Yeah, well... you see my dad is always giving me a bunch of crap about how time is a wasting and I am throwing away the best years of my life and, umm... something about fleeting youth. I mean I love the guy, but how'd I end up with a founding member of the Langoliers Fan Club for an old man, anyway?
So he had just performed the title cut off his CD, "By-The-Time-I-Was-Your-Age-I-Was-47" for the 300th time, when the phone rang. Shit, I'm gonna tell it like he heard it:
"It's for you, Justin."
"Hello? Yes? Yes... Oh, yes, I remember you. Yes! Mrs. Wilson at the Optometrist's office... Unh huh? What's it doing? When did it stop working? Oooh!... Ahhh! The spider plant is right above it? Watered it? Awww... Awww! Hah.. Hahahaha! I'm sorry. Thoughtful of them, though. When you turned it on... Yeah. I hope nobody was hurt. Well... I know. It's actually kind of disappointing, though. Well, when all that money goes up in smoke. Yeah! Yeah, right! Yeah, you'd at least expect a small fire. Yeah, I've heard that one. Y-y-y... yah 'Pop-eeeeeee-fffth-Puh!'
"No, that isn't. Not a good sign at all.
"Well, chances are that the whole thing is pretty much toast.
"We could, but.. sounds like it's basically a glorified door stop, at this point."
"Well, you are looking at 3 to 4 hours to determine what is salvageable... Forty-five an hour. You're right it is reasonable. The main thing of value is probably your data.... We'll have to see. Sometimes. Sometimes. How does your schedule look for tomorrow afternoon? Oooh! That bad? May I place you on hold. K, just a minute.
"Dad!" I whispered, real loud, "Can you take me to Dr. Rosen's office right away and pick me up about 10? My homework's done.
"Thanks Dad. I love you!"
"Mrs. Wilson? Okay. Will you have someone there in about 45 minutes who can let me in and sign a work order?
"Thanks! See you then. Ohh! Mrs. Wilson? Yes. I forgot to ask: will you need a loaner?"
So much for "Wasting time sitting in front of a monitor." So much for paper routes and "We got up at 2 AM to deliver butter to the lepers that lived on the mountain." Fuck that noise! A guy's gotta have some of that green stuff to support his Hardware Habit. Well, at least software doesn't cost anything.
My name isn't really Justin, but my family seems to think it is. I'm actually "Attilla666," and all ye who cometh before me hadst better make peace with thy maker 'ere I smite thee with my mighty broadsword, "PainLord."
As you can tell, I spend a lot of time online. When I'm not choking the chicken about my secret crush Mike, that is.
Oil, that is...
This is the story of a kid named Just
Stars in his eyes and a hanky full of crust
Dreams of Michael's buttocks
And his creamy dreamy sack
Blasts his wad and it runs into his crack
Butt, that is...
Yep! Rekin' ahm uh Heavinly Spill-Willy. A dog flogger. A hound pounder. Groin grinder. A bit dodgy, old chap. You know? For help on this topic, Double-click My Computer, right click C and select Format and OK. Kewl! Now just wait a few minutes and it will all become crystal-ine-ly clear!
I just started writing my own code this year. This story is kind of about how and why. Kind of.
You see, Mike and I met last year in Miss Ashby's English class. Since El English-O is so cinchy for both of us, we sorta just kiss up to Miss A and fuck off the rest of the time. I mean, we are reading some crap about a bunch of Shee Whass Up "relevant" teen characters who never DO anything. The class is on, like, chapter 3 and I'm on, like chapter 36 -- reading from back to front. I'd do it upside down too, but every time I try it, her "A"-ness makes me turn it back over and I lose my place.
Anyway, did you ever notice that it doesn't seem to make much difference which direction you read stuff? I mean, like, try this on for size:
"Hog fat his sucked I. Tasty was it yum um. Eddingspray ishay eeks-chay I-way Id-slay aye-may Ig-bay og-hay oo-tay ee-they ilt-hay and-way umped-pay aye-may uge-hey oad-lay in-way is-hay ite-hay ot-hay utt-bay!"
"Arrgh-hay ee-hay ied-cray! Uckme-fay ard-hay... "
Sorry, got off the track.
As you can see, I'm also fluent in Ig-pay Atin-lay. The other night I woke up to piss and I had been dreaming in it: unning-ray my ips-lay over Ikes-may oothe-smay oft-say ack-say! God, needless to say I had to eat-bay my eat-may igtime-bay!
I first suspected that my sexuality -- how to say? -- was not of the Leave It To Beaver variety, when I found myself thinking of Mike when I had all my best and hardest orgasms. I mean, you can come, thinking about dry cleaning. You really can. I've tried it.
"Uhh! Extra starch, Press, PRESS! Oh GOD! PRESS, PRESS! PUSH! Agggh!" (Sprock, sprock, sprock!)
Ohhhh, yeah! You can think of anything and shoot your load -- at least at my age -- but what do you find yourself thinking about when your back leaves the bed? Ya know? I mean, like when it all comes together behind your dick and your hole is clenched up and your toes are curled and you come so hard your vision blacks out and you forget where the fuck you are? And your dick keeps pumping for like 2 minutes?
The answer's simple.
"So," you ask, "Are you guys doing anything?"
Yeah, right: "Uh, Mike? Hey, this is Justin. Hey can I, like, suck dicks with you? Oh sure. Yeah, go ahead and ask a few of the other guys for me, too, would you? The bulletin board at school? Excellent! Wow! What a great idea! The toilet stalls, too? How can I ever thank you for your help? Need any help spelling 'Jason is a fucking cocksucker?' No... No, they spell it with an 'F.' No, I've never seen it spelled 'Phag.' Well, thanks for all your help! See ya in school tomorrow!"
