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From: Ace of Clubs <Use-Author-Address-Header@[127.1]>
Subject: Hello-o-o-o-o-o-o, Gerry!
Date: 2000/03/29
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Well, bless my snake-infested soul if it isn't my good, good foxhole
buddy, the lyin'est motherfucker that ever made maggots look good, that
fecal worm from the bowels of CST, that darlin' of the dense, that
sweetheart of the brain lesion crowd, the one, the only Gerry Gerbil-Ass
Armstrong--friend to.... Well, friend to nobody, really.

Ger, Ger, Ger! My GOD, son, it's so godDAMNED good to see you, even with
them drippin' sores!

Didja' MISS me, boy? GOD! How I've missed you! How about a big ol'
tongue-swallowin' grizzly kiss fer yer one-and-only true foxhole buddy,
Ace o' Clubs? No? Whassamatter, Ger? Ain't you glad to see me after I
been gone so long and all?

Well, sweet Jah-HEEEzus, Ger! Is that any Christian way to treat yer ol'
buddy? You mean you don't wanna' rub yer little bony hand over my butt
like you onct did, Ger-Ger? (Ever think, Ger, that I might be a
goddamned GIRL?! Boy, THAT's sack-shrinker, AIN'T it, Ger? Don't think I
might be TERZI, now, do you? Nahhhhh-h-h-h-h-h! Couldn't be, right?)

Now, Ger: since I been away so long, dealin' wid more important things
than you--that's right, important shit, shit like toe jam, pocket lint,
and Cracker Jack prizes--well I'm afraid that I've gone and let some
BU'INESS stack up wid you; we got some backlogged shit here, Gerbil
Brain, that we's gon' have to take up. So I'm axin' you RE-E-E-E-AL
nice, now, Geritol, to try and keep yer hand off yer dick, and yer
eyeballs from rollin' back in yer head jest long enough that I can get
the bu'iness spread out here on the table. And don't touch it with yer
grimey fuckin' fingernails either. God! Boy, you stink! Take a bath!

Now, Ger, the first order o' bu'iness here, is the way you been needlin'
and harrassin' this little CONFRONT23 fellow, and I gots ta' tell you,
Ger' that yer startin' to get on my nerves jest a teeny little bit. You
hear me fucker? So you jest sit there and stroke yerself for a minute,
'cause ol' Ace has something to say to CONFRONT. So shut the fuck up,
Ger.

BEGIN ASIDE TO CONFRONT23: Son, you are doing one FINE job of puttin'
forth the facts. And see, facts, truth, tha's one thing that my good,
good foxhole buthole--I mean, buddy--Ger here, cain't STAND. It drives
the poor little psycho fucker just spit-sprayin' NUTS! Now, yer only
mistake, CONFRONT23, is even tryin' to talk to the little shit-maggot,
'cause you gots to unnerstand somethin' here: Gerbil-Ass don't give a
FUCK fer yer facts. Gerbil-Brain is here on what is popularly known as
"AN AGENDA." Ger-Ger takes orders. He sez what he's ordered to say. He
is an agent provocateur. If you present him with a fact, he will ignore
it ALWAYS, and do ONLY one thing: Try and discredit YOU. See? Tha's all
the lyin' little motherfucker is CAPABLE of doing, except fer trying to
convince everybody in the world--with a pack of useless lies--what a
low-life lyin' shit L. Ron Hubbard wuz, and how Davy Duck Miscarriage is
the one-and-only-true-power in all of Scientology, and how CST don't
matter wuf' a shit, even though they own the whole shebang. Now, THAT's
his AGENDA. Tha's what the slimy little slippery fuck is here in a.r.s.
for, and that's ALL he's here for, and there ain't a fucking THING you
can do or say tha's gon' dissuade him from his AGENDA, 'cause the little
fucker don't DARE deviate from the script he's given by the agencies
controlling CST. Now, you got all this, CONFRONT23? Don't waste a
SYLLABLE on the little fuck. He alREADY knows all about CST ownin'
everything, and about the alter-is, and about the op that wuz run on the
GO back in the mid '70s, and about all the corporate set-up in the early
'80s, 'cause he was IN on it and instrumental in bringin' it all off.
You got this now, boy? GodDAMN, though, you are doin' one FINE job with
gettin' the truth out there. You jest keep on pumpin' the facts, and
don't waste one ASCII moment on ol' Gerbil-Brain. I can come in here
with me trusty keyboard and kick his skanky, crusty ass from one end of
a.r.s. to t'other any day of the week--and do, every now and then, jest
fer fun and entertainment, like I'm doin' right here, right now. And a
tip o' the Ace o' Clubs hat to ye, CONFRONT23! Now, if you'll excuse me,
I have jest a few more items of bu'iness to take up here wid Mr.
Barmwrong. END ASIDE TO CONFRONT23

