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Piss Issue 67
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- P.I.S.S. Philez Number 67 =
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- Canucks Can Bite My Ass =
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- by FreeRadical =
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This Phile first appeared on the P.I.S.S. website.
It may be freely distributed as long as it is
not changed, altered, or fucked up in any way
DoctorNIL presents:
Transcendental Masturbation...The Drama of The New Age
...The Power of an Elastic Personality...Canadians
Really do say "Eh!"...A Cult Finally Pays Off...
______________________________________________________
? ---- Om
Om { -- }
\ / ?
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\\ //
|\ /|
___/ () \___
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DoctorNIL cognizes the Ved
*************NON-DISCLAIMER****************************
This is probably the first hacker-phile that doesn't
Need a disclaimer. The technique of harassment
described is so personal, clever, and diabolical that
most people could never pull if off, even if they had
Cap'n Crunch's magic whistle. If you can do anything
anywhere near so clever, I'll buy you a beer.
*******************************************************
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Click.
Hello, You've reached Andrew Featherhead's apartment, Andrew
Featherhead speaking. Uhh...Hello? (long pause) I Know
you're there because if you weren't I'd be hearing a
dialtone. Okay.
This is me hanging up.
Click.
Paranoia is the spice of life. Watching The UFO's flitting over
their midnight reflections in a private pool. Wondering why the
black helicopters keep following you. It's enough to send delightful
shivers along the spine as you sit crouched in a corner of your
room, knuckling a loaded target rifle whie you wait for the bullet
of an unseen sniper.
But the best paranoia, the most savory, exotic, and delicious is
somebody else's.
Enter Andrew Featherhead. An angular, stork-like kanuck, that in his
most self-reflective moments remembers the past life of a brilliant
physicist, doomed to the bad karma embodied in himself because he
refused the holy wisdom of unnamed eastern sages. This terrible
karma, he fancies, is the cause of all his modern troubles. Well in
a way he's right. But the most recent cause of his current confusion,
which will most probably land his ass on the cement apron that spreads
under the back door of a certain graduate computer science program, is
me.
The Transcendental Meditation movement has always fascinated me.
At the behest of the state, DoctorNIL was forced to endure endless
therapy sessions with a psychologist whose sole aim seemed to be
converting me to the New-Age paradigm. Nothing I said or did would
get me out because the Circuit Court of Maryland had set the length
and duration of my visits to equal the duration of my high school
career. Maybe if I was the social engineer I fancy myself to be I
could have just dialed up the governor and said "Hey! The gorillas
aren't chasing me anymore! Be a pal and lift this injunction for me
would'ja?" But, alas, I wasn't as canny then as I am now. So, once
every week, I would sit in the maddening sphere of a white-noise
machine for an hour, destroy a bespectacled shrink's waxy office
plants, and play out this endless, episodic, verbal duel during which
he would quote innumerable tobacco-like studies and statistics and try
to wrest a "Gee Whiz! Can Transcendental Meditation really do all
that!?!" from me while I did my best not to give him one.
This lasted for the better part of two years, until I was transferred
to group therapy sessions where this really sexy Korean girl and I
would spend the whole time belittling a pair of...
But that's another story.
So, when my Uncle threw me out of his house last month I moved in with
the first roommate I could find. When I first looked at the place he
answered the door with a too-wide grin and the maniacal gleam of the
fanatic in his eyes. I needed a roof so I beamed one right back at
him. I nodded at him when he said he had to meditate twice a day.
I listened good natueredly while he described his plan to build great,
shining cities to rival the geometric dreams of Buckminster Fuller.
Folly. Folly. Folly.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Click.
Hello, Andrew Featherhead speaking. (short pause and then a deep,
dramatic sigh) Listen. I don't know who you are but youv'e got to stop
calling. Iv'e got lots of studies and your'e starting to weird me out.
(another pause)
Okay. That's it. Iv'e been trying to be nice to you but I can't take
another week. Iv'e allready had the police trace the line. If you
promise to stop this, right now, I won't press charges.
(another, even longer pause)
Okay. If that's how you want to play it. You'd better hire an
attorney.
Click.
Andrew is a member of the quasi-religious organization known as The
Transcendental Meditation Movement. It's founder is the Mahareshi-
Mahesh-Yogi: a bearded gentelman credited with, among numerous other
powers, the uncanny ability to remain erect inside a young Indian girl
for more than four hours at a time. Would you follow this man's
teachings? Who wouldn't?
I did. Andrew got to me when I was drunk one night and trying to write.
He began prolestetising and wagging his head like the very Buddha,
telling me about his flying experiences and how his friends became
enlightened in *dramatic gasp* "The Pod". I am very good at humoring
people. At playing along. Almost too good. There comes a point in a
deceptive relationship when playing along becomes actual
belief. That moment comes stealthily, unannounced, and slinks by just
as unnoticed as whence it came. It's only years later that you
realize you're pocket's been picked. In DoctorNIl's case it was exactly
one week.
