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From: the real "virtual" me and the "genuine" imitation that was close enough for me
Well, where do I start? I know who I think you really are. Assuming I'm 100% right, I ALWAYS ASSUME I'M RIGHT, VERY GOOD ODDS THERE, then I can also surmise that you, being who I'm sure I think you are, are more than capable of behaving in a way that I might be easily led into assuming my intuitions are being confirmed when in fact nothing has actually PROVEN to me, at least in my mind, that you would have any Earthly reason to "really" be the way you are insisting "you are" at this moment I'm perceiving "you". However, aside from that MAJOR flaw, (no real motive from your end to be engaging me "about" me, obviously I'm the bait AND the fish, but why are you fishing "for" me so early that you're feeling the "nothing here" effect?), I notice you're talking to Jiff as if Jiff is K-Bone (me), but since I know you can read IP#s even better than I, there's no real mystery about whether or not I really know you really know I probably know what I know enough to be sure you don't "really" care about what you're telling me you "care" about telling me. Its got to be some kind of alternate MOTIVATION (there's that concept again) underway. Obviously, everything you've pointed out you've been told about my skills, reasons, and accomplishments in the area of driving Kishbaugh over the edge are not only TRUE, I've proved it so many fucking times, NOBODY harbors any lingering doubts whatsoever about who will win and who will lose in a battle between the TT's and PPX. I'll even pace myself so they'll last longer than they would if I was merely "kicking some ass". This is the most engaging, drawn out, protracted, sustained, and fiercely fought contest these Pre-Menopausal Bimbo Bitty Cadets have ever experienced, even though they have to "sit out" most of the big rounds, just so they can survive till the next bell. So this "nothing here" thing that's weighing so heavily on your typewriter key"bored" is just a "before the fact" anticipation of an event, or a word, or maybe just a SURPRISE from the blue that is BOUND to be coming. Right? That's what it really is. You wouldn't be sitting in "nothing" complaining about the excess amount of nothing on hand "here", unless a "something" was having some long distance residual echo that fuels you. You are obviously CERTAIN that sooner or later the "highly unlikely" is going to walk in that K-Bone Inbox door, and blow everybody's fucking mind out of its "thought I'd heard it all before" socket. So now, just because you've been "Tackilated" a little by the Undeniably Incredible Tackimon Freakazoid "Thingie", after two months absence you show up and start questioning my WIT because you're so fucking bored? Get real, Mr. I'm so bored you're supposed to be supplying me with a more consistent stream of "impossible... yet true!" chickie-poo's, I ain't yer fuckin' pimp. And I'm not holding my breath on the edge of my chair waitng for the next Tackimon to arrive from the cyber sky. I think we BOTH know the likelyhood of that particular rhythm. Whatever the odds are against Tacki Fishkebob existing ine the first place, they go sky high and out of this solar system when multiplied by a factor of "+1". If there were really two Tacki's that similar, and they both showed up around the same time enough that YOU wouldn't have to notice that there are actually boring moments slipping up on us every second of every day, it'll never end! But if we can somehow locate the "Planet Of the Tackimons", in a very short time I'm quite sure an e-mail connection could be made. They may not be able to fly a "tennis shoe lookin'" toy spaceship to Mars, but by God, I KNOW them motherfuckers at Radio Shack are on the ball. We could be downloading galaxies of Wacki Tacki Scary Terrie Webster Molester Pizzaro Bizarro Pez dispenser e-candy to keep our "find the pussy" glands in shape at least until Y2K comes down.
ANTI POPEYE X FAN CLUB
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