Okay, Ger; wipe yerself off, fuck-face, and le's get down to bu'iness!

Now, Ger-Ger. I do not know how adequately to express myself on this
next item. It has brung a tear to ol' Ace's eye, I have to admit. I feel
like jest reachin' out to you, and givin' you such a big, warm,
lingering Ace o' Clubs hug, and I would, but I'm afraid my flesh might
begin to go grey and rot like yours, and I don't think I'm quite ready
fer it. But it is the sentiment I feel in my leathery old heart fer them
fine, FINE "Affirmations"--or "Admissions," if you prefer--that you have
introduced to the greeeeeeeat body of historical literature. I pored
over every lyin' fuckin' word that you posted to a.r.s. But that isn't
what brought the tear to me eyes, Ger. It wuzn't what you posted,
really. That jest made me go and puke out over the cinder-block door
stoop into the bait bucket. No, Ger. Let me tell you what made the tears
stream freely down me wrinkled, brown face. It wuz this Ger; it wuz when
I sat down and shoved the jelly jars and toast crumbs aside on my Sears
formica kitchen table, and, got me a piece of ancient, yellowed--like
yer teeth--onion-skin paper (which NOBODY uses anymore fer anything),
and got me a No. 2 pencil, and sharpened it with my penknife, and licked
the point of it, and cogitated, and thunk, and pondered, and furrowed me
brow, and thunk some more, until I could prepare a full and complete
list of all the people you said could verify that these lies that you
call "Affirmations" and "Admissions" actually came from the pen of L.
Ron Hubbard, and not from one of yer suck-buddies over in CIA. And
finally, I prepared jest such a list of unimpeachable sources, Ger. And
here it is:

1. Gerry-the-lyin'-motherfucker-Armstrong

2. Omar Garrison

And then, Ger, I felt there might be somethin' jest a weeeeeeee little
bit amiss about my full and complete list of sources. And so I scrunched
up me face even more than it's naturally scrunched, and I studied, and I
peered, and I thunk some more. And, by GOD, Ger! Suddenly, it dawned on
ol' Ace. I wuz going to have to edit my list! Because, Omar Garrison is
conveniently dead and buried and worm-food now, Ger. And so I
remorsefully and solemnly scratched his name off the list of verifiable
sources fer these very important dOkUmEnTz you had been so kind as to
provide us all with. And then I studied my short list of unimpeachable
sources. And here is what I saw:

1. Gerry-the-lyin'-motherfucker-Armstrong

And, Ger, tha's when the tears began to fall. Because, Ger, ol' Ace
laughed so hard he fell plumb over backwards in his aluminum-tubing
Sears floral-print chair, and banged his poor ol' funny-bone on the
mobile-home-linoleum, and still jest kept on LAUGHIN' till the goddamned
trailer shook, and a-bangin' his fists on the floor and LA-A-A-UGHIN'
till tears were rollin' and flowin' to beat the band! Oh, Ger, I ain't
laughed that hard in all my days, and I want to thank you for it, boy! I
want to thank you. I got me up and put most of a quarter of a pint of
Jack Daniels down me throat right from the bottle, and then laughed
harder than I had before. Oh, LORDY, Ger, you should have been there! My
goddamned cat ripped the upholstery to get up and out through the
window, I wuz laughin' so hard.

Oh, Ger, you are one piece of work, boy. About 30-seconds of bowel work,
I mean.

