Norm Nowrecki was mortally ****ed.

Fudgepacker had played him like a two dollar banjo and that jangling
metaphor had induced a cognitive and musical dissonance unlike
anything he had ever experienced before. He hummed the NYW theme as
loud as he could, in an attempt to drown out the Dueling Banjos that
had screwed itself in his mind like the worst worm that had ever been
let loose.

"I have to focus!"

SMEGMA (Subsentient Maniacs Encouraging Gibbering Mindless Arguments)
had many haunts. Norm's 133 was downloading the postings to
alt.usenet.kooks, a known SMEGMA hangout. Fudgepacker was undoubtedly
using an alias but Norm knew his style. Fetus Fudgepacker had a very
limited vocabulary that was all too well known to Norm and so, he set
up filters to trap all postings using the obscene expressions most
favored by Fetus. Once the qualified postings were directed into
Norm's looneybin, he would parse each one in an attempt to catch
Fudgepacker's noxious scent.

Norm walked over to one of the many Jatoba piles that crowded his tiny
office. This particular one had been arranged into a rough simulacrum
of a couch. With a Janka side hardness of 2820 pounds at six percent
moisture content, the Jatoba couch was hardly a place to rest one's
head, although the natural germicide contained in the wood was a
definite plus in an office such as Norms'.

"Where is Fudgepacker hiding?"

He'd already gone through all the postings on the newsgroups most
frequented by trolls; alt.troll, alt.flame, alt.sexuality.confused -
no sign of Fetus or SMEGMA. It was no wonder that he was feeling
disoriented. He contemplated Nietzsche's quote, which had become a
mantra to all troll trackers:

"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby
become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss
gazes also into you."

The cheesy winmodem smelled like fried halitosis - the download was
complete.

Norm was running IP numbers through the Sam Spade tools when his
Motorola chirped out the NYW theme. Could this be Fudgepacker calling
to taunt him? He banged the Motorola on the Jatoba pile that served
as his desk, hard enough to pop the outer layer of duct tape - he held
the Motorola to his ear as a voice whispered.

"Tage Frid."

"Tage Frid" was the password used by his friends. Like the biblical
"shibboleth", it could not be properly pronounced by their enemies,the
trolls.

"Momma's Basement. Midnight."

The line went hollow with silence.

Momma's Basement was a troll club on the Southside. Norm had been
there before when tracking down other trolls. The trolls gathered
there and celebrated their iconoclastic individuality by dressing all
in the same clothing. Black on black on black. The place looked like
a convention of pimply-faced, cross-dressing, Roy Orbison
impersonators but the music was by the house band The Defecators, who
had made their mark by spot welding their guitars into a B flat cord
that was played over and over in accompaniment to the hoarsely shouted
lyrics of ******'s Melody.

The place stank of Yoohoo and the remains of half consumed Twinkies.

He hated this part of the job.

Norm gathered up his troll disguise and headed for the door.


(next time - "Momma's Basement".)


Regards, Tom
Thomas J. Watson-Cabinetmaker
Gulph Mills, Pennsylvania
http://users.snip.net/~tjwatson

he's gonna suck us all in on this, I just know it, and then he's gonna
extract big bucks from us (at least a dollar two nintey-eight) to read the
final chapters....I know it, I know it...I feel it in my bones he's gonna do
it.........

Press on Thomas....your audience awaits your every word.........made my day.

Bob S.

Tom Watson wrote:

Norm Nowrecki was mortally ****ed.
....
(next time - "Momma's Basement".)

Outstanding! Keep it coming.

Ken Muldrew

(remove all letters after y in the alphabet)

On Fri, 10 Oct 2003 14:32:37 -0400, Tom Watson wrote:

The cheesy winmodem smelled like fried halitosis - the download was
complete.

Hot diggity. Enfop the second half of that sentence, and you could win the
Bulwer-Lytton. (http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/)

On Fri, 10 Oct 2003 20:45:59 +0000, Buttonhole McGee wrote:

On Fri, 10 Oct 2003 14:32:37 -0400, Tom Watson wrote:

The cheesy winmodem smelled like fried halitosis - the download was
complete.

Hot diggity. Enfop the second half of that sentence, and you could win the
Bulwer-Lytton. (http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/)

Oh, and by the way, that's pronounced "sibboleth."

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaauuuuuuuuuuuuugh!

On Fri, 10 Oct 2003 20:45:59 GMT, "Buttonhole McGee"
pixelated:

On Fri, 10 Oct 2003 14:32:37 -0400, Tom Watson wrote:

The cheesy winmodem smelled like fried halitosis - the download was
complete.

Hot diggity. Enfop the second half of that sentence, and you could win the
Bulwer-Lytton. (http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/)

My thoughts perzactly.

Tom Watson wrote:

Norm Nowrecki was mortally ****ed.


(next time - "Momma's Basement".)


This be good! Keep 'em comin', please, please, please.

Scott
--
An unkind remark is like a killing frost. No matter how much it warms
up later, the damage remains.