Nay, nay, nay. Methinks the fuck not.
But I did have a flash of fucking Brilliance. If I do say so, myself...
You see, it was at the beginning of Winter Break. I was just lying in bed with this big old zucchini in my ass. Seriously! I bought it at Rayley's supermarket and named it "Mike."
Mike the 127th.
I had to buy this stupid bag of Eye-talian salad mid with raddiccio (?) riddickio? Well, anyway, I felt pretty ridiculo, but I didn't want to face the check out chick with nothing but a handfull of Michael-sized dickfruit and a red face. At least I'm not all that concerned what chicks think of me, since they are essentially non-sexual beings, compared to boys. But no use being stooo-pid, eh?
"Eh" is a Canadian word from the root "Uhhh," denoting "Uhh, Duuh!" Fifty nine percent of the Usage Panel agreed that the usage "All-righty then -- eh?" was correct, whereas only 12% were down with "Decidedly, eh?" or "I say! Superb Poupon - Eh?"
Where was I?
Oh, yeah, so Michael the 127th had just ravaged my deepest places and I had just redecorated my ceiling in the latest "Dripping Goo" motif, when I got to thinking: How would one -- assuming that one were so inclined -- how would one get into that steamy little fucker's hot tight little Frooties? You know! I mean, assuming that your proclivities incline in the direction of running your lips over his tender soft, silky, tender, tight, bouncy, cool boyish nuts, while his ruby lips caress your throbbing rutabaga...
Ahem... How do one do dis?
Without the "You mean you're... Aiyeeee!" and the dwindling cloud of dust and the fucking neon "Justin -- Fag!" "Justin -- Fag!" signs all over town and the pink skywriters and shit.
How dey do dat?
Well, I had an idea. It had to do with TweakUI and this one photo package...
"Thanks for offering to house sit while we are on vay-cay," I said to Mike. "I guess the pool kinda makes it worthwhile, even if you can't throw any parties while we're outta town."
"So, we're still having the Beeg One, when you get back, right?"
"Fuck, yes! Most de-finite-ly! Oh, and let me show you how to use my system."
"Fuck, Justin! Like I haven't used the fucker a billion times! Like I didn't help you BUILD the fucker!"
"You ain't seen this! Check this out: Start-Programs-System Backup Utilities-Uninstalls-"
"What the FUCK?"
"Just wait: -Uninstalls-Uninstall QCX. Check this out!"
"Nothing. There's no such thing. I just buried it 'way back here where nobody but the trusted few will EVER find it!"
"Check this out: File-Load Archive-Sorted-Archive 01-Open."
"Cool! Look at those TITS! But why are there nine thumbnails like that? Looks like tic-tac-toe. TIT-tac-toe."
"Kay, now look. Let's say you wanna see a chick get fucked by a donkey. You drop the menu down. 'Barnyard Buddies,' you click and -- see the two dogs fucking show up in the center pane."
"Ewww! That's... fucked!"
"Yup! So then, see the chick with the poodle up in the upper right? Click that."
"Oh, it moved to the center. Why are those two panes blank?"
"Cuz I din't have pix for them, yet."
"How does it -- I know this sounds stupid, but -- how does it know to show pix with humans in this direction and stuff?"
"Oh, I had to sort them."
Geeze, Justin. I can't say I understand how you can sort what -- a hundred variables?"
"More than that. So far, I'm at... I'm using 11 bits. But it can go to 128. Course, even on this thing, it would take -- you know, fuck -- 12 hours to sort the pix, if I used all those bits. Anyway, so click on the chick-gets-fucked pick."
"There, see? The Donkey!"
"THAT'S FUCKED! Look at that thing! Ewww! Hahaha! That's FUCKED!"
"She is, anyway! Can you imagine? What man could possibly follow that?"
"Naah! Besides his doesn't have that subtle hoof shape, at the end."
"You are one sick pup, Justin!"
"Hey, I didn't take these. I didn't even post these. I just sorted them and wrote the program."
"You wrote this? Wow! Jesus! This is so fucking amazing!"
"What's amazing is this: First of all, you know how TweakUI has that 'Paranoia' tab?"
"Yeah. You can set it to clear your histories and documents and stuff."
"Well, there are two things about this viewer. First is that red button that says 'Nuke.' It does the TweakUI stuff, but it also runs Fred Langa's batch file and cleans all the caches and shit. And when you're done, there is no fucking history, no temp files, no cache, no scratch files, no keylog, no slack space leftovers -- nothing."
"That's only part of it. I designed it as a tool for -- Ahem! -- exploration, you might say. See, I'm not into censorship or judging other people's... how they get off. See? So: Straight, Lesbian, Gay, Beast, Piss, this... crap stuff, pain, bondage, dwarves, kiddies, leather bitches, snuff stuff. Anyway. Just make sure you push the red "Nuke" button when you're done, Mike."
"Cool! Of course, my interest is strictly academic."
"Of course," I smirked.
Now what Gracie doesn't know...
Ever heard of steganography?
Well, elsewhere on my system is a bitmap. And on his farm he had some data!
Like the entire navigation history.
"You gotta tell me if any of the features don't work right, cuz I'm gonna give this out to, like everybody. But I gotta stay anonymous, Kay? They'll all get it, once we have it debugged, but it's no good without the pix, and I can't have this shit traced back to me. They'll confiscate my shit, man. I heard about this one kid who was ordered by the court to not even use e-mail until he turned 18!"
"Well, keep that in mind and zip the fuckin' lip, dude."
"And push the button."
Cuz it writes the log into the bitmap.