Well, Ger that wuz the FIRST order o' bu'iness, and I DO appreciate you
takin' the time to stare fixedly like that at yer screen, with yer jaw
muscles a-workin' that way, and yer fists clenched till the knuckles
went all white, and yer intestines clenched up, too, with that
feel-like-they-jest-had-a-shot-of-freon feeling you know so well.

Oh, it STILL makes me laugh.

But on to other fun. And now, Ger, we come to the official Gerry
Armstrong Unanswered Questions list. Now, Geritol. I know yer likely
gettin' senile, and all, and that you have all that Bible studyin' and
thumpin' tha's jest got to eat into yer free time like a syphillis
lesion eats into the brain, and I know you got yerself a subpoena now
from yer buddies over at CST, and you'll be practicin' yer lies in the
mirror so you can get some more court record established that CST
doesn't mean shit, and you need to keep pickin' at yer crack, and all
that other important stuff that you have to do.

But, I gotta' tell you, Ger, you got yerself one FULL fuckin' in-basket
here of QUESTIONS that have been posed to you that you been avoidin'
like the fuckin' Black Plague!

Well I got GOOD NEWS TODAY fer you, Ger, boy! No, it ain't the GOOD NEWS
of Jaheeezus, 'cause you already got that. No, Ger, it's BETTER than
that! Now, lean over real close, and I'll whisper it to you...

.

Come on, Ger--closer. You want me to tell everybody, or somethin'...

.

Ger! Closer son! This is a secret, now, jest between you and ol' Ace...

.

I'M YOUR FUCKIN' BIOGRAPHER!

How about THAT, Ger?! (And by the way, I am really sorry I axed you to
get that close. GAWD, you are STANK, boy!) Ain't that sweet, though,
Ger? You got yer very own goddamned oh-fficial oh-ffuckin' biographer,
jest like you and dead ol' Omar wuz for the Old Man! Ain't that some
SHIT, Ger?!?!?! Ain't you jest fuckin' excited? And as part of this
hallowed trust, I am collectin' up all the questions you won't answer,
Ger, and am going to keep puttin' 'em to you. I learned this from YOU,
Ger, and I yam SOOO excited to be able to follow in the fetid footsteps
of my good, good, foxhole buddy, my hero, my mentor--YOU!

I have been busy, busy, busy savin' these questions that have been put
to you by various people, and I yam combing DejaNews fer more. But for
now, dear, dear Gerbil-Ass, here is the short list of questions axed
before that you wouldn't answer, and NEW, IMPROVED questions, too:

1. Where did you get them pictures, Ger? You know, the ones where the
Old Man has already been lobotomized, or leukotomized, or psych-drugged
into a suitably funny and degraded zombie-like state by yer CIA-paid
psych goons? How the fuck did YOU get yer little grimey paws on them,
Ger, and sell 'em to old slow-walkin', slow-talkin' gimme-a-buck Vern?

2. Did you know about CST owning all the copyrights before the
"Scientology Copyright Transfers" database was published in a.b.s.?

3. In an a.r.s. post, you said: "$cientology, as directed by the
Miscavige regime..." and that the "$cientology corporations...are all
part of the single criminal enterprise under the criminal dictator
Miscavige." How, exactly, does Miscavige exert dictatorial control over
the people who own all the copyrights, and how can I document/verify
your answer the way the Library of Congress documents prove conclusively
that CST owns all the copyrights?

4. Have you seen the legal documents proving that CST can take over any
and all of the registered trademarks from RTC (Miscavige) at any time,
at their "sole discretion"?

5. Given that CST owns the copyrights, and has ultimate control over the
trademarks, precisely what is the leverage that Miscavige has over CST
that makes them dance to his dictatorship anyway?

6. Were you in that brownstone in Washington, D.C. with LRH and Kima
Douglas when some of the alleged "Snow White" operations were going on?

7. Did you ever communicate with or work with or for Sherman Lenske,
Lawrence Heller, Stephen Lenske, or Meade Emory?

8. Were you handling all of LRH's telex traffic when the alleged "Snow
White" operations were going on?

9. Were you in Intel during any of the alleged "Snow White" operations?
If so, what were your duties, and how much did you know?