In article ,
Tom Watson wrote:

(next time - "Momma's Basement".)

Don't stop now.

--
Owen Lowe and his Fly-by-Night Copper Company
Offering a shim for the Porter-Cable 557 type 2 fence design.
http://www.flybynightcoppercompany.com
http://www.easystreet.com/~onlnlowe/index.html

"wonderful!" - American Woodworker
"inspired" - Popular Woodworking
"Go tom go!" - Wood Magazine
"A wonderful synthisis of modern ideals fused to the timeless base of
the dark human desire for vengance" - FWW

Just so long as the final chapter has something to the effect of:

The troll smirked as he stroked the ENTER key to send off yet
another barrage of pre-adolescent taunts. "Lamers" he wispered,
giddy, to himself, "they'll never catch me".

He blissfully closed his eyes, oblivious to the now rapidly winking
HDD light.

Half a continent away, Norm waited...3...2...1...yes, there. He the
ISP had given up it's prey and he was now watching as the packets
began to spew. The IP address was validated. Port 135 was open. His
mouth stretched into a mirthless grin. "End of line."

Fingers danced a teasing ballet. The remote computer convulsed,
turned, spat, and then bowed it's digital head in acquiescence. But
no seppuku for you. Not yet. Nothing so good.

Tommy Troll awoke the next morning to his mom pounding on the door.
"Tommy, get out here!! Right NOW young man!!" "Aww s**t", thought
Tommy, groggily. "Musta left the browser open to asian hampster
fun..".

He opened the door. His mother stood, fists on her hips fury in her
jaw.

"Uh oh."

"Just what do you mean to do, posting pictures of your father and I to
alt.furry.rambunctious?!!! And asking for comments? With our HOME
PHONE #?!!!You are GROUNDED for the next YEAR from that machine!!!!"




Tom Watson wrote in message . ..
Norm Nowrecki was mortally ****ed.

Fudgepacker had played him like a two dollar banjo and that jangling
metaphor had induced a cognitive and musical dissonance unlike
anything he had ever experienced before. He hummed the NYW theme as
loud as he could, in an attempt to drown out the Dueling Banjos that
had screwed itself in his mind like the worst worm that had ever been
let loose.

"I have to focus!"

SMEGMA (Subsentient Maniacs Encouraging Gibbering Mindless Arguments)
had many haunts. Norm's 133 was downloading the postings to
alt.usenet.kooks, a known SMEGMA hangout. Fudgepacker was undoubtedly
using an alias but Norm knew his style. Fetus Fudgepacker had a very
limited vocabulary that was all too well known to Norm and so, he set
up filters to trap all postings using the obscene expressions most
favored by Fetus. Once the qualified postings were directed into
Norm's looneybin, he would parse each one in an attempt to catch
Fudgepacker's noxious scent.

Norm walked over to one of the many Jatoba piles that crowded his tiny
office. This particular one had been arranged into a rough simulacrum
of a couch. With a Janka side hardness of 2820 pounds at six percent
moisture content, the Jatoba couch was hardly a place to rest one's
head, although the natural germicide contained in the wood was a
definite plus in an office such as Norms'.

"Where is Fudgepacker hiding?"

He'd already gone through all the postings on the newsgroups most
frequented by trolls; alt.troll, alt.flame, alt.sexuality.confused -
no sign of Fetus or SMEGMA. It was no wonder that he was feeling
disoriented. He contemplated Nietzsche's quote, which had become a
mantra to all troll trackers:

"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby
become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss
gazes also into you."

The cheesy winmodem smelled like fried halitosis - the download was
complete.

Norm was running IP numbers through the Sam Spade tools when his
Motorola chirped out the NYW theme. Could this be Fudgepacker calling
to taunt him? He banged the Motorola on the Jatoba pile that served
as his desk, hard enough to pop the outer layer of duct tape - he held
the Motorola to his ear as a voice whispered.

"Tage Frid."

"Tage Frid" was the password used by his friends. Like the biblical
"shibboleth", it could not be properly pronounced by their enemies,the
trolls.

"Momma's Basement. Midnight."

The line went hollow with silence.

Momma's Basement was a troll club on the Southside. Norm had been
there before when tracking down other trolls. The trolls gathered
there and celebrated their iconoclastic individuality by dressing all
in the same clothing. Black on black on black. The place looked like
a convention of pimply-faced, cross-dressing, Roy Orbison
impersonators but the music was by the house band The Defecators, who
had made their mark by spot welding their guitars into a B flat cord
that was played over and over in accompaniment to the hoarsely shouted
lyrics of ******'s Melody.

The place stank of Yoohoo and the remains of half consumed Twinkies.

He hated this part of the job.

Norm gathered up his troll disguise and headed for the door.


(next time - "Momma's Basement".)


Regards, Tom
Thomas J. Watson-Cabinetmaker
Gulph Mills, Pennsylvania
http://users.snip.net/~tjwatson