From: "Wes Payne" 
Newsgroups: alt.tasteless
Subject: Re: Papa Was A Trolling Bone (News)
Date: 23 Oct 1998 09:49:48 GMT

Doltichell  wrote in article
<19981023010930.17406.00001222@ng-fc2.aol.com>...
> You're a tard...

Oh-ho-ho-ho...

I suppose you're trying to be charming?

Sorry.  I'm not charmed yet.  Not sure why.  I can't decide if it's your
double-digit IQ, your immature vapidity, or constitutional inability to
carry a witty repartee in a bucket.  Maybe it's that vacuous
deer-in-headlights stare from two pissholes in a snowbank situated over an
overample proboscis.  Well, that's not fair -- I'm not exactly "GQ"
material myself.  I just know that the twinkle in your eye is not some
knowing twinkle, not some glimmer bespeaking a depth of intellect and
personality perceptible to those who dare to look, who dare to know you. 
No, it's just sparking from frayed wiring deep inside your skull.  The eyes
really are the windows of the soul, you know.  I look for a sign of
humanity, perhaps some sort of kindred spirit, but see only a flickering
porch light.

I'm trying for a little solace here, some quality time with a person I can
actually stand to be around, but you're just reminding me of everything
about humanity that I so dearly hate.  Just like the rest.  What a fucking
disappointment.  That cheap perfume really isn't helping me, either. 
Where'd you get it -- a vending machine?

At least I've had the perspicacity to see you for what you really are so
soon.  I ought to thank you for sparing me the agony of building up a
relationship, of getting to know you, only to find out that, under all the
charm and wit and warmth and beauty you're just another crazy bitch, hung
up on the misdeeds of all your prior boyfriends, all your pathetic fucking
traumas, all the way back to your absent, rejecting father and your
domineering witch mother.  I don't have to find out that you're just
another sick ball of pain that can't keep it to herself, that can't fucking
deal with it and move on by herself, but just has to relive it over and
over and over, while inflicting as much of it on whoever gets too close as
humanly possible in some endless schizoid cycle of black despair, shattered
dreams, and blank dismay.  Like a stuck record blaring through a cheap
asian amplifier into two quality German studio monitor speakers that have
been stapled to my head.  I'll never have to go that far with you.

But you're not totally useless.  You've got a few concave spots that are
warm and wet and soft, and you've bothered to learn a little bit how to use
them.  For what good it's going to do you.  I'll not suffer your tedious,
sticky clinging, your sloppy, syrupy attempts at sex.  Not when it's just a
video game for you, one that doesn't require quarters and doesn't give you
sore thumbs.  You're far too simple for me to tolerate what passes for sex
in your limited world.  You're just thinking I'm gonna sit there and take
it, huh?  Just like with the phone sex, listening to you pant and tell me
that you want it so bad, and where, over six states, on your dime.  There
was a purpose to that, but I'll get to it later.  For now, we're gonna do a
little role reversal -- YOU get to be the passive participant.

You made it so Goddamn easy, too.  Didn't care where we were going.  "Just
checking out the basement."  Huh.  And the takedown.  Oh, Jesus.  "Look
over there."  "Where?"  And then just smack you real good on that nerve
cluster behind your ear and watch you drop like a surprised sack of
potatos.  I've heard you can kill a person that way, if you're not careful.
 I wasn't.  Had you died, I'd only have had to change plans slightly.  You
were slack just long enough to get strapped down to the table, head over
one side, ass over the other.  I still get a laugh every time I remember
you looking where I pointed.  That, like everything else you do, just made
it so much easier for me to hate you.  It's just too hard for me to
identify with somebody who'd fall for that ploy to the extent that I'd ever
show mercy for them.

Oh, now here's some fun.  Watching you scream and struggle, cuss and spit. 
Anger's good.  If you'd started pleading right away, I might've snuffed you
right then and there.  That's not the plan.  What fun is there in
completely degrading you, in reducing you down to your component
worthlessness, if you don't have to live with the memory for the rest of
your natural life?  "When My Dream Lover Showed Me How Worthless I Really
Am".  Gonna be a photo album and everything.  In the meantime, I gotta calm
you down.  Just lay that big, thick Yellow Pages book up against your
kidney and give it a couple "love taps" with this here fish club...