10. Did you collude with Ron DeWolfe aka L. Ron Hubbard, Jr. in getting
him to file the case trying to get the Old Man declared dead or
incompetent, or in helping DeWolfe in any way, through any mediary, to
file or prosecute the case, or to provide him, directly or through any
mediary, with documents that he thought could help in his case?

11. Do you know who sent the Fed-Ex package to the Lenske brothers
containing the alleged letter from L. Ron Hubbard with fingerprints and
special inks, "proving" he was "alive," and killing Nibs's case, or do
you know where that package originated from?

12. Did you ever work for or with or on behalf of the IRS?

13. Did you ever work for or with or on behalf of any government
intelligence agency, department, or division, for any government or
country?

GodDAMN, Ger! Isn't this fuckin' FUN? Whooooo-WEEEEE!

Oh, but boy, we is jest warmin' the fuck UP! I mean, Ger! This is jest
Round 1. Come on, Ger, we can play this like "Who Wants to Be a Fuckin'
Millionaire?" Except we'll call it "Who Wants to Be a Slimy Little Piece
o' Shit Like Our Good Foxhole Asshole Buddy Gerry the Lyin' Motherfucker
Armstrong?" Ol' Ace will give you all the lifelines you want, good
foxhole buddy. You can ax the audience here what THEY think the correct
answer is, and you can call all yer guv'mint friends, and ax THEM what
they think the right answer oughta' be.

Oh, this will be jest FINE, Ger, jest FINE as paint!

What's that? What's that I'm hearing out of you, Ger? Is that a grunt?
Is that a fuckin' EXPLETIVE comin' out of yer putrid mouth? Or is that
jest yer normal, evasive, snivelin', weasley comm lag that is the one
true measure of the depth and breadth of yer psychosis?

What is it, Ger? Speak up, son! Look at all them questions you been
dodgin', jest sittin' there now, starin' at you, waitin' for you. HEY!
Won't if be fun if some of the lawyers readin' this newsgroup start to
thinkin', "Hmmmmmm. Maybe we ought to pose that little worm a couple o'
them Ace questions under oath, jest to find out what the fuck we're
dealin' with, here."

So, Ger: "Who Wants to Be a Slimy Little Piece o' Shit Like Our Good
Foxhole Asshole Buddy Gerry the Lyin' Motherfucker Armstrong?" Do you,
Ger? Do you want to be JEST like yer sicko self? Well, lemme tell you
how to do it: keep right on ignoring the hard questions.

See how easy it is, Ger? And the whole world will be watchin' you do it.

Well, the old dusty cuckoo clock on the wall is talkin' about you again,
and that means it's time fer Ace to ease on out of here. For now.

Of course, that's the signal for the little chicken-shit, scale-lickin'
buddies of yours to yell, PLONK! <Snort!> Ain't they cute, Ger. They
think they can get rid of ol' Ace that way <Snort!> You have no idea how
they make me grin--and you know, Ger, how my teeth <GLINT> when I do
that, now, don't you? It's a terrible thing to see.

But try to get this through that dandruff-flaked skull of yours, Ger:
for every one pansy-assed little plonker that goes and sticks his
chicken-shit head in the sand, or up your ass, there's a hundred more
good, smart folks that read every last word. It's like watchin' a snake,
Ger. They can't help it. And it starts to penetrate, Ger. And the
CONFRONT23s go right on puttin' the word out, puttin' the truth out, and
there ain't a fuckin' thing in this world you and your sorry sack-o-shit
"associates" can do about it. You can yell "MISCAVIGE" till you pop a
goddamned hemmoroid, fer all I care. Nobody believes it any more, you
sniveling twit.

Got any answers, Ger? I'll be watchin'--watchin' you slither and squirm
and duck and dodge and ignore and hide. Worm.

Gotta' run now. But I'll be back, Ger. I'll be back. When you least
expect it.

Now how about that tongue-swallowin' kiss for old Ace? Or did you jest
swallow yer own tongue?

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Close-mouthed you sat five thousand years and
never let out a whisper.

Processions came by, marchers, asking questions
you answered with grey eyes never blinking,
shut lips never talking.

Not one croak of anything you know has come from
your cat crouch of ages.

I am one of those who know all you know
and I keep my questions:
I know the answers you hold.

--Carl Sandburg

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ace of clubs

 

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