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?" ----------------------------------------------------------------------