nature of "We
condemn ourselves. God isn't responsible." This is about the only
defense towards God's vengeful nature. That and, of course, "God's
reasons are beyond human understanding."
Here's an analogy--is an abortion doctor responsible for the
"crime of abortion", or does it all fall on the woman? Personally,
I'm impartial regarding abortion and its "moral questions", but it
seems most Christians are against abortion. Most would say the
doctor is "very" responsible--but the doctor doesn't make the
choice. The woman makes the decision "I will have an abortion",
she is not forced. [Once again, I am not condemning a woman who
chooses abortion.] Why should the doctor be held responsible? The
human makes the choice to "defy" god--to stop believing in him, or
not to accept him. The human indirectly might "condemn himself",
but who actually sends the soul to hell? God does the final act,
I assume, for what sane being would say "I was a bad boy, therefore
I will go to hell now." People might attack this analogy by
extending it--"But abortion doctors are evil!"--The question is
indirect or direct responsibility, not good and evil--"God is all
loving"--The point is not good or evil, remember--"God surpasses
logic and analogy"--Assuming we believe in your God, and what kind
of cop-out is that? Your god must exist for me to be condemned.
He is responsible, it seems.
[Someone might say I'm twisting scripture, some might even say
the vengeful nature of God is not to be taken literally. Most of
the error in the Bible is blamed on human error when Christians
defend it, or on mistranslation. But do you think a truly all-
powerful God would "inspire" a book destined to be deceptive from
the start? And why would his divine word need to be twisted and
corrected to make sense? If all errors in the Bible are because of
human limitation, then human twisting and contorting of scripture
is just as prone to "error". When the literal meaning falls out to
science or common logic, hidden "occulted" meanings are searched
for. Give up already! Genesis is a MYTHICAL STORY. You don't see
modern Greeks looking for hidden meanings in the old Zeus creation
story! Obsolescence is obsolescence!]
AND WHY MUST CONDEMNATION EXIST? Because God says so. An
omnipotent being doesn't *HAVE* to do anything! And an
omnibenevolent being could respond to any spite, smite, or defiance
with calm and kind understanding. Condemnation only exists because
your God decided to make it so. Humans don't hold power against
your God, do they? So it's not OUR FAULT, is it? We didn't say
"Now you must condemn us if we're bad." Adam and Eve[this is all
assuming these things existed/happened] did not know that defying
god was wrong, did they? They HAD NO KNOWLEDGE OF GOOD AND EVIL!
It seems man was damned from the start, under your creation myth--
God makes man, God allows temptation of man, God punishes man who
doesn't even know what evil is until he commits in. Let's put it
this way:
Be Good.
What is good? And why must I be good?
You do not know. Be good because I am good, and I said so.
Why do you say so?
Because I will condemn you otherwise.
Why must you condemn me?
Because I have to.
Why?
Because I made it so, and because I said so.
God puts forth the final act of soul-destruction. God sends
the soul to hell. Condemnation is only necessary because God says
so. Why must it exist? Because he says so. Can you not see how
INCREDIBLY INSANE THIS IS?
The conclusion: Your god cannot exist. I know if I ever
confronted him, I would not humble myself to him--I would kick his
ass in a religious debate. Stop searching for hidden meanings.
The Bible is obsolete.
Update: Many times things such as "evil" and "bad things in
general" are blamed on the devil. Psycho Freak Jack Van Impe
lately has been putting the blame on ALIENS, which are of
course..LUCIFER'S ANGELS. But go beyond that. Who created this
"Lucifer"? God, being omniscient, knew his "angel of light" would
fall. Under an omniscient, omnipotent God responsible for all that
exists[knowing the outcome of his creation] wouldn't he deserve the
original blame for everything that could go wrong? Question the
concept of this "God", and think for yourself. "Who knows God's
reasons?" is nothing more than a cop-out that allows one to let
someone else do their thinking.
by Lord_H
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How The Hell Do You Stand It At All?
------------------------------------
The following was crossposted over USENET to several different
newsgroups, and I happened to run into it on rec.sport.pro-wrestling. It
was posted by a guy named Edgar from Britain who had a job in the United
States for a few months, and he comments on our television programming. I
thought it was interesting to see the views of somebody completely
impartial, and he supports a lot of what I've touched on in previous
articles I've written for other e'zines. The commentary isn't exactly
revolutionary (these things Edgar brings up have been said hundreds of times
before) but I find it particularly important because it's from an outsider.
Note that I attempted to get in contact with Edgar via email. I wanted
to get more information so I could add to this piece; what is different
about British television? Could you compare and contrast? Unfortunately,
after a few weeks I haven't received a response, so I'm releasing this as
is.
Also note that I edited this slightly as far as simple grammar goes
(commas, semi-colons, etc) but the remainder is as I found it. Another
thing to keep in mind is that, because Edgar is from Britain, he uses
different spelling (most obvious is "programmes" instead of "programs" or
the usage of S instead of Z). Anyway, enough of the introduction. Here.