Oh, God, that must hurt.  No bruising, though.  At least not on the
surface.  I do too much of this, and you'll be pissing blood for a week. 
Just so you know what's at stake.  Now, just hold still and whimper a bit
while I lube your butt up.  No, it's not for your comfort -- I just want to
make sure the condom doesn't tear.  Don't thank me.  It's not to protect
you from me.  It's to protect me from you.  It's just gonna take me a
second or two to get it up.  I'm almost ready already.  Wanna know why? 
Well, here's a clue:  it's not at the sight of your pallid ass, that's for
damn sure.  It's not 'cause I "really, really like you" and think you're
special, but I'm sure you've figured that out by now.  Here's a hint that
they might not have given you in kindergarten:  passion isn't just for
lovers.  There is passion in hatred, too.  Oh, God.  I'm going to reduce
you.  I'm going to use you.  I'm going to hate you.  And I'm going to love
it.

I just gotta focus on that, and it's not hard.  My hatred for you.  Oh,
God, I'm as hard as diamond now, and you're just three sick holes that run
like sores.  Robert Smith said it -- they're not my words.  Don't know
which song, though.  Never was a big fan of "The Cure".  Damn if they don't
fit.  And I'm gonna plunder all three of 'em.  Starting with your puckered,
bony ass.  I'm gonna ram it into you so hard, you just might puke.  I want
you to feel each and every inch of it, each and every excruciating second
of it.  I want this bowel-rearranging ordeal to be etched into the very
core of your being.  In this way, I may actually do you a service.  You may
learn a thing or two about true pain.  Good thing girls don't have
prostates, or you might end up enjoying this, and that'd be too bad.  And I
won't be able to pump your rectum hard enough to tip the table over and
smash your face, fear not.  I've bolted the damn thing down.

Just so you know, the tape's rolling.  Oh, that's right.  Look to your
right.  Smile for the camera.  Look into the monitor, and see how it's
gonna look on tape.  Too bad it doesn't show much of me, huh?  Well, like I
said, I'm not much to look at.  No big loss, there.  And when I'm ready to
blow my load, well, I'll just walk over to the other side of the table, and
you'll greedily suck it out of me.  Don't think so?  Wanna see how many
pages are in the Los Angeles Yellow Pages again?  Good girl.  Good sucking
hole.  In fact, I think that you're gonna suck me off again.  Just for
grins.  I got at least three shots in my scrotum tonight.  For
completeness' sake, the last one goes in your gaping, dripping love tunnel.
 Oh, how I love to hate you.

Naturally, I'll be editing that tape.  No moans and groans and pleas for
mercy.  Wouldn't do.  Wouldn't make decent blackmail material.  Besides, I
think the recording I did of you panting and groaning and begging over the
phone fits much better.  You know, the quality of connections on Sprint's
fiber optic lines really is something.  I used my own computer for cleaning
it up the rest of the way.  Sounds like you're really there.  Isn't
technology wonderful?

So, what have we learned today, besides the fact that I reward insolence
and pretensions of worthiness with pain?  We've learned that the vast,
teeming majority of humanity is a dung heap, and that you're just another
turd somewhere near the bottom of it.  That those of us with the wit to
rise above that existence have boundless contempt for those that cannot. 
And, hopefully, we've learned that your juvenile, empty-headed nattering
charms are truly lost on discerning misanthropes like myself, that offering
your grasping snatch to all and sundry isn't going to yield you a lifetime
of happiness and light and, that if you're going to try to horn in and be
EveryGirl with the adults, that you'd better buy, beg or steal yourself
some maturity first.  If there's anything I can't stand, it's a suckup.

You wanna know what the worst part about this whole thing is?  I'm one of
the "nice" ones.  Be damn glad you didn't fling your gash at one of the
truly demonic.  You'd probably be a moldering corpse strewn across a vacant
lot in Spokane right now.

Don't forget to thank me.
 
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Wes Payne, known to you as:  n9548326@wwu.cc.edu
Western Washington University -- Bellingham, WA -- The Great Northwet!
Switch 'wwu' with 'cc' to get correct e-mail address -- I hate SPAM
Send mine to:  kcmb1@SWBELL.NET, mk2432@JUNO.COM or met@ds9.wwia.net
"What is FUN?  Why is it usually colored BRIGHT PINK, and where does
 it go when JESSE HELMS comes around?" 
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