TM is a form of postmodern brainwashing: a mishmash of Indian Mysticism
and pseudo-science that is funneled into the subconscious by
autohypnosis. It's allure is that it really works. A person under the
influence of hypnosis can be given suggestions like "You will loose
weight." or "You will stop smoking." and if they don't remember the
suggestion they'll really do it. You can tell a person in the grasp of
synamblysim (the deepest hypnotic state) that you're going to touch
them with a red-hot poker, do the actual touching with an ice-cube,
and they'll blister. Mind and body. Each work to fool the other.
TM does for the devotee whatever they expected it to. If you expect to
end all your bad habits, become happier and healthier, and have all the
girls falling at your feet when you start reciting your mantra, you
really will. Or at least you'll think it's happening. It's Opium for
the ego but the cost is subtle, dangerous, and deep. You have to give
up the highest level of your reason and shed the finest layer of your
will. You must force yourself to kneel and relinquish, like a
conquered sword, the sharpness of your soul.
And yes, at that time, I was a man with problems. First among these
was that when somebody else thought I had a problem, and I picked up on
it, I believed that they could see something I was blind to. Stupid me.
I'm simply smarter than everyone else and was too humble to actually to
believe it.
And the second? The Black Helicopters. I've done lots of
hallucinogens, uppers, downers: virtually every concoction available
under the counter, but never, not even when I smoked myself sober,
was I unable to discern between hallucinations and real sensory input.
Well, optical input anyway. So, when big, black, unmarked bell-hueys
started whup-whup-whuping over my house, over restaurants where I was
eating, over the heads of myself and certain unsavory acquaintances, I
began to get a little paranoid. At the invitation of my Aunt BurnOut
(the only person alive willing to believe my fantastic encounters
without a shred of proof) I fled to Iowa. I was going to live on her
farm, write my novel, and forget my felonious past. A wonderful
opportunity. A beautiful dream. I forgot that that invitation came
with an Uncle Clause.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Click. Hello?
(the usual silent pause)
Who the hell are you?!? (voice colored by equal portions of rage and
fear) How did you get my number!?! I'm not even listed under the same
name!
"Where is your roommate?" said DoctorNIL. (I was using my patented,
homemade voice-changer. To make one yourself simply hold the receiver
between your chin and shoulder, cover your mouth with your hands,
and talk like Darth-Vader. For maximum echo effect, sit naked in a
hotel bathtub with a bottle of cheap red.)
"Who the hell are you?" he asked again, his voice gone breathless.
I ignored him. "Where is your roommate?" I said again. "He was one of
our best agents. Now he's gone missing."
"I knew it! I knew he was in the CIA!"
"What have you done to him. What did you tell him? What did he say?"
I asked in my best James Earl Jones.
"Nothing. He didn't tell me a thing."
"He was also an agent of The Black Lodge." I said, making sure to
emphasize the 'The'.
"What's The Black Lodge?" he asked, the slightest tremor poking through
the curiosity in his voice.
"An occult society dedicated to the suppression of human potential."
Another pause. I took the lead:
"He was working for them, as well as for us. Something you or your
movement taught him changed his beliefs. He's gone AWOL. We no longer
want him but we need to know what he knows."
"Well, I'm sorry, but I just can't help you. I have no idea where he
went after he left. His aunt said..."
I cut him off.
"Your girlfriend. Coming home from class. She's so vulnerable. So
delicate....so..so PRETTY. Don't you think?"
A very long pause, during which his breath rate fluctuated several
times.
"What do you want from me?" He could barely squeak this out, but
managed anyway. I'm very proud of him for this.
"Give us his Mantra."
"What?"
"His. Mantra. His mind resonates with it's secret song. If we have his
mantra we can find him."
"I don't know it. I'd tell you if I did but I can't. Only he and his
teacher know."
"Then give us the name of the one who taught him. We know it was a
woman. You must have introduced him."
"You know what I think?" He said, wising up. "I think You're The
Black Lodge! I think DoctorNIL is on the run from YOU!".
"Give us his Mantra. We will have it from you within the week. Either
that or we'll have something more precious. It's your choice.".
"I can't. Even if I wanted to. You've gotta believe me, I just can't
get his teacher to tell me something like that...".
I persisted. "Our order has many rituals that require the..cooperation
..of women. We know of an especially effective formula for the
divination of words of power from human entrails."
He was livid to say the least. "Go to hell! I hope NIL sells you out
to the CIA! I hope that with all my heart! I wouldn't tell you where
he was for a million dollars! (now I knew what TM was all about)
You can't scare me. Go ahead, kill my girlfriend, I don't care what
happens. You can't frighten me anymore.".
To say that he was winded from this outburst is to understate a fact.
It took a full minute for him to pant and gasp his way to what passed
for normalcy. He should have hung up the phone, cut me off right there.
I was already satisfied. I would have left him alone after that. But
no, the poor, stupid kanuck wanted a grand drama, a great spiritual
battle to redeem his poor, reincarnated soul. He was waiting for a
hammer blow, and I gave it to him.
When he had calmed down to the point where I could no longer hear his
breath I laid this line down on him:
"We cannot let you live with what you know. Someday, when you least
expect it, we will..find a use for you."
CLICK
My Uncle maintains his marriage with my Aunt by way of an endless game
of mental chess. That's fine for operators and people you're harassing,
but a shitty basis for a marriage. But people do this all the time.
This is why I don't want to get married. If I had to keep that kind of
shit up forever I'd go crazy. If that's what it takes I'd rather stay
single. I'll credit my Uncle one thing, he's a clever sonofabitch.
He lost his hearing in the jungles of Veitnam, but came back without so
much as a scar, if that tells you anything. When I came to live with
them he was stuck with a dilemma: how to get rid of a rent-paying
nephew-in-law without pissing off his sympathetic wife. His solution?
Hire and bribe his buddies to prowl the premises late at night when I
was gone, smoke pot and harass the dog under their bedroom window while
I was at the bar, leave doors wide open after I had shut them. Ect.
Ect.
It worked. After a week he had reason enough to ask me to leave
without pissing her off.
"NIL, I've got to ask you to leave." "Why?" I asked. "This coming
home late at night, wandering around the house after three a.m., waking
us up, We just can't have it." "I talked to Ellen about this already."
I protested. "That's not me!" I had already figured out that somebody
was trying to get me to leave. "Yeah", he said "But it'll probably
stop when you're gone". He thought I'd leave it that, that I'd just
scratch my head and turn away, but I didn't. Instead, I smiled the
smile of the refugee, long since resigned to the runaway's life.
"Yeah." I sighed. "It probably will". And that gave him a shock.
His eyes widened. He thought I'd figured him out. He was so nervous
that I had his secret that he gave me a hundred bucks, just to get me
out of the house a day sooner. I actually respected the guy at the
time so I left without comment. You see, it all made sense, tied into
the same paranoid story-line. Everything, the UFO's, The Black Helicopters,
The unseen agents at the farm, all were part of an emergency management
plan by a government agency, in league with the good aliens, to get
DoctorNIL, key player in a cosmic drama, into a society for spiritual
enlightenment so that when the millenium came around I'd have the
necessary spiritual acuity to resist whatever evil it is that will
descend upon the earth. Well, that's not precisely what I thought but
It's close enough for horseshoes, hand grenades, and the hacker
community. Perhaps that explains why I was such a willing convert,
why I would spend two hundred bucks and a week of my life wandering in
an autohypnotic haze which took my own subconscious a week of
nightmares to extricate me from. In this way, TM really was effective:
my brief encounter with the movement phreaked me right out of my
schizophrenic delusions. The night I left my apartment I was so nervous
and elated at the prospect macing a Canadian (we'd allready scuffled in
my landlady's apartment) that it was not until the moment I left that
I realized he wasn't really violent, merely laboring under the
imensurable weight of a blind faith that wouldn't fight unless it was
challenged directly. Already I had been sowing the seeds. I spent an
hour one night trying to convince the guy of the existence of evil.
My mind was so clouded that I lost a job. I'm now living out of my car,
scamming net service, and tapping lines by the light of xenon parking
lights, but I am free.
And I'll leave it at that. I'd include his real name and number for
the benefit of the standard Hacker harassment but my revenge is already
so perfect, so complete, that I don't want anyone to mess it up. The
thought of this guy, clutching his poor, emotionally dominated
girlfriend, and contemplating the world of darkness into which he has
been so suddenly and inexplicably plunged, eyes wide and knuckles white
until the wee hours of the morning, puts a smile on my face wider than
the finest white-blotter.
A would-be pundit once sent an email to Suck.com in which he opined:
"Canadians are part of an evil plot, a dark northern conspiracy to
dilute and dissolve American culture.". The notion of Stereotypes is a
myth. Canadians really do say "Eh!" all the time, and for no good
reason. They are truly naive, wide-eyed maniacs. Any group of
people who think that by throwing maltovs at passing armored cars they
are stepping towards independence are capable of the most asinine
follies. Their cigarettes taste like rancid horseshit and their liquor
is more overpriced than here in our own Midwest. The only thing
Canadian money is good for is running currency exchange scams, and
that's the Lords'honest truth.
Beware, beware our "brothers" of the great, white north.
Copyright Freeradical Research, 1998.
Email DoctorNIL@hotmail.com
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