*******
From edc@comtex.co.uk Thu May 29 23:50:18 1997
Newsgroups: alt.politics.equality,rec.arts.tv,rec.sport.pro-wrestling,
rec.arts.tv.uk.misc,uk.media.tv.misc,rec.arts.tv.soaps.misc,
alt.books.george-orwell,soc.culture.british,
alt.renewing.american.civilization,alt.nuke.europe,
art.fan.art-bell
Subject: American Television is Dreadfully Stupid. How the Hell Can You Sit
Through Endless Insulting Commercials?
From: Edgar Carlsbad <edc@comtex.co.uk>
Date: Thu, 29 May 1997 22:50:18 -0500
I am constantly shocked at how stupid and mindless American TV is. I have
just returned from spending three months working there and I am
flabbergasted at how you Americans can stand such low class rubbish. It is
a terrible reflection of your society: crass commercialisation and poor
quality programming. How the hell do you stand it at all?
The sitcoms fall between retarded sexualisation or dealing with America's
racial problems by parading stereotypes. Most tragic of all, American TV
serves as a substitute for real friends or a proper family life.
The sexualisation of children on American TV is shocking. Speaks volumes
about the miserable existance American children are raised in these days.
The latchkey generations abandoned by their selfish mothers who "did the
whole kid thing, but now want to find myself and my career" types who give
an endless parade of shrinks a lucrative lifestyle.
The never-ending violence is deeply disturbing. Programmes with titles like
"Scary Cop Shoot-Outs" and other home videos of planes falling from the sky
passed-off as science shows just so the morbid individuals can justify
their sick fascination with violent death and suffering.
Your so called news programmes are nothing more than propaganda designed to
keep the corporate state in power and your pockets as empty as your lives.
Lots of information about how crappy life is in the rest of the world
followed by how great things are here in the good 'ol US of A. Yipee!
No wonder only 5% of Americans have passports; your government fears that
you may find out that the quality of life in the US is shit next to Europe,
Canada, Down Under, and so on.
Sports programmes are just as retarded as the stupid meaningless sports
programming you "enjoy" over there. I cannot understand it at all. I must
have heard the word "EXTREME" about a million times to let me know how
exciting American sports are. They are childish and cater to people of low
IQ. American TV producers have a very low opinion of their viewers.
Endless shows about UFOs and mostly 'End of The World' programmes which
speaks to the heart in a very roundabout way that America is finished as a
society.
But even when I found something interesting, the enjoyment was ruined by the
non-stop commercials that you get before the show begins, then right after
the intro and then six (yes 6!) more times before a half hour show is done.
A half-hour show in America is really about 16 to 18 minutes long - the rest
is all ads!
I don't know how you Americans can sit through such idiotic excrement, but
after meeting you first hand and seeing how most of you are quite
brainwashed, I see the real purpose of this TV media in your country.
George Orwell's 1984 is about present day America as far as I am concerned.
You are all so controlled you may as well be a nation of veal calves.
You have my prayers.
Edgar
*******
I couldn't agree more, Edgar.
What's especially sad, though, is that nobody really cares. Edgar got
a tremendous amount of flames from people who read this.
Our nation is content to let the powers that be do the thinking for
them. No, this is not the generic "fuck the government!" rant. This isn't
about the government at all, actually. It's about *you* - you people who
get some sort of twisted satisfaction watching Bob Saget show you home
videos of fat people every Sunday night. You people who'd rather watch
Jenny McCarthy shake her tits on a dating show full of halfwit fratboys and
meat-drunk gutterwhores than READ A FUCKING BOOK.
Don't get me wrong. Television itself isn't bad. Infact, it's the
most efficient form of communication that we, as a species, have at our
disposal. This was most evident during the Gulf "War." If a member of my
family or a friend was involved in that, I'd most certainly be glued to the
idiot box to make sure everything was going well. I would *not* be
switching to yet another made-for-TV movie starring a pregnant Jaclyn Smith
in mid-divorce and a coma during the CNN news breaks.
Some people say that television is used to control the masses.
Although this is an immature, paranoid, and very radical point of view, it
isn't so far from the truth. Television isn't used to *control* the masses,
but it sure is suggestive, isn't it?
We have become braindead. I deal with people every day at work and I
witness it firsthand. I literally have to teach people, step by step, how
to activate a gas pump because they're so used to being spoonfed information
by television, parents, and our school system that they've lost the ability
to do anything by themselves. "Two legs good, four legs bad." The whole
bit. It's frightening. You may have went to med school for 12 years to
earn your doctorate in neurology but you can't even fucking pump gas into
your Lexus.
Am I saying that television should take full blame? No. Am I saying
Edgar and his jolly good pals in England have no trouble activating a gas
pump? No. If you don't know what I'm saying by now, just stop reading and
go back to Baywatch. Do you have any idea how much you've missed by reading
my tight-assed banter? Pamela Anderson is half-naked and wet RIGHT NOW.
So hit your escape key. It's the one on the far top-left of your
keyboard labelled "Esc." What you do is place your finger on top of it and
push it down. It will make this disappear.
If you're reading this in DOS Edit, the only way to get out of this is
by pressing two keys at once. I will not bother teaching you how to do that
because it will give you a stroke. Just hit the power button.
- Styx
styx@dto.net
dropdead@mindspring